Title: Revenge!
Author: Barr, Robert, 1850-1912
Language: English
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REVENGE!

BY

ROBERT BARR



TO

JAMES SAMSON, M.D.


[Illustration: "I HAD THE SAFE BLOWN OPEN"]



CONTENTS.


AN ALPINE DIVORCE
WHICH WAS THE MURDERER?
A DYNAMITE EXPLOSION
AN ELECTRICAL SLIP
THE VENGEANCE OF THE DEAD
OVER THE STELVIO PASS
THE HOUR AND THE MAN
"AND THE RIGOUR OF THE GAME"
THE BROMLEY GIBBERTS STORY
NOT ACCORDING TO THE CODE
A MODERN SAMSON
A DEAL ON 'CHANGE
TRANSFORMATION
THE SHADOW OF THE GREENBACK
THE UNDERSTUDY
"OUT OF THUN"
A DRAMATIC POINT
TWO FLORENTINE BALCONIES
THE EXPOSURE OF LORD STANSFORD
PURIFICATION



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.


"I HAD THE SAFE BLOWN OPEN"
THE CORD DANGLED ABOUT A FOOT ABOVE THE POLICEMAN'S HEAD
DUPRÉ LAUNCHED HIS BOMB OUT INTO THE NIGHT
"DO NOT PROCEED FURTHER WITH EXECUTION"
HIS FIRST ACT WAS TO DISCHARGE EVERY SERVANT
"WHEN YOU PRESS THE IVORY BUTTON, I FIRE"
WIPING ITS BLADE ON THE CLOTHES OF THE PROSTRATE MAN
"I WILL DRAW A PLAN"
HE THREW ASIDE BUSHES, BRAMBLES AND LOGS
"WHAT HAS HAPPENED?"
SAM LOOKED SAVAGELY AROUND HIM
"MY GOD, YOU WERE RIGHT AFTER ALL!"



REVENGE!

AN ALPINE DIVORCE.


In some natures there are no half-tones; nothing but raw primary
colours. John Bodman was a man who was always at one extreme or the
other. This probably would have mattered little had he not married a
wife whose nature was an exact duplicate of his own.

Doubtless there exists in this world precisely the right woman for any
given man to marry and _vice versâ_; but when you consider that a
human being has the opportunity of being acquainted with only a few
hundred people, and out of the few hundred that there are but a dozen
or less whom he knows intimately, and out of the dozen, one or two
friends at most, it will easily be seen, when we remember the number of
millions who inhabit this world, that probably, since the earth was
created, the right man has never yet met the right woman. The
mathematical chances are all against such a meeting, and this is the
reason that divorce courts exist. Marriage at best is but a compromise,
and if two people happen to be united who are of an uncompromising
nature there is trouble.

In the lives of these two young people there was no middle distance.
The result was bound to be either love or hate, and in the case of Mr.
and Mrs. Bodman it was hate of the most bitter and arrogant kind.

In some parts of the world incompatibility of temper is considered a
just cause for obtaining a divorce, but in England no such subtle
distinction is made, and so until the wife became criminal, or the man
became both criminal and cruel, these two were linked together by a
bond that only death could sever. Nothing can be worse than this state
of things, and the matter was only made the more hopeless by the fact
that Mrs. Bodman lived a blameless life, and her husband was no worse,
but rather better, than the majority of men. Perhaps, however, that
statement held only up to a certain point, for John Bodman had reached
a state of mind in which he resolved to get rid of his wife at all
hazards. If he had been a poor man he would probably have deserted her,
but he was rich, and a man cannot freely leave a prospering business
because his domestic life happens not to be happy.

When a man's mind dwells too much on any one subject, no one can tell
just how far he will go. The mind is a delicate instrument, and even
the law recognises that it is easily thrown from its balance. Bodman's
friends--for he had friends--claim that his mind was unhinged; but
neither his friends nor his enemies suspected the truth of the episode,
which turned out to be the most important, as it was the most ominous,
event in his life.

Whether John Bodman was sane or insane at the time he made up his mind
to murder his wife, will never be known, but there was certainly
craftiness in the method he devised to make the crime appear the result
of an accident. Nevertheless, cunning is often a quality in a mind that
has gone wrong.

Mrs. Bodman well knew how much her presence afflicted her husband, but
her nature was as relentless as his, and her hatred of him was, if
possible, more bitter than his hatred of her. Wherever he went she
accompanied him, and perhaps the idea of murder would never have
occurred to him if she had not been so persistent in forcing her
presence upon him at all times and on all occasions. So, when he
announced to her that he intended to spend the month of July in
Switzerland, she said nothing, but made her preparations for the
journey. On this occasion he did not protest, as was usual with him,
and so to Switzerland this silent couple departed.

There is an hotel near the mountain-tops which stands on a ledge over
one of the great glaciers. It is a mile and a half above the level of
the sea, and it stands alone, reached by a toilsome road that zigzags
up the mountain for six miles. There is a wonderful view of snow-peaks
and glaciers from the verandahs of this hotel, and in the neighbourhood
are many picturesque walks to points more or less dangerous.

John Bodman knew the hotel well, and in happier days he had been
intimately acquainted with the vicinity. Now that the thought of murder
arose in his mind, a certain spot two miles distant from this inn
continually haunted him. It was a point of view overlooking everything,
and its extremity was protected by a low and crumbling wall. He arose
one morning at four o'clock, slipped unnoticed out of the hotel, and
went to this point, which was locally named the Hanging Outlook. His
memory had served him well. It was exactly the spot, he said to
himself. The mountain which rose up behind it was wild and precipitous.
There were no inhabitants near to overlook the place. The distant hotel
was hidden by a shoulder of rock. The mountains on the other side of
the valley were too far away to make it possible for any casual tourist
or native to see what was going on on the Hanging Outlook. Far down in
the valley the only town in view seemed like a collection of little toy
houses.

One glance over the crumbling wall at the edge was generally sufficient
for a visitor of even the strongest nerves. There was a sheer drop of
more than a mile straight down, and at the distant bottom were jagged
rocks and stunted trees that looked, in the blue haze, like shrubbery.

"This is the spot," said the man to himself, "and to-morrow morning is
the time."

John Bodman had planned his crime as grimly and relentlessly, and as
coolly, as ever he had concocted a deal on the Stock Exchange. There
was no thought in his mind of mercy for his unconscious victim. His
hatred had carried him far.

The next morning after breakfast, he said to his wife: "I intend to
take a walk in the mountains. Do you wish to come with me?"

"Yes," she answered briefly.

"Very well, then," he said; "I shall be ready at nine o'clock."

"I shall be ready at nine o'clock," she repeated after him.

At that hour they left the hotel together, to which he was shortly to
return alone. The spoke no word to each other on their way to the
Hanging Outlook. The path was practically level, skirting the
mountains, for the Hanging Outlook was not much higher above the sea
than the hotel.

John Bodman had formed no fixed plan for his procedure when the place
was reached. He resolved to be guided by circumstances. Now and then a
strange fear arose in his mind that she might cling to him and possibly
drag him over the precipice with her. He found himself wondering
whether she had any premonition of her fate, and one of his reasons for
not speaking was the fear that a tremor in his voice might possibly
arouse her suspicions. He resolved that his action should be sharp and
sudden, that she might have no chance either to help herself or to drag
him with her. Of her screams in that desolate region he had no fear. No
one could reach the spot except from the hotel, and no one that morning
had left the house, even for an expedition to the glacier--one of the
easiest and most popular trips from the place.

Curiously enough, when they came within sight of the Hanging Outlook,
Mrs. Bodman stopped and shuddered. Bodman looked at her through the
narrow slits of his veiled eyes, and wondered again if she had any
suspicion. No one can tell, when two people walk closely together, what
unconscious communication one mind may have with another.

"What is the matter?" he asked gruffly. "Are you tired?"

"John," she cried, with a gasp in her voice, calling him by his
Christian name for the first time in years, "don't you think that if
you had been kinder to me at first, things might have been different?"

"It seems to me," he answered, not looking at her, "that it is rather
late in the day for discussing that question."

"I have much to regret," she said quaveringly. "Have you nothing?"

"No," he answered.

"Very well," replied his wife, with the usual hardness returning to her
voice. "I was merely giving you a chance. Remember that."

Her husband looked at her suspiciously.

"What do you mean?" he asked, "giving me a chance? I want no chance nor
anything else from you. A man accepts nothing from one he hates. My
feeling towards you is, I imagine, no secret to you. We are tied
together, and you have done your best to make the bondage
insupportable."

"Yes," she answered, with her eyes on the ground, "we are tied
together--we are tied together!"

She repeated these words under her breath as they walked the few
remaining steps to the Outlook. Bodman sat down upon the crumbling
wall. The woman dropped her alpenstock on the rock, and walked
nervously to and fro, clasping and unclasping her hands. Her husband
caught his breath as the terrible moment drew near.

"Why do you walk about like a wild animal?" he cried. "Come here and
sit down beside me, and be still."

She faced him with a light he had never before seen in her eyes--a
light of insanity and of hatred.

"I walk like a wild animal," she said, "because I am one. You spoke a
moment ago of your hatred of me; but you are a man, and your hatred is
nothing to mine. Bad as you are, much as you wish to break the bond
which ties us together, there are still things which I know you would
not stoop to. I know there is no thought of murder in your heart, but
there is in mine. I will show you, John Bodman, how much I hate you."

The man nervously clutched the stone beside him, and gave a guilty
start as she mentioned murder.

"Yes," she continued, "I have told all my friends in England that I
believed you intended to murder me in Switzerland."

"Good God!" he cried. "How could you say such a thing?"

"I say it to show how much I hate you--how much I am prepared to give
for revenge. I have warned the people at the hotel, and when we left
two men followed us. The proprietor tried to persuade me not to
accompany you. In a few moments those two men will come in sight of the
Outlook. Tell them, if you think they will believe you, that it was an
accident."

The mad woman tore from the front of her dress shreds of lace and
scattered them around. Bodman started up to his feet, crying, "What are
you about?" But before he could move toward her she precipitated
herself over the wall, and went shrieking and whirling down the awful
abyss.

The next moment two men came hurriedly round the edge of the rock, and
found the man standing alone. Even in his bewilderment he realised that
if he told the truth he would not be believed.



WHICH WAS THE MURDERER?


Mrs. John Forder had no premonition of evil. When she heard the hall
clock strike nine she was blithely singing about the house as she
attended to her morning duties, and she little imagined that she was
entering the darkest hour of her life, and that before the clock struck
again overwhelming disaster would have fallen upon her. Her young
husband was working in the garden, as was his habit each morning before
going to his office. She expected him in every moment to make ready for
his departure down town. She heard the click of the front gate, and a
moment later some angry words. Alarmed, she was about to look through
the parted curtains of the bay-window in front when the sharp crack of
a revolver rang out, and she hastened to the door with a vague sinking
fear at her heart. As she flung open the door she saw two things--
first, her husband lying face downwards on the grass motionless, his
right arm doubled under him; second, a man trying frantically to undo
the fastening of the front gate, with a smoking pistol still in his
hand.

Human lives often hang on trivialities. The murderer in his anxiety to
be undisturbed had closed the front gate tightly. The wall was so high
as to shut out observation from the street, but the height that made it
difficult for an outsider to see over it also rendered escape
impossible. If the man had left the gate open he might have got away
unnoticed, but, as it was, Mrs. Forder's screams aroused the
neighbourhood, and before the murderer succeeded in undoing the
fastening, a crowd had collected with a policeman in its centre, and
escape was out of the question. Only one shot had been fired, but at
such close quarters that the bullet went through the body. John Forder
was not dead, but lay on the grass insensible. He was carried into the
house and the family physician summoned. The doctor sent for a
specialist to assist him, and the two men consulted together. To the
distracted woman they were able to give small comfort. The case at best
was a doubtful one. There was some hope of ultimate recovery, but very
little.

Meanwhile the murderer lay in custody, his own fate depending much on
the fate of his victim. If Forder died, bail would be refused; if he
showed signs of recovering, his assailant had a chance for, at least,
temporary liberty. No one in the city, unless it were the wife herself,
was more anxious for Forder's recovery than the man who had shot him.

The crime had its origin in a miserable political quarrel--mere wrangle
about offices. Walter Radnor, the assassin, had 'claims' upon an
office, and, rightly or wrongly, he attributed his defeat to the secret
machinations of John Forder. He doubtless did not intend to murder his
enemy that morning when he left home, but heated words had speedily
followed the meeting, and the revolver was handy in his hip pocket.

Radnor had a strong, political backing, and, even after he stretched
his victim on the grass, he had not expected to be so completely
deserted when the news spread through the city. Life was not then so
well protected as it has since become, and many a man who walked the
streets free had, before that time, shot his victim. But in this case
the code of assassination had been violated. Radnor had shot down an
unarmed man in his own front garden and almost in sight of his wife. He
gave his victim no chance. If Forder had had even an unloaded revolver
in any of his pockets, things would not have looked so black for
Radnor, because his friends could have held that he had fired in self-
defence, as they would doubtless claim that the dying man had been the
first to show a weapon. So Radnor, in the city prison, found that even
the papers of his own political party were against him, and that the
town was horrified at what it considered a cold-blooded crime.

As time went on Radnor and his few friends began once more to hope.
Forder still lingered between life and death. That he would ultimately
die from his wound was regarded as certain, but the law required that a
man should die within a stated time after the assault had been
committed upon him, otherwise the assailant could not be tried for
murder. The limit provided by the law was almost reached and Forder
still lived. Time also worked in Radnor's favour in another direction.
The sharp indignation that had followed the crime had become dulled.
Other startling events occurred which usurped the place held by the
Forder tragedy, and Radnor's friends received more and more
encouragement.

Mrs. Forder nursed her husband assiduously, hoping against hope. They
had been married less than a year, and their love for each other had
increased as time went on. Her devotion to her husband had now become
almost fanatical, and the physicians were afraid to tell her how
utterly hopeless the case was, fearing that if the truth became known
to her, she would break down both mentally and physically. Her hatred
of the man who had wrought this misery was so deep and intense that
once when she spoke of him to her brother, who was a leading lawyer in
the place, he saw, with grave apprehension, the light of insanity in
her eyes. Fearful for a breakdown in health, the physicians insisted
that she should walk for a certain time each day, and as she refused to
go outside of the gate, she took her lonely promenade up and down a
long path in the deserted garden. One day she heard a conversation on
the other side of the wall that startled her.

"That is the house," said a voice, "where Forder lives, who was shot by
Walter Radnor. The murder took place just behind this wall."

"Did it really?" queried a second voice. "I suppose Radnor is rather an
anxious man this week."

"Oh," said the first, "he has doubtless been anxious enough all along."

"True. But still if Forder lives the week out, Radnor will escape the
gallows. If Forder were to die this week it would be rather rough on
his murderer, for his case would come up before Judge Brent, who is
known all over the State as a hanging judge. He has no patience with
crimes growing out of politics, and he is certain to charge dead
against Radnor, and carry the jury with him. I tell you that the man in
jail will be the most joyous person in this city on Sunday morning if
Forder is still alive, and I understand his friends have bail ready,
and that he will be out of jail first thing Monday morning."

The two unseen persons, having now satisfied their curiosity by their
scrutiny of the house, passed on and left Mrs. Forder standing looking
into space, with her nervous hands clasped tightly together.

Coming to herself she walked quickly to the house and sent a messenger
for her brother. He found her pacing up and down the room.

"How is John to-day?" he said.

"Still the same, still the same," was the answer. "It seems to me he is
getting weaker and weaker. He does not recognise me any more."

"What do the doctors say?"

"Oh, how can I tell you? I don't suppose they speak the truth to me,
but when they come again I shall insist upon knowing just what they
think. But tell me this: is it true that if John lives through the week
his murderer will escape?"

"How do you mean, escape?"

"Is it the law of the State that if my husband lives till the end of
this week, the man who shot him will not be tried for murder?"

"He will not be tried for murder," said the lawyer, "but he may not be
tried for murder even if John were to die now. His friends will
doubtless try to make it out a case of manslaughter as it is; or
perhaps they will try to get him off on the ground of self-defence.
Still, I don't think they would have much of a chance, especially as
his case will come before Judge Brent; but if John lives past twelve
o'clock on Saturday night, it is the law of the State that Radnor
cannot be tried for murder. Then, at most, he will get a term of years
in a state prison, but that will not bother him to any great extent. He
has a strong political backing, and if his party wins the next state
election, which seems likely, the governor will doubtless pardon him
out before a year is over."

"Is it possible," cried the wife, "that such an enormous miscarriage of
justice can take place in a State that pretends to be civilised?"

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. "I don't bank much on our
civilisation," he said. "Such things occur every year, and many times a
year."

The wife walked up and down the room, while her brother tried to calm
and soothe her.

"It is terrible--it is awful!" she cried, "that such a dastardly crime
may go unavenged!"

"My dear sister," said the lawyer, "do not let your mind dwell so much
on vengeance. Remember that whatever happens to the villain who caused
all this misery, it can neither help nor injure your husband."

"Revenge!" cried the woman, suddenly turning upon her brother; "I swear
before God that if that man escapes, I will kill him with my own hand!"

The lawyer was too wise to say anything to his sister in her present
frame of mind, and after doing what he could to comfort her he
departed.

On Saturday morning Mrs. Forder confronted the physicians.

"I want to know," she said, "and I want to know definitely, whether
there is the slightest chance of my husband's recovery or not. This
suspense is slowly killing me, and I must know the truth, and I must
know it now."

The physicians looked one at the other. "I think," said the elder,
"that it is useless to keep you longer in suspense. There is not the
slightest hope of your husband's recovery. He may live for a week or
for a month perhaps, or he may die at any moment."

"I thank you, gentlemen," said Mrs. Forder, with a calmness that
astonished the two men, who knew the state of excitement she had
laboured under for a long time past. "I thank you. I think it is better
that I should know."

All the afternoon she sat by the bedside of her insensible and scarcely
breathing husband. His face was wasted to a shadow from his long
contest with death. The nurse begged permission to leave the room for a
few minutes, and the wife, who had been waiting for this, silently
assented. When the woman had gone, Mrs. Forder, with tears streaming
from her eyes, kissed her husband.

"John," she whispered, "you know and you will understand." She pressed
his face to her bosom, and when his head fell back on the pillow her
husband was smothered.

Mrs. Forder called for the nurse and sent for the doctors, but that
which had happened was only what they had all expected.

      *      *      *      *      *

To a man in the city jail the news of Forder's death brought a wild
thrill of fear. The terrible and deadly charge of Judge Brent against
the murderer doomed the victim, as every listener in the courthouse
realised as soon as it was finished. The jury were absent but ten
minutes, and the hanging of Walter Radnor did more perhaps than
anything that ever happened in the State to make life within that
commonwealth more secure than it had been before.



A DYNAMITE EXPLOSION


Dupré sat at one of the round tables in the Café Vernon, with a glass
of absinthe before him, which he sipped every now and again. He looked
through the open door, out to the Boulevard, and saw passing back and
forth with the regularity of a pendulum, a uniformed policeman. Dupré
laughed silently as he noticed this evidence of law and order. The Café
Vernon was under the protection of the Government. The class to which
Dupré belonged had sworn that it would blow the café into the next
world, therefore the military-looking policeman walked to and fro on
the pavement to prevent this being done, so that all honest citizens
might see that the Government protects its own. People were arrested
now and then for lingering around the café: they were innocent, of
course, and by-and-by the Government found that out and let them go.
The real criminal seldom acts suspiciously. Most of the arrested
persons were merely attracted by curiosity. "There," said one to
another, "the notorious Hertzog was arrested."

The real criminal goes quietly into the café, and orders his absinthe,
as Dupré had done. And the policeman marches up and down keeping an eye
on the guiltless. So runs the world.

There were few customers in the café, for people feared the vengeance
of Hertzog's friends. They expected some fine day that the café would
be blown to atoms, and they preferred to be taking their coffee and
cognac somewhere else when that time came. It was evident that M.
Sonne, the proprietor of the café, had done a poor stroke of business
for himself when he gave information to the police regarding the
whereabouts of Hertzog, notwithstanding the fact that his café became
suddenly the most noted one in the city, and that it now enjoyed the
protection of the Government.

Dupré seldom looked at the proprietor, who sat at the desk, nor at the
waiter, who had helped the week before to overpower Hertzog. He seemed
more intent on watching the minion of the law who paced back and forth
in front of the door, although he once glanced at the other minion who
sat almost out of sight at the back of the café, scrutinising all who
came in, especially those who had parcels of any kind. The café was
well guarded, and M. Sonne, at the desk, appeared to be satisfied with
the protection he was receiving.

When customers did come in they seldom sat at the round metal tables,
but went direct to the zinc-covered bar, ordered their fluid and drank
it standing, seeming in a hurry to get away. They nodded to M. Sonne
and were evidently old frequenters of the café who did not wish him to
think they had deserted him in this crisis, nevertheless they all had
engagements that made prompt departure necessary. Dupré smiled grimly
when he noticed this. He was the only man sitting at a table. He had no
fears of being blown up. He knew that his comrades were more given to
big talk than to action. He had not attended the last meeting, for he
more than suspected the police had agents among them; besides, his
friend and leader, Hertzog, had never attended meetings. That was why
the police had had such difficulty in finding him. Hertzog had been a
man of deeds not words. He had said to Dupré once, that a single
determined man who kept his mouth shut, could do more against society
than all the secret associations ever formed, and his own lurid career
had proved the truth of this. But now he was in prison, and it was the
treachery of M. Sonne that had sent him there. As he thought of this,
Dupré cast a glance at the proprietor and gritted his teeth.

The policeman at the back of the hall, feeling lonely perhaps, walked
to the door and nodded to his parading comrade. The other paused for a
moment on his beat, and they spoke to each other. As the policeman
returned to his place, Dupré said to him--

"Have a sip with me."

"Not while on duty," replied the officer with a wink.

"_Garçon_," said Dupré quietly, "bring me a caraffe of brandy.
_Fin champagne_."

The _garçon_ placed the little marked decanter on the table with
two glasses. Dupré filled them both. The policeman, with a rapid glance
over his shoulder, tossed one off, and smacked his lips. Dupré slowly
sipped the other while he asked--

"Do you anticipate any trouble here?"

"Not in the least," answered the officer confidently. "Talk, that's
all."

"I thought so," said Dupré.

"They had a meeting the other night--a secret meeting;" the policeman
smiled a little as he said this. "They talked a good deal. They are
going to do wonderful things. A man was detailed to carry out this
job."

"And have you arrested him?" questioned Dupré.

"Oh dear, no. We watch him merely. He is the most frightened man in the
city to-night. We expect him to come and tell us all about it, but we
hope he won't. We know more about it than he does."

"I dare say; still it must have hurt M. Sonne's business a good deal."

"It has killed it for the present. People are such cowards. But the
Government will make it all right with him out of the secret fund. He
won't lose anything."

"Does he own the whole house, or only the café?"

"The whole house. He lets the upper rooms, but nearly all the tenants
have left. Yet I call it the safest place in the city. They are all
poltroons, the dynamiters, and they are certain to strike at some place
not so well guarded. They are all well known to us, and the moment one
is caught prowling about here he will be arrested. They are too
cowardly to risk their liberty by coming near this place. It's a
different thing from leaving a tin can and fuse in some dark corner
when nobody is looking. Any fool can do that."

"Then you think this would be a good time to take a room here? I am
looking for one in this neighbourhood," said Dupré.

"You couldn't do better than arrange with M. Sonne. You could make a
good bargain with him now, and you would be perfectly safe."

"I am glad that you mentioned it; I will speak to M. Sonne to-night,
and see the rooms to-morrow. Have another sip of brandy?"

"No, thank you, I must be getting back to my place. Just tell M. Sonne,
if you take a room, that I spoke to you about it."

"I will. Good-night."

Dupré paid his bill and tipped the _garçon_ liberally. The
proprietor was glad to hear of any one wanting rooms. It showed the
tide was turning, and an appointment was made for next day.

Dupré kept his appointment, and the _concierge_ showed him over
the house. The back rooms were too dark, the windows being but a few
feet from the opposite wall. The lower front rooms were too noisy.
Dupré said that he liked quiet, being a student. A front room on the
third floor, however, pleased him, and he took it. He well knew the
necessity of being on good terms with the _concierge_, who would
spy on him anyhow, so he paid just a trifle more than requisite to that
functionary, but not enough to arouse suspicion. Too much is as bad as
too little, a fact that Dupré was well aware of.

He had taken pains to see that his window was directly over the front
door of the café, but now that he was alone and the door locked, he
scrutinised the position more closely. There was an awning over the
front of the café that shut off his view of the pavement and the
policeman marching below. That complicated matters. Still he remembered
that when the sun went down the awning was rolled up. His first idea
when he took the room was to drop the dynamite from the third story
window to the pavement below, but the more he thought of that plan the
less he liked it. It was the sort of thing any fool could do, as the
policeman had said. It would take some thinking over. Besides, dynamite
dropped on the pavement would, at most, but blow in the front of the
shop, kill the perambulating policeman perhaps, or some innocent
passer-by, but it would not hurt old Sonne nor yet the _garçon_
who had made himself so active in arresting Hertzog.

Dupré was a methodical man. He spoke quite truly when he said he was a
student. He now turned his student training on the case as if it were a
problem in mathematics.

First, the dynamite must be exploded inside the café. Second, the thing
must be done so deftly that no suspicion could fall on the perpetrator.
Third, revenge was no revenge when it (A) killed the man who fired the
mine, or (B) left a trail that would lead to his arrest.

Dupré sat down at his table, thrust his hands in his pockets, stretched
out his legs, knit his brows, and set himself to solve the conundrum.
He could easily take a handbag filled with explosive material into the
café. He was known there, but not as a friend of Hertzog's. He was a
customer and a tenant, therefore doubly safe. But he could not leave
the bag there, and if he stayed with it his revenge would rebound on
himself. He could hand the bag to the waiter saying he would call for
it again, but the waiter would naturally wonder why he did not give it
to the _concierge_, and have it sent to his rooms; besides, the
_garçon_ was wildly suspicious. The waiter felt his unfortunate
position. He dare not leave the Café Vernon, for he now knew that he
was a marked man. At the Vernon he had police protection, while if he
went anywhere else he would have no more safeguard than any other
citizen; so he stayed on at the Vernon, such a course being, he
thought, the least of two evils. But he watched every incomer much more
sharply than did the policeman.

Dupré also realised that there was another difficulty about the handbag
scheme. The dynamite must be set off either by a fuse or by clockwork
machinery. A fuse caused smoke, and the moment a man touched a bag
containing clockwork his hand felt the thrill of moving machinery. A
man who hears for the first time the buzz of the rattlesnake's signal,
like the shaking of dry peas in a pod, springs instinctively aside,
even though he knows nothing of snakes. How much more, therefore, would
a suspicious waiter, whose nerves were all alert for the soft, deadly
purr of dynamite mechanism, spoil everything the moment his hand
touched the bag? Yes, Dupré reluctantly admitted to himself, the
handbag theory was not practical. It led to either self-destruction or
prison.

What then was the next thing, as fuse or mechanism were unavailable?
There was the bomb that exploded when it struck, and Dupré had himself
made several. A man might stand in the middle of the street and shy it
in through the open door. But then he might miss the doorway. Also
until the hour the café closed the street was as light as day. Then the
policeman was all alert for people in the middle of the street. His own
safety depended upon it too. How was the man in the street to be
dispensed with, yet the result attained? If the Boulevard was not so
wide, a person on the opposite side in a front room might fire a
dynamite bomb across, as they do from dynamite guns, but then there
was--

"By God!" cried Dupré, "I have it!"

He drew in his outstretched legs, went to the window and threw it open,
gazing down for a moment at the pavement below. He must measure the
distance at night--and late at night too--he said to himself. He bought
a ball of cord, as nearly the colour of the front of the building as
possible. He left his window open, and after midnight ran the cord out
till he estimated that it about reached the top of the café door. He
stole quietly down and let himself out, leaving the door unlatched. The
door to the apartments was at the extreme edge of the building, while
the café doors were in the middle, with large windows on each side. As
he came round to the front, his heart almost ceased to beat when a
voice from the café door said--

"What do you want? What are you doing here at this hour?"

The policeman had become so much a part of the pavement in Dupré's mind
that he had actually forgotten the officer was there night and day.
Dupré allowed himself the luxury of one silent gasp, then his heart
took up its work again.

"I was looking for you," he said quietly. By straining his eyes he
noticed at the same moment that the cord dangled about a foot above the
policeman's head, as he stood in the dark doorway.

[Illustration: THE CORD DANGLED ABOUT A FOOT ABOVE THE POLICEMAN'S
HEAD]

"I was looking for you. I suppose you don't know of any--any chemist's
shop open so late as this? I have a raging toothache and can't sleep,
and I want to get something for it."

"Oh, the chemist's at the corner is open all night. Ring the bell at
the right hand."

"I hate to disturb them for such a trifle."

"That's what they're there for," said the officer philosophically.

"Would you mind standing at the other door till I get back? I'll be as
quick as I can. I don't wish to leave it open unprotected, and I don't
want to close it, for the _concierge_ knows I'm in and he is
afraid to open it when any one rings late. You know me, of course; I'm
in No. 16."

"Yes, I recognise you now, though I didn't at first. I will stand by
the door until you return."

Dupré went to the corner shop and bought a bottle of toothache drops
from the sleepy youth behind the counter. He roused him up however, and
made him explain how the remedy was to be applied. He thanked the
policeman, closed the door, and went up to his room. A second later the
cord was cut at the window and quietly pulled in.

Dupré sat down and breathed hard for a few moments.

"You fool!" he said to himself; "a mistake or two like that and you are
doomed. That's what comes of thinking too much on one branch of your
subject. Another two feet and the string would have been down on his
nose. I am certain he did not see it; I could hardly see it myself,
looking for it. The guarding of the side door was an inspiration. But
I must think well over every phase of the subject before acting again.
This is a lesson."

As he went on with his preparations it astonished him to find how many
various things had to be thought of in connexion with an apparently
simple scheme, the neglect of any one of which would endanger the whole
enterprise. His plan was a most uncomplicated one. All he had to do was
to tie a canister of dynamite at the end of a string of suitable
length, and at night, before the café doors were closed, fling it from
his window so that the package would sweep in by the open door, strike
against the ceiling of the café, and explode. First he thought of
holding the end of the cord in his hand at the open window, but
reflection showed him that if, in the natural excitement of the moment,
he drew back or leant too far forward the package might strike the
front of the house above the door, or perhaps hit the pavement. He
therefore drove a stout nail in the window-sill and attached the end of
the cord to that. Again, he had to render his canister of explosive so
sensitive to any shock that he realised if he tied the cord around it
and flung it out into the night the can might go off when the string
was jerked tight and the explosion take place in mid-air above the
street. So he arranged a spiral spring between can and cord to take up
harmlessly the shock caused by the momentum of the package when the
string became suddenly taut. He saw that the weak part of his project
was the fact that everything would depend on his own nerve and accuracy
of aim at the critical moment, and that a slight miscalculation to the
right or to the left would cause the bomb, when falling down and in, to
miss the door altogether. He would have but one chance, and there was
no opportunity of practising. However, Dupré, who was a philosophical
man, said to himself that if people allowed small technical
difficulties to trouble them too much, nothing really worth doing would
be accomplished in this world. He felt sure he was going to make some
little mistake that would ruin all his plans, but he resolved to do
the best he could and accept the consequences with all the composure at
his command.

As he stood by the window on the fatal night with the canister in his
hand he tried to recollect if there was anything left undone or any
tracks remaining uncovered. There was no light in his room, but a fire
burned in the grate, throwing flickering reflections on the opposite
wall.

"There are four things I must do," he murmured: "first, pull up the
string; second, throw it in the fire; third, draw out the nail; fourth,
close the window."

He was pleased to notice that his heart was not beating faster than
usual. "I think I have myself well in hand, yet I must not be too cool
when I get downstairs. There are so many things to think of all at one
time," he said to himself with a sigh. He looked up and down the
street. The pavement was clear. He waited until the policeman had
passed the door. He would take ten steps before he turned on his beat.
When his back was towards the café door Dupré launched his bomb out
into the night.

[Illustration: DUPRÉ LAUNCHED HIS BOMB OUT INTO THE NIGHT]

He drew back instantly and watched the nail. It held when the jerk
came. A moment later the whole building lurched like a drunken man,
heaving its shoulders as it were. Dupré was startled by a great square
of plaster coming down on his table with a crash. Below, there was a
roar of muffled thunder. The floor trembled under him after the heave.
The glass in the window clattered down, and he felt the air smite him
on the breast as if some one had struck him a blow.

He looked out for a moment. The concussion had extinguished the street
lamps opposite. All was dark in front of the café where a moment before
the Boulevard was flooded with light. A cloud of smoke was rolling out
from the lower part of the house.

"Four things," said Dupré, as he rapidly pulled in the cord. It was
shrivelled at the end. Dupré did the other three things quickly.

Everything was strangely silent, although the deadened roar of the
explosion still sounded dully in his ears. His boots crunched on the
plaster as he walked across the room and groped for the door. He had
some trouble in pulling it open. It stuck so fast that he thought it
was locked; then he remembered with a cold shiver of fear that the door
had been unlocked all the time he had stood at the window with the
canister in his hand.

"I have certainly done some careless thing like that which will
betray me yet; I wonder what it is?"

He wrenched the door open at last. The lights in the hall were out; he
struck a match, and made his way down. He thought he heard groans. As
he went down, he found it was the _concierge_ huddled in a corner.

"What is the matter?" he asked.

"Oh, my God, my God!" cried the _concierge_, "I knew they would do
it. We are all blown to atoms!"

"Get up," said Dupré, "you're not hurt; come with me and see if we can
be of any use."

"I'm afraid of another explosion," groaned the _concierge_.

"Nonsense! There's never a second. Come along."

They found some difficulty in getting outside, and then it was through
a hole in the wall and not through the door. The lower hall was
wrecked.

Dupré expected to find a crowd, but there was no one there. He did not
realise how short a time had elapsed since the disaster. The policeman
was on his hands and knees in the street, slowly getting up, like a man
in a dream. Dupré ran to him, and helped him on his feet.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

"I don't know," said the policeman, rubbing his head in his
bewilderment.

"How was it done?"

"Oh, don't ask me. All at once there was a clap of thunder, and the
next thing I was on my face in the street."

"Is your comrade inside?"

"Yes; he and M. Sonne and two customers."

"And the _garçon_, wasn't he there?" cried Dupré, with a note of
disappointment in his voice.

The policeman didn't notice the disappointed tone, but answered--

"Oh, the _garçon_, of course."

"Ah," said Dupré, in a satisfied voice, "let us go in, and help them."
Now the people had begun to gather in crowds, but kept at some distance
from the café. "Dynamite! dynamite!" they said, in awed voices among
themselves.

A detachment of police came mysteriously from somewhere. They drove the
crowd still further back.

"What is this man doing here?" asked the Chief.

The policeman answered, "He's a friend of ours; he lives in the house."

"Oh," said the Chief.

"I was going in," said Dupré, "to find my friend, the officer, on duty
in the café."

"Very well, come with us."

They found the policeman insensible under the _débris_, with a leg
and both arms broken. Dupré helped to carry him out to the ambulance.
M. Sonne was breathing when they found him, but died on the way to the
hospital. The _garçon_ had been blown to pieces.

The Chief thanked Dupré for his assistance.

They arrested many persons, but never discovered who blew up the Café
Vernon, although it was surmised that some miscreant had left a bag
containing an infernal machine with either the waiter or the
proprietor.



AN ELECTRICAL SLIP.


Public opinion had been triumphantly vindicated. The insanity plea had
broken down, and Albert Prior was sentenced to be hanged by the neck
until he was dead, and might the Lord have mercy on his soul. Everybody
agreed that it was a righteous verdict, but now that he was sentenced
they added, "Poor fellow!"

Albert Prior was a young man who had had more of his own way than was
good for him. His own family--father, mother, brother, and sisters--had
given way to him so much, that he appeared to think the world at large
should do the same. The world differed with him. Unfortunately, the
first to oppose his violent will was a woman--a girl almost. She would
have nothing to do with him, and told him so. He stormed, of course,
but did not look upon her opposition as serious. No girl in her senses
could continue to refuse a young man with his prospects in life. But
when he heard that she had become engaged to young Bowen, the telegraph
operator, Prior's rage passed all bounds. He determined to frighten
Bowen out of the place, and called at the telegraph office for that
laudable purpose; but Bowen was the night operator, and was absent. The
day man, with a smile, not knowing what he did, said Bowen would likely
be found at the Parker Place, where Miss Johnson lived with her aunt,
her parents being dead.

Prior ground his teeth and departed. He found Miss Johnson at home, but
alone. There was a stormy scene, ending with the tragedy. He fired four
times at her, keeping the other two bullets for himself. But he was a
coward and a cur at heart, and when it came to the point of putting the
two bullets in himself he quailed, and thought it best to escape. Then
electricity did him its first dis-service. It sent his description far
and wide, capturing him twenty-five miles from his home. He was taken
back to the county town where he lived, and lodged in gaol.

Public opinion, ever right and all-powerful, now asserted itself. The
outward and visible sign of its action was an ominous gathering of
dark-browed citizens outside the gaol. There were determined mutterings
among the crowd rather than outspoken anger, but the mob was the more
dangerous on that account. One man in its midst thrust his closed hand
towards the sky, and from his fist dangled a rope. A cry like the
growling of a pack of wolves went up as the mob saw the rope, and they
clamoured at the gates of the gaol. "Lynch him! Gaoler, give up the
keys!" was the cry.

The agitated sheriff knew his duty, but he hesitated to perform it.
Technically, this was a mob--a mob of outlaws; but in reality it was
composed of his fellow-townsmen, his neighbours, his friends--justly
indignant at the commission of an atrocious crime. He might order them
to be fired upon, and the order perhaps would be obeyed. One, two, a
dozen might be killed, and technically again they would have deserved
their fate; yet all that perfectly legal slaughter would be--for what?
To save, for a time only, the worthless life of a wretch who rightly
merited any doom the future might have in store for him. So the sheriff
wrung his hands, bewailed the fact that such a crisis should have
arisen during his term of office, and did nothing; while the clamours
of the mob grew so loud that the trembling prisoner in his cell heard
it, and broke out into a cold sweat when he quickly realised what it
meant. He was to have a dose of justice in the raw.

"What shall I do?" asked the gaoler. "Give up the keys?"

"I don't know what to do," cried the sheriff, despairingly. "Would
there be any use in speaking to them, do you think?"

"Not the slightest."

"I ought to call on them to disperse, and if they refused I suppose I
should have them fired on."

"That is the law," answered the gaoler, grimly.

"What would you do if you were in my place?" appealed the sheriff. It
was evident the stern Roman Father was not elected by popular vote in
_that_ county.

"Me?" said the gaoler. "Oh, I'd give 'em the keys, and let 'em hang
him. It'll save you the trouble. If you have 'em fired on, you're sure
to kill the very men who are at this moment urging 'em to go home.
There's always an innocent man in a mob, and he's the one to get hurt
every time."

"Well then, Perkins, you give them the keys; but for Heaven's sake
don't say I told you. They'll be sorry for this to-morrow. You know I'm
elected, but you're appointed, so you don't need to mind what people
say."

"That's all right," said the gaoler, "I'll stand the brunt."

But the keys were not given up. The clamour had ceased. A young man
with pale face and red eyes stood on the top of the stone wall that
surrounded the gaol. He held up his hand and there was instant silence.
They all recognised him as Bowen, the night operator, to whom
_she_ had been engaged.

"Gentlemen," he cried--and his clear voice reached the outskirts of the
crowd--"don't do it. Don't put an everlasting stain on the fair name of
our town. No one has ever been lynched in this county and none in this
State, so far as I know. Don't let us begin it. If I thought the
miserable scoundrel inside would escape--if I thought his money would
buy him off--I'd be the man to lead you to batter down those doors and
hang him on the nearest tree--and you know it." There were cheers at
this. "But he won't escape. His money can't buy him off. He will be
hanged by the law. Don't think it's mercy I'm preaching; it's
vengeance!" Bowen shook his clenched fist at the gaol. "That wretch
there has been in hell ever since he heard your shouts. He'll be in
hell, for he's a dastard, until the time his trembling legs carry him
to the scaffold. I want him to _stay_ in this hell till he drops
through into the other, if there is one. I want him to suffer some of
the misery he has caused. Lynching is over in a moment. I want that
murderer to die by the slow merciless cruelty of the law."

Even the worst in the crowd shuddered as they heard these words and
realised as they looked at Bowen's face, almost inhuman in its rage,
that his thirst for revenge made their own seem almost innocent. The
speech broke up the crowd. The man with the rope threw it over into the
gaol-yard, shouting to the sheriff, "Take care of it, old man, you'll
need it."

The crowd dispersed, and the sheriff, overtaking Bowen, brought his
hand down affectionately on his shoulder.

"Bowen, my boy," he said, "you're a brick. I'm everlastingly obliged to
you. You got me out of an awful hole. If you ever get into a tight
place, Bowen, come to me, and if money or influence will help you, you
can have all I've got of either."

"Thanks," said Bowen, shortly. He was not in a mood for
congratulations.

And so it came about, just as Bowen knew it would, that all the money
and influence of the Prior family could not help the murderer, and he
was sentenced to be hanged on September 21, at 6 A.M. And thus public
opinion was satisfied.

But the moment the sentence was announced, and the fate of the young
man settled, a curious change began to be noticed in public opinion. It
seemed to have veered round. There was much sympathy for the family of
course. Then there came to be much sympathy for the criminal himself.
People quoted the phrase about the worst use a man can be put to.
Ladies sent flowers to the condemned man's cell. After all, hanging
him, poor fellow, would not bring Miss Johnson back to life. However,
few spoke of Miss Johnson, she was forgotten by all but one man, who
ground his teeth when he realised the instability of public opinion.

Petitions were got up, headed by the local clergy. Women begged for
signatures, and got them. Every man and woman signed them. All except
one; and even he was urged to sign by a tearful lady, who asked him to
remember that vengeance was the Lord's.

"But the Lord has his instruments," said Bowen, grimly; "and I swear to
you, madam, that if you succeed in getting that murderer reprieved, I
will be the instrument of the Lord's vengeance."

"Oh, don't say that," pleaded the lady. "Your signature would have
_such_ an effect. You were noble once and saved him from lynching;
be noble again and save him from the gallows."

"I shall certainly not sign. It is, if you will pardon me, an insult to
ask me. If you reprieve him you will make a murderer of me, for I will
kill him when he comes out, if it is twenty years from now. You talk of
lynching; it is such work as you are doing that makes lynching
possible. The people seem all with you now, more shame to them, but the
next murder that is committed will be followed by a lynching just
because you are successful to-day."

The lady left Bowen with a sigh, depressed because of the depravity of
human nature; as indeed she had every right to be.

The Prior family was a rich and influential one. The person who is
alive has many to help; the one in the grave has few to cry for
justice. Petitions calling for mercy poured in on the governor from all
parts of the State. The good man, whose eye was entirely on his own re-
election, did not know what to do. If any one could have shown him
mathematically that this action or the other would gain or lose him
exactly so many votes, his course would have been clear, but his own
advisers were uncertain about the matter. A mistake in a little thing
like this might easily lose him the election. Sometimes it was rumoured
that the governor was going to commute the sentence to imprisonment for
life; then the rumour was contradicted.

People claimed, apparently with justice, that surely imprisonment for
life was a sufficient punishment for a young man; but every one knew in
his own heart that the commutation was only the beginning of the fight,
and that a future governor would have sufficient pressure brought to
bear upon him to let the young man go.

Up to September 20 the governor made no sign. When Bowen went to his
duties on the night of the 20th he met the sheriff.

"Has any reprieve arrived yet?" asked Bowen. The sheriff shook his head
sadly. He had never yet hanged a man, and did not wish to begin.

"No," said the sheriff. "And from what I heard this afternoon none is
likely to arrive. The governor has made up his mind at last that the
law must take its course."

"I'm glad of that," said Bowen.

"Well, I'm not."

After nine o'clock messages almost ceased coming in, and Bowen sat
reading the evening paper. Suddenly there came a call for the office,
and the operator answered. As the message came over the wire, Bowen
wrote it down mechanically from the clicking instrument, not
understanding its purport; but when he read it, he jumped to his feet,
with an oath. He looked wildly around the room, then realised with a
sigh of relief that he was alone, except for the messenger boy who sat
dozing in a corner, with his cap over his eyes. He took up the telegram
again, and read it with set teeth.

                  "_Sheriff of Brenting County, Brentingville_.

"Do not proceed further with execution of Prior. Sentence commuted.
Documents sent off by to-night's mail registered. Answer that you
understand this message.

                  "JOHN DAY, _Governor_."

[Illustration: "DO NOT PROCEED FURTHER WITH EXECUTION"]

Bowen walked up and down the room with knitted brow. He was in no doubt
as to what he would do, but he wanted to think over it. The telegraph
instrument called to him and he turned to it, giving the answering
click. The message was to himself from the operator at the capital, and
it told him he was to forward the sheriff's telegram without delay, and
report to the office at the capital--a man's life depended on it, the
message concluded. Bowen answered that the telegram to the sheriff
would be immediately sent.

Taking another telegraph blank, he wrote:--

                  "_Sheriff of Brenting County, Brentingville_.

"Proceed with execution of Prior. No reprieve will be sent. Reply if
you understand this message.

                  "JOHN DAY, _Governor_."

It is a pity it cannot be written that Bowen felt some compunction at
what he was doing. We like to think that, when a man deliberately
commits a crime, he should hesitate and pay enough deference to the
proprieties as to feel at least a temporary regret, even if he goes on
with his crime afterward. Bowen's thoughts were upon the dead girl, not
on the living man. He roused the dozing telegraph messenger.

"Here," he said, "take this to the gaol and find the sheriff. If he is
not there, go to his residence. If he is asleep, wake him up. Tell him
this wants an answer. Give him a blank, and when he has filled it up,
bring it to me; give the message to no one else, mind."

The boy said "Yes, sir," and departed into the night. He returned so
quickly that Bowen knew without asking that he had found the sleepless
sheriff at the gaol. The message to the governor, written in a
trembling hand by the sheriff, was: "I understand that the execution is
to take place. If you should change your mind, for God's sake telegraph
as soon as possible. I shall delay execution until last moment allowed
by law."

Bowen did not send that message, but another. He laughed--and then
checked himself in alarm, for his laugh sounded strange. "I wonder if I
am quite sane," he said to himself. "I doubt it."

The night wore slowly on. A man representing a Press association came
in after twelve and sent a long dispatch. Bowen telegraphed it, taking
the chances that the receiver would not communicate with the sender of
the reprieve at the capital. He knew how mechanically news of the
greatest importance was taken off the wire by men who have
automatically been doing that for years. Anyhow all the copper and zinc
in the world could not get a message into Brentingville, except through
him, until the day operator came on, and then it would be too late.

The newspaper man, lingering, asked if there would be only one
telegrapher on hand after the execution.

"I shall have a lot of stuff to send over and I want it rushed. Some of
the papers may get out specials. I would have brought an operator with
me but we thought there was going to be a reprieve--although the
sheriff didn't seem to think so," he added.

"The day operator will be here at six, I will return as soon as I have
had a cup of coffee, and we'll handle all you can write," answered
Bowen, without looking up from his instrument.

"Thanks. Grim business, isn't it?"

"It is."

"I thought the governor would cave; didn't you?"

"I didn't know."

"He's a shrewd old villain. He'd have lost next election if he'd
reprieved this man. People don't want to see lynching introduced, and a
weak-kneed governor is Judge Lynch's friend. Well, good-night, see you
in the morning."

"Good-night," said Bowen.

Daylight gradually dimmed the lamps in the telegraph room, and Bowen
started and caught his breath as the church bell began to toll.

It was ten minutes after six when Bowen's partner, the day man, came
in.

"Well, they've hanged him," he said.

Bowen was fumbling among some papers on his table. He folded two of
them and put them in his inside pocket. Then he spoke:

"There will be a newspaper man here in a few moments with a good deal
of copy to telegraph. Rush it off as fast as you can and I'll be back
to help before you are tired."

As Bowen walked towards the gaol he met the scattered group of those
who had been privileged to see the execution. They were discussing
capital punishment, and some were yawningly complaining about the
unearthly hour chosen for the function they had just beheld. Between
the outside gate and the gaol door Bowen met the sheriff, who was
looking ghastly and sallow in the fresh morning light.

"I have come to give myself up," said Bowen, before the official could
greet him.

"To give yourself up? What for?"

"For murder, I suppose."

"This is no time for joking, young man," said the sheriff, severely.

"Do I look like a humourist? Read that."

First incredulity, then horror, overspread the haggard face of the
sheriff as he read and re-read the dispatch. He staggered back against
the wall, putting up his arm to keep himself from falling.

"Bowen," he gasped: "Do you--do you mean to--to tell me--that this
message came for me last night?"

"I do."

"And you--you suppressed it?"

"I did--and sent you a false one."

"And I have hanged--a reprieved man?"

"You have hanged a murderer--yes."

"My God! My God!" cried the sheriff. He turned his face on his arm
against the wall and wept. His nerves were gone. He had been up all
night and had never hanged a man before.

Bowen stood there until the spasm was over. The sheriff turned
indignantly to him, trying to hide the feeling of shame he felt at
giving way, in anger at the witness of it.

"And you come to me, you villain, because I said I would help you if
you ever got into a tight place?"

"Damn your tight place," cried the young man, "I come to you to give
myself up. I stand by what I do. I don't squeal. There will be no
petitions got up for _me_. What are you going to do with me?"

"I don't know, Bowen, I don't know," faltered the official, on the
point of breaking down again. He did not wish to have to hang another
man, and a friend at that. "I'll have to see the governor. I'll leave
by the first train. I don't suppose you'll try to escape."

"I'll be here when you want me."

So Bowen went back to help the day operator, and the sheriff left by
the first train for the capital.

Now a strange thing happened. For the first time within human
recollection the newspapers were unanimous in commending the conduct of
the head of the State, the organs of the governor's own party lavishly
praising him; the opposition sheets grudgingly admitting that he had
more backbone than they had given him credit for. Public opinion, like
the cat of the simile, had jumped, and that unmistakably.

"In the name of all that's wonderful, sheriff," said the bewildered
governor, "who signed all those petitions? If the papers wanted the man
hanged, why, in the fiend's name, did they not say so before, and save
me all this worry? Now how many know of this suppressed dispatch?"

"Well, there's you and your subordinates here and----"

"_We'll_ say nothing about it."

"And then there is me and Bowen in Brentingville. That's all."

"Well, Bowen will keep quiet for his own sake, and you won't mention
it."

"Certainly not."

"Then let's _all_ keep quiet. The thing's safe if some of those
newspaper fellows don't get after it. It's not on record in the books,
and I'll burn all the documents."

And thus it was. Public opinion was once more vindicated. The governor
was triumphantly re-elected as a man with some stamina about him.



THE VENGEANCE OF THE DEAD.


It is a bad thing for a man to die with an unsatisfied thirst for
revenge parching his soul. David Allen died, cursing Bernard Heaton and
lawyer Grey; hating the lawyer who had won the case even more than the
man who was to gain by the winning. Yet if cursing were to be done,
David should rather have cursed his own stubbornness and stupidity.

To go back for some years, this is what had happened. Squire Heaton's
only son went wrong. The Squire raged, as was natural. He was one of a
long line of hard-drinking, hard-riding, hard-swearing squires, and it
was maddening to think that his only son should deliberately take to
books and cold water, when there was manly sport on the country side
and old wine in the cellar. Yet before now such blows have descended
upon deserving men, and they have to be borne as best they may. Squire
Heaton bore it badly, and when his son went off on a government
scientific expedition around the world the Squire drank harder, and
swore harder than ever, but never mentioned the boy's name.

Two years after, young Heaton returned, but the doors of the Hall were
closed against him. He had no mother to plead for him, although it was
not likely that would have made any difference, for the Squire was not
a man to be appealed to and swayed this way or that. He took his
hedges, his drinks, and his course in life straight. The young man went
to India, where he was drowned. As there is no mystery in this matter,
it may as well be stated here that young Heaton ultimately returned to
England, as drowned men have ever been in the habit of doing, when
their return will mightily inconvenience innocent persons who have
taken their places. It is a disputed question whether the sudden
disappearance of a man, or his reappearance after a lapse of years, is
the more annoying.

If the old Squire felt remorse at the supposed death of his only son he
did not show it. The hatred which had been directed against his
unnatural offspring re-doubled itself and was bestowed on his nephew
David Allen, who was now the legal heir to the estate and its income.
Allen was the impecunious son of the Squire's sister who had married
badly. It is hard to starve when one is heir to a fine property, but
that is what David did, and it soured him. The Jews would not lend on
the security--the son might return--so David Allen waited for a dead
man's shoes, impoverished and embittered.

At last the shoes were ready for him to step into. The old Squire died
as a gentleman should, of apoplexy, in his armchair, with a decanter at
his elbow. David Allen entered into his belated inheritance, and his
first act was to discharge every servant, male and female, about the
place and engage others who owed their situations to him alone. Then
were the Jews sorry they had not trusted him.

[Illustration: HIS FIRST ACT WAS TO DISCHARGE EVERY SERVANT]

He was now rich but broken in health, with bent shoulders, without a
friend on the earth. He was a man suspicious of all the world, and he
had a furtive look over his shoulder as if he expected Fate to deal him
a sudden blow--as indeed it did.

It was a beautiful June day, when there passed the porter's lodge and
walked up the avenue to the main entrance of the Hall a man whose face
was bronzed by a torrid sun. He requested speech with the master and
was asked into a room to wait.

At length David Allen shuffled in, with his bent shoulders, glaring at
the intruder from under his bushy eyebrows. The stranger rose as he
entered and extended his hand.

"You don't know me, of course. I believe we have never met before. I am
your cousin."

Allen ignored the outstretched hand.

"I have no cousin," he said.

"I am Bernard Heaton, the son of your uncle."

"Bernard Heaton is dead."

"I beg your pardon, he is not. I ought to know, for I tell you I am
he."

"You lie!"

Heaton, who had been standing since his cousin's entrance, now sat down
again, Allen remaining on his feet.

"Look here," said the new-comer. "Civility costs nothing and----"

"I cannot be civil to an impostor."

"Quite so. It _is_ difficult. Still, if I am an impostor, civility
can do no harm, while if it should turn out that I am not an impostor,
then your present tone may make after arrangements all the harder upon
you. Now will you oblige me by sitting down? I dislike, while sitting
myself, talking to a standing man."

"Will you oblige me by stating what you want before I order my servants
to turn you out?"

"I see you are going to be hard on yourself. I will endeavour to keep
my temper, and if I succeed it will be a triumph for a member of our
family. I am to state what I want? I will. I want as my own the three
rooms on the first floor of the south wing--the rooms communicating
with each other. You perceive I at least know the house. I want my
meals served there, and I wish to be undisturbed at all hours. Next I
desire that you settle upon me say five hundred a year--or six hundred
--out of the revenues of the estate. I am engaged in scientific research
of a peculiar kind. I can make money, of course, but I wish my mind
left entirely free from financial worry. I shall not interfere with
your enjoyment of the estate in the least."

"I'll wager you will not. So you think I am fool enough to harbour and
feed the first idle vagabond that comes along and claims to be my dead
cousin. Go to the courts with your story and be imprisoned as similar
perjurers have been."

"Of course I don't expect you to take my word for it. If you were any
judge of human nature you would see I am not a vagabond. Still that's
neither here nor there. Choose three of your own friends. I will lay my
proofs before them and abide by their decision. Come, nothing could be
fairer than that, now could it?"

"Go to the courts, I tell you."

"Oh, certainly. But only as a last resort. No wise man goes to law if
there is another course open. But what is the use of taking such an
absurd position? You _know_ I'm your cousin. I'll take you
blindfold into every room in the place."

"Any discharged servant could do that. I have had enough of you. I am
not a man to be black-mailed. Will you leave the house yourself, or
shall I call the servants to put you out?"

"I should be sorry to trouble you," said Heaton, rising. "That is your
last word, I take it?"

"Absolutely."

"Then good-bye. We shall meet at Philippi."

Allen watched him disappear down the avenue, and it dimly occurred to
him that he had not acted diplomatically.

Heaton went directly to lawyer Grey, and laid the case before him. He
told the lawyer what his modest demands were, and gave instructions
that if, at any time before the suit came off, his cousin would
compromise, an arrangement avoiding publicity should be arrived at.

"Excuse me for saying that looks like weakness," remarked the lawyer.

"I know it does," answered Heaton. "But my case is so strong that I can
afford to have it appear weak."

The lawyer shook his head. He knew how uncertain the law was. But he
soon discovered that no compromise was possible.

The case came to trial, and the verdict was entirely in favour of
Bernard Heaton.

The pallor of death spread over the sallow face of David Allen, as he
realised that he was once again a man without a penny or a foot of
land. He left the court with bowed head, speaking no word to those who
had defended him. Heaton hurried after him, overtaking him on the
pavement.

"I knew this had to be the result," he said to the defeated man. "No
other outcome was possible. I have no desire to cast you penniless into
the street. What you refused to me I shall be glad to offer you. I will
make the annuity a thousand pounds."

Allen, trembling, darted one look of malignant hate at his cousin.

"You successful scoundrel!" he cried. "You and your villainous
confederate Grey. I tell you----"

The blood rushed to his mouth; he fell upon the pavement and died. One
and the same day had robbed him of his land and his life.

Bernard Heaton deeply regretted the tragic issue, but went on with his
researches at the Hall, keeping much to himself. Lawyer Grey, who had
won renown by his conduct of the celebrated case, was almost his only
friend. To him Heaton partially disclosed his hopes, told what he had
learned during those years he had been lost to the world in India, and
claimed that if he succeeded in combining the occultism of the East
with the science of the West, he would make for himself a name of
imperishable renown.

The lawyer, a practical man of the world, tried to persuade Heaton to
abandon his particular line of research, but without success.

"No good can come of it," said Grey. "India has spoiled you. Men who
dabble too much in that sort of thing go mad. The brain is a delicate
instrument. Do not trifle with it."

"Nevertheless," persisted Heaton, "the great discoveries of the
twentieth century are going to be in that line, just as the great
discoveries of the nineteenth century have been in the direction of
electricity."

"The cases are not parallel. Electricity is a tangible substance."

"Is it? Then tell me what it is composed of? We all know how it is
generated, and we know partly what it will do, but what _is_ it?"

"I shall have to charge you six-and-eightpence for answering that
question," the lawyer had said with a laugh. "At any rate there is a
good deal to be discovered about electricity yet. Turn your attention
to that and leave this Indian nonsense alone."

Yet, astonishing as it may seem, Bernard Heaton, to his undoing,
succeeded, after many futile attempts, several times narrowly escaping
death. Inventors and discoverers have to risk their lives as often as
soldiers, with less chance of worldly glory.

First his invisible excursions were confined to the house and his own
grounds, then he went further afield, and to his intense astonishment
one day he met the spirit of the man who hated him.

"Ah," said David Allen, "you did not live long to enjoy your ill-gotten
gains."

"You are as wrong in this sphere of existence as you were in the other.
I am not dead."

"Then why are you here and in this shape?"

"I suppose there is no harm in telling _you_. What I wanted to
discover, at the time you would not give me a hearing, was how to
separate the spirit from its servant, the body--that is, temporarily
and not finally. My body is at this moment lying apparently asleep in a
locked room in my house--one of the rooms I begged from you. In an hour
or two I shall return and take possession of it."

"And how do you take possession of it and quit it?"

Heaton, pleased to notice the absence of that rancour which had
formerly been Allen's most prominent characteristic, and feeling that
any information given to a disembodied spirit was safe as far as the
world was concerned, launched out on the subject that possessed his
whole mind.

"It is very interesting," said Allen, when he had finished.

And so they parted.

David Allen at once proceeded to the Hall, which he had not seen since
the day he left it to attend the trial. He passed quickly through the
familiar apartments until he entered the locked room on the first floor
of the south wing. There on the bed lay the body of Heaton, most of the
colour gone from the face, but breathing regularly, if almost
imperceptibly, like a mechanical wax-figure.

If a watcher had been in the room, he would have seen the colour slowly
return to the face and the sleeper gradually awaken, at last rising
from the bed.

Allen, in the body of Heaton, at first felt very uncomfortable, as a
man does who puts on an ill-fitting suit of clothes. The limitations
caused by the wearing of a body also discommoded him. He looked
carefully around the room. It was plainly furnished. A desk in the
corner he found contained the MS. of a book prepared for the printer,
all executed with the neat accuracy of a scientific man. Above the
desk, pasted against the wall, was a sheet of paper headed:

"What to do if I am found here apparently dead." Underneath were
plainly written instructions. It was evident that Heaton had taken no
one into his confidence.

It is well if you go in for revenge to make it as complete as possible.
Allen gathered up the MS., placed it in the grate, and set a match to
it. Thus he at once destroyed his enemy's chances of posthumous renown,
and also removed evidence that might, in certain contingencies, prove
Heaton's insanity.

Unlocking the door, he proceeded down the stairs, where he met a
servant who told him luncheon was ready. He noticed that the servant
was one whom he had discharged, so he came to the conclusion that
Heaton had taken back all the old retainers who had applied to him when
the result of the trial became public. Before lunch was over he saw
that some of his own servants were also there still.

"Send the gamekeeper to me," said Allen to the servant.

Brown came in, who had been on the estate for twenty years
continuously, with the exception of the few months after Allen had
packed him off.

"What pistols have I, Brown?"

"Well, sir, there's the old Squire's duelling pistols, rather out of
date, sir; then your own pair and that American revolver."

"Is the revolver in working order?"

"Oh yes, sir."

"Then bring it to me and some cartridges."

When Brown returned with the revolver his master took it and examined
it.

"Be careful, sir," said Brown, anxiously. "You know it's a self-cocker,
sir."

"A what?"

"A self-cocking revolver, sir"--trying to repress his astonishment at
the question his master asked about a weapon with which he should have
been familiar.

"Show me what you mean," said Allen, handing back the revolver.

Brown explained that the mere pulling of the trigger fired the weapon.

"Now shoot at the end window--never mind the glass. Don't stand gaping
at me, do as I tell you."

Brown fired the revolver, and a diamond pane snapped out of the window.

"How many times will that shoot without reloading?"

"Seven times, sir."

"Very good. Put in a cartridge for the one you fired and leave the
revolver with me. Find out when there is a train to town, and let me
know."

It will be remembered that the dining-room incident was used at the
trial, but without effect, as going to show that Bernard Heaton was
insane. Brown also testified that there was something queer about his
master that day.

David Allen found all the money he needed in the pockets of Bernard
Heaton. He caught his train, and took a cab from the station directly
to the law offices of Messrs. Grey, Leason and Grey, anxious to catch
the lawyer before he left for the day.

The clerk sent up word that Mr. Heaton wished to see the senior Mr.
Grey for a few moments. Allen was asked to walk up.

"You know the way, sir," said the clerk.

Allen hesitated.

"Announce me, if you please."

The clerk, being well trained, showed no surprise, but led the visitor
to Mr. Grey's door.

"How are you, Heaton?" said the lawyer, cordially. "Take a chair. Where
have you been keeping yourself this long time? How are the Indian
experiments coming on?"

"Admirably, admirably," answered Allen.

At the sound of his voice the lawyer looked up quickly, then apparently
reassured he said--

"You're not looking quite the same. Been keeping yourself too much
indoors, I imagine. You ought to quit research and do some shooting
this autumn."

"I intend to, and I hope then to have your company."

"I shall be pleased to run down, although I am no great hand at a gun."

"I want to speak with you a few moments in private. Would you mind
locking the door so that we may not be interrupted?"

"We are quite safe from interruption here," said the lawyer, as he
turned the key in the lock; then resuming his seat he added, "Nothing
serious, I hope?"

"It is rather serious. Do you mind my sitting here?" asked Allen, as he
drew up his chair so that he was between Grey and the door, with the
table separating them. The lawyer was watching him with anxious face,
but without, as yet, serious apprehension.

"Now," said Allen, "will you answer me a simple question? To whom are
you talking?"

"To whom--?" The lawyer in his amazement could get no further.

"Yes. To whom are you talking? Name him."

"Heaton, what is the matter with you? Are you ill?"

"Well, you have mentioned a name, but, being a villain and a lawyer,
you cannot give a direct answer to a very simple question. You think
you are talking to that poor fool Bernard Heaton. It is true that the
body you are staring at is Heaton's body, but the man you are talking
to is--David Allen--the man you swindled and then murdered. Sit down.
If you move you are a dead man. Don't try to edge to the door. There
are seven deaths in this revolver and the whole seven can be let loose
in less than that many seconds, for this is a self-cocking instrument.
Now it will take you at least ten seconds to get to the door, so remain
exactly where you are. That advice will strike you as wise, even if, as
you think, you have to do with a madman. You asked me a minute ago how
the Indian experiments were coming on, and I answered admirably.
Bernard Heaton left his body this morning, and I, David Allen, am now
in possession of it. Do you understand? I admit it is a little
difficult for the legal mind to grasp such a situation."

"Ah, not at all," said Grey, airily. "I comprehend it perfectly. The
man I see before me is the spirit, life, soul, whatever you like to
call it--of David Allen in the body of my friend Bernard Heaton. The--
ah--essence of my friend is at this moment fruitlessly searching for
his missing body. Perhaps he is in this room now, not knowing how to
get out a spiritual writ of ejectment against you."

"You show more quickness than I expected of you," said Allen.

"Thanks," rejoined Grey, although he said to himself, "Heaton has gone
mad! stark staring mad, as I expected he would. He is armed. The
situation is becoming dangerous. I must humour him."

"Thanks. And now may I ask what you propose to do? You have not come
here for legal advice. You never, unluckily for me, were a client of
mine."

"No. I did not come either to give or take advice. I am here, alone
with you--you gave orders that we were not to be disturbed, remember--
for the sole purpose of revenging myself on you and on Heaton. Now
listen, for the scheme will commend itself to your ingenious mind. I
shall murder you in this room. I shall then give myself up. I shall
vacate this body in Newgate prison and your friend may then resume his
tenancy or not as he chooses. He may allow the unoccupied body to die
in the cell or he may take possession of it and be hanged for murder.
Do you appreciate the completeness of my vengeance on you both? Do you
think your friend will care to put on his body again?"

[Illustration: "WHEN YOU PRESS THE IVORY BUTTON, I FIRE"]

"It is a nice question," said the lawyer, as he edged his chair
imperceptibly along and tried to grope behind himself, unperceived by
his visitor, for the electric button, placed against the wall. "It is a
nice question, and I would like to have time to consider it in all its
bearings before I gave an answer."

"You shall have all the time you care to allow yourself. I am in no
hurry, and I wish you to realise your situation as completely as
possible. Allow me to say that the electric button is a little to the
left and slightly above where you are feeling for it. I merely mention
this because I must add, in fairness to you, that the moment you touch
it, time ends as far as you are concerned. When you press the ivory
button, I fire."

The lawyer rested his arms on the table before him, and for the first
time a hunted look of alarm came into his eyes, which died out of them
when, after a moment or two of intense fear, he regained possession of
himself.

"I would like to ask you a question or two," he said at last.

"As many as you choose. I am in no hurry, as I said before."

"I am thankful for your reiteration of that. The first question is
then: has a temporary residence in another sphere interfered in any way
with your reasoning powers?"

"I think not."

"Ah, I had hoped that your appreciation of logic might have improved
during your--well, let us say absence; you were not very logical--not
very amenable to reason, formerly."

"I know you thought so."

"I did; so did your own legal adviser, by the way. Well, now let me ask
why you are so bitter against me? Why not murder the judge who charged
against you, or the jury that unanimously gave a verdict in our favour?
I was merely an instrument, as were they."

"It was your devilish trickiness that won the case."

"That statement is flattering but untrue. The case was its own best
advocate. But you haven't answered the question. Why not murder judge
and jury?"

"I would gladly do so if I had them in my power. You see, I am
perfectly logical."

"Quite, quite," said the lawyer. "I am encouraged to proceed. Now of
what did my devilish trickiness rob you?"

"Of my property, and then of my life."

"I deny both allegations, but will for the sake of the argument admit
them for the moment. First, as to your property. It was a possession
that might at any moment be jeopardised by the return of Bernard
Heaton."

"By the _real_ Bernard Heaton--yes."

"Very well then. As you are now repossessed of the property, and as you
have the outward semblance of Heaton, your rights cannot be questioned.
As far as property is concerned you are now in an unassailable position
where formerly you were in an assailable one. Do you follow me?"

"Perfectly."

"We come (second) to the question of life. You then occupied a body
frail, bent, and diseased, a body which, as events showed, gave way
under exceptional excitement. You are now in a body strong and healthy,
with apparently a long life before it. You admit the truth of all I
have said on these two points?"

"I quite admit it."

"Then to sum up, you are now in a better position--infinitely--both as
regards life and property, than the one from which my malignity--
ingenuity I think was your word--ah, yes--trickiness--thanks--removed
you. Now why cut your career short? Why murder _me?_ Why not live
out your life, under better conditions, in luxury and health, and thus
be completely revenged on Bernard Heaton? If you are logical, now is
the time to show it."

Allen rose slowly, holding the pistol in his right hand.

"You miserable scoundrel!" he cried. "You pettifogging lawyer--tricky
to the last! How gladly you would throw over your friend to prolong
your own wretched existence! Do you think you are now talking to a
biased judge and a susceptible, brainless jury? Revenged on Heaton? I
_am_ revenged on him already. But part of my vengeance involves
your death. Are you ready for it?"

Allen pointed the revolver at Grey, who had now also risen, his face
ashen. He kept his eyes fastened on the man he believed to be mad. His
hand crept along the wall. There was intense silence between them.
Allen did not fire. Slowly the lawyer's hand moved towards the electric
button. At last he felt the ebony rim and his fingers quickly covered
it. In the stillness, the vibrating ring of an electric bell somewhere
below was audible. Then the sharp crack of the revolver suddenly split
the silence. The lawyer dropped on one knee, holding his arm in the air
as if to ward off attack. Again the revolver rang out, and Grey plunged
forward on his face. The other five shots struck a lifeless body.

A stratum of blue smoke hung breast high in the room as if it were the
departing soul of the man who lay motionless on the floor. Outside were
excited voices, and some one flung himself ineffectually against the
stout locked door.

Allen crossed the room and, turning the key, flung open the door. "I
have murdered your master," he said, handing the revolver butt forward
to the nearest man. "I give myself up. Go and get an officer."



OVER THE STELVIO PASS.


There is no question about it, Tina Lenz was a flirt, as she had a
perfect right to be, living as she did on the romantic shores of Como,
celebrated in song, story, and drama as the lover's blue lake. Tina had
many admirers, and it was just like her perversity to favor the one to
whom her father most objected. Pietro, as the father truly said, was a
beggarly Italian driver, glad of the few francs he got from the
travellers he took over the humble Maloga to the Engadine, or over the
elevated Stelvio to the Tyrol, the lowest and the highest passes in
Europe. It was a sad blow to the hopes as well as the family pride of
old Lenz when Tina defiantly announced her preference for the driver of
the Zweispanner. Old Lenz came of a long and distinguished line of
Swiss hotel-keepers, noted for the success with which they squeezed the
last attainable centime from the reluctant traveller. It was bad enough
that he had no son to inherit his justly celebrated hotel
(_pension_ rates for a stay of not less than eight days), but he
hoped for a son-in-law, preferably of Swiss extraction, to whom he
might, in his old age, hand over the lucrative profession of
deferentially skinning the wealthy Englishman. And now Tina had
deliberately chosen a reckless, unstable Italian who would, in a short
time, scatter to the winds the careful accumulation of years.

"Pietro, the scoundrel, will not have one piastra of my money," cried
the old man wrathfully, dropping into Italian as he was speaking about
a native of Italy.

"No, I shall see that he doesn't," said the girl. "I shall hold the
purse, and he must earn what he spends."

"But if you marry him, you will not have any of it."

"Oh yes, I shall, papa," said Tina confidently; "you have no one else
to leave it to. Besides, you are not old, and you will be reconciled to
our marriage long before there is any question of leaving money."

"Don't be so sure of that," returned the hotel-keeper, much mollified,
because he was old and corpulent, and red in the face.

He felt that he was no match for his daughter, and that she would
likely have her own way in the long run, but he groaned when he thought
of Pietro as proprietor of the prosperous _pension_. Tina insisted
that she would manage the hotel on the strictest principles of her
ancestors, and that she would keep Pietro lounging about the place as a
picturesque ornament to attract sentimental visitors, who seemed to see
some unaccountable beauty about the lake and its surroundings.

Meanwhile Landlord Lenz promptly discharged Pietro, and cursed the day
and hour he had first engaged him. He informed the picturesque young
man that if he caught him talking to his daughter he would promptly
have him arrested for some little thefts from travellers of which he
had been guilty, although the landlord had condoned them at the time of
discovery, probably because he had a fellow-feeling in the matter, and
saw the making of a successful hotel proprietor in the Zweispanner
driver. Pietro, on his part, to make things pleasant all round, swore
that on the first favourable opportunity he would run six inches of
knife into the extensive corporation of the landlord, hoping in that
length of steel to reach a vital spot. The ruddy face of old Lenz paled
at this threat, for the Swiss are a peace-loving people, and he told
his daughter sadly that she was going to bring her father's grey hairs
in sorrow to the grave through the medium of her lover's stiletto. This
feat, however, would have been difficult to perform, as the girl
flippantly pointed out to him, for the old man was as bald as the
smooth round top of the Ortler; nevertheless, she spoke to her lover
about it, and told him frankly that if there was any knife practice in
that vicinity he need never come to see her again. So the young man
with the curly black hair and the face of an angel, swallowed his
resentment against his desired father-in-law, and promised to behave
himself. He secured a position as driver at another hotel, for the
season was brisk, and he met Tina when he could, at the bottom of the
garden overlooking the placid lake, he on one side of the stone wall,
she on the other.

If Landlord Lenz knew of these meetings he did not interfere; perhaps
he was frightened of Pietro's stiletto, or perhaps he feared his
daughter's tongue; nevertheless, the stars in their courses were
fighting for the old man. Tina was naturally of a changeable
disposition, and now that all opposition had vanished, she began to
lose interest in Pietro. He could talk of little else than horses, and
interesting as such conversation undoubtedly is, it palls upon a girl
of eighteen leaning over a stone wall in the golden evening light that
hovers above Como. There are other subjects, but that is neither here
nor there, as Pietro did not recognise the fact, and, unfortunately for
him, there happened to come along a member of the great army of the
unemployed who did.

He came that way just in the nick of time, and proud as old Lenz was of
his _pension_ and its situation, it was not the unrivalled
prospect (as stated in the hotel advertisements) that stopped him. It
was the sight of a most lovely girl leaning over the stone wall at the
foot of the garden, gazing down at the lake and singing softly to
herself.

"By Jove!" said young Standish, "she looks as if she were waiting for
her lover." Which, indeed, was exactly what Tina was doing, and it
augured ill for the missing man that she was not the least impatient
at his delay.

"The missing lover is a defect in the landscape which ought to be
supplied," murmured young Standish as he unslung his knapsack, which,
like that of the late John Brown, was strapped upon his back. He
entered the _pension_ and inquired the rates. Old Lenz took one
glance at the knickerbockers, and at once asked twice as much as he
would have charged a native. Standish agreed to the terms with that
financial recklessness characteristic of his island, and the old man
regretted he had not asked a third more.

"But never mind," he said to himself as the newly arrived guest
disappeared to his room, "I shall make it up on the extras."

With deep regret it must be here admitted that young Standish was an
artist. Artists are met with so often in fiction that it is a matter of
genuine grief to have to deal with one in a narrative of fact, but it
must be remembered that artists flock as naturally to the lake of Como
as stock-brokers to the Exchange, and in setting down an actual
statement of occurrences in that locality the unfortunate writer finds
himself confronted with artists at every turn. Standish was an artist
in water-colours, but whether that is a mitigation or an aggravation of
the original offense the relater knoweth not. He speedily took to
painting Tina amidst various combinations of lake and mountain scenery.
Tina over the garden wall as he first saw her; Tina under an arch of
roses; Tina in one of the clumsy but picturesque lake boats. He did his
work very well, too. Old Landlord Lenz had the utmost contempt for this
occupation, as a practical man should, but he was astonished one day
when a passing traveller offered an incredible sum for one of the
pictures that stood on the hall table. Standish was not to be found,
but the old man, quite willing to do his guest a good turn, sold the
picture. The young man, instead of being overjoyed at his luck, told
the landlord, with the calm cheek of an artist, that he would overlook
the matter this time, but it must not occur again. He had sold the
picture, added Standish, for about one-third its real value. There was
something in the quiet assurance of the youth that more than his words
convinced old Lenz of the truth of his statement. Manner has much to do
with getting a well-told lie believed. The inn-keeper's respect for the
young man went up to the highest attainable point, and he had seen so
many artists, too. But if such prices were obtained for a picture
dashed off in a few hours, the hotel business wasn't in it as a money-
making venture.

It must be confessed that it was a great shock to young Standish when
he found that the fairy-like Tina was the daughter of the gross old
stupid keeper of the inn. It would have been so nice if she had
happened to be a princess, and the fact would have worked in well with
the marble terrace overlooking the lake. It seemed out of keeping
entirely that she should be any relation to old money-making Lenz. Of
course he had no more idea of marrying the girl than he had of buying
the lake of Como and draining it; still, it was such a pity that she
was not a countess at least; there were so many of them in Italy too,
surely one might have been spared for that _pension_ when a man
had to stay eight days to get the lowest rates. Nevertheless, Tina did
make a pretty water-colour sketch. But a man who begins sliding down a
hill such as there is around Como, never can tell exactly where he is
going to bring up. He may stop halfway, or he may go head first into
the lake. If it were to be set down here that within a certain space of
time Standish did not care one continental objurgation whether Tina was
a princess or a char-woman, the statement would simply not be believed,
because we all know that Englishmen are a cold, calculating race of
men, with long side whiskers and a veil round their hats when they
travel.

It is serious when a young fellow sketches in water-colours a charming
sylph-like girl in various entrancing attitudes; it is disastrous when
she teaches him a soft flowing language like the Italian; but it is
absolute destruction when he teaches her the English tongue and watches
her pretty lips strive to surround words never intended for the vocal
resources of a foreigner. As all these influences were brought to bear
on Walter Standish, what chance did the young fellow have? Absolutely
as little as has the un-roped man who misses his footing on the
Matterhorn.

And Tina? Poor little girl, she was getting paid back with a vengeance
for all the heart-aches she had caused--Italian, German, or Swiss
variety. She fell helplessly in love with the stalwart Englishman, and
realised that she had never known before what the word meant. Bitterly
did she regret the sham battles of the heart that she had hitherto
engaged in. Standish took it so entirely for granted that he was the
first to touch her lips (in fact she admitted as much herself) that she
was in daily, hourly terror lest he should learn the truth. Meanwhile
Pietro unburdened his neglected soul of strange oily imprecations that
might have sounded to the uneducated ear of Standish like mellifluous
benedictions, notwithstanding the progress he was making in Italian
under Tina's tuition. However, Pietro had one panacea for all his woes,
and that he proceeded to sharpen carefully.

One evening Standish was floating dreamily through the purple haze,
thinking about Tina of course, and wondering how her piquant archness
and Southern beauty would strike his sober people at home. Tina was
very quick and adaptable, and he had no doubt she could act to
perfection any part he assigned to her, so he was in doubt whether to
introduce her as a remote connexion of the reigning family of Italy, or
merely as a countess in her own right. It would be quite easy to
ennoble the long line of hotel-keepers by the addition of "di" or "de"
or some such syllable to the family name. He must look up the right
combination of letters; he knew it began with "d." Then the
_pension_ could become dimly "A castle on the Italian lakes, you
know"; in fact, he would close up the _pension_ as soon as he had
the power, or change it to a palace. He knew that most of the castles
in the Tyrol and many of the palaces of Italy had become boarding-
houses, so why not reverse the process? He was sure that certain
furnishing houses in London could do it, probably on the hire system.
He knew a fashionable morning paper that was in the habit of publishing
personal items at so much a line, and he thought the following would
read well and be worth its cost:--

"Mr. Walter Standish, of St. John's Wood, and his wife, the Comtessa di
Lenza, are spending the summer in the lady's ancestral home, the
Palazzio di Lenza, on the lake of Como."

This bright vision pleased him for a moment, until he thought it would
be just his luck for some acquaintance to happen along who remembered
the Palazzio Lenza when it was the Pension Lenz--rates on application.
He wished a landslide would carry buildings, grounds, and everything
else away to some unrecognisable spot a few hundred feet down the
mountain.

Thus it was that young Standish floated along with his head in the
clouds, swinging his cane in the air, when suddenly he was brought
sharply down to earth again. A figure darted out from behind a tree, an
instinct rather than reason caused the artist to guard himself by
throwing up his left arm. He caught the knife thrust in the fleshy part
of it, and the pain was like the red-hot sting of a gigantic wasp. It
flashed through his brain then that the term cold steel was a misnomer.
The next moment his right hand had brought down the heavy knob of his
stout stick on the curly head of the Italian, and Pietro fell like a
log at his feet. Standish set his teeth, and as gently as possible drew
the stiletto from his arm, wiping its blade on the clothes of the
prostrate man. He thought it better to soil Pietro's suit than his own,
which was newer and cleaner; besides, he held, perhaps with justice,
that the Italian being the aggressor should bear any disadvantages
arising from the attack. Finally, feeling wet at the elbow, he put the
stiletto in his pocket and hurried off to the hotel.

[Illustration: WIPING ITS BLADE ON THE CLOTHES OF THE PROSTRATE MAN]

Tina fell back against the wall with a cry at the sight of the blood.
She would have fainted, but something told her that she would be well
advised to keep her senses about her at that moment.

"I can't imagine why he should attack me," said Standish, as he bared
his arm to be bandaged. "I never saw him before, and I have had no
quarrel with any one. It could not have been robbery, for I was too
near the hotel. I cannot understand it."

"Oh," began old Lenz, "it's easy enough to account for it. He----"

Tina darted one look at her father that went through him as the blade
had gone through the outstretched arm. His mouth closed like a steel
trap.

"Please go for Doctor Zandorf, papa," she said sweetly, and the old man
went. "These Italians," she continued to Standish, "are always
quarrelling. The villain mistook you for some one else in the dusk."

"Ah, that's it, very likely. If the rascal has returned to his senses,
he probably regrets having waked up the wrong passenger."

When the authorities searched for Pietro they found that he had
disappeared as absolutely as though Standish had knocked him through
into China. When he came to himself and rubbed his head, he saw the
blood on the road, and he knew his stroke had gone home somewhere. The
missing knife would be evidence against him, so he thought it safer to
get on the Austrian side of the fence. Thus he vanished over the
Stelvio pass, and found horses to drive on the other side.

The period during which Standish loafed around that lovely garden with
his arm in a sling, waited upon assiduously and tenderly by Tina, will
always be one of the golden remembrances of the Englishman's life. It
was too good to last for ever, and so they were married when it came to
an end. The old man would still have preferred a Swiss innkeeper for a
son-in-law, yet the Englishman was better than the beggarly Italian,
and possibly better than the German who had occupied a place in Tina's
regards before the son of sunny Italy appeared on the scene. That is
one trouble in the continental hotel business; there is such a
bewildering mixture of nationalities.

Standish thought it best not to go back to England at once, as he had
not quite settled to his own satisfaction how the _pension_ was to
be eliminated from the affair and transformed into a palace. He knew a
lovely and elevated castle in the Tyrol near Meran where they accepted
passers-by in an unobtrusive sort of way, and there, he resolved, they
would make their plans. So the old man gave them a great set-out with
which to go over the pass, privately charging the driver to endeavour
to get a return fare from Meran so as to, partly at least, cover the
outlay. The carriage was drawn by five horses, one on each side of the
pole and three in front. They rested the first night at Bormeo, and
started early next day for over the pass, expecting to dine at
Franzenshöhe within sight of the snowy Ortler.

It was late in the season and the weather was slightly uncertain, but
they had a lovely Italian forenoon for going up the wonderful, zigzag
road on the western side of the pass. At the top there was a slight
sprinkling of snow, and clouds hung over the lofty Ortler group of
peaks. As they got lower down a steady persistent rain set in, and they
were glad to get to the shelter and warmth of the oblong stone inn at
Franzenshöhe, where a good dinner awaited them. After dinner the
weather cleared somewhat, but the clouds still obscured the tops of the
mountains, and the roads were slippery. Standish regretted this, for he
wanted to show his bride the splendid scenery of the next five miles
where the road zigzags down to Trefoi, each elbow of the dizzy
thoroughfare overhanging the most awful precipices. It was a dangerous
bit of road, and even with only two horses, requires a cool and
courageous driver with a steady head. They were the sole guests at the
inn, and it needed no practised eye to see that they were a newly
married couple. The news spread abroad, and every lounger about the
place watched them get into their carriage and drive away, one hind
wheel of the carriage sliding on its skid, and all breaks on.

At the first turning Standish started, for the carriage went around it
with dangerous speed. The whip cracked, too, like a succession of
pistol shots, which was unusual going down the mountain. He said
nothing to alarm his bride, but thought that the driver had taken on
more wine than was good for him at the inn. At the second turn the
wheel actually slid against and bumped the stone post that was the sole
guard from the fearful precipice below. The sound and shock sent a cold
chill up the back of Standish, for he knew the road well and there were
worse places to come. His arm was around his wife, and he withdrew it
gently so as not to alarm her. As he did so she looked up and shrieked.
Following her glance to the front window of their closed carriage,
where the back of the driver is usually to be seen, he saw pressed
against the glass the distorted face of a demon. The driver was
kneeling on his seat instead of sitting on it, and was peering in at
them, the reins drawn over his shoulder, and his back to the horses. It
seemed to Standish that the light of insanity gleamed from his eyes,
but Tina saw in them the revengeful glare of the _vendetti_; the
rage of the disappointed lover.

"My God! that's not our driver," cried Standish, who did not recognise
the man who had once endeavoured to kill him. He sprang up and tried to
open the front window, but the driver yelled out--

"Open that window if you dare, and I'll drive you over here before you
get halfway down. Sit still, and I take you as far as the Weisse Knott.
That's where you are going over. There you'll have a drop of a mile
(_un miglio_)."

"Turn to your horses, you scoundrel," shouted Standish, "or I'll break
every bone in your body!"

"The horses know the way, Signor Inglese, and all our bones are going
to be broken, yours and your sweet bride's as well as mine."

The driver took the whip and fired off a fusilade of cracks overhead,
beside them, and under them. The horses dashed madly down the slope,
almost sending the carriage over at the next turn. Standish looked at
his wife. She had apparently fainted, but in reality had merely closed
her eyes to shut out the horrible sight of Pietro's face. Standish
thrust his arm out of the open window, unfastened the door, and at the
risk of his neck jumped out. Tina shrieked when she opened her eyes and
found herself alone. Pietro now pushed in the frame of the front window
and it dropped out of sight, leaving him face to face with her, with no
glass between them. "Now that your fine Inglese is gone, Tina, we are
going to be married; you promised it, you know."

"You coward," she hissed; "I'd rather die his wife than live yours."

"You're plucky, little Tina, you always were. But he left you. I
wouldn't have left you. I won't leave you. We'll be married at the
chapel of the Three Holy Springs, a mile below the Weisse Knott; we'll
fly through the air to it, Tina, and our bed will be at the foot of
the Madatseh Glacier. We will go over together near where the man threw
his wife down. They have marked the spot with a marble slab, but they
will put a bigger one for us, Tina, for there's two of us."

Tina crouched in the corner of the carriage and watched the face of the
Italian as if she were fascinated. She wanted to jump out as her
husband had done, but she was afraid to move, feeling certain that if
she attempted to escape Pietro would pounce down upon her. He looked
like some wild beast crouching for a spring. All at once she saw
something drop from the sky on the footboard of the carriage. Then she
heard her husband's voice ring out--

"Here, you young fool, we've had enough of this nonsense."

The next moment Pietro fell to the road, propelled by a vigorous kick.
His position lent itself to treatment of that kind. The carriage gave a
bump as it passed over Pietro's leg, and then Tina thinks that she
fainted in earnest, for the next thing she knew the carriage was
standing still, and Standish was rubbing her hands and calling her
pleasant names. She smiled wanly at him.

"How in the world did you catch up to the carriage and it going so
fast?" she asked, a woman's curiosity prompting her first words.

"Oh, the villain forgot about the short cuts. As I warned him, he ought
to have paid more attention to what was going on outside. I'm going
back now to have a talk with him. He's lying on the road at the upper
end of this slope."

Tina was instantly herself again.

"No, dearest," she said caressingly; "you mustn't go back. He probably
has a knife."

"I'm not afraid."

"No, but I am, and you mustn't leave me."

"I would like to tie him up in a hard knot and take him down to
civilisation bumping behind the carriage as luggage. I think he's the
fellow who knifed me, and I want to find out what his game is."

Here Tina unfortunately began to faint again. She asked for wine in a
far-off voice, and Standish at once forgot all about the demon driver.
He mounted the box and took the reins himself. He got wine at the
little cabin of the Weisse Knott, a mile or two farther down. Tina, who
had revived amazingly, probably on account of the motion of the
carriage, shuddered as she looked into the awful gulf and saw five tiny
toy houses in the gloom nearly a mile below.

"That," said Standish, "is the chapel of the Three Holy Springs. We
will go there to-night, if you like, from Trefoi."

"No, no!" cried Tina, shivering. "Let us get out of the mountains at
once."

At Trefoi they found their own driver awaiting them.

"What the devil are you doing here, and how did you get here?" hotly
inquired Standish.

"By the short cuts," replied the bewildered man. "Pietro, one of
master's old drivers, wanted--I don't know why--to drive you as far as
Trefoi. Where is he, sir?"

"I don't know," said Standish. "We saw nothing of him. He must have
been pushed off the box by the madman. Here, jump up and let us get
on."

Tina breathed again. That crisis was over.

They live very happily together, for Tina is a very tactful little
woman.



THE HOUR AND THE MAN.


Prince Lotarno rose slowly to his feet, casting one malignant glance at
the prisoner before him.

"You have heard," he said, "what is alleged against you. Have you
anything to say in your defence?"

The captured brigand laughed.

"The time for talk is past," he cried. "This has been a fine farce of a
fair trial. You need not have wasted so much time over what you call
evidence. I knew my doom when I fell into your hands. I killed your
brother; you will kill me. You have proven that I am a murderer and a
robber; I could prove the same of you if you were bound hand and foot
in my camp as I am bound in your castle. It is useless for me to tell
you that I did not know he was your brother, else it would not have
happened, for the small robber always respects the larger and more
powerful thief. When a wolf is down, the other wolves devour him. I am
down, and you will have my head cut off, or my body drawn asunder in
your courtyard, whichever pleases your Excellency best. It is the
fortune of war, and I do not complain. When I say that I am sorry I
killed your brother, I merely mean I am sorry you were not the man who
stood in his shoes when the shot was fired. You, having more men than I
had, have scattered my followers and captured me. You may do with me
what you please. My consolation is that the killing me will not bring
to life the man who is shot, therefore conclude the farce that has
dragged through so many weary hours. Pronounce my sentence. I am
ready."

There was a moment's silence after the brigand had ceased speaking.
Then the Prince said, in low tones, but in a voice that made itself
heard in every part of the judgment-hall--

"Your sentence is that on the fifteenth of January you shall be taken
from your cell at four o'clock, conducted to the room of execution, and
there beheaded."

The Prince hesitated for a moment as he concluded the sentence, and
seemed about to add something more, but apparently he remembered that a
report of the trial was to go before the King, whose representative was
present, and he was particularly desirous that nothing should go on the
records which savoured of old-time malignity; for it was well known
that his Majesty had a particular aversion to the ancient forms of
torture that had obtained heretofore in his kingdom. Recollecting this,
the Prince sat down.

The brigand laughed again. His sentence was evidently not so gruesome
as he had expected. He was a man who had lived all his life in the
mountains, and he had had no means of knowing that more merciful
measures had been introduced into the policy of the Government.

"I will keep the appointment," he said jauntily, "unless I have a more
pressing engagement."

The brigand was led away to his cell. "I hope," said the Prince, "that
you noted the defiant attitude of the prisoner."

"I have not failed to do so, your Excellency," replied the ambassador.

"I think," said the Prince, "that under the circumstances, his
treatment has been most merciful."

"I am certain, your Excellency," said the ambassador, "that his Majesty
will be of the same opinion. For such a miscreant, beheading is too
easy a death."

The Prince was pleased to know that the opinion of the ambassador
coincided so entirely with his own.

The brigand Toza was taken to a cell in the northern tower, where, by
climbing on a bench, he could get a view of the profound valley at the
mouth of which the castle was situated. He well knew its impregnable
position, commanding as it did, the entrance to the valley. He knew
also that if he succeeded in escaping from the castle he was hemmed in
by mountains practically unscalable, while the mouth of the gorge was
so well guarded by the castle that it was impossible to get to the
outer world through that gateway. Although he knew the mountains well,
he realised that, with his band scattered, many killed, and the others
fugitives, he would have a better chance of starving to death in the
valley than of escaping out of it. He sat on the bench and thought over
the situation. Why had the Prince been so merciful? He had expected
torture, whereas he was to meet the easiest death that a man could die.
He felt satisfied there was something in this that he could not
understand. Perhaps they intended to starve him to death, now that the
appearance of a fair trial was over. Things could be done in the
dungeon of a castle that the outside world knew nothing of. His fears
of starvation were speedily put to an end by the appearance of his
gaoler with a better meal than he had had for some time; for during the
last week he had wandered a fugitive in the mountains until captured by
the Prince's men, who evidently had orders to bring him in alive. Why
then were they so anxious not to kill him in a fair fight if he were
now to be merely beheaded?

"What is your name?" asked Toza of his gaoler.

"I am called Paulo," was the answer.

"Do you know that I am to be beheaded on the fifteenth of the month?"

"I have heard so," answered the man.

"And do you attend me until that time?"

"I attend you while I am ordered to do so. If you talk much I may be
replaced."

"That, then, is a tip for silence, good Paulo," said the brigand. "I
always treat well those who serve me well; I regret, therefore, that I
have no money with me, and so cannot recompense you for good service."

"That is not necessary," answered Paulo. "I receive my recompense from
the steward."

"Ah, but the recompense of the steward and the recompense of a brigand
chief are two very different things. Are there so many pickings in your
position that you are rich, Paulo?"

"No; I am a poor man."

"Well, under certain circumstances, I could make you rich."

Paulo's eyes glistened, but he made no direct reply. Finally he said,
in a frightened whisper, "I have tarried too long, I am watched. By-
and-by the vigilance will be relaxed, and then we may perhaps talk of
riches."

With that the gaoler took his departure. The brigand laughed softly to
himself. "Evidently," he said, "Paulo is not above the reach of a
bribe. We will have further talk on the subject when the watchfulness
is relaxed."

And so it grew to be a question of which should trust the other. The
brigand asserted that hidden in the mountains he had gold and jewels,
and these he would give to Paulo if he could contrive his escape from
the castle.

"Once free of the castle, I can soon make my way out of the valley,"
said the brigand.

"I am not so sure of that," answered Paulo. "The castle is well
guarded, and when it is discovered that you have escaped, the alarm-
bell will be rung, and after that not a mouse can leave the valley
without the soldiers knowing it."

The brigand pondered on the situation for some time, and at last said,
"I know the mountains well."

"Yes;" said Paulo, "but you are one man, and the soldiers of the Prince
are many. Perhaps," he added, "if it were made worth my while, I could
show you that I know the mountains even better than you do."

"What do you mean?" asked the brigand, in an excited whisper.

"Do you know the tunnel?" inquired Paulo, with an anxious glance
towards the door.

"What tunnel? I never heard of any."

"But it exists, nevertheless; a tunnel through the mountains to the
world outside."

"A tunnel through the mountains? Nonsense!" cried the brigand. "I
should have known of it if one existed. The work would be too great to
accomplish."

"It was made long before your day, or mine either. If the castle had
fallen, then those who were inside could escape through the tunnel. Few
know of the entrance; it is near the waterfall up the valley, and is
covered with brushwood. What will you give me to place you at the
entrance of that tunnel?"

The brigand looked at Paulo sternly for a few moments, then he answered
slowly, "Everything I possess."

"And how much is that?" asked Paulo.

"It is more than you will ever earn by serving the Prince."

"Will you tell me where it is before I help you to escape from the
castle and lead you to the tunnel?"

"Yes," said Toza.

"Will you tell me now?"

"No; bring me a paper to-morrow, and I will draw a plan showing you how
to get it."

[Illustration: "I WILL DRAW A PLAN"]

When his gaoler appeared, the day after Toza had given the plan, the
brigand asked eagerly, "Did you find the treasure?"

"I did," said Paulo quietly.

"And will you keep your word?--will you get me out of the castle?"

"I will get you out of the castle and lead you to the entrance of the
tunnel, but after that you must look to yourself."

"Certainly," said Toza, "that was the bargain. Once out of this
accursed valley, I can defy all the princes in Christendom. Have you a
rope?"

"We shall need none," said the gaoler. "I will come for you at
midnight, and take you out of the castle by the secret passage; then
your escape will not be noticed until morning."

At midnight his gaoler came and led Toza through many a tortuous
passage, the two men pausing now and then, holding their breaths
anxiously as they came to an open court through which a guard paced. At
last they were outside of the castle at one hour past midnight.

The brigand drew a long breath of relief when he was once again out in
the free air.

"Where is your tunnel?" he asked, in a somewhat distrustful whisper of
his guide.

"Hush!" was the low answer. "It is only a short distance from the
castle, but every inch is guarded, and we cannot go direct; we must
make for the other side of the valley and come to it from the north."

"What!" cried Toza in amazement, "traverse the whole valley for a
tunnel a few yards away?"

"It is the only safe plan," said Paulo. "If you wish to go by the
direct way, I must leave you to your own devices."

"I am in your hands," said the brigand with a sigh. "Take me where you
will, so long as you lead me to the entrance of the tunnel."

They passed down and down around the heights on which the castle stood,
and crossed the purling little river by means of stepping-stones. Once
Toza fell into the water, but was rescued by his guide. There was still
no alarm from the castle as daylight began to break. As it grew more
light they both crawled into a cave which had a low opening difficult
to find, and there Paulo gave the brigand his breakfast, which he took
from a little bag slung by a strap across his shoulder.

"What are we going to do for food if we are to be days between here and
the tunnel?" asked Toza.

"Oh, I have arranged for that, and a quantity of food has been placed
where we are most likely to want it. I will get it while you sleep."

"But if you are captured, what am I to do?" asked Toza. "Can you not
tell me now how to find the tunnel, as I told you how to find the
treasure?"

Paulo pondered over this for a moment, and then said, "Yes; I think it
would be the safer way. You must follow the stream until you reach the
place where the torrent from the east joins it. Among the hills there
is a waterfall, and halfway up the precipice on a shelf of rock there
are sticks and bushes. Clear them away, and you will find the entrance
to the tunnel. Go through the tunnel until you come to a door, which is
bolted on this side. When you have passed through, you will see the end
of your journey."

Shortly after daybreak the big bell of the castle began to toll, and
before noon the soldiers were beating the bushes all around them. They
were so close that the two men could hear their voices from their
hiding-place, where they lay in their wet clothes, breathlessly
expecting every moment to be discovered.

The conversation of two soldiers, who were nearest them, nearly caused
the hearts of the hiding listeners to stop beating.

"Is there not a cave near here?" asked one. "Let us search for it!"

"Nonsense," said the other. "I tell you that they could not have come
this far already."

"Why could they not have escaped when the guard changed at midnight?"
insisted the first speaker.

"Because Paulo was seen crossing the courtyard at midnight, and they
could have had no other chance of getting away until just before
daybreak."

This answer seemed to satisfy his comrade, and the search was given up
just as they were about to come upon the fugitives. It was a narrow
escape, and, brave as the robber was, he looked pale, while Paulo was
in a state of collapse.

Many times during the nights and days that followed, the brigand and
his guide almost fell into the hands of the minions of the Prince.
Exposure, privation, semi-starvation, and, worse than all, the
alternate wrenchings of hope and fear, began to tell upon the stalwart
frame of the brigand. Some days and nights of cold winter rain added to
their misery. They dare not seek shelter, for every habitable place was
watched.

When daylight overtook them on their last night's crawl through the
valley, they were within a short distance of the waterfall, whose low
roar now came soothingly down to them.

"Never mind the daylight," said Toza; "let us push on and reach the
tunnel."

"I can go no farther," moaned Paulo; "I am exhausted."

"Nonsense," cried Toza; "it is but a short distance."

"The distance is greater than you think; besides, we are in full view
of the castle. Would you risk everything now that the game is nearly
won? You must not forget that the stake is your head; and remember what
day this is."

"What day is it?" asked the brigand, turning on his guide.

"It is the fifteenth of January, the day on which you were to be
executed."

Toza caught his breath sharply. Danger and want had made a coward of
him and he shuddered now, which he had not done when he was on his
trial and condemned to death.

"How do you know it is the fifteenth?" he asked at last.

Paulo held up his stick, notched after the method of Robinson Crusoe.

"I am not so strong as you are, and if you will let me rest here until
the afternoon, I am willing to make a last effort, and try to reach the
entrance of the tunnel."

"Very well," said Toza shortly.

As they lay there that forenoon neither could sleep. The noise of the
waterfall was music to the ears of both; their long toilsome journey
was almost over.

[Illustration: HE THREW ASIDE BUSHES, BRAMBLES AND LOGS]

"What did you do with the gold that you found in the mountains?" asked
Toza suddenly.

Paulo was taken unawares, and answered, without thinking, "I left it
where it was. I will get it after."

The brigand said nothing, but that remark condemned Paulo to death.
Toza resolved to murder him as soon as they were well out of the
tunnel, and get the gold himself.

They left their hiding-place shortly before twelve o'clock, but their
progress was so slow, crawling, as they had to do, up the steep side of
the mountain, under cover of bushes and trees, that it was well after
three when they came to the waterfall, which they crossed, as best they
could, on stones and logs.

"There," said Toza, shaking himself, "that is our last wetting. Now for
the tunnel!"

The rocky sides of the waterfall hid them from view of the castle, but
Paulo called the brigand's attention to the fact that they could be
easily seen from the other side of the valley.

"It doesn't matter now," said Toza; "lead the way as quickly as you can
to the mouth of the cavern."

Paulo scrambled on until he reached a shelf about halfway up the
cataract; he threw aside bushes, brambles, and logs, speedily
disclosing a hole large enough to admit a man.

"You go first," said Paulo, standing aside.

"No," answered Toza; "you know the way, and must go first. You cannot
think that I wish to harm you--I am completely unarmed.

"Nevertheless," said Paulo, "I shall not go first. I did not like the
way you looked at me when I told you the gold was still in the hills. I
admit that I distrust you."

"Oh, very well," laughed Toza, "it doesn't really matter." And he
crawled into the hole in the rock, Paulo following him.

Before long the tunnel enlarged so that a man could stand upright.

"Stop!" said Paulo; "there is the door near here."

"Yes," said the robber, "I remember that you spoke of a door," adding,
however, "What is it for, and why is it locked?"

"It is bolted on this side," answered Paulo, "and we shall have no
difficulty in opening it."

"What is it for?" repeated the brigand.

"It is to prevent the current of air running through the tunnel and
blowing away the obstruction at this end," said the guide.

"Here it is," said Toza, as he felt down its edge for the bolt.

The bolt drew back easily, and the door opened. The next instant the
brigand was pushed rudely into a room, and he heard the bolt thrust
back into its place almost simultaneously with the noise of the closing
door. For a moment his eyes were dazzled by the light. He was in an
apartment blazing with torches held by a dozen men standing about.

In the centre of the room was a block covered with black cloth, and
beside it stood a masked executioner resting the corner of a gleaming
axe on the black draped block, with his hands crossed over the end of
the axe's handle.

The Prince stood there surrounded by his ministers. Above his head was
a clock, with the minute hand pointed to the hour of four.

"You are just in time!" said the Prince grimly; "we are waiting for
you!"



"AND THE RIGOUR OF THE GAME."


Old Mr. Saunders went home with bowed head and angry brow. He had not
known that Dick was in the habit of coming in late, but he had now no
doubt of the fact. He himself went to bed early and slept soundly, as a
man with a good conscience is entitled to do. But the boy's mother must
have known the hours he kept, yet she had said nothing; this made the
matter all the blacker. The father felt that mother and son were
leagued against him. He had been too lenient; now he would go to the
root of things. The young man would speedily change his ways or take
the consequences. There would be no half measures.

Poor old Mrs. Saunders saw, the moment her husband came in, that there
was a storm brewing, and a wild fear arose in her heart that her boy
was the cause. The first words of the old man settled the question.

"What time did Richard come in last night?"

"I--I don't know," she hesitated. "Shuffling" her husband always called
it. She had been a buffer between father and son since Dick was a
child.

"Why don't you know? Who let him in?"

She sighed. The secret had long weighed upon her, and she felt it would
come out at some hapless moment.

"He has a key," she said at last.

The old man glared in speechless amazement. In his angriest mood he had
never suspected anything so bad as this.

"A key! How long has he had a key?"

"About six months. He did not want to disturb us."

"He is very thoughtful! Where does he spend his nights?"

"I don't know. He told me he belongs to a club, where he takes some
kind of exercise."

"Did he tell you he exercised with cards? Did he say it was a gambling
club?"

"I don't believe it is; I am sure Dick doesn't gamble. Dick is a good
boy, father."

"A precious lot you know about it, evidently. Do you think his
employer, banker Hammond, has any idea his clerk belongs to a gambling
club?"

"I am sure I don't know. Is there any thing wrong? Has any one been
speaking to you about Dick?"

"Yes; and not to his credit."

"Oh dear!" cried the mother in anguish. "Was it Mr. Hammond?"

"I have never spoken to Hammond in my life," said the old man,
relenting a little when he saw how troubled his wife was. "No, I
propose to stop this club business before it gets to the banker's ears
that one of his clerks is a nightly attendant there. You will see
Richard when he comes home this evening; tell him I wish to have a word
or two with him to-night. He is to wait for me here. I will be in
shortly after he has had his supper."

"You will not be harsh with him, father. Remember, he is a young man
now, so please advise and do not threaten. Angry words can do no good."

"I will do my duty," said the old man, uncompromisingly.

Gentle Mrs. Saunders sighed--for she well knew the phrase about duty.
It was a sure prelude to domestic trouble. When the old gentleman
undertook to do his duty, he nailed his flag to the mast.

"See that he waits for me to-night," was the parting shot as the old
man closed the door behind him.

Mrs. Saunders had had her share of trouble in this world, as every
woman must who lives with a cantankerous man. When she could save her
son a harsh word, or even a blow, she was content to take either
uncomplainingly. The old man's severity had put him out of touch with
his son. Dick sullenly resented his boyhood of continual fear. During
recent years, when fear had gradually diminished and finally
disappeared, he was somewhat troubled to find that the natural
affection, which a son should have for his father, had vanished with
it. He had, on several occasions, made half-hearted attempts at a
better understanding, but these attempts had unfortunately fallen on
inopportune moments, when the old man was not particularly gracious
toward the world in general, and latterly there had been silence
between the two. The young man avoided his father as much as possible;
he would not have remained at home, had it not been for his mother. Her
steady, unwavering affection for him, her belief in him, and the
remembrance of how she had stood up for him, especially when he was in
the wrong, had bound her to him with bonds soft as silk and strong as
steel. He often felt it would be a pleasure to go wrong, merely to
refute his father's ideas regarding the way a child should be brought
up. Yet Dick had a sort of admiration for the old man, whose many good
qualities were somewhat overshadowed by his brutal temper.

When Richard came home that evening he had his supper alone, as was
usual with him. Mrs. Saunders drew her chair near the table, and while
the meal went on she talked of many things, but avoided the subject
uppermost in her mind, which she postponed until the last moment.
Perhaps after all she would not need to ask him to stay; he might
remain of his own accord. She watched him narrowly as she talked, and
saw with alarm that there was anxiety in his face. Some care was
worrying him, and she yearned to have him confide his trouble to her.
And yet she talked and talked of other things. She noticed that he made
but a poor pretence of eating, and that he allowed her to talk while he
made few replies, and those absent-mindedly. At last he pushed back his
chair with a laugh that sounded forced.

"Well, mother," he said, "what is it? Is there a row on, or is it
merely looming in the horizon? Has the Lord of Creation----"

"Hush, Dick, you mustn't talk in that way. There is nothing much the
matter, I hope? I want to speak with you about your club."

Dick looked sharply at his mother for a moment, then he said: "Well,
what does father want to know about the club? Does he wish to join?"

"I didn't say your father----"

"No, you didn't say it; but, my dear mother, you are as transparent as
glass. I can see right through you and away beyond. Now, somebody has
been talking to father about the club, and he is on the war-path. Well,
what does he want to know?"

"He said it was a gambling club."

"Right for once."

"Oh, Dick, is it?"

"Certainly it is. Most clubs are gambling clubs and drinking clubs. I
don't suppose the True Blues gamble more than others, but I'll bet they
don't gamble any less."

"Oh, Dick, Dick, I'm sorry to hear that. And, Dick, my darling boy, do
you----"

"Do I gamble, mother? No, I don't. I know you'll believe me, though the
old man won't. But it's true, nevertheless. I can't afford it, for it
takes money to gamble, and I'm not as rich as old Hammond yet."

"Oh yes, Dick dear, and that reminds me. Another thing your father
feared was that Mr. Hammond might come to know you were a member of the
club. It might hurt your prospects in the bank," she added, not wishing
to frighten the boy with the threat of the dismissal she felt sure
would follow the revelation.

Dick threw back his head and roared. For the first time that evening
the lines of care left his brow. Then seeing his mother's look of
incomprehension, he sobered down, repressing his mirth with some
difficulty.

"Mother," he said at last, "things have changed since father was a boy;
I'm afraid he hardly appreciates how much. The old terrifying relations
between employer and employee do not exist now--at least, that is my
experience."

"Still if Mr. Hammond came to know that you spent your evenings at----"

"Mother, listen to me a moment. Mr. Julius Hammond proposed me for
membership in the club--my employer! I should never have thought of
joining if it hadn't been for him. You remember my last raise in
salary? You thought it was for merit, of course, and father thought it
was luck. Well, it was neither--or both, perhaps. Now, this is
confidential and to yourself only. I wouldn't tell it to any one else.
Hammond called me into his private office one afternoon when the bank
was closed, and said, 'Saunders, I want you to join the Athletic Club;
I'll propose you.' I was amazed and told him I couldn't afford it.
'Yes, you can,' he answered. 'I'm going to raise your salary double the
amount of entrance fee and annual. If you don't join I'll cut it down.'
So I joined. I think I should have been a fool if I hadn't."

"Dick, I never heard of such a thing! What in the world did he want you
to join for?"

"Well, mother," said Dick, looking at his watch, "that's a long story.
I'll tell it to you some other evening. I haven't time to-night. I must
be off."

"Oh, Dick, don't go to-night. Please stay at home, for my sake."

Dick smoothed his mother's grey hair and kissed her on the forehead.
Then he said: "Won't to-morrow night do as well, mother? I can't stay
to-night. I have an appointment at the club."

"Telegraph to them and put it off. Stay for my sake to-night, Dick. I
never asked you before."

The look of anxiety came into his face again.

"Mother, it is impossible, really it is. Please don't ask me again.
Anyhow, I know it is father who wants me to stay, not you. I presume
he's on the duty tack. I think what he has to say will keep till to-
morrow night. If he must work off some of his sentiments on gambling,
let him place his efforts where they are needed--let him tackle Jule
Hammond, but not during business hours."

"You surely don't mean to say that a respected business man--a banker
like Mr. Hammond--gambles?"

"Don't I? Why, Hammond's a plunger from Plungerville, if you know what
that means. From nine to three he is the strictest and best business
man in the city. If you spoke to him then of the True Blue Athletic
Club he wouldn't know what you were talking about. But after three
o'clock he'll take any odds you like to offer, from matching pennies to
backing an unknown horse."

Mrs. Saunders sighed. It was a wicked world into which her boy had to
go to earn his living, evidently.

"And now, mother, I really must be off. I'll stay at home to-morrow
night and take my scolding like a man. Good-night."

He kissed her and hurried away before she could say anything more,
leaving her sitting there with folded hands to await, with her
customary patience and just a trifle of apprehension, the coming of her
husband. There was no mistaking the heavy footfall. Mrs. Saunders
smiled sadly as she heard it, remembering that Dick had said once that,
even if he were safe within the gates of Paradise, the sound of his
father's footsteps would make the chills run up his backbone. She had
reproved the levity of the remark at the time, but she often thought of
it, especially when she knew there was trouble ahead--as there usually
was.

"Where's Richard? Isn't he home yet?" were the old man's first words.

"He has been home, but he had to go out again. He had an appointment."

"Did you tell him I wanted to speak with him?"

"Yes, and he said he would stay home to-morrow night."

"Did he know what I said to-night?"

"I'm not sure that I told him you----"

"Don't shuffle now. He either knew or he did not. Which is it?"

"Yes, he knew, but he thought it might not be urgent, and he----"

"That will do. Where is his appointment?"

"At the club, I think."

"Ah-h-h!" The old man dwelt on the exclamation as if he had at last
drawn out the reluctant worst. "Did he say when he would be home?"

"No."

"Very well. I will wait half-an-hour for him, and if he is not in by
that time I will go to his club and have my talk with him there."

Old Mr. Saunders sat grimly down with his hat still on, and crossed his
hands over the knob of his stout walking-stick, watching the clock that
ticked slowly against the wall. Under these distressing circumstances
the old woman lost her presence of mind and did the very thing she
should not have done. She should have agreed with him, but instead of
that she opposed the plan and so made it inevitable. It would be a
cruel thing, she said, to shame their son before his friends, to make
him a laughing-stock among his acquaintances. Whatever was to be said
could be said as well to-morrow night as to-night, and that in their
own home, where, at least, no stranger would overhear. As the old man
made no answer but silently watched the clock, she became almost
indignant with him. She felt she was culpable in entertaining even the
suspicion of such a feeling against her lawful husband, but it did seem
to her that he was not acting judiciously towards Dick. She hoped to
turn his resentment from their son to herself, and would have welcomed
any outburst directed against her alone. In this excited state, being
brought, as it were, to bay, she had the temerity to say--

"You are wrong about one thing, and you may also be wrong in thinking
Dick--in--in what you think about Dick."

The old man darted one lowering look at her, and though she trembled,
she welcomed the glance as indicating the success of her red herring.

"What was I wrong about?"

"You were wrong--Mr. Hammond knows Dick is a member of the club. He is
a member himself and he insisted Dick should join. That's why he raised
his salary."

"A likely story! Who told you that?"

"Dick told me himself."

"And you believed it, of course!" Saunders laughed in a sneering, cynical
sort of way and resumed his scrutiny of the clock. The old woman gave up
the fight and began to weep silently, hoping, but in vain, to hear the
light step of her son approaching the door. The clock struck the hour;
the old man rose without a word, drew his hat further over his brow,
and left the house.

Up to the last moment Mrs. Saunders hardly believed her husband would
carry out his threat. Now, when she realised he was determined, she had
one wild thought of flying to the club and warning her son. A moment's
consideration put that idea out of the question. She called the
serving-maid, who came, as it seemed to the anxious woman, with
exasperating deliberation.

"Jane," she cried, "do you know where the Athletic Club is? Do you know
where Centre Street is?"

Jane knew neither club nor locality.

"I want a message taken there to Dick, and it must go quickly. Don't
you think you could run there----"

"It would be quicker to telegraph, ma'am," said Jane, who was not
anxious to run anywhere. "There's telegraph paper in Mr. Richard's
room, and the office is just round the corner."

"That's it, Jane; I'm glad you thought of it. Get me a telegraph form.
Do make haste."

She wrote with a trembling hand, as plainly as she could, so that her
son might have no difficulty in reading:--

"_Richard Saunders, Athletic Club, Centre Street_.

"Your father is coming to see you. He will be at the club before
half-an-hour."

"There is no need to sign it; he will know his mother's writing," said
Mrs. Saunders, as she handed the message and the money to Jane; and
Jane made no comment, for she knew as little of telegraphing as did her
mistress. Then the old woman, having done her best, prayed that the
telegram might arrive before her husband; and her prayer was answered,
for electricity is more speedy than an old man's legs.

Meanwhile Mr. Saunders strode along from the suburb to the city. His
stout stick struck the stone pavement with a sharp click that sounded
in the still, frosty, night air almost like a pistol shot. He would
show both his wife and his son that he was not too old to be master in
his own house. He talked angrily to himself as he went along, and was
wroth to find his anger lessening as he neared his destination. Anger
must be very just to hold its own during a brisk walk in evening air
that is cool and sweet.

Mr. Saunders was somewhat abashed to find the club building a much more
imposing edifice than he had expected. There was no low, groggy
appearance about the True Blue Athletic Club. It was brilliantly lit
from basement to attic. A group of men, with hands in pockets, stood on
the kerb as if waiting for something. There was an air of occasion
about the place. The old man inquired of one of the loafers if that was
the Athletic Club.

"Yes, it is," was the answer; "are you going in?"

"I intend to."

"Are you a member?"

"No."

"Got an invitation?"

"No."

"Then I suspect you won't go in. We've tried every dodge ourselves."

The possibility of not getting in had never occurred to the old
gentleman, and the thought that his son, safe within the sacred
precincts of a club, might defy him, flogged his flagging anger and
aroused his dogged determination.

"I'll try, at least," he said, going up the stone steps.

The men watched him with a smile on their lips. They saw him push the
electric button, whereupon the door opened slightly. There was a brief,
unheard parley; then the door swung wide open, and, when Mr. Saunders
entered, it shut again.

"Well, I'm blest!" said the man on the kerb; "I wonder how the old
duffer worked it. I wish I had asked him." None of the rest made any
comment; they were struck dumb with amazement at the success of the old
gentleman, who had even to ask if that were the club.

When the porter opened the door he repeated one of the questions asked
a moment before by the man on the kerb.

"Have you an invitation, sir?"

"No," answered the old man, deftly placing his stick so that the barely
opened door could not be closed until it was withdrawn. "No! I want to
see my son, Richard Saunders. Is he inside?"

The porter instantly threw open the door.

"Yes, sir," he said. "They're expecting you, sir. Kindly come this way,
sir."

The old man followed, wondering at the cordiality of his reception.
There must be some mistake. Expecting him? How could that be! He was
led into a most sumptuous parlour where a cluster of electric lamps in
the ceiling threw a soft radiance around the room.

"Be seated, sir. I will tell Mr. Hammond that you are here."

"But--stop a moment. I don't want to see Mr. Hammond. I have nothing to
do with Mr. Hammond. I want to see my son. Is it Mr. Hammond the
banker?"

"Yes, sir. He told me to bring you in here when you came and to let him
know at once."

The old man drew his hand across his brow, and ere he could reply the
porter had disappeared. He sat down in one of the exceedingly easy
leather chairs and gazed in bewilderment around the room. The fine
pictures on the wall related exclusively to sporting subjects. A trim
yacht, with its tall, slim masts and towering cloud of canvas at an
apparently dangerous angle, seemed sailing directly at the spectator.
Pugilists, naked to the waists, held their clinched fists in menacing
attitudes. Race-horses, in states of activity and at rest, were
interspersed here and there. In the centre of the room stood a pedestal
of black marble, and upon it rested a huge silver vase encrusted with
ornamentation. The old man did not know that this elaborate specimen of
the silversmith's art was referred to as the "Cup." Some one had hung a
placard on it, bearing, in crudely scrawled letters the words:--

               "Fare thee well, and if for ever
                Still for ever Fare thee well."

While the old man was wondering what all this meant, the curtain
suddenly parted and there entered an elderly gentleman somewhat
jauntily attired in evening dress with a rose at his buttonhole.
Saunders instantly recognised him as the banker, and he felt a
resentment at what he considered his foppish appearance, realising
almost at the same moment the rustiness of his own clothes, an everyday
suit, not too expensive even when new.

"How are you, Mr. Saunders?" cried the banker, cordially extending his
hand. "I am very pleased indeed to meet you. We got your telegram, but
thought it best not to give it to Dick. I took the liberty of opening
it myself. You see we can't be too careful about these little details.
I told the porter to look after you and let me know the moment you
came. Of course you are very anxious about your boy."

"I am," said the old man firmly. "That's why I'm here."

"Certainly, certainly. So are we all, and I presume I'm the most
anxious man of the lot. Now what you want to know is how he is getting
along?"

"Yes; I want to know the truth."

"Well, unfortunately, the truth is about as gloomy as it can be. He's
been going from bad to worse, and no man is more sorry than I am."

"Do you mean to tell me so?"

"Yes. There is no use deluding ourselves. Frankly, I have no hope for
him. There is not one chance in ten thousand of his recovering his lost
ground."

The old man caught his breath, and leaned on his cane for support. He
realised now the hollowness of his previous anger. He had never for a
moment believed the boy was going to the bad. Down underneath his
crustiness was a deep love for his son and a strong faith in him. He
had allowed his old habit of domineering to get the better of him, and
now in searching after a phantom he had suddenly come upon a ghastly
reality.

"Look here," said the banker, noticing his agitation, "have a drink of
our Special Scotch with me. It is the best there is to be had for
money. We always take off our hats when we speak of the Special in this
club. Then we'll go and see how things are moving."

As he turned to order the liquor he noticed for the first time the
placard on the cup.

"Now, who the dickens put that there?" he cried angrily. "There's no
use in giving up before you're thrashed." Saying which, he took off the
placard, tore it up, and threw it into the waste basket.

"Does Richard drink?" asked the old man huskily, remembering the eulogy
on the Special.

"Bless you, no. Nor smoke either. No, nor gamble, which is more
extraordinary. No, it's all right for old fellows like you and me to
indulge in the Special--bless it--but a young man who needs to keep his
nerves in order, has to live like a monk. I imagine it's a love affair.
Of course, there's no use asking you: you would be the last one to
know. When he came in to-night I saw he was worried over something. I
asked him what it was, but he declared there was nothing wrong. Here's
the liquor. You'll find that it reaches the spot."

The old man gulped down some of the celebrated "Special," then he said--

"Is it true that you induced my son to join this club?"

"Certainly. I heard what he could do from a man I had confidence in,
and I said to myself, We must have young Saunders for a member."

"Then don't you think you are largely to blame?"

"Oh, if you like to put it that way; yes. Still I'm the chief loser. I
lose ten thousand by him."

"Good God!" cried the stricken father.

The banker looked at the old man a little nervously, as if he feared
his head was not exactly right. Then he said: "Of course you will be
anxious to see how the thing ends. Come in with me, but be careful the
boy doesn't catch sight of you. It might rattle him. I'll get you a
place at the back, where you can see without being seen."

They rose, and the banker led the way on tiptoe between the curtains
into a large room filled with silent men earnestly watching a player at
a billiard table in the centre of the apartment. Temporary seats had
been built around the walls, tier above tier, and every place was
taken. Saunders noticed his son standing near the table in his shirt-
sleeves, with his cue butt downward on the ground. His face was pale
and his lips compressed as he watched his opponent's play like a man
fascinated. Evidently his back was against the wall, and he was
fighting a hopeless fight, but was grit to the last.

Old Saunders only faintly understood the situation, but his whole
sympathy went out to his boy, and he felt an instinctive hatred of the
confident opponent who was knocking the balls about with a reckless
accuracy which was evidently bringing dismay to the hearts of at least
half the onlookers.

All at once there was a burst of applause, and the player stood up
straight with a laugh.

"By Jove!" cried the banker, "he's missed. Didn't put enough stick
behind it. That comes of being too blamed sure. Shouldn't wonder but
there is going to be a turn of luck. Perhaps you'll prove a mascot, Mr.
Saunders."

He placed the old man on an elevated seat at the back. There was a buzz
of talk as young Saunders stood there chalking his cue, apparently loth
to begin.

Hammond mixed among the crowd, and spoke eagerly now to one, now to
another. Old Saunders said to the man next him--

"What is it all about? Is this an important match?"

"Important! You bet it is. I suppose there's more money on this game
than was ever put on a billiard match before. Why, Jule Hammond alone
has ten thousand on Saunders."

The old man gave a quivering sigh of relief. He was beginning to
understand. The ten thousand, then, was not the figures of a
defalcation.

"Yes," continued the other, "it's the great match for the cup. There's
been a series of games, and this is the culminating one. Prognor has
won one, and Saunders one; now this game settles it. Prognor is the man
of the High Fliers' Club. He's a good one. Saunders won the cup for
this club last year, so they can't kick much if they lose it now.
They've never had a man to touch Saunders in this club since it began.
I doubt if there's another amateur like him in this country. He's a man
to be proud of, although he seemed to go to pieces to-night. They'll
all be down on him to-morrow if they lose their money, although he
don't make anything one way or another. I believe it's the high betting
that's made him so anxious and spoiled his play."

"Hush, hush!" was whispered around the room. Young Saunders had begun
to play. Prognor stood by with a superior smile on his lips. He was
certain to go out when his turn came again.

Saunders played very carefully, taking no risks, and his father watched
him with absorbed, breathless interest. Though he knew nothing of the
game he soon began to see how points were made. The boy never looked up
from the green cloth and the balls. He stepped around the table to his
different positions without hurry, and yet without undue tardiness. All
eyes were fastened on his play, and there was not a sound in the large
room but the ever-recurring click-click of the balls. The father
marvelled at the almost magical command the player had over the ivory
spheres. They came and went, rebounded and struck, seemingly because he
willed this result or that. There was a dexterity of touch, and
accurate measurement of force, a correct estimate of angles, a truth of
the eye, and a muscular control that left the old man amazed that the
combination of all these delicate niceties were concentrated in one
person, and that person his own son.

At last two of the balls lay close together, and the young man, playing
very deftly, appeared to be able to keep them in that position as if he
might go on scoring indefinitely. He went on in this way for some time,
when suddenly the silence was broken by Prognor crying out--

"I don't call that billiards. It's baby play."

Instantly there was an uproar. Saunders grounded his cue on the floor
and stood calmly amidst the storm, his eyes fixed on the green cloth.
There were shouts of "You were not interrupted," "That's for the umpire
to decide," "Play your game, Saunders," "Don't be bluffed." The old man
stood up with the rest, and his natural combativeness urged him to take
part in the fray and call for fair play. The umpire rose and demanded
order. When the tumult had subsided, he sat down. Some of the High
Fliers, however, cried, "Decision! Decision!"

"There is nothing to decide," said the umpire, severely. "Go on with
your play, Mr. Saunders."

Then young Saunders did a thing that took away the breath of his
friends. He deliberately struck the balls with his cue ball and
scattered them far and wide. A simultaneous sigh seemed to rise from
the breasts of the True Blues.

"That is magnificent, but it is not war," said the man beside old
Saunders. "He has no right to throw away a single chance when he is so
far behind."

"Oh, he's not so far behind. Look at the score," put in a man on the
right.

Saunders carefully nursed the balls up together once more, scored off
them for a while, and again he struck them far apart. This he did three
times. He apparently seemed bent on showing how completely he had the
table under his control. Suddenly a great cheer broke out, and young
Saunders rested as before without taking his eyes from the cloth.

"What does that mean?" cried the old man excitedly, with dry lips.

"Why, don't you see? He's tied the score. I imagine this is almost an
unprecedented run. I believe he's got Prognor on toast, if you ask me."

Hammond came up with flushed face, and grasped the old man by the arm
with a vigour that made him wince.

"Did you ever see anything grander than that?" he said, under cover of
the momentary applause. "I'm willing to lose my ten thousand now
without a murmur. You see, you are a mascot after all."

The old man was too much excited to speak, but he hoped the boy would
take no more chances. Again came the click-click of the balls. The
father was pleased to see that Dick played now with all the care and
caution he had observed at first. The silence became intense, almost
painful. Every man leaned forward and scarcely breathed.

All at once Prognor strode down to the billiard-table and stretched his
hand across it. A cheer shook the ceiling. The cup would remain on its
black marble pedestal. Saunders had won. He took the outstretched hand
of his defeated opponent, and the building rang again.

Banker Hammond pushed his way through the congratulating crowd and
smote the winner cordially on the shoulder.

"That was a great run, Dick, my boy. The old man was your mascot. Your
luck changed the moment he came in. Your father had his eye on you all
the time."

"What!" cried Dick, with a jump.

A flush came over his pale face as he caught his father's eye, although
the old man's glance was kindly enough.

"I'm very proud of you, my son," said his father, when at last he
reached him. "It takes skill and pluck and nerve to win a contest like
that. I'm off now; I want to tell your mother about it."

"Wait a moment, father, and we'll walk home together," said Dick.



THE BROMLEY GIBBERTS STORY.


The room in which John Shorely edited the _Weekly Sponge_ was not
luxuriously furnished, but it was comfortable. A few pictures decorated
the walls, mostly black and white drawings by artists who were so
unfortunate as to be compelled to work for the _Sponge_ on the
cheap. Magazines and papers were littered all about, chiefly American
in their origin, for Shorely had been brought up in the editorial
school which teaches that it is cheaper to steal from a foreign
publication than waste good money on original contributions. You
clipped out the story; changed New York to London; Boston or
Philadelphia to Manchester or Liverpool, and there you were.

Shorely's theory was that the public was a fool, and didn't know the
difference. Some of the greatest journalistic successes in London
proved the fact, he claimed, yet the _Sponge_ frequently bought
stories from well-known authors, and bragged greatly about it.

Shorely's table was littered with manuscripts, but the attention of the
great editor was not upon them. He sat in his wooden armchair, with his
gaze on the fire and a frown on his brow. The _Sponge_ was not
going well, and he feared he would have to adopt some of the many prize
schemes that were such a help to pure literature elsewhere, or offer a
thousand pounds insurance, tied up in such a way that it would look
lavishly generous to the constant reader, and yet be impossible to
collect if a disaster really occurred.

In the midst of his meditations a clerk entered and announced--"Mr.
Bromley Gibberts."

"Tell him I'm busy just now--tell him I'm engaged," said the editor,
while the perplexed frown deepened on his brow.

The clerk's conscience; however, was never burdened with that message,
for Gibberts entered, with a long ulster coat flapping about his heels.

"That's all right," said Gibberts, waving his hand at the boy, who
stood with open mouth, appalled at the intrusion. "You heard what Mr.
Shorely said. He's engaged. Therefore let no one enter. Get out."

The boy departed, closing the door after him. Gibberts turned the key
in the lock, and then sat down.

"There," he said; "now we can talk unmolested, Shorely. I should think
you would be pestered to death by all manner of idiots who come in and
interrupt you."

"I am," said the editor, shortly.

"Then take my plan, and lock your door. Communicate with the outer
office through a speaking-tube. I see you are down-hearted, so I have
come to cheer you up. I've brought you a story, my boy."

Shorely groaned.

"My dear Gibberts," he said, "we have now----"

"Oh yes, I know all about that. You have matter enough on hand to run
the paper for the next fifteen years. If this is a comic story, you
are buying only serious stuff. If this be tragic, humour is what you
need. Of course, the up-and-down truth is that you are short of money,
and can't pay my price. The _Sponge_ is failing--everybody knows
that. Why can't you speak the truth, Shorely, to me, at least? If you
practiced an hour a day, and took lessons--from me, for instance--you
would be able in a month to speak several truthful sentences one after
the other."

The editor laughed bitterly.

"You are complimentary," he said.

"I'm not. Try again, Shorely. Say I'm a boorish ass."

"Well, you are."

"There, you see how easy it is! Practice is everything. Now, about this
story, will you----"

"I will not. As you are not an advertiser, I don't mind admitting to
you that the paper is going down. You see it comes to the same thing.
We haven't the money as you say, so what's the use of talking?"

Gibberts hitched his chair closer to the editor, and placed his hand on
the other's knee. He went on earnestly--

"Now is the time to talk, Shorely. In a little while it will be too
late. You will have thrown up the _Sponge_. Your great mistake is
trying to ride two horses, each facing a different direction. It can't
be done, my boy. Make up your mind whether you are going to be a thief
or an honest man. That's the first step."

"What do you mean?"

"You know what I mean. Go in for a paper that will be entirely stolen
property, or for one made up of purely original matter."

"We have a great deal of original matter in the _Sponge_."

"Yes, and that's what I object to. Have it all original, or have it all
stolen. Be fish or fowl. At least one hundred men a week see a stolen
article in the _Sponge_ which they have read elsewhere. They then
believe it is all stolen, and you lose them. That isn't business, so I
want to sell you one original tale, which will prove to be the most
remarkable story written in England this year."

"Oh, they all are," said Shorely, wearily. "Every story sent to me is a
most remarkable story, in the author's opinion."

"Look here, Shorely," cried Gibberts, angrily, "you mustn't talk to me
like that. I'm no unknown author, a fact of which you are very well
aware. I don't need to peddle my goods."

"Then why do you come here lecturing me?"

"For your own good, Shorely, my boy," said Gibberts, calming down as
rapidly as he had flared up. He was a most uncertain man. "For your own
good, and if you don't take this story, some one else will. It will
make the fortune of the paper that secures it. Now, you read it while I
wait. Here it is, typewritten, at one-and-three a thousand words, all
to save your blessed eyesight."

Shorely took the manuscript and lit the gas, for it was getting dark.
Gibberts sat down awhile, but soon began to pace the room, much to
Shorely's manifest annoyance. Not content with this, he picked up the
poker and noisily stirred the fire. "For Heaven's sake, sit down,
Gibberts, and be quiet!" cried Shorely, at last.

Gibberts seized the poker as if it had been a weapon, and glared at the
editor.

"I won't sit down, and I will make just as much noise as I want to," he
roared. As he stood there defiantly, Shorely saw a gleam of insanity in
his eyes.

"Oh, very well, then," said Shorely, continuing to read the story.

For a moment Gibberts stood grasping the poker by the middle, then he
flung it with a clatter on the fender, and, sitting down, gazed moodily
into the fire, without moving, until Shorely had turned the last page.

"Well," said Gibberts, rousing from his reverie, "what do you think of
it?"

"It's a good story, Gibberts. All your stories are good," said the
editor, carelessly.

Gibberts started to his feet, and swore.

"Do you mean to say," he thundered, "that you see nothing in that story
different from any I or any one else ever wrote? Hang it, Shorely, you
wouldn't know a good story if you met it coming up Fleet Street! Can't
you see that story is written with a man's heart's blood?"

Shorely stretched out his legs and thrust his hands far down in his
trousers' pockets.

"It may have been written as you say, although I thought you called my
attention a moment ago to its type-written character."

"Don't be flippant, Shorely," said Gibberts, relapsing again into
melancholy. "You don't like the story, then? You didn't see anything
unusual in it--purpose, force, passion, life, death, nothing?"

"There is death enough at the end. My objection is that there is too
much blood and thunder in it. Such a tragedy could never happen. No man
could go to a country house and slaughter every one in it. It's
absurd."

Gibberts sprang from his seat and began to pace the room excitedly.
Suddenly he stopped before his friend, towering over him, his long
ulster making him look taller than he really was.

"Did I ever tell you the tragedy of my life? How the property that
would have kept me from want has----"

"Of course you have, Gibberts. Sit down. You've told it to everybody.
To me several times."

"How my cousin cheated me out of----"

"Certainly. Out of land and the woman you loved."

"Oh! I told you that, did I?" said Gibberts, apparently abashed at the
other's familiarity with the circumstances. He sat down, and rested his
head in his hands. There was a long silence between the two, which was
finally broken by Gibberts saying--

"So you don't care about the story?"

"Oh, I don't say that. I can see it is the story of your own life, with
an imaginary and sanguinary ending."

"Oh, you saw that, did you?"

"Yes. How much do you want for it?"

"£50."

"What?"

"£50, I tell you. Are you deaf? And I want the money now."

"Bless your innocent heart, I can buy a longer story than that from the
greatest author living for less than £50. Gibberts, you're crazy."

Gibberts looked up suddenly and inquiringly, as if that thought had
never occurred to him before. He seemed rather taken with the idea. It
would explain many things which had puzzled both himself and his
friends. He meditated upon the matter for a few moments, but at last
shook his head.

"No, Shorely," he said, with a sigh. "I'm not insane, though, goodness
knows, I've had enough to drive me mad. I don't seem to have the luck
of some people. I haven't the talent for going crazy. But to return to
the story. You think £50 too much for it. It will make the fortune of
the paper that publishes it. Let me see. I had it a moment ago, but the
point has escaped my memory. What was it you objected to as unnatural?"

"The tragedy. There is too much wholesale murder at the end."

"Ah! now I have it! Now I recollect!"

Gibberts began energetically to pace the room again, smiting his hands
together. His face was in a glow of excitement.

"Yes, I have it now. The tragedy. Granting a murder like that, one man
a dead shot, killing all the people in a country house; imagine it
actually taking place. Wouldn't all England ring with it?"

"Naturally."

"Of course it would. Now, you listen to me. I'm going to commit that
so-called crime. One week after you publish the story, I'm going down
to that country house, Channor Chase. It is my house, if there was
justice and right in England, and I'm going to slaughter every one in
it. I will leave a letter, saying the story in the _Sponge_ is the
true story of what led to the tragedy. Your paper in a week will be the
most-talked-of journal in England--in the world. It will leap
instantaneously into a circulation such as no weekly on earth ever
before attained. Look here, Shorely, that story is worth £50,000 rather
than £50, and if you don't buy it at once, some one else will. Now,
what do you say?"

"I say you are joking, or else, as I said just now, you are as mad as a
hatter."

"Admitting I am mad, will you take the story?"

"No, but I'll prevent you committing the crime."

"How?"

"By giving you in charge. By informing on you."

"You can't do it. Until such a crime is committed, no one would believe
it could be committed. You have no witnesses to our conversation here,
and I will deny every assertion you make. My word, at present, is as
good as yours. All you can do is to ruin your chance of fortune, which
knocks at every man's door. When I came in, you were wondering what you
could do to put the _Sponge_ on its feet. I saw it in your
attitude. Now, what do you say?"

"I'll give you £25 for the story on its own merits, although it is a
big price, and you need not commit the crime."

"Done! That is the sum I wanted, but I knew if I asked it, you would
offer me £12 10_s_. Will you publish it within the month?"

"Yes."

"Very well. Write out the cheque. Don't cross it. I've no bank
account."

When the cheque was handed to him, Gibberts thrust it into the ticket-
pocket of his ulster, turned abruptly, and unlocked the door. "Good-
bye," he said.

As he disappeared, Shorely noticed how long his ulster was, and how it
flapped about his heels. The next time he saw the novelist was under
circumstances that could never be effaced from his memory.

The _Sponge_ was a sixteen-page paper, with a blue cover, and the
week Gibberts' story appeared, it occupied the first seven pages. As
Shorely ran it over in the paper, it impressed him more than it had
done in manuscript. A story always seems more convincing in type.

Shorely met several men at the Club, who spoke highly of the story, and
at last he began to believe it was a good one himself. Johnson was
particularly enthusiastic, and every one in the Club knew Johnson's
opinion was infallible.

"How did _you_ come to get hold of it?" he said to Shorely, with
unnecessary emphasis on the personal pronoun.

"Don't you think I know a good story when I see it?" asked the editor,
indignantly.

"It isn't the general belief of the Club," replied Johnson, airily;
"but then, all the members have sent you contributions, so perhaps that
accounts for it. By the way, have you seen Gibberts lately?"

"No; why do you ask?"

"Well, it strikes me he is acting rather queerly. If you asked me, I
don't think he is quite sane. He has something on his mind."

"He told me," said the new member, with some hesitation--"but really I
don't think I'm justified in mentioning it, although he did not tell it
in confidence--that he was the rightful heir to a property in----"

"Oh, we all know that story!" cried the Club, unanimously.

"I think it's the Club whiskey," said one of the oldest members. "I
say, it's the worst in London."

"Verbal complaints not received. Write to the Committee," put in
Johnson. "If Gibberts has a friend in the Club, which I doubt, that
friend should look after him. I believe he will commit suicide yet."

These sayings troubled Shorely as he walked back to his office. He sat
down to write a note, asking Gibberts to call. As he was writing,
McCabe, the business manager of the _Sponge_, came in.

"What's the matter with the old sheet this week?" he asked.

"Matter? I don't understand you."

"Well, I have just sent an order to the printer to run off an extra ten
thousand, and here comes a demand from Smith's for the whole lot. The
extra ten thousand were to go to different newsagents all over the
country who have sent repeat orders, so I have told the printer now to
run off at least twenty-five thousand, and to keep the plates on the
press. I never read the _Sponge_ myself, so I thought I would drop
in and ask you what the attraction was. This rush is unnatural.

"Better read the paper and find out," said Shorely.

"I would, if there wasn't so much of your stuff in it," retorted
McCabe.

Next day McCabe reported an almost bewildering increase in orders. He
had a jubilant "we've-done-it-at-last" air that exasperated Shorely,
who felt that he alone should have the credit. There had come no answer
to the note he had sent Gibberts, so he went to the Club, in the hope
of meeting him. He found Johnson, whom he asked if Gibberts were there.

"He's not been here to-day," said Johnson; "but I saw him yesterday,
and what do you think he was doing? He was in a gun-shop in the Strand,
buying cartridges for that villainous-looking seven-shooter of his. I
asked him what he was going to do with a revolver in London, and he
told me, shortly, that it was none of my business, which struck me as
so accurate a summing-up of the situation, that I came away without
making further remark. If you want any more stories by Gibberts, you
should look after him."

Shorely found himself rapidly verging into a state of nervousness
regarding Gibberts. He was actually beginning to believe the novelist
meditated some wild action, which might involve others in a
disagreeable complication. Shorely had no desire to be accessory either
before or after the fact. He hurried back to the office, and there
found Gibberts' belated reply to his note. He hastily tore it open, and
the reading of it completely banished what little self-control he had
left.

"Dear Shorely,--I know why you want to see me, but I have so many
affairs to settle, that it is impossible for me to call upon you.
However, have no fears; I shall stand to my bargain, without any
goading from you. Only a few days have elapsed since the publication of
the story, and I did not promise the tragedy before the week was out. I
leave for Channor Chase this afternoon. You shall have your pound of
flesh, and more.--Yours,

                            "BROMLEY GIBBERTS."

Shorely was somewhat pale about the lips when he had finished this
scrawl. He flung on his coat, and rushed into the street. Calling a
hansom, he said--

"Drive to Kidner's Inn as quickly as you can. No. 15."

Once there, he sprang up the steps two at a time, and knocked at
Gibberts' door. The novelist allowed himself the luxury of a "man," and
it was the "man" who answered Shorely's imperious knock.

"Where's Gibberts?"

"He's just gone, sir."

"Gone where?"

"To Euston Station, I believe, sir; and he took a hansom. He's going
into the country for a week, sir, and I wasn't to forward his letters,
so I haven't his address."

"Have you an 'ABC'?"

"Yes, sir; step inside, sir. Mr. Gibberts was just looking up trains in
it, sir, before he left."

Shorely saw it was open at C, and, looking down the column to Channor,
he found that a train left in about twenty minutes. Without a word, he
dashed down the stairs again. The "man" did not seem astonished. Queer
fish sometimes came to see his master.

"Can you get me to Euston Station in twenty minutes?"

The cabman shook his head, as he said--

"I'll do my best, sir, but we ought to have a good half-hour."

The driver did his best, and landed Shorely on the departure platform
two minutes after the train had gone.

"When is the next train to Channor?" demanded Shorely of a porter.

"Just left, sir."

"The next train hasn't just left, you fool. Answer my question."

"Two hours and twenty minutes, sir," replied the porter, in a huff.

Shorely thought of engaging a special, but realised he hadn't money
enough. Perhaps he could telegraph and warn the people of Channor
Chase, but he did not know to whom to telegraph. Or, again, he thought
he might have Gibberts arrested on some charge or other at Channor
Station. That, he concluded, was the way out--dangerous, but feasible.

By this time, however, the porter had recovered his equanimity. Porters
cannot afford to cherish resentment, and this particular porter saw
half a crown in the air.

"Did you wish to reach Channor before the train that's just gone, sir?"

"Yes. Can it be done?"

"It might be done, sir," said the porter, hesitatingly, as if he were
on the verge of divulging a State secret which would cost him his
situation. He wanted the half-crown to become visible before he
committed himself further.

"Here's half a sovereign, if you tell me how it can be done, short of
hiring a special."

"Well, sir, you could take the express that leaves at the half-hour. It
will carry you fifteen miles beyond Channor, to Buley Junction, then in
seventeen minutes you can get a local back to Channor, which is due
three minutes before the down train reaches there--if the local is in
time," he added, when the gold piece was safe stowed in his pocket.

While waiting for the express, Shorely bought a copy of the
_Sponge_, and once more he read Gibberts' story on the way down.
The third reading appalled him. He was amazed he had not noticed before
the deadly earnestness of its tone. We are apt to underrate or overrate
the work of a man with whom we are personally familiar.

Now, for the first time, Shorely seemed to get the proper perspective.
The reading left him in a state of nervous collapse. He tried to
remember whether or not he had burned Gibberts' letter. If he had left
it on his table, anything might happen. It was incriminating evidence.

The local was five minutes late at the Junction, and it crawled over
the fifteen miles back to Channor in the most exasperating way, losing
time with every mile. At Channor he found the London train had come and
gone.

"Did a man in a long ulster get off, and----"

"For Channor Chase, sir?"

"Yes. Has he gone?"

"Oh yes, sir! The dog-cart from the Chase was here to meet him, sir."

"How far is it?"

"About five miles by road, if you mean the Chase, sir."

"Can I get a conveyance?"

"I don't think so, sir. They didn't know you were coming, I suppose, or
they would have waited; but if you take the road down by the church,
you can get there before the cart, sir. It isn't more than two miles
from the church. You'll find the path a bit dirty, I'm afraid, sir, but
not worse than the road. You can't miss the way, and you can send for
your luggage."

It had been raining, and was still drizzling. A strange path is
sometimes difficult to follow, even in broad daylight, but a wet, dark
evening adds tremendously to the problem. Shorely was a city man, and
quite unused to the eccentricities of country lanes and paths.

He first mistook the gleaming surface of a ditch for the footpath, and
only found his mistake when he was up to his waist in water. The rain
came on heavily again, and added to his troubles. After wandering
through muddy fields for some time, he came to a cottage, where he
succeeded in securing a guide to Channor Chase.

The time he had lost wandering in the fields would, Shorely thought,
allow the dog-cart to arrive before him, and such he found to be the
case. The man who answered Shorely's imperious summons to the door was
surprised to find a wild-eyed, unkempt, bedraggled individual, who
looked like a lunatic or a tramp.

"Has Mr. Bromley Gibberts arrived yet?" he asked, without preliminary
talk.

"Yes, sir," answered the man.

"Is he in his room?"

"No, sir. He has just come down, after dressing, and is in the drawing-
room.

"I must see him at once," gasped Shorely. "It is a matter of life and
death. Take me to the drawing-room."

The man, in some bewilderment, led him to the door of the drawing-room,
and Shorely heard the sound of laughter from within. Thus ever are
comedy and tragedy mingled. The man threw the door open, and Shorely
entered. The sight he beheld at first dazzled him, for the room was
brilliantly lighted. He saw a number of people, ladies and gentlemen,
all in evening dress, and all looking towards the door, with
astonishment in their eyes. Several of them, he noticed, had copies of
the _Sponge_ in their hands. Bromley Gibberts stood before the
fire, and was very evidently interrupted in the middle of a narration.

"I assure you," he was saying, "that is the only way by which a story
of the highest class can be sold to a London editor."

He stopped as he said this, and turned to look at the intruder. It was
a moment or two before he recognised the dapper editor in the
bedraggled individual who stood, abashed, at the door.

"By the gods!" he exclaimed, waving his hands. "Speak of the editor,
and he appears. In the name of all that's wonderful, Shorely, how did
you come here? Have your deeds at last found you out? Have they ducked
you in a horse-pond? I have just been telling my friends here how I
sold you that story, which is making the fortune of the _Sponge_.
Come forward, and show yourself, Shorely, my boy."

"I would like a word with you," stammered Shorely.

"Then, have it here," said the novelist. "They all understand the
circumstances. Come and tell them your side of the story."

"I warn you," said Shorely, pulling himself together, and addressing
the company, "that this man contemplates a dreadful crime, and I have
come here to prevent it."

Gibberts threw back his head, and laughed loudly.

"Search me," he cried. "I am entirely unarmed, and, as every one here
knows, among my best friends."

"Goodness!" said one old lady. "You don't mean to say that Channor
Chase is the scene of your story, and where the tragedy was to take
place?"

"Of course it is," cried Gibberts, gleefully. "Didn't you recognise the
local colour? I thought I described Channor Chase down to the ground,
and did I not tell you you were all my victims? I always forget some
important detail when telling a story. Don't go yet," he said, as
Shorely turned away; "but tell your story, then we will have each man's
narrative, after the style of Wilkie Collins."

But Shorely had had enough, and, in spite of pressing invitations to
remain, he departed out into the night, cursing the eccentricities of
literary men.



NOT ACCORDING TO THE CODE.


Even a stranger to the big town walking for the first time through
London, sees on the sides of the houses many names with which he has
long been familiar. His precognition has cost the firms those names
represent much money in advertising. The stranger has had the names
before him for years in newspapers and magazines, on the hoardings and
boards by the railway side, paying little heed to them at the time; yet
they have been indelibly impressed on his brain, and when he wishes
soap or pills his lips almost automatically frame the words most
familiar to them. Thus are the lavish sums spent in advertising
justified, and thus are many excellent publications made possible.

When you come to ponder over the matter, it seems strange that there
should ever be any real man behind the names so lavishly advertised;
that there should be a genuine Smith or Jones whose justly celebrated
medicines work such wonders, or whose soap will clean even a guilty
conscience. Granting the actual existence of these persons and probing
still further into the mystery, can any one imagine that the excellent
Smith to whom thousands of former sufferers send entirely unsolicited
testimonials, or the admirable Jones whom _prima donnas_ love
because his soap preserves their dainty complexions--can any one credit
the fact that Smith and Jones have passions like other men, have
hatreds, likes and dislikes?

Such a condition of things, incredible as it may appear, exists in
London. There are men in the metropolis, utterly unknown personally,
whose names are more widely spread over the earth than the names of the
greatest novelists, living or dead, and these men have feeling and form
like unto ourselves.

There was the firm of Danby and Strong for instance. The name may mean
nothing to any reader of these pages, but there was a time when it was
well-known and widely advertised, not only in England but over the
greater part of the world as well. They did a great business, as every
firm that spends a fortune every year in advertising is bound to do. It
was in the old paper-collar days. There actually was a time when the
majority of men wore paper collars, and, when you come to think of it,
the wonder is that the paper-collar trade ever fell away as it did,
when you consider with what vile laundries London is and always has
been cursed. Take the Danby and Strong collars for instance, advertised
as being so similar to linen that only an expert could tell the
difference. That was Strong's invention. Before he invented the
Piccadilly collar so-called, paper collars had a brilliant glaze that
would not have deceived the most recent arrival from the most remote
shire in the country. Strong devised some method by which a slight
linen film was put on the paper, adding strength to the collar and
giving it the appearance of the genuine article. You bought a
pasteboard box containing a dozen of these collars for something like
the price you paid for the washing of half a dozen linen ones. The
Danby and Strong Piccadilly collar jumped at once into great
popularity, and the wonder is that the linen collar ever recovered from
the blow dealt it by this ingenious invention.

Curiously enough, during the time the firm was struggling to establish
itself, the two members of it were the best of friends, but when
prosperity came to them, causes of difference arose, and their
relations, as the papers say of warlike nations, became strained.
Whether the fault lay with John Danby or with William Strong no one has
ever been able to find out. They had mutual friends who claimed that
each one of them was a good fellow, but those friends always added that
Strong and Danby did not "hit it off."

Strong was a bitter man when aroused, and could generally be counted
upon to use harsh language. Danby was quieter, but there was a sullen
streak of stubbornness in him that did not tend to the making up of a
quarrel. They had been past the speaking point for more than a year,
when there came a crisis in their relations with each other, that ended
in disaster to the business carried on under the title of Danby and
Strong. Neither man would budge, and between them the business sunk to
ruin. Where competition is fierce no firm can stand against it if there
is internal dissension. Danby held his ground quietly but firmly,
Strong raged and cursed, but was equally steadfast in not yielding a
point. Each hated the other so bitterly that each was willing to lose
his own share in a profitable business, if by doing so he could bring
ruin on his partner.

We are all rather prone to be misled by appearances. As one walks down
Piccadilly, or the Strand, or Fleet Street and meets numerous
irreproachably dressed men with glossy tall hats and polished boots,
with affable manners and a courteous way of deporting themselves toward
their fellows, we are apt to fall into the fallacy of believing that
these gentlemen are civilised. We fail to realise that if you probe in
the right direction you will come upon possibilities of savagery that
would draw forth the warmest commendation from a Pawnee Indian. There
are reputable business men in London who would, if they dared, tie an
enemy to a stake and roast him over a slow fire, and these men have
succeeded so well, not only in deceiving their neighbours, but also
themselves, that they would actually be offended if you told them so.
If law were suspended in London for one day, during which time none of
us would be held answerable for any deed then done, how many of us
would be alive next morning? Most of us would go out to pot some
favourite enemy, and would doubtless be potted ourselves before we got
safely home again.

The law, however, is a great restrainer, and helps to keep the death-
rate from reaching excessive proportions. One department of the law
crushed out the remnant of the business of Messrs. Danby and Strong,
leaving the firm bankrupt, while another department of the law
prevented either of the partners taking the life of the other.

When Strong found himself penniless, he cursed, as was his habit, and
wrote to a friend in Texas asking if he could get anything to do over
there. He was tired of a country of law and order, he said, which was
not as complimentary to Texas as it might have been. But his remark
only goes to show what extraordinary ideas Englishmen have of foreign
parts. The friend's answer was not very encouraging, but, nevertheless,
Strong got himself out there somehow, and in course of time became a
cowboy. He grew reasonably expert with his revolver and rode a mustang
as well as could be expected, considering that he had never seen such
an animal in London, even at the Zoo. The life of a cowboy on a Texas
ranch leads to the forgetting of such things as linen shirts and paper
collars.

Strong's hatred of Danby never ceased, but he began to think of him
less often.

One day, when he least expected it, the subject was brought to his mind
in a manner that startled him. He was in Galveston ordering supplies
for the ranch, when in passing a shop which he would have called a
draper's, but which was there designated as dealing in dry goods, he
was amazed to see the name "Danby and Strong" in big letters at the
bottom of a huge pile of small cardboard boxes that filled the whole
window. At first the name merely struck him as familiar, and he came
near asking himself "Where have I seen that before?" It was some
moments before he realised that the Strong stood for the man gazing
stupidly in at the plate-glass window. Then he noticed that the boxes
were all guaranteed to contain the famous Piccadilly collar. He read in
a dazed manner a large printed bill which stood beside the pile of
boxes. These collars it seemed, were warranted to be the genuine Danby
and Strong collar, and the public was warned against imitations. They
were asserted to be London made and linen faced, and the gratifying
information was added that once a person wore the D. and S. collar he
never afterwards relapsed into wearing any inferior brand. The price of
each box was fifteen cents, or two boxes for a quarter. Strong found
himself making a mental calculation which resulted in turning this
notation into English money.

As he stood there a new interest began to fill his mind. Was the firm
being carried on under the old name by some one else, or did this lot
of collars represent part of the old stock? He had had no news from
home since he left, and the bitter thought occurred to him that perhaps
Danby had got somebody with capital to aid him in resuscitating the
business. He resolved to go inside and get some information.

"You seem to have a very large stock of those collars on hand," he said
to the man who was evidently the proprietor.

"Yes," was the answer. "You see, we are the State agents for this make.
We supply the country dealers."

"Oh, do you? Is the firm of Danby and Strong still in existence? I
understood it had suspended."

"I guess not," said the man. "They supply us all right enough. Still, I
really know nothing about the firm, except that they turn out a first-
class article. We're not in any way responsible for Danby and Strong;
we're merely agents for the State of Texas, you know," the man added,
with sudden caution.

"I have nothing against the firm," said Strong. "I asked because I once
knew some members of it, and was wondering how it was getting along."

"Well, in that case you ought to see the American representative. He
was here this week ... that's why we make such a display in the window,
it always pleases the agent ... he's now working up the State and will
be back in Galveston before the month is out."

"What's his name? Do you remember?"

"Danby. George Danby, I think. Here's his card. No, John Danby is the
name. I thought it was George. Most Englishmen are George, you know."

Strong looked at the card, but the lettering seemed to waver before his
eyes. He made out, however, that Mr. John Danby had an address in New
York, and that he was the American representative of the firm of Danby
and Strong, London. Strong placed the card on the counter before him.

"I used to know Mr. Danby, and I would like to meet him. Where do you
think I could find him?"

"Well, as I said before, you could see him right here in Galveston if
you wait a month, but if you are in a hurry you might catch him at
Broncho Junction on Thursday night."

"He is travelling by rail then?"

"No, he is not. He went by rail as far as Felixopolis. There he takes a
horse, and goes across the prairies to Broncho Junction; a three days'
journey. I told him he wouldn't do much business on that route, but he
said he was going partly for his health, and partly to see the country.
He expected to reach Broncho Thursday night." The dry goods merchant
laughed as one who suddenly remembers a pleasant circumstance. "You're
an Englishman, I take it."

Strong nodded.

"Well, I must say you folks have queer notions about this country.
Danby, who was going for a three days' journey across the plains,
bought himself two Colts revolvers, and a knife half as long as my arm.
Now I've travelled all over this State, and never carried a gun, but I
couldn't get Danby to believe his route was as safe as a church. Of
course, now and then in Texas a cowboy shoots off his gun, but it's
more often his mouth, and I don't believe there's more killing done in
Texas than in any other bit of land the same size. But you can't get an
Englishman to believe that. You folks are an awful law-abiding crowd.
For my part I would sooner stand my chance with a revolver than a
lawsuit any day." Then the good-natured Texan told the story of the
pistol in Texas; of the general lack of demand for it, but the great
necessity of having it handy when it was called for.

A man with murder in his heart should not hold a conversation like
this, but William Strong was too full of one idea to think of prudence.
Such a talk sets the hounds of justice on the right trail, with
unpleasant results for the criminal.

On Thursday morning Strong set out on horse-back from Broncho Junction
with his face towards Felixopolis. By noon he said to himself he ought
to meet his former partner with nothing but the horizon around them.
Besides the revolvers in his belt, Strong had a Winchester rifle in
front of him. He did not know but he might have to shoot at long range,
and it was always well to prepare for eventualities. Twelve o'clock
came, but he met no one, and there was nothing in sight around the
empty circle of the horizon. It was nearly two before he saw a moving
dot ahead of him. Danby was evidently unused to riding and had come
leisurely. Some time before they met, Strong recognised his former
partner and he got his rifle ready.

"Throw up your hands!" he shouted, bringing his rifle butt to his
shoulder.

Danby instantly raised his hands above his head. "I have no money on
me," he cried, evidently not recognising his opponent. "You may search
me if you like."

"Get down off your horse; don't lower your hands, or I fire."

Danby got down, as well as he could, with his hands above his head.
Strong had thrown his right leg over to the left side of the horse,
and, as his enemy got down, he also slid to the ground, keeping Danby
covered with the rifle.

"I assure you I have only a few dollars with me, which you are quite
welcome to," said Danby.

Strong did not answer. Seeing that the firing was to be at short range,
he took a six-shooter from his belt, and, cocking it, covered his man,
throwing the rifle on the grass. He walked up to his enemy, placed the
muzzle of the revolver against his rapidly beating heart, and leisurely
disarmed him, throwing Danby's weapons on the ground out of reach. Then
he stood back a few paces and looked at the trembling man. His face
seemed to have already taken on the hue of death and his lips were
bloodless.

"I see you recognise me at last, Mr. Danby. This is an unexpected
meeting, is it not? You realise, I hope, that there are here no judges,
juries, nor lawyers, no _mandamuses_ and no appeals. Nothing but a
writ of ejectment from the barrel of a pistol and no legal way of
staying the proceedings. In other words, no cursed quibbles and no
damned law."

Danby, after several times moistening his pallid lips, found his voice.

"Do you mean to give me a chance, or are you going to murder me?"

"I am going to murder you."

Danby closed his eyes, let his hands drop to his sides, and swayed
gently from side to side as a man does on the scaffold just before the
bolt is drawn. Strong lowered his revolver and fired, shattering one
knee of the doomed man. Danby dropped with a cry that was drowned by
the second report. The second bullet put out his left eye, and the
murdered man lay with his mutilated face turned up to the blue sky.

A revolver report on the prairies is short, sharp, and echoless. The
silence that followed seemed intense and boundless, as if nowhere on
earth there was such a thing as sound. The man on his back gave an
awesome touch of the eternal to the stillness.

Strong, now that it was all over, began to realise his position. Texas,
perhaps, paid too little heed to life lost in fair fight, but she had
an uncomfortable habit of putting a rope round the neck of a cowardly
murderer. Strong was an inventor by nature. He proceeded to invent his
justification. He took one of Danby's revolvers and fired two shots out
of it into the empty air. This would show that the dead man had
defended himself at least, and it would be difficult to prove that he
had not been the first to fire. He placed the other pistol and the
knife in their places in Danby's belt. He took Danby's right hand while
it was still warm and closed the fingers around the butt of the
revolver from which he had fired, placing the forefinger on the trigger
of the cocked six-shooter. To give effect and naturalness to the
tableau he was arranging for the benefit of the next traveller by that
trail, he drew up the right knee and put revolver and closed hand on it
as if Danby had been killed while just about to fire his third shot.

Strong, with the pride of a true artist in his work, stepped back a
pace or two for the purpose of seeing the effect of his work as a
whole. As Danby fell, the back of his head had struck a lump of soil or
a tuft of grass which threw the chin forward on the breast. As Strong
looked at his victim his heart jumped, and a sort of hypnotic fear took
possession of him and paralysed action at its source. Danby was not yet
dead. His right eye was open, and it glared at Strong with a malice and
hatred that mesmerised the murderer and held him there, although he
felt rather than knew he was covered by the cocked revolver he had
placed in what he thought was a dead hand. Danby's lips moved but no
sound came from them. Strong could not take his fascinated gaze from
the open eye. He knew he was a dead man if Danby had strength to crook
his finger, yet he could not take the leap that would bring him out of
range. The fifth pistol-shot rang out and Strong pitched forward on his
face.

The firm of Danby and Strong was dissolved.



A MODERN SAMSON.

A little more and Jean Rasteaux would have been a giant. Brittany men
are small as a rule, but Jean was an exception. He was a powerful young
fellow who, up to the time he was compelled to enter the army, had
spent his life in dragging heavy nets over the sides of a boat. He knew
the Brittany coast, rugged and indented as it is, as well as he knew
the road from the little café on the square to the dwelling of his
father on the hillside overlooking the sea. Never before had he been
out of sound of the waves. He was a man who, like Hervé Riel, might
have saved the fleet, but France, with the usual good sense of
officialism, sent this man of the coast into the mountains, and Jean
Rasteaux became a soldier in the Alpine Corps. If he stood on the
highest mountain peak, Jean might look over illimitable wastes of snow,
but he could catch neither sound nor sight of the sea.

Men who mix with mountains become as rough and rugged as the rocks, and
the Alpine Corps was a wild body, harsh and brutal. Punishment in the
ranks was swift and terrible, for the corps was situated far from any
of the civilising things of modern life, and deeds were done which the
world knew not of; deeds which would not have been approved if reported
at headquarters.

The regiment of which Jean became a unit was stationed in a high valley
that had but one outlet, a wild pass down which a mountain river roared
and foamed and tossed. The narrow path by the side of this stream was
the only way out of or into the valley, for all around, the little
plateau was walled in by immense peaks of everlasting snow, dazzling in
the sunlight, and luminous even in the still, dark nights. From the
peaks to the south, Italy might have been seen, but no man had ever
dared to climb any of them. The angry little river was fed from a
glacier whose blue breast lay sparkling in the sunshine to the south,
and the stream circumnavigated the enclosed plateau, as if trying to
find an outlet for its tossing waters.

Jean was terribly lonely in these dreary and unaccustomed solitudes.
The white mountains awed him, and the mad roar of the river seemed but
poor compensation for the dignified measured thunder of the waves on
the broad sands of the Brittany coast.

But Jean was a good-natured giant, and he strove to do whatever was
required of him. He was not quick at repartee, and the men mocked his
Breton dialect. He became the butt for all their small and often mean
jokes, and from the first he was very miserable, for, added to his
yearning for the sea, whose steady roar he heard in his dreams at
night, he felt the utter lack of all human sympathy.

At first he endeavoured, by unfailing good nature and prompt obedience,
to win the regard of his fellows, and he became in a measure the slave
of the regiment; but the more he tried to please the more his burden
increased, and the greater were the insults he was compelled to bear
from both officers and men. It was so easy to bully this giant, whom
they nicknamed Samson, that even the smallest men in the regiment felt
at liberty to swear at him or cuff him if necessary.

But at last Samson's good nature seemed to be wearing out. His stock
was becoming exhausted, and his comrades forgot that the Bretons for
hundreds of years have been successful fighters, and that the blood of
contention flows in their veins.

Although the Alpine Corps, as a general thing, contain the largest and
strongest men in the French Army, yet the average French soldier may be
termed undersized when compared with the military of either England or
Germany. There were several physically small men in the regiment, and
one of these, like a diminutive gnat, was Samson's worst persecutor. As
there was no other man in the regiment whom the gnat could bully,
Samson received more than even he could be expected to bear. One day
the gnat ordered Samson to bring him a pail of water from the stream,
and the big man unhesitatingly obeyed. He spilled some of it coming up
the bank, and when he delivered it to the little man, the latter abused
him for not bringing the pail full, and as several of the larger
soldiers, who had all in their turn made Samson miserable, were
standing about, the little man picked up the pail of water and dashed
it into Samson's face. It was such a good opportunity for showing off
before the big men, who removed their pipes from their mouths and
laughed loudly as Samson with his knuckles tried to take the water out
of his eyes. Then Samson did an astonishing thing.

"You miserable, little insignificant rat," he cried. "I could crush
you, but you are not worth it. But to show you that I am not afraid of
any of you, there, and there!"

As he said these two words with emphasis, he struck out from the
shoulder, not at the little man, but at the two biggest men in the
regiment, and felled them like logs to the ground.

A cry of rage went up from their comrades, but bullies are cowards at
heart, and while Samson glared around at them, no one made a move.

The matter was reported to the officer, and Samson was placed under
arrest. When the inquiry was held the officer expressed his
astonishment at the fact that Samson hit two men who had nothing to do
with the insult he had received, while the real culprit had been
allowed to go unpunished.

"They deserved it," said Samson, sullenly, "for what they had done
before. I could not strike the little man. I should have killed him."

"Silence!" cried the officer. "You must not answer me like that."

"I shall answer you as I like," said Samson, doggedly.

The officer sprang to his feet, with a lithe rattan cane in his hand,
and struck the insubordinate soldier twice across the face, each time
raising an angry red mark.

Before the guards had time to interfere, Samson sprang upon the
officer, lifted him like a child above his head, and dashed him with a
sickening crash to the ground, where he lay motionless.

A cry of horror went up from every one present.

"I have had enough," cried Samson, turning to go, but he was met by a
bristling hedge of steel. He was like a rat in a trap. He stood
defiantly there, a man maddened by oppression, and glared around
helplessly.

Whatever might have been his punishment for striking his comrades,
there was no doubt now about his fate. The guard-house was a rude hut
of logs situated on the banks of the roaring stream. Into this room
Samson was flung, bound hand and foot, to await the court-martial next
day. The shattered officer, whose sword had broken in pieces under him,
slowly revived and was carried to his quarters. A sentry marched up and
down all night before the guard-house.

In the morning, when Samson was sent for, the guard-house was found to
be empty. The huge Breton had broken his bonds as did Samson of old. He
had pushed out a log of wood from the wall, and had squeezed himself
through to the bank of the stream. There all trace of him was lost. If
he had fallen in, then of course he had sentenced and executed himself,
but in the mud near the water were great footprints which no boot but
that of Samson could have made; so if he were in the stream it must
have been because he threw himself there. The trend of the footprints,
however, indicated that he had climbed on the rocks, and there, of
course, it was impossible to trace him. The sentries who guarded the
pass maintained that no one had gone through during the night, but to
make sure several men were sent down the path to overtake the runaway.
Even if he reached a town or a village far below, so huge a man could
not escape notice. The searchers were instructed to telegraph his
description and his crime as soon as they reached a telegraph wire. It
was impossible to hide in the valley, and a rapid search speedily
convinced the officers that the delinquent was not there.

As the sun rose higher and higher, until it began to shine even on the
northward-facing snow fields, a sharp-eyed private reported that he saw
a black speck moving high up on the great white slope south of the
valley. The officer called for a field-glass, and placing it to his
eyes, examined the snow carefully.

"Call out a detachment," he said, "that is Samson on the mountain."

There was a great stir in the camp when the truth became known.
Emissaries were sent after the searchers down the pass, calling them to
return.

"He thinks to get to Italy," said the officer. "I did not imagine the
fool knew so much of geography. We have him now secure enough."

The officer who had been flung over Samson's head was now able to
hobble about, and he was exceedingly bitter. Shading his eyes and
gazing at the snow, he said--

"A good marksman ought to be able to bring him down."

"There is no need of that," replied his superior. "He cannot escape. We
have nothing to do but to wait for him. He will have to come down."

All of which was perfectly true.

A detachment crossed the stream and stacked its arms at the foot of the
mountain which Samson was trying to climb. There was a small level
place a few yards wide between the bottom of the hill and the bank of
the raging stream. On this bit of level ground the soldiers lay in the
sun and smoked, while the officers stood in a group and watched the
climbing man going steadily upward.

For a short distance up from the plateau there was stunted grass and
moss, with dark points of rock protruding from the scant soil. Above
that again was a breadth of dirty snow which, now that the sun was
strong, sent little trickling streams down to the river. From there to
the long ridge of the mountain extended upwards the vast smooth slope
of virgin snow, pure and white, sparkling in the strong sunlight as if
it had been sprinkled with diamond dust. A black speck against this
tremendous field of white, the giant struggled on, and they could see
by the glass that he sunk to the knee in the softening snow.

"Now," said the officer, "he is beginning to understand his situation."

Through the glass they saw Samson pause. From below it seemed as if the
snow were as smooth as a sloping roof, but even to the naked eye a
shadow crossed it near the top. That shadow was a tremendous ridge of
overhanging snow more than a hundred feet deep; and Samson now paused
as he realised that it was insurmountable. He looked down and
undoubtedly saw a part of the regiment waiting for him below. He turned
and plodded slowly under the overhanging ridge until he came to the
precipice at his left. It was a thousand feet sheer down. He retraced
his steps and walked to the similar precipice at the right. Then he
came again to the middle of the great T which his footmarks had made on
that virgin slope. He sat down in the snow.

No one will ever know what a moment of despair the Breton must have
passed through when he realised the hopelessness of his toil.

The officer who was gazing through the glass at him dropped his hand to
his side and laughed.

"The nature of the situation," he said, "has at last dawned upon him.
It took a long time to get an appreciation of it through his thick
Breton skull."

"Let me have the glass a moment," said another. "He has made up his
mind about something."

The officer did not realise the full significance of what he saw
through the glass. In spite of their conceit, their skulls were thicker
than that of the persecuted Breton fisherman.

Samson for a moment turned his face to the north and raised his face
towards heaven. Whether it was an appeal to the saints he believed in,
or an invocation to the distant ocean he was never more to look upon,
who can tell?

After a moment's pause he flung himself headlong down the slope towards
the section of the regiment which lounged on the bank of the river.
Over and over he rolled, and then in place of the black figure there
came downwards a white ball, gathering bulk at every bound.

It was several seconds before the significance of what they were gazing
at burst upon officers and men. It came upon them simultaneously, and
with it a wild panic of fear. In the still air a low sullen roar arose.

"An avalanche! An avalanche!!" they cried.

The men and officers were hemmed in by the boiling torrent. Some of
them plunged in to get to the other side, but the moment the water laid
hold of them their heels were whirled into the air, and they
disappeared helplessly down the rapids.

Samson was hours going up the mountain, but only seconds coming down.
Like an overwhelming wave came the white crest of the avalanche,
sweeping officers and men into and over the stream and far across the
plateau.

There was one mingled shriek which made itself heard through the sullen
roar of the snow, then all was silence. The hemmed-in waters rose high
and soon forced its way through the white barrier.

When the remainder of the regiment dug out from the débris the bodies
of their comrades they found a fixed look of the wildest terror on
every face except one. Samson himself, without an unbroken bone in his
body, slept as calmly as if he rested under the blue waters on the
coast of Brittany.



A DEAL ON 'CHANGE


It was in the days when drawing-rooms were dark, and filled with bric-
a-brac. The darkness enabled the half-blinded visitor, coming in out of
the bright light, to knock over gracefully a $200 vase that had come
from Japan to meet disaster in New York.

In a corner of the room was seated, in a deep and luxurious armchair, a
most beautiful woman. She was the wife of the son of the richest man in
America; she was young; her husband was devotedly fond of her; she was
mistress of a palace; anything that money could buy was hers did she
but express the wish; but she was weeping softly, and had just made up
her mind that she was the most miserable creature in all the land.

If a stranger had entered the room he would first have been impressed
by the fact that he was looking at the prettiest woman he had ever
seen; then he would have been haunted by the idea that he had met her
somewhere before. If he were a man moving in artistic circles he might
perhaps remember that he had seen her face looking down at him from
various canvases in picture exhibitions, and unless he were a stranger
to the gossip of the country he could hardly help recollecting the
dreadful fuss the papers made, as if it were any business of theirs,
when young Ed. Druce married the artists' model, celebrated for her
loveliness.

Every one has read the story of that marriage; goodness knows, the
papers made the most of it, as is their custom. Young Ed., who knew
much more of the world than did his father, expected stern opposition,
and, knowing the unlimited power unlimited wealth gave to the old man,
he did not risk an interview with his parent, but eloped with the girl.
The first inkling old man Druce had of the affair was from a vivid
sensational account of the runaway in an evening paper. He was pictured
in the paper as an implacable father who was at that moment searching
for the elopers with a shot gun. Old Druce had been too often the
central figure of a journalistic sensation to mind what the sheet said.
He promptly telegraphed all over the country, and, getting into
communication with his son, asked him (electrically) as a favour to
bring his young wife home, and not make a fool of himself. So the
errant pair, much relieved, came back to New York.

Old Druce was a taciturn man, even with his only son. He wondered at
first that the boy should have so misjudged him as to suppose he would
raise objections, no matter whom the lad wished to marry. He was
bewildered rather than enlightened when Ed. told him he feared
opposition because the girl was poor. What difference on earth did
_that_ make? Had he not money enough for all of them? If not, was
there any trouble in adding to their store? Were there not railroads to
be wrecked; stockholders to be fleeced; Wall Street lambs to be shorn?
Surely a man married to please himself and not to make money. Ed.
assured the old man that cases had been known where a suspicion of
mercenary motives had hovered round a matrimonial alliance, but Druce
expressed the utmost contempt for such a state of things.

At first Ella had been rather afraid of her silent father-in-law, whose
very name made hundreds tremble and thousands curse, but she soon
discovered that the old man actually stood in awe of her, and that his
apparent brusqueness was the mere awkwardness he felt when in her
presence. He was anxious to please her, and worried himself wondering
whether there was anything she wanted.

One day he fumblingly dropped a cheque for a million dollars in her
lap, and, with some nervous confusion, asked her to run out, like a
good girl, and buy herself something; if that wasn't enough, she was to
call on him for more. The girl sprang from her chair and threw her arms
around his neck, much to the old man's embarrassment, who was not
accustomed to such a situation. She kissed him in spite of himself,
allowing the cheque to flutter to the floor, the most valuable bit of
paper floating around loose in America that day.

When he reached his office he surprised his son. He shook his fist in
the young fellow's face, and said sternly--

"If you ever say a cross word to that little girl, I'll do what I've
never done yet--I'll thrash you!"

The young man laughed.

"All right, father. I'll deserve a thrashing in that case."

The old man became almost genial whenever he thought of his pretty
daughter-in-law. "My little girl," he always called her. At first, Wall
Street men said old Druce was getting into his dotage, but when a nip
came in the market and they found that, as usual, the old man was on
the right side of the fence, they were compelled reluctantly to admit,
with emptier pockets, that the dotage had not yet interfered with the
financial corner of old Druce's mind.

As young Mrs. Druce sat disconsolately in her drawing-room, the
curtains parted gently, and her father-in-law entered stealthily, as if
he were a thief, which indeed he was, and the very greatest of them.
Druce had small, shifty piercing eyes that peered out from under his
grey bushy eyebrows like two steel sparks. He never seemed to be
looking directly at any one, and his eyes somehow gave you the idea
that they were trying to glance back over his shoulder, as if he feared
pursuit. Some said that old Druce was in constant terror of
assassination, while others held that he knew the devil was on his
track and would ultimately nab him.

"I pity the devil when that day comes," young Sneed said once when some
one had made the usual remark about Druce. This echoed the general
feeling prevalent in Wall Street regarding the encounter that was
admitted by all to be inevitable.

The old man stopped in the middle of the room when he noticed that his
daughter-in-law was crying.

"Dear, dear!" he said; "what is the matter? Has Edward been saying
anything cross to you?"

"No, papa," answered the girl. "Nobody could be kinder to me than Ed.
is. There is nothing really the matter." Then, to put the truth of her
statement beyond all question, she began to cry afresh.

The old man sat down beside her, taking one hand in his own. "Money?"
he asked in an eager whisper that seemed to say he saw a solution of
the difficulty if it were financial.

"Oh dear no. I have all the money, and more, that anyone can wish."

The old man's countenance fell. If money would not remedy the state of
things, then he was out of his depth.

"Won't you tell me the trouble? Perhaps I can suggest----"

"It's nothing you can help in, papa. It is nothing much, any way. The
Misses Sneed won't call on me, that's all."

The old man knit his brows and thoughtfully scratched his chin.

"Won't call?" he echoed helplessly.

"No. They think I'm not good enough to associate with them, I suppose."

The bushy eyebrows came down until they almost obscured the eyes, and a
dangerous light seemed to scintillate out from under them.

"You must be mistaken. Good gracious, I am worth ten times what old
Sneed is. Not good enough? Why, my name on a cheque is----"

"It isn't a question of cheques, papa," wailed the girl; "it's a
question of society. I was a painter's model before I married Ed., and,
no matter how rich I am, society won't have anything to do with me."

The old man absent-mindedly rubbed his chin, which was a habit he had
when perplexed. He was face to face with a problem entirely outside his
province. Suddenly a happy thought struck him.

"Those Sneed women!" he said in tones of great contempt, "what do
_they_ amount to, anyhow? They're nothing but sour old maids. They
never were half so pretty as you. Why should you care whether they
called on you or not."

"They represent society. If they came, others would."

"But society can't have anything against you. Nobody has ever said a
word against your character, model or no model."

The girl shook her head hopelessly.

"Character does not count in society."

In this statement she was of course absurdly wrong, but she felt bitter
at all the world. Those who know society are well aware that character
counts for everything within its sacred precincts. So the unjust remark
should not be set down to the discredit of an inexperienced girl.

"I'll tell you what I'll do," cried the old man, brightening up. "I'll
speak to Gen. Sneed to-morrow. I'll arrange the whole business in five
minutes."

"Do you think that would do any good?" asked young Mrs. Druce,
dubiously.

"Good? You bet it'll do good! It will settle the whole thing. I've
helped Sneed out of a pinch before now, and he'll fix up a little
matter like that for me in no time. I'll just have a quiet talk with
the General to-morrow, and you'll see the Sneed carriage at the door
next day at the very latest." He patted her smooth white hand
affectionately. "So don't you trouble, little girl, about trifles; and
whenever you want help, you just tell the old man. He knows a thing or
two yet, whether it is on Wall Street or Fifth Avenue."

Sneed was known in New York as the General, probably because he had
absolutely no military experience whatever. Next to Druce he had the
most power in the financial world of America, but there was a great
distance between the first and the second. If it came to a deal in
which the General and all the world stood against Druce, the average
Wall Street man would have bet on Druce against the whole combination.
Besides this, the General had the reputation of being a "square" man,
and that naturally told against him, for every one knew that Druce was
utterly unscrupulous. But if Druce and Sneed were known to be together
in a deal, then the financial world of New York ran for shelter.
Therefore when New York saw old Druce come in with the stealthy tread
of a two-legged leopard and glance furtively around the great room,
singling out Sneed with an almost imperceptible side nod, retiring with
him into a remote corner where more ruin had been concocted than on any
other spot on earth, and talking there eagerly with him, a hush fell on
the vast assemblage of men, and for the moment the financial heart of
the nation ceased to beat. When they saw Sneed take out his note-book,
nodding assent to whatever proposition Druce was making, a cold shiver
ran up the financial backbone of New York; the shiver communicated
itself to the electric nerve-web of the world, and storm signals began
to fly in the monetary centres of London, Paris, Berlin, and Vienna.

Uncertainty paralysed the markets of the earth because two old gamblers
were holding a whispered conversation with a multitude of men watching
them out of the corners of their eyes.

"I'd give half a million to know what those two old fiends are
concocting," said John P. Buller, the great wheat operator; and he
meant it; which goes to show that a man does not really know what he
wants, and would be very dissatisfied if he got it.

"Look here, General," said Druce, "I want you to do me a favour."

"All right," replied the General. "I'm with you."

"It's about my little girl," continued Druce, rubbing his chin, not
knowing just how to explain matters in the cold financial atmosphere of
the place in which they found themselves.

"Oh! About Ed.'s wife," said Sneed, looking puzzled.

"Yes. She's fretting her heart out because your two girls won't call
upon her. I found her crying about it yesterday afternoon."

"Won't call?" cried the General, a bewildered look coming over his
face. "_Haven't_ they called yet? You see, I don't bother much about that
sort of thing."

"Neither do I. No, they haven't called. I don't suppose they mean
anything by it, but my little girl thinks they do, so I said I would
speak to you about it."

"Well, I'm glad you did. I'll see to that the moment I get home. What
time shall I tell them to call?" The innocent old man, little
comprehending what he was promising, pulled out his note-book and
pencil, looking inquiringly at Druce.

"Oh, I don't know. Any time that is convenient for them. I suppose
women know all about that. My little girl is at home most all
afternoon, I guess."

The two men cordially shook hands, and the market instantly collapsed.

It took three days for the financial situation to recover its tone.
Druce had not been visible, and that was all the more ominous. The
older operators did not relax their caution, because the blow had not
yet fallen. They shook their heads, and said the cyclone would be all
the worse when it came.

Old Druce came among them the third day, and there was a set look about
his lips which students of his countenance did not like. The situation
was complicated by the evident fact that the General was trying to
avoid him. At last, however, this was no longer possible, the two men
met, and after a word or two they walked up and down together. Druce
appeared to be saying little, and the firm set of his lips did not
relax, while the General talked rapidly and was seemingly making some
appeal that was not responded to. Stocks instantly went up a few
points.

"You see, Druce, it's like this," the General was saying, "the women
have their world, and we have ours. They are, in a measure----"

"Are they going to call?" asked Druce curtly.

"Just let me finish what I was about to say. Women have their rules of
conduct, and we have----"

"Are they going to call?" repeated Druce, in the same hard tone of
voice.

The General removed his hat and drew his handkerchief across his brow
and over the bald spot on his head. He wished himself in any place but
where he was, inwardly cursing woman-kind and all their silly doings.
Bracing up after removing the moisture from his forehead, he took on an
expostulatory tone.

"See here, Druce, hang it all, don't shove a man into a corner. Suppose
I asked you to go to Mrs. Ed. and tell her not to fret about trifles,
do you suppose she wouldn't, just because you wanted her not to? Come
now!"

Druce's silence encouraged the General to take it for assent.

"Very well, then. You're a bigger man than I am, and if you could do
nothing with one young woman anxious to please you, what do you expect
me to do with two old maids as set in their ways as the Palisades. It's
all dumb nonsense, anyhow."

Druce remained silent. After an irksome pause the hapless General
floundered on--

"As I said at first, women have their world, and we have ours. Now,
Druce, you're a man of solid common sense. What would you think if Mrs.
Ed. were to come here and insist on your buying Wabash stock when you
wanted to load up with Lake Shore? Look how absurd that would be. Very
well, then; we have no more right to interfere with the women than they
have to interfere with us."

"If my little girl wanted the whole Wabash System I'd buy it for her
to-morrow," said Druce, with rising anger.

"Lord! what a slump that would make in the market!" cried the General,
his feeling of discomfort being momentarily overcome by the
magnificence of Druce's suggestion. "However, all this doesn't need to
make any difference in our friendship. If I can be of any assistance
financially I shall only be too----"

"Oh, I need your financial assistance!" sneered Druce. He took his
defeat badly. However, in a minute or two, he pulled himself together
and seemed to shake off his trouble.

"What nonsense I am talking," he said when he had obtained control of
himself. "We all need assistance now and then, and none of us know when
we may need it badly. In fact, there is a little deal I intended to
speak to you about to-day, but this confounded business drove it out of
my mind. How much Gilt Edged security have you in your safe?"

"About three millions' worth," replied the General, brightening up, now
that they were off the thin ice.

"That will be enough for me if we can make a dicker. Suppose we adjourn
to your office. This is too public a place for a talk."

They went out together.

"So there is no ill-feeling?" said the General, as Druce arose to go
with the securities in his handbag.

"No. But we'll stick strictly to business after this, and leave social
questions alone. By the way, to show that there is no ill-feeling, will
you come with me for a blow on the sea? Suppose we say Friday. I have
just telegraphed for my yacht, and she will leave Newport to-night.
I'll have some good champagne on board."

"I thought sailors imagined Friday was an unlucky day!"

"My sailors don't. Will eight o'clock be too early for you? Twenty-
third Street wharf."

The General hesitated. Druce was wonderfully friendly all of a sudden,
and he knew enough of him to be just a trifle suspicious. But when he
recollected that Druce himself was going, he said, "Where could a
telegram reach us, if it were necessary to telegraph? The market is a
trifle shaky, and I don't like being out of town all day."

"The fact that we are both on the yacht will steady the market. But we
can drop in at Long Branch and receive despatches if you think it
necessary."

"All right," said the General, much relieved. "I'll meet you at Twenty-
third Street at eight o'clock Friday morning, then."

Druce's yacht, the _Seahound_, was a magnificent steamer, almost
as large as an Atlantic liner. It was currently believed in New York
that Druce kept her for the sole purpose of being able to escape in
her, should an exasperated country ever rise in its might and demand
his blood. It was rumoured that the _Seahound_ was ballasted with
bars of solid gold and provisioned for a two years' cruise. Mr. Buller,
however, claimed that the tendency of nature was to revert to original
conditions, and that some fine morning Druce would hoist the black
flag, sail away, and become a _real_ pirate.

The great speculator, in a very nautical suit, was waiting for the
General when he drove up, and, the moment he came aboard, lines were
cast off and the Seahound steamed slowly down the bay. The morning was
rather thick, so they were obliged to move cautiously, and before they
reached the bar the fog came down so densely that they had to stop,
while bell rang and whistle blew. They were held there until it was
nearly eleven o'clock, but time passed quickly, for there were all the
morning papers to read, neither of the men having had an opportunity to
look at them before leaving the city.

As the fog cleared away and the engines began to move, the captain sent
down and asked Mr. Druce if he would come on deck for a moment. The
captain was a shrewd man, and understood his employer.

"There's a tug making for us, sir, signalling us to stop. Shall we
stop?"

Old Druce rubbed his chin thoughtfully, and looked over the stern of
the yacht. He saw a tug, with a banner of black smoke, tearing after
them, heaping up a ridge of white foam ahead of her. Some flags
fluttered from the single mast in front, and she shattered the air with
short hoarse shrieks of the whistle.

"Can she overtake us?"

The captain smiled. "Nothing in the harbour can overtake us, sir."

"Very well. Full steam ahead. Don't answer the signals. You did not
happen to see them, you know!"

"Quite so, sir," replied the captain, going forward.

Although the motion of the _Seahound's_ engines could hardly be
felt, the tug, in spite of all her efforts, did not seem to be gaining.
When the yacht put on her speed the little steamer gradually fell
farther and farther behind, and at last gave up the hopeless chase.
When well out at sea something went wrong with the engines, and there
was a second delay of some hours. A stop at Long Branch was therefore
out of the question.

"I told you Friday was an unlucky day," said the General.

It was eight o'clock that evening before the _Seahound_ stood off
from the Twenty-third Street wharf.

"I'll have to put you ashore in a small boat," said Druce: "you won't
mind that, I hope. The captain is so uncertain about the engines that
he doesn't want to go nearer land."

"Oh, I don't mind in the least. Good-night. I've had a lovely day."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. We will take another trip together some time,
when I hope so many things won't happen as happened to-day."

The General saw that his carriage was waiting for him, but the waning
light did not permit him to recognise his son until he was up on dry
land once more. The look on his son's face appalled the old man.

"My God! John, what has happened?"

[Illustration: "WHAT HAS HAPPENED?"]

"Everything's happened. Where are the securities that were in the
safe?"

"Oh, they're all right," said his father, a feeling of relief coming
over him. Then the thought flashed through his mind: How did John know
they were not in the safe? Sneed kept a tight rein on his affairs, and
no one but himself knew the combination that would open the safe.

"How did you know that the securities were not there?"

"Because I had the safe blown open at one o'clock to-day."

"Blown open! For Heaven's sake, why?"

"Step into the carriage, and I'll tell you on the way home. The bottom
dropped out of everything. All the Sneed stocks went down with a run.
We sent a tug after you, but that old devil had you tight. If I could
have got at the bonds, I think I could have stopped the run. The
situation might have been saved up to one o'clock, but after that, when
the Street saw we were doing nothing, all creation couldn't have
stopped it. Where are the bonds?"

"I sold them to Druce."

"What did you get? Cash?"

"I took his cheque on the Trust National Bank."

"Did you cash it? Did you cash it?" cried the young man. "And if you
did, where is the money?"

"Druce asked me as a favour not to present the cheque until to-morrow."

The young man made a gesture of despair.

"The Trust National went to smash to-day at two. We are paupers,
father; we haven't a cent left out of the wreck. That cheque business
is so evidently a fraud that--but what's the use of talking. Old Druce
has the money, and he can buy all the law he wants in New York. God!
I'd like to have a seven seconds' interview with him with a loaded
seven-shooter in my hand! We'd see how much the law would do for him
then."

General Sneed despondently shook his head.

"It's no use, John," he said. "We're in the same business ourselves,
only this time we got the hot end of the poker. But he played it low
down on me, pretending to be friendly and all that." The two men did
not speak again until the carriage drew up at the brown stone mansion,
which earlier in the day Sneed would have called his own. Sixteen
reporters were waiting for them, but the old man succeeded in escaping
to his room, leaving John to battle with the newspaper men.

Next morning the papers were full of the news of the panic. They said
that old Druce had gone in his yacht for a trip up the New England
coast. They deduced from this fact, that, after all, Druce might not
have had a hand in the disaster; everything was always blamed on Druce.
Still it was admitted that, whoever suffered, the Druce stocks were all
right. They were quite unanimously frank in saying that the Sneeds were
wiped out, whatever that might mean. The General had refused himself to
all the reporters, while young Sneed seemed to be able to do nothing
but swear.

Shortly before noon General Sneed, who had not left the house, received
a letter brought by a messenger.

He feverishly tore it open, for he recognised on the envelope the well-
known scrawl of the great speculator.

DEAR SNEED (it ran),

You will see by the papers that I am off on a cruise, but they
are as wrong as they usually are when they speak of me. I learn
there was a bit of a flutter in the market while we were away
yesterday, and I am glad to say that my brokers, who are sharp
men, did me a good turn or two. I often wonder why these flurries come,
but I suppose it is to let a man pick up some sound stocks at a
reasonable rate, if he has the money by him. Perhaps they are also sent
to teach humility to those who might else become purse-proud. We are
but finite creatures, Sneed, here to-day and gone to-morrow. How
foolish a thing is pride! And that reminds me that if your two
daughters should happen to think as I do on the uncertainty of riches,
I wish you would ask them to call. I have done up those securities in a
sealed package and given the parcel to my daughter-in-law. She has no
idea what the value of it is, but thinks it a little present from me to
your girls. If, then, they should happen to call, she will hand it to
them; if not, I shall use the contents to found a college for the
purpose of teaching manners to young women whose grandfather used to
feed pigs for a living, as indeed my own grandfather did. Should the
ladies happen to like each other, I think I can put you on to a deal
next week that will make up for Friday. I like you, Sneed, but you have
no head for business. Seek my advice oftener.

                                     Ever yours,
                                         DRUCE.

The Sneed girls called on Mrs. Edward Druce.



TRANSFORMATION.


If you grind castor sugar with an equal quantity of chlorate of potash,
the result is an innocent-looking white compound, sweet to the taste,
and sometimes beneficial in the case of a sore throat. But if you dip a
glass rod into a small quantity of sulphuric acid, and merely touch the
harmless-appearing mixture with the wet end of the rod, the dish which
contains it becomes instantly a roaring furnace of fire, vomiting forth
a fountain of burning balls, and filling the room with a dense, black,
suffocating cloud of smoke.

So strange a combination is that mystery which we term Human Nature,
that a touch of adverse circumstance may transform a quiet, peaceable,
law-abiding citizen into a malefactor whose heart is filled with a
desire for vengeance, stopping at nothing to accomplish it.

In a little narrow street off the broad Rue de Rennes, near the great
terminus of Mont-Parnasse, stood the clock-making shop of the brothers
Delore. The window was filled with cheap clocks, and depending from a
steel spring attached to the top of the door was a bell, which rang
when any one entered, for the brothers were working clockmakers,
continually busy in the room at the back of the shop, and trade in the
neighbourhood was not brisk enough to allow them to keep an assistant.
The brothers had worked amicably in this small room for twenty years,
and were reported by the denizens of that quarter of Paris to be
enormously rich. They were certainly contented enough, and had plenty
of money for their frugal wants, as well as for their occasional
exceedingly mild dissipations at the neighbouring café. They had always
a little money for the church, and a little money for charity, and no
one had ever heard either of them speak a harsh word to any living
soul, and least of all to each other. When the sensitively adjusted
bell at the door announced the arrival of a possible customer, Adolph
left his work and attended to the shop, while Alphonse continued his
task without interruption. The former was supposed to be the better
business man of the two, while the latter was admittedly the better
workman. They had a room over the shop, and a small kitchen over the
workroom at the back; but only one occupied the bedroom above, the
other sleeping in the shop, as it was supposed that the wares there
displayed must have formed an almost irresistible temptation to any
thief desirous of accumulating a quantity of time-pieces. The brothers
took week-about at guarding the treasures below, but in all the twenty
years no thief had yet disturbed their slumbers.

One evening, just as they were about to close the shop and adjourn
together to the café, the bell rang, and Adolph went forward to learn
what was wanted. He found waiting for him an unkempt individual of
appearance so disreputable, that he at once made up his mind that here
at last was the thief for whom they had waited so long in vain. The
man's wild, roving eye, that seemed to search out every corner and
cranny in the place and rest nowhere for longer than a second at a
time, added to Delore's suspicions. The unsavoury visitor was evidently
spying out the land, and Adolph felt certain he would do no business
with him at that particular hour, whatever might happen later.

The customer took from under his coat, after a furtive glance at the
door of the back room, a small paper-covered parcel, and, untying the
string somewhat hurriedly, displayed a crude piece of clockwork made of
brass. Handing it to Adolph, he said, "How much would it cost to make a
dozen like that?"

Adolph took the piece of machinery in his hand and examined it. It was
slightly concave in shape, and among the wheels was a strong spring.
Adolph wound up this spring, but so loosely was the machinery put
together that when he let go the key, the spring quickly uncoiled
itself with a whirring noise of the wheels.

"This is very bad workmanship," said Adolph.

"It is," replied the man, who, notwithstanding his poverty-stricken
appearance, spoke like a person of education. "That is why I come to
you for better workmanship."

"What is it used for?"

The man hesitated for a moment. "It is part of a clock," he said at
last.

"I don't understand it. I never saw a clock made like this."

"It is an alarm attachment," replied the visitor, with some impatience.
"It is not necessary that you should understand it. All I ask is, can
you duplicate it and at what price?"

"But why not make the alarm machinery part of the clock? It would be
much cheaper than to make this and then attach it to a clock."

The man made a gesture of annoyance.

"Will you answer my question?" he said gruffly.

"I don't believe you want this as part of a clock. In fact, I think I
can guess why you came in here," replied Adolph, as innocent as a child
of any correct suspicion of what the man was, thinking him merely a
thief, and hoping to frighten him by this hint of his own shrewdness.

His visitor looked loweringly at him, and then with a quick eye, seemed
to measure the distance from where he stood to the pavement, evidently
meditating flight.

"I will see what my brother says about this," said Adolph. But before
Adolph could call his brother, the man bolted and was gone in an
instant, leaving the mechanism in the hands of the bewildered
clockmaker.

Alphonse, when he heard the story of their belated customer, was even
more convinced than his brother of the danger of the situation. The man
was undoubtedly a thief, and the bit of clockwork merely an excuse for
getting inside the fortress. The brothers, with much perturbation,
locked up the establishment, and instead of going to their usual café,
they betook themselves as speedily as possible to the office of the
police, where they told their suspicions and gave a description of the
supposed culprit. The officer seemed much impressed by their story.

"Have you brought with you the machine he showed you?"

"No. It is at the shop," said Adolph. "It was merely an excuse to get
inside, I am sure of that, for no clockmaker ever made it."

"Perhaps," replied the officer. "Will you go and bring it? Say nothing
of this to any one you meet, but wrap the machine in paper and bring it
as quickly and as quietly as you can. I would send a man with you, only
I do not wish to attract attention."

Before morning the man, who gave his name as Jacques Picard, was
arrested, but the authorities made little by their zeal. Adolph Delore
swore positively that Picard and his visitor were the same person, but
the prisoner had no difficulty in proving that he was in a café two
miles away at the time the visitor was in Delore's shop, while Adolph
had to admit that the shop was rather dark when the conversation about
the clockwork took place. Picard was ably defended, and his advocate
submitted that, even if he had been in the shop as stated by Delore,
and had bargained as alleged for the mechanism, there was nothing
criminal in that, unless the prosecution could show that he intended to
put what he bought to improper uses. As well arrest a man who entered
to buy a key for his watch. So Picard was released, although the
police, certain he was one of the men they wanted, resolved to keep a
close watch on his future movements. But the suspected man, as if to
save them unnecessary trouble, left two days later for London, and
there remained.

For a week Adolph slept badly in the shop, for although he hoped the
thief had been frightened away by the proceedings taken against him,
still, whenever he fell asleep, he dreamt of burglars, and so awoke
himself many times during the long nights.

When it came the turn of Alphonse to sleep in the shop, Adolph hoped
for an undisturbed night's rest in the room above, but the Fates
were against him. Shortly after midnight he was flung from his bed
to the floor, and he felt the house rocking as if an earthquake had
passed under Paris. He got on his hands and knees in a dazed
condition, with a roar as of thunder in his ears, mingled with
the sharp crackle of breaking glass. He made his way to the
window, wondering whether he was asleep or awake, and found the
window shattered. The moonlight poured into the deserted street, and he
noticed a cloud of dust and smoke rising from the front of the shop. He
groped his way through the darkness towards the stairway and went down,
calling his brother's name; but the lower part of the stair had been
blown away, and he fell upon the débris below, lying there half-
stunned, enveloped in suffocating smoke.

When Adolph partially recovered consciousness, he became aware that two
men were helping him out over the ruins of the shattered shop. He was
still murmuring the name of his brother, and they were telling him, in
a reassuring tone, that everything was all right, although he vaguely
felt that what they said was not true. They had their arms linked in
his, and he stumbled helplessly among the wreckage, seeming to have
lost control over his limbs. He saw that the whole front of the shop
was gone, and noticed through the wide opening that a crowd stood in
the street, kept back by the police. He wondered why he had not seen
all these people when he looked out of the shattered window. When they
brought him to the ambulance, he resisted slightly, saying he wanted to
go to his brother's assistance, who was sleeping in the shop, but with
gentle force they placed him in the vehicle, and he was driven away to
the hospital.

For several days Adolph fancied that he was dreaming, that he would
soon awake and take up again the old pleasant, industrious life. It was
the nurse who told him he would never see his brother again, adding by
way of consolation that death had been painless and instant, that the
funeral had been one of the grandest that quarter of Paris had ever
seen, naming many high and important officials who had attended it.
Adolph turned his face to the wall and groaned. His frightful dream was
to last him his life.

When he trod the streets of Paris a week later, he was but the shadow
of his former portly self. He was gaunt and haggard, his clothes
hanging on him as if they had been made for some other man, a
fortnight's stubby beard on the face which had always heretofore been
smoothly shaven. He sat silently at the café, and few of his friends
recognised him at first. They heard he had received ample compensation
from the Government, and now would have money enough to suffice him all
his life, without the necessity of working for it, and they looked on
him as a fortunate man. But he sat there listlessly, receiving their
congratulations or condolences with equal apathy. Once he walked past
the shop. The front was boarded up, and glass had been put in the upper
windows.

He wandered aimlessly through the streets of Paris, some saying he was
insane, and that he was looking for his brother; others, that he was
searching for the murderer. One day he entered the police-office where
he had first made his unlucky complaint.

"Have you arrested him yet?" he asked of the officer in charge.

"Whom?" inquired the officer, not recognising his visitor.

"Picard. I am Adolph Delore."

"It was not Picard who committed the crime. He was in London at the
time, and is there still."

"Ah! He said he was in the north of Paris when he was with me in the
south. He is a liar. He blew up the shop."

"I quite believe he planned it, but the deed was done by another. It
was done by Lamoine, who left for Brussels next morning and went to
London by way of Antwerp. He is living with Picard in London at this
moment."

"If you know that, why has neither of them been taken?"

"To know is one thing; to be able to prove quite another. We cannot get
these rascals from England merely on suspicion, and they will take good
care not to set foot in France for some time to come."

"You are waiting for evidence, then?"

"We are waiting for evidence."

"How do you expect to get it?"

"We are having them watched. They are very quiet just now, but it won't
be for long. Picard is too restless. Then we may arrest some one soon
who will confess."

"Perhaps I could help. I am going to London. Will you give me Picard's
address?"

"Here is his address, but I think you had better leave the case alone.
You do not know the language, and you may merely arouse his suspicions
if you interfere. Still, if you learn anything, communicate with me."

The former frank, honest expression in Adolph's eyes had given place to
a look of cunning, that appealed to the instincts of a French police-
officer. He thought something might come of this, and his instincts did
not mislead him.

Delore with great craftiness watched the door of the house in London,
taking care that no one should suspect his purpose. He saw Picard come
out alone on several occasions, and once with another of his own
stripe, whom he took to be Lamoine.

One evening, when crossing Leicester Square, Picard was accosted by a
stranger in his own language. Looking round with a start, he saw at his
side a cringing tramp, worse than shabbily dressed.

"What did you say?" asked Picard, with a tremor in his voice.

"Could you assist a poor countryman?" whined Delore.

"I have no money."

"Perhaps you could help me to get work. I don't know the language, but
I am a good workman."

"How can I help you to work? I have no work myself."

"I would be willing to work for nothing, if I could get a place to
sleep in and something to eat."

"Why don't you steal? I would if I were hungry. What are you afraid of?
Prison? It is no worse than tramping the streets hungry; I know, for I
have tried both. What is your trade?"

"I am a watchmaker and a first-class workman, but I have pawned all my
tools. I have tramped from Lyons, but there is nothing doing in my
trade."

Picard looked at him suspiciously for a few moments.

"Why did you accost me?" he asked at last.

"I saw you were a fellow-countryman; Frenchmen have helped me from time
to time."

"Let us sit down on this bench. What is your name, and how long have
you been in England?"

"My name is Adolph Carrier, and I have been in London three months."

"So long as that? How have you lived all that time?"

"Very poorly, as you may see. I sometimes get scraps from the French
restaurants, and I sleep where I can."

"Well, I think I can do better than that for you. Come with me."

Picard took Delore to his house, letting himself in with a latchkey.
Nobody seemed to occupy the place but himself and Lamoine. He led the
way to the top story, and opened a door that communicated with a room
entirely bare of furniture. Leaving Adolph there, Picard went
downstairs again and came up shortly after with a lighted candle in his
hand, followed by Lamoine, who carried a mattress.

"This will do for you for tonight," said Picard, "and tomorrow we will
see if we can get you any work. Can you make clocks?"

"Oh yes, and good ones."

"Very well. Give me a list of the tools and materials you need and I
will get them for you."

Picard wrote in a note-book the items Adolph recited to him, Lamoine
watching their new employee closely, but saying nothing. Next day a
table and a chair were put into the room, and in the afternoon Picard
brought in the tools and some sheets of brass.

Picard and Lamoine were somewhat suspicious of their recruit at first,
but he went on industriously with his task, and made no attempt to
communicate with anybody. They soon saw that he was an expert workman,
and a quiet, innocent, half-daft, harmless creature, so he was given
other things to do, such as cleaning up their rooms and going errands
for beer and other necessities of life.

When Adolph finished his first machine, he took it down to them and
exhibited it with pardonable pride. There was a dial on it exactly like
a clock, although it had but one hand.

"Let us see it work," said Picard; "set it so that the bell will ring
in three minutes."

Adolph did as requested, and stood back when the machine began to work
with a scarcely audible tick-tick. Picard pulled out his watch,
and exactly at the third minute the hammer fell on the bell.
"That is very satisfactory," said Picard; "now, can you make the
next one slightly concave, so that a man may strap it under his coat
without attracting attention? Such a shape is useful when passing the
Customs."

"I can make it any shape you like, and thinner than this one if you
wish it."

"Very well. Go out and get us a quart of beer, and we will drink to
your success. Here is the money."

Adolph obeyed with his usual docility, staying out, however, somewhat
longer than usual. Picard, impatient at the delay, spoke roughly to him
when he returned, and ordered him to go upstairs to his work. Adolph
departed meekly, leaving them to their beer.

"See that you understand that machine, Lamoine," said Picard. "Set it
at half an hour."

Lamoine, turning the hand to the figure VI on the dial, set the works
in motion, and to the accompaniment of its quiet tick-tick they drank
their beer.

"He seems to understand his business," said Lamoine.

"Yes," answered Picard. "What heady stuff this English beer is. I wish
we had some good French bock; this makes me drowsy."

Lamoine did not answer; he was nodding in his chair. Picard threw
himself down on his mattress in one corner of the room; Lamoine, when
he slipped from his chair, muttered an oath, and lay where he fell.

Twenty minutes later the door stealthily opened, and Adolph's head
cautiously reconnoitred the situation, coming into the silent apartment
inch by inch, his crafty eyes rapidly searching the room and filling
with malicious glee when he saw that everything was as he had planned.
He entered quietly and closed the door softly behind him. He had a
great coil of thin strong cord in his hand. Approaching the sleeping
men on tiptoe, he looked down on them for a moment, wondering whether
the drug had done its work sufficiently well for him to proceed. The
question was settled for him with a suddenness that nearly unnerved
him. An appalling clang of the bell, a startling sound that seemed loud
enough to wake the dead, made him spring nearly to the ceiling. He
dropped his rope and clung to the door in a panic of dread, his
palpitating heart nearly suffocating him with its wild beating, staring
with affrighted eyes at the machine which had given such an unexpected
alarm. Slowly recovering command over himself, he turned his gaze on
the sleepers: neither had moved; both were breathing as heavily as
ever.

Pulling himself together, he turned his attention first to Picard, as
the more dangerous man of the two, should an awakening come before he
was ready for it. He bound Picard's wrists tightly together; then his
ankles, his knees, and his elbows. He next did the same for Lamoine.
With great effort he got Picard in a seated position on his chair,
tying him there with coil after coil of the cord. So anxious was he to
make everything secure, that he somewhat overdid the business, making
the two seem like seated mummies swathed in cord. The chairs he
fastened immovably to the floor, then he stood back and gazed with a
sigh at the two grim seated figures, with their heads drooping
helplessly forward on their corded breasts, looking like silent
effigies of the dead.

Mopping his perspiring brow, Adolph now turned his attention to the
machine that had startled him so when he first came in. He examined
minutely its mechanism to see that everything was right. Going to the
cupboard, he took up a false bottom and lifted carefully out a number
of dynamite cartridges that the two sleepers had stolen from a French
mine. These he arranged in a battery, tying them together. He raised
the hammer of the machine, and set the hand so that the blow would fall
in sixty minutes after the machinery was set in motion. The whole
deadly combination he placed on a small table, which he shoved close in
front of the two sleeping men. This done, he sat down on a chair
patiently to await the awakening. The room was situated at the back of
the house, and was almost painfully still, not a sound from the street
penetrating to it. The candle burnt low, guttered and went out, but
Adolph sat there and did not light another. The room was still only
half in darkness, for the moon shone brightly in at the window,
reminding Adolph that it was just a month since he had looked out on a
moonlit street in Paris, while his brother lay murdered in the room
below. The hours dragged along, and Adolph sat as immovable as the two
figures before him. The square of moonlight, slowly moving, at last
illuminated the seated form of Picard, imperceptibly climbing up, as
the moon sank, until it touched his face. He threw his head first to
one side, then back, yawned, drew a deep breath, and tried to struggle.

"Lamoine," he cried "Adolph. What the devil is this? I say, here. Help!
I am betrayed."

"Hush," said Adolph, quietly. "Do not cry so loud. You will wake
Lamoine, who is beside you. I am here; wait till I light a candle, the
moonlight is waning."

"Adolph, you fiend, you are in league with the police."

"No, I am not. I will explain everything in a moment. Have patience."
Adolph lit a candle, and Picard, rolling his eyes, saw that the slowly
awakening Lamoine was bound like himself.

Lamoine, glaring at his partner and not understanding what had
happened, hissed--

"You have turned traitor, Picard; you have informed, curse you!"

"Keep quiet, you fool. Don't you see I am bound as tightly as you?"

"There has been no traitor and no informing, nor need of any. A month
ago tonight, Picard, there was blown into eternity a good and honest
man, who never harmed you or any one. I am his brother. I am Adolph
Delore, who refused to make your infernal machine for you. I am much
changed since then; but perhaps now you recognise me?"

"I swear to God," cried Picard, "that I did not do it. I was in London
at the time. I can prove it. There is no use in handing me over to the
police, even though, perhaps, you think you can terrorise this poor
wretch into lying against me."

"Pray to the God, whose name you so lightly use, that the police you
fear may get you before I have done with you. In the police, strange as
it may sound to you, is your only hope; but they will have to come
quickly if they are to save you. Picard, you have lived, perhaps,
thirty-five years on this earth. The next hour of your life will be
longer to you than all these years."

Adolph put the percussion cap in its place and started the mechanism.
For a few moments its quiet tick-tick was the only sound heard in the
room, the two bound men staring with wide-open eyes at the dial of the
clock, while the whole horror of their position slowly broke upon them.

Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick. Each
man's face paled, and rivulets of sweat ran down from their brows.
Suddenly Picard raised his voice in an unearthly shriek.

"I expected that," said Adolph, quietly. "I don't think anyone can
hear, but I will gag you both, so that no risks may be run." When this
was done, he said: "I have set the clockwork at sixty minutes; seven of
those are already spent. There is still time enough left for meditation
and repentance. I place the candle here so that its rays will shine
upon the dial. When you have made your own peace, pray for the souls of
any you have sent into eternity without time for preparation."

Delore left the room as softly as he had entered it, and the doomed men
tried ineffectually to cry out as they heard the key turning in the
door.

The authorities knew that someone had perished in that explosion, but
whether it was one man or two they could not tell.



THE SHADOW OF THE GREENBACK.


Hickory Sam needed but one quality to be perfect. He should have been
an arrant coward. He was a blustering braggart, always boasting of the
men he had slain, and the odds he had contended against; filled with
stories of his own valour, but alas! he shot straight, and rarely
missed his mark, unless he was drunker than usual. It would have been
delightful to tell how this unmitigated ruffian had been "held up" by
some innocent tenderfoot from the East, and made to dance at the muzzle
of a quite new and daintily ornamented revolver, for the loud-mouthed
blowhard seemed just the man to flinch when real danger confronted him;
but, sad to say, there was nothing of the white feather about Hickory
Sam, for he feared neither man, nor gun, nor any combination of them.
He was as ready to fight a dozen as one, and once had actually "held
up" the United States army at Fort Concho, beating a masterly retreat
backwards with his face to the foe, holding a troop in check with his
two seven-shooters that seemed to point in every direction at once,
making every man in the company feel, with a shiver up his back, that
he individually was "covered," and would be the first to drop if firing
actually began.

Hickory Sam appeared suddenly in Salt Lick, and speedily made good his
claim to be the bad man of the district. Some old-timers disputed Sam's
arrogant contention, but they did not live long enough to maintain
their own well-earned reputations as objectionable citizens. Thus
Hickory Sam reigned supreme in Salt Lick, and every one in the place
was willing and eager to stand treat to Sam, or to drink with him when
invited.

Sam's chief place of resort in Salt Lick was the Hades Saloon, kept by
Mike Davlin. Mike had not originally intended this to be the title of
his bar, having at first named it after a little liquor cellar he kept
in his early days in Philadelphia, called "The Shades," but some cowboy
humourist, particular about the external fitness of things, had scraped
out the letter "S," and so the sign over the door had been allowed to
remain. Mike did not grumble. He had taken a keen interest in politics
in Philadelphia, but an unexpected spasm of civic virtue having
overtaken the city some years before, Davlin had been made a victim,
and he was forced to leave suddenly for the West, where there was no
politics, and where a man handy at mixing drinks was looked upon as a
boon by the rest of the community. Mike did not grumble when even the
name "Hades" failed to satisfy the boys in their thirst for appropriate
nomenclature, and when they took to calling the place by a shorter and
terser synonym beginning with the same letter, he made no objections.

Mike was an adaptive man, who mixed drinks, but did not mix in rows. He
protected himself by not keeping a revolver, and by admitting that he
could not hit his own saloon at twenty yards distance. A residence in
the quiet city of Philadelphia is not conducive to the nimbling of the
trigger finger. When the boys in the exuberance of their spirits began
to shoot, Mike promptly ducked under his counter and waited till the
clouds of smoke rolled by. He sent in a bill for broken glass, bottles,
and the damage generally, when his guests were sober again, and his
accounts were always paid. Mike was a deservedly popular citizen in
Salt Lick, and might easily have been elected to the United States
Congress, if he had dared to go east again. But, as he himself said, he
was out of politics.

It was the pleasant custom of the cowboys at Buller's ranch to come
into Salt Lick on pay-days and close up the town. These periodical
visits did little harm to any one, and seemed to be productive of much
amusement for the boys. They rode at full gallop through the one street
of the place like a troop of cavalry, yelling at the top of their
voices and brandishing their weapons.

The first raid through Salt Lick was merely a warning, and all
peaceably inclined inhabitants took it as such, retiring forthwith to
the seclusion of their houses. On their return trip the boys winged or
lamed, with unerring aim, any one found in the street. They seldom
killed a wayfarer; if a fatality ensued it was usually the result of
accident, and much to the regret of the boys, who always apologised
handsomely to the surviving relatives, which expression of regret was
generally received in the amicable spirit with which it was tendered.
There was none of the rancour of the vendetta in these little
encounters; if a man happened to be blotted out, it was his ill luck,
that was all, and there was rarely any thought of reprisal.

This perhaps was largely due to the fact that the community was a
shifting one, and few had any near relatives about them, for, although
the victim might have friends, they seldom held him in such esteem as
to be willing to take up his quarrel when there was a bullet hole
through him. Relatives, however, are often more difficult to deal with
than are friends, in cases of sudden death, and this fact was
recognised by Hickory Sam, who, when he was compelled to shoot the
younger Holt brother in Mike's saloon, promptly went, at some personal
inconvenience, and assassinated the elder, before John Holt heard the
news. As Sam explained to Mike when he returned, he had no quarrel with
John Holt, but merely killed him in the interests of peace, for he
would have been certain to draw and probably shoot several citizens
when he heard of his brother's death, because, for some unexplained
reason, the brothers were fond of each other.

When Hickory Sam was comparatively new to Salt Lick he allowed the
Buller's ranch gang to close up the town without opposition. It was
their custom, when the capital of Coyote county had been closed up to
their satisfaction, to adjourn to Hades and there "blow in" their hard-
earned gains on the liquor Mike furnished. They also added to the
decorations of the saloon ceiling. Several cowboys had a gift of
twirling their Winchester repeating rifles around the fore finger and
firing it as the flying muzzle momentarily pointed upwards. The man who
could put the most bullets within the smallest space in the roof was
the expert of the occasion, and didn't have to pay for his drinks.

This exhibition might have made many a man quail, but it had no effect
on Hickory Sam, who leant against the bar and sneered at the show as
child's play.

"Perhaps you think you can do it," cried the champion. "I bet you the
drinks you can't."

"I don't have to," said Hickory Sam, with the calm dignity of a dead
shot. "I don't have to, but I'll tell you what I can do. I can nip the
heart of a man with this here gun" showing his seven-shooter, "me a-
standing in Hades here and he a-coming out of the bank." For Salt Lick,
being a progressive town, had the Coyote County Bank some distance down
the street on the opposite side from the saloon.

"You're a liar," roared the champion, whereupon all the boys grasped
their guns and were on the look out for trouble.

Hickory Sam merely laughed, strode to the door, threw it open, and
walked out to the middle of the deserted thoroughfare.

"I'm a bad man from Way Back," he yelled at the top of his voice. "I'm
the toughest cuss in Coyote county, and no darned greasers from
Buller's can close up this town when I'm in it. You hear me! Salt
Lick's wide open, and I'm standing in the street to prove it."

It was bad enough to have the town declared open when fifteen of them
in a body had proclaimed it closed, but in addition to this to be
called "greasers" was an insult not to be borne. A cowboy despises a
Mexican almost as much as he does an Indian. With a soul-terrifying
yell the fifteen were out of the saloon and on their horses like a
cyclone. They went down the street with tornado speed, wheeling about,
some distance below the temporarily closed bank, and, charging up again
at full gallop, fired repeatedly in the direction of Hickory Sam, who
was crouching behind an empty whiskey barrel in front of the saloon
with a "gun" in either hand.

Sam made good his contention by nipping the heart of the champion when
opposite the bank, who plunged forward on his face and threw the
cavalcade into confusion. Then Sam stood up, and regardless of the
scattering shots, fired with both revolvers, killing the foremost man
of the troop and slaughtering three horses, which instantly changed the
charge into a rout. He then retired to Hades and barricaded the door.
Mike was nowhere to be seen.

But the boys knew when they had enough. They made no attack on the
saloon, but picked up their dead, and, thoroughly sobered, made their
way, much more slowly than they came, back to Buller's ranch.

When it was evident that they had gone, Mike cautiously emerged from
his place of retirement, as Sam was vigorously pounding on the bar,
threatening that if a drink were not forthcoming he would go round
behind the bar and help himself.

"I'm a law and order man," he explained to Davlin, "and I won't have no
toughs from Buller's ranch close up this town and interfere with
commerce. Every man has got to respect the Constitution of the United
States as long as my gun can bark, you bet your life!"

Mike hurriedly admitted that he was perfectly right, and asked him what
he would have, forgetting in his agitation that Sam took one thing
only, and that one thing straight.

Next day old Buller himself came in from his ranch to see if anything
could be done about this latest affray. It was bad enough to lose two
of his best herdsmen in a foolish contest of this kind, but to have
three trained horses killed as well, was disgusting. Buller had been
one of the boys himself in his young days, but now, having grown
wealthy in the cattle business, he was anxious to see civilisation move
westward with strides a little more rapid than it was taking. He made
the mistake of appealing to the Sheriff, as if that worthy man could be
expected, for the small salary he received, to attempt the arrest of so
dead a shot as Hickory Sam.

Besides, as the Sheriff quite correctly pointed out, the boys
themselves had been the aggressors in the first place, and if fifteen
of them could not take care of one man behind an empty whiskey barrel,
they had better remain peaceably at home in the future, and do their
pistol practice in the quiet, innocuous retirement of a shooting
gallery. They surely could not expect the strong arm of the law, in the
person of a peaceably-minded Sheriff, to reach out and pull their
chestnuts from the fire when several of them had already burned their
fingers, and when the chestnuts shot and drank as straight as Hickory
Sam.

Buller, finding the executive portion of the law slow and reluctant to
move, sought advice from his own lawyer, the one disciple of Coke-upon-
Littleton in the place. The lawyer doubted if there was any legal
remedy in the then condition of society around Salt Lick. The safest
plan perhaps would be--mind, he did not advise, but merely suggested--
to surround Hickory Sam and wipe him off the face of the earth. This
might not be strictly according to law, but it would be effective, if
carried out without an error.

The particulars of Buller's interview with the Sheriff spread rapidly
in Salt Lick, and caused great indignation among the residents thereof,
especially those who frequented Hades. It was a reproach to the place
that the law should be invoked, all on account of a trivial incident
like that of the day before. Sam, who had been celebrating his victory
at Mike's, heard the news with bitter, if somewhat silent resentment,
for he had advanced so far in his cups that he was all but speechless.
Being a magnanimous man, he would have been quite content to let
bygones be bygones, but this unjustifiable action of Buller's required
prompt and effectual chastisement. He would send the wealthy ranchman
to keep company with his slaughtered herdsmen.

Thus it was that when Buller mounted his horse after his futile visit
to the lawyer, he found Hickory Sam holding the street with his guns.
The fusillade that followed was without result, which disappointing
termination is accounted for by the fact that Sam was exceedingly drunk
at the time, and the ranchman was out of practice. Seldom had Salt Lick
seen so much powder burnt with no damage except to the window-glass in
the vicinity. Buller went back to the lawyer's office, and afterwards
had an interview with the bank manager. Then he got quietly out of town
unmolested, for Sam, weeping on Mike's shoulder over the inaccuracy of
his aim, gradually sank to sleep in a corner of the saloon.

Next morning, when Sam woke to temporary sobriety, he sent word to the
ranch that he would shoot old Buller on sight, and, at the same time,
he apologised for the previous eccentricities of his fire, promising
that such an annoying exhibition should not occur again. He signed
himself "The Terror of Salt Lick, and the Champion of Law and Order."

It was rumoured that old Buller, when he returned to the lawyer's
office, had made his will, and that the bank manager had witnessed it.
This supposed action of Buller was taken as a most delicate compliment
to Hickory Sam's determination and marksmanship, and he was justly
proud of the work he had thrown into the lawyer's hands.

A week passed before old Buller came to Salt Lick, but when he came,
Hickory Sam was waiting for him, and this time the desperado was not
drunk, that is to say, he had not had more than half a dozen glasses of
forty rod that morning.

When the rumour came to Hades that old Buller was approaching the town
on horseback and alone, Sam at once bet the drinks that he would fire
but one shot, and so, in a measure, atone for the ineffectual racket he
had made on the occasion of the previous encounter. The crowd stood by,
in safe places, to see the result of the duel.

Sam, a cocked revolver in his right hand, stood squarely in the centre
of the street, with the sturdy bearing of one who has his quarrel just,
and who besides can pierce the ace spot on a card ten yards further
away than any other man in the county.

[Illustration: SAM LOOKED SAVAGELY AROUND HIM]

Old Buller came riding up the street as calmly as if he were on his own
ranch. When almost within range of Sam's pistol, the old man raised
both hands above his head, letting the reins fall on the horse's neck.
In this extraordinary attitude he rode forward, to the amazement of the
crowd and the evident embarrassment of Sam.

"I am not armed," the old man shouted. "I have come to talk this thing
over and settle it."

"It's too late for talk," yelled Sam, infuriated at the prospect of
missing his victim after all; "pull your gun, old man, and shoot."

"I haven't got a gun on me," said Buller, still advancing, and still
holding up his hands.

"That trick's played out," shouted Sam, flinging up his right hand and
firing.

The old man, with hands above his head, leant slowly forward like a
falling tower, then pitched head foremost from his horse to the ground,
where he lay without a struggle, face down and arms spread out.

Great as was the fear of the desperado, an involuntary cry of horror
went up from the crowd. Killing is all right and proper in its way, but
the shooting of an unarmed man who voluntarily held up his hands and
kept them up, was murder, even on the plains.

Sam looked savagely round him, glaring at the crowd that shrank away
from him, the smoking pistol hanging muzzle downward from his hand.

"It's all a trick. He had a shooting-iron in his boot. I see the butt
of it sticking out. That's why I fired."

"I'm not saying nothing," said Mike, as the fierce glance of Hickory
rested on him, "'tain't any affair of mine."

"Yes, it is," cried Hickory.

"Why, I didn't have nothin' to do with it," protested the saloon
keeper.

"No. But you've got somethin' to do with it now. What did we elect you
coroner fur, I'd like to know? You've got to hustle around and panel
your jury an' bring in a verdict of accidental death or something of
that sort. Bring any sort or kind of verdict that'll save trouble in
future. I believe in law and order, I do, an' I like to see things done
regular."

"But we didn't have no jury for them cowboys," said Mike.

"Well, cowboys is different. It didn't so much matter about them.
Still, it oughter been done, even with cowboys, if we were more'n half
civilised. Nothin' like havin' things down on the record straight and
shipshape. Now some o' you fellows help me in with the body, and
Mike'll panel his jury in three shakes."

There is nothing like an energetic public-spirited man for reducing
chaos to order. Things began to assume their normal attitude, and the
crowd began to look to Sam for instruction. He seemed to understand the
etiquette of these occasions, and those present felt that they were
ignorant and inexperienced compared with him.

The body was laid out on a bench in the room at the back of the saloon,
while the jury and the spectators were accommodated with such seats as
the place afforded, Hickory Sam himself taking an elevated position on
the top of a barrel, where he could, as it were, preside over the
arrangements. It was vaguely felt by those present that Sam bore no
malice towards the deceased, and this was put down rather to his
credit.

"I think," said the coroner, looking hesitatingly up at Sam, with an
expression which showed he was quite prepared to withdraw his proposal
if it should prove inappropriate, "I think we might have the lawyer
over here. He knows how these things should be done, and he's the only
man in Salt Lick that's got a Bible to swear the jury on. I think they
ought to be sworn."

"That's a good idea," concurred Sam. "One of you run across for him,
and tell him to bring the book. Nothing like havin' these things
regular and proper and accordin' to law."

The lawyer had heard of the catastrophe, and he came promptly over to
the saloon, bringing the book with him and some papers in his hand.
There was now no doubt about Sam's knowledge of the proper thing to do,
when it was found that the lawyer quite agreed with him that an
inquest, under the circumstances, was justifiable and according to
precedent. The jury found that the late Mr. Buller had "died through
misadventure," which phrase, sarcastically suggested by the lawyer when
he found that the verdict was going to be "accidental death," pleased
the jury, who at once adopted it.

When the proceedings were so pleasantly terminated by a verdict
acceptable to all parties, the lawyer cleared his throat and said that
his late client, having perhaps a premonition of his fate, had recently
made his will, and he had desired the lawyer to make the will public as
soon as possible after his death. As the occasion seemed in every way
suitable, the lawyer proposed, with the permission of the coroner, to
read that portion which Mr. Buller hoped would receive the widest
possible publicity.

Mike glanced with indecision at the lawyer and at Sam sitting high
above the crowd on the barrel.

"Certainly," said Hickory. "We'd all like to hear the will, although I
suppose it's none of our business."

The lawyer made no comment on this remark, but bowing to the
assemblage, unfolded a paper and read it.

Mr. Buller left all his property to his nephew in the East with the
exception of fifty thousand dollars in greenbacks, then deposited in
the Coyote County Bank at Salt Lick. The testator had reason to suspect
that a desperado named Hickory Sam (real name or designation unknown)
had designs on the testator's life. In case these designs were
successful, the whole of this money was to go to the person or persons
who succeeded in removing this scoundrel from the face of the earth. In
case the Sheriff arrested the said Hickory Sam and he was tried and
executed, the money was to be divided between the Sheriff and those who
assisted in the capture. If any man on his own responsibility shot and
killed the said Hickory Sam, the fifty thousand dollars became his sole
property, and would be handed over to him by the bank manager, in whom
Mr. Buller expressed every confidence, as soon as the slayer of Hickory
Sam proved the deed to the satisfaction of the manager. In every case
the bank manager had full control of the disposal of the fund, and
could pay it in bulk, or divide it among those who had succeeded in
eliminating from a contentious world one of its most contentious
members.

The amazed silence which followed the reading of this document was
broken by a loud jeering and defiant laugh from the man on the barrel.
He laughed long, but no one joined him, and, as he noticed this, his
hilarity died down, being in a measure forced and mechanical. The
lawyer methodically folded up his papers. As some of the jury glanced
down at the face of the dead man who had originated this financial
scheme of _post mortem_ vengeance, they almost fancied they saw a
malicious leer about the half-open eyes and lips. An awed whisper ran
round the assemblage. Each man said to the other under his breath:
"Fif--ty--thous--and--dollars," as if the dwelling on each syllable
made the total seem larger. The same thought was in every man's mind; a
clean, cool little fortune merely for the crooking of a forefinger and
the correct levelling of a pistol barrel.

The lawyer had silently taken his departure. Sam, soberer than he had
been for many days, slid down from the barrel, and, with his hand on
the butt of his gun, sidled, his back against the wall, towards the
door. No one raised a finger to stop him; all sat there watching him as
if they were hypnotised. He was no longer a man in their eyes, but the
embodiment of a sum to be earned in a moment, for which thousands
worked hard all their lives, often in vain, to accumulate.

Sam's brain on a problem was not so quick as his finger on a trigger,
but it began to filter slowly into his mind that he was now face to
face with a danger against which his pistol was powerless. Heretofore,
roughly speaking, nearly everybody had been his friend; now the hand of
the world was against him, with a most powerful motive for being
against him; a motive which he himself could understand. For a mere
fraction of fifty thousand dollars he would kill anybody, so long as
the deed could be done with reasonable safety to himself. Why then
should any man stay his hand against him with such a reward hanging
over his head? As Sam retreated backwards from among his former friends
they saw in his eyes what they had never seen there before, something
that was not exactly fear, but a look of furtive suspicion against the
whole human race.

Out in the open air once again Sam breathed more freely. He must get
away from Salt Lick, and that quickly. Once on the prairie he could
make up his mind what the next move was to be. He kept his revolver in
his hand, not daring to put it into its holster. Every sound made him
jump, and he was afraid to stand in the open, yet he could not remain
constantly with his back to the wall. Poor Buller's horse, fully
accoutred, cropped the grass by the side of the road. To be a horse-
thief was, of course, worse than to be a murderer, but there was no
help for it; without the horse escape was impossible. He secured the
animal with but little trouble and sprang upon its back.

As he mounted, a shot rang out from the saloon. Sam whirled around in
the saddle, but no one was to be seen; nothing but a thin film of
pistol smoke melting in the air above the open door. The rider fired
twice into the empty doorway, then, with a threat, turned towards the
open country and galloped away, and Salt Lick was far behind him when
night fell. He tethered his horse and threw himself down on the grass,
but dared not sleep. For all he knew, his pursuers might be within a
few rods of where he lay, for he was certain they would be on his trail
as soon as they knew he had left Salt Lick. The prize was too great for
no effort to be made to secure it.

There is an enemy before whom the strongest and bravest man must
succumb; that enemy is sleeplessness. When daylight found the
desperado, he had not closed an eye all night. His nerve was gone, and,
perhaps for the first time in his life, he felt a thrill of fear. The
emptiness of the prairie, which should have encouraged him, struck a
chill of loneliness into him, and he longed for the sight of a man,
even though he might have to fight him when he approached. He must have
a comrade, he said to himself, if he could find any human being in
straits as terrible as his own, some one who would keep watch and watch
with him through the night; but the comrade must either be ignorant of
the weight of money that hung over the desperado's head, or there must
be a price on his own. An innocent man would not see the use of keeping
such strict watch; a guilty man, on learning the circumstances of the
case, would sell Sam's life to purchase his own freedom. Fifty thousand
dollars, in the desperado's mind, would do anything, and yet he
himself, of all the sixty million people in the land, was the only one
who could not earn it! A comrade, then, innocent or guilty, was
impossible, and yet was absolutely necessary if the wanderer was to
have sleep.

The horse was in distress through lack of water, and Sam himself was
both hungry and thirsty. His next halting-place must be near a stream,
yet perhaps his safety during the first night was due to the fact that
his pursuers would naturally have looked for him near some watercourse,
and not on the open prairie.

Ten days later, Mike Davlin was awakened at three in the morning, to
find standing by his bed a gaunt, haggard living skeleton, holding a
candle in one hand, and pointing a cocked revolver at Mike's head with
the other.

"Get up," said the apparition hoarsely, "and get me something to eat
and drink. Drink first, and be quick about it. Make no noise. Is there
anybody else in the house?"

"No," said Mike, shivering. "You wait here, Sam, and I'll bring you
something. I thought you were among the Indians, or in Mexico, or in
the Bad Lands long ago."

"I'm in bad lands enough here. I'll go with you. I'm not going to let
you out of my sight, and no tricks, mind, or you know what will
happen."

"Surely you trust me, Sam," whined Mike, getting up.

"I don't trust any living man. Who fired that shot at me when I was
leaving?"

"So help me," protested Mike, "I dunno. I wasn't in the bar at the
time. I can prove I wasn't. Yer not looking well, Sam."

"Blister you for a slow dawdler, you'd not look well either, if you had
no sleep for a week and was starved into the bargain. Get a move on
you."

Sam ate like a wild beast what was set before him, and although he took
a stiff glass of whiskey and water at the beginning, he now drank
sparingly. He laid the revolver on the table at his elbow, and made
Mike sit opposite him. When the ravenous meal was finished, he pushed
the plate from him and looked across at Davlin.

"When I said I didn't trust you, Mike, I was a liar. I do, an' I'll
prove it. When it's your interest to befriend a man, you'll do it every
time."

"I will that," said Mike, not quite comprehending what the other had
said.

"Now listen to me, Mike, and be sure you do exactly as I tell you. Go
to where the bank manager lives and rouse him up as I roused you. He'll
not be afraid when he sees it's you. Tell him you've got me over in the
saloon, and that I've come to rob the bank of that fifty thousand
dollars. Say that I'm desperate and can't be taken short of a dozen
lives, and there is no lie in that, as you know. Tell him you've fallen
in with my plans, and that we'll go over there and hold him up. Tell
him the only chance of catching me is by a trick. He's to open the door
of the place where the money is, and you're to shove me in and lock me
up. But when he opens the door I'll send a bullet through him, and you
and me will divide the money. Nobody will suspect you, for nobody'll
know you were there but the bank man, and he'll be dead. But if you
make one move except as I tell you the first bullet goes through you.
See?"

Mike's eyes opened wider and wider as the scheme was disclosed. "Lord,
what a head you have, Sam!" he said. "Why didn't you think of that
before? The bank manager is in Austin."

"What the blazes is he doing there?"

"He took the money with him to put it in the Austin Bank. He left the
day after you did, for he said the only chance you had, was to get that
money. You might have done this the night you left, but not since."

"That's straight, is it?" said Sam suspiciously.

"It's God's truth I'm speaking," asserted Mike earnestly. "You can find
that out for yourself in the morning. Nobody'll molest ye. Yer jus'
dead beat for want o' sleep, I can see that. Go upstairs and go to bed.
I'll keep watch, and not a soul'll know you're here."

Hickory Sam's shoulders sank when he heard the money was gone, and a
look of despair came into his half closed eyes. He sat thus for a few
moments unheeding the other's advice, then with an effort shook off his
lethargy.

"No," he said at last, "I won't go to bed. I'd like to enrich you,
Mike, but that would be too easy. Cut me off some slices of this cold
meat and put them between chunks of bread. I want a three days' supply,
and a bottle of whiskey."

Mike did as requested, and at Sam's orders attended to his horse. It
was still dark, but there was a suggestion of the coming day in the
eastern sky. Buller's horse was as jaded and as fagged out as its
rider. As Sam, stooping like an old man, rode away, Mike hurried to his
bedroom, noiselessly opened the window, and pointed at the back of the
dim retreating man a shot-gun, loaded with slugs. He could hardly have
missed killing both horse and man if he had had the courage to fire,
but his hand trembled, and the drops of perspiration stood on his brow.
He knew that if he missed this time, there would be no question in
Sam's mind about who fired the shot. Resting the gun on the ledge and
keeping his eye along the barrel, he had not the nerve to pull the
trigger. At last the retreating figure disappeared, and with it Mike's
chance of a fortune. He drew in the gun, and softly closed the window,
with a long quivering sigh of regret.

Sidney Buller went west from Detroit when he received the telegram that
announced his uncle's death and told him he was heir to the ranch. He
was thirty years younger than his uncle had been at the time of his
tragic death, and he bore a remarkable likeness to the old man; that
is, a likeness more than striking, when it was remembered that one had
lived all his life in a city, while the other had spent most of his
days on the plains. The young man had seen the Sheriff on his arrival,
expecting to find that active steps had been taken towards the arrest
of the murderer. The Sheriff assured him that nothing more effective
could be done than what had been done by the dead man himself in
leaving fifty thousand dollars to the killer of Hickory Sam. The
Sheriff had made no move himself, for he had been confidently expecting
every day to hear that Sam was shot.

Meanwhile, nothing had been heard or seen of the desperado since he
left Salt Lick on the back of the murdered man's horse. Sidney thought
this was rather a slipshod way of administering justice, but he said
nothing, and went back to his ranch. But if the Sheriff had been
indifferent, his own cowboys had been embarrassingly active. They had
deserted the ranch in a body, and were scouring the plains searching
for the murderer, making the mistake of going too far afield. They,
like Mike, had expected Sam would strike for the Bad Lands, and they
rode far and fast to intercept him. Whether they were actuated by a
desire to share the money, a liking for their old "boss," or hatred of
Hickory Sam himself, they themselves would have found it difficult to
tell. Anyhow, it was a man-chase, and their hunting instincts were
keen.

In the early morning Sidney Buller walked forth from the buildings of
the ranch and struck for the open prairie. The sun was up, but the
morning was still cool. Before he had gone far he saw, approaching the
ranch, a single riderless horse. As the animal came nearer and nearer
it whinnied on seeing him, and finally changed its course and came
directly toward him. Then he saw that there was a man on its back; a
man either dead or asleep. His hand hung down nerveless by the horse's
shoulder, and swung helplessly to and fro as the animal walked on; the
man's head rested on the horse's mane. The horse came up to Sidney,
thrusting its nose out to him, whinnying gently, as if it knew him.

"Hello?" cried Sidney, shaking the man by the shoulder, "what's the
matter? Are you hurt?"

Instantly the desperado was wide awake, sitting bolt upright, and
staring at Sidney with terrified recognition in his eyes. He raised his
right hand, but the pistol had evidently dropped from it when he,
overcome by fatigue, and drowsy after his enormous meal, had fallen
asleep. He flung himself off, keeping the animal between himself and
his supposed enemy, pulled the other revolver and fired at Sidney
across the plunging horse. Before he could fire again, Sidney, who was
an athlete, brought down the loaded head of his cane on the pistol
wrist of the ruffian, crying--

"Don't fire, you fool, I'm not going to hurt you!"

As the revolver fell to the ground Sam sprang savagely at the throat of
the young man, who, stepping back, struck his assailant a much heavier
blow than he intended. The leaden knob of the stick fell on Sam's
temple, and he dropped as if shot. Alarmed at the effect of his blow,
Sidney tore open the unconscious man's shirt, and tried to get him to
swallow some whiskey from the bottle he found in his pocket. Appalled
to find all his efforts unavailing, he sprang on the horse and rode to
the stables for help.

The foreman coming out, cried: "Good heavens, Mr. Buller, that's the
old man's horse. Where did you get him? Well, Jerry, old fellow," he
continued, patting the horse, who whinnied affectionately, "they've
been using you badly, and you've come home to be taken care of. Where
did you find him, Mr. Buller?"

"Out on the prairie, and I'm afraid I've killed the man who was riding
him. God knows, I didn't intend to, but he fired at me, and I hit
harder than I thought."

Sidney and the foreman ran out together to where Jerry's late rider lay
on the grass.

"He's done for," said the foreman, bending over the prostrate figure,
but taking the precaution to have a revolver in his hand. "He's got his
dose, thank God. This is the man who murdered your uncle. Think of him
being knocked over with a city cane, and think of the old man's revenge
money coming back to the family again!"



THE UNDERSTUDY.


The Monarch in the Arabian story had an ointment which, put upon the
right eye, enabled him to see through the walls of houses. If the
Arabian despot had passed along a narrow street leading into a main
thoroughfare of London, one night just before the clock struck twelve,
he would have beheld, in a dingy back room of a large building, a very
strange sight. He would have seen King Charles the First seated in
friendly converse with none other than Oliver Cromwell.

The room in which these two noted people sat had no carpet and but few
chairs. A shelf extended along one side of the apartment, and it was
covered with mugs containing paint and grease. Brushes were littered
about, and a wig lay in a corner. A mirror stood at either end of the
shelf, and beside these, flared two gas-jets protected by wire baskets.
Hanging from nails driven in the walls were coats, waist-coats, and
trousers of more modern cut than the costumes worn by the two men.

King Charles, with his pointed beard and his ruffles of lace, leaned
picturesquely back in his chair, which rested against the wall. He was
smoking a very black brier-root pipe, and perhaps his Majesty enjoyed
the weed all the more that there was just above his head, tacked to the
wall, a large placard, containing the words, "No smoking allowed in
this room, or in any other part of the theatre."

Cromwell, in more sober garments, had an even jauntier attitude than
the King, for he sat astride the chair, with his chin resting on the
back of it, smoking a cigarette in a meerschaum holder.

"I'm too old, my boy," said the King, "and too fond of my comfort;
besides, I have no longer any ambition. When an actor once realises
that he will never be a Charles Kean or a Macready, then come peace and
the enjoyment of life. Now, with you it is different: you are, if I may
say so in deep affection, young and foolish. Your project is a most
hare-brained scheme. You are throwing away all you have already won."

"Good gracious!" cried Cromwell, impatiently, "what have I won?"

"You have certainly won something," resumed the elder calmly, "when a
person of your excitable nature can play so well the sombre, taciturn
character of Cromwell. You have mounted several rungs, and the whole
ladder lifts itself up before you. You have mastered two or three
languages, while I know but one, and that imperfectly. You have studied
the foreign drama, while I have not even read all the plays of
Shakespeare. I can do a hundred parts conventionally well. You will,
some day, do a great part as no other man on earth can act it, and then
fame will come to you. Now you propose recklessly to throw all this
away and go into the wilds of Africa."

"The particular ladder you offer me," said Cromwell, "I have no desire
to climb; I am sick of the smell of the footlights and the whole
atmosphere of the theatre. I am tired of the unreality of the life we
lead. Why not be a hero instead of mimicking one?"

"But, my dear boy," said the King, filling his pipe again, "look at the
practical side of things. It costs a fortune to fit out an African
expedition. Where are you to get the money?"

This question sounded more natural from the lips of the King than did
the answer from the lips of Cromwell.

"There has been too much force and too much expenditure about African
travel. I do not intend to cross the Continent with arms and the
munitions of war. As you remarked a while ago, I know several European
languages, and if you will forgive what sounds like boasting, I may say
that I have a gift for picking up tongues. I have money enough to fit
myself out with some necessary scientific instruments, and to pay my
passage to the coast. Once there, I shall win my way across the
Continent through love and not through fear."

"You will lose your head," said King Charles; "they don't understand
that sort of thing out there, and, besides, the idea is not original.
Didn't Livingstone try that tack?"

"Yes, but people have forgotten Livingstone and his methods. It is now
the explosive bullet and the elephant gun. I intend to learn the
language of the different native tribes I meet, and if a chief opposes
me and will not allow me to pass through his territory, and if I find I
cannot win him over to my side by persuasive talk, then I shall go
round."

"And what is to be the outcome of it all?" cried Charles. "What is your
object?"

"Fame, my boy, fame," cried Cromwell, enthusiastically, flinging the
chair from under him and pacing the narrow room. "If I can get from
coast to coast without taking the life of a single native, won't that
be something greater than all the play-acting from now till Doomsday?"

"I suppose it will," said the King, gloomily; "but you must remember
you are the only friend I have, and I have reached an age when a man
does not pick up friends readily."

Cromwell stopped in his walk and grasped the King by the hand. "Are you
not the only friend I have," he said; "and why can you not abandon this
ghastly sham and come with me, as I asked you to at first? How can you
hesitate when you think of the glorious freedom of the African forest,
and compare it with this cribbed and cabined and confined business we
are now at?"

The King shook his head slowly, and knocked the ashes from his pipe. He
seemed to have some trouble in keeping it alight, probably because of
the prohibition on the wall.

"As I said before," replied the King, "I am too old. There are no pubs
in the African forest where a man can get a glass of beer when he wants
it. No, Ormond, African travel is not for me. If you are resolved to
go, go and God bless you; I will stay at home and carefully nurse your
fame. I shall from time to time drop appetising little paragraphs into
the papers about your wanderings, and when you are ready to come back
to England, all England will be ready to listen to you. You know how
interest is worked up in the theatrical business by judicious puffing
in the papers, and I imagine African exploration requires much the same
treatment. If it were not for the Press, my boy, you could explore
Africa till you were blind and nobody would hear a word about it, so I
will be your advance agent and make ready for your home-coming."

At this point in the conversation between these two historic
characters, the janitor of the theatre put his head into the room and
reminded the celebrities that it was very late, whereupon both King and
Commoner rose, with some reluctance, and washed themselves; the King
becoming, when he put on the ordinary dress of an Englishman, Mr. James
Spence, while Cromwell, after a similar transformation, became Mr.
Sidney Ormond; and thus, with nothing of Royalty or Dictatorship about
them, the two strolled up the narrow street into the main thoroughfare
and entered their favourite midnight restaurant, where, over a belated
meal, they continued the discussion of the African project, which
Spence persisted in looking upon as one of the maddest expeditions that
had ever come to his knowledge; but the talk was futile, as most talk
is, and within a month from that time Ormond was on the ocean, his face
set towards Africa.

Another man took Ormond's place at the theatre, and Spence continued to
play his part, as the papers said, in his usual acceptable manner. He
heard from his friend, in due course, when he landed. Then at intervals
came one or two letters showing how he had surmounted the numerous
difficulties with which he had to contend. After a long interval came a
letter from the interior of Africa, sent to the coast by messenger.
Although at the beginning of this letter Ormond said he had but faint
hope of reaching his destination, he, nevertheless, gave a very
complete account of his wanderings and dealings with the natives, and
up to that point his journey seemed to be most satisfactory. He
inclosed several photographs, mostly very bad ones, which he had
managed to develop and print in the wilderness. One, however, of
himself was easily recognisable, and Spence had it copied and enlarged,
hanging the framed enlargement in whatever dressing-room fate assigned
to him; for Spence never had a long engagement at any one theatre. He
was a useful man who could take any part, but had no specialty, and
London was full of such.

For a long time he heard nothing from his friend, and the newspaper men
to whom Spence indefatigably furnished interesting items about the lone
explorer, began to look upon Ormond as an African Mrs. Harris, and the
paragraphs, to Spence's deep regret, failed to appear. The journalists,
who were a flippant lot, used to accost Spence with "Well, Jimmy, how's
your African friend?" and the more he tried to convince them, the less
they believed in the peace-loving traveller.

At last there came a final letter from Africa, a letter that filled the
tender, middle-aged heart of Spence with the deepest grief he had ever
known. It was written in a shaky hand, and the writer began by saying that
he knew neither the date nor his locality. He had been ill and delirious
with fever, and was now, at last, in his right mind, but felt the grip
of death upon him. The natives had told him that no one ever recovered
from the malady he had caught in the swamp, and his own feelings led
him to believe that his case was hopeless. The natives had been very
kind to him throughout, and his followers had promised to bring his
boxes to the coast. The boxes contained the collections he had made,
and also his complete journal, which he had written up to the day he
became ill.

Ormond begged his friend to hand over his belongings to the
Geographical Society, and to arrange for the publication of his
journal, if possible. It might secure for him the fame he had died to
achieve, or it might not; but, he added, he left the whole conduct of
the affair unreservedly to his friend, in whom he had that love and
confidence which a man gives to another man but once in his life--when
he is young. The tears were in Jimmy's eyes long before he had finished
the letter.

He turned to another letter he had received by the same mail, and which
also bore the South African stamp upon it. Hoping to find some news of
his friend he broke the seal, but it was merely an intimation from the
steamship company that half-a-dozen boxes remained at the southern
terminus of the line addressed to him; but, they said, until they were
assured the freight upon them to Southampton would be paid, they would
not be forwarded.

A week later, the London papers announced in large type, "Mysterious
disappearance of an actor." The well-known actor, Mr. James Spence, had
left the theatre in which he had been playing the part of Joseph to a
great actor's Richelieu, and had not been heard of since. The janitor
remembered him leaving that night, for he had not returned his
salutation, which was most unusual. His friends had noticed that for a
few days previous to his disappearance he had been apparently in deep
dejection, and fears were entertained. One journalist said jestingly
that probably Jimmy had gone to see what had become of his African
friend; but the joke, such as it was, was not favourably received, for
when a man is called Jimmy until late in life, it shows that people
have an affection for him, and every one who knew Spence was sorry he
had disappeared, and hoped that no evil had overtaken him.

It was a year after the disappearance that a wan, living skeleton
staggered out of the wilderness in Africa, and blindly groped his way
to the coast as a man might who had lived long in darkness and found
the light too strong for his eyes. He managed to reach a port, and
there took steamer homeward bound for Southampton. The sea-breezes
revived him somewhat, but it was evident to all the passengers that he
had passed through a desperate illness. It was just a toss-up whether
he could live until he saw England again. It was impossible to guess at
his age, so heavy a hand had disease laid upon him, and he did not seem
to care to make acquaintances, but kept much to himself, sitting
wrapped up in his chair, gazing with a tired-out look at the green
ocean.

A young girl frequently sat in a chair near him, ostensibly reading,
but more often glancing sympathetically at the wan figure beside her.
Many times she seemed about to speak to him, but apparently hesitated
to do so, for the man took no notice of his fellow-passengers. At
length, however, she mustered up courage to address him, and said:
"There is a good story in this magazine: perhaps you would like to read
it?"

He turned his eyes from the sea and rested them vacantly upon her face
for a moment. His dark moustache added to the pallor of his face, but
did not conceal the faint smile that came to his lips; he had heard
her, but had not understood.

"What did you say?" he asked, gently.

"I said there was a good story here, entitled 'Author! Author!' and I
thought you might like to read it," and the girl blushed very prettily
as she said this, for the man looked younger than he had done before he
smiled.

"I am afraid," said the man, slowly, "that I have forgotten how to
read. It is a long time since I have seen a book or a magazine. Won't
you tell me the story? I would much rather hear it from you than make
an attempt to read it myself in the magazine."

"Oh," she cried, breathlessly, "I'm not sure that I could tell it; at
any rate, not as well as the author does; but I will read it to you if
you like."

The story was about a man who had written a play, and who thought, as
every playwright thinks, that it was a great addition to the drama, and
would bring him fame and fortune. He took this play to a London
manager, but heard nothing of it for a long time, and at last it was
returned to him. Then, on going to a first night at the theatre to see
a new tragedy, which this manager called his own, he was amazed to see
his rejected play, with certain changes, produced upon the stage, and
when the cry "Author! Author!" arose, he stood up in his place; but
illness and privation had done their work, and he died proclaiming
himself the author of the play.

"Ah," said the man, when the reading was finished, "I cannot tell you
how much the story has interested me. I once was an actor myself, and
anything pertaining to the stage appeals to me, although it is years
since I saw a theatre. It must be hard luck to work for fame and then
be cheated out of it, as was the man in the tale; but I suppose it
sometimes happens, although, for the honesty of human nature, I hope
not very often."

"Did you act under your own name, or did you follow the fashion so many
of the profession adopt?" asked the girl, evidently interested when he
spoke of the theatre.

The young man laughed for, perhaps, the first time on the voyage. "Oh,"
he answered, "I was not at all noted. I acted only in minor parts, and
always under my own name, which, doubtless, you have never heard--it is
Sidney Ormond."

"What!" cried the girl in amazement; "not Sidney Ormond the African
traveller?"

The young man turned his wan face and large, melancholy eyes upon his
questioner.

"I am certainly Sidney Ormond, an African traveller, but I don't think
I deserve the 'the,' you know. I don't imagine anyone has heard of me
through my travelling any more than through my acting."

"The Sidney Ormond I mean," she said, "went through Africa without
firing a shot; whose book, _A Mission of Peace_, has been such a
success, both in England and America. But, of course, you cannot be he;
for I remember that Sidney Ormond is now lecturing in England to
tremendous audiences all over the country. The Royal Geographical
Society has given him medals or degrees, or something of that sort--
perhaps it was Oxford that gave the degree. I am sorry I haven't his
book with me, it would be sure to interest you; but some one on board
is almost certain to have it, and I will try to get it for you. I gave
mine to a friend in Cape Town. What a funny thing it is that the two
names should be exactly the same."

"It is very strange," said Ormond gloomily, and his eyes again sought
the horizon and he seemed to relapse into his usual melancholy.

The girl arose from her seat, saying she would try to find the book,
and left him there meditating. When she came back, after the lapse of
half an hour or so, she found him sitting just as she had left him,
with his sad eyes on the sad sea. The girl had a volume in her hand.
"There," she said, "I knew there would be a copy on board, but I am
more bewildered than ever; the frontispiece is an exact portrait of
you, only you are dressed differently and do not look--" the girl
hesitated, "so ill as when you came on board."

Ormond looked up at the girl with a smile, and said--

"You might say with truth, so ill as I look now."

"Oh, the voyage has done you good. You seem ever so much better than
when you came on board."

"Yes, I think that is so," said Ormond, reaching for the volume she
held in her hand. He opened it at the frontispiece and gazed long at
the picture.

The girl sat down beside him and watched his face, glancing from it to
the book.

"It seems to me," she said at last, "that the coincidence is becoming
more and more striking. Have you ever seen that portrait before?"

"Yes," said Ormond slowly. "I recognise it as a portrait I took of
myself in the interior of Africa which I sent to a dear friend of mine;
in fact, the only friend I had in England. I think I wrote him about
getting together a book out of the materials I sent him, but I am not
sure. I was very ill at the time I wrote him my last letter. I thought
I was going to die, and told him so. I feel somewhat bewildered, and
don't quite understand it all."

"I understand it," cried the girl, her face blazing with indignation.
"Your friend is a traitor. He is reaping the reward that should have
been yours, and so poses as the African traveller, the real Ormond. You
must put a stop to it when you reach England, and expose his treachery
to the whole country."

Ormond shook his head slowly and said--

"I cannot imagine Jimmy Spence a traitor. If it were only the book,
that could be, I think, easily explained, for I sent him all my notes
of travel and materials; but I cannot understand him taking the medals
or degrees."

The girl made a quick gesture of impatience.

"Such things," she said, "cannot be explained. You must confront him
and expose him."

"No," said Ormond, "I shall not confront him. I must think over the
matter for a time. I am not quick at thinking, at least just now, in
the face of this difficulty. Everything seemed plain and simple before,
but if Jimmy Spence has stepped into my shoes, he is welcome to them.
Ever since I came out of Africa I seem to have lost all ambition.
Nothing appears to be worth while now."

"Oh!" cried the girl, "that is because you are in ill-health. You will
be yourself again when you reach England. Don't let this trouble you
now--there is plenty of time to think it all out before we arrive. I am
sorry I spoke about it; but, you see, I was taken by surprise when you
mentioned your name."

"I am very glad you spoke to me," said Ormond, in a more cheerful
voice. "The mere fact that you have talked with me has encouraged me
wonderfully. I cannot tell how much this conversation has been to me. I
am a lone man, with only one friend in the world--I am afraid I must
add now, without even one friend in the world. I am grateful for your
interest in me, even though it was only compassion for a wreck--for a
derelict, floating about on the sea of life."

There were tears in the girl's eyes, and she did not speak for a
moment, then she laid her hand softly on Ormond's arm, and said, "You
are not a wreck, far from it. You sit alone too much, and I am afraid
that what I have thoughtlessly said has added to your troubles." The
girl paused in her talk, but after a moment added--

"Don't you think you could walk the deck for a little?"

"I don't know about walking," said Ormond, with a little laugh, "but
I'll come with you if you don't mind an encumbrance."

He rose somewhat unsteadily, and she took his arm.

"You must look upon me as your physician," she said cheerfully, "and I
shall insist that my orders are obeyed."

"I shall be delighted to be under your charge," said Ormond, "but may I
not know my physician's name?"

The girl blushed deeply when she realised that she had had such a long
conversation with one to whom she had never been introduced. She had
regarded him as an invalid, who needed a few words of cheerful
encouragement, but as he stood up she saw that he was much younger than
his face and appearance had led her to suppose.

"My name is Mary Radford," she said.

"_Miss_ Mary Radford?" inquired Ormond.

"Miss Mary Radford."

That walk on the deck was the first of many, and it soon became evident
to Ormond that he was rapidly becoming his old self again. If he had
lost a friend in England, he had certainly found another on board ship
to whom he was getting more and more attached as time went on. The only
point of disagreement between them was in regard to the confronting of
Jimmy Spence. Ormond was determined in his resolve not to interfere
with Jimmy and his ill-gotten fame.

As the voyage was nearing its end, Ormond and Miss Radford stood
together leaning over the rail conversing quietly. They had become very
great friends indeed.

"But if you will not expose this man," said Miss Radford, "what then is
your purpose when you land? Are you going back to the stage again?"

"I don't think so," replied Ormond. "I shall try to get something to do
and live quietly for awhile."

"Oh!" cried the girl, "I have no patience with you."

"I am sorry for that, Mary," said Ormond, "for, if I can make a living,
I intend asking you to be my wife."

"Oh!" cried the girl breathlessly, turning her head away.

"Do you think I would have any chance?" asked Ormond.

"Of making a living?" inquired the girl, after a moment's silence.

"No. I am sure of making a living, for I have always done so; therefore
answer my question. Mary, do you think I would have any chance?" and he
placed his hand softly over hers, which lay on the ship's rail. The
girl did not answer, but she did not withdraw her hand; she gazed down
at the bright green water with its tinge of foam.

"I suppose you know," she said at length, "that you have every chance,
and you are merely pretending ignorance to make it easier for me,
because I have simply flung myself at your head ever since we began the
voyage."

"I am not pretending, Mary," he said. "What I feared was that your
interest was only that of a nurse in a somewhat backward patient. I was
afraid I had your sympathy, but not your love. Perhaps such was the
case at first."

"Perhaps such was the case--at first, but it is far from being the
truth now--Sidney."

The young man made a motion to approach nearer to her, but the girl
drew away, whispering--

"There are other people besides ourselves on deck, remember."

"I don't believe it," said Ormond, gazing fondly at her. "I can see no
one but you. I believe we are floating alone on the ocean together, and
that there is no one else in the wide world but our two selves. I
thought I went to Africa for fame, but I see I really went to find you.
What I sought seems poor compared to what I have found."

"Perhaps," said the girl, looking shyly at him, "Fame is waiting as
anxiously for you to woo her as--as another person waited. Fame is a
shameless hussy, you know."

The young man shook his head.

"No. Fame has jilted me once. I won't give her another chance."

So those who were twain sailed gently into Southampton Docks, resolved
to be one when the gods were willing.

Mary Radford's people were there to meet her, and Ormond went up to
London alone, beginning his short railway journey with a return of the
melancholy that had oppressed him during the first part of his long
voyage. He felt once more alone in the world, now that the bright
presence of his sweetheart was withdrawn, and he was saddened by the
thought that the telegram he had hoped to send to Jimmy Spence,
exultingly announcing his arrival, would never be sent. In a newspaper
he bought at the station, he saw that the African traveller, Sidney
Ormond, was to be received by the Mayor and Corporation of a Midland
town, and presented with the freedom of the city. The traveller was to
lecture on his exploits in the town so honouring him, that day week.
Ormond put down the paper with a sigh, and turned his thoughts to the
girl from whom he had so lately parted. A true sweetheart is a
pleasanter subject for meditation than a false friend.

Mary also saw the announcement in the paper, and anger tightened her
lips and brought additional colour to her cheeks. Seeing how averse her
lover was to taking any action against his former friend, she had
ceased to urge him, but she had quietly made up her own mind to be
herself the goddess of the machine.

On the night the bogus African traveller was to lecture in the Midland
town, Mary Radford was a unit in the very large audience that greeted
him. When he came on the platform she was so amazed at his personal
appearance that she cried out, but fortunately her exclamation was lost
in the applause that greeted the lecturer. The man was the exact
duplicate of her betrothed.

She listened to the lecture in a daze; it seemed to her that even the
tones of the lecturer's voice were those of her lover. She paid little
heed to the matter of his discourse, but allowed her mind to dwell more
on the coming interview, wondering what excuses the fraudulent
traveller would make for his perfidy.

When the lecture was over, and the usual vote of thanks had been
tendered and accepted, Mary Radford still sat there while the rest of
the audience slowly filtered out of the large hall. She rose at last,
nerving herself for the coming meeting, and went to the side door,
where she told the man on duty that she wished to see the lecturer. The
man said that it was impossible for Mr. Ormond to see any one at that
moment; there was to be a big supper; he was to meet the Mayor and
Corporation; and so the lecturer had said he could see no one.

"Will you take a note to him if I write it?" asked the girl.

"I will send it in to him; but it's no use, he won't see you. He
refused to see even the reporters," said the door-keeper, as if that
were final, and a man who would deny himself to the reporters would not
admit Royalty itself.

Mary wrote on a slip of paper the words, "The affianced wife of the
real Sidney Ormond would like to see you for a few moments," and this
brief note was taken in to the lecturer.

The door-keeper's faith in the constancy of public men was rudely
shaken a few minutes later, when the messenger returned with orders
that the lady was to be admitted at once.

When Mary entered the green-room of the lecture hall she saw the double
of her lover standing near the fire, her note in his hand and a look of
incredulity on his face.

The girl barely entered the room, and, closing the door, stood with her
back against it. He was the first to speak.

"I thought Sidney had told me everything; I never knew he was
acquainted with a young lady, much less engaged to her."

"You admit, then, that you are not the true Sidney Ormond?"

"I admit it to you, of course, if you were to have been his wife."

"I am to be his wife, I hope."

"But Sidney, poor fellow, is dead; dead in the wilds of Africa."

"You will be shocked to learn that such is not the case, and that your
imposture must come to an end. Perhaps you counted on his friendship
for you, and thought that even if he did return he would not expose
you. In that you were quite right, but you did not count on me. Sidney
Ormond is at this moment in London, Mr. Spence."

Jimmy Spence, paying no attention to the accusations of the girl, gave
a war-whoop which had formerly been so effective in the second act of
"Pocahontas," in which Jimmy had enacted the noble savage, and then he
danced a jig that had done service in _Colleen Bawn_. While the
amazed girl watched these antics, Jimmy suddenly swooped down upon her,
caught her around the waist, and whirled her wildly around the room.
Setting her down in a corner, Jimmy became himself again, and dabbed
his heated brow with his handkerchief carefully, so as not to disturb
the makeup.

"Sidney in England again? That's too good news to be true. Say it
again, my girl, I can hardly believe it. Why didn't he come with you?
Is he ill?"

"He has been very ill."

"Ah, that's it, poor fellow. I knew nothing else would have kept him.
And then when he telegraphed to me at the old address, on landing, of
course, there was no reply, because, you see, I had disappeared. But
Sid wouldn't know anything about that, and so he must be wondering what
has become of me. I'll have a great story to tell him when we meet;
almost as good as his own African experiences. We'll go right up to
London to-night, as soon as this confounded supper is over. And what is
your name, my girl?"

"Mary Radford."

"And you're engaged to old Sid, eh? Well! well! well! well! This is
great news. You mustn't mind my capers, Mary, my dear; you see, I'm the
only friend Sid has, and I'm old enough to be your father. I look young
now, but you wait till the paint comes off. Have you any money? I mean,
to live on when you're married; because I know Sidney never had much."

"I haven't very much either," said Mary, with a sigh.

Jimmy jumped up and paced the room in great glee, laughing and slapping
his thigh.

"That's first rate," he cried. "Why, Mary, I've got over £20,000
in the bank saved up for you two. The book and lectures, you know. I
don't believe Sid himself could have done as well, for he always was
careless with money--he's often lent me the last penny he had, and
never kept any account of it; and I never thought of paying it back,
either, until he was gone, and then it worried me."

The messenger put his head into the room, and said the Mayor and the
Corporation were waiting.

"Oh, hang the Mayor and the Corporation!" cried Jimmy; then, suddenly
recollecting himself, he added, hastily, "No, don't do that. Just give
them Jimmy--I mean Sidney--Ormond's compliments, and tell his Worship
that I have just had some very important news from Africa, but will be
with him directly."

When the messenger was gone Jimmy continued in high feather. "What a
time we shall have in London. We'll all three go to the old familiar
theatre, yes, and by Jove, we'll pay for our seats; _that_ will be
a novelty. Then we will have supper where Sid and I used to eat. Sidney
shall talk, and you and I will listen; then I shall talk, and you and
Sid will listen. You see, my dear, I've been to Africa too. When I got
Sidney's letter saying he was dying I just moped about and was of no
use to anybody. Then I made up my mind what to do. Sid had died for
fame, and it wasn't just he shouldn't get what he paid so dearly for. I
gathered together what money I could and went to Africa, steerage. I
found I couldn't do anything there about searching for Sid, so I
resolved to be his understudy and bring fame to him, if it were
possible. I sank my own identity and made up as Sidney Ormond, took his
boxes and sailed for Southampton. I have been his understudy ever
since, for, after all, I always had a hope he would come back some day,
and then everything would be ready for him to take the principal, and
let the old understudy go back to the boards again and resume competing
with the reputation of Macready. If Sid hadn't come back in another
year, I was going to take a lecturing trip in America, and when that
was done, I intended to set out in great state for Africa, disappear
into the forest as Sidney Ormond, wash the paint off and come out as
Jimmy Spence. Then Sidney Ormond's fame would have been secure, for
they would be always sending out relief expeditions after him and not
finding him, while I would be growing old on the boards and bragging
what a great man my friend, Sidney Ormond, was."

There were tears in the girl's eyes as she rose and took Jimmy's hand.

"No man has ever been so true a friend to his friend as you have been,"
she said.

"Oh, bless you, yes," cried Jimmy, jauntily. "Sid would have done the
same for me. But he is luckier in having you than in having his friend,
although I don't deny I've been a good friend to him. Yes, my dear, he
is lucky in having a plucky girl like you. I missed that somehow when I
was young, having my head full of Macready nonsense, and I missed being
a Macready too. I've always been a sort of understudy, so you see the
part comes easy to me. Now I must be off to that confounded Mayor and
Corporation, I had almost forgotten them, but I must keep up the
character for Sidney's sake. But this is the last act, my dear. To-
morrow I'll turn over the part of explorer to the real actor ... to the
star."



"OUT OF THUN."


1.--BESSIE'S BEHAVIOUR.


On one point Miss Bessie Durand agreed with Alexander von Humboldt--in
fact, she even went further than that celebrated man, for while he
asserted that Thun was one of the three most beautiful spots on earth,
Bessie held that this Swiss town was absolutely the most perfectly
lovely place she had ever visited. Her reason for this conclusion
differed from that of Humboldt. The latter, being a mere man, had been
influenced by the situation of the town, the rapid, foaming river, the
placid green lake, the high mountains all around, the snow-peaks to the
east, the ancient castle overlooking everything, and the quaint streets
with the pavements up at the first floors.

Bessie had an eye for these things, of course, but while waterfalls and
profound ravines were all very well in their way, her hotel had to be
filled with the right sort of company before any spot on earth was
entirely satisfactory to Bessie. She did not care to be out of
humanity's reach, nor to take her small journeys alone; she liked to
hear the sweet music of speech, and if she started at the sound of her
own, Bessie would have been on the jump all day, for she was a
brilliant and effusive talker.

So it happened that, in touring through Switzerland, Bessie and her
mother (somehow people always placed Bessie's name before that of her
mother, who was a quiet little unobtrusive woman) stopped at Thun,
intending to stay for a day, as most people do, but when Bessie found
the big hotel simply swarming with nice young men, she told her mother
that the local guide-book asserted that Humboldt had once said Thun was
one of the three most lovely places on earth, and, therefore, they
ought to stay there and enjoy its beauties, which they at once
proceeded to do. It must not be imagined from this that Bessie was
particularly fond of young men. Such was far from being the case. She
merely liked to have them propose to her, which was certainly a
laudable ambition, but she invariably refused them, which went to show
that she was not, as her enemies stated, always in love with somebody.
The fact was that Miss Bessie Durand's motives were entirely
misunderstood by an unappreciative world. Was she to be blamed because
young men wanted her to marry them? Certainly not. It was not her fault
that she was pretty and sweet, and that young men, as a rule, liked to
talk with her rather than with any one else in the neighbourhood. Many
of her detractors would very likely have given much to have had
Bessie's various charms of face, figure, and manner. This is a jealous
world, and people delight in saying spiteful little things about those
more favoured by Providence than themselves. It must, however, be
admitted that Bessie had a certain cooing, confidential way with people
that may have misled some of the young men who ultimately proposed to
her into imagining that they were special favourites with the young
lady. She took a kindly interest in their affairs, and very shortly
after making her acquaintance, most young men found themselves pouring
into her sympathetic ear all their hopes and aspirations. Bessie's ear
was very shell-like and beautiful as well as sympathetic, so that one
can hardly say the young men were to blame any more than Bessie was.
Nearly everybody in this world wants to talk of himself or herself, as
the case may be, and so it is no wonder that a person like Bessie, who
is willing to listen while other people talk of themselves, is popular.
Among the many billions who inhabit this planet, there are too many
talkers and too few listeners; and although Bessie was undoubtedly a
brilliant talker on occasion, there is no doubt that her many victories
resulted more from her appreciative qualities as a talented listener
than from the entertaining charms of her conversation. Those women who
have had so much to say about Bessie's behaviour might well take a leaf
from her book in this respect. They would find, if they had even
passably good looks, that proposals would be more frequent. Of course
there is no use in denying that Bessie's eyes had much to do with
bringing young men to the point. Her eyes were large and dark, and they
had an entrancing habit of softening just at the right moment, when
there came into them a sweet, trustful, yearning look that was simply
impossible to resist. They gazed thus at a young man when he was
telling in low whispers how he hoped to make the world wiser and better
by his presence in it, or when he narrated some incident of great
danger in which he took part, where (unconsciously, perhaps, on the
teller's part) his own heroism was shown forth to the best possible
advantage. Then Bessie's eyes would grow large and humid and tender,
and a subdued light would come into them as she hung breathlessly on
his words. Did not Desdemona capture Othello merely by listening to a
recital of his own daring deeds, which were, doubtless, very greatly
exaggerated?

The young men at the big hotel in Thun were clad mostly in
knickerbockers, and many of them had alpenstocks of their own. It soon
became their delight to sit on the terrace in front of the hotel during
the pleasant summer evenings and relate to Bessie their hairbreath
escapes, the continuous murmur of the River Aare forming a soothing
chorus to their dramatic narrations. At least a dozen young men hovered
round the girl, willing and eager to confide in her; but while Bessie
was smiling and kind to them all, it was soon evident that some special
one was her favourite, and then the rest hung hopelessly back. Things
would go wonderfully well for this lucky young fellow for a day or two,
and he usually became so offensively conceited in his bearing towards
the rest, that the wonder is he escaped without personal vengeance
being wreaked upon him; then all at once he would pack up his
belongings and gloomily depart for Berne or Interlaken, depending on
whether his ultimate destination was west or east. The young men
remaining invariably tried not to look jubilant at the sudden
departure, while the ladies staying at the hotel began to say hard
things of Bessie, going even so far as to assert that she was a
heartless flirt. How little do we know the motives of our fellow-
creatures! How prone we are to misjudge the actions of others! Bessie
was no flirt, but a high-minded, conscientious girl, with an ambition--
an ambition which she did not babble about to the world, and therefore
the world failed to appreciate her, as it nearly always fails to
appreciate those who do not take it into their confidence.

It came to be currently reported in the hotel that Bessie had refused
no less than seven of the young men who had been staying there, and as
these young men had, one after another, packed up and departed, either
by the last train at night or the earliest in the morning, the
proprietor began to wonder what the matter was, especially as each of
the departing guests had but a short time before expressed renewed
delight with the hotel and its surroundings. Several of them had stated
to the proprietor that they had abandoned their intention of proceeding
further with their Swiss tour, so satisfied were they with Thun and all
its belongings. Thus did the flattering opinion of Alexander von
Humboldt seem about to become general, to the great delight of the
hotel proprietor, when, without warning, these young men had gloomily
deserted Thun, while its beauty undoubtedly remained unchanged.
Naturally the good man who owned the hotel was bewildered, and began to
think that, after all, the English were an uncertain, mind-changing
race.

Among the guests there was one young fellow who was quite as much
perplexed as the proprietor. Archie Severance was one of the last to
fall under the spell of Bessie--if, indeed, it is correct to speak of
Archie falling at all. He was a very deliberate young man, not given to
doing anything precipitately, but there is no doubt that the charming
personality of Bessie fascinated him, although he seemed to content
himself with admiring her from a distance. Bessie somehow did not
appear to care about being admired from a distance, and once, when
Archie was promenading to and fro on the terrace above the river, she
smiled sweetly at him from her book, and he sat down beside her. Jimmy
Wellman had gone that morning, and the rest had not yet found it out.
Jimmy had so completely monopolised Miss Durand for the last few days
that no one else had had a chance, but now that he had departed, Bessie
sat alone on the terrace, which was a most unusual state of things.

"They tell me," said Bessie, in her most flattering manner, "that you
are a famous climber, and that you have been to the top of the
Matterhorn."

"Oh, not famous; far from it," said Archie modestly. "I have been up
the Matterhorn three or four times; but then women and children make
the ascent nowadays, so that is nothing unusual."

"I am sure you must have had some thrilling escapes," continued Bessie,
looking with admiration at Archie's stalwart frame. "Mr. Wellman had an
awful experience----"

"Yesterday?" interrupted Archie. "I hear he left early this morning."

"No, not yesterday," said Miss Durand coldly, drawing herself up with
some indignation; but as she glanced sideways at Mr. Severance, that
young man seemed so innocent that she thought perhaps he meant nothing
in particular by his remark. So, after a slight pause, Bessie went on
again. "It was a week ago. He was climbing the Stockhorn and all at
once the clouds surrounded him."

"And what did Jimmy do? Waited till the clouds rolled by, I suppose."

"Now, Mr. Severance, if you are going to laugh at me, I shall not talk
to you any more."

"I assure you, Miss Durand, I was not laughing at you. I was laughing
at Jimmy. I never regarded the Stockhorn as a formidable peak. It is
something like 7,195 feet high, I believe, not to mention the inches."

"But surely, Mr. Severance, you know very well that the danger of a
mountain does not necessarily bear any proportion to its altitude
above the sea."

"That is very true. I am sure that Jimmy himself, with his head in the
clouds, has braved greater dangers at much lower levels than the top of
the Stockhorn."

Again Miss Durand looked searchingly at the young man beside her, but
again Archie was gazing dreamily at the curious bell-shaped summit of
the mountain under discussion. The Stockhorn stands out nobly, head and
shoulders above its fellows, when viewed from the hotel terrace at
Thun.

There was silence for a few moments between the two, and Bessie said to
herself that she did not at all like this exceedingly self-possessed
young man, who seemed to look at the mountains in preference to gazing
at her--which was against the natural order of things. It was evident
that Mr. Severance needed to be taught a lesson, and Bessie, who had a
good deal of justifiable confidence in her own powers as a teacher,
resolved to give him the necessary instruction. Perhaps, when he had
acquired a little more experience, he would not speak so contemptuously
of "Jimmy," or any of the rest. Besides, it is always a generous action
towards the rest of humanity to reduce the inordinate self-esteem of
any one young man to something like reasonable proportions. So Bessie,
instead of showing that she was offended by his flippant conversation
and his lack of devotion to her, put on her most bewitching manner, and
smiled the smile that so many before her latest victim had found
impossible to resist. She would make him talk of himself and his
exploits. They all succumbed to this treatment.

"I do so love to hear of narrow escapes," said Bessie confidingly. "I
think it is so inspiring to hear of human courage and endurance being
pitted against the dangers of the Alps, and coming out victorious."

"Yes, they usually come out victorious, according to the accounts that
reach us; but then, you know, we never get the mountain's side of the
story."

"But surely, Mr. Severance," appealed Bessie, "you do not imagine that
a real climber would exaggerate when telling of what he had done."

"No; oh no. I would not go so far as to say that he would exaggerate
exactly, but I have known cases where--well--a sort of Alpine glow came
over a story that, I must confess, improved it very much. Then, again,
curious mental transformations take place which have the effect of
making a man, what the vulgar term, a liar. Some years ago a friend of
mine came over here to do a few ascents, but he found sitting on the
hotel piazza so much more to his taste that he sat there. I think
myself the verandah climber is the most sensible man of the lot of us;
and, if he has a good imagination, there is no reason why he should be
distanced by those you call real climbers, when it comes to telling
stories of adventures. Well, this man, who is a most truthful person,
took one false step. You know, some amateurs have a vile habit of
getting the names of various peaks branded on their alpenstocks--just
as if any real climber ever used an alpenstock."

"Why, what do they use?" asked Bessie, much interested.

"Ice-axes, of course. Now, there is a useful individual in Interlaken,
who is what you might call a wholesale brander. He has the names of all
the peaks done in iron at his shop, and if you take your alpenstock to
him, he will, for a few francs, brand on it all the names it will hold,
from the Ortler to Mont Blanc. My friend was weak enough to have all
the ascents he had intended to make, branded on the alpenstock he
bought the moment he entered Switzerland. They always buy an alpenstock
the first thing. He never had the time to return to the mountains, but
gradually he came to believe that he had made all the ascents recorded
by fire and iron on his pole. He is a truthful man on every other topic
than Switzerland."

"But you must have had some very dangerous experiences among the Alps,
Mr. Severance. Please tell me of the time you were in the greatest
peril."

"I am sure it would not interest you."

"Oh, it would, it would. Please go on, and don't require so much
persuasion. I am just longing to hear the story."

"It isn't much of a story, because, you see, there is no Alpine glow
about it."

Archie glanced at the girl, and it flashed across his mind that he was
probably then in the greatest danger he had ever been in, in his life.
She bent forward toward him, her elbows on her knees, and her chin--
such a pretty chin!--in her hands. Her eyes were full upon him, and
Archie had sense enough to realise that there was danger in their clear
pellucid depths, so he turned his own from them, and sought refuge in
his old friend, the Stockhorn.

"I think the narrowest escape I ever had was about two weeks ago. I
went up----"

"With how many guides?" interrupted Bessie breathlessly.

"With none at all," answered Archie, with a laugh.

"Isn't that very unsafe? I thought one always should have a guide."

"Sometimes guides are unnecessary. I took none on this occasion,
because I only ascended as far as the Château in Thun, some three
hundred feet above where we are sitting, and as I went by the main
street of the town, the climb was perfectly safe in all weathers.
Besides, there is generally a policeman about."

"Oh!" said the girl, sitting up suddenly very straight.

Archie was looking at the mountains, and did not see the hot anger
surge up into her face.

"You know the steps leading down from the castle. They are covered in,
and are very dark when one comes out of the bright sunlight. Some fool
had been eating an orange there, and had carelessly thrown the peel on
the steps. I did not notice it, and so trod on a bit. The next thing I
knew I was in a heap at the foot of that long stairway, thinking every
bone in my body was broken. I had many bruises, but no hurt that was
serious; nevertheless, I never had such a fright in my life, and I hope
never to have such another."

Bessie rose up with much dignity. "I am obliged to you for your
recital, Mr. Severance," she said freezingly. "If I do not seem to
appreciate your story as much as I should, it is perhaps because I am
not accustomed to being laughed at."

"I assure you, Miss Durand, that I am not laughing at you, and that
this pathetic incident was anything but a laughing matter to me. The
Stockhorn has no such danger lying in wait for a man as a bit of
orange-peel on a dark and steep stairway. Please do not be offended
with me. I told you my stories have no Alpine glow about them, but the
danger was undoubtedly there."

Archie had risen to his feet, but there was no forgiveness in Miss
Durand's eyes as she bade him "Good-morning," and went into the hotel,
leaving him standing there.

During the week that followed, Archie had little chance of making his
peace with Miss Durand, for in that week the Sanderson episode had its
beginning, its rise, and its culmination. Charley Sanderson, emboldened
by the sudden departure of Wellman, became the constant attendant of
Bessie, and everything appeared to be in his favour until the evening
he left. That evening the two strolled along the walk that borders the
north side of the river, leading to the lake. They said they were going
to see the Alpine glow on the snow mountains, but nobody believed that,
for the glow can be seen quite as well from the terrace in front of the
hotel. Be that as it may, they came back together, shortly before eight
o'clock, Bessie looking her prettiest, and Sanderson with a black frown
on his face, evidently in the worst of tempers. He flung his belongings
into a bag, and departed by the 8:40 train for Berne. As Archie met the
pair, Bessie actually smiled very sweetly upon him, while Sanderson
glared as if he had never met Severance before.

"_That_ episode is evidently ended," said Archie to himself, as he
continued his walk toward Lake Thun. "I wonder if it is pure devilment
that induces her to lead people on to a proposal, and then drop them. I
suppose Charley will leave now, and we'll have no more games of
billiards together. I wonder why they all seem to think it the proper
thing to go away. I wouldn't. A woman is like a difficult peak--if you
don't succeed the first time, you should try again. I believe I shall
try half a dozen proposals with Bessie myself. If I ever come to the
point, she won't find it so easy to get rid of me as she does of all
the rest."

Meditating thus, he sat down on a bench under the trees facing the
lake. Archie wondered if the momentous question had been asked at this
spot. It seemed just the place for it, and he noticed that the gravel
on the path was much disturbed, as if by the iron-shod point of an
agitated man's cane. Then he remembered that Sanderson was carrying an
iron-pointed cane. As Archie smiled and looked about him, he saw on the
seat beside him a neat little morocco-bound book with a silver clasp.
It had evidently slipped from the insecure dress-pocket of a lady who
had been sitting there. Archie picked it up and turned it over and over
in his hands. It is a painful thing to be compelled to make excuse for
one of whom we would fain speak well, but it must be admitted that at
this point in his life Severance did what he should not have done--he
actually read the contents of the book, although he must have been
aware, before he turned the second leaf, that what was there set down
was meant for no eye save the writer's own. Archie excuses himself by
maintaining that he had to read the book before he could be sure it
belonged to anybody in particular, and that he opened it at first
merely to see if there were a name or card inside; but there is little
doubt that the young man knew from the very first whose book it was,
and he might at least have asked Miss Durand if it were hers before he
opened it. However, there is little purpose in speculating on what
might have been, and as the reading of the note-book led directly to
the utterly unjustifiable action of Severance afterwards, as one wrong
step invariably leads to another, the contents of the little volume are
here given, so that the reader of this tragedy may the more fully
understand the situation.



II.--BESSIE'S CONFESSION.


"_Aug. 1st_.--The keeping of a diary is a silly fashion, and I am
sure I would not bother with one, if my memory were good, and if I had
not a great object in view. However, I do not intend this book to be
more than a collection of notes that will be useful to me when I begin
my novel. The novel is to be the work of my life, and I mean to use
every talent I may have to make it unique and true to life. I think the
New Woman novel is a thing of the past, and that the time has now come
for a story of the old sort, yet written with a fidelity to life such
as has never been attempted by the old novelists. A painter or a
sculptor uses a model while producing a great picture or a statue. Why
should not a writer use a model also? The motive of all great novels
must be love, and the culminating point of a love-story is the
proposal. In no novel that I have ever read is the proposal well done.
Men evidently do not talk to each other about the proposals they make,
therefore a man-writer has merely his own experience to go upon, so his
proposals have a sameness--his hero proposes just as he himself has
done or would do. Women-writers seem to have more imagination in this
matter, but they describe a proposal as they would like it to be, and
not as it actually is. I find that it is quite an easy thing to get a
man to propose. I suppose I have a gift that way, and, besides, there
is no denying the fact that I am handsome, and perhaps that is
something of an aid. I therefore intend to write down in this book all
my proposals, using the exact language the man employed, and thus I
shall have the proposals in my novel precisely as they occurred. I
shall also set down here any thoughts that may be of use to me when I
write my book.

"_Aug. 2nd._--I shall hereafter not date the notes in this book;
that will make it look less like a diary, which I detest. We are in
Thun, which is a lovely place. Humboldt, whoever he is or was, said it
is one of the three prettiest spots on earth. I wonder what the names
are of the other two. We intended to stay but one night at this hotel,
but I see it is full of young men, and as all the women seem to be
rather ugly and given to gossip, I think this is just the place for the
carrying out of my plans. The average young man is always ready to fall
in love while on his vacation--it makes time pass so pleasantly; and as
I read somewhere that man, as a general rule, proposes fourteen times
during his life, I may as well, in the interests of literature, be the
recipient of some of these offers. I have hit on what I think is a
marvellous idea. I shall arrange the offers with some regard to the
scenery, just as I suppose a stage-manager does. One shall propose by
the river--there are lovely shady walks on both sides; another, up in
the mountains; another, in the moonlight on the lake, in one of the
pretty foreign-looking rowing boats they have here, with striped
awnings. I don't believe any novelist has ever thought of such a thing.
Then I can write down a vivid description of the scenery in conjunction
with the language the young man uses. If my book is not a success, it
will be because there are no discriminating critics in England.

"First proposal--This came on rather unexpectedly. His name is Samuel
Caldwell, and he is a curate here for his health. He is not in the
least in love with me, but he thinks he is, and so, I suppose, it comes
to the same thing. He began by saying that I was the only one who ever
understood his real aspirations, and that if I would join my lot with
his he was sure we should not only bring happiness to ourselves, but to
others as well. I told him gently that my own highest aspiration was to
write a successful novel, and this horrified him, for he thinks novels
are wicked. He has gone to Grindelwald, where he thinks the air is more
suitable for his lungs. I hardly count this as a proposal, and it took
me so much by surprise that it was half over before I realised it was
actually an offer of his heart and hand. Besides, it took place in the
hotel garden, of all unlikely spots, where we were in constant danger
of interruption.

"Second proposal--Richard King is a very nice fellow, and was
tremendously in earnest. He says his life is blighted, but he will soon
come to a different opinion at Interlaken, where Margaret Dunn writes
me it is very gay, and where Richard has gone. Last evening we strolled
down by the lake, and he suggested that we should go out on the water.
He engaged a boat with two women to row, one sitting at the stern, and
the other standing at the prow, working great oars that looked like
cricket-bats. The women did not understand English, and we floated on
the lake until the moon came up over the snow mountains. Richard leaned
over, and tried to take my hand, whispering, in a low voice, 'Bessie.'
I confess I was rather in a flutter, and could think of nothing better
to say than 'Sir!' in a tone of surprise and indignation. He went on
hurriedly--


"'Bessie,' he said, 'we have known each other only a few days, but in
those few days I have lived in Paradise.'

"'Yes,' I answered, gathering my wits about me; 'Humboldt says Thun is
one of the three--'

"Richard interrupted me with something that sounded remarkably like
'Hang Thun!' Then he went on, and said that I was all the world to him;
that he could not live without me. I shook my head slowly, and did not
reply. He spoke with a fluency that seemed to suggest practice, but I
told him it could never be. Then he folded his arms, sitting moodily
back in the boat, saying I had blighted his life. He did look handsome
as he sat there in the moonlight, with a deep frown on his brow; but I
could not help thinking he sat back purposely, so that the moonlight
might strike his face. I wish I could write down the exact language he
used, for he was very eloquent; but somehow I cannot bring myself to do
it, even in this book. I am sure, however, that when I come to write my
novel, and turn up these notes, I shall recall the words. Still, I
intended to put down the exact phrases. I wish I could take notes at
the time, but when a man is proposing he seems to want all your
attention.

"A fine, stalwart young man came to the hotel to-day, bronzed by
mountain climbing. He looks as if he would propose in a manner not so
much like all the rest. I have found that his name is Archibald
Severance, and they say he is a great mountaineer. What a splendid
thing a proposal on the high Alps would be from such a man, with the
gleaming snow all around! I think I shall use that idea in the book.

"Third, fourth, fifth, and sixth proposals. I must confess that I am
amazed and disappointed with the men. Is there no such thing as
originality among mankind? You would think they had all taken lessons
from some proposing master; they all have the same formula. The last
four began by calling me 'Bessie,' with the air of taking a great and
important step in life. Mr. Wellman varied it a little by asking me to
call him Jimmy, but the principle is just the same. I suppose this
sameness is the result of our modern system of education. I am sure
Archie would act differently. I am not certain that I like him, but he
interests me more than any of the others. I was very angry with him a
week ago. He knows it, but he doesn't seem to care. As soon as Charley
Sanderson proposes, I will see what can be done with Mr. Archie
Severance.

"I like the name Archie. It seems to suit the young man exactly. I have
been wondering what sort of scenery would accord best with Mr.
Severance's proposal. I suppose a glacier would be about the correct
thing, for I imagine Archie is rather cold and sneering when he is not
in very good humour. The lake would be too placid for his proposal; and
when one is near the rapids, one cannot hear what the man is saying. I
think the Kohleren Gorge would be just the spot; it is so wild and
romantic, with a hundred waterfalls dashing down the precipices. I must
ask Archie if he has ever seen the Kohleren Falls. I suppose he will
despise them because they are not up among the snow-peaks."



III.--BESSIE'S PROPOSAL.


After reading the book which he had no business to read, Archie closed
the volume, fastened the clasp, and slipped it into his inside pocket.
There was a meditative look in his eyes as he gazed over the blue lake.

"I can't return it to her--now," Archie said to himself. "Perhaps I
should not have read it. So she is not a flirt, after all, but merely
uses us poor mortals as models." Archie sighed. "I think that's better
than being a flirt--but I'm not quite sure. I suppose an author is
justified in going to great lengths to ensure the success of so
important a thing as a book. It may be that I can assist her with this
tremendous work of fiction. I shall think about it. But what am I to do
about this little diary? I must think about that as well. I can't give
it to her and say I did not read it, for I am such a poor hand at
lying. Good heavens! I believe that is Bessie coming alone along the
river-bank. I'll wager she has missed the book and knows pretty
accurately where she lost it. I'll place it where I found it, and
hide."

The line of trees along the path made it easy for Archie to carry out
successfully his hastily formed resolution. He felt like a sneak, a
feeling he thoroughly merited, as he dodged behind the trees and so
worked his way to the main road. He saw Bessie march straight for the
bench, pick up the book, and walk back towards the hotel, without ever
glancing round, and her definite action convinced Archie that she had
no suspicion any one had seen her book. This made the young man easier
in his mind, and he swung along the Interlaken road towards Thun,
flattering himself that no harm had been done. Nevertheless, he had
resolved to revenge Miss Bessie's innocent victims, and as he walked,
he turned plan after plan over in his mind. Vengeance would be all the
more complete, as the girl had no idea that her literary methods were
known to any one but herself.

For the next week Archie was very attentive to Bessie, and it must be
recorded that the pretty young woman seemed to appreciate his devotion
thoroughly and to like it. One morning, beautifully arrayed in walking
costume, Bessie stood on the terrace, apparently scanning the sky as if
anxious about the weather, but in reality looking out for an escort,
the gossips said to each other as they sat under the awnings busy at
needlework and slander, for of course no such thought was in the young
lady's mind. She smiled sweetly when Archie happened to come out of the
billiard-room; but then she always greeted her friends in a kindly
manner.

"Are you off for a walk this morning?" asked Archie, in the innocent
tone of one who didn't know, and really desired the information.

He spoke for the benefit of the gossips; but they were not to be taken
in by any such transparent device. They sniffed with contempt, and said
it was brazen of the two to pretend that they were not meeting there by
appointment.

"Yes," said Bessie, with a saucy air of defiance, as if she did not
care who knew it; "I am going by the upper road to the Kohleren Falls.
Have you ever seen them?"

"No. Are they pretty?"

"Pretty! They are grand--at least, the gorge is, although, perhaps, you
would not think either the gorge or the falls worth visiting."

"How can I tell until I have visited them? Won't you be my guide
there?"

"I shall be most happy to have you come, only you must promise to speak
respectfully of both ravine and falls."

"I was not the man who spoke disrespectfully of the equator, you know,"
said Archie, as they walked off together, amidst the scorn of the
gossips, who declared they had never seen such a bold-faced action in
their lives. As their lives already had been somewhat lengthy, an idea
may be formed of the heinousness of Bessie's conduct.

It took the pair rather more than an hour by the upper road,
overlooking the town of Thun and the lake beyond, to reach the finger-
board that pointed down into the Kohleren valley. They zigzagged along
a rapidly falling path until they reached the first of a series of
falls, roaring into a deep gorge surrounded by a dense forest. Bessie
leaned against the frail handrail and gazed into the depths, Severance
standing by her side.

The young man was the first to speak, and when he spoke it was not on
the subject of the cataract.

"Miss Durand," he said, "I love you. I ask you to be my wife."

"Oh, Mr. Severance," replied Bessie, without lifting her eyes from the
foaming chasm, "I hope that nothing in my actions has led you to----"

"Am I to understand that you are about to refuse me?" cried Archie, in
a menacing voice that sounded above the roar of the falling waters.

Bessie looked quickly up at him, and, seeing a dark frown on his brow,
drew slightly away from him.

"Certainly I am going to refuse you. I have known you scarcely more
than a week!"

"That has nothing to do with it. I tell you, girl, that I love you.
Don't you understand what I say?"

"I understand what you say well enough; but I don't love you. Is not
that answer sufficient?"

"It would be sufficient if it were true. It is not true. You _do_
love me. I have seen that for days; although you may have striven to
conceal your affection for me, it has been evident to every one, and
more especially to the man who loves you. Why, then, deny what has been
patent to all on-lookers? Have I not seen your face brighten when I
approached you? Have I not seen a welcoming smile on your lips, that
could have had but one meaning?"

"Mr. Severance," cried Bessie, in unfeigned alarm, "have you gone
suddenly mad? How dare you speak to me in this fashion?"

"Girl," shouted Archie, grasping her by the wrist, "is it possible that
I am wrong in supposing you care for me, and that the only other
inference to be drawn from your actions is the true one?"

"What other inference?" asked Bessie, in a trembling voice, trying
unsuccessfully to withdraw her wrist from his iron grasp.

"That you have been trifling with me," hissed Severance; "that you have
led me on and on, meaning nothing; that you have been pretending to
care for me when in reality you merely wanted to add one more to the
many proposals you have received. That is the alternative. Now, which
is the fact? Are you in love with me, or have you been fooling me?"

"I told you I was not in love with you; but I did think you were a
gentleman. Now that I see you are a ruffian, I hate you. Let go my
wrist; you are hurting me."

"Very good, very good. Now we have the truth at last, and I will teach
you the danger of making a plaything of a human heart."

Severance released her wrist and seized her around the waist. Bessie
screamed and called for help, while the man who held her a helpless
prisoner laughed sardonically. With his free hand he thrust aside the
frail pine pole that formed a hand-rail to guard the edge of the cliff.
It fell into the torrent and disappeared down the cataract.

"What are you going to do?" cried the girl, her eyes wide with terror.

"I intend to leap with you into this abyss; then we shall be united for
ever."

"Oh, Archie, Archie, I love you!" sobbed Bessie, throwing her arms
around the neck of the astonished young man, who was so amazed at the
sudden turn events had taken, that, in stepping back, he nearly
accomplished the disaster he had a moment before threatened.

"Then why--why," he stammered, "did you--why did you deny it?"

"Oh, I don't know. I suppose because I am contrary, or because, as you
said, it was so self-evident. Still, I don't believe I would ever have
accepted you if you hadn't forced me to. I have become so wearied with
the conventional form of proposal."

"Yes, I suppose it does get rather tiresome," said Archie, mopping his
brow. "I see a bench a little further down; suppose we sit there and
talk the matter over."

He gave her his hand, and she tripped daintily down to the bench, where
they sat down together.

"You don't really believe I was such a ruffian as I pretended to be?"
said Archie at last.

"Why, yes; aren't you?" she asked simply, glancing sideways at him with
her most winning smile.

"You surely didn't actually think I was going to throw you over the
cliff?"

"Oh, I have often heard or read of it being done. Were you only
pretending?"

"That's all. It was really a little matter of revenge. I thought you
ought to be punished for the way you had used those other fellows. And
Sanderson was such a good hand at billiards. I could just beat him."

"You--you said--you cared for me. Was that pretence too?" asked Bessie,
with a catch in her voice.

"No. That was all true, Bessie, and there is where my scheme of
vengeance goes lame. You see, my dear girl, I never thought you would
look at me; some of the other fellows are ever so much better than I
am, and of course I did not imagine I had any chance. I hope you will
forgive me, and that you won't insist on having a real revenge by
withdrawing what you have said."

"I shall have revenge enough on you, Archie, you poor, deluded young
man, all your life. But never say anything about 'the other fellows,'
as you call them. There never was any other fellow but you. Perhaps I
will show you a little book some day that will explain everything,
although I am afraid, if you saw it, you might think worse of me than
ever. I think, perhaps, it is my duty to show it to you before it is
too late to draw back. Shall I?"

"I absolutely refuse to look at it--now or any other time," said Archie
magnanimously, drawing her towards him and kissing her.

And Bessie, with a sigh of relief, wondered why it was that men have so
much less curiosity than women. She was sure that if he had hinted at
any such secret she would never have rested until she knew what it was.



A DRAMATIC POINT.


In the bad days of Balmeceda, when Chili was rent in twain, and its
capital was practically a besieged city, two actors walked together
along the chief street of the place towards the one theatre that was
then open. They belonged to a French dramatic company that would gladly
have left Chili if it could, but, being compelled by stress of war to
remain, the company did the next best thing, and gave performances at
the principal theatre on such nights as a paying audience came.

A stranger would hardly have suspected, by the look of the streets,
that a deadly war was going on, and that the rebels--so called--were
almost at the city gates. Although business was ruined, credit dead,
and no man's life or liberty safe, the streets were filled with a crowd
that seemed bent on enjoyment and making the best of things.

As Jacques Dupré and Carlos Lemoine walked together they conversed
earnestly, not of the real war so close to their doors, but of the
mimic conflicts of the stage. M. Dupré was the leading man of the
company, and he listened with the amused tolerance of an elder man to
the energetic vehemence of the younger.

"You are all wrong, Dupré," cried Lemoine, "all wrong. I have studied
the subject. Remember, I am saying nothing against your acting in
general. You know you have no greater admirer than I am, and that is
something to say when the members of a dramatic company are usually at
loggerheads through jealousy."

"Speak for yourself, Lemoine. You know I am green with jealousy of you.
You are the rising star and I am setting. You can't teach an old dog
new tricks, Carl, my boy."

"That's nonsense, Dupré. I wish you would consider this seriously. It
is because you are so good on the stage that I can't bear to see you
false to your art just to please the gallery. You should be above all
that."

"How can a man be above his gallery--the highest spot in the house?
Talk sense, Carlos, and then I'll listen."

"Yes, you're flippant, simply because you know you're wrong, and dare
not argue this matter soberly. Now she stabs you through the heart----"

"No. False premises entirely. She says something about my wicked heart,
and evidently _intends_ to pierce that depraved organ, but a woman
never hits what she aims at, and I deny that I'm ever stabbed through
the heart. Say in the region or the neighbourhood of the heart, and go
on with your talk."

"Very well. She stabs you in a spot so vital that you die in a few
minutes. You throw up your hands, you stagger against the mantel-shelf,
you tear open your collar and then grope at nothing, you press your
hands on your wound and take two reeling steps forward, you call feebly
for help and stumble against the sofa, which you fall upon, and,
finally, still groping wildly, you roll off on the floor, where you
kick out once or twice, your clinched hand comes with a thud on the
boards, and all is over."

"Admirably described, Carlos. Lord! I wish my audience paid such
attention to my efforts as you do. Now you claim this is all wrong, do
you?"

"All wrong."

"Suppose she stabbed you, what would _you_ do?"

"I would plunge forward on my face--dead."

"Great heavens! What would become of your curtain?"

"Oh, hang the curtain!"

"It's all very well for you to maledict the curtain, Carl, but you must
work up to it. Your curtain would come down, and your friends in the
gallery wouldn't know what had happened. Now I go through the
evolutions you so graphically describe, and the audience gets time to
take in the situation. They say, chuckling to themselves, 'that
villain's got his dose at last, and serve him right too.' They want to
enjoy his struggles, while the heroine stands grimly at the door taking
care that he doesn't get away. Then when my fist comes down flop on the
stage and they realise that I am indeed done for, the yell of triumph
that goes up is something delicious to hear."

"That's just the point, Dupré. I claim the actor has no right to hear
applause--that he should not know there is such a thing as an audience.
His business is to portray life exactly as it is."

"You can't portray life in a death scene, Carl."

"Dupré, I lose all patience with you, or rather I would did I not know
that you are much deeper than you would have us suppose. You apparently
won't see that I am very much in earnest about this."

"Of course you are, my boy; and that is one reason why you will become
a very great actor. I was ambitious myself once, but as we grow older"
--Dupré shrugged his shoulders--"well, we begin to have an eye on box-
office receipts. I think you sometimes forget that I am a good deal
older than you are."

"You mean I am a fool, and that I may learn wisdom with age. I quite
admit you are a better actor than I am; in fact I said so only a moment
ago, but----"

"'You wrong me, Brutus; I said an elder soldier, not a better.' But I
will take you on your own ground. Have you ever seen a man stabbed or
shot through the heart?"

"I never have, but I know mighty well he wouldn't undo his necktie
afterwards."

Dupré threw back his head and laughed.

"Who is flippant now?" he asked. "I don't undo my necktie, I merely
tear off my collar, which a dying man may surely be permitted to do.
But until you have seen a man die from such a stab as I receive every
night, I don't understand how you can justly find fault with my
rendition of the tragedy. I imagine, you know, that the truth lies
between the two extremes. The man done to death would likely not make
such a fuss as I make, nor would he depart so quickly as you say he
would, without giving the gallery gods a show for their money. But here
we are at the theatre, Carlos, and this acrimonious debate is closed--
until we take our next walk together."

In front of the theatre, soldiers were on duty, marching up and down
with muskets on their shoulders, to show that the state was mighty and
could take charge of a theatre as well as conduct a war. There were
many loungers about, which might have indicated to a person who did not
know, that there would be a good house when the play began. The two
actors met the manager in the throng near the door.

"How are prospects to-night?" asked Dupré.

"Very poor," replied the manager. "Not half a dozen seats have been
sold."

"Then it isn't worth while beginning?"

"We must begin," said the manager, lowering his voice, "the President
has ordered me not to close the theatre."

"Oh, hang the President!" cried Lemoine impatiently. "Why doesn't he
put a stop to the war, and then the theatre would remain open of its
own accord."

"He is doing his best to put a stop to the war, only his army does not
carry out his orders as implicitly as our manager does," said Dupré,
smiling at the other's vehemence.

"Balmeceda is a fool," retorted the younger actor. "If he were out of
the way, the war would not last another day. I believe he is playing a
losing game, anyhow. It's a pity he hasn't to go to the front himself,
and then a stray bullet might find him and put an end to the war, which
would save the lives of many better men."

"I say, Lemoine, I wish you wouldn't talk like that," expostulated the
manager gently, "especially when there are so many listeners."

"Oh! the larger my audience, the better I like it," rejoined Lemoine.
"I have all an actor's vanity in that respect. I say what I think, and
I don't care who hears me."

"Yes, but you forget that we are, in a measure, guests of this country,
and we should not abuse our hosts, or the man who represents them."

"Ah, does he represent them? It seems to me you beg the whole question;
that's just what the war is about. The general opinion is that
Balmeceda misrepresents them, and that the country would be glad to be
rid of him."

"That may all be," said the manager almost in a whisper, for he was a
man evidently inclined towards peace; "but it does not rest with us to
say so. We are French, and I think, therefore, it is better not to
express an opinion."

"I'm not French," cried Lemoine. "I'm a native Chilian, and I have a
right to abuse my own country if I choose to do so."

"All the more reason, then," said the manager, looking timorously over
his shoulder--"all the more reason that you should be careful what you
say."

"I suppose," said Dupré, by way of putting an end to the discussion,
"it is time for us to get our war-paint on. Come along, Lemoine, and
lecture me on our common art, and stop talking politics, if the
nonsense you utter about Chili and its president is politics."

The two actors entered the theatre; they occupied the same dressing-
room, and the volatile Lemoine talked incessantly.

Although there were but few people in the stalls the gallery was well
filled, as was usually the case.

When going on for the last act in the final scene, Dupré whispered a
word to the man who controlled the falling of the curtain, and when the
actor, as the villain of the piece, received the fatal knife-thrust
from the ill-used heroine, he plunged forward on his face and died
without a struggle, to the amazement of the manager, who was watching
the play from the front of the house, and to the evident bewilderment
of the gallery, who had counted on an exciting struggle with death.

Much as they desired the cutting off of the villain, they were not
pleased to see him so suddenly shift his worlds without an agonising
realisation of the fact that he was quitting an existence in which he
had done nothing but evil. The curtain came down upon the climax, but
there was no applause, and the audience silently filtered out into the
street.

"There," said Dupré, when he returned to his dressing-room; "I hope you
are satisfied now, Lemoine, and if you are, you are the only satisfied
person in the house. I fell perfectly flat, as you suggested, and you
must have seen that the climax of the play fell flat also."

"Nevertheless," persisted Lemoine, stoutly, "it was the true rendering
of the part."

As they were talking the manager came into their dressing-room. "Good
heavens, Dupré!" he said, "why did you end the piece in that idiotic
way? What on earth got into you?"

"The knife," said Dupré, flippantly. "It went directly through the
heart, and Lemoine here insists that when that happens a man should
fall dead instantly. I did it to please Lemoine."

"But you spoiled your curtain," protested the manager.

"Yes, I knew that would happen, and I told Lemoine so; but he insists
on art for art's sake. You must expostulate with Lemoine, although I
don't mind telling you both frankly that I don't intend to die in that
way again."

"Well, I hope not," replied the manager. "I don't want you to kill the
play as well as yourself, you know, Dupré."

Lemoine, whose face had by this time become restored to its normal
appearance, retorted hotly--

"It all goes to show how we are surrounded and hampered by the
traditions of the stage. The gallery wants to see a man die all over
the place, and so the victim has to scatter the furniture about and
make a fool of himself generally, when he should quietly succumb to a
well-deserved blow. You ask any physician and he will tell you that a
man stabbed or shot through the heart collapses at once. There is no
jumping-jack business in such a case. He doesn't play at leapfrog with
the chairs and sofas, but sinks instantly to the floor and is done
for."

"Come along, Lemoine," cried Dupré, putting on his coat, "and stop
talking nonsense. True art consists in a judicious blending of the
preconceived ideas of the gallery with the usual facts of the case. An
instantaneous photograph of a trotting-horse is doubtless technically
and absolutely correct, yet it is not a true picture of the animal in
motion."

"Then you admit," said Lemoine, quickly, "that I am technically correct
in what I state about the result of such a wound."

"I admit nothing," said Dupré. "I don't believe you are correct in
anything you say about the matter. I suppose the truth is that no two
men die alike under the same circumstances."

"They do when the heart is touched."

"What absurd nonsense you talk! No two men act alike when the heart is
touched in love, why then should they when it is touched in death? Come
along to the hotel, and let us stop this idiotic discussion."

"Ah!" sighed Lemoine, "you will throw your chances away. You are too
careless, Dupré; you do not study enough. This kind of thing is all
very well in Chili, but it will wreck your chances when you go to
Paris. If you studied more deeply, Dupré, you would take Paris by
storm."

"Thanks," said Dupré, lightly; "but unless the rebels take this city by
storm, and that shortly, we may never see Paris again. To tell the
truth, I have no heart for anything but the heroine's knife. I am sick
and tired of the situation here."

As Dupré spoke they met a small squad of soldiers coming briskly
towards the theatre. The man in charge evidently recognised them, for,
saying a word to his men, they instantly surrounded the two actors. The
sergeant touched Lemoine on the shoulder, and said--

"It is my duty to arrest you, sir."

"In Heaven's name, why?" asked Lemoine.

The man did not answer, but a soldier stepped to either side of
Lemoine.

"Am I under arrest also?" asked Dupré.

"No."

"By what authority do you arrest my friend?" inquired Dupré.

"By the President's order."

"But where is your authority? Where are your papers? Why is this arrest
made?"

The sergeant shook his head and said--

"We have the orders of the President, and that is sufficient for us.
Stand back, please!"

The next instant Dupré found himself alone, with the squad and their
prisoner disappearing down a back street. For a moment he stood there
as if dazed, then he turned and ran as fast as he could, back to the
theatre again, hoping to meet a carriage for hire on the way. Arriving
at the theatre, he found the lights out, and the manager on the point
of leaving.

"Lemoine has been arrested," he cried; "arrested by a squad of soldiers
whom we met, and they said they acted by order of the President."

The manager seemed thunderstruck by the intelligence, and gazed
helplessly at Dupré.

"What is the charge?" he said at last.

"That I do not know," answered the actor. "They simply said they were
acting under the President's orders."

"This is bad; as bad as can be," said the manager, looking over his
shoulder, and speaking as if in fear. "Lemoine has been talking
recklessly. I never could get him to realise that he was in Chili, and
that he must not be so free in his speech. He always insisted that this
was the nineteenth century, and a man could say what he liked; as if
the nineteenth century had anything to do with a South American
Republic."

"You don't imagine," said Dupré, with a touch of pallor coming into his
cheeks, "that this is anything serious. It will mean nothing more than
a day or two in prison at the worst?"

The manager shook his head and said--

"We had better get a carriage and see the President as soon as
possible. I'll undertake to send Lemoine back to Paris, or to put him
on board one of the French ironclads. But there is no time to be lost.
We can probably get a carriage in the square."

They found a carriage and drove as quickly as they could to the
residence of the President. At first they were refused admittance, but
finally they were allowed to wait in a small room while their message
was taken to Balmeceda. An hour passed, but still no invitation came to
them from the President. The manager sat silent in a corner, while
Dupré paced up and down the small room, torn with anxiety about his
friend. At last an officer entered, and presented them with the
compliments of the President, who regretted that it was impossible for
him to see them that night. The officer added, for their information,
by order of the President, that Lemoine was to be shot at daybreak. He
had been tried by court-martial and condemned to death for sedition.
The President regretted having kept them waiting so long, but the
court-martial had been sitting when they arrived, and the President
thought that perhaps they would be interested in knowing the verdict.
With that the officer escorted the two dumb-founded men to the door,
where they got into their carriage without a word. The moment they were
out of earshot the manager said to the coachman--

"Drive as quickly as you can to the residence of the French Minister."

Every one at the French Legation had retired when these two panic-
stricken men reached there, but after a time the secretary consented to
see them, and, on learning the seriousness of the case, he undertook to
arouse his Excellency, and learn if anything could be done.

The Minister entered the room shortly after, and listened with interest
to what they had to say.

"You have your carriage at the door?" he asked, when they had finished
their recital.

"Yes."

"Then I will take it and see the President at once. Perhaps you will
wait here until I return."

Another hour dragged its slow length along, and they were well into the
second hour before the rattle of wheels was heard in the silent street.
The Minister came in, and the two anxious men saw by his face that he
had failed in his mission.

"I am sorry to say," said his Excellency, "that I have been unable even
to get the execution postponed. I did not understand, when I undertook
the mission, that M. Lemoine was a citizen of Chili. You see that fact
puts the matter entirely out of my hands. I am powerless. I could only
advise the President not to carry out his intentions; but he is to-
night in a most unreasonable and excited mood, and I fear nothing can
be done to save your friend. If he had been a citizen of France, of
course this execution would not have been permitted to take place; but,
as it is, it is not our affair. M. Lemoine seems to have been talking
with some indiscretion. He does not deny it himself, nor does he deny
his citizenship. If he had taken a conciliatory attitude at the court-
martial, the result might not have been so disastrous; but it seems
that he insulted the President to his face, and predicted that he
would, within two weeks, meet him in Hades. The utmost I could do, was
to get the President to sign a permit for you to see your friend, if
you present it at the prison before the execution takes place. I fear
you have no time to lose. Here is the paper."

Dupré took the document, and thanked his Excellency for his exertions
on their behalf. He realised that Lemoine had sealed his own fate by
his independence and lack of tact.

The two dejected men drove from the Legation and through the deserted
streets to the prison. They were shown through several stone-paved
rooms to a stone-paved courtyard, and there they waited for some time
until the prisoner was brought in between two soldiers. Lemoine had
thrown off his coat, and appeared in his shirt sleeves. He was not
manacled or bound in any way, there being too many prisoners for each
one to be allowed the luxury of fetters.

"Ah," cried Lemoine when he saw them, "I knew you would come if that
old scoundrel of a President would allow you in, of which I had my
doubts. How did you manage it?"

"The French Minister got us a permit," said Dupré.

"Oh, you went to him, did you? Of course he could do nothing, for, as I
told you, I have the misfortune to be a citizen of this country. How
comically life is made up of trivialities. I remember once, in Paris,
going with a friend to take the oath of allegiance to the French
Republic."

"And did you take it?" cried Dupré eagerly.

"Alas, no! We met two other friends, and we all adjourned to a café and
had something to drink. I little thought that bottle of champagne was
going to cost me my life, for, of course, if I had taken the oath of
allegiance, my friend, the French Minister, would have bombarded the
city before he would have allowed the execution to go on."

"Then you know to what you are condemned," said the manager, with tears
in his eyes.

"Oh, I know that Balmeceda thinks he is going to have me shot; but then
he always was a fool, and never knew what he was talking about. I told
him if he would allow you two in at the execution, and instead of
having a whole squad to fire at me, order one expert marksman, if he
had such a thing in his whole army, to shoot me through the heart, that
I would show you, Dupré, how a man dies under such circumstances, but
the villain refused. The usurper has no soul for art, or anything else,
for that matter. I hope you won't mind my death. I assure you I don't
mind it myself. I would much rather be shot than live in this
confounded country any longer. But I have made up my mind to cheat old
Balmeceda if I can, and I want you, Dupré, to pay particular attention,
and not to interfere."

As Lemoine said this he quickly snatched from the sheath at the
soldier's side the bayonet which hung at his hip. The soldiers were
standing one to the right, and one to the left of him, with their hands
interlaced over the muzzles of their guns, whose butts rested on the
stone floor. They apparently paid no attention to the conversation that
was going on, if they understood it, which was unlikely. Lemoine had
the bayonet in his hands before either of the four men present knew
what he was doing.

Grasping both hands over the butt of the bayonet, with the point
towards his breast, he thrust the blade with desperate energy nearly
through his body. The whole action was done so quickly that no one
realised what had happened until Lemoine threw his hands up and they
saw the bayonet sticking in his breast. A look of agony came in the
wounded man's eyes, and his lips whitened. He staggered against the
soldier at his right, who gave way with the impact, and then he
tottered against the whitewashed stone wall, his right arm sweeping
automatically up and down the wall as if he were brushing something
from the stones. A groan escaped him, and he dropped on one knee. His
eyes turned helplessly towards Dupré, and he gasped out the words--

"My God! You were right--after all."

Then he fell forward on his face and the tragedy ended.

[Illustration: "MY GOD, YOU WERE RIGHT AFTER ALL!"]



TWO FLORENTINE BALCONIES.


Prince Padema sat desolately on his lofty balcony at Florence, and
cursed things generally. Fate had indeed dealt hardly with the young
man.

The Prince had been misled by the apparent reasonableness of the adage,
that if you want a thing well done you should do it yourself. In
committing a murder it is always advisable to have some one else to do
it for you, but the Prince's plans had been several times interfered
with by the cowardice or inefficiency of his emissaries, so on one
unfortunate occasion he had determined to remove an objectionable man
with his own hand, and realised then how easily mistakes may occur.

He had met the man face to face under a corner lamp in Venice. The
recognition was mutual, and the man, fearing his noble enemy, had fled.
The Prince pursued, and the man apparently tried to double upon him,
and, with his cloak over his face, endeavoured to sneak past along the
dark wall. When the Prince deftly ran the dagger into his vitals, he
was surprised that the man made no resistance or outcry, made no effort
to ward off the blow, but sunk lifeless at the Prince's feet with a
groan.

Alarmed at this, the Prince bade his servant drag the body to a spot
where a votive lamp set in the wall threw dim yellow rays to the
pavement. Then his Highness was appalled to see that he had
assassinated a scion of one of the noblest families of Venice, which
was a very different thing from murdering a man of low degree whose
life the law took little note of.

So the Prince had to flee from Venice, and he took up his residence in
a narrow street in an obscure part of Florence.

Seldom had fate played a man so scurvy a trick, and the Prince was
fully justified in his cursing, for the unfortunate episode had
interrupted a most absorbing amour which, at that moment, was rapidly
approaching an interesting climax.

Prince Padema had been several weeks in Florence, and those weeks had
been deadly dull. "The women of Florence," he said to himself bitterly,
"are not to be compared with those of Venice." But even if they had
been, the necessity of keeping quiet, for a time at least, would have
prevented the Prince from taking advantage of his enforced sojourn in
the fair city.

On this particular evening, the Prince's sombre meditations were
interrupted by a song. The song apparently came from the same building
in which his suite of rooms were situated, and from an open window some
distance below him. What caught his attention was the fact that the
song was Venetian, and the voice that sang it was the rich mellow voice
of Venice.

There were other exiles, then, beside himself. He peered over the edge
of the balcony perched like an eagle's nest high above the narrow stone
street, and endeavoured to locate the open window from which the song
came, or, better still, to catch a glimpse of the singer.

For a time he was unsuccessful, but at last his patience was rewarded.
On a balcony to the right, and some distance below his own, there
appeared the most beautiful girl even he had ever seen. The dark, oval
face was so distinctly Venetian that he almost persuaded himself he had
met her in his native town.

She stood with her hands on the top rail of the balcony, her dark hair
tumbled in rich confusion over her shapely shoulders. The golden light
in the evening sky touched her face with glory, as she looked towards
it, of that part of it that could be seen at the end of the narrow
street.

The Prince's heart beat high as he gazed upon the face that was
unconscious of his scrutiny. Instantly the thought flashed over him
that exile in Florence might, after all, have its compensations.

"Pietro," he whispered softly through his own open windows to the
servant who was moving silently about the room, "come here for a
moment, quietly."

The servant came stealthily to the edge of the window.

"You see that girl on the lower balcony," said the Prince in a whisper.

Pietro nodded.

"Find out for me who she is--why she is here--whether she has any
friends. Do it silently, so as to arouse no suspicion."

Again his faithful servant nodded, and disappeared into the gloom of
the room.

Next day Pietro brought to his eager master what information he had
been able to glean. He had succeeded in forming the acquaintance of the
Signorina's maid.

For some reason, which the maid either did not know or would not
disclose, the Signorina was exiled for a time from Venice. She belonged
to a good family there, but the name of the family the maid also
refused to divulge. She dared not tell it, she said. They had been in
Florence for several weeks, but had only taken the rooms below within
the last two days. The Signorina received absolutely no one, and the
maid had been cautioned to say nothing whatever about her to any
person; but she had apparently succumbed in a measure to the
blandishments of gallant Pietro.

The rooms had been taken because of their quiet and obscure position.

That evening the Prince was again upon his balcony, but his thoughts
were not so bitter as they had been the day before. He had a bouquet of
beautiful flowers beside him. He listened for the Venetian song, but
was disappointed at not hearing it; and he hoped that Pietro had not
been so injudicious as to arouse the suspicions of the maid, who might
communicate them to her mistress. He held his breath eagerly as he
heard the windows below open. The maid came out on the balcony and
placed an easy-chair in the corner of it. She deftly arranged the
cushions and the drapery of it, and presently the Signorina herself
appeared, and with languid grace seated herself.

The Prince had now a full view of her lovely face, as the girl rested
her elbow on the railing of the balcony, and her cheek upon her hand.

"You may go now, Pepita," said the girl.

The maid threw a lace shawl over the shoulders of her mistress, and
departed.

The Prince leaned over the balcony and whispered, "Signorina."

The startled girl looked up and down the street, and then at the
balcony which stood out against the opalescent sky, the tracery of
ironwork showing like delicate etching on the luminous background.

She flushed and dropped her eyes, making no reply.

"Signorina," repeated the Prince, "I, too, am an exile. Pardon me. It
is in remembrance of our lovely city;" and with that he lightly flung
the bouquet, which fell at her feet on the floor of the balcony.

For a few moments the girl did not move nor raise her eyes; then she
cast a quick glance through the open window into her room. After some
slight hesitation she stooped gracefully and picked up the bouquet.

"Ah, beautiful Venice!" she murmured with a sigh, still not looking
upwards.

The Prince was delighted with the success of his first advance, which
is always the difficult step.

Evening after evening they sat there later and later. The acquaintance
ripened to its inevitable conclusion--the conclusion the Prince had
counted on from the first.

One evening she stood in the darkness with her cheek pressed against
the wall at the corner of her balcony nearest to him; he looked over
and downward at her.

"It cannot be. It cannot be," she said, with a frightened quaver in her
voice, but a quaver which the Prince recognised, with his large
experience, as the tone of yielding.

"It must be," he whispered down to her. "It was ordained from the
first. It has to be."

The girl was weeping silently.

"It is impossible," she said at last. "My servant sleeps outside my
door. Even if she did not know, your servant would, and there would be
gossip--and scandal. It is impossible."

"Nothing is impossible," cried the Prince eagerly, "where true love
exists. I shall lock my door, and Pietro shall know nothing about it.
He never comes unless I call him. I will get a rope and throw it to
your balcony. Lock you your door as I do mine. In the darkness nothing
is seen."

"No, no," she murmured. "That would not do. You could not climb back
again, and all would be lost."

"Oh, nonsense!" cried the young man eagerly. "It is nothing to climb
back." He was about to add that he had done it frequently before, but
he checked himself in time.

For a moment she was silent. Then she said: "I cannot risk your not
getting back. It must be certain. If you get a rope--a strong rope--and
put a loop in it for your foot, and pass the other end of the rope to
me around the staunchest railing of your balcony, I will let you down
to the level of my own. Then you can easily swing yourself within
reach. If you find you cannot climb back, I can help you, by pulling on
the rope and you will ascend as you came down."

The Prince laughed lightly.

"Do you think," he said, "that your frail hands are stronger than
mine?"

"Four hands," she replied, "are stronger than two. Besides, I am not so
weak as, perhaps, you think."

"Very well," he replied, not in a mood to cavil about trivialities.
"When shall it be--to-night?"

"No; to-morrow night. You must get your rope to-morrow."

Again the Prince laughed quietly.

"I have the rope in my room now," he answered.

"You were very sure," she said softly.

"No, not sure. I was strong in hope. Is your door locked?"

"Yes," she replied in an agitated whisper. "But it is still early. Wait
an hour or two."

"Ah!" cried the Prince, "it will never be darker than at this moment,
and think, my darling, how long I have waited!"

There was no reply.

"Stand inside the window," whispered the Prince. As she did so a coil
of rope fell on the balcony.

"Have you got it?" he asked.

"Yes," was the scarcely audible reply.

"Then don't trust to your own strength. Give it a turn around the
balcony rail."

"I have done so," she whispered.

Although he could not see her because of the darkness, she saw him
silhouetted against the night sky.

He tested the loop, putting his foot in it and pulling at the rope with
both hands. Then he put the rope round the corner support of the
balcony.

"Are you sure the rope is strong enough?" she asked. "Who bought it?"

"Pietro got it for me. It is strong enough to hold ten men."

His foot was in the loop, and he slung himself from his balcony,
holding the rope with both hands.

"Let it go very gently," he said. "I will tell you when you have
lowered enough."

Holding the end of the rope firmly, the girl let it out inch by inch.

"That is enough," the Prince said at last; and she held him where he
was, leaning over the balcony towards him.

"Prince Padema," she said to him.

"Ah!" cried the man with a start. "How did you learn my name?"

"I have long known it. It is a name of sorrow to our family.

"Prince," she continued, "have you never seen anything in my face that
brought recollection to you? Or is your memory so short that the grief
you bring to others leaves no trace on your own mind?"

"God!" cried the Prince in alarm, seizing the rope above him as if to
climb back. "What do you mean?"

The girl loosened the rope for an inch or two, and the Prince was
lowered with a sickening feeling in his heart as he realised his
position a hundred feet above the stone street.

"I can see you plainly," said the girl in hard and husky tones. "If you
make an attempt to climb to your balcony, I will at once loosen the
rope. Is it possible you have not suspected who I am, and why I am
here?"

The Prince was dizzy. He had whirled gently around in one direction for
some time, but now the motion ceased, and he began to revolve with
equal gentleness in the other direction, like the body of a man who is
hanged.

A sharp memory pierced his brain.

"Meela is dead," he cried, with a gasp in his breath. "She was drowned.
You are flesh and blood. Tell me you are not her spirit?"

"I cannot tell you that," answered the girl. "My own spirit seemed to
leave me when the body of my sister was brought from the canal at the
foot of our garden. You know the place well; you know the gate and the
steps. I think her spirit then took the place of my own. Ever since
that day I have lived only for revenge, and now, Prince Padema, the
hour I have waited for is come."

An agonising cry for help rang through the silent street, but there was
no answer to the call.

"It is useless," said the girl calmly. "It will be accounted an
accident. Your servant bought the rope that will be found with you. Any
one who knows you will have an explanation ready for what has happened.
No one will suspect me, and I want you to know that your death will be
unavenged, prince though you are."

"You are a demon," he cried.

She watched him silently as he stealthily climbed up the rope. He did
not appear sufficiently to realise how visible his body was against the
still luminous sky. When he was within a foot of his balcony she
loosened the rope, and again he sunk to where he had been before, and
hung there exhausted by his futile effort.

"I will marry you," he said, "if you will let me reach my balcony
again. I will, upon my honour. You shall be a princess."

She laughed lightly.

"We Venetians never forget nor forgive. Prince Padema, good-bye!"

She sunk fainting in her chair as she let go the rope, and clapped her
hands to her ears, so that no sound came up from the stone street
below. When she staggered into her room, all was silence.



THE EXPOSURE OF LORD STANSFORD.


The large mansion of Louis Heckle, millionaire and dealer in gold
mines, was illuminated from top to bottom. Carriages were arriving and
departing, and guests were hurrying up the carpeted stair after passing
under the canopy that stretched from the doorway to the edge of the
street. A crowd of on-lookers stood on the pavement watching the
arrival of ladies so charmingly attired. Lord Stansford came alone in a
hansom, and he walked quickly across the bit of carpet stretched to the
roadway, and then more leisurely up the broad stair. He was an athletic
young fellow of twenty-six, or thereabout. The moment he entered the
large reception-room his eyes wandered, searchingly, over the gallant
company, apparently looking for some one whom he could not find. He
passed into a further room, and through that into a third, and there,
his searching gaze met the stare of Billy Heckle. Heckle was a young
man of about the same age as Lord Stansford, and he also was seemingly
on the look-out for some one among the arriving guests. The moment he
saw Lord Stansford a slight frown gathered upon his brow, and he moved
among the throng toward the spot where the other stood. Stansford saw
him coming, and did not seem to be so pleased as might have been
expected, but he made no motion to avoid the young man, who accosted
him without salutation.

"Look here," said Heckle gruffly, "I want a word with you."

"Very well," answered Stansford, in a low voice; "so long as you speak
in tones no one else can hear, I am willing to listen."

"You will listen, whether or no," replied the other, who, nevertheless,
took the hint and subdued his voice. "I have met you on various
occasions lately, and I want to give you a word of warning. You seem to
be very devoted to Miss Linderham, so perhaps you do not know she is
engaged to me."

"I have heard it so stated," said Lord Stansford, "but I have found
some difficulty in believing the statement."

"Now, see here," cried the horsey young man, "I want none of your
cheek, and I give you fair warning that, if you pay any more attention
to the young lady, I shall expose you in public. I mean what I say, and
I am not going to stand any of your nonsense."

Lord Stansford's face grew pale, and he glanced about him to see if by
chance any one had overheard the remark. He seemed about to resent it,
but finally gained control over himself and said--

"We are in your father's house, Mr. Heckle, and I suppose it is quite
safe to address a remark like that to me!"

"I know it's quite safe--anywhere," replied Heckle. "You've got the
straight tip from me; now see you pay attention to it."

Heckle turned away, and Lord Stansford, after standing there for a
moment, wandered back to the middle room. The conversation had taken
place somewhat near a heavily-curtained window, and the two men stood
slightly apart from the other guests. When they left the spot the
curtains were drawn gently apart, and a tall, very handsome young lady
stepped from between them. She watched Lord Stansford's retreat for a
moment, and then made as though she would follow him, but one of her
admirers came forward to claim her hand for the first dance. "Music has
just begun in the ball-room," he said. She placed her hand on the arm
of her partner and went out with him.

When the dance was over, she was amazed to see Lord Stansford still in
the room. She had expected him to leave, when the son of his host spoke
so insultingly to him, but the young man had not departed. He appeared
to be enjoying himself immensely, and danced through every dance with
the utmost devotion, which rather put to shame many of the young men
who lounged against the walls; never once, however, did he come near
Miss Linderham until the evening was well on, and then he passed her by
accident. She touched him on the arm with her fan, and he looked round
quickly.

"Oh, how do you do, Miss Linderham?" he said.

"Why have you ignored me all the evening?" she asked, looking at him
with sparkling eyes.

"I haven't ignored you," he replied, with some embarrassment; "I did
not know you were here."

"Oh, that is worse than ignoring," replied Miss Linderham, with a
laugh; "but now that you do know I am here, I wish you to take me into
the garden. It is becoming insufferably hot in here."

"Yes," said the young man, getting red in the face, "it is warm."

The girl could not help noticing his reluctance, but nevertheless she
took his arm, and they passed through several rooms to the terrace
which faced the garden. Lord Stansford's anxious eyes again seemed to
search the rooms through which they passed, and again, on encountering
those of Billy Heckle, Miss Linderham's escort shivered slightly as he
passed on. The girl wondered what mystery was at the bottom of all
this, and with feminine curiosity resolved to find out, even if she had
to ask Lord Stansford himself. They sauntered along one of the walks
until they reached a seat far from the house. The music floated out to
them through the open windows, faint in the distance. Miss Linderham
sat down and motioned Lord Stansford to sit beside her. "Now," she
said, turning her handsome face full upon him, "why have you avoided me
all the evening?"

"I haven't avoided you," he said.

"Tut, tut, you mustn't contradict a lady, you know. I want the reason,
the real reason, and no excuses."

Before the young man could reply, Billy Heckle, his face flushed with
wine or anger, or perhaps both, strode down the path and confronted
them.

"I gave you your warning," he cried.

Lord Stansford sprang to his feet; Miss Linderham arose also, and
looked in some alarm from one young man to the other.

"Stop a moment, Heckle; don't say a word, and I will meet you where you
like afterwards," hurriedly put in his lordship.

"Afterwards is no good to me," answered Heckle. "I gave you the tip,
and you haven't followed it."

"I beg you to remember," said Stansford, in a low voice with a tremor
in it, "there is a lady present."

Miss Linderham turned to go.

"Stop a moment," cried Heckle; "do you know who this man is?"

Miss Linderham stopped, but did not answer.

"I'll tell you who he is: he is a hired guest. My father pays five
guineas for his presence here to-night, and every place you have met
him, he has been there on hire. That's the kind of man Lord Stansford
is. I told you I should expose you. Now I am going to tell the others."

Lord Stansford's face was as white as paper. His teeth were clinched,
and taking one quick step forward, he smote Heckle fair between the two
eyes and felled him to the ground.

"You cur!" he cried. "Get up, or I shall kick you, and hate myself ever
after for doing it."

Young Heckle picked himself up, cursing under his breath.

"I'll settle with you, my man," he cried; "I'll get a policeman. You'll
spend the remainder of this night in the cells."

"I shall do nothing of the sort," answered Lord Stansford, catching him
by both wrists with an iron grasp. "Now pay attention to me, Billy
Heckle: you feel my grip on your wrist; you felt my blow in your face,
didn't you? Now you go into the house by whatever back entrance there
is, go to your room, wash the blood off your face, and stay there,
otherwise, by God, I'll break both of your wrists as you stand here,"
and he gave the wrists a wrench that made the other wince, big and
bulky as he was.

"I promise," said Heckle.

"Very well, see that you keep your promise."

Young Heckle slunk away, and Lord Stansford turned to Miss Linderham,
who stood looking on, speechless with horror and surprise.

"What a brute you are!" she cried, her under lip quivering.

"Yes," he replied quietly. "Most of us men are brutes when you take a
little of the varnish off. Won't you sit down, Miss Linderham? There is
no need now to reply to the question you asked me: the incident you
have witnessed, and what you have heard, has been its answer."

The young lady did not sit down; she stood looking at him, her eyes
softening a trifle.

"Is it true, then?" she cried.

"Is what true?"

"That you are here as a hired guest?"

"Yes, it is true."

"Then why did you knock him down, if it was the truth?"

"Because he spoke the truth before you."

"I hope, Lord Stansford, you don't mean to imply that I am in any way
responsible for your ruffianism?"

"You are, and in more than one sense of the word. That young fellow
threatened me when I came here to-night, knowing that I was his
father's hired guest; I did not wish exposure, and so I avoided you.
You spoke to me, and asked me to bring you out here. I came, knowing
that if Heckle saw me he would carry out his threat. He has carried it
out, and I have had the pleasure of knocking him down."

Miss Linderham sank upon the seat, and once more motioned with her fan
for him to take the place beside her.

"Then you receive five guineas a night for appearing at the different
places where I have met you?"

"As a matter of fact," said Stansford, "I get only two guineas. I
suppose the other three, if such is the price paid, goes to my
employers."

"I thought Mr. Heckle was your employer tonight?"

"I mean to the company who let me out, if I make myself clear; Spink
and Company. Telephone 100,803. If you should ever want an eligible
guest for any entertainment you give, and men are scarce, you have only
to telephone them, and they will send me to you."

"Oh, I see," said Miss Linderham, tapping her knee with the fan.

"It is only justice to my fellow employés," continued Lord Stansford,
"to say that I believe they are all eligible young men, but many of
them may be had for a guinea. The charge in my case is higher as I have
a title. I have tried to flatter myself that it was my polished,
dignified manner that won me the extra remuneration; but after your
exclamation on my brutality to-night, I am afraid I must fall back on
my title. We members of the aristocracy come high, you know."

There was silence between them for a few moments, and then the girl
looked up at him and said--

"Aren't you ashamed of your profession, Lord Stansford?"

"Yes," replied Lord Stansford, "I am."

"Then why do you follow it?"

"Why does a man sweep a street-crossing? Lack of money. One must have
money, you know, to get along in this world; and I, alas, have none. I
had a little once; I wanted to make it more, so gambled--and lost. I
laid low for a couple of years, and saw none of my old acquaintances;
but it was no use, there was nothing I could turn my hand to. This
profession, as you call it, led me back into my old set again. It is
true that many of the houses I frequented before my disaster overtook
me, do not hire guests. I am more in demand by the new-rich, like
Heckle here, who, with his precious son, does not know how to treat a
guest, even when that guest is hired."

"But I should think," said Miss Linderham, "that a man like you would
go to South Africa or Australia, where there are great things to be
done. I imagine, from the insight I have had into your character, you
would make a good fighter. Why don't you go where fighting is
appreciated, and where they do not call a policeman?"

"I have often thought of it, Miss Linderham, but you see, to secure an
appointment, one needs to have a certain amount of influence, and be
able to pass examinations, I can't pass an examination in anything. I
have quarrelled with all my people, and have no influence. To tell you
the truth, I am saving up money now in the hope of being able to buy an
outfit to go to the Cape."

"You would much rather be in London, though, I suppose?"

"Yes, if I had a reasonably good income."

"Are you open to a fair offer?"

"What do you mean by a fair offer?"

"I mean, would you entertain a proposal in your present line of
business with increased remuneration?"

The young man sat silent for a few moments and did not look at his
companion. When he spoke there was a shade of resentment in his voice.

"I thought you saw, Miss Linderham, that I was not very proud of my
present occupation."

"No, but, as you said, a man will do anything for money."

"I beg your pardon for again contradicting you, but I never said
anything of the sort."

"I thought you did, when you were speaking of the crossing-sweeping;
but never mind, I know a lady who has plenty of money; she is an
artist; at least, she thinks she is one, and wishes to devote her life
to art. She is continually pestered by offers of marriage, and she
knows these offers come to her largely because of her money. Now, this
lady wishes to marry a man, and will settle upon him two thousand
pounds a year. Would you be willing to accept that offer if I got you
an introduction?"

"It would depend very much on the lady," said Stansford.

"Oh no, it wouldn't; for you would have nothing whatever to do with
her, except that you would be her hired husband. She wants to devote
herself to painting, not to you--don't you understand? and so long as
you did not trouble her, you could enjoy your two thousand pounds a
year. You, perhaps, might have to appear at some of the receptions she
would give, and I have no doubt she would add five guineas an evening
for your presence. That would be an extra, you know."

There was a long silence between them after Maggie Linderham ceased
speaking. The young man kicked the gravel with his toes, and his eyes
were bent upon the path before him. "He is thinking it over," said Miss
Linderham to herself. At last Lord Stansford looked up, with a sigh.

"Did you see the late scuffle between the unfortunate Heckle and
myself?"

"Did I see it?" she asked. "How could I help seeing it?"

"Ah, then, did you notice that when he was down I helped him up?"

"Yes; and threatened to break his wrists when you got him up."

"Quite so. I should have done it, too, if he had not promised. But what
I wanted to call your attention to, was the fact that he was standing
up when I struck him, and I want also to impress upon you the other
fact, that I did not hit him when he was down. Did you notice that?"

"Of course, I noticed it. No man would hit another when he was down."

"I am very glad, Miss Linderham, that you recognise it as a code of
honour with us men, brutes as we are. Don't you think a woman should be
equally generous?"

"Certainly; but I don't see what you mean."

"I mean this, Miss Linderham, that your offer is hitting me when I'm
down."

"Oh!" exclaimed Miss Linderham, in dismay. "I'm sure I beg your pardon;
I did not look at it in that light."

"Oh, it doesn't matter very much," said Stansford, rising; "it's all
included in the two guineas, but I'm pleased to think I have some self-
respect left, and that I can refuse your lady, and will not become a
hired husband at two thousand pounds a year. May I see you back to the
house, Miss Linderham? As you are well aware, I have duties towards
other guests who are not hired, and it is a point of honour with me to
earn my money. I wouldn't like a complaint to reach the ears of Spink
and Company."

Miss Linderham rose and placed her hand within his arm.

"Telephone, what number?" she asked.

"Telephone 100,803," he answered. "I am sorry the firm did not provide
me with some of their cards when I was at the office this afternoon."

"It doesn't matter," said Miss Linderham; "I will remember," and they
entered the house together.

Next day, at a large studio in Kensington, none of the friends who had
met Miss Linderham at the ball the evening before would have recognised
the girl; not but what she was as pretty as ever, perhaps a little
prettier, with her long white pinafore and her pretty fingers
discoloured by the crayons she was using. She was trying to sketch upon
the canvas before her the figure of a man, striking out from the
shoulder, and she did not seem to have much success with her drawing,
perhaps because she had no model, and perhaps because her mind was pre-
occupied. She would sit for a long time staring at the canvas, then
jump up and put in lines which did not appear to bring the rough sketch
any nearer perfection.

The room was large, with a good north window, and scattered about were
the numberless objects that go to the confusing make-up of an artist's
workshop. At last Miss Linderham threw down her crayon, went to the end
of the room where a telephone hung, and rang the bell.

"Give me," she said, "100,803."

After a few moments of waiting, a voice came.

"Is that Spink and Company?" she asked.

"Yes, madam," was the reply.

"You have in your employ Lord Stansford, I think?"

"Yes, madam."

"Is he engaged for this afternoon?"

"No, madam."

"Well, send him to Miss Linderham, No. 2,044, Cromwell Road, South
Kensington."

The man at the other end wrote the address, and then asked--

"At what hour, madam?"

"I want him from four till six o'clock."

"Very well, madam, we shall send him."

"Now," said Miss Linderham, with a sigh of relief, "I can have a model
who will strike the right attitude. It is so difficult to draw from
memory."

The reason why so many women fail as artists, as well as in many other
professions, may be because they pay so much attention to their own
dress. It is an astonishing fact to record that Miss Linderham sent out
for a French hairdresser, who was a most expensive man, and whom she
generally called in only when some very important function was about to
take place.

"I want you," she said, "to dress my hair in an artistic way, and yet
in a manner that it will seem as if no particular trouble had been
taken. Do you understand me?"

"Ah, perfectly, mademoiselle," said the polite Frenchman. "You shall be
so fascinating, mademoiselle, that----"

"Yes," said Miss Linderham, "that is what I want."

At three o'clock she had on a dainty gown. The sleeves were turned up,
as if she were ready for the most serious work. The spotless pinafore
which covered this dress had the most fetching little frill around it;
all in all, it was doubtful if any studio in London, even one belonging
to the most celebrated painter, had in it as pretty a picture as Miss
Maggie Linderham was that afternoon. At three o'clock there came a ring
at the telephone, and when Miss Linderham answered the call, the voice
which she had heard before said--

"I am very sorry to disappoint you, madam, but Lord Stansford resigned
this afternoon. We could send you another man if you liked to have him."

"No, no!" cried Miss Linderham; and the man at the other end of the
telephone actually thought she was weeping.

"No, I don't want any one else. It doesn't really matter."

"The other man," replied the voice, "would be only two guineas, and it
was five for Lord Stansford. We could send you a man for a guinea,
although we don't recommend him."

"No," said Miss Linderham, "I don't want anybody. I am glad Lord
Stansford is not coming, as the little party I proposed to give, has
been postponed."

"Ah, then, when it does come off, madam, I hope----"

But Miss Linderham hung up the receiver, and did not listen to the
recommendations the man was sending over the wire about his hired
guests. The chances are that Maggie Linderham would have cried had it
not been that her hair was so nicely, yet carelessly, done; but before
she had time to make up her mind what to do, the trim little maid came
along the gallery and down the steps into the studio, with a silver
salver in her hand, and on it a card, which she handed to Miss
Linderham, who picked up the card and read, "Richard Stansford."

"Oh," she cried joyfully, "ask him to come here."

"Won't you see him in the drawing-room, miss?"

"No, no; tell him I am very busy, and bring him to the studio."

The maid went up the stair again. Miss Linderham, taking one long,
careful glance at herself, looking over her shoulder in the tall
mirror, and not caring to touch her wealth of hair, picked up her
crayon and began making the sketch of the striking man even worse than
it was before. She did not look round until she heard Lord Stansford's
step on the stair, then she gave an exclamation of surprise on seeing
him. The young man was dressed in a wide-awake hat, and the costume
which we see in the illustrated papers as picturing our friends in
South Africa. All he needed was a belt of cartridges and a rifle to
make the picture complete.

"This is hardly the dress a man is supposed to wear in London when he
makes an afternoon call on a lady, Miss Linderham," said the young man,
with a laugh, "but I had either to come this way or not at all, for my
time is very limited. I thought it was too bad to leave the country
without giving you an opportunity to apologise for your conduct last
night, and for the additional insult of hiring me for two hours this
afternoon. And so, you see, I came."

"I am very glad you did," replied Miss Linderham. "I was much
disappointed when they telephoned me this afternoon that you had
resigned. I must say that you look exceedingly well in that outfit,
Lord Stansford."

"Yes," said the young man, casting a glance over himself; "I am
compelled to admit that it is rather becoming. I have had the pleasure
of attracting a good deal of attention as I came along the street."

"They took you for a cowboy, I suppose?"

"Well, something of that sort. The small boy, I regret to say, was so
unfeeling as to sing 'He's got 'em on,' and other ribald ditties of
that kind, which they seemed to think suited the occasion. But others
looked at me with great respect, which compensated for the
disadvantages. Will you pardon the rudeness of a pioneer, Miss
Linderham, when I say that you look even more charming in the studio
dress than you did in ball costume, and I never thought that could be
possible?"

"Oh," cried the girl, flushing, perhaps, because the crimson paint on
the palette she had picked up reflected on her cheek. "You must excuse
this working garb, as I did not expect visitors. You see, they
telephoned me that you were not coming."

The deluded young man actually thought this statement was correct,
which in part it was, and he believed also that the luxuriant hair
tossed up here and there with seeming carelessness was not the result
of an art far superior to any the girl herself had ever put upon
canvas.

"So you are off to South Africa?" she said.

"Yes, the Cape."

"Oh, is the Cape in South Africa?"

"Well, I think so," replied the young man, somewhat dubiously, "but I
wouldn't be certain about it, though the steamship company guarantee to
land me at the Cape, wherever it is."

The girl laughed.

"You must have given it a great deal of thought," she said, "when you
don't really know where you are going."

"Oh, I have a better idea of direction than you give me credit for. I
am not such a fool as I looked last night, you know; then I belonged to
Spink and Company, and was sublet by them to old Heckle; now I belong
to myself and South Africa. That makes a world of difference, you
know."

"I see it does," replied Miss Linderham. "Won't you sit down?"

The girl herself sank into an armchair, while Stansford sat on a low
table, swinging one foot to and fro, his wide-brimmed hat thrown back,
and gazed at the girl until she reddened more than ever. Neither spoke
for some moments.

"Do you know," said Stansford at last, "that when I look at you South
Africa seems a long distance away!"

"I thought it was a long distance away," said the girl, without looking
up.

"Yes; but it's longer and more lonely when one looks at you. By Jove,
if I thought I couldn't do better, I would be tempted to take that two
thousand a year offer of yours and----"

"It wasn't an offer of mine," cried the girl hastily. "Perhaps the lady
I was thinking of wouldn't have agreed to it, even if I had spoken to
her about it."

"That is quite true; still, I think if she had seen me in this outfit
she would have thought me worth the money."

"You think you can make more than two thousand a year out in South
Africa? You have become very hopeful all in a moment. It seems to me
that a man who thinks he can make two thousand a year is very foolish
to let himself out at two guineas an evening."

"Do you know, Miss Linderham, that was just what I thought myself, and
I told the respectable Spink so, too. I told him I had had an offer of
two thousand a year in his own line of business. He said that no firm
in London could afford the money. 'Why,' he cried, waxing angry, 'I
could get a Duke for that.'"

"'Well,' I replied, 'it is purely a matter of business with me. I was
offered two thousand pounds a year as ornamental man by a most charming
young lady, who has a studio in South Kensington, and who is herself,
when dressed up as an artist, prettier than any picture that ever
entered the Royal Academy'; that's what I told Spink."

The girl looked up at him, first with indignation in her eyes, and then
with a smile hovering about her pretty lips.

"You said nothing of the sort," she answered, "for you knew nothing
about this studio at that time, so you see I am not going to emulate
your dishonesty by pretending not to know you are referring to me."

"My dishonesty!" exclaimed the young man, with protest in his voice. "I
am the most honest, straightforward person alive, and I believe I would
take your two thousand a year offer if I didn't think I could do
better."

"Where, in South Africa?"

"No, in South Kensington. I think that when the lady learns how useful
I could be around a studio--oh, I could learn to wash brushes, sweep
out the room, prepare canvases, light the fire; and how nicely I could
hand around cups of tea when she had her 'At Homes,' and exhibited her
pictures! When she realises this, and sees what a bargain she is
getting, I feel almost certain she will not make any terms at all."

The young man sprang from the table, and the girl rose from her chair,
a look almost of alarm in her face. He caught her by the arms.

"What do you think, Miss Linderham? You know the lady. Don't you think
she would refuse to have anything to do with a cad like Billy Heckle,
rich as he is, and would prefer a humble, hard-working farmer from the
Cape?"

The girl did not answer his question.

"Are you going to break my arms as you threatened to do his wrists last
night?"

"Maggie," he whispered, in a low voice, with an intense ring in it, "I
am going to break nothing but my own heart if you refuse me."

The girl looked up at him with a smile.

"I knew when you came in you weren't going to South Africa, Dick," was
all she said; and he, taking advantage of her helplessness, kissed her.



PURIFICATION.


Eugène Caspilier sat at one of the metal tables of the Café Égalité,
allowing the water from the carafe to filter slowly through a lump of
sugar and a perforated spoon into his glass of absinthe. It was not an
expression of discontent that was to be seen on the face of Caspilier,
but rather a fleeting shade of unhappiness which showed he was a man to
whom the world was being unkind. On the opposite side of the little
round table sat his friend and sympathising companion, Henri Lacour. He
sipped his absinthe slowly, as absinthe should be sipped, and it was
evident that he was deeply concerned with the problem that confronted
his comrade.

"Why, in Heaven's name, did you marry her? That, surely, was not
necessary."

Eugène shrugged his shoulders. The shrug said plainly, "Why, indeed?
Ask me an easier one."

For some moments there was silence between the two. Absinthe is not a
liquor to be drunk hastily, or even to be talked over too much in the
drinking. Henri did not seem to expect any other reply than the
expressive shrug, and each man consumed his beverage dreamily, while
the absinthe, in return for this thoughtful consideration, spread over
them its benign influence, gradually lifting from their minds all care
and worry, dispersing the mental clouds that hover over all men at
times, thinning the fog until it disappeared, rather than rolling the
vapour away, as the warm sun dissipates into invisibility the opaque
morning mists, leaving nothing but clear air, all round, and a blue sky
overhead.

"A man must live," said Caspilier at last; "and the profession of
decadent poet is not a lucrative one. Of course there is undying fame
in the future, but then we must have our absinthe in the present. Why
did I marry her, you ask? I was the victim of my environment. I must
write poetry; to write poetry, I must live; to live, I must have money;
to get money, I was forced to marry. Valdorême is one of the best
pastry-cooks in Paris; is it my fault, then, that the Parisians have a
greater love for pastry than for poetry? Am I to blame that her wares
are more sought for at her shop than are mine at the booksellers'? I
would willingly have shared the income of the shop with her without the
folly of marriage, but Valdorême has strange, barbaric notions which
were not overturnable by civilised reason. Still my action was not
wholly mercenary, nor indeed mainly so. There was a rhythm about her
name that pleased me. Then she is a Russian, and my country and hers
were at that moment in each other's arms, so I proposed to Valdorême
that we follow the national example. But, alas! Henri, my friend, I
find that even ten years' residence in Paris will not eliminate the
savage from the nature of a Russian. In spite of the name that sounds
like the soft flow of a rich mellow wine, my wife is little better than
a barbarian. When I told her about Tenise, she acted like a mad woman--
drove me into the streets."

"But why did you tell her about Tenise?"

"_Pourquoi?_ How I hate that word! Why! Why!! Why!!! It dogs one's
actions like a bloodhound, eternally yelping for a reason. It seems to
me that a11 my life I have had to account to an inquiring why. I don't
know why I told her; it did not appear to be a matter requiring any
thought or consideration. I spoke merely because Tenise came into my
mind at the moment. But after that, the deluge; I shudder when I think
of it."

"Again the why?" said the poet's friend. "Why not cease to think of
conciliating your wife? Russians are unreasoning aborigines. Why not
take up life in a simple poetic way with Tenise, and avoid the Rue de
Russie altogether?"

Caspilier sighed gently. Here fate struck him hard. "Alas! my friend,
it is impossible. Tenise is an artist's model, and those brutes of
painters who get such prices for their daubs, pay her so little each
week that her wages would hardly keep me in food and drink. My paper,
pens, and ink I can get at the cafés, but how am I to clothe myself? If
Valdorême would but make us a small allowance, we could be so happy.
Valdorême is madame, as I have so often told her, and she owes me
something for that; but she actually thinks that because a man is
married he should come dutifully home like a bourgeois grocer. She has
no poetry, no sense of the needs of a literary man, in her nature."

Lacour sorrowfully admitted that the situation had its embarrassments.
The first glass of absinthe did not show clearly how they were to be
met, but the second brought bravery with it, and he nobly offered to
beard the Russian lioness in her den, explain the view Paris took of
her unjustifiable conduct, and, if possible, bring her to reason.

Caspilier's emotion overcame him, and he wept silently, while his
friend, in eloquent language, told how famous authors, whose names were
France's proudest possession, had been forgiven by their wives for
slight lapses from strict domesticity, and these instances, he said, he
would recount to Madame Valdorême, and so induce her to follow such
illustrious examples.

The two comrades embraced and separated; the friend to use his
influence and powers of persuasion with Valdorême; the husband to tell
Tenise how blessed they were in having such a friend to intercede for
them; for Tenise, bright little Parisienne that she was, bore no malice
against the unreasonable wife of her lover.

Henri Lacour paused opposite the pastry-shop on the Rue de Russie that
bore the name of "Valdorême" over the temptingly filled windows. Madame
Caspilier had not changed the title of her well-known shop when she
gave up her own name. Lacour caught sight of her serving her customers,
and he thought she looked more like a Russian princess than a
shopkeeper. He wondered now at the preference of his friend for the
petite black-haired model. Valdorême did not seem more than twenty; she
was large, and strikingly handsome, with abundant auburn hair that was
almost red. Her beautifully moulded chin denoted perhaps too much
firmness, and was in striking contrast to the weakness of her husband's
lower face. Lacour almost trembled as she seemed to flash one look
directly at him, and, for a moment, he feared she had seen him
loitering before the window. Her eyes were large, of a limpid amber
colour, but deep within them smouldered a fire that Lacour felt he
would not care to see blaze up. His task now wore a different aspect
from what it had worn in front of the Café Égalité. Hesitating a
moment, he passed the shop, and, stopping at a neighbouring café,
ordered another glass of absinthe. It is astonishing how rapidly the
genial influence of this stimulant departs!

Fortified once again, he resolved to act before his courage had time to
evaporate, and so, goading himself on with the thought that no man
should be afraid to meet any woman, be she Russian or civilised, he
entered the shop, making his most polite bow to Madame Caspilier.

"I have come, madame," he began, "as the friend of your husband, to
talk with you regarding his affairs."

"Ah!" said Valdorême; and Henri saw with dismay the fires deep down in
her eyes rekindle. But she merely gave some instructions to an
assistant, and, turning to Lacour, asked him to be so good as to follow
her.

She led him through the shop and up a stair at the back, throwing open
a door on the first floor. Lacour entered a neat drawing-room, with
windows opening out upon the street. Madame Caspilier seated herself at
a table, resting her elbow upon it, shading her eyes with her hand, and
yet Lacour felt them searching his very soul.

"Sit down," she said. "You are my husband's friend. What have you to
say?"

Now, it is a difficult thing for a man to tell a beautiful woman that
her husband--for the moment--prefers some one else, so Lacour began on
generalities. He said a poet might be likened to a butterfly, or
perhaps to the more industrious bee, who sipped honey from every
flower, and so enriched the world. A poet was a law unto himself, and
should not be judged harshly from what might be termed a shopkeeping
point of view. Then Lacour, warming to his work, gave many instances
where the wives of great men had condoned and even encouraged their
husbands' little idiosyncrasies, to the great augmenting of our most
valued literature.

Now and then, as this eloquent man talked, Valdorême's eyes seemed to
flame dangerously in the shadow, but the woman neither moved nor
interrupted him while he spoke. When he had finished, her voice sounded
cold and unimpassioned, and he felt with relief that the outbreak he
had feared was at least postponed.

"You would advise me then," she began, "to do as the wife of that great
novelist did, and invite my husband and the woman he admires to my
table?"

"Oh, I don't say I could ask you to go so far as that," said Lacour;
"but----"

"I'm no halfway woman. It is all or nothing with me. If I invited my
husband to dine with me, I would also invite this creature--What is her
name? Tenise, you say. Well, I would invite her too. Does she know he
is a married man?"

"Yes," cried Lacour eagerly; "but I assure you, madame, she has nothing
but the kindliest feelings towards you. There is no jealousy about
Tenise."

"How good of her! How very good of her!" said the Russian woman, with
such bitterness that Lacour fancied uneasily that he had somehow made
an injudicious remark, whereas all his efforts were concentrated in a
desire to conciliate and please.

"Very well," said Valdorême, rising. "You may tell my husband that you
have been successful in your mission. Tell him that I will provide for
them both. Ask them to honour me with their presence at breakfast to-
morrow morning at twelve o'clock. If he wants money, as you say, here
are two hundred francs, which will perhaps be sufficient for his wants
until midday to-morrow."

Lacour thanked her with a profuse graciousness that would have
delighted any ordinary giver, but Valdorême stood impassive like a
tragedy queen, and seemed only anxious that he should speedily take his
departure, now that his errand was done.

The heart of the poet was filled with joy when he heard from his friend
that at last Valdorême had come to regard his union with Tenise in the
light of reason. Caspilier, as he embraced Lacour, admitted that
perhaps there was something to be said for his wife after all.

The poet dressed himself with more than usual care on the day of the
feast, and Tenise, who accompanied him, put on some of the finery that
had been bought with Valdorême's donation. She confessed that she
thought Eugène's wife had acted with consideration towards them, but
maintained that she did not wish to meet her, for, judging from
Caspilier's account, his wife must be a somewhat formidable and
terrifying person; still she went with him, she said, solely through
good nature, and a desire to heal family differences. Tenise would do
anything in the cause of domestic peace.

The shop assistant told the pair, when they had dismissed the cab, that
madame was waiting for them upstairs. In the drawing-room Valdorême was
standing with her back to the window like a low-browed goddess, her
tawny hair loose over her shoulders, and the pallor of her face made
more conspicuous by her costume of unrelieved black. Caspilier, with
the grace characteristic of him, swept off his hat, and made a low,
deferential bow; but when he straightened himself up, and began to say
the complimentary things and poetical phrases he had put together for
the occasion at the café the night before, the lurid look of the
Russian made his tongue falter; and Tenise, who had never seen a woman
of this sort before, laughed a nervous, half-frightened little laugh,
and clung closer to her lover than before. The wife was even more
forbidding than she had imagined. Valdorême shuddered slightly when she
saw this intimate movement on the part of her rival, and her hand
clenched and unclenched convulsively.

"Come," she said, cutting short her husband's halting harangue, and
sweeping past them, drawing her skirts aside on nearing Tenise, she led
the way up to the dining-room a floor higher.

"I'm afraid of her," whimpered Tenise, holding back. "She will poison
us."

"Nonsense," said Caspilier, in a whisper. "Come along. She is too fond
of me to attempt anything of that kind, and you are safe when I am
here."

Valdorême sat at the head of the table, with her husband at her right
hand and Tenise on her left. The breakfast was the best either of them
had ever tasted. The hostess sat silent, but no second talker was
needed when the poet was present. Tenise laughed merrily now and then
at his bright sayings, for the excellence of the meal had banished her
fears of poison.

"What penetrating smell is this that fills the room? Better open the
window," said Caspilier.

"It is nothing," replied Valdorême, speaking for the first time since
they had sat down. "It is only naphtha. I have had this room cleaned
with it. The window won't open, and if it would, we could not hear you
talk with the noise from the street."

The poet would suffer anything rather than have his eloquence
interfered with, so he said no more about the fumes of naphtha. When
the coffee was brought in, Valdorême dismissed the trim little maid who
had waited on them.

"I have some of your favourite cigarettes here. I will get them."

She arose, and, as she went to the table on which the boxes lay, she
quietly and deftly locked the door, and, pulling out the key, slipped
it into her pocket.

"Do you smoke, mademoiselle?" she asked, speaking to Tenise. She had
not recognised her presence before.

"Sometimes, madame," answered the girl, with a titter.

"You will find these cigarettes excellent. My husband's taste in
cigarettes is better than in many things. He prefers the Russian to the
French."

Caspilier laughed loudly.

"That's a slap at you, Tenise," he said.

"At me? Not so; she speaks of cigarettes, and I myself prefer the
Russian, only they are so expensive."

A look of strange eagerness came into Valdorême's expressive face,
softened by a touch of supplication. Her eyes were on her husband, but
she said rapidly to the girl----"

"Stop a moment, mademoiselle. Do not light your cigarette until I give
the word."

Then to her husband she spoke beseechingly in Russian, a language she
had taught him in the early months of their marriage.

"Eugenio, Eugenio! Don't you see the girl's a fool? How can you care
for her? She would be as happy with the first man she met in the
street. I--I think only of you. Come back to me, Eugenio."

She leaned over the table towards him, and in her vehemence clasped his
wrist. The girl watched them both with a smile. It reminded her of a
scene in an opera she had heard once in a strange language. The prima
donna had looked and pleaded like Valdorême.

Caspilier shrugged his shoulders, but did not withdraw his wrist from
her firm grasp.

"Why go over the whole weary ground again?" he said. "If it were not
Tenise, it would be somebody else. I was never meant for a constant
husband, Val. I understood from Lacour that we were to have no more of
this nonsense."

She slowly relaxed her hold on his unresisting wrist. The old, hard,
tragic look came into her face as she drew a deep breath. The fire in
the depths of her amber eyes rekindled, as the softness went out of
them.

"You may light your cigarette now, mademoiselle," she said almost in a
whisper to Tenise.

"I swear I could light mine in your eyes, Val.," cried her husband.
"You would make a name for yourself on the stage. I will write a
tragedy for you, and we will----"

Tenise struck the match. A simultaneous flash of lightning and clap of
thunder filled the room. The glass in the window fell clattering into
the street. Valdorême was standing with her back against the door.
Tenise, fluttering her helpless little hands before her, tottered
shrieking to the broken window. Caspilier, staggering panting to his
feet, gasped--

"You Russian devil! The key, the key!"

He tried to clutch her throat, but she pushed him back.

"Go to your Frenchwoman. She's calling for help."

Tenise sank by the window, one burning arm over the sill, and was
silent. Caspilier, mechanically beating back the fire from his shaking
head, whimpering and sobbing, fell against the table, and then went
headlong on the floor.

Valdorême, a pillar, of fire, swaying gently to and fro before the
door, whispered in a voice of agony--

"Oh, Eugene, Eugene!" and flung herself like a flaming angel--or fiend
--on the prostrate form of the man.





*** End of this LibraryBlog Digital Book "Revenge!" ***

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