"The patients in my clinic of psycho-therapy do not find it so,"

answered Dr. Bayre. He turned to me. "You have followed some of my

cases. Do you think that the wife of the _ouvrier_ has found it

unsatisfying? Formerly she received a beating, on an average, once a

month, when her husband was drunk. Now he does not drink, and she is

no longer beaten. There are many similar cases which I have seen."

He lit a cigarette and frowned.

"I beg your pardon, Doctor," said Jones. "I don't mean to detract

from the practical value of your science. I was speaking generally

of the usual manifestations of spiritism: levitation and telepathy

and messages from the dead and all the rest. In spite of the claims

of mediums, I notice that none of them has taken up Le Bon's

challenge in the Matin to shift a solid weight from one table to

another before witnesses. And they must need the money, too."

"There are reasons. Also there are charlatans. Yet again, people

needing money who could shift weights at will and without machinery

would not be professional mediums. They would engage in the business

of furniture moving."

"But can't you offer this Philistine something concrete from your own

experience, Doctor?" asked I.

"What is the use? He would not believe."

Jones flushed. "I beg your pardon, Doctor. Your word is far more

convincing than my doubts."

The psychologist turned to him with a smile.

"That is nicely put." His fine, broad-browed, highly intellectual

face grew thoughtful. "Yes," he said, "I will show you something. I

do not as a rule waste time convincing skeptics, but to you I feel

that I owe something because I have so much enjoyed your tales.

Excuse me for a moment."

He flicked his cigarette into the fire, rose lightly to his feet and

left the room, to return a moment later with some leaves of paper

held together in clips, and a newspaper.

"This is quite a long story, and as it proceeds you will recognize

the characters and the events. But please do not interrupt--not even

by an exclamation of surprise."

He laid the papers upon the table at his side, leaned back in his

chair and brought the tips of his fingers together.

"One night," said he, "I felt myself to be unduly sensitive. As I

have remarked before, my personal faculty lies almost wholly in

producing or inducing what are known as mediumistic qualities in

others. Myself, I have had very little of what is known as 'occult

experience.' Take, for instance, the practice of crystal gazing;

only twice have I ever seen anything in a crystal globe, although I

have tried repeatedly.

"This night, as I have said, I felt myself to be highly sensitive,

and it occurred to me to look into the ball, so I went into my study

and turned down the lights and set myself to gaze. I do not know

just how long I had been looking, when suddenly I observed the

phenomenon so often described to me by my patients and others, but

seen for the first time with my own eyes. The crystal clouded,

became milky and opaque, then cleared, and I found myself looking

into the face of a man. He was a handsome fellow, of somewhat over

thirty, thoroughbred in type. The whole face was well known to me; I

recognized it as one that I had frequently seen, and presently I

recalled it as belonging to a gentleman whom I had often met when

riding in the Bois.

"But what impressed me the most was the expression of earnest, almost

agonized entreaty. The eyes looked straight into mine with an appeal

which haunted me. However, knowing the irrelevance of pictures seen

in this way, I tried to put the vision out of my mind and to

congratulate myself that my efforts had finally met with success.

"Two nights later, I looked into the globe again, when to my

amazement the same face appeared almost instantly; this time the

expression of entreaty, the mute and agonized appeal, was even more

intense, and I saw the lips move as if imploring aid. Then the

picture vanished, leaving me shocked and startled.

"'This,' I said to myself, 'is more than coincidence.' I went to my

telephone and called up a person with whom I had several times

conducted experiments, and who was possessed of considerable

mediumistic faculty. I requested her to come to my office at once.

"When she arrived I told what had occurred, and she agreed that it

was undoubtedly an effort to communicate on the part of some entity

who was in trouble. I suggested hypnotism, but she proposed that we

first attempt communication by means of what is known as automatic

writing.

"Before she had been sitting five minutes with the writing block on

her knee, the pencil began to move. At the end of perhaps ten

minutes I looked over her shoulder and found, to my disgust, the

usual jumble of vulgar and meaningless sentences which is so often

the result of this method of communication. Much disappointed, I put

a stop to the writing, and asking her to wait, I went into my study

and wrote a short note to another acquaintance with whom I have had

many discussions on these matters. The note I gave to my servant,

with instructions to jump into a motor cab and deliver it at once,

bringing the gentleman back with him if possible. About twenty

minutes later he arrived, when I explained the whole coincidence.

"'Yes' said he, 'somebody is undoubtedly trying to communicate with

you, but is unable to gain access to your medium. Perhaps we may be

able to remedy that.'

"'Then go ahead and do so,' said I. 'We are quite at your command.'

"He went ahead then with a formulary which he had learned from his

Oriental studies in occultism and Hindoo magic, and which I had

always regarded as the mystic rubbish with which time and tradition

have interlarded scientific truth. First he requested that I sit in

the middle of the room facing my medium and at a distance of about

three feet. Then he closed the doors and windows, and taking the

fire shovel, proceeded to roast incense until we were nearly choked

by the fumes. Thereafter, taking an ebony wand from his inner

pocket, he drew a circle about us, and having ascertained the points

of the compass, drew pentagrams at the four cardinal ones,

accompanying each design with an invocation. All of this consumed

some time, during which I sat there, half interested, half ashamed

and wholly skeptical.

"'This formula,' he remarked when he had finished, 'is one used by

the Hindoos to keep out undesired entities when it is wished to

communicate with some particular one. Now, Doctor, please invoke the

presence of the person with whom you want to communicate, and request

that he avail himself of the services of your medium.'

"Accordingly I did so. 'Will the entity whose face appeared to me in

the crystal sphere please to come within the circle,' said I, 'and

transmit his message through the pencil in the hands of the medium!'

"Several minutes passed without result; then suddenly the pencil

began to move with great rapidity and apparent definite purpose. The

sheets which I have here consist of a copy of the original, made by

myself for reasons which I will presently relate. I will now read

them. The narrative began abruptly, as you will see, and it was not

until I had read for some length that I was able to recall certain

instances."

Dr. Bayre adjusted his spectacles, and picking up the sheaf of pages

read as follows:

"'... All that her kindness did for me remained imprinted upon a

brain which she supposed to be stupefied from violence. For although

my body was completely paralyzed for several days, my mind was active

throughout--abnormally so, I think, as the impressions which remained

were strong and detailed as though of a series of pictures I had

painted.

"'Unlike my friend De Neuville and the _mécanicien_, I preserved the

clearest recollection of the details of the accident itself. We were

making over a hundred kilometers an hour, I shame to say, upon a

greasy road, when that _char-à-banc_ full of children shot out of the

gate and across the track. At such a moment our actions are governed

by some higher intelligence and we need take no credit for them to

ourselves. A strength not of my body twisted the wheel in my hands

and flung the big car over the edge of the bank. Why not? A

nameless aristocrat, a _mécanicien_ and a mediocre painter! What did

their lives weigh against those of a wagonload of children?

"'The crash itself is vague, but I remember the dreamlike journey on

the swaying stretcher across the meadow, and down the cool, shady

lane. It was here that De Neuville spread a scarf over my face, but

it slipped off when they get me down in the antechamber of the

chateau.

"'Through half-closed eyes I looked across the threshold of the

somber hall and toward the great stairway. Everybody was watching

the stair, and presently there was a subdued, expectant murmur.

"_Voici madame qui descend--voici madame_," I heard in whispers,

which carried a note of relief, of confidence. Numb as I was, a

tremor passed through me. And then I heard the tap-tap-tap of even

steps, and a white-clad figure drifted down within my line of vision.

"'I find it difficult to tell how she appeared to me as I lay there,

an all but disembodied consciousness. What most impressed me was her

exquisite harmony with her surroundings. Strong and compassionate

and undismayed, she crossed the hall to where I lay, and stood for a

moment looking down upon me, her face tender with sympathy, her eyes

very dark and deep. "_Quel malheur!_" I heard her say, beneath her

breath.

"'For myself, there was the odd quality of utter detachment from it

all. I could not realize myself that all this was being done for me.

She followed me as they carried me up the stairs, and for many hours

which followed it was only the delight I found in watching her which

held my insecure soul to its heavy body. It would have been so easy

to have gently loosed my hold and slipped out into the long, cool

shadows. But because of the wish to see her once more I lingered, at

times reluctantly. In this desire to see her there was nothing

personal, nothing of self. I could not speak, could not feel, could

not even formulate an abstract thought, I could only look at my

pictures, but as my mental power slowly grew these brought daily a

deeper delight. It was then that I began to consider her not as a

picture but as a person. I studied her features, her movements,

gestures, expression, of which last there was never a woman's face so

rich. I watched her, I will confess to my shame, through half-closed

lids, when she thought me still wrapped in clouds. My speech was not

yet articulate, but to myself I called her my "perfect chatelaine."

"These gray walls and velvety lawns and old tapestries all love her,"

I thought, "because she has been wrought by them and their kind from

many generations. No wonder that they enhance her and lend

themselves a setting to her faultless grace! No wonder that she

cannot strike a note to which they fail to vibrate! They belong to

her and she to them, and they love her! Only France could have

produced her," I told myself. "My Perfect Chatelaine!"

"'And so you can imagine my surprise when one evening she leaned from

my window and called down softly to her little son, in English which

carried the unmistakable accent of my native Virginia: "Your supper

is waiting for you, dear!"

"'No wonder she found me with wide, staring eyes when she turned to

leave the room! An American woman! She, my Perfect Chatelaine, whom

it had taken centuries to perfect, and whom only France could ever

have produced! The blood rushed to my head. I swear that it was

more of a shock than the four-meter plunge in the racing car!

"'And this was the limit of my knowledge concerning her. I knew only

that she was the widow of the late Count Etienne de Lancy-Chaumont,

that she had a little son whom she adored and a mother-in-law who was

jealous of her. This much I learned at Chateau Fontenaye.

"'As soon as my doctor would permit, after being taken back to Paris,

I wrote to her, and received in answer a charming letter which went

far toward hastening my convalescence. Thereafter we wrote

frequently, and then one glorious day when I was sitting on the

balcony of my studio at Dinard she came to me. She must have seen

the soul pouring from my eyes, for her sweet face grew rich as the

sunset, while her breath came quickly. I rose from my

_chaise-longue_ and took the small hand which she offered me.

"'"My Perfect Chatelaine!" was all that I could say.

"'This was the beginning of that brief epoch which comes in the

earthly cycle of most of us to pay so royally for all of the pain and

sorrow and discouragement which go to make a lifetime. Not long

after, on the edge of the cliffs at Etretat, whither we had motored

with a party, we found ourselves alone, looking out across the bright

sunlit sea, the breeze on our faces and the hiss of the breakers on

the cobbly beach below. There, her beautiful head against my

shoulder and her hands in mine, she confessed to me a love such as I

had never dared hope to gain.

"'Six weeks later we were quietly married in the little chapel of

Chateau de Fontenaye, and the week following found us in Switzerland.

Small need for us to make the ascent of mountains! We dwelt always

on the heights, and the clouds formed our carpet. But because we

were young and strong and thrilling with life, we must needs make the

ascent. We were both experienced Alpinists and loved the sport, and

so one day, as if to tempt the high gods who had favored us, we

secured our guides--'"

Dr. Bayre stopped abruptly.

"At this point," said he, "the writing was interrupted for several

minutes. When it recommenced I observed that the pencil was moving

more slowly and in quite a different manner. Leaning forward to look

on the pad, I saw to my disgust that the hand had changed its

character, while the words themselves were random and foolish.

"'Some other intelligence has thrust itself in and got control of the

medium,' said my friend. 'Let us see if we cannot oust him.'

"With that he proceeded to roast some more incense, then placed

himself in front of the medium and delivered what appeared to be an

exorcism. After that he retraced his circle, wove his pentagrams,

mumbled his Sanskrit formula and then requested me to reinvoke the

desired entity. This I did, feeling, I must say, rather like a fool,

for although my own psychological work may seem dark and mysterious

to the uninstructed, it is nevertheless all based on well established

scientific knowledge and contains nothing of mummery and such

hodge-podge as meaningless incantations and the like. Almost

immediately the writing recommenced, and I saw to my gratification

that it was in the same hand as the preceding narrative. But it

appeared that some of the connecting passages had been lost, for the

text began in this manner:

"'... looked over the tossing sea of distant snowpeaks, when the pale

beauty of the Alpine dawn burst into flame before the glory of the

sunrise.

"'Side by side in the doorway of the cabane, we stood and watched the

majesty of day unfold itself upon a frozen world. Roseate rays shot

to the zenith; the cold, hard rim of a distant icepeak melted and

swam in the face of the jubilant sun. Then the blue and saffron of

the snow mountains were scored by crimson bands, exultant tongues of

living flame which leaped from glacier to lofty snow cornice and

suffused with blushes the pale face of the virgin snow.

"'I turned to look into the face of my bride. Her eyes were

brimming, the rosy flush of the sunrise was on her cheeks and her

sweet lips quivered. Her gaze met mine and she threw her arms about

my neck.

"'"It is so beautiful that it frightens me!" she whispered.

"'"What, sweetheart?" I asked. "The Alpine sunrise?"

"'"Yes," she murmured. "It is like my love for you.--each moment

growing fuller and more all-possessing."

"'Our head guide, Perreton, came to the door of the _cabane_ and

pointed out to us our route.

"'"We ascend on this side, madame," said he, "crossing the snow

_couloir_ you see above you, then following the _arête_ to the other

side of the _calotte_ to the left, thence to the summit. That will

take us the better part of the day, but we can _glissade_ down very

quickly on the other side. It should be easy going. There have been

three days of the northeast wind and the snow is in good condition."

"'Soon afterward we set out, proceeding in two parties, the first

consisting of Perreton, my wife and Regier, while I followed, leading

the porter.

"'The ascent was safe and easy until, about halfway to the summit, we

came to a broad ice traverse where it was decided to rope all

together as the crossing was of considerable width, with anchorage

here and there at long intervals where the smooth ice was broken by

small patches of hard snow. Perreton, who was in the lead, cut the

steps with skill and despatch, and we were about halfway across when

we found ourselves in a position out of reach of any anchorage and

where every member of the party was in danger at the same time. In

such a place the rope, although of assistance in maintaining the

balance and in giving confidence to the climber, is a deathtrap to

the entire party should one member be guilty of a misstep. But

mountain climbers are not supposed to make missteps, and it was

decided not to unrope.

"'Below us the slope descended steeply for perhaps one hundred

meters, where it ended abruptly in a precipice. But to experienced

climbers like ourselves, possessed of steady heads and with competent

guides, the crossing presented the very slightest element of danger.

So far was an idea of peril removed from our minds that my wife and I

were chatting back and forth as we slowly proceeded.

"'Perhaps it was this ill-advised relaxation on our part which led to

Zeigler's fatal carelessness. He was the last man on the rope, and

halfway over, all our backs being turned to him, he proceeded to

light his pipe. As fate ordained, just as the unhappy man was

holding the match to the bowl, all his attention centered on the act,

I stepped forward. The slack of the rope was in his hands, and as it

slightly tautened the pipe was knocked from his mouth and fell. I

heard his exclamation, and, glancing over my shoulder, saw him grab

for it with his free hand. As he did so his foot slipped, and the

next instant he had lost his balance. His _piolet_, or ice axe, the

spike of which was jammed into the ice, fell to one side. Realizing

his danger, he snatched desperately for the shaft, but failed to grip

it, and sent it spinning down the slope, he himself sprawling after

it.

"'Nothing is more helpless than a climber adrift on an ice slope

without his axe, and, realizing the awful danger should the rope

spring taut suddenly, I was obliged to let go the shaft of my own

_piolet_ in order to gather in the slack with both hands. Then I

braced my feet to meet the strain. Below me swung Zeigler, quite

powerless, and to the right and slightly above me Regier, who saw

what had happened, quickly gathered in the slack between himself and

me. Then the rope between Zeigler and myself straightened, and to

ease the suddenness of the strain I let it slip slowly between my

fingers until it had run its full length and the tug came upon the

middleman's knot around my waist.

"'And so we stood, Zeigler, glaring up from beneath with blanched

face and wild, terror-stricken eyes; I myself, barely able to support

his weight, wondered how long I could hold him there. Above me,

sturdy Regier, his face frozen as rigid as the ice upon which we

stood, glanced swiftly from one to the other of us in awful doubt and

apprehension.

"'"Can you hold him?" he cried, and his voice boomed thick and

muffled in my ear.

"'"Not for long," I answered breathlessly.

"'He glanced over his shoulder at my wife, and I knew well what was

passing in his mind.

"'"Then cut!" he cried hoarsely. "It is death for all of us!"

"'I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak. Regier raised his

voice.

"'"Zeigler!" he cried. "If you are a man--cut the rope!"

"'"God's mercy!" wailed the wretched porter. "I have no knife!"

"'"Then slip the bowline!" bellowed Perreton. "Monsieur cannot hold

you, and if he falls madame will be dragged to her death!"

"'And then, in the awful tension, came the voice of my bride, sweet,

tuneful and unafraid.

"'"Madame goes with her husband," she said.

"'Regier swung swiftly in his tracks, growling like a bear.

"'"Madame remains!" he shouted, and raising her ice axe with one

powerful blow, he severed the rope between them, then came toward me,

gathering the slack with his free hand.

"'But he was too late. Below me Zeigler, himself a brave man and

eager to repair his fatal error at any cost, was struggling to loose

the "endman's knot" around his waist. The vibration from his

movements proved too great a strain for my insecure footing, and I

felt the nails of my shoes grinding through the ice.

"'"Cut between us, Regier!" I cried.

"'"Never!" snarled Regier, plunging toward me. "Cut below you! Cut!

Cut!"

"'"Cut, m'sieu'!" echoed Zeigler stranglingly. "I tell you to cut!"

"'Regier had almost reached me when my foothold was torn away and I

felt myself going. "At least," I thought, "there is no need for

Regier to die." Snatching the knife from my belt, I slashed through

the rope above me, and as I did so I fell forward, slipping down upon

Zeigler. But my knife was in my hand, and, throwing myself upon my

face, I bore all of my weight upon the haft, driving the point into

the ice. For a moment I thought that we might clutch it and arrest

our course, but the next instant the blade snapped and I realized

that hope was dead.

"'Downward we slipped, slowly at first, then with gathering speed.

Looking back, I saw my wife, both hands clasped to her mouth, her

face writhing in torture. She looked toward Perreton, and I knew as

well as though she had spoken the words that had she not been roped

to him she would have flung herself downward to join me. The guide

himself, reading what was passing in her mind, drew in the slack of

the rope between them, and none too soon, for all at once she

screamed, and seizing the _piolet_ by the head, began to saw

impotently at the tough hemp. Perreton cried out, then walked

quickly toward her and tore the axe from her hands, and this was the

last I saw, my wife and the guide struggling and swaying on the

steep, glittering icefield.

"'Down we shot, Zeigler and I, toward the fearful brink--and the

moments were drawn out into an eternity. Down, on down, tearing our

fingers, scraping with our heavy boots, yet speaking no word,

writhing and twisting and with ever-gaining speed. Then Zeigler

reached the brink--a cry burst from him as he disappeared--the rope

tautened violently and I shot forward--forward and over, and saw

beneath me the abyss yawning in shadows a thousand feet below. The

cold air scorched my face--the soul within me leaped to meet the

infinite--and then, oblivion.

"'I awoke as from a deep and restful sleep. There was no pain in my

body, no sensation but that of dreamy peace and infinite well being.

"'Far overhead the stars glittered brightly in the cold, clear sky

and the moon looked down directly on me as I lay.

"'Slowly consciousness and memory returned. I realized all that had

occurred: the fearful accident, the swift gliding down the ice slope,

the anguish on the face of my wife, the soaring plunge from the brink.

"'"A miracle," I thought. "A miracle of miracles. That one can have

such a fall and live! Truly, the high gods have worked for me!"

"'Awed and wondering, I cast my eyes about. It was a place of snow

and stones, ragged bowlders and broken fragments of ice. A few feet

distant lay the mangled body of Zeigler, and I shuddered while the

wonder within me increased.

"'"How then," I thought, "can it be that I have escaped unhurt,

unbruised and more at ease than ever in my life?" I raised myself

with a lightness which astonished me, and saw that I lay on broken

rocks, jagged and rough--and as I looked my soul was enveloped in a

great and awful understanding. For there, grotesquely twisted,

lay--my own body--and I saw that which told me that there was left in

it no trace of what we mortals in our fatuous ignorance call "life."

"'Yet with this realization there came no shock, as we mortals know

it, but a swift and fearful exhilaration.

"'"Then I am free--free!" was all that I could feel. "I am free of

this heavy, senseless thing that lies mangled here--free to go to her

whom I love!" And as if in answer to my thought came a swift and

irresistible impulse.

"'Light as air, I rose from that dreadful spot and found myself

flitting faster than the wind over snow and ice, glacier and moraine,

until the lights of the village below me sparkled through the frosty

air. Yonder was the Alpine hamlet where we had lodged before

beginning our ascent; there the auberge where we had slept--and then

I had reached it and drifted on the pale rays of the moon through the

frosted window and found myself within the room.

"'Other things had passed me and surrounded me in my flight; things

which you in your world could not understand and which I myself lack

power to express even if I would, for there is no common language

with which to interpret the conditions of these two worlds of ours,

that of the living and that of the--more alive. As I entered the

room all of my disembodied soul poured out to her whom I love.

"'Sobbing, sobbing, sobbing--the low, breathless grief of that sweet

sufferer who needed only fuller understanding to raise her from the

depths of her despair to joy ineffable. For a brief moment it seemed

that this had been achieved, From the foot of the bed I whispered her

name, and she heard me and with a wild, rapturous cry sprang upright.

She saw me standing there in the shimmering moonlight, and I moved to

her side and gathered her in my arms, and the next instant her soul

had torn its way from the body which enthralled it and we were

together, happy beyond description in this new world of mine, while

her human habitation fell back upon the pillows in what men call

"unconsciousness."

"'Yet our peace was not for long. Tied as she was to that earthly

vehicle, she was forced to leave me and return, when, according to

mortal laws, she carried with her no memory of that which had passed

between us but awoke to a grief in which I shared from beyond. Ah,

the needless misery of the dear bereaved! If only they knew! If

only they knew!

"'Since then she has come to me often. But in her waking state all

recollection of these communions is swept away, nor have I ever again

been able to communicate with her save sleep has loosed the bonds.

Even then it happens frequently that her intelligence is dimmed and

distorted by those fantastic discharges of the sleeping brain which

men call "dreams," and my presence brings neither peace nor

understanding. But waking and sleeping I am with her always, bound

to this phase by her want for me, and sometimes she feels my nearness

vaguely and it soothes her grief.

"'Now I have learned that the strain and the hunger of her desire has

nearly broken her resolute spirit, and I know that she has formed the

determination to break from her earthly bonds by her own act. Should

she do this our meeting must be long delayed, for in this place where

I find myself there is no entry for those who with their own hands

curtail the mortal span assigned to them. Let her but wail a little

while and we shall be together, happy beyond mortal conception. But

for the suicide there is still another phase, an intermediate plane,

a road still to be traversed before...'

"At this point," said Dr. Bayre, "the writing was discontinued. It

did not much matter, except in the interest of science, for the

message had been delivered. Accordingly I brought the seance to a

close.

"The next day I sent for a mutual friend, for of course I recognized

the identity of the intelligence who had delivered the message, as no

doubt you have done. To this gentleman I showed the writing, without

permitting him to do more than glance at the text.

"'Is this hand familiar to you?' I asked.

"He nodded, his face very grave.

"'Yes' said he; 'that is the handwriting of poor Stanley Wetherill.

He was killed, as you know, in a mountain accident while on his

honeymoon.'

"'And his wife?' I asked.

"'She is a broken-hearted woman.'

"'Where is she now?' I asked.

"'At the Chateau Fontenaye, I believe. She was a widow when Stanley

married her. He was badly hurt while automobiling and taken to the

chateau. Perhaps you remember the incident; it seems that Stanley

ditched his car to keep from hitting a _char-à-banc_ full of children

going to a _fête champêtre_.'

"I asked him then if he could get me a photograph of Mrs. Wetherill,

which he kindly agreed to do.

"That night I made a verbatim copy of the communication and then

mailed the original to Mrs. Wetherill with a note explaining the

whole affair. Two days later, on opening my newspaper in the

morning, I was startled to read the announcement of her sudden death.

The notice said that she had been found dead in her _chaise-longue_.

In the fire-place were discovered some burned fragments of paper

covered with a handwriting which was recognized as that of her late

husband. To my infinite relief the post-mortem examination showed

that she had died from 'natural causes.'

"That same evening I sent for the medium who had assisted me in the

investigation and requested her to look into the crystal ball. After

gazing for some time, she saw the faces of a man and a woman. The

expressions of both were described by the medium as 'radiant.' I

then showed her a photograph of Mr. and Mrs. Wetherill, taken shortly

after their marriage.

"'Are these the people whom you have just seen?' I asked

"'Yes,' she answered, smiling. 'They are the same.'"

The Fenchurch Street Mystery

BY BARONESS ORCZY

CHAPTER I

THE FENCHURCH STREET MYSTERY

The man in the corner pushed aside his glass, and leant across the

table.

"Mysteries!" he commented. "There is no such thing as a mystery in

connection with any crime, provided intelligence is brought to bear

upon its investigation."

Very much astonished Polly Burton looked over the top of her

newspaper, and fixed a pair of very severe, coldly inquiring brown

eyes upon him.

She had disapproved of the man from the instant when he shuffled

across the shop and sat down opposite to her, at the same

marble-topped table which already held her large coffee (3d.), her

roll and butter (2d.), and plate of tongue (6d.).

Now this particular corner, this very same table, that special view

of the magnificent marble hall--known as the Norfolk Street branch of

the Aërated Bread Company's depôts--were Polly's own corner, table,

and view. Here she had partaken of eleven pennyworth of luncheon and

one pennyworth of daily information ever since that glorious

never-to-be-forgotten day when she was enrolled on the staff of the

_Evening Observer_ (we'll call it that, if you please), and became a

member of that illustrious and world-famed organization known as the

British Press.

She was a personality, was Miss Burton of the _Evening Observer_.

Her cards were printed thus:

MISS MARY J. BURTON

_Evening Observer._

She had interviewed Miss Ellen Terry and the Bishop of Madagascar,

Mr. Seymour Hicks and the Chief Commissioner of Police. She had been

present at the last Marlborough House garden party--in the

cloak-room, that is to say, where she caught sight of Lady

Thingummy's hat, Miss What-you-may-call's sunshade, and of various

other things modistical or fashionable, all of which were duly

described under the heading "Royalty and Dress" in the early

afternoon edition of the _Evening Observer_.

(The article itself is signed M.J.B., and is to be found in the files

of that leading half penny-worth.)

For these reasons--and for various others, too--Polly felt irate with

the man in the corner, and told him so with her eyes, as plainly as

any pair of brown eyes can speak.

She had been reading an article in the _Daily Telegraph_. The

article was palpitatingly interesting. Had Polly been commenting

audibly upon it? Certain it is that the man over there had spoken in

direct answer to her thoughts.

She looked at him and frowned; the next moment she smiled. Miss

Burton (of the _Evening Observer_) had a keen sense of humor, which

two years' association with the British Press had not succeeded in

destroying, and the appearance of the man was sufficient to tickle

the most ultra-morose fancy. Polly thought to herself that she had

never seen anyone so pale, so thin, with such funny light-colored

hair, brushed very smoothly across the top of a very obviously bald

crown. He looked so timid and nervous as he fidgeted incessantly

with a piece of string; his long, lean, and trembling fingers tying

and untying it into knots of wonderful and complicated proportions.

Having carefully studied every detail of the quaint personality,

Polly felt more amiable.

"And yet," she remarked kindly but authoritatively, "this article, in

an otherwise well-informed journal, will tell you that, even within

the last year, no fewer than six crimes have completely baffled the

police, and the perpetrators of them are still at large."

"Pardon me," he said gently, "I never for a moment ventured to

suggest that there were no mysteries to the _police_; I merely

remarked that there were none where intelligence was brought to bear

upon the investigation of crime."

"Not even in the Fenchurch Street _mystery, I_ suppose," she asked

sarcastically.

"Least of all in the so-called Fenchurch Street _mystery_," he

replied quietly.

Now the Fenchurch Street mystery, as that extraordinary crime had

popularly been called, had puzzled--as Polly well knew--the brains of

every thinking man and woman for the last twelve months. It had

puzzled her not inconsiderably; she had been interested, fascinated;

she had studied the case, formed her own theories, thought about it

all often and often, had even written one or two letters to the Press

on the subject--suggesting, arguing, hinting at possibilities and

probabilities, adducing proofs which other amateur detectives were

equally ready to refute. The attitude of that timid man in the

corner, therefore, was peculiarly exasperating, and she retorted with

sarcasm destined to completely annihilate her self-complacent

interlocutor.

"What a pity it is, in that case, that you do not offer your

priceless services to our misguided though well-meaning police."

"Isn't it?" he replied with perfect good-humor. "Well, you know, for

one thing I doubt if they would accept them; and in the second place

my inclinations and my duty would--were I to become an active member

of the detective force--nearly always be in direct conflict. As

often as not my sympathies go to the criminal who is clever and

astute enough to lead our entire police force by the nose.

"I don't know how much of the case you remember," he went on quietly.

"It certainly, at first, began even to puzzle me. On the 12th of

last December a woman, poorly dressed, but with an unmistakable air

of having seen better days, gave information at Scotland Yard of the

disappearance of her husband, William Kershaw, of no occupation, and

apparently of no fixed abode. She was accompanied by a friend--a

fat, oily-looking German--and between them they told a tale which set

the police immediately on the move.

"It appears that on the 10th of December, at about three o'clock in

the afternoon, Karl Müller, the German, called on his friend, William

Kershaw, for the purpose of collecting a small debt--some ten pounds

or so--which the latter owed him. On arriving at the squalid lodging

in Charlotte Street, Fitzroy Square, he found William Kershaw in a

wild state of excitement, and his wife in tears. Müller attempted to

state the object of his visit, but Kershaw, with wild gestures, waved

him aside, and--in his own words--flabbergasted him by asking him

point-blank for another loan of two pounds, which sum, he declared,

would be the means of a speedy fortune for himself and the friend who

would help him in his need.

"After a quarter of an hour spent in obscure hints, Kershaw, finding

the cautious German obdurate, decided to let him into the secret

plan, which, he averred, would place thousands into their hands."

Instinctively Polly had put down her paper; the mild stranger, with

his nervous air and timid, watery eyes, had a peculiar way of telling

his tale, which somehow fascinated her.

"I don't know," he resumed, "if you remember the story which the

German told to the police, and which was corroborated in every detail

by the wife or widow. Briefly it was this: Some thirty years

previously, Kershaw, then twenty years of age, and a medical student

at one of the London hospitals, had a chum named Barker, with whom he

roomed, together with another.

"The latter, so it appears, brought home one evening a very

considerable sum of money, which he had won on the turf, and the

following morning he was found murdered in his bed. Kershaw,

fortunately for himself, was able to prove a conclusive alibi; he had

spent the night on duty at the hospital; as for Barker, he had

disappeared, that is to say, as far as the police were concerned, but

not as far as the watchful eyes of his friend Kershaw were able to

spy--at least, so that latter said. Barker very cleverly contrived

to get away out of the country, and, after sundry vicissitudes,

finally settled down at Vladivostock, in Eastern Siberia, where,

under the assumed name of Smethurst, he built up an enormous fortune

by trading in furs.

"Now, mind you, every one knows Smethurst, the Siberian millionaire.

Kershaw's story that he had once been called Barker, and had

committed a murder thirty years ago was never proved, was it? I am

merely telling you what Kershaw said to his friend the German and to

his wife on that memorable afternoon of December the 10th.

"According to him Smethurst had made one gigantic mistake in his

clever career--he had on four occasions written to his late friend,

William Kershaw. Two of these letters had no bearing on the case,

since they were written more than twenty-five years ago, and Kershaw,

moreover, had lost them--so he said--long ago. According to him,

however, the first of these letters was written when Smethurst, alias

Barker, had spent all the money he had obtained from the crime, and

found himself destitute in New York.

"Kershaw, then in fairly prosperous circumstances, sent him a £10

note for the sake of old times. The second, when the tables had

turned, and Kershaw had begun to go downhill, Smethurst, as he then

already called himself, sent his whilom friend £50. After that, as

Müller gathered, Kershaw had made sundry demands on Smethurst's

ever-increasing purse, and had accompanied these demands by various

threats, which, considering the distant country in which the

millionaire lived, were worse than futile.

"But now the climax had come, and Kershaw, after a final moment of

hesitation, handed over to his German friend the two last letters

purporting to have been written by Smethurst, and which, if you

remember, played such an important part in the mysterious story of

this extraordinary crime. I have a copy of both these letters here,"

added the man in the corner, as he took out a piece of paper from a

very worn-out pocket-book, and, unfolding it very deliberately, he

began to read--

"'SIR--Your preposterous demands for money are wholly unwarrantable.

I have already helped you quite as much as you deserve. However, for

the sake of old times, and because you once helped me when I was in a

terrible difficulty, I am willing to once more let you impose upon my

good nature. A friend of mine here, a Russian merchant, to whom I

have sold my business, starts in a few days for an extended tour to

many European and Asiatic ports in his yacht, and has invited me to

accompany him as far as England. Being tired of foreign parts, and

desirous of seeing the old country once again after thirty years'

absence, I have decided to accept his invitation. I don't know when

we may actually be in Europe, but I promise you that as soon as we

touch a suitable port I will write to you again, making an

appointment for you to see me in London. But remember that if your

demands are too preposterous I will not for a moment listen to them,

and that I am the last man in the world to submit to persistent and

unwarrantable blackmail.

"'I am, sir,

"'Yours truly,

"'FRANCIS SMETHURST.'

"The second letter was dated from Southampton," continued the man in

the corner calmly, "and, curiously enough, was the only letter which

Kershaw professed to have received from Smethurst of which he had

kept the envelope, and which was dated. It was quite brief," he

added, referring once more to his piece of paper.

"DEAR SIR--Referring to my letter of a few weeks ago, I wish to

inform you that the _Tsarskoe Selo_ will touch at Tilbury on Tuesday

next, the 10th. I shall land there, and immediately go up to London

by the first train I can get. If you like, you may meet me at

Fenchurch Street Station, in the first-class waiting-room, in the

late afternoon. Since I surmise that after thirty years' absence my

face may not be familiar to you, I may as well tell you that you will

recognize me by a heavy Astrakhan fur coat, which I shall wear,

together with a cap of the same. You may then introduce yourself to

me, and I will personally listen to what you may have to say.

"'Yours faithfully,

"'FRANCIS SMETHURST.'

"It was this last letter which had caused William Kershaw's

excitement and his wife's tears. In the German's own words, he was

walking up and down the room like a wild beast, gesticulating wildly,

and muttering sundry exclamations. Mrs. Kershaw, however, was full

of apprehension. She mistrusted the man from foreign parts--who,

according to her husband's story, had already one crime upon his

conscience--who might, she feared, risk another, in order to be rid

of a dangerous enemy. Woman-like, she thought the scheme a

dishonorable one, for the law, she knew, is severe on the blackmailer.

"The assignation might be a cunning trap, in any case it was a

curious one; why, she argued, did not Smethurst elect to see Kershaw

at his hotel the following day? A thousand whys and wherefores made

her anxious, but the fat German had been won over by Kershaw's

visions of untold gold, held tantalizingly before his eyes. He had

lent the necessary £2, with which his friend intended to tidy himself

up a bit before he went to meet his friend the millionaire. Half an

hour afterward Kershaw had left his lodgings, and that was the last

the unfortunate woman saw of her husband, or Müller, the German, of

his friend.

"Anxiously his wife waited that night, but he did not return; the

next day she seems to have spent in making purposeless and futile

inquiries about the neighborhood of Fenchurch Street; and on the 12th

she went to Scotland Yard, gave what particulars she knew, and placed

in the hands of the police the two letters written by Smethurst."

CHAPTER II

A MILLIONAIRE IN THE DOCK

The man in the corner had finished his glass of milk. His watery

blue eyes looked across at Miss Polly Burton's eager little face,

from which all traces of severity had now been chased away by an

obvious and intense excitement.

"It was only on the 31st," he resumed after a while, "that a body,

decomposed past all recognition, was found by two lightermen in the

bottom of a disused barge. She had been moored at one time at the

foot of one of those dark flights of steps which lead down between

tall warehouses to the river in the East End of London. I have a

photograph of the place here," he added, selecting one out of his

pocket, and placing it before Polly.

"The actual barge, you see, had already been removed when I took this

snapshot, but you will realize what a perfect place this alley is for

the purpose of one man cutting another's throat in comfort, and

without fear of detection. The body, as I said, was decomposed

beyond all recognition; it had probably been there eleven days, but

sundry articles, such as a silver ring and a tie pin, were

recognizable, and were identified by Mrs. Kershaw as belonging to her

husband.

"She, of course, was loud in denouncing Smethurst, and the police had

no doubt a very strong case against him, for two days after the

discovery of the body in the barge, the Siberian millionaire, as he

was already popularly called by enterprising interviewers, was

arrested in his luxurious suite of rooms at the Hotel Cecil.

"To confess the truth, at this point I was not a little puzzled.

Mrs. Kershaw's story and Smethurst's letters had both found their way

into the papers, and following my usual method--mind you, I am only

an amateur, I try to reason out a case for the love of the thing--I

sought about for a motive for the crime, which the police declared

Smethurst had committed. To effectually get rid of a dangerous

blackmailer was the generally accepted theory. Well! did it ever

strike you how paltry that motive really was?"

Miss Polly had to confess, however, that it had never struck her in

that light.

"Surely a man who had succeeded in building up an immense fortune by

his own individual efforts, was not the sort of fool to believe that

he had anything to fear from a man like Kershaw. He must have

_known_ that Kershaw held no damning proofs against him--not enough

to hang him, anyway. Have you ever seen Smethurst?" he added, as he

once more fumbled in his pocket-book.

Polly replied that she had seen Smethurst's picture in the

illustrated papers at the time. Then he added, placing a small

photograph before her:

"What strikes you most about the face?"

"Well, I think its strange, astonished expression due to the total

absence of eyebrows, and the funny foreign cut of the hair."

"So close that it almost looks as if it had been shaved. Exactly.

That is what struck me most when I elbowed my way into the court that

morning and first caught sight of the millionaire in the dock. He

was a tall, soldierly-looking man, upright in stature, his face very

bronzed and tanned. He wore neither moustache nor beard, his hair

was cropped quite close to his head, like a Frenchman's; but, of

course, what was so very remarkable about him was that total absence

of eyebrows and even eyelashes, which gave the face such a peculiar

appearance--as you say, a perpetually astonished look.

"He seemed, however, wonderfully calm; he had been accommodated with

a chair in the dock--being a millionaire--and chatted pleasantly with

his lawyer, Sir Arthur Inglewood, in the intervals between the

calling of the several witnesses for the prosecution; whilst during

the examination of these witnesses he sat quite placidly, with his

head, shaded by his hand.

"Müller and Mrs. Kershaw repeated the story which they had already

told to the police. I think you said that you were not able, owing

to pressure of work, to go to the court that day, and hear the case,

so perhaps you have no recollection of Mrs. Kershaw. No? Ah, well!

Here is a snapshot I managed to get of her once. That is her.

Exactly as she stood in the box--over-dressed--in elaborate crape,

with a bonnet which once had contained pink roses, and to which a

remnant of pink petals still clung obtrusively amidst the deep black.

"She would not look at the prisoner, and turned her head resolutely

toward the magistrate. I fancy she had been fond of that vagabond

husband of hers: an enormous wedding-ring encircled her finger, and

that, too, was swathed in black. She firmly believed that Kershaw's

murderer sat there in the dock, and she literally flaunted her grief

before him.

"I was indescribably sorry for her. As for Müller, he was just fat,

oily, pompous, conscious of his own importance as a witness; his fat

fingers, covered with brass rings, gripped the two incriminating

letters, which he had identified. They were his passports, as it

were, to a delightful land of importance and notoriety. Sir Arthur

Inglewood, I think, disappointed him by stating that he had no

questions to ask of him. Müller had been brimful of answers, ready

with the most perfect indictment, the most elaborate accusations

against the bloated millionaire who had destroyed his dear friend

Kershaw, and murdered him in Heaven knows what an out-of-the-way

corner of the East End.

"After this, however, the excitement grew apace. Müller had been

dismissed, and had retired from the court altogether, leading away

Mrs. Kershaw, who had completely broken down.

"Constable D21 was giving evidence as to the arrest in the meanwhile.

The prisoner, he said, had seemed completely taken by surprise, not

understanding the cause or history of the accusation against him;

however, when put in full possession of the facts, and realizing, no

doubt, the absolute futility of any resistance, he had quietly enough

followed the constable into the cab. No one at the fashionable and

crowded Hotel Cecil had even suspected that anything unusual had

occurred.

"Then a gigantic sigh of expectancy came from every one of the

spectators. The 'fun' was about to begin. James Buckland, a porter

at Penchurch Street railway station, had just sworn to tell all the

truth, etc. After all, it did not amount to much. He said that at

six o'clock in the afternoon of December the 10th, in the midst of

one of the densest fogs he ever remembers, the 5.05 from Tilbury

steamed into the station, being just about an hour late. He was on

the arrival platform, and was hailed by a passenger in a first-class

carriage. He could see very little of him beyond an enormous black

fur coat and a travelling cap of fur also.

"The passenger had a quantity of luggage, all marked F.S., and he

directed James Buckland to place it all upon a four-wheeled cab, with

the exception of a small hand-bag, which he carried himself. Having

seen that all his luggage was safely bestowed, the stranger in the

fur coat paid the porter, and, telling the cabman to wait until he

returned, he walked away in the direction of the waiting-rooms, still

carrying his small hand-bag.

"'I stayed for a bit,' added James Buckland, 'talking to the driver

about the fog and that; then I went about my business, seein' that

the local from Southend 'ad been signalled.'

"The prosecution insisted most strongly upon the hour when the

stranger in the fur coat, having seen to his luggage, walked away

toward the waiting-rooms. The porter was emphatic. 'It was not a

minute later than 6.15,' he averred.

"Sir Arthur Inglewood still had no questions to ask, and the driver

of the cab was called.

"He corroborated the evidence of James Buckland as to the hour when

the gentleman in the fur coat had engaged him, and having filled his

cab in and out with luggage, had told him to wait. And cabby did

wait. He waited in the dense fog--until he was tired, until he

seriously thought of depositing all the luggage in the lost property

office, and of looking out for another fare--waited until at last, at

a quarter before nine, whom should he see walking hurriedly toward

his cab but the gentleman in the fur coat and cap, who got in quickly

and told the driver to take him at once to the Hotel Cecil. This,

cabby declared, had occurred at a quarter before nine. Still Sir

Arthur Inglewood made no comment, and Mr. Francis Smethurst, in the

crowded, stuffy court, had calmly dropped to sleep.

"The next witness, Constable Thomas Taylor, had noticed a

shabbily-dressed individual, with shaggy hair and beard, loafing

about the station and waiting-rooms in the afternoon of December the

10th. He seemed to be watching the arrival platform of the Tilbury

and Southend trains.

"Two separate and independent witnesses, cleverly unearthed by the

police, had seen this same shabbily-dressed individual stroll into

the first-class waiting-room at about 6.15 on Tuesday, December the

10th, and go straight up to a gentleman in a heavy fur coat and cap,

who had also just come into the room. The two talked together for a

while; no one heard what they said, but presently they walked off

together. No one seemed to know in which direction.

"Francis Smethurst was rousing himself from his apathy; he whispered

to his lawyer, who nodded with a bland smile of encouragement. The

employés of the Hotel Cecil gave evidence as to the arrival of Mr.

Smethurst at about 9.30 p.m. on Tuesday, December the 10th, in a cab,

with a quantity of luggage; and this closed the case for the

prosecution.

"Everybody in that court already saw Smethurst mounting the gallows.

It was uninterested curiosity which caused the elegant audience to

wait and hear what Sir Arthur Inglewood had to say. He, of course,

is the most fashionable man in the law at the present moment. His

lolling attitudes, his drawling speech, are quite the rage, and

imitated by the gilded youth of society.

"Even at this moment, when the Siberian millionaire's neck literally

and metaphorically hung in the balance, an expectant titter went

around the fair spectators as Sir Arthur stretched out his long loose

limbs and lounged across the table. He waited to make his

effect--Sir Arthur is a born actor--and there is no doubt that he

made it, when in his slowest, most drawly tones he said quietly:

"'With regard to this alleged murder of one William Kershaw, on

Wednesday, December the 10th, between 6.15 and 8.45 p.m., your Honor,

I now propose to call two witnesses, who saw this same William

Kershaw alive on Tuesday afternoon, December the 16th, that is to

say, six days after the supposed murder.'

"It was as if a bombshell had exploded in the court. Even his Honor

was aghast, and I am sure the lady next to me only recovered from the

shock of surprise in order to wonder whether she need put off her

dinner party after all.

"As for me," added the man in the corner, with that strange mixture

of nervousness and self-complacency which had set Miss Polly Burton

wondering, "well, you see, _I_ had made up my mind long ago where the

hitch lay in this particular case, and I was not so surprised as some

of the others.

"Perhaps you remember the wonderful development of the case, which so

completely mystified the police--and in fact everybody except myself.

Torriani and a waiter at his hotel in the Commercial Road both

deposed that at about 3.30 p.m. on December the 10th a

shabbily-dressed individual lolled into the coffee-room and ordered

some tea. He was pleasant enough and talkative, told the waiter that

his name was William Kershaw, that very soon all London would be

talking about him, as he was about, through an unexpected stroke of

good fortune, to become a very rich man, and so on, and so on,

nonsense without end.

"When he had finished his tea he lolled out again, but no sooner had

he disappeared down a turning of the road than the waiter discovered

an old umbrella, left behind accidentally by the shabby, talkative

individual. As is the custom in his highly respectable restaurant,

Signor Torriani put the umbrella carefully away in his office, on the

chance of his customer calling to claim it when he discovered his

loss. And sure enough nearly a week later, on Tuesday, the 16th, at

about 1 p.m., the same shabbily-dressed individual called and asked

for his umbrella. He had some lunch, and chatted once again to the

waiter. Signor Torriani and the waiter gave a description of William

Kershaw, which coincided exactly with that given by Mrs. Kershaw of

her husband.

"Oddly enough he seemed to be a very absent-minded sort of person,

for on this second occasion, no sooner had he left than the waiter

found a pocket-book in the coffee-room, underneath the table. It

contained sundry letters and bills, all addressed to William Kershaw.

This pocket-book was produced, and Karl Müller, who had returned to

the court, easily identified it as having belonged to his dear and

lamented friend 'Villiam.'

"This was the first blow to the case against the accused. It was a

pretty stiff one, you will admit. Already it had begun to collapse

like a house of cards. Still, there was the assignation, and the

undisputed meeting between Smethurst and Kershaw, and those two and a

half hours of a foggy evening to satisfactorily account for."

The man in the corner made a long pause, keeping the girl on

tenterhooks. He had fidgeted with his bit of string till there was

not an inch of it free from the most complicated and elaborate knots.

"I assure you," he resumed at last, "that at that very moment the

whole mystery was, to me, as clear as daylight. I only marvelled how

his Honor could waste his time and mine by putting what he thought

were searching questions to the accused relating to his past.

Francis Smethurst, who had quite shaken off his somnolence, spoke

with a curious nasal twang, and with an almost imperceptible soupçon

of foreign accent. He calmly denied Kershaw's version of his past;

declared that he had never been called Barker, and had certainly

never been mixed up in any murder case thirty years ago.

"'But you knew this man Kershaw,' persisted his Honor, 'since you

wrote to him?'

"'Pardon me, your Honor,' said the accused quietly, 'I have never, to

my knowledge, seen this man Kershaw, and I can swear that I never

wrote to him.'

"'Never wrote to him?' retorted his Honor warningly. 'That is a

strange assertion to make when I have two of your letters to him in

my hands at the present moment.'

"'I never wrote those letters, your Honor,' persisted the accused

quietly, 'they are not in my handwriting.'

"'Which we can easily prove,' came in Sir Arthur Inglewood's drawly

tones as he handed up a packet to his Honor, 'here are a number of

letters written by my client since he has landed in this country, and

some of which were written under my very eyes.'

"As Sir Arthur Inglewood had said, this could be easily proved, and

the prisoner, at his Honor's request, scribbled a few lines, together

with his signature, several times upon a sheet of note-paper. It was

easy to read upon the magistrate's astounded countenance, that there

was not the slightest similarity in the two handwritings.

"A fresh mystery had cropped up. Who, then, had made the assignation

with William Kershaw at Fenchurch Street railway station? The

prisoner gave a satisfactory account of the employment of his time

since his landing in England.

"'I came over on the _Tsarskoe Selo_,' he said, 'a yacht belonging to

a friend of mine. When we arrived at the mouth of the Thames there

was such a dense fog that it was twenty-four hours before it was

thought safe for me to land. My friend, who is a Russian, would not

land at all; he was regularly frightened at this land of fogs. He

was going on to Madeira immediately.'

"'I actually landed on Tuesday, the 10th, and took a train at once

for town. I did see to my luggage and a cab, as the porter and

driver told your Honor; then I tried to find my way to a

refreshment-room, where I could get a glass of wine. I drifted into

the waiting-room, and there I was accosted by a shabbily-dressed

individual, who began telling me a piteous tale. Who he was I do not

know. He _said_ he was an old soldier who had served his country

faithfully, and then been left to starve. He begged of me to

accompany him to his lodgings, where I could see his wife and

starving children, and verify the truth and piteousness of his tale.'

"'Well, your Honor,' added the prisoner with noble frankness, 'it was

my first day in the old country. I had come back after thirty years

with my pockets full of gold, and this was the first sad tale I had

heard; but I am a business man, and did not want to be exactly "done"

in the eye. I followed my man through the fog, out into the streets.

He walked silently by my side for a time. I had not a notion where I

was.'

"'Suddenly I turned to him with some question, and realized in a

moment that my gentleman had given me the slip. Finding, probably,

that I would not part with my money till I _had_ seen the starving

wife and children, he left me to my fate, and went in search of more

willing bait.'

"'The place where I found myself was dismal and deserted. I could

see no trace of cab or omnibus. I retraced my steps and tried to

find my way back to the station, only to find myself in worse and

more deserted neighborhoods. I became hopelessly lost and fogged. I

don't wonder that two and a half hours elapsed while I thus wandered

on in the dark and deserted streets; my sole astonishment is that I

ever found the station at all that night, or rather close to it a

policeman, who showed me the way.'

"'But how do you account for Kershaw knowing all your movements?'

still persisted his Honor, 'and his knowing the exact date of your

arrival in England? How do you account for these two letters, in

fact?'

"'I cannot account for it or them, your Honor,' replied the prisoner

quietly. 'I have proved to you, have I not, that I never wrote those

letters, and that the man--er--Kershaw is his name?--was not murdered

by me?'

"'Can you tell me of anyone here or abroad who might have heard of

your movements and date of your arrival?'

"'My late employés at Vladivostock, of course, knew of my departure,

but none of them could have written these letters, since none of them

know a word of English.'

"'Then you can throw no light upon these mysterious letters? You

cannot help the police in any way toward the clearing up of this

strange affair?'

"'The affair is as mysterious to me as to your Honor, and to the

police of this country.'

"Francis Smethurst was discharged, of course; there was no semblance

of evidence against him sufficient to commit him for trial. The two

overwhelming points of his defence which had completely routed the

prosecution were, firstly, the proof that he had never written the

letters making the assignation, and secondly, the fact that the man

supposed to have been murdered on the 10th was seen to be alive and

well on the 16th. But then, who in the world was the mysterious

individual who had apprised Kershaw of the movements of Smethurst,

the millionaire?"

CHAPTER III

HIS DEDUCTION

The man in the corner cocked his funny thin head on one side and

looked at Polly; then he took up his beloved bit of string and

deliberately untied every knot he had made in it. When it was quite

smooth he laid it out upon the table.

"I will take you, if you like, point by point along the line of

reasoning which I followed myself, and which will inevitably lead

you, as it led me, to the only possible solution of the mystery.

"First take this point," he said with nervous restlessness, once more

taking up his bit of string, and forming with each point raised a

series of knots which would have shamed a navigating instructor,

"Obviously it was _impossible_ for Kershaw not to have been

acquainted with Smethurst, since he was fully apprised of the

latter's arrival in England by two letters. Now it was clear to me

from the first that _no one_ could have written those two letters

except Smethurst. You will argue that those letters were proved not

to have been written by the man in the dock. Exactly. Remember,

Kershaw was a careless man--he had lost both envelopes. To him they

were insignificant. Now it was never _disproved_ that those letters

were written by Smethurst."

"But--" suggested Polly.

"Wait a minute," he interrupted, while knot number two appeared upon

the scene; "it was proved that six days after the murder William

Kershaw was alive, and visited the Torriani Hotel, where already he

was known, and where he conveniently left a pocket-book behind, so

that there should be no mistake as to his identity; but it was never

questioned where Mr. Francis Smethurst, the millionaire, happened to

spend that very same afternoon."

"Surely, you don't mean--?" gasped the girl.

"One moment, please," he added triumphantly. "How did it come about

that the landlord of the Torriani Hotel was brought into court at

all? How did Sir Arthur Inglewood, or rather his client, know that

William Kershaw had on those two memorable occasions visited the

hotel, and that its landlord could bring such convincing evidence

forward that would forever exonerate the millionaire from the

imputation of murder?"

"Surely," I argued, "the usual means, the police--"

"The police had kept the whole affair very dark until the arrest at

the Hotel Cecil. They did not put into the papers tha usual: 'If

anyone happens to know of the whereabouts, etc., etc.' Had the

landlord of that hotel heard of the disappearance of Kershaw through

the usual channels, he would have put himself in communication with

the police. Sir Arthur Inglewood produced him. How did Sir Arthur

Inglewood come on his track?"

"Surely, you don't mean--?"

"Point number four," he resumed imperturbably, "Mrs. Kershaw was

never requested to produce a specimen of her husband's handwriting.

Why? Because the police, clever as you say they are, never started

on the right tack. They believed William Kershaw to have been

murdered; they looked for William Kershaw."

"On December the 31st, what was presumed to be the body of William

Kershaw was found by two lightermen: I have shown you a photograph of

the place where it was found. Dark and deserted it is in all

conscience, is it not? Just the place where a bully and a coward

would decoy an unsuspecting stranger, murder him first, then rob him

of his valuables, his papers, his very identity, and leave him there

to rot. The body was found in a disused barge which had been moored

some time against the wall, at the foot of these steps. It was in

the last stages of decomposition, and, of course, could not be

identified; but the police would have it that it was the body of

William Kershaw.

"It never entered their heads that it was the body of _Francis

Smethurst, and that William Kershaw was his murderer_.

"Ah! it was cleverly, artistically conceived! Kershaw is a genius.

Think of it all! His disguise! Kershaw had a shaggy beard, hair,

and moustache. He shaved up to his very eyebrows! No wonder that

even his wife did not recognize him across the court; and remember

she never saw much of his face while he stood in the dock. Kershaw

was shabby, slouchy, he stooped. Smethurst, the millionaire, might

have served in the Prussian Army.

"Then that lovely trait about going to revisit the Torriani Hotel.

Just a few days' grace, in order to purchase moustache and beard and

wig, exactly similar to what he had himself shaved off. Making up to

look like himself! Splendid! Then leaving the pocket-book behind!

He! he! he! Kershaw was not murdered! Of course not. He called at

the Torriani Hotel six days after the murder, whilst Mr. Smethurst,

the millionaire, hobnobbed in the park with duchesses! Hang such a

man! Fie!"

He fumbled for his hat. With nervous, trembling fingers he held it

deferentially in his hand whilst he rose from the table. Polly

watched him as he strode up to the desk, and paid two-pence for his

glass of milk and his bun. Soon he disappeared through the shop,

whilst she still found herself hopelessly bewildered, with a number

of snap-shot photographs before her, still staring at a long piece of

string, smothered from end to end in a series of knots, as

bewildering, as irritating, as puzzling as the man who had lately sat

in the corner.

The Mystery of Seven Minutes

BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

_SCENE: One end of the main dining-room, the Cafe Plaisance, New

York: a restaurant of the first class, handsomely appointed and

decorated. The right-hand wall (from the view-point of the audience)

is composed of wide windows heavily draped, which look out on

Broadway. The left-hand wall is broken only by wide swing-doors,

near the back, in front of which, stands a permanent screen of carved

wood and glass: this doorway opens upon the kitchen quarters. In the

back wall, close to the right-hand corner, are huge swing-doors,

closed; when open they show part of a dimly-lighted lobby. In the

back wall, toward the left-hand corner, is a small, ordinary door

which opens on a dark room._

_The restaurant is lighted by means of wall-sconces and an ornate

central chandelier of cut glass lustres. There are smaller lamps,

resembling shaded candles, to each table; but of these only one is

lighted--that which stands on the table in the center of the stage,

next the footlights._

_The stage (which shows less than half the restaurant) is crowded

with tables of all sizes; but to the right these have been pushed

back in confusion against the windows and the back wall, leaving a

broad clear space. The table at center, down front, has two chairs,

and is dressed with service for two persons; its candle-lamp

illuminates the cold remains of a supper for two. A silver wine-tub

stands to one side of this table, the neck of an opened champagne

bottle projecting above the rim._

_The rising of the_ CURTAIN _discovers several waiters and 'busses

busily clearing the tables on the left-hand side of the stage, under

the direction of_ ANTON ZIRKER, _the maitre d'hotel; while_ INSPECTOR

WALTERS _of the New York Police Department, sits at one of the tables

to the right; and a_ POLICEMAN _in uniform stands before the lobby

doors._

ZIRKER _is a handsome, well-conditioned man of about thirty-five;

short of stature, and stout, but quick on his feet, he carries

himself well, with the habit of efficient authority. His countenance

is plum, of a darkish cast, and has alert, intelligent eyes. He

speaks excellent English with a faint accent which becomes more

noticeable in moments of excitement. He is dressed, of course, in

admirably-tailored evening clothes._

INSPECTOR WALTERS _is a man of some fifty years, of powerful build

and a prime physical condition. His hair has begun to show gray at

the temples. His face is of sanguine complexion, with an open

expression, and he wears a heavy grayish moustache. He likewise

wears evening dress, and he shows no insignia to betray his

connection with the police force.... He sits sideways at a table

well over to the right, resting an elbow on its bare top and chewing

an unlighted cigar while he stares steadfastly, with a grave frown,

at the table at center._

_One by one the waiters go off through the service-door, leaving_

WALTERS, ZIRKER _and the_ POLICEMAN _alone on the stage_. ZIRKER,

_standing to the left, pauses and glances inquiringly at_ WALTERS,

_who pays no attention. There is a sound, off-stage, to the right,

as of people passing in the street, a wild blaring of tin horns,

clattering of cow-bells, shouts, laughter. As this dies away,_

ZIRKER _consults his watch._

WALTERS (_who apparently hasn't been looking his way--sharply_).

What time is it?

ZIRKER (_startled, stammers_). Half-past three.

WALTERS. Uh-huh ... (_with this illegible grunt, relapses and

gravely champs his cigar through another pause_).

ZIRKER (_nervously_). Beg pardon, Inspector--

WALTERS. Don't interrupt: I'm thinking.

ZIRKER. Pardon! I merely wished to inquire if you'd need me any

longer.

WALTERS (_calmly_). I told you, shut up.

ZIRKER _shrugs and falls silent, but fidgets_. WALTERS _solemnly

chews his cigar and frowns at the lighted table. The_ POLICEMAN

_yawns eloquently. Presently the pause is broken by a sound of

voices in the lobby. All three men turn their heads toward the

swing-doors: the_ POLICEMAN _vigilantly,_ WALTERS _expectantly,_

ZIRKER _with a bored, wondering air. Immediately one wing of the

doors is thrust open, and a young man comes hastily in, nodding in

acknowledgment of a salute from the_ POLICEMAN _and waving a cordial

hand to_ WALTERS.... _He's a good-looking, intelligent, well-bred

youngster, in evening dress under a fur-lined coat; wears a silk hat

and white gloves._

WALTERS. Good morning, Mr. Alston--and Happy New Year!

ALSTON (_laughing_). Happy New Year yourself! Trust you to know the

time of day, Walters! ... You're in charge here, eh?

WALTERS. Yes: I happened to be here when the murder was committed.

ALSTON (_surprised_). You were? And let the murderer get away right

under your nose!

WALTERS (_grimly_). No: I didn't let him get away. Did I, Zirker?

ZIRKER (_with a nervous start_). Yes--no--that is, I don't know.

You arrested Ruffo, all right.

WALTERS. Yes: I arrested Ruffo all right ... as you say.

ALSTON. Who's Ruffo?

WALTERS. The waiter nearest the table where the murder was committed.

ALSTON. And you think he--?

WALTERS. I don't know whether he did or not! But he was there, all

right, by his own admission.

ALSTON. But couldn't you see--?

WALTERS. No: it was while the lights were out. Didn't you know

that, Mr. Alston?

ALSTON. I don't know anything about the case: never heard a word of

it until fifteen minutes ago, when a page called me to the telephone

at the Astor--I was having supper there with some friends--and the

Commissioner asked me to run down here, look the ground over, and

report to him immediately.

WALTERS. Mr. Alston is the new Deputy Commissioner of Police, you

know, Zirker.

ZIRKER (_bowing and smiling_). But yes: I know that very well. I've

had the pleasure of serving Mr. Alston frequently.

ALSTON. But tell me: is it true, what I hear, that it was somebody

connected with the Italian Embassy at Washington?

WALTERS (_heavily_). The murdered man--identified by papers in his

pocket--was Count Umberto Bennetto, first secretary to the Italian

Legation.

ALSTON (_whistles softly_). Whe-e-w! That makes it pretty serious,

doesn't it? And you think this Ruffo...?

WALTERS. Well, he's an Eyetalian--Carlo Ruffo's his full name. I

judged that was enough to hold him on, as a witness.

ALSTON. Nothing more incriminating than that?

WALTERS. No... Besides, he's an old man--Ruffo is--and I doubt if

he had enough strength to strike the blow that killed this party. It

was a quick, strong, sure thrust--right here--(_indicating spot on

his own bosom_)--right through the heart. No fumbling about it: the

blow of a practiced hand. This Bennetto party couldn't have known

what killed him.

ALSTON. But if you don't think this waiter, Ruffo--

WALTERS. Well, we had to pinch somebody on general principles,

didn't we?

ALSTON. Why not Zirker, then? (_jocularly._) He looks able-bodied

enough--Italian, too!

WALTERS (_seriously_). Well, I did think of it. But he was a good

twelve feet from the table at the time: I know, because I happened to

be trying to catch his eye when the lights went out; and when they

went up again, he was right there in the same spot. Besides, he

isn't Eyetalian.

ALSTON. He looks it...

ZIRKER (_smiling blandly_). But no: Swiss.

ALSTON. Of course: all good restaurateurs are Swiss...

WALTERS. So that let _him_ out.

ALSTON. But come: tell me just how it happened. I take it, this was

the table? (_crossing to table at C._)

WALTERS. That's it, all right... It was this way: I'm sitting over

here (_indicating table up back of that on which stands the shaded

light_) and it's about half-past eleven when I see this party,

Bennetto, come in, towed by one of the swellest dames I ever lay eyes

on.

ALSTON. Just the two of them ... alone, eh?

WALTERS. All alone, and glad of it, if I'm any judge,

ALSTON. Had they been celebrating a bit--perhaps?

WALTERS. Not so's anybody'd notice it. But then, these Eyetalians

never show their loads.

ALSTON. So the woman was Italian, too?

WALTERS. I judged so, from her looks: a dark woman--black

hair--cheeks like blush roses--and her lamps--O my!--headlights!

Everybody turns around to pips her off, the minute she comes through

that door. They goes straight to this table--it's all ready for

them--

ALSTON (_to Zirker_). Count Bennetto had reserved it in advance?

ZIRKER. Yes, sir: by letter, from the Legation, Washington, about a

month ago.

WALTERS. And they sits down, and this Ruffo waiter rustles 'em a

quart right away, and just before the lights goes out--at midnight,

you know--he brings in their supper. And right there happens the

first suspicious circumstance.

ZIRKER _shows surprise._

ALSTON. How so?

WALTERS. It isn't the supper this Bennetto party ordered. I don't

know what he did order, but I hears him speak sharply to this Ruffo

waiter and say he didn't order steak, and to take it back and have

the order filled properly.

ALSTON. Did what he said seem to make the waiter angry?

WALTERS. No: he just looks puzzled, and says he'll speak to the head

waiter--Zirker, here--about it, and starts off to do it, and then

it's all lights out, and everybody whooping and yelling and raising

Cain generally.

'ALSTON. But what's suspicious--?

WALTERS. Because--the way I figure it--if this Bennetto party had

got what he ordered, there wouldn't have been a carving knife with

it, like the kind that came with the steak--heavy enough to kill him.

ALSTON. Possibly...

ZIRKER. I never thought of that!

WALTERS. Well, you know, that's my job--thinking of those little

things.

ALSTON. Well, and then...?

WALTERS. Then it's lights up again, and I hear a woman give a

screech that isn't due to champagne, and I looks, and this Eyetalian

party is slumped down sideways in his chair--

ALSTON. Which chair?

ZIRKER (_touching its back_). This was Count Umberto's chair, Mr.

Alston.

WALTERS. And this knife is buried in his chest so deep none of the

blade shows. He's just sitting there, dead and grinning, like he was

defying us to guess what had become of his lady friend.

ALSTON. And what had become of her?

WALTERS (_nodding at Zirker_). I don't know any more than he does.

ZIRKER. But I know nothing whatever!

WALTERS. That's what I'm telling Mr. Alston: I don't know any more

than you.

ALSTON. But--

WALTERS. She has disappeared---vanished completely--between the time

the lights went out and the time they went up again. And how she

managed it staggers me. I can see as far through a stone wall as

anybody, but I'll be damned if I can see how that skirt managed to

get out of this restaurant in pitch darkness, with these tables

crowded so close together that even the waiters could hardly move

around--and nobody know it or see her at any time. I've been over

the ground a dozen times, and I just don't see how it could be done.

ZIRKER. It's impossible.

WALTERS. And yet it happened. She got away as slick as a whistle.

ALSTON (_reviewing the ground thoughtfully_). You've moved the

tables, of course.

WALTERS. Had to, to take the body out. But I had sense enough to

chalk their positions on the floor before I let them be moved....

Zirker, you help O'Halloran here put those tables back in place, will

you? ... Just to show Mr. Alston.

_The_ POLICEMAN _comes down from the door and joins_ ZIRKER _over to

the right, and the two of them shift the tables back into place._

ALSTON (_looking at the lobby doors_). If she went that way...

WALTERS. The only exit that way is to Broadway; and all the taxi

chauffeurs outside swear nobody came out while the lights were down.

Besides, the lights were on the lobby there, and the cloakroom boy

and the guy that runs the newsstand both say nobody came out during

the dark turn.

ALSTON (_turning toward the left; indicates smaller door up back_).

And that?

WALTERS. That's the head waiter's office--Zirker's--and the door's

locked and the key's in his pocket all the time.

ALSTON. Has it any communication with the street?

WALTERS. A door: but it was locked, too.

ALSTON (_gesture indicating doors in left wall_). And that's the way

to the kitchen, I presume?

WALTERS. Right.

ALSTON. She might have...

WALTERS. Not unless you allow the whole staff of waiters here was in

the plot to aid her escape. There's half a dozen of them waiting

just outside for the lights to come up, so they can bring in their

orders--and of course them lights over there: nobody could pass then,

without their seeing. Besides, as far as those two doors are

concerned, they're twice as far from this Count's table, and would be

three times as difficult to reach. You can see for yourself....

_By now the_ POLICEMAN _and_ ZIRKER _have rearranged the tables, in a

fashion that bears out Walters' contention as to the difficulty of

reaching the lobby doors._

ALSTON (_thoughtfully_). I see...

POLICEMAN. All right, Inspector!

WALTERS. All right, O'Halloran.

ZIRKER _makes his way toward the table at center._

ALSTON. It's a pretty problem.... She simply couldn't have got away

without bumping into somebody.

ZIRKER. Ruffo was standing squarely in the only clear way, and I

only a few feet beyond him. Neither of us...

WALTERS. All the same, get away she did.

ALSTON. You, of course, questioned everybody?

WALTERS. You bet your life I did.

ALSTON. And nobody...?

WALTERS. There's this to be said: everybody was having too good a

time to pay much attention. On the other hand, everybody that was

seated along the lines of exit insists they'd have noticed anything

as unusual as a woman feeling her way out in the dark.

ALSTON. In short, it's impossible.

WALTERS. _But_ it happened!...

_The lobby doors open and somebody outside whispers to the_ POLICEMAN.

WALTERS. What's that, O'Halloran?

POLICEMAN. You're wanted on the 'phone, Inspector.

WALTERS. Excuse me, Mr. Alston.

ALSTON (_abstractedly_). Yes... yes...

WALTERS _picks his way up to the lobby doors and goes out._

ALSTON. I presume, Mr. Zirker, nobody knows who this woman was?

ZIRKER (_with a shrug_). If so, they refused to admit its when Mr.

Walters questioned them.

ALSTON. Had you ever seen her before?

ZIRKER. Never in my life.

ALSTON. She was not in the habit of going round in company with

Count Bennetto, then--I fancy.

ZIRKER. I couldn't say, sir.

ALSTON. Then I infer that Count Bennetto wasn't one of your regular

patrons?

ZIRKER. Not within my time; but then I've only been maitre d'hotel

here for the last two months. I am new to this country. I never saw

Count Umberto before to-night.

ALSTON. Yet you reserved a table for him--

ZIRKER. His letter was accompanied by a check.

_Re-enter_ WALTERS _by the lobby doors._

WALTERS (_cheerfully_). Well, that's better: we're on the trail of

the woman, at least.

ZIRKER. But truly?

ALSTON. How so?

WALTERS. One of my men has been going round the hotels. They've

found out that this Bennetto party was registered at the Metropole as

"Antonio Zorzi and wife."

ALSTON. Oh!

ZIRKER. That would seem to indicate that Count Umberto feared

something of this sort.

ALSTON. Why do you say that?

ZIRKER. Why else need Count Umberto and his wife adopt an incognito?

WALTERS. But she wasn't his wife...

ZIRKER. You are sure of that, eh?

WALTERS. Somebody else's wife, I guess. This Bennetto party was

unmarried: or so the Italian Embassy tells Headquarters over the long

distance.

ZIRKER. They ... they couldn't tell you who the lady was?

WALTERS. Sure they could: her right name was Zorzi. She came on

from Italy a couple of months ago, with Bennetto. He'd just been

appointed to the Embassy, you see. Of course, I guess, they thought

it would seem pretty coarse work for him to take her on to

Washington; because she stopped here, and he ran back every week end.

Oh, we know all about 'em, now.

ALSTON. All but how she got away...

ZIRKER. And where she is.

WALTERS. That's all we got to find out now.

ALSTON. It seems to me you've overlooked one direct inference, Mr.

Walters.

WALTERS. Slip it to me: you couldn't do me a bigger favor, Mr.

Alston.

ALSTON. You've demonstrated conclusively that she couldn't have left

the restaurant while the lights were out.

WALTERS. Have I? I didn't mean to. Because, the facts are, she did.

ALSTON. But you say she couldn't...

WALTERS. I say, I don't know how she could--

ALSTON. But assuming for the sake of the argument that she couldn't--

WALTERS. Then she's still here.

ALSTON. Or--this is the bet you've overlooked--she left before the

lights went out.

WALTERS. What do you mean?

ALSTON. If she couldn't and didn't go while it was dark, she must

have gone before. In the noise and confusion of the jollification,

it would have been easy enough for any woman to have left

inconspicuously during the five minutes before the lights went down.

WALTERS. That's true. There's only one flaw in your theory: she

didn't. I know she didn't because I was looking right past

her--trying, as I say, to catch Zirker's eye and order more

wine--when the lights did go out. And I know she hadn't left her

seat. Don't go Sherlock-Holmesing, Mr. Alston: police cases aren't

solved on theories nowadays--never were, for that matter. Excuse me

for speaking so bluntly--

ALSTON. That's all right. You were on the force when I was in

knickerbockers. I'm here to learn.

WALTERS. If you want to know how a police detective gets to work,

I'll give you a practical demonstration here and now.

ALSTON. How?

WALTERS. The first thing is to figure out how this girl makes her

getaway, isn't it? ... Well, I say she couldn't without attracting

attention. But I'm wrong, for she did. Now how? Well, she either

knew the way out or someone led her by the hand that did know.

That's reasonable, ain't it?

ALSTON. Perfectly... Isn't it, Mr. Zirker?

ZIRKER. But who would lead her by the hand?

WALTERS. Some guy who knew the ground very thoroughly.

ZIRKER. Myself, for instance.

WALTERS. Oh, I won't go so far as to say that...

ZIRKER. But why not? Let us reason it out as you suggest. You need

to find somebody thoroughly acquainted with the arrangement of the

tables, to fit your theory. Well, there was no such person.

ALSTON. Not even yourself?

ZIRKER. Not even myself, Mr. Alston. You see, we've got fifty extra

tables in this room to-night. Our first intention was to put in only

thirty-five, but the demand was so great--good customers coming at

the last moment without reservation--that we made room for fifteen

more. Hence the great congestion, and hence the fact that not even I

was thoroughly conversant with the arrangement.

WALTERS. And yet ... she got away! ... The trouble with your

contention, Zirker, is that you don't make any allowance for average

human intelligence. Now I've been figuring on this lay-out ever

since, and I think I see a way. I'll make you a little bet--a bottle

of wine--anything you like--I can find my way out of this tangle in

five minutes of darkness, and neither you nor Mr. Alston here will be

able to tell how I did it. The only thing I ask is that you sit

tight--you, Zirker, right where you were standing when the murder

occurred, and Mr. Alston where I was sitting--and make no attempt to

confuse me by talking. Is it a go?

ZIRKER. Why, certainly, Mr. Walters: I'll take that bet.

ALSTON (_after a brief pause, during which he has eyed Walters

intently_). I'm in on it, too, Inspector.

WALTERS, Good enough. Now take your places. I'll sit here at the

Count's table, in the chair the skirt sat in.

WALTERS, ALSTON _and_ ZIRKER _take up the positions indicated. And

we'll have the lights out._

_To_ POLICEMAN. O'Halloran, put all the lights out.

POLICEMAN. Yes, sir. _He turns to the switches beside the lobby

doors and extinguishes first the wall-sconces, then the central

chandelier, leaving the stage in total darkness but for the glimmer

that penetrates the semi-opaque glass panels of the lobby door.

Then, opening one of these, he thrusts his head out, and calls_: Hey,

you--put them lights out, d'ye hear? Inspector's orders.

_Immediately the lights are switched off in the lobby._

ALSTON. But Inspector--

ZIRKER. That's hardly fair, Mr. Walters. The lobby lights were

going when the woman escaped.

WALTERS. You're right. O'Halloran, you bone-head, why the devil did

you tell 'em to turn off those lobby lights?

POLICEMAN. I thought you wanted 'em out, sir.

WALTERS. Well, I don't.

POLICEMAN (_aggrieved tone_). But you told me--"O'Halloran," you

says, "put all them lights out," says you.

WALTERS (_furiously_). Well, I tell you now, you born simp, to have

the lobby lights turned on! Quick--d'you hear?

POLICEMAN (_sulkily_). Oh, _all_ right!

_The lobby doors creak as he thrusts them open. He continues in the

same tone_: Inspector Walters says he wants them lights out there

turned on again. _A slight pause; then the lobby lights glow once

more, through the glass panels._

WALTERS. Now I'm starting. Remember, Zirker, if you catch me

without moving, it means a bottle of wine for you.

ZIRKER (_with a confident laugh_). I'll win that bet.

WALTERS (_his voice sounding from the right of the stage_). Don't be

too sure...

PAUSE. _A sound is heard of a table moving on the floor. A chair

goes over with a crash. A moment later another topples._

ZIRKER (_a sudden cry of triumph_). I've got you, Inspector!

WALTERS (_voice from the right_). Well, catch me then.

ZIRKER (_in a puzzled tone_). But you are here--and your voice

there. What is this--a trick? (_A cry of fright._) Ah-h-h, Madonna

mia! What is this?

ALSTON (_alarmed--voice from left_). What's the matter?

ZIRKER. What devil's work--!

WALTERS. Lights, O'Halloran--light's up!

_Instantly the central chandelier floods the stage with light_.

WALTERS _stands to the right, a revolver in his hand levelled at_

ZIRKER. ALSTON _has just risen from his chair, where he sat when the

stage was darkened_. ZIRKER _has jumped up from his and is cringing

back in abject fright and horror from a_ WOMAN _who stands within two

feet of him. The latter has entered under cover of darkness, when

the lobby lights were out, in company with a_ PLAIN CLOTHES MAN _to

whose left wrist her right is fastened by handcuffs. The_ WOMAN _is

the one described by_ WALTERS _as Bennetto's companion; but she now

wears a neat tailor-made gown, with a fur coat, etc._

ZIRKER (_livid with terror--cowers and trembles_)--Elena!

WALTERS. Oh, you know this lady now, do you, Zirker?

ZIRKER (_attempting to recover_). I--I do not know her. Who is she?

I--I have never--

WALTERS (_approaching the woman_), Madame, is your name Elena?

ZIRKER. Don't answer--

WALTERS (_savagely_). Shut up, you damned murderer!

(ZIRKER _recoils from Walters' revolver._) Madame--?

WOMAN (_with an effort_). My name is Elena Zorzi.

WALTERS. What relation are you to this man?

WOMAN. I am his wife.

WALTERS. His name.

WOMAN. Antonio Zorzi.

WALTERS. Which of you killed Count Umberto Bennetto?

ZIRKER, Elena, I command you not to answer!

WALTERS, Keep quiet... Here, O'Halloran--grab this guy before he

does anything foolish.

_The_ POLICEMAN _crosses to_ ZIRKER, _rapidly searches him for

weapons, finds none, and grasps him firmly by the arm._

WALTERS (_to the WOMAN_). The only way you can save yourself is by

downright confession...

WOMAN. Antonio killed Count Umberto. I was his wife, I left him for

Count Umberto, he followed us to America for revenge. We didn't know

... neither of us knew ... he was here... Nor did I see him until

just before the lights went out. Then I saw him standing there,

grinning murder at me... I thought he meant me ... and when in the

darkness he seized my arm and told me to come with him I was too

frightened not to obey. I did not then know he had killed Count

Umberto. He did not tell me until he put me out of the side door,

thrust a steamer ticket into my hand, and told me to leave the

country if I wished to escape hanging for the murder.

WALTERS. How did he get you out of this crowded room?

WOMAN. I don't know... He warned me to keep quiet ... and drew me

very gently but swiftly away between the tables ... twisting and

turning... And then he opened that door--(_pointing to the door at

back, toward the left_) and led me through the room to the street.

WALTERS. That will do... Well, Mr. Alston?

ALSTON, In Heaven's name, _how_ did you do it?

WALTERS. Common-sense--every-day police detective methods. I

promised you a demonstration. Now you have had it. If Zirker hadn't

insisted that the woman couldn't possibly have escaped by way of his

private office, I might have let him slip through my fingers. But it

was just that--and the fact that he had the key in his pocket--that

convicted him. It was clear enough the woman couldn't have left by

way of either the lobby or the kitchen and pantries--without

wholesale collusion, that is. Therefore, it was plain as day she

must have beat it by the only other exit--Zirker's office. So I kept

him here--stalling--until the men working outside found out what

hotel Bennetto and this woman had put up at. They found out

more--that she had returned to her room alone at twelve-fifteen, in

great haste and distress, changed her dress, packed a bag hurriedly,

and left the hotel. Then we traced her by taxicabs to the Cunard

Line pier, which she reached just ten minutes before the _Mauretania_

sailed at one A.M. The wireless got us in communication with the

ship, and the captain held her in the Lower Bay until we could reach

her with a police boat and take the woman off. Until that was

accomplished, there was nothing certain--definite--to go on. I

wasn't going to arrest this guy until I'd given him plenty of rope to

hang himself with... But I've been watching him for three hours, and

I felt pretty certain he'd cave and make some sort of a damaging

admission if I could bring him unexpectedly face to face with the

woman he believed to be safely out of the country. So I framed up

this mild dose of the third degree--and it's worked!

ALSTON. I think it'll work out big for you, Inspector, when I tell

the Commissioner.

_The sound of a patrol wagon gong is heard off-stage._

WALTERS. Far be it from me to dodge anything in the line of official

appreciation... Here comes the hurry-up cart.

O'Halloran--Weil--hustle these people out before a crowd collects.

_The_ PLAIN CLOTHES MAN _draws the_ WOMAN _up-stage. The_ POLICEMAN

_is about to do the same with_ ZIRKER _when_ ALSTON _stops him._

ALSTON. Here ... wait a minute ... I'm still perplexed about the way

Zirker got the woman out of the room.

WALTERS. It's plain enough: he'd had a month's warning that this

thing was going to happen--ever since Bennetto wrote on from

Washington, ordering the table for to-night. He'd figured it down to

the fine point of those five minutes of darkness to cover the murder

and the disappearance of the woman. He had figured it out to the

extent of picking a boat for her to escape on that left the country

within an hour of the murder. Is it likely he hadn't figured it down

to the point of having a complete floor plan of the room in his mind?

Of course not. He knew his way in and out of those tables by

counting his steps. Didn't you, Zirker?

ZIRKER _doesn't answer save by a scowl._

ALSTON. Oh, come, be reasonable: I can make things easy for you in

the Tombs if you'll satisfy us. It's no good being rusty about it.

You can't escape the chair anyway you put it.

ZIRKER. You are right. I worked out the table plan a week ago.

[CURTAIN]