CHAPTER I

MASTER TALES of MYSTERY

COLLECTED AND ARRANGED BY FRANCIS J. REYNOLDS

VOLUME III

CONTENTS

ARTHUR B. REEVE

THE POISONED PEN

THE INVISIBLE RAT

THE SILENT BULLET

THE DEADLY TUBS

THE BLACK HAND

THE STEEL DOOR

PAUL L. FORD

GREAT K. & A. TRAIN ROBBERY

MAX PEMBERTON

THE RISEN DEAD

GEO.B. McCUTCHEON

COWARDICE COURT

BURTON E. STEVENSON

THE CASE OF MRS. MAGNUS

JOSEPH ERNEST

THE EPISODE or THE BLACK CASQUETTE

MARJORIE L.C. PICKTHALL

CHEAP

The Poisoned Pen

BY ARTHUR B. REEVE

I

Kennedy's suit-case was lying open on the bed, and he was literally

throwing things into it from his chiffonier, as I entered after a

hurried trip up-town from the _Star_ office in response to an urgent

message from him.

"Come, Walter," he cried, hastily stuffing in a package of clean

laundry without taking off the wrapping-paper, "I've got your suit-case

out. Pack up whatever you can in five minutes. We must take the six

o'clock train for Danbridge."

I did not wait to hear any more. The mere mention of the name of the

quaint and quiet little Connecticut town was sufficient. For Danbridge

was on everybody's lips at that time. It was the scene of the now

famous Danbridge poisoning case--a brutal case in which the pretty

little actress, Vera Lytton, had been the victim.

"I've been retained by Senator Adrian Willard," he called from his

room, as I was busy packing in mine. "The Willard family believe that

that young Dr. Dixon is the victim of a conspiracy--or at least Alma

Willard does, which comes to the same thing, and--well, the senator

called me up on long-distance and offered me anything I would name in

reason to take the case. Are you ready? Come on, then. We've simply

got to make that train."

As we settled ourselves in the smoking-compartment of the Pullman,

which for some reason or other we had to ourselves, Kennedy spoke

again for the first time since our frantic dash across the city to

catch the train.

"Now let us see, Walter," he began. "We've both read a good deal about

this case in the papers. Let's try to get our knowledge in an orderly

shape before we tackle the actual case itself."

"Ever been in Danbridge?" I asked.

"Never," he replied. "What sort of place is it?"

"Mighty interesting," I answered; "a combination of old New England

and new, of ancestors and factories, of wealth and poverty, and above

all it is interesting for its colony of New-Yorkers--what shall I call

it?--a literary-artistic-musical combination, I guess."

"Yes," he resumed. "I thought as much. Vera Lytton belonged to the

colony. A very talented girl, too--you remember her in 'The Taming of

the New Woman' last season? Well, to get back to the facts as we know

them at present.

"Here is a girl with a brilliant future on the stage discovered by her

friend, Mrs. Boncour, in convulsions--practically insensible--with a

bottle of headache-powder and a jar of ammonia on her dressing-table.

Mrs. Boncour sends the maid for the nearest doctor, who happens to be

a Dr. Waterworth. Meanwhile she tries to restore Miss Lytton, but

with no result. She smells the ammonia and then just tastes the

headache-powder, a very foolish thing to do, for by the time Dr.

Waterworth arrives he has two patients."

"No," I corrected, "only one, for Miss Lytton was dead when he

arrived, according to his latest statement."

"Very well, then--one. He arrives, Mrs. Boncour is ill, the maid knows

nothing at all about it, and Vera Lytton is dead. He, too, smells the

ammonia, tastes the headache-powder--just the merest trace--and then

he has two patients, one of them himself. We must see him, for his

experience must have been appalling. How he ever did it I

can't imagine, but he saved both himself and Mrs. Boncour from

poisoning--cyanide, the papers say, but of course we can't accept that

until we see. It seems to me, Walter, that lately the papers have made

the rule in murder cases: When in doubt, call it cyanide."

Not relishing Kennedy in the humor of expressing his real opinion

of the newspapers, I hastily turned the conversation back again by

asking, "How about the note from Dr. Dixon?"

"Ah, there is the crux of the whole case--that note from Dixon. Let

us see. Dr. Dixon is, if I am informed correctly, of a fine and

aristocratic family, though not wealthy. I believe it has been

established that while he was an interne in a city hospital he became

acquainted with Vera Lytton, after her divorce from that artist

Thurston. Then comes his removal to Danbridge and his meeting and

later his engagement with Miss Willard. On the whole, Walter, judging

from the newspaper pictures, Alma Willard is quite the equal of Vera

Lytton for looks, only of a different style of beauty. Oh, well, we

shall see. Vera decided to spend the spring and summer at Danbridge in

the bungalow of her friend, Mrs. Boncour, the novelist. That's when

things began to happen."

"Yes," I put it, "when you come to know Danbridge as I did after that

summer when you were abroad, you'll understand, too. Everybody knows

everybody else's business. It is the main occupation of a certain set,

and the per-capita output of gossip is a record that would stagger the

census bureau. Still, you can't get away from the note, Craig. There

it is, in Dixon's own handwriting, even if he does deny it: 'This will

cure your headache. Dr. Dixon.' That's a damning piece of evidence."

"Quite right," he agreed hastily; "the note was queer, though, wasn't

is? They found it crumpled up in the jar of ammonia. Oh, there are

lots of problems the newspapers have failed to see the significance

of, let alone trying to follow up."

Our first visit in Danbridge was to the prosecuting attorney, whose

office was not far from the station on the main street. Craig had

wired him, and he had kindly waited to see us, for it was evident that

Danbridge respected Senator Willard and every one connected with him.

"Would it be too much to ask just to see that note that was found in

the Boncour bungalow?" asked Craig.

The prosecutor, an energetic young man, pulled out of a document-case

a crumpled note which had been pressed flat again. On it in clear,

deep black letters were the words, just as reported:

This will cure your headache.

DR. DIXON.

"How about the handwriting?" asked Kennedy.

The lawyer pulled out a number of letters. "I'm afraid they will have

to admit it," he said with reluctance, as if down in his heart he

hated to prosecute Dixon. "We have lots of these, and no handwriting

expert could successfully deny the identity of the writing."

He stowed away the letters without letting Kennedy get a hint as to

their contents. Kennedy was examining the note carefully.

"May I count on having this note for further examination, of course

always at such times and under such conditions as you agree to?"

The attorney nodded. "I am perfectly willing to do anything not

illegal to accommodate the senator," he said. "But, on the other hand,

I am here to do my duty for the state, cost whom, it may."

The Willard house was in a virtual state of siege. News-paper

reporters from Boston and New York were actually encamped at every

gate, terrible as an army, with cameras. It was with some difficulty

that we got in, even though we were expected, for some of the more

enterprising had already fooled the family by posing as officers of

the law and messengers from Dr. Dixon.

The house was a real, old colonial mansion with tall white pillars, a

door with a glittering brass knocker, which gleamed out severely at

you as you approached through a hedge of faultlessly trimmed boxwoods.

Senator, or rather former Senator, Willard met us in the library, and

a moment later his daughter Alma joined him. She was tall, like her

father, a girl of poise and self-control. Yet even the schooling of

twenty-two years in rigorous New England self-restraint could not

hide the very human pallor of her face after the sleepless nights and

nervous days since this trouble had broken on her placid existence.

Yet there was a mark of strength and determination on her face that

was fascinating. The man who would trifle with this girl, I felt, was

playing fast and loose with her very life. I thought then, and I said

to Kennedy afterward: "If this Dr. Dixon is guilty, you have no right

to hide it from that girl. Anything less than the truth will only

blacken the hideousness of the crime that has already been committed."

The senator greeted us gravely, and I could not but take it as a good

omen when, in his pride of wealth and family and tradition, he laid

bare everything to us, for the sake of Alma Willard. It was clear that

in this family there was one word that stood above all others, "Duty."

As we were about to leave after an interview barren of new facts, a

young man was announced, Mr. Halsey Post. He bowed politely to us, but

it was evident why he had called, as his eye followed Alma about the

room.

"The son of the late Halsey Post, of Post & Vance, silver-smiths, who

have the large factory in town, which you perhaps noticed," explained

the senator. "My daughter has known him all her life. A very fine

young man."

Later, we learned that the senator had bent every effort toward

securing Halsey Post as a son-in-law, but his daughter had had views

of her own on the subject.

Post waited until Alma had withdrawn before he disclosed the real

object of his visit.

In almost a whisper, lest she should still be listening, he said,

"There is a story about town that Vera Lytton's former husband--an

artist named Thurston--was here just before her death."

Senator Willard leaned forward as if expecting to hear Dixon

immediately acquitted. None of us was prepared for the next remark.

"And the story goes on to say that he threatened to make a scene over

a wrong he says he has suffered from Dixon. I don't know anything more

about it, and I tell you only because I think you ought to know what

Danbridge is saying under its breath."

We shook off the last of the reporters who affixed themselves to us,

and for a moment Kennedy dropped in at the little bungalow to see Mrs.

Boncour. She was much better, though she had suffered much. She had

taken only a pin-head of the poison, but it had proved very nearly

fatal.

"Had Miss Lytton any enemies whom you think of, people who were

jealous of her professionally or personally?" asked Craig.

"I should not even have said Dr. Dixon was an enemy," she replied

evasively.

"But this Mr. Thurston," put in Kennedy quickly. "One is not usually

visited in perfect friendship by a husband who has been divorced."

She regarded him keenly for a moment. "Halsey Post told you that," she

said. "No one else knew he was here. But Halsey Post was an old friend

of both Vera and Mr. Thurston before they separated. By chance he

happened to drop in the day Mr. Thurston was here, and later in the

day I gave him a letter to forward to Mr. Thurston, which had come

after the artist left. I'm sure no one else knew the artist. He was

there the morning of the day she died, and--and--that's every bit I'm

going to tell you about him, so there. I don't know why he came or

where he went."

"That's a thing we must follow up later," remarked Kennedy as we made

our adieus. "Just now I want to get the facts in hand. The next thing

on my programme is to see this Dr. Waterworth."

We found the doctor still in bed; in fact, a wreck as the result of

his adventure. He had little to correct in the facts of the story

which had been published so far. But there were many other details of

the poisoning he was quite willing to discuss frankly.

"It was true about the jar of ammonia?" asked Kennedy.

"Yes," he answered. "It was standing on her dressing-table with the

note crumpled up in it, just as the papers said."

"And you have no idea why it was there?"

"I didn't say that. I can guess. Fumes of ammonia are one of the

antidotes for poisoning of that kind."

"But Vera Lytton could hardly have known that," objected Kennedy.

"No, of course not. But she probably did know that ammonia is good

for just that sort of faintness which she must have experienced after

taking the powder. Perhaps she thought of sal volatile, I don't know.

But most people know that ammonia in some form is good for faintness

of this sort, even if they don't know anything about cyanides and--"

"Then it was cyanide?" interrupted Craig.

"Yes," he replied slowly. It was evident that he was suffering great

physical and nervous anguish as the result of his too intimate

acquaintance with the poisons in question. "I will tell you precisely

how is was, Professor Kennedy. When I was called in to see Miss Lytton

I found her on the bed. I pried open her jaws and smelled the sweetish

odor of the cyanogen gas. I knew then what she had taken, and at the

moment she was dead. In the next room I heard some one moaning. The

maid said that it was Mrs. Boncour, and that she was deathly sick.

I ran into her room, and though she was beside herself with pain I

managed to control her, though she struggled desperately against me. I

was rushing her to the bathroom, passing through Miss Lytton's room.

'What's wrong?' I asked as I carried her along. 'I took some of that,'

she replied, pointing to the bottle, on the dressing-table.

"I put a small quantity of its crystal contents on my tongue. Then

I realized the most tragic truth of my life. I had taken one of the

deadliest poisons in the world. The odor of the released gas of

cyanogen was strong. But more than that, the metallic taste and the

horrible burning sensation told of the presence of some form of

mercury, too. In that terrible moment my brain worked with the

incredible swiftness of light. In a flash I knew that if I added malic

acid to the mercury--perchloride of mercury or corrosive sublimate--I

would have calomel or subchloride of mercury, the only thing that

would switch the poison out of my system and Mrs. Boncour's.

"Seizing her about the waist, I hurried into the dining-room. On a

sideboard was a dish of fruit. I took two apples. I made her eat one,

core and all. I ate the other. The fruit contained the malic acid

I needed to manufacture the calomel, and I made it right there in

nature's own laboratory. But there was no time to stop. I had to act

just as quickly to neutralize that cyanide, too. Remembering the

ammonia, I rushed back with Mrs. Boncour, and we inhaled the fumes.

Then I found a bottle of peroxide of hydrogen. I washed out her

stomach with it, and then my own. Then I injected some of the

peroxide into various Parts of her body. The peroxide of hydrogen

and hydrocyanic acid, you know, make oxamide, which is a harmless

compound.

"The maid put Mrs. Boncour to bed, saved. I went to my house, a wreck.

Since then I have not left this bed. With my legs paralyzed I lie

here, expecting each hour to be my last."

"Would you taste an unknown drug again to discover the nature of a

probable poison?" asked Craig.

"I don't know," he answered slowly, "but I suppose I would. In such a

case a conscientious doctor has no thought of self. He is there to do

things, and he does them, according to the best that is in him. In

spite of the fact that I haven't had one hour of unbroken sleep since

that fatal day, I suppose I would do it again."

When we were leaving, I remarked: "That is a martyr to science. Could

anything be more dramatic than his willing penalty for his devotion to

medicine?"

We walked along in silence. "Walter, did you notice he said not a word

of condemnation of Dixon, though the note was before his eyes? Surely

Dixon has some strong supporters in Danbridge, as well as enemies."

The next morning we continued our investigation. We found Dixon's

lawyer, Leland, in consultation with his client in the bare cell of

the county jail. Dixon proved to be a clear-eyed, clean-cut young

man. The thing that impressed me most about him, aside from the

prepossession in his favor due to the faith of Alma Willard, was the

nerve he displayed, whether guilty or innocent. Even an innocent man

might well have been staggered by the circumstantial evidence against

him and the high tide of public feeling, in spite of the support that

he was receiving. Leland, we learned, had been very active. By prompt

work at the time of the young doctor's arrest he had managed to

secure the greater part of Dr. Dixon's personal letters, though the

prosecutor secured some, the contents of which had not been disclosed.

Kennedy spent most of the day in tracing out the movements of

Thurston. Nothing that proved important was turned up and even visits

to near-by towns failed to show any sales of cyanide or sublimate

to any one not entitled to buy them. Meanwhile, in turning over the

gossip of the town, one of the newspapermen ran across the fact that

the Boncour bungalow was owned by the Posts, and that Halsey Post, as

the executor of the estate, was a more frequent visitor than the mere

collection of the rent would warrant. Mrs. Boncour maintained a stolid

silence that covered a seething internal fury when the newspaperman

in question hinted that the landlord and tenant were on exceptionally

good terms.

It was after a fruitless day of such search that we were sitting in

the reading-room of the Fairfield Hotel. Leland entered. His face was

positively white. Without a word he took us by the arm and led us

across Main Street and up a flight of stairs to his office. Then he

locked the door.

"What's the matter?" asked Kennedy.

"When I took this case," he said, "I believed down in my heart that

Dixon was innocent. I still believe it, but my faith has been rudely

shaken. I feel that you should know about what I have just found. As I

told you, we secured nearly all of Dr. Dixon's letters. I had not read

them all then. But I have been going through them to-night. Here is a

letter from Vera Lytton herself. You will notice it is dated the day

of her death."

He laid the letter before us. It was written in a curious

grayish-black ink in a woman's hand, and read:

* * * * *

DEAR HARRIS:

Since we agreed to disagree we have at least been good friends, if no

longer lovers. I am not writing in anger to reproach you with your

new love, so soon after the old. I suppose Alma Willard is far better

suited to be your wife than is a poor little actress--rather looked

down on in this Puritan society here. But there is something I wish to

warn you about, for it concerns us all intimately.

We are in danger of an awful mix-up if we don't look out. Mr.

Thurston--I had almost said my husband, though I don't know whether

that is the truth or not--who has just come over from New York, tells

me that there is some doubt about the validity of our divorce. You

recall he was in the South at the time I sued him, and the papers

were served on him in Georgia. He now says the proof of service was

fraudulent and that he can set aside the divorce. In that case you

might figure in a suit for alienating my affections.

I do not write this with ill will, but simply to let you know how

things stand. If we had married, I suppose I would be guilty of

bigamy. At any rate, if he were disposed he could make a terrible

scandal.

Oh, Harris, can't you settle with him if he asks anything? Don't

forget so soon that we once thought we were going to be the happiest

of mortals--at least I did. Don't desert me, or the very earth will

cry out against you. I am frantic and hardly know what I am writing.

My head aches, but it is my heart that is breaking. Harris, I am yours

still, down in my heart, but not to be cast off like an old suit for a

new one. You know the old saying about a woman scorned. I beg you not

to go back on

Your poor little deserted

Vera.

* * * * *

As we finished reading, Leland exclaimed, "That never must come before

the jury."

Kennedy was examining the letter carefully. "Strange," he muttered.

"See how it was folded. It was written on the wrong side of the sheet,

or rather folded up with the writing outside. Where have these letters

been?"

"Part of the time in my safe, part of the time this afternoon on my

desk by the window."

"The office was locked, I suppose?" asked Kennedy. "There was no way

to slip this letter in among the others since you obtained them?"

"None. The office has been locked, and there is no evidence of any one

having entered or disturbed a thing."

He was hastily running over the pile of letters as if looking to see

whether they were all there. Suddenly he stopped.

"Yes," he exclaimed excitedly, "one of them _is_ gone." Nervously he

fumbled through them again. "One is gone," he repeated, looking at us,

startled.

"What was is about?" asked Craig.

"It was a note from an artist, Thurston, who gave the address of Mrs.

Boncour's bungalow--ah, I see you have heard of him. He asked Dixon's

recommendation of a certain patent headache medicine. I thought it

possibly evidential, and I asked Dixon about it. He explained it by

saying that he did not have a copy of his reply, but as near as he

could recall, he wrote that the compound would not cure a headache

except at the expense of reducing heart action dangerously. He says he

sent no prescription. Indeed, he thought it a scheme to extract advice

without incurring the charge for an office call and answered it only

because he thought Vera had become reconciled to Thurston again. I

can't find that letter of Thurston's. It is gone."

We looked at each other in amazement.

"Why, if Dixon contemplated anything against Miss Lytton, should he

preserve this letter from her?" mused Kennedy. "Why didn't he destroy

it?"

"That's what puzzles me," remarked Leland. "Do you suppose some one

has broken in and substituted this Lytton letter for the Thurston

letter?"

Kennedy was scrutinizing the letter, saying nothing. "I may keep it?"

he asked at length. Leland was quite willing and even undertook to

obtain some specimens of the writing of Vera Lytton. With these and

the letter Kennedy was working far into the night and long after I had

passed into a land troubled with many wild dreams of deadly poisons

and secret intrigues of artists.

The next morning a message from our old friend First Deputy O'Connor

in New York told briefly of locating the rooms of an artist named

Thurston in one of the co-operative studio apartments. Thurston

himself had not been there for several days and was reported to have

gone to Maine to sketch. He had had a number of debts, but before he

left they had all been paid--strange to say, by a notorious firm of

shyster lawyers, Kerr & Kimmel. Kennedy wired back to find out the

facts from Kerr & Kimmel and to locate Thurston at any cost.

Even the discovery of the new letter did not shake the wonderful

self-possession of Dr. Dixon. He denied ever having received it and

repeated his story of a letter from Thurston to which he had replied

by sending an answer, care of Mrs. Boncour, as requested. He insisted

that the engagement between Miss Lytton and himself had been broken

before the announcement of his engagement with Miss Willard. As for

Thurston, he said the man was little more than a name to him. He had

known perfectly all the circumstances of the divorce, but had had no

dealings with Thurston and no fear of him. Again and again he denied

ever receiving the letter from Vera Lytton.

Kennedy did not tell the Willards of the new letter. The strain had

begun to tell on Alma, and her father had had her quietly taken to

a farm of his up in the country. To escape the curious eyes of

reporters, Halsey Post had driven up one night in his closed car. She

had entered it quickly with her father, and the journey had been made

in the car, while Halsey Post had quietly dropped oft on the outskirts

of the town, where another car was waiting to take him back. It was

evident that the Willard family relied implicitly on Halsey, and his

assistance to them was most considerate. While he never forced himself

forward, he kept in close touch with the progress of the case, and now

that Alma was away his watchfulness increased proportionately, and

twice a day he wrote a long report which was sent to her.

Kennedy was now bending every effort to locate the missing artist.

When he left Danbridge, he seemed to have dropped out of sight

completely. However, with O'Connor's aid, the police of all New

England were on the lookout.

The Thurstons had been friends of Halsey's before Vera Lytton had ever

met Dr. Dixon, we discovered from the Danbridge gossips, and I, at

least, jumped to the conclusion that Halsey was shielding the artist,

perhaps through a sense of friendship when he found that Kennedy was

interested in Thurston's movement. I must say I rather liked Halsey,

for he seemed very thoughtful of the Willards, and was never too

busy to give an hour or so to any commission they wished carried out

without publicity.

Two days passed with not a word from Thurston. Kennedy was obviously

getting impatient. One day a rumor was received that he was in Bar

Harbor; the next it was a report from Nova Scotia. At last, however,

came the welcome news that he had been located in New Hampshire,

arrested, and might be expected the next day.

At once Kennedy became all energy. He arranged for a secret conference

in Senator Willard's house, the moment the artist was to arrive. The

senator and his daughter made a flying trip back to town. Nothing was

said to any one about Thurston, but Kennedy quietly arranged with the

district attorney to be present with the note and the jar of ammonia

properly safeguarded. Leland of course came, although his client could

not. Halsey Post seemed only too glad to be with Miss Willard, though

he seemed to have lost interest in the case as soon as the Willards

returned to look after it themselves. Mrs. Boncour was well enough

to attend, and even Dr. Waterworth insisted on coming in a private

ambulance which drove over from a near-by city especially for him. The

time was fixed just before the arrival of the train that was to bring

Thurston.

It was an anxious gathering of friends and foes of Dr. Dixon who sat

impatiently waiting for Kennedy to begin this momentous exposition

that was to establish the guilt or innocence of the calm young

physician who sat impassively in the jail not half a mile from the

room where his life and death were being debated.

"In many respects this is the most remarkable case that it has ever

been my lot to handle," began Kennedy. "Never before have I felt

so keenly my sense of responsibility. Therefore, though this is a

somewhat irregular proceeding, let me begin by setting forth the facts

as I see them.

"First, let us consider the dead woman. The question that arises here

is, Was she murdered or did she commit suicide? I think you will

discover the answer as I proceed. Miss Lytton, as you know, was, two

years ago, Mrs. Burgess Thurston. The Thurstons had temperament, and

temperament is quite often the highway to the divorce court. It was

so in this case. Mrs. Thurston discovered that her husband was paying

much attention to other women. She sued for divorce in New York, and

he accepted service in the South, where he happened to be. At least it

was so testified by Mrs. Thurston's lawyer.

"Now here comes the remarkable feature of the case. The law firm of

Kerr & Kimmel, I find, not long ago began to investigate the legality

of this divorce. Before a notary Thurston made an affidavit that he

had never been served by the lawyer for Miss Lytton, as she was now

known. Her lawyer is dead, but his representative in the South who

served the papers is alive. He was brought to New York and asserted

squarely that he had served the papers properly.

"Here is where the shrewdness of Mose Kimmel, the shyster lawyer, came

in. He arranged to have the Southern attorney identify the man he had

served the paper on. For this purpose he was engaged in conversation

with one of his own clerks when the lawyer was due to appear. Kimmel

appeared to act confused, as if he had been caught napping. The

Southern lawyer, who had seen Thurston only once, fell squarely into

the trap and identified the clerk as Thurston. There were plenty

of witnesses to it, and it was point number two for the great Mose

Kimmel. Papers were drawn up to set aside the divorce decree.

"In the meantime, Miss Lytton, or Mrs. Thurston, had become acquainted

with a young doctor in a New York hospital, and had become engaged to

him. It matters not that the engagement was later broken. The fact

remains that if the divorce were set aside an action would lie against

Dr. Dixon for alienating Mrs. Thurston's affections, and a grave

scandal would result. I need not add that in this quiet little town of

Danbridge the most could be made of such a suit."

Kennedy was unfolding a piece of paper. As he laid it down, Leland,

who was sitting next to me, exclaimed under his breath:

"My God, he's going to let the prosecutor know about that letter.

Can't you stop him?"

It was too late. Kennedy had already begun to read Vera's letter.

It was damning to Dixon, added to the other note found in the

ammonia-jar.

When he had finished reading, you could almost hear the throbbing in

the room. A scowl overspread Senator Willard's features. Alma Willard

was pale and staring wildly at Kennedy. Halsey Post, even solicitous

for her, handed her a glass of water from the table. Dr. Waterworth

had forgotten his pain in his intense attention, and Mrs. Boncour

seemed stunned with astonishment. The prosecuting attorney was eagerly

taking notes.

"In some way," pursued Kennedy in an even voice, "this letter was

either overlooked in the original correspondence of Dr. Dixon or it

was added to it later. I shall come back to that presently. My next

point is that Dr. Dixon says he received a letter from Thurston on the

day the artist visited the Boncour bungalow. It asked about a certain

headache compound, and his reply was brief and, as nearly as I can

find out, read, 'This compound will not cure your headache except at

the expense of reducing heart action dangerously.'

"Next comes the tragedy. On the evening of the day that Thurston left,

after presumably telling Miss Lytton about what Kerr & Kimmel had

discovered, Miss Lytton is found dying with a bottle containing

cyanide and sublimate beside her. You are all familiar with the

circumstances and with the note discovered in the jar of ammonia. Now,

if the prosecutor will be so kind as to let me see that note--thank

you, sir. This is the identical note. You have all heard the various

theories of the jar and have read the note. Here it is in plain, cold

black and white--in Dr. Dixon's own handwriting, as you know, and

read: 'This will cure your headache. Dr. Dixon.'"

Alma Willard seemed as one paralyzed. Was Kennedy, who had been

engaged by her father to defend her fiancé, about to convict him?

"Before we draw the final conclusion," continued Kennedy gravely,

"there are one or two points I wish to elaborate. Walter, will you

open that door into the main hall?"

I did so, and two policemen stepped in with a prisoner. It was

Thurston, but changed almost beyond recognition. His clothes were

worn, his beard shaved off, and he had a generally hunted appearance.

Thurston was visibly nervous. Apparently he had heard all that Kennedy

had said and intended he should hear, for as he entered he almost

broke away from the police officers in his eagerness to speak.

"Before God," he cried dramatically, "I am as innocent as you are of

this crime, Professor Kennedy."

"Are you prepared to swear before _me_." almost shouted Kennedy, his

eyes blazing, "that you were never served properly by your wife's

lawyers in that suit?"

The man cringed back as if a stinging blow had been delivered between

his eyes. As he met Craig's fixed glare he knew there was no hope.

Slowly, as if the words were being wrung from him syllable by

syllable, he said in a muffled voice:

"No, I perjured myself. I was served in that suit. But--"

"And you swore falsely before Kimmel that you were not?" persisted

Kennedy.

"Yes," he murmured. "But--"

"And you are prepared now to make another affidavit to that effect?"

"Yes," he replied. "If--"

"No buts or ifs, Thurston," cried Kennedy sarcastically. 'What did you

make that affidavit for? What is _your_ story?"

"Kimmel sent for me. I did not go to him. He offered to pay my debts

if I would swear to such a statement. I did not ask why or for whom. I

swore to it and gave him a list of my creditors. I waited until they

were paid. Then my conscience"--I could not help revolting at the

thought of conscience in such a wretch, and the word itself seemed to

stick in his throat as he went on and saw how feeble an impression he

was making on us--"my conscience began to trouble me. I determined to

see Vera, tell her all, and find out whether it was she who wanted

this statement. I saw her. When at last I told her, she scorned me. I

can confirm that, for as I left a man entered. I now knew how grossly

I had sinned, in listening to Mose Kimmel. I fled. I disappeared

in Maine. I travelled. Every day my money grew less. At last I was

overtaken, captured, and brought back here."

He stopped and sank wretchedly down in a chair and covered his face

with his hands.

"A likely story," muttered Leland in my ear.

Kennedy was working quickly. Motioning the officers to be seated by

Thurston, he uncovered a jar which he had placed on the table. The

color had now appeared in Alma's cheeks, as if hope had again sprung

in her heart, and I fancied that Halsey Post saw his claim on her

favor declining correspondingly.

"I want you to examine the letters in this case with me," continued

Kennedy. "Take the letter which I read from Miss Lytton, which was

found following the strange disappearance of the note from Thurston."

He dipped a pen into a little bottle, and wrote on a piece of paper:

* * * * *

What is your opinion about Cross's Headache Cure? Would you recommend

it for a nervous headache?

Burgess Thurston,

c/o Mrs. S. Boncour.

* * * * *

Craig held up the writing so that we could all see that he had written

what Dixon declared Thurston wrote in the note that had disappeared.

Then he dipped another pen into a second bottle, and for some time he

scrawled on another sheet of paper. He held it up, but it was still

perfectly blank.

"Now," he added, "I am going to give a little demonstration which I

expect to be successful only in a measure. Here in the open sunshine

by this window I am going to place these two sheets of paper side by

side. It will take longer than I care to wait to make my demonstration

complete, but I can do enough to convince you."

For a quarter of an hour we sat in silence, wondering what he would do

next. At last he beckoned us over to the window. As we approached he

said, "On sheet number one I have written with quinoline; on sheet

number two I wrote with a solution of nitrate of silver."

We bent over. The writing signed "Thurston" on sheet number one

was faint, almost imperceptible, but on paper number two, in black

letters, appeared what Kennedy had written: "Dear Harris: Since we

agreed to disagree we have at least been good friends."

"It is like the start of the substituted letter, and the other is like

the missing note," gasped Leland in a daze.

"Yes," said Kennedy quickly. "Leland, no one entered your office. No

one stole the Thurston note. No one substituted the Lytton letter.

According to your own story, you took them out of the safe and left

them in the sunlight all day. The process that had been started

earlier in ordinary light, slowly, was now quickly completed. In other

words, there was writing which would soon fade away on one side of the

paper and writing which was invisible but would soon appear on the

other.

"For instance, quinoline rapidly disappears in sunlight. Starch with a

slight trace of iodine writes a light blue, which disappears in air.

It was something like that used in the Thurston letter. Then, too,

silver nitrate dissolved in ammonia gradually turns black as it is

acted on by light and air. Or magenta treated with a bleaching-agent

in just sufficient quantity to decolorise it is invisible when used

for writing. But the original color reappears as the oxygen of the air

acts upon the pigment. I haven't a doubt but that my analyses of the

inks are correct and on one side quinoline was used and on the other

nitrate of silver. This explains the inexplicable disappearance of

evidence incriminating one person, Thurston, and the sudden appearance

of evidence incriminating another, Dr. Dixon. Sympathetic ink also

accounts for the curious circumstance that the Lytton letter was

folded up with the writing apparently outside. It was outside and

unseen until the sunlight brought it out and destroyed the other,

inside, writing--a chance, I suspect, that was intended for the police

to see after it was completed, not for the defence to witness as it

was taking place."

We looked at each other aghast. Thurston was nervously opening and

shutting his lips and moistening them as if he wanted to say something

but could not find the words.

"Lastly," went on Craig, utterly regardless of Thurston's frantic

efforts to speak, "we come to the note that was discovered so queerly

crumpled up in the jar of ammonia on Vera Lytton's dressing-table. I

have here a cylindrical glass jar in which I place some sal-ammoniac

and quicklime. I will wet it and heat it a little. That produces the

pungent gas of ammonia.

"On one side of this third piece of paper I myself write with this

mercurous nitrate solution. You see, I leave no mark on the paper as

I write. I fold it up and drop it into the jar--and in a few seconds

withdraw it. Here is a very quick way of producing something like the

slow result of sunlight with silver nitrate. The fumes of ammonia have

formed the precipitate of black, mercurous nitrate, a very distinct

black writing which is almost indelible. That is what is technically

called invisible rather than sympathetic ink."

We leaned over to read what he had written. It was the same as the

note incriminating Dixon:

* * * * *

This will cure your headache.

Dr. Dixon.

* * * * *

A servant entered with a telegram from New York. Scarcely stopping in

his exposure, Kennedy tore it open, read it hastily, stuffed it into

his pocket, and went on.

"Here in this fourth bottle I have an acid solution of iron chloride,

diluted until the writing is invisible when dry," he hurried on. "I

will just make a few scratches on this fourth sheet of paper--so. It

leaves no mark. But it has the remarkable property of becoming red in

vapor of sulpho-cyanide. Here is a long-necked flask of the gas, made

by sulphuric acid acting on potassium sulpho-cyanide. Keep back, Dr.

Waterworth, for it would be very dangerous for you to get even a whiff

of this in your condition. Ah! See--the scratches I made on the paper

are red."

Then hardly giving us more than a moment to let the fact impress

itself on our minds, he seized the piece of paper and dashed it into

the jar of ammonia. When he withdrew it, it was just a plain sheet

of white paper again. The red marks which the gas in the flask had

brought out of nothingness had been effaced by the ammonia. They had

gone and left no trace.

"In this way I can alternately make the marks appear and disappear by

using the sulpho-cyanide and the ammonia. Whoever wrote this note

with Dr. Dixon's name on it must have had the doctor's reply to

the Thurston letter containing the words, 'This will not cure your

headache.' He carefully traced the words, holding the genuine note up

to the light with a piece of paper over it, leaving out the word 'not'

and using only such words as he needed. This note was then destroyed.

"But he forgot that after he had brought out the red writing by the

use of the sulpho-cyanide, and though he could count on Vera Lytton's

placing the note in the jar of ammonia and hence obliterating the

writing, while at the same time the invisible writing in the mercurous

nitrate involving Dr. Dixon's name would he brought out by the ammonia

indelibly on the other side of the note--he forgot"--Kennedy was now

speaking eagerly and loudly--"that the sulpho-cyanide vapors could

always be made to bring back to accuse him the words that the ammonia

had blotted out."

Before the prosecutor could interfere, Kennedy had picked up the note

found in the ammonia-jar beside the dying girl and had jammed the

state's evidence into the long-necked flask of sulpho-cyanide vapor.

"Don't fear," he said, trying to pacify the now furious prosecutor,

"it will do nothing to the Dixon writing. That is permanent now, even

if it is only a tracing."

When he withdrew the note, there was writing on both sides, the black

of the original note and something in red on the other side.

We crowded around, and Craig read it with as much interest as any of

us:

"Before taking the headache-powder, be sure to place the contents of

this paper in a jar with a little warm water."

"Hum," commented Craig, "this was apparently written on the outside

wrapper of a paper folded about some sal-ammoniac and quicklime. It

goes on:

* * * * *

"'Just drop the whole thing in, _paper and all_. Then if you feel a

faintness from the medicine the ammonia will quickly restore you. One

spoonful of the headache-powder swallowed quickly is enough.'"

* * * * *

No name was signed to the directions, but they were plainly written,

and "_paper and all_" was underscored heavily.

Craig pulled out some letters. "I have here specimens of writing of

many persons connected with this case, but I can see at a glance which

one corresponds to the writing on this red death-warrant by an

almost inhuman fiend. I shall, however, leave that part of it to the

handwriting experts to determine at the trial. Thurston, who was the

man whom you saw enter the Boncour bungalow as you left--the constant

visitor?"

Thurston had not yet regained his self-control, but with trembling

forefinger he turned and pointed to Halsey Post.

"Yes, ladies and gentlemen," cried Kennedy as he slapped the telegram

that had just come from New York down on the table decisively, "yes,

the real client of Kerr & Kimmel, who bent Thurston to his purposes,

was Halsey Post, once secret lover of Vera Lytton till threatened by

scandal in Danbridge--Halsey Post, graduate in technology, student

of sympathetic inks, forger of the Vera Lytton letter and the other

notes, and dealer in cyanides in the silver-smithing business,

fortune-hunter for the Willard millions with which to recoup the Post

& Vance losses, and hence rival of Dr. Dixon for the love of Alma

Willard. That is the man who wielded the poisoned pen. Dr. Dixon is

innocent."

THE INVISIBLE RAY

BY ARTHUR B. REEVE

"I won't deny that I had some expectations from the old man myself."

Kennedy's client was speaking in a low, full-chested, vibrating voice,

with some emotion, so low that I had entered the room without being

aware that any one was there until it was too late to retreat.

"As his physician for over twelve years," the man pursued, "I

certainly had been led to hope to be remembered in his will. But,

Professor Kennedy, I can't put it too strongly when I say that there

is no selfish motive in my coming to you about the case. There is

something wrong--depend on that."

Craig had glanced up at me and, as I hesitated, I could see in an

instant that the speaker was a practitioner of a type that is rapidly

passing away, the old-fashioned family doctor.

"Dr. Burnham, I should like to have you know Mr. Jameson," introduced

Craig. "You can talk as freely before him as you have to me alone. We

always work together."

I shook hands with the visitor.

"The doctor has succeeded in interesting me greatly in a case which

has some unique features," Kennedy explained. "It has to do with

Stephen Haswell, the eccentric old millionaire of Brooklyn. Have you

ever heard of him?"

"Yes, indeed," I replied, recalling an occasional article which had

appeared in the newspapers regarding a dusty and dirty old house in

that part of the Heights in Brooklyn whence all that is fashionable

had not yet taken flight, a house of mystery, yet not more mysterious

than its owner in his secretive comings and goings in the affairs of

men of a generation beyond his time. Further than the facts that he

was reputed to be very wealthy and led, in the heart of a great city,

what was as nearly like the life of a hermit as possible, I knew

little or nothing, "What has he been doing now?" I asked.

"About a week ago," repeated the doctor, in answer to a nod of

encouragement from Kennedy, "I was summoned in the middle of the night

to attend Mr. Haswell, who, as I have been telling Professor Kennedy,

had been a patient of mine for over twelve years. He had been suddenly

stricken with total blindness. Since then he appears to be failing

fast, that is, he appeared so the last time I saw him, a few days ago,

after I had been superseded by a younger man. It is a curious case and

I have thought about it a great deal. But I didn't like to speak to

the authorities; there wasn't enough to warrant that, and I should

have been laughed out of court for my pains. The more I have thought

about it, however, the more I have felt it my duty to say something

to somebody, and so, having heard of Professor Kennedy, I decided to

consult him. The fact of the matter is, I very much fear that there

are circumstances which will bear sharp looking into, perhaps a scheme

to get control of the old man's fortune."

The doctor paused, and Craig inclined his head, as much as to signify

his appreciation of the delicate position in which Burnham stood in

the case. Before the doctor could proceed further, Kennedy handed me a

letter which had been lying before him on the table. It had evidently

been torn into small pieces and then carefully pasted together.

The superscription gave a small town in Ohio and a date about a

fortnight previous.

* * * * *

Dear Father [it read]: I hope you will pardon me for writing, but I

cannot let the occasion of your seventy-fifth birthday pass without a

word of affection and congratulation. I am alive and well--Time has

dealt leniently with me in that respect, if not in money matters. I

do not say this in the hope of reconciling you to me. I know that is

impossible after all these cruel years. But I do wish that I could see

you again. Remember, I am your only child and even if you still think

I have been a foolish one, please let me come to see you once before

it is too late. We are constantly traveling from place to place, but

shall be here for a few days.

Your loving daughter,

GRACE HASWELL MARTIN.

* * * * *

"Some fourteen or fifteen years ago," explained the doctor as I looked

up from reading the note, "Mr. Haswell's only daughter eloped with an

artist named Martin. He had been engaged to paint a portrait of the

late Mrs. Haswell from a photograph. It was the first time that

Grace Haswell had ever been able to find expression for the artistic

yearning which had always been repressed by the cold, practical sense

of her father. She remembered her mother perfectly since the sad

bereavement of her girlhood and naturally she watched and helped the

artist eagerly. The result was a portrait which might well have been

painted from the subject herself rather than from a cold photograph.

"Haswell saw the growing intimacy of his daughter and the artist. His

bent of mind was solely toward money and material things, and he at

once conceived a bitter and unreasoning hatred for Martin, who, he

believed, had 'schemed' to capture his daughter and an easy living.

Art was as foreign to his nature as possible. Nevertheless they went

ahead and married, and, well, it resulted in the old man disinheriting

the girl. The young couple disappeared bravely to make their way by

their chosen profession and, as far as I know, have never been heard

from since until now. Haswell made a new will and I have always

understood that practically all of his fortune is to be devoted to

founding the technology department in a projected university of

Brooklyn."

"You have never seen this Mrs. Martin or her husband?" asked Kennedy.

"No, never. But in some way she must have learned that I had some

influence with her father, for she wrote to me not long ago, enclosing

a note for him and asking me to intercede for her. I did so. I took

the letter to him as diplomatically as I could. The old man flew into

a towering rage, refused even to look at the letter, tore it up into

bits, and ordered me never to mention the subject to him again. That

is her note, which I saved. However, it is the sequel about which I

wish your help."

The physician folded up the patched letter carefully before he

continued. "Mr. Haswell, as you perhaps know, has for many years

been a prominent figure in various curious speculations or rather in

loaning money to many curious speculators. It is not necessary to go

into the different schemes which he has helped to finance. Even though

most of them have been unknown to the public they have certainly given

him such a reputation that he is much sought after by inventors.

"Not long ago Haswell became interested in the work of an obscure

chemist over in Brooklyn, Morgan Prescott. Prescott claims, as I

understand, to be able to transmute copper into gold. Whatever you

think of it offhand, you should visit his laboratory yourselves,

gentlemen. I am told it is wonderful, though I have never seen it

and can't explain it. I have met Prescott several times while he was

trying to persuade Mr. Haswell to back him in his scheme, but he was

never disposed to talk to me, for I had no money to invest. So far as

I know about it the thing sounds scientific and plausible enough. I

leave you to judge of that. It is only an incident in my story and I

will pass over it quickly. Prescott, then, believes that the elements

are merely progressive variations of an original substance or base

called 'protyle,' from which everything is derived. But this fellow

Prescott goes much further than any of the former theorists. He does

not stop with matter. He believes that he has the secret of life also,

that he can make the transition from the inorganic to the organic,

from inert matter to living protoplasm, and thence from living

protoplasm to mind and what we call soul, whatever that may be."

"And here is where the weird and uncanny part of it comes in,"

commented Craig, turning from the doctor to me to call my attention

particularly to what was about to follow.

"Having arrived at the point where he asserts that he can create and

destroy matter, life, and mind," continued the doctor, as if himself

fascinated by the idea, "Prescott very naturally does not have to

go far before he also claims a control over telepathy and even a

communication with the dead. He even calls the messages which he

receives by a word which he has coined himself, 'telepagrams.' Thus

he says he has unified the physical, the physiological, and the

psychical--a system of absolute scientific monism."

The doctor paused again, then resumed. "One afternoon, about a week

ago, apparently, as far as I am able to piece together the story,

Prescott was demonstrating his marvellous discovery of the unity of

nature. Suddenly he faced Mr. Haswell.

"'Shall I tell you a fact, sir, about yourself?' he asked quickly.

'The truth as I see it by means of my wonderful invention? If it

is the truth, will you believe in me? Will you put money into my

invention? Will you share in becoming fabulously rich?"

"Haswell made some noncommittal answer. But Prescott seemed to look

into the machine through a very thick plate-glass window, with Haswell

placed directly before it. He gave a cry. 'Mr. Haswell,' he exclaimed,

'I regret to tell you what I see. You have disinherited your daughter;

she has passed out of your life and at the present moment you do not

know where she is.'

"'That's true,' replied the old man bitterly, 'and more than that I

don't care. Is that all you see? That's nothing new.'

"'No, unfortunately, that is not all I see. Can you bear something

further? I think you ought to know it. I have here a most mysterious

telepagram.'

"'Yes. What is it? Is she dead?'

"'No, it is not about her. It is about yourself. To-night at midnight

or perhaps a little later,' repeated Prescott solemnly, 'you will lose

your sight as a punishment for your action.'

"'Pouf!' exclaimed the old man in a dudgeon, 'if that is all your

invention can tell me, good-bye. You told me you were able to make

gold. Instead, you make foolish prophecies. I'll put no money into

such tomfoolery. I'm a practical man,' and with that he stamped out of

the laboratory.

"Well, that night, about one o'clock, in the silence of the lonely old

house, the aged caretaker, Jane, whom he had hired after he banished

his daughter from his life, heard a wild shout of 'Help! Help!'

Haswell, alone in his room on the second floor, was groping about in

the dark.

"'Jane,' he ordered, 'a light--a light.'

"'I have lighted the gas, Mr. Haswell,' she cried.

"A groan followed. He had himself found a match, had struck it, had

even burnt his fingers with it, yet he saw nothing.

"The blow had fallen. At almost the very hour which Prescott, by means

of his weird telepagram, had predicted, old Haswell was stricken.

"'I'm blind,' he gasped. 'Send for Dr. Burnham.'"

"I went to him immediately when the maid roused me, but there was

nothing I could do except prescribe perfect rest for his eyes and

keeping in a dark room in the hope that his sight might be restored as

suddenly and miraculously as it had been taken away.

"The next morning, with his own hand, trembling and scrawling in his

blindness, he wrote the following on a piece of paper:

* * * * *

"MRS. GRACE MARTIN--Information wanted about the present whereabouts

of Mrs. Grace Martin, formerly Grace Haswell of Brooklyn.

STEPHEN HASWELL,

--Pierrepont St., Brooklyn.

* * * * *

"This advertisement he caused to be placed in all the New York papers

and to be wired to the leading Western papers. Haswell himself was a

changed man after his experience. He spoke bitterly of Prescott, yet

his attitude toward his daughter was completely reversed. Whether he

admitted to himself a belief in the prediction of the inventor, I do

not know. Certainly he scouted such an idea in telling me about it.

"A day or two after the advertisements appeared a telegram came to the

old man from a little town in Indiana. It read simply: 'Dear Father:

Am starting for Brooklyn to-day. Grace."

"The upshot was that Grace Haswell, or rather Grace Martin, appeared

the next day, forgave and was forgiven with much weeping, although the

old man still refused resolutely to be reconciled with and receive her

husband. Mrs. Martin started in to clean up the old house. A vacuum

cleaner sucked a ton or two of dust from it. Everything was

changed. Jane grumbled a great deal, but there was no doubt a great

improvement. Meals were served regularly. The old man was taken care

of as never before. Nothing was too good for him. Everywhere the touch

of a woman was evident in the house. The change was complete. It even

extended to me. Some friend had told her of an eye and ear specialist,

a Dr. Scott, who was engaged. Since then, I understand, a new will

has been made, much to the chagrin of the trustees of the projected

school. Of course I am cut out of the new will, and that with the

knowledge at least of the woman who once appealed to me, but it does

not influence me in coming to you."

"But what has happened since to arouse suspicion?" asked Kennedy,

watching the doctor furtively.

"Why, the fact is that, in spite of all this added care, the old man

is failing more rapidly than ever. He never goes out except attended

and not much even then. The other day I happened to meet Jane on the

street. The faithful old soul poured forth a long story about his

growing dependence on others and ended by mentioning a curious red

discoloration that seems to have broken out over his face and hands.

More from the way she said it than from what she said I gained the

impression that something was going on which should be looked into."

"Then you perhaps think that Prescott and Mrs. Martin are in some way

connected in this case?" I hazarded.

I had scarcely framed the question before he replied in an emphatic

negative. "On the contrary, it seems to me that if they know each other

at all it is with hostility. With the exception of the first stroke of

blindness"--here he lowered his voice earnestly--"practically every

misfortune that has overtaken Mr. Haswell has been since the advent of

this new Dr. Scott. Mind, I do not wish even to breathe that Mrs. Martin

has done anything except what a daughter should do. I think she has

shown herself a model of forgiveness and devotion. Nevertheless the turn

of events under the new treatment has been so strange that almost it

makes one believe that there might be something occult about it--or

wrong with the new doctor."

"Would it be possible, do you think, for us to see Mr. Haswell?" asked

Kennedy, when Dr. Burnham had come to a full stop after pouring forth

his suspicions. "I should like to see this Dr. Scott. But first I

should like to get into the old house without exciting hostility."

The doctor was thoughtful. "You'll have to arrange that yourself," he

answered. "Can't you think up a scheme? For instance, go to him with

a proposal like the old schemes he used to finance. He is very much

interested in electrical inventions. He made his money by speculation

in telegraphs and telephones in the early days when they were more or

less dreams. I should think a wireless system of television might at

least interest him and furnish an excuse for getting in, although I am

told his daughter discourages all tangible investment in the schemes

that used to interest his active mind."

"An excellent idea," exclaimed Kennedy. "It is worth trying anyway.

It is still early. Suppose we ride over to Brooklyn with you. You can

direct us to the house and we'll try to see him."

It was still light when we mounted the high steps of the house of

mystery across the bridge. Mrs. Martin, who met us in the parlor,

proved to be a stunning looking woman with brown hair and beautiful

dark eyes. As far as we could see the old house plainly showed the

change. The furniture and ornaments were of a period long past, but

everything was scrupulously neat. Hanging over the old marble mantel

was a painting which quite evidently was that of the long since

deceased Mrs. Haswell, the mother of Grace. In spite of the hideous

style of dress of the period after the war, she had evidently been a

very beautiful woman with large masses of light chestnut hair and

blue eyes which the painter had succeeded in catching with almost

life-likeness for a portrait.

It took only a few minutes for Kennedy, in his most engaging and

plausible manner, to state the hypothetical reason of our call. Though

it was perfectly self-evident from the start that Mrs. Martin would

throw cold water on anything requiring an outlay of money Craig

accomplished his full purpose of securing an interview with Mr.

Haswell. The invalid lay propped up in bed, and as we entered he heard

us and turned his sightless eyes in our direction almost as if he saw.

Kennedy had hardly begun to repeat and elaborate the story which he

had already told regarding his mythical friend who had at last a

commercial wireless "televue," as he called it on the spur of the

moment, when Jane, the aged caretaker, announced Dr. Scott. The

new doctor was a youthfully dressed man, clean-shaven, but with an

undefinable air of being much older than his smooth face led one to

suppose. As he had a large practice, he said, he would beg our pardon

for interrupting but would not take long.

It needed no great, powers of observation to see that the old man

placed great reliance on his new doctor and that the visit partook of

a social as well as a professional nature. Although they talked low

we could catch now and then a word or phrase. Dr. Scott bent down and

examined the eyes of his patient casually. It was difficult to believe

that they saw nothing, so bright was the blue of the iris.

"Perfect rest for the present," the doctor directed, talking more to

Mrs. Martin than to the old man. "Perfect rest, and then when his

health is good, we shall see what can be done with that cataract."

He was about to leave, when the old man reached up and restrained him,

taking hold of the doctor's wrist tightly, as if to pull him nearer in

order to whisper to him without being overheard. Kennedy was sitting

in a chair near the head of the bed, some feet away, as the doctor

leaned down. Haswell, still holding his wrist, pulled him closer. I

could not hear what was said, though somehow I had an impression that

they were talking about Prescott, for it would not have been at all

strange if the old man had been greatly impressed by the alchemist.

Kennedy, I noticed, had pulled an old envelope from his pocket and was

apparently engaged in jotting down some notes, glancing now and then

from his writing to the doctor and then to Mr. Haswell.

The doctor stood erect in a few moments and rubbed his wrist

thoughtfully with the other hand, as if it hurt. At the same time he

smiled on Mrs. Martin. "Your father has a good deal of strength yet,

Mrs. Martin," he remarked. "He has a wonderful constitution. I feel

sure that we can pull him out of this and that he has many, many years

to live."

Mr. Haswell, who caught the words eagerly, brightened visibly, and the

doctor passed out. Kennedy resumed his description of the supposed

wireless picture apparatus which was to revolutionize the newspaper,

the theatre, and daily life in general. The old man did not seem

enthusiastic and turned to his daughter with some remark.

"Just at present," commented the daughter, with an air of finality,

"the only thing my father is much interested in is a way in which

to recover his sight without an operation. He has just had a rather

unpleasant experience with one inventor. I think it will be some time

before he cares to embark in any other such schemes."

Kennedy and I excused ourselves with appropriate remarks of

disappointment. From his preoccupied manner it was impossible for me

to guess whether Craig had accomplished his purpose or not.

"Let us drop in on Dr. Burnham since we are over here," he said when

we had reached the street. "I have some questions to ask him."

The former physician of Mr. Haswell lived not very far from the house

we had just left. He appeared a little surprised to see us so soon,

but very interested in what had taken place.

"Who is this Dr. Scott?" asked Craig when we were seated in the

comfortable leather chairs of the old-fashioned consulting-room.

"Really, I know no more about him than you do," replied Burnham. I

thought I detected a little of professional jealousy in his tone,

though he went on frankly enough, "I have made inquiries and I can

find out nothing except that he is supposed to be a graduate of some

Western medical school and came to this city only a short time ago. He

has hired a small office in a new building devoted entirely to doctors

and they tell me that he is an eye and ear specialist, though I cannot

see that he has any practice. Beyond that I know nothing about him."

"Your friend Prescott interests me, too," remarked Kennedy, changing

the subject quickly.

"Oh, he is no friend of mine," returned the doctor, fumbling in a

drawer of his desk. "But I think I have one of his cards here which

he gave me when we were introduced some time ago at Mr. Haswell's. I

should think it would be worth while to see him. Although he has no

use for me because I have neither money nor influence, still you might

take this card. Tell him you are from the university, that I have

interested you in him, that you know a trustee with money to

invest--anything you like that is plausible. When are you going to see

him?"

"The first thing in the morning," replied Kennedy. "After I have seen

him I shall drop in for another chat with you. Will you be here?"

The doctor promised, and we took our departure.

Prescott's laboratory, which we found the next day from the address

on the card, proved to be situated in one of the streets near the

waterfront under the bridge approach, where the factories and

warehouses clustered thickly. It was with a great deal of anticipation

of seeing something happen that we threaded our way through the maze

of streets with the cobweb structure of the bridge, carrying its

endless succession of cars arching high over our heads. We had nearly

reached the place when Kennedy paused and pulled out two pairs of

glasses, those huge round tortoiseshell affairs.

"You needn't mind these, Walter," he explained. "They are only plain

glass, that is, not ground. You can see through them as well as

through air. We must be careful not to excite suspicion. Perhaps a

disguise might have been better, but I think this will do. There--they

add at least a decade to your age. If you could see yourself you

wouldn't speak to your reflection. You look as scholarly as a Chinese

mandarin. Remember, let me do the talking and do just as I do."

We had now entered the shop, stumbled up the dark stairs, and

presented Dr. Burnham's card with a word of explanation along the

lines which he had suggested. Prescott, surrounded by his retorts,

crucibles, burettes, and condensers, received us much more graciously

than I had had any reason to anticipate. He was a man in the late

forties, his face covered with a thick beard, and his eyes, which

seemed a little weak, were helped out with glasses almost as scholarly

as ours.

I could not help thinking that we three bespectacled figures lacked

only the flowing robes to be taken for a group of mediaeval alchemists

set down a few centuries out of our time in the murky light of

Prescott's sanctum. Yet, though he accepted us at our face value, and

began to talk of his strange discoveries there was none of the old

familiar prating about matrix and flux, elixir, magisterium, magnum

opus, the mastery and the quintessence, those alternate names for the

philosopher's stone which Paracelsus, Simon Forman, Jerome Cardan, and

the other mediaeval worthies indulged in. This experience at least was

as up-to-date as the Curies, Becquerel, Ramsay, and the rest.

"Transmutation," remarked Prescott, "was, as you know, finally

declared to be a scientific absurdity in the eighteenth century. But I

may say that it is no longer so regarded. I do not ask you to believe

anything until you have seen; all I ask is that you maintain the same

open mind which the most progressive scientists of to-day exhibit in

regard to the subject."

Kennedy had seated himself some distance from a curious piece or

rather collection of apparatus over which Prescott was working. It

consisted of numerous coils and tubes.

"It may seem strange to you, gentlemen," Prescott proceeded, "that a

man who is able to produce gold from, say, copper should be seeking

capital from other people. My best answer to that old objection is

that I am not seeking capital, as such. The situation with me is

simply this. Twice I have applied to the patent office for a patent

on my invention. They not only refuse to grant it, but they refuse to

consider the application or even to give me a chance to demonstrate my

process to them. On the other hand, suppose I try this thing secretly.

How can I prevent any one from learning my trade secret, leaving me,

and making gold on his own account? Men will desert as fast as I

educate them. Think of the economic result of that; it would turn the

world topsy-turvy. I am looking for some one who can be trusted to the

last limit to join with me, furnish the influence and standing while

I furnish the brains and the invention. Either we must get the

government interested and sell the invention to it or we must get

government protection and special legislation. I am not seeking

capital; I am seeking protection. First let me show you something."

He turned a switch, and a part of the collection of apparatus began to

vibrate.

"You are undoubtedly acquainted with the modern theories of matter,"

he began, plunging into the explanation of his process. "Starting

with the atom, we believe no longer that it is indivisible. Atoms

are composed of thousands of ions, as they are called--really little

electric charges. Again, you know that we have found that all the

elements fall into groups. Each group has certain related atomic

weights and properties which can be and have been predicted in advance

of the discovery of missing elements in the group. I started with the

reasonable assumption that the atom of one element in a group could

be modified so as to become the atom of another element in the group,

that one group could perhaps be transformed into another, and so on,

if only I knew the force that would change the number or modify the

vibrations of these ions composing the various atoms.

"Now for years I have been seeking that force or combination of forces

that would enable me to produce this change in the elements--raising

or lowering them in the scale, so to speak. I have found it. I am not

going to tell you or any other man whom you may interest the secret of

how it is done until I find some one I can trust as I trust myself.

But I am none the less willing that you should see the results. If

they are not convincing, then nothing can be."

He appeared to be debating whether to explain further, and finally

resumed: "Matter thus being in reality a manifestation of force or

ether in motion, it is necessary to change and control that force and

motion. This assemblage of machines here is for that purpose. Now a

few words as to my theory."

He took a pencil and struck a sharp blow on the table. "There you have

a single blow," he said, "just one isolated noise. Now if I strike

this tuning fork you have a vibrating note. In other words, a

succession of blows or wave vibrations of a certain kind affects

the ear and we call it sound, just as a succession of other wave

vibrations affects the retina and we have sight. If a moving picture

moves slower than a certain number of pictures a minute you see the

separate pictures; faster it is one moving picture.

"Now as we increase the rapidity of wave vibration and decrease the

wave length we pass from, sound waves to heat waves or what are known

as the infra-red waves, those which lie below the red in the spectrum

of light. Next we come to light, which is composed of the seven colors

as you know from seeing them resolved in a prism. After that are what

are known as the ultra-violet rays, which lie beyond the violet of

white light. We also have electric waves, the waves of the alternating

current, and shorter still we find the Hertzian waves, which are used

in wireless. We have only begun to know of X-rays and the alpha, beta,

and gamma rays from them, of radium, radioactivity, and finally of

this new force which I have discovered and call 'protodyne,' the

original force.

"In short, we find in the universe Matter, Force, and Ether. Matter

is simply ether in motion, is composed of corpuscles, electrically

charged ions, or electrons, moving units of negative electricity about

one one-thousandth part of the hydrogen atom. Matter is made up of

electricity and nothing but electricity. Let us see what that leads

to. You are acquainted with Mendeléeff's periodic table?"

He drew forth a huge chart on which all the eighty or so elements were

arranged in eight groups or octaves and twelve series. Selecting one,

he placed his finger on the letters "Au," Under which was written the

number, 197.2. I wondered what the mystic letters and figures meant.

"That," he explained, "is the scientific name for the element gold and

the figure is its atomic weight. You will see," he added, pointing

down the second vertical column on the chart, "that gold belongs to

the hydrogen group--hydrogen, lithium, sodium, potassium, copper,

rubidium, silver, caesium, then two blank spaces for elements yet

to be discovered to science, then gold, and finally another unknown

element."

Running his finger along the eleventh, horizontal series, he

continued: "The gold series--not the group--reads gold, mercury,

thallium, lead, bismuth, and other elements known only to myself. For

the known elements, however, these groups and series are now perfectly

recognized by all scientists; they are determined by the fixed weight

of the atom, and there is a close approximation to regularity.

"This twelfth series is interesting. So far only radium, thorium, and

uranium are generally known. We know that the radioactive elements are

constantly breaking down, and one often hears uranium, for instance,

called the 'parent' of radium. Radium also gives off an emanation,

and among its products is helium, quite another element. Thus the

transmutation of matter is well known within certain bounds to all

scientists to-day like yourself, Professor Kennedy. It has even

been rumored but never proved that copper has been transformed into

lithium--both members of the hydrogen-gold group, you will observe.

Copper to lithium is going backward, so to speak. It has remained for

me to devise this protodyne apparatus by which I can reverse that

process of decay and go forward in the table, so to put it--can change

lithium into copper and copper into gold. I can create and destroy

matter by protodyne."

He had been fingering a switch as he spoke. Now he turned it on

triumphantly. A curious snapping and crackling noise followed,

becoming more rapid, and as it mounted in intensity I could smell a

pungent odor of ozone which told of an electric discharge. On went

the machine until we could feel heat radiating from it. Then came a

piercing burst of greenish-blue light from a long tube which looked

like a curious mercury vapor lamp.

After a few minutes of this Prescott took a small crucible of black

lead. "Now we are ready to try it," he cried in great excitement.

"Here I have a crucible containing some copper. Any substance in the

group would do, even hydrogen if there was any way I could handle the

gas. I place it in the machine--so. Now, if you could watch inside you

would see it change; it is now rubidium, now silver, now caesium. Now

it is a hitherto unknown element which I have named after myself,

presium, now a second unknown element, cottium--ah! there we have

gold."

He drew forth the crucible, and there glowed in it a little bead or

globule of molten gold.

"I could have taken lead or mercury and by varying the process done

the same thing with the gold series as well as the gold group," he

said, regarding the globule with obvious pride. "And I can put this

gold back and bring it out copper or hydrogen, or better yet, can

advance it instead of cause it to decay, and can get a radioactive

element which I have named morganium--after my first name, Morgan

Prescott. Morganium is a radioactive element next in the series to

radium and much more active. Come closer and examine the gold."

Kennedy shook his head as if perfectly satisfied to accept the result.

As for me I knew not what to think. It was all so plausible and there

was the bead of gold, too, that I turned to Craig for enlightenment.

Was he convinced? His face was inscrutable.

But as I looked I could see that Kennedy had been holding concealed

in the palm of his hand a bit of what might be a mineral. From my

position I could see the bit of mineral glowing, but Prescott could

not.

"Might I ask," interrupted Kennedy, "what that curious greenish or

bluish light from the tube is composed of?"

Prescott eyed him keenly for an instant through his thick glasses.

Craig had shifted his gaze from the bit of mineral in his own hand,

but was not looking at the light. He seemed to be indifferently

contemplating Prescott's hand as it rested on the switch.

"That, sir," replied Prescott slowly, "is an emanation due to this new

force, protodyne, which I use. It is a manifestation of energy, sir,

that may run changes not only through the whole gamut of the elements,

but is capable of transforming the ether itself into matter, matter

into life, and life into mind. It is the outward sign of the unity of

nature, the--"

"The means by which you secure the curious telepagrams I have heard

of?" inquired Kennedy eagerly.

Prescott looked at him sharply, and for a moment I thought his face

seemed to change from a livid white to an apoplectic red, although it

may have been only the play of the weird light. When he spoke it was

with no show of even suppressed surprise.

"Yes," he answered calmly. "I see that you have heard something of

them. I had a curious case a few days ago. I had hoped to interest a

certain capitalist of high standing in this city. I had showed him

just what I have showed you, and I think he was impressed by it. Then

I thought to clinch the matter by a telepagram, but for some reason

or other I failed to consult the forces I control as to the wisdom

of doing so. Had I, I should have known better. But I went ahead in

self-confidence and enthusiasm. I told him of a long banished daughter

with whom, in his heart, he was really wishing to become reconciled

but was too proud to say the word. He resented it. He started to stamp

out of this room, but not before I had another telepagram which told

of a misfortune that was soon to overtake the old man himself. If he

had given me a chance I might have saved him, at least have flashed a

telepagram to that daughter myself, but he gave me no chance. He was

gone.

"I do not know precisely what happened after that, but in some way

this man found his daughter, and to-day she is living with him. As for

my hopes of getting assistance from him, I lost them from the moment

when I made my initial mistake of telling him something distasteful.

The daughter hates me and I hate her. I have learned that she never

ceases advising the old man against all schemes for investment

except those bearing moderate interest and readily realized on. Dr.

Burnham--I see you know him--has been superseded by another doctor,

I believe. Well, well, I am through with that incident. I must get

assistance from other sources. The old man, I think, would have

tricked me out of the fruits of my discovery anyhow. Perhaps I am

fortunate. Who knows?"

A knock at the door cut him short. Prescott opened it, and a messenger

boy stood there. "Is Professor Kennedy here?" he inquired.

Craig motioned to the boy, signed for the message, and tore it open.

"It is from Dr. Burnham," he exclaimed, handing the message to me.

"Mr. Haswell is dead," I read. "Looks to me like asphyxiation by gas

or some other poison. Come immediately to his house. Burnham."

"You will pardon me," broke in Craig to Prescott, who was regarding us

without the slightest trace of emotion, "but Mr. Haswell, the old man

to whom I know you referred, is dead, and Dr. Burnham wishes to see

me immediately. It was only yesterday that I saw Mr. Haswell and he

seemed in pretty good health and spirits. Prescott, though there was

no love lost between you and the old man, I would esteem it a great

favor if you would accompany me to the house. You need not take any

responsibility unless you desire."

His words were courteous enough, but Craig spoke in a tone of quiet

authority which Prescott found it impossible to deny, Kennedy had

already started to telephone to his own laboratory, describing a

certain suitcase to one of his students and giving his directions. It

was only a moment later that we were panting up the sloping street

that led from the river front. In the excitement I scarcely noticed

where we were going until we hurried up the steps to the Haswell

house.

The aged caretaker met us at the door. She was in tears. Upstairs in

the front room where we had first met the old man we found Dr. Burnham

working frantically over him. It took only a minute to learn what had

happened. The faithful Jane had noticed an odor of gas in the hall,

had traced it to Mr. Haswell's room, had found him unconscious, and

instinctively, forgetting the new Dr. Scott, had rushed forth for Dr.

Burnham. Near the bed stood Grace Martin, pale but anxiously watching

the efforts of the doctor to resuscitate the blue-faced man who was

stretched cold and motionless on the bed.

Dr. Burnham paused in his efforts as we entered. "He is dead, all

right," he whispered, aside. "I have tried everything I know to bring

him back, but he is beyond help."

There was still a sickening odor of illuminating gas in the room,

although the windows were now all open.

Kennedy, with provoking calmness in the excitement, turned from and

ignored Dr. Burnham. "Have you summoned Dr. Scott?" he asked Mrs.

Martin.

"No," she replied, surprised. "Should I have done so?"

"Yes. Send Jane immediately. Mr. Prescott, will you kindly be seated

for a few moments."

Taking off his coat, Kennedy advanced to the bed where the emaciated

figure lay, cold and motionless. Craig knelt down at Mr. Haswell's

head and took the inert arms, raising them up until they were extended

straight. Then be brought them down, folded upward at the elbow at

the side. Again and again he tried this Sylvester method of inducing

respiration, but with no more result than Dr. Burnham had secured. He

turned the body over on its face and tried the new Schaefer method.

There seemed to be not a spark of life left.

"Dr. Scott is out," reported the maid breathlessly, "but they are

trying to locate him from his office, and if they do they will send

him around immediately."

A ring at the doorbell caused us to think that he had been found, but

it proved to be the student to whom Kennedy had telephoned at his own

laboratory. He was carrying a heavy suitcase and a small tank.

Kennedy opened the suitcase hastily and disclosed a little motor, some

long tubes of rubber fitting into a small rubber cap, forceps, and

other paraphernalia. The student quickly attached one tube to the

little tank, while Kennedy grasped the tongue of the dead man with the

forceps, pulled it up off the soft palate, and fitted the rubber cap

snugly over his mouth and nose.

"This is the Draeger pulmotor," he explained as he worked, "devised

to resuscitate persons who have died of electric shock, but actually

found to be of more value in cases of asphyxiation. Start the motor."

The pulmotor began to pump. One could see the dead man's chest rise as

it was inflated with oxygen forced by the accordion bellows from the

tank through one of the tubes into the lungs. Then it fell as the

oxygen and the poisonous gas were slowly sucked out through the other

tube. Again and again the process was repeated, about ten times a

minute.

Dr. Burnham looked on in undisguised amazement. He had long since

given up all hope. The man was dead, Medically dead, as dead as ever

was any gas victim at this stage on whom all the usual methods of

resuscitation had been tried and had failed.

Still, minute after minute, Kennedy worked faithfully on, trying to

discover some spark of life and to fan it into flame. At last, after

what seemed to be a half-hour of unremitting effort, when the oxygen

had long since been exhausted and only fresh air was being pumped into

the lungs and out of them, there was a first faint glimmer of life in

the heart and a touch of color in the cheeks. Haswell was coming to.

Another half-hour found him muttering and rambling weakly.

"The letter--the letter," he moaned, rolling his glazed eyes about.

"Where is the letter? Send for Grace."

The moan was so audible that it was startling. It was like a voice

from the grave. What did it all mean? Mrs. Martin was at his side in a

moment.

"Father, father,--here I am--Grace. What do you want?"

The old man moved restlessly, feverishly, and pressed his trembling

hand to his forehead as if trying to collect his thoughts. He was

weak, but it was evident that he had been saved.

The pulmotor had been stopped. Craig threw the cap to his student to

be packed up, and as he did so he remarked quietly, "I could wish

that Dr. Scott had been found. There are some matters here that might

interest him."

He paused and looked slowly from the rescued man lying dazed on the

bed toward Mrs. Martin. It was quite apparent even to me that she did

not share the desire to see Dr. Scott, at least not just then. She was

flushed and trembling with emotion. Crossing the room hurriedly she

flung open the door into the hall.

"I am sure," she cried, controlling herself with difficulty and

catching at a straw, as it were, "that you gentlemen, even if you have

saved my father, are no friends of either his or mine. You have merely

come here in response to Dr. Burnham, and he came because Jane lost

her head in the excitement and forgot that Dr. Scott is now our

physician."

"But Dr. Scott could not have been found in time, madame," interposed

Dr. Burnham with evident triumph.

She ignored the remark and continued to hold the door open.

"Now leave us," she implored, "you, Dr. Burnham, you, Mr. Prescott,

you, Professor Kennedy, and your friend Mr. Jameson, whoever you may

be."

She was now cold and calm. In the bewildering change of events we had

forgotten the wan figure on the bed still gasping for the breath of

life. I could not help wondering at the woman's apparent lack of

gratitude, and a thought flashed over my mind. Had the affair come to

a contest between various parties fighting by fair means or foul for

the old man's money--Scott and Mrs. Martin perhaps against Prescott

and Dr. Burnham.

No one moved. We seemed to be waiting on Kennedy. Prescott and Mrs.

Martin were now glaring at each other implacably.

The old man moved restlessly on the bed, and over my shoulder I could

hear him gasp faintly, "Where's Grace? Send for Grace."

Mrs. Martin paid no attention, seemed not to hear, but stood facing

us imperiously as if waiting for us to obey her orders and leave the

house. Burnham moved toward the door, but Prescott stood his ground

with a peculiar air of defiance. Then he took my arm and started

rather precipitately, I thought, to leave.

"Come, come," said somebody behind us, "enough of the dramatics."

It was Kennedy, who had been bending down, listening to the muttering

of the old man.

"Look at those eyes of Mr. Haswell," he said. "What color are they?"

We looked. They were blue.

"Down in the parlor," continued Kennedy leisurely, "you will find a

portrait of the long deceased Mrs. Haswell. If you will examine that

painting you will see that her eyes are also a peculiarly limpid blue.

No couple with blue eyes ever had a black-eyed child. At least, if

this is such a case, the Carnegie Institution investigators would

be glad to hear of it, for it is contrary to all that they have

discovered on the subject after years of study of eugenics. Dark-eyed

couples may have light-eyed children, but the reverse, never. What do

you say to that, madame?"

"You lie," screamed the woman, rushing frantically past us. "I am his

daughter. No interlopers shall separate us Father!"

The old man moved feebly away from her.

"Send for Dr. Scott again," she demanded. "See if he cannot be found.

He must be found. You are all enemies, villains."

She addressed Kennedy, but included the whole room in her

denunciation.

"Not all," broke in Kennedy remorselessly. "Yes, madame, send for Dr.

Scott. Why is he not here?"

Prescott, with one hand on my arm and the other on Dr. Burnham's, was

moving toward the door.

"One moment, Prescott," interrupted Kennedy, detaining him with a

look. "There was something I was about to say when Dr. Burnham's

urgent message prevented it. I did not take the trouble even to find

out how you obtained that little globule of molten gold from the

crucible of alleged copper. There are so many tricks by which the gold

could have been 'salted' and brought forth at the right moment that it

was hardly worth while. Besides, I had satisfied myself that my first

suspicions were correct. See that?"

He held out the little piece of mineral I had already seen in his hand

in the alchemist's laboratory.

"That is a piece of willemite. It has the property of glowing or

fluorescing under a certain kind of rays which are themselves

invisible to the human eye. Prescott, your story of the transmutation

of elements is very clever, but not more clever than your real story.

Let us piece it together. I had already heard from Dr. Burnham how Mr.

Haswell was induced by his desire for gain to visit you and how you

had most mysteriously predicted his blindness. Now, there is no such

thing as telepathy, at least in this case. How then was I to explain

it? What could cause such a catastrophe naturally? Why, only those

rays invisible to the human eye, but which make this piece of

willemite glow--the ultra-violet rays."

Kennedy was speaking rapidly and was careful not to pause long enough

to give Prescott an opportunity to interrupt him.

"These ultra-violet rays," he continued, "are always present in an

electric arc light though not to a great degree unless the carbons

have metal cores. They extend for two octaves above the violet of the

spectrum and are too short to affect the eye as light, although they

affect photographic plates. They are the friend of man when he uses

them in moderation as Finsen did in the famous blue light treatment.

But they tolerate no familiarity. To let them--particularly the

shorter of the rays--enter the eye is to invite trouble. There is no

warning sense of discomfort, but from six to eighteen hours after

exposure to them the victim experiences violent pains in the eyes and

headache. Sight may be seriously impaired, and it may take years to

recover. Often prolonged exposure results in blindness, though a

moderate exposure acts like a tonic. The rays may be compared in this

double effect to drugs, such as strychnine. Too much of them may be

destructive even to life itself."

Prescott had now paused and was regarding Kennedy contemptuously.

Kennedy paid no attention, but continued: "Perhaps these mysterious

rays may shed some light on our minds, however. Now, for one thing,

ultra-violet light passes readily through quartz, but is cut off by

ordinary glass, especially if it is coated with chromium. Old Mr.

Haswell did not wear glasses. Therefore he was subject to the

rays--the more so as he is a blond, and I think it has been

demonstrated by investigators that blonds are more affected by them

than are brunettes.

"You have, as a part of your machine, a peculiarly shaped quartz

mercury vapor lamp, and the mercury vapor lamp of a design such as

that I saw has been invented for the especial purpose of producing

ultra-violet rays in large quantity. There are also in your machine

induction coils for the purpose of making an impressive noise, and

a small electric furnace to heat the salted gold. I don't know what

other ingenious fakes you have added. The visible bluish light from

the tube is designed, I suppose, to hoodwink the credulous, but the

dangerous thing about it is the invisible ray that accompanies that

light. Mr. Haswell sat under those invisible rays, Prescott, never

knowing how deadly they might be to him, an old man.

"You knew that they would not take effect for hours, and hence you

ventured the prediction that he would be stricken at about midnight.

Even if it was partial or temporary, still you would be safe in your

prophecy. You succeeded better than you hoped in that part of your

scheme. You had already prepared the way by means of a letter sent to

Mr. Haswell through Dr. Burnham. But Mr. Haswell's credulity and fear

worked the wrong way. Instead of appealing to you he hated you. In

his predicament he thought only of his banished daughter and turned

instinctively to her for help. That made necessary a quick change of

plans."

Prescott, far from losing his nerve, turned on us bitterly. "I knew

you two were spies the moment I saw you," he shouted. "It seemed as if

in some way I knew you for what you were, as if I knew you had seen

Mr. Haswell before you came to me. You, too, would have robbed an

inventor as I am sure he would. But have a care, both of you. You may

be punished also by blindness for your duplicity. Who knows?"

A shudder passed over me at the horrible thought contained in his

mocking laugh. Were we doomed to blindness, too? I looked at the

sightless man on the bed in alarm.

"I knew that you would know us," retorted Kennedy calmly. "Therefore

we came provided with spectacles of Euphos glass, precisely like those

you wear. No, Prescott, we are safe, though perhaps we may have some

burns like those red blotches on Mr. Haswell, light burns."

Prescott had fallen back a step and Mrs. Martin was making an effort

to appear stately and end the interview.

"No," continued Craig, suddenly wheeling, and startling us by the

abruptness of his next exposure, "it is you and your wife here--Mrs.

Prescott, not Mrs. Martin--who must have a care. Stop glaring at each

other. It is no use playing at enemies longer and trying to get rid of

us. You overdo it. The game is up."

Prescott made a rush at Kennedy, who seized him by the wrist and held

him tightly in a grasp of steel that caused the veins on the back of

his hands to stand out like whipcords.

"This is a deep-laid plot," he went on calmly, still holding Prescott,

while I backed up against the door and cut off his wife; "but it is

not so difficult to see it after all. Your part was to destroy the

eyesight of the old man, to make it necessary for him to call on his

daughter. Your wife's part was to play the rôle of Mrs. Martin, whom

he had not seen for years and could not see now. She was to persuade

him, with her filial affection, to make her the beneficiary of his

will, to see that his money was kept readily convertible into cash.

"Then, when the old man was at last out of the way, you two could

decamp with what you could realize before the real daughter cut off

somewhere across the continent could hear of the death of her father.

It was an excellent scheme. But Haswell's plain material newspaper

advertisement was not so effective for your purposes, Prescott, as the

more artistic 'telepagram,' as you call it. Although you two got in

first in answering the advertisement, it finally reached the right

person after all. You didn't get away quickly enough.

"You were not expecting that the real daughter would see it and turn

up so soon. But she has. She lives in California. Mr. Haswell in his

delirium has just told of receiving a telegram which I suppose you,

Mrs. Prescott, read, destroyed, and acted upon. It hurried your plans,

but you were equal to the emergency. Besides, possession is nine

points in the law. You tried the gas, making it look like a suicide.

Jane, in her excitement, spoiled that, and Dr. Burnham, knowing

where I was, as it happened, was able to summon me immediately.

Circumstances have been against you from the first, Prescott."

Craig was slowly twisting up the hand of the inventor, which he still

held. With his other hand he pulled a paper from his pocket. It was

the old envelope on which he had "written upon the occasion of our

first visit to Mr. Haswell when we had been so unceremoniously

interrupted by the visit of Dr. Scott.

"I sat here yesterday by this bed," continued Craig, motioning toward

the chair he had occupied, as I remembered "Mr. Haswell was telling

Dr. Scott something in an undertone. I could not hear it. But the old

man grasped the doctor by the wrist to pull him closer to whisper

to him. The doctor's hand was toward me and I noticed the peculiar

markings of the veins.

"You perhaps are not acquainted with the fact, but the markings of

the veins in the back of the hand are peculiar to each individual--as

infallible, indestructible, and ineffaceable as finger prints or the

shape of the ear. It is a system invented and developed by Professor

Tamassia of the University of Padua, Italy. A superficial observer

would say that all vein patterns were essentially similar, and many

have said so, but Tamassia has found each to be characteristic and

all subject to almost incredible diversities. There are six general

classes--in this case before us, two large veins crossed by a few

secondary veins forming a V with its base near the wrist.

"Already my suspicions had been aroused. I sketched the arrangement of

the veins standing out on that hand. I noted the same thing just now

on the hand that manipulated the fake apparatus in the laboratory.

Despite the difference in make-up Scott and Prescott are the same.

"The invisible rays of the ultra-violet light may have blinded Mr.

Haswell, even to the recognition of his own daughter, but you can

rest assured, Prescott, that the very cleverness of your scheme will

penetrate the eyes of the blindfolded goddess of justice. Burnham, if

you will have the kindness to summon the police, I will take all the

responsibility for the arrest of these people."

THE SILENT BULLET

BY ARTHUR B. REEVE

"Detectives in fiction nearly always make a great mistake," said

Kennedy one evening after a conversation on crime and science. "They

almost invariably antagonize the regular detective force. Now in real

life that's impossible--it's fatal."

"Yes," I agreed, looking up from reading an account of the failure

of a large Wall Street brokerage house, Kerr Parker & Co., and the

peculiar suicide of Kerr Parker. "Yes, it's impossible, just as it is

impossible for the regular detectives to antagonize the newspapers.

Scotland Yard found that out in the Crippen case."

"My idea of the thing, Jameson," continued Kennedy, "is that the

professor of criminal science ought to work with, not against, the

regular detectives. They're all right. They're indispensable, of

course. Half the secret of success nowadays is organization. The

professor of criminal science should be merely what the professor in

a technical school often is--a sort of consulting engineer. For

instance, I believe that organization plus science would go far toward

clearing up that Wall Street case I see you are reading."

I expressed some doubt as to whether the regular police were

enlightened enough to take that view of it.

"Some of them are," he replied. "Yesterday the chief of Police in a

Western city sent a man East to see me about the Price murder--you

know the case?"

Indeed I did. A wealthy banker of the town had been murdered on the

road to the golf club, no one knew why or by whom. Every clue had

proved fruitless, and the list of suspects was itself so long and so

impossible as to seem most discouraging.

"He sent me a piece of a torn handkerchief with a deep blood-stain

on it," pursued Kennedy. "He said it clearly didn't belong to the

murdered man, that it indicated that the murderer had himself been

wounded in the tussle, but as yet it had proved utterly valueless as a

clue. Would I see what I could make of it?

"After his man had told me the story I had a feeling that the murder

was committed by either a Sicilian laborer on the links or a negro

waiter at the club. Well, to make a short story shorter, I decided to

test the blood-stain. Probably you didn't know it, but the Carnegie

Institution has just published a minute, careful, and dry study of the

blood of human beings and of animals. In fact, they have been able to

reclassify the whole animal kingdom on this basis, and have made some

most surprising additions to our knowledge of evolution. Now I don't

propose to bore you with the details of the tests, but one of the

things they showed was that the blood of a certain branch of the

human race gives a reaction much like the blood of a certain group of

monkeys, the chimpanzees, while the blood of another branch gives a

reaction like that of the gorilla. Of course there's lots more to it,

but this is all that need concern us now.

"I tried the tests. The blood on the handkerchief conformed strictly

to the latter test. Now the gorilla was, of course, out of the

question--this was no _Rue Morgue_ murder. Therefore it was the negro

waiter."

"But," I interrupted, "the negro offered a perfect alibi at the start,

and--"

"No buts, Walter. Here's a telegram I received at dinner:

'Congratulations. Confronted Jackson your evidence as wired.

Confessed.'"

"Well, Craig, I take off my hat to you," I exclaimed. "Next you'll be

solving this Kerr Parker case for sure."

"I would take a hand in it if they'd let me," said he simply.

That night, without saying anything, I sauntered down to the imposing

new police building amid the squalor of Center Street. They were very

busy at headquarters, but having once had that assignment for the

_Star_, I had no trouble in getting in. Inspector Barney O'Connor of

the Central Office carefully shifted a cigar from corner to corner of

his mouth as I poured forth my suggestion to him.

"Well, Jameson," he said at length, "do you think this professor

fellow is the goods?"

I didn't mince matters in my opinion of Kennedy. I told him of the

Price case and showed him a copy of the telegram. That settled it.

"Can you bring him down here to-night?" he asked quickly.

I reached for the telephone, found Craig in his laboratory finally,

and in less than an hour he was in the office.

"This is a most baffling case, Professor Kennedy, this case of Kerr

Parker," said the inspector, launching at once into his subject. "Here

is a broker heavily interested in Mexican rubber. It looks like a good

thing--plantations right in the same territory as those of the Rubber

Trust. Now in addition to that he is branching out into coastwise

steamship lines; another man associated with him is heavily engaged in

a railway scheme for the United States down into Mexico. Altogether

the steamships and railroads are tapping rubber, oil, copper, and

I don't know what other regions. Here in New York they have been

pyramiding stocks, borrowing money from two trust companies which they

control. It's a lovely scheme--you've read about it, I suppose. Also

you've read that it comes into competition with a certain group of

capitalists whom we will call 'the System.'

"Well, this depression in the market comes along. At once rumors are

spread about the weakness of the trust companies; runs start on both

of them. The System--you know them--make a great show of supporting

the market. Yet the runs continue. God knows whether they will spread

or the trust companies stand up under it to-morrow after what happened

to-day. It was a good thing the market was closed when it happened.

"Kerr Parker was surrounded by a group of people who were in his

schemes with him. They are holding a council of war in the directors'

room. Suddenly Parker rises, staggers toward the window, falls, and is

dead before a doctor can get to him. Every effort is made to keep the

thing quiet. It is given out that he committed suicide. The papers

don't seem to accept the suicide theory, however. Neither do we. The

coroner, who is working with us, has kept his month shut so far, and

will say nothing till the inquest. For, Professor Kennedy, my first

man on the spot found that--Kerr--Parker--was--murdered.

"Now here comes the amazing part of the story. The doors to the

offices on both sides were open at the time. There were lots of people

in each office. There was the usual click of typewriters, and the buzz

of the ticker, and the hum of conversation. We have any number of

witnesses of the whole affair, but as far as any of them knows no shot

was fired, no smoke was seen, no noise was heard, nor was any weapon

found. Yet here on my desk is a thirty-two calibre bullet. The

coroner's physician probed it out of Parker's neck this afternoon and

turned it over to us."

Kennedy reached for the bullet, and turned it thoughtfully in his

fingers for a moment. One side of it had apparently struck a bone in

the neck of the murdered man, and was flattened. The other side was

still perfectly smooth. With his inevitable magnifying-glass he

scrutinized the bullet on every side. I watched his face anxiously,

and I could see that he was very intent and very excited.

"Extraordinary, most extraordinary," he said to himself as he turned

it over and over. "Where did you say this bullet struck?"

"In the fleshy part of the neck, quite a little back of and below his

ear and just above his collar. There wasn't much bleeding. I think it

must have struck the base of his brain."

"It didn't strike his collar or hair?"

"No," replied the inspector.

"Inspector, I think we shall be able to put our hand on the

murderer--I think we can get a conviction, sir, on the evidence that I

shall get from this bullet in my laboratory."

"That's pretty much like a story-book," drawled the inspector

incredulously, shaking his head.

"Perhaps," smiled Kennedy. "But there will still be plenty of work for

the police to do, too. I've only got a clue to the murderer. It

will tax the whole organization to follow it up, believe me. Now,

Inspector, can you spare the time to go down to Parker's office and

take me over the ground? No doubt we can develop something else

there."

"Sure," answered O'Connor, and within five minutes we were hurrying

down town in one of the department automobiles.

We found the office under guard of one of the Central Office men,

while in the outside office Parker's confidential clerk and a few

assistants were still at work in a subdued and awed manner. Men were

working in many other Wall Street offices that night during the panic,

but in none was there more reason for it than here. Later I learned

that it was the quiet tenacity of this confidential clerk that saved

even as much of Parker's estate as was saved for his widow--little

enough it was, too. What he saved for the clients of the firm no one

will ever know. Somehow or other I liked John Downey, the clerk, from

the moment I was introduced to him. He seemed to me, at least, to be

the typical confidential clerk who would carry a secret worth millions

and keep it.

The officer in charge touched his hat to the inspector, and Downey

hastened to put himself at our service. It was plain that the murder

had completely mystified him, and that he was as anxious as we were to

get at the bottom of it.

"Mr. Downey," began Kennedy, "I understand you were present when this

sad event took place."

"Yes, sir, sitting right here at the directors' table," he replied,

taking a chair, "like this."

"Now can you recollect just how Mr. Parker acted when he was shot?

Could you--er--could you take his place and show us just how it

happened?"

"Yes, sir," said Downey. "He was sitting here at the head of the

table. Mr. Bruce, who is the 'Co.' of the firm, had been sitting here

at his right; I was at the left. The inspector has a list of all the

others present. That door to the right was open, and Mrs. Parker and

some other ladies were in the room--"

"Mrs. Parker?" broke in Kennedy.

"Yes. Like a good many brokerage firms we have a ladies' room. Many

ladies are among our clients. We make a point of catering to them. At

that time I recollect the door was open--all the doors were open. It

was not a secret meeting. Mr. Bruce had just gone into the ladies'

department, I think to ask some of them to stand by the firm--he was

an artist at smoothing over the fears of customers, particularly

women. Just before he went in I had seen the ladies go in a group

toward the far end of the room--to look down at the line of depositors

on the street, which reached around the corner from one of the trust

companies, I thought. I was making a note of an order to send into the

outside office there on the left, and had just pushed this button

here under the table to call a boy to carry it. Mr. Parker had just

received a letter by special delivery, and seemed considerably puzzled

over it. No, I don't know what it was about. Of a sudden I saw him

start in his chair, rise up unsteadily, clap his hand on the back of

his head, stagger across the floor--like this--and fall here."

"Then what happened?"

"Why, I rushed to pick him up. Everything was confusion. I recall

someone behind me saying, 'Here, boy, take all these papers off the

table and carry them into my office before they get lost in the

excitement.' I think it was Bruce's voice. The next moment I heard

someone say, 'Stand back, Mrs. Parker has fainted.' But I didn't pay

much attention, for I was calling to someone not to get a doctor over

the telephone, but to go down to the fifth floor where one has an

office. I made Mr. Parker as comfortable as I could. There wasn't much

I could do. He seemed to want to say something to me, but he couldn't

talk. He was paralyzed, at least his throat was. But I did manage to

make out finally what sounded to me like, 'Tell her I don't believe

the scandal, I don't believe it.' But before he could say whom to tell

he had again become unconscious, and by the time the doctor arrived he

was dead. I guess you know everything else as well as I do."

"You didn't hear the shot fired from any particular direction?" asked

Kennedy.

"No, sir."

"Well, where do you think it came from?"

"That's what puzzles me, sir. The only thing I can figure out is that

it was fired from the outside office--perhaps by some customer who had

lost money and sought revenge. But no one out there heard it either,

any more than, they did in the directors' room or the ladies'

department."

"About that message," asked Kennedy, ignoring what to me seemed to

be the most important feature of the case, the mystery of the silent

bullet. "Didn't you see it after all was over?"

"No, sir; in fact I had forgotten about it till this moment when you

asked me to reconstruct the circumstances exactly. No, sir, I don't

know a thing about it. I can't say it impressed itself on my mind at

the time, either."

"What did Mrs. Parker do when she came to?"

"Oh, she cried as I have never seen a woman cry before. He was dead by

that time, of course. Mr. Bruce and I saw her down in the elevator to

her car. In fact, the doctor, who had arrived, said that the sooner

she was taken home the better she would be. She was quite hysterical."

"Did she say anything that you remember?"

Downey hesitated.

"Out with it, Downey," said the inspector. "What did she say as she

was going down in the elevator?"

"Nothing."

"Tell us. I'll arrest you if you don't."

"Nothing about the murder, on my honor," protested Downey.

Kennedy leaned over suddenly and shot a remark at him, "Then it was

about the note."

Downey was surprised, but not quickly enough. Still he seemed to be

considering something, and in a moment he said:

"I don't know what it was about, but I feel it is my duty, after all,

to tell you. I heard her say, 'I wonder if he knew.'"

"Nothing else?"

"Nothing else."

"What happened after you came back?"

"We entered the ladies' department. No one was there. A woman's

automobile-coat was thrown over a chair in a heap. Mr. Bruce picked it

up. 'It's Mrs. Parker's,' he said. He wrapped it up hastily, and rang

for a messenger."

"Where did he send it?"

"To Mrs. Parker, I suppose. I didn't hear the address."

We next went over the whole suite of offices, conducted by Mr. Downey.

I noted how carefully Kennedy looked into the directors' room through

the open door from the ladies' department. He stood at such an angle

that had he been the assassin he could scarcely have been seen except

by those sitting immediately next Mr. Parker at the directors' table.

The street windows were directly in front of him, and back of him was

the chair on which the motor-coat had been found.

In Parker's own office we spent some time, as well as in Bruce's.

Kennedy made a search for the note, but finding nothing in either

office, turned out the contents of Bruce's scrap-basket. There didn't

seem to be anything in it to interest him, however, even after he had

pieced several torn bits of scraps together with much difficulty, and

he was about to turn the papers back again, when he noticed something

sticking to the side of the basket. It looked like a mass of wet

paper, and that was precisely what it was.

"That's queer," said Kennedy, picking it loose. Then he wrapped it up

carefully and put it in his pocket. "Inspector, can you lend me one

of your men for a couple of days?" he asked, as we were preparing

to leave. "I shall want to send him out of town to-night, and shall

probably need his services when he gets back."

"Very well. Riley will be just the fellow. We'll go back to

headquarters, and I'll put him under your orders."

It was not until late in the following day that I saw Kennedy again.

It had been a busy day on the _Star_. We had gone to work that morning

expecting to see the financial heavens fall. But just about five

minutes to ten, before the Stock Exchange opened, the news came in

over the wire from our financial man on Broad Street: "The System has

forced James Bruce, partner of Kerr Parker, the dead banker, to sell

his railroad, steamship, and rubber holdings to it. On this condition

it promises unlimited support to the market."

"Forced!" muttered the managing editor, as he waited on the office

'phone to get the, composing-room, so as to hurry up the few lines in

red ink on the first page and beat our rivals on the streets with the

first extras. "Why, he's been working to bring that about for the past

two weeks. What that System doesn't control isn't worth having--it

edits the news before our men get it, and as for grist for the divorce

courts, and tragedies, well--Hello, Jenkins, yes, a special extra.

Change the big heads--copy is on the way up--rush it."

"So you think this Parker case is a mess?" I asked.

"I know it. That's a pretty swift bunch of females that have been

speculating at Kerr Parker & Co.'s. I understand there's one

Titian-haired young lady--who, by the way, has at least one husband

who hasn't yet been divorced--who is a sort of ringleader, though she

rarely goes personally to her brokers' office. She's one of those

uptown plungers, and the story is that she has a whole string of

scalps of alleged Sunday-school superintendents at her belt. She

can make Bruce do pretty nearly anything, they say. He's the latest

conquest. I got the story on pretty good authority, but until I

verified the names, dates and places, of course I wouldn't dare print

a line of it. The story goes that her husband is a hanger-on of the

System, and that she's been working in their interest, too. That was

why he was so complacent over the whole affair. They put her up to

capturing Bruce, and after she had acquired an influence over him they

worked it so that she made him make love to Mrs. Parker. It's a long

story, but that isn't all of it. The point was, you see, that by

this devious route they hoped to worm out of Mrs. Parker some inside

information about Parker's rubber schemes, which he hadn't divulged

even to his partners in business. It was a deep and carefully planned

plot, and some of the conspirators were pretty deeply in the mire,

I guess. I wish I'd had all the facts about who this red-haired

Machiavelli was--what a piece of muckraking it would have made! Oh,

here comes the rest of the news story over the wire. By Jove, it is

said on good authority that Bruce will be taken in as one of the board

of directors. What do you think of that?"

So that was how the wind lay--Bruce making love to Mrs. Parker and she

presumably betraying her husband's secrets. I thought I saw it all:

the note from somebody exposing the scheme, Parker's incredulity,

Bruce sitting by him and catching sight of the note, his hurrying out

into the ladies' department, and then the shot. But who fired it?

After all, I had only picked up another clue.

Kennedy was not at the apartment at dinner, and an inquiry at the

laboratory was fruitless also. So I sat down to fidget for a while.

Pretty soon the buzzer on the door sounded, and I opened it to find a

messenger-boy with a large brown paper parcel.

"Is Mr. Bruce here?" he asked.

"Why, no, he doesn't--" then I checked myself and added: "He will be

here presently. You can leave the bundle."

"Well, this is the parcel he telephoned for. His valet told me to

tell him that they had a hard time to find it but he guesses it's all

right. The charges are forty cents. Sign here."

I signed the book, feeling like a thief, and the boy departed. What it

all meant I could not guess.

Just then I heard a key in the lock, and Kennedy came in.

"Is your name Bruce?" I asked.

"Why?" he replied eagerly. "Has anything come?"

I pointed to the package. Kennedy made a dive for it and unwrapped it.

It was a woman's pongee automobile-coat. He held it up to the light.

The pocket on the right-hand side was scorched and burned, and a hole

was torn clean through it. I gasped when the full significance of it

dawned on me.

"How did you get it?" I exclaimed at last in surprise.

"That's where organization comes in," said Kennedy. "The police at

my request went over every messenger call from Parker's office that

afternoon, and traced every one of them up. At last they found one

that led to Bruce's apartment. None of them led to Mrs. Parker's home.

The rest were all business calls and satisfactorily accounted for. I

reasoned that this was the one that involved the disappearance of the

automobile-coat. It was a chance worth taking, so I got Downey to call

up Bruce's valet. The valet of course recognized Downey's voice and

suspected nothing. Downey assumed to know all about the coat in the

package received yesterday. He asked to have it sent up here. I see

the scheme worked."

"But, Kennedy, do you think she--" I stopped, speechless, looking at

the scorched coat.

"Nothing to say--yet," he replied laconically. "But if you could tell

me anything about that note Parker received I'd thank you."

I related what our managing editor had said that morning. Kennedy only

raised his eyebrows a fraction of an inch.

"I had guessed something of that sort," he said merely. "I'm glad to

find it confirmed even by hearsay evidence. This red-haired young lady

interests me. Not a very definite description, but better than nothing

at all. I wonder who she is. Ah, well, what do you say to a stroll

down the White Way before I go to my laboratory? I'd like a breath of

air to relax my mind."

We had got no further than the first theatre when Kennedy slapped me

on the back. "By George, Jameson, she's an actress, of course."

"Who is? What's the matter with you, Kennedy? Are you crazy?"

"The red-haired person--she must be an actress. Don't you remember the

auburn-haired leading lady in the Follies'--the girl who sings that

song about 'Mary, Mary, quite contrary'? Her stage name, you know, is

Phoebe La Neige. Well, if it's she who is concerned in this case

I don't think she'll be playing to-night. Let's inquire at the

box-office."

She wasn't playing, but just what it had to do with anything in

particular I couldn't see, and I said as much.

"Why, Walter, you'd never do as a detective. You lack intuition.

Sometimes I think I haven't quite enough of it, either. Why didn't

I think of that sooner? Don't you know she is the wife of Adolphus

Hesse, the most inveterate gambler in stocks in the System? Why, I had

only to put two and two together and the whole thing flashed on me

in an instant. Isn't it a good hypothesis that she is the red haired

woman in the case, the tool of the System in which her husband is so

heavily involved? I'll have to add her to my list of suspects."

"Why, you don't think she did the shooting?" I asked, half hoping, I

must admit, for an assenting nod from him.

"Well," he answered dryly, "one shouldn't let any preconceived

hypothesis stand between him and the truth. I've made a guess at the

whole thing already. It may or it may not be right. Anyhow she will

fit into it. And if it's not right, I've got to be prepared to make a

new guess, that's all."

When we reached the laboratory on our return, the inspector's man

Riley was there, waiting impatiently for Kennedy.

"What luck?" asked Kennedy.

"I've got a list of purchasers of that kind of revolver," he said. "We

have been to every sporting-goods and arms-store in the city which

bought them from the factory, and I could lay my hands on pretty

nearly every one of the weapons in twenty-four hours--provided, of

course, they haven't been secreted or destroyed."

"Pretty nearly all isn't good enough," said Kennedy. "It will have to

be all, unless--"

"_That_ name is in the list," whispered Riley hoarsely.

"Oh, then it's all right," answered Kennedy, brightening up. "Riley, I

will say that you're a wonder at using the organization in ferreting

out such things. There's just one more thing I want you to do. I want

a sample of the notepaper in the private desks of every one of these

people." He handed the policeman a list of his "suspects," as he

called them. It included nearly every one mentioned in the case.

Riley studied it dubiously and scratched his chin thoughtfully.

"That's a hard one, Mr. Kennedy, sir. You see, it means getting into

so many different houses and apartments. Now you don't want to do it

by means of a warrant, do you, sir? Of course not. Well, then, how can

we get in?"

"You're a pretty good-looking chap yourself, Riley," said Kennedy. "I

should think you could jolly a housemaid, if necessary. Anyhow, you

can get the fellow on the beat to do it--if he isn't already to

be found in the kitchen. Why, I see a dozen ways of getting the

notepaper."

"Oh, it's me that's the lady-killer, sir," grinned Riley. "I'm a

regular Blarney stone when I'm out on a job of that sort. Sure, I'll

have some of them for you in the morning.'

"Bring me what you get, the first thing in the morning, even if

you've landed only a few samples," said Kennedy, as Riley departed,

straightening his tie and brushing his hat on his sleeve.

"And now, Walter, you too must excuse me to-night," said Craig "I've

got a lot to do, and sha'n't be up to our apartment till very late--or

early. But I feel sure I've got a strangle-hold on this mystery. If I

get those papers from Riley in good time to-morrow I shall invite you

and several others to a grand demonstration here to-morrow night.

Don't forget. Keep the whole evening free. It will be a big story."

Kennedy's laboratory was brightly lighted when I arrived early the

next evening. One by one his "guests" dropped in. It was evident that

they had little liking for the visit, but the coroner had sent out the

"invitations," and they had nothing to do but accept. Each one was

politely welcomed by the professor and assigned a seat, much as he

would have done with a group of students. The inspector and the

coroner sat back a little. Mrs. Parker, Mr. Downey, Mr. Bruce,

myself, and Miss La Neige sat in that order in the very narrow and

uncomfortable little armchairs used by the students during lectures.

At last Kennedy was ready to begin. He took his position behind the

long, flat-topped table which he used for his demonstrations before

his classes. "I realize, ladies and gentlemen," he began formally,

"that I am about to do a very unusual thing; but, as you all know, the

police and the coroner have been completely baffled by this terrible

mystery and have requested me to attempt to clear up at least certain

points in it. I will begin what I have to say by remarking that the

tracing out of a crime like this differs in nothing, except as regards

the subject-matter, from the search for a scientific truth. The

forcing of man's secrets is like the forcing of nature's secrets. Both

are pieces of detective work. The methods employed in the detection

of crime are, or rather should be, like the methods employed in the

process of discovering scientific truth. In a crime of this sort, two

kinds of evidence need to be secured. Circumstantial evidence must

first be marshalled, and then a motive must be found. I have been

gathering facts. But to omit motives and rest contented with mere

facts would be inconclusive. It would never convince anybody or

convict anybody. In other words, circumstantial evidence must

first lead to a suspect, and then this suspect must prove equal

to accounting for the facts. It is my hope that each of you may

contribute something that will he of service in arriving at the truth

of this unfortunate incident."

The tension was not relieved even when Kennedy stopped speaking and

began to fuss with a little upright target which he set up at one end

of his table. We seemed to be seated over a powder-magazine which

threatened to explode at any moment. I, at least, felt the tension so

greatly that it was only after he had started speaking again that

I noticed that the target was composed of a thick layer of some

putty-like material.

Holding a thirty-two-calibre pistol in his right hand and aiming it at

the target, Kennedy picked up a large piece of coarse homespun from

the table and held it loosely over the muzzle of the gun. Then he

fired. The bullet tore through the cloth, sped through the air, and

buried itself in the target. With a knife he pried it out.

"I doubt if even the inspector himself could have told us that when an

ordinary leaden bullet is shot through a woven fabric the weave of the

fabric is in the majority of cases impressed on the bullet, sometimes

clearly, sometimes faintly."

Here Kennedy took up a piece of fine batiste and fired another bullet

through it.

"Every leaden bullet, as I have said, which has struck such a fabric

bears an impression of the threads which is recognizable even when the

bullet has penetrated deeply into the body. It is only obliterated

partially or entirely when the bullet has been flattened by striking a

bone or other hard object. Even then, as in this case, if only a part

of the bullet is flattened the remainder may still show the marks of

the fabric. A heavy warp, say of cotton velvet, or as I have here,

homespun, will be imprinted well on the bullet, but even a fine

batiste, containing one hundred threads to the inch, will show marks.

Even layers of goods such as a coat, shirt, and undershirt may each,

leave their marks, but that does not concern us in this case. Now I

have here a piece of pongee silk, cut from a woman's automobile-coat.

I discharge the bullet through it--so. I compare the bullet now with

the others and with the one probed from the neck of Mr. Parker. I find

that the marks on that fatal bullet correspond precisely with those on

the bullet fired through the pongee coat."

Startling as was this revelation, Kennedy paused only an instant

before the next.

"Now I have another demonstration. A certain note figures in this

case. Mr. Parker was reading it, or perhaps re-reading it, at the time

he was shot. I have not been able to obtain that note--at least not in

a form such as I could use in discovering what were its contents. But

in a certain wastebasket I found a mass of wet and pulp-like paper. It

had been cut up, macerated, perhaps chewed; perhaps it had been also

soaked with water. There was a wash-basin with running water in this

room. The ink had run, and of course was illegible. The thing was so

unusual that I at once assumed that this was the remains of the

note in question. Under ordinary circumstances it would be utterly

valueless as a clue to anything. But to-day science is not ready to

let anything pass as valueless.

"I found on microscopic examination that it was an uncommon linen bond

paper, and I have taken a large number of microphotographs of the

fibres in it. They are all similar. I have here also about a hundred

microphotographs of the fibres in other kinds of paper, many of them

bonds. These I have accumulated from time to time in my study of the

subject. None of them, as you see, shows fibres resembling this one in

question, so we may conclude that it is of uncommon quality. Through

an agent of the police I have secured samples of the notepaper of

every one who could be concerned, as far as I could see, with this

case. Here are the photographs of the fibres of these various

notepapers, and among them all is just one that corresponds to the

fibres in the wet mass of paper I discovered in the scrap-basket. Now

lest anyone should question the accuracy of this method I might cite a

case where a man had been arrested in Germany charged with stealing a

government bond. He was not searched till later. There was no evidence

save that after the arrest a large number of spitballs were found

around the courtyard under his cell window. This method of comparing

the fibres with those of the regular government paper was used, and by

it the man was convicted of stealing the bond. I think it is almost

unnecessary to add that in the present case we know precisely who--"

At this point the tension was so great that it snapped. Miss La Neige,

who was sitting beside me, had been leaning forward involuntarily.

Almost as if the words were wrung from her she whispered hoarsely:

"They put me up to doing it; I didn't want to. But the affair had gone

too far. I couldn't see him lost before my very eyes. I didn't want

her to get him. The quickest way out was to tell the whole story to

Mr. Parker and stop it. It was the only way I could think to stop this

thing between another man's wife and the man I loved better than my

own husband. God knows, Professor Kennedy, that was all--"

"Calm yourself, madame," interrupted Kennedy soothingly. "Calm

yourself. What's done is done. The truth must come out. Be calm. Now,"

he continued, after the first storm of remorse had spent itself and we

were all outwardly composed again, "we have said nothing whatever of

the most mysterious feature of the case, the firing of the shot. The

murderer could have thrust the weapon into the pocket or the folds of

this coat"--here he drew forth the automobile coat and held it aloft,

displaying the bullet hole--"and he or she (I will not say which)

could have discharged the pistol unseen. By removing and secreting

the weapon afterward one very important piece of evidence would be

suppressed. This person could have used such a cartridge as I have

here, made with smokeless powder, and the coat would have concealed

the flash of the shot very effectively. There would have been no

smoke. But neither this coat nor even a heavy blanket would have

deadened the report of the shot.

"What are we to think of that? Only one thing. I have often wondered

why the thing wasn't done before. In fact I have been waiting for

it to occur. There is an invention that makes it almost possible to

strike a man down with impunity in broad daylight in any place where

there is sufficient noise to cover up a click, a slight 'Pouf!' and

the whir of the bullet in the air.

"I refer to this little device of a Hartford inventor. I place it

over the muzzle of the thirty-two-calibre revolver I have so far been

using--so. Now, Mr. Jameson, if you will sit at that typewriter over

there and write--anything so long as you keep the keys clicking. The

inspector will start that imitation stock-ticker in the corner. Now we

are ready. I cover the pistol with a cloth. I defy anyone in this room

to tell me the exact moment when I discharged the pistol. I could have

shot any of you, and an outsider not in the secret would never have

thought that I was the culprit. To a certain extent I have reproduced

the conditions under which this shooting occurred.

"At once on being sure of this feature of the case I despatched a man

to Hartford to see this inventor. The man obtained from him a complete

list of all the dealers in New York to whom such devices had been

sold. The man also traced every sale of those dealers. He did not

actually obtain the weapon, but if he is working on schedule-time

according to agreement he is at this moment armed with a

search-warrant and is ransacking every possible place where the person

suspected of this crime could have concealed his weapon. For, one of

the persons intimately connected with this case purchased not long ago

a silencer for a thirty-two-calibre revolver, and I presume that that

person carried the gun and the silencer at the time of the murder of

Kerr Parker."

Kennedy concluded in triumph, his voice high pitched, his eyes

flashing. Yet to all outward appearance not a heart-beat

was quickened. Someone in that room had an amazing store of

self-possession. The fear flitted across my mind that even at the last

Kennedy was baffled.

"I had anticipated some such anti-climax," he continued after a

moment. "I am prepared for it."

He touched a bell, and the door to the next room opened. One of

Kennedy's graduate students stepped in.

"You have the records, Whiting?" he asked.

"Yes, Professor."

"I may say," said Kennedy, "that each of your chairs is wired under

the arm in such a way as to betray on an appropriate indicator in the

next room every sudden and undue emotion. Though it may be concealed

from the eye, even of one like me who stand facing you, such emotion

is nevertheless expressed by physical pressure on the arms of

the chair. It is a test that is used frequently with students to

demonstrate various points of psychology. You needn't raise your arms

from the chair, ladies and gentlemen. The tests are _all over_ now.

What did they show, Whiting?"

The student read what he had been noting in the next room. At the

production of the coat during the demonstration of the markings of the

bullet, Mrs. Parker had betrayed great emotion, Mr. Bruce had done

likewise, and nothing more than ordinary emotion had been noted for

the rest of us. Miss La Neige's automatic record during the tracing

out of the sending of the note to Parker had been especially

unfavorable to hear; Mr. Bruce showed almost as much excitement; Mrs.

Parker very little and Downey very little. It was all set forth in

curves drawn by self-recording pens on regular ruled paper. The

student had merely noted what took place in the lecture-room as

corresponding to these curves.

"At the mention of the noiseless gun," said Kennedy, bending over the

record, while the student pointed it out to him and we leaned forward

to catch his words, "I find that the curves of Miss La Neige, Mrs.

Parker, and Mr. Downey are only so far from normal as would be

natural. All of them were witnessing a thing for the first time with

only curiosity and no fear. The curve made by Mr. Bruce shows great

agitation and--"

I heard a metallic click at my side and turned hastily. It was

Inspector Barney O'Connor, who had stepped out of the shadow with a

pair of hand-cuffs.

"James Bruce, you are under arrest," he said.

There flashed on my mind, and I think on the minds of some of the

others a picture of another electrically wired chair.

THE DEADLY TUBE

BY ARTHUR B. REEVE

"For Heaven's sake, Gregory, what is the matter?" asked Craig Kennedy

as a tall, nervous man stalked into our apartment one evening.

"Jameson, shake hands with Dr. Gregory. What's the matter, Doctor?

Surely your X-ray work hasn't knocked you out like this?"

The doctor shook hands with me mechanically. His hand was icy. "The

blow has fallen," he exclaimed, as he sank limply into a chair and

tossed an evening paper over to Kennedy.

In red ink on the first page, in the little square headed "Latest

News," Kennedy read the caption, "Society Woman Crippled for Life by

X-Ray Treatment."

"A terrible tragedy was revealed in the suit begun to-day," continued

the article, "by Mrs. Huntington Close against Dr. James Gregory, an

X-ray specialist with offices at--Madison Avenue, to recover damages

for injuries which Mrs. Close alleges she received while under his

care. Several months ago she began a course of X-ray treatment to

remove a birthmark on her neck. In her complaint Mrs. Close alleges

that Dr. Gregory has carelessly caused X-ray dermatitis, a skin

disease of cancerous nature, and that she has also been rendered a

nervous wreck through the effects of the rays. Simultaneously with

filing the suit she left home and entered a private hospital. Mrs.

Close is one of the Most popular hostesses in the smart set, and her

loss will be keenly felt."

"What am I to do, Kennedy?" asked the doctor imploringly. "You

remember I told you the other day about this case--that there was

something queer about it, that after a few treatments I was afraid to

carry on any more and refused to do so? She really has dermatitis and

nervous prostration, exactly as she alleges in her complaint. But,

before Heaven, Kennedy, I can't see how she could possibly have been

so affected by the few treatments I gave her. And to-night just as I

was leaving the office, I received a telephone call from her husband's

attorney, Lawrence, very kindly informing me that the case would be

pushed to the limit. I tell you, it looks black for me."

"What can they do?"

"Do? Do you suppose any jury is going to take enough expert testimony

to outweigh the tragedy of a beautiful woman? Do? Why, they can ruin

me, even if I get a verdict of acquittal. They can leave me with a

reputation for carelessness that no mere court decision can ever

overcome."

"Gregory, you can rely on me," said Kennedy. "Anything I can do to

help you I will gladly do. Jameson and I were on the point of going

out to dinner. Join us, and after that we will go down to your office

and talk things over."

"You are really too kind," murmured the doctor. The air of relief that

was written on his face was pathetically eloquent.

"Now not a word about the case till we have had dinner," commanded

Craig. "I see very plainly that you have been worrying about the blow

for a long time. Well, it has fallen. The next thing to do is to look

over the situation and see where we stand."

Dinner over, we rode down-town in the subway, and Gregory ushered

us into an office-building on Madison Avenue, where he had a very

handsome suite of several rooms. We sat down in his waiting-room to

discuss the affair.

"It is indeed a very tragic case," began Kennedy, "almost more tragic

than if the victim had been killed outright. Mrs. Huntington Close is

or rather I suppose I should say was--one of the famous beauties of

the city. From what the paper says, her beauty has been hopelessly

ruined by this dermatitis, which, I understand, Doctor, is practically

incurable."

Dr. Gregory nodded, and I could not help following his eyes as he

looked at his own rough and scarred hands.

"Also," continued Craig, with, his eyes half closed and his

finger-tips together, as if he were taking a mental inventory of the

facts in the case, "her nerves are so shattered that she will be years

in recovering, if she ever recovers."

"Yes," said the doctor simply. "I myself, for instance, am subject to

the most unexpected attacks of neuritis. But, of course, I am under

the influence of the rays fifty or sixty times a day, while she had

only a few treatments at intervals of many days."

"Now, on the other hand," resumed Craig, "I know you, Gregory, very

well. Only the other day, before any of this came out, you told me the

whole story with your fears as to the outcome. I know that the lawyer

of Close's has been keeping this thing hanging over your head for a

long time. And I also know that you are one of the most careful X-ray

operators in the city. If this suit goes against you, one of the most

brilliant men of science in America will be ruined. Now, having said

this much, let me ask you to describe just exactly what treatments you

gave Mrs. Close."

The doctor led us into his X-ray room adjoining. A number of X-ray

tubes were neatly put away in a great glass case, and at one end of

the room was an operating-table with an X-ray apparatus suspended

over it. A glance at the room showed that Kennedy's praise was not

exaggerated.

"How many treatments did you give Mrs. Close?" asked Kennedy.

"Not over a dozen, I should say," replied Gregory. "I have a record of

them and the dates, which I will give you presently. Certainly

they were not numerous enough or frequent enough to have caused a

dermatitis such as she has. Besides, look here. I have an apparatus

which, for safety to the patient, has few equals in the country. This

big lead-glass bowl, which is placed over my X-ray tube when in

use, cuts off the rays at every point except exactly where they are

needed."

He switched on the electric current, and the apparatus began to

sputter. The pungent odor of ozone from the electric discharge filled

the room. Through the lead-glass bowl I could see the X-ray tube

inside suffused with its Peculiar, yellowish-green light, divided into

two hemispheres of different shades. That, I knew, was the cathode

ray, not the X-ray, for the X-ray itself, which streams outside the

tube, is invisible to the human eye. The doctor placed in our hands a

couple of fluoroscopes, an apparatus by which X-rays can be detected.

It consists simply of a closed box with an opening to which the eyes

are placed. The opposite end of the box is a piece of board coated

with a salt such as platino-barium cyanide. When the X-ray strikes

this salt it makes it glow, or fluoresce, and objects held between the

X-ray tube and the fluoroscope cast shadows according to the density

of the parts which the X-rays penetrate.

With the lead-glass bowl removed, the X-ray tube sent forth its

wonderful invisible radiation and made the back of the fluoroscope

glow with light. I could see the bones of my fingers as I held them up

between the X-ray tube and the fluoroscope. But with the lead-glass

bowl in position over the tube, the fluoroscope was simply a black box

into which I looked and saw nothing. So very little of the radiation

escaped from the bowl that it was negligible--except at one point

where there was an opening in the bottom of the bowl to allow the rays

to pass freely through exactly on the spot on the patient where they

were to be used.

"The dermatitis, they say, has appeared all over her body,

particularly on her head and shoulders," added Dr. Gregory. "Now I

have shown you my apparatus to impress on you how really impossible it

would have been for her to contract it from her treatments here. I've

made thousands of exposures with never an X-ray burn before--except to

myself. As for myself, I'm as careful as I can be, but you can see I

am under the rays very often, while the patient is only under them

once in a while."

To illustrate his care he pointed out to us a cabinet directly back

of the operating-table, lined with thick sheets of lead. From this

cabinet he conducted most of his treatments as far as possible.

A little peep-hole enabled him to see the patient and the X-ray

apparatus, while an arrangement of mirrors and a fluorescent screen

enabled him to see exactly what the X-rays were disclosing, without

his leaving the lead-lined cabinet.

"I can think of no more perfect protection for either patient or

operator," said Kennedy admiringly. "By the way, did Mrs. Close come

alone?"

"No, the first time Mr. Close came with her. After that, she came with

her Trench maid."

The next day we paid a visit to Mrs. Close herself at the private

hospital. Kennedy had been casting about in his mind for an excuse to

see her, and I had suggested that we go as reporters from the _Star_.

Fortunately after sending up my card on which I had written Craig's

name we were at length allowed to go up to her room.

We found the patient-reclining in an easy chair, swathed in bandages,

a wreck of her former self. I felt the tragedy keenly. All that social

position and beauty had meant to her had been suddenly blasted.

"You will pardon my presumption," began Craig, "but, Mrs. Close, I

assure you that I am actuated by the best of motives. We represent the

New York _Star_--"

"Isn't it terrible enough that I should suffer so," she interrupted,

"but must the newspapers hound me, too?"

"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Close," said Craig, "but you must be aware

that the news of your suit of Dr. Gregory has now become public

property. I couldn't stop the _Star_, much less the other papers, from

talking about it. But I can and will do this, Mrs. Close. I will see

that justice is done to you and all others concerned. Believe me, I

am not here as a yellow journalist to make newspaper copy out of

your misfortune. I am here to get at the truth sympathetically.

Incidentally, I may be able to render you a service, too."

"You can render me no service except to expedite the suit against that

careless doctor--I hate him."

"Perhaps," said Craig. "But suppose someone else should be proved to

have been really responsible? Would you still want to press the suit

and let the guilty person escape?"

She bit her lip. "What is it you want of me?" she asked. I merely want

permission to visit your rooms at your home and to talk with your

maid. I do not mean to spy on you, far from it; but consider, Mrs.

Close, if I should be able to get at the bottom of this thing, find

out the real cause of your misfortune, perhaps show that you are the

victim of a cruel wrong rather than of carelessness, would you not

be willing to let me go ahead? I am frank to tell you that I suspect

there is more to this affair than you yourself have any idea of."

"No, you are mistaken, Mr. Kennedy. I know the cause of it. It was my

love of beauty. I couldn't resist the temptation to get rid of even a

slight defect. If I had left well enough alone I should not be here

now. A friend recommended Dr. Gregory to my husband, who took me

there. My husband wishes me to remain at home, but I tell him I feel

more comfortable here in the hospital. I shall never go to that house

again--the memory of the torture of sleepless nights in my room there

when I felt my good looks going, going"--she shuddered--"is such that

I can never forget it. He says I would be better off there, but no,

I cannot go. Still," she continued wearily, "there can be no harm in

your talking to my maid."

Kennedy noted attentively what she was saying. "I thank you, Mrs.

Close," he replied. "I am sure you will not regret your permission.

Would you be so kind as to give me a note to her?"

She rang, dictated a short note to a nurse, signed it, and languidly

dismissed us.

I don't know that I ever felt as depressed as I did after that

interview with one who had entered a living death to ambition, for

while Craig had done all the talking I had absorbed nothing but

depression. I vowed that if Gregory or anybody else was responsible I

would do my share toward bringing on him retribution.

The Closes lived in a splendid big house in the Murray Hill section.

The presentation of the note quickly brought Mrs. Close's maid down to

us. She had not gone to the hospital because Mrs. Close had considered

the services of the trained nurses quite sufficient.

Yes, the maid had noticed how her mistress had been failing, had

noticed it long ago, in fact almost at the time when she had begun the

X-ray treatment. She had seemed to improve once when she went away for

a few days, but that was at the start, and directly after her return

she grew worse again, until she was no longer herself.

"Did Dr. Gregory, the X-ray specialist, ever attend Mrs. Close at her

home, in her room?" asked Craig.

"Yes, once, twice, he call, but he do no good," she said with her

French accent.

"Did Mrs. Close have other callers?"

"But, m'sieur, everyone in society has many. What does m'sieur mean?"

"Frequent callers--a Mr. Lawrence, for instance?"

"Oh, yes, Mr. Lawrence frequently."

"When Mr. Close was at home?"

"Yes, on business and on business, too, when he was not at home. He is

the attorney, m'sieur."

"How did Mrs. Close receive him?"

"He is the attorney, m'sieur," Marie repeated persistently.

"And he, did he always call on business?"

"Oh, yes, always on business, but--well, madame, she was a very

beautiful woman. Perhaps he like beautiful women--_eh bien?_ That was

before the Doctor Gregory treated madame. After the doctor treated

madame M'sieur Lawrence do not call so often. That's all."

"Are you thoroughly devoted to Mrs. Close? Would you do a favor for

her?" asked Craig pointblank.

"Sir, I would give my life, almost, for madame. She was always so good

to me."

"I don't ask you to give your life for her, Marie," said Craig, "but

you can do her a great service, a very great service."

"I will do it."

"To-night," said Craig. "I want you to sleep in Mrs. Close's room. You

can do so, for I know that Mr. Close is living at the St. Francis Club

until his wife returns from the sanitarium. To-morrow morning come to

my laboratory"--Craig handed her his card--"and I will tell you what

to do next. By the way, don't say anything to anyone in the house

about it, and keep a sharp watch on the actions of any of the servants

who may go into Mrs. Close's room."

"Well," said Craig, "there is nothing more to be done immediately." We

had once more regained the street and were walking up-town. We walked

in silence for several blocks.

"Yes," mused Craig, "there is something you can do, after all, Walter.

I would like you to look up Gregory and Close and Lawrence. I already

know something about them. But you can find out a good deal with your

newspaper connections. I would like to have every bit of scandal that

has ever been connected with them, or with Mrs. Close, or," he added

significantly, "with any other woman. It isn't necessary to say that

not a breath of it must be published--yet."

I found a good deal of gossip, but very little of it, indeed, seemed

to me at the time to be of importance. Dropping in at the St. Francis

Club, where I had some friends, I casually mentioned the troubles

of the Huntington Closes. I was surprised to learn that Close spent

little of his time at the Club, none at home, and only dropped into

the hospital to make formal inquiries as to his wife's condition. It

then occurred to me to drop into the office of _Society Squibs_, whose

editor I had long known. The editor told me, with that nameless look

of the cynical scandalmonger, that if I wanted to learn anything about

Huntington Close I had best watch Mrs. Frances Tulkington, a very

wealthy Western divorcée about whom the smart set were much excited,

particularly those whose wealth made it difficult to stand the pace of

society as it was going at present.

"And before the tragedy," said the editor with another nameless look,

as if he were imparting a most valuable piece of gossip, "it was the

talk of the town, the attention that Close's lawyer was paying to Mrs.

Close. But to her credit let me say that she never gave us a chance to

hint at anything, and--well, you know us; we don't need much to make

snappy society news."

The editor then waxed even more confidential, for if I am anything

at all, I am a good listener, and I have found that often by sitting

tight and listening I can get more than if I were a too-eager

questioner.

"It really was a shame the way that man Lawrence played his game," he

went on. "I understand that it was he who introduced Close to Mrs. T.

They were both his clients. Lawrence had fought her case in the courts

when she sued old Tulkington for divorce, and a handsome settlement

he got for her, too. They say his fee ran up into the hundred

thousands--contingent, you know. I don't know what his game was"--here

he lowered his voice to a whisper--"but they say Close owes him a good

deal of money. You can figure it out for yourself as you like. Now,

I've told you all I know. Come in again, Jameson, when you want some

more scandal, and remember me to the boys down on the _Star_."

The following day the maid visited Kennedy at his laboratory while I

was reporting to him on the result of my investigations.

She looked worn and haggard. She had spent a sleepless night and

begged that Kennedy would not ask her to repeat the experiment.

"I can promise you, Marie," he said, "that you will rest better

to-night. But you must spend one more night in Mrs. Close's room. By

the way, can you arrange for me to go through the room this morning

when you go back?"

Marie said she could, and an hour or so later Craig and I quietly

slipped into the Close residence under her guidance. He was carrying

something that looked like a miniature barrel, and I had another

package which he had given me, both carefully wrapped up. The butler

eyed us suspiciously, but Marie spoke a few words to him and I think

showed him Mrs. Close's note. Anyhow he said nothing.

Within the room that the unfortunate woman had occupied Kennedy took

the coverings off the packages. It was nothing but a portable electric

vacuum cleaner, which he quickly attached and set running. Up and down

the floor, around and under the bed he pushed the cleaner. He used the

various attachments to clean the curtains, the walls, and even the

furniture. Particularly did he pay attention to the base board on the

wall back of the bed. Then he carefully removed the dust from the

cleaner and sealed it up in a leaden box.

He was about to detach and pack up the cleaner when another idea

seemed to occur to him. "Might as well make a thorough job of it,

Walter," he said, adjusting the apparatus again. "I've cleaned

everything but the mattress and the brass bars behind the mattress

on the bed. Now I'll tackle them. I think we ought to go into the

suction-cleaning business--more money in it than in being a detective,

I'll bet."

The cleaner was run over and under the mattress and along every crack

and cranny of the brass bed. This done and this dust also carefully

stowed away, we departed, very much to the mystification of Marie

and, I could not help feeling, of other eyes that peered in through

keyholes or cracks in doors.

"At any rate," said Kennedy exultingly, "I think we have stolen a

march on them. I don't believe they were prepared for this, not at

least at this stage in the game. Don't ask me any questions, Walter.

Then you will have no secrets to keep if anyone should try to pry them

loose. Only remember that this man Lawrence is a shrewd character."

The next day Marie came, looking even more careworn than before.

"What's the matter, mademoiselle?" asked Craig. "Didn't you pass a

better night?"

"Oh, mon Dieu, I rest well, yes. But this morning while I am at

breakfast, Mr. Close send for me. He say that I am discharged. Some

servant tell of your visit and he ver-ry angr-ry. And now what is to

become of me--will madame his wife give a recommendation now?"

"Walter, we have been discovered," exclaimed Craig with considerable

vexation. Then he remembered the poor girl who had been an involuntary

sacrifice to our investigation. Turning to her he said: "Marie, I know

several very good families, and I am sure you will not suffer for what

you have done by being faithful to your mistress. Only be patient a

few days. Go live with some of your folks. I will see that you are

placed again."

The girl was profuse in her thanks as she dried her tears and

departed.

"I hadn't anticipated having my hand forced so soon," said Craig after

she had gone, leaving her address. "However, we are on the right

track. What was it that you were going to tell me when Marie came in?"

"Something that may be very important, Craig," I said, "though I don't

understand it myself. Pressure is being brought to bear on the _Star_

to keep this thing out of the papers, or at least to minimize it."

"I'm not surprised," commented Craig. "What do you mean by pressure

being brought?"

"Why, Close's lawyer, Lawrence, called up the editor this morning--I

don't suppose that you know, but he has some connection with the

interests which control the _Star_--and said that the activity of

one of the reporters from the _Star_, Jameson by name, was very

distasteful to Mr. Close and that this reporter was employing a man

named Kennedy to assist him.

"I don't understand it, Craig," I confessed, "but here one day they

give the news to the papers, and two days later they almost threaten

us with suit if we don't stop publishing it."

"It is perplexing," said Craig, with the air of one who was not a bit

perplexed, but rather enlightened.

He pulled down the district telegraph messenger lever three times, and

we sat in silence for a while.

"However," he resumed, "I shall be ready for them to-night."

I said nothing. Several minutes elapsed. Then the messenger rapped on

the door.

"I want these two notes delivered right away," said Craig to the boy;

"here's a quarter for you. Now mind you don't get interested in a

detective story and forget the notes. If you are back here quickly

with the receipts I'll give you another quarter. Now scurry along."

Then, after the boy had gone, he said casually to me: "Two notes to

Close and Gregory, asking them to be present with their attorneys

to-night. Close will bring Lawrence, and Gregory will bring a young

lawyer named Asche, a very clever fellow. The notes are so worded that

they can hardly refuse the invitation."

Meanwhile I carried out an assignment for the _Star_, and telephoned

my story in so as to be sure of being with Craig at the crucial

moment. For I was thoroughly curious about his next move in the game.

I found him still in his laboratory attaching two coils of thin wire

to the connections on the outside of a queer-looking little black box.

"What's that?" I asked, eyeing the sinister-looking little box

suspiciously. "An infernal machine? You're not going to blow the

culprit into eternity, I hope."

"Never mind what it is, Walter. You'll find that out in due time. It

may or it may not be an infernal machine--of a different sort than any

you have probably ever heard of. The less you know now the less likely

you are to give anything away by a look or an act. Come now, make

yourself useful as well as ornamental. Take these wires and lay them

in the cracks of the floor, and be careful not to let them show. A

little dust over them will conceal them beautifully."

Craig now placed the black box back of one of the chairs well down

toward the floor, where it could hardly have been perceived unless one

were suspecting something of the sort. While he was doing so I ran the

wires across the floor, and around the edge of the room to the door.

"There," he said, taking the wires from me. "Now I'll complete the job

by carrying them into the next room. And while I'm doing it, go over

the wires again and make sure they are absolutely concealed."

That night six men gathered in Kennedy's laboratory. In my utter

ignorance of what was about to happen I was perfectly calm, and so

were all the rest, except Gregory. He was easily the most nervous of

us all, though his lawyer Asche tried repeatedly to reassure him.

"Mr. Close," began Kennedy, "if you and Mr. Lawrence will sit over

here on this side of the room while Dr. Gregory and Mr. Asche sit on

the opposite side with Mr. Jameson in the middle, I think both of

you opposing parties will be better suited. For I apprehend that at

various stages in what I am about to say both you, Mr. Close, and you

Dr. Gregory, will want to consult your attorneys. That, of course,

would be embarrassing, if not impossible, should you be sitting near

each other. Now, if we are ready, I shall begin."

Kennedy placed a small leaden casket on the table of his lecture hall.

"In this casket," he commenced solemnly, "there is a certain substance

which I have recovered from the dust swept up by a vacuum cleaner in

the room of Mrs. Close."

One could feel the very air of the room surcharged with excitement.

Craig drew on a pair of gloves and carefully opened the casket. With

his thumb and forefinger he lifted out a glass tube and held it

gingerly at arm's length. My eyes were riveted on it, for the bottom

of the tube glowed with a dazzling point of light.

Both Gregory and his attorney and Close and Lawrence whispered to each

other when the tube was displayed, as indeed they did throughout the

whole exhibition of Kennedy's evidence.

"No infernal machine was ever more subtle," said Craig, "than the

tube which I hold in my hand. The imagination of the most sensational

writer of fiction might well be thrilled with the mysteries of this

fatal tube and its power to work fearful deed. A larger quantity of

this substance in the tube would produce on me, as I now hold it,

incurable burns, just as it did on its discoverer before his death.

A smaller amount, of course, would not act so quickly. The amount in

this tube, if distributed about, would produce the burns inevitably,

providing I remained near enough for a long-enough time."

Craig paused a moment to emphasize his remarks.

"Here in my hand, gentlemen, I hold the price of a woman's beauty."

He stopped again for several moments, then resumed.

"And now, having shown it to you, for my own safety I will place it

back in its leaden casket."

Drawing off his gloves, he proceeded.

"I have found out by a cablegram to-day that seven weeks ago an order

for one hundred milligrams of radium bromide at thirty-five dollars a

milligram from a certain person in America was filled by a corporation

dealing in this substance."

Kennedy said this with measured words, and I felt a thrill run through

me as he developed his case.

"At that same time, Mrs. Close began a series of treatments with an

X-ray specialist in New York," pursued Kennedy. "Now, it is not

generally known outside scientific circles, but the fact is that in

their physiological effects the X-ray and radium are quite one and

the same. Radium possesses this advantage, however, that no elaborate

apparatus is necessary for its use. And, in addition, the emanation

from radium is steady and constant, whereas the X-ray at best varies

slightly with changing conditions of the current and vacuum in the

X-ray tube. Still, the effects on the body are much the same.

"A few days before this order was placed I recall the following

despatch which appeared in the New York papers. I will read it:

* * * * *

"'Liege, Belgium, Oct.--, 1910. What is believed to be the first

criminal case in which radium figures as a death-dealing agent is

engaging public attention at this university town. A wealthy old

bachelor, Pailin by name, was found dead in his flat. A stroke of

apoplexy was at first believed to have caused his death, but a close

examination revealed a curious discoloration of his skin. A specialist

called in to view the body gave as his opinion that the old man had

been exposed for a long time to the emanations of X-ray or radium.

The police theory is that M. Pailin was done to death by a systematic

application of either X-ray or radium by a student in the university

who roomed next to him. The student has disappeared.'

* * * * *

"Now here, I believe, was the suggestion which this American criminal

followed, for I cut it out of the paper rather expecting sooner or

later that some clever person would act on it. I have thoroughly

examined the room of Mrs. Close. She herself told me she never wanted

to return to it, that her memory of sleepless nights in it was too

vivid. That served to fix the impression that I had already formed

from reading this clipping. Either the X-ray or radium had caused her

dermatitis and nervousness. Which was it? I wished to be sure that I

would make no mistake. Of course I knew it was useless to look for an

X-ray machine in or near Mrs. Close's room. Such a thing could never

have been concealed. The alternative? Radium! Ah! that was different.

I determined on an experiment. Mrs. Close's maid was prevailed on to

sleep in her mistress's room. Of course radiations of brief duration

would do her no permanent harm, although they would produce their

effect, nevertheless. In one night the maid became extremely nervous.

If she had stayed under them several nights no doubt the beginning of

a dermatitis would have affected her, if not more serious trouble. A

systematic application, covering weeks and months, might in the end

even have led to death.

"The next day I managed, as I have said, to go over the room

thoroughly with a vacuum cleaner--a new one of my own which I had

bought myself. But tests of the dust which I got from the floors,

curtains, and furniture showed nothing at all. As a last thought I

had, however, cleaned the mattress of the bed and the cracks and

crevices in the brass bars. Teats of that dust showed it to be

extremely radioactive. I had the dust dissolved, by a chemist who

understands that sort of thing, recrystallized, and the radium salts

were extracted from the refuse. Thus I found that I had recovered

all but a very few milligrams of the radium that had been originally

purchased in London. Here it is in this deadly tube in the leaden

casket.

"It is needless to add that the night after I had cleaned out this

deadly element the maid slept the sleep of the just--and would have

been all right when next I saw her but for the interference of the

unjust on whom I had stolen a march."

Craig paused while the lawyers whispered again to their clients. Then

he continued: "Now three persons in this room had an opportunity to

secrete the contents of this deadly tube in the crevices of the metal

work of Mrs. Close's bed. One of these persons must have placed an

order through a confidential agent in London to purchase the radium

from the English Radium Corporation. One of these persons had a

compelling motive, something to gain by using this deadly element.

"The radium in this tube in the casket was secreted, as I have said,

in the metal work of Mrs. Close's bed, not in large enough quantities

to be immediately fatal, but mixed with dust so as to produce the

result more slowly but no less surely, and thus avoid suspicion.

At the same time Mrs. Close was persuaded--I will not say by

whom--through her natural pride, to take a course of X-ray treatment

for a slight defect. That would further serve to divert suspicion. The

fact is that a more horrible plot could hardly have been planned or

executed. This person sought to ruin her beauty to gain a most selfish

and despicable end."

Again Craig paused to let his words sink into our minds.

"Now I wish to state that anything you gentlemen may say will be used

against you. That is why I have asked you to bring your attorneys. You

may consult with them, of course, while I am getting ready my next

disclosure."

As Kennedy had developed his points in the case I had been more and

more amazed. But I had not failed to notice how keenly Lawrence was

following him.

With half a sneer on his astute face, Lawrence drawled: "I cannot

see that you have accomplished anything by this rather extraordinary

summoning of us to your laboratory. The evidence is just as black

against Dr. Gregory as before. You may think you're clever, Kennedy,

but on the very statement of facts as you have brought them out there

is plenty of circumstantial evidence against Gregory--more than there

was before. As for anyone else in the room, I can't see that you have

anything on us--unless perhaps this new evidence you speak of may

implicate Asche, or Jameson," he added, including me in a wave of his

hand, as if he were already addressing a jury. "It's my opinion that

twelve of our peers would be quite as likely to bring in a verdict of

guilty against them as against anyone else even remotely connected

with this case, except Gregory. No, you'll have to do better than this

in your next case, if you expect to maintain that so-called reputation

of yours for being a professor of criminal science."

As for Close, taking his cue from his attorney, he scornfully added:

"I came to find out some new evidence against the wretch who wrecked

the beauty of my wife. All I've got is a tiresome lecture on X-rays

and radium. I suppose what you say is true. Well, it only bears out

what I thought before. Gregory treated my wife at home, after he saw

the damage his office treatments had done. I guess he was capable of

making a complete job of it--covering up his carelessness by getting

rid of the woman who was such a damning piece of evidence against his

professional skill."

Never a shade passed Craig's face as he listened to this tirade.

"Excuse me a moment," was all he said, opening the door to leave

the room. "I have just one more fact to disclose. I will be back

directly."

Kennedy was gone several minutes, during which Close and Lawrence fell

to whispering behind their hands, with the assurance of those who

believed that this was only Kennedy's method of admitting a defeat.

Gregory and Asche exchanged a few words similarly, and it was plain

that Asche was endeavoring to put a better interpretation on something

than Gregory himself dared hope.

As Kennedy re-entered, Close was buttoning up his coat preparatory to

leaving, and Lawrence was lighting a fresh cigar.

In his hand Kennedy held a notebook. "My stenographer writes a very

legible shorthand; at least I find it so--from long practice, I

suppose. As I glance over her notes I find many facts which will

interest you later--at the trial. But--ah, here at the end--let me

read:

"'Well, he's very clever, but he has nothing against me, has he?'

"'No, not unless he can produce the agent who bought the radium for

you.'

"'But he can't do that. No one could ever have recognized you on your

flying trip to London disguised as a diamond merchant who had just

learned that he could make his faulty diamonds good by applications of

radium and who wanted a good stock of the stuff.'

"'Still, we'll have to drop the suit against Gregory after all, in

spite of what I said. That part is hopelessly spoiled.'

"'Yes, I suppose so. Oh, well, I'm free now. She can hardly help but

consent to a divorce now, and a quiet settlement. She brought it on

herself--we tried every other way to do it, but she--she was too good

to fall into it. She forced us to it.'

"'Yes, you'll get a good divorce now. But can't we shut up this man

Kennedy? Even if he can't prove anything against us, the mere rumor

of such a thing coming to the ears of Mrs. Tulkington would be

unpleasant."

Go as far as you like, Lawrence. You know what the marriage will mean

to me. It will settle my debts to you and all the rest.'

"'I'll see what I can do, Close. He'll be back in a moment.'"

Close's face was livid. "It's a pack of lies!" he shouted, advancing

toward Kennedy, "a pack of lies! You are a fakir and a blackmailer.

I'll have you in jail for this, by God--and you too, Gregory."

"One moment, please," said Kennedy calmly. "Mr. Lawrence, will you be

so kind as to reach behind your chair? What do you find?"

Lawrence lifted up the plain black box and with it he pulled up the

wires which I had so carefully concealed in the cracks of the floor.

"That," said Kennedy, "is a little instrument called the microphone.

Its chief merit lies in the fact that it will magnify a sound sixteen

hundred times, and carry it to any given point where you wish to place

the receiver. Originally this device was invented for the aid of the

deaf, but I see no reason why it should not be used to aid the law.

One needn't eavesdrop at the key-hole with this little instrument

about. Inside that box there is nothing but a series of plugs from

which wires, much finer than a thread, are stretched taut. Yet a fly

walking near it will make a noise as loud as a draft-horse. If the

microphone is placed in any part of the room, especially if near the

persons talking--even if they are talking in a whisper--a whisper such

as occurred several times during the evening and particularly while

I was in the next room getting the notes made by my stenographer--a

whisper, I say, is like shouting your guilt from the house-tops.

"You two men, Close and Lawrence, may consider yourselves under arrest

for conspiracy and whatever other indictments will lie against such

creatures as you. The police will be here in a moment. No, Close,

violence won't do now. The doors are locked--and see, we are four to

two."

THE BLACK HAND

BY ARTHUR B. REEVE

Kennedy and I had been dining rather late one evening at Luigi's, a

little Italian restaurant on the lower West Side. We had known the

place well in our student days, and had made a point of visiting it

once a month since, in order to keep in practice in the fine art of

gracefully handling long shreds of spaghetti. Therefore we did not

think it strange when the proprietor himself stopped a moment at our

table to greet us. Glancing furtively around at the other diners,

mostly Italians, he suddenly leaned over and whispered to Kennedy:

"I have heard of your wonderful detective work, Professor. Could you

give a little advice in the case of a friend of mine?"

"Surely, Luigi. What is the case?" asked Craig, leaning back in his

chair.

Luigi glanced around again apprehensively and lowered his voice. "Not

so loud, sir. When you pay your check, go out, walk around Washington

Square, and come in at the private entrance. I'll be waiting in the

hall. My friend is dining privately upstairs."

We lingered a while over our chianti, then quietly paid the check and

departed.

True to his word, Luigi was waiting for us in the dark hall. With a

motion that indicated silence, he led us up the stairs to the second

floor, and quickly opened a door into what seemed to be a fair-sized

private dining-room. A man was pacing the floor nervously. On a table

was some food, untouched. As the door opened I thought he started

as if in fear, and I am sure his dark face blanched, if only for an

instant. Imagine our surprise at seeing Gennaro, the great tenor,

with whom merely to have a speaking acquaintance was to argue oneself

famous.

"Oh, it is you, Luigi," he exclaimed in perfect English, rich and

mellow. "And who are these gentlemen?"

Luigi merely replied, "Friends," in English also, and then dropped off

into a voluble, lowtoned explanation in Italian.

I could see, as we waited, that the same, idea had flashed over

Kennedy's mind as over my own. It was now three or four days since the

papers had reported the strange kidnapping of Gennaro's five-year-old

daughter Adelina, his only child, and the sending of a demand for

ten thousand dollars ransom, signed, as usual, with the mystic Black

Hand--a name to conjure with in blackmail and extortion.

As Signor Gennaro advanced toward us, after his short talk with Luigi,

almost before the introductions were over, Kennedy anticipated him

by saying: "I understand, Signor, before you ask me. I have read

all about it in the papers. You want someone to help you catch the

criminals who are holding your little girl."

"No, no!" exclaimed Gennaro excitedly. "Not that. I want to get my

daughter first. After that, catch them if you can--yes, I should like

to have someone do it. But read this first and tell me what you think

of it. How should I act to get my little Adelina back without

harming a hair of her head?" The famous singer drew from a capacious

pocketbook a dirty, crumpled letter, scrawled on cheap paper.

Kennedy translated it quickly. It read:

* * * * *

Honorable sir: Your daughter is in safe hands. But, by the saints, if

you give this letter to the police as you did the other, not only she

but your family also, someone near to you, will suffer. We will not

fail as we did Wednesday. If you want your daughter back, go yourself,

alone and without telling a soul, to Enrico Albano's Saturday night

at the twelfth hour. You must provide yourself with $10,000 in bills

hidden in Saturday's _Il Progresso Italiano_. In the back room you

will see a man sitting alone at a table. He will have a red flower

on his coat. You are to say, "A fine opera is 'I Pagliacci.'" If he

answers, "Not without Gennaro," lay the newspaper down on the table.

He will pick it up, leaving his own, the _Bolletino_. On the third

page you will find written the place where your daughter has been left

waiting for you. Go immediately and get her. But, by the God, if you

have so much as a shadow of the police near Enrico's your daughter

will be sent to you in a box that night. Do not fear to come. We

pledge our word to deal fairly if you deal fairly. This is a last

warning. Lest you shall forget we will show one other sign of our

power to-morrow.

LA MANO NERA.

* * * * *

The end of this ominous letter was gruesomely decorated with a skull

and cross-bones, a rough drawing of a dagger thrust through a bleeding

heart, a coffin, and, under all, a huge black hand. There was no doubt

about the type of letter that it was. It was such as have of late

years become increasingly common in all our large cities, baffling the

best detectives.

"You have not showed this to the police, I presume?" asked Kennedy.

"Naturally not."

"Are you going Saturday night?"

"I am afraid to go and afraid to stay away," was the reply, and the

voice of the fifty-thousand-dollars-a-season tenor was as human as

that of a five-dollar-a-week father, for at bottom all men, high or

low, are one.

"'We will not fail as we did Wednesday,'" reread Craig. "What does

that mean?"

Gennaro fumbled in his pocketbook again, and at last drew forth a

typewritten letter bearing the letter-head of the Leslie Laboratories,

Incorporated.

"After I received the first threat," explained Gennaro, "my wife and

I went from our apartments at the hotel to her father's, the banker

Cesare, you know, who lives on Fifth Avenue. I gave the letter to

the Italian Squad of the police. The next morning my father-in-law's

butler noticed something peculiar about the milk. He barely touched

some of it to his tongue, and he has been violently ill ever since. I

at once sent the milk to the laboratory of my friend Doctor Leslie to

have it analyzed. This letter shows what the household escaped."

"My dear Gennaro," read Kennedy. "The milk submitted to us for

examination on the 10th inst. has been carefully analyzed, and I beg

to hand you herewith the result:

"Specific gravity 1.036 at 15 degrees Cent.

Water 84.60 per cent.

Casein 3.49 " "

Albumin 56 " "

Globulin 1.32 " "

Lactose 5.08 " "

Ash 72 " "

Fat 3.42 " "

Ricin 1.19 " "

"Ricin is a new and little-known poison derived from the shell of the

castor-oil bean. Professor Ehrlich states that one gram of the pure

poison will kill 1,500,000 guinea pigs. Ricin was lately isolated by

Professor Robert, of Rostock, but is seldom found except in an impure

state, though still very deadly. It surpasses strychnin, prussic

acid, and other commonly known drugs. I congratulate you and yours on

escaping and shall of course respect your wishes absolutely regarding

keeping secret this attempt on your life. Believe me,

"Very sincerely yours,

"C.W. Leslie."

As Kennedy handed the letter back, he remarked significantly: "I can

see very readily why you don't care to have the police figure in your

case. It has got quite beyond ordinary police methods."

"And to-morrow, too, they are going to give another sign of their

power," groaned Gennaro, sinking into the chair before his untasted

food.

"You say you have left your hotel?" inquired Kennedy.

"Yes. My wife insisted that we would be more safely guarded at the

residence of her father, the banker. But we are afraid even there

since the poison attempt. So I have come here secretly to Luigi, my

old friend Luigi, who is preparing food for us, and in a few minutes

one of Cesare's automobiles will be here, and I will take the food up

to her--sparing no expense or trouble. She is heart-broken. It will

kill her, Professor Kennedy, if anything happens to our little

Adelina.

"Ah sir, I am not poor myself. A month's salary at the opera-house,

that is what they ask of me. Gladly would I give it, ten thousand

dollars--all, if they asked it, of my contract with Herr

Schleppencour, the director. But the police--bah!--they are all for

catching the villains. What good will it do me if they catch them and

my little Adelina is returned to me dead? It is all very well for the

Anglo-Saxon to talk of justice and the law, but I am--what you call

it?--an emotional Latin. I want my little daughter--and at any cost.

Catch the villains afterward--yes. I will pay double then to catch

them so that they cannot blackmail me again. Only first I want my

daughter back."

"And your father-in-law?"

"My father-in-law, he has been among you long enough to be one of you.

He has fought them. He has put up a sign in his banking-house, 'No

money paid on threats.' But I say it is foolish. I do not know America

as well as he, but I know this: the police never succeed--the ransom

is paid without their knowledge, and they very often take the credit.

I say, pay first, then I will swear a righteous vendetta--I will bring

the dogs to justice with the money yet on them. Only show me how, show

me how."

"First of all," replied Kennedy, "I want you to answer one question,

truthfully, without reservation, as to a friend. I am your friend,

believe me. Is there any person, a relative or acquaintance of

yourself or your wife or your father-in-law, whom you even have reason

to suspect of being capable of extorting money from you in this way?

I needn't say that that is the experience of the district attorney's

office in the large majority of cases of this so-called Black Hand."

"No," replied the tenor without hesitation. "I know that, and I have

thought about it. No, I can think of no one. I know you Americans

often speak of the Black Hand as a myth coined originally by a

newspaper writer. Perhaps it has no organization. But, Professor

Kennedy, to me it is no myth. What if the real Black Hand is any gang

of criminals who choose to use that convenient name to extort money?

Is it the less real? My daughter is gone!"

"Exactly," agreed Kennedy. "It is not a theory that confronts you.

It is a hard, cold fact. I understand that perfectly. What is, the

address of this Albano's?"

Luigi mentioned a number on Mulberry Street, and Kennedy made a note

of it.

"It is a gambling saloon," explained Luigi. "Albano is a Neapolitan,

a Camorrista, one of my countrymen of whom I am thoroughly ashamed,

Professor Kennedy."

"Do you think this Albano had anything to do with the letter?"

Luigi shrugged his shoulders.

Just then a big limousine was heard outside. Luigi picked up a huge

hamper that was placed in a corner of the room and, followed closely

by Signer Gennaro, hurried down to it. As the tenor left us he grasped

our hands in each of his.

"I have an idea in my mind," said Craig simply. "I will try to think

it out in detail to-night. Where can I find you to-morrow?"

"Come to me at the opera-house in the afternoon, or if you want me

sooner at Mr. Cesare's residence. Good night, and a thousand thanks

to you, Professor Kennedy, and to you, also, Mr. Jameson. I trust you

absolutely because Luigi trusts you."

We sat in the little dining-room until we heard the door of the

limousine bang shut and the car shoot off with the rattle of the

changing gears.

"One more question, Luigi," said Craig as the door opened again. "I

have never been on that block in Mulberry Street where this Albano's

is. Do you happen to know any of the shopkeepers on it or near it?"

"I have a cousin who has a drug-store on the corner below Albano's, on

the same side of the street."

"Good! Do you think he would let me use his store for a few minutes

Saturday night--of course without any risk to himself?"

"I think I could arrange it."

"Very well. Then to-morrow, say at nine in the morning, I will stop

here, and we will all go over to see him. Good night, Luigi, and many

thanks for thinking of me in connection with this case. I've enjoyed

Signor Gennaro's singing often enough at the opera to want to render

him this service, and I'm only too glad to be able to be of service to

all honest Italians; that is, if I succeed in carrying out a plan I

have in mind."

A little before nine the following day Kennedy and I dropped into

Luigi's again. Kennedy was carrying a suitcase which he had taken over

from his laboratory to our rooms the night before. Luigi was waiting

for us, and without losing a minute we sallied forth.

By means of the tortuous twists of streets in old Greenwich village we

came out at last on Bleecker Street and began walking east amid the

hurly-burly of races of lower New York. We had not quite reached

Mulberry Street when our attention was attracted by a large crowd on

one of the busy corners, held back by a cordon of police who were

endeavoring to keep the people moving with that burly good nature

which the six-foot Irish policeman displays toward the five-foot

burden-bearers of southern and eastern Europe who throng New York.

Apparently, we saw, as we edged up into the front of the crowd, here

was a building whose whole front had literally been torn off and

wrecked. The thick plate-glass of the windows was smashed to a mass

of greenish splinters on the sidewalk, while the windows of the upper

floors and for several houses down the block in either street were

likewise broken. Some thick iron bars which had formerly protected the

windows were now bent and twisted. A huge hole yawned in the floor

inside the doorway, and peering in we could see the desks and chairs a

tangled mass of kindling.

"What's the matter?" I inquired of an officer near me, displaying my

reporter's fire-line badge, more for its moral effect than in the hope

of getting any real information in these days of enforced silence

toward the press.

"Black Hand bomb," was the laconic reply.

"Whew!" I whistled. "Anyone hurt?"

"They don't usually kill anyone, do they?" asked the officer by way of

reply to test my acquaintance with such things.

"No," I admitted. "They destroy more property than lives. But did they

get anyone this time? This must have been a thoroughly over-loaded

bomb, I should judge by the looks of things."

"Came pretty close to it. The bank hadn't any more than opened when,

bang! went this gas-pipe-and-dynamite thing. Crowd collected before

the smoke had fairly cleared. Man who owns the bank was hurt, but not

badly. Now come, beat it down to headquarters if you want to find

out any more. You'll find it printed on the pink slip--the 'squeal

book'--by this time. 'Gainst the rules for me to talk," he added with

a good-natured grin, then to the crowd: "G'wan, now. You're blockin'

traffic. Keep movin'."

I turned to Craig and Luigi. Their eyes were riveted on the big gilt

sign, half broken, and all askew overhead. It read:

CIRO DI CESARE & CO. BANKERS

NEW YORK, GENOA, NAPLES, ROME, PALERMO

"This is the reminder so that Gennaro and his father-in-law will not

forget," I gasped.

"Yes," added Craig, pulling us away, "and Cesare himself is wounded,

too. Perhaps that was for putting up the notice refusing to pay.

Perhaps not. It's a queer case--they usually set the bombs off at

night when no one is around. There must be more back of this than

merely to scare Gennaro. It looks to me as if they were after Cesare,

too, first by poison, then by dynamite."

We shouldered our way out through the crowd and went on until we came

to Mulberry Street, pulsing with life. Down we went past the little

shops, dodging the children, and making way for women with huge

bundles of sweat-shop clothing accurately balanced on their heads or

hugged up under their capacious capes. Here was just one little colony

of the hundreds of thousands of Italians--a population larger than the

Italian population of Rome--of whose life the rest of New York knew

and cared nothing.

At last we came to Albano's little wine-shop, a dark, evil, malodorous

place on the street level of a five-story, alleged "new-law" tenement.

Without hesitation Kennedy entered, and we followed, acting the part

of a slumming party. There were a few customers at this early hour,

men out of employment and an inoffensive-looking lot, though of course

they eyed us sharply. Albano himself proved to be a greasy, low-browed

fellow who had a sort of cunning look. I could well imagine such

a fellow spreading terror in the hearts of simple folk by merely

pressing both temples with his thumbs and drawing his long bony

fore-finger under his throat--the so-called Black Hand sign that has

shut up many a witness in the middle of his testimony even in open

court.

We pushed through to the low-ceilinged back room, which was empty, and

sat down at a table. Over a bottle of Albano's famous California "red

ink" we sat silently. Kennedy was making a mental note of the place.

In the middle of the ceiling was a single gas-burner with a big

reflector over it. In the back wall of the room was a horizontal

oblong window, barred, and with a sash that opened like a transom.

The tables were dirty and the chairs rickety. The walls were bare and

unfinished, with beams innocent of decoration. Altogether it was as

unprepossessing a place as I had ever seen.

Apparently satisfied with his scrutiny, Kennedy got up to go,

complimenting the proprietor on his wine. I could see that Kennedy had

made up his mind as to his course of action.

"How sordid crime really is," he remarked as we walked on down the

street. "Look at that place of Albano's. I defy even the police news

reporter on the _Star_ to find any glamour in that."

Our next stop was at the corner at the little store kept by the cousin

of Luigi, who conducted us back of the partition where prescriptions

were compounded, and found us chairs.

A hurried explanation from Luigi brought a cloud to the open face of

the druggist, as if he hesitated to lay himself and his little fortune

open to the blackmailers. Kennedy saw it and interrupted.

"All that I wish to do," he said, "is to put in a little instrument

here and use it to-night for a few minutes. Indeed, there will be no

risk to you, Vincenzo. Secrecy is what I desire, and no one will ever

know about it."

Vincenzo was at length convinced, and Craig opened his suit-case.

There was little in it except several coils of insulated wire, some

tools, a couple of packages wrapped up, and a couple of pairs of

overalls. In a moment Kennedy had donned overalls and was smearing

dirt and grease over his face and hands. Under his direction I did the

same.

Taking the bag of tools, the wire, and one of the small packages, we

went out on the street and then up through the dark and ill-ventilated

hall of the tenement. Half-way up a woman stopped us suspiciously.

"Telephone company," said Craig curtly. "Here's permission from the

owner of the house to string wires across the roof."

He pulled an old letter out of his pocket, but as it was too dark to

read even if the woman had cared to do so, we went on up as he had

expected, unmolested. At last we came to the roof, where there were

some children at play a couple of houses down from us.

Kennedy began by dropping two strands of wire down to the ground in

the back yard behind Vincenzo's shop. Then he proceeded to lay two

wires along the edge of the roof.

We had worked only a little while when the children began to collect.

However, Kennedy kept right on until we reached the tenement next to

that in which Albano's shop was.

"Walter," he whispered, "just get the children away for a minute now."

"Look here, you kids," I yelled, "some of you will fall off if you get

so close to the edge of the roof. Keep back."

It had no effect. Apparently they looked not a bit frightened at the

dizzy mass of clothes-lines below us.

"Say, is there a candy-store on this block?" I asked in desperation.

"Yes, sir," came the chorus.

"Who'll go down and get me a bottle of ginger ale?" I asked.

A chorus of voices and glittering eyes was the answer. They all would.

I took a half-dollar from my pocket and gave it to the oldest.

"All right now, hustle along, and divide the change."

With the scamper of many feet they were gone, and we were alone.

Kennedy had now reached Albano's and as soon as the last head had

disappeared below the scuttle of the roof he dropped two long strands

down into the back yard, as he had done at Vincenzo's.

I started to go back, but he stopped me.

"Oh, that will never do," he said. "The kids will see that the wires

end here. I must carry them on several houses farther as a blind and

trust to luck that they don't see the wire leading down below."

We were several houses down, still putting up wires when the crowd

came shouting back, sticky with cheap trust-made candy and black with

East Side chocolate. We opened the ginger ale and forced ourselves

to drink it so as to excite no suspicion, then a few minutes later

descended the stairs of the tenement, coming out just above Albano's.

I was wondering how Kennedy was going to get into Albano's again

without exciting suspicion. He solved it neatly.

"Now, Walter, do you think you could stand another dip into that red

ink of Albano's?"

I said I might in the interests of science and justice--not otherwise.

"Well, your face is sufficiently dirty," he commented, "so that with

the overalls you don't look very much as you did the first time you

went in. I don't think they will recognize you. Do I look pretty

good?"

"You look like a coal-heaver out of a job," I said. "I can scarcely

restrain my admiration."

"All right. Then take this little glass bottle. Go into the back room

and order something cheap, in keeping with your looks. Then when you

are all alone break the bottle. It is full of gas drippings. Your nose

will dictate what to do next. Just tell the proprietor you saw the gas

company's wagon on the next block and come up here and tell me."

I entered. There was a sinister-looking man, with a sort of

unscrupulous intelligence, writing at a table. As he wrote and puffed

at his cigar, I noticed a scar on his face, a deep furrow running from

the lobe of his ear to his mouth. That, I knew, was a brand set upon

him by the Camorra. I sat and smoked and sipped slowly for several

minutes, cursing him inwardly more for his presence than for his

evident look of the "_mala vita_." At last he went out to ask the

bar-keeper for a stamp.

Quickly I tiptoed over to another corner of the room and ground the

little bottle under my heel. Then I resumed my seat. The odor that

pervaded the room was sickening.

The sinister-looking man with the scar came in again and sniffed. I

sniffed. Then the proprietor came in and sniffed.

"Say," I said in the toughest voice I could assume, "you got a leak.

Wait. I seen the gas company wagon on the next block when I came in.

I'll get the man."

I dashed out and hurried up the street to the place where Kennedy was

waiting impatiently. Rattling his tools, he followed me with apparent

reluctance.

As he entered the wine-shop he snorted, after the manner of gas-men,

"Where's de leak?"

"You find-a da leak," grunted Albano. "What-a you get-a pay for? You

want-a me do your work?"

"Well, half a dozen o' you wops get out o' here, that's all. D'youse

all wanter be blown ter pieces wid dem pipes and cigarettes? Clear

out," growled Kennedy.

They retreated precipitately, and Craig hastily opened his bag of

tools.

"Quick, Walter, shut the door and hold it," exclaimed Craig, working

rapidly. He unwrapped a little package and took out a round, flat,

disc-like thing of black vulcanized rubber. Jumping up on a table, he

fixed it to the top of the reflector over the gas-jet.

"Can you see that from the floor, Walter?" he asked under his breath.

"No," I replied, "not even when I know it is there."

Then he attached a couple of wires to it and let them across the

ceiling toward the window, concealing them carefully by sticking them

in the shadow of a beam. At the window he quickly attached the wires

to the two that were dangling down from the roof and shoved them

around out of sight.

"We'll have to trust that no one sees them," he said. "That's the best

I can do at such short notice. I never saw a room so bare as this,

anyway. There isn't another place I could put that thing without its

being seen."

We gathered up the broken glass of the gas-drippings bottle, and I

opened the door.

"It's all right, now," said Craig, sauntering out before the bar.

"Only de next time you has anyt'ing de matter call de company up. I

ain't supposed to do dis wit'out orders, see?"

A moment later I followed, glad to get out of the oppressive

atmosphere, and joined him in the back of Vincenzo's drugstore, where

he was again at work. As there was no back window there, it was quite

a job to lead the wires around the outside from the back yard and

in at a side window. It was at last done, however, without exciting

suspicion, and Kennedy attached them to an oblong box of weathered oak

and a pair of specially constructed dry batteries.

"Now," said Craig, as we washed off the stains of work and stowed the

overalls back in the suit-case, "that is done to my satisfaction. I

can tell Gennaro to go ahead safely now and meet the Black-Handers."

From Vincenzo's we walked over toward Centre Street, where Kennedy and

I left Luigi to return to his restaurant, with instructions to be at

Vincenzo's at half-past eleven that night.

We turned into the new police headquarters and went down the long

corridor to the Italian Bureau. Kennedy sent in his card to Lieutenant

Giuseppe in charge, and we were quickly admitted. The lieutenant was

a short, full-faced, fleshy Italian, with lightish hair and eyes that

were apparently dull, until you suddenly discovered that that was

merely a cover to their really restless way of taking in everything

and fixing the impressions on his mind, as if on a sensitive plate.

"I want to talk about the Gennaro case," began Craig. "I may add that

I have been rather closely associated with Inspector O'Connor of the

Central Office on a number of cases, so that I think we can trust each

other. Would you mind telling me what you know about it if I promise

you that I, too, have something to reveal?"

The lieutenant leaned back and watched Kennedy closely without seeming

to do so. "When I was in Italy last year," he replied at length, "I

did a good deal of work in tracing up some Camorra suspects, I had a

tip about some of them to look up their records--I needn't say where

it came from, but it was a good one. Much of the evidence against some

of those fellows who are being tried at Viterbo was gathered by the

Carabinieri as a result of hints that I was able to give them--clues

that were furnished to me here in America from the source I speak of.

I suppose there is really no need to conceal it, though. The original

tip came from a certain banker here in New York."

"I can guess who it was," nodded Craig.

"Then, as you know, this banker is a fighter. He is the man who

organized the White Hand--an organization which is trying to rid

the Italian population of the Black Hand. His society had a lot of

evidence regarding former members of both the Camorra in Naples and

the Mafia in Sicily, as well as the Black Hand gangs in New York,

Chicago, and other cities. Well, Cesare, as you know, is Gennaro's

father-in-law.

"While I was in Naples looking up the record of a certain criminal

I heard of a peculiar murder committed some years ago. There was an

honest old music master who apparently lived the quietest and most

harmless of lives. But it became known that he was supported by Cesare

and had received handsome presents of money from him. The old man was,

as you may have guessed, the first music teacher of Gennaro, the man

who discovered him. One might have been at a loss to see how he could

have an enemy, but there was one who coveted his small fortune. One

day he was stabbed and robbed. His murderer ran out into the street,

crying out that the poor man had been killed. Naturally a crowd rushed

up in a moment, for it was in the middle of the day. Before the

injured man could make it understood who had struck him the assassin

was down the street and lost in the maze of old Naples where he well

knew the houses of his friends who would hide him. The man who is

known to have committed that crime--Francesco Paoli--escaped to New

York. We are looking for him to-day. He is a clever man, far above the

average--son of a doctor in a town a few miles from Naples, went to

the university, was expelled for some mad prank--in short, he was the

black sheep of the family. Of course over here he is too high-born to

work with his hands on a railroad or in a trench, and not educated

enough to work at anything else. So he has been preying on his more

industrious countrymen--a typical case of a man living by his wits

with no visible means of support.

"Now I don't mind telling you in strict confidence," continued the

lieutenant, "that it's my theory that old Cesare has seen Paoli here,

knew he was wanted for that murder of the old music master, and gave

me the tip to look up his record. At any rate Paoli disappeared right

after I returned from Italy, and we haven't been able to locate him

since. He must have found out in some way that the tip to look him up

had been given by the White Hand. He had been a Camorrista, in Italy,

and had many ways of getting information here in America."

He paused, and balanced a piece of cardboard in his hand. "It is my

theory of this case that if we could locate this Paoli we could solve

the kidnapping of little Adelina Gennaro very quickly. That's his

picture."

Kennedy and I bent over to look at it, and I started in surprise. It

was my evil-looking friend with the scar on his cheek.

"Well," said Craig, quietly handing back the card, "whether or not

he is the man, I know where we can catch the kidnappers to-night,

Lieutenant."

It was Giuseppe's turn to show surprise now.

"With your assistance I'll get this man and the whole gang to-night,"

explained Craig, rapidly sketching over his plan and concealing just

enough to make sure that no matter how anxious the lieutenant was

to get the credit he could not spoil the affair by premature

interference.

The final arrangement was that four of the best men of the squad were

to hide in a vacant store across from Vincenzo's early in the evening,

long before anyone was watching. The signal for them to appear was to

be the extinguishing of the lights behind the colored bottles in the

druggist's window. A taxicab was to be kept waiting at headquarters

at the same time with three other good men ready to start for a given

address the moment the alarm was given over the telephone.

We found Gennaro awaiting us with the greatest anxiety at the

opera-house. The bomb at Cesare's had been the last straw. Gennaro had

already drawn from his bank ten crisp one-thousand-dollar bills, and

already had a copy of _Il Progresso_ in which he had hidden the money

between the sheets.

"Mr. Kennedy," he said, "I am going to meet them to-night. They may

kill me. See, I have provided myself with a pistol--I shall fight,

too, if necessary for my little Adelina. But if it is only money they

want, they shall have it."

"One thing I want to say," began Kennedy.

"No, no, no!" cried the tenor. "I will go--you shall not stop me."

"I don't wish to stop you," Craig reassured him. "But one thing--do

exactly as I tell you, and I swear not a hair of the child's head will

be injured and we "will get the blackmailers, too."

"How?" eagerly asked Gennaro. "What do you want me to do?"

"All I want you to do is to go to Albano's at the appointed time. Sit

down in the back room. Get into conversation with them, and, above

all, Signor, as soon as you get the copy of the _Bolletino_ turn to

the third page, pretend not to be able to read the address. Ask the

man to read it. Then repeat it after him. Pretend to be overjoyed.

Offer to set up wine for the whole crowd. Just a few minutes, that is

all I ask, and I will guarantee that you will be the happiest man in

New York to-morrow."

Gennaro's eyes filled with tears as he grasped Kennedy's hand. "That

is better than having the whole police force back of me," he said. "I

shall never forget, never forget."

As we went out Kennedy remarked: "You can't blame them for keeping

their troubles to themselves. Here we send a police officer over to

Italy to look up the records of some of the worst suspects. He loses

his life. Another takes his place. Then after he gets back he is set

to work on the mere clerical routine of translating them. One of his

associates is reduced in rank. And so what does it come to? Hundreds

of records have become useless because the three years within which

the criminals could be deported have elapsed with nothing done.

Intelligent, isn't it? I believe it has been established that all

but about fifty of seven hundred known Italian suspects are still at

large, mostly in this city. And the rest of the Italian population

is guarded from them by a squad of police in number scarcely

one-thirtieth of the number of known criminals. No, it's our fault if

the Black Hand thrives."

We had been standing on the corner of Broadway, waiting for a car.

"Now, Walter, don't forget. Meet me at the Bleecker Street station of

the subway at eleven-thirty. I'm off to the university. I have some

very important experiments with phosphorescent salts that I want to

finish to-day."

"What has that to do with the case?" I asked mystified.

"Nothing," replied Craig. "I didn't say it had. At eleven-thirty,

don't forget. By George, though, that Paoli must be a clever

one--think of his knowing about ricin. I only heard of it myself

recently. Well, here's my car. Good-bye."

Craig swung aboard an Amsterdam Avenue car, leaving me to kill eight

nervous hours of my weekly day of rest from the _Star_.

They passed at length, and at precisely the appointed time Kennedy and

I met. With suppressed excitement, at least on my part, we walked over

to Vincenzo's. At night this section of the city was indeed a black

enigma. The lights in the shops where olive oil, fruit, and other

things were sold, were winking out one by one; here and there strains

of music floated out of wine-shops, and little groups lingered on

corners conversing in animated sentences. We passed Albano's on the

other side of the street, being careful not to look at it too closely,

for several men were hanging idly about--pickets, apparently, with

some secret code that would instantly have spread far and wide the

news of any alarming action.

At the corner we crossed and looked in Vincenzo's window a moment,

casting a furtive glance across the street at the dark empty store

where the police must be hiding. Then we went in and casually

sauntered back of the partition. Luigi was there already. There were

several customers still in the store, however, and therefore we had

to sit in silence while Vincenzo quickly finished a prescription and

waited on the last one.

At last the doors were locked and the lights lowered, all except those

in the windows which were to serve as signals.

"Ten minutes to twelve," said Kennedy, placing the oblong box on the

table. "Gennaro will be going in soon. Let us try this machine now and

see if it works. If the wires have been cut since we put them up this

morning Gennaro will have to take his chances alone."

Kennedy reached over and with a light movement of his forefinger

touched a switch.

Instantly a babel of voices filled the store, all talking at once,

rapidly and loudly. Here and there we could distinguish a snatch of

conversation, a word, a phrase, now and then even a whole sentence

above the rest. There was a clink of glasses. I could hear the

rattle of dice on a bare table, and an oath. A cork popped. Somebody

scratched a match.

We sat bewildered, looking at Kennedy for an explanation.

"Imagine that you are sitting at a table in Albano's back room," was

all he said. "This is what you would be hearing. This is my 'electric

ear'--in other words the dictograph, used, I am told, by the Secret

Service of the United States. Wait, in a moment you will hear Gennaro

come in. Luigi and Vincenzo, translate what you hear. My knowledge of

Italian is pretty rusty."

"Can they hear us?" whispered Luigi in an awe-struck whisper.

Craig laughed. "No, not yet. But I have only to touch this other

switch, and I could produce an effect in that room that would rival

the famous writing on Belshazzar's wall--only it would be a voice from

the wall instead of writing."

"They seem to be waiting for someone," said Vincenzo. "I heard

somebody say: 'He will be here in a few minutes. Now get out.'"

The babel of voices seemed to calm down as men withdrew from the room.

Only one or two were left.

"One of them says the child is all right. She has been left in the

back yard," translated Luigi.

"What yard? Did he say?" asked Kennedy.

"No; they just speak of it as the 'yard,'" replied Luigi.

"Jameson, go outside in the store to the telephone booth and call up

headquarters. Ask them if the automobile is ready, with the men in

it."

I rang up, and after a moment the police central answered that

everything was right.

"Then tell central to hold the line clear--we mustn't lose a moment.

Jameson, you stay in the booth. Vincenzo, you pretend to be working

around your window, but not in such a way as to attract attention, for

they have men watching the street very carefully. What is it, Luigi?"

"Gennaro is coming. I just heard one of them say, 'Here he comes.'"

Even from the booth I could hear the dictograph repeating the

conversation in the dingy little back room of Albano's, down the

street.

"He's ordering a bottle of red wine," murmured Luigi, dancing up and

down with excitement.

Vincenzo was so nervous that he knocked a bottle down in the window,

and I believe that my heart-beats were almost audible over the

telephone which I was holding, for the police operator called me down

for asking so many times if all was ready.

"There it is--the signal," cried Craig. "'A fine opera is "I

Pagliacci."' Now listen for the answer."

A moment elapsed, then, "Not without Gennaro," came a gruff voice in

Italian from the dictograph.

A silence ensued. It was tense.

"Wait, wait," said a voice which I recognized instantly as Gennaro's.

"I cannot read this. What is this 23-1/2 Prince Street?"

"No, 33-1/2. She has been left in the back yard," answered the voice.

"Jameson," called Craig, "tell them to drive straight to 33-1/2 Prince

Street. They will find the girl in the back yard quick, before the

Black Handers have a chance to go back on their word."

I fairly shouted my orders to the police headquarters. "They're off,"

came back the answer, and I hung up the, receiver.

"What was that?" Craig was asking of Luigi. "I didn't catch it. What

did they say?"

"That other voice said to Gennaro, 'Sit down while I count this.'"

"Sh! he's talking again."

"If it is a penny less than ten thousand or I find a mark on the bills

I'll call to Enrico, and your daughter will he spirited away again,"

translated Luigi.

"Now, Gennaro is talking," said Craig. "Good--he is gaining time.

He is a trump. I can distinguish that all right. He's asking the

gruff-voiced fellow if he will have another bottle of wine. He says he

will. Good. They must be at Prince Street now--we'll give them a few

minutes more, not too much, for word will be back to Albano's like

wildfire, and they will get Gennaro after all. Ah, they are drinking

again. What was that, Luigi? The money is all right, he says? Now,

Vincenzo, out with the lights!"

A door banged open across the street, and four huge dark figures

darted out in the direction of Albano's.

With his finger Kennedy pulled down the other switch and shouted:

"Gennaro, this is Kennedy! To the street! _Polizia! Polizia!_"

A scuffle and a cry of surprise followed. A second voice, apparently

from the bar, shouted, "Out with the lights, out with the lights!"

Bang! went a pistol, and another.

The dictograph, which had been all sound a moment before, was as mute

as a cigar-box.

"What's the matter?" I asked Kennedy, as he rushed past me.

"They have shot out the lights. My receiving instrument is destroyed.

Come on, Jameson; Vincenzo, stay back, if you don't want to appear in

this."

A short figure rushed by me, faster even than I could go. It was the

faithful Luigi.

In front of Albano's an exciting fight was going on. Shots were being

fired wildly in the darkness, and heads were popping out of tenement

windows on all sides. As Kennedy and I flung ourselves into the crowd

we caught a glimpse of Gennaro, with blood streaming from a cut on his

shoulder, struggling with a policeman while Luigi vainly was trying to

interpose himself between them. A man, held by another policeman, was

urging the first officer on. "That's the man," he was crying. "That's

the kidnapper. I caught him."

In a moment Kennedy was behind him. "Paoli, you lie. You are the

kidnapper. Seize him--he has the money on him. That other is Gennaro

himself."

The policeman released the tenor, and both of them seized Paoli.

The others were beating at the door, which was being frantically

barricaded inside.

Just then a taxicab came swinging up the street. Three men jumped out

and added their strength to those who were battering down Albano's

barricade.

Gennaro, with a cry, leaped into the taxicab. Over his shoulder I

could see a tangled mass of dark brown curls, and a childish voice

lisped: "Why didn't you come for me, papa? The bad man told me if I

waited in the yard you would come for me. But if I cried he said he

would shoot me. And I waited, and waited--"

"There, there, 'Lina; papa's going to take you straight home to

mother."

A crash followed as the door yielded, and the famous Paoli gang was in

the hands of the law.

The Steel Door

BY ARTHUR B. REEVE

It was what, in college, we used to call "good football weather"--a

crisp autumn afternoon that sent the blood tingling through brain and

muscle. Kennedy and I were enjoying a stroll on the drive, dividing

our attention between the glowing red sunset across the Hudson and the

string of homeward-bound automobiles on the broad parkway. Suddenly a

huge black touring-car marked with big letters, "P.D.N.Y.," shot past.

"Joy-riding again in one of the city's cars," I remarked. "I thought

the last Police Department shake-up had put a stop to that."

"Perhaps it has," returned Kennedy. "Did you see who was in the car?"

"No, but I see it has turned and is coming back."

"It was Inspector--I mean, First Deputy O'Connor. I thought he

recognized us as he whizzed along, and I guess he did, too. Ah,

congratulations, O'Connor! I haven't had a chance to tell you before

how pleased I was to learn you had been appointed first deputy. It

ought to have been commissioner, though," added Kennedy.

"Congratulations nothing," rejoined O'Connor. "Just another new

deal--election coming on, mayor must make a show of getting some

reform done, and all that sort of thing. So he began with the Police

Department, and here I am, first deputy. But, say, Kennedy," he added,

dropping his voice, "I've a little job on my mind that I'd like to

pull off in about as spectacular a fashion as I--as you know how. I

want to make good, conspicuously good, at the start--understand?

Maybe I'll be 'broke' for it and sent to pounding the pavements of

Dismissalville, but I don't care, I'll take a chance. On the level,

Kennedy, it's a big thing, and it ought to be done. Will you help me

put it across?"

"What is it?" asked Kennedy with a twinkle in his eye at O'Connor's

estimate of the security of his tenure of office.

O'Connor drew us away from the automobile toward the stone parapet

overlooking the railroad and river far below, and out of earshot of

the department chauffeur. "I want to pull off a successful raid on the

Vesper Club," he whispered earnestly, scanning our faces.

"Good heavens, man," I ejaculated, "don't you know that Senator

Danfield is interested in--"

"Jameson," interrupted O'Connor reproachfully, "I said 'on the level'

a few moments ago, and I meant it. Senator Danfield be--well, anyhow,

if I don't do it the district attorney will, with the aid of the

Dowling law, and I am going to beat him to it, that's all. There's

too much money being lost at the Vesper Club, anyhow. It won't hurt

Danfield to be taught a lesson not to run such a phony game. I may

like to put up a quiet bet myself on the ponies now and then--I won't

say I don't, but this thing of Danfield's has got beyond all reason.

It's the crookedest gambling joint in the city, at least judging by

the stories they tell of losses there. And so beastly aristocratic,

too. Read that."

O'Connor shoved a letter into Kennedy's hand, a dainty perfumed and

monogramed little missive addressed in a feminine hand. It was such a

letter as comes by the thousand to the police in the course of a year,

though seldom from ladies of the smart set:

* * * * *

Dear Sir: I notice in the newspapers this morning that you have just

been appointed first deputy commissioner of police and that you have

been ordered to suppress gambling in New York. For the love that you

must still bear toward your own mother, listen to the story of a

mother worn with anxiety for her only son, and if there is any justice

or righteousness in this great city close up a gambling hell that is

sending to ruin scores of our finest young men. No doubt you know or

have heard of my family--the DeLongs are not unknown in Hew York.

Perhaps you have also heard of the losses of my son Percival at the

Vesper Club. They are fast becoming the common talk of our set. I am

not rich, Mr. Commissioner, in spite of our social position, but I am

human, as human as a mother in any station of life, and oh, if there

is any way, close up that gilded society resort that is dissipating

our small fortune, ruining an only son, and slowly bringing to the

grave a gray-haired widow, as worthy of protection as any mother of

the poor whose plea has closed up a little poolroom or low policy

shop.

Sincerely, (Mrs.) JULIA M. DELONG.

P.S.--Please keep this confidential--at least from my son Percival.

J.M. DEL.

* * * * *

"Well," said Kennedy, as he handed back the letter, "O'Connor, if you

do it, I'll take back all the hard things I've ever said about

the police system. Young DeLong was in one of my classes at the

university, until he was expelled for that last mad prank of his.

There's more to that boy than most people think, but he's the wildest

scion of wealth I have ever come in contact with. How are you going to

pull off your raid--is it to be down through the skylight or up from

the cellar?"

"Kennedy," replied O'Connor in the same reproachful tone with which

he had addressed me, "talk sense. I'm in earnest. You know the Vesper

Club is barred and barricaded like the National City Bank. It isn't

one of those common gambling joints which depend for protection on

what we call 'ice-box doors.' It's proof against all the old methods.

Axes and sledge-hammers would make no impression there."

"Your predecessor had some success at opening doors with a hydraulic

jack, I believe, in some very difficult raids," put in Kennedy.

"A hydraulic jack wouldn't do for the Vesper Club, I'm afraid,"

remarked O'Connor wearily. "Why, sir, that place has been proved

bomb-proof--bomb-proof, sir. You remember recently the so-called

'gamblers' war' in which some rivals exploded a bomb on the steps? It

did more damage to the house next door than to the club. However,

I can get past the outer door, I think, even if it is strong. But

inside--you must have heard of it--is the famous steel door, three

inches thick, made of armor-plate. It's no use to try it at all unless

we can pass that door with reasonable quickness. All the evidence we

shall get will be of an innocent social club-room down-stairs. The

gambling is all on the second floor, beyond this door, in a

room without a window in it. Surely you've heard of that famous

gambling-room, with its perfect system of artificial ventilation and

electric lighting that makes it rival noonday at midnight. And don't

tell me I've got to get on the other side of the door by strategy,

either. It is strategy-proof. The system of lookouts is perfect.

No, force is necessary, but it must not be destructive of life or

property--or, by heaven, I'd drive up there and riddle the place with

a fourteen-inch gun," exclaimed O'Connor.

"H'm!" mused Kennedy as he flicked the ashes off his cigar and

meditatively watched a passing freight-train on the railroad below us.

"There goes a car loaded with tons and tons of scrap-iron. You want me

to scrap that three-inch steel door, do you?"

"Kennedy, I'll buy that particular scrap from you at--almost its

weight in gold. The fact is, I have a secret fund at my disposal such

as former commissioners have asked for in vain. I can afford to pay

you well, as well as any private client, and I hear you have had some

good fees lately. Only deliver the goods."

"No," answered Kennedy, rather piqued, "it isn't money that I am

after. I merely wanted to be sure that you are in earnest. I can get

you past that door as if it were made of green baize."

It was O'Connor's turn to look incredulous, but as Kennedy apparently

meant exactly what he said, he simply asked, "And will you?"

"I will do it to-night if you say so," replied Kennedy quietly. "Are

you ready?"

For answer O'Connor simply grasped Craig's hand, as if to seal the

compact.

"All right, then," continued Kennedy. "Send a furniture-van, one of

those closed vans that the storage warehouses use, up to my laboratory

any time before seven o'clock. How many men will you need in the raid?

Twelve? Will a van hold that many comfortably? I'll want to put some

apparatus in it, but that won't take much room."

"Why, yes, I think so," answered O'Connor. "I'll get a well-padded van

so that they won't be badly jolted by the ride down-town. By George!

Kennedy, I see you know more of that side of police strategy than I

gave you credit for."

"Then have the men drop into my laboratory singly about the same time.

You can arrange that so that it will not look suspicious, so far

up-town. It will be dark, anyhow. Perhaps, O'Connor, you can make up

as the driver yourself--anyhow, get one you can trust absolutely. Then

have the van down near the corner of Broadway below the club, driving

slowly along about the time the theatre crowd is out. Leave the rest

to me. I will give you or the driver orders when the time comes."

As O'Connor thanked Craig, he remarked without a shade of

insincerity, "Kennedy, talk about being commissioner, you ought to be

commissioner."

"Wait till I deliver the goods," answered Craig simply. "I may fall

down and bring you nothing but a lawsuit for damages for unlawful

entry or unjust persecution, or whatever they call it."

"I'll take a chance at that," called back O'Connor as he jumped into

his car and directed, "Headquarters, quick."

As the car disappeared, Kennedy filled his lungs with air as if

reluctant to leave the drive. "Our constitutional," he remarked, "is

abruptly at an end, Walter."

Then he laughed, as he looked about him.

"What a place in which to plot a raid on Danfield's Vesper Club! Why,

the nurse-maids have hardly got the children all in for supper and

bed. It's incongruous. Well, I must go over to the laboratory and

get some things ready to put in that van with the men. Meet me about

half-past seven, Walter, up in the room, all togged up. We'll dine at

the Café Riviera to-night in style. And, by the way, you're quite a

man about town--you must know someone who can introduce us into the

Vesper Club."

"But, Craig," I demurred, "if there is any rough work as a result, it

might queer me with them. They might object to being used--"

"Oh, that will be all right. I just want to look the place over and

lose a few chips in a good cause. No, it won't queer any of your

_Star_ connections. We'll be on the outside when the time comes for

anything to happen. In fact I shouldn't wonder if your story

would make you all the more solid with the sports. I take all the

responsibility; you can have the glory. You know they like to hear the

inside gossip of such things, after the event. Try it. Remember, at

seven-thirty. We'll be a little late at dinner, but never mind; it

will be early enough for the club."

Left to my own devices I determined to do a little detective work on

my own account, and not only did I succeed in finding an acquaintance

who agreed to introduce us at the Vesper Club that night about nine

o'clock, but I also learned that Percival DeLong was certain to be

there that night, too. I was necessarily vague about Kennedy, for fear

my friend might have heard of some of his exploits, but fortunately he

did not prove inquisitive.

I hurried back to our apartment and was in the process of transforming

myself into a full-fledged boulevardier, when Kennedy arrived in

an extremely cheerful frame of mind. So far, his preparations had

progressed very favorably, I guessed, and I was quite elated when he

complimented me on what I had accomplished in the meantime.

"Pretty tough for the fellows who are condemned to ride around in that

van for four mortal hours, though," he said as he hurried into his

evening clothes, "but they won't be riding all the time. The driver

will make frequent stops."

I was so busy that I paid little attention to him until he had nearly

completed his toilet. I gave a gasp.

"Why, whatever are you doing?" I exclaimed as I glanced into his room.

There stood Kennedy arrayed in all the glory of a sharp-pointed

moustache and a goatee. He had put on evening clothes of decidedly

Parisian cut, clothes which he had used abroad and had brought back

with him, but which I had never known him to wear since he came back.

On a chair reposed a chimney-pot hat that would have been pronounced

faultless on the "continong," but was unknown, except among

impresarios, on Broadway.

Kennedy shrugged his shoulders--he even had the shrug.

"Figure to yourself, monsieur," he said. "Ze great Kennedy, ze

detectif Américain--to put it tersely in our own vernacular, wouldn't

it be a fool thing for me to appear at the Vesper Club where I should

surely be recognized by someone if I went in my ordinary clothes and

features? _Un faux pas_, at the start? _Jamais!_"

There was nothing to do but agree, and I was glad that I had been

discreetly reticent about my companion in talking with the friend who

was to gain us entrance to the Avernus beyond the steel door.

We met my friend at the Riviera and dined sumptuously. Fortunately he

seemed decidedly impressed with my friend Monsieur Kay--I could do no

better on the spur of the moment than take Kennedy's initial, which

seemed to serve. We progressed amicably from oysters and soup down to

coffee, cigars, and liqueurs, and I succeeded in swallowing Kennedy's

tales of Monte Carlo and Ostend and Ascot without even a smile. He

must have heard them somewhere, and treasured them up for just such an

occasion, but he told them in a manner that was verisimilitude itself,

using perfect English with just the trace of an accent at the right

places.

At last it was time to saunter around to the Vesper Club without

seeming to be too indecently early. The theatres were not yet out, but

my friend said play was just beginning at the club and would soon be

in full swing.

I had a keen sense of wickedness as we mounted the steps in the yellow

flare of the flaming arc-light on the Broadway corner not far below

us. A heavy, grated door swung open at the practised signal of my

friend, and an obsequious negro servant stood bowing and pronouncing

his name in the sombre mahogany portal beyond, with its green marble

pillars and handsome decorations. A short parley followed, after which

we entered, my friend having apparently satisfied someone that we were

all right.

We did not stop to examine the first floor, which doubtless was

innocent enough, but turned quickly up a flight of steps. At the foot

of the broad staircase Kennedy paused to examine some rich carvings,

and I felt him nudge me. I turned. It was an enclosed staircase, with

walls that looked to be of re-enforced concrete. Swung back on hinges

concealed like those of a modern burglar-proof safe was the famous

steel door.

We did not wish to appear to be too interested, yet a certain amount

of curiosity was only proper.

My friend paused on the steps, turned, and came back.

"You're perfectly safe," he smiled, tapping the door with his cane

with a sort of affectionate respect. "It would take the police ages to

get past that barrier, which would be swung shut and bolted the moment

the lookout gave the alarm. But there has never been any trouble. The

police know that it is so far, no farther. Besides," he added with

a wink to me, "you know, Senator Danfield wouldn't like this pretty

little door even scratched. Come up, I think I hear DeLong's voice

up-stairs. You've heard of him, monsieur? It's said his luck has

changed. I'm anxious to find out."

Quickly he led the way up the handsome staircase and into a large,

lofty, richly furnished room. Everywhere there were thick, heavy

carpets on the floors, into which your feet sank with an air of

satisfying luxury.

The room into which we entered was indeed absolutely windowless. It

was a room built within the original room of the old house. Thus the

windows overlooking the street from the second floor in reality bore

no relation to it. For light it depended on a complete oval of lights

overhead so arranged as to be themselves invisible, but shining

through richly stained glass and conveying the illusion of a slightly

clouded noon-day. The absence of windows was made up for, as I learned

later, by a ventilating device so perfect that, although everyone was

smoking, a most fastidious person could scarcely have been offended by

the odor of tobacco.

Of course I did not notice all this at first. What I did notice,

however, was a faro-layout and a hazard-board, but as no one was

playing at either, my eye quickly traveled to a roulette-table which

stretched along the middle of the room. Some ten or a dozen men in

evening clothes were gathered watching with intent faces the spinning

wheel. There was no money on the table, nothing but piles of chips of

various denominations. Another thing that surprised me as I looked was

that the tense look on the faces of the players was anything but the

feverish, haggard gaze I had expected. In fact, they were sleek,

well-fed, typical prosperous New-Yorkers rather inclined to the

noticeable in dress and carrying their avoirdupois as if life was an

easy game with them. Most of them evidently belonged to the financial

and society classes. There were no tragedies; the tragedies were

elsewhere--in their offices, homes, in the courts, anywhere, but not

here at the club. Here all was life, light, and laughter.

For the benefit of those not acquainted with the roulette-wheel--and I

may as well confess that most of my own knowledge was gained in that

one crowded evening--I may say that it consists, briefly, of a wooden

disc very nicely balanced and turning in the center of a cavity set

into a table like a circular wash-basin, with an outer rim turned

slightly inward. The "croupier" revolves the wheel to the right. With

a quick motion of his middle finger he flicks a marble, usually of

ivory, to the left. At the Vesper Club, always up-to-date, the ball

was of platinum, not of ivory. The disc with its sloping sides is

provided with a number of brass rods, some perpendicular, some

horizontal. As the ball and the wheel lose momentum the ball strikes

against the rods and finally is deflected into one of the many little

pockets or stalls facing the rim of the wheel.

There are thirty-eight of these pockets; two are marked "0" and

"00," the other numbered from one to thirty-six in an irregular and

confusing order and painted alternately red and black. At each end of

the table are thirty-six large squares correspondingly numbered and

colored. The "0" and "00" are of a neutral color. Whenever the ball

falls in the "0" or "00" the bank takes the stakes, or sweeps the

board. The Monte Carlo wheel has only one "0," while the typical

American has two, and the Chinese has four.

To one like myself who had read of the Continental gambling-houses

with the clink of gold pieces on the table, and the croupier with

his wooden rake noisily raking in the winnings of the bank, the

comparative silence of the American game comes as a surprise.

As we advanced, we heard only the rattle of the ball, the click of the

chips, and the monotonous tone of the spinner: "Twenty-three, black.

Eight, red. Seventeen, black." It was almost like the boys in a

broker's office calling off the quotations of the ticker and marking

them up on the board.

Leaning forward, almost oblivious to the rest, was Percival DeLong, a

tall, lithe, handsome young man, whose boyish face ill comported

with the marks of dissipation clearly outlined on it. Such a boy, it

flashed across my mind, ought to be studying the possible plays of

football of an evening in the field-house after his dinner at the

training-table, rather than the possible gyrations of the little

platinum ball on the wheel.

"Curse the luck!" he exclaimed, as "17" appeared again.

A Hebrew banker staked a pile of chips on the "17" to come up a third

time. A murmur of applause at his nerve ran through the circle. DeLong

hesitated, as one who thought, "Seventeen has come out twice--the odds

against its coming again are too great, even though the winnings would

be fabulous, for a good stake." He placed his next bet on another

number.

"He's playing Lord Rosslyn's system, to-night," whispered my friend.

The wheel spun, the ball rolled, and the croupier called again,

"Seventeen, black." A tremor of excitement ran through the crowd. It

was almost unprecedented.

DeLong, with a stiffed oath, leaned back and scanned the faces about

the table.

"And '17' has precisely the same chance of turning up in the next

spin as if it had not already had a run of three," said a voice at my

elbow.

It was Kennedy. The roulette-table needs no introduction when curious

sequences are afoot. All are friends.

"That's the theory of Sir Hiram Maxim," commented my friend, as he

excused himself reluctantly for another appointment. "But no true

gambler will believe it, monsieur, or at least act on it."

All eyes were turned on Kennedy, who made a gesture of polite

deprecation, as if the remark of my friend were true, but--he

nonchalantly placed his chips on the "17."

"The odds against '17' appearing four consecutive times are some

millions," he went on, "and yet, having appeared three times, it is

just as likely to appear again as before. It is the usual practice

to avoid a number that has had a run, on the theory that some other

number is more likely to come up than it is. That would be the case if

it were drawing balls from a bag full of red and black balls--the more

red ones drawn the smaller the chance of drawing another red one. But

if the balls are put back in the bag after being drawn the chances of

drawing a red one after three have been drawn are exactly the same as

ever. If we toss a cent and heads appear twelve times, that does not

have the slightest effect on the thirteenth toss--there is still an

even chance that it, too, will be heads. So if '17' had come up five

times to-night, it would be just as likely to come the sixth as if the

previous five had not occurred, and that despite the fact that before

it had appeared at all odds against a run of the same number six times

in succession are about two billion, four hundred and ninety-six

million, and some thousands. Most systems are based on the old

persistent belief that occurrences of chance are affected in some way

by occurrences immediately preceding, but disconnected physically. If

we've had a run of black for twenty times, system says play the red

for the twenty-first. But black is just as likely to turn up the

twenty-first as if it were the first play of all. The confusion

arises because a run of twenty on the black should happen once in one

million, forty-eight thousand, five hundred and seventy-six coups. It

would take ten years to make that many coups, and the run of twenty

might occur once or any number of times in it. It is only when one

deals with infinitely large numbers of coups that one can count on

infinitely small variations in the mathematical results. This game

does not go on for infinity--therefore anything, everything, may

happen. Systems are based on the infinite; we play in the finite."

"You talk like a professor I had at the university," ejaculated DeLong

contemptuously as Craig finished his disquisition on the practical

fallibility of theoretically infallible systems. Again DeLong

carefully avoided the "17," as well as the black.

The wheel spun again; the ball rolled. The knot of spectators around

the table watched with bated breath.

Seventeen won!

As Kennedy piled up his winnings superciliously, without even the

appearance of triumph, a man behind me whispered, "A foreign nobleman

with a system--watch him."

"_Non_, monsieur," said Kennedy quickly, having overheard the remark,

"no system, sir. There is only one system of which I know."

"What?" asked DeLong eagerly.

Kennedy staked a large sum on the red to win. The black came up, and

he lost. He doubled the stake and played again, and again lost. With

amazing calmness Craig kept right on doubling.

"The martingale," I heard the men whisper behind me. "In other words,

double or quit."

Kennedy was now in for some hundreds, a sum that was sufficiently

large for him, but he doubled again, still cheerfully playing the red,

and the red won. As he gathered up his chips he rose.

"That's the only system," he said simply.

"But, go on, go on," came the chorus from about the table.

"No," said Kennedy quietly, "that is part of the system, too--to quit

when you have won back your stakes and a little more."

"Huh!" exclaimed DeLong in disgust. "Suppose you were in for some

thousands--you wouldn't quit. If you had real sporting blood you

wouldn't quit, anyhow!"

Kennedy calmly passed over the open insult, letting it be understood

that he ignored this beardless youth.

"There is no way you can beat the game in the long run if you keep at

it," he answered simply. "It is mathematically impossible. Consider.

We are Croesuses--we hire players to stake money for us on every

possible number at every coup. How do we come out? If there are no '0'

or '00,' we come out after each coup precisely where we started--we

are paying our own money back and forth among ourselves; we have

neither more nor less. But with the '0' and '00' the bank sweeps the

board every so often. It is only a question of time when, after paying

our money back and forth among ourselves, it has all filtered through

the 'O' and 'OO' into the bank. It is not a game of chance for

the bank--ah, it is exact, mathematical--_c'est une question

d'arithmétique seulement, n'est-ce pas, messieurs?_"

"Perhaps," admitted DeLong, "but it doesn't explain why I am losing

to-night while everyone else is winning."

"We are not winning," persisted Craig. "After I have had a bite to eat

I will demonstrate how to lose--by keeping on playing." He led the way

to the café.

DeLong was too intent on the game to leave, even for refreshments. Now

and then I saw him beckon to an attendant, who brought him a stiff

drink of whiskey. For a moment his play seemed a little better, then

he would drop back into his hopeless losing. For some reason or other

his "system" failed absolutely.

"You see, he is hopeless," mused Kennedy over our light repast. "And

yet of all gambling games roulette offers the player the best odds,

far better than horse-racing, for instance. Our method has usually

been to outlaw roulette and permit horse-racing; in other words,

suppress the more favorable and permit the less favorable. However,

we're doing better now; we're suppressing both. Of course what I say

applies only to roulette when it is honestly played--DeLong would lose

anyhow, I fear."

I started at Kennedy's tone and whispered hastily: "What do you mean?

Do you think the wheel is crooked?"

"I haven't a doubt of it," he replied in an undertone. "That run

of '17' _might_ happen--yes. But it is improbable. They let me win

because I was a new player--new players always win at first. It is

proverbial, but the man who is running this game has made it look

like a platitude. To satisfy myself on that point I am going to play

again--until I have lost my winnings and am just square with the game.

When I reach the point that I am convinced that some crooked work is

going on I am going to try a little experiment, Walter. I want you to

stand close to me so that no one can see what I am doing. Do just as I

will indicate to you."

The gambling-room was now fast filling up with the first of the

theatre crowd. DeLong's table was the centre of attraction, owing to

the high play. A group of young men of his set were commiserating with

him on his luck and discussing it with the finished air of roués of

double their ages. He was doggedly following his system.

Kennedy and I approached.

"Ah, here is the philosophical stranger again," DeLong exclaimed,

catching sight of Kennedy. "Perhaps he can enlighten us on how to win

at roulette by playing his own system."

"_Au contraire_, monsieur, let me demonstrate how to lose," answered

Craig with a smile that showed a row of faultless teeth beneath his

black moustache, decidedly foreign.

Kennedy played and lost, and lost again; then he won, but in the main

he lost. After one particularly large loss I felt his arm on mine,

drawing me closely to him. DeLong had taken a sort of grim pleasure in

the fact that Kennedy, too, was losing. I found that Craig had paused

in his play at a moment when DeLong had staked a large sum that a

number below "18" would turn up--for five plays the numbers had been

between "18" and "36." Curious to see what Craig was doing, I looked

cautiously down between us. All eyes were fixed on the wheel. Kennedy

was holding an ordinary compass in the crooked-up palm of his hand.

The needle pointed at me, as I happened to be standing north of it.

The wheel spun. Suddenly the needle swung around to a point between

the north and south poles, quivered a moment, and came to rest in that

position. Then it swung back to the north.

It was some seconds before I realized the significance of it. It

had pointed at the table--and DeLong had lost again. There was some

electric attachment at work.

Kennedy and I exchanged glances, and he shoved the compass into my

hand quickly. "You watch it, Walter, while I play," he whispered.

Carefully concealing it, as he had done, yet holding it as close to

the table as I dared I tried to follow two things at once without

betraying myself. As near as I could make out, something happened at

every play. I would not go so far as to assert that whenever the large

stakes were on a certain number the needle pointed to the opposite

side of the wheel, for it was impossible to be at all accurate about

it. Once I noticed the needle did not move at all, and he won. But

on the next play he staked what I knew must be the remainder of his

winnings on what seemed a very good chance. Even before the wheel was

revolved and the ball set rolling, the needle swung about, and when

the platinum ball came to rest Kennedy rose from the table, a loser.

"By George, though," exclaimed DeLong, grasping his hand. "I take it

all back. You are a good loser, sir. I wish I could take it as well as

you do. But then, I'm in too deeply. There are too many 'markers' with

the house up against me."

Senator Danfield had just come in to see how things were going. He was

a sleek, fat man, and it was amazing to see with what deference his

victims treated him. He affected not to have heard what DeLong said,

but I could imagine what he was thinking, for I had heard that he had

scant sympathy with anyone after he "went broke"--another evidence of

the camaraderie and good-fellowship that surrounded the game.

Kennedy's next remark surprised me. "Oh, your luck will change,

D.L.,"--everyone referred to him as "D.L.," for gambling-houses have

an aversion for real names and greatly prefer initials--"your luck

will change presently. Keep right on with your system. It's the best

you can do to-night, short of quitting."

"I'll never quit." replied the young man under his breath.

Meanwhile Kennedy and I paused on the way out to compare notes. My

report of the behavior of the compass only confirmed him in his

opinion.

As we turned to the stairs we took in a full view of the room.

A faro-layout was purchasing Senator Danfield a new touring-car every

hour at the expense of the players. Another group was gathered about

the hazard-board, deriving evident excitement, though I am sure none

could have given an intelligent account of the chances they were

taking. Two roulette-tables were now going full blast, the larger

crowd still about DeLong's. Snatches of conversation came to us now

and then, and I caught one sentence, "DeLong's in for over a hundred

thousand now on the week's play, I understand; poor boy--that about

cleans him up."

"The tragedy of it, Craig," I whispered, but he did not hear.

With his hat tilted at a rakish angle and his opera-coat over his arm

he sauntered over for a last look.

"Any luck yet?" he asked carelessly.

"The devil--no," returned the boy.

"Do you know what my advice to you is, the advice of a man who has

seen high play everywhere from Monte Carlo to Shanghai?"

"What?"

"Play until your luck changes if it takes until to-morrow."

A supercilious smile crossed Senator Danfield's fat face.

"I intend to," and the haggard young face turned again to the table

and forgot us.

"For Heaven's sake, Kennedy," I gasped as we went down the stairway,

"what do you mean by giving him such advice--you?"

"Not so loud, Walter. He'd have done it anyhow, I suppose, but I want

him to keep at it. This night means life or death to Percival DeLong

and his mother, too. Come on, let's get out of this."

We passed the formidable steel door and gained the street, jostled by

the late-comers who had left the after-theatre restaurants for a few

moments of play at the famous club that so long had defied the police.

Almost gaily Kennedy swung along toward Broadway. At the corner he

hesitated, glanced up and down, caught sight of the furniture-van in

the middle of the next block. The driver was tugging at the harness of

the horses, apparently fixing it. We walked along and stopped beside

it.

"Drive around in front of the Vesper Club slowly," said Kennedy as the

driver at last looked up.

The van lumbered ahead, and we followed it casually. Around the corner

it turned. We turned also. My heart was going like a sledge-hammer as

the critical moment approached. My head was in a whirl. What would

that gay throng back of those darkened windows down the street think

if they knew what was being prepared for them?

On, like the Trojan horse, the van lumbered. A man went into the

Vesper Club, and I saw the negro at the door eye the oncoming van

suspiciously. The door banged shut.

The next thing I knew, Kennedy had ripped off his disguise, had flung

himself up behind the van, and had swung the doors open. A dozen men

with axes and sledge-hammers swarmed out and up the steps of the club.

"Call the reserves, O'Connor," cried Kennedy. "Watch the roof and the

back yard."

The driver of the van hastened to send in the call.

The sharp raps of the hammers and the axes sounded on the thick

brass-bound oak of the out-side door in quick succession. There was

a scurry of feet inside, and we could hear a grating noise and a

terrific jar as the inner, steel door shut.

"A raid! A raid on the Vesper Club!" shouted a belated passer-by. The

crowd swarmed around from Broadway, as if it were noon instead of

midnight.

Banging and ripping and tearing, the outer door was slowly forced. As

it crashed in, the quick gongs of several police patrols sounded. The

reserves had been called out at the proper moment, too late for them

to "tip off" the club that there was going to be a raid, as frequently

occurs.

Disregarding the mêlée behind me, I leaped through the wreckage with

the other raiders. The steel door barred all further progress with its

cold blue impassibility. How were we to surmount this last and most

formidable barrier?

I turned in time to see Kennedy and O'Connor hurrying up the steps

with a huge tank studded with bolts like a boiler, while two other men

carried a second tank.

"There," ordered Craig, "set the oxygen there," as he placed his own

tank on the opposite side.

Out of the tanks stout tubes led, with stop-cocks and gages at the

top. From a case under his arm Kennedy produced a curious arrangement

like a huge hook, with a curved neck and a sharp beak. Really it

consisted of two metal tubes which ran into a sort of cylinder, or

mixing chamber, above the nozzle, while parallel to them ran a third

separate tube with a second nozzle of its own. Quickly he joined the

ends of the tubes from the tanks to the metal hook, the oxygen-tank

being joined to two of the tubes of the hook, and the second tank

being joined to the other. With a match he touched the nozzle

gingerly. Instantly a hissing, spitting noise followed, and an intense

blinding needle of flame.

"Now for the oxy-acetylene blowpipe," cried Kennedy as he advanced

toward the steel door. "We'll make short work of this."

Almost as he said it, the steel beneath the blowpipe became

incandescent.

Just to test it, he cut off the head of a three-quarter-inch steel

rivet--taking about a quarter of a minute to do it. It was evident,

though, that that would not weaken the door appreciably, even if the

rivets were all driven through. Still they gave a starting-point for

the flame of the high-pressure acetylene torch.

It was a brilliant sight. The terrific heat from the first nozzle

caused the metal to glow under the torch as if in an open-hearth

furnace. From the second nozzle issued a stream of oxygen under which

the hot metal of the door was completely consumed. The force of the

blast as the compressed oxygen and acetylene were expelled carried a

fine spray and the disintegrated metal visibly before it. And yet it

was not a big hole that it made--scarcely an eighth of an inch wide,

but clear and sharp as if a buzz saw were eating its way through a

three-inch plank of white pine. With tense muscles Kennedy held this

terrific engine of destruction and moved it as easily as if it had

been a mere pencil of light. He was easily the calmest of us all as we

crowded about him at a respectful distance.

"Acetylene, as you may know," he hastily explained, never pausing for

a moment in his work, "is composed of carbon and hydrogen. As it burns

at the end of the nozzle it is broken into carbon and hydrogen--the

carbon gives the high temperature, and the hydrogen forms a cone that

protects the end of the blowpipe from being itself burnt up."

"But isn't it dangerous?" I asked, amazed at the skill with which he

handled the blowpipe.

"Not particularly--when you know how to do it. In that tank is a

porous asbestos packing saturated with acetone, under pressure. Thus I

can carry acetylene safely, for it is dissolved, and the possibility

of explosion is minimized. This mixing chamber by which I am holding

the torch, where the oxygen and acetylene mix, is also designed in

such a way as to prevent a flash-back. The best thing about this style

of blowpipe is the ease with which it can be transported and the

curious uses--like the present--to which it can be put."

He paused a moment to test the door. All was silence on the other

side. The door itself was as firm as ever.

"Huh!" exclaimed one of the detectives behind me, "these new-fangled

things ain't all they're cracked up to be. Now if I was runnin' this

show, I'd dynamite that door to kingdom come."

"And wreck the house and kill a few people," I returned, hotly

resenting the criticism of Kennedy. Kennedy affected not to hear.

"When I shut off the oxygen in this second jet," he resumed as if

nothing had been said, "you see the torch merely heats the steel.

I can get a heat of approximately sixty-three hundred degrees

Fahrenheit, and the flame will exert a pressure of fifty pounds to the

square inch."

"Wonderful!" exclaimed O'Connor, who had not heard the remark of his

subordinate and was watching with undisguised admiration. "Kennedy,

how did you ever think of such a thing?"

"Why, it's used for welding, you know," answered Craig as he continued

to work calmly in the growing excitement. "I first saw it in actual

use in mending a cracked cylinder in an automobile. The cylinder was

repaired without being taken out at all. I've seen it weld new teeth

and build up old worn teeth on gearing, as good as new."

He paused to let us see the terrifically heated metal under the flame.

"You remember when we were talking on the drive about the raid,

O'Connor? A car-load of scrap-iron went by on the railroad below us.

They use this blowpipe to cut it up, frequently. That's what gave me

the idea. See. I turn on the oxygen now in this second nozzle. The

blowpipe is no longer an instrument for joining metals together, but

for cutting them asunder. The steel burns just as you, perhaps, have

seen a watch-spring burn in a jar of oxygen. Steel, hard or soft,

tempered, annealed, chrome, or Harveyized, it all burns just as fast

and just as easily. And it's cheap too. This raid may cost a couple of

dollars, as far as the blowpipe is concerned--quite a difference from

the thousands of dollars' loss that would follow an attempt to blow

the door in."

The last remark was directed quietly at the doubting detective. He had

nothing to say. We stood in awe-struck amazement as the torch slowly,

inexorably, traced a thin line along the edge of the door.

Minute after minute sped by, as the line burned by the blowpipe cut

straight from top to bottom. It seemed hours to me. Was Kennedy going

to slit the whole door and let it fall in with a crash?

No, I could see that even in his cursory examination of the door

he had gained a pretty good knowledge of the location of the bolts

imbedded in the steel. One after another he was cutting clear through

and severing them, as if with a super-human knife.

What was going on on the other side of the door, I wondered. I could

scarcely imagine the consternation of the gamblers caught in their own

trap.

With a quick motion Kennedy turned off the acetylene and oxygen. The

last bolt had been severed. A gentle push of the hand, and he swung

the once impregnable door on its delicately poised hinges as easily as

if he had merely said, "Open Sesame." The robbers' cave yawned before

us.

We made a rush up the stairs. Kennedy was first, O'Connor next, and

myself scarcely a step behind, with the rest of O'Connor's men at our

heels.

I think we were all prepared for some sort of gun-play, for the crooks

were desperate characters, and I myself was surprised to encounter

nothing but physical force, which was quickly overcome.

In the now disordered richness of the rooms, waving his "John Doe"

warrant in one hand and his pistol in the other, O'Connor shouted:

"You're all under arrest, gentlemen. If you resist further it will go

hard with you."

Crowded now in one end of the room in speechless amazement was the

late gay party of gamblers, including Senator Danfield himself. They

had reckoned on toying with any chance but this. The pale white face

of DeLong among them was like a spectre, as he stood staring blankly

about and still insanely twisting the roulette wheel before him.

Kennedy advanced toward the table with an ax which he had seized from

one of our men. A well-directed blow shattered the mechanism of the

delicate wheel.

"DeLong," he said, "I'm not going to talk to you like your old

professor at the university, nor like your recent friend, the

Frenchman with a system. This is what you have been up against, my

boy. Look."

His forefinger indicated an ingenious, but now tangled and twisted,

series of minute wires and electro-magnets in the broken wheel before

us. Delicate brushes led the current into the wheel. With another blow

of his axe, Craig disclosed wires running down through the leg of the

table to the floor and under the carpet to buttons operated by the man

who ran the game.

"Wh-what does it mean?" asked DeLong blankly.

"It means that you had little enough chance to win at a straight game

of roulette. But the wheel is very rarely straight, even with all the

odds in favor of the bank, as they are. This game was electrically

controlled. Others are mechanically controlled by what is sometimes

called the 'mule's ear,' and other devices. You _can't_ win. There

wires and magnets can be made to attract the little ball into any

pocket the operator desires. Each one of those pockets contains a

little electro-magnet. One set of magnets in the red pockets is

connected with one button under the carpet and a battery. The other

set in the black pockets is connected with another button and

the battery. This ball is not really of platinum. Platinum is

non-magnetic. It is simply a soft iron hollow ball, plated with

platinum. Whichever set of electro-magnets is energized attracts the

ball and by this simple method it is in the power of the operator

to let the ball go to red or black as he may wish. Other similar

arrangements control the odd or even, and other combinations from

other push buttons. A special arrangement took care of that '17'

freak. There isn't an honest gambling-machine in the whole place--I

might almost say the whole city. The whole thing is crooked from start

to finish--the men, the machines--the--"

"That machine could be made to beat me by turning up a run of '17' any

number of times, or red or black, or odd or even, over '18' or under

'18,' or anything?"

"Anything, DeLong."

"And I never had a chance," he repeated, meditatively fingering the

wires. "They broke me to-night. Danfield"--DeLong turned, looking

dazedly about in the crowd for his former friend, then his hand

shot into his pocket, and a little ivory-handled pistol flashed

out--"Danfield, your blood is on your own head. You have ruined me."

Kennedy must have been expecting something of the sort, for he seized

the arm of the young man, weakened by dissipation, and turned the

pistol upward as if it had been in the grasp of a mere child.

A blinding flash followed in the farthest corner of the room and a

huge puff of smoke. Before I could collect my wits another followed in

the opposite corner. The room was filled with a dense smoke.

Two men were scuffling at my feet. One was Kennedy. As I dropped down

quickly to help him I saw that the other was Danfield, his face purple

with the violence of the struggle.

"Don't be alarmed, gentlemen," I heard O'Connor shout, "the explosions

were only the flash-lights of the official police photographers.

We now have the evidence complete. Gentlemen, you will now go down

quietly to the patrol-wagons below, two by two. If you have anything

to say, say it to the magistrate of the night court."

"Hold his arms, Walter," panted Kennedy.

I did. With a dexterity that would have done credit to a pickpocket,

Kennedy reached into Danfield's pocket and pulled out some papers.

Before the smoke had cleared and order had been restored, Craig

exclaimed: "Let him up, Walter. Here, DeLong, here are the I.O.U.'s

against you. Tear them up--they are not even a debt of honor."

The Great K.& A. Train Robbery

BY PAUL LEICESTER FORD

CHAPTER I

THE PARTY ON SPECIAL NO. 218

Any one who hopes to find in what is here written a work of literature

had better lay it aside unread. At Yale I should have got the sack in

rhetoric and English composition, let alone other studies, had it not

been for the fact that I played half-back on the team, and so the

professors marked me away up above where I ought to have ranked. That

was twelve years ago, but my life since I received my parchment has

hardly been of a kind to improve me in either style or grammar. It is

true that one woman tells me I write well, and my directors never

find fault with my compositions; but I know that she likes my letters

because, whatever else they may say to her, they always say in some

form, "I love you," while my board approve my annual reports

because thus far I have been able to end each with "I recommend the

declaration of a dividend of ---- per cent from the earnings of the

current year." I should therefore prefer to reserve my writings for

such friendly critics, if it did not seem necessary to make public a

plain statement concerning an affair over which there appears to be

much confusion. I have heard in the last five years not less than

twenty renderings of what is commonly called "the great K.& A. train

robbery,"--some so twisted and distorted that but for the intermediate

versions I should never have recognized them as attempts to narrate

the series of events in which I played a somewhat prominent part. I

have read or been told that, unassisted, the pseudo-hero captured a

dozen desperadoes; that he was one of the road agents himself; that he

was saved from lynching only by the timely arrival of cavalry; that

the action of the United States government in rescuing him from the

civil authorities was a most high-handed interference with State

rights; that he received his reward from a grateful railroad by being

promoted; that a lovely woman as recompense for his villainy--but

bother! it's my business to tell what really occurred, and not what

the world chooses to invent. And if any man thinks he would have done

otherwise in my position, I can only say that he is a better or a

worse man than Dick Gordon.

Primarily, it was football which shaped my end. Owing to my skill in

the game, I took a post-graduate at the Sheffield Scientific School,

that the team might have my services for an extra two years. That led

to my knowing a little about mechanical engineering, and when I felt

the "quad" for good I went into the Alton Railroad shops. It wasn't

long before I was foreman of a section; next I became a division

superintendent, and after I had stuck to that for a time I was

appointed superintendent of the Kansas & Arizona Railroad, a line

extending from Trinidad in Kansas to The Needles in Arizona, tapping

the Missouri Western System at the first place, and the Great Southern

at the other. With both lines we had important traffic agreements,

as well as the closest relations, which sometimes were a little

difficult, as the two roads were anything but friendly, and we had

directors of each on the K. & A. board, in which they fought like

cats. Indeed, it could only be a question of time when one would

oust the other and then absorb my road. My headquarters were at

Albuquerque, in New Mexico, and it was there, in October, 1890, that

I received the communication which was the beginning of all that

followed.

This initial factor was a letter from the president of the Missouri

Western, telling me that their first vice-president, Mr. Cullen (who

was also a director of my road), was coming out to attend the annual

election of the K. & A., which under our charter had to be held in Ash

Fork, Arizona. A second paragraph told me that Mr. Cullen's family

accompanied him, and that they all wished to visit the Grand Cañon of

the Colorado on their way. Finally the president wrote that the

party travelled in his own private car, and asked me to make myself

generally useful to them. Having become quite hardened to just such

demands, at the proper date I ordered my superintendent's car on to

No. 2, and the next morning it was dropped off at Trinidad.

The moment No. 3 arrived, I climbed into the president's special, that

was the last car on the train, and introduced myself to Mr. Cullen,

whom, though an official of my road, I had never met. He seemed

surprised at my presence, but greeted me very pleasantly as soon as I

explained that the Missouri Western office had asked me to do what I

could for him, and that I was there for that purpose. His party were

about to sit down to breakfast, and he asked me to join them: so we

passed into the dining-room at the forward end of the car, where I was

introduced to "My son," "Lord Ralles," and "Captain Ackland." The son

was a junior copy of his father, tall and fine-looking, but, in place

of the frank and easy manner of his sire, he was so very English that

most people would have sworn falsely as to his native land. Lord

Ralles was a little, well-built chap, not half so English as Albert

Cullen, quick in manner and thought, being in this the opposite of

his brother Captain Ackland, who was heavy enough to rock-ballast a

roadbed. Both brothers gave me the impression of being gentlemen, and

both were decidedly good-looking.

After the introductions, Mr. Cullen said we would not wait, and his

remark called my attention to the fact that there was one more place

at the table than there were people assembled. I had barely noted

this, when my host said, "Here's the truant," and, turning, I faced a

lady who had just entered. Mr. Cullen said, "Madge, let me introduce

Mr. Gordon to you." My bow was made to a girl of about twenty, with

light brown hair, the bluest of eyes, a fresh skin and a fine figure,

dressed so nattily as to be to me after my four years of Western life,

a sight for tired eyes. She greeted me pleasantly, made a neat little

apology for having kept us waiting, and then we all sat down.

It was a very jolly breakfast-table, Mr. Cullen and his son being

capital talkers, and Lord Ralles a good third, while Miss Cullen was

quick and clever enough to match the three. Before the meal was over I

came to the conclusion that Lord Ralles was in love with Miss Cullen,

for he kept making low asides to her; and from the fact that she

allowed them, and indeed responded, I drew the conclusion that he was

a lucky beggar, feeling, I confess, a little pang that a title was

going to win such a nice American girl.

One of the first subjects spoken of was train-robbery, and Miss

Cullen, like most Easterners, seemed to take a great interest in it,

and had any quantity of questions to ask me.

"I've left all my jewelry behind, except my watch," she said, "and

that I hide every night. So I really hope we'll be held up, it would

be such an adventure."

"There isn't any chance of it, Miss Cullen," I told her; "and if we

were, you probably wouldn't even know that it was happening, but would

sleep right through it."

"Wouldn't they try to get our money and our watches?" she demanded.

I told her no, and explained that the express and mail-cars were the

only ones to which the road agents paid any attention. She wanted to

know the way it was done: so I described to her how sometimes the

train was flagged by a danger signal, and when it had slowed down the

runner found himself covered by armed men; or how a gang would board

the train, one by one, at way stations, and then, when the time came,

steal forward, secure the express agent and postal clerk, climb over

the tender, and compel the runner to stop the train at some lonely

spot on the road. She made me tell her all the details of such

robberies as I knew about, and, though I had never been concerned in

any, I was able to describe several, which, as they were monotonously

alike, I confess I colored up a bit here and there, in an attempt to

make them interesting to her. I seemed to succeed, for she kept the

subject going even after we had left the table and were smoking our

cigars in the observation saloon. Lord Ralles had a lot to say about

the American lack of courage in letting trains containing twenty and

thirty men be held up by half a dozen robbers.

"Why," he ejaculated, "my brother and I each have a double express

with us, and do you think we'd sit still in our seats? No. Hang me if

we wouldn't pot something."

"You might," I laughed, a little nettled, I confess, by his speech,

"but I'm afraid it would be yourselves."

"Aw, you fancy resistance impossible?" drawled Albert Cullen.

"It has been tried," I answered, "and without success. You can see

it's like all surprises. One side is prepared before the other side

knows there is danger. Without regard to relative numbers, the odds

are all in favor of the road agents."

"But I wouldn't sit still, whatever the odds," asserted his lordship.

"And no Englishman would."

"Well, Lord Ralles," I said, "I hope for your sake, then, that you'll

never be in a hold-up, for I should feel about you as the runner of a

locomotive did when the old lady asked him if it was'nt very painful

to him to run over people. 'Yes, madam,' he sadly replied: 'there is

nothing musses an engine up so.'"

I don't think Miss Cullen liked Lord Ralles's comments on American

courage any better than I did, for she said--you take Lord Ralles

and Captain Ackland into the service of the K. & A., Mr. Gordon, as a

special guard?"

"The K. & A. has never had a robbery yet, Miss Cullen," I replied,

"and I don't think that it ever will have."

"Why not?" she asked.

I explained to her how the Cañon of the Colorado to the north, and the

distance of the Mexican border to the south, made escape so almost

desperate that the road agents preferred to devote their attentions to

other routes. "If we were boarded, Miss Cullen," I said, "your jewelry

would be as safe as it is in Chicago, for the robbers would only clean

out the express and mail-cars; but if they should so far forget their

manners as to take your trinkets, I'd agree to return them to you

inside of one week."

"That makes it all the jollier," she cried, eagerly. "We could have

the fun of the adventure, and yet not lose anything. Can't you arrange

for it, Mr. Gordon?"

"I'd like to please you, Miss Cullen," I said, "and I'd like to give

Lord Ralles a chance to show us how to handle those gentry; but it's

not to be done." I really should have been glad to have the road

agents pay us a call.

We spent that day pulling up the Raton pass, and so on over the

Glorietta pass down to Lamy, where, as the party wanted to see Sante

Fé, I had our two cars dropped off the overland, and we ran up the

branch line to the old Mexican city. It was well-worn ground to me,

but I enjoyed showing the sights to Miss Cullen, for by that time I

had come to the conclusion that I had never met a sweeter or jollier

girl. Her beauty, too, was of a kind that kept growing on one, and

before I had known her twenty-four hours, without quite being in love

with her, I was beginning to hate Lord Ralles, which was about the

same thing, I suppose. Every hour convinced me that the two understood

each other, not merely from the little asides and confidences they

kept exchanging, but even more so from the way Miss Cullen would take

his lordship down occasionally. Yet, like a fool, the more I saw to

confirm my first diagnosis, the more I found myself dwelling on the

dimples at the corners of Miss Cullen's mouth, the bewitching uplift

of her upper lip, the runaway curls about her neck, and the curves and

color of her cheeks.

Half a day served to see everything in Santa Fé worth looking at, but

Mr. Cullen decided to spend there the time they had to wait for his

other son to join the party. To pass the hours, I hunted up some

ponies, and we spent three days in long rides up the old Santa Fé

trail and to the outlying mountains. Only one incident was other than

pleasant, and that was my fault. As we were riding back to our cars

on the second afternoon, we had to cross the branch road-bed, where a

gang happened to be at work tamping the ties.

"Since you're interested in road agents, Miss Cullen," I said, "you

may like to see one. That fellow standing in the ditch is Jack Drute,

who was concerned in the D.& R.G. hold-up three years ago."

Miss Cullen looked where I pointed, and seeing a man with a gun, gave

a startled jump, and pulled up her pony, evidently supposing that

we were about to be attacked. "Sha'n't we run?" she began, but then

checked herself, as she took in the facts of the drab clothes of the

gang and the two armed men in uniform. "They are convicts?" she asked,

and when I nodded, she said, "Poor things!" After a pause, she asked,

"How long is he in prison for?"

"Twenty years," I told her."

"How harsh that seems!" she said. "How cruel we are to people for a

few moments' wrong-doing, which the circumstances may almost have

justified!" She checked her pony as we came opposite Drute, and said,

"Can you use money?"

"Can I, lyedy?" said the fellow, leering in an attempt to look

amiable. "Wish I had the chance to try."

The guard interrupted by telling her it wasn't permitted to speak to

the convicts while out of bounds, and so we had to ride on. All Miss

Cullen was able to do was to throw him a little bunch of flowers she

had gathered in the mountains. It was literally casting pearls before

swine, for the fellow did not seem particularly pleased, and when,

late that night, I walked down there with a lantern I found the

flowers lying in the ditch. The experience seemed to sadden and

distress Miss Cullen very much for the rest of the afternoon, and I

kicked myself for having called her attention to the brute, and could

have knocked him down for the way he had looked at her. It is curious

that I felt thankful at the time that Drute was not holding up a train

Miss Cullen was on. It is always the unexpected that happens. If I

could have looked into the future, what a strange variation on this

thought I should have seen!

The three days went all too quickly, thanks to Miss Cullen, and by the

end of that time I began to understand what love really meant to a

chap, and how men could come to kill each other for it. For a fairly

sensible, hard-headed fellow it was pretty quick work, I acknowledge;

but let any man have seven years of Western life without seeing a

woman worth speaking of, and then meet Miss Cullen, and if he didn't

do as I did, I wouldn't trust him on the tailboard of a locomotive,

for I should put him down as defective both in eyesight and in

intellect.