"Very well," I said a third time; "I will get the money. I will look

over the market and decide how it would best be done. Have you any

suggestions to make?"

"No," she answered; "I leave it all to you."

This was almost more astonishing than the demand for the money had

been. Mrs. Magnus was clearly upset.

"I shall probably have to send some papers up to you this afternoon

for your signature," I added.

"I shall be at home. And remember I must have the money without fail."

"I will bring it to you myself. I think you said eight o'clock?"

"Yes--not later than that."

"I will have it there by that time," I assured her.

She started to rise, then sank back in her chair and looked at me.

Yes, she was frightened.

"Mr. Lester," she said, her voice suddenly hoarse and broken, "I think

I will tell you--what I can. I--I have no one else."

For the first time in my life I found myself pitying her. It was

true--she had no one else.

"Don't think that I've been gambling or speculating or anything of

that sort," she went on. "I have hesitated a long time before asking

for this money--I don't enjoy giving away fifty thousand dollars."

"Giving it away?" I repeated. Certainly she was not the woman to enjoy

doing that!

"Yes--giving it away! But--I must have peace! Another such night as

last night--"

A sudden pallor spread across her face, and she touched her

handkerchief hastily to lips and eyes.

"My--my husband wishes it," she added, almost in a whisper.

I don't know what there was about that sentence that sent a little

shiver along my spine. Perhaps it was the tense of the verb. Perhaps

it was the voice in which the words were uttered. Perhaps it was the

haggard glance which accompanied them. Whatever the cause, I found

that some of my client's panic was communicating itself to me.

"You mean he indicated his wish before he died?" I asked.

She shook her head.

"Or left a note of it, perhaps?"

"Yes," she said, "he has left a note of it," and she opened the bag

she carried on her arm. "Here it is."

I took the sheet of paper she held out to me. It bore these words,

written in the crabbed and somewhat uncertain hand which had belonged

to Peter Magnus:

MY DEAR WIFE: It is my wish that you leave at once on this desk the

sum of fifty thousand dollars in currency.

"On this desk?" I repeated, reading the words over again.

"On his desk at home," she explained.

"Then what is to become of it?"

"I don't know."

"But surely--" I said, bewildered. "Look here, Mrs. Magnus, you aren't

telling me everything. Where did you find this?"

"On his desk."

"When?"

"Three nights ago."

"You mean it had been lying there unnoticed ever since his death?"

"No," she answered hoarsely. "It had not been lying there unnoticed.

It was written that night."

I could only stare at her--at her trembling lips, at her bloodshot

eyes, at her livid face.

"Then it's an imposture of some sort," I said at last.

"It is not an imposture," she answered, more hoarsely than ever. "My

husband wrote those words."

"Nonsense!" I retorted impatiently. "Somebody's trying to impose on

you, Mrs. Magnus. Leave this with me, and I'll get to the bottom of

it."

"I tell you," she repeated, rising to her feet in her earnestness, "my

husband wrote those words three nights ago."

"How do you know he did?" I questioned, in some amusement.

"Because I saw him do it!" she answered, and fell back into her chair

again, her hands fumbling feebly at her bag.

She was evidently on the verge of collapse, and I hastened to get her

a glass of water, but when I returned with it, she had her smelling

bottle to her nose and was almost herself again. She waved the glass

away impatiently.

"I shall be all right in a moment," she murmured, and I sat down again

and watched her, wondering if there had ever been any insanity in Mrs.

Magnus' family.

I suppose my thought must have been reflected in my face, for Mrs.

Magnus flushed angrily as she caught my eye.

"No, I'm not mad," she said "though I feared last night that I would

be. What I have told you is perfectly true. I saw my husband write

that note three nights ago--it is not the only one. He can have no

peace until that money is paid--neither can I. You must not fail me."

"I will not," I assured her. "I will bring it to you myself."

"Thank you," she said, and arose to go. "I shall want you to be

present to-night."

"I shall be glad to help you in any way I can."

"Thank you," she said again, and I opened the door for her and watched

her for a moment as she crossed the outer office. Then I closed the

door and went back to my desk.

The note was lying where I had dropped it, and I picked it up and

examined it again. Then I got out some samples of Magnus' writing and

compared them with the note, but so far as I could tell the hands were

the same. Besides, she had said she had seen her husband write it.

This gave me pause. How could she have seen him? How had he appeared

to her? Perhaps she had written it herself, in her sleep, under some

sort of self-hypnosis--but, in that case, would the handwriting have

been her husband's? Or did hypnosis involve that, too? I ended by

turning to the phone and calling for 3100 Spring. That, as you may

know, is for 300 Mulberry Street; and 300 Mulberry Street is the

drab building in which the police system of New York has its

headquarters--or did have until the other day.

"Is Jim Godfrey there?" I asked.

"I'll see; hold the line."

A moment later I heard Godfrey's voice ask: "Hello? What is it?"

"It's Lester, Godfrey," I said. "I wish you would run over to the

office and see me this morning."

"All right," he replied; "I'll be over right away."

I hung up the receiver with a sigh of relief. If anybody could see

through the puzzle, I knew that Godfrey could. I had met him first

in connection with the Holladay case, when he had deserted the force

temporarily to accept a place as star reporter on the yellowest of the

dailies; but he had resigned that position in a moment of pique, and

the department had promptly gobbled him up again.

Fifteen minutes later his card was brought in to me, and I had him

shown in at once.

"How are you, Lester?" he said, and I can't tell you what a tonic

there was in the grip of his hand. "What's wrong this morning?"

"You know Mrs. Magnus?" I asked.

"Widow of Peter? Yes; I've heard of her."

"Somebody's trying to do her out of fifty thousand dollars," I said,

and tossed the note across to him. "What do you make of that?"

"Tell me about it," he said, and studied it carefully, while I

repeated the story Mrs. Magnus had told me.

"And now what do you make of it?" I asked again.

"I think the answer's blackmail," he said quietly.

"But that note?"

"A fake."

"And the story?"

"Also a fake."

"You mean she didn't see him write it?"

"Look here, Lester," demanded Godfrey impatiently, "you don't mean to

say that you believe any such rot?"

"No," I answered; "I don't see how I can believe it--and yet, what did

she tell it for?"

"She had to tell something."

"That's just it," I objected; "she didn't."

"Well, then, she wanted to tell something to throw you off the track.

That was the best thing she could think of."

"Why should she want to throw me off the track?"

"There are some women who would rather have a ghost in the family

than a scandal. I don't suppose you know that Magnus had another wife

living over in Jersey?"

"Another wife?"

"Oh, of course not a wife really--your Mrs. Magnus has the prior

claim. But I fancy Number Two has asked to be provided for."

I sat silent for a moment, casting this over in my mind.

"It's just like a fool woman," I said at last, "to try to throw dust

in the eyes of the one man who might have helped her. Heaven help

a woman who won't tell the truth to her lawyer! I suppose there's

nothing to do but turn over the money?"

"Of course not. Mrs. Magnus can afford it, and if it will give her

peace of mind, why--"

"All right," I said. "And thank you, Godfrey, for telling me. I was

imagining that either Mrs. Magnus was crazy or that some one was

trying to bunco her. This is different. If she wants to lie to me,

why, let her."

"You'll take it up to her yourself?"

"Yes. I promised to have it at the house at eight o'clock to-night."

I fancied that Godfrey's eyes paused on mine for the merest instant as

though he was about to say something more, but he merely nodded and

said good-by and was off.

And I turned to the task of deciding which of Mrs. Magnus' securities

I should sell in order to get the best out of the market. But more

than once in the course of the afternoon a vague uneasiness seized me.

For, after all, Godfrey's explanation did not account for Mrs. Magnus'

strained and frightened manner. If the story she had told me was a

lie, she was certainly a consummate actress. I had never credited her

with any ability in that direction.

A consummate forger, too!

The thought stung me upright. Of course, if her story was a lie, she

herself had written the note. Had Godfrey thought of that? Or was it

Godfrey who was trying to throw dust in my eyes?

CHAPTER II

It was raining when I left my apartment at the Marathon that night--a

cold and disagreeable drizzle--and the thought occurred to me as I

turned up my coat collar and stepped into the cab I had summoned, that

it was a somewhat foolhardy thing to be driving about the streets of

New York with fifty thousand dollars in my hand bag. I glanced at the

lights of the Tenderloin police station, just across the street, and

thought for an instant of going over and asking for an escort. Then I

sank back into the seat with a little laugh at my own nervousness.

"One-twenty West Twenty-third," I said, as the cabman slammed the

apron shut.

He nodded, spoke to his horse, and we were off.

The asphalt was gleaming with the rain, and a thin fog was in the air,

which formed a nimbus around the street lamps and drew a veil before

the shop windows. Far away I heard the rattle of the elevated and the

never-ceasing hum of Sixth Avenue and Broadway, but, save for these

reminders of the city's life, the silence of the street was broken

only by the click-clack of our horse's hoofs.

We swung sharply around a corner, and then another. A moment later the

cab drew up at the curb, and the driver sprang from his box.

"Here we are, sir," he said, and as I stepped to the pavement, I saw

the old Magnus house frowning down upon me.

I had never before seen it at night, and for the first time I really

appreciated its gloomy situation. In its day it had been part of

a fashionable residential district, of which it was now the only

survival. It was of brownstone, with a flight of steps mounting

steeply to the door, and stood back from the street at the bottom of a

cañon formed by the towering walls of the adjacent office buildings.

Why any woman who could afford to live where she chose should choose

to live here was a riddle past my solving.

Musing over this, I mounted the steps and rang the bell.

"I am Mr. Lester," I said, to the maid who opened the door. "Mrs.

Magnus is expecting me."

She stood aside for me to enter, and as I passed I happened to glance

at her face. It was that of a woman no longer young, and yet scarcely

middle-aged; not a repulsive face; indeed, rather attractive in a

way, except for a certain hardness of expression which told of lost

illusions. And as she took my coat and hat, I noticed that the little

finger of her left hand was missing.

"This way, sir," she said, and motioned me into a room at the right.

"Mrs. Magnus will be down in a minute."

I heard her step recede along the hall, and then somewhere a clock

struck eight. As the sound died away the rustle of skirts came down

the stair, and Mrs. Magnus appeared in the doorway. Her panic of the

morning had passed, and she was perfectly self-controlled.

"Ah, Mr. Lester," she said, "you are prompt. You have the money?" she

added in a lower tone.

"Yes," I answered, and then stopped, for I fancied I heard a stealthy

footstep at the door.

"Let us go up to the study. We will be more comfortable there," and

she led the way out into the hall.

I was close at her heels, and looked quickly to right and left. But

there was no one in sight.

Mrs. Magnus went before me up the stair, turned toward the front of

the house in the hall above, and ushered me into a small room which

seemed to have been fitted up as an office. Its principal piece of

furniture was a massive, roll-top desk. The top was up at the moment,

and disclosed rows of pigeon-holes, some full of papers and some

empty. Below them were the usual small drawers. The desk was one of

the largest I have ever seen, and I wondered how it had been got into

the room. An office chair of the usual swing type stood in front of

it.

Something told me that this was _the_ desk. It stood in one corner of

the room; not closely in the corner, but at an angle to it, its back

touching the wall on either side and leaving a little triangle of

space behind it. The reason of this was evident enough, for, placed

in this way, the person sitting at the desk got the advantage of

the light from the window at his right, and also the heat from the

fireplace at his left.

The thought flashed through my mind that, before I placed the money on

the desk, I would take occasion to glance over into the space back of

it.

"Sit down, Mr. Lester," said Mrs. Magnus, and herself drew up a chair

to one side of the fireplace, where a wood fire crackled cheerily,

throwing out a warmth just strong enough to be grateful on this damp

evening. "The money is in that bag?"

"Yes," I said. "I have it in hundred-dollar bills--five packets of one

hundred each. I thought perhaps you--your husband would prefer it in

that form."

She nodded, and sat for a moment staring absently into the fire.

"This was Mr. Magnus' workroom, I suppose?" I said at last.

"Yes; when he was first really succeeding in business, he used always

to bring some work home with him in the evening. But he outgrew

that"--a shade of bitterness crept into her voice--"and during the

last ten years of his life he used the room hardly at all. But he is

using it again now," she added, in another tone. "Every night."

I stared across at her, wondering if she could be in earnest.

Certainly her countenance gave every impression of earnestness.

"He will be here to-night," she went on. "It is a little early yet. He

usually comes at eight-thirty."

"You mean he is here in the spirit," I said, trying to speak lightly.

"In the spirit, of course."

I breathed a sigh of relief. I fancied that I began to understand.

"Many people believe that their dead watch over them," I said.

"Oh, Mr. Magnus isn't watching over me," said my companion quickly.

"There is a certain thing he desires me to do. Once that is done, I

don't believe he will bother me any more. I left his note with you

this morning. Did you bring it with you?"

"Yes," I said, and got it out of my pocket and handed it to her.

"But really, Mrs. Magnus," I continued, "you don't mean to tell me

seriously that you saw him write this?"

"I certainly did. He wrote it under my eyes, sitting at that desk

three nights ago."

Again I looked at her to see if she was speaking seriously.

"I see you do not believe me," she added.

"Pardon me, Mrs. Magnus," I corrected; "of course I believe you--that

is, I believe that you believe. But I cannot but think you are being

imposed upon in some way."

A flush of anger crept into her cheeks.

"Do you think I am a woman easily imposed upon?" she asked. "Let me

tell you the story, Mr. Lester."

"That is what I have been hoping you would do," I said. "I am very

anxious to hear it."

"After my husband's death," she began, "I decided to use this room as

my office or workroom. I went through his desk and cleared it out.

There were no papers of importance there; but I found one thing

which gave me a shock. That was a letter, pushed back and I suppose

forgotten in one of the drawers, which proved to me that my husband

had been unfaithful."

I was not surprised, of course, after what Godfrey had told me, but I

managed to murmur some polite incredulity.

"Oh, it was true," she went on bitterly. "I knew he had grown away

from me, but I never suspected that--that he could be so vulgar!"

That, of course, was the way in which it would appeal to her--as

vulgar.

"It is that which is worrying him now," she added.

"You mean--"

"No matter. He shall have the money to-night, and that will be ended.

Let me go on with my story. As I said, I began to use this room. I

kept my papers in the desk yonder, and worked there regularly every

day. But one morning, when I came in, I noticed something unusual--an

odor of tobacco. You know Mr. Magnus was a great smoker."

"Yes," I said.

"You may have noticed that he always smoked a heavy black cigar which

he had made for him especially in Cuba. It had a quite distinctive

odor."

"Yes," I said again. I had noticed more than once the sweet, heavy

aroma of Magnus' cigars.

"I recognized the odor at once," went on Mrs. Magnus. "It was from one

of his cigars. When I opened the desk, I found a little heap of ashes

on his ash tray, which I had been using to keep pins in, and the

remnant of the cigar he had been smoking."

"He?" I repeated. "But why should you think--"

"Wait," she interrupted, "till you hear the rest. I cleaned off the

tray and went through my day's work as usual. The next morning I found

the same thing--and something more. Some one had been trying to write

on the pad of paper on the desk."

"_Trying to write_?" I echoed.

"Yes, trying--as though some force were holding him back."

She went over to the desk, unlocked a little drawer, and took out

several sheets of paper.

"Here is what I found that morning," she said, and handed me a sheet

from an ordinary writing pad.

I saw scrawled across it an indecipherable jumble of words. She had

expressed it exactly--it seemed as though some one had been trying to

write with a weight clogging his hand. And there was something about

this scrap of paper--something convincing and authentic--which struck

heavily at my skepticism. Here was what a lawyer would call evidence.

"It kept on from day to day," continued Mrs. Magnus, sitting down

again. "Every morning the little heap of ashes and fragment of cigar,

and a scrawl like that--until finally, one morning, I understood what

was happening in this room, for three words were legible."

She handed me another sheet of paper. At the top were the words, "My

dear wife," and under them again an indecipherable scrawl.

"Did you tell any one of all this?" I asked.

"Not a word to any one. But I decided to investigate."

"How?"

"By staying in this room at night."

I could guess from her tone what the resolution had cost her.

"And you did?"

"Yes. I came up right after dinner, leaving word that I was not to be

disturbed. I went first to the desk to assure myself that the tray was

empty and that there was no writing on the top sheet of paper. Then I

switched off the light and sat down here by the fire and waited."

"That was brave," I said. "What happened?"

"For an hour, nothing. Then I was suddenly conscious of an odor of

tobacco, as though some one smoking a cigar had entered the room, and

an instant later I heard that chair before the desk creak as though

it had been swung around. I switched on the light at once. The chair

_had_ turned. It had been facing away from the desk, and it was now

faced toward it."

She stopped a moment, and I saw that her excitement of the morning was

returning. Indeed, my own heart was beating with a quickened rhythm

as I glanced around at the desk. I saw that the chair was facing away

from it.

"The odor of tobacco grew stronger," went on Mrs. Magnus, "and, even

as I watched, a little mass of ashes fell into the tray."

"From nowhere?"

"Apparently from nowhere, but of course it was from the cigar that he

was smoking."

"Did you see the smoke?"

"No; how could I?"

Really, I didn't know. I wished that I had given more study to the

details of spirit manifestation. I didn't remember that I had ever

heard of a ghost smoking a cigar, but doubtless such cases existed.

The point was this: Why, if the ashes from the ghost's cigar became

visible when knocked off, shouldn't the smoke become visible when

expired? Or did the fact that it had been inside an invisible object

render it permanently invisible? I fancied this was what Mrs. Magnus

had meant by her question. Perhaps she had studied the subject. At any

rate, it was too deep for me.

"A moment later," she went on, "another mass of ashes fell; then

perhaps five minutes passed, and I saw the remnant of the cigar placed

on the tray. I confess that my nerves gave way at that point, and I

fled from the room."

"Locking the door after you?"

"No; but I came back and locked it ten or fifteen minutes later."

"Did you enter the room?"

"Yes; I had left the light burning and entered to turn it off. I found

on the desk another note beginning, 'My dear wife.'"

"And then what?"

"I was here the next night and the next. There was something about it

that fascinated me, and I saw that there was no reason for fear. In

the end it came to seem almost natural--almost as if he were here in

the flesh."

"And always the same things happened?"

"Yes, or nearly so, the writing growing more legible all the time."

"And then?"

"Then, three nights ago, I grew brave enough to go and stand by the

desk, and look over his shoulder, as it were, while he wrote the note

which I showed you this morning."

"You mean that he actually did write it while you were looking over

his shoulder?"

"I mean that the words formed themselves on the sheet of paper under

my eyes, precisely as they flowed off his pen."

"And there wasn't any pen?"

"There wasn't anything. Only the ashes and the odor of tobacco."

I glanced across at Mrs. Magnus sharply. Could it be possible that she

was inventing all of this incredible tale?

"No," she said, answering my thought; "it happened precisely as I tell

it. I am hoping that you will see for yourself before long. It is

almost time for him to come."

I felt the hair crawling up my scalp as I glanced around again at the

desk. Like everybody else, I had always professed a lively interest in

ghosts and a desire to meet one; but now that it seemed about to be

gratified, the desire weakened perceptibly.

"I didn't at first intend to give him the money," she went on. "I

didn't see why I should. He was dead. It was mine. He had never, in

his life, given me fifty thousand dollars. But when, the next night,

the money wasn't there, he expackets over to Mrs. Magnus.

"In writing?"

She nodded and held another sheet of paper out to me. On it, in Peter

Magnus' hand, was written:

MY DEAR WIFE: Do not delay. I must right a great wrong before either

of us can rest in peace.

"And from this you judge that he wants the money to--to--"

"Yes," she said, not waiting for me to finish. "Even then I hesitated.

I did not see that I had any concern in his misdeeds. But last

night--"

She stopped, and I saw sweep across her face the sudden, pallor I had

noted in the morning.

"Yes," I encouraged, "last night--"

She was clutching the chair arms convulsively, trying to force her

trembling lips to form the words. What horrible thing was it had

happened last night? What--

And at that instant I was conscious of the odor of tobacco in the air,

and distinctly heard the low grating of the office chair as it swung

around.

CHAPTER III

I suppose the student of the supernatural always has to fight against

the excitement of the unknown--an excitement which clouds the judgment

and confuses reason. Certainly, as I turned my head and sprang to my

feet, I was very far from being a cool and collected observer; yet,

indisputably, the chair _had_ turned. Indeed, I snapped my head around

in time to see the last of its movement toward the desk. And at the

same instant my nostrils caught more strongly the sweet and heavy odor

of Peter Magnus' cigar. For a moment all was still. Then Mrs. Magnus

rose and beckoned me forward.

"Come," she said, and with an effort I compelled my feet to follow

her.

It was a battle between instinct and reason. Instinct was trying to

hurl me out of the room and out of the house. Reason was telling

me--in a very faint voice, it is true--that there was nothing to be

afraid of. I have always been proud of the fact that I _did_ approach

the desk, instead of making for the door.

And I was even brave enough to glance behind it. One glance was

sufficient. The triangular space between the walls and the back of

the desk was empty. I don't know why that should have afforded me any

relief, but it did.

Then, before my eyes, not three feet away from them, a little gob of

ashes dropped from the empty air into the tray.

I am free to confess that that sight swept away any remnant of doubt I

may have had in the reality of the unreal--if I may use such a term.

Peter Magnus was sitting in that chair. There could be, to my mind, no

question of it.

But if any doubt had existed, it would have been ended by what

followed.

For my eye was caught by the pad of paper on the desk, and, even as I

watched it, I saw unfold upon it, one after another, these words:

MY DEAR WIFE: Place the money on this desk and leave me. I shall be at

rest. Good-by.

I wish I could describe to you the sensation which shook me as I

witnessed this miracle. For there the words were, and I had seen them

flow smoothly from an invisible pen--from Peter Magnus' pen, for the

writing was his.

"I have the money," I said, and I caught up my bag from the floor,

unlocked it, and took out the five sealed packets. "There are one

hundred hundred-dollar bills in each," I explained, almost as if he

could hear me--indeed, I was quite sure at the moment that he did hear

me; and I passed the packets over to Mrs. Magnus.

Without a word she placed them on the desk, then turned to me.

"Come," she said. "That is all. Good-by, Peter," she added, and there

was a little sob in her voice. "God bless you."

Was it my fancy, or did something like a sigh come from that unseen

presence in the chair? It was in a sort of maze that I followed Mrs.

Magnus from the room. She switched off the light and then closed the

door.

"Thank God that is over," she said.

I suddenly realized that my face was dripping with perspiration, and I

mopped it feverishly with my handkerchief.

"I would never have believed," I began stammeringly; "I never

thought--why, it's a miracle--it's--"

"Yes, a miracle," repeated Mrs. Magnus. "Though there have been many

instances of the dead returning."

"Have there?" I asked. "Well, of course, I have heard of them, but I

never thought them worthy of belief. But now--"

We had reached the foot of the stairs, and I got my coat down from the

rack and struggled into it. I found that I had mechanically picked up

my bag as I left the room overhead.

"I want to thank you, Mr. Lester," said Mrs. Magnus, facing me, "for

coming here to-night. You have been of the greatest help to me."

"Certainly," I agreed. "Very happy--a great privilege."

I felt that I was talking nonsense, but what, in Heaven's name, is a

man to say who has just been through an experience like that? But Mrs.

Magnus seemed to understand.

"Thank you," she said, and gave me her hand. Then she opened the

street door, and a moment later I found myself groping my way down the

steps. Once down, I paused for a deep breath; then I started up the

street. But I had scarcely taken a dozen steps when a hand fell upon

my arm and drew me into the shadow of a doorway.

CHAPTER IV

For an instant, with the thought of spirits still upon me, I tried to

shake away the hand; then, as I started around at my assailant, I saw

that it was Godfrey.

"Well, Lester," he said, "did you leave the fifty thousand?"

I nodded; I was even yet scarcely capable of connected speech.

Godfrey looked at me curiously.

"You look like you'd seen a ghost," he said.

"I have."

He laughed amusedly.

"Peter Magnus?"

I nodded.

"How is the old boy?"

"Look here, Godfrey," I said, "this isn't a thing to speak of in that

tone. There's something sacred about it."

His face sobered as he looked at me. It grew serious enough to suit

even my mood.

"So you were imposed on, too," he said at last.

I didn't like the words, nor the tone in which they were uttered.

"No, I wasn't imposed on," I said tartly. "I must be getting along,

Godfrey. I haven't anything to tell you."

"Not just yet," he said. "Come over here across the street, Lester,

where I can have an eye on the Magnus house. Don't you see--if I was

wrong this morning, then you were right."

"Right?"

"If she told you the truth, some one is trying to do her out of fifty

thousand dollars."

"She's given it to her husband," I said. "She thinks he's going to use

it as you said."

"Given it to her husband?"

"Well, placed it on the desk in front of him."

"Did you _see_ him?"

"I saw him write a note," I said doggedly. "You can't see a spirit,

you know--its impalpable."

By this time we were deep in the shadow of another doorway across

the street, and Godfrey leaned back against a pillar and mused for a

moment.

"Of course," he said at last, "I don't want you to do anything

unprofessional, Lester, but I really think you'd better tell me. You

didn't hesitate to call me in this morning."

"I thought then that somebody was trying to bunco Mrs. Magnus."

"And I think so now," said Godfrey. "Surely you know you can trust

me."

I demurred a while longer, but finally told him the whole story. When

I had ended, he gave a little low whistle of amazement.

"Well," he said, "that's what I call clever. There's a certain

artistic touch about it--only one man--"

He fell silent again, absently gnawing his under lip.

"How long are you going to stay here?" I demanded at last.

"Not long," he answered. "Only until that light goes out over yonder."

He nodded toward one of the upper windows of the Magnus house. Even as

I looked at it, the light disappeared.

"Now," he said, "we'd better be moving up a little closer, Lester.

Around this way, so we can't be seen from the door."

"You mean you think somebody is coming out of that house?"

"Certainly. The ghost's coming out. You didn't expect him to stay

there all night, did you? That would be a little--well--indelicate,

don't you think?"

"But how--"

"How am I going to see him? Well, I think I'll see him all right.

Besides, the money would be visible, wouldn't it? Or does it become

invisible when the ghost puts it in his pocket?"

"The cigar was invisible," I said weakly, "and the pen."

Really, out here with Godfrey, it _did_ seem pretty ridiculous.

I was going to say something more--perhaps to try to excuse myself for

my credulity--but Godfrey silenced me with a gesture. We had crept

along in the shadow of the adjoining building until we were beside the

entrance to the Magnus house.

"Maybe he'll go out the back way," I breathed.

"There isn't any back way. All built up. It's this way, or none."

The thought occurred to me that a brick wall would make no difference

to a spirit, but I felt that I was lapsing into a state of imbecility,

and stood silent, shivering a little. For it had started to drizzle

again.

Then from the direction of the house came the sound of a door softly

closing, and I saw a shadow flit down the steps. It certainly looked

like a ghost; but I heard Godfrey chuckle softly; then, with a bound,

he was upon the figure and had it by the throat. I caught the sound

of a sharp struggle, but it was over before I could collect myself

sufficiently to go to Godfrey's assistance.

When I did get there I found him grimly surveying a small and wizened

creature, whose arm he had linked to his own by means of a handcuff.

"Lester," he said, "allow me to introduce you to the ghost of Peter

Magnus--otherwise Mr. Jemmy Blum, the Tom Thumb of con men. Jemmy," he

added, "aren't you ashamed to be playing such tricks on my friend, Mr.

Lester?"

The small creature's eyes twinkled maliciously as he glanced up at me.

"Ho," he said contemptuously, "'twasn't no trick to fool _him_. But I

didn't know he was _your_ friend. If I had, I'd 'a' let him alone."

CHAPTER V

I deserved the taunt, of course, but I winced a little at Godfrey's

chuckle.

"You'd fool the devil himself, Jemmy," said his captor. "And now I'll

thank you to pass over to me those five little packets which my friend

here left on that desk up yonder."

Without a word Jemmy unbuttoned his coat and produced the five

packets. I could not but admire the coolness with which he accepted

defeat.

"Take 'em, Lester," said Godfrey, "and put 'em back in your bag. We'll

leave 'em over at the Tenderloin station, where we'll lodge this

gentleman for the night. No use to disturb Mrs. Magnus till morning,"

he added, with a glance at the gloomy house. "Then we'll have Jemmy

give us a special performance of his impersonation of the ghost of

Peter Magnus."

The prisoner laughed.

"Glad to," he said. "I think you'll find it A one."

"No doubt," assented Godfrey. "As soon as Lester told me the story I

knew you were the only man who could have worked it. And then there

was the desk."

"Of course," agreed the prisoner. "You'd see that."

This was all Greek to me, but I knew the explanation would come in

time. Meanwhile I carefully stowed away the five precious packets in

my bag.

"Why can't we go over to my rooms at the Marathon and hear the story?"

I suggested. "It's right across the street from the station."

"All right," said Godfrey, and led the way down the street, with Jemmy

keeping step with him as well as his short legs would permit. Five

minutes later we were in my rooms, and I switched on the lights and

got out the cigars.

"If you'll see that the doors are locked, Lester, I'll open this

handcuff temporarily," said Godfrey. "But first," and he ran his hands

over his prisoner's person. "Ah, I thought so," he said, and produced

a small revolver of exquisite workmanship. "You always were a

connoisseur, Jemmy," he added, examining the weapon, and then slipping

it into his own pocket. "All right. Now you sit down over there and be

good."

"Oh, I'll be good," said Jemmy. "I guess I know when I'm crimped.

Thanks," he added, accepting the smoke I offered him.

When the cigars were drawing nicely we were ready to hear the story.

Not until then did I fully realize what a little fellow Jemmy was.

Now I saw that he was almost a dwarf, little if any over four feet in

height, and very slightly built. His face, shrunken and wrinkled, had

that look of prenatural wisdom which dwarfs sometimes have, and his

little black eyes were incredibly bright. He was evidently something

of a dandy, for his clothes were immaculate. I admired again the

aplomb with which he accepted the situation.

"Well," he began, "to make a long story short, I started on this

lay just after old Magnus' death, when a friend of mine in the

fortune-tellin' line told me Mrs. Magnus was a spiritualist."

"A spiritualist?" I queried, in surprise.

"Oh, yes; had been for years. That give me my clue, so I--ah--got into

the house."

"How?" demanded Godfrey.

"That's telling."

"Bribed a servant, of course," said Godfrey. "We'll look them over in

the morning. Go on."

"I got inside the house, looked over the ground, an' decided on my

line of operation. I wanted something neat an' effective, an' I worked

on it a good while before I had it goin' just right. There were so

many little details. It took a lot of practice--these things do--an'

then I had to remodel the inside of the desk--shorten up the drawers,

an' make room for myself behind them. Luckily I'm little, an' the desk

was one of the biggest I ever saw."

"So you were in the desk?" I asked.

"Sure," he chuckled. "Where else? Lookin' at you out of one of the

pigeon-holes, an' wonderin' if I'd better risk it."

"And you decided you would?"

"Yes," said Jemmy slyly; "I saw you were scart to death, an' I was

afraid if I didn't demonstrate for the old lady, I wouldn't get the

money."

"How did you know she had it?"

"I heard you tell her you'd brought it, down in the parlor."

"Oh," I said; "then it was your step I heard in the hall?"

"I guess so, if you heard one. I just had time to get upstairs an'

make my plant before you came in. The rest was easy."

"But the ashes?" I said.

"Flicked out through a pigeonhole. That's what took practice, to make

'em fall just right. Also the cigar."

"And the odor of tobacco?"

He got a little vial out of his pocket, uncorked it, and again I

caught the sweet and heavy odor of Peter Magnus' cigar.

"An' here's a fine point I'm proud of," said Jemmy. "I had this made

from half a dozen of Magnus' cigars I found in a box in his room. So

the smell was just right. I thought for a while of showin' some smoke,

but didn't dare risk it."

"But the note," I said. "That was the cleverest of all."

Jemmy chuckled and glanced at Godfrey.

"You'll understand that, Jim," he said. "You remember I worked it

backward in that National City Bank case."

Godfrey nodded.

"I remember the signature disappeared from old Murgatroyd's check."

"Backward or forward, it don't make no difference. It all depends on

the acid."

"What acid?"

"Ah," chuckled Jemmy, "you'd like to know, wouldn't you? You never

will. But it all depends on it. If I put the acid in before the salt,

the writin' disappears at the end of two hours; if I put the salt in

before the acid, the writin' don't appear for the same length of time.

It took me five years to work it out."

"But the writing didn't all appear at once," I objected.

"Of course not," said Jemmy impatiently. "It wasn't all wrote at once,

was it? It appeared just like it was wrote."

"How could you time it?"

"Why," answered Jemmy still more impatiently, "I began operations

at the same time every night, didn't I? I timed the writin' for

eight-forty-five."

"But the chair?" I persisted.

Jemmy shot a disgusted glance at Godfrey.

"Any faker on Sixth Avenue can do that," he said. "A hook on a thread.

Anything else?"

"Yes," I said, "one thing. What horror did you perpetrate last night?"

Jemmy grinned mechanically as he looked at me, and I even fancied he

reddened a little.

"Did she tell you about that?" he asked.

"She tried to, but couldn't. What was it?"

"Well, you know," said Jemmy apologetically, "I had to bring matters

to a head some way, for the old girl certainly did hate to shell out.

I was sorry to have to scare her, but I couldn't help it."

"But what did you do?"

Jemmy blew a ring, and watched it fade away in front of him.

"I don't think I'll tell," he said at last.

Godfrey had been listening with an amused smile.

"We'll get that detail from Mrs. Magnus," he said. "Accept my

compliments, Jemmy. It was cleverly done. I'm almost sorry you didn't

get away with it."

"Oh," answered Jemmy, with studied indifference, "that's all in the

day's work, you know. But thank you all the same, Jim."

He was flicking the ashes from the end of his cigar as he spoke, and I

saw that he didn't meet Godfrey's eyes.

The latter looked at him an instant; then, with a low exclamation,

sprang to his feet, and snapped open the bag in which I had stowed the

packets Jemmy had given me. He ripped one of them open, and disclosed,

not ten thousand dollars in currency, but a neat bundle of blank

paper!

Jemmy was looking at him now, and his face was alight with triumph.

"How did you know I was there?" Godfrey demanded.

"I didn't," grinned Jemmy. "But I wasn't takin' any chances."

"Who was your pal?"

"That's tellin'," answered Jemmy easily.

"Did you see any of the servants, Lester?"

"Only one," I said. "I didn't notice anything about her, except that

she was rather good-looking, and--oh, yes--the little finger of her

left hand was missing."

Godfrey grabbed the telephone, and I heard him call headquarters, and

give terse orders to send a detail at once to the Magnus house, to

watch all ferries and trains, and to search all the thieves' haunts

in the city for Kate Travis--"Lady" Kate. Headquarters seemed to know

perfectly whom he meant.

"You won't get her," said Jemmy calmly, as Godfrey hung up the

receiver. "She got away as soon as we turned the corner. She's got a

good half hour's start."

"Come along," said Godfrey roughly, and snapped the handcuffs on

again. I could see that he was deeply chagrined. "Good night, Lester.

I've made a botch of this thing. I've got to catch that woman."

But he hasn't caught her yet, and I suppose, when Jemmy finishes his

term, he will find his share of that fifty thousand dollars waiting

for him.

I hope so, anyway.

THE EPISODE OF THE BLACK CASQUETTE

BY JOSEPH ERNEST

Yes, I have encountered him at last, the veritable birdman! Almost I

had commenced to believe that such an individual did not in effect

exist--with the exception, _bien entendu_, of myself. For, as I told

them when they offered me a _vin d'honneur_ on the occasion of my

decoration with the Cross of the Legion, the recognition was long

overdue. Indeed, I assured them, the only circumstance that prevented

me from flying at the age of three was the fact that messieurs the

inventors had not then produced an aeroplane.

But now I have encountered, as I say, another such instinctive aviator

to whom flight appears to be as natural as walking. And thou seest

by my bandages, my poor friend, what it is that has in consequence

arrived to me!

Unhappy meeting! It is with pain and difficulty still that I lift an

arm. I can no more, since my accident, illustrate my remarks

with appropriate gesture. Forgive, therefore, _mon ami_, a story

inadequately picturesque, vivid, _mouvant._ And yet--we have brought

each other fortune, this young Monsieur Power and I. Fix a little the

pillows up, and you shall hear.

A man-eagle, I assure you! A veritable condor of the Andes hatched

in human shape, who has, nevertheless, discovered his gift only to

renounce it at once and forever.

Our first meeting was curiously disturbing. He appeared suddenly at a

door of my ateliers on the flying ground at Mineola, very tall, very

_soigné_, smiling in the way he had that showed all his strong,

square teeth as he recognized me in conversation, with my faithful

mechanician, Georges. This latter, grown portly and nervous since

marrying a Montmartre shopkeeper, I have since promoted to be my chief

designer.

"Pardon the intrusion," said the stranger. "I perceive you are about

to murder the stout gentleman. I will wait your convenience."

"Quite on the contrary, monsieur," I explained, bowing. "We discuss

merely the theory of the explosion turbine. If monsieur will give

himself the trouble to enter--"

"That is my card," he replied, advancing. "I want a strong, swift

biplane, and a mechanic to attend to it."

I glanced from the card to this extraordinary young man with interest.

For the name itself, John Hamlin Power, told me of a career in Wall

Street--brief, but conspicuous in its daring and success; a career in

which this immaculate, smiling young cotillion leader had made the

very monarchs of finance fear the élan of his attack, the relentless

quality of his grip.

"I have taken a fancy," he went on, "to possess the identical machine

with which you accomplished your recent Mount McKinley record. It is

perhaps for sale?"

"Perfectly, if monsieur wishes," I responded, with another bow. "But

it is a machine of unusual speed and power. Monsieur can already fly,

no doubt?"

"I do not anticipate any difficulty. As a matter of fact, I have not

yet attempted it. It is for that purpose that I have come to buy a

machine. It would be a favor if you would arrange to deliver it to me

in Westchester to-morrow. The mechanic will, of course, arrive at the

same time, as I shall wish to commence practice at once."

He turned aside to inspect a motor that lay dismounted on a wooden

stand, as if there were nothing further to discuss. Indeed, though

his speech was rapid and incisive, and his every movement full of an

_allure_ that spoke of splendidly poised muscles, he was in face and

manner alike the most singularly immobile man I had ever met. He gave

the impression of employing neither words nor actions except in case

of clear necessity.

I exchanged glances with Georges, who had turned up his eyes, spread

his arms, and allowed them to fall again limply to his sides. I

coughed. Monsieur Power drew himself up from his inspection of the

motor and smiled again expectantly.

"But the question of tuition?" I stammered. "Monsieur has no doubt

arranged for the services of an instructor?"

There was the slightest twinkle in that steadfast gaze of his. He had

the bravest, and yet the tenderest, eyes in the world.

"I'm afraid I have not sufficient time for the regular course,"

he said. "I am a rather busy man, as you possibly know. I have

consequently taken lessons in advance, by mail. May I expect the

machine to-morrow as arranged?"

I murmured something to the effect that he had perhaps underestimated

the difficulties of aviation.

"Are they not exaggerated?" he inquired. "You taught my friend, Miss

Hamilton Warren, to fly, did you not?"

"Mademoiselle, it is true, flies here almost daily," I admitted.

"Just so! It does not seem to me that there can be anything very

difficult in what a girl can do. However, if you will be so good as to

deliver the biplane we will see."

Under that clear, steady gaze of his I was powerless to protest.

Behind him I could see the good Georges struggling palpably for

breath, and waving his hands to the rafters. I contented myself with

a profound bow; whereupon, with the same quick, alert movement with

which he had appeared, this strange young man departed. Georges and I

fell gasping upon each others' necks, and stared together after his

tall, receding figure.

"Without doubt he is mad, this Monsieur Power," I said at last. "You

remember that he has just made two millions in a bear raid. Doubtless

it has turned his brain. Name of a name! He pretends to have taken

flying lessons from an institute of correspondence, and I have

promised him a biplane of one hundred horse power! Georges, _mon ami_,

you must yourself accompany it and give him counsel lest he break his

neck!"

Not satisfied with this precaution, I myself flew the biplane over

to Westchester on the morrow, and explained the controls to Monsieur

Power in an extended passenger flight. He was, it appeared, an amateur

of the balloon, and accustomed to great heights. When I handed the

machine over to him, with the engine throttled down so that he might

try rolling practice on the ground, he waited until he was out of our

reach, whipped the motor into its full power, heaved himself into the

air, and flew back the whole length of his grounds--alighting gently

as a falling leaf.

"It seems pretty simple," he said, as he swung himself out of the

nacelle. "I do not think I need detain you, Monsieur Lacroix, if your

assistant Georges will be good enough to consider himself my guest,

and keep the motor running."

It was in vain that I besought him to have patience. He replied only

that his time was limited, and that he had given the subject careful

study in theory.

And with that assurance I had to depart, little content. First,

however, I warned him of one or two pitfalls--as, for instance,

that he must never stop his engine in an emergency, as one does

instinctively in an auto, because the greater the danger the more need

he would have of motive power to get him out of it. Also, I told him

not to fly above trees or water, where the currents would suck him

downward, but to steer over the darkest patches of land, where the

heat of the sun is absorbed, and the air in consequence rises.

In what state of emotion I was maintained by the letters of Georges

during the ensuing fortnight, I will make you judge.

"_A moi_!" he writes to me in the first week. "I am in the clutch of a

madman! Each morning I am awakened at six, that I may plunge with him

in the lake of cold water attached to the mansion, he having first

made _la boxe_ noisily with a fist ball on the floor directly above.

To-day in his machine he has described figures of eight in the space

of his grounds even, banking the planes at an inclination _affreuse_!"

Again he writes: "I am now to accompany him on a cross-country raid.

Farewell to my wife and little one. I will die like a Montmartrois for

the honor of France!"

Finally an appeal--urgent, pitiful, telegraphic:

"Take me away, _je t'en prie!_ This maniac wishes now to discuss the

possibility of a somersault in the air. I can no more--Georges."

Thereupon I replaced him with another mechanic, and he returned,

appearing worn and noticeably thinner.

"It seems to me, _tout de même_," I remarked, "that this young

monsieur knows very well what he is about. We have not been asked to

repair a single stick of his machine."

"True," replied Georges. "But that is not his ambition, to break wood.

It was his neck that he wished to break, and incidentally my own.

Wait, my friend, until you have seen him fly. I, who speak to you,

have faced death daily these weeks past, and my clothes hang loose

upon me!"

And I was fated to see this monsieur, also, before very long, on the

occasion of his dramatic appearance upon the grounds of my flying

school. I must explain that Mineola had become a social institution,

for already I taught the younger members of the rich sportsman set

the new diversion that science had placed within their reach. Crowds

assembled each fine day to witness the first flutterings or the

finished flights of their friends.

On this occasion the lawn before the hangars was bright with flowers

and gay with the costumes of pretty women, in deference to whom I had

even permitted what the society reporters began to call "aviation

teas," placing little tables about the grass, where the chatter was

not too much interrupted by the vicious rattle and the driving smoke

of motors under test. I did this the more readily as it prevented

the uninstructed from wandering into the path of the machines, which

buzzed about the grounds like crippled beetles trying to rise into the

air.

The grounds, particularly in expectation of a flight by Miss Warren,

bore very much in consequence the appearance of a garden party, and

I looked with pride upon a scene such as only the historic flying

schools of my dear France had hitherto witnessed.

It was with a start that I recognized, while gazing upon this throng

of flower-like women and gallant young men, the figure so tall, so

commanding of the aged Monsieur Warren himself. I knew that he did

not belong to this plutocratic young sporting set, of which he even

disapproved. Moreover, the old financier had never before condescended

to recognize the prowess of his daughter as an aviator. Indeed, I

understood that the least reference to it had been forbidden in his

presence. I hastened forward to welcome him, with joy in this new and

powerful convert to the science of flight, and together we watched

the preparation of Miss Warren's great French biplane, her beautiful

_Cygne_, which she had insisted upon bringing with her from Paris.

Ah, _mon vieux_, I cannot describe to you the emotion that seized me

as she advanced from the hangars, this beautiful girl, to mount her

great white bird! The Comte de Châlons, who had followed her from

Europe, and rarely left her side, hurried after her with her leather

flying gauntlets--for while it was warm on the ground, there came from

aloft reports of a chilling wind. I saw the tall, bent old man, her

father, gaze with eyes moist with pride and affection on that superb

figure of young womanhood as she swung gracefully out toward the

gallant machine that awaited her in the sunlight, chatting gayly with

her companion as she walked. She wore a thick-knitted jersey of brown

silk, a simple brown skirt, and leather gaiters, and a brown leather

automobile cap covered her shining, dark hair. Like a slim, brown

statue she stood at last on the step of her biplane in the breeze, and

I saw the Comte de Châlons bend over her hand as he assisted her into

the nacelle.

Well, he had reason, that one! She is a better flier than I can ever

make out of him.

A run of fifty yards, and she was aloft with the practiced leap of the

expert pilot. The next minute she was breasting the breeze far above

our heads, the rear edges of the huge planes quivering transparent

against the sky, her motor roaring impetuously. As she passed, I had a

single glimpse of her face--bathed in full sunlight, radiant, joyous!

I looked then with curiosity upon the aged Monsieur Warren. The great

financier leaned upon his cane, and I saw that the hand that held it

was blue and trembling. As he gazed skyward, his breath came deeply as

in a sob.

"Ah, monsieur," I thought, with a surge of pride, "it is I, Lacroix,

who have enabled you to enjoy a parallel triumph. She is your daughter

whom they applaud, truly--but she is also my pupil!"

Figure to yourself my surprise, therefore, when he turned to me

suddenly in appeal, and, with a hand that trembled on my arm, besought

me to take him away.

"I cannot stand it, my dear Lacroix--it isn't safe!" he said, in a low

voice.

He repeated these words several times, his lip quivering like that

of a child who suffers, as I led him into the drawing office of the

ateliers. There he seated himself, bent and gray, upon the edge of an

armchair.

"It's no use, I can't stand it," he said again. "I assure you that I

could see the thing shaking, as it passed overhead, in every stick

and wire of it. It can't be safe! And there she is, five hundred feet

high, with her life hanging on a thread."

"I assure you also, monsieur," I protested, "that I have this very

morning examined every nut and bolt, every brace and valve and stay in

the entire _appareil_. Never have I permitted your daughter to ascend

without such an inspection. I would stake my life upon the perfect

integrity of the machine."

He smiled, a little querulously.

"You are accustomed to stake your life, Monsieur Lacroix. As for me, I

am an old man. The old are obstinate and selfish. I abhor the entire

proceeding."

Plaudits came from the gay crowd outside as mademoiselle's machine

again roared above the hangars. The old man shook his massive head.

"Of course, you don't see it as I do," he went on. "If you had

considered risks, you would have accomplished nothing. It is natural

that you should think only of the glory and conquest of flight. But I

think of the little girl I held on my knee the night her mother died,

and I can neither stay away in peace when Ella flies, nor can I bear

to watch her."

"But you are powerful, Monsieur Warren," I said, "a commander of the

captains of finance. If you said even that a country should not

make war, its cannon would rust in the parks, and its soldiers play

leapfrog in the casernes. Surely you can bend the will of a young girl

who is also your daughter?"

The old man's smile became grim.

"I may be all that you say," he sighed. "But, nevertheless, if you

chose to wring my neck at this moment, I could do little to prevent

you. Neither dare I stand between an American girl and the desire of

her heart."

I looked with sympathy upon this gaunt, mighty, old warrior of Wall

Street, bent under the shadow of apprehension and anxiety, and I

knew why he had at last visited Mineola. And as I looked, I, too, my

friend, saw clearly for the first time the reverse of the bright medal

of aerial conquest. I saw the graves of lost comrades, I saw the homes

in mourning, I saw mothers who wept for their bravest boys. Truly the

price was heavy, and I knew in my heart that it had not been paid in

full.

"Monsieur knows," I said, "that I was once a poor mechanician. What I

am now, flight has made me, and I have worked for the glory of flight.

But now I perceive that in encouraging mademoiselle your daughter to

fly, I have perhaps done wrong. I promise you that in future I will do

my best to dissuade her."

He rose, and pressed my hand in gratitude.

"I am wealthy," he said. "I am rich beyond dreams. I can buy anything

for my little girl that she desires--except a single moment's safety

up in the air, or a single moment's true happiness on the earth. And

in pursuit of this flying craze of hers, she may easily miss both."

He frowned suddenly as we emerged into the sunlight and saw the Comte

de Châlons hasten to assist mademoiselle to dismount. Above the

hangars the red storm cone had been hoisted, prohibiting further

flight by pupils. Already the treetops were swaying ominously.

"After all, there are some things that can happen to a girl," said

Monsieur Warren bitterly, "that may well be worse than breaking her

neck in an aeroplane."

He departed in search of his automobile without another word. But I

thought I knew what he meant.

It was at this moment that I first saw him fly, this marvelous birdman

of a Hamlin Power. Away in the direction of New York, so high that

he seemed to hang motionless just under the driving clouds, the

spectators had caught sight of his huge biplane, and had delayed their

departure to watch his approach. It was Georges, dancing on the grass

beside me, who first proclaimed his identity.

"It is he, the crazy pupil!" he cried. "I have seen through my glass

the little silk flag he attached to the nacelle. Now you are going to

marvel that I still live!"

In a few moments the sound of his motor fell faintly on our ears as a

whisper from the clouds. Then--_chut_!--it stopped, and in a single

leap he dived a sheer thousand feet.

That in itself was amazing temerity for one who had flown just long

enough to justify him in piloting an aero bus in a dead calm. But

I was little prepared for what followed. Instead of continuing his

flight horizontally at the end of that headlong dive, this tyro pulled

up his elevator, sweeping through a sharp curve into an upward leap

with all the dizzy impetus gained in his descent.

The crowd gasped. At my side Georges danced with anxiety upon the

turf.

"You are right," I said. "He is certainly crazy, this young Monsieur

Power."

"He calls it the _montagnes russes_, this trick," said Georges. "I

have told him that everybody who ever did it is long dead, with the

single exception of yourself, but that to him is entirely equal. See,

he has dived again only just in time!"

And, in truth, another moment of upward flight would infallibly have

caused him to lose headway, and fall backward, to flatten himself upon

the ground. But he had with superb coolness entered upon a second dive

of the most impressive, continuing his species of switchback descent

until within a few hundred feet of the hangars. I saw his head

protruding from the nacelle, incased in a flying helmet of perfectly

black leather. At that height the _remous_ and gusts hit him at

unexpected angles, and his machine rose and fell and rocked, as if

upon the waves of an invisible ocean. It was buffeted about until I

knew that he could not be on his seat half the time. First one wing

tip and then the other was blown upward, threatening irrevocable side

slip, but always at the last moment his instinct--for it could have

been nothing else--saved him in masterly fashion.

At one moment, indeed, as he banked high to turn down wind, it seemed

that he was lost, and a woman in front of me turned away with a little

cry of horror, her hands before her eyes.

But no! Blown like a leaf straight toward us, he wheeled again into

the teeth of the wind at the same astonishing angle, finally landing

neatly in front of the hangars. It was with an exclamation of relief

that I saw him leap from his machine safe and sound.

With a number of mechanicians, I ran to greet him, and he held out a

gloved hand, smiling in boyish delight and complete unconcern, and

showing all his square, white teeth. I burst at once into protests.

"Bunk!" he exclaimed, with an irreverent laugh. "You fellows make a

voodoo mystery of flight because it pays you. There's nothing very

difficult about it, after all. One has only to keep cool."

I was going to reply with I know not what appeal to his reason, when

the clear, contralto voice of Miss Warren came suddenly from behind

me. She hastened to meet him, holding out both her hands.

"Jack, this is good of you!" she cried. "It's just your generous

way--you couldn't possibly have forgiven me more gracefully. To

think that you, of all people, should be the mysterious airman of

Westchester who has set every one talking and wondering! Why, it was

the pleasantest surprise in life to see you get down from that machine

after such a wonderful flight. And my father has been here to-day,

also. Two such converts in one afternoon is a coincidence that seems

too good to be true."

The young Monsieur Power was regarding her, I noticed, with a sort of

curious reserve.

"Maybe there's something in that," he said. "You mustn't get the idea

that I've altered my ground in the least, Ella."

"But you are flying yourself, now!"

"Certainly, but that doesn't mean that I approve of it as an amusement

for you."

"When did you begin?"

"Last month, when I bought the machine. Since then I've been

practicing around home."

The girl started from him in amazement.

"Last month! Why, don't you know you might have killed yourself,

cutting capers on a day like this?"

"Precisely what I have allowed myself to point out to monsieur," I

interposed. "He attempted feats full of danger even for the expert."

"Well, I guess that's all right," he responded shortly. "A man's life

wasn't given to him to nurse. Besides, flying is a great relief after

a week in the city."

I turned aside, then, to superintend the disposal of the aeroplanes in

their sheds, as it had become evident that a gale was in prospect. It

was some minutes later that I received a sudden intimation from Miss

Warren that she desired my presence outside her hangar.

"Mademoiselle wishes you to denounce the young American monsieur,"

added on his own account the mechanic who brought the message.

I found her confronting Monsieur Power, who was leaning in an attitude

characteristically immobile against the landing carriage of his

machine. The Comte de Châlons stood on one side, pulling at his

mustache and staring from one to the other. Monsieur Power chewed a

grass stem and smiled in a fashion a little _narquois_.

"Why not give in, Ella, and admit you have been in the wrong? You know

you'll have to come to it, sooner or later."

He spoke quite pleasantly, but the girl's magnificent dark eyes were

blazing with suppressed anger.

Give in! A thing unheard! She had never suffered compulsion in a young

lifetime of following her own sweet way, this dollar princess. As

they gazed upon each other, I could see a titanic battle of wills in

progress beneath the outward calm of the discussion.

"You would not be so foolhardy, Jack," she said, controlling her voice

with an effort. "You know, or at least if you don't know, Monsieur

Lacroix and everybody else does, that you couldn't live two minutes in

this wind."

"Monsieur Power, you are annoying mademoiselle in a grave degree,"

broke in the count, suddenly glaring. "My friends will lose no time in

waiting on you."

The American swung round with one of those rapid, definite movements

so habitual with him.

"Don't trouble your friends," he replied. "We can do without them.

Come up and fly with me right away. We'll toss a quarter to decide who

steers."

"It would be madness!" exclaimed the count, and his jaw dropped.

"Then kindly mind your own business," said Monsieur Power, chewing

again on his grass stem, and talking through his teeth. "Now, Ella,

time's up! Am I to go?"

The girl bit her lip, and seemed to struggle vainly for a reply, but

the look in her eyes would have withered any man less accustomed to

strife than this iron-jawed young soldier of fortune from Wall Street.

In my turn, anger seized me as I saw her hesitate.

"You will pardon a further interruption, monsieur," I cried. "I can

permit no such madness on my flying ground, and no such discourtesy to

my pupils."

I beckoned the head mechanician.

"You will at once remove to a hangar the biplane of Monsieur Power," I

told him, "and disconnect the ignition. Should he attempt to enter the

nacelle again, you will cause him to evacuate it in march time and

three movements!"

"And the first dago that tries it will get hurt," added Monsieur Power

pleasantly.

"It's cowardly, Jack!" she cried hotly. "It's unworthy of you, a

childish bluff like this!"

He must have been planning all the time how he would spring into his

seat and start the motor, for when I looked round he was already

there, and the great tractor screw was spinning as the exhaust

spluttered viciously, making it impossible to reach him except from

behind. With all my legs I ran round to the tail, calling upon the

mechanicians to aid me.

Too late! The exhaust ripped out as he whipped his motor into her full

horse power, and he leaped into the teeth of the wind with a swerve

that almost tore off his lower plane against the ground.

"Imbecile!" I roared, but he no longer heard me. To save myself from

a violent collision with his tail planes I was compelled to cling

desperately to the frail wood and wire girder of the fuselage, and

it was in this position that I was carried the length of the flying

ground. The gale tore at my hair and distended my cheeks, the turf

slipped away beneath me as smooth as green water in the speed of his

mad attempt to force the machine into the air.

Slowly and with extreme care I edged my way inch by inch along the

fuselage toward the main planes and the pilot's seat. Casting back a

glance I saw the hangars, a mere white bar across the plain. A few

spectators who had pursued us in a desultory, ineffectual manner stood

now at long intervals in our wake, and gesticulated spasmodically.

The next moment we ran into a hollow, and they were lost to view

behind the grassy slope.

It was then that the young American looked behind him for the first

time, and realized that he had a passenger. Promptly he throttled down

his engine into a slow splutter, and turned in his seat as the machine

came to a standstill.

"I suppose you've had an uncomfortable minute or two," he grinned.

"But it really wasn't your affair. I am perfectly entitled to fly

whenever I feel like it."

Pleading that the roar of the motor had deafened me, I climbed up onto

the passenger seat.

"It is beyond doubt, monsieur, that you are sane," I said. "But it is

equally certain that you propose the act of a madman. Fortunately I

have accompanied you, and it is impossible to rise from the ground

with my weight on the tail, and my grip upon the elevator wires."

"Meaning that you refuse to let me ascend?"

"Most categorically!"

"But why?" he demanded. "Do you want Miss Warren to think that I was

only bluffing, after all? I promised to show her something startling,

and I'm going ahead with it."

"To begin with, it would be suicide," I rejoined. "In addition, you

would be inflicting gratuitous distress upon mademoiselle."

At this he rose from his seat with the first sign of emotion I had

seen in his manner.

"And what is it that she has inflicted for months on me?" he demanded

hotly. "And on her father, too, and on all her friends? We can't pick

up a newspaper any day, without going cold with fear that we will read

of her maimed or dead in some accident. After all, it's only her own

medicine."

He took off the black leather helmet, placed it on the seat, and wiped

the motor grease from his brow. When he spoke again, it was in the

even tones of a man who issues an ultimatum against an intolerable

situation.

"There has been altogether too much of this flying business. It's no

game for a girl. There is getting to be too much of this count thing.

We don't want his sort around here. I've known Ella Warren since she

was as big as a glass of milk! Do you think I am going to stand down

for the first scented dago--forgive me if I speak disrespectfully of

your countryman--whom she chooses to bring across the Atlantic at her

heels? No, sir! It has to be stopped somewhere."

He halted a moment, and regarded me carefully. I could see that he was

measuring with his eye the distance between us.

"I'm going to scare her stiff," he said, nodding. "Get down off this

plane, Monsieur Lacroix!"

"Pardon me," I replied, with a low bow. "But that is for you to do."

And before he could seize me, with one blow of the foot planted

suddenly in his chest I shot the young Monsieur Power squarely off his

biplane onto the grass. Even as he measured his long length on the

ground, I had seized the controls, and the aeroplane spurted fifty

yards ahead of him. Ever since he had removed the black casquette, a

wild idea, of a dramatic quality irresistible, had formed itself in my

brain. I now seized the helmet and thrust it down upon my own head.

"It shall be finished as you wish," I cried. "But it is I, Lacroix,

who am best qualified for the task!"

For I had seen, during that wild flight over the ground as I clung to

the frail framework of the tail, a figure that I loved--a figure in

brown, tall and graceful before the white hangars, a figure that

clasped its hands in terror. And some instinct told me that the life

of this Monsieur Power was necessary to the happiness of my beloved

mademoiselle. I knew also that I alone without undue risk might break

down the barrier of iron pride that had arisen between these two

autocratic young people.

_Qu'est-ce que tu veux que je te dise?_ I might have paid more heavily

for the mad intoxication of that last flight. In a month or two I

shall be again aloft.

I have often maintained that sooner or later a moment of emotion, of

sheer joy in the struggle and risk, will cause the soberest pilot to

throw discretion to the winds. It was so in this case.

_Parbleu!_ I leap, I dive, I twist in figures of eight, I fight my

way by inches against the wind, and, turning, I shoot back upon its

current with the speed of a projectile. I am shaken and buffeted until

I gasp for breath. I swerve, I dance, I caracole--I pirouette on a

wing tip, catching my side slips on the rudder as one plays cup and

ball. I dangle myself at the end of a single wire on the brink of

eternity, crying defiance to the winds! _C'était de la folie_--the

madness of battle. Far below me I could see an occasional spectator

running like a rabbit, grotesquely waving his arms.

"Oh, yes, he is doubtless clever, this Power," I cry in my pride. "But

he is, after all, nothing but a buzzard. It is I, Lacroix, who am

alone veritable king of the air!"

_Coquin de sort!_ I do not know exactly when the wire controlling the

right _aileron_ parted. I became aware merely that that side of the

machine canted downward and refused to rise again in response to the

lever. Like a flash, I thrust forward the elevator, hoping to reach

the earth by a glide. But I arrived by a quicker maneuver--a whirling

gust, a _tourbillon_ of the most terrific, hurled the biplane sidelong

to destruction.

The man who has been accustomed to face death meets it at last with a

gentle sneer on his lip, as one who is vanquished by an enemy whom he

knows to be in reality his inferior.

"So here he is at last, then, this Death," I said to myself. "Well,

let us see what he will do!"

And in that instant the graceful biplane crashed into splinters, and I

lay pinned in the wreckage beneath a shroud of torn white canvas. In

the black casquette, later, they discovered a hole two inches wide,

torn by the jagged edge of a broken stay.

I found them at my bedside when I awoke some days later, my

Mademoiselle Warren and Monsieur Power. They leaned together, arm in

arm, upon the rail at the foot, and the lovely face of my dear pupil

was radiant with sympathy and happiness.

"Ha! What is it that it is, then?" I demand.

"Mr. Power won," said Miss Warren.

The young broker smiled with all his teeth.

"But he was unfairly abetted by a certain Monsieur Lacroix," went on

Miss Warren. "That was a terrible practical joke you played on me with

the black casquette, you know. They carried us away in the same auto,

and they tell me that I looked as lifeless as you."

"And now I have lost my pupil!" I exclaimed ruefully.

"Dear Monsieur Lacroix, I had no choice," she responded, and moved to

the bedside and held my hand. "I cannot oppose the wishes of all the

people I love. Besides, it is a fair bargain. We have promised each

other, Mr. Power and I, never to fly again."

"It is in one way a pity," I murmured. "For monsieur is without

doubt a species of born birdman. But any one would make a parallel

renunciation to stand in his shoes."

"You are dangerously romantic, Monsieur Jules," said mademoiselle. "If

it were not your supreme virtue, it would be your principal fault."

"Too true, mademoiselle," I replied. "But it cannot be denied that I

am at the same time a very pretty flier."

It was not until some time after they had departed that I found upon

the table among my medicines two envelopes. One, small and dainty, was

a formal announcement of the fiançailles of Miss Warren and the

young Monsieur Power. The other, long and of an official shape,

contained--ah, what do you guess?

It was a draft of the incorporation of a company to control my flying

schools, and realize my dream of the all-steel monoplane of stability

positively automatic. At the head I read the names of Messieurs Warren

and Power as guarantors. There remain only blank spaces requiring my

signature.

_Bien alors_! In a few days more I shall be able to hold a pen!

CHEAP

BY MARJORIE L.C. PICKTHALL

Ransome said that you might pick up specimens of all the unprettiest

afflictions of body and soul in Herares ten years ago. He also said

that when he saw any particularly miserable bit of human wreckage,

white or brown, adrift on the languid tides of life about the jetty,

he always said without further inquiry, "It's Henkel's house you're

looking for. Turn to the left, and keep on turning to the left. And if

God knew what went on under these trees. He'd have mercy on you."

The house was the last house on the last road of the town. You don't

find it now, for no one would live in it after Henkel; and in a season

or two the forest had swamped it as the sea swamps a child's boat on

the beach. It was a white house in a garden, and after rain the scent

of vanilla and stephanotis rose round it like a fog. The fever rose

round it like a fog, too, and that's why Henkel got it so cheap.

No fever touched him. He lived there alone with a lot of

servants--Indians. And they were all wrecks, Ransome said, broken down

from accident or disease--wrecks that no one else would employ. He got

them very cheap. When they died he got more.

Henkel was a large, soft, yellowish man. Ransome said, "I don't mind

a man being large and yellowish, or even soft in reason; but when

he shines, too, I draw the line." Henkel had thick hands with bent

fingers, and large, brown eyes. He was a Hollander, and in that place

he stood apart. For he didn't drink, or gamble, or fight, or even buy

rubber. He was just a large, peaceful person who bought things cheap.

He was very clever. He always knew the precise moment, the outmost

low-water mark, of a bargain. His house was full of things he'd bought

cheap from wrecked companies or dying men, from the mahogany logs in

the patio to the coils of telegraph wire in the loft. His clothes

never fitted him, for they belonged to men whom the fever had met on

the way up the Mazzaron, and who had therefore no further use for

clothes. The only things for which Henkel ever paid a fair price were

butterflies.

"I went to his house once," said Ransome--"had to. A lame Indian in

a suit of gaudy red-and-white stripes opened the door. I knew that

striped canvas. It was the awnings of the old _Lily Grant_, and I saw

along the seams the smoke-marks of the fire that had burnt her innards

out.... Then the Indian opened the jalousies with a hand like a bundle

of brown twigs, and the light shone through green leaves on the walls

of the room. From ceiling to floor they flashed as if they were

jeweled, only there are no jewels with just that soft bloom of color.

They were the cases full of Henkel's butterflies.

"The Indian limped out and Henkel came in. He was limping, too. I

looked at his feet and I saw that they were in a pair of some one

else's tan shoes. That and a whiff from the servants' quarters made

me feel a bit sick. I wanted to say what I had to say and get out as

quick as I could. But Henkel would show me his butterflies. Most of us

in that place were a little mad on some point. I was, myself. Henkel

was mad on the subject of his butterflies. He told me the troubles

he'd had getting them from Indians and negroes, and how his men

cheated him. He took it very much to heart, and snuffled as he spoke.

'And there's one I haven't got,' he said, 'one I've heard of but can't

find, and my lazy hounds of _hombres_ can't find it either, it seems.

It's one of the clearwings--transparent. Here's a transparent silver

one. But this new one is gold, transparent gold, and the spots are

opaque gold.' His mouth fairly watered. 'I tell you, I will spend

anything, pay anything, to get that gold butterfly. And if the natives

can't or won't find it for me, my friend, I'll send for some one who

can and will.'

"I quite believed him, though I was no friend of his. I didn't know

much about butterflies, but I guessed that in Paris or London his

collection would be beyond price. But I wasn't prepared, two months

later, for Scott and his friend.

"Derek Scott. Ever meet him? A very ordinary kind of young Northerner.

He was remarkable only in having everything a little in excess of his

type--a little squarer in jaw and shoulder, a little longer in nose

and leg, a little keener of eye and slower of tongue. I'd never have

looked at him twice, as he landed from the dirty steamer with a lot of

tin boxes, if it hadn't been that he was hale and sound, with hope in

his eyes. Health and hope, at Herares!

"Then little Daurillac ran up the gangway, laughing. I looked at

him--every one did--and wondered. And then, to cap the wonder, the two

came up to me with their friendly, confident young faces, and asked

for Henkel's house.

"'Turn to the left,' I said. And then I added, 'You'll excuse me, but

what does Henkel want of you?'

"Scott didn't answer at first, but looked me over with his considering

eyes, and I remembered a collarless shirt and a four days' beard.

But Daurillac said, 'He wants butterflies of us, Monsieur. I am an

entomologist, and my friend he assists me.' He drew up very straight,

but his eyes were laughing at himself. Then we exchanged names and

shook hands, and I watched them going along the path to Henkel's.

"Next day Scott came down to the jetty. He sat on a stump and stared

at everything. He was ready enough to talk, in his guarded way. Yes,

he was new to the tropics; in some ways they were not what he had

expected, but he was not disappointed. He was here for the novelty,

the experience. But his friend, Louis Daurillac, had been in the

Indies, and with some of Meyer's men in Burma after orchids. Louis's

father was a great naturalist, and Louis was very clever. Yes, Henkel

had got hold of him through Meyer. He wanted some one to find this

butterfly for him--this golden butterfly at the headwaters of the

Mazzaron--some one whose name was yet in the making, some one he could

get cheap.... So Louis had come. He was very keen on it. Henkel was to

bear all costs, to supply food, ammunition, trade-goods, etc., and pay

them according to the number of the new specimens that they found. 'So

you see,' said Scott, with his clean smile, 'Louis and I can't lose by

it.'

"We talked a bit more, and then young Scott said to me, suddenly:

'Henkel has everything ready, and we start in the morning. You seem to

be the only white man about here. Come and see us off, will you?' I

said yes; afterward it struck me as curious that he should not have

counted Henkel as a white man. He laughed and apologized for the touch

of sentiment. 'It's like plunging head first into a very deep sea,'

he explained, 'and one likes to have some one on the shore. You'll be

here when we come back?' And I said yes, I'd be either unloading on

the jetty or in the new cemetery by the canal. But he didn't smile.

His light Northern eyes were gravely considering this land where life

was held on a short lease, and he looked at me as if he were sorry for

me.

"I saw them off the next day. There were six or eight men of Henkel's,

loaded with food and trade-goods, and I saw that two of them were

sickening where they stood. I looked in Daurillac's brilliant young

face, and I hadn't the courage to say anything but, 'Have you plenty

of quinine?' He tapped a big tin case, and I nodded. 'And what are you

taking for the Indies?' I asked.

"He fairly bubbled over with laughter. 'You would never guess,

Monsieur, but we take clocks, little American clocks. The Indies of

the Mazzaron desire nothing but little clocks; they like the tick.'

"Their men had turned down one of the jungle paths. They shook hands

with me, and Scott met my eyes with his grave smile. 'Just drawing

breath for the plunge,' he said, with a glance at the forest beyond

the last white roof. Daurillac slipped his arm through Scott's, and

drew him after their slow-going _hombres_. At the bend of the path

they turned and waved to me--Scott with a quick lift of the hand. But

little Daurillac swept off his hat and stood half turned for a minute;

the sun splashed on his dark head, on his Frenchified belt and

puttees, on his white breeches, and on an outrageous pink shirt Henkel

seemed to have supplied him with. He looked suddenly brilliant and

unsubstantial, a light figure poised on the edge of the dark.... One

gets curious notions in Herares. The next moment they were gone. The

jungle had shut down on them, swallowed them up. They were instantly

lost in it as a bubble is lost in the sea.

"Two days before I hadn't known of their existence. But I was there to

see them off, and I was there when Scott came back.

"It was well on into the rainy season, and I was down with fever. I

was in my house, in my hammock, and the wind was swinging it. It was

probably the hammock that did all the swinging, but I thought it was

the house, and I had one foot on the floor to try and steady it. But

it was no use. The walls lifted and sank all in one rush, like the

sides of a ship at sea. Outside I could see a pink roof, a white roof,

a tin roof, and then the forest, with the opening of a path like the

black mouth of a tunnel. I wanted to watch this tunnel, because I had

an idea I'd seen something crawl along it a good while before. But

I couldn't manage it; I had to shut my eyes. And then I felt the

scratching on my boot.

"I caught hold of the sides of the hammock, but it was some time

before I could manage to pull myself up. Then I looked down.

"A man was lying on the floor, face down, just as he had crawled into

my hut and fallen. The yellowish fingers of one hand clawed on my

boot, and that was the only sign that he was alive. He lay quite

still, except for the slow working of his fingers; and I sat still,

also, staring down at him with the infinite leisure that follows a

temperature of one hundred and five. It was only by slow degrees

that I realized that this was Derek Scott come back, and that he was

probably dying.

"I got to my feet and bent over him, but I wasn't strong enough to

raise him, of course. I was afraid he'd die before any one came. So I

took my revolver and aimed as well as I could at that tin roof beneath

which my man Pedro was eating his dinner. The barrel went up and down

with the walls of the hut, but I must have hit the roof, for the next

thing there was a lot of smoke and noise, and Pedro's face, eyes, and

mouth open, rushing out of it. There seemed no interval before I found

myself sitting in the hammock and saying over and over again, 'But

where's the little chap? Where's the little French chap?'

"Scott was still on the floor, but his head was on my man's shoulder,

and Pedro was gently feeding him with sips of brandy and condensed

milk. He turned and looked at me, and his eyes were clear and

considering as ever, though his answer didn't sound quite sane. He

said, 'The clocks wouldn't tick.'

"He said it as if it explained everything. Then he unstrapped a tin

case from his belt, laid his head on it, and was instantly asleep.

"I cried out, 'Is it the fever, Pedro?' But my man said: 'No, Señor,

it is the hunger.' He rolled Scott up very cleverly in a blanket.

'This señor has had the fever, but it is not upon him now. Without

doubt he is a little mad from being in the forest so long. But when

he wakes he will be stronger.' So much I heard, and no more.

Unconsciousness came down on me like a wave. But into the dark heart

of that wave I carried the certainty that Pedro knew all about the

matter and that he hated Henkel. How or why I was certain of this I

don't know. But I was.

"I woke in the cool of the evening. The fresh wind off the river was

like the breath of life, and Pedro's face, thrust close to mine, no

longer grew large and small by fits. I noticed that it was quite gray,

and that his lips twitched as he muttered, 'Señor, Señor--'

"I said: 'Where is the Señor Scott?'

"'He woke a little while ago, and called for water to wash in, and a

clean coat, and he used the hair-brush. Then he took the little tin

box and went out--went out.'

"I got to my feet, threw an arm over Pedro's shoulder, and he ran with

me out into the moonlit street. The track to the fountain lay like a

ribbon of silver, and the houses were like silver blocks. And every

house was shuttered and silent--breathless. Not a man lounged under

the shade of the walls, not a girl went late to draw water, not a dog

barked. The little place was deserted in the hold of the forest. It

lay like a lonely, luminous raft, in the midst of a black sea. Only

ahead of me a man stumbled slowly in the center of the road, and his

shadow staggered beside him. I have said there was no other living

thing visible. Yet, as this man stumbled past the shuttered houses

the very blades of grass, the very leaves on the wall, seemed to have

conscious life and to be aware of him. When the wind moved the trees,

every branch seemed to be straining to follow him as Pedro and I

followed.

"We followed, but we could not gain on him. It was like the dreams of

delirium. Pedro and I seemed to be struggling through the silence of

Herares as if it were something heavy and resistant, and Scott reeled

from side to side, but always kept the same distance ahead. We were

still behind when we turned into Henkel's garden, and the scent of the

flowers beat in our faces like heat. At the veranda steps we met the

servant who had admitted Scott.

"The man was running away. He was a cripple, and he came down the

steps doubled up, bundled past us, and was gone. Somewhere a door

clashed open. There was no other sound. But in a moment the garden

seemed, full of stampeding servants, all maimed, or ill, or aged. They

melted silently into the bushes as rats melt into brushwood, and they

took no notice of us. I heard Pedro catch his breath quickly. But when

a light flared up in one of the rooms it showed no more than Scott

talking with Henkel.

"They showed like moving pictures in a frame, and the frame was of

dark leaves about the window, which was open. I leaned against the

side of it, and Pedro squatted at my feet, his head thrust forward as

if he were at a cockfight. I did not know just why I was there. Henkel

sat at a table, wagging his head backward and forward; Scott was

sitting opposite him. And he looked as Lazarus might have looked when

first he heard the Voice and stirred.

"Henkel was saying, 'Dear me, dear me, but why should this have

happened?' And Scott answered as he had answered me, in that strange,

patient voice:

"'The clocks wouldn't tick.'

"'But they were good clocks,' cried Henkel.

"Scott shook his head. 'No, they were not good clocks,' he explained,

gently; 'they were too cheap. They would not go at all in the jungle.

An Indian of the Mazzaron does not care what time his clock tells, but

he likes it to tick. These were no good. And the food was not good.

The things in tins were bad when we opened them.'

"'Mismanagement, mismanagement,' said Henkel, but Scott went on as if

he had not heard:

"'We followed the river for two days, and then turned east. In a week

after that two of your men were dead. They died of fever. No, the

quinine was no good; there was a lot of flour in it. Two days more,

and another man died, but he would have died anyhow. It was very hard

to see them die and be able to do nothing.

"'The men who were left went so slowly that nearly all our food was

gone when we reached the country of the Indies. We made our camp and

I shot a pig. That gave us strength, but Louis was very bad then with

the fever.

"'The Indies came down, and we spoke with their head men. They thought

we were mad, but the clocks pleased them; and they sat round our tents

and shook them to make them tick louder until Louis cried out in his

fever that all the world was a great clock that ticked. They gave us

leave to hunt in their country for butterflies, and the head men told

off six to help us. One was very clever. He used to wear his net

on his head, with the stick hanging down behind, and he snared the

butterflies with a loop of grass as if they were birds.

"'Our tents were of cheap cotton stuff that would not keep the rain

out, and the wet came in on Louis and made him worse. But he was

young, and I saw to it that he had food, and your men loved him. I do

not think he would have died if the clocks had ticked properly.'

"'I do not understand,' said Henkel, blinking his heavy brown eyes.

"'No? They were so cheap that they broke at the first winding. The

Indies brought them back and asked for better ones. I had no better

ones.'

"'Still I do not understand,' said Henkel, smoothly, and blinked in

the lamplight.

"Scott's tired voice went on. 'The Indios were very angry. They

brought us no more butterflies, and no more food. And presently, as

we went about the camp, or the paths of the forest, the little arrows

began to fall in front of us and behind us, though we never saw those

who shot at us.'

"'The little arrows?' asked Henkel, heavily. 'I do not understand. Go

on.'

"'There is very little to tell. Only a nightmare of hunger, of wet,

of fever, of silence, and the little poisoned arrows quivering

everywhere. And one day a little dart flickered through a rent in the

cotton tenting and struck Louis. He died in five minutes. Then I and

the men who were left broke through and came down the Mazzaron. The

Indies followed us, and I am the only one left. It is a pity the

clocks wouldn't tick, Mister Henkel.'

"'Ya, ya,' said Henkel, leaning over the table, 'but the butterfly?

The golden butterfly? You have found it?'

"Scott opened the tin case slowly and clumsily, drew out the perfect

insect, and laid it on the table. But it is wrong to speak of that

wide-winged loveliness of glittering and transparent gold as an

'insect.' Henkel sat staring at it, one big yellowish hand curved on

either side of it, too happy to speak. His lips moved, and I fancied

he was saying to himself, 'Cheap, cheap.'

"'It is very good,' he said at last, cunningly, 'but I am sorry there

is only one. I do not know that it is worth very much. But now I will

pay you as I promised. There was no agreement that you should receive

the other young man's share, and there is only one insect. But I will

pay you.'

"Scott was fumbling in his belt. 'Yes,' he said, 'you will pay me,'

and he leaned forward with something in his hand. We saw Henkel's face

turn to yellow wax, and he tried to stand up, but he was too stout to

lift himself quickly. He had no time to turn before Scott shot him

through the heart.

"When I broke through the vines, Scott was moving the butterfly out of

the way. He looked up at me with his old, considering look, his old

clean smile. 'It was cheap at the price,' he said, touching one golden

wing with his finger."