It was striking two as I entered my bedroom. At half-past, I resembled

J. Stelfox Steele as closely as I wished. In order to make up the

difference in our heights, I was obliged to resort to a rather

inconvenient trick. I took off my bed-clothes and spread them doubled

on the floor of my sitting-room, at my own side of the table. These I

covered with mats, and set my chair over all. I sprang thus two inches,

in as many minutes, whether seated or erect, but I could not leave my

pedestal, without losing those same inches; wherefore the

inconvenience. I dislike tricks of that sort, but it is my rule never

to neglect any detail that I am aware of, and as my pedestal was hidden

by the table-cloth, and, moreover, I could not perceive any necessity

to walk about during the forthcoming interview, I had really very

little to grumble at. My last act was to don a huge brown beard, and a

pair of goggles. These made me look like an old hayseed farmer, but J.

Stelfox Steele was underneath the disguise waiting to disclose himself.

When it wanted ten minutes to the hour, I left my bedroom, the door of

which I locked, entered my sitting-room, and, mounting my pedestal, I

sat down to wait. I had previously arranged a screen before the outer

door, so that the servant who would show up Mr. Sims might not look in

and remark my latest transformation.

I mention these details, not because they were of any urgent moment,

but to evidence the amount of attention and forethought which I had

bestowed upon the business in hand. The fact is, in my experience, it

is always some absurdly finicking trifle, which, when neglected, brings

disaster to the greatest undertakings. I was once hissed off the stage

at Newcastle-on-Tyne, when attempting to impersonate Mr. Gladstone,

because, forsooth, although my disguise was elsewise perfect, I had not

remembered to change a pair of sharp-toed boots which I had worn a few

minutes earlier while imitating Mr. Greatorex, a dandified celebrity of

local fame. That failure had been a very bitter pill to swallow at the

time, but it was of more real use to me than all my triumphs put

together, and I never forgot the lesson that it inculcated.

Mr. Sims was only two minutes late. In answer to my brisk "come in, and

shut the door behind you!" he entered silently, but as he turned the

corner of the screen and caught sight of my bearded face, he uttered an

unpremeditated little nervous laugh. "Just such a laugh any man might

involuntarily utter, who had been wishing, but not expecting, the

improbable to happen!" thought I. His laugh, translated into words,

said this--"I never really believed you could be Stelfox Steele, Mr.

Agar Hume, in spite of what your wily secretary tried to hint!"

I stood up, and glared at him through my goggles.

"Mr. Sims?" I demanded.

He bowed, measuring me with a sweeping hawk-sharp glance.

"Shake!" I said, of a sudden, after a full minute's silence, and

briskly extended my hand.

He responded somewhat slowly and doubtfully to my invitation. But I

tore off my goggles, and looking him straight and keenly in the eyes,

seized his hand. I squeezed it with all my strength, then pointed to a

chair.

He obeyed with a wince, wringing his hand the while.

"Really, Mr. Hume," he began, with a deprecating frown, "I am at a

loss----"

"One second!" I interrupted, and deftly removed my beard.

He gave me one quick astonished look, then sprang to his feet, his eyes

alight, his face flushing with excitement.

"Is it possible?" he cried.

"You know me," I demanded.

"Why sir, of course!"

"But we have never met!" I cried, frowning blackly.

"No, sir, no," he responded, hastily. "But Mr. Stelfox Steele's face is

as familiar to the public as that of Mr. Chamberlain. I am glad to meet

you, sir."

I nodded and sat down. "Pray resume your seat, Mr. Sims." He obeyed.

I leaned across the table and beckoned with my hand. Next moment our

heads were almost touching.

"You are wondering," said I.

"Yes," he answered frankly.

"I am supposed to be on my way to New York," I went on, in very low

tones. "I am being impersonated on the steamer by one of my clerks, who

will keep his cabin all the way. Before he arrives at the other

side--all will be over. I have taken every precaution against failure.

I cannot, shall not fail, Mr. Sims, unless you fail me."

"Some big coup on exchange, I presume?" he muttered, "and a lone hand,

too--eh?"

"Exactly! But you are still wondering--speak!"

He bit his lips. "It--is the honour you have paid me--me!" he

stammered. "Messrs. Max and Humphreys are your brokers, I believe."

"And I have no fault to find with them," I answered quickly, "except

that Sampson May, Vanderwill, and most of my other associates also deal

with them. You understand?"

"Ah!" he cried, "I see! You'll be wanting me to bear stocks, eh, Mr.

Steele?"

I smiled in commendation of his shrewdness. "Well, Mr. Sims," I

muttered, "may I depend on you?"

"Most certainly. I am deeply----"

I waved my hand. "Money talks," I interrupted drily. "I require no

assurances. Serve me well, and I'll make your fortune. Fail me, and by

the God above us, I'll break you, Mr. Sims. Those are my terms."

"Agreed!" he cried, his eyes shining like stars. "Now, sir, your

instructions. What am I to bear?"

"Anglo-American Hotels," I murmured softly.

He started upright, and gazed at me like one confounded.

"Anglo-Americans," he gasped.

"Listen," said I. "To-morrow morning you will sell one hundred thousand

shares--cash-on-delivery--to be handed over on Saturday. The market is

at present steady at forty shillings. Your first operation will not

affect it one iota. In the afternoon you will sell another hundred

thousand--same terms. You'll get the same figure, for, although my

associates will be nervous, they are too deeply involved to dare let

the price fall, till they are sure, and they'll buy at evens, never

dreaming that they are bucking-up against a stone wall. Next morning

sell two hundred thousand. That will turn the balance. The price will

probably drop a bit. In the afternoon sell three hundred thousand.

You'll find by then the market in a panic, for my pals will have smelt

a big rat, and they'll no longer show fight. Indeed, I expect they will

follow my lead, and to save themselves, start selling too. However,

keep on selling a hundred thousand each half-day, till the absolute

slump. That will arrive on Friday morning at latest. I reckon the

shares should by then reach bottom, say from three to seven shillings.

You will then buy scrip against deliveries on your former sales and

report to me here at 11 a.m. on Saturday morning, with the transfers

for signature. By the way, Agar Hume is a good name, and will look fine

on the transfers. Stick to it! That is all I need say, I think, except

that I advise you to follow my lead as far as your means allow. The

transaction will enrich you. Your commission will, of course, be at the

ordinary rate."

Mr. Sims had fallen back in his chair. His eyes were as round as

marbles, and his mouth gaped ajar.

"You looked surprised!" I observed, with an indulgent smile.

He passed his hand nervously across his brow, and gave himself a little

shake.

"It's colossal--but immoral!" he gasped. "Colossally immoral! Your

associates----" he stopped short, lacking words.

"My associates are men of business," I said, coldly. "And they would be

the first to tell you that there is no morality involved in business

transactions. I propose to treat them as they would treat me, if they

were clever enough to perceive a way. But we waste time, sir. The

question is, are you the man to handle the affair?"

"Yes," he cried. "Indeed, yes."

I nodded and stood up. "Then adieu till Saturday. My secretary, Brown,

in the meanwhile, will wait upon you every afternoon. Good-day, Mr.

Sims!"

He bowed, and, stammering some form of farewell, took his departure. A

moment later I locked the door behind him, and, retiring into my inner

room, threw myself down upon the bed--to think. I had succeeded beyond

my dreams. The stockbroker had swallowed both bait and hook like the

greediest of gudgeons. He had not asked me one difficult question, and,

whether from diffidence or obsequiousness, he had neglected to demand

the slightest proof of my _bona fides_. Concerning the latter point,

however, I thought it possible that he might, after reflection, return

and try to repair his folly. I therefore postponed changing my disguise

for several hours, so that I might not be caught unawares. But Mr. Sims

did not venture to come back, and when night fell, I felt safe. I had

only ten pounds left in the world at that juncture, but I considered my

future so brilliantly assured, and I felt so satisfied with myself,

that, as Agar Hume, _in propria persona_, I treated myself to dinner at

the Trocadero, and afterwards to a music-hall.

I passed the next day reading a French novel, until three o'clock in

the afternoon, when I assumed the form of Brown, Mr. Stelfox Steele's

fictitious lackey. At a little after four o'clock I entered Mr. Sims'

office, and was immediately ushered into the stockbroker's private

sanctum.

Mr. Sims began to greet me with great effusiveness, but I cut him

short, and even refused to sit down.

"Excuse me," I said, quickly, "a certain gentleman is very anxiously

expecting my return to Lambert Road, and I simply dare not keep him

waiting an unnecessary second. Did you sell the shares, sir?"

"Yes--two hundred thousand!"

"And the figure, Mr. Sims?"

"Forty shillings, Mr. Brown; just as he predicted!"

"Is the market at all upset?"

"Excited rather, I should say. Mr. Sampson Y. May, the Manager of the

Trust, came to see me, and tried to pump me, but naturally, I kept a

close mouth."

"Good," said I, "my master will be pleased."

"Has he any further orders for me, Mr. Brown?"

"Only to carry on. Good-afternoon, sir! I must hurry back."

"Good-afternoon, Mr. Brown; pray give Mr.--er--Hume--my kind regards."

I nodded and withdrew, happy as a king. But until the same hour on the

following day I suffered the most poignant anxiety. It was relieved,

however, on the way to the stockbrokers' office. As I drove over the

bridge, the newsboys were crying at the top of their voices: "Great

fall in Anglo-American Hotels. Panic on the Stock Exchange!"

I bought a paper and, trembling with delight, was speedily convinced of

the truth of their assertions. The shares in the great trust, which

yesterday had stood firm at forty shillings, had already fallen to

twenty, and the market was in a state of collapse. The journal had

devoted its leading article to the affair and, voicing the popular

attitude, was mildly jubilant at so severe a check having been given to

American enterprise. I found Mr. Sims in a state of rapturous

excitement. As soon as I had entered the room, he locked the door, and,

seizing both my hands, he wrung them as warmly as though I had been his

dearest friend, new met after years of separation.

"To think that I almost drove you away from my door the other day!" he

cried in a whirl. "Mr. Brown, what don't I owe you. What don't I owe

you?"

"You owe me nothing," I replied. "Your gratitude is entirely due to Mr.

Agar Hume, sir; I was merely his messenger."

"Messenger or not," he retorted warmly, "you brought me a message which

has made my fortune, and when this business is over I shall insist upon

making you a handsome present, Mr. Brown."

I waved my hand and shrugged my shoulders. "My master does not allow me

to accept presents," I said, with dignity. "But that reminds me, I am

keeping him in suspense. How many shares did you sell to-day?"

"Five hundred thousand!"

"And the figure?"

"Forty shillings for the first hundred; thirty-five for the second;

thirty for the third, and twenty for the last two. The price dropped

like a rocket in the last half-hour, and now the whole exchange is full

of bears; there is scarcely a single buyer offering. I have no doubt

but that to-morrow there will be a further heavy fall."

"Hum!" said I. "Let me see, you have now in credit for my master one

million one hundred and twenty-five thousand pounds. That is to say, of

course, on settlement. Am I right?"

"Perfectly, Mr. Brown. And for that sum I have disposed of seven

hundred thousand shares. I hope that Mr.--er--ah--Hume--will be

satisfied."

"I am sure he will be." I put on my hat. "Keep on selling till they

reach five shillings, please, then buy scrip through another broker, or

more, as fast as possible, until we stand even. Those are my master's

latest orders, Mr. Sims."

"Very good, Mr. Brown. Anything else?"

"Not at present, sir. Good-evening!"

Next day "Anglo-American Hotels" fell as low as four shillings, and

continued at that price until the following afternoon, when they began

to rise, owing to the heavy purchases made on my account by the brokers

employed in that behalf by Mr. Sims. On this point I need only remark

that my agents, during that period, bought shares to replace the

fictitious ones which had been sold at my behest for a little over

L450,000.

On Saturday morning, promptly at the appointed hour, Mr. Sims came to

me, at the Golden Grove Hotel. As may be readily imagined, I received

him in the guise of Mr. Stelfox Steele, and I took every conceivable

care that he should still persist in his delusion. He brought with him

a large bundle of transfer forms, which it took me an hour to sign,

writing at the top of my speed, for not many of the shares were in

larger parcels than a thousand. I subscribed them all with my own

name--Agar Hume. Mr. Sims meanwhile watching my flying pen in

respectful silence. When I had finished, I pushed aside the papers

towards him, and heaved a deep sigh.

"Never mind details, Mr. Sims," I said, wearily, "Brown has bored me

with them through the week. He tells me that when your commission is

deducted I am to receive L650,000?"

"Yes, sir. A splendid week's work, Mr. Steele."

I shrugged my shoulders. "Not too bad, since I was pressed for time,

but a bagatelle, Mr. Sims, to the business we shall yet do together. By

the way, I leave London to-night, but Brown will stay behind me to

receive the money. When can you be ready to settle?"

"On Monday, at noon, if that will suit you, Mr. Steele?"

I nodded. "It will do. Make out an open bank-cheque and hand it to

Brown, who will give you a receipt signed by Agar Hume. You will

understand that I cannot discharge you in my own name?"

"Certainly, sir."

"Well, Sims, I hope that you have profited by my example and advice?"

He gave me a look of deep gratitude. "Thanks to you, sir," he cried. "I

am a rich man to-day, that is to say, from my point of view--not yours,

sir."

"How much have you made?"

"Seventy thousand, commission included. I cannot sufficiently express

my obligation to you, Mr. Steele. There are not many operators who will

allow their brokers to follow their lead. But you, sir, were more than

generous!"

I smiled. "I can afford such a pastime occasionally, Sims. Besides, I

liked your face. Ah! well. I shall not detain you now, for I am very

busy myself. Good-bye!"

He stood up, and we shook hands.

"We'll meet again, sir, I hope," he cried. "You were good enough to

hint a moment since----"

"Yes," I interrupted, "We'll meet again. But our acquaintanceship must

necessarily be preserved a secret from the world. Therefore be good

enough not to feel offended should we by any chance encounter in

public, and you receive no recognition at my hands. When I want you, my

secretary, Brown, will let you know. Until then, farewell!"

He bowed deeply, and respectfully retired.

As for me, I removed my disguise as quickly as I could, and changed my

clothes. I then paid my reckoning at the hotel, and set off for Bruton

Street, with exactly three pounds in my pocket. There I remained until

Monday afternoon, sunk in a veritable debauch of dreams. The time

passed on the wings of brilliant fancies, and not an hour appeared too

long, despite my natural anxiety to finger the money which my audacious

dexterity had won. My extraordinary success had, in fact, turned my

head a little, and had swelled my vanity to proportions so magnificent

that I fell into a stupor of self-reverence, and often even forgot to

eat. I awakened at length, however, to thoughts of revenge. Somewhere

hiding from me in the world was a certain great surgeon--named, Sir

Charles Venner--who had inflicted on my body inhuman tortures. He had

driven needles into my fingers, and he had seared my feet with

branding-irons. I had been obliged by poverty temporarily to relinquish

all idea of vengeance. But now I was rich! rich! I sprang to my feet

with a sudden cry of rage and exultation, savagely resolved to repay my

enemy with interest for every pang that I had suffered at his hands.

After that I dreamed no more.

My final interview with Mr. Sims was brief, but eminently satisfactory.

In exchange for a receipt which I had written out beforehand, he handed

to me, as he thought to Mr. Brown, an open cheque, drawn in favour of

Mr. Agar Hume on the Bank of England, for L650,000--which was marked

"good." He then shook me warmly by the hand and begged me to allow him

to make me a present. That, however, I refused, and half-an-hour later

I was again in my room at Bruton Street, stripping off for the last

time my disguise as "Brown," the Secretary.

I then repaired to my bank, and, much to the old manager's

astonishment, re-opened my account there with the cheque that

represented my princely and strangely-gotten fortune. The manager did

not ask me for a reference on that occasion. Indeed, he nearly fell

over himself in his anxiety to be polite, and he personally conducted

me when I departed to the outer door. Truly, money makes the man.

Two days afterwards, I set out for Paris on my way to Cairo, my pockets

full of foreign gold, and armed besides with letters of credit for

large amounts. My intention was to find, first of all, my false love,

Marion Le Mar, now Lady Dagmar. And through her, if possible, my

enemy--Sir Charles Venner.

X

THE HOUSE AMONG THE PINES

Clever rascals are of necessity friendless and incomparably lonely men.

Prudence prevents them from confiding their affairs to any other, even

their nearest and dearest; therefore they are obliged to lead

self-centred and segregated lives in the truest sense of the term, and

are absolutely prohibited from tasting that greatest of luxuries, human

sympathy. Since my last embarkation upon a career of villainy, I had so

far escaped the pangs of ennui, because my mind had been always

occupied with my ambition, and action had followed mercifully fast upon

design. The mere fact, however, of having succeeded in making myself a

rich man, robbed me of that precious concern for the future which had

hitherto been my refuge from reflection. It is true that considerations

of vengeance partially supplied its place, but as I had yet to find my

enemy before I could exchange purpose for practice, I began to realize

the utter isolation of my state. I arrived at Paris in a desolate and

listless mood, and so wearied with my own companionship that I was

ready to make friends with a dog.

For that reason, while sipping coffee after dinner in the saloon of the

Hotel de Louvre, where I had put up, I by no means disdained the

overtures of an old and weazened little Frenchman, who appeared to be

as lonely as myself.

He was a curious looking creature: grey, grizzled, and stooped of

shoulder. His face was seamed with a thousand wrinkles, that even

overspread his long melancholy nose. But his eyes, although small, were

very bright, and his mouth was that of a humourist.

He sidled up to me by degrees, evidently wishful to make my

acquaintance, and yet a little nervous of the first step. But I met him

half way with an observation on the weather, and presently we were

seated before the same table in close and animated conversation.

"Life is for the most part a dull and dreary affair, monsieur," said he.

"The remark of an intelligent and experienced man, monsieur," said I.

He bowed and smiled. "That is true, monsieur," he returned, "but your

discernment proves that you also possess the qualities which you have

mentioned."

"Yet in an inferior degree, for I take it that I am your junior, and

you have the air of a man who has improved his opportunities to the

utmost."

The compliment delighted him. "Monsieur," he cried, "I am fortunate to

have encountered you. I desire to know you better. Permit me! I call

myself--Bertrand Du Gazet. I am a native of Paris, but I have spent

half my life in America, where I acquired a certain fortune. I have but

just returned to France, to find my relatives and old friends dead and

widely scattered, and myself utterly forgotten. It is a sad

home-coming."

"Truly," I said politely. "My name, monsieur, is Henri Belloc, and,

strange to say, I too have long been a stranger to my country. This

very day I have come back to Paris after an absence of many years. And,

like you, I have none to welcome me."

"We are then comrades in misfortune," he declared, beaming upon me the

while. "I drink, monsieur, to our better acquaintance."

"And I," said I, raising my _petit verre_ to my lips. "I drink to its

speedy ripening into friendship."

He put one hand upon his heart and extended to me the other, which I

warmly pressed.

"I am a bachelor," he observed.

"I, too, monsieur."

"Of all the things in this world, I like the gaming table," said he.

"The dice are fine thought killers, monsieur."

"I loved once a beautiful woman, and she betrayed me."

"It is a habit of the accursed sex, from which I also have suffered."

"Monsieur!" he cried, "I perceive well that we are destined to be

friends. We have not only a similarity of thought and sentiment, but

also of experience."

"Garcon," I shouted, "a bottle of champagne and two glasses."

The wine was brought and we pledged each other with effusion.

"I made my fortune out of oil," said Du Gazet.

"I made mine upon the Stock Exchange," said I.

"Mine is so great that I could not spend it in ten years, though I lost

a thousand francs a night."

"Mine is even more considerable, M. Du Gazet."

He nodded and gave me a beaming smile. "Have you any plans for the

evening, M. Belloc?"

"None," I replied.

"Then allow me to be your mentor. I know a place not far from here

where one may woo the goddess Fortune to be kind. It is true that last

night I lost five thousand francs by hazard of the wheel, but I would

like well to recoup myself, and shall do so, as you shall see--if you

will be so good as to come with me."

"With pleasure," I cried, and sprang to my feet.

I suspected by then that my new friend was nothing more or less than

the tout of some gaming house. But I was reckless, and the

companionship of any rascal seemed preferable to being left alone. A

moment later we were strolling arm in arm down the Rue St. Germain

L'Auxerrois. Chatting amiably together, we came, at the end of some few

minutes, to the Rue St. Denis, up which we turned. Shortly after

passing the Rue Mauconseil, we entered a narrow unnamed side-street,

which was nevertheless flanked with respectable-looking houses of

antique but substantial architecture. Before the door of one of these

M. Du Gazet stopped, and giving me a meaning glance, he proceeded to

scratch upon the panels with his ring. The signal was immediately

responded to. The door opened a few inches, and a voice from the

interior darkness demanded our business.

"Montereau," replied my guide.

"Enter!" cried the voice, and the door swung wide.

M. Du Gazet took my arm and conducted me in silence down a dark,

thickly carpeted hall. We had barely half traversed it, however, when

the door keeper suddenly turned on an electric lamp, and I perceived

before us a wide staircase, supported on double rows of marble columns,

that led to the floor above.

"Good!" exclaimed my mentor. "I detest gloom. Come, my friend."

Nothing loth, I followed him up the stairs, and a moment later we

reached a landing-stage that was filled with huge palms growing in tubs

of earthenware. A liveried attendant guarded a closed door that was

half screened with fronds.

He looked at us inquiringly, but M. du Gazet muttered some pass-word in

his ear, and he ushered us forthwith into an immense brilliantly

illuminated apartment, which was sparsely thronged with well-dressed

men and women, and furnished in imitation of the Casino at Monaco.

One table was devoted to roulette, a second to rouge et noir, and a

third to baccarat. All were occupied, but, because perhaps of the

earliness of the hour, there were not many onlookers. M. du Gazet led

me to the second named, and after watching the game for about a quarter

hour, we were both able to secure chairs at the board, owing to the

evil fortune of the individuals we displaced. Like most other votaries

of chance, I had and have a method. It is simple if unscientific, and

it consists in backing each colour alternately seven times in

succession. I at first contented myself with small stakes, being

anxious to watch my mentor. M. du Gazet, however, much to my surprise,

for I still believed him to be a tout, began to gamble in earnest from

the moment he sat down, and each time he staked five hundred francs.

"Truly," thought I, "if he is a tout, he must have an interest in the

bank, or he would not be trusted with so much money."

After I had seen him lose four thousand francs, I ceased to doubt his

honesty, for his appearance was transformed. The born gambler's spirit

gleamed out of his eyes. His face had assumed a warm fixed flush, and

he was absorbed in his game to the absolute oblivion of every other

circumstance. I spoke to him in order to make sure, but he cursed me in

an undertone without turning his head. He had in fact forgotten my

existence.

Feeling more at ease, I immediately increased my stakes, betting on the

red. Luck favoured me, and I won steadily; on the red five times out of

seven, on the black almost without a break. At the end of an hour, so

large a heap of gold and notes had accumulated on the table before me,

that it interfered with my elbow room, and I was obliged to stand up in

order to make my game. The room had by then become filled with people,

and an interested crowd had assembled to watch me play. Success had

made me excited, and given me a measure of the gambling fever. I

increased my stakes to the limit and won again and again. The

exclamations of the onlookers became each moment more loud and

unrestrained, so that the croupier's directions could only be heard at

intervals: "Faites vos jeux, Messieurs et Mesdames. Faites vos jeux!

Rouge perd. Noir gagne! Faites vos jeux!"

I was in the act of stretching out my hand to place a large sum upon

the black for the seventh time in succession, when some inexplicable

instinctive feeling compelled me to look up from the board and into the

face of a new-comer who stood watching the game from behind the chair

of my immediate _vis-a-vis_. The man was a negro. With a queer thrill

of apprehension I looked at him more closely, and then for a second I

was almost stunned with surprise. He was Jussieu, the infernal canting

negro surgeon, who at the instance of his master, Sir Charles Venner,

had inflicted upon my bound and defenceless body tortures which made me

shudder to remember, and who on his own account had dared to lecture

and insult me. Before I could collect my scattered wits our eyes met,

and the recognition became mutual. The villain started back a pace and

glared at me, his eyes rolling in his head. He was attired in a

fashionably cut evening suit, in which he tried to ape the gentleman,

but his immaculate linen threw out his broad black face and hands into

bold and hideous relief, and he looked like nothing but a monster. For

a moment I shook with rage, and a murderous impulse almost overwhelmed

me. Then came a wiser thought, and I grew calm. I said to myself:

"Since the jackal is here, the lion cannot be far away. I shall make

this scoundrel lead me to his master's lair!"

Holding him with my eyes, I fumbled with my hands upon the table, and

began to stuff my winnings into my pockets. The crowd exclaimed in

astonishment, but I paid them no heed. Before, however, I was half

through with my business, Jussieu tore his eyes from mine and hurried

towards the door. I sent my chair crashing behind me with a backward

kick and seized Du Gazet by the shoulder.

"Look after my money!" I cried. "I shall see you later at the hotel."

Without awaiting a response, I broke through the crowd and darted after

Jussieu. He had already passed the door, but I caught up with him half

way down the stairs, and, seizing him by the shoulder, obliged him to

pause.

"What, Monsieur Jussieu!" I snarled, "would you run away from an old

friend? That is not kind in you."

"You mistake, m'sieur!" he cried. "That is not my name."

"Perhaps not," I muttered. "It will, however, serve my turn. Come,

monsieur!" I slipped my arm through his and urged him down the stairs.

Although a larger man than me, he yielded like a coward to my imperious

demand, protesting volubly the while, however, that I had made a great

mistake, that his name was Grenier, and that he had never set eyes on

me.

He was still protesting when we reached the street. But as soon as the

door of the gambling house had closed behind us I cut him short.

"Look you, Jussieu!" I growled, "I have in my pocket a revolver that is

loaded in every chamber. Take me at once to your master, Sir Charles

Venner, or, by the Lord, I shall put a bullet through your head!"

"Monsieur," he began, "I assure you----"

"Silence!" I interrupted. "Another word and you are a dead man!"

A hasty glance had shown me that the street was deserted. I produced my

pistol, therefore, as I spoke and presented it to his breast.

The negro started back, rolling his eyes like a maniac, but he spoke no

word. He was shivering with fear. I smiled and returned the weapon to

my pocket. Thereupon I gripped his arm and muttered in his ear:

"Proceed!"

Uttering a sort of groan, he set off slowly for the Rue Saint Denis.

"Quicker!" I commanded. He increased his pace. We turned the corner,

and a smart walk brought us quickly to the Rue D'Enghien. Turning into

that street the negro stopped presently before the door of a large

three-storied house, whose every window was closely shuttered.

"We have arrived, monsieur," he muttered in a hollow voice.

"You have a latch-key, perhaps?" I asked.

"Yes."

I looked steadily at the house for a moment or two, then curtly ordered

my companion to proceed, still, however, retaining a firm hold of his

arm. Five minutes later we came to the Faubourg Poissonniere. Hailing a

_fiacre_, I invited Jussieu to enter, and quickly took a seat beside

him. "The Hotel de Louvre!" I shouted to the driver, and we were off.

The negro was so still and docile that I began to suspect him of

meditating some plan of escape. Producing my pistol, I thrust the

muzzle into his side and cocked it with a loud click. "Death is very

near to you, Jussieu!" I said.

"For God's sake, monsieur!" he groaned.

"Sit very still, Jussieu. It has a hair trigger, and my hand is

trembling. I am remembering that it was you who pierced my fingers with

needles and seared my foot with branding irons!"

"Mercy, mercy! Forgive!" he wailed.

His terror was so sharp and evident that I could not withstand the

temptation to play upon it.

"Why should I pardon you?" I demanded. "What mercy did you show to

me--you infamous wretch?"

"M'sieur, I was but the tool of others. Do not kill me. For Christ's

sake put up your pistol."

"On the contrary, Jussieu," I said in a terrible voice. "Unless you

consent to obey me implicitly, you shall die this instant, like the dog

you are!"

"Mercy, mercy!" he cried. "I shall do anything you require--anything."

"Will you betray your master?"

"Yes, yes; only, for God's sake, put up your pistol!"

For answer I thrust the muzzle even harder into his side. "Now," said

I, "tell me!" But he uttered a strangled cry.

"M'sieur--I--I--I faint, I die," he gasped, and to my astonishment he

lurched forward and fell in a limp heap at my feet. I thought at first

it was a trick, and held myself in readiness for a desperate struggle,

for in good truth I dared not use my pistol. But the passing lamps

showed me Jussieu's black face turned almost grey, and his staring eyes

hideously upturned. The craven had swooned. I fell back chuckling with

delight, for I had been until that moment wondering how on earth I

could possibly contrive to force the brute into my hotel in case he

should turn rusty and decline to accompany me.

As it eventuated, Jussieu was carried, still unconscious, to my room by

two burly porters, whose garrulous surprise, occasioned by so strange a

service, I reduced to speechlessness with gold. It was five minutes to

eleven when I got rid of them. I locked my door and approached the

couch on which the negro lay. He was beginning to wake up. Hastily

tearing a linen sheet into strips I succeeded in securely binding his

hands and feet before he had properly regained his consciousness. I

then fastened him to the couch and stood over him with my pistol cocked.

He opened his eyes and blinked up at me.

"In what pocket is the key of your master's door?" I demanded.

"In the right hand side trouser pocket," he answered with a shudder.

"Where is Sir Charles Venner at this moment?"

"At home, monsieur, in bed, I think."

"Does he know that you are out?"

"Yes, m'sieur."

"Where does he sleep?"

"Upstairs, m'sieur, on the second floor, the second room on the left

from the head of the staircase."

"Thanks. And who else is there in the house?"

"No--one, m'sieur." He closed his eyes.

"Think, Jussieu!" I growled. "Where is Beudant, your brother negro?"

He did not reply.

"My hand is getting tired," I said coldly. "Let me remind you, Jussieu,

that the pistol is furnished with a hair trigger."

The threats galvanised him.

"Beudant sleeps downstairs, on the ground floor," he cried.

"And the others?"

"There are no others, m'sieur."

"You do badly to lie to me, Jussieu. Say your prayers, my man; you have

just a minute to live."

His face went grey, and his eyes almost started from his head. "Mercy,

mercy!" he groaned. "I shall tell you the whole truth."

"Quickly, then!"

"A lady occupies the third floor with her servants--while my master,

Beudant, and I dwell on the second floor----" He paused.

"And the ground floor, Jussieu?" I cried impatiently.

"It contains only living rooms, m'sieur. No one sleeps there."

I nodded, for I saw that he had told me the truth. Uncocking the

revolver I seized it by the barrel and, bending forward, before he

could guess of my intention, I struck him a violent blow over the

temple with the butt. A white man's skull would have been shivered into

fragments. Jussieu merely sighed, but a second blow, more powerfully

delivered still, rendered him insensible. Forcing his jaws agape, I

gagged him with a towel, and afterwards ransacked his pockets. They

contained a bunch of keys, a few gold pieces, and a handful of silver.

I had scarcely bestowed his possessions about my person when a knock

sounded on the door.

"Who is there?" I demanded, striding forward.

"It is I, monsieur, Bertrand du Gazet," answered a muffled voice.

Cautiously opening the door I peered out, and saw standing in the

passage without the little old man who had taken me to the gambling

house. His hands were full of notes and gold.

"It is your money I have brought you as you requested," he observed,

smiling genially. "You were foolish to leave so soon, monsieur. Fortune

does not often so bountifully confer her favours. See, here are more

than seven thousand francs. Indeed, you were wrong to run away,

monsieur."

I was in a quandary. I could not admit my unwelcome visitor, and I did

not like to drive him away, since he had come to do me a kindness.

Putting on a fine air of frankness, I said to him in low tones: "My

dear Du Gazet, I cannot thank you as I ought just now--because I have a

visitor, you understand."

An expression of disgust crossed his face. He thought, it seemed, that

my visitor was of the fair sex.

"I would not disturb you for the world," he muttered with sarcasm, "but

what of your money?"

"Oblige me by keeping it until to-morrow."

"As you will; good-night, monsieur." He shrugged his shoulders and

departed, his whole bearing expressive of contempt. No doubt he

considered me a liar, since I had railed against womankind quite as

bitterly as he had done not many hours before.

I could not, however, afford to waste thought on him, for I had much to

do. Stripping off my evening clothes, I speedily changed into a suit of

dark brown tweed, and drew on my feet a pair of felt-soled shoes.

Having armed myself with a large sum of money and a loaded revolver, I

stole softly out of the room. While locking the door behind me I heard

a distant sigh. Swinging round I peered in the direction of the sound,

and for a fleeting fragment of a second saw a face at the far end of

the corridor. It vanished so swiftly, however, that I had no time to

register its impression on my mind, and a moment later I doubted that I

had seen anything. The corridor was deserted absolutely save for

myself. I waited for a few silent minutes, then, reassured, made my way

to the street. A _fiacre_ drove me to the Boulevard Poissoniere, where,

having alighted, I walked to the Rue D'Enghien, and as the clocks were

chiming the hour after midnight, I arrived before my place of

destination, the house that contained my enemy. Without pausing an

instant, I climbed the steps and noiselessly inserted Jussieu's

latch-key into the lock of the front door. It yielded, the door opened

with a slight creak, and I crossed the threshold. I found myself in a

wide but dimly lighted hall. It was carpeted with cocoanut matting.

Doors crowded its sides, all closed. Before me was a staircase, whose

steps were composed of slate, which had been worn away in the middle,

as if by centuries of footfalls. I was about to mount when of a sudden

a strange wonder caught me and I paused. Until that moment blind hate

had controlled my actions and carried me where I stood. But now I asked

myself the question: "Agar Hume, what will you do? Is it murder that

you contemplate?"

It was a fearful thought, and I shuddered as it came. But I could not

answer it. I had never known so little of myself. In mind and body I

was alert, expectant, calm. But there was that in me which I could not

understand, a malignant remorseless spirit which had possession of my

faculties, and which declined to be questioned or displaced. At its

command I ceased to speculate, and began instead to listen. The house

was as silent as a tomb. Some power beyond my cognizance presently

plucked at my feet, and I found myself mounting the stairs. I remember

passing one door and turning the handle of a second. Then I was in a

room, dark as Erebus, creeping towards a bed, upon which lay an unseen

sleeper, whose long, deep respirations guided my stealthy movements.

What ensued appeared even then like nothing so much as the happenings

of some wild and fevered dream. I paused beside the bed and my hands,

drawn by an irresistible power, glided light as feathers across the

coverlid, across a man's sleeping form, unto his throat. There they

settled and took hold. I heard a strangled groan. A sudden bright light

filled the room, and Sir Charles Venner's livid outstarting eyes glared

into mine. His arms encircled me. With an almost super-human strength

he writhed beneath me from the bed, and we fell together with a full

but heavy crash upon the floor. With a fierce and terrible satisfaction

I watched his face blacken and swell, his tongue thicken and protrude

from his ghastly open mouth. Before, however, I could kill him, a

warning step and a loud cry sounded from the door. Quick as lightning I

sprang erect and turned. The negro surgeon, Beudant, Jussieu's

companion, was rushing towards me, an uplifted bar of iron in his hand

to strike. I eluded him, and, springing to the fireplace, seized a

poker. I had quite forgotten my revolver. For a moment we fenced like

swordsmen with our curious weapons, speaking no word, but striking

heavily and warding, filling the place with the loud clang of steel. He

played so well that I could not reach his skull. But soon I remembered

having read in some old book of travel that a negro's vulnerable point

is his shin. Clenching my teeth I made a ferocious feint at his head.

He riposted, as with a rapier, at my shoulder, but I disregarded

utterly so poor a thrust, since his bar was blunt, and I brought my

weapon down with a sweeping swish across his outstretched knee. He

uttered a wild shriek and, dropping his bar, sank to the floor, howling

dismally. Only then I remembered my pistol. Snatching it forth I held

it to his head. "Stop that noise, or die!" I muttered savagely. He

obeyed, but not for longer than a second was I permitted to remain

master of the situation.

"Drop that pistol, villain," cried a voice from the doorway.

Two men had entered the room before I was aware of it, Dr. Vernet and

Dr. Fulton. Dr. Vernet wore a shortish nightgown, from beneath which

his lean, attenuated shanks humorously twinkled. He seemed extremely

excited, and he moved the weight of his body from one foot to the other

constantly and very quickly. Dr. Fulton was attired in a suit of

pyjamas, and he too was excited, though he showed it less

reservelessly. Both men were armed with revolvers, which they pointed

at my breast. Glancing down the muzzles of their weapons, I allowed my

own to drop to the floor. It would have been madness to do otherwise.

Strange to relate, at that instant, I became once more my own master.

The malignant spirit of unreasoning hate, which had so far governed my

conduct, of a sudden left me, and I was able to realize to the full the

mad folly into which it had driven me. My captors had only to hand me

over to the police as an apprehended housebreaker--an attempted

assassin, and nothing that I might do could save me from a long term of

imprisonment. My very spine went cold at the idea. I looked hard at Dr.

Fulton, and saw that he was on the point of recognizing me.

"Why, it's Brown, Dagmar's valet!"

I had an inspiration. "Better any fate," thought I, "than a French

prison."

"Detective Hume of Scotland Yard!" I cried. "Dr. Fulton, I arrest you

in the King's name! Better put down that pistol, sir, your game is up.

The street is full of my men. And if I do not go out to them in the

next few minutes they will come for me."

"Liar!" gasped a choking voice. Sir Charles Venner had spoken. He had

recovered consciousness, and as he uttered the word he struggled to his

feet.

"Liar yourself!" I retorted desperately. "If you don't believe me, look

out of the window."

I had a wild hope that the noise of my struggle with Beudant might have

attracted the attention of some chance wayfarers, whom my enemies might

perhaps mistake for police. Sir Charles caught up my revolver, cocked

it leisurely, and pointed it to my head.

"Look out of the window, Fulton," he said quietly.

Dr. Fulton crossed the room and, drawing aside a corner of the curtain,

peered through the shutter into the street below.

While I waited for Dr. Fulton's pronouncement, I had a moment of grace

in which to think and pull myself together. The latter I effected

fairly well, but the knowledge of my recent madness obsessed my mind to

the exclusion of every other thought and filled my soul with bitter

self-contempt. I felt that I did not deserve to escape.

Dr. Fulton presently let the curtain fall and turned to Sir Charles.

"There are four men standing on the pavement looking up at the top

windows," he announced.

Sir Charles Venner nodded, and for a few seconds stood blinking his

eyes in earnest thought.

"Beudant!" he cried at last.

"Monsieu!" replied the negro.

"Where is Jussieu?"

"He has not yet returned, monsieur."

"Ah, ha! I see! He has either betrayed us or been victimised.

Beudant--a rope."

Beudant bowed and hurried from the room.

"What would you do?" demanded Dr. Vernet.

Sir Charles shrugged his shoulders and cocked his revolver. "We must

quit Paris, or die in the attempt," he replied. "Mr. Hume, if you wish

to live, you will be silent. Fulton, look out of the windows again."

Dr. Fulton obeyed. "I can no longer see any one," he reported.

Sir Charles suppressed a curse. "They must be on the steps, perhaps

entering," he muttered. "Ah, Beudant! Thank heaven! Bind him, Beudant.

Wait, my friends."

Even while speaking he left the room. The negro passed a rope around my

arms and in a trice I was secured. I was wondering keenly what next

would happen, when of a sudden I heard a loud swishing, creaking sound,

as though a crane were at work in the corridor without. The groaning of

wheels and chains was succeeded swiftly with a dull, muffled crash, and

a second later Sir Charles returned.

"Dress quickly!" he cried to his friends. "We have not a minute to

lose. I have settled some of them by springing the staircase trap, but

the street door is open, and there may be others."

He set the example himself by pulling on his clothes with extraordinary

rapidity. Vernet and Fulton darted off, and I was left in the care of

Beudant, the only one who was completely attired. If my arms had been

free, I would have tried conclusions with the negro. As it was, I

helplessly waited, gnawing my lip and silently cursing at my folly. At

the end of a few minutes a bell began to tinkle in a distant portion of

the house. Sir Charles Venner started at the sound, and paused for a

moment, intently listening. The bell rang again. Sir Charles threw a

cloak across his shoulders and tip-toed to the door.

"Hola! within there," cried a raucous voice in French.

"All right!" shouted Sir Charles. "We'll be with you in a moment; wait!"

I smiled grimly. For I understood, while my enemy did not. Some passing

policeman, observing the street door open, had rung the bell in order

to inform the household of its carelessness. Sir Charles Vernier,

however, believed that one of my agents had called out to his

_confreres_, who had already entered. A moment later Vernet and Fulton

reappeared, dressed as though for a journey. Sir Charles then stepped

behind me and put his pistol to my ear. "Allons!" he muttered, "and

tread softly, if you wish to live."

Obeying the guidance of a heavy hand that gripped my shoulder, I

marched from the room and began to climb the staircase towards the

third storey. The whole house was now wrapped in impenetrable darkness.

My captors, however, appeared to know the way very well, and I was

forced without a pause along a maze of corridors, until we were brought

up by a wall. A match was cautiously struck, and we entered a small

unfurnished room, the door of which was locked behind us. In the middle

of this apartment was a ladder that communicated with the roof. Beudant

climbed it with the agility of a monkey and raised a trap in the

skylight, through which we all passed in quick succession. As I emerged

and stood erect, I saw a sight I shall not easily forget--the

magnificent panorama of sleeping Paris. And yet Paris did not seem to

sleep. True, the night was dark, but in whatever direction I glanced, I

was confronted with myriads of twinkling lamps that gleamed at me like

so many intelligent and baneful little eyes. I was given but little

time to digest the picture. Before the muzzle of Sir Charles Venner's

revolver I crossed a slightly sloping roof of lead, and stepped over a

knee-high parapet of stone. Thence we traversed the tops of three other

houses and came at length to a slightly lower edifice, which required

some care to reach. Beudant slipped over first, and I was bodily lifted

up by Fulton and Venner and dropped into his arms. The roof perilously

sloped, and the journey filled me with tremors, for a mis-step meant

such a destruction as is entailed by a fall of sixty feet upon a line

of iron-spiked railings. But death faced me on every side, so I set my

lips and strode forward. By great good hap I negotiated the pass in

safety, and came to a small, square ledge that was faced with an attic

door, covered with a tiny gabled roof. A moment later we were all

standing in a long low ceiled chamber, into which we had been admitted

by a hideous old beldame. This creature received us with chuckles of

sardonic satisfaction, and at once began to haggle with Sir Charles

Venner for a large sum of money which she claimed to be her due. He

tried to silence her by offering half the amount demanded, but she

indignantly declined and threatened to scream. He therefore yielded and

gave her his purse. But while she counted the money he turned his back,

and taking a phial from his pocket poured its contents on his

handkerchief. At a sign Beudant took the handkerchief, and, throwing

himself upon the old hag, pressed it tightly to her nostrils. She

struggled like a fury, but the negro mastered her, and very soon

afterwards she was lying insensible upon the floor. I was watching Sir

Charles wrest from her clenched hand his purse, when a terrible blow on

my skull deprived me of consciousness.

When I awoke I thought at first I must have died in my sleep and have

been thrust into hell. Every fibre of my being was racked with pain.

Darkness encompassed me. With every breath I drew I was sickened with

noxious odours, and I could not move a muscle. I tried to cry out, but

could not utter a sound. An iron wedge had been driven deep into my

mouth. My limbs were bound, and I was tightly enclosed, in a doubled-up

position, in a square box. I lay upon my back and my knees were trussed

up across my chest so that my chin almost touched them. I discovered

these details slowly, one by one, and gradually awoke to the fact that

I was still alive. For a little while I was glad to know that, but with

the passing hours I prayed for death to end my tortures. Sometimes I

swooned. On awakening I invariably heard a monotonous rumbling sound

that was occasionally relieved by long, shrill screams. It occurred to

me at last that I was being borne along upon a cart, the axles of which

badly needed oiling. I had at first mistaken their screaming for the

lamentations of lost souls. Thirst was my greatest agony. It always

increased, while my other pains with time grew numb. Each time I

fainted I hailed the swoon as kindly coming death, and for a brief

moment I was happy. My recoveries were accursed periods of anguish. But

I think my trances of insensibility grew ever longer as my strength

wore out. However that may be, I began at length to dream, and I ceased

to be able to distinguish between sleeping and waking or even to feel

much pain. Then all of a sudden I felt a rush of cool air on my brow,

and I looked up into a sky full of stars. Water was dashed on my face.

The gag was taken from my mouth and I was given to drink. Someone

clutched my arm and I shrieked aloud. I was forced, still shrieking, to

my feet, and dragged by those I could not see through a plantation of

tall and stately pines. I swooned again. And once more I awoke to find

myself lying fully dressed, but free, upon a bed of down in a cool and

pleasant room. It was morning. Through an open window near my couch I

could see a wilderness of distant tree tops, larches, pines, and firs,

and more dimly between and above their branches a range of hills

beyond. A slant bar of sunlight streamed into my chamber and, falling

on the floor a dozen feet away, marked out a golden pattern on the

carpet. Against the farther wall was a book-case filled with volumes

and an escritoire. A comfortable lounge chair stood near the bed. I saw

also a heavy mahogany clothes press that was furnished with

mirror-backed doors. So totally unprepared was I to encounter so gentle

an experience that I rubbed my eyes to make sure that I was not still

dreaming. The exercise obliged me to discover that my limbs were

frightfully stiff and cramped. I was not long content, however, to

allow my curiosity to remain unsatisfied. By dint of a good deal of

exertion, and at the expense of many a sharp thrill of pain, I climbed

from the bed and essayed to rise. After a few thoughts I succeeded, and

then feeling dizzy, I managed to totter to a chair. I had hardly sat

down when the door opened and Sir Charles Venner stood before me.

"Good morning, Mr. Hume," said he, in quite a genial voice. "I am glad

to find you so much better after your distressing journey here!"

"Are you?" I muttered stupidly. I was overcome with surprise at his

curious change of manner.

"Indeed, yes," he replied, and he smiled. "Do you feel well enough for

breakfast?"

I nodded.

"Then permit me to assist you. Ah, good! Now take my arm."

He helped me, dumb with astonishment, out of the room and along a

passage into a fine old dining-hall, that might have been part and

parcel of some medieval chateau, so quaintly and elegantly was it

furnished.

I could afford it no more than a glance, however, for seated at table

there were Dr. Fulton, Dr. Venner, and Marion Le Mar, now Lady Dagmar.

At the sight of the beautiful woman whom I had so passionately loved, I

cried out loudly, and stood still. Her face was pale. She was attired

in deep mourning, and her eyes were resolutely downcast.

Sir Charles Venner uttered a low, cynical little laugh. "Quite a

meeting of the clans!" he remarked. "But come, Hume, I am certain you

are hungry."

Leaning heavily on his arm, I staggered to the table and sank into a

chair.

"Marion!" I gasped, looking at her straight and full.

Very slowly she raised her eyes, and returned my glance with a look of

cold disdain.

I thought her a thief and a traitress, and yet my eyes fell before her

gaze.

"Will you try some oatmeal, Hume?" asked Sir Charles Venner, who had

taken the head of the table.

"No, thank you."

"Then, some ham and eggs?"

"Please."

Beudant entered the room. "The grave is dug, master," he announced.

I looked at Sir Charles. He was biting his under lip, and curiously

regarding me.

"Whose?" I demanded.

"Yours and Lady Dagmar's!" he replied with a sneer.

I looked at Marion. She was calmly eating her breakfast.

"This is some ghastly joke!" I cried.

Marion glanced up and smiled. "Say cynical, monsieur," she murmured

quietly. "My good friend, Sir Charles Venner, persists in believing

that we love each other--you and I--in spite of the fact that scarcely

a month ago I deserted you in order to marry Sir William Dagmar."

"On his death-bed, madame!" cut in Sir Charles, in tones of ice. "You

forget that you are now a rich young widow."

"Well, sir?"

"And that you have steadily refused to account to me for his money,

which should have been placed, long ere this, at the disposal of our

order."

"Sir William Dagmar bound me with an oath as he lay dying----"

"You have told me that story before," interrupted Sir Charles. Marion

shrugged her shoulders, and put into her mouth a morsel of bread.

"Go on someone!" I cried impatiently. "See! I am utterly in your power.

Why not enlighten me? Surely you are not afraid!"

Beudant placed beside my plate a cup of coffee.

Sir Charles coughed behind his hand. "I am only afraid that your

appetite may be spoiled," he observed.

"Not at all," I retorted. "Watch me!" I began to eat, for in truth I

was very hungry.

"We shall see," he rejoined. "You have a nerve, I know, but keep on

eating while I talk--if you can!"

I nodded.

"Jussieu was released last evening by a friend of yours, a little man

named Du Gazet, who induced the manager of your hotel to break into

your room."

"Well?" I gasped.

Sir Charles laughed. "Jussieu is here," he said. "He arrived two hours

ago, and we know now that you have no connection with the police. We

were fools indeed to allow you to frighten us away from the Rue

D'Enghien. But then everything always happens for the best. We could

hardly have disposed of you properly in the city, unless we prosecuted

you for burglary, and such a course would not have suited me."

"Do you intend to kill me?"

"Yes."

"When?"

"After breakfast."

"In broad daylight?" I asked, much astonished.

"Ah! Mr. Hume," he replied, "I read your mind. But this chateau is

placed in a wood, and is distant seven miles from the nearest human

habitation, and as for the rest I had as lief destroy an enemy by day

as by night."

"Then I have not long to live?"

"As one measures time."

"And--Mar--Lady Dagmar?"

"You will die together. In each other's arms, if you choose to be

romantic."

I turned to Marion, to find her eyes fixed upon my face. We gazed at

each other for a long silent minute, and then, overcome by some strange

emotion, I muttered brokenly, "Is it possible, after all, that I have

wronged you?"

"You have," she replied.

"Can you forgive me?" I asked hoarsely.

"It is late to make amends."

"I was mad to doubt you. But, God knows, I suffered for it, Marion."

"Venner!" said Dr. Fulton suddenly, "can I have a word with you?"

"Certainly. Vernet, Beudant, I leave our guests to you."

Sir Charles got up from the table and walked to the farther end of the

room.

"They will not kill you, Marion?" I asked in English. "Surely they are

jesting."

"Yes--and no," she said. "Last night they forced me to make a will

leaving them my money. They tortured me."

"How?" I gasped.

"They dragged me to the room where you lay bound and senseless. If I

had refused to obey they would have cut you into pieces before my eyes."

"My God!" I cried. "And that broke your will. But I would have deserved

it all for doubting you."

"Not quite," she answered, and she smiled in exceeding sadness.

"Marion, dear Marion," I whispered, "you love me still."

She looked up at me and her eyes filled with tears. "How could you

treat me so?" she muttered.

I felt the blood rush of a sudden through my veins, singing a veritable

poem of joy and triumph. We were both about to die, but Marion loved

me, and by that knowledge I was transformed on the instant from a weak

half-broken creature into a life-loving and most desperate man. I

glanced quietly about me.

While Dr. Vernet ate his breakfast he watched me, but without

manifesting suspicion. Beudant stood behind his chair. Sir Charles and

Fulton were in earnest converse twenty paces off.

I thought to myself: "I may never get a better chance. Only a coward

will permit himself to be slaughtered unresisting.

"Beudant," said I aloud, "will you be good enough to get me another cup

of coffee."

The negro nodded, and started to come round the table.

"Dr. Vernet," I said as carelessly as possible, "may I trouble you for

the pepper-pot beside you?"

He bowed, and stretched out in order to render me the indicated

service. In a flash I had caught his wrist in my left hand, and with my

right I seized a heavy carafe of water and hurled it at his head. Next

second I leaped across the table, caught him in my arms, when, guided

by Vernet's own instinctive clutch to arm himself, I plunged my hand

into his breast pocket and found a revolver.

I slipped to the floor and held the stunned and senseless body of Dr.

Vernet before me as a shield. Sir Charles Venner and Dr. Fulton were

already advancing towards me with drawn pistols.

"Stop!" I shouted.

Sir Charles Venner answered me with his revolver. The bullet crashed

into Dr. Vernet's brain and I felt my face spattered with blood. I

fired in return, and Dr. Fulton, uttering a frightful scream, pitched

headlong on the floor.

It was a bad shot, for I had fired at Sir Charles Venner.

For a moment thereafter the latter stood still, and we stared into each

other's eyes across the trail of smoke. I became conscious that Dr.

Vernet's dead body was too heavy for me to support longer. It was

slipping from my grasp, slipping, slipping. I realized that very soon I

should be without my shield. As at last it fell, I fired, twice in

quick succession. I heard an answering shot, then a woman's piercing

scream. I fired again. The room was by then full of smoke; I could see

nothing, but I heard someone rushing towards me shouting and cursing.

For a fifth time I fired. There followed the sound of a fall, then a

deep and dreadful silence. I waited with my revolver at full cock, not

daring to breathe, my every nerve on strain, listening and peering

vainly through the pall of smoke. Very slowly and gradually the white

mist lifted. At my feet the woman I loved was lying very still. Blood

was welling in a rich crimson stream from a wound in her breast. Beyond

her Sir Charles Venner lay face downwards on the floor. Both his arms

were extended at full length, and at a few inches from his clenched

right hand was his revolver. Beudant and Dr. Fulton lay beside Sir

Charles Venner's body. All seemed dead. Oppressed with a wild and

hideous sense of unreality, I stared stupidly before me. A smoke

wreath, growing transparent, showed me at length a living face. Jussieu

stood within the room, a black statue of horror. Scarcely conscious of

what I did, I raised my pistol and pointed it at his breast. He did not

move. I fired and he fell.

At the sound Marion's eyes opened. She looked up at me. I uttered a cry

of agony and, throwing away my smoking weapon, I sank on my knees

beside her.

"Are you hurt?" she breathed.

"No--no--but you--you are wounded--you are dying," I wailed.

[Illustration: "Jussieu stood within the room, a black statue of

horror."

_First Person Paramount_] [_Page 318_]

She gave me a most wonderful and tender smile. "For you," she gasped.

"To save you! He would have killed you--but his bullet is--here." With

a great effort she raised one hand and caught at her breast.

"Oh, God! oh, God!" I groaned. "Marion, you will not die and leave me!

Tell me what to do."

"Kiss me," she whispered.

But even as I stooped to obey, her spirit fled, and I kissed the lips

of a corpse. No other kiss shall my lips know while I have life.

At the fall of noon I carried her from the house of death and buried

her in the grave which Sir Charles Venner had destined for us both. It

was in the middle of a pine forest, and perhaps that is why the saddest

sound on earth to my ears is still the sighing of pines. I left the

bodies of my enemies where they had fallen--accursed carrion! I would

not have touched them if I could. They were not discovered until more

than a week had passed, and by then I was a thousand miles away, a

desolate and broken-hearted wanderer on the face of the universe. Many

years have passed and I am now a millionaire, accounted by the world a

hard-headed, flinty-hearted financial magnate, and also something of a

misogynist. But I have recorded these chapters of my history to show

those who come after me, when I am dead, that, rascal as I was, and

abandonedly selfish, I was yet capable of passion and of constancy, and

that no deep-seated hatred of the softer sex has inspired the

invincible solitariness of my life.

FINIS.

Butler & Tanner, The Selwood Printing Works, Frome, and London.

* * * * * * *

Ward, Lock & Co.'s

POPULAR FICTION

STANLEY WEYMAN

MY LADY ROTHA.

A Romance of the Thirty Years War.

The Saturday Review says:--"No one who begins will lay it down before

the end, it is so extremely well carried on from adventure to

adventure."

ANTHONY HOPE

COMEDIES OF COURTSHIP.

The Speaker says:--"In this volume Mr. Hope is at his happiest in that

particular department of fiction in which he reigns supreme."

HALF A HERO.

The Athenaeum says:--"Mr. Hope's best story in point of construction and

grasp of subject. His dialogue is virile and brisk."

MR. WITT'S WIDOW.

The Times says:--"In truth a brilliant tale."

A. E. W. MASON

LAWRENCE CLAVERING.

SIR A. CONAN DOYLE

A STUDY IN SCARLET.

With a note on Sherlock Holmes by Dr. Joseph Bell. Illustrations by

George Hutchinson.

H. RIDER HAGGARD

AYESHA.

The Sequel to "She." Thirty-two full-page illustrations by Maurice

Greiffenhagen.

S. R. CROCKETT

JOAN OF THE SWORD HAND.

_The Daily Mail_ says:--"A triumph of cheery, resolute narration. The

story goes along like a wave, and the reader with it."

STRONG MAC.

The Morning Post says:--"At the very outset the reader is introduced to

the two leading characters of what is truly a drama of real life. So

vividly is the story told that it often reads like a narrative of

things that have actually happened."

LITTLE ESSON.

The Scarborough Post says:--"One of the most popular of Mr. Crockett's

books since 'Lilac Sunbonnet.'"

The Newcastle Journal says:--"The book is one to read with great

enjoyment. It is a true Crockett in every respect."

MAX PEMBERTON

PRO PATRIA.

The Liverpool Mercury says:--"A fine and distinguished piece of

imaginative writing; one that should shed a new lustre upon the clever

author of 'Kronstadt.'"

CHRISTINE OF THE HILLS.

The Daily Mail says:--"Assuredly he has never written anything more

fresh, more simple, more alluring, or more artistically perfect."

A GENTLEMAN'S GENTLEMAN.

The Daily Chronicle says:--"This is very much the best book Mr.

Pemberton has so far given us."

THE GOLD WOLF.

The Illustrated London News says:--"From the beginning Mr. Pemberton

weaves his romance with such skill that the tangled skein remains for

long unravelled ... marked by exceptional power, and holds the

attention firmly."

THE LODESTAR.

The Standard:--"'The Lodestar' impresses us as an exceedingly poignant

and effective story, true to real life. Written with cleverness and

charm."

E. F. BENSON

LIMITATIONS.

JAMES BLYTH

A HAZARDOUS WOOING.

The Morning Leader says:--"A rattling good yarn of a kind which many

writers of historical novels might envy."

The Scotsman says:--"Delightful reading from beginning to end."

E. PHILLIPS OPPENHEIM

CONSPIRATORS.

With Illustrations by A. Wallis Mills.

THE SECRET.

The Standard says:--"We have no hesitation in saying that this is the

finest and most absorbing story that Mr. Oppenheim has ever written. It

glows with feeling; it is curiously fertile in character and incident,

and it works its way onward to a most remarkable climax."

A LOST LEADER.

The Daily Graphic says:--"Mr. Oppenheim almost persuades us into the

belief that he has really been able to break down the wall of secrecy

which always surrounds the construction of a Cabinet, and has decided

to make an exposure on the lines of a well-known American writer. He

also touches upon the evils of gambling in Society circles in a manner

which should be applauded by Father Vaughan, and, in addition, treats

us to a romance which is full of originality and interest from first to

last."

MR. WINGRAVE, MILLIONAIRE.

The British Weekly says:--"Like good wine, Mr. Oppenheim's novels need

no bush. They attract by their own charm, and are unrivalled in

popularity. No one will read this present story without relishing the

rapid succession of thrilling scenes through which his characters move.

There is a freshness and unconventionality about the story that lends

it unusual attractiveness."

A MAKER OF HISTORY.

The Standard says:--"Those who read 'A Maker of History' will revel in

the plot, and will enjoy all those numerous deft touches of actuality

that have gone to make the story genuinely interesting and exciting."

THE MASTER MUMMER.

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"'The Master Mummer' is a remarkable

novel, such as only E. Phillips Oppenheim can write. No other author

could make the wildly extravagant not only natural, as make-believe

goes, but actually moving. It is a beautiful story that is here set

within a story."

THE BETRAYAL.

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"Mr. Oppenheim's skill has never been

displayed to better advantage than here.... He has excelled himself,

and to assert this is to declare the novel superior to nine out of ten

of its contemporaries."

ANNA, THE ADVENTURESS.

The Globe says:--"The story is ingeniously imagined and cleverly

wrought out. Mr. Oppenheim has the gift of invention, and keeps his

readers on the tenter-hooks of suspense."

THE YELLOW CRAYON.

The Daily Express says:--"Mr. Oppenheim has a vivid imagination and

much sympathy, fine powers of narrative, and can suggest a life history

in a sentence. As a painter of the rough life of mining camps, of any

strong and striking scenes where animal passions enter, he is as good

as Henry Kingsley, with whom, indeed, in many respects, he has strong

points of resemblance."

A PRINCE OF SINNERS.

Vanity Fair says:--"A vivid and powerful story. Mr. Oppenheim knows the

world and he can tell a tale, and the unusual nature of the setting in

which his leading characters live and work out their love story, gives

this book distinction among the novels of the season."

THE TRAITORS.

The Athenaeum says:--"Its interest begins on the first page and ends on

the last. The plot is ingenious and well managed, the movement of the

story is admirably swift and smooth, and the characters are exceedingly

vivacious. The reader's excitement is kept on the stretch to the very

end."

A MILLIONAIRE OF YESTERDAY.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"The story abounds in dramatic situations,

and there is more than one note of pathos which at once captures our

sympathies. We cannot but welcome with enthusiasm a really well-told

story like 'A Millionaire of Yesterday.'"

THE SURVIVOR.

The Nottingham Guardian says:--"We must give a conspicuous place on its

merits to this excellent story. It is only necessary to read a page or

two in order to become deeply interested. A story marked by brilliant

and terse narration, vivid touches of characterization, and a plot that

is consistent and yet fruitful in surprises."

THE GREAT AWAKENING.

The Yorkshire Post says:--"A weird and fascinating story, which, for

real beauty and originality, ranks far above the ordinary novel."

AS A MAN LIVES.

The Sketch says:--"The interest of the book, always keen and absorbing,

is due to some extent to a puzzle so admirably planned as to defy the

penetration of the most experienced novel reader."

A DAUGHTER OF THE MARIONIS.

The Scotsman says:--"Mr. Oppenheim's stories always display much

melodramatic power and considerable originality and ingenuity of

construction. These and other qualities of the successful writer of

romance are manifest in 'A Daughter of the Marionis.' Full of passion,

action, strongly contrasted scenery, motives, and situations."

MR. BERNARD BROWN.

The Aberdeen Daily Journal says:--"The story is rich in sensational

incident and dramatic situations. It is seldom, indeed, that we meet

with a novel of such power and fascination."

THE MAN AND HIS KINGDOM.

The Freeman's Journal says:--"It is high praise to say that in this

novel the author has surpassed his previous thrilling and delightful

story, 'The Mysterious Mr. Sabin.' Yet that high praise is eminently

deserved. The story is worthy of Merriman at his very best. It is a

genuine treat for the ravenous and often disappointed novel reader."

THE WORLD'S GREAT SNARE.

The World says:--"If engrossing interest, changing episode, deep

insight into human character, and bright diction are the sine qua non

of a successful novel, then this book cannot but bound at once into

popular favour. It is so full withal of so many dramatic incidents,

thoroughly exciting and realistic. There is not one dull page from

beginning to end."

A MONK OF CRUTA.

The Bookman says:--"Intensely dramatic. The book is an achievement at

which the author may well be gratified."

MYSTERIOUS MR. SABIN.

The Literary World says:--"As a story of interest, with a deep-laid and

exciting plot, this of the 'Mysterious Mr. Sabin' can hardly be

surpassed."

L. G. MOBERLY

THAT PREPOSTEROUS WILL.

The Daily Graphic says:--"We could wish that every novel were as

pleasant, unsophisticated and readable as this one."

HOPE, MY WIFE.

The Gentlewoman says:--"Miss Moberly shows the same nice skill In

sketching character in 'Hope, my Wife' as in her earlier novel, 'That

Preposterous Will.' She interests us so much in her heroine, and in her

hero, that we follow the two with pleasure through adventures of the

most improbable order."

DIANA.

The Scotsman says:--"So cleverly handled as to keep its interest always

lively and stimulating; and the book cannot fail to be enjoyed."

DAN--AND ANOTHER.

_The Daily News_:--"Must be considered one of the best pieces of work

that Miss Moberly has yet produced."

JUSTUS MILES FORMAN

JOURNEYS END.

The Court Journal says:--"Surprisingly fresh, abounding in touches of

observation and sentiment, while the characters are drawn with

exceptional skill, the 'red-haired young woman' being a haunting

figure."

MONSIGNY.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"The novel is admirable, the idea is very

cleverly worked out, and is of an interesting character. The book is

worthy of much praise."

THE GARDEN OF LIES.

The Daily News says:--"This novel is far in advance of anything that

Mr. Forman has hitherto accomplished. 'The Garden of Lies' belongs to

that class of story which touches the heart from the first. It contains

scenes which are alive with real passion, passages that will stir the

blood of the coldest, and whole chapters charged with a magic and a

charm. It is a real romance, full of vigour and a clean, healthy life."

TOMMY CARTERET.

The Daily Chronicle says:--"This is a fine book, thoroughly fine from

start to finish. We willingly place our full store of compliments on

Mr. Forman's splendid and successful book."

BUCHANAN'S WIFE.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"'Buchanan's Wife' may be regarded as

another success for an already successful author. It contains all the

reader is to attract, and is written in such a graceful manner that the

elements held delighted and enthralled to the end."

A MODERN ULYSSES.

People's Saturday Journal says:--"Full of exciting incidents, handled

in a bright, crisp style."

GEORGE FREDERIC TURNER

FROST AND FRIENDSHIP.

The Pall Mall Gazette says:--"A tale one reads without effort and rises

from with brightened wits. It is good and original. King Karl, with the

steel hand in a velvet glove; Miss Anchester, an enigma of love and

duty; and the hero himself, a typical Englishman, are personages who

make a sharp impression of reality."

THE CONVERSION OF CLAUD.

The Daily Graphic says:--"A well-written book, the characters are

natural and amusing."

THE TOAD AND THE AMAZON.

ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT

WHEN I WAS CZAR.

The Freeman's Journal says:--"A very brilliant work, every page in it

displays the dramatic talent of the author and his capacity for writing

smart dialogue."

BY SNARE OF LOVE.

The Outlook says:--"As a writer of political intrigue, Mr. Marchmont

has scarcely a rival to-day, and his latest novel worthily upholds his

reputation."

THE QUEEN'S ADVOCATE.

The Liverpool Courier says:--"Mr. Marchmont's narrative skill is at his

best in this tale. One has sometimes wondered in reading this author's

works when his invention will give out. But his resource seems

inexhaustible, and his spirits never flag."

A COURIER OF FORTUNE.

The Dundee Courier says:--"The author has succeeded in producing a most

thrilling and romantic tale of France, which has the advantage of being

exciting and fascinating without being too improbable. An additional

feature of the book is the amount of wit that runs throughout the

story."

BY WIT OF WOMAN.

The Leicester Post says:--"The novel rivets the deep interest of the

reader, and holds it spellbound to the end. Mr. Marchmont, accordingly,

must be complimented on making a very welcome and notable addition to

the library of fiction."

IN THE CAUSE OF FREEDOM.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"A well-sustained and thrilling narrative."

The Daily Express says:--"It is sure to have a great success."

THE LITTLE ANARCHIST.

GEORGE HORTON

A FAIR INSURGENT.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"Mr. George Horton has given us a most

thrilling romance which, both in invention and workmanship, should take

high rank among books of adventure. The author has the power of

exciting real interest in the puppets of his capital book, and the art

of telling an exciting story thoroughly well."

PRINCESS ROMANOVA.

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"A stirring tale of the Far East, full of

adventures, narrated in an impressive style."

THE MONK'S TREASURE.

FRED M. WHITE

THE CRIMSON BLIND.

The Sheffield Telegraph:--"'The Crimson Blind' is one of the most

ingeniously conceived 'detective' stories we have come across for a

long time. Each chapter holds some new and separate excitement. The

pace is kept with such vigour that the reader arrives breathless at the

last page."

THE CARDINAL MOTH.

The British Weekly:--"A brilliant orchid story, full of imaginative

power. This is a masterpiece of construction, convincing amid its

unlikeliness, one of the best novels of the season."

THE CORNER HOUSE.

The Western Morning News:--"The secret of 'The Corner House' is kept

until the closing chapters, and it is impossible to lay the book aside

until the secret is discovered. It is an excellent romance which will

be eagerly read."

THE WEIGHT OF THE CROWN.

The Dublin Daily Express:--"Mr. F. M. White is one of the princes of

fiction. A stirring tale full of the spice of adventure, breathless in

interest, skilful in narrative.... Who could refrain from reading such

a story?"

THE SLAVE OF SILENCE.

The Sheffield Telegraph:--"Attention is arrested at the outset, and so

adroitly is the mystery handled that readers will not skip a single

page."

A FATAL DOSE.

Irish Independent:--"A work in Mr. White's best style, so brimful of

action and excitement that the reader would fain finish it at a sitting

if possible."

ARCHIBALD EYRE

THE TRIFLER.

The Daily Express:--"A most cleverly contrived farcical comedy full of

really fresh incidents, and a dialogue that is genuinely amusing; there

is not a character who is not always welcome and full of entertainment."

THE CUSTODIAN.

The Morning Post:--"An exceptionally clever and entertaining novel; the

reader is compelled to finish the book when he has once taken it up....

It is impossible to resist its attractions."

THE GIRL IN WAITING.

The Daily Mail:--"This is quite a delightful book. The note is struck

ingeniously and hilariously on the doorstep. It is a most enjoyable

comedy, which must be read to be appreciated. We can cordially

recommend it."

HEADON HILL

A RACE WITH RUIN.

The Morning Advertiser says:--"A book by Headon Hill may always be

relied on to provide good reading with plenty of incident. In 'A Race

with Ruin' he fully maintains his reputation. A good, stirring story

with an admirable and well-worked-out plot."

MILLIONS OF MISCHIEF.

The Stage says:--"Not even the late Guy Boothby imagined anything more

magnificently preposterous than the motive of Mr. Headon Hill's

'Millions of Mischief.'"

THE AVENGERS.

The Tribune says:--"Mr. Hill's new book, 'The Avengers,' has not a dull

line, and one's pulse is kept on the jig all the time."

UNMASKED AT LAST.

The Sheffield Telegraph says:--"The story is in the author's most

approved style, one of those alluringly audacious plots that Headon

Hill revels in."

THE HIDDEN VICTIM.

SIR Wm. MAGNAY, BART.

THE RED CHANCELLOR.

Lloyd's News says:--"A story full of action, with its characters

strongly drawn. The book altogether is one that can be most heartily

recommended."

THE MAN OF THE HOUR.

The Pall Mall Gazette says:--"Of sterling merit. The plot of the book

is as well contrived as in any tale of the kind we have read."

COUNT ZARKA.

The World says:--"Clever and entertaining. The narrative is brisk; it

affords us glimpses of forest scenery which we like, and one remarkable

departure from beaten tracks, a woman's duel in earnest. This feat of

arms forms the subject of an illustration in his best manner by Maurice

Grieffenhagen."

FAUCONBERG.

The Field says:--"The book has a grip, and should be a success. The

ultimate fate of Fauconberg is always in doubt from the beginning to

the unexpected ending."

THE MASTER SPIRIT.

The Court Journal says:--"A capital story. The intensely interesting

situation is developed with much ingenuity and power.... A really

fascinating novel."

THE MYSTERY OF THE UNICORN.

GUY BOOTHBY

THE RACE OF LIFE.

The English Review says:--"Ahead even of Mr. Cutcliffe Hyne and Sir

Conan Doyle, Mr. Boothby may be said to have topped popularity's pole."

FOR LOVE OF HER.

The Court Journal says:--"The many admirers of Mr. Guy Boothby will

welcome another volume from his pen, and will not be disappointed in

their expectations. The book shows vivid imagination and dramatic

power. Moreover, sketches of Australian life, from one who knows his

subject, are always welcome."

A CRIME OF THE UNDER SEAS.

The Speaker says:--"Is quite the equal in art, observation, and

dramatic intensity to any of Mr. Guy Boothby's numerous other romances,

and is in every respect most typical of his powers."

A BID FOR FREEDOM.

The Sheffield Telegraph says:--"As fascinating as any of its

forerunners, and is as finely handled. 'A Bid for Freedom' discloses a

powerfully written romance, which bristles with thrilling passages,

exciting adventures, and hairbreadth escapes."

A TWO-FOLD INHERITANCE.

Punch says:--"Just the very book that a hard-working man should read

for genuine relaxation. This novel is strongly recommended by the

justly appreciating 'Baron de Bookworms.'"

The Glasgow Herald says:--"Contains all the elements that have made Mr.

Boothby's works popular the world over, and it will be read with zest

by thousands of his admirers."

CONNIE BURT.

The Birmingham Gazette says:--"One of the best stories we have seen of

Mr. Boothby's."

The Glasgow Herald says:--"Contains many stirring scenes of life in the

Bush, and some really clever and attractive sketches of Australian

character."

THE KIDNAPPED PRESIDENT.

Public Opinion says:--"Brighter, crisper, and more entertaining than

any of its predecessors from the same pen."

MY STRANGEST CASE.

The Yorkshire Post says:--"No work of Mr. Boothby's seems to us to have

approached in skill his new story. It is worked out with real

ingenuity, and written with so much skill that the reader's attention

is from first to last riveted on the narrative."

FAREWELL, NIKOLA.

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"Guy Boothby's famous creation of Dr.

Nikola has become familiar to every reader of fiction."

MY INDIAN QUEEN.

The Sunday Special says:--"'My Indian Queen' shows Mr. Boothby at his

best. A vivid story of adventure and daring, bearing all the

characteristics of careful workmanship."

LONG LIVE THE KING.

The Aberdeen Free Press says:--"It is marvellous that Mr. Boothby's

novels should all be so uniformly good. The story is written in Mr.

Boothby's best style, and is full of interest from start to finish."

A PRINCE OF SWINDLERS.

The Scotsman says:--"Of absorbing interest. The exploits are described

in an enthralling vein."

A MAKER OF NATIONS.

The Spectator says:--"'A Maker of Nations' enables us to understand Mr.

Boothby's vogue. It has no lack of movement or incident."

THE RED RAT'S DAUGHTER

The Daily Telegraph says:--"Mr. Guy Boothby's name on the title-page of

a novel carries with it the assurance of a good story to follow. This

sprightly imaginative writer's latest romance is a clever and

fascinating narrative."

LOVE MADE MANIFEST.

The Daily Telegraph says:--"A powerful and impressive romance. One of

those tales of exciting adventure in the confection of which Mr.

Boothby is not excelled by any novelist of the day."

PHAROS THE EGYPTIAN.

The Scotsman says:--"This powerful novel is weird, wonderful, and

soul-thrilling. There never was in this world so strange and wonderful

a love story, and Mr. Boothby's admirers will probably agree that the

most marvellous fiction he has ever produced is 'Pharos the Egyptian.'"

ACROSS THE WORLD FOR A WIFE.

The British Weekly says:--"This stirring tale ranks next to 'Dr.

Nikola' in the list of Mr. Boothby's novels. It is an excellent piece

of workmanship, and we can heartily recommend it."

A SAILOR'S BRIDE.

The Manchester Courier says:--"Few authors can depict action as

brilliantly and resourcefully as the creator of 'Dr. Nikola.'"

THE LUST OF HATE.

The Daily Graphic says:--"Mr. Boothby gives place to no one in what

might be called dramatic interest, so whoever wants dramatic interest

let him read 'The Lust of Hate.'"

THE FASCINATION OF THE KING.

The Bristol Mercury says:--"Unquestionably the best work we have yet

seen from the pen of Mr. Guy Boothby.... 'The Fascination of the King'

is one of the books of the season."

DR. NIKOLA.

The Scotsman says:--"One hairbreadth escape succeeds another with

rapidity that scarce leaves the reader breathing space.... The interest

of their experience is sufficient to stay criticism, and carry him

through a story ingeniously invented and skilfully told."

THE BEAUTIFUL WHITE DEVIL.

The Yorkshire Post says:--"A more exciting romance no man could

reasonably ask for."

A BID FOR FORTUNE.

The Manchester Courier says:--"It is impossible to give any idea of the

verve and brightness with which the story is told. Mr. Boothby may be

congratulated on having produced about the most original novel of the

year."

IN STRANGE COMPANY.

The World says:--"A capital novel. It has the quality of life and stir,

and will carry the reader with curiosity unabated to the end."

THE MARRIAGE OF ESTHER.

_The Manchester Guardian_ says:--"A story full of action, life, and

dramatic interest. There is a vigour and a power of illusion about it

that raises it quite above the level of the ordinary novel of

adventure."

BUSHIGRAMS.

The Manchester Guardian says:--"Intensely interesting. Forces from us,

by its powerful artistic realism, those choky sensations which it

should be the aim of the human writer to elicit, whether in comedy or

tragedy."

SHEILAH McLEOD.

Mr. W. L. Alden in The New York Times, says:--"Mr. Boothby can crowd

more adventure into a square foot of canvas than any other novelist."

DR. NIKOLA'S EXPERIMENT.

Illustrated by Sidney Cowell.

JOSEPH HOCKING

ROGER TREWINION.

T. P.'s Weekly says:--"It is a foregone conclusion that Mr. Hocking

will always have a good story to tell. 'Roger Trewinion' can stand

forth with the best, a strong love interest, plenty of adventure, an

atmosphere of superstition, and Cornwall as the scene. And the scenes

of lawlessness, the curse of hatred between two brothers, the greed of

a selfish mother, and the steadfastness of a sweetheart withdrawn from

a grave, all serve to lead, in a series of graphically and finely

written scenes, to the conclusion that 'there's no curse can stand

against love.'"

THE COMING OF THE KING.

The Glasgow Herald says:--"Mr. Hocking's latest romance exhibits no

diminution of ability, and is marked by insight and dramatic power. His

imagination is fertile, and his skill in the arrangement of incident

far above the average, and there is an air of reality in all his

writing which is peculiarly charming. The author steadily but surely

engages our attention, and we pass from episode to episode with a

deepening sense of the reality of the tale. This is art of no common

order."

ESAU.

The Outlook says:--"Remarkable for the dramatic power with which the

scenes are drawn and the intense human interest which Mr. Hocking has

woven about his characters. 'Esau' is sure to be one of the novels of

the season."

The British Weekly says:--"A brilliant, exciting narrative by a writer

who has never penned a dull page."

GREATER LOVE.

The Newcastle Chronicle says:--"Though of a totally different character

from 'Lest We Forget,' Mr. Hocking's latest story is entitled to take

rank along with that fine romance. The story arrests the attention from

the first chapters, and soon becomes highly dramatic."

LEST WE FORGET.

Public Opinion says:--"His story is quite as good as any we have read

of the Stanley Weyman's school, and presents an excellent picture of

the exciting times of Gardiner and Bonner."

AND SHALL TRELAWNEY DIE?

The British Weekly says:--"We can strongly recommend both stories as

healthy and hearty tales, sensational but not incredible."

The Weekly Sun says:--"An engaging and fascinating romance. The reader

puts the story down with a sigh, and wishes there were more of these

breezy Cornish uplands, for Mr. Joseph Hocking's easy style of

narrative does not soon tire."

JABEZ EASTERBROOK.

The Rock says:--"Real strength is shown in the sketches, of which that

of Brother Bowman is most prominent. In its way it is delightful."

The Record says:--"A book that can be read with interest and with

profit. A clever tale, cleverly told."

THE WEAPONS OF MYSTERY.

"Weapons of Mystery" is a singularly powerful story of occult

influences and of their exertion for evil purposes. Like all Mr.

Hocking's novels, "Weapons of Mystery" has an underlying religious and

moral purpose, but merely as a story, and quite apart from the purpose

which was in the mind of the author, the tale has a curious fascination

for the reader. The cleverly conceived plot, and the strange experience

of the hero and heroine make "Weapons of Mystery" a story which it is

not easy to put down when once commenced.

ZILLAH: A ROMANCE.

The Spectator says:--"The drawing of some of the characters indicates

the possession by Mr. Hocking of a considerable gift of humour. The

contents of his book indicate that he takes a genuine interest in the

deeper problems of the day."

THE MONK OF MAR-SABA.

The Star says:--"Great power and thrilling interest.... The scenery of

the Holy Land has rarely been so vividly described as in this charming

book of Mr. Hocking's."

The Manchester Guardian says:--"The author has turned his visit to

Palestine to good account.... His descriptions of the wild scenery of

different parts of the Holy Land are both vigorous and graphic, and the

stories themselves are interesting."

THE PURPLE ROBE.

The Queen says:--"Mr. Hocking's most interesting romance. It is

exceedingly clever, and excites the reader's interest and brings out

the powerful nature of the clever young minister. This most engrossing

book challenges comparison with the brilliance of Lothair. Mr. Hocking

has one main fact always before him in writing his books--to interest

his readers and he certainly succeeds admirably in doing so."

THE SCARLET WOMAN.

The Methodist Recorder says:--"This is Mr. Hocking's strongest and best

book. We advise every one to read it. The plot is simple, compact and

strenuous; the writing powerful. It brings out sharply the real

character of the typical Jesuit, his training, motives, limitations,

aims."

ALL MEN ARE LIARS.

The Christian World says:--"This is a notable book. Thoughtful people

will be fascinated by its actuality, its fearlessness, and the insight

it gives into the influence of modern thought and literature upon the

minds and morals of our most promising manhood."

The Standard says:--"A striking book.... It is strong and earnest and

vigorous; it shows knowledge of the lower class, and impatience and

contempt of shams of all sorts."

ISHMAEL PENGELLY: AN OUTCAST.

The Record says:--"As a story this book is a splendid piece of writing;

every detail is interesting, and the situations it creates are novel

and striking."

The Athenaeum says:--"The book is to be recommended for the dramatic

effectiveness of some of the scenes. The wild, half-mad woman is always

picturesque wherever she appears, and the rare self-repression of her

son is admirably done."

THE STORY OF ANDREW FAIRFAX.

The Manchester Examiner says:--"Rustic scenes and characters are drawn

with free, broad touches, without Mr. Buchanan's artificiality, and, if

we may venture to say it, with more realism than Mr. Hardy's country

pictures."

The Liverpool Mercury says:--"Beautifully told. There are few books

better adapted to widen the mind and discipline the judgment than this

noble story."

THE BIRTHRIGHT.

The Spectator says:--"This volume proves beyond all doubt that Mr.

Hocking has mastered the art of the historical romancist. 'The

Birthright' is, in its way, quite as well constructed, as well written,

and as full of incident as any story that has come from the pen of Mr.

Conan Doyle or Mr. Stanley Weyman."

MISTRESS NANCY MOLESWORTH.

The Scotsman says:--"'Mistress Nancy Molesworth' is as charming a story

of the kind as could be wished, and it excels in literary workmanship

as well as in imaginative vigour and daring invention.... It would

hardly be possible to tell a story of its kind better, or to leave the

reader better pleased at the end."

FIELDS OF FAIR RENOWN.

The Scotsman says:--"Mr. Joseph Hocking's 'Fields of Fair Renown' is a

novel with a purpose, and the theme is worked out with a good deal of

force and effective power.... it is both interesting and powerful."

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"Mr. Hocking has produced a work which his

readers of all classes will appreciate.... There are exhibited some of

the most beautiful aspects of disposition."

LOUIS TRACY

A FATAL LEGACY.

The Scotsman says:--"In all the annals of fiction a more ingenious or

startlingly original plot has not been recorded."

RAINBOW ISLAND.

The Literary World says:--"Those who delight in tales of adventure

should hail 'Rainbow Island' with joyous shouts of welcome. Rarely have

we met with more satisfying fare of this description than in its pages."

THE ALBERT GATE AFFAIR.

The Birmingham Post says:--"An excellent detective tale, brimful of

adventure. Told in Mr. Tracy's best style."

THE PILLAR OF LIGHT.

The Evening Standard says:--"So admirable, so living, so breathlessly

exciting a book. The magnificent realism of the lighthouse and its

perils, the intense conviction of the author, that brings the very

scene he pictures before the reader's eyes with hardly a line of

detached description, the interest of the terrible dilemma of the cut

off inhabitants of the 'Pillar' are worthy of praise from the most

jaded reader."

HEART'S DELIGHT.

The Dundee Advertiser says:--"The name of Louis Tracy on the covers of

a volume is a sufficient guarantee that the contents are worthy of

perusal. His latest novel, 'Heart's Delight,' establishes more firmly

than ever the reputation which he founded on 'The Final War'; like that

notable book it has a strong martial flavour."

A. C. GUNTER

'TWIXT SWORD AND GLOVE.

The Manchester Evening News says:--"It is with the utmost suspense that

the reader will follow the adventurous and perilous career of Comte

Bertram de Conflans.... A cleverly written book."

DOCTOR BURTON.

The Tribune:--"A series of exciting escapades and amateur detective

work, eminently compelling and full of interest."

MARION BOWERS

THE WRESTLERS.

The Nottingham Guardian says:--"A skilfully presented study of the

subtle moods of a woman's heart. The picture of Muriel Attledon's

subjection to a husband who slights and neglects her while he flirts

with another woman, and covers his disloyalty with a specious cloak of

solicitude, is finely sketched."