CHAPTER V.

Judge Favart de Caumartin and Hepworth Coleman were, by order of the

Judge himself, taken to the Judge's mansion, where their wounds were

examined by physicians and surgeons quickly summoned.

Mlle. Olympe de Caumartin found herself nursing two almost dying

patients at the same time. Although she suspected that this was the

result of a duel between her father and the young stranger, she was not

told the secret of the affair until long afterward.

Strange to say, although the Judge was much the older man, and was

wounded much nearer the heart, he recovered and was walking about in his

house before Coleman had even taken a turn for the better. The first

thing he did was to order his daughter to cease her nursing of the young

man.

"It is not proper," he said, "for a young girl to be the nurse of a man

who is a stranger."

Mlle. Olympe blushed scarlet, and was so much confused that she could

not find a word to say. It had been a great pleasure to her to wait upon

Coleman, who, though for the greater part of the time quite insensible

of her presence, seemed to respond better to her care than to the

treatment of the doctors. She had been having her sweet dream, was in

love with him, indeed, and the command of her father struck her like a

blow.

Judge Favart de Caumartin suspected the truth about his daughter, and

was not slow in making up his mind in the matter. He gave strict orders

that the hall between Coleman's rooms and the rest of the mansion should

be kept at all times locked and barred.

Love laughs at such precautions. Hepworth Coleman, during his

convalescence, lay on his back and thought of nobody but Mlle. Olympe,

and when at last he was able to get up he sent for her. It so chanced

that the Judge, having got well in a measure, was gone up to Natchez on

business.

Mlle. Olympe did not go to see the young man; but she wrote him a note

explaining her father's wishes.

"But he has never forbidden you to come to see me when you are able to

walk so far as to the library," she added very frankly, "and I see no

reason why you should stay away."

When the Judge returned it was too late to interfere, as he soon

discovered, and he had to bow to the inevitable.

The mystery of the adventure with the masked men in that secret _salle_

has never been further explained. Judge Favart de Caumartin would not

consent to his daughter's marriage until he had exacted a promise from

Coleman that he would never divulge what he knew.

The truth was that Coleman knew very little. He tried to discover the

blind alley into which the Judge had led him on that eventful evening,

but there was no such alley to discover. The whereabouts of the

mysterious hall cannot be pointed out to-day, although from that

memorable Tuesday in the spring of 1820 up to the Mardi-Gras of 1891,

every anniversary of the Mystic Krewe has been duly celebrated by a

fantastic band that at a certain hour of the night parades the streets

of New Orleans. I do not refer to the regular carnival societies. These

are but playful imitations of mystery. The genuine Krewe, as weirdly,

strange and mysterious as ever, may be seen only on Royal Street, a

small band headed by a tall, slender, dark man, who wears an invisible

mask and a quaint black velvet cap. Where they come from nobody has ever

been able to discover. Who they are is not known even to the great Rex,

the king of the Carnival.

Hepworth Coleman and Mlle. Olympe de Caumartin were married in due time

and lived on Royal Street all their lives. Every year on the evening of

Mardi-Gras, they were called upon to give dinner to the Mystic Krewe,

thirteen in number, who ate in silence with their masks on. The last of

these dinners was in 1860. That year saw the twain, who for forty years

had been happy together, laid in their tomb side by side.

Strangely enough there is no record whatever of Judge Favart de

Caumartin's death; indeed, there is a tradition to the effect that he it

is who still leads the Mystic Krewe.

STRANGE ADVENTURES OF A MILLION DOLLARS.

BY INGERSOLL LOCKWOOD.

Old New Yorkers may remember Dingee's famous Club House in lower Greene

Street. From 1800 to 1850 it was the most fashionable gambling house in

the metropolis, its founder, Alphonse Dingee, having been the first to

introduce _roulette_ and _rouge et noir_ into the new world. It was in

1850 or a little later that ill health obliged his son Cyrill to sell

the business out. He retired to his country seat at Bricksburg, quite a

palatial residence for those days, where he died shortly after, leaving

a round million dollars and one child, a daughter, Daisy. Spite of the

fact that she was popularly known throughout the country as the

"gambler's daughter," there were several respectable young men in the

place who would have been only too happy to administer an estate worth a

round million with Daisy thrown in for better or worse.

But Daisy Dingee knew what she wanted, and it was nothing more nor less

than an alliance with the most aristocratic family in the country, to

wit: the Delurys, whose large white mansion at the other end of the town

was as tumble-down and shabby looking as Daisy's was neat, fresh, and

well kept. Miss Dingee, therefore, proceeded to throw herself at the

head of one Monmouth Delury, mentally and physically a colorless sort of

an individual, who, for want of sufficient intellect to make an honest

living, passed his time going to seed with the thousand or so acres of

land belonging to him and his maiden sisters, Hetty, Prudence, and

Martha, three women who walked as stiff as they talked, although they

never were known to discuss any subject other than the Delury family.

When Daisy's proposition was made known to them they tried to faint, but

were too stiff to fall over, and were obliged to content themselves with

gasping out:

"What! Daisy Dingee marry our brother, the head of the Delury family!"

But it was the first idea that had ever entered the brother's head, and

he clung to it with a parent's affection for his first born. In a few

months Mr. and Mrs. Monmouth Delury set out for Paris with that

proverbial speed with which Americans betake themselves to the French

capital when occasion offers. They found it a much pleasanter place than

Bricksburg. Delury improved rapidly and Daisy fell quite in love with

him, made her will in his favor, contracted the typhoid fever and died.

Whereupon the really disconsolate widower sent for his three sisters to

join him. They had but one objection to going, that was to part company

with the dear old homestead, but they overcame it the day after

receiving Monmouth's letter, which happened to be a Friday, and took the

Saturday's steamer.

To confess the truth, the Delurys had been so land-poor that their spare

aristocratic figures were rather the result of necessity than

inclination. Six months of Paris life under the benign protection of

Dingee's round million made different women of them. It was wonderful

what a metamorphosis Parisian dressmakers and restaurateurs effected in

their figures. They became round and plump. They stopped talking about

Bricksburg, signed themselves the Misses Delury of New York, enrolled

themselves as patrons of art, gave elegant dinners, and in a very short

time set up pretensions to being the leaders of the American colony.

But remorseless fate was at their heels. _Figaro_ unearthed the secret

of old Dingee's million, and the Delurys suddenly found themselves the

sensation of Paris, the butt of ridicule in the comic papers. Monmouth

had been in poor health for several months, and this killed him.

Dingee's million was now in the eye of the law divided up among his

three sisters, but fate willed it otherwise, for the following year

Hetty, the eldest, died of Roman fever, and six months later Prudence

fell a victim to rat poison in a small hotel at Grasse, City of

Delightful Odors, in the south of France, whither she had gone in search

of balmy air for her sister Martha, who had suddenly developed symptoms

of consumption.

Left thus alone in the world with old Dingee's million and an incurable

ailment, Martha's only ambition was to reach Bricksburg and die in the

old white Delury mansion. It seemed to her that its great spacious rooms

would enable her to breathe more easily and to fight death off for

possibly another year.

But it was not to be. She got as far as Paris when old Dingee's million

again changed hands, going this time by will to Martha's only relatives,

twin brothers, John and William Winkletip, produce dealers in Washington

street, New York.

The will was a peculiar one, as was to be expected:

I give, devise, and bequeath all the property popularly known as

the "Dingee Million" to my cousins John and William Winkletip,

produce dealers of New York, as joint tenants for their lives and

the life of each of them, with remainder over to the eldest son of

the survivor, his heirs and assigns forever; provided, that said

remainder man shall be of full age at the time of his father's

decease, and shall thereupon enter the ministry of the Methodist

Episcopal Church and devote his life and the income of this estate

to the encouragement of legislative enactment throughout the United

States for the suppression of gambling and wager laying.

In default of such male heir, the Dingee million was to be divided up

among certain religious and eleemosynary institutions.

When the cablegram from Paris informing them of their extraordinary luck

reached the Winkletip Brothers, they were down in the cellar of the old

tenement which served as their place of business, with their long jean

coats on, busily engaged in sorting onions. As the Winkletips were only

a little past fifty, and as strong as hickory knobs, their families were

quite satisfied to get only a life estate in the Dingee million, for,

barring accidents, the brothers had twenty-five or thirty years to live

yet.

True, Brother John had a son, Cyrus, who would soon be of age, but he

was a worthless wight, whose normal condition was alcoholic stupor,

barely characterized with sufficient lucidity to enable him to

distinguish rotten vegetables from sound.

"He will die years before his father," every one remarked, "and then the

gambler's money will go where it ought to go."

There had been a fire next door to the Winkletips about the time the

good news had arrived from Paris; a huge warehouse had burned down,

leaving a brick wall towering sixty feet above the old wooden tenement

in which the brothers did business. They had given notice to the

authorities; but the inspectors had pronounced the wall perfectly safe.

So the two brothers continued to come and go, in their best Sunday

clothes, however, for they were only engaged in settling up the old

business.

Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the huge wall fell with a

terrific crash upon the wooden tenement, crushing it like an egg-shell.

When the two brothers were taken out from the ruins, John was pronounced

dead and a coroner's permit was given to remove him to a neighboring

undertaker's establishment. William lived six hours, conscious to the

last and grateful to an all-wise Providence that his worthless nephew

would now be excluded from any control over the Dingee million.

John Winkletip was a grass widower, his wife, an Englishwoman, having

abandoned him and returned to England, and for many years he had made

his home with his only other child, a widowed daughter, Mrs. Timmins,

who was openly opposed to many of her father's peculiar notions, as she

termed them, one of which was his strong advocacy of cremation; he being

one of the original stockholders and at the time of his death a director

of the Long Island Cremation Society.

Consequently Mrs. Timmins gave orders that immediately after the

coroner's inquest, her father's body should be removed to her residence

in Harlem, but as the officers of the Cremation Society held the

solemnly executed direction and authorization of their late friend and

associate to incinerate his remains, they were advised by the counsel of

their corporation that such an instrument would justify them in taking

possession of the remains at the very earliest moment possible and

removing it to the crematory.

Warned by the undertakers of Mrs. Timmins' threatened interference, they

resolved not to risk even the delay necessary to procure a burial

casket; in fact it would be a useless expense, anyway, and consequently

John Winkletip began his last ride on earth lying in the cool depths of

the undertaker's ice box.

As Mrs. Timmins's cab turned into Washington Street she met a hearse,

but not until she had reached the undertaker's establishment was her

suspicion transformed into certainty by being told that her father's

body was already on its way to the crematory.

Mrs. Timmins was a long-headed woman. She knew the uncertainties of cab

transportation through the crowded streets below Canal, and dismissing

her cab at the Chambers Street station of the Third Avenue Elevated, she

was soon speeding on her way to the Long Island City ferry.

This she reached just as a boat was leaving the slip. Misfortune number

one. When she finally reached the Long Island side, she threw herself

into the carriage nearest at hand, crying out:

"To the crematory! Five dollars extra if you get me there in time!"

It was not many minutes before Mrs. Timmins became aware of the fact

that the horse was next to worthless, and could scarcely be lashed into

a respectable trot. Mrs. Timmins was nearly frantic. Every minute her

head was thrust out of the window to urge the hackman to greater speed.

There was but one consoling thought--the hearse itself might get blocked

or might have missed a boat!

As again and again her head was thrust out of the carriage window her

hair became disheveled, for she had removed her hat, and the

superstitious Hibernian on the box was upon the point of abandoning his

post at sight of the wild and crazed look presented by Mrs. Timmins. Was

she not some one's ghost, making this wild and mysterious ride?

But the promise of an extra five dollars kept the man at his post.

Suddenly a cry of joy escaped Mrs. Timmins's lips. The hearse was just

ahead of them; but its driver had the better horses, and half suspecting

that something was wrong, he whipped up vigorously and disappeared in a

cloud of dust. Mrs. Timmins's horse was now as wet as if he had been

dipped into the river, and she expected every minute to see him give

out; but, strange to say, he had warmed up to his work, and now, in

response to the driver's urging, broke into a run.

Again Mrs. Timmins caught a glimpse of the black coach of death in the

dust clouds ahead of her. The race became every instant more exciting.

It was a strange sight, and instinctively the farmers, in their

returning vegetable wagons, drew aside to let them pass. Once more the

hearse disappeared in the dust clouds. This was the last Mrs. Timmins

saw of it until she drew up in front of the crematorium. There it stood,

with its black doors thrown wide open. She had come too late! Her

father's body had already been thrust into the fiery furnace.

The antagonism of Winkletip's family to his views concerning the

cremation of the dead was an open secret with every attache of the

society, and the men in charge were determined that the society should

come out the winner. They were on the lookout for the body. Everything,

to the minutest detail, was in readiness. The furnace had been pushed to

its greatest destroying power, and hence was it that haste overcame

dignity when the foam-flecked and panting horses of the undertaker drew

up in front of the entrance of the crematory.

The ice-chest was snatched from the hearse, borne hurriedly into the

furnace-room, set upon the iron platform, wheeled into the very center

of the white flames, whose waving, curling, twisting tongues seemed

reaching out to their fullest length, impatient for their prey, and the

iron doors slammed shut with a loud, resounding clangor.

At that instant a woman, hatless and breathless, with disheveled hair,

burst into the furnace-room.

"Hold! Hold!" she shrieked, and then her hands flew to her face, and

staggering backward and striking heavily against the wall, she sank,

limp and lifeless, in a heap on the stone floor of the furnace-room.

But the two men in charge had neither eyes nor ears for Mrs. Timmins. As

the doors closed they sprang to their posts of observation, in front of

the two peep-holes, and stood watching the effect of the flames upon the

huge ice-chest.

Its wooden covering parted here and there with a loud crack, laying bare

the metal case, from the seams of which burst fitful puffs of steam. Now

came a sight so strange and curious that the two men held their breath

as they gazed upon it! By the vaporizing of the water from the melted

ice the flames were pushed back from the chest, and it lay there for an

instant, as if protected by some miraculous aura.

Then happened something which caused the men to reel and stagger as if

their limbs were paralyzed by drink, and which painted their faces with

as deep a pallor as death's own hand could have laid upon them.

From the furnace depths came forth a dull, muffled cry of "Help! Help!"

Making a desperate effort, the men tore open first the outer and then

the inner doors of the fire chamber. As the air rushed in, the lid of

the metal chest burst silently open. Again the cry of "Help!" rang out,

and two hands quivered for an instant above the edge of the chest, then

with a loud and defiant roar the flames closed in upon it, and began to

lick it up ravenously. The doors were banged shut, and John Winkletip

had his way.

But the Dingee million seemed to draw back instinctively from the touch

of the worthless Cy Winkletip.

With loud cries of joy, the various beneficiaries under Martha Delury's

will now discovered that Cyrus Winkletip was born on the 11th day of

August, and that as his father had departed this life on the 10th day of

August, the son was not of full age when his father died. But the law

put an end to this short-lived joy by making known one of its curious

bits of logic, which so often startle the layman.

It was this: The law takes no note of parts of a day, and therefore as

Cyrus Winkletip was of age on the first minute of his twenty-first

birthday, he was also of age on the last minute of the day

before--consequently on the first minute of the day before he was

twenty-one!

This gave the Dingee million to Cy Winkletip!

Under constant and stringent surveillance and tutelage, Cy Winkletip

was, after several years of as close application as was deemed safe in

view of his weak mental condition, admitted to the ministry in

accordance with the provisions of Miss Delury's will.

At last the wicked Dingee million seemed safely launched upon its task

of undoing the wrong it had done; but Cy Winkletip's mind ran completely

down in five years and he died a wretched slavering, idiot.

Mrs. Timmins was inclined to warn off the Dingee million with a gesture

of horror; but, yielding to the solicitation of her friends, she

consented to take title in order that she might create a trust with it

for some good and noble purpose. To this end, by a last will and

testament she created and endowed the American Society for the

Suppression of Gambling and Wager-laying, and then died.

The trustees at once began to erect the buildings called for, but before

the society had had an opportunity to suppress a single gaming

establishment, the lawyers, at the prayer of Mrs. John Winkletip, Mrs.

Timmin's mother, fell tooth and nail upon the trust, which was declared

too "vague, shadowy, and indefinite to be executed," and the Dingee

million, its roundness now sadly shrunken, made its way across the ocean

to Mrs. John Winkletip, of Clapham Common, London.

She died last year and with her the wanderings of the Dingee million

came to an end. She willed it to trustees for building and maintaining a

Hospital for Stray Dogs and Homeless Cats, and those learned in the law

say that the trust will stand.

A LOST DAY.

BY EDGAR FAWCETT.

"My Family," John Dalrymple would say, "have the strange failing (that

is, nearly all of them except myself, on the paternal side) of----"

And then somebody would always try to interrupt him. At the Gramercy,

the small but charming club of which he had been for years an honored

member, they made a point of interrupting him when he began on his

family failing. Not a few of them held to the belief that it was a myth

of Dalrymple's imagination. Still, others argued, all of the clan except

John himself had been a queer lot; there was no real certainty that they

had not done extraordinary acts. Meanwhile, apart from his desire to

delve among ancestral records and repeat tales which had been told many

times before, he was a genuine favorite with his friends. But that

series of family anecdotes remained a standing joke.

They all pitied him when it became known that his engagement to the

pretty winsome widow, Mrs. Carrington, was definitely broken. He was

past forty now, and had not been known to pay serious court to any woman

before in at least ten years. Of course Mrs. Carrington was rich. But

then her money could not have attracted Dalrymple, for he was rich

himself, in spite of his plain way of living there in that small

Twenty-second Street basement house.

But the widow's money had doubtless lured to her side the gentleman who

had cut poor Dalrymple out. A number of years ago, when this little

occurrence which we are chronicling took place, it was not so easy as it

is now to make sure of a foreigner's credentials and antecedents. The

Count de Pommereul, a reputed French nobleman of high position, had

managed to get into the Gramercy as a six-months' member, and had

managed also to cross the thresholds of numerous select New York

drawing-rooms. At the very period of his introduction to Mrs. Carrington

her engagement with Dalrymple had already become publicly announced.

Then, in a few weeks, society received a shock. Dalrymple was thrown

over, and it transpired that the brilliant young widow was betrothed to

the Count.

Dalrymple, calm and self-contained, had nothing to say on the subject of

why he had received such shabby treatment, and nobody ventured to

interrogate him. Some people believed in the Count, others thought that

there was a ring of falsity about him, for all his frame was so

elegantly slender and supple, for all his mustache was so glossily dark,

and his eyes so richly lustrous. Dalrymple meanwhile hid his wound, met

the Count constantly at the Club, though no longer even exchanging bows

with him, and--worked at his revenge in secret as a beaver works at the

building of his winter ranch. He succeeded, too, in getting superb

materials for that revenge. They surprised even himself when a few

relatives and friends in Paris mailed him appalling documentary evidence

as to what sort of a character this Count really was. There is no doubt

that he now held in his hand a thunderbolt, and had only to hurl it when

he pleased.

He did not tell a single soul what he had learned. The thought of just

how he should act haunted him for several days. One evening he went home

from the club a little earlier than usual, and tossed restlessly for a

good while after going to bed. When sleep came it found him still

irresolute as to what course he should take.

It seemed to him that he had now a succession of dreams, but he could

recall none of them on awaking. And he awoke in a peculiar way. There

was yet no hint of dawn in the room, and only the light from his gas,

turned down to a very dim star. He was sitting bolt upright in bed, and

feverish, fatigued sensations oppressed him. "What have I been

dreaming?" he asked himself again and again. But as only a confused

jumble of memories answered him, he sank back upon the pillows, and was

soon buried in slumber.

It was past nine o'clock in the morning when he next awoke. He felt

decidedly better. Both the feverishness and the fatigue had left him. He

went to the club and breakfasted there. It was almost empty of members,

as small clubs are apt to be at that hour of the morning. But in the

hall he met his old friend Langworth and bowed to him. Langworth, who

was rather near-sighted, gave a sudden start and a stare. "How odd,"

thought Dalrymple, as he passed on into the reading-room, "I hope

there's nothing unexpected about my personal appearance." Just at the

doorway of the room he met another old friend, Summerson, a man

extremely strict about all matters of propriety. Summerson saw him and

then plainly made believe that he had not seen. As they moved by one

another Dalrymple said lightly, "Good-morning, old chap. How's your

gout?"

Summerson, who was very tall and excessively dignified, gave a comic

squirm. Then his eyelids fluttered and with the tips of his lips he

murmured, "Better," as he glided along.

"Pooh," said Dalrymple to himself. "Getting touchy, I suppose, in his

old age. How longevity disagrees with some of us mortals."

He nearly always took a bottle of seltzer before breakfast, and this

morning old Andrew (a servant who had been in the club many years)

poured it out for him.

"I hope you're all right again this mornin', sorr," said Andrew with his

Celtic accent and in an affable half whisper.

"All right, Andrew," was the reply. "Why, you must be thinking of some

one else. I haven't been ill. My health has been excellent for a long

time past."

"Yes, sorr," said Andrew, lowering his eyes and respectfully retiring.

That last "Yes, sorr," had a dubious note about its delivery that almost

made Dalrymple call the faithful old fellow back and further question

him. "All right again?" As if he had ever been all wrong! Oh, well, poor

Andrew was ageing; others had remarked that fact months ago.

A different servant came to announce breakfast. There were only about

five men in the dining-room as Dalrymple entered it. All of them gazed

at him in an unusual way, or had late events led him to think that they

did so? At the table nearest him sat Everdell, one of the jolliest men

in the club, a person whose face was nearly always wreathed in smiles.

"Good-morning!" said Dalrymple, as he caught Everdell's eye!

"Good-morning!" The tones were replete with mild consternation, and the

look that went with them was smileless to the degree of actual gloom.

Then Everdell, who had just finished his breakfast, rose and drew near

to Dalrymple.

"'Pon my word," he said, "I'm delighted to see you all right again so

soon."

"All right again so soon?" was the reply. "What in mercy's name do you

mean?"

"Oh, my dear old fellow," began Everdell, fumbling with his watch-chain,

"it was pretty bad, you know, yesterday."

"Pretty--bad--yesterday?"

"I saw you in the morning, and for an hour or so in the afternoon.

Perhaps no one would have noticed it if you hadn't stayed here all day,

and poured those confidences into people's ears about De Pommereul. You

didn't appear to have drank a drop in the club; there's the funny part

of it. You went out several times, though, and came back again. All that

you had to drink (except some wine here at dinner, you remember) you

must have got outside. I wasn't here at ten o'clock when De Pommereul

came in. I'm glad I wasn't. You must have been dreadful. If Summerson

and Joyce hadn't rushed in between you and the Count, heaven knows what

would have happened. As it is----"

At this point Dalrymple broke in with cold harshness: "Look here,

Everdell, I always disliked practical jokes, and I've known for a number

of years that you're given to them. You've never attempted to make me

your butt before, however, and you'll have the kindness to discontinue

any such proceeding now."

Everdell drew back for a moment, frowned, shrugged his shoulders, and

then muttering, "Oh, if you're going to put it in that way," strode

quickly out of the dining-room.

Dalrymple scarcely ate a morsel of breakfast. After he had gulped down

some hot coffee he repaired to the reading-room. As he re-entered it a

waiter handed him several letters. One, which he opened first, was

marked "immediate," and had been sent him from his own house by an

intelligent and devoted woman servant there, who had been for a long

period in his employ. This letter made poor Dalrymple's head swim as he

read it. Written and signed by Mr. Summerson himself, as chairman of the

house committee of the club, it ordered him to appear that same evening

before a meeting of the governors and answer to a charge of disorderly

conduct on the previous night. Then it went on to state that he

(Dalrymple) had been seen throughout the previous day at the club in a

state of evident intoxication, and had, finally, between the hours of 10

and 11 P. M., accosted and grossly insulted the Count de Pommereul in

the main drawing-room of the Gramercy.

"Disorderly conduct," "evident intoxication," "grossly insulted the

Count de Pommereul." These words were trembling on Dalrymple's lips as

he presently approached Summerson himself, the very gentleman who had

signed the letter, and who stood in the hall, arrayed for the street.

"What--what does it all mean?" gasped Dalrymple. "I--I never was

intoxicated in my life, Lawrence Summerson; you ought to know that! I

played euchre last night, up in the card-room, from nine o'clock till

twelve, with Ogden and Folsom and yourself. If there's any practical

joke being got up against me, for God's sake----"

"Wait a minute, please," said Summerson. He went back into the

coat-room, disarrayed himself of his street wraps, and finally joined

Dalrymple. His first words, low and grave, ran thus: "Can it be possible

you don't recollect that our game of euchre was played the night before

last and not last night?" Then he went with Dalrymple into a corner of

the reading room, and they talked together for a good while.

Dalrymple went back to his home that day in a mental whirl. It still

wanted a number of hours before the Governing Committee would meet. He

had lost a day out of his life--there could be no doubt of that. If he

had moved about the Club at all yesterday with a drunken manner,

reviling De Pommereul to everybody who would lend him an ear--if he had

afterward met De Pommereul in the Club and directed toward him in loud

and furious tones a perfect torrent of accusation--he himself was

completely, blankly ignorant.

For a good while he sat quite still and thought. Then he summoned Ann,

the elderly and very trustworthy Ann, who had been his dear mother's

maid, and was now his housekeeper. He questioned Ann, and after

dismissing her he pondered her answers. Three times yesterday she had

seen him, and regarding his appearance Ann had her distinct opinions.

Suddenly a light flashed upon Dalrymple while he sat alone and brooded.

He sprang up and a cry, half of awe, half of gladness, left his lips.

The baffling problem had been solved!

That evening he presented himself before the Governing Committee. All

assembled were sorry for him. Of course, punishment must be dealt, but

for an old and popular member like Dalrymple it must not be expulsion.

The general feeling of the Club had indeed already been gauged, and it

was in favor of suspension for six months or a year at the farthest.

Dalrymple, however, was determined that he should be visited with no

punishment at all. And he meant to state why.

The judges, as he faced them, all looked politely grim. The President,

after a few suave preliminaries, asked Dalrymple if he had anything to

say concerning the charges preferred against him. Dalrymple then

proceeded to speak with a clear voice and composed demeanor.

His first sentences electrified his hearers. "I have no possible

recollection of yesterday," he began, "and it is precisely as much of a

lost day to me as though I had lain chloroformed for twenty-four hours.

On Wednesday night I returned home from this club and went to rest. I

never really woke until Friday, possibly a little while after midnight,

and then within my own bed. On Thursday morning I must have risen in a

state of somnambulism, hypnotism, mental aberration, whatever you

please, and not come to myself until Thursday had passed, and I had once

more retired. Of what yesterday occurred I therefore claim to have been

the irresponsible agent, and to have become so through no fault of my

own. I am completely innocent of the misdemeanors charged against me,

and I now solemnly swear this, on my word of honor as a gentleman."

Here Dalrymple paused. The members of the committee interchanged glances

amid profound silence. On some faces doubt could be read, but on others

its veriest opposite. The intense stillness had become painful when

Dalrymple spoke again.

"I had hoped that I should escape throughout my own lifetime all

visitations of this distressing kind. My grandfather and two of my

uncles not only walked in their sleep to an alarming degree, but were

each subject to strange conditions of mind, in which acts were performed

by them that they could not possibly remember afterward." Here the

speaker paused, soon continuing, however, in a lower and more reflective

tone:

"Yes, my family have had the strange failing (that is, nearly all of

them except myself, on the paternal side) of----"

But he said no more. The tension was loosened, and a great roar of

laughter rose from the whole committee. How often every man there had

joked him about that marvelous budget of stories which he infallibly

began one way and one way only! And when the familiar formula sounded

forth, it was all the funnier to those who heard it because of the

solemn, judicial circumstances in which it again met their hearing.

The plaintiff was honorably acquitted. As for De Pommereul, as every

word that Dalrymple had said concerning his past life in France happened

to be perfectly true, the Count never reappeared at the Gramercy. His

engagement with Mrs. Carrington was soon afterward broken off by the

lady herself, and for a good while it was rumored that this lady had

repentantly made it optional with Dalrymple whether he should once more

become her accepted sweetheart.

But Dalrymple remained a bachelor. He is quite an old man now, yet he

may be found in the card-room of the Gramercy nearly every evening. He

is very willing to tell you the story of his "lost day" if you ask him

courteously for it, and not in any strain of fun-poking; but he attempts

no more voluntary recitals on the subject of his "family's" maladies or

mishaps.

A TRAGEDY OF HIGH EXPLOSIVES.

BY BRAINARD GARDNER SMITH.

I.

In the course of my work last year I had occasion to go over a file of

old Liverpool newspapers, and thus came upon a remarkable paragraph in

the ship news. Translated out of the language of commerce, it was to the

effect that the good ship _Empress_, just arrived from Australia,

reported that while rounding the Cape of Good Hope she had been driven

southward far out of her course by a storm; and that away down in the

Southern Atlantic had sighted a vessel drifting aimlessly about. The

first mate boarded her, and, returning, reported that the derelict was

the ship _Albatross_. That she had been abandoned was plain, for all the

boats were gone, and so were the log and the ship's instruments. On the

deck, close by the companion hatch, lay two bodies, or rather skeletons,

clad in weather-rotted garments, that showed them to have been man and

woman. These bodies were headless, but the heads were nowhere to be

found on the deserted deck. The mate found on the cabin table an open

book, with writing on its pages. A pen lay on the table, and a small

inkstand, in which the ink had evidently long since dried. The book was

evidently a journal or diary, so the mate reported, and he put it in his

pocket, meaning to carry it aboard the _Empress_; but when he was

getting down into his small boat the book slipped from his pocket,

dropped into the water and sunk. The _Albatross_ was badly water-logged,

and, he thought, could not have floated much longer. To this report the

editor of the paper added a note saying that the readers would all

doubtless remember that the _Albatross_ had sailed from Liverpool

several years before, bound for Australia, and it was thought to have

gone down with all on board, as no news of her had since been received.

That was the substance of the remarkable paragraph. What was almost as

remarkable to me, a newspaper man, was that the Liverpool paper had

evidently made no effort to learn the owners of the _Albatross_, the

name of her captain and crew, or whether or not she carried any

passengers. I carefully searched files to see if there was any further

reference to the case. There was none. After the manner of his kind, the

editor of the paper had, so it seemed, taken it for granted that his

intelligent readers "would remember" all the particulars that they

wanted to know.

I was much impressed by the paragraph. My professional instinct told me

that there was a good newspaper story there, and I was disgusted that

any editor could let it go untold. I also experienced more than usual

curiosity to know how those headless bodies came there, or rather, why

they should lie there on the deck headless. Then there was that journal

that had been found lying open on the cabin table, as though the writer

had been interrupted in the writing which had never been finished. What

light might that little book not throw on the mystery? And now it was

lying fathoms deep in the Southern Atlantic. Of what use to speculate

over the matter. Thanks to the careless mate and the stupid editor, that

mystery would remain forever unsolved. But in spite of reason I did

speculate considerably over the matter, and, try as I did, could not

banish the story from my mind.

A few weeks after that I went into Northern Vermont to report the Benton

murder trial, which was attracting much more than local attention. I was

pleased to find that the prosecuting attorney was an old classmate of

mine, George Judson. I had known him pretty well as a hard-working and

remarkably bright man, with a curious streak in his mental make-up that

led him to investigate every new "ism" that appeared. We used to call

him a Spiritualist, and, had the word been in use, I am sure would have

called him a crank. He was five years older than I, had married

immediately after graduating, had prospered as a lawyer, and now had a

good home for his wife and two children. He seemed much pleased to renew

the acquaintance of college days, and insisted that I should make his

house my home during my stay in the town.

One Saturday evening as we sat in his comfortable library smoking after

dinner, Judson said, with some apparent hesitation:

"There's going to be a show here this evening that may interest you."

"Yes?"

"Yes. There's a woman living here who does some remarkable things when

in a trance. There are a few of us who are curious about such things,

and I've asked her and them here to my house this evening."

"What is it?" I asked lightly; "the cabinet act?"

Judson looked a trifle hurt. "Yes," he answered, slowly, "she's a

medium, and you newspaper men have said that she's a fraud. But I've

seen manifestations that I can't explain on any theory other than that

they were the work of higher powers, and I'm going to look into it

further."

The same old Judson, I thought. He was evidently more in earnest than

his assumed indifference indicated. I marveled that the shrewd,

successful lawyer could be so easily deluded, for I was sure that he was

deluded. I had attended many a seance, and had helped to expose more

than one medium, and knew that the whole matter of manifestations was

nothing but a more or less clumsy juggle. But I kept my thoughts to

myself--experience had taught me that when it was known that there was

present at a seance a pronounced unbeliever in that phase of

Spiritualism, the "conditions" were usually "unfavorable" for a

"manifestation." So I said that I should be glad to see the "show," as

he called it. Then I encouraged Judson to talk, and he talked well. From

mediums and cabinets, and manifestations and the ways of spirits

generally, our conversation drifted to the marvelous and the mysterious,

and finally I told the story of the _Albatross_ and the headless

skeletons. Judson was much impressed by the story. He joined me in

anathematizing the careless mate of the _Empress_ and the stupid editor

of the Liverpool paper. His lifelong habit of seeking to know the

unknowable, re-enforced by the detective instinct that is developed in

every good lawyer as well as newspaper man, made him unnaturally anxious

to solve the mystery. The thought came to me just then that if

Spiritualism was good for anything it would be in such a case. What I

said was, "I have often wondered whether the peculiar power of the

trance medium might not be employed in such cases. Now, is it impossible

that that journal found on the _Albatross_, and which I believe contains

the solution of our mystery, should be materialized for us here?"

Judson jumped at the idea. "Yes, yes," he said hurriedly, "it shall

be--it must be. How fortunate!" He spoke with such earnestness and

confidence that I showed my surprise in my face. I also voiced it.

"You talk as though the thing were already accomplished. My experience

with mediums has led me to consider them a trifle unreliable, but you

seem to be sure of this one."

"Not of the medium but of myself. I had better tell you now what but one

other living person knows--that I have a very peculiar power. I don't

attempt to explain it, but it is no less a fact. I seem to be able, by

mere force of will, to control certain persons. This medium is one of

them. I have never been able to produce any results unaided, but more

than once have I thought into visible form those who had long before

died."

The same old story you see. Judson was apparently an out-and-out

Spiritualist, ready to be humbugged by the first shrewd trickster that

came along. He went on:

"Now, this evening you will see a remarkable woman; I have been able to

control her in a remarkable way. I confess that I had never thought of

seeking the materialization of an inanimate object. But I believe that

it can be done. It shall be done. We shall have that journal this

night."

I was almost convinced by my friend's absolute confidence; then saddened

by the thought that this usually hard-headed, keen young lawyer had such

a weak spot in his brain. He was the last man you would expect to be

deluded by the tricks of the medium. At the same time I found myself, in

spite of my skepticism, wondering what would come of it all. That

evening I was seated in Judson's large parlor, one of about twenty

persons of the sort usually seen at such seances; the Spiritualists of

the place, I thought. The room had been arranged after the fashion

customary. There was an improvised cabinet in one corner, chairs in a

semi-circle in front of it, not too near. Judson seemed a sort of master

of ceremonies, passing in and out, greeting newcomers, whispering a word

here and there. He was pale, I thought, and seemed rather pre-occupied.

We waited perhaps a quarter of an hour, and then Judson ushered into the

room a tall, slender woman, middle-aged, gray-haired, with rather

strongly marked features and dark eyes that had a tired look. She seemed

a person of nerves. A trifle above the average medium in appearance of

intelligence and refinement, and with rather less of the self-assertive

boldness usually displayed by the women who make a business of communing

with spirits. There was no preliminary nonsense. She entered the cabinet

in a business-like way. Judson turned the gas down low, so that we were

in the dimmest sort of a dim religious light--just the light, I have

always observed, that seemed most congenial to spirits, or, rather, that

aided most effectually in the tricks played by the mediums. Then he sat

down by my side and said: "Let us all clasp hands."

I grasped with my left the fat hand of a large woman next to me, and

Judson seized my right with his left hand. It was quite cold, and I

thought trembled a little. He leaned over me and whispered in my ear: "I

am determined to see that journal to-night. If will can do it, it shall

be done. Join your will with mine. You are a man of will. Let us force

the powers to yield to our combined wills."

I was startled by the intensity of his manner more than by the words. In

spite of my half disgust at the whole proceedings, that were such an

exact repetition of more than one humbugging seance, I was forced into a

respectful attitude of mind, and at once became an interested assistant,

where a moment before I had been an unbelieving, critical observer. I

nodded my head, and Judson's grasp of my hand became firm.

Then there was complete silence for many moments. I bent all my mind to

the one thought that I would see that journal wherever in the large

world it might be. At first my thoughts would wander, but then it seemed

to me that Judson's grasp tightened and drew the desultory thought back

to the one subject of his own thoughts. I have considered this a good

deal since and conclude that Judson did, for the time at least, possess

some extraordinary power, possibly pure force of will. At all events, I

grew more and more determined to have my will done. Then there came a

calm voice from behind the curtain of the cabinet.

"What is your wish?"

No one spoke for a moment, and then a weak voice at my left said

something about a desire to see a child that had died, and another voice

expressed the wish to look upon the form of a departed husband. I was

too much occupied with my own thoughts to notice then that this was the

same old scene, enacted as at all the other seances. Again there was

perfect silence; it seemed interminable. I could hear the breathing of

the fat woman on my left. I could hear my watch ticking in my pocket. I

thought that I could hear my heart beat, but all the time there was the

firm pressure of the cold hand of my friend, and the constant thought,

now shaped into words and the words into a sentence, and that sentence

continually repeating itself until I seemed to hear that too: "I will

see that journal to-night."

And still that strange silence. The air in the room became close. Every

door and window had been carefully closed, and the breathing of twenty

or more persons had made large drafts on the oxygen. Suddenly a breath

fanned my cheek, then a stronger draught, and then a steady current of

air set against my face. I felt it move my hair, and it smelled of the

sea. It was salty. Yes, undoubtedly a strong, steady sea breeze was in

that room, and it brought with it the smell of a ship, tar and oakum and

pitch--the odor that arises when the sun beats hotly down upon the

unprotected deck and the boards shrink and the great pine masts feel the

fierce heat. But there was no heat; only at first that cool sea breeze

and then the patter of rain, seemingly on the floor of the room in which

we sat.

Then a low moan came from behind the curtains of the cabinet, and then

the sound of a heavy fall. At this some of the women shrieked weakly.

There was a general letting go of hands, and Judson sprang to the

cabinet and disappeared behind its folds. After an instant of silence we

heard his voice: "More light." I hastened to turn on the gas. Judson

pulled aside the curtains, and we saw that the woman was lying

outstretched on the floor.

"She has fainted," said Judson, calmly. "That is all. I believe that she

is subject to such attacks. I doubt, my friends, if we shall have any

manifestations to-night. May I ask you all to consider the meeting

adjourned? I will give our friend here all medical attention."

He spoke so calmly and with such authority that without a word the

little company passed out of the room and out of the house. Judson and I

raised the woman to a couch, and he brought water and bathed her face.

She opened her eyes, sighed deeply, and then sat up. There was a strange

scared look on her face.

"Where is it?" she asked faintly.

"Here," said Judson, and he drew from beneath his coat a small book and

handed it to her. She turned away with a shudder.

"No, no. Take it away. Take it away."

Judson handed it to me. "Will you kindly take this book to the library,"

said he; "I will join you in a moment."

I obeyed mechanically. Before going into the library I stepped to the

broad piazza and looked out into the night. The snow lay white on the

ground, stars twinkled in the frosty sky, it was very cold, and I could

hear the snow creak under the feet of passers-by, and yet I had felt

that sea breeze and heard the patter of rain. What did it mean? I

shivered, entered the warm house, turned the light high in the library,

shut the door, and not till then looked at the book in my hand. It was a

small blankbook about six inches long and four inches wide, well bound

in leather and thoroughly water-soaked. I opened it. The leaves were wet

and discolored, and I could see that the pages were covered with

writing. I turned to the fly-leaf and there read these words:

"Arthur Hartley's journal. Begun on board the ship _Albatross_, March 7,

1851."

I stood in a daze, glaring at the written words, utterly confounded. The

door opened and Judson entered hurriedly. His cheeks were now flushed,

his eyes fairly blazed with light, his face was bright with a smile of

triumph. "I knew it! I knew it!" he said loudly. "What a victory! What a

victory! Even Nature yields to the power of Will!"

He paced back and forth rapidly, showing no desire to see the book that

had come to us so strangely. Then he threw himself into a big chair,

lighted a cigar, puffed at it vigorously a moment, then became quiet,

looked intently at the glowing coals in the grate, and said calmly:

"Well, let's see what Mr. Hartley has to say for himself. Read the

journal, please."

I had been standing all this time by the table, with the little damp

book in my hand, and watching Judson curiously. I drew up a chair,

opened to the first page and began to read.

II.

March 7.--I begin this journal for two reasons. First, my dear mother

asked me to keep a record of my voyage and of my life, that she might

read it when I got back home. She thinks that I am coming home again. I

promised her to do so, but I shall never see England again. I hope the

day may come when I can take my dear mother to my Australian home, but I

shall never set foot on the island that holds the woman I hate, and that

holds so many women like her. In the second place, I want to write down

not only my impressions in this new experience, but my thoughts. I have

many of them. I want to see them spread out before me. We are now well

started on the voyage, five days out from Liverpool. Uncle John is still

ill enough, and says that he wants to die. Captain Raymond laughs at

him, and says that a little sea-sickness will do him good. I like

Captain Raymond. He is big and burly, and has a deep voice, and a heavy

brown beard. He's just the typical sea captain, an interesting person to

a man who saw the sea for the first time six days ago. I'm glad to find

that I'm a good sailor, and can thoroughly enjoy the new experiences

that present themselves in the beginning of the long voyage we have

started upon. I have written the word "enjoy"; let it stand. I thought I

never should have known enjoyment again, but I do. There's enjoyment in

the knowledge that each hour puts miles of ocean between me and the

woman that has spoiled my life. No, I won't admit that. She shan't have

the satisfaction of spoiling my life. She tried hard enough, God knows.

She played with my heart, much as though it were a mouse and she a cat.

She is a cat. A sleek, soft, purring cat, and with claws. I could eat

out my own heart when I think how she played with it. I was fair game

for this experienced coquette, and now I suppose she is boasting of

another conquest, telling of her victory over the simple country lad.

Well, let her enjoy her conquest while she may. The country boy will one

day come back with money enough to buy her and her purse-proud heart.

Yes, I will go back to England and I'll humble her at my feet. What rot

I'm writing. Mother, if you ever see these pages, read these words with

sympathy, as the idle ravings of a man well-nigh gone mad over a woman's

false beauty. I never told the story, even to you, my dear mother. I

dare say you guessed much of it. You know how Helen Rankine came down

from London to our quiet country home. You know how beautiful and

gracious she was. How kind and loving to you; how apparently frank and

friendly with me. She was the first woman I ever saw to whom I gave a

second thought, save you, dear mother. We rode and drove and chatted

together. She drew my very heart from me. I told her all my plans and

hopes and aspirations; of my love of the art to which I had devoted my

life; that I hoped to go to London and study, and then to Rome; that I

wanted to become a great painter. She was so full of hearty sympathy, so

kind, so womanly, that before I knew it she had me enslaved. For all the

graciousness and frankness and sympathy were but the means she used in

her heartlessness to enslave me. Then came a day, a day to be

remembered; a day like that when, beguiled by another beautiful fiend in

woman form, our first father, poor, foolish man, ate of the fruit of the

tree of the knowledge of good and evil, and so lost his paradise. I told

Helen of my love; and how I did love that woman! And she put on an

appearance of surprise, and squeezed a cold tear or two from her

beautiful eyes, and said that she thought I knew and understood. And

when half dazed I asked her what she meant, what it was that I was

thought to have known, she had to blush, and said that she had long been

engaged to her cousin, John Bruce, who was now with his regiment in

India, and that when he came home they were to be married. And then she

said something about my being so young and having a great career before

me, and that she should always be my friend and pray for my success. And

she stretched out her hand toward me. I think she must have seen the

hate in my face, for my great love turned to great hate even while she

spoke, and all the wholesome currents of my being seemed poisoned by the

supreme passion, and she turned pale, and her hand dropped, and I cursed

her.

March 10.--A call from Uncle John interrupted me the other day, and I

have had no heart to write since. My moods shame me. I wrote those words

with burning cheek and throbbing heart. I have just read them without an

emotion. Why can't I be a man, and not a silly, raving boy? Not that the

hate that burns in my heart is abating. It can never abate. It will grow

and grow, and keep me true to my purpose. No more mooning over art and

the hope of a great name; but hard work and money-making. Uncle John

promises us both fortunes. He feels confident that his explosive will

work such wonders in Australian mines that within ten years we can go

back to England rich beyond the dreams of avarice. But I shall never see

England again. No matter what I may have written here. Never shall I set

foot on the land that rears such women as the one I hate. Captain

Raymond was almost angry when he learned that in Uncle John's

innocent-looking boxes was a compound powerful enough to blow us all out

of the water. But he was somewhat reassured when uncle insisted that as

long as the _Albatross_ floated she and we were safe; for he says that

the explosive is only an explosive when wet. Captain Raymond said that

he'd try and keep it dry then, and he sent men into the hole where the

boxes were stored, and had them placed carefully in an unused cabin. We

are the only passengers. I made sure that no woman was to be on board

during the long voyage. I came near being disappointed in this, for

Captain Raymond tells me that his wife was to sail with him, and had

made all preparations, even to sending some boxes of clothing aboard,

when the sudden death of her father prevented her from going. I'm sure

I'm sorry that Mrs. Raymond's father is dead, but I'm very glad that

Mrs. Raymond is not on this ship. I don't want to look on woman's face,

nor hear woman's voice. There's but one woman to me in the wide world,

and, dear mother, forgive me if sometimes I cannot thank her for

bringing me into the world. You understand me, mother. You know what I

have suffered. You can sympathize with me when I say that I exult at the

thought that leagues of ocean lie between me and that other woman,

who----

March 12.--A strange thing has happened since I last wrote in this book.

As I was writing I heard quite a commotion on deck--cries of the

sailors, sharp orders from officers, and the tramping of feet. I rushed

on deck. Uncle John and the captain were standing on the poop, looking

intently across the water; the first mate was shouting orders that I

couldn't understand, and the crew were lowering the long boat.

"What's the matter?" I asked, joining uncle and the captain.

"There's a little boat adrift out yonder," answered Uncle John pointing,

"and the lookout says that there are a couple of bodies lying in it.

There, do you see it, on the top of that wave!"

I saw it; a mere shell it seemed, poised for a moment on the top of a

swell, and then sliding down into the trough of the sea, quite out of

sight. The long boat was soon lowered, and, guided by the cries of the

lookout, made straight for the little boat. It seemed very long before

it was reached, and then we saw the sailors make it fast to the long

boat and begin to pull slowly back toward the _Albatross_. It was slow

and hard work towing that boat, small as it seemed, through the rather

heavy sea. There was no sign of life in her. What was behind those low

gunwales? What were the men bringing to us? At length they came

alongside, and then we saw that there were two bodies lying there.

"A man and a woman, sir," called up the mate. "There's life in 'em both,

but precious little."

It was nice work getting the two boats alongside and the bodies out of

them and up to the deck; but it was done by the aid of slings, the woman

being brought up first. Uncle John, by virtue of his profession, gave

directions as to placing her on the deck, and then knelt by her side. I

stood aloof. Why had that woman come to us in mid-ocean! Why was it?

Fate?

"She is alive," cried Uncle John. "Captain, we must get her below at

once."

I glanced at the woman. Thick locks of matted black hair lay around a

face on which the sun and wind and the salt sea-water had done fearful

work. And yet those blackened and blistered features somehow had a

familiar look. Where had I seen them? I could not tell. Four sailors

carried her below and I turned to look at her companion, who had been

laid on the deck. Uncle John just took time to grasp his wrist and said,

"He's alive, too"; then he dropped the limp hand and hurried below.

Always the way. Women first. This dying man might get what attention he

could. The woman must be nursed back to life to deceive the first fool

that takes her fancy. I turned to the man, a common sailor evidently,

brawny and bearded. The mate was by his side, and together we did what

we could to nourish the spark of life that kept the pulse feebly

fluttering in the big brown wrist. It was afternoon when these two waifs

were found, and all night we fought with death. Now Uncle John says that

he thinks that they will live. Neither of them has spoken, but each has

taken a little nourishment and the pulse shows gaining strength. Captain

Raymond has turned his cabin over to the woman, and as I write uncle is

sitting by her side. For the time he has forgotten his wonderful

explosive. The old professional air has come back, and he is like the

Dr. Hartley of the days before he gave up medicine for chemical

investigation. The question continually repeats itself to me, What has

brought this woman here? Reason as I may, I feel, I know, that she has

come to me; to me who was happy in the thought of not seeing her kind

for months. Another question asks itself, Has she come for good or ill?

There can be but one answer to that question.

March 13.--The sailor whom we rescued gains strength fast. He was able

to talk a little to-day. Briefly told, his story, as far as I got it, is

that he was one of the crew of the _Vulture_, bound from England to

India with army stores and arms, including a large consignment of

powder. One day, he can't say how many days ago, the ship caught fire in

the hold. There were frantic and unavailing efforts made to get at the

flames and extinguish them; and then the order was given to flood the

hold, but before it could be executed there was a tremendous roar, and

the sailor knew nothing else until he found himself in the water

clinging to a fragment of the wreckage that strewed the sea. The ship

had been blown up and had sunk at once. Not far from him floated one of

the quarter-boats apparently uninjured. He managed to swim to it, and

clamber in. There he was able to stand up and look around him. At first

he could see no sign of life, but in another moment he heard a faint cry

behind him, and, turning, saw a woman clinging to a broken spar. With a

bit of broken board he paddled to her and got her into the boat. Like

himself, she was unharmed, save by the awful shock and fright. He

paddled around and around, but saw no further sign of life. Once a man's

body rose near the boat; rose slowly, turned, and sank again, and that

was the last they saw of the twoscore men that but a little moment

before had been full of life and vigor.

This much I heard the sailor tell, and then stopped him, for he was

tired. The woman still sleeps and has showed no signs of consciousness.

March 14.--The sailor, whose name is Richard Jones, was able to crawl

out on deck this morning. He completed his story. The young woman, he

said, was the only passenger on the _Vulture_. He did not know her name.

It had been talked among the crew that she was going out to her lover,

an officer in the Indian Army who had been wounded; that she would not

wait for the regular East Indiaman, but had managed to secure passage on

the _Vulture_. When she realized that she and the sailor, Jones, were

the only ones alive of all those that had been on the vanished ship, and

that they were quite alone on the ocean, in a small boat, without oars,

or sail, or food, or drink, she cried a little and wrung her hands and

became very quiet. She took her place in the bow, and there she sat.

Jones sat in the stern and paddled clear of the wreckage, and then,

using the piece of board for a rudder, kept the boat before the wind.

Luckily there was very little sea. He thought that they were in the

track of Indiamen, and so kept good hope. He tried to encourage the

young woman, but she seemed to prefer silence, and so he kept still.

Thus they drifted. The sun beat down upon their unprotected heads. They

began to want for water. They did not think so much of food as of water.

Jones doesn't know how long they were adrift. He doesn't know when the

girl lost consciousness. He remembers that one day she moaned a little,

and in the night he thought that he heard her whispering to herself. He

thought that she was praying, perhaps. Then he began to lose

consciousness. He remembers seeing a beautiful green field, with trees,

and a brook running through it. He says that men suffering from thirst

on the ocean often have such visions. He remembers nothing else until he

opened his eyes and saw me bending over him.

Uncle John reports no change in the condition of the young woman. She

lies in a stupor, apparently. The pulse daily grows stronger, he says,

and she swallows freely the nourishment administered.

III.

April 2.--It is more than two weeks since I wrote in my journal. I have

been ill--a sort of low fever that kept me in my cabin. Nothing serious,

Uncle John said, and so it has proved, except that I am very weak. Uncle

has been kind, but most of his time has been devoted to that woman. He

says that it is a very interesting case. She became conscious a few days

ago, and has gained strength since. She will be on deck in a day or two,

he thinks. I'm anxious to see her. I want to see if there really is

anything familiar in her face. It's fortunate for her that clothing of

Mrs. Raymond's is on board. She'd be in a plight, else. I asked Uncle

John what her name was. He looked queer, and said that he didn't know.

Strange that he hasn't asked her. The sailor, Jones, seems quite

recovered and has taken his place among the crew. We were rather

short-handed, and the captain was glad enough to have him. He can be of

service. But the woman can be nothing but a trouble, to me at least, for

I must see her daily, I suppose. And yet I am anxious to see her, too.

This fever has left me rather childish as well as weak.

April 3.--Thank God for these pages to which I can talk, else I should

go mad, I think. Could you read these words as they flow from my pen,

mother, you might well wonder whether I had not indeed gone mad. But I

will be quite calm while I tell of what fate, or Satan, or whatever evil

power it is, has done for me. I was sitting on the deck this morning,

still very weak, when I heard footsteps behind me, and Uncle John's

voice saying, "Good-morning, Arthur." I turned and saw him standing near

me, and leaning on his arm Helen Rankine! I write these words calmly

enough now. Can you imagine what I felt when I saw her? I staggered to

my feet, muttered some incoherent words, and would have fallen had not

Uncle John sprang to my side and caught me. "Why, what's the matter,

Arthur? Calm yourself, my boy. Is it possible that you know this young

lady?"

By a supreme effort of will, aided by the memory of that day when we

last parted, I drew myself up and bowed, and I said that I had had the

great honor of once knowing Miss Helen Rankine, and that I had had no

idea that it was she we were fortunate enough to have rescued.

Uncle looked at me in wonder as I said these words with sneering

politeness. The girl looked at me questioningly, but there was no shadow

of recognition on her face.

"Then your name is Helen Rankine?" said Uncle John kindly, turning

toward the girl and speaking as though to a little child.

A troubled look passed over her face, and then she said quietly, "I do

not know. I cannot remember."

"Do you know this gentleman, Mr. Arthur Hartley?" he asked in the same

kindly way.

Again the troubled look, an apparent effort to seize some elusive

thought, and then again the voice I knew so well, but now so unnaturally

calm:

"I do not know him."

I stood aghast at what seemed the consummate acting of a heartless and

conscienceless woman, and yet on the instant I saw that there was no

acting there. Let me stop a moment, mother, and describe her. You

remember how beautiful she was, with that rich, dark beauty you once

spoke of as "Italian." It was that beauty that enslaved me. You remember

that I have written of her appearance as she lay on the deck the day she

was saved. The days of illness and quiet in the cabin below had almost

obliterated all the ravages done by wind and sun and sea. The olive

cheeks were a little darker than of old, and the hands browner. The face

was not quite so pure an oval as when you saw it last; the color of lip

and cheek not quite so vivid. The large brown eyes had lost the sparkle

and the changing light that once pierced my boyish, foolish heart. Clad

in a simple gown, belted at the waist and hanging in folds to the deck,

her dark hair parted across her broad forehead and confined in a simple

knot, and with a strange calm on the face that once expressed her

varying moods as they came and went, she seemed to me to be another, a

better, an almost unearthly Helen, come to me here to atone for the

great wrong that she had done me; and, for the moment, I forgot my hate.

My uncle gave his arm to Helen, and they walked the deck while I watched

them. What did it mean, this failure of Helen to recognize me? Was I

right in thinking the girl to be Helen Rankine. Yes; I could not be

mistaken. That graceful walk, some of its old-time spring and elasticity

gone, to be sure, was the walk of Helen; the turn of the lovely neck;

the pose of the head were hers. Then the story of the sailor, Jones, the

fore-castle gossip that she was going out to India to join her

soldier-lover; how well it tallied with what she had told me on that

fatal day when she spurned my proffered love. But I would not dwell more

on that. I will not now. I must force myself to forget, just for a

little time, the past, that I may solve the mystery of the present. My

head throbs; my brain is in a whirl.

April 4.--After writing this I threw myself into my berth and tried to

think over clearly the strange occurrences of the day. I was aroused by

Uncle John asking me if I felt well enough to take a turn with him on

deck. I joined him at once, and we paced the deck without speaking. It

was a lovely night and the stars filled the heavens. At length Uncle

John said, "Arthur, here's a very remarkable case. This poor girl has

lost her memory completely, and no wonder, after her terrible

sufferings. She cannot remember an event that happened before she opened

her eyes in the cabin below. She can talk well, reads readily, shows the

breeding of a lady, but as far as the past is concerned, she might as

well be a week-old baby. You say that her name is Helen Rankine. Who is

Helen Rankine? Where did you meet her?"

Uncle John had never known why I was so ready to give up my dreams of

artist life and join him in his Australian scheme. I told him the whole

story of my infatuation for Helen and her heartless perfidy. He listened

intently. When I had finished, he said:

"My boy, let me say one thing, first of all. On your own evidence,

forming my opinion solely from what you have told me, I think you have

done a good girl injustice. I don't believe that Helen Rankine coquetted

with you. Like many a young fellow before you, you thought that the

frank friendliness of a young woman who looked upon you as a boy, though

perhaps not your senior in years, was encouragement to make love to her.

She thought that you knew of her engagement, so she said, and felt a

security that misled you. You are not the first lad that has had such an

experience and cursed all women, and vowed that he'd never trust one

again. I'll trot your children on my knee yet. Well, so much for the

Helen of the past. Now for the Helen of the present, for we might as

well call her Helen as anything else."

"But she is Helen; Helen Rankine. I can swear it," I interrupted.

"Well, well. So be it. I confess it looks so. I have taken a physician's

liberty, and examined her clothing for marks. I find it marked 'H. R.'"

"Isn't that proof enough?" I asked eagerly.

"Yes. I dare say it is. Still there are other girls whose initials are

H. R. You and I have our task. It is to try and lead this poor girl back

to the past. The awful experiences and sufferings of those days in the

boat have affected her brain. Whether beyond cure or not I know not. Now

remember, Arthur," and Uncle John looked at me seriously; "remember,

that even if this girl is the girl you think has wronged you, in fact

she is not the same girl. She knows no more of you than she knows of me,

whom she never saw in her life before. Another thing, if she is Helen

Rankine, she is engaged to John Bruce. Perhaps she wears his ring on her

finger. You and I as gentlemen are bound to do what we can to deliver

her to him as speedily as possible. And I pray God that we may see her

meet him in her right mind, the same free-hearted English girl that he

is now dreaming of."

I bowed my head, but could not say a word. Is Uncle John right, and have

I been a weak, blind fool of a boy, thinking that the girl, who was

merely kind, was encouraging me to love her? I feel my face burn at the

thought. I can't think clearly yet, but I see my duty.

April 10.--If I lacked proof of the girl's identity, I have it now.

Yesterday we sat together on the deck for hours, I trying gently to lead

her back to the past. Helen Rankine used to wear several valuable rings.

Now she wears but one. "You have a pretty ring," I said, pointing to her

hand! How white and dimpled it used to be. How I longed to catch it to

my lips, to kiss the pretty rosy-tipped fingers! Her hand! Now brown

with wind and sun, but still dimpled and rosy tipped. Like a child she

laid it in mine.

"Yes," she said, "it is a pretty ring."

"Where did you get it, Helen?" I asked.

"I don't remember," she said quietly.

"May I look at it?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," and she slipped it from her finger and laid it in my hand.

"What are these letters engraved within?" I asked.

"Are there letters there?" she said. "I didn't know it. So there are. To

H. R., from J. B. What does that mean?"

"Don't you know?" I asked. Oh, it was hard to see that calm face, to

hear that calm voice. Better the blush and silent avowal of love, even

for another, than that blank gaze.

"No. I do not know what those letters mean," she answered.

"Perhaps 'H. R.' stands for your own name," said I.

She smiled like a happy child. "Yes, yes. That must be it. But the 'J.

B.,' what do they stand for?"

I hesitated--who would not?

"Perhaps they stand for--for John Bruce," I said slowly, looking her

steadily in the eyes. She returned the gaze with the calm confidence of

a child.

"Who is John Bruce?" she asked. "I can't remember John Bruce."

My heart gave a great leap, then sank like lead. Am I then such a

villain that I rejoice at the thought that Helen Rankine has no memory

of her lover? Where is the hate that I boasted of? It has gone. It could

not live before the calm eyes of the girl by my side. But I had my duty

to do.

"John Bruce is in India, Helen," said I. "Don't you remember? And you

were going to him, and when you reached him you were to marry him. He

loves you dearly, and you loved him dearly. Can't you remember?"

The troubled look came to the dark eyes and ruffled the calm brow. A

faint flush passed across the rich, warm cheeks. Then, like a spoiled

child, she shook her head and said:

"No, no, no, no!" with a little pat of the foot and nod at the last

"No." "I do not know anything about it at all. I do not know John Bruce,

and of course I do not love him. How could I? But I know you, Arthur,

and I love you," and she laid her hand in mine, with a pretty smile.

I wonder if I'm the same man that set sail in the _Albatross_ six short

weeks ago? The Arthur Hartley then was a mad, foolish boy. The Arthur

Hartley now is a grave, serious man. I feel that years and years have

passed, instead of weeks. How much I am changed let this prove: I held

Helen's hand in mine and answered gently, "I am very glad you love me,

Helen. I hope you will ever love me. I certainly love you dearly. I

could not love a sister more."

She smiled at this and patted my hand, and then we sat, hand in hand,

without speaking, until the shadows deepened on the deck.

May 2.--You have been much in my thoughts of late, dear mother, but you

will never know it. You will never see these words. I had thought not to

write in this book again, for I feel sure that it will never reach you;

but I seem to be urged to keep some record of our eventful voyage. We

are lying becalmed far in the Southern Atlantic, so Captain Raymond

says. An awful storm that drove us at its will, and before which it

seemed possible for no ship to live, has driven us here far out of our

course. For six days we have been lying here motionless. The storm that

raged with such terrible fury seems to have exhausted all the winds of

the heavens. I never knew anything more thoroughly depressing than this

calm. Even writing seems a task beyond me. But, indeed, I am not as

strong as before the attack of fever. I do not seem to regain my

strength. I had in mind to describe the storm. It is beyond my powers.

We lost a long boat and a quantity of spars. Two sailors, one of them

Richard Jones, saved but to be lost, were washed overboard and never

seen again. There is no change in Helen. She is apparently perfectly

happy, but it is the happiness of a contented and healthy child. She

takes much pleasure in being with me, and sits by the hour with her hand

in mine, while I talk of the England that we have left and of the scenes

of other days. But nothing awakens the dormant memory. Uncle John has

got back to his studies, and talks explosives to any one who will

listen.

May 17.--Here we lie, still becalmed. It is horrible! What will come of

it all? The sailors are ready to take to the boats and quit the ship,

and it requires all of Captain Raymond's firmness and kindness, for he

is a kind captain, and all of Mate Robinson's sternness, to deal with

the crew. The steward tells me in great confidence that the men say that

the _Albatross_ is bewitched, and that Helen is the witch that has done

it. I can see that they follow her with black looks, in which is

something of fear, as she walks the deck, singing softly to herself and

happy as a bird--the only happy soul aboard. Why should she not be

happy? She has no past, looks forward to no future. She lives in the

present, Nature's own child. The ocean that gave her to us seems to have

claimed her as its own. She loves the sea in all its moods. When the

storm was at its fiercest and the huge waves swept over us, she insisted

on being on deck, and clapped her hands and laughed in glee, as

thoughtless of danger as one of Mother Cary's chickens. Now, when this

horrible calm is drawing the very life out of us all, she sings and

laughs and is merry; or, when not merry, wears a calm, passionless,

almost soulless face. I don't wonder that the men think that she is a

witch. She has bewitched me more than once.

IV.

May 2l.--I am sitting alone in the cabin writing. It is very late. I

hear the steps of the mate as he paces the deck. The calm still holds us

in its fearful clasp. Great God! What is to be the end of it all? There

has been a break in the monotony of our existence to-day. Uncle John got

into a hot discussion with Captain Raymond at the dinner table about the

efficacy of the wonderful explosive compound. The captain seemed

doubtful. Uncle John was for the instant angry.

"I'll show you, then," he said, and he rushed into the cabin where his

boxes are stored, and came out shortly with two tin cans, each holding

something less than a pint. He unscrewed the top of one disclosing a

brownish powder. "Take care," said the captain, who seemed needlessly

cautious, and almost fearful.

"Why, I thought you said it was useless," said Uncle John with a laugh,

"and yet you are afraid of it. Look here." He lighted a match and held

it close to the powder. A dark smoke arose that instantly extinguished

the little flame, and floated off, leaving a queer smell behind. That

was all.

"Perfectly harmless, captain," continued uncle, who had now recovered

his usual good nature. "Perfectly harmless unless you wet it. Then look

out."

The cook had made a sort of dumpling for dinner, and a great lot of it

remained. Uncle John took a mess of this dough, for it was little else,

squeezed it until it was quite dry and molded it into a ball. "Come with

me," he said, "and, Arthur, bring a plate of that dough with you." He

took the cans and we followed him to the deck. There he carefully

covered the ball of dough with the powder, and, going to the rail, threw

it as far as he could out over the placid sea. As the ball struck the

water there was a loud explosion and the spray was thrown high into the

air. The crew, who had been hanging over the port rail forward, turned

and rushed over to see what was up. Uncle John made another ball and

threw it with like result.

"Oh, houly torpeter!" growled one of the men, and they turned back to

their former places. Uncle John, now evidently anxious to give us

thorough proof of the value of his compound, was for throwing more

balls, when the boatswain, rolling aft, touched his hat, and said to the

captain:

"Please, sur, there's a big shark as has showed his fin hoff the port

bow, and if so be that the doctor'll wait a bit with his torpeters,

we'll show 'im some fun a-catchin' of it."

"All right, bo'sun," said the captain, and we all went over to the port

rail.

"There he is," said the captain, pointing to a sharp, black thing, that,

rising just above the water, was cutting quietly through it. "That is

his fin, and there's a big shark under it or I'm much mistaken."

The sailors had got a large hook, and had baited it with a piece of salt

beef, and made it fast to a stout line with a chain that the fish

couldn't bite off. This tempting morsel was flung overboard, and, as it

fell with a splash into the water, we saw the fin cut toward it, and

then disappear. The next instant there was a great tug at the rope.

"Hurrah! we've got 'um!" yelled the boatswain. "Walk away with 'im now,

my hearties."

A dozen sailors had manned the rope, and now started to drag the big

fish out of the water. There was a tremendous pull, a great splashing,

and then the men tumbled in a heap on the dock, and the hook was jerked

sharply over the rail.

"Cuss the luck," growled the boatswain. "The 'ook didn't 'old."

The taste of salt beef evidently suited the shark, for he was soon right

alongside, cruising back and forth, looking for more. We could see him

distinctly, and a tremendous fellow he was. Again the men baited the

hook and dropped it overboard. We saw the big fish dart forward, turn on

his side and grab the bait with a sharp snap of his terrible jaws. Again

the hook would not catch, and the shark was waiting for more beef. The

men were about to make a third attempt when Uncle John started.

"Wait a bit, men," he said. "I've got a hook that will hold. Give me a

piece of the meat."

The men fell back and looked eagerly. The cook handed up a big chunk of

meat. "Wipe it as dry as you can," said uncle, "and tie it firmly to the

rope." When this was done he sprinkled the powder from the can carefully

over the meat; then he carried it cautiously to the rail. The shark was

cruising back and forth. Uncle lowered the meat slowly into the water,

right in front of the monster. He saw the bait and darted at it, and

then there was a tremendous report, and the spray flew into our faces as

we leaned over the rail. The next moment we saw the big fish floating

motionless on the water.

"Blessed if 'e 'asn't blowed 'is 'ead clean hoff," said the boatswain.

It was so. That terrible compound of Uncle John's had needed only the

impact of the shark's teeth to explode it with deadly effect. Uncle

looked perfectly happy. The effect on Helen was strange. For the first

time since she had been with us she seemed to be angry.

"I think you are very cruel," she said to Uncle John, "to kill that

beautiful shark. He had not harmed you. I shall not love you any more."

As she said this she stepped to my side and grasped my hand, as though

she feared uncle and wanted my protection. The men heard her words and

the effect was marked. They had been in high good humor over the death

of the shark, the sailors' most dreaded enemy, but at these strange

words they shrank away with gloomy faces, and I could hear muttered

curses, and the words "witch" and "she-devil." That put an end to the

good humor that for the first time in days seemed to pervade the

becalmed vessel. Uncle John made one more "torpeter" with the little

powder that remained in the open can. The other he carried to his cabin.

When I left the deck just before beginning this writing the sailors were

huddled together forward and eagerly talking, but very quietly. The sea

was like a glass in which the stars of this strange southern sky were

all mirrored.

* * * * *

Again, impelled by I know not what power, I come to my journal. For what

strange eyes am I writing these words? I doubt whether I shall have

strength to put down the record that I feel ought to be put down.

Perhaps the power that impels me to write at all will give me the needed

strength. I have lost the reckoning of the days, but that matters not.

After writing the words with which my last entry closed I went to my

little cabin and was soon asleep. I was awakened by stealthy feet

without my door, followed by sounds of a struggle on deck, two or three

pistol shots, curses and groans and the trampling of feet. I jumped from

my bunk, threw on some clothing, and hurried out. The large cabin was in

total darkness. I rushed to the companion way. As I stepped upon the

deck I saw before me a struggling throng, and then there was a crash,

and I knew no more for a time. I know now that I was struck on the head

by one of the crew who had been watching for me. When I recovered

consciousness I was lying bound hand and foot on the deck. It was early

daylight, I struggled to rise, but could not stir. I saw the crew

carrying bags and casks and clothing and lowering them over the side.

Two or three forms lay on the deck, but I could not see who or what they

were. I recognized the boatswain's voice giving orders. He asked if

there was water enough and food, if the log and chronometer and

compasses had been stowed away. It was all confusion, and my brain

seemed on fire; but I knew that the crew were preparing to quit the

ship. Where was Uncle John, where was Captain Raymond, and where was

Helen? At this I again struggled and strove to rise, and the noise I

made attracted the boatswain and he came to me.

"You're fast enough, my lad," said he, smiling grimly. "Best lie quiet

and listen. Th' lads 'ave 'ad enough of this bediviled ship and the

witch that 'as bediviled 'er. So we're goin' to ship our cable and put

hoff. You seem so fond o' the witch that we'll leave you with 'er.

She'll care for thee, never fear," and he turned on his heel.

I tried to speak, but must have fainted with the effort. When I again

became conscious, I was still lying on the deck, but my bonds had been

cut, and I managed to stagger to my feet. I looked all around. Not a

living being could I see. Just then the sun came up, and as his glowing

disc showed above the quiet water, I caught, far away in the south, a

faint sparkle, and then saw two small dark spots, that before my

straining gaze disappeared. I doubt not that what I saw were the boats

containing the crew of the _Albatross_. I turned and looked around the

deck. The forms that I had seen were no longer visible, but just aft of

the wheel was a piece of canvas covering something. I walked over

feebly, for the blow that I had received had shaken me badly, and lifted

the canvas. There lay the dead bodies of my dear uncle and Captain

Raymond and big First Mate Robinson. Like a man in a dream I covered

them again, and again looked about the deck. Where was Helen? Not on the

deck. Had the villains taken her with them? I made my feeble way below

and went to Helen's cabin. The door was shut. I tried to open it. It was

locked. I examined the lock. The key was in it, and on the outside. They

had locked her in. I cautiously turned the key, opened the door, and

entered. There lay Helen, her dark hair streaming back over the pillow.

One round cheek rested softly on her brown, dimpled hand, the other bore

a lovely flush. The half-parted lips were like crimson rose-buds, and

over her bosom her white nightrobe rose and fell gently. She was asleep.

As I stood there she opened her eyes. When she saw me she smiled happily

and said in a sweet, sleepy voice, "Is it time to get up, Arthur? Why,

how pale you look. Are you ill?" And she rose on one arm and the smile

faded away.

"Yes, Helen," I said, as steadily as I could. "It's time to get up. Come

into the cabin as quickly as you can. I am not at all well." And I left

the little cabin, still like a man in a dream. Helen soon joined me. I

asked her if she had slept well. She had. Had she heard no unusual

noises in the night? No; she had not awakened once. So it was. Like a

tired, healthy child, Helen had slept through all that awful tragedy. I

shan't attempt to try and tell of the task I had in making her

comprehend our awful situation. She did not comprehend it. She wept

bitterly when I told her of the three dead bodies on the deck. She

moaned over my "poor, bruised head," and with gentle hands bathed and

bound it up. Then she said that she was hungry. We found the lockers in

great confusion, but the crew had left food enough of one sort or

another to satisfy our immediate needs. There was an awful task before

us, and I explained it to Helen. We must consign those dead bodies to

the sea. She shuddered at the thought, but, like an obedient child,

tried to help me. How I managed to encase those silent forms in canvas I

hardly know, but I did, and got them to the side of the ship. Then I got

my prayer book and read the blessed burial service, while Helen looked

on in troubled wonder. Then came the hardest task of all, but it was

done, and the bodies, one after the other, fell with a great splash into

the still sea. I had thought to bind heavy weights to the feet, and they

sank at once, and Helen and I were left quite alone. I am writing this

with great difficulty, for we are dying--dying of thirst. Why I write I

do not know. There is no water on board. The sailors, after filling

their casks from the great casks in the hold, left the water running.

When we sought to draw there was not a drop left. There is a change

coming over Helen. She sometimes looks at me strangely. She seems almost

shy. I wonder what it is. Is memory coming back? Or has she learned that

she is a woman and I a man? But she is not for me. There is John Bruce,

and I vowed to take her safely to him, and I shall----. Mother,

good----. I can't write more. I see that the end is....

V.

The writing in the little water-soaked book became entirely illegible.

Indeed, the last few lines were very indistinct, and showed the failing

of mental and physical strength. I sat staring at the yellow page and

then looked up at Judson. He was gazing intently at me.

"Well, go on; go on," he said impatiently.

"That's all," said I.

He seized the book from my hands, and turned the leaves feverishly.

"Yes, yes. That is all. Why man, we're not much wiser than we were.

We've got something, but we haven't solved the mystery of the headless

skeletons."

"No, nor are we likely to," said I.

"Not likely to? We must!" said Judson, in a sharp, strained voice. He

seemed to be much excited. I looked at my watch.

"It's Sunday morning," said I, and luckily Sunday, I thought. Judson

wouldn't be good for much in a trial after such an evening as this. As

for myself, I was tired and hungry, and I said so.

"So am I," said Judson, dropping the excited air, but with an effort.

"Sit still a moment." He came back soon with a tray on which were cold

meat, and bread and butter, and crackers, and Rochefort cheese, and a

bottle of Macon Vieux.

"You evidently know what a hungry newspaper man wants in the middle of

the night," said I.

"I know what a hungry lawyer wants," and he drew the cork.

"Now," said he, after we had taken the edge off our appetites and were

enjoying the Burgundy, "we must know the rest of that story."

"Easier said than done."

"Why so? Does it seem more difficult to get a message directly from

Arthur Hartley than to get that journal from the bottom of the ocean? I

do not think so. This night's experience has given me a confidence in

the power of will over nature that nothing can shake. There is but one

obstacle that stands in the way of our success. The woman whom you call

the medium was thoroughly prostrated, as you saw. She seemed badly

frightened, too. She said that she had never had such an experience:

that she felt that she could not live through another. As she expressed

it, she felt that she had been the battle ground where two great forces

had met and contended. I soothed her as best I could and sent her home.

I did not tell her that I thought that she was right. She was. She was

the unconscious medium through which will overcame the forces of nature.

This evening she must be the medium through which, in obedience to our

will, the Spirit of Arthur Hartley shall speak with us."

"Suppose she refuses."

"She will obey me, or rather my will," said Judson quietly. "It's merely

a question of whether it is safe to subject her to the ordeal. But as it

will be nothing compared with that she has just been through I shall

attempt it, if she is at all able to bear it. I must have that mystery

solved."

I slept very late that morning and joined the family at the Sunday

afternoon dinner; and then went with Judson to the library to smoke.

"It's all right," he said, as soon as we were seated. "She will come

this evening."

"Will all those other persons be here?" I asked.

"Oh, no. You and I and the woman only."

It was ten o'clock that evening when Judson entered the library, where I

sat reading before the glowing grate, and said:

"She's here. Come into the parlor."

It was with more than ordinary emotions that I followed him. The medium

was the only person in the room. The cabinet still stood where it had

stood twenty-four hours before. She looked the picture of ill health.

Great hollows were beneath the tired eyes, and she moved feebly. She

bowed gravely to me, and entered the cabinet. Judson turned the gas down

low.

"If you will remain entirely passive," he said softly, "I think we shall

get the communication without trouble." There was a calm confidence in

his voice, quite different from the intensity of his manner the night

before. We sat quietly for many minutes, until I began to grow uneasy. I

tried to think of nothing with very poor success, but while I was making

the effort strenuously there came from the cabinet a clear, firm voice.

Its tones were something like those in which the woman the night before

had said: "What do you wish?" but as the voice proceeded it took on a

manlier tone, with that indescribable accent we call "English." These

were the words:

"Since you wish it, I will finish the story of my life on earth. Listen.

When I ceased writing in my book on the _Albatross_ it was because I had

lost control of my pen, and of my mind as well. I managed to crawl to

the deck. Helen was lying motionless in the shadow of the companion

hatch. I threw myself down by her side. She put out her hand and grasped

mine, and a flush crossed her face. I was too weak to speak, and thus

hand in hand we lay for I don't know how long. Gradually I lost

consciousness, perhaps in sleep. At all events, my spirit was not free.

The frail body still had strength enough to retain it. I was aroused by

something dropping on my face. As consciousness came back I saw that the

sky had become overcast; that a cool breeze was blowing, and that a

gentle rain was falling. Helen was sitting erect and with parted lips

drinking in the grateful rain-laden air. I tried to rise, but could not.

She was much stronger than I, and at my direction went below and brought

blankets and clothes, which she spread on the deck that they might catch

the falling drops. She seemed quite vigorous, and already I felt my own

strength coming back. Soon she was able to squeeze water from a blanket

into a small can which stood by the mast. We were in too great agony of

thirst to think of small matters of neatness. She offered the can to me.

"'Drink, yourself, Helen,' I said.

"'No,' she answered, with a smile. 'No, you need it most.' And kneeling

by my side, she slipped her arm under my head, and with her other hand

held the water to my lips.

"I drank eagerly. The draught was life to me. Never had water such

strength-giving power. I hardly noticed that it left a queer taste upon

my lips. I sat erect. Helen, with her arm still around my neck, drank

what remained in the can. Then she looked me full in the face. There was

a new expression in the lovely eyes; the old vague, calm look had gone.

A deep flush was on her brow as she spoke: