CHAPTER XXII

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Transcriber’s Notes

This e-text is based on ‘The Century Illustrated Monthly Magazine,’

from November, 1912. Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation have

been retained, but punctuation and typographical errors have been

corrected. Passages in English dialect and in languages other than

English have not been altered. Footnotes have been moved to the end

of the corresponding article.

Specific font styles have been marked by using the following special

characters:

italics: _underscores_

bold: =equals signs=

small caps: ~tildes~

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The caret symbol (^) denotes a following superscript character.

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THE CENTURY

ILLUSTRATED MONTHLY

MAGAZINE

VOL. LXXXV

NEW SERIES: VOL. LXIII

NOVEMBER, 1912, TO APRIL, 1913

[Illustration]

THE CENTURY CO., NEW YORK

HODDER & STOUGHTON, LONDON

Copyright, 1912, 1913, by ~The Century Co.~

THE DE VINNE PRESS

INDEX

TO

THE CENTURY MAGAZINE

VOL. LXXXV NEW SERIES: VOL. LXIII

PAGE

~After-Dinner Stories.~

Bearding Whistler in his Den; “Rules

are Made to be Broken”; Serviceable

French _Sylvester Menlo_ 156

A Reminiscence of Marion Crawford. _Baddeley Boardman_ 319

Why he Could Not Go with his State;

A Significant Saying of Henry

Clay _Arthur G. Rowe_ 478

Mark Twain in an Emergency; The Narrow

Escape of Bobby Sawyer _John B. Quackenbos_ 637

Anecdotes of President Cleveland; A

Fable for Office-seekers 800

The Sultan of Moro on the

_Charleston_ _E. C. Rost_ 958

Remington on Tiger-Hunting _S. Walter Jones_ 959

~After-the-War Series, The Century’s~

The Humor and Tragedy of the Greeley

Campaign _Henry Watterson_ 26

Pictures from photographs and

cartoons.

The Impeachment of Andrew Johnson.

I. The Causes of Impeachment _Harrison Gray Otis_ 187

II. Emancipation and Impeachment _John B. Henderson_ 196

Portraits, and drawing by Jay

Hambidge.

III. The President’s Defense _Gaillard Hunt_ 422

IV. Anecdotes of Andrew Johnson _Benjamin C. Truman_ 435

Pictures from photographs,

portraits, etc.

Our Alaska Bargain.

Introduction 581

Alaska as a Territory of the

United States _Alfred Holman_ 582

Pictures by Jay Hambidge, Nast,

and Harry Fenn; photographs

and map.

Our Greatest Victory of Peace.

Introduction 702

The Arbitration of the Alabama

Claims _William Conant Church_ 703

With cartoons from “Punch,”

drawings by W. Taber, J. O.

Davidson, and photographs.

The Southern View of Reconstruction.

Introduction 843

The Aftermath of Reconstruction _Clark Howell_ 844

Pictures from photographs.

How We Redeemed Alabama _Hilary A. Herbert_ 854

Pictures from photographs and

cartoons.

Ex-Senator Edmunds on

Reconstruction and Impeachment 863

~Americans from the European Point

of View.~ _Maurice Francis Egan_ 686

“~An Elite of Thoughtful Men~” _Editorial_ 632

~Annunciation, The.~ From the

painting by _H. O. Tanner_ 57

~Arch of Constantine Unveiled, The

Mystery of the~ _A. I. Frothingham_ 449

Pictures from photographs.

~Artists Series, American, the Century’s.~

Mary Greene Blumenschein: Idleness 162

Printed in color.

Henry Golden Dearth: The White Rose 324

Printed in color.

John C. Johansen: Portrait of Mr. J. H. K---- 563

Printed in color.

William M. Chase: Portrait of Annie Traquair Lang 721

Printed in color.

~Assassin, The~ _Horace Hazeltine_ 678

Pictures by W. M. Berger.

~Balkan Peninsula, Skirting The~ _Robert Hichens_

I. Picturesque Dalmatia 643

Pictures by Jules Guérin, Joseph

Pennell, and from photographs.

II. In and Near Athens 884

Pictures by Jules Guérin and

from photographs.

~Bergson, Henri~ _Alvan F. Sanborn_ 172

Portrait by Jacques Blanche.

~Big Job, the, The End of~ _Farnham Bishop_ 271

Pictures from photographs, map,

and diagram.

~Browning, Robert, as Seen by his Son~ _William Lyon Phelps_ 417

~Burnett, Frances Hodgson.~ See “T. Tembarom.”

~Canal Blunder, the, A Way Out of:

Repeal the Exemption~ _Editorial_ 150

~Capitol at Washington, The.~

Lithographs by _Joseph Pennell_ 787

~Capture of New York, The~ _Paul B. Malone_ 927

~Cartoons.~

Ambidextrous _Neagle_ 157

“When Immortal Meets Immortal” _John T. McCutcheon_ 158

“Does Your Muvver Make You Wear

Old Clothes?” _J. R. Shaver_ 639

“We are Seven” _J. R. Shaver_ 801

At an Exhibition of “Cubist”

Pictures _Abel Faivre_ 960

~Cartoons, American, of To-day~ _Frank Weitenkampf_ 540

With examples of work by noted

cartoonists.

~Cervantes Looked, How~ 256

~Children’s, The, Uncensored

Reading~ _Editorial_ 312

~Christmas, Emmy Jane’s~ _Julia B. Tenney_ 319

~Christmas Fête, A, in California~ _Louise Herrick Wall_ 210

Pictures by W. T. Benda.

~Christmas Tree, The, on Clinch~ _Lucy Furman_ 163

Pictures by F. R. Gruger.

~Church Unity, The Increasing Hope of~ _Editorial_ 631

~Cleveland, Grover, and his Cabinet

at Work~ _Hilary A. Herbert_ 740

Picture from photograph.

~Cole’s (Timothy) Engravings of Masterpieces in American Galleries.~

Woman with the Lamp. By Jean Francois Millet 2

Lady Mildmay. By Hoppner 225

The Countess Leccari. By Vandyke 515

Young Woman with a Guitar. By Vermeer 804

~Cole’s (Timothy) Engravings of Masterpieces in French Galleries.~

Marie Leczinska. By Vanloo 405

~Dante’s Divine Comedy.~ Red chalk

drawings. _Violet Oakley_ 239

~Democratic Achilles’ Heel, The~ _Editorial_ 470

~Divorce in War and Wedlock, On~ _Gilbert K. Chesterton_ 634

~Doctor to the Saints.~ _Amanda Mathews_ 816

Pictures by W. M. Berger.

~Etchings, Eight~ _Frank Brangwyn_ 441

~European Politics, a Bird’s-Eye

View of~ _André Tardieu_ 821

~Exhortation.~ Music by _Will Marion Cook_ 58

~Fairy Wife, The~ _Maurice Hewlett_ 500

Frontispiece in color by Arthur

Rackham.

~Feminist, The, of France~ _Ethel Dean Rockwell_ 116

Pictures from photographs.

~Financing a Campaign, The New Way of~ _Editorial_ 152

~Fraternities in Women’s Colleges.~

The Fraternity Idea among College

Women _Edith Rickert_ 97

Pictures by J. Norman Lynd, and

from photographs.

Exclusiveness among College Women _Edith Rickert_ 227

Comments on Miss Rickert’s Articles

by the Presidents and Deans of

Various Colleges for Women 326

~Frying-Pan and the Fire, The~ _Edith Barnard Delano_ 873

Pictures by Paul J. Meylan.

~Furness, Horace Howard~. See “Shakspere.”

~Giving Away the Nation’s Property.~ _Editorial_ 315

~Glimpses of the Old South~.

Pictures by Vernon Howe Bailey. 839

~Hare, The~ _Richard Dehan_ 602

Picture by Henry Raleigh.

~Health, National, and Medical

Freedom~ _B. O. Flower_ } 512

_Irving Fisher_ }

~Hobby, On Breaking in a~ _Elsie Hill_ 635

~“Holy Calm,” The Wooing of~ _Marion Hamilton Carter_ 218

Picture by Fletcher C. Ransom.

~Holy War, American and Turk in~ _William T. Ellis_ 456

Pictures from photographs.

~Hungry Sheep, The~ _William Lyon Phelps_ 114

~Impressions of New York.~ _Pierre Loti_ 609, 758

Portrait from an unpublished

photograph.

~Jefferson, Joseph, The Human Side of~ _Mary Shaw_ 379

Head-piece by Joseph Clement Coll,

and photograph.

~Jerusalem, Lords Spiritual in~ _Thomas E. Green_ 289

Pictures from photographs.

~Justice in New York.~ _Editorial_ 473

~Knowingest Child, The Most~ _Lucy Furman_ 763

Picture by F. R. Gruger.

~Labor-Unions, The Peril of the~ _Editorial_ 792

~Ladybrook Water, The Sound of~ _John Trevena_ 905

Pictures by Norman Price.

~Lincoln.~

Lincoln Could Return, If _Editorial_ 153

Lincoln’s Pledge. With facsimile 554

Lincoln as a Boy Knew Him _John Langdon Kaine_ 555

Lincoln’s Assassination, A New

Story of _Jesse W. Weik_ 559

~Long Sam “Takes Out.”~ _Ellis Parker Butler_ 571

Pictures by May Wilson Preston.

~Loti, Pierre~. See “Impressions.”

~Magic Casements, On~ _Vida D. Scudder_ 316

~Man, A, and his Dog~ _Hugh Johnson_ 732

Pictures by E. M. Ashe.

~Manship, Paul, Sculpture by~ 869

With editorial note.

~McGinnis, the Mystery of~ _Charles D. Stewart_ 723

Pictures by Reginald Birch.

~National Honor on the

Bargain-Counter.~ _Editorial_ 952

~Negro Having a Fair Chance? Is the~ _Booker T. Washington_ 46

~Newsboy, The New York~ _Jacob A. Riis_ 247

Pictures by J. R. Shaver.

~New Year Resolutions, on Checkmating~ _Leonard Hatch_ 474

~Noël, Little, The Miracle of~ _Virginia Yeaman Remnitz_ 181

Pictures by W. T. Benda and Joseph

Clement Coll.

~Noteworthy Stories of the Last Generation~.

Lady or the Tiger, The _Frank R. Stockton_ 534

Portrait, and new drawings by

Oliver Herford.

Monte Flat Pastoral, A _Bret Harte_ 828

Portrait, and picture by N. C.

Wyeth.

~Opera in New York; Giulio

Gatti-Casazza.~ _Algernon St. John Brenon_ 368

Pictures by Arthur I. Keller;

caricatures by Enrico Caruso.

~Panama Tolls Blunder, The~ _Editorial_ 630

~Perilous, Doings on.~ See “Scarborough,” “Christmas,” “Knowingest.”

~Pie-Colored Horse, The~ _Marion Hamilton Carter_ 517

Pictures by Reginald Birch.

~Play, A Strange New~ 960

~Playing with Fire, The New Game of~ _Editorial_ 795

~Political Virtues, The, President

Wilson Will Need~ _Editorial_ 629

~Post-Impressionist Illusion, The~ _Royal Cortissos_ 805

Examples by “Cubists,”

“Futurists,” and others.

~Realism and Reality in Fiction.~ _William Lyon Phelps_ 864

~Reporters, On the Two Kinds of~ _Simeon Strunsky_ 955

~Roman Amphitheater, The, at Pola.~

Painted by _Jules Guérin_ 642

~Root’s, Mr., Great Speech~ _Editorial_ 796

~Saddle-horses, Thoroughbreds and

Trotters as~ _E. S. Nadal_ 71

Pictures by J. C. Coll, Reginald

Birch, from photographs and a

painting by Richard Newton, Jr.

~Salome, The Story of~ _E. B._ 638

~Scarborough Spoons, The~ _Lucy Furman_ 126

Pictures by F. R. Gruger.

~Scott, Frank Hall, Portrait of~ 468

~Scott, Frank Hall~ _Editorial_ 469

~Secret Writing.~ _John H. Haswell_ 83

~Servants, The Spoiling of~ _Annie Payson Call_ 915

~Shakspere Critic, Our Great~ _Talcott Williams_ 108

Portrait by Amy Otis.

~Shave, A Clean~ _Grace MacGowan Cooke_ 63

Picture by F. E. Schoonover.

~Sinai, In the Land of~ _Frederick Jones Bliss_ 919

Pictures from photographs.

~Siren of the Air, The~ _Allan Updegraff_ 282

Picture by W. M. Berger.

~Socialism, English, The Set-Back to~ _Gilbert K. Chesterton_ 236

“~Solidarity.~” _Edna Kenton_ 407

Picture by F. R. Gruger.

~State Rights, A Wrong Application of~ _Editorial_ 954

~Stella Maris.~ _William J. Locke_ 14, 258

Pictures by Frank Wiles.

~Suffragists, Militant, Wanted:

Straight Thinking about~ _Editorial_ 151

~Suffragists, the Silent, of America~ _Editorial_ 953

~Sweetness and Light, On the Relative

Claims of~ _Louise Herrick Wall_ 154

~Taft, President, “Considerate

Judgment” for~ _Editorial_ 794

~Tammany, the Larger Hope against~ _Editorial_ 951

~Tempting One by Trusting Him, On~ _May Gay Humphreys_ 798

~Terry Lute, The Art of~ _Norman Duncan_ 397

Picture by Jay Hambidge.

~Toscanini at the Baton.~ _Max Smith_ 691

Pictures by Arthur I. Keller,

caricature by Enrico Caruso.

~Trade of the World Papers, The~ _James Davenport Whelpley_

XIII. The Trade of Northern Africa 136

Pictures from photographs.

XIV. The Trade of Russia 296

Pictures from photographs.

XV. Japan’s Commercial Crisis 483

Pictures from photographs, and tables.

XVI. The Trade of China 770

Pictures from photographs.

~T. Tembarom.~ _Frances Hodgson Burnett_ 325

Drawings by Charles S. Chapman. 614, 658, 934

~Unmarried Woman, The, of England~ _J. B. Atkins_ 565

~Unmarried Woman, The, in France~ _William Morton Fullerton_ 899

~Valentine, The.~ Drawing by _Charles D. Hubbard_ 533

~Voting, New Anxieties about~ _Editorial_ 311

~Vox Pabuli~ _Deems Taylor_ 476

~War and Arbitration, A Christmas

Thought on~ _Editorial_ 314

~Waterways, American, and the

“Pork-Barrel”~ _Hubert Bruce Fuller_ 386

Pictures from photographs.

~Wellaway’s Host, Mr.~ _Ellis Parker Butler_ 3

~Wilson, Woodrow.~

The Kind of Man Woodrow

Wilson Is _W. G. McAdoo_ 744

Pictures from photographs.

Woodrow Wilson as a Man of Letters _Bliss Perry_ 753

President Wilson and the Foreign

Service _Editorial_ 791

~“Woman of Leisure,” New York, The

Diary of a~ _Elsie Hill_ 797

~Woman’s Suffrage Movement, the,

Violence in~ _Millicent Garrett

Fawcett_ 148

~Women, Merchants, and War.~ _Editorial_ 471

VERSE

~Along the Road.~ _Robert Browning Hamilton_ 562

~Ape Owe ’Em.~ _Deems Taylor_ 157

~Aphrodite, The Temple of~ _Alfred Noyes_ 838

~Browning, Robert~ _Margaret Widdemer_ 416

~Carrel-ative Thanatology.~ _Corinne Rockwell Swain_ 959

~Charms.~ _William Rose Benét_ 676

~Daddy Do-Funny’s Wisdom Jingles.~ _Ruth McEnery Stuart_ 320, 960

~Davy.~ _Louise Imogen Guiney_ 107

Head-piece from photograph.

~Deep Water Song.~ _John Reed_ 677

Decoration by R. C. Hallowell.

~Double Crowning, The~ _Amelia J. Burr_ 769

~Dreams Denied, The~ _Marion Couthouy Smith_ 217

~Dunbar, Paul Laurence~ _James D. Corrothers_ 56

~Editor, The, and the Song~ _Deems Taylor_ 960

~Glory Shall Follow Glory~ _Charles Hanson Towne_ 288

~Grapes, The, of Eshcol~ _Emily Huntington Miller_ 94

Decorations in color by F. V. DuMond.

~Lactic Acid Bacillus, the, Ode to~ _Corinne Rockwell Swain_ 478

~Light-Bearer, A~ _Marion Couthouy Smith_ 364

~Limericks~:

Text and pictures by Oliver Herford.

XVII. The Financier Fox 159

XVIII. The Fastidious Yak 160

XIX. The Filcanthropic Cow 319

XX. Tact 320

XXI. The Partial Pig 479

XXII. The Optimist 480

XXIII. The Misapprehended Goose 640

XXIV. The Mendacious Mole 802

XXV. A Mock Miracle 961

XXVI. The Fan-tastic Squirrel 962

~Negro Singer, The~ _James D. Corrothers_ 56

~Not Yet.~ _Katharine Lee Bates_ 739

~Open Land, the, Song of~ _Richard Burton_ 553

~Pitilessness of Desire, The~ _Shaemas O’Sheel_ 235

~Poet, To a Certain~ _Walter Brooke_ 476

Drawing by Oliver Herford.

~Prayer, A~ _Louis Untermeyer_ 580

~Provence, Christmas Echoes from~ _Edith M. Thomas_ 177

Pictures by Charles S. Chapman.

~Rear-Guard, The~ _Leonard Bacon_ 827

~Scamps of Romance.~ _William Rose Benét_ 60

Decorations by Reginald Birch.

~Semele.~ _Grace Denio Litchfield_ 467

~Sleep.~ _Katharine French_ 378

~Snow, The Lingering~ _Harriet Prescott

Spofford_ 898

~Sorehead, the, The Plaint of~ _James D. Corrothers_ 157

~Theater, At the.~ A lullaby. _Deems Taylor_ 801

~Then and Now.~ _Carolyn Wells_ 157

~Thoughts, December Twenty-fourth~ _Deems Taylor_ 319

~To Any One.~ _Witter Bynner_ 70

~Unmasked.~ _Madison Cawein_ 365

Decorations by Joseph Clement Coll.

~Vermont.~ _Sarah N. Cleghorn_ 873

~Voice of the Dove, The~ _George Sterling_ 950

~Where Am I While I Sleep?~ _Grace Denio Litchfield_ 685

~Will’s Counselor.~ _Charles Wharton Stork_ 539

~Winter-Sleep.~ _Edith M. Thomas_ 872

Decoration by Oliver Herford.

~“Worker,” The~ _Edmund Vance Cooke_ 638

[Illustration]

~Vol.~ LXXXV, No. 1 NOVEMBER, 1912 PRICE, 35 CENTS

THE CENTURY

ILLUSTRATED

❁ MONTHLY ❁

MAGAZINE

[Illustration:

_Beginning_

THE CENTURY’S

“AFTER THE WAR”

_Series_

_with_

“_The Humor & Tragedy

of the

Greeley Campaign_”

_by

Henry Watterson_

]

THE CENTURY CO▴UNION SQUARE▴NEW YORK

~FRANK H. SCOTT, President.~ ~WILLIAM W. ELLSWORTH, Vice-President

and Secretary.~ ~DONALD SCOTT, Treasurer.~ ~Union Square, New York.~

Copyright, 1912, by The Century Co.] (Title Registered U. S. Pat.

Off.) [Entered at N. Y. Post Office as Second Class Mail Matter.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

TIMOTHY COLE’S

WOOD ENGRAVINGS

OF

MASTERPIECES

IN

AMERICAN GALLERIES

WOMAN WITH A LAMP

BY

JEAN FRANÇOIS MILLET

]

[Illustration: Owned by Mr. Henry Clay Frick

WOMAN WITH A LAMP. BY JEAN FRANÇOIS MILLET

(TIMOTHY COLE’S WOOD ENGRAVINGS OF MASTERPIECES IN AMERICAN

GALLERIES--XIII)]

Copyright, 1912, by The Century Co. All rights reserved.

~The Century Magazine~

~Vol.~ LXXXV NOVEMBER, 1912 ~No. 1~

MR. WELLAWAY’S HOST

BY ELLIS PARKER BUTLER

Author of “Pigs is Pigs,” “The Man Who was Some One Else,” etc.

I

“No, sir,” said Mr. Wellaway, positively, “this is not the club at

all. This is not the sort of club. The club I mean has a heavier

head--heavier and flatter.”

The clerk looked here and there among the racks of golf-clubs, but his

general manner was that of hopelessness. There seemed to be thousands

of golf-clubs in the racks, and he had shown Mr. Wellaway club after

club, each seeming to fit the description Mr. Wellaway had given, but

in vain. Mr. Wellaway looked up and down the shop.

“If I could remember the name of the clerk,” he said, “he would know

the club. He sold one of them to Mr. ----” He hesitated. “Now I can’t

remember _his_ name. A rather large man with a smooth face. He has

a small wart or a wen just at the side of his nose. You didn’t wait on

such a man last week, did you?”

“I can’t recall him by the description,” said the clerk.

“Pshaw, now!” said Mr. Wellaway, with vexation. “I know his name as

well as I know my own! I would forget my own if people didn’t mention

it to me once in a while. It is peculiar how a man can remember faces

and forget names, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is,” said the clerk. “If you just look through these clubs

yourself, you may be able to find what you want. Was the name of the

clerk you had in mind Mills? Or Waterson? Or Frazer?”

“It might be Frazer,” said Mr. Wellaway, doubtfully.

“If it was Frazer,” said the clerk, “he left here last Saturday.”

“But couldn’t you look up Frazer’s sales and see what kind of driver he

sold? But of course you can’t if I don’t remember the name of the man

he sold it to, can you?”

“Not very well,” admitted the clerk, with a polite smile. “Now, if you

like a heavy club--”

He was interrupted by another customer. The golf goods were on the

basement floor, and a short flight of steps led to the basement from

the main floor, and the new customer had come down the stairs. He

was a big, bluff, hearty man, with a cheerful manner and a rather red

face, and Mr. Wellaway immediately remembered having met him sometime

and somewhere. He nodded his head with the ready comradeship of a

fellow-golfer.

“Hel_lo_!” exclaimed the new-comer, heartily. “Well! well! so you

are at it too, are you? Got the golf fever?” Then to the clerk: “Got my

brassy mended?”

“What name, sir?” asked the clerk.

“Didn’t leave any name,” said the big man. “It’s a mahogany brassy,

the only real mahogany brassy you ever saw. I had it made to order,”

he said to Mr. Wellaway, as the clerk hurried away to the repair

department. “So you’ve taken up golf, have you? It’s a great game.”

“It _is_ a great game,” said Mr. Wellaway; “but I’ve been at it a

long time. Not that I’m much good at it.”

“No one is ever any good at it except the crack players,” said the

other. “I’m as bad as they make ’em; but I love it. Where do you play?”

“Van Cortlandt,” said Mr. Wellaway.

“Ever play Westcote?”

“No,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I’ve been in the village, but I didn’t know

there was a course there.”

“Best little course you ever saw,” said the hearty man. “Nine holes,

but all beauties. I want you to play it sometime. Look here,” he added

suddenly, “what have you got on for this afternoon?”

“Well, I was going up to Van Cortlandt,” said Mr. Wellaway,

hesitatingly.

“That’s all off now! You’re coming out with me and have a try at our

Westcote course. Yes, you are. You know I never take ‘No’ for an answer

when I make up my mind. And, look here, we have just time to get a

train.”

Mr. Wellaway’s host beckoned violently to the clerk.

“But my clubs--” protested Mr. Wellaway.

“That’s all right, too. Our professional can fit you out.”

“I ought to telephone my wife.”

“Oh, do it from the club.”

The temptation was too much for Mr. Wellaway. It was a hot day, and he

knew the public links at Van Cortlandt would be crowded to the limit.

He imagined the cool green of the little course at Westcote and let

himself be persuaded, and in four minutes he was aboard the commuters’

train, being whirled under the East River.

It was not until the train was out of the tunnel and speeding along

over the Long Island right of way that he felt the first qualm of

uneasiness; but it was a very slight qualm. He was ashamed that he

could not remember the name of his host. The man’s face was certainly

familiar enough, and the man evidently knew Mr. Wellaway well enough to

invite him to play golf, or Mr. Wellaway would not have been invited;

but the name would not make itself known. But, after all, that was

an easily remedied matter. The first friend they met would call Mr.

Wellaway’s host by name.

At Woodside they left the electric train and boarded the steam train,

but no one had spoken to Mr. Wellaway’s host on the platform. One or

two men had nodded to him in a manner that showed they liked him, but

none mentioned his name. Mr. Wellaway smiled. He would use a little

very simple Sherlock Holmes work when the conductor came through for

the fares.

Mr. Wellaway had noticed that his host used a fifty-trip ticket-book

when the conductor asked for the fare on the electric, and now he

waited until the new conductor tore the trip leaves from the book and

returned the book to its owner.

“I see you use a book,” said Mr. Wellaway. “Do you find it cheaper than

buying mileage?”

He held out his hand for the book. It was an ordinary gesture of

curiosity, and his host surrendered the book.

“No, I don’t, not usually,” he said. “And a commutation-ticket is

cheaper than either. Now, a commutation-ticket costs--”

He entered into the commuter’s usual closely computed average of cost

per trip, and Mr. Wellaway nodded his acquiescence in the figures; but

his mind was elsewhere. He read as though interested the face of the

book, and then turned it over. There on the back, in a bold hand, under

the contract the thrifty railroads make book-holders sign, was the

signature, “Geo. P. Garris.” Mr. Wellaway stared at the name while he

ransacked his memory to recall a George P. Garris. He not only could

not recall a George P. Garris, but he could not remember ever having

heard or seen the name of Garris. If the second “r” was meant for a

“v,” the name might be “Garvis,” but that did not help. He could not

recall a Garvis. At any rate, it was some satisfaction to know his host

was George P. Garris or George P. Garvis. When and how he had met him

would probably soon appear.

[Illustration: Drawn by Henry Raleigh

“‘LOOK HERE,’ HE ADDED SUDDENLY, ‘WHAT HAVE YOU GOT ON FOR THIS

AFTERNOON?’”]

“I see you are looking at that name,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host, “and I

don’t wonder. Matter of fact, I have no business to have that book; but

Garvis was a good fellow, and he needed the money, so I bought it of

him when he left Westcote.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Wellaway, blankly, and then: “So that’s why you are not

using a commutation-ticket this month.” He had to say something.

“That’s the reason,” said his host; “and this is Westcote.”

II

The Westcote Country Club was all Mr. Wellaway’s host had boasted.

The greens rolled away from the small club-house in graceful beauty,

small groves of elms and maples studded the course, and picturesque

stone walls and sodded bunkers provided sufficient hazards. Everything

was as neat as a new pin. It was a sight to make any golfer happy, but

when the station cab rolled up to the club-house door, Mr. Wellaway

was not entirely happy. He was beginning to feel like an interloper.

The more he studied the face of his host, the surer he became that

he had no business to be a guest. As a word in print, when studied

intensely, becomes a mere jumble of meaningless letters, so the face of

his host grew less and less familiar, until Mr. Wellaway had decided

his familiarity was with the type of face and not with this particular

face. One thing alone comforted him: his host seemed to know Mr.

Wellaway.

As they left the cab, Mr. Wellaway made a desperate effort to learn

the name of his host; for he felt that if he did not learn it now he

was in for a most unpleasant five minutes. Mr. Wellaway was a small,

gentle little man, but he was almost rude in his insistence that he be

permitted to pay the cabby.

“Yes, I will,” he insisted. “I certainly will. If you don’t let

me, I’ll be downright angry. You paid my fare, and you offer me an

afternoon’s sport; but I am going to pay this cabman.”

“But this is my party,” said his host.

“You go right into the club-house, and let me pay,” said Mr. Wellaway.

“I want to do this, and you ought to let me.” With a laugh the host

turned away. Mr. Wellaway fumbled in his pocket until he was alone with

the cabman.

“What is the charge?” he asked.

“Quarter,” said the cabby, briefly.

“Here’s a dollar,” said Mr. Wellaway. “Now, can you tell me the name of

that man--the man who drove up with me?”

“No, sir,” said the cabman; “I don’t know what his name is.”

“I just wanted to know,” said Mr. Wellaway.

When he entered the club-house his host was alone.

“You wanted to telephone,” he said to Mr. Wellaway. “There’s the booth.

It’s a money-in-the-slot machine. I’ll get a greens-ticket and a bag of

clubs for you while you are in there, and we will not lose any time.

When you come out, come up to the locker-room.”

Mr. Wellaway entered the booth and closed the door. He called for his

number and waited while the connection was made. It was hot in the

booth with the door closed, but not for the world would Mr. Wellaway

have opened it.

“Hello, is that you, Mary?” he asked, when he had dropped the requisite

coins in the slot at the request of the central. “This is Edgar. Yes.

I’m out at Westcote, on Long Island. I’m going to play golf. I met a

friend, and he insisted that I come out here and try his course. I say

I met a friend. Yes, a friend. An old acquaintance. He lives out here.”

For a few seconds Mr. Wellaway listened.

“No, listen!” said Mr. Wellaway. “I don’t know _what_ his name

is, but I’ll find out. I just met him, you know, and he asked me, and

I couldn’t say, ‘Thank you, I’ll accept; but what is your name?’ I

couldn’t say that, could I? When he knew me so well? Oh, nonsense,

Mary! I tell you it’s a man.”

As he listened to what Mary had to say to this, Mr. Wellaway sighed

deeply.

“No, it is not funny that I don’t know his name,” he said. “You know I

can’t remember names, and I know thousands of men, and speak to them,

and can’t recall their names. Listen! There’s no reason in the world

for your jealousy to get stirred up. Not the least. I’ll know his name

inside half an hour, and if you are going to act that way about it,

I’ll telephone you the minute I learn it. Yes, I will! Well, that’s all

right, too; but since you take that attitude, I’m going to telephone

you. Good-by.” He waited half a minute for an answering “Good-by,” and

then hung up the receiver softly. Mary’s jealousy was a real annoyance.

Mr. Wellaway stepped out of the booth and wiped his forehead.

The small sitting-room of the club was deserted. In the adjacent

butler’s pantry he could hear the steward at work, and above the

low ceiling he could hear his host changing his shoes. On the

bulletin-board, among the announcements of competitions and new rules,

was a list of members posted for dues or house-accounts. It was a

very short list, and Mr. Wellaway recognized none of the names. On

the opposite wall was a framed list of the club-members, perhaps one

hundred and twenty-five, and Mr. Wellaway ran his eye down them. Only

one of the names was familiar, that of George C. Rogers, and the host

was not Rogers, for Mr. Wellaway knew Rogers well. Not another name was

even faintly familiar. Mr. Wellaway was still poring over the list when

his host descended the stairs.

“I see,” said Mr. Wellaway, “that George Rogers is a member of the

club.”

“That so?” said his host. “I don’t know him. I don’t know many of the

fellows yet. Rankin and Mallows are putting me up for membership, but

I’m playing on a temporary card until the next meeting of the board of

governors. They say there’s no doubt I’ll be admitted; but I don’t take

chances. I pay as I go until I’m a full member. When I’m in, I’ll sign

checks like the rest of them; but until I am in, I’ll pay cash. Now,

you run up and shuck your coat, if you want to, while I get you a bag

of clubs and a greens-ticket. I left my locker open--Number 43.”

Mr. Wellaway ascended the stairs. All about the locker-room were the

lockers, two high, and on each was the name of the holder. The door of

43 stood open, and Mr. Wellaway darted for it, and looked for the name

of his host. There was no name on the locker.

[Illustration: Drawn by Henry Raleigh

“‘NOW, CAN YOU TELL ME THE NAME OF THAT MAN--THE MAN WHO DROVE UP WITH

ME?’”]

III

In the locker was the usual accumulation of golfer’s odds and ends.

A few badly scarred golf-balls lay on the floor, along with a pair

of winter golf-shoes. A couple of extra clubs stood in one corner.

A sweater hung from a hook, and from another hook hung the coat and

waistcoat his host had just removed. From one pocket, the inside

pocket, of the coat protruded the tops of three or four letters. Mr.

Wellaway stared at the letters and perspired profusely. He had only

to put out his hand and raise the letters partly from the pocket to

know the name of his host. Then he could make an excuse to telephone

his wife again. Assuredly there was nothing dishonorable in merely

glancing at the address of the letters. But he stood very still and

listened intently before he put out his hand. He could hear the

soft tread of rubber-soled shoes on the floor below. Very gently

Mr. Wellaway raised the letters from the pocket just as he heard

the rubber-soled shoes touch the zinc treads of the stairs. He slid

the letters back into the pocket in a panic, and jerked off his

coat, but he had seen the address of the outermost letter. It was an

unmailed letter, and it was addressed to “Mrs. Edgar Wellaway, Rimmon

Apartments, West End Avenue, New York.”

“All ready!” said his host, cheerfully.

“Just a moment,” said Mr. Wellaway. He was taking his papers from his

coat-pockets and putting them in the hip-pocket of his trousers. A man

cannot be too careful.

IV

Mr. Wellaway’s host used a Scotch-plaid golf-bag, without initials

painted on it, and when the two men issued from the club-house the

bag was leaning against the wall immediately under the outside

bulletin-board. One list on the board was headed “Applications for

Membership,” but there were no names entered later than a month and a

half old, and all these had the word “Elected” written after them. When

Mr. Wellaway caught sight of the other list his face brightened.

“My handicap is eighteen,” he said, looking through the list of members

with the handicaps set opposite the names.

“Two better than mine,” said his host. “I play at twenty.”

“Twenty?” said Mr. Wellaway, running his finger up and down the

handicap list.

“But I haven’t been given a handicap here yet,” said his host. “They

don’t give you a handicap here until you are a member.”

“Oh,” said Mr. Wellaway, and turned away. He had no further interest in

the handicap-list.

The course was clear for the entire first hole. Mr. Wellaway got away

with a clean drive, but sliced his second into the rough, while his

host sliced his first into a sand-pit, got out with a high niblick

shot, and lay on the putting-green in three. Mr. Wellaway wasted a

stroke chopping out of the rough, and put his ball on the green with a

clean iron shot in four, close enough to putt out in one, making the

hole a five. His host took two to hole out, doing another five, but

winning the hole on his handicap, which gave him one stroke on the

first hole. It was good golf, par golf, and Mr. Wellaway was elated. To

do a hole in par on a strange course, after getting into the rough, was

better golf than he knew how to play, and the loss of the hole after

such playing made him only the more eager to play his best. He forgot

Mary’s jealousy and his annoyance at not knowing the name of his host,

and played golf as he had never played it before. The professional’s

clubs seemed to work magic in his hands. At the ninth hole he was still

one down, but his host did the first hole on the second round in eight,

to Mr. Wellaway’s seven, and it was seesaw around the course the second

time, with all even when eighteen holes had been played.

“I guess we can play it off before the storm hits us,” said Mr.

Wellaway’s host, and for the first time Mr. Wellaway noticed the black

clouds piling up in the west. They started the nineteenth hole with a

rush of wind whirling the dust from the road across the course, and

before they had walked to where their balls lay after their drives,

the forward edge of the storm-clouds, low, ragged, and an ugly yellow,

was full over them, and a glare of lightning, followed by a tremendous

crash, blinded them both. Mr. Wellaway’s host threw his bag of clubs on

the grass as though it were red hot, and started at a full run for the

club-house. Mr. Wellaway followed him.

Except for the steward and his wife, the club-house was already

deserted, the last automobile tearing down the club roadway as

Mr. Wellaway reached the veranda. The lightning exceeded anything

Mr. Wellaway had ever seen, and crash followed crash in deafening

explosions, as though the electrical storm had centered near the

club-house. A fair-sized hickory-tree, half dead from the depredations

of the hickory-bark beetle, fell crashing across the sleeping-room

annex of the club-house. For half an hour after the rain began to fall

in sheets the lightning continued, while Mr. Wellaway and his host

stared at the storm through the windows of the club-house; but about

six o’clock the worst of the storm had passed on, and the rain had

become a steady, heavy downpour.

“There’s one thing sure,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host: “there’s no going

home for you to-night.”

“But I must go home,” said Mr. Wellaway.

“If you must, of course you must,” said his host; “but there would

be no sense in going in this rain. We will have dinner right here. I

suppose you can get us up a couple of chops or something?”

“Yes, sir,” said the steward, who had returned from a survey of his

sleeping-quarters. “Chops or steak.”

“Then I’ll just ’phone my wife that I’ll not be home,” said Mr.

Wellaway’s host, and he entered the telephone-booth. In a few minutes

he came out again. “Can’t get central,” he said with annoyance. “The

thing is either cut off or burned out. Probably a tree has fallen

across the wires. I hate to drag you out through all this rain, but my

wife will be distracted if I don’t get home. She’ll imagine I’m killed.

You will have to come home with me and take pot-luck.”

[Illustration: Drawn by Henry Raleigh

“VERY GENTLY MR. WELLAWAY RAISED THE LETTERS FROM THE POCKET JUST AS HE

HEARD THE RUBBER-SOLED SHOES TOUCH THE ZINC TREADS OF THE STAIRS”]

“Why, that’s very kind of you,” said Mr. Wellaway, “but I could not

think of it. My own wife will be worrying. I’ll just scoot through the

rain to the station and get the first train home.”

“Of course, if you think best,” said the host. “We have to pass the

station on the way to my house. But Sarah would be glad to put you up

for the night.”

The station was not as far as Mr. Wellaway had feared, for it was not

necessary to walk to the main station; there was another nearer, and

they reached it a few minutes before a train for the city was due. Mr.

Wellaway’s host walked to the ticket-window.

“I presume the train is late,” he asked.

“You presume exactly right,” said the young man in the ticket-office.

“She’s not only late, but she’s going to be later before she ever

gets to New York. The lightning struck the Bloom Street bridge, and

the bridge went up like fireworks. It will be about twenty-four hours

before anybody from this town gets to New York.”

“Twenty-four hours!” exclaimed Mr. Wellaway, aghast. “But I can

telegraph.”

“If you can, you can do more than I can do,” said the young man. “I’ve

tried, and I can’t do it, and I’m a professional.”

“Well!” said Mr. Wellaway.

“All right,” said his host. “Now there’s nothing for you to do but

accept my invitation, and I make it doubly warm. Sarah will be

delighted. You are the first guest we’ve had for the night since we

moved out here. She’ll be delighted, I tell you. And so will I.”

[Illustration: Drawn by Henry Raleigh

“‘A TALL, THIN FELLOW, WITH SANDY SIDEBURNS. PROBABLY A FLOOR-WALKER IN

SOME SHOP, WITH A PERPETUAL SMILE’”]

“But I ought to go home,” insisted Mr. Wellaway.

“But you can’t go home,” laughed his host. “Come right along. Sarah

will be delighted. She’s--she’s fond of company. Perhaps our ’phone

will be working. You can telephone your wife from our house. Really,

Sarah will be glad--she’ll be delighted, I tell you.”

So Mr. Wellaway accompanied his host. The house to which he was led

was an average suburban dwelling, a frame house of ample size, with

wide verandas, a goodly lawn, and the usual clumps of shrubbery. At the

screen door the host paused.

“If you don’t mind,” he said, “I’ll let you wait here while I step

inside and tell Sarah we are coming. Sarah is the most hospitable of

women, and that’s the reason I want to tell her. She’ll welcome you

with open arms, but--you know how these hospitable women are, don’t

you? They like a minute or two to get into a more than casual mood. It

will be all right. Only a minute.”

“Certainly,” said Mr. Wellaway, feeling rather uncomfortable, and his

host opened the door with a latch-key and entered. If Mr. Wellaway

could have heard what passed inside that door, he would have turned and

run.

“Darling!” exclaimed his host’s wife when she saw him. “How wet you

are! Go right up-stairs and get into a hot bath this minute! You’ll die

of cold!”

“In a minute, Sarah,” said her husband; “but, first, I’ve got a man out

there. He’s going to stay for dinner and sleep here.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Sarah, letting her mind jump to her larder. “But we

didn’t expect any one. Really I don’t know. Perhaps I can make what I

have do. Is--is it any one important?”

“Don’t know,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host, hastily. “I’ll tell you all

about it when I’m dressing. I don’t know the fellow’s name, but he

knows me as well as I know you. I ought to know his name as well as

I know yours, but I don’t. I met him somewhere, and I remember he

was a good fellow. We’ll get his name out of him somehow before he’s

in the house very long, but, for Heaven’s sake! don’t let him know I

don’t know. He may be some one important. He looks as if he might be

somebody. I’ll bring him in. Don’t give me away.”

“But you don’t know who he is. He may be a thief--”

“Hope not. I can’t let him stand out there any longer, anyway. Be

pleasant to him.”

He threw open the door.

“Come right in!” he exclaimed heartily. “I’ve bearded the lioness, and

told her the story of our lives. I don’t believe you have met before.”

“I have not had that pleasure,” said Mr. Wellaway, making his best bow,

“but I am delighted, although I’m sorry to come unannounced.”

“Announced or unannounced, you might know you are always welcome,” said

Sarah, charmingly. “And the first thing is to get on some dry clothes.

You’ll both of you take cold. Run along, and I’ll see what we have for

dinner.”

The garments given him by his host did not fit Mr. Wellaway specially

well. They were considerably too large, but he was glad to get into

anything dry. What dissatisfied him with them more than aught else was

that they were the sort of garments of which the newspapers remark,

“There were no marks of identification.” The spare room into which he

was put offered no more aid. Three or four recent magazines lay on the

small table, but bore no names except their own titles. For the rest,

the spare room was evidently a brand-new spare room, fresh from the

maker. For purposes of identification it might as well have been a

hotel bedroom. Mr. Wellaway dressed hastily and hurried down-stairs.

The parlor, to the right of the stairs, stood open, and Mr. Wellaway

entered. A large fireplace occupied one end of the room, and the

furnishings and pictures bespoke a home of fair means, but no great

wealth. Magazines lay on a console table, but what attracted Mr.

Wellaway was a book-case. The case was well filled with books in good

bindings, and Mr. Wellaway stepped happily across the carpet and laid

his hand on the book-case door. It was locked.

V

Mr. Wellaway’s host and his host’s wife descended the stairs together

just as the maid issued from the dining-room to announce dinner,

and once seated, the conversation turned to the storm, to the utter

disruption of the telephone service, and to the game of golf the two

men had been unable to finish. In the midst of the conversation Mr.

Wellaway studied the monogram on the handles of his fork and spoon.

It was one of those triumphs of monogrammery that are so beautiful as

to be absolutely illegible. The name on the butter-knife handle was

legible, however. It was “Sarah.”

The soup had been consumed, and the roast carved when Mr. Wellaway’s

host looked at his wife and raised his eyebrows. She smiled in

acknowledgment of the signal.

“Don’t you think some names are supremely odd?” she asked Mr. Wellaway.

“My husband was telling me of one that came under his notice to-day.

What was it, dear?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t have noticed it but for the circumstances,” said Mr.

Wellaway’s host; “but it was a rather ridiculous name for a human

being. Can you imagine any one carrying around the name of Wellaway?”

Mr. Wellaway gasped.

“Imagine being a Wellaway!” said Sarah. “Isn’t it an inhospitable name?

It seems to suggest ‘Good-by; I’m glad you’re gone.’ Doesn’t it?”

“I can see the man with my mind’s eye,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. “A

tall, thin fellow, with sandy sideburns. Probably a floor-walker in

some shop, with a perpetual smile.”

“But tell him the rest,” said Sarah, chuckling.

“Oh, the rest--that’s too funny!” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. “I had a

letter this morning from this Mrs. Wellaway--”

Mr. Wellaway turned very red and moved uneasily in his chair.

“I ought to tell you that--that I know Mrs. Wellaway,” he stammered.

“I--I know her quite well. In fact--”

“Then you’ll appreciate this,” said his host, merrily. “You know the

business I’m in. Every one knows it. So you can imagine how I laughed

when I read this letter.”

From the inside pocket of his coat Mr. Wellaway’s host took a letter.

He removed the envelop and placed it on the table, address down.

“Listen to this,” he said: “‘Dear Sir: Only the greatest anguish of

mind induces me to write to you and ask your assistance. It may be that

I am the victim of an insane jealousy, but I fear the explanation is

not so innocent. I distrust my husband, and anything is better than

the pangs of uncertainty I now suffer. If your time is not entirely

taken, I wish, therefore, to engage you to make certain that my fears

are baseless or well founded. Please consider the matter as most

confidential, for I am only addressing you because I know that when a

matter is put in your hands it never receives the slightest publicity.

Yours truly, Mrs. Edgar Wellaway.’”

When he had read the letter, Mr. Wellaway’s host lay back in his chair

and laughed until the tears ran from his eyes, and his wife joined

him, and their joy was so great they did not notice that Mr. Wellaway

turned from red to white and choked on the bit of food he had attempted

to swallow. When they observed him, he was rapidly turning purple, and

with one accord they sprang from their chairs and began thumping him

vigorously on the back. In a minute they had thumped so vigorously that

Mr. Wellaway was pushing them away with his hands. He was still gasping

for breath when they half led, half carried him to the parlor and laid

him on a lounge.

“By George!” said his host, self-accusingly, “I shouldn’t have read you

that letter. But I didn’t know you would think it so funny as all that.

Do you feel all right now?”

“I feel--I feel--” gasped Mr. Wellaway. He could not express his

feelings.

“Well, it was funny, writing that to me, of all people, wasn’t it?”

said Mr. Wellaway’s host. “‘Not the slightest publicity.’ I suppose

she looked up the name in the telephone directory, and got the wrong

address. I know the fellow she was writing to. Same name as mine. Same

middle initial. Think you can finish that dinner now?”

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I think I’d like to rest here.”

“Just as you wish,” said his host. “Hello! There’s the telephone bell.

You can ’phone your wife now, if you wish.”

“No, thank you,” said Mr. Wellaway, meekly. “I’ll not. It’s of no

importance--no importance whatever.”

VI

“Well, what do you think!” exclaimed Mr. Wellaway’s host’s wife a

few minutes later, as she entered the parlor. “Of all the remarkable

things! You would never guess it. Who do you think just called me on

the ’phone? That Mrs. Wellaway!”

“No!” exclaimed Mr. Wellaway’s host, and Mr. Wellaway sat straight up

on the lounge.

“But she did,” said Sarah. “And she’s hunting that distrusted husband!

She telephoned the country club, and the steward told her there had

been no strangers there except your guest, so she telephoned here!

Imagine the assurance of the--”

She stopped short and stared at Mr. Wellaway. He was going through all

the symptoms of intense pain accompanied by loss of intelligence. Then

he asked feebly,

“What--what did you tell her?”

“I told her he wasn’t here, and hadn’t been here, of course,” said Mr.

Wellaway’s hostess, “and that we did not know any such man, and that

I didn’t believe he had come to Westcote at all, and that if I had a

husband I couldn’t trust, I’d keep better track of him than she did.”

“Did you--did you tell her all that?” asked Mr. Wellaway with anguish.

They stared at him in dismay.

“See here,” said his host, suddenly, “are you Mr. Wellaway?”

For answer Mr. Wellaway dropped back on the lounge and covered his face

with his hands.

“Now, I’ll never, never be able to make Mary believe I was here,” he

said, and then he groaned miserably.

VII

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” said Mr. Wellaway’s hostess in real distress. “We

were absolutely unaware, Mr. Wellaway. We meant no harm. Roger did not

know your name. But you can fix it all right. You can telephone Mrs.

Wellaway that you _are_ here. Telephone her immediately.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Wellaway. “I’ll do that. That’s what I must do,” and

he went up the stairs to the telephone. He returned in ten minutes and

found his host and hostess sitting opposite each other, staring at each

other with sober faces. They looked at him eagerly as he entered. His

face showed no relief.

“She says,” he said, “she says she don’t believe I’m here. She says I

could telephone from anywhere, and say I was anywhere else. She says

she just telephoned here, and knows I’m not here. And then she asked me

where I was telephoning from, and--”

Mr. Wellaway broke down and hid his face in his hands.

“And I didn’t know where I was telephoning from!” he moaned. “I didn’t

know the street or the house number, or--or the name!”

“You didn’t know the name!” cried Mr. Wellaway’s host. “You didn’t know

my name was Murchison?”

“Murchison?” said Mr. Wellaway, blankly. “Not the--not _the_

Murchison? Not Roger P. Murchison, the advertising agent, the publicity

man?”

“Of course,” said Mr. Wellaway’s host. For a full minute Mr. Wellaway

stared at Mr. Murchison.

“I know,” said Mr. Wellaway. “You eat at the Fifth Avenue! You sit by

the palm just to the left of the third window every noon.”

“By George!” exclaimed Mr. Murchison. “I knew your face was familiar.

And you sit at the end table right by the first window. Why, I’ve seen

you there every day for a year.”

“Of course you have,” said Mr. Wellaway, cheerfully. “That explains

everything. It makes it all as simple as--” His face fell suddenly.

“But it doesn’t make it any easier about Mary.”

Mr. Murchison might have said that Mary was none of his concern, but he

creased his brow in thought.

“Sarah,” he said at length, “run up-stairs and telephone Mrs. Wellaway

that her husband is here. Tell her he means to stay over Sunday, and

that he wants her to hire a taxicab and come out immediately and stay

over Sunday. Tell her our game of golf was a tie, and I insist that Mr.

Wellaway play off the tie to-morrow afternoon.”

Mrs. Murchison disappeared.

“And now,” said Mr. Murchison, genially, “you know my name, and you

know my business, and I know your name, and everything is all right,

and I’m mighty glad to know you as long as you are not a floor-walker.

Oh, pardon me!” he added quickly, “you are not a floor-walker, are you?

You didn’t say what your business was.”

Mr. Wellaway blushed.

“Names,” he said. “I’m a genealogist. My business is looking up names.”

[Illustration: Drawn by Henry Raleigh

“MR. WELLAWAY’S HOST THREW HIS BAG OF CLUBS ON THE GRASS AS THOUGH IT

WERE RED HOT, AND STARTED AT A FULL RUN FOR THE CLUB-HOUSE”]

[Illustration]

STELLA MARIS

BY WILLIAM J. LOCKE

Author of “The Beloved Vagabond,” “The Morals of Marcus Ordeyne,”

“Septimus,” “The Glory of Clementina,” etc.

CHAPTER XXII

They found him lying on the sofa, a pitiable object, the whole of his

head from the back of his neck to his eyebrows swathed in bandages. His

clothes were mere limp and discolored wrappings. They looked as though

they had been wet through, for the red of his tie had run into his

shirt-front and collar. The coarse black sprouts on pallid cheek and

upper lip gave him an appearance of indescribable grime. His eyes were

sunken and feverish.

Unity uttered a little cry as she saw him, but checked it quickly, and

threw herself on her knees by his side.

“Thank God you’re alive!”

He put his hand on her head.

“I’m all right,” he said faintly; “but you shouldn’t have come. That’s

why I didn’t go straight home. I didn’t want to frighten you. I’m a

ghastly sight, and I should have scared your aunt out of her wits.”

“But how, in Heaven’s name, man,” said Herold, “did you get into this

state?”

“Something hit me over the head, and I spent the night in rain and

sea-water on the rocks.”

“On the rocks? Where? At Southcliff?”

“Yes,” said John, “at Southcliff. I was a fool to go down, but I’ve

been a fool all my life, so a bit more folly doesn’t matter.” He closed

his eyes. “Give me a drink, Wallie--some brandy.”

Herold went into the dining-room, which adjoined the library, and

returned with decanter, syphon, and glasses. He poured out a brandy

and soda for John and watched him drink it; then he realized that he,

too, would be the better for stimulant. With an abstemious man’s idea

of taking brandy as medicine, he poured out for himself an extravagant

dose, mixed a little soda-water with it, and gulped it down.

“That’ll do me good,” said John; but on saying it he fell to shivering,

despite the heat of the summer afternoon.

“You’ve caught a chill,” cried Unity. She counseled home and bed at

once.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “It was all I could do to get here. Let me rest

for a couple of hours. I shall be all right. I’m not going to bed,”

he declared with sudden irritability; “I’ve never gone to bed in the

daytime in my life. I’ve never been ill, and I’m not going to be ill

now. I’m only stiff and tired.”

“You’ll go to bed here right away,” said Herold.

John protested. Herold insisted.

“Those infernal clothes--you must get them off at once,” said he. John

being physically weak, his natural obstinacy gave way. Unity saw the

sense of the suggestion; but it was giving trouble.

“Not a bit,” said Herold. “There’s a spare bedroom. John can have mine,

which is aired. Mrs. Ripley will see to it.”

He went out to give the necessary orders. Unity busied herself with

unlacing and taking off the stiffened boots. Herold returned, beckoned

to Unity, and whispered that he had telephoned for a doctor. Then he

said to John:

“How are you feeling, dear old man?”

“My head’s queer, devilish queer. Something fell on it last night and

knocked me out of time. It was raining, and I was sheltering under the

cliff on the beach, the other side of the path, where you can see the

lights of the house, when down came the thing. I must have recovered

just before dawn; for I remember staggering about in a dazed way. I

must have taken the road round the cliff, thinking it the upper road,

and missed my footing and fallen down. I came to about nine this

morning, on the rocks, the tide washing over my legs. I’m black and

blue all over. Wonder I didn’t break my neck. But I’m tough.”

“Thank God you’re alive!” said Unity again.

He passed his hands over his eyes. “Yes. You must have thought all

manner of things, dear. I didn’t realize till Ripley told me that I

hadn’t let you know. I went out, meaning to catch the 7:15 and come

back by the last train. But this thing knocked all memory out of me.

I’m sorry.”

Herold looked in bewilderment at the stricken giant. Even now he had

not accounted for the lunatic and almost tragic adventure. What was he

doing on the beach in the rain? What were the happenings subsequent to

his recovering consciousness at nine o’clock?

“Does it worry you to talk?” he asked.

“No. It did at first--I mean this morning. But I’m all right

now--nearly all right. I’d like to tell you. I picked myself up,

all over blood, a devil of a mess, and crawled to the doctor’s--not

Ransome; the other chap, Theed. He’s the nearest; and, besides, I

didn’t want to go to Ransome. I don’t think any one saw me. Theed took

me in and fixed me up and dried my clothes. Of course he wanted to

drag me to the Channel House, but I wouldn’t let him. I made him swear

not to tell them. I don’t want them to know. Neither of you must say

anything. He also tried to fit me out. But, you know, he’s about five

foot nothing; it was absurd. As soon as I could manage it, he stuck me

in a train, much against his will, and I came on here. That’s all.”

“If only I had known!” said Herold. “I was down there all the morning.”

“You?”

“I had a letter from Julia, summoning me.”

“So had I.” He closed his eyes again for a moment. Then he asked, “How

is Stella?”

“I had a long talk with her. I may have straightened things out a bit.

She’ll come round. There’s no cause for worry for the present. Julia is

a good soul, but she has no sense of proportion, and where Stella is

concerned she exaggerates.”

When a man has had rocks fall on his head, and again has fallen on

his head upon rocks, it is best to soothe what is left of his mind.

And after he had partly soothed it,--a very difficult matter, first,

because it was in a troubled and despairing state, and, secondly,

because John, never having taken Unity into his confidence, references

had to be veiled,--he satisfied the need of another brandy and soda.

Then Ripley came in to announce that the room was ready.

“Ripley and I will see to him,” said Herold to Unity. “You had better

go and fetch him a change of clothes and things he may want.”

“Mayn’t I wait till the doctor comes?” she pleaded.

“Of course, my dear. There’s no hurry,” said Herold.

The two men helped Risca to his feet, and, taking him to the bedroom,

undressed him, clothed him in warm pajamas, and put him into the bed,

where a hot-water bottle diffused grateful heat. Herold had seen the

livid bruises on his great, muscular limbs.

“Any one but you,” said he, with forced cheeriness, “would have been

smashed to bits, like an egg.”

“I tell you I’m tough,” John growled. “It’s only to please you that I

submit to this silly foolery of going to bed.”

As soon as Ripley was dismissed, he called Herold to his side.

“I would like to tell you everything, Wallie. I couldn’t in the other

room. Unity, poor child, knows nothing at all about things. Naturally.

I had been worried all the afternoon. I thought I saw her--you

know--hanging about outside the office. It was just before I met you

at the club. I didn’t tell you,--perhaps I ought to,--but that was

why I was so upset. But you’ll forgive me. You’ve always forgiven me.

Anyway, I thought I saw her. It was just a flash, for she, if it was

she, was swallowed up in the traffic of Fleet Street. After leaving the

club, I went back to the office--verification in proofs of something in

Baxter’s article. I found odds and ends to do. Then I went home, and

Julia’s letter lay on my table. I’ve been off my head of late, Wallie.

For the matter of that, I’m still off it. I’ve hardly slept for weeks.

I found Julia’s letter. I looked at my watch. There was just time to

catch the 7:15. I ran out, jumped into a taxi, and caught it just as it

was starting. But as I passed by a third-class carriage,--in fact, I

realized it only after I had gone several yards beyond; one rushes, you

know,--I seemed to see her face--those thin lips and cold eyes--framed

in the window. The guard pitched me into a carriage. I looked out for

her at all the stations. At Tring Bay the usual crowd got out. I didn’t

see her. No one like her got out at Southcliff. What’s the matter,

Wallie?” He broke off suddenly.

“Nothing, man; nothing,” said Herold, turning away and fumbling for his

cigarette-case.

“You looked as if you had seen a ghost. It was I who saw the ghost.”

He laughed. And the laugh, coming from the haggard face below the

brow-reaching white bandage, was horrible.

“Your brain was playing you tricks,” said Herold. “You got to

Southcliff. What happened?”

“I felt a fool,” said John. “Can’t you see what a fool a man feels when

he knows he has played the fool?”

Bit by bit he revealed himself. At the gate of the Channel House he

reflected. He had not the courage to enter. Stella would be up and

about. He resolved to wait until she went to bed. He wandered down

to the beach. The rain began to fall, fine, almost imperceptible.

The beacon-light in the west window threw a vanishing shaft into the

darkness.

“We saw it once--don’t you remember?--years ago when you gave her the

name--Stellamaris. I sat like a fool and watched the window. How long I

don’t know. My God! Wallie, you don’t know what it is to be shaken and

racked by the want of a woman--”

“By love for a woman, you mean,” said Herold.

“It’s the same thing. At last I saw her. She stood defined in the

light. She had changed. I cried out toward her like an idiot,”--the

rugged, grim half face visible beneath the bandage was grotesque, a

parody of passion,--“and I stayed there, watching, after she had gone

away. How long I don’t know. It was impossible to ring at the door and

see Oliver and Julia.”

He laughed again. “You must have some sense of humor, my dear man.

Fancy Oliver and Julia! What could I have said to them? What could they

have said to me? I sat staring up at her window. The rain was falling.

Everything was still. It was night. You know how quiet everything is

there. Then I seemed to hear footsteps and I turned, and a kind of

shape--a woman’s--disappeared. I know I was off my head, but I began

to think. I had a funny experience once--I’ve never told you. It was

the day she came out of prison. I sat down in St. James’s Park and fell

half asleep,--that sort of dog sleep one has when one’s tired,--and I

thought I saw her going for Stella--Stella in her bed at the Channel

House--going to strangle her. This came into my mind, and then

something hit me,--a chunk of overhanging cliff loosened by the rain, I

suppose,--and, as I’ve told you, it knocked me out. But it’s devilish

odd that she should be mixed up in it.”

“As I said, your brain was playing you tricks,” said Herold, outwardly

calm; but within himself he shuddered to his soul. The woman was like a

foul spirit hovering unseen about those he loved.

Presently the doctor, a young man with a cheery face, came in and

made his examination. There was no serious damage done. The only

thing to fear was the chill. If the patient’s temperature went down

in the morning, he could quite safely be moved to his own home. For

the present rest was imperative, immediate sleep desirable. He wrote a

prescription, and with pleasant words went away. Then Unity, summoned

to the room, heard the doctor’s comforting opinion.

“I’ll be with you to-morrow,” said John.

“You don’t mind leaving him to Mrs. Ripley and me just for one night?”

asked Herold.

“He’s always safe with you,” Unity replied, her eyes fixed not on him,

but on John Risca. “Good-by, Guardian dear.”

John drew an arm from beneath the bedclothes and put it round her thin

shoulders. “Good-by, dear. Forgive me for giving you such a fright, and

make my peace with auntie. You’ll be coming back with my things, won’t

you?”

“Of course; but you’ll be asleep then.”

“I shouldn’t wonder,” said John.

She made him cover up his arm again and tucked the bedclothes snugly

about him, her finger-tips lingering by his cheeks.

“I’ll leave you, too. Try and get to sleep,” said Herold.

They went together out of the room and back to the library.

“Has he said anything more?”

He stood before her trembling all over.

“What is the matter?”

He burst into an uncontrollable cry. “It’s that hellish woman again!

He saw her spying on him outside his office, he saw her in a railway

carriage on the train he took. Because she disappeared each time,

he thinks it was an hallucination; and somehow he was aware of her

presence just before the piece of rock came down.”

Unity’s face beneath the skimpy hair and rubbishy tam-o’-shanter was

white and strained.

“She threw it. I knew she threw it.”

“So do I. He saw her. She disappeared as she did that night in the fog.

A woman like that isn’t human. She has the power of disappearing at

will. You can’t measure her cunning.”

“What did he go down for?”

He told her. Unity’s lips twitched.

“And he sat there in the rain just looking at her window?”

She put out her hand. “Good-by, Mr. Herold. When you see Miss

Stellamaris, you’ll tell her I’m a good girl--in that way, you

know--and that I love her. She has been a kind of beautiful angel to

me--has always been with me. It’s funny; I can’t explain. But you

understand. If you’d only let her see that, I’d be so happy--and

perhaps she’d be happier.”

“I’ll do my utmost,” said Herold.

He accompanied her down-stairs, and when she had gone, he returned

to the library and walked about. The horror of the woman was upon

him. He drank another brandy and soda. After a while Ripley came in

with a soiled card on a tray. He looked at it stupidly--“Mr. Edwin

Travers”--and nodded.

“Shall I show the gentleman up?”

He nodded again, thinking of the woman.

When the visitor came in he vaguely recognized him as a broken-down

actor, a colleague of early days. As in a dream he bade the man sit

down, and gave him cigarettes and drink, and heard with his outer ears

an interminable tale of misfortune. At the end of it he went to his

desk and wrote out a check, which he handed to his guest.

“I can’t thank you, old man. I don’t know how to. But as soon as I can

get an engagement--hello, old man,” he cried, glancing at the check,

“you’ve made a funny mistake--the name!”

Herold took the slip of paper, and saw that he had made the sum payable

not to Edwin Travers, but to Louisa Risca. It was a shock, causing

him to brace his faculties. He wrote out another check, and the man

departed.

He went softly into John’s room and found him sleeping peacefully.

Soon afterward Ripley announced that dinner was ready. It was past six

o’clock.

“Great Heavens!” he cried aloud, “I’ve got to play to-night.”

After a hurried wash he went into the dining-room and sat down at the

table, but the sight and smell of food revolted him. He swallowed a

few mouthfuls of soup; the rest of the dinner he could not touch. The

horror of the woman had seized him again. He drank some wine, pushed

back his chair, and threw down his table-napkin.

“I don’t want anything else. I’m going for a walk. I’ll see you later

at the theater.”

The old-fashioned Kensington street, with its double line of Queen

Anne houses slumbering in the afternoon sunshine, was a mellow blur

before his eyes. Whither he was going he knew: what he was going to do

he knew not. The rigid self-control of the day, relaxed at times, but

always kept within grip, had at last escaped him. Want of food and

the unaccustomed drink had brought about an abnormal state of mind. He

was aware of direction, aware, too, of the shadow-shapes of men and

women passing him by, of traffic in the roadway. He walked straight,

alert, his gait and general demeanor unaffected, his outer senses

automatically alive. He walked down the narrow, shady Church Street,

and paused for a moment or two by the summer greenery of Kensington

Churchyard until there was an opportunity of crossing the High Street,

now at the height of its traffic. He strode westward past the great

shops, a lithe man in the full vigor of his manhood. Here and there

a woman lingering in front of displays of millinery recognized the

well-known actor and nudged her companion.

The horror within him had grown to a consuming thing of flame. Instead

of the quiet thoroughfares down which he turned, he saw picture

after shuddering picture--the woman and Stellamaris, the woman and

John Risca. She attacked soul as well as body. The pictures took the

forms of horrible grotesques. Within, his mind worked amazingly,

like a machine escaped from human control and running with blind

relentlessness. He had said years ago that he would pass through his

hell-fire. He was passing through it now.

The destroyer must be kept from destroying or be destroyed. Which of

these should be accomplished through his agency? One or the other. Of

one thing he was certain, with an odd, undoubting certainty: that he

would find her, and finding her, that he would let loose upon her the

wrath of God. She should be chained up forever or he would strangle

her. Shivering thrills diabolically delicious ran through him at the

thought. Supposing he strangled her as he would a mad cat? That were

better. She would be out of the world. He would be fulfilling his

destiny of sacrifice. For the woman he loved and for the man he loved

why should he not do this thing? What but a legal quibble could call it

murder? Stellamaris’s words rang in his ears: “You say you love me like

that?”

“Yes, I love you like that. I love you like that,” he cried below his

breath as he walked on.

He knew where she lived, the name by which she passed. John had told

him many times. There were few things in John’s life he did not know.

He knew of the Bences, of Mrs. Oscraft, the fluffy-haired woman who

lived in the flat below. Amelia Mansions, he was aware, were in the

Fulham Road. But when he reached that thoroughfare, he stood dazed and

irresolute, realizing that he did not know which way to turn. A passing

postman gave him the necessary information. The trivial contact with

the commonplace restored in a measure his mental balance. He went on.

By Brompton Cemetery he felt sick and faint and clung for a minute or

two to the railings. He had eaten nothing since early morning, and then

only a scrap of bacon and toast; he had drunk brandy and wine, and he

had lived through a day in which the maddening stress of a lifetime had

been concentrated.

One or two passers-by stared at him, for he was as white as a sheet.

A comfortable, elderly woman, some small shopkeeper’s wife, addressed

him. Was he ill? Could she do anything for him? The questioning was

a lash. He drew himself up, smiled, raised his hat, thanked her

courteously. It was nothing. He went on, loathing himself as men do

when the flesh fails beneath the whip of the spirit.

He was well now, his mind clear. He was going to the woman. He would

save those he loved. If it were necessary to kill her, he would kill

her. On that point his brain worked with startling clarity. If he did

not kill her, she would be eventually killed by John; for John, he

argued, could not remain in ignorance forever. If John killed her, he

would be hanged. Much better that he, Walter Herold, whom Stellamaris

did not love, should be hanged than John--much better. And what the

deuce did it matter to anybody whether he were hanged or not? He

laughed at the elementary logic of the proposition. The solution of all

the infernally intricate problems of life is, if people only dared face

it, one of childish simplicity. It was laughable. Walter Herold laughed

aloud in the Fulham Road.

It was so easy, so uncomplicated. He would see her. He would do what he

had to do. Then he would take a taxicab to the theater. He must play

to-night. Of course he would. There was no reason why he shouldn’t.

Only he hoped that, Leonora Gurney wouldn’t worry him. He would manage

to avoid her during that confounded wait in the first act, when she

always tried to get him to talk. He would play the part all right. He

was a man and not a stalk of wet straw. After the performance he would

give himself up. No one would be inconvenienced. He would ask the

authorities to hurry on matters and give him a short shrift and a long

rope; but the length of the rope didn’t matter these days, when they

just broke your neck. There was no one dependent on him. His brothers

and sisters, many years his seniors,--he had not seen them since he was

a child,--had all gone after their father’s death to an uncle in New

Zealand. They were there still. The mother, who had remained with him,

the Benjamin, in England, had died while he was at Cambridge. He was

free from family-ties. And women? He was free, too. There had only been

one woman in his life, the child of cloud and sea foam.

Stellamaris, star of the sea, now dragged through the mire of mortal

things! She should go back. She should go back to her firmament,

shining down upon, and worshiped by, the man she loved. And he,

God!--he should be spared the terrifying agony of it.

Thus worked the brain which Walter Herold told himself was crystal

clear.

It was clear enough, however, to follow the postman’s directions. He

took the turning indicated and found the red-brick block, with the name

“Amelia Mansions” carved in stone over the entrance door. The by-street

seemed to be densely populated. He went into the entrance-hall and

mechanically looked at the list of names. Mrs. Rawlings’s name was

followed by No. 7. He mounted the stairs. On the landing of No. 7 there

were a couple of policemen, and the flat door was open, and the length

of the passage was visible. Herold was about to enter when they stopped

him.

“You can’t go in, sir.”

“I want Mrs. Rawlings.”

“No one can go in.”

He stood confused, bewildered. An elderly, buxom woman, with a

horrified face, who just then happened to come out of a room near the

doorway, saw him and came forward.

“You are Mr. Herold,” she asked.

“Yes; I want to see Mrs. Rawlings.”

“It’s all right, constable,” she said in a curiously cracked voice.

“Let this gentleman pass. Come in, sir. I am Mrs. Bence.”

He entered the passage. She spoke words to him the import of which

he did not catch. His brain was perplexed by the guard of policemen

and the open flat. She led him a short distance down the passage. He

stumbled over a packed kit-bag. She threw open a door. He crossed

the threshold of a vulgarly furnished drawing-room, the electric

lights turned on despite the daylight of the July evening. There were

four figures in the room. Standing and scribbling in note-books were

two men, one in the uniform of a sergeant of police, the other in a

frock-coat, obviously a medical man. On the floor were two women, both

dead. One was John Risca’s wife, and the other was Unity. And near by

them lay a new, bright revolver.