he had been even before the commencement of his hallucination; but
Mrs. Barton was much paler and thinner than when I had seen her last.
I was the only guest, and the burden of the conversation was borne
by myself and Barton, who was really almost boisterous at times--an
extraordinary change for him. Mrs. Barton scarcely spoke. I noticed
that she never so much as glanced in the direction of her husband. I
thought at the time that probably the first tiff of their married life
had come off some time that day, and that Barton's boisterousness and
his wife's silence arose from the same cause. I know better now.
When Mrs. Barton left us to our cigarettes, I asked about the man at
the door. Barton, I think, was rather vexed at the question, but he
told me that he had no return of the vision, and then passed on to
something else. I also inquired after his wife's health, and as far
as I could judge he seemed actually pleased to hear that I thought her
looking ill, and his manner of speaking of her altogether confirmed me
in the idea that they had had a quarrel, and a fairly serious quarrel,
that very day, though of course I couldn't pursue the subject.
A short while afterwards a message was brought in to Barton, and he
asked me to excuse him for a few minutes, as he must see someone--a
groom I think he said--and would rejoin me in the drawing-room.
I went upstairs and entered into conversation with my hostess,
whose manners had completely changed. She talked now with a feverish
rapidity, and I noticed with the most intense surprise, and I must
add with a creeping sensation of horror, that she had caught Barton's
trick of constantly shooting anxious glances at the door. I suppose
she saw that I had observed her, for she turned her chair round with
its back to the door and said--
"I was wondering why my husband did not come."
I told her that he was engaged for the moment, and she continued--
"Have you noticed any change in him, Mr. Campbell?"
"He seems marvellously well," I replied. "We really owe a great debt
to the two little doctors and to----"
I stopped abruptly. Mrs. Barton had grown ghastly pale, and I
remembered how fiercely the Jew had endeavoured to attack her in that
terrible little room in Florence. Once again she seemed to read my
thoughts.
"I knew that man Israel Hoffmann, Mr. Campbell," she said. "I am a
Russian, you know, and we--my father and I--disliked him, and he hated
us, and had threatened often to revenge--that is, to injure us. My
father warned me against him only a few months before he died, and you
see how the man tried to attack me on that night. We do not like Jews
in Russia you know, Mr. Campbell.--Why, what is it?"
"Nothing," I said, hastily, but I'm afraid my voice shook; "I thought
I saw your husband coming in--I was mistaken."
It was no mistake, I knew. It was Barton's face that I had seen
looking round the door, with his eyes fixed on his wife; but as I
spoke the head was withdrawn, and the door softly closed.
[Illustration: "IT WAS BARTON'S FACE--HIS EYES FIXED ON HIS WIFE."]
"Mr. Campbell," said--or, rather, gasped--the woman at my side, "was
he--was he peering at me round the door?"
"Well, I--I thought so," I stammered.
"He always does that now," she whispered, "and it frightens me, Mr.
Campbell--it frightens me. What does it mean?"
What on earth was I to say? Here was Barton apparently taking the
place of his departed ghastly visitor; but how was I to explain this
to his wife, who had never heard, and now most certainly must never
hear, of her husband's hideous delusion. I was relieved from my
difficulty by Barton himself, who now entered the room with the same
boisterously cheerful manner that I had noticed before.
"Well, I hope you're not bored, Campbell," he cried.
"Very much the reverse," said I, with perfect truth.
"I'm afraid that isn't true," said Mrs. Barton; "I'm very dull
to-night, but Mr. Campbell must excuse me--my head is aching terribly,
and I really think I must go to bed."
Of course, I expressed my sympathy and wished her good-night; but as I
opened the door for her she whispered, "For God's sake stay as long as
you can. Good-night."
Well, I did stay as long as I could; and if ever a host made it clear
to a guest that he wasn't wanted, Barton did that night. After about
an hour of it he asked me point blank to go, as he had had a very
tiring day.
I couldn't very well stay on after that, could I? I soothed my
conscience by determining to find some pretext for coming round to the
house the next morning, and got up to go. Barton helped me on with my
coat himself, and while he was doing so I noticed an immensely heavy
whip lying on an old oak chest in the hall.
"Sorry for your horses, Barton," said I, "if that's your idea of a
riding-crop."
Barton laughed.
"It's a Russian executioner's knout," he said. "I got it as an
interesting curiosity, and a pretty penny I had to pay for it. I
thought it might interest my wife--she's a Russian, as you know."
"Rather a ghastly present," I said.
"Oh, horrors appeal to the Slavonic temperament," he answered; "she'll
be glad to have that knout. Good-night."
I must admit that I left the house with a very strong presentiment of
trouble to come, and cudgelling my brains in vain to discover a reason
for Barton's amazing conduct at the drawing-room door. I did not like
to ask him about it--the less said about his delusion the better, I
thought--but I determined to come round in the morning; I could make
the Russian knout an excuse for doing so--I could easily assume an
interest in a curiosity like that.
So at ten o'clock next day I walked round to the Bartons'. As I turned
the corner into Pont Street, I saw with a thrill of undefined dread
that there was a small crowd gathered round the Bartons' house, and
two policemen were engaged in pushing the people back from the door,
which was open. I forced my way furiously through the crowd, and
seeing the white face of the old butler in the hall, behind the
policemen, I called to him. He came forward and I was admitted, after
some delay, as a friend of the family.
"What is it, Parsons?" I asked.
"God knows, Mr. Campbell," he whispered. "Mr. and Mrs. Barton
breakfasted together in the oak room this morning: there wasn't no
one waiting, and about ten minutes gone I heard a cry and went to the
door. It was locked, Mr. Campbell, and there's something goin' on in
there as I don't like, sir. The police are breaking in the door now."
[Illustration: "THE POLICEMAN AND BUTLER TRIED TO BREAK IN THE STRONG
OAK DOOR."]
I hurried past the old fellow, and up the stairs to the oak room,
a little panelled room with a strong oak door, which two men, a
policeman and the footman, were trying to break in. From the room came
a noise of blows and of a voice singing, heard from time to time, as
the two men paused in their violent attack on the door. The voice was
strange to me, and I could make nothing of the words of the song; they
were not English, that was all I could discover. As I threw my weight
against it the door gave way, and the three of us tumbled into the
room together. It was a ghastly sight, Jack. There, with her head on
the table among the breakfast things and her body resting across the
back of a chair, lay Mrs. Barton, dead, and horribly lacerated on the
back and shoulders, from which the clothes had been torn away. Her
husband was standing beside her, still singing the hideous song we had
heard, and waving round his head the terrible whip that I had seen
the night before, and which was now dripping with the blood of the
wretched woman whose life he had taken.
We all rushed in at him together: he knocked the footman head over
heels with his left hand, and struck at me with his whip, but at the
same moment the policeman at my side cut him down with a blow of his
truncheon, and he lay writhing on the floor. I lifted up the body of
the poor woman, but finding that life was quite extinct I laid her
down and turned to the madman at my feet. The blow of the policeman's
staff had caught him on the side of the head, crushing it in like an
egg-shell, and I saw that he was dying. I knelt down by him, and he
seemed to recognise me, but in a moment his eyes closed, and though he
breathed for more than an hour he never recovered consciousness.
[Illustration: "WE RUSHED AT HIM TOGETHER. HE KNOCKED THE FOOTMAN HEAD
OVER HEELS."]
You read my evidence at the inquest: of course my description of
Barton's delusion was necessary to establish the poor fellow's
undoubted madness, but I did not think it incumbent on me to enter
into great detail. Now, I want your opinion as a medical man. This
affair has shaken my nerves in the most terrible way.
Of course the vision and its fulfilment, if you can call it such,
is and must remain inexplicable. It is Barton's conduct after the
operation that I want you to explain.
I know, from certain correspondence that I have in my hands, that
the man Israel Hoffmann was terribly wronged by Mrs. Barton and her
father: his wife was, in fact, executed on their representations
alone, as far as I can ascertain, and the whole object of his life
was revenge. Is it possible that the spirit of vengeance passed into
Barton's soul as the blood of the injured Jew passed into his veins?
Could that be the reason for his strange choice of a weapon, and for
the ghastly song, which may have been a Russian song, or even one of
the psalms in Yiddish for all I know, which he sang as he beat his
wife to death? If this is so, the only feeling we should have towards
poor Barton is one of intense pity; and if not, if such an idea is
repugnant to medical science, how do you explain the whole hideous
story?
Write soon and tell me.
Your loving brother,
TOM.
P.S.--It is a coincidence--an interesting coincidence--that the fatal
wound on poor Barton's head corresponded exactly, or almost exactly,
with a terrible bruise I saw on the head of Israel Hoffmann.
A MAN HUNT WITH BLOODHOUNDS.
SHOWING HOW THEY MAY BE USED IN THE DETECTION OF CRIME.
BY ALFRED ARKAS.
[Illustration: TRAINING PUPPY TO HUNT CLEAN BOOT.]
I have just been hunted by bloodhounds, and, strangely enough, I
am none the worse for the experience. It is more exciting than
fox-hunting, and for sheer fascination is well ahead of any other
sport of which I have any knowledge. The why and wherefore is another
story, of which more presently.
The trial of the bloodhound in the practical work of tracking
criminals is no new thing. In 1888, when the Whitechapel murders
were agitating all England, the public, alarmed and indignant at the
impotence of the police, plied the authorities with no less than 1,200
letters per day containing suggestions for the murderer's capture. Of
these 800 advocated the trial of bloodhounds.
Ultimately, the weight of public opinion was such as to induce Sir
Charles Warren, Commissioner of Police, to give them a trial. Mr.
Brough, the eminent authority on the breed, was consulted, and he
brought a couple of hounds, trained to hunt man, to London, and
several experiments were undertaken.
In some of these Sir Charles himself acted as quarry, the runs being
made in Hyde Park. They were all successful, the Commissioner
and others who acted as runners being run to earth each time with
unfailing regularity. He expressed himself more than satisfied, it
being clearly demonstrated that the hounds would run a man to earth
who was a complete stranger to them, notwithstanding that the scent
might be crossed by a number of other persons.
[Illustration: LAYING TRAINED BLOODHOUNDS ON THE SCENT.]
During all the weeks the hounds were in London no further crime
occurred, and the opportunity of utilising their services was lost.
Sir Charles kept them till it seemed that the terrible Jack the Ripper
scare was over. The hounds were then returned to their owner. They had
not left London more than two or three days when another ghastly
crime was perpetrated. Obviously their presence exercised a deterrent
effect, and had the police seen fit to add a couple of well-trained
hounds to the Scotland Yard staff it is probable no other murder would
have been added to the series.
[Illustration: CASTING--TO PICK UP SCENT.]
The mysterious and apparently illimitable scenting power possessed by
the bloodhound appeals to the imagination of the criminal classes to
an extraordinary extent. From what I have gathered of the subject,
I cannot help feeling that no police station of any size should
be without a couple of trained hounds. The fear of the "cat" is
proverbial. Utilise the bloodhound, and a far greater deterrent
against crime will have been found.
Some time since the subject once more engaged further attention, and
it was decided to organise a series of private trials in connection
with _The Harmsworth Magazine_, with a view to determining the real
capability of the hound for hunting man. The next thing was to procure
hounds of the purest breed. At this stage we put ourselves into
communication with Mr. Edwin Brough, of Wyndyate, near Scarborough.
Mr. Brough has been a breeder of bloodhounds for something like thirty
years. He is regarded as the highest living authority on the breed. He
is the winner of over 400 first and champion prizes for hounds of
his own breeding, and he may be aptly described the creator of the
splendid type of hound we have to-day.
Mr. Brough received my suggestion in a sporting manner, and with
characteristic generosity offered me every facility in the most
difficult and patience-racking task of obtaining the photographs which
accompany this article. His hounds are his best friends, and he
is willing to go to almost any lengths in order to correct the
innumerable absurd ideas that are prevalent with regard to the breed.
Accordingly a short time since a small two-man expedition, equipped
with a camera and an unlimited stock of patience, set out for
Scarborough.
Early on the following morning I took part in my first manhunt, and
a weirdly fascinating experience it was in all conscience--harmless
enough, in spite of its sanguinary title.
At the back of Mr. Brough's house are spacious kennels. Here we found
thirty or forty valuable hounds, gazing from behind the iron bars of
their kennel runs, each handsome and well groomed, the black and
fawn coat glistening like velvet; each a perfect type, with handsome
expressive face, and pedigree long enough to turn many a human being
pale with envy. The kennel man opened two of the doors, and we trudged
down the drive and out on to the fields by the cliff-side with four
magnificent hounds at our heels.
A soft green undulation in the countryside, sloping into a wooded
valley, was chosen for our first trial, and standing at a gate on the
summit I had an uninterrupted view of the whole run.
A few moments after our arrival a gentleman who had volunteered to
act as runner or quarry started over the slope, and sprinted quickly
across the valley on to the opposite hillside. His destination
had been previously decided, and with the aid of a glass we could
distinctly see him crouching behind the bushes.
[Illustration: BABBO--THE FAMOUS TRACKER OF HUMAN BEINGS.]
A short time after he had concealed himself, the hounds, which had
been held in check out of sight, were brought through the gate and
laid on scent. The laying on was done by the kennel man, who simply
ran his hand along the line or lines of scent to give the hounds a
start. A moment later they were rapidly casting round on the trail.
Then, before you could say "Jack Robinson," there was a deep sonorous
bay, more like the roar of the sea-lion echoing in the roof of
Brighton Aquarium than anything else I know, but sweet and resonant
as the note of a bell. They had found the scent, and were off like
streaked lightning.
[Illustration: FINDING THE QUARRY--INSTANTANEOUS PHOTOGRAPH.]
Down the hill they flew, three in a bunch, the fourth perhaps a yard
behind, their noses almost scraping the ground, and the long graceful
ears trailing noiselessly in the short grass. A couple of minutes
later a deep-bayed quartette echoed away on the further hillside. They
had found their man, and were jumping and licking him delightedly. So
much for the tearing limb from limb theory.
As a matter of fact, the bloodhound never hurts his quarry when
found. He is the gentlest and most lovable of hounds, and vice of any
description is utterly foreign to his character. If he is required
to hold his man at bay it is necessary to specially train him for the
purpose.
"Strong scent," said Mr. Brough. "They went right away." And, in
truth, they travelled like racehorses. So fast, indeed, that one
forgot for the moment that they were not pursuing a visible object, or
racing to a pre-arranged goal.
When the truth made itself clear that they were hunting what is termed
"the clean boot"--following the natural scent of a man through
his shoe leather--across rough and broken country at a
twelve-miles-an-hour gait, it seemed incredible.
And it should be remembered that it was the individual scent of
that one man they were tracking. Each human being seems to possess a
distinctive scent, and when well-trained hounds are laid on to any
one scent they cannot be diverted, though the trail be crossed by any
number of other persons.
Five minutes later I ran myself. I was a complete stranger to the
hounds. I know that no artificial scent had been attached to my boots,
and the course was an entirely different one of my own choosing. Yet
they found me a mile away, a few minutes after they were laid on, and
bayed with delight as they came up.
In all our trials, extending over three days, they were successful,
although every difficulty was placed in their way. In one trial the
runner ran to the bank of a river, then up along the side for some
yards; back again over the same scent to the first point of contact
with the bank; then he forded the river and ran along the opposite
bank.
The hounds came up at full trot, traced him along the near bank, till
in their eagerness they ran over the scent. Then they all checked
and cast again, and after a few moments found by the double
scent--although he had practically returned over the same line--that
he had doubled over his own track. At the bank they cast again, and
after assuring themselves that he had not returned to the starting
place they swam the stream, and in a few moments had picked up the
scent on the other side and found him.
In another instance several circles were made by the quarry in the
middle of a run, and while they were casting about this invisible
maze, in an endeavour to find his outgoing trail, we were enabled to
obtain our photograph of a cast.
In most of our trials the hounds were put on the trail comparatively
soon after the runner had passed over the course, but it must not be
forgotten that they are equally successful in working what is termed
a "cold scent"--one many hours old. In this respect they surpass all
other breeds of hounds.
As I have already said, this power of scent is so subtle as to be
almost uncanny. And it is as deep a mystery to those who have devoted
a lifetime to hound breeding as to the ignorant layman.
Certain it was, however, that the hounds performed marvels, and their
success, under circumstances of great difficulty, was sufficient to
more than convince me of their value in the detection of crime. They
must have fair play, of course, and conditions more or less favourable
for their particular work.
The training of the uneducated puppy to hunt the clean boot is as
interesting as the work of the fully trained adults.
The puppies begin their training when only four or five months old,
and Mr. Brough resorts to none of the methods generally advocated,
such as rubbing the boots of the runner with blood or aniseed. They
begin as they finish--on the clean boot. For the first few times they
practise tracking a runner whom they know.
The runner starts in view of the pups; runs some two or three hundred
yards up wind in a straight line on grass land. He hides himself as
soon as possible, and then the trainer takes the pup over the exact
line of scent. He trails his hand along it, endeavouring to get the
dog to put his head down and work for himself. This goes on till the
quarry is reached, when the dog is rewarded by a piece of meat.
This has to be repeated several times perhaps, before the young hound
gets his head down and understands what is required of him. Once he
understands, he takes the greatest possible interest in the quest, and
improves rapidly.
Then difficulties are placed in his way. The line is purposely crossed
by others. The time of laying on is postponed some time after the run.
Zig-zag runs are also made, and sticks with white flags on them are
stuck in the ground at all the angles. By this means the trainer is
enabled to judge of the accuracy of the dog's work.
Mr. Brough makes an intimate friend of each and every hound, and their
individual characteristics are well known to him. Extreme patience,
kindly persistence and firmness are all that is necessary in the
upbringing of these beautiful creatures.
As friends they are unsurpassed. Mr. Brough says, "The bloodhound is
essentially and pre-eminently a gentlemanly dog, and when you have
once won his esteem he may be depended upon as your staunch, trusty,
life-long friend."
Mr. Brough's dogs are the handsomest I ever saw. They have a majestic
bearing, and thoughtful expressive faces, quite in harmony with their
aristocratic lineage.
I should advise every dog lover to obtain a good puppy and train it
himself. There are few healthier or more delightful recreations.
[Illustration: WATCHING A PUPPY'S WORK.]
[Illustration: Three Score and Ten.]
Come to me, little one,
Out of the autumn sun;
Play must be surely done--
Three kisses, then.
Clamber up on my knee.
Old, do they say of me?
You would not like to be
Three score and ten!
Time's to be blamed, not I;
Whether we laugh or sigh,
His busy wheels must fly
For maids and men.
Once I was six years old,
Only the years have roll'd;
Most of the tale is told
At three score and ten!
Age, too, has dreams of May,
Loved faces gone away,
Green ways grown sad and gray.
Scarce we know when.
Crying?--no, little one;
Tears should be past and done,
Rest is so nearly won,
At three score and ten!
Lift me your baby eyes,
Blue as the summer skies;
More in their laughter lies
Than Age may ken.
Heav'n in their depth I see:
Pray it may there still be
When you can count, like me,
Three score and ten!
THE DESPATCHES FOR GIBRALTAR.
A VICTORIA CROSS AFFAIR.
BY GILBERT HERON.
_Illustrated by D. B. Waters and F. T. Jane._
In the summer of 189-, the Channel Squadron, having taken part in the
Annual Mobilisation, had dispersed.
Ships and men alike were resting, the former in their respective
dockyards, the latter enjoying themselves after their kind on leave.
Although only a senior lieutenant, I had lately been appointed to
the command of a torpedo-gunboat, the _Quickmatch_, a vessel of the
_Speedy_ type, which I had left at Portsmouth. I was spending my leave
at the country seat in Hampshire of one of my late father's oldest
friends, whose daughter I had long loved, when a telegram arrived
ordering me to join my ship with all possible despatch. Hawes, our
cheeky little clerk, evidently thinking I should regard it as a piece
of good news, had added on his own responsibility, "War declared! Vive
la gloire!"
[Illustration: "'I HAVE DECIDED TO ENTRUST YOU WITH A DIFFICULT AND
DANGEROUS MISSION.'"]
So it had come, then, and I should have to leave the delights of love
in a country house for the stern realities of war. There was nothing
for it but to leave Bertha and say farewell. We had been engaged for
some time, but had decided that it would be folly to marry till I had
at least reached the rank of Commander; and the one drop of sweetness
in the bitter cup of our farewell was the thought that active service
would give me an opportunity for quick promotion.
[Illustration: "I BADE HER A LONG GOOD-BYE."]
It was difficult to find a quiet corner for leave-taking; but
eventually, in the drawing-room, behind a palm-shaded screen, I bade
her a long good-bye.
"I will write whenever I can, dearest," I said, "but I expect it will
not be an easy matter. You must be content to hear from me at odd
intervals till the war is over. You will trust me, dear, will you
not?"