The Big Book of Rogues and Villains

The Fire of London Arnold Bennett

Madame Sara L. T. Meade & Robert Eustace

The early years of the mystery short story featured quite a few female criminals, most of whom shared the traits of youth, beauty, charm, and a devoted male friend or gang. They tended also to be clever rogues who enjoyed the excitement and great good fun of stealing jewels, money, or a precious antique or painting.

Madame Sara, the creation of the prolific Elizabeth Thomasina Meade Smith (1844–1914), using the pseudonym L. T. Meade, and Dr. Robert Eustace Barton (1863–1948), using the pseudonym Robert Eustace, is a remarkably different sort of woman, carrying about her an air of mystery. Although she appears to be a beautiful young woman of no more than twenty-five years, the story notes that she attended a wedding thirty years earlier and looked exactly the same.

Madame Sara is also a ruthless murderer, counting both male and female victims among her triumphs. The six stories about her were collected in The Sorceress of the Strand (1903), one of more than sixty volumes of mystery, crime, and detection written by Meade; in all, she produced more than three hundred novels and short story collections in various genres.

Born in Ireland, Meade later moved to London, where she married, wrote prolifically, and became an active feminist and member of the Pioneer Club, a progressive women’s club founded in 1892; members were identified by number, rather than name, to emphasize the unimportance of social position. In her spare time, she worked as the editor of Atalanta, a popular girls’ magazine.

Robert Eustace collaborated with several authors, including Edgar Jepson, Gertrude Warden, and Dorothy L. Sayers, but most commonly with Meade. Although he worked with her on such significant books as Stories from the Diary of a Doctor (1894; second series, 1896), A Master of Mysteries (1898), The Brotherhood of the Seven Kings (1899), The Gold Star Line (1899), and The Sanctuary Club (1900), his name seldom appeared on the covers of the books, only on the title pages, so one wonders if it was due to the author’s diffidence or the publisher’s lack of respect.

“Madame Sara” was originally published in the October 1902 issue of The Strand Magazine; it was first collected in The Sorceress of the Strand (London, Ward, Lock, 1903).

Everyone in trade and a good many who are not have heard of Werner’s Agency, the Solvency Inquiry Agency for all British trade. Its business is to know the financial condition of all wholesale and retail firms, from Rothschild’s to the smallest sweetstuff shop in Whitechapel. I do not say that every firm figures on its books, but by methods of secret inquiry it can discover the status of any firm or individual. It is the great safeguard to British trade and prevents much fraudulent dealing.

Of this agency I, Dixon Druce, was appointed manager in 1890. Since then I have met queer people and seen strange sights, for men do curious things for money in this world.

It so happened that in June, 1899, my business took me to Madeira on an inquiry of some importance. I left the island on the 14th of the month by the Norham Castle for Southampton. I embarked after dinner. It was a lovely night, and the strains of the band in the public gardens of Funchal came floating across the star-powdered bay through the warm, balmy air. Then the engine bells rang to “Full speed ahead,” and, flinging a farewell to the fairest island on earth, I turned to the smoking-room in order to light my cheroot.

“Do you want a match, sir?”

The voice came from a slender, young-looking man who stood near the taffrail. Before I could reply he had struck one and held it out to me.

“Excuse me,” he said, as he tossed it overboard, “but surely I am addressing Mr. Dixon Druce?”

“You are, sir,” I said, glancing keenly back at him, “but you have the advantage of me.”

“Don’t you know me?” he responded, “Jack Selby, Hayward’s House, Harrow, 1879.”

“By Jove! so it is,” I cried.

Our hands met in a warm clasp, and a moment later I found myself sitting close to my old friend, who had fagged for me in the bygone days, and whom I had not seen from the moment when I said goodbye to the “Hill” in the grey mist of a December morning twenty years ago. He was a boy of fourteen then, but nevertheless I recognised him. His face was bronzed and good-looking, his features refined. As a boy Selby had been noted for his grace, his well-shaped head, his clean-cut features; these characteristics still were his, and although he was now slightly past his first youth he was decidedly handsome. He gave me a quick sketch of his history.

“My father left me plenty of money,” he said, “and The Meadows, our old family place, is now mine. I have a taste for natural history; that taste took me two years ago to South America. I have had my share of strange adventures, and have collected valuable specimens and trophies. I am now on my way home from Para, on the Amazon, having come by a Booth boat to Madeira and changed there to the Castle Line. But why all this talk about myself?” he added, bringing his deck chair a little nearer to mine. “What about your history, old chap? Are you settled down with a wife and kiddies of your own, or is that dream of your school days fulfilled, and are you the owner of the best private laboratory in London?”

“As to the laboratory,” I said, with a smile, “you must come and see it. For the rest I am unmarried. Are you?”

“I was married the day before I left Para, and my wife is on board with me.”

“Capital,” I answered. “Let me hear all about it.”

“You shall. Her maiden name was Dallas; Beatrice Dallas. She is just twenty now. Her father was an Englishman and her mother a Spaniard; neither parent is living. She has an elder sister, Edith, nearly thirty years of age, unmarried, who is on board with us. There is also a step-brother, considerably older than either Edith or Beatrice. I met my wife last year in Para, and at once fell in love. I am the happiest man on earth. It goes without saying that I think her beautiful, and she is also very well off. The story of her wealth is a curious one. Her uncle on the mother’s side was an extremely wealthy Spaniard, who made an enormous fortune in Brazil out of diamonds and minerals; he owned several mines. But it is supposed that his wealth turned his brain. At any rate, it seems to have done so as far as the disposal of his money went. He divided the yearly profits and interest between his nephew and his two nieces, but declared that the property itself should never be split up. He has left the whole of it to that one of the three who should survive the others. A perfectly insane arrangement, but not, I believe, unprecedented in Brazil.”

“Very insane,” I echoed. “What was he worth?”

“Over two million sterling.”

“By Jove!” I cried, “what a sum! But what about the step-brother?”

“He must be over forty years of age, and is evidently a bad lot. I have never seen him. His sisters won’t speak to him or have anything to do with him. I understand that he is a great gambler; I am further told that he is at present in England, and, as there are certain technicalities to be gone through before the girls can fully enjoy their incomes, one of the first things I must do when I get home is to find him out. He has to sign certain papers, for we shan’t be able to put things straight until we get his whereabouts. Some time ago my wife and Edith heard that he was ill, but dead or alive we must know all about him, and as quickly as possible.”

I made no answer, and he continued:

“I’ll introduce you to my wife and sister-in-law tomorrow. Beatrice is quite a child compared to Edith, who acts towards her almost like a mother. Bee is a little beauty, so fresh and round and young-looking. But Edith is handsome, too, although I sometimes think she is as vain as a peacock. By the way, Druce, this brings me to another part of my story. The sisters have an acquaintance on board, one of the most remarkable women I have ever met. She goes by the name of Madame Sara, and knows London well. In fact, she confesses to having a shop in the Strand. What she has been doing in Brazil I do not know, for she keeps all her affairs strictly private. But you will be amazed when I tell you what her calling is.”

“What?” I asked.

“A professional beautifier. She claims the privilege of restoring youth to those who consult her. She also declares that she can make quite ugly people handsome. There is no doubt that she is very clever. She knows a little bit of everything, and has wonderful recipes with regard to medicines, surgery, and dentistry. She is a most lovely woman herself, very fair, with blue eyes, an innocent, childlike manner, and quantities of rippling gold hair. She openly confesses that she is very much older than she appears. She looks about five-and-twenty. She seems to have travelled all over the world, and says that by birth she is a mixture of Indian and Italian, her father having been Italian and her mother Indian. Accompanying her is an Arab, a handsome, picturesque sort of fellow, who gives her the most absolute devotion, and she is also bringing back to England two Brazilians from Para. This woman deals in all sorts of curious secrets, but principally in cosmetics. Her shop in the Strand could, I fancy, tell many a strange history. Her clients go to her there, and she does what is necessary for them. It is a fact that she occasionally performs small surgical operations, and there is not a dentist in London who can vie with her. She confesses quite naively that she holds some secrets for making false teeth cling to the palate that no one knows of. Edith Dallas is devoted to her — in fact, her adoration amounts to idolatry.”

“You give a very brilliant account of this woman,” I said. “You must introduce me tomorrow.”

“I will,” answered Jack, with a smile. “I should like your opinion of her. I am right glad I have met you, Druce, it is like old times. When we get to London I mean to put up at my town house in Eaton Square for the remainder of the season. The Meadows shall be re-furnished, and Bee and I will take up our quarters some time in August; then you must come and see us. But I am afraid before I give myself up to mere pleasure I must find that precious brother-in-law, Henry Joachim Silva.”

“If you have any difficulty apply to me,” I said. “I can put at your disposal, in an unofficial way, of course, agents who would find almost any man in England, dead or alive.” I then proceeded to give Selby a short account of my own business.

“Thanks,” he said presently, “that is capital. You are the very man we want.”

The next morning after breakfast Jack introduced me to his wife and sister-in-law. They were both foreign-looking, but very handsome, and the wife in particular had a graceful and uncommon appearance. We had been chatting about five minutes when I saw coming down the deck a slight, rather small woman, wearing a big sun hat.

“Ah, Madame,” cried Selby, “here you are. I had the luck to meet an old friend on board — Mr. Dixon Druce — and I have been telling him all about you. I should like you to know each other. Druce, this lady is Madame Sara, of whom I have spoken to you. Mr. Dixon Druce — Madame Sara.”

She bowed gracefully and then looked at me earnestly. I had seldom seen a more lovely woman. By her side both Mrs. Selby and her sister seemed to fade into insignificance. Her complexion was almost dazzlingly fair, her face refined in expression, her eyes penetrating, clever, and yet with the innocent, frank gaze of a child. Her dress was very simple; she looked altogether like a young, fresh, and natural girl.

As we sat chatting lightly and about commonplace topics, I instinctively felt that she took an interest in me even greater than might be expected upon an ordinary introduction. By slow degrees she so turned the conversation as to leave Selby and his wife and sister out, and then as they moved away she came a little nearer, and said in a low voice:

“I am very glad we have met, and yet how odd this meeting is! Was it really accidental?”

“I do not understand you,” I answered.

“I know who you are,” she said, lightly. “You are the manager of Werner’s Agency; its business is to know the private affairs of those people who would rather keep their own secrets. Now, Mr. Druce, I am going to be absolutely frank with you. I own a small shop in the Strand — a perfumery shop — and behind those innocent-looking doors I conduct the business which brings me in gold of the realm. Have you, Mr. Druce, any objection to my continuing to make a livelihood in perfectly innocent ways?”

“None whatever,” I answered. “You puzzle me by alluding to the subject.”

“I want you to pay my shop a visit when you come to London. I have been away for three or four months. I do wonders for my clients, and they pay me largely for my services. I hold some perfectly innocent secrets which I cannot confide to anybody. I have obtained them partly from the Indians and partly from the natives of Brazil. I have lately been in Para to inquire into certain methods by which my trade can be improved.”

“And your trade is—?” I said, looking at her with amusement and some surprise.

“I am a beautifier,” she said, lightly. She looked at me with a smile. “You don’t want me yet, Mr. Druce, but the time may come when even you will wish to keep back the infirmities of years. In the meantime can you guess my age?”

“I will not hazard a guess,” I answered.

“And I will not tell you. Let it remain a secret. Meanwhile, understand that my calling is quite an open one, and I do hold secrets. I should advise you, Mr. Druce, even in your professional capacity, not to interfere with them.”

The childlike expression faded from her face as she uttered the last words. There seemed to ring a sort of challenge in her tone. She turned away after a few moments and I rejoined my friends.

“You have been making acquaintance with Madame Sara, Mr. Druce,” said Mrs. Selby. “Don’t you think she is lovely?”

“She is one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen,” I answered, “but there seems to be a mystery about her.”

“Oh, indeed there is,” said Edith Dallas, gravely.

“She asked me if I could guess her age,” I continued. “I did not try, but surely she cannot be more than five-and-twenty.”

“No one knows her age,” said Mrs. Selby, “but I will tell you a curious fact, which, perhaps, you will not believe. She was bridesmaid at my mother’s wedding thirty years ago. She declares that she never changes, and has no fear of old age.”

“You mean that seriously?” I cried. “But surely it is impossible?”

“Her name is on the register, and my mother knew her well. She was mysterious then, and I think my mother got into her power, but of that I am not certain. Anyhow, Edith and I adore her, don’t we, Edie?”

She laid her hand affectionately on her sister’s arm. Edith Dallas did not speak, but her face was careworn. After a time she said slowly: “Madame Sara is uncanny and terrible.”

There is, perhaps, no business imaginable — not even a lawyer’s — that engenders suspicions more than mine. I hate all mysteries — both in persons and things. Mysteries are my natural enemies; I felt now that this woman was a distinct mystery. That she was interested in me I did not doubt, perhaps because she was afraid of me.

The rest of the voyage passed pleasantly enough. The more I saw of Mrs. Selby and her sister the more I liked them. They were quiet, simple, and straightforward. I felt sure that they were both as good as gold.

We parted at Waterloo, Jack and his wife and her sister going to Jack’s house in Eaton Square, and I returning to my quarters in St. John’s Wood. I had a house there, with a long garden, at the bottom of which was my laboratory, the laboratory that was the pride of my life, it being, I fondly considered, the best private laboratory in London. There I spent all my spare time making experiments and trying this chemical combination and the other, living in hopes of doing great things some day, for Werner’s Agency was not to be the end of my career. Nevertheless, it interested me thoroughly, and I was not sorry to get back to my commercial conundrums.

The next day, just before I started to go to my place of business, Jack Selby was announced.

“I want you to help me,” he said. “I have been already trying in a sort of general way to get information about my brother-in-law, but all in vain. There is no such person in any of the directories. Can you put me on the road to discovery?”

I said I could and would if he would leave the matter in my hands.

“With pleasure,” he replied. “You see how we are fixed up. Neither Edith nor Bee can get money with any regularity until the man is found. I cannot imagine why he hides himself.”

“I will insert advertisements in the personal columns of the newspapers,” I said, “and request anyone who can give information to communicate with me at my office. I will also give instructions to all the branches of my firm, as well as to my head assistants in London, to keep their eyes open for any news. You may be quite certain that in a week or two we shall know all about him.”

Selby appeared cheered at this proposal, and, having begged of me to call upon his wife and her sister as soon as possible, took his leave.

On that very day advertisements were drawn up and sent to several newspapers and inquiry agents; but week after week passed without the slightest result. Selby got very fidgety at the delay. He was never happy except in my presence, and insisted on my coming, whenever I had time, to his house. I was glad to do so, for I took an interest both in him and his belongings, and as to Madame Sara I could not get her out of my head. One day Mrs. Selby said to me:

“Have you ever been to see Madame? I know she would like to show you her shop and general surroundings.”

“I did promise to call upon her,” I answered, “but have not had time to do so yet.”

“Will you come with me tomorrow morning?” asked Edith Dallas, suddenly.

She turned red as she spoke, and the worried, uneasy expression became more marked on her face. I had noticed for some time that she had been looking both nervous and depressed. I had first observed this peculiarity about her on board the Norham Castle, but, as time went on, instead of lessening it grew worse. Her face for so young a woman was haggard; she started at each sound, and Madame Sara’s name was never spoken in her presence without her evincing almost undue emotion.

“Will you come with me?” she said, with great eagerness.

I immediately promised, and the next day, about eleven o’clock, Edith Dallas and I found ourselves in a hansom driving to Madame Sara’s shop. We reached it in a few minutes, and found an unpretentious little place wedged in between a hosier’s on one side and a cheap print-seller’s on the other. In the windows of the shop were pyramids of perfume bottles, with scintillating facet stoppers tied with coloured ribbons. We stepped out of the hansom and went indoors. Inside the shop were a couple of steps, which led to a door of solid mahogany.

“This is the entrance to her private house,” said Edith, and she pointed to a small brass plate, on which was engraved the name — “Madame Sara, Parfumeuse.” Edith touched an electric bell and the door was immediately opened by a smartly-dressed page-boy. He looked at Miss Dallas as if he knew her very well, and said:

“Madame is within, and is expecting you, miss.”

He ushered us both into a quiet-looking room, soberly but handsomely furnished. He left us, closing the door. Edith turned to me.

“Do you know where we are?” she asked.

“We are standing at present in a small room just behind Madame Sara’s shop,” I answered. “Why are you so excited, Miss Dallas? What is the matter with you?”

“We are on the threshold of a magician’s cave,” she replied. “We shall soon be face to face with the most marvellous woman in the whole of London. There is no one like her.”

“And you — fear her?” I said, dropping my voice to a whisper.

She started, stepped back, and with great difficulty recovered her composure. At that moment the page-boy returned to conduct us through a series of small waiting-rooms, and we soon found ourselves in the presence of Madame herself.

“Ah!” she said, with a smile. “This is delightful. You have kept your word, Edith, and I am greatly obliged to you. I will now show Mr. Druce some of the mysteries of my trade. But understand, sir,” she added, “that I shall not tell you any of my real secrets, only as you would like to know something about me you shall.”

“How can you tell I should like to know about you?” I asked.

She gave me an earnest glance which somewhat astonished me, and then she said: “Knowledge is power; don’t refuse what I am willing to give. Edith, you will not object to waiting here while I show Mr. Druce through the rooms. First observe this room, Mr. Druce. It is lighted only from the roof. When the door shuts it automatically locks itself, so that any in-trusion from without is impossible. This is my sanctum sanctorum — a faint odour of perfume pervades the room. This is a hot day, but the room itself is cool. What do you think of it all?”

I made no answer. She walked to the other end and motioned to me to accompany her. There stood a polished oak square table, on which lay an array of extraordinary-looking articles and implements — stoppered bottles full of strange medicaments, mirrors, plane and concave, brushes, sprays, sponges, delicate needle-pointed instruments of bright steel, tiny lancets, and forceps. Facing this table was a chair, like those used by dentists. Above the chair hung electric lights in powerful reflectors, and lenses like bull’s-eye lanterns. Another chair, supported on a glass pedestal, was kept there, Madame Sara informed me, for administering static electricity. There were dry-cell batteries for the continuous currents and induction coils for Faradic currents. There were also platinum needles for burning out the roots of hairs.

Madame took me from this room into another, where a still more formidable array of instruments was to be found. Here were a wooden operating table and chloroform and ether apparatus. When I had looked at everything, she turned to me.

“Now you know,” she said. “I am a doctor — perhaps a quack. These are my secrets. By means of these I live and flourish.”

She turned her back on me and walked into the other room with the light, springy step of youth. Edith Dallas, white as a ghost, was waiting for us.

“You have done your duty, my child,” said Madame. “Mr. Druce has seen just what I want him to see. I am very much obliged to you both. We shall meet tonight at Lady Farringdon’s ‘At Home.’ Until then, farewell.”

When we got into the street and were driving back again to Eaton Square, I turned to Edith.

“Many things puzzle me about your friend,” I said, “but perhaps none more than this. By what possible means can a woman who owns to being the possessor of a shop obtain the entrée to some of the best houses in London? Why does Society open her doors to this woman, Miss Dallas?”

“I cannot quite tell you,” was her reply. “I only know the fact that wherever she goes she is welcomed and treated with consideration, and wherever she fails to appear there is a universally expressed feeling of regret.”

I had also been invited to Lady Farringdon’s reception that evening, and I went there in a state of great curiosity. There was no doubt that Madame interested me. I was not sure of her. Beyond doubt there was a mystery attached to her, and also, for some unaccountable reason, she wished both to propitiate and defy me. Why was this?

I arrived early, and was standing in the crush near the head of the staircase when Madame was announced. She wore the richest white satin and quantities of diamonds. I saw her hostess bend towards her and talk eagerly. I noticed Madame’s reply and the pleased expression that crossed Lady Farringdon’s face. A few minutes later a man with a foreign-looking face and long beard sat down before the grand piano. He played a light prelude and Madame Sara began to sing. Her voice was sweet and low, with an extraordinary pathos in it. It was the sort of voice that penetrates to the heart. There was an instant pause in the gay chatter. She sang amidst perfect silence, and when the song had come to an end there followed a furore of applause. I was just turning to say something to my nearest neighbour when I observed Edith Dallas, who was standing close by. Her eyes met mine; she laid her hand on my sleeve.

“The room is hot,” she said, half panting as she spoke. “Take me out on the balcony.”

I did so. The atmosphere of the reception-rooms was almost intolerable, but it was comparatively cool in the open air.

“I must not lose sight of her,” she said, suddenly.

“Of whom?” I asked, somewhat astonished at her words.

“Of Sara.”

“She is there,” I said. “You can see her from where you stand.”

We happened to be alone. I came a little closer.

“Why are you afraid of her?” I asked.

“Are you sure that we shall not be heard?” was her answer.

“She terrifies me,” were her next words.

“I will not betray your confidence, Miss Dallas. Will you not trust me? You ought to give me a reason for your fears.”

“I cannot — I dare not; I have said far too much already. Don’t keep me, Mr. Druce. She must not find us together.” As she spoke she pushed her way through the crowd, and before I could stop her was standing by Madame Sara’s side.

The reception in Portland Place was, I remember, on the 26th of July. Two days later the Selbys were to give their final “At Home” before leaving for the country. I was, of course, invited to be present, and Madame was also there. She had never been dressed more splendidly, nor had she ever before looked younger or more beautiful. Wherever she went all eyes followed her. As a rule her dress was simple, almost like what a girl would wear, but tonight she chose rich Oriental stuffs made of many colours, and absolutely glittering with gems. Her golden hair was studded with diamonds. Round her neck she wore turquoise and diamonds mixed. There were many younger women in the room, but not the youngest nor the fairest had a chance beside Madame. It was not mere beauty of appearance, it was charm — charm which carries all before it.

I saw Miss Dallas, looking slim and tall and pale, standing at a little distance. I made my way to her side. Before I had time to speak she bent towards me.

“Is she not divine?” she whispered. “She bewilders and delights everyone. She is taking London by storm.”

“Then you are not afraid of her tonight?” I said.

“I fear her more than ever. She has cast a spell over me. But listen, she is going to sing again.”

I had not forgotten the song that Madame had given us at the Farringdons’, and stood still to listen. There was a complete hush in the room. Her voice floated over the heads of the assembled guests in a dreamy Spanish song. Edith told me that it was a slumber song, and that Madame boasted of her power of putting almost anyone to sleep who listened to her rendering of it.

“She has many patients who suffer from insomnia,” whispered the girl, “and she generally cures them with that song, and that alone. Ah! we must not talk; she will hear us.”

Before I could reply Selby came hurrying up. He had not noticed Edith. He caught me by the arm.

“Come just for a minute into this window, Dixon,” he said. “I must speak to you. I suppose you have no news with regard to my brother-in-law?”

“Not a word,” I answered.

“To tell you the truth, I am getting terribly put out over the matter. We cannot settle any of our money affairs just because this man chooses to lose himself. My wife’s lawyers wired to Brazil yesterday, but even his bankers do not know anything about him.”

“The whole thing is a question of time,” was my answer. “When are you off to Hampshire?”

“On Saturday.”

As Selby said the last words he looked around him, then he dropped his voice.

“I want to say something else. The more I see” — he nodded towards Madame Sara — “the less I like her. Edith is getting into a very strange state. Have you not noticed it? And the worst of it is my wife is also infected. I suppose it is that dodge of the woman’s for patching people up and making them beautiful. Doubtless the temptation is overpowering in the case of a plain woman, but Beatrice is beautiful herself and young. What can she have to do with cosmetics and complexion pills?”

“You don’t mean to tell me that your wife has consulted Madame Sara as a doctor?”

“Not exactly, but she has gone to her about her teeth. She complained of toothache lately, and Madame’s dentistry is renowned. Edith is constantly going to her for one thing or another, but then Edith is infatuated.”

As Jack said the last words he went over to speak to someone else, and before I could leave the seclusion of the window I perceived Edith Dallas and Madame Sara in earnest conversation together. I could not help overhearing the following words:

“Don’t come to me tomorrow. Get into the country as soon as you can. It is far and away the best thing to do.”

As Madame spoke she turned swiftly and caught my eye. She bowed, and the peculiar look, the sort of challenge, she had given me before flashed over her face. It made me uncomfortable, and during the night that followed I could not get it out of my head. I remembered what Selby had said with regard to his wife and her money affairs. Beyond doubt he had married into a mystery — a mystery that Madame knew all about. There was a very big money interest, and strange things happen when millions are concerned.

The next morning I had just risen and was sitting at breakfast when a note was handed to me. It came by special messenger, and was marked “Urgent.” I tore it open. These were its contents:

I read the note twice before I could realize what it meant. Then I rushed out and, hailing the first hansom I met, said to the man: “Drive to No. 192, Victoria Street, as quickly as you can.”

Here lived a certain Mr. Eric Vandeleur, an old friend of mine and the police surgeon for the Westminster district, which included Eaton Square. No shrewder or sharper fellow existed than Vandeleur, and the present case was essentially in his province, both legally and professionally. He was not at his flat when I arrived, having already gone down to the court. Here I accordingly hurried, and was informed that he was in the mortuary.

For a man who, as it seemed to me, lived in a perpetual atmosphere of crime and violence, of death and coroners’ courts, his habitual cheerfulness and brightness of manner were remarkable. Perhaps it was only the reaction from his work, for he had the reputation of being one of the most astute experts of the day in medical jurisprudence, and the most skilled analyst in toxicological cases on the Metropolitan Police staff. Before I could send him word that I wanted to see him I heard a door bang, and Vandeleur came hurrying down the passage, putting on his coat as he rushed along.

“Halloa!” he cried. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Do you want me?”

“Yes, very urgently,” I answered. “Are you busy?”

“Head over ears, my dear chap. I cannot give you a moment now, but perhaps later on.”

“What is it? You look excited.”

“I have got to go to Eaton Square like the wind, but come along, if you like, and tell me on the way.”

“Capital,” I cried. “The thing has been reported then? You are going to Mr. Selby’s, No. 34a; then I am going with you.”

He looked at me in amazement.

“But the case has only just been reported. What can you possibly know about it?”

“Everything. Let us take this hansom, and I will tell you as we go along.”

As we drove to Eaton Square I quickly explained the situation, glancing now and then at Vandeleur’s bright, clean-shaven face. He was no longer Eric Vandeleur, the man with the latest club story and the merry twinkle in his blue eyes; he was Vandeleur the medical jurist, with a face like a mask, his lower jaw slightly protruding and features very fixed.

“The thing promises to be serious,” he replied, as I finished, “but I can do nothing until after the autopsy. Here we are, and there is my man waiting for me; he has been smart.”

On the steps stood an official-looking man in uniform, who saluted.

“Coroner’s officer,” explained Vandeleur.

We entered the silent, darkened house. Selby was standing in the hall. He came to meet us. I introduced him to Vandeleur, and he at once led us into the dining-room, where we found Dr. Osborne, whom Selby had called in when the alarm of Edith’s illness had been first given. Dr. Osborne was a pale, under-sized, very young man. His face expressed considerable alarm. Vandeleur, however, managed to put him completely at his ease.

“I will have a chat with you in a few minutes, Dr. Osborne,” he said; “but first I must get Mr. Selby’s report. Will you please tell me, sir, exactly what occurred?”

“Certainly,” he answered. “We had a reception here last night, and my sister-in-law did not go to bed until early morning; she was in bad spirits, but otherwise in her usual health. My wife went into her room after she was in bed, and told me later on that she had found Edith in hysterics, and could not get her to explain anything. We both talked about taking her to the country without delay. Indeed, our intention was to get off this afternoon.”

“Well?” said Vandeleur.

“We had breakfast about half-past nine, and Miss Dallas came down, looking quite in her usual health, and in apparently good spirits. She ate with appetite, and, as it happened, she and my wife were both helped from the same dish. The meal had nearly come to an end when she jumped up from the table, uttered a sharp cry, turned very pale, pressed her hand to her side, and ran out of the room. My wife immediately followed her. She came back again in a minute or two, and said that Edith was in violent pain, and begged of me to send for a doctor. Dr. Osborne lives just round the corner. He came at once, but she died almost immediately after his arrival.”

“You were in the room?” asked Vandeleur, turning to Osborne.

“Yes,” he replied. “She was conscious to the last moment, and died suddenly.”

“Did she tell you anything?”

“No, except to assure me that she had not eaten any food that day until she had come down to breakfast. After the death occurred I sent immediately to report the case, locked the door of the room where the poor girl’s body is, and saw also that nobody touched anything on this table.”

Vandeleur rang the bell and a servant appeared. He gave quick orders. The entire remains of the meal were collected and taken charge of, and then he and the coroner’s officer went upstairs.

When we were alone Selby sank into a chair. His face was quite drawn and haggard.

“It is the horrible suddenness of the thing which is so appalling,” he cried. “As to Beatrice, I don’t believe she will ever be the same again. She was deeply attached to Edith. Edith was nearly ten years her senior, and always acted the part of mother to her. This is a sad beginning to our life. I can scarcely think collectedly.”

I remained with him a little longer, and then, as Vandeleur did not return, went back to my own house. There I could settle to nothing, and when Vandeleur rang me up on the telephone about six o’clock I hurried off to his rooms. As soon as I arrived I saw that Selby was with him, and the expression on both their faces told me the truth.

“This is a bad business,” said Vandeleur. “Miss Dallas has died from swallowing poison. An exhaustive analysis and examination have been made, and a powerful poison, unknown to European toxicologists, has been found. This is strange enough, but how it has been administered is a puzzle. I confess, at the present moment, we are all nonplussed. It certainly was not in the remains of the breakfast, and we have her dying evidence that she took nothing else. Now, a poison with such appalling potency would take effect quickly. It is evident that she was quite well when she came to breakfast, and that the poison began to work towards the close of the meal. But how did she get it? This question, however, I shall deal with later on. The more immediate point is this. The situation is a serious one in view of the monetary issues and the value of the lady’s life. From the aspects of the case, her undoubted sanity and her affection for her sister, we may almost exclude the idea of suicide. We must, therefore, call it murder. This harmless, innocent lady is struck down by the hand of an assassin, and with such devilish cunning that no trace or clue is left behind. For such an act there must have been some very powerful motive, and the person who designed and executed it must be a criminal of the highest order of scientific ability. Mr. Selby has been telling me the exact financial position of the poor lady, and also of his own young wife. The absolute disappearance of the step-brother, in view of his previous character, is in the highest degree strange. Knowing, as we do, that between him and two million sterling there stood two lives — one is taken!”

A deadly sensation of cold seized me as Vandeleur uttered these last words. I glanced at Selby. His face was colourless and the pupils of his eyes were contracted, as though he saw something which terrified him.

“What happened once may happen again,” continued Vandeleur. “We are in the presence of a great mystery, and I counsel you, Mr. Selby, to guard your wife with the utmost care.”

These words, falling from a man of Vandeleur’s position and authority on such matters, were sufficiently shocking for me to hear, but for Selby to be given such a solemn warning about his young and beautiful and newly-married wife, who was all the world to him, was terrible indeed. He leant his head on his hands.

“Mercy on us!” he muttered. “Is this a civilized country when death can walk abroad like this, invisible, not to be avoided? Tell me, Mr. Vandeleur, what I must do.”

“You must be guided by me,” said Vandeleur, “and, believe me, there is no witchcraft in the world. I shall place a detective in your household immediately. Don’t be alarmed; he will come to you in plain clothes and will simply act as a servant. Nevertheless, nothing can be done to your wife without his knowledge. As to you, Druce,” he continued, turning to me, “the police are doing all they can to find this man Silva, and I ask you to help them with your big agency, and to begin at once. Leave your friend to me. Wire instantly if you hear news.”

“You may rely on me,” I said, and a moment later I had left the room. As I walked rapidly down the street the thought of Madame Sara, her shop and its mysterious background, its surgical instruments, its operating-table, its induction coils, came back to me. And yet what could Madame Sara have to do with the present strange, inexplicable mystery?

The thought had scarcely crossed my mind before I heard a clatter alongside the kerb, and turning round I saw a smart open carriage, drawn by a pair of horses, standing there. I also heard my own name. I turned. Bending out of the carriage was Madame Sara.

“I saw you going by, Mr. Druce. I have only just heard the news about poor Edith Dallas. I am terribly shocked and upset. I have been to the house, but they would not admit me. Have you heard what was the cause of her death?”

Madame’s blue eyes filled with tears as she spoke.

“I am not at liberty to disclose what I have heard, Madame,” I answered, “since I am officially connected with the affair.”

Her eyes narrowed. The brimming tears dried as though by magic. Her glance became scornful.

“Thank you,” she answered, “your reply tells me that she did not die naturally. How very appalling! But I must not keep you. Can I drive you anywhere?”

“No, thank you.”

“Goodbye, then.”

She made a sign to the coachman, and as the carriage rolled away turned to look at me. Her face wore the defiant expression I had seen there more than once. Could she be connected with the affair? The thought came upon me with a violence that seemed almost conviction. Yet I had no reason for it — none.

To find Henry Joachim Silva was now my principal thought. My staff had instructions to make every possible inquiry, with large money rewards as incitements. The collateral branches of other agencies throughout Brazil were communicated with by cable, and all the Scotland Yard channels were used. Still there was no result. The newspapers took up the case; there were paragraphs in most of them with regard to the missing step-brother and the mysterious death of Edith Dallas. Then someone got hold of the story of the will, and this was retailed with many additions for the benefit of the public. At the inquest the jury returned the following verdict:

“We find that Miss Edith Dallas died from taking poison of unknown name, but by whom or how administered there is no evidence to say.”

This unsatisfactory state of things was destined to change quite suddenly. On the 6th of August, as I was seated in my office, a note was brought me by a private messenger. It was as follows:

In uncontrollable excitement I hastily dispatched two telegrams, one to Selby and the other to Vandeleur, begging of them to be with me, without fail, as soon as possible. So the man had never been in England at all. The situation was more bewildering than ever. One thing, at least, was probable — Edith Dallas’s death was not due to her step-brother. Soon after half-past six Selby arrived, and Vandeleur walked in ten minutes later. I told them what had occurred and showed them the letter. In half an hour’s time we reached the hotel, and on stating who I was we were shown into a room on the first floor by Silva’s private servant. Resting in an armchair, as we entered, sat a man; his face was terribly thin. The eyes and cheeks were so sunken that the face had almost the appearance of a skull. He made no effort to rise when we entered, and glanced from one of us to the other with the utmost astonishment. I at once introduced myself and explained who we were. He then waved his hand for his man to retire.

“You have heard the news, of course, Mr. Silva?” I said.

“News! What?” He glanced up to me and seemed to read something in my face. He started back in his chair.

“Good heavens,” he replied. “Do you allude to my sisters? Tell me, quickly, are they alive?”

“Your elder sister died on the twenty-ninth of July, and there is every reason to believe that her death was caused by foul play.”

As I uttered these words the change that passed over his face was fearful to witness. He did not speak, but remained motionless. His claw-like hands clutched the arms of the chair, his eyes were fixed and staring, as though they would start from their hollow sockets, the colour of his skin was like clay. I heard Selby breathe quickly behind me, and Vandeleur stepped towards the man and laid his hand on his shoulder.

“Tell us what you know of this matter,” he said sharply.

Recovering himself with an effort, the invalid began in a tremulous voice: “Listen closely, for you must act quickly. I am indirectly responsible for this fearful thing. My life has been a wild and wasted one, and now I am dying. The doctors tell me I cannot live a month, for I have a large aneurism of the heart. Eighteen months ago I was in Rio. I was living fast and gambled heavily. Among my fellow gamblers was a man much older than myself. His name was José Aranjo. He was, if anything, a greater gambler than I. One night we played alone. The stakes ran high until they reached a big figure. By daylight I had lost to him nearly £200,000. Though I am a rich man in point of income under my uncle’s will, I could not pay a twentieth part of that sum. This man knew my financial position, and, in addition to a sum of £5,000 paid down, I gave him a document. I must have been mad to do so. The document was this — it was duly witnessed and attested by a lawyer — that, in the event of my surviving my two sisters and thus inheriting the whole of my uncle’s vast wealth, half a million should go to José Aranjo. I felt I was breaking up at the time, and the chances of my inheriting the money were small. Immediately after the completion of the document this man left Rio, and I then heard a great deal about him that I had not previously known. He was a man of the queerest antecedents, partly Indian, partly Italian. He had spent many years of his life amongst the Indians. I heard also that he was as cruel as he was clever, and possessed some wonderful secrets of poisoning unknown to the West. I thought a great deal about this, for I knew that by signing that document I had placed the lives of my two sisters between him and a fortune. I came to Para six weeks ago, only to learn that one of my sisters was married and that both had gone to England. Ill as I was, I determined to follow them in order to warn them. I also wanted to arrange matters with you, Mr. Selby.”

“One moment, sir,” I broke in, suddenly. “Do you happen to be aware if this man, José Aranjo, knew a woman calling herself Madame Sara?”

“Knew her?” cried Silva. “Very well indeed, and so, for that matter, did I. Aranjo and Madame Sara were the best friends, and constantly met. She called herself a professional beautifier — was very handsome, and had secrets for the pursuing of her trade unknown even to Aranjo.”

“Good heavens!” I cried, “and the woman is now in London. She returned here with Mrs. Selby and Miss Dallas. Edith was very much influenced by her, and was constantly with her. There is no doubt in my mind that she is guilty. I have suspected her for some time, but I could not find a motive. Now the motive appears. You surely can have her arrested?”

Vandeleur made no reply. He gave me a strange look, then he turned to Selby.

“Has your wife also consulted Madame Sara?” he asked, sharply.

“Yes, she went to her once about her teeth, but has not been to the shop since Edith’s death. I begged of her not to see the woman, and she promised me faithfully she would not do so.”

“Has she any medicines or lotions given to her by Madame Sara — does she follow any line of treatment advised by her?”

“No, I am certain on that point.”

“Very well. I will see your wife tonight in order to ask her some questions. You must both leave town at once. Go to your country house and settle there. I am quite serious when I say that Mrs. Selby is in the utmost possible danger until after the death of her brother. We must leave you now, Mr. Silva. All business affairs must wait for the present. It is absolutely necessary that Mrs. Selby should leave London at once. Good night, sir. I shall give myself the pleasure of calling on you tomorrow morning.”

We took leave of the sick man. As soon as we got into the street Vandeleur stopped.

“I must leave it to you, Selby,” he said, “to judge how much of this matter you tell to your wife. Were I you I would explain everything. The time for immediate action has arrived, and she is a brave and sensible woman. From this moment you must watch all the foods and liquids that she takes. She must never be out of your sight or out of the sight of some other trustworthy companion.”

“I shall, of course, watch my wife myself,” said Selby. “But the thing is enough to drive one mad.”

“I will go with you to the country, Selby,” I said, suddenly.

“Ah!” cried Vandeleur, “that is the best thing possible, and what I wanted to propose. Go, all of you, by an early train tomorrow.”

“Then I will be off home at once, to make arrangements,” I said. “I will meet you, Selby, at Waterloo for the first train to Cronsmoor tomorrow.”

As I was turning away Vandeleur caught my arm.

“I am glad you are going with them,” he said. “I shall write to you tonight re instructions. Never be without a loaded revolver. Good night.” By 6:15 the next morning Selby, his wife, and I were in a reserved, locked, first-class compartment, speeding rapidly west. The servants and Mrs. Selby’s own special maid were in a separate carriage. Selby’s face showed signs of a sleepless night, and presented a striking contrast to the fair, fresh face of the girl round whom this strange battle raged. Her husband had told her everything, and, though still suffering terribly from the shock and grief of her sister’s death, her face was calm and full of repose. A carriage was waiting for us at Cronsmoor, and by half-past nine we arrived at the old home of the Selbys, nestling amid its oaks and elms. Everything was done to make the home-coming of the bride as cheerful as circumstances would permit, but a gloom, impossible to lift, overshadowed Selby himself. He could scarcely rouse himself to take the slightest interest in anything.

The following morning I received a letter from Vandeleur. It was very short, and once more impressed on me the necessity of caution. He said that two eminent physicians had examined Silva, and the verdict was that he could not live a month. Until his death precautions must be strictly observed.

The day was cloudless, and after breakfast I was just starting out for a stroll when the butler brought me a telegram. I tore it open; it was from Vandeleur:

“Prohibit all food until I arrive. Am coming down,” were the words. I hurried into the study and gave it to Selby. He read it and looked up at me.

“Find out the first train and go and meet him, old chap,” he said. “Let us hope that this means an end of the hideous affair.”

I went into the hall and looked up the trains. The next arrived at Cronsmoor at 10:45. I then strolled round to the stables and ordered a carriage, after which I walked up and down on the drive. There was no doubt that something strange had happened. Vandeleur coming down so suddenly must mean a final clearing up of the mystery. I had just turned round at the lodge gates to wait for the carriage when the sound of wheels and of horses galloping struck on my ears. The gates were swung open, and Vandeleur in an open fly dashed through them. Before I could recover from my surprise he was out of the vehicle and at my side. He carried a small black bag in his hand.

“I came down by special train,” he said, speaking quickly. “There is not a moment to lose. Come at once. Is Mrs. Selby all right?”

“What do you mean?” I replied. “Of course she is. Do you suppose that she is in danger?”

“Deadly,” was his answer. “Come.”

We dashed up to the house together. Selby, who had heard our steps, came to meet us.

“Mr. Vandeleur,” he cried. “What is it? How did you come?”

“By special train, Mr. Selby. And I want to see your wife at once. It will be necessary to perform a very trifling operation.”

“Operation!” he exclaimed. “Yes; at once.”

We made our way through the hall and into the morning-room, where Mrs. Selby was busily engaged reading and answering letters. She started up when she saw Vandeleur and uttered an exclamation of surprise.

“What has happened?” she asked. Vandeleur went up to her and took her hand.

“Do not be alarmed,” he said, “for I have come to put all your fears to rest. Now, please, listen to me. When you visited Madame Sara with your sister, did you go for medical advice?”

The colour rushed into her face.

“One of my teeth ached,” she answered. “I went to her about that. She is, as I suppose you know, a most wonderful dentist. She examined the tooth, found that it required stopping, and got an assistant, a Brazilian, I think, to do it.”

“And your tooth has been comfortable ever since?”

“Yes, quite. She had one of Edith’s stopped at the same time.”

“Will you kindly sit down and show me which was the tooth into which the stopping was put?”

She did so.

“This was the one,” she said, pointing with her finger to one in the lower jaw. “What do you mean? Is there anything wrong?”

Vandeleur examined the tooth long and carefully. There was a sudden rapid movement of his hand, and a sharp cry from Mrs. Selby. With the deftness of long practice, and a powerful wrist, he had extracted the tooth with one wrench. The suddenness of the whole thing, startling as it was, was not so strange as his next movement.

“Send Mrs. Selby’s maid to her,” he said, turning to her husband; “then come, both of you, into the next room.”

The maid was summoned. Poor Mrs. Selby had sunk back in her chair, terrified and half fainting. A moment later Selby joined us in the dining-room.

“That’s right,” said Vandeleur; “close the door, will you?”

He opened his black bag and brought out several instruments. With one he removed the stopping from the tooth. It was quite soft and came away easily. Then from the bag he produced a small guinea-pig, which he requested me to hold. He pressed the sharp instrument into the tooth, and opening the mouth of the little animal placed the point on the tongue. The effect was instantaneous. The little head fell on to one of my hands — the guinea-pig was dead. Vandeleur was white as a sheet. He hurried up to Selby and wrung his hand.

“Thank heaven!” he said, “I’ve been in time, but only just. Your wife is safe. This stopping would hardly have held another hour. I have been thinking all night over the mystery of your sister-in-law’s death, and over every minute detail of evidence as to how the poison could have been administered. Suddenly the coincidence of both sisters having had their teeth stopped struck me as remarkable. Like a flash the solution came to me. The more I considered it the more I felt that I was right; but by what fiendish cunning such a scheme could have been conceived and executed is still beyond my power to explain. The poison is very like hyoscine, one of the worst toxic-alkaloids known, so violent in its deadly proportions that the amount that would go into a tooth would cause almost instant death. It has been kept in by a gutta-percha stopping, certain to come out within a month, probably earlier, and most probably during mastication of food. The person would die either immediately or after a very few minutes, and no one would connect a visit to the dentist with a death a month afterwards.”

What followed can be told in a very few words. Madame Sara was arrested on suspicion. She appeared before the magistrate, looking innocent and beautiful, and managed during her evidence completely to baffle that acute individual. She denied nothing, but declared that the poison must have been put into the tooth by one of the two Brazilians whom she had lately engaged to help her with her dentistry. She had her suspicions with regard to these men soon afterwards, and had dismissed them. She believed that they were in the pay of José Aranjo, but she could not tell anything for certain. Thus Madame escaped conviction. I was certain that she was guilty, but there was not a shadow of real proof. A month later Silva died, and Selby is now a double millionaire.

The Affair of the Man Who Called Himself Hamilton Cleek Thomas W. Hanshew

The Mysterious Railway Passenger Maurice Leblanc

No character in the world of French mystery fiction is as beloved as the fun-loving criminal Arsène Lupin, created by Maurice Marie Émile Leblanc (1864–1941) for a new magazine in 1905; the stories were collected in book form two years later. They immediately became wildly popular, as successful in France as Sherlock Holmes stories were in England, and Leblanc achieved wealth and worldwide fame and was made a member of the French Legion of Honor. Although the tales are fast-paced, the amount and degree of action borders on the burlesque, with situations and coincidences often too far-fetched to be taken seriously.

Lupin, known as the Prince of Thieves, is a street urchin type who thumbs his nose — literally — at the police. He steals for the thrill of it more than for personal gain or noble motives. He is such a master of disguise that he was able to take the identity of the chief of the Sûreté and direct official investigations into his own activities. After several years as a successful criminal, Lupin decides to turn to the side of the law for personal reasons and assists the police, usually without their knowledge. He is not, however, a first-rate crime-fighter because he cannot resist jokes, women, and the derring-do of his freelance life as a crook.

“The Mysterious Railway Passenger” was first published in Arsène Lupin, Gentleman-Cambrioleur in Paris in 1907. The first English-language edition was The Exploits of Arsène Lupin (New York, Harper, 1907); it was reissued as The Seven of Hearts (New York, Cassell, 1908) and as The Extraordinary Adventures of Arsène Lupin, Gentleman Burglar (Chicago, Donohue, 1910). The book served as the basis for two silent films, Lupin the Gentleman Burglar (1914) and The Gentleman Burglar (1915).

I had sent my motor-car to Rouen by road on the previous day I was to meet it by train, and go on to some friends, who have a house on the Seine.

A few minutes before we left Paris my compartment was invaded by seven gentlemen, five of whom were smoking. Short though the journey by the fast train be, I did not relish the prospect of taking it in such company, the more so as the old-fashioned carriage had no corridor. I therefore collected my overcoat, my newspapers, and my railway guide, and sought refuge in one of the neighboring compartments.

It was occupied by a lady. At the sight of me, she made a movement of vexation which did not escape my notice, and leaned towards a gentleman standing on the foot-board — her husband, no doubt, who had come to see her off. The gentleman took stock of me, and the examination seemed to conclude to my advantage; for he whispered to his wife and smiled, giving her the look with which we reassure a frightened child. She smiled in her turn, and cast a friendly glance in my direction, as though she suddenly realized that I was one of those well-bred men with whom a woman can remain locked up for an hour or two in a little box six feet square without having anything to fear.

Her husband said to her:

“You must not mind, darling; but I have an important appointment, and I must not wait.”

He kissed her affectionately, and went away. His wife blew him some discreet little kisses through the window, and waved her handkerchief.

Then the guard’s whistle sounded, and the train started.

At that moment, and in spite of the warning shouts of the railway officials, the door opened, and a man burst into our carriage. My travelling companion, who was standing up and arranging her things in the rack, uttered a cry of terror, and dropped down upon the seat.

I am no coward — far from it; but I confess that these sudden incursions at the last minute are always annoying. They seem so ambiguous, so unnatural. There must be something behind them, else...

The appearance of the new-comer, however, and his bearing were such as to correct the bad impression produced by the manner of his entrance. He was neatly, almost smartly, dressed; his tie was in good taste, his gloves clean; he had a powerful face... But, speaking of his face, where on earth had I seen it before? For I had seen it: of that there was no possible doubt; or at least, to be accurate, I found within myself that sort of recollection which is left by the sight of an oft-seen portrait of which one has never beheld the original. And at the same time I felt the uselessness of any effort of memory that I might exert, so inconsistent and vague was that recollection.

But when my eyes reverted to the lady I sat astounded at the pallor and disorder of her features. She was staring at her neighbor — he was seated on the same side of the carriage — with an expression of genuine affright, and I saw one of her hands steal trembling towards a little travelling-bag that lay on the cushion a few inches from her lap. She ended by taking hold of it, and nervously drew it to her.

Our eyes met, and I read in hers so great an amount of uneasiness and anxiety that I could not help saying:

“I hope you are not unwell, madame... Would you like me to open the window?”

She made no reply, but, with a timid gesture, called my attention to the individual beside her. I smiled as her husband had done, shrugged my shoulders, and explained to her by signs that she had nothing to fear, that I was there, and that, besides, the gentleman in question seemed quite harmless.

Just then he turned towards us, contemplated us, one after the other, from head to foot, and then huddled himself into his corner, and made no further movement.

A silence ensued; but the lady, as though she had summoned up all her energies to perform an act of despair, said to me, in a hardly audible voice:

“You know he is in our train.”

“Who?”

“Why, he... he himself... I assure you.”

“Whom do you mean?”

“Arsène Lupin!”

She had not removed her eyes from the passenger, and it was at him rather than at me that she flung the syllables of that alarming name.

He pulled his hat down upon his nose. Was this to conceal his agitation, or was he merely preparing to go to sleep?

I objected.

“Arsène Lupin was sentenced yesterday, in his absence, to twenty years’ penal servitude. It is not likely that he would commit the imprudence of showing himself in public to-day. Besides, the newspapers have discovered that he has been spending the winter in Turkey ever since his famous escape from the Sante.”

“He is in this train,” repeated the lady, with the ever more marked intention of being overheard by our companion. “My husband is a deputy prison-governor, and the station-inspector himself told us that they were looking for Arsène Lupin.”

“That is no reason why...”

“He was seen at the booking-office. He took a ticket for Rouen.”

“It would have been easy to lay hands upon him.”

“He disappeared. The ticket-collector at the door of the waiting-room did not see him; but they thought that he must have gone round by the suburban platforms and stepped into the express that leaves ten minutes after us.”

“In that case, they will have caught him there.”

“And supposing that, at the last moment, he jumped out of that express and entered this, our own train... as he probably... as he most certainly did?”

“In that case they will catch him here; for the porters and the police cannot have failed to see him going from one train to the other, and, when we reach Rouen, they will net him finely.”

“Him? Never! He will find some means of escaping again.”

“In that case I wish him a good journey.”

“But think of all that he may do in the mean time!”

“What?”

“How can I tell? One must be prepared for anything.”

She was greatly agitated; and, in point of fact, the situation, to a certain degree, warranted her nervous state of excitement. Almost in spite of myself, I said:

“There are such things as curious coincidences, it is true... But calm yourself. Admitting that Arsène Lupin is in one of these carriages, he is sure to keep quiet, and, rather than bring fresh trouble upon himself, he will have no other idea than that of avoiding the danger that threatens him.”

My words failed to reassure her. However she said no more, fearing, no doubt, lest I should think her troublesome.

As for myself, I opened my newspapers and read the reports of Arsène Lupin’s trial. They contained nothing that was not already known, and they interested me but slightly. Moreover, I was tired, I had had a poor night, I felt my eye-lids growing heavy, and my head began to nod.

“But surely, sir, you are not going to sleep?”

The lady snatched my paper from my hands, and looked at me with indignation.

“Certainly not,” I replied. “I have no wish to.”

“It would be most imprudent,” she said.

“Most,” I repeated.

And I struggled hard, fixing my eyes on the landscape, on the clouds that streaked the sky. And soon all this became confused in space, the image of the excited lady and the drowsy man was obliterated in my mind, and I was filled with the great, deep silence of sleep.

It was soon made agreeable by light and incoherent dreams, in which a being who played the part and bore the name of Arsène Lupin occupied a certain place. He turned and shifted on the horizon, his back laden with valuables, clambering over walls and stripping country-houses of their contents.

But the outline of this being, who had ceased to be Arsène Lupin, grew more distinct. He came towards me, grew bigger and bigger, leaped into the carriage with incredible agility, and fell full upon my chest.

A sharp pain... a piercing scream... I awoke. The man, my fellow-traveller, with one knee on my chest, was clutching my throat.

I saw this very dimly, for my eyes were shot with blood. I also saw the lady in a corner writhing in a violent fit of hysterics. I did not even attempt to resist. I should not have had the strength for it had I wished to: my temples were throbbing, I choked... my throat rattled... Another minute... and I should have been suffocated.

The man must have felt this. He loosened his grip. Without leaving hold of me, with his right hand he stretched a rope, in which he had prepared a slipknot, and, with a quick turn, tied my wrists together. In a moment I was bound, gagged — rendered motionless and helpless.

And he performed this task in the most natural manner in the world, with an ease that revealed the knowledge of a master, of an expert in theft and crime. Not a word, not a fevered movement. Sheer coolness and audacity. And there lay I on the seat, roped up like a mummy — I, Arsène Lupin!

It was really ridiculous. And notwithstanding the seriousness of the circumstances I could not but appreciate and almost enjoy the irony of the situation. Arsène Lupin “done” like a novice, stripped like the first-comer! For of course the scoundrel relieved me of my pocket-book and purse! Arsène Lupin victimized in his turn — duped and beaten! What an adventure!

There remained the lady. He took no notice of her at all. He contented himself with picking up the wrist-bag that lay on the floor, and extracting the jewels, the purse, the gold and silver knicknacks which it contained. The lady opened her eyes, shuddered with fright, took off her rings and handed them to the man as though she wished to spare him any superfluous exertion. He took the rings, and looked at her: she fainted away.

Then, calm and silent as before, without troubling about us further, he resumed his seat, lit a cigarette, and abandoned himself to a careful scrutiny of the treasures which he had captured, the inspection of which seemed to satisfy him completely.

I was much less satisfied. I am not speaking of the twelve thousand francs of which I had been unduly plundered: this was a loss which I accepted only for the time; I had no doubt that those twelve thousand francs would return to my possession after a short interval, together with the exceedingly important papers which my pocket-book contained: plans, estimates, specifications, addresses, lists of correspondents, letters of a coin-promising character. But, for the moment, a more immediate and serious care was worrying me: what was to happen next?

As may be readily imagined, the excitement caused by my passing through the Gare Saint-Lazare had not escaped me. As I was going to stay with friends who knew me by the name of Guillaume Berlat, and to whom my resemblance to Arsène Lupin was the occasion of many a friendly jest, I had not been able to disguise myself after my wont, and my presence had been discovered. Moreover, a man, doubtless Arsène Lupin, had been seen to rush from the express into the fast train. Hence it was inevitable and fated that the commissary of police at Rouen, warned by telegram, would await the arrival of the train, assisted by a respectable number of constables, question any suspicious passengers, and proceed to make a minute inspection of the carriages.

All this I had foreseen, and had not felt greatly excited about it; for I was certain that the Rouen police would display no greater perspicacity than the Paris police, and that I should have been able to pass unperceived: was it not sufficient for me, at the wicket, carelessly to show my deputy’s card, collector at Saint-Lazare with every confidence? But how things had changed since then! I was no longer free. It was impossible to attempt one of my usual moves. In one of the carriages the commissary would discover the Sieur Arsène Lupin, whom a propitious fate was sending to him bound hand and foot, gentle as a lamb, packed up complete. He had only to accept delivery, just as you receive a parcel addressed to you at a railway station, a hamper of game, or a basket of vegetables and fruit.

And to avoid this annoying catastrophe, what could I do, entangled as I was in my bonds?

And the train was speeding towards Rouen, the next and the only stopping-place; it rushed through Vernon, through Saint-Pierre...

I was puzzled also by another problem in which I was not so directly interested, but the solution of which aroused my professional curiosity: What were my fellow-traveller’s intentions?

If I had been alone he would have had ample time to alight quite calmly at Rouen. But the lady? As soon as the carriage door was opened the lady, meek and quiet as she sat at present, would scream, and throw herself about, and cry for help!

Hence my astonishment. Why did he not reduce her to the same state of powerlessness as myself, which would have given him time to disappear before his twofold misdeed was discovered?

He was still smoking, his eyes fixed on the view outside, which a hesitating rain was beginning to streak with long, slanting lines. Once, however, he turned round, took up my railway guide, and consulted it.

As for the lady, she made every effort to continue fainting, so as to quiet her enemy. But a fit of coughing, produced by the smoke, gave the lie to her pretended swoon.

Myself, I was very uncomfortable, and had pains all over my body. And I thought... I planned.

Pont-de-l’Arche... Oissel... The train was hurrying on, glad, drunk with speed... Saint-Etienne...

At that moment the man rose and took two steps towards us, to which the lady hastened to reply with a new scream and a genuine fainting fit.

But what could his object be? He lowered the window on our side. The rain was now falling in torrents, and he made a movement of annoyance at having neither umbrella nor overcoat. He looked up at the rack: the lady’s en-tout-cas was there; he took it. He also took my overcoat and put it on.

We were crossing the Seine. He turned up his trousers, and then, leaning out of the window, raised the outer latch.

Did he mean to fling himself on the permanent way? At the rate at which we were going it would have been certain death. We plunged into the tunnel pierced under the Cote Sainte-Catherine. The man opened the door, and, with one foot, felt for the step. What madness! The darkness, the smoke, the din — all combined to give a fantastic appearance to any such attempt. But suddenly the train slowed up, the Westinghouse brakes counteracted the movement of the wheels. In a minute the pace from fast became normal, and decreased still more. Without a doubt there was a gang at work repairing this part of the tunnel; this would necessitate a slower passage of the trains for some days perhaps, and the man knew it.

He had only, therefore, to put his other foot on the step, climb down to the foot-board, and walk away quietly, not without first closing the door, and throwing back the latch.

He had scarcely disappeared when the smoke showed whiter in the daylight. We emerged into a valley. One more tunnel, and we should be at Rouen.

The lady at once recovered her wits, and her first care was to bewail the loss of her jewels. I gave her a beseeching glance. She understood, and relieved me of the gag which was stifling me. She wanted also to unfasten my bonds, but I stopped her.

“No, no; the police must see everything as it was. I want them to be fully informed as regards that blackguard’s actions.”

“Shall I pull the alarm-signal?”

“Too late. You should have thought of that while he was attacking me.”

“But he would have killed me! Ah, sir, didn’t I tell you that he was travelling by this train? I knew him at once, by his portrait. And now he’s taken my jewels!”

“They’ll catch him, have no fear.”

“Catch Arsène Lupin! Never.”

“It all depends on you, madam. Listen. When we arrive be at the window, call out, make a noise. The police and porters will come up. Tell them what you have seen in a few words: the assault of which I was the victim, and the flight of Arsène Lupin. Give his description: a soft hat, an umbrella — yours — a gray frock-overcoat...”

“Yours,” she said.

“Mine? No, his own. I didn’t have one.”

“I thought that he had none either when he got in.”

“He must have had... unless it was a coat which some one left behind in the rack. In any case, he had it when he got out, and that is the essential thing... A gray frock-overcoat, remember... Oh, I was forgetting... tell them your name to start with. Your husband’s functions will stimulate the zeal of all those men.”

We were arriving. She was already leaning out of the window. I resumed, in a louder, almost imperious voice, so that my words should sink into her brain:

“Give my name also, Guillaume Berlat. If necessary, say you know me... That will save time... we must hurry on the preliminary inquiries... the important thing is to catch Arsène Lupin... with your jewels... You quite understand, don’t you? Guillaume Berlat, a friend of your husband’s.”

“Quite... Guillaume Berlat.”

She was already calling out and gesticulating. Before the train had come to a standstill a gentleman climbed in, followed by a number of other men. The critical hour was at hand.

Breathlessly the lady exclaimed:

“Arsène Lupin... he attacked us... he has stolen my jewels... I am Madame Renaud... my husband is a deputy prison-governor... Ah, here’s my brother, Georges Andelle, manager of the Credit Rouennais... What I want to say is...”

She kissed a young man who had just come up, and who exchanged greetings with the commissary. She continued, weeping:

“Yes, Arsène Lupin... He flew at this gentleman’s throat in his sleep... Monsieur Berlat, a friend of my husband’s.”

“But where is Arsène Lupin?”

“He jumped out of the train in the tunnel, after we had crossed the Seine.”

“Are you sure it was he?”

“Certain. I recognized him at once. Besides, he was seen at the Gare Saint-Lazare. He was wearing a soft hat...”

“No; a hard felt hat, like this,” said the commissary, pointing to my hat.

“A soft hat, I assure you,” repeated Madame Renaud, “and a gray frock-overcoat.”

“Yes,” muttered the commissary; “the telegram mentions a gray frock-overcoat with a black velvet collar.”

“A black velvet collar, that’s it!” exclaimed Madame Renaud, triumphantly.

I breathed again. What a good, excellent friend I had found in her!

Meanwhile the policemen had released me from my bonds. I bit my lips violently till the blood flowed. Bent in two, with my handkerchief to my mouth, as seems proper to a man who has long been sitting in a constrained position, and who bears on his face the blood-stained marks of the gag, I said to the commissary, in a feeble voice:

“Sir, it was Arsène Lupin, there is no doubt of it... You can catch him if you hurry... I think I may be of some use to you...”

The coach, which was needed for the inspection by the police, was slipped. The remainder of the train went on towards Le Havre. We were taken to the station-master’s office through a crowd of on-lookers who filled the platform.

Just then I felt a hesitation. I must make some excuse to absent myself, find my motor-car, and be off. It was dangerous to wait. If anything happened, if a telegram came from Paris, I was lost.

Yes; but what about my robber? Left to my own resources, in a district with which I was not very well acquainted, I could never hope to come up with him.

“Bah!” I said to myself. “Let us risk it, and stay. It’s a difficult hand to win, but a very amusing one to play. And the stakes are worth the trouble.”

And as we were being asked provisionally to repeat our depositions, I exclaimed:

“Mr. Commissary, Arsène Lupin is getting a start of us. My motor is waiting for me in the yard. If you will do me the pleasure to accept a seat in it, we will try...”

The commissary gave a knowing smile.

“It’s not a bad idea... such a good idea, in fact, that it’s already being carried out.”

“Oh!”

“Yes; two of my officers started on bicycles... some time ago.”

“But where to?”

“To the entrance to the tunnel. There they will pick up the clews and the evidence, and follow the track of Arsène Lupin.”

I could not help shrugging my shoulders.

“Your two officers will pick up no clews and no evidence.”

“Really!”

“Arsène Lupin will have arranged that no one should see him leave the tunnel. He will have taken the nearest road, and from there...”

“From there made for Rouen, where we shall catch him.”

“He will not go to Rouen.”

“In that case, he will remain in the neighborhood, where we shall be even more certain...”

“He will not remain in the neighborhood.”

“Oh! Then where will he hide himself?”

I took out my watch.

“At this moment Arsène Lupin is hanging about the station at Darnetal. At ten-fifty — that is to say, in twenty-two minutes from now — he will take the train which leaves Rouen from the Gare du Nord for Amiens.”

“Do you think so? And how do you know?”

“Oh, it’s very simple. In the carriage Arsène Lupin consulted my railway guide. What for? To see if there was another line near the place where he disappeared, a station on that line, and a train which stopped at that station. I have just looked at the guide myself, and learned what I wanted to know.”

“Upon my word, sir,” said the commissary, “you possess marvellous powers of deduction. What an expert you must be!”

Dragged on by my certainty, I had blundered by displaying too much cleverness. He looked at me in astonishment, and I saw that a suspicion flickered through his mind. Only just, it is true; for the photographs despatched in every direction were so unlike, represented an Arsène Lupin so different from the one that stood before him, that he could not possibly recognize the original in me. Nevertheless, he was troubled, restless, perplexed.

There was a moment of silence. A certain ambiguity and doubt seemed to interrupt our words. A shudder of anxiety passed through me.

Was luck about to turn against me? Mastering myself, I began to laugh.

“Ah well, there’s nothing to sharpen one’s wits like the loss of a pocket-book and the desire to find it again. And it seems to me that, if you will give me two of your men, the three of us might, perhaps...”

“Oh, please, Mr. Commissary,” exclaimed Madame Renaud, “do what Monsieur Berlat suggests.”

My kind friend’s intervention turned the scale. Uttered by her, the wife of an influential person, the name of Berlat became mine in reality, and conferred upon me an identity which no suspicion could touch. The commissary rose.

“Believe me, Monsieur Berlat, I shall be only too pleased to see you succeed. I am as anxious as yourself to have Arsène Lupin arrested.”

He accompanied me to my car. He introduced two of his men to me: Honore Massol and Gaston Delivet. They took their seats. I placed myself at the wheel. My chauffeur started the engine. A few seconds later we had left the station. I was saved.

I confess that as we dashed in my powerful 35-h.p. Moreau-Lepton along the boulevards that skirt the old Norman city I was not without a certain sense of pride. The engine hummed harmoniously. The trees sped behind us to right and left. And now, free and out of danger, I had nothing to do but to settle my own little private affairs with the co-operation of two worthy representatives of the law. Arsène Lupin was going in search of Arsène Lupin!

Ye humble mainstays of the social order of things, Gaston Delivet and Honore Massol, how precious was your assistance to me! Where should I have been without you? But for you, at how many cross-roads should I have taken the wrong turning! But for you, Arsène Lupin would have gone astray and the other escaped!

But all was not over yet. Far from it. I had first to capture the fellow and next to take possession, myself, of the papers of which he had robbed me. At no cost must my two satellites be allowed to catch a sight of those documents, much less lay hands upon them. To make us of them and yet act independently of them was what I wanted to do; and it was no easy matter.

We reached Darnetal three minutes after the train had left. I had the consolation of learning that a man in a gray frock-overcoat with a black velvet collar had got into a second-class carriage with a ticket for Amiens. There was no doubt about it: my first appearance as a detective was a promising one.

Delivet said:

“The train is an express, and does not stop before Monterolier-Buchy, in nineteen minutes from now. If we are not there before Arsène Lupin he can go on towards Amiens, branch off to Cleres, and, from there, make for Dieppe or Paris.”

“How far is Monterolier?”

“Fourteen miles and a half.”

“Fourteen miles and a half in nineteen minutes... We shall be there before he is.”

It was a stirring race. Never had my trusty Moreau-Lepton responded to my impatience with greater ardor and regularity. It seemed to me as though I communicated my wishes to her directly, without the intermediary of levers or handles. She shared my desires. She approved of my determination. She understood my animosity against that blackguard Arsène Lupin. The scoundrel! The sneak! Should I get the best of him? Or would he once more baffle authority, that authority of which I was the incarnation?

“Right!” cried Delivet... “Left!... Straight ahead!..”

We skimmed the ground. The mile-stones looked like little timid animals that fled at our approach.

And suddenly at the turn of a road a cloud of smoke — the north express!

For half a mile it was a struggle side by side — an unequal struggle, of which the issue was certain — we beat the train by twenty lengths.

In three seconds we were on the platform in front of the second class. The doors were flung open. A few people stepped out. My thief was not among them. We examined the carriages. No Arsène Lupin.

“By Jove!” I exclaimed, “he must have recognized me in the motor while we were going alongside of him, and jumped!”

The guard of the train confirmed my supposition. He had seen a man scrambling down the embankment at two hundred yards from the station.

“There he is!... Look!... At the level crossing!”

I darted in pursuit, followed by my two satellites, or, rather, by one of them; for the other, Massol, turned out to be an uncommonly fast sprinter, gifted with both speed and staying power. In a few seconds the distance between him and the fugitive was greatly diminished. The man saw him, jumped a hedge, and scampered off towards a slope, which he climbed. We saw him, farther still, entering a little wood.

When we reached the wood we found Massol waiting for us. He had thought it no use to go on, lest he should lose us.

“You were quite right, my dear fellow,” I said. “After a run like this our friend must be exhausted. We’ve got him.”

I examined the skirts of the wood while thinking how I could best proceed alone to arrest the fugitive, in order myself to effect certain recoveries which the law, no doubt, would only have allowed after a number of disagreeable inquiries. Then I returned to my companions.

“Look here, it’s very easy. You, Massol, take up your position on the left. You, Delivet, on the right. From there you can watch the whole rear of the wood, and he can’t leave it unseen by you except by this hollow, where I shall stand. If he does not come out, I’ll go in and force him back towards one or the other of you. You have nothing to do, therefore, but wait. Oh, I was forgetting: in case of alarm, I’ll fire a shot.”

Massol and Delivet moved off, each to his own side. As soon as they were out of sight I made my way into the wood with infinite precautions, so as to be neither seen nor heard. It consisted of close thickets, contrived for the shooting, and intersected by very narrow paths, in which it was only possible to walk by stooping, as though in a leafy tunnel.

One of these ended in a glade, where the damp grass showed the marks of footsteps. I followed them, taking care to steal through the underwood. They led me to the bottom of a little mound, crowned by a tumble-down lath-and-plaster hovel.

“He must be there,” I thought. “He has selected a good post of observation.”

I crawled close up to the building. A slight sound warned me of his presence, and, in fact, I caught sight of him through an opening; with his back turned towards me.

Two bounds brought me upon him. He tried to point the revolver which he held in his hand. I did not give him time, but pulled him to the ground in such a way that his two arms were twisted and caught under him, while I held him pinned down with my knee upon his chest.

“Listen to me, old chap,” I whispered in his ear. “I am Arsène Lupin. You’ve got to give me back, this minute and without any fuss, my pocket-book and the lady’s wrist-bag... in return for which I’ll save you from the clutches of the police and enroll you among my friends. Which is it to be: yes or no?”

“Yes,” he muttered.

“That’s right. Your plan of this morning was cleverly thought out. We shall be good friends.”

I got up. He fumbled in his pocket, fetched out a great knife, and tried to strike me with it.

“You ass!” I cried.

With one hand I parried the attack. With the other I caught him a violent blow on the carotid artery, the blow which is known as “the carotid hook.” He fell back stunned.

In my pocket-book I found my papers and bank-notes. I took his own out of curiosity. On an envelope addressed to him I read his name: Pierre Onfrey.

I gave a start. Pierre Onfrey, the perpetrator of the murder in the Rue Lafontaine at Auteuil! Pierre Onfrey, the man who had cut the throats of Madame Delbois and her two daughters. I bent over him. Yes, that was the face which, in the railway-carriage, had aroused in me the memory of features which I had seen before.

But time was passing. I placed two hundred-franc notes in an envelope, with a visiting-card bearing these words:

“Arsène Lupin to his worthy assistants, Honore Massol and Gaston Delivet, with his best thanks.”

I laid this where it could be seen, in the middle of the room. Beside it I placed Madame Renaud’s wrist-bag. Why should it not be restored to the kind friend who had rescued me? I confess, however, that I took from it everything that seemed in any way interesting, leaving only a tortoise-shell comb, a stick of lip-salve, and an empty purse. Business is business, when all is said and done! And, besides, her husband followed such a disreputable occupation!..

There remained the man. He was beginning to move. What was I to do? I was not qualified either to save or to condemn him.

I took away his weapons, and fired my revolver in the air.

“That will bring the two others,” I thought. “He must find a way out of his own difficulties. Let fate take its course.”

And I went down the hollow road at a run.

Twenty minutes later a cross-road which I had noticed during our pursuit brought me back to my car.

At four o’clock I telegraphed to my friends from Rouen that an unexpected incident compelled me to put off my visit. Between ourselves, I greatly fear that, in view of what they must now have learned, I shall be obliged to postpone it indefinitely. It will be a cruel disappointment for them!

At six o’clock I returned to Paris by L’Isle-Adam, Enghien, and the Porte Bineau.

I gathered from the evening papers that the police had at last succeeded in capturing Pierre Onfrey.

The next morning — why should we despise the advantages of intelligent advertisement? — the Echo de France contained the following sensational paragraph:

An Unposted Letter Newton Mactavish

This odd little story derives from an unlikely author: Newton McFaul MacTavish (1875–1941), a much-honored Canadian art critic and early art historian. Born in Staffa, Ontario, he began his career as a journalist at the age of twenty-one when he took a job as a reporter at The Toronto Globe and was assistant financial editor there until 1900. At that time he began to study English literature at McGill University while working as a correspondent and business representative of The Globe in Montreal. In 1906, MacTavish became the editor of The Canadian Magazine in Toronto, a position he held for twenty years. He acted as a trustee of the National Gallery of Canada in Ottawa from 1922 to 1933. He received honorary degrees in 1924 (M.A.) and 1928 (D.Litt.) from Acadia University, Nova Scotia. He was a member of the Civil Service Commission of Canada from 1926 to 1932. A founder of the Arts and Letters Club (Toronto), he served on the editorial advisory board of the Encyclopedia of Canada (1932–1935), to which he also was a contributor. In addition to his articles, essays, and short stories, MacTavish authored Thrown In (1923), a collection of essays about rural life in nineteenth-century Ontario; The Fine Arts in Canada (1925), the first full-length history of Canadian art; and Ars Longa (1938), stories about Canadian art and artists, with anecdotal reminiscences by the author. A fourth work, Newton MacTavish’s Canada: Selected Essays (1963), was published posthumously.

“An Unposted Letter” was originally published in the February 1901 issue of The Canadian Magazine.

Outside, a hammer pounded mockingly; the gallows were under construction. Through the iron bars of the prison window shone a few straggling shafts of sunlight. My client rested on his elbows, his chin in his hands. The light glistened on his matted hair. He heard the hammering outside.

“I guess I may’s well write a line to Bill,” he said, not raising his head. “Kin you get a pencil and paper?”

I got them, and then waited until he had written:

“Dear Bill, — By the sound of things, I reckon I’ve got to swing this trip. I’ve had a hope all along that they might git scent on the right track; but I see that Six-Eye’ll be ’bliged to kick the bucket, with head up — the galleys is goin’ up mighty fast.

“I say, Bill, there ain’t no good in burglarin’. I swore once I’d quit it, and wish I had. But a feller can’t allus do just as he fancies; I guess he can’t allus do it, kin he, Bill? You never knew how I got into this scrape, did you?

“One day I was standin’ around, just standin’ around, nothin’ doin’, when I saw a pair of runaway horses a-comin’ down the street like mad. I jumped out and caught the nigh one by the bridle. I hauled ’em up mighty sudden, but somethin’ swung me round, and I struck my head agin the neck-yoke, kersmash.

“When I come to, I was sittin’ back in the carriage with the sweetest faced girl bendin’ over me, and wipin’ my face with cool water. She asked where she would drive me home; and, do you know, Bill, for the first time, I was ashamed to say where. But I told her, and, so help me, she came clear down in there with me, and made Emily put me to bed. She left money, and every day till I got well she come out and sat and read the Bible and all them things. Do you know, Bill, it wasn’t long afore things seemed different. I couldn’t look at her pure, sweet face and plan a job. The last day she came I made up my mind I’d try somethin’ else — quit burglarin’.

“I started out to get work. One man asked me what I’d served my time at. I said I’d served most of it in jail, and then he wouldn’t have anythin’ to do with me. A chap gave me a couple of days breakin’ stones in a cellar. He said I did it so good he guessed I must have been in jail. After that I couldn’t get nothin’ to do, because no one wouldn’t have nothin’ to do with a jail-bird, and I had made up my mind to tell the truth.

“At last Emily began to kick and little Bob to cry for grub. I got sick of huntin’ for work, and it seemed as if everybody was pushin’ me back to my old job. I got disgusted. I had to do somethin’, so I sat down and planned to do a big house in the suburbs. I’d sized it up before.

“The moon was high that night, so I waited till it went down, long after midnight. I found the back door already open, so it was a snap to git in.

“I went upstairs and picked on a side room near the front. I eased the door and looked in. A candle flickered low, and flames danced from a few coals in the fireplace.

“I entered noiselessly.

“A high-backed chair was in front of the hearth. I sneaked up and looked over the top. A young girl, all dressed in white, with low neck and bare arms, laid there asleep. Her hair hung over her shoulders; she looked like as if she’d come home from a dance, and just threw herself there tired out.

“Just as I was goin’ to turn away, the flames in the fireplace flickered, and I caught the glow of rubies at the girl’s throat. How they shone and gleamed and shot fire from their blood-red depths! The candle burned low and sputtered; but the coals on the hearth flickered, the rubies glowed, and the girl breathed soft in her sleep.

“ ‘It’s an easy trick,’ I said to myself, and I leaned over the back of the chair, my breath fanning the light hair that fell over marble shoulders. I took out my knife and reached over. Just then the fire burned up a bit. As I leaned over I saw her sweet, girlish face, and, so h’lp me, Bill, it was her, her whose face I couldn’t look into and plan a job.

“Hardly knowing it, I bared my head, and stood there knife in hand, the blood rushin’ to my face, and my feelin’s someway seemin’ to go agin me.

“I looked at her, and gradually closed my knife and straightened up from that sneakin’ shape a feller gets into. I remembered a verse that she used to read to me, ‘Ye shall not go forth empty-handed,’ so I said to myself I’d try again. But just as I was turning to go, I heard a shot in the next room; then a heavy thud. I stood stock-still for a jiffy, and then ran out in time to see someone dart down the stairs. At the bottom I heard a stumble. I hurried along the hall and ran straight into the arms of the butler.

“I guess someone else was doin’ that job that night. But they had me slicker’n a whistle. ’Twas no use; everythin’ went agin me. I had on my big revolver, the mate to the one you got. As it happened, one chamber was empty, and the ball they took from the old man’s head was the same size. I had a bad record; it was all up with me. The only thing they brought up in court to the contrary was the top of an ear they found in the hall, where someone must have hit agin somethin’ sharp. But they wouldn’t listen to my lawyer.

“Give up burglarin’, Bill; see what I’ve come to. But I hope you’ll do a turn for Emily if ever she’s in need, and don’t learn little Bob filchin’. Do this for an old pal’s sake, Bill.”

The doomed man stopped writing, as the last shaft of sunlight passed beyond the iron bars of the prison window. Outside the hammering had ceased; the scaffold was finished.

“You’ll find Emily, my wife, in the back room of the basement at 126, River Street,” said my client, handing me the letter. “She’ll tell you where to find Bill.”

I took the letter, but did not then know its contents. I started, but he called me back.

“You have a flower in your button-hole,” he said. “I’d like to wrap it up and send it to Emily.”

Next day, after the sentence of the law had been executed, I went to find Emily. I descended the musty old staircase at 126, River Street, where all was filth and squalor. At the back room I stopped and rapped. A towzy head was thrust out of the next door.

“They’re gone,” it said.

“Where?”

“Don’t know. The woman went with some man.”

“Did you know him?”

“I saw him here before sometimes, but the top of his ear wasn’t cut off then. They called him Bill — sort of pal.”

“And where’s the little boy?”

“He’s gone to the Shelter.”

I went out into the pure air, and, standing on the kerbstone, read the letter:

“...The only thing they brought up in court to the contrary was the top of an ear...”

When I had finished, I remembered the flower in my hand. I didn’t throw it away; I took it to my office and have it there still, wrapped in the paper as he gave it to me.

The Adventure of “The Brain” Bertram Atkey

Most remembered, if remembered at all, for the creation of Smiler Bunn, a not-quite-gentleman-crook, Bertram Atkey (1880–1952) also invented a wide range of eccentric and original characters for his many works of fiction, notably Winnie O’Wynn, a charming gold-digger; Prosper Fair, an amateur detective who is really Duke of Devizes; Hercules, a sportsman; Nelson Chiddenham, a crippled boy detective who has an immense knowledge of dogs and the countryside; Captain Cormorant, a widely traveled mercenary adventurer; and Sebastian Hope, a henpecked husband with a peculiar gift for disarming his wife by feeding her alibis of great verisimilitude.

It is the scores of stories about Smiler Bunn that continue to have charm in the present day. Also known as Mr. Wilton Flood, Bunn is an ingenious crook, blessed with great courage, resourcefulness, and humor, who “makes his living off society in a manner always devious and sometimes dark, but never mean.” Bunn and his friend Lord Fortworth have lived in bachelor partnership for years, specializing in taking portable property (such as cash and jewels) from those who have no right to it, thereby avoiding encounters with the police.

Born in Wiltshire, Atkey moved to London as a teenager to write stories. He published his first book, Folk of the Wild, a collection of nature stories, in 1905. Two years later he created Smiler Bunn, later collecting the stories in The Amazing Mr. Bunn (1912), the first of nine books about the genial crook.

“The Adventure of ‘The Brain’ ” was first published in the January 1910 issue of The Grand Magazine, and first collected in The Amazing Mr. Bunn (London, Newnes, 1912).

“I shall now proceed to give my celebrated imitation of a gentleman pinching a blood-orange,” mused Mr. “Smiler” Bunn, the gifted pickpocket of Garraty Street, King’s Cross, to himself, as he stood thoughtfully before a fruiterer’s shop in a small street off Oxford Street. “A real gent hooking of the biggest blood-orange in the bunch!”

With this laudable intention he turned his gaze upon a fine pineapple that reposed aristocratically upon pink paper behind the plate-glass window, as the shopman came out and stood for a moment near the door, leaning against the shopfront extension, which was piled with fruit — chiefly oranges, “blood” and otherwise. This part of the shop was in front of the window, and was unprotected save by the watchful care of the shopman.

“Nice little pineapple, that,” said Mr. Bunn casually.

“Pretty fair for the time of year,” replied the shopman. “Will you take it?”

“Well, ’ow much is it?”

“Half a guinea,” said the shopman.

Mr. Bunn shook his head. His resources at the moment totalled sevenpence only.

“Too dear,” he decided, both hands plunged deep into his coat-pockets. “What’s the little black-looking thing that keeps on running round the pineapple? Not a mouse, is it?”

The shopman plunged inside suddenly, with a frightful threat against all mice, and — Mr. Bunn’s right hand flickered. Only flickered. Few people watching him would have cared to wager that his hand had left his pocket at all. Then he moved tranquilly away, and the biggest blood-orange on the shop-front went with him. The celebrated imitation was over, and the performer had strolled calmly round an adjacent corner before the shopman had given up his search for the mouse.

“Very well done, old man,” muttered Mr. Bunn. “I ain’t sure but what you ain’t improving. Your ’and has not lost its cunning, nor your heye its quickness.”

He turned into Oxford Street, feeling distinctly encouraged by this small success, and mingled unobtrusively with the crowd of women who were looking at the shop windows and wondering why their husbands did not earn as much as other women’s husbands.

Mr. Bunn had skilfully worked his way through the thickest of the crowd for over a hundred yards before he marked a lady who seemed sufficiently careless in the handling of her bag to call for his closer attention. He moved quickly to her. She was a handsome woman of middle age, with a determined face, and rather too strong a chin. She was exceedingly well-dressed, and carried her bag in the bend of two fingers. At first she did not appear to be interested in the shops, but a hat dashingly displayed in a corner window suddenly caught her attention, and she stopped to look at it. Mr. Bunn paused for the fraction of a second immediately behind her. Then he went quietly on — round the corner (corners were a speciality of Smiler Bunn’s). He did not look behind — he knew better. He simply lounged very slowly on, hoping the bag did not make too pronounced a bulge in his pocket. He looked quite the most unconcerned man in London, until he heard a sudden rustle of skirts behind him and felt a quick, firm grip on his arm.

“You are very unintelligent,” said a sharp voice, and he turned to see the well-dressed woman who had been carrying her bag carelessly.

“Give me what you have in your right-hand coat-pocket at once,” she requested him coldly.

“I dunno what you mean. I don’t know you. What d’you mean?” asked Smiler, rather nervously.

“Do not let us have any nonsense, please,” was her chilly comment. “Give it to me at once.”

Smiler put his hand in his pocket with desperate calmness and drew out — a remarkably fine blood-orange.

“It’s the only one I got, but you can have it—” he began; but she interrupted.

“Do you want me to call the police?” she said. “Give me the bag instantly.”

Smiler gave a sickly smile, put his hand into the other pocket, and, with a badly-feigned start of surprise, produced the bag.

“Why, what’s this? However did this get there? This ain’t mine — it don’t belong to me!” he began, making the best of a very bad job.

But she cut him short. She took the bag, her quick grey eyes playing over him in a singularly comprehensive glance. She saw a clean-shaven, rather stout, butlerish-looking man of about thirty-eight, with a good-humoured mouth and a solid chin. He was extremely shabby, but neat, and obviously was in a state of considerable embarrassment. She was about to speak, when Mr. Bunn pushed back his hat and passed his hand across his brow — a gesture evidently unconscious, and born of the mental stress of the moment. But her eyes brightened suddenly as they lighted upon his forehead, and her lips relaxed a little. For it was unquestionably a fine frontal development — a Brow among Brows. Assisted somewhat by a slight premature baldness, the forehead of Mr. Bunn was a feature of which its owner was acutely conscious. There was too much of it, in his opinion. It had never been of much use to him, and he was in the habit of considering its vast expanse a deformity rather than a sign of intellect. He was quite aware that it saved his features from being commonplace — he fancied it made them ridiculous instead. But evidently the lady of the bag did not think so. She was actually smiling to him.

“I should like to ask you a few questions,” she said, “if you have no objection.”

Mr. Bunn did not answer.

“Have you any objection?” she inquired sweetly, glancing across the road, where a dozen policemen were solemnly walking in Indian file towards their beats. Smiler regarded them for a moment — a most unpleasant sight, he considered.

Then, “No, no objection — not at all — not by no means,” he said.

“Be good enough to accompany me, then,” continued the woman, in a singularly businesslike way. She moved slowly on, and Mr. Bunn walked by her side.

“Why are you a pickpocket?” she said curtly.

Mr. Bunn muttered to the effect that he was not — strike him lucky if he was. But the woman ignored his denial.

“It is so foolish,” she said. “So obviously unsuitable a profession for a man with your intellect. Why, with your forehead you should be carving out a great future, a career, a reputation.”

Smiler stared suspiciously at her.

“You leave my forrid alone,” he requested her. “I can’t help having a thing more like a balloon than a ’eadpiece on my shoulders, can I?”

“But, my good person, don’t you see what a great thing it is to have such a brain, and what a terrible thing it is for such an intellect to lie dormant? If all men had such intellect as your forehead tells me plainly you possess, you do not think we women would ever have asked for votes? Certainly not. It is because not one man in a hundred thousand possesses such a brain as yours that we have decided to fight for our rights. And when I think of the possibilities of yours, when I think of the latent power in your glorious head, that only needs training and shaping to the Idea. When I think, here I have in its practically fallow state a Brain of Brains which belongs to me, and is my own to mould as I like — unless its owner wishes to be sent to prison for six months in the third division with hard labour — can you wonder that my whole spirit takes fire, and I cry aloud, yet again — ‘VOTES FOR WOMEN!’ ”

It was a truly lusty yell, and it gave Mr. Bunn an unpleasant shock. Everyone within hearing turned to stare at the woman, but she seemed blandly unconscious of their scrutiny. She gripped the unnerved Smiler’s arm and became business-like again.

“Understand me,” she said. “I consider you a Find, and I propose to keep you — unless, of course, you prefer to be handed over to the police. I can see that you are a man with immense possibilities, and those possibilities I intend to develop with the ultimate aim of devoting them to the Cause. Do you understand me? I propose to educate you. You shall become a lecturer, a champion of women’s rights, a pursuer of the Vote. You shall be paid while you are being taught — and paid well — and when, in the course of time, I have stirred that great Brain out of its present inaction, it shall be devoted to our service and rewarded in proportion. No — not a word. Come with me. I am Lilian Carroway.”

Mr. Bunn felt dazed. Lilian Carroway! He knew now with whom he had to deal. The Suffragette who knew more about jiu-jitsu than any European and most Japanese. The woman who a few months previously had wrestled her way into the House of Commons over the bodies of many half-stunned and wholly astonished policemen, and had threatened to put a strangulation lock on the Prime Minister himself if he did not promise to answer a plain question. Taken by surprise, he had promised, and Lilian, rather flurried, had put the following question to him:

“I must have notice of that question,” had been the suave, non-committal reply of the Prime Minister, and before the Suffragette had quite thought it out, the police had taken her by storm and removed her.

Smiler Bunn remembered the incident well and congratulated himself on not having annoyed her.

She called a taxicab, and commanded him to get in. She gave the driver the address of the headquarters of the particular branch of the movement to which she belonged, and sat down beside the dazed pickpocket.

“Your fortune is made,” she said briefly.

Mr. Bunn muttered “Certainly,” in a very uncertain voice, and relapsed into a gloomy silence.

“I have no doubt that you consider yourself to be in a singularly unfortunate position, Mr... er... what is your name?”

“Connaught,” said Smiler, absently reading the first name he saw over a shop window, “Louisy Connaught.”

“Louise Connaught! What an extraordinary name! How do you spell it? Louise is a woman’s name.”

“Well, some spell it one way and some another. I don’t mind much.”

“But it is a woman’s name.”

“Well, I was one of a twin,” lied Mr. Bunn uncomfortably, wishing he had taken a name from some other shop window. “We was mixed a little at the christenin’, and me sister’s name is Thomas.”

“I see. How unfortunate!” said the Suffragette. Then she spoke the name over to herself several times: “Louise Connaught — Louis Connaught. Why, it’s a splendid name — Louis Connaught. It has a royal sort of ring. Mr. Louis Connaught, I really congratulate you upon your name.”

“Louis” smiled uneasily and avoided meeting her eye.

Then the “taxi” turned suddenly into a courtyard at the side of a big block of flats near Whitehall, and pulled up.

“Here we are, Mr. Connaught,” said the Suffragette, and paying the driver she gently impelled her captive into the building. He was not quite so anxious to bolt as he had been. That mention of payment had interested him, and, in any case, there seemed to be an uncomfortably large number of police in the neighbourhood. Mr. Bunn had recognised two plain-clothes men at the entrance to the side court.

He passively followed Mrs. Carroway into the lift, and from the lift into a large room on the second floor. This apartment was furnished like the board-room of a big company, but its business appearance was made slightly less severe by one or two little feminine touches here and there — a few flowers, a mirror or so, and some rather tasteful pictures. There were a dozen women of different ages scattered about the room.

Mrs. Carroway greeted them impulsively.

“My dears, I have discovered a Brain!” she cried.

The Brain blushed as he removed his hat, for he knew what was coming.

“Look at his forehead,” said the enthusiastic Lilian. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

“Wall, it’s all right as regards quantity — there’s a good square foot of it — if the quality is there,” answered a rather obvious spinster of uncertain age, with a Scotch face and a New England accent. “What’s the Brain’s name?”

“Louis Connaught,” announced Mrs. Carroway importantly, and several of the younger and less angular of the Suffragettes looked interested. It was certainly a high-sounding name.

“Wall, Louis, I’m glad you’re here,” said the American lady, “and the vurry fact of your being here shows that there’s something behind that frontal freeboard of yours. Most men avoid this place as though it was a place of worship. You mustn’t mind my candour; this strenuous pursuit of the Vote makes a girl candid.”

The Brain bowed awkwardly. It was one of his few assets that he was not afraid of women. He was not even nervous with them, except when they were in a position, and looked likely to hand him over to the police. Some instinct deeply buried behind what the “girl” was pleased to term his “frontal freeboard” told him that Mrs. Carroway would not explain to the others the circumstances in which she had made his unwilling acquaintance.

A young and pretty girl came forward, smiling, offering her hand. It was hard to believe that such a lovely slip of feminine daintiness had done, to use a popular expression, “her two months in the second division,” with the best of them. She was Lady Mary de Vott.

“We are very glad to have you fighting in our Cause, Mr. Connaught,” she said charmingly.

Smiler shook hands as though he meant never to leave off.

“Glad — proud!” he said heavily. “Glad to oblige. Any little thing like that — any time.”

Mrs. Carroway broke in.

“There is a rather curious little story to tell about Mr. Connaught,” she said, “and in case anyone should notice and misconstrue any little mannerisms he may possess, I should like to tell his story, which explains them. Mr. Connaught probably will prefer not to be present. If so” — she turned to Smiler — “will you go to the waiting-room?”

She touched a bell, and a trim typist appeared.

“Show this gentleman into the waiting-room,” ordered Lilian, and Smiler went out, feeling that, on the whole, he was travelling in the direction of a rich streak of luck. He dropped into a big, luxurious lounge, and gracefully lying at full length, proceeded, with many sounds of enjoyment, to demolish the large blood-orange he had so deftly acquired an hour before. He then took a little nap, and woke, thoroughly refreshed, to find Mrs. Carroway by the side of the lounge, staring with a rapt and wondering expression at his towering forehead.

“Ah, this is splendid!” she said. “I see that in common with many other great brains you have the knack of snatching an hour’s rest at odd moments. Napoleon possessed it also, I believe.”

“Napoleon who?” inquired Mr. Bunn, who could have beaten any brain in the world at the gentle art of resting.

“Bonaparte, my dear man!” said Mrs. Carroway good-humouredly. “Haven’t you ever heard of Napoleon Bonaparte?”

Mr. Bunn thought.

“Heard the name somewhere or other. Hasn’t he got a shop down by the Holborn end of Shaftesbury Avenue — fried fish and chips? Little dark man?”

Mrs. Carroway stared.

“I do not think so,” she answered.

“Ah, some relation of his, I expect!” said Smiler airily, and dismissed the matter. He stood up. After his reception in the big committee-room he had lost much of his trepidation as to the result of his unfortunate little contretemps with the Suffragette leader’s hand-bag.

“Well, how about this little lot?” He tapped his forehead significantly. “Was any offer made?”

“Ah, that is quite settled. We have agreed unanimously that — after a cursory examination by a skilled phrenologist — you shall be entered at once as a Special Organiser. Why, are you disappointed, Mr. Connaught?”

She had noticed his face fall.

“No; only I don’t know a note of music. I can’t tell one tune from another. I admit it don’t want much thinking about, just turning a handle; but even a organ-grinder—”

Mrs. Carroway laughed.

“Oh, I see!” she smiled. “I said ‘Organiser.’ ”

“Oh!” said Smiler, with an air of intense relief, wondering what an organiser was.

“Of course,” the Suffragette continued, “I shall not expect big things from you at first. I think you had better begin by reading up the question of Women’s Suffrage. Every morning you shall report to me at, say, ten, and we will talk over the chapters you have read. You will be able to tell me what conclusions you have come to, and what opinions you have formed on the subject, and I shall be able to correct any false impressions made upon you, and, no doubt, your intellect, as it becomes familiar with the question, will soon be discovering new and valuable interpretations of the old ideas, and giving new ideas and plans for the advancement of the Cause. After a few weeks of careful reading you will have to begin practising public speaking, and we all expect that by that time your own great natural gifts will assert themselves, and from being a — novice, let us say — you will become a leader both in thought and in action. During the first few weeks your remuneration will be three pounds a week — the League has plenty of funds — if that is agreeable to you.”

She seemed to expect an answer, and Smiler managed to get his breath back in time to say that he thought three pounds a week would do “for a start.”

“Well, that being settled, let us go into the committee-room. We’ve sent for a phrenologist, and he is waiting there for you; and, by the way, I’ve explained to our comrades that you were of almost noble birth, but, owing to a series of misfortunes, your education — both socially and... er... scholastically, has been slightly neglected. And now, Mr. Connaught, before we join the others, let me say that I believe in you, and I think you will prove a tremendous acquisition to the Cause. I do not see how one with so noble a forehead as yours can prove otherwise.”

Mr. Bunn was almost touched.

“Lady,” he said, with a singular emphasis, “you do me proud, strike me pink all over, if you don’t. You’re a lady, that’s what you are, and I know when I’m dealing with a lady and I treat her as a lady. You’ll see. Don’t you worry about me. I shall be all right, once I get started. When I’m just joggin’ along in my own quiet way, kids can play with me; but once I get started, I’m a rum ’un, and don’t you forget it, lady. I only want to get started.” He extended his hand. “Put it there, Mrs. Carroway!”

The Suffragette leader put her hand in his, and they shook in silence.

There were about thirty Suffragettes in the committee-room when the two re-entered, and a lean man in a frock coat and a flannel shirt, who was delivering a sort of lecture on phrenology. Smiler, with the instinct of one “crook” for another, glanced at his sharp, famished eyes and summed him up instantly as a charlatan — only “charlatan” was not the exact word which occurred to the new Organiser.

Mrs. Carroway introduced the two men, and the phrenologist indicated a chair, which Smiler took. In five minutes’ talk with the ladies the phrenologist had gleaned precisely what they wanted for their money, and he proceeded to give it to them unstintingly.

He took Smiler’s head in his hungry-looking hands and pressed it. He said:

“This is indeed a brain — a most unusual, indeed, an amazing brain. I have not often ’andled a brain of this description. This head which I hold in my ’and is an astonishing head!” He slid a clammy palm across the gratified Mr. Bunn’s forehead. “I should term this head a phenomenal head. It is perplexing — it is what we call an Unexpected Head. It has every indication of being wholly undeveloped, while its natural force is stupendous. I consider it puzzling; it is a very difficult cranium!” He frowned, looked thoughtful, and finally dropped his hands suddenly. “Ladies,” he said glibly, “I really couldn’t afford to read this head for a guinea. This is as good a three-guinea head as ever I see under my ’and. This head should be charted properly; usually I charge a guinea extra for a No. 1 chart, but if you’ll take a three-guinea readin’ of this head, I’ll throw in the chart, marked out in two colours, and framed in black oak, with pale green mount, with signed certificate and seal at the back, complete, with half-hour’s verbal readin’, any questions answered, for three pounds ten, cash, usual charge five guineas. Crowned heads twenty guineas and expenses. And that’s a bargain.”

Naturally, it being a bargain, every lady in the room agreed on the “three-pounds-ten readin’,” and considered it cheap.

And then, to his intense astonishment and profound gratification, Mr. Bunn learnt among other things that he would, with a little practice, develop into an orator of a brilliance surpassing that of the late Mr. W. E. Gladstone, and rivalling that of Mark Antony, a statesman whose statecraft would be as iron-handed as that of Bismarck, as subtle as that of Abdul the Damned, as fearless as that of Nero, and as dazzling as that of the German Emperor; a lawgiver as unbiased and careful as Moses, a diplomat as finished as Talleyrand, a thinker as profound as Isaac Walton (the phrenologist probably meant Isaac Newton), a champion of rights as persuasive as Oliver Cromwell, and, finally, a politician “as honest as” — here the phrenologist faltered for a moment — “as honest a politician as... as... the best of them.” A great deal of useful and equally valuable information having been imparted, the phrenologist announced that the sitting was at an end, drew his cheque, promised to send on the chart and certificate, volunteered to read the palms of any ladies present for five shillings per palm, offered to throw himself into a trance and communicate with the spirit of any dead relative of anyone present for two guineas per spirit, dealt round a pack of his business cards with the air of a pretty good poker-player, and finally took his departure.

The curious thing was that every woman — and there were many intelligent women there — seemed to believe in this shabby, flannel-shirted liar, and to respect him. Their congratulations as they surrounded the Brain were unmistakably genuine. Then, suddenly, the telephone-bell rang shrilly, and a message was received to the effect that the Prime Minister had been seen motoring in the direction of Walton Heath with a bag of golf clubs in the car. Mrs. Carroway gave a few swift instructions, and the room emptied like magic. In ten minutes Mr. Bunn was alone with the Suffragette leader. Smiler was a little dazed.

“Where’ve they all gone?” he asked.

“To Walton Heath, in taxicabs.”

“Why?”

“To ask the Prime Minister when he’s going to give Votes for Women, of course.”

“Well, but that American woman took a darn great axe,” said Smiler. “Surely she ain’t going to ask with that!”

“One never knows,” replied Mrs. Carroway darkly.

Mr. Bunn looked grieved.

“Pore bloke!” he said, with extraordinary earnestness. “Pore, pore bloke! It ain’t all beer and skittles being Prime Minister, is it?”

“We do our best to see that it isn’t!” said Mrs. Carroway modestly. “And now about your books. I’ve looked out a few to begin with. Here they are.”

She indicated a pile of massive volumes on the floor at the foot of a big bookcase. Smiler’s jaw fell.

“Well,” he said, without enthusiasm, “brain or no brain, that little lot’ll give me a thundering headache before I’m through ’em. They’d better be sent by Carter Paterson or Pickford, hadn’t they?”

Mrs. Carroway thought a cab would be better, and sent for one. Then she produced her purse, and Smiler became more interested.

“You must not mind my mentioning it, Mr. Connaught, but it has just occurred to me that possibly you may be short of ready money. Are you?”

“Yes,” replied Smiler, with manly simplicity. “I am, somethink astonishin’.”

“In that case, then” — Mrs. Carroway opened the purse — “you may like to take two pounds of your first week’s salary in advance. Would you?”

“I would,” answered Smiler straightforwardly, and without false pride.

“Very well then” — she handed him two sovereigns. “Will you write your address on this envelope, and I will enter your name in the book of the League?”

Smiler did so.

“Garraty Street. What a quaint old name!” commented the lady as she read the address.

“Yes, ain’t it?” said Smiler. “And it’s a quaint, old-fashioned sort of street, too,” he went on, “where everybody lives on fried fish, and the landlord’s got to chain down the window sills to stop ’em from using ’em for firewood. I shall be leaving there pretty soon, directly I’ve developed me brain a little bit. And now I’ll sling me hook. What time will you be expecting me tomorrow?”

“I think at two o’clock. You had better begin on this book.” She handed him a somewhat massive volume entitled, The Vote: What It Means and Why We Want It, by Lilian Carroway. “You must make notes as you read, and we can discuss your notes tomorrow.”

Smiler took the book and weighed it in his hand.

“Ye... es,” he said, rather feebly, and turned to help the cabman carry the remaining books to the cab.

So Mr. Smiler Bunn, alias Louis Connaught, alias The Brain, became a Suffragette, and only the phrenologist seemed to know that he could never be more than a suffrajest at most.

He shook hands with Mrs. Carroway and went down to the cab. Waiting on the kerb near the entrance to the mansion was a man whose appearance seemed familiar to Mr. Bunn. This man stepped forward as Smiler entered the cab. It was the phrenologist.

“Excuse me, Brain,” he said jauntily. “I’ll give you a lift,” and followed Smiler into the cab, closing the door behind him.

Smiler stared, then recollected the illuminated address the man had given him half an hour before, and grinned.

“All right,” he said.

The phrenologist surveyed him with alert, black eyes that played over him like searchlights. He was a young man, painfully thin, hawk-nosed, and his movements were curiously deft and swift. He drew two long, thin, black, leathery-looking cigars from his breast-pocket, and handed one to Mr. Bunn.

“Hide behind that,” he said, “if you like flavour and bite to a cigar.”

Smiler did so, and waited for his companion to speak. The phrenologist lost no time.

“This has got to be worked properly, Mr. Connaught,” he said. “There’s lots of lovely money back there” — he jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the Suffragettes’ headquarters — “and you and me’s got to magnetise it before any of the other grafters in this town gets on to it. Now, I’m going to play fair with you, Mr. Connaught. You got a pull with that bunch somehow; thanks to me, they reckon you’ll be able to put King Solomon and all his wisdom in your ticket pocket after a week or two’s study. On account of the shape of your head, I make it. Well, you and me’s men of the world, and we can be frank where others fall out, and as a man of the world, I can tell you right away, Mr. Connaught, that the Brain idea is a dream. Why, say, the minute I feels your head under my ’and I found myself saying, ‘Well, this is a High Brow all right, but it’s hollow behind. There’s nothin’ to it — nix — vacant.’ I mean nothing special. Of course there’s brain there — about the average. Very near up to the average, say. But you ain’t no Homer, any more than me or them daffy-down-dillies back to the mansions. The old girl seems to fancy herself at physiognomy, but she’s trod on a banana-skin all right if she’s risking real money on your dial. Well, now, I want to be friendly with you, Mr. Connaught. This town owes us both a living, and the only rule in the game is that we got to collect it. Well, now, let’s put our cards on the table. I’m a palm-reader and phrenologist just now, but I’m going solid for bigger business bimeby. Now, what’s your lay?”

“Well, the old girl thought I been picking her pocket,” said Smiler, grinning, and the other scoundrel’s eyes glittered with satisfaction.

“Why, that’s great. Oh, you’re sure enough gun; you got a gun’s hand, all right. Say, shake. I knew you was a crook first glimp, and when I see your hands I wondered whether it was forgin’ or picking pockets. Well now, that’s settled. Now, I got a little place just off the Strand, here. You send this cab on with your books, and come to this office of mine, and we’ll have a talk.”

Smiler was willing; he was fascinated with his new acquaintance, and within five minutes the pair were closeted in the phrenologist’s den in a back street off the Strand.

It took the “palm-reader” precisely ten minutes to outline the idea of a coup which he and Smiler could work together as partners.

“Now, brother,” he began, “what you got to understand is that you ain’t going to last with that bunch of vote-sharps longer than about a fortnight — if that. They got a lot of brains among ’em, and the old girl, she’s got the brightest. But she’s just happened to get hung up on your forrid, and her own idea of her physiognomy skill. But by the time you’ve read one or two of them books she’ll have lost her interest. You’ll give yourself away, sure, and then it’ll be the street for yours, and the salary’ll fold its tent and silently steal away — see? You see that, don’t you?”

Smiler nodded. He had known that all along.

“Well, so what you get, you got to get quick. And now, listen to me—”

The palm-reader’s voice dropped to a dry and rapid whisper.

“Now, my name’s Mesmer La Touche, and my title’s Perfessor, and I’m a man you can trust,” he began, and straightway unfolded his scheme.

Precisely a week later the Suffragette cohort, under command of Mrs. Carroway, gave a greatly-boomed demonstration at King James’s Hall. This demonstration had been enormously advertised. Entrance was free to all people of reasonably respectable appearance, and promised to be successful, if only because of the fact that the proceedings were not to consist of speeches but chiefly of a series of limelight illuminated tableaux. The idea of the tableaux was to re-enact on the platform various scenes which had marked the progress of the Women’s Suffrage Movement, and with which scenes the Suffragettes were associated in the mind’s eyes of the public.

For instance, Tableau No. 1 on the programme was to consist of about thirty Suffragettes clothed in prison raiment with feeding-bottles being held to their mouths by savage-looking men, their arms being held by brutal wardresses. The curtain would go up, revealing the “atrocity” in full swing against a back curtain painted to resemble masonry and prison bars. Tableau No. 2 again depicted the devoted thirty, chained and padlocked to a row of iron railings, staring defiantly at a back curtain painted like a Cabinet Minister’s house, while, rapidly approaching, the heavy sound of the feet of a large body of reckless police could be heard — thanks to the energy of a shirt-sleeved scene-shifter in the wings, who was to manipulate various wood and drum contrivances built for the purpose of imitating the march of many men. And so on, through a series of about twenty similar tableaux. The first item on the programme was to be the singing of the famous Suffragette song:

by the thirty Suffragettes, who would, in this scene, wear their choicest evening toilets and all their jewels, in order to let the public see that, despite their desperate deeds, they were women of consequence, wealth, and position.

It was a well-conceived plan of entertainment, and advertisement, and the deadheads of London — and London is practically populated by deadheads — flocked to this free evening with a unanimity beyond either praise or blame. The doors opened at seven o’clock, and at 7:15 there was not even standing-room left. The curtain was due to go up at 7:30.

Behind the scenes there was a rushing sound of many silk skirts, wafts of expensive perfumes, the odour of flowers, excited whisperings of feminine tongues, the flash and flicker of diamonds, giggles and squirks and bubblings of mirth. The place was alive with women. Here and there a scene-shifter slouched in and out of dark angles and nooks, concerned with ropes and canvas frames. In a big dressing-room at the back was an uncomfortable-looking man in evening dress — Mr. Smiler Bunn. He seemed to be the only man in the place.

It may be explained that The Brain had not been fruitful of results during the previous week of study, and the development of his intellect appeared to be less than the improvement in his manners and speech. His ideas about Women’s Suffrage were about where they were before he became the Brain; if anything, they were rather more confused on the subject than otherwise. He had disappointed Mrs. Carroway a little, but, thanks to a few points praising her book, which had been taught him by the phrenologist, she continued to expect big things from him.

But Smiler knew perfectly well that it was only a question of a week or two before his association with the Suffragettes would cease. He was a good pickpocket, but he was no political organiser, and he knew it. “Professor” La Touche had explained that to him too frequently for him to forget it. But Smiler did not care; he and the phrenologist had made their arrangements, and long before the tableaux were ended that night they would be carried out.

Mr. Bunn’s duty that evening was to act as a sort of stage attendant to the thirty Suffragettes. He was to chain them to the railings, for instance, to help arrange the prison feeding scene, and so on. Mrs. Carroway had drilled him well, and she had no doubt he would do the thing thoroughly.

Now, there are about four back entrances to King James’s Hall, three of which are in different streets, and as half-past seven drew near there rolled unobtrusively up to one of these entrances a neat one-horse brougham. Nobody got out of the brougham, nor did the coachman descend. He just pulled up and waited. A policeman strolled up and remarked that it was a “perishin’ cold night.” The coachman, in a voice curiously resembling that of Mesmer La Touche, palm reader and phrenologist, agreed with him, and volunteered the information that presently he had to take away a big dress-basket of costumes belonging to a titled Suffragette who was inside the hall. The intelligent constable gathered that if anybody happened to be about to lend a hand when the basket came down there would probably be a “dollar” floating about (Mesmer believed in boldness). The policeman decided to remain and lend a hand. This was one of the reasons why neither that efficient officer nor Mesmer La Touche saw a laundry-van — driven by a small and curiously unimportant-looking man — pull up at one of the back entrances farther round the building, and wait there in very much the same way as the brougham was waiting.

Inside the hall the opening song had been sung, and the Suffragettes were now posing in the prison scene, much to the appreciation of a sympathetic audience. Smiler Bunn, with an armful of short chains, was waiting in the wings with a group of scene-shifters bearing sections of strong iron railings. The curtain went down on the first tableau, and the women came pouring off the stage, hurrying to their dressing-rooms to change for the great “Chains” scene. In three minutes the railings were fixed, and Smiler Bunn was chaining the Suffragettes to the bars. And it was noticeable that while all the evening he had been wearing a distinctly worried look, now, as one by one the padlocks clicked, that worried look was replaced by a gradually widening smile. Mrs. Carroway noticed it, and wondered why The Brain was smiling.

The last Suffragette chained up, Mr. Bunn made a bolt for the back. He had about three minutes to work in, and a lot to do in that three minutes. He ran in and out of the dressing-rooms, exactly like a weasel working a rabbit warren. Each time he came out of a room he brought an armful of furs. In a minute and a half he had run through all the dressing-rooms, and was literally staggering under his bundle of furs. He dropped them all into a big dress-basket at the end of the corridor, jammed down the lid, and whistled softly. Instantly a man — the driver of the laundry-van — appeared, running silently to him, took one end of the basket, and Smiler taking the other end, the pair of them vanished. In twenty seconds the basket was in the laundry-van.

“Hurry up, for pity’s sake!” sobbed Mr. Bunn, as he scrambled up beside his confederate. “Nearly half of ’em had left their diamonds on their dressing-tables” — his voice cracked with excitement — “and by Gawd! I’ve got ’em all!”

The van rolled down the back street and round a corner — corners, it has been explained, were a specialty of Mr. Smiler Bunn. He peered back as the van swung round, and caught a fleeting glimpse of a one-horse brougham waiting patiently outside another back door. And he grinned.

“Poor old Mesmer!” he chuckled. “He’s a clever man, is Mesmer, but if he don’t get off out of it, ’im and his brougham, he’ll stand a darn good chance of getting copped. He’s a good man at ideas, Mesmer is, but he’s no good at carryin’ of ’em out. Ah, well — round the corner, mate. The sooner we get this lot to Israelstein’s the better I shall be pleased. I wonder what Lilian will say? It’ll take ’em a good twenty minutes to file them chains!”

There was a sudden sound of galloping hoofs. Smiler turned, looking back just in time to see the brougham tear down the street they had just left, and a few yards behind it half a dozen policemen running like hares.

“There goes Mesmer — poor chap! The town certainly owes him a living, same as he said, but I don’t reckon he’ll be collecting any of it tonight — not tonight, I don’t reckon,” muttered The Brain.

And the laundry-van rumbled comfortably on towards the business-place of that genial receiver of stolen goods, Mr. Israelstein.

The Kailyard Novel Clifford Ashdown

One of the most highly regarded practitioners of the pure detective story is Richard Austin Freeman (1862–1943), a giant of the Golden Age, though his early works preceded the era between the two World Wars, which loosely bracket that age; his first mystery was The Red Thumb Mark (1907), in which he introduced one of the most popular detective characters of all time, Dr. John Thorndyke. Freeman also invented the inverted detective story with the publication of The Singing Bone (1912), a short story collection in which the reader knows who the murderers are at an early stage of the tale. The suspense derives not from the chase, as in the traditional mystery, but from discovering how the detective will unravel the clues and capture the criminal.

Before his illustrious detective came on the scene, however, Freeman wrote under the pseudonym Clifford Ashdown, in collaboration with John James Pitcairn (1860–1936), an obscure prison medical officer, a series of connected stories about a gentleman crook named Romney Pringle.

Pringle is ostensibly a literary agent with an office in London, but that job is merely a front for his criminal activities. As a student of human nature and blessed with finely tuned observational powers, Pringle lives by his wits, never resorting to force or violence. When he notices curious behavior, he will pursue the individual to determine whether he will have the opportunity for self-enrichment. “The Kailyard Novel” presents Pringle with his greatest challenge: what to do when an actual manuscript shows up at his office.

“The Kailyard Novel” was originally published in the November 1902 issue of Cassell’s; it was first collected in The Adventures of Romney Pringle (London, Ward, Lock, 1902).

The postman with resounding knock insinuated half-a-dozen packages into the slit in the outer door. He breathed hard, for it was a climb to the second floor, and then with heavy foot clattered down the stone stairs into Furnival’s Inn. As the cataract descended between the two doors Mr. Pringle dropped his newspaper and stretched to his full length with a yawn; then, rolling out of his chair, he opened the inner door and gathered up the harvest of the mail. It was mostly composed of circulars; these he carelessly flung upon the table, and turned to the single letter among them. It was addressed with clerkly precision, Romney Pringle, Esq., Literary Agent, 33 Furnival’s Inn, London, E.C.

Such a mode of address was quite a novelty in Pringle’s experience. Was his inexistent literary agency about to be vivified? and wondering, he opened the envelope.

Although “Literary Agent” stared conspicuously from his door, Pringle’s title had never hitherto induced an author, of however aspiring a type, to disturb the privacy of his chambers, and it was with an amused sense of the perfection of his disguise that he lighted a cigarette and sat down to think over Mr. Honeyby’s proposal.

Wurzleford — Wurzleford? There seemed to be a familiar sound about the name. Surely he had read of it somewhere. He turned to the Society journal that he had been reading when the postman knocked.

Mr. Honeyby ought to have no difficulty in getting a locum tenens, thought Pringle, as he laid down the paper. He wondered how it would be to—? It was risky, but worth trying! Why let a good thing go a-begging? He had a good mind to take the berth himself! Wurzleford seemed an attractive little place. Well, its attractiveness would certainly not be lessened for him when the Maharajah arrived! At the very least it might prove an agreeable holiday, and in any case would lead to a new and probably amusing experience of human nature. Smiling at the ludicrous audacity of the idea, Pringle strolled up to the mantelpiece and interrogated himself in the Venetian mirror. Minus the delible port-wine mark, a pair of pince-nez, blackened hair, and a small strip of easily applied whisker would be sufficient disguise. He thoughtfully lighted another cigarette.

But the necessity of testimonials occurred to him. Why not say he had sent the originals with an application he was making for a permanent appointment, and merely show Honeyby the type-written copies? He seemed an innocent old ass, and Pringle would trust to audacity to carry him through. He could write to Wurzleford from any Bloomsbury address, and follow the letter before Honeyby had time to reply. He had little doubt that he could clinch matters when it came to a personal interview; especially as Honeyby seemed very anxious to be off. There remained the knotty point of doctrine. Well, the Farringdon Street barrows, the grave of theological literature, could furnish any number of volumes of sermons, and it would be strange if they could not supply in addition a very efficient battery of controversial shot and shell. In the meantime he could get up the foundation of his “Undenominational” opinions from the Encyclopædia. And taking a volume of the Britannica, he was soon absorbed in its perusal.

Mr. Honeyby’s advertisement duly appeared in the Banner, and was answered by a telegram announcing the application of the “Rev. Charles Courtley,” who followed close on the heels of his message. Although surprised at the wonderfully rapid effect of the advertisement, the pastor was disinclined to quarrel with his good luck, and was too eager to be released to waste much time over preliminary inquiries. Indeed, he could think of little but the collection of material for his novel, and fretted to commence it. “Mr. Courtley’s” manner and appearance, to say nothing of his very flattering testimonials, were all that could be desired; his acquaintance with controversial doctrine was profound, and the pastor, innocently wondering how such brilliance had failed to attain a more eminent place in the denomination, had eagerly ratified his engagement.

“Well, I must say, Mr. Courtley, you seem to know so well what will be expected of you, that I really don’t think I need wait over tonight,” remarked Mr. Honeyby towards the end of the interview.

“I presume there will be no objection to my riding the bicycle I have brought with me?” asked Pringle, in his new character.

“Not at all — by no means! I’ve often thought of taking to one myself. Some of the church-members live at such a distance, you see. Besides, there is nothing derogatory in it. Lord Wurzleford, for instance, is always riding about, and so are some of the party he has down for the shooting. There is some Indian prince or other with them, I believe.”

“The Maharajah of Satpura?” Pringle suggested.

“Yes, I think that is the name; do you know him?” asked Mr. Honeyby, impressed by the other’s air of refinement.

“No — I only saw it mentioned in the Park Lane Review,” said Pringle simply.

So Mr. Honeyby departed for London, en route for the north, by an even earlier train than he had hoped for.

About an hour afterwards Pringle was resting by the wayside, rather winded by cycling up one of the early undulations of the Downs which may be seen rising nearly everywhere on the Wurzleford horizon. He had followed the public road, here unfenced for some miles, through Eastlingbury Park, and now lay idle on the springy turf. The harebells stirred with a dry rustle in the imperceptible breeze, and all around him rose the music of the clumsy little iron-bells, clanking rhythmically to every movement of the wethers as they crisply mowed the herbage closer than any power of scythe. As Pringle drank in the beauty of the prospect, a cyclist made his appearance in the act of coasting down the hill beyond. Suddenly he swerved from side to side; his course grew more erratic, the zigzags wider: it was clear that he had lost control of the machine. As he shot with increasing momentum down the slope, a white figure mounted the crest behind, and pursued him with wild-waving arms, and shouts which were faintly carried onward by the wind.

In the valley beyond the two hills flowed the Wurzle, and the road, taking a sharp turn, crossed it by a little bridge with brick parapets; without careful steering, a cyclist with any way on, would surely strike one or other side of the bridge, with the prospect of a ducking, if not of a worse catastrophe. Quickly grasping the situation, Pringle mounted his machine, sprinted down to the bridge and over it, flinging himself off in time to seize the runaway by his handlebar. He was a portly, dark-complexioned gentleman in a Norfolk suit, and he clung desperately to Pringle as together they rolled into a ditch. By this time the white figure, a native servant, had overtaken his master, whom he helped to rise with a profusion of salaams, and then gathered up the shattered fragments of the bicycle.

“I must apologize for dragging you off your machine,” said Pringle, when he too had picked himself up. “But I think you were in for a bad accident.”

“No apology is necessary for saving my life, sir,” protested the stout gentleman in excellent English. “My tire was punctured on the hill, so the brake refused to act. But may I ask your name?”

As Pringle handed him a card inscribed, “REV. CHARLES COURTLEY,” the other continued, “I am the Maharajah of Satpura, and I hope to have the pleasure of thanking you more fully on a less exciting occasion.” He bowed politely, with a smile disclosing a lustrous set of white teeth, and leaning on the servant’s arm, moved towards a group of cyclists who were cautiously descending the scene of his disaster.

In the jog-trot routine of the sleepy little place, where one day was very much like another, and in the study of the queer people among whom Pringle found himself a sort of deity, the days rapidly passed. To some of the church-members his bicycle had appeared rather a startling innovation, but his tact had smoothed over all difficulties, while the feminine Undenominationalists would have forgiven much to such an engaging personality, for Pringle well knew how to ingratiate himself with the more influential half of humanity. It was believed that his eloquence had, in itself, been the means of recalling several seceders to the fold, and it was even whispered that on several occasions gold coins graced the collection-plates — an event unprecedented in the history of the connection!

September had been an exceptionally hot month, but one day was particularly oppressive. Sunset had brought the slightest relief, and at Eastlingbury that evening the heat was emphatically tropical. The wide-open windows availed nothing to cool the room. The very candles drooped crescent-wise, and singed their shades. Although the clouds were scudding high aloft, and cast transient shadows upon the lawn, no leaf stirred within the park. The hour was late, and the ladies had long withdrawn, but the men still sat listening. It was a story of the jungle — of a fight between a leopard and a sambur-deer, and every one’s pulse had quickened, and every one had wished the story longer.

“You are evidently an intrepid explorer, Mr. Courtley,” commented the Earl, as his guest finished.

“And a keen observer,” added the Maharajah. “I never heard a more realistic description of a fight. I have not had Mr. Courtley’s good fortune to see such a thing in the jungle, although I frequently have wild-beast fights — satmaris, we call them — for the amusement of my good people of Satpura.”

The Maharajah had found a little difficulty in inducing Lord Wurzleford to extend his hospitality to “Mr. Courtley.” To begin with, the latter was an Undenominationalist, and only a substitute one at that! Then, too, the Maharajah had made his acquaintance in such a very unconventional manner. All the same, to please his Highness—

Pringle had thus a good deal of lee-way to make up in the course of the evening, and it says much for his success, that the ladies were unanimous in regretting the necessity for leaving the dinner-table. Indeed, from the very first moment of his arrival, he had steadily advanced in favour. He had not only talked brilliantly himself, but had been the cause of brilliancy in others — or, at least, of what passes for brilliancy in smart circles. His stories appeared to be drawn from an inexhaustible fund. He had literally been everywhere and seen everything. As to the Maharajah, who had of late grown unutterably bored by the smart inanities of the house-party, the poor man hailed him with unutterable relief. Towards the end of dinner, a youth had remarked confidentially to the lady beside him, that “that dissentin’ fellow seemed a real good sort.” He voiced the general opinion.

While Pringle, with the aid of a finger-bowl and some dessert-knives, was demonstrating the problem of the Nile Barrage to an interested audience, an earnest consultation was proceeding at the head of the table. The Maharajah, Lord Wurzleford, and the butler were in solemn conclave, and presently the first was seen to rise abruptly and retire in unconcealed agitation. So obviously did the host share this emotion, that the conversation flagged and died out; and amid an awkward pause, numerous inquiring glances, which good breeding could not entirely repress, were directed towards the head of the table, where the butler, with a pallid face, still exchanged an occasional word with his master.

With a view to breaking the oppressive silence, Pringle was about to resume his demonstration, when Lord Wurzleford anticipated him.

“Before we leave the table,” said the peer in a constrained voice, “I want to tell you that a most unpleasant thing has happened under this roof. The apartments of the Maharajah of Satpura have been entered, and a quantity of jewellery is missing. I understand that some one was heard moving about the room only half-an-hour ago, and a strange man was met crossing the park towards Bleakdown not long after. I am sending into Eastlingbury for the police, and in the meantime the servants are scouring the park. Pray let the matter be kept secret from the ladies as long as possible.”

Consternation was visible on every face, and amid a loud buzz of comment, the table was promptly deserted.

“Will you excuse me?” said Pringle as he approached Lord Wurzleford, whose self-possession appeared to have temporarily deserted him. “I know the Bleakdown road well, and have cycled over it several times. I rode out here on my machine, and perhaps I might be able to overtake the burglar. Every moment is of importance, and the police may be some time before they arrive.”

“I am greatly obliged to you for the suggestion!” exclaimed the peer, adding with a dismal attempt at jocularity, “Perhaps you may succeed in doing his Highness a further service with your cycle.”

Between four and five miles from Eastlingbury the high road leaves the park, and crosses the Great Southern Canal. The bridge is of comparatively low span, and a sloping way leads down from the road to the towing-path. As the gradient rose towards the bridge, Pringle slowed up, and steering on to the path, dismounted on the grass, and leant the machine against the hedge. He had caught sight of a man’s figure, some eighty yards ahead, standing motionless on the hither side of the bridge; he appeared to be listening for sounds of pursuit. In the silence a distant clock was striking eleven, and the figure presently turned aside and disappeared. When Pringle reached the bridge, the grinding of feet upon the loose gravel echoed from beneath the arch, and stealing down the slope to the towing-path, he peered round the corner of the abutment.

The clouds had all disappeared by now, and the moon flashing from the water made twilight under the bridge. On his knees by the water’s edge a man was busily securing a bundle with a cord. To and fro he wound it in criss-cross fashion, and then threaded through the network what looked like an ebony ruler, which he drew from his pocket. A piece of cord dangled from the bundle, and holding it in one hand, he felt with the other along the board which edged the towing-path at this point. Presently he found something to which he tied the cord, and then lowered bundle and all into the canal.

For some time past a sound of footsteps approaching on the road above had been plainly audible to Pringle, although it was lost on the other, absorbed as he was in his task; now, as he rose from his cramped position, and was in the act of stretching himself, he paused and listened. At this moment Pringle slightly changed his position, and loosened a stone which plunged into the water. The man looked up, and catching sight of him, retreated with a muttered curse to the far side of the arch. For a second he scowled at the intruder, and then turned and began to run down the towing-path in the shadow of the bank.

“There he goes — See! On the towing-path!” shouted Pringle, as he scrambled up to the road and confronted two members of the county constabulary who were discussing the portent of the deserted bicycle. Seeing further concealment was useless, the fugitive now took to his heels in earnest, and ran hot-foot beside the canal with the two policemen and Pringle in pursuit.

But Pringle soon dropped behind; and when their footsteps were lost in the distance, he made his way back to the road, and hoisting the machine on his shoulder, carried it down the slope and rested it under the bridge. Groping along the wooden edging, his hand soon encountered the cord, and hauling on it with both hands, for the weight was not inconsiderable, he landed the bundle on the bank. What had appeared to be a ruler now proved to be a very neat jemmy folding in two. Admiring it with the interest of an expert, he dropped it into the water, and then ripped up the towel which formed the covering of the bundle. Although he anticipated the contents, he was scarcely prepared for the gorgeous spectacle which saluted him, and as he ran his hands through the confused heap of gold and jewels, they glittered like a milky way of stars even in the subdued pallor of the moonlight.

The striking of the half-hour warned him that time pressed, and taking a spanner from his cycle-wallet, he unshipped the handle-bar, and deftly packed it and the head-tube with the treasure. Some of the bulkier, and perhaps also less valuable articles had to be left; so rolling them up again in the towel, he sent them to join the folding-jemmy. Screwing the nuts home, he carried the cycle up to the road again, and pedalled briskly along the downgrade to Eastlingbury.

“Hi! Stop there!”

He had forgotten to light his lamp, and as a bull’s-eye glared upon him, and a burly police-man seized his handle-bar, Pringle mentally began to assess the possible cost of this outrage upon the county by-laws. But a semi-excited footman ran up, and turning another lamp upon him, at once saluted him respectfully.

“It’s all right, Mr. Parker,” said the footman. “This gentleman’s a friend of his lordship’s.”

The policeman released the machine, and saluted Pringle in his turn.

“Sorry you were stopped, sir,” apologized the footman, “but our orders is to watch all the roads for the burglar.”

“Haven’t they caught him yet?”

“No, sir! ’E doubled back into the park, and they lost ’im. One of the grooms, who was sent out on ’orseback, met the policemen who said they’d seen you, but didn’t know where you’d got to after they lost the burglar. They were afraid ’e’d get back on to the road and make off on your bicycle, as you’d left it there, and they told the groom to ride back and tell us all to look out for a man on a bicycle.”

“So you thought I was the burglar! But how did he get into the house?”

“Why, sir, the Indian king’s ’ead man went up about ten to get the king’s room ready. When ’e tried the door, ’e found ’e couldn’t open it. Then ’e called some of the other Indians up, and when they couldn’t open it either, and they found the door wasn’t locked at all, they said it was bewitched.”

Here the policeman guffawed, and then stared fixedly at the moon, as if wondering whether that was the source of the hilarity. The footman glanced reprovingly at him, and continued—

“They came down into the servants’ ’all, and the one who speaks English best told us about it. So I said, ‘Let’s get in through the window.’ So we went round to the tennis-lawn, underneath the king’s rooms. The windows were all open, just as they’d been left before dinner, because of the ’eat. There’s an old ivy-tree grows there, sir, with big branches all along the wall, thick enough for a man to stand on. So Mr. Strong, the butler, climbed up, and us after ’im. We couldn’t see much amiss at first, but the king’s ’ead man fell on ’is knees, and turned ’is eyes up, and thumped ’imself on the chest, and said ’e was a dead man! And when we said why? ’e said all the king’s jewels were gone. And sure enough, some cases that ’eld diamond and ruby brooches, and necklaces, and things, were all burst open and cleaned out, and a lot of others for rings and small things were lying about empty. And we found the burglar ’d screwed wedges against the doors, and that was why they couldn’t be opened. So we took them up and opened the doors, and Mr. Strong went down and reported it to ’is lordship, and ’e broke it to the king. But the ’ead man says the king took on about it terribly, and ’e’s afraid the king’ll take ’im and ’ave a wild elephant trample on ’is ’ead to execute ’im, when ’e gets back to India!”

Here the footman paused for breath, and the constable seized the opportunity to assert himself.

“So you’ll know the man again, if you should see him, sir,” he chimed in.

“That I shall,” Pringle asseverated.

“A pleasant-spoken gentleman as ever was!” observed the footman as Pringle rode away, and the policeman grunted emphatic assent.

Walking down North Street, the principal thoroughfare in the village, next morning, Pringle was accosted by a stranger. He was small but wiry in figure, dressed very neatly, and had the cut of a gentleman’s servant out of livery.

“Are you Mr. Courtley, sir?” respectfully touching his hat.

“Yes. Can I be of any service to you?”

“I should like to have a quiet talk with you, sir, if I may call upon you.”

“Shall we say six this evening, then?”

“If you please, sir.”

Opining that here was a possible recruit for the connection gained by his eloquence, Pringle went on his way. He had just received a letter from Mr. Honeyby announcing his return, and was not dissatisfied at the prospect of the evening seeing the end of his masquerade. Not that it had grown irksome, but having exhausted the predatory resources of Wurzleford, he began to sigh for the London pavement. The pastor wrote that having completed his philological studies in the Island of Skye, he had decided to return South at once. But the chief reason for thus curtailing his stay was the extreme monotony of the climate, in which, according to local opinion, snow is the only variant to the eternal rain. Besides, he feared that the prevalent atmosphere of herring-curing had seriously impaired his digestion! On the whole, therefore, he thought it best to return, and might be expected home about twelve hours after his letter. He trusted, however, that Mr. Pringle would remain his guest; at all events until the end of the month.

Mr. Honeyby’s study was an apartment on the ground-floor with an outlook, over a water-butt, to the garden. It partook somewhat of the nature of a stronghold, the door being a specially stout one, and the windows having the protection — so unusual in a country town — of iron bars. These precautions were due to Mr. Honeyby’s nervous apprehensions of burglary after “collection-days,” when specie had to repose there for the night. It was none the less a cheerful room, and Pringle spent most of his indoor-time there. He was occupied in sorting some papers in readiness for the pastor’s return, when, punctually as the clock struck six, the housekeeper knocked at his door.

“There’s a young man come, sir, who says you’re expecting him,” she announced.

“Oh, ah! Show him in,” said Pringle.

His chance acquaintance of the morning entered, and depositing his hat beneath a chair, touched his forehead and sat down. But no sooner had the door closed upon the woman than his manner underwent a complete change.

“I see you don’t remember me,” he said, leaning forward, and regarding Pringle steadily.

“No, I must confess you have rather the advantage of me,” said Pringle distantly.

“And yet we have met before. Not so long ago either!”

“I have not the slightest recollection of ever having seen you before this morning,” Pringle asserted tartly. He was nettled at the man’s persistence, and felt inclined to resent the rather familiar manner in which he spoke.

“I must assist your memory then. The first time I had the pleasure of seeing you was last night.”

“I should be glad to know where.”

“Certainly!” Then very slowly and distinctly, “It was under a bridge on the Grand Southern Canal.”

Pringle, in spite of his habitual composure, was unable to repress a slight start.

“I see you have not forgotten the circumstance. The time, I think, was about eleven P.M., wasn’t it? Well, never mind that; the moon enabled me to get a better look at you than you got of me.”

Pringle took refuge in a diplomatic silence, and the other walked across the room, and selecting the most comfortable chair, coolly produced a cigarette-case. Pringle observed, almost sub-consciously, that it was a very neat gold one, with a monogram in one corner worked in diamonds.

“Will you smoke?” asked the man. “No? Well, you’ll excuse me.” And he leisurely kindled a cigarette, taking very detailed stock of Pringle while doing so.

“Now it’s just as well we understood one another,” he continued, as he settled himself in the chair. “My name is of no consequence, though I’m known to my associates as ‘The Toff’; poor souls, they have such a profound respect for education! Now those who know me will tell you I’m not a man whom it pays to trifle with. Who you are, I don’t know exactly, and I don’t know that I very much care — it’s rather an amusing thing, by the way, that no one else seems to be any the wiser! But what I do know” — here he sat straight up, and extended a menacing fist in Pringle’s direction — “and what it’ll be a healthy thing for you to understand, is, that I’m not going to leave here tonight without that stuff!”

“My good man, what on earth are you talking about?” indulgently asked Pringle, who by this time had recovered his imperturbability.

“Now don’t waste time; you don’t look altogether a fool!” “The Toff” drew a revolver from his pocket, and carelessly counted the chambers which were all loaded. “One, two, three, four, five, six! I’ve got six reasons for what I’ve said. Let’s see now — First, you saw me hiding the stuff; second, no one else did; third, it’s not there now; fourth, the Maharajah hasn’t got it; fifth, there’s no news of its having been found by any one else; sixth, and last, therefore you’ve got it!” He checked the several heads of his reasoning, one by one, on the chambers of the revolver as one might tell them on the fingers.

“Very logically reasoned!” remarked Pringle calmly. “But may I inquire how it is you are so positive in all these statements?”

“I’m not the man to let the grass grow under my feet,” said “The Toff” vain-gloriously. “I’ve been making inquiries all the morning, and right up to now! I hear the poor old Maharajah has gone to Scotland Yard for help. But it strikes me the affair will remain a mystery ‘forever and always,’ as the people say hereabouts. And, as I said just now, you seem to be rather a mystery to most people. I spotted you right enough last night, but I wanted to find out all I could about you from your amiable flock before I tackled you in person. Well, I think I have very good grounds for believing you to be an impostor. That’s no concern of mine, of course, but I presume you have your own reasons for coming down here. Now, a word to your principal, and a hint or two judiciously dropped in a few quarters round the place, will soon make it too hot for you, and so your little game, whatever it may be, will be spoiled.”

“But supposing I am unable to help you?”

“I can’t suppose any such thing! I am going to stick to you like tar, my reverend sir, and if you think of doing a bolt” — he glanced at the revolver, and then put it in his pocket — “take my advice and only think of it!”

“Is that all you have to say?” asked Pringle.

“Not quite. Look here now! I’ve been planning this job for the last four months and more, and I’m not going to take all the risk, and let you or any one else collar all the profit. By George, you’ve mistaken your man if you think that! I am willing to even go the length of recognizing you as a partner, and giving you ten per cent. for your trouble in taking charge of the stuff, and bringing it to a place of safety and so on, but now you’ve got to shell out!”

“Very well,” said Pringle, rising. “Let me first get the housekeeper out of the way.”

“No larks now!” growled “The Toff”; adding peremptorily, “I give you a couple of minutes only — and leave the door open!”

Without replying, Pringle walked to the door, and slipping through, closed and double-locked it behind him before “The Toff” had time to even rise from his chair.

“You white-livered cur! You... you infernal sneak!” vociferated the latter as Pringle crossed the hall.

Being summer-time, the fire-irons were absent from the study. There was no other lethal weapon wherewith to operate. Escape by the window was negatived by the bars. For the time then “The Toff” was a negligible quantity. Pringle ran down the kitchen-stairs. At the bottom was a gas-bracket, and stretching out his hand he turned on the gas as he passed. Out in the little kitchen there was much clattering of pots and dishes. The housekeeper was engaged in urgent culinary operations against Mr. Honeyby’s return.

“Mrs. Johnson!” he bawled, as a furious knocking sounded from the study.

“Whatever’s the matter, sir?” cried the startled woman.

“Escape of gas! We’ve been looking for it up-stairs! Don’t you smell it out here? You must turn it off at the main!” He rattled off the alarming intelligence in well-simulated excitement.

“Gas it is!” she exclaimed nervously, as the familiar odour greeted her nostrils.

Now the meter, as is customary, resided in the coal-cellar, and as the faithful creature opened the door and stumbled forwards, she suddenly found herself stretched upon the floor, while all became darkness. It almost seemed as if she had received a push from behind, and her head whirling with the unexpected shock, she painfully arose from her rocky bed, and slowly groped towards the door. But for all her pulling and tugging it held fast and never gave an inch. Desisting, as the truth dawned upon her that in some mysterious way she had become a prisoner, she bleated plaintively for help, and began to hammer at the door with a lump of coal.

Up the stairs again. Pringle glanced at the hall-door, then shot the bolts top and bottom, and put the chain up. “The Toff” seemed to be using some of the furniture as a battering-ram. Thunderous blows and the sharp splintering of wood showed that, despite his lack of tools, he was (however clumsily) engaged in the active work of his profession, and the door shivered and rattled ominously beneath the onslaught.

Pringle raced up-stairs, and in breathless haste tore off his clerical garb. Bang, bang, crash! He wished the door were iron. How “The Toff” roused the echoes as he savagely laboured for freedom! And whenever he paused, a feeble diapason ascended from the basement. The study-door would soon give at this rate. Luckily the house stood at the end of the town, or the whole neighbourhood would have been roused by this time. He hunted for his cycling suit. Where could that wretched old woman have stowed it? Curse her officiousness! He almost thought of rushing down and releasing her that she might disclose its whereabouts. Every second was priceless. At last! Where had that button-hook hidden itself now? How stiff the box-cloth seemed — he had never noticed it before. Now the coat. Collar and tie? Yes, indeed, he had nearly forgotten he still wore the clerical tie. No matter, a muffler would hide it all. Cap — that was all! Gloves he could do without for once.

Bang, crash, crack!

With a last look round he turned to leave the room, and faced the window. A little way down the road a figure was approaching. Something about it looked familiar, he thought; seemed to be coming from the direction of the railway-station, too. He stared harder. So it was! There was no doubt about it! Swathed in a Scotch maud, his hand grasping a portmanteau, the Rev. Adolphus Honeyby advanced blithely in the autumn twilight.

Down the stairs Pringle bounded, three at a time. “The Toff” could hear, but not see him as yet. The study-door was already tottering; one hinge had gone. Even as he landed with a thud at the foot of the stairs, “The Toff’s” hand and arm appeared at the back of the door.

“I’d have blown the lock off if it wasn’t for giving the show away,” “The Toff” snarled through his clenched teeth, as loudly as his panting respiration would permit. “I’ll soon be through now, and then we’ll square accounts!” What he said was a trifle more full-flavoured, but this will suffice.

Crash! bang!! crack!!! from the study-door.

Rat-a-tat-a-tat! was the sudden response from the hall-door. It was Mr. Honeyby knocking! And, startled at the noise, “The Toff” took a momentary respite from his task.

Down to the basement once more. Mrs. Johnson’s pummelling sounded louder away from the more virile efforts of the others. Fiercely “The Toff” resumed his labours. What an uproar! Mr. Honeyby’s curiosity could not stand much more of that. He would be round at the back presently. The bicycle stood by the garden-door. Pringle shook it slightly, and something rattled; the precious contents of the head and handle-bar were safe enough. He opened the door, and wheeled the machine down the back-garden, and out into the little lane behind.

Loud and louder banged the knocker. But as a triumphant crash and clatter of wood-work resounded from the house, Pringle rode into the fast-gathering darkness.

The Parole of Gevil-Hay K. & Hesketh Prichard

The Hammerpond Park Burglary H. G. Wells

Although Herbert George Wells (1866–1946) was one of the first and greatest of all writers of science fiction, for which he remains known today, he disliked being thought of as one, claiming that those works were merely a conduit for his social ideas. He had begun his adult life as a scientist and might, with a bit more encouragement, have made a successful career as a biologist, but instead was offered work as a journalist and quickly began to write fiction. His prolific writing career was loosely divided into three eras, but it is only the novels and short stories of the first, when he wrote fantastic and speculative fiction, that are much remembered today. Such early titles as The Time Machine (1895), The Island of Doctor Moreau (1896), The Invisible Man (1897), and The War of the Worlds (1898) are all milestones of the genre, though all feature Wells’s dim view of mankind and society, which led him to the socialistic Fabian Society. He turned to more realistic fiction after the turn of the century with such highly regarded (at the time) novels as Kipps (1905), Ann Veronica (1909), Tono-Bungay (1909), and Marriage (1912). The majority of his works over the last three decades of his life were both fiction and nonfiction books reflecting his political and social views, and are as dated, unreadable, and insignificant as they are misanthropic.

More than a hundred films have been based on Wells’s novels, with countless others using them as uncredited sources. Among the most famous are the classic The Invisible Man (1933), Things to Come (1936), The First Men in the Moon (1919 and 1964), The Island of Dr. Moreau (1996 and 1977, more capably filmed as The Island of Lost Souls, released in 1932), The War of the Worlds (1953 and 2005), and The Time Machine (1960 and 2002), among many others.

“The Hammerpond Park Burglary” was originally published in the July 5, 1894, issue of Pall Mall Budget; it was first collected in The Short Stories of H. G. Wells (London, Benn, 1927).

It is a moot point whether burglary is to be considered as a sport, a trade, or an art. For a trade, the technique is scarcely rigid enough, and its claims to be considered an art are vitiated by the mercenary element that qualifies its triumphs. On the whole it seems to be most justly ranked as sport, a sport for which no rules are at present formulated, and of which the prizes are distributed in an extremely informal manner. It was this informality of burglary that led to the regrettable extinction of two promising beginners at Hammerpond Park.

The stakes offered in this affair consisted chiefly of diamonds and other personal bric-a-brac belonging to the newly married Lady Aveling. Lady Aveling, as the reader will remember, was the only daughter of Mrs. Montague Pangs, the well-known hostess. Her marriage to Lord Aveling was extensively advertised in the papers, the quantity and quality of her wedding presents, and the fact that the honeymoon was to be spent at Hammerpond. The announcement of these valuable prizes created a considerable sensation in the small circle in which Mr. Teddy Watkins was the undisputed leader, and it was decided that, accompanied by a duly qualified assistant, he should visit the village of Hammerpond in his professional capacity.

Being a man of naturally retiring and modest disposition, Mr. Watkins determined to make this visit incognito, and after due consideration of the conditions of his enterprise, he selected the role of a landscape artist and the unassuming surname of Smith. He preceded his assistant, who, it was decided, should join him only on the last afternoon of his stay at Hammerpond. Now the village of Hammerpond is perhaps one of the prettiest little corners in Sussex; many thatched houses still survive, the flint-built church with its tall spire nestling under the down is one of the finest and least restored in the county, and the beech-woods and bracken jungles through which the road runs to the great house are singularly rich in what the vulgar artist and photographer call “bits.” So that Mr. Watkins, on his arrival with two virgin canvases, a brand-new easel, a paint-box, portmanteau, an ingenious little ladder made in sections (after the pattern of the late lamented master Charles Peace), crowbar, and wire coils, found himself welcomed with effusion and some curiosity by half-a-dozen other brethren of the brush. It rendered the disguise he had chosen unexpectedly plausible, but it inflicted upon him a considerable amount of aesthetic conversation for which he was very imperfectly prepared.

“Have you exhibited very much?” said Young Person in the bar-parlour of the “Coach and Horses,” where Mr. Watkins was skilfully accumulating local information, on the night of his arrival.

“Very little,” said Mr. Watkins, “just a snack here and there.”

“Academy?”

“In course. And the Crystal Palace.”

“Did they hang you well?” said Porson.

“Don’t rot,” said Mr. Watkins; “I don’t like it.”

“I mean did they put you in a good place?”

“Whadyer mean?” said Mr. Watkins suspiciously. “One ’ud think you were trying to make out I’d been put away.”

Porson had been brought up by aunts, and was a gentlemanly young man even for an artist; he did not know what being “put away” meant, but he thought it best to explain that he intended nothing of the sort. As the question of hanging seemed a sore point with Mr. Watkins, he tried to divert the conversation a little.

“Do you do figure-work at all?”

“No, never had a head for figures,” said Mr. Watkins, “my miss — Mrs. Smith, I mean, does all that.”

“She paints too!” said Porson. “That’s rather jolly.”

“Very,” said Mr. Watkins, though he really did not think so, and feeling the conversation was drifting a little beyond his grasp added, “I came down here to paint Hammerpond House by moonlight.”

“Really!” said Porson. “That’s rather a novel idea.”

“Yes,” said Mr. Watkins, “I thought it rather a good notion when it occurred to me. I expect to begin tomorrow night.”

“What! You don’t mean to paint in the open, by night?”

“I do, though.”

“But how will you see your canvas?”

“Have a bloomin’ cop’s—” began Mr. Watkins, rising too quickly to the question, and then realising this, bawled to Miss Durgan for another glass of cheer. “I’m goin’ to have a thing called a dark lantern,” he said to Porson.

“But it’s about new moon now,” objected Porson. “There won’t be any moon.”

“There’ll be the house,” said Watkins, “at any rate. I’m goin’, you see, to paint the house first and the moon afterwards.”

“Oh!” said Porson, too staggered to continue the conversation.

“They doo say,” said old Durgan, the landlord, who had maintained a respectful silence during the technical conversation, “as there’s no less than three p’licemen from ’Azelworth on dewty every night in the house — ’count of this Lady Aveling ’n her jewellery. One’m won fower-and-six last night, off second footman — tossin’.”

Towards sunset next day Mr. Watkins, virgin canvas, easel, and a very considerable case of other appliances in hand, strolled up the pleasant pathway through the beech-woods to Hammerpond Park, and pitched his apparatus in a strategic position commanding the house. Here he was observed by Mr. Raphael Sant, who was returning across the park from a study of the chalk-pits. His curiosity having been fired by Porson’s account of the new arrival, he turned aside with the idea of discussing nocturnal art.

Mr. Watkins was apparently unaware of his approach. A friendly conversation with Lady Hammerpond’s butler had just terminated, and that individual, surrounded by the three pet dogs, which it was his duty to take for an airing after dinner had been served, was receding in the distance. Mr. Watkins was mixing colour with an air of great industry. Sant, approaching more nearly, was surprised to see the colour in question was as harsh and brilliant an emerald green as it is possible to imagine. Having cultivated an extreme sensibility to colour from his earliest years, he drew the air in sharply between his teeth at the very first glimpse of this brew. Mr. Watkins turned round. He looked annoyed.

“What on earth are you going to do with that beastly green?” said Sant.

Mr. Watkins realised that his zeal to appear busy in the eyes of the butler had evidently betrayed him into some technical error. He looked at Sant and hesitated.

“Pardon my rudeness,” said Sant; “but really, that green is altogether too amazing. It came as a shock. What do you mean to do with it?”

Mr. Watkins was collecting his resources. Nothing could save the situation but decision. “If you come here interrupting my work,” he said, “I’m a-goin’ to paint your face with it.”

Sant retired, for he was a humorist and a peaceful man. Going down the hill he met Porson and Wainwright. “Either that man is a genius or he is a dangerous lunatic,” said he. “Just go up and look at his green.” And he continued his way, his countenance brightened by a pleasant anticipation of a cheerful affray round an easel in the gloaming, and the shedding of much green paint.

But to Porson and Wainwright Mr. Watkins was less aggressive, and explained that the green was intended to be the first coating of his picture. It was, he admitted in response to a remark, an absolutely new method, invented by himself. But subsequently he became more reticent; he explained he was not going to tell every passer-by the secret of his own particular style, and added some scathing remarks upon the meanness of people “hanging about” to pick up such tricks of the masters as they could, which immediately relieved him of their company.

Twilight deepened, first one then another star appeared. The rooks amid the tall trees to the left of the house had long since lapsed into slumbrous silence, the house itself lost all the details of its architecture and became a dark grey outline, and then the windows of the salon shone out brilliantly, the conservatory was lighted up, and here and there a bedroom window burnt yellow. Had anyone approached the easel in the park it would have been found deserted. One brief uncivil word in brilliant green sullied the purity of its canvas. Mr. Watkins was busy in the shrubbery with his assistant, who had discreetly joined him from the carriage-drive.

Mr. Watkins was inclined to be self-congratulatory upon the ingenious device by which he had carried all his apparatus boldly, and in the sight of all men, right up to the scene of operations. “That’s the dressing-room,” he said to his assistant, “and, as soon as the maid takes the candle away and goes down to supper, we’ll call in. My! How nice the house do look, to be sure, against the starlight, and with all its windows and lights! Swopme, Jim, I almost wish I was a painter-chap. Have you fixed that there wire across the path from the laundry?”

He cautiously approached the house until he stood below the dressing-room window, and began to put together his folding ladder. He was much too experienced a practitioner to feel any unusual excitement. Jim was reconnoitring the smoking-room. Suddenly, close beside Mr. Watkins in the bushes, there was a violent crash and a stifled curse. Someone had tumbled over the wire which his assistant had just arranged. He heard feet running on the gravel pathway beyond. Mr. Watkins, like all true artists, was a singularly shy man, and he incontinently dropped his folding ladder and began running circumspectly through the shrubbery. He was indistinctly aware of two people hot upon his heels, and he fancied that he distinguished the outline of his assistant in front of him. In another moment he had vaulted the low stone wall bounding the shrubbery, and was in the open park. Two thuds on the turf followed his own leap.

It was a close chase in the darkness through the trees. Mr. Watkins was a loosely-built man and in good training, and he gained hand-over-hand upon the hoarsely panting figure in front. Neither spoke, but as Mr. Watkins pulled up alongside, a qualm of awful doubt came over him. The other man turned his head at the same moment and gave an exclamation of surprise. “It’s not Jim,” thought Mr. Watkins, and simultaneously the stranger flung himself, as it were, at Watkins’s knees, and they were forthwith grappling on the ground together. “Lend a hand, Bill,” cried the stranger as the third man came up. And Bill did — two hands in fact, and some accentuated feet. The fourth man, presumably Jim, had apparently turned aside and made off in a different direction. At any rate, he did not join the trio.

Mr. Watkins’s memory of the incidents of the next two minutes is extremely vague. He has a dim recollection of having his thumb in the corner of the mouth of the first man, and feeling anxious about its safety, and for some seconds at least he held the head of the gentleman answering to the name of Bill to the ground by the hair. He was also kicked in a great number of different places, apparently by a vast multitude of people. Then the gentleman who was not Bill got his knee below Mr. Watkins’s diaphragm, and tried to curl him up upon it.

When his sensations became less entangled he was sitting upon the turf, and eight or ten men — the night was dark, and he was rather too confused to count — standing round him, apparently waiting for him to recover. He mournfully assumed that he was captured, and would probably have made some philosophical reflections on the fickleness of fortune, had not his internal sensations disinclined him for speech.

He noticed very quickly that his wrists were not handcuffed, and then a flask of brandy was put in his hands. This touched him a little — it was such unexpected kindness.

“He’s a-comin’ round,” said a voice which he fancied he recognised as belonging to the Hammerpond second footman.

“We’ve got ’em, sir, both of ’em,” said the Hammerpond butler, the man who had handed him the flask. “Thanks to you.”

No one answered this remark. Yet he failed to see how it applied to him.

“He’s fair dazed,” said a strange voice; “the villains half-murdered him.”

Mr. Teddy Watkins decided to remain fair dazed until he had a better grasp of the situation. He perceived that two of the black figures round him stood side-by-side with a dejected air, and there was something in the carriage of their shoulders that suggested to his experienced eye hands that were bound together. Two! In a flash he rose to his position. He emptied the little flask and staggered — obsequious hands assisting him — to his feet. There was a sympathetic murmur.

“Shake hands, sir, shake hands,” said one of the figures near him. “Permit me to introduce myself. I am very greatly indebted to you. It was the jewels of my wife, Lady Aveling, which attracted these scoundrels to the house.”

“Very glad to make your lordship’s acquaintance,” said Teddy Watkins.

“I presume you saw the rascals making for the shrubbery, and dropped down on them?”

“That’s exactly how it happened,” said Mr. Watkins.

“You should have waited till they got in at the window,” said Lord Aveling; “they would get it hotter if they had actually committed the burglary. And it was lucky for you two of the policemen were out by the gates, and followed up the three of you. I doubt if you could have secured the two of them — though it was confoundedly plucky of you, all the same.”

“Yes, I ought to have thought of all that,” said Mr. Watkins; “but one can’t think of everything.”

“Certainly not,” said Lord Aveling. “I am afraid they have mauled you a little,” he added. The party was now moving towards the house. “You walk rather lame. May I offer you my arm?”

And instead of entering Hammerpond House by the dressing-room window, Mr. Watkins entered it — slightly intoxicated, and inclined now to cheerfulness again — on the arm of a real live peer, and by the front door. “This,” thought Mr. Watkins, “is burgling in style!” The “scoundrels,” seen by the gaslight, proved to be mere local amateurs unknown to Mr. Watkins, and they were taken down into the pantry and there watched over by the three policemen, two gamekeepers with loaded guns, the butler, an ostler, and a carman, until the dawn allowed of their removal to Hazelhurst police-station. Mr. Watkins was made much of in the salon. They devoted a sofa to him, and would not hear of a return to the village that night. Lady Aveling was sure he was brilliantly original, and said her idea of Turner was just such another rough, half-inebriated, deep-eyed, brave, and clever man. Some one brought up a remarkable little folding-ladder that had been picked up in the shrubbery, and showed him how it was put together. They also described how wires had been found in the shrubbery, evidently placed there to trip-up unwary pursuers. It was lucky he had escaped these snares. And they showed him the jewels.

Mr. Watkins had the sense not to talk too much, and in any conversational difficulty fell back on his internal pains. At last he was seized with stiffness in the back, and yawning. Everyone suddenly awoke to the fact that it was a shame to keep him talking after his affray, so he retired early to his room, the little red room next to Lord Aveling’s suite.

The dawn found a deserted easel bearing a canvas with a green inscription, in the Hammerpond Park, and it found Hammerpond House in commotion. But if the dawn found Mr. Teddy Watkins and the Aveling diamonds, it did not communicate the information to the police.

The Zayat Kiss Sax Rohmer

As has been described by Arthur Henry Sarsfield Ward (1883–1959), better known under his pseudonym of Sax Rohmer, a newspaper assignment sent him to Limehouse, London’s Chinatown, an area so forbidding at the time that few white people ventured into it, even in daylight. For months, he sought a mysterious “Mr. King,” who was said to rule all the criminal elements of the district, inspiring Rohmer to create the insidious Dr. Fu Manchu. He mentioned King by name in Yellow Shadows (1925), which, along with Dope (1919), helped clean up Limehouse and bring about government action on the drug trade. The Boxer Rebellion at the turn of the century had aroused fears of a “Yellow Peril” and convinced Rohmer that an “Oriental” arch-villain would be successful, so he began writing stories about sinister Chinese, notably the Devil Doctor. The first of the fourteen novels about the sinister Fu Manchu was The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu (1913; published in the United States as The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu). Rohmer deliberately gave his character an impossible name, both “Fu” and “Manchu” being Chinese surnames; it was hyphenated only in the first three books.

Rohmer wrote more than fifty books but is best known for his creation of Fu Manchu, one of the greatest villains in literature. His early interest in the occult and Egyptology influenced his writing and caused him to join such societies as the Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn along with other literary figures, including Arthur Machen, Aleister Crowley, and W. B. Yeats. Many of his books and stories are set in the mysterious East, including Brood of the Witch Queen (1918), Tales of Secret Egypt (1918), The Golden Scorpion (1919), and Tales of East and West (1932).

In their magazine appearances, the first adventures were simply titled Fu-Manchu, followed by the story title. For their book publication, they were disguised as a novel, lacking chapter titles.

“The Zayat Kiss,” the first Fu Manchu story, was originally published in the October 1912 issue of The Story-Teller; it was first collected in The Mystery of Dr. Fu-Manchu (London, Methuen, 1913); the first American edition was titled The Insidious Dr. Fu-Manchu (New York, McBride, Nast & Co., 1913).

I sank into an arm-chair in my rooms and gulped down a strong peg of brandy.

“We have been followed here,” I said. “Why did you make no attempt to throw the pursuers off the track, to have them intercepted?”

Smith laughed.

“Useless, in the first place. Wherever we went, he would find us. And of what use to arrest his creatures? We could prove nothing against them. Further, it is evident that an attempt is to be made upon my life tonight — and by the same means that proved so successful in the case of poor Sir Crichton.”

His square jaw grew truculently prominent, and he leapt stormily to his feet, shaking his clenched fists towards the window.

“The villain!” he cried. “The fiendishly clever villain! I suspected that Sir Crichton was next, and I was right. But I came too late, Petrie! That hits me hard, old man. To think that I knew and yet failed to save him.”

He resumed his seat, smoking vigorously.

“Fu-Manchu has made the blunder common to all men of unusual genius,” he said. “He has underrated his adversary. He has not given me credit for perceiving the meaning of the scented messages. He has thrown away one powerful weapon — to get such a message into my hands — and he thinks that, once safe within doors, I shall sleep, unsuspecting, and die as Sir Crichton died. But, without the indiscretion of your charming friend, I should have known what to expect when I received her ‘information’ — which, by the way, consists of a blank sheet of paper.”

“Smith,” I broke in, “who is she?”

“She is either Fu-Manchu’s daughter, his wife, or his slave. I am inclined to believe the latter, for she has no will but his will, except” — with a quizzical glance — “in a certain instance.”

“How can you jest with some awful thing — heaven knows what — hanging over your head? What is the meaning of these perfumed envelopes? How did Sir Crichton die?”

“He died of the Zayat Kiss. Ask me what that is, and I reply, ‘I do not know.’ The zayats are the Burmese caravanserais, or rest-houses. Along a certain route — upon which I set eyes, for the first and only time, upon Dr. Fu-Manchu — travellers who use them sometimes die as Sir Crichton died, with nothing to show the cause of death but a little mark upon the neck, face, or limb, which has earned, in those parts, the title of the ‘Zayat Kiss.’ The rest-houses along that route are shunned now. I have my theory, and I hope to prove it tonight, if I live. It will be one more broken weapon in his fiendish armoury, and it is thus, and thus only, that I can hope to crush him. This was my principal reason for not enlightening Dr. Cleeve. Even walls have ears where Fu-Manchu is concerned, so I feigned ignorance of the meaning of the mark, knowing that he would be almost certain to employ the same methods upon some other victim. I wanted an opportunity to study the Zayat Kiss in operation, and I shall have one.”

“But the scented envelopes?”

“In the swampy forest of the district I have referred to, a rare species of orchid, almost green, and with a peculiar scent, is sometimes met with. I recognized the heavy perfume at once. I take it that the thing which kills the travellers is attracted by this orchid. You will notice that the perfume clings to whatever it touches. I doubt if it can be washed off in the ordinary way. After at least one unsuccessful attempt to kill Sir Crichton — you recall that he thought there was something concealed in his study on a previous occasion? — Fu-Manchu hit upon the perfumed envelopes. He may have a supply of these green orchids in his possession — possibly to feed the creature.”

“What creature? How could any creature have got into Sir Crichton’s room tonight?”

“You have no doubt observed that I examined the grate of the study. I found a fair quantity of fallen soot. I at once assumed, since it appeared to be the only means of entrance, that something had been dropped down; and I took it for granted that the thing, whatever it was, must still be concealed either in the study or in the library. But when I had obtained the evidence of the groom, Wills, I perceived that the cry from the lane or from the park was a signal. I noted that the movements of anyone seated at the study-table were visible, in shadow, on the blind, and that the study occupied the corner of a two-storeyed wing, and therefore had a short chimney. What did the signal mean? That Sir Crichton had leapt up from his chair, and either had received the Zayat Kiss or had seen the thing which someone on the roof had lowered down the straight chimney. It was the signal to withdraw that deadly thing. By means of the iron stairway at the rear of Major-General Platt-Houston’s, I quite easily gained access to the roof above Sir Crichton’s study — and I found this.”

Out from his pocket Nayland Smith drew a tangled piece of silk, mixed up with which were a brass ring and a number of unusually large-sized split-shot, nipped on in the manner usual on a fishing-line.

“My theory proven,” he resumed. “Not anticipating a search on the roof, they had been careless. This was to weigh the line and to prevent the creature clinging to the walls of the chimney. Directly it had dropped in the grate, however, by means of this ring, I assume that the weighted line was withdrawn and the thing was only held by one slender thread, which sufficed, though, to draw it back again when it had done its work. It might have got tangled, of course, but they reckoned on its making straight up the carved leg of the writing-table for the prepared envelope. From there to the hand of Sir Crichton — which, from having touched the envelope, would also be scented with the perfume — was a certain move.”

“My God! How horrible!” I exclaimed, and glanced apprehensively into the dusky shadows of the room. “What is your theory respecting this creature — what shape, what colour—?”

“It is something that moves rapidly and silently. I will venture no more at present, but I think it works in the dark. The study was dark, remember, save for the bright patch beneath the reading-lamp. I have observed that the rear of this house is ivy-covered right up to, and above, your bedroom. Let us make ostentatious preparations to retire, and I think we may rely upon Fu-Manchu’s servants to attempt my removal, at any rate — if not yours.”

“But, my dear fellow, it is a climb of thirty-five feet at the very least.”

“You remember the cry in the back lane? It suggested something to me, and I tested my idea — successfully. It was the cry of a dacoit. Oh, dacoity, though quiescent, is by no means extinct. Fu-Manchu has dacoits in his train, and probably it is one who operates the Zayat Kiss, since it was a dacoit who watched the window of the study this evening. To such a man an ivy-covered wall is a grand staircase.”

The horrible events that followed are punctuated, in my mind, by the striking of a distant clock. It is singular how trivialities thus assert themselves in moments of high tension. I will proceed, then, by these punctuations, to the coming of the horror that it was written we should encounter.

The clock across the common struck two.

Having removed all traces of the scent of the orchid from our hands with a solution of ammonia, Smith and I had followed the programme laid down. It was an easy matter to reach the rear of the house, by simply climbing a fence, and we did not doubt that, seeing the light go out in the front, our unseen watcher would proceed to the back.

The room was a large one, and we had made up my camp-bed at one end, stuffing odds and ends under the clothes to lend the appearance of a sleeper, which device we also had adopted in the case of the larger bed. The perfumed envelope lay upon a little coffee-table in the centre of the floor, and Smith, with an electric pocket-lamp, a revolver and a brassy beside him, sat on cushions in the shadow of the wardrobe. I occupied a post between the windows.

No unusual sound, so far, had disturbed the stillness of the night. Save for the muffled throb of the rare all-night cars passing the front of the house, our vigil had been a silent one. The full moon had painted about the floor weird shadows of the clustering ivy, spreading the design gradually from the door, across the room, past the little table where the envelope lay, and finally to the foot of the bed.

The distant clock struck a quarter-past two.

A slight breeze stirred the ivy, and a new shadow added itself to the extreme edge of the moon’s design.

Something rose, inch by inch, above the sill of the westerly window. I could see only its shadow, but a sharp, sibilant breath from Smith told me that he, from his post, could see the cause of the shadow.

Every nerve in my body seemed to be strung tensely. I was icily cold, expectant, and prepared for whatever horror was upon us.

The shadow became stationary. The dacoit was studying the interior of the room.

Then it suddenly lengthened, and, craning my head to the left, I saw a lithe, black-clad form, surmounted by a yellow face, sketchy in the moonlight, pressed against the window-panes!

One thin, brown hand appeared over the edge of the lowered sash, which it grasped — and then another. The man made absolutely no sound whatever. The second hand disappeared — and reappeared. It held a small square box.

There was a very faint click.

The dacoit swung himself below the window with the agility of an ape, as, with a dull, sickening thud, something dropped upon the carpet!

“Stand still, for your life!” came Smith’s voice, high-pitched.

A beam of white light leapt out across the room and played fully upon the coffee-table in the centre.

Prepared as I was for something horrible, I know that I paled at sight of the thing that was running around the edge of the envelope.

It was an insect, full six inches long, and of a vivid, venomous red colour! It had something of the appearance of a great ant, with its long, quivering antennæ and its febrile, horrible vitality; but it was proportionately longer of body and smaller of head, and had numberless rapidly moving legs. In short, it was a giant centipede, apparently of the scolopendra group, but of a form quite new to me.

These things I realized in one breathless instant; in the next — Smith had dashed the thing’s poisonous life out with one straight, true blow of the golf club!

I leapt to the window and threw it widely open, feeling a silk thread brush my hand as I did so. A black shape was dropping, with incredible agility, from branch to branch of the ivy, and, without once offering a mark for a revolver-shot, it merged into the shadows beneath the trees of the garden.

As I turned and switched on the light Nayland Smith dropped limply into a chair, leaning his head upon his hands. Even that grim courage had been tried sorely.

“Never mind the dacoit, Petrie,” he said. “Nemesis will know where to find him. We know now what causes the mark of the Zayat Kiss. Therefore science is richer for our first brush with the enemy, and the enemy is poorer — unless he has any more unclassified centipedes. I understand now something that has been puzzling me since I heard of it — Sir Crichton’s stifled cry. When we remember that he was almost past speech, it is reasonable to suppose that his cry was not ‘The red hand!’ but ‘The red ant!’ Petrie, to think that I failed, by less than an hour, to save him from such an end!”