text:
Black Star Comes Back/Part 2

ROM shadow to shadow they crept, stopping now and then to listen, but always alert for a clash.

Muggs was breathing heavily, hot with the lust for battle. He only wanted to meet The Black Star face to face when the master rogue would not have him at a disadvantage, and then he would remember how The Black Star had once made a laughingstock of Roger Verbeck, and would act accordingly.

Verbeck himself was caution, ready to fight if it proved to be necessary, but hoping that he would be able to conquer without having to resort to the automatic he carried.

Once they thought that they heard a sound in a clump of brush not far away. Instantly they were still, scarcely daring to breathe, half expecting a wild rush from some of The Black Star's men, perhaps a breath of the pungent, powerful vapor and oblivion for a time—possibly rougher treatment.

They waited for a moment in the darkness, but the sound was not repeated and Verbeck decided that it had been nothing more than the rustling of the night wind through the trees. Once more they crept forward toward the house, alert as before.

Now they came to the edge of a space where light from the distant street arc streaked across the driveway, and hesitated for a time. Then they darted across it suddenly, and in the darkness again stopped to watch and listen.

“Nobody saw us, boss,” Muggs whispered.

“Careful! Don't speak when it can be avoided,” Verbeck warned. “A whisper carries a long way at night, and The Black Star and his men have sharp ears.”

“He'll have sore ones when I get a chance at him,” Muggs declared hotly.

“Don't be in too great a hurry to use your automatic, Muggs. We want to be sure of our ground, you know, before we shoot. I hope that we don't have to shoot at all.”

“Yeh? All that I'll need when I meet that big crook will be my two fists, boss.”

“Be quiet, now! Come along.”

They still had a short distance to travel before they could reach the side of the house. They moved slowly, every sense alert, scarcely knowing what to expect if this turned out to be the headquarters of The Black Star.

They could not forget how The Black Star in his former campaigns had resorted to tricks and traps, how the ground and floors suddenly had yawned beneath their feet, how they had been made prisoners often when they had expected to be the captors. And they had reason to believe that the master crook, having had a year to prepare for this present campaign, undoubtedly had arranged tricks and traps of a new sort.

After a time they managed to reach the side of the house without any alarm, without seeing a person, or hearing the slightest sound that indicated danger. Verbeck began to have a feeling that it was too easy, that they were merely walking into trouble.

They could not see the faintest streak of light coming from the house, but they scarcely had expected to see that. The Black Star did not make a practice of advertising the whereabouts of himself or the members of his organization.

“Careful!” Verbeck warned again.

If this really were the headquarters of The Black Star, or even a minor place for which he had a certain use, Verbeck knew that they were risking capture the moment they started to enter. But they could profit nothing by delaying. Captain Wilkinsen was in there; he had allowed himself to be rendered unconscious in order that Verbeck might have a chance to find the trail that led to the master rogue. It was Verbeck's duty to make an attempt, at least, to save Wilkinsen.

They crept around the house, finally coming to a window. Verbeck hesitated a moment, then flashed his electric torch once, and by the light was able to see that there was no shade drawn at the window, and that inside was an ordinary bedchamber, seemingly empty.

“It's taking a big chance, Muggs,” he whispered. “Chances are an alarm will be flashed to them the moment we touch this casement.”

“We've got to do it; ain't we, boss?”

“Very well,” Verbeck said.

He stepped back, and Muggs went forward to the window. There had been a time years before when Muggs, a loiterer on the outskirts of the underworld, had known several things about opening windows and picking locks. He disliked to speak of that time now, but he retained the old skill.

Muggs started his work, an instant later there was a soft “snap,” and then Verbeck and Muggs, crouching in the darkness, waited and listened for a time.

“All right?” Muggs asked.

“Yes,” Verbeck replied.

Muggs went to the window again, stood quiet for a moment, and then began working at the sash once more. Inch by inch the window was raised, slowly, cautiously, noiselessly. Again they waited, and again Verbeck flashed his electric torch for a fraction of a second. They saw nobody, heard nothing.

“In,” Verbeck whispered.

Muggs entered first, and then stood back against a wall with his automatic ready. Verbeck followed him, and side by side in the darkness they waited for an attack. But none came.

Now Verbeck flashed the torch again, and they located the articles of furniture in the room, and saw a door on the opposite side that must open into a hallway.

They crossed to it and listened, found that it was unlocked, opened it carefully and peered out. It opened into a hallway, down which was a tiny streak of light that came beneath another door.

“Ready, Muggs?” Verbeck whispered.

“Always, boss.”

“Careful, now. And don't be too eager to use that automatic. The big thing is to capture The Black Star or some of his men.”

“I getcha, boss.”

Down the hall they slipped with hearts hammering at their ribs. It was not fear of a physical encounter that caused this, but fear of failure, fear that some little trick would make laughingstocks of them again.

They reached the door from beneath which a faint streak of light was coming. As they listened they could hear a low hum of voices, but could make out no words. Roger Verbeck knelt before the door and tried to peer through the keyhole.

He found that he was looking into a small anteroom, and that the hum of voices was in a room beyond.

He whispered this intelligence to Muggs, and then turned the knob of the door to find it unlocked. They slipped quickly from the hall to the anteroom and closed the door behind them. It was light here, and now they could hear the voices better. Across the room they darted to another and wider door that evidently led into a larger apartment beyond.

Again Verbeck knelt and looked through a keyhole. He saw two men in black robes and hoods, and the unconscious Captain Wilkinsen stretched on a couch before them.

He touched Muggs on the arm, and Muggs knelt and looked in turn. And then he bent over and whispered.

“We can handle them, boss—only two.”

“Wait a moment, Muggs, and let me watch. We may see something interesting. The chances are that those two men are only a couple of minor members of the band about to bring Wilkinsen back to consciousness, Listen near the hall door, Muggs.”

“All right, boss. But I'd rather break into that room right now and start a scrap.”

Verbeck knelt before the door again and watched through the keyhole. As he had expected, The Black Star's men were restoring Captain Wilkinsen to consciousness. One of them was holding a small sponge beneath the captain's nostrils.

Wilkinsen rolled over and groaned. The Black Star's man stood back and watched, and the other held a vapor pistol ready for use in case the captain, returning to consciousness, might think it proper to make an assault.

Verbeck, watching through the keyhole, could see Wilkinsen's eyes open, and he knew what the captain must be feeling. Then Wilkinsen sat up slowly, held his hands to his face for a moment, dropped them, and then raised his head to glance around.

“What—what's the meaning of this?” Wilkinsen demanded.

One of the robed men bowed before him, stepped to a little blackboard on the wall, and wrote rapidly:

“We work with Black Star. You are our prisoner.”

“Prisoner, am I?” Wilkinsen demanded. “Prisoner of a couple of crooks? I can handle the two of you, smash your heads together if I like.”

“Violence will be punished,” wrote the man at the blackboard.

“And who's going to do the punishing?” Wilkinsen wanted to know. “You crooks are playing your last game right at this minute, whether you know it or not. This time we're going to land The Black Star and his whole gang, and what you'll get handed you by the judge will be something to make judicial history, if you ask me.”

The man before the blackboard wrote again: “Loud talking breaks no bones, captain.”

“Doesn't it?” Captain Wilkinson asked with a sneer. “You can play at your kid's tricks all you please, but when we begin to handle you, you'll need something more than a few tricks.”

The man before the blackboard chuckled, and the captain's face turned almost purple because of his wrath.

“Prisoner!” he repeated. “And how long are you going to keep me a prisoner, do you think? If I care to get up right this minute and wallop the two of you, who is to stop me?”

The other man took a quick step forward and pulled a vapor gun from beneath his robe. Captain Wilkinsen glanced at it, and the red faded from his face and the white came. Verbeck saw him shudder, and remembered that Wilkinsen had not been acquainted with the vapor before; that he still was suffering from the effects of the pungent vapor.

“Prisoner!” Wilkinsen repeated again. “Do you think you can get away with it? Making a prisoner of a police officer, eh?”

“You are not the only one,” the man at the blackboard wrote. “We got the chief some time ago—and we have just started.”

Wilkinsen stood up, reeled a bit, took a deep breath to get the remainder of the vapor out of his lungs by exhaling, as quickly and forcibly as possible, and suddenly lurched toward the man at the blackboard, pretending to ignore the other.

In the little anteroom Verbeck gave a little grunt, and Muggs slipped across the room to his side.

“We've got to try something, Muggs,” Roger Verbeck whispered. “Wilkinsen is getting angry, and he'll do something to cause them to give him the vapor again. We want Wilkinsen conscious, so he can help us.”

“In we go, then, boss,” Muggs whispered eagerly.

“Careful! And do not shoot unless it is absolutely necessary,” Verbeck ordered.

“I getcha, boss!”

“A quick rush does it, Muggs. You take the man at the blackboard. I'll take the other.”

He grasped the knob of the door as he whispered. They braced themselves for a swift rush inside as soon as the other door could be pulled open, a quick surprise assault that might result in victory.

“Haven't you two gentlemen seen about enough?” asked a quiet voice behind them.

They whirled at the sound of the voice. Another of the master criminal's organization stood before them, his arms folded across his breast. A little door was open in the wall behind him, where there had been no door before.

UGGS snarled like a wolf at bay, his automatic came up, but an exclamation from Roger Verbeck kept him from firing. The man who stood before them made no move, did not even drop his arms to his sides, as though the menace of the weapon had been nothing to him.

Again he spoke in a deep and raucous voice, evidently disguised.

“Greetings, Mr. Verbeck!” he said. “I presume you thought that you were having things pretty much your own way. It may interest you to know that while you were trailing the taxicab you also were being trailed. You have been watched every second since you entered the yard.”

“So?” Verbeck said. “Then how does it happen that you didn't accost us sooner?”

“Because you were not in the right place, Mr. Verbeck.”

“You are one of The Black Star's men, I suppose?”

“Correct, sir. One of his lieutenants, if you wish. But I was not with him before, and you do not know me.”

“And how long do you think it would take me to know your face?” Roger Verbeck asked. “I am holding a pistol, and so is my companion. And you are unarmed.”

The masked and gowned man before them laughed.

“Unarmed? A member of The Black Star's organization never is unarmed,” he replied. “I am better armed than you imagine.”

“Then start somethin',” Muggs began. “Just start somethin', you crook, and see who ends it! Armed, huh? This little old automatic is all the arms I need.”

“Muggs!” Verbeck commanded. Then he faced the other man again, knowing that Muggs would not fire, but that he would be watching closely. “I have you covered,” he went on. “Stand back against that wall and put your arms above your head!”

“If I refuse”

“Then I shall be forced to fire at you. This is no time for talk. You are the same as an outlaw, and I am a special officer for the present.”

“So you'd shoot me without compunction?”

“Let me do it, boss,” Muggs begged. “I ain't had any target practice for some time. Puttin' aside that hood and all, I'll bet I can hit him square between the eyes.”

“Muggs, control yourself!” Verbeck commanded.

“All right, boss. But controllin' myself in such a situation ain't the best thing I do, not by a long ways.”

Verbeck looked toward The Black Star's man again.

“Did you hear me tell you to stand against the wall and hold your hands over your head?” he asked.

“I heard you, Mr. Verbeck.”

“Very well, do so!”

“Perhaps I do not feel so inclined.”

“Boss, let me handle him without the gun,” Muggs pleaded. “Let me show him not to get sassy at you.”

“Easy, Muggs!” Verbeck took a step forward. “Do as I tell you,” he directed.

“Will you shoot me if I do not?”

“I'll attend to you. Against the wall!”

The Black Star's man laughed again. “Pardon me, if I refuse to obey your commands, Mr. Verbeck,” he said. “I am willing, of course, but I have orders otherwise. Kindly look behind you.”

“That is too old a trick,” Verbeck said, without turning. “You look, Muggs.”

“Ain't anything behind you,” Muggs reported, facing The Black Star's man again.

The robed figure took one step into the room, his arms still folded across his breast.

“Stop where you are!” Verbeck commanded. “We do not care to have you get near enough to use a vapor gun.”

“That would be unnecessary, Mr. Verbeck, I assure you,” came the reply. “By following the taxicab with the captain of detectives you have walked into one of The Black Star's traps. I happen to know that he wants you on the outside fighting him, but now that you are here I am uncertain whether to take you to him, or use a certain other means.”

“So this is not his headquarters?” Verbeck asked.

“I speak the truth when I say that it is not. This is a sort of receiving station for some of his victims, if I may be allowed to use the word.”

“Very well. Let us have an end of nonsense. You are here, and two of your men are in that room with Captain Wilkinsen. What is to prevent my man and myself taking all of you prisoners, since we are armed, and could not be blamed if we shot?”

“Say, boss,” Muggs cried. “Let's not let this bird keep us here talkin' when we've got the drop on him. Let's show him who's boss.”

“I am boss, as you call it,” said The Black Star's man.

“Like fun! When we are armed and you are not? Don't make me laugh!”

“I am, I assure you. You cannot make a hostile move I cannot stop.”

“No?” Muggs parried with a sneer.

“Absolutely not!”

“Why, confound it!” Muggs cried. “You talk like a crazy man!”

“I am merely speaking the truth. A few automatics are as nothing to me at this moment.”

“Maybe you think they won't shoot,” Muggs said.

“I have no doubt that they are excellent automatics,” said The Black Star's man. “I feel quite sure that Mr. Verbeck would have no other sort in such an emergency.”

“If anybody asks me, you're bugs,” Muggs declared. “Boss, you keep this gent covered, and I'll walk over to him and take that thing off his head. Then we'll take care of him, and then we'll handle the two in the other room who are tryin' to argue with Wilkinsen.”

“You take a step at your peril!” The Black Star's man said.

“Do you think,” Verbeck asked, “that you are going to talk to us and hold us here until your fellow crooks in the other room can come to your assistance?”

“I do not happen to need assistance,” came the reply. “I think that it is unnecessary to prolong this conversation, Mr. Verbeck.”

Then it happened—the thing that Roger Verbeck had been half fearing. Muggs had stepped to his side, and he sensed now that such was what The Black Star's man desired. Suddenly the floor beneath them seemed to give way.

Down they shot, carrying with them the rug upon which they had been standing. Verbeck fired one shot, but he knew even as he pressed the trigger that the shot had gone wild. Muggs did not have time to do anything.

They fell, they struck. Above them the trap through which they had been dashed was closed again. Faintly, as though from a distance came the sound of a laugh.

“Boss!” Muggs exclaimed. “What does this”

“The same old story, Muggs. We are in one of The Black Star's pits. We should have rushed him.”

“Flash the torch, boss,” Muggs begged.

The electric torch had not been broken by their fall, which had not been more than a dozen feet. Roger Verbeck flashed it, and they looked around.

They were in a cement-lined pit, perhaps eight feet square and twelve deep. The walls, the floor—everything was cold cement. In one corner was a small iron fixture like the mouth of a drain pipe. There could be no escape except through the trap by way of which they had entered.

“Same old thing,” Muggs commented.

“I suppose that is why he got us so easily, Muggs. I was looking for something new. I supposed The Black Star would scorn to use the old affairs in such a campaign.”

“Well, here we are, boss.”

“And here we remain until they take us out. But it is nothing to worry about, Muggs. The Black Star doesn't want us as prisoners. They will subdue us, I suppose, by the usual method, and we'll wake up in some out-of-the-way place. You see, Muggs, we know the location of this place now. They'll keep us here until they can arrange to abandon it. I am only sorry that we failed to get Captain Wilkinsen out of this.”

“I'm gettin' madder every second, boss. We'll get this crook and his gang yet, won't we?”

“We certainly shall do our best,” Roger Verbeck replied.

“Boss, I wish you'd keep that flashlight on. It's creepy down here in the dark.”

“And damp,” Verbeck said. “Notice the peculiar smell, Muggs?”

“Sure, boss. They've just finished this pit, and the cement hasn't had time to dry out.”

“Muggs, we can only wait until they see fit to handle us again,” said Verbeck. “Might as well take it easy. It is nothing new for The Black Star to put one over on us. It is the final battle, the big triumph that counts.”

“And we'll win that final scrap, won't we, boss?”

“Keep up your confidence, Muggs.”

“I'll do that, all right.”

There was silence for a time, and then Verbeck spoke again.

“I don't like the odor in this place, Muggs.”

“Makes a guy feel choky.”

“It—it certainly does, Muggs. And I am getting a sort of headache already.”

“This is a nice kind of place to put a couple of guys,” Muggs offered.

“Muggs, my head seems to be going around,”

“So is mine, boss. I've been noticin' it, but I thought maybe it was just the tumble we had.”

“It must be something, more than that, Muggs. It—it seems to be bad air, or something like that. Muggs, they are trying something new on us this”

A sudden thought came to Roger Verbeck, and he staggered across the room to the little drain pipe in the corner. He bent over it, and sniffed.

“Muggs! Some sort of gas is pouring into the pit through this thing.”

“It'll get us, boss—and we can't get out!”

“Try not to breathe!”

“A—a guy's got to breathe, boss. I—I'll kill somebody for this!”

They both began to cough. They sat down, got up, staggered around the little underground room. They were strangling, it seemed. They tore at their collars, fought to get breath, reeled around the place like drunken men, clawing at the walls, mouthing at each other, fighting this unknown, unseen foe.

They did not speak to each other now—could not. Each man was busy trying to overcome the effects of whatever it was that was being forced into the pit through the pipe. Muggs fell, and Roger Verbeck swayed and fell beside him.

Now their heads were ringing, and sheets of red flame seemed to be passing before their eyes. Roger Verbeck realized dimly that this was not the sort of vapor generally used by The Black Star and his people in their pistols and bombs. This was something new, something that The Black Star or one of his men had arranged to use in this new campaign of crime.

“Boss—boss” Muggs' voice came in a faint whisper, and he probably did not realize what he was saying.

Verbeck made an attempt to reply, but he could not. He knew that he was growing unconscious rapidly, and that oblivion was not far away. He reached toward his automatic, which was on the cement floor beside him, but his fingers, rapidly growing numb, never touched the weapon.

Then there came a period about which Roger Verbeck could remember nothing afterward. Through a maze of delirium he fought his way back to consciousness, and the first he realized was that a cool breeze was blowing in his face.

He was quite ill for a moment, and then he opened his eyes. He was out of doors, stretched on the grass. He fought to sit up, and for a moment had to close his eyes again. And when he opened them once more he realized that the dawn was just breaking, that he was in a park behind a clump of brush, and that Muggs was groaning and returning to consciousness.

“Muggs!” Verbeck said weakly.

“B-boss?”

“Feel all right now?”

“I—I'm a bit sick.”

Muggs managed to sit up and put his head in his hands. Verbeck was almost his old self again.

“Where are we—and what happened?” Muggs asked.

“I—I don't seem to be able to remember, Muggs.”

“I can't remember either, boss. What has happened?”

“Funny!” Verbeck commented. “Let me see! Where were we—what were we doing?”

“I—I don't know, boss. I—I'm a bit afraid”

“And there is the roadster over by the curb, boss. How did we come here?”

“I—I don't seem to be able to remember a thing, Muggs, except that we were at police headquarters—and something about The Black Star”

“Sure, boss! We were at police headquarters, and I was outside in the roadster and you were inside talkin' to Captain Winkinsen [sic]. I remember that much, all right.”

“Funny!” Roger Verbeck commented again.

He staggered to his feet, his hands held to his head, and Muggs followed his example. They stepped around the clump of brush and started along a little path that ran toward the curb, where Verbeck's powerful roadster was standing.

“Boss”

“Well?” Verbeck asked.

Muggs was pointing to the side of Verbeck's coat. There a square of white paper had been pinned. Verbeck reached down and unpinned it, braced himself against a tree, and read the message stamped on the paper with little rubber type such as The Black Star and his men used.

Verbeck handed the message to Muggs, who struggled through it. As Muggs read, Roger Verbeck, with that little tip that had been given him about Wilkinsen and the cottage, tried in vain to remember what had happened.

“It is true, Muggs,” he groaned. “I cannot remember a thing. There's nothing to do except to return to police headquarters and try to find out what has happened.”

“I—I can't remember, either,” Muggs wailed. “Boss, what is that stuff?”

“I don't know, Muggs, but we must beware of it in the future. It is nothing beyond the bounds of possibility, at any rate. Men who are heavy drinkers at times forget what happened while they were drinking. Any clever chemist could produce a gas, I suppose, that would have a similar effect.”

He led the way toward the roadster, and Muggs, groaning and bewildered, trotted along at his heels.

ILKINSEN, recovering from the effects of the vapor, felt rage surge within him. A sight of a vapor gun was enough to make him recoil. He did not fancy its use again.

And then he remembered Roger Verbeck, and that Verbeck and Muggs were supposed to trail him. He would have to play for time, he decided, and give Verbeck a chance to strike, if it were possible.

“Prisoner, eh?” he asked in a loud voice. “Why, you two crooks, I can handle the both of you, and not exert myself at all. You and your little gas guns!”

The man before the blackboard wrote: “The gas gun seems to be effectual.”

“Afraid to talk, are you?” Wilkinsen continued. “Afraid that I'll hear your voice? I'll hear it, and I'll see your face, before we are done.”

Then they heard sounds in the adjoining room, and the two men moved quickly toward Wilkinsen, covering him with vapor guns. The captain recognized Verbeck's voice, and feared that he had fallen into some sort of trap. He took a quick step toward the door that led into the other room.

“Back!” one of his captors warned.

Captain Wilkinsen had no intention of being ordered around any longer. He was a man of action who considered argument and diplomacy a great waste of valuable time. He glared at the two men before him, tried to hold his breath, and charged, head down, arms flying, fist playing.

He wanted to break through into that other room, to join forces with Roger Verbeck and Muggs, to make an attempt to subdue a few of the master rogue's men.

But Captain Wilkinsen was fighting against great odds. He did not get the opportunity of clashing with the men before him. They darted to either side and let him rush by, they discharged their vapor pistols in his face, and then as he reeled and staggered, and finally was forced to breathe and draw the vapor into his lungs, they stood back with sponges held to their nostrils beneath their hoods, and merely watched the captain of detectives collapse.

When Captain Wilkinsen regained consciousness he found The Black Star standing before him, and one of his men on either side of him, ready to handle him if it proved necessary. But it was not necessary for the moment. Captain Wilkinsen was weak and ill because of the second dose of the vapor, and he realized moreover that violence would avail him nothing here and now.

“Well, captain,” The Black Star said, “I am given to understand that you attempted to put up a fight. Surely you can understand that such a thing is futile.”

“I don't know about that,” the captain replied.

“You have been transferred to my headquarters,” the master rogue informed him. “And here you are to remain for some time as my guest. I now will have you conducted to other quarters.”

The two men urged Captain Wilkinsen to his feet. And then his rage broke again. The idea of being ordered about and handled by notorious criminals was something that Captain Wilkinsen did not relish.

He began to struggle, but he found that the two men were far from being weaklings. With care they forced him through the hall into the big room, while all Wilkinsen could do was to tell them, in unequivocal language, what he thought of them, and what was going to happen to them later.

Then he found himself with Chief Somerset and Mayor Redner. The Black Star and his men had gone, but a laugh coming from the distance, a sarcastic laugh, seemed to say these men were fools to attempt to oppose the master crook.

“Wilkinsen!” the chief exclaimed. “I hoped they wouldn't get you!”

“And how did they get you?” the mayor demanded sarcastically. “Are all my police imbeciles?”

“How did they get you?” the captain retorted angrily; and the mayor grew red in the face and subsided.

“What happened, Wilkinsen?” the chief asked.

“I let them decoy me, and Verbeck and his man were to follow and learn what they were doing. They gave me that vapor stuff, and when I got back to earth I was in a room somewhere. I heard Verbeck talking in the next room, and started to try to get to him—and then I got more of the vapor.”

“Then you don't know whether Verbeck is still trailing?” the chief asked.

“I don't know anything,” the captain declared. “The thing I do seem to know is that I came to life again in this place—but I'm not sure that I even know that much. I don't like this business.”

“We must conquer them—crush them,” Mayor Redner offered. “The city will go insane.”

“The Black Star sent letters to all the papers declaring he had abducted you two, and would abduct a lot more,” Wilkinsen told them.

“Then the public will be aroused,” the mayor said. “Why this is ridiculous!” The idea of anybody abducting men in this manner!”

“We are here,” said the chief.

“But we must get out of here,” the mayor declared. “Do you think for a moment we can let this fellow hold all of us for ransom?”

“Time will tell that,” declared Chief Somerset.

“Are you two men going to do anything about it?” the mayor wanted to know. “My chief of police and my captain of detectives—are you going to sit quietly in a corner and let this rogue do as he pleases with all of us?”

“Suppose we talk with some show of reason,” said the chief, a trace of anger in his voice. “Violence will do us no good except to get us locked up in those cells over there, where we will have peace and quiet at any rate. The Black Star is a clever rogue, and we must fight him with cleverness. Take it easy, and something may happen that will give us a chance.”

“That's what I want—a chance at them!” Wilkinsen cried.

“And Roger Verbeck, we have reason to suppose, is on the outside and at work,” the chief continued. “Verbeck did something before, and possibly he can again.”

The mayor started to speak, but stopped. There was another commotion in the hall, the door was thrown open, and some of The Black Star's men brought in two more prisoners. Both were police precinct captains.

It was evident they had put up a fight, and still were struggling. The Black Star's men lost no time in opening one of the cells and dumping them inside. Then they retired again.

“Riley! Carter!” the chief ejaculated. “How did they get you? What has happened?”

“They got me easily enough,” Captain Riley declared. “I received a telephone message, supposedly from a stool pigeon, and, while I was going through an alley to meet him and get some information, they nabbed me.”

“And they worked the same game on me, chief,” Captain Carter said. “I'd have sworn that the voice that came to me over the phone was the voice of 'Shorty' Carns, a man in my district.”

“Sure it wasn't?” the chief asked. “Are we sure of any man? The Black Star may have them all in his organization.”

“Is he going to keep us in these cells?” Riley asked.

“I suppose so,” said the chief. “I was informed that the cells are reserved for violent prisoners.”

Mayor Redner exploded again.

“Imbeciles! Dolts! It is supposed that officers of the police force have a little sense and courage.”

“I guess we've got courage and nerve enough,” Riley replied hotly. “And they got you, too, didn't they? Seems to me I have heard it whispered that Redner is a wise man.”

“We must get out of this,” the mayor said again. “I'll be the laughingstock of the town. The mayor captured and kept prisoner by a crook—held for ransom!”

“A fat lot of good it does to rave about it,” Captain Wilkinsen said. “Doesn't do any good to talk, and there's no chance for action at present. Suppose we keep quiet and watch for a chance to do something.”

“That's the only sensible thing,” said the chief.

“But we must get out!” the mayor reiterated.

“You make me sick!” the chief declared.

“Do you realize you are speaking to the man who gave you your office?”

“I do,” said the chief. “But why jump on me? Suppose you wait for ultimate results. You can't simply slap a man like The Black Star in the face and trot him off to jail. He's been preparing for this stunt for a year, and we can't expect to wreck his plans in ten minutes.”

No one spoke for a moment. The mayor glared first at the chief, then at Captain of Detectives Wilkinsen, and then at the two precinct captains in the cell.

In the other room The Black Star had received another prisoner. He was an elderly man still under the influence of the vapor, and two of the master rogue's organization revived him carefully. He sat up on the couch, glanced around, and gave a cry of fright.

“Do not be alarmed, Mr. Brayter,” The Black Star reassured him.

“Who—who are you? Where am I?”

“I am The Black Star.”

“The crook?”

“I suppose I am so termed by many,” The Black Star replied with a laugh behind his mask. “But hard words will do you no particular good.”

“But why I am here? What are you going to do with me?”

“I want you to be my guest for a few days,” The Black Star continued. “You will have good company. Mayor Redner, an old friend of yours, for instance.”

“Redner here?” Brayter asked.

“He is—and more of your friends will be here later. It is a little new activity of mine, you see. I am abducting some of the most prominent men in the city, and I am going to force the city to ransom them.”

“How—how long are you going to keep me here?” Brayter persisted.

“That depends. Only a few days, I hope.”

“But that cannot be!” Brayter protested. “You—I suppose you know that I am—er—one of the wealthiest men in the city?”

“Everybody knows William Brayter,” said The Black Star, bowing.

“And I still am active in business. Man, I am in the midst of a big business deal. If I am not at my office in the morning”

“The deal will be ruined?” The Black Star asked.

“Yes, and I and my associates may be ruined. You must release me. I am willing to pay you.”

“How much?” The Black Star questioned.

“What is your price? A thousand? Two thousand?”

The Black Star threw back his head and laughed wildly.

“My dear Mr. Brayter,” he said, “to release you might mean that I would have to end my campaign. I started out, sir, to get a million dollars' damages because of what was done to my organization last year. I will release you willingly, but my price is that million.”

“A million!” William Brayter exclaimed in consternation. “You expect me to pay you a million?”

“I do not expect it,” said the master rogue. “I am merely telling you that you will have to remain here for a time. And do not be too much alarmed, Mr. Brayter. It is just possible, you see, that some of your financial foes will will be my guests, too. And if you are not at your desk, neither will they be. In other words, the deal will remain dead until such a time as you are all released. Now I am going to have you taken to another apartment, where you'll find Mayor Redner and the others.”

“I'll make it five thousand—ten thousand. Release me, keep certain of my financial foes here, and I'll make it twenty thousand dollars!”

“Are you proposing that you join my organization and join hands with me?” The Black Star asked.

“Certainly not!”

“Pardon me, but it sounded like it. I am sorry, but I cannot help you in your financial schemes, Mr. Brayter. I am out to collect damages for myself and the members of my organization—that is all. Perhaps we may be able to make a deal at some later time.”

The financier grew red in the face, and The Black Star laughed again. He motioned to his men, and they conducted William Brayter through the hall to the room where the other prisoners were waiting.

“Brayter!” the mayor exclaimed. “They got you, too?”

“They did!” Brayter replied angrily. “A pretty mayor you are—and a pretty police force you have! Why don't you do something? Do you know that this fiend intends to hold all of us for ransom?”

“Yes, we've been let in on the secret,” said Chief Somerset, who did not like William Brayter and did not care who knew it. “As for doing something, what have you to suggest?”

“Why, confound it, arrest these fellows!”

The chief looked at Captain Wilkinsen, and both grinned.

“Arrest them!” said Wilkinsen. “Don't you suppose we wish that we could?”

“I must get out of here. I have a business deal on!” Brayter repeated.

“And I'll be the laughingstock of the town,” the mayor deplored.

“It is ridiculous,” said Brayter, “to think that men of our standing can be treated in this manner!”

“No use wasting words,” the chief said. “What can we do about it? If an opportunity presents itself we'll act. Meanwhile keep quiet and don't start anything violent, or they'll have you in one of those nice little cells where they put a couple of my captains.”

HE people of the city awoke that morning, glanced at the heavy headlines in the newspapers, were stunned for a moment, and then were in a panic of fear.

Extra editions told of the abduction of the mayor, the chief, Wilkinsen, the precinct captains, and revealed the fact that the town's greatest financier and richest man, William Brayter, was missing. It was believed that he had been kidnaped by The Black Star's band.

Wealthy men grew fightened [sic], afraid that they might be among the victims chosen. Men in office had the same feeling. A reorganization of the police department was necessary. The captains who remained exerted every effort to police the city and at the same time capture The Black Star.

In this emergency the police turned to Sheriff Grogin, although the city police and the sheriff's force were generally arrayed against each other. Sheriff Grogin, who had been born and reared in the city, knew it as well as any man in existence. He called in his deptuies [sic] for a conference.

“We've got to catch this fellow,” Grogin began. “With Chief Somerset and Captain Wilkinsen gone, the police department is in chaos. That rather puts it up to this office. The Black Star may have his headquarters inside the city limits, and again he may have them in some house up or down the river, as he did once before.”

Then they discussed plans, and adopted a measure. Roger Verbeck and Muggs, who were called into the conference, told their latest experiences frankly.

“A year to perfect his plans,” the sheriff said. “We must expect to have a pretty session with him, and we don't want to make the mistake of underestimating him, or of being off guard for an instant. Remember that it is hard telling who is in his organization. All sorts of persons were in the old one—even one deputy from my office, if you will remember.”

The conference ended, the deputies left to do the work that had been assigned to them, and Verbeck returned to police headquarters to tell what had been done. A systematic search of the city was instituted to locate the headquarters of The Black Star.

There were tips and rumors, of course. All were investigated, and all proved to be valueless. Suspects were arrested and questioned, and nothing was learned. The morning passed without The Black Star and his men making any new move.

“Waiting for night, boss,” said Muggs.

“Yes, and letting the idea sink in,” Roger Verbeck added. “A day or two of mystery following the abduction, and the public will demand that something be done immediately to effect the release of the men. The Black Star is a great user of mob psychology.”

“Of which?” Muggs asked.

“I haven't time to give you a course of lectures in psychology just now,” Verbeck told him.

“The worst of this thing, boss,” Muggs declared, “is the waitin' around with nothin' to do. I wish that big crook would make a move so we could get a line on him. But I don't want to run into that memory remover again.”

“Neither do I,” Verbeck agreed. “But I am here to testify that it certainly fills the bill. I have tried and tried, and I cannot remember the location of that place.”

“If we drove around town and looked about”

“We saw it only at night, Muggs, and that is all I can remember. We wouldn't know it if we were standing right in front of it at this moment.”

Muggs scratched at his head and tried to understand. Then he went out to the curb again, got behind the wheel of Verbeck's big roadster, and waited for an alarm.

Sheriff Grogin's deputies were combing the city. Now and then they reported progress, but that is all they did report. The master rogue made no new move during the day, and it was as though he and his men and his prisoners had been swallowed by the earth.

Grogin paced his private office as evening came, absorbed in ways and means. He had not left his office since morning, and determined to remain there. His meals were brought in from a restaurant around the corner. He wanted to be always within reach of the telephone.

Just as the street arcs were flashing into being the telephone rang, and the sheriff was quick to answer.

“Sheriff?” asked a man's voice.

“Yes,”

“This is The Black Star.”

“I recognize your voice, you crook,” the sheriff declared. “I haven't heard it for a year, but I remember it all right. Black Star, eh? Want to give yourself up?”

“Scarcely that,” said the master rogue, laughing over the wire. “I just wanted to say that it would be better for you if you kept out of this game. I give you my word that I am operating only inside the city limits, so you and your deputies need not concern yourselves.”

“Afraid of us, are you?” Grogin asked.

“Certainly not. I simply do not want to be bothered with you. But if you persist I'll have to handle you, too, you know.”

“I'd admire to see you try it,” Grogin told him. “Begin whenever you are ready. Start anything you please, and we'll see who ends this little affair.”

“Perhaps you'd like to see the mayor and the chief? If you say the word, I'll have you abducated [sic], too, so you can visit with them.”

“Kidnap me, would you?” Grogin's voice shrieked into the transmitter. “Try it, you big crook! Nothing would please me better.”

“You think that I could not?”

“I certainly do. I'll not be answering any telephone calls to come to some dark alley, or anything like that.”

“Oh, we'd not try anything so crude as that on you, sheriff,” The Black Star replied. “We have a better plan. I just wanted to say that we are going to get you to-night.”

“You are, eh?” Grogin roared.

“Exactly. We are going to get you to-night. By dawn you'll be with the mayor and the chief and some others, and can have a game of cards with your old friend William Brayter, if you please to do so.”

“Why, you big crook!”

“Oh, we'll get you, sheriff. I have just sent a leter [sic] to the newspapers saying that I intend getting you to-night. It will be more fun, I think, if you are on your guard. Picking up these other men was too easy, you understand.”

The Black Star cut off the connection before the sheriff could make a reply. Sheriff Grogin rattled the receiver, got the chief operator, and made a frantic effort to trace the call. To all appearances it had come from a perfectly reputable residence, and Grogin snorted when he got this information.

“Tapped wire,” he told himself. “And before I can have men investigate, the wire will be gone.”

But he ordered men to investigate, nevertheless, and then he telephoned to police headquarters, got Roger Verbeck on the wire, and told what had happened. Verbeck and Muggs drove to the sheriff's office at once.

“Why, the big crook can't do it!” the sheriff declared. “How can he pick me up and carry me off when I'm on guard and watching for him? Unless he comes in here with a big gang of men and cleans us out with gunfire—and the crook pretends to abhor violence.”

“I scarcely think he'll do anything like that,” Roger Verbeck said. “But I'd advise you to watch closely, sheriff. I'll remain here if you like.”

“To take the trail when they carry me away, eh? Verbeck, don't be an utter ass! How could he do it? He can't decoy me, because I have no intention of leaving this office to-night. He has boasted that he'll get me; if he does not it may calm the dear public a bit. I certainly wish the public could be calmed. I've averaged six false alarms to the half hour since noon.”

Ten minutes later one of the deputies came into the office to announce that he had arrested a woman who had been acting suspiciously. Roger Verbeck glanced at the prisoner through the half-opened door, and sprang to his feet.

“The Princess!” he exclaimed.

“What?” the sheriff cried.

The prisoner was called in, and the sheriff looked at her closely.

“It is The Princess,” he admitted. “A member of The Black Star's gang. Well, young woman, you had a lot of fun with us a year or so ago, didn't you? And The Black Star managed to get you away. But we have you now, and there is an indictment hanging over your head.”

“I suppose so,” she said.

“Take this chair,” the sheriff ordered. “Mr. Verbeck, you remain here with us, please. I think it advisable to ask this young woman a few questions.”

The Princess sat down, glanced at the sheriff, and smiled. Grogin glared at her. Roger Verbeck also sat down, watching the woman carefully.

The Princess had achieved quite a reputation during The Black Star's campaign of a year before. She had acted as a decoy, and she had actually participated in some of the crimes. Nothing was known of her except that the members of the master crook's organization admired her and would fight for her instantly. It was supposed that she was The Black Star's sister—she was too old to be his daughter.

“Well?” she asked, smiling at the sheriff again. “One of your men arrested me, and I should like to know for what.”

“It doesn't happen to make any particular difference, now that we have you,” the sheriff answered. “You are wanted on an old indictment. You certainly took a great risk walking around the streets of this town, where police officers know you.”

“I have been doing it for about two months,” she said. “And the police didn't seem to know me.”

“Still with The Black Star, are you? Or have you come here to betray him to us?”

Her eyes flashed. “I am not the sort that betrays,” she declared angrily.

“Suppose,” said the sheriff, leaning toward her, “suppose that we arrange it to lighten your own sentence if you aid us in putting our hands on The Black Star.”

“I refuse to discuss the subject, Sheriff Grogin.”

“You have about fifteen years in prison coming to you, and you're a young woman still, possessed of a certain amount of beauty—fifteen years will rob you of your good looks. If it could be arranged to release you at the end of the first year?”

“It is useless to discuss the matter,” she repeated.

“Fifteen years is a long time, young woman, especially when it is spent behind prison bars.”

“I have no intention of spending fifteen years in prison—nor fifteen months, or days,” she told him, her eyes blazing again.

“You'll probably change your mind about that. Here you are, and in jail you stay until the court gets through with you. And then you go to the big prison, where you'll soon be wishing that you had listened to my proposal.”

“As I intimated before, you are wasting your time talking to me in this strain,” she said.

“Perhaps we can get some information out of you by some of the old methods,” the sheriff suggested. “You are a young and pretty woman, but you also are a member of The Black Star's band. We must land him, so anything that causes that result is permissible.”

“I suppose you mean the third degree?” she asked, without giving the slightest indication of fright.

“And if I do” asked the sheriff.

“I suppose I must endure it. But it will not make me say what I do not wish to say.”

Sheriff Grogin bent across the desk toward her, while Roger Verbeck continued to watch closely.

“Where are you living, and by what name are you known?” the sheriff demanded.

“I do not mind telling you that. I am living at the National Hotel, and I am known as Louise Faley. But that information will do you and your deputies not the slightest good. You will not be able to connect me with any one else by asking questions about me around the hotel. That was your intention, I suppose?”

The sheriff grew red in the face, for that had been his obvious intention.

“How do you pay your bills?” he demanded.

“I am a woman of means. Mayor Redner has been handling some of my funds,” she replied, smiling sweetly.

“He has, eh?” roared the sheriff. “I suppose you must know that all your funds will be confiscated because they are the proceeds of robbery?”

“In the first place you'd have a hard time proving that. I can readily show that the funds came from an estate left me by a distant relative. And, my dear sheriff, in the second place I cashed in to-day. I have placed my funds in ready cash, in a secure place which I defy you to find.”

Sheriff Grogin glared at her, and again she smiled sweetly at him.

“Anything to ask her, Verbeck?” the sheriff wanted to know.

“Mr. Verbeck perhaps has sense enough to know that questions are but a waste of breath,” said The Princess.

“Are you willing to tell me anything at all about The Black Star if I promise to help you?” the sheriff asked.

“Certainly not,” she replied promptly. “I told you it was useless to discuss that subject. I am not a traitor, you see.”

“I see. Not even to save yourself from a long term in prison?”

“For no price at all, my dear sheriff.”

“What were you doing when my man picked you up this evening?”

“Nothing in particular. I think he must have believed that I had a bomb in my handbag.”

“Laughing at me, are you? Trying to make game of me?” the sheriff retorted. “Maybe you'll get over your humor when I have you put in a cell.”

“You'd not do that, I am sure,” she said.

“I'll show you, unless you answer my questions, and do it quickly. Where is The Black Star's headquarters?”

She looked at him, laughed, and then began to hum a popular song.

“You'll get nothing out of her at present, sheriff,” Roger Verbeck put in. “And I don't like the look of this whole episode. It appears to me that this young woman deliberately got herself arrested and brought here. Remember the telephone message you received?”

“Oh, I remember that. But I scarcely think anything can happen to me in my own private office, with half a dozen deputies within call,” the sheriff declared. “A night in a cell might cause her to change her mind and talk.”

“Ten weeks in a cell wouldn't make me do that,” she replied. “But I do not intend spending a night in a cell.”

“We'll see about that!” the sheriff said angrily. “Verbeck, will you kindly call the man who arrested this woman. Have him come in here? Perhaps we can get a line on things.”

“Certainly, sheriff.” Roger Verbeck hurried out of the room, asked for the man, found that he was in the rest room, and hurried after him there.

Verbeck was eager himself to talk to the deputy. He believed that The Princess had got herself arrested deliberately, and he suspected some deep game planned by The Black Star.

“She was prowlin' around in front of a big jewelry store, and actin' suspicious,” the deputy told him. “When she saw me she tried to dodge, as if she knew I was an officer. I stopped to watch her, and she tried to make a getaway. And when I caught her and asked a few questions, she refused to tell me anything—her name, or address, or anything like that. I brought her in, thinkin' the sheriff could handle her.”

“What jewelry store?” Verbeck asked.

The deputy told him.

“And The Black Star may be looting that place this moment, perhaps has looted it already, though he indicated he wasn't going to do anything like that,” Verbeck said. “Wait until I tell the chief deputy to send a couple of men over there to investigate, then we'll go in and see the sheriff.”

Verbeck made the suggestion, and the chief deputy was glad to act on it without taking time to consult his superior. The chief deputy had a wholesome regard for Verbeck's powers when it came to running down The Black Star.

And then Roger Verbeck and the man who had arrested The Princess hurried back through the corridor to Sheriff Grogin's private office. Verbeck had a feeling that something was about to happen. He felt that the master rogue was about to strike again, a blow that would shock the city, a blow such as The Black Star loved to deliver.

“If we could only get on a hot trail again,” he said to the deputy, “it wouldn't be so bad. But we are fighting in the dark.”

“I'd like to get my hands on the crook.”

“So would my man,” Verbeck said laughing. “If we do catch The Black Star, somebody will have to hold Muggs.”

They came to the door of the sheriff's private office. Roger Verbeck knocked, then opened the door and entered with the deputy at his heels.

He stopped, gasped in surprise, then shouted an alarm. One of the windows of the private office was open. Sheriff Grogin and The Princess were gone!

title: Black Star Comes Back/Part 2


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/274

 Her actual offspring does not suffice a very motherly woman. Such a woman was Mrs. Batch. Had she been blest with a dozen children, she must yet have regarded herself as also a mother to whatever two young gentlemen were lodging under her roof. Childless but for Katie and Clarence, she had for her successive pairs of tenants a truly vast fund of maternal feeling to draw on. Nor were the drafts made in secret. To every gentleman, from the outset, she proclaimed the relation in which she would stand to him. Moreover, always she needed a strong filial sense in return: this was only fair.

Because the Duke was an orphan, even more than because he was a Duke, her heart had with a special rush gone out to him when he and Mr. Noaks became her tenants. But, perhaps because he had never known a mother, he was evidently quite incapable of conceiving either Mrs. Batch as his mother or himself as her son. Indeed, there was that in his manner, in his look, which made her falter, for once, in exposition of her theory—made her postpone the matter to

license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/274


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/275

 some more favourable time. That time never came, somehow. Still, her solicitude for him, her pride in him, her sense that he was a great credit to her, rather waxed than waned. He was more to her (such are the vagaries of the maternal instinct) than Katie or Mr. Noaks: he was as much as Clarence.

It was, therefore, a deeply agitated woman who now came heaving up into the Duke's presence. His Grace was "giving notice"? She was sure she begged his pardon for coming up so sudden. But the news was that sudden. Hadn't her girl made a mistake, maybe? Girls were so vague- like nowadays. She was sure it was most kind of him to give those handsome ear-rings. But the thought of him going off so unexpected— middle of term, too—with never a why or a but! Well!

In some such welter of homely phrase (how foreign to these classic pages!) did Mrs. Batch utter her pain. The Duke answered her tersely but kindly. He apologised for going so abruptly, and said he would be very happy to write for her future use a testimonial to the excellence of her rooms and of her cooking; and with it he would give her a cheque not only for the full term's rent, and for his board since the beginning of term, but also for such board as he would have been likely to have in the term's remainder. He asked her to present her accounts

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/275


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/276

 forthwith.

He occupied the few minutes of her absence by writing the testimonial. It had shaped itself in his mind as a short ode in Doric Greek. But, for the benefit of Mrs. Batch, he chose to do a rough equivalent in English.

TO AN UNDERGRADUATE NEEDING

ROOMS IN OXFORD

(A Sonnet in Oxfordshire Dialect)

Zeek w'ere thee will in t'Univursity,

Lad, thee'll not vind nor bread nor bed that matches

Them as thee'll vind, roight zure, at Mrs. Batch's. ..

I do not quote the poem in extenso, because, frankly, I think it was one of his least happily-inspired works. His was not a Muse that could with a good grace doff the grand manner. Also, his command of the Oxfordshire dialect seems to me based less on study than on conjecture. In fact, I do not place the poem higher than among the curiosities of literature. It has extrinsic value, however, as illustrating the Duke's thoughtfulness for others in the last hours of his life. And to Mrs. Batch the MS., framed and glazed in her hall, is an asset beyond price (witness her recent refusal of Mr. Pierpont Morgan's sensational bid for it).

This MS. she received together with the Duke's cheque. The presentation was made some twenty minutes after she had laid her accounts before him.

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/276


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/277

Lavish in giving large sums of his own accord, he was apt to be circumspect in the matter of small payments. Such is ever the way of opulent men. Nor do I see that we have a right to sneer at them for it. We cannot deny that their existence is a temptation to us. It is in our fallen nature to want to get something out of them; and, as we think in small sums (heaven knows), it is of small sums that they are careful. Absurd to suppose they really care about halfpence. It must, therefore, be about us that they care; and we ought to be grateful to them for the pains they are at to keep us guiltless. I do not suggest that Mrs. Batch had at any point overcharged the Duke; but how was he to know that she had not done so, except by checking the items, as was his wont? The reductions that he made, here and there, did not in all amount to three-and-sixpence. I do not say they were just. But I do say that his motive for making them, and his satisfaction at having made them, were rather beautiful than otherwise.

Having struck an average of Mrs. Batch's weekly charges, and a similar average of his own reductions, he had a basis on which to reckon his board for the rest of the term. This amount he added to Mrs. Batch's amended total, plus the full term's rent, and accordingly drew a cheque on the local bank where he had an account. Mrs. Batch said she would bring up a stamped

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/277


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/278

 receipt directly; but this the Duke waived, saying that the cashed cheque itself would be a sufficient receipt. Accordingly, he reduced by one penny the amount written on the cheque. Remembering to initial the correction, he remembered also, with a melancholy smile, that to-morrow the cheque would not be negotiable. Handing it, and the sonnet, to Mrs. Batch, he bade her cash it before the bank closed. "And," he said, "with a glance at his watch, "you have no time to lose. It is a quarter to four." Only two hours and a quarter before the final races! How quickly the sands were running out!

Mrs. Batch paused on the threshold, wanted to know if she could "help with the packing." The Duke replied that he was taking nothing with him: his various things would be sent for, packed, and removed, within a few days. No, he did not want her to order a cab. He was going to walk. And "Good-bye, Mrs. Batch," he said. "For legal reasons with which I won't burden you, you really must cash that cheque at once."

He sat down in solitude; and there crept over him a mood of deep depression. . . Almost two hours and a quarter before the final races! What on earth should he do in the meantime? He seemed to have done all that there was for him to do. His executors would do the rest. He had no farewell-letters to write. He had no friends with whom he was on terms of valediction. There

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/278


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/279

 was nothing at all for him to do. He stared blankly out of the window, at the greyness and blackness of the sky. What a day! What a climate! Why did any sane person live in England? He felt positively suicidal.

His dully vagrant eye lighted on the bottle of Cold Mixture. He ought to have dosed himself a full hour ago. Well, he didn't care.

Had Zuleika noticed the bottle? he idly wondered. Probably not. She would have made some sprightly reference to it before she went.

Since there was nothing to do but sit and think, he wished he could recapture that mood in which at luncheon he had been able to see Zuleika as an object for pity. Never, till to-day, had he seen things otherwise than they were. Nor had he ever needed to. Never, till last night, had there been in his life anything he needed to forget. That woman! As if it really mattered what she thought of him. He despised himself for wishing to forget she despised him. But the wish was the measure of the need. He eyed the chiffonier. Should he again solicit the grape?

Reluctantly he uncorked the crusted bottle, and filled a glass. Was he come to this? He sighed and sipped, quaffed and sighed. The spell of the old stored sunshine seemed not to work, this time. He could not cease from plucking at the net of ignominies in which his soul lay enmeshed. Would that he had died yesterday, escaping how

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/279


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/280

 much!

Not for an instant did he flinch from the mere fact of dying to-day. Since he was not immortal, as he had supposed, it were as well he should die now as fifty years hence. Better, indeed. To die "untimely," as men called it, was the timeliest of all deaths for one who had carved his youth to greatness. What perfection could he, Dorset, achieve beyond what was already his? Future years could but stale, if not actually mar, that perfection. Yes, it was lucky to perish leaving much to the imagination of posterity. Dear posterity was of a sentimental, not a realistic, habit. She always imagined the dead young hero prancing gloriously up to the Psalmist's limit a young hero still; and it was the sense of her vast loss that kept his memory green. Byron!--he would be all forgotten to-day if he had lived to be a florid old gentleman with iron-grey whiskers, writing very long, very able letters to "The Times" about the Repeal of the Corn Laws. Yes, Byron would have been that. It was indicated in him. He would have been an old gentleman exacerbated by Queen Victoria's invincible prejudice against him, her brusque refusal to "entertain" Lord John Russell's timid nomination of him for a post in the Government. . . Shelley would have been a poet to the last. But how dull, how very dull, would have been the poetry of his middle age!--a great unreadable mass interposed between him and us. . . Did Byron, mused the Duke,

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/280


text:
Page:The lay of the Nibelungs; (IA nibelungslay00hortrich).pdf/96

18

“By a great oath he made him unto him fealty swear,

To serve him in all service, no matter when or where.”

So spake Hagen of Tronjé, “That did he presently:

“There never was a warrior who had such might as he!

“And yet another story of Siegfried I have heard:

How he did slay a dragon, with his own hand and sword,

And in its blood he bathed him till horny grew his skin,

And thus no sword can cut him, as hath been often seen.

“Then let us this young hero receive as best we may,

Lest we deserve his hatred and have to rue the day.

He is of such bold spirit ’twere best to be his friend:

He hath, by his strong right hand, wrought wonders without end.”

Then the great king said, “Truly, methinks that thou art right.

See but how chivalrously he stands prepared to fight,

He and his warriors with him, a dauntless man is he!

We will go down to meet him, and greet him courteously.”

“Thou mayest,” answered Hagen, “with honour do this thing,

His ancestry is noble, his sire a wealthy king.

One sees it in his bearing,— and, by the dear Lord Christ,

It is no trifle brings him, I warrant, on this quest!”

Then spake the country’s ruler: “Right welcome let him be,—

That he is brave and noble hath aye been told to me;

We’ll make his sojourn merry in our Burgundian land.”

So saying, down went Gunther to where Siegfried did stand.


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/281

 know what was to be at Missolonghi? Did he know that he was to die in service of the Greeks whom he despised? Byron might not have minded that. But what if the Greeks had told him, in so many words, that they despised HIM? How would he have felt then? Would he have been content with his potations of barley-water? . . . The Duke replenished his glass, hoping the spell might work yet. . . . Perhaps, had Byron not been a dandy—but ah, had he not been in his soul a dandy there would have been no Byron worth mentioning. And it was because he guarded not his dandyism against this and that irrelevant passion, sexual or political, that he cut so annoyingly incomplete a figure. He was absurd in his politics, vulgar in his loves. Only in himself, at the times when he stood haughtily aloof, was he impressive. Nature, fashioning him, had fashioned also a pedestal for him to stand and brood on, to pose and sing on. Off that pedestal he was lost. . . . "The idol has come sliding down from its pedestal" —the Duke remembered these words spoken yesterday by Zuleika. Yes, at the moment when he slid down, he, too, was lost. For him, master- dandy, the common arena was no place. What had he to do with love? He was an utter fool at it. Byron had at least had some fun out of it. What fun had HE had? Last night, he had forgotten to kiss Zuleika when he held her by the wrists. To-day it had been as much as he could do to let poor little Katie

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/281


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/282

 kiss his hand. Better be vulgar with Byron than a noodle with Dorset! he bitterly reflected. . . Still, noodledom was nearer than vulgarity to dandyism. It was a less flagrant lapse. And he had over Byron this further advantage: his noodledom was not a matter of common knowledge; whereas Byron's vulgarity had ever needed to be in the glare of the footlights of Europe. The world would say of him that he laid down his life for a woman. Deplorable somersault? But nothing evident save this in his whole life was faulty. . . The one other thing that might be carped at—the partisan speech he made in the Lords—had exquisitely justified itself by its result. For it was as a Knight of the Garter that he had set the perfect seal on his dandyism. Yes, he reflected, it was on the day when first he donned the most grandiose of all costumes, and wore it grandlier than ever yet in history had it been worn, than ever would it be worn hereafter, flaunting the robes with a grace unparalleled and inimitable, and lending, as it were, to the very insignia a glory beyond their own, that he once and for all fulfilled himself, doer of that which he had been sent into the world to do.

And there floated into his mind a desire, vague at first, soon definite, imperious, irresistible, to see himself once more, before he died, indued in the fulness of his glory and his might.

Nothing hindered. There was yet a who

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/282


text:
Page:The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy (Volume 5).pdf/114

 stirrup and performing the stirrup-leather feat, whereby, after the inclining of his body downwards, he forthwith launched himself aloft into the air, and placed both his feet together upon the saddle, standing upright, with his back turned towards his horse's head,—Now (said he) my case goes forward. Then suddenly in the same posture wherein he was, he fetched a gambol upon one foot, and turning to the left-hand, failed not to carry his body perfectly round, just into his former position, without missing one jot.—Ha! said Tripet, I will not do that at this time,—and not without cause. Well, said Gymnast, I have failed,—I will undo this leap; then with a marvellous strength and agility, turning towards the right-hand, he fetched another frisking gambol as before; which done, he set his right-hand thumb upon the bow of the saddle,


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/283

 le hour before he need start for the river. His eyes dilated, somewhat as might those of a child about to "dress up" for a charade; and already, in his impatience, he had undone his neck-tie.

One after another, he unlocked and threw open the black tin boxes, snatching out greedily their great good splendours of crimson and white and royal blue and gold. You wonder he was not appalled by the task of essaying unaided a toilet so extensive and so intricate? You wondered even when you heard that he was wont at Oxford to make without help his toilet of every day. Well, the true dandy is always capable of such high independence. He is craftsman as well as artist. And, though any unaided Knight but he with whom we are here concerned would belike have doddered hopeless in that labyrinth of hooks and buckles which underlies the visible glory of a Knight "arraied full and proper," Dorset threaded his way featly and without pause. He had mastered his first excitement. In his swiftness was no haste. His procedure had the ease and inevitability of a natural phenomenon, and was most like to the coming of a rainbow.

Crimson-doubleted, blue-ribanded, white-trunk-hosed, he stooped to understrap his left knee with that strap of velvet round which sparkles the proud gay motto of the Order. He affixed to his breast the octoradiant star, so much larger and more lustrous than any actual star in heaven.

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/283


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/284

 Round his neck he slung that long daedal chain wherefrom St. George, slaying the Dragon, dangles. He bowed his shoulders to assume that vast mantle of blue velvet, so voluminous, so enveloping, that, despite the Cross of St. George blazing on it, and the shoulder-knots like two great white tropical flowers planted on it, we seem to know from it in what manner of mantle Elijah prophesied. Across his breast he knotted this mantle's two cords of gleaming bullion, one tassel a due trifle higher than its fellow. All these things being done, he moved away from the mirror, and drew on a pair of white kid gloves. Both of these being buttoned, he plucked up certain folds of his mantle into the hollow of his left arm, and with his right hand gave to his left hand that ostrich-plumed and heron-plumed hat of black velvet in which a Knight of the Garter is entitled to take his walks abroad. Then, with head erect, and measured tread, he returned to the mirror.

You are thinking, I know, of Mr. Sargent's famous portrait of him. Forget it. Tankerton Hall is open to the public on Wednesdays. Go there, and in the dining-hall stand to study well Sir Thomas Lawrence's portrait of the eleventh Duke. Imagine a man some twenty years younger than he whom you there behold, but having some such features and some such bearing, and clad in just such robes. Sublimate the dignity of that bearing and of those features, and you will then

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/284


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/285

 have seen the fourteenth Duke somewhat as he stood reflected in the mirror of his room. Resist your impulse to pass on to the painting which hangs next but two to Lawrence's. It deserves, I know, all that you said about it when (at the very time of the events in this chronicle) it was hanging in Burlington House. Marvellous, I grant you, are those passes of the swirling brush by which the velvet of the mantle is rendered—passes so light and seemingly so fortuitous, yet, seen at the right distance, so absolute in their power to create an illusion of the actual velvet. Sheen of white satin and silk, glint of gold, glitter of diamonds—never were such things caught by surer hand obedient to more voracious eye. Yes, all the splendid surface of everything is there. Yet must you not look. The soul is not there. An expensive, very new costume is there, but no evocation of the high antique things it stands for; whereas by the Duke it was just these things that were evoked to make an aura round him, a warm symbolic glow sharpening the outlines of his own particular magnificence. Reflecting him, the mirror reflected, in due subordination, the history of England. There is nothing of that on Mr. Sargent's canvas. Obtruded instead is the astounding slickness of Mr. Sargent's technique: not the sitter, but the painter, is master here. Nay, though I hate to say it, there is in the portrayal of the Duke's attitude and expression a hint of something like mockery—

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/285


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/286

 unintentional, I am sure, but to a sensitive eye discernible. And—but it is clumsy of me to be reminding you of the very picture I would have you forget.

Long stood the Duke gazing, immobile. One thing alone ruffled his deep inward calm. This was the thought that he must presently put off from him all his splendour, and be his normal self.

The shadow passed from his brow. He would go forth as he was. He would be true to the motto he wore, and true to himself. A dandy he had lived. In the full pomp and radiance of his dandyism he would die.

His soul rose from calm to triumph. A smile lit his face, and he held his head higher than ever. He had brought nothing into this world and could take nothing out of it? Well, what he loved best he could carry with him to the very end; and in death they would not be divided.

The smile was still on his face as he passed out from his room. Down the stairs he passed, and "Oh," every stair creaked faintly, "I ought to have been marble!"

And it did indeed seem that Mrs. Batch and Katie, who had hurried out into the hall, were turned to some kind of stone at sight of the descending apparition. A moment ago, Mrs. Batch had been hoping she might yet at the last speak motherly words. A hopeless mute now! A moment ago, Katie's eyelids had been red with much

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/286


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/287

 weeping. Even from them the colour suddenly ebbed now. Dead-white her face was between the black pearl and the pink. "And this is the man of whom I dared once for an instant hope that he loved me!"—it was thus that the Duke, quite correctly, interpreted her gaze.

To her and to her mother he gave an inclusive bow as he swept slowly by. Stone was the matron, and stone the maid.

Stone, too, the Emperors over the way; and the more poignantly thereby was the Duke a sight to anguish them, being the very incarnation of what themselves had erst been, or tried to be. But in this bitterness they did not forget their sorrow at his doom. They were in a mood to forgive him the one fault they had ever found in him—his indifference to their Katie. And now—o mirum mirorum—even this one fault was wiped out.

For, stung by memory of a gibe lately cast at him by himself, the Duke had paused and, impulsively looking back into the hall, had beckoned Katie to him; and she had come (she knew not how) to him; and there, standing on the doorstep whose whiteness was the symbol of her love, he—very lightly, it is true, and on the upmost confines of the brow, but quite perceptibly—had kissed her.

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/287


text: Page:A Collection of the Acts passed by the Governor General of India in Council, 1875.djvu/186


text:
Page:The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy (Volume 5).pdf/115

 raised himself up, and sprung into the air, poising and upholding his whole weight upon the muscle and nerve of the said thumb, and so turned and whirled himself about three times: at the fourth, reversing his body and overturning it upside-down, and foreside back, without touching any thing, he brought himself betwixt the horse's two ears, and then giving himself a jerking swing, he seated himself upon the crupper"

(This can't be fighting, said my uncle Toby.—The corporal shook his head at it.—Have patience, said Yorick.)

"Then (Tripet) pass'd his right leg over his saddle, and placed himself en croup.—But, said he, 'twere better for me to get into the saddle; then putting the thumbs of both hands upon the crupper before him, and thereup-


text:
Page:The life and opinions of Tristram Shandy (Volume 5).pdf/116

 on leaning himself, as upon the only supporters of his body, he incontinently turned heels over head in the air, and straight found himself betwixt the bow of the saddle in a tolerable seat; then springing into the air with a summerset, he turned him about like a wind-mill, and made above a hundred frisks, turns and demi-pommadas."—(Good God! cried Trim, losing all patience,—one home thrust of a bayonet is worth it all.—I think so too, replied Yorick.

—I am of a contrary opinion, quoth my father.

No,—I think I have advanced nothing, replied my father, making answer to a question which Yorick had taken the liberty to put to him,—I have


text:
Page:A History of American Anthropology.pdf/14

2 The fall of Constantinople is generally reckoned by the historians as the starting of the Renaissance, but the greatest factor that contributed to that expansion of outlook and mentality which is so characteristic of any creative epoch, is the discovery of America in 1492. The phases of human activities are generally divisible into periods of expansion, stagnation, and contraction or decay. It is the superfluity of energy in a group that is first manifest in the restlessness that leads man to seek fair fields and pastures new. The psychological causes resulting in these more dynamic activities of human groups, far transcending previous creative that are some of the problems pursued by students of culture. True it is that the great Egyptologist Flinders Petrie, in his Revolutions of Civilizations tried to figure out a comparative chronological cycle of 1,500 years between the peak periods of the culture of any land, and the causes of such sudden bursts of activity he could only guess at as due to the arrival and assimilation of a new race. Spengler tried to arrive at a similar result by the comparative study of historical cultures in his book (marred, by its general pessimistic title and main thesis about the war) "Decline of the West." where he reduces the expansive period of a culture to a definite phase in a given zone, but fails to take note that the end of one culture is the beginning of a newer, higher, broader and deeper culture. It may be that ultimately the life of a culture will be pretty well determinable as the life of a living zygote, if culture is the product of the union biologically of favourable physical types and psycho-sociologically of stimulating idea-systems. But this point of view would leave out the fundamental facts of evolution for the culture of mankind as a whole, and ignore the fact that the culture of to-day has many things surpassing even the wildest dreams of earlier puissant peoples. Again, another recent anthropologist finds that the achievements of present civilization differ from those of the past in being more spectacular. It is only by realising that a new era dawned in the fifteenth century, which is far bigger in geographical objectivity than the culture of Greece or Rome at its highest, and the conse-


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/288

 And now he had passed under the little arch between the eighth and the ninth Emperor, rounded the Sheldonian, and been lost to sight of Katie, whom, as he was equally glad and sorry he had kissed her, he was able to dismiss from his mind.

In the quadrangle of the Old Schools he glanced round at the familiar labels, blue and gold, over the iron-studded doors,—Schola Theologiae et Antiquae Philosophiae; Museum Arundelianum; Schola Musicae. And Bibliotheca Bodleiana—he paused there, to feel for the last time the vague thrill he had always felt at sight of the small and devious portal that had lured to itself, and would always lure, so many scholars from the ends of the earth, scholars famous and scholars obscure, scholars polyglot and of the most diverse bents, but none of them not stirred in heart somewhat on the found threshold of the treasure-house. "How deep, how perfect, the effect made here by refusal to make any effect whatsoever!" thought the Duke. Perhaps, after all. . . but no: one could lay down no general rule. He flung

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/288


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/289

 his mantle a little wider from his breast, and proceeded into Radcliffe Square.

Another farewell look he gave to the old vast horse-chestnut that is called Bishop Heber's tree. Certainly, no: there was no general rule. With its towering and bulging masses of verdure tricked out all over in their annual finery of catkins, Bishop Heber's tree stood for the very type of ingenuous ostentation. And who should dare cavil? who not be gladdened? Yet awful, more than gladdening, was the effect that the tree made to-day. Strangely pale was the verdure against the black sky; and the multitudinous catkins had a look almost ghostly. The Duke remembered the legend that every one of these fair white spires of blossom is the spirit of some dead man who, having loved Oxford much and well, is suffered thus to revisit her, for a brief while, year by year. And it pleased him to doubt not that on one of the topmost branches, next Spring, his own spirit would be.

"Oh, look!" cried a young lady emerging with her brother and her aunt through the gate of Brasenose.

"For heaven's sake, Jessie, try to behave yourself," hissed her brother. "Aunt Mabel, for heaven's sake don't stare." He compelled the pair to walk on with him. "Jessie, if you look round over your shoulder . . . No, it is NOT the Vice-Chancellor. It's Dorset, of Judas—the

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/289


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/290

 Duke of Dorset. . . Why on earth shouldn't he? . . . No, it isn't odd in the least. . . No, I'm NOT losing my temper. Only, don't call me your dear boy. . . No, we will NOT walk slowly so as to let him pass us. . . Jessie, if you look round. . ."

Poor fellow! However fond an undergraduate be of his womenfolk, at Oxford they keep him in a painful state of tension: at any moment they may somehow disgrace him. And if throughout the long day he shall have had the added strain of guarding them from the knowledge that he is about to commit suicide, a certain measure of irritability must be condoned.

Poor Jessie and Aunt Mabel! They were destined to remember that Harold had been "very peculiar" all day. They had arrived in the morning, happy and eager despite the menace of the sky, and—well, they were destined to reproach themselves for having felt that Harold was "really rather impossible." Oh, if he had only confided in them! They could have reasoned with him, saved him—surely they could have saved him! When he told them that the "First Division" of the races was always very dull, and that they had much better let him go to it alone,—when he told them that it was always very rowdy, and that ladies were not supposed to be there—oh, why had they not guessed and clung to him, and kept him away from the river?

Well, here they were, walking on Harold's

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/290


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/291

 either side, blind to fate, and only longing to look back at the gorgeous personage behind them. Aunt Mabel had inwardly calculated that the velvet of the mantle alone could not have cost less than four guineas a yard. One good look back, and she would be able to calculate how many yards there were. . . She followed the example of Lot's wife; and Jessie followed hers.

"Very well," said Harold. "That settles it. I go alone." And he was gone like an arrow, across the High, down Oriel Street.

The two women stood staring ruefully at each other.

"Pardon me," said the Duke, with a sweep of his plumed hat. "I observe you are stranded; and, if I read your thoughts aright, you are impugning the courtesy of that young runagate. Neither of you, I am very sure, is as one of those ladies who in Imperial Rome took a saucy pleasure in the spectacle of death. Neither of you can have been warned by your escort that you were on the way to see him die, of his own accord, in company with many hundreds of other lads, myself included. Therefore, regard his flight from you as an act not of unkindness, but of tardy compunction. The hint you have had from him let me turn into a counsel. Go back, both of you, to the place whence you came."

"Thank you SO much," said Aunt Mabel, with what she took to be great presence of min

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/291


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/292

 d. "MOST kind of you. We'll do JUST what you tell us. Come, Jessie dear," and she hurried her niece away with her.

Something in her manner of fixing him with her eye had made the Duke suspect what was in her mind. Well, she would find out her mistake soon enough, poor woman. He desired, however, that her mistake should be made by no one else. He would give no more warnings.

Tragic it was for him, in Merton Street, to see among the crowd converging to the meadows so many women, young and old, all imprescient, troubled by nothing but the thunder that was in the air, that was on the brows of their escorts. He knew not whether it was for their escorts or for them that he felt the greater pity; and an added load for his heart was the sense of his partial responsibility for what impended. But his lips were sealed now. Why should he not enjoy the effect he was creating?

It was with a measured tread, as yesterday with Zuleika, that he entered the avenue of elms. The throng streamed past from behind him, parting wide, and marvelling as it streamed. Under the pall of this evil evening his splendour was the more inspiring. And, just as yesterday no man had questioned his right to be with Zuleika, so to-day there was none to deem him caparisoned too much. All the men felt at a glance that he, coming to meet death thus, did no mor

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/292


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/293

 e than the right homage to Zuleika—aye, and that he made them all partakers in his own glory, casting his great mantle over all commorients. Reverence forbade them to do more than glance. But the women with them were impelled by wonder to stare hard, uttering sharp little cries that mingled with the cawing of the rooks overhead. Thus did scores of men find themselves shamed like our friend Harold. But this, you say, was no more than a just return for their behaviour yesterday, when, in this very avenue, so many women were almost crushed to death by them in their insensate eagerness to see Miss Dobson.

To-day by scores of women it was calculated not only that the velvet of the Duke's mantle could not have cost less than four guineas a yard, but also that there must be quite twenty-five yards of it. Some of the fair mathematicians had, in the course of the past fortnight, visited the Royal Academy and seen there Mr. Sargent's portrait of the wearer, so that their estimate now was but the endorsement of an estimate already made. Yet their impression of the Duke was above all a spiritual one. The nobility of his face and bearing was what most thrilled them as they went by; and those of them who had heard the rumour that he was in love with that frightfully flashy-looking creature, Zuleika Dobson, were more than ever sure there wasn't a word of truth in it.

As he neared the end of the avenue,

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/293


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/294

 the Duke was conscious of a thinning in the procession on either side of him, and anon he was aware that not one undergraduate was therein. And he knew at once— did not need to look back to know—why this was. SHE was coming.

Yes, she had come into the avenue, her magnetism speeding before her, insomuch that all along the way the men immediately ahead of her looked round, beheld her, stood aside for her. With her walked The MacQuern, and a little bodyguard of other blest acquaintances; and behind her swayed the dense mass of the disorganised procession. And now the last rank between her and the Duke was broken, and at the revealed vision of him she faltered midway in some raillery she was addressing to The MacQuern. Her eyes were fixed, her lips were parted, her tread had become stealthy. With a brusque gesture of dismissal to the men beside her, she darted forward, and lightly overtook the Duke just as he was turning towards the barges.

"May I?" she whispered, smiling round into his face.

His shoulder-knots just perceptibly rose.

"There isn't a policeman in sight, John. You're at my mercy. No, no; I'm at yours. Tolerate me. You really do look quite wonderful. There, I won't be so impertinent as to praise you. Only let me be with you. Will you?"

The shoulder-knots repeated their answer.

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/294


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/295

"You needn't listen to me; needn't look at me—unless you care to use my eyes as mirrors. Only let me be seen with you. That's what I want. Not that your society isn't a boon in itself, John. Oh, I've been so bored since I left you. The MacQuern is too, too dull, and so are his friends. Oh, that meal with them in Balliol! As soon as I grew used to the thought that they were going to die for me, I simply couldn't stand them. Poor boys! it was as much as I could do not to tell them I wished them dead already. Indeed, when they brought me down for the first races, I did suggest that they might as well die now as later. Only they looked very solemn and said it couldn't possibly be done till after the final races. And oh, the tea with them! What have YOU been doing all the afternoon? Oh John, after THEM, I could almost love you again. Why can't one fall in love with a man's clothes? To think that all those splendid things you have on are going to be spoilt—all for me. Nominally for me, that is. It is very wonderful, John. I do appreciate it, really and truly, though I know you think I don't. John, if it weren't mere spite you feel for me—but it's no good talking about that. Come, let us be as cheerful as we may be. Is this the Judas house-boat?"

"The Judas barge," said the Duke, irritated by a mistake which but yesterday had rather charmed him.

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/295


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/296

As he followed his companion across the plank, there came dully from the hills the first low growl of the pent storm. The sound struck for him a strange contrast with the prattle he had perforce been listening to.

"Thunder," said Zuleika over her shoulder.

"Evidently," he answered.

Half-way up the stairs to the roof, she looked round. "Aren't you coming?" she asked.

He shook his head, and pointed to the raft in front of the barge. She quickly descended.

"Forgive me," he said, "my gesture was not a summons. The raft is for men."

"What do you want to do on it?"

"To wait there till the races are over."

"But—what do you mean? Aren't you coming up on to the roof at all? Yesterday—"

"Oh, I see," said the Duke, unable to repress a smile. "But to-day I am not dressed for a flying-leap."

Zuleika put a finger to her lips. "Don't talk so loud. Those women up there will hear you. No one must ever know I knew what was going to happen. What evidence should I have that I tried to prevent it? Only my own unsupported word—and the world is always against a woman. So do be careful. I've thought it all out. The whole thing must be SPRUNG on me. Don't look so horribly cynical . . . What was I saying? Oh yes; well, it doesn't really matter. I had it

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/296


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/297

 fixed in my mind that you— but no, of course, in that mantle you couldn't. But why not come up on the roof with me meanwhile, and then afterwards make some excuse and—" The rest of her whisper was lost in another growl of thunder.

"I would rather make my excuses forthwith," said the Duke. "And, as the races must be almost due now, I advise you to go straight up and secure a place against the railing."

"It will look very odd, my going all alone into a crowd of people whom I don't know. I'm an unmarried girl. I do think you might—"

"Good-bye," said the Duke.

Again Zuleika raised a warning finger.

"Good-bye, John," she whispered. "See, I am still wearing your studs. Good-bye. Don't forget to call my name in a loud voice. You promised."

"Yes."

"And," she added, after a pause, "remember this. I have loved but twice in my life; and none but you have I loved. This, too: if you hadn't forced me to kill my love, I would have died with you. And you know it is true."

"Yes." It was true enough.

Courteously he watched her up the stairs.

As she reached the roof, she cried down to him from the throng, "Then you will wait down there to take me home afterwards?"

He bo

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/297


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/298

 wed silently.

The raft was even more crowded than yesterday, but way was made for him by Judasians past and present. He took his place in the centre of the front row.

At his feet flowed the fateful river. From the various barges the last punt-loads had been ferried across to the towing-path, and the last of the men who were to follow the boats in their course had vanished towards the starting-point. There remained, however, a fringe of lesser enthusiasts. Their figures stood outlined sharply in that strange dark clearness which immediately precedes a storm.

The thunder rumbled around the hills, and now and again there was a faint glare on the horizon.

Would Judas bump Magdalen? Opinion on the raft seemed to be divided. But the sanguine spirits were in a majority.

"If I were making a book on the event," said a middle-aged clergyman, with that air of breezy emancipation which is so distressing to the laity, "I'd bet two to one we bump."

"You demean your cloth, sir," the Duke would have said, "without cheating its disabilities," had not his mouth been stopped by a loud and prolonged thunder-clap.

In the hush thereafter, came the puny sound of a gunshot. The boats were starting. Would Judas bump Magdalen? Would Judas be head of the river?

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/298


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/299

Strange, thought the Duke, that for him, standing as he did on the peak of dandyism, on the brink of eternity, this trivial question of boats could have importance. And yet, and yet, for this it was that his heart was beating. A few minutes hence, an end to victors and vanquished alike; and yet. ..

A sudden white vertical streak slid down the sky. Then there was a consonance to split the drums of the world's ears, followed by a horrific rattling as of actual artillery—tens of thousands of gun-carriages simultaneously at the gallop, colliding, crashing, heeling over in the blackness.

Then, and yet more awful, silence; the little earth cowering voiceless under the heavens' menace. And, audible in the hush now, a faint sound; the sound of the runners on the towing-path cheering the crews forward, forward.

And there was another faint sound that came to the Duke's ears. It he understood when, a moment later, he saw the surface of the river alive with infinitesimal fountains.

Rain!

His very mantle was aspersed. In another minute he would stand sodden, inglorious, a mock. He didn't hesitate.

"Zuleika!" he cried in a loud voice. Then he took a deep breath, and, burying his face in his mantle, pl

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/299


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/300

 unged.

Full on the river lay the mantle outspread. Then it, too, went under. A great roll of water marked the spot. The plumed hat floated.

There was a confusion of shouts from the raft, of screams from the roof. Many youths—all the youths there—cried "Zuleika!" and leapt emulously headlong into the water. "Brave fellows!" shouted the elder men, supposing rescue-work. The rain pelted, the thunder pealed. Here and there was a glimpse of a young head above water—for an instant only.

Shouts and screams now from the infected barges on either side. A score of fresh plunges. "Splendid fellows!"

Meanwhile, what of the Duke? I am glad to say that he was alive and (but for the cold he had caught last night) well. Indeed, his mind had never worked more clearly than in this swift dim underworld. His mantle, the cords of it having come untied, had drifted off him, leaving his arms free. With breath well-pent, he steadily swam, scarcely less amused than annoyed that the gods had, after all, dictated the exact time at which he should seek death.

I am loth to interrupt my narrative at this rather exciting moment—a moment when the quick, tense style, exemplified in the last paragraph but one, is so very desirable. But in justice to the gods I must pause to put in a word of excuse for them. They had imagined that it wa

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/300


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/301

 s in mere irony that the Duke had said he could not die till after the bumping-races; and not until it seemed that he stood ready to make an end of himself had the signal been given by Zeus for the rain to fall. One is taught to refrain from irony, because mankind does tend to take it literally. In the hearing of the gods, who hear all, it is conversely unsafe to make a simple and direct statement. So what is one to do? The dilemma needs a whole volume to itself.

But to return to the Duke. He had now been under water for a full minute, swimming down stream; and he calculated that he had yet another full minute of consciousness. Already the whole of his past life had vividly presented itself to him—myriads of tiny incidents, long forgotten, now standing out sharply in their due sequence. He had mastered this conspectus in a flash of time, and was already tired of it. How smooth and yielding were the weeds against his face! He wondered if Mrs. Batch had been in time to cash the cheque. If not, of course his executors would pay the amount, but there would be delays, long delays, Mrs. Batch in meshes of red tape. Red tape for her, green weeds for him—he smiled at this poor conceit, classifying it as a fair sample of merman's wit. He swam on through the quiet cool darkness, less quickly now. Not many more strokes now, he told himself; a few, only a few; then sleep. How was he come here? Some woman had sent

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/301


text:
Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/302

 him. Ever so many years ago, some woman. He forgave her. There was nothing to forgive her. It was the gods who had sent him—too soon, too soon. He let his arms rise in the water, and he floated up. There was air in that over-world, and something he needed to know there before he came down again to sleep.

He gasped the air into his lungs, and he remembered what it was that he needed to know.

Had he risen in mid-stream, the keel of the Magdalen boat might have killed him. The oars of Magdalen did all but graze his face. The eyes of the Magdalen cox met his. The cords of the Magdalen rudder slipped from the hands that held them; whereupon the Magdalen man who rowed "bow" missed his stroke.

An instant later, just where the line of barges begins, Judas had bumped Magdalen.

A crash of thunder deadened the din of the stamping and dancing crowd on the towing-path. The rain was a deluge making land and water as one.

And the conquered crew, and the conquering, both now had seen the face of the Duke. A white smiling face, anon it was gone. Dorset was gone down to his last sleep.

Victory and defeat alike forgotten, the crews staggered erect and flung themselves into the river, the slender boats capsizing and spinning futile around in a melley o

title: Page:Zuleika Dobson.djvu/302