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existence of angels (malak, pl. maláik), and their purity, are absolutely required to be believed in by the Qurán, and he is reckoned an infidel who denies that there are such beings, or hates any of them or asserts any distinction of the sexes. The Muhammadans reckon four archangels: (1) Jibráíl (Gabriel), who is God's messenger ; (2) Míkáíl (Michael), who is the protector of the Jews; (3) Isráfíl, who will sound the last trumpet at the resurrection; (4) Azráíl, the angel of death. Muhammad undoubtedly obtained the names of these archangels from the Scriptures and Jewish tradition, although in the Apocryphal Book of Enoch the names of the six archangels are Uriel, Raphael, Raguel, Michael, Sarakiel,


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42. 16

shall be proved: by the life of Pharaoh ye shall not go forth hence, except your youngest brother come hither.  Send one of you, and let him fetch your brother, and ye shall be bound, that your words may be proved, whether there be truth in you: or else by the life of Pharaoh surely ye are spies.  And he put them all together into ward three days.

And Joseph said unto them the third day, This do, and live: for I fear God:  if ye be true men, let one of your brethren be bound in your prison-house; but go ye, carry grain for the famine of your houses:  and bring your youngest brother unto me; so shall your words be verified, and ye shall not die. And they did so.  And they said one to another, We are verily guilty concerning our brother, in that we saw the distress of his soul, when he besought us, and we would not hear; therefore is this distress come upon us.  And Reuben answered them, saying, Spake I not unto you, saying, Do not sin against the child; and ye would not hear? therefore also, behold, his blood is required.  And they knew not that Joseph understood them; for there was an interpreter between them.  And he turned himself about from them, and wept; and he returned to them, and spake to them, and took Simeon from among them, and bound him before their eyes.  Then Joseph commanded to fill their vessels with grain, and to restore every man's money into his sack, and to give them provisions for the way: and thus was it done unto them.

And they laded their asses with their grain, and departed thence.  And as one of them opened his sack to give his ass provender in the lodging-place, he espied his money; and, behold, it was in the mouth of his sack.  And he said unto his brethren, My money is restored; and, lo, it is even in my sack: and their heart failed them, and they turned trembling one to another, saying, What is this that God hath done unto us?  And they came unto Jacob their father unto the land of Canaan, and told him all that had befallen them, saying,  The man, the lord of the land, spake roughly with us, and took us for spies of the country.  And we said unto him, We are true men; and we are no spies:  we are twelve brethren, sons of our father; one is not, and the youngest is this day with our father in the land of Canaan.  And the man, the lord of the land, said unto us, Hereby shall I know that ye are true men: leave one of your brethren with me, and take grain for the famine of your houses, and go your way;  and bring your youngest brother unto me: then shall I know that ye are no spies, but that ye are true men: so will I deliver you your brother, and ye shall traffic in the land.

And it came to pass as they emptied their sacks, that, behold, every man's bundle of money was in his sack: and when they and their father saw their bundles of money, they were afraid.  And Jacob their father said unto them, Me have ye bereaved of my children: Joseph is not, and Simeon is not, and ye will take Benjamin away: all these things are against me.  And Reuben spake unto his father, saying, Slay my two sons, if I bring him not to thee: deliver him into my hand, and I will bring him to thee again.  And he said, My son shall not go down with you; for his brother is dead, and he only is left: if harm befall him by the way in which ye go, then will ye bring down my gray hairs with sorrow to Sheol.

And the famine was sore in the land.  And it came to pass, when they had eaten up the grain which they had brought out of Egypt, their father said unto them, Go again, buy us a little food.  And Judah spake unto him, saying, The man did solemnly protest unto us, saying, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother be with you.  If thou wilt send our brother with us, we will go down and buy thee food:  but if thou wilt not send him, we will not go down; for the man said unto us, Ye shall not see my face, except your brother be with you.  And Israel said, Wherefore dealt ye so ill with me, as to tell the man whether ye had yet a brother?  And they said, The man asked straitly concerning ourselves, and Rh

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 futile is all this suffering and the heart pains and the misery.”

He did not answer, but his eyes travelled over the landscape at their feet. The wide expanse on that gay and sunny morning filled the heart with exultation. The trim little rice fields stretched as far as the eye could see and in many of them the blue-clad peasants with their buffaloes were working industriously. It was a peaceful and a happy scene. Kitty broke the silence.

“I can’t tell you how deeply moved I’ve been by all I’ve seen at the convent. They’re wonderful, those nuns, they make me feel utterly worthless. They give up everything, their home, their country, love, children, freedom; and all the little things which I sometimes think must be harder still to give up, flowers and green fields, going for a walk on an autumn day, books and music, comfort, everything they give up, everything. And they do it so that they may devote themselves to a life of sacrifice and poverty, obedience, killing work and prayer. To all of them this world is really and truly a place of exile. Life is a cross which they willingly bear, but in their hearts all the time is the desire—oh, it’s so much stronger than desire, it’s a longing, an eager, passionate longing for the death which shall lead them to life everlasting.”

Kitty clasped her hands and looked at him with anguish.

“Well?”

“Supposing there is no life everlasting? Think


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pretentiousness of a studio, especially a Washington Square studio, is quite often in inverse proportion to the merit of the pictures it gives up.

But Tommy Locke’s studio defeated this description by being a golden mean as to both propositions.

Indeed, Henry Post, the artist’s cynical friend, said that Locke’s draperies and his canvases showed a wonderfully similar lack of distinction.

And Kate Vallon had quickly added, “Let’s call them his appointments and disappointments.”

But Tommy Locke had only smiled comfortably and had gone on painting his interminable green and blue landscapes in which, if anybody cared for a certain vague misty charm—they did not find it entirely lacking.

And even if he had no high-backed, gilt-framed Italian arm-chairs and no armor or ragged priests’ robes, he often had good-looking bowls of even better looking flowers and he served first-rate tea, and somehow the neighbors loved to drift in and out of his nondescript rooms.

His ways were ways of pleasantness and all his paths were peace, yet though his chums were usually tolerant and broad-minded thinkers, there was little real Bohemianism in evidence, that is, the Bohemianism of what is known as The Village.

His few worthwhile bits of old furniture stood upon worthwhile old rugs and his specimens of artistic junk were few and far between.

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Yet, strangely enough, Tommy Locke himself affected the manner of the comic paper artist—at least, to a degree.

He wore his black hair a bit longer than other men, he wore his big round glasses with very heavy tortoise-shell frames, and he wore his collar soft and loose, with a flowing Windsor tie, usually black.

He was chaffed a bit now and then as to his inconsistencies, but it was generally admitted futile to try to get a rise out of old Tommy.

In fact he calmly stated that his get-up was the only real claim he had to being one of the noble army of artists, and Henry Post had glanced at the misty landscapes and murmured, “Some of your titles show latent talent, I think.”

“It’s so nice to be understood!” Locke had exclaimed. “Yes, I’ll say my ‘Monotony in Sagebrush’ is both meanful [sic] and catching.”

“If that’s all you want you may well have called it ‘The Mumps,’” Kate Vallon had reported.

These three and another, one Pearl Jane Cutler, formed a sort of chummy quartette, and, though they chummed but seldom, they did most of it in Tommy’s non-committal studio.

“If you’d have a splash of color over that blank looking window,” Kate would suggest, and Tommy would wave away the suggestion without a word.

Then would Pearl Jane, who was remarkably suggestive of Little Annie in Enoch Arden, say, plaintively, “I like it all—just as it is,” and Tommy’s beaming smile would be for her.

They had all finished laughing at her baptismal absurdity—she had been named for the two neighbors on either side of her mother’s house—and without a nickname, they

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 accepted her as Pearl Jane. It was as yet a question what she would sign her masterpieces of art, as she hadn’t, strictly speaking, produced them yet.

She hadn’t been in the city very long, but Washington Square claimed her for its own. She loved it—all four sides—and many of its byways. She dabbled away, with a brush that was, so far, incompetent and irrelevant, but she cheerfully insisted that she was finding herself, and that some day she would paint pictures like Tommy’s.

“Heaven forfend!” Post would cry out. “If you must copy, choose the billboard school, or the newspaper cartoon group, but don’t take aim for Tommy’s greenery dingles and blue glades.”

“Beautiful title!” Tommy mused; “‘The Blue Glades of Glengowrie’—I’ll do that next.”

“And that reminds me,” Kate said, she was always being inscrutably reminded, “our infant here, our Pearl Jane, has never been to a masquerade! A real one, I mean. She doesn’t count the Ivy Club Sociables in her Main Street home. Will you have one for her, Tommy? We’ll all help.”

“Better yet, I’ll paint one for her,” Locke said; “then she can see how one really looks.”

“No, she can’t,” Post declared. “You see, in your pictures, so much more is meant than meets the eye—and Pearl Jane wants her eyes met.”

“All right, then,” and Locke thought a minute. “Not a very big one, you said, didn’t you? And, no one asked but our own crowd, you insisted on, didn’t you? And you stipulated it would be small and early—am I not right? And if I am not mistaken, you said there’s no hurry about it.”

But he was set right on all these points, and the masquerade party for Pearl Jane was arranged in exactly the

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 fashion Kate Vallon and Henry Post deemed fitting and proper.

However, their ideas were much in line with Locke’s own, and so they made it only a few hours later and a few people larger than he consented to.

Pearl Jane was in ecstasies, and when the night came, and she was togged out in her Dutch Peasant costume, her already bobbed fair hair flying from under her stiff lace cap, she couldn’t wait for the hour and ran round to Tommy’s early.

She found him, garbed in a monk’s robe and cowl, standing before an easel, gazing at one of his own pictures.

“Do you really like it, Pearl Jane?” he said, almost wistfully, as she came up and stood at his side in silence.

“Yes, I do. They can guy you all they like—there’s something in your work—something of Manet—I mean Monet”

“Eeny, meeny, miney, mo!” he laughed, and turned to look at her. “Why, bless my soul, madam, you’ve suddenly grown up!”

“No, that’s ’cause this frock is longer than I usually wear. Do you like it?”

“Do blue and yellow make green? Yes, I like it. You’re a picture!”

“What’s the title?” asked another voice, and Kate and Post appeared.

“I think it might be called ‘The Puritan’s Carouse,’ Locke said, wresting his glance from the pretty Dutch girl. “Hello, Kate, you’re quite all right as a Contadina—Henry, not quite so good as a Spanish Don.”

“Ah, I’m not a Spanish Don—your mistake. I’m a Portuguese Man o’ War.”

“You look more like an Oscar Wilde.”

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“Take that back! Call me anything but like that overrated, underbred gyastyockus!”

“I thought he was a great poet,” Pearl Jane said, wonderingly. “I never read any of his”

“Don’t!” Post said, “I forbid it. There’s enough for you, yet unread. Pearl Jane, dear, without touching that Purple Jellyfish!”

“Some of his poems are fine,” Kate began, but Locke interrupted her:

“Only one—‘The Ballad of Reading Gaol’ is a great poem, but nothing else of his is worthy of consideration.”

Kate Vallon began to quote:

“Oh, I hate it!” Pearl Jane shuddered. “If it’s like that, I don’t want to read it!”

“No, you don’t,” Locke agreed; “besides, he’s out of date now. You stick to your John Masefield and Carl Sandburg.”

“I don’t know them very well,” the girl acknowledged, “they’re rather hard, I think.”

Now Pearl Jane Cutler was by no means a child or an ignoramus. But she had been simply brought up in a small town, and though fairly well grounded in the rudiments of Life and Literature, she had still quite a bit to learn, and was swallowing it in chunks—anaconda like. She was twenty-two, and carried a little more flesh on her young bones than the average all-city girl did. Kate Vallon, half a dozen years older, was keeping an eye on her,

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 and she thought maybe, perhaps, possibly, after a thousand years of study. Pearl Jane might learn to paint something noisier than clay pots and onions.

Chinese Charley appeared in the doorway.

“They arrive,” he said, a little laconically.

“Show them up,” Tommy ordered, as succinctly, and then the quartette hurried on their masks and the revel began.

Locke was a little surprised at the stream of people that flowed in. He was not inhospitable, and there was room enough, but he thought Post might have told him what he was up to. He said as much to Henry Post, who responded:

“I didn’t do it, Tommy, honest, I didn’t. But several whom I did invite, just casually said they might bring friends. I couldn’t say them nay—now could I?”

“Rather not,” said Locke, and turned to greet some new-comers.

But, in his mask, and his concealing robe and cowl, almost no one knew him, and so he had no duties as host. This suited him well enough, and he sauntered about, looking at the hackneyed costumes, recognizing some figure here and there, or mistakenly thinking he did.

The studio looked festive to-night, for Kate and Henry had insisted on a few decorations and had chosen Chinese lanterns and artificial cherry blossoms. These delighted the soul of Charley, Locke’s house-boy, and he gazed up at them, now and then, beatifically picturesque.

He was devoted to Locke, though so quiet of manner and scant of speech that there were no protestations, but he showed his affection in immaculate housekeeping and meticulous obedience to orders.

The place was not large; only the second floor entire, and a room or two on the first floor. Supper would be

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 served downstairs, so the big studio and one or two smaller rooms could be used for dancing. This left a small room for a smoking den, and Locke’s own bedroom for a ladies’ dressing room.

A small orchestra arrived and soon proved that it could make jazz music out of all proportion to its size.

Locke asked a Carmen to dance with him, thinking he knew her, but found he was again mistaken.

“Strange how merely a mask can disguise one so thoroughly,” he said; “I’d think the face only a small part of a personality.”

“Then it proves, practically, that the face is the whole individual,” Carmen returned, turning her mask a trifle until he saw a lovely cheek and curving lips. “But as you’ve never seen me before, you couldn’t be expected to know me.”

“I didn’t expect to, I merely thought you were someone else.”

“I know almost no one here,” Carmen said; “of course it makes no difference while we’re masked, but at supper time I shall know nobody.”

“That’s all right, I’ll introduce you about, and you’ll have made dozens of friends among your partners by that time. ”

“Who are you, Sir Monk, tell me that, at any rate.”

“My name would mean nothing to you—it’s entirely uncelebrated.”

“Tell me all the same”—the pretty voice was peremptory.

“Smith,” he replied, “John Smith.”

“And you call that name uncelebrated? One of the best known in the country. Fie, fie, Mr. Smith—just for that I shall call you John.”

“And I may call you?”

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“Mary—Mary Smith.”

“Miss Smith, then. I never begin to call the ladies by their first names until midnight—at least.”

“Tell me something—who is that woman in the gorgeous Oriental costume?”

“Where?”

“Over toward the hall door. See?”

“Oh, yes, I see. I haven’t the faintest idea who she is. But as I say, they’re all disguised from me. Besides, with this silly cowl, I can only see straight ahead! I might as well be a horse in blinders!”

“Can’t you take it off?”

“And spoil my real Cistercian rig! Never! Besides, I haven’t my tonsure on straight.”

“Do you know the host?” Carmen asked, suddenly.

“Do you mean, do I know him? or, do I know which one he is?”

“Both.”

“Yes, I am acquainted with him,” Locke said, truthfully, and mendaciously added, “but I don’t know which one he is. That Spanish Don, maybe. Don’t you know Locke at all?”

“No, but I’ve heard a lot of him.”

“Good, bad or rotten?”

“Not the last—they all say he’s a trump. But queer.”

“Queer, how?”

“Sort of a vagabond—goes off on jaunts by himself”

“Painting?”

“I suppose so. Is his work any good?”

“Middling. Not very little and not very big. But I think he’s happy in it.”

“I’m only happy when I’m dancing.”

“My heavens, I can’t dance all night!”

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Rh (1716-76) compiled a Swedish dictionary (1773), and wrote a Swedish grammar.


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“There are others! That’s what I was hinting!”

“How prettily rude you are! That’s the beauty of a masquerade—one can say anything.”

“Can one? Then listen! I know you! I know who you are!”

“Do you?” said Locke. “Well, I’m not so overwhelmed at that! I know who you are!”

“Ah, but I’m telling the truth—and you’re fibbing!”

And with a merry trill of laughter, Carmen disengaged herself from his clasping arm and ran away.

“Foolish chit!” Locke thought, and wandered about, looking for Pearl Jane.

The Dutch Girl was dancing with a Sailor Boy, and Locke stood to one side and watched them.

“Funny thing about Pearl Jane,” he thought; “she’s womanly—and all that—and yet she’s little more than a child. Lucky she has Kate beside her—Kate’s a trump. But Kate’s party here to-night is rubbish! I am bored already. However, the kiddy wanted her Bal Masque, and now she’s got it. I hope she’s enjoying herself. I wonder what she’ll grow up to. It will take a jolt of some sort to waken her. She’s a dear thing—but—well, she’s Pearl Jane!”

And then, he discovered he could claim her for a dance, and at once did so.

“How’s the party?” he inquired, as they swung off.

“Oh, it’s blissful! It’s double-distilled Paradise!”

“There, there, save your adjectives! Don’t be foolishly extravagant!”

“But don’t you think so? Don’t you just love it? All the lights and the people, and the jewels”

“Mock jewels.”

“What of it? Don’t be cynical to-night, Tommy—dear.”

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 what it means if death is really the end of all things. They’ve given up all for nothing. They’ve been cheated. They’re dupes.”

Waddington reflected for a little while.

“I wonder. I wonder if it matters that what they have aimed at is illusion. Their lives are in themselves beautiful. I have an idea that the only thing which makes it possible to regard this world we live in without disgust is the beauty which now and then men create out of the chaos. The pictures they paint, the music they compose, the books they write, and the lives they lead. Of all these the richest in beauty is the beautiful life. That is the perfect work of art.”

Kitty sighed. What he said seemed hard. She wanted more.

“Have you ever been to a symphony concert?” he continued.

“Yes,” she smiled. “I know nothing of music, but I’m rather fond of it.”

“Each member of the orchestra plays his own little instrument, and what do you think he knows of the complicated harmonies which unroll themselves on the indifferent air? He is concerned only with his own small share. But he knows that the symphony is lovely, and: though there’s none to hear it, it is lovely still, and he is content to play his part.”

“You spoke of Tao the other day,” said Kitty, after a pause. “Tell me what it is.”

Waddington gave her a little look, hesitated an instant, and then with a faint smile on his comic face answered:


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His heart missed a beat, as he caught something in her tone that he had never heard there before.

He must have shown his perception of it, for he saw a rosy blush beneath the edge of her little mask, and he hastened to say, “No, it doesn’t matter that they’re mock jewels—for they’re mock people.”

“Yes,” she said, softly, “all but you and me.”

Locke was nonplussed. He didn’t know whether Pearl Jane was trying to make love to him, or whether the gayety of the occasion had gone to her head a little. He decided on the latter opinion, and steered the talk into a safer channel.

And yet, he couldn’t help thinking, she was very sweet, the soft little chin that nestled against his shoulder, the curve of the cheek that still showed pink, and most of all the bright happy eyes that now and then met his through the eyeholes of their masks.

Clearly, he decided, I’d better get away from her. She’ll enchant me in another minute—and that won’t do. Little Pearl Jane! Waking up! Oh, Lord!

So, with a graceful bow, he handed her to a waiting and eager Clown, and sauntered off himself to do a duty dance with Kate.

Not but that he liked Kate Vallon, but after all, Locke was not overly fond of dancing, and he had a dim idea of retreating to the smoking room as soon as might be.

“Buck up,” said Kate, after a few rounds, “you’re a good dancer, Tommy, but you have no soul in it.”

“I’d rather paint,” Locke returned. “Wouldn’t you, Kate?”

“Yes, I would. I’d rather do lots of things. But we’re a few years older than Pearl Jane, or Henry, either. How old are you, Tommy?”

“Twenty-eight; why?”

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“So’m I. Well, after twenty, nowadays, one gets fed up with dancing.”

“Nonsense, lots of old ones love it. I never was keen about it. Want to sit out a while?”

“Yes, but not with you! Find Jack Henderson for me, won’t you? He’s a Continental Soldier.”

Not at all minding Kate’s candor, Locke went after the man she preferred. He looked about in the rooms, and then went downstairs in his search. The staircase was crowded, and as he passed a “Winter,” he heard her say, “How very warm it is—I must have some air!”

He turned to see if he could be of assistance, but others were nearer her, so he went on.

He found Henderson and sent him to Kate.

“My, but I’m glad to be summoned,” the cheery Henderson said, as he reached her. “I didn’t dare intrude till I was sent for.”

After a few moments they concluded the room was too crowded for chat, and they started for a tiny balcony that gave from a rear window.

“What’s that?” cried Henderson, as they passed through the little smoking room, dimly lighted and now deserted.

“What’s what?”

“That on the floor, behind the table!”

“Looks like a pillow from a couch,” and Kate glanced toward some gay colored silk that lay in folds.

“It isn’t! Kate—stay back!”

Henderson took another step, and gave a startled exclamation.

“Keep back, I tell you, Kate. There’s been some awful accident. Call some one—some man. Call Locke and Post first. Wait, don’t raise a general alarm. Get that Chinese servant.”

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“What is it, Jack? I will see! Oh, my God!”

Kate Vallon pulled herself together by strong will power.

“Who is it? Take off her mask!”

“I—oh, I can’t! Get Locke—do, Kate!”

Kate ran through the rooms, and though she didn’t see Locke just then, she saw Henry Post and bade him go at once to the smoking room.

He did so, and Kate continued her hunt for Charley, trying to keep from screaming out.

“What is it?” Post asked, coming into the dimly lighted room.

“Something terrible,” Henderson said, gravely. “See here, Post, this woman is dead. I’ve felt her heart—and I tell you, man, she’s dead.”

“Who is she?”

“I’ve no idea. A stranger. I wouldn’t raise her mask when Kate was here, but I’ve done so now, and I don’t know her.”

“My heavens! What shall we do? What ought we to do?”

“First get Locke. Also Chinese Charley. And as you go out, shut the door. I don’t fancy being here alone—but you must shut the door to keep the women out. Then—oh, I don’t know what then! Get Locke first.”

Henry Post gone, Henderson again looked at the woman’s features. She was beautiful, save for an awful wound where something had crashed down on her temple, and had surely killed her.

“What a strange accident!” Henderson thought. “If she had fallen against a fender now—but there’s no mantelpiece in this room. I wonder if there’s a doctor here. I ought to call one. It can do no harm to leave the poor thing alone for a minute—I won’t go past the door.”

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Half uncertainly he rose and went to the door into the studio.

Slightly opening it, he asked the first man he saw to see if any doctor was present and would come to him at once.

“I’ll get one,” and the youth hurried away.

And in a moment he was back, with Doctor Gannett.

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 80 Gabriel—a fact which may be cited as an additional proof, that when Muhammad availed himself of Jewish traditions, he quoted or adopted them with the same want of accuracy as when he appealed to the Divine word of God.

There are also the two recording angels called the Muaʾqqibát, or the angels who continually succeed each other, who record the good and evil actions of a man, one standing at his right hand and another on his left. These are also called the Kirám-ul-Kátibín (the exalted writers). The angel who has charge of Heaven is Rezwán and the angel who presides over Hell is Málik.

Munkar and Nakír are described by Muhammad as two black angels with blue eyes who visit every man in his grave, make him sit up, and examine him as to his faith in God and in Muhammad his prophet. If the answer is satisfactory, he will be allowed to sleep on in peace, but if he replies that he knows nothing of "God's Apostle," then he will be struck with an iron hammer called Mitraqat, and he will roar out, and his cries will be heard by all animals that may be near his grave, excepting


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 “It is the Way and the Waygoer. It is the eternal road along which walk all beings, but no being made it, for itself is being. It is everything and nothing. From it all things spring, all things conform to it, and to it at last all things return. It is a square without angles, a sound which ears cannot hear, and an image without form. It is a vast net and though its meshes are as wide as the sea it lets nothing through. It is the sanctuary where all things find refuge. It is nowhere, but without looking out of the window you may see it. Desire not to desire, it teaches, and leave all things to take their course. He that humbles himself shall be preserved entire. He that bends shall be made straight. Failure is the foundation of success and success is the lurking-place of failure; but who can tell when the turning point will come? He who strives after tenderness can become even as a little child. Gentleness brings victory to him who attacks and safety to him who defends. Mighty is he who conquers himself.”

“Does it mean anything?”

“Sometimes, when I’ve had half a dozen whiskies and look at the stars, I think perhaps it does.”

Silence fell upon them and when it was broken it was again by Kitty.

“Tell me, is: the dog it was that died, a quotation?”

Waddington’s lips outlined a smile and he was ready with his answer. But perhaps at that moment his sensibilities were abnormally acute. Kitty was not looking at him, but there was something about her expression which made him change his mind.


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admitted Doctor Gannett and stood nervously waiting as the physician stooped over the prostrate form.

Almost impatiently he pulled off the mask and tore away the filmy veil which still hid the lower portion of the face, and Henderson noticed with increased pain what a lovely face it was. Strangely enough, it was not highly colored artificially, indeed, it could scarcely be said to be made up at all.

Jack Henderson was impressionable and he turned his glance away as the doctor remorselessly, though gently, moved the wounded head and peered into the dead eyes.

Then the medical man looked up wonderingly and gazed around.

“What hit her?” he said, with a puzzled frown. “Unless she fell against something, she must have been—attacked—here, we have it!”

As he brushed aside the voluminous draperies of the Oriental costume he found that some folds of silk had covered what was without doubt the instrument of death.

It was a heavy bronze book-end, shaped like the head of a Sphinx. A quick glance showed the mate to it on the table near by.

“She was hit on the temple by this weight,” the doctor said, gravely. “It is highly improbable that the bronze was on the floor and she fell on it—it looks far more like”

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“Don’t say it!” Henderson cried. “Who could do such a thing? Here in Tommy’s place?”

“It is certain that she did not fall on it,” the doctor went on. “Had she done so, her head would be nearer the bronze. As you see, it was down by her knees—it was hidden by her tunic. It was used as a club”

“Or as a missile,” Henderson added.

The doctor looked up quickly. “You’re sharp,” he said. “Yes, or as a missile. And if the latter, it was a strong arm and an angry man who flung it!”

“Who is she?”

“I’ve no idea. But I know few people here. I just ran in for a few minutes at the invitation of a friend.”

Doctor Gannett himself had worn a simple black domino, which he had already thrown aside, appearing in ordinary evening dress.

He turned from the body on the floor, and said, “We must notify the police. I think the best thing is to call in the officer on the beat and let him take charge. Where is Mr. Locke?”

“He will be here as soon as they can get hold of him,” Henderson returned, beginning to wonder himself why he, who knew Locke only slightly, was thrust into this prominent position.

Gannett opened the door, to find many anxious, horrified people crowding about.

“Where is Mr. Locke?” he spoke, commandingly. “Bring him here, somebody. And somebody else ask the policeman outside to come in. If you don’t see him promptly, telephone Headquarters. There has been a very serious accident. No one must leave the house until some investigation is made. And now, who knows the name of the lady who appeared in a very handsome Oriental costume,

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 with many veils and scarves and jewels—and a turban with waving feathers?”

“White Paradise feathers?” asked an excited girl. “There was only one costume like that!”

“Yes,” and “I remember it!” and such assents fell from the lips of many.

The startled, huddled crowd, with ordinary human curiosity, strove to get nearer the door of the little smoking den, and the men who hurried to carry out the doctor’s orders pushed through as best they could.

Henry Post and Kate Vallon met these messengers in the hall downstairs.

“Where is Mr. Locke?” one said, as the other went for the policeman.

“I haven’t found him yet,” Post replied. “He must be about somewhere.”

“We must find him—they’ve called the police.”

“The police!” Kate exclaimed, “oh, what for?”

“I—I don’t know exactly—but nobody must leave the house.”

“Indeed we will leave the house!” Kate said. “Henry, I shall take Pearl Jane away at once. That child shan’t be mixed up in any police affair! You stay here, Henry, and find Tommy, and see the thing through. I’ll find Pearl Jane and take her home.”

“Better not,” the young man advised. He was a lawyer named Jarvis, and he seemed to speak with authority,

“Why?” asked Kate.

“It’s a pretty grave matter to leave a house where a mysterious death has occurred—after you’re ordered not to.”

“But that’s only Doctor Gannett’s order. Not the law.”

“You’d better stay,” Jarvis advised. “You’ll be interviewed

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 even if you run away—so why not face the music here?”

“I don’t mind for myself,” Kate said, slowly, “I’m thinking of Pearl Jane.”

“Little Miss Cutler?” Jarvis asked. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know—I can’t seem to find anybody. It’s queer where Tommy can be. And Charley—where can he have gone to?”

“Perhaps they’ve gone up to the smoking room by the back stairs,” Post suggested. “They’re doubtless there—because—because they aren’t anywhere else,” he concluded a little lamely.

“I didn’t know there was a back stairs,” Kate exclaimed. “Let us go that way.”

“Do you want to go back to—to that room?” Post said.

“Yes, I do,” Kate returned. “I want to stand by Tommy if there’s going to be trouble. But more, I want to find that child.”

“Perhaps she’s up there,” Jarvis suggested.

“Let’s go and see.”

But before they could start, an officer came in at the front door.

“What’s up?” he inquired, not greatly disturbed at the fact that all the people he saw were in fantastic costumes. Washington Square policemen are not easily surprised.

They told him, and Kate suggested the back stairs.

“No,” he said, and strode up the main staircase.

He stormed his way through the shuddering crowd, who willingly fell back for his passing, and opened the door of the smoking room.

Crossing to where the still figure lay, he gave a brief but comprehending glance at it, then after a few low words to Doctor Gannett, he said, “I’ll telephone the Precinct Station—

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 they’ll send men. Where’s the boss—the man of the house? Locke, isn’t he?”

“Yes, do you know him?” Gannett asked.

“By sight, I see him now and then. Nice quiet chap. Who’s the lady?”

“We don’t know. But she was one of Mr. Locke’s guests.”

“All right. Now, look here, nobody must leave this house. Nobody must touch the body. Nobody more must come into this room. I don’t say that woman was murdered—but it looks like that to me. So, doctor, go out and tell the people what I say—and hold them.”

But Doctor Gannett found this no easy task.

Heedless of the law’s commands, several insisted loudly that they were going home. Others slipped away stealthily. But many stayed because they were afraid to disobey orders, and some because they were held by curiosity.

Of course, all masks were removed, and some of those less interested in the “accident” as it was still called, began to drift toward the supper room.

Here they found the waiters had fled in terror, and they helped themselves to the viands.

“Shall I send the orchestra away?” Post asked the policeman, and he was permitted to do so.

“It’s too dreadful,” he said to Kate, “to have that jazz band sitting there silent.”

“Where’s Tommy?” was Kate’s only reply.

“I’m going to find him,” Post said, resolutely, and started on a systematic search of the premises.

And then the police came.

“I’m Inspector Dickson,” one said, apparently speaking to any one who would listen. “Who’s in charge here?”

No one answered, until Doctor Gannett said, “It’s Mr. Locke’s house, but we haven’t located him yet.”

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Page:William John Sparrow-Simpson - Roman Catholic Opposition to Papal Infallibility (1909).djvu/266

 246 assertions, Parliament admitted the English Catholics to civil liberty. How will Protestants believe that Catholics are loyal to their honour and good faith if they see them acquiring political advantage by professing that Papal Infallibility is no part of the Catholic religion, and afterwards, when those advantages are secured, departing from their public profession and asserting the contrary?

Bishop Purcell, an American Bishop, was of opinion that a definition of Papal Infallibility would be not only inopportune but also dangerous. It would, if passed, effectually frustrate conversions in the United States. Bishops in controversy with Protestants will be unable to refute them: for Protestants will say, "Hitherto this doctrine was, so you asserted, an optional opinion in the Church; now you declare it to be a dogma of the faith. Either therefore your former assertion was untrue, or the doctrine of the Church has suffered variation. In which case, what becomes of your objection to Protestant variations?"

Another Bishop, on the contrary, maintained that the definition was not only opportune, but also necessary, in order to deepen reverence for highest authority, and to suppress the systematic rebellion which is very widely spread. He desires that a Canon should be formulated to anathematise all who hold the opposite view.

Another Bishop declared that he could see no necessity for any definition. If there were, eighteen centuries would not have elapsed without one or other of the Councils defining it. Nor could he see the least utility. They who will not hear the Church certainly will not hear the Pope. In the present discussion now raging evil influences daily increase. There were many


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Dickson gave him a sharp look, but asked no more questions.

Accompanied by two of his companions, a special detective and a deputy from the office of the Chief Medical Examiner, he went upstairs at once, while two plain clothes men took charge of the halls and stairway.

“Get busy, Doctor Babcock,” Dickson said, and the examiner proceeded to his duty.

Detective Hutchins joined in the examination, and in only a few minutes they announced that the victim had been killed by the bronze book-end, thrown by some one else.

“Here’s the other book-end on this table,” Hutchins said; “presumably, the assailant stood here and threw the thing. It may be, however, that he lifted it from the table and moved nearer to his victim and merely hit her with it”

“No; it was thrown,” Doctor Babcock declared. “The nature of this abrasion on the temple proves that. It wasn’t such a very hard blow—as it must have been, if effected nearer by. Indeed, if it hadn’t struck just where it did, it would have made a bad bruise, but needn’t necessarily have been fatal.”

“But it was fatal,” pursued the detective, “and it was the work of another. Therefore, it is homicide, and we must proceed accordingly. Where’s the man of the house?”

Nobody answered, and the police all showed their surprise.

“Has he vamoosed?” asked Hutchins quickly. “Hunt for him, Briggs. You know him, don’t you?”

Briggs, the officer first called in, said that he did, and he went on his search.

“Now until he’s found, somebody must be at the head of

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 things,” Hutchins went on. He went to the door of the studio and looked at the group of people remaining there.

Though the detective seemed unimpressed, it was a strange sight. The motley crowd, in the gay garments of the masquerade, yet all showing anxious, curious faces, was incongruous, even grotesque.

Young girls shuddered and drew nearer their escorts or the elder women. The men were deeply concerned—they understood better what must be before them.

“Until Mr. Locke appears,” Hutchins said, in a stern voice, “who is his nearest relative or friend? Who will represent him for the moment?”

For a minute no one replied, and then Jarvis, the lawyer, said, “Not in any legal way, but as a friend of Mr. Locke, you may report to me. I am Rodman Jarvis—here is my card.”

The man had come in the guise of a Troubadour. He had laid aside, with his mask, his feathered hat and his guitar. But he had brought his pocketbook and as he proffered the card, he seemed all conscious of his unusual costume. Nor was it unbecoming. A tall, well set-up young fellow, he was quite at ease, and deeply interested in the proceedings.

Hutchins looked at him steadily.

“You’re a friend of Mr. Locke?”

“Yes.”

“An intimate friend?”

“I shouldn’t put it that way. But a good pal, and ready to do anything I can for him.”

“Very well. Stay by me. Now, who of all you present can identify the lady who has been—injured? Surely some one here knows her.”

No one responded, except those who declared they did not know her.

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43. 8

concerning our kindred, saying, Is your father yet alive? have ye [another] brother? and we told him according to the tenor of these words: could we in any wise know that he would say, Bring your brother down?  And Judah said unto Israel his father, Send the lad with me, and we will arise and go; that we may live, and not die, both we, and thou, and also our little ones.  I will be surety for him; of my hand shalt thou require him: if I bring him not unto thee, and set him before thee, then let me bear the blame for ever:  for except we had lingered, surely we had now returned a second time.  And their father Israel said unto them, If it be so now, do this: take of the choice fruits of the land in your vessels, and carry down the man a present, a little balm, and a little honey, spicery and myrrh, nuts, and almonds;  and take double money in your hand; and the money that was returned in the mouth of your sacks carry again in your hand; peradventure it was an oversight:  take also your brother, and arise, go again unto the man:  and God Almighty give you mercy before the man, that he may release unto you your other brother and Benjamin. And if I be bereaved of my children, I am bereaved.  And the men took that present, and they took double money in their hand, and Benjamin; and rose up, and went down to Egypt, and stood before Joseph.

And when Joseph saw Benjamin with them, he said to the steward of his house, Bring the men into the house, and slay, and make ready; for the men shall dine with me at noon.  And the man did as Joseph bade; and the man brought the men to Joseph's house.  And the men were afraid, because they were brought to Joseph's house; and they said, Because of the money that was returned in our sacks at the first time are we brought in; that he may seek occasion against us, and fall upon us, and take us for bondmen, and our asses.  And they came near to the steward of Joseph's house, and they spake unto him at the door of the house,  and said, Oh, my lord, we came indeed down at the first time to buy food:  and it came to pass, when we came to the lodging-place, that we opened our sacks, and, behold, every man's money was in the mouth of his sack, our money in full weight: and we have brought it again in our hand.  And other money have we brought down in our hand to buy food: we know not who put our money in our sacks.  And he said, Peace be to you, fear not: your God, and the God of your father, hath given you treasure in your sacks: I had your money. And he brought Simeon out unto them.  And the man brought the men into Joseph's house, and gave them water, and they washed their feet. And he gave their asses provender.  And they made ready the present against Joseph's coming at noon: for they heard that they should eat bread there.

And when Joseph came home, they brought him the present which was in their hand into the house, and bowed down themselves to him to the earth.  And he asked them of their welfare, and said, Is your father well, the old man of whom ye spake? Is he yet alive?  And they said, Thy servant our father is well, he is yet alive. And they bowed the head, and made obeisance.  And he lifted up his eyes, and saw Benjamin his brother, his mother's son, and said, Is this your youngest brother, of whom ye spake unto me? And he said, God be gracious unto thee, my son.  And Joseph made haste; for his heart yearned over his brother: and he sought where to weep; and he entered into his chamber, and wept there.  And he washed his face, and came out; and he refrained himself, and said, Set on bread.  And they set on for him by himself, and for them by themselves, and for the Egyptians, that did eat with him, by themselves: because the Egyptians might not eat bread with the Hebrews; for that is an abomination unto the Egyptians.  And they sat before him, the first-born according to his birthright, and the youngest according to his youth: and the men marvelled one with another.  And Rh


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“You saw her only when masked,” Hutchins said, reflectively.

“Yes,” put in a vivacious young woman, “and besides her mask she had about seven veils round her face and throat! I might know her if I saw her face.”

This was a new idea to the detective.

“True,” he said; “I shall have to ask you all to look at her. At least, until some one can identify her.”

It was soon arranged, and by permission of the examiner the body was laid on the divan in the smoking room. Hutchins took good care to shut off by chairs the part of the room where it had lain, for it seemed to his quick eye there was much to be learned from the conditions there. Already he had noted a cigarette end, and many spangles.

But he had much to do, and such investigation could wait.

Dickson and the detective directed the line of people that must pass by the divan and tell all they knew concerning the pathetic figure that lay there.

The scene was appalling. Girls became hysterical, women sobbed violently, and even the men were deeply agitated. The masquerade costumes only accented the horror, and like a strange, weird pageant the line filed by.

Toward the last came Kate Vallon and Henry Post.

They had not found Tommy, neither had they found Chinese Charley.

And, worst of all, they had not found Pearl Jane.

Post tried to comfort Kate by saying that he was sure the girl had run away home, but Kate was not so sure of this.

They could only wonder at the absence of all those they had searched for.

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As these two reached the divan each looked long and earnestly at the dead woman.

They saw a sweet young face, pretty and natural. The contusion did not show, as the doctors had turned the head on that side.

The eyes were closed, and the cheeks showed a slight tinge of rouge. The lips were not made up at all, and were already pale.

The costume was exquisite. The finest type of Oriental magnificence, with full silk trousers, a voluminous tunic, dainty bodice and jacket, all of rich, soft silk, in gorgeous coloring and ornamented with glittering sequins and mock jewels.

On her hands beside a wedding ring, were several gaudy paste gems, quite evidently part of the costume. All of her head-gear had been removed and her hair, though disordered somewhat, was soft and plentiful.

On her feet were jeweled and embroidered Turkish slippers and fine silk stockings.

“How lovely!” was Kate’s involuntary exclamation. “But, who is she?”

“I’ve not the faintest idea,” Post said; “I’ve never seen her before, I’m sure of that. And I don’t believe Tommy ever did, either—she isn’t our sort, Kate. As to Tommy’s skipping—nonsense—he’s taken Pearl Jane home—that’s where he’s gone.”

And no one on the line of spectators knew the unfortunate woman.

Hutchins was shrewd and he watched eagerly to find some one who seemed to dissemble, or who seemed ill at ease beyond the natural horror of the occasion. But he found none such, and after the ordeal was over, he was convinced, that so far he had neither any clue to the identity of the criminal nor the victim.

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Dickson sighed. He was up against a hard case, and the odds were against him. His men were searching high and low for the man of the house, and for his servant. He didn’t believe that Locke had merely gone to escort a guest home. If he were the right sort of a man he would have sent some one with her and remained himself at his own home.

Hutchins agreed to this, and leaving the room by the back way he began a search himself.

As he closed the door behind him, his quick ears caught a stifled sob.

It seemed to come from a closed closet, and, throwing opened the door and, striking a match, simultaneously, he discovered some one huddled among a lot of canvases and artists’ odds and ends.

“Come out! Who are you?” he ordered, sharply, but changed his tone as he clutched at the arm of a trembling girl.

“Oh,” she sobbed, “oh, what shall I do?”

“Do, miss? Why, just come out, and tell me who you are. Don’t be afraid of me—if you’ve nothing else to be afraid of! What’s your name?”

“I’m Miss Cutler,” and, somehow, meeting this crisis seemed to give her back her nerve. “I was—I was frightened—so—so I hid.”

“I see you did,” Hutchins remarked, dryly, his own sympathy for her waning, as she recovered her poise. “Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Hide—of course. You didn’t do anything else—did you? Nothing wrong, now?”

“No, of course I didn’t!” she began gravely, but broke down again and sobbed.

“May I go home? Oh, please let me go home.”

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“You can go pretty soon. I see you were at the party.”

The Dutch Peasant costume, though still effective, was crumpled and wet with tears, and, though Hutchins’ heart almost stood still as he saw it, there was certainly a small stain on the sleeve that looked like blood.

Without another word he drew her quickly into the den, and took her straight to the divan.

“Miss Cutler,” he said, as he grasped her arm firmly, “did you kill that woman?”

“No!” she shrieked, and fainted away.

“No need to be brutal, Hutchins,” Doctor Babcock cried, as he took the unconscious girl into his charge.

“Why, it’s Pearl Jane!” cried Miss Vallon. “Henry, here she is! Where did you find her?”

Kate spoke to the doctor, not having heard Hutchins’ question to the girl.

“She was hiding in a back closet,” the detective answered her. “I must hold her—till she can explain some matters. Keep her by you, Doctor. Or let Dickson do it. I’m off to find Locke now.” And again the detective started down those back stairs.

“Well,” Dickson looked sadly at his wits’ end. “This is sure a mysterious case. Here’s a dead woman and nobody knows who she is, or who did for her. Next, there’s nobody to make a report to—except that lawyer chap—and he seems to me a little hit too smart. Yes, he is, a little too smart.”

Dickson was talking to the Medical Examiner, who had succeeded in restoring Pearl Jane to her senses, but wouldn’t yet allow her to talk.

They were in the smoking room, which they kept cleared of all save those they wished to interview. The studio

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 and halls were guarded and policemen were stationed out side the house, which no one was as yet allowed to leave or enter.

An officer from outside came to Dickson.

“Here’s a go,” he said; “there’s a swell car out there, and the chauffeur says he has orders to wait for his missus, and she hasn’t come out and he wants to know if she can be let to go.”

“Who is his mistress?”

“Mrs. Barham—Mrs. Andrew Barham.”

“Oh, the society people. I’ve heard the name. Well, get Mrs. Barham from the studio and let me speak to her.”

In the studio a plain clothes man was industriously taking the names and addresses of the guests, preparatory to dismissing some of them at least.

As yet he had not the name of Mrs. Barham, and no one responded to his query for it.

“Maybe she went home,” some one said. “A few did go.”

“She would have gone in her car, then,” the officer argued; “the chauffeur has been waiting here since before eleven.”

“What time is it now?”

“Eleven-thirty. I say,” he jerked his head over his shoulder, “maybe that’s her!”

“Get the chauffeur up here,” the other said, gravely.

And when he arrived he was asked concerning the costume his mistress wore when he brought her to the house.

“I don’t know, sir,” Louis said; “she had on a large dark cloak.”

“Don’t waste time,” said Dickson, shortly. “Show him the body.”

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Page:The Painted Veil - Maugham - 1925.djvu/236

 “If it is I don’t know it,” he answered warily.

“Why?”

“Nothing. Itcrossed my mind. It had a familiar ring.”

There was another silence.

“When you were alone with your husband,” said Waddington presently, “I had a talk with the regimental surgeon. I thought we ought to have some details.”

“Well?”

“He was in a very hysterical state. I couldn’t really quite understand what he meant. So far as I can make out your husband got infected during the course of experiments he was making.”

“He was always experimenting. He wasn’t really a doctor, he was a bacteriologist; that is why he was so anxious to come here.”

“But I can’t quite make out from the surgeon’s statements whether he was infected accidentally or whether he was actually experimenting on himself.”

Kitty grew very pale. The suggestion made her shudder. Waddington took her hand.

“Forgive me for talking about this again,” he said gently, “but I thought it might comfort you—I know how frightfully difficult it is on these occasions to say anything that is of the least use—I thought it might mean something to you that Walter died a martyr to science and to his duty.”

Kitty shrugged her shoulders with a suspicion of impatience.

“Walter died of a broken heart,” she said.


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Page:History of the Literature of the Scandinavian North.djvu/370

352 for a long time the main source of Swedish history throughout Europe. An equally conscientious investigator, and at the same time the master of an excellent style, was (1724-90), who, in his "Utkast till svenska folkets historia," which was not completed, also paid considerable attention to Sweden's internal history. (1716-94), a relative of the great scientist, Celsius, wrote in a noble and attractive style a history of Gustav I and Erich XIV, and also the beginning of an ecclesiastical history. (1712-89) was called "the Swedish Tacitus," on account of his condensed, pithy style. Among his best works are a few memoirs, particularly one that was written in commemoration of Karl Gustav Tessin (1695-1770), a man who rendered great services to the arts and sciences. Tessin, to whom Sweden is largely indebted for her many excellent collections of art, was himself an eminent writer, and produced many works of note. As tutor to Prince Gustav (subsequently Gustav III), he wrote his celebrated "En gammal mans bref till en ung Prins" (Letters from an old man to a young prince).

The Swedish was made the subject of a thorough and scientific treatment, and to the excellent linguists of this period belongs the credit that the French influence, which was so powerful both in art and literature, was unable to affect the language. The Swedish tongue continued to progress in purity and beauty. The greatest of these linguists, (1707-80), published a number of works on Swedish, Old Norse, Mæso-Gothic, etc., and an excellent "Glossarium Sviogothicum," which still retains its value undiminished. (1703-86) made a scientific study of the Swedish dialects. The above-named Botin wrote a celebrated essay on "Svenska Språket i tal och skrift;" and


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So Louis, the chauffeur of Madeleine Barham was taken in to look at the still figure in the Oriental garb.

“It is Madame,” he said, startled into a scared trembling.

“Her name?”

“Mrs. Andrew Barham.”

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 ] facts of history better buried in oblivion, which this discussion proclaims abroad. So much for the opportuneness of the dogma. What if the doctrine itself be without secure foundation? Quite recently the Bishop had vowed never to interpret Holy Scripture except in accordance with the unanimous consent of the Fathers. Now, previously to the Council, he had always interpreted the text "I have prayed for thee" in the sense of Papal Infallibility. But having begun to examine for himself, for the purposes of the Council, he finds that nearly all the extracts from the earlier Fathers given in theological manuals in behalf of Infallibility (as in the works of St Alphonso, Perrone, and others) are either inaccurate, or derived from forgeries. What the extracts from the early Fathers prove is primacy. They do not prove Infallibility.

Conciliar definitions, says another Bishop, ought not to be imposed by superior numerical force, but by intellectual persuasion. In the Council of Trent so great was the deference accorded to the minority that a decision was postponed for several years because thirty-seven of the Fathers declined to concur with the opinion of the majority.

Another Bishop affirmed that in his view a definition of Infallibility would be the suicide of the Church. Quite recently, certain Anglicans, who six months ago came over to Catholic unity, returned at once to Anglicanism, on reading the Archbishop of Westminster's imprudent Pastoral.

Bishop Kenrick made a very lengthy and elaborate protest. He appealed to Augustine's defence of Cyprian's opposition to Pope Stephen. Augustine manifestly was ignorant of pontifical Infallibility, otherwise he could not possibly have argued as he did. The oft-quoted phrase, "Peter has spoken by Leo,"


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Page:Utopia of Usurers, and Other Essays - Chesterton (1917).djvu/149

 Laureate, either on the highest or the lowest theory of his office. He is either a great minstrel singing the victories of a great king, or he is a common Court official like the Groom of the Powder Closet. In the first case his praises should be true; in the second case they will nearly always be false; but in either case he must praise. And what there is for him to praise just now it would be precious hard to say. And if there is no great hope of a real poet, there is still less hope of a real prophet. What Newman called, I think, "The Prophetical Office," that is, the institution of an inspired protest even against an inspired religion, certainly would not do in modern England. The Court is not likely to keep a tame prophet in order to encourage him to be wild. It is not likely to pay a man to say that wolves shall howl in Downing-street and vultures build their nests in Buckingham Palace. So vast has been the progress of humanity that these


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 248 signified nothing more when originally uttered by the Bishops at Chalcedon than that Leo's doctrine agreed with their own convictions. In the Sixth Council at Constantinople, the Archbishop of Constantinople, in reference to the Letters of Pope Agatho, asked for copies to compare with the traditional testimonies of that Patriarchate; after which he would give his reply. Accordingly the Archbishop compared the papal letters; and, finding that their contents harmonised with the Eastern teaching, accepted them. Moreover, supreme papal authority does not include Infallibility. Kenrick considered great differences to exist between the dogma of Immaculate Conception and that of pontifical Infallibility. The latter invades the rights of the Episcopate, and imposes upon the faithful the necessity of believing that Roman Bishops have never erred in matters of faith, a statement which indisputable facts of history appear to refute; and also of believing that Roman Bishops will never err in future, which indeed we hope, but are unable to believe as a certainty of the faith. The rule to be followed is, that no innovation should be accepted in the Church; that nothing should be required of the faithful, except that which has been believed always everywhere and by all.

When the ten days' interval was passed, and the Council resumed its work, there was manifested on the part of the authorities a decided hesitation. This was due not to the protests of the minority, or to any force in their numbers or their arguments. It was the outcome of political rather than ecclesiastical causes. For Italy aspired to become a consolidated kingdom, with its capital at Rome. The entire mediæval inheritance of the Papacy, the States of the Church, could not be held by any force at the Pope's disposal; and might, but for external protection, be at any moment swept


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 Waddington did not answer. She turned and looked at him slowly. Her face was white and set.

“What did he mean by saying: the dog it was that died? What is it?”

“It’s the last line of Goldsmith’s Elegy.”

EXT morning Kitty went to the convent. The girl who opened the door seemed surprised to see her and when Kitty had been for a few minutes about her work the Mother Superior came in. She went up to Kitty and took her hand.

“I am glad to see you, my dear child. You show a fine courage in coming back here so soon after your great sorrow; and wisdom, for I am sure that a little work will keep you from brooding.”

Kitty cast down her eyes, reddening a little; she did not want the Mother Superior to see into her heart.

“I need not tell you how sincerely all of us here sympathise with you.”

“You are very kind,” whispered Kitty.

“We all pray for you constantly and for the soul of him you have lost.”

Kitty made no reply. The Mother Superior released her hand and in her cool, authoritative tone imposed various tasks upon her. She patted two or three children on the head, gave them her aloof, but winning smile, and went about her more pressing affairs.


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 WEEK went by. Kitty was sewing. The Mother Superior entered the room and sat down beside her. She gave Kitty’s work a shrewd glance.

“You sew very well, my dear. It is a rare accomplishment for young women of your world nowadays.”

“I owe it to my mother.”

“I am sure that your mother will be very glad to see you again.”

Kitty looked up. There was that in the Mother Superior’s manner which prevented the remark from being taken as a casual politeness. She went on.

“I allowed you to come here after the death of your dear husband because I thought occupation would distract your mind. I did not think you were fit at that moment to take the long journey to Hong-Kong by yourself, nor did I wish you to sit alone in your house with nothing to do but to remember your loss. But now eight days have passed. It is time for you to go.”

“I don’t want to go, Mother. I want to stay here.”

“There is nothing for you to stay for. You came to be with your husband. Your husband is dead. You are in a condition in which you will shortly need a care and attention which it is impossible for you to get here. It is your duty, my dear child, to do


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 ] away. That protection was provided by France. French soldiers guarded the city, kept the Italians out, and rendered the continuance of the Council possible. The armed intervention of France was described by the Archbishop of Paris as a necessary expedient but not a permanent solution. It provided a temporary security, during which the Vatican Council was held. It is impossible not to admire the sagacity which seized the occasion. A little later, and it could not have been done. But security depended on French goodwill.

"If any one dreams," said Antonelli, "that there exists for us any human help, except the forces of France, he must be blind."

But France at this critical moment showed signs of uneasiness. It felt that its protection was being utilised for the promotion of theories which it strongly disliked. Count Daru, head of the French Ministry, sent an emphatic protest to Rome, in which he declared that the adoption of Ultramontane theories could not but alienate from Catholicism many whom it would be a duty to win. The Holy See was making the relation between the Church and the State more difficult and strained. In particular, the work of the French Ministry was thereby made exceedingly difficult. They would soon have to discuss in the Chamber the presence of French troops in papal territory. How can their presence be justified if the Pope rejects the principles of liberty which are essential to the very existence of modern Governments? The writer confesses that he was personally placed in a position most discouraging to a devoted adherent of the Roman cause. Public opinion in France was already amazed to find the Council


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 250 imprisoned within the limits of a programme which invaded the freedom of the Bishops. Nothing could be more opposed to the ancient rules of the Church. Never had the Holy See hitherto restricted, or rather suppressed, the lawful independence which Councils have always possessed in forming their own Congregations and choosing their own officials and regulating their own procedure. The history of these great Assemblies offers no precedent for the forms imposed to-day; and we have only too much reason to say that deliberations so arranged and conducted will only result in resolutions not to the real interest of the Church.

We can well understand that the receipt of such a letter, from such a source, caused great uneasiness in the Papal Court. No wonder if, at the critical moment, when everything seemed in their grasp, they yet hesitated and delayed. The question to be determined at Rome was, What did this manifesto mean? Was this present attitude serious? a prelude to actions more serious still? No wonder if Pius temporised, and diverted the attention of his Council for the moment to other themes. So the subject of faith was reintroduced. However, on 11th April, a telegram was received in Rome: "Daru resigned. Ollivier succeeds him. Council free." That is to say, of course, free from a papal point of view.

The fact was, that although Napoleon III. had no desire to promote the extension of papal power, yet in the weakness of the monarchy and increasingly republican tendencies of France, he could not afford to offend the Ultramontanes. He was therefore compelled by a cruel irony to protect the Pope, and enable him to reach the summit of absolute power. With-


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 everything in your power for the welfare of the being that God has entrusted to your care.”

Kitty was silent for a moment. She looked down.

“I was under the impression that I was of some use here. It has been a great pleasure to me to think that I was. I hoped that you would allow me to go on with my. work till the epidemic had come to an end.”

“We are all very grateful for what you have done for us,” answered the Superior, with a slight smile, “but now that the epidemic is waning the risk of coming here is not so great and I am expecting two sisters from Canton. They should be here very shortly and when they arrive I do not think that I shall be able to make any use of your services.”

Kitty’s heart sank. The Mother Superior’s tone admitted of no reply; she knew her well enough to know that she would be insensible to entreaty. That she found it necessary to reason with Kitty had brought into her voice a note, if hardly of irritation, at least of the peremptoriness which might lead to it.

“Mr Waddington was good enough to ask my advice.”

“I wish he could have minded his own business,” interrupted Kitty.

“If he hadn’t I should all the same have felt obliged to give it him,” said the Mother Superior gently. “At the present moment your place is not here, but with your mother. Mr. Waddington has arranged with Colonel Yü to give you a strong escort so that you will be perfectly safe on the journey, and


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 he has arranged for bearers and coolies. The amah will go with you and arrangements will be made at the cities you pass through. In fact, everything possible for your comfort has been done.”

Kitty’s lips tightened. She thought that they might at least have consulted her in a matter which only concerned herself. She had to exercise some self-control in order not to answer sharply.

“And when am I to start?”

The Mother Superior remained quite placid.

“The sooner you can get back to Hong-Kong and then sail to England the better, my dear child. We thought you would like to start at dawn the day after to-morrow.”

“So soon.”

Kitty felt a little inclined to cry. But it was true enough; she had no place there.

“You all seem in a great hurry to be rid of me,” she said ruefully.

Kitty was conscious of a relaxation in the Superior’s demeanour. She saw that Kitty was prepared to yield and unconsciously she assumed a more gracious tone. Kitty’s sense of humour was acute and her eyes twinkled as she reflected that even the saints liked to have their own way.

“Don’t think that I fail to appreciate the goodness of your heart, my dear child, and the admirable charity which makes you unwilling to abandon your self-imposed duties.”

Kitty stared straight in front of her. She faintly shrugged her shoulders. She knew that she could ascribe to herself no such exalted virtues. She


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 wanted to stay because she had nowhere else to go. It was a curious sensation this, that nobody in the world cared two straws whether she was alive or dead.

“I cannot understand that you should be reluctant to go home,” pursued the Superior amiably. “There are many foreigners in this country who would give a great deal to have your chance!”

“But not you, Mother?”

“Oh, with us it is different, my dear child. When we come here we know that we have left our homes for ever.”

Out of her own wounded feelings emerged the desire in Kitty’s mind, malicious perhaps, to seek the joint in the armour of faith which rendered the nuns so aloofly immune to all the natural feelings. She wanted to see whether there was left in the Superior any of the weakness of humanity.

“I should have thought that sometimes it was hard never to see again those that are dear to you and the scenes amid which you were brought up.”

The Mother Superior hesitated for a moment, but Kitty watching her could see no change in the serenity of her beautiful and austere face.

“It is hard for my mother who is old now, for I am her only daughter and she would dearly like to see me once more before she dies. I wish I could give her that joy. But it cannot be and we shall wait till we can meet in paradise.”

“All the same, when one thinks of those to whom one is so dear, it must be difficult not to ask oneself if one was right in cutting oneself off from them.”


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 “Are you asking me if I have ever regretted the step I took?” On a sudden the Mother Superior’s face grew radiant. “Never, never. I have exchanged a life that was trivial and worthless for one of sacrifice and prayer.”

There was a brief silence and then the Mother Superior, assuming a lighter manner, smiled.

“I am going to ask you to take a little parcel and post it for me when you get to Marseilles. I do not wish to entrust it to the Chinese post-office. I will fetch it at once.”

“You can give it to me to-morrow,” said Kitty.

“You will be too busy to come here to-morrow, my dear. It will be more convenient for you to bid us farewell to-night.”

She rose and with the easy dignity which her voluminous habit could not conceal left the room. In a moment Sister St. Joseph came in. She was come to say good-bye. She hoped that Kitty would have a pleasant journey; she would be quite safe, for Colonel Yü was sending a strong escort with her; and the sisters constantly did the journey alone and no harm came to them. And did she like the sea? Mon Dieu, how ill she was when there was a storm in the Indian ocean, Madame her mother would be pleased to see her daughter, and she must take care of herself; after all she had another little soul in her care now, and they would all pray for her; she would pray constantly for her and the dear little baby and for the soul of the poor, brave doctor. She was voluble, kindly, and affectionate; and yet Kitty was deeply conscious that for Sister St. Joseph


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were checked and hysterics forgotten in an intense and burning curiosity.

Mrs. Andrew Barham—here—at Tommy Locke’s party!

It could scarcely be believed.

They stared at the imperturbable chauffeur. It was plain to be seen that the man was deeply moved, but his training prevented any expression of grief or excitement.

“Does any one here know Mr. Barham?” Hutchins inquired.

He stood in the doorway between the studio and the den, or smoking room. Indeed, the interest had become so intense it was almost impossible to set a barrier to such as insisted on forcing a way.

But the detective had guards watching the places and people he was most interested in.

No one did—that was clear. And no one knew Mrs. Barham personally, though nearly all had heard her name.

“But to be here, she must have been somebody’s friend,” Hutchins persisted. “I find that there were perhaps fifty invited guests—and I’m told there were perhaps about sixty-five or seventy people here. So many invited guests brought friends or asked them. It may be that was the way Mrs. Barham came—so who brought her?”

It was impossible to get any other than negative replies.

The only conclusion to be drawn was that Mrs. Barham came to the party as the guest of some one who had

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 already gone home. Which added a further inexplicable mystery. Why should the person or persons who brought Mrs. Barham run away in this emergency?

Why should Mrs. Barham have come at all, save as a happy guest in quest of pleasure? Could she have been trapped there?

No; for she came from her own home in her own car. Moreover, she wore a handsome and expensive costume, quite evidently in view of the masquerade festivity.

And, though no one could tell the exact time she arrived, several agreed that she had been at the house at least an hour before the tragedy was discovered.

Hutchins instructed his men to get from Miss Vallon a complete list of all the people invited, whether they had come or not.

Then he said, “Next, I suppose, we must notify Mr. Barham. How shall we best do it, Dickson?”

“Telephone, of course. Is Mr. Barham at home, Louis?”

“I don’t know, sir. I am only chauffeur of Madame’s car.”

“Who are in the family?”

“Only Mr. and Mrs. Barham, and Mrs. Selden, the mother of Madame.”

“What’s the number?”

Louis told, and then Dickson said, “You do it, Hutchins. Be as decent as you can. You’ve more natural tact than I have.”

“Is there any other telephone?” Hutchins asked, looking at the gaping crowd, in their carnival dress.

“Yes,” Post told him, “in Mr. Locke’s bedroom. I’ll show you.”

They went to the bedroom and Post stood by, while Hutchins called the Barham house.

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A servant answered, and the detective asked for Mr. Barham.

“He’s in bed and asleep; shall I call his valet?”

“No; waken him. It’s an important matter.”

And in a few moments a voice said, “Andrew Barham speaking.”

“Is—is your wife at home, Mr. Barham?”

Hutchins hadn’t intended to begin that way, but he was a sensitive sort, and he dreaded making the bare announcement of his news.

“Who is this? Why do you ask?”

“It is a grave matter. Kindly reply.”

“No, then, she is not. It is now quarter of twelve. She is out with some friends.”

“I have bad news for you, Mr. Barham. This is the police speaking—Detective Hutchins. Your wife is here—at the friend’s house—injured, sir—fatally injured.”

Hutchins heard a slight gasp, and then a hurried, “I will get there as quickly as I can. At Mrs. Gardner’s?”

“Mrs. Gardner’s! No. At Mr. Locke’s!”

“Where?” The question rang out like a shot. “Who is Mr. Locke?”

“That’s where she is, sir. Mr. Thomas Locke, Washington Square.”

“My wife at Mr. Locke’s! I cannot understand—but never mind, man, I’ll be right down there. Give me the exact address—and stay—what is the injury—tell me a word or two”

“She hit her head—sir—really—I think you’d better come along at once. It’s a party—a masquerade party”

“Are you crazy? My wife isn’t at any masquerade party!”

“Yes, she is—come on, please.”

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“I will. Wait a minute—must I face the whole crowd of revelers?”

“I understand. No, Mr. Barham. Come—let me see—come to the front door but ask the man in charge to bring you up the back stairway.”

“Oh, it needn’t be as secret as that—but—I can’t seem to think coherently. Washington Square! I’ll be there in record time.”

With his usual efficiency and avoidance of all waste motion, Andrew Barham had summoned his valet, and his chauffeur, and had ordered his car while he was getting into his clothes.

Prall, the valet, came in to find him already almost entirely dressed.

With a few quick, somewhat jerky words, he explained the situation to his trusted servant, saying, “Come with me, Prall, I think it’s very serious.”

Awed by the look on his master’s face, Prall bowed a silent assent, and in the shortest possible time, they were speeding down the Avenue, careful only to avoid a hold up by the traffic squad.

“Did you ever know of Mrs. Barham’s going to any place on Washington Square, Prall?”

“Never, sir.”

And Andrew Barham wondered.

Madeleine had said he was always wondering, but surely he had never before had such occasion for wonderment. Madeleine, at a fancy dress ball—in Washington Square, and—hurt—didn’t that man say fatally hurt?

To be sure, Madeleine went where she chose—she had her own friends—but Barham knew who they were, if he didn’t know them personally; and they were of her own circles, most certainly not of a Washington Square type.

So he wondered, blindly, and at last they were there.

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Barham hurried up the steps, quite forgetting to ask for the back staircase.

In fact, the sight of several policemen about, so took away his wits, he thought of little else for the instant.

Before Barham arrived, Hutchins had arranged things to give the least possible shock. Henry Post had been put on duty downstairs to see that no one took advantage of the detective’s absence to get away. Pearl Jane had been ensconced in Locke’s bedroom with Kate Vallon to look after her.

In the room with Mrs. Barham’s body were only the members of the Police Force, Doctor Gannett and Rodman Jarvis, who still expressed his willingness to act for Locke in any way he could.

Chinese Charley was still missing, and the officer who admitted Barham took him at once to the back stairs.

“It’s very bad, sir, and there’s a horde of curiosity seekers in the studio. This way, sir.”

Barham had directed Prall to accompany him, as he might need service of some sort.

The officer stumbled a little on the narrow dark stairs, and Barham impatiently passed him, exclaiming, “Hurry, man—I must see for myself!”

The first time, Prall observed to himself, he had ever seen the master excited. “And small wonder,” he added, as he himself began to feel a sense of horror.

Knowing better than to try to break such news slowly, Hutchins merely greeted Andrew Barham with a grave nod, and said, “There she is, sir.”

And Andrew Barham looked down on the body of his wife—whom he had seen last at dinner that same night—now, in gaudy array, and cold in death.

The man seemed turned to stone. At first his face showed incredulity, stark unbelief—then as he realized the

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 truth of what his eyes told him he seemed to paralyze—he was utterly incapable of speech or action.

A fine looking man, the detective saw. Straight, strong, vital. His hair was light brown—almost golden—and had a curly wave in it that gave charm to an otherwise stern cast of features.

His eyes were gray-blue, and now they were so blank, so dazed, as to have almost no expression whatever.

It was the man, Prall, who moved first.

He had stood beside his master, wondering, staring, and then all at once he broke into deep sobs and turned away to hide his face.

It seemed to galvanize the other, and Andrew Barham gave a strong shudder as he tried to pull himself together.

“It is my wife,” he said, turning to the detective. “What do you know about it? How came she here? We do not know this place.”

“Mrs. Barham must have known, sir. She came in her own car, with her own chauffeur.”

“Louis! Is he here?”

“Yes, Mr. Barham.”

“It is a mystery. I do not understand at all. But this is my wife—and—she is dead. Was she—was it an accident?”

“We do not think so.”

And then Doctor Gannett gave his account of the finding of the body on the floor

“On the floor?” Barham interrupted. “Just where?”

He was shown, and he wondered more than ever.

“With this book-end,” he mused, “this bronze Sphinx. You say it is not possible that it was an accident? That she fell on it—she was on the floor”

“No”; and Doctor Babcock added his own testimony to Gannett’s.

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Barham drew a long sigh, and brushed his hand across his eyes.

“Then,” he said, and he looked at the policemen in turn, as if arraigning them, “then you conclude it was—murder?”

“We do, sir,” Dickson answered.

“Then move heaven and earth to find out who did it! Spare no time, pains or expense. Who would—who could have reason to kill a woman like that? But, strangest of all is her presence in this place, that has yet to be ex plained. Everything has yet to be explained. Are any of her friends here—in the other room?”

“No, Mr. Barham, everybody in the other room declares he or she never saw Mrs. Barham before.”

Again the man seemed so blankly bewildered as to be on the verge of losing his mind.

But he wasn’t. Andrew Barham was unutterably amazed, astounded—but he wasn’t yet dazed. His mind was thinking with lightning quickness.

“Who did it?” he demanded again. “You must have some suspicion—some slight clue!”

“We have no suspicion, Mr. Barham,” Hutchins told him, “and as to clues or evidence, we’ve not been able to go into those things yet. Think, it only happened less than two hours ago.”

“Less than two hours ago! Then why wasn’t I told sooner?”

“Because nobody knew who she was.”

“Nobody knew my wife! In a house where she had come as a guest!”

“No, nobody knew her.”

“The host? Didn’t he know her?”

“The host—Mr. Locke, cannot be found.”

Andrew Barham dropped into a chair.

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“Do you know you are telling a very strange story to me?”

“It is a strange story, Mr. Barham. But it is all true. Mr. Locke cannot be found—nor can Charley.”

“Who is Charley?”

“A Chinese boy—Locke’s servant.”

“Do you think it might be, then, that my wife came to the wrong house? I have heard of such mistakes.”

“That might be. But this is the address she gave her own chauffeur.”

“May I see Louis?”

The chauffeur was brought in and told his tale with the same immovable calm he always displayed.

He addressed himself to Barham.

“Madame ordered her car for nine-thirty,” he said.

“She bade me drive her here. I did so. When she alighted, she told me to be here for her, a little before eleven, as she was then going to Madame Gardner’s. I was here shortly before eleven and waited a little distance away. While I was waiting, there seemed to be some commotion—several people left this house hurriedly, and some policemen came.”

“You sat still and waited?” put in Hutchins, hastily.

“Why not? It was the order. And I knew not but it was apartments and the police had naught to do with the home Madame visited. Yes, I waited, until maybe half after eleven, then the commotion grew more—and I began to feel fear. I came to the door and asked for Madame. The rest is known.”

Louis was the perfect French chauffeur. His manner and mien showed just the right shade of grief, without being unduly or presumptuously personal.

Hutchins watched him out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t always trust French chauffeurs.

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Barham, who seemed to read the detective’s mind, said, “You may depend on Louis’s story. He is absolutely reliable.”

There was a silence. Andrew Barham was thinking deeply.

At last he said, “What must be the procedure? I am at a loss to know what I am to do.”

For the first time Rodman Jarvis spoke.

“It is a most unusual case—we all see that. But, speaking as a lawyer, I want to ask you. Doctor Babcock, as Medical Examiner, if you can’t waive certain technical considerations and let Mr. Barham remove his wife’s body to-night—if he wishes to do so.”

Barham gave the young man a grateful look.

“That is just what I do want,” he said, “but not unless it is a proper and legal proceeding. I am shocked and horrified enough as it is, without leaving her here any longer than is absolutely necessary. If she could be taken to the Funeral Director’s—or to my home—yet, stay, Mr. Dickson, nothing—no consideration of my feelings or anything else, shall be done that will put a straw in the way of finding the murderer. That must and shall be done!”

His voice almost rang out in this decision, and Hutchins reassured him quickly.

“No, Mr. Barham, that won’t matter, that way. It’s only that it’s a bit hasty to turn over the body to the relatives before a step has been taken to solve the mystery. Yet, it can be of no help to retain the body. The doctor’s reports are full and complete, and there is little or no evidence to be learned from the body itself. If necessary to see it again that can be done at the undertaker’s—better there than at your home. And if an autopsy is held”

Hutchins checked himself. He was expert in trying to

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 carry on his detective work and yet spare the feelings of the bereaved ones, but he frequently fell into error.

However, Andrew Barham took it rationally.

“Yes, Mr. Hutchins, if an autopsy is indicated, it can be performed. May I then send for the funeral people? May my man Prall telephone for them? I have ahead of me the difficult task of breaking this news to my wife’s mother. And, as you can understand, it has shaken me terribly.”

One and all they admired him. As man to man, Barham had a fine, a sensible attitude. It was plain to be seen how shocked and grieved he was, it was clearly evident that he was holding on to his composure by mere will power, and every one present wanted to favor him in every possible way.

“You know where to find me,” he went on. “Here is my business card—I am a consulting engineer, and though I have several business engagements out of the city, for the immediate future, I shall, of course, cancel them all. Prall, call the funeral company, and ask them to come here as soon as may be.”

“There’s no use asking you any more about Mrs. Barham’s movements this evening,” Dickson said, “for you know even less than we do. You frequently spent your evenings in different places?”

“Yes,” and Barham showed no embarrassment at this query. “We had not altogether the same tastes, and Mrs. Barham had her own car and latchkey, as I have. So we came and went as we chose.”

“When did you see her last, Mr. Barham?”

“At dinner this evening. We dined alone—with only my mother-in-law. After dinner, Mrs. Barham went to her rooms to dress for some party, and I went to my Club.”

“What Club was that, sir?”

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“The Players’. Don’t hesitate to ask all the direct questions you wish. I know how necessary they are.”

But this willingness seemed to take away Dickson’s desire to make inquiries, and he only said, “There’s plenty of time ahead for all that.”

“There will be an inquest?” Barham asked.

“Yes; but don’t feel obliged to attend, Mr. Barham, unless you like. I can arrange so that you needn’t.”

“Oh, yes—I propose to help with this search for the criminal. And I can do it better if I follow the course of the inquiries. But I can do it better yet, if I can sometimes follow them unobserved. I will, therefore, if I see fit, sit in the back of the room, or some obscure corner. You see—” he set his fine white teeth together in a determined way—“you see, somebody did this thing—you are sure—” he broke off suddenly to say to Doctor Babcock, “you are positive it could not have been an accident?”

“Positive.”

“I ask again, because I didn’t see the body when it was on the floor. And—I confess I would rather it had been an accident. Who could have wanted to put an end to the life of my young and beautiful Madeleine?”

It was the first time he had spoken thus—as if he were alone—but he quickly resumed his outer manner of composure.

“Then if you are sure, there was a murderer—find him!”

His tone was that of an ultimatum, his air one of finality, and rising, he began to pace the room.

Nor did he speak again until he was informed that the undertaker’s men had arrived.

Then he superintended the removal of the body himself, he went downstairs without so much as a glance at the few curious ones who were rude enough to peer out from the

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 studio door at him, and after the box that held the wife he had loved was put in place, he went home in Madeleine’s car, leaving Prall to go with the undertaker in Barham’s own car.

“Don’t arrange for the funeral, of course, Prall,” he said, as a final order. “Just see that everything is done right, and when you can, go home and go to bed. I’ll look after myself.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Prall.

The police officers looked at each other.

“There’s a man for you!” Dickson said, and Hutchins heartily agreed.

“He’s a real man,” Jarvis put in. “He thanked me for what I had done, with tears in his eyes, and I haven’t done anything.”

“Yes, you did, Mr. Jarvis,” Babcock said; “I should have kept that woman here all night, if you hadn’t turned up. But it’s a relief to the poor man to get that part of it over with, I know. Now to get rid of the bunch in the next room and to get rid of them properly. They ought to be interrogated as well as just to get their home addresses.”

“They have been, mostly,” Jarvis said. “I slipped in there while you were talking with Mr. Barham, and the men were working fast. Mr. Barham was completely bowled over, wasn’t he? I can’t get his face out of my mind.”

“Yes, and he took it like a man,” Doctor Gannett said. “I have had to tell many a man that his wife was dead, and I never saw a braver attitude. And he loved her—you could tell that the way he looked at her. I could.”

Then the police, by rather slow degrees, dismissed the waiting guests, and the Clowns, the Knights, the Juliets

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 and the Winters with their cloaks drawn about their gaudy array, went out into the quiet Square.

“Do you want to stay here all night, Miss Vallon?” Hutchins asked, kindly. “Would you rather keep the young lady here? I must tell you that I have to question her to-morrow morning—sorry, but it can’t be helped.”

“Oh, no, indeed!” Kate cried. “I wouldn’t stay here for anything! I never want to enter this house again! But I will take Miss Cutler home with me, and you may see her at my house whenever you wish.”

Hutchins agreed to this, and Henry Post, looking very weary, came to escort the two girls home.

“I’m about all in,” he admitted; “I never was so done up.”

“What do you think—” Kate began.

“I’m too tired to think at all,” he returned, and they went home in almost complete silence.

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