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The Man Inside (Smith's Magazine serial)/Part 3

E}}LEANOR dropped her embroidery and gazed out into the garden, with its flower beds lit by the fading rays of the western sun, and the soft wind from the open window fanned her cheeks. An involuntary sigh escaped her.

“A penny for your thoughts,” and Douglas, who had approached unnoticed, stepped up to the window seat. A smile curved Eleanor's pretty mouth as she made room for him beside her and slipped her hand confidingly in his.

“Do you think a penny would bring me any comfort?” she asked.

“Take me for a penny, and I will do my utmost to comfort you.” Douglas kissed her gently as she leaned her head against his broad shoulder.

“Take you? Gladly.” She raised her hand and pressed it against his cheek. “And I am richer in happiness than I ever was before.”

“My darling!” Douglas checked his impetuosity; the dark circles under Eleanor's eyes had deepened, and her extreme nervousness was betrayed by her restless glances about the room, and the incessant movement of her fingers. “Now for your thoughts.”

“My thoughts? They are all with Cynthia. Oh, Douglas,” straightening up, “I can't tell her of Fred Lane's arrest! On top of all she has borne, it would be cruel, cruel!”

“Is she better?”

“She is at last sleeping naturally. When she awoke from the opiate some hours ago she evinced no interest, and so I was able to avoid the questions that I feared she would ask me.”

“She was probably still under the effects of the opiate and too drowsy to recall the events of last night.”

“I dread her awakening.”

“You will have to put off telling her of Lane's arrest and Annette's death until she is strong enough physically to bear the shock.”

“Do you think him guilty?” The question seemed wrung from her.

“Of which crime?”

“Of both.”

“I don't see how it is possible for him to have had anything to do with Annette's death,” replied Douglas thoughtfully. “For the very reason you pointed out when Brett was accusing him this morning. It would be physically impossible for him to have left the room and locked and bolted the door on the inside.”

“What do you think caused her death?”

“I think it highly probable that she committed suicide.”

“You don't think the draft blew out the gas?”

“A draft? Where on earth could it come from? Both windows were tightly closed, and the door also. Upon my word”—turning to look at her—“you don't place any faith in that old legend about the ghost of your great-great-aunt's habit of extinguishing all lights in her room after eleven o'clock at night?”

“Yes, I do,” reluctantly.

“Oh, come now!”

A chuckle escaped Douglas, but it died out suddenly. He had remarkably keen eyesight, and, as he raised his head, he encountered a steady stare from an oil portrait hanging on the wall opposite him. It was not the stare that attracted his attention, but the remarkable whiteness of the eyeballs in the painted face on which the light of the window was reflected. As he looked, the eyes seemed to blink, then were gone. With an exclamation he rose, startling Eleanor by his sudden movement, and walked across the room until he stood directly in front of the painting, which was life-size, and represented a handsome man in a navy uniform of the War of 1812. On closer inspection, the eyes appeared not to be painted in at all, and were represented by shadows. As he retreated from the portrait, however, the shadows took form, and he distinctly saw the long lashes and eyeballs. It was an optical illusion, cleverly conceived by the artist, and, satisfied on that point, he returned to Eleanor, who had watched his movements with growing curiosity.

“Why this sudden interest in my great-great-grandfather?” she asked.

“It's a fine portrait.” He reseated himself by her side. “I didn't notice it last night. What is the old gentleman's name?”

“Commodore Barry Thornton. My father was named for him. He inherited the black hair, blue eyes, and tastes of the old sea fighter,” nodding toward the portrait. “Do you know on what grounds they arrested Fred Lane for the murder of Senator Carew?”

“Only in a general way. It is known that the senator opposed his engagement to Cynthia, that they had a bitter quarrel that night, and that Lane left the ball to look for Cynthia's carriage. He was gone some time, and, when the carriage did turn up, Senator Carew was seated in it—dead.”

“Is that evidence enough to convict?”

“It's purely circumstantial evidence,” evasively. “I don't know yet what new testimony Mrs. Winthrop may have contributed to cause his arrest.”

“Mrs. Winthrop's attitude is incomprehensible to me,” burst out Eleanor. “Fred's father, Governor Lane, was her husband's best friend, and Mr. Winthrop was under great financial obligations to him when he died. And now look at the way Mrs. Winthrop is treating that friend's son—hounding him to the gallows! Is that gratitude?” with biting scorn.

“Some natures don't wear well under an obligation, and the cloven hoof crops out.” Douglas pushed the window farther open. “Ingratitude is an abominable sin, and the one most frequently committed.” A faint knock on the hall door interrupted him. “Come in,” he called, and Brett opened the door. He drew back when he saw Douglas was not alone.

“Don't go,” said Eleanor, gathering up her embroidery and workbag. “I must run upstairs and ask the nurse how Miss Carew is.”

She hastened toward the door, which Brett still held open, but he stopped her on the threshold.

“I will be greatly obliged if you will spare me half an hour, Miss Thornton. When you come downstairs again will be time enough,” he added, as Eleanor stepped back into the library.

Eleanor studied his impassive face intently for a second before answering. Then: “I'll be down again shortly,” she said, and she disappeared up the hall.

Brett closed the door carefully, selected a chair near Douglas, and sat down heavily. Douglas pulled out his cigarette case and handed it to the detective, who picked out a cigarette, and, striking a match, settled back into his chair contentedly as he watched the rings of smoke curling upward.

“I am glad of an opportunity to have a quiet word with you, Mr. Hunter,” he began. “Things have been moving pretty swiftly to-day, and I'm free to confess that the death of Annette has stumped me. Was it murder or suicide?”

“Everything points to suicide.”

“I'm not so sure of that,” drawing his chair nearer and lowering his voice. “I've been searching Annette's belongings, and have found several things that puzzle me completely.”

“What were they?”

“Well, for one thing, the torn kimono.”

“What? You don't mean”

“Exactly. Annette apparently owned a wrapper precisely like Miss Thornton's, and it was she who paid you that midnight visit when you spent the night in the library on Tuesday evening at the Carew residence. I found the wrapper upstairs among her effects. She had mended the tear very neatly, but the slip that you tore out of it that night exactly fitted the darn. I had the slip with me in my pocket and fitted the two together.”

“Great Scott! What on earth was she doing in the library at that hour?”

“Aye, what?” significantly. “You recollect that Nicodemus testified that Annette did not want to sleep on the third floor because 'it wor too far off from her folks, an' she had to be down whar she could hear dem.' It looks as if Annette were in the habit of taking an unusual interest in her mistress' affairs.”

“It does indeed,” agreed Douglas, knocking the ashes from his cigarette on the window ledge. “Did you get any information from Annette yesterday?”

“Very little. I saw her soon after I found your note telling me of her interview with Colonel Thornton. She admitted that she had information that she was willing to sell, and finally made an appointment to see me early this morning. Thanks to circumstance—call it murder or suicide—I am no wiser than I was twenty-four hours ago.”

“Do you still cling to the theory that she met her death because some one was afraid of what she would tell you to-day?”

“Yes; it looks that way to me. And yet I can't for the life of me discover how any one could have committed a murder in that locked room.”

“In searching the room, did you discover any secret passages leading to it?” exclaimed Douglas.

“I did not. I thought I might find one, so I tapped that entire wall, but could not discover a trace of any concealed door. I tell you, Mr. Hunter, Annette did not commit suicide.” Brett spoke earnestly. “She expected to receive a large sum of money within a few days; I virtually pledged the amount to her. There was no object in her taking her own life.”

“Why don't you investigate her past, Brett? That might give you a clew.”

“I have already cabled her description to the Paris police, asking for any information about her that they may have. I expect an answer shortly.”

“Good! Tell me, what information did Mrs. Winthrop supply that induced you to arrest Captain Lane?”

“She told me that he had been seen on the street Monday night when looking for Miss Carew's carriage, and that he was carrying a sharp letter file.”

“Who gave her that information?”

“She didn't state, but I have an idea that it was Annette Probably the girl wanted money and went to her direct. She was none too scrupulous, apparently.”

“I believe you are right,” exclaimed Douglas.

“Mrs. Winthrop also told me that she found, tucked away among her brother's papers, yesterday, an envelope containing a threatening letter. The contents were written in a disguised hand, but the postmark on the envelope read 'Lanesville, Maryland.' She is firmly convinced that if young Lane didn't write those letters himself, he instigated them.”

“Oh, nonsense! He isn't such a fool,” roughly. “I believe he is innocent.”

At that moment the door opened and Colonel Thornton walked in. He flung his hat on the table. “I am glad to find you both here,” he said. “Don't get up,” as Douglas rose. “I'll take this chair. I called you up at headquarters, Brett, but they told me you had just come here, so I hurried over from Mrs. Winthrop's to catch you.”

“Does she want me for anything in particular?” asked Brett.

“She simply wanted to ask a few more details in regard to the coroner's inquest. She is very much upset over Annette's extraordinary death. It seems that the girl made some statement to her, and Mrs. Winthrop depended on her testimony to prove Lane killed Senator Carew.”

“What did I tell you?” Brett glanced triumphantly at Douglas. “I'm afraid, though I'm morally certain of Captain Lane's guilt, that we will have some difficulty in establishing the fact.”

“You will,” agreed Colonel Thornton. “So far, you have only proved, first, that there was enmity between the two men; second, that Lane had the opportunity; third, that Annette saw him with the letter file, the weapon used to kill Carew, in his hand.”

“The last has not been sworn to,” objected Douglas. “And Annette is dead; so that statement, the most important of all, cannot be accepted as testimony.”

“Unless some one else saw Lane in the street at the time Annette did,” burst in Brett swiftly,

“If they had, they would have come forward before this,” reasoned Douglas. “I consider it extremely probable that Annette was lying when she said she saw a letter file in Lane's hand. Remember the drenching rain. Walking in what proved to be a cloudburst would make most people blind to so small a thing as a letter file carried in a man's closed fist.”

“What on earth was her object in making such a statement?” asked Colonel Thornton.

“That is what we have yet to find out,” answered Douglas. “And there's another point, Brett, that you have overlooked.”

“What's that?”

“You recollect that you told me Senator Carew's clothes were absolutely dry when his dead body was found in the carriage. Considering the downpour of rain that night, it seems incredible that he should have not got wet.”

“I have come to the conclusion that the coachman, Hamilton, lied when he said he had not stopped at the house for Senator Carew on Monday night,” replied Brett. “Having lied in the beginning, he is now afraid to admit the truth for fear that he may be convicted of killing the senator.”

“That sounds plausible,” acknowledged Colonel Thornton.

“I don't believe it.” Douglas shook his head obstinately. “It has been proved already that the senator did not spend Monday evening at home. I tell you, the key to this mystery is how Senator Carew got into that carriage on such a stormy night without getting his clothes wet. When you have solved that problem, you will know who committed the murder.”

Thornton was about to reply when the hall door was thrown open, and Eleanor, her lovely eyes opened to their widest, exclaimed, “Uncle Dana, the secretary of state wishes to see you.”

“God bless me!” Colonel Thornton sprang out of his chair as the distinguished statesman followed Eleanor into the room.

“Please don't let me disturb you,” exclaimed the secretary, as Douglas stepped forward, and Brett edged toward the door. “I only dropped in for a second to pick up Mr. Hunter,” laying a hand on Douglas' arm. “They told me at the Albany that you were stopping here for a few days; so I came over in my motor to ask you to drive back to my office with me.”

“Won't you be seated, Mr. Secretary?” asked Colonel Thornton, as Douglas hastily gathered up some papers that he had left on the center table, and started for the door.

“Thanks, no; it is imperative that I get to my office”

The secretary stopped speaking as a man darted inside the door and slammed it shut. In his haste the newcomer collided with Douglas, and then collapsed into the nearest chair.

“Philip Winthrop!” gasped Eleanor, while the others gazed at the exhausted figure in amazement.

“Have you any brandy?” exclaimed the secretary, noticing the ghastly color of Winthrop's face. Thornton hastily produced a decanter, and gave the half-fainting man a stiff drink, which in a few minutes had the desired effect of bringing him round.

“Thanks,” he murmured faintly.

“What does the doctor mean by letting you come out?” asked Thornton. “You are in no condition to leave your room.”

“I'll be better in a minute; give me some more.” Winthrop motioned toward the decanter. Colonel Thornton glanced questioningly at the secretary, who nodded assent, so he gave Winthrop a milder dose, which restored him somewhat, and his voice was stronger when he resumed speech. “The doctor doesn't know I'm here. I slipped out while mother was lying down, caught a cab at the corner, and drove over here. I want to see the detective, Brett.”

“Here I am, sir.” Brett stepped forward into the circle about Winthrop.

“Good!” Winthrop raised himself just in time to see Eleanor open the hall door softly. “Come back!” he shouted; then, as she paid no attention to him: “Stop her! Stop her! Don't let her slip away!”

“What is the meaning of this?” demanded Colonel Thornton, as he stepped forward and pulled Eleanor back into the room and shut the door. “You drunken oaf! Stop bellowing at my niece!”

“I won't, I won't!” Winthrop had worked himself into a frenzy. “She can't drug me here fortunately. I won't be silent! She is an international spy, and she murdered Senator Carew.”

Slowly the meaning of Winthrop's words dawned on the four men.

“It's false! False as hell!” thundered Douglas. He stepped forward and seized Winthrop in a grip of iron and shook him as a dog would shake a rat; then, before the others could intervene, threw the struggling man on the floor. “Bah! You're not worth killing!”

Whimpering with rage and weakness, Winthrop caught hold of the table, dragged himself upright, and stood swaying on his feet.

“It's true, it's true,” he reiterated. “Look at her!” pointing a shaking finger to where Eleanor stood aghast, watching the scene. Her hand was on the doorknob, and she seemed poised for instant flight. A curious smile twisted her pale lips as the men turned and faced her.

“He doesn't seem to have recovered from delirium tremens,” she remarked slowly.

“It may be, Miss Thornton.” The secretary of state spoke with grave deliberation. “But it is a serious charge that he is making, and I think it had better be investigated—now.”

Eleanor winced visibly; then, controlling herself, advanced farther into the room.

“I am at your service,” she said, with sudden hauteur. “But, as I have an important engagement later, I trust you will be brief.”

“Sit by me here, Eleanor.” Colonel Thornton, who had listened to Winthrop's charges in stupefied silence, pulled forward an armchair. “Mr. Secretary, will you occupy the desk chair, and you,” turning to Winthrop, who cowered back as he caught the smoldering wrath in the older man's eyes, “sit over there?” pointing to a chair some distance away.

Brett, seeing that Winthrop was too exhausted to move without assistance, piloted him to the chair indicated by Thornton, and, getting another chair, placed himself by Winthrop's side. Douglas, at a sign from the secretary, sat down at the farther end of the table and handed the statesman some paper and ink.

“Now, Mr. Winthrop,” began the secretary, “if you are more composed, kindly answer my questions. Why have you waited all this time before mentioning that you think Miss Thornton guilty of Senator Carew's murder?”

“Because I've been drugged, so that I couldn't give evidence. I tried twice to get a message to Brett, but Annette said she couldn't reach him.”

“Annette!” chorused Colonel Thornton, Brett, and Douglas, while the secretary and Eleanor looked their surprise.

“Yes, Annette,” peevishly. “She used to come in occasionally to give me water when those devilish nurses were neglecting me. She told me that Brett was seldom at the house, and that she never had an opportunity to speak to him alone.”

“The monumental liar” Brett checked himself. “Never mind that now, Mr. Winthrop. Go on with your story.”

“She told me how Miss Thornton used to steal in and drug me, and asked me why she did it.”

“Great heavens!” Eleanor's exclamation was followed by a half-strangled laugh, which ended in a sob. “What a viper!”

“You weren't there last night,” sputtered Winthrop vindictively, “and therefore I didn't get my usual dose, so I can tell what I know to-day.”

“Suppose you continue your story without making comments,” directed the secretary sternly.

Winthrop nodded sullenly, then began: “You recollect that I spent Monday night at the Alibi Club, Brett?”

“Yes.”

“Well, when I left there, I motored up Nineteenth Street, instead of taking the more direct way home. I thought I would turn into Massachusetts Avenue at Dupont Circle, where there was less danger of running into electric cars, for the rain was falling in such torrents that I could hardly see through my windshield.

“When opposite the Owen residence, I ran into a lot of waiting carriages and motors, and had to slow down. In fact, I went so slowly that by the time I was nearly opposite Miss Thornton's residence, I stalled my engine and had to get out 1m all the wet and crank up.” He paused dramatically. “You can imagine my surprise when I saw Miss Thornton come down under the awning that led to her front door and stand at the curb looking up and down the street.”

“How do you know it was Miss Thornton?” broke in Douglas harshly.

“There was a street lamp by the side of the awning, and the light fell full on her. Besides, I recognized the scarlet cloak she was wearing. I have seen it many times.”

“What did my niece do besides standing still and looking up and down the street?” demanded Colonel Thornton scornfully.

“She ran out into the middle of the street and down to where a carriage was drawn up at the curb, opened the door, stood there, talking apparently, for a few minutes, then shut the door, and bolted back to the awning, and I presume entered her house, as I saw no more of her.”

“What did you do next?” inquired Douglas, with peculiar emphasis.

Winthrop flushed at his tone. “I had curiosity enough to step back and see that it was Senator Carew's landau, the last of a long queue of vehicles, at which she had stopped; then I went on about my business.”

“Do you mean to say that you did not investigate further?” asked the secretary.

“No. I knew enough never to interfere with Senator Carew's love affairs.” His sneer was intolerable.

“By God!” Colonel Thornton sprang to his feet and advanced on Winthrop, but Brett stepped between the two men.

“Have a little patience, colonel,” he said, pushing the irate man toward his seat. “Then you can settle with Mr. Winthrop.”

“Do you think I'm going to sit here and listen to aspersions on my niece's character?” Colonel Thornton shouted. “Let me get my hands on that scoundrel!”

“Wait, Uncle Dana.” Eleanor leaned forward and placed her hand on his arm. 'Let him finish; then I will speak,” and her lips closed ominously.

“That is excellent advice,” agreed the secretary. “Resume your seat, Colonel Thornton.” His tone of command was not to be denied, and Thornton dropped back into his chair. “Now, Mr. Winthrop, explain your last remark.”

“Senator Carew told me that he expected to marry Miss Thornton, and that he intended to spend the evening with her.”

Douglas leaned forward and gazed earnestly at Eleanor, but she refused to meet his look, and, with a troubled expression, he turned his attention to Winthrop, who was again speaking.

“I told Senator Carew that I had heard a member of one of the embassies here declare that Miss Thornton was an international spy.”

“And what did he say to that statement?”

“He said that he would look into the matter.”

“When did this conversation take place?”

“On Monday afternoon.”

“And is that all you have to go upon for such an accusation?” inquired Brett scornfully.

Douglas was gazing moodily ahead of him. A memory of Paris, of Eleanor's extraordinary behavior there, of the whispers that had followed her about, harassed him. Had his faith been misplaced? No, a thousand times no! He would pin all hope of future happiness on her innocence and purity of soul. He rose suddenly, and stepped behind her chair, and laid his hand encouragingly on her shoulder. She looked up, startled; then, seeing him, she smiled, and her hand stole up to meet his. His firm clasp gave her courage to face the situation, for it told her of his unshaken confidence and love.

Winthrop glowered at them when he saw the tableau, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. “It is very obvious,” he said, “that Senator Carew found my statement was true, and charged her with being a spy; then left her house. Exposure meant Miss Thornton's ruin. Even her influential relatives”—he glanced meaningly at Thornton—“could not intervene to save her; so she took the law into her own hands, picked up the letter file, stole out of the house, opened the carriage door, engaged the senator in conversation—and stabbed him.”

A strained silence followed, which the secretary was the first to break. He turned directly to Eleanor. “You called to see Secretary Wyndham at the navy department on Wednesday morning, did you not, Miss Thornton?”

Douglas' hand tightened involuntarily, but Eleanor showed no sign of agitation as she answered, “Yes, Mr. Secretary, I did.”

“Have you anything further to say, Mr. Winthrop?”

“Not now, Mr. Secretary.”

“Then let me suggest,” exclaimed Thornton, “that Mr. Winthrop, in trying to implicate my niece in a dastardly crime, has but established his own guilt.”

“How so?” The question shot from Winthrop's clenched teeth.

“We all know from the testimony of reputable servants that Senator Carew and you had quarreled,” continued Thornton. “We know your habits are none of the best; we know that you have suddenly become possessed of large sums of money”

Winthrop moistened his dry lips. “I deny it,” he exclaimed.

Thornton paid no attention to the interruption. “You alone knew where Senator Carew was spending the evening, and you went there and lay in wait for him. And now, you despicable cur, you are trying to lay the blame on an innocent girl.”

Winthrop rose, goaded by the scornful looks of the others. “I may have had the motive and the opportunity to kill Senator Carew,” he admitted sullenly, “but I did not have—the weapon. The criminal sits there.” He pointed at Eleanor. “I am absolutely positive of her guilt, for the letter file used to kill the senator belonged to a silver desk set given her by Miss Cynthia Carew.”

Thornton frowned and turned a troubled countenance toward Eleanor, who nodded reassuringly, as she rose to her feet, stepped back to Douglas' side, and, leaning on the back of the chair she had just vacated, addressed the secretary.

“I am a young girl, Mr. Secretary,” she began, “and living alone, as I do, I have been forced, on numerous occasions, to use my own judgment. It would have been better, perhaps, had I spoken of certain events before this, but I was so alarmed by the position in which I found myself placed that I foolishly held my tongue. I had hoped that certain facts would not become public. These facts Mr. Winthrop has maliciously distorted. I have been guilty of a blunder, not a crime.”

“I would be most happy to believe you, Miss Thornton,” said the secretary gravely, “but to probe this matter to the bottom, I must ask certain questions.”

“Which I will gladly answer.”

“Did Senator Carew call on you on Monday night?”

“He did; reaching my house about nine-thirty, just before the rain commenced.”

“Did any one else know that he was there?”

“Only my Japanese butler, Fugi, who admitted him. My cousin, Mrs. Truxton, who is spending the winter with me, had gone to bed immediately after dinner.”

“Was Annette in the house?” asked Brett quickly.

“No; it was her evening out. She returned shortly after the senator left.”

“At what hour did he go?” questioned the secretary.

“At about half past twelve o'clock.”

“Wasn't that rather an unusual hour for him to stay?”

Eleanor colored warmly. “It was; most unusual,” she admitted. “But the pouring rain was responsible for that. He telephoned for a cab or a taxi, but they were all engaged, so he waited, hoping that one would eventually be sent to my house.”

“Mr. Winthrop spoke of an awning at your door, Miss Thornton,” again broke in Brett. “I have passed your house a number of times and have never seen one.”

“I had a large tea on Monday afternoon, and had the awning put up for that occasion, as the weather was threatening and my house stands some distance from the curb. The awning was removed early the next morning.”

“It is not so very far from your house to the senator's residence,” mused the secretary. “I should have thought, considering the lateness of the hour, that he would have walked home.”

“But he was not going home, Mr. Secretary. He told me that he was going to drive to your house, as he had to see you immediately on your return that night.”

“Indeed?” The secretary was bending forward in his eagerness. “Did the senator state what he wished to see me about?”

“Only in a general way. He said that he had that afternoon discovered proof of a gigantic plot against the United States; that the secrets of the government were being betrayed; and that he must give you the names of the arch traitor and his confederate. He called up your house by telephone earlier in the afternoon, and found that you were expected home on the eleven o'clock train.”

“I had intended to take it, but was detained at the last moment by pressing business and did not reach Washington until the following night,” explained the secretary. “If he couldn't get a cab, why did he not call up his own house and send for his carriage earlier in the evening?”

“He tried to, Mr. Secretary, but his telephone was out of order, and no one answered the stable call.”

“How, then, did he get his own carriage?”

“My drawing-room windows look out on Nineteenth Street, and the senator, in one of his numerous trips to discover if the rain was letting up, saw his carriage standing in front of my door. He recognized the horses and Hamilton by the light from the lamp-post under which they stood, waiting for the long queue of carriages ahead to move up the street. The senator instantly decided to enter his carriage, wait for Cynthia, and then drive to your house, Mr. Secretary.”

“So that's how he got into the carriage without getting wet,” cried Brett. “The awning protected him. I suppose he just popped into his carriage and said nothing to Hamilton, as he intended to wait for his niece, and Hamilton was too befuddled with drink and the storm to notice the opening and closing of the door. Did you watch the senator leave the house?”

Eleanor shook her head. “No,” she said.

“Miss Thornton”—the secretary bent forward impressively—“were you engaged to Senator Carew?”

Eleanor's color rose, but she faced the keen eyes watching her unflinchingly. “No, Mr. Secretary; the senator did me the honor to ask me to marry him on Monday night, but I refused.”

“Then you deny running out after his carriage, as Mr. Winthrop declares you did?”

“No, sir, I do not deny it. Mr. Winthrop is quite right.” She paused, and the men looked at her expectantly. “I have a quest in life—not the one attributed to me by this gentleman”—waving her hand scornfully toward Winthrop, who was listening to her statement with an incredulous smile distorting his features—“but an honorable legacy which my dear mother left me to execute. On bidding me a hasty good night, Senator Carew, whether in jest or earnest, told me that if I would marry him, he would assist me to bring my quest to a successful conclusion.”

“Would you mind stating what this mission is?” asked the secretary.

Eleanor hesitated. “It is a family matter, and I would rather not.”

The secretary did not press the point. “Continue your story, Miss Thornton.”

“About five minutes or more after the senator left, I came to the conclusion that my duty”—she glanced appealingly at Douglas—“compelled me to marry him. On an impulse, I picked up my cloak, which was hanging on the hall rack, opened the front door, and ran down to the curb. The Carew landau is easily recognized, and, after peering up and down the street, I saw that it had moved up several doors. Without stopping to think or to consider the consequences, I ran down the street to the carriage and opened the door” She stopped, breathless.

“Go on, go on!” urged Douglas.

“I opened the door,” she repeated, “and, as God is my witness, I found Senator Carew sitting there—dead!”

As her voice ceased on the last solemn word, Eleanor read astonishment and incredulity on her listeners' faces, and her heart sank. She bit her lips to hide their trembling.

“How did you discover Senator Carew was dead, Miss Thornton?” asked the secretary harshly. “It has been testified that the interior of the landau was dark, and that the carriage lamps had been extinguished.”

“I did not see he was dead.” Eleanor hesitated. “After opening the carriage door, I spoke to him several times. On getting no reply, I put out my hand and accidentally touched his chest, and my fingers encountered the round base of the letter file.” Her large eyes filled with horror at the recollection. “I did not, of course, know what it was then, but I realized that something was dreadfully wrong. The senator's silence, the touch of that cold metal in such a place, terrified me. I drew back, instinctively closed the carriage door, and fled to my house. The next morning I heard of the murder from Annette.”

“Why did you not come forward with this information then?” asked Brett sternly.

“Because I was afraid.” Eleanor threw out her hands appealingly. “I had no one to verify my statements, and I feared I would be charged with the crime. Confident of my own innocence, I did not think any information I might furnish would assist the arrest of the guilty person.”

“You should have spoken sooner,” said Colonel Thornton sharply, but tempered his rebuke by rising and leading Eleanor to his own comfortable chair, into which she sank wearily. “But the harm your silence has done can fortunately be remedied. Philip Winthrop,” swinging around to the young man, “your plea that you lacked the weapon used is puerile. You could easily have picked up one at the club; letter files are kept on most desks. Knowing where Senator Carew was to be on Monday night, you laid your plans carefully beforehand, and, with devilish ingenuity, picked out an unusual weapon, so that it would be harder to trace the murder to you.”

“You lie!” growled Winthrop fiercely; then, addressing them all, “I had nothing whatever to do with the senator's death. She did it, though your misplaced sympathy blinds you to the truth.”

“Miss Thornton's sex will not shield her,” declared the secretary firmly, “if she be guilty. But, Mr. Winthrop, your story also will be investigated to the minutest detail. Until your innocence is proved without the shadow of a doubt, you will consider yourself under arrest. Brett will see that the proper papers are made out.”

Winthrop blanched. “I'm—I'm—in no condition to go to jail,” he stammered. “It is monstrous!”

“Just a moment,” broke in Douglas. He had been in deep thought, and had paid but little attention to their conversation. “You say, Winthrop, that the letter file used to slay Senator Carew belonged to a desk set given to Miss Thornton by Miss Cynthia Carew?”

“I do,” exclaimed Winthrop positively.

Eleanor's surprise was reflected in her uncle's face. Was Douglas taking sides against her? Her eyes filled with tears, which she winked hastily away.

“Have you such a desk set, Eleanor?” demanded Douglas.

“Yes. Cynthia gave it to me last Christmas.”

“Is the letter file missing?”

The answer was slow in coming. Then: “Yes,” she breathed faintly.

“Ah! What did I tell you?” cried Winthrop triumphantly.

Douglas paid no attention to him, but continued to address Eleanor. “Where do you keep this desk set?”

“In the writing room across the hall from my drawing-room.”

“Describe your first floor, please, Eleanor.”

“The drawing-room is to the left of the front door; to the right is the small writing room, back of that the staircase, and back of the drawing-room is the dining room. The house is what is called three-quarters.”

“I see. Does the dining room communicate with the drawing-room?”

“Yes; there are old-fashioned sliding doors between the two rooms.”

“Do you use portières?”

“Yes, on all the doors.”

Douglas smiled at her encouragingly, then turned to the four men. “Miss Thornton has testified that no one of her household knew that Senator Carew was with her Monday night. She is mistaken. There was one other person who knew that fact; who had ample opportunity to overhear her conversation with the senator, to take the letter file from the desk in the writing room, and to steal after him when he left, open the carriage door, and stab him.”

“Who was it?” questioned Eleanor breathlessly, while the others hung on his words.

“The servant who admitted him.”

“Fugi!” gasped Thornton. “My God! I believe you're right! But the motive, man?”

“An international intrigue.” Douglas caught the eye of the secretary, who nodded appreciatively. “Miss Thornton has already stated that Senator Carew told her that he had discovered proof of a plot against this country, that the secrets of this government were being betrayed, that he knew the names of the spy or spies, and that he was on the way to inform the secretary of state. Concealed in one of the portières, Fugi overheard all this, and, to save his own life, he killed Senator Carew.”

“You've solved it,” declared Brett, rising. “I'll run over to your house now, Miss Thornton, and catch Fugi before he can get away.”

“I don't think you'll find him there,” interposed Eleanor. “Mrs. Truxton went out in my motor for a drive this afternoon, and Fugi, who acts as chauffeur as well as butler, is driving the car. I expect them here at any moment.”

“So much the better.”

“There is a car drawn up alongside of mine now,” exclaimed the secretary, who had gone to the window overlooking the street.

Brett started for the door, but before he reached it, it was flung open and Mrs. Truxton precipitated herself into the room. Her hat was cocked on one side in the most rakish manner, and her flushed face testified to her perturbed state of mind.

“I've found you, Mr. Secretary!” she exclaimed, slamming the door shut. “Don't go,” as Brett moved past her. “I went to your house, then to the state department” She stopped, breathless.

“Sit down,” said the secretary soothingly. “And tell me why you wished to see me so urgently.”

“Oh, dear, I'm so confused!” Mrs. Truxton drew a long breath, then plunged into her story. “I stopped at our house, Eleanor, as I had forgotten to bring my writing materials here. I found my letter book in my room where I had left it, and, on opening it, found this letter addressed to you, Mr. Secretary,” drawing out an envelope from her hand bag. “I can't conceive where it came from,” added the poor woman, “except that I left my letter book in Eleanor's drawing-room on Monday night on my way to bed. I was up early Tuesday morning, before any of the servants were down and, on entering the drawing-room, found my letter book still lying on the table, with several of its leaves turned over. I gathered up all the papers without looking at them carefully, and took them up to my desk and laid them away in a drawer. This is the first time I have opened the letter book, for, in your absence, Eleanor, I have used your writing room.” Mrs. Truxton paused to take breath. “It's marked 'important,' and that's why I hurried after you. Besides, handwriting is like a photograph to me, and I never forget one I have seen. That letter is from Senator Carew.”

“Good God! The missing letter!” shouted Brett.

The secretary took the letter from Mrs. Truxton, tore it open, and, in a voice of suppressed excitement, read its contents aloud.

A chair was dashed aside, and, before any one could move, Colonel Thornton had thrown open the hall door and disappeared. So totally unexpected was the dénouement that the others sat too stunned to move, and that moment's respite gave Thornton his chance. The roar of a motor broke the spell, and the men, galvanized into sudden action, raced to the front door, just in time to see Eleanor's powerful car far down the street, with Colonel Thornton at the wheel. He turned the machine into Wisconsin Avenue, and disappeared.

“Take my car!” called the secretary of state, as Brett and Douglas started up the street on a run. They turned and rejoined the secretary as the latter's chauffeur, attracted by the disturbance, hastened out of the garden where he had gone to get a glass of water.

The three men sprang into the machine, and in a few seconds were off. They swung into Wisconsin Avenue, and sped on up that thoroughfare. The avenue was almost deserted at that hour, and the quiet was broken only by the whir of their car as it gained headway. Far in the distance they could descry Thornton's motor, and, in obedience to Brett's order, their chauffeur increased his speed.

On and on they went. A bicycle policeman shouted at them as they whizzed by, and, clambering on his machine, started in pursuit. They passed a crowded trolley car, and the passengers stared at their mad speed. They reached the outskirts of Georgetown and the more open country beyond. They gained on the car ahead of them, and Brett shouted aloud with the joy of the chase as they drew nearer. They passed the Naval Observatory, cut across Massachusetts Avenue extended, just shaving several other automobiles, the startled drivers of which wasted their breath in sending endless curses after them. They swept past the cathedral close, and continued their race along the Rockville Pike.

As they approached the River Road, they saw Thornton turn his car, scarcely reducing his speed, and cut across the road. It was a dangerous corner at any time, and, as the front wheels made the turn, the body of the car slewed around. There was a grinding, splintering crash as the car struck one of the tall poles supporting the overhead trolley wires, and the big machine turned turtle.

Brett's chauffeur put on a final burst of speed, and the limousine leaped madly down the road. A cry of horror broke from the three men as a tongue of flame shot up from the overturned car ahead of them.

“By heavens! The gasoline has ignited!” gasped Douglas.

He was on the running board as the car slowed down near Thornton's motor. It was a mass of flames. Douglas sprang to the ground, and the others followed him,

“Get some fence rails,” he directed. “We must try and lift the car so that Thornton can crawl out.”

In a few minutes the men were back with boards torn from a near-by fence, but in that short time the flames had gained headway, and they were driven back by the intense heat. Unfortunately, there was no loose sand at hand. An outgoing trolley car stopped, and several passengers ran to Douglas' aid. The fence boards caught fire, and had to be put out; but finally the car was raised a slight distance from the ground, and a cry of exultation broke from the toiling men, only to die into a groan as a sharp explosion, followed by a heavier detonation, rang out. Dropping their hold on the boards, the men bolted to a safe distance.

“It's hopeless,” gasped Brett. “No man can live in that fiery furnace.”

Douglas groaned aloud. He had been shocked beyond measure by the discovery of Thornton's guilt and treachery, for he had liked him, and had accepted his hospitality. It was horrible to see him meet such a fate. Better the electric chair than being roasted alive.

“Perhaps he jumped from the car before it turned turtle,” he suggested.

“It's hardly likely,” answered Brett dubiously. “Still, we might look along the road. We can do no good over there.” He shuddered slightly as he turned to look at the still burning car. The steel and metal work had been twisted into grotesque shapes by the great heat, which added to the ghastly picture.

Their search along the roadside was fruitless, and Douglas and Brett returned to the secretary of state's limousine. They had to wait some time before the flames about the remains of Thornton's car died down into a smoldering mass. After the fire had burned itself out, Brett, with the assistance of horror-stricken spectators among the crowd. which had collected with the Aladdinlike magic that characterizes street gatherings, examined the ground with minute care. Suddenly he moved over to where Douglas was standing keeping back the curious crowd, and beckoned him to one side.

“Colonel Thornton did not jump from the car, Mr. Hunter,” he said gravely. “We've just found all that's left of him—his ashes.”

“And so that was his end!” Eleanor drew a long, shuddering breath. “Poor Uncle Dana! Douglas, do you really think he was guilty?”

“I'm afraid so,” sorrowfully. “The very fact that he was trying to escape proves it; otherwise, he would have stayed here and faced an investigation.”

“It's dreadful, dreadful!” moaned Eleanor. “And almost unbelievable. A traitor! A murderer! But”—checking herself—“that last hasn't been proved.”

“That's Brett's voice,” exclaimed Douglas, springing from his chair and crossing to the hall door. “Come in, Brett. Miss Thornton and I are sitting in the library.”

The detective gave his hat and light overcoat to Nicodemus and followed Douglas back into the room, first closing the door carefully behind him.

“Has Captain Lane been here yet?” he inquired.

“Yes, he came over at once on being released. Mrs. Truxton took him upstairs to see Cynthia, who is rapidly improving, now that the mystery of Senator Carew's death is solved and Fred cleared of any complicity in it,” explained Eleanor.

“Then would you mind asking Captain Lane to come down, Miss Thornton? I have several pieces of news that I must tell you, and I think his presence is necessary.” Eleanor looked at him questioningly, and he added hastily: “He won't be involved in any further trouble.”

“What tragedies have happened since I reached this house twenty-four hours ago!” exclaimed Douglas, pacing the room restlessly. “Annette's death last night, and now the colonel” He did not finish this sentence, but, instead, stopped before the full-length portrait of a dead-and-gone Thornton, and gazed moodily at the painted face. From that gallant naval hero to Dana Thornton, traitor, was indeed a great descent. “A good man gone wrong,” he commented finally.

“An accomplished scoundrel,” growled Brett. He stopped speaking as Eleanor reëntered the room followed by Fred Lane. The young officer showed the ordeal he had gone through that morning and afternoon by the deep lines under his eyes and around his mouth. He bowed curtly to Douglas and Brett.

“You wish to see me?” he asked.

“Sit down, please.” Brett pushed forward a chair for Eleanor, and the others grouped themselves about the center table. By common consent they all avoided Colonel Thornton's favorite armchair. “I am anxious to have a talk with you, because there are several loose threads to this mystery that must be straightened out.”

“What are they?” questioned Lane impatiently; he longed to be back with Cynthia.

“On my return from the River Road to headquarters, I found an answer from the Paris police to my cable. They tell me, Miss Thornton, that your maid, Annette, was an international spy.”

“Great heavens!” ejaculated Eleanor, in round-eyed astonishment.

“She was also in the habit of impersonating you.” Eleanor's face was a study. “She had clothes made exactly like yours; even her kimono was a duplicate. From what I hear, Mr. Hunter, I judge Annette, who, you recollect, was in the hall when we were discussing the mysterious letter written by Senator Carew, decided to try to find it, and that's why she paid you a visit in the library last Tuesday night. She did not know that I had asked you to sleep there.”

“I was grossly deceived in her,” declared Eleanor bitterly. “I presume her splendid recommendations were”

“Forgeries,” supplemented Brett. “Quite right; they must have been. I have just talked with one of the nurses from Providence Hospital who attended Philip Winthrop, and he declares that he caught Annette trying to give Philip a sleeping powder. Probably she wished to reap all the reward that she could, through blackmail and otherwise, and was afraid if Philip saw me that he would spoil her 'scoop.' With her usual habit of involving you, Miss Thornton, she made that crazy fool believe you were drugging him.”

“Will you please explain to me,” broke in Fred Lane, “why Mrs. Winthrop swore out a warrant for my arrest? What led her to believe me guilty?”

“Mrs. Winthrop wished me to tell you, Captain Lane, that she bitterly regrets her hasty action. I never saw any one so completely broken up. It seems she wanted that graceless stepson of hers to marry her niece, Miss Carew, so that he would eventually inherit the Carew fortune. Then she has a natural antipathy for you because you are your father's son, and she was, unfortunately, only too ready to believe you guilty. Annette told her a number of lies”—Brett shrugged his shoulders expressively—“and there you have it—along with other circumstantial evidence, which would have pretty nearly convicted you.”

Lane flushed angrily. “So Mrs. Winthrop took the word of a worthless servant, the better to humiliate me”

“Had Annette no grounds for her accusation?” questioned Brett swiftly. “Mrs. Owen said her library desk file mysteriously disappeared the night of the dance.”

“A coincidence that I cannot account for,” declared Lane, looking the detective squarely in the eye. “It may be that Annette saw the end of my silver-handled umbrella which I was carrying, and in the uncertain light mistook it for a weapon of some sort.”

“Considering Annette's natural disposition to lie,” broke in Douglas, “I think it highly probable that she made up the story, and told it to Miss Carew.”

“And probably promised to keep silent if Miss Carew paid her,” suggested Brett scornfully. “It's too bad Miss Carew permitted the maid to blackmail her.”

“What about the threatening letters to Senator Carew, which Mrs. Winthrop thought I sent?” inquired Lane.

“Philip Winthrop wrote them.”

“The miserable scoundrel!” ejaculated Lane.

“He was that and more. The secretary of state and I took him back home in the former's motor, and when we had done grilling him, we had cleared up many details in regard to this international intrigue. Through Senator Carew's letter and Winthrop's disclosures, the intrigue has been nipped in the bud before more serious results can happen.”

“Thank God for that!” exclaimed Douglas devoutly.

“It seems that Philip Winthrop has been a go-between for a wealthy Colombian, whose name he obstinately withholds, and some person whom the conspirators called 'our mutual friend.' Strange to say, Philip declares he never knew until Carew's letter was read that the mysterious individual was Colonel Dana Thornton. He says he gave all communications for the 'mutual friend' to Annette, and Annette, if you please, made him believe that the spy was—Miss Thornton.”

“Well, upon my word!” cried Eleanor, her eyes blazing with indignation. “I was a nice cat's-paw for her! Do you know, I believe she killed Senator Carew, and not my uncle.”

“I'm sorry” Brett hesitated, then went on slowly: “I'm sorry to say there's no doubt but that Colonel Thornton did murder the senator. I don't want to inflict any more pain than necessary, Miss Thornton, but you will hear the details from others if not from me. I have seen Soto, your Japanese cook, and he swore that Colonel Thornton called at your house on Monday night just after the senator's arrival, and Fugi admitted him. On being informed that Senator Carew was with you, your uncle told the butler not to announce him, but that he would wait in the writing room until the senator left. Soto showed me an umbrella that Fugi had carried to the kitchen to dry for the colonel. It has your uncle's initials engraved on the handle, and Nicodemus positively identified it as belonging to the colonel when I showed it to him on my arrival here just now.

“On being pressed, Soto also admitted that late Monday night he left your house to post a letter. As he came up the area steps to the terraced walk—which was covered by the awning—leading from the house to the sidewalk, he almost collided with Senator Carew, who seemed buried in thought and did not notice his approach. Soto drew back respectfully toward the area steps to let him pass. As the senator entered his carriage, another man sped down your high front steps, and, on reaching the carriage, pulled open the door and entered the vehicle, which then moved on. Soto swears solemnly that this last man was Colonel Thornton.”

Eleanor drew a long, sobbing breath, and glanced helplessly at the others. Her worst fears were realized. Her uncle was not only a traitor, but a murderer. None cared to break the pause, and, after waiting a moment, Brett took up his narrative where he had left off.

“It must be, Miss Thornton, that your uncle overheard all or part of your conversation with the senator. He probably waited in the writing room until the senator left the house, picked up the letter file, as he had no other weapon handy, and stole after the senator. Hamilton was too drunk to notice anything. The horses. probably moved up the street of their own accord when the preceding carriages made room for them to advance. It was unpremeditated murder, and yet chance concealed Colonel Thornton's tracks most successfully.”

“You are right,” agreed Douglas. “If Annette had found Carew's letter to the secretary of state instead of Mrs. Truxton, Thornton would have escaped detection.”

“Annette was always complaining of Mrs. Truxton's early rising.” Eleanor laughed hysterically, then cried a little.

“My darling, let me get you some wine,” exclaimed Douglas in distress.

“No, no, sit down.” Eleanor clutched his coat. “Don't pay any attention to me; I'll be all right in a minute.”

“Fugi has disappeared,” went on Brett, after a brief silence. “I think he overheard our conversation here this afternoon, for Nicodemus says he was loitering in the hall. On searching your house, Miss Thornton, I found certain papers which prove Fugi had been in your uncle's pay.”

“He thought it wiser to bolt,” commented Fred Lane. “I have no doubt he knew more of affairs than we are giving him credit for.”

“It's a great pity, Miss Thornton, that you kept silent so long,” said Brett. “If I had known that Senator Carew spent the evening with you, and also about the awning, I would have cleared up this mystery sooner.”

“I should have spoken.” Eleanor looked so troubled that Douglas sat down on the arm of her chair and took her hand gently in his. As his strong grasp tightened, she formed a sudden resolution. “There is another reason for my silence which I have not told you. Wait a moment,” and she rose and hurriedly left the room.

The men smoked in silence until her return. “The room is very dark; won't you light another burner, Douglas?” she asked, on her return. She waited until her wish had been complied with; then, as the men seated themselves near her, she began her story.

“On Tuesday morning, just after I had heard of Senator Carew's death, I received a cardboard box containing jewels. That in itself bewildered me, but I was astounded by the message, written in an unknown hand, that I found on a card inside the box.” As she spoke, she opened the small box that she had just brought into the room with her. “Here is the card; read the message aloud, Douglas.”

Douglas laid the card on the desk, and the three men looked at each other in amazement.

“The message frightened me horribly,” continued Eleanor. “I realized that some one must have thought me guilty of the senator's death—and approved of it. The mystery of it appalled me. I did not know whom to take into my confidence; so I put the jewels into my strong box and said nothing, hoping that I would be able to ferret out the mystery by myself.”

“Let us see the jewels,” suggested Douglas.

Eleanor opened the box and pulled off the top layer of cotton, then rolled the necklace of rubies on the table, where the stones lay glittering under the strong light.

“They are superb!” exclaimed Douglas, while a low murmur of admiration broke from Lane.

“Their almost priceless value frightened me more than anything else,” explained Eleanor. “I could not imagine who had sent them to me”

“That's easily answered.” Brett picked up the necklace and examined it minutely. “This necklace was sent to you by the man who stole it.”

“What?” ejaculated the two men, while Eleanor collapsed limply in her chair.

“These are the Hemmingway rubies, went on Brett. “They were stolen about a month ago in New York, and the police of this country and Europe were notified of their loss. I have here,” drawing out a leather wallet and extracting a thin, typewritten sheet, “one of the notices sent to headquarters. Let me refresh my memory.” He skimmed over the lines, then a shout of exultation escaped him. “Listen:

“Oh, no, no!” Eleanor cried, throwing out her arms as if to thrust the idea from her; then she dropped forward and buried her head in her arms on the table.

Douglas started to move over to her side, but Brett checked him. “Let her alone,” he advised, in an undertone. “It's a shock, but she will recover.” Then, in a louder tone: “By heavens! That man was a positive genius!” with reluctant admiration. “He probably heard that the case had been turned over to the police, although the Hemmingways had asked to have the search conducted quietly, so that it did not reach the papers. Fearing to keep the necklace in his possession, he sent it to his niece with a cryptic message which he knew she would not, under the circumstances, dare show to others, reasoning also that she would keep the necklace concealed for the same cause. I don't doubt he expected her eventually to ask his advice about the jewels, and then he would get them back again, as soon as all danger of detection was over, on the plea that he would have them returned to the rightful owner, or some such plausible excuse.”

“Upon my word, such villainy exceeds belief!” Lane gazed incredulously at the detective. “And yet I don't doubt you have guessed the right solution of the problem.”

“Eleanor, dear”—Douglas turned to the weeping girl—“if you feel strong enough, I wish you would tell us about the quest to which you alluded this afternoon.” Eleanor raised her head and looked reproachfully at him. “I realize the subject may prove painful to you at this time, but Annette having implicated you in her transactions, I think it is best for you to clear up any seeming mysteries.”

“Perhaps you are right.” Eleanor sighed as she wiped away her tears. “I must first tell you that my mother was Nora Fitzgerald”

“The famous actress?” broke in Brett.

“The same. She gave up the stage when she married my father, Barry Thornton, then a lieutenant in the United States navy. Their married life was unusually happy; therefore it was all the more incredible and tragic when, one day, he disappeared”

“Disappeared?” echoed Douglas blankly.

“Disappeared utterly. His ship was at Hampton Roads, and he was given shore leave one day. At the wharf he told the coxswain to come back for him at ten o'clock that evening, and he walked on up to the hotel. From that hour to this, he has never been seen or heard from.” Eleanor paused and pushed her hair off her forehead, then continued: “A short time before his mysterious disappearance my father fell from the rigging of the ship to the deck with such force that he was picked up unconscious, It is supposed that the fall may have affected his brain, and so account for his subsequent disappearance.”

“That is very likely,” commented Lane. “I saw a similar case in the Philippines. But pardon me, Miss Eleanor; I did not mean to interrupt.”

“Several days after my father's disappearance, a nude body was washed ashore miles below Norfolk. The condition of the body prevented positive identification, but many persons, among them Uncle Dana, believed it to be my father. My mother, however, refused to accept that theory. She was convinced that he was still alive and suffering from mental aberration. She returned to the stage, first placing me with my uncle, John Fitzgerald, who brought me up. She visited many cities and many countries, but could find no trace of my father. Shortly before her death, she sent for me and charged me solemnly to continue her search, which I have done to the best of my ability.”

“My poor girl!” said Douglas softly.

“My idea has been that if my father was still alive, he would pursue his profession; so I have searched the records of other navies, thinking that perhaps he might be serving under another flag. The day that you saw me at the navy department, Douglas, I had been going over old records, hoping to find some clew to his present whereabouts.”

Douglas colored hotly as he remembered the construction that he had put on her presence in the department. “What did you mean,” he asked, “by saying this afternoon that Senator Carew told you he could help you to bring your mission to a successful conclusion?”

“Senator Carew said that, while in Panama, he had seen a man who closely resembled my father. The stranger apparently did not recognize him, but so certain was Senator Carew of his identity that he gave him his visiting card, and insisted that he should call at the navy department in Washington. Douglas, do you recollect asking me about a man whom you thought you saw with me in the elevator at the navy department on Wednesday?”

“I do.”

“I was terribly excited by your apparently simple question, for in stating that the man had black hair and blue eyes, you exactly described my father.”

“Great heavens!” Douglas sprang to his feet. “It is most astounding, but such a man as you describe really did call at the department that morning, and insisted on seeing the secretary, saying that he had an appointment to meet Senator Carew.”

“What became of him?” Eleanor's lovely eyes were aglow with excitement.

“I don't know. The secretary and I both thought he had stolen the plans of the battleships.” Eleanor's shocked expression stopped him. “Of course, now we know it was Colonel Thornton who called there later with you and Mrs. Wyndham; although how on earth he managed to steal the plans under the very nose of the secretary is beyond me.”

“Let me think.” Eleanor pressed her hands to her throbbing temples. “I remember now; it must have been when Uncle Dana was using the desk telephone. He was leaning forward across the desk, and I recall that I noticed he had his right hand in a drawer. I couldn't see very distinctly, as his body was between us and the drawer, and his overcoat also lay on the desk. Mrs. Wyndham was looking at a book, and the secretary was coughing his head off by the farther window, with his back toward us.”

Brett struck the table a resounding blow with his clenched fists.

“By George, but he was slick! The smartest criminal I've run across in years!”

A discreet tap sounded on the library door, and a muffled voice asked: “'Scuse me, but am Miss Eleanor in dar?”

“Come in, Nicodemus,” called Eleanor. The old darky entered, and, circling the table, handed her a note on the silver salver. She hastily tore it open and read its contents. “I must consult Cousin Kate,” she announced, rising hastily, “before I can answer this.”

“We must all be going,” said Brett, following her into the hall, while Nicodemus paused to put out the lights. “One moment, Miss Thornton, will you please give me the ruby necklace?”

“Why, I handed it to you!” ejaculated Eleanor in surprise, turning back from the staircase.

“I beg your pardon,” said Brett, with positiveness. “I saw Mr. Hunter drop it on the table in front of you.”

Douglas and the young officer joined them.

“So he did,” declared Lane, and with the others followed Eleanor as she hastily reëntered the library.

“Why, it's not anywhere on the table.” Eleanor felt among the table ornaments. “Douglas, do light the gas,” in growing alarm.

“Where in thunder are the matches?” growled Douglas, overturning a vase in his endeavor to find a match box. “Got any, Nicodemus?” as a figure brushed by him in the darkness, and approached the chimney. The other men were searching vainly in their pockets for a match.

“Good for you, Nicodemus,” called Douglas, as a tiny flame appeared in the direction of the chimney. “Bring it over here and light this chandelier.” His order was not obeyed.

The flickering light grew stronger, and then Douglas realized that it was burning some distance from the servant. The flame became stronger, and by its rays a face grew out of the surrounding darkness; a strong, handsome face, whose pallor was enhanced by the heavy black beard and dark, shaggy eyebrows. The eyes were fixed on Nicodemus, who stood in the shadow with his back to the rest, and the two stared unblinkingly at each other. The silence was intolerable. Eleanor and the three men stood transfixed, too astounded to move. Suddenly a choking sob burst from Nicodemus. He threw out his arms as if to ward off some overmastering horror, swayed forward, and fell heavily to the floor.

The candle flickered suddenly, as it was raised and applied to a wall gas jet. The sudden light caused the spellbound spectators of the scene to blink violently; then, as their eyes grew accustomed to the illumination, they made out the figure of a tall man, in nondescript clothes, standing near the chimney.

“Who—who are you, and where in hell did you come from?” gasped Brett.

“I am Barry Thornton, formerly of the United States navy.” The newcomer caught sight of Eleanor, and stretched out his arms pleadingly. “My dear, dear daughter!”

Eleanor, grown deadly white, clutched the table for support. “I don't understand,” she stammered.

“I forgot.” The newcomer's arms dropped to his side. “You were too young to remember me when I last saw you. Fortunately,” meeting Brett's incredulous start, “Nicodemus knows me.”

“Your spectacular appearance seems to have knocked him silly,” exclaimed Captain Lane, regaining his voice. “I reckon we'll have to bring him around before he can identify you properly.”

“Nicodemus, tell these gentlemen who I am,” commanded the newcomer.

“Yo' is my marster, Cap'n Barry Thornton, suh.” The voice came from behind Douglas, and all in the room wheeled in that direction. There stood Nicodemus, his eyes starting from his head, his face gray with fright. He had entered unnoticed a second before.

Eleanor's senses were reeling. With desperate effort she controlled herself. “Then who is that?” she cried frantically, pointing to the motionless figure that was partly hidden from their view by the divan.

For answer the newcomer stepped forward and thrust the sofa to one side, then stooped and rolled the figure over, disclosing the white hair and well-known features of Colonel Dana Thornton.

Douglas caught Eleanor as she fell, and carried her to the lounge.

“Get some water and wine, Lane,” he directed, and the young officer sped out of the room, to return quickly with Nicodemus, bearing the necessary articles. Douglas forced some of the stimulant between Eleanor's clenched teeth, and bathed her temples and hands with the iced water, and, to his infinite relief, he had the satisfaction of seeing her open her eyes.

“Father,” she murmured. “Father.”

“I am here.” The tall, sad-faced man stooped over her, and she placed her trembling hand against his cheek. “Don't look so wild, my darling,” as recollection returned fully to her. “Think no more of it,” and he laid his hand softly over her eyes.

She smiled like a tired child, and, reaching over, laid her hand in Douglas'; then reassured, lay still. Seen together, the likeness between father and daughter was obvious. Eleanor had inherited his handsome, deep-blue eyes, long eyelashes, and brilliant coloring.

Brett rose from beside the still figure. “He's dead—this time,” he said tersely. “Apoplexy. It beats me how he got out of that burning automobile.”

“He wasn't in it,” said Barry Thornton calmly.

“He wasn't?” Brett's excitement overcame him. “Why, I saw him with my own eyes.”

“You saw him leave here, yes; but you probably did not notice that the Japanese chauffeur was crouching at his feet in the car. When the machine turned into Wisconsin Avenue out of your sight, my brother slowed down and sprang out, giving his hat to the Japanese, who took his place at the wheel and raced the machine up Wisconsin Avenue.”

“Well, I'll be damned!” ejaculated Brett. “So it was poor Fugi who was burned up! But good Lord! When Colonel Thornton had made so successful a get-away, what induced him to put his head in the lion's mouth by returning here, and what was he doing in this room?”

“If you search his pockets, you may find out,” was the cryptic reply, as Barry Thornton drew up a chair by Eleanor's couch and seated himself.

Brett thrust his hard first in one pocket of the dead man's clothing, and then in another. Feeling in the last one, he jerked it out again, as if his fingers had been bitten. In his hand dangled the priceless ruby necklace and a wallet filled with bank notes. Brett sat down on the floor, for once speechless,

“How did you know it?” he asked finally.

Barry Thornton raised his disengaged hand and pointed to the portrait of his ancestor and namesake. “I was watching this scene through those peep-holes.” An exclamation escaped Douglas. “You almost caught me this morning, Mr. Hunter. This old house is honeycombed with secret passages. My brother kept a large sum of money in a secret drawer in that desk. He probably needed funds to assist him in escaping from this country, so came back here and entered the house by means of one of the secret passages. He has been concealed behind that sliding panel”—pointing to an aperture in the wall near the chimney—“waiting to slip into this room. He seized the opportunity when Nicodemus put out the lights and left by the billiard-room door, to steal the necklace as well as get his money. Your reëntering the room flustered him, and he was making in haste for the secret passage when I stepped out of it and faced him. Thinking me dead years ago—his escape barred—the shock proved too much for”

Thornton did not complete his sentence. There was a moment's silence.

“I think it would be as well Mr. Thornton, that we remove your brother's body to his room,” suggested Douglas, recovering somewhat from his astonishment.

“Well, I don't know about that; the coroner” objected Brett dubiously.

“We can all testify to the details of Colonel Thornton's death,” put in Lane. “But we cannot leave him lying here on his own floor. His death was natural, brought on by shock.”

“Very well, sir.” Brett rose and walked to the door. He returned in a moment with the plain-clothes policeman; and, with the assistance of Douglas and Lane, all that was mortal of Dana Thornton was carried to his room. Barry Thornton had requested them to return, and Douglas, Lane, and 3rett trooped back to the library.

“Eleanor has told me of her long search,” began Thornton. “My disappearance came from lapse of memory, and the latter was brought on by a fall on shipboard. That fall,” deliberately, “was caused by my brother Dana.”

“Oh, father!' exclaimed Eleanor.

“Yes, I had found out some of his deviltries and taxed him with them. I told him I would expose him if he did not mend his ways, and he promised to do so. He visited me on board ship, and, while he was there, I had occasion to mount the rigging. He followed me up, and managed to push me as I was swinging from one of the ropes. I lost my balance and fell, with what result you already know.”

“The fiend!” cried Eleanor bitterly. “And I trusted him so!”

“His ability to inspire confidence has been his greatest asset,” said her father dryly. “After leaving the gig that day at Old Point Comfort, everything is a blank to me.”

“What brought back your memory?” asked Douglas.

“A chance remark overheard in a drinking hell of Colon, Panama. Two days before that, a man whose face was dimly familiar met me in the streets of Cristobal and gave me his card, telling me that I must ask for him at the navy department at Washington, and that the secretary was keeping a place open for me. At the time, while his words impressed me deeply, they conveyed no very clear idea, nor did Senator Carew's name enlighten me; but they caused me to renew my efforts to remember the past, which I felt convinced was very different from my surroundings then.

“As I have said, two days afterward I overheard two men plotting against the United States. Toward the end of their conversation, the younger man, whom I took to be an American, mentioned the name that woke the sleeping chords of memory—the name of my dearly loved wife, Nora Fitzgerald.” His voice broke with a sob. Eleanor raised his hand and kissed it tenderly.

“I hastened back to Washington as soon as I could get here, working my passage, and, on my arrival, went to see Secretary Wyndham. The news of Senator Carew's death was a great shock, for I had depended on him to assist me to find my wife and child. I believe I had some sort of attack at the department, but all I recollect is finding myself again in the street.

“I came on here, thinking I might find Dana. He was out, but old Nicodemus opened the door for me. He recognized me almost instantly, hurried me out into the kitchen, and there poured out such a tale of Dana's behavior that I sat dumfounded.”

“Do tell us what he said?” urged Brett, hitching his chair forward.

“In justice to myself, I must,” was the grave reply. “Dana was a moral degenerate; brave to a fault and very clever, he did not know the difference between right and wrong. If he had been content to keep straight, he might have risen to high places; instead, he practiced deceit and dishonor.” Thornton's sad face hardened. “He was always a first-class actor, and that talent helped him in the double life he was leading. Nicodemus told me that he was in the habit of disguising himself whenever he was up to deviltry.”

“Ah, that explains why Annette did not know that Dana Thornton was 'the mutual friend,' to whom she delivered and received secret dispatches,” put in Brett, who had followed Thornton's words with breathless interest.

“After what Nicodemus told me, I decided not to let my brother know of my presence here,” continued Captain Thornton, “and so occupied an unused room in the garret, where Nicodemus took care of me.”

“Oh, why didn't you come to me?” asked Eleanor passionately.

“I did, dear; yesterday morning, but you were out. Nicodemus told me of my wife's death, and of your presence in Washington, Eleanor.

“How I kept my hands off Dana, I don't know.” Thornton's eyes blazed with righteous indignation. “He was the cause of all my misfortunes. I entered this room just now, intending to slay him, but Providence intervened and gave him a more merciful death than I would have meted out to him.”

“I don't know about that,” said Brett. “In the hour of his triumph, you snatched his victory from him. God only knows what thoughts were concentrated in his active brain when physical endurance succumbed to the shock of seeing you.”

“Perhaps you are right,” agreed Thornton wearily. “I think that's all I have to tell you, gentlemen.”

“There is one question I feel I must ask.” Brett rose to his feet as he spoke. “Did Annette commit suicide, or was she killed by human or supernatural agency?”

“I think my brother planned her murder; one crime more or less would not trouble his elastic conscience.”

“By Heaven! She brought it on herself by offering to confess to Colonel Thornton what she knew of Senator Carew's murder. But how the devil did he accomplish it?” questioned Brett. “The only door was locked on the inside. I examined all the wall space, thinking there might be a concealed entrance, but couldn't find a sign of one.”

“But you did not examine the floor of the closet,” replied Thornton. “It has a trapdoor cleverly concealed. The passage leads to a secret door that opens on the landing of the staircase leading from this floor to the next. My idea is that Dana stole into the room, found the maid asleep, and blew out the gas, leaving her to be asphyxiated, and then returned to his room.”

“Did you see him do this?” sternly.

“Most certainly not! If I had had the faintest idea that he intended to murder the maid, I should have prevented the crime. I stayed downstairs last night, going over some papers in Dana's desk until nearly three this morning. I was stealing up to my room when I saw Miss Carew coming down the hall, and when she screamed I bolted into the secret passage opening from the stair landing.

“I am exceedingly obliged to you, sir, for straightening out these mysteries,” said Brett, stepping to the door. “How much do you wish made public?”

“Only that which is absolutely necessary to clear the innocent from suspicion,” returned Thornton gravely. “I leave the matter to your judgment.”

“Very good, sir; I'll hush it up as much as possible. “Good evening,” and Brett departed.

Eleanor slipped from the lounge. “Wait for me here, father,” she requested, as she left the room.

“Will you excuse me, Mr. Thornton'” said Fred Lane, rising. “I would like to join Mrs, Truxton and Cynthia.”

“Certainly, captain, and I will be exceedingly grateful if you will explain things to Mrs. Truxton.”

“I will indeed, sir; good night.”

Eleanor was not long absent. Walking over to the lounge, she laid a number of leather-bound journals on her father's knee.

“Mother kept a diary for you, father. She charged me never to part with it until we should meet, when I was to give it to you.”

Thornton kissed her in silence. As Eleanor stood hesitating, Douglas' arm stole round her waist. “Come with me, dear heart,” he murmured. Together they strolled to the door; but Eleanor paused and glanced back at her father.

Thornton's iron composure had given way, and his head was bowed over the familiar handwriting, as he read through tear-dimmed eyes the messages of love and faith penned by his girl wife in the years that were gone.


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 ; Sepoy Lines :
 * Hokkien, Si paî po͘ 時排埔 si paî = sepoy; po͘ = field.

 * Tarek Ayer :
 * Hokkien, Gû chhia chúi 牛車水 "Bullock-cart water."
 * Cantonese, Ngau chhe shui 牛車水

 * Titi Papan :
 * Hokkien, Tiaù kiô thaû 吊橋頭 "Suspension bridge bead."
 * Cantonese, Tiu khiu thau 吊橋頭

 * Ujong Pasir, or Prangin :
 * Siā boé 社城 [sic]尾 "town end."
 * Cantonese, She mè 社尾

Some of the names are romanized in Kheh sound, as the up-country districts are inhabited more by Khehs than Cantonese.

 * Ayer Itam :
 * Hokkien. A yú i tām 亞逸依淡

 * Ayer Puteh :
 * Kheh, Kung si san 公司山 "Kong-si hill."

 * Bagan Jermal :
 * Hokkien, Oûn tò 灣斗 "bay."

 * Balik Pulau :
 * Hokkien, Phû lô 浮爐
 * Kheh, San poi 山背 "hill back," i. e., the back of the Pentland Range. The town is called Pho͘ 坡 by the Hokkiens, and Tanjong by the Khehs. Balik Pulau village is called Kung-si, or Bokkan, which is a corruption of the Malay word "pekan," and the only street there is called fu lo kat chhong 湖爐街場

 * Balik Pulau Hill :
 * Hokkien, Phaù taî téng 炮臺頂 "Fort top"
 * Kheh, Phau thoi tong 炮臺頂

 * Batu Ferringgi :
 * Hokkien, Batu téng-gî 峇抵丁宜
 * Kheh, Ma tu tin yi 峇抵丁宜

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

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 She said that Mr. Briggs had been called over to Germany once in a hurry, on business, and had forgotten to take a piece of soap with him, and didn't know enough German to ask for any when he got over there, and didn't see any to ask for even if he had known, and was away for three weeks, and wasn't able to wash himself all the time, and came home so dirty that they didn't know him, and mistook him for the man that was to come to see what was the matter with the kitchen boiler.

Mrs. Briggs also advised me to take some towels with me, as they give you such small towels to wipe on.

I went out after lunch, and met our Vicar. He said:

"Take a blanket with you."

He said that not only did the German hotel-keepers never give you sufficient bedclothes to keep you warm of a night, but they never properly aired their sheets. He said that a young friend of his had gone for a tour through Germany once, and had slept in a damp bed, and had caught rheumatic fever, and had come home and died.

His wife joined us at this point. (He was waiting for her outside a draper's shop when I met him.) He explained to her that I was going to Germany, and she said;


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This discloses what you would probably bring on the auction block. If you are young and strong you are worth $500; mules $150.

It will be noted that there is no discrimination in allowing settlement between the 29 that were killed and the 10 that were wounded.

The wounded probably had a leg or arm torn off or their eyes put out.

They were just as useless to the capitalist class as the dead ones.

The federal court figured them all alike in the damage suit.

Some of you white victims of the capitalist system, who vote a capitalist ticket because you are afraid of "nigger equality," ought to sit up and take notice.

Your "equality" has petered out away below the "nigger" of the old chattel slave days.

He used to be worth from a thousand to fifteen hundred dollars, with board and clothes thrown in.

You have slumped the market down to a measly $500, without any board and clothes, and have to get killed to collect, at that.

You had better cross yourselves with a jack and be mules.

Mules keep along about the same old price and get their fodder to boot.

Anyway, you know now where you stand. The difference between a workingman and a mule is $350; when


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 you see a workingman voting a republican or a democratic ticket you will hardly think there is that much difference.

A Wave of Horror—do you know anything about the manufacturing of our common lighting matches?

Do you know that the manufacturers use deadly white phosphorous, because it is cheaper, which causes a horrible, lingering and fatal disease of the bones of the jaw, torturing the lives and killing multitudes every year?

This disease, "Phossy Jaw," is incurable, the manufacturers know that the white phosphorous will kill the workers, but profit is profit under capitalism, and workingmen and women and children are cheap and plenty.

Dr. E. Harlan Wells, expert on tuberculosis, recently said: "Medical scientists have discovered that the factors concerned in the perpetuation and propagation of this disease (consumption) are overwork, child labor, poverty and want." And he goes on to say: "When the wealth of the nation is so distributed that each man receives enough and no man too much—then only may we hope to see tuberculosis eradicated."

Disease is but another form of the wanton murder that an abnormal social system creates.

Every well-informed person is aware of this fact, and yet no Wave of Horror seems to bother anybody—unless they chance to catch the deadly germs themselves.

The sweatshops of any of our great cities, where your coat or your wife's cloak likely came from, commit more murder with filth-bred tuberculosis germs every year than James McNamara could commit the rest of his life by his coarse methods.

"What are you Americans going to do," writes Lincoln Steffens, "about conditions which are breeding up healthy, good-tempered boys like these McNamara boys,


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 really to believe, as they most sincerely do—they and a growing group of labor—that the only recourse they have for improving the conditions of the wage worker is the use of dynamite against property and life?"

Well, I can answer for the Socialist Americans, Mr. Steffens. We propose to tear up root and branch of the accursed "conditions" that you yourself admit are breeding war into the hearts of any men—be they robbed workers, or the robbers themselves. This is the sad part of it all—that you and others cannot or will not discover the Socialist way of production and distribution of wealth.

Jesus saw the thing to do, and taught the brotherhood of man as his social message to the race.

Marx and Engels disclosed the same message, and made it so plain that "the wayfaring man, though a fool, shall not err therein."

They taught brotherhood and equal opportunity of use in all the tools that produce and distribute the things we all require.

These tools comprise the land, machinery, mills, mines, factories, railroads, steamships and other means of public transportation, the telegraph and telephone systems—they comprise everything we all need to use in order to provide food, clothing, shelter, education and all the essentials of life.

This is Brotherhood and Salvation in the only sense of the words that amount to anything at all.

Anything else is sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.

This is the only thing that puts an Otis out of commission and makes the deed of a McNamara unheard of.

How?

That's not hard to answer.

Under the present system of class rule, Otis and his class own the tools and own the jobs.


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 McNamara and his class own nothing but their labor power and hungry stomachs.

The class that owns the tools loans them—gives the jobs—to those who are willing to use them for the least returns—the lowest wages.

The lower the wages, the higher the profits.

The game is to force the wages of the working class down, so as to send the profits of the capitalist class up.

This isn't conducive to brotherhood and peace; this is out-and-out fratricide and class war.

This is war at home; turn back and read what Chauncey Depew said brought on war abroad. War abroad is to force more markets wherein to sell the stolen products of labor—the products that labor should have had for its own use—so as to create more profits for the useless class.

The devil himself couldn’t have arranged anything more abominable than our social system.

It is a system of legalized robbery maintained by legalized murder.

Socialism proposes to establish a fraternal government of the working class, the chief purpose of which government shall be to operate the great industries of the nation and return to the workers the full product of their toil.

Socialism is not vindictive, nor does it ask of the capitalist class amends for past wrongs to the workers.

On the contrary, Socialism is generous to the limit—it invites the predatory class to join the working class and become part of the working class, that there may finally be but one class—all comrades.

After all, there are not many of the capitalist class. They are few in number. The great majority, the workers, can soon absorb them.

The savage owned the earth and its products in common—and shall not we, with our vastly improved ma-


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 chinery and methods for producing wealth, be as wise as he?

Socialism does not propose to own private wealth in common. It only proposes to own the great wealth-producing tools in common.

Your home and all its surroundings shall be your private property. And you shall have a home—not a rented tenement.

What could be more hateful, more abnormal, than this condition wherein the class that owns the tools of production does not use them, and the class that uses them does not own them?

Can you imagine on earth peace, good will toward men under such a master and slave arrangement?

Can anything but war exist under such a state of affairs?

I have enumerated only a few of the crimes of capitalist class rule. I have not begun to tell them all. Their name is legion.

What I have tried to do is to make you have a Wave of Horror at every kind of murder and outrage, and not wait until another McNamara commits some crime out of the ordinary.

This whole social fabric of ours is built on hate, and strife and war.

Socialism comes with a message of love, and harmony and peace.

The McNamara ease will roll into the annals of the past and the particular Wave of Horror it produced will be no more.

But never mind, just make it your business and duty to become horrified at every form of murder and rank injustice you can discover—and it will amaze you at the awful multitude that will be disclosed to your view.


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 When the scales fall from your eyes, and as you are human and not demon, you will shudder at this thing we call civilized society. You will see the old serpent that trails around the globe and leaves its deadly venom in every home. It carries the creed of hell itself, and men fall down and worship.

Listen—this creed tells you that one class in this world was destined to do all the toil, and another class to live in idleness and ease.

It tells you that murder is right in order to keep this privileged class in power and the other class in servitude.

This serpent rules supreme, and spreads foul pestilence in its track.

Poverty, Misery, Disease, Insanity and War are blazed in yellow letters on its black scales.

The name of this serpent is Capitalist Rule.

Can we destroy this monster?

Shall we destroy it?

Yes, we can and will, else there be no God in the Universe and no Soul in Man; else every hope and desire of the human heart is a delusion; else every promise of the past and every righteous demand of the present is a lie.

The McNamara tragedy is but a passing incident in the awful war of capitalist rule.

It is only one of the countless murders done along the Serpent's deadly trail.

If it had been done by your capitalist rulers to protect them in their game of exploitation, no Wave of Horror would have swept the land.

These men were not Socialists—they belonged to one of the old exploiting political parties and had learned their lesson from their masters.


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 This does not absolve the McNamaras, but it shows that the Socialist way is the only way to end war and murder.

The capitalists boast that the McNamara confession defeated the Socialists in the Los Angeles election. With 53,000 Socialist votes in that city, the Socialists can well afford to laugh at such a defeat. The McNamara case will help our cause. It demolishes for all time the utility of such tactics.

The rank and file of the labor unions will follow the example of their brothers of Europe and go into politics. They will find their political home where they belong, in the International Socialist Organization.

The longer they delay this, the more galling will be the chains that bind them.

Everything these good days works for Socialism—for the glad time coming when Waves of Horror will not sweep over the land any more, when the desert shall blossom as the rose and peace shall flow as a river; when the seed of the woman shall bruise the Serpent's head, and swords shall be beaten into plowshares and spears into pruning hooks.

It is written that War shall be no more.


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16 There is nothing you have not turned me into—satyr, bull, gold pieces, swan, eagle; but you never yet have made a single woman fall in love with me for myself, nor have I ever been able to make myself agreeable in any quarter in my own person, but I have to use magic in all such affairs, and disguise myself. And after all, it's the bull or the swan they fall in love with; if they see me, they die of terror.

Cup. Yes, no wonder; they are but mortal, you know, Jupiter, and can't endure your awful person.

Jup. How is it, then, that Apollo gets them to fall in love with him?

Cup. Well—Daphne, you know, ran away from him, for all his flowing locks and smooth face. But if you want to make yourself attractive, you mustn't shake your ægis, and carry your thunderbolt about with you, but make yourself look as pleasant as you can,—let your hair hang down on both sides of your face in curls,—put a fillet round it,—get a purple dress,—put on gilded sandals,—walk with the fashionable step, with a pipe and timbrel before you: you'll see, the women will run after you then, faster than the Mœnads do after Bacchus.

Jup. Away with you—I couldn't condescend to be attractive by making myself such a fool as that.

Cup. Very well, Jupiter, then give up love-making altogether; (looking slyly at him)—that's easy enough, you know.

Jup. Nay, I must go on with my courting, but you must find me some less troublesome fashion than that. And upon this sole condition, I let you off once more.


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The Moon Hoax (versions)

 * The Moon Hoax (1859)
 * , September 1926

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Rh


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Rh

Vulcan. I say, Apollo—have you seen this young bantling that Maia has just produced? What a fine child it is!—smiles at everybody, and gives plain token already that it will turn out something wonderful—quite a blessing to us all.

Apollo. A blessing, you think, eh, Vulcan? that child—who is older, in point of wickedness, than old father Iapetus himself!

Vul. Why, what harm can a baby like that do to anybody?

Ap. Just ask Neptune,—he stole his trident. Or ask Mars,—the brat slipped his sword out of its sheath as quickly as you please; to say nothing of myself, and he has gone off with my bow and arrows.

Vul. What! that infant? who can hardly stand? the one in the cradle there?

Ap. You'll soon find out for yourself, Vulcan, if he pays you a visit.

Vul. Why, he has paid me a visit, just now.

Ap. Well, have you got all your tools safe? none of them missing, is there?

Vul. (looking round). No—they are all right, Apollo.

Ap. Nay, look carefully.

Vul. By Jove! I can't see my anvil!

Ap. You'll find it somewhere in his cradle, I'll be bound.

Vul. Why, he's as handy with his fingers as if he had studied thieving before he was born!


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 ; Tamil Street :
 * Hokkien, Kiet-lêng bān san 吉寧萬山 "Kling market."
 * Cantonese, Kit-ling pa-sat 吉寧巴虱

 * Tek Soon Street :
 * Hokkien, Tek Sūn lō͘ 德順路
 * Hokkien, Chhâ tiâⁿ aŭ 柴埕後 "Maxwell Road back" (Vide Maxwell Road, Part I.)
 * Hokkien, Chhâ tiâⁿ aŭ 柴埕後 "Maxwell Road back" (Vide Maxwell Road, Part I.)

 * Thye Sin Street :
 * Hokkien, Koè káng-á tō sì tiaû lō͘ 過港仔第四條路 "passed rivulet, number four street, i. e., the fourth street after crossing the Prangin Ditch from Beach street.
 * Cantonese, Kwo kong chai tai si thin lo 過港仔第四條路

 * Toa Aka Lane :
 * Hokkien, Phah-thi̍h-ke hāng-á 打鐵街巷仔 "Beach street small lane," the lane that branches off from Beach street (Vide Beach street, Part V.).
 * Cantonese, Ta-thit kai hong chai 打鐵街巷仔
 * Hokkien, Kàm-kong-laĭ hoaîⁿ lō͘ 鑑光內橫路 "Carnarvon Lane cross street."
 * Cantonese, Kam-pong loi wang kai 金榜內橫街
 * Cantonese, Kam-pong loi wang kai 金榜內橫街

 * Transfer Road :
 * Hokkien, Tek Sūn chhù piⁿ ke 德順厝邊街 "Tek Soon's house side street."
 * Cantonese, Tak shun ok pin 德順屋邊

 * Union Street :
 * Hokkien, Po-lê aŭ 玻璃後 "Police back"=behind the Police Courts.
 * Cantonese, Po-li-si hau 玻璃司後

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18 Ap. Ah! you haven't heard him yet talking, as pert and as glib as may be. Why, he wants to run errands for us all! Yesterday, he challenged Cupid to wrestle with him, and tripped up both his legs in some way, and threw him in a second. Then, when we were all applauding him, and Venus was hugging him after his victory, he stole her cestus; and while Jupiter was laughing at that, he was off with his majesty's sceptre. Ay, and if the thunderbolt did not happen to be heavy, and considerably hot withal, he would have stolen that too.

Vul. You make the child out to be a prodigy.

Ap. Not only that—he knows music already.

Vul. How did he find that out?

Ap. He got hold of a dead tortoise somewhere, and made its shell into an instrument: fitted it with pins, and put a bridge to it, and stretched seven strings across it. Then he sang to it,—something really quite pretty, Vulcan, and in good tune: I was absolutely jealous of him, though, as you know, I have practised the lyre some time. Maia declares, too, that he never stays in heaven at night, but goes down into the Shades, out of curiosity—or to steal something there, most likely. He has got wings, too, and has made himself a rod of some miraculous power, by which he guides and conducts the dead below.

Vul. Oh, I gave him that, myself, for a toy.

Ap. So, in return, to show his gratitude, your anvil

Vul. By the by, you remind me. I must go and look if I can find it, as you say, anywhere in his cradle.


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Rh

Jupiter. Be quiet, do, both of you—Hercules and Æsculapius—quarrelling with one another, just like mortals. It's really quite unseemly, this kind of conduct; not at all the thing in Olympian society.

Hercules. But do you mean to say, Jupiter, this apothecary fellow is to sit above me?

Æsculapius. Quite fair I should; I'm the better deity.

Herc. In what way, you staring ass? Because Jupiter struck you with his lightning for doing what you had no right to do, and now out of sheer pity has made you into an immortal?

Æsc. Have you forgot, Hercules, the bonfire that you made of yourself upon Mount Œta, that you taunt me with having been burnt?

Herc. Our lives were considerably different. I, the son of Jove, who undertook all those labours to benefit my generation, conquering monsters and punishing tyrants: while you went about like a vagabond, collecting roots, of some little use perhaps to dose a few sick folk, but never having done a single deed of valour.

Æsc. All very fine; when I healed your sores, sir, when you came up here the other day half roasted between the effects of the tunic and the fire together. Well, if I haven't done much, at least I was never a slave, as you were—never carded wool in Lydia in a woman's dress—never had my face slapped by


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20 Omphale with her gilt slipper: and never went mad and killed my wife and children.

Herc. If you don't stop that abuse, sir, you'll pretty soon find out that your immortality is not of much use to you. I'll take and pitch you head-first out of heaven; and it will be more than Pæan himself can do to mend you when your skull's broken.

Jup. Stop! I tell you both again, and don't annoy the company, or I'll turn you both out of the hall. But it's quite fair, Hercules, that Æsculapius should sit above you—because he died first.

Juno (meeting her rival with a disdainful half-bow). A lovely pair of brats indeed, Latona, you have presented Jupiter with!

Latona (with a sweeping curtsey). Oh, we cannot all of us be expected, your majesty, to produce such a beauty as Vulcan!

Ju. (rather disconcerted). Well, lame as he is, he is very useful. He's a charming artist, and has decorated heaven for us with excellent taste. Then he has married Venus, and she is wonderfully fond of him too. But those children of yours—why, that girl's quite a masculine creature, only fit for the country. And now this lust expedition of hers into Scythia—everybody knows her horrible way of living there—killing her visitors and eating them—as bad as those cannibals, the Scythians themselves. Then Apollo,—he pretends, I'm told, to know everything