Iſlammoth
IIll]STERU BOOK





BOOK





Iſlammoth
IIll]STERU BOOK


0 0 K S
BY

ANGEL ESQUIRE
ANGEL, OF TERROR
THE BLACK
THE BLACK ABBOT
BLUB HAND
CAPTAINS OF SOULS
THE CLEVER ONE
THE CLUE OF THE NEW PIN
THE CLUE OF THE TWISTED
CANDLE
THE.CRIMSON CIRCLE
THE.DAFFODIL MURDER
THT DARK EYES OF LONDON
DIANA OF KARA-KARA
THE DOOR WITH SEVEN
LOCKS
THE FACE IN THE NIGHT
THE FELLOWSHIP OF THE
FROG
THE.FLYING SQUAD
THE FOUR JUST MEN
THE FOURTH PLAGUE
THE GIRL FROM SCOTLAND
YARD
THE GREEN ARCHER
THE GREEN RIBBON
GREEN RUST
GUNMAN'S BLUFF
THE HAIRY ARM
THE INDIA-RUBBER MEN
JACK O'JUDGMENT
KATE PLUS 10
A KING BY NIGHT
THE MAN WHO KNEW
THE MELODY OF DEATH
THE MISSING MILLIONS
MR. COMMISSIONER SANDERS
THE MURDER BOOK OF MR.
J. Q. REEDER
THE NORTHING TRAMP
RED ACES
THE RINGER
THE RINGER RETURNS
THE SILVER KEY
SANDERS OF THE RIVER
THE SECRET HOUSE
THE SINISTER MAN
THE SQUEALER
THE STRANGE COUNTESS
TAM O- THE SCOOTS
THE TERRIBLE PEOPLE
THE THREE JUST MEN
TERROR KEEP
THE TRAITORS' GATE
THE TWISTER
THE VALLEY OF GHOSTS
WHITE FACE


Uldmmom
Iftysteru
Book-I
(Complete
by" \
Edqar U?al
lace

A. L Burl Companu
Publishers -I
New York • • Chicago
nf Michigan


Copyright, 1924
by Street & Smith Corporation
New York
Copyright, 1925
by Small, Maynard & Co., Inc.
Copyright, 1923
by Edgar Wallace
Made in the U.S. A.
f ,»



(Contents
i •
2 .





THE HAIRY ARM





II.
III.
IV.
V.
VIII.
:
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
CONTENTS
The Head-hunter - - - -
Mr. Sampson Longvale Calls -
The Niece . . . . . .
The Leading Lady . . . .
Mr. Lawley Foss -
The Master of Griff . .
The Swords and Bhag
Bhag
The Ancestor
The Open Window
The Mark on the Window
A Cry from a Tower .
The Trap That Failed
Mendoza Makes a Fight . . .
Two from the Yard .
The Brown Man from Nowhere
Mr. Foss Makes a Suggestion .
The Face in the Picture .
The Midnight Visit . . . .
Michael Has a Visitor
10
18
24
31,
38
48
ss
63
71
79
86
94
101
111
114
122
127
135
146
V


CONTENTS
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
XXVII.
, xxviii.
XXIX.
XXXIII.
The Erasure
The Head
Clews at the Tower .
The Marks of the Beast .
The Man in the Car .
The Hand .
The Caves
The Tower
Bhag's Return
The Advertisement
John Percival Liggitt
Gregory's Way .
“I Want You”
The Search
What Happened to Adele .
The Escape
The Tower
The Cavern of Bones
Michael Knows for Sure .
The Widow
The Death .
Camera
165
169
176
183
190
210
219
227
235
241
246
256
261
272
277
285
291
298
314
320
329


THE HAIRY ARM
CHAPTER I
THE HEAD-HUNTER
To say that he was uninterested in crime, that
burglars were less thrilling than golf scores, and
the record of murders hardly worth the reading,
might convey a wrong impression of Captain
Mike Brixan to those who knew him as the clev-
erest agent in the Foreign Office Intelligence
Department.
His official life was spent in meeting queer
Continentals in obscure restaurants and in di-
vers roles to learn of the undercurrents that
were drifting the barks of diplomacy to unsus-
pected ports. He had twice roamed through
Europe in the guise of an open-mouthed tourist;
had canoed a thousand miles or so through the
gorges of the Danube to discover in little river-
side beer houses secret mobilizations, odd tasks,
but to his liking.
Therefore he was not unnaturally annoyed
when he was withdrawn from Berlin at a mo-
3


THE HAIRY ARM
. as it seemed, the mystery of the Slc-
was in a way to being solved, for he
at a cost, a rough and accurate
*l should have had a photograph of the actual
jocument if you had left me another twenty-
totir hours," he reproached his chief, Major
George Staines, when he reported himself at
Whitehall next morning.
"Sorry," replied that unrepentant man, "but
the truth is, we've had a heart-to-heart talk with
the Slovakian prime minister, and he has prom-
ised to behave, and he has practically given us
the text of the treaty. It was only a commer-
cial affair. Mike, did you know Elmer?"
The foreign office detective sat down on the
edge of the table.
"Have you brought me from Berlin to ask me
that?" he demanded bitterly. "Have you taken
me from my favorite cafe on Unter den Linden
by the way, the Germans are making small-
ann ammunition by the million at a converted
pencil factory in Bavaria—to discuss Elmer?
He's a clerk, isn't he?"
Major Staines nodded.
"He VHU," he said, "in the Accountancy de-
partment. He disappeared from view three


THE HEAD-HUNTER 5
weeks ago, and an examination of his books
•bowed that he had been systematically stealing
funds which were under his control."
Mike Brixan made a little face.
"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "He seems
to be a fairly quiet and inoffensive man. But
sorely yon don't want me to go after him? That
is a job for Scotland Yard."
"I don't want you to go after him," said
Staines slowly, "because—well, he has been
found."
There was something very significant and sin-
ister in his tone, and before he could take the
little slip of paper from the portfolio on the
desk, Michael Brixan knew what was coming.
"Not The Head-hunter?" he gasped. Even
Michael knew about The Head-bunter.
Staines nodded. "Here's the note." He
handed the typewritten sup across to his sub-
ordinate, and Michael read:
You vfll find a box in the hedge by the railway aicfc
•tEaher.
THE HEAD-HUNTE*
That was all.
'The Head-hunter 1" repeated Michael me-
chanically and whistled.
• -We found the box, and, of course, we found


6 THE HAIRY ARM
the unfortunate Elmer's head sliced neatly from
his body," said Staines. "This is the twelfth
head in seven years," Staines went on, "and in
almost every case—in fact, in every case except
two—the victim has been a fugitive from jus-
tice. Even if the treaty question had not been
settled, Mike, I should have brought you back."
"But this is a police job," said the young man,
troubled.
"Technically you're a policeman," interrupted
his chief, "and the Foreign Secretary wishes you
to take this case in hand, and he does this with
the full approval of the Secretary of State, who,
of course, controls Scotland Yard. So far tha
death of Francis Elmer and the discovery of his
gruesome remains have not been given out to
the press. There was such a fuss last time that
the police want to keep this quiet . They have
had an inquest—I guess the jury was packed,
but it would be high treason to say so—and the
usual verdict has been returned. The only in-
formation I can give you is that Elmer was sees
by his niece a week ago in Chichester. We dis-
covered this before the man's fate was known.
The girl, Adek Leamington, is working for tilt
Knebworth Film Corporation, which has its
studio in Chichester. Old Knebworth is aa


THE HEAD-HUNTER 7
American and a very good sort. The girl is •
jort of super—chorus—extra, that's the word."
Michael gasped and looked at him uncer-
tainly.
"What do you wish me to do?"
"Go along and see her," said the chief. "Here
a the address."
"Is there a Mrs. Elmer?" asked Michael, m
fee put the slip into his pocket.
The other nodded.
"Yes, but she can throw no light upon the
murder. She, by the way. is the only person
who knows he is dead. She had not seen her
kusband for a month, and apparently they had
been more or less separated for years. She bene-
fits considerably by bis death, for he was well
insured in her favor."
Michael read again the gruesome note from
Head-hunter. "What is your theory about
he asked curiously.
The general idea is that he is a lunatic who
called upon to mete out punishment to
defaulters. But the two exceptions disturb that
theory pretty considerably."
Staines Lay back in his chair, a puzzled fiowa
on his face.
Take the case of WfltitL His head wm


8 THE HAIRY ARM
found on Clapham Common two years ago.
Willitt was a well-off man, the soul of honesty,
well liked, and he had a very big balance at his
bank. Crewling, the second exception, who was
one of the first of The Hunter's victims, was
also above suspicion, though in his case there is
no doubt he was mentally unbalanced a few
weeks before his death.
"The typewritten notification has invariably
been typed out on the same machine. In every
case you have the half-obliterated 'u,' the faint
'g,' and the extraordinary alignment which the
experts are unanimous in ascribing to a very old
and out-of-date Kost machine. Find the man
who uses that typewriter, and you have prob-
ably found the murderer. But it is very un-
likely that he will ever be found that way, for
the police have published photographs pointing
out the peculiarities of type, and I should imag-
ine that Mr. Hunter does not use this machine
except to announce the demise of his victims."
Michael Brixan went back to his flat, a little
more puzzled and a little more worried by his
unusual commission. He moved and had hia
being in the world of high politics. Thinnesses
of diplomacy were his peculiar study, and the
normal abnormalities of humanity, the thefts


THE HEAD-HUNTER 9
and murders and larcenies which occupied the
attention of the constabulary, did not come into
Us purview.
"Bill," said he, addressing the small terrier
that lay on the hearthrug before the fireless
grate of his sitting room, "this is where I fall
down. But whether I do or not, I'm going to
meet an extra—ain't that grand?"
Bill wagged his tail agreeably. Whatever else
might go wrong, Bill's comprehension was
reliable.


CHAPTER II
MR. SAMPSON LONGVALE CALLS
WHEN most of the people had left the studio,
and it was almost empty, Adele Leamington
came to where the white-haired man sat
crouched in his canvas chair, his hands thrust
into his trousers pockets, a malignant scowl on
his forehead. It was not a propitious moment
to approach him; nobody knew that better than
she.
"Mr. Knebworth, can I speak to you?"
He looked up slowly. Ordinarily he would
have risen, for this middle-aged American in
normal moments was the soul of courtesy. But
just at that moment his respect for womanhood
was something below zero. His look was blank,
though the director in him instinctively ap-
proved her values. She was pretty, with regular
features, a mop of brown hair in which the sun-
shine of childhood still lingered. Her mouth
firm, delicately shaped, her figure slim—perfect
in many ways.
Jack Knebworth had seen many beautiful
extras in his career. They were dolls without
10


MR. LONGVALE CALLS 11
intelligence or initiative—just extras who could
wear clothes in a crowd, who could smile and
dance mechanically, fit for extras and nothing
else all the days of their lives.
"Well?" he asked brusquely.
"Is there a part I could play in this produc-
tion, Mr. Knebworth?" she asked.
"Aren't you playing a part, Miss—can't re-
member your name—Leamington, is it?"
"I'm certainly playing. I'm one of the
figures in the background," she smiled. "I don't
want a big part, but I'm sure I could do better
than I have done."
"I'm mighty sure you couldn't do worse than
some people," he growled. "No, there's no part
for you, friend. There'll be no story to shoot
unless things alter."
She was going away, when he recalled her.
"Left a good home, I guess?" he said.
"Thought picture making meant a million dol-
lars a year an' a new automobile every Thurs-
day? Or maybe you were holding down a good
job as a stenographer and got it under your hat
that you'd make Hollywood feel small if you got
your chance? Go back home, kid, and tell the
old man that a typewriter's got a sunlight arc
beaten to death as an instrument of commerce."


12 THE HAIRY ARM
The girl smiled faintly.
"I didn't come into pictures because I was
stage-struck, if that is what you mean, Mr.
Knebworth. I came in knowing just how hard
a life it might be. I have no parents."
He looked at her curiously.
"How do you live?" he asked. "There's no
money in extra work—not on this lot anyway.
Might be if I was one of those billion-dollar
directors who did pictures with chariot races.
But I don't. My ideal picture has five char-
acters."
"I have a little income from my mother, and I
write," said the girl.
She stopped, as she saw him looking past her
to the studio entrance, and, turning her head,
she saw a remarkable figure standing in the
doorway. At first she thought it was an actor
who had made up for a film test.
The newcomer was an old man, but his great
height and erect carriage would not have con-
veyed that impression at a distance. The tight-
fitting tail coat, the trousers strapped to his
boots, the high collar and black satin stock
belonged to a past age, though they were newly
made. The white linen bands that showed at
his wrists were goffered, his double-breasted


MR. LONGVALE CALLS 13
waistcoat of gray velvet was fastened by golden
buttons. He might have stepped from a family
portrait of one of those dandies of the fifties.
He held a tall hat in one gloved hand, a hat with
a curly brim, and in the other a gold-topped
walking stick. The face was deeply lined, was
benevolent and kind, and he seemed uncon-
scious of his complete baldness.
Jack Knebworth was out of his chair in a
second and walked toward the stranger.
"Why, Mr. Longvale, I am glad to see yon.
Did you get my letter? I can't tell you how
much obliged I am to you for the loan of your
house."
Sampson Longvale of the Dower House 1 She
remembered now. He was known in Chichester
at "the old-fashioned gentleman," and once,
when she was out on location, somebody had
pointed out the big rambling house, with its
weed-grown garden and crumbling walls, where
he lived.
"I thought I would come over and see yoa,"
said the big man.
His voice was rich and beautifully modulated.
She did not remember having heard a voice quite
as sweet, and she looked at the eccentric figure
with a new interest.


14 THE HAIRY ARM
"I can only hope that the house and grounds
are suitable to your requirements. I am afraid
they are in sad disorder, but I cannot afford to
keep the estate in the same condition as my
grandfather did."
"Just what I want, Mr. Longvale, I was
afraid you might be offended when I told
you"
The old gentleman interrupted him with a
•oft laugh.
"No, no, I wasn't offended—I was amused
You needed a haunted house; I could even sup-
ply that quality, though I will not promise you
that my family ghost will walk. The Dower
House has been haunted for hundreds of yean.
A former occupant in a fit of frenzy murdered
his daughter there, and the unhappy lady is sup-
posed to walk. I have never seen her, though
many years ago one of my servants did. For-
tunately I am relieved of that form of annoy-
ance; I no longer keep servants in the house,"
he smiled, "though, if you care to stay the night,
I shall be honored to entertain five or six of your
company."
Knebworth heaved a sigh of relief. He had
made diligent inquiries and found that it was
almost impossible to secure lodgings in the


MR. LONGVALE CALLS 15
neighborhood, and he was most anxious to take
night pictures, and for one scene he particularly
desired the peculiar light value which he could
only obtain in the early hours of the morning.
"I'm afraid that would give you a lot of
trouble, Mr. Longvale," he said. "And here and
now I think we might discuss that delicate sub-
ject of"
The old man stopped him with a gesture.
"If you are going to speak of money, please
don't," he said firmly. "I am interested in mov-
ing pictures—in fact, I am interested in most
modem things. We old men are usually prone
to decry modernity, but I find my chief pleasure
in the study of those scientific wonders which
this new age has revealed to us."
He looked at the director quizzically.
"Some day you shall take a picture of me in
the one rdle in which I think I should have no
peer—a picture of me in the rdle of my illustri-
ous ancestor."
The old man gestured magnificently.
Jack Knebworth stared, half amused, half
startled. It was no unusual experience to find
people who wished to see themselves on the
screen, but he never expected that little piece of
vanity from Mr. Sampson Longvale.


16 THE HAIRY ARM
"I should be glad," he said formally. "Your
people were pretty well known, I guess?"
Mr. Longvale sighed.
"It is my regret that I do not come from the
direct line that included Charles Henry, the
most historic member of my family. He was my
great-uncle. I come from the Bordeaux branch
of Longvales, which has made history, sir." He
shook his head regretfully.
"Are you French, Mr. Longvale?" asked
Jack.
Apparently the old man did not hear him. He
was staring into space. Then, with a start:
"Yes, yes, we were French. My great-grand-
father married an English lady whom he met in
peculiar circumstances. We came to England
in the days of the directorate."
Then for the first time he seemed aware of
Adele's presence, and he bowed toward her.
"I think I must go," he said, taking a huge
gold watch from his fob pocket.
The girl watched them, as they passed out of
the hall, and presently she saw the "old-fash-
ioned gentleman" pass the window, driving the
oldest-fashioned car she had ever seen. It must
have been one of the first motor cars ever intro-
duced into the country, a great, upstanding,


MR. LONGVALE CALLS 17
cumbersome machine, that passed with a thun-
derous sound and at no great speed down the
gravel drive out of sight.
Presently Jack Knebworth came slowly back.
"This craze for being screened certainly gets
'em—old or young," he said. "Good night, Miss
—forget your name—Leamington, isn't it?
Good night."
She was halfway home before she realized
that the conversation that she had plucked up
•uch courage to initiate had ended unsatisfac-
torily for her, and she was as far away from her
small part as ever.


CHAPTER III
THE NIECE
SHE occupied a small room in a small house,
and there were moments when Adele Leaming-
ton wished it were smaller, that she might be
justified in plucking up her courage to ask from
the stout and unbending Mrs. Watson, her land-
lady, a reduction of rent. The extras on Jack
Knebworth's lot were well paid, but infre-
quently employed, for Jack was one of those
clever directors who specialized in domestic
stories.
She was dressing when Mrs. Watson brought
In her morning cup of tea.
"There's a young fellow been hanging round
outside since I got up," said Mrs. Watson. "I
•aw him when I took in the milk. Very polite he
was, but I told him you weren't awake."
"Did he want to see me?" asked the aston-
ished girl.
"That's what he said," said Mrs. Watson
grimly. "I asked him if he came from Kneb-
worth, and he said no. If you want to see him,
you can have the use of the parlor, though I
18


THE NIECE 19
don't like young men calling on young girls.
I've never let theatrical lodgings before, and you
can't be too careful. I've always had a name for
respectability, and I want to keep it."
Adele smiled.
"I cannot imagine anything more respectable
than an early-morning caller, Mrs. Watson," she
said.
She went downstairs and opened the door.
The young man was standing on the sidewalk
with his back to her, but at the sound of the
opening door he turned. He was good-looking
and well dressed, and his smile was quick and
appealing.
"I hope your landlady did not bother to wake
you up? I could have waited. You are Miss
Adele Leamington, aren't you?"
She nodded.
"Will you come in, please?" she asked and
took him into the stuffy little front parlor. Clos-
ing the door behind her she waited.
"I am a reporter," he said untruthfully, and
her face fell.
"You've come about Uncle Francis? Is any-
thing really wrong? They sent a detective to
see me a week ago. Have they found him?"
"No, they haven't found him," he said care-


20 THE HAIRY ARM
fully. "You knew him very well, of course,
Miss Leamington?"
She shook her head.
"No, I have only seen him twice in my life.
My dear father and he quarreled before I was
born, and I only saw him once after Daddy died,
and once before Mother was taken with her fatal
illness."
She heard him sigh and sensed his relief,
though why he should be relieved that her uncle
was almost a stranger to her, she could not
fathom.
"You saw him at Chichester, though?" he
asked.
"Yes, I saw him. I was on my way to Good-
wood Park—a whole party of us in a char-a-
banc—and I saw him for a moment walking
along the sidewalk. He looked desperately ill
and worried. He was just coming out of a sta-
tioner's shop when I saw him; he had a news-
paper under his arm and a letter in his hand."
"Where was the store?" he asked.
She gave him the address, and he jotted it
down.
"You didn't see him again?"
She shook her head.
"Is anything really very badly wrong?" she


THE NIECE 21
asked, anxiously. "I've often heard Mother say
that Uncle Francis was very extravagant, and a
little unscrupulous. Has he been in trouble?"
"Yes," admitted Michael, "he has been in
trouble, but nothing that you need worry about.
You're a great film actress, aren't you?"
In spite of her anxiety she laughed.
"The only chance I have of being a great film
actress is for you to say so in your paper."
"My what?" he asked, momentarily puzzled.
"Oh, yes, my newspaper of course 1"
"I don't believe you're a reporter at all," she
said with sudden suspicion.
"Indeed I am," he said glibly, and he dared to
pronounce the name of that widely circulated
sheet upon which the sun seldom sets.
"Though I'm not a great actress and fear I
never shall be, I like to believe it is because IVe
never had a chance. I've a horrible suspicion
that Mr. Knebworth knows instinctively that I
am no good."
Mike Brixan had found a new interest in the
case, an interest which, he was honest enough to
confess to himself, was not dissociated from the
niece of Francis Elmer. He had never met
anybody quite so pretty and quite so unsophisti-
cated and natural.


22 THE HAIRY ARM
"You're going to the studio, I suppose?"
She nodded.
"I wonder if Mr. Knebworth would mind my
railing to see you?"
She hesitated.
"Mr. Knebworth doesn't like callers."
"Then maybe I'll call on him," said Michael,
nodding. "It doesn't matter whom I call on,
does it?"
"It certainly doesn't matter to me," said the
girl coldly.
"In the vulgar language of the masses,"
thought Mike, as he strode down the street, "she
handed me a raspberry."
His inquiries did not occupy very much of his
lime. He found the little news shop, and th<
proprietor, by good fortune, remembered the
coming of Mr. Francis Elmer.
"He came for a letter, though it wasn't
addressed to timer," said the shopkeeper. 4'A
lot of people have their letters addressed here.
I make a little extra money that way."
"Did he buy a newspaper?"
"No, sir, he did not buy a newspaper; he had
one under his arm—the Montmg Telegram. I
remember that, because 1 noticed that he'd put
a blue pencil mark round one of the 'agony'


THE NIECE 23
advertisements on the front page, and I was
wondering what it was all about. I kept a copy
of that day's Morning Telegram. I've got it
now."
He went into the little parlor at the back of
the shop and returned with a dingy newspaper
which he laid on the counter.
"There are six there, but I don't know which
one it was."
Michael examined the agony advertisements.
There was one frantic message from a mother to
her son, asking him to return, and saying that
"all would be forgiven.'' There was a crypto-
gram message which he had not time to de-
cipher. A third was obviously the notice of an
appointment. The fourth was a thinly veiled
advertisement for a new hair waver, and at the
fifth he stopped. It ran:
Troubled Final directions at address I gave you.
Courage. BENEFACTOR.
"Some benefactor!" exclaimed Mike Brixan.
"What was he like—the man who called? Was
he worried?"
"Yes, sir; he looked upset—all distracted.
He seemed like a chap who'd lost bis head."
"That seems a fair description," said Mike.


CHAPTER IV
THE LEADING LADY
IN the studio of the Knebworth Film Cor-
poration the company had been waiting in its
•treet clothes for the greater part of an hour.
Jack Knebworth sat in his conventional atti-
tude, huddled up in his canvas chair, fingering
his long chin and glaring from time to time at
the clock above the studio manager's office.
It wus eleven when Stella Mendoza flounced
in, bringing with her the fragrance of wood vio-
lets and a small, unhappy Peke.
"Do you work on your own time?" asked
Knebworth slowly "Or, perhaps, you thought
the call was for afternoon. You've kept fifty
people waiting, Stella."
"I can't help their troubles." she said with a
shrug of shoulder. "You told me you were going
on location, and naturally I didn't expect there
would be any hurty. I had to pack my things."
"NaturAKv you didn't think there was any
tavryl"
Jack Knebworth reckoned to have three fights
% y«ttr Tbas WJB the third. The first had been
M


THE LEADING LADY 25
with Stella, and the second had been with Stella,
and the third was certainly going to be with
Stella.
"I wanted you to be here at ten. I've bad
these boys and girls waiting since a quarter to
ten."
"What do you want to shoot?'' she asked
with an impatient jerk of her head.
"You mostly," said Jack slowly. "Get into
number nine outfit and don't forget to leave
your pearl earrings off. You're supposed to be
a half-starved chorus girl. We're shooting at
Griff Towers, and I told the gentleman who
gave us the use of the house that I'd be through
the day work by three. If you were a celebrated
star you'd be worth waiting for; but Stella Men-
doza has got to be on this lot by ten—and don't
forget it!"
Old Jack Knebworth got up from his canvas
chair and began to put on his coat with ominous
deliberation, the flushed and angry girl watching
him, her dark eyes blazing with injured pride
and hurt vanity.
Stella had once been plain Maggie Stubbs, the
daughter of a Midland grocer, and old Jack had
talked to her as if she were still Maggie Stubbs
and not the great film star of coruscating brfl-


26 THE HAIRY ARM
Hum r, idol—or her press agent lied—of the
screen fans of all the world.
"All right, if you want a fuss you can have it,
Knebworth. I'm going to quit—now! I think
I know what is due my position. That part's
got to be rewritten to give me a chance of put-
ting my personality over. There's too much
leading man in it, anyway. People don't pay
real money to see men. You don't treat me fair,
Knebworth. I'm temperamental, I admit it.
You can't expect a woman of my type to be a
block of wood."
"The only thing about you that's a block of
wood is your head, Stella," grunted the pro-
ducer, and he went on, oblivious to the rising
fury expressed in the girl's face. "You've had
two years playing small parts in Hollywood, and
youVe brought nothing back to England but a
line of fresh talk, and you could have got that
out of the Sunday supplements! Temperament!
That's a word that means doctors' certificates,
when a picture's half taken, and a long rest, un-
less your salary's put up fifty per cent. Thank
goodness, this picture isn't a quarter taken or an
c /:•.rh. Quit, you mean-spirited upstart—and
vj«;t as soon as you darn please!"
Boiling with rage, her lips quivering so that


THE LEADING LADY 27
she could not articulate, the girl turned and
flung out of the studio.
White-haired Jack K neb worth glared round
at the silent company.
"This is where the miracle happens," he said
sardonically. "This is where the extra girl who's
left a sick mother and a mortgage at home leaps
to fame in a night. If you don't know that kind
of thing happens on every lot in Hollywood,
you're no student of fiction. Stand forth, Mary
Pickford, the second!"
The extras smiled, some amused, some uncom
fortable, but none spoke. Adele was frozen
stiff, incapable of speech.
"Modesty don't belong to this industry," old
Jack sneered amiably. "Who thinks she can
play 'Roselle' in this piece—because an extra's
going to play the part, believe me 1 I'm going to
show this pseudo actress that there isn't an extra
on this lot that couldn't play her head off.
Somebody talked about playing a part yesterday
—you!"
His forefinger pointed to Adele, and with a
heart that beat tumultuously she went toward
hiny
"I had a camera test of you six months ago,*1


28 THE HAIRY ARM
said Jack suspiciously. “There was something
wrong with her. What was it?”
He turned to his assistant. That young man
scratched his head in an effort of memory.
“Ankles?” He hazarded a guess at random—
a safe guess, for Knebworth had views about
ankles. .
“Nothing wrong with them. Get out the
print and let us see it.”
Ten minutes later Adele sat by the old man's
side in the little projection room and saw her
“test” run through.
“Hair!” said Knebworth triumphantly. “I
knew there was something. Don't like bobbed
hair. Makes a girl too pert and sophisticated.
You've grown it?” he added, as the lights were
switched on.
“Yes, Mr. Knebworth.”
He looked at her in dispassionate admiration.
“You’ll do,” he said reluctantly. “See the
wardrobe and get Miss Mendoza's costumes.
There's one thing I'd like to tell you before you
go,” he said, stopping her. “You may be good,
and you may be bad, but, good or bad, there's no
use getting worked up over your future.”
He snapped his finger.
“Give Miss What's-her-name the Script,


THE LEADING LADY 29
Harry. Say, go out somewhere and study it,
wfll you? Harry, you see the wardrobe. I give
you half an hour to read that script!"
Like one in a dream, the girl walked out into
the shady garden, that ran the length of the
studio building, and sat down, trying to concen-
trate on the typewritten lines. It wasn't true—
it could not be true! And then she heard the
crunch of feet on gravel and looked up in alarm.
It was the young man who had seen her that
morning—Michael Brixan.
"Oh, please—you mustn't interrupt me!" she
begged in agitation. "I've got a part—a big
part to read."
Her distress was very real.
"I'm awfully sorry "he began.
In her confusion she had dropped the loose
sheets of the manuscript. Stooping with her to
pick them up, Michael's head bumped hers.
"Sorry—that's an old comedy situation, isn't
it?" he began.
And then he saw the sheet of paper in his
hand and began to read. It was an elaborate
description of a scene.
The cefl is large, lighted by a swinging lamp. In
center is a steel gate through which a soldier on guard
u seen pacing to and fro


30 THE HAIRY ARM
"Good Lord!" said Michael and went white.
The "u's" in the type were blurred, the "g's"
were indistinct. The page had been typed on
the machine from which The Head-hunter sent
forth his gruesome tales of death.


CHAPTER V
MR. LAWLEY Foss
"WHAT is wrong?" asked Adele, seeing the
young man's grave face.
"Where did this come from?"
He showed her the sheet of typewritten script.
"I don't know. It was with the other sheets.
I knew, of course, that it didn't belong to 'Ro-
selle'."
"Is that the play you're acting in?" he asked
quickly. And then: "Who would know?"
"Mr. Knebworth."
"Where shall I find him?"
"You go through that door," she said, "and
you will find him on the studio floor."
Without a word he walked quickly into the
building. Instinctively he knew which of the
party was the man he sought. Jack Knebworth
looked up under lowering brows at the sight of
the stranger, for he was a stickler for privacy in
business hours; but, before he could demand an
explanation, Michael was up to him.
"Are you Mr. Knebworth?"
31


32 THE HAIRY ARM
Jack nodded.
"I surely am," he said.
"Can I speak to you for two minutes?"
"I can't speak to anybody for one minute,"
growled Jack. "Who are you, anyway, and who
let you in?"
"I am a detective from the Foreign Office,"
said Michael, lowering his voice, and Jack's
manner changed.
"Anything wrong?" he asked, as he accom-
panied the detective into his sanctum.
Mike laid down the sheet of paper with its
typed characters on the table.
"Who wrote that?" he asked.
Jack Knebworth looked at the manuscript
and shook his head.
"I've never seen it before. What is it all
about?"
"You've never seen this manuscript at all?"
"No, I'll swear to that, but I dare say my
scenario man will know all about it. Ill send
for him."
He touched a bell, and to the clerk who came:
"Ask Mr. Lawley Foss to come quickly," he
said.
"The reading of books, plots, and material for
picture plays is entirely in the hands of my


MR. LAWLEY FOSS 33
scenario manager," he said. "I never see a
manuscript until he considers it's worth produc-
ing; and even then, of course, the picture isn't
always made. If the story happens to be a bad
one, I don't see it at all. I'm not so sure that
I haven't lost some good stories, because Foss"
—he hesitated a second—"well, he and I don't
see exactly eye to eye. Now, Mr. Brixan, what
is the trouble?"
IB a few words Michael explained the grave
significance of the typewritten sheet.
"The Head-hunter!" Jack whistled.
There came a knock at the door, and Lawley
Foss slipped into the room. He was a thinnish
man, dark and saturnine of face, shifty of eye.
His face was heavily lined, as though he suffered
from some chronic disease. But the real disease
which preyed on Lawley Foss was the bitterness
of mind that comes to a man at war with the
world. There had been a time in his early life
when he thought that same world was at his feet.
He had written two plays that had been pro-
duced and had run for a few nights. Thereafter
he had trudged from theater to theater in vain,
for the taint of failure was on him, and no man-
ager would so much as open the brown-covered
manuscripts he brought to them. Like many


34 THE HAIRY ARM
another man, he had sought easy ways to
wealth, but the Stock Exchange and the race
track had impoverished him still further.
He glanced suspiciously at Michael, as he
entered.
"I want to see you, Foss, about a sheet of
script that's got among the 'Roselle' script,"
said Jack Knebworth. "May I tell Mr. Foss
what you have told me?"
Michael hesitated for a second. Some cau-
tioning voice warned him to keep the question
of The Head-hunter a secret. Against his better
judgment he nodded.
Lawley Foss listened with an expressionless
face, while the old director explained the signifi-
cance of the interpolated sheet; then he took
the page from Jack Knebworth's hand and
examined it. Not by a twitch of his face or a
droop of his eyelid did he betray his thoughts.
"I get a lot of stuff in," he said, "and I can't
immediately place this particular play; but if
you'll let me take it to my office, I will look up
my books."
Again Michael considered. He did not wish
that piece of evidence to pass out of his hands;
and yet, without confirmation and examination,
it was fairly valueless. He reluctantly agreed.


MR. LAWLEY FOSS 35
"What do you make of that fellow?" asked
Jack Knebworth when the door had closed upon
the writer.
"I don't like him," said Michael bluntly. "In
fact, my first impressions are distinctly unfavor-
able, though I am probably doing the poor
gentleman a very great injustice."
Jack Knebworth sighed. Foss was one of his
biggest troubles, sometimes bulking larger than
the temperamental Mendoza.
"He certainly is a queer chap/' he said,
"though he's diabolically clever. I never knew
a man who could take a plot and twist it as
Lawley Foss can, but he's difficult."
"I should imagine so," said Michael dryly.
They passed out into the studio, and Michael
sought the troubled girl to explain his abrupt-
ness. There were tears of vexation in her eyes
when he approached her, for his startling disap-
pearance with the page of the script had put all
thoughts of the play from her mind.
"I am sorry," he said penitently. "I almost
wish I hadn't come."
"And I quite wish it," she said, smiling in
spite of herself. "What was the matter with
that page you took? You are a detective, aren't
you?"


36 THE HAIRY ARM
"I admit it," Michael answered her recklessly.
"Did you speak the truth when you said that
my uncle "she stopped, at a loss for words.
"No, I did not," replied Michael quietly.
"Your uncle is dead, Miss Leamington."
"Dead!" she gasped.
He nodded. "He was murdered under ex-
traordinary circumstances."
Suddenly her face went white. "He wasn't
the man whose head was found at Esher?"
"How did yon know?" he asked sharply.
"It was in this morning's newspaper," she
said.
Inwardly he cursed the sleuthhound of a re-
porter who had got on to the track of this latest
tragedy. She had to know sooner or later; he
satisfied himself with that thought. The return
of Foss relieved him of further explanations.
The man spoke for a while with Jack Kneb-
worth in a low voice, and then the director beck-
oned Michael across.
"Foss can't trace this manuscript," he said,
handing back the sheet. "It may have been a
sample page sent in by a contributor, or it may
have been a legacy from our predecessors. I
took over a whole lot of manuscript with the


MR. LAWLEY FOSS 37
studio from a bankrupt production company."
He looked impatiently at his watch.
"Now, Mr. Brixan, if it's possible, I should be
glad if you would excuse me. I've got some
scenes to shoot ten miles away, with a leading
lady from whose little head you've scared every
idea that will be of the slightest value to me."
Michael acted upon an impulse.
"Would you mind my coming out with you to
shoot—that means to photograph, doesn't it? I
promise you I won't be in the way."
Old Jack nodded curtly, and ten minutes later
Michael Brixan was sitting side by side with the
girl in a char-a-banc which was carrying them
to the location. That he should be riding with
the artists at all was a tribute to his nerve rather
than to his modesty.


CHAPTER VI
THE MASTER OF GRIFF
to* a long time Adele did not speak to him.
Resentment that he should force his company
upon her, and nervousness at the coming ordeal
—a nervousness which became sheer panic as
they drew nearer and nearer to their destination
—made conversation impossible.
"I see your Mr. Lawley Foss is with us," said
Michael, glancing over his shoulder, and by way
of making conversation.
"He always goes on location," she said
shortly. "A story has sometimes to be amended
while it's being shot."
"Where are we going now?" he asked.
"Griff Towers first," she replied. She found
it difficult to be uncivil to anybody. "It is a big
place owned by Sir Gregory Penne."
"But I thought we were going to the Dower
House?"
She looked at him with a little frown.
"Why did you ask if you knew?" she de-
manded, almost in a tone of asperity.
"Because I like to hear you speak," said the
38


THE MASTER OF GRIFF 39
young man calmly. "Sir Gregory Penne? I
seem to know the name."
She did not answer.
"He was in Borneo for many years, wasn't
he?"
"He's hateful," she said vehemently. "I de-
test him!"
She did not explain the cause of her detesta-
tion, and Michael thought it discreet not to press
the question, but presently she relieved him of
responsibility.
"I've been to his house twice. He has a very
fine garden, which Mr. Knebworth has used
before. I only went as an extra and was very
much in the background. I wish I had been
more sol He has queer ideas about women,
especially about actresses—not that I'm an
actress," she added hastily, "but I mean people
who play for a living. Thank Heaven, there's
only one scene to be shot at Griff, and perhaps
he will not be at home, but that's unlikely. He's
always there when I go." She seemed quite
sure.
Michael glanced at her out of the corner of
his eye. His first impression of her beauty was
more than confirmed. There was a certain wist-
fillness in her face which was very appealing; an


40 THE HAIRY ARM
honesty in the dark eyes that told him afl he
wanted to know about her attitude toward the
admiration of the unknown Sir Gregory.
"It's queer how all baronets are villains in
stories," he said, "and queerer still that most of
the baronets I've known have been men of
singular morals. I'm bothering you, being here,
am I not?" he asked, dropping his tone of
banter.
She looked round at him.
"You are a little," she said frankly. "You
see, Mr. Brixan, this is my big chance. It's a
chance that really never comes to an extra
except in stories, and I'm frightened to death of
what is going to happen. You make me nervous,
but what makes me more panic-stricken is that
the first scene is to be shot at Griff. I hate it—I
hate it!" she said almost savagely. "That big,
hard-looking house, with its hideous stuffed
tigers and its awful-looking swords"
"Swords?" he asked quickly. "What do you
mean?"
"The walls are covered with them—eastern
swords. They make me shiver to see them. But
Sir Gregory takes a delight in them; he told
Mr. Knebworth the last time we were there that
the swords were as sharp now as they were


THE MASTER OF GRIFF 41
when they came from the hands of their makers,
and some of them were three hundred years old.
He's an extraordinary man; he can cut an apple
in half on your hand and never so much as
scratch you. That is one of his favorite stunts."
Michael looked interested.
"There is the housel" She pointed. "Ugh!
It makes me shiver."
Griff Towers was one of those old, bleak-look-
ing buildings that it had been the delight of the
early Victorian architects to erect. Its one gray
tower, placed on the left wing, gave it a lopsided
appearance, but even this distortion did not
attract from its rectangular unloveliness. The
place seemed all the more bare, since the walls
were innocent of greenery, and it stood starkly
in the midst of a yellow expanse of gravel.
"Looks almost like a barracks," said Michael,
"with a parade ground in frontl"
They passed through the lodge gates, and the
char-a-banc stopped halfway up the drive. The
gardens apparently were in the rear of the build-
ing, and certainly there was nothing that would
attract the most careless of directors in its unin-
teresting facade.
Michael got down from his seat and found
Jack Knebworth already superintending the un-


42 THE HAIRY ARM
loading of a camera and reflectors. Behind the
char-a-banc came the big dynamo lorry, with
three sun arcs that were to enhance the value of
daylight.
"Oh, you're here, are you?" growled Jack.
"Now you'll oblige me, Mr. Brixan, by not get-
ting in the way? I've got a morning's work
ahead of me."
"I want you to take me on as a—what is the
word?—extra," said Michael.
The old man frowned at him.
"Say, what's the idea?" he asked Brixan sus-
piciously.
"I have an excellent reason, and I promise
you that nothing I do will in any way embarrass
you. The truth is, Mr. Knebworth, I want to
be around for the remainder of the day, and I
need an excuse."
Jack Knebworth bit his lip, scratched his long
chin, scowled, and then:
"All right," he said gruffly, "maybe you'll
come in handy, though I'll have quite enough
bother directing one amateur, and if you get into
the picture on this trip, you're going to be
lucky!"
There was a man of the party, a tall young
man whose hair was brushed back from his fore-


THE MASTER OF GRIFF 43
head, and it was so tidy and well arranged that
it seemed as if it had originally been stuck by
glue and varnished over. He was a tall, some-
what good-looking boy, who had sat on Adele's
left throughout the journey and had not spoken
once; now he raised his eyebrows at the appear-
ance of Michael, and, strolling across to the
harassed Knebworth, his hands in his pockets,
he asked with a hurt air:
"I say, Mr. Knebworth, who is this person?"
"What person?" growled old Jack. "You
mean Brixan? He's an extra."
"Oh, an extra, is he?" said the young man.
"I say, it's pretty desperately awful when extras
hobnob with principals! And this Leamington
girl—she's simply going to mess up the picture,
by Jove1"
"Is she, by Jove?" snarled Knebworth.
"Now, see here, Mr. Connolly, I ain't so much in
love with your work that I'm willing to admit in
advance that even an extra is going to mess up
this picture."
"I've never played opposite to an extra in my
life, dash it alll"
"Then you must have felt lonely," grunted
Jack, busy with his unpacking.
"Now, Mendoza is an artiste" began the


44 THE HAIRY ARM
youthful leading man, and Jack Knebworth
straightened his back.
"Get over there till you're wanted, you!" he
roared. "When I need advice from pretty boys
111 come to you—see? For the moment you're
de trap, which is a French expression meaning
that you're standing on ground there's a better
use for."
The disgruntled Reggie Connolly strolled
away, with a shrug of his thin shoulders, which
indicated not only his conviction that the pic-
ture would fail, but that the responsibility was
everywhere but under his hat.
From the big doorway of Griff Towers, Sir
Gregory Penne was watching the assembling of
the company. He was a thickset man, and the
sun of Borneo and an unrestricted appetite had
dyed his skin a color which was between purple
and brown. His face was covered with innumer-
able ridges, his eyes looked forth upon the world
through two narrow slits. The rounded femi-
nine chin seemed to be the only part of his face
that sunshine and stronger stimulants had left
in its natural condition.
Michael watched him, as he strolled down the
slope to where they were standing, guessing his
jdentity. He wore a golf suit of a loud check,


THE MASTER OF GRIFF 45
in which red predominated, and a big cap of the
same material was pulled down over his eyes.
Taking the stub of a cigar from his teeth, with
a quick and characteristic gesture, he wiped his
scanty mustache with his knuckles.
"Good morning, Knebworth," he called to the
director.
His voice was harsh and cruel; a voice that
had never been mellowed by laughter, or made
soft by the tendernesses of humanity.
"Good morning, Sir Gregory."
Old Knebworth disentangled himself from
his company.
"Sorry I'm late."
"Don't apologize," said the other. "Only
I thought you were going to shoot earlier.
Brought my little girl, eh?"
"Your little girl?" Jack looked at him,
frankly nonplused. "You mean Mendoza. No,
she's not coming."
"I don't mean Mendoza, if that's the dark
girl. Never mind—I was only joking."
Who the blazes was his little girl, thought
Jack, who was ignorant of two unhappy experi-
ences which an unconsidered extra girl had had
on previous visits. The mystery, however, was
soon cleared up, for the baronet walked slowly


46 THE HAIRY ARM
to where Adele Leamington was making a pre-
tense of studying her script.
"Good morning, little lady," he said, lifting
his cap an eighth of an inch from his head.
"Good morning, Sir Gregory," she said coldly.
"You didn't keep your promise." He shook
his head waggishly. "Oh, woman, woman!"
"I don't remember I made a promise," said
the girl quietly. "You asked me to come to din-
ner with you, and I told you that that was im-
possible."
"I promised to send my car for you. Don't
say it was too far away. Never mind, never
mind." And, to Michael's wrath, he squeezed
the girl's arm in a manner which was intended to
be paternal, but which filled the girl with indig-
nant loathing.
She wrenched her arm free and, turning her
back upon her tormentor, almost flew to Jack
Knebworth, with an incoherent demand for
information on the reading of a line which was
perfectly simple.
Old Jack was no fool. He watched the play
from under his eyelids, recognizing ail the symp-
toms.
"This is the last time we shall shoot at Grifi
Towers," he told himself.


THE MASTER OF GRIFF 47
For Jack Knebworth was something of a
stickler on behavior, and he had views on women
which were diametrically opposite to those held
by Sir Gregory Penne.


CHAPTER VII
THE SWORDS AND BHAO
THE little party moved away, and they left
Michael alone with the baronet. For a period
Gregory Perme watched the girl, his eyes glit-
tering; then he became aware of Michael's
presence and turned a cold, insolent stare upon
the other.
"What are you?" he asked, looking the detec-
tive up and down.
"I'm an extra," said Michael.
"An extra, eh? Sort of chorus boy? Put
paint and powder on your face and all that sort
of thing? What a life for a man!"
"There are worse," said Michael, holding his
antagonism in check.
"Do you know that little girl—what's her
name, Leamington?" asked the baronet sud-
denly.
"I know her extremely well," said Michael
untruthfully.
"Oh, you do, eh?" said the master of Griff
Towers with sudden amiability. "She's a nice
little thing. Quite a cut above the ordinary


THE SWORDS AND BHAG 49
chorus girl. You might bring her along to dinner
one night. She'd come with you, eh?"
The contortions of the puffy eyelids suggested
to Michael that the man had winked. There was
something about this gross figure that interested
the scientist in Michael Brixan. He was ele-
mental; an animal invested with a brain; and
yet he must be something more than that if
he had held a high administrative position under
the government.
"Are you acting? If you're not, you can come
up and have a look at my swords," said the man
suddenly.
Michael guessed that, for a reason of his
own, probably because of his claim to be Adele's
friend, the man wished to cultivate his acquaint-
ance.
"No, I'm not acting," replied Michael.
And no invitation could have given him
greater pleasure. Had their owner but realized
the fact, Michael Brixan had already made up
his mind not to leave Griff Towers until he had
inspected the peculiar collection.
"Yes, she's a nice little girl."
Penne returned to the subject immediately, as
they paced up the slope toward the house.
"As I say, a cut above chorus girls—young,


50 THE HAIRY ARM
unsophisticated, virginal! You can have your
sophisticated girls. There is no mystery to 'em!
They revolt me. A girl should be like a spring
flower. Give me the violet and the snowdrop;
you can have a bushel of cabbage roses for one
petal of the shy dears of the forest."
Michael listened with a keen sense of nausea,
and yet with an unusual interest, as the man
rambled on. He said things which were sicken-
ing, monstrous. There were moments when
Brixan found it difficult to keep his hands off
the obscene figure that paced at his side; and
only by adopting toward him the attitude which
the enthusiastic naturalist employs in his deal-
ings with snakes, was he able to get a grip on
himself.
The big entrance hall into which he was ush-
ered was paved with earthen tiles, and, looking
up at the stone walls, Michael had his first
glimpse of the famous swords.
There were hundreds of them—poniards,
scimitars, ancient swords of Japan, basket-hiked
hangers, two-handled swords that had felt the
grip of long-dead Crusaders.
"What do you think of 'em, eh?" Sir Gregory
Penne spoke with the pride of an enthusiastic
collector. "There isn't one of them that could


THE SWORDS AND BHAG SI
be duplicated, my boy! and they're only a part
of my collection."
He led his visitor along a broad corridor,
lighted by square windows set at intervals, and
here again the walls were covered with shining
weapons. Throwing open a door, Sir Gregory
ushered the other into a large room which was
evidently his library, though the books were few,
and, so far as Michael could see at first glance,
the conventional volumes that are to be found
in the houses of the country gentry. Over the
mantel were two great swords of a pattern
which Michael did not remember having seen
before.
"What do you think of those?"
Penne lifted one from the silver hook which
supported it, and he drew it from its scabbard.
"Don't feel the edge unless you want to cut
yourself. This would split a hair, but it would
also cut you in two, and you would never know
what happened till you fell apart I"
Suddenly his manner changed, and he almost
snatched the sword from Michael's hand, and,
putting it back in its sheath, he hung it up.
"That is a Sumatran sword, isn't it?"
"It comes from Borneo," said the baronet
shortly.


52 THE HAIRY ARM
"The home of the head-hunters."
Sir Gregory looked around, his brows lowered.
"No," he said, "it comes from Dutch Borneo."
Evidently there was something about this
weapon which aroused unpleasant memories.
He glowered for a long time in silence into the
little fire that was burning on the hearth.
"I killed the man who owned that," he said
at last, and it struck Michael that he was speak-
ing more to himself than to his visitor. "At
least I hope I killed him—I hope sol"
He glanced around, and Michael Brixan could
have sworn there was apprehension in his eyes.
"Sit down—what's your name?" he asked,
pointing to a low settee. "We'll have a drink."
He pushed a bell, and, to Michael's astonish-
ment, the summons was answered by an under-
sized native, a little copper-colored man, naked
to the waist. Gregory gave an order in a lan-
guage which was unintelligible to Michael—he
guessed, by its sibilants, it was Malaysian—
and the servant, with a quick salaam, disap-
peared and came back almost instantly with a
tray containing a large decanter and two thin
glasses.
"I have no white servants—can't stand 'em,"
said Penne. taking the contents of his glass at


THE SWORDS AND BHAG S3
a gulp. "I like servants who don't steal and
don't gossip. You can lick 'em if they misbe-
have, and there's no trouble. I got this fellow
last year in Sumatra, and he's the best butler
I've had."
"Do you go to Borneo every year?" asked
Michael.
"I go al most every year," said the other. "I've
got a yacht; she's lying at Southampton now. If
I didn't get out of this cursed country once a
year, I'd go mad. There's nothing here—noth-
ing! Have you ever met that dithering old fool,
Longvale? Rnebworth said you were going on
to him—pompous old ass, who lives in the past
and dresses like an advertisement for some-
body's whiskey. Have another?"
"I haven't finished this yet," said Michael with
a smile, and his eyes went up to the sword above
the mantelpiece. "Have you had that very long?
It looks modem."
"It isn't," snapped the other. "Modern—it's
three hundred years old if it's a day. I've only
had it a year." Again he changed the subject
abruptly "I like you. I like people, or I dis-
like them, instantly. You're the sort of fellow
who'd do well in the East. I've made two mil-
lions there. The East is full of wonder, full of


54 THE HAIRY ARM
unbelievable things." He screwed his head
round and fixed Michael with a glittering eye.
"Full of good servants," he said slowly. "Would
you like to meet the perfect servant?"
There was something peculiar in his tone, and
Michael nodded.
"Would you like to see the slave who never
aaks questions and never disobeys, who has no
love but love of me"—he thumped himself on
the chest—"no hate but for the people I hate
—my trusty—Bhag?"
He rose and crossing to his table, turned a
little switch that Michael had noticed attached
to the side of the desk. As he did so, a part of
the paneled wall at the farther end of the room
swung open. For a second Michael saw nothing,
and then there emerged, blinking into the day-
light, a most sinister, a most terrifying figure.
And Michael Brixan had need of all his self-
control to check the exclamation that rose to his
lip*


CHAPTER
BHAG
IT was a great orang-outang. Crouched as it
was, gazing malignantly upon the visitor, with
its beadlike eyes, it stood over six feet in height.
The hairy chest was enormous; the arms that
almost touched the floor were as thick as an
average man's thigh. It wore a pair of work-
man's dark blue overalls, held in place by two
straps that crossed its broad shoulders.
"Bhag!" called Sir Gregory in a voice so soft
that Michael could not believe it was the man's
own. "Come here."
The gigantic figure waddled across the room
to where they stood before the fireplace.
"This is a friend of mine, Bhag."
The great ape held out his hand, and for a
second Michael's was held in its velvet palm.
This done, he lifted his paw to his nose and
sniffed loudly, the only sound he made.
"Get me some cigars," said Penne.
Immediately the ape walked to a cabinet,
pulled open a drawer, and brought out a box.
"Not those," said Gregory. "The small ones."
55


56 THE HAIRY ARM
He spoke distinctly, as if he were articulating
to somebody who was deaf, and, without a
moment's hesitation, the hideous Bhag replaced
the box and brought out another.
"Pour me out a whiskey and soda."
The ape obeyed. He did not spill a drop and,
when bis owner said "Enough," replaced the
stopper in the decanter and put it back.
"Thank you, that will do, Bhag."
Without a sound the ape waddled back to the
open paneling and disappeared, and the door
closed behind him.
"Why, the thing is human," said Michael in
an awe-struck whisper.
Sir Gregory Penne chuckled. "More than
human," he said. "Bhag is my shield against all
trouble." His eyes seemed to go instantly to
the sword above the mantelpiece.
"Where does he live?"
"He's got a little apartment of his own, and
he keeps it clean. He feeds with the servants."
"Good Lord!" gasped Michael, and the other
chuckled again at the surprise he had aroused.
"Yes, he feeds with the servants. They're
afraid of him, but they worship him; he's a
sort of god to them, but they're afraid of him.
Do you know what would have happened if I'd


BHAG 57
said 'This man is my enemy?'" He pointed his
stubby finger at Michael's chest. "He would
have torn you limb from limb. You wouldn't
have had a chance, Mr. What's-your-name, not
a dog's chance. And yet he can be gentle—yes,
he can be gentle." He nodded. "And cunning!
He goes out almost every night, and I've no
complaints from the villagers. No sheep stolen,
nobody frightened. He just goes out, loafs
around in the woods, and doesn't kill as much as
a hen partridge."
"How long have you had him?"
"Eight or nine years," said the baronet care-
lessly, swallowing the whiskey that the ape had
poured for him. "Now, let's go out and see the
actors and actresses. She's a nice girl, eh?
You're not forgetting you're going to bring her
to dinner, are you? What is your name?"
"Brixan," said Michael, "Michael Brixan."
Sir Gregory grunted something.
"Ill remember that—Brixan. I ought to have
told Bhag. He likes to know."
"Would he have known me again, if you had
told him?" asked Michael, smiling.
"Known you?" said the baronet contemptu-
ously. "He will not only know you, but he wfll
be able to trail you down. Notice him smelling


58 THE HAIRY ARM
his hand? He was filing you for reference,
my boy If I told him 'Go along and take this
message to Brixan,' he'd find you."
When they reached the lovely gardens at
the back of the house, the first scene had been
shot, and there was a smile on Jack Kneb-
worth's face which suggested that Adele's mis-
givings had not been justified. And so it proved.
"That girl's a peach," Jack unbent to say.
"A natural-born actress, built for this scene.
It's almost too good to be true. What do you
want?"
It was Mr. Reggie Connolly, and he had the
obsession which is perpetual in every leading
man. He felt that sufficient opportunities had
not been offered to him.
"I say, Mr. Knebworth," he said in a grieved
tone, "I'm not getting much of the fat in this
story! So far there's about thirty feet of me
in this picture. I say, that's not right, you
know! If a johnny is being featured—"
"You're not being featured," said Jack
shortly. "And Mendoza's chief complaint was
that there was too much of you in it."
Michael looked around. Sir Gregory Penne
had strolled toward where the girl was stand-
ing, and in her state of elation she had no room


BHAG 59
in her heart even for her resentment against the
man she so cordially detested.
"Little girl, I want to speak to you before
you go," he said, dropping his voice, and for
once she smiled at him.
"Well, you have a good opportunity now,
Sir Gregory," she said.
"I want to tell you how sorry I am for what
happened the other day, and I respect you for
what you said, for a girl's entitled to keep her
kisses for the men she likes. Am I right?"
"Of course you're right," she said. "Please
don't think any more about it, Sir Gregory."
"I'd no right to kiss you against your will,
especially when you're in my house. Are you
going to forgive me?"
"I do forgive you," she said and would have
left him, but he caught her arm.
"You're coming to dinner, aren't you?" He
jerked his head toward the watchful Michaei.
"Your friend said he'd bring you along."
"Which friend?" she asked, her eyebrows
raised. "You mean Mr. Brixan?"
"That's the fellow. Why do you make friends
with that kind of man? Not that he isn't a
decent fellow. I like him personally. Will you
come along to dinner?"


60 THE HAIRY ARM
"I'm afraid I can't," she said, her old aversion
gaining ground.
"Little girl," he said earnestly, "there's noth-
ing you couldn't have from me. Why do you
want to trouble your pretty head about this
cheap play acting? I'll give you a company of
your own, if you want it, and the best car that
money can buy."
His eyes were like points of fire, and she
shivered.
"I have all I want, Sir Gregory," she said.
She was furious with Michael Brixan. How
dared he presume to accept an invitation on her
behalf? How dare he call himself her friend?
Her anger almost smothered her dislike for her
persecutor.
"You come over tonight—let him bring you."
said Penne huskily. "I want you tonight—do
you hear? You're staying at old Longvale's.
You can easily slip out."
"Ill do nothing of the kind. I don't think
you know what you're talking about, Sir Greg-
ory," she said quietly. "Whatever you mean, it
is an insult to me."
Turning abruptly, she left him. Michael would
have spoken to her, but she passed, her head in
the air, a look on her face which dismayed him,


BHAG 61
though, after a moment's consideration, he
could guess the cause.
When the various things were packed, and
the company had taken their seats in the char-
a-banc, Michael observed that she had very
carefully placed herself between Jack Kneb-
worth and the sulking leading man, and he wisely
chose a seat some distance from her.
The car was about to start when Sir Gregory
came up to him, and stepping on the running
board:
"You said you'd get her over," he began.
"If I said that," said Michael, "I must have
been drunk, and it takes more than one glass
of whiskey to reduce me to that disgusting con-
dition. Miss Leamington is a free agent, and
she would be singularly ill-advised to dine alone
with you or any other man."
He expected an angry outburst, but, to his
surprise, the squat man only laughed and waved
him a pleasant farewell. Looking around, as
the car turned from the lodge gates, Michael
saw him standing on the lawn, talking to a man,
and he recognized Foss who, for some reason,
had stayed behind.
And then his eyes strayed past the two men
to the window of the library, where the mon-


62 THE HAIRY ARM
strous Bhag sat in his darkened room, waiting
for instructions which he would carry into effect
without reason or pity. Michael Brixan, hard-
ened as he was to danger of every variety, found
himself shuddering.


CHAPTER IX
THE ANCESTOR
THE Dower House was away from the main
toad. A sprawling mass of low buildings, it
stood behind untidy hedges and crumbling walls.
Once the place had enjoyed the services of a
lodge keeper, but the tiny lodge was deserted,
the windows broken, and there were gaps in
the tiled roof. The gates had not been dosed
for generations; they were broken and leaned
crazily against the walls to which they had been
thrust by the last person who had employed
them to guard the entrance of the Dower House.
What had once been a fair lawn was now a
tangle of weeds. Thistles and weeds grew where
the gallants of old had played their bowls;
and it was dear to Michael, from his one glance,
that only a portion of the house was used. In
only one of the wings were the windows whole;
the others were broken or so grimed with dirt
that they appeared to have been painted.
His amusement blended with curiosity,
Michael saw for the first time the picturesque
m


64 THE HAIRY ARM
Mr. Sampson Longvale. He came out to meet
them, his bald head glistening in the afternoon
sunlight, his strapped fawn-colored trousers, vel-
vet waistcoat and old-fashioned stock completely
supporting Gregory Penne's description of him.
"Delighted to see you, Mr. Knebworth. I've
a very poor house, but I offer you a very rich
welcome! I have had tea served in my little
dining room. Will you please introduce me to
the members of your company?"
The courtesy and the Old World spirit of dig-
nity were very charming, and Michael felt a
warm glow toward this fine old man who had
brought to this modern atmosphere the love and
the fragrance of a past age.
"I should like to shoot a scene before we lose
the light, Mr. Longvale," said Knebworth; "so,
if you don't mind the meal being a scrambling
one, I can give the company a quarter of an
hour." He looked around. "Where is Foss?"
he asked. "I want to change a scene."
"Mr. Foss said he was walking from Griff
Towers," said one of the company. "He stopped
behind to speak to Sir Gregory."
Jack Knebworth cursed his dilatory scenario
man with vigor and originality.
"I hope he hasn't stopped to borrow money,"


THE ANCESTOR 65
he said savagely. "That fellow's going to ruin
my credit if I'm not careful."
He had overcome his objection to his new
extra; possibly he felt that there was nobody
else in the party whom he could take into his
confidence without hurt to discipline.
"Is he that way inclined?"
"He's always short of money and always
trying to make it by some fool trick which leaves
him shorter than he was before. When a man
gets that kind of bug in his head, he's only a
block away from prison. Are you going to stay
the night? I don't think you'll be able to sleep
here," he said, changing the subject, "but I sup-
pose you'll be going back to London?"
"Not tonight," said Michael quickly. "Don't
worry about me. I particularly do not wish to
give you any trouble."
"Come and meet the old man," said Kneb-
worth under bis breath. "He's a queer old
devil with the heart of a child."
"I like what I've seen of him," said Michael.
Mr. Longvale accepted the introduction aO
over again.
"I fear there will not be sufficient room in my
dining room for the whole company. I have had
a little table laid in my study. Perhaps yon and


66 THE HAIRY ARM
your friends would like to have your tea there?"
"Why, that's very kind of you, Mr. Longvale.
You have met Mr. Brixan?"
The old man smiled and nodded.
"I have met him without realizing that I've
met him. I never remember names—a curious
failing which was shared by my great-great-
uncle Charles, with the result that he fell into
extraordinary confusion when he wrote his
memoirs, and in consequence many of the inci-
dents he relates have been regarded as apoc-
ryphal."
He showed them into a narrow room that
ran from the front to the back of the house.
The ceiling was supported by black rafters;
the open wainscoting, polished and worn by gen-
erations of hands, must have been at least five
hundred years old. There were no swords over
this mantelpiece, thought Michael with an in-
ward smile. Instead, there was a portrait of a
handsome old gentleman, the dignity of whose
face was arresting. There was only one word
to furnish an adequate description: it was ma-
jestic.
He made no comment on the picture, nor
did the old man speak of it till later. The meal
was hastily disposed of, and, sitting on the wall


THE ANCESTOR 67
outside, Michael watched the last daylight scene
shot, and he was struck by the plastic genius of
the girl. He knew enough of motion pictures
and their construction to realize what it meant
to the director to have in his hands one who
could so faithfully reproduce the movements
and the emotions which the old man dictated.
In other circumstances he might, have thought
it grotesque to see Jack Knebworth pretending
to be a young girl, resting his elderly cheek coyly
upon the back of his clasped hand, and walking
with mincing steps from one side of the picture
to the other. But he knew that the American
was a mason who was cutting roughly the shape
of the sculpture and leaving it to the finer artist
to express in her personality the delicate con-
tours that would delight the eye of the picture-
loving world. She was no longer Adele Leaming-
ton; she was Roselle, the heiress to an estate,
of which her wicked cousin was trying to de-
prive her. The story itself he recognized as a
half-and-half plagiarism of a well-known tale.
He mentioned this fact when the scene was
finished.
"I guess it's a steal," said Jack Knebworth
philosophically, "and I didn't inquire too closely
into it. It's Foss' story, and I should be pained


68 THE HAIRY ARM
to discover there was anything original in it."
Mr. Foss had made a tardy reappearance,
and Michael found himself wondering what was
the nature of that confidential interview which
the writer had had with Sir Gregory.
Going back to the long sitting room he stood
watching the daylight fade, as he speculated
upon the one mystery within a mystery—the ex-
traordinary effect which Adele had produced
upon him.
Michael Brixan had known many beautiful
women, women in every class of society. He
had known the best and the worst, he had jailed
a few, and he had watched one face a French
firing squad one gray, wintry morning at Vin-
cenni-s. He had liked many, nearly loved one,
and it seemed, cold-bloodedly analyzing his emo-
tions, that he was in danger of actually loving
a girl whom he had never met before that
morning.
"Which is absurd," he said aloud.
"What is absurd?" asked Knebworth, who
had come into the room unnoticed.
"I also wondered what you were thinking,"
smiled old Mr. Longvale, who had been watch-
ing the young man in silence.
"I—er—well, I was thinking of the portrait."


THE ANCESTOR 69
Michael turned and indicated the picture above
the fireplace, and in a sense he spoke the truth,
for the thread of that thought had run through
all others. "The face seemed familiar," he said,
"which is absurd, because it is obviously an old
painting."
Mr. Longvale lit two candles and carried one
to the portrait. Again Michael looked, and again
the majesty of the face impressed him.
"That is my great-great-uncle, Charles
Henry," said old Mr. Longvale with pride. "Or,
as we call him affectionately in our family, the
Great Monsieur."
Michael's face was half turned toward the
window, as the old man spoke. Suddenly the
room seemed to spin before his eyes. Jack
Knebworth saw his face go white and caught
him by the arm.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
"Nothing," said Michael unsteadily.
Knebworth was staring past him at the win-
dow.
"What was that?" he said.
With the exception of the illumination from
the two candles and the faint dusk light that
came from the garden, the room was in dark-
ness.


70 THE HAIRY ARM
"Did you see it?" he asked and ran to the
window, staring out.
"What was it?" asked old Mr. Longvale,
joining him.
"I could have sworn I saw a head in the win-
dow. Did you see it, Brixan?"
"I saw something," said Michael unsteadily.
"Do you mind if I go out into the garden?"
"I hoped you saw it. It looked like a huge
monkey's head to me."
Michael nodded. He walked down the flagged
passage into the garden, and, as he did so,
slipped a Browning from his hip, pressed down
the safety catch, and dropped the pistol into his
jacket pocket. He disappeared, and five minutes
later Knebworth saw him pacing the garden
path and went out to see him.
"Did you see anything?"
"Nothing in the garden. You must have been
mistaken."
"But didn't you see him?"
Michael hesitated. "I thought I saw some-
thing," he said with an assumption of careless-
ness. "When are you going to shoot those night
pictures of yours?"
"You saw something, Brixan—was it a face?"
Mike Brixan nodded.


CHAPTER X
THE OPEN WINDOW
THE dynamo wagon was bumming, as he
walked down the garden path, and, with a hiss
and a splutter from the arcs, the front of the
cottage was suddenly illuminated by their fierce
light. Outside on the road a motorist had pulled
up to look upon the unusual spectacle.
"What is happening?" he asked curiously.
"They're taking a picture," said Michael.
"Oh, is that what it is? I suppose it is one
of Knebworth's outfits?"
"Where are you going?" demanded Michael
suddenly. "Forgive my asking you, but if you're
heading for Chichester you can render me a very
great service if you give me a lift."
"Jump in," said the man. "I'm going to
Petworth, but it will not be much out of my
way to take you into the city."
Until they came to the town he plied Michael
with questions, betraying that universal inquis-
itivencss which picture making invariably incites
in the uninitiated.
71


72 THE HAIRY ARM
Michael got down near the market place and
made his way to the house of a man he knew,
a former master at his old school, now settled
down in Chichester, who had, among other pos-
sessions, an excellent library. Declining his
host's pressing invitation to dinner, Michael
stated his needs, and the old master laughed.
"I can't remember that you were much of a
student in my days, Michael," he said, "but you
may have the run of the library. Is it some line
of Virgil that escapes you? I may be able to save
you a hunt."
"It's not Virgil," said Michael. "Something
infinitely more full-blooded."
He was in the library for twenty minutes,
and when he emerged there was a light of tri-
umph in his eye.
"I'm going to use your telephone, if I may,"
he said, and he got London without delay.
For ten minutes he was speaking with Scot-
land Yard, and, when he had finished, he went
into the dining room, where the master, who
was a bachelor, was eating his solitary dinner.
"You can render me one more service, men-
tor of my youth," he said. "Have you in this
abode of peace an automatic pistol that throws
a, heavier shell than this?"


THE OPEN WINDOW 73
And he put his own on the table. Michael
knew Mr. Scott had been an officer of the army
and incidentally an instructor of the officers'
training corps, so that his request was not as
impossible of fulfillment as it appeared.
"Yes, I can give you a heavier one than that.
What are you shooting—elephants?"
"Something a trifle more dangerous," said
Michael.
"Curiosity was never a weakness of mine,"
said the master and went out to return with a
Browning of heavy caliber and a box of cart-
ridges.
They spent five minutes cleaning the pistol,
which had not been in use for some time, and,
with his new weapon weighing down his jacket
pocket, Mike took his leave, carrying a lighter
heart and a clearer understanding than he had
enjoyed when he arrived at the house. He hired
a car from a local garage and drove back to the
Dower House, dismissing the car just short of his
destination. Jack Knebworth had not even
noticed that he had disappeared. But old Mr.
Longvale, wearing a coat with many capes and
a soft silk cap, from which dangled a long tassel,
came to him almost as soon as he entered the
garden.


74 THE HAIRY ARM
"Can I speak to you, Mr. Brixan?" he said in
a low voice, and they went into the house to-
gether. "Do you remember Mr. Knebworth
was very much perturbed because he thought
he saw somebody peering in at the window—
something with a monkey's head?"
Michael nodded.
"Well, it is a most curious fact," said the old
gentleman impressively, "that a quarter of an
hour ago I happened to be walking in the far
end of my garden, and looking across the hedge
toward the field I suddenly saw a gigantic form
rise, apparently from the ground, and move
toward these bushes." He pointed through the
window to a clump in a field on the opposite
side of the road. "He seemed to be crouching
forward and moving furtively."
"Will you show me the place?" said Michael
quickly.
He followed the other across the road to the
bushes, a little dump which was now empty
when they reached it. Kneeling down to make a
new sky line, Michael scanned the limited hori-
zon, but there was no sign of Bhag. For tb%t it
was Bhag, he had no doubt. There might be
nothing in it. Penne told him that the animal
was in the habit of taking nightly strolls, and


THE OPEN WINDOW 75
that he was perfectly harmless. Suppose—. The
thought was absurd, fantastically absurd. And
yet the animal had been so extraordinarily hu-
man that no speculation in connection with it
was quite absurd.
When he returned to the garden, he went in
search of the girl. She had finished her scene and
was watching the stealthy movements of two
screen burglars, who were creeping along the
wall in the subdued light of the arcs.
"Excuse me, Miss Leamington, I'm going to
ask you an impertinent question. Have you
brought a complete change of clothes with you?"
"Why ever do you ask that?" she demanded,
her eyes wide open. "Of course I did! I always
bring a complete change in case the weather
breaks."
He went on.
"That's one question. Did you lose anything
when you were at Griff Towers?"
"I lost my gloves," she said quickly. "Did
you find them?"
"No. When did you miss them?"
"I missed them immediately. I thought for a
moment—" She stopped. "It was a foolish
idea, but—"
"What did you think?" he asked.


76 THE HAIRY ARM
"I'd rather not tell you. It is a purely personal
matter."
"You thought that Sir Gregory had taken
them as a souvenir?"
Even in the half darkness he saw her color
come and go.
"I did think that," she said, a little stiffly.
"Then it doesn't matter very much about
your change of clothing," he said.
"Whatever are you talking about?"
She looked at him suspiciously. He guessed
she thought that he had been drinking, but the
last thing in the world he wanted to do at that
moment was to explain his somewhat disjointed
questions.
"Now, everybody is going to bed!"
It was old Jack Knebworth talking.
"Everybody! Off you go! Mr. Foss has
shown you your rooms. I want you up at four
o'clock tomorrow morning, so get as much sleep
as you can. Foss, you've marked the rooms?"
"Yes," said the man. "I've put the names on
every door. I've given this young lady a room to
herself. Is that right?"
"I suppose it is," said Knebworth dubiously.
"Anyway, she won't be there long enough to
get used to it."


THE OPEN WINDOW 77
The girl said good night to the delective and
went straight up to her apartment. It was a
tiny room, smelling somewhat musty and was
simply furnished. A small bed, a chest of
drawers with a swinging glass on top, and a
small table and chair completed the furniture in
the apartment. By the light of her candle the
floor showed signs of having been recently
scrubbed, and the center was covered by thread-
bare carpet.
She locked the door, blew out the candle, and,
undressing in the dark, went to the window and
threw open the casement. And then for the first
time she saw on the center of one of the small
panes a circular disk of paper. It was pasted on
the outside of the window, and at first she was
about to pull it off, when she guessed that it
might be some indicator placed by Knebworth to
mark an exact position that he required for the
morning picture taking.
She did not immediately fall asleep, her
mind, for some curious reason, being occupied
unprofitably with a tumultuous sense of annoy-
ance directed toward Michael Brixan. For a
long time a strong sense of justice fought with a
sense of humor equally powerful. He was a nice
man, she told herself; the sixth sense of woman


78 THE HAIRY ARM
had already delivered that information, heavily
underlined. He certainly had nerve. In the end
humor brought sleep. She was smiling when
her eyelids closed.
She had been sleeping two hours, though it
did not seem two seconds. A sense of impending
danger wakened her, and she sat up in bed, her
heart thumping wildly. She looked around the
room. In the pale moonlight she could see al-
most every corner, and it was empty. Was it
somebody outside the door that had wakened
her? She tried the handle of the door; it was
locked, as she had left it. The window? It
was very near to the ground, she remembered.
Stepping to the window, she pulled one case-
ment dose. She was dosing the other when,
out of the darkness below, reached a great
hairy arm, and a hand closed like a vise on her
wrist.
She did not scream. She stood breathless,
dying of terror, she felt. Her heart ceased beat-
ing, and she was conscious of a deadly cold.
What was it? What could it be? Summoning
all her courage, she looked out of the window
into a hideous, bestial face and two round, green
eyes that stared into hers.


CHAPTER XI
THE MARK ON THE WINDOW
THE thing was twittering at her, soft, birdlike
noises, and she saw the flash of its teeth in the
darkness. It was not pulling, it was simply hold-
ing; one hand was gripping the tendrils of the
ivy up which it had climbed, the other hand
firmly about her wrist. Again it twittered and
pulled. She drew back, but she might as well
have tried to draw back from a moving piston
rod. A great, hairy leg was suddenly flung over
the sill; the second hand came up and covered
her face.
The sound of her scream was deadened in the
hairy paw, but somebody heard it. From the
ground below came a flash of fire and the deaf-
ening noise of an exploding pistol. A bullet
zipped and crashed amongst the ivy, striking the
brickwork, and she heard the whirr of the rico-
chet. Instantly the great monkey released his
hold and dropped down out of sight. Half
swooning, Adele dropped upon the window sill,
incapable of movement. And then she saw a
79


80 THE HAIRY ARM
figure come out of the shadow of the laurel bush,
and instantly she recognized the midnight
prowler. It was Michael Brixan.
“Are you hurt?” he asked in a low voice.
She could only shake her head, for speech
was denied her.
“I didn't hit him, did I?”
With an effort she found the husk of a voice
in her dry throat. “No, I don't think so. He
dropped.”
Michael pulled an electric torch from his
pocket and was searching the ground. “No sign
of blood. He was rather difficult to hit. I was
afraid of hurting you, too.”
A window had been thrown up, and Jack
Knebworth's voice bawled into the night.
“What's the shooting? Is that you, Brixan?”
“It is I. Come down, and I'll tell you all
about it.”
The noise did not seem to have aroused Mr.
Longvale, or, for the matter of that, any other
member of the party; and when Knebworth
reached the garden he found no other audience
than Mike Brixan. In a few words Michael told
him what he had seen.
“The monkey belongs to friend Penne,” he
said. “I saw it this morning.”


THE MARK ON THE WINDOW 81
“What do you think—that he was prowling
round and saw the open window?”
Michael shook his head. “No,” he said qui-
etly, “he came with one intention and purpose,
which was to carry off your leading lady. That
sounds highly dramatic and improbable, and
that is the opinion I have formed. This ape, I
tell you, is nearly human.”
“But he wouldn't know the girl. He has
never seen her.”
“He could smell her,” said Mike instantly.
“She lost a pair of gloves at the Towers today,
and it's any odds that they were stolen by the
noble Gregory Penne, so that he might introduce
to Bhag an unfailing scent.”
“I can't believe it; it is incredible! Though
I'll admit,” said Jack Knebworth thoughtfully,
“that these big apes do some amazing things.
Did you shoot him?”
“No, sir; I didn't shoot him, but I can tell you
this, he's an animal that's been gunned before,
or he'd have come for me, in which case he
would have been dead by now.”
“What were you doing round here, anyway?”
“Just watching out,” said the other carelessly.
“The earnest detective has so many things on
his conscience that he can't sleep like ordinary


82 THE HAIRY ARM
people. Speaking for myself, I never intended
leaving the garden, because I expected Brer
Bhag. Who is that?"
The door opened, and a slim figure, wrapped
in a dressing gown, came out into the open.
"Young lady, you're going to catch a very fine
cold," warned Knebworth. "What happened to
you?"
"I don't know." She was feeling her wrist
tenderly. "I heard something and went to the
window, and then this horrible thing caught hold
of me. What was it, Mr. Brixan?"
"It was nothing more alarming than a mon-
key," said he with affected unconcern. "I'm
sorry you were so scared. I guess the shooting
worried you more?"
"You don't guess anything of the kind. You
know it didn't. Oh, it was horrible, horrible 1"
She covered her white face with her trembling
hands.
Old Jack grunted.
"I think she's right, too. You owe something
to our friend here, young lady. Apparently he
was expecting this visit and watched in the
garden."
"You expected it?" she gasped.
'Mr. Knebworth has made rather more of the


THE MARK ON THE WINDOW 83
part I played than can be justified," said Mike.
"And if you think that this is a hero's natural
modesty, you're mistaken. I did expect this
gentleman, because he'd been seen in the fields
by Mr. Longvale. And you thought you saw
him yourself, didn't you, Knebworth?"
Jack nodded.
"In fact, we all saw him," Mike went on,
"and, as I didn't like the idea of a coming star
being subjected to the annoyance of visiting
monkeys, I sat up in the garden."
With a sudden impulsive gesture she put out
her little hand, and Michael took it.
"Thank you, Mr. Brixan," she said. "I have
been wrong about you."
"Who isn't?" asked Mike with an extrava-
gant shrug.
She returned to her room, and this time
she closed the window. Once, before she
finally went to sleep, she rose and, peeping
through the curtains, saw the little glowing
point of the watcher's cigar; then she went back
to bed, comforted. It seemed only a few min-
utes before Foss began knocking on the doors
to awaken the company.
The literary man himself was the first down.
The garden was beginning to show in the pale


84 THE HAIRY ARM
light of dawn, and he bade Michael Brixao a
gruff good morning.
"Good morning to you," said Michael. "By
the way, Mr. Foss, you stayed behind at Griff
Towers today to see our friend, Penne?"
"That's no business of yours," growled the
man, and he would have passed on, but Michael
stood squarely in his path.
"There is one thing which is some business of
mine, and that is to ask you why that little white
disk appears on Miss Leamington's window?"
He pointed up to the white circle that the girl
had seen the night before.
"I don't know anything about it," said Foss
with rising anger, but there was also a note of
fear in his voice.
"If you don't know, who does? I saw you
put it there just before it got dark last night."
"Well, if you must know," said the man, "it
was to mark a vision boundary for the camera
man."
That sounded a plausible excuse. Michael
had seen Jack Knebworth marking out boun-
daries in the garden to insure the actors being in
the picture. At the first opportunity, when
Knebworth appeared, he questioned him on the
subject.


THE MARK ON THE WINDOW 85
"No, I gave no instructions to put up marks.
Where is it?"
Michael showed him.
"I wouldn't have a mark up there, anyway,
would I? Right in the middle of a window!
What do you make of it?"
"I think Foss put it there with one object.
The window was marked at Gregory's request."
"But why?" asked Knebworth, staring.
"To show Adele Leamington's room to Bhag
—that's why," said Michael, and he was confi-
dent that his view was an accurate one.


CHAPTER XII
A CRY FROM A TOWER
WITHOUT waiting to see the early morning
scenes shot, Michael had decided upon a course
of action. As soon as he conveniently could,
he made his escape from Dower House and,
crossing a field, reached the road which led to
Griff Towers. Possessing a good eye for coun-
try, he had duly noted the field path which
ran along the boundary of Sir Gregory Penne's
estate; it was, he guessed, a short cut to Griff;
and a short walk brought him to the stile where
the path joined the road. He walked quickly,
his eyes on the ground, looking for some trace
of the beast; but there had been no rain, and,
unless he had wounded the animal, there was
little hope that he would pick up the trail.
Presently he came to the high flint wall which
marked the southern end of the baronet's
grounds, and this he followed until he came to
a postern let in the wall, a door that appeared
to have been recently in use; for it was ajar,
he noted with satisfaction.
86


A CRY FROM A TOWER 87
Pushing it open he found himself in a large
field which evidently served as kitchen garden
for the house. There was nobody in sight.
The gray tower looked even more forbidding
and ugly in the early morning light. No smoke
came from the chimneys; Griff was a house of
the dead. Nevertheless he proceeded cau-
tiously and, instead of crossing the field, moved
back into the shadow of the wall until he reached
the high boxwood fence that ran at right angles
and separated the kitchen garden from that
beautiful pleasance which Jack Knebworth had
used the previous morning as a background for
his scenes.
And all the time he kept his eyes roving,
expecting at any moment to see the hideous fig-
ure of Bhag appear from the ground. At last
he reached the end of the hedge. He was now
within a few paces of the graveled front and less
than half a dozen yards from the high, square,
gray tower which gave the big, dismal house its
name.
From where he stood he could see the whole
front of the house. The drawn white blinds
and the general lifelessness of Griff might have
convinced a less skeptical man than Mike Brixan
that his suspicions were unfounded.


88 THE HAIRY ARM
He was hesitating as to whether he should go
to the house or not, when he heard a crash of
glass, and he looked up in time to see fragments
falling from the topmost room of the tower.
The sun had not yet risen, the earth was still
wrapped in the illusory dawn light, and the
hedge made an admirable hiding place.
Who was breaking windows at this hour of
the morning? Surely not the careful Bhag. So
far he had reached in his speculations when the
morning air was rent by a shrill scream of such
fear that his flesh went cold. It came from the
upper room and ended abruptly, as though some-
body had put his hand over the mouth of the
unfortunate from whom that cry of terror had
been wrung.
Hesitating no longer, Michael stepped from
his place of concealment, ran quickly across the
gravel, and pulled at the bell before the great
entrance, which was immediately under the
lower. He heard the dang of the bell and
looked quickly round, to make absolutely sore
that Bhag or some of the copper-colored retainers
of Griff Towers were not trailing him.
A minute passed—two—and bis hand was
again raised to the iron bell pull, when he heard
heavy feet in the corridor, a shuSk of sappers on


A CRY FROM A TOWER 89
the tiled floor of the hall, and a gruff voice
demanded:
"Who's there?"
"Michael Brixan."
There was a grunt, a rattle of chains, a snap-
ping of locks, and the big door opened a few
inches.
Gregory Penne was wearing a pair of gray
flannel trousers and a shirt the wristbands of
which were unfastened.
"What do you want?" he demanded and
opened the door a few more inches.
"I want to see you," said Michael.
"Usually call at daybreak?" growled the man,
as he dosed the door on his visitor.
Michael made no answer, but followed Greg-
ory Penne to his room. The library had evi-
dently been occupied throughout the night. The
windows were shuttered, the electroliers were
burning, and before the fire were a table and
two whiskey bottles, one of which was empty.
"Have a drink?" said Penne mechanically,
and he poured himself out a potion with an un-
steady hand.
"Is your ape in?" asked Michael, refusing the
proffered drink with a gesture.
"What, Bhag? I suppose so. He goes and


90 THE HAIRY ARM
comes as he likes. Do you want to see him?"
"Not particularly," said Michael. "I've seen
him once tonight."
Penne was lighting the stub of a cigar from
the fire, as he spoke, and he looked round
quickly.
"You've seen him before? What do you
mean?"
"I saw him at Dower House, trying to get into
Miss Leamington's room, and he was as near
to being a dead orang-outang as he has ever
been."
The man dropped the lighted cigar stub on the
hearth and stood up.
"Did you shoot him?" he asked.
"I shot at him."
Gregory nodded. "You shot at him," he said
softly. "That accounts for it. Why did you
shoot him? He's perfectly harmless."
"He didn't strike me that way," said Michael
coolly. "He was trying to pull Miss Leaming-
ton from her room."
The man's eyes opened. "He got so far, did
he? Well?"
There was a pause.
"You sent him to get the girl," said Michael.
"You also bribed Foss to put a mark on the win-


A CRY FROM A TOWER 91
dow so that Bhag should know where the girl
was sleeping.'- He paused, but the other made
no reply. "The cave-man method is fairly
beastly, even when the cave man does his own
kidnaping. When he sends an anthropoid ape
to do his dirty work, it passes into another
category."
The man's eyes were invisible now; his face
had grown a deeper hue. "So that's your line,
is it?" he said. "I thought you were a pal."
"I'm not responsible for your illusions," said
Michael. "Only I tell you this"—he tapped
the man's chest with hL« finger—"if any harm
comes to Adele Leamington that is traceable to
you or your infernal agent, I shan't be contented
with shooting Mr. Bhag; I will come here and
shoot you! Do you understand? And now
you can tell me, what is the meaning of that
scream I heard from your tower?"
"Who in thunder do you imagine you're cross-
questioning?" spluttered Penne, livid with fury.
"You dirty, miserable little actor 1"
Michael slipped a card from his pocket and
put it in the man's hand.
"You 11 find my title to question you legibly
inscribed," he said.
The man brought the card to the table lamp


92 THE HAIRY ARM
and read it. The effect was electrical. His big
jaw dropped, and the hand that held the card
trembled so violently that it dropped to the
floor.
"A detective!" he croaked. "A—a detective!
What do you want here?"
"I heard somebody scream," said Michael.
"One of the servants, maybe. We've got a
Papuan woman here who's ill. In fact, she's
a little mad, and we're moving her tomorrow.
I'll go and see, if you like?"
He looked toward Michael, as though seeking
permission. His whole attitude was one of
humility, and Michael required no more than
the sight of that pallid face and those chattering
teeth to turn his suspicion to certainty. Some-
thing was happening in this house that he must
get to the bottom of.
"May I go and see?" asked Penne.
Michael nodded. The stout man shuffled out
of the room, as though he were in a hurry to be
gone, and the lock clicked. Instantly Michael
was at the door, turned the handle and pulled.
It was locked!
He looked round the room quickly and, run-
ning to one of the windows, flung back the cur-
tain and pulled at the shutter. But this, too,


A CRY FROM A TOWER 93
was locked. It was, to all intents and purposes,
a door with a little keyhole at the bottom. He
was examining this when all the lights in the
room went out, the only illumination being a
faint red glow from the fire.


CHAPTER XIII
THE TRAP THAT FAILED
AND then Michael heard a faint creak in one
corner of the room. It was followed by the
almost imperceptible sound of bare feet on the
thick pile carpet and the noise of quick breathing.
He did not hesitate. Feeling again for the
keyhole of the shutter, he pulled out his pistol
and fired twice at the lock. The sound of the
explosion was deafening in the confined space
of the room. It must have had an electrical
effect upon the intruder. With a wrench the
shutter opened, and at a touch the white blind
sprang up, flooding with light the big, ornate
room, but it was empty. Almost immediately
afterward the door opened through which the
baronet had passed. If he had been panic-
stricken before, his condition was now pitiable.
"What's that? What's that?" he whimpered.
"Did somebody shoot?"
"Somebody shot," said Michael calmly, "and
I was the somebody. And the gentlemen you
sent into the room to settle accounts with me
M


THE TRAP THAT FAILED 95
are very lucky that I confined my firing prac-
tice to the lock of your shutter, Penne."
He saw something white on the ground and,
crossing the room with quick strides, picked it
up. It was a scarf of coarse silk, and he smelt
it.
"Somebody dropped this in their hurry," he
said. "I guess it was to be used."
"My dear fellow, I assure you I didn't know."
"How is the interesting invalid?" asked
Michael with a curl of his lip. "The lunatic
lady who screams?"
The old man fingered his trembling lips for a
moment, as though he were trying to control
them.
"She's all right. It was as I—as I thought,"
he said; "she had some sort of fit."
Michael eyed him pensively. "I'd like to see
her if I may," he said.
"You can't." Penne's voice was loud, defiant.
"You can't see anybody! What do you mean
by coming into my house at this hour of the
morning and damaging my property? Ill have
this matter reported to Scotland Yard, and 111
get the coat off your back, my man! Some of
you detectives think you own the earth, but
111 show you you don't!"


96 THE HAIRY ARM
The blustering voice rose to a roar. He was
smothering his fear in weak anger, Michael
thought, and looked up at the swords above the
mantelpiece. Following the directions of his
eyes, Sir Gregory wilted, and again his manner
changed.
"My dear fellow, why exasperate me? I'm
the nicest man in the world if you only treat
me right. You've got crazy ideas about me—
you have indeed!"
Michael did not argue. He walked slowly
down the passage and out to meet the first sector
of a blazing sun. As he reached the door, he
turned to the man.
"I cannot insist upon searching your house,
because I have not a warrant, as you know, and
by the time I'd got a warrant there would be
nothing to find But you look out, my friend!"
He waved a warning finger at the man. "I hate
dragging in classical allusions, but I should
advise you to look up a lady in mythology who
was known to the Greeks as Adrastia.
And with this he left, walking down the drive,
watched with eyes of despair by a pale-faced girl
from the upper window of the tower; while Sir
Gregory went back to his library and, by much


THE TRAP THAT FAILED 97
diligent searching, discovered that Adrastia was
another name for Nemesis.
Michael was back at Dower House in time for
breakfast. It was no great tribute to his charm
that his absence had passed unnoticed—or so
it appeared—though Adele had marked his dis-
appearance and had been the first one to note
his return.
Jack Knebworth was in his most cheery mood.
"I can't tell, of course, until I get back to the
laboratory and develop the pictures; but so far
as young Leamington is concerned, she's wonder-
ful. I bate predicting at this early stage, but
I believe that she's going to be a great artist."
"You didn't expect her to be?" asked Michael
in surprise.
"I was very annoyed with Mendoza, and when
I took this outfit on location I did so expecting
that I should have to return and retake the
picture with Mendoza in the cast. Film stars
aren't born, they're made; they're made by bit-
ter experience, patience, and suffering. But
your girl has skipped all the intervening phases
and has won at the first time asking."
"When you talk about my girl," said Michael
carefully, "will you be good enough to remem-


98 THE HAIRY ARM
her that I have the merest and most casual inter-
est in the lady?"
"If you're not a liar," said Jack Knebworth,
"you're a piece of cheese!"
"What chance has she as a film artist?" asked
Michael, anxious to turn the subject.
Knebworth ruffled his white hair.
"Precious little here in England," he said,
"but she may be playing in Hollywood in twelve
months' time in an English story directed by
Americans!"
In the outer lobby of his office—they had
returned to Chichester—he found a visitor wait-
ing for him and gave her a curt and steely good
morning.
"I want to see you, Mr. Knebworth," said
Stella Mendoza, with a smile at the leading man
who had followed Knebworth into his office.
"You want to see me, do you? Why, you can
see me now. What do you want?"
She was pulling at a lace handkerchief, with
a pretty air of penitence and confusion. Jack
was not impressed. He himself had taught her
all that handkerchief stuff.
"I've been very silly, Mr. Knebworth, and
I've come to ask your pardon. Of course it was
wrong to keep the boys and girls waiting, and


THE TRAP THAT FAILED 99
I really am sorry. Shall I come in the morning
—or I can start today?"
A faint smile trembled at the corner of the
director's big mouth. "You needn't come in the
morning, and you needn't stay today, Stella," he
said. "Your substitute did remarkably well,
and I don't feel inclined to retake the picture."
She flashed an angry glance at him, a glance
at total variance with her softer attitude.
"I've got a contract. I suppose you know
that, Mr. Knebworth?" she said shrilly.
"I'd ever so much rather play opposite Miss
Mendoza," murmured a gentle voice. It was
the youthful Reggie Connolly, he of the sleek
hair. "It's not easy to play opposite Miss—I
don't even know her name. She's so—well, she
lacks artistry, Mr. Knebworth."
Old Jack didn't speak. His gloomy eyes
were fixed upon the youth.
"What's more, I don't feel I can do myself
justice with Miss Mendoza out of the cast,"
said Reggie. "I really don't: I feel most
awfully, terribly nervous, and it's difficult to
express one's personality when one's awfully,
terribly nervous. In fact," he said recklessly,
"I'm not inclined to go on with the picture
unless Miss Mendoza returns."


100 THE HAIRY ARM
She shot a grateful glance at him and then
turned with a slow smile to the silent Jack.
"Would you like me to start today?"
"Not today or any other day," roared the old
director, his eyes flaming. "As for you, you
nut-fed chorus boy, if you try to let me down 111
blacklist you at every studio in this country, and
every time I meet you 111 kick you from here to
Halifax!"
He came stamping into the office, where
Michael had preceded him, a raging fury of a
man.
"What do you think of that?" he asked when
he calmed down. "That's the sort of stuff they
try to get past youl He's going to quit in the
middle of a picture 1 Did you hear him? That
sissy boy—that mouse! Say, Brixan, would
you like to play opposite this girl of mine? You
can't be worse than Connolly, and it would fill
in your time while you're looking for The Head-
hunter."
Michael shook his head slowly.
"No, thank you," he said. "That is not my
job. And as for The Head-hunter"—he lit a
cigarette and sent a ring of smoke to the ceiling
—"I know who he is, and I can lay my hands
on him just when I want."


CHAPTER XIV
MENDOZA MAKES A FIGHT
THE director stared at him in amazement.
"You're joking!" he said.
"On the contrary, I am very much in earnest,"
said Michael quietly. "But to know The Head-
hunter and to bring his crimes home to him are
quite different matters."
Jack Knebworth sat at his desk, his hands
thrust into his trousers pockets, a look of blank
incredulity on the face turned to the detective.
"Is it one of my company?" he asked, trou-
bled, and Michael laughed.
"I haven't the pleasure of knowing all your
company," he said diplomatically, "but, at any
rate, don't let The Head-hunter worry you.
What are you going to do about Mr. Reggie
Connolly?"
Jack shrugged. "He doesn't mean it, and I
was a fool to get wild," he said. "That kind of
ninny never means anything. You wouldn't
dream, to see him on the screen, full of tender-
ness and love and manliness, that he's the poor
101


102 THE HAIRY ARM
little jellyfish he is! As for Mendoza," he swept
his hands before him, and the gesture was
significant.
Miss Stella Mendoza, however, was not
accepting her dismissal so readily. She had
fought her way up from nothing, and she was
not prepared to forfeit her position without a
struggle. Moreover her position was a serious
one. She had money—so much money that she
need never work again; for, in addition to her
big salary, she enjoyed an income from a source
which need not be too closely inquired into. But
there was a danger that Knebworth might carry
the war into a wider field.
Her first move was to go in search of Adele
Leamington who, she learned that morning for
the first time, had taken her place. Though she
went in a spirit of conciliation, she choked with
anger to discover that the girl was occupying the
star's dressing room, the room which had always
been sacred to Stella Mendoza's use. Infuriated,
yet preserving an outward calm, she knocked at
the door. That she, Stella Mendoza, should
knock at a door rightfully hers, was maddening
enough.
Adele was sitting at the bare dressing table,
gaaing, a little awe-stricken, at the array of mir-


MENDOZA MAKES A FIGHT 103
rors, lights, and the vista of dresses down the
long alleyway which served as a wardrobe. At
the sight of Mendoza she went red.
"Miss Leamington, isn't it?" asked Stella
sweetly. "May I come in?"
"Do, please," said Adele, hastily rising.
"Please do sit down," said Stella. "It's a
very uncomfortable chair, but most of the chairs
here are uncomfortable. They tell me you have
been 'doubling' for me?"
"Doubling?" said Adele, puzzled.
"Yes, Mr. Knebworth said he was doubling
you. You know what I mean. When an artist
can't appear they sometimes put in an under-
study in scenes where she's not very distinctly
shown—long shots."
"But Mr. Knebworth took me close up," said
the girl quietly. "I was only in one long shot."
Miss Mendoza masked her anger and sighed.
"Poor old chap! He's very angry with me,
and really I oughtn't to annoy him. I'm coming
back tomorrow, you know."
The girl went pale.
"It's fearfully humiliating for you, I realize,
but, my dear, we've all had to go through that
experience. And people in the studio will be
very nice to you."


104 THE HAIRY ARM
"But it's impossible," said Adele. "Mr.
Knebworth told me I was to be in the picture
from start to finish."
Mendoza shook her head smilingly.
"You can never believe what these fellows
tell you," she said. "He's just told me to be
ready to shoot tomorrow morning on the South
Downs."
Adele's heart sank. She knew that was the
rendezvous, though she was not aware of the
fact that Stella Mendoza had procured her infor-
mation from the disgruntled Mr. Connolly.
"It is humiliating," Stella went on thought-
fully. "If I were you I would go to town and
stay away for a couple of weeks, till the whole
thing has blown over. I feel very much to blame
for your disappointment, my dear, and if money
is any compensation "She opened her bag
and, taking out a wad of notes, detached four of
them and put them on the table.
"What is this for?" asked Adele coldly.
"Well, my dear, you'll want money for
expenses."
"If you imagine I'm going to London without
seeing Mr. Knebworth and finding out for my-
self whether you're speaking the truth"
Mendoza's face flamed. "Do you suggest


MENDOZA MAKES A FIGHT 105
I'm lying?" She had dropped all pretense of
friendliness and stood, a veritable virago, her
hands on her hips, her dark face thrust down
into Adele's.
"I don't know whether you're a liar or whether
you are mistaken," said Adele, who was less
afraid of this termagant than she had been at
the news she had brought. "The only thing I'm
perfectly certain about is that for the moment
this is my room, and I will ask you to leave it I"
She opened the door, and for a moment she
was afraid that the girl would strike her; but the
broad-shouldered Irish dresser, a silent, but
passionately interested, spectator and audience,
interposed her huge bulk and good-humoredly
pushed the raging star into the corridor.
"Ill have you out of there 1" she screamed
across the woman's shoulder. "Jack Kneb-
worth isn't everything in this company! I've
got influence enough to fire Knebworthl"
The innuendoes that followed were not good
to hear, but Adele Leamington listened in scorn-
ful silence. She was only too relieved—for the
girl's raging fury was eloquent—to know that she
had not been speaking the truth. For one hor-
rible moment Adele had believed her, knowing
that Knebworth would not hesitate to sacrifice


106 THE HAIRY ARM
her, or any other member of the company if,
by so doing, the values of the picture could be
strengthened.
Knebworth was alone when his ex-star was
announced, and his first instinct was not to see
her. Whatever his intentions might have been,
she determined his action by appearing in the
doorway, just as he was making up his mind
what line to take. He fixed her with his gimlet
eyes for a second and then, with a jerk of his
head, called her in.
"There are many things I admire about you,
Stella, and not the least of them is your nerve.
But it is no good coming to me with any of that
let-bygones-be-bygones stuff. You're not ap-
pearing in this picture, and maybe you'll never
appear in another picture of mine."
"Is that so?" she drawled, sitting down unin-
vited and taking from her bag a little gold ciga-
rette case.
"You've come in to tell me that you've got
influence with a number of people who are finan-
cially interested in this corporation," said Jack
to her dismay. She wondered if there were
telephone communication between the dressing
room and the office: then remembered there
wasn't.


MENDOZA MAKES A FIGHT 107
"I've handled a good many women in my
time," he went on, "and Fve never had to fire
one but she didn't produce the president, vice
president, or treasurer and hold them over my
head, with their feet ready to kick out my
brains! And, Stella, none of those holdups ever
got by. People who are financially interested
in a company may pass as your friends, but their
first interest is the money."
"Well see if Sir Gregory thinks the same
way," she said and Jack Knebworth whistled.
"Gregory Penne, eh? I didn't know you had
friends in that quarter. Yes, he is a stockholder
in the company, but he doesn't hold enough to
make any difference. I guess he told you that
be did. And if he held ninety-nine per cent of
it, Stella, it wouldn't make any difference to old
Jack Knebworth, because old Jack Knebworth's
got a contract which gives him a free hand, and
the only getting-out clause is the one that gets
me out! You can't touch me, Stella."
"I suppose you're going to blacklist me?" she
said sulkily.
This was the one punishment she most feared
—that Jack Knebworth should circulate the
story of her unforgivable sin of letting down a
picture when it was half shot.


108 THE HAIRY ARM
"I thought about that," he nodded, "but I
guess I'm not vindictive. I'll let you go and say
the part didn't suit you, and that you resigned,
which is as near the truth as any story I'll have
to repeat."
He waved her out of the office, and she went,
somewhat chastened. Outside the studio she
met Lawley Foss and told him the result of the
interview.
"If it's like that, you can do nothing," he said.
"I'd speak for you, Stella, but I've got to speak
for myself," he added bitterly. "The idea of
a man of my genius truckling hat in hand to this
old Yankee is very humiliating."
"You ought to have your own company, Law-
ley," she said, as she had said a dozen times
before. "You write the stuff, and 111 be the
leading woman and put it over for you. Why,
you could direct Kneb's head off. I know,
Lawley 1 I've been to the only place on earth
where art is appreciated, and I tell you that a
four-flusher like Jack Knebworth wouldn't last
a light mile at Hollywood!"
Her voice was emphatic.
"Light mile" was a term she had acquired
from a scientific admirer. It had the double
advantage of sounding grand and creating a


MENDOZA MAKES A FIGHT 109
demand for an explanation. To her annoyance
Foss was sufficiently acquainted with elementary
physics to know that she meant the period of
time that a ray of light would take to traverse a
mile.
"Is he in his office now?"
She nodded, and without any further word
Lawley Foss, in some trepidation, knocked at his
chief's door.
"The truth is, Mr. Knebworth, I want to ask
a favor of you."
"Is it money?" demanded Jack, looking up
from under his bushy brows.
"Well, it was money, as a matter of fact
.
There have been one or two little bills I've
overlooked, and the bailiffs have been after me.
IVe got to raise fifty pounds by two o'clock
this afternoon."
Jack pulled open a drawer, took out a book,
«nd wrote a check, not for fifty pounds but for
eighty.
"That's a month's salary in advance," he said.
"You've drawn your pay up to today, and by
the terms of your contract you're entitled to
one month's notice or pay therefor. You've
got it."
Foss went an ugly red.


110 THE HAIRY ARM
"Does that mean I'm fired?" he asked loudly.
Jack nodded.
"You're fired, not because you want money,
not because you're one of the most difficult men
on the lot to deal with, but for what you did
last night, Foss."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I am taking Mr. Brixan's view that
you fastened a white label to the window of Miss
Leamington's room in order to guide an agent
of Sir Gregory Penne. That agent came and
nearly kidnaped my leading lady."
The man's lips curled in a sneer.
"You've got melodrama in your blood, Kneb-
worth," he said. "Kidnap your leading ladyl
That sort of thing may happen in the United
States, but it don't happen in England."
"Close the door as you go out," said Jack,
preparing for work.
"Let me say this," began Foss. "If you"
"I'll let you say nothing," snarled Kneb-
worth "Not even good-by. Get!"
When the door slammed behind his visitor,
the old director pushed a bell on his table, and
to his assistant who came he said:
"Get Miss Leamington down here. I'd like
contact with something that's wholesome."


CHAPTER XV
TWO FROM THE YARD
CERTAINLY Chichester is not famous for its
restaurants, but the dining room of a little hotel,
where three people foregathered that after-
noon, had the advantage of privacy. When Mike
Brixan got back to his hotel he found two men
waiting to see him; and, after a brief intro-
duction, he took them upstairs to his sitting
room.
"I'm glad you've come," he said, when the
inspector had dosed the door behind him. "The
fact is that sheer criminal work is a novelty to
me, and I'm afraid that I'm going to make it
a mystery to you," he smiled. "At the moment
I'm not prepared to give expression to all my
suspicions." .
Detective Inspector Lyle, the chief of the two,
laughed.
"We have been placed entirely under your
orders, Captain Brixan," he said, "and neither
of us is very curious. The information you
asked for, Sergeant Walters has brought." He
indicated his tall companion.
111


112 THE HAIRY ARM
"Which information—about Penne? Is he
known to the police?" asked Michael, interested.
Sergeant Walters nodded.
"He was convicted and fined a few years
ago for assaulting a servant—a woman. Appar-
ently he took a whip to the girl, and he very
narrowly escaped going to prison. That was
the first time our attention was attracted to
him, and we made inquiries both in London and
in the Malay States, and we found out all about
him. He's a very rich man, and, being a distant
cousin of the late baronet, you may say he
fluked his title. In Borneo he lived practically
in the bush for fifteen or twenty years, and the
stories we have about him aren't particularly
savory. There are a few of them which you
might read at your leisure, Mr. Brixan. They're
in the record."
Michael nodded. "Is anything known of an
educated orang-outang which is his companion?"
To his surprise the officer answered:
"Bhag? Oh, yes, we know all about him.
He was captured when he was quite a baby by
Penne and brought up in captivity. It has been
rather difficult to trace the man, because he
never returns to England by the usual steam-
ship lines, so that it's almost impossible to have


TWO FROM THE YARD 113
a tag on him. He has a yacht, a fine, sea-going
boat, the Kipi, which is practically officered and
manned by Papuans. What comes and goes
with him I don't know. There was a complaint
came through to us that the last time Penne was
abroad he nearly lost his life as the result of
some quarrel he had with a local tribesman.
Now, Mr. Brixan, what would you like us to
do?"
Michael's instructions were few and brief.
That evening, when Adele walked home to her
lodgings, she was conscious that a man was fol-
lowing her, and after her previous night's adven-
ture this fact would have played havoc with her
nerves, except for the note she found waiting
when she got indoors. It was from Michael.
Would you mind if I put a Scotland Yard man to
watch you, to see that you do not get into mischief? I
don't think there's any danger that you will, but I shall
feel ever so much easier in my mind if you will endure
this annoyance.
She <read the letter, and her brows knit. So
she was being shadowed! It was an uncom-
fortable experience, and yet she could not very
well object, could not indeed feel anything but
a sense of warm gratitude toward this ubiquitous
and pushful young man who seemed determined
not to let her out of his sight.


CHAPTER XVI
THE BROWN MAN FROM NOWHERE
WITH a brand-new grievance against life
Lawley Foss gathered his forces to avenge him-
self upon the world that had treated him so
harshly. And first and most powerful of his
forces was Stella Mendoza. There was a council
of war held in the drawing room of the pretty
little house that Stella had taken when she joined
the Knebworth Corporation. The third of the
party was Mr. Reggie Connolly. And, as they
were mutually sympathetic, so were they mutu-
ally unselfish—characteristically so. This was
evident.
"We've been treated disgracefully by Kneb-
worth, Mr. Foss, especially you. I think, com-
pared with your case, mine is nothing."
"It is the way he has handled you that makes
me sore," said Foss energetically. "An artist
of your standing!"
"The work you've done for him! And Reg-
gie—he treated him like a dog!"
"Personally it doesn't matter to me," said
114


MAN FROM NOWHERE 115
Reggie. "I can always find a contract. It's
you"
"For the matter of that, we can all find con-
tracts," interrupted Stella, with a taste of acid
in her voice. "I can have my own company
when I please, and I've got two directors mad
to direct me, and two men I know would put up
every cent of money to give me my own com-
pany—at least they'd put up a lot. And
Chauncy Seller is raving to play opposite me,
and you know what a star he is; and he'd let
me be featured and go into small type himself.
He's a lovely man and the best juvenile in this
country or any other."
Mr. Connolly coughed.
"The point is, can we get the money now?"
asked Foss, practical for once.
There was no immediate and enthusiastic
assurance from the girl.
"Because, if not, I think I can get all I want,"
said Foss surprisingly. "I won't say from
whom, or how I'm going to get it; but I'm
certain I can get big money, and it will be easier
to get it for some specific object than to ask
for it myself."
"Less risky?" suggested Connolly, with a
desire to be in the conversation.


116 THE HAIRY ARM
It was an unfortunate remark, the more so
since by chance he had hit the nail on the head.
Foss went a dull red
"What do you mean by 'less risky?'" h<
demanded.
Poor Reggie had meant nothing, and he admit-
ted as much in some haste. He had meant to
be helpful, and now he was ready to sulk at
the storm he had aroused; more ready because,
as the conversation had progressed, he had faded
more and more into the background as an incon-
siderable factor. There is nothing quite so dis-
heartening to a conspirator as to find the
conspiring taken out of his hands, and Reggie
Connolly felt it was the moment to make a
complete volte face and incidentally assert what
he was pleased to call his "personality."
"This is all very well, Stella," he said, "but
it looks to me as if I'm going to be left out in
the cold. What with your thinking about
Chauncy Seller—he's spoiled more pictures than
any two men I know—and all that sort of thing,
I don't see that I'm going to be much use to you.
I don't really. I know you'll think I'm a fearful
awful rotter, but I feel that we owe some-
thing to old Jack Kneb—I do really. I've jeop-
ardized my position for your sake, and I'm pre-


MAN FROM NOWHERE 117
pared to do anything in reason, but what with
pulling Chauncy Seller—who is a bounder
of the worst kind—into your cast, and what with
Foss jumping down my throat, well, really"
They were not inclined to mollify him, having
rather an eye to the future than to the present,
and he had retired in a huff before the girl real-
ized that the holding of Reggie would at least
have embarrassed Knebworth to the extent of
forcing a retake of those parts of the picture
in which he appeared.
"Never mind about Connolly. The picture is
certain to fail with that extra; she's bad. I have
a friend in London," explained Foss, after the
discussion returned to the question of ways and
means, "who can put up the money. I've got
a sort of pull with him. In fact—well, any-
how, I've got a pull. I'll go up tonight and see
him."
"And 111 see mine," said Stella. "We'll call
the company the Stella Mendoza Picture Cor-
poration."
Lawley Foss demurred. He was inclined to
another title, but he was prepared to accept as a
compromise the Foss-Mendoza Company, a
compromise agreeable to Stella provided the
names were reversed.


118 THE HAIRY ARM
"Who is Brixan?" she asked, as Foss was
leaving.
"He is a detective."
She opened her eyes wide. "A detective?
What is he doing here?"
Lawley Foss smiled contemptuously. "He is
trying to discover what no man of his mental
caliber will ever discover. The Head-hunter. I
am the one man in the world who could help
him. Instead of which," he smiled again, "I am
helping myself."
With which cryptic and mystifying statement
he left her.
Stella Mendoza was an ambitious woman,
and when ambition is directed toward wealth
and fame it is not attended by scruple. After
Foss had gone, she went up to her room to
change. It was too early to make the call she
intended, for Sir Gregory did not like to see her
during the daytime. He, who had not hesitated
to send Bhag on a fantastic mission, was a stick-
ler for the proprieties.
Having some letters to post, she drove into
Chichester late in the afternoon and saw Mike
Brixan in peculiar circumstances. He was the
center of a little crowd near the market cross, a
head above the surrounding people. There was


MAN FROM NOWHERE 119
a policeman present; she saw his helmet and
for a moment was inclined to satisfy her curi-
osity.
She changed her mind, and when she returned
the crowd had dispersed, and Michael had
disappeared, too. Driving home, she won-
dered whether the detective had been engaged
professionally.
Mike himself had been attracted by the crowd
which was watching the ineffectual efforts of a
Sussex policeman to make himself intelligible to
a shock-haired, brown-faced native, an incon-
gruous figure in an ill-fitting suit of store clothes
and a derby hat which was a little too large for
him. In his hand he carried a bundle tied up in
a bright green handkerchief, and under his arm
was a long object wrapped in linen and fastened
with innumerable strings. At the first sight of
him Michael thought it was one of Penne's
Malaysian servants, but on second thought he
realized that Sir Gregory would not allow any of
his slaves to run loose about the countryside.
Pushing his way through the crowd, he came up
to the policeman, who touched his helmet and
grinned.
"Can't make head or tail of this fellow's lingo,
sir," he said. "He wants to know something.


120 THE HAIRY ARM
but I can't make out what. He has just come
into the city."
The brown man turned his big dark eyes upon
Mike and said something which was Greek to
the detective. There was a curious dignity about
the native that even his ludicrous garments
could not wholly dissipate, an erectness of body,
a carriage of head, an imponderable air of great-
ness that instantly claimed Michael Brixan's
attention.
Then suddenly Mike had an inspiration and
addressed the man in Dutch. Immediately the
native's eyes lit up.
"Ja, mynheer, I speak Dutch."
Mike had guessed that he came from Malay-
sia, where Dutch and Portuguese are spoken by
the better class natives.
"I am from Borneo, and I seek a man who b
called Truji, an Englishman. No, mynheer. I
wish to see his house, for he is a great man in
my country. When I have seen his house I will
go back to Borneo."
Mike was watching him, as he talked. It was
a particularly good-looking face, except for the
long and ugly scar that ran from his forehead to
the point of his jaw. A new servant for Gregory
Penne, thought the detective, and he gave him


MAN FROM NOWHERE 121
directions. Standing by the policeman's side,
he watched the queer figure with its bundles till
it disappeared.
"Queer language, sir." said the officer. "It
was Dutch to me."
"And to me," chuckled Mike and continued
oo his way to the hotel.


CHAPTER XVII
MR. Foss MAKES A SUGGESTION
IMMERSED in her beloved script, Adele Leam-
ington sat on her bed, a box of marron glac£ by
her side, her knees tucked up, and a prodigious
frown on her forehead. Try as hard as she
would, she found it impossible to concentrate
upon the intricate directions with which Foss
invariably tortured the pages of his scenarios.
Ordinarily she could have mastered this handi-
cap, but, for some reason or other, individual
thoughts which belonged wholly to her and had
no association with her art, came floating in
such volume that the lines were meaningless,
and the page, for all the instruction it gave to
her might as well have been blank.
What was Michael Brixan? He was not her
idea of a detective, and why was he staying in
Chichester? Could it be She flushed at
the thought and was angry with herself. It was
hardly likely that a man who was engaged in
unraveling a terrible crime, would linger for the
sake of being near to her. Was The Head-
ua


A SUGGESTION 123
hunter, the murderer, living near Chichester?
She dropped her manuscript to her knees at the
appalling thought.
The voice of her landlady aroused her.
"Will you see Mr. Foss, Miss?"
She jumped up from the bed and opened the
door.
"Where is he?"
"I've put him in the parlor," said the woman
who had grown a little more respectful of late.
Possibly the rise of the extra to stardom was
generally known in that small town which took
an interest in the fortunes of its one ewe lamb of
a production company.
Lawley Foss was standing by the window,
looking out, when she came into the room.
"Good afternoon, Adele," he said genially.
He had never called her by her Christian name
before, even if he had known it.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Foss," she said with a
smile. "I'm sorry to hear that you have left
us."
Foss lifted his shoulders in a gesture of indif-
ference.
"The scope was a little too limited for my
kind of work," he said.
He was wondering if Mike had told her about


124 THE HAIRY ARM
the disk of paper on her window, and he sur-
mised rightly that he had not. Foss himself did
not attach any significance to the white disk,
accepting Gregory's explanation, which was
that, liking the girl, he wished to toss some
flowers and a present, by way of a peace offer-
ing, through a window which he guessed would
be open. Foss had thought him a love-sick fool
and had obliged him. The story that Knebworth
had told, Foss dismissed as sheer melodrama.
"Adele, you're a foolish little girl to turn down
a man like Gregory Penne," he said, and he
saw by her face that he was on dangerous
ground. "There's no sense in getting up in the
air; after all we're human beings, and it isn't
unnatural that Penne should have a crush on
you. There's nothing wrong in that. Hundreds
of girls have dinner with men without there
being anything sinister in it. I'm a friend of
Penne's, in a way, and I'm seeing him tonight
on a very important and personal matter. Will
you come along?"
She shook her head.
"There may be no harm in it," she said, "but
there is no pleasure in it, either."
"He's a rich and powerful man," said Foss im-
pressively. "He could be of service to you."


A SUGGESTION 125
Again she shook her head at his suggestions.
"I want no other help than my own ability,"
she said. "I nearly said 'genius,' but that would
have sounded like conceit. I do not need the
patronage of any rich man. If I cannot succeed
without that, then I am a hopeless failure and
am content to be one!"
Still Foss lingered.
"I think I can manage without you," he said,
"but I'd have been glad of your cooperation.
He's crazy about you. If Mendoza knew that,
she'd kill you!"
"Miss Mendoza?" gasped the girl. "But why?
Does she know him?"
"Yes; but very few people are aware of the
fact. There was a time when he'd have done
anything for her, and she was a wise girl; she let
him help! Mendoza has money to burn and dia-
monds enough to fill the Jewel House."
Adele listened, horror-stricken, incredulous,
and then he hastened to insure himself against
Stella's wrath.
"You needn't tell her I told you; this is in
strict confidence. I don't want to get on the
wrong side of Penne, either," he shivered. "That
man's a devil!"
Her lips twitched.


126 THE HAIRY ARM
"And yet you calmly ask me to dine with him
and hold out the bait of Miss Mendoza's dia-
monds 1"
"I suppose you think she's awful," he sneered.
"I am very sorry for her," said the girl quietly,
"and I am determined not to be sorry for my-
self 1"
She opened the door to him in silence, and in
silence he took his departure. After all, he
thought, there was no need for any outside help.
In his breast pocket was a sheet of manuscript,
written on The Head-hunter's typewriter. That
ought to be worth thousands when he made nil
revelation.


CHAPTER XVin
THE FACE EN THE PICTURE
ON the strip of path before his untidy house
Mr. Sampson Longvale was taking a gentle con-
stitutional. He wore, as usual—for he was a
creature of habit—a long, gray silk dressing
gown, fastened by a scarlet sash. On his head
was his silk nightcap, and between his teeth
was a day church-warden pipe, which he puffed
solemnly, as he walked. He was evidently en-
joying it.
He had just bidden a courteous good night
to the help who came in daily to tidy his living
rooms and prepare his simple meals, when he
heard the sound of feet coming up the drive.
He thought at first it was the woman returning
—she had a habit of forgetting things—but
when he turned he saw the unprepossessing fig-
ure of a neighbor with whom he was acquainted
in the sense that Sir Gregory Penne had twice
been abominably rude to bun.
The old man watched with immobile counte-
nance the coming of his unwelcome visitor.
127


128 THE HAIRY ARM
•
"Evening!" growled Penne. "Can I speak
to you privately?"
Mr. Longvale inclined his head courteously.
"Certainly, Sir Gregory. Will you come in?"
He ushered the owner of Griff Towers into
the long sitting room and lit the candles. Sir
Gregory glanced around, his lip curled in dis-
gust, at the worn poverty of the apartment, and
when the old man had pushed up a chair for him
it was some time before he accepted the offer.
"Now, sir," said Mr. Longvale courteously,
"to what circumstance do I owe the pleasure of
this visit?"
"You had some actors staying here the other
day?"
Mr. Longvale inclined his head.
"There was some fool talk about a monkey of
mine trying to get into the house."
"A monkey?" said Mr. Longvale in gentle
surprise. "That is the first I have heard of
monkeys."
Which was true. The other looked at him
suspiciously.
"Is that so?" he asked. "You're not going to
persuade me you didn't hear?"
The old man stood up, a picture of dignity.
"Do you suggest that I am lying, sir?" he said.


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 129
"Because, if you do, there is the door! And
though it hurts me to be in the least degree dis-
courteous to a guest of mine, I am afraid I have
no other course than to ask you to leave my
house."
"All right, all right," said Sir Gregory Penne
impatiently. "Don't lose your temper, my
friend. I didn't come to see you about that,
anyway. You're a doctor, aren't you?"
Mr. Longvale was obviously startled.
"I practiced medicine when I was younger,"
he said.
"Poor, too?" Gregory looked round. "You
haven't a shilling in the world, I'll bet!"
"There you are wrong," said old Mr. Long-
vale quietly. "I am an extremely wealthy man,
and the fact that I do not keep my house in
repair is due to a curious penchant of mine for
decaying things. That is an unhealthy, prob-
ably a morbid predilection of mine. How did
you know I was a doctor?"
"I heard through one of my servants. You
set the broken finger of a carter."
"I haven't practiced for years," said Mr.
Longvale. "I almost wish I had," he added wist-
fully. "It is a noble science."
"Anyway," interrupted Penne, "even if you


t30 THE HAIRY ARM
can't be bought, you're a secretive old devil, and
that suits me. There's a girl up at my house
who is very ill. I don't want any of these prying
country doctors nosing around my private
affairs. Would you be willing to come along
and see her?"
The old man pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"I should be most happy," he said, "but I am
afraid my medical science is a little rusty. Is
she a servant?"
"In a way," said the other shortly. "When
can you come?
"I'll come at once," said Mr. Longvale
gravely, and he went out to return in his great-
coat.
The baronet looked at the ancient garment
with a smile of derision.
"Why the devil do you wear such old-fash-
ioned clothes?" he asked.
"To me they are very new," said the old man
gently. "The garments of today are without
romance, without the thrill which these bring
to me." He patted the overlapping cape and
smiled. "An old man is entitled to his fancies;
let me be humored, Sir Gregory."
At the moment Mr. Sampson Longvale was
driving to Griff Towers, Mike Brixan, sum-


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 131
moned by messenger, was facing Jack Kneb-
worth in his office.
"I hope you didn't mind my sending for you,
though it was a fool thing to do," said the
director. "You remember that we shot some
scenes at Griff Towers?"
Michael nodded.
"I want you to see one that we took, with the
tower in the background, and tell me what you
think of—something."
Wonderingly, Michael accompanied the di-
rector to the projection room.
"My laboratory manager pointed it out to
me in the negative," explained Jack, as they
seated themselves, and the room went dark. "Of
course I should have seen it in the print."
"What is it?" asked Michael curiously.
"That's just what I don't know," said the
other, scratching his head, "but you'll see for
yourself."
Michael heard a flicker and a furious click-
ing, and then there appeared on the small screen
used for projection purposes a picture of two
people. Adele was one, and Reggie Connolly
the other, and Michael gazed stolidly, though
with rising annoyance, at a love scene which
was being enacted between the two.


132 THE HAIRY ARM
In the immediate background was the wall of
the tower, and Michael saw for the first time
that there was a little window which he did not
remember having seen from the interior of the
hall; it was particularly dark and was lighted
even in daytime by electric lamps.
"I never noticed that window before," he
said.
"It's the window I want you to watch," said
Jack Knebworth, and, even as he spoke, there
came stealthily into view a face.
At first it was indistinct and blurred, but later
it came into focus. It was the oval face of a
girl, dark-eyed, her hair in disorder, a look of
unspeakable terror on her face. She raised her
hand, as if to beckon somebody—probably Jack
himself, who was directing the picture. That,
at least, was Jack's view. They had hardly time
to get accustomed to the presence of the mystery
girl when she disappeared with such rapidity as
to suggest that she had been dragged violently
back.
"What do you make of that?" asked Kneb-
worth.
Michael bit his lip thoughtfully.
"Looks almost as though friend Penne had a
prisoner in his dark tower. Of course 1 The


THE FACE IN THE PICTURE 133
woman whose scream I heard, and who, he said,
was a servant! But the window puzzles me.
There's no sign of it inside. The stairway leads
out of the hall, but in such a position that it is
impossible that the girl could have been stand-
ing either on the stairs or the landing. There-
fore there must be a fifth wall inside, containing
a separate staircase. Does this mean you will
have to retake?"
Jack shook his head.
"No, we can black her out; she's only on fifty
feet of film; but I thought you'd like to see it."
The lights came on again, and they went back
to the director's office.
"I don't like Penne, for more reasons than
one," said Jack Knebworth. "I like him less
since I've found that he's better friends with
Mendoza than I thought he was."
"Who is Mendoza—the deposed star?"
The other nodded.
"Stella Mendoza, not a bad girl and not a
good girl," he said. "I've been wondering why
Penne always gave us permission to use his
grounds for shooting, and now I know. I tell
you that house holds a few secrets!"
Michael smiled faintly.
"One, at least, of them will be revealed to-


134 THE HAIRY ARM
night," he said. "I am going to explore Grifi
Towers and I do not intend asking permission
of Sir Gregory Penne. And if I can discover
what I believe is there to be discovered, Gregory
Penne will sleep under lock and key this night I"


CHAPTER XIX
THE MIDNIGHT VISIT
From town Michael Brixan had had sent
down to him a heavy suit case, but it contained
precious little clothing. He was busy with its
contents for half an hour when the boots of the
hotel announced the arrival of the motorcycle
that had been hired for him.
With a canvas bag strapped to his back,
Michael mounted the machine and was soon
clear of the town, swerving through the twisting
lanes of Sussex until he arrived at Dower House,
behind which he concealed his machine.
It was eleven o'clock when he crossed the
fields to the postern gate, on the alert all the
time for the soft-footed Bhag. The postern was
closed and locked, a contingency for which he
was prepared. Unstrapping his bag, he took
therefrom a bundle of rods and screwed three
together. To the top he fastened a big, blunt
hook, and, replacing the remainder of the rods,
he lifted the hook till it rested on the top of the
high wall, tested its stability, and in a few sec-
135


136 THE HAIRY ARM
onds had climbed his "ladder" and had jumped
to the other side.
He followed the path that he had taken be-
fore, keeping close to the bushes, and all the
time watching left and right for Penne's mon-
strous servant. As he came to the end of the
hedge, the hall door opened, and two men came
out. One was Penne, and for a moment he did
not recognize the tall man by his side, until he
heard the voice of Mr. Sampson Longvalel
"I think she will be all right. The wounds are
very peculiar. It looks almost as if she had been
scratched by some huge daw," said Longvale.
"I hope I have been of assistance, Sir Gregory,
though, as I told you, it is nearly fifty years
since I'engaged in medical work."
So old Longvale had been a doctor! Some-
how this news did not surprise Michael. There
was something in the old man's benevolence of
countenance and easy manner which would have
suggested a training in that profession to one
even less analytical than Michael Brixan.
"My car will take you down," he heard Sir
Gregory say.
"No, no, thank you; I will walk. It is not
very far. Good night, Sir Gregory."
The baronet growled a good night and went


THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 137
back into the dimly lit hall, and Michael heard
the rattle of chains, as the door was fastened.
There was no time to be lost. Almost before
Mr. Sampson Vmgvale had disappeared into the
darkness, Michael had opened his canvas bag
and had screwed on three more links to his lad-
der. From each rod projected a ?hort, light,
steel bracket. It was the type of hook ladder
that firemen use, and Michael had employed
this method of gaining entrance to a forbidden
house many times in his career.
He judged the distance accurately; for when
he lifted the rod and dropped the hook upon the
sill of the little window, the ladder hung only a
few inches short of the ground. With a tug to
test the hook, he went up, hand over hand, and
in a few seconds was prying at the window sash.
It needed little pressure, for the catch was of
elementary simplicity, and in another instant
he was standing on the step of a dark and nar-
row stairway. He had provided himself with an
electric torch, and he flashed a beam up and
down. Below he saw a small door which appar-
ently led into the hall, and by an effort of mem-
ory he remembered that in the corner of the hall
he had seen a curtain hanging without attaching
any importance to the fact. Going down he


138 THE HAIRY ARM
tried the door and found it locked. Putting
down his lantern he took out a leather case of
tools and began to manipulate the lock. In an
incredibly short space of time the key turned.
When he had assured himself that the door
would open he was satisfied. For the moment
his work lay upstairs, and he climbed the steps
again, coming to a narrow landing, but no door.
A second, a third, and a fourth flight brought
him, as near as he could guess, to the top of the
tower, and here he found a narrow exit. Listen-
ing, after a while he heard somebody moving
about the room. Apparently the person wore
slippers. Presently a door closed with a thud,
and he tried the handle of the wicket. It was
unlocked, and he opened it gently a fraction of
an inch at a time, until he secured a view of the
greater part of the chamber.
It was a small, lofty room, unfurnished, with
the exception of a low bed in one corner, on
which a woman lay. Her back was toward him
fortunately; but the black hair and the ivory
yellow of the bare arm that lay on the coverlet
told him that she was not European.
Presently she turned, and he saw her face,
recognizing her immediately as the woman
whose face he had seen in the picture. She


THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 139
was pretty in her wild way, and young. Her
eyes were closed, and presently she began crying
softly in her sleep.
Michael was halfway into the room when he
saw the handle of the other door turn, and,
quick as a flash, he stepped back into the dark-
ness of the landing.
It was Bhag, in his old blue overalls, a tray of
food in his great hands. He reached out his foot
and pulled the table toward him, placing the
viands by the side of the bed. The girl opened
her eyes and sank back with a little cry of dis-
gust; and Bhag, who was evidently used to these
demonstrations of her loathing, shuffled out of
the room.
Again Michael pushed the door and crossed
the room, unnoticed by the girl, looking out into
the passage—not six feet away from him Bhag
was squatting, glaring in his direction. Michael
dosed the door quickly and flew back to the
secret staircase, pulling the door behind him.
He felt for a key, but there was none, and, with-
out wasting another second, he ran down the
stairs. The one thing he wished to avoid was
an encounter which would betray his presence in
the house.
He made no attempt to get out of the win-


140 THE HAIRY ARM
dow, but continued his way to the foot of the
stairs and passed through into the hall. This
time he was able to close the door, for there were
two large bolts at the top and the bottom. Pull-
ing aside the curtain, he stepped gingerly into
the hall. For a while he waited and presently
heard the shuffle of feet on the stairs and a sniff
beneath the door.
His first act was to insure his retreat. Noise-
lessly he drew the bolts from the front door,
slipped off the chain, and turned the key. Then
noiselessly he made his way along the corridor
toward Sir Gregory's room.
The danger was that one of the native serv-
ants would see him, but this he must risk. He
had observed on each of his previous visits that,
short of the library, a door opened into what he
knew must be an anteroom of some kind. It was
unlocked and he stepped into complete darkness.
Groping along the wall, he found a row of
switches and pulled down the first. This lit two
wall brackets, sufficient to give him a general
view of the apartment.
It was a small drawing-room, apparently un-
used, for the furniture was sheeted with Holland,
and the grate was empty. From here it was
possible to gain access to the library through a


THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 141
door near the window. He switched off the light,
locked the door on the inside, and tried the shut-
ters. These were fastened by iron bars and were
not, as in the case of the library, locked. He
pulled them back, let the blind up, and gingerly
raised a window. His second line of retreat
was now prepared, and he could afford to take
risks.
Kneeling down he looked through the key-
hole. The library was illuminated, and some-
body was talking. A woman! Turning the han-
dle he opened the door a fraction of an inch
and had a view of the interior.
Gregory Penne was standing in his favorite
attitude, with his back to the fire, and before
him was a tray of those refreshments without
which life was apparently insupportable. Seated
on the low settee, drawn up at one side of the
fireplace, was Stella Mendoza. She was wearing
a fur coat, for the night was chilly, and about
her neck was such a sparkle of gems as Michael
had never seen before on a woman.
Evidently the discussion was not a pleasant
one, for there was a heavy scowl on Gregory's
face, and Stella did not seem too pleased.
"I left you because I had to leave you,"
growled the man, answering some complaint she


142 THE HAIRY ARM
had made. "One of my servants is ill, and I
brought in the doctor. But, if I had stayed, it
would have been the same. It's no good, my
girl," he said harshly. "The goose doesn't lay
golden eggs more than once—this goose doesn't,
at any rate. You were a fool to quarrel with
Knebworth."
She said something which did not quite reach
Michael's ears.
"I dare say your own company would be
fine," said Penne sarcastically. "It would be
fine for me who footed the bill, and finer for you
who spent the money I No, Stella, that cat
doesn't jump. I've been very good to you, and
you've no right to expect me to bankrupt myself
to humor your whims."
"It's not a whim," she said vehemently, "it's a
necessity. You don't want to see me going round
the studios taking any kind of a job I can get,
do you, Gregory?" she pleaded.
"I don't want to see you work at all, and
there's no reason why you should. You've
enough to live on. Anyway, you've got nothing
ainst Knebworth. If it hadn't been for him,
u wouldn't have met me, and if you hadn't
met me you'd have been poorer by thousands
You want a change."


THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 143
There was a silence. Her head was drooped,
and Michael could not see the girl's face, but
when she spoke there was that note of-vicious-
ness in her voice which told him her state of
mind.
"You want a change, too, perhaps! I could
tell things about you that wouldn't look good in
print, and you'd have a change, too! Get that
in your mind, Gregory Penne! I'm not a fool.
I've seen things and heard things, and I can
put two and two together. You think I want
a change, do you? Well, I do! I want friends
who aren't murderers."
He sprang at her, his big hand covering her
mouth.
"You little devil!" he hissed, and at that
instant somebody must have knocked, for he
turned to the door and said something in the
native dialect.
The answer was inaudible to Michael.
"Listen." Gregory was speaking to the girl
in a calmer tone. "Foss is waiting to see me,
and 111 discuss this little matter with you after-
ward."
He released her. and going to his desk,
touched the spring that operated the mechanism
of the secret door that led to Bhag's quarters.
.


144 THE HAIRY ARM
"Go in there and wait," he said. "Ill not keep
you longer than five minutes."
She looked suspiciously at the door which had
suddenly opened in the paneling.
"No," she said, "I'll go home. Tomorrow
will do. I'm sorry I got rough, Gregory, but you
madden me sometimes."
"Go in there!"
He pointed to the den, his face working.
"Ill not!" Her face was white. "You beast,
don't you think I know? That is Bhag's denl
Oh, you beast!"
His face was horrible to see. It was as though
all the foulness in his mind found expression in
the demoniacal grimace. Breathless, terrified,
the girl stared at him.
"Then go into the little drawing room," he
said huskily.
Michael had time to switch out the lights and
flatten himself against the wall, when the door
of the room was Sung open, and the girl was
thrust in. "It is dark!" she wailed.
"You'll find the switches!" The door banged.
Michael Brixan was in a dilemma. He could
see her figure groping along the wall, and
stealthily he moved to avoid her. In doing so
he stumbled over a stool


THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 145
"Who's there?" she screamed. "Gregory!
Don't let him touch me, Gregory!"
Again the piercing scream.
Michael leaped past her and through the open
window, and, the sound of her shrill agony in
his ears, fled along the hedge. Swift as he was,
something sped more swiftly in pursuit, a great,
twittering something that ran bent double on
hands and feet. The detective heard and
guessed. From what secret hiding place Bhag
had appeared, whether he was in the grounds at
the moment Michael jumped, he had no time
even to guess. He felt a curious lightness of
pocket at that moment and thrust in his hand.
His pistol was gone. It must have fallen when
he jumped.
He could hear the pad of feet behind him, as
he darted at a tangent across the field, blunder-
ing over the cabbage rows, slipping in furrows,
the great beast growing closer and closer with
every check. Ahead of him was the postern.
But it was locked, and, even if it had not been,
the wall would have proved no obstacle to the
ape. The barrier of the wall held Michael.
Breathless, turning to face his pursuer, in the
darkness he saw the green eyes shining like two
evil stars.


CHAPTER XX
MICHAEL HAS A VISITOR
DESPERATELY Detective Michael Brixan
braced himself for the supreme and futile
struggle. And then to his amazement the ape
stopped, and his bird noise became a harsh chat-
ter. Raising himself erect, he beat quickly on
his great hairy chest, and the sound of the hol-
low drumming was awful.
Yet through that sound and above it Michael
heard a curious hiss; it was like the faint note
of escaping steam, and he looked round. On
the top of the wall squatted a man, and Michael
knew him at once. It was the brown-faced
stranger he had seen that day in Chichester.
Michael was surprised at the apparition in such
a place.
The drumming and the hissing grew louder,
and then Michael saw a bright, curved thing in
the brown man's hand. It was a sword, the
replica of that which hung above Sir Gregory's
fireplace.
He was still wondering when the brown man
dropped lightly to the ground, and Bhag, with a
146


MICHAEL HAS A VISITOR 147
squeal that was almost human, turned and fled.
Michael watched the thing, fascinated, until it
disappeared into the darkness of the country-
aide.
“My friend,” said Michael in Dutch, “you .
came at a good moment.”
He turned, but the brown man had vanished
as though the earth had swallowed him. Shad-
ing his eyes against the starlight, he presently
discerned a dark shape moving swiftly in the
shadow of the wall. For a second he was inclined
to follow and question the brown man, but he
decided upon another course. With some diffi-
culty he surmounted the wall and dropped to
the other side. Then, tidying himself as well as
he could, he made the long circuit to the gate of
Griff Towers and boldly walked up to the house,
whistling as he went.
There was nobody in sight, as he crossed the
“parade ground,” and his first step was to search
for and find his pistol. He must know that the
girl was safe before he left the place. He had
seen her car waiting on the road outside. His
hand was raised to the bell when he heard foot-
steps in the hall, and he listened intently; there
was no doubt that one of the voices was Stella
Mendoza's, and he drew back again to cover.


148 THE HAIRY ARM
The girl came out, followed by Sir Gregory,
and from their tone a stranger, unacquainted
with the circumstances of their meeting, might
have imagined that the visit had been a very
ordinary one, in spite of the lateness of the hour.
"Good night, Sir Gregory," said the girl,
almost sweetly. "I will see you tomorrow."
"Come to lunch," said Gregory's voice, "and
bring your friend. Shall I walk with you to the
car?" He added the question insinuatingly.
"No, thank you," she said hastily.
Michael watched her till she was out of sight,
but long before then the big door of Griff Towers
had closed, and the familiar rattle of chains told
him that it was dosed finally.
Where was Foss? He must have gone earlier,
if Foss it was. Michael waited till all was quiet,
and then, tiptoeing across the gravel, followed
the girl. He looked about for the little brown
man, but he was not in sight. And then he re-
membered that he had left the hook ladder
hanging to the window on the stairs, and he
went back to retrieve it. He found the ladder,
as it had been left, unscrewed and packed it in
the canvas bag, and five miqutes later he was
taking his motorcycle from its place of conceal-
ment.


MICHAEL HAS A VISITOR 149
A yellow light showed in the window of Mr.
Longvale's dining room, and Michael had half a
mind to call upon him. He could tell him, at
any rate, something of that oval-faced girl in the
upper room of the tower. Instead, he decided to
go home. He was tired with the night's work, a
little disappointed. The tower had not revealed
as tremendous a secret as he had hoped. The
girl was obviously a prisoner; she had been kid-
naped and brought to England on Sir Gregory's
yacht.
Such things had happened; there had been
a case in the courts on curiously parallel
lines only a few months before. At any rate it
did not seem worth while to put off going to bed.
He had a hot bath, made himself some choco-
late, and, before retiring, sat down to sum up his
day's experience. And in the light of recent
happenings he was less confident that his first
solution of The Head-hunter mystery was the
correct one. And the more he thought the less
satisfied he was, tfll at last, in sheer disgust at
his own vacillation of mind, he turned out the
light and went to bed.
He was sleeping peacefully and late the next
morning when an unexpected visitor arrived,
and Michael sat up in bed and rubbed his eyes.


ISO THE HAIRY ARM
"I've either got nightmare or it's Staines," he
said.
Major Staines smiled cheerfully.
"You're awake and normal," he said.
"Has anything happened?" asked Michael,
springing out of bed.
"Nothing, only there was a late dance last
night and an early train this morning, and I de-
cided to atone for my frivolity by coming down
and seeing how far you had got in the Elmer
case."
"Elmer case?" Michael frowned. "Good
Lord! I'd almost forgotten poor Elmer!"
"Here's something to remind you," said
Staines.
He fished from his pocket a newspaper cut-
ting. Michael took it and read:
Is your trouble of mind or body incurable? Do you
hesitate on the brink of the abyss? Does courage fail
you? Write to Benefactor, Box
"What is this?" asked Michael, frowning.
"It was found in the pocket of an old waist-
coat that Elmer was wearing a few days before
he disappeared. Mrs. Elmer was going through
his clothes with the idea of selling them, when
she found this. It appeared in the Morning


MICHAEL HAS A VISITOR 151
Telegram of the fourteenth—that is to say,
three or four days before Elmer vanished. The
box number at the end, of course, is the box
number of the newspaper to which replies were
sent. There is a record that four letters reached
the 'Benefactor,' who, so far as we have been
able to discover, had these particular letters re-
addressed to a little shop in Stibbington Street,
London. Here they were collected by a woman,
evidently of the working class, and probably a
charwoman, from the appearance which has
been circulated. Beyond that no further trace
has been obtainable. Similar advertisements
have been found by search in other newspapers,
but in these cases the letters were sent to an
accommodation address in South London, where
apparently the same woman collected them.
With every new advertisement the advertiser
changes his address. She was a stranger to each
neighborhood, by the way; and, from what
shopkeepers have told Scotland Yard, she
seemed to be a little off her head, for she was in
the habit of mumbling and talking to herself.
Her name is Stivins—at least that is the name
she always gave. And the notes she brought
were usually signed 'Mark'—that is to say, the
notes authorizing the shopkeepers to hand the


152 THE HAIRY ARM
letters to her. That she is a native of London
there is no doubt, but so far the police have not
trailed her."
"And suppose they do?" asked Michael. "Do
you connect the advertisement with the mur-
ders?"
"We do, and we do not," replied the other.
"I merely point out that this advertisement is a
peculiar one, and under the circumstances a
little suspicious. Now what is the theory you
wanted to give me?"
For an hour Michael spoke, interrupted at
intervals by questions which Staines put to him.
"It's a queer idea, almost a fantastical one,"
said Staines gravely, "but if you feel that you've
got so much as one thread in your hands, go
right ahead. To tell you the truth," in a burst
of confidence, "I had a horrible feeling that you
had fallen down; and, since I do not want our
department to be a source of amusement to Scot-
land Yard, I thought I'd come along and give
you the result of my own private investigations.
I agree with you," he said later, as they sat at
breakfast, "that you want to go very, very care-
fully. It is a delicate business. You haven't
told the Scotland Yard men your suspicions?"
Michael shook his head.


MICHAEL HAS A VISITOR 153
"Then don't," said the other emphatically.
"They'd be certain to put the person you sus-
pect under arrest, and probably that would
destroy the evidence that would convict. You
say you have made a search of the house?"
"Not a search; I've made a rough inspection."
"Are there cellars?"
"I should imagine so," said Michael. "That
type of house usually has."
"Outhouses where"
Michael shook his head. "There are none, so
far as I have been able to see."
Michael walked down to the railway station
with his chief, who told him he was leaving in a
much more cheerful frame of mind than he had
been in when he arrived.
"There's one warning 111 give to you, Mike,"
said Staines. as the train was about to pull out of
the station, "and it is to watch out for your-
self 1 You're dealing with a ruthless and ingen-
ious man. For heaven's sake do not underrate
his intelligence. I don't want to wake up one
morning to learn that you have vanished from
the ken of man."


CHAPTER XXI
THE ERASURE
His way back did not take Michael through
the little street where Adele Leamington lived—
at least not his nearest road. Yet he found him-
self knocking at the door and learned, with a
sense of disappointment, that the girl had been
out since seven o'clock in the morning. Kneb-
worth was shooting on the South Downs, and
the studio, when he arrived, was empty, except
for Knebworth's secretary and the new scenario
editor, who had arrived late on the previous
evening.
"I don't know the location, Mr. Brixan," said
Dicker, the secretary, "but it's somewhere above
Arundel. Miss Mendoza was here this morn-
ing, asking the same question. She wanted Miss
Leamington to go out to lunch with her."
"Oh, she did, did she?" said Michael softly.
"Well, if she comes again, you can tell her from
me that Miss Leamington has another engage-
ment."


THE ERASURE 1SS
The other nodded wisely. "I hope she won't
keep you waiting," he said. "You never know,
when Jack's on location"
"I did not say she had an engagement with
me," said Michael loudly.
"That reminds me, Mr. Brixan," said the sec-
retary suddenly. "Do you remember the fuss
you made—I mean, there was—about a sheet of
manuscript that by some accident had got into
Miss Leamington's script?"
Michael nodded. "Has the manuscript been
found?" he asked.
"No, but the new scenario editor tells me that
he was looking through the book where Foss
kept a record of all the manuscripts that came
in, and he found one entry had been blacked
out with India ink."
Td like to see that book," said the interested
Michael, and it was brought to him, a large
foolscap ledger, ruled to show the name of the
submitted scenario, the author, his address, the
date received, and the date returned. Mike put
it down on the table in Knebworth's private
office and went carefully through the list of
authors.
"It" he sent one he has probably sent more,"
be said. "There are no other erasures?''


156 THE HAIRY ARM
The secretary shook his head. "That is the
only one we've seen," he said. "You'll find lota
of names of local people. There isn't a trades-
man in the place who hasn't written a scenario
or submitted an idea since we've been oper-
ating."
Slowly Michael's finger went up the column
of names. Page after page was turned back.
And then his finger stopped at an entry.
""The Power of Fear,' by Sir Gregory
Penne," he read and looked round at Dicker.
"Did Sir Gregory submit scenarios, Mr.
Dicker?"
Dicker nodded. "Yes, he sent in one or two,''
he said. "You'll find his name farther back in
the book. He used to write scenarios which he
thought were suitable for Miss Mendoza. He's
not the man you're looking for?"
"No," said Michael quickly. "Have you any
of his manuscripts?"
"They were all sent back," said Dicker regret-
fully. "He wrote awful mush! I read one of
them. I remember Foss trying to persuade old
Jack to produce it. Foss made quite a lot of
money «n the side, we've discovered. He used
to tak* fees from authors, and Mr. Knebworth
discovered this morning that he once took two


THE ERASURE 157
hundred pounds from a lady on the promise
that he'd get her into the pictures. He wrote
Foss a stinging letter this morning about it."
Presently Michael found Sir Gregory's name
•gain. It was not so remarkable that the owner
of Griff Towers should have submitted a manu-
script. He closed the book and handed it back
to Dicker.
"It is certainly queer, that erased entry. Ill
speak to Foss about it as soon as I can find him,"
he said.
He went immediately to the little hotel where
Foss was staying, but he was out.
"I don't think he came home last night,"
said the manager. "If he did, he didn't sleep
in his bed. He said he was going to London," he
added.
Michael went back to the studio, for it had
begun to rain, and he knew that that would
drive the company from location. His surmise
was correct; the big yellow char-a-banc came
rumbling into the yard a few minutes after he
got there. Adele saw him and was passing with
a nod, when he called her to him.
"Thank you, Mr. Brixan, but we lunched on
location, and I have two big scenes to read for
tomorrow."


158 THE HAIRY ARM
Her refusal was uncompromising, but Michael
was not the type who readily accepted a "No.'
"What about tea? You've got to drink tea,
my good lady, though you have fifty scenes to
study. And you can't read and eat, too. If you
do, you'll get indigestion, and if you get indi-
gestion—"
She laughed. "If my landlady will loan me
her parlor, you may come to tea at half past
four," she said; "and if you have another en-
gagement at five o'clock, you'll be able to meet
it."
Jack Knebworth was waiting for him when
he went into the studio.
"Heard about that entry in the scenario
book?" he asked. "I see you have. What do
you think of it?" Without waiting for a reply:
"It looks queer to me. Foss was an unmitigated
liar. That fellow couldn't see straight. I've got
a litfle bone to pick with him on the matter of
a fee he accepted from a screen-struck lady who
wished to be featured in one of my productions."
"How's the girl?" asked Michael.
"You mean Adele? Really, she's wonderful,
Brixanl I'm touching wood all the time"—
he put his hand on the table piously—"be-
cause I know that there's a big shock coming to


THE ERASURE 159
me somewhere and somehow. Those things do
not happen in real life. The only stars that are
born in a night are the fireworks produced by
crazy vice presidents who have promised to do
something for Mamie and can't break their
word. But Adele Leamington is getting over
entirely and absolutely by sheer, unadulterated
gray matter. I tell you, Brixan, it's not right
.
These things do not happen except in the imagi-
nation of press agents. There's something
wrong with that kid."
"Wrong?" said Michael, startled.
Knebworth nodded. "Something radically
wrong. There's a snag somewhere. She's either
going to let me down by vanishing before the
picture's through, or else she's going to be ar-
rested for driving a car along Regent Street
in a highly intoxicated condition I"
Michael laughed. "I think she'll do neither,"
he said.
"Heard about Mendoza's new company?"
asked old Jack, filling his pipe.
Michael pulled up a chair and sat down. "No,
I haven't."
"She's starting a new production company.
There's never a star I've fired that hasn't: It
gets all written out on paper, capital in big


160 THE HAIRY ARM
type, star in bigger I It's generally due to the
friends of the star, who tell her that a hundred
thousand a year is a cruel starvation wage for
a woman of her genius, and she ought to get it
all. Generally there's a sucker in the back-
ground who puts up the money."
"Mendoza will not get a good producer in
England?"
"She may," nodded Jack. "There are pro-
ducers in this country, but unfortunately they're
not the men on top. Come in, Mr. Longvale."
Michael turned. The cheery old man was at
the door, hat in hand.
"I am afraid I am rather of a nuisance," he
said in his beautiful voice. "But I came in to
see my lawyer, and I could not deny myself
the satisfaction of calling to see how your pic-
ture is progressing."
"It is going on well, Mr. Longvale, thank
you," said Jack. "You know Mr. Brixan?"
The old man nodded and smiled. "Yes, I
came in to see my lawyer on what to you will
seem to be a curious errand. Many years ago
I was a medical student and took my final ex-
amination, so that I am, to all intents and pur-
poses, a doctor, though I've not practiced to any
extent. It is not generally known that I have a


THE ERASURE 161
medical degree, and I was surprised last night
to be called out by a neighbor who wished me
to attend a servant of his. I am so hazy on the
subject that I wasn't quite sure whether or not
I'd broken the law by practicing without regis-
tration."
"I can relieve your mind there, Mr. Long-
vale," said Michael. "Once you are registered,
you are always registered, and you acted quite
within your rights."
"So my lawyer informed me," said Longvale
gravely.
"Was it a bad case?" asked Michael who
guessed who the patient was.
"No, it was not a bad case. I thought there
was blood poisoning, but I think perhaps I may
have been mistaken. Medical science has made
such great advance since I was a young man
that I almost feared to prescribe. While I am
only too happy to render any service that hu-
manity demands, I must confess that it was
rather a disturbing experience, and I scarcely
slept all night. In fact it was a very disturbing
evening and night. Somebody, for some extraor-
dinary reason, put a motor bicycle in my
garden."
Michael smiled to himself.


162 THE HAIRY ARM
"I cannot understand why. It had gone this
morning. And then I saw our friend Foss, who
seemed very much perturbed about some-
thing."
"Where did you see him?" asked Michael
quickly.
"He was passing my house. I was standing at
the gate, smoking my pipe, and bade him good
night without knowing who he was. When he
turned back, I saw it was Mr. Foss. He told
me he had been to make a call, and that he had
another appointment in an hour."
"What time was this?" asked Michael.
"I think it must have been eleven o'clock."
The old man hesitated. "I'm not sure. It was
just before I went to bed."
Michael could easily account for Foss' con-
duct. Sir Gregory had hurried him off and told
him to come back after the girl had gone.
"My little place used to be remarkable for
Its quietness," said Mr. Longvale, as he shook
bis head. "Perhaps," turning to Knebworth,
"when your picture is finished you will be so
good as to allow me to see it?"
"Why surely, Mr. Longvale."
"I don't know why I'm taking this tremend-
ous interest," chuckled the old man. "I must


THE ERASURE 163
confess that until a few weeks ago film making
was a mystery to me. And even today it be-
longs to the esoteric sciences."
Dicker thrust his head in the door. "WiD
you see Miss Mendoza?" he asked.
Jack Knebworth's expression was one of utter
weariness.
"No," he said curtly.
"She says—" began Dicker.
Only the presence of the venerable Mr. Long-
vale prevented Jack from expressing his views
on Stella Mendoza and all that she could say.
"There's another person I saw last night,"
nodded Mr. Longvale. "I thought at first you
must be 'shooting'—is that the expression—in
the neighborhood, but Mr. Foss told me I was
mistaken. She's rather a charming girl, don't
you think?"
"Very," said Jack dryly.
"A very sweet disposition," Longvale went on,
unconscious of the utter lack of sympathy in the
atmosphere. "Nowadays the confusion and
hurry which modernity brings in its trail do not
make for sweetness of temper, and one is glad
to meet an exception. Not that I am an enemy
of modernity. To me this is the most delightful
phase of my long life."


164 THE HAIRY ARM
"Sweet disposition 1" almost howled Jack
Knebworth when the old man had taken a
dignified farewell. "Did you get that, Brixan.
Say, if that woman's disposition is sweet, the
devil's made of chocolatel"


CHAPTER XXII
THE HEAD
WHEN Mike went out he found Stella at the
gate of the studio, and he remembered, seeing
her, that she had been invited to lunch at Griff
Towers. To his surprise she crossed the road
to him.
"I wanted to see you, Mr. Brixan," she said.
"I sent in word to find if you were there."
"Then your message was wrongly delivered
to Mr. Knebworth," smiled Mike.
She lifted one of her shoulders in demonstra-
tion of her contempt for Jack Knebworth and
all his works.
"No, it was you I wanted to see. You're a
detective, aren't you?"
"I am," said Michael, wondering what was
coming next.
"My car is round the corner; will you come
to my house?"
Michael hesitated. He was anxious, more
than anxious, to speak to Adele, though he had
nothing special to tell her, beyond the thing
165


166 THE HAIRY ARM
which he himself did not know, and she could
never guess.
"With pleasure," he said.
She was a skillful motorist, and apparently
she was so much engrossed in her driving that
she did not speak throughout the journey. In
the pretty little drawing-room, from which he
had a view of the lovely South Downs, he waited
expectantly.
"Mr. Brixan, I am going to tell you something
which I think you ought to know." Her face
was pale, her manner curiously nervous. "I
don't know what you will think of me when I
have told you, but I've got to risk that. I can't
keep silence any longer."
A shrili bell sounded in the hall.
"The telephone. Will you excuse me one
moment?"
She hurried out, leaving the door slightly
ajar. Midiael heard her quick, angry reply to
somebody at the other end of the wire, and then
a long period of silence, when apparently she
listened without comment. It was nearly ten
minutes before she returned, and her eyes were
bright and her cheeks flushed.
"Would you mind if I told you what I was
going to tell you a little later?" she asked.


THE HEAD 167
She had been speaking on the telephone to
Sir Gregory; of that Michael was sure, though
she had not mentioned his name.
"There's no time like the present, Miss Men-
doza," he said encouragingly, and she licked her
dry lips.
"Yes, I know, but there are reasons why I
can't speak now. Would it be possible for you
to see me tomorrow?"
"Why, certainly," said Michael, secretly glad
of his release.
"Shall I drive you back?"
"No, thank you, I can walk."
"Let me take you to the edge of the town;
Fm going that way," she begged.
Of course she was going that way, thought
Michael. She was going to Griff Towers. He
was so satisfied on this matter that he did not
even trouble to inquire, and when she dropped
him at his hotel, she hardly waited for him to
step to the sidewalk before the car leaped for-
ward on its way.
"There's a telegram for you, sir," said the
porter. He went into the manager's office and
returned with a buff envelope, which Michael
tore open.
For a time he could not comprehend the fate-


168 THE HAIRY ARM
ful message the telegram conveyed. And then
slowly he read it to himself.
A head found on Chcbham Common early this
ing. Come to Leatherhead Police Station at once.
STAINXS.
An hour later a fast car dropped him before
the station. Staines was waiting on the step.
"Found at daybreak this morning," he said,
"The man is, so far, unknown."
He led the way to an outhouse. On a table
in the center of the room was a box, and he
lifted the lid.
Mike took one glance at the waxen face, and
turned white.
"Good Lord!" he breathed. It was the head
of Lawley Foss.


CHAPTER XXIII
CLEWS AT THE TOWER
IN fascinated horror Michael gazed at the
tragic spectacle. Then reverently he covered the
box with a doth and walked into the paved
courtyard.
"You know him?" asked Staines.
Michael nodded. "Yes, it is Lawley Foss,
lately scenario editor of the Knebworth Picture
Corporation. He was seen alive last night at
eleven o'clock. I myself heard, if I did not see
him, somewhere about that time. He was visit-
ing Griff Towers, Sir Gregory Penne's place in
Sussex. Was there the usual note?" he asked.
"There was a note, but it was quite un-
usual."
He showed the typewritten slip; it was in the
station inspector's office. One characteristic
line, with its ill-aligned letters: "This is the head
of a traitor." That and no more.
"I've had the Dorking police on the phone. It
was a wet night, and although several can
passed, none of them could be identified."
169


170 fHE HAIRY ARM
"Has the advertisement appeared?" asked
Michael.
Staines shook his head. "No, that was the
first thing we thought of. The newspapers have
carefully observed, and every newspaper man-
ager in the country has promised to notify us
the moment such an advertisement is inserted.
But there has been no advertisement of a sus-
picious character."
"I shall have to follow the line of probability
here," said Michael. "It is clear that this man
was murdered between eleven o'clock and three
in the morning—probably nearer eleven than
three; for, if the murderer is located in Sussex,
he would have to bring the head to Chobham,
leave it in the dark, and return before it was
light."
His car took Michael back to Chichester at
racing pace. Short of the city he turned off the
main road, his objective being Griff Towers.
It was late when he arrived, and the house pre-
sented its usual lifeless appearance. He rang the
bell, but there was no immediate reply. He
rang again, and then the voice of Sir Gregory
hailed him from one of the upper windows.
"Who's there?"
He went out of the porch and looked up. Sir


CLEWS AT THE TOWER 171
Gregory Penne did not recognize him in the
darkness and called again:
"Who's there?" He followed this with a
phrase which Michael guessed was Malayan.
"It is I, Michael Brixan. I want to see you,
Penne."
"What do you want?"
"Come down, and I will tell you."
"I've gone to bed for the night. See me in
the morning."
"I'll see you now," said Michael firmly. "I
have a warrant to search this house."
He had no such warrant, but only because
he had not asked for one.
The man's head was hastily withdrawn, the
window slammed down, and such a long interval
passed that Michael thought that the baronet
intended denying him admission. This view,
however, was wrong. At the end of a dreary
period of waiting, the door was opened, and in
the light of the hall lamp Sir Gregory Penne
presented an extraordinary appearance to his
visitor.
He was fully dressed; around his waist were
belted two heavy revolvers, but this fact
Michael did not immediately notice. The man's
head was swathed in bandages; only one eye


172 THE HAIRY ARM
was visible; bis left arm was stiff with a surgi-
cal dressing, and he limped as he walked.
"I've had an accident," he said gruffly.
"It looks like a pretty bad one," said Michael,
observing him narrowly.
"I don't want to talk here; come into my
room," growled the man.
In Sir Gregory's library there were signs of
a struggle. A long mirror which hung on one
of the walls was shattered to pieces; and, look-
ing up, Michael saw that one of the two swords
was missing.
"You've lost something," he said. "Did that
occur in course of the accident?"
Sir Gregory nodded.
Something in the hang of the second sword
attracted Michael's attention, and, without ask-
ing permission, he lifted it down from its hook
and drew the blade from the scabbard. It was
brown with blood.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked
sternly.
Sir Gregory swallowed something. "A fellow
broke into the house last night," he said slowly,
"a Malayan fellow. He had some cock-and-bull
story about my having carried off his wife. He
attacked me, and naturally I defended myself."


CLEWS AT THE TOWER 173
"And had you carried off his wife?" asked
Michael.
The baronet shrugged. "The idea is absurd.
Most of these Borneo folks are mad, and they'll
run amuck on the slightest provocation. I did
my best to pacify him."
Michael looked again at the stained sword
as he spoke.
"So I see," he said dryly. "And did you—
pacify him?"
"I defended myself, if that's what you mean.
I returned him almost as good as he gave. You
don't expect me to sit down and be murdered in
my own house, do you? I can use a sword as
well as any man."
"And apparently you used it," said Michael.
"What happened to Foss?"
Not a muscle of Penne's face moved.
"Whom do you mean?"
"I mean Lawley Foss."
"You mean the scenario writer? I haven't
seen him for weeks."
"You're a liar," said Michael calmly. "He
was in here last night. I can assure you on this
point, because I was in the next room."
"Oh, it was you, was it?" said the baronet,
and he seemed relieved. "Yes, he came to bor-


174 THE HAIRY ARM
row money. I let him have fifty pounds, and he
went away, and that's the last I saw of him."
Michael looked at the sword again. "Would
you be surprised to learn that Foss' head has
been picked up on Chobham Common?" he
asked.
The other turned a pair of cold, searching
eyes upon his interrogator.
"I shouldn't be very much surprised," he said
coolly. "If necessary, I have a witness to prove
that Foss went, though I don't like bringing hi
h lady's name. Miss Stella Mendoza was here,
having a bit of supper, as you probably know,
if it was you in the next room. He left before
she did."
"And he returned," said Michael.
"I never saw him again, I tell you," said the
baronet violently. "If you can find anybody
who saw him come into this house after his first
visit, you can arrest me. Do you think 7 killed
him?"
Michael did not answer. "There was a woman
upstairs in the tower. What has become of
her?"
The other wetted his lips before he replied.
"The only woman in the tower was a sick serv-
ant; she has gone."


CLEWS AT THE TOWER 175
"I'd like to see for myself," said Michael.
Only for a second did the man cast his eyes
in the direction of Shag's den, and then:
"All right," said he. "Follow me."
He went out into the corridor and turned,
not toward the hall, but in the opposite direc-
tion. Ten paces farther down he stopped and
opened a door, so cunningly set in the paneling
and so placed between two shaded lights that
illuminated the corridor that it was difficult to
detect its presence. He put in his hand, turned
on a light, and Michael saw a long flight of stairs
leading back toward the hall.
As he followed the baronet, he realized that
the tower was something of an illusion. It was
only a tower if viewed from the front of the
house. Otherwise it was a narrow addition, two
stories high, built on one side of the building.
They passed through a door, up a circular
staircase, and came to the corridor where
Michael had seen Bhag squatting on the previous
night
"This is the room," said Penne, opening a
door.


CHAPTER XXIV
THE MARKS OF THE BEAST
"ON the contrary, it is not the room," said
Michael quietly. "The room is at the end of the
passage."
The man hesitated. "Can't you believe me?"
he asked in an almost affable tone of voice.
"What a skeptical chap you are I Now come,
Brixan! I don't want to be bad friends with
you. Let's go down and have a drink and for-
get our past animosities. I'm feeling rotten."
"I want to see that room," said Michael.
"I haven't the key."
"Then get it," said Michael sharply.
Eventually the baronet found a passkey in
his pocket, and with every sign of reluctance he
opened the door.
"She went away in a bit of a hurry," he said.
"She was taken so ill that I had to get rid of
her."
"If she left here because she was ill, she went
into an institution of some kind, the name of
176


THE MARKS OF THE BEAST 177
which you will be able to give me," said Michael
as he turned on the light.
One glance at the room told him that the
story of her hasty departure may have been ac-
curate. But that the circumstances were normal,
the appearance of the room denied. The bed
was in confusion; there was blood on the pillow,
and a dark-brown stain on the wall. A chair
was broken; the carpet had odd and curious
stains, one like the print of a bare foot. On a
sheet was an indubitable print of a hand, but
such a hand as no human being had ever pos-
sessed.
"The mark of the beast," said Michael, point-
ing. "That's Bhag!"
Again the baronet licked his lips. "There was
a bit of a fight here," he said. "The man came
up and pretended to identify the servant as his
wife."
"What happened to him?"
There was no reply.
"What happened to him?" asked Michael
with ominous patience.
"I let him go, and I let him take the woman
with him. It was easier."
With a sudden exclamation, Michael stooped
and picked up from behind the bed a bright steel


178 THE HAIRY ARM
object. It was the half of a sword, snapped
dean in the middle, and unstained. He looked
along the blade and presently found the slight-
est indent. Picking up the chair he examined
the leg and found two deeper dents in one of the
legs.
"Ill reconstruct the scene. You and your
Bhag caught the man after he had gotten into
this room. The chair was broken in the strug-
gle, probably by Bhag, who used the chair. The
man escaped from the room, ran downstairs
into the library and got the sword from the wall,
then came up after you. That's when the real
fighting started. I guess some of this blood is
yours, Penne."
"Some of it!" snarled the other. "All of it,
curse him!-'
There was a long silence.
"Did the woman leave this room alive?"
"I believe so," said the other sullenly.
"Did her husband leave your library alive?"
"You'd better find that out. So far as I
know—I was unconscious for half an hour.
Bhag can use a sword."
Michael did not leave the house till he had
searched it from attic to basement. He had
every servant assembled and began his interro-


THE MARKS OF THE BEAST 179
gation. Each of them except one spoke Dutch,
but none spoke the language to such purpose
that they made him any wiser than he had
been. Going back to the library, he put on all
the lights.
"Ill see Bhag," he said.
"He's out, I tell you. If you don't believe
me "Penne went to the desk and turned
the switch. The door opened, and nothing came
out.
A moment's hesitation, and Michael had pen-
etrated into the den, a revolver in one hand, his
lamp in the other. The two rooms were scrupu-
lously clean, though a strange animal smell per-
vaded everything. There was a small bed, with
sheets and bankets and feather pillow, where the
beast slept; a small larder, full of nuts; a run-
ning water tap—he found afterward that, in
spite of his cleverness, Bhag was incapable of
turning on or off a faucet—a deep, well-worn
settee, where the dumb servitor took his rest;
and three cricket balls, which were apparently
the playthings of this hideous animal.
Bhag's method of entering and leaving the
house was now apparent. His exit was a square
opening in the wall, with neither window nor
curtain, which was situated about seven feet


180 THE HAIRY ARM
from the ground; and two projecting steel rungs,
set at intervals between the window and the
floor, made a sort of ladder. Michael found
corresponding rungs on the garden side of the
wall.
There was no sign of blood, no evidence that
Bhag had taken any part in the terrible scene
which must have been enacted the night before.
Going back to the library, he made a diligent
search, but found nothing until he went into the
little drawing room, where he had hidden the
night before. Here on the window sill he found
traces enough—the mark of a bare foot, and
another which suggested that a heavy body had
been dragged through the window.
By this time his chauffeur, who, after drop-
ping him at Griff Towers, went on to Chichester,
had returned with the two police officers, and
they assisted him in a further search of the
grounds. The trail of the fugitive was easy to
follow; there were blood stains across the gravel,
broken plants in a circular flower bed, the soft
loam of which had received the impression of
small bare feet. In the vegetable field the trail
was lost.
"The question is, who carried whom?" said
Inspector Lyle, after Michael in a few words


THE MARKS OF THE BEAST 181
had told him all that he had learned at the
Towers. "It looks to me as if these people were
killed in the house and their bodies carried away
by Bhag. There's no trace of blood in his room,
which means no more than that in all proba-
bility he hasn't been there since the killing,"
said Inspector Lyle. "If we find the monkey
we'll solve this little mystery. Penne is The
Head-hunter, of course," the inspector went on.
"I had a talk with him the other day, and there's
something fanatical about the man."
"I am not so sure," said Michael slowly, "that
you're right. Perhaps my ideas are just a little
bizarre; but if Sir Gregory Penne is the actual
murderer, I shall be a very surprised man. I
admit," he confessed, "that the absence of any
footprints in Bhag's quarters staggered me, and
probably your theory is correct. There is noth-
ing to be done but to keep the house under
observation until I communicate with head-
quarters."
At this moment the second detective, who had
been searching the field to its farthermost bound-
ary, came back to say that he had picked up
the trail again near the postern gate, which was
open. They hurried across the field and found
proof of his discovery. There was a trail both


182 THE HAIRY ARM
inside and outside the gate. Near the postern
was a big heap of leaves, which had been left by
the gardener to rot, and on this they found the
impression of a body, as though whoever was
the carrier had put his burden down for a little
while to rest. In the field beyond the gate,
however, the trail was definitely lost.


CHAPTER XXV
THE MAN IN THE CAR
LIFE is largely made up of little things, but
perspective in human affairs is not a gift com-
mon to youth. It had required a great effort
on the part of Adele Leamington to ask a man
to tea, but, once that effort was made, she had
looked forward with a curious pleasure to the
function.
At the moment Michael was speeding to Lon-
don, she interviewed Jack Knebworth in his
sanctum.
"Certainly, my dear; you may take the after-
noon off. I am not quite sure what the schedule
was."
He reached out his hand for the written time-
table, but she supplied the information.
"You wanted some studio portraits of me—
'stills,' " she said.
"So I did I Well, that can wait. Are you feel-
ing pretty confident about the picture?"
"I? No, I'm not confident, Mr. Knebworth;
I'm in a state of nerves about it. You see, it
183


184 THE HAIRY ARM
doesn't seem possible that I should make good at
the first attempt. One dreams about such
things, but in dreams it is easy to jump obstacles
and get round dangerous corners and slur over
difficulties. Every time you call 'camera!' I am
in a state of panic, and I am so self-conscious
that I am watching every movement I take, say-
ing to myself: 'You're raising your hands awk-
wardly; you're turning your head with a jerk.'"
"But that doesn't last?" he said sharply, so
sharply she smiled.
"No; the moment I hear the camera turning,
I feel that I am the character I'm supposed to
be."
He patted her on the shoulder. "That is how
you should feel," he said and went on: "Seen
nothing of Mendoza, have you? She isn't
annoying you? Or Foss?"
"I've not seen Miss Mendoza for days, but I
saw Mr. Foss last night."
She did not explain the curious circumstances,
and Jack Knebworth was so incurious that he
did not ask. So that he learned nothing of Law-
ley Foss' mysterious interview with the man in
the dosed car at the corner of Arundel Road,
an incident she had witnessed on the previous
night. Nor of the white and womanly hand


THE MAN IN THE CAR 185
that had waved him farewell, nor of the great
diamond which had sparkled lustrously on the
little finger of the unknown motorist.
Going home, Adele stopped at a confectioner's
and a florist's to collect the cakes and flowers
that were to adorn the table of Mrs. Watson's
parlor. She wondered more than a little just
what attraction she offered to this man of affairs.
She had a trick of getting outside and examining
herself with an impartial eye, and she knew
that, by self-repression and almost self-obi itera-
tion, she had succeeded in making of Adele
Leamington a very colorless, characterless young
lady. That she was pretty, she knew; but pret-
tiness in itself attracts only the superficial. Men
who are worth knowing require something more
than beauty. And Michael was not philander-
ing; he was not that kind. He wanted her for
a friend at least; she had no thought that he de-
sired amusement during his enforced stay in a
very dull town.
Half past four came and found the girl wait-
ing. At a quarter to five she was at the door,
scanning the street. At five, angry, but philo-
sophical, she had her tea and ordered the little
maid of all work to dear the table.
Michael had forgotten 1 Of course she made


186 THE HAIRY ARM
excuses for him, only to demolish them and build
again. She was hurt, amused, and hurt again.
Going upstairs to her room, she lit the gas, took
vhe script from her bag, and tried to study the
scenes that were to be shot on the following day,
but all manner of distractions interposed be-
tween her receptive mind and the typewritten
paper. Michael bulked large—and the closed
car and Lawley Foss and that waving white
hand, as the car drove off. Curiously enough,
her speculations came back again and again to
the car. It was new, and its woodwork was
highly polished, and it moved so noiselessly.
At last she threw the manuscript down and
rose, with a doubtful eye on the bed. She was
not tired; the hour was nine. Chichester offered
few attractions by night. There were two
cinemas, and she was not in the mood for
cinemas. She put on her hat and went down,
calling on her way at the kitchen door.
"I am going out for a quarter of an hour," she
told her landlady, who was in an approving
mood.
The house was situated in a street of small
villas. It was economically illuminated, and
there were dark patches, where the light of the
street lamps scarcely reached. In one of these


THE MAN IN THE CAR 187
a motor car was standing; she saw the bulk of it
before she identified its character. She won-
dered if the owner knew that its tail light was
extinguished. As she came up to the machine,
she identified the car she had seen on the previ-
ous night. Foss had spoken to its occupant.
Glancing to the left, she could see nothing of its
interior. The blinds on the road side were
drawn, and she thought it was empty; and
then a voice said:
"Pretty lady, come with me!"
The voice was a whisper; she caught the flash
and sparkle of a precious stone, saw the white
hand on the edge of the half-closed window,
and in a fit of absurd and unreasoning terror
she hurried on.
She heard the whir of an electric starter and
the purring of engines. The machine was fol-
lowing her, and she broke into a run. At the
comer of the street she saw a man and flew
toward him, as she made out the helmet of a
policeman.
"What's wrong, Miss?"
As he spoke, the car flashed past, spun round
the corner, and was out of sight instantly.
"A man spoke to me—in that car," she said
breathlessly.


188 THE HAIRY ARM
The stolid constable gazed vacantly at the
place where the car had been.
"He didn't have lights," he said stupidly. "I
ought to have taken his number. Did he insult
you, Miss?"
She shook her head, for she was already
ashamed of her fears.
"My nerves are on edge, officer," she said
with a smile. "I don't think I will go any
farther."
She turned back and hurried to her lodgings.
There were disadvantages in starring—even on
Jack Knebworth's modest lot. It was nervous
work, she thought. She went to sleep that night
and dreamed that the man in the car had been
Brixan, and he wanted her to come in to tea.
It was past midnight when Michael rang up
Jack Knebworth and told him the news.
"Foss!" he gasped. "Good Lord! You don't
mean that, Brixan? Shall I come round and
see you?"
"Ill come to you," said Michael. "There are
one or two things I want to know about the
man, and it will create less of a fuss than if I
have to admit you to the hotel."
Jack Knebworth rented a house on the Arun-
del Road, and he was waiting at the garden door


THE MAN IN THE CAR 189
to admit his visitor when Michael arrived.
Michael told the story of the discovery of the
head, and he felt that he might so far take the
director into his confidence as to retail his visit
to Sir Gregory Penne.
"That beats everything," said Jack in a
hushed tone. "Poor old Fossl You think that
Penne did this? But why? You don't cut up a
man because he wants to borrow money."
"My views have been switching round a
little," said Michael. "You remember a sheet
of manuscript that was found among some of
your script, and which I told you must have been
written by The Head-hunter?"
Jack nodded.
"I'm perfectly sure," Michael went on, "and
particularly after seeing the erasure in the scen-
ario book, that Foss knew who was the author
of that manuscript, and I'm equally certain that
he resolved upon the desperate expedient of
blackmailing the writer. If that is the case, and
if Sir Gregory is the man—again I am very un-
certain on this point—there is a good reason why
he should be put out of the way. There is one
person who can help us, and that is"
"Mendoza," said Jack, and the two men's
eyes met.


CHAPTER XXVI
THE HAND
THE director looked at his watch. "I guess
she'll be in bed by now, but it's worth while try-
Ing. Would you like to see her?"
Michael hesitated. Stella Mendoza was a
friend of Penne's, and he was loath to commit
himself irretrievably to the view that Penne was
the murderer.
"Yes, I think we'll see her," he said. "After
all, Penne knows that he is suspected."
Jack Knebworth was ten minutes on the tele-
phone before he succeeded in getting a reply
from Stella's cottage. He finally made the con-
nection.
"It's Knebworth speaking, Miss Mendoza,"
he said. "Is it possible to see you tonight? Mr.
Brixan wants to speak to you."
"At this hour of the night?" she asked in
sleepy surprise. "I was in bed when the bell
rang. Won't it do in the morning?"
190


THE HAND 191
"No, he wants to see you particularly tonight.
Ill come along with him if you don't mind."
"What is wrong?" she asked quickly. "Is it
about Gregory?"
Jack whispered a query to the man who stood
at his side, and Michael nodded.
"Yes, it is about Gregory," said Knebworth.
"Will you come along? Ill have time to
dress."
Stella was dressed by the time they arrived,
and she was too curious and too alarmed to
make the hour of the call a matter of comment.
"What is the trouble?" she asked.
"Mr. Foss is dead."
"Dead?" She opened her eyes wide. "Why,
I only saw him yesterday. But how?"
"He has been murdered," said Michael
quietly. "His head has been found on Chob-
ham Common."
She would have fallen to the floor, had not
Michael's arm been there to support her, and it
was some time before she recovered sufficiently
to answer coherently the questions which were
put to her.
"No, I didn't see Mr. Foss again after he left
the Towers, and then I only saw him for a few
seconds."


192 THE HAIRY ARM
"Did he suggest he was coming back again?"
She shook her head.
"Did Sir Gregory tell you he was returning?"
"No." She shook her head again. "He told
me that he was glad to see the last of him, and
that he had borrowed fifty pounds until next
week, when he expected to make a lot of money.
Gregory is like that—he will tell you things
about people, things which they ask him not to
make public. He is rather proud of his wealth
and what he calls his charity."
"You had a luncheon engagement with him,"
said Michael, watching her.
She bit her lip. "You must have heard me
talking when I left him," she said. "No, I had
no luncheon engagement. That was camouflage,
intended for anybody who was hanging around,
and we knew somebody had been in the house
that night. Was it you?"
Michael nodded.
"Oh, I'm so relieved!" She heaved a deep
sigh. "Those few minutes in that dark room
were terrible to me. I thought it was "She
hesitated.
"Bhag?" suggested Michael.
"Yes. You don't suspect Gregory of killing
Foss?"


THE HAND 1«
"I suspect everybody in general and nobody
in particular/' said Michael. "Did you see
Bhag?"
She shivered. "No, not that time. I've seen
him, of course. He gives me the creeps! I've
never seen anything so human. Sometimes,
when Gregory was a little—a little drunk, he
used to bring Bhag out and make him do tricks.
Do you know that Bhag could do all the Ma-
layan exercises with the sword 1 Sir Gregory
had a specially made wooden sword for him,
and the way that awful thing used to twirl it
round his head was terrifying."
Michael stared at her. "Bhag could use the
sword? Penne told me he did, but I thought he
was lying."
"Oh, yes, he could use the sword. Gregory
taught him everything."
"What is Penne to you?" Michael asked the
question bluntly, and she colored.
"He has been a friend," she said awkwardly,
aa very good friend of mine—financially, I
mean. He took a liking to me a long time ago,
and we've been very good friends."
Michael nodded. "And you are still?"
"No," she answered shortly, "I've finished
with Gregory, and I am leaving Chichester


194 THE HAIRY ARM
tomorrow. I've put the house in an agent's
hands to rent. Poor Mr. Foss!" she said, and
there were tears in her eyes. "Poor soul!
Gregory wouldn't have done it, Mr. Brixan, 111
swear to that! There's a whole lot of Gregory
that's sheer bluff. He's a coward at heart, and,
though he has done dreadful things, he has
always had an agent to do all the dirty work for
him."
"Dreadful things like what?"
She seemed reluctant to explain, but he
pressed her.
"Well, he told me that he used to take expedi-
tions in the bush and raid the villages, carrying
off girls. There is one tribe that have very beau-
tiful women. Perhaps he was lying about that,
too, but I have an idea that he spoke the truth.
He told me that, only a year ago, when he was
in Borneo, he 'lifted' a girl from a wild village,
where it was death for a European to go. He
always said lifted."
"And didn't you mind these confessions?"
asked Michael.
She shrugged her shoulders. "He was that
kind of man," was all she said, and it spoke vol-
umes for her understanding of her "very good
friend."


THE HAND 195
Michael walked back to Jack Knebworth's
house.
"The story Penne tells seems to fit together
with the information Mendoza has given us.
There is no doubt that the woman at the top of
the tower was the lady he lifted, and less doubt
that the little brown man was her husband. If
they have escaped from the Towers, then there
should be no difficulty in finding them. Ill send
out a message to all stations within a radius of
twenty-five miles, and we ought to get news of
them in the morning."
"It's morning now," said Jack, looking toward
the graying east. "Will you come in? Ill give
you some coffee. This news has upset me. I
was going to have a long day's work, but I guess
well have to put it off for a day or so. The
company is bound to be upset by this news.
They all knew Foss, although he was not very
popular with them. It only wants Adele to be
off color to complete our misery. By the way,
Brixan, why don't you make this your head-
quarters? I'm a bachelor; there's a phone serv-
ice here, and you'll get a privacy at this house
which you don't get at your hotel."
The idea appealed to the detective, and it was
at Jack Knebworth's house that he slept thai


106 THE HAIRY ARM
night, after an hour's conversation on the tele-
phone with Scotland Yard.
Early in the morning he was again at the
Towers, and now, with the assistance of day-
light, he enlarged his search, without adding
greatly to his knowledge. The position was a
peculiar one, as Scotland Yard had emphasized.
Sir Gregory Penne was a member of a good
family, a rich man, a justice of the peace; and,
while his eccentricities were of a lawless char
acter, "you can't hang people for being queer,"
the Commissioner informed Michael on the tele-
phone.
It was a suspicious fact that Bhag had disap-
peared as completely as the brown man and his
wife.
"He hasn't been back all night; I've seen
nothing of him," said Sir Gregory. "And that's
not the first time he's gone off on his own. He
finds hiding places that you'd never suspect,
and he's probably gone to earth somewhere."
Michael was passing through Chichester when
he saw a figure that made him bring the car to
a standstill with such a jerk that it was a won-
der the tires did not burst. In a second he was
out of the machine and walking to meet Adele.
"It seems ten thousand years since I saw


THE HAND 19?
you," he said with an extravagance which at
any other time would have brought a smile to
her face.
"I'm afraid I can't stop. I'm on my way to
the studio," she said a little coldly; "and I prom-
ised Mr. Knebworth that I would be there early.
You see, I got off yesterday afternoon by telling
Mr. Knebworth that I had an engagement."
"And had you?" asked the innocent Michael.
"I asked somebody to take tea with me."
Michael's jaw dropped. "Moses!" he gasped.
"I am the villain!"
She would have gone on, but he stopped her.
"I don't want to shock you or hurt you,
Adele," he said gently, "but the explanation for
my forgetfulness is that we've had another
tragedy."
She stopped and looked at him. "An-
other"
He nodded. "Mr. Foss has been murdered,"
he said.
She went very white. "When?"
"The night before last."
"It was after nine," she said.
His eyebrows went up in surprise. "Why do
you say that?"
"Because, Mr. Brixan"—she spoke slowly—


198 THE HAIRY ARM
"at nine o'clock I saw the hand of the man wh»,
murdered him! Two nights ago I went out to
buy some wool I wanted. It was just before the
shops closed—a quarter to eight, I think. In
the town I saw Mr. Foss and spoke to him. He
was very nervous and restless, and again he
made a suggestion to me which he had already
made when he called on me. His manner was so
strange that I asked him if he was in any
trouble. He told me no, but he had had an
awful premonition that something dreadful was
going to happen, and he asked me if I'd lived in
Chichester for any length of time, and if I knew
about the caves."
"The caves?" said Michael quickly.
She nodded. "I was surprised. I'd never
heard of the caves. He told me there was a ref-
erence to them in some old history of Chichester.
He had looked in the guidebooks without finding
anything about them. Apparently there were
caves at some time or other near Chellerton, but
there was a heavy subsidence of earth that dosed
the entrance. He was so rambling and so dis-
jointed that I thought he must have been drink-
ing, and I was glad to get away from him. I
went on to do my shopping and met one of the
extra girls I knew. She asked me to go home


THE HAND 199
with her. I didn't want to go a bit, but I thought
if I refused she would think I was giving myself
airs, and so I went. As soon as I could I came
away and went straight home.
"It was then nine o'clock, and the streets were
empty. They are not very well lit in Chichester,
but I was able to recognize Mr. Foss. He was
standing at the corner of Arundel Road, and he
was evidently waiting for somebody. I stopped,
because I particularly did not wish to meet Mr.
Foss; I was on the point of turning round when
a car drove into the road and stopped almost
opposite him."
"What sort of a car?" asked Michael.
"It was a closed landaulette. I think they
call them sedans. As it came round the corner,
its lights went out, which struck me as being
curious. Mr. Foss was evidently waiting for
this, for he went up and leaned on the edge of
the window and spoke to somebody inside. I
don't know what made me do it, but I had an
extraordinary impulse to see who was in the car,
and I started walking toward them. I must
have been five or six yards away when Mr. Foss
stepped back, and the sedan moved on. The
driver put his hand out of the window, as if he
were waving good-by. It was still out of the


200 THE HAIRY ARM
window, and the only thing visible—the interior
was quite dark—when it came abreast of me."
"Was there anything peculiar about the
hand?"
"Nothing except that it was small and white
and on the little finger was a large diamond
ring. The fire in it was extraordinary, and I
wondered why a man should wear a ring of that
kind. You will think I am silly, but the sight of
that hand gave me a terrible feeling of fear. I
don't know why, even now. There was some-
thing unnatural and abnormal about it. When
I looked round again, Mr. Foss was walking
rapidly in the other direction, and I made no
attempt to overtake him."
"You saw no number on the car?"
"None whatever." She shook her head. "I
wasn't so curious''
"You didn't even see the silhouette of the
man inside?"
"No, I saw nothing. His arm was raised."
"What size was the diamond, do you think?"
She pursed her lips dubiously. "He passed
me in a flash, and I can't give you any very
accurate information, Mr. Brixan. It may be
a mistake on my part, but I thought it was as
big as the tip of my finger. Naturally I couldn't


THE HAND 201
see any details, even though I saw the car again
last night."
She went on to tell him of what happened
on the previous night, and he listened intently.
"The man spoke to youl Did you recognize
his voice?"
She shook her head. "No, he spoke in a
whisper. 1 did not see his face, though I have
an idea he was wearing a cap. The policeman
said he should have taken the number of the
car."
"Oh, the policeman said that, did he?" re-
marked Michael sardonically. "Well, there's
hope for him." For a moment he was immersed
in thought, and then: "I'll take you to the studio
if you don't mind," said Michael.
He left her to go to her dressing room, there
to learn that work had been suspended for the
day; while he went in search of Jack.
"You've seen everybody of consequence in
this neighborhood," he said. "Do you know
anybody who drives a sedan and wears a large
diamond ring on the little finger of the right
hand?"
"The only person I know who has that weak-
ness is Mendoza," he said.
Michael whistled. "I never thought of Men-


202 THE HAIRY ARM
doza," he said, "and Adele described the hand
as 'small and womanly.'"
"Mendoza's hand isn't particularly small, but
it would look small on a man," said Jack
thoughtfully. "And her car isn't a closed sedan,
but that doesn't mean anything. By the way,
I've just sent instructions to tell the company
I'm working today. If we let these people
stand around thinking, they'll get thoroughly
upset."
"I thought that, too," said Michael with a
smile, "but I didn't dare make the suggestion."
An urgent message took him t/> London that
afternoon where he attended a conference at
Scotland Yard. At the end of the two-hour
discussion, the conclusion was reached that Sir
Gregory Penne was to remain at large, but under
observation.
"We verified the ttory about the lifting of this
girl in Borneo," said the quiet-spoken chief,
"and all the facts dovetail. I haven't the slight-
est doubt in my mind that Penne is the culprit,
but we've got to walk very warily. I dare say
in your department, Captain Brixan, you can
afford to take a few risks; but the police in this
country never make an arrest for murder unless
they are absolutely certain that a conviction will


THE HAND 203
follow. There may be something in your other
theory, and I’d be the last man in the world to
turn it down, but you'll have to conduct parallel
investigations.”
Michael ran down to Sussex in broad day-
light. There was a long stretch of road about
four miles north of Chichester, and he was pelt-
ing along this when he became aware of a figure
standing in the middle of the roadway, with its
arms outstretched. Michael slowed down. It
was Mr. Sampson Longvale, he saw to his
amazement. Almost before the car had stopped,
with an extraordinary display of agility, Mr.
Longvale jumped on the running board.
“I have been watching for you this last two
hours, Mr. Brixan,” he said. “Do you mind if
I join you?”
“Come right in,” said Michael heartily.
“You are going to Chichester, I know. Would
you mind, instead, coming to Dower House? I
have something important to tell you.”
The place at which he had signaled the car to
stop was exactly opposite the end of the road
that led to Dower House and Sir Gregory's do-
main. The old man told him that he had walked
back from Chichester, and he had been waiting
for the passing of the car.


204 THE HAIRY ARM
"I learned for the first time, Mr. Brixan, that
you are an officer of the law," he said with a
stately inclination of his head. "I need hardly
tell you how greatly I respect one whose duty it
is to serve the cause of justice."
"Mr. Knebvvorth told you, I presume?" said
Michael with a smile.
"He told me," agreed the other gravely. "I
went in really to seek you, having an intuition
that you had some more important position in
life than what I had first imagined. I confess I
thought at first that you were one of those idle
young men who have nothing to do but to amuse
themselves. It was a great gratification to me
to learn that I was mistaken. It is all the more
gratifying"—Michael smiled inwardly at the
verbosity of age—"because I need advice on a
point of law which I imagine my lawyer would
not offer me. My position is a very peculiar
one, in some ways embarrassing. I am a man
who shrinks from the eye of the public, and I
am averse from vulgar meddling in other
people's affairs."
What had he to tell, Michael wondered. This
old man, with his habit of nocturnal strolls,
might have been a witness to something that had
not yet come out


THE HAND 205
They stopped at Dower House, and the old
man got out and opened the gate, not closing it
until Michael had passed through. Instead of
going direct to his sitting room, he went upstairs,
beckoning Michael to come after, and stopped
before the room which had been occupied by
Adele on the night of her terrible experience.
"I wish you to see these people," said Mr.
Longvale earnestly, "and tell me whether I am
acting in accordance with the law."
He opened the door, and Mike saw that there
were now two beds in the room. On one, heavily
bandaged and apparently unconscious, was the
brown-faced man; on the other, sleeping, was
the woman Michael had seen in the Towers.
She, too, was badly wounded; her arm was
bandaged and strapped into position.
Michael drew a long breath. "That is a mys-
tery solved, anyway," he said. "Where did you
find these people?"
At the sound of his voice the woman opened
her eyes and frowned at him fearfully, then
looked across to the man.
"You have been wounded?" said Michael in
Dutch, but apparently her education had been
neglected in respect of European languages, for
she made no reply. She was so uncomfortable


206 THE HAIRY ARM
at the sight of him that Michael was glad to go
out of the room. It was not until they were
back in his sanctum that Mr. Longvale told his
story.
"I saw them last night about half past eleven,"
he said. "They were staggering down the road,
and I thought at first they were intoxicated, but
fortunately the woman spoke, and, as I have
never forgotten a voice, even when it spoke in a
language that was unfamiliar to me, I realized
immediately that it was my patient, and I went
out to intercept her. I then saw the condition of
her companion, and she, recognizing me, began
to speak excitedly in a language which 1 could
not understand, though I would have been sin-
gularly dense if I had had any doubt as to her
meaning. The man was on the point of collapse,
but, assisted by the woman, I managed to get
him into the house and to the room where he
now is. Fortunately, in the expectation of again
being called to attend her, I had purchased a
small stock of surgical dressing and was able to
attend to the man."
"Is he badly hurt?" asked Michael.
"He has lost a considerable quantity of
blood," said the other; "and, though there seem
to be no arteries severed or bones broken, the


THE HAND 207
rounds have an alarming appearance. Now, it
has occurred to me," he went on in his oddly
profound manner, "that this unfortunate native
could not have received his injury except as the
result of some illegal act, and I thought the best
thing to do was to notify the police that they
were under my care. I called first upon my ex-
cellent friend, Mr. John Knebworth, and I
opened my heart to him. He then told me of
your position, and I decided to wait your return
before I took any further steps."
"Is the man fit to be moved?"
"I think so," nodded the old gentleman. "He
is sleeping heavily now, and he has the appear-
ance of being in a state of coma, but that is not
the case."
"Did he have a sword?"
Mr. Longvale clicked his lips impatiently.
"How stupid of me to forget that! Yes, it is
in here."
He went to a drawer in an old-fashioned
bureau, pulled it open, and took out the identi-
cal sword which Michael had seen hanging above
the mantelpiece at Griff Towers. It was spot-
lessly clean and had been so when Mr. Long-
vale took it from the brown man's hands. And
yet he did not expect it to be in any other con-


208 THE HAIRY ARM
dition; for to the swordsman of the East his
sword is his child, and probably the brown man's
first care had been to wipe it clean.
Michael was taking his leave when he sud-
denly asked:
"I wonder if it would give you too much
trouble, Mr. Longvale, to get me a glass of
water? My throat is parched."
With an exclamation of apology the old man
hurried away, leaving Michael in the hall.
Hanging on pegs was the long overcoat of the
master of Dower House, and beside it were the
curly-brimmed beaver and a very prosaic derby
hat, which Michael took down the moment the
old man's back was turned. It had been no
ruse of his, this demand for a drink, for he was
parched. Only Michael had the inquisitiveness
of his profession.
The old gentleman returned quickly, to find
Michael examining the hat.
"Where did this come from?" asked the
detective.
"That was the hat the native was wearing
when he arrived," said Mr. Longvale.
"I will take it with me, if you don't mind,"
said Michael, after a long silence.
"With all the pleasure in life. Our friend


THE HAND 209
upstairs will not need a hat for a very long
time," he said with a whimsical little smile.
Michael went back to his car, put the hat
carefully beside him, and drove into Chichester;
and all the way he was in a state of wonder. For
inside the hat were the initials "L. F." How
came the hat of Lawley Foss on the head of the
brown man from Borneo?


CHAPTER XXVII
THE CAVES
THAT night Mr. Longvale's two patients were
removed to the hospital, with a favorable re-
port on the man's condition from the doctors;
Michael felt that one aspect of the mystery was
a mystery no longer.
His old schoolmaster received a visit that
night.
"More study?" he asked good-humoredly
when Michael was announced.
"Curiously enough, you're right, sir," said
Michael, "though I doubt very much whether
you can assist me. Want an old history of
Chichester."
"I have one published in 1600. You're the
second man in the last fortnight who wanted to
sec it."
"Who was the other?" asked Michael quickly.
"A man named Foss," said Mr. Scott, and
Michael nodded, as though he had known the
identity of the seeker after knowledge. "He
wanted to know about caves. IVe never heard
210


THE CAVES 211
there were any local caves of any celebrity.
Now, if this were Cheddar, I should be able to
give you quite a lot of information. I am an
authority on the Cheddar Caves."
He showed Michael into the library, and tak-
ing down an ancient volume, laid it on the library
table.
"After Foss had gone I looked up the ref-
erence. I find it occurs only on one page—385.
It deals with the disappearance of a troop of
horsemen under Sir John Dudley, Earl of New-
port, in some local trouble in the days of
Stephen. Here is the passage." He pointed to
the old-fashioned type:
The noble Earl, deciding to await hif arrival, carried
two compaucf of borfe by night into the great caves
which exifted in thefe times. By the merciful difpenfa-
tion of God, in Whofe Hands we are, there ucuuml, at
eight o'dock in the forenoon, a great landflidf which
entombH and deftroyed aD thefe kniehts and fqmres
and nr John Dudley. Earl of Newport, fo that they were
never more feen. And the place of this happening is nine
miles in a line from this fame city, called by the Romans.
Regnum. or Gffanceafter in the Saxon fafhion.
"Have the caves ever been located?"
Mr. Scott shook his head. "There are local
rumors that they were used a century and a
half ago by brandy smugglers, but then you find
those traditions local to every district."


212 THE HAIRY ARM
Michael took a local map of Chichester from
his pocket, measured off nine miles, and with a
pair of compasses encircled the city. He noted
that the line passed either through or near Sir
Gregory's estate.
"There are two Griff Towers?" he suddenly
said, examining the map.
"Yes, there is another besides Penne's place,
which is named after a famous local landmark—
the real Griffin Tower, as it was originally
called. I have an idea it stands either within or
about Penne's property—a very old, circular
tower, about twenty feet high and anything up
to two thousand years old. I'm interested in
antiquities, and I have made a very careful
inspection of the place. The lower part of the
wall is undoubtedly Roman work. The
Romans had a big encampment here; in fact
Regnum was one of their headquarters. There
were all sorts of explanations for the tower.
Probably it was a keep or blockhouse. The idea
I have is that the original Roman tower was not
more than a few feet high and was not designed
for defense at all. Successive ages added to its
height, without exactly knowing why."
Michael chuckled.
"Now, if my theory is correct, I shall hear


THE CAVES 213
more about this Roman castle before the night
is out,-' he said.
He gathered his trunks from the hotel and
took them off to his new home. He found that
the dinner table was laid for three.
"Expecting company?" asked Michael,
watching Jack Knebworth putting the finishing
touches on the table. He had a bachelor's fin-
icking sense of neatness, which consists in plac-
ing everything at equal distance from every-
thing else.
"Yes, a friend of yours."
"Of mine?"
Jack nodded.
"I've asked young Miss Leamington to come
up. When I see a man of your age turning pink
at the mention of a girl's name, I feel sorry for
him. She's coming partly on business, partly
for the pleasure of meeting me in a human at-
mosphere. She didn't do so well today as I
wanted, but I guess we were all a little short of
our best."
Adele came soon after, and there was some-
thing about her that was very sweet and
appealing — something that went straight to
Michael's heart and consolidated the position
she had taken there.


214 THE HAIRY ARM
"I was thinking, as I came along," she said,
as Jack Knebworth helped her off with her coat,
"how very unreal everything is. I never dreamed
I should be your guest to dinner, Mr. Kneb-
worth."
"And I never dreamed you'd be worthy of
such a distinction," growled Jack. "And in
five years' time you'll be saying, 'Why on earth
did I make such a fuss about being asked to a
skimpy meal by that punk director, Kneb-
worth?'"
He put his hand on her shoulder and led her
into the room, and then for the first time she
saw Michael, and that young man had a mo-
mentary sense of dismay when he saw her face
drop. It was only for a second, and, as if read-
ing his thoughts, she explained her sudden
change of mien.
"I thought we were going to talk nothing but
pictures and pictures 1" she said.
"So you shall," said Michael. "I'm the best
listener on earth, and the first person to mention
murder will be thrown out of the window."
"Then I'll prepare for the flight!" she said
good-humoredly. "For I'm going to talk mur-
der and mystery—later!"
Under the expanding influence of a sympa-


THE CAVES 215
tbetic environment the girl took on a new aspect,
and all that Michael had suspected in her was
amply proven. The shyness, the almost frigid
reserve, melted in the company of two men, one
of whom, she guessed, was fond of her. whfle
the other—well. Michael was at least a friend.
"I have been doing detective work this after-
noon," she said after die coffee had been
served, "and I've made amaring discoveries,"
she added solemnly. "It started by my trying
to track the motor car, which I guessed must
have come into my street through a lane which
runs across the far end. It is the only motor-
car track I've found, and I don't think there is
any doubt it was my white-handed man who
drove it. You see. I noticed the back tire, which
had a sort of diamond-shaped design on it. and
it was fairly easy to follow the marks. Half-
way up the lane I found a place where there
was oil in the middle of the road, and where the
car must have stood for some time, and there I
found this!"
She opened her little hand bag and took out
a small, dark-green bottle. It bore no label and
was unstoppered. Michael took it from her
hand, examined it curiously, »"^ smelt. There
was a distinctive, pungent odor.


216 THE HAIRY ARM
"Do you recognize it?" she asked.
He shook his head.
"Let me try." Jack Knebworth took the
bottle from Michael's hand and sniffed. "Butyl
chloride," he said quickly, and the girl nodded.
"I thought it was that. Father was a pharma-
ceutical chemist, and once, when I was playing
in his dispensary, I found a cupboard open and
took down a pretty bottle and opened it. I
don't know what would have happened to me,
if daddy had not seen me. I was quite a child at
the time, and I've always remembered that
scent."
"Butyl chloride?" Michael frowned, ignorant
of its properties.
"It's known as the 'death drop' or the 'knock-
out drop'," said Knebworth; "and it's a drug
very much in favor with sharks who make a busi-
ness of robbing sailors. A few drops of that in a
glass of wine, and you're out!"
Michael took the bottle again. It was a com-
monplace bottle, such as is used for the dispen-
sation of poisons, and in fact the word "Poison"
was blown into the glass.
"There is no trace of a label," he said.
"And really there is no connection with the
mysterious car," admitted the girl. "My surmise


THE CAVES 217
is merely guesswork—putting one sinister thing
to another."
"Where was it?"
"In a ditch, which is very deep there and is
flooded just now; but the bottle didn't roll
down so far as the water. That is my first dis-
covery. Here is the second."
From her bag she took a curious shaped piece
of steel, both ends of which had the marks of
a break.
"Do you know what that is?" she asked.
"It beats me," said Jack and handed the find
to Michael.
"/ know what it is, because I've seen it at
the studio," said the girl; "and you know too,
don't you, Mr. Brixan?"
Mike nodded. "It's the central link of a
handcuff," he said; "the link that has the
swivel."
It was covered with spots of rust which had
been cleaned off by the girl, as she told him.
"Those are my two finds. I am not going to
offer you my conclusions, because I have none."
"They may not have been thrown from the
car at all," said Michael, "but, as you say, there
is a possibility that the owner of the car chose
that peculiarly deserted spot to rid himself of


218 THE HAIRY ARM
two articles which he could not afford to have
on the premises. It would have been safer to
throw them into the sea but this, I suppose, was
the easier and to him the safer method. I will
keep these."
He wrapped them in paper, put them away in
his pocket, and the conversation drifted back
to picture-taking.
"We're shooting at Griff Towers tomorrow
—the real tower," said Jack Knebworth. "It is
one of the landmarks. What is there amusing
in Griff Towers?" he demanded.
"Nothing particularly amusing, except that
you have fulfilled a prediction of mine," said
Michael. "I knew I should hear of that darned
old tower!"


CHAPTER XXVIII
THE TOWER
PERHAPS Michael was a little perturbed in
mind. He took a more serious view of the dosed
car than did the girl, and the invitation to the
"pretty lady" to step inside was particularly
disturbing. Since the events of the past few days
it had been necessary to withdraw the detective
who was watching the girl's house, and he de-
cided to re-establish the guard, employing a
local officer for the purpose, one who would be
reliable.
After he had driven Adele home, he went to
the police station and made his wishes known;
but it was too late to see the chief constable,
and the subordinate officer in charge did not
wish to take the responsibility of detaching an
officer for the purpose. It was only when
Michael threatened to call the chief on the tele-
phone that he reluctantly drew on his reserves
and put a uniformed officer to patrol the street.
Back again at Knebworth's house, Michael
examined the two articles which the girl had
found. Butyl chloride was a drug and a par
219


220 THE HAIRY ARM
ticularly violent one. What use would The
Head-hunter have for that, he wondered.
As for the handcuff link, he examined it
again. Terrific force must have been employed
to snap the connecting links. This was a mystery
to him, and he gave it up with a sense of annoy-
ance at his own incompetence. Before going
to bed he received a phone message from In-
spector Lyle, who was watching Griff Towers.
There was nothing new to report, and appar-
ently life was pursuing its normal round. And
the inspector had been invited into the house by
Sir Gregory, who had told him that Bhag was
still missing.
"I'll keep you there tonight," said Michael.
"Tomorrow we will lift the watch. Scotland
Yard is satisfied that Sir Gregory had nothing
to do with Foss' death."
A grunt from the other end of the phone ex-
pressed the inspector's disagreement with that
view.
"He's in it somehow," he said. "By the way,
I've found a blood-stained derby hat in the field
outside the grounds. It has the name of 'Chi
—Stores, Tjandi,' inside."
This was news indeed. "Let me see it in the
morning," said Michael after long cogitation.


THE TOWER 111
Soon after breakfast the next morning the hat
came and was inspected. Knebworth, who had
heard most of the story from Michael, exam-
ined the new dew curiously.
"If the brown man wore Lawley's hat when
he arrived at Mr. Longvale's, where in the
name of fate did the change take place? It
must have been somewhere between the Towers
and the old man's house, unless—"
"Unless what?" asked Michael. He had a
great respect for Knebworth's shrewd judg-
ment.
"Unless the change took place at Sir Gregory's
house. You see that, although it is blood-
stained, there are no cuts in it, which is funny."
"Very funny," agreed Mike ruefully. "And
yet, if my first theory was correct, the explana-
tion is simple." He did not tell his host what
his theory was.
Accompanying Knebworth to the studio, he
watched the char-a-bancs drive off, wishing that
he had made some excuse and the leisure to ac-
company them on their expedition. It was a
happy, cheerful throng, and its very association
was a tonic to his spirits.
He put through his usual call to London.
There was no news. There was really no reason


222 THE HAIRY ARM
why he should not go, he decided recklessly;
and, as soon as his decision was taken, his car
was pounding on the trail of the jay wagon.
He saw the tower a quarter of an hour before he
came up to it—a squat, ancient building for all
the world like an inordinately high sheepfold.
When he came up to them, the char-a-banc had
been drawn on to the grass, and the company
was putting the finishing touches to its make-
up. Adele he did not see at once; she was chang-
ing in a little canvas tent, while Jack Knebworth
and the camera man wrangled over light and
position.
Michael had too much intelligence to butt in
at this moment, and he strolled up to the tower,
examining the curious courses which generation
after generation had added to the original foun-
dation. He knew very little of masonry, but he
was able to detect the Roman portion of the
wall, and he thought he saw the place where the
Saxon builders had filled in a gap.
One of the hands was fixing a ladder up which
Roselle was to pass. The story which was being
filmed was that of a girl who, starting life in
the chorus, had become the wife of a nobleman
with archaic ideas. The poor, but honest, young
man who had loved her in her youth was ever at


THE TOWER 223
hand to help her; and now, when shut up in a
stone room of the keep, he was to rescue her.
The actual castle tower had been shot in
Arundel. The old Griff tower was to serve for a
dose-up, showing the girl descending from her
prison in the arms of her lover, by the aid of a
rope of knotted sheets.
"It's going to be deuced awkward getting
down," said Reggie lugubriously. "Of course
they've got a rope inside the sheet, so there's
no chance of it breaking. But Miss Leamington
is really awfully heavy! You try and lift her
yourself, and see how you like it!" Nothing
would have given Michael greater pleasure than
to carry out the instructions literally.
"It's too robust a part for me—it is really,"
said Reggie Connolly. "I've told Knebworth
that it isn't the job for me."
"It's easy,'' said Knebworth, who had walked
up and overheard the latter part of the conver-
sation. "Miss Leamington will hold the rope
and take the weight off you. All you've got to
do is to look brave and pretty."
"That's all very well," grumbled Reggie,
"but climbing down ropes is not the job I was
engaged for."
"Try it," said Jack laconically.


224 THE HAIRY ARM
The property man had fixed the rope to an
iron staple which he had driven to the inside of
the tower, the top of which would not be shown
in the picture. The actual descent had been
acted by "doubles" in Arundel on a long shot.
This was only the close-up that Jack needed.
The first rehearsal nearly ended in disaster.
With a squeak Connolly let go his burden, and
the girl would have fallen but for her firm grip
on the rope.
"Try it again," stormed Jack. "Remember
you're playing a man's part. A child would hold
her better than that!"
They tried again, and this time with greater
success..
"Camera!" said Knebworth shortly, and then
began the actual taking of the picture.
The camera was moved off twenty or thirty
yards, and while Reggie Connolly waited on the
ground, the girl walked over to Michael.
"I'm glad that's over," she said thankfully.
"Poor Mr. Connolly! The awful language he
was using nearly made me laugh, and that would
have meant that we should have had to take it
all over again. But it wasn't easy," she added.
Her own arm was bruised, and the rope had
rubbed raw a little place on her wrist. Michael


THE TOWER 225
had an insane desire to kiss the raw skin, but
restrained himself.
“What did you think of me? Did I look any-
thing approaching graceful? I felt like a bundle
of straw!”
“You looked wonderful!” he said fervently,
and she shot a quick glance at him and dropped
her eyes.
“Perhaps you're prejudiced,” she said de-
murely.
“I have that feeling, too,” said Michael.
“What is inside?” he pointed.
“Inside the tower? Nothing, except a lot of
rock and wild bush and a pathetic dwarf tree.
I loved it.”
He laughed. “Just now you said you were
glad it was over. I presume you were referring
to the play and not to the interior of the
tower?”
She nodded, a twinkle in her eye. “Mr. Kneb-
worth says he may have to take a night shot, if
he's not satisfied with the day picture. Poor Mr.
Connolly! He'll throw up his part.”
At that moment Jack Knebworth's voice was
heard. “Don’t take the ladder, Collins,” he
shouted. “Put it down on the grass behind the
tower. I may have to come up here tonight, so


226 THE HAIRY ASM
you can leave anything that won't be hurt b>
the weather; you can collect it again in the
morning."
Adele made a little face. "I was afraid he
would," she said. "Not that I mind very much
—it's rather fun. But Mr. Connolly's nervous-
ness communicates itself in some way. I wish
you were playing that part."
"I wish to heaven I were!" said Michael,
with such sincerity in his voice that she colored.
Jack Knebworth came toward them. "Did
you leave anything up there, Adele?" he asked,
pointing to the tower.
"No, Mr. Knebworth," she said in surprise.
"Well, what's that?" He pointed to some-
thing round that showed above the edge of the
tower top. "Why, it's moving!" he gasped.
As he spoke, a head came slowly into view.
It was followed by a massive pair of hairy
shoulders, and then a leg was thrown over the
wall.
It was Bhag! His tawny hair was white with
dust, and his face was powdered grotesquely.
All these things Michael noticed. Then as the
creature put out his arm to steady himself
Michael saw that each wrist was encircled by
the half of a broken pair of handcuff si


CHAPTER XXIX
BHAG'S ROTCBN
THE girl screamed and gripped Michaeft
arm. "What is that?" she asked. "Is it the thmg
that came to my—my room?"
Michael put her gently aside and ran toward
the tower. As he did so Bhag took a leap and
dropped on the ground. For a moment he stood,
his knuckles on the ground, his malignant far*
turned in the direction of the man. And then
he sniffed and, with that queer twittering noise
of his. went across the downs and disappeared
over a near-by crest.
Michael raced in pursuit. By the time he
came into view, the great ape was a quarter of
a mfle away, running at top speed and always
keeping dose to the hedges that divided the
fields he had to cross. Pursuit was useless, and
the detective went slowly back to the alarmed
company.
"It is only an orang-outang belonging to &
Gregory; it's perfectly harmless, he said. "He
has been mkang from the house for two or three
days."


228 THE HAIRY ARM
"He must have been hiding in the tower,"
said Knebworth, and Michael nodded. "Well,
I'm darned glad he didn't choose to come out at
the moment I was shooting," said the director,
mopping his forehead. "You didn't see anything
of him, Adele?"
Michael guessed that the girl was pale under
her yellow make-up, and the hand she raised to
her lips shook a little, although she tried to con-
trol it.
"That explains the mystery of the hand-
cuffs," said Knebworth.
"Did you notice them?" asked Michael
quickly. "Yes, that explains the broken link,"
he said, "but it doesn't exactly explain the butyl
chloride."
He held the girl's arm, as he spoke, and in the
warm, strong pressure she felt something more
than his sympathy.
"Were you a little frightened?"
"I was badly frightened," she confessed.
"How terrible! Was that Bhag?"
He nodded. "That was Bhag," he said. "I
suppose he's been hiding in the tower ever since
his disappearance. You saw nothing when you
were on the top of the wall?"
"I'm glad to say I didn't, or I should have


BHAG'S RETURN 229
dropped. There are a large number of boshes
where he might have been hidden."
Michael decided to look for himself. They
put up the ladder, and he climbed to the broad
top of the tower and looked down. At the base
of the stonework the ground sloped away in a
manner curiously reminiscent of the shell holes
he had seen during the war in France. The
actual floor of the tower was not visible under
the hawthorn bushes which grew thickly at the
center. He caught a glimpse of the jagged edges
of rock, the distorted branches of an old tree,
and that was all.
There was ample opportunity for conceal-
ment. Possibly Bhag had hidden there most of
the time, sleeping off the effects of his labor and
his wounds; for Michael had seen something
that nobody else had noticed—the gashed skin
and the ear that had been slashed in half.
He came down the ladder again and rejoined
Knebworth.
"I think that finishes our work for today,"
said Jack dubiously. "I smell hysteria, and it
wfll be a long time before I can get the girls to
come up for a night picture.
Michael drove the director back in his car,
and all the way home he was considering this


230 THE HAIRY ARM
strange appearance of the ape. Somebody had
handcuffed Bhag; he ought to have guessed
that when he saw the torn link. No human
being could have broken those apart. And Bhag
had escaped—from whom? How? And why had
he not returned to Griff Towers and to his
master?
When he had dropped the director at the
studio he went straight on to Sir Gregory's house
and found the baronet playing clock golf on a
strip of lawn that ran by the side of the house.
The man was still heavily bandaged, but he was
making good recovery.
"Yes, Bhag is back. He returned half an hour
ago. Where he had been, Heaven knows! I've
often wished that chap could talk, but I've
never wished it so much as I do at this moment
.
Somebody had put irons on him; I've just taken
them off."
"Can I see them?"
"You knew it, did you?"
"I saw him. He came out of the old tower on
the hill." Michael pointed, from where they
stood, the tower was in sight.
"Is that so? And what was he doing there?"
Sir Gregory scratched his chin thoughtfully.
"He's been away before, but mostly he goes to


BRAG'S RETURN 231
land of mine about three miles away, where
there's plenty of cover but no intruders. I dis-
covered that when a poacher saw him and, like
a fool, shot at him; that poacher was a lucky
man to escape with his life. Have you found the
body of Foss?"
The baronet had resumed his playing and was
looking at the ball at his feet.
"No," said Michael quietly.
"Expect to find it?"
"I shouldn't be surprised."
Sir Gregory stood, his hands leaning on his
dub, looking across the wold. "What's the law
in this country, suppose a man accidentally kills
a servant who tried to knife him?"
"He would have to stand his trial," said
Michael, "and a verdict of 'justifiable homicide'
would be returned, and he would be set free."
"Suppose he didn't reveal it? Suppose he—
well, did away with the body—buried it—and
let the matter slide? What would happen then?"
"Then he would place himself in a remarkably
dangerous position," said Michael. ••Particu-
larly"—he watched the man closely—"if a
woman friend, who is no longer a woman friend,
happened to be a witness, or had knowledge of
the act."


232 THE HAIRY ARM
Gregory Penne's one visible eye blinked
quickly, and he went that curious purple color
which Michael had seen before when he was
agitated. "Suppose she tried to get money out
of him by threatening to tell the police?"
"Then," said the patient Michael, "she would
go to prison for blackmail and possibly as an
accessory to or after the fact."
"Would she?" Sir Gregory's voice was eager.
"She would be an accessory if she saw him cut
the man down? Mind you, this happened
years ago. There's a statute of limitations,
isn't there?"
"Not for murder," said Michael.
"Murder! Would you call that murder?"
asked the other in alarm. "In self-defense?
Rot!"
Things were gradually being made light to
Michael. Once Stella Mendoza had called the
man a murderer, and Michael's nimble mind,
which could reconstruct the scene with almost
unerring precision, began to grow active. A
servant, a colored man, probably one of his
Malayan slaves, had run amuck, and Penne had
killed him—possibly in self-defense—and then
had grown frightened of the consequences. He
rememl^ered Stella's description. "Penne is a


BRAG'S RETURN 233
bluffer and a coward at heart." That was the
story in a nutshell.
"Where did you bury your unfortunate vic-
tim?" he asked coolly, and the man started.
"Bury? What do you mean?" he blustered.
"I didn't murder or bury anybody. I was
merely putting a hypothetical case to you."
"It sounded more real than hypothesis," said
Michael, "but I won't press the question."
In truth, crimes of this character bored
Michael Brixan; and, but for the unusual and
curious circumstances of The Head-hunter's vil-
lainies, he would have dropped the case almost
as soon as he came on to it. And there was yet
another attraction which he did not name even
to himself. As for Sir Gregory Penne, the gross-
ness of the man and his hobbies, the sordid vul-
garity of his associations, were more than a
tittle sickening. He would gladly have cut Sir
Gregory out of life, only—he was not yet sure.
"It is very curious how these questions crop
up," Penne was saying, as he came out of his
reverie. "A chap like myself, who doesn't have
much to occupy his mind, gets on an abstract
problem of that kind and never leaves it. So
she'd be an accessory after the fact, would she?
That would mean penal servitude."


234 THE HAIRY ARM
He seemed to derive a great deal of satis-
faction from this thought, and he was almost
amiable by the time Michael parted from him,
after an examination of the broken handcuffs.
They were British and of an old pattern.
"Is Bhag hurt very much?" asked Michael,
as he put them down.
"Not very much; he's got a cut or two,"
said the other calmly. He made no attempt to
disguise the happenings of that night. "He
came to my assistance, poor brute! This fellow
nearly got him. In fact, poor old Bhag was
knocked out, but went after them like a brick."
"What hat was that man wearing—the brown
man?"
"Keji? I don't know. I suppose he wore
a hat, but I didn't notice it. Why?"
"I was merely asking," said Michael care-
lessly. "Perhaps he lost it in the caves."
He watched the other narrowly, as he spoke.
"Caves? I've never heard about those.
What are they? Are there any caves near by?"
asked Sir Gregory innocently. "You've a won-
derful grip of the topography of the county,
Brixan. I've been living here off and on for
twenty years, and I lose myself every time I go
into Chichesterl"


CHAPTER XXX
THE ADVERTISEMENT
THE question of the caves intrigued Michael
more than any feature the case had presented.
He bethought himself of Mr. Longvale, whose
knowledge of the country was encyclopedic.
That gentleman was out, but Michael met him,
driving his antique car from Chichester. To say
that he saw him is to mistake facts. The sound
of that old car was audible long before it came
into sight around a bend of the road. Michael
drew up, Longvale following his example, and
parked his car behind that ancient bus.
"Yes, it is rather noisy," admitted the old
man, rubbing his bald head with a brilliant ban-
danna handkerchief. "I'm only beginning to
realize the fact of late years. Personally I do
not think that a noiseless car could give me as
much satisfaction. One feels that something is
happening."
"You ought to buy a—" said Michael with a
smile, as he mentioned the name of a famous
car.
"I thought of doing so," said the other sen-


236 THE HAIRY ARM
ously, "but I love old things. That is my ec-
centricity."
Michael questioned him upon the caves, and,
to his surprise, the old man immediately re-
turned an affirmative.
"Yes, I've heard of them frequently. When
I was a boy, my father told me that the country
around here was honeycombed with caves, and
that, if anybody was lucky enough to find them,
they would discover great stores of brandy.
Nobody has found them, as far as I know. There
used to be an entrance over there." He pointed
in the direction of Griff Towers. "But many
years ago—"
He retold the familiar story of the landslide
and of the passing out of two companies of gal-
lant knights and squires, which probably the
old man had got from the same source of in-
formation as Michael had drawn upon for his
knowledge of it.
"The popular legend was that a subterranean
river ran into the sea near Selsey Hill—of
course, some distance beneath the surface of the
water. But, as you know, country people live
on such legends. In all probability it is nothing
but a legend."
Inspector Lyle was waiting for the detective


THE ADVERTISEMENT 237
when he arrived, with news of a startling char-
acter.
"The advertisement appeared in this morn-
ing's Daily Star," he said.
Michael took the slip of paper. It was identi-
cally worded like its predecessor:
Is your trouble of mind or body incurable? Do you
hesitate on the brink of the abyss? Does your courage
fail you? Write to Benefactor, Box
"There will be no reply till tomorrow morn-
ing. Letters are to be readdressed to a shop in
the Lambeth Road, and the chief wants you to
be ready to pick up the trail."
The trail indeed proved to be well laid. At
four o'clock on the following afternoon a lame
old woman limped into the news agent's shop
on the Lambeth Road and inquired for a letter
addressed to Mr. Vole. There were three wait-
ing for her. She paid the fee, put the letters
into a rusty old hand bag, and limped out of the
shop, mumbling and talking to herself. Passing
down the Lambeth Road she boarded a tram car
en route for Clapham, and near the Common she
alighted and, passing out of the region of the
middle-class houses, came to a jumble of tene-
ments and ancient tumble-down dwellings.
Every corner she turned brought her to a


238 THE HAIRY ARM
street meaner than the last, and finally she
arrived at a low, arched alleyway, the paving
of which had not been renewed for years. It
was a little cul-de-sac, its houses, built in the
same pattern, joined wall to wall, and before the
last of these she stopped, took out a key from
her pocket, and opened the door. She was turn-
ing to close it when she was aware that a man
stood in the entrance, a tall, good-looking gentle-
man, who must have been on her heels all the
time.
"Good afternoon, mother," he said.
The old woman peered at him suspiciously,
grumbling under her breath. Only hospital doc-
tors and workhouse folk, people connected with
charity, called women "mother"; and sometimes
the police got the habit. Her grimy old face
wrinkled hideously at this last unpleasant
thought.
"I want to have a little talk with you."
"Come in," she said shrilly.
The boarding of the passageway was broken
in half a dozen places and was indescribably
dirty, but it represented the spirit of pure hy-
giene compared with the stuffy horror which was
her sitting room and kitchen.
"What are you, horspital or p'lice?"


THE ADVERTISEMENT 239
"Police," said Michael. "I want three letters
you've collected."
To his surprise the woman showed relief.
"Oh, is that all?" she said. "Well, that's a job
I do for a gentleman. I've done it for years.
I've never had any complaint before."
"What is his name?"
"Don't know his name. Just whatever name
happens to be on the letters. I send 'em on to
him."
From under a heap of rubbish she produced
three envelopes, addressed in typewritten char-
acters. The typewriting Michael recognized.
They were addressed to a street in Guildford.
Michael took the letters from her hand bag.
Two of them he read; the third was a dummy
which he himself had written. The most direct
cross-examination, however, revealed nothing.
The woman did the work, receiving a pound for
her trouble in a letter from the unknown, who
told her where the letters were to be collected.
"She was a little mad and indescribably
dirty," said Michael in disgust, when he re-
ported; "and the Guildford inquiries don't help
us forward. There's another agent there, who
sends the letters back to London, which they
never reach. That is the mystery of the pro-


240 THE HAIRY ARM
ceeding. There simply isn't such an address in
London, and I can only suggest that they are
intercepted on the way. The Guildford police
have that matter in hand."
Staines was very worried.
"Michael I oughtn't to have put you on this
job," he said. "My first thoughts were best.
Scotland Yard is kicking, and they say that the
meddling of outsiders is responsible for The
Head-hunter not being brought to justice. You
know something of departmental jealousy, and
you don't need me to tell you that I'm getting
more kicks than I'm entitled to."
Michael looked down at his chief reflectively.
"I can get The Head-hunter, but more than ever
I'm convinced that we cannot convict him until
we know a little more about the caves!"
Staines frowned. "I don't quite get you,
Mike. Which caves are these?"
"There are some caves in the neighborhood of
Chichester. Foss knew about them and sus-
pected their association with The Head-hunter.
Give me four days, Major, and I'll have them
both. And if I fail"—he paused—"if I fail, the
next time you say good morning to me, I shall be
looking up to you from the interior of one of The
Head-hunter's boxes!"


CHAPTER XXXI
JOHN PERCIVAL LIGGITT
IT was the second day of Michael's visit to
town, and, for a reason which she could not
analyze, Adele felt "out" with the world. And
yet the work was going splendidly, and Jack
Knebworth, usually sparing of his praise, had
almost rhapsodized over a little scene which she
had acted with Connolly. So generous was he
in his praise and so comprehensive, that even
Reggie came in for his share, and Reggie was
willing and ready to revise his earlier estimate
of the leading lady's ability.
"Ill be perfectly frank and honest, Mr. Kneb-
worth," he said in this moment of candor;
"Leamington is good. Of course I'm always on
the spot to give her tips. I feel that she pays 1 -w
the coaching."
"Oh, do you?" growled the old man. "iViul
I'd like to say the same about you, Reggie 1 But,
unfortunately, all the coaching you've had, or
ever will get, is not going to improve you."
Reggie's superior smile would have irritated
one less equable than the director.
241


242 THE HAIRY ARM
"You're perfectly right, Mr. Knebworth," he
saiu earnestly. "I can't improve! I've touched
the zenith of my power. I've had three offers to
go to Hollywood, and you'll never believe who
is the lady who asked me to play opposite to
her."
"I don't believe any of it," said Jack even-
temperedly, "but you're right to an extent about
Miss Leamington. She's fine."
Later in the day Adele asked her gray-haired
chief whether it was true that Reggie would
soon be leaving England for another and a more
ambitious sphere.
"I shouldn't think so," said Jack. "There
never was an actor that hadn't a better contract
up his sleeve and wasn't ready to take it."
"Has Mr. Brixan come back?"
He shook his head. "No, I've not heard from
him. There was a tough-looking fellow called at
the studio half an hour ago to ask whether he'd
returned."
"Rather an unpleasant-looking tramp?" she
asked. "I spoke to him. He said he had a letter
for Mr. Brixan which he would not deliver to
anybody else."
She looked through the window which com-
manded a view of the entrance drive to the


JOHN PERCIVAL LIGGITT 243
studio. Standing outside on the edge of the
pavement was the wreck of a man. Long, kvik,
black hair, streaked with gray, fell from beneath
the soiled and dilapidated golf cap; he was
apparently shirtless, for the collar of his inde-
scribable jacket was buttoned up to his throat;
and his bare toes showed through one gaping
boot.
He might have been a man of sixty, but it was
difficult to arrive at his age. It looked as though
the gray, stubbled beard had not met a razor
since he was in prison last. His eyes were red
and inflamed; his nose was that crimson which
is almost blue. His hands were thrust into the
pockets of trousers and seemed to be their only
visible means of support, until you saw the
string that was tied around his lean waist; and,
as he stood, he shuffled his feet rhythmically,
whistling a doleful tune. From time to time he
took one of his hands from his pockets and
examined the somewhat soiled envelope it held,
and then, as if satisfied, put it back again and
continued his jigging vigil.
"Do you think you ought to see that letter?"
asked the girl, troubled. "It may be very im-
portant."
"I thought that, too," said Jack Knebworth,


244 THE HAIRY ARM
“but when I asked him to let me see the note, he
just grinned.”
“Do you know who it's from?”
“No more than a crow, my dear,” said Kneb-
worth patiently. “And now let's get off the all-
absorbing subject of Michael Brixan to get back
to the fair Roselle. That shot I took of the
tower can’t be bettered, so I’m going to cut
out the night picture, and from now on we'll
work on the lot.”
The production was a heavy one, unusually so
for one of Knebworth's; the settings more elab-
orate, the crowd bigger than ever he had
handled since he came to England. It was not
an easy day for the girl, and she was utterly
fagged when she started homeward that night.
“Ain’t seen Mr. Brixan, Miss?” said a high-
pitched voice, as she reached the sidewalk.
She turned with a start. She had forgotten
the existence of the tramp.
“No, he hasn’t been here,” she said. “You
had better see Mr. Knebworth again. Mr.
Brixan lives with him.”
“Don’t I know it? Ain't I got all the informa-
tion possible about him? I should say I had!”
“He is in London; I suppose you know that?”
“He ain’t in London,” said the other disap-


JOHN PERCIVAL LIGGITT 245
pointedly. “If he was in London I shouldn’t be
hanging around here, should I? No, he left
London yesterday. I'm going to wait till I see
him.”
She was amused by his pertinacity, though it
was difficult for her to be amused at anything in
the state of utter weariness into which she had
fallen.
Crossing the market square she had to jump
quickly to avoid being knocked down by a car
which she knew was Stella Mendoza's. Stella
could be at times a little reckless, and the motto
upon the golden mascot on her radiator—“Jump
or Die”—held a touch of sincerity.
She was in a desperate hurry now and cursed
fluently, as she swung her car to avoid the girl,
whom she recognized. Sir Gregory had come to
his senses, and she wanted to get at him before
he lost them again. She pulled up the car with
a jerk at the gates of Griff Towers, flung open the
door, and jumped out.
“If I don't return in two hours, you can go
intº, Chichester and fetch the police,” she said,


CHAPTER XXXII
GREGORY'S WAY
ON her table Stella had left a note to the same
effect. If she did not return by a certain hour,
the police were to read the letter they would
find on her mantelpiece. She had not allowed
for the fact that neither note nor letter would
be seen until the next morning.
To Stella Mendoza the interview was one of
the most important and vital in her life. She
had purposely delayed her departure in the hope
that Gregory Penne would take a more generous
view of his obligations, though she had very
little hope that he would change his mind on the
all-important matter of money. And now, by
some miracle, he had relented; he had spoken to
her in an almost friendly tone on the phone; he
had laughed at her reservations and the precau-
tions which she promised she would take; and in
the end she had overcome her natural fears.
He received her, not in his library, but in the
big apartment immediately above. It was
longer, for it embraced the space occupied on
246


GREGORY'S WAY 247
the lower floor by the small drawing room; but
in the matter of furnishing it differed materially.
Stella had only once been in "The Splendid
Hall," as he called it. Its vastness and darkness
had frightened her, and the display which he
had organized for her benefit was one of her
unpleasant memories.
The big room was covered with a thick black
carpet, and the floor space was unrelieved by
any sign of furniture. Divans were set about,
the walls covered with Eastern hangings; there
was a row of scarlet pillars up both sides of the
room, and such light as there was came from
three heavily shaded black lanterns, which cast
pools of yellow light upon the carpet, but did
not contribute to the gayety of the room.
Penne was sitting cross-legged on a silken
divan, his eyes watching the gyrations of a
native girl, as she twirled and twisted to the
queer sound of native guitars played by three
solemn-faced men in the darkened corner of the
room. Gregory wore a suit of flaming red-
colored pajamas, and his glassy gaze and brute
mouth told Stella all that she wanted to know
about her evil friend.
Sir Gregory Penne was no less and no more
than a slave to his appetites. Born a rich man,


248 THE HAIRY ARM
he had never known denial of his desires. Money
had grown to money in a sort of cellular progres-
sion, and when the normal pleasures of life
grew stale, and he was satiated by the sweets of
his possessions, he found his chiefest satisfaction
in taking that which was forbidden. The raids
which his agents had made from time to time in
the jungles of his second home gave him tro-
phies, human and material, that lost their value
when they were under his hand.
SteDa, who had visions of becoming mistress
of Griff Towers, became less attractive, as she
grew more complaisant. And at last her attrac-
tion had vanished, and she was no more to him
than the table at which he sat.
A doctor had told him that drink would kill
him, and he drank the more. Liquor brought
him splendid visions, precious stories that wove
themselves into dazzling fabrics of dreams. It
pleased him to place in the forefront of his fud-
dled mind a slip of a girl who hated him. A
gross bully, an equally gross coward, he could
not or would not argue a theme to its logical and
unpleasant conclusion. At the end there was
always his money that could be paid in smaller
or larger quantities to settle all grievances
against him. This thought comforted him.


GREGORY'S WAY 249
The native who had conducted Stella Men-
doza to the apartment had disappeared, and she
waited at the end of the divan, looking at the
man for a long time before he took any notice of
her. Presently he turned his head and favored
her with a stupid, vacant stare.
"Sit down, Stella," he said thickly, "sit down.
You couldn't dance like that, eh? None of you
Europeans have got the grace, the suppleness.
Look at her!"
The dancing girl was twirling at a furious
rate, her draperies enveloping her like a cloud.
Presently, with a crash of guitars, she sank face
downward, on the carpet. Gregory said some-
thing in Malayan, and the woman showed her
white teeth in a smile. Stella had seen her
before; there used to be two dancing girls, but
one had contracted scarlet fever and had been
deported. Gregory had a horror of disease.
"Sit down here," he commanded, laying his
hand on the divan.
As if by magic, every servant in the room had
disappeared, and she suddenly felt cold.
"I've left my chauffeur outside, with instruc-
tions to go for the police if I'm not out in half an
hour," she said loudly, and he laughed.
"You ought to have brought your nurse,


250 THE HAIRY ARM
Stella. What's the matter with you nowadays?
Can't you talk anything but police? I want to
talk to you," he said in a milder tone.
"And I want to talk to you, Gregory. I am
leaving Chichester for good, and I don't want to
see the place again."
"That means you don't want to see me again,
eh? Well, I'm pretty well through with you,
and there's going to be no weeping and wailing
and gnashing of teeth on my part."
"My new company "she began, and he
stopped her with a gesture.
"If your new company depends upon my put-
ting up the money, you can forget it," he said
roughly. "I've seen my lawyer—at least, I've
seen somebody who knows—and he tells me
that, if you're trying to blackmail me about
Tjarji, you're liable to get into trouble yourself.
Ill put up money for you," he went on. "Not a
tot, but enough. I don't suppose you're a beg-
gar, for I've given you sufficient already to start
three companies. Stella, I'm crazy about that
girl, and I mean to get her, if I can."
She looked at him, her mouth open in surprise.
"What girl?" she asked.
"Adele. Isn't that her name—Adele Leam-
ington?"


GREGORY'S WAY 251
"Do you mean the extra girl that took my
place?' she gasped.
He nodded, his sleepy eyes fixed on hers.
"That's it. She's my type, more than you ever
were, Stella. And that isn't meant in any way
disparaging to you."
She was content to listen; his declaration had
taken her breath away.
"Ill go a long way to get her," he went on.
• I'd many her, if that meant anything to her.
It's about time I married, anyway. Now you're
a friend of hers"
"A friend 1" scoffed Stella, finding her voice.
"How could I be a friend of hers when she has
taken my place? And what if I were? You
don't suppose I would bring a girl to this hell
upon earth?"
He brought his eyes around to hers—cold,
malignant, menacing.
"This hell upon earth has been heaven for
you. It has given you wings, anyway! Don't
go back to London, Stella, not for a week or two.
Get to know this girl. You've got opportunities
that nobodj else has. Kid her along. You're
not going u lose anything by it. Speak about
me; teii her what a good fellow I am; and tefl
her what a t-hanrp she has. You needn't men-


252 THE HAIRY ARM
tion marriage, but you can, if it helps any. Show
her some of your jewels—that big pendant I
gave you."
He rambled on, and she listened, her bewilder-
ment quickly giving place to an uncontrollable
fury.
"You brute!" she said at last. "To dare sug-
gest that I bring this girl here! I don't like her
—naturally. But I'd go down on my knees to
her to beg her not to come. You think I'm
jealous?" Her lips curled at the sight of the
smile on his face. "That's where you're wrong,
Gregory. I'm jealous of the position she's taken
at the studio, but, so far as you're concerned"—
she shrugged her shoulders—"you mean nothing
to me. I doubt very much if you've ever meant
more than a steady source of income. That's
candid, isn't it?"
She got up from the divan and began putting
on her gloves.
"As you don't seem to want to help me," she
said, "I'll have to find a way of making you keep
your promise. And you did promise me a com-
pany, Gregory; I suppose you've forgotten
that?"
"I was more interested in you then," he said.
"Where are you going?"


GREGORY'S WAY 253
"I'm going back to my cottage, and tomorrow
Pm returning to town," she said.
He looked first at one end of the room, then
at the other, and then at her.
"You're not going back to your cottage;
you're staying here, my dear." he said.
She laughed.
"You told your chauffeur to go for the police.
did you? Ill tell you something! Your chauf-
feur is in my kitchen at this moment, having his
supper. If you think that he's likely to leave
before you, you don't know me, Stella!"
He gathered up the dressing gown that was
spread on the divan and slipped his arms into
the hanging sleeves. A terrible figure he was in
the girl's eyes, something unclean, obscene. The
scarlet pajama jacket gave his face a demoniacal
value, and she felt herself cringing from him.
He was quick to notice the action, and his eyes
glowed with a light of triumph. He looked down
at her malignantly.
"Bhag is downstairs," he said significantly.
"He handles people roughly. He handled one
girl so that I had to call in a doctor. You'll come
with me without assistance?"
She nodded dumbly; her knees gave way
under her. as she walked. She had bearded the


254 THE HAIRY ARM
beast in his den once too often. Halfway along
the corridor he unlocked a door of a room and
pushed it open.
"Go there and stay there," he said. "I'll talk
to you tomorrow, when I'm sober. I'm drunk
now. Maybe I'll send some one to keep you
company. I don't know yet." He ruffled his
scanty hair in drunken perplexity. "But I've
got to be sober before I deal with you."
The door slammed on her, and a key turned.
She was in complete darkness, in a room she did
not know. For one wild, terrified moment she
wondered if she was alone. It was a long time
before her palm touched the little button pro-
jecting from the wall. She pressed it. A lamp,
enclosed in a crystal globe set in the ceiling,
flashed into sparkling light. She was in what
had evidently been a small bedroom. The bed-
stead had been removed, but a mattress and a
pillow were folded up in one corner. There was
a window, heavily barred, but no other exit.
She examined the door; the handle turned in
her grasp; there was not even a keyhole in which
she could try her own key. She was forced to
abandon that slight hope of escape.
Going to the window she pulled up the sash,
for the room was stuffy and airless. She found


GREGORY'S WAY 255
herself looking out from the back of the house,
across a lawn to a belt of trees which she could
just discern. The road ran parallel with the
front of the house, and the shrillest scream
would not be heard by anybody on the road.
Sitting down in one of the chairs, she consid-
ered her position. Having overcome her fear,
she had that in her possession which would over-
come Gregory if it came to a fight. Pulling up
her skirt, she unbuckled the soft leather belt
about her waist and, from the Russian leather
holster it supported, took a diminutive Brown-
ing—a toy of a weapon, but wholly businesslike
in action. Sliding back the jacket, she threw a
cartridge into the chamber and pulled up the
safety catch; then she examined the magazine
and pressed it back again. "Now, Gregory,"
she said aloud, and at that moment her face
went round to the window, and she started up.
Two grimy hands gripped the bars; glaring in
at her with the horrible face of a tramp. Her
trembling hand shot out for the pistol, but,
before it could close on the butt, the face had
disappeared; and though she went round to the
window and looked out. the bars prevented her
from getting a clear view of the parapet
which the uncouth figure was creeping.


CHAPTER XXXIII
"I WANT You"
TEN o'clock was striking from Chichester
Cathedral when the tramp, who hal f an hour ago
had been peering and prying into the secrets of
Griff Towers, made his appearance in the mar-
ket place. His clothes were even more dusty
and soiled, and a policeman who saw him stood
squarely in his path.
"On the road?" he asked.
"Yes," whined the man.
"You can get out of Chichester as quick as
you like," said the officer. "Are you looking for
abed?"
"Yes, sir."
"Why don't you try the casual ward at the
workhouse?"
"They're full up, sir."
"That's a lie," said the officer. "Now under-
stand, if I see you again I'll arrest you!"
Muttering something to himself, the squalid
figure moved on toward the Arundel Road, his
shoulders hunched, his hands hidden in the
256


"I WANT YOU" 257
depths of his pockets. Out of sight of the po-
liceman he turned abruptly to the right and
accelerated his pace. He was making for Jack
Knebworth's house. The director heard the
knock, opened the door, and stood aghast at the
unexpected character of the caller.
"What do you want?" he asked.
"Mr. Brixan come back?"
"No, he hasn't come back. You'd better give
me that letter. I'll get in touch with him by
phone."
The tramp grinned and shook his head. "No,
you don't. I want to see Brixan."
"Well, you won't see him here tonight," said
Jack. And then suspiciously: "My idea is that
you don't want to see him at all, and that you're
hanging around for some other purpose."
The tramp did not reply. He was whistling
softly a distorted passage from the "Indian Love
Lyrics," and all the time his right foot was beat-
ing the time.
"He's in a bad way, is old Brixan," he said,
and there was a certain amount of pleasure in
his voice that annoyed Knebworth.
"What do you know about him?"
"I know he's in bad with headquarters—that's
what I know," said the tramp. "He couldn't


258 THE HAIRY ARM
find where the letters went to—that's the
trouble with him. But 7 know."
"Is that what you want to see him about?"
The man nodded vigorously. "I know," he
said again. "I could tell him something if he
was here, but he ain't here."
"If you know he isn't here," asked the exas-
perated Jack, "why in blazes do you come?"
"Because the police are hounding me, that's
why. A copper down on the market place is
going to pinch me next time he sees me. So I
thought I'd come up to fill in the time, that's
what!"
Jack stared at him. "You've got a nerve," he
said in awe-stricken tones. "And now that
you've filled in your time, and I've entertained
you, you can getl Do you want anything to
eat?"
"Not me," said the tramp. "I live on the
fat of the land, I do!"
His shrill Cockney voice was getting on Jack's
nerves.
"Well, good night," he said shortly and closed
the door on his unprepossessing visitor.
The tramp waited for quite a long time before
he made any move. Then, from the interior of
his cap, he took a cigarette and lit it before he


"I WANT YOU" 259
shuffled back the way be had come, making a
long detour to avoid the center of the town,
where the unfriendly policeman was on duty. A
church clock was striking a quarter past ten
when he reached the corner of the Arundel Road
and, throwing away his cigarette, moved into
the shadow of the fence and waited.
Five minutes, ten minutes passed, and his
keen eyes caught sight of a man walking rapidly
the way he had come, and he grinned in the
darkness. It was Knebworth. Jack had been
perturbed by the visitor and was on his way to
the police station to make inquiries about
Michael. This the tramp guessed, though he
had little time to consider the director's move-
ments, for a car came noiselessly around the cor-
ner and stopped immediately opposite him.
"Is that you, my friend?"
"Yes," said the tramp in a sulky voice.
"Come inside."
The tramp lurched forward, peering into the
dark interior of the car. Then, with a turn of
his wrist, he jerked open the door, put one foot
on the running board, and suddenly flung him-
self upon the driver.
"Mr. Head-hunter, I want you/" he hissed.
The words were hardly out of his mouth be-


260 THE HAIRY ARM
fore something soft and wet struck him in the
face—something that blinded and choked him,
so that he let go his grip and fought and clawed,
like a dying man, at the air. A push of the
driver's foot, and he was flung, breathless, to the
sidewalk, and the car sped on.
Jack Knebworth had witnessed the scene, as
far as it could be witnessed in the half dark-
ness, and came running across. A policeman
appeared from nowhere, and together they lifted
the tramp into a sitting position.
"I've seen this fellow before tonight," said the
policeman. "I warned him"
And then the prostrate man drew a long, sigh-
ing breath, and his hands went up to his eyes.
"This is where I hand in my resignation," he
said, and Knebworth's jaw dropped.
It was the voice of Michael Brixanl


CHAPTER XXXIV
THE SEARCH
"YES, it's me," said Michael bitterly. "All
right, officer, you needn't wait. Jack, I'll come
up to the house to get this make-up off."
"For the Lord's sake!" breathed Knebworth,
staring at the detective. "I've never seen a man
made up so well that he deceived me."
"I've deceived everybody, including myself,"
said Michael savagely. "I thought I'd caught
him with a dummy letter, instead of which the
devil caught me."
"What was it?"
"Ammonia, I think—a concentrated solution
thereof," said Michael.
It was twenty minutes before he emerged
from the bathroom, his eyes inflamed, but other-
wise his old self.
"I wanted to trap him in my own way, but he
was too smart for me."
"Do you know who he is?"
Michael nodded.
"Oh, yes, I know," he said. "I've got a spe-
261


262 THE HAIRY ARM
cial force of men here, waiting to effect the
arrest, but I didn't want a fuss, and I certainly
did not want bloodshed. And bloodshed there
will be, unless I am mistaken."
"I didn't seem to recognize the car, and I
know most of the machines in this city," said
Jack.
"It is a new one, used only for these midnight
adventures of The Head-hunter. He probably
keeps it in a garage away from his house. You
asked me if I'd have something to eat just now,
and I lied and told you I was living on the fat of
the land. Give me some food, for the love of
heaven."
Jack went into the larder and brought out
some cold ham, brewed a pot of coffee, and sat
in silence, watching the famished detective dis-
pose of the viands.
"I feel a man now," said Michael, as he fin-
ished; "I've had nothing to eat except a biscuit
since eleven this morning. By the way, our
friend Stella Mendoza is staying at Griff
Towers, and I'm afraid I rather scared her. I
happened to be nosing round there an hour ago,
to make absolutely sure of my bird, and I looked
in upon her—to her alarm 1"


THE SEARCH 266
There came a sharp rap at the door, and Jack
Knebworth looked up.
"Who's that at this time of night?" he asked.
"Probably the policeman," said Michael.
Knebworth opened the door and found a
short, stout, middle-aged woman standing on the
doorstep, with a roll of paper in her hand.
"Is this Mr. Knebworth's?" she asked.
"Yes," said Jack.
"I've brought the play that Miss Leamington
left behind. She asked me to bring it to you."
Knebworth took the roll of paper and slipped
off the elastic band which encircled it. It was
the manuscript of "Roselle."
"Why have you brought this?" he asked.
"She told me to bring it up if I found it."
"Ver- good," said Jack, mystified. "Thank
you ver> much."
He closed the door on the woman and went
back to the dining room.
"Adele has sent up her script. What's wrong,
I wonder?"
"Who brought it?" asked Michael, interested.
"Her landlady, I suppose," said Jack, describ-
ing the woman.
"Yes, that's she. Adele is not turning in her
part>"


264 THE HAIRY ARM
\
Jack shook his head. "That wouldn't be
likely."
Michael was puzzled. "What the dickens
does it mean? What did the woman say?"
"She said that Miss Leamington wanted her
to bring up the manuscript if she found it."
Michael was out of the house in a second and,
racing down the street, overtook the woman.
"Will you come back, please?" he said, and
he escorted her to the house again. "Just tell
Mr. Knebworth why Miss Leamington sent this
manuscript, and what you mean by having 'for-
gotten' it."
"Why, when she came up to you "began
the woman.
"Came up to me?" cried Knebworth quickly.
"A gentleman from the studio called for her
and said you wanted to see her," said the land-
lady. "Miss Leamington was just going to bed,
but I took up the message. He said you wanted
to see her about the play and asked her to bring
the manuscript. She had mislaid it somewhere
and was in a great state about it, so I told her to
go on, as you were in a hurry, and I'd bring it
up. At least she asked me to do that."
"What sort of a gentleman was it who
called?"


THE SEARCH 265
"A rather stout gentleman. He wasn't
exactly a gentleman, he was a chauffeur. As a
matter of fact, I thought he'd been drinking,
though I didn't want to alarm Miss Leamington
by telling her so."
"And then what happened?" asked Michael
quickly.
"She came down and got in the car. The
chauffeur was already in."
"A dosed car, I suppose?"
The woman nodded.
"And then they drove off? What time was
this?"
"Just after half past ten. I remember, be-
cause I heard the church dock strike just before
the car drove up."
Michael was cool now. His voice scarcely
rose above a whisper.
"Twenty-five past eleven," he said, looking at
his watch. "You've been a long time coming."
"I couldn't find the paper, sir. It was under
Miss Leamington's pillow. Isn't she here?"
"No, she's not here," said Michael quietly.
"Thank you very much; I won't keep you. Will
you wait for me at the police station?"
He went upstairs and put on his coat.
"Where do you think she is?" asked Jack,


266 THE HAIRY ARM
"She is at Griff Towers," replied the other,
"and whether Gregory Penne lives or dies this
night depends entirely upon the treatment that
Adele has received at his hands."
At the police station he found the landlady, a
little frightened, more than a little tearful.
"What was Miss Leamington wearing when
she went out?"
"Her blue cloak, sir," whimpered the woman,
"that pretty blue cloak she always wore."
Scotland Yard men were at the station, and
it was a heavily loaded car that ran out of Chi-
Chester—too heavy for Michael in a fever of
impatience, for the weight of its human cargo
checked its speed, and every second was pre-
cious. At last, after an eternity of time, the big
car swung into the drive. Michael did not stop
to waken the lodge keeper, but smashed the frail
gates open with the buffers of his machine,
mounted the slope, crossing the gravel parade,
and halted.
There was no need to ring the bell; the door
was wide open, and, at the head of his party,
Brixan dashed through the deserted hall, along
the corridor into Gregory's library. One light
was burning, offering a feeble illumination, but
the room was empty. With rapid strides he


THE SEARCH 267
crossed to the desk and turned the switch.
Bhag's door opened, but Bbag too was an absen-
tee. He pressed the bell by the side of the
fireplace, and almost immediately the brown-
faced servitor whom he had seen before came
?rembiing in to the room.
••Where is your master?" asked Michael f*
Dutch.
The man shook his head. "I don't know," he
replied, but instinctively he looked up to the
ceiling.
"Show me the way."
They went back to the hall, up the broad
stairway on to the first floor. Along a corridor,
hung with swords, as was its fellow below, he
reached another open door—the great dance
hall where Gregory Penne had held revel that
evening. There was nobody in sight, and
Michael came out into the hall. As he did so,
he was aware of a frantic tapping at one of the
doors in the corridor. The key was in the lock;
he turned it and flung the door wide open, and
Stella Mendoza, white as death, staggered out
.
"Where is Adele?" she gasped.
"I want to ask you that," said Michael
sternly. "Where is she?"
The girl shook her head helplessly, strove tc


268 THE HAIRY ARM
speak, and then collapsed in a swoon. He did
not wait for her to recover, but continued his
search. From room to room he went, but there
was no sign of Adele or the brutal owner of
Griff Towers. He searched the library again
and passed through into the little drawing room,
where a table was laid for two. The cloth was
wet with spilt wine; one glass was half empty;
but the two for whom the table was laid had
vanished. They must have gone out of the front
door—whither?
He was standing tense, his mind concentrated
upon a problem that was more vital to him than
life itself, when he heard a sound that came from
the direction of Bhag's den. And then there
appeared in the doorway the monstrous ape
himself. He was bleeding from a wound in the
shoulder; the blood fell, as he stood clutching in
his two great hands something that seemed like
a bundle of rags. As Michael looked, the room
rocked before his eyes. The tattered, stained
garment that Bhag held was the cloak that
Adele Leamington had wornl
For a second Bhag glared at the man who,
he knew, was his enemy, and then, dropping the
cloak, he shrank back toward his quarters, his
teeth bared. Three times Michael's automatic


THE SEARCH 269
spat, and the great, manlike thing disappeared
in a flash, and the door dosed with a click.
Knebworth had been a witness of the scene.
It was he who ran forward and picked up the
cloak that the ape had dropped.
"Yes, that was hers," he said huskily, and a
horrible thought chilled him.
Michael had opened the door of the den and,
pistol in hand, dashed through the opening.
Knebworth dared not follow. He stood petri-
fied, waiting, and then Michael reappeared.
"There's nothing here," he said.
"Nothing?" asked Jack Knebworth in a whfc-
per. "Thank heaven I"
"Bhag has gone; I think I may have hit him;
there is a trail of blood, but I may not be re-
sponsible for that. He had been shot recently,"
he pointed to stains on the floor. "He wasn't
shot when I saw him last."
"Have you seen him before tonight?"
Michael nodded. "For three nights he has
been haunting Longvale's house."
"Longvale's!"
Where was Adele? That was the one domi-
nant question, the one thought uppermost in
Michael Brixan's mind. And where was the
baronet? What was the meaning of that open


270 THE HAIRY ARM
door? None of the servants could tell him, and
for some reason he saw that they were speaking
the truth. Only Penne and the girl—and this
great ape—knew, unless
He hurried back to where he had left a detec-
tive trying to revive the unconscious Stella Men-
doza.
"She has passed from one fainting fit to an-
other," said the officer. "I can get nothing out
of her except that once she said, 'Kill him,
Adele.'"
"Then she has seen her?" said Michael.
One of the officers he had left outside to watch
the building had a report to make. He had seen
a dark figure climb the wall and disappear
apparently through the solid brickwork. A few
minutes later it had come out again.
"That was Bhag," said Michael. "I knew he
was not here when we arrived. He must have
come in through the opening, while we were
upstairs."
The car that had carried Adele had been
found. It was Stella's and at first Michael sus-
pected that the girl was a party to the abduc-
tion. He learned afterward that, whilst the
woman's chauffeur had been in the kitchen, vir-
tually a prisoner. Penne himself had driven the


THE SEARCH 271
car to the girl's house, and it was the sight of the
machine, which Adele knew belonged to Stella,
that had lulled any suspicions she may have had.
Michael was in a condition bordering upon
frenzy. The Head-hunter and his capture were
insignificant compared with the safety of the
girl.
"If I don't find her I shall go mad," he said.
Jack Knebworth had opened his lips to an-
swer, when there came a startling interruption.
Borne on the still night air came a scream of
agony which turned the director's blood to ice.
"Help, help!"
Shrill as was the cry, Michael knew that it
was the voice of a man, and he knew that that
man was Gregory Penne!


CHAPTER XXXV
WHAT HAPPENED TO ADELE
THERE were moments when Adele Leaming-
ton had doubts as to her fitness for the profes-
sion she had entered; and never were those
periods of doubt more poignant than when she
tried to fix her mind upon the written directions
of the scenario. She blamed Michael, but
immediately she became repentant. She blamed
herself more freely; and at last she gave up the
struggle, rolled up the manuscript book and,
putting an elastic band about it, thrust it under
her pillow and prepared for bed. She had rid
herself of skirt and blouse when the summons
came.
"From Mr. Knebworth?" she said in surprise.
"At this time of night?"
"Yes, Miss. He's going to make a big altera-
tion tomorrow, and he wants to see you at once
He has sent his car. Miss Mendoza is coming
into the cast."
"Oh I "she said faintly.
272


WHAT HAPPENED TO ADELE 273
Then she had been a failure, after all, and she
had lived in a fool's paradise for these past days.
"I'll come at once," she said.
Her fingers trembled, as she fastened her
dress, and she hated herself for such a display of
weakness. Perhaps Stella was not coming into
the cast in her old part; perhaps some new char-
acter had been written in; perhaps it was not for
"Roselle" at all that she had been reengaged.
These and other speculations rioted in her mind;
and she was in the passage, and the door was
opened, when she remembered that Jack Kneb-
worth would want the manuscript. She ran up-
stairs and, by an aberration of memory, forgot
entirely where the script had been left. At last,
in despair, she went down to the landlady.
"I have left some manuscripts which are
rather important. Would you bring them up to
Mr. Knebworth's house when you find them?
They're in a little brown jacket." She described
the appearance of the jacket as well as she
could.
It was Stella Mendoza's car; she recognized
the machine with a pang. So Jack and she were
reconciled 1 In a minute she was inside the ma-
chine, the door dosed behind her, and she was
sitting by the driver, who did not speak to her.


274 THE HAIRY ARM
"Is Mr. Brixan with Mr. Knebworth?" she
asked.
He did not reply. She thought he had not
heard her, until he turned with a wide sweep and
set the car going in the opposite direction.
"This is not the way to Mr. Knebworth's,"
she said in alarm. "Don't you know the way?"
Still he made no reply. The machine gath-
ered speed, passed down a long, dark street, and
turned into a country lane.
"Stop the car at once!" she said terrified, and
.he put her hand on the handle of the door as
f to open it.
Instantly her arm was gripped.
"My dear, you're going to injure your pretty
tittle body, and probably you'll spoil your beau-
tiful face, if you attempt to get out while the car
's in motion," he said.
"Sir Gregory!" she gasped.
"Now don't make a fuss," said Gregory,
/here was no mistaking the elation in his voice.
"You're coming up to have a little bit of supper
*ith me. I've asked you often enough, and
now you're going willy-nilly! Stella's there, so
there's nothing to be afraid of."
She held down her fears with an effort.
'Sir Gregory, you will take me back at once


WHAT HAPPENED TO ADELE 275
to my lodgings," she said. "This is disgraceful
of you!"
He chucked loudly. "Nothing's going to hap-
pen to you; nobody's going to hurt you, and
you'll be delivered safe and sound; but you're
going to have supper with me first, little darl-
ing. And if you make a fuss, I'm going to turn
the car into the first tree I see and smash us
all up!"
He was drunk—drunk not only with wine,
but with a sense of his power. Gregory had
achieved his object and would stop at nothing
now.
Was Stella there? She did not believe him.
And yet it might be true. She grasped at the
straw which Stella's presence offered.
"Here we are," grunted Gregory, as he
stopped the car before the door of The Towers
and slipped out to the gravel.
Before she realized what he was doing, he
had lifted her in his arms, though she strug-
gled desperately.
"If you scream I'll kiss you," growled his
voice in her ear, and she lay passive.
The door opened instantly. She looked down
at the servant standing stolidly in the hall, as
Gregory carried her up the wide stairway, and


276 THE HAIRY ARM
wondered what help might come from him.
Presently Penne set her down on her feet and,
opening a door, thrust her in.
"Here's your friend, Stella," he said. "Say
the good word for me! Knock some sense into
her head if you can. I'll come back in ten min-
utes, and we'll have the grandest little wedding
-upper that any bridegroom ever had."
The door was banged and locked upon her be-
fore she realized there was another woman in
the room. It was Stella. Her heart rose at the
sight of the girl's white face.
"Oh, Miss Mendoza," she said breathlessly,
"thank heaven you're here!"


CHAPTER XXXVI
THE ESCAPE
"DON'T start thanking heaven too soon."- said
Stella with ominous calm. "Oh, you little fool,
why did you come here?"
"He brought me. I didn't want to come,''
said Adele.
She was half hysterical in her fright. She
tried hard to imitate the calm of her companion,
biting her quivering lips to keep them still, and
after a while she was calm enough to tell what
had happened. Stella's face clouded.
"Of course, he took my car," she said, speak-
ing to herself, "and be has caught the chauffeur,
as he said he would. Oh, my Lord!"
"What will he do?" asked Adele in a whisper.
Stella's fine eyes turned on the girl. "What
do you think he will do?" she asked signifi-
cantly. "He's a beast—the kind of beast you
seldom meet except in books and locked rooms.
He'll have no more mercy on you than Bhag
would have on you."
"If Michael knows, he will kill him."
"Michael? Oh, Brixan, vou mean?" said
m


278 THE HAIRY ARM
Stella with newly awakened interest. "Is he
fond of you? Is that why he hangs around the
lot? That never struck me before. But what
does Gregory care about Michael or any other
man? He can run; his yacht is at Southampton,
and he depends a lot upon his wealth to get him
out of this kind of scrapes. And he knows that
decent women shrink from appearance in a
police court. Oh, he's got all sorts of defenses."
"What shall I do?"
Stella was walking up and down the narrow
apartment, her hands clasped before her, her
eyes sunk to the ground.
"I don't think he'll hurt me." And then in-
consequently she went off at a tangent: "I saw a
tramp at that window two hours ago."
"A tramp?" said the bewildered girl.
Stella nodded. "It scared me terribly, until
I remembered bis eyes. They were Brixan's
eyes, though you'd never guess it, the make-up
was so wonderful."
"Michael? Is he here?" asked die girl
eagerly.
"He's somewhere around. That is your sal-
vation, and there's another."
She took down from a shelf a small Browning
"Did you ever fire a pistol?"


THE ESCAPE 279
The girl nodded. "I have to, in one scene,"
she said a little awkwardly.
"Of course! Well, this is loaded. That"—
she pointed—"is the safety catch. Push it down
with your thumb before you start to use it. You
had better kill Penne—better for you and better
for him, I think."
Adele shrank back in horror. "Oh, no, no!"
"Put it in your pocket. Have you a pocket?"
There was one inside the blue cloak the girl
was wearing, and into this Stella dropped the
pistol.
"You don't know what sort of sacrifice I'm
making," she said frankly, "and it isn't as
though I'm doing it for somebody I'm fond of.
because I'm not particularly fond of you, Adele
Leamington. But I wouldn't be fit to live if I
let that brute get you without a struggle."
And then impulsively she stooped forward
and kissed the girl, and Adele put her arms
about her neck.
"He's coming," whispered Stella Mendoza
and stepped back with a gesture.
It was Gregory—Gregory in his purple dress-
ing gown, his face aflame, his eyes fired with
excitement.
"Come on, you!" He crooked his finger.


280 THE HAIRY ARM
"Not you, Mendoza—you stay here, eh? You
can see her after—perhaps—after supper."
He leered down at the shrinking girl. "No-
body's going to hurt you. Leave your cloak
here."
"No, I'll wear it," she said.
Her hand went instinctively to the butt of the
pistol and closed upon it.
"All right, come as you are. It makes no
difference to me."
He held her tightly by the hand and marched
by her side, surprised and pleased that she
offered so little resistance. Down into the hall
they went and then to the little drawing room
adjoining his study. He flung open the door
and showed her the gayly decorated table, push-
ing her into the room before him.
"Wine and a kiss!" he roared, as he pulled
the cork from a champagne bottle and sent the
amber fluid splashing upon the spotless table-
doth. "Wine and a kiss!" He splashed the
glass out to her, so that it spilled and trickled
down her cloak.
She shook her head mutely.
"Drink!" he snarled, and she touched the
glass with her lips.
Then, before she could realize what had hap-


THE ESCAPE 281
pened, she was cairght in his arms. She tried to
escape from the arresting circle of his embrace
and successfully averted her face. Presently he
let her go and, staggering to the door, kicked it
shut. His fingers were closing on the key, when
she exclaimed:
"If you turn that key I'll kill you."
He looked up in ludicrous surprise, and at the
sight of the pistol his big hands waved before his
face in fear.
"Put it down, you fool!" he called. "Put it
down! Don't you know what you're doing?
The infernal thing may go off by accident."
"It will not go off by accident," she said.
"Open that door."
He hesitated for a moment, and then her
thumb tightened on the safety catch, and he
must have seen the movement.
"Don't shoot—don't shoot!" he screamed and
flung the door wide open. "Wait, you fool!
Don't go out. Bhag is there. Bhag will get
you. Stay with me, I'll"
But she was flying down the corridor. She
slipped on a loose rug in the hall, but recovered
herself. Her trembling hands were working at
the bolts and chains; the door swung open, and
in another instant she was in the open, free.


282 THE HA1R\ ARM
Sir Gregory followed her. The shock of her
escape bed sobered him, and all the tragic con-
sequences which might follow came crowding in
upon him, until his very soul writhed in fear.
Dashing back to his study, he opened his s*fe
and took out a bundle of notes. These he thrust
into the pocket of a fur-lined overcoat that was
hanging in a cupboard and put it on. He
changed his slippers for thick shoes and then
bethought him of Bhag. He opened the den,
but Bhag was not there, and he raised his shak-
ing fingers to his lips.
If Bhag caught her!
Some glimmering of a lost manhood stirred
dully in his mind. He must first be sure of
Bhag. He went out into the darkness in search
of his strange and horrible servant. Putting
both hands to his mouth, he emitted a long and
painful howl, the call that Bhag had never yet
disobeyed, and then he waited. There was no
answer. Again he sent forth the melancholy
sound, but, if Bhag heard him, for the first time
in his life he did not obey.
Gregory Penne stood in an agony of fear, but,
so standing, recovered some of his balance.
There was time to change. He went up to his
ornate bedroom, flung off his dressing gown,


THE ESCAPE 283
and in a short space of time was down again in
the dark grounds, seeking for the ape.
A long glass of whiskey restored some of his
confidence. He rang for the servant who was in
charge of his car.
"Have the machine by the postern gate," he
said. "Get it there at once. See that the gate is
open; I may have to leave tonight."
That he would be arrested, he did not doubt.
Not all his wealth, his position, the pull he had
in the county, could save him. This latest deed
of his was something more than eccentricity.
Then he remembered that Stella Mendoza was
still in the house, and he went up to see her. A
glance at his face told her that something un-
usual had happened.
"Where is Adele?" she asked instantly.
"I don't know. She escaped; she had a pis-
tol. Bhag went after her. Heaven knows what
will happen if he finds her. Hell tear her iimb
from limb. What's that?"
It was the faint sound of a pistol shot at a
distance, and it came from the back of the
house.
"Poachers," said Gregory uneasily. "Listen,
I'm going."
"Where are you going?" she asked.


284 THE HAIRY ARM
"That's no business of yours," he snarled.
"Here's some money." He thrust some notes
into her hand.
"What have you done?" she whispered in
horror.
"I've done nothing, I tell you," he stormed.
"But they'll take me for it. I'm going to get to
the yacht. You'd better clear before they
come."
She was collecting her hat and gloves when
she heard the door close, and the key turn. Me-
chanically he had locked her in, and mechani-
cally he took no heed of her beating hand upon
the panel of the door.
Griff Towers stood on high ground and com-
manded a view of the back road from Chi-
chester. As he stood in the front of the house,
hoping against hope that he would see the ape,
he saw instead two lights come rapidly along the
road.
"The police!" he croaked and went blunder-
ing across the kitchen garden to the gate.


CHAPTER XXXVII
THE TOWER
ADELE went flying down the drive, intent only
upon one object, to escape from this horrible
house. The gates were dosed; the lodge was
in darkness; and she strove desperately to un-
fasten the iron catch, but it held. Looking
back toward the oblong of light which repre-
sented the tower door, she was dimly aware of
a figure moving stealthily along the grass that
bordered each side of the roadway. For a
moment she thought it was Gregory Penne,
and then the true explanation of that skulk-
ing shape came to her, and she nearly dropped.
It was Bhag!
She moved as quietly as she could along
the side of the wall, creeping from bush to bush;
but he had seen her, and came in pursuit, mov-
ing slowly, cautiously, as though he was not
quite sure that she was legitimate prey. Per-
haps there was another gate, she thought, and
continued, glancing over her shoulder from
time to time, and gripping the little pistol in


286 THE HAIRY ARM
her hand with such intensity that it was slippery
with perspiration before she had gone a hundred
yards.
Now she left the cover of the wall and
came across a meadow, and at first she thought
that she had slipped her pursuer. But Bhag
seldom went into the open, and presently she
saw him again. He was parallel with her, walk-
ing under the wall, and showing no sign of
hurry. Perhaps, she thought, if she continued,
he would drop his pursuit and go off. It might
be curiosity that kept him on her trail. But this
hope was disappointed. She crossed a stile and
followed a path until she realized it was bring-
ing her nearer and nearer to the wall where her
watcher was keeping pace with her. \s soon as
she realized this, she turned abruptly from the
path and found herself walking through dew-
laden grasses. She was wet to the knees before
she had gone far, but she did not even know
this. Bhag had left cover and was following her
into the open!
She wondered if the grounds were entirely en-
closed by a wall, and she was relieved when
she came to a low fence. Stumbling down a
bank on to a road which was evidently the east-
ern boundary of the property, she ran at full


THE TOWER 287
speed, though where the road led she could not
guess. Glancing back, she saw to her horror
that Bhag was following, yet making no attempt
to decrease the distance which separated them.
And then, far away, she saw the lights of a
cottage. They seemed dose at hand, but were
in reality more than two miles distant. With a
sob of thankfulness she turned from the road
and ran up a gentle slope, only to discover to
her dismay, when she reached the crest, that the
lights seemed as far away as ever. Looking
back, she saw Bhag, his green eyes gleaming in
the darkness.
Where was she? Glancing round, she found
an answer. Ahead and to the left was the squat
outline of old Griff tower.
And then, for some reason, Bhag dropped
his role of interested watcher, and, with a dog-
like growl, leaped at her. She flew upward
toward the tower, her breath coming in sobs, her
heart thumping so that she felt every moment
she would drop from sheer exhaustion. A hand
clutched at her cloak and tore it from her. That
gave her a moment's respite. She must face her
enemy, or she herself must perish.
Spinning round, her shaking pistol raised, shr
confronted the monster, who was growling and


288 THE HAIRY ARM
tearing at the clothing in his hand. Again he
crouched to spring, and she pressed the trigger.
The unexpected loudness of the explosion so
startled her that she nearly dropped the pistol.
With a howl of anguish he fell, gripping at his
wounded shoulder, but rose again immediately.
And then he began to move backward, watch-
ing her all the time.
What should she do? In her present position
he might creep from bush to bush and pounce
upon her at any moment. She looked up at
the tower. If she could reach the top! And
then she remembered the ladder that Jack
Knebworth had left behind. But that would
have been collected.
She moved stealthily, keeping her eye upon
the ape, and, though he was motionless, she
knew he was watching her. Then, groping in
the grass, her fingers touched the light ladder,
and she lifted it without difficulty and placed it
against the wall. She had heard Jack say that
the ape could not have climbed the tower from
the outside without assistance, though it had
been an easy matter, with the aid of the- trees
growing against the wall inside, for him to get
out.
Knag was still visible; the dull glow of his


THE TOWER 289
eyes was dreadful to see. With a wild run she
reached the top of the ladder and began pulling
it up after her. Bhag crept nearer and nearer
till he came to the foot of the tower, made three
ineffectual efforts to scale the wall and failed.
She heard his twitter of rage and guided the
ladder to the inside of the tower.
For a long time they sat looking at one
another, the orang-outang and the girl. And
then Bhag crept away. She followed him as far
as her keen eyes could distinguish his ungainly
shape, waiting until she was certain he had gone,
and then she reached for the ladder. The lower
rung must have caught in one of the bushes
below. She tugged, tugged again, tugged for the
third time, and it came away so smoothly that
she lost her balance. For a second she was hold-
ing the top of the wall with one hand, the ladder
with the other; then, half sliding, half tumbling,
she came down with a run and picked herself up,
breathless. She could have laughed at the
mishap, but for the eerie loneliness of her new
surroundings. She tried to erect the ladder again
but in the dark it was impossible to get a firm
foundation.
There must be small stones somewhere about,
and she began to look for them. She reached


290 THE HAIRY ARM
the bottom of the circular depression and, push-
ing aside a bush to make further progress, feeling
all the time with her feet for a suitable prop,
suddenly she slipped. She was dropping down a
sloping shaft into the depths of the earth 1


CHAPTER XXXVin
THE CAVERN OF BONES
DOWN, down, down she fell, one hand daw-
ing wildly at the soft earth, the other clenching
unconsciously at the tiny pistol. She was rolling
down a steep slope. Once her feet came violently
and painfully into contact with an out-jutting
rock, and the shock and the pain of it turned
her sick and faint. Whither she was going, she
dared not think. It seemed an eternity before
she struck a level floor and, rolling over and
over, was brought up against a rocky wall, with
a jolt that shook the breath from her body.
Eternity it seemed, yet it could not have been
more than a few seconds. For five minutes she
lay, recovering, on the rock floor. She got up
with a grimace of pain, felt her hurt ankle, and
worked her foot to discover if anything was
broken. Looking up, she saw a pale star above,
and, guessing that it was the opening through
which she had fallen, attempted to climb back;
but, with every step she took, the soft earth
gave under her feet, and she slipped back again.
291


292 THE HAIRY ARM
She had lost a shoe; that was the first tangible
truth that asserted itself. She groped around
in the darkness and found it after a while, half
imbedded in the earth. She shook it empty,
dusted her stockinged foot, and put it on. Then
she sat down to wonder what she would do
next. She guessed that, with the coming of day,
she would be able to examine her surroundings,
and she must wait, with what philosophy she
could summon, for the morning to break.
It was then that she became conscious that
she was still gripping the earth-caked Browning,
and, with a half-smile, she cleaned it as best she
could, pressed down the safety catch and, put-
ting the weapon inside her blouse, thrust its
blunt nose into the waistband of her skirt.
The mystery of Bhag's reappearance was now
a mystery no longer. He had been hiding in
the cave, though it was her imagination that
supplied the queer animal scent which was
peculiarly his. How far did the cave extend?
She peeped left and right, but could see nothing;
then, groping cautiously, feeling every inch of
her way, her hand struck a stone pillar, and she
withdrew it quickly, for it was wet and clammy.
And then she made a discovery of the greatest
importance to her. She was feeling along the


THE CAVERN OF BONES 293
wall when her hand went into a niche, and by
the surface of its shelf she knew that it was
man-fashioned. She put her hand farther along,
and her heart leaped, as she touched something
which had a familiar and homely feel. It was a
lantern. Her other hand went up, and presently
she opened its glass door and felt a length of
candle, and, at the bottom of the lantern, a
small box of matches.
It was no miracle, as she was to learn; but
for the moment it seemed that that possibility of
light had come in answer to her unspoken
prayers. Striking a match with a hand that
shook, so that the light went out immediately,
she at last succeeded in kindling the wick. The
candle was new, and at first its light was feeble;
but presently the wax began to burn, and, clos-
ing the lantern door, her surroundings came
into view.
She was in a narrow cave, from the roof of
which hung innumerable stalactites; but the
dripping water which is inseparable from this
queer formation was absent at the foot of the
opening where she had tumbled. Farther along
the floor was wet, and a tiny stream of water
ran in a sort of naturally carved tunnel on one
side of the path. Here, where the cave broad-


294 THE HAIRY ARM
cned, the stalactites were many and at such reg-
ular intervals and of such even shape that they
seemed almost to have been sculptured by hu-
man agency; there were little caves within caves,
narrow openings that revealed in the light of her
lantern the splendor of nature's treasures.
Fairylike grottoes, rich with delicate stone
traceries; tiny lakes that sparkled in the light of
the lantern. Broader and broader grew the cave,
until she stood in a huge chamber that appeared
to be festooned with frozen lace. And here the
floor was littered with queer white sticks. There
were thousands of them, of every conceivable
shape and size. They showed whitely in the
gleam of her lantern in the crevices of the rocks.
She stooped and picked one up, dropping it
quickly with a cry of horror. They were human
bones 1
With a shuddering gasp she half walked, half
ran across the great cavern, which began to
narrow again and assumed the appearance of
that portion of the cave into which she had
fallen. And here she saw, in another niche, a
second lantern, with new candle and matches.
Who had placed them there? The first lantern
she had not dared to think about; it belonged to
the category of the miraculous. But the second


THE CAVERN OF BONES 295
brought her up with a jerk. Who had placed
these lanterns at intervals along the wall of the
cave, as if in preparation for an expected
emergency? There must be somebody who
lived down here. She breathed a little more
quickly at the thought.
Going on slowly, she examined every foot of
the way, the second lantern, unlighted, slung on
her arm. At one place the floor was flooded
with running water; at another she had to wade
through a little subterranean ford, where the
water came over her ankles. And now the cave
was curving imperceptibly to the right. From
time to time she stopped and listened, hoping
to hear the sound of a human voice, and yet
fearing. The roof of the cave came lower. There
were signs in the roof that the stalactites had
been knocked off to afford head room for the
mysterious person who haunted these under-
ground chambers.
Once she stopped, her heart thumping pain-
fully at the sound of footsteps. They passed
over her head, and then came a curious hum-
ming sound that grew in intensity, passed and
faded. A motor carl She was under the road!
Of course old Griff tower stood upon the hill-
side. She was now near the road level, and pos-


296 THE HAIRY ARM
sibly eight or nine feet above her the stars were
shining. She looked wistfully at the ragged sur-
face of the roof, and, steeling herself against the
terrors that rose within her, she went on. She
had need of nerve, need of courage beyond the
ordinary.
The cave passage turned abruptly; the little
grotto openings in the wall occurred again.
Suddenly she stopped dead. The light of the
lantern showed into one of the grottoes. Two
men lay side by side.
She stifled the scream that rose to her lips,
pressing her hands firmly upon her mouth, her
eyes shut tightly to hide the sight. They were
dead—headless! Lying in a shallow pool, the
petrifying water came dripping down upon
them, as it would drip down unceasingly until
these pitiful things were stone.
For a long time she dared not move, dared
not open her eyes, but at last her will con-
quered, and she looked with outward calm upon
a sight that froze her very marrow. The next
grotto was similarly tenanted, only this time
there was one man. And then, when she was on
the point of sinking under the shock, a tiny
point of light appeared in the gloom ahead. It


THE CAVERN OF BONES 297
moved and swayed, and there came to her the
sound of a fearful laugh.
She acted instantly. Pulling open the door of
the lantern, she stopped and blew it out. and
stood, leaning against the wall of the cave,
oblivious to the grisly relics that surrounded
her. conscious only of the danger which lay
ahead. Then a brighter light blazed up and
another, tin the distant spaces were as bright as
day. As she stood, wondering, there came to her
a squeal of mortal agony and a whining voice
that cried:
"Help! Oh. Lord, help! Brixan. I am not fit
to die!"
It was the voice of Sir Gregory Penne.


CHAPTER XXXIX
MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE
IT was that same voice that had brought
Michael Brixan racing across the garden to the
postern gate. A car stood outside, its lights
dimmed. Standing at its head was a frightened
little brown man who had brought the machine
to the place.
"Where is your master?" asked Michael
quickly.
The man pointed.
"He went that way," he quavered. "There
was a devil in the big machine—it would not
move when he stamped on the little pedal."
Michael guessed what had happened. At the
last moment, by one of those queer mischances
which haunt the just and the unjust, the engine
had failed him, and he had fled on foot.
"Which way did he go?"
Again the man pointed. "He ran," he said
simply.
Michael turned to the detective who was with
him. "Stay here; he may return. Arrest him


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 299
immediately and put the irons on him. He's
probably armed and he may be suicidal; we
can't afford to take any risks."
He had been so often across what he had
named the "Back Field" that he could find his
way blindfolded, and he ran at top speed till he
came to the stile and to the road. Sir Gregory
was nowhere in sight. Fifty yards along the road
the lights gleamed cheerily from an upper
window in Mr. Longvale's house, and Michael
bent his footsteps in that direction.
Still no sight of the man, and he turned
through the gate and knocked at the door, which
was almost immediately opened by the old man
himself. He wore a silken gown, tied with a
sash about the middle, a picture of comfort,
Michael thought.
"Who's that?" asked Mr. Sampson Long-
vale, peering out into the darkness. "Why,
bless my life, it's Mr. Brixan, the officer of the
law I Come in, come in, sir."
He opened the door wide, and Michael
passed into the sitting room, with its inevitable
two candles, augmented now by a small silver
reading lamp.
"No trouble at the Towers, I trust?" said
Mr. Longv-ne anxiously.


300 THE HAIRY ARM
"There was a little trouble," said Michael
carefully. "Have you by any chance seen Sir
Gregory Penne?"
Longvale shook his head. "I found the night
rather too chilly for my usual garden ramble,"
he said, "so I've seen none of the exciting
events which seem inevitably to accompany the
hours of darkness in these times. Has any-
thing happened to him?"
"I hope not," said Michael quietly. "I hope,
for everybody's sake, that nothing has happened
to him."
He walked across and leaned his elbows on
the mantelpiece, looking up at the painting
above his head.
"Do you admire my relative?" beamed Mr.
Longvale.
"I don't know that I admire him. He was
certainly wonderfully handsome."
Mr. Longvale inclined his head. "You have
read his memoirs?"
Michael nodded, and the old man did not
seem in any way surprised.
"Yes, I have read what purport to be his
memoirs," said Michael quietly, "but latter-
day opinion is that they are not authentic."
Mr. Longvale shrugged his shoulders. "Per-


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 301
sonally I believe every word of them," he said.
"My uncle was a man of considerable educa-
tion."
It would have amazed Jack Knebworth to
know that the man who had rushed from the
tower in search of a possible murderer, was at
that moment calmly discussing biography; yet
such was the incongruous, unbelievable fact.
"I sometimes feel that you think too much
about your uncle, Mr. Longvale," said Michael
gently.
The old gentleman frowned. "You mean—"
"I mean that such a subject may become an
obsession and a very unhealthy obsession, and
such hero worship may lead a man to do things
which no sane man would do."
Longvale looked at him in genuine astonish-
ment. "Can one do better than imitate the
deeds of the great?"
"Not if your sense of values hasn't got all
tangled up, and you ascribe to him virtues which
are not virtues—unless duty is a virtue, and you
confuse that which is great with that which is
terrible."
Michael turned and, resting his palms on the
table, looked across to the old man who con-
fronted him.


302 THE HAIRY ARM
"I want you to come with me into Chichestcr
this evening."
"Why?" The question was asked bluntly.
"Because I think you're a sick man, that you
ought to have care."
The old man laughed and drew himself even
more erect. "Sick? I was never better in my
life, my dear sir, never fitter, never stronger!"
And he looked all that he said. His height,
the breadth of his shoulders, the healthy glow
of his cheeks, all spoke of physical fitness.
A long pause, and then. "Where is Gregory
Penne?" asked Michael, emphasizing every
word.
"I haven't the slightest idea."
The old man's eyes met his without waver-
ing. "We were talking about my great-uncle.
You know him, of course?" he asked.
"I knew him the first time I saw his picture,
and I thought I had betrayed my knowledge, but
apparently I did not. Your great-uncle"—
Michael spoke deliberately — "was Sanson,
otherwise Longval, hereditary executioner of
France!"
Such a silence followed that the ticking of a
distant clock sounded distinctly.
"Your uncle has many achievements to his


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 303
credit. He hanged three men on a gallows sixty >
feet high, unless my memory is at fault. His
hand struck off the head of Louis of France and
his consort, Marie Antoinette."
The look of pride in the old man's face was
startling. His eyes kindled, and he seemed to
grow in height.
"By what fantastic freak of fate you have
settled in England, what queer kink of mind
decided you secretly to carry on the profession
of Sanson and seek far and wide for poor help-
less wretches to destroy, I do not know."
Michael did not raise his voice; he spoke in
a calm, conversational tone; and in the same
way did Longvale reply.
"Is it not better," he said gently, "that a
man should pass out of life through no act of his
own than that he should commit the unpardon-
able crime of self-murder? Have I not been a
benefactor to men who dared not take their
own lives?"
"To Lawley Foss?" suggested Michael, his
grave eyes fixed on the other.
"He was a traitor, a vulgar blackmailer, a
man who sought to use the knowledge which
had accidentally come to him to extract money
from me."


304 THE HAIRY ARM
"Where is Gregory Penne?"
A slow smile dawned on the man's face.
"You will not believe me? That is ungentle,
sir! I have not seen Sir Gregory."
Michael pointed to the hearth, where a cig-
arette was still smoldering.
"There is that," he said. "There are his
muddy footprints on the carpet of this room.
There is the cry I heard. Where is he?"
Within reach of his hand was his heavy-
caliber Browning. A move on the old man's part,
and he would lie maimed on the ground. Michael
was dealing with a homicidal lunatic of the most
dangerous type, and he would not hesitate to
shoot.
But the old man showed no sign of antag-
onism. His voice was gentleness itself. He
seemed to feel and express a pride in crimes
which, to his brain, were not crimes at all.
"If you really wish me to go into Chichester
with you tonight, of course I will go," he said.
"You may be right in your own estimation, even
in the estimation of your superiors, but, in end-
ing my work, you are rendering a cruel dis-
service to miserable humanity, to serve which I
have spent thousands of pounds. But I bear no
malice."


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 305
He took a bottle from the long, oaken buffet
against the wall, selected two glasses with
scrupulous care, and filled them from the bottle.
"We will drink our mutual good health," he
said with his old courtesy; and, lifting his glass
to his lips, he drank it with that show of enjoy-
ment with which the old-time lovers of wine
marked their approval of rare vintages.
"You're not drinking?" he said in surprise.
"Somebody else has drunk."
There was a glass half empty on the buffet;
Michael saw it for the first time. "He did not
seem to enjoy the wine."
Mr. Longvale sighed. "Very few people
understand wine," he said, dusting a speck from
his coat. Then, drawing a silk handkerchief
from his pocket, he stooped and dusted his boots
daintily.
Michael was standing on a strip of rug in
front of the fireplace, his hand on his gun; he
was prepared for the moment of trial. Whence
the danger would come, what form it would
take, he could not guess. But that danger was
there—danger terrible and ruthless, emphasized
rather than relieved by the quiet suavity of
the old man's tone, he felt in the creep of his
flesh.


306 THE HAIRY ARM
"You see, my dear sir," Longvale went on,
still dusting his boots, "I cannot—"
And then, before Michael could realize what
had happened, he had grasped the end of the
rug on which the detective was standing and
pulled it with a quick jerk toward him. Before
he could balance himself, Michael had fallen
with a crash to the floor, his head striking the
oaken paneling, his pistol sliding along the
polished floor. In a flash the old man was on
him, had flung him over on his face, and dragged
his hands behind him. Michael tried to strug-
gle, but he was as a child in that powerful grip,
placed at such a disadvantage as he was. He
felt the touch of cold steel on his wrists; there
was a click; and, exerting all his strength, he
tried to pull the other hand away. But gradu-
ally, slowly it was forced back, and the second
cuff snapped.
There were footsteps on the path outside the
cottage. The old man straightened himself to
pull off his silken gown and wrapped it round
and round the detective's head, and then a
knock came at the door. One glance to see
that his prisoner was safe, and Longvale ex-
tinguished the lamp, blew out one of the
candles, and carried the other into the passage


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 307
He was in his shirt sleeves, and the Scotland
Yard officer who was the caller apologized for
disturbing a man who had apparently been
brought down from his bedroom to answer the
knock.
"Have you seen Mr. Brixan?"
"Mr. Brixan? Yes, he was here a few min-
utes ago. He went on to Chichester."
Michael heard the voices, but could not dis-
tinguish what was being said. The silken gown
about his head was suffocating him, and he was
losing his senses when the old man came back
alone, unfastened the gown, and put it on
himself.
"If you make a noise, I will sew your lips
together," he said, so naturally and good-
naturedly that it seemed impossible he would
carry his threat into execution. But Michael
knew that he was giving chapter and verse; he
was threatening that which his ancestor had
often performed. That beautiful old man, nick-
named by the gallants of Louis' court "Monsieur
de Paris," had broken and hanged and be-
headed, but he had also tortured men. There
were smoke-blackened rooms in the old Bastille
where that venerable old hangman had per-
formed nameless duties without blenching.


308 THE HAIRY ARM
"I am sorry in many ways that you must go
on," said the old man, with genuine regret in
his voice. "You are a young man for whom I
have a great deal of respect. The law to me
is sacred, and its officers have an especially
privileged place in my affections."
He pulled open a drawer of the buffet and
took out a large napkin, folded it with great
care and fixed it tightly about Michael's mouth.
Then he raised him up and sat him on a chair.
"If I were a young and agile man, I might
have a jest which would have pleased my uncle,
Charles Henry. I would fix your head on the top
of the gates of Scotland Yard! I've often ex-
amined the gates with that idea in my mind. Not
that I thought of you, but that some day Provi-
dence might send me a very high official, a
minister, even a prime minister. My uncle, as
you know, was privileged to destroy kings and
leaders of parties—Danton, Robespierre, every
great leader save Murat. Danton was the
greatest of them all."
There was an excellent reason why Michael
should not answer. But he was his own cool
self again; and, though his head was aching
from the violent knock it had received, his mind
was dear. He was waiting now for the next


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 309
move and suspected he would not be kept wait-
ing long. What scenes had this long dining room
witnessed! What moments of agony, mental
and physical! It was the very antechamber to
death.
Here, then, Bhag must have been rendered
momentarily unconscious. Michael guessed the
lure of drugged wine, that butyl chloride which
was part of the murderer's equipment. But for
once Longvale had misjudged the strength of
his prey. Bhag must have followed the brown
folk to Dower House—the man and woman
whom the old man in his cunning had spared.
Michael was soon to discover what was
going to happen. The old man opened the door
of the buffet and took out a great steel hook,
at the end of which was a pulley. Reaching up,
he slipped the end of the hook into a steel bolt
and fastened in one of the overhead beams.
Michael had noticed it before and wondered
what purpose it served.
From the cupboard came a long coil of rope,
one end of which was threaded through the
pulley and fastened dexterously under the de-
tective's armpits. Stooping, Longvale lifted the
carpet and rolled it up, and then Michael saw
that there was a small trapdoor, which the old


310 THE HAIRY ARM
man raised and laid back. Below, he could see
nothing, but there came to him the sound of a
man's groaning.
"Now, I think we can dispense with that,
sir," said Mr. Longvale, and he untied the napkin
that covered the detective's mouth.
This done, he pulled on the rope, seemingly
without an effort, and Michael swung in mid-air.
It was uncomfortable; he had an absurd notion
that he looked a little ridiculous. The old man
guided his feet through the opening and gradu-
ally paid out the rope.
"Will you be good enough to tell me when you
touch ground," he asked, "and 1 will come down
to you."
Looking up, Michael saw the square in the
floor grow smaller and smaller, and for an un-
conscionable time he swung and swayed and
turned in mid-air. He thought he was not mov-
ing, and then, without warning, his feet touched
ground, and he called out.
"Are you all right?" said Mr. Longvale
pleasantly. "Do you mind stepping a few paces
on one side? I am dropping the rope, and it
may hurt you."
Michael gasped, but carried out instructions,
and presently he heard the swish of the falling


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 311
line and the smack of it, as it struck the ground.
Then the trapdoor closed, and there was no other
sound but a groaning near at hand.
"Is that you, Penne?"
"Who is it?" asked the other in a frightened
voice. "Is it you, Brixan? Where are we? What
has happened? How did I get here? That old
devil gave me a drink. I ran out—and that's
all I remember. I went to borrow his car. My
Lord, I'm scared! The magneto of mine went
wrong."
"Did you shout when you ran from the
house?"
"I think I did. I felt this infernal poison
taking effect, and I dashed out. I don't remem-
ber much more. Where are you, Brixan. The
police will get us out of this, won't they?"
"Alive, I hope," said Michael grimly, and he
heard the man's frightened sob, and he was
sorry he had spoken.
"What is he? Who is he? Are these the
caves? I've heard about them. It smells horribly
earthy, doesn't it? Can you see anything?"
"I thought I saw a light just then," said
Michael, "but my eyes are playing tricks." And
then: "Where is Adele Leamington?"
"God knows," said the other. He was shiv-


312 THE HAIRY ARM
eririg, and Michael heard the sound of his chat-
tering teeth. "I never saw her again. I was
afraid Bhag would go after her. But he wouldn't
hurt her; he is a queer devil. I wish he was
here."
"I wish somebody was here," said Michael
sincerely.
He was trying to work his wrists loose of the
handcuffs, though he knew that barehanded he
stood very little chance against the old man. He
had lost his pistol; and, although in the inside
of his waistcoat there remained intact the long,
sharp knife that had cleared him out of many a
Continental scrape, the one infallible weapon
when firearms failed, he knew that he would
have no opportunity for its employment.
Sitting down, he tried to perform a trick that
he had seen on a stage in Berlin—the trick of
bringing his legs through his manacled hands
and so getting his hands in front of him, but
he struggled without avail. There came the
sound of a door opening and Mr. Longvale's
voice.
"I won't keep you a moment," he said. He
carried a lantern in his hand that swung, as he
walked, and he seemed to intensify the gloom.
"I don't like my patients to catch cold."


MICHAEL KNOWS FOR SURE 31i
His laughter came echoing back from the
vaulted roof of the cave, intensified hideously.
Stopping, he struck a match, and a brilliant light
appeared. It was a vapor lamp fixed on a shelf
of rock. Presently he lit another, and then a
third and a fourth, and in the white unwinking
light every object in the cave stood out with
startling distinctness. Michael saw the scarlet
thing that stood in the cave's center, and, hard-
ened as he was and prepared for that fearsome
sight, he shuddered.
It was a guillotine 1


CHAPTER XL
THE WIDOW
A GUILLOTINE! Standing in the middle of the
cave, its high framework lifted starkly. It was
painted red, and its very simplicity had a horror
of its own.
Michael looked, fascinated. The basket, the
bright, triangular knife suspended at the top of
the frame, the tilted platform with its dangling
straps, the black-painted lunette, shaped to re-
ceive the head of the victim and hold it in posi-
tion till the knife fell in its oiled groove. He
knew the machine bolt by bolt, had seen it in
operation on gray mornings before French
prisons, with soldiers holding back the crowd,
and a little group of officials in the center of a
cleared space. He knew the sound of it, the
"clop" as it fell, sweeping to eternity the man
beneath.
"The Widow," murmured the old man humoi-
ously. rie touched the frame lovingly.
"Oil, I'm not fit to diel"


THE WIDOW 315
It was Penne's agonized wail that went
echoing through the hollow spaces of th«
cavern.
"The Widow," murmured the old man again.
He was without a hat; his bald head shone
in the light, yet there was nothing ludicrous in
his appearance. His attitude toward this thing
he loved was in a sense pathetic.
"Who shall be her first bridegroom?"
"Not me, not me!" declared Penne, wriggling
back against the wall, his face ashen, his mouth
working convulsively. "I'm not fit to die."
Longvale walked slowly over to him, stooped
and raised him to his feet.
"Courage!" he murmured. "It is the hour!"
Jack Knebworth was pacing the road when
the police car came flying back from Chichester.
"He's not there; hasn't been to the station at
all," said the driver breathlessly, as he flung out
of the car.
"He may have gone into Longvale's house."
"I've seen Mr. Longvale; it was he who told
me that the captain had gone into Chichester.
He must have made a mistake."
Knebworth's jaw dropped. A great light sud-
denly flashed upon his mind. Longvale 1 There


316 THE HAIRY ARM
was something queer about him. Was it
possible—
He remembered now that he had been puz-
zled by a contradictory statement the old man
had made; remembered that not once, but many
times had Sampson Longvale expressed a desire
to be filmed in a favorite part of his own, one
that he had presented, an episode in the life of
his famous ancestor.
"We'll go and wake him up. I'll talk to him."
They hammered at the door without eliciting
a response.
"That's his bedroom." Jack Knebworth
pointed to a latticed window, where a light
shone, and Inspector Lyle threw up a pebble
with such violence that the glass was broken.
Still there was no response.
"I don't like that," said Knebworth suddenly.
"You don't like it any better than I do,"
growled the officer. "Try that window, Smith."
"Do you want me to open it, sir?"
"Yes, without delay."
A second later the window of the long dining
room was forced open; and then they came upon
an obstacle which could not be so readily forced.
"The shutter is steel-lined," reported the
detective. "I think I'd better try one of the


THE WIDOW 317
upper rooms. Give me a leg up, somebody."
With the assistance of a fellow, he reached up
and caught the sill of an open window, the very
window from which Adele had looked down into
the grinning face of Bhag. In another second he
was in the room and was reaching down to help
up a second officer. A few minutes' delay, and
the front door was unbarred and opened.
"There's nobody in the house, so far as I can
find out," said the officer.
"Put a light on," ordered the inspector shortly.
They found the little vapor lamp and lit it.
"What's that?" The detective officer pointed
to the hook that still hung in the beam with the
pulley beneath, and his eyes narrowed. "I can't
understand that," he said slowly. "What was
that for?"
Jack Knebworth uttered an exclamation.
"Here's Brixan's gun!" he said and picked it
up from the floor.
One glance the inspector gave, and then his
eyes went back to the hook and the pulley.
"That beats me," he said. "See if you fellows
can find anything anywhere. Open every cup-
board, every drawer. Sound the walls—there
may be secret doors; there are in all these old
Tudor houses."


318 THE HAIRY ARM
The search was futile, and Inspector Lyle
came back to a worried contemplation of the
hook and pulley. Then one of his men came in
to say that he had located the garage.
It was an unusually long building, and when
it was opened it revealed no more than the old-
fashioned car which was a familiar object in that
part of the country. But obviously this was
only half the accommodation. The seemingly
solid whitewashed wall behind the machine hid
another apartment, though it had no door, and
an inspection of the outside showed a solid wall
at the far end of the garage. So far in the
examination, so good.
Jack Knebworth tapped the interior wall.
"This isn't brickwork at all—it's wood," he said.
Hanging in a corner was a chain. Apparently
it had no particular function, but a careful
scrutiny led to the discovery that the links ran
through a hole in the roughly plastered ceiling.
The inspector caught the chain and pulled, and,
as he did so, the "wall" opened inward, showing
the contents of the second chamber. Here was a
second car, so sheeted that only its radiator was
visible. Knebworth pulled off the cover.
"That's the car."
"What car?" asked the inspector.


THE WIDOW 319
"The car driven by The Head-hunter," said
Knebworth quickly. "He was in that machine
when Brixan tried to arrest him. I'd know it
anywhere! Brixan is in the Dower House some-
where, and if he's in the hands of The Head-
hunter, Heaven help him! He is pitiless!"
They ran back to the bouse, and again the
hook and pulley drew them as a magnet. Sud-
denly the police officer bent down and jerked
back the carpet. The trapdoor beneath the
pulley was plainly visible. Pulling it open, he
knelt down and gazed through. Knebworth
saw his face grow haggard.
"Too late, too late!" he muttered


CHAPTER XLI •
THE DEATH
THE shriek of a man half crazy with fear is
not nice to hear. Michael's nerves were tough,
but he had need to drive the nails into the palms
of his manacled hands to keep his self-control.
"I warn you," he found voice to say, as the
shrieking died to an unintelligible babble of
sound, "Longvale, if you do this, you are ever-
lastingly damned!"
The old man turned his quiet smile upon his
second prisoner, but did not make any answer.
Lifting the half-conscious man in his arms, as
easily as though he were a child, he carried him
to the terrible machine and laid him face down-
ward on the tilted platform. There was no hurry.
Michael saw in Longvale's leisure an enjoy-
ment that was unbelievable. He stepped to the
front of the machine and pulled up one half of
the lunette; there was a click, and it remained
stationary.
"An invention of mine," he said with pride.
speaking over his shoulder.
320


THE DEATH 321
Michael looked away for a second, past the
grim executioner, to the farther end of the cave.
And then he saw a sight that brought the blood
to his cheeks. At first he thought he was dream-
ing, and that the strain of his ordeal was respon-
sible for some grotesque vision.
Adele! She stood clear in the white light, so
grimed with earth and dust that she seemed to
be wearing a gray robe.
"If you move I will kill you!''
It was she! Michael twisted over on to his
knees and staggered upright. Longvale heard
the voice and turned slowly.
"My little lady," he said pleasantly. "How
providential! I've always thought that the cul-
minating point of my career would be, as was
the sainted Charles Henri's, that moment when
a queen came under his hand. How very
singular!''
He walked slowly toward her, oblivious of
the pointed pistol, of the danger in which he
stood, a radiant smile on his face, his small,
white hands extended, as to an honored guest.
"Shoot!" cried Michael hoarsely. "For
Heaven's sake, shoot!''
She hesitated for a second and pressed the
trigger. There was no sound. Clogged with


322 THE HAIRY ARM
earth, the delicate mechanism did not act. She
turned to flee, but Longvale's arm was round
her, and his disengaged hand drew her head to
his breast.
"You shall see, my dear," he said. "The
Widow shall become the Widower, and you shall
be his first bride!"
She was limp in his arms now, incapable of
resistance. A strange sense of inertia overcame
her; and, though she was conscious, she could
neither move nor speak. Michael, struggling
madly to release his hands, prayed that she
might faint—that, whatever happened, she
should be spared a consciousness of the terror.
"Now who shall be first?" murmured the old
man, stroking his shiny head. "It would be
fitting that my lady should show the way and be
spared the agony of mind. And yet—" He
looked thoughtfully at the prostrate figure
strapped to the board and, tilting the platform,
dropped the lunette about the head of Gregory
Penne. The hand went up to the lever that con-
trolled the knife. He paused again, evidently
puzzling something out in his crazy mind.
"No, you shall be first," he said, as he un-
buckled the strap and pushed the half-demented
man to the ground.


THE DEATH 323
Michael saw him lift his head, listening.
There were hollow sounds above, as of people
walking. Again he changed his mind, stooped
and dragged Gregory Penne to his feet. Michael
wondered why he held him so long, standing so
rigidly; wondered why he dropped him suddenly
to the ground; and then he wondered no longer.
Something was crossing the floor of the cave—
a great, hairy something, whose malignant eyes
were turned upon the old man.
It was Bhag! His hair was matted with
blood; his face wore the powder mask which
Michael had seen when he emerged from Griff
Towers. He stopped and sniffed at the groaning
man on the floor, and his big paw touched the
face tenderly. Then, without preliminary, he
leaped at Longvale, and the old man went down
with a crash to the ground, his arms whirling in
futile defense. For a second Bhag stood over
him, looking down, twittering and chattering;
and then he raised the man and laid him in the
place where his master had been, tilting the
board and pushing it forward.
Michael gazed with fascinated horror. The
great ape had witnessed an execution! It was
from this cave that he had escaped the night that
Foss was killed. His half human mind was re-


324 THE HAIRY ARM
membering the details. Michael could almost
see his mind working to recall the procedure.
Bhag fumbled with the frame, touched the
spring that released the lunette, and it fell over
the neck of The Head-hunter. And at that
moment, attracted by a sound, Michael looked
up and saw the trap above pulled back. Bhag
heard it also, but was too intent upon his busi-
ness to be interrupted. Longvale had recovered
consciousness and was fighting to draw his head
from the lunette. Presently he spoke. It was as
though he realized the imminence of his fate
and was struggling to find an appropriate phrase,
for he lay quiescent now, his hands gripping
the edge of the narrow platform on which he
lay.
"Son of St. Louis, ascend to heaven!" he said,
and at that moment Bhag jerked the handle that
controlled the knife.
Inspector Lyle from above saw the blade fall,
heard the indescribable sound of the thud that
followed, and almost swooned. Then, from
below:
"It's all right, inspector. You may find a rope
in the buffet. Get down as quickly as you can
and bring a gun."
The buffet cupboard contained another rope.


THE DEATH 325
and a minute later the detective was going
down, hand over hand.
"There's no danger from the monkey." said
Michael.
Bhag was crooning over his senseless master,
as a mother over her child.
"Get Miss Leamington away," said Michael
in a low voice, as the detective began to unlock
the handcuffs.
The girl lay, an inanimate and silent figure,
by the side of the guillotine, happily oblivious
to the tragedy which had been enacted in her
presence. Another detective had descended the
rope, and old Jack Knebworth, despite his years,
was the third to enter the cave. It was he who
found the door and aided the detective to carry
the girl to safety, after her awful experience.
Unlocking the handcuffs from the baronet's
wrists, Michael turned him over on his back.
One glance at the face told the detective that the
man was in a fit, and that his case, if not hope-
less, was at least desperate. As though under-
standing that the man had no ill intent toward
his master, Bhag watched passively, and then
Michael remembered how, the first time he had
seen the great ape, Bhag had smelled his hands
with careful thoroughness.


326 THE HAIRY ARM
"He's filing you for future reference, as a
friend," had said Gregory at the time.
"Pick him up," said Michael, speaking dis-
tinctly in the manner that Gregory had ad-
dressed the ape.
Without hesitation Bhag stooped and lifted
the limp man in his arms, and Michael guided
him to the stairway and led him up the stairs.
The house was full of police, who gaped at
the sight of the great ape and his burden.
"Take him upstairs and put him on the bed,"
ordered Michael.
Knebworth had already taken the girl off in
his car to Chichester, for she had shown signs
of reviving, and he wanted to get her away
from that house before she fully recovered.
Michael went down into the cave again and
joined the inspector. Together they made a
brief tour. The headless figures in the niches
told their own story. Farther on, Michael came
to the bigger cavern with its floor littered with
bones.
"Here is confirmation of the old legend," he
said in a hushed voice and pointed. "These are
the bones of those warriors and squires who
were trapped in the cave by a landslide. You
can see the horses' skeletons quite plainly."


THE DEATH 327
How had Adele got into the cave? He was
not long before he found the slide down which
she had tumbled.
"Another mystery is explained," he said.
"Griff tower was obviously built by the Ro-
mans to prevent cattle and men from falling
through into the cave. Incidentally it has served
as an excellent ventilator, and I have no doubt
the old man had this way prepared, both as a
hiding place for the people he had killed and as a
way of escape."
He saw a candle lantern and matches that the
girl had missed, and this he regarded as con-
clusive proof that his view was right.
They came back to the guillotine with its
ghastly burden, and Michael stood in silence for
a long time, looking at the still figure stretched
on the platform, its hands still clutching the
sides.
"How did he persuade these people to come
to their death?" asked the inspector in a voice
little above a whisper.
"That is a question for the psychologist,"
said Michael at last. "There is no doubt that
he got in touch with many men who were con-
templating suicide, but shrank from the act, and
he performed this service for them. I should


328 THE HAIRY ARM
imagine his practice of leaving around their
heads for identification arose out of some poor
wretch's desire that his wife and family should
secure his insurance.
"He worked with extraordinary cunning.
The letters, as you know, went to a house of
call, and they were collected by an old man,
who posted them to a second address, whence
they were put in prepared envelopes and posted
ostensibly to London. I discovered that the en-
velopes were kept in a specially lightproof box,
and that the unknown advertiser had stipulated
that they should not be taken out of that box
until they were ready for posting. An hour after
those letters were put in the mail, the address
faded and became invisible, and another
appeared.
"Vanishing ink?"
Michael nodded. "It is a trick that criminals
frequently employ. The new address, of course,
was Dower House. Put out the lights and let us
go up."
Three lamps were extinguished, and the
detective looked round fearfully at the shadows.
"I think well leave this down here," he said.
"I think we will," said Michael in complete
agreement.


CHAPTER XLO
CAMZRA
THKKB months had passed since Dower House
had yielded up its grisly secrets. A long enough
tone for Gregory Penne to recover completely
and to have served one of the six months' im-
prisonment to which he was sentenced on a tech-
nical charge. The guillotine had been reerected
in a certain "Black Museum" on the Thames
Embankment, where young policemen come to
look upon the equipment of criminality. People
had ceased to talk about The Head-hunter.
It seemed a million years ago to Michael, as
he sat perched on a table, watching Jack Kneb-
worth. in the last stages of despair, directing a
ruffled Reggie Connolly in the business of love-
making. Xear by stood Adele Leamington, a
star by virtue of the success that had attended a
certain picture.
Out of range of the camera, a cigarette be-
tween her ringers, Stella Mendoza, gorgeously
attired, watched her some-time triend and


330 THE HAIRY ARM
prospective leading man with good-natured
contempt.
"There's nobody can tell me, Mr. Kneb-
worth," said Reggie testily, "how to hold a girl!
Good gracious, have I been asleep all my life?
Don't you think I know as much about girls as
you, Mr. Knebworth?"
"I don't care a darn how you hold your girl,"
howled Jack. "I'm telling you how to hold my
girl I There's only one way of making love, and
that's my way. I've got the patent rights! Your
arm round her waist again, Connolly. Hold
your head up, will you? Now turn this way.
Now drop your chin a little. Smile, darn you,
smile! Not a prop smile!" he shrieked. "Smile
as if you liked her. Try to imagine that she
loves you! I'll apologize to you, afterward,
Adele, but try to imagine it, Connolly. That's
better. You look as if you'd swallowed a liqueur
of broken glass! Look down into her eyes—
look, I said, not glare! That's better. Now do
that again."
He watched, writhing, gesticulating, and at
last, in cold resignation, he exclaimed:
"Rotten, but it'll have to do. Lights!"
The big Kreisler lights flared, the banked
mercury lamps burned bluely, and the flood


CAMERA 331
lamps became blank expanses of diffused light.
Again the rehearsal went through, and then:
"Camera!" wailed Jack, and the handle began
to turn.
"That's all for you today, Connolly," said
Jack. "Now, Miss Mendoza."
Adele came across to where Michael was sit-
ting and jumped up on to the table beside him.
"Mr. Knebworth is quite right," she said,
shaking her head. "Reggie Connolly doesn't
know how to make love."-
"Who does?" demanded Michael. "Except
the right man?"
"He's supposed to be the right man," she in-
sisted. "And, what's more, he's supposed to
be the best lover on the English screen."
"Ha ha!" said Michael sardonically.
She was silent for a time, and then: "Why
are you still here? I thought your work was
finished in this part of the world."
"Not at all," he said cheerfully. "I've still
an arrest to make."
She looked up at him quickly. "Another?"
she said. "Who is it this time? I thought, when
you took poor Sir Gregory—"
"Poor Sir Gregory 1" he scoffed. "He ought
to be a very happy man. Six months' hard


332 THE HAIRY ARM
labor was just what he wanted, and he was
lucky to be charged, not with the killing of his
unfortunate servant, but with the concealment
of his death."
"Whom are you arresting now?"
"I'm not so sure," said Michael, "whether I
shall arrest her."
"Is it a woman?"
He nodded.
"What has she done?"
"The charge isn't definitely settled," he said
evasively, "but I think there will be several
counts. Creating a disturbance will be one;
deliberately endangering public health—at any
rate, the health of one of the public—will be
another; maliciously wounding the feelings—"
"Oh, you, you mean?"
She laughed softly. "I thought that was part
of your delirium that night at the hospital, or
part of mine. But, as other people saw you kiss
me, it must have been yours. I don't think I
want to marry," she said thoughtfully. "I am—"
"Don't say that you are wedded to your art,"
he groaned. "They all say that!"
"No, I'm not wedded to anything except a
desire to prevent my best friend from making a
great mistake. You've a very big career in front


CAMERA 333
of you, Michael, and marrying me is not going
to help you. People will think you're just in-
fatuated, and when the inevitable divorce comes
along—”
They both laughed together.
“If you have finished being like a maiden
aunt, I want to tell you something,” said
Michael. “I’ve loved you from the moment I
saw you.”
“Of course you have,” she said calmly.
“That's the only possible way you can love a
girl. If it takes three days to make up your
mind it can’t be love. That's why I know I don’t
love you. I was annoyed with you the first time
I met you; I was furious with you the second
time; and I’ve just tolerated you ever since. Wait
till I get my makeup off.”
She got down and ran to her dressing room.
Michael strolled across to comfort an exhausted
Jack Knebworth.
“Adele? Oh, she's, all right. She really has
had an offer from America—not Hollywood, but
a studio in the East. I’ve advised her not to
take it until she's a little more proficient, but I
don’t think she wanted any advice. That girl
isn't going to stay in the picture business.”
“What makes you think that, Knebworth?”


334 THE HAIRY ARM
"She's going to get married," said Jack
glumly. "I can recognize the signs. I told you
all along that there was something queer about
her. She's going to get married and leave the
screen for good—that's her eccentricity."
"And whom do you think she will marry?"
asked Michael.
Old Jack snorted. "It won't be Reggie Con-
nolly—that I can promise you."
"I should jolly well say not!" said that indig-
nant young man, who had remarkably keen ears.
"I'm not a marrying chap. It spoils an artist.
A wife is like a millstone round his neck. He
has no chance of expressing his individuality.
And, while we are on that subject, Mr. Kneb-
worth, are you perfectly sure that I'm to blame?
Doesn't it strike you—mind you, I wouldn't say
a word against the dear girl—doesn't it strike
you that Miss Leamington isn't quite—what
shall I say?—seasoned in love—that's the ex-
pression. She seems to be an amateur."
Stella Mendoza had strolled up. She had re-
turned to the scene of her former labors, and it
looked very much as if she were coming back to
her former position.
"When you say 'seasoned' you mean 'smoked,'
Reggie," she said. "I think you're wrong."


CAMERA 335
"I can't be wrong," said Reggie complacently.
"Fve made love to more girls in this country
than any other five leading men. and I tell you
that Miss Leamington is distinctly and fearfully
immature."
The object of their discussion appeared at the
end of the studio, nodded a cheery good night to
the company, and went out, Michael at her
beds.
"You're fearfully immature," he said, as he
guided her across the road.
"Who said so? It sounds like Reggie; that is
a favorite word of his."
"He says you know nothing whatever about
love-making."
"Perhaps I don't," she said shortly, and so
baffling was her tone that he was not prepared
to continue the subject, until they reached the
long, dark road in which she lived.
"The proper way to make love," be said,
more than a little appalled at his own boldness,
"is to put one hand on the waist"
Suddenly she was in his arms, her cool face
against his.
"There isn't any way," she murmured- "On*
just does!"
THE KND





BLUE HAND





BLUE HAND
CHAPTER OXE
MR SEPTIMUS SALTER pressed the bell on
his table for the third time and uttered a
soft growl.
He was a stout, elderly man, and with his big red
face and white side-whiskers, looked more like a pros-
perous farmer than a successful lawyer. The cut of
his clothes was queerly out of date, the high white collar
and the black satin cravat that bulged above a flowered
waistcoat, were of the fashion of 1830, in which year
Mr. Salter was a little ahead of his time, so far as fash-
ions were concerned. But the years had caught him up
and passed him. and although there was not a more up-
to-date solicitor in London, he remained faithful to the
style in which he had made a reputation as a "buck."
He pressed the bell again, this time impatiently.
"Confound the fellow!'' he muttered, and rising to
his feet, he stalked into the little room where his secre-
tary was usually to be found.
He had expected to find the apartment empty, but
it was not. A chair had been drawn sideways up to the
big ink-stained table, and kneeling on this, his elbows on
the table, his face between his hands, was a young man
who was absorbed in the perusal of a document, one of
the many which littered the table.
i


2 BLUE HAND
"Steele!" said Mr. Salter sharply, and the readei
looked up with a start and sprang to his feet.
He was taller than the average and broad of shoulder>
though he gave an impression of litheness. His tanned
face spoke eloquently of days spent out of doors, th&
straight nose, the firm mouth, and the strong chin were
all part of the characteristic "soldier face" molded by
four years of war into a semblance of hardness.
Now he was a little confused, more like the guilty
schoolboy than the V.C. who had tackled eight enemy
aeroplanes, and had come back to his aerodrome with
a dozen bullets in his body.
"Really, Steele," said Mr. Salter reproachfully, "you
are too bad. I have rung the bell three times for you."
"I'm awfully sorry, sir," said Jim Steele, and that dis-
arming smile of his went straight to the old man's heart.
"What are you doing here?" growled Mr. Salter,
looking at the papers on the desk, and then with a "tut"
of impatience, "aren't you tired of going over the Dan-
ton case?"
"No, sir, I'm not," said Steele quietly. "I have a
feeling that Lady Mary Danton can be found, and I
think if she is found there will be a very satisfactory
explanation for her disappearance, and one which will
rather disconcert "he stopped, fearful of commit-
ting an indiscretion.
Mr. Salter looked at him keenly and helped himself
to a pinch of snuff.
"You don't like Mr. Groat?" he asked and Jim
laughed.
"Well, sir, it's not for me to like him or dislike him,"
he replied. "Personally, I've no use for that kind of
person. The only excuse a man of thirty can produce


BLUEHAND 3
for not having been in the war, is that he was dead at
the time."
"He had a weak heart," suggested Mr. Salter, but
without any great conviction.
"I think he had," said Jim with a little twist of his
lips. "We used to call it a 'poor heart' in the army.
It made men go sick on the eve of a battle, and drove
them into dug-outs when they should have been ad-
vancing across the open with their comrades."
Mr. Salter looked down at the papers.
"Put them away, Steele," he said quietly. "You're
not going to get any satisfaction out of the search for a
woman who—why, she must have disappeared when
you were a child of five."
"I wish, sir "began Steele, and hesitated, "of
course, it's really no business of mine," he smiled, "and
I've no right to ask you, but I'd like to hear more de-
tails of that disappearance if you can spare me the time
—and if you feel inclined. I've never had the courage
to question you before. What is the real story of her
disappearance?"
Mr. Salter frowned, and then the frown was gradu-
ally replaced by a smile.
"I think, Steele, you're the worst secretary I ever
had," he said in despair. "And if I weren't your god-
father and morally bound to help you, I should write
you a polite little note saying your services were not
required after the end of this week."
Jim Steele laughed.
"I have expected that ever since I've been here,"
he said.
There was a twinkle in the old lawyer's eyes. He
was secretly fond of Jim Steele; fonder than the boy


4 BLUE HAND
could have imagined. But it was not only friendship
and a sense of duty that held Jim down in his job.
The young man was useful, and despite his seeming
inability to hear bells when he was wrapped up in his
favorite study, most reliable.
"Shut that door," he said gruffly, and when the
other had obeyed, "I'm telling this story to you," and
he pointed a warning finger at Jim Steele, "not be-
cause I want to satisfy your curiosity, but because I
hope that I'm going to kill a'l interest in the Danton
mystery, as you call it, for ever more! Lady Mary
Danton was the only daughter of the Earl of Plimstock
—a title which is now extinct. She married, when she
was quite a young girl, Jonathan Danton, a millionaire
shipowner, and the marriage was not a success. Jona-
than was a hard, sour man, and a sick man, too. You
talk about Digby Groat having a bad heart, well, Jona-
than had a real bad one. I think his ill-health was
partly responsible for his harsh treatment of his wife.
At any rate, the baby that was born to them, a girl,
did not seem to bring them together—in fact, they
grew farther apart. Danton had to go to America on
business. Before he left, he came to this office and sit-
ting at that very table, he signed a will, one of the most
extraordinary wills that I h°.ve ever had engrossed.
He left the whole of his iortune to his daughter
Dorothy, who was then three or four months old. In
the event of her death, he provided that the money
should go to his sister, Mrs. Groat, but not until twenty
years after the date of the child's death. In the mean-
time Mrs. Groat was entitled to enjoy the income from
the estate."
"Why did he do that?" asked Jim, puzzled.


BLUE HAND 5
"I think that is easily understood," said Mr. Salter.
'He was providing against the child's death in its in-
fancy, and he foresaw that the will might be contested
by Lady Mary. As it was drawn up—I haven't ex-
plained all the details—it could not be so contested for
twenty years. However, it was not contested," he said
quietly. "Whilst Danton was in America. Lady Mary
disappeared and with her the baby. Nobody knew
where she went to, but the baby and a strange nurse,
who for some reason or other had care of the child, were
traced to Margate. Possibly Lady Mary was there,
too, though we have no evidence of this. We do know
that the nurse, who was the daughter of a fisherman
and could handle a boat, took the child out on the sea
one summer day and was overtaken by a fog. All the
evidence shows that the little boat was run down by a
liner, and its battered wreck was picked up at sea, and
a week later the body of the nurse was recovered. We
never knew what became of Lady Mary. Danton re-
turned a day or two after the tragedy, and the news
was broken to him by Mrs. Groat, his sister. It killed
him."
"And Lady Mary was never seen again?"
Salter shook his head.
"So you see, my boy," he rose, and dropped his hand
on the other's shoulder, "even if by a miracle you could
find Lady Mary, you could not in any way affect the
position of Mrs. Groat, or her son. There is only one
tiny actress in this drama who could ever have bene-
fited by Jonathan Danton's will, and she," he lowered
his voice until it was little more than a whisper, "she
is beyond recall—beyond recall!"
There was a moment of silence.


6 BLUE HAND
"I realize that, sir," said Jim Steele quietly,
"only"
"Only what?"
"I have a queer feeling that there is something wrong
about the whole business, and I believe that if I gave
my time to the task I could unveil this mystery."
Mr. Salter looked at his secretary sharply, but Jim
Steele met his eyes without faltering.
"You ought to be a detective," he said ironically.
"I wish to heaven I was," was the unexpected reply.
"I offered my services to Scotland Yard two years ago
when the Thirteen Gangs were holding up the banks
with impunity."
"Oh, you did, did you?" said the lawyer sarcastically
as he opened the door, and then suddenly he turned.
"Why did I ring for you?" he asked. "Oh, I remem-
ber! I want you to get out all those Danton leases of
the Cumberland property."
"Is Mrs. Groat selling?" asked Steele.
"She can't sell, yet," said the lawyer, "but on the
thirtieth of May, providing a caveat is not entered, she
takes control of the Danton millions."
"Or her son does," said Jim significantly. He had
followed his employer back to the big private office
with its tiers of deed boxes, its worn furniture and
threadbare carpet and general air of mustiness.
"A detective, eh?" snorted Mr. Salter as he sat down
at his table. "And what is your equipment for your
new profession?"
Jim smiled, but there was an unusual look in his
face.
"Faith," he said quietly.


BLUE HAND 7
"Faith? What is faith to a detective?" asked the
startled Salter.
"'Faith is the substance of things hoped for; the
evidence of things unseen,'" Jim quoted the passage
almost solemnly and for a long time Mr. Salter did not
speak. Then he took up a slip of paper on which he
had scribbled some notes, and passed it across to Jim.
"See if you can 'detect' these deeds, they are in the
strong-room," he said, but in spite of his jesting words
he was impressed.
Jim took up the slip, examined it, and was about to
speak when there came a tap at the door and a clerk
slipped into the room.
"Will you see Mr. Digby Groat, sir?;' he asked.


CHAPTER TWO
MR. SALTER glanced up with a humorous
glint in his eye.
"Yes," he said with a nod, and then to
Jim as he was about to make a hurried exit, "you can
wait, Steele. Mr. Groat wrote in his letter that he
wanted to see the deeds, and you may have to conduct
him to the strong-room."
Jim Steele said nothing.
Presently the clerk opened the door and a young man
walked in.
Jim had seen him before and had liked him less
every time he had met him. The oblong sallow face,
with its short black mustache, the sleepy eyes, and
rather large chin and prominent ears, he could have
painted, if he were an artist, with his eyes shut. And
yet Digby Groat was good-looking. Even Jim could
not deny that. He was a credit to his valet. From
the top of his pomaded head to his patent shoes he was
an exquisite. His morning coat was of the most
fashionable cut and fitted him perfectly. One could
have used the silk hat he carried in his hand as a
mirror, and as he came into the room exuding a delicate
aroma of Quclgues Fleurs, Jim's nose curled. He
hated men who scented themselves, however daintily
the process was carried out.
Digby Groat looked from the lawyer to Steele with
that languid, almost insolent look in his dark eyes,
which the lawyer hated as much as his secretary.


BLUE HAND 9
"Good morning, Salter," he said.
He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket and,
dusting a chair, sat down uninvited, resting his lemon-
gloved hands upon a gold-headed ebony cane.
"You know Mr. Steele. my secretary," said Salter.
The other nodded his glossy head.
"Oh, yes, he's a Victoria Cross person, isn't he?"
he asked wearily. "I suppose you find it very dull
here, Steele? A place like this would bore me to
death."
"I suppose it would," said Jim, "but if you'd had
four years' excitement of war, you would welcome this
place as a calm haven of rest."
"I suppose so," said the other shortly. He was not
too well pleased by Jim's reference to the fact that he
had escaped the trials of war.
"Now, Dr. Groat "but the other stopped him
with a gesture.
"Please don't call me 'doctor/" he said with a
pained expression. "The fact that I have been
through the medical schools and have gained my de-
grees in surgery, is one which I wish you would forget.
I qualified for my own amusement, and if people get
into the habit of thinking of me as a 'doctor,' I shall
be called up all hours of the night by all sorts of
wretched patients."
It was news to Jim that this sallow dandy had
graduated in medicines.
"I came to see those Lakeside leases, Salter," Groat
went on. "I have had an offer—I should say, my
mother has had an offer—from a syndicate which is
erecting an hotel upon her property. I understand
there is some clause in the lease which prevents build'


10 BLUE HAND
ing operations of that character. If so, it was beastly
thoughtless of old Danton to acquire such a property."
"Mr. Danton did nothing either thoughtless or
beastly thoughtless," said Sailer quietly, "and if you
had mentioned it in your letter, I could have telephoned
you the information and saved your calling. As it is,
Steele will take you to the strong-room and you can
examine the leases at your leisure."
Groat looked at Jim sceptically.
"Does he know anything about leases?" he asked.
"And must I really descend into your infernal cellar
and catch my death of cold? Can't the leases be
brought up for me?"
"If you will go into Mr. Steele's room I daresay he
will bring them to you." said Salter, who did not like
his client any more than Jim did. Moreover, he had
a shrewd suspicion that the moment the Groats gained
possession of the Danton fortune, they would find an-
other lawyer to look after their affairs.
Jim took the keys and returned with an armful of
deeds, to discover that Groat was no longer with his
chief.
"I sent him into your room," said Salter. "Take
the leases in and explain them to him. If there's any-
thing you want to know I'll come in."
Jim found the young man in his room. He was
examining a book he had taken from a shelf.
''What does 'dactylology' mean?'' he asked, looking
round as Jim came in. "I see you have a book on the
subject."
"Finger prints," said Jim Steele briefly. He hated
the calm proprietorial attitude of the man and, more*
over. Mr. Groat was examining his own private library.


BLUE HAND 11
"Finger prints, eh?" said Groat, replacing the book.
"Are you interested in finger-prints ?:J
"A little," said Jim. "Here are the Lakeside
leases, Mr. Groat. I made a sketchy examination of
them in the strong-room and there seems to be no
clause preventing the erection of the building you
mention."
Groat took the document in his hand and turned it
leaf by leaf.
"No," he said at last, and then putting down the
document, :'so you're interested in finger prints, eh?
I didn't know old Salter did a criminal business."
"He has very little common law practice," said
Jim.
"What are these?" asked Groat.
By the side of Jim's desk was a book-shelf filled with
thick black exercise books.
"Those are my private notes," said Jim and the
other looked round with a sneering smile.
"What the devil have you got to make notes about,
I wonder?'' he asked, and before Jim could stop him,
he had taken one of the exercise books down.
"If you don't mind/' said Jim firmly, "I would
rather you left my private property alone."
"Sorry, but I thought everything in old Salter's office
had to do with his clients."
"You're not the only client," said Jim. He was not
one to lose his temper, but this insolent man was trying
his patience sorely.
"What is it all about?" asked the languid Groat,
as he turned one page.
Jim, standing at the other side of the table watching
him, saw a touch of color come into the man's yellow


U BLUEHAND
face. The black eyes hardened and his languid inter-
est dropped away like a cloak.
"What is this?" he asked sharply. "What the hell
are you"
He checked himself with a great effort and laughed,
but the laugh was harsh and artificial.
"You're a wonderful fellow, Steele," he said with a
return to his old air of insouciance. "Fancy bothering
your head about things of that sort."
Hs put the book back where he had found it, picked
up another of the leases and appeared to be read-
ing it intently, but Jim, watching him, saw that he
was not reading, even though he turned page after
page.
"That is all right," he said at last, putting the lease
down and taking up his top hat. "Some day perhaps
you will come and dine with us, Steele. I've had
rather a stunning laboratory built at the back of our
house in Grosvenor Square. Old Salter called me
doctor!" he chuckled quietly as though at a big joke,
"well, if you come along, I will show you something
that will at least justify the title."
The dark brown eyes were fixed steadily upon Jim
as he stood in the doorway, one yellow-gloved hand on
the handle.
"And, by-the-way, Mr. Steele," he drawled, "your
studies are leading you into a danger zone for which
even a second Victoria Cross could not adequately
. compensate you."
He closed the door carefully behind him and Jim
Steele frowned after him.
"What the dickens does he mean?" he asked, and


BLUE HAND 13
then remembered the exercise book through which
Groat had glanced, and which had had so strange an
effect upon him. He took the book down from the
shelf and turning to the first page, read: "Some notes
upon the Thirteen Gang."


CHAPTER THREE
f I "^HAT afternoon Jim Steele went into Mr.
Salter's office.
1
'I'm going to tea now, sir," he said.
Mr. Salter glanced up at the solemn-faced clock that
ticked audibly on the opposite wall.
"All right," he grumbled, "but you're a very punctual
tea-drinker, Steele. What are you blushing about—is
it a girl?"
"No, sir," said Jim rather loudly. "I sometimes
meet a lady at tea, but -"
"Off you go," said the old man gruffly. "And give
her my love."
Jim was grinning, but he was very red, too, when he
went down the stairs into Marlborough Street. He
hurried his pace because he was a little late, and
breathed a sigh of relief as he turned into the quiet
tea-shop to find that his table was as yet unoccu-
pied.
As his tall, athletic figure strode through the room
to the little recess overlooking Regent Street, which
was reserved for privileged customers, many heads
were turned, for Jim Steele was a splendid figure of
British manhood, and the gray laughing eyes had
played havoc in many a tender heart.
But he was one of those men whose very idealism
forbade trifling. He had gone straight from a public
school into the tragic theater of conflict, and at an
14


BLUE HAXD IS
age when most young men were dancing attendance
upon women, his soul was being seared by the red-hot
irons of war.
He sat down at the table and the beaming waitress
came forward to attend to his needs.
"Your young lady hasn't come yet. sir," she said.
It was the first time she had made such a reference
to Eunice Weldon and Jim stiffened.
"The young lady who has tea with me is not my
'young lady,''' he said a little coldly, and seeing that he
had hurt the girl, he added with a gleam of mirth in
those irresistible eyes, "she's your young lady really."
"I'm sorry," said the waitress, scribbling on her
order pad to hide her confusion. "I suppose you'll
have the usual?"
"I'll have the usual," said Jim gravely, and then
with a quick glance at the door he rose to meet the
girl who had at that moment entered.
She was slim of build, straight as a plummet line
from chin to toe; she carried herself with a dignity
which was so natural that the men who haunt the
pavement to leer and importune, stood on one side to
let her pass, and then, after a glimpse of her face,
cursed their own timidity. For it was a face Madonna-
like in its purity. But a blue-eyed, cherry-lipped
Madonna, vital and challenging. A bud of a girl
breaking into the summer bloom of existence. In
those sapphire eyes the beacon fires of life signaled
her womanhood; they were at once a plea and a warn-
ing. Yet she carried the banners of childhood no less
triumphantly. The sensitive mouth, the round, girlish
chin, the satin white throat and clean, transparent skin
unmarked, unblemished, these were the gifts of


16 BLUE HAND
which were carried forward to the account of her
charm.
Her eyes met Jim's and she came forward with out-
stretched hand.
"I'm late," she said gaily. "We had a tiresome
duchess at the studio who wanted to be taken in seven-
teen different poses—it is always the plain people who
give the most trouble."
She sat down and stripped her gloves, with a smile
at the waitress.
"The only chance that plain people have of looking
beautiful is to be photographed beautifully," said Jim.
Eunice Weldon was working at a fashionable photog-
rapher's in Regent Street. Jim's meeting with her
had been in the very room in which they were now
sitting. The hangings at the window had accidentally
caught fire, and Jim, in extinguishing them, had burnt
his hand. It was Eunice Weldon who had dressed the
injury.
A service rendered by a man to a woman may not
lead very much farther to a better acquaintance.
When a woman helps a man it is invariably the begin-
ning of a friendship. Women are suspicious of the
services which men give and yet feel responsible for
the man they have helped, even to the slightest extent.
Since then they had met almost daily and taken tea
together. Once Jim had asked her to go to a theater,
an invitation which she had promptly but kindly de-
clined. Thereafter he had made no further attempt to
improve their acquaintance.
"And how have you got on with your search for the
missing lady?" she asked, as she spread some jam on


BLUE HAND 17
the thin bread-and-butter which the waitress had
brought.
Jim's nose wrinkled—a characteristic grimace of his.
"Mr. Salter made it clear to me to-day that even
if I found the missing lady it wouldn't greatly improve
matters," he said.
"It would be wonderful if the child had been saved
after all," she said. "Have you ever thought of that
possibility?"
He nodded.
"There is no hope of that," he said shaking his
head, "but it would be wonderful, as you say, and
more wonderful," he laughed, "if you were the missing
heiress!"
"And there's no hope of that either," she said, shak-
ing her head. "I'm the daughter of poor but honest
parents, as the story-books say."
"Your father was a South African, wasn't he?"
She nodded.
"Poor daddy was a musician, and mother I can
hardly remember, but she must have been a dear."
"Where were you born?" asked Jim.
She did not answer immediately because she was
busy with her jam sandwich.
"In Cape Town—Rondebosch, to be exact," she
said after a while. "Why are you so keen on finding
your long-lost lady?"
"Because I am anxious that the most unmitigated
cad in the world should not succeed to the Danton
millions."
She sat bolt upright.
"The Danton millions?" she repeated slowly.


18 BLUEHAND
"Then who is your unmitigated cad? You have never
yet mentioned the names of these people."
This was perfectly true. Jim Steele had not even
spoken of his search until a few days before.
"A man named Digby Groat."
She stared at him aghast.
"Why, what's the matter?" he asked in surprise.
"When you said 'Danton' I remembered Mr. Curley
—that is our chief photographer—saying that Mrs.
Groat was the sister of Jonathan Danton," she said
slowly.
"Do you know the Groats?" he asked quickly.
"I don't know them," she said slowly, "at least, not
very well, only "she hesitated, "I'm going to be
Mrs. Groat's secretary."
He stared at her.
"You never told me this," he said, and as she
dropped her eyes to her plate, he realized that he had
made a faux pas. "Of course," he said hurriedly
"there's no reason why you should tell me, but"
"It only happened to-day," she said. "Mr. Groat
has had some photographs taken—his mother came with
him to the studio. She's been several times and I
scarcely noticed them until to-day, when Mr. Curley
called me into the office and said that Mrs. Groat was
in need of a secretary and that it was a very good
position; £5 a week, which is practically all profit be-
cause I should live in the house."
"When did Mrs. Groat decide that she wanted a sec-
retary?" asked Jim, and it was her turn to stare.
"I don't know, why do you ask that?"
"She was at our office a month ago," said Jim, "and
Mr. Salter suggested that she should have a secretary


BLUE HAND 19
to keep her accounts in order. She said then she hated
the idea of having anybody in the house who was
neither a servant nor a friend of the family."
"Well, she's changed her views now," smiled the girl.
"This means that we shan't meet at tea any more.
When are you going?"
"To-morrow," was the discouraging reply.
He went back to his office more than a little dispir-
ited. Something deep and vital seemed to have gone
out of his life.
"You're in love, you fool," he growled to himself.
He opened the big diary which it was his business to
keep and slammed down the covers savagely.
Mr. Salter had gone home. He always went home
early, and Jim lit his pipe and began to enter up the
day's transactions from the scribbled notes which his
chief had left on his desk.
He had made the last entry and was making a final
search of the desk for some scrap which he might have
overlooked.
Mr. Sailer's desk was usually tidy, but he had a
habit of concealing important memoranda, and Jim
turned over the law books on the table in a search
for any scribbled memo he might have missed. He
found between two volumes a thin gilt-edged note-
book, which he did not remember having seen before.
He opened it to discover that it was a diary for the
year 1901. Mr. Salter was in the habit of making
notes for his own private reading, using a queer legal
shorthand, which no clerk had ever been able to de-
cipher. The entries in the diary were in these char-
acters.
Jim turned the leaves curiously, wondering how so


20 BLUE HAND
methodical a man as the lawyer had left a private
diary visible. He knew that in the big green safe in
the lawyer's office were stacks of these books, and
possibly the old man had taken one out to refresh his
memory. The writing was Greek to Jim, so that he
felt no compunction in turning the pages filled as they
were with indecipherable and meaningless scrawls,
punctuated now and again with a word in longhand.
He stopped suddenly, for under the heading "June
4th" was quite a long entry. It seemed to have been
written in subsequently to the original shorthand entry,
for it was in green ink. This almost dated the in-
scription. Eighteen months before, an oculist had sug-
gested to Mr. Salter, who suffered from an unusual
form of astigmatism, that green ink would be easier
for him to read, and ever since then he had used no
other.
Jim took in the paragraph before he realized that be
was committing an unpardonable act in reading his
employer's private notes.
"One month imprisonment with hard labor. Holloway
Prison. Released July 2nd. Madge Benson (this word was
underlined). 14, Palmer's Terrace. Paddingtcn. 74. High-
cliffe Gardens, Margate. Long enquiries with boatnun who
owned 'Saucy Belle.' No further trace"
Here the entry ended.
"What on earth does that mean?"' muttered Jim.
"I must make a note of that."
He rerJired now that be was doing something which
micht be n?garded as dishonorable, but be was so ab-
sorbed in the new dues that he overcame his repug-
nance.


BLUE HAND 21
Obviously, this entry referred to the missing Lady
Mary. Who the woman Madge Benson was, what the
reference to Holloway Gaol meant, he would discover.
He made a copy of the entry in the diary at the
back of a card, went back to his room, locked the door
of his desk and went home, to think out some plan of
campaign.
He occupied a small flat in a building overlooking
Regent's Park. It is true that his particular flat over-
looked nothing but the backs of other houses, and a
deep cutting through which were laid the lines of the
London, Midland and Scottish Raflway—he could have
dropped a penny on the carriages as they passed, so
near was the line. But the rent of the flat was only
one-half of that charged for those in a more favorable
position. And his flat was smaller than any. He had
a tiny private income, amounting to two or three pounds
a week, and that, with his salary, enabled him to main-
tain himself in something like comfort. The three
rooms he occupied were filled with priceless old fur-
niture that he had saved from the wreckage of his
father's home, when that easy-going man had died
leaving just enough to settle his debts, which were
many.
Jim had got out of the lift on the fourth floor and
had put the key in the lock when he heard the door
on the opposite side of the landing open, and turned
round.
The elderly woman who came out wore the uniform
of a nurse, and she nodded pleasantly.
"How is your patient, nurse?" asked Jim.
"She's very well, sir, or rather as well as yo\i co\M
expect a bedridden lady to be," said the womaxx ^\ix a


22 BLUE HAND
smile. "She's greatly obliged to you for the books
you sent in to her."
"Poor soul," said Jim sympathetically. "It must
be terrible not to be able to go out."
The nurse shook her head.
"I suppose it is," she said, "but Mrs. Fane doesn't
seem to mind. You get used to it after seven years."
A "rat-tat" above made her lift her eyes.
"There's the post," she said. "I thought it had
gone. I'd better wait till he comes down."
The postman at Featherdale Mansions was carried
by the lift to the sixth floor and worked his way to the
ground floor. Presently they heard his heavy feet
coming down and he loomed in sight.
"Nothing for you, sir," he said to Jim, glancing at
the bundle of letters in his hand.
"Miss Madge Benson—that's you, nurse, isn't it?"
"That's right," said the woman briskly and took the
letter from his hand, then with a little nod to Jim she
went downstairs.
Madge Benson! The name that had appeared in
Sailer's diary!


CHAPTER FOUR
"T" 'M sick to death of hearing your views on the
I subject, mother," said Mr. Digby Groat, as he
-M- helped himself to a glass of port. "It is suffi-
cient for you that I want the girl to act as your secre-
tary. Whether you give her any work to do or not is
a matter of indifference to me. Whatever you do, you
must not leave her with the impression that she is
brought here for any other purpose than to write your
letters and deal with your correspondence."
The woman who sat at the other side of the table
looked older than she was. Jane Groat was over
sixty, but there were people who thought she was
twenty years more than that. Her yellow face was
puckered and lined, her blue veined hands folded now
on her lap, were gnarled and ugly. Only the dark
brown eyes held their brightness undimmed. Her
figure was bent and there was about her a curious
cringing frightened look which was almost pitiable.
She did not look at her son—she seldom looked at
anybody.
"She'll spy, she'll pry," she moaned.
"Shut up about the girl!" he snarled, "and now
we've got a minute to ourselves, I'd like to tell you
something, mother."
Her uneasy eyes went left and right, but avoided
him. There was a menace in his tone with which she
was all too familiar.
23


24 BLUE HAND
"Look at this."
He bad taken from his pocket something that
sparkled and glittered in the light of the table lamp.
"What is it?" she whined without looking.
"It is a diamond bracelet," he said sternly. "And
it is the property of Lady Waltham. We were staying
with the Walthams for the week-end. Look at it!"
His voice was harsh and grating and dropping her
head she began to weep painfully.
"I found that in your room," he. said, and his suave
manner was gone. "You old thief!" he hissed across
the table, "can't you break yourself of that habit?"
"It looked so pretty," she gulped, her tears trickling
down her withered face. "I can't resist the tempta-
tion when I see pretty things."
"I suppose you know that Lady Waltham's maid
has been arrested for stealing this, and will probably
go to prison for six months?"
"I couldn't resist the temptation," she sniveled,
and he threw the bracelet on the table with a growl.
"I'm going to send it back to the woman and tell
them it must have been packed away by mistake in
your bag. I'm not doing it to get this girl out of
trouble, but to save myself from a lot of unpleasant-
ness."
"I know why you're bringing this girl into the
house," she sobbed, "it is to spy on me."
His lips curled in a sneer.
"To spy on you!" he said contemptuously and
laughed as he rose. "Now understand," his voice
was harsh again, "you've got to break yourself of this
habit of picking up things that you like. I'm expecting
to go into Parliament at the next election, and I'm


BLUE HAND 25
not going to have my position jeopardized by an old
fool of a kleptomaniac. If there's something wrong
with your brain," he added significantly, "I've a neat
little laboratory at the back of this house where that
might be attended to."
She shrank back in terror, her face gray.
"You—you wouldn't do it—my own son!" she stam-
mered. "I'm all right, Digby, it's only"
He smiled, but it was not a pleasant smile to see.
"Probably there is a little compression," he said
evenly, "some tiny malgrowth of bone that is pressing
on a particular cell. We could put that right for you,
mother"
But she had thrown her chair aside and fled from
the room before he had finished. He picked up the
jewel, looked at it contemptuously and thrust it into
his pocket. Her curious thieving propensities he had
known for a very long time and had fought to check
them, and as he thought, successfully.
He went to his library, a beautiful apartment, with
its silver grate, its costly rosewood bookshelves and
its rare furnishings, and wrote a letter to Lady Wal-
tham. He wrapped this about the bracelet, and having
packed letter and jewel carefully in a small box, rang
the bell. A middle-aged man with a dark, forbidding
face, answered the summons.
"Deliver this to Lady Waltham at once, Jackson,"
said Digby. "The old woman is going out to a concert
to-night, by-the-way, and when she's out I want you
to make a very thorough search of her room."
The man shook his head.
"I've already looked carefully, Mr. Groat," he said,
"and I've found nothing."


26 BLUE HAND
He was on the point of going when Digby called
him back.
"You've told the housekeeper to see to Miss Wei-
don's room?"
"Yes, sir," was the reply. "She wanted to put
her on the top floor amongst the servants, but I
stopped her."
"She must have the best room in the house," said
Groat. "See that there are plenty of flowers in the
room and put in the bookcase and the Chinese table
that are in my room."
The man nodded.
"What about the key, sir?" he asked after some hesi-
tation.
"The key?" Digby looked up. "The key of her
room?"
The man nodded.
"Do you want the door to lock?" he asked signifi-
cantly.
Mr. Groat's lips curled in a sneer.
"You're a fool," he said. "Of course, I want the
door to lock. Put bolts on if necessary."
The man looked his surprise. There was evidently
between these two something more than the ordinary
relationship which existed between employer and serv-
ant.
"Have you ever run across a man named Steele?"
asked Digby, changing the subject.
Jackson shook his head.
"Who is he?" he asked.
"He is a lawyer's clerk. Give him a look up when
you've got some time to spare. No, you'd better


BLUE HAND 27
not go—ask—ask Bronson. He lives at Featherdale
Mansions."
The man nodded and Digby went down the steps
to the waiting electric brougham.
*****
Eunice Weldon had packed her small wardrobe and
the cab was waiting at the door. She had no regrets
at leaving the stuffy untidy lodging which had been her
home for two years and her farewell to her disheveled
landlady, who seemed always to have dressed in a
violent hurry, was soon over. She could not share Jim
Steele's dislike of her new employers. She was too
young to regard a new job as anything but the begin-
ning of an adventure which held all sorts of fascinat-
ing possibilities. She sighed as she realized that the
little tea-table talks which had been so pleasant a
feature of her life were now to come to an end, and yet
—surely he would make some effort to see her again?
She would have hours—perhaps half-days to herself,
and then she remembered with dismay that she did
not know his address! But he would know hers.
That thought comforted her, for she wanted to see
him again. She wanted to see him more than she had
ever dreamt she would. 'She could close her eyes, and
his handsome face, those true smiling eyes of his,
would look into hers. The swing of his shoulders as
he walked, the sound of his voice as he spoke—every
characteristic of his was present in her mind.
And the thought that she might not see him again—
"I will see him—I will!" she murmured, as the cab
stopped before the imposing portals of No. 409, Gros-
venor Square.


28 BLUE HAND
She was a little bewildered by the army of servants
who came to her help and just a little pleased by the
deference they showed to her.
"Mrs. Groat will receive you, miss," said a swarthy-
looking man, whose name she afterwards learnt was
Jackson.
She was ushered into a small back drawing-room
which seemed poorly furnished to the girl's eye, but to
Mrs. Groat was luxury.
The old woman resented the payment of a penny
that was spent on decoration and furniture and only
the fear of her son prevented her from disputing every
account which was put before her for settlement. The
meeting was a disappointment to Eunice. She had not
seen Mrs. Groat except in the studio where she was
beautifully dressed. She saw now a yellow-faced old
woman, shabbily attired, who looked at her with dark
disapproving eyes.
"Oh, so you're the young woman who is going to be
my secretary, are you?" she quavered dismally.
"Have they shown you your room?"
"Not yet, Mrs. Groat," said the girl.
"I hope you will be comfortable," said Mrs. Groat
in a voice that suggested that she had no very great
hopes for anything of the sort.
"When do I begin my duties?" asked Eunice, con-
scious of a chill.
"Oh, any time," said the old woman off-handedly.
She peered up at the girl.
"You're pretty," she said grudgingly and Eunice
flushed. Somehow that compliment sounded like an
insult. "I suppose that's why," said Mrs. Groat ab-
sently.


BLUEHAND 29
"Why what?" asked the girl gently.
She thought the woman was weak of intellect and
had already lost whatever enthusiasm she had for her
new position.
"Nothing," said the old woman, and with a nod dis-
missed her.
The room into which Eunice was shown left her
speechless for a while.
"Are you sure this is mine?" she asked incredu-
lously.
"Yes, miss," said the housekeeper with a sidelong
glance at the girl.
"But this is beautiful!" said Eunice.
The room would have been remarkable if it had been
in a palace. The walls were paneled in brocade silk
and the furniture was of the most beautiful quality.
A small French bed, carved and gilded elaborately, in-
vited repose. Silk hangings hung at either side of the
head and through the French windows she saw a
balcony gay with laden flower-boxes. Under her feet
was a carpet of blue velvet pile that covered the whole
of the room. She looked round open-mouthed at the
magnificence of her new home. The dressing-table
was an old French model in the Louis Quinze style, in-
laid with gold, and the matching wardrobe must have
been worth a fortune. Near one window was a lovely
writing-table and a well-filled bookcase would almost
be within reach of her hand when she lay in bed.
"Are you sure this is my loom?" she asked again.
"Yes, miss," said the housekeeper, "and this," she
opened a door, "is your bathroom. There is a bath to
every room. Mr. Groat had the house reconstructed
when he came into it."


30 BLUE HAND
The girl opened one of the French windows and
stepped on to the balcony which ran along to a
square and larger balcony built above the porch of
the house. This, she discovered, opened from a land-
ing above the stairs.
She did not see Mrs. Groat again that afternoon and
when she enquired she discovered that the old lady
was lying down with a bad headache. Nor was she to
meet Digby Groat. Her first meal was eaten in soli-
tude.
"Mr. Groat has not come back from the country,"
explained Jackson, who waited on her. "Are you com-
fortable, miss?"
"Quite, thank you," she said.
There was an air about this man which she did not
like. It was not that he failed in respect, or that he
was in any way familiar, but there was something
proprietorial in his attitude. It almost seemed as
though he had a financial interest in the place and she
was glad when her meal was finished. She went
straight up to her room a little dissatisfied that she
had not met her employer. There were many things
which she wanted to ask Mrs. Groat; and particularly
did she wish to know what days she would be free.
Presently she switched out the light, and opening
the French windows, stepped out into the cool, fra-
grant night. The afterglow of the sun still lingered in
the sky. The square was studded with lights, an al-
most incessant stream of motor-car traffic passed under
her window, for Grosvenor Square is the short cut
between Oxford Street and Piccadilly.
The stars spangled the clear sky with a million
specks of quivering light. Against the jeweled robe


BLUE HAND 31
of the northern heavens, the roofs and steeples and
stacks of London had a mystery and wonder which
only the light of day could dispel. And in the majestic
solitude of the night, Eunice's heart seemed to swell
until she could scarcely breathe. It was not the magic
of stars that brought the blood flaming to her face;
nor the music of the trees. It was the flash of under-
standing that one half of her, one splendid fragment of
the pattern on which her life was cut, was somewhere
there in the darkness asleep perhaps—thinking of her,
she prayed. She saw his face with startling distinct-
ness, saw the tender kindness of his eyes, felt on her
moist palm the pressure of those strong brown
fingers. . . .
With a sigh which was half a sob she closed the
window and drew the silken curtains, shutting out the
immortal splendors of nature from her view.
Five minutes later she was asleep.
How long she slept she did not know. It must
have been hours she thought. The stream of traffic
had ceased and there was no sound from outside, save
the distant hoot of a motor-horn. The room was in
darkness, and yet she was conscious that somebody was
there!
She sat up in bed and a cold shiver ran down her
spine. Somebody was in the room! She reached out
to turn on the light and could have shrieked, for she
touched a hand, a cold, small hand that was resting
on the bedside table. For a second she was paralyzed
and then the hand was suddenly withdrawn. There
was a rustle of curtain rings and the momentary
glimpse of a figure against the lesser gloom of the night,
and shaking in every limb, she leapt from the bed and


32 BLUEHAND
switched on the light. The room was empty, but the
French window was ajar.
And then she saw on the table by her side, a gray
card. Picking it up with shaking hands she read:
"One who loves you, begs you for your life and honor's
sake to leave this house."
It bore no other signature than a small blue hand.
She dropped the card on the bed and stood staring
at it for a while and then, slipping into her dressing-
gown she unlocked the door of her room and went out
into the passage. A dim light was burning at the head
of the stairs. She was terror-stricken, hardly knew
what she was doing, and she seemed to fly down the
stairs.
She must find somebody, some living human creature,
some reality to which she could take hold. But the
house was silent. The hall lamp was burning and by
its light she saw the old clock and was dimly conscious
that she could hear its solemn ticking. It was three
o'clock. There must be somebody awake in the house.
The servants might still be up, she thought wildly,
and ran down a passage to what she thought was the
entrance to the servants' hall. She opened a door and
found herself in another passage illuminated by one
light at the farther end, where further progress was
arrested by a white door. She raced along until she
came to the door and tried to open it. There was no
handle and it was a queer door. It was not made of
wood, but of padded canvas.
And then as she stood bewildered, there came from
behind the padded door a squeal of agony, so shrill,
so full of pain that her blood seemed to turn to ice.


BLUE HAND 33
Again it shrieked and turning she fled back the way
she had come, through the hall to the front door. Her
trembling fingers fumbled at the key and presently the
lock snapped and the door flew open. She staggered
out on to the broad steps of the house and stopped, for
a man was sitting on the head of those steps.
He turned his face as the door opened and in the
light from the hall he was revealed. It was Jim Steele!


CHAPTER FIVE
JIM came stumbling to his feet, staring in blank
amazement at the unexpected apparition and for
a moment thus they stood, facing one another,
the girl stricken dumb with fear and surprise.
She thought he was part of a dreadful dream, an
image that was conjured by her imagination and would
presently vanish.
"Jim—Mr. Steele!" she gasped.
In a stride he was by her side, his arm about her
shoulder.
"What is wrong?" he asked quickly, and in his
anxiety his voice was almost harsh.
She shuddered and dropped her head on his breast.
"Oh, it was dreadful, dreadful!" she whispered and
he heard the note of horror in her low voice.
"May I ask what is the meaning of this?" de-
manded a suave voice, and with a start the girl turned.
A man was standing in the doorway and for a second
she did not recognize him. Even Jim, who had seen
Digby Groat at close quarters, did not know him in his
unusual attire. He was dressed in a long white overall
which reached from his throat to his feet; over his
head was a white cap which fitted him so that not a
particle of his hair could be seen. Bands of white
elastic held his cuffs close to his wrists and both hands
were hidden in brown rubber gloves.
"May I again ask you, Miss Weldon, why you are
standing on my doorstep in the middle of the night,
34


BLUE HAND 35
attired in clothes which I do not think are quite suit-
able for street wear? Perhaps you will come inside
and explain," he said stepping back; "Grosvenor
Square is not quite used to this form of midnight enter-
tainment."
Still clutching Jim's arm the girl went slowly back
to the passage and Digby shut the door.
"And Mr. Steele, too," said Digby with ironic sur-
prise, "you're a very early caller."
Jim said nothing. His attention was wholly devoted
to the girl. She was trembling from head to foot, and
he found a chair for her.
"There are a few explanations due," he said coolly,
"but I rather think they are from you, Mr. Groat."
"From me?" Mr. Groat was genuinely unprepared
for that demand.
"So far as my presence is concerned, that can be
explained in a minute," said Jim. "I was outside the
house a few moments ago when the door swung open
and Miss Weldon ran out in a state of abject terror.
Perhaps you will tell me, Mr. Groat, why this lady is
reduced to such a condition?"
There was a cold menace in his tone which Digby
Groat did not like to hear
"I have not the slightest idea what it is all about,"
he said. "I have been working in my laboratory for
the last half-hour, and the first intimation I had that
anything was wrong was when I heard the door open."
The girl had recovered now, and some of the color
had returned to her face, yet her voice shook as she
recited the incidents of the night, both men listening
attentively.
Jim took particular notice of the man's attitude, and


36 BLUE HAND
he was satisfied in his mind that Digby Groat was as
much in ignorance of the visit to the girl's room as he
himself. When she had finished, Groat nodded.
"The terrifying cry you heard from my laboratory,"
he smiled, "is easily explained. Nobody was being
hurt, at least if he was being hurt, it was for his own
good. When I came back to my house to-night I
found my little dog had a piece of glass in its paw, and
I was extracting it."
She drew a sigh of relief.
"I'm so sorry I made such a fuss," she said peni-
tently, "but I—I was frightened."
"You are sure somebody was in your room?" asked
Digby.
"Absolutely certain." She had not told him about
the card.
"They came through the French window from the
balcony?"
She nodded.
"May I see your room?"
She hesitated for a moment.
"I will go in first to tidy it," she said. She remem-
bered the card was on the bed, and she was particularly
anxious that it should not be read.
Uninvited Jim Steele followed Digby upstairs into
the beautiful room. The magnificence of the room,
its hangings and costly furniture, did not fail to im-
press him, but the impression he received was not
favorable to Digby Groat.
"Yes, the window is ajar. You are sure you
fastened it?"
The girl nodded.
"Yes. I left both fanlights down to get the air."


BLUEHAND 37
she pointed above, "but I fastened these doors. I
distinctly remember that."
"But if this person came in from the balcony," said
Digby, "how did he or she get there?"
He opened the French door and stepped out into the
night, walking along the balcony until he came to the
square space above the porch. There was another
window here which gave on to the landing at the head
of the stairs. He tried it—it was fastened. Coming
back through the girl's room he discovered that not
only was the catch in its socket, but the key was
turned.
"Strange," he muttered.
His first impression had been that it was his mother
who, with her strange whims, had been searching the
room for some trumpery trinket which had taken her
fancy. But the old woman was not sufficiently agile
to climb a balcony nor had she the courage to make a
midnight foray.
"My own impression is that you dreamt it, Miss
Weldon," he said with a smile. "And now I advise
you to go to bed and to sleep. I'm sorry that you've
had this unfortunate introduction to my house."
He had made no reference to the providential
appearance of Jim Steele, nor did he speak of this until
they had said good-night to the girl and had passed
down the stairs into the hall again.
"Rather a coincidence, your being here, Mr. Steele,"
he said. "What were you doing? Studying dactyl-
ology?"
"Something like that," said Jim coolly.
Mr. Digby Groat searched for a cigarette in his
pocket and lit it.


38 BLUE HAND
"I should have thought that your work was so
arduous that you would not have time for early morn-
ing strolls in Grosvenor Square."
"Would you really?" said Jim, and then suddenly
Digby laughed.
"You're a queer devil," he said. "Come along and
see my laboratory."
Jim was anxious to see the laboratory and the invita-
tion saved him from the necessity of making fur-
ther reference to the terrifying cry which Eunice had
heard.
They turned down a long passage through the padded
door and came to a large annexe, the walls of which
were of white glazed brick. There was no window, the
light in the daytime being admitted through a glass
roof. Now, however, these were covered by blue
blinds and the room owed its illumination to two power-
ful lights which hung above a small table. It was not
an ordinary table, its legs were of thin iron, termi-
nating in rubber-tired casters. The top was of white
enameled iron, with curious little screw holds oc-
curring at intervals.
It was not the table so much as the occupant which
interested Jim. Fastened down by two iron bands,
one of which was about its neck and one about the
lower portion of its body, its four paws fastened by
thin cords, was a dog, a rough-haired terrier who turned
its eyes upon Jim with an expression of pleading so
human that Jim could almost feel the message that
the poor little thing was sending.
"Your dog, eh?" said Jim.
Digby looked at him.
"Yes," he said, "why?"


BLUEHAND 39
"Haven't you finished taking the glass out of his
paw?"
"Not quite," said the other coolly.
"By-the-way, you don't keep him very clean," Jim
said.
Digby turned.
"What the devil are you hinting at?" he asked.
"I am merely suggesting that this is not your dog,
but a poor stray terrier which you picked up in the
street half-an-hour ago and enticed into this house."
"Well?"
"I'll save you further trouble by saying that I saw
you pick it up."
Digby's eyes narrowed.
"Oh, you did, did you?" he said softly. "So you
were spying on me?"
"Not exactly spying on you," said Jim calmly, "but
merely satisfying my idle curiosity."
His hand fell on the dog and he stroked its ears
gently.
Digby laughed.
"Well, if you know that, I might as well tell you
that I am going to evacuate the sensory nerve. I've
always been curious to"
Jim looked around.
"Where is your anaesthetic?" he asked gently, and
he was most dangerous when his voice sank to that soft
note.
"Anaesthetic? Good lord," scoffed the other, "you
don't suppose I'm going to waste money on chloroform
for a dog, do you?"
His fingers rested near the poor brute's head and
the dog, straining forward, licked the torturer's hand.


40 BLUEHAND
"Filthy little beast!'' said Digby picking up a towel.
He took a thick rubber band, slipped it over the
dog's mouth and nose.
"Now lick," he laughed, "I think that will stop his
yelping. You're a bit chicken-hearted, aren't you, Mr.
Steele? You don't realize that medical science ad-
vances by its experiments on animals."
"I realize the value of vivisection under certain condi-
tions," said Jim quietly, "but all decent doctors who
experiment on animals relieve them of their pain before
they use the knife; and all doctors, whether they are
decent or otherwise, receive a certificate of permission
from the Board of Trade before they begin their ex-
periments. Where is your certificate?"
Digby's face darkened.
"Look here, don't you come here trying to bully
me," he blustered. <:I brought you here just to show
you my laboratory"
"And if you hadn't brought me in," interrupted Jim,
"I should lolly well have walked in, because I wasn't
satisfied with your explanation. Oh, yes, I know,
you're going to teli me that the dog was only frightened
and the yell she heard was when you put that infernal
clamp on his neck. Now, I'll tell you something, Mr.
Digby Groat, I'll give you three minutes to get the
clamp off that dog."
Digby's yellow face was puckered with rage.
"And if I don't?" he breathed.
"I'll put you where the dog is," said Jim. "And
please don't persuade yourself that I couldn't do it!"
There was a moment's silence.
"Take the clamps off that dog," said Jim.
Digby looked at him.


BLUE HAND 41
For a moment they gazed at one another and there
was a look of malignity in the eyes that dropped before
Jim's. Another minute and the dog was free.
Jim lifted the shivering little animal in his arms and
rubbed its bony head, and Digby watched him glower-
ing, his teeth showing in his rage.
"I'll remember this," he snarled. "By God, you
shall rue the day you ever interfered with me!"
Jim's steady eyes met the man's.
"I have never feared a threat in my life," he said
quietly. "I'm not likely to be scared now. I admit
that vivisection is necessary under proper conditions,
but men like you who torture harmless animals from
a sheer lust of cruelty, are bringing discredit upon the
noblest of professions. You hurt in order to satisfy
your own curiosity. You have not the slightest inten-
tion of using the knowledge you gain for the benefit
of suffering humanity. When I came into this labora-
tory," he said—he was standing at the door as he
spoke—"there were two brutes here. I am leaving the
bigger one behind."
He slammed-the padded door and walked out into
the passage, leaving a man whose vanity was hurt
beyond forgiveness.
Then to his surprise Groat heard Jim's footsteps
returning and his visitor came in.
"Did you close your front door when you went
upstairs?"
Digby's eyebrows rose. He forgot for the moment
the insult that had been offered him.
"Yes—why?"
"It is wide open now," said Jim. "I guess your
midnight visitor has gone home."


CHAPTER SIX
IN the cheerful sunlight of the morning all Eunice's
fear had vanished and she felt heartily ashamed of
herself that she had made such a commotion in the
night. And yet there was the card. She took it from
under her pillow and read it again, with a puzzled
frown. Somebody had been in the room, but it was
not a somebody whom she could regard as an enemy.
Then a thought struck her that made her heart leap.
Could it have been Jim? She shook her head. Some-
how she was certain it was not Jim, and she flushed
at the thought. It was not his hand she had touched.
She knew the shape and contour of that. It was warm
and firm, almost electric; that which she had touched
had been the hand of somebody who was old, of that
she was sure.
She went down to breakfast to find Groat standing
before the fire, a debonair perfectly-dressed man, who
showed no trace of fatigue, though he had not gone to
bed until four o'clock.
He gave her a cheery greeting.
"Good morning, Miss Weldon," he said, "I hope
you have recovered from your nightmare."
"I gave you a lot of trouble," she said with a rueful
smile, "I am so very sorry."
"Nonsense," he said heartily. "I am only glad that
our friend Steele was there to appease you. By-the-
way, Miss Weldon, I owe you an apology. I told you
a lie last night."
She looked at him open-eyed.
42


BLUE HAND 43
"Did you, Mr. Groat," she said, and then with a
laugh, "I am sure it wasn't a very serious one."
''It was really. I told you that my little dog had a
piece of glass in his paw; the truth was that it wasn't
my dog at all, but a dog that I picked up in the street.
I intended making an experiment upon him. You
know I am a doctor."
She shivered.
"Oh, that was the noise?" she asked with a wry little
face.
He shook his head.
"No, he was just scared, he hadn't been hurt at all—
and in truth I didn't intend hurting him. Your friend,
however, persuaded me to let the little beggar go."
She drew a long sigh of relief.
"I'm so glad," she said. "I should have felt awful."
He laughed softly as he took his place at the table.
"Steele thought I was going to experiment without
chloroform, but that, of course, was absurd. It is dif-
ficult to get the unprofessional man to realize what
an enormous help to medical science these experiments
are. Of course," he said airily, "they are conducted
without the slightest pain to the animal. I should no
more think of hurting a little dog than I should think
of hurting you."
"I'm sure you wouldn't," she said warmly.
Digby Groat was a clever man. He knew that Jim
would meet the girl again and would give her his ver-
sion of the scene in the laboratory. It was necessary,
therefore, that he should get his story in first, for this
girl whom he had brought to the house for his amuse-
ment, was more lovely than he had dreamt and he de-
sired to stand well with her.


44 BLUE HAND
Digby, who was a connoisseur in female beauty, had
rather dreaded the morning meal. The beauty of
women seldom survives the cruel searchlight which the
gray eastern light throws upon their charms. Love
had never touched him, though many women had come
and gone in his life. Eunice Weldon was a more
thrilling adventure, something that would surely
brighten a dreary week or two; an interest to stimu-
late him until another stimulation came into sight.
She survived the ordeal magnificently, he thought.
The tender texture of the skin, untouched by an arti-
ficial agent, was flawless, the eyes bright and vigorous
with life, sparkled with health; the hands that lay
upon the table, when she was listening to him, were
perfectly and beautifully molded.
She on her side was neither attracted nor repelled.
Digby Groat was just a man. One of the thousands of
men who pass and repass in the corridor of life; some
seen, some unnoticed, some interesting, some abhor-
rent. Some stop to speak, some pass hurriedly by and
disappear through strange doors never to be seen again.
He had "stopped to speak" but had he vanished from
sight through one of those doors of mystery she would
neither have been sorry or glad.
"My mother never comes to breakfast," said Digby
half-way through the meal. "Do you think you will
like your work?"
"I don't know what it is, yet," she answered, her
eyes twinkling.
"Mother is rather peculiar," he said, "and just a
little eccentric, but I think you will be sensible enough
to get on with her. And the work will not be very


BLUEHAND 45
heavy at first. I am hoping later that you will be
able to assist me in my anthropological classification."
"That sounds terribly important," she said. "What
does it mean?"
"I am making a study of faces and heads," he said
easily, "and to that end I have collected thousands of
photographs from all parts of the world. I hope to
get a million. It is a science which is very much
neglected in this country. It appears to be the exclu-
sive monopoly of the Italians. You have probably
heard ol Mantaganza and Lombroso?"
She nodded.
"They are the great criminal scientists, aren't they?"
she said to his surprise.
"Oh, I see, you know something about it. Yes, I
suppose you would call them criminal scientists."
"It sounds fascinating," she said looking at him in
wonder, "and I should like to help you if your mother
can spare me."
"Oh, she'll spare you," he said.
Her hand lay on the table invitingly near to his,
but he did not move. He was a quick, accurate judge
of human nature He knew that to touch her would be
the falsest of moves. If it had been another woman—
yes, his hand would have closed gently over hers,
there would have been a giggle of embarrassment, a
dropping of eyes, and the rest would have been so easy.
But if he had followed that course with her, he knew
that evening would find her gone. He could wait,
and she was worth waiting for. She was gloriously
lovely he thought. Half the pleasure of life lies in the
chase, and the chase is no more than a violent form of


46 BLUE HAND
anticipation. Some men find their greatest joy in vi-
sions that must sooner or later materialize, and Digby
Groat was one of these.
She looked up and saw his burning eyes fixed on her
and flushed. With an effort she looked again and he
was a normal man.
Was it an illusion of hers, she wondered?


CHAPTER SEVEN
THE first few days of her engagement were very
trying to Eunice Weldon.
Mrs. Groat did not overwork her, indeed
Eunice's complaint was that the old woman refused to
give her any work at all.
On the third day at breakfast she spoke on the
matter to Digby Groat.
"I'm afraid I am not very much use here, Mr.
Groat," she said, "it is a sin to take your money."
"Why?" he asked quickly.
"Your mother prefers to write her own letters," she
said, "and really those don't seem to be very many!"
"Nonsense," he said sharply and seeing that he had
startled the girl he went on in a much gentler tone:
"you see, my mother is not used to service of any kind.
She's one of those women who prefer to do things for
themselves, and she has simply worn herself to a
shadow because of this independence of hers. There
are hundreds of jobs that she could give you to do!
You must make allowance for old women, Miss Wel-
don. They take a long time to work up confidence in
strangers."
"I realize that," she nodded.
"Poor mother is rather bewildered by her own mag-
nificence," he smiled, "but I am sure when she gets
to know you you will find your days very fully oc-
cupied."
He left the morning room and went straight into his
47


48 BLUEHAND
mother's little parlor, and found her in her dressing-
room crouching over a tiny fire. He closed the door
caiefully and walked across to her and she looked up
with a little look of fear in her eyes.
"Why aren't you giving this girl work to do?" he
asked sharply.
"There's nothing for her to do," she wailed. "My
dear, she is such an expense, and I don't like her."
"You'll give her work to do from to-day," he said,
"and don't let me tell you again!"
"She'll only spy on me," said Mrs. Groat fretfully,
"and I never write letters, you know that. I haven't
written a letter for years until you made me write that
note to the lawyer."
"You'll find work for her to do," repeated Digby
Groat. "Do you understand? Get all the accounts
that we've had for the past two years, and let her sort
them out and make a list of them. Give her your bank
account. Let her compare the checks with the
counterfoils. Give her anything. Damn you! You
don't want me to tell you every day, do you?"
"I'll do it, I'll do it, Digby," she said hurriedly.
"You're very hard on me, my boy. I hate this house,"
she said with sudden vehemence. "I hate the people
in it. I looked into her room this morning and it is
like a palace. It must have cost us thousands of
pounds to furnish that room, and all for a work girl—
it is sinful 1"
"Never mind about that," he said. "Find some-
thing to occupy her time for the next fortnight."
The girl was surprised that morning when Mrs.
Groat sent for her.


BLUEHAND 49
"I've one or two little tasks for you, Miss I
never remember your name."
"Eunice," said the girl smiling.
"I don't like the name of Eunice," grumbled the
old woman. "The last one was Lola! A foreign girl.
I was glad when she left. Haven't you got another
name?"
"Weldon is my other name," said the girl good-
humoredly, "and you can call me 'Weldon' or 'Eunice'
or anything you like, Mrs. Groat."
The old woman sniffed.
She had in front of her a big drawer packed with
checks which had come back from the bank.
"Go through these," she said, "and do something
with them. I don't know what."
"Perhaps you want me to fasten them to the counter-
foils," said the girl.
"Yes, yes, that's it," said Mrs. Groat. "You don't
want to do it here, do you? Yes, you'd better do it
here," she went on hastily, "I don't want the servants
prying into my accounts."
Eunice put the drawer on the table, gathered to-
gether the stubs of the check books, and with a little
bottle of gum began her work, the old woman watching
her.
When, for greater comfort, the girl took off the gold
wrist watch which she wore, a present from her dead
father, Mrs. Groat's greedy eyes focussed upon it and
a look of animation came into the dull face.
It looked like a long job, but Eunice was a me-
thodical worker, and when the gong in the hall sounded
for lunch, she had finished her labors.


50 BLUE HAND
"There, Mrs. Groat," she said with a smile, "I think
that is the lot. All your checks are here."
She put away the drawer and looked round for her
watch, but it had disappeared. It was at that moment
that Digby Groat opened the door and walked in.
"Hullo, Miss Weldon," he said with his engaging
smile, "I've come back for lunch. Did you hear the
gong, mother? You ought to have let Miss Weldon
go."
But the girl was looking round.
"Have you lost anything?" asked Digby quickly.
"My little watch. I put it down a few minutes
ago, and it seems to have vanished," she said.
"Perhaps it is in the drawer," stammered the old
woman avoiding her son's eye.
Digby looked at her for a moment then turned to
Eunice.
"Will you please ask Jackson to order my car for
three o'clock?" he asked gently.
He waited until the door closed behind the girl and
then:
"Where is that watch?" he asked.
"The watch, Digby?" quavered the old woman.
"The watch, curse you!" he said, his face black with
rage.
She put her hand into her pocket reluctantly and pro-
duced it.
"It was so pretty," she sniveled, and he snatched
it from her hand.
A minute later Eunice returned.
"We have found your watch," he said with a smile.
"You had dropped it under the table."


BLUE HAND 51
"I thought I'd looked there," she said. "It is not
a valuable watch, but it serves a double purpose."
She was preparing to put it on.
"What other purpose than to tell you the time?"
asked Digby.
"It hides a very ugly scar," she said, and extended
her wrist. "Look." She pointed to a round red
mark, the size of a sixpence. It looked like a recent
burn.
"That's queer," said Digby looking, and then he
heard a strangled sound from his mother. Her face
was twisted and distorted, her eyes were glaring at the
girl's wrist.
"Digby, Digby!" her voice was a thin shriek of
sound. "Oh, my God!"
And she fell across the table and before he could
reach her, had dropped to the floor in an inert heap.
Digby stooped over his mother and then turned his
head slowly to the frightened girl.
"It was the scar on your hand that did it," he said
slowly, "what does it mean?"


CHAPTER EIGHT
THE story of the scar and the queer effect it
had produced on Mrs. Groat puzzled Jim al-
most as much as it had worried the girl. He
offered his wild theory again and she laughed.
"Of course I shall leave," she said, "but I must stay
until all Mrs. Groat's affairs are cleared up. There
are heaps of letters and documents of all kinds which
I have to index," she said; "at least Mr. Groat told me
there were. And it seems so unfair to run away whilst
the poor old lady is so ill. As to my being the young
lady of fortune, that is absurd. My parents were
South Africans. Jim, you are too romantic to be a
good detective."
He indulged in the luxury of a taxi to carry her back
to Grosvenor Square and this time went with her to
the house, taking his leave at the door.
Whilst they were talking on the step, the door
opened and a man was shown out by Jackson. He was
a short, thick-set man with an enormous brown beard.
Apparently Jackson did not see the two people on
the step, at any rate he did not look toward them, but
said in a loud voice:
"Mr. Groat will not be home until seven o'clock, Mr.
Villa."
"Tell him I called," said the bearded man with a
booming voice, and stepped past Jim, apparently oblivi-
ous to his existence.
"Who is the gentleman with the whiskers?" asked
Jim, but the girl could give him no information.
52


BLUE HAND S3
Jim was not satisfied with the girl's explanation of
her parentage. There was an old school friend of his
in business in Cape Town, as an architect, and on his
return to his office, Jim sent him a long reply-paid
cablegram. He felt that he was chasing shadows, but
at present there was little else to chase, and he went
home to his flat a little oppressed by the hopelessness
of his task.
The next day he had a message from the girl saying
that she could not come out that afternoon, and the
day was a blank, the more so because that afternoon
he received a reply to his cable. The reply destroyed
any romantic dreams he might have had as to Eunice
Weldon's association with the Danton millions. The
message was explicit. Eunice May Weldon had been
born at Rondebosch, on the 12th June, 1899; her par-
ents were Henry William Weldon, musician, and Mar-
garet May Weldon. She had been christened at the
Wesleyan Chapel at Rondebosch, and both her parents
were dead.
The final two lines of the cable puzzled him:
"Similar enquiries made about parentage Eunice Weldon
six months ago by Selenger and Co., Brade Street Buildings."
"Selenger and Co.," said Jim thoughtfully. Here
was a new mystery. Who else was making enquiries
about the girl? He opened a Telephone Directory and
looked up the name. There were several Selengers,
but none of Brade Street Buildings. He put on his hat,
and hailing a taxi, drove to Brade Street, which was
near the Bank, and with some difficulty found Brade
Street Buildings. It was a moderately large block of
offices, and on the indicator at the door, he discovered


$4 BLUE HAND
Selenger & Co. occupied No. 6 room on the ground
door.
The office was locked and apparently unoccupied.
He sought the hall-keeper.
"No, sir," said the man shaking his head. "Selen-
gers aren't open. As a matter of fact, nobody's ever
there except at night."
"At night," said Jim, "that's an extraordinary time
to do business."
The hall-keeper looked at him unfavorably.
"I suppose it is the way they do their business, sir,"
It was some time before Jim could appease the ruf-
fled guardian, and then he learnt that Selengers were
evidently privileged tenants. A complaint from Sel-
engers had brought the dismissal of his predecessor, and
the curiosity of a housekeeper as to what Selengers did
so late at night had resulted in that lady being sum-
marily discharged.
"I think they deal with foreign stock," said the por-
ter. "A lot of cables come here, but I've never seen
the gentleman who runs the office. He comes in by the
side door."
Apparently there was another entrance to Selengers'
office, an entrance reached by a small courtyard open-
ing from a side passage. Selengers were the only ten-
ants who had this double means of egress and exit,
and also, it seemed, they were the only tenants of the
building who were allowed to work all night.
"Even the stockbrokers on the second floor have to
shut down at eight o'clock," explained the porter,
"and that's pretty hard on them, because when the
market is booming, there's work that would keep them
going until twelve o'clock. But at eight o'clock, it is


BLUE HAND 55
'out you go' with the company that owns this building.
The rents aren't high and there are very few offices
to be had in the city nowadays. They have always
been very strict, even in Mr. Danton's time."
"Mr. Danton's time," said Jim quickly. "Did he
own this building? Do you mean Dan ton, the ship-
owner millionaire?"
The man nodded.
"Yes, sir," he said, rather pleased with himself that
he had created a sensation. "He sold it, or got rid
of it in some way years ago. I happen to know, be-
cause I used to be an office-boy in these very buildings,
and I remember Mr. Danton—he had an office on the
first floor, and a wonderful office it was, too."
"Who occupies it now?"
"A foreign gentleman named Levenski. He's a fel-
low who's never here, either."
Jim thought the information so valuable that he
went to the length of calling up Mr. Salter at his home.
But Mr. Salter knew nothing whatever about the Brade
Street Buildings except that it had been a private spec-
ulation of Danton's. It had come into his hands as
the result of the liquidation of the original company
and he had disposed of the property without consulta-
tion with Salter and Salter.
It was another blank wall.


I
CHAPTER NINE
**~|~ SHALL not be in the office to-day, sir. 1 have
several appointments which may keep me occu-
pied," said Jim Steele, and Mr. Salter sniffed.
"Business, Steele?" he asked politely.
"Not all of them, sir," said Jim. He had a shrewd
idea that Mr. Salter guessed what that business was.
"Very good," said Salter, putting on his glasses
and addressing himself to the work on his desk.
"There is one thing I want to ask, and that is partly
why I came, because I could have explained my ab-
sence by telephone."
Mr. Salter put down his pen patiently.
"I cannot understand why this fellow Groat has so
many Spanish friends," said Jim. "For example, there
is a girl he sees a great deal, the Comtessa Manzana;
you have heard of her, sir?"
"I see her name in the papers occasionally," said Mr.
Salter.
"And there are several Spaniards he knows. One in
particular named Villa. Groat speaks Spanish flu-
ently, too."
"That is curious," said Mr. Salter leaning back in
his chair. "His grandfather had a very large number
of Spanish friends. I think that somewhere in the
background there may have been some Spanish family
connection. Old man Danton, that is, Jonathan Dan-
ton's father, made most of his money in Spain and in
S6


BLUE HAND 57
Central America, and was always entertaining a house*
ful of grandees. They were a strange family, the Dan-
tons. They lived in little water-tight compartments,
and I believe on the day of his death Jonathan Danton
hadn't spoken more than a dozen words to his sister
for twenty years. They weren't bad friends, if you
understand. It was just the way of the Dantons.
There are other families whom I know who do exactly
the same thing. A reticent family, with a keen sense
of honor."
"Didn't Grandfather Danton leave Mrs. Groat any
money? She was one of his two children, wasn't
she?"
Septimus Salter nodded.
"He never left her a penny," he said. "She prac-
tically lived on the charity of her brother. I never
understood why, but the old man took a sudden dislike
to her. Jonathan was as much in the dark as I am.
He used to discuss it with me and wondered what his
sister had done to incur the old man's enmity. His
father never told him—would never even discuss the
sister with him. It was partly due to the old man's
niggardly treatment of Mrs. Groat, that Jonathan Dan-
ton made his will as he did.
"Probably her marriage with Groat was one of the
causes of the old man's anger. Groat was nothing, a
shipping clerk in Danton's Liverpool office. A man
ill at ease in good society, without an 'h' to his name,
and desperately scared of his wife. The only person
who was ever nice to him was poor Lady Mary. His
wife hated him for some reason or other. Curiously
enough when he died, too, he left all his money to a
distant cousin—and he left about £5,000. Where he


58 BLUEHAND
got it from heaven knows. And now be off, Steele.
The moment you come into this office," said Mr. Salter
in despair, "you start me on a string of reminiscences
that are deplorably out of keeping with a lawyer's
office."
Jim's first call that morning was at the Home Office.
He was anxious to clear up the mystery of Madge
Benson. Neither Scotland Yard nor the Prisons Com-
missioners were willing to supply an unofficial in-
vestigator with the information he had sought, and in
desperation he had applied to the Secretary of State's
Department. Fortunately he had a "friend at court"
in that building, a middle-aged barrister he had met in
France and his inquiry, backed by proof that he was
not merely satisfying his personal curiosity, had
brought him a note asking him to call.
Mr. Fenningleigh received him in his room with a
warmth which showed that he had not forgotten the
fact that on one occasion Jim had saved him from what
might have been a serious injury, if not death, for
Jim had dragged him to cover one night when the
British headquarters were receiving the unwelcome at-
tentions of ten German bombers.
"Sit down, Steele. I can't tell you much," said the
official picking up a slip of paper from his blotting-pad,
"and I'm not sure that I ought to tell you anything!
But this is the information which 'prisons' have sup-
plied."
Jim took the slip from the barrister's hand and read
the three lines.
"'Madge Benson, age 26. Domestic Servant. One month
with H. L. for theft. Sentenced at Marylebone Police Court


BLUE HAND 59
June 5, 1898. Committed to Holloway. Released July
2, 1898.'"
"Theft?" said Jim thoughtfully. "I suppose there
is no way of learning the nature of the theft?"
Mr. Fenningleigh shook his head.
"I should advise you to interview the jailer at
Marylebone. These fellows have extraordinary mem-
ories for faces, and besides there is certain to be a
record of the conviction at the court. You had better
ask Salter to apply; they will give permission to a
lawyer."
But this was the veiy thing Jim did not want to do.


CHAPTER TEN
EUNICE WELDON was rapidly settling down in
her new surroundings. The illness of her em-
ployer, so far from depriving her of occupa-
tion, gave her more work than she had ever expected.
It was true, as Digby Groat had said, that there were
plenty of small jobs to fill up her time. At his sug-
gestion she went over the little account books in which
Mrs. Groat kept the record of her household expenses,
and was astounded to find how parsimonious the old
lady had been.
One afternoon when she was tidying the old bureau,
she stopped in her work to admire the solid workman-
ship which the old furniture builders put into their
handicraft.
The bureau was one of those old-fashioned affairs,
which are half-desk and half-bookcase, the writing-
case being enclosed by glass doors covered on the in-
side with green silk curtains.
It was the thickness of the two side-pieces enclos-
ing the actual desk, which unlike the writing-flap of
the ordinary secretaire was immovable, that arrested
her attention. She was rubbing her hand admiringly
along the polished mahogany surface, when she felt a
strip of wood give way under the pressure of her finger-
tips. To her surprise a little flap about an inch wide
and about six inches long had fallen down and hung on
its invisible hinges leaving a black cavity. A secret
drawer in a secretaire is not an extraordinary discov-
60


BLUE HAND 61
ery, but she wondered whether she ought to explore the
recess which her accidental touch had revealed. She
put in her fingers and drew out a folded paper. There
was nothing else in the drawer, if drawer it could be
called.
Ought she to read it, she wondered? If it had been
so carefully put away, Mrs. Groat would not wish it
to be seen by a third person. Nevertheless it was her
duty to discover what the document was and she
opened it.
To the top a piece of paper was attached on which a
few words were written in Mrs. Groat's hand:
"This is the will referred to in the instructions contained
in the sealed envelope which Mr. Salter has in his possession."
The word "Salter" had been struck out and the name
of the firm of solicitors which had supplanted the old
man had been substituted.
The will was executed on one of those forms which
can be purchased at any law stationers. But apart
from the preamble it was short:
"I give to my son, Digby Francis Groat, the sum of £20,000
and my house and furniture at 409, Grosvenor Square. The
remainder of my estate I give to Ramonez, Marquis of
Estremeda, of Calle Receletos, Madrid."
It was witnessed by two names unknown to the
girl and as they had described themselves as domestic
servants it was probable that they had long since left
her employment, for Mrs. Groat did not keep a servant
very long.
What should she do with it? She determined to ask
Digby.


62 BLUE HAND
Later, when going through the drawers of her desk
she discovered a small miniature and was startled by
the dark beauty of the subject. It was a head and
shoulders of a girl wearing her hair in a way which
was fashionable in the late seventies. The face was
bold, but beautiful, the dark eyes seemed to glow with
life. The face of a girl who had her way, thought
Eunice as she noted the firm round chin. She won-
dered who it was and showed it to Digby Groat at
lunch.
"Oh, that is a picture of my mother," he said care-
lessly.
"Your mother?" said Eunice in astonishment, and he
chuckled.
"You'd never think she was ever like that, but she
was, I believe, a very beautiful girl," his face darkened,
"just a little too beautiful," he said, without explaining
what he meant.
Suddenly he snatched the miniature from her and
looked on the back.
"I'm sorry," he apologized, and a sudden pallor had
come to his face. "Mother sometimes writes things
on the back of pictures and I was rather "he was
going to say "scared"—"and I was rather embar-
rassed."
He was almost incoherent, an unusual circumstance,
for Digby Groat was the most self-possessed of men.
He changed the subject by introducing an inquiry
which he had meant to make some time before.
"Miss Weldon, can you explain that scar on your
wrist?" he asked.
She shook her head laughingly.


BLUE HAND 63
"I'm almost sorry I showed it to you," she said.
"It is ugly, isn't it?"
"Do you know how it happened?"
"I don't know," she said, "mother never told me.
It looks rather like a burn."
He examined the little red place attentively.
"Of course," she went on, "it is absurd to think
that the sight of my birth mark was the cause of your
mother's stroke."
"I suppose it is," he nodded, "but it was a remark-
able coincidence."
He had endeavored to find from the old woman the
reason of her sudden collapse, but without success.
For three days she had lain in her bed speechless and
motionless and apparently had neither heard nor seen
him when he had made his brief visits to the sick
room.
She was recovering now, however, and he intended,
at the first opportunity, to demand a full explanation.
"Did you find anything else?" he asked suspiciously.
He was never quite sure what new folly his mother
might commit. Her passion for other people's prop-
erty might have come to light.
Should she tell him? He saw the doubt and trouble
in her face and repeated his question.
"I found your mother's will," she said.
He had finished his lunch, had pushed back his
chair and was smoking peacefully. The cigar dropped
from his hand and she saw his face go black.
"Her will!" he said. "Are you sure? Her will is
at the lawyer's. It was made two years ago."
"This will was made a few months ago," said Eunice


64 BLUE HAND
troubled. "I do hope I haven't betrayed any secret
of hers."
"Let me see this precious document," said Digby
starting up.
His voice was brusque, almost to rudeness. She
wondered what had brought about his sudden change
They walked back to the old woman's shabby room and
the girl produced a document from the drawer.
He read it through carefully.
"The old fool," he muttered. "The cussed, drivel-
ing old fool! Have you read this?" he asked sharply.
"I read a little of it," admitted the girl, shocked by
the man's brutal reference to his mother.
He examined the paper again and all the time he
was muttering something under his breath.
''Where did you find this?" he asked harshly.
"I found it by accident," explained Eunice. "There
is a little drawer here," she pointed to the seemingly
solid side of the bureau in which gaped an oblong
cavity.
"I see," said Digby Groat slowly as he folded the
paper. "Now, Miss Weldon, perhaps you will tell me
how much of this document you have read," he tapped
the will on his palm.
She did not know exactly what to say. She was
Mrs. Groat's servant and she felt it was disloyal even
to discuss her private affairs with Digby.
"I read beyond the legacy," she admitted, "I did not
read it carefully."
"And you saw that my mother had left me
£20,000?" said Digby Groat, "and the remainder to—
somebody else?"
She nodded.


BLUE HAND 65
"Do you know who that somebody else was?"
"Yes," she said. "To the Marquis of Estremeda."
His face had changed from sallow to red, from red
to a dirty gray and his voice as he spoke shook with the
rage he could not altogether suppress.
"Do you know how much money my mother will be
Worth?" he asked.
"No, Mr. Groat," said the girl quietly, "and I don't
think you ought to tell me. It is none of my busi-
ness."
"She will be worth a million and a quarter," he said
between his teeth, "and she's left me £20,000 and this
damned house!"
He swung round and was making for the door and
the girl who guessed his intentions went after him and
caught his arm.
"Mr. Groat," she said seriously. "You must not go
to your mother. You really must not!"
Her intervention sobered him and he walked slowly
back to the fireplace, took a match from his pocket,
lit it and before the astonished eyes of the girl applied
it to one corner of the document. He watched it until
it was black ash and then put his foot upon the debris.
"So much for that!" he said and turning caught
the amazed look in the face of Eunice. "You think
I've behaved disgracefully, I suppose," he smiled, his
old debonair self. "The truth is I am saving my
mother's memory from the imputation of madness.
There is no Marquis of Estremeda, as far as I know.
It is one of the illusions which my mother has, that a
Spanish nobleman once befriended her. That is the
dark secret of our family, Miss Weldon," he laughed,
but she knew that he was lying.


CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE door of Digby Groat's study was ajar, and
he caught a glimpse of Eunice as she came
in and made her way up to her room. She
had occupied a considerable amount of his thoughts
that afternoon, and he had cursed himself that he had
been betrayed into revealing the ugly side of his nature
before one whom he wished to impress. But there was
another matter troubling him. In his folly he had
destroyed a legal document in the presence of a witness
and had put himself into her power. Suppose his
mother died, he thought, and the question of a will
arose? Suppose Estremeda got hold of her, her testi-
mony in the courts of law might destroy the value of
his mother's earlier will and bring him into the dock at
the Old Bailey.
It was an axiom of his that great criminals are de-
stroyed by small causes. The spendthrift who dissi-
pates hundreds of thousands of pounds, finds himself
made bankrupt by a paltry hundred pounds, and the
clever organizer of the Thirteen who had covered his
traces so perfectly that the shrewdest police in the
world had not been able to associate him with their
many crimes, might easily be brought to book through
a piece of stupidity which was dictated by rage and
offended vanity. He was now more than ever deter-
mined that Eunice Weldon should come within his
influence, so that her power for mischief should be
66


BLUE HAND 67
broken before she knew how crushingly it might be
employed.
It was not an unpleasant task he set himself, for
Eunice exercised a growing fascination over him.
Her beauty and her singular intelligence were sufficient
lures, but to a man of his temperament the knowledge
that she added to these gifts a purity of mjnd and
soul gave her an added value. That she was in the
habit of meeting the man he hated, he knew. His
faithful Jackson had trailed the girl twice, and on each
occasion had returned with the same report. Eunice
Weldon was meeting Steele in the park. And the
possibility that Jim loved her was the greatest incen-
tive of all to his vile plan.
He could strike at Jim through the girl, could befoul
the soul that Jim Steele loved best in the world. That
would be a noble revenge, he thought, as he sat, pen
in hand, and heard her light footsteps pass up the
stairs. But he must be patient and the game must be
played cautiously. He must gain her confidence.
That was essential, and the best way of securing this
end was to make no reference to these meetings, to
give her the fullest opportunity for seeing Jim Steele
and to avoid studiously any suggestion that he himself
had an interest in her.
He had not sought an interview with his mother.
She had been sleeping all the afternoon, the nurse had
told him and he felt that he could be patient here also.
At night when he saw the girl at dinner, he made a
reference to the scene she had witnessed in the old
woman's sitting-room.
"You'll think I'm an awful cad, Miss Weldon," he
said frankly, "but mother has a trick of making me


68 BLUEHAND
more angry than any other person I have met. You
look upon me as a very unfilial son?" he smiled.
"We do things we're ashamed of sometimes when
we are angry," said Eunice, willing to find an excuse
for the outburst. She would gladly have avoided the
topic altogether, for her conscience was pricking her
and she felt guilty when she remembered that she had
spoken to Jim on the subject. Digby Groat was to
make her a little more uncomfortable by his next re-
mark.
"It is unnecessary for me to tell you, Miss Weldon,"
he said, with his smile, "that all which happens within
these four walls is confidential. I need not express
any fear that you will ever speak to an outsider about
our affairs."
He had only to look at the crimson face, at the
downcast eyes and the girl's fingers playing nervously
with the silver, to realize that she had already spoken
of the will, and again he cursed himself for his untimely
exhibition of temper.
He passed on, to the girl's great relief, to another
subject. He was having certain alterations made in
his laboratory and was enthusiastic about a new elec-
trical appliance which he had installed.
"Would you like to see my little den, Miss Weldon?"
he asked.
"I should very much," said the girl.
She was, she knew, being despicably insincere. She
did not want to see the laboratory. To her, since Jim
had described the poor little dog who had been stretched
upon the table, it was a place of horror. But she was
willing to agree to anything that would take Digby


BLUE HAND 69
Groat from the topic of the will, and the thought of
her own breach of faith.
There was nothing very dreadful in the laboratory
she discovered. It was so white and clean and neat
that her womanly instinct for orderliness could admire
the well-arranged little room, with its shelves packed
with bottles, its delicate glass retorts and its strange
and mysterious instruments.
He did not open the locked doors that hid one cup-
board which stood at one end of the laboratory, so she
knew nothing of the grisly relics of his investigations.
She was now glad she had seen the place, but was
nevertheless as pleased to return to the drawing-room.
Digby went out at nine o'clock and she was left
alone to read and to amuse herself as best she could.
She called at Mrs. Groat's room on her way up and
learned from the nurse that the old lady was rapidly
recovering.
"She will be quite normal to-morrow or the next
day," said the nurse.
Here was another relief. Mrs. Groat's illness had
depressed the girl. It was so terrible to see one who
had been as beautiful as the miniature proved her to
have been, struck down and rendered a helpless mass,
incapable of thought or movement.
Her room, which had impressed her by its beauty
the day she had arrived had now been enhanced by the
deft touches which only a woman's fingers can give.
She had read some of the books which Digby Groat
had selected for her entertainment and some she had
dipped into only to reject.
She spent the evening with "The Virginian," and


70 BLUEHAND
here Digby had introduced her to one of the most
delightful creatures of fiction. The Virginian was
rather like Jim she thought—but then all the heroes
of all the books she read were rather like Jim.
Searching in her bag for her handkerchief her fingers
closed on the little card which had been left on her
table the night of her introduction to the Grosvenor
Square household. She took it out and read it for
the twentieth time, puzzling over the identity of the
sender and the object he had in view.
What was the meaning of that little blue hand, she
wondered? And what was the story which lay behind
it?
She put down her book and rising, switched on the
lamp over her writing table, examining the card curi-
ously. She had not altered her first impression that
the hand had been made by a rubber stamp. It was
really a beautiful little reproduction of an open palm
and every line was distinct. Who was her mysterious
friend—or was he a friend? She shook her head.
It could not be Jim, and yet It worried her even
to think of Jim in this connection. Whoever it was,
she thought with a little smile, they had been wrong.
She had not left the house and nothing had happened
to her, and she felt a sense of pride and comfort in
the thought that the mysterious messenger could know
nothing of Jim, her guardian angel.
She heard a step in the passage and somebody
knocked at her door. It was Digby Groat. He had
evidently just come in.
"I saw your light," he said, "so I thought I would
give you something I have brought back from th
Ambassadors Club."


BLUE HAND 71
The "something" was a big square box tied with
lavender ribbon.
"For me?" she said in surprise.
"They were distributing them to the guests,"
he said, "and I thought you might have a taste
for sweeties. They are the best chocolates in Eng-
land."
She laughed and thanked him. He made no further
attempt to continue the conversation, but with a nod,
went to his room. She heard the door open and close,
and five mintues later it opened again and his soft
footsteps faded away.
He was going to his laboratory, she thought, and
wondered, with a shiver, what was the experiment he
was attempting that night.
She had placed the box on the table and had for-
gotten about it until she was preparing for bed, then
she untied the pretty ribbons and displayed the con-
tents.
"They're delicious," she murmured, and took one up
in her fingers
Thump!
She turned quickly and dropped the chocolate from
her fingers.
Something had hit against her window, it sounded
like a fist. She ran to the silken curtains which cov-
ered the glass doors from view and hesitated nervously
for a moment; then with a little catch of breath she
thought that possibly some boys had thrown a ball.
She pulled back the curtains violently and for a mo-
ment saw nothing. The balcony was clear and she
unfastened the latch and stepped out. There was no-
body in sight. She looked on the floor of the balcony


72 BLUE HAND
for the object which had been thrown but could find
nothing.
She went slowly back to her room and was closing
the door when she saw and gasped. For on one of the
panes was the life-size print of the Blue Handl
Again that mysterious warning 1


CHAPTER TWELVE
EUNICE gazed at the hand spell-bound, but she
was now more curious than alarmed. Open-
ing the window again, she felt gingerly at the
impression. It was wet, and her finger-tip was stained
a deep greasy blue, which wiped off readily on her
handkerchief. Again she stepped out on to the bal-
cony, and following it along, came'to the door leading
to the head of the stairs. She tried it. It was locked.
Leaning over the parapet she surveyed the square.
She saw a man and a woman walking along and talking
together and the sound of their laughter came up to
her. At the corner of the square she saw passing un-
der a street-lamp a helmeted policeman who must, she
calculated, have been actually in front of the house
when the imprint was made.
She was about to withdraw to her room when look-
ing down over the portico she saw the figure of a woman
descending the steps of the house. Who was she?
Eunice knew all the servants by now and was certain
this woman was a stranger. She might, of course, be
one of Digby Groat's friends or a friend of the nurse,
but her subsequent movements were so unusual that
Eunice was sure that this was the mysterious stranger
who had left her mark on the window. So it was'a
woman, after all, thought Eunice in amazement, as she
watched her cross the square to where a big limousine
was waiting.
73


74 BLUEHAND
Without giving any instructions to the chauffeur the.
woman in black stepped into the car, which immedi-
ately moved off.
Eunice went back to the room and sat down in a
chair to try to straighten her tangled mind. That hand
was intended as a warning, she was sure of that. And
now it was clear which way the visitor had come. She
must have entered the house by the front door "and
have got on to the balcony through the door on the
landing, locking it after her when she made her escape.
Looking in the glass, Eunice saw that her face -was
pale but inwardly .she felt more thrilled than fright-
ened, and she had also a sense of protection, for in-
stinctively she knew that the woman of the Blue Hand
was a friend. Should she go downstairs and tell Digby
Groat? She shook her head at the thought. No, she
would reserve this little mystery for Jim to unravel.
With a duster, which she kept in one of the cupboards,
she wiped the blue impression from the window and
then sat down on the edge of her bed to puzzle out the
intricate and baffling problem.
Why had the woman chosen this method of warning
her? Why not employ the mundane method of send-
ing her a letter? Twice she had taken a risk to im-
press Eunice with the sense of danger, when the same
warning might have been conveyed to her through the
agency of the postman.
Eunice frowned at this thought, but then she began
to realise that had an anonymous letter arrived, she
would have torn it up and thrown it into her waste
paper basket. These midnight visitations were in-
tended f.o impress upon the girl the urgency of the
visitor's fear for her.


BLUEHAND 75
It was not by any means certain that the woman who
had left the house was the mysterious visitor. Eunice
had never troubled to inquire into Digby Groat's char-
acter, nor did she know any of his friends. The lady
in black might well have been an acquaintance of his
and to tell Digby of the warning and all that she had
seen, could easily create a very embarrassing situation
for all concerned.
She went to bed, but it was a long time before sleep
came to her. She dozed and woke and dozed again
and at last decided to get up. She pulled aside the
curtains to let in the morning light. The early traffic
was rumbling through the street and the clear fra-
grance of the unsullied air came coldly as she stood
and shivered by the open window. She was hungry,
as hungry as a healthy girl can be in that keen atmos-
phere, and she bethought herself of the box of choco-
lates which Digby had brought to her. She had taken
one from its paper wrapping and it was between her
teeth when she remembered with a start that the warn-
ing had come at the very moment she was about to
eat a chocolate! She put it down again thoughtfully
and went back to bed to pass the time which must
elapse before the servants were about and any kind of
food procurable.
Jim Steele was about to leave his little flat in
Featherdale Mansions that morning, when he was met
at the door by a district messenger carrying a large
parcel and a bulky letter. He at once recognized the
handwriting of Eunice and carried the parcel into his
study. The letter was written hurriedly and was full
of apologies. As briefly as possible Eunice had related
the events of the night.


76 BLUEHAND
"I cannot imagine that the chocolates had anything to da
with it, but somehow you are communicating your prejudice
against Digby Groat to me. I have no reason whatever to
suspect him of any bad design toward me and in sending
these I am merely doing as you told me, to communicate
everything unusual. Aren't I an obedient girl! And, please
Jim, will you take me out to dinner to-night. It is 'my
night out,' and I'd love to have a leisurely meal with you,
and I'm simply dying to talk aboui the Blue Hand! Isn't it
gorgeously mysterious! I shall try to catch up some of my
arrears of sleep this afternoon so that I shall be fresh and
brilliant." (She had written "and beautiful" in mockery
but had scratched it out.)
Jim Steele whistled. Hitherto he had regarded the
Blue Hand as a convenient and accidental method
which the unknown had chosen for his or her signature.
Now, however, it obtained a new significance. The
Blue Hand had been chosen deliberately and for some
reason which must be known to one of the parties con-
cerned. To Digby Groat? Jim shook his head.
Somehow he knew for certain that the Blue Hand would
be as much of a mystery to Digby Groat as it was to
the girl and himself. He had no particular reason for
thinking this. It was one of those immediate instincts
which carry their own conviction. But who else was
concerned? He determined to ask his employer that
morning if the Blue Hand suggested anything to
him.
In the meantime there were the chocolates. He ex-
amined the box carefully. The sweetmeats were beau-
tifully arranged and the box bore the label of a well-
known West End confectioner. He took out three or


BLUEHAND 77
four of the chocolates, placed them carefully in an en-
velope and put the envelope in his pocket.
Then he set forth to the city. As he closed his own
door his eye went to the door on the opposite side of
the landing, where dwelt Mrs. Fane and the mysterious
Madge Benson. The door was ajar and he thought he
heard the woman's voice on the ground floor below
talking to the porter of the flats.
His foot was extended to descend the first of the
stairs when from the flat came a sharp scream and a
voice: "Madge, Madge, help!"
Without a second's hesitation he pushed open the
door and ran down the passage. There were closed
doors on either side, but the last on the right was open
and a thin cloud of smoke was pouring forth. He
rushed in, just as the woman, who was lying on the
bed, was rising on her elbow as though she were about
to get up, and tearing down the blazing curtains at
one of the windows, stamped out the fire. It was all
over in a few seconds and he had extinguished the last
spark of fire from the blackened lace before he looked
round at the occupant of the bed, who was staring at
him wide-eyed.
She was a woman of between forty and forty-five
he judged, with a face whose delicate molding instantly
impressed him. He thought he had seen her before,
but knew that he must have been mistaken. The big
eyes, gray and luminous, the dark brown hair in which
a streak of gray had appeared, the beautiful hands
that lay on the coverlet, all of these he took in at one
glance.
"I'm very greatly obliged to you, Mr. Steele," said


78 BLUE HAND
the lady in a voice that was little above a whisper.
"That is the second accident we have had. A spark
from one of the engines must have blown in through
the open window."
Just beneath her was the cutting of the London,
Midland and Scottish Railway, and Jim who had
watched the heavily-laden trains toiling slowly and
painfully up the steep incline, had often wondered if
there was any danger from the showers of sparks which
the engines so frequently threw up.
"I must apologize for my rather rough intrusion,"
he said with his sweet smile. "I heard your screams-
You are Mrs. Fane, aren't you?"
She nodded, and there was admiration in the eyes
that surveyed his well-knit figure.
"I won't start a conversation with you under these
embarrassing circumstances," said Jim with a laugh,
"but I'd like to say how sorry I am that you are so
ill, Mrs. Fane. Could I send you some more books?"
"Thank you," she whispered. "You have done al-
most enough."
He heard the door close as the servant, unconscious
that anything was wrong, came in, and heard her
startled exclamation as she smelt the smoke. Coming
out into the passage he met Madge Benson's astonished
face.
A few words explained his presence and the woman
hustled him to the door a little unceremoniously.
"Mrs. Fane is not allowed to see visitors, sir," she
said. "She gets so excited."
"What is the matter with her?" asked Jim, rather
amused at the unmistakable ejection.


BLUEHAND 79
"Paralysis in both legs," said Madge Benson, and
Jim uttered an exclamation of pity.
"Don't think I'm not grateful to you, Mr. Steele,"
said the woman earnestly, "when I saw that smoke
coming out into the passage my heart nearly stopped
beating. That is the second accident we have had."
She was so anxious for him to be off that he made
no attempt to continue talking.
So that was Mrs. Fane, thought Jim, as he strode
along to his office. A singularly beautiful woman.
The pity of it! She was still young and in the bloom
of health save for this terrible affliction.
Jim had a big heart for suffering humanity and es-
pecially for women and children on whom the burden
of sickness fell. He was half-way to the office when
he remembered that Mrs. Fane had recognized him
and called him by name! How could she have known
him—she who had never left her sick room?


CHAPTER THIRTEEN
**iy JTR. GROAT will not be down to breakfast.
% /1 He was working very late, miss."
•L. v JL Eunice nodded. She preferred the con-
versation of Digby Groat to the veiled familiarity of
his shrewd-faced servant. It would be difficult for
her to define in what way Jackson offended her. Out-
wardly he was respect itself, and she could not recall
any term or word he had employed to which she could
reasonably take offense. It was the assurance of the
man, his proprietorial attitude which irritated her. He
reminded her of a boarding house at which she had
once stayed, where the proprietor acted as butler, and
endeavored, without success, to combine the deference
of the servant, with the authority of the master.
"You were out very early this morning, miss," said
Jackcon with his sly smile as he changed her plates.
"Is there any objection to my going out before
breakfast?" asked Eunice, her anger rising.
"None at all, miss," said the man blandly. "I hope
I haven't offended you, only I happened to see you
coming back."
She had been out to send the parcel and the letter to
Jim, the nearest district messenger office being less
than a quarter of a mile from Grosvenor Square. She
opened her lips to speak and closed them again tightly.
There was no reason in the world why she should ex-
cuse herself to the servant.
80


BLUE HAND 81
Jackson was not ready to take a rebuff and besides
he had something important to communicate.
"You weren't disturbed last night, were you, miss?"
he asked.
"What do you mean?" demanded Eunice looking
up with a start.
His keen eyes were upon her and without any reason
she felt guilty.
"Somebody was having a joke here last night, miss,"
he said, "and the governor is as wild as ... well,
he's mad!"
She put down her knife and fork and sat back in her
chair.
"I don't quite understand you, Jackson," she said
coldly. "What is the joke that somebody was having,
and why do you ask me if I was disturbed? Did any-
thing happen in the night?"
The man nodded.
"Somebody was in the house," he said, "and it is a
wonder that Mr. Groat didn't hear it, because he was
working in his laboratory. I thought perhaps you
might have heard him searching the house afterwards."
She shook her head. Had the Blue Hand been de-
tected she wondered?
"How do you know that a stranger was in the house?"
she asked.
"Because he left his mark," said the man grimly.
"You know that white door leading to the laboratory,
miss?"
She nodded.
"Well, when Mr. Groat came out about half-past
two this morning he was going to turn out the hall
lights when he saw a smudge of paint on the door. He


82 BLUEHAND
went back and found that it was the mark of a blue
hand. I've been trying to get it off all the morning,
but it is greasy and can't be cleaned."
"The mark of a blue hand?" she repeated slowly
and felt herself change color. "What does that
mean?"
"I'm blessed if I know," said Jackson shaking his
head. "The governor doesn't know either. But
there it was as plain as a pikestaff. I thought it was
a servant who did it. There is one under notice and
she might have been up to her tricks, but it couldn't
have been her. Besides, the servants' sleeping rooms
are at the back of the house and the door between the
front and the back is kept locked."
So the mysterious visitor had not been satisfied with
warning her. She had warned Digby Groat as well!
Eunice had nearly finished breakfast when Digby
made his appearance. He was looking tired and hag-
gard, she thought. He never looked his best in the
carry hours, but this morning he was more unprepos-
sessing than usual. He shot a swift suspicious glance
at the girl as he took his place at the table.
"You have finished, I'm afraid, Miss Weldon," he
said briefly. "Has Jackson told you what happened
in the night?"
"Yes," said Eunice quietly. "Have you any idea
what it means?"
He shook his head.
"It means trouble to the person who did it, if I
catch him,," he said, then changing the conversation
he asked how his mother was that morning.
Eunice invariably called at Mrs. Groat's room on
her way down and she was able to tell him that his


BLUE HAND 83
mother was mending rapidly and had passed a very
good night.
"She can't get well too soon," he said. "How did
you sleep, Miss Weldon?"
"Very well," she prevaricated.
"Have you tried my chocolates?" he smiled.
She nodded.
"They are beautiful"
"Don't eat too many at once, they are rather rich,"
he said, and made no further relerence either to that
matter or to the midnight visitor.
Later in the morning when she was going about her
work, Eunice saw workmen engaged on cleaning the
canvas door. Apparently the blue stain could not be
eradicated and after a consultation with Digby, the
canvas was being painted a dull blue color.
She knew that Digby was perturbed more than or-
dinarily. When she had met him, as she had occa-
sionally that morning, he had worn a furtive, hunted
look and once, when she had gone into his study to
bring to his notice an account which she had unearthed,
he was muttering to himself.
That afternoon there was a reception at Lord Wal-
tham's house in Park Lane, in honor of a colonial
premier who was visiting England. Digby Groat
found it convenient to cultivate the acquaintance of
the aesthetic Lord Waltbam who was one of the great
financial five of the City of London. Digby had gone
cleverly to work to form a small syndicate for the
immediate purchase of the Danton estate. The time
had not yet come when he could dispose of this prop-
erty, but it was fast approaching.
There were many women in that brilliant assembly


84 BLUE HAND
who would have been glad to know a man reputedly
clever, and certainly the heir to great wealth, but in an
inverted sense Digby was a fastidious man. Society
which met him and discussed him over their dinner-
tables were puzzled by his avoidance of woman's so-
ciety, tie could have made a brilliant marriage had
he so desired, but apparently the girls of his own set
had no attraction for him. There were intimates, men
about town who were less guarded in their language
when they spoke across the table after the women had
gone, and these told stories of him which did not re-
dound to his credit. Digby in his youth had had many
affairs; vulgar, sordid affairs which had left each vic-
tim with an aching heart and no redress.
He had only come to "look in" he explained. There
was heavy work awaiting him at home, and he hinted
at the new experiment he was making which would take
up the greater part of the evening.
"How is your mother, Groat?" asked Lord Waltham.
"Thank you, sir, I think she is better," replied Digby.
He wanted to keep off the subject of his mother.
"I can't understand the extraordinary change that
has come over her in late years," said Lord Waltham
with a little frown. "She used to be so bright and
cheerful, one of the wittiest women I have ever met.
And then of a sudden, her spirits seemed to go and
if you don't mind my saying so, she seemed to get old."
"I noticed that," said Digby with an air of profound
concern, "but women of her age frequently go all to
pieces in a week."
"I suppose there's something in that. I always for-
get you're a doctor," smiled Lord Waltham.
Digby took his leave and he, too, was chuckling


BLUEHAND 85
softly to himself as he went down the steps to his wait-
ing car. He wondered what Lord Waltham would say
if he had explained the secret of his mother's banished
brightness. It was only by accident that he himself
had made the discovery. She was a drug taker, as as-
siduous a "dope" as he had ever met in his professional
career.
When he discovered this he had set himself to break
down the habit. Not because he loved her, but be-
cause he was a scientist addicted to experiments. He
had found ihe source of her supply and gradually had
extracted a portion of the narcotic from every pellet
until the drug had ceased to have effect.
The result from the old woman's point of view was
deplorable. She suddenly seemed to wither and Digby,
whom she had ruled until then with a rod of iron, had
to his surprise found himself the master. It was a
lesson of which he was not slow to take advantage.
Every day and night she was watched and the drug
was kept from her. With it she was a slave to her
habit; without it she was a slave to Digby. He pre-
ferred the latter form of bondage.
*****
Mr. Septimus Salter had not arrived when Jim had
reached the office that morning and he waited, for he
had a great deal to say to the old man, whom he had
not seen for the better part of the week.
When he did come, a little gouty and therefore more
than a little petulant, he was inclined to pooh-pooh
the suggestion that there was anything in the sign of
the Blue Hand.
"Whoever the person is, he or she must have had
the stamp by them—you say it looks like a rubber


86 BLUEHAND
stamp—and used it fortuitously. No, I can't remem-
ber any Blue Hand in the business. If I were you I
should not attach too much importance to this."
Although Jim did not share his employer's opinion
he very wisely did not disagree.
"Now, what is this you were telling me about a will?
You say Mrs. Groat has made a new will, subsequent
to the one she executed in this office?"
Jim assented.
"And left all her money away from the boy, eh?"
said old Mr. Salter thoughtfully. "Curiously enough,
I have always had an idea that there was no love lost
between that pair. To whom do you say the money
was left?"
"To the Marquis of Estremeda."
"I know the name," nodded Mr. Salter. "He is a
very rich grandee of Spain and was for some time an
attache at the Spanish Embassy. He may or may not
have been a friend of the Dantons, I cannot recall.
There is certainly no reason why she should leave her
money to one who, unless my memory is at fault, owns
half a province and has three or four great houses in
Spain. Now, here you are up against a real mystery.
Now what is your news?" he asked.
Jim had a little more to tell him.
"I am taking the chocolates to an analyst—a friend
of mine," he said and Mr. Salter smiled.
"You don't expect to discover that they are poi-
soned, do you?" he asked drily. "You are not living
in the days of Caesar Borgia and with all his poisonous
qualities I have never suspected Digby Groat of being
a murderer."
"Nevertheless," said Jim, "I am leaving nothing to


BLUE HAND 87
chance. My own theory is that there is something
wrong with those innocent-looking sweetmeats, and the
mysterious Blue Hand knew what it was and came to
warn the girl."
"Rubbish," growled the old lawyer. "Get along
with you. I have wasted too much time on this in-
fernal case."
Jim's first call was at a laboratory in Wigmore
Street, and he explained to his friend just enough to
excite his curiosity for further details, which, however,
Jim was not prepared to give.
"What do you expect to find?" said the chemist,
weighing two chocolates in his palm.
"I don't know exactly what I expect," said Jim.
"But I shall be very much surprised if you do not
discover something that should not be there."
The scientist dropped the chocolates in a big test
tube, poured in a liquid from two bottles and began
heating the tube over a Bunsen burner.
"Call this afternoon at three o'clock and I will give
you all the grisly details," he said.
It was three o'clock when Jim returned, not expect-
ing, it must be confessed, any startling results from the
analysis. He was shown into the chemist's office, and
there on the desk were three test tubes standing in a
little wooden holder.
"Sit down, Steele," said Mendhlesohn. He was, as
his name implied, a member of a great Jewish kater-
nity which has furnished so many brilliant geniuses
to the world. "I can't quite make out this analysis,"
he said. "But, as you thought, there are certainly
things in the chocolates which should not be there."
"Poison?" said Jim, aghast.


88 BLUEHAND
Mendhlesohn shook his head.
"Technically, yes," he admitted. "There is poison
in almost everything, but I doubt whether the eating
of a thousand of these would produce death. I found
traces of bromide of potassium, and traces of hyoscin,
and another drug which is distilled from cannabis
indica."
"That is hashish, isn't it?"
Mendhlesohn nodded.
"When it is smoked it is called hashish; when it is
distilled we have another name for it. These three
drugs come, of course, into the category of poisons, and
in combination, taken in large doses, they would pro-
duce unconsciousness and ultimately death, but there
is not enough of the drug present in these sweets to
bring about that alarming result."
"What result would it produce?" asked Jim.
"That is just what is puzzling me and my friend,
Dr. Jakes," said Mendhlesohn rubbing his unshaven
chin. "Jakes thinks that, administered in small con-
tinuous doses, the effect of this drug would be to
destroy the will power, and, what for a better term I
would describe in the German fashion, as the resistance-
to-evil-power of the human mind. In England, as
you probably know, when a nervous and highly ex-
citable man is sentenced to death, it is the practice to
place minute doses of bromide in everything he eats
and drinks, in order to reduce him to such a low con-
dition of mental resistance, that even the thought of
an impending doom has no effect upon him."
Jim's face had gone suddenly pale, as the horror of
the villainous plot dawned upon him.
"What effect would this have upon a high-spirited


BLUEHAND 89
girl, who was, let us say, being made love to by a man
she disliked?"
The chemist shrugged his shoulders.
"I suppose that eventually her dislike would de-
velop into apathy and indifference. She would not
completely forego her resistance to his attentions, but
at the same time, that resistance would be more readily
overcome. There are only two types of mind," he
went on, "the 'dominant' and the 'recessive.' We call
the 'dominant' that which is the more powerful and
the 'recessive' that which is the less powerful. In this
world it is possible for a little weak man to dominate a
big and vigorous man, by what you would call the
sheer force of his personality. The effect of this drug
would ultimately be to turn a powerful mind into a
weak mind. I hope I am not being too scientific,"
he smiled.
"I can follow you very well," said Jim quietly.
"Now tell me this, Mendhlesohn, would it be possible
to get a conviction against the person who supplied
these sweets?"
Mendhlesohn shook his head.
"As I told you, the doses are in such minute quan-
tities, that it is quite possible they may have got in by
accident. I have only been able to find what we
chemists call a 'trace' so far, but probably the doses
would be increased from week to week. If in three
weeks' time you bring me chocolates or other food that
has been tampered with, I shall be able to give you a
very exact analysis."
"Were all the chocolates I brought similarly
treated?"
Mendhlesohn nodded.


90 BLUE HAND
"If they had been doped," he went on, "the doping
has been very cleverly done. There is no discolora-
tion of the interior and the drug must have been intro
duced by what we call saturation, which only a very
skillful chemist or a doctor trained in chemistry would
attempt."
Jim said nothing. Digby Groat was both a skilled
chemist and a doctor trained in chemistry.
On leaving the laboratory he went for his favorite
walk in Hyde Park. He wanted to be alone and think
this matter out. He must act with the greatest cau-
tion, he thought. To warn the girl on such slender
foundation was not expedient. He must wait until
the dose had been increased, though that meant that
she was to act as a bait for Digby Groat's destruction
and he writhed at the thought. But she. must not
know; he was determined as to this.
That night he had arranged a pleasant little dinner,
and he was looking forward eagerly to a meeting with
one whose future absorbed his whole attention and
thoughts. Even the search for Lady Mary Dan ton
had receded into the background, and might have
vanished altogether as a matter of interest, were it not
for the fact that Digby Groat and his affairs were so
inextricably mixed up with the mystery. Whilst
Eunice Weldon was an inmate of the Groats' house,
the Danton mystery would never be completely out
of his thoughts.


CHAPTER FOURTEEN
JIM had never seen the girl in evening clothes, and
he was smitten dumb by her ethereal beauty.
She wore a simple dress of cream charmeuse, in-
nocent of color, except for the touch of gold at her
waist. She looked taller to Jim's eyes and the sweet
dignity of her face was a benison which warmed and
comforted his heart.
"Well," she asked as the cab was proceeding towards
Piccadilly, "am I presentable?"
"You're wonderful!" breathed Jim.
He sat stiffly in the cab, scarcely daring to move
lest the substance of this beautiful dream be touched
by his irreverent hands. Her loveliness was unearthly
and he, too, could adore, though from a different
standpoint, the glorious promise of her womanhood,
the delicious contours of her Madonna-like face. .She
was to him the spirit and embodiment of all that
womanhood means. She was the truth of the dreams
that men dream, the divine substance of shadowy fig-
. ures that haunt their thoughts and dreams.
"Phew!" he said, "you almost frighten me, Eunice."
He heard her silvery laugh in the darkness.
"You're very silly, Jim," she said, slipping her arm
into bis.
Nevertheless, she experienced a thrill of triumph and
happiness that she had impressed him so.
"I have millions of questions to ask you," she said


92 BLUEHAND
after they had been ushered to a corner of the big
dining-room of the Ritz-Carlton. "Did you get my
letter? And did you think I was mad to send you
those chocolates? Of course, it was terribly unfair to
Mr. Groat, but, really, Jim, you're turning me into a
suspicious old lady!"
He laughed gently.
"I loved your letter," he said simply. "And as for
the chocolates "he hesitated.
"Well?"
"I should tell him that you enjoyed them thor-
oughly," he smiled.
"I have," said the girl ruefully. "I hate telling lies,
even that kind of lie."
"And the next box you receive," Jim went on, "you
must send me three or four of its contents."
She was alarmed now, looking at him, her red lips
parted, her eyebrows crescents of inquiry.
"Was there anything wrong with them?" she asked.
He was in a dilemma. He could not tell her the
result of the analysis, and at the same time he could
not allow her to run any further into needless danger.
He had to invent something on the spur of the moment
and his excuse was lame and unconvincing.
Listening, she recognized their halting nature, but
was sensible enough not to insist unon rigid explana-
tions, and moreover, she wanted to discuss the hand
and its startling appearance in the middle of the night.
"It sounds almost melodramatic," said Jim, but his
voice was grave, "and I find a great difficulty in recon-
ciling the happening to the realities of life. Of one
thing I'm sure," he went on, "and it is that this strange
woman, if woman it be, has a reason for her acts. The


BLUEHAND 93
mark of the hand is deliberately designed. That it is
blue has a meaning, too, a meaning which apparently
is not clear to Digby Groat. And now let us talk about
ourselves," he smiled and his hand rested for a mo-
ment over hers.
She did not attempt to withdraw her own until the
waiter came in sight, and then she drew it away so
gently as to suggest reluctance.
"I'm going to stay another month with the Groats,"
she informed him, "and then if Mrs. Groat doesn't find
some real work for me to do, I'm going back to the
photographers—if they'll have me."
"I know somebody who wants you more than the
photographer," he said quietly, "somebody whose
heart just aches whenever you pass out of his sight."
She felt her own heart beating thunderously and the
hand that he held under the cover of the table trembled.
"Who is that—somebody?" she asked faintly.
"Somebody who will not ask you to marry him until
he can offer you an assured position," said Jim.
"Somebody who loves the very ground you walk upon
so much that he must have carpets for your dear feet
and a mansion to house you more comfortably than the
tiny attic overlooking the London, Midland and' Scot-
tish Railway."
She did not speak for a long time, and he thought he
had offended her. The color came and went in her
face, the soft rounded bosom rose and fell more quickly
than was usual, and the hand that he held closed so
tightly upon his fingers that they were almost numb
when she suddenly released her hold.
"Jim," she said, still averting her eyes, "I coujd
work very well on bare boards, and I should love to


94 BLUE HAND
watch tne London, Midland and Scottish trains—go
past your attic."
She turned her head to his and he saw that her eyes
were bright with tears.
"If you're not very careful, Jim Steele," she said,
with an attempt at raillery, "I shall propose to you!"
"May I smoke?" said Jim huskily, and when she
nodded and he lit his match, she saw the flame was
quivering in his shaking hand. - •
She wondered what made him so quiet for the rest
of the evening. She could not know that he was
stunned and shaken by the great fortune that had
come to him, that his heart was as numb with happi-
ness as his fingers had been in the pressure of her
hand.
When they drove back to the house that night she
wanted him to take her in his arms in the darkness of
the cab and crush her against his breast: she wanted
to feel his kisses on her lips, her eyes. If he had asked
her at that moment to run away with him, to commit
the maddest folly, she would have consented joy-
ously, for her love for the man was surging up like a
bubbling stream of subterranean fire that had found
its vent, overwhelming and burning all reason, all tradi-
tion.
Instead, he sat by her side, holding her hand and
dreaming of the golden future which awaited him.
"Good-night, Jim," her voice sounded cold and a
little dispirited, as she put her gloved hand in his at
the door of 409.
"Good-night," he said in a low voice and kissed her
hand.
She was nearly in tears when she went into her roow


BLUEHAND 95
and shut the door behind her. She walked to her
dressing-table and looked in the glass, long and inquir-
ingly, and then she shook her head.
"I wish he wasn't so good," she said, "or else more
of a hero 1"


CHAPTER FIFTEEN
JIM continued his journey to the flat, so enveloped
in the rosy clouds which had descended upon him,
that he was unconscious of time or space, and it
seemed that he had only stepped into the cab when
it jerked to a halt before the portals of Featherdale
Mansions. He might have continued in his dream
without interruption had not the cabman, with some
asperity, called him back to remind him that he had
not paid his fare.
That brought him back to the earth.
As he was about to open the outer door of the flats
(it was closed at eleven every night) the door opened of
its own accord and he stepped back to allow a lady to
pass. She was dressed from head to foot in black and
she passed him without a word, he staring after her as
she walked with quick steps to a motor-car that he
had noticed drawn up a few yards from where his cab
had stopped. Who was she, he wondered as the car
passed out of sight.
He dismissed her from his thoughts, for the glamour
of the evening was not yet passed and for an hour he
sat in his big chair, staring into vacancy and recalling
every incident of that precious evening. He could not
believe it was true that this half-divine being was to
be his, and then with a deep sigh he aroused himself
to a sense of reality.
There was work to be done, he thought, as he rose
96


BLUE HAND 97
to his feet, and it was work for her. His income was a
small one, and must be considerably augmented before
he dare ask this beautiful lady to share his lot.
He glanced idly at the table. That afternoon he
had been writing up his notes of the case and the book
was still where he had left it, only
He could have sworn he had left it open. He had a
remarkable memory for little things, tiny details of
placements and position, and he was sure the book had
not only been closed, but that its position had been
changed.
A woman came in the mornings to clean the flat
and make his bed and invariably he let her in himself.
She usually arrived when he was making his own break-
fast—another fad of his. She had no key and under
any circumstances never came at night.
He opened the book and almost jumped.
Between the pages marking the place where he had
been writing was a key of a peculiar design. Attached
to the handle was a tiny label on which was written:
"D. G.'s master key."
This time there was no sign of the Blue Hand, but
he recognized the writing. It was the same which
had appeared on the warning card which the girl had
received.
The woman in black had been to his flat—and had
left him the means to enter Digby Groat's premises!
"Phew!" whistled Jim in amazement.


CHAPTER SIXTEEN
EUNICE woke in the morning with a queer
little sense of disappointment. It was not until
she was thoroughly awake, sitting up in bed
and sipping the fragrant tea which the maid had
brought her, that she analyzed the cause. Then she
laughed at herself.
"Eunice Weldon," she said shaking her head sadly,
"you're a bold woman! Because the best man in the
world was too good, too silly, or too frightened to kiss
you, you are working up a grievance. In the first
place, Eunice Weldon, you shouldn't have proposed to
a man. It was unladylike and certain to lead to your
feeling cheap. You should have been content to wait
for the beautiful carpet under your feet and the man-
sion over your head, and should have despised the
bare boards of an attic overlooking the railway. I
don't suppose they are bare boards, Eunice," she
mused. "They are certain to be very nicely covered
and there will be all sorts of mementos of Jim's cam-
paigns hanging on the walls or tucked away in odd little
cupboards. And I'm sure when the trains are not
rattling past, that the view from the window is beauti-
ful, and anyway, I shouldn't have time to look out of
the window. There would be Jim's shirts to mend,
Jim's socks to darn, and—Eunice Weldon, get up!"
she said hurriedly as she slipped out of bed.
Going along the corridor Digby Groat heard the


BLUE HAND 99
sound of her fresh young voice singing in the bathroom
and he smiled.
The ripe beauty of the girl had come on him with a
rush. She was no longer desirable, she was necessary.
He had intended to make her his plaything, he was as
determined now that she should be his decoration.
He laughed aloud at the little conceit! A decoration!
Something that would enhance him in the eyes of his
fellows. Even marriage would be a small price to pay
for the possession of that jewel.
Jackson saw him smiling as he came down the stairs.
"Another box of chocolates has arrived, sir," he
said in a low voice, as though he were imparting a
shameful secret.
"Throw them in the ashpit, or give them to my
mother," said Digby carelessly and Jackson stared at
him.
"Aren't you "he began. i
"Don't ask so many questions, Jackson." Digby
turned his glittering eyes upon his servant and there
was an ugly look in his face. "You are getting just a
little too interested in things, my friend. And whilst
we are on this matter, let me say, Jackson, that when
you speak to Miss Weldon I want you to take that
damned grin off your face and talk as a servant to a
lady; do you understand that?"
"I'm no servant," said the mian sullenly. r.
"That is the part you are playing now, so play it,"
said Digby, "and don't sulk with me, or"
His hand went up to a rack hanging on the wall
where reposed a collection of hunting crops, and his
fingers closed over the nearest.
The man started back.


100 BLUEHAND
"I didn't mean anything," he whined, his face livid.
"I've tried to be respectful"
"Get my letters," said Digby curtly, "and bring
them into the dining-room."
Eunice came into the room at that moment.
"Good morning, Miss Weldon," said Digby pulling
out her chair from the table. "Did you have a nice
dinner?"
"Oh, splendid," she said, and then changed the con-
versation.
She was dreading the possibility of his turning the
conversation to the previous night, and was glad when
the meal was finished.
Digby's attitude, however, was most correct. He
spoke of general topics, and did not touch upon her
outing, and when she went to Mrs. Groat's room to
play at work, for it was only playing, the real work
had been done, he did not, as she feared he might,
follow her.
Digby waited until the doctor called, and waylaying
him in the passage learned that his mother had com-
pletely recovered, and though a recurrence of the
stroke was possible, it was not immediately likely. He
had a few words to say to her that morning.
Old Mrs. Groat sat by the window in a wheeled
chair, a huddled, unlovely figure; her dark gloomy eyes
surveyed without interest the stately square with its
green centerpiece. The change of seasons had for
her no other significance than a change of clothing.
The wild heart which once leapt to the call of spring,
beat feebly in a body in which passion had burnt
itself to bitter ashes. And yet the gnarled hands,
crossing and re-crossing each other on her lap had


BLUE HAND 101
once touched and blessed as they had touched and
blasted.
Once or twice her mind went to this new girl,
Eunice Weldon. There was no ray of pity in her
thought. If Digby wanted the girl he would take her,
and her fate interested old Jane Groat no more than
the fate of the fly that buzzed upon the window, and
whom a flick of her handkerchief presently swept from
existence. There was more reason why the girl should
go if ... she frowned. The scar on the wrist was
much bigger than a sixpence. It was probably a
coincidence.
She hoped that Digby would concentrate on his
new quest and leave her alone. She was mortally
afraid of him, fearing in her own heart the length to
which he would go to have his will. She knew that
her life would be snuffed out, like the flame of a
candle, if it were expedient for Digby to remove her.
When she had recovered consciousness and found her-
self in charge of a nurse, her first thought had been
of wonder that Digby had allowed her to revive. He
knew nothing of the will, she thought, and a twisted
smile broke upon her lined face. There was a surprise
in store for him. She would not be there to see it,
that was the pity. But she could gloat in anticipation
over his chagrin and his impotent rage.
The handle of the door turned and there followed a
whispered conversation. Presently the door closed
again.
"How are you this morning, mother?" said the
pleasant voice of Digby, and she blinked round at him
in a flutter of agitation.
"Very well, my boy, very well," she said tremu-


102 BLUE HAND
lously. "Won't you sit down?" She glanced nerv-
ously about for the nurse, but the woman had gone.
"Will you tell the nurse I want her, my boy?" she
began.
"The nurse can wait," said her dutiful son coolly.
"There are one or two things I want to talk to you
about before she returns. But principally I want to
know why you left me with a beggarly twenty-
thousand pounds to face the world?"
She nearly collapsed with the shock.
"A will, my boy?" She whined the words. "What
on earth are you talking about?"
"The will which you made and put into that secret
drawer of your cabinet," he said patiently, "and don't
tell me that I'm dreaming, or that you did it for
a joke, or that it was an act of mental aberration on
your part. Tell me the truth!"
"It was a will I made years ago, my dear," she
quavered. "When I thought twenty-thousand pounds
was all the money I possessed."
"You're a liar," said Digby without heat. "And a
stupid old liar. You made that will to spite me, you
old devil!"
She was staring at him in horror.
Digby was most dangerous when he talked in that
cool, even tone of his.
"I have destroyed the precious document," said
Digby Groat in the same conversational voice, "and
when you see Miss Weldon, who witnessed its destruc-
tion, I would be glad if you would tell her, that the
will she saw consumed was one which you made when
you were not quite right in your head."
Mrs. Groat was incapable of speech. Her chin


BLUEHAND 103
trembled convulsively and her only thought was how
she could attract the attention of the nurse.
"Put my chair back against the bed, Digby," she
said faintly. "The light is too strong."
He hesitated, but did as she asked, then seeing her
hand close upon the bell-push which hung by the side
of the bed, he laughed.
"You need not be afraid, mother," he said con-
temptuously, "I did not intend taking any other action
than I have already taken. Remember that your in-
fernal nurse will not be here all the time, and do as
I ask you. I will send Miss Weldon up to you in a
few minutes on the excuse of taking instructions from
you and answering some letters which came for you
this morning. Do you understand?"
She nodded and at that moment the nurse came in.
Summoned to the sick-room, Eunice found her em-
ployer looking more feeble than she had appeared
before she was stricken down. The old woman's eyes
smoldered their hate, as the girl came into the room.
Shr guessed it was Eunice who had discovered the will
and loathed her, but fear was the greater in her, and
after the few letters had been formally answered,
Mrs. Groat stopped the girl, who was in the act of
rising.
"Sit down again, Miss Weldon," she said. "I
wanted to tell you about a will of mine that you
found. I'm very glad you discovered it. I had for-
gotten that I had made it."
Every word was strained and hateful to utter.
"You see, my dear young woman, I sometimes suffer
from a curious lapse of memory, and—and—that will
was made when I was suffering from an attack"


104 BLUE HAND
Eunice listened to the halting words and was under
the impression that the hesitation was due to the old
woman's weakness.
"I quite understand, Mrs. Groat," she said sym-
pathetically. "Your son told me."
"He told you, did he?" said Jane Groat returning
to her contemplation of the window, then, when
Eunice was waiting for her dismissal, "Are you a great
friend of my son's?"
Eunice smiled.
"No, not a great friend, Mrs. Groat," she said.
"You will be," said the woman, "greater than you
imagine," and there was such malignity in the tone
that the girl shuddered.


CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
JIM loved London, the noise and the smell of it.
He loved its gentle thunders, its ineradicable
good humor, its sublime muddle. Paris de-
pressed him, with its air of gayety and the underlying
fierceness of life's struggle. There was no rest in the
soul of Paris. It was a city of strenuous bargain-
ing, of ruthless exploitation. Brussels was a dumpy,
undergrown Paris, Berlin, a stucco Gomorrah, Ma-
drid, an extinct crater beneath which a new volcanic
stream was seeking a vent.
New York he loved, a city of steel and concrete
teeming with sentimentalists posing as tyrants.
There was nothing quite like New York in the world.
Dante in his most prodigal mood might have dreamt
New York and da Vinci might have planned it, but
only the high gods could have materialized the dream
or built to the master's plan. But London was Lon-
don—incomparable, beautiful. It was the history of
the world and the mark of civilization. He made a
detour and passed through Covent Garden.
The blazing color and fragrance of it! Jim could
have lingered all the morning in the draughty halls,
but he was due at the office to meet Mr. Salter.
Almost the first question that the lawyer asked him
was:
"Have you investigated Selengers?"
The identity of the mysterious Selengers had been
forgotten for the moment, Jim admitted.
105


106 BLUEHAND
"You ought to know who they are," said the lawyer.
vYou will probably discover that Groat or his mother
are behind them. The fact that the offices were once
the property of Danton rather supports this idea—
though theories are an abomination to mel"
Jim agreed.
There were so many issues to the case that he had
almost lost sight of his main object.
"The more I think of it," he confessed, "the more
useless my search seems to me, Mr. Salter. If I find
Lady Mary, you say that I shall be no nearer to
frustrating the Groats?"
Mr. Septimus Salter did not immediately reply. He
had said as much, but subsequently had amended his
point of view. Theories, as he had so emphatically
stated, were abominable alternatives to facts and yet
he could not get out of his head that if the theory he
had formed to account for Lady Mary Danton's
obliteration were substantiated, a big step would have
been taken toward clearing up a host of minor
mysteries.
"Go ahead with Selengers," he said at last. ''Possi-
bly you may find that their enquiries are made as
much to find Lady Mary as to establish the identity
of your young friend. At any rate, you can't be
doing much harm."


CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
AT twelve o'clock that night Eunice heard a car
draw up in front of the house. She had not
yet retired, and she stepped out on to the
balcony as Digby Groat ascended the steps.
Eunice closed the door and pulled the curtains
across. She was not tired enough to go to bed. She
had very foolishly succumbed to the temptation to
take a doze that afternoon, and to occupy her time
she had brought up the last bundle of accounts, un-
earthed from a box in the wine-cellar, and had spent
the evening tabulating them.
She finished the last account, and fixing a rubber
band round them, rose and stretched herself, and then
she heard a sound; a stealthy foot upon the stone of
the balcony floor. There was no mistaking it. She
had never heard it before on the occasion of the earlier
visits. She switched out the light, drew back the
curtains noiselessly and softly unlocked the French
window. She listened. There it was again. She
felt no fear, only the thrill of impending discovery.
Suddenly she jerked open the window and stepped out,
and for a time saw nothing, then as her eyes grew ac-
customed to the darkness, she saw something crouch-
ing against the wall.
"Who is that?" she cried.
There was no reply for a little time; then the voice
said:
107


108 BLUEHAND
"I am awfully sorry to have frightened you,
Eunice." It was Jim Steele.
"Jim!" she gasped incredulously, and then a wave
of anger swept over her. So it had been Jim all the
time and not a woman! Jim, who had been support-
ing his prejudices by these contemptible tricks. Her
anger was unreasonable, but it was very real and
born of the shock of disillusionment. She remem-
bered in a flash how sympathetic Jim had been when
she told him of the midnight visitor and how he had
pretended to be puzzled. So he was fooling her all
the time. It was hateful of him!
"I think you had better go," she said coldly.
"Let me explain, Eunice."
"I don't think any explanation is necessary," she
said. "Really Jim, it is despicable of you."
She went back to her room with wildly beating heart.
She could have wept for vexation. Jim! He was the
mysterious blue hand, she thought indignantly, and he
had made a laughing stock of her! Probably he was
the writer of the letters, too, and had been in her room
that night. She stamped her foot in her anger. She
hated him for deceiving her. She hated him for shat-
tering the idol she had set up in her heart. She had
never felt so unutterably miserable as she was when
she flung herself on her bed and wept until she fell
asleep from sheer exhaustion.
"Damn!" muttered Jim as he slipped out of the
house and strode in search of his muddy little car. An
unprofitable evening had ended tragically.
"Bungling, heavy-footed jackass," he growled
savagely as he spun perilously round a corner and


BLUEHAND 109
nearly into a taxi-cab which had ventured to the wrong
side of the road. But he was not cursing the cab-
driver. It was his own stupidity which had led him to
test the key which had made a remarkable appearance
on his table the night before. He had gone on to the
balcony, merely to examine the fastenings of the girl's
window, with the idea of judging her security.
He felt miserable and would have been glad to talk
his trouble over with somebody. But there was no-
body he could think of, nobody whom he liked well
enough, unless it was—Mrs. Fane. He half smiled
at the thought and wondered what that invalid lady
would think of him if he knocked her up at this hour
to pour his woes into her sympathetic ears! The
sweet, sad-faced woman had made a very deep impres-
sion upon him, he was surprised to find how often she
came into his thoughts.
Half-way up Baker Street he brought his car to a
walking pace and turned. He had remembered
Selengers, and it had just occurred to him that at this
hour he was more likely to profit by a visit than by a
day-time call. It was nearly two o'clock when he
stopped in Brade Street and descended.
He remembered the janitor had told him that there
was a side entrance, which was used alone by Selengers.
He found the narrow court which led to the back of
the building, and after a little search discovered what
was evidently the door which would bring him through
the courtyard to the back of Brade Street Buildings.
He tried the door and to his surprise it was unlocked.
Hearing the soft pad of the policeman's feet in the
street, and not wishing to be discovered trying strange


110 BLUE HAND
doors at that hour, he passed through and closed it
behind him, waiting till the officer had passed before
he continued his investigations.
In preparation for such a contingency he had brought
with him a small electric lamp, and with the aid of
this he found his way across the paved yard to a door
which opened into the building. This was locked, he
discovered to his dismay. There must be another, he
thought, and began looking for it. There were win-
dows overlooking the courtyard, but these were so
carefully shuttered that it was impossible to tell
whether lights shone behind them or not.
He found the other entrance at an angle of two walls,
tried it, and to his delight it opened. He was in a
short stone corridor and at the farther end was a barred
gate. Short of this and to the right was a green door.
He turned the handle softly and as it opened he saw
that a brilliant light was burning within. He pushed
it further and stepped into the room.
He was in an office which was unfurnished except
for a table and a chair, but it was not the desolate
appearance of the apartment which held his eye.
As he had entered a woman, dressed from head to
foot in black, was passing to a second room, and at
the sound of the door she turned quickly and drew her
veil over her face. But she had delayed that action
a little too long, and Jim, with a gasp of amazement,
had looked upon the face of that "incurable invalid,"
Mrs. Fane!


CHAPTER NINETEEN

are you, and what do you want?" she
asked. He saw her hand drop to the fold
of her dress, then: "Mr. Steele," she said
as she recognized him.
"I'm sorry to disturb you," said Jim as he closed
the door behind him, "but I wanted to see you pretty
badly."
"Sit down, Mr. Steele. Did you see my -" she
hesitated, "see my face?"
He nodded gravely.
"And did you recognize me?"
He nodded again.
"Yes, you are Mrs. Fane," he said quietly.
Slowly her hands rose and she unpinned the veil.
"You may lock the door," she said, "yes, I am Mrs.
Fane."
He was so bewildered, despite his seeming self-
possession, that he had nothing to say.
"You probably think I have been practicing a wicked
and mean deception," she said, "but there are reasons
— excellent reasons — why I should not be abroad in
the daytime, and why, if I were traced to Featherdale
Mansions, I should not be identified with the woman
who walks at night."
"Then it was you who left the key?" he said.
She nodded, and all the time her eyes never left his
face.
in


112 BLUE HAND
"I am afraid I cannot enlighten you any farther,"
she said, "partly because I am not prepared at this
moment to reveal my hand and partly because there
is so little that I could reveal if I did."
And only a few minutes before he had been thinking
how jolly it would be if he could lay all his troubles
and perplexities before her. It was incredible that he
should be talking with her at this midnight hour in a
prosaic city office. He looked at the delicate white
hand which rested against her breast and smiled, and
she with her quick perceptions guessed the cause of
his amusement.
"You are thinking of the Blue Hand?" she said
quickly.
"Yes, I am thinking of the Blue Hand," said Jim.
"You have an idea that that is just a piece of
chicanery and that the hand has no significance?" she
asked quietly.
"Curiously enough I don't think that," said Jim.
"I believe that symbol is a very interesting story, but
you must tell it in your own time, Mrs. Fane."
She paced the room deep in thought, her hands
clasped before her, her chin on her breast, and he
waited, wondering how this strange discovery would
develop.
"You came because you heard from South Africa
that I had been making inquiries about the girl—she
is not in danger?"
"No," said Jim with a wry face. "At present I am
in danger of having offended her beyond pardon."
She looked at him sharply, but did not ask for an
explanation.


BLUE HAND 113
"If you had thought my warnings were theatrical
and meaningless, I should not have blamed you," she
said after a while, "but I had to reach her in some way
that would impress her."
"There is something I cannot understand, Mrs.
Fane," said Jim. "Suppose Eunice had told Digby
Groat of this warning?"
She smiled.
"He knows," she said quietly, and Jim remembered
the hand on the laboratory door. "No, he is not the
person who will understand what it all means," she
said. "As to your Eunice," her lips parted in a daz-
zling little smile, "I would not like any harm to come
to the child."
"Have you any special reason for wishing to protect
her?" asked Jim.
She shook her head.
"I thought I had a month ago," she said. "I
thought she was somebody whom I was seeking. A
chance resemblance, fleeting and elusive, brought me
to her; she was one of the shadows I pursued," she
said with a bitter little smile, "one of the ghosts that
led nowhere. She interested me. Her beauty, her
fresh innocence and her character have fascinated me,
even though she has ceased to be the real object of my
search. And you, Mr. Steele. She interests you,
too?" She eyed him keenly.
"Yes," said Jim, "she interests me, too."
"Do you love her?"
The question was so unexpected that Jim for once
was not prepared with an answer. He was a reticent
man ordinarily, and now that the opportunity pre-


114 BLUE HAND
sented he could not discuss the state of his feelings
towards Eunice.
"If you do not really love her," said the woman,
"do not hurt her, Mr. Steele. She is a very young
girl, too good to be the passing amusement that Digby
Groat intends she shall be."
"Does he?" said Jim between his teeth.
She nodded.
"There is a great future for you, and I hope that
you will not ruin that career by an infatuation which
has the appearance at the moment of being love."
He looked at the flushed and animated face and
thought that next to Eunice she was the most beautiful
woman he had ever seen.
"I am almost at the end of my pursuit," she went
on, "and once we can bring Digby Groat and his
mother to book, my work will be done." She shook
her head sadly. "I have no further hope, no further
hope," she said.
"Hope of what?" asked Jim.
"Finding what I sought," said Mrs. Fane, and her
luminous eyes were fixed on his. "But I was mad, I
sought that which is beyond recall and I must use the
remaining years of my life for such happiness as God
-will send to me. Forty-three years of waste!" she
threw out her arms with passionate gesture. "Forty-
three years of suffering. A loveless childhood, a love-
less marriage, a bitter betrayal. I have lost every-
thing, Mr. Steele, everything. Husband and child
and hope."
Jim started back.
"Good God!" he said, "then you are"


BLUE HAND 115
"I am Lady Mary Danton." She looked at him
strangely. "I thought you had guessed that."
Lady Mary Danton!
Then his search was ended, thought Jim with dis-
may. A queer, unsatisfactory ending, which brought
him no nearer to reward or advancement, both of which
were so vitally necessary now.
"You look disappointed," she said, "and yet you
had set yourself out to find Lady Mary."
He nodded.
"And you have found her. Is she less attractive
than you had imagined?"
He did not reply. He could not tell her that his
real search had not been for her, but for her dead
child.
"Do you know I have been seeing you every day
for months, Mr. Steele?" she asked. "I have sat by
your side in railway trains, in tube trains, and even
stood by your side in tube lifts," she said with the ghost
of a smile. "I have watched you and studied you and
I have liked you."
She said the last words deliberately and her beautiful
hand rested for a second on his shoulder.
"Search your heart about Eunice," she said, "and
if you find that you are mistaken in your sentiments,
remember that there is a great deal of happiness to be
found in this world."
There was no mistaking her meaning.
"I love Eunice," said Jim quietly, and the hand that
rested on his shoulder was withdrawn, "I love her as
I shall never love any other woman in life. She is
the beginning and end of my dreams." He did not


116 BLUE HAND
look up at the woman, but he could hear her quick
breathing.
Presently she said in a low voice:
"I was afraid so—I was afraid so."
And then Jim, whose moral courage was beyond
question, rose and faced her.
"Lady Mary," he said quietly, "you have abandoned
hope that you will ever find your daughter?"
She nodded.
"Suppose Eunice were your daughter? Would you
give her to me?"
She raised her eyes to his.
"I would give her to you with thankfulness," she said,
"for you are the one man in the world whom I would
desire any girl I love to marry," she shook her head.
"But you, too, are pursuing shadows," she said.
"Eunice is not my daughter—I have traced her parent-
age and there is no doubt at all upon the matter.
She is the daughter of a South African musician."
"Have you seen the scar on her wrist?" he asked
slowly. It was his last hope of identification and when
she shook her head, his heart sank.
"I did not know that she had a scar on her wrist.
What kind of a scar is it?" she asked.
"A small round burn the size of a sixpence," said
Jim.
"My baby had no such mark—she had no blemish
whatever."
"Nothing that would have induced some evilly dis-
posed person to remove?"
Lady Mary shook her head.
"Oh, no," she said faintly. "You are chasing
shadows, Mr. Steele, almost as persistently as I have


BLUE HAND 117
done. Now let me tell you something about myself,"
she said, "and I warn you that I am not going to
elucidate the mystery of my disappearance—that can
wait. This building is mine," she said. "I am the
proprietor of the whole block. My husband bought it
and in a moment of unexampled generosity presented
it to me the day after its purchase. In fact, it was
mine when it was supposed to be his. He was not a
generous man," she said sadly, "but I will not speak
of his treatment 01 me. This property has provided
me with an income ample for my needs and I have,
too, a fortune which I inherited from my father. We
were desperately poor when I married Mr. Danton,"
she explained, "and only a week or two later my
father's cousin, Lord Pethingham, died, and father
inherited a very large sum of money, the greater por-
tion of which came to me."
"Who is Madge Benson?" he demanded.
"Need you ask that?" she said. "She is my serv-
ant."
"Why did she go to prison?"
He saw the woman's lips close tight.
"You must promise not to ask questions about the
past until I am ready to tell you, Mr. Steele," she said,
"and now I think you can see me home." She looked
round the office. "There are usually a dozen cable-
grams to be seen and answered. A confidential clerk
of mine comes in the morning to attend to the dispatch
of wires which I leave for him. I have made myself
a nuisance to every town clerk in the world, from
Buenos Ayres to Shanghai," she said with a whimsical
laugh in which there was a note of pain. ""The
shadow he pursueth 'You know the old Biblical


118 BLUE HAND
lines, Mr. Steele, and I am so tired of my pursuit, so
very tired 1"
"And is it ended now?" asked Jim.
"Not yet," said Lady Mary and suddenly her voice
grew hard and determined. "No, we've still got a lot
of work before us, Jim "She used the word
shyly and laughed like a child when she saw him color.
"Even Eunice will not mind my calling you Jim," she
said, "and it is such a nice name, easily remembered,
and it has the advantage of not being a popular nick-
name for dogs and cats."
He was dying to ask her why, if she was so well off,
she had taken up her residence in a little flat over-
looking a railway line, and it was probable that had
he asked her, he would have received an unsatisfactory
reply.
He took leave of her at her door.
"Good-night, neighbor," he smiled.
"Good-night, Jim," she said softly.
And Jim was still sitting in his big armchair ponder-
ing the events of the night when the first rays of the
rising sun made a golden pattern upon the blind.


CHAPTER TWENTY
EARLY the next morning a district messenger
arrived at the Sat with a letter from Eunice
and he groaned before he opened it.
She had written it in the hurt of her discovery and
there were phrases which made him wince.
"I never dreamt it was you, and after all the pretence you
«ade that this Blue Hand was a woman! It wasn't fair of
you, Jim. To secure a sensation you nearly frightened me
to death on my first night here, and made me look ridiculous
in order that I might fall into your waiting arms! I see
it all now. You do not like Mr. Groat, and were determined
that I should leave his house, and this is the method which
you have followed. I shall find it very hard to forgive you
and perhaps you had better not see me again until you hear
from me."
"Oh. damn," said Jim for the fortieth time since he
had left her.
What could he do? He wrote half-a-dozen letters
and tore them all up, every one of them into shreds.
He could not explain to her how the key came into
his possession without betraying Lady Mary Danton's
secret. And now he would find it more difficult than
ever to convince her that Digby Groat was an un-
scrupulous villain. The position was hopeless and he
groaned again. Then a thought struck him and he
crossed the landing to the next Sat.


120 BLUE HAND
Madge Benson opened the door and this time re-
garded him a little more favorably.
"M'lady is asleep," she said. She knew that Jim
was aware of Mrs. Fane's identity.
"Do you think you could wake her? It is rather
important."
"I will see," said Madge Benson and disappeared
into the bedroom. She returned in a few moments.
"Madame is awake. She heard your knock," she said.
"Will you go in?"
Lady Mary was lying on the bed fully dressed,
wrapped in a dressing-gown and she took the letter
from Jim's hand which he handed her without a word,
and read.
"Have patience," she said as she handed it back.
"She will understand in time."
"And in the meanwhile," said Jim, his heart heavy,
"anything can happen to her! This is the very thing
I didn't want to occur."
"You went to the house. Did you discover any-
thing?"
He shook his head.
"Take no notice and do not worry," said Lady Mary
settling down in the bed and closing her eyes, "and
now please let me sleep, Mr. Steele—I have not been to
bed for twenty-four hours."
Eunice had not dispatched the messenger with the
letter to Jim five minutes before she regretted the im-
pulse which had made her write it. She had said
bitter things which she did not really feel. It was an
escapade of his which ought to be forgiven, because at
the back of it, she thought, was his love for her. She


BLUE HAND 121
had further reason to doubt her wisdom, when, going
to Digby Groat's library she found him studying a
large photograph.
"That is very good, considering it was taken in
artificial light," he said. It was an enlarged photo-
graph of his laboratory door bearing the blue imprint,
and so carefully had the photographer done his work,
that every line and whorl of the finger-tips showed.
"It is a woman's hand, of course," he said.
"A woman," she gasped. "Are you sure?"
He looked up in surprise.
"Of course I'm sure," said Digby, "look at the size
of it. It is much too small for a man."
So she had wronged Jim cruelly! And yet what
was he doing there in the house? How had he got in?
The whole thing was so inexplicable that she gave it
up, only—she must tell Jim and ask him to forgive her.
As soon as she was free she went to the telephone.
Jim was not in the office.
"Who is it speaking?" asked the voice of the clerk.
"Never mind," said the girl hurriedly and hung up
the receiver.
All day long she was haunted by the thought of
the injustice she had done the man she loved. He
would send her a note, she thought, or would call her
up, and at every ring of the telephone, the blood came
into her face, only to recede when she heard the answer,
and discovered the caller was some person in whom she
had no interest.
That day was one of the longest she had ever spent
in her life. There was practically no work to do, and
even the dubious entertainment of Digby was denied


122 BLUE HAND
her. He went out in the morning and did not come
back until late in the afternoon, going out again as
soon as he had changed his clothes.
She ate her dinner in solitude and was comforted by
the thought that she would soon be free from this
employment. She had written to her old employer
and he had answered by return of post, saying how glad
he would be if he could get her back. Then they could
have their little tea-parties all over again, she thought,
and Jim, free of this obsession about Digby Groat,
would be his old cheerful self.
The nurse was going out that evening and Mrs.
Groat sent for her. She hated the girl, but she hated
the thought of being alone much more.
"I want you to sit here with me until the nurse
comes home," she said. "You can take a book and
read, but don't fidget."
Eunice smiled to herself and went in search of a
book.
She came back in time to find Mrs. Groat hiding
something beneath her pillow. They sat in silence for
an hour, the old woman playing with her hands on her
lap, her head sunk forward, deep in thought, the girl
trying to read, and finding it very difficult. Jim's
face so constantly came between her and the printed
page that she would have been glad for an excuse to
put down the book, glad for any diversion.
It was Mrs. Groat who provided her with an escape
from her ennui.
"Where did you get that scar on your wrist?" she
asked, looking up.
"I don't know," said Eunice. "I have had it ever
since I was a baby. I think I must have been burnt."


BLUE HAND 123
There was another long silence.
"Where were you born?"
"In South Africa," said the girl.
Again there was an interval, broken only by the
creak of Mrs. Groat's chair.
In sheer desperation, for the situation was getting
on her nerves, Eunice said:
"I found an old miniature of yours the other day,
Mrs. Groat."
The woman fixed her with her dark eyes.
"Of me?" she said, and then, "oh, yes, I remember.
Well? Did you think it looks like me?" she asked
sourly.
"I think it was probably like you years ago. 1
could trace a resemblance," said Eunice diplomati-
cally.
The answer seemed to amuse Jane Groat. She had
a mordant sense of humor, the girl was to discover.
"Like me when I was like that, eh?" she said.
"Do you think I was pretty?"
Here Eunice could speak whole-heartedly and with-
out evasion.
"I think you were very beautiful," she said warmly.
"I was, too," said the woman speaking half to her-
self. "My father tried to bury me in a dead-and-alive
village. He thought I was too attractive for town.
A wicked, heartless brute of a man," she said, and the
girl was somewhat shocked.
Apparently the old doctrine of filial piety did not
run in Jane Groat's family.
"When I was a girl," the old woman went on, "the
head of the family was the family tyrant, and lived for
the exercise of his power. My father hated me from


124 BLUE HAND
the moment I was born and I hated him from the
moment I began to think."
Eunice said nothing. She nad not invited the con-
fidence, nevertheless it fascinated her to hear this
woman draw aside the veil which hid the past. What
great tragedy had happened, she speculated, that had
turned the beautiful original of the miniature into this
hard and evil-looking woman?
"Men would run after me, Miss Weldon," she said
with a curious complacence. "Men whose names are
famous throughout the world."
The girl remembered the Marquis of Estremeda and
wondered whether her generosity to him was due to
the part he had played as a pursuing lover.
"There was one man who loved me," said the old
woman reflectively, "but he didn't love me well enough.
He must have heard something, I suppose, because he
was going to marry me and then he broke it off and
married a simpering fool of a girl from Malaga."
She chuckled to herself. She had had no intention
of discussing her private affairs with Eunice Weldon,
but something had started her on a train of reminis-
cence. Besides, she regarded Eunice already as an
unofficial member of the family. Digby would tell her
sooner or later. She might as well know from her,
she thought.
"He was a Marquis," she went on, "a hard man,
too, and he treated me badly. My father never for-
gave me after I came back, and never spoke another
word in his life, although he lived for nearly twenty
years."
After she had come back, thought Eunice. Then
she had gone away with this Marquis? The Marquis


BLUEHAND 125
of Estremeda. And then he had deserted her, and
had married this "simpering fool" from Malaga.
Gradually the story was revealing itself before her
eyes.
"What happened to the girl?" she asked gently.
She was almost afraid to speak unless she stopped the
loquacious woman.
"She died," said Mrs. Groat with a thin smile. "He
said I killed her. I only told her the truth. Besides,
I owed him something," she frowned, "I wish I hadn't,"
she muttered, "I wish I hadn't. Sometimes the ghost
of her comes into this room and looks down at me with
her deep black eyes and tells me that I killed her!"
She mumbled something and again with that note of
complacency in her voice: "When she heard that my
child was the son "she stopped quickly and looked
round. "What am I talking about?" she said gruffly.
Eunice held her breath. Now she knew the secret
of this strange household! Jim had told her something
about it; told her of the little shipping clerk who had
married Mrs. Groat, and for whom she had so pro-
found a contempt. A shipping clerk from the old
man's office, whom he had paid to marry the girl that
her shame should be hidden.
Digby Groat was actually the son of—the Marquis
of Estremeda! In law he was not even the heir to
the Danton millions 1


CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
EUNICE could only stare at the old woman.
"Get on with your book," grumbled Mrs.
Groat pettishly, and the girl, looking up
through her lashes, saw the suspicious eyes fixed on her
and the tremulous mouth moving as though she were
speaking.
She must tell Jim. Despite her sense of loyalty,
she realized that this was imperative. Jim was vitally
interested in the disposal of the Danton estate, and he
must know.
Suddenly the old woman began speaking again.
"What did I tell you just now?" she asked.
"You were talking about your youth," said the girl.
"Did I say anything about—a man?" asked the old
woman suspiciously. She had forgotten! Eunice
forced the lie to her lips.
"No," she replied, so loudly that anybody but this
muddled woman would have known she was not speak-
ing the truth.
"Be careful of my son," said Mrs. Groat after a
while. "Don't cross him. He's not a bad lad, not a
bad lad," she shook her head and glanced slyly at the
girl. "He is like his father in many ways."
"Mr. Groat?" said Eunice and felt inexpressively
mean at taking advantage of the woman's infirmity,
but she steeled her heart with the thought that Jim
must benefit by her knowledge.
'26


BLUE HAND 127
"Groat," sneered the old woman contemptuously,
"that worm. No—yes, of course he was Groat, who
else could he be; who else?" she asked, her voice ris-
ing wrath fully.
There was a sound outside and she turned her head
and listened.
"You won't leave me alone, Miss Weldon, until the
nurse comes back, will you?" she whispered with
pathetic eagerness. "You promise me that?"
"Why, of course, I promise you," said Eunice smil-
ing, "that is why I am here, to keep you company."
The door handle turned, and the old woman watched
it, fascinated. Eunice heard her audible gasp as Digby
came in. He was in evening dress and smoking a
cigarette through a long holder.
He seemed for the moment taken aback by the sight
of Eunice and then smiled.
"Of course, it is the nurse's night out, isn't it?
How are you feeling to-night, mother?"
"Very well, my boy," she quavered,, "very well in-
deed. Miss Weldon is keeping me company."
"Splendid," said Digby. "I hope Miss Weldon
hasn't been making your flesh creep."
"Oh, no," said the girl, shocked, "of course I haven't
How could I?"
"I was wondering whether you had been telling
mother of our mysterious visitor," he laughed as he
pulled up an easy chair and sat down. "You don't
mind my smoke, mother, do you?"
Eunice thought that even if old Jane Groat had ob-
jected, it would not have made the slightest differ-
ence to her son, but the old woman shook her head and
again turned her pleading eyes on Eunice.


128 BLUEHAND
"I should like to catch that lady," said Digby watch-
ing a curl of smoke rise to the ceiling.
"What lady, my boy?" asked Mrs. Groat.
"The lady who has been wandering loose round this
house at night, leaving her mark upon the panels of
my door."
"A burglar," said the old woman and did not seem
greatly alarmed.
Digby shook his head.
"A woman and a criminal, I understand. She left
a clear finger-print and Scotland Yard have had the
photograph and have identified it with that of a woman
who served a sentence in Holloway Gaol."
A slight noise attracted Eunice and she turned to
look at Jane Groat.
She was sitting bolt upright, her black eyes staring,
her face working convulsively.
"What woman?" she asked harshly. "What are
you talking about?"
Digby seemed as much surprised as the girl to dis-
cover the effect the statement had made upon his
mother.
"The woman who has been getting into this house
and making herself a confounded nuisance with her
melodramatic signature."
"What do you mean?" asked Mrs. Groat with pain-
ful slowness.
"She has left the mark of a blue hand on my
door"
Before he could finish the sentence his mother was
on her feet, staring down at him with terror in her eyes.
"A blue hand, a blue hand!" she cried wildly.
"What was that woman's name?"


BLUE HAND 129
"According to the police report, Madge Benson,"
said Digby.
For a second she glared at him wildly.
"Blue hand, blue hand," she mumbled and would
have collapsed but for the fact that Eunice had recog-
nized the symptoms and was by her side and took her
in her strong young arms.


CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
OUTSIDE the door in the darkened passage a
man was listening attentively. He had trailed
Digby Groat all that evening, and had fol-
lowed him into the house. Hearing a movement of
footsteps within, he slipped into a side passage and
waited. Eunice flew past the entrance to the passage
and Jim Steele thought it was time that he made a
move. In a few minutes the house would be aroused,
for he guessed that the old woman had collapsed. It
was a desperate, mad enterprise of his, to enter the
great household at so early an hour, but he had a par-
ticular reason for wishing to discover the contents of
a letter which he had seen slipped into Digby's hand
that night.
Jim had been following him without success until
Digby Groat had alighted at Piccadilly Circus appar-
ently to buy a newspaper. Then a stranger had edged
close to him and Jim had seen the quick passage of the
white envelope. He meant to see that letter.
He reached the ground floor in safety and hesitated.
Should he go into the laboratory whither Digby was
certain to come, or should he ?A hurried footstep
on the stairs above decided him: he slipped through
the door leading to Digby's study. Hiding place there
was none: he had observed the room when he had been
in there a few days previously. He was safe so long
as nobody came in and turned on the lights. Jim
130


BLUE HAND 131
heard the footsteps pass the door, and pulled his soft
felt hat farther over his eyes. The lower part of his
face he had already concealed with a black silk hand-
kerchief, and if the worst came to the worst, he could
battle his way out and seek safety in flight. Nobody
would recognize him in the old gray suit he wore, and
the soft collarless shirt. It would not be a very noble
end to the adventure, but it would be less ignominious
than being exposed again to the scorn of Eunice.
Suddenly his heart beat faster. Somebody was
coming into the library. He saw the unknown open
the door and he crouched down so that the big library
table covered him from observation. Instantly the
room was flooded with light; Jim could only see the
legs of the intruder, and they were the legs of Digby
Groat. Digby moved to the table, and Jim heard the
tear of paper as an envelope was slit, and then an
exclamation of anger from the man.
"Mr. Groat, please come quickly!"
It was the voice of Eunice calling from the floor
above, and Digby hurried out, leaving the door open.
He was scarcely out of sight before Jim had risen; his
first glance was at the table. The letter lay as Digby
had thrown it down, and he thrust it into his pocket.
In a second he was through the doorway and in the
passage. Jackson was standing by the foot of the
stairs looking up, and for a moment he did not see
Jim; then, at the sight of the masked face, he opened
his mouth to shout a warning, and at that instant Jim
struck at him twice, and the man went down with a
crash.
"What is that?" said Digby's voice, but Jim was
out of the house, the door slammed behind him, and


132 BLUE HAND
was racing along the side-walk toward Berkeley Square,
before Digby Groat knew what had happened. He
slackened his pace, turned sharp to the right, so that
he came back on his track, and stopped under a street
light to read the letter.
Parts of its contents contained no information for
him. But there was one line which interested him:
"Steele is trailing you: we will fix him to-night."
He read the line again and smiled as he walked on
at a more leisurely pace.
Once or twice he thought he was being followed, and
turned round, but saw nobody. As he strolled up
Portland Place, deserted at this hour of the night, save
for an occasional car, his suspicion that he was being
followed was strengthened. Two men, walking one
behind the other, and keeping close to the railings,
were about twenty yards behind him.
"I'll give you a run for your money, my lads," mut-
tered Jim, and crossing Marylebone Road, he reached
the loneliest part of London, the outer circle of Re-
gent's Park. And then he began to run: and Jim had
taken both the sprint and the two-mile at the Varsity
sports. He heard swift feet following and grinned
to himself. Then came the noise of a taxi door
shutting. They had picked up the "crawler" he had
passed.
"That is very unsporting," said Jim, and turning,
ran in the opposite direction. He went past the cab
like a flash, and heard it stop and a loud voice order
the taxi to turn, and he slackened his pace. He had
already decided upon his plan of action—one so beauti-


BLUE HAND 133
fully simple and so embarrassing to Digby Groat and
bis servitors, if his suspicions were confirmed, that it
was worth the bluff. He had dropped to a walk at
the sight of a policeman coming toward him. As the
taxi came abreast he stepped into the roadway, gripped
the handle of the door and jerked it open.
"Come out," he said sternly.
In the reflected light from the taximeter lantern he
saw the damaged face of an old friend.
"Come out, Jackson, and explain just why you're
following me through the peaceful streets of this great
city."
The man was loath to obey, but Jim gripped him by
the waistcoat and dragged him out, to the taxi-driver's
astonishment.
The second man was obviously a foreigner, a little
dark, thin-faced man with a mahogany face, and they
stood sheepishly regarding their quarry.
"To-morrow you can go back to Mr. Digby Groat,
and tell him that the next time he sets the members
of the Thirteen Gang to trail me, I'll come after him
with enough evidence in each hand to leave him swing-
ing in the brick-lined pit at Wandsworth. Do you
understand that?"
"I don't know what you mean about to-morrow,"
said the innocent Jackson in an aggrieved tone. "We
could have the law on you for dragging us out of the
cab."
"Try it, here comes a policeman," said Jim. He
gripped him by the collar and dragged him toward the
interested constable. "I think this man wants to
make a charge against me."
"No, I don't," growled Jackson, terrified as to what


134 BLUE HAND
his master would say when he heard of this undramatic
end to the trailing of Jim.
"Well, then, I make a charge against him."
It was the bluff that Jim had planned, a bluff which
might very well come off. "I charge him with being
in possession of weapons for the purpose of committing
a felony. I further charge him under the Arms Act
with having no license to carry firearms."


CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
THERE is little that is romantic about a Police
Station, and Digby Groat, who came in a
towering rage to release his servants, was so
furious that he could not even see the humorous side of
the situation.
Once outside the building he dismissed one, Antonio
Fuentes, with a curse, and poured the vials of wrath
upon the unhappy Jackson.
"You fool, you blundering dolt," he stormed. "I
told you to keep the man in sight; Bronson would have
carried out my orders without Steele knowing. Why
the hell did you carry a revolver?"
"How did I know he would play a dirty trick on me
like that?" growled Jackson, "besides, I've never heard
of the Firearms Act."
It was a stupid but a dangerous situation, thought
Digby Groat, as he sat gnawing his nails in the library.
It was an old theory of his that great schemes come to
nought and great crimes are detected through some
contemptible little slip on the part of the conspirators.
What Jim had done in the simplest, easiest manner, was
to set the police moving against the Thirteen, and to
bring two of its members in to the searching light of a
magisterial enquiry. What was worse, he had associ-
ated Digby Groat with the proceedings, though Digby
had an excuse that Jackson was his valet, and as such,
entitled to his interest. He had disclaimed all knowl-
135


136 BLUEHAND
edge of Fuentes, but, as an act of generosity, as the
Spaniard was a friend of his servant, had gone bail for
him also.
Had the Thirteen brought off a big coup, their tracks
would have been so hidden, their preparations so elab-
orated, that they would have defied detection. And
here through a simple offense, which carried no more
than a penalty of a five-pound fine, two of the members
of the gang had come under police observation. Mad-
men!
It was a sleepless night for him—even his three
hours was denied him. The doctor attending his
mother did not leave until past three o'clock.
"It is not exactly a stroke, but I think a collapse due
to some sudden shock."
"Probably you're right," said Digby. "But I
thought it best to call you in. Do you think she will
recover?"
"Oh, yes. I should imagine she'll be all right in the
morning."
Digby nodded. He agreed with that conclusion,
without being particularly pleased to hear it.
Difficulties were increasing daily, it seemed; new ob-
stacles were besetting the smooth path of his life, and
he traced them one by one and reduced them to a single
cause—Jim Steele.
The next morning, after he had telephoned to a
shady solicitor whom he knew, ordering him to defend
the two men who were to be charged at Marylebone,
with offences under the Firearms Act, he sent for
Eunice Weldon.
"Miss Weldon," he said, "I am making changes in
this house, and I thought of taking my mother to the


BLUE HAND 137
country' next week. The air here doesn't seem to agree
with her, and I despair of her getting better unless she
has a radical change of environment."
She nodded gravely.
"I am afraid I shall not be able to accompany you,
Mr. Groat."
He looked up at her sharply.
"What do you mean, Miss Weldon?" he asked.
"There is not sufficient work for me to do here, and
I have decided to return to my old employment," she
said.
"I am sorry to hear that, Miss Weldon/' he said
quietly, "but, of course, I will put no obstacle in your
way. This has been a calamitous house recently, and
your experience has not been an exceedingly happy
one, and, therefore, I quite understand why you are
anxious to leave us. I could have wished that you
would have stayed with my mother until she was set-
tled in my place in the country, but even on this point
I will not press you."
She expected that he would have been annoyed, and
his courtesy impressed her.
"I shall not, of course, think of leaving until I have
done all that I possibly can," she hastened to add, as
he expected her to do, "and really I have not been at
all unhappy here, Mr. Groat."
"Mr. Steele doesn't like me, does he?" he smiled, and
he saw her stiffen.
"Mr. Steele has no voice in my plans," she said,
"and I have not seen him for several days."
So there had been a quarrel, thought Digby, and de-
cided that he must know a little more of this. He was
too wily to ask her point-blank, but the fact that they


138 BLUEHAND
had not met on the previous day was known to him.
Eunice was glad to get the interview over and to go
up to Mrs. Groat, who had sent for her a little earlier.
The old woman was in bed propped up with pillows,
and apparently was her normal self again.
"You've been a long time," she grumbled.
"I had to see your son, Mrs. Groat," said Eunice.
The old woman muttered something under her
breath.
"Shut the door and lock it," she said. "Have you
got your note-book?"
Eunice pulled up a chair to the bedside, and won-
dered what was the important epistle that Mrs. Groat
had decided to dictate. Usually she hated writing
letters except with her own hand, and the reason for
her summons had taken the girl by surprise.
"I want you to write in my name to Mary Weather-
wale. Write that down." Old Mrs. Groat spelt the
name. "The address is in Somerset—Hill Farm,
Retherley, Somerset. Now say to her that I am very
ill, and that I hope she will forgive our old quarrel
and will come up and stay with me—underline that I
am very ill," said Jane Groat emphatically. "Tell her
that I will pay her expenses and give her £5 a week.
Is that too much?" she asked. "No, don't put the
salary at all. I'll be bound she'll come; they're poorly
off, the Weatherwales. Tell her she must come at
once. Underline that, too."
The girl scribbled down her instructions.
"Now listen, Miss Weldon." Jane Groat lowered
her voice. "You are to write this letter, and not to
let my son know that you have done it: do you under-


BLUE HAND 139
stand? Post it yourself; don't give it to that horrible
Jackson. And again I tell you not to let my son
know."
Eunice wondered what was the reason for the mys-
tery, but she carried out the old woman's instructions,
and posted the letter without Digby's knowledge.
There was no word from Jim, though she guessed
he was the masked stranger who had knocked down
Jackson in the hall. The strain of waiting was begin-
ning to tell upon Eunice; she had grown oddly nervous,
started at every sound, and it was this unusual exhibi-
tion of nerves which had finally decided her to leave
Grosvenor Square and return to the less exciting life
at the photographic studio.
Why didn't Jim write, she asked herself fretfully,
and immediatedly after, relentless logic demanded of
her why she did not write to Jim.
She went for a walk in the park that afternoon hop-
ing that she would see him, but although she sat for an
hour under his favorite tree, he did not put in an ap-
pearance and she went home depressed and angry with
herself.
A stamp upon a postcard would have brought him,
but that postcard she would not write.
The next day brought Mrs. Mary Weatherwale, a
stout, cheery woman of sixty, with a rosy apple face.
She came in a four-wheeled cab, depositing her luggage
in the hall, and greeted Eunice like an old friend.
"How is she, my darling?" ("Darling" was a
favorite word of hers, Eunice discovered with amuse-
ment.) "Poor old Jane, I haven't seen her for years
and years. We used to be good friends once, you


140 BLUE HAND
know, very good friends, but she—but there, let by-
gones be bygones, darling; show me to her room, will
you?"
It required all the cheerfulness of Mrs. Weatherwale
to disguise her shock at the appearance of her one time
friend.
"Why, Jane," she said, "what's the matter with
you?"
"Sit down, Mary," said the other pettishly. "All
right, young lady, you needn't wait."
This ungrateful dismissal was addressed to Eunice,
who was very glad to make her escape. She was pass-
ing through the hall later in the afternoon, when Digby
Groat came in. He looked at the luggage, which had
not been removed from the hall, and turned with a
frown to Eunice.
"What is the meaning of this?" he asked. "To
whom does this belong?"
"A friend of Mrs. Groat is coming to stay," said
Eunice.
"A friend of mother's?" he answered quickly. "Do
you know her name?"
"Mrs. Weatherwale."
She saw an instant change come over his face.
"Mrs. Weatherwale, eh," he said slowly. "Coming
to stay here? At my mother's invitation, I suppose."
He stripped his gloves and Sung them on to the hall
table and went up the stairs two at a time.
What happened in the sick room Eunice could only
guess. The first intimation she had that all was not
well was the appearance of Mrs. Weatherwale strutting
down the stairs, her face as red as a turkey-cock, her


BLUE HAND 141
bead bonnet trembling with anger. She caught sight
of Eunice and beckoned her.
"Get somebody to find a cab for me, my darling,"
she said. "I'm going back to Somerset. I've been
thrown out, my darling! What do you think of that?
A woman of my age and my respectability; thrown out
by a dirty little devil of a boy that I wouldn't harbor
in my cow yard." She was choleric and her voice was
trembling with righteous rage. "I'm talking about
you/' she said raising her voice, and addressing some-
body, apparently Digby, who was out of sight of
Eunice. "You always were a cruel little beast, and if
anything happens to your mother, I'm going to the
police."
"You had better get out before I send for a police-
man," said Digby's growling voice.
"I know you," she shook her fist at her invisible
enemy. "I've known you for twenty-three years, my
boy, and a more cruel and nastier man never lived!"
Digby came slowly down the stairs, a smile on his
face.
"Really, Mrs. Weatherwale," he said, "you are
unreasonable. I simply do not want my mother to
be associated with the kind of people she chose as her
friends when she was a girl. I can't be responsible
for her vulgar tastes then; I certainly am responsible
now."
The rosy face of the woman flushed an even deeper
red.
"Common! Vulgar!" she spluttered. "You say
that? You dirty little foreigner. Ah! That got
home. I know your "secret, Mr. Digby GroatJ"


142 BLUEHAND
If eyes could kill, she would have died at that mo-
ment. He turned at the foot of the stairs and walked
into his study, and slammed the door behind him.
"Whenever you want to know anything about that!"
•—Mrs. Weatherwale pointed at the closed door—"send
for me. I've got letters from his mother about him
when he was a child of so high, that would make your
hair stand on ends, darling."
When at last a cab bore the indignant lady from
Grosvenor Square, Eunice breathed a sigh of relief.
One more family skeleton, she thought, but she had
already inspected the grisly bones. She would not
be sorry to follow in Mrs. Weatherwale's footsteps,
though, unknown to her, Digby Groat had other plans.
Those plans were maturing, when he heard a sharp
rat-tat at the door and come out into the hall.
"Was that a telegram for me?" he asked.
"No, for me," said Eunice, and there was no need
to ask whom that message was from; her shining eyes,
her flushed face, told their own story.


J
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
«* TIM!"
Eunice came running across the grass with
outstretched hands, oblivious to the fact that
it was broad daylight and that she was being watched
by at least a hundred idle loungers in the park.
Jim took both her hands in his and she experienced
a moment of serene comfort. Then they both talked
at once; they were both apologetic, interrupting one
another's explanations with the expression of their own
contrition.
"Jim, I'm going to leave Mrs. Groat's house," she
said when they had reached sanity.
"Thank God for that," said Jim.
"You are so solemn about it," she laughed. "Did
you really think I was in any danger there?"
"I know you were," he said.
She had so much to tell him that she did not know
where to begin.
"Were you sorry not to see me?"
"The days I have not seen you are dead, and wiped
off the calendar," said Jim.
"Oh, before I forget," said Eunice, "Mrs. Weather-
wale has gone."
"Mrs. Weatherwale!" he repeated, puzzled.
"I haven't told you? No, of course not, I did not
see you yesterday. But Mrs. Groat asked me to write
to Mrs. Weatherwale, who is an old friend of hers.
143


144 BLUE HAND
asking her to come and stay. I think Mrs. Groat is
rather afraid of Digby."
"And she came?" asked Jim.
The girl nodded.
"She came and stayed about one hour, then arrived
my lord Digby, who bundled her unceremoniously into
the street. There is no love lost there, either, Jim.
The dear old lady hated him. She was a charming
old soul and called me 'darling.'"
"Who wouldn't?" said Jim. "I can call you darling
even though I am not a charming old soul. Go on.
So she went away? I wonder what she knows about
Digby?"
"She knows everything. She knows about Estre-
meda, of that I am sure. Jim, doesn't that make a
difference?"
He shook his head.
"If you mean does it make any difference about
Digby inheriting his mother's money when she gets it,
I can tell you that it makes none. The will does not
specify that he is the son of John Groat, and the fact
that he was born before she married this unfortunate
shipping clerk does not affect the issue."
"When is the money to be made over to the Groats?"
"Next Thursday,'" said Jim, with a groan, "and I am
just as far from stopping the transfer of the property
as I have ever been."
He had not told her of his meeting with Lady Mary
Danton. That was not his secret alone. Nor could
he tell her that Lady Mary was the woman who had
warned her.
They strolled across the Park towards the Serpen-
tine and Jim was unusually preoccupied.


BLUE HAND 145
"Do you know, Eunice, that I have an uncanny
feeling that you really are in some way associated with
the Danton fortune?"
She laughed and clung tighter to his arm.
"Jim, you would make me Queen of England if you
could," she said, "and you have just as much chance
of raising me to the throne as you have of proving
that I am somebody else's child. I don't want to be
anybody else's really," she said. "I was very, very
fond of my mother and it nearly broke my heart when
she died. And daddy was a darling."
He nodded.
"Of course, it is a fantastic idea," he said, "and I
am flying in face of all the facts. I have taken
the trouble to discover where you were born. I
have a friend in Cape Town who made the inquiries
for me."
"Eunice May Weldon," she laughed. "So you can
abandon that idea, can't you?" she said.
Strolling along by the side of the Serpentine they
had reached the bridge near the magazine and were
standing waiting until a car had passed before they
crossed the road. Somebody in the car raised his hat.
"Who was that?" said Jim.
"Digby Groat," she smiled, "my nearly late em-
ployer! Don't let us go to the tea-shop, Jim," she
said, "let us go to your flat—I'd love to."
He looked at her dubiously.
"It is not customary for bachelors to give tea-parties
to young females," he said.
"I'm sure it is," she waved aside his objection.
"I'm perfectly certain it happens every day only they
don't speak about it."


146 BLUEHAND
The flat delighted her and she took off her coat and
busied herself in the little kitchenette.
"You told me it was an attic with bare boards," she
said reproachfully as she was laying the cloth.
To Jim, stretched in his big chair, she was a thing
of sheer delight. He wanted no more than to sit for
ever and watch her flitting from room to room. The
sound of her fresh voice was a delicious narcotic, and
even when she called him, as she did, again and again,
to explain some curio of his which hung in the hall,
the spell was not broken.
"Everything is speckless," she said as she brought in
the tea, "and I'm sure you haven't polished up those
brasses and cleaned that china."
"You're right first time," said Jim lazily. "An un-
prepossessing lady comes in every morning at half-past
seven and works her fingers to the bone, as she has told
me more times than once, though she manages to keep
more flesh on those bones than seems comfortable for
Jher."
"And there is your famous train," she said jumping
up and going to the window as an express whizzed
down the declivity. "Oh, Jim, look at those boys," she
gasped in horror.
Across the line and supported by two stout poles,
one of which stood in the courtyard of the flat, was a
stretch of thin telegraph wires, and on these a small
and adventurous urchin was pulling himself across
hand-over-hand, to the joy of his companions seated
on the opposite wall of the cutting.
"The young devil," said Jim admiringly.
Another train shrieked past, and running down into
Euston trains moved at a good speed. The telegraph


BLUEHAND 147
wire had sagged under the weight of the boy to such an
extent that he had to lift his legs to avoid touching the
tops of the carriages.
"If the police catch him," mused Jim, "they will fine
him a sovereign and give him a birching. In reality
he ought to be given a medal. These little beggars are
the soldiers of the future, Eunice, and some day he
will reproduce that fearlessness of danger, and he will
earn the Victoria Cross a jolly sight more than I
earned it."
She laughed and dropped her head against his shoul-
der.
"You queer man," she said, and then returned to
the contemplation of the young climber, who had now
reached the opposite wall amidst the approving yells
and shouts of his diminutive comrades.
"Now let us drink our tea, because I must get back,"
said the girl.
The cup was at her lips when the door opened and
a woman came in. Eunice did not hear the turning of
the handle and her first intimation of the stranger's
presence was the word "Jim." She looked up. The
woman in the doorway was, by all standards, beauti-
ful, she noticed with a pang. Age had not lined or
marred the beauty of her face and the strands of gray
in her hair added to her attraction. For a moment
they looked at one another, the woman and the girl,
and then the intruder with a nod and a smile, said:
"I will see you again. I am sorry," and went out
closing the door behind her.
The silence that followed was painful. Jim started
three times to speak, but stopped as he realized the
futility of explaining to the girl the reason of the


148 BLUE HAND
woman's presence. He could not tell her she was Lady
Mary Danton.
"She called you 'Jim,'" said the girl slowly. "Is
she a friend of yours?"
"Er—yes," he replied awkwardly. "She is Mrs.
Fane, a neighbor."
"Mrs. Fane," repeated the girl, "but you told me
she was paralyzed and could not get up. You said
she had never been out of doors for years."
Jim swallowed something.
"She called you 'Jim,'" said the girl again. "Are
you very great friends?"
"Well, we are rather," said Jim huskily. "The
fact is, Eunice"
"How did she come in?" asked the girl with a frown.
"She must have let herself in with a key. Has she a
key of your flat?"
Jim gulped.
"Well, as a matter of fact "he began.
"Has she, Jim?"
'•Yes, she has. I can't explain, Eunice, but you've
got"
"I see," she said quietly. "She is very pretty, isn't
she?"
"Yes, she is rather pretty," admitted Jim miserably.
"You see. we have business transactions together, and
frequently I am out and she wants to get to my tele-
phone. She has no telephone in her own flat, you see,
Eunice," he vent on lamely.
"I see." said the girl, "and she calls you 'Jim'?^
"Because we are good friends." he floundered.
"Really. Eunice. I hope you are not putting any mis-
construction upon that incident.''


BLUE HAND 149
She heaved a littfc sigh.
'•I suppose it is all right, Jim," she said, and pushed
away her plate. ''I don't think 111 wait any longer.
Please don't come back with me, I'd rather you didn't.
I can get a cab, there's a rank opposite the flat, I re-
member."'
Jim cursed the accident which had brought the lady
into his room at that moment and cursed himself that
he had not made a dean breast of the whole thing, even
it the risk of betraying Lady Mary.
He had done sufficient harm by his incoherent ex-
planation and he offered no other as he helped the girl
into her coat.
"You are sure you'd rather go alone?'" he said
miserably.
She nodded.
They were standing on the landing. Lady Mary's
front door was ajar and from within r*mp the shrfll
ring of a telephone bell. She raised her grave eyes to
Jim.
"Your friend has the key of your flat because she
has no telephone of her own. didn't you say. Jim?"
He made no reply.
"I never thought you would lie to me," she said, and
he watched her disappear down the staircase with an
aching heart.
He had hardly reached his room and flung himself
in his chair by the side of the tea-table, when Lady
Alary followed him into the room.
"I'm sorry.'' she said, "I hadn't the slightest idea sha
would be here.''
"It doesn't matter," said Jim with a wan smfle,
"only it makes things rather awkward for me. I told


150 BLUE HAND
her a lie and she found me out, or rather, your infernal
telephone did, Lady Mary."
"Then you were stupid," was all the comfort she
gave him.
"Why didn't you stay?" he asked. "That made it
look so queer."
"There were many reasons why I couldn't stay," said
Lady Mary. "Jim, do you remember the enquiries I
made about this very girl, Eunice Weldon, and which
you made, too?" *
He nodded.
He wasn't interested in Eunice Weldon's obvious
parentage at that moment.
"You remember she was born at Rondebosch?"
"Yes," he said listlessly. "Even she admits it," he
added with a feeble attempt at a jest.
"Does she admit this?" asked Lady Mary. She
pushed a telegram across the table to Jim, and he
picked it up and read:
"Eunice May Weldon died in Cape Town at the age of
twelve months and three days, and is buried at Rosebank
Cemetery. Plot No. 7963."


CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
JIM read the cablegram again, scarcely believing his
eyes or his understanding.
"Buried at the age of twelve months," he said
incredulously, "but how absurd. She is here, alive,
besides which, I recently met a man who knew the
Weldons and remembered Eunice as a child. There is
no question of substitution."
"It is puzzling, isn't it?" said Lady Mary softly, as
she put the telegram in her bag. "But here is a very
important fact. The man who sent me this cablegram
is one of the most reliable private detectives in South
Africa."
Eunice Weldon was born, Eunice Weldon had died,
and yet Eunice Weldon was very much alive at that
moment, though she was wishing she were dead.
Jim leant his elbow on the table and rested his chin
on his palm.
"I must confess that I am now completely rattled,"
he said. "Then if the girl died, it is obvious the
parents adopted another girl and that girl was Eunice.
The question is where did she come from, because there
was never any question of her adoption, so far as she
knew."
She nodded.
"I have already cabled to my agent to ask him to
inquire on this question of adoption," she said, "and
in the meantime the old idea is gaining ground, Jim."
151


152 BLUE HAND
His eyes met hers.
"You mean that Eunice is your daughter?"
She nodded slowly.
"That circular scar on her wrist? You know noth-
ing about it?"
She shook her head.
"It may have been done after "she faltered,
"after—I lost sight of her."
"Lady Mary, will you explain how you came to lose
sight of her?" asked Jim.
She shook her head.
"Not yet," she said.
"Then perhaps you will answer another question.
You know Mrs. Groat?"
She nodded.
"Do you know a woman named Weatherwale?"
Lady Mary's eyes opened.
"Mary Weatherwale, yes. She was a farmer's
daughter who was very fond of Jane, a nice, decent
woman. I often wondered how Jane came to make
such a friend. Why do you ask?"
Jim told her what had happened when Mrs. Weather-
wale had arrived at Grosvenor Square.
"Let us put as many of our cards on the table as are
not too stale to exhibit," she said. "Do you believe
that Jane Groat had some part in the disappearance of
my daughter?"
"Honestly I do," said Jim. "Don't you?"
She shook her head.
"I used to think so," she said quietly, "but when I
made inquiries, she was exonerated beyond question.
She is a wicked woman, as wicked as any that has


BLUE HAND 153
ever been bom," she said with a sudden fire that sent
the color dying to her face, "but she was not so wicked
that she was responsible for little Dorothy's fate."
"You will not tell me any more about her?"
She shook her head.
"There is something you could say which might
make my investigation a little easier," said Jim.
"There is nothing I can say—yet," she said in a low
voice, as she rose, and without a word of farewell,
glided from the room.
Jim's mind was made up. In the light of that ex-
traordinary cablegram from South Africa, his misun-
derstanding with Eunice faded into insignificance. If
she were Lady Mary's daughter! He gasped at the
thought which, with all its consequences, came as a
new possibility, even though he had pondered it in his
mind.
He fixed upon Jane Groat as one who could supply
the key of the mystery, but every attempt he had made
to get the particulars of her past had been frustrated
by ignorance, or the unwillingness of all who had
known her in her early days.
There was little chance of seeing Septimus Salter in
his office, so he went round to the garage where he
housed his little car, and set forth on a voyage of dis-
covery to Chislehurst, where Mr. Salter lived.
The old gentleman was alone; his wife and his eldest
son, an officer, who was staying with him, had gone to
Harrogate, and he was more genial in his reception
than Jim had a right to expect.
"You'll stay to dinner, of course," he said.
Jim shook his head.


154 BLUE HAND
"No, thank you, sir, I'm feeling rather anxious just
now. I came to ask you if you knew Mrs. Weather-
wale."
The lawyer frowned.
"Weatherwale, Weatherwale," he mused, "yes, I
remember the name. I seldom forget a name. She
appears in Mrs. Groat's will, I think, as a legatee for a
few hundred pounds. Her father was one of old Dan-
ton's tenants."
"That is the woman," said Jim, and told his em-
ployer all that he had learnt about Mrs. Weatherwale's
ill-fated visit to London.
"It only shows," said the lawyer when he had fin-
ished, "how the terrific secrets which we lawyers think
are locked away in steel boxes and stowed below the
ground in musty cellars, are the property of Tom,
Dick and Harry! We might as well save ourselves all
the trouble. Estremeda is, of course, the Spanish Mar-
quis who practically lived with the Dantons when Jane
was a young woman. He is, as obviously, the father
of Digby Groat, and the result of this woman's mad
passion for the Spaniard. I knew there was some sort
of scandal attached to her name, but this explains why
her father would never speak to her, and why he cut
her out of his will. I'm quite sure that Jonathan
Danton knew nothing whatever about his sister's esca-
pade, or he would not have left her his money. He
was as strait-laced as any of the Dantons, but thanks
to his father's reticence, it would seem that Mrs. Groat
is going to benefit."
"And the son?" said Jim, and the lawyer nodded.
"She may leave her money where she wishes—to
anybody's son, for the matter of that," said the law-


BLUE HAND 155
yer. "A curious case, a very curious case," he shook
his gray head. "What do you intend doing?"
"I am going down to Somerset to see Mrs. Weather-
wale," said Jim. "She may give us a string which will
lead somewhere."
"If she'll give you a string that will lead Mr. Digby
Groat to prison," growled the old lawyer, "get hold of
it, Steele, and pull like the devil!"


CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
WEN his alarm clock turned him out at six in
he morning, Jim was both sleepy and inclined
10 be pessimistic. But as his mind cleared
and he realized what results the day's investigations
might bring, he faced his journey with a lighter heart.
Catching the seven o'clock from Paddington he
reached the nearest station to Mrs. Weatherwale's resi-
dence soon after nine. He had not taken any break-
fast, and he delayed his journey for half-an-hour,
whilst the hostess of a small inn facing the station
prepared him the meal without which no Englishman
could live, as she humorously described it, a dish of
eggs and bacon.
It seemed as though he were in another world to that
which he had left behind at Paddington. The trees
were a little greener, the lush grasses of the meadows
were a more vivid emerald and overhead in the blue
sky defying sight, a skylark trilled passionately and
was answered somewhere from the ground. Tiny
furry shapes in their bright spring coats darted across
the white roadway almost under his feet. He crossed
a crumbling stone bridge and paused to look down into
the shallow racing stream that foamed and bubbled
and swirled on its way to the distant sea.
The old masons who had dressed these powdery
ashlars and laid the moss green stones of the buttresses,
were dead when burly Henry lorded it at Westminster.
156


BLUE HAND 157
These stones had seen the epochs pass, and the maidens
who had leant against the parapet listening with down-
cast eyes to their young swains had become old women
and dust and forgotten.
Jim heaved a sigh as he resumed his trudge. Life
would not be long enough for him, if Eunice ... if!
He shook the thought from him and climbed steadily
to his destination.
Hill Farm was a small house standing in about three
acres of land, devoted mainly to market garden.
There was no Mr. Weatherwale. He had been dead
for twelve years, Jim learnt at the inn, but the old lady
had a son who assisted in the management of the farm.
Jim strode out to what was to prove a pleasant walk
through the glories of a Somerset countryside, and he
found Mrs. Weatherwale in the act of butter-making.
She had a pasture and a dozen cows, as she informed
him later.
"I don't want to talk about Jane Groat," she said
decisively, when he broached the object of his visit.
"I'll never forgive that boy of hers for the trouble he
gave me, apart from the insult. I gave up my work
and had to hire a woman to take charge here and look
after the boy—there's my fare to London"
"I daresay all that could be arranged, Mrs. Weather-
wale," said Jim with a laugh. "Mr. Digby Groat will
certainly repay you."
"Are you a friend of his?" she asked suspiciously,
"because if you are"
"I am not a friend of his," said Jim. "On the con-
trary, I dislike him probably as much as you do."
"That is not possible," she said, "for I would as soon
see the devil as that yellow-faced monkey."


158 BLUE HAND
She wiped her hands on her apron and led the way
to the sunny little parlor.
"Sit ye down, Mr. What-you-may-call-it," she said
briskly.
"Steele," murmured Jim.
"Mr. Steele, is it? Just sit down there, will you?"
She indicated a window-seat covered with bright chintz.
"Now tell me just what you want to know."
"I want to know something about Jane Groat's
youth, who were her friends, and what you know about
Digby Groat?"
Mrs. Weatherwale shook her head.
"I can't tell you much about that, sir," she said.
"Her father was old Danton who owned Kennett Hall.
You can see it from here," she pointed across the coun-
try to a gray mass of buildings that showed above the
hill-crest.
"Jane frequently came over to the farm. My father
had a bigger one in those days. All Hollyhock Hill
belonged to him, but he lost his money through horses,
drat them!" she said good-humoredly and apparently
had no particular grievance against the thoroughbred
race horse.
"And we got quite friendly. It was unusual I admit,
she being a lady of quality and me being a farmer's
daughter, but lord! I've got stacks of letters from her,
or rather, I had. I burnt them this morning."
"You've burnt them?" said Jim in dismay. "I was
hoping that I should find something I wanted to know
from those."
She shook her head.
"There's nothing there you would find, except a lot


BLUE HAND 159
of silly nonsense about a man she fell in love with, a
Spanish man."
"The Marquis of Estremeda?" suggested Jim.
She closed her lips.
"Maybe it was and maybe it wasn't," she said. "I'm
not going to scandalize at my time of life, and at her
time of life, too. We've all made mistakes in our time,
and I daresay you'll make yours, if you haven't made
them already. Which reminds me, Mr. I don't re-
member your name?"
"Steele," said Jim patiently.
"Well, that reminds me there's a duck of a girl in that
house. How Jane can allow a beautiful creature like
that to come into contact with a beast like Digby, I
don't know. But that is all by-the-way. No, I burnt
the letters, except a few. I kept one or two to prove
that a boy doesn't change his character when he grows
up. Why, it may be," she said good-humoredly,
"when Digby is hanged the newspaper reporters would
like to see these and they will be worth money to
me!"
Jim laughed. Her good humor was infectious and
when after an absence of five minutes she returned to
the room with a small box covered with faded green
plush, he asked:
"You know nothing of Digby Groat's recent life?"
She shook her head.
"I only knew him as a boy, and a wicked little devil
he was, the sort of boy who would pull a fly's wings
off for the sport of it. I used to think those stories
about boys were lies, but it was true about him. Do
you know what his chief delight was as a boy?"


160 BLUE HAND
"No, I don't," smiled Jim. "It was something un-
pleasant I am sure."
"To come on a Friday afternoon to Farmer John-
son's and see the pigs killed for market," she said
grimly. "That's the sort of boy he was."
She took out a bundle of faded letters and fixing her
large steel-rimmed spectacles, read them over.
"Here's one," she said, "that will show you the kind
of kid he was."
"I flogged Digby to-day. He tied a bunch of crackers
round the kitten's neck and let them off. The poor little
creature had to be killed."
"That's Digby," said Mrs. Weatherwale, looking
over her glasses. "There isn't a letter here which
doesn't say that she had to beat him for something or
other," she read on, reading half to herself, and Jim
heard the word "baby."
"What baby was that?"
She looked at him.
"It wasn't her baby," she said.
"But whose was it?" insisted Jim.
"It was a baby she was looking after."
"Her sister-in-law's?" demanded Jim.
The woman nodded.
"Yes, Lady Mary Danton's, poor little soul—he did
a cruel thing to her, too."
Jim dare not speak, and without encouragement Mrs.
Weatherwale said:
"Listen to this, if you want to understand the kind
of little devil Digby was."


BLUE HAND 161
"I had to give Digby a severe flogging to-day. Really,
the child is naturally cruel. What do you imagine he did?
He took a sixpence, heated it in the fire and put it on the
poor baby's wrist. It left a circular bum."
•
"Great God!" said Jim springing to his feet, his
face white. "A circular burn on the wrist?"
She looked at him in astonishment.
"Yes, why?"
So that was the explanation, and the heiress to the
Danton millions was not Digby Groat or his mother,
but the girl who was called Eunice Weldon, or, as the
world would know her, Dorothy Danton!


CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
EUNICE was Lady Mary's daughter! There
was no doubt of it, no possible doubt. His
instinct had proved to be right. How had she
got to South Africa? He had yet to find a solution to
the mystery.
Mrs. Weatherwale's rosy face was a picture of aston-
ishment. For a moment she thought her visitor had
gone mad.
"Will you read that piece again about Digby Groat
burning the baby's wrist," said Jim slowly, and after
a troubled glance at him, she complied.
"The little baby was lost soon after," she explained.
"It went out with a nurse; one of Jane's girls took
it out in a boat, and the boat must have been run down
by some ship."
And then a light dawned upon Jim.
What ships passed to the East of the Goodwins (for
it was near there that the disaster must have occurred)
on the day of the tragedy? He must find it out im-
mediately and he must take the letter from Jane to
her friend in order to place it before Septimus Salter.
Here, however, the woman demurred, and Jim, sitting
down again, told her plainly and frankly, all his fears
and suspicions.
"What, that beautiful girl I saw in Jane's house?"
said Mrs. Weatherwale in amazement. "You don't
tell me!"
102


BLUE HAND 163
"I do," said Jim. "She has the mark on her wrist,
a burn, and now I remember! Mrs. Groat knows she
is the daughter of Lady Mary, too! It was the sight
of that scar which brought about her stroke."
"I don't want any harm to happen to Jane, she
hasn't been a bad friend of mine, but it seems to me
only justice to the young lady that she should have the
letter. As a matter of fact I nearly burnt it."
"Thank God you didn't," said Jim fervently.
He carried his prize back by the first train that left
for London and dashed into Sailer's office with his
news.
"If your theory is correct," said the old man when
he had finished, "there ought not to be any difficulty
in discovering the link between the child's disappear-
ance and her remarkable appearance in Cape Town as
Eunice Weldon. We have had confirmation from
South Africa that Eunice Weldon did die at this tender
age, so, therefore, your Eunice can not be the same girl.
I should advise you to get busy, because the day after
to-morrow I hand over the Danton estate to Mrs.
Groat's new lawyers, and from what I can see of
things," said Mr. Salter grimly, "it is Digby Groat's
intention to sell immediately the whole of the Danton
property."
"Does that amount to much?"
"It represents more than three quarters of the
«tate," said the lawyer to Jim's surprise. "The Lake-
side properties are worth four hundred thousand
pounds, they include about twenty-four homesteads
and six fairly big farms. You remember he came here
some time ago, to question us as to whether he had the
right of sale. I had a talk with Bennetts, they are


164 BLUE HAND
his new solicitors, only this morning," Mr. Salter went
on stroking his big chin thoughtfully, "and it is pretty
dear that Digby intends selling out. He showed
Bennett the Power of Attorney which his mother gave
him this morning."
The lawyer was faithfully interpreting Digby Groat's
intentions. The will which Eunice had found had
shocked him. He was determined that he should not
be at the mercy of a capricious old woman who he
knew disliked him as intensely as he hated her, and he
had induced his mother to change her lawyers, not so
much because he had any prejudice against Salter, but
because he needed a new solicitor who would carry
through the instructions which Salter would question.
Digby was determined to turn the lands and revenues
of the Danton Estate into solid cash—cash which he
could handle, and once it was in his bank he would
breathe more freely.
That was the secret of his business in the city, the
formation of a syndicate to take over the Danton
properties on a cash basis, and he had so well succeeded
in interesting several wealthy financiers in the scheme,
that it wanted but the stroke of a pen to complete the
deal.
"Aren't there sufficient facts now," asked Jim, "to
prove that Eunice is Lady Mary's daughter?"
Salter shook his head.
"No," he said, "you must get a closer connection
of evidence. Bui as I say it should not be very diffi-
cult for you to do that. You know the date the child
disappeared. It was on the 21st June, 1901. To re-
fresh your memory I would remark that it was in that
year the Boer War was being fought out."


BLUE HAND 16f
Jim's first call was at the Union African Steamship
Company, and he made that just when the office was
closing.
Fortunately the assistant manager was there, took
him into the office and made a search of his records.
"None of our ships left London River on the 20th
or 21st June," he said, "and, anyway, only our inter-
mediate boats sail from there. The mail steamers sail
from Southampton. The last ship to pass Southampton
was the Central Castle. She was carrying troops to
South Africa and she called at Plymouth on the 20th,
so she must have passed Margate three days before."
"What other lines of steamers run to South Africa?"
The manager gave him a list, and it was a longer
one than Jim had expected.
He hurried home to break the news to Lady Mary,
but she was out. Her maid, the mysterious Madge
Benson, said she had left and did not expect to be back
for two or three days, and Jim remembered that Lady
Mary had talked of going to Paris.
"Do you know where she would stay in Paris?"
"I don't even know she's gone to Paris, sir," said
the woman with a smile. "Lady Mary never tells me
her plans."
Jim groaned.
There was nothing to do but to wait until to-morrow
and pursue his enquiries. In the meantime it was
growing upon him that Eunice and he were bad friends.
He smiled to himself. What would she say when she
discovered that the woman who called him "Jim" was
her mother! He must possess his soul in patience for
another twenty-four hours.
Suddenly a thought came to him, a thought which


166 BLUEHAND
struck the smile from his lips. Eunice Weldon might
forgive him and might marry him and change the drab
roadway of life to a path of flowers, but Dorothy Dan-
ton was a rich woman, wealthy beyond her dreams,
and Jim Steele was a poor man. He sat back in his
chair to consider that disquieting revelation. He
could never marry the girl Eunice now, he thought;
it would not be fair to her, or to him. Suppose she
never knew! He smiled contemptuously at the
thought.
"Get thee behind me, Satan," he said to the little
dog that crouched at his feet, watching him with eyes
that never left his face. He bent down and patted the
mongrel, who turned on his back with uplifted paws.
"You and I have no particular reason to love Digby
Groat, old fellow," he said, for this was the dog he had
rescued from Digby's dissecting table, "and if he harms
a hair of her head, he will be sorry he was ever born."
He began his search in the morning, almost as soon
as the shipping offices opened. One by one they blasted
his hopes, and he scarcely dared make his last call,
which was at the office of the African Coastwise Line.
"And I don't think it is much use going to them,"
said the clerk at the last but one of his calls. "They
don't sail from London, they are a Liverpool firm, and
all their packets sail direct from the Mersey. I don't
think we have ever had a Coastwise boat in the London
docks. I happen to know," he explained, "because I
was in the Customs before I came to this firm."
The Coastwise Line was an old-fashioned firm and
occupied an old-fashioned office in a part of London
which seemed to be untouched by the passing improve-


BLUE HAND 167
ments of the age. It was one of those firms which have
never succumbed to the blandishments of the Company
Promoter, and the two senior partners of the firm, old
gentlemen who had the appearance of being dignitaries
of the Church, were seated on either side of a big
partners' table.
Jim was received with old-world courtesy and a chair
was placed for him by a porter almost as ancient as
the proprietors of the African Coastwise Line.
Both the gentlemen listened to his requirements in
silence.
"I don't think we have ever had a ship pass through
the Straits of Dover," said one, shaking his head.
"We were originally a Liverpool firm, and though the
offices have always been in London, Liverpool is our
headquarters."
"And Avonmouth," murmured his partner.
"And Avonmouth, of course," the elder of the two
acknowledged the correction with a slight inclination
of his head.
"Then there is no reason why I should trouble you,
gentlemen," said Jim with a heavy heart.
"It is no trouble, I assure you," said the partner,
"but to make absolutely sure we will get our sailings
for—June, 1901, I think you said?"
He rang a bell and to the middle-aged clerk, who
looked so young, thought Jim, that he must be the
office-boy, he made his request known. Presently the
clerk came back with a big ledger which he laid on
the partner's desk. He watched the gentleman as his
well manicured finger ran carefully down the pages
and suddenly stopped.


168 BLUEHAND
"Why, of course," he said looking up, "do you re-
member we took over a Union African trip when they
were hard pressed with transport work?"
"To be sure," said his partner. "It was the Battle-
dore we sent out, she went from Tilbury. The only
ship of ours that has ever sailed from Thames River."
"What date did it sail?" asked Jim eagerly.
"It sailed with the tide, which was apparently about
eight o'clock in the morning of the 21st of June. Let
me see," said the partner rising and going to a big
chart that hung on the wall, "that would bring her up
to the North Foreland Light at about twelve o'clock.
What time did the accident occur?"
"At noon," said Jim huskily, and the partners looked
at one another.
"I don't remember anything peculiar being reported
on that voyage," said the senior slowly.
"You were in Switzerland at the time," said the other,
"and so was I. Mr. Mansar was in charge."
"Is Mr. Mansar here?" asked Jim eagerly.
"He is dead," said the partner gently. "Yes, poor
Mr. Mansar is dead. He died at a comparatively early
age of sixty-three, a very amiable man, who played the
piano remarkably well."
"The violin," murmured his partner.
Jim was not interested in the musical accomplish-
ments of the deceased Mr. Mansar.
"Is there no way of finding out what happened on
that voyage?"
It was the second of the partners who spoke.
"We can produce the log book of the Battledore."
"I hope we can," corrected the other. "The Battle-


BLUE HAND 169
dore was sunk during the Great War, torpedoed off
the Needles, but Captain Pinnings, who was in com-
mand of her at the time, is alive and hearty."
"And his log book?" asked Jim.
"That we must investigate. We keep all log books
at the Liverpool office, and I will write to-night to ask
our managing clerk to send the book down, if it is in
his possession."
"This is very urgent," said Jim earnestly. "You
have been so kind that I would not press you if it were
not a matter of the greatest importance. Would it
be possible for me to go to Liverpool and see the log?"
"I think I can save you that trouble," said the elder
of the two, whose names Jim never knew. "Mr. Harry
is coming down to London to-morrow, isn't he?"
His friend nodded.
"Well, he can bring the book, if it exists. I will
tell the clerk to telephone to Liverpool to that effect,"
and with this Jim had to content himself, though it
meant another twenty-four hours' delay.
He reported progress to the lawyer, when he deter-
mined upon making a bold move. His first business
was the protection of Eunice, and although he did not
imagine that any immediate danger threatened her,
she must be got out of 409, Grosvenor Square at the
earliest opportunity.
If Lady Mary were only in London, how simple it
would be! As it was, he had neither the authority
to command nor the influence to request.
He drove up to 409, Grosvenor Square and was
immediately shown into Digby Groat's study.
"How do you do. Mr. Steele," said that bland gentle-


170 BLUE HAND
man. "Take a seat, will you? It is much more com-
fortable than hiding under the table," he added, and
Jim smiled.
"Now what can I do for you?"
"I want to see Miss Weldon," said Jim.
"I believe the lady is out; but I will enquire."
He rang the bell and immediately a servant answered
the summons.
"Will you ask Miss Weldon to step down here?"
"It is not necessary that I should see her here," said
Jim.
"Don't worry," smiled Digby. "I will make my exit
at the proper moment."
The maid returned, however, with the news that the
lady had gone out.
"Very well," said Jim taking up his hat, and with a
smile as bland as his unwilling host's, "I will wait out-
side until she comes in."
"Admirable persistence!" murmured Digby. "Per-
haps I can find her."
He went out and returned again in a few minutes
with Eunice.
"The maid was quite misinformed," he said urbanely.
"Miss Weldon had not gone out."
He favored her with a little bow and left the room
closing the door behind him.
Eunice stood with her hands behind her, looking at
the man on whom her hopes and thoughts had centered,
and about whose conduct such a storm was still rag-
ing in her bosom.
"You want to see me, Mr. Steele?"
Her attitude shook hi/ self-possession and drove


BLUE HAND 171
from his mind all the carefully reasoned arguments he
had prepared.
"I want you to leave this house. Eunice.n he said.
"Have you a new reason?" she asked, though she
hated herself for the sarcasm.
"I have the best of reasons." he said doggedly. "I
am satisfied that you are the daughter of Lady Mary
Damon."
Again she smDed.
"I think you've used that argument before, haven't
you?"
"Listen. Eunice. I beg of you.r' he pleaded. "I can
prove that you are Lady Mary's daughter. That scar
on your wrist was made by Digby Groat when you were
a baby. And there is no Eunice Weldon. We have
proved that she died in Cape Town a year after you
were born."
She regarded him steadily, acd his heart sank.
'•That is very romantic-" she said, "and have you
anything further to say?"'
"Nothing, except the lady you saw in my room was
your mother."
Her eyes opened wider and then be saw a little smile
come and go like a ray of winter sunshine on her lips.
^Realhr. Jim." she said, '•you should write stories.
And if it interests you. I might tell you that I am
leaving this house in a few days. I am going back
to mr old employment. I don't want you to explain
who the woman was who has the misfortune to be
without a telephone and the good fortune to have the
key of your flat." she sakl. her anger swamping the
pity she had for him. *'I only want to teO you that


172 BLUE HAND
you have shaken my faith in men more than Digby
Groat or any other man could have done. You have
hurt me beyond forgiveness."
For a moment her voice quivered and then with an
effort of will she pulled herself together and walked
to the door. "Good-by, Jim," she said, and was gone.
He stood as she had left him, stunned, unable .to
believe his ears. Her scorn struck him like a whip,
the injustice of her view of him deprived him of
speech.
For a second a blinding wave of anger drowned all
other emotions, but this passed. He could have gone
now, for there was no hope of seeing her again and
explaining even if he had been willing to offer any
explanation.
But he stayed on. He was anxious to meet Digby
Groat and find from his attitude what part he had
played in forming the girl's mind. The humor of the
situation struck him and he laughed though his laughter
was filtered through a pain that was so nearly physical
that he could not distinguish the one from the other.


CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE end was coming. Digby Groat took too
sane a view of things to mistake the signs.
For two years he had been in negotiation
with a land agent in San Paulo and had practically
completed the purchase of an estate. By subterranean
methods he had skillfully disguised the identity of the
purchaser, and on that magnificent ranch he intended
to spend a not unpleasant life. It might not come to
a question of flight, in which case the ranch would be a
diversion from the humdrum life of England. And
more than ever was he determined that Eunice Weldon
should accompany him, and share, at any rate, a year
of his life. Afterwards—he shrugged his shoulders.
Women had come into his life before, had at first fas-
cinated, and then bored him, and had disappeared from
his ken. Probably Eunice would go the same way,
though he could not contemplate the possibility at the
moment.
*****
The hours of the morning passed all too slowly for
Jim Steele. The partner brothers had said that their
"Mr. Harry" would arrive at one o'clock and punc-
tually at that hour Jim was waiting in the outer office.
Mr. Harry's train, however, must have been late.
It was nearer two when he came in, followed by a por-
ter carrying a thick parcel under his arm. Presently
the porter came out.
173


174 BLUE HAND
"Will you go in, sir," he said respectfully, and Jim
stepped quickly into the room.
Mr. Harry, whom he had thought of as a boy, was
a grave man of fifty and apparently the younger
brother of the eldest partner.
"We have found the log of the Battledore," said that
gentleman, "but I have forgotten the date."
"June 21st," said Jim.
The log lay open upon the big table, and its presence
brought an atmosphere of romance into this quiet
orderly office.
"Here we are," said the partner. "Battledore left
Tilbury 9 A. M. on the tide. Wind east by south-east,
sea smooth, hazy." He ran his fingers down. "This
is what I think you want."
For Jim it was a moment of intense drama. The
partner was reading some preliminary and suddenly he
came to the entry which was to make all the difference
in the world to the woman whom Jim loved dearer
than life.
"'Heavy fog, speed reduced at 11.50 to half. Re-
duced to quarter speed at 12.1. Bosun reported that
we had run down small rowing boat and that he had
seen two persons in the water. Able seaman Grant
went overboard and rescued child. The second person
was not found. Speed increased, endeavored to speak
Dungeness, but weather too hazy for flag signals'—
this was before the days of wireless, you must under-
stand, Mr. Steele."
Jim nodded.
"'Sex of child discovered, girl, apparent age a few
months. Child handed to stewardess'"


BLUE HAND 17S
Entry followed entry, but there was no further ref-
erence to the child until he came to Funchal.
"In the Island of Madeira," he explained. "'Ar-
rived Funchal 6 A. M. Reported recovery of child to
British Consul, who said he would cable to London.'"
The next entry was:
"Dakka—a port on the West Coast of Africa and
French protectorate," said the partner. "'Received
cable from British Consul at Funchal saying no loss
of child reported to London police.'"
There was no other entry which affected Jim until
one on the third day before the ship arrived at Cape
Town.
"'Mr. Weldon, a Cape Town resident who is travel-
ing with his wife for her health, has offered to adopt
the child picked up by us on June 21st, having recently
lost one of his own. Mr. Weldon being known to the
Captain and vouched for by Canon Jesson 'this
was apparently a fellow-passenger of his," explained the
partner—" 'the child was handed to his care, on condi-
tion that the matter was reported to the authorities in
Cape Town.'"
A full description of the size, weight, and coloring
of the little waif followed, and against the query
"Marks on Body" were the words "Scar on right wrist,
doctor thinks the result of a recent burn."
Jim drew a long sigh.
"I cannot tell you, gentlemen, how grateful I am to
you. You have righted a great wrong and have earned
the gratitude of the child who is now a woman."
"Do you think that this is the young lady?"
Jim nodded.


176 BLUE HAND
"I am sure," he said quietly. "The log of Captain
Pinnings supplies the missing link of evidence. We
may have to ask you to produce this log in court,
but I hope that the claim of our client will not be dis-
puted."
He walked down Threadneedle Street, treading on
air, and the fact that while he had gained for Eunice—
her name was Dorothy now, but she would be always
Eunice to him—a fortune, he had lost the greatest
fortune that could be bestowed upon a man, did not
disturb his joy.
He had made a rough copy of the log and with this
in his hand he drove to Septimus Salter's office and
without a word laid the extracts before him.
Mr. Salter read and as he read his eyes lit up.
"The whole thing is remarkably clear," he said,
"the log proves the identity of Lady Mary's daughter.
Your investigations are practically complete?"
"Not yet, sir," smiled Jim. "We have first to dis-
place Jane Groat and her son," he hesitated, "and we
must persuade Miss Danton to leave that house."
"In that case," said the lawyer rising, "I think an
older man's advice will be more acceptable than yours,
my boy, and I'll go with you."
A new servant opened the door and almost at the
sound of the knock, Digby came out of his study,
urbane and as perfectly groomed as usual.
"I want to see Miss Weldon," said the lawyer and
Digby stiffened at the sight of him. He would have
felt more uncomfortable if he had known what was in
Salter's mind. i
Digby was looking at him straightly; his whole atti-
tude, thought Jim, was one of tense anxiety.


BLUE HAND 177
UI am sorry you cannot see Miss Weldon," he said
speaking slowly. "She left with my mother by an
early Continental train and at this moment I should
imagine, is somewhere in the region of Paris."
"That is a damned lie!" said Jim Steele calmly


CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
THEY stood confronting one another, two men
with murder in their hearts.
"It is a lie!" repeated Jim. "Miss Weldon
is either here or she has been taken to that hell house
of yours in Somerset!"
For the time being Digby Groat was less concerned
by Jim's vehement insult, than he was by the presence
of the lawyer.
"So you lend yourself to this blackguardly outrage,"
he sneered. "I should have thought a man of your
experience would have refused to have been made a
dupe of by this fellow. Anyway," he turned to Jim,
"Miss Weldon wants no more to do with you. She has
told me about that quarrel and really, Steele, you have
behaved very badly."
The man was lying. Jim did not think twice about
that. Eunice would never have made a confidant of
him.
"What is your interest in Miss Weldon?" asked
Digby addressing the lawyer.
"Outside of a human interest, none," said old Salter
and Jim was staggered.
"But "he began.
"I think we had better go, Steele," Salter interrupted
him with a warning glance.
They were some distance from the house before Jim
spoke.
178


BLUE HAND 179
"But why didn't you tell him, Mr. Salter, that Eunice
was the heiress of the Danton fortune?"
Salter looked at him with an odd queer expression
in his bright blue eyes.
"Suppose all you fear has happened," he said gently.
"Suppose this man is the villain that we both believe
he is, and the girl is in his power. What would be the
consequence of my telling him that Eunice Weldon
was in a position to strip him of every penny he pos-
sesses, to turn him out of his house and reduce him to
penury?"
Jim bit his lip.
"I'm sorry, sir," he said humbly, "I'm an impetuous
fool."
"So long as Digby Groat does not know that Eunice
threatens his position she is comparatively safe. At
any rate, her life is safe. Once we let him learn all
that we know, she is doomed."
Jim nodded.
"Do you think, then, that she is in real danger?" he
asked.
"I am certain that Mr. Digby Groat would not hesi-
tate at murder to serve his ends," said the lawyer
gruffly.
They did not speak again until they were in the
office in Marlborough Street, and then Jim threw him-
self down in a chair with a groan and covered his face
with his hands.
"It seems as if we are powerless," he said bitterly,
and then looking up, "Surely Mr. Salter, the law is
greater than Digby Groat. Are there no processes we
can set in motion to pull him down?"
It was very seldom old Septimus Salter smoked in


180 BLUE HAND
his office, but this was an occasion for an extraordinary
happening. He took from a cabinet an old meer-
schaum pipe and polishing it on the sleeve of his
broadcloth coat, slowly filled it, packing down the strag-
gling strands of tobacco which overflowed the pipe, with
exasperating calmness.
"The law, my boy, is greater than Digby Groat,
and greater than you or I. Sometimes ignorant people
laugh at it, sometimes they sneer at it, generally they
curse it. But there it is, the old dilatory machinery,
grinding slow and grinding exceedingly small. It is
not confined to the issue of search warrants, of arrest
and judgments. It has a thousand weapons to strike
at the cheat and the villain and, by God, every one of
those weapons shall be employed against Digby
Groat!"
Jim sprang to his feet and gripped the old man's
hand.
"And if the law cannot touch him," he said, "I will
make a law of these two hands and strangle the life
out of him."
Mr. Salter looked at him admiringly, but a little
amused.
"In which case, my dear Steele," he said drily, "the
law will take you in her two hands and strangle the
life out of you and it doesn't seem worth while, when
a few little pieces of paper will probably bring about as
effective a result as your willful murder of this damna-
ble scoundrel."
Immediately Jim began his enquiries. To his sur-
prise he learnt that the party had actually been driven
to Victoria Station. It consisted of Eunice and old
Mrs. Groat. Moreover, two tickets for Paris had been


BLUE HAND 181
taken by Digby and two seats reserved in the first-class
carriages. It was through these Pullman reservations
that the names of Eunice and the old woman were easy
to trace, as Digby Groat intended they should be.
Whether they had left by the train, he could not
discover.
He returned to the lawyer and reported progress.
"The fact that Jane Groat has gone does not prove
that our client has also gone," said the lawyer sensibly.
"Our client?" said Jim puzzled.
"Our client," repeated Septimus Salter with a smile.
"Do not forget that Miss Danton is our client and until
she authorizes me to hand her interests elsewhere"
"Mr. Salter," interrupted Jim, "when was the Dan-
ton estate handed over to Bennetts?"
"This morning," was the staggering reply, though
Mr. Salter did not seem particularly depressed.
"Good heavens," gasped Jim, "then the estate is in
Digby Groat's hands?"
The lawyer nodded.
"For a while," he said, "but don't let that worry
you at all. You get along with your search. Have
you heard from Lady Mary?"
"Who, sir?" said Jim, again staggered.
"Lady Mary Danton," said the lawyer, enjoying
his surprise. "Your mysterious woman in black.
Obviously it was Lady Mary. I never had any doubt
of it, but when I learnt about the Blue Hand, I was
certain. You see, my boy," he said with a twinkle in
his eyes, "I have been making enquiries in a direction
which you have neglected."
"What does the Blue Hand mean?" asked Jim.
"Lady Mary will tell you one of these days, and


182 BLUEHAND
until she does, I do not feel at liberty to take you into
my confidence. Have you ever been to a dyer's,
Steele?"
"A dyer's, sir, yes, I've been to a dye works, if that
is what you mean."
"Have you ever seen the hands of the women who
use indigo?"
"Do you suggest that when she disappeared she weht
to a dye works?" said Jim incredulously.
"She will tell you," replied the lawyer, and with
that he had to be content.
The work was now too serious and the strings were
too widely distributed to carry on alone. Salter en-
listed the services of two ex-officers of the Metropolitan
Police who had established a detective agency, and at
a conference that afternoon the whole of the story, as
far as it was known, was revealed to Jim's new helpers,
ex-Inspector Holder and ex-Sergeant Field.
That afternoon Digby Groat, looking impatiently
out of the window, saw a bearded man strolling casually
along the garden side of the square, a pipe in his mouth,
apparently absorbed in the contemplation of nature
and the architectural beauty of Grosvenor Square.
He did not pay as much attention to the lounger as he
might have done, had not his scrutiny been interrupted
by the arrival of Mr. Bennett, an angular, sandy-haired
Scotsman, who was not particularly enamored of his
new employer.
"Well, Mr. Bennett, has old Salter handed over all
the documents?"
"Yes, sir," said Bennett, "every one."
"You are sure he has not been up to any trickery?"
Mr. Bennett regarded him coldly.


BLUEHAND 183
"Mr. Septimus Salter, sir," he said quietly, "is an
eminent lawyer, whose name is respected wherever
it is mentioned. Great lawyers do not indulge in
trickery."
"Well, you needn't get offended. Good Lord, you
don't suppose he feels friendly towards you, do you?"
"What he feels to me, sir," said Mr. Bennett, his
strong northern accent betraying his annoyance, "is
a matter of complete indifference. It is what I think
of him that we are discussing. The leases of the Lake-
side Property have been prepared for transfer. You
are not losing much time, Mr. Groat."
"No," said Digby, after a moment's thought. "The
fact is, the people in the syndicate which is purchasing
this property are very anxious to take possession.
What is the earliest you can transfer?"
"To-morrow," was the reply. "I suppose," he hesi-
tated. "I suppose there is no question of the original
heiress of the will—Dorothy Danton I think her name
is—turning up unexpectedly at the last moment?"
Digby smiled.
"Dorothy Danton, as you call her, has been food
for the fishes these twenty years," he said. "Don't
you worry your head about her."
"Very good," said Bennett, producing a number of
papers from a black leather portfolio. "Your signa-
ture will be required on four of these, and the signature
of your mother on the fifth."
Digby frowned.
"My mother? I thought it was unnecessary that
she should sign anything. I have her Power of At-
torney."
"Unfortunately the Power of Attorney is not suffi-


184 BLUE HAND
ciently comprehensive to allow you to sign away certain
royalty rights which descend to her through her father.
They are not very valuable," said the lawyer, "but
they give her lien upon Kennett Hall, and in these
circumstances, I think you had better not depend upon
the Power of Attorney in case there is any dispute.
Mr. Salter is a very shrewd man, and when the particu-
lars of this transaction are brought to his notice I
think it is very likely that, feeling his responsibility as
Mr. Danton's late lawyer, he will enter a caveat."
"What is a caveat?"
"Literally," said Mr. Bennett, "a caveat emptoi
means 'let the purchaser beware,' and if a caveat is
entered, your syndicate would not dare take the risk
of paying you for the property, even though the caveat
had no effect upon the estate which were transferred
by virtue of your Power of Attorney."
Digby tugged at his little mustache and stared out
of the window for a long time.
"All right, I'll get her signature."
"She is in Paris, I understand."
Digby shot a glance at him.
"How do you know?" he asked.
"I had to call at Mr. Sailer's office to-day," he said,
"to verify and agree to the list of securities which he
handed me, and he mentioned the matter in passing."
Digby growled something under his breath.
"Is it necessary that you should see Salter at all?"
he asked with asperity.
"It is necessary that I should conduct my own
business in my own way," said Mr. Bennett with that
acid smile of his.
Digby shot an angry glance at him and resolved that


BLUE HAND 185
as soon as the business was completed, he would have
little use for this uncompromising Scotsman. He hated
the law and he hated lawyers, and he had been under
the impression that Messrs. Bennett would be so over-
whelmed with joy at the prospect of administering
his estate, that they would agree to any suggestion
he made. He had yet to learn that the complacent
lawyer is a figure of fiction and if he is found at all, it
is in the character of the seedy broken-down old solic-
itor who hangs about Police Courts and who interviews
his clients in the bar parlor of the nearest public house.
"Very good," he said, "give me the paper. I will
get her to sign it."
"Will you go to Paris?"
"Yes," said Digby. "I'll send it across by—er—
aeroplane."
The lawyer gathered up the papers and thrust them
back into the wallet.
"Then I will see you at twelve o'clock to-morrow
at the office of the Northern Land Syndicate."
Digby nodded.
"Oh, by the way, Bennett," he called the lawyer
back, "I wish you to put this house in the market.
I shall be spending a great deal of my time abroad and
I have no use for this costly property. I want a quick
sale, by the way."
"A quick sale is a bad sale for the seller," quoth
the lawyer, "but I'll do what I can for you, Mr. Groat.
Do you want to dispose of the furniture?"
Digby nodded.
"And you have another house in the country?"
"That is not for sale," said Digby shortly.
When the lawyer had gone he went up to his


186 BLUE HAND
room and changed, taking his time over his toilet
"Now," he said as he drew on his gloves with a
quiet smile, "I have to induce Eunice to be a good
girll"


CHAPTER THIRTY
DIGBY GROAT made an unexpected journey
west.
A good general, even in the hour of his
victory, prepares the way for retreat, and the possi-
bility of Kennett Hall had long appealed to Digby as
a likely refuge in a case of emergency.
Kennett Hall was one of the estates which his
mother had inherited and which, owing to his failure
to secure her signature, had not been prepared for
transfer to the land syndicate. It had been the home
of the Danton family for one hundred and forty years.
A rambling, neglected house, standing in a big and
gloomy park, it had been untenanted almost as long as
Digby could remember.
He had sent his car down in the early morning, but
he himself had gone by train. He disliked long motor
journeys, and though he intended coming back by road,
he preferred the quietude and smooth progress of the
morning railway journey.
The car, covered with dust, was waiting for him at
the railway station, and the few officials who consti-
tuted the station staff, watched him go out of the gate
without evidence of enthusiasm.
"That's Groat who owns Kennett Hall, isn't it?"
said the porter to the aged station master.
"That's him," was the reply. "It was a bad day
for this country when that property came into old
187


188 BLUE HAND
Jane Groat's hands. A bad woman that, if ever there
was one."
Unconscious of the criticisms of his mother, Digby
was bowling up the hill road leading to the gates of
Kennett Hall. The gates themselves were magnificent
specimens of seventeenth century ironwork, but the
lodges on either side were those ugly stuccoed huts
with which the mid-Victorian architect "embellished"
the estates of the great. They had not been occupied
for twenty years, and bore the appearance of their
neglect. The little gardens which once had flowered
so cheerfully before the speckless windows, were over-
run by weeds, and the gravel drive, seen through the
gates, was almost indistinguishable from the grass-
land on either side.
The caretaker came running down the drive to unlock
the gates. He was an ill-favored man of fifty with a
perpetual scowl which even the presence of his master
could not wholly eradicate.
"Has anybody been here, Masters?" asked Digby.
"No, sir," said the man, "except the flying gentle-
man. He came this morning. What a wonderful
thing flying is, sir! The way he came down in the
Home Park was wonderful to see."
"Get on the step with the driver," said Digby curtly,
who was not interested in his servitor's views of flying.
The car drove through a long avenue of elms and
turned to breast a treeless slope that led up to the
lower terrace. All the beauty and loveliness of Somer-
set in which it stood could not save Kennett Hall from
the reproach of dreariness. Its parapets were crum-
bled by the wind and rain of long forgotten seasons,
and its face was scarred and stained with thirty winters'


BLUE HAND 18</
rains. Its black and dusty windows seemed to leer
upon the fresh clean beauty of the world, as though in
pride of its sheer ugliness.
For twenty years no painter's brush had touched the
drab and ugly woodwork: and the weeds grew high
where roses used to bloom. Three great white seats
of marble, that were placed against the crumbling
terrace balustrade, were green with drippings from the
neglected trees; the terrace floor was broken and the
rags and tatters of dead seasons spread their molder-
ing litter of leaves and twigs and moss upon the marble
walk where stately dames had trodden in those brave
days when Kennett Hall was a name to inspire awe.
Digby was not depressed by his view of the property.
He had seen it before, and at one time had thought
of pulling it down and erecting a modern building for
his own comfort.
The man he had called Masters unlocked the big
door and ushered him into the house.
The neglect was here apparent. As he stepped into
the big bleak entrance he heard the scurry and scamper
of tiny feet and smiled.
"You've got some rats here?"
"Rats?" said Masters in a tone of resignation,
"there's a colony of them, sir. It is as much as I can
do to keep them out of my quarters, but there's nothing
in the east wing," he hastened to add. "I had a couple
of terriers and ferrets here for a month keeping them
down, and they're all on this side of the house." He
jerked his head to the right.
"Is the flying gentleman here?"
"He's having breakfast, sir, at this minute."
Digby followed the caretaker down a long gloomy


i90 BLUE HAND
passage on the ground floor, and passed through the
door that the man opened.
The bearded Villa nodded with a humorous glint in
his eye, as Digby entered. From his appearance and
dress, he had evidently arrived by aeroplane.
"Well, you got here," said Digby, glancing at the
huge meal which had been put before the man.
"I got here," said Villa with an extravagant flourish
of his knife. "But only by the favor of the gods. I
do not like these scout machines: you must get Bronson
to pilot it back."
Digby nodded, and pulling out a rickety chair, sat
down.
"I have given instructions for Bronson to come here:
he will arrive to-night," he said.
"Good," muttered the man continuing his meal.
Masters had gone, and Villa was listening to the
receding sound of his footsteps upon the uncovered
boards, before he asked:
"What is the idea of this, governor? You are not
changing headquarters?"
"I don't know," replied Digby shortly, "but the Sea-
ford aerodrome is under observation. At least, Steele
knows, or guesses, all about it. I have decided to hire
some commercial pilots to give an appearance of genu-
ine business to the company."
Villa whistled.
"This place is no use to you, governor," he said
shaking his head. "They'd tumble to Kennett Hall—
that's what you call it, isn't it?" He had an odd way
of introducing slang words into his tongue, for he spoke
in Spanish, and Digby smiled at "tumble."


BLUE HAND 191
"You're becoming quite an expert in the English
language, Villa."
"But why are you coming here?" persisted the
other. "This could only be a temporary headquarters.
Is the game slipping?" he asked suddenly.
Digby nodded.
"It may come to a case of sauve qui peut," he said,
"though I hope it will not. Everything depends
upon "He did not finish his sentence, but asked
abruptly: "How far is the sea from here?"
"Not a great distance," was the reply. "I traveled
at six thousand feet and I could see the Bristol Channel
quite distinctly."
Digby was stroking his chin, looking thoughtfully at
the table.
"I can trust you, Villa," he said, "so I tell you now,
much as you dislike these fast machines, you've got to
hold yourself in readiness to pilot me to safety. Again,
I say that I do not think it will come to flight, but we
must be prepared. In the meantime, I have a commis-
sion for you," he said. "It was not only to bring
the machine that I arranged for you to come to this
place."
Villa had guessed that.
"There is a man in Deauville to whom you have prob-
ably seen references in the newspapers, a man named
Maxilla. He is a rich coffee planter of Brazil."
"The gambler?" said the other in surprise, and
Digby nodded.
"I happen to know that Maxilla has had a very bad
time; he lost nearly twenty million francs in one week,
and that doesn't represent all his losses. He has been


192 BLUEHAND
gambling at Ai.i and at San Sebastian, and I should
think he is in a ytetty desperate position."
"But he wouldn't be broke," said Villa shaking his
head. "I know the man you mean. Why, he's as
rich as Croesus! I saw his yacht when you sent me to
Havre. A wonderful ship, worth a quarter of a mil-
lion. He has hundreds of square miles of coffee plan-
tations in Brazil"
"I know all about that," said Digby impatiently.
"The point is, that for a moment he is very short of
money. Now, do not ask me any questions, Villa: ac-
cept my word."
"What do you want me to do?" asked the man.
"Go to Deauville, take your slow machine and fly
there: see Maxilla—you speak Portuguese?"
Villa nodded.
"Like a native," he said. "I lived in Lisbon ''•
"Never mind where you lived," interrupted Digby
unpleasantly. "You will see Maxilla, and if, as I be-
lieve, he is short of money, offer him a hundred thou-
sand pounds for his yacht. He may want double that,
and you must be prepared to pay it. Maxilla hasn't
the best of reputations, and probably his crew—who
are all Brazilians by the way—will be glad to sail under
another flag. If you can effect the purchase, send me
a wire, and order the boat to be brought round to the
Bristol Channel to be coaled."
"It is an oil running ship," said Villa.
"Well, it must take on supplies of oil and provisions
for a month's voyage. The captain will come straight
to me in London to receive his instructions. I daresay
one of his officers can bring the boat across. Now is
that clear to you?"


BLUE HAND 193
"Everything is clear to me, my friend," said Villa
blandly, "except two things. To buy a yacht I must
have money."
"That I will give you before you go."
"Secondly," said Villa, putting the stump of his fore-
finger in his palm, "where does poor August Villa come
into this?"
"You get away as well," said Digby.
"I see," said Villa.
"Maxilla must not know that I am the purchaser un-
der any circumstances," Digby went on. "You may
either be buying the boat for yourself in your capacity
as a rich Cuban planter, or you may be buying it for
an unknown friend. I will arrange to keep the captain
and the crew quiet as soon as I am on board. You
leave for Deauville to-night."
He had other preparations to make. Masters re-
ceived an order to prepare two small rooms and to ar-
range for beds and bedding to be erected, and the in-
structions filled him with consternation.
"Don't argue with me," said Digby angrily. "Go
into Bristol, into any town, buy the beds and bring
them out in a car. I don't care what it costs. And
get a square of carpet for the floor."
He tossed a bundle of notes into the man's hand, and
Masters, who had never seen so much money in his
life, nearly dropped them in sheer amazement.


CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DIGBY GROAT returned to town by car and
reached Grosvenor Square in time for dinner.
He had a hasty meal and then went up to
his room and changed.
He passed the room that Eunice occupied and found
Jackson sitting on a chair before the door.
"She's all right," said the man grinning. "I've
shuttered and padlocked the windows and I've told her
that if she doesn't want me to make friendly calls she
has to behave."
Digby nodded.
"And my mother—you gave her the little box?"
Again Jackson grinned.
"And she's happy," he said. "I never dreamt she
was a dope, Mr. Groat"
"There is no need for you to dream anything," said
Digby sharply.
He had a call to make. Lady Waltham was giving
a dance that night, and there would be present two
members of the syndicate whom he was to meet on the
following morning. One of these drew him aside dur-
ing the progress of the dance.
"I suppose those transfers are quite in order for
to-morrow," he said.
Digby nodded.
"Some of my people are curious to know why you
want cash," he said looking at Digby with a smile.
The other shrugged his shoulders.
194


BLUE HAND 195
"You seem to forget, my dear man," he said suavely,
"that I am merely an agent in these matters, and that
I am acting for my rather eccentric mother, God bless
her!"
"That is the explanation which had occurred to me,"
said the financier. "The papers will be in order, of
course? I seem to remember you saying that there
was another paper which had to be signed by your
mother."
Digby remembered with an unspoken oath that he
had neglected to secure this signature. As soon as he
could, he made his excuses and returned to Grosvenor
Square.
His mother's room was locked, but she heard his
gentle tap.
"Who is that?" she demanded in audible agitation.
"It is Digby."
"I will see you in the morning."
"I want to see you to-night," interrupted Digby
sharply. "Open the door."
It was some time before she obeyed. She was in
her dressing gown, and her yellow face was gray with
fear.
"I am sorry to disturb you, mother," said Digby
closing the door behind him, "but I have a document
which must be signed to-night."
"I gave you everything you wanted," she said trem-
ulously, "didn't I, dear? Everything you wanted, my
boy?"
She had not the remotest idea that he was disposing
of her property.
"Couldn't I sign it in the morning?" she pleaded.
"My hand is so shaky."


196 BLUEHAND
"Sign it now," he almost shouted, and she obeyed
*****
The Northern Land Syndicate was but one branch
of a great finance corporation, and had been called
into existence to acquire the Danton properties.
In a large, handsomely furnished board room, mem-
bers of the syndicate were waiting. Lord Waltham
was one, Hugo Vindt, the bluff, good-natured Jewish
financier, whose fingers were in most of the business
pies, was the second, and Felix Strathellan, that debo-
nair man-about-town, was the important third—for he
was one of the shrewdest land speculators in the
kingdom.
A fourth member of the party was presently shown
in in the person of the Scotch lawyer, Bennett, who
carried under his arm a black portfolio, which he laid
on the table.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said shortly. Mil-
lionaires' syndicates had long failed to impress him.
"Good morning, Bennett," said his lordship. "Have
you seen your client this morning?"
Mr. Bennett made a wry face as he unstrapped the
portfolio.
"No, my lord, I have not," he said, and suggested
by his tone that he was not at all displeased that he had
missed a morning interview with Digby Groat.
"A queer fellow is Groat," said Vindt with a laugh.
"He is not a business man, and yet he has curiously
keen methods. I should never have guessed he was an
Englishman: he looks more like a Latin, don't you
think, Lord Waltham?"
His lordship nodded.
"A queer family, the Groats," he said- "I wonder


BLUE HAND 197
how many of you fellows know that his mother is a
kleptomaniac?"
"Good heavens," said Strathellan in amazement,
"you don't mean that?"
His lordship nodded.
"She's quite a rum old lady now," he said, "though
there was a time when she was as handsome a woman
as there was in town. She used to visit us a lot, and
invariably we discovered, when she had gone, that
some little trinket, very often a perfectly worthless
trifle, but on one occasion a rather valuable bracelet
belonging to my daughter, had disappeared with her.
Until I realized the true condition of affairs it used
to worry me, but the moment I spoke to Groat, the
property was restored, and we came to expect this
evidence of her eccentricity. She's a lucky woman,"
he added.
"I wouldn't say that with a son like Digby," smiled
Strathellan, who was drawing figures idly on his blotting
pad.
"Nevertheless, she's lucky," persisted his lordship.
"If that child of the Dantons hadn't been killed, the
Groats would have been as poor as church mice."
"Did you ever meet Lady Mary, my lord?" asked
Vindt.
Lord Waltham nodded.
"I met Lady Mary and the baby," he said quietly,
"I used to be on dining terms with the Dantons. And
a beautiful little baby she was."
"What baby is this?" asked a voice.
Digby Groat had come in in his noiseless fashion,
and closed the door of the board room softly behind
him. The question was the first intimation they had


196 B L L E H AN ID
“Sign it - ºve, all = Lord Waltham, who out of
* his eye. Hai seen his entrance.
The Norther-- talking about Lady Mary's baby, your
of a great fºr
into existence tº -e smiled cºntemptuously.
In a large, has a wrofit us wery much to discuss her,”
bers of the sy
was one, Hugo --ember ºr at all, Groat?” asked
financier, whose

pies, was the secon-Digby with a careless shrug. “I’m
nair man-about-low-on babies. I have a faint reco.
was one of the s- once staying in our house, and I
kingdom. rodigious howling! Is everything
A fourth member
in in the person of
carried under his ar: . " *d for.” Digby took it
on the table. it before the lawyer, who
“Good morning, ge. ead it with exasperating
lionaires’ syndicates h.
“Good morning, Beni Now, gentlemen, we
you seen your client th:
Mr. Bennett made a w ºted about the
portfolio.
“No, my lord, I have r rash has
by his tone that he was not “ham,
missed a morning interview “I
“A queer fellow is Groat,”
“He is not a business man,
keen methods. I should neve
Englishman: he looks more .
think, Lord Waltham?”
His lordship nodded.
“A queer family, the Groats,”


B L U E H AN ID 199
“You will sign here, Mr. Groat,” he said.
At that moment Vindt turned his head to the clerk
who had just entered.
“For me?” he said, indicating the letter in the man's
hand.
“No, sir, for Mr. Bennett.”
Bennett took the note, looked at the name embossed
upon the flap, and frowned.
“From Salter,” he said, “and it is marked “urgent
and important.’”
“Let it wait until after we have finished the busi-
ness,” said Digby impatiently.
“You had better see what it is,” replied the lawyer
and took out a typewritten sheet of paper. He read
it through carefully.
“What is it?” asked Digby.
“I’m afraid this sale cannot go through,” answered
lawyer slowly. “Salter has entered a caveat
ºf the transfer of the property.”
with rage Digby sprang to his feet.
“ght has he?” he demanded savagely. “He
my lawyer: he has no right to act. Who
2xx
a queer expression on his face.
e said speaking deliberately, “has
r on behalf of Dorothy Danton,
tter, is still alive.”
ice, which the voice of Vindt
” he said. “We cannot
a understand, Groat?”
..ansfer going through,” cried
..le whole thing is a plot got up


198 BLUEHAND
of his presence, all except Lord Waltham, who out of
the corner of his eye, had seen his entrance.
"We were talking about Lady Mary's baby, your
cousin."
Digby Groat smiled contemptuously.
"It will not profit us very much to discuss her,"
he said.
"Do you remember her at all, Groat?" asked
Waltham.
"Dimly," said Digby with a careless shrug. "I'm
not frightfully keen on babies. I have a faint recol-
lection that she was once staying in our house, and I
associate her with prodigious howling! Is everything
all right, Bennett?"
Bennett nodded.
"Here is the paper you asked for." Digby took it
from his pocket and laid it before the lawyer, who
unfolded it leisurely and read it with exasperating
slowness.
"That is in order," he said. "Now, gentlemen, we
will get to business."
Such of them as were not already seated about the
table drew up their chairs.
"Your insistence upon having the money in cash has
been rather a nuisance, Groat," said Lord Waltham,
picking up a tin box from the floor and opening it. "I
hate to have a lot of money in the office; it has meant
the employment of two special watchmen."
"I will pay," said Digby good-humoredly, watching
with greedy eyes as bundle after bundle of notes was
laid upon the table.
The lawyer twisted round the paper and offered him
a pen.


BLUE HAND 199
"You wfll sign here, Mr. Groat," he said.
At that moment Vindt turned his head to the clerk
who had just entered.
"For me?" he said, indicating the letter in the man's
hand.
"No, sir, for Mr. Bennett."
Bennett took the note, looked at the name embossed
upon the flap, and frowned.
"From Salter," he said, "and it is marked 'urgent
and important.'"
"Let it wait until after we have finished the busi-
ness," said Digby impatiently.
"You had better see what it is," replied the lawyer
and took out a typewritten sheet of paper. He read
it through carefully.
"What is it?" asked Digby.
"I'm afraid this sale cannot go through," answered
the lawyer slowly. "Salter has entered a caveat
against the transfer of the property."
Livid with rage Digby sprang to his feet.
"What right has he?" he demanded savagely. "He
is no longer my lawyer: he has no right to act. Who
authorized him?"
The lawyer had a queer expression on his face.
"This caveat," he said speaking deliberately, "has
been entered by Salter on behalf of Dorothy Danton,
who, according to the letter, is still alive."
There was a painful silence, which the voice of Vindt
broke.
"So that settles the transfer," he said. "We cannot
go on with this business, you understand. Groat?"
"But I insist on the transfer going through," cried
Digby violently. "The whole thing is a plot got up


200 BLUEHAND
by that dithering old fool, Salter. Everybody knows
that Dorothy Danton is dead! She has been dead for
twenty years."
"Nevertheless," said Lord Waltham quietly, "we
oannot move in face of the caveat. Without being a
legal instrument, it places upon the purchasers of the
property the fullest responsibility for their purchase."
"But I will sign the transfer," said Digby vehe-
mently.
Lord Waltham shook his head.
"It would not matter if you signed twenty trans-
i'ers," he said. "If we paid you the money for this
property and it proved to be the property of Miss
Danton, as undoubtedly it would prove, if she were
alive, we and only we, would be responsible. We
should have to surrender the property and look to you
to refund us the money we had invested in the estate.
No, no, Groat, if it is, as you say, a bluff on the part
of Salter—and upon my word, I cannot imagine a man
of Sailer's position, age and experience putting up
empty bluff—then we can have a meeting on another
day and the deal can go through. We are very eager
to acquire these properties."
There was a murmur of agreement from both
Strathellan and Vindt.
"But at present, as matters stand, we can do nothing
and you as a business man must recognize our helpless-
ness in the matter."
Digby was beside himself with fury as he saw the
money being put back in the tin box.
"Very well," he said. His face was pallid and his
suppressed rage shook him as with an ague. But he
never lost sight of all the possible developments of the


BLUE HAND 201
lawyer's action. If he had taken so grave a step in
respect to the property, he would take action in other
directions and no time must be lost if he was to an-
ticipate Salter's next move.
Without another word he turned on his heel and
stalked down the stairs into the street. His car was
waiting.
"To the Third National Bank," he said, as he flung
himself into its luxurious interior.
He knew that at the Third National Bank was a
sum nearly approaching a hundred th6usand pounds
which his parsimonious mother had accumulated dur-
ing the period she had been in receipt of the revenues
of the Danton estate. Viewing the matter as calmly as
he could, he was forced to agree that Salter was not
the man who would play tricks or employ the machinery
of the law, unless he had behind him a very substan-
tial backing of facts. Dorothy Danton! Where had
she sprung from? Who was she? Digby cursed her
long and heartily. At any rate, he thought, as his car
stopped before the bank premises, he would be on the
safe side and get his hands on all the money which was
lying loose.
He wished now that when he had sent Villa to Deau-
ville he had taken his mother's money for the purchase
of the gambler's yacht. Instead of that he had drawn
upon the enormous funds of the Thirteen.
He was shown into the manager's office, and he
thought that that gentleman greeted him a little
coldly.
"Good morning, Mr. Stevens, I have come to draw
out the greater part of my mother's balance and I
thought I would see you first."


202 BLUE HAND
"I'm glad you did, Mr. Groat," was the reply.
"Will you sit down?" The manager was obviously
ill at ease. "The fact is," he confessed. "I am not
in a position to honor any cheques you draw upon
this bank."
"What the devil do you mean?" demanded Digby.
"I am sorry," said the manager shrugging his
shoulders, "but this morning I have been served with
a notice that a caveat has been entered at the Probate
office, preventing the operation of the Danton will in
your mother's favor. I have already informed our
head office and they are taking legal opinion, but as
Mr. Sailer threatens to obtain immediately an injunc-
tion unless we agree to comply, it would be madness
on my part to let you touch a penny of your mother's
account. Your own account, of course, you can draw
upon."
Digby's own account contained a respectable sum,
he remembered.
"Very well," he said after consideration. "Will
you discover my balance and I will close the account."
He was cool now. This was not the moment to
hammer his head against a brick wall. He needed to
meet this cold-blooded old lawyer with cunning and
foresight. Salter was diabolically wise in the law and
had its processes at his finger-tips and he must go
warily against the trained fighter or he would come to
everlasting smash.
Fortunately, the account of the Thirteen was at an-
other bank, and if the worst came to the worst—well,
he could leave eleven of the Thirteen to make the best
of things they could.
The manager returned presently and passed a slip


BLUE HAND 203
across the table, and a few minutes afterwards Digby
came back to his car, his pockets bulging with bank
notes.
A tall bearded man stood on the sidewalk as he
came out and Digby gave him a cursory glance.
Detective, he thought, and went cold. Were the po-
lice already stirring against him, or was this some pri-
vate watcher of Salter's? He decided rightly that it
was the latter.
When he got back to the house he found a telegram
waiting. It was from Villa. It was short and satis-
factory.
"Bought Pealigo hundred and twelve thousand pounds.
Ship on its way to Avonmouth. Am bringing captain back
by air. Calling Grosvenor nine o'clock."
The frown cleared away from his face as he read the
telegram for the second time, and as he thought, a smile
lit up his yellow face. He was thinking of Eunice.
The position was not without its compensations.


CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EUNICE was sitting in the shuttered room trying
to read when Digby Groat came in. All the
color left her face as she rose to meet him.
"Good evening, Miss Weldon," he said in his usual
manner. "I hope you haven't been very bored."
"Will you please explain why I am kept here a pris-
oner?" she asked a little breathlessly. "You realize
that you are committing a very serious crime"
He laughed in her face.
"Well," he said almost jovially, "at any rate,
Eunice, we can drop the mask. That is one blessed
satisfaction! These polite little speeches are irksome
to me as they are to you."
He took her hand in his.
"How cold you are, my dear," he said, "yet the room
is warm!"
"When may I leave this house?" she asked in a
low voice.
"Leave this house—leave me?" He threw the
gloves he had stripped on to a chair and caught her by
the shoulders. "When are we going? That is a bet-
ter way of putting it. How lovely you are, Eunice!"
There was no disguise now. The mask was off, as
he had said, and the ugliness of his black nature was
written in his eyes.
Still she did not resist, standing stiffly erect like a
figure of marble. Not even when he took her face in
204


. BLUEHAND 205
both his hands and pressed his lips to hers, did she
move. She seemed incapable. Something inside her
bad frozen and she could only stare at him.
"I want you, Eunice! I have wanted you all the
time. I chose you out of all the women in the world
to be mine. I have waited for you, longed for you, and
now I have you! There is nobody here, Eunice, but
you and me. Do you hear, darling?"
Then suddenly a cord snapped within her. With
an effort of strength which surprised him she thrust
him off, her eyes staring in horror as though she con-
templated some loathsome crawling thing. That look
inflamed him. He sprang forward, and as he did, the
girl in the desperation of frenzy, struck at him; twice
her open hand came across his face. He stepped back
with a yell. Before he could reach her she had flown
into the bath room and locked the door. For fully
five minutes he stood, then he turned and walked slowly
across to the dressing table, and surveyed his face in
the big mirror.
"She struck me!" he said. He was as white as a
sheet. Against his pale face the imprint of her hand
showed lividly. "She struck me!" he said again won-
deringly, and began to laugh.
For every blow, for every joint on every finger of
the hand that struck the blow, she should have pain.
Pain and terror. She should pray for death, she should
crawl to him and clasp his feet in her agony. His
breath came quicker and he wiped the sweat from his
forehead with the back of his hand.
He passed out, locking the door behind him. Hi*
hand was on the key when he heard a sound and look-
ing along the corridor, saw the door of his mother's


206 BLUE HAND
room open and the old woman standing in the doorway.
"Digby," she said, and there was a vigor and com-
mand in her voice which made him frown. "I want
you!" she said imperatively and in amazement he
obeyed her.
She had gone back to her chair when he came into
the room.
"What do you want?" he demanded.
"Shut the door and sit down."
He stared at her dumfounded. Not for years had
she dared address him in that tone.
"What the devil do you mean by ordering me"
he began.
"Sit down," she said quietly, and then he under-
stood.
"So, you old devil, the dope is in you!"
"Sit down, my love child," she sneered. "Sit down,
Digby Estremeda! I want to speak to you."
His face went livid.
"You—you "he gasped.
"Sit down. Tell me what you have done with my
property."
He obeyed her slowly, looking at her as though he
could not believe the evidence of his ears.
"What have you done with my property?" she asked
again. "Like a fool I gave you a Power of Attorney.
How have you employed it? Have you sold "She
was looking at him keenly.
He was surprised into telling the truth.
"They have put an embargo—or some such rubbish
—on the sale."
She nodded.


BLUE HAND 207
"I hoped they would," she said. "I hoped they
would!"
"You hoped they would?" he roared, getting up.
Her imperious hand waved him down again. He
passed his hand over his eyes like a man in a dream.
She was issuing orders; this old woman whom he had
dominated for years, and he was obeying meekly!
He had given her the morphine to quiet her, and
it had made her his master.
"Why did they stop the sale?"
"Because that old lunatic Salter swears that the
girl is still alive—Dorothy Danton, the baby who was
drowned at Margate!"
He saw a slow smile on her lined face and wondered
what was amusing her.
"She is alive!" she said.
He could only glare at her in speechless amazement.
"Dorothy Danton alive?" he said. "You're mad,
you old fool! She's gone beyond recall—dead—dead
these twenty years!"
"And what brought her back to life, I wonder?"
mused the old woman. "How did they know she was
Dorothy? Why, of course you brought her back!"
She pointed her skinny finger at her son. "You
brought her, you are the instrument of your own un-
doing, my boy!" she said derisively. "Oh you poor
little fool—you clever fool!"
Now he had mastered himself.
"You will tell me all there is to be told, or by God,
you'll be sorry you ever spoke at all," he breathed.
"You marked her. That is why she has been
recognized—you marked her!"


208 BLUE HAND
"I marked her?"
"Don't you remember, Digby," she spoke rapidly
and seemed to find a joy in the hurt she was causing,
"a tiny baby and a cruel little beast of a boy who
heated a sixpence and put it on the baby's wrist?"
It came back to him instantly. He could almost
hear the shriek of his victim. A summer day and a
big room full of old furniture. The vision of a garden
through an open window and the sound of the bees
... a small spirit lamp where he had heated the
coin. . . .
"My God!" said Digby reeling back. "I remem-
ber!"
He stared at the mocking face of his mother for a
second, then turned and left the room. As he did so,
there came a sharp rat-tat at the door. Swiftly he
turned into his own room and ran to the window.
One glance at the street told him all that he wanted
to know. He saw Jim and old Salter . . . there must
have been a dozen detectives with them.
The door would hold for five minutes, and there
was time to carry out his last plan.


CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
A MINUTE later he appeared in Eunice Weldon's
room.
"I want you," he said, and there was a sin-
ister look in his eye that made the girl cower back
from him in fear that she could not master. "My
dear," he said with that smile of his, "you need not
be afraid, your friends are breaking into the house
and in half-an-hour you will be free. What I intend
doing to you is to put you in such a condition that
you will not be able to give information against me
until I am clear of this house. No, I am not going to
kill you," he almost laughed, "and if you are not sensi-
ble enough to realize why I am taking this step, then
you are a fool—and you are not a fool, Eunice."
She saw something bright and glittering in his hand
and terror took possession of her.
"Don't touch me," she gasped. "I swear I will not
tell," but he had gripped her arm.
"If you make a sound," his face was thrust into
hers, "you'll regret it to the last day of your life."
Jhe felt a sudden pricking sensation in her arm and
tried to pull it away, but her arm was held as by a
vise.
"There. It wasn't very painful, was it?"
She beard him utter a curse, and when he turned
his face was red with rage.
"They've smashed in the gates," he said sharply.
aog


210 BLUE HAND
She was walking toward him, her hand on the little
puncture the needle had made, and her face was
curiously calm.
"Are you going now?" she asked simply.
"We are going in a few minutes," said Digby,
emphasizing the "we."
But even this she did not resent. She had fallen
into a curious, placid condition of mind which was
characterized by the difficulty, amounting to an im-
possibility, of remembering what happened the previous
minute. All she could do was to sit down on the edge
of a chair, nursing her arm. She knew it hurt her, and
yet she was conscious of no hurt. It was a curious,
impersonal sensation she had. To her, Digby Groat
had no significance. He was a somebody whom she
neither liked nor disliked. It was all very strange and
pleasant.
"Put your hat on," he said and she obeyed. She
never dreamt of disobeying.
He led her to the basement and through a door
which communicated with a garage. It was not the
garage where he kept his own car—Jim had often
been puzzled to explain why Digby kept his car so
far from the house. The only car visible was a covered
van, such as the average tradesman uses to deliver his
goods.
"Get in," said Digby and Eunice obeyed with a
strange smile.
She was under the influence of that admixture of
morphine and hyoscin, which destroyed all memory and
will.
"Sit on the floor," he ordered and laced the canvas
flap at the back. He reached under the driver's seat


BLUE HAND 211
and pulled out a cotton coat which had once been white,
but was now disfigured with paint and grease, button-
ing it up to the throat. A cap he took from the same
source and pulled it over his head, so that the peak
well-covered his eyes.
Then he opened the gates of a garage. He was in
a mews, and with the exception of a woman who was
talking to a milkman, the only two persons in sight,
none saw the van emerge.
There was not the slightest suspicion of hurry on his
part. He descended from his seat to close the gates
and lock them, lit a pipe and clambering up, set the
little van going in the direction of the Bayswater Road.
He stopped only at the petrol station to take aboard
a fair supply of spirit, and then he went on, still at
a leisurely pace, passing through the outlying suburbs,
until he came to the long road leading from Staines to
Ascot. Here he stopped and got down.
Taking the little flat case from his pocket, and re-
charging the glass cylinder, he opened the canvas flap
at the back and looked in.
Eunice was sitting with her back braced against the
side of the van, her head nodding sleepily. She looked
up with a puzzled expression.
"It won't hurt you," said Digby. Again the needle
went into her arm, and the piston was thrust home.
She screwed up her face a little at the pain and again
fondled her arm.
"That hurt," she said simply.
Just outside Ascot a touring car was held up by
two policemen and Digby slowed from necessity for
the car had left him no room to pass.
"We are looking for a man and a girl," said one


212 BLUE HAND
of the policemen to the occupants of the car. "All
right, sir, go on."
Digby nodded in a friendly way to the policeman.
"Is it all right, sergeant?"
"Off you go," said the sergeant, not troubling to
look inside a van on which was painted the name of
a reputable firm of London furnishers.
Digby breathed quickly. He must not risk another
encounter. There would be a second barrier at the
cross roads, where he intended turning. He must go
back to London, he thought, the police would not stop
a London-bound car. He turned into a secondary road
and reached the main Bath road, passing another bar-
rier where, as he had expected, the police did not chal-
lenge him, though they were holding up a string of
vehicles going in the other direction. There were half-
a-dozen places to which he could take her, but the
safest was a garage he had hired at the back of a block
of buildings in Paddington. The garage had been use-
ful to the Thirteen, but had not been utilized for the
greater part of a year, though he had sent Jackson
frequently to superintend the cleaning.
He gained the west of London as the rain began to
fall. Everything was in his favor. The mews in
•which the garage was situated was deserted and he had
opened the gates and backed in the car before the occu-
pants of the next garage were curious enough to come
out to see who it was.
Digby had one fad and it had served him well before.
It was to be invaluable now. Years before, he had
insisted that every house and every room, if it were
only a store room, should have a lock of such a char-
acter that it should open to his master key.


BLUE HAND 213
He half led, half lifted the girl from the car and she
sighed wearily, for she was stiff and tired.
"This way," he said and pushed her before him up
the dark stairs, keeping her on the landing whilst he
lit the gas.
Though it had not been dusted for the best part of
a month, the room overlooking the mews was neat and
comfortably furnished. He pulled down the heavy
blind before he lit the gas here, felt her pulse and
looked into her eyes.
"You'll do, I think," he said with a smile. "You
must wait here until I come back. I am going to get
some food."
"Yes," she answered.
He was gone twenty minutes, and on his return he
saw that she had taken off her coat and had washed
her hands and face. She was listlessly drying her
hands when he came up the stairs. There was some-
thing pathetically child-like in her attitude, and a man
who was less of a brute than Digby Groat would
have succumbed to the appeal of her helplessness.
But there was no hint of pity in the thoughtful
eyes that surveyed her. He was wondering whether
it would be safe to give her another dose. In order
to secure a quick effect he had administered more than
was safe already. There might be a collapse, or a
failure of heart, which would be as fatal to him as to
her. He decided to wait until the effects had almost
worn off.
"Eat," he said, and she sat at the table obediently.
He had brought in cold meat, a loaf of bread, butter
and cheese. He supplemented this feast with two
glasses of water which he drew in the little scullery.


214
BLUE HAND
Suddenly she put down her knife and fork.
"I feel very tired," she said.
So much the better, thought Digby. She would
sleep now.
The back room was a bedroom. He watched her
whilst she unfastened her shoes and loosened the belt
of her skirt before she lay down. With a sigh, she
turned over and was fast asleep before he could walk
to the other side of the bed to see her face.
Digby Groat smoked for a long time over his simple
meal. The girl was wholly in his power, but she could
wait. A much more vital matter absorbed his atten-
tion. He himself had reached the possibility which
he had long foreseen and provided against. It was not
a pleasant situation, he thought, and found relief for
his mind by concentrating his thoughts upon the lovely
ranch in Brazil, on which with average luck, he would
spend the remainder of his days.
Presently he got up, produced from a drawer a set
of shaving materials wrapped in a towel, and heating
some water at the little gas-stove in the kitchen, he
proceeded to divest himself of his mustache.
With the master key he unlocked the cupboard that
ran the height of the room and surveyed thoughtfully
the stacks of dresses and costumes which filled the
half-a-dozen shelves. The two top shelves were filled
with boxeSj and he brought out three of these and
examined their contents. From one of these he took a
beautiful evening gown of silver tissue, and laid it
over the back of a chair. A satin wrap followed, and
from another box he took white satin shoes and stock-
ings and seemed satisfied by his choice, for he looked
at them for a long time before he folded them and


BLUE HAND 215
put them back where he had found them. His own
disguise he had decided upon.
And now, having mapped out his plan, he dressed
himself in a chauffeur's uniform, and went out to the
telephone.


D
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
*• T^X EAD! Jane Groat dead?"
To Lady Mary the news came as a shock,
Jim, gaunt and hollow eyed, sitting list-
lessly by the window of Mr. Sailer's office, nodded.
"The doctors think it was an overdose of morphia
that killed her," he said shortly.
Lady Mary was silent for a long while, then:
"I think perhaps now is a moment when I can tell
you something about the Blue Hand," she said.
"Will it assist us?" asked Jim turning quickly.
She shook her head.
"I am afraid it will not, but this I must tell you.
The person against whom the Blue Hand was directed
was not Digby Groat, but his mother. I have made
one grave mistake recently," she said, "and it was to
believe that Digby Groat was dominated by his mother.
I was amazed to discover that so far from her domi-
nating him, she was his slave and the only explanation
I can give for this extraordinary transition is Digby
Groat's discovery that his mother was a drug taker.
Once he was strong enough to keep the drug from her
the positions were reversed. The story of the Blue
Hand," she said with sad little smile, "is neither as
fantastic nor as melodramatic as you might expect."
There was a long silence which neither of the men
broke.
216


BLUE HAND 217
"I was married at a very early age, as you know,"
she nodded to Salter. "My father was a very poor
nobleman with one daughter and no sons, and he found
it not only difficult to keep up the mortgaged estates
which he had inherited, but to make both ends meet
even though he was living in the most modest way.
Then he met Jonathan Danton's father and between
the two they fixed up a marriage between myself and
Jonathan. I never met him until a week before my
wedding day. He was a cold, hard man, very much
like his father, just to a fault, proud and stiff-necked,
and to his natural hardness of demeanor was added
the fret fulness due to an affected heart, which even-
tually killed him.
"My married life was an unhappy one. The sym-
pathy that I sought was denied me. With all his
wealth, he could have made me happy, but from the
first he seemed to be suspicious of me and I have often
thought that he hated me because I was a member of
a class which he professed to despise. When our
daughter was born I imagined that there would be a
change in his attitude, but, if anything, the change was
for the worse.
''I had met his sister, Jane Groat, and knew in a
vague kind of way, that some scandal had attached
to her name. Jonathan never discussed it, but his
father, in his life-time, loathed Jane and would not
allow her to put her foot inside his house. Jonathan
hadn't the same prejudices. He knew nothing of her
escapade with the Spaniard Estremeda, and I only
learnt of the circumstances by accident.
"Jane was a peculiar mixture. Some days she
would be bright and vivacious, and some days she


218 BLUE HAND
•would be in the depths of gloom, and this used to
puzzle me, until one day we were at tea together at
our house in Park Lane. She had come in a state of
nerves and irritability which distressed me. I thought
that her little boy was giving her trouble, for I knew
how difficult he was, and how his cruel ways, even at
that tender age, annoyed her. I nearly said distressed
her," she smiled, "but Jane was never distressed at
things like that. We were having a cup of tea when
she put her hand in her bag and took out a small bottle
filled with brown pellets.
"'I really can't wait any longer, Mary,' she said
and swallowed one of the pills. I thought it was some-
thing for digestion, until I saw her eyes begin to
brighten and her whole demeanor change, then I
guessed the truth.
"'You're not taking drugs, are you, Jane?' I asked.
"'I'm taking a little morphine,' she replied; 'don't
be shocked, Mary. If you had my troubles and a
little devil of a boy to look after, as I have, you'd take
drugs, too!'
"But that was not her worst weakness, from my
point of view. What that was I learnt after my hus-
band sailed to America on business.
"Dorothy was then about seven or eight months old,
a bonny, healthy, beautiful child, whom my husband
adored in his cold, dour fashion. One morning Jane
came into my room while I was dressing, and apologiz-
ing for her early arrival, asked me if I would go shop-
ping with her. She was so cheerful and gay that I
knew she had been swallowing some of those little pel-
lets, and as I was at a loose end that morning I agreed.
We went to several stores and finished up at Clayneys,


BLUE HAND 219
the big emporium in Brompton Road. I noticed that
Jane made very few purchases, but this didn't strike
me as being peculiar, because Jane was notoriously
mean and I don't think she had a great deal of money
either. I did not know Clayneys. I had never been
to the shop before. This explanation is necessary in
view of what followed. Suddenly, when we were pass-
ing through the silk department, Jane turned to me
with a startled expression and said to me under her
breath, 'put this somewhere.'
"Before I could expostulate, she had thrust some-
thing into the interior of my muff. It was a cold day
and I was carrying one of those big pillow muffs which
were so fashionable in that year. I had hardly done
so before somebody tapped me on the shoulder. I
turned to see a respectable-looking man who said
sharply, 'I'll trouble you to accompany me to the man-
ager's office.'
"I was dazed and bewildered, and the only thing I
recollect was Jane whispering in my ear 'Don't give
your name.' She apparently was suspected as well, for
we were both taken to a large office, where an elderly
man interviewed us. 'What is your name?' he asked.
The first name I could think of was my maid, Madge
Benson. Of course, I was half mad. I should have
told them that I was Lady Mary Danton and should
have betrayed Jane upon the spot. My muff was
searched and inside was found a large square of silk,
which was the article Jane had put into it.
"The elderly man retired with his companion to a
corner of the room and I turned to Jane. 'You must
get me out of this, it is disgraceful of you, Jane.
Whatever made you do it?'


220 BLUEHAND
"'For God's sake, don't say a word,' she whispered.
'Whatever happens, I will take the responsibility.
The magistrate'
"'The magistrate?' I said in horror. 'I shall not go
before a magistrate?'
"'You must, you must, it would break Jonathan's
heart and he would blame you if I came into court.
Quick,' she lowered her voice and began speaking
rapidly. 'I know the magistrate at Paddington and
I will go to him and make a confession of the whole
thing. When you come up to-morrow you will be dis-
charged. Mary, you must do this for me, you must!'
"To cut a long story short, the manager came back
and summoning a policeman, gave me into custody.
I neither denied my crime nor in any way implicated
Jane. I found afterwards, that she explained to the
proprietor that she was a distant relation of mine and
she had met me in the shop by accident. How can I
depict the horror of that night spent in a police court
cell? In my folly I even thanked God that my name
had not been given. The next morning I came before
the magistrate, and did not doubt that Jane had kept
her word. There was nobody in the court who knew
me. I was brought up under the name of Madge Ben-
son and the elderly man from Clayneys went into the
witness box and made his statement. He said that his
firm had been losing considerable quantities through
shop-lifting, and that he had every reason to believe
I was an old hand.
"Humiliating as this experience was, I did not for
one moment doubt that the magistrate would find some
excuse for me and discharge me. The shame of that
moment as I stood there in the dock, with the curious


BLUE HAND 221
crowd sneering at me! I cannot even speak of it to-
day without my cheeks burning. The magistrate lis-
tened in silence, and presently he looked at me over his
glasses and I waited.
"'There has been too much of this sort of thing
going on,' said he, 'and I am going to make an example
of you. You will go to prison with hard labor for one
month.'
"The court, the magistrate, the people, everything
and everybody seemed to fade out, and when I came
to myself I was sitting in a cell with the gaoler's wife
forcing water between my teeth. Jane had betrayed
me. She had lied when she said she would go to the
magistrate, but her greatest crime had yet to be com-
mitted.
"I had been a fortnight in Holloway Gaol when she
came to visit me. I was not a strong woman and
they put me to work with several other prisoners in
a shed where the prison authorities were making ex-
periments with dyes. You probably don't know much
about prisons," she said, "but in every county gaol
through England they make an attempt to keep the
prisoners occupied with some one trade. In Maidstone
the printing is done for all the prisons in England—I
learnt a lot about things when I was inside Hollo-
way! In Shepton Mallet the prisoners weave. In
Exeter they make harness. In Manchester they weave
cotton, and so on.
"The Government was thinking of making one of
the prisons a dye works. When I came to the little
interview room to see Jane Groat, I had forgotten the
work that had stained both my hands and it was not
until I saw her starting at the hands gripping the bars,


222 BLUE HAND
that I realized that the prison had placed upon me a
mark which only time would eradicate.
"'May, look!' she stammered. 'Your hands are
blue!'
"My hands were blue," said Lady Mary bitterly.
"The blue hand became the symbol of the injustice
this woman had worked."
"I did not reproach her. I was too depressed, too
broken to taunt her with her meanness and treachery.
But she promised eagerly that she would teil my hus-
band the truth, and told me that the baby was being
taken care of and that she had sent it with her own
maid to Margate. She would have kept the baby at
her own house she said, and probably with truth, but
she feared the people seeing the baby, would wonder
where I was. If the baby was out of town, I too might
be out of town.
"And then occurred that terrible accident that sent,
as I believed, my darling baby to a horrible death.
Jane Groat saw the advantage which the death gave
to her. She had discovered in some underhand fashion
the terms of my husband's will, terms which were un-
known to me at the time. The moment Dorothy was
gone she went to him with the story that I had been
arrested and convicted for shop lifting, and that the
baby, whom it was my business to guard, had been left
to the neglectful care of a servant and was dead.
"The shock killed Jonathan. He was found dead in
his study after his sister had left him. The day before
I came out of prison I received a note from Jane tell-
ing me boldly what had happened. She made no at-
tempt to break to me gently the news of my darling
baby's death. The whole letter -was designed to pro-


BLUE HAND 223
duce on me the fatal effect that her news had produced
on poor Jonathan. Happily I had some money and the
property in the city, which my husband in a moment
of generosity, which I am sure he never ceased to re-
gret, had given to me. At my father's suggestion I
turned this into a limited liability company, the shares
of which were held and are still held, by my father's
lawyer.
"Soon after my release my father inherited a con-
siderable fortune, which on his death came to me.
With that money I have searched the world for news
of Dorothy, news which has always evaded me. The
doubt in my mind as to whether Dorothy was dead or
not concentrated on my mistrust of Jane. I believed,
wrongly as I discovered, that Jane knew my girlie was
alive. The blue hand was designed to terrorize her
into a confession. As it happened, it only terrorized
the one person in the world I desired to meet, my
daughter!"
Salter had listened in silence to the recital of this
strange story which Lady Mary had to tell.
"That clears up the last mystery," he said.


CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
EUNIi 'E woke and opening her eyes, tried hard
to remember what had happened. Her last
clear -ecollection was of her room in Grosvenor
Square. Tht last person, she shivered as she recalled
the moment, was Digby Groat, and he was coming
toward her—she sat up in bed and reeled with the pain
in her head. Where was she? She looked round.
The room was meanly furnished, a heavy green blind
had been drawn over the small window, but there was
enough light in the room to reveal the shabby ward-
robe, the common iron bed on which she lay, the cheap
washstand and the threadbare carpet that covered the
floor.
She was fully dressed and feeling horribly grimy.
She almost wished at that moment she was back in
Grosvenor Square, with its luxurious bathroom and its
stinging shower-baths.
But where was she? She got off the bed and stag-
gering across the room she pulled aside the blind.
She looked out upon the backs of drab buildings. She
was in London, then. Only London could provide that
view. She tried to open the door, it was locked—and
as she turned the handle she heard footsteps outside.
"Good morning," said Digby Groat, unlocking the
door.
At first she did not recognize him in his chauffeur
uniform, and without his mustache.
"You?" she said in horror. "Where am I? Why
have you brought me here?"
224


BLUE HAND 225
"If I told you where you were you would be no
wiser," said Digby coolly. "And the reason you are
with me must be fairly obvious. Be sensible and have
some breakfast."
He was looking at her with a keen professional eye.
The effect of the drug had not worn off, he noticed,
and she was not likely to give him a great deal of
trouble.
Her throat was parched and she was ravenously
hungry. She sipped at the coffee he had made, and
all the time her eyes did not leave his.
"I'll make a clean breast of it," he said suddenly.
"The fact is, I have got into very serious trouble and
it is necessary that I should get away."
"From Grosvenor Square?" she opened her eyes
wide in astonishment. "Aren't you going back to Gros-
venor Square?"
He smiled.
"It is hardly likely," he said sarcastically, "your
friend Steele"
"Is he there?" she cried eagerly, clasping her hands.
"Oh tell me, please."
"If you expect me to sing your lover's praises, you're
going to get a jar!" said Digby without heat. "Now
eat some food and shut up." His tone was quiet but
menacing and she thought it best not to irritate him.
She was only beginning to understand her own posi-
tion. Digby had run away and taken her with him.
Why did she go, she wondered? He must have drugged
her! And yet—she remembered the hypodermic syr-
inge and instinctively rubbed her arm.
Digby saw the gesture and could almost read her
thoughts. How lovely she was, he mused. No other


226 BLUE HAND
woman in the world, after her experience of yesterday,
could face the cold morning clear-eyed and flawless as
she did. The early light was always kind to her, he
remembered. The brightness of her soft eyes was un-
diminished, untarnished was the clarity of her complex-
ion. She was a thing of delight, a joy to the eye, even
of this connoisseur of beauty, who was not easily moved
by mere loveliness.
"Eunice," he said, "I am going to marry you."
"Marry me," she said startled. "Of course you will
do nothing of the kind, Mr. Groat. I don't want to
marry you."
"That is quite unimportant." said Digby and leaning
forward over the table, he lowered his voice. "Eunice,
do you realize what I am offering you and the alterna-
tive?"
"I will not marry you," she answered steadily, "and
no threat you make will change my mind."
His eyes did not leave hers.
"Do you realize that I can make you glad to marry
me," he said choosing his words deliberately, "and that
I will stop at nothing—nothing?"
She made no reply, but he saw her color change.
"Now understand me, my dear, once and for all. It
is absolutely necessary that I should marry you and you
can either agree to a ceremony or you can take the con-
sequence, and you know what that consequence will be."
She had risen to her feet and was looking down at
him, and in her eyes was a contempt which would have
wilted any other man than he.
"I am in your power," she said quietly, "and you
must do what you will, but consciously I will never
marry you. You were able to drug me yesterday, so


BLUE HAND 227
that I cannot remember what happened between my
leaving your house and my arrival in this wretched
place, and possibly you can produce a similar condition,
but sooner or later, Digby Groat, you will pay for all
the wrong that you have done to the world. If I am
amongst the injured people who will be avenged, that
is God's will."
She turned to leave the room, but he was at the door
before her and pulled her arm violently towards him.
"If you scream," he said, "I will choke the life out
of you."
She looked at him with contempt.
"I shall not scream."
Nor did she even wince when the bright needle
passed under the skin of her forearm.
"If anything happens to me," she said in a voice
scarcely above a whisper, "I will kill myself in your
presence, and with some weapon of yours." Her voice
faded away and he watched her.
For the first time, he was afraid. She had touched
him on a sensitive point, his own personal safety. She
knew. What had put that idea into her head, he won-
dered, as he watched the color come and go under the
influence of the drug? And she would do it! He
sweated at the thought. She might have done it here,
and he could never have explained his innocence of her
murder.
"Phew!" said Digby Groat, and wiped his forehead.
Presently he let her hand drop and guided her to a
chair.
Again her hand touched her arm tenderly and then:
"Get up," said Digby and she obeyed. "Now go to
your room and stay there until I tell you I want you."


CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
THAT afternoon he had a visitor. He was,
apparently, a gentleman who was anxious to
rent a garage and he made one or two enqui-
ries in the mews before he called at Digby Groat's tem-
porary home. Those people who troubled to observe
him, noticed that he stayed a considerable time withu-
this garage, and when he came out, he seemed satisfied
with his negotiations. He was in truth Villa, who hac'
come in answer to an urgent wire.
"Well," said Digby, "is everything ready?"
"Everything is ready, dear friend," said Villa amia-
bly. "I have the three men you want. Bronson is
one, Fuentes and Silva are the others; they are known
to you?"
Digby nodded. Bronson was an army aviator who
had left the service under a cloud. Digby had em-
ployed him once before, to carry him to Paris—Bron-
son ran a passenger carrying service which Digby had
financed. The other two he knew as associates of Villa
—Villa had queer friends.
"Bronson will be in a field just outside Rugby. I
told him to pretend he had made a false landing."
"Good," said Digby. "Now you understand that I
shall be traveling north in the disguise of an old
woman. A car must be waiting a mile short of the sta-
tion and Fuentes must reach the line with a red hand
lamp and signal the train to stop. When it stops he
can clear and by that time I shall be well away. I
228


BLUE HAND 229
know Rugby well and this sketch map will tell you
everything," he handed a sheet of paper to Villa.
''The car must be waiting at the end of the lane marked
B. on the plan—the house—is it in good condition?'
"There's a house on the property," said Villa, "but
it is rather a tumbledown affair."
"It can't be worse than Kennett Hall," said Digby.
"That will do splendidly. You can keep the girl there
all night and bring her to Kennett Hall in the morning.
I will be there to receive you. To-morrow afternoon,
just before sundown, we will take our final flight to the
sea."
"What about Bronson?"
"Bronson will have to be settled with," said Digby,
"but you can leave that to me."
He had his own views about Bronson which it was
not expedient at the moment to discuss.
"How are you going to get to the Hall?" asked the
interested Villa.
"You can leave that to me also," said Digby with a
frown. ''Why are you so curious? I will tell you this
much, that I intend taking on the car and traveling
through the night."
"Why not take the girl by the car?" demanded the
persistent Villa.
"Because I want her to arrive at Kennett Hall by the
only way that is safe. If the Hall is being watched
there is a chance of getting away again before they
close in on us. No, I will be there before daybreak
and make a reconnaissance. In a case like this I can
trust nobody but myself, and what is more, Villa, I
know the people who are watching me. Now, do you
understand?"


230 BLUEHAND
"Perfectly, my friend," said Villa jovially, "as to
that little matter of sharing out"
"The money is here," said Digby tapping his waist,
"and you will have no cause to complain. There is
much to be done yet—we have not seen the worst of
our adventures."
For Eunice Weldon the worst was, for the moment,
a splitting headache which made it an agony to lift her
head from the pillow. She seemed to have passed
through the day in a condition which was neither wake-
fulness nor sleep. She tried to remember what had
happened and where she was, but the effort was
so painful that she was content to lie with her throb-
bing head, glad that she was left alone. Several times
the thought of Digby Groat came through her
mind, but she was so inexplicably confused with Jim
Steele that she could not separate the two personal-
ities.
Where she was she neither knew nor cared. She
was lying down and she was quiet—that satisfied her.
Once she was conscious of a sharp stinging sensation
in her right arm, and soon after she must have gone
to sleep again, only to wake with her head racked with
shooting pains as though somebody was driving red-
hot nails into her brain.
At last it became so unendurable that she groaned,
and a voice near her—an anxious voice, she thought—
said:
"Have you any pain?"
"My head," she murmured. "It is dreadful!"
She was conscious of a "tut" of impatience, and al-


BLUE HAND 231
most immediately afterwards somebody's arm was
round her neck and a glass was held to her lips.
"Drink this," said the voice.
She swallowed a bitter draught and made a grimace
of distaste.
"That was nasty," she said.
"Don't talk," said the voice. Digby was seriously
alarmed at the condition in which he found her when he
had returned from a visit of reconnaissance. Her
color was bad, her breathing difficult and her pulse
almost imperceptible. He had feared this, and yet he
must continue his "treatment."
He looked down at her frowningly and felt some
satisfaction when he saw the color creep back to the
wax-like face, and felt the throb of the pulse under his
fingers.
As to Eunice, the sudden release from pain which
came almost immediately after she had taken the
draught, was so heavenly that she would have been
on her knees in gratitude to the man who had accom-
plished the miracle, and with relief from pain came
sleep.
Digby heaved a sigh of relief and went back to his
work. It was very pleasant work for him, for the
table was covered with little packages of five thousand
dollar gold bills, for he had been successful in drawing
the funds of the Thirteen and exchanging them for
American money. He did not want to find himself in
Brazil with a wad of English notes which he could not
change because the numbers had been notified.
His work finished, he strapped the belt about his
waist and proceeded leisurely to prepare for the jour-
ney. A gray wig changed the appearance of his face


232 BLUEHAND
but he was not relying upon that disguise. Locking
the door he stripped himself of his clothes and began
to dress deliberately and carefully.
It was nearly eight o'clock that night when Eunice
returned to consciousness. Beyond an unquenchable
thirst, she felt no distress. The room was dimly il-
luminated by a small oil lamp that stood on the wash-
stand, and the first thing that attracted her eye, after
she had drunk long and eagerly from the glass of water
that stood on the table by the side of the bed, was a
beautiful evening dress of silver tissue which hung over
the back of the chair. Then she saw pinned to the
side of the pillow a card. It was not exactly the same
shade of gray that Digby and she had received in the
early stages of their acquaintance. Digby had failed
to find the right color in his search at the local sta-
tioners, but he had very carefully imitated the pen-
print with which the mysterious woman in black had
communicated her warnings, and the girl reading at
first without understanding and then with a wildly
beating heart, the message of the card saw her safety
assured.
"Dress in the clothes you will find here, and if you obey
me without question I will save you from an ignominious
fate. I will call for you but you must not speak to me. We
are going to the north in order to escape Digby Groat.''
The message was signed with a rough drawing of the
Blue Hand.
She was trembling in every limb, for now the events
of the past few days were slowly looming through the
fog with which the drugs had clouded her brain. She
was in the power of Digby Groat, and the mysterious


BLUE HAND 233
woman in black was coming to her rescue. It did not
seem possible. She stood up and almost collapsed, for
her head was humming and her knees seemed incapable
of sustaining her weight. She held on to the head of
the bedstead for several minutes before she dared begin
to dress.
She forgot her raging thirst, almost forgot her weak-
ness, as with trembling hands she fastened the beautiful
dress about her and slipped on the silk stockings and
satin shoes. Why did the mysterious woman in black
choose this conspicuous dress, she wondered, if she
feared that Digby Groat would be watching for her.
She could not think consecutively. She must trust her
rescuer blindly, she thought. She did her hair before
the tiny mirror and was shocked to see her face.
About her eyes were great dark circles; she had the
appearance of one who was in a wasting sickness.
"I'm glad Jim can't see you, Eunice Weldon," she
said, and the thought of Jim acted as a tonic and a
spur.
Her man! How she had hurt him. She stopped
suddenly in the act of brushing her hair. She remem-
bered their last interview. Jim said she was the
daughter of Lady Mary Danton! It couldn't be true,
and yet Jim had said it, and that gave it authority
beyond question. She stared at her reflection and then
the effort of thought made her head whirl again and she
sat down.
"I mustn't think, I mustn't think," she muttered,
and yet thoughts and doubts, questions and specula-
tions, crowded in upon her. Lady Mary Danton was
her mother! She was the woman who had come into
Jim's flat. There was a tap at the door and she started.


234 BLUE HAND
Was it Digby Groat? Digby who had brought her
here?
"Come in," she said faintly.
The door opened but the visitor did not enter, and
she saw standing on the little landing, a woman in
black, heavily veiled, who beckoned to her to follow.
She rose unsteadily and moved toward her.
"Where are we going?" she asked, and then, "Thank
you, thank you a thousand times, for all you are doing
forme!"
The woman made no reply, but walked down the
stairs, and Eunice went after her.
It was a dark night; rain was falling heavily and
the mews was deserted except for the taxicab which
was drawn up at the door. The woman opened the
door of the cab and followed Eunice into its dark in-
terior.
"You must not ask questions," she whispered.
"There is a hood to your coat. Pull it over your
head."
What did it mean, Eunice wondered.
She was safe, but why were they going out of Lon-
don? Perhaps Jim awaited her at the end of the jour-
ney and the danger was greater than she had imagined.
Whither had Digby Groat gone, and how had this
mysterious woman in black got him out of the way?
She put her hand to her head. She must wait. She
must have patience. All would be revealed to her in
good time—and she would see Jim!
The two people who were interested in the departure
of the eleven forty-five train for the north, did not
think it was unusual to see a girl in evening dress,
accompanied by a woman in mourning, take their


BLUE HAND 235
places in a reserved compartment. It was a train very
popular with those visitors to London who wanted to
see a theater before they left and the detective who
was watching on the departure platform, scrutinizing
every man who was accompanied by a woman, gave no
attention to the girl in evening dress and, as they
thought, her mother. Perhaps if she had not been so
attired, they might have looked more closely—Digby
Groat was a great student of human nature.
Lady Mary, in her restlessness, had come to Euston
to supplement the watch of the detectives, and had
passed every carriage and its occupants under review-
just before Eunice had taken her seat.
"Sit in the corner," whispered the "woman," "and
do not look at the platform. I am afraid Groat will
be on the look out for me."
The girl obeyed and Lady Mary, walking back see-
ing the young girl in evening dress, whose face was
hidden from her, never dreamt of making any closer
inspection. The detective strolled along the platform
with her towards the entrance.
"I am afraid there will be no more trains to-night,
my lady," said the bearded officer, and she nodded.
"I should think they've left by motor-car."
"Every road is watched now," said Lady Mary
quietly, "and it is impossible for them to get out of
London by road."
At the moment the train, with a shill whistle, began
to move slowly out of the station.
"May I look now?" said Eunice, and the "woman"
in black nodded.
Eunice turned her head to the platform and then
with a cry, started up.


236 BLUE HAND
"Why, why," she cried wildly, "there is Mrs. Fane—
Lady Mary, my mother!"
Another instant, and she was dragged back to her
seat and a hateful voice hissed in her ear:
"Sit down!"
The "woman" in black snapped down the blind and
raised "her" veil.
But Eunice knew that it was Digby Groat before she
saw the yellow face of the man.


CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
THE recognition had been mutual. Lady Mary
had seen that white face, those staring eyes,
for a second, and then the train had rolled
quickly past her, leaving her momentarily paralyzed.
"There, there!" she gasped pointing. "Stop the
train!"
The detective looked round. There was no official
in sight, and he tore back to the barriers, followed by
Lady Mary. He could discover nobody with authority
to act.
"I'll find the station master," he cried, "can you tele-
phone anywhere?"
There was a telephone booth within a few yards and
her first thought was of Jim.
Jim was sitting in his room, his head in his hands,
when the telephone bell rang, and he went listlessly
to answer the call. It was Lady Mary speaking.
"Eunice is on the northern train that has just left
the station," she said speaking rapidly. "We are try-
ing to stop it at Willesden, but I am afraid it will be
impossible. Oh, for God's sake do something, Jim!"
"On the northern train?" he gasped. "How long
has it left?"
"A few seconds ago. . . ."
He dropped the receiver, threw open the door and
ran downstairs. In that moment his decision had been
taken. Like a flash there had come back to his mind
237


238 BLUE HAND
a sunny afternoon when, with Eunice at his side, he
had watched a daring little boy pulling himself across
the lines by the telegraph wire which crossed the rail-
way from one side to the other. He darted into the
courtyard and as he mounted the wall he heard the
rumble and roar of the train in the tunnel.
It would be moving slowly because the gradient was
a stiff one. From which tunnel would it emerge?
There were two black openings and it might be from
either. He must risk that, he thought, and reaching
up for a telegraph wire, swung himself over the cop-
ing. The wires would be strong enough to hold a boy.
Would they support him? He felt them sagging and
heard an ominous creak from the post which was in
the courtyard, but he must risk that too. Hand over
hand he went, and presently he saw with consterna-
tion the gleam of a light from the further tunnel. In
frantic haste he pulled himself across. There was no
time for caution. The engine, laboring heavily, had
passed before he came above the line. Now he was
over the white-topped carriages, and his legs were
curled up to avoid contact with them. He let go and
dropped on his foot. The movement of the carriage
threw him down and he all but fell over the ?ide, but
gripping to a ventilator, he managed to scramble to his
knees.
As he did so he saw the danger ahead. The train
was runnning into a second tunnel. He had only time
to throw himself flat on the carriage, before he was all
but suffocated by the sulphur fumes which filled the
tunnel. He was on the right train, he was certain of
that, as he lay gasping and coughing, but it would need


BLUE HAND 239
all his strength to hold himself in position when the
driver began to work up speed.
He realized, when they came out again into the open,
that it was raining and raining heavily. In a few
minutes he was wet through, but he clung grimly to
his perilous hold. Would Lady Mary succeed in stop-
ping the train at Willesden? The answer came when
they flashed through that junction, gathering speed at
every minute.
The carriages rocked left and right and the ram-
splashed roofs were as smooth as glass. It was only
by twining his legs about one ventilator and holding on
to the other, that he succeeded in retaining his hold at
all. But it was for her sake. For the sake of the
woman he loved, he told himself, when utter weari-
ness almost forced him to release his grip. Faster
and faster grew the speed of the train and now in addi-
tion to the misery the stinging rain caused him, he was
bombarded by flying cinders and sparks from the en-
gine.
His coat was smoldering in a dozen places, in spite
of its sodden condition, his eyes were grimed and
smarting with the dust which the rain washed into them
and the agony of the attacks of cramp which were
becoming more and more frequent, was almost unen-
durable. But he held on as the train roared through
the night, dashing through little wayside stations, div-
ing into smoky tunnels, and all the time rocking left
and right, so that it seemed miraculous that it was able
to keep the rails.
It seemed a century before there came from the dark-
ness ahead a bewildering tangle of red and green lights.


240 BLUE HAND
They were reaching Rugby and the train was already
slowing. Suddenly it stopped with unusual sudden-
ness and Jim was jerked from his hold. He made a
wild claw at the nearest ventilator, but he missed his
hold and fell with a thud down a steep bank, rolling
over and over . . . another second, and he fell with a
splash into water.
The journey had been one of terror for Eunice Dan-
ton. She understood now the trick that had been
played upon her. Digby Groat had known she would
never leave willingly and had feared to use his dope
lest her appearance betrayed him. He had guessed
that in his disguise of the woman in black, she would
obey him instantly and now she began to understand
why he had chosen evening dress for her.
"Where are you taking me?" she asked.
He had drawn the blinds of the carriage and was
smoking a cigarette.
"If I had known you would ask that question," he
said sarcastically, "I would have had a guide book pre-
pared. As it is, you must possess your soul in pa-
tience, and wait until you discover your destination."
There was only one carriage on the train which was
not a corridor car, and Digby had carefully chosen
that for his reservation. It was a local car that would
be detached at Rugby, as he knew, and the possibility
of an interruption was remote. Once or twice he had
looked up to the ceiling and frowned. The girl, who
had caught a scratching sound as though somebody
was crawling along the roof of the carriage, watched
him as he pulled down the window and thrust out head
and shoulders. He drew in immediately, his face wet
with rain.


BLUEHAND 241
"It is a filthy night," he said as he pulled down the
blinds again. "Now, Eunice, be a sensible girl. There
are worse things that could happen to you than to
marry me."
"I should like to know what they are," said Eunice
calmly. The effect of the drug had almost worn off
and she was near to her normal self.
"I have told you before," said Digby, puffing a
ring of smoke to the ceiling, "that if your imagination
will not supply you with a worse alternative, you are
a singularly stupid young person, and you are not
stupid," he stopped. Suddenly he changed his tone
and throwing the cigarette on to the ground, he came
over to her and sat by her side. "I want you, Eunice,"
he said, his voice trembling and his eyes like fiery
stars. "Don't you understand I want you? That you
are necessary to me. I couldn't live without you now.
I would sooner see you dead and myself dead, too,
than hand you to Jim Steele, or any other man." His
arm was about her, his face so close to hers that she
could feel his quick breath upon her cheek. "You
understand?" he said in a low voice. "I would sooner
see you dead. That is an alternative for you to pon-
der on."
"There are worse things than death."
"I'm glad you recognize that," said Digby, recover-
ing his self-possession with a laugh. He must not
frighten her at this stage of the flight. The real diffi-
culties of the journey were not yet passed.
As to Eunice, she was thinking quickly. The train
must stop soon, she thought, and though he kill her,
she would appeal for help. She hated him now, with
a loathing beyond description; seeing in him the ugly


242 BLUEHAND
reality, her soul shrank in horror from the prospect
he had opened up to her. His real alternative she
knew and understood only too well. It was not death
—that would be merciful and final. His plan was to
degrade her so that she would never again hold up her
head, nor meet Jim's tender eyes. So that she would,
in desperation, agree to marriage to save her name
from disgrace, and her children from shame.
She feared him more now in his grotesque woman
garb, with that smile of his playing upon his thin lips,
than when he had held her in his arms, and his hot
kisses rained on her face. It was the brain behind
those dark eyes, the cool, calculating brain that had
planned her abduction with such minute care, that she
had never dreamt she was being duped—this was what
terrified her. What scheme had he evolved to escape
from Rugby, where he must know the station officials
would be looking for him?
Lady Mary had seen her and recognized her and
would have telegraphed to the officials to search the
train. The thought of Lady Mary started a new line
of speculation. Her mother! That beautiful woman
of whom she had been jealous. A smile dawned on her
face, a smile of sheer joy and happiness, and Digbj*
Groat, watching her, wondered what was the cause.
She puzzled him more than he puzzled her.
"What are you smiling at?" he asked curiously, and
as she looked at him the smile faded from her face.
"You are thinking that you will be rescued at Rugby,"
he bantered.
"Rugby," she said quickly. "Is that where the
train stops?" and he grinned.
"You're the most surprising person. You are con-


BLUE HAND 243
stantly trapping me into giving you information," he
mocked her. "Yes, the train will stop at Rugby."
He looked at his watch and she heard him utter an
exclamation. "We are nearly there," he said, and then
he took from the little silk bag he carried in his role of
an elderly woman, a small black case, and at the sight
of it Eunice shrank back.
"Not that, not that," she begged. "Please don't do
that."
He looked at her.
"Will you swear that you will not make any attempt
to scream or cry out so that you will attract attention?"
"Yes, yes," she said eagerly. "I will promise you."
She could promise that with safety, for if the people
on the platform did not recognize her, her case was
hopeless.
"I will take the risk," he said. "I am probably a
fool, but I trust you. If you betray me, you will not
live to witness the success of your plans, my friend."


CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
SHE breathed more freely when she saw the little
black case dropped into the bag, and then the
speed of the train suddenly slackened and
stopped with such a violent jerk that she was almost
thrown from the seat.
"Is there an accident?"
"I don't think so," said Digby showing his teeth
mirthlessly. He had adjusted his wig and his bonnet
and now he was letting down the window and looking
out into the night. There came to his ears a sound of
voices up the line and a vista of signal lamps. He
turned to the girl as he opened the door.
"Come along," he commanded sharply and she stood
aghast.
"We are not in the platform."
"Come out quickly," he snarled. "Remember you
promised."
With difficulty she lowered herself in the darkness
and his arm supported her as she dropped to the per-
manent way. Still clutching her arm they stumbled
and slid down the steep embankment and came pres-
ently to a field of high grass. Her shoes and stockings
were sodden by the rain which was falling more
heavily than ever, and she could scarcely keep her
feet, but the hand that gripped her arm did not relax,
nor did its owner hesitate. He seemed to know the
way they were going, though to the girl it was impos-
sible to see a yard before her.
244


BLUE HAND 245
The pitiless rain soaked her through and through
before she had half crossed the field. She heard Digby
curse as he caught his foot in his skirt, and at any
other time she might have laughed, at the picture she
conjured up of this debonair man, in his woman's dress.
But now she was too terrified to be even amused.
But she had that courage which goes with great fear:
the soul courage which rises superior to the weakness
of the Sesh.
Once Digby stopped and listened. He heard noth-
ing but the patter of the rain and the silvery splash of
the water as it ran from the bushes. He sank on his
knees and looked along the ground, striving to get a
skyline, but the railway embankment made it impos-
sible. The train was moving on when the girl looked
back, and she wondered why it had stopped so provi-
dentially at that spot.
"I could have sworn I heard somebody squelching
through the mud," said Digby. "Come along, there
is the car."'
She caught the faint glimmer of a light and immedi-
ately afterwards they left the rough and soggy fields,
and reached the hard road, where walking was some-
thing more of a pleasure.
The girl had lost one shoe in her progress and now
she kicked off the other. It was no protection from
the rain for the thin sole was soaked through, so that
it was more comfortable walking in her stockinged
feet.
The distance they had traversed was not far. They
came from the side lane on to the main road, where a
dosed car was standing, and Digby hustled her in,
saying a few low words to the driver, and followed her.


246 BLUE HAND
"Phew, this cursed rain," he said, and added with
a laugh, "I ought not to complain. It has been a
very good friend to me."
Suddenly there was a gleam of light in the car. He
had switched on a small electric lamp.
"Where are your shoes?" he demanded.
"I left them in the field," she said.
"Damn you, why did you do that?" he demanded
angrily. "You think you were leaving a clue for your
lover, I suppose?"
"Don't be unreasonable, Mr. Groat. They weren't
my shoes, so they couldn't be very much of a clue for
him. They were wet through and as I had lost one,
I kicked off the other."
He did not reply to this, but sat huddled in a corner
of the car, as it ran along the dark country road.
They must have been traveling for a quarter of an
hour, when the car stopped before a small house and
Digby jumped out. She would have followed him, but
he stopped her.
"I will carry you," he said.
"It is not necessary," Eunice replied coldly.
"It is very necessary to me," he interrupted her.
"I don't want the marks of your stockinged feet show-
ing on the roadside."
He lifted her in his arms; it would have been foolish
of her to have made resistance, and she suffered con-
tact with him until he set her down in a stone passage
in a house that smelt damp and musty.
"Is there a fire here?" he spoke over his shoulders
to the chauffeur.
"Yes, in the back room. I thought maybe you'd
want one, boss."


BLUE HAND 247
"Light another," said Digby. He pushed open the
door and the blaze from the fire was the only light in
the room.
Presently the driver brought in an ofl motor-lamp.
In its rays Digby was a ludicrous spectacle. His gray
wig was soaked and clinging to his face; his dress was
thick with mud, and his light shoes were in as deplor-
able a condition as the girl's had been.
She was in very little better case, but she did not
trouble to think about herself and her appearance.
She was cold and shivering and crept nearer to the
fire, extending her chilled hands to the blaze.
Digby went out. She beard him still speaking in
his low mumbling voice, but the man who replied was
obviously not the chauffeur, though his voice seemed
to have a faintly familiar ring. She wondered where
she had heard it before, and after a while she identi-
fied its possessor. It was the voice of the man whom
she and Jim had met coming down the steps of the
house in Grosverior Square.
Presently Digby came back carrying a suit case.
'•It is lucky for you. my friend, that I intended
you should change your clothes here." he said as he
threw the case down. '"You will find everything in
there you require."
He pointed to a bed which was in the corner of the
room.
"We have no towels, but if you care to forego your
night's sleep, or sleep in blankets, you can use tlie
sheets to dry yourself," he said.
"Your care for me is almost touching." she said
scornfully and he smiled.
"I like you when you are like that," he sai<


248 BLUEHAND
admiration. "It is the spirit in you and the devil in
you that appeal to me. If you were one of those pul-
ing, whining misses, all shocks and shivers, I would
have been done with you a long time ago. It is be-
cause I want to break that infernal pride of yours and
because you offer me a contest that you stand apart
from, and above, all other women."
She made no reply to this, and waited until he had
gone out of the room before she looked for some means
of securing the door. The only method apparently
was to place a chair under the door-knob, and this she
did, undressing quickly and utilizing the sheet as
Digby had suggested.
The windows were shuttered and barred. The room
itself, except for the bed and the chair, was unfur-
nished and dilapidated. The paper was hanging in
folds from the damp walls and the under part of the
grate was filled with the ashes of fires that had burnt
years before and the smell of decay almost nauseated
her.
Was there any chance of escape, she wondered?
She tried the shuttered window, but found the bars
were so thick that it was impossible to wrench them
from their sockets without the aid of a hammer. She
did not dream that they would leave the door un-
guarded, but it was worth trying, and she waited until
the house seemed quiet before she made her attempt.
Stepping out into the dark passage, she almost trod
on the hand of Villa, who was lying asleep in the
passage. He was awake instantly.
"Do you want anything, Miss?" he asked.
"Nothing," she replied, and went back to the room.


BLUE HAND 249
It was useless, useless, she thought bitterly, and she
must wait to see what the morrow brought forth.
Her principal hope lay in her—her mother. How
difficult that word was to say! How much more dim-
cult to associate a name, the mention of which brought
up the picture of the pleasant-faced woman who had
been all that a mother could be to her in South Africa,
with that gracious lady she had seen in Jim Steele's
flat!
She lay down, not intending to sleep, but the warmth
of the room and her owu tiredness, made her doze.
It seemed she had not slept more than a few minutes
when she woke to find Villa standing by her side with a
huge cup of cocoa in his hand.
"I'm sorry I can't give you tea, miss," he said.
"What time is it?" she asked in surprise.
"Five o'clock. The rain has stopped and it is a
good morning for flying."
"For flying?" she repeated in amazement.
"For flying," said Villa, enjoying the sensation he
had created. "You are going a little journey by aero-
plane."


CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
JIM STEELE had had as narrow an escape from
death as he had experienced in the whole course
of his adventurous life. It was not a river into
which he tumbled, but a deep pool, the bottom of which
was a yard thick with viscid mud in which his feet and
legs were held as by hidden hands.
Struggle as he did, he could not release their grip,
and he was on the point of suffocation when his groping
hands found a branch of a tree which, growing on the
edge of the pond, had drooped one branch until its
end was under water. With the strength of despair,
he gripped, and drew himself up by sheer force of
muscle. He had enough strength left to drag himself
to the edge of the pond, and there he lay, oblivious to
the rain, panting and fighting for his breath.
In the old days of the war, his comrades of the Scout
Squadron used to tick off his lives on a special chart
which was kept in the messroom. He had exhausted
the nine lives with which they had credited him, when
the war ended, and all further risk seemed at an end.
"There go two more!" he gasped to himself. His
words must have been inspired, for as he drew himself
painfully to his bruised knees, he heard a voice not a
dozen yards away and thanked God again. It was
Digby Groat speaking.
"Keep close to my side," said Digby.
"I will," muttered Jim and walked cautiously in
the direction where he had heard the voice, but there


JtfLUE HAND 251
was nobody in sight. The train which had been sta-
tionary on the embankment above—he had forgotten
the train—began to move, and in the rumble of its
wheels, any sound might well be drowned.
He increased his pace, but still he did not catch sight
of the two people he was tracking. Presently he heard
footsteps on a roadway, but only of a man.
They had reached better going than the field, thought
Jim, and moved over in the same direction. He found
the lane and as he heard the footsteps receding at the
far end. he ran lightly forward hoping to overtake them
before they reached the car, the red rear-light of which
he could see. The wheels were moving as he reached
the open road and he felt for his revolver. If he could
burst the rear tires he could hold them. Jim was a
deadly shot. Once, twice, he pressed the trigger, but
there was no more than a "click," as the hammer struck
the sodden cartridge, and before he could extract the
dud and replace it, the car was out of range.
He was aching in every limb. His arms and legs
were cramped painfully but he was not deterred.
Putting the useless pistol in his pocket, he stepped off
at a jog trot, following in the wake of the car.
He was a magnificent athlete and he had, too, the
intangible gift of class, that imponderable quality
which distinguishes the great race horse from the
merely good. It served a triple purpose, this exer-
cise. It freed the cramped muscles, it warmed his
chilled body and it cleared the mind. He had not
been running for ten minutes before he had forgotten
that within the space of an hour he had nearly been
hurled to death from the roof of a train and had all but
choked to death in the muddy depths of a pond.


252 BLUE HAND
On, on, without either slackening or increasing his
pace, the same steady lop-lopping stride that had
broken the heart of the Oxford crack when he had
brought victory to the light blue side at Queen's Park.
It was half-an-hour before he came in sight of the
car, and he felt well rewarded, although he had scarcely
glimpsed it before it had moved on again.
Why had it stopped, he wondered, checking his pace
to a walk. It may have been tire trouble. On the
other hand they might have stopped at a house, one
of Digby Groat's numerous depots through the
country.
He saw the house at last and went forward with
greater caution, as he heard a man's voice asking the
time.
He did not recognize either Villa nor Bronson, for
though he had heard Villa speak, he had no very keen
recollection of the fact. "What to do?" murmured
Jim.
The house was easily approachable, but to rush in
with a defective revolver, would help neither him nor
the girl. If that infernal pond had not been there!
He groaned in the spirit. That he was wise in his
caution he was soon to discover. Suddenly a man
loomed up before him and Jim stopped dead on the
road. The man's back was toward him and he was
smoking as he walked up and down taking his consti-
tutional, for the rain had suddenly ceased. He passed
so close as he turned back, that had he stretched out
his hand toward the bushes under which Jim was
crouching, he would not have failed to touch him:
In a little while a low voice called:
"Bronson!"


BLUE HAND 253
"Bronson!" thought Jim. "I must remember that
name!"
The man turned and walked quickly back to the
house, and the two talked in a tone so low that not a
syllable reached Jim.
At the risk of discovery he must hear more, and
crept up to the house. There was a tiny porch before
the door and under this the two men were standing.
"I will sleep in the passage," said the deep-throated
Villa. "You can take the other room if you like.-'
"Not me," said the man called Bronson. 'Td rathei
stand by the machine all night. I don't want to sleep
anyway."
"What machine?" wondered Jim. "Was there an
other motor-car here?"
"Will the boss get there to-night?" asked Villa.
"I can't tell you, Mr. Villa," replied Bronson. "Hf
might not, of course, but if there are no obstacles,
he'll be at the Hall before daybreak. It is not a ver>
good road."
At the Hall! In a flash it dawned upon Jim.
Ken net t Hall! The pile of buildings which Mrs.
Weatherwale had pointed out to him as the one-tinx
ancestral home of the Dantons. What a fool he hue!
been not to remember that place when they were dis-
cussing the possible shelters that Digby Groat might
use.
Both Villa and Bronson were smoking now and the
fragrance of the former man's cigar came to the envi-
ous Jim.
"She won't give any trouble, will she, Mr. Villa?"
asked Bronson.
"Trouble?" Villa laughed. "Not she. She'll be


254 BLUE HAND
frightened to death. I don't suppose she's ever been
in an aeroplane before."
So that was the machine. Jim's eyes danced. An
aeroplane . . . where? He strained his eyes to be-
yond the house but it was too dark to distinguish any-
thing.
"Nothing funny will happen to that machine of
yours in the rain?"
"Oh no," said Bronson. "I have put the sheet over
the engines. I have frequently kept her out ail night."
Then you're a bad man, thought Jim, to whom an
aeroplane was a living, palpitating thing. So Eunice
was there and they were going to take her by aeroplane
somewhere. What should he do? There was time for
him to go back to Rugby and inform the police, but—
"Where is Fuentes?" asked Bronson. "Mr. G. said
he would be here."
"He's along the Rugby Road," replied Villa. "I
gave him a signal pistol to let us know in case they
send a police car after us. If you aren't going to bed,
Bronson, I will, and you can wait out here and keep
your eye open for any danger."
Fuentes was in it, too, and his plan to get back to
Rugby would not work. Nevertheless, the watchful
Fuentes had allowed Jim to pass, though it was likely
that he was nearer to Rugby than the place where he
had come out on to the road. They might not get
the girl away on the machine in the darkness, but who
knows what orders Digby Groat had left for her dis-
posal in case a rescue was attempted? He decided to
wait near, hoping against hope that a policeman cyclist
would pass.
Villa struck a match to start a new cigar and in its


BLUE HAND 2SS
light Jim had a momentary glimpse of the two men.
Bronson was in regulation air-kit. A leather coat
reached to his hips, his legs were encased in leather
breeches and top-boots. He was about his height,
Jim thought, as an idea took shape in his mind. What
an end to that adventure! Jim came as near to being
excited as ever he had been in his life.
Presently Villa yawned.
"I'm going to lie down in the passage, and if that
dame comes out, she's going to have a shock," he said.
"Good-night. Wake me at half-past four."
Bronson grunted something and continued his
perambulations up and down the road. Ten minutes
passed, a quarter-of-an-hour, half-an-hour, and the
only sound was the dripping of the rain from the trees,
and the distant clatter and rumble of the trains as they
passed through Rugby.
To the north were the white lights of the railway
sidings and workshops, to the west, the faint glow in
the sky marked the position of a town. Jim pulled
his useless pistol from his pocket and stepped on to the
roadway, crouching down, so that when he did rise,
he seemed to the astonished Bronson to have sprung
out of the ground. Something cold and hard was
pushed under the spy's nose.
"If you make a sound, you son of a thief," said
Jim, "I'll blow your face offl Do you understand
that?"
"Yes," muttered the man, shivering with fright.
Jim's left hand gripped his collar. The autocode
pistol under his nose was all too obvious, and F&XC
Bronson, a fearful man for whom the air alone had
no terror, was cowed and beaten.


54 B L U E H La
rightened to death. I don't sl.
an aeroplane before.”
So that was the machine. Ji-
Śroplane . . . where? He stra
2nd the house but it was too da -
ling.
“Nothing funny will happen
ours in the rain?” -
“Oh no,” said Bronson. “I ha- -
e engines. I have frequently ke Iº
Then you're a bad man, thoug-
roplane was a living, palpitatir-e- -
is there and they were going to t- - -
mewhere. What should he do?
m to go back to Rugby and infº = . . -
“Where is Fuentes?” asked Brºc' ºr "f
would be here.” - > ---
“He’s along the Rugby Road - I –
ve him a signal pistol to let “F* r" -
nd a police car after us. If you ~ * * -
ronson, I will, and }. can wait rº-
jur eye open for any danger: . . Tº =
F º in it, too, and his + º- Tºl -*.
ugby would not work. Nevert*: I- ~~
uentes had allowed Jim to Pasº, ++**
at he was nearer to Rugby than El 2–~"
ad come out on to the road.
me girl away on the machine in this ºf . 1
nows what orders Digby Groat rº == z*- 1
osal in case a rescue was attempt ** --.
ait near, hoping against hope tha- t _-ſ
ould pass.
Villa struck a match to start a r" ...ear
+.
Who

* the
3t

- *-
-- - - -
= -
* --
– ºhm


H A N D 257
--> of cold,” Bronson's teeth
--- ardonic Jim, “I shall send
- not born to die of cold in
- - rp jerk to your cervical
SOn.
said Jim, “and if you
giving you lectures on
goods, you have made
--
*_
-----
- -
-
-
-
- -
-
! " - - - - - - - -
- -- -
" - - -
* > - -
- - - -
" * - ** - -
T- - - ------ *-
* -- ºr


256 BLLfi HAND
"Where is the bus?" asked Jim in a whisper.
"In the field behind the house," the man answered
in the same tone. "What are you going to do? Who
are you? How did you get past"
"Don't ask so many questions," said Jim, "lead the
way—not that way," as the man turned to pass the
house.
"I shall have to climb the fence if I don't go that
way," said Bronson sullenly.
"Then climb it," said Jim, "it will do you good, you
lazy devil!"
They walked across the field, and presently Jim saw
a graceful outline against the dark sky.
"Now take off your clothes," he said peremptorily.
"What do you mean?" demanded the startled Bron-
son. "I can't undress here!"
"I'm sorry to shock your modesty, but that is just
what you are going to do," said Jim, "and it will be
easier to undress you alive than to undress you dead, as
I know from my sorrowful experience in France."
Reluctantly Bronson stripped his leather coat.
"Don't drop it on the grass," said Jim, "I want
something dry to wear."
In the darkness Bronson utilized an opportunity
that he had already considered. His hand stole
stealthily to the hip pocket of his leather breeches, but
before it closed on its objective, Jim had gripped it
and spun him round, for Jim possessed other qualities
of the cat besides its lives.
"Let me see that lethal weapon. Good," said Jim
and flung his own to the grass. "I am afraid mine is
slightly damaged, but I'll swear that yours is in good
trim. Now, off with those leggings and boots."


BLUEHAND 257
"I shall catch my death of cold," Bronson's teeth
were chattering.
"In which case," said the sardonic Jim, "I shall send
a wreath, but I fear you are not born to die of cold in
the head, but of a short sharp jerk to your cervical
vertebra."
"What is that?" asked Bronson.
"It is German for neck," said Jim, "and if you
think I am going to stand here giving you lectures on
anatomy whilst you deliver the goods, you have made
a mistake—«trip!"


CHAPTER FORTY
UNDER menace of Jim Steele's pistol, Mr. Bron-
son stripped and shivered. The morning was
raw and the clothes that Jim in his mercy
handed to the man to change were not very dry. Bron-
son said as much, but evoked no sympathy from Jim.
He stood shivering and shaking in the wet clothes,
whilst his captor strapped his wrists behind.
"Just like they do when they hang you," said Jim
to cheer him up. "Now, my lad, I think this hand-
kerchief round your mouth and a nearly dry spot
under a hedge is all that is required to make the end
of a perfect night."
"You're damned funny," growled Bronson in a fury,
"but one of these days"
"Don't make me sing," said Jim, "or you'll be
sorry."
He found him a spot under a hedge, which was fairly
dry and sheltered from observation, and there he en-
tertained his guest until the gray in the sky warned
him that it was time to wake Villa.
Mr. Villa woke with a curse.
"Come in and have some cocoa."
"Bring it out here," said Jim. He heard the man
fumbling with the lock of the door and raised his pistol.
Something inside Jim Steele whispered:
"Put that pistol away," and he obeyed the impulse,
as with profit he had obeyed a hundred others.
358


BLUEHAND 259
Men who fight in the air and who win their battles
in the great spaces of the heavens, are favored with
instincts which are denied to the other mortals who
walk the earth.
He had time to slip the pistol in his pocket and pull
the goggles down over his eyes, before the door opened
and Villa sleepily surveyed him in the half-light.
"Hullo, you're ready to fly, are you?" he said with a
guffaw. "Well, I shan't keep you long."
Jim strolled away from the house, pacing the road
as Bronson had done the night before.
What had made him put the pistol away, he won-
dered? He took it out furtively and slipped the cover.
It was unloaded!
He heard the man calling.
"Put it down," he said, when he saw the cup in his
hand.
He drank the cocoa at a gulp, and making his way
across the field to the aeroplane, he pulled off the water-
proof cover, tested the engine and pulled over the prop.
Eunice had swallowed the hot cocoa and was waiting
when Villa came in. What the day would bring forth
she could only guess. Evidently there was some rea-
son why Digby Groat should not wait for her and
amongst the many theories she had formed was one
that he had gone on in order to lead his pursuers from
her track. She felt better now than she had done since
she left the house in Grosvenor Square, for the effect
of the drug had completely gone, save for a tiredness
which made walking a wearisome business. Her mind
was clear and the demoralizing tearfulness which the
presence of Digby evoked had altogether dissipated.
"Now, young miss, are you ready?" asked Vflla.


260 BLUEHAND
He was, at any rate. He wore a heavy coat and upon
his head was a skin cap. This with his hairy face and
his broad stumpy figure gave him the appearance of a
Russian in winter attire. Why did he wrap himself
up so on a warm morning, she wondered? He carried
another heavy coat in his hand and held it up for her
to put on.
"Hurry up, I can't wait for you all day. Get that
coat on."
She obeyed.
"I am ready," she said coldly.
"Now, my dear, step lively!"
Jim, who had taken his place in the pilot's seat heard
Villa's deep voice and looking round saw the woman
he loved.
She looked divinely beautiful by the side of that
squat, bearded man who was holding her forearm and
urging her forward.
"Now, up with you."
He pushed her roughly into one of the two seats be-
hind the pilot, and Jim dared not trust himself to look
back.
"I'll swing the prop, for you, Bronson," said Villa,
making his way to the propeller, and Jim, whose face
was almost covered by the huge, fur-lined goggles,
nodded. The engine started with a splutter and a
roar and Jim slowed it.
"Strap the lady," he shouted above the sound of
the engine, and Villa nodded and climbed into the
fuselage with extraordinary agility for a man of his
build.
Jim waited until the broad strap was buckled about
the girl's waist, and then he let out the engine to its


BLUE HAND 261
top speed. It was ideal ground for taking off, and the
plane ran smoothly across the grass, faster and faster
with every second. And then with a touch of the
lever, Jim set the elevator down and the girl suddenly
realized that the bumping had stopped and all con-
scious motion had ceased. The scout had taken the
air.
*****
Eunice had never flown in an aeroplane before, and
for a moment she forgot her perilous position in the
fascination of her new and wonderful experience. The
machine did not seem to leave the earth. Rather it
appeared as though the earth suddenly receded from
the aeroplane and was sinking slowly away from them.
She had a wonderful feeling of exhilaration as the
powerful scout shot through the air at a hundred miles
an hour, rising higher and higher as it circled above the
field it had left, a maneuver which set Villa wondering,
for Bronson should have known the way back to Ken-
nett Hall without bothering to find his landmark.
But Bronson so far from being at the wheel, at that
moment was lying bound hands and feet beneath a bush
in the field below, and had Villa looked carefully
through his field glasses, he would not have failed to
see the figure of the man wearing Jim's muddy clothes.
Villa could not suspect that the pilot was Jim Steele,
the airman whose exploits in the abstract he had ad-
mired, but whose life he would not at this moment have
hesitated to take.
"It is lovely!" gasped Eunice, but her voice was
drowned in the deafening thunder of the engines.
They were soaring in great circles and above were
floating the scarfs of mist that trailed their raveled


262 BLUEHAND
edges to the sun which tinted them so that it seemed
to her the sky's clear blue was laced with golden tissue.
And beneath she saw a world of wonder; here was
spread a marvelous mosaic, green and brown and gray,
each little pattern rigidly denned by darkened lines,
fence and hedge and wall. She saw the blood red
roof of house and the spread of silver lakes irregular
in shape, and to her eye like gouts of mercury that
some enormous hand had shaken haphazard on the
earth.
"Glorious!" her lips said, but the man who sat be-
side her had no eye for the beauty of the scene.
Communication between the pilot and his passengers
was only possible through the little telephone, the re-
ceiver of which Jim had mechanically strapped to his
ear, and after a while he heard Villa's voice asking:
"What are you waiting for? You know the way?"
Jim nodded.
He knew the way back to London just as soon as he
saw the railway.
The girl looked down in wonder on the huge checker
board intercepted by tiny white and blue ribbons.
They must be roads, and canals, she decided, and
those little green and brown patches were the fields
and the pastures of Warwickshire. How glorious it
was on this early summer morning, to be soaring
through the cloud-wisps that flecked the sky, wrack
from the storm that had passed over-night. And
how amazingly soothing was the loneliness of wings!
She felt aloof from the world and all its meanness.
Digby Groat was no more than that black speck she
could see, seemingly stationary on the white tape of
a road. She knew that speck was a man and he was


BLUEHAND 263
walking. And within that circle alone was love and
hate, desire and sacrifice.
Then her attention was directed to Villa. He was
red in the face and shouting something into the tele-
phone receiver, something she could not hear, for the
noise of the engines was deafening.
She saw the pilot nod and turn to the right and the
movement seemed to satisfy Villa, for he sank back
in his seat.
Little by little, the nose of the aeroplane came back
to the south, and for a long time Villa did not realize
the fact. It was the sight of the town which he rec-
ognized, that brought the receiver of the telephone to
his lips.
"Keep to the right, damn you, Bronson. Have you
lost your sense of direction?"
Jim nodded, and again the machine banked over,
only to return gradually to the southerly course, but
now Villa, who had detected the maneuver, was alert.
"What is wrong with you, Bronson?" and Jim heard
the menace in his voice.
"Nothing, only I am avoiding a bad air current," he
answered and exaggerated as the voice was by the tele-
phone, Villa did not dream that it was anybody but
Bronson who was speaking.
Jim kept a steady course westward, and all the time
he was wondering where his destination was supposed
to have been. He was a raving lunatic, he thought,
not to have questioned Bronson before he left him,
but it had never occurred to him that his ignorance on
the subject would present any difficulties.
He was making for London, and to London he in-
tended going. That had been his plan from the first,


264 BLUEHAND
and now, without disguise, he banked left, accelerated
his engines and the scout literally leapt forward.
"Are you mad?" It was Villa's voice in his ear,
and he made no reply, and then the voice sank
to a hiss: "Obey my instructions or we crash to-
gether!"
The barrel of an automatic was resting on his shoul-
der. He looked round, and at that moment Eunice
recognized him and gave a cry.
Villa shot a swift glance at her, and then leapt for-
ward and jerked at Jim's shoulders, bringing his head
round.
"Steelel" he roared and this time the pistol was
under Jim's ear. "You obey my instructions, do you
hear?"
Jim nodded.
"Go right, pick up Oxford and keep it to your left
until I tell you to land."
There was nothing for it now but to obey. But Jim,
did not fear. Had the man allowed him to reach Lon-
don it might have been well for all parties. As Villa
was taking an aggressive line, and had apparently
recognized him, there could be only one end to this
adventure, pistol or no pistol. He half twisted in his
narrow seat, and looked back to Eunice with an encour-
aging smile, and the look he saw in her eyes amply
repaid him for all the discomfort he had suffered.
But it was not to look at her eyes that he had turned.
His glance lingered for a while on her waist, and then
on the waist of Villa, and he saw all that he wanted
to know. He must wait until the man put his pistol
away—at present Villa held the ugly looking automatic
in his hand. They passed over Oxford, a blur of gray


BLUEHAND 265
and green, for a mist lay upon the city, making it diffi-
cult to pick out the buildings.
Soon Jim's attention was directed elsewhere. One
of his engines had begun to miss and he suspected
water was in the cylinder. Still, he might keep the
machine going for a while. A direction was roared
in his ear, and he bore a little more west. It seemed
that the engine difficulty had been overcome, for she
was running sweetly. Again he glanced back. The
pistol was tucked in the breast of Villa's leather jacket,
and probably would remain there till the end of the
journey. To wait any longer would be madness.
Eunice watching the scene below in a whirl of won-
der, suddenly felt the nose of the aeroplane dive down,
as though it were aiming directly for earth. She ex-
perienced no sense of fear, only a startled wonder, for
as suddenly the nose of the aeroplane came up again
with a rush and the sky seemed to turn topsy-turvy.
There was a tremendous strain at the leather belt
about her waist, and looking "down" she found she
was staring at the sky! Then she was dimly con-
scious of some commotion on her right and shut her
eyes in instinctive apprehension. When she opened
them again, Villa was gone! Jim had looped the loop,
and unprepared for this form of attack, Villa, who was
not secured to the machine, had lost his balance and
fallen. Down, down, the tiny fly shape twirled and
rolled with outstretched arms and legs, tragically comic
in its grotesqueness. . . .
Jim turned his head away and this time swung com-
pletely round to the girl, and she saw his lips move
and his eyes glance at the telephone which the man
had left.


266 BLUEHAND
She picked up the mouthpiece with trembling hands.
Something dreadful had happened. She dare not look
down, she would have fainted if she had made the
attempt.
"What has happened?" she asked in a quavering
voice.
"Villa has parachuted to the ground," lied Jim sooth-
ingly. "Don't worry about him. He's not in any
danger—in this world," he added under his breath.
"But, Jim, how did you come here?"
"I'll have to explain that later," he shouted back,
"my engine is misbehaving."
This time the trouble was much more serious, and
he knew that the journey to London he had contem-
plated would be too dangerous to attempt. He was
not at sufficient height to command any ground he
might choose, and he began to search the countryside
for a likely landing. Ahead of him, fifteen miles away,
was a broad expanse of green, and a pin-point flicker
of white caught his eye. It must be an aerodrome, he
thought, and the white was the ground signal showing
the direction of the winds. He must reach that haven,
though had he been alone, he would not have hesitated
to land on one of the small fields beneath him.
Here the country is cut up into smaller pastures than
in any other part of England, and to land on one of
those fields with high hedges, stiff and stout stone
walls would mean the risk of a crash, and that was a
risk he did not care to take.
As he drew nearer to the green expanse, he saw that
he had not been mistaken. The sheet was obviously
planted for the purpose of signaling and a rough at-
tempt had been made to form an arrow. He shut off


8LUEHAND 267
his engines and began to glide down and the wheels
touched the earth so lightly that Eunice did not realize
that the flight was ended.
"Oh it was wonderful, Jim," she cried as soon as she
could make herself heard, "but what happened to that
poor man? Did you"
There was a flippant reply on Jim's lips, but when
he saw the white face and the sorrowful eyes, he de-
cided it was not a moment for flippancy. He who had
seen so many better men than Villa die in the high
execution of their duty, was not distressed by the pass-
ing of a blackguard who would have killed him and
the girl without mercy.
He lifted Eunice and felt her shaking under the coat
she wore. And so they met again in these strange
circumstances, after the parting which she had thought
was final. They spoke no word to one another. He
did not kiss her, nor did she want that evidence of his
love. His very presence, the grip of his hands, each
was a dear caress which the meeting of lips could not
enhance.
"There's a house here," said Jim recovering his
breath. "I must take you there and then go and tele-
graph dear old Salter."
He put his arm about her shoulder and slowly they
walked across the grasses gemmed with wild flowers.
Knee-deep they paced through the wondrous meadow-
land, and the scent of the red earth was incense to the
benediction which had fallen on them.
"This house doesn't seem to be occupied," said Jim,
"and it is a big one, too."
He led the way along a broad terrace and they came
to the front of the building. The door stood open and


268 BLUEHAND
there the invitation ended. Jim looked into a big
dreary barn of a hall, uncarpeted and neglected.
"I wonder what place this is," said Jim puzzled.
He opened a door that led from the hall to the left.
The room into which he walked was unfurnished and
bore the same evidence of decay as the hall had shown.
He crossed the floor and entered a second room, with
no other result. Then he found a passage way.
"Is anybody here?" he called, and turned immedi-
ately. He thought he heard a cry from Eunice, whom
he had left outside on the terrace admiring the beauty
of the Somerset landscape. "Was that you, Eunice?"
he shouted and his voice reverberated through the silent
house.
There was no reply. He returned quickly by the
way he had come, but when he reached the terrace
Eunice was gone! He ran to the end, thinking she
had strolled back to the machine, but there was no
sign of her. He called her again, at the top of his
voice, but only the echoes answered. Perhaps she had
gone into the other room. He opened the front door
and again stepped in.
As he did so Xavier Silva crept from the room on
the left and poised his loaded cane. Jim heard the
swish of the stick and half turning took the blow short
on his shoulder. For a second he was staggered and
then driving left and right to the face of the man he
sent him spinning.
Before he could turn, the noose of a rope dropped
over his head and he was jerked to the ground fighting
for breath.


CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
WHILST Jim had been making his search of the
deserted house, Eunice had strolled to the
edge of the terrace, and leaning on the
broken balustrade, was drinking in the beauty of the
scene. Thin wraiths of mist still lingered in the pur-
ple shadows of the woods and lay like finest muslin in
the hollows. In the still air the blue gray smoke of
the cottagers' fires showed above the tree tops, and the
sun had touched the surface of a stream that wound
through a distant valley, so that it showed as a thread
of bubbling gold amidst the verdant green.
Somebody touched her gently on the shoulder. She
thought it was Jim.
"Isn't it lovely, Jim?"
"Very lovely, but not half as lovely as you, my dear."
She could have collapsed at the voice. Swinging
round she came face to face with Digby Groat, and
uttered a little cry.
"If you want to save Steele's life," said Digby in a
low, urgent tone, "you will not cry out, you under-
stand?"
She nodded.
He put his arm round her shoulder and she shivered,
but it was no caress he offered. He was guiding her
swiftly into the house. He swung open a door and
pushing her through, followed.
There was a man in the room, a tall, dour man, who
held a rope in his hand.
269


270 BLUE HAND
"Wait, Masters," whispered Digby. "We'll get him
as he comes back." He had heard the footsteps of
Jim in the hall and then suddenly there was a scuffle.
Eunice opened her lips to cry a warning, but Digby's
hand covered her mouth and his face was against her
ear.
"Remember what I told you," he whispered.
There was a shout outside; it was from Xavier, and
Masters dashed out ahead of his employer. Jim's
back was turned to the open door, and Digby signaled.
Immediately the rope slipped round Jim's neck and he
was pulled breathlessly to the ground, his face grew
purple and his hands were tearing at the cruel noose.
They might have choked him then and there, but that
Eunice, who had stood for a moment paralyzed, flew
out of the room, and thrusting Masters aside, knelt
down and with her own trembling hands released the
noose about her lover's neck.
"You beasts, you beasts!" she cried, her eyes flash-
ing her hate.
In an instant Digby was on her and had lifted her
clear.
"Rope him," he said laconically and gave his atten-
tion to the struggling girl. For now Eunice was no
longer quiescent. She fought with all her might, strik-
ing at his face with her hands, striving madly to free
herself of his grip.
"You little devil!" he cried breathlessly, when he
had secured her wrists and had thrust her against the
wall. There was an ugly red mark where her nails
had caught his face, but in his eyes there was nothing
but admiration.
"That is how I like you best," he breathed. "My


BLUE HAND 271
dear, I have never regretted my choice of you! I
regret it least at this moment!"
"Release my hands!" she stormed. She was panting
painfully and judging that she was incapable of fur-
ther mischief, he obeyed.
"Where have you taken Jim? What have you done
with him?" she asked, her wide eyes fixed on his.
There was no fear in them now. He had told her that
he had seen the devil in her. Now it was fully aroused.
"We have taken your young friend to a place of
safety," said Digby. "What happened this morning,
Eunice?"
She made no reply.
"Where is Villa?"
Still she did not answer.
"Very good," he said, "if you won't speak, I'll find
a. way of making your young man very valuable."
"You'd make him speak!" she said scornfully.
"You don't know the man you're dealing with. I
don't think you've ever met that type in the drawing-
rooms you visited during the war. The real men were
away in France, Digby Groat. They were running
the risks you shirked, facing the dangers you feared.
If you think you can make Jim Steele talk, go along
and try!"
"You don't know what you're saying," he said, white
to the lips, for her calculated insult had touched him on
the raw. "I can make him scream for mercy."
She shook her head.
"You judge all men by yourself," she said, "and
all women by the poor little shop-girls you have broken
for your amusement."
"Do you kndw what you're saying?'' he said, quiver-


272 BLUEHAND
ing with rage. "You seem to forget that I am—-—"
"I forget what you arel" she scoffed. The color
had come back to her face and her eyes were bright
with anger. "You're a half-breed, a man of no coun-
try and no class, and you have all the attributes of a
half-breed. Digby Groat, a threatener of women and
an assassin of men, a thief who employs other thieves
to take the risks whilst he takes the lion's share of the
loot. A quack experimenter, who knows enough of
medicines to drug women and enough of surgery to tor-
ture animals—I have no doubt about you!"
For a long time he could not speak. She had in-
sulted him beyond forgiveness, and with an uncanny
instinct had discovered just the things to say that
would hurt him most.
"Put out your hands," he almost yelled, and she
obeyed, watching him contemptuously as he bound
them together with the cravat which he had torn from
his neck.
He took her by the shoulders, and pushing her feet
from her urgently, sat her in a corner.
"I'll come back and deal with you, my lady," he
growled.
Outside in the hall Masters was waiting for him and
the big uncouth man was evidently troubled.
"Where have you put him?"
"In the east wing, in the old butler's rooms," he said,
ill-at-ease. "Mr. Groat, isn't this a bad business?"
"What do you mean, bad business?" snarled Digby.
"I've never been mixed up in this kind of thing be-
fore," said Masters. "Isn't there a chance that they
will have the law on us?"


BLUEHAND 273
"Don't you worry, you'll be well paid," snapped his
employer, and was going away when the man detained
him.
"Being well paid won't keep me out of prison, if this
is a prison job," he said. "I come of respectable peo-
ple, and I've never been in trouble all my life. I'm
well-known in the country, and although I'm not very
popular in the village, yet nobody can point to me and
say that I've done a prison job."
"You're a fool." said Digby, glad to have someone to
vent his rage upon. "Haven't I told you that this man
has been trying to run off with my wife?"
"You didn't say anything about her being your wife,"
said Masters, shaking his head and looking suspiciously
at the other, "and besides, she's got no wedding ring.
That's the first thing I noticed. And that foreign man
hadn't any right to strike with his cane—it might have
killed him."
"Now look here, Masters," said Digby, controlling
himself, for it was necessary that the man should be
humored, "don't trouble your head about affairs that
you can't understand. I tell you this man Steele is a
scoundrel who has run away with my wife and has
stolen a lot of money. My wife is not quite normal,
and I am taking her away for a voyage . . ." he
checked himself. "Anyway, Steele is a scoundrel," he
said.
"Then why not hand him over to the police," said the
uneasy Masters, "and bring him before the justices?
That seems to me the best thing to do, Mr. Groat.
You're going to get a bad name if it comes out that you
treated this gentleman as roughly as you did."


274 BLUE HAND
"I didn't treat him roughly," said Digby coolly, "and
it was you who slipped the rope round his neck."
'•rtried to get it over his shoulders.' explained Mas-
ters hastily, ''besides, you told me to do it."
''You'd have to prove that," said Digby, knowing
that he was on the right track. "Xow listen to me,
Masters. The only person who has committed any
crime so far has been you!"
"Me?" gasped the man. ''I only carried out youi
orders."
"You'd have to prove that before your precious jus-
tices.'' said Digby with a laugh and dropped his hand
on the man's shoulder, a piece of familiarity which
came strangely to Masters, who had never known his
employer in such an amiable mood. "Go along and
get some food ready for the young lady," he said, "and
if there is any trouble, IT! see that you get clear of it.
And here.'' he put his hand in his pocket and took out
a wad of notes, picked two of them out and pressed
them into the man's hand. "They are twenty-pound
bank-notes, my boy. and don't forget it and try to
change them as fivers. Xow hurry along and get your
wife to find some refreshment for the young 'ady."
"I don't know what my wife's going to say about it,"
grumbled the man. "when I tell her"
"TeD her nothing," said Digby sharply. "Damn
YOU, don't you understand plain English?"
At three o'clock that afternoon a hired car brought
two passengers before the ornamental gate of Rennett
Hall, and the occupants, failing to secure admission,
climbed the high wall and came trudging up toward
the house.


BLUE HAND 275
Digfay saw them from a distance and went down to
meet the bedraggled Bronson and the dark-skinned
Spaniard who was his companion. They met at the
end of the drive, and Bronson and his master, speaking
together, made the same inquiry in identical terms:
"Where is Vffla?"


CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
THE room into which Jim was thrust differed
little from those chambers he had already
seen, save that it was smaller. The floor
boards were broken and there were holes in the wains-
cot which he understood long before he heard the scam-
per of the rats' feet.
He was trussed like a fowl, his hands were so tightly
corded together that he could not move them and his
ankles roped so that it was next to impossible to lever
himself to his feet.
"What a life!" said Jim philosophically, and pre-
pared himself for a long, long wait.
He did not doubt that Digby would leave immedi-
ately, and Jim faced the prospect of being left alone in
the house, to make his escape or die. He was fully
determined not to die, and already his busy mind had
evolved a plan which he would put into execution as
soon as he knew he was not under observation.
But Digby remained in the house, as he was to learn.
An hour passed, and then the door was snapped open
and Digby came in, followed by a man at the sight of
whom Jim grinned. It was Bronson, looking ludicrous
in Jim's clothes, which were two sizes too large for him.
"They discovered you, did they, Bronson?" he
chuckled. "Well, here am I as you were, and pres-
ently somebody will discover me and then I shall be
calling on you in Dartmoor some time this year, to see
how you are getting along. Nice place, Dartmoor, anf
276


BLUEHAND 277
the best part of the prison is Block B. Central heat-
ing, gas, hot water laid on, and every modern con-
venience except tennis"
"Where is Villa?" asked Digby.
"I don't know for a fact," said Jim pleasantly, "but
I can guess."
"Where is he?" roared Bronson, his face purple with
rage.
Jim smiled, and in another minute the man's open
hand had struck him across the face, but still Jim
smiled, though there was something in his eyes that
made Bronson quail.
"Now, Steele, there's no sense in your refusing to
answer," said Digby. "We want to know what you
have done with Villa? Where is he?"
"In hell," said Jim calmly. "I'm not a whale on
theology, Groat, but if men are punished according to
their deserts, then undoubtedly your jovial pal is in the
place where the bad men go and there is little or no
flying."
"Do you mean that he is dead?" asked Digby
"I should think he is," said Jim carefully.
were over five thousand feet when I looped the
from sheer happiness at finding myself once again -
a joy-stick in my hand, and I don't think your
Villa had taken certain elementary precautions,
any rate, when I looked round, where was Villa-
was flying through the air on his own, Groat, am
experience is that when a man starts flying witnccr
machine, the possibility of making a good'
fairly remote."
"You killed him," said Bronson betweet JSL
"damn you!"


278 BLUE HAND
"Shut up,'0 snapped Digby. "We know what we
want to know. Where did you throw him out?"
"Somewhere around," said Jim carelessly. "I chose
a deserted spot. I should have hated it if he had hurt
anybody when he fell."
Digby went out of the room without a word, and
locked the door behind him, and did not speak until he
was back in the room where he had left Villa less than
a week before. He shuddered as he thought of the
man's dreadful end.
The two Spaniards were there, and they had busi-
ness which could not be postponed. Digby had hoped
they would rely on his promise and wait until he had
reached a place of safety before they insisted on a
share-out, but they were not inclined to place too high
a value upon their chief's word. Their share was a
large one, and Digby hated the thought of paying them
off, but it had to be done. He had still a considerable
fortune. No share had gone to the other members of
the gang.
"What are your plans?" asked Xavier Silva.
"I'm going to Canada," replied Digby. "You may
watch the agony columns of the newspapers for my ad-
dress."
The Spaniard grinned.
"I shall be watching for something more interesting,"
he said, "for my friend and I are returning to Spain.
And Bronson, does he go with you?"
Digby nodded.
It was necessary, now that Villa had gone, to take
the airman into his confidence. He had intended leav-
ing his shadow in the lurch, a fact which Bronson did
not suspect. He sent the two men into the grounds


BLUEHAND 279
to give the machine an examination, and Jim, sitting
in his room, heard the noise of the engine and struggled
desperately to free his hands. If he could only get up
to his feet! All his efforts must be concentrated upon
that attempt.
Presently the noise ceased; Xavier Silva was a clever
mechanic, and he had detected that something was
wrong with one of the cylinders.
"Tuning up!" murmured Jim.
So he had more time than he had hoped for.
He heard a step on the stone terrace, and through
the window caught a glimpse of Bronson passing.
Digby had sent the man into the village to make judi-
cious inquiries as to Villa's fate.
Curiously enough, the three men who had watched
the approaching aeroplane from the terrace of Kennett
Hall, had been unconscious of Villa's doom, although
they were witnesses of the act. They had seen the loop
in the sky and Digby had thought no more than that
Bronson was showing off to the girl, and had cursed him
roundly for his folly. Villa's body must be near at
hand. How near, Bronson was to discover at the vil-
lage inn.
After the man had left, Digby went to look at his
second prisoner, and found her walking up and down
the room into which she had been put for safety.
"Did you like your aeroplane journey, Eunice?" he
asked blandly.
She did not reply.
"Rather thrilling and exciting, wasn't it? And were
you a witness to the murder of my friend Villa?"
She looked up at him.
"I don't remember that your friend Villa was mar-


280 BLUE HAND
dered," she said, ready to defend Jim of any charge
that this man might trump up against him.
He read her thoughts.
"Don't worry about Mr. Steek," he said drily. "I
am not charging him with murder. In fact, I have no
time. I am leaving to-morrow night as soon as it is
dark, and you are coming with me by aeroplane."
She did not answer this.
"I am hoping that you won't mind a brief emersion
in the sea." be said. ''I cannot guarantee that we can
land on my yacht."
She turned round. On his yacht! That, then was
the plan. She was to be carried off to a yacht, and
the yacht was to take her—where?
There was a clatter of feet in the outer room and
he opened the door. One glance at Bronson's face toW
him that he had important news.
"Well?" he asked sharply.
"They've found Villa's body. I saw a reporter at
the inn," said the man breathlessly.
"Do they know who it is?" asked Digby. and Bran-
son nodded.
"What?" asked Digby startled. "They know his
name is Villa?''
Again the man nodded.
"They found a paper in his pocket, a receipt for the
sale of a yacht," be said, and through the open door-
way. Eunice saw the man shrink back.
"Then they know about the yacht!"
The news confounded him and shook him from his
calm. If the police knew about the yacht his diffi-
culties became all but insuperable, and the danger


BLUE HAND 281
which threatened him loomed up like a monstrous,
overwhelm ing shape. Digfay Groat was not built to
meet such stunning emergencies and he went all to
pieces under the shock.
Eunice watching him through the open door saw his
pitiable collapse. In a second he had changed from
the cool, self-possessed man who had sneered at danger
into a babbling, fretful child who cursed and wrung his
hands, issuing incoherent orders only to countermand
them before his messenger had left the room.
"Kill Steek!" he screamed. "Kfll him, Branson.
Damn him—no. no. slay! Get the machine ready . . .
we leave to-night."
He turned to the girl, glaring at her.
"We leave to-night, Eunice! To-night you and I
wfll settle accounts!"


CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
HER heart sank and it came to her, with terrify-
ing force, that her great trial was near at
hand. She had taunted Digby with his cow-
ardice, but she knew that he would show no mercy to
her, and unwillingly she had played into his hands by
admitting that she knew she was the heiress to the Dan-
ton fortune and that she had known his character, and
yet had elected to stay in his house.
The door was slammed and locked, and she was left
alone. Later she heard for the second time the splutter
and crash of the aeroplane's engines as the Spaniard
tuned them up.
She must get away—she must, she must! She
looked round wildly for some means of escape. The
windows were fastened. There was no other door from
the room. Her only hope was Jim, and Jim, she
guessed, was a close prisoner.
Digby lost no time. He dispatched SQva in the car,
telling him to make the coast as quickly as possible,
and to warn the captain of the Pealigo to be ready to re-
ceive him that night. He wrote rapidly a code of sig-
nals. When in sight of the sea Bronson was to fire a
green signal light, to which the yacht must respond. A
boat must be lowered on the shoreward side of the
yacht ready to pick them up. After the messenger had
left he remembered that he had already given the same
orders to the captain, and that it was humanly impos-
sible for the Spaniard to reach the yacht that night.


BLUE HAND 283
Digby had in his calmer moments made other prep-
arations. Two inflated life-belts were taken to the
aeroplane and tested, signal pistols, landing lights, and
other paraphernalia connected with night flying were
stowed in the fuselage. Branson was now fully oc-
cupied with the motor of the aeroplane, for the trouble
had not been wholly eradicated, and Digby Groat paced
up and down the terrace of the house, fuming with im-
patience and sick with fear.
He had not told the girl to prepare, that must be left
to the very last. He did not want another scene. For
the last time he would use his little hypodermic syringe
and the rest would be easy.
Fuentes joined him on the terrace, for Fuentes was
curious for information.
"Do you think that the finding of Villa's body will
bring them after us here?"
"How do I know?" snapped Digby, "and what does
it matter anyway? We shall be gone in an hour."
"You will." said the Spaniard pointedly, "but I
shan't. I have no machine to carry me out of the
country and neither has Xavier, though he is better off
than I am—he has the car. Couldn't you take me?"
"It is utterly impossible." said Digby irritably.
"They won't be here to-night and you needn't worry
yourself. Before the morning you will have put a long
way between you and Kennett Hall."
He spoke in Spanish, the language which the man
was employing, but Fuentes was not impressed.
"What about the man?" He jerked his thumb to th»
west wing, and a thought occurred to Digby.
Could he persuade his hitherto willing slave to cany
out a final instruction?


284 BLUE HAND
"He is your danger," he said. "Do you realize, my
dear Fuentes, that this man can bring us all to destruc-
tion? And nobody knows he is here, except you and
me."
"And that ugly Englishman," corrected Fuentes.
"Masters doesn't know what has happened to him.
We could tell him that he went with us!"
He looked at the other keenly, but Fuentes was pur-
posely stupid.
"Now what do you say, my dear Fuentes," said
Digby, "shall we allow this man to live and give evi-
dence against us, when a little knock on the head would
remove him forever?"
Fuentes turned his dark eyes to Digby's, and he
winked.
"Well, kill him, my dear Groat," he mocked. "Do
not ask me to stay behind and be found with the body,
for I have a wholesome horror of English gaols, and an
unspeakable fear of death."
"Are you afraid?" asked Digby.
"As afraid as you," said the Spaniard. "If you wish
to kill him, by all means do so. And yet, I do not
know that I would allow you to do that," he mused,
"for you would be gone and I should be left. No, no,
we will not interfere with our courageous Englishman.
He is rather a fine fellow."
Digby turned away in disgust.
The "fine fellow" at that moment had, by almost
superhuman effort, raised himself to his feet. It had
required something of the skill of an acrobat and the
suppleness and ingenuity of a contortionist, and it in-
volved supporting himself with his head against the


BLUE HAND 285
wall for a quarter of an hour whilst he brought his feet
to the floor, but he had succeeded.
The day was wearing through and the afternoon was
nearly gone before he had accomplished this result.
His trained ear told him that the aeroplane was now
nearly ready for departure, and once he had caught a
glimpse of Digby wearing a lined leather jacket. But
there was no sign of the girl. As to Eunice, he stead-
fastly kept her out of his thoughts. He needed all his
courage and coolness, and even the thought of her,
which, in spite of his resolution flashed across his mind,
brought him agonizing distress.
He hopped cautiously to the window and listened.
There was no sound and he waited until Bronson—he
guessed it was Bronson—started the engines again.
Then with his elbow he smashed out a pane of glass,
leaving a jagged triangular piece firmly fixed in the
ancient putty. Carefully he lifted up his bound hands,
straining at the rope which connected them with the
bonds about his feet, and which was intended to prevent
his raising his hands higher than the level of his waist
By straining at the rope and standing on tiptoe, he
brought the end of the connecting link across the sharp
jagged edge of the glass. Two strokes, and the rope
was severed. His hands were still bound and to cut
through them without injury to himself was a delicate
operation. Carefully he sawed away and first one and
then the other cord was cut through. His hands were
red and swollen, his wrists had no power until he had
massaged them.
He snapped off the triangular piece of glass and ap-
plied it to the cords about his feet and in a minute he


286 BLUE HAND
was free. Free, but in a locked room. Still, the win-
dow sash should not prove an insuperable obstacle.
There was nothing which he could use as a weapon, but
his handy feet smashed at the frame, only to discover
that they were of iron. Jonathan Danton's father had
had a horror of burglars and all the window frames on
the lower floor had been made in a foundry. The door
was the only egress left and it was too stout to smash.
He listened at the key-hole. There was no sound.
The light was passing from the sky and night was com-
ing on. They would be leaving soon, he guessed, and
grew frantic. Discarding all caution, he kicked at the
panels, but they resisted his heavy boots and then he
heard a sound that almost stopped his heart beating.
A shrill scream from Eunice. Again and again he
flung his weight at the door, but it remained immov-
able, and then came a shout from the ground outside.
He ran to the window and listened.
"They are coming, the police 1".
It was the Spaniard's throbbing voice. He had run
until he was exhausted. Jim saw him stagger past the
window and heard Digby say something to him sharply.
There was a patter of feet and silence.
Jim wiped the sweat from his forehead with the
sleeve of his coat and looked round desperately for some
means of getting out of the room. The fireplace! It
was a big, old-fashioned fire-basket, that stood on four
legs in a yawning gap of chimney. He looked at it; it
was red with rust and it had the appearance of being
fixed, but he lifted it readily. Twice he smashed at
the door and the second time it gave way, and drop-
ping the grate with a crash he flew down the passage out
of the house.


BLUEHAND 287
As he turned the corner he heard the roar of the
aeroplane and above its drone the sound of a shot. He
leapt the balustrade, sped through the garden and came
in sight of the aeroplane as it was speeding from him.
"My God!" said Jim with a groan, for the machine
had left the ground and was zooming steeply up into
the darkening sky.
And then he saw something. From the long grass
near where the machine had been a hand rose feebly
and fell again. He ran across to where he had seen
this strange sight. In a few minutes he was kneeling
by the side of Fuentes. The man was dying. He
knew that long before he had seen the wound in his
breast.
"He shot me, senor," gasped Fuentes, "and I was
his friend. ... I asked him to take me to safety . . .
and he shot me!"
The man was still alive when the police came on the
spot; still alive when Septimus Salter, in his capacity
of Justice of the Peace, took down his dying statement.
"Digby Groat shall hang for this, Steele," said the
lawyer, but Jim made no reply. He had his own idea
as to how Digby Groat would die.


CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
THE lawyer explained his presence without pre-
liminary and Jim listened moodily.
"I came with them myself because I know
the place," said Mr. Salter, looking at Jim anxiously.
"You look ghastly, Steele. Can't you lie down and get
some sleep?"
"I feel that I shall never sleep until I have got my
hand on Digby Groat. What was it you saw in the
paper, tell me again? How did they know it was
Villa?"
"By a receipt in his pocket," replied Salter. "It ap-
pears that Villa, probably acting on behalf of Digby
Groat, had purchased from Maxilla the Brazilian gam-
bler, his yacht, the Pealigo"
Jim uttered a cry.
"That is where he has gone," he said. "Where is
the Pealigo?"
"That I have been trying to find out," replied the
lawyer shaking his head, "but nobody seems to know.
She left Havre a few days ago, but what her destina-
tion was, nobody knows. She has certainly not put in
to any British port so far as we can ascertain. Lloyds
were certain of this, and every ship, whether it is a
yacht, a liner, or a cargo tramp, is reported to Lloyds."
"That is where he has gone," said Jim.
"Then she must be in port," said old Salter eagerly.
"We can telegraph to every likely place"


BLUEHAND 289
Jim interrupted him with a shake of his head.
•• Bronson would land on the water and sink the ma-
chine. It is a very simple matter," he said. "I have
been in the sea many times and there is really no dan-
ger, if you are provided with life-belts, and are not
strapped to the seat. It is foul luck your not coming
before."
He walked wearily from the comfortable parlor of
the inn where the conversation had taken place.
"Do you mind if I am alone for a little while—I
want to think?" he said.
He turned as he was leaving the room.
"In order not to waste time, Mr. Salter," he said
quietly, "have you any influence with the Admiralty?
I want the loan of a seaplane."
Mr. Salter looked thoughtful.
"That can be fixed," he said, "I will get on to the
'phone straight away to the Admiralty and try to get
the First Sea Lord. He will do all that he can to
help us."
Whilst the lawyer telephoned, Jim made a hasty
meal. The pace had told on him and despair was in
his heart.
The knowledge that Digby Groat would eventually
be brought to justice did not comfort him. If Eunice
bad only been spared he would have been content to
see Digby make his escape and would not have raised
his hand to stop him going. He would have been
happy even if in getting away the man had been suc-
cessful in carrying off the girl's fortune. But Eunice
was in his wicked hands and the thought of it was un-
endurable
He was invited by the local police-sergeant to step


290 BLUEHAND
across to the little lock-up to interview the man Mas-
ters who was under arrest, and as Mr. Salter had not
finished telephoning he crossed the village street and
found the dour man in a condition of abject misery.
"I knew he'd bring me into this," be wailed, "and
me with a wife and three children and not so much as a
poaching case against me! Can't you speak a word
for me, sir?:'
Jim's sense of humor was never wholly smothered
and the cool request amused him.
"I can only say that you tried to strangle me," he
said. "I doubt whether that good word will be of
much service to you."
"I swear I didn't mean to," pleaded the man. "He
told me to put the rope round your shoulders and it
slipped. How was I to know that the lady wasn't
his wife who'd run away with you?"
"So that is the story he told you?" said Jim.
"Yes. sir," the man said eagerly. "I pointed out
to Mr. Groat that the lady hadn't a wedding-ring, but
he said that he was married all right and he was taking
her to sea"
"To sea?"
Masters nodded.
"That's what he said, sir—he said she wasn't right
in her bead and the sea voyage would do her a lot of
good."
Jim questioned him closely without getting any
further information. Masters knew nothing of the
steamer on which Digby and his '"wife" were to sail,
or the port at which be would embark.
Outside the police-station Jim interviewed the ser-
geam


B L U E H AN ID 291
“I don’t think this man was any more than a dupe
of Groat's,” he said, “and I certainly have no charge
to make against him.”
The sergeant shook his head.
“We must hold him until we have had the inquest
on the Spaniard,” he said, and then, gloomily, “To
think that I had a big case like this right under my
nose and hadn’t the sense to see it!”
Jim Smiled a little sadly.
“We have all had the case under our noses, sergeant,
and we have been blinder than you!”
>k × >k >k sk
The threat of a renewed dose of the drug had been
sufficient to make Eunice acquiescent. Resistance, she
knew, was useless. Digby could easily overpower her
for long enough to jab his devilish needle into her arm.
She had struggled at first and had screamed at the
first prick from the needle point. It was that scream
Jim had heard. -
“I’ll go with you; I promise you I will not give yo
any trouble,” she said. “Please don't use that dread-
ful thing again.” -
Time was pressing and it would be easier to make his
escape if the girl did not resist than if she gave him
trouble.
The propeller was ticking slowly round when they
climbed into the fuselage.
“There is room for me, señor. There must be room
for me!”
Digby looked down into the distorted face of the
Spaniard who had come running after him.


292 BLUE HAND
'There is no room for you, Fuentes," he said. "I
have told you before. You must get away as well as
you can."
"I am going with you!"
To Digby's horror, the man clung desperately to the
side of the fuselage. Every moment was increasing
their peril, and in a frenzy he whipped out his pistol.
"Let go," he hissed, "or 111 kill you," but still the
man held on.
There were voices coming from the lower path and,
in his panic, Digby fired. He saw the man crumple
and fall and yelled to Bronson:
"Go, go!"
Eunice, a horrified spectator, could only stare at
the thing which had been Digby Groat, for the change
which had come over him was extraordinary. He
seemed to have shrunk in stature. His face was
twisted, like a man who had had a stroke of paralysis.
She thought this was the case, but slowly he began to
recover.
He had killed a man! The horror of this act was
upon him. the fear of the consequence which would
follow, overwhelmed him and drove him into a momen-
tary frenzy. He had killed a man! He could have
shrieked at the thought. He. who had so carefully
guarded himself against punishment, who had ma-
neuvered his associates into danger, whilst he himself
stood in a safe place, was now a fugitive from a jus-
tice which would not rest until it had laid him by the
beeL
And she had seen him. she. the woman at his side,
and would go into the box and testify against him'
And they would hang him! In that brick-lined pit


BLUE HAND 293
of which Jim Steele had spoken. AD these thoughts
Sashed through his mind in a second, even before the
machine left the ground, but with the rush of cold air
and the inevitable exhilaration of flight, he began to
think calmly again.


CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
BRONSON had killed him, that was the comfort
ing defense. Bronson, who was now guiding
him to safety, and who would, if necessary, give
his life for him. Bronson should bear the onus of that
act.
They were well up now, and the engines were a
smooth "b'r'rl" of sound. A night wind was blowing
and the plane rocked from side to side. It made the
girl feel a little sick, but she commanded her brain to
grow accustomed to the motion, and after a while, the
feeling of nausea wore off.
They could see the sea now. The flashing signals
of the lighthouses came from left and right. Bristol,
a tangle of fiery spots, lay to their left, and there were
tiny gleams of light on the river and estuary.
They skirted the northern slope of the Bristol Chan-
nel and headed west, following the coastline. Pres-
ently the machine turned due south, leaving behind
them the land and its girdle of lights. Twenty min-
utes later Bronson fired his signal pistol. A ball of
brilliant green fire curved up and down and almost
immediately, from the sea, came an answering signal.
Digby strapped the girl's life-belt tighter, and saw to
the fastening of his own.
"Fix my belt." It was Bronson shouting through
the telephone, and Digby, leaning forward, fastened the
life-belt about the pilot's waist. He fastened it care-


BLUEHAND 295
fully and added a stout strap, tying the loose end of
the leather in a knot.
Down went the machine in a long glide toward the
light which still burnt, and now the girl could see the
outlines of the graceful yacht and the green and red
lights it showed.
They made a circle, coming lower and lower every
second, until they were spinning about the yacht not
more than a dozen feet from the sea. Bronson shut
off his engines and brought the machine upon the water,
less than fifty feet from the waiting boat.
Instantly the aeroplane sank under them, leaving
them in the sea. It was a strange sensation, thought
the girl, for the water was unusually warm.
She heard a shriek and turned, and then Digby
caught her hand.
"Keep close to me," he said in a whimpering voice;
"you might be lost in the darkness."
She knew that he was thinking of himself. A light
flared from the oncoming boat, and she looked round.
In spite of herself, she asked:
"Where is the man?"
Bronson was nowhere in sight. Digby did not
trouble to turn his head or answer. He reached up
and gripped the gunwale of the boat and in a minute
Eunice was lifted out of the water. She found her-
self in a small cutter which was manned by brown-
faced men, whom she thought at first'were Japanese.
"Where is Bronson?" she asked again in a panic,
but Digby did not reply. He sat immovable, avoiding
her eyes, and she could have shrieked her horror.
Bronson had gone down with the aeroplane! The
strap which Digby had fastened about his waist, he had


296 BLUEHAND
cunningly attached to the seat itself, and had fastened
it so that it was impossible for the pilot to escape.
He was the first up the gangway on to the white
deck «rf the yacht, and turning, he offered his hand to
her.
"Welcome to the Pealigo," he said in his mocking
voice.
Then it was not fear that had kept him silent. She
could only look at him.
"Welcome to the Pealigo, my little bride," he said,
and she knew that the man who had not hesitated to
murder his two comrades in cold blood, would have no
mercy on her.
A white-coated stewardess came forward, and said
something in a language which Eunice did not under-
stand. She gathered that the woman was deputed
to show her the way to the cabin. Glad to be free
from the association of Digby, she passed down the
companion-way, through a lobby paneled in rosewood,
into a cabin, the luxury of which struck her, even
though her nerves were shattered, and she was incap-
able of taking an interest in anything outside the ter-
rible fact that she was alone on a yacht with Digby
Groat.
Extravagance had run riot here, and the Brazilian
must have lavished a fortune in the decoration and ap-
pointments.
The saloon ran the width of the ship and was as
deep as it was broad. Light was admitted from port-
holes cunningly designed, so that they had the appear-
ance of old-fashioned casement windows. A great
divan, covered in silk, ran the length of the cabin on
one side, whilst the other was occupied by a silver


BLUE HAND 297
bedstead, hung with rose silk curtains. Rose-shaded
lights supplied the illumination, and the lamps were
fashioned like torches and were held by beautiful classi-
cal figures, placed in niches about the room.
She came to the conclusion that it was a woman's
room and wondered if there were any other women on
board but the stewardess. She asked that woman,
but apparently she knew no English, and the few words
in Spanish which she had learnt did not serve her to
any extent.
The suite was complete, she discovered, for behind
the heavy silken curtains at the far end of the cabin
there was a door which gave to a small sitting-room
and a bath-room. It must be a woman's. In truth,
it was designed especially by Senor Maxilla for his own
comfort.
Lying on the bed was a complete change of clothing.
It was brand new and complete to the last detail.
Digby Groat could be very thorough.
She dismissed the woman, and bolting the door, made
a complete change, for the third time since she had left
Grosvenor Square.
The boat was under way now. She could feel the
throb of its engines, and the slight motion that it made
in the choppy sea. The Pealigo was one of the best
sea boats afloat, and certainly one of the fastest yachts
in commission.
She had finished her changing when a knock came
at the door and she opened it to find Digby standing
on the mat.
"You had better come and have some dinner," he
said.
He was quite his old self and whatever emotions bad


298 BLUEHAND
disturbed him were now completely under control.
She shrank back and tried to close the door, but
now he was not standing on ceremony. Grasping her
arm roughly he dragged her out into the passage.
"You're going to behave yourself while you're on
this ship," he said. "I'm master here, and there is
no especial reason why I should show you any polite-
ness."
"You brute, you beast!" she flamed at him and he
smiled.
"Don't think that because you're a woman it is go-
ing to save you anything in the way of punishment," he
warned her. "Now be sensible and come along to the
dining saloon."
"I don't want to eat," she said.
"You will come into the dining saloon whether you
want to or not."
The saloon was empty save for the two and a dark-
skinned waiter, and, like her own cabin, it was gor-
geously decorated, a veritable palace in miniature, with
its dangling electrolier, its flowers, and its marble man-
telpiece at the far end.
The table was laid with a delicious meal, but Eunice
felt she would choke if she took a morsel.
"Eat," said Digby, attacking the soup which had
been placed before him.
She shook her head.
"If you don't," and his eyes narrowed, "if you don't,
my good soul, I will find a way of making you eat," he
said. "Remember," he put his hand in his pocket,
pulled out the hateful little black case (it was wet, she
noticed) and laid it on the table, "at any rate, you will
be obedient enough when I use thisl"


BLUEHAND 299
She picked up her spoon meekly and began to eat
the soup, and he watched her with an amused smile.
She was surprised to find how hungry she was, and
made no attempt to deny the chicken en casserole,
nor the sweet that followed, but resolutely she refused
to touch the wine that the steward poured out for her,
and Digby did not press her.
"You're a fool, you know, Eunice." Digby lit a
cigar without asking permission, and leaning back in
his chair, looked at her critically. "There is a won-
derful life ahead for you if you are only intelligent.
Why worry about a man like Steele? A poor beggar,
without a penny in the world"
"You forget that I have no need of money, Mr.
Groat," she said with spirit. Any reference to Jim
aroused all that was savage in her. "I have not only
the money which you have not stolen from my estate,
but when you are arrested and in prison, I shall recover
all that you have now, including this yacht, if it is
yours."
Her answer made him chuckle.
"I like spirit," he said. "You can't annoy me,
Eunice, my darling. So you like our yacht—our
honeymoon yacht?" he added.
To this she made no reply.
"But suppose you realized how much I love you,"
he leant over and caught her hand in both of his and
his eyes devoured her. "Suppose you realize that,
Eunice, and knew I would give my life—my very
soul—to make you happy, wouldn't that make a dif-
ference?"
"Nothing would made a difference to my feelings,
Mr. Groat," she said. "The only chance you have of


300 BLUE HAND
earning my gratitude is to put in at the nearest port
and set me ashore."
"And where do I set myself?" he asked coolly. "Be
as intelligent as you are beautiful, Eunice. No, no,
I shall be very glad to make you happy so long as I
get a little of the happiness myself, but I do not risk
imprisonment and death "he shivered, and hated
himself that he had been surprised into this symptom
of fear, and hated her worse for having noticed it.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"We are bound for South America," said Digby,
"and it may interest you to learn that we are following
a track which is not usually taken by the South Ameri-
can traffic. We shall skirt Ireland and take what the
mariners call the western ocean route, until we are
within a thousand miles of Long Island, when we shall
turn due south. By this way we avoid being sighted
by the American ships and we also avoid—" the man
who came in at that moment, Eunice thought must b«
the captain.
He wore three rings of gold about his wrist, but he
was not her ideal of a seaman. Under-sized, lame in
one foot, his parchment face and stiff black hair almost
convinced her that this was a Japanese boat after all.
"You must meet the captain," said Digby, intro-
ducing him, "and you had better make friends with
him."
Eunice thought that the chances of her making
friends with that uncompromising little man were re-
mote.
"What is it, captain?" asked Digby in Portuguese.
"We have just picked up a wireless; I thought you'd
like to see it."


BLUEHAND 301
"I had forgotten we had wireless," said Digby as he
took the message from the man's hand.
It was ill-spelt, having been written by a Brazilian
who had no knowledge of English and had set down the
message letter by letter as he received it. Skipping the
errors of transmission, Digby read:
X
"To all ships westward, southward, and homeward bound.
Keep a sharp lookout for the yacht Pealigo and report by
wireless, position and bearing, to Inspector Rite, Scotland
Yard."
Eunice did not understand what they were talking
about, but she saw a frown settle on Digby's forehead,
and guessed that the news was bad. If it was bad for
him, then it was very good for her, she thought, and
her spirits began to rise.
"You had better go to bed, Eunice," said Digby. "I
want to talk to the captain."
She rose, and only the captain rose with her.
"Sit down," said Digby testily. "You are not here
to do the honors to Mrs. Digby Groat."
She did not hear the last words, for she was out of
the saloon as quickly as she could go. She went back
to her own cabin, shut the door, and put up her hand
to shoot home the bolt, but while she had been at
dinner somebody had been busy. The bolt was re-
moved and the key of the door was gonel


CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
EUNICE started at the door. There was no
mistake. The bolts had recently been re-
moved and the raw wood showed where the
screws had been taken out.
The Pealigo was rolling now, and she had a difficulty
in keeping her balance, but she made her way round
the cabin, gathering chairs, tables, everything that was
movable, and piling them up against the door. She
searched the drawers of the bureau for some weapon
which might have been left by its former occupant, but
there was nothing more formidable than a golden-
backed hair brush which the plutocratic Maxilla had
overlooked.
The bathroom yielded nothing more than a long-
handled brush, whilst her sitting-room made no return
for her search.
She sat watching the door as the hours passed, but
no attempt was made to enter the cabin. A bell rang
at intervals on the deck: she counted eight. It was
midnight. How long would it be before Digby Groat
came?
At that moment a pale-faced Digby Groat, his teeth
chattering, sat in the cabin of the wireless operator,
reading a message which had been picked up. Part
was in code, and evidently addressed to the Admiralty
ships cruising in the vicinity, but the longer message
was in plain English and was addressed:
30?


BLUEHAND 303
"To the chief officers of all ships. To the Commanders
of H.M. ships: to all Justices of the Peace, officers of the
police Great Britain and Ireland. To all Inspectors, sub-
Inspectors of the Royal Irish Constabulary:
"Arrest and detain Digby Groat, height five foot nine,
stoutly built, complexion sallow, had small mustache but
believed to have shaven. Speaks Spanish, French, Portu-
guese, and is a qualified surgeon and physician, believed to
be traveling on the S.Y. Pealigo No. XVM. This man is
wanted on a charge of willful murder and conspiracy; a re-
ward of five thousand pounds will be paid by Messrs. Salter
and Salter, Solicitors, of London, for his arrest and detention.
Believe he has traveling with him, under compulsion,
Dorothy Danton, age 22. Groat is a dangerous man and
carries firearms."
The little captain of the Pealigo took the thin cigar
from his teeth and regarded the gray ash attentively,
though he was also looking at the white-faced man by
the operator's side.
"So you see, senhor," he said suavely, "I am in a
most difficult position."
"I thought you did not speak English," said Digby,
finding his voice at last.
The little captain smiled.
"I read enough English to understand a reward of
five thousand pounds, senhor," he said significantly.
"And if I did not, my wireless operator speaks many
languages, English included, and he would have ex-
plained to me, even if I had not been able to under-
stand the message myself."
Digby looked at him bleakly.
"What are you going to do?" he asked.
"That depends upon what you are going to do," said


304 BLUEHAND
the Brazilian. "I am no traitor to my salt, and I
should like to serve you, but you readily understand
that this would mean a terrible thing for me, if, know-
ing that you were wanted by the English police, I
assisted you to make an escape? I am not a stickler
for small things," he shrugged his shoulders, "and
Senhor Maxilla did much that I closed my eyes to.
Women came into his calculations, but murder never."
"I am not a murderer, I tell you," stormed Digby
vehemently, "and you are under my orders. Do you
understand that?"
He jumped up and stood menacingly above the un-
perturbed Brazilian, and in his hand had appeared an
ugly looking weapon.
"You will carry out my instructions to the letter,
or, by God, you'll know all about itl"
But the captain of the Pealigo had returned to the
contemplation of his cigar. He reminded Digby some-
what of Bronson, and the yellow-faced man shivered
as at an unpleasant thought.
"It is not the first time I have been threatened with
a revolver," said the captain coolly. "Years ago when
I was very young, such things might have frightened
me, but to-day I am not young. I have a family in
Brazil who are very expensive; my pay is small, other-
wise I would not follow the sea and be every man's
dog to kick and bully as he wishes. If I had a hun-
dred thousand pounds, senhor, I should settle down on
a plantation which I have bought and be a happy and
a silent man for the rest of my life."
He emphasized "silent," and Digby understood.
"Couldn't you do that for a little less than a hundred
thousand?" he asked.


BLUEHAND 305
"I have been thinking the matter out very carefully.
We shipmen have plenty of time to think, and that is
the conclusion that I have reached, that a hundred
thousand pounds would make all the difference be-
tween a life of work and a life of ease." He was silent
for a moment and then went on. "That is why I
hesitated about the reward. If the radio had said a
hundred thousand pounds, senhor, I should have been
tempted."
Digby turned on him with a snarl.
"Talk straight, will you?" he said. "You want me
to pay you a hundred thousand pounds, and that is
the price for carrying me to safety; otherwise you will
return to port and give me up."
The captain shrugged his shoulders.
"I said nothing of the sort, senhor," he said. "I
merely mentioned a little private matter in which I
am glad to see you take an interest. Then senhor also
wishes for a happy life in Brazil with the beautiful
lady he brought on board, and the senhor is not a poor
man, and if it is true that the beautiful lady is an heir-
ess, he could be richer."
The operator looked in. He was anxious to come
back to his own cabin, but the captain, with a jerk of
his head, sent him out again.
He dropped his voice to a tone.
"Would it not be possible for me to go to the young
lady and say: 'Miss, you are in great danger, and I too
am in danger of losing my liberty, what would you pay
me to put a sentry outside your door; to place senhor
Digby Groat in irons, in the strong room?' Do you
think she would say a hundred thousand pounds, or
even a half of her fortune, senhor?"


306 BLUE HAND
Digby was silent.
The threat was real and definite. It was not camou-
flaged by any fine phrases; as plainly as the little
Brazilian could state his demands, he had done so.
"Very good." Digby got up from the edge of the
table where he had sat, with downcast eyes, turning
this and that and the other plan over in his mind.
"I'll pay you."
'.'Wait, wait," said the captain. "Because there is
another alternative that I wish to put to you, senhor,"
he said. "Suppose that I am her friend, or pretend to
be, and offer her protection until we reach a port where
she can be landed? Should we not both receive a share
of the great reward?"
"I will not give her up," said Digby between his
teeth. "You can cut that idea out of your head, and
also the notion about putting me in irons. By God, if
I thought you meant it "he glowered at the little
man, and the captain smiled.
"Who means anything in this horrible climate?" he
said lazily. "You will bring the money to-morrow to
my cabin, perhaps—no, no, to-night," he said thought-
fully.
"You can have it to-morrow."
The captain shrugged his shoulders; he did not in-
sist, and Digby was left alone with his thoughts.
There was still a hope; there were two. They could
not prove that he shot Fuentes, and it would be a diffi-
cult matter to pick up the yacht if it followed the course
that the captain had marked for it, and in the mean-
time there was Eunice. His lips twisted, and the color
came into his face. Eunice! He went along the deck
and down the companionway, but there was a man


BLUEHAND 307
standing in the front of the door of the girl's cabin, a
broad-shouldered, brown-faced man, who touched his
cap as the owner appeared, but did not budge.
"Stand out of the way," said Digby impatiently. "I
want to go into that room."
"It is not permitted," said the sailor.
Digby stepped back a pace, crimson with anger.
"Who gave orders that I should not pass?"
"The capitano," said the man.
Digby flew up the companion ladder and went in
search of the captain. He found him on the bridge.
"What is this?" he began, and the captain snapped
something at him in Portuguese, and Digby, looking
ahead, saw a white fan-shaped light stealing along the
sea.
"It is a warship, and she may be engaged in ma-
neuvers," said the captain, "but she may also be look-
ing for us."
He gave an order, and suddenly all the lights on the
ship were extinguished. The Pealigo swung round in
a semicircle and headed back the way she had come.
"We can make a detour and get past her," explained
the captain, and Digby forgot the sentry at the door
in the distress of this new danger.
Left and right wheeled the searchlight, but never
once did it touch the Pealigo. It was searching
for her, though they must have seen her lights, and
now the big white ray was groping at the spot
where the yacht had turned. It missed them by
yards.
"Where are we going?" asked Digby fretfully.
"We are going back for ten miles, and then we'll
strike between the ship and Ireland, which is there."


308 BLUEHAND
He pointed to the horizon, where a splash of light
trembled for a second and was gone.
"We are losing valuable time," said Digby fretfully.
"It is better to lose time than to lose your liberty,"
said the philosophical captain.
Digby clutched the rail and his heart turned to
water, as the searchlight of the warship again swung
round. But fortune was with them. It might, as the
captain said, be only a ship carrying out searchlight
practice, but on the other hand, in view of the wire-
less messages which had been received, it seemed cer-
tain that the cruiser had a special reason for its scru-
tiny.
It was not until they were out of the danger zone
that Digby remembered the mission that had brought
him to the bridge.
"What do you mean by putting a man on guard out-
side that girl's door?" he asked.
The captain had gone to the deckhouse, and was
bending over the table examining an Admiralty chart.
He did not answer until Digby had repeated the ques-
tion, then he looked up and straightened his back.
"The future of the lady is dependent, entirely, on
the fulfillment of your promise, illustrious," he said in
the flamboyant terminology of his motherland.
"But I promised"
"You have not performed."
"Do you doubt my words?" stormed Digby.
"I do not doubt, but I do not understand," said the
captain. "If you will come to my cabin I will settle
with you."
Digby thought a while; his interest in Eunice had
evaporated with the cooling of this new danger, and


BLUE HAND 309
there was no reason why he should settle that night.
Suppose he was captured, the money would be wasted.
It would be useless to him also, but this in his parsi-
monious way, did not influence him.
He went down to his cabin, a smaller and less beau-
tifully furnished one than that occupied by Eunice, and
pulling an armchair to the neat little desk, he sat down
to think matters over. And as the hours passed, his
perspective shifted. Somehow, the danger seemed very
remote, and Eunice was very near, and if any real
danger came, why there would be an end of all things,
Eunice included, and his money would be of no more
value to him than the spray which flapped against the
closed port-hole.
Beneath the bureau was a small, strong safe, and
this he unlocked, taking out the broad money belt
which he had fastened about his waist before he began
the journey. He emptied one bulging pocket, and laid
a wad of bills upon the desk. They were gold bonds
of ten thousand dollar denomination, and he counted
forty, put the remainder back in the pocket from
whence he had taken it, and locked the belt in the safe.
It was half-past five and the gray of the new day
showed through the portholes. He thrust the money
in his pocket and went out to talk to the captain.
He shivered in the chill wind of morning as he
stepped out on the deck and made his way for'ard.
The little Brazilian, a grotesque figure, wrapped in his
overcoat and muffled to the chin, was standing moodily
staring across the gray waste. Without a word Digby
stepped up to him and thrust the bundle of notes into
his hand. The Brazilian looked at the money, counted
it mechanically, and put it into his pocket.


310 BLUE HAND
"Your excellency is munificent," he said.
"Now take your sentry from the door," said Digby
sharply.
"Wait here," said the captain and went below.
He returned in a few minutes.


CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
SHE had heard the tap of her first visitor at one
o'clock in the morning. It had come when
Digby Groat was sitting in his cabin turning
over the possibilities of misfortune which the future
held, and she had thought it was he.
The handle of the door turned and it opened an inch;
beyond that it could not go without a crash, for the
chairs and tables that Eunice had piled against it. She
Watched with a stony face and despair in her heart, as
the opening of the door increased.
"Please do not be afraid," said a voice.
Then it was not Digby! She sprang to her feet.
It might be someone worse, but that was impossi-
ble.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"It is I, the captain," said a voice in labored Eng-
lish.
"What is it you want?"
"I wish to speak to you, mademoiselle, but you must
put away these things from behind the door, otherwise
I will call two of my sailors, and it will be a simple
matter to push them aside."
Already he had pried open the door to the extent
of two or three inches, and with a groan Eunice re-
alized the futility of her barricade. She dragged the
furniture aside and the little captain came in smiling,
hat in hand, closing the door after him.


312 BLUE HAND
"Permit me, mademoiselle," he said politely, and
moved her aside while he replaced the furniture, then
he opened the door and looked out, and Eunice saw
that there was a tall sailor standing with his back to
her, evidently on guard. What did this mean, she
wondered? The captain did not leave her long in ig-
piorance.
"Lady," he said in an accent which it was almost
impossible to reproduce, "I am a poor sailor man
who works at his hazardous calling for two hundred
miserable milreis a month. But because I am poor,
and of humble "he hesitated and used the Portu-
guese word for origin—which she guessed at—"it does
not mean that I am without a heart." He struck
his breast violently. "I have a repugnancio to hurting
female women!"
She was wondering what was coming next: would
he offer to sell his master at a price? If he did, she
would gladly agree, but the new hope which surged up
within her was dissipated by his next words.
"My friend Groat," he said, "is my master. I must
obey his orders, and if he says, 'Go to Callao,' or to
Rio de Janeiro, I must go."
Her hopes sunk, but evidently he had something
more to say.
"As the captain I must do as I am told," he said,
"but I cannot and will not see a female hurted. You
understand?"
She nodded, and the spark of hope kindled afresh.
"I myself cannot be here all the time, nor can my
inconquerable sailors, to see that you are not hurted,
and it would look bad for me if you were hurted—very
bad!"


BLUEHAND 313
Evidently the worthy captain was taking a very far-
sighted view of the situation, and had hit upon a com-
promise which relieved him at least of his responsibility
toward his master.
"If the young lady will take this, remembering that
Jose Montigano was the good friend of hers, I shall be
repaid."
"This," was a silvery weapon. She took the weapon
in her hand with a glad cry.
"Oh thank you, thank you, captain," she said, seiz-
ing his hand.
"Remember," he raised a warning finger. "I cannot
do more. I speak now as man to woman. Presently
I speak as captain to owner. You understand the re-
markable difference?"
He confused her a little but she could guess what he
meant.
He bowed and made his exit, but presently he re-
turned.
"To put the chairs and tables against the door is no
use," he said, shaking his head. "It is better "he
pointed significantly to the revolver, and with a broad
grin closed the door behind him.
Digby Groat knew nothing of this visit: it satisfied
him that the sentry had been withdrawn, and that now
nothing stood between him and the woman whom, in
his distorted, evil way, he loved, but her own frail
strength. He tapped again. It pleased him to ob-
serve these threadbare conventions for the time being,
yet when no answer came to his knock, he opened the
door slowly and walked in.
Eunice was standing at the far end of the cabin;
the silken curtains had been drawn aside, and the door


BLUE HAND 315
poured forth in her words. "I tell you, Digby Groat,
that I will shoot you like a dog, and glory in the act.
Shoot you more mercilessly than you killed that poor
Spaniard, and look upon your body with less horror
than you showed."
"Put it away, put it away! Where did you get it?"
he cried. "For God's sake, Eunice, don't fool with
that pistol, you don't want to kill me, do you?"
"There are times when I want to kill you very
badly," she said, and lowered the point of the revolver
at the sight of the man's abject cowardice.
He wiped his forehead with a silk handkerchief, and
she could see his knees trembling.
"Who gave you that pistol?" he demanded violently.
"You didn't have it when you left Kennett Hall, that
I'll swear. Where did you find it? In one of those
drawers?" He looked at the bureau, one of the
drawers of which was half open.
"Does it matter?" she asked. "Now, Mr. Groat,
you will please go out of my cabin and leave me in
peace."
"I had no intention of hurting you," he growled.
He was still very pale. "There was no need for you
to flourish your revolver so melodramatically. I only
came in to say good-night."
"You might have come about six hours earlier," she
said. "Now go."
"Listen to me, Eunice," said Digby Groat; he edged
forward but her pistol covered him, and he jumped.
"If you're going to play the fool, I'll go," he said, and
followed the action by the deed, slamming the door
behind him.
She heard the outer door open and close, and leant


316 BLUE HAND
against the brass column of the bed for support, for
she was near to the end of her courage. She must
sleep, she thought, but first she must secure the outer
door. There was a lock on the lobby door; she had
not noticed that before. She had hardly taken two
steps through the cabin door before an arm was flung
around her, she was pressed back, and a hand gripped
the wrist which still carried the weapon. With a
wrench he flung it to the floor, and in another moment
she was in his arms.
"You thought I'd gone," he lifted her still struggling
and carried her back to the saloon. "I want to see
you," he breathed. "To see your face, your glorious
eyes, that wonderful mouth of yours, Eunice." He
pressed his lips against hers; he smothered with kisses
her cheeks, her neck, her eyes.
She felt herself slipping from consciousness; the very
horror of his caresses froze and paralyzed her will to
struggle. She could only gaze at the eyes so close to
hers, fascinated as by the glare of the deadly snake.
"You are mine now, mine, do you hear?" he mur-
mured into her ear. "You will forget Jim Steele, for-
get everything, except that I adore you," and then he
saw her wild gaze pass him to the door, and turned.
The little captain stood there, his hands on his hips,
watching, his brown face a mask.
Digby released his hold of the girl, and turned on the
sailor.
"What the hell are you doing here? Get out," he
almost screamed.
"There is an aeroplane looking for us," said the cap-
tain. "We have just picked up her wireless."


BLUE HAND 317
Digby's jaw dropped. That possibility had not oc-
curred to him.
"Who is she? What does the wireless say?"
"It is a message we picked up saying, 'Nothing
sighted. Am heading due south.' It gave her posi-
tion," added the captain, "and if she is coming due
south I think Mr. Steele will find us."
Digby fell back a pace, his face blanched.
"Steele," he gasped.
The captain nodded.
"That is the gentleman who signs the message. I
think it would be advisable for you to come on deck."
"I'll come on deck when I want," growled Digby.
There was a devil in him now. He was at the end of
his course, and he was not to be thwarted.
"Will the good gentleman come on deck?"
"I will come later. I have some business to attend
to here."
"You can attend to it on deck," said the little captain
calmly.
"Get out," shouted Digby.
The captain's hand did not seem to move; there was
a shot, the deafening explosion of which filled the cabin,
and a panel behind Digby's head splintered into a
thousand pieces.
He glared at the revolver in the Brazilian's hand,
unable to realize what had happened.
"I could have shot you just as easily," said the
Brazilian calmly, "but I preferred to send the little
bullet near your ear. Will you^ come on deck, please?"
Digby Groat obeyed.


CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
WHITE and breathless he leant against the bul-
wark glowering at the Brazilian, who had
come between him and the woman whose
ruin he had planned.
"Now," he said, "you will tell me what you mean
by this, you swine 1"
"I will tell you many things that you will not like to
hear," said the captain.
A light dawned upon Digby.
"Did you give the girl that revolver?"
The Brazilian nodded.
"I desired to save you from yourself, my friend," he
said. "In an hour the gentleman Steele will be within
sight of us; I can tell where he is within a few miles.
Do you wish that he should come on board and dis-
cover that you have added something to murder that is
worse than murder?"
"That is my business," said Digby Groat, breathing
so quickly that he felt he would suffocate unless the
pent up rage in him found some vent.
"And mine," said the captain, tapping him on the
chest. "I tell you, my fine fellow, that that is my
business also, for I do not intend to live within an
English gaol. It is too cold in England and I would
not survive one winter. No, my fine fellow, there is
only one thing to do. It is to run due west in the hope
that we escape the observation of the airship man; if
we do not, then we are "he snapped his fingers.
318


BLUE HAND 319
"Do as you like," said Digby, and turning abruptly
walked down to his cabin.
He was beaten, and the end was near. He took
from a drawer a small bottle of colorless liquid, and
emptied its contents into a glass. This he placed in a
rack conveniently to his hand. The effect would not
be violent. One gulp, and he would pass to sleep and
there the matter would end for him. That was a com-
forting thought to Digby Groat. If they escaped!—
His mind turned to Eunice. She could wait; perhaps
they would dodge through all these guards that the
police had put, and they would reach that land for
which he yearned. He could not expect the captain,
after receiving the wireless messages of warning, to
take the risks. He was playing for safety, thought
Digby, and did not wholly disapprove of the man's
attitude.
When they were on the high seas away from the
ocean traffic, the little Brazilian would change his atti-
tude, and then—Digby nodded. The captain was
wise; it would have been madness on his part to force
the issue so soon.
Eunice could not get away; they were moving in the
same direction to a common destination, and there were
weeks, hot and sunny weeks, when they could sit un-
der the awning on this beautiful yacht and talk. He
would be rational and drop that cave-man method of
wooing. A week's proximity and freedom from re-
straint might make all the difference in the world, if—
There was a big if, he recognized. Steele would not
rest until he had found him, but by that time Eunice
might be a complacent partner.
He felt a little more cheerful, locked away the glass


320 BLUEHAND
and its contents in a cupboard, and strolled up to the
deck. He saw the ship now for the first time in day-
light, and it was a model of what a yacht should be.
The deck was snowy white; every piece of brass work
glittered, the coiled sheets looked to have been dipped
in chalk, and under that identical awning great basket
chairs awaited him invitingly.
He glanced round the horizon; there was no ship in
sight. The sea sparkled in the rays of the sun, and
over the white wake of the steamer lay a deep black
pall of smoke, for the Pealigo was racing forward at
twenty-two knots an hour. The captain, at any rate,
was not playing him false. He was heading west,
judged Digby.
Far away on the right was an irregular purple strip,
the line of the Irish coast; the only traffic they would
meet now, he considered, was the western bound
steamers on the New York route. But the only sign
of a steamer was a blob of smoke on the far off eastern
horizon.
The chairs invited him, and he sat down and
stretched his legs luxuriously.
Yes, this was a better plan, he thought, and as his
mind turned again to Eunice, she appeared at the head
of the companion way. At first she did not see him,
and walking to the rail, seemed to be breathing in the
beauties of the morning.
How exquisite she looked! He did not remember
seeing a woman who held herself as she did. The vir-
ginal purity of her face, the glory of her coloring, the
svelte woman figure of her—they were worth waiting
for, he told himself again.


322 BLUEHAND
I see that I am wasting my time with you," and with a
little nod, she would have gone had he not caught her
hand, and drawn her back.
"You love somebody else, I suppose?"
"That is an impertinence," she said. "You have no
right to question me."
"I am not questioning you, I am merely making a
statement which is beyond dispute. You love some-
body else, and that somebody is Jim Steele." He leant
forward. "You can make up your mind for this, that
sooner than give you to Jim Steele, I will kill you. Is
that plain?"
"It is the kindest thing you have said," she smiled
contemptuously as she rose.


CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
A LITTLE smudge of smoke far away to the
south sent Jim Steele racing away on a fool's
errand, for the ship proved to be nothing more
interesting than a fruit boat which had ignored his
wireless inquiry because the only man who operated
the instrument was asleep in his bunk. Jim saw the
character of the ship when he was within two miles of
it and banked over cutting a diagonal course north
west.
Once or twice he glanced back at his "passenger"
but Inspector Maynard was thoroughly at home and
apparently comfortable.
Jim was growing anxious. At the longest he could
not keep in the air for more than four hours, and two
of those precious hours were already gone. He must
leave himself sufficient "juice" to make the land and
this new zig-zag must not occupy more than half-an-
hour.
He had purposely taken the machine to a great
height to enlarge his field of vision and that meant a
still further burden upon his limited supply of petrol.
He was almost despairing when he saw in the far dis-
tance a tiny white arrow of foam—the ship whose wake
it was he could not see. His hand strayed to the key
of his little wireless and he sent a message quivering
through the ether. There was no response. He waited
323


324 BLUE HAND
a minute and again the key clattered and clicked.
Again a silence and he flashed an angry message.
Then through his ear pieces he heard a shrill wail of
sound—the steamer was responding.
"What ship is that?"
He waited, never doubting that he would learn it was
some small merchant vessel. There was a whine and
then:
"P-E-A-L-I-G-O," was the reply.
Digby had gone forward to see what the men were
doing who were swung over the side. He was delighted
to discover that they were painting out the word
Pealigo and were substituting Malaga.
He went up to the captain in his most amiable mood.
"That is a good thought of yours," he said, "chang-
ing the name, I mean."
The captain nodded.
"By your orders, of course," he said.
"Of course," smiled Digby, "by my orders."
All the time he was standing there chatting to the
Brazilian he noticed that the man constantly turned his
eyes to the north, scanning the sky.
"You don't think that the aeroplane will come so far
out, do you? How far are we from the coast?"
"We are a hundred and twelve miles from the Eng-
lish coast," said the skipper, "and that isn't any great
distance for a seaplane."
Digby with unusual joviality slapped him on the
back.


BLUEHAND 32S
"You are getting nervous," be said. "He won't
come now."
A man had come on to the bridge whom Digby rec-
ognized as the wireless operator. He handed a message
to the captain, and he saw the captain's face change.
"What is it?" he asked quickly.
Without a word the man handed the written slip:
"Ship heading south, send me your name and number."
"Who is it from?" asked Digby, startled at this
voice from nowhere.
The captain, supporting his telescope against a
stanchion, scanned the northern skies.
"I see nothing," he said with a frown. "Possibly
it came from one of the land stations; there is no ship
in sight."
"Let us ask him who he is," said Digby.
The three went back to the wireless room and the
operator adjusted his ear pieces. Presently he -began
writing, after a glance up at the captain, and Digby
watched, fascinated, the movements of the pencil.
"Heave to. I am coming aboard you."
"What does it mean?" said Digby.
The captain went out on the deck and again made a
careful examination of the sky.
"I can't understand it," he said.
"The signal was close, senhor captain—it was less
than three miles away," broke in the operator.
The captain rubbed his nose.
"I had better stop," he said.
"You'll do nothing of the kind," stormed Digby.
"You'll go on until I tell you to stop."


326 BLUE HAND
They returned to the bridge, and the captain stood
with one hand on the telegraph, undecided.
And then right ahead of them, less than half a mile
away, something fell into the water with a splash.
"What was that?" said Digby.
He was anwered immediately. From the place
where the splashing had occurred arose a great mass of
billowing smoke which sped along the sea, presenting
an impenetrable veil. Smoke was rising from the sea
to their right, and the captain, shading his eyes, looked
up. Directly over them it seemed was a silvery shape,
so small as to be almost invisible if the sun had not
caught the wing tips and painted them silver.
"This, my friend," said the captain, "is where many
things happen." He jerked over the telegraph to stop.
"Wlhat is it?" asked Digby.
"It was a smoke bomb, and I prefer a smoke bomb
half a mile away to a real bomb on my beautiful ship,"
said the captain.
For a moment Digby stared at him, and then with a
scream of rage he sprang at the telegraph and thrust
it over to full-ahead. Immediately he was seized from
behind by two sailors, and the captain brought the
telegraph back to its original position.
"You will signal to the senhor aviator, to whom you
have already told the name of the ship, if you have
obeyed my orders," he said to the operator, "and say
that I have put Mr. Digby Groat in irons!"
And five minutes later this statement was nearly
true.
Down from the blue dropped that silvery dragon fly,
first sweeping round the stationary vessel in great


BLUE HAND 327
circles until it settled like a bird upon the water close
to the yacht's side.
The captain had already lowered a boat, and whilst
they were fixing the shackles on a man who was be-
having like a raving madman in his cabin below, Jim
Steele came lightly up the side of the ship and followed
the captain down the companionway.
Above the rumble of the yacht's machinery Eunice
had heard the faint buzz of the descending seaplane,
but had been unable to distinguish it until the yacht
stopped, then she heard it plainly enough and ran to
the port-hole, pulling aside the silk curtain.
Yes, there it was, a buzzing insect of a thing, that
presently passed out of sight on the other side. What
did it mean? What did it mean, she wondered. Was
it—and then the door flew open and a man stood there.
He was without collar or waistcoat, his hair was
rumpled, his face bleeding, and one link of a steel
handcuff was fastened about his wrist. It was Digby
Groat, and his face was the face of a devil.
She shrank back against the bed as he came stealthily
toward her, the light of madness in his eyes, and then
somebody else came in, and he swung round to meet
the cold, level scrutiny of Jim Steele.
With a yell like a wild beast, Digby sprang at the
man he hated, but the whirling steel of the manacle
upon his hand never struck home. Twice Jim hit
him, and he fell an inert heap on the ground. In
another second Eunice was in her lover's arms, sobbing
her joy upon the breast of his leather jacket.
THE END





THE SINISTER MAN





CONTENTS
OHM-TEH PAGE
I A PROPOSAL i
II THE HOUSE OF AMERY 7
III THE MENACE OF SOYOKA 15
IV DOCTOR RALPH HALLAM 20
V THE MAN IN THE ROOM 27
VI MRS. TRENE HALLAM'S CONSIDERATION . 34
VII AN INDIAN ACQUAINTANCE .... 39
VIII THE EXPLOIT OF FENG Ho .... 44
IX "MAYFAIR 10016" 47
X MR. TARN MAKES A WILL 52
XI THE SYNDICATE 58
XII "AMERY KNOWS" 67
XIII "THE SCANDAL OF SHANGHAI" ... 70
XIV SCREENING MAJOR AMERY .... 76
XV THE MAN IN THE ROOM 81
XVI ELSA'S SECRET 87
XVII "Ar THE USUAL HOUR" 97
XVIII THE STANFORD CORPORATION .... 102
XIX MAJOR AMERY LOOKS IN 109
XX 304 BROOK STREET 113
XXI THE SIGNED STATEMENT 129
XXII THE TRUTH ABOUT TARN 134
XXIII "PERFECTLY HORRIBLE" 138
XXIV THE POISON TEST 145
XXV LAUDANUM 149
XXVI CURIOUSLY INEPT 159
XXVII MIXED FEELINGS 162
XXVIII THE VISITOR 167


vi
CONTENTS
CHAPTXB
XXIX "PACE" 173
XXX A LETTER TO KEEP 180
XXXI A CUSTOMER OF THE BANK .... 186
XXXII THE SPECULATOR 192
XXXIII STAYING ON 195
XXXIV THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND . . 200
XXXV MAJOR AMERY is SURPRISED .... 214
XXXVI A HOUSE IN DISORDER 221
XXXVII THE FOUR BROWN PACKETS .... 226
XXXVIII THE CORRECTED LETTER 235
XXXIX RALPH EXPLAINS 242
XL THE NEW CHAUFFEUR 247
XLI THE BEARDED LABORER 252
XLII THE SIGNER OF CHECKS . ... 257
XLIII MR. TUPPERWILL SEEKS ADVICE . . . 261
XLIV MAJOR AMERY GOES Our 266
XLV THE ALARM CALL 274
XLVI THE ARRF.ST 281
XLVII IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH 289
XLVIII THE EXECUTIONER 293
XLIX THE ESCAPE 299
L THE MORNING AFTER 302
LI THF. BANK 308
LII RALPH HALLAM'S COAT 314
LIII DAME PASSES 320
LIV WILLE SAYS "No!" 326
LV MASTER OF THE SITUATION .... 330
LVI THE PIT 333


THE SINISTER MAN
CHAPTER I
.A PROPOSAL
"You have beauty," said Mr. Maurice Tarn carefully;
"you have youth. You will in all probability survive me
by many years. I am not the kind of man who would
object to your marrying again. That would be sheer
selfishness, and I am not selfish. When I die you will
have great property; while I live you shall enjoy my
wealth to its full. Possibly you have never looked upon
me in the light of a husband, but it is not unusual for a
guardian to marry his ward, and the disparity in our ages
is not an insuperable obstacle."
He spoke like one who was reciting a carefully re-
hearsed speech, and Elsa Marlowe listened, stunned.
If the old-fashioned sideboard had of its own volition
stood on end, if Elgin Crescent had been suddenly trans-
ported to the suburbs of Bagdad, she could not have been
more astounded. But Elgin Crescent was in Bayswater,
and the gloomy dining room of Maurice Tarn's maison-
ette remained undisturbed; and here was Maurice Tarn
himself, sitting on the other side of the breakfast table,
an unshaven, shabby man of fifty-six, whose trembling
hand, that went automatically to his shaggy gray mus-
tache, was an eloquent reminder of his last night's carouse
—there were three empty bottles on the table of his study


2 THE SINISTER MAN
when she looked in that morning—and he was propos-
ing marriage.
She could only gaze at him open-eyed, scarcely believing
the evidence of her senses.
"I suppose you think I am mad," he went on slowly.
"I've given a lot of thought to it, Elsa. You are heart-
free, as I know. There is no reason in the world, ex-
cept—except the difference in our ages, why this should
not be."
"But—but, Mr. Tarn," she stammered, "I had no idea.
Of course it is impossible!"
Was he still drunk, she wondered, without a tremor of
apprehension. For fifteen years of association with
Maurice Tarn had not tended to increase her awe for
him; if she had not been so staggered by this proposal,
which had come like a bolt from the blue, she might have
been amused.
"I don't want to marry you—I don't, want to marry
anybody. It is very—very kind of you, and of course
I feel"—she could hardly bring her lips to say the word—
"honored. But it is too ridiculous!" she burst forth.
His tired eyes were watching her, and he did not even
flinch at the word.
"I'm going away—to—somewhere. I've got to go
away for my health. Since Major Amery has come into
the firm, it is impossible to continue."
"Does Ralph know this—that you're going away?" she
asked, curiosity overcoming her amazement.
"No!" He almost shouted the word. "He doesn't—
he mustn't know! You understand, Elsa? Under no
circumstances must Ralph know. What I have said to
you is confidential. Think it over."
With a gesture he dismissed the subject, to her great
relief. For fully ten minutes she sat staring out of the
window. Mr. Maurice Tarn's dining room looked out


4 THE SINISTER MAN
induced him to adopt the orphan child of a distant cousin,
hut the nearest she had ever reached to explaining that
fit of altruism was when he told her one evening that he
hated complete loneliness and preferred a child in the
house to a dog.
He was apparently absorbed in the deviled chicken he
was cutting into microscopic pieces, for presently he
asked:
"Is there anything in the paper?"
He himself never read the newspapers, and it had been
part of her duty for years to supply him with the principal
items of the morning's news.
"Nothing," she said. "You know about the parliamen-
tary crisis?"
He growled something under his breath and asked:
"Nothing else?"
"Nothing, except the drug scandal," she said.
He looked up suddenly. "Drug scandal? What do
you mean?"
She picked up the newspaper from the floor where she
had dropped it.
"It is about two gangs that are importing drugs into
this country. I didn't think you'd be interested in that,"
she said, searching for the paragraph.
She happened at that moment to look across at him,
and she nearly dropped the paper in her surprise. Mr.
Maurice Tarn's complexion was one of consistent sallow-
ness, but now his face was a deathly white. His jaw had
dropped, and his eyes were staring.
"Two gangs?" he croaked. "What do you mean?
Read it, read it!" he commanded huskily.
"I thought "she began.
"Never mind what you thought—read it I" snarled
Tarn.


A PROPOSAL 5
Masking her astonishment, she found the item. It
ivas a half column on the top of the principal page.
Yesterday morning Detective Inspector Bickerson, accom-
panied by half a dozen police officers, made a raid upon a
small warehouse in Whitechapel and, after arresting the care-
taker, conducted a search of the premises. It is understood
that a considerable quantity of opium and a package con-
taining sixteen pounds of cocaine were seized and removed.
It is believed that the warehouse was a distributing center
used by one of the two gangs which are engaged in putting
illicit drugs upon the market, both here and in America.
The police believe that one of these nefarious associations is
conducted by a Japanese merchant named Soyoka, who, how-
ever, is the mere figurehead in the business, the operations
being carried out by a number of unknown men, said to
occupy good social positions, and two of whom are believed
to be officials in the Indian civil service. The composition
of the second gang, which, during the past two years has
amassed a considerable fortune, is not so well known. Be-
hind these two organizations are hundreds of agents, and a
small army of desperadoes are employed to cover the gangs'
workings. The recent arrest of a Greek in Cleveland, Ohio,
and his confession to the Federal authorities, has enabled
Scotland Yard to get a line on the British branch of the
"business." From the statement of the Greek, Poropoulos,
it is believed that the heads of the second gang include an
English doctor and a leading merchant of the City of
London.
"Ah!"
It was not a groan; it was not a sigh; but it combined
the quality of both. Elsa looked up and saw her guard-
ian's head sinking over the table, and she sprang to her
feet.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
He waved her aside. "Get me some brandv—in the


6 THE SINISTER MAN
cupboard of my study," he mumbled, and she hurried
into the stuffy little room, returning with a tumbler half
filled, the contents of which he swallowed at a gulp.
Slowly the color came back to his face, and he forced a
smile.
"You're responsible," he grunted, with heavy pleas-
antry. "A fellow of my age doesn't propose at this time
of the morning without feeling the effects—eh? A little
too old for love-making, I guess. Think it over, Elsa.
I've been a good friend of yours."
"Do you want me to read any more?"
He stopped her with a gesture. "Stuff! A newspaper
invention! These fellows are always out for sensation;
they live on it." He rose to his feet with an effort.
"I shall see you at the office," he said. "Think it over,
Elsa!"
The door of his study slammed behind him, and he was
still in his locked room when the girl boarded an east-
bound bus that carried her almost to the door of the
Amery corporation.


CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE OF AMERY
THE house of Amery & Amery stands where it stood
in the days when its founder marshaled his apprentices
and clerks to fight the great fire of London; so that, when
the holocaust had smoldered to ashes, the cramped old
house alone raised its head amidst the blackened ruins
of Wood Street. Improvements had come with the years,
an exigent city council had demanded certain structural
alterations, but in appearance the Amery building re-
mained what it was in the days when the Afayflower set
forth from Plymouth Harbor and narrowly missed foul-
ing the Pleasant Endeavour, the first of the Amery
Brothers' fleet of East Indiamen.
The centuries had seen ,nany fluctuations in the for-
tunes of the house. One evening at White's, in the days
of the Regency, an Amery had diced the fleet out of
existence; later another Amery had won back its equiva-
lent in the tea trade; but the narrow-fronted house, with
its uneven floors, its poky little cupboards and presses,
its low ceilings and tortuous stairways, defied the passage
of time.
Above the thick green glass window-panes that admitted
light and distorted vision, the faded inscription "Amery
& Amery, Shippers & Importers" appeared in the identical
lettering that an Amery had chosen on the day George
the third went to his rest. The little room, where Elsa
Marlowe attended to the private correspondence of the
newest proprietor, had been furnished in his youth by
7


8 THE SINISTER MAN
a chief clerk who, as an old man, had seen the first police-
•man on the streets of London.
Elsa, sitting before her worn writing table one morning
in late spring, when the sunlight poured into the room,
seemed as much out of place in the grim setting as the
little bunch of lilies of the valley she had arranged in a
cheap glass vase Leside the typewriter.
There was a sculptor in Paris who speculated in dainty
statuettes of slim Parisiennes, and she might have posed
for M. Milliere, a straight-backed, long-limbed girl, with
the tilted chin, the straight nose, the large, inquiring
eyes, and the confusion of spun-gold hair he loved.
She had that complexion which made wise and skeptical
women look twice at her; yet her pink and white owed
nothing to artifice, and the rich red of her mouth was as
everlasting as the deep gray-blue of her eyes.
Her forehead was puckered, as she listened to her
voluble companion. She was never quite comfortable
when Miss Dame came to her favorite topic of discus-
sion, though the gaunt woman expressed much that she
thought.
Elsa Marlowe was not prepared to accept Miss Dame's
judgment on any other subject than stenography. Her
views on human affairs were inclined to be colored by
the peculiar brand of romance she had absorbed over-
night. But when she described the house of Amery &
Amery as "creepy" and spoke of Paul Roy Amery as a
"sinister figure," Elsa found herself ranged on the side
of Romance.
"You can laugh about the pitchers," said Miss Dame
earnestly, "but you get ideas of life out of 'em—types,
characters—if you understand me? It's experience to a
young girl like me. The villains I've seen! My word!
But I've nevet seen anybody like the major. Sinister!


THE HOUSE OF AMERY 9
iTou've only to look at him, Miss Marlowe. And why
your dear, good uncle, the finest gentleman that ever
breathed, should let you stay in this place, is more'n I can
understand See what I mean?"
Miss Dame glared fearfully through her big rimless
spectacles, her large mouth grotesquely open, her little
button of a nose redder than ever. She was tall, round-
shouldered, awkwardly made. Her hands and feet were
large: her bobbed hair, refusing to behave as bobbed hair
should, spread like a fan from her head.
"I wouldn't call him 'sinister,' " said Elsa thoughtfully;
"he is certainly unpleasant. I don't think he is used to
dealing with white people."
"That's what I say," broke in Miss Dame. "Negroes,
and black people an' Injuns! I'll bet he lashes 'em to
death. Anyway, he's sinister," said Miss Dame firmly,
"and so is this building, hundreds of years old There
ain't a floor that's level, or a door that fits: and look at
the poky little windows and the beams over the ceiling!
And there's no proper washing p'ace. and in the heart of
the city, too! Where did he come from, anyway? Old
Mr. Amery never said he had a nephew, and your dear
uncle was that surprised when the will was read that he
could have dropped. He told me so himself."
For the moment her "dear uncle" 'was as unpleasant a
subject as the sinister Mr. Amery. Tt was accepted by
the employees of Amery's that Mr. Tarn and she were
uncle and niece, and she never attempted to correct that
erroneous impression.
"We shall get used to him," she said with a half sigh.
"New people are always awkward at first, and probably he
isn't used to business. He had an official position in
India. I know that"
She stopped. Here she was going beyond the bounds


io THE SINISTER MAN
of propriety. She could not tell of the mysterious
letters which Paul Amery dictated, letters in which whole
lines were made up of unintelligible code words.
"Mr. Tarn knows something about him," Miss Dame
nodded vigorously. "They were together hours yester-
day—I heard 'em! Gee, the noise they made!"
Elsa turned startled eyes to the other. "Quarreling?"
she said incredulously.
"Quarreling!" repeated Miss Dame triumphantly.
"You never heard anything like it! It was when you
were out at lunch. When I say 'hours,' I mean twenty
minutes. I never saw your dear uncle so upset in my
life."
Elsa was not impressed. Mr. Maurice Tarn was easily
upset in these days; Was she responsible for that, she
thought whimsically. But a quarrel? Why should
Amery quarrel with his general manager? They hardly
knew one another, for Paul Amery had not occupied the
presidential chair a month as yet, was new to the business,
and scarcely acquainted with its routine.
"Are you sure?" she asked.
Before Miss Dame could answer, a bell shrilled, and
Elsa hastily gathered her notebook and pencil and passed
into the lair of the president.
It was a pleasant room, carpeted in a dull blue that
showed the polished black paneling to advantage. Over
an old fireplace, a solemn-faced clock ticked sedately.
The leaden windows were curtained with dark-blue velvet;
the only touch of gay color in the room was the scarlet
leather of the fender and seats.
The man at the big writing table was glowering at a
letter on his blotting pad and, seemingly oblivious to her
presence, was reading it over to himself, his thin lips
moving silently, as he assimilated every line, every word.
A minute passed, and then Paul Amery looked up with


THE HOUSE OF AMERY II
that expression on his saturnine face which never failed
to rouse in her breast something that was akin to fury.
Not that he was consciously offensive; her resentment
would have been excusable if he were.
There was just the faintest hint of a sneer, a downward
droop of the corners of his mouth that coincided with the
lift of his upper lip and a something—a cold, appraising
something—in his blue eyes that was altogether and yet
indefinably insulting.
She had surprised that expression before. Invariably
it followed upon the interruption of a reverie. And
Paul Amery's daydreams were not pleasant. Only for a
second did that twisted smile disfigure his thin, dark face.
In another second it set like a mask of fate, except that
the black brows had met in a frown that hardened and
almost dehumanized him.
"Yes?"
His voice had the quality of granite. Instantly he had
passed through the stage of transition between dreams
and reality, and his eyes were searching hers suspiciously.
There were people who would think he was good looking,
she thought, and she was sufficient of a woman to concede
this advantage to him. The hot sun of India had tanned
, his face to a permanent brown; it had given him, too,
something of the character of the jungle beasts he had
stalked. She never saw him come noiselessly, almost fur-
tively, through the outer office without thinking of a cat.
"Yes?"
He never raised his voice; he did not display his
impatience, but his "Yes?" was like the flick of a whip
in her face.
"You rang for me, and you wished to see the bills of
lading—Chi Fung and Lee, Mr. Amery," she stammered
and despised herself for her deference.
Without a word he reached out his hand and took the


12 THE SINISTER MAN
papers she had brought to him. Silently he examined
them and then put them aside.
"Why are you afraid of me?"
The question stunned her; it was so unexpected, so
utterly unanswerable that she could only stand and stare
at him until, before the masterful blaze of his eyes, she
lowered her own.
"I'm not afraid of you, Mr. Amery," she said and
tried hard to keep her voice level. "What a queer thing to
say! I'm—I'm not afraid of anybody." This defiantly.
He did not speak. His very silence gave her the lie as
plainly as if he had spoken.
"Besides," she went on with the ghost of a smile, "isn't
it the proper attitude of a secretary toward her employer?
A wholesome respect"
She finished lamely, feeling a fool. He was looking
through the window into the dusty sunlight of Wood
Street. Apparently his attention was absorbed in the
laden trucks that lined the narrow road; in the red-faced
policeman who was engineering a passage for a steam
trolley; in the drab face of the office block opposite—in
anything but one pink and white girl, with a mop of fine,
browny hair that defied regulation.
"You are five feet three inches," he said, going off at a
tangent. "Sixty-three inches! The little finger of your
left hand is crooked. You must have broken it when
you were a child. You live constantly in association
with somebody who is deaf: your voice is just a little too
strong. Of course, Mr. Maurice Tarn! I have noticed
that he is deaf."
Elsa drew a long breath.
"Shall I leave the bills of lading, please?" she asked.
His eyes were no longer on her face. They had
dropped moodily to the blotter.
"No. I wanted you. Take this letter to Fine Li T'sin.


THE HOUSE OF AMERY 13
796 Bubbling Well Road, Shanghai. 'Tang chiang chin
ping ch'ang 'I beg your pardon, you do not under-
stand Chinese, of course?"
He was not joking. She saw him flush with annoyance
at his mistake—at the possibility that she might think he
was being funny at her expense.
"He reads and speaks English better than you or I,
for the matter of that," he added hurriedly. "Take this.
'I am looking for a trustworthy man to cover the Nang-
poo province. Feng Ho has arrived. You may send
letters to him here. When you see the Long Sword of
Sun Yat tell him '"
Here he paused and passed a slip of paper across to her.
Carefully penciled in capital letters were the words:
"Barrow Tendency Makeshift Warlike Candle Stencil
Pendant Maple Crest Hamlet Desire."
He was looking at her, as she read, a thin hand caress-
"ng the little black mustache that covered his upper lip, and.
as she raised her head, she met his glance and went hot.
"Nice job, this?" he asked absently. "Not too much
work? Wages good?"
It was the first time he had displayed the slightest
interest in her. Hitherto she had had the feeling that
he had regarded her as part of the movable fixtures of
the establishment.
"Yes, it is a good job," she said awkwardly and added
—fatuously, as she told herself—"I hope my work is
satisfactory?"
He did not answer, and she added boorishness to his
sins.
"You knew my great-uncle, Bertram Amery, of
course?"
He was not looking at her; his eyes were still on the
street below.
"Slightly," she said. "I was here during the last few


14 THE SINISTER MAN
months of his life. He only came in for a few minutes
each day."
He nodded slowly.
"The ancient ran the business, of course?"
"The ancient?" She frowned and then realized that
his flippant reference was to Mr. Maurice Tarn. "Mr.
Tarn has always helped to run the business," she said,
a little stiffly, though Heaven knew she was in no mood
to feel offended because he spoke slightingly of her very
distant relative.
"Mr. Tarn always helped to run the business," he
repeated absently and then jerked his head round to face
her. "Thank you, that will do," he said.
She was at the door, when his voice arrested her.
"How much does the Stanford Corporation pay you?"
he asked.
She turned round, staring at him in wonder.
"The Stanford Corporation, Mr. Amery?"
His keen eyes searched her face.
"I'm sorry," he said simply. "I see you do not know
that enterprising business."
He nodded to the door, and she was back at her desk
before she realized the indignity of her dismissal.


CHAPTER III
THE MENACE OF SOYOKA
.What did he mean? Stanford Corporation! Did he
suggest that she was secretly working for some other
house? If she had been on better terms with her uncle
she might have solved the puzzle; but for the moment their
relationship was more than a little strained.
She was typing the letter when she heard the door of
her room open and close, and, looking up, she saw the
tall, hollow-eyed man whom she had particularly wished
to avoid that day.
He stood for a while, fingering his bristling gray
mustache, his small, faded eyes fixed moodily upon her,
and then he came slowly across the room and towered
above her. He was an unusually tall man, and, for the
general manager of a prosperous business, shabbily attired.
His cuffs were ragged at the ends, his black cravat rusty
with age.
"Where's Amery?" he asked, lowering his voice.
"In his room, Mr. Tarn."
"Humph!" He fingered his bristly chin. "Did he say
anything?"
"About what?"
"About anything?" he asked impatiently.
She shook her head. It was in her mind to tell him about
Major Amery's inquiry, but she could not bring herself
to the point of taking him into her confidence.
"Have you thought over the matter I spoke about this
morning?"
is


16 THE SINISTER MAN
He stole a quick glance at her and read her answer
before she spoke.
"No, it—it doesn't bear thinking about." .
He blinked at her, and his face twisted to an expres-
sion of pain.
"Too old, I suppose? I'll make any arrangement you
like, only I want company. I hate being alone. I want
somebody I can talk to—a wife—somebody I know and
can trust. I've got to get things off my mind. They
can't make a wife tell—you understand? Any arrange-
ment," he emphasized the words, and she grasped his
meaning. But he was not looking at her, as he spoke.
That "any arrangement" promise was a lie. He wanted
more than a trustworthy listener.
She drew a long, impatient sigh.
"We needn't go back .to that, need we?" she asked.
"I wish you wouldn't, Mr. Tarn. It worries me terribly,
and I know it is going to make; life insupportable."
He was still fingering his chin nervously, his eyes stray-
ing to the door of Paul Amery's room.
"Is anything wrong?"
He shook his head irritably. "Wrong? What should
there be wrong?" He glanced apprehensively toward the
door. "I'm going in to see him."
There was a note of defiance in his voice which sur-
prised her. She had not seen tljis side of Maurice Tarn's
character. She knew him best as a most self-possessed
business man without imagination. At his worst he wa?
a slovenly domestic tyrant, with a passion for secret
drinking. Yet here he was, bracing himself, as for a
great ordeal, the hand that touched his mustache trem-
bling, his eyes fearful.
"I've got to go away." His voice was lowered. "I
don't know where, but—but—somewhere."
He heard the turn of the handle and looked round


THE MENACE OF SOYOKA 17
affrighted. Paul Amery stood in the doorway, that hate-
ful smile of his upon his thin lips.
"I—I wanted to see you, Major Amery."
Without a word Paul Amery opened the door a little
further, and his general manager went in. Amery closed
the door behind him and walked slowly to his desk. He
did not sit down, but stood, his hands in his pockets, his
head slightly bent forward, his cold eyes scrutinizing the
man.
"Well?"
Twice the lips of the older man moved, and presently,
in a half-tin real voice, he spoke.
"I feel I owe you an apology for that—that scene
which occurred yesterday, Major Amery. I fear I lost
my temper; but you can quite understand that one who
has held a trusted position in the house of Amery, who was
respected, I venture to say, by your uncle"
"Sit down."
Mechanically the man obeyed.
"Mr. Tarn, I'm new to this business. I ought to have
come over eight months ago, when my uncle died, and the
property passed into my possession. There were certain
things that I did not realize, but which I realize now. I
looked upon Amery & Amery as a corporation that could
get along very well without me. I never looked upon
Amerys as an enemy I should have to fight."
Maurice Tarn stared at him. "Fight? I don't under-
stand you. An enemy, Major Amery?" he said tremu-
lously.
"Who is the Stanford Corporation?"
The question rang out like a pistol shot, and Mr. Tarn
winced, but did not answer.
"There is a business being carried on in a block of
offices in Threadneedle Street," said Amery slowly; "not
a very nourishing business, for the Stanford Corporation


i8 THE SINISTER MAN
occupy one large room and employ no clerks. All the
work is done by a mysterious individual who comes after
most of the other offices are closed, and he leaves just
before midnight. He types his own letters, of which he
keeps no copies; he has interviews with strange and dis-
reputable people; and, although the name of the Stanford
Corporation does not appear in the books of Amery &
Amery, I am satisfied that our very reputable business"—
his lips curled again—"built up by the labor of years and
founded on the honesty and integrity of my dead relatives,
is a screen behind which a certain traffic is in progress."
"Major Amery!" For a second Maurice Tarn's pose
of virtuous indignation held, and then, before the glitter-
ing eyes of the other, he wilted. "If you feel that," he
mumbled rapidly, "the best thing I can do is to get out.
I've served this firm faithfully for thirty-five years, and
I don't think you're treating me well. What traffic? I
know the Stanford Corporation—I've just remembered
them. They're a perfectly straightforward firm."
The lifted lips, the hard, smiling eyes silenced him.
"You'll bluff to the last, eh? Well, so be it! Tarn,
you're doing something of which I do not approve, and
that is a mild way of putting it. And I'm going to stop
you—I'm going to stop you, if it means killing you! Do
you get that? You know what I am—you guess a whole
lot more than you know! You're in my way, Tarn. I
didn't expect to find this obstacle here." He pointed to the
floor, and Tarn knew that he was speaking about the house
of Amery. "I'm going to put the matter plainly to you,"
he went on. "Fortunes are to be made, and are being
made, by two gangs that are running a dope industry.
Maybe you saw something about it in the morning paper.
Two gangs! There isn't room for two—is that clear to
you?"
Tarn's face had gone ashen; he was incapable of speech.


THE MENACE OF SOYOKA 19
The man by the writing table was not looking at him; his
eyes were fixed on the street below. He seemed to find
in the life and hurry of Wood Street something of over-
powering interest.
"Not room for two—hardly room for one," he repeated.
"The second gang had better shut up business and get
out, while the going's good. There are many dangers.
Soyoka's crowd aren't going to take competition lying
down. I am telling you this as a friend."
Tarn licked his dry lips, but did not answer.
"The girl isn't in it?"
"No." The older man blundered into this partial
admission. "You're—-Soyoka!" he breathed. "Great
Caesar, I didn't dream I knew they were working
from India and the East, but I never guessed." His
voice sank to an indistinguishable rumble of sound.
Amery did not answer him; with a sideways jerk of
his head he dismissed the man. Elsa saw him stagger
through his office like one in a dream, and she wondered
what was the reason for his white face and trembling
hands.
Left alone, Amery walked slowly to his desk and sat
down, his chin on his hands. Facing him on the wall
hung a picture in an old-fashioned gilt frame—a portrait
of an elderly man in a long, flowing wig; he wore a coat
of homely brown, lace ruffles swelled under his ample chin,
and in his hand was a half-unrolled map of the world.
The first of the Amerys! The last of the race looked up
into the hard, gray eyes of his ancestor, and he nodded.
"Illustrious forbear"—with mock gravity—"the
crooked house of Amery salutes you!"


CHAPTER IV
DOCTOR RALPH IIALLAM
IT was the custom of Amery's, and it had been the
custom from immemorial times, to allow the staff an
hour and twenty-five minutes for luncheon, Nobody
knew why this extra twenty-five minutes had been
granted. It was a tradition of the house, and it was a
very welcome one to Elsa Marlowe that day, for she had
decided to take counsel of the only man in the world who
could help solve her problems.
On the stroke of one o'clock she was out of the office
and was hurrying toward Cheapside. Taxis there were
in plenty, and within fifteen minutes she was alighting
at the door of a small house on Half Moon Street.
Scarcely had she paid the driver than the door was opened,
and a good-looking man of thirty was halfway across the
sidewalk to meet her.
"This is a miracle! Has the noble house of Amery
gone bust?"
She preceded him into the house, and not until she was
in the sedate little dining room did she answer.
"Everything has gone bust, Ralph. No, my dear, 1
couldn't eat. Go on with your lunch, and I will talk."
"I have had my lunch. Bring something for Miss
Marlowe," ordered Doctor Ralph Hallam, and, when his
man had gone, he asked anxiously: "What is wrong?"
She had known Ralph Hallam in the days when she
was a lank schoolgirl. A friend of her "uncle's" and a
frequent visitor to their house in Bayswater, they had
20


DOCTOR RALPH HALLAM 21
grown up together. He was, by his own confession, so
inefficient a doctor that he had never practiced since the
day he left the hospital. A keen business man, he had
employed the small fortune which his mother had
left him to such advantage that he could afford to dis-
pense with the problematical income which might have
come to him from his profession.
A fair-haired, clear-eyed man of something over thirty,
his boyish, clean-shaven face and irrepressible good humor
gave him the impression of one who had not left his teens
very far behind.
"You're not ill, are you?" he asked, and when she shook
her head smilingly, he sighed his relief. "Thank Heaven!
I should be obliged to call in a real doctor if you were."
All the time he was speaking, he was disposing of her
fur, her gloves, her hand bag, in his helpless way.
"You know that Mr. Tarn isn't really my uncle?"
"Eh?" He stared at her. "Oh, yes—your cousin or
something,'isn't he? Queer old devil—doesn't he bore
you?"
"Ralph, he wants to marry me!" she said tragically.
He had taken a wine-glass from the sideboard and was
putting it on the table when she spoke. The glass dropped
from his fingers and splintered to a thousand pieces.
Looking at him, she saw his face go suddenly white.
"I'm a clumsy fool." His voice was very steady.
"Say that again. He wants to marry you—that—
that"
She nodded. "Exactly—that! Isn't it hideously un-
believable? Oh, Ralph, I'm worried. Something queer
has come over him in this past week. He has quarreled
with Mr. Amery"
"Steady, steady, old girl. Sit down. Now tell me all
about it. Quarreled with Amery—that's the Indian
fellow?"


22 THE SINISTER MAN
She told him as coherently as she could of the scene
that had occurred that morning. Ralph Hallam whistled.
"The old villain!" he said softly. "But what is the
idea? Why this sudden desire for matrimony? He
never struck me as a marrying man. And to be mistress
of the menage at Elgin Crescent is not the most pleasant
of prospects."
"He is going abroad," she said. "That is why he
wants to marry in such a hurry. Oh, I ought not to have
told you that!"
Too late she remembered her guardian's injunction.
But if Ralph Hallam was surprised by the news, he did
not betray himself.
"You'll not marry him, of course. That kind of
December doesn't belong to your kind of May, Elsa."
It seemed to her that he was going to say something,
but checked himself. For a second she had a spasm of
fear that the day would bring her a second proposal, for
a meaning light had kindled in his expressive eyes. She
liked Ralph Hallam—but not that way. He was so good,
so kind, such a good pal, and it would spoil everything if
the unspoken message was delivered. To her intense
relief he spoke of Amery.
"What kind of a man is the Indian?" he asked.
"Wasn't he in the civil service?"
. "I know very little about him," she said. "None of us
do. He was in India for years. They say he isn't
even English—he belongs to the American branch of the
Amerys—and it was old Mr. Amery who found him his
position in India. He is so strange."
Ralph Hallam smiled. "Mad, probably. Most of
these Indian fellows go daft. It is the sun."
She shook her head. "No, he isn't mad. His man-
ners are awful; he is abrupt to the point of rudeness.
And yet, Ralph, there is something queerly fascinating


DOCTOR RALPH HALLAM 23
about him. I find myself wondering what his life must
have been—what his recreations are. He seems to move
in an atmosphere of mystery. I can't tell you what
happens at the office—that wouldn't be fair—but his
correspondence is so unusual. And he's magnetic.
When he looks at me sometimes I have the feeling that
I'm—out of control. That sounds alarming, doesn't it?"
"It certainly does," smiled her puzzled companion.
"Does he hypnotize you?"
"Ye-es," she hesitated. "Perhaps that is it. He re-
minds me of some beautiful sleek animal, though he isn't
at all beautiful! Sometimes his eyes are so cruel that I
shudder, and sometimes they are so sad that I could weep;
and generally he is so hateful that I loathe him." She
laughed softly at her own inconsistency. "Jessie Dame
calls him 'the sinister man,' and perhaps she is right.
Sometimes I feel, when I am in his presence, that he has
the burden of some terrible crime on his mind. He is so
suspicious, so horribly unbelieving. When he asks you
a question he gives you the impression that he is prepared
for you to tell a lie. You feel that he is watching you all
the time. Everything about him is that way. He wears
shoes with thick rubber soles, and when he moves it is
with a sort of stealthiness that makes you jump. Mr.
Tarn hates him."
"A singularly unpleasant person," said Ralph with a
chuckle, "but impressive. Don't lose your young heart
to him. As to Tarn, I think it would be a good idea if
you went away for a while. You have never met my
gister-in-law?"
"I didn't know that you had one," she said, and he
smiled.
"You will like her," he said simply. "I'll get her to
invite you over for a few days."
The servant came in with a tray at that moment, and.


24 THE SINISTER MAN
until they were alone, neither spoke. She had finished
her lunch and had risen to go, when the sound of a taxi
stopping at the door brought his eyes to the street.
"Wait."
She followed his glance, but from the angle at which
she stood she could not see the figure that was paying the
cab man.
"Who is it?" she asked.
"The admirable Tarn," he said. "I don't think he'd
better see you here. Go into the library; you know yout
way. When I show him into the dining room, you can
make your escape. I'll take care that he doesn't see you."
There came the sound of the door-bell, and she hurried
into the little study and presently heard Maurice Tarn's
deep voice in the passage. She waited a second, then, tip-
toeing along the passage, opened the door and let herself
out.
Tarn, his nerves on edge, heard the thud of the closing
door and looked round suspiciously.
"What was that?"
'"My man going out," said Ralph coolly. "What is
your trouble?"
For a while the other man did not answer; then, with a
groan, he dropped into an easy-chair and covered his face
with his hands.
"As bad as that, eh?" Ralph Hallam asked.
"He knows," said the muffled voice of Tarn.
"Which 'he' is this—the Indian gentleman? And what
does he know?"
"Everything. Hallam, he is Soyoka!"
Hallam looked at him, open-mouthed.
"You're mad—Soyoka?"
"He's either Soyoka, or he's somewhere high up in the
gang. Why shouldn't he be? The profit of Amery's
isn't eight thousand a year. We know what profit there


DOCTOR RALPH HALLAM 25
is in Soyoka's; they're making millions, while we're mak-
ing thousands. He's been living in India, not guessing
that old Amery would leave him this business. We've
always known that Indian officials were hand in glove with
Soyoka's gang. Otherwise, how would he have known
where to look in the books for the consignments we've had?
The first thing he did was to put his finger on a case of
fancy goods we had from Stein of Leipsic and ask for par-
ticulars. He told me to get and I'm getting. Hallam, it's
death to fight Soyoka! They'll stop at nothing. I can't
stand any more, Hallam. I am too old for this kind of
business."
"Not too old to marry, they tell me."
Tarn looked up quickly. "What do you mean?"
"Just what I say. I understand that you contemplate
making a get-away with a lady, who shall be nameless."
Maurice Tarn shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know
what I'm going to do. I'm scared."
"Scared you may be." There was nothing pleasant in
Ralph Hallam's voice; his face had hardened, and the
lower lip pouted ominously. "And if you feel like getting
away, why, you can go. You've enough money to get
your nerves in order. South America, of course? I
rhought so. Go and be blessed! You've lost your nerve,
and, so far as I am concerned, you're valueless. You're
worse than that—you're a danger. We'll have a quick
division, and then you can go—to the devil if you like.''
Slowly he crossed to the broken man and stood looking
down at him. ^
"But you go alone. I want a partner."
"Elsa?" gasped the other.
"Elsa," said Ralph Hallam. "I can talk her into my
way of thinking. That will be easy. I want her, Maur-
ice. She is altogether adorable. I don't blame you for
wanting her. She is divine! But I want her, too.


26 THE SINISTER MAN
There is a whole world of happiness in that slim lady,
Maurice!"
"But—but "Tarn was looking at him, horror-
stricken. Some solitary cell in his brain, where decency
had once dwelt, was operating powerfully, "but you can't,
Ralph! You're married—I know that you're married.
You can't marry Elsa!"
"I said nothing about marriage," said Ralph Hallam
testily.


CHAPTER V
THE MAN IN THE ROOM
IN the drive back to the office Elsa was in a quieter
frame of mind and could think clearly. She had not
told Hallam everything. He knew nothing, she thought,
of her nightly ordeal, when, his study table littered with
bottles he had emptied, Maurice Tarn had talked and
talked until her head reeled. She used to think his oblique
references to matrimony, its advantages and compensa-
tions, were efforts of sheer loquacity. She understood
now. Muddled and bemused, he was trying to prepare her
for his monstrous proposal. Something was wrong—
badly wrong. He did not drink so heavily in the old
days. She checked a sigh, as the cab turned into Wood
Street, and she tapped at the window to stop the machine
before it reached the door of Amery's.
It was half past two when she hurried up the narrow
stairs, hoping that her unpleasant employer had not rung
for her. As she opened the door of her room, she saw a
man sitting on a chair by the window. Though it was
a warm day, he wore an overcoat, over the collar of which
his black hair flowed. His back was toward her, for he
seemed absorbed in his contemplation of the street below,
and not until he heard the click of the closing door did
he turn round suddenly and stand up. For a moment
Elsa stared at him, open-mouthed. It was a Chinaman!
He was dressed in the height of fashion. His smartly
cut overcoat was wasp-waisted; his striped gray trousers
were rigidly creased; and over his enameled boots he
27


28 THE SINISTER MAN
wore a pair of white spats. The fashionable cravat, the
neat gloves, all these things were European. But the
face! The fathomless black eyes, set behind lashless lids;
the yellow face like wrinkled parchment; the bloodless
lips; the protruding jaw—she had never seen anything
quite so hideous; and, as though he read her thoughts,
he said, in perfect English:
"Handsome is as handsome does. Feng Ho, bachelor
of science—my card!" And, with a little bow, he handed
her an oblong of pasteboard, which she took mechani-
cally.
At that moment she became aware of a strange and
lovely sound. It was the glorious note of a bird in song.
Perched on a shelf was a cage of exquisite workmanship.
Gold wire and colored glass combined to make the palace
of the little songster a thing of rare beauty. Standing
on the perch was a lemon-yellow canary, his thick throat
throbbing in the song of his kind.
"How wonderful!" she breathed. "Where did it come
from?"
Feng Ho grinned. "I brought him here. 'Pi' always
accompanies me. In the street many people looked round,
thinking it remarkable that a Chinese gentleman, a bach-
elor of science, should carry a common birdcage in his
hand. But Pi needs the air. It is not good for a little
bird to live all the time in rooms. Pi, unworthy and ugly
little crow, sing your stupid song for the beautiful lady."
The bird had been momentarily silent, but now he burst
again into a flood of melody that filled the drab room with
golden sound.
"He is wonderful!" said Elsa again and looked from
the bird to his owner.
The inscrutable eyes of the Chinaman were watching
her.
"I am afraid I gave you rather a shock," he said, in his


THE MAN IN THE ROOM 29
queer, mincing way. "You are probably not used to
meeting Chinamen, Miss Marlowe."
She gasped. How did this creature know her name?
"You—you want to see Major Amery?" she said,
recovering her equilibrium.
"I have seen him. He asked me to wait a little while
and to introduce myself when you came. I am afraid
I shall be a frequent visitor."
She forced herself to smile. "You need not be afraid
of that, Mr."
Should she call him Mr. Feng or Mr. Ho? Again
he must have read her thoughts.
"Feng Ho is a compound name," he said, "and it is
unnecessary to employ any prefix." He was looking com-
placently at his brand-new gloves, as he spoke, and then:
"Major Amery has just come in."
She looked up at him quickly. "I didn't hear him,"
she said.
He nodded rapidly. "Yes, he is now walking across
the room; he has stopped by the fireplace." He held his
head erect in an attitude of listening. "Now he is at
his desk, and he has picked up a paper. Did you not
hear the rustle of it?"
She looked at him suspiciously. Was this wretched
man, who had so easily assumed terms of equality, amus-
ing himself at her expense?
"I hear everything," he said. "Now he is sitting in his
chair. It creaked."
She walked to the door of the major's room and opened
it. He was sitting at his desk; his hand was outstretched
to touch the bell that summoned her when she looked in.
"Come in," he said brusquely. "You've met Feng
Ho?"
He saw her flushed cheeks, and his lip lifted in that
hateful smile of his.


30 THE SINISTER MAN
"He has been giving you a demonstration of his hear-
ing? That is his one vanity."
He looked round at the Chinaman. Feng Ho displayed
the immense cavity of his mouth in a gr'n that stretched
from ear to ear.
"Close the door, please," he said, and then, as she was
about to obey, shutting the Chinaman out, a string of
unintelligible words came from his lips, and she saw
Feng Ho hide his hands in his sleeves and bow.
"You may see a great deal of Feng Ho. On the other
hand, you may not. Take this letter."
For the next quarter of an hour her fingers were flying
over the pages of her notebook, for, when Amery dic-
tated, he spoke at a speed that tried her ability to the limit.
His words came like the staccato rattle of a machine gun,
and the sentence ended as abruptly. She looked up, ex-
pecting to be dismissed, and found him looking at her.
"Feng Ho is Chinese," he said unnecessarily, then
added, with a look of annoyance, when he saw her smile:
"So many people mistake the Chinese for a neighboring
nation." He paused and then went on slowly: "Soy-
oka, on the other hand, is a Jap, and Soyoka is a very
good paymaster."
The name seemed familiar to her, but c^r the moment
she could not remember where she had seen or heard it.
"A very excellent paymaster," he went on. "I think
you might do better if you served him instead of this
amateur crowd. Soyoka pays well."
His eyes did not leave her face, and he saw that she
was still puzzled.
"Do you want me to leave you—Amery's?" she asked.
"Who is Soyoka? I seem to have heard the name some-
where."
"Soyoka is a Japanese gentleman," he said, a hint of
primness in his tone, "and a very powerful Japanese


THE MAN IN THE ROOM 31
gentleman and a very rich Japanese gentleman. There
are no"—he paused—"flies on Soyoka. And his friends
are always willing to enlist the services of people who are
likely to be of help. Soyoka woulcj not object to engag-
ing one who had been working for his competitors; in
fact, he would welcome the opportunity. And, as I say,
he is a very excellent paymaster."
She shook her head.
"You bewilder me, Major Amery. I really don't know
who Soyoka is, and I don't think I should care to work
for Eastern people."
He made no reply. Then:
"You can trust Feng Ho," he said unexpectedly. "He
has all the virtues and none of the vices of the East.
Most Chinamen are amiable souls, with a passion for
songbirds. If Feng Ho ever walks into this office, how-
ever, you may like Feng Ho. He improves upon ac-
quaintance. A river pirate killed his father," he went on
in his inconsequent way. "Feng Ho followed him into
the mountains of Ningpo and brought back seven pirates'
heads in a Gladstone bag. A queer fellow."
She was speechless with horror and amazement.
"That—that little man?" she said incredulously. "How
dreadful!"
"It's rather dreadful to have your father's throat cut,"
said the strange man coldly. And then, again going off
at a tangent: "Feng Ho is death to Soyoka's rivals—re-
member that."
"Who is Soyoka?" she asked, a little exasperated.
"You've made three references to him, Major Amery,
and I may be dull, but I really can't see their application."
He did not reply; that was his most maddening and
most offensive trick.
"What do you do with yourself on Sundays?" he asked
abruptly.


32 THE SINISTER MAN
For answer she rose and gathered up her notes.
"You will want these letters before the afternoon post,
Major Amery," she said.
"You haven't answered me."
"I don't think that it is a matter which really concerns
you, does it?" she said with a touch of hauteur which she
felt was absurd.
His fingers were beating a rapid tattoo upon his blot-
ting pad. i
"The private lives of my employees are a matter of
considerable interest to me," he said. "But, perhaps, it
isn't the practice in this country to be too closely con-
cerned. Only, it struck me that your cottage was rather
isolated and very near the river; and there should be bars
on the window of your room. It is rather too close to
the ground, and any active man could jump up to the
portico and be in your room before you could say knife."
EJsa sat down suddenly. How did this man know-
Maurice Tarn's little week-end cottage on the upper
reaches of the Thames? And yet he not only knew, but
had examined the place so carefully that he had located
the room in which she slept on her week-end visits: had
even made calculations about the height of the window.
It was unbelievable.
"I really don't understand you, Major Amery. There
is something behind all these questions, and, frankly,
I am not very easy in my mind about—about things."
She hated herself for this failing of hers; there was
always a lame end to her sentences when she was speak-
ing to this man. And then, to her amazement, he laughed.
She had never seen him laugh before, and she gazed,
fascinated. His whole aspect was changed, and for a
second he was human; but, as suddenly as he had begun,
he stopped, and his face was frozen again to a graven
inexpressiveness.


THE MAN IN THE ROOM 33
"You must ask Feng Ho for one of his canaries; he
has several. But, unless you promise to take the little bird
for a walk every evening, as the Britisher takes his dog,
he will not give you one. Thank you, that will do for the
present."
Elsa came out of the office, her face flushed, her mind
disordered, hesitating between anger and amusement.
Feng Ho had gone. She wished he had left the canary
behind; she needed some antidote to the sinister man.


CHAPTER VI
MRS. TRENE HALLAM's CONSIDERATION
FEW people who visited Mrs. Trene Hallam's expen-
sively furnished flat in Herbert Mansions, associated her
name with that of the prosperous young doctor of Half
Moon Street; and those who, by coincidence, were ac-
quainted with both, never for one moment supposed that
this pretty, golden-haired woman, with her pale blue eyes
and tight, hard mouth, was in any way related to that
popular and pleasant man.
For a consideration Mrs. Hallam lived apart from ner
husband and claimed no relationship. She bred Pekingese
dogs, was a member of two bridge clubs, and apparently
was a lady of independent means. It was not likely that
people would think of Doctor Hallam in her connection,
for she was a daughter of the people, whose lack of
education and refinement was sometimes only too pain-
fully apparent.
She had married Hallam with the object of getting
away from the tiny villa where he had lodged with her
mother during the days when he was a student at St.
Thomas'. The marriage had not been a happy one.
Louise Hallam, to other failings, added a somewhat er-
ratic conception of common honesty. She was a born pil-
ferer, and not even her changed circumstances eradicated
the habit! Twice Ralph Hallam had to pay heavily to
avoid a scandal. Once this kleptomaniac had narrowly
escaped arrest. Thereafter they had lived apart, and, for
the "consideration" she now enjoyed, she was quite will-
ing to remain in her present state for the rest of her life.
34


MRS. HALLAM'S CONSIDERATION 35
He was the rarest of visitors at Herbert Mansions, and
the surprise she displayed when he was shown into the
drawing-room, where she was taking her rest, with a cup
of coffee by her side and a cigarette between her lips,
was not wholly assumed.
"Welcome, stranger!" she said genially. "This is a
sight for sore eyes. What's up?"
His expression was one of pain. "I wish you'd get
out of that gutter habit," he said wearily.
She was eying him keenly and unresentfully. The
taunt of her humble origin had not aroused her anger in
years.
"What do you want?" she asked bluntly. "A di-
vorce?"
He took out a cigarette and lit it before he answered.
"No, thank goodness, I've recovered from that folly!
When I think of the fools I should have married if I'd
divorced you when I wanted, I am grateful to you.
You're my safety. Lou. Never divorce me!"
"You needn't fret," she said complacently, "I shan't.
If I wanted to marry again it would be different, but
I don't. One marriage is enough for little me! Ralph,
what are you doing nowadays?"
"What do you mean—what am I doing?" he demanded.
"You're making money. I'm not complaining about
that; but you're making big money, and I'm wondering
how? You've increased my allowance, bless you! And
when I asked you to buy me that little place in the country,
you bought it without a kick. You're not doing that out
of mamma's money. What is the dope?"
He started and looked at her suspiciously. "I'd like
to know what you mean by that?" he asked.
She struggled to a sitting position, laughing.
"You're getting touchy, Ralph! What I meant was,
how are you getting it? I can't imagine you committing


36 THE SINISTER MAN
a burglary, though I've always known there was nothing
crooked you wouldn't do. It must be a safe swindle, be-
cause you don't look a day older than when I married you.
Worry ages."
"Never you mind how I get my money," he said shortly.
"I want you to do something to earn yours. I've made
life pretty agreeable to you, haven't I, Lou?"
She shrugged her shoulders, and the tight mouth be-
came a straight red line.
"I mistrust you when you start in to tell me all the
things you've done for me," she said truthfully. "At the
same time, I'll admit that you've never stinted me of
money. What is the hook to this bit of bait?"
"You're a suspicious woman!" he said. "All I want
from you is information. A few years ago you wanted
to see the world, and I sent you to India."
She nodded, watching him. "Well?"
"You had a chance of meeting the very best people in
India, and apparently you did. You came back with
more jewelry than you took out—a diamond sunburst
was one thing." She did not meet his eyes. "A rajah
gave it to you—you were there a year. Did you ever
meet a Major Paul Amery?"
She knit her brows.
"Amery? Why, yes, I think I met him. One of
those reserved people who never speak, and you get an
idea they're thinking a whole lot, until you know them
better, and then you discover that they're worrying about
their overdraft. Paul Amery? Why, of course! He
was rather nice to me, now I come to think of it. At-
tached to .the political service, isn't he?"
"That I don't know," said Ralph; "but if he was
rather nice to you, and you're friendly with him. I'd like
you to improve his acquaintance."
"Is he in London?"


MRS. HALLAM'S CONSIDERATION 37
He nodded.
"What do you want? Are you stringing him?"
"I'm not stringing him," said the other with elaborate
patience, "if by stringing you mean "He paused
for a smile.
"Kidding," suggested his wife, lighting one cigarette
from the glowing end of another. "I'm out of practice
with that work, though I'll do anything to oblige a loving
husband. Which reminds me, Ralph, that my car has
reached the museum stage. That Boyson woman has
got a cute little car, one of the new kind"
"We'll talk about that later," said her husband, with
a touch of irritability. "The point is, will you go along
and see this fellow? I have an idea he's engaged in a
—er—an unpleasant business. At any rate, I want you
to get acquainted with him. That's one thing."
"And the other?" Mrs. Hallam's eyes narrowed.
"In my experience of you, Ralphie, it's the other thing
that's most important. You always make a fuss about
the least important job and pass the other over care-
lessly. What is it?"
Ralph rose with a laugh.
"It is nothing, really. Only Tarn's niece is having a
little trouble with him. Tarn is the man I've told you
about. The old fool wants to marry her, and I think it
would be rather doing the girl a service to get her away
for a day or two. I want you to invite her to come and
stay with you, and you can be my Sister-in-law for the
occasion."
"Pretty?"
He nodded.
"I'll bet she is. And she thinks you are the wonderful
boy—handsome Alec! And when she cornes here, what
happens? Do I go out when you visit? Or am I
called away into the country?"


38 THE SINISTER MAN
There Was an ugly look on his face. "You get a little
too fresh sometimes, Lou. I don't keep you to amuse
me. There are four good theaters in town that I can
go to when I want to laugh."
She waved him down. "Don't lose your temper!
Tempers worry little sister! Write down her name and
address. Have you spoken about me?"
He nodded.
"Yours to command," she said lazily. "Now, what's
the consideration, Ralph?"
"You can have your new car," he growled. "But I'm
serious about Amery; it is necessary that you should
see him. You can't miss the place; it's in Wood Street,
the Amery building. And you'll see the girl, she's work-
ing in the office—her name is Elsa Marlowe. You can't
very well mistake her, either, for she's a peach! And
be careful with Amery; he's sharp!"
She smiled contemptuously.
"I've got a new gown from Poiret's that would take
the edge off a razor," she said. "When do you want
me to go?"
"To-day. You can speak to the girl; tell her you're
my sister-in-law."
"And a widow. My departed husband will have to
have been dead for a year or so, for that gown of mine
is slightly on the joyous side."
She made no further reference to the girl, her future,
or her fate. That was not the kind of "consideration"
that ever troubled Mrs. Trene Hallam.


CHAPTER VII
AN INDIAN ACQUAINTANCE
THERE was a tap at the door, and, without moving her
eyes from the notebook from which she was typing, Elsa
said:
"Come in."
The faintest whiff of an exotic scent made her look
round in surprise. The lady who stood in the doorway
was a stranger to her. Elsa thought she was pretty in
her thin and dainty way. The dress, she saw with an
appraising woman's eye, was lovely.
"Is this Major Amery's office?"
The voice was not so pleasing; there was just the faint-
est hint of commonness. But she had no time to form
an impression before, with a sweet smile, the woman
came toward her, her gloved hand extended.
"Isn't this Elsa Marlowe?" she asked.
"That is my name," said Elsa, wondering who this
unknown might be.
"I am Louise Hallam—Mrs. Trene Hallam. Ralph
told me about you."
A light dawned upon Elsa.
"Oh, yes, of course—you're Ralph's sister-in-law?"
"Yes, I married his dear brother—such a sweet man,"
murmured Mrs. Hallam. "But much too good for this
world!" She sighed and touched her eyes daintily with a
little handkerchief, providentially at hand. "The good
die young," she said. "He was thirty. A few years
younger than Ralph, but, oh, such a sweet man! What
a dear little office!" She beamed round approvingly to
survey the uninspiring scene. "And how do you get on
39


40 THE SINISTER MAN .
with Major Amery? I always thought he was such a
perfectly lovely man when I met him in India. My dear
husband took me there for a holiday."
She sighed again, but this time perhaps with a little
more sincerity, for India held memories which were at
once dear and dour.
"You know Major Amery?" said the girl eagerly.
"What sort of a man is he—to meet, I mean?" she grew
hot, as she realized that her eagerness might be misunder-
stood.
"A sweet creature," said Mrs. Hallam, and the descrip-
tion was so incongruous that Elsa could have laughed.
"I've called to see him, and I was killing two birds with
one stone," Mrs. Hallam went on, and, with a roguish
little smile and uplifted finger, she said: "I know a little
girl who is coming to stay with me for a whole week!"
Elsa flushed and, for some reason which she could not
fathom, hesitated.
"I don't know whether it will be possible, Mrs. Hallam,"
she began.
"It must be possible. I'm going to give you a really
nice time. It was very stupid of Ralph not to tell me that
he had such a charming friend. I would have asked you
over before. We'll do some theaters and concerts to-
gether, though concerts certainly bore me stiff—I mean,
they bore me," she corrected herself hastily. "I will not
take no for an answer. When can you come?"
Elsa thought rapidly.
"To-morrow?" Mrs. Hallam suggested.
She could not understand her own reluctance to accept
an invitation which sounded so enticing.
"To-morrow I shall expect you."
Mrs. Hallam took a card from her case and laid it on
the table.
''You shall have the dearest little room of your own.


AN INDIAN ACQUAINTANCE 41
I'm all alone, and you won't be bothered with servants;
it is a service Hat. If you want anything, you just ring
for it. I think you'll be very happy."
"I'm not so sure that my uncle can spare me," said
Elsa, more loath to go than ever, now that she had prac-
tically accepted.
"Your uncle must spare you. And now I must see
dear Major Amery. Would you tell him I am here?"
Elsa tapped at the door, and her employer's sharp voice
answered her.
"Mrs. Trene Hallam to see you, Major Amery," said
Elsa.
He stared up from his writing.
"Mrs. Trene Hallam to see me? Now isn't that nice
of her? Shoot her in!"
Elsa opened the door for the woman and closed it
behind her, as Major Amery rose slowly to greet the
visitor who sailed across the room.
"You don't remember me, Major Amery?" she said,
with a hint of coquetry in her pale blue eyes; a smile at
once pleased and reproachful.
"Indeed, I remember you very well, Mrs. Hallam.
Won't you sit down?"
"It was in Poona, I think," said Mrs. Hallam when
she had settled herself. "Do you remember that delight-
ful ball the governor gave—those glorious roses every-
where? Don't you remember what a terribly hot night
it was, and how they had great blocks of ice on the stair
ways?"
"Are you sending back Lady Mortel's diamond
brooch?"
At the sound of that metallic voice the smile left the
woman's face, and she sat up.
"I—I don't know what you mean," she faltered. "I—
I really don't understand you."


42 THE SINISTER MAN
"While you were the guest of Lady Mortel, a diamond
sunburst was missed. A servant was arrested and tried
for the theft; he went to prison for three years. The
other night I saw you at the theater—I saw the brooch,
too."
She went red and white.
"I really do not understand you, captain"
"Major," he said laconically. "I have been promoted
since. Hallam sent you here, of course?"
"Hallam? My husband is dead."
"That's news to me," he broke in. "He was alive
when he left your flat at Herbert Mansions this after-
noon. Street accident?"
"I think you're very horrid," she whimpered. She
was no longer the urbane woman of the world. Under
his merciless glance she seemed to cringe and shrink. It
was as though the meanness of her had worn through the
veneer which modiste and milliner had overlaid upon the
hard and ugly substance of her soul.
"I thought you were a friend of mine. I would never
have called on you if I'd known you could be so hor-
rid."
"I'm not being horrid; I'm being truthful, though I ad-
mit that truth is pretty beastly," he said. "Why did you
come here?"
"To call on you," she said. "Just to renew—to meet
you again. I didn't expect"
Again he checked her.
"Tell Hallam from me to find a new occupation. Tell
him I am after his blood, and I mean it! I want that
amateur dope-running corporation out of my way."
"Dope running?" she gasped.
He nodded. "You didn't know? I wondered if he
had told you. My last word to him is—git! You'll re-
member that?"


AN INDIAN ACQUAINTANCE 43
He had not resumed his seat, and now, leaning across
the table, he jerked out his hand.
"Good-by, Mrs. Trene Hallam. Trene is your maiden
name, if I remember rightly? Your mother lived in
Tenison Street, Lambeth. Don't forget the message I
have given you for your husband—git!"
It needed all her artistry to compose her face into a
smile, as she passed into the outer office, pulling the door
behind her.
"Such a dear, sweet man, but a little changed," she
murmured and took the girl's hand in hers for a second.
"You will remember, my dear?"
"I will try to come, but if I can't"
"You must come," said Louise Hallam, and there was
a sharp quality in her voice. "I will not take no."
She seemed in a hurry to leave, did not linger for an-
other second; and all the way home she was wondering
whether Major Amery and his secretary were on suffi-
ciently good terms for him to take her into his confidence.
She had hardly left the room before Amery turned
quickly and opened a door that led to a tiny room, which
served as a clothespress and wash place. Its solitary
occupant, who was sitting on an old trunk, rose, as the
door opened, and came out into the office. The major
held Mrs. Hallam's card between his two fingers.
"Go to this address some time to-night. Search the
flat thoroughly. I want every document that you can
find."
He spoke in the sibilant dialect of Canton, and Feng
Ho was sufficiently Europeanized to nod.
"You must use no force, unless it is absolutely neces-
sary. You may find nothing. On the other hand, you
may get some valuable information. If necessary; you
may be able to use the name of Soyoka to advantage
Go!"


CHAPTER VIII
THE EXPLOIT OF FENG HO
ELGIN CRESCENT was singularly unattractive to Elsa
that night. She came by bus from the City to Trafalgar
Square and walked the remainder of the way through
the three parks. The crocuses were blooming; the trees
were shooting out emerald-green buds; the early bushes
were in full leaf; here and there she saw the beginning of
rhododendron flowers, hard little sticky masses of an
indescribable color that would presently set the park
aflame. But, wherever her eyes roamed, her mind was
completely absorbed, even to the exclusion of Maurice
Tarn and his amazing proposal, in the strange man who
had suddenly come into her workaday life. She did not
even resent the companionship of the voluble Miss Dame,
who had insisted upon coming home with her. Miss
Dame lived at Notting Hill Gate, and her company could
hardly be refused.
The speech might have been all on one side but for
the fact that Jessie Dame chose, for her discourse, the
subject of Elsa's thoughts.
"What I hate about him," said Miss Dame, with typical
energy, "is his slinkiness. Have you ever noticed, Miss
Marlowe, how he slinks around, wearing sneakers, too?'
"Sneakers? Oh, you mean his rubber shoes?"
"Sneakers is the word for them, and a very good
word," said Miss Dame.
And yet, thought Elsa, the sinister man did not "slink."
He was furtive, but not meanly furtive. You could not
imagine a mean leopard or a mean lion stalking his prey.
44


THE EXPLOIT OF FENG HO 45
The thought startled her. Was that the reason for his
queer secretiveness? Was he stalking somebody? She
dismissed the possibility with a smile.
"I'm getting romantic," she said.
"You are romantic," said Miss Dame decisively. "I've
always said that you're wasted in an office; you ought to
be in the pictures. You're svelte—that's the word—
svelte. You'd be perfectly marvelous on the screen. I
thought of going in for it myself, but only as a comic,"
she said with a sigh. "I'm not svelte enough."
Out of the corner of her eye Elsa caught a glimpse of
the ungainly figure and agreed.
Mr. Tarn had not returned when she got to the maison-
ette. They kept no servants; two daily helps came in, in
the morning and in the evening, and from one of these
she learned that he had telephoned to say that he would
not be home until late, and that she was not to wait
dinner for him. For this she was grateful, for she was
not inclined to resume the conversation of the morning.
No. 409 Elgin Crescent consisted of two maisonettes,
a lower, comprising the ground floor and basement, and
an upper, which her guardian occupied, comprising the
remainder of the house. The study and dining room
were on the first floor; she had the back room on the
second floor, above the dining room, for a bed-sitting
room; and to this safe harbor she retreated, just as soon
as she had finished her dinner.
It was a pleasant little apartment, with a writing table,
a dozen well-filled book-shelves, a cozy chair that she could
draw up before the gas fire, and a tiny wireless set, which
had filled so many long and dreary winter evenings with
amusement.
She tried to read, but between her eyes and the printed
page came the face of the sinister man, and the lifted
lips sneered up at her so vividly and so insistently that


46 THE SINISTER MAN
presently she closed the book with a crash. She wondered
what this man did in the evenings. He had a club,
perhaps. She remembered that Ralph had told her he
had seen him there. Perhaps he went to theaters. What
sort of plays would arouse him from his ingrained cyni-
cism? Had he any relatives or friends? In a way she
felt a little sorry for him, just as the sight of a prison
would arouse sorrow for its undeserving occupants.
She fitted the headpieces and heard part of "Aida"
relayed from the Opera House, and she' found herself
speculating as to whether he would be in the audience.
At this evidence of imbecility she viciously tugged off the
headpieces and prepared for bed. She was undressing
when she heard the blundering steps of Mr. Tarn on the
stairs and the bang of his study door as he closed it. At
any rate he could not bother her that night. She said
her prayers, turned out the light, and jumped into bed,
and in a few minutes she fell into the sweet, sound sleep
which is youth's greatest, but least appreciated, blessing.
She was not a heavy sleeper, but, if she had been, the
sound would have awakened her. The room was in com-
plete darkness. She could hear the ticking of the clock
on the mantel, and, for the rest, silence reigned in the
house.
What was it? She sat up, trying to recall the noise
that had awakened her. It came again, but this time it
could not have been so loud—a faint, snapping sound,
which came from the window.
Slipping out of bed, she pulled aside the curtains. The
fading moon still bathed the world in its eerie radiance
and reflected evilly from a glittering something that lay on
the window sill.
She threw up the window and, with a cry of astonish-
ment, took the thing in her hand. It was a dagger, and
the handle was inscribed in Chinese characters!


CHAPTER IX
"MAY FAIR 10016"
A KNIFE! Who left it there? She had to remove the
wedge which kept the upper sash of her window in place,
before she could lift the lower and look out. For a
second she saw nothing, and then she understood.
A builder's long ladder had been reared against the wall,
and the explanation of the midnight visit was now clear.
The top of the ladder reached within two feet of her
window, and, as she looked, she saw a dark figure slide
down to the ground, pause for a moment, and look up
before it vanished in the shadow of the big tree. In that
space of time she saw the face distinctly—it was Feng
Ho!
What should she do?
"I ought to scream, I suppose," she said to herself,
but she had never felt less like screaming, although she
had had a bad scare.
She turned on the light and looked at the clock. It
was half past three. Mr. Tarn would be in bed, and he
was the last person she wanted to arouse. Pulling on
her dressing gown and slippers, she went out of the room
and down the dark stairs to the dining room, the windows
of which were shuttered and barred. Here she made
herself tea with an electric kettle and sat down to consider
what she should do next.
Feng Ho! She frowned at the thought. "You will
see a great deal of Feng Ho," Amery had said, and her
lips twisted in a smile. At any rate, she did not wish to
see a great deal of Feng Ho in circumstances similar to
a


48 THE SINISTER MAN
those in which he had made his appearance that morning.
And then came to her a wild and fantastic idea. It
was the sight of the telephone on the sideboard that gave
it to her. Major Amery occupied his uncle's house in
Brook Street.
She put the thought from her, only to turn to it again.
Presently she went in search of the telephone directory
and found it in her uncle's study. The place reeked with
the smell of brandy, and for a moment she felt physically
sick and hurried out with the thick volume under her arm.
Yes, there it was—"Amery, Major P., 9/b Brook
Street. Mayfair 10016." He would be in bed and
asleep. The prospect of rousing him filled her with
malicious joy, and she lifted the hook and waited. It
was a long time before the operator answered, but within
a few seconds of his answering her signal, she heard a
click and a sharp voice demanded:
"Who is that?"
Elsa's lips twitched. "Is that Major Amery?" she
asked sweetly.
"Yes. What do you want, Miss Marlowe?"
He had recognized her voice! The discovery took
her breath away, and for a moment she was unable to
proceed.
"I—we've just had a visit from a friend of yours,"
she said, a little wildly. "At least, he didn't come in!"
"A friend of mine? You mean Feng Ho?"
His coolness was staggering.
"Of course I mean Feng Ho. He was trying to get
in through the window of my room," she said, her anger
rising.
"Your room?" came the quick response. "You mean
your bedroom?"
"That is the only room I have," she said, and there was
a silence at the other end of the phone.


"MAYFAIR 10016" 49
After a while he spoke. "You must have been mis-
taken. It could not have been Feng Ho," said his voice.
"He is with me now. One Chinaman looks very much
like another to the uninitiated eye. I'm sorry you have
been frightened."
The last word came in a different tone. He had ex-
plained her error hurriedly, which was not like him. She
knew it was useless to argue the matter on the telephone.
"I'm sorry I got you out of lied," she said.
"Are you scared?"
Was she mistaken in imagining an undercurrent of
anxiety and concern in his voice?
"No, I was startled."
Another silence.
"Does Mr. Tarn know?"
"No, he is asleep; I haven't wakened him, unless I'm
waking him now. I'm sorry I bothered you. Good
night"
"Wait," he said sharply. "You are sure you're not
frightened?"
"Of course I'm not frightened. Major Amery. You're
for ever thinking that I'm frightened," she said, with a
smile, remembering the conversation of the morning.
Was it a quiet laugh she heard? Apparently not, for
there was no laughter in his voice when he said, with his
customary brusqueness:
"Good night. Go back to bed."
How like him to finish that strange conversation with
a peremptory order, she thought, as she hung up the tele-
phone. At that moment Maurice Tarn, with an old
dressing gown huddled about him, came blinking into the
light.
"What's wrong?" he asked harshly. "What are you
doing here, telephoning at this hour of the morning?
Whom were you talking to?"


50 THE SINISTER MAN
"I was talking to Major Amery."
"Amery!" he squeaked. "Major Amery? What
were you telling him?"
He was terrified, and in his agitation gripped her wrist
with such force that she cried out.
"I'm sorry," he muttered. "What is it all about,
Elsa?"
"I was merely telling Major Amery that I caught a
friend of his to-night trying to get in through my win-
dow."
For a moment he could not grasp her meaning.
"Who was it?"
"I don't know—a Chinaman."
"A Chinaman!" he screamed. "A friend of Amery's,
trying to get in!"
In as few words as possible she told him all she had
seen, and he listened, his teeth chattering.
"Oh, my Lord!" he said, his hand on his brow. "A
Chinaman! Had a knife, had he? You're sure about
the knife?"
"He may have only been using it to open the window,"
said the girl, astounded at the extraordinary effect which
the news had upon her relative. She had never seen a
man in such an abject condition of fear. By the time
she had finished, his pallid face was streaming with per-
spiration.
"You phoned Amery?" huskily. "What did he say?"
"That it wasn't Feng Ho."
"He's a liar! It was the Chinaman who came into the
office to-day. I just saw him—Feng Ho! Elsa, that's
my finish! They'll be watching for me now—every
port."
"What is the matter, Mr. Tarn?" she asked, frightened
in spite of herself by the terror of the man. "Have you
done something"


"MAYFAIR 10016" 51
"Don't talk, don't talk." He waved her to silence. "I
don't want to discuss it, I tell you. I was expecting this."
He dived his hand into the pocket of his tattered dressing
gown and drew out a long-barreled revolver. "But they'll
not get me, Elsa!"
The hand that held the pistol shook so violently that she
was in some fear that it would explode by accident, and
she was relieved when he put it back in his pocket.
"Paul Amery, curse him! I could tell you something
about Amery—not now, not now! I'm going into my
study."
He rushed out, and she heard the key turn in the lock,
and then, through the thin partition which separated the
dining room from the study, there came the clink of glass.
Mr. Tarn was fortifying himself against the terrors
which the remaining hours of darkness might hold.


CHAPTER X
MR. TARN MAKES A WILL
MR. TARN was not at breakfast the next morning; she
would have been surprised if he had been. His door was
still locked, and only after repeated hammerings did his
sleepy voice growl an intimation that he would be out in
a few minutes. Elsa hurried her breakfast and was
successful in leaving the house before Tarn made an
appearance.
She was anxious to get to the office and curious as to
what explanation Amery would offer. She might have
guessed that he would offer none. When, at half past
nine, his bell summoned her, she went to meet a man who
certainly bore no appearance of having spent the night
out of bed. He met her with his characteristic lack of
greeting and plunged straightway into his letters, firing
across the table magazine after magazine of words, to
be caught and recorded. It was not until she was leav-
ing that he made any reference to their conversation of
the early morning.
"Didn't you call me up in the night? I have a dim
recollection of the circumstances."
"I had almost forgotten," she said coolly, and his face
twitched.
"Possibly you were dreaming," he said. "But it is
a dream which will never come true—again. When
Feng Ho comes, ask him to tell you the story of his
finger."
"His finger?" she repeated, surprised in spite of her-
self.
sat


MR. TARN MAKES A WILL 53
"His little finger. You broke yours at school, playing
hockey. Ask him how he lost his."
"I didn't know he'd lost a finger."
"Ask him," he said, and his head jerked to the door.
She wished he would find another way of telling her
that she could go.
It was nearly lunch time when Feng Ho came, as
dapper as ever, his coat spotless, his trousers even more
rigidly creased, his white spats exchanged for articles of
bright yellow leather; his umbrella and his hat were in
one hand, and in the other the gilded cage, with a dignified
canary balancing itself on the central perch.
He greeted the girl with a grin.
"My unworthy little bird has been sick all night. I
have been sitting by his side, feeding him with sugar—
from midnight till six o'clock this morning. And now he
is better and will sing for us. Pi"—he addressed the
yellow songster—"open your hideous little beak and emit
unmusical noises for this honorable lady."
"Feng, you are not telling the truth," said Elsa severely.
"You weren't sitting up all night with your bird."
The little man looked at her, blandly innocent. Then
he turned his melancholy eyes to the bird.
"Little Pi, if I am lying, do not sing; but if I am speak-
ing the truth, then let your ugly little throat produce
contemptible melody."
And, as though he understood, the loyal little bird burst
into a torrent of sunny song. Mr. Feng Ho smiled
delightedly.
"It is a peculiar and noteworthy fact," he said, with
his best European manner, "that has been observed by
every seeker after truth, from Confucius to Darwin,
that the animal world—by which I refer to the world of
vertebrate mammals—are the living embodiment of truth
and the chief exponents of veracity. I will now, with


54 THE SINISTER MAN
your gracious permission, sit down and watch your viva-
cious fingers manipulate the keyboard of your honorable
typewriter—to employ the idiom of our neighbors, but
not friends, the Nipponese."
He sat patiently, practically without a movement,
except to turn his eyes from time to time to the bird, and
there seemed some strange understanding between these
two, for no sooner did Feng Ho's slit of a mouth open in
a smile than the bird seemed to rock with musical laughter.
Miss Dame came in, while Elsa was typing, dropped
her jaw at the first view of the Chinaman, but graciously
admitted that the canary was the best song bird she had
ever heard.
"It must be a gentleman bird," she said. "Gentleman
birds always sing better than lady birds. And why
shouldn't they? They've got less responsibility, if you
understand me."
She glanced coldly at the Chinaman, as he nodded his
agreement.
"If you've got to lay eggs, you can't find time for
keeping up your singing. Excuse me, do you know
Sessuewaka?" This to Feng Ho, who expressed his
grief that he had never heard of the gentleman.
"He's the model of you," said Miss Dame, glaring at
him. "Slightly better looking, if you'll excuse my rude-
ness, but that's probably the paint and powder he puts on
his face. You've never seen him in 'The Bride of Fuji
Yama'—that's a mountain?"
The explanation was necessary because Miss Dame
pronounced it "fujjy yammer."
"You've missed a treat," she said regretfully when he
shook his head. "He was simply marvelous, especially
when he committed—what's the word ?—haki raki?"
Elsa refused to assist her and paused in her work with


MR. TARN MAKES A WILL 55
such point that Miss Dame was conscious of the interrup-
tion she had produced, and retired.
"A very pretty young lady," said Feng Ho, and Elsa,
who thought he was being sarcastic, was prepared to snub
him, but his next words demonstrated his sincerity. "The
Eastern view differs considerably from the Western view.
I can tell you that, speaking with authority, as a bachelor
of science."
She wondered what special authority this particular
bachelorhood conferred when it came to a question of
judging looks, but wisely she did not pursue the topic.
When she got to the office she had found a note from
Mrs. Trene Hallam. It would have been a letter from
anybody else, for it occupied two sheets of notepaper;
but Mrs. Hallam's calligraphy was not her strong point.
The lettering was enormous, and ten words a page was
a generous average.
You will come to-night at seven. I will have dinner
ready for you, and I will drive you every morning to your
office.
There was a postscript.
Please don't tell Major Amery that you are staying with
me. He may think I have some reason.
The postscript annoyed her, though why she did not
know. Perhaps it was the assumption that she would tell
Major Amery anything about her private affairs.
She only saw her uncle for a few minutes. Coming in
from luncheon, she had to pass his door, which was open,
and she saw him sitting at his table and would have gone
on if he had not called her back.
"Shut the door," he growled. "I've been to see my
lawyer on a certain matter, and I've made my will."


$6 THE SINISTER MAN
This was rather surprising news. She had never
thought of her uncle as a man of means, or having prop-
erty to dispose of, and she could only utter a common-
place about the wisdom of taking such a precaution.
"He's a shrewd fellow is Nigitts," he said, "very
shrewd. And remarkably well up in the matter of"—
he cleared his throat—"criminal law. The most one can
get in this country for a certain offense is two years, and
Nigitts says one would probably get away with less, if
a statement was made voluntarily."
She wondered what on earth he was talking about.
Had he been drinking? His face was flushed, his eyes
heavy with want of sleep, but from her own experience
she thought he was sober.
"I've had to give the matter a whole lot of thought—
there are other people besides me involved in this busi-
ness," he said; "but I thought you'd like to know that
I'd improved the shining hour"—his attempt to be jovial
was pathetic—"and I've left you a little bit of money,
although I don't suppose you will touch it for years.
Would you like to be rich, Elsa?"
He looked at her from between his narrowed lids.
"I suppose everybody would like to be rich," smiled
the girl.
"You'd like to be good and happy, eh? Like the girl
in the storybook?" he sneered. And then: "What has
Amery been doing all the morning?"
"Working," she said.
"Nothing unusual?"
She shook her head.
"I'd like to take a look at some of his letters, Elsa.
Anyway, I'm in the business, and Major Amery has no
secrets from me. Where do you keep the copy file?"
"Major Amery keens his own copies in the safe," she
said.


MR. TARN MAKES A WILL 57
He played with a blotter.
"I don't see why you shouldn't slip in a second carbon?"
he suggested.
There was no profit in discussing the matter with him.
"I can't do that—you know very well I can't. It
would be dishonest and mean, and I'd rather leave
Amery's than do it."
"You like him, eh?"
"I loathe him," she said frankly, and his face bright-
ened.
"That's the kind of talk I like to hear, little girl. He's
a swine, that fellow! There's nothing anybody could
do to a man like that could be called mean."
"I am the 'anybody' concerned, and there are some,
things I will not do," she said and walked out.


CHAPTER XI
THE SYNDICATE
THERE were times when Ralph Hallam's mind we.it
back to the days of romance, and conspirators, cloaked
and masked, met in underground cellars to plan their
dark deeds. Certainly there was the advantage of safety
in that picturesque method, and Ralph played safe all the
time. Such meetings gave to the leaders an anonymity
which must have been very comforting.
This thought occurred to him, as he went slowly up
the stairs that led to No. 3, the largest of the private
dining rooms that the Cafe Fornos had to offer to its
clients. For luncheon these rooms are very seldom taken,
but once a month Doctor Hallam gave a little party, where
business men could meet, discuss politics, theaters, the
contemporary events of sport, and, when the coffee and
liquors were served, and cigar cases came to light, and
when, moreover, the waiters had withdrawn, the peculiar
business which brought them together.
As Ralph stood in the doorway, smiling and nodding
to the waiting guests, he decided that he had never seen
an assembly that looked less like a meeting of conspira-
tors. They were stoutish business men, lovers of good
living, middle-aged, slightly or completely bald; men in
the sober habiliments of their class. Jarvie of Birming-
ham greeted him warmly and looked past him, seemingly
expecting a companion.
"The old man couldn't get away," said Hallam easily.
"He's not particularly well."
He shook hands with the half dozen guests and took
58


THE SYNDICATE 59
his seat. No. 3 had an outer and an inner door, and
when at last the waiter had placed his cigar boxes and
liquor bottles on the buffet and had withdrawn, Hallam
walked to the doors, turned the key on both, and came
back to his chair.
Instantly the company relaxed, and the atmosphere
changed. It was as though, for the past hour, everybody
had been playing a part, and all that had been said and
done was an act from a dull comedy.
Without preamble Hallam spoke.
"There are three new consignments, the largest in Lon-
don, the second largest at Hull"
"Bonded or through the customs?" somebody asked.
"Out of bond, of course," replied Hallam. "Jarvie,
you will arrange the distribution. It is consigned to
Stanford's Birmingham address. The second came into
Avonmouth yesterday and goes forward to Philadelphia."
"What about this Greek they caught at Cleveland?"
asked Jarvie, and it was clear that this question was on
the lips of the whole company, for there followed a babble
of questions.
"You need not worry about him, and the story of the
American police tracing a doctor and a City merchant is
all bunk. Some imaginative American reporter invented
that. No, that isn't our trouble. Bickerson"
"Hasn't anybody tried to straighten Bickerson?" asked
a voice. "A couple of thousand would put him quiet."
Ralph shook his head.
"I know Bickerson; he's not that kind. And if you
straightened him, he'd slack down, and the higher-up
people would put another man into the case, and he'd have
to be straightened," said Hallam. "The only man you
need worry about is Tarn, who is getting cold feet. And
Soyoka," he added.
There was a glum silence at this. Soyoka was the


6o THE SINISTER MAN
specter that walked at every man's elbow, the terror 01
the unknown. They were business men, each with his
little bolt hole, his alibi, his ready explanation if the police
by accident hit upon his story, and behind each was a
reputation for commercial integrity that could not be
gainsaid. Moral considerations did not concern them.
That they were marketing a vile poison that wrecked men
and women and drove them to insanity, hardly counted.
They were marketing a commodity which paid enormous
profits, and for which there was an increasing demand.
"Soyoka?"
Jarvie took his cigar from his mouth, looked at it
thoughtfully, and put it back. He was a heavy-browed
man, with a fringe of hair above his collar and a shining
head.
"There's room for Soyoka," he said.
"So I think," nodded Hallam, "but he doesn't share
the view that there is room for two. Now I'm going to
tell you fellows something. Old Tarn is certain that his
boss is either Soyoka or Soyoka's leading agent!"
"His boss? Who is he?" asked Jarvie, scowling at
his chief.
"Major Amery."
Ralph saw the eyes of the beetle-browed man open wide.
"Amery?" he said incredulously. "Not Paul Amery?"
"Why, do you know him?" demanded the other.
Mr. Jarvie was whistling softly.
"Paul Amery! I wonder if it's the same? It's not
Paul Amery of the Indian political service, by any chance?
The man who got into trouble at Shanghai?"
In his excitement Ralph pushed back his chair from
the table.
"Let us hear this," he said. "You've got the man
right enough. Do you know him?"
Jarvie shook his head.


THE SYNDICATE 61
"No, I don't know him, but one of my managers knew
him very' well. We have a branch house in Shanghai;
we export Brummagem goods and that kind of truck;
and my manager, who came back a year ago on sick leave,
was full of him. He is not by any chance connected with
Tarn's firm, is he?"
"He is Amery & Amery," said Ralph. "His uncle
left him the business some time back."
Again Mr. Jarvie whistled.
"I only know what my man told me. It appears that
Amery was lent by the Indian government to the board
of control, or whatever they call it, in Shanghai. In
Shanghai, as you probably know, there are three or four
millionaire families that have made their money out of
opium smuggling and running guns to the rebels. He
was sent up to keep an eye upon the arms gang, but got
into the opium commission and had to leave suddenly. I
don't know the right of it, but my man says he was caught
in the act of passing out opium. There was a tremendous
scandal and a veiled reference to the case in the Shanghai
press, but, of course, no reference to Amery, because these
Europeans in Shanghai are pretty clannish. All that
was known was that his name was taken off the roll of
members of the French Club, and he disappeared by the
first mail boat. It was the gossip of the place that he
was working with Soyoka, who has a pretty vivid reputa-
tion in the China Sea. There was also talk of his having
knifed a Chinese policeman who was going to give him
away. They say he's better than the best knife thrower
that ever starred in a circus. Learned it up in Nepal,
and he never carries any other weapon. It works silently,
and in his hands very effectively. What makes Tarn
think he's Soyoka?"
"Something he said to him," replied Ralph, "some
threat of his. If he is Soyoka's man"


62 THE SINISTER MAN
"If he is Soyoka's man," interrupted Mr. Jarvie, "he's
more dangerous than a bagful of rattlesnakes." He
looked meditatively at Ralph. "Isn't there a way you
could fix a fellow like that?" he asked.
"How do you mean—fix?" demanded Ralph bluntly,
conscious that the curious eyes of the party were on him.
"I don't mean anything illegal," said Mr. Jarvie vir-
tuously, and he again examined his inspiring cigar. "But
I think, if a fellow like that had a bit of a shock—well,
he'd go carefully and probably save us a few uncomfort-
able minutes."
This was evidently generally agreed. Somebody at the
far end of the table murmured:
"Not illegal, of course," though his tone hardly con-
vinced.
"There is only one way to stop Soyoka, if he is Soy-
oka," said Ralph coldly, "and that is to put him beyond
the power of troubling us. Does anybody mean that?'
Nobody apparently did mean that, for the company
murmured a soothing denial.
"No, what I mean," said Jarvie, who hesitated so long
that apparently he was not quite sure of what he did mean,
"is that, if he can't be straightened, he ought to be fright-
ened."
He puffed at his cigar and looked up at the ceiling.
"I don't know much about London; I'm a provincial
man myself; but I'm told that there are places in this
town where you could hire a man to beat up your own
grandmother for a ten-pound note. Personally I do not
approve of violence; it is foreign to my nature. But there
must be people who—ah, could scare—that is the word,
scare—Amery."
It was four o'clock when the luncheon party broke up,
and Ralph went down-stairs alone. In the vestibule he
saw a very plump, pleasant-looking gentleman being


THE SYNDICATE 63
helped on with his greatcoat. At first he could not
believe the evidence of his eyes, and then, glancing through
the doorway, he saw a very sedate Rolls draw slowly up
to the curb and a footman alight and open the door.
"Why, Tupperwill," he said, "you're in a strange part
of London!"
Mr. Tupperwill, proprietor of Stebbing's Banking Cor-
poration, looked round leisurely. Every movement of his
was deliberate, and his round blue eyes lit up in a stare of
recognition.
"My dear doctor," he murmured, "extraordinary—
most extraordinary! A queer place for Stebbing's indeed
—a very queer place!"
In the City of London, Stebbing's Bank was respected
without being considered. A survival of one of those
private banking corporations that had come into existence
in the early part of the eighteenth century, its business
was comparatively small, and its clientele extremely select.
Stebbing's had resisted the encroachments of the great
joint stock companies and maintained its independence
largely on the tradition established by its founder, who in
the early days of the firm had gone to prison for contempt
of court rather than produce books which would have in-
criminated one of his clients. For generations men with
great names kept private accounts at Stebbing's—accounts
which their confidential secretaries never scanned; for even
the owners of great names have affairs and business of a
peculiarly private kind, and Stebbing's flourished by its
very secrecy.
Mr. Tupperwill, its present proprietor, was wont to
boast that he had not an employee under the age of fifty,
though he himself was on the breezy side of thirty-five,
a stout, youthful-looking man, with a large face, many
chins, and hands of exceeding plumpness.
"Heavy luncheons are anathema to me." He put his


64 THE SINISTER MAN
hand in his pocket, pulled out a little pile of silver, and,
selecting sixpence, handed it to the unsatisfied cloakroom
attendant with a benevolent smile. "Anathema maran-
atha! But some of my clients are rather sybaritic.
Sybarite, as you probably know, is the name given to the
people of Sybaris, an ancient town of Greece, the citizens
of which were given to self-indulgence and luxury."
He said this with an air of revealing a mystery which
hitherto had not been made public. This passion for
passing on information was one of his characteristics,
and it may be said that, in nine cases out of ten, he really
did convey information to the City men with whom he was
mostly brought into contact.
Ralph had his private account with Stebbing's, and in
a way he could claim a sort of friendship with the banker,
who was a member of two of his clubs. If he had one
drawback, it was his mild interest in medicines, a source of
embarrassment to Ralph, who had almost forgotten his
early training.
The fat man sighed heavily as he pulled on his gloves.
"A glass of milk and a few crackers constitute my
normal lunch, and I shudder to contemplate the effect
that lobster mayonnaise would have upon my system.
You're not coming my way?''
Ralph was walking with him to the open door of his car.
"No, I'm not coming your way, though I shall be in
your neighborhood to-morrow or the next day."
Mr. Tupperwill shivered.
"I commiserate with you," he said. "The City lacks
aestheticism—a cult which, as you may know"
He stopped suddenly, looked along the crowded side-
walk, and his fat chin wagged downward.
"The cosmopolitan character of our streets at this
period of the year is always to me a fascinating and inter-
esting feature."


THE SYNDICATE 65
Following the direction of his eyes, Ralph saw a man
standing on the edge of the curb, a slim little man, in a
gray felt hat and violet yellow gloves. His face turned
at that moment.
"A Chinaman!" said Hallam in surprise.
"A Chinaman," agreed the other soberly, "one Feng
Ho, the bodyguard and confident of one Major Amery,
an astonishing gentleman."
Before Ralph had recovered from his astonishment
sufficiently to ask what the banker knew of Paul Amery,
the glistening car was threading its way through the
traffic, on its way to the unaesthetic purlieus of Old
Broad Street.
The Chinaman was looking steadfastly toward him,
but made no move to approach, and presently, when
Ralph began to walk in his direction, he turned and
moved swiftly away and was lost to sight in the
crowd.
Feng Ho, Amery's man! It was the first time Ralph
had heard of the Chinaman, and he wanted to get a
closer view of him. If all that he had heard that day
was true
But Feng Ho had disappeared, and, looking at his
watch, Ralph remembered that he had promised to make
a call on his wife. He was paying the cabman at the
entrance of Herbert Mansions when, looking round, he
saw another cab stop a little distance down the road. A
man got out. It was Feng Ho!
Ralph did not hesitate. He went toward the second
cab, and the Chinaman awaited his coming with an expres-
sionless face.
"I want a word with you, my friend."
Feng Ho's head bent slightly.
"When I came out of the Fornos a quarter of an hour
ago, you were standing on the sidewalk, obviously watch-


66 THE SINISTER MAN
ing me. Not content with that, you have followed me
here. Now what is your little game?''
Feng Ho's grin was as expansive as it was ,unsightly.
"Little game? I have no little game," he said blandly.
"I merely come this way; perhaps to-morrow I go some
other way."
"You're making a call—where?" asked Ralph roughly.
Feng Ho lifted his thin shoulders in a shrug.
"That is not good English politeness," he said.
"There is a policeman," he nodded in the direction of a
patrol. "Perhaps you will send for him and say 'Take
this Chinaman and put him in the cooler. His name is
Feng Ho; he is a bachelor of science, and he has followed
me.' Mr. Hallam, you cannot go anywhere in London
without following somebody."
"Why do you follow me?" asked Hallam, ignoring the
logic of the statement.
Again that little shrug.
"I am bachelor of science, interested in phenomena.
My specialty is crime! Not only do I like to attend the
court when a man comes up before the judge and hear the
story, but I wish to see the crime when it is committed
A depraved and morbid ambition, Mr. Hallam, but you,
as doctor of medicine, will understand."
"What crime do you expect to see here?" asked Hal-
lam, watching him narrowly.
"Murder," was the startling reply.
"Murder!"' Ralph wondered if the man were joking,
but there was no trace of a smile on his immobile face.
"Murder," repeated Feng Ho, his face beaming.
"When Soyoka kills you, I desire to be near, so that I
may see ingenious methods employed. That he may kill
that antediluvian gentleman Tarn, is possible, or sprightly
Miss Marlowe, but that he will inevitably and completely
kill you, you shall find!"


CHAPTER XII
"AMERY KNOWS"
FOR a second Ralph Hallam experienced a wild sense
of panic. The very matter-of-factness of the man's tone
sent a chill down his spine. Fighting hard against
the eerie sensation which for the moment overwhelmed
him, he presently found his voice.
"I see," he said between his teeth. "I am to accept
that as a warning from Soyoka, eh? Now listen to me,
chink! You can take this to Soyoka with my compli-
ments—if he starts anything in this country, he's going
to get badly hurt. You understand that? And the next
time I catch you shadowing me, you will be kicked. Is
that clear to you, Mr. Bachelor of Science?"
Feng Ho grinned
"To be kicked will be no new experience, learned sir;
for, when I was a poor Chinese boy, many men kicked me.
But now I am a man. it is different, and people who kick
me lose their toes—so!''
Quicker than eye could see, he had stooped. There
was a swish of steel, and the point of a knife, which had
appeared as if by magic in his hand, scraped a straight
white line that missed the toe of Hallam's boot by an
infinitesimal fraction of an inch. He was erect again,
the knife had disappeared, and he was his urbane, grin-
ning self, when Ralph stepped back with an invohrnary
cry.
"Too quickness of hand frequently deceives ovnirn.
observation," said Feng Ho complacently. "Ho>w TOTVU'.V;
67


68 THE SINISTER MAN
could a kicking doctor of medicines become a 'late,' with
wreaths and suitable adornments of a post-mortem char-
acter!"
And then, as though he himself recognized the futility
of further argument, he turned back to the astounded
cabman, gave him instructions, and, stepping quickly into
the cab, was whisked away before Ralph could recover
from his amazement.'
Lou was out. Keeping appointments was not her
strongest suit, and, having heartily cursed her, he went
back to Maida Vale in search of another taxi. He was
hardly home before she rang him up. She had been out
to make some purchases in view of the coming of her
guest that night.
"And I might have saved myself the trouble, for she's
just telephoned to say that she won't be able to come
to-night, as she has some work to do at home."
"You saw Amery?" he asked, noting the acid that came
into her voice.
"Yes, I saw the pig! Do you know what he had the
nerve to say to me?"
Ralph raised his eyebrows and smiled to himself.
"Can you guess?" she asked impatiently.
"I guess he referred to your unfortunate habit of
acquiring other people's property," he said coolly. "Lou,
one of these days your intelligent kleptomania is going
to get you into serious trouble. I've heard one or two
oblique references to the coincidence of your presence in
India with the disappearance of movable property.
You're a fool! You have enough money to live on, with-
out indulging in that vice of yours. I never open a paper
and see the headline, 'Woman Shoplifter Charged,' with-
out wondering whether you're going to scandalize me."
"You needn't worry 1" she snapped. "And if you


“AMERY KNOWS” 69
think I am likely to help myself to this girl's jewels, you'd
better not send her to me.”
“She hasn't anything worth stealing,” said Ralph
coolly. “What else did Amery say?”
“Nothing,” she exploded, “except, of course, he knows
that I'm your wife. And what's the use of swearing?
I didn't tell him.”
“How did he know, unless you betrayed yourself?”
“I tell you I didn't! He knew. He must have been
having Herbert Mansions watched, for he told me exactly
the minute you'd left the flat. Which reminds me,” she
said, in a changed voice, “I had a burglar in the flat last
night, when I was at the theater.”
“A burglar?” he repeated. “Did you lose anything?”
“No, that is the curious thing. He opened my jewel
safe, but nothing was missing. The janitor thinks he
must have been disturbed. I'm quite sure he searched my
little writing desk, because I distinctly remember leaving
my address book on top of some papers, and when I
looked this morning it was underneath.”
There was a long pause. Ralph Hallam thought
quickly. Was that the explanation of Feng Ho's presence
near Herbert Mansions? Was he watching Mrs. Hallam
as well as her husband, occupying his spare time by a
closer inspection of her belongings?
“Did you report it to the police?” he asked.
“No, it wasn't worth while,” she replied. And then
impatiently: “When is that girl coming? She's a bit
shy, isn't she?”
“I’ll let you know,” he said and hung up.
Paul Amery had assumed a new significance.


CHAPTER XIII
"THE SCANDAL OF SHANGHAI"
IT would have been unnatural if Elsa Marlowe had not
had her conception of the ideal man. And he had no
face, figure, or dimensions, being mainly character and
behavior. Her ideal man did not order girls about, as
though they were machines: he did not resent a civil
"Good morning.'' or scowl, or fire out interminable
letters: he did not dismiss the humblest of his employees
with a curt nod; and. whatever kind of face he had. it
most certainly was not disfigured by an ug'y sneer.
That morning at breakfast Mr. Tarn had made a brief
reference to his conversation of the previous day. but
happily had not pursued the subject. She would have to
leave him: that was clear. But it was not going to be
easy. The association of many years could not be lightly
broken: and somehow, the more she thought of Mrs.
Trene Hallam's orter. even as a temporary measure, the
less she liked the idea.
Just before lunch Amery sent for her and dictated
instructions to be followed if a telephone call came for
him during his absence. She noted, with feminine inter-
est, that he was wearing a new gray suit, and ?he thought
it was an improvement, though by contrast with the light
material his face looked darker and more forbidding than
ever, \"hen he had finished dictating, he leaned back in
his charr. ar.d his eyes wandered to the window. Not
Vast of h:s ur.p'-?asant practices was to talk without look*
:r.g at her.
70


"THE SCANDAL OF SHANGHAI" 71
"Have you any friends in Shanghai?" he asked.
"I, Major Amery? Xo," she said, surprised by the
query.
"Queer place—full of scandal. I suppose you hear
fragments of gossip—yes?''
"Xo. I know there is such a place as Shanghai, and
of course we have letters from our agents there, but I've
heard no scandal or gossip. About whom?" she asked
daringlv.
"Me. mostly. I wondered." he said.
She was fired with a natural curiosity. \Yhat kind of
scandal or gossip could touch this inhuman man? Yet
he must be human on some side.
"Queer place. Shanghai. You know why the bandits
held up the blue train? I suppose you don't."
The color and the mystery of the East were compre-
hended in that short question. She remembered reading,
something about bandits wrecking a train, robbing the
passengers, and holding them to ransom, and she wished,
now that she had given the item of news a closer study.
If she had expected him to refresh her memory, she
was to be disappointed.
"There is a lot of money to be made in Shanghai—
straight and otherwise.'' he said, "but mostly otherwise.
That will do!"
As her busy finders flickered above the keyboard of the
typewriter, she found herself wondering which method of
making money most appealed to the sinister man, and she
supposed that he was not very particular, for the acquisi-
tion of money seemed to be his principal occupation just
then.
A few weeks before, he had beg^n to institute a system
of economy. Superfluous clerks hid been discharged:
new printed warnings had appeared above every electric
light switch. He was in the habit of making unexpected


72 THE SINISTER MAN
appearances in the lower office, where row after row of
clerks stood at their high desks, and there had been sum-
mary dismissals. Once he had surprised a flushed, di-
sheveled girl, her eyes bright with anger, and had instantly
discovered the cause. She had come from one of the
little offices which housed the various submanagers of
departments, and, without a word to the girl, Amery had
walked into the bureau and with a crook of his finger had
summoned to him its middle-aged occupant.
"You tried to kiss that girl. I think?" he said.
"If she says that, she's a liar." began the manager.
"/ say that," said the sinister Amery, his lip up. "See
the cashier and draw your salary up to to-day. You're
fired!"
Lawyers' letters had followed this incident, and Elsa
had typed a few of the acrid replies. The matter had
come up when she was called in to take a letter to the
submanager's legal representative, and she ventured to
speak for him.
"Mr. Sturl has been ten years in the firm," she said.
"He's a married man with a family. Don't you think
you're rather hard on him?"
He transfixed her for a second with that granite look
of his, and then he said: "I am not in need of advice."
She was so furious that she could have thrown her
book at him.
It was characteristic of the change which had come over
the business that Mr. Tarn had not been consulted about
this dismissal, and even more remarkable that he was too
far gone in gloom to resent his overlooking.
She met him, as she was going out to lunch. It was
so unusual for him to leave the office until he left it in
the evening, that she almost asked him where he was
going. She checked herself in time, though he could
not have been ruder to her than Amery had been. On one


"THE SCANDAL OF SHANGHAI" 73
thing she was determined: she was leaving this establish-
ment at the earliest opportunity. The man had so got
on her nerves that she loathed the very sight and sound
of him.
Mr. Tarn would have been glad to have such definite
views. His mind was in a whirl. Plan after plan oc-
curred to him, only to be rejected, and there seemed no
pleasant prospect in life but the quiet of a remote ranch
in a foreign country, and the solace of mind that obscur-
ity would bring.
Ralph Hallam had telephoned to him to come to lunch,
and it was to the little house in Half Moon Street that his
steps were directed.
"I've had a talk with the crowd," said Ralph, when
Tarn was seated before a luncheon which would have
choked him to eat, "and they agree that it would be best
if you got away. Your nerves are gone, and this fellow
Amery looks like smashing up one side of our organiza-
tion."
"It's smashed," groaned Tarn. "Not another -ounce
can come in through Amery & Amery. I wish I'd never
come into the game! Look at this. It was left for me
this morning."
His trembling fingers dived into the inside of his frock
coat and brought out a letter, which he handed across
the table to the other. It was written on very thick and
very heavy note paper, in a hand obviously disguised.
Without preliminary it began:
You are poaching on our preserves, and, thanks to your
blundering folly, the police are working double shifts. We
are willing to give you one hundred thousand for the busi-
ness, you to hand over your agents and agree to dissolve
your organization. If you do not accept this offer, we will
find a way of clearing you out.


74 THE SINISTER MAN
It was signed with a capital "S."
Ralph handed the letter back with a smile.
"If it's worth a lumdred thousand pounds to them, it
may be worth a million to us. Why did they send it to
you, do you think? Because they knew you were the
one scared chap in the organization! When did you get
this?"
"I found it on my desk this morning when I arrived
at the office. Nobody seems to know how it got there."
"Perhaps Amery could explain," said the other dryly.
"Did he arrive before you?''
The old man nodded. "I'm going to quit," he said.
"We'll divide the money; there's enough to make both
of us rich."
"You've got it in ready cash?"
"How else?" said the other impatiently. "If I'd
followed your advice, I'd have put it in that fool Steb-
bing's Bank, and when we went to draw it we'd have
found two Scotland Yard men waiting on the doorstep.
The money's all right," said Tarn, cheerful for the first
time that day. "We'll divide up at the end of the week.
I've booked my passage.''
"You're a queer old devil," said Ralph, somewhat
amused, "and you're sacrificing a fortune. But I think
—we all think—that you're wise to take this step."
He got up from the table, lighting his cigar, and blew
a ring to the ceiling.
"You'll go alone, of course?"
Tarn shifted uncomfortably. "I suppose I shall," he
growled, "but that's no concern of yours."
"It is a very big concern of mine. I've already ex-
plained to you, my dear fellow, that Elsa is necessary to
me. To be biologically exact, you have more brains than
she; but she's smarter than you and with a little instruc-
tion, will more than take your place. Xow kill that crazy


"THE SCANDAL OF SHANGHAI" 75
May-and-December bug that's tormenting you. Go away
by all means; you'll be a happier man the moment the
Lizard's astern; and, if you are serious about your matri-
monial project, why, South America is still full of very
beautiful young ladies who would jump at the opportun-
ity of marrying a man with your wad. And honestly.
Tarn, I think you'll be a lucky man to get away alive."
"What do you mean?" demanded the other, startled.
"I mean this, that Soyoka is going to be very busy,
and you're better out of it."


CHAPTER XIV
SCREENING MAJOR AMERY
ALL that afternoon Maurice Tarn sat before his writ-
ing table, his hands thrust deep in his pockets, his shoul-
ders bent, his eyes half closed, Hallam's warning in his
ears. He was fifty-six, and life and liberty were very
dear to him. And he wanted—very badly he wanted—to
think singly. That was a term he invented himself.
And all the time he was thinking trebly, three lines of
thought running parallel, only to come together at short
intervals into one confused, tangled mass, until they so
interlaced and overlapped and ran one into the other that
he could not extricate them for an eternity of time.
And then, in the blackest hour of his gloom, came the
discovery which was destined, though this he could not
know, to bring catastrophe in its train.
"A cablegram, sir,'' said a clerk. "I think it is in the
private code."
"Eh?" He gazed gloomily at the paper that had been
laid before him. Looking absently at the signature,
he sat up with a jerk.
The sender was a Japanese merchant with whom he had
had some dealings on behalf of his nefarious syndicate.
Soyoka's firm had discovered this, and that source of
supply had suddenly stopped. But it was the presence
of a name in plain English, in the very middle of the
cablegram, that left him gasping, and he hastened to find
his secret code book and write out the message.
And then he saw what had happened. By some aberra-
tion of memory the cable that was addressed to him was
76


SCREENING MAJOR 'AMERY 77
intended for Soyoka's principal agent. The discovery
left him shaken. The name in plain English!—Soyoka!
He had his rival in the hollow of his hand, and his soul
was filled with a wild, savage sense of exhilaration which
he had not known in years. That was what had hap-
pened: the message had been sent to his private tele-
graphic address—in error.
He sat back in his chair, his breath coming quickly,
his face flushed; and thus Elsa found him when she
came in to mention that she might be away that night.
He did not even reply to her, and the very natural conclu-
sion, drawn from his flushed face and bright eyes, was
that he had been drinking.
Soyoka—in the hollow of has hand! So they would
threaten him, would they? He would show them.
On her way home that night Elsa turned into Cheap-
side, and here she saw a familiar "figure crossing the road
toward her.
"Why, Ralph!" she said. "What are you doing in
this industrious quarter of London? I never associate
you with the City."
"I had to come east to see a man," he said, falling into
step by her side. "Are you taking a lordly taxi, or are
you being democratic and boarding a bus?"
"I'm being healthful and walking," she laughed.
They passed along Newgate Street, turned into the
Old Bailey, and stopped to admire the pompous face of
the Central Criminal Courts. To Ralph the building
had a peculiar interest, and he pointed out where Newgate
Prison had stood, the place where the little narrow wicket,
festooned with irons, had opened into the gloomy jail.
"It makes me shiver," she said and turned away.
"I'll bet it makes Maurice shiver, too," he said incau-
tiously, and she stopped and faced him.
"What is wrone with Mr. Tarn?" she asked. "He has


78 THE SINISTER MAN
done something terrible, hasn't he? Do you know what
it is?"
But he turned the discussion with a laugh. He was
glad enough to reach Elgin Crescent, for he was no pedes-
trian.
"You're staying at Lou's place to-night; you promised
her yesterday when you put her off. Have you told
the old man?"
She had spoken to Tarn that afternoon, but doubted
if he had taken in what she had said. For some reason
which she could not define, she dreaded this coming visit.
"I'm not sure that Mr. Tarn understood me," she said.
"Need you tell him?" he asked quietly. "Maurice
is sore with me, for some reason, and I have an idea that,
if he knows that you're going to Lou's place, he'll raise
objections."
"But what can I say?" she asked in astonishment.
"I can't tell him a lie."
"Tell him you're going to spend a week with a friend.
If I know him rightly, he won't bother to ask you who
ft is."
It did not seem entirely to her liking, but she agreed.
"I'll lend you my moral support," he said gayly, and.
changing his original intention, which was to leave her
at the door, he went in with her, to find, as she had
expected, that Maurice Tarn had not yet returned.
She left him in the dining room, while she went up-
stairs to pack a bag. Again that little doubt entered her
mind. She did not like Mrs. Trene Hallam, but she
disliked her no more than she would any other stranger,
and possibly she would improve upon acquaintance. And
there was a very excellent reason why she should go away
for a little time. Instinctively she knew that the moment
of Maurice Tarn's crisis was at hand, and what might
be involved in its culmination she dared not think.


SCREENING MAJOR AMERY 79
She took longer over her packing than she had intended,
for there had arisen a new and preposterous considera-
tion. Would Paul Amery approve? Preposterous indeed!
She laughed at herself and resumed her packing.
When she came downstairs, Ralph, stretched in the
big armchair by the window, was looking out upon the
youth of Elgin Crescent at play.
"The noise these young devils make must get on Mau-
rice's nerves," he said. "What does he do in the evenings
--drink?"
She nodded. It was distasteful to her to discuss her
guardian. "He hasn't changed his habits," she said.
"No, not if I know him. I'll tell you what he does,"
said Ralph slowly. "You can check me, if I'm wrong.
He finishes his dinner at half past eight, goes to his study
at a quarter to nine, has his usual four brandy liqueurs,
and then starts in seriously to increase the liquor con-
sumption."
Elsa sighed. "He wasn't always like this. It is only
during the past few years that he has been drinking," she
said.
He nodded. "A queer devil, is Maurice. I wish to
Heaven he'd go to South America."
"With trie?" she smiled.
He shook his head. "Certainly not with you. I'm
not going to let him take you away."
She very hastily changed the subject.
At eight o'clock Mr. Tarn had not arrived, and Ralph
went away, after vainly trying to persuade her to let him
accompany her to Herbert Mansions.
"I can't do that," she said, shaking her head. "It
wouldn't be fair to him to go away only leaving a message
with the servants. I must see him and explain."
"Loyal lady!" he said with a smile. Somehow she
did not like his tone.


8o THE SINISTER MAN
After he had gone, it occurred to her that, with every
opportunity and every inducement, she had not told him
about Feng Ho's midnight visit. It was curious that
she had not done so. And it was not because she had
forgotten that she had not told him. Twice it had been
on the tip of her tongue to narrate her midnight adven-
ture, and something had stopped her. And then later,
as she heard the unsteady hand of Maurice Tarn put a
key in the lock of the lower door, the explanation came
to her and left her wondering at herself. She had not
told him because she was screening Paul Amery!


CHAPTER XV
THE MAN IN THE ROOM
As Inspector William Bickerson wrote the last line of
a very long report to headquarters, he blotted, folded,
and enclosed the document, and, looking up at the clock,
saw it was a quarter to nine. It was at that moment
that his clerk came to ask him if he would see Doctor
Ralph Hallam.
"Doctor Hallam?" said the inspector in surprise.
"Why, surely*"
He greeted Ralph as an old friend. "It is a hundred
years since I saw you last, doctor," he said warmly.
Again his eyes wandered to the clock. "And I wish I
had time to have a chat with you, but I've an appoint-
ment at nine. Did you want to see me about anything
in particular?"'
"If you consider the dope gangs are something partic-
ular, then I did."
The inspector whistled. ''The dope gangs? Do you
know anything about them?"
"I know very little, but I guess a lot; and I suppose
you can do some guessing for yourself."
The inspector did not reply at once. Then: "You're
a friend of Mr. Tarn's, aren't you?"
Ralph nodded. "Yes, I am a friend. We have been
much greater friends than we are at the present moment,"
"What's the matter with him?"
Ralph shrugged. "I don't know exactly. Booze. I
should imagine- He has taken to it rather badly. Why
do you ask if I am a friend of his?"
81


82 THE SINISTER MAN
The officer considered a moment. "Because he's the
fellow I'm going to see at nine. He asked me to come
round, said he had something very important to say.
In fact, he gave me to understand that he had an impor-
tant statement to make. Do you think that he was
drunk?"
Ralph was cautious here. "It may be," he said and
bit his lip. "What kind of statement?"
The inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know.
Are you his doctor?"
"I have been, though I'm afraid my medical knowledge
isn't worth boasting about. At nine o'clock, you say?
Would you mind if I went with you?"
Again the officer glanced at the clock. "No, you can
come along, though, if it is serious, I don't suppose he'll
want to say much before you."
"In which case I can go," said Ralph.
Bickerson had risen when the telephone bell rang, and
he took up the instrument.
"Hello!" he called, and Ralph saw his eyebrows rise.
"It's our friend," said the detective in a low voice, put-
ting the receiver out of range.
"Is that you?"
It was Maurice Tarn's voice, thick and slurred, almost
indistinguishable.
"That you, Bickerson? You coming round to see me?
They tried to get me to-night—yes, to-night! She's in it.
I wouldn't be surprised. She's ungrateful, after all I've
done."
"What are you talking about, Mr. Tarn?" asked the
detective sharply. "I'm on my way now."
"Come as quickly as you can. I can put you right about
Soyoka. I know his principal agent!"
He whispered a word, and Bickerson's jaw dropped


THE MAN IN THE ROOM 83
There was a click, as the receiver was hung up. The
inspector turned to his companion.
“He’s drunk,” he said.
“What did he say?”
But Bickerson was so overwhelmed by that whispered
word that he did not answer.
“I shouldn't take a great deal of notice of what he
said,” suggested Ralph, concealing his anxiety. “The old
fool is pickled! Why, he wants to marry his niece!”
“Humph!” said Bickerson, deep in thought. “I’ve
found some drunkards remarkably talkative. Will you
come?” l
From the police station to Elgin Crescent was ten min-
utes' walk, and the detective had an opportunity for
adding to his knowledge.
“Where is the girl—does she live in the same house?”
he asked.
“Usually, but to-night she's staying with a relative of
mine. The truth is, she has had a fairly bad time with
him,” said Hallam, “and Tarn's getting worse. He's
scared of Soyoka's crowd.”
“What's that?”
The officer checked his step and stared at the other in
wonder. “Soyoka—what do you know of that gang
anyway?” he demanded.
“Nothing,” said the other promptly. “That is one of
his crazy delusions. I came to see you especially to tell
you about that, and to warn you as far as Tarn is con-
cerned. It is his obsession that he has offended Soyoka.”
Every police officer has had experience of that kind of
delusion. Never was a great crime committed but some
lunatic produced a confession, and his enthusiasm for the
interview was a little damped. Doctor Ralph Hallam
desired that it should be.


84 THE SINISTER MAN
"I don't know why," said Bickerson, as they turned
the corner of Ladbroke Grove, "but I had an idea all the
time that Tarn wanted to see me in connection with the
drug cases. No, he never said so; it was just a hunch.
And here we are. You go first—you know your way."
Together they mounted the steps, the inspector follow-
ing through the broad, open portal. Halfway up the
passage they were confronted by the doors, one of which
led to the lower part, and the other to the upper floor flat,
which Mr. Tarn and his niece occupied. Ralph pressed
the bell, and, when no answer came, pressed it again.
"It looks as if it is open," said the inspector suddenly
and pushed.
To his surprise the door swung back. They passed
to the foot of the stairs, and Ralph felt for the switch.
After a while he turned it down, but no light appeared.
"That is queer," he said. "The lamp must have burned
out."
Feeling their way by the wall, they mounted to the
first landing.
"This is his study," said Hallam, touching a door-
knob and turning it.
The door opened. The only light in the room was the
dull glow of a small fire, which gave no illumination
whatever.
"Are you there, Mr. Tarn?" called the inspector.
For answer came a deep snore.
"Is there a light anywhere?"
The detective's hand swept along the wall, and Ralph
heard the click of a switch. But again the lights failed to
show.
"That's queer. Where is he?"
It was easy to locate the snorer. Presently Ralph's
hand rested on the back of a big armchair, and, reaching
down, he felt a bristlv face.


THE MAN IN THE ROOM 85
"He is here," he said.
At the touch of the visitor's hand, Maurice Tarn moved
uneasily. They heard his drowsy grunt, and then, like
a man speaking in his sleep, he spoke thickly.
"They tried to get me under. I know, but I'm too
strong. Got the con'stution of a horse."
The words died away in a rumble of sound.
"Wake up, Tarn," said Ralph. "Mr. Bickerson has
come to see you."
He shook the man by the shoulder, and the snores
ceased.
"I'm afraid you're going to have difficulty in rousing
him."
"Is he awake?"
"I don't think so. Tarn! Wake up!"
Then suddenly: "There's somebody else in the room!"
said the inspector sharply. "Have you a match, doctor?"
He had heard the thud of a falling chair and strained
his eyes to pierce the darkness. Even as he looked, he
heard a rustle near the door, lurched out and caught the
shoulder of the unknown intruder. There was a sibilant
hiss—three Chinese words that sounded like the howl of a
dog; a bony fist caught the officer under the jaw, and in
an instant the stranger had jerked from the detective's
grasp, slipped through the door, and slammed it. They
heard the patter of his feet on the stairs.
"A light, quick!" cried Bickerson hoarsely.
From Ralph's direction came the rattle of a matchbox,
a light spluttered and flared. As if in answer to his cry,
the electric lights suddenly blazed up, momentarily blind-
ing them.
"Who did that?" And then: "Oh, look!" demanded
the detective and gaped in horror at the sight.
Maurice Tarn lay huddled in his chair, his head thrown
back. His soiled white waistcoat was red and wet, and


86 THE SINISTER MAN
from the crimson welter protruded the black handle of
a knife.
"Dead!" breathed Hallam. "Killed while we were
here!"
He heard the detective's cry and saw him glare past
him.
"What "he began, and then he saw.
Crouched in the farther corner of the room was a white-
faced girl. Her dress was in disorder, her white blouse
was torn at the shoulder; across her face was a red smear
of blood.
It was Elsa Marlowe!


CHAPTER XVI
ELSA'S SECRET
GIVING one glance at the girl, Bickerson hesitated a
second and then, running to the door, flung it open and
flew down the stairs. The street was empty, except for
a woman who was walking toward him. Far away, at
the corner of Ladbroke Grove, he saw a bored policeman
standing, and he raced across the road toward the officer,
who did not seem aware of his presence until he was on
top of him.
"Go to 409 Elgin Crescent," he said breathlessly.
"Hold the door and allow nobody to come in or out. A
murder has been committed. Blow your whistle. I
want another constable. You saw nobody come out of
409 Elgin Cresent?"
"No, sir; only one man passed me in the last few
minutes, and that was a Chinaman."
"A Chinaman?" said Bickerson quickly, "How was
he dressed?"
"He was dressed in the height of fashion, as far as I
could see, and I noticed him because he wore no hat.
But a good many of these Easterners don't wear hats."
Bickerson interrupted the dissertation on the customs
of the East.
"Which way did he go?"
"Down Ladbroke Grove. He took a cab. I was
watching him getting into it just before you came up, sir.
There it goes."
He pointed to the hill leading to Notting Hill Gate,
87


88 THE SINISTER MAN
and Bickerson looked round for a taxi to pursue, but there
was none in sight.
"Never mind about the house—go after that cab
Sound your whistle and see if you can get it stopped.
There's another man on point duty farther along, isn't
there?"
"Yes, sir," said the constable, as he went off at a jog
trot in pursuit of the taxi, which had vanished over the
brow of the hill.
Bickerson hurried back to the flat. Whoever the in-
truder was, Elsa Marlowe would have to account for her
presence.
When he got back, he found Elsa in the dining room.
She was very white, but remarkably calm. The blood
smear that had been on her face was gone, and the hand-
kerchief in Ralph Hallam's hand explained its absence.
She turned to him, as he came in.
"Is it true?'' she asked. "Mr. Hallam says that my—
my uncle has been murdered."
The detective nodded slowly. "Didn't you see?"
"No." It was Ralph who answered him. "I turned
the light out. There are things which I shouldn't want
her to see, and that was one of them. I switched off the
lights before I brought her out. And, thank Heaven,
she hadn't seen it!"
Bickerson looked again at the girl. "Yes, Miss Mar-
lowe, your uncle has been killed.''
"That—that man did it," she said.
"What man?" asked the detective sharply.
She struggled hard to control her voice, but the experi-
ence of the last two hours had brought her as near to
hysteria as she had ever been in her li fe.
"I'll tell you everything from the start," she said. "I
was going away to-night, to stay with—with a friend;
and I waited at home to tell Mr. Tarn that I should not


ELSA'S SECRET 89
be returning for a week. And then he asked me where
I was going. I hoped he would not, because there was a
possibility that he might object; but I told him, and from
that moment he behaved more like a madman than a
rational being. He raved and screamed at me, called
me the most terrible names, and in his fury he threw a
glass at me."
She lifted her hair and showed a cut which, slight
as it was, had matted the hair with blood.
"This happened in the dining room; and then suddenly,
before I realized what was happening, he grasped me by
the arm and pushed me into the study. I think he must
have been drinking before he came in. He sometimes
stops at a hotel on his way and spends hours there.
"'You sit down and wait till I tell you to move,' he
said; 'you are not going out to-night.' I tried to reason
with him, but he was like a man demented, and I could
only sit patiently, watching him pouring out glass after
glass of brandy, and wait for an opportunity to make
my escape from the room. Once I thought he was sleep-
ing, and I got up softly to go. He opened his eyes and
sprang up, and he flung me back on the settee in a corner
of the room. I was terrified. I don't think I have been
so frightened in my life. I thought he must have gone
mad, and I really believe he had.
"Presently he went to sleep again, and then I hadn't
the courage to move. He was talking all the time of
what he was going to do to somebody. And then
suddenly—this was about ten minutes ago—the lights
went out. There are heavy curtains before the windows
of Mr. Tarn's study, and these were drawn. Except for
the very small illumination that the fire gave, there was
no light at all in the room. I sat still, dreading his wak-
ing up and hoping that presently he would be far enough'
under the influence of drink to make my escape possible.


90 THE SINISTER MAN
While I was thinking this, I heard the door creak, and
I had the feeling that there was somebody in the room.
I was sure of it a second later, tor quite unexpectedly a
bright ray of light shot out and focused Mr. Tarn.'
She shivered.
"I can see him now, with his head rolled over on to his
shoulder, his hands clasped on his chest. The light half
woke him, and he began to talk."
"Did you hear Mr. Tarn telephone?" interrupted the
detective.
The girl nodded.
"Yes, that was more than a quarter of an hour ago.
I heard him speak to somebody. It was you, I think.
You're Mr. Bickerson, aren't you?"
The detective nodded.
"Go on, please," he said. "When the man put the
light on your uncle, did it wake him up?"
She shook her head.
"No; he stirred in his sleep and talked. Then the light
went off. I dared not move, thinking it was a burglar.
And then I heard your voice coming up the stairs. That
is all I know."
"You didn't see this unknown man stab your uncle?''
She shook her head. "It was impossible to see any-
thing.''
The detective rubbed his chin irritably. "He was
quick—I'll give him that credit. The poor old chap must
have been killed while I was within a few feet of him.
This will be a fine story to make public!"
He looked suspiciously at the girl. "I shall want your
evidence, of course. I'd like you to be somewhere where
I can get at you at a moment's notice. Why not go to
a hotel?"
"I'll get a room for you at the Palace Hotel," said
Ralph.


92 THE SINISTER MAN
have passed between the table and his victim, for Bicker-
son had occupied that space. But there was ample room
to pass between the fireplace and the chair, and it was in
this direction that the detective at first heard the noise,
and an overturned chair on the other side of the fireplace
practically located the murderer's movements to the satis-
faction of the officer.
There were no documents of any kind visible, except
a few unpaid bills, which were on the table where the
bottles stood. He began a tentative search of the dead
man's pockets, but found nothing that could throw any
light upon the crime.
His rough search concluded, he went downstairs, past
the door where Elsa and Ralph Hallam were talking, and
out into the street. The little knot of people had in-
creased in size to a fairly large crowd, and, as he came
out to the top step, casting a glance along the Crescent for
a sight of the police car, he saw a man elbow his way
through the press and advance toward the steps. The
constable on guard stopped him, and Bickerson watched
the brief colloquy.
The stranger was a tall, spare man, slightly bent. He
looked, thought Bickerson, a soldier; the tanned cheeks
suggested that he had recently returned from a hotter
sun than England knows; and then the identity of the
stranger dawned upon him, and he went down the steps
to speak to him.
"Are you Major Amery?" he asked.
"That is my name," said Amery. "Tarn has been
murdered, they tell me?"
The detective shot a glance at him. "Who told you
that?" he asked suspiciously. "Are you a friend of his?"
"I am his employer," said Amery; "or rather, I was.
As to the other question, why, I suppose everybody in the •
crowd knows that a murder has been committed. I hap-


ELSA'S SECRET 93
pen to be aware that the occupant of the house is Maurice
Tarn. There are only two people who could be murdered
in that flat, and Tarn is the more likely."
"Will you come in?" asked the detective and showed
the way into the passage. "Now, Major Amery," he
said, "perhaps you can tell me something about Tarn.
Had he any enemies?"
"I know nothing of his private life."
"You were a friend of his?"
Amery shook his head. "No, I wasn't," he said coolly;
"I disliked him intensely and trusted him not at all.
May I see Miss Marlowe?''
"How do you know Miss Marlowe is here?" The
detective was glancing at him under lowered brows.
"She lives here, doesn't she?" asked Amery. "Really,
Mr. Bickerson—oh, yes, I know your name very well
indeed—you have no reason to be suspicious of me."
Bickerson thought quickly, and when he spoke again
it was in a milder tone.
"I am very naturally looking upon everybody within a
radius of three miles as being under suspicion," he said.
"I'll ask Miss Marlowe to come down to you, but you're
not to take her away under any circumstances. You
understand that. Major Amery? I need this lady for
further information. She was in the room when the
murder was committed. I'll go so far as to tell you what
I would tell a reporter."
Amery inclined his head gravely and seemed in no way
surprised by what the detective told him. He waited in
the hall, staring gloomily out upon the morbid crowd, and
presently he heard a light step on the stair and, turning,
saw Elsa.
"You've had pretty bad trouble, they tell me?"
His voice was entirely without sympathy. That was
the first thing that struck her. He was making a plain,


94 THE SINISTER MAN
matter-of-fact statement of an incontrovertible event, and
she wondered why he had troubled to see her.
"I happened to be in the neighborhood," he said, "and
I heard of this happening. I wondered if I could be of
any assistance to you or to the police—though I admit 1
know much less about Mr. Tarn than you or any of his
acquaintances. Who is with you?"
"Mr. Hallam," she said. "He was a great friend of
poor Mr. Tarn's, and he is a very dear triend of mine."
"Doctor Hallam?" He nodded. And then, with his
usual unexpectedness: "Do you want any money?"
She looked at him, astonished.
"No thank you. Major Amery," she said. "It is very
good of you to ask"
"There is some money due to your uncle, and if it were
necessary I would advance your wages," he said. "You
will be at the office to-morrow at the usual hour, if you
please. It is mail day, and I have a great deal of work to
do. Good night."
She could only stare after him, as he walked down the
steps, utterly aghast at his callousness. What had mat-
tered to him was that she should be at the office at her usual
time. For a second a wave of anger and resentment
swept over her, and her eyes flashed toward the disappear-
ing figure of the major.
"The brute!'' she murmured and went back to the wait-
ing Hallam.
"What did he want?"
She shrugged her shoulders. "As far as I can gather,
he wanted to make sure that I would be at the office to-
morrow at my usual time, because it is mail day, and he
has a lot of work to do."
"A perfect gentleman," said Ralph Hallam sardoni-
cally. "Of course he sympathized with you?"


ELSA'S SECRET 95
"No, he didn't say a single kind word. He's just a
brute!"
Now that the strain had relaxed, she was on the verge
of tears and wanted to be alone, far, far away from that
grisly, sheet-covered thing in the study—from Ralph—
from everybody who knew her. "Be at the office early!"
The man had no heart, no human feeling. It was un-
thinkable that she should go to the office at all, and she
doubted if she would ever go again. And she had dont
so much for him. She had wanted to tell him then, but
had lacked the courage to tell him just what she had done:
how she had lied for him; how she had become almost
a party to her uncle's murder, that he might be saved
embarrassment. But he should know!
There came the sound of many feet on the stairs. The
Scotland Yard men were going into the room; the handle
of the door turned, and Bickerson entered.
"Do you know this?" he asked.
He showed her a new soft felt hat. "I found this in a
corner of your uncle's study," he said. "Have you ever
seen it before?"
She shook her head. "No, my uncle never wore that
kind of hat," she said.
Bickerson was looking at the inside. It bore the name
of a popular store. It was gray, with a black ribbon.
If, as he believed was the case, this hat had been purchased
by a Chinaman, it was not going to be very difficult to
trace the owner.
"You are perfectly sure that the man who came into the
room, the man with the flash lamp, did not speak?"
"No," she said," he did not speak."
"And you didn't see him."
"No, I didn't see him."
"Not even by the reflected light?" persisted the detec-


96 THE SINISTER MAN
live. "It is impossible to throw a ray from an electric
torch upon any light surface without some reflected glow
revealing the holder."
She shook her head.
"I saw nobody; I only saw the light, and that for a
second."
Why was she doing this? Why, why, why? she asked
herself in despair. She was shielding a murderer—the
murderer of Maurice Tarn. She was lying to save a cruel
and remorseless villain from the hand of the law, and she
was horrified at her own folly. For she knew the man in
the room—had seen him, as the detective suggested, in the
glow which had come back when the light had fallen upon
a newspaper. And the man was Feng Ho!


CHAPTER XVII
"AT THE USUAL HOUR"
ELSA spent a very sleepless night, though she occupied
a comfortable bed in one of the quietest of the West
End hotels. No sooner did sleep come to her eyes than
the memory of that horrible night intruded itself upon
her, and she awoke trembling, expecting to see the parch-
ment face of Feng Ho leering at her in the darkness.
And Feng Ho was Paul Amery. Their acts were
interdependent, as were their responsibilities. Once she
got up and paced the room, striving to calm her mind
and sort her values. She must see Mr. Bickerson and
tell him the truth. On that point she was decided. As
to Amery, she never wanted to see him again, never
wanted to mount those narrow, crooked stairs, never
answer that shrill bell and go fluttering into his presence,
like a rabbit to the fascinations of a snake.
There "was a little writing table in her room, and,
putting on the light, she sat down, took out a sheet of
note paper and began to write.
DEAR MAJOR AMERY: After this terrible happening I
do not feel that I can come back to the office again; and,
while I am very sorry if my sudden departure puts you to
the least inconvenience, I am sure you will quite under-
stand
He wouldn't understand at all. He would be very
annoyed. That lip of his would lift in a sneer, and
possibly he would sue her for breach of contract.
07


98 THE SINISTER MAN
She read the letter again, frowned, and tore it up.
There was no justification for beginning so familiarly.
After all, she was not on such terms that she should call
him by his name. She started another letter "Dear Sir,"
and sat staring at it blankly, until the church clocks chimed
four, and a sudden sense of utter weariness made her
put the light out and go back to bed.
She was dressed at eight and had rolls and coffee in
her room. Again she sat at the writing table, playing
with a pen, her mind torn in many directions. The
quarter past chimed, and half past: she began another
letter. There would be time to send it by district mes-
senger. But the letter was never written. At a quarter
to nine she tore up the paper, put on her hat and her fur,
and went out.
At five minutes past nine, Miss Dame, waiting in her
room, a newspaper under her arm, her brain seething
with excitement, saw her come in and literally fell upon
her.
"My dear," she said, "how perfectly awful! It's in
all the newspapers! I wonder you didn't die with fright.
/ should!"
"My dear woman," said Elsa wearily, "for Heaven's
sake don't talk about it! If you imagine that I want
to discuss it I'm not staying, anyway; I've just come
to see Major Amery, and then I'm going.''
"Did you faint?" demanded the seeker after sensation.
"I'll bet you did!"
And then the merciful bell above Elsa's desk rang long
and imperiously. Before she knew what she was doing,
she had slipped off her coat, hung up her hat, and, seizing
her notebook and pencil, had opened the door of the pri-
vate office.
Amery sat at his desk, his hands clasped on the edge,
his stern eyes watching the door. He did not express


"AT THE USUAL HOUR" 99
any surprise, either by look or word; seemed, indeed, to
have taken it for granted that she would be within reach
of the bell when he pressed the button.
"I'm early," he said.
That was the only human speech he made, and he
began immediately a long letter to a firm of Indian
merchants at Delhi. He did not give her any opportunity
of telling him that she had only come for a few moments,
to explain why she couldn't come again. She had no
time even to be annoyed at his assuredness. It was as
much as she could do to keep pace with him. He never
gave her a chance to ask a question. When he came to
a difficult or a native word, he spelled it rapidly, three
times in succession, so that it was impossible she could
miss it, or that there should be any excuse for a break.
From the Delhi merchants he switched instantly to a
letter to Bombay, but this time he paused midway through
to hand her a slip containing a number of meaningless
words printed in capital letters, which was to go in at the
place he had indicated.
"That'll do," he said.
She rose and stood waiting. "Major Amery, I want" she began.
"Get those letters out quick. I want to catch the mail
via Siberia. It closes in an hour."
"I don't care if it closes in two minutes," she was stung
to report. "There is something I want to say to you,
and I'm going to say it."
He put down the newspaper he had taken up, folded it
with exasperating leisure, placed it on the side of his tidy
desk, and put a paper knife on top of it.
"Well?" he asked.
"My uncle was murdered last night by a man who
broke into our house—a man who had tried to break in
before. I haven't told the police, but I recognized him.


ioo THE SINISTER MAN
I saw him as plainly as I see you. I haven't told the
police"
"Why not?" His eyebrows went up, his voice was
wholly unconcerned. "It is your duty to give the police
all the information that lies in your power,'' he said.
"I didn't because—because I am a fool, I suppose,"
she said wrath fully.
Looking up quickly, he saw the unusually bright eyes
and the flushed cheeks.
"Who was he?"
"Feng Ho," she blurted. "You know it was Feng
Ho. You know it was—you know it!"
He lowered his eyes to the blotting pad, and for a
little while he made no answer. She saw the white teeth
gnawing at the lower lip and went on.
"I did not want to involve you or your friends in this.
It was a distorted sense of loyalty to Amery's. But I've
got to tell."
He looked up again. "An excellent resolution," he
said. "But I think you are mistaken. Feng Ho"
"Was with you!" She made an heroic effort to sneer,
but failed lamentably.
"If he had been with me,'' he said quietly, "your story
would hold good, because I was in the neighborhood when
it happened. No, Feng Ho was many, many miles away
from London. Believe me, he has a complete alibi."
"Perhaps his hat has one, too," she said tartly.
He was on his feet in an instant. "His hat?"
"I ought not to have told you that, I suppose," she
said ruefully, "but the police found a hat. And a bare-
headed Chinaman was seen coming away from the house."
The ghost of a light showed in the expressionless eyes
fixed upon hers, flickered for a second, and was gone.
"Is that so?" he said slowly. "Well, in such a case,


"AT THE USUAL HOUR" 101
Feng Ho will have to have a double-plated alibi. That
will do."
A few minutes later she found a word in her notes that
she could not decipher, and she was reluctantly compelled
to go back to him to secure an elucidation. The room
was empty. Major Amery had gone out and did not
return for another hour, during the greater part of which
time he was waiting at a district messenger office for the
return of a boy whom he had sent to a store to purchase a
soft felt hat, size six and a half, gray, and with a broad
black ribbon.


CHAPTER XVIII
THE STANFORD CORPORATION
AT his house in Half Moon Street Doctor Ralph Hal-
lam spent an unusually busy day. Ever since his part-
ner's death he had been realizing, with gathering force,
the immense source of embarrassment, not to say danger.
which Maurice Tarn's death might well be. If he had
only had a chance of a heart-to-heart talk with the dead
man before a murderer's knife had cut short his life, he
could have made sure of many developments which were
now problematical.
He waited impatiently for the hours to pass and for
darkness to come: and, though his waiting was enlivened
by at least three visits from Bickerson and a telephone
call from his wife, the time passed all too slowly.
Ralph Hallam had been reminded how precarious was
his position by a letter which had come to him that morn-
ing from the bank, pointing oat the excessive amount of
his overdraft. Ordinarily this would not have dis-
turbed him. for there was a big accumulation of profits
from the illicit business in which he had been engaged
with Tarn. Neither man favored banks: the money bad
been kept in dollar currency. There were nearly two
hundred thousand pounds, of which, ha-f belonged to the
dead man ard to his heirs.
His nv.rd wer.t inuned:ate!y to Elsa Marlowe. Unless
Tarn had left his money elsewhere, she wc^d be as rich
a woman as he was a roar:, if he made the division. That
was a r.:ce reservatirr.. frr he had not the slightest iirten-


THE STANFORD CORPORATION 103
tion of sharing with her, and the mere possibility only
entered his mind to be as instantly rejected. All the
money that was deposited in the big green safe of the
Stanford Corporation was his for the taking. No heir
of Maurice Tarn had a legal right to it. He might per-
haps give her a thousand or two in certain eventualities;
but the idea of dividing this no-man's property never
entered his head.
And yet, suppose the old man had left particulars of his
nefarious interests, and a legal claim arose? Ralph Hal-
lam had spent his life keeping on the safe side, and it
would be in his best interests if he made the girl an un-
conscious partner to the removal of Maurice Tarn's
effects.
Elsa had just returned from the office when Ralph's
telephone call reached her.
"I want you to come and dine with me, Elsa. There
are a few things about poor Tarn I want to tell you.''
She welcomed the diversion, for the day had been a
trying one, and she had reached a point where she needed
sympathy.
"I will come right away."
"Have you seen Bickerson?" he asked, with a half
smile.
"Seen him! He has haunted the office! And, oh,
Ralph. I'm so sick of it all, and I've got to go to the
inquest—stand up and tell all the awful things he said
to me! And did you see the evening newspapers?
Ralph, they've published a picture of me coming out of
the office for lunch!"
He chuckled. "I've lived with reporters all day." he
said. "Come along, and we'll curse them together!"
He put down the receiver with a thoughtful expression.
That was a good move on his part. There could be no
Question now of his stealing Maurice Tarn's property.


104 THE SINISTER MAN
They would go together and recover the fortune which
his industry had built up.
He was glad Tarn was dead—in a way. The man's
nerve had failed; he had betrayed himself to Amery.
Ralph laughed softly. Soyoka! Tarn had reached a
condition of nervousness where he saw Soyoka at every
street corner, and identified the mysterious head of the
dope traffic in every unlikely individual. And yet he
frowned at the thought. Who sent the Chinaman to
Maurice Tarn's house? What object would he have had
in
He stopped suddenly. Soyoka would have excellent
reason for smashing his rivals.
That combination, of which Ralph Hallam and Maurice
Tarn were the heads, had come into existence as the
result of an accident. Five years before Ralph had
found himself pursued by a host of creditors who threat-
ened to bring him into the bankruptcy court. And then
one night, as he and Tarn had sat in a fashionable West
End saloon, an acquaintance had drifted in—the wreck
of a man, who pleaded to him for a prescription that
would enable him to stave off the cravings of his unholy
appetite. .Ralph had scribbled the prescription, and then
a word dropped by the drug victim led Ralph to pursue
inquiries from his border-line friends, and he had learned
of the existence of a powerful organization which, despite
the efforts of the police, was engaged in what was known
as the "saccharine trade." Saccharine was at that time
the principal article smuggled; and the new and more sin-
ister industry was only then beginning.
Tarn had unrivaled opportunities for engaging in the
traffic. He was practically at the head of one of the
oldest-established importers in the City of London, for
the nominal chief was a sick man and seldom came to the
office. When Hallam made the suggestion, he had shown


THE STANFORD CORPORATION 105
a little hesitation, but after the enormous profits of the
"trade" were demonstrated, he had fallen, and there had
been founded an underworld corporation which had its
agents in every part of the kingdom and its biggest branch
in an American city.
Ralph was a doctor, but he was also a keen business
man. His title gave him certain privileges and helped
cover the local operations of the gang. A muddled suc-
cess had been theirs at the start, and then, profiting by
his mistakes and tightening their organization, the "ama-
teurs" had come into the market, to the serious incon-
venience of the older-established Soyoka.
Soyoka! It might not have been an illusion on Tarn's
part—and the murderous Chinaman.
"Soyoka!" said Ralph Hallam aloud.
Elsa came half an hour later, a very tired and a very
unhappy girl.
"I think I shall go mad if this lasts much longer," she
said. "To-morrow is my last day at Amery's."
"Have you told him you are leaving?"
She shook her head. "I haven't had a chance to tell
him anything," she said. "I don't think you know what
he's like—he's inhuman! When you remember poor
Mr. Tarn served the firm for over thirty years, you would
imagine that Major Amery would be distressed. But he
isn't. He had a new manager in uncle's room to-day!
Ralph, the man is indecent! And he hasn't given me a
second's peace. 'I don't want you to take more than half
an hour for luncheon,' he said. I wish I hadn't taken any,
because those wretched newspaper photographers were
waiting outside to snap me."
"You had better cut out Amery's as soon as you can.
Has he any idea you're leaving?"
"He takes me for granted," she said angrily. "I'm
a part of the furniture. But don't let us talk about him;


io6 THE SINISTER MAN
I want to forget the sinister man—I want to forget
Amery's—I want to forget everything! What did you
want to see me about? Something pleasant, I hope?"
"I'll tell you after dinner," he said cheerfully.
When his man brought the coffee and had discreetly
closed the door on them, Ralph told her what was in his
mind.
"Have you ever heard of the Stanford Corporation?"
Her eyes opened wide. "Yes; Major Amery asked me
if I was engaged by them."
Ralph whistled. "The devil he did! When was this?"
She told him of the surprising question that the head
of the house of Amery had put to her.
"And of course you said you knew nothing about
them? And quite rightly."
"Did uncle know?" she asked, as the idea occurred to
her.
"Yes. The truth is that your uncle was running a
little business of his own. As a matter of fact"—he
spoke very reluctantly, as though he was loath to betray
the dead man's secret—"he was trying to build up a
trade connection for himself in his spare time; something
he could go to when Amery became impossible. I'm not
saying that it was a strictly honorable thing to do,
because obviously he was coming into competition with the
firm that employed him. But, be that as it may. I
tried to persuade him against the project, but he was so
keen that I didn't like to oppose him. He carried out
his plan."
"Then he was the Stanford Corporation? What is
it, Ralph?"
"It is a firm of importers or something of the sort,"
he said carelessly. "I've been to the office once, and
the only thing I know is this: he told me that in his safe
there were a number of documents that he would not like


THE STANFORD CORPORATION 107
to come to light. I've been thinking about it all day, and
it seems to me that the best service we can render to the
poor old chap is to go along and get those papers before
the police find a clew. I don't want the old man's name
to be soiled, and Amery is certain to paint his double
dealing in the blackest colors."
She looked at him with a frown.
"It doesn't seem a very dreadful thing to have done,"
she said. "Besides, will they know that he had any-
thing to do with Amery's?"
"It is pretty certain to come out," he said promptly.
"Now the question is, Elsa, will you come along with me
to Threadneedle Street?"
"But if the documents are in the safe, how can you get
at them?" she asked logically.
For answer he took out of his pocket a small key.
"Tarn and I were very good friends, in spite of the
disagreement we've had of late, and he gave me this
key, as the only man he could trust, so that, if anything
happened to him, I should have access to the papers."
Threadneedle Street by night is a howling wilderness,
and the building in which the Stanford Corporation was
boused was in the hands of the cleaners, when they
climbed the three flights of stairs that lead to the floor
where the secretive Mr. Tarn had operated. Halfway
down a narrow corridor was a door, inscribed "Stanford
Corporation," and this Ralph opened. She wondered
whether it was with the same key that opened the safe,
but did not ask him any questions.
Switching on the light, he ushered her into a medium-
sized room and closed and bolted the door behind them.
"This is the sanctum sanctorum," he said.
It was an unimpressive office. The floors were inno-
cent of carpet or covering; one rickety table, a chair, and
c. handsome safe in a corner of the room were the sole


io8 THE SINISTER MAN
articles in view. Even the electric light that dangled
from the ceiling was without a shade.
"It's a pretty mean-looking apartment, isn't it?" said
Ralph, who, thought the girl, had evidently been there
before.
He put down the bag he had brought on the table,
crossed to the safe, inserted the key, and turned it twice.
The great door swung open, and the girl saw him peer
into the interior. Suddenly she heard him utter a
strangled cry of wrath.
"The safe is empty!" he said hoarsely. "Nothing—
nothing!"
She looked round quickly. Somebody was tapping on
the glass panel.
"Ralph"—instinctively her voice lowered—"look,
there is somebody at the door."
She could see the shadow against the panel—the shadow
of a man. For a second Ralph Hallam was so dazed by
his discovery that he could not understand what she was
saying. She seized his arm and pointed.
"At the door?'' he said dully. "One of the cleaners."
And, raising his voice, he shouted angrily: "Go away!"
"I'd like to see you first," said a voice, and the girl
nearly dropped.
It was the voice of Paul Amery!


CHAPTER XIX
MAJOR AMERY LOOKS IN
IT was Elsa who unbolted the door, and she stood
back to let the man come in. He was wearing a dinner
jacket, and over his arm he carried an overcoat. He
looked from the girl to Ralph, and she saw that half-
contemptuous, half-amused twitch of lip, and she hated
him.
"You've found your way to Stanford's, after all, Miss
Marlowe?" he said. "And do you know that I almost
believed you when you told me you had never heard of
this enterprising establishment?"
Ralph Hallam had been taken aback for a second, and
then the memory of Tarn's warning came to him. This
man was Soyoka!
"I brought Miss Marlowe here to recover some money,
the property of her uncle," he said, looking the other
straight in the eyes. "But it seems that I'm rather late;
somebody has been here before me."
The intruder glanced carelessly at the open safe and
then looked at the girl. Genuine astonishment was in her
face.
"Money?" she said. "You didn't tell me about money,
Ralph?"
For a second he was nonplused. "There was money
here as well as documents," he said glibly. "The point
is that it's gone! Perhaps Major Amery will be able to
tell us how it was taken?"
"By Tarn, I should imagine," was the cool reply.
"Who had a better right?"
iog


I io THE SINISTER MAN
Again he looked at the girl, and she flushed under his
searching scrutiny.
"I should keep out of this if I were you, Miss Mar-
lowe," he said. "There are certain occupations that are
not good for little girls."
His patronage was insufferable. She trembled in her
anger, and if eyes could have struck him down he would
not have stood before her.
"You know a great deal about Stanford's, Amery,"
said Ralph, battling down his fury with a great effort.
"Soyoka wouldn't be superior to a little burglary, I
guess?"
"Continue guessing," said Amery. Then to the girl:
"Now, I think. Miss Marlowe, you had better go back-
to your hotel."
She could contain herself no longer. "Major Amery,
your dictatorial manner with me is unbearable! You
have no right whatever to instruct me as to what I should
do and what I should not do. Please don't call me 'little
girl' again, because it annoys me beyond endurance. This
is my uncle's office, though I was not aware of the fact
until to-night, and I will be glad if you will go."
With a shrug. Amery walked through the door into
the corridor, and in another instant Ralph Haflam had
followed, closing the door behind him.
"Now see here. Amery. we're going to have this thing
right." he said. "I understand there isn't room in Eng-
land for both of us. and I think it is fair to tell you that,
if any crowd cracks, it will not be ours! There was
money in that safe—a lot of money. It was there a few
days ago; it's gone to-night. Yon know all about Stan-
ford's—you've known about it for a long time. That
means you've been able to get in and out as you liked"
"In other words, I've stolen your money?" There
was a look of quiet amusement in the gray eyes. TB


MAJOR AMERY LOOKS IN in
pass one word of advice to you. It has already been
offered to your dead confederate. Keep away from
Soyoka. He's dangerous."
With that he went away.
Ralph went back to the girl, livid with fury.
"Has he gone?" she asked.
He tried to say something, but his anger choked him.
"So that's Amery, is it?" he breathed. "I'll remember
the swine!"
"Ralph, was there money here? You didn't tell me."
"Of course there was money here!" he said impatiently.
"I wanted to give you a surprise. There was a whole lot
of money. I know it was here, because Tarn told me the
other day."
He searched the safe again, examined a few papers that
were in there, and presently she heard him utter an
exclamation.
"What is it?"
"Nothing." he said, concealing the sheet of penciled
writing he had taken from one of the two little drawers
at the back of the safe. "I thought I'd found some-
thing."
He seemed to be in a hurry to get out of the office, al-
most pushing her into the passage before he closed the
door.
"Not that it is much use," he grunted; "if this fellow
is what I think he is, a little thing like a lock is not go-
ing to stop him."
"You mean Major Amery?" she said in wonder.
"What did you mean, Ralph, about there not being room
enough in England for you both? And about taking the
money? Ralph, you don't imagine that he would have
taken it, do you?"
She had a confused idea that the money belonged to
Amery's, had been stolen, perhaps, and that the sinistei


112 THE SINISTER MAN
man's interest in its existence was the proper interest that
the robbed have in the proceeds of the robbery. Had
Maurice Tarn been engaged in peculation on the grand
scale? Her heart went down at the thought If this
were the case, all her vague suspicions were confirmed,
and Mr. Tarn's behavior was revealed in a new light.
"\'as it stolen—the money?" she asked jerkily. "Did
Mr. Tarn"
"For Heaven's sake, don't ask questions!"
Ralph wanted to get away somewhere by himself and
read the memorandum. His nerves were so on edge
that he could not even simulate politeness.
Elsa was silent all the way back to the hotel, and she
was glad when Ralph made his excuses and left her hur-
riedly at the entrance. She too needed solitude and the
opportunity for calm consideration.
Hallam reached Half Moon Street, scarcely noticing
the two men he overtook just before he reached his house.
His key was in the lock, when a sudden premonition of
danger made him turn quickly. The blow that was in-
tended for his head just missed him, and, striking out, he
floored the first of his opponents, but the second got
under his guard, and this time he saw the flash of sted
and feh the grip of the cloth where the point struck.
"That's for Soyoka!" hissed the man. as he stabbed.
Hallam kicked wildly, and. in the brief space of time
that his advantage gave to him. he had jerked his auto-
matic from his pocket. In another second his assailants
were flying toward the Piccadilly end of the street. For
a second his pistol was raised, and then, realizing the
commotion that would follow a shot, he put the gun back
in his pocket.
Ralph Hallam came to his little study, white and
shaken. Sovoka had struck his second blow!


CHAPTER XX
304 BROOK STREET
EARLY on the following morning Ralph Hallam made
a call at Stebbing's Bank, Old Broad Street, and, after
the usual mysterious conferences and scrutinies, which
invariably accompanied a call upon the general manager
and proprietor, he was shown into the handsome board
room where Mr. Tupperwill presided.
Mr. Tupperwill, settling his wing collar, offered him
an expansive smile, a large, soft hand, and the Louis
Quinze chair he kept for distinguished visitors.
“I had your letter, Tupperwill, and I thought it best to
come along and see you. I have some money coming to
me—a large sum—in the course of the next few days, so
you'll have to let my overdraft run.”
Mr. Tupperwill pursed his lips, as though he intended
whistling, but had thought better of it.
“You can have an overdraft, of course, my dear fel-
low, but—”
“There is a ‘but’ to it, then?” said Ralph, a little irri-
tated.
“There is a slight but,” said the other gravely. “We
run on very conservative lines—from conservare, to keep
together—in our case to keep together our—er—assets;
and, when the scale goes down with an overdraft, we like
to have a little collateral on the other side to balance it
up again. But in your case, my dear Hallam, we'll let
the scale drop down without a balance! How much do
you want?”
233


114 THE SINISTER MAN
Hallam told him his requirements, and the proprietor
of Stebbing's Bank jotted it down on a tablet
"That's that," he said. "And now I want to ask you
a question. In fact. I thought of ringing you up the
day before yesterday, after I saw you, but I thought you
would not want to be bothered. Who is Amery?"
"Amery? You mean Paul Amery? I thought you
knew him," said Hallam.
Mr. Tupperwill nodded. "I know him; I know also
his erratic henchman. Hallam. I'm breaking all the
rules of the bank when I tell you that he has an account
with us, a fairly big one. He came very well recom-
mended, and"—he pulled at his long upper lip—"I don't
know what to make of him. My own inclination is to
close his account."
"Why?" asked Ralph in surprise.
Mr. Tupperwill seemed to be struggling with himself.
"With our clientele." he went on slowly, "we cannot af-
ford to be associated, even remotely, with dubious proj-
ects. My directors would never forgive me if I allowed
the bank to be used—er—for purposes which are outside
die ordinary channels of commerce."
Ralph Hallam thought of the number of times the bank
had l>een used to further his own peculiar devices and
smiled inwardly.
"Why are you suspicious of Amery?" he asked.
"I'm not suspicious of him." said the banker reproach-
fully. "Suspicion does not enter into the question. I
merely point out that Stebbing's is essentially a family
bank. We hare no commercial bouses on our books, and
there hasn't been a bin of lading in this otnce for fifty
years."
He looked roar.d. as though he were afraid that some
sacrilegious eavesdropper might have concealed himself
:r. that chaste apartment, arxl then, lowering bis rake:


ii6 THE SINISTER MAN
an inquisitive man, but I would have given a lot of
money, a lot of money, to have broken those seals!"
Ralph went a shade paler.
"This morning he came and took the envelope away.
Why, I do not know. He mentioned that he had taken
it, quite unnecessarily. 'It will be better in my own
study,' he said. But where did all that money come
from? I don't like it—I don't like it at all. I like
money to have a label. I like to be able to announce the
place it came from, and how it was earned. That may
sound curious to you. Two hundred thousand pounds—
a million dollars, almost to a cent! Why doesn't he put
it to his account? Why keep it locked up, earning noth-
ing? Fifty thousand dollars, ten thousand pounds'
worth of interest lost per annum! That is a crime."
He shook a podgy finger at Ralph, as though he were
responsible.
"That is not business. And I do not like a client who
isn't a good business man. Now, Hallam, you must tell
me where that came from. You must know, because
you mentioned the sum and the currency. Tell me."
For once Ralph was not in an inventive mood. He
offered some lame explanation, which obviously did not
convince his hearer.
Then, most unexpectedly, Mr. Tupperwill changed the
conversation.
"One of these days I should like to have a talk with
your friend, Mr. Tarn," he began, and Ralph stared at
him incredulously.
"Didn't you know? Haven't you read?"
"Read what? I have seen nothing but this morning's
financial newspapers. Has anything happened to him?"
"He was murdered the night before last—murdered
in my presence," said Ralph.
Tupperwill took a step backward.


304 BROOK STREET 117
"Good Lord! You are surely not jesting?" he said.
Ralph shook his head. "No, he was killed the night
before last—as I say, in my presence. It is remarkable
that you should not have heard of it. It's been in all
the newspapers."
On Mr. Tupperwill's boyish face was a look of almost
comical concern.
"Had I known, I would not have troubled you with
that wretched letter, my dear friend." He shook his
head, almost humbly. "But I never read the newspapers,
except those devoted to my own profession, and my
valet, who usually keeps me an courant with contem-
porary happenings, is away visiting his sick mother.
This is terrible, terrible! Will you tell me what hap-
pened?"
Ralph told the story in some detail, and the banker
listened, without comment, until he had finished.
"Have they any idea as to who was the man in the
room?"
"A very good idea. But unfortunately the fellow we
suspect, and who, I'm pretty sure, is the murderer, has
proved an alibi. He was arrested late last night on his
return from the Midlands. Unfortunately for the police
theory, he was wearing the hat which they expected to
find he had lost, and his alibi was very complete."
He did not tell how the bewildered Bickerson had put
through a call to the Birmingham police and from them
'iad learned that they were satisfied that at the hour the
murder was committed, Feng Ho was at the police sta-
tion, registering his visit under the Aliens' Act.
"One Chinaman looks very much like another," he
said, unconsciously paraphrasing Paul Amery's words;
"and I imagine that the alibi was very carefully faked,
and the person who was with the Birmingham police
wasn't Feng Ho at all."


n8 THE SINISTER MAN
"Feng Ho! Not Major Amery's Feng Ho?" asked
the other, aghast.
"Do you know him? Yes, I remember you pointed
him out to me."
Mr. Tupperwill's agitation was now complete. "I
know him because he has come to the bank on one occa-
sion with Major Amery, and we cashed one of Major
Amery's checks in his favor. Feng Ho! That is most
surprising, most alarming! What of the poor young
lady?"
"I think she will be well provided for," said Ralph,
anxious to pass that topic.
Mr. Tupperwill seemed profoundly affected by the news
of Tarn's death. He stood, his lips pursed, his eyes
vacant.
"I remember seeing a newspaper poster—that, of
course, must have been the murder. Extraordinary!"
And then he became the business man again.
"So far as your overdraft is concerned, my dear Hal-
lam, you may draw, without any further reference to me,
to the extent of your needs. No, no, I will not be
thanked. Having expressed the caution which my direc-
tors would wish me to express, I have done my duty, and
I will give my own personal guarantee. The inquest will
"To-day," said Ralph. "I am on my way now."
Again the banker appeared lost in thought
"Would you object greatly if I accompanied you to
this inquest? Such tribunals are infinitely depressing,
but—well, I have a reason." ,
Ralph wondered what that interest might be, but in his
relief that a very difficult financial crisis had been over-
come, though the relief was tempered by the news he had
heard, he was prepared to endure the company of his


120 THE SINISTER MAN
tightening of her lips. "I am resigning on Saturday.
I left him a note telling him so. He has given me no
consideration whatever. But please don't talk about him.
You can drive me a part of the way, can't you?"
"All the way," said Ralph indignantly.
His indignation was largely assumed. He did not
expect any consideration for man, woman, or child from
Soyoka's representative, and it would have been incon-
sistent with his mind picture of the man, if Amery had
shown the slightest evidence of humanity.
She thought he was a little distrait on the journey to the
City, and she put it down to the natural reaction from the
inquest. In truth, Ralph Hallam's mind was consider-
ably occupied by the knowledge that, somewhere in
Amery's study, was a heavy sealed envelope, ominously
inscribed. His mind went back to the letter that Tarn
had received on the morning of his death. The offer
of one hundred thousand pounds was understandable, if
Soyoka knew where he could lay his hand on twice that
amount of money, and probably had already extracted
the bills from the safe.
At her request he left the girl at the end of Wood
Street, and, in spite of her wrath at her employer, she
hurried back to her office in a flutter and was quite ready,
when she saw him, to excuse herself for being late.
He was waiting in his room, standing with his back
to the fireless grate, his hands clasped behind him, staring
moodily at the floor. On his desk she saw, open, the
letter she had left for him, and such was the power he
exercised over her that she felt a little spasm of unease at
the prospect of the reception which he would give to her
resignation. The first words he spoke were on the matter.
"So you're leaving us, Miss Marlowe?" he said.
"You have saved me the trouble of dismissing you."


304 BROOK STREET 121
At this all her fears fled.
"You might at least have had the decency tc spare
me that offense," she retorted hotly. "I am leaving you
for no other reason than that it is impossible for any self-
respecting girl to work with you; because your manners
are deplorable, and your attitude to women, so far as I
am able to judge from my own experience, is so unman-
nerly and boorish that it is degrading to be at your beck
and call!"
He was staring at her, as she spoke, and she thought she
saw in his eyes a look of astonishment.
"Is that so?" was all he said. And then: "You told
me you knew nothing of Stanford's?"
"And neither did I," she said angrily. "Twice by
inference you have called me a liar, and I hope that you
will not repeat your insult."
He was taken aback by her vehemence, and before he
could speak she continued:
"I went to Mr. Tarn's office without being aware that
the Stanford Corporation had any existence except in
your imagination. I haven't the slightest idea of the
business my uncle was conducting, but I suppose, from
your attitude, that it was an improper one. As to how
he got his money, and how much money he had, I am
equally ignorant. I had no idea that there was money
at all there. Doctor Hallam told me there were docu-
ments. It was your money, of course? My uncle stole
it—is that the mystery?"
"No, your uncle stole no money from Amery's," he
said, to her amazement. "So far as I know, he was a
trustworthy man—where the firm's money was con-
cerned."
He licked his lips. He had gone back to a contempla-
tion of the blue carpet.


122 THE SINISTER MAN
"I'm sorry," he said, though there was no quality of
sorrow in his tone. "I seem to have fallen into an
error. Of course you knew nothing about Stanford's.
He wouldn't have told you."
"Mr. Tarn never discussed his business affairs with
me."
"I'm not thinking of Mr. Tarn," he said deliberately.
"I am thinking of the excellent Doctor Hallam, who,
unless I am greatly mistaken, is scheduled for a very
troublous time."
Another long interregnum of silence, during which a
little of her old discomfort had returned, and then:
"I'm sorry. I withdraw the statement that I intended
discharging you, although I did. If you wish to stay on
in this post, you may."
"I have no such wish," she said briefly, and, sitting
down at the desk, she opened her notebook.
Still he made no move.
"A chubby man," he said, apropos of nothing, "and
a lover of good things. His boast of abstemiousness is
part of his vanity. The cracker and milk come at eleven,
but he lunches royally at two."
She was gazing, stupefied.
"Mr. Tupperwill," he said in explanation. "I was at
Ihe inquest. You would not think Hallam could make
friends with a man like that. But Hallam has unsus-
pected charms."
Was he being sarcastic? She gave him no excuse for
discussing Ralph and waited patiently, her pencil poised.
"Feng Ho thinks you are rather wonderful." He
broke the silence with this gratuitous remark, and she
flushed.
"His good opinion of me is not reciprocated," she said
tartly; "and, really, Major Amery, I am not interested


THE SINISTER MAN
•
speak, he was gone, with no more acknowledgment of
her presence than if she had been the desk against which
she leaned, stricken dumb with anger.
'Tfl not go—I'll not go! I told him I was engaged,
and I refuse to go to his house."
Miss Dame glared sympathetically; but at the same
time she was moved by curiosity.
"I'd rather like to see his house." she said. "I'll bet
it's full of trapdoors and secret panels. Have you ever
seen 'Sold for Gold?' Amery does remind me of the
husband! He used to keep his real wife tied up in a cellar
and pretended he was single. And then, when he was
leading the other girl to the altar, a strange figure appeared
at the vestry door, heavily veiled, you understand—and,
mind you. he still thought she was in the cellar—and,
just as the parson was going to say "Who will take this
woman to be his wedded wife?' up she springs, takes off
her veil, and it's her!"
"Who?" asked the bewildered Elsa, interested in spite
of herself.
"The wife—the real wife!" said Miss Dame trium-
phantly. "The one that was in the cellar. She got out
owing to the butler, who'd been stealing money from the
man. leaving the door open."
"Anyway. I'm not going to his house," said Elsa.
"There'll be Indian servants there perhaps." said Miss
Dame hopefully. "Dark, noiseless men in spotless white.
He claps his hands, and they appear as if by magic from
secret doors. And idols, too. And incense—incense
comes from India, doesn't it, Miss Marlowe? I'd like to
see that house." She shook her head sadly. "I'd go
if I were you. Miss Marlowe."
"I'll not do anything of the sort," said Elsa, banging
down the cover of her typewriter viciously.
Til be in the same room with you," encouraged Miss


304 BROOK STREET 125
Dame. "There's always trapdoors in those kind of
houses. Do you remember 'The Rajah's Bride?' Ethel
Exquisite was in it. I don't think that's her real name,
do you? What's your telephone number':"
"You needn't bother to call me, because, if he sends
for me, I shall take not the slightest notice."
"304 Brook Street," mused Miss Dame. "A House of
Mystery!"
Elsa laughed in spite of herself.
"Don't be absurd. It's a very ordinary West End
house; I've passed it heaps of times, and I went there
once, when the old Mr. Amery was alive."
"He has probably transformed it to suit his Eastern
ideas," said Miss Dame, loath to relinquish the picture
she had formed. "There'll be carpets that your feet sink
into, and diwans"
"Divans?" suggested Elsa.
"Is that how you pronounce it?" asked Miss Dame in
surprise. "Dyvan? Well, there'll be those. And joss
sticks and music. I know those kind of people. Lord!
I'd like to see it"
Elsa saw her wistful eyes and was as much amused
as she could be.
"One would almost think you were in league with him,"
she said good-humoredly. "And now you can walk with
me to the hotel, for fear I'm kidnapped in the streets of
London and carried off to Major Amery's secret harem."
"Even that has been done," said Miss Dame cheerfully.
It was not a pleasant evening for Elsa. She had
scarcely arrived at the hotel before the girl rang her up
and asked her whether she had changed her mind. At
intervals of half an hour she heard the anxious voice of
the seeker after romance.
"Don't be silly, Jessie," she said sharply. This was
after the fifth time: she had had her dinner and gone to


126 THE SINISTER MAN
her room. "He hasn't sent for me; and if he sends, I
shall not go."
"I shall call up every half hour till half past eleven,"
said the determined female at the other end of the wire.
"You can trust me, Miss Marlowe!"
Elsa groaned and hung up the receiver.
It was a few minutes before eleven when the telephone
rang, and, thinking it was Jessie Dame. Elsa was in two
minds about answering the call. When she did so. the
voice that greeted her was Amery's.
"Is that Miss Marlowe? Major Amery speaking.
Get a cab and come round to my house, please. I have
sent my housekeeper to fetch Miss Dame."
"But, Major Amen,-, I am going to bed."
Click! The receiver was hung up.
Here was her opportunity for asserting her independ-
ence. She had been a feeble, weak-kneed creature, deserv-
ing the contempt of every self-respecting woman. He
should not order her about as though she were a slave.
She would show him that he could not force her will.
She sat determinedly on the bed, her eyes fixed on the
telephone bell, and when it rang, as it did after a quarter
of an hour's interval, she jumped.
"Is this Miss Marlowe?" The voice was impatient,
almost angry. "I am still waiting for you. Miss Dame
has already arrived."
Elsa sighed wearily. "I'll come." she said.
She tried to persuade herself that it was only because
she could not leave Jessie Dame in what that imaginative
lady had described as "The House of Mystery" that she
was going, and only because she was humoring the gaunt
girl in her desire for sensation. But she knew in her
heart that she was yielding to the domination which the
sinister man had established, and she hated him more than
ever.


3<H BROOK STREET
A very prosaic butler opened the door to her, and a
little, middle-aged woman, eminently respectable, took her
up into the drawing-room, where she found Jessie Dame
sitting on the edge of a chair, her lips tightly pressed
together, her magnified eyes looking disapprovingly upon
the extremely Western character of the room.
It was very large and a little old-fashioned, with its
cut-glass chandelier converted for the use of electric cur-
rent, its high-backed Chippendale chairs and ancient
cabinets. The carpet, tortured with floral designs, scrolls.
and coarse-skinned Cupids, was distinctly Victorian.
Elsa could well understand Miss Dame's disappointment.
The sinister man was nowhere in sight, and they were
left alone together.
"Have vou seen him?" hissed Miss Dame.
"No."'
"He's nothing much to look at," deprecated Miss Dame,
"but there's 2 Chinese servant here You've got to be
careful!"
She put her finger to her Dps. as the door opened, and
Amer>- came in. He was in evening dress, and, from
the scowl that puckered his forehead, she guessed that he
was in his usual mood.
"I didn't expect to send for you to-night." he said
brusquely, "but something has happened which has given
a very serious aspect to my little joke."
His little joke! She gasped. Was that his idea of
humor, to suggest he might send for her at any moment.
Apparently it was, for he went on:
"I am relying upon you girls to treat this matter as
strictly confidential. You will hear things to-night h
CHAPTER XXI
THE SIGNED STATEMENT ,
WITH a pathetic smile Mr. Tupperwill greeted the girl
"We have met under happier circumstances," he said.
''This is the young lady who"
"We will take your statement," interrupted Amery
characteristically, as he turned to Elsa. "Our friend has
had a very unpleasant turn, and is anxious—or, rather,
I am anxious—to see his experience recorded in black
and white."
"Very businesslike," murmured Mr. Tupperwill.
"And signed," added Amery, and the girl noted the
extra emphasis he gave to the word.
The sinister man was touching the bandage on the
man's head, and she saw Tupperwill wince.
"Not bad for an amateur," he said, with a pride which
was almost human. "Now, Mr. Tupperwill. Have you
brought your book, by the way?"
Elsa nodded. What was the meaning of this strange
scene? Out of the corner of her eye she could see that
Jessie Dame was quivering with excitement. At last this
lover of the sensational had been brought into actual
touch with a happening out of the ordinary.
Amery went out and returned with a chair, which he
planted down with unnecessary noise near the wounded
man's bed.
"Now, Miss Marlowe," he said curtly.
The banker turned his head with a grin of pain.
"Very businesslike," he murmured again. "You
I2Q


130 THE SINISTER MAN
would like me to make this statement? Now where shall
I begin?"
She thought, from the position of his lips, that he was
trying to whistle, but Amery, who knew him better,
guessed the meaning of the grimace.
"I think I had better start with my dinner," said Mr.
Tupperwill slowly. "I dined at home—a deviled sole,
a little chick:en, and a souffle—I don't think there was any-
thing else. I had my coffee, and then, at a quarter past
ten, I took my evening stroll, three times round the block
—an exercise which is necessary to me, for I am a poor
sleeper. Usually I take my little dog for a walk, but this
evening poor little 'Tamer' was suffering from injuries
inflicted by a large, undisciplined dog that he met in the
park, and I walked alone. I did not in consequence
deviate from my usual route, but went my customary
round, passing along Brook Street to Park Lane and
returning by the same route.
"I was halfway along the street, which at that time of
night is a very quiet thoroughfare, when I saw a car
drive up to the curb, and two men got out. A third man
now appeared upon the scene, and suddenly, to my horror
and amazement, all three began to fight! Though not
of a pugnacious nature, I made my way quickly to the
spot, with the idea of inducing them to desist It was,
in all the circumstances, a very hazardous decision for a
man who is not especially athletic, and I have very good
reason for regretting my action. I saw that the two
assailants were powerfully built men. The third, whom
they were attacking, I could not see, because they had
wrapped his head in a cloth of some description though
he was still struggling violently.
"Xo sooner did I appear on the scene than somebody
struck me. and I lost consciousness and did not wake until
I found myself in the hands of Major Amery and a pass-


THE SIGNED STATEMENT 131
ing pedestrian, who kindly assisted the major to bring
me into his house, at the door of which I had been
attacked."
"You have forgotten the letter," said Amery dryly.
"Oh, yes, oh, yes! All my ideas are at sixes and
sevens. Please put in your statement that after dinner
my footman brought me a letter which he said he had
f-.und in the letter box. I opened it and discovered a
sheet of paper with four words. 'You talk too much.'
Those were the words; the original may be seen. Exactly
what they mean, or to what act of loquacity they refer,
I cannot guess. I am habitually and by nature a—a per-
son extremely reserved. That I could talk too much in
any circumstances is unthinkable. Now, are there any
questions you would like to ask me, Major?"
"The car was gone, of course, when you were found?"
"Yes, and the man also. You say you saw nothing of
them?"
"Yes, I saw them," said the other carelessly. "At
least I saw a car. Have you got that, Miss Marlowe?"
Elsa nodded.
"You will find a small typewriter in my study. Mrs.
Ehnan wilt show you the way. I would like that state-
ment typed and signed."
She went" out with Jessie Dame, the latter so thrilled
that her voice was a squeaky twitter of sound.
"What do you think of that?" she asked, when they
were alone together in the plain little study to which the
housekeeper had taken them. "Have you ever heard
anything like it? Doesn't that beat the pictures! As
I always say, there's more villainy happens in real life
than people know. Who do you think it was, Miss
Marlowe?"
Elsa's mind was in a turmoiL
"I don't know whether Major Amery has a grudge


132 THE SINISTER MAN
against this man," she said slowly, "but I have heard and
read about those sham street fights, which are intended
to bring innocent people within reach."
Miss Dame gasped and flopped down on a sofa, which
was the nearest to a "divvan" she had seen.
"You don't mean that the sinister man got up this
quarrel to catch Mr. Tupperwill?"
Elsa shook her head. "I don't know what to think,"
she said.
For some reason she did not wish to discuss Amery
with the girl, but, as she recalled Amery's callous indif-
ference and his eagerness to have a signed statement
which obviously would exculpate himself, her suspicions
grew.
Why did he not go to the police? It was unthinkable
that he should have any quarrel with Tupperwill. There
seemed no grounds, except that he was a friend of Ralph.
But, if that were the case, and Tupperwill could be
regarded as an enemy who had "talked too much," how
easy it would be to engineer that scene in Brook Street!
He must have known something of Tupperwill's habits.
Probably at the same hour every night the stout man took
his constitutional along Brook Street. A creature of
habit, playing into the hands of these men She
shivered. It did not bear thinking about.
Searching the table where the typewriter stood for a
sheet of blank paper, she saw there was none suitable;
but she did not like to open any of the drawers. Then,
;lancing quickly around the room, her eyes rested on a
small cupboard of unpainted pine. It was evidently a new
fixture. Miss Dame intercepted the look.
"Do you want paper, dear?" she asked and half rose.
But Elsa was already on her feet.
"It may be here," she said.
The door of the cupboard was ajar. She pulled it


THE SIGNED STATEMENT 133
open and found, as she had expected, a number of shelves
with library requirements. She found something else—
a short length of material which she recognized as rhirjo-
ceros hide, and which the South Africans call "sjambok."
Mr. Tarn had had a walking stick made of the skin.
In length it was about twenty inches, and h was almost as
thick as her wrirt. She would not have noticed it. bat
for the fact that it lay open a package of paper which was
sprinkled with some dark stain. She or>ened the cup-
board wider. The stain was bkxxL and. repressing her
desire to announce her find, she picked np the thin?
gingerly and brought it to the light. And then she saw
that the end was red and sriD wet!


CHAPTER XXII
THE TRUTH ABOUT TARN
THE mystery of Mr. Tupperwili's injury was a mystery
no longer. This was the weapon that had been used,
and the hand that had struck him down was the hand of
Paul Amery. He must have come straight into the stud}',
which was the first room off the hall, thrown the stick into
the cupboard and forgotten about it, and then gone oat
to pretend he was assisting the unfortunate banker.
Probably the presence of that chance pedestrian saved
TupperwiU's life. She shuddered and, clutching at the
package of paper, came back to the table.
"Why, Miss Marlowe, what is the matter?"
Jessie Dame stared in stupefaction at the change in the
girl's color.
"I don't know. I'm a little upset, perhaps," said Elsa
unsteadily.
She tore open the package, fixed a sheet in the machine,
and, biting her lip, concentrated upon the statement.
While she typed, the hideous thing became more clear.
Her theory was substantiated. She had just finished
when Amery came into the room. He took the paper
from her hand, corrected two typing mistakes, and went
out of the room again.
"One of you girls come," he said "I want a witness."
Jessie Dame followed him before she realized that she
was unattended. She came fluttering back a few minutes
later with the announcement that she had "witnessed the
deed," and that Mr. Tupperwill was sitting up and had
expressed his intention of going home.
134


136 THE SINISTER MAN
going straight to the hotel, called up .Ralph and told
him what had happened.
"You're not in bed yet?" asked Ralph quickly. "I
mean, can I see you if I come round?"
"Why, yes," she said in surprise, "but I can see you
in the morning."
"No, I must see you to-night. I can't talk over the
phone. Will you be waiting for me in the vestibule?"
She looked at the watch on her wrist; it was then half
past eleven.
"Yes, I'll risk my reputation. Come along," she said
He was with her in a remarkably short space of time
and learned in detail the story of Tuppervvill's alarming
experience. Elsa had thrown discretion to the wind.
She felt that, in this case, at any rate, she need show no
leluctance in relating her employer's business. When she
had finished, Ralph was looking at her strangely.
"So that is it! He talks too much! The devil must
have learned what Tupperwill told me this morning,
though how on earth he overheard, beats me. First Tarn,
then the money, and now Tupperwill. Soyoka stops at
nothing."
"Soyoka? Why, that's the drug man, isn't it? Oh,
Ralph!"
At that moment was revealed in a flash the mystery
that had so puzzled her.
"Soyoka! The drug gangs! There are two—one
Soyoka, the other—not Mr. Tarn!" she breathed.
He nodded. "You've got to know sooner or later."
"And you?" she asked, in a voice scarcely above a
whisper.
"And me also," he said coolly. "There's no sense in
being shocked, Elsa. It is a commercial proposition.
You wouldn't object to meeting a distiller or a brewer,


CHAPTER XXIII
"PERFECTLY HORRIBLE"
ONE very definite conclusion she reached, when she
was putting on her shoes preparatory to going to that
hateful office—her connection with Amery's was prac-
tically finished. Why she did not proclaim the man's
infamy from the housetops puzzled and frightened her.
Was her moral code so loose that she could condone one
crime of which she had proof and another which she
suspected?
How would he appear to her now, she wondered,
now that she knew him for what he was, a man who was
living by debasing humanity, a cruel, brutal thug, who
could strike down an unoffending man because he had
dared break some rule of the bank?
Her way eastward led her past the great newspaper
offices, and, obeying an impulse, she turned into the
publisher's department and began a search of the files.
Presently she found the paragraph she had read to her
uncle that morning, and which—now she well under-
stood why—had thrown him into such a state of agi-
tation.
A stray reporter who drifted in, en route to the
cashier's desk, saw a pretty girl turning the pages and
noticing that she was not scanning the advertisement
columns, sidled up to her.
"Can I help you?" he asked. "I'm on the staff of
the paper."
Her first inclination was to decline his assistance. But
138


"PERFECTLY HORRIBLE" 139
she had recalled something Major Amery had said, and
she was debating whether it would be too long a job to
find the news she wanted, when he appeared upon the
scene.
"I'm trying to find an account of the holding up of the
'Chinese train."
"Oh, the Blue Train outrage? You won't find it on
that file. It happened months ago," he said.
"Do you remember why it was held up?"
The youthful reporter smiled. "To get a little easy
money, I guess," he said. "There were one or two
wealthy opium smugglers on the train."
Opium again! She drew a long sigh.
"Thank you very, very much," she said and hurried
out to the disappointment of the young connoisseur of
feminine elegance.
It was curious, she thought, when the bell called her to
his presence, that Amery did not look any different.
She thought that, in the light of her knowledge and a
keener scrutiny, she would detect some evidence of his
callousness. There must be that in his face which would
betray "his evil mind. But, no, he was just what he "had
always been, and, for his part, neither his manner nor his
tone revealed the slightest difference in his attitude to-
ward her, except that for once he was gracious.
"I am much obliged to you for coming to me last
night," he said. "You will be delighted to learn that Mr.
Tupperwill passed an excellent night, and the doctor thinks
that he will be able to go to business in a few days."
Was there an undercurrent of mockery in his tone?
She thought there was and could only marvel at his cool
•brutality.
"And what comfort had Doctor Hallam to offer you?"
he went on.
"You watch me rather closely, Major Amery," she


140 THE SINISTER MAN
said quietly. "I did not ask the doctor to come to com-
fort me."
"Oh, you did ask him to come, did you? I thought
you might have clone so," he said. "Was he impressed
by the news of Tupperwill's sad fate? I see that you
don't feel inclined to discuss the matter. We'll get on
with the letters."
The matter was still in his mind at the end of half
an hour's dictation, for he asked:
"Was there anything you did not tell him about last
night's happenings?"
Quick as a flash came the reply: "I did not tell of
the blood-stained sjambok I found in the paper cup-
board."
She could have bitten her tongue. The sentence was
half out before she tried to stop herself, but it was too
late. Not a muscle of his face moved; the grave eyes
did not so much as blink.
"I wondered where you'd found the paper and hoped
I had left some on the desk. I suppose you think I
am a pretty tough case?"
"I think you're perfectly horrible," she said. "May I
go now?"
"You think I'm perfectly horrible, do you? And so
do others, and so will others," he said. "As for Tupper-
will, he should have been a little more discreet."
"Oh!" she gasped. "Then you admit it!"
He nodded. "The lesson will not be lost on him,"
he said.
She hardly knew whether she was asleep or awake
when she got back to her typewriter, and she was absurdly
grateful for the unmusical click and crash of the keys,
which brought her back to the mental position of a
rational being.
She hoped, as she banged savagely at the keys, that


"PERFECTLY HORRIBLE" 141
Major Amery's new secretary would have sufficient spirit
to shake his self-conceit. She prayed that the unfor-
tunate female—no man would endure him for a week
—would break every one of his rules—open his letters
and unfasten the strings of his parcels; two of his ec-
centricities being that he would allow no one to ol)en
either except himself. She pictured a steely-faced
Gorgon with a heart of stone, who would freeze him to
humbleness. As Major Amery had the choosing of his
own secretaries, she reflected ruefully, he would probably
find some wretched, broken-spirited girl who would ac-
cept his insolence as a normal condition of her employ-
ment.
She was engaged in inventing a special type of secre-
tary when the bell rang sharply, and she flew in to the
tyrant.
"I forgot a letter when you were in here before,'* he
said. "Take this:
"To THE MANAGING DIRECTOR, STEBBING'S BANK,
SIR: I am this day closing my account with Stebbing's
Bank and have to request that my balance be transferred
to my credit at the Northern & Midland. And this fur-
ther authorizes you to hand to the bearer the steel box held
by the bank in my name. The receipt of the bearer. Mr.
Feng Ho, B. Sc., should be accepted as mine. Yours faith-
fully."
She went back to her machine, finally convinced that
all that Ralph had prophesied had come true. Amery was
closing his account at the Stebbing's Bank.
Paul Amery was the subject of another discussion
between two men, one of whom had reason to hate, and
the other to suspect, him. Mr. Tupperwill lay in the
center of his large bed, a picturesque figure; one white-
clad hand gripped a golden bottle of smelling salts, for his


142 THE SINISTER MAN
kead ached vilely. Nevertheless he had not been un-
willing to receive Ralph Hallam and to give him a first-
hand account of his misfortune. And Ralph had been
most sympathetic and inquiring. But at the very sug-
gestion that his assailant was none other than Paul Amery
himself, Mr. Tupperwill had been as indignant as if h»
own honesty had been attacked.
"Nonsense, my dear man, nonsense," he said, as
sharply as his throbbing head would permit. "Amery
was nowhere near the place. I distinctly saw the men
who attacked me. There may have been a third person,
but I very much doubt it. There was not even a chauf-
feur on the box of the car. Why on earth should Amery
attack me?"
There was excellent reason, thought Ralph, but this
did not seem the moment to make a disclosure.
. "It struck me as possible," he said. "Amery is a
wildish kind of fellow."
"Rubbish! Stuff! Excuse the violence of my lan-
guage, my dear Hallam, but it is too fantastic to discuss
the two wretched assassins—which word, by the way,
comes from the word Hassan, the old man of the moun-
tains who first employed murderers to settle his private
feuds. Neither of these two were Amery, I'll swear.""
Very wisely Ralph did not press the point.
"At the same time," Mr. Tupperwill went on, "I con-
fess that I do not like Major Amery as a client, and I
shall seize the very earliest opportunity of getting rid of
his account."
"I think he'll save you the trouble," said Ralph dryly.
"Why?" Mr. Tupperwill's eyes opened wide.
"Because—well, because "Ralph picked up thfr
letter that Mr. Tupperwill had shown him, read the four
words, and smiled.
"Do you connect this warning with the piece of i»-


"PERFECTLY HORRIBLE" 145
formation you gave me yesterday morning?" he asked.
"About Amery? Good heavens, no!"
"It is the same kind of letter paper and the same kind
of writing that poor Tarn received before his death.
Evidently written by the same man. And to what other
indiscretion, if it were an indiscretion, can this note
refer? You have not talked about anybody except Amery
and his account?"
Mr. Tupperwill was silent for a moment, stupefied by
the suggestion.
"Pshaw!" he said at last. "Be could not have knovr*
of our conversation. It took place in my private office,
where it is impossible, absolutely impossible, that we
could have been overheard."
"You have a loud-speaking telephone on your office
desk; was that switched off?"
"I think so," said Mr. Tupperwill slowly. "It is al-
most second nature to make it dead. I can't say that I
am exactly comfortable with that wretched American in-
vention, and I've thought once or twice of having it
removed. It is very useful, for I have only to stretch
out my hand and turn a switch to talk to any of my de-
partments, but it is dangerous, very dangerous. Now I
wonder!"
He pulled at his lip for a long while, trying to remember.
"It is unlikely," he said, "but there is just the pos-
sibility that the switch may have been down. Even in
that case, who of my staff would betray me? No, my
dear man, you must get that idea out of your head. It
isn't possible. There is nothing wrong with Amery. I
am almost sorry I expressed my doubts to you, if by so
doing I have sown the seeds of suspicion in your mind."
Ralph chuckled quietly. "In my case they're already
in flower," he said. "I admit I'm prejudiced against
Amery and would go a long way to do him a real bad


144 THE SINISTER MAN
turn." Then, seeing the shocked expression on the
other's face, he went on:
"Not that I shall."
"Thank goodness for that!" said Mr. Tupperwill fer-
vently. "I have always disliked violence, and now I
have a greater antipathy than ever." He touched his
head tenderly.
Ralph said no more than the truth, that the thought
in the foreground of his mind was an opportunity of get-
ting even with the man whom he now hated with un-
paralleled intensity; and that afternoon opportunity took
shape.


CHAPTER XXIV
THE POISON TEST
"YOU'RE determined to go on Saturday, Miss Mar-
lowe?"
"Yes, Major Amery."
Amery stood at the window, his hands in his pockets,
glooming into the street.
"You will be rather difficult to replace," he said.
"Could you overcome your very natural reluctance to
serve me for another week?"
She hesitated and was almost lost. If he had ordered
her to remain, she might not have had the courage to
refuse to obey the order.
"I'm afraid I cannot stay after Saturday, Major
Amery."
Somehow she did not expect him to press her to stay
then, nor was any further reference made to the attack
on Mr. Tupperwill. Though she had nothing but the
kindest feeling for Jessie Dame, she ventured to suggest
that the girl should take her place when she had gone,
for the position was a coveted one and carried a salary
twice as large as the highest wage earned by the most
expert stenographer in the firm.
"She can't spell," was his only comment, and in a way
Elsa was glad.
If she expected him, knowing his pertinacious char-
acter, to renew his request later in the day, she was dis-
appointed. At four thirty the office caterer brought two
tea trays, and one of these, as usual, she carried into
145


146 THE SINISTER MAN
Amery's room. She put the tray down on his desk, and
he nodded, lifted the lid of the teapot, and smelt it—
a practice of his she had noticed before. This time he
looked up before her faint smile had completely vanished.
"That amuses you, eh? I'll show you something else
that will amuse you more."
He took a little flat case from his pocket, opened it.
tore off a narrow slip of sky-blue paper, which he dipped
into the milk. When he brought it out, the paper was
red.
"Wait," he said and poured the- tea into die cop,, and
this time he produced a thin pink slip.
Looking, she saw that the interior of the: ease held
nothing but hundreds- of these pink and blue slips. The
pink paper he dipped into the tea. held it for a. few
seconds, and then drew it out. Where the tea had
touched, the paper was a bright lemon yellow.
"A rough test, but reliable. Arsenic tturns the milk
paper green and the tea paper purple. Strychnine turns
them both black. so dqes aconite. Cyanide, on the other
hand, bleaches the blue paper white and turns the pink
paper to a deep red."
Elsa listened, open-mouthed.
"You—you were testing for poison?" she said, almost
unable to believe her ears.
"Something like that," he said and, replacing the case.
put the milk, and sugar in his tea. "By the way, that is
one- symptomi of insanity—the notion a man gets- that
he's being poisoned, or that somebody is attempting his
life."
"But poison here!" she said skeptically.
"•Well, why not? I have many enemies, and one, at
least, is in the medical profession."
At any other time she would have resented this
reference to Ralph Hallam, but now the relationship in


THE POISON TEST 147
which these men stood, the knowledge of Ralph's terrible
business, silenced her.
Crook against crook—diamond against diamond!
Surely he did not dream that Ralph would do so horrible
a thing! That he should judge other men by himself
was a human weakness. Perhaps he was mad, after all.
He did not act like a normal being. And yet she saw
none of the symptoms which she associated with an ill-
balanced mind. He was a mystery, inscrutable. She had
read stories of criminals who were endowed with a great-
ness which distinguished them from the rest of mankind,
wonderful mentalities perverted to base use. Perhaps the
sinister man was one of those, an object for compassion
rather than contempt. On the whole she was very glad
that her term of employment was coming to a rapid
close.
After tea some letters and a parcel came for him.
She put the letters on the blotting pad—he was out—and
placed the parcel within reach of him. It had come by
hand and was addressed: "Major Amery, D. S. O."
It was the first intimation she had had that he held the
Distinguished Service Order. She was constantly find-
ing out new things about him, she thought whimsically,
and, absorbed in the discovery, she took up a pair of
scissors and cut the string that fastened the parcel. In-
variably she had done this for old Mr. Amery, and she
never realized that the scissors were in her hand till a
snarl of anger made her spin around, affrighted. Amery
stood in the doorway leading to the corridor.
"What in thunder are you doing?" he roared.
She fell back before the blaze of his eyes. He was so
menacing, his mien was so savage, his voice so harsh
that he terrified her.
"How often have I told you not to open my parcels?"
he growled.


148 THE SINISTER MAN
His hand had dropped on the top of the cardboard box
she had exposed.
"I'm—I'm awfully sorry. I had forgotten."
The brown face was sallow. Was that his way of
going pale?
"Do as you're told," he said and lifted the box carefully
in his hand, waited a second, and then rapidly took off the
lid.
Reposing in a nest of white cotton wool was a round
object, covered with white tissue paper. He did not
touch it. Instead, he took up the scissors she had put
down, snipped gingerly at the paper, and pulled a large
piece aside.
"Fond of apples?" he asked in a changed voice.
It was a very small apple, but like no apple she had
ever seen, for it bristled with steel needle points.
"That's medical, I'll swear," he said, and she saw
his lip lift. "He used a hundred needles, and there's
c'.fith in every point! The cute cuss!"
There was genuine admiration in his voice.


CHAPTER XXV
LAUDANUM •
"RATHER ingenious," said Amery. "Not heavy
enough for a bomb, and when one opened the package,
what more natural than to seize this paper-covered little
ball?"
"But are they poisoned?" she asked, bewildered.
"With what?"
"I don't know. An analyst would find out if I took
the trouble to send it to an analyst. Anthrax, probably,
or one of a dozen other diseases. There is enough
venom in the sac of the average cobra to supply all those
little points with a fatal dose."
He carefully put the lid on, tied a piece of string
round the box, and, opening a cupboard, locked it away.
"Who sent it? Not Ralph—not Doctor Hallam? You
don't for one moment imagine he would do such a thing?"
"Hallam?" He bit his lip thoughtfully. "No, prob-
ably not Hallam."
"Are you Soyoka?" she blurted, and he brought his
gaze round to her.
"Do I look like a stout and middle-aged Japanese
gentleman?"
"I know you're not a Japanese," she said impatiently,
"but are you Soyoka's agent?"
He shrugged his shoulders and looked toward the cup-
board. "Apparently there are people who think I am.
Doctor Hallam? No, I don't think it was Doctor Hallam.
140


ISO THE SINISTER MAN
If I did "He showed his teeth for a second in a
mirthless grin, and she shivered involuntarily.
"You look dreadful."
Again she had no intention of speaking. She had
surprised herself when she had asked him if he was
Soyoka. For a second she thought he would resent her
comment, but he accepted it without offense.
"I am dreadful—'perfectly horrible' was your remark,
if I remember rightly. And there are horrible things in
this world, Miss Marlowe, things you do not guess and
cannot know; things I hope you never will know. Hor-
rible is a word you should never apply to a plain, straight-
forward dope smuggler—nay, even to a murderer. The
real horrors are things that newspaper men do not write
about; and when you come into contact with these, why,
you find you've been wasting a whole lot of superlatives,
and you have none left."
It was quite a long speech for him, and she had an
odd sensation of pleasure. She felt almost as if she
had been taken behind the steel doors of his reserve.
"I don't want you to think that either murder or drug
smuggling are admirable pastimes. You're pretty safe
in believing that the things your mother taught you were
wrong, are wrong, and not all the gilding or high-class
thinking, or abstruse philosophy in the world can make
them right. I suppose you think those are queer senti-
ments coming from Soyoka's right-hand man?"
There was a peculiar glint in his eye, which she chose
to regard as threatening. Perhaps he was unbending
because he wished to persuade her to remain with him,
but apparently this was not the case, for he did not follow
up the advantage which his unusual geniality had created.
For yet another night she postponed her removal to
Herbert Mansions. By the weariness in Mrs. Trene
Hallam's voice when she telephoned her, Elsa gathered


LAUDANUM 151
that that good lady was as anxious to get the visit over
as she. Elsa slept better that night and went to the
office refreshed.
She had not been at work five minutes when Miss Dame
came flying into the room, and, from her flushed ap-
pearance and her startled eyes, Elsa guessed that some-
thing unusual had happened.
"Have you heard the news?" hissed the girl melo-
dramatically.
Elsa had heard too much news of a startling character
to be wildly excited.
"Who do you think is the new manager?"
One of the under-managers had been temporarily ap-
pointed to fill Mr. Tarn's position. That it was only a
temporary appointment Elsa was now to learn for the
first time.
"He's in the office, sitting there as large as life, giving
orders to white Christian people."
"Not Feng Ho!" gasped Elsa.
"Feng Ho," said Miss Dame impressively. "That's
the last straw! If Amery expects well-educated young
ladies to take their orders from a—from a savage, well,
he's got another guess coming. I know what the Chinese
are, with their opium dens and their fan-tans and other
instruments of torture. Not me, my girl!" Miss Dame
shivered in her indignation. "I'm going to tell his nibs."
"Tell him now," said Amery's cold voice.
Elsa always jumped at the sound of him, but Miss
Dame literally leaped. Paul Amery stood in the door-
way, his hands in his pockets.
"Tell him now. I gather you object to Feng Ho as
general manager. I regret that I did not call you to the
board meeting which decided upon the appointment, but
I like to be alone when I make these momentous decisions.
What is your objection, Miss Dame?"


152 THE SINISTER MAN
"Well, sir," stammered Miss Dame, going red and
white, "he's Chinese and foreign."
"Don't you realize that you're Chinese and foreign to
him? As to his being an ignoramus or a savage, as you
suggested a little time ago, he is a particularly well edu-
cated gentleman. At least he can spell," he added signif-
icantly.
Elsa thought this was cruel.
"He may be able to spell in Chinese," said Miss Dame
with dignity, "but that's neither here nor there. I'm
not much of a speller myself, I admit. Only you can
quite understand, Major Amery, that we girls have got
to look out for ourselves."
Miss Dame's attempt to drag Elsa into the argument
amused the girl. Apparently it amused the sinister man
also, for his lips twitched.
"Feng Ho will not bother you, or interfere with you
in any way. He will deal entirely with the Chinese
trade, which is by far the most important department
of our business."
When he had gone, Miss Dame said:
"Wasn't he mild? He must have seen by my eye
that I wasn't going to let him start something without
my being there to ring the bell. Put a man in his place
once, and he stays there. And listen, Miss Marlowe:
I had my horoscope cast this morning—at least, the
letter came this morning. I was born under Pisces, and
I'm supposed to be highly emotional, imaginative, ob-
servant, artistic, musical, precise, and prudent!"
"In those circumstances," said Elsa, "I think you may
be able to cope with Mr. Feng Ho as general manager.
You seem to have all the qualities that a girl should
possess in those difficult circumstances."
Miss Dame scratched her head with the end of her


LAUDANUM 153
pencil. "It never struck me that way," she said, "but
perhaps you're right."
Elsa did not go out to lunch. She had not forgotten
her encounter with the press photographers, and until
the case was settled she decided to lunch in the office.
It was fortunate that she did so, for Bickerson called
to ask, with variations, the same wearying string of ques-
tions that he had asked at least a dozen times before—
the names of Tarn's relatives, particulars of his friend-
ships, his animosities, his likes and dislikes, his habits,
his houses of call, his clubs.
"Is it necessary to ask me all this again?" said Elsa
wearily. "I think I've told you this before." And
then, as though the thought occurred to her, but was
too preposterous to entertain: "You're not expecting
me to vary my story? Oh, Mr. Bickerson, you are!"
The stolid Bickerson smiled innocently. "A witness
sometimes remembers fresh incidents," he said; "and
you can well understand, Miss Marlowe, that everybody
in that house when the murder was committed has to be
questioned and cross-questioned. It is part of our sys-
tem of detection."
"Did you cross-question Feng Ho?" she asked.
The smile came off his face. "I certainly cross-
questioned him to a degree, but he had his alibi all
done up in silver paper; we couldn't have broken it with
a steam hammer. Major Amery in?"
"No, he's gone out," she said. "Did you want to see
him?"
"No," he said carelessly, "I don't particularly want
to see him. If he's there I'll stroll in."
'Til see," said Elsa.
As she expected, Amery was gone. But Mr. Bicker-
son was not content, either with the view he had of the


154 THE SINISTER MAN
room through the doorway, or with his earlier and closer
inspection of the apartment. He strolled in past the
girl, humming an aria. He was something of a bari-
tone and had a reputation in amateur operatic circles.
"A very nice little room this," he said. "An ex-
tremely nice little room. Would you be so kind as to
go downstairs and tell my man at the door that I'm
waiting for Major Amery?"
She looked at him squarely. "Yes, I will, if you'll
be so kind as to come out of the room and let me lock
the door," she said.
He laughed. "You think I'm going to conduct a
quiet little search of my own, eh, without the formality
of a warrant? Well, you were right, only I've got the
warrant, you see."
He produced a blue paper and handed it to her.
"It would have been ever so much better if I could
have done this quietly, without Major Amery knowing
anything about it, but I respect your scruples, and if
you'd rather I waited until the major came in, I will do
so."
They had talked ten minutes when Elsa heard the door
of Amery's room close, and she went into him.
"A search warrant, has he? I wondered when that
would come. Tell him to step in. Good morning,
Bickerson. You want to have a look around, Miss Mar-
lowe tells me? Sail right in."
"I've got a warrant," said Bickerson with a shrug,
"but that means nothing." And then: "Bit of a
tough case, that of Mr. Tupperwill's the other night?"
"Oh, you've heard about it, have you? Who squealed
—Mr. Tupperwill?"
Bickerson scratched his chin. "Nobody exactly
squealed," he said. "It came to me in the ordinary
way of business."


LAUDANUM 155
"Was it Mr. Tupperwill, or the excellent Doctor Hal-
toin?" persisted Amery.
"Know him?" asked Bickerson, his keen eyes on the
other's face.
"I am acquainted with him, yes."
"It is a queer thing, that case of Tupperwill," drawled
Bickerson. "I wonder you didn't report it to the police
straight away, Major Amery."
"You mean Tupperwill's beating?"
Bickerson nodded, and he saw the thin lips twitch.
''Oh, well, there's nothing to that, is there? Those
things happen every day."
"Not in London. They may happen in Calcutta, and
they may happen in Shanghai, where the sight of a
Chinese policeman half beaten to death doesn't create
so much of a scandal as it might in, say, Regent Street
or Piccadilly Circus."
"I get you," said Amery.
He opened a box on his table, took out a thin black
cigar, and lit it.
"I suppose I ought to have reported it to the police,
but it's up to Tupperwill. After all, he was the ag-
grieved party."
"Humph!" The detective was inspecting the major
earnestly. "Curious that affair should happen outside
your house."
"Very curious. Equally curious that it should hap-
pen outside anybody's house," said Amery coolly.
There was a little pause in the conversation. Bicker-
son was evidently turning over certain matters in his
mind.
"There is a feud between two gangs that are operat-
ing in London—two dope gangs—the amateurs and
Soyoka's crowd. I have reason to believe that Tupper-
will has offended one of the gangs in some way."


156 THE SINISTER MAN
"So I understand."
"Do you know how?" asked Bickerson quickly.
"I only know what he told me, that he had had a
letter saying that he was talking too much. It seemed
to me rather an inadequate reason for beating his head
off, for I think you will agree that, if every man who
talked too much was flogged for his sins, there would
be few people in London, or New York, for the matter
of that, who could wear hats with comfort."
Another interval, during which the sinister man puffed
steadily at his cigar and watched the windows on the
opposite side of the street with curious interest.
"You have traveled extensively in the East, Major.
Have you met Soyoka?"
"Yes. Have you?"
He pushed the cigar box toward the detective, and
Bickerson helped himself and was now holding a match
to the end. He waited until he had most carefully and
deliberately extinguished the flame and put the stick
in a copper ash tray before he answered.
"I've seen members of the gang, but I've never seen
Soyoka. Met them in town. They're a slippery little
crowd to hold. The amateurs may be easy, because
we've got a line to them. There are one or two men
in the Midlands who ought to have received that warn-
ing about talking too much."
"You have met some members of the Soyoka gang?"
interrupted Amery with polite interest. "You interest
me. What are they like?"
"They are very much like you"—a pause—"or me.
Very ordinary, everyday people, whom you wouldn't
suspect of pulling down a comfortable income out of
filling the psychopathic wards. There's thirty thou-
sand pounds a week spent on drugs in this country—


158 THE SINISTER MAN
"What!"
"I am referring to the laudanum that was found in
the nearly empty bottle of brandy that stood by Maurice
Tarn's side, and from which he had been drinking all
the evening," said the detective. "Good afternoon!"


CHAPTER XXVI
CURIOUSLY INEPT
ELSA heard him going down the passage, humming
his aria, little dreaming of the onus which this officer
of the law was attaching to her.
After the luncheon hour she was usually very busy,
but the sinister man did not send for her, though he
was still in his room. She had to take a file into the
office that had been made her uncle's, and it was with
a little twinge of pain that she knocked at the door and
heard Feng Ho's soft voice bid her enter. She need
have been under no apprehension, for nothing remained
to remind her of Maurice Tarn. The office had been
completely cleared; there was not an article of furniture,
not so much as a hanging almanac, to remind her of
the man who had passed in so mysterious, so dreadful
a fashion. Instead, the carpet had been removed, the
floor scrubbed, and in the center of the room was a
square of grass matting.
Feng Ho sat crosslegged at a little table which was
not more than a foot from the floor, and he seemed
wholly inadequate, since the gilded cage occupied more
than half of available writing space, and his ink and
brushes took up most of the remainder. He had dis-
carded some of his modern garments; she saw his coat
and hat hanging up on a hook behind the door; and he
wore, instead, a little black silk jacket.
"Good afternoon, Miss." He gave her his usual grin.
"Pi has missed you excessively."


160 THE SINISTER MAN
And, as though corroborating his master's statement,
the little canary burst forth into a wild song, which
ceased as suddenly as it began.
What made her ask the question, she did not know.
Nothing was farther from her thoughts when she had
come in. But these seemed days of impulse.
"Feng Ho, did you kill Mr. Tarn?" she asked and
stood aghast at her own fatuity.
The little man was neither disconcerted nor hurt.
"Miss, I have not killed a gentleman for a very long
time," he said, "not intentionally, with malice afore-
thought, according to law. Some time ago, yes. It was
vitally essential to decapitate certain Chinamen who had
been rude to my papa—cutting his throat with a sharp
instrument."
"I really don't know why I asked you," she said.
She could have cried with vexation at her own stupidity.
"It seems to me, if you will pardon me, Miss, curiously
inept. For if I had decapitated or otherwise destroyed
my aged predecessor, it is extremely improbable that I
would make an official statement for the titillation of
official ears. Even a bachelor of science is not so
scientific as to tell the truth when same leads to in-
tensive hanging by the neck."
Which was logical and true. Because she guessed
that Feng Ho would tell the major, she seized the
earliest opportunity of forestalling him by repeating the
conversation to the major himself.
"You still think Feng Ho was with him when he
died?" Amery asked when she had finished.
"I am sure."
"And yet you never told the police? It was only by
the discovery of the hat that they were able to connect
him with the crime, and, of course," he added as an
afterthought, "the policeman saw him."


CURIOUSLY INEPT 161
"And you saw him," she accused.
He raised his eyes and looked at her through half-
closed eyelids.
"What makes you say that?" he asked.
"You were on the spot when the murder was com-
mitted. If it were Feng Ho I saw in the room, he would
go straight to you. Of course you saw him!"
"Of course I saw him." His voice was almost mock-
ing. "And yet, curiously enough, no policeman has con-
nected my visit with Feng Ho. You ought to be at
Scotland Yard. By the way," he said, "do you ever
have toothache?"
She looked at him in wonder.
"Toothache, Major Amery? No—why?"
"I don't know. It occurred to me that you might
suffer that way; most young people do. If you did, I
have a much better medicine than laudanum, which is
dangerous stuff to handle."
He saw her brows meet in a frown.
"I don't know what you're trying to say," she said.
"I know nothing about laudanum; I've never seen it.
What do you mean?"
For the second time she saw the quick flash of his
teeth in a smile.
"What a suspicious person you are, Miss Marlowe!
I'm almost glad you're going," was all the explanation
he offered.


CHAPTER XXVII
MIXED FEELINGS
ON the Saturday morning, when her pay envelope
came, Elsa opened it with mingled feelings of relief and
regret. Though the sinister man had reverted to his
normal condition of taciturnity, he had been a little more
bearable, and she found some new characteristic every
day; something which, if it could not be admired, was
so far out of the ordinary that it was interesting.
Without counting the money, she looked at the pay
slip and found that she had received a substantial addi-
tion for her "overtime." Inconsistently, she wished he
had not paid her this money; she would have preferred
to give that extra piece of service, though why, she did
not know.
At one o'clock, the hour at which she was to leave,
she tidied her desk, emptied the drawers of her personal
belongings, and at last, with a queer feeling of dismay,
which had nothing to do with the fact that she was now
out of employment, for Tarn's lawyer had hinted to her
that the dead man had left her a substantial sum of
money, upon which she might draw, she knocked at the
door of Amery's room and went in.
He was pacing the floor slowly; he stopped and turned,
as she entered, and raised his eyebrows inquiringly.
"Yes?"
"I'm going," she said.
"Yes, of course, it's Saturday. Thank you, Miss
Marlowe. I will deal with the Nangpoo correspondence
162


MIXED FEELINGS 163
on Monday morning. Will you remind me, when the
Chinese mail comes in, that"
Elsa smiled faintly. "I shall not be here to remind
you, Major Amery," she said.
He looked at her, puzzled.
"Why won't you be here?"
"Because—well, I'm leaving to-day. You knew that."
"Oh, of course!"
He had forgotten! And then:
"When is the adjourned inquest?"
"On Monday."
He bit his lip, and she wondered whether that little
pucker of brow had to do with her, or such incon-
venience as the sudden death of Maurice Tarn had
caused.
"You had better postpone your resignation till next
Saturday," he said, and for some absurd reason she
could have thanked him. Her self-respect, however,
called for a protest.
"I've arranged to go to-day," she said, in a panic,
lest he should agree to that course.
"And I've arranged for you to go next Saturday. I
cannot be left at the mercy of a woman who spells India
with a y. Thank you."
With a nod, more gracious than usual, he sent her
back to the outer office with mixed feelings. She agreed,
as she returned her belongings to their places, that one
week more or less did not count; that on the whole it
would be more satisfactory to remain at Amery's until
the inquest was ended.
Although she was not to be called as a witness, she
dreaded the renewal of the inquiry, but the adjourned
proceedings lasted only two hours, at the end of which
time a bored jury returned the usual verdict of "Murder
against some person or persons unknown."


164' THE SINISTER MAN
Ralph she did not see in court, though he was there
for half an hour, standing at the back of the public
gallery; and she was back at the office in time to take
in Major Amery's tea. Apparently he did not object
to her overlooking the rapid immersion of the little slips
in tea and milk.
"What has happened at the court to-day?" he asked,
as she was going.
"The jury returned a verdict," she said.
He nodded.
"Major Amery," she asked, "do you think they will
track the murderer?"
He looked up slowly. "There are about fifty-six mur-
ders committed in London every year. Twenty-eight
of the murderers are captured and sent for trial; twenty-
seven, decimal something, die by their own hands, and
the other fraction escape the processes of the law. The
odds are fifty-six multiplied by about three hundred that
the murderer will be caught. By the way, did you see
friend Hallam?"
"No, I haven't seen him," said Elsa, before she ap-
preciated the impertinence of the question. "He tele-
phoned me yesterday to ask me something."
He nodded.
"You didn't by any chance mention my little tooth-
ache jest?"
"Toothache? Oh, you mean the laudanum? Why,
no, of course not. Why should I?"
He was looking down at his tea and did not look
up. "I shouldn't if I were you. Are you staying on
at the hotel?"
She shook her head. "No, it is much too expensive.
I am staying with a friend for a week, and then I am
finding a little flat. The police have given over Mr.
Tarn's house to me, and I am going to-day to sort out


MIXED FEELINGS 165
my belongings. After that the lawyers are putting the
furniture in the hands of an auctioneer. I want to go
early to-night, if you do not mind."
"Certainly, you can go at once. Does Hallam know
you are making your farewell visit to Elgin Crescent?"
She frowned at him. This man asked the most of-
fensive questions.
"Why should he be there? He is certainly a friend
of ours, but I do not find Doctor Hallam so indispensable
that I cannot do without him. Why do you so per-
sistently speak about him. Major Amery?"
"He amuses me," said the other.
She had certainly never found Ralph very amusing.
The lawyer's clerk was waiting for her when shf
arrived at Elgin Crescent, and she was glad to have
somebody else in that house of death. The place looked
dirty and forlorn, and it was a most depressing task to
gather her little belongings. Her search for a missing
book took her into Tarn's study. This room had evi-
dently been the object of a very thorough search, for
the books had been removed from the shelves, tables
and chairs had been set back against the wall, and the
carpet was rolled up. She was glad. In its present
state of disorder there was little to remind her of the
home she had shared for so many years.
She filled one trunk and went to the lumber room
in search of a big wooden case that was hers, and which,
as a girl, used to accompany her on her annual holi-
days. It was really a series of boxes within a box, for
its interior consisted of five wooden trays that fitted one
on top of the other. With the assistance of the servant,
who had come in to help, she carried the box back to
her room, opened it, and took out the top three trays.
The fourth, however, refused to budge.
"Don't worry about it. Emily," said Elsa. "There's


CHAPTER XXVIII
THE VISITOR
FOR the sixth time Ralph Hallam opened the window
and looked out. There was no cab in sight, and he
returned to his armchair before the fireplace.
"It is many years since you waited for me like that,
Ralph," said Mrs. Hallam, without resentment.
"I fail to remember that I ever waited," he snapped.
"Don't get funny, Lou."
The woman laughed softly. "What is he like, the
old boy?" she asked. "Am I supposed to be on my
best behavior, or do I treat him as one of ourselves."
"The 'old boy' is my banker, one of the leading men
of the City of London, who will jump out of his skin
at the first sound of anything raw."
Mrs. Hallam sighed heavily. "Whenever you fix
a dinner party for me," she said in despair, "you al-
ways bring the dead ones! If this is the kind of life
you live, Ralph, I wonder you don't grow old! Per-
sonally, I like a party that starts with cocktails and
finishes with breakfast."
He made a little grimace of distaste.
"That's vulgar, I suppose," she said, watching him
closely. "Put it down to my gutter training. You
haven't mentioned the word gutter for a week. And
here's your young and beautiful lady." She rose, as
the distant tinkle of the bell came to her.
Until Elsa had been shown her quarters, a beautifully
furnished bedroom and a tiny sitting room, she had no
idea that Ralph was in the flat.
167


168 THE SINISTER MAN
"I thought I'd come and see you installed," he said,
as he shook hands.
She was not sorry he was there, for she felt a little
ill at ease in the presence of his "sister-in-law."
"We have a very dear friend of ours coming to dinner
to-night, and a friend of yours, too, I think," said Mrs.
Hallam archly. "You know dear Mr. Tuckerwill?"
"Tupperwill," said Ralph loudly.
Elsa observed the slip and wondered how dear a
friend he could be that she had forgotten his name.
"He isn't exactly a friend of mine. I've met him
twice—poor man!"
"He's quite recovered," said Ralph.
Then, seeing that his wife was in the dark as to
Tupperwill's injury, and that she was likely to betray the
fact that she had never met him before in her life, he
made some excuse and took her out of the room.
"Tupperwill was held up the other night by thugs.
And remember his name, please," he said unpleasantly.
"That girl is as sharp as needles. There was no need
whatever for you to call him your dear friend; you've
never met him."
"What is he coming for, anyway?"
"He is coming," said Ralph deliberately, "in order
mainly to counteract any bad impression which you may
make. I want this girl to feel a little more confidence
in you than she does. At the moment she is nervous,
and, unless she gets more comfortable, you'll find she
has an urgent message calling her back to the hotel, and
I don't want that. In the next few days I'm giving her
an insight into my profession."
"Which is?"
"Never you mind what it is. She will be helpful.
Now do you understand?"
Already Elsa was wishing she had not come, or that


THE VISITOR 169
the ordeal was over, for ordeal undoubtedly it was. She
did not trust Mrs. Trene Hallam. Her sweetness was
superficial and insincere. There was no disguising the
hardness that lay beneath that all-too-ready and brilliant
smile.
Mr. Tupperwill arrived a little later, just after she
had changedv for dinner and had returned to the drawing-
room. He looked none the worse for his adventure
and was, if anything, a little more talkative. The
solemn eyes lightened at the sight of her, and he hurried
across the room to offer a very warm, soft hand.
"This is indeed a delightful surprise," he said. "We
meet in circumstances which are a little more favorable
to polite conversation!"
"You know my sister-in-law," said .Ralph, and Mrs.
Hallam, who could recall previous acquaintances on the
spur of the moment, was her gushing and vivacious
best.
Nevertheless, as a social event, the dinner was an
abject failure. Lou was bored to extinction; the girl's
face wore a strained look, as her uneasiness increased;
and the only person thoroughly satisfied with things, as
he found them, was Mr. Tupperwill, who, having got
onto his favorite topic, which was the derivations of
the English language, was prepared to do all the talking,
and he would have continued his discourse on philology
until the end of the evening, if Ralph had not brought
him back to a less gentle theme.
"No, the police have made no discovery," said Mr.
Tupperwill, shaking his head mournfully. "I was
rather annoyed that the police knew anything about it,
and I can't understand how, unless Major Amery told
them. I am sure you would not have taken that step,
my dear Hallam."
"Of course I toid tnem," said Ralph promptly. Mr.


170 THE SINISTER MAN
Tupperwill looked pained. "It was my duty. I sup-
pose Bickerson came to see you?"
"He has seen me twice," said Mr. Tupperwill. "An
extremely pleasant man, but immensely inquisitive. By
the way"—he dropped his voice and leaned over toward
Ralph, and his tone became confidential and beyond the
hearing of the rest of the company—"what you expected
has happened. A certain person has closed his account!"
Ralph glanced significantly at the girl, and Mr.
Tupperwill showed signs of momentary confusion.
"He has, has he? I thought he would. I would
have bet on it!"
Mr. Tupperwill did not bet and said so.
"I would like to discuss the matter later," he added,
with his eyes on Elsa Marlowe.
The opportunity came when Mrs. Hallam carried her
away to see the photographs of her prize dogs.
"He has closed the account and taken away the box,
you say?"
Tupperwill nodded. "This is the first and last time
I shall ever be guilty of discussing the business of the
bank, even with my best friend," he said soberly.
"Without accepting your theory, which I dismissed rather
hastily as preposterous, that Amery had anything what-
ever to do with my terrible experience, I am satisfied
that a business man is on the safest side by keeping a
quiet tongue."
He delivered this sentiment with the air of one who
had made a great discovery, and he swayed back to ob-
serve the effect.
"Yes, he has closed the account without giving any
explanation, and I can only assure you that I am very,
very happy about it. You can have no conception of
the state of mind I have been in for the past week or
so, at the thought that Stebbing's held an account of a


THE VISITOR 171
man who, although to outward appearance is a respected
member of society, may—I only say may—be connected,
directly or indirectly, with an enterprise which, possibly
inoffensive in itself, would be looked upon with disfavor
by my directors."
Having stated this reserved opinion, Mr. Tupperwill
waved his hand, as though to dismiss the subject. The
door opened, and Lou came in. Ralph Hallam saw by
her face that something disturbing had happened.
"A man wishes to see you, Ralph. He says he would
like to speak to you alone."
"Who is it?"'
"Mr. Bickerson."
The two men exchanged glances. "Are you sure it
is Doctor Hallam and not me?" asked Tupperwill.
"No, he wants to see Ralph. Perhaps, Mr. Tupper-
will, you will come along and see my photographs?"
The fat man was apparently only too glad of an
excuse to join the girl, on whom he had cast many fur-
tive and admiring glances in the course of the meal, and
in his haste he preceded his hostess from the room. A
few seconds later Bickerson came in and closed the door
behind him.
"Do you want to see me particularly? Has any-
thing turned up?"
"Yes, something has turned up," said Bickerson. His
voice was cold, his manner a little distant. Uninvited,
he took the chair that Tupperwill had vacated. "At
the end of the garden in Elgin Crescent," he said, "there
is a line of railings running parallel with the sidewalk
and a clump of laurel bushes, into which anybody pass-
ing along Ladbroke Grove might toss something and be
pretty confident that it would never appear again. Un-
fortunately, the gardeners have been at work on trim-
ming the bushes, and they found this."


172 THE SINISTER MAN
He took out of his pocket a small fluted bottle, with
a red label, and put it on the table. .Ralph gazed at it
steadily and did not betray, by so much as a flicker of
eyelid, his interest in this damning piece of evidence.
"When it was found, it contained about four drams
of tincture of opium, which is the medical name for
laudanum," Bickerson went on. "It was purchased at
a chemist's in Piccadilly, the day before Tarn's death.
The name in the poison book is yours, Hallam. Now
I'm going to tell you something."
He shifted the chair round to face the other squarely.
"Part of the medical evidence at the inquest was sup-
pressed at my request. It was that laudanum had been
found in the body of old Tarn, and that the brandy bottle
at his elbow was also heavily doped. You can take
your time to explain, but I warn you that anything you
may say may be taken down and used against you in
a certain event."
"What event is that?" asked Hallam steadily.
"In the event of my charging you with Tarn's murder,"
was the reply.


CHAPTER XXIX
"PACE"
RALPH took up the bottle and examined it with an
amused smile.
"Perfectly true," he said coolly. "I purchased this
tincture of opium at Keppell's—on behalf of Tarn. As
a matter of detail, I prescribed laudanum for him; he
suffered from insomnia. The fact that the bottle was
found in the bushes makes it look suspicious, eh? In
the ash can it would have been damning, I suppose?
And is that the new police theory, that Mr. Maurice Tarn
died of opium poisoning? I seem to remember a small
black-handled knife—had not that something to do with
his lamented death?"
"Do you suggest that Tarn put the laudanum in his
own brandy?" demanded Bickerson.
"I suggest nothing," said Ralph with a shrug. "It is
not my business to make suggestions. For the moment
I am rejecting certain innuendoes which connect me with
Tarn's death."
He looked at the detective thoughtfully. "If it were
my business, I should suggest how' remarkable it was
that you did not make any reference at the inquest to
the telephone conversation you had with Mr. Tarn."
The detective's face flushed.
"That wasn't necessary," he said stiffly. "The tele-
phone conversation which occurred in your presence in-
volved the name of a third person. There was a whole
173


174 THE SINISTER MAN
lot of evidence not produced at the inquest, Hallam.
For example, I thought it wise not to refer to the fact
that, two hours before Tarn's death, you were in the
house"
"With Miss Marlowe," interrupted Ralph.
"You were in the house and had ample opportunity
for going to his room and doping the brandy he drank,
and which you knew he would drink, having a good idea
of his habits."
Ralph laughed.
"Then you suggest that Miss Marlowe was a party
to my doping the brandy? I tell you she was in the
house all the time, and I left her there. And why
should I want to dope him?"
The detective did not answer this last question im-
mediately. Instead:
"I have cross-examined Miss Marlowe very thor-
oughly, and I know that she left you on the study
floor and went up to her room to pack. She intended
spending the night with a relation of yours. She left
you alone for ten minutes. And as to the other matter,
I'm going to speak straight to you, Hallam. I have
every reason to believe that you were associated with
Tarn in his dope-running business. If that is so, and
by some means you got to know that the old man had
asked to see me at nine o'clock that night, there is a pos-
sibility that you may have suspected that he intended
making a statement which would incriminate you. I'll
tell you frankly that I do not believe the story that you
procured this laudanum for Tarn at his request."
Ralph stiffened. He was alert now. The danger he
had thought was past, had reappeared in its most alarm-
ing form.
"I don't like your tone, Bickerson," he said. "If you
believe that I was running dope, or that I was in any


1176 THE SINISTER MAN
It was fully five minutes before he had composed him-
self and strolled into the drawing-room. Lou looked
up with an anxious, inquiring glance, as he came in,
but she could read nothing from his face. Elsa was
playing at the piano, with the stout Mr. Tupperwill, one
podgy finger on the leaf of the music, ready to turn
the page at her nod.
"Anything wrong?" asked Mrs. Hallam in a low
voice.
"Nothing," said Ralph. "He wanted to see me about
Tarn."
He glanced at Tupperwill and smiled again. "Al-
most looks as if he's fallen," he said.
Mrs. Hallam nodded. "He's certainly got it bad,"
she said, and for some perverse reason Ralph Hallam
was pleased at this development.
Yet he had no thought of influencing the banker when
he had invited him to that informal dinner. His sole
object had been to create a little confidence in the un-
quiet mind of the girl. Sensitive to her moods, he real-
ized something of her uneasiness, and he had played Tup-
perwill for respectability.
"A beautiful piece, a very bee-au-tiful piece!" sighed
Mr. Tupperwill, turning the . last page reluctantly.
"'Peace, perfect Peace!' It is the motto on which my
house is run. It is the keynote of my life. My private
safe opens to the combination 'Pace'—a root word—er—
um "He saw Mrs. Hallam's eager eyes fixed on
him and shifted uncomfortably. "Do you sing, Miss
Marlowe?" he asked, turning to the girl.
Elsa laughed. "I sing behind locked doors," she said
solemnly. "Which means that I realize my limitations."
Mr. Tupperwill sighed again. "It is a great pity."
His eyes were full of undisguised admiration. "A very
great pity. I can imagine you charming vast audiences,


"PACE" 177
i
or, shall I say, bringing ecstasy to the heart of an au-
dience—of one! You have great gifts, Miss Marlowe."
Elsa laughed aloud. "It is very pleasant to hear
that," she said dryly. "I will set your compliment
against the many unflattering things I hear in the course
of the day."
"Which means that Amery has the manners of a pig,"
said Ralph.
"Amery?" Mr. Tupperwill looked round with a start
of surprise. "Surely you are not associated with Mr.
Amery?"
"I work in his office, if that is an association," said
the girl, a little nettled.
Why she should resent the oblique disparagement in
Mr. Tupperwill's tone, she did not know exactly. But
she did.
"It is a mistake to think that I hear many uncompli-
mentary things from Major Amery," she said; "and, if
all the stories I hear from office girls are true, then it is
a great advantage to have an employer who is neither
soft-spoken nor too friendly!"
Mr. Tuppenvill pulled at his lip. "That is true," he
said, "that is very true. You will quite understand that
I am not saying a word derogatory to Major Amery,"
he hastened to protest. "It would indeed be a most im-
proper act on my part to detract from his merits. That
indeed would be most unpardonable."
Elsa changed the subject somewhat hurriedly, and a
few minutes later found herself being initiated into the
mysteries of bridge.
At ten-thirty Mr. Tupperwill glanced at his watch and
uttered a note of alarm.
"I fear I have overstayed my welcome," he said, "but
I have had a most delightful evening, a perfectly delight-
ful evening! I can never thank you enough for giving


178 THE SINISTER MAN
me this opportunity of getting out of myself, my dear
Hallam."
He looked from one to the other, his smooth brow
bent.
"Would it be regarded as an impertinence if I in-
vited you to dine with me to-morrow night—would that
interfere very much with your arrangements?"
Elsa had no arrangements and no particular desires
except, at the earliest possible moment, to find a small
flat and bring her visit to the earliest possible conclu-
sion. .Ralph saved her the embarrassment of replying
by a prompt acceptance of the invitation. He accom-
panied Mr. Tupperwill to his car, and when he returned
the girl had gone, and Mrs. Hallam was sitting on the
hearth rug, smoking a meditative cigarette before the fire.
"Who is he?" she asked, looking up.
"My banker. Where is Elsa?"
Mrs. Hallam jerked her head in the direction of Elsa's
room.
"Am I supposed to go to this party of his to-morrow
night?" she asked. "That old man is certainly the
slowest thing that has happened since horse buses went
out. And you're a fool to let her go, anyway, Ralph.
The old boy is dippy about her."
"About Elsa?" Ralph chuckled. "Yes, I thought
he seemed rather smitten."
"He's married, of course?" said Mrs. Hallam, blow-
ing a ring of smoke at the fire.
"He isn't married, and that kind of man won't marry,
either."
"Won't he?" said the woman sardonically. "Tupper-
will is the kind of man that keeps himself single and
solvent till he's sixty, and then he hands over his latch-
key and principles to the first fluffy chorus girl who


CHAPTER XXX
A LETTER TO KEEP
SHE slept more soundly than she had done in weeks,
and Elsa felt almost reconciled to her stay when she was
summoned to the pretty little dining room to eat a solitary
breakfast. Mrs. Hallam had warned her that she did
not rise before midday, and the girl was by no means
sorry to have her own company for breakfast. The flats
were service apartments—cleaners came when sum-
moned, meals were procured from the kitchen in the
basement, and Mrs. Hallam's one maid was quite suffi-
cient to serve the needs of this economical lady.
Major Amery haa not arrived at the office when
Elsa took the cover off her typewriter, and he did not
come in until nearly eleven o'clock. Ordinarily he went
straight to his own room through the private door, but
on this occasion he came through her office and, glanc-
ing up to bid him good morning, she thought he looked
unusually tired and haggard.
"Morning," he said gruffly, before he disappeared into
his room, slamming the door behind him.
A few minutes after, Feng Ho came in, greeting hei
with his typical grin.
"Has Major Amery arrived?" he asked, dropping his
voice when she answered. "Nocturnal peregrinations
produce morning tardiness," he added cryptically.
Something in his face attracted her attention.
"You look as if you've had nocturnal peregrinations
yourself, Feng Ho," she said, for she noticed the deep
lines under his eyes.


182 THE SINISTER MAN
sitting on the fender seat, his chin on his breast, a de-
jected and dispirited-looking figure. He looked up
sharply, as she entered, fixed her for a moment with his
steely eyes, and then:
"I think you'd better stay on at Mrs. Hallam's," he
said. "She's a kleptomaniac, but she won't steal any-
thing from you."
"Major Amery!" she gasped.
"I want to say nothing against the woman," he
continued, unmindful of her amazement and indignation.
"She'll let you stay there as long as you want. If I
were you, I'd get my traps and settle down for a week or
two, at any rate. After that, nothing matters."
"I really don't understand you. Mrs. Trene Hallam
has been very kind"
He interrupted her with an impatient gesture. "Mrs.
Hallam you can forget; she's just nothing. Ralph—I
don't think you need worry about Ralph, either."
"Doctor Hallam is a great friend and a very old
friend of mine," she said, with what, she felt, was a
ludicrous attempt to stand on her dignity.
His tired eyes were searching her face.
"A very great friend? Of course—a very great
friend. Still, you need not worry about Ralph." Then
abruptly: "I want you to do something for me."
She waited, as he walked to the desk, took out a sheet
of paper, and began to write rapidly. Seven, eight, nine
lines of writing she counted, then he signed his name
with a flourish, blotted the sheet, and enclosed it in an
envelope, the flap of which he covered with a wafer
seal. She saw him write a name on the envelope, and
when he had blotted this he handed the letter to her.
To her amazement it was addressed to "Dr. Ralph Hal-
lam" and marked "Private."


A LETTER TO KEEP 185
that he had given her the cable to read, for he almost
snatched it back.
"That will do," he said curtly. "I'll ring for you
when I want you, which won't be for some time."


CHAPTER XXXI
A CUSTOMER OF THE BANK
THE house of Mr. Tupperwill in Grosvenor Place was
a model of what a banker's establishment should be.
From garret to cellar it was a pattern of order, neatness,
and quiet luxury. It was a house where everything went
according to schedule, from six o'clock in the morning,
when the housemaid kindled the kitchen fire and stoked
the furnace, to eleven-thirty, when the butler carefully
bolted the front door, locked the pantry, and turned out
the last of the hall lights.
At any moment Mr. Tupperwill, by consulting a neat
typewritten time-table, which was invariably kept in the
top right-hand drawer of his table, could tell exactly
what every servant was doing, the condition of every
room, and the amount of petrol in the tanks of each of
his motor cars. On Thursday afternoons at five o'clock
Mr. Tupperwill received the exact time from the tele-
phone exchange and, checking his watch to the second,
made the round of the rooms and wound up and set his
innumerable clocks. The collection of clocks was not
the least pleasurable of Mr. Tupperwill's hobbies.
He breakfasted at eight-thirty every morning on two
deviled kidneys, a crisp slice of bacon, three pieces of
toast, and two cups of coffee. He never had more, and
he never had less. When he had breakfasted, he glanced
through three financial newspapers, folded ready at his
elbow, and read the Times' financial article. At twenty-
minutes after nine, almost to the minute, he went
186


A CUSTOMER OF THE BANK 187
out into the hall, was helped on with his fur-lined coat,
and usually the half hour was chiming, as he walked
down the steps to his waiting car. Taking leave of him
at the door, his butler was wont to remark that it was a
cold day or a warm day, a wet day or a fine day, accord-
ing to the meteorological conditions; and it was Mr.
Tupperwill's practice to agree entirely with all that his
butler said. It was the only point on which they met
as man to man, all other items of news than the weather
being communicated to Mr. Tupperwill by his valet.
On this particular morning, however, the banker
broke his habits by ringing for the butler before he had
finished his breakfast.
"Weeks, I am having a party to-night."
"Yes, sir," said Weeks, wondering which particular
party was in Mr. Tupperwill's mind.
"There will be four to dinner, including myself. Ar-
range with one of the maids—a trustworthy maid—to
look after the ladies. My bedroom may be used as a
retiring room—yes, I think so," said Mr. Tupperwill
thoughtfully. "And you will see that such things as
ladies may require are placed on the dressing table—
powder and that sort of thing. You will consult the
housekeeper as to the color and quality, and purchase
whatever receptacles are required."
"Yes, sir," said the wondering Mr. Weeks.
"The dinner had better be a little more elaborate than
usual," the banker went on. "Soup—Julienne, I think;
sole mornay; poulet a la reine; a bombe glace and a sav-
ory; I think that will be excellent. A good champagne
and a light German wine for the ladies—that also will be
admirable."
"At what hour, sir?"
"At half past eight. Have a bridge table placed in
the drawing-room."


188 THE SINISTER MAN
He gave a few other minor instructions and went to
the bank five minutes late.
Though by nature lethargic, he spent a very busy morn-
ning, for, like Major Amery, he opened and usually
answered all letters addressed to himself, and seldom re-
quisitioned the services of the anaemic young woman who
acted as his secretary.
The business of Stebbing's Bank was, as has already
been explained, a peculiar one. Many of the names of
Stebbing's clients were unknown, even to the nearest and
dearest of their possessors. Great merchants, and small
merchants for the matter of that, professional men, and
even the leading lights of other banks, found it extremely
convenient to have an account which was not identifi-
able with their better known names.
Often it was the case that there was nothing discredit-
able in this desire for anonymity. A reluctance to let
the right hand know what the left hand does, belongs
to no class and to no age. Curious income-tax officials
might see the books of Stebbing's and be baffled. In-
quisitive busybodies, wondering who was behind certain
theatrical productions, might discover the name of the
gentleman who drew the checks that paid all the salaries,
when the box office failed to supply the needful, and yet
hardly guess that the plain "T. Smith" that appeared in
the southeast corner of the check, disguised the identity
of a merchant who would never be suspected of such
frivolity.
Mr. Tupperwill was the repository of many secrets;
and if his bank suffered any disadvantage from the pos-
session of so many anonymous clients, it was that cur-
rent accounts offered a conservative banker very few
opportunities for building up big profits. Nevertheless,
Tupperwill had his share of general banking business, his
pickings of short time loans, his discounts, and this


A CUSTOMER OF THE BANK 189
other "makings" which add to a banker's revenue.
Usually he was so engrossed between the hours of a
quarter to ten and half past one that he did not see
visitors except upon the most urgent business. So that
when his elderly accountant appeared in the doorway
with a card in his hand, Mr. Tupperwill frowned and
waved his hand in protest.
"Not now, my dear man, not now," he said reproach-
fully. "I really can't see anybody. Who is it?"
"The account that was closed yesterday," said the
accountant.
Mr. Tupperwill sat bolt upright. "Amery?" he
asked in a whisper.
"Yes, sir. He said he wouldn't keep you more than
ten minutes."
Mr. Tupperwill pushed back the table lamp by which
he had been working—he was rather shortsighted—
thrust some papers into a leather folder, and only then
took the card and stared at it, as though he could read
on its conventional surface some answer to the enigma
which this call of Major Amery presented.
"Ask him to come in," he said in a hushed voice and
put the Louis Quinze chair in its place.
Amery walked into the room and was received with
just that amount of deference and distant courtesy which
his position as an ex-client of the bank demanded.
"I have called because I felt that some explanation
was due to you, Mr. Tupperwill. I closed my account
with you yesterday."
Mr. Tupperwill nodded seriously. "It was reported
to me," he said, "and I must confess that I was both
surprised and relieved."
A faint smile played about the hard lips of the man
from India.
"Your relief being due to the unsatisfactory char-


THE SINISTER MAN
acter of the client rather than the nature of the account,
which was a fairly heavy one?"
"It was a fairly heavy one," agreed Mr. Tupperwill,
"but it was, if you will allow me the observation,
mysterious."
"Are not all your accounts mysterious?" asked Amery
coldly, to which the banker made no reply.
"I could not escape the feeling," he said, instead, "that
you were using Stebbing's as a makeshift. I am sure
you will forgive me if I am in error. But the imper-
manence of your account was one of its unsatisfactory
features."
"It was intended to be permanent," said Amery coolly.
"I will make a confession to you—that I opened my ac-
count with Stebbing's for a special purpose. I will be
even more frank and tell you that it was my intention
to engineer an irregularity which would have given me
the right to go to the courts for an examination of your
books."
Mr. Tupperwill gasped at this.
"I now know that such a course would have been
futile. In fact, I knew less about banking than I
thought."
"You wanted to examine my books?" said Mr. Tup-
perwill slowly, as the hideous nature of the plot began
to penetrate. "I—I've never heard anything like it!"
"I don't suppose you have. But, you see, Mr. Tup-
perwill, you've lived a very sheltered life," said the other.
"As I say, when I found that the scheme I had at the
back of my mind was impracticable, and, moreover, dis-
covered on the same day all that I wanted to know, I
removed my account. Tupperwill, who is John Still-
man?"
Paul Amery had a fatal facility for making people


A CUSTOMER OF THE BANK 191
jump. Mr. Tupperwill almost leaped from his chair
at the words.
"Stillman?" he stammered. "I—I don't understand
you."
"Nobody understands me, probably because I speak
too plainly," said Amery. "You carry the account of a
man named Stillman—a bigger account than mine and a
much more dangerous one. Stebbing's Bank would sur-
vive having me on its list of clients, but Stillman's is one
that will tumble you, your fortune and your bank, into
mud so thick that it will choke you!"
For a second the banker stared at him in horror, and
then he said:
"I refuse, I absolutely refuse to discuss the business
of the bank," he said, bringing his hand down on the
table with a crash. "It is disgraceful—unbusinesslike!
How dare you, sir"
Amery silenced him with a gesture.
"It may be all the things you say, but I tell you that
Stillman, unless I am greatly mistaken in his identity, is
more deadly than a snake."
"I refuse to discuss the matter," said Mr. Tupperwill
furiously, as he pressed his bell. "You are talking about
a lady, sir—a very charming lady, sir—a lady who, al-
though she occupies an humble position in your office
in the City, is nevertheless entitled to my respect, my
admiration, and my homage, sir."
Amery looked at him aghast. "A lady?" he said in-
credulously. "In the City—in my office? Good Lord!"


CHAPTER XXXII
THE SPECULATOR
JOHN STILLMAN, the mystery client of Stebbing's
Bank, was Elsa Marlowe! The sinister man could only
gaze, speechless, at the red-faced banker. Maurice
Tarn's niece! Was she in it, after all?
"You are speaking of Miss Marlowe, I presume?"
"I am speaking of nobody, sir." Mr. Tupperwill was
hoarse with anger. "You have asked me to betray a
sacred confidence. I shall never forgive you."
The accountant was in the room now.
"Show Major Amery from these premises, and under
no circumstances is he to be admitted again!"
Amery was still looking down at him.
"Either you have been grossly deceived and tricked,
or else you're lying, Tupperwill," he said. "Miss Mar-
lowe has no account with your bank, either in her own
or anybody else's name."
"I decline, I absolutely decline, to speak another word.
There is the door, sir."
The visitor was about to say something, but checked
himself and, turning on his heel, walked out.
For a quarter of an hour Mr. Tupperwill sat simmer-
ing in his rage, and at the end of that time he had suffi-
ciently recovered to ring for his accountant to come.
"Bring Mr. Stillman's account," he said sharply.
"I was going to speak to you about that, sir."
"Then don't!" snarled the ruffled banker. "Bring me
the account."
A few minutes later a book was placed before him and
192


THE SPECULATOR 193
opened, and by this time he was something of his urbane
self.
"You must forgive my—er—petulance, but Major
Amery annoyed me; he annoyed me very much."
He looked at the page before him, and nis face fell.
"He's not overdrawn," he said.
"No, sir, he's not overdrawn, but that is all one can
say. His speculations have been colossal. Look at
these." He ran his finger down a column of figures.
"They're all brokers' checks. He has been dealing in
Angora Oil. We carried a whole lot of the stock for
him, but it fell from fifty-seven to thirteen in a week-
I was going to ask you to see Mr. Stillman."
"Never seen him yourself?" asked the banker with-
out looking up.
"No, sir; the account was opened with you, and I
don't remember that the client has ever been to the bank.
I always thought that the check signatures looked like
a lady's."
"That will do, that will do, Thomas," said Mr. Tup-
perwill testily. "I will write to Mr. Stillman myself.
So far as I can see, he has lost considerably over a
quarter of a million this half year." He closed the book
with a bang and waved it away.
A quarter of a million, he thought, with a sense of
dismay, and thrown into the gutter!
To Mr. Tupperwill capital was a living thing, and that
it could be treated cruelly, pained him. A quarter of a
million mangled and tortured into nothingness! The
thought was frightful. He reached for a sheet of paper
and began a letter. Halfway through he read it over,
with an expression of dissatisfaction, and, carrying it to
the fireplace, lit a match and watched the paper burn
into curling black ashes. He did no more work that
day—he was too occupied with his thoughts.


194 THE SINISTER MAN
Toward four o'clock he rang for his accountant.
"I am worried, terribly worried, about Stillman's ac-
count," he said. "The truth is—er—unless I have been
grossly deceived, Stillman is a pseudonym for a young
lady who was introduced to the bank some years ago,
on the assurance that she had inherited a large sum of
money."
"Indeed, sir?" said the accountant, whom nothing sur-
prised. "A lady of title?"
"No, not a lady of title," said Mr. Tupperwill un-
comfortably. "In fact, she holds quite a subordinate
position in a London business house. I understand that
she was fitting herself for a commercial career and start-
ing, as it were, at the bottom of the ladder. I need not
tell you that I deprecate the incursion of the gentler sex
into the sordid struggle of commerce, but that is neither
here nor there."
"What am I to do if further checks come in?" asked
the accountant practically. "Mr. or Miss Stillman has
only the barest balance."
Mr. Tupperwill looked up at the ceiling. "I think I
should honor the checks," he said softly. "Yes, I think
I should honor them—unless, of course, they are for a
large sum—an excessive sum."
"I wanted to know, sir," said the accountant, "because
I've just had a check in for twenty-five thousand pounds,
drawn by Stillman, and there's less than fifty to meet it."
Mr. Tupperwill went very pale.


CHAPTER XXXIII
STAYING ON
IF, obeying his bell, Elsa Marlowe had entered tht
room of the sinister man and found him standing on his
head, she felt she would not have been surprised. He
was guilty of such extraordinary behavior that she felt
she was beyond amazement, and she was almost resigned
even to his impertinent interest in her affairs.
Although several times she was on the point of de-
stroying the letter which he had thrust upon her, she was
checked on each occasion by a feeling that in doing so
she would be acting disloyally to one who, she was quite
certain, had no ill will toward her. That he might be
using her for his own purposes, playing her off against
Ralph Hallam, she thought was more than possible. But,
since his self-revelation, her feelings had changed en-
tirely toward her former friend. Even now she could
not grasp the extent of Hallam's offense. Occasionally
she had read in the newspapers stories of "dope fiends,"
but the practice had only an academic interest for her.
She thought it was unpleasant, and that was all, for she
had never been brought into contact with the victims
of this vice, and her imagination was of that healthy
type which did not dwell upon morbidities.
But, though she was ready to endure much, Major
Amery's conduct that afternoon was especially trying.
Nothing seemed to please him. He snapped and snarled
like an angry dog, exploded violently and with the least
excuse, and raged through the offices, like a devastating
'OS


196 THE SINISTER MAN
wind, leaving elderly submanagers breathless and junior
clerks dazed.
"He reminds me," said Miss Dame, in a tremble of
wrath, "of one of those bullying head cowboys who go
around making up to the boss' daughter, and who are
always punching people or shooting them, till the hand-
some young fellow arrives that has had a row with his
father who's a millionaire, and he comes in and throws a
glass of rum in the head cowboy's face. From what I
read in the papers, they've got more rum than they know
what to do with over there."
"And what has he been doing to you?" asked Elsa
good-humoredly.
"What hasn't he been doing?" asked the wrathful
young lady. "A bullying, hectoring hound, that's what
he is, a bullying, hectoring hound! I'd like my father
to say a few words to him. My father would just look
at him, and he'd curl up."
"I'm sure your father wouldn't 'curl up," said Elsa,
willfully dense.
"I don't mean father, I mean that woman-worrying
vampire! Which reminds me. Miss Marlowe—when
are you coming home to have a cup of tea? You haven't
seen our new house."
Here was an invitation which Elsa had most success-
fully evaded for a long time.
"Some day," she said vaguely.
"Of course, we're not your style," said Miss Dame,
"but father's a perfect gentleman, and you wouldn't see
a nicer houseful of furniture in the West End of Lon-
don."
Elsa laughed. "I shan't come to see your furniture,
Jessie. Honestly, I'll come just as soon as I can. This
dreadful inquest"
"I understand perfectly, my dear," said Miss Dame,


STAYING ON 197
with a tragic look of melancholy. "I know jnst how
you feel. I've seen Pearl Winsome that way often.
And as to his nibs"
A faint sound in the next room, which might have
been the creak of a chair, or the tap of a paper knife
against an inkstand, was sufficient to send Miss Dame
into hasty retreat.
Elsa was dismissed that afternoon nearly an hour
earner than usual, and she was glad of the extra time,
for she wanted to call at the hotel to get her trunks.
She also had a little radio set. which she was anxious
to set np in her new room. Between the hotel, where
she recovered her belongings, and Herbert Mansions, h
came to her that a few hours before she had not the
slightest intention of remaining the guest of Mrs. Trent
Haliam a day longer than was necessary. Yet here she
was, with her box on top of a taxkab. en route to her
home, content to extend her visit for an indefinite period!
She did r.ot ask herself the reason for this change of
mind—only too well she knew. Major Paul Amery had
settled the matter in two sentences. She was almost re-
signed to his tyranrical will.
Mrs. Haliam watched the erection of the wireless ap-
paratus with more interest than enthi^iasm. and she
seemed relieved when the girl told her that she intended
keeping the strange contraption in her bedroom.
"It looks dangerous to me." said Mrs. Haliam de-
cisively. "AD those wires and electricity and things.
I should hate to have it around. How does it
work?"
But here Eba was in no better position than the
average devotee of wireless.
"You're eonrir.g to stay?" asked Lou. as the girl was
fixing the terminals. There was no great
ment in her tone.


198 THE SINISTER MAN
"You asked me to stay a month," said Elsa, a little
uncomfortably.
"As long as you like, my dear." The lady's attempt
to enthuse some warmth into the invitation was not
wholly successful.
Deep down inside her, Mrs. Hallam was annoyed.
She hated strangers, and she was by no means impressed
with one of whom she thought as "Ralph's latest."
That she was pretty, she was ready to confess, but it
was not the kind of prettiness which Mrs. Hallam fa-
vored. In Elsa she found no spiritual affinity, though
she did not exactly describe her failure in those words,
even to herself.
"I suppose you'll spend a lot of your time listening
to this thing?" she asked hopefully, and, when Elsa
nodded, Mrs. Hallam took a kindlier interest in the ap-
paratus. Elsa explained the character of the programs.
"Opera!" said Mrs. Hallam, making a little face.
"Opera's all right, but the singing spoils it. I suppose
you're looking forward to meeting old What's-his-name
•vgain?"
"Mr. Tupperwill ?" smiled Elsa. "No, not very much."
"You don't like him?"
"I don't dislike him. He seems a very pleasant old
man."
"You've made a hit with him, anyway," said the lady
brusquely, "and he's got stacks of money. I suppose
he's clever, but from my point of view he'd make the
Dead Sea look like a soda fountain. I hate that kind of
man who talks about the things you expect him to talk
about."
"Then you must like Major Amery?" said Elsa.
A faint tinge of color came to Mrs. Hallam's face, and
she shivered.


CHAPTER XXXIV
THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND
THERE was a conference at Scotland Yard, and out-
side that quaint "informants' door," where shabby men
come creeping in the dusk of evening to tell stories to
the hurt of those who have mistakenly given them their
confidence, two officers were waiting to escort a man
who had not yet arrived.
Sir James Boyd Fowler, chief commissioner of the
Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard,
had in his office his superintendent and a detective in-
spector. The hour was short of five, and from time to
time Mr. Bickerson looked up at the clock impatiently.
"They ought to be here in a few minutes now," said
Superintendent Wille, following the direction of the
other's eyes. "Do you expect this fellow to give you
much information, Bickerson?"
"Yes, sir," said Bickerson. "He was in London three
months before his arrest, and I have reason to believe
that he was in very close touch with the amateurs and
possibly with Soyoka's crowd."
"Will he squeal?" grunted Sir James. "That's the
question—will he squeal? In four days I've had three
letters from the Secretary of State, asking for an en-
couraging report. Up to date we've had nothing.
You're satisfied that Amery is the pea?"
"I was never more sure of anything," replied Bicker-
son promptly.
Sir James growled something under his breath. He
200


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND 201
was by nature an intolerant man, and his irascibility was
considerably accentuated by the annoyance he was re-
ceiving from men higher up.
"Did Soyoka kill Tarn? Do you suggest Amery was
in that?" he asked.
"I suggest that if Amery wasn't in it, he was behind
it. Everything points to his being our man. His his-
tory is enough to damn him. Thrown out of the
political service for trafficking in opium, he's either
Soyoka, or, what is more likely, the real head of the
amateurs."
"But you said Hallam was that?" interrupted the
superintendent.
"I'm sure Hallam is in it up to his neck—equally sure
of that; but if Major Paul Amery is the big boss, Hal-
lam is in total ignorance of the fact. But that is the
way these gangs are worked; there's always somebody
right on top, pulling all the strings, directing most of the
operations, financing every deal and clearing the pro-
ceeds; and there's somebody lower down, under the im-
pression that he's the fellow that's doing it all. Amery
is a trafficker in drugs, as slippery as an eel and as cun-
ning-as the devil."
"Did you have much trouble in getting Moropoulos
over, sir?'' asked the superintendent.
"None whatever. The case against him was too thin,
and the district attorney decided not to go on with it.
The Cleveland police were in cable communication with
me, and I cabled for the man to be brought over. He's
under escort of a Cleveland detective, by the way. I
think he'll talk; from the description I've had of him, he
seems that kind. And if he talks, I'm going to put
these people where I want them. Here's your man."
A uni formed constable hurried across the room and
laid a slip before the commissioner.


202 THE SINISTER MAN
"That is he," he said. "Bring him in."
He returned escorting three men, one of whom was a
Scotland Yard officer; the second, tall and lean-faced,
was evidently the American detective, and the third of
the party was a stout and rosy individual, who bore no
sort of resemblance at all to a hardened criminal. He
looked to be what he undoubtedly had been, the fairly
prosperous proprietor of a small store; and, though he
was a Greek, his voice showed no indication of foreign
birth. He bowed genially to the chief and accepted the
chair, which Bickerson pushed up for him, with a polite
little murmur of protest.
"Yes, sir, I am Moropoulos. This gentleman is the
chief?" He nodded to Sir James. "Yeh, I thought
so. Now I'm going to tell you gentlemen, before we
go any further, that there's no squeal coming from me.
I've come to Europe because the chief at Cleveland ad-
vised me that if I could make myself useful to you, there
was a chance of the police on our side dropping the case.
Not that they had one, I guess, but that's a matter of
opinion. The living I'll not talk about; the dead"—he
emphasized the word—"why, I'm ready to say just as
much about them as I think is decent. Now, captain,
shoot!"
"By the dead, I suppose you mean Maurice Tarn?"
Moropoulos nodded. "Yes, sir, I mean Maurice Tarn.
I don't know whether he was the big guy, but he was
certainly one of them. I had dealings with him; I
brought a whole lot of cocaine over from Germany in a
specially made box. I guess you found it when you
searched his lodgings. It had five wooden trays, one
on top of the other—that's what you call them over here,
isn't it—trays?"
"I didn't see that," said Bickerson thoughtfully.
"Maybe he burned it I'm only just telling you that I


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND 203
brought the box over for him, and I had a long talk
with him before I left."
"Did he say anything to you about Soyoka's gang?"
A shadow passed over the pleasant face of the Greek.
"No, sir!" he said emphatically. "It was Soyoka
who got me pinched. One of the bulls tipped me off.
He said I was invading the territory of his man, which
is a lie, for I was the only guy working the stuff on a
big scale in Ohio."
"Did you get any hint who this man was?" asked
Bickerson.
"He's somebody big in London. An officer—he's got
a rank, I guess."
"You've never heard the name?" asked Sir James.
"It was'nt by any chance Major Amery?"
"Amery?" repeated the Greek slowly. "Well, I
wouldn't just swear to it. All I know is that he was mad
at me, and one of his people came along and squealed.
Oh, yes," he added frankly, "I had the stuff all right!
But they didn't catch me with it. That's where their case
broke down. When they raided my parlor they didn't
find anything more intoxicating than a bottle of tomato
ketchup!"
"Did Tarn have any confederates? You must know
that, Moropoulos?" asked Sir James.
"I made a pretty fair distinction between the living and
the dead. If any of his friends have died, maybe you'll
produce their "death certificates, and I'll start talking.
Otherwise "he shrugged his shoulders.
The commissioner and Bickerson exchanged a few
words in a low voice, and then the American detective
was beckoned forward.
"You're not holding this man, officer, are you?"
"No, sir. So far as I am concerned, he is as free as
the air; I've only come over as a sort of chaperon."


204 THE SINISTER MAN
"It's true, then, what he says?" asked the commissioner
in an undertone. "The case against him has been
dropped?"
The officer from Cleveland nodded again.
"Yes, sir. He was just a little too quick for us. We
thought we'd caught him with the stuff, but we came
about five minutes too late."
It was Bickerson who took charge of the Greek, es-
corting him to the smartest restaurant within walking
distance.
"No, sir," said the Greek, "it's never too early for
dinner for a hungry man. That journey from Liverpool
was certainly the hungriest thousand miles I've ever trav-
eled. Two hundred, is it? It seemed longer."
"I've taken a room for you at one of our best hotels,"
said Bickerson, when they had found a table and a waiter.
"And if you're short of money, you must let me know.
We should like to make your stay in town as pleasant as
possible."
Moropoulos shook his head, a gleam of reproach in his
eyes.
"Listen, baby," he said gently, "they do that much bet-
ter on our side. Say, they're artists! They'd deceive
me! You haven't got into the way, I guess. It comes
naturally awkward, trying to be my only friend in the
great city. I'll pay for this lunch, Bill, just so I can have
the satisfaction of telling you that you've heard all the
squeal that's likely to pass my lips during my absence
from home."
Bickerson laughed, though he was not in a laughing
humor.
"There is nothing we want from you/' he said untruth-
fully. "In fact, I don't know that you could add to our
information. Hallam we know"


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND 205
"Who's Hallam?" asked the other in bland surprise.
"He's half-brother to Stillman, I guess."
"Stillman!"
"Ah r
The Greek was obviously tickled at the effect the word
had produced. "I thought that would get you. A new
one on you?"
"It's certainly a new one on me," said Bickerson, re-
covering from his surprise. "Who is Stillman?"
The Greek took some time to consider the question, and
when he answered he sounded a very definite note.
"Stilhnan I don't know and have never seen. All I
know I got from one of Soyoka's crowd that I used to
run with in New York. Stillman is one of their top men,
but I guess that isn't half his name. And now I'm
through answering questions."
Bickerson was wise enough to drop the question of the
dope gangs until the hungry man had finished his dinner.
But neither the production of the choicest wine, nor the
discover^' of the most piquant liqueur, caused the Greek to
grow any more loquacious. Bickerson escorted him -to
his hotel and then went on to call at Ralph Hallam's
house.
As the detective put his hand on the bell, .Ralph himself
opened the door. He was in evening dress.
"Hello!" he said, a little wearily. "Have you come to
see that prescription book?"
"Forget it," said Bickerson amiably. "No, Hallam,
I've dropped in to make my final call, and then maybe you
and I will never meet, except professionally, in a hundred
years." And, seeing the look of doubt in the other's face,
he roared with laughter.
"When I say professionally, I mean as doctor and
patient." he said. "Can you give roe a minute?"


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND 207
Elsa was in her room when he arrived.
"That lady is certainly a bright companion for me,"
said his wife ironically. "She sits in her bedroom half
the night, with those 'hello things' in her ears. What is
going to happen now?"
"Nothing," said Ralph, "except that we dine with
Tupperwill."
Mrs. Hallam groaned. "What morgue does he live
at?" she asked. "Ralph, boy, I've given up two dances
for you—real jazzy ones."
"Go and call the girl," said Ralph, whose patience in his
wife's presence was never very far from the breaking
point.
Elsa saved her hostess the trouble. She was walking
clown the passage when Mrs. Hallam emerged from the
drawing-room, a dainty figure in the new gown she was
wearing in honor of the occasion, though she thought it
was very dreadful going out at all, and she said so.
"You're thinking of Tarn ?" said Ralph slowly. "Well,
he wasn't so close a relative that it need send you
into mourning. You look tired," he added sympatheti-
cally. "Have you had a bad day with Amery?"
She shook her head. Mrs. Hallam had left them
alone for a moment, and it was an opportunity not to be
lost.
"I wonder if you remember, Elsa, whether your uncle
had a trunk with a number of trays, fitting one on top
of the other?"
She opened her eyes in surprise. "Yes, I remember
it very well, because that particular box is in this house,"
she said.
For a second his heart leaped, and it required all his will
power to hide the excitement under which he was labor-
ing.


2io THE SINISTER MAN
Elsa laughed softly. "Poor Mr. Tupperwill! He
hasn't been used to entertaining women."
"That's a good sign, anyway," said Lou, and then:
"I wonder if he's one of those eccentric millionaires that
give dinner-party presents?"
Pace!—that was the word. She was sure of it now.
She could hardly tear herself away, but the maid was
waiting at the door, and there would be other oppor-
tunities. Such a man as Tupperwill would in all prob-
ability collect all manner of valuable trinkets; he seemed
that sort of man. And one little piece would not be
missed. Her passion for easy "findings" was beyond
her power to combat. She went downstairs to meet the
anxious Mr. Tupperwill, resolved to carry away at least
one souvenir of a very dull evening.
And a dull evening it proved to be, for the banker was
not in his most talkative mood, and he reverted to the
subject of business and its cares so frequently that Elsa
had hard work to conceal her yawns.
"I've had a very trying afternoon," said Mr. Tupper-
will over the coffee, "an extremely anxious afternoon.
In fact, I cannot remember an afternoon quite as full
of unpleasantness. Clients can be very annoying."
"I always thought your clients were models in that re-
spect," said Ralph.
He, too, had been silent throughout the meal, his mind
so completely occupied by the possibilities that Elsa's
old box contained, that he scarcely spoke half-a-dozen
times.
"Yes, they are usually, admitted Mr. Tupperwill;
"but this particular custome. I have in my mind has
been very distressing."
Even he was glad when, at the end of a long-drawn-
out rubber of bridge, in which Lou cheated shamelessly,
the women rose to go upstairs to collect their cloaks.


THE GENTLEMAN FROM CLEVELAND 211
"I'm afraid I've been extremely boring."
Ralph murmured something, as he strolled out to get
his coat and hat from the melancholy butler.
"And I intended this party to be quite cheerful," said
Mr. Tupperwill miserably.' "But my usual vivacity en-
tirely evaporated—entirely."
"I'm sure the ladies have enjoyed themselves," soothed
Ralph.
"I hope they have," replied the host, in doubt. "I sin-
cerely hope they have."
Elsa had got her cloak and was leaving the bedroom,
when her companion stopped.
"Go down, dear. I won't be a moment." She was
stooping over her shoe. "This wretched buckle has
come undone."
"Can I help you?"
"No, don't wait," said the woman impatiently. Her
hands were trembling with excitement.
Scarcely had the door closed upon Elsa Marlowe than
Mrs. Hallam crossed the room, pushed aside the picture,
and, with shaking fingers, turned the dial, her ears
strained for the slightest sound from the corridor. She
had a small combination safe of her own and knew its
working, and in another second the door had swung open.
She caught a glimpse of a number of envelopes; there
were two or three flat cases; but the only valuable thing
in sight was something which looked like a gold cigarette
case. She could not afford to wait for a closer search,
and, slipping the case into her bag, she closed the safe,
spun the dial, and, replacing the picture, was descend-
ing the stairs before Elsa had reached the bottom.
She saw Ralph's eyes fixed on her with a steady, in-
quiring, suspicious look. Hallam knew his wife only
too well. But she met his eyes boldly and was gushing
over her host before Ralph Hallam could decide in


212 THE SINISTER MAN
his mind the inward meaning of her flushed cheeks.
Tupperwill escorted Elsa to the car; Ralph and the
woman followed.
"You haven't been playing the fool, have you?" he
asked under his breath.
"What do you mean?" she demanded in surprise.
"You didn't find any of Tupperwill's jewelry lying
loose? If you ever try that with my friends"
"You're mad," she said angrily. "Do you imagine I
would do anything so foolish, so"
At that moment they came within earshot of the other
two and took their farewell.
"Are you going straight home?" asked Ralph, as
the car started.
"Where else?" asked his wife. "Have you any sug-
gestions?"
"Let us go to the Mispah. We'll have some supper
and dancing and get the taste of this funereal evening
out of our mouths."
He looked at Elsa, and the girl hesitated.
"We needn't go on the dance floor," he said, reading
her unwillingness. "We can have supper upstairs on the
balcony and watch the people." Reluctantly she agreed.
The Mispah, though the least advertised, is the most
fashionable of the London dance clubs, and the floor was
covered with dancers, when Hallam picked a way through
the crowded balcony to the table he had reserved. The
girl, to whom this night club life was a novelty, looked,
fascinated, at the glittering throng that swayed and moved
to and fro.
"This is what Jessie Dame would call life," she said
with a smile. "Poor Jessie! Her one ambition is to
mingle with a hectic throng, mainly composed of sinister
men in evening dress, and meet the aristocracy on equal
terms."


CHAPTER XXXV
MAJOR AMERY IS SURPRISED
THERE was no doubt about it, no mistaking her.
Jessie Dame, flashing with diamonds, expensively garbed,
and dancing on the most exclusive public floor in Lon-
don! -
At first she was sure that she was mistaken. And
then—no, it was Jessie! As the dance finished, the girl
looked up, and Elsa drew back out of sight.
“Is she somebody you know?” asked Ralph, who had
observed the effect this strange spectacle had upon her.
“Yes, I know her,” said Elsa shortly. “Do you?”
Ralph shook his head. “I’ve seen her here once or
twice before. She usually comes with a middle-aged
man—there he is!”
He pointed to a corner whither Jessie was making
her way, accompanied by her partner. The man to whom
Ralph pointed was stout and bald, and to somewhat
coarse features he added a sweeping cavalry mustache,
suspiciously yellow.
Jessie! The discovery shocked her. She had never
imagined that this gawk of a girl, with her foolish
chatter of picture heroes and heroines, could lead what
was tantamount to a double life. Elsa had always
thought of her as, if not poor, at least one who lived in
modest circumstances; yet here she was, carrying a small
fortune in jewelry and obviously on terms of friendship
with people whom Elsa did not imagine she could know.
She was being snobbish, she told herself. There was
2I4


MAJOR AMERY IS SURPRISED 215
no reason in the world why Jessie Dame should not
dance at the Mispah Club; less reason that her doting
father, of whom she so often spoke, should not cover
her with jewels. At the same time she felt a strange
uneasiness, and she could not keep her eyes from the
girl, whose awkward gestures of animation were visible
from where she sat.
Ralph saw that something unusual had happened, but
he did not for the moment connect the girl's changed ex-
pression with that raw apparition on the floor below.
He asked her to dance, and, when she declined, he was
promptly claimed by Mrs. Hallam.
“Let me get a dance out of the night, at any rate,”
she said and carried him off, leaving the girl alone, not
to her regret. The strain of the evening was beginning
to tell on her.
She moved her seat so that, while free from observa-
tion herself, she had a good view of Jessie Dame. The
band had struck up; the floor was again a kaleidoscopic
tangle of colors and movement; but Miss Dame, now
vigorously fanning herself, did not join the throng, and
apparently her cavalier had left her.
Elsa took her gaze from the floor and surveyed the
other occupants of the balcony, and then she uttered an
exclamation of surprise. Between two pillars was a
table at which sat a solitary and detached observer. He
was looking at her, and, as their eyes met, he rose and
came round the corner of the balcony toward her, an
unusually gracious proceeding on his part; his interest in
her presence was more unexpected than the actual dis-
covery of Major Amery in this gay spot.
At first she thought he was going to pass her, but he
stopped, and, sitting down in the chair recently occupied
by Ralph, he looked across to where the long-plumed
fan of Jessie Dame was working agitatedly.


MAJOR AMERY IS SURPRISED 217
astonishment: "You didn't know he was married? He
hasn't told you?"
Elsa shook her head. "No, I didn't know," she said
simply.
Her mind was in a turmoil. Why had .Ralph kept
the truth from her? What had he hoped to gain by
his deception? As if reading her thoughts, the sinister
man went on:
"I think it is a matter of convenience, and, for Hal-
lam, of mental ease. His lady wife has one or two un-
pleasant hobbies. You haven't lost any small article of
jewelry, have you?"
She shook her head, wondering. "Did you seriously
mean what you said the other day—that she is a klep-
tomaniac?"
He nodded. "That is the scientific description.
Personally, I should call her a sneak thief, with an itch
for other people's property. You need not be shocked;
some of our best people suffer from that complaint."
But married! She couldn't understand that. And
yet she remembered wondering how it was she had never
met his "sister-in-law" before. The reason was plain
enough now.
For a second she felt uneasy, but then the humor of
the situation came to her, and she laughed softly.
"She was the skeleton at his feast, then?" she asked.
Amery's eyes twinkled for a second and grew solemn
again.
"Or he at hers. I'm not quite sure," he said. "That
man with Miss Dame is her father. I suppose you know
that? I didn't, until I took the trouble to inquire. You
haven't seen him closely, I suppose? You should, but
probably you're not interested in anthropology? Pale-
blue eyes and a very large, fat, straight chin, which


218 THE SINISTER MAN
usually marks a man with epileptic tendencies. The
hair of the mustache extremely coarse—Mantegazza
thinks that is a bad sign."
"Mantegazza?'' she asked, bewildered.
"He is an Italian anthropologist—one of the few
whose conclusions are worth study. The thickness of
the mustache hair should be .015 of a millimeter. If
it is coarser than that, the man is either a great criminal
or a great scientist."
She listened, astounded, as he rattled on; and, re-
membering the uncomfortable moment she had had when
he had told her her height and detected the accident she
had once had to her little finger, she began to under-
stand that he had been pursuing a hobby.
"You have made a study of these things, Major
Amery?"
He nodded. "Yes, years ago, when I was in the In-
dian service, before I adopted the criminal career which
is now exercising the minds of Scotland Yard, anthro-
pology was an interest of mine."
She was looking at him intently. Not a muscle of his
face twitched; there was no sign of embarrassment or
of shame, when he confessed his guilt. And there was
no boastfulness, either. He was simply stating a fact,
and a fact beyond controversy. The music stopped,
there was a clapping of hands, and he waited, his eyes
fixed upon Ralph and his wife. Not until the music
started again, and he saw the pair resume the interrupted,
dance, did he speak.
"Do you know the Dames?"
"I know Jessie," she said. "I've never met her
father."
"Ever been to the house, I mean?"
She shook her head. "She's invited me to tea, but
I've never gone."


MAJOR AMERY IS SURPRISED 219
"You should go," he nodded. "And I think I should
go very soon, if I were you. It is rather a nice house,
near Notting Hill Gate; a largish kind of establishment
for people of their circumstances, with a fairly big
garden, at the end ot which is the garage."
"Have they a car?" she asked, open-eyed.
He shook his head. "I don't know. As a matter of
fact, I have not been immensely interested, except that
I've seen the house—in fact, I've seen the house of every
person holding down a job at Amery & Amery's. The
position of a girl who lives with her parents—or parent,
for I understand Miss Dame has no mother—is always
the more difficult to judge. Her father may be anything
or nothing. By the way, you have a black box at home,
haven't you, belonging to Tarn—a box with trays in
it?"
He turned so abruptly to this subject that she was
surprised into an admission. And then:
"How on earth did you know?" she demanded. "And
what is the mystery of that box? You're the second
person who has spoken"
"Only two?" he asked quickly. "Are you sure only
two people have asked you about that box? Myself
and who?"
"Doctor Hallam. You think there is something in
that box?" She looked at him gravely, and he nodded.
"Drugs?"
"Yes, the drug that dopes the world," he said flip-
pantly. "I shouldn't investigate too closely if I were
you, but under no circumstances are you to let that box
out of your possession. Here comes your amiable
friend, and, by the expression on his face, I gather that
he has recognized me."
"Won't you wait and meet him?"
He hesitated. "Yes, I think I will," he said.


220 THE SINISTER MAN
A few moments later, Ralph came along the narrow
balcony, a watchful, suspicious man.
"You know Major Amery," said Elsa.
He bowed slightly.
"And of course Mrs. Hallam you know?" said Ralph.
"Yes, I have met your wife."
Their eyes met in a challenge, and Ralph's were the
first to be lowered.
So Elsa knew! Well, she had to know sooner. or
later, and he would rather she learned in the present
circumstances than any other.
"I have identified the lady of the earrings," he said,
as he sat down. "She's one of your girls."
"You mean Miss Dame? Yes, she is one of our minor
lights."
"You must pay very big money, Major Amery," said
Ralph dryly.
"Evidently," was the cold reply.
He got up with a little bow to the girl, and, without
so much as noticing Lou Hallam, walked back to his
place between the pillars.
"What did he have to say?" asked Ralph. And
then: "So he told you my guilty secret?"
He tried to carry the matter off with a smile, but he
went red under her questioning scrutiny.
"The fact is," he said awkwardly, "Lou and I have
never quite hit it off, which was probably my fault.
But we've always been good friends."
"Up to a point," broke in Mrs. Hallam. "He told
you we were married, did he? That fellow ought to be
running the gossip column of the Megaphone!"


CHAPTER XXXVI
A HOUSE IN DISORDER
AMERY sat over his third cup of coffee and a cigarette,
watching the dancers, long after Elsa had passed, with
a little nod and a smile, on her way home. He saw
Miss Dame disappear finally, and the first series of lights
go out, as a warning that the club was closing, and then
he came down the marble stairs into Citron Street. It
was raining, and the doorman, holding a huge umbrella,
lifted his hand inquiringly.
"No, thank you," said Amery. "I'll walk."
He strolled across Leicester Square, through the mid-
night bustle of Piccadilly Circus, and made his leisurely
way up Regent Street. He had not gone far before he
was conscious that his movements were under observa-
tion. Glancing back, he saw two men, as leisurely a?
himself, walking in his rear, and he smiled quietly.
As he turned into Hanover Square, one of his pur-
suers quickened his step and passed him, and Amery
swerved slightly to give him a wider berth. Hanover
Square was a bleak desert; a crawling taxicab was the
only sign of life.
He whistled, and the cab came toward him. The door
was open, and he was stepping in, when a man came
round the back of the taxi. It was impossible to see his
face; his felt hat was pulled down over his eyes, a silk
scarf covered his mouth.
"Good evening, Mr. Stillman!" said Amery pleasantly.
As he spoke, he gave the impression that he was wait-
221


222 THE SINISTER MAN
ing to meet the advancing man. The words were hardly
spoken before, with a quick turn, he had leaped into the
cab, slammed the door behind him, and the muffled man
faced the black cavity of a pistol muzzle.
"Stillman, I think," said Amery.
The action had been so quick that the man was taken
off his guard.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said,
in a muffled voice. "I'm only telling you to get out
and stay out!"
"That sounds familiar," said Amery coolly. "I seem
to have used the identical term when addressing a part-
ner, confederate or enemy of yours, one Maurice Tarn.
You talk too much!"
The motionless figure on the pavement moved his hand
slightly, but, dark as was the night, Amery detected the
motion.
"Keep your hand down, my friend, or in a minute or
two this cab will be carrying your lifeless remains to
Middlesex Hospital, and the most brilliant house sur-
geon will not be able to restore animation. I should hate
to put our friend the cabman to the inconvenience of
mussing up his upholstery."
"Listen," said the man, hoarse with rage. "Life is
pretty sweet to you, I guess? If it is, you'll get out of
the game. I don't know who Stillman is, but you can't
bluff me. I know who you are! There's a heap of
correspondence in the bottom drawer of your desk that
is exceedingly interesting to read."
Bang!
Amery had been leaning forward to the window, and
he caught the glitter of a gun and flung himself back
just in time. He felt the wind of the bullet, as it passed
the bridge of his nose, and, before he could recover, the
frightened driver had jerked the taxicab forward and


224 THE SINISTER MAN
The Chinaman ran past him into the open study and
put on the lights. Amery heard a guttural exclamation
of astonishment, and, following the man into the room,
saw the cause.
The place was in hopeless confusion. Half the draw-
ers of his desk lay on the floor; the cupboards had been
wrenched open, the furniture moved, and a little pine-
wood cupboard had been emptied by the simple process
of tipping its contents on to the carpet.
"Where is Chang? Go and find him," said Amery
quickly.
The Chinaman ran out of the room, and presently
Amery heard his name called and went toward the voice.
Feng Ho was kneeling on the floor by the side of a
prostrate figure, so trussed and bound and gagged that
he bore no resemblance to anything human. He was
unconscious when the bonds were loosened, and the steel
handcuffs unlocked.
"There's been no struggle here," said Amery, look-
ing round the little pantry where the man had been found.
Feng Ho went to the mysterious region at the back of
the house and came back with a basin of water.
"They came through the kitchen," he said. "The
window is open."
Amery's European servants did not sleep on the
premises; the last of these usually left at half past ten,
and it must have been after that hour that the burglar
made his entrance.
"They have taken my dossier," said Amery, after a
reful examination of the strewn papers on the floor.
He pointed to a steel drawer; the lock had been torn
bodily from its place, and where the drawer had been
was a confusion of splintered wood.
It was curious that neither of the men suggested sum-
moning the police. That idea did not seem to occur


A HOUSE IN DISORDER 225
to them, and when Feng Ho went back to attend the
half-conscious Chinaman, and Amery took up the tele-
phone, it was not a police number that he called.
"It must have been done half an hour ago," said the
sinister man thoughtfully, after his telephone conversation
had finished, and Feng Ho had returned. "Quick
work!"
Again he took up the telephone; this time he gave a
Mavfair number, and almost immediately Ralph Hal-
lam's voice answered him.
"Is that Doctor Hallam?"
"Yes," was the reply. There was no mistaking the
voice.
"So you're at home, are you?" said Amery with a
smile, and, before the answer came, he had hung up the
receiver.
"Quick work," he muttered. "Help me get this
stuff together. Where have you left Chang?"
"I've put him on his bed. He is a little shaken, but
not hurt," said Feng Ho, with that curious callousness
which so shocks the Westerner. "Perhaps he will live."
Chang not only lived, but within an hour was a very
voluble young man, invoking his familiar devils to the
destruction of his enemies.
"I was asleep, too," he said frankly, "and I knew noth-
ing until my head was in a bag, and my hands tied."
"If you had been awake then, I think you would
have been asleep now, Chang," said Amery cryptically.
He spent the rest of the night putting his papers in
order, but the most important collection of documents
had disappeared. He knew this before the search be-
gan. He had known it from the moment Stillman had
spoken. To-morrow he must be early at the office.
There were other things even as important as his dossier,
and these must not be found.


THE FOUR BROWN PACKETS 227
and the sinister shadow that her suspicions had thrown
over him. He was engaged, she knew, in a business
that was both dangerous and unsavory. He had un-
doubtedly struck down a comfortable middle-aged
banker, for no other offense than that he had talked too
much. Cold-blooded, cynical, remorseless, ruthless—and
very lonely—that was Amery.
She caught her breath in horror at herself. She had
once heard of a man whose formula for winning the
love of women was to "treat 'em rough and keep 'em
going!" Was she being subjected to this process, and
was this the result?
She was wide awake now. Her sense of unhappi-
ness had been swallowed up in the alarm of her dis-
covery. Looking at the clock, she saw that it was four.
And then her eyes fell upon the battered box which had
so exercised the interest of Ralph and the man. She
pulled open the lid, took out the three top trays, and
tried again to move the fourth, but it was screwed tightly,
if clumsily, and defied her efforts. Lifting one end of
the box, she felt its weight. There was something be-
neath that fastened tray.
It was five o'clock when she went back to bed, but
not to sleep. She was dressed and had cooked her
breakfast before Mrs. Hallam's daily maid had put in
her appearance. Even now she did not feel the least
bit sleepy. A night of rain and storm had been suc-
ceeded by a bright spring morning, which stirred some-
thing in her heart that was akin to happiness.
"You're early, miss," said the maid, with that touch
of resentment which domestics invariably show toward
the early riser.
"I'm going to the office early," said Elsa, feeling that
some excuse was necessary and not wishing to have the
story of her sleeplessness carried to Mrs. Hallam.


228 THE SINISTER MAN
It was like Elsa that having, on the spur of the mo-
ment, invented an intention ot going early, she should
find herself, soon after eight, walking up Wood Street
Hid wondering whether the office would be open.
It was not only open, but apparently there were other
early callers. She saw two men talking in the doorway,
and she recognized one as Bickerson. There was no
mistaking his well-set figure. His head was turned, as
she came into view, and he was walking slowly up the
street, in earnest consultation with his companion. Be-
fore he had turned she was in the passage and mounting
the stairs.
The cleaners had left her room, and she was apparently
the only member of the staff on the premises. For-
tunately there was plenty of work to occupy her, and
she went into Amery's cold office to collect a card index
of addresses that she had promised herself to put in
order.
Placing the little box on his desk, her nimble fingers
passed quickly over their edges, withdrawing one here,
replacing another there, for, neat in other respects, he
was the most careless of men, and more often than not
it was necessary to search the floor for addresses he had
removed and forgotten to return.
The door was aiar; she could hear distinctly the sound
of feet on the stairs, and she wondered what other
member of the staff came so early. And then she heard
Bickerson's voice, as two men came into her office.
She raised her head and listened.
"He will be here at nine. I would rather the search
was conducted in his presence," said the voice of the
stranger, and bv the respectful tone in which Bickerson
answered, it was evident that he was the detective's
superior in rank.
"Just as you like, sir. I've not put the warrant into


THE FOUR BROWN PACKETS 229
effect before, but the information which came to me
early this morning leaves no doubt that the stuff is on
the premises. There's a cupboard by the side of the
fireplace which I noticed when I called last time."
Elsa listened, breathless. Looking round, she saw
the long, narrow cupboard and remembered that it was
one she had not seen the major use. What was the
"stuff?" Should she go out to meet and warn him?
That might help, but it could hardly prevent the dis-
covery of the incriminating material, whatever it was,
that was behind the small door.
Somebody took a step toward the room.
"I'll show you where," said Bickerson.
She looked round, and in a second she had passed
through the doorway into the little cupboardlike apart-
ment which served Amery as a wash place and dressing
room. She was just in time.
"There it is," she heard Bickerson say, "on the right
of the fireplace. Most of these old-fashioned1 offices
have cupboards in that position. I don't see why we
shouldn't open it now, sir."
"Wait till he comes," said the other gruffly, and then
the sound of their voices receded.
She came back to Amery's room. They had closed
the door behind them when they went out; the key was
in the lock, and, without counting the consequences, she
turned it and flew back to the cupboard by the mantel-
piece. This was locked and defied her efforts to open
it. In desperation she took up the poker from the fire-
place and, with a strength which surprised her, smashed
in the panel. The sound must have reached the ears of
the men outside, for they came back, and one of them
tried the door.
"Who is there?" he called.
She made no answer. Again the poker fell upon the


230 THE SINISTER MAN
door, and now the panel was so broken that she could see
inside.
On a shelf lay four little packets, each about three
inches square, and each wrapped in brown paper and
fastened with sealed string. She put in her trembling
hand and took out the first. The label was partly in
German and partly in English, but she needed no knowl-
edge of German to realize that the package contained
cocaine.
What should she do? The firegate was empty. Then
she remembered the washbowl.
Somebody was hammering on the door.
"Who is in there?"
With her teeth set, she ignored all except the pressing
problem of Amery's danger. Tearing off the paper
cover, she let drop into the basin a heap of glittering
white powder. Turning on both taps, she emptied the
second and then the others, and, without waiting to
watch the deadly drug flow to waste, she came back to
Amery's room, found his matches, and, striking a light,
burned the wrappers, watching them turn to black ash.
When she returned to the washbowl, every vestige of the
cocaine had disappeared, and then, and not until then,
did she walk calmly to the door, turn the key, and open
it. A red-faced, angry Bickerson confronted her, be-
hind him an older man, taller and white-haired.
"What have you been doing?" demanded Bickerson
roughly. "Why didn't you open the door when I called
you?"
"Because I do not recognize your right to give me in-
structions," she said.
One glance he gave at the smashed cupboard door.
"I see! So you're working with Amery, are you,
young lady? It's as well to know that. I suppose you
know you're liable to a severe penalty?"


THE FOUR BROWN PACKETS 231
"For what crime?" she asked, with a calm she did not
feel. "Looking after my employer's interests?"
"What did you find in there?"
"Nothing."
He saw the charred paper in the fireplace.
"Nothing, eh?" he said between his teeth.
He heard the sound of running water, looked into
the dressing room, and understood.
"What did you find?" he asked again. "Come, Miss
Marlowe, I'm sure you do not wish to connive in the
breaking of the law. What was in that cupboard?"
"Nothing," said Elsa doggedly.
She was very white; her knees felt as if at any mo-
ment they would give way under her; but she stood up
square to the police officer, defiance in the tilt of her
chin and in her fine eyes.
"You didn't know she was in that room when you
spoke," said the older man with a little chuckle. "Young
lady, you've taught a very able detective inspector a les-
son which I hope he will not forget!"
Bickerson was now conducting a thorough search of
the office. The cupboard on the left of the fireplace was
unlocked, but empty. He tried the drawers of Amery's
desk; they all opened save one, and, as he pulled a bunch
of keys from his pocket and knelt to open this, the man
most concerned in the search walked into the room.
"Looking for something?" he asked politely.
"I have a warrant to search your office," said Bicker-
son, trembling with anger.
"I doubt it," replied Amery coolly. "Since when has
Scotland Yard had the right of searching a City office?
I am under the impression that there is an admirable
force of police operating in the one square mile of terri-
tory known as the City of London; and, unless I am
mistaken, these gentlemen are extremely jealous of their


THE FOUR BROWN PACKETS 235
interest. And from her his eyes strayed to the wrecked
cupboard.
“You did that, of course?”
She nodded.
“What did you find?”
“Oh, Major Amery, why do you pretend?” she burst
forth. “You know what I found! Four packets of
that awful stuff!”
“Opium ?”
“I don't know what it was; I think it was cocaine.
It was white and glistening.”
He nodded.
“That was cocaine. Four packets?” He whistled
softly. “And you washed them away, did you?”
“Yes,” she said shortly and was preparing to go back
to her work.
“That was very good of you.” His politeness was
almost mechanical. “Very good of you, indeed! Four
packets of cocaine. German, by any chance?”
“Oh, of course they were German!” she said impa-
tiently. “You know x -
He shook his head.
“I don't know,” he said. “I have never had a greater
surprise than to learn that there were drugs in this
office.”
He walked to his desk, gave a little jerk to the edge,
and, to her astonishment, the whole of the top slid back,
revealing a shallow cavity in which lay a small, thin
package of papers. These he took out, put them in his
inside pocket, pulled the top of the desk back in its place,
and smiled. '
“Did Mr. Bickerson, in the course of any unguarded
conversation, reveal how he came to know that the co-
caine was in my office?”


234 THE SINISTER MAN
"No; he said he knew early this morning."
"I see," said the other softly. "Now I wonder how
our friend put them there?"
"Our friend—which friend?"
"A gentleman named Stillman," he said carelessly,
"who came in before office hours and planted the drugs
in my office."
"But—but," she stammered, "aren't you a dealer in
drugs?"
He smiled.
"I have never bought anything more deadly than
chewing gum in my life," he said.


CHAPTER XXXVIII
THE CORRECTED LETTER
ELSA could only gaze at him blankly. "But you are
Soyoka! 1 know—you have admitted that you are!"
His face was expressionless.
"Be that as it may," he said, "I have never bought or
sold drugs of any kind, with the exception, perhaps, of
the interesting commodity of which I spoke."
She drew a long breath. "I can't understand it."
"Don't try," he said.
He walked across to the smashed cupboard.
"Poker?" he asked. "Of course it was the poker.
Now just tell me how you came to do it."
In a few words she explained how she had come early,
had seen the detectives waiting in the street, and over-
heard Bickerson and his superintendent talking, and all
that followed.
"How very wonderful!" he said, looking at her
strangely. "You remarkable girl!"
She colored under his eyes, felt absurdly tearful, for
the reaction had come, and she wanted to get away, sit
down and recover her moral breath. He must have
seen this, for his old manner returned.
"Ask Feng Ho to come to me, will you, please?"
She went out and found Feng Ho tickling the canary
with the end of a long-handled paint brush, and the
Chinaman was inclined to linger, until she said:
"Feng Ho, something has happened in Major Amery's
office. He wants you at once."
235


236 THE SINISTER MAN
And then Feng Ho moved with some celerity.
It was only a quarter of nine, she saw, when she
looked at the office clock, and she was glad for this little
respite before the real business of the day commenced.
She was feeling weak and shaken, and she would have
given anything to have got away from the office for an
hour.
An interest in life came with the arrival of Miss
Dame, and, observing the fiery hair and the red button
of a nose, Elsa wondered if this plainly dressed and
unattractive female could have been the resplendent be-
ing she had seen on the previous night. The fatigue
attendant upon the gay life left no visible evidence, for
Miss Dame was as voluble as ever.
"My dear," she said, "who do you think I met down-
stairs? That Mr. Dickerson, the famous sleuth!"
"Bickerson?"
"Bicker or Dicker, it's all the same to me. Such a
nice man! The way he lifted his hat shows that he was
meant for something better than a detective. And yet
I've known a few good detectives in my time, perfect
gentlemen, but secret-service agents, if you understand?
When the plans are stolen—you know what I mean,
government plans about war, where the forts are going
to be built and that sort of thing—they get them back.
They're younger than Mr. Bickerson, though," she
added, as though regretting the lost opportunities for
romance which the stolid Bickerson might otherwise
have offered.
"Jessie, how long have you been a member of the
Mispah Club?"
Miss Dame dropped the papers she was carrying and
hid her confusion in gathering them together.
"My dear, how you startled me! How did you know
I was a member of the Mispah?" she asked, a little self-


238 THE SINISTER MAN
her face going pale. "My word! He didn't see me?
Was he there?"
Elsa nodded.
"At the Mispah—that misery at the Mispah! What
did he say, Miss Marlowe? I suppose he thought it
was funny?"
"He did—rather," said Elsa, speaking nothing but
the truth.
But it was not the girl's idea of funniness that she
was thinking about.
"I'll bet he did!" said Jessie in a hushed voice, her
eyes gleaming redly through her spectacles. "I sup-
pose he's got all sorts of low ideas about me. Did he see
Pater?"
"Yes, he saw your father."
"Oh!" said Miss Dame blankly. And then, after
a long cogitation: "It can't be helped. He didn't ask
to see me this morning?"
"No, he doesn't seem to be the slightest bit interested
in you this morning," said Elsa with a smile, "but that
doesn't mean"
"I know it doesn't mean anything," interrupted Miss
Dame. "He's one of those fly, underhand people who
are always on the lookout for trouble, and, before you
know where you are, bingo!"
She thought again, and again said that it couldn't be
helped.
"I bought it in Shaftesbury Avenue—the dress, I
mean—fourteen guineas. It was a lot of money, but
you can't get classy robes cheaper than that. Pater
collects diamonds; he's in the—in the trade—in the dia-
mond trade, I mean—as a hobby."
She seemed anxious to discover the effect she had pro-
duced upon the girl, but more especially upon Major
Amery.


240 THE SINISTER MAN
counteract his operations to our advantage." This pass-
age occurred in all three letters, and seemed to be the
main theme, though there were endless details which
varied in description with each new attempt he made to
produce the perfect communication.
"I suppose you get rather bored with typing the same
letter over and over again?" he said, as he put his sig-
nature to the last of the epistles she had brought in.
She smiled. "No; it doesn't often happen, and I'm
getting quite used to your ways now, Major Amery.
Soon, I think I shall understand you!"
"And you're leaving on Saturday, too," he mused.
Then, catching her eye, he laughed, as though he were
enjoying some secret jest of his.
He followed her into her room and took a quick
glance round.
"Why, of course!" he said. "Though that doesn't
explain everything."
She looked up at him.
"Explain everything?" she repeated.
"I was thinking of another matter," he said hurriedly.
Just before lunch, in his abrupt way, he asked her a
question, which, like so many of his interjections, was
altogether unexpected.
"Where are you going to-night?" he asked.
"To-night? Nowhere."
She could never lose the habit of surprise at the strange
butterfly movements of the sinister man's mind.
"Are you sure?"
"Why, of course I'm sure, Major. I am more
especially sure because 'Faust' is being broadcast from
the opera house, and I love the music."
For the first time she saw the man startled.
"'Faust?' How strange, how very odd!"
"I see nothing very odd in it," she laughed. "I am


THE CORRECTED LETTER 241
one of those wireless enthusiasts who love opera. I
wouldn't miss a note or a word for anything!"
"How very odd!" he said again. "'Faust!'"
The oddness did not seem particularly obvious to Elsa,
but she knew her man too well to pursue the subject; and,
as she might have expected, when he spoke again it was
of something that had not the slightest relation to opera
or broadcasting.
"Don't forget what I told you about your box," he
said, and, before she could answer, he had gone back to
his room, closed the door behind him, and she heard
the click of the lock, as the key turned.
Elsa frowned. Was he quite Men who have
lived for many years in hot climates, particularly the
climate of India, were strange. She had known an old
Indian general who invariably started dinner with a
sweet and finished with soup. She couldn't imagine the
sinister man doing anything so eccentric, she thought
whimsically. But he was—queer.
The luncheon interval gave her an opportunity of go-
ing back to Mrs. Hallam's flat for a prosaic purpose—
to replace a laddered stocking. Mrs. Hallam had given
her a key, and she went in, believing she would have the
flat to herself, for the lady had told her she was going
out to lunch. She walked down the narrow corridor,
turned the handle of her door, walked in, and then
stopped dead, with a gasp of amazement and annoyance.
The black trunk was in the middle of the floor and
opened. By its side Ralph Hallam knelt in his shirt
sleeves, a screw driver in his hand, and he was busily
unscrewing the top tray.


RALPH EXPLAINS 243
"Leave it," he said. "I'm dreadfully sorry if I've
annoyed you; but, believe me, I've nothing but your in-
terests at heart."
"Then why not finish your work and let me see what
there is to be seen? And please don't distress yourself
about shocking me, Ralph, because, if I really am not
shock proof, at least I'm on the way to be. Won't you
take out the other screws?"
He shook his head. "No; as a matter of fact, just
before you came in, I had decided that it was hardly worth
while."
She watched him, as he replaced the trays, pulled
down the lid, and pushed the box against the wall, where
it had been when she had left that morning, and she
noticed that he never let go of the screw driver.
"You're back early," he said. "They tell me you went
out early this morning. I suppose Amery has some little
humanity left in his system and has let you off for the
day? I saw old Tupperwill this morning; he asked
after you. Queer devil, Tupperwill! You've made a
hit there, Elsa, and I shouldn't be surprised if our stout
friend invents another excuse for a party."
He chattered on, clearly ill at ease, anxious to go, and
yet as anxious to be sure that she should not finish the
work he had begun. She decided the matter for him.
"I want my room now," she said and almost pushed
him out.
When she had made her change and came out into
the dining room, he was on the point of leaving.
"Can I take you anywhere? Have you had lunch?"
"Yes, I've had lunch," she said, which was not true.
Her objection to his presence was so marked that
presently he began pulling on his gloves.
"You mustn't imagine I had any designs on your
property," he said jokingly. "And, believe me, Elsa,


244 THE SINISTER MAN
I am serious when I ask you not to open that box except
in my presence."
"Well, open it now," she said.
He shook his head. "No, this is not the moment.
You will understand why, when"—lamely—"well, be-
fore you are much older."
When he had gone, she went into the little kitchenette
in search of a screw driver, determined that she would
see for herself what he was keeping from her, but ap-
parently tools were not included in Mrs. Hallam's house-
hold equipment, and, locking the door of her room and
putting the key in her pocket, she went out, to find Ralph,
a worried figure, biting his nails on the sidewalk before
the mansions. He seemed relieved that she had come
out so soon.
"You have a key of the flat; may I have it?" she asked.
For a second he seemed inclined to refuse, and then,
with a smile, he produced it from his waistcoat pocket.
"Really, Elsa, you're taking quite a high hand to de-
prive me of the key of my"
"Not your flat, surely? I shouldn't like to feel that
you had the means of entry day and night, Ralph,"
she said quietly, and for the second time that morning
he colored a deep red.
Refusing his escort, she found a taxi and drove back
to a City restaurant, where she had a small lunch before
returning to her work. The door of Amery's room was
still locked, and when she knocked, his voice asked
sharply what she wanted. A few minutes after the door
was unlocked, and, going into the room, she found it
empty.
At three o'clock the telephone bell rang. She took all
the calls in her office, and those that were intended for
her employer she switched through, after she had first


RALPH EXPLAINS 245
made inquiries as to whether he would accept the call.
"May I speak with Miss Marlowe?" asked a familiar
voice.
"Yes, I'm speaking," said Elsa.
"It is Mr. Tupperwill. Is Major Amery in?"
She recognized his voice before he told her his name.
"No, Mr. Tupperwill, he is out."
"Is it possible for me to see you, Miss Marlowe?
It is on rather an important matter, and I am particularly
anxious that Major Amery should not know that I have
called you."
"I can see you after office hours," she said. "Other-
wise, I must get his permission to leave the office."
A long silence.
"Is that absolutely and vitally necessary?" asked the
anxious voice of the banker. "I assure you I would not
dream of asking you to come without your employer's
knowledge, unless the circumstances were very urgent;
and they are very urgent, Miss Marlowe. I want to
see you in the course of the next half hour."
Elsa considered the possibility. "I will come," she
said and cut short his thanks by hanging up the receiver.
Amery allowed her more freedom than most secre-
taries have, and she could have gone out without
reference to him; but somehow she was reluctant on
this occasion to take advantage of the liberty he gave to
her. She turned the matter over in her mind and then
knocked at the door.
"Come in."
He had' returned so quietly that she had not heard him.
"I want to go out, Major Amery, for half an hour."
"Where are you going?" he demanded bluntly.
"Somebody wants to see me—Mr. TupperwilL"
"Oh!"


246 THE SINISTER MAN
"I don't think he wished you to know that I was
going to him; that is rather natural, isn't it? You don't
mind?"
He shook his head. "No, I don't mind a bit, but
I'm glad you told me. If Tupperwill asks you whether
I know where you have gone, you will tell him?"
"Why, of course!" she said in surprise.
"I think I should."
He was the strangest man, she thought, as the bus
carried her toward Old Broad Street—the very strang-
est man. Such queer, unimportant details interested
him. The big, vital things of life left him unmoved.


THE NEW CHAUFFEUR 249
ing to see me? That I should expect you to do. It is a
very small point, and one which, perhaps, would not ap-
peal to the average employee, but I hold it as a maxim
that not in the slightest degree should one deceive an em-
ployer."
They were now in a street, one side of which was oc-
cupied by a factory wall and the other by a scattering of
poor houses, except toward the farther end, where there
was a yard of some kind, marked by high walls and a gate
which was open.
The car swung, as though it were going into the gate-
way, and at that moment Mr. Tupperwill sprang to his
feet and, dropping the window with a crash, said some-
thing to the chauffeur. Instantly the man righted the
machine and went slowly past the gates. Looking
through, Elsa saw a littered quadrangle, surrounded on
three sides by low buildings which had the appearance of
stables.
"Now why on earth did my man do that?" gasped Mr.
Tupperwill in astonishment. "I don't like it, Miss Mar-
lowe! I don't like it at all. He is a new man who came
to me only last week, and—phew!" He mopped his large
face. "I'm getting to the stage where I see a plot in the
simplest action. I feel as if I am moving in an atmos-
phere of mystery and danger. In fact, Miss Marlowe,
since that outrageous attack was made upon me, I have
lost my nerve."
They were now clear of the mean streets and were trav-
ersing the principal shopping thoroughfare of Islington,
and, as the girl saw with relief, moving back toward the
City.
"You wanted to talk to me about Miss Dame," she re-
minded him.
"Yes, yes, but the incident put everything out of my
mind. Miss Dame—yes—a curious girl. And you


THE NEW CHAUFFEUR 251
He did not satisfy her curiosity, but, with a shudder,
she knew instinctively that behind that pleasant laugh was
grim menace.
"What a horrible idea!" she said, shivering.
"Yes, it is, rather. I'm sorry. And yet a murderer's
neck fascinates me."
"A murderer?" she gasped.
"I rather think so." He was still tapping his painful
way through the alphabet. "That chauffeur killed
Maurice Tarn."


CHAPTER XLI
THE BEARDED LABORER
"AT least, that is my view," he said, without looking
up from the machine at the white-faced girl. "Where is
the j? I can never find the j on these machines. Oh,
here it is! Yes, a stalwart man, with a beard and motor
goggles? Reard and motor goggles are attached, and the
beard is really clever. It is fixed to a silk lining that fits
his chin as closely as a glove fits your finger."
He was not looking at her.
"Yes, that was our friend," he went on pleasantly.
"How far did you go?"
She described the journey and told him of the curious
little incident of the open gate.
"I thought Mr. Tupperwill was unnecessarily a-
larmed," she said.
"Not unnecessarily," Amery answered gently. "Oh,
no, not unnecessarily! If the car had passed through that
gateway, Mr. Tupperwill would not be alive at this mo-
ment. Or, if he were alive, he would be in such a griev-
ous plight that he would welcome a merciful end."
"Are you serious, Major Amery?"
He looked up quickly. "I'm afraid I've alarmed you
Yes, I was quite serious."
"But does Mr. Tupperwill know the character of this
man?" she asked in horror.
"He will be warned before the day is out. You didn't
see the chauffeur's face?"
She shook her head.
252


THE BEARDED LABORER 253
"No, I caught a glimpse of him. The driver's seat is
enclosed in Mr. Tuppenvill's car, and it is rather difficult
to see him. I only noticed that he was a very powerful-
looking man, and I thought it strange that he wore a
beard. Do you really know him?"
"The chauffeur? Yes, a gentleman named Stillman.
A powerful-looking fellow, eh? He is all that. What
did he want to see you about—Tupperwill, I mean?"
She hesitated. "There is no reason why you shouldn't
know," she said at last. "It was about Miss Dame."
"I thought it might be," he said surprisingly.
"What would have happened to me?" she demanded.
"You?" He got up slowly from his chair, slipped the
page he was typing from the machine, tore it into four
parts, and threw it into the wastebasket, before he replied:
"I don't think anything very bad would have happened
to you, but you might have been scared."
"Then only Mr. Tupperwill was in danger?"
"In real danger, yes—danger of life or limb, and that's
the only kind that counts. When are you contemplating
taking tea with Miss Dame?"
"I don't know. I'm not at all anxious to go."
"Go this evening," he said. "The 'pater' will interest
you."
Her anxiety did not prevent her smiling.
"You know how she refers to him, then?"
He walked into his room, and she followed. There
was one question she wanted settled beyond all doubt.
"Major Amery," she began, "do you remember the
night that Mr. Tupperwill was attacked?"
"I remember it perfectly."
"You know that I found the weapon in your cup-
board?"
"I also know that."
"It was vou who struck him?"


254 THE SINISTER MAN
He nodded. "Yes, it was I. That your mind may be
set at rest it was an accident. The blow was not in-
tended for Mr. Tupperwill, and I had not the slightest
idea that he was within range of my stick when I struck.
And now let us forget that very unpleasant incident."
It occurred to Elsa, when she made known her in-
tention, that Jessie Dame was not too pleased at the pros-
pect of entertaining her friend.
"I don't know whether it will be convenient to-night,"
she said, and Elsa, who was quite ready to accept any ex-
cuse for dropping the project, was glad enough to mur-
mur something about "some other evening" and make her
escape.
But the visit was not to be postponed. Just as she was
on the point of leaving, Jessie Dame appeared, already
dressed for the street.
"I've been out to telephone to pater," she said breath-
lessly, "and he says he'll be very glad to see you. We'll
take a taxi home, if you don't mind."
At any other time this extravagance on the part of the
romantic young lady would have startled the girl, but the
information which she had acquired about the wealth of
the Dames made misgiving unnecessary.
The Dames' house was one of a dozen stucco dwellings
in a short cul-de-sac off Ladbroke Grove. It had a tiny
patch of lawn before the house, the inevitable laurel
bushes planted near the railings, and the six steps up to
the front door, which are peculiar to houses built at that
period of Victorian history, when English and American
architects were apparently obsessed with the idea that
London and New York might be flooded at any moment,
and that it was necessary to build the ground floors ten
feet above the level of the street.
No sooner was Elsa inside the house than she realized
that Tessie Dame was living in a much better style than


THE BEARDED LABORER 255
she had imagined. The room into which she was shown
was substantially, even handsomely, appointed, and if it
erred at all, it was on the side of lavishness and overorna-
mentation.
"I'll tell Pater you're here," said Miss Dame, hurrying
out of the room, to return after a considerable time with
the bald and florid man whom Elsa had seen at the dance.
The first thing that struck her was the accuracy of
Major Amery's description. The eyes were pale, the jaw
full and fleshy, and the mustache was patently dyed. But
for this and his complete baldness, Mr. Dame did not look
old enough to be Jessie's father, for his complexion was
flawless.
"Glad to know you, Miss Marlowe," he said.
The voice was harsh, like that of a man suffering from
a cold. "I have been expecting you to come over with
Jess before. Come and have a look at the house."
He was undisguisedly proud of his establishment, and
not until he had shown her over every room and into the
immaculate kitchen was he satisfied. To maintain a po-
lite interest through three floors of inspection would have
been a tax at any ordinary time, but there was something
about this home and the personality of its owner that in-
terested the girl. She could endure the procession from
one spare room to another without fatigue and could
honestly admire the economy of the kitchen equipment.
"No expense has been spared," said Mr. Dame com-
placently. "It's a home, as I have often told Jess, that
she ought to be proud of and ask no questions. What
I mean to say is, that she ought to be content with what
he's got. Don't you think so, Miss?"
"I certainly do," said Elsa.
Evidently Jessie had moments of curiosity and unease,
thought the girl, as she followed the proud owner into
the garden. It was a long strip of land, and it showed


256 THE SINISTER MAN
the practiced hand of a skilled horticulturist. Again no
expense had been spared to produce, within the limits of
Mr. Dame's modest estate, the best effects that money
could buy.
At the bottom of the garden there was a substantially
built shed, lighted by two small windows placed just un-
der the overhanging roof. As they looked, the door
opened, and a man lounged through, carrying a spade.
Stripped to his shirt, he was wiping his forehead with a
bare arm, as he came into the cooler air, and for an
instant he did not observe Mr. Dame and his visitor.
Then, almost at the second that Elsa recognized him, he
scuttled back into the shed and slammed the door behind
him. Quick as he was, Elsa recognized the laborer. It
was the bearded chauffeur, the murderer of Maurice
Tarn!


CHAPTER XLII
THE SIGNER OF CHECKS
APPARENTLY Mr. Dame had not noticed the incident.
At the moment he was drawing attention to the tiny rock
garden, and he did not observe that the girl was staring
at the shed.
"Is that a garage?" she asked.
"Yes, it's a garage," replied Mr. Dame shortly. "The
entrance is on the other side. There's a lane at the back.
You must come here in the summer, Miss, and see my
roses."
Had he noticed her white face, she wondered, for the
shock had sent every vestige of color from her cheeks.
Apparently Mr. Dame was so absorbed in the pride of
possession that he had no eyes for aught to which he
could not lay claim, and by the time the tinkle of a bell
summoned them to the ornate dining room, where tea had
been laid, she had recovered her self-possession.
"Well, what do you think of your boss, Miss?" de-
manded Jessie Dame's father, nonchalantly pouring half
the contents of his cup into the saucer.
Elsa was not inclined to discuss the sinister man with
anybody, least of all with an acquaintance of a few
minutes.
"They tell me the life he leads you girls is perfectly
hellish," Dame went on. "I keep telling Jessie to throw
up the job and come home, but she's one of those obsti-
nate girls that will have her own way. Oh, woman,
woman!"
257


258 THE SINISTER MAN
Perhaps it was his triteness, or the string of com-
monplaces, that reminded her for a second of Mr. Tup-
perwill, except that she liked the stout banker and dis-
liked this man, with his furtive, cold blue eyes, most in-
tensely.
"You have a car, Mr. Dame?" she asked, anxious to
keep off the subject of Amery.
"I haven't, but I'm getting one. I've had the garage
built three or four years, but never used it. In fact, I
haven't been inside the place for a year."
"Father doesn't like anybody to go into the garage,"
said Jessie. "He says he won't let anybody enter until
he's got a car to see. I wonder he hasn't bought it be-
fore."
"All in good time; everything comes to her who waits,"
said Mr. Dame complacently.
When at last the time came for the girl to go, Jessie
accompanied her to the sidewalk.
"What do you think of the pater?" she asked.
"He's a very interesting man," said Elsa safely.
"Yes, he's pretty interesting," said Jessie, without any
trace of enthusiasm. "I suppose you're going home
now? It must be nice to live alone."
Elsa looked at the girl quickly. There was something
wistful in her eyes and in her voice, a human quality that
momentarily transfigured her; but it was only for a flash,
and then she was herself again.
"Come down and see us any time you want a cup of
tea. The pater will be glad to show you over the gar-
den," she said, and, running up the steps, she closed the
door almost before Elsa had left the gate.
Mr. Dame was waiting in the dining room when his
daughter came back to him, and he was carefully carving
off the end of a cigar.
"That's she. is it?"


THE SIGNER OF CHECKS 259
"Yes, that's she. Why were you so anxious to see
her, father?"
"'Why was I so anxious to see her, father?*" he
mimicked. "You get out of the habit of asking ques-
tions, will you? Now what have you got for me?"
She went to the side table, where she had pat her at-
tache case when she came in, opened it and took out a
few sheets of crumpled paper, which she passed to him.
"What is this?" he demanded wrathfully.
"It was all I could find," she said. "I got them out
of the wastebasket."
"Didn't he write any other letters?"
"He may have done so," said the girl. "Father, I
think he's suspicions. Up to now the letters have come
to me to be entered in the dispatch book before they
were posted. This afternoon he kept back all his own
letters, and, when I sent the office boy to ask for them,
he said he was posting them himself in future."
The man scowled from his daughter to the crumpled
typewritten sheets in his hand.
"These are all the same letter," he said. "What is
the rase of th«m to me?"
"I don't know, father. I've done all I could," said
Miss Dame quietly. "I'm sure there are times when I
feel ashamed to look him in the face, prying and sneak-
ing as I do; and if Miss Marlowe only knew"
"Shut up about Miss Marlowe 'only knowing,'" he
said gruffly. "What I want to know is, why haven't I
got his letters?"
"I've told you," said the girl, with an air of despera-
tion. "I can't take them out of his hand and copy
them, can I? It was easy when they came to me to be
entered, bat he's stopped that now, and I'll have to do
as I did before—get any scraps I can from the waste-
basket."


CHAPTER XLIII
MR. TUPPERWILL SEEKS ADVICE
LONG after Elsa had left the office, Major Amery was
sitting at his desk, his swift pen covering sheet after
sheet of foolscap. He wrote a beautifully clear, almost
copper-plate hand, and with a rapidity which, in all the
circumstances, was remarkable.
He had come to the bottom of the sixth sheet, when
there was a gentle tap on his door, and, rising, he
crossed the floor, turned the key, and pulled the door open.
It was the night watchman who was in charge of the
premises between business hours.
"I beg your pardon, sir; I don't want to disturb you,
but there's a gentleman wishes to see you—Mr. Tup-
perwill."
Amery looked at his watch; it was half past six.
"Show him up, please," he said, and, going back to
his desk, he put his writing away in a drawer and
swung round in his chair to face the door through which
Mr. Tupperwill presently came.
The banker was obviously ill at ease. He closed the
door behind him and stood behind the chair to which
Amery pointed, his hands resting on the back, gro-
tesquely reminiscent of a budding politician about to
make his maiden speech.
"You will think this visit is remarkable. Major
Amery," he began huskily, "particularly since I cannot
claim to be—ah—a very close friend, or even an intimate
acquaintance."
261


262 THE SINISTER MAN
“I was expecting you to come,” said Amery shortly.
“Won't you sit down?”
Mr. Tupperwill lifted the tails of his frock coat and
sat gingerly.
“The truth is, I am in such confusion of mind that
I hardly know which way to turn, whose advice to seek;
and, thinking matters over in the privacy of my office,
I decided that you, as a man of the world, and a man,
moreover, of vast experience beyond my range, would
perhaps be able to assist me in forming a conclusion.
Major Amery, I am beset by enemies; and, if that sounds
to you a little highly colored and melodramatic, I beg
that you will bear with me for a little while. The mat-
ter which I will ask your patience to discuss, affects
not only the honor of my name, but the very foundations
of my business.”
He stopped and licked his dry lips. Amery made no
reply; he sat, tense and alert, waiting for what was to
follow.
“You were good enough, at a moment when I was ex-
tremely angry, to make a prediction which, alas, seems
upon the point of fulfillment,” Mr. Tupperwill went on.
“That prediction, in effect, was that a certain client of
the bank would drag me and my business into the mud.
I fear, I very greatly fear, that your prediction is within
measurable distance of fulfillment. Major Amery, I
have trusted a certain person beyond limits that a banker
and a business man can safely go. I have been deceived,
terribly deceived. The bank has been the victim of the
grossest duplicity; and now, not only is my fortune, but
my very life, threatened, as the result of my stupendous
folly.
“Two years ago, I was at the head of a flourishing
commercial concern, respected and honored throughout
the City of London.”


MR. TUPPERWILL SEEKS ADVICE 263
-> years ago," interrupted Amery, "you were at
">f a bankrupt business, which was maintained
Sy the falsification of accounts!" His words
T blows upon steel. "Stebbing's has been
irs," he went on remorselessly. "It is
•1 defied the efforts of the joint stock
The truth is, that you dare not
"tigation into the affairs of Steb-
°ll that honest auditors would
* '] court, and that eventually
'majesty's prisons."
Te color, but there was a
^most tearful entreaty
t his accuser.
rue," he said in a
i have been more
- ^ "d, and there has been
*** . It is true that I am in a
..discretions, which came to the
unscrupulous man, have placed me in
i he circumstances I have put down in black
.ie," he said impressively, "and I have come to
. to ask you whether, if that document were placed in
your hands, it would be of any service to you or to
me?" .
"None whatever," said Amery promptly, and Mr.
Tupperwill's face fell.
"On the last occasion we met. you referred to a gentle-
man named—ah—Stillman. Now, Major Amery, I
wish to avoid unpleasantness; I wish to avoid ruin!
You, knowing so much, can advise me. It may be that
this is the last time that you and I will ever discuss
this matter, the last opportunity for adjustment."
Amery looked at him steadily. "There will be other
opportunities." he said.


262 THE SINISTER MAN
"I was expecting you to come," said Amery shortly.
"Won't you sit down?"
Mr. Tupperwill lifted the tails of his frock coat and
sat gingerly.
"The truth is, I am in such confusion of mind that
I hardly know which way to turn, whose advice to seek;
and, thinking matters over in the privacy of my office,
I decided that you, as a man of the world, and a man,
moreover, of vast experience beyond my range, would
perhaps be able to assist me in forming a conclusion.
Major Amery, I am beset by enemies; and, if that sounds
to you a little highly colored and melodramatic, I beg
that you will bear with me for a little while. The mat-
ter which I will ask your patience to discuss, affects
not only the honor of my name, but the very foundations
of my business."
He stopped and licked his dry lips. Amery made no
reply; he sat, tense and alert, waiting for what was to
follow.
"You were good enough, at a moment when I was ex-
tremely- angry, to make a prediction which, alas, seems
upon the point of fulfillment," Mr. Tupperwill went on.
"That prediction, in effect, was that a certain client of
the bank would drag me and my business into the mud.
I fear, I very greatly fear, that your prediction is within
measurable distance of fulfillment. Major Amery, I
have trusted a certain person beyond limits that a banker
and a business man can safely go. I have been deceived,
terribly deceived. The bank has been the victim of the
grossest duplicity; and now, not only is my fortune, but
my very life, threatened, as the result of my stupendous
folly.
"Two years ago, I was at the head of a flourishing
commercial concern, respected and honored throughout
the City of London."


MR. TUPPERWILL SEEKS ADVICE 263
"Two years ago," interrupted Amery, "you were at
!he head of a bankrupt business, which was maintained
in existence by the falsification of accounts!" His words
fell like hammer blows upon steel. "Stebbing's has been
insolvent for years," he went on remorselessly. "It is
your boast that you defied the efforts of the joint stock
banks to absorb you. The truth is, that you dare not
allow an impartial investigation into the affairs of Steb-
bing's, knowing right well that honest auditors would
bring you into the criminal court, and that eventually
you would land in one of his majesty's prisons."
Mr. Tupperwill did not change color, but there was a
pathetic droop to his lip and an almost tearful entreaty
in his eyes, as he blinked stupidly at his accuser.
"I hope that what you say is not true," he said in a
hushed voice. "If it is, then indeed I have been more
grossly deceived than I imagined, and there has been
a conspiracy to deceive me. It is true that I am in a
bad way. Certain indiscretions, which came to the
knowledge of an unscrupulous man, have placed me in
his power. The circumstances I have put down in black
and white," he said impressively, "and I have come to
you to ask you whether, if that document were placed in
your hands, it would be of any service to you or to
me?"
"None whatever," said Amery promptly, and Mr.
Tupperwill's face fell.
"On the last occasion we met. you referred to a gentle-
man named—ah—Stillman. Now, Major Amery, I
wish to avoid unpleasantness; I wish to avoid ruin!
You, knowing so much, can advise me. It may be that
this is the last time that you and I will ever discuss
this matter, the last opportunity for adjustment."
Amery looked at him steadily. "There will be other
opportunities." he said.


264 THE SINISTER MAN
Before the interview ended, Mr. Tupperwill had some-
thing else to say.
"I am a man of peace. The violent expressions of
human feeling are repugnant, indeed, terrifying to me.
I have had one horrible experience and do not wish that
to be repeated."
He touched the scar on his head feelingly.
"And yet I have the sensation that I am drifting into
a welter of violence. That I am surrounded by un-
scrupulous, evil, possibly cruel, men, who will not hesi-
tate to wreak their vengeance on me, and I am appealing
to you, as a man of action, for help and guidance.
Major Amery, a week ago I engaged a new chauffeur.
The man came to me with the most excellent credentials;
he had a character from the army; he had eulogistic
recommendations from previous employers; and, as a
chauffeur, he is everything that I could desire, except"
—he hesitated—"I cannot escape a suspicion that he is
not what he seems. The man has come in and out of
my house without let or hindrance, and my butler in-
forms me that on one occasion he has found him in my
bedroom."
Leaning forward, he went on, in a lower voice.
"In my bedroom is a wall safe, in which I keep a
few important papers, a number of trinkets of no
especial value, and this morning I missed a small book,
containing particulars of my private account. It was
not an ordinary book; it has the appearance of a gold
case, and it was presented to me by my dear father many
years ago."
"What is in the book besides your accounts?"
"Nothing—a number of addresses, a few memoranda
about our family fortune, particulars of the combina-
tion of my safe at the office, and my private deposits
at the Bank of England."


MR. TUPPERWILL SEEKS ADVICE 265
"If you think this man has stolen it," said Amery,
with a weary sigh, "why don't you call in the police?"
Mr. Tupperwill raised his eyes slowly to the other's.
"You have told me my business is bankrupt; you have
taunted me with the fact that I dare not allow independ-
ent investigation; you have suggested that there are
secrets about Stebbing's which could not be revealed.
One or two of those secrets are in that book, Major
Amery."
He rose with a long-drawn sigh.
"I fear I have wearied you," he said, "but remember
that I am a man torn with anxiety and doubt, a man
placed in the most cruel dilemma. Your advice, your
help, your cooperation would have meant much to me,
and, perhaps, much to you."
He brushed his silk hat on his sleeve in an absent-
minded way, looked thoughtfully at the shattered face
of the cupboard by the side of the fireplace, and then,
with another sigh and a little bow, waddled out, a picture
of dejection.
Amery sat listening to his footfalls, until there was
silence in the office. Then he lit a thin black cigar and
blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling. A deep frown
furrowed his forehead: his expression was one of irri-
tation. Nobody would have guessed that his mind was
wholly concentrated upon Elsa Marlowe.


CHAPTER XLIV
MAJOR AMERY GOES OUT
THE church bells were striking seven when he walked
out into Wood Street and, reaching Cheapside, allowed
three taxis to pass him before he called the fourth. Be-
fore he could put his hand upon the bell of his door,
it was opened by Feng Ho, who followed him into his
study.
"Do you know a man named Jarvie?"
Amery nodded.
"He was arrested this afternoon. He and a man
named Sainson, at Hull."
Amery nodded again. "Bickerson is busy," he said.
"One supposes that the fall of Doctor Ralph Hallam is
very near at hand."
"If I had my way, he should sleep on the Terraces of
the Night," said Feng Ho murderously. They were
speaking in the Chinese dialect, the Chinaman standing
by the desk, looking down at his master, as he went over
his letters.
"That is a heavy punishment for folly, Feng Ho."
"For murder, master," said Feng Ho. "For this Hal-
lam killed the old man. Was I not in the room, search-
ing, when he came in? Did I not hear, with my re-
markable ears, the 'swiff' of the knife, as it came from
his pocket. I think I was a fool to have turned out the
lights when I came into the house, but it was very tempt-
ing. The control switch is just inside the door below
the stairs, and I turned it out because I wanted to make
266


MAJOR AMERY GOES OUT 267
sure whether the old man was awake. If he had been,
the lights going out would have brought him on to the
landing."
"Nevertheless, you're wrong. The man who killed
Tarn was Stillman."
The Chinaman clucked his lips impatiently, but made
no other comment. He followed his master upstairs,
and, while he was in his bath, laid out Amery's dress
suit. The sinister man had nearly finished his dress-
ing before he gave his instructions,
"I shall be in Box I—that is the box nearest to the
stage. Get me the 'listener.'"
Feng Ho found a small flat black box in a drawer
and, bulky as it was, Amery put it in the tail pocket
of his dress coat.
"And a gun," said Amery.
Feng Ho produced from the same receptacle a short,
heavy Browning, snapped home the magazine, and, pull-
ing back the jacket, fastened the safety catch.
"This is better," he said.
As if by magic, there appeared in his hand a short,
broad knife with a lacquered handle. He stropped it
tenderly on his palm and, stooping, picked up a piece of
tissue paper that had come out of Amery's collar box;
this he rolled into a ball and threw it into the air. As
it fell, the knife flickered, and the paper ball fell in two
parts.
"'All men fear steel,'" he said, quoting the old Can-
tonese proverb, with some smugness. "It is silent and
swift and very satisfactory."
Major Amery smiled. "So I should think," he said
dryly, "but I will take the gun." He pushed it into his
hip pocket. "And now get me sandwiches and a glass
of Tokay. Have the car in the little street that runs
by Covent Garden Market. You'd better be in the


MAJOR AMERY GOES OUT 269
“In her room,” snapped Mrs. Hallam, “where she
spends all her evenings. Is she staying here for life?”
“She'll be going in a day or two. Come in here.”
He opened the drawing room door and almost dragged
her in.
“Now listen, Lou : I'm in a pretty bad way. There is
trouble—police trouble—and it will require all my in-
genuity to crawl out of the wreckage when my affairs
collapse, as they will very shortly. I have a little ready
money, but I want a whole lot, and you've got to help
me all you can, unless you wish your allowance to drop
dead.”
“What is all this?” she asked suspiciously.
“Now listen.” She saw he was in deadly earnest.
“I want you to stay here till eleven o'clock, then you can
go out to supper. You were going to the Mispah,
weren't you? There's a late dance. Stay till it breaks—
that will be two in the morning.”
She shot a suspicious glance at him. “I see,” she
said, and he would bave been dense if he had missed the
sneer in her tone.
“No warm is coming to the girl; you need have no
fear of that,” he assured her.
“Even that wouldn't keep me awake at night,” she
said callously. “But I think you're well advised, Ralph,
not to go too far there. She's got a letter for you.”
His mouth opened in amazement.
“A letter for me? What do you mean?”
“The maid found it under her pillow this morning,
addressed to Doctor Ralph Hallam, and in Amery's
handwriting. On the top of the envelope are the words
“To be used in emergency.’ You're looking a little white,
Ralph. What has he got on you?”
“Nothing,” said the man roughly. “How do you
know it is his?”


MAJOR AMERY GOES OUT 273
cused. She wondered how many women had fallen in
love with him, or whether any had had the vision to get
beneath the unpleasing surface and find something wor-
shipful. Not that she worshiped him, she told herself
hastily, or even loved him. She wasn't sure, now that
she came to analyze her mind, that she liked him. This
was sliding on a treacherous surface, she decided, and
took up her head phones in time to hear the burst of ap-
plause that followed the opening aria.
The reception was perfect; it almost seemed as if she
were sitting in a box within a few feet of the stage.
Every note, every delicate cadence, was clearly marked.
Marguerite was singing when, of a sudden, the voice
died down, and, instead, came a hubbub of sound which
she could not understand. A voice said: “Go away—
get off the stage!” And then another spoke thunderously
in her ears.
“Elsal”
She gasped. It was the voice of Major Amery.
“Elsa, lock your door and barricade it. Admit no-
body! Do you hear? Lock your door immediately.
You are in the deadliest danger!”


CHAPTER XLV
THE ALARM CALL
ALMOST at the back of his box Major Arnery sat,
listening, and yet not listening, to the delicious harmonies
of the opera. The box next to him was empty. Twice
he had opened the little black box and taken out some-
thing which looked like a stethoscope, the disk end of
which he had applied to the wall. No sound came from
the box, until the curtain had gone up on the last act
of "Faust." Then, without the aid of his microphone,
he heard a sound of chairs being moved. Two men had
come into the box, and he judged, from the location of
their voices, that they, too, were sitting weft back from
observation. He put the receiver to the wall and listened,
imtnediately recognizing the two voices.
"she is the biggest card to play. We may be able
to pull off a hundred to one chance if you get her"
The second voice mumbled something, and then:
"1 had thought of that. We can kill two birds
with one stone. The stuff is in the box, of course?
The old man took it away from Stanford's the night be-
fore his death and brought it to his place in Elgin
Crescent. It is all American stuff and easy to change, but
I must have the girl as well. I have arranged that
Eleven o'clock—five minutes to eleven I believe in
working to a time-table."
There was a silence, and at that moment Amery in-
cautiously jerked at the thin wire connecting the micro-
phone with the small battery at the bottom of the black
274


THE ALARM CALL 275
box The wire snapped. Instantly his capable fingers
were stripping the silk covering from either end, and a
new junction was made. But when he put the receiver
to the wall, there was a silence. He thought for a mo-
ment that the battery had gone wrong, and, dropping the
ear pieces, he stepped out into the corridor and opened
the door of the next box stealthily. It was empty!
"Five minutes to eleven!"
And they worked to schedule! He looked at his watch
and gasped. It was exactly that hour.
Only for a second did he hesitate. Marguerite was in
the center of the stage, enthralling the silent audience
with her glorious voice, but he did not see her, did not
hear her. All he knew was that, somewhere in London,
a defenseless girl was listening-in, and in another second
he had leaped from his box to the stage.
Immediately the house was in an uproar. Marguerite
fell back affrighted, on the verge of tears; fierce voices
called him from the wings; but he was walking along the
footlights, looking for the microphone, and then he found
it and, stooping, shouted his warning. In another
second strong arms had gripped him and pulled him back
out of sight, and he was facing an enraged manager.
"Send for a policeman," said a shrill voice. "He's
drunk!"
Two stalwart stage hands were holding his arms; the
manager, almost hysterical with rage, was shaking his
fist in the expressionless face; and then Amery said:
"Take me to your office. I've something to say to
you."
"You can say it here!" screamed the theatrical man.
"How dare you, you scoundrel!"
Amery said something in a low voice, and the man's
expression changed.
"You're probably bluffing, but come along," he said


276 THE SINISTER MAN
gruffly, and the sinister man followed him to a little
office behind the stage.
There was a telephone on the table, and, without ask-
ing permission, Amery took it up.
He got his party, and for three minutes he was speak-
ing rapidly, fiercely, while the dazed manager listened,
dumbfounded. Presently he put the instrument down.
"The way out—quick!"
The manager piloted him down and up stairs, along
narrow corridors, and finally into the street.
"I'll help you find your car. Do you want any as>
sistance?"
Amery shook his head. "Herbert Mansions," he said,
as he sprang on the footboard and took his place by the
driver's side. "Go slow, as you go round the corner;
I want to pick up Feng Ho. After that, remember, there
are no traffic regulations in London for me to-night!"
Elsa heard the words and listened, stunned, for a mo-
ment beyond comprehension. It was the voice of the
sinister man, warning her to lock her door.
She tore the phones from her head, ran to the door,
and turned the key, and, as she did so, she heard a
rustling sound outside, and the handle turned in her hand.
"Who is there?" she asked affrighted.
And then there came to her ears a scream that ended
in a stifled sob, a scream that turned her blood to water.
"Help!"
It was Lou Hallam's scream that rose and died to a
gurgle.
She thought she was going to faint, but, calling into
play all her will power, she pulled at the box and set it
against the door. In another minute the little bedstead
had been wrenched across the room and wedged against
the box.
"Open, I want to come in," said a muffled voice.


28o THE SINISTER MAN
She nodded.
"How did you come to have it? But I can guess the
answer. You took it, then?"
She nodded again. "I borrowed it." She spoke
with difficulty.
"I see."
So that was the explanation—and a logical one!
"Now, young lady"—he turned to the girl—"I think
we can leave Mrs. Hallam for a while. I want to see
you in a place of safety. Will you stay here for five
minutes and promise not to move?"
She nodded, and the next instant he had disappeared.
She guessed, from the direction he took, that he was
in her room, and she speculated on what took him there.
True to his word, he was back in five minutes, carrying
a suit case which she recognized as her own. The
thought that he had been collecting her clothes was so
odd that she could have laughed.
"I think the Palace Hotel is a very safe place for you
to-night," he said.
The girl glanced at Mrs. Hallam, who had recovered
her normal pallor.
"You had better ring up your husband and tell
him "he began, and then the sound of a key in the
front door made him walk into the passage.
Ralph Hallam stood stock-still at the unexpected ap-
parition of the sinister Amery.


CHAPTER XLVI
THE ARREST
"WHAT are you doing here?" he asked harshly.
"The same question might be applied to you," was the
:ool response. "Really, Hallam, you are the quickest
mover I know!"
"Where are you going, Elsa?" demanded Hallam.
"I'll save this lady the trouble of answering you.
I'm taking her to the Palace Hotel, where she will be
safer."
Ralph saw the light coming from his wife's room and
strode down the passage. One glance he gave at the
room, its tumbled contents, and the pale face of the
woman, and then he spun round.
"What is the explanation of this?" he demanded.
"You're not getting away with this, Amery."
"Somebody attacked your wife and made his escape,
as I came in."
"How did you get in?"
Amery smiled. "I am going to answer no more ques-
tions to-night. I haven't the time," he said and was
walking to the door, when Ralph stood before him.
"What have you got in that suit case?"
Amery considered a second, then: "Something over
a million dollars," he said coolly, "the property of Miss
Marlowe. I found it in the bottom of her box, and I
am now about to put it in a place of safety."
Ralph's face went red and white.
"You're not leaving here until you explain"
281


THE ARREST 285
"See who go?" asked the other sourly. "If you mean
Amery, I didn't."
He was turning to walk away, when Feng Ho seized
his arm and poured forth such a stream of voluble,
pedantic English that for a time Hallam could not grasp
his meaning.
"Who is he?" he asked incredulously.
"They have incarcerated him, I tell you, medical sir,"
said the Chinaman, in a state of anguish.
"Tell me again what you said—who is Major Amery?"
And, when Feng Ho had finished, Ralph turned to the
chauffeur.
"Which way did the cab go?"
"I didn't notice, sir. You can easily find out. Drive
up to the end of the road."
It was not until Feng Ho gave the order that the
chauffeur obeyed.
At the end of the street they found a policeman who
had seen a cab, which might or might not have been
that in which Amery was traveling. When, after five
minutes' drive, they overtook the taxi, they found it was
empty. Another clew brought as unsatisfactory an end-
ing, and then, when Feng Ho had sent the car in a third
direction and had himself elected to walk to the nearest
police station, a cab came past, and he saw, by the re-
flected light of the lamp that was burning inside, a face
which he immediately recognized.
It was only for the fraction of a second that he saw
the man. The cab was going at a good pace, and there
was no rime to recall the car. With long, tireless strides,
Feng Ho went in pursuit. The machine drove across
Bayswater Road, entered a narrow thoroughfare that
opened into a square, and then began the ascent of a
slight rise.
He was gaining on the cab when there appeared from


THE ARREST 287
five or six feet in depth, of similar length, and about
two feet wide. It had obviously been dug by skilled
hands.
"What is that?" whispered the girl.
She was crouching at Amery's side.
"It looks like pater's garage," he said coolly. "You
know what this place reminds me of, Dame?"
"I don't want to hear anything from you," growled
the man.
"It reminds me of an execution shed. That hole
could be made a little wider and a little deeper, a wooden
trap, a lever for release, a stout oak beam and a steel
winch. It's a horrible feeling to be wakened at six in the
morning and be told to dress yourself in the clothes you
wore at the trial. I've seen men go mad—better men
than you, Dame. Ever read Wilde's poem:
"The hangman with his gardener gloves
Slips through the padded door,
And binds one with three leathern thongs
That the throat may thirst no more."
"Blast you!" screamed Dame, his face livid and in
his eyes a great fear. "I'll tear your cursed tongue out
if you don't keep your mouth shut!"
Amery chuckled softly. He had to look across his
shoulder at the man, for he was held tight to the bolt
in the wall.
"Come on, you!" Dame was speaking to the girl, and
Amery's eyes glittered.
"You'll look after her, Dame, because, while there
is a chance of reprieve for plain murder, any aggravation
of the crime, anything that turns the jury's mind to
loathing—don't forget they have woman jurors in mur-
der trials—will make it hard for you and friend Still-
man."


288 THE SINISTER MAN
"Take her out!" cried Dame hoarsely. "Through
that door." His hand was shaking like a man with
ague.
The girl was clinging to Amery.
"Don't let me go—don't let me go!" she begged, half
mad with terror.
"Hush!" His voice was gentle and infinitely sweet.
"I love you too dearly to have you hurt. You will
remember that, won't you? The 'sinister man' loves
you better than anything in life."
He dropped his head down to the white, upturned
face, and their lips met, and in that moment of supreme
happiness she forgot their dreadful surroundings, for-
got the danger in which they stood, was conscious only
of the glory which wrapped her as in a sheet of living
flame. In another second the arm of the first man
was about her and had lifted her bodily to the other
side of the shed.
"You go quiet!" he hissed. "If you raise a scream,
I'll bash your head in!"
Amery's eyes, baleful as a snake's, were on him, and,
despite his commanding position, the man wilted.
Elsa was struggling to escape from the encircling arm.
Her mouth was open to scream, when a big hand
closed on her face.
"Help me with her!" snarled the man, and Dame
was leaping across the pit, when exhausted nature took
its toll, and Elsa lay inert in her captor's arms.
"She's fainted. 'Thank Heaven for that!" thought
Amery, watching the girl with hungry eyes till the door
closed on her, leaving him alone with one whom he
judged to be his executioner.


CHAPTER XLVII
IN THE HOUSE OF DEATH
"Now, young fellow"—Dame was almost jocose—
"you've got a very little time to live, and that time won't
be so full of misery!"
He made no attempt to approach his victim. In one
corner of the room was a large barrel, which he rolled
near to the hole, and, knocking off the head, turned it
over on its side.
A stream of gray dust poured forth, and, upending
the barrel, he emptied it into a big heap. At the farther
end of the shed was a tap and two pails, and Amery
watched him, as he set the water running. In a little
time Dame came back with the pails full and, making a
hole in the center of the heap, poured water gently into
the cavity, stirring it with a spade.
"I gather that you are the lord high executioner?"
said. Amery calmly.
In spite of the man's bravado he was trembling from
head to foot.
"No, I'm not," he said. "That's nothing to do with
me. I'm going to put you where you won't be found."
"A plasterer? I thought by your face you were a car-
penter," said Amery.
"Who told you that? I was a carpenter. I don't
want to talk to you."
He began plying the spade with vigor, throwing in
shovelfuls of fine sand, and he mixed it until the heap
was of the consistency of mortar. He paused to rest
289


CHAPTER XLVIII
THE EXECUTIONER
THE large, fat face of Mr. Tupperwill was creased
in an expression of pain and distaste. His mild eyes
sought the prisoner's, held for a second, and then wan-
dered to the deep pit and the heap of slaked mortar.
"Everything has been done as it should have been
done," he commented. "It is such a relief to be able
to depend upon one's friends! I dare say you yourself
have suffered from the inefficiency of subordinates in
little matters?"
Amery smiled contemptuously, but did not offer to
speak. The silence in that room, with its deadened
walls and draped ceiling, was so profound that he could
hear the ticking of his watch.
"One likes to deal with dependable people, even in the
trivial affairs of life." Mr. Tupperwill spoke earnestly.
"'Trivial,' by the way, does come, as French suggests,
from two Latin words, meaning the three crossroads
where gossips meet."
Again his eyes sought Amery's.
"Theologians, great thinkers, metaphysicians, the
brightest minds that science has known, have speculated
upon what you so soon will know for certain, Major
Amery!" he said, as he sighed heavily. "Is there an
after life? Who knows? Is it possible that the theory
of a future state was born of man's vanity and the pre-
posterous assumption that such perfect creatures as we
are, must, as a reward for our perfection, enjoy another
existence which we deny to the common animals?"
203'


294 THE SINISTER MAN
As he was talking, he was fumbling in the pocket of
his long frock coat, and, when his hand was withdrawn
from the folds, it held a thick stick of irregular pattern.
Amery recognized it immediately as the sjambok with
which the banker had been struck down on the night
he and his confederate had made their first attempt
upon him, and when Tupperwill, in his anxiety, had in-
cautiously come a little too close to the struggling man.
"This, I think, you know. It was taken from your
study a few nights ago, when my friends visited your
house, for purposes of—ah—inspection. That stain"—
he pointed to the end—"is blood. It is my blood.
Observe!"
He bent his head, so that Amery could see the angry
scar his blow had left.
"My blood is very precious to me," he said, "and has
an importance greater than any, as you will learn.
With such a weapon as this," said Mr. Tupperwill in his
even way, "it is possible to beat a man so that he is be-
yond recognition, to beat him until he dies. I dare say
that, considering in your mind the mode of death that
I had planned for you, various methods, such as shoot-
ing, killing, hanging, perhaps, or something equally pain-
less, must have occurred to you? Even my friends in
all probability pictured some such system."
He looked across to Stillman for confirmation. Still-
man's attitude was curious. He seemed entirely under
the spell of the stout man's eloquence, and he had neither
eyes nor mind for the prisoner. He was gazing intently
upon the banker, hanging on to every word he spoke, his
lips moving, as though he were repeating, syllable by syl-
lable, all that "the big man" said.
Tupperwill examined the chains and bolts, tested them
by exerting all his strength, felt the handcuffs, the strap
about the prisoner's feet, and, as if satisfied with his scru-


296 THE SINISTER MAN
"You dare not! He'd shoot you like a dog. You
know him better than I do. Besides, we're both in it
What does it matter—one more or less?"
"He might have used the knife," growled the man.
"It is butchery. Where's the girl?"
"In there/' Mr. Dame nodded to a door leading from
the kitchen. "That's the pantry. I've got a bed there.
What are we to do with her?"
"Keep her."
"Here!" shrieked the horrified Dame. "She can't stay
here! My daughter would find her."
"Then send your daughter away. You've any number
of rooms. Dope her with that."
He banged a little bottle down on the table, and the
other examined it stupidly.
"Did he get that?"
Stillman nodded.
"He thinks of everything," breathed Dame.
"Give her a few drops in her tea." said Stillman, "and
she will give you no trouble. The rooms at the top of the
house are furnished?"
Dame nodded.
"Put her there. What time do you expect that girl of
yours home?"
"Not before two."
The bald man looked up at the noisy clock that was
ticking above the mantelpiece.
"It's only twelve now. My word, only twelve, and it
seems years! What is he going to do with her?"
"I don't know," impatiently. "He'll fix her to-
morrow. She'll not give you any trouble, I tell you.
She's quiet enough now."
He opened the door and peered in. There was no lamp ,
in the pantry, but, by such light as the kitchen supplied,
he saw a bed in one corner and a figure that lay motion-


THE EXECUTIONER 297
less. Closing the door noiselessly, he came back to the
brooding Dame. Their eyes went to the clock together.
"Ten minutes," said Dame. "You're going to help
me?"
Stillman looked round sharply.
"That is not my business, Dame. Don't be a fool.
There isn't ten minutes' work in it."
The other licked his dry lips.
*'Suppo«e they trace him? This would be the first
place tuey'd search. They'd see the floor was newly
cemented."
"Who is going to trace him—the chink? You can
ease your mind; the chink's dead. I settled him, myself.
Look'"
The white cuff showing under the sleeve was dabbled
red. Dame drew a long, sobbing breath.
"Oh, I wish I was out of it!"
"Don't let him hear you," warned the other, "or you'll
be out of it in a way that you least expect!"
The clock ticked, but the hands did not seem to move.
They sat dumbly, waiting for the minutes to pass. Ten
eternal minutes went at last.
"Come, now, do your job," said Stillman.
The man did not move. Fifteen minutes, and then
Stillman's hand fell on his shoulder, and he jumped up
with a scream. Like a blind man, he staggered down the
garden and stood for fully five minutes at the door of the
garage, his heart thumping so that it seemed to choke him.
At last, gritting his teeth, he pulled open the door. The
candle had burned down to the socket: it spluttered, died,
flared up, spluttered again, and then went out: but in that
brief moment of light he saw the empty handcuffs and,
out of the corner of his eye, a figure at the bottom of the
pit.
The perspiration streamed down his face: he was sob-


CHAPTER XLIX
THE ESCAPE
ELSA knew she had fainted, knew this while she was
unconscious—knew that something horrible had hap-
pened, and she groaned, as she turned on the hard bed.
Her elbow came into contact with the wall, and the pain
of the blow did much to bring her to complete conscious-
ness. Her head was throbbing, and she felt a queer flut-
tering in her throat; when she tried to stand up, her knees
gave way under her, and she fell back on the bed. And
then, .in a flood of terror, she remembered. Paul Amery
was a prisoner, and they were going to kill him—and he
loved her!
She struggled toward where four tiny circles gleamed
in the darkness. They were holes cut into the pantry
door, and through them she looked out upon a kitchen
which at first she did not recognize. A man sprawled
across the table, his head on his arms, an empty glass and
& nearly empty bottle by his side. Mr. Dame!—Jessie's
father.
She tried the door; it was fastened. Yet there was
hope, for the man was fast asleep, and if she could only
find a way of opening the door, escape was assured.
She heard his deep snores and pressed with all her might;
but, though the door gave slightly, her most strenuous
efforts failed to wrench loose the fastening. She was
weak, but, even if she had been stronger, it might have
been a task beyond her strength to break the stout hasp.
There was nothing to do but to wait, and waiting tortured
her mind with thoughts of what would happen to the mar
299


CHAPTER L
THE MORNING AFTER
AT eleven o'clock the next morning Inspector Bicker-
son walked into the office of his superintendent and
dropped wearily into a chair. Wille looked up from
under his shaggy brows and demanded:
"Well?"
"Well enough for you, super," said Bickerson bitterly,
"but for me it's been terrible. What with a lunatic girl's
statements and frantic cock-and-bull stories about Soyoka,
I haven't stood in one place from five o'clock this morn-
ing! According to the telephone message you sent me,
the girl stated specifically that Amery was a prisoner, if
he wasn't dead, at Dame's house. She's either mad or
dreaming," said Bickerson decisively. "I was at Dame's
house before eight o'clock. Evidently he had been drink-
ing heavily, for he was still far from sober. I went to the
garage, and I certainly was suspicious when I saw that
there had been a hole in the center of the garage, and that
it had been filled in. That looked almost as if Miss Mar-
lowe's story was true. But I had it opened, every scrap
of earth and cement taken up—fortunately, the cement
hadn't had time to set—and not only was there no sign of
a body but there never had been a body!"
"Marks of blood?"
"None. The floor had recently been washed, but
Dame explained that by telling me that he'd had a clean
out the night before. He explained the hole by telling me
that he had been trying to dig a pit for his car, but, find-
302


THE MORNING AFTER 303
ing himself encroaching on gas and drain lines, he wisely
gave it up. My laborers found pipe lines six feet below
the surface of the garage."
The superintendent consulted a memorandum.
"There were no blankets hanging on the walls to
deaden the sound?"
"No, but there had been. I found a heap of blankets
in a corner of the garage."
The superintendent leaned back in his chair.
"Isn't it queer Amery hasn't turned up?"
Bickerson shrugged his broad shoulders.
"I have stopped trying to keep a tag on Amery."
"And this other story"—Wille turned over a pile of
papers and found a document—"this suggestion that the
head of the Soyoka gang is Tupperwill? Have you seen
him?"
"I've just come from him/' said Bickerson. "His
worst offense, from my point of view, is that he is a very-
loquacious and long-winded gentleman, whose mind is
completely taken up with the questions of licensing hours
and the need for introducing prohibition into working-
class districts. I asked him point-blank what communi-
cation he had had with the Soyoka people, or if he knew
anybody, or had any clients on his books who might be
Soyoka's agents, and he gave me the impression that I was
a harmless lunatic that needed humoring. He said he'd
never heard of Soyoka, and I couldn't even get him to un-
derstand that he might be under suspicion of being
Soyoka himself. I had the good luck to catch him just
outside the bank; he had been spending the night at
Brighton, he told me, and hadn't been home. When I
told him I was a police officer, his chief concern seemed to
be whether there had been a burglary at his house."
Superintendent Wille's frown was intensified.
"I don't understand it," he said. "There must be


THE MORNING AFTER 305
swered Bickerson. "What were your business troubles?"
"Oh, the office, and the way Major Amery goes on, and
all that sort of thing," said Jessie Dame desperately.
"I can't explain."
"You left home early this morning? I was at your
home before eight, but I did not see you."
"Yes, I came away very early."
In truth, Jessie Dame had walked the streets that night,
and if she was lying now, it was in obedience to the ur-
gent note that she had found waiting for her on her ar-
rival at the office, giving her exact instructions as to what
she was to say and ending with a horrific threat that
chilled her blood to read.
"You didn't by chance find Miss Marlowe in your
house, locked up in a cupboard?"
For a fraction of a second she struggled to find her
voice.
"No, sir," she gulped at last, "and if Miss Marlowe
says that I did, she is not telling the truth. I don't know
what happened last night," said the girl. "I really don't
know! I had one glass of wine, and it sort of went to
my head."
"You heard nothing about Major Amery being locked
up in your garage?"
The green turned to a sickly white. Jessie staggered
back against the table.
"Major Amery?" she said hollowly. "Locked up in
our garage? What do you mean?"
"I see, you know nothing about that. Didn't Miss
Marlowe tell you?"
She was almost eager in her reply. It was such a re-
lief to tell the truth.
"Major Amery isn't here this morning?"
She shook her head, not trusting her voice.


THE MORNING AFTER 307
correspond with the position of the building, and certainly
there has been a hole in the floor."
She shivered.
"But, as I tell you, there was nothing in the pit but
earth and drying cement. I think you must have
dreamed this. Hadn't you visited Mr. Dame's house
the day before?"
"Yes."
"Did you see anything there that suggested a pit to
you?"
She looked at him, frowning.
"I "she began. "Why, yes, I saw a man come out
of the garage with a spade in his hand."
"Exactly!" he said triumphantly. "I don't know the
name of the nervous disease from which you are suffer-
ing, but perhaps Doctor Hallam will tell you."
"I didn't imagine all I saw last night," she said in a
low voice. "You were talking to Jessie Dame; she can
confirm my story."
"On the contrary," said Bickerson, "that is just what
she doesn't do! Miss Dame says she did not find you in
a cupboard, or release you, or do any of the things which
vou said she did."


CHAPTER LI
THE BANK
For a moment Elsa stared at him incredulously, and
then her face changed.
"Of course, poor girl! She's afraid of her father."
Mr. Bickerson threw out his hands in a hopeless ges-
ture.
"I'd sooner have any kind of case than this," he said
in despair. "A witness with illusions is a nightmare! I
don't want to hurt your feelings, but I can't bdieve you.
Major Amery hasn't come?"
"No, I don't think he's come," she said, ignoring the
doubt he was throwing on her sanity. She tried the
door. "Why, it's locked!"
"Was it locked last night?"
"I don't know. I left before him," she said slowly.
Stooping, she looked through the keyhole.
"The key is not there. I think I can open it with the
key of my door," she said, and this she did.
The office was exactly as Amery had left it. The
cleaners had not been able to get in. A few cigarette
ends lay in the grate and a half-burned cigar. She of-
fered no further information, and, after a glance around,
Bickerson walked out of the room, and she followed.
"He is a mysterious fellow," said the detective, "but
not quite as "He was at a loss for a word.
"'Sinister' is the expression you want," suggested the
girl, with a faint smile.
"Yes, it is," he said in surprise. "No, he's not as
308


310 THE SINISTER MAN
leave the flat until long after Amery went. I've been
round to see him, but he's not at home."
Another long pause.
"This case grows queer. Keep in touch with the
office, Bickerson."
"I'll do something more than that," said the detec-
tive; "I'll watch that girl. There is something about
the business that I do not like."
Whether she were watched or unwatched, Elsa
Marlowe was indifferent. The hours passed with leaden
feet; at every sound she started up; not once, but fifty
times, did she open the door of Amery's room and peep
in, hoping—praying, indeed—that he would come in his
old, furtive way, and every time she looked she saw
nothing but his chair and the blotting pad, and the bell
above her head was silent.
He must have escaped—he must!
Weary as she was and reluctant to leave the office,
for fear he should come in, she made a journey back
to the hospital to inquire after the condition of Feng
Ho; she was relieved to learn that he was so far out
of danger that she might see him. Elsa was most
anxious to learn all she could about his master, for she
guessed that this little man would know far more about
him, if he were free, than the best detective in the
world.
Feng Ho looked up at her, as she came into the
private ward, which he occupied alone, and greeted her
with a grin.
"Perforations of thorax notwithstanding," he said
faintly, "scientific bachelor will escape mortality on this
occasion."
She read the question in his eyes and shook her head.
"I don't know. When did you see the major last?"


THE BANK 311
"Last night, young miss," he said gravely. "Has he
not resumed appearance in commercial centers of the
City of London r"
"No, Feng Ho," she answered quietly.
"Then Tupperwill knows."
"Mr. Tupperwill?"
He nodded. "Mr. Tupperwill is an extremely dan-
gerous character, being connected with Nipponese
Soyoka, purveyor of noxious and intoxicating drugs."
"But surely you're mistaken? Not Mr. Tupperwill?"
"Yes, young miss. The honorable major has dis-
tinct information. All errors are eliminated."
She could only gaze at him in stupefied wonder.
That pleasant bore, engaged in a criminal conspiracy?
It was impossible.
"Did you tell Mr. Bickerson?" she asked.
"Young miss, eminent detective policeman has not yet
interrogated owing to reluctance of medical officials to
risk elevation of temperature. Young miss"—his voice
was a whisper—"you must exercise great care owing
to absence of major. I desire you to call at major's
house and instruct Chang to hasten to me. Give him
explicit directions, remembering he is a poor, ignorant
Chinaman, of dubious parentage and deplorable educa-
tion."
He seemed so exhausted by this effort that she made
no further attempt to question him, and, after exchang-
ing a few words with the matron, she took a taxi to
Brook Street.
The major's housekeeper had not had word of him,
nor had his butler.
"Can I see the Chinese servant?"
"Yes, miss," said the housekeeper, "though he doesn't
speak much English."


CHAPTER LIT
RALPH HALLAM'S COAT
THE failure of Stebbing's Bank was reported to the
duty officer at Scotland Yard within five minutes of
the notice being posted, and Superintendent Wille
dispatched an orderly in search of Bickerson. That
officer was taking an afternoon doze in his room, the
blinds drawn, when the constable came for him, and he
hurried to the bureau of his chief.
"Look at this," growled Wille, pushing the paper across
the table.
Bickerson read and whistled.
"The City police closed the bank, from information
evidently supplied by Major Amery overnight. There
is a warrant out for Tupperwill and for the auditors,
but Tupperwill seems to have skipped. What time did
you see him?"
"At a little before eleven."
"Was he going into the bank? This report says that
he hasn't been in the City to-day."
"I didn't actually see him go into the bank. I left
him at the entrance of Tredgers Court, not doubting
that he was on his way to his office."
"Did you notice anything unusual about him? Did
he look worried?"
"No," replied Bickerson thoughtfully. "I thought it
queer that he should have gone to Brighton on the pre-
vious night; that struck me as strange for a man of
his settled habits. But there was nothing at all remark*
able in his appearance or his manner."
314


316 THE SINISTER MAN
Ralph's servant admitted the detective. His master
was upstairs, dressing, he said.
"A late bird, eh?" asked Bickerson, in the friendly
tone that has been the undoing of so many innocent and
talkative servants.
"Yes, sir, he was rather late; he was out at a dance
last night."
"Tell him I'm here."
He had been shown into the study at the back of the
house, a small and comfortably fitted room. The win-
dows were open, for it was a mild day, and a window
box, filled with golden daffodils, caught the early after-
noon sunlight.
Bickerson strolled to one of the bookshelves and
scanned the titles aimlessly. Then his inquisitive eyes
roamed systematically around the apartment. Evidently
Ralph had partly changed his clothes in the room, where
he had returned in the early hours of the morning.
His overcoat was thrown over the back of a chair, and
one buttoned dress shoe was under the table, the other
being beneath the chair and hidden by the hanging coat.
Without hesitation Bickerson picked up the coat, slipped
his hand into one of the pockets, found it empty, and
tried the other. And then something attracted his
attention, and he carried the coat to the light. One of
the sleeves was caked hard with some liquid which had
been spilled upon it. He turned back the cuff, and the
lighter lining showed a rusty, red stain.
Blood! He tried the other sleeve. Here the stain
was larger and extended from the cuff halfway up the
inner part of the arm. He picked up one of the shoes
and whistled softly. It was spattered with stains, and
when he scraped them his fingers were covered with
dark red dust.


3i8 THE SINISTER MAN
person or persons unknown, might make a mess of a
man's sleeve."
Bickerson was staggered. "Was it you who found
Feng Ho?" he asked.
Hallam nodded. "I was one of those who assisted
him to the hospital."
Their eyes met.
"The police of the Hammersmith division made no
reference to your being present when Feng Ho was
found."
"They must have overlooked me," said the other
lightly. "And, really, I feel so insignificant in the
presence of police officers that I don't wonder! The
truth is, Bickerson, I was looking for Amery—Feng Ho
and I. He left Herbert Mansions suddenly, and, as his
servant believed, was kidnaped with Miss Marlowe, who,
I am happy to learn, is safe."
"Who told you that?" asked the detective sharply.
"I telephoned this morning, because I saw something
in the evening paper about a young lady who was found
wandering in Kensington."
"You tell that story, too, do you, about them being
taken away? It is an extraordinary case. Presumably
you will be able to account for every minute of your
movements last night?"
"Almost every minute," said the other.
"What time did you return home this morning?"
asked Bickerson.
Ralph hesitated.
"Whatever time my servant said I came is about
accurate," he said. "Some time near four—it may have
been a little later. As for Tupperwill, if that is really
the object of your coming, I am absolutely unable to give
you any information. I know nothing about him, ex-
cept that I have an overdraft at his bank, and that I've


CHAPTER LIII
DAME PASSES
BICKERSON'S interview with Wille was short enough.
Wille and the commissioner had discussed Elsa's story,
and they had decided that further investigation was
necessary.
"See Dame and arrest him. You'd better report to
the local division; they will send a man with you," were
his instructions.
Jessie Dame went home very early that afternoon, in
response to the instructions she had had from her father
that morning. She was sick with fright, as she slowly
mounted the steps of that fateful house and rang the
bell. Dame opened the door himself, and at first she did
not recognize him. His yellow mustache had vanished,
and she stared into the face of a stranger instead of
the familiar visage of "pater."
"Come in," he growled. "You—you've got me into
a mess, you and that And you've got to get me
out!"
"Is anything wrong, father?" she asked, trembling.
"Wrong!" he roared. "Wrong!"
There was no need to ask. His face betrayed the
seriousness of the crisis. He almost dragged her into
the dining room. On the table she saw his grip, packed
and strapped.
"I'm leaving London at once," he said.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm likely to tell you that, ain't I?" he almost howled
320


322 THE SINISTER MAN
"Here, quick!" shouted Bickerson, and the second
detective flew down the stairs into the kitchen.
The bald man lay in a huddled heap on the floor, and
within reach of his hand was a revolver, the barrel of
which was still smoking.
"Get busy on the phone—there is one here. Call an
ambulance and the divisional surgeon, though I don't
think he'll be much use. And keep that girl out!" he
said sharply.
There was little need to tell Jessie what had happened.
With a wild scream she flew toward the open door, but
the detective caught her in his arms and carried the
struggling girl back to the dining room.
By the time the police surgeon and the ambulance ar-
rived, Bickerson had made a very thorough search of
the man's clothes, and the kitchen table was strewn with
the articles he had removed.
"He's dead," said the surgeon. "Suicide—in fear of
arrest, I presume?"
Bickerson nodded.
"I hardly saw it happen," he said. "Not having been
able to question the girl, I don't know what occurred,
but I guess that he saw us from the window of the din-
ing room. I noticed the blind move." He thought a
moment. "It was a lucky shot for that poor, howling
female," he added.
Elsa read the news in the late editions of the evening
papers. She was inured to shock, and, save that her
sympathetic heart softened toward the poor girl who
had saved her from untold horrors, she had no feeling1
except an almost savage satisfaction that the man who
was in some ay responsible for Paul Amery's suffering
had gone to his account.
She dare not let her mind rest upon the sinister man
and his fate. Again and again she told herself that he


DAME PASSES 323
was alive. She sat at her table, her hands clasped be-
fore her, praying, praying that the bell might ring, and
that his sharp voice might call her in to him; and it was
only when the evening came, and she found herself
alone in the building, that for the first time she broke
down and gave way to a flood of passionate weeping.
Her head was aching; her eyes hot and pain ful; misery
was coiled about her heart until it was a pain to breathe;
but at last she flung off her sorrow and, bathing her
face, went out, not knowing whither and caring nothing.
"Elsa!"
As she reached the street a familiar voice called her,
and she turned. Ralph Hallam was standing on the
sidewalk, his debonair self.
"I am not going back to Herbert Mansions, Doctor
Hallam," she said quietly.
"I know," he nodded. "I've taken a room for you
at the Palace. Lou has sent your things there."
The girl hesitated. She had come to regard Ralph
Hallam in the light of an enemy. That he hated Amery,
she knew, and it almost hurt her to accept even this
slight service at his hands.
"Thank you," she said simply, and then: "You've
heard about Jessie's father?"
"Dame? Yes. He was mixed up in a scandal of
some kind, and he shot himself when the police went to
arrest him."
She walked slowly down Wood Street, and he kept
pace at her side, well aware that his presence was ob-
jectionable to her.
"I'm afraid you think I am a pretty bad egg," he said.
"I don't know whether you are or not," she answered
listlessly. "I'm really beyond caring."
"You don't trust me, at any rate."
"Why should I?" she asked quietly.


324 THE SINISTER MAN
"Will you do me one favor?"
She stopped and looked at him, suspicion lurking in
her eyes.
"Will you come to Half Moon Street and let me tell
you the whole truth—the truth about myself and the
truth that I have recently learned about Amery?"
She knew the truth about Amery—that he loved her!
That was the vital, triumphant truth that eclipsed and
obliterated all others.
"I would much rather not," she said. "Besides, there
is nothing for me to know about Major Amery. He has
already told me."
"Do you know that Amery was a detective—is a de-
tective, I mean?" he added hastily, and, seeing that he
had startled her, he went on: "Amery is on the staff
of the Foreign Office Intelligence Department, and he
was brought from India to cope with'the drug traffic. I
never guessed he was working with Bickerson, but he is.
Feng Ho told me last night. They say he is the
cleverest intelligence officer that has ever served in India.
He has been fighting out there with Soyoka's crowd,
and his agents have been everywhere. Sometimes they
pretended to be working for one of the gangs, like that
man Moropoulos, the Greek, who was a detective from
Washington. He has strangled my business; half the
crowd I've been working with are under arrest, and I
expect to be arrested at any moment. It was Amery
who put the police into Stebbing's Bank. Tupperwill
was Soyoka's principal agent; he made a fortune out of
dope, but Amery has finished him! Elsa, I don't know
what is going to happen to me, and I may never be able
to ask you again to dine. Lou will be there."
Again she hesitated.
"I'll come," she said, "but I must first go to the hotel
and unpack."


CHAPTER LIV
WILLE SAYS "NO!"
BY nature Superintendent Wille was a skeptical and
unbelieving man. In nine cases out of ten he had
found, in the course of a long and interesting life, that
his suspicions were justified; and now, as he presided
over a conference of minor officials of Scotland Yard,
'he enlarged upon the creed of disbelief.
"That girl told the truth, Bickerson," he said definitely.
"If it was not the truth, why did Dame commit suicide
the moment you went to arrest him? And if she told
the truth in one particular, she told the truth in another.
We have had the statement of Hallam, that he and the
Chinaman went in pursuit of the cab which carried away
Major Amery and Miss Marlowe. In confirmation, we
have Feng Ho struck down in the open street, probably
in the act of pursuit; and now we have the suicide of
Dame."
"But the girl Dame said "began Bickerson.
"I'm not taking much notice of what the daughter
said. It was her duty to lie on behalf of her father,
and well you guessed she was lying!''
Bickerson could do no more than agree.
"The garage, the pit, the threat of murder, the ab-
duction—they all hang together," Wille went on de-
liberately, "and the fact that there is no body in the
pit proves nothing, except that no murder was committed
in the shed. It does not prove that it was not commit-
ted elsewhere, or that Dame was not privy to the act.
We have Dame's record; he was a man with three con-
326


WILLE SAYS "NO!" 327
victions, and ex-convicts of his mental caliber do not
commit suicide to avoid Dartmoor, but to keep their
feet off the sliding trap of Pentonville. Therefore, I
argue that there has been a murder somewhere. What
is the time?" He looked at his watch. "Half past
nine. Do you know where Miss Marlowe is to be
found?"
"I believe she's staying at Herbert Mansions," said
Bickerson.
"Go along and bring her back here. We will have
her story tested in the light of our subsequent discoveries.
You boys can hang on," he said to the little knot of de-
tectives, major and minor.
At Herbert Mansions, Bickerson interviewed Mrs.
Hallam.
"No, she's not here," said that self-possessed lady.
"As a matter of fact, my husband took a room for her
at the Palace Hotel, and all her trunks were sent there
this afternoon."
This statement Bickerson confirmed. The trunks
and bags had arrived and had been sent up to Miss
Marlowe's room, but she herself had not arrived.
"You're sure?"
"Yes, sir," said the reception clerk. "Miss Marlowe
hasn't taken her key yet," and he lifted it down from
the hook behind him.
To make absolutely certain, a page was sent to the
room and returned with the news that it was not oc-
cupied.
"She couldn't very well come in without our knowl-
edge," said the clerk.
Bickerson was more disturbed than Superintendent
Wille would have imagined. He remembered there was
a night watchman at Amery's office, and he got in touch
with him at once by telephone.


326 THE SINISTER MAN
"Miss Mariowe left the office rather late, sir—nearly
seven o'clock, I think."
"Did she go alone?"
"No, sir; Doctor Hallam was with her. He had been
waiting outside the door for the best part of two hours."
He did not call up Ralph, preferring to make a personal
visit. It was a long time before his knock procured
attention. He saw a light appear in the passage, and
Ralph opened the door to him.
"Hello! What do you want this time?" he asked
cheerfully. "Are you taking me for knifing the China-
man ?'»
"We'll discuss the Chinaman at another time," said
Bickerson coldly, "and then I shall ask you to explain
why you lied to me about finding him and taking him
to ti»e hospital. At the moment, I want to know some-
thing about Miss Elsa Marlowe, with whom, I under-
stand, you were seen at seven o'clock this evening."
"Which is perfectly true," admitted .Ralph. "I called
for her at the office; in fact, I waited there some time
for her."
"And then?" asked Bickerson.
"Then I drove her to Notting Hill. She was going to
call on the girl Dame."
"Are you sure you didn't bring her here?"
"Perfectly sure," said Ralph coolly. "Miss Marlowe
hasn't been in this house in weeks. My servant is out.
or he would support my statement that I returned alone."
His eyes did not waver under the detective's gaze.
"She was seen coming in here," he bluffed.
"Then whoever saw her suffers from illusions," re-
plied Ralph. "I tell you she has not been inside this
house. She is probably at the Palace Hotel, where I
took a room on her behalf."
With this story, Bickerson had to return to his chief.


WILLE SAYS "NO!" 329
"She's not at Dame's house," said Wille decisively.
"The police are in possession, and Miss Dame has been
taken to the home of some very distant relative."
They looked at one another.
"I don't like it," said the superintendent. "Whoever
was responsible for getting the girl away last night is
taking care of her to-night. Warn all stations, with a
full description; patrolmen to be notified that the girl
must be detained wherever and whenever she is found.
At nine o'clock to-morrow morning all officers concerned
in the case will meet at Dame's house. I am going
through that establishment with a fine comb!"
Bickerson went back to his office, leaving the shrewd
old superintendent to make another examination of the
papers and money that had been found on Dame's body.
He was so engaged when the door was pushed open,
and Bickerson came in.
"Can I have a warrant to search ilallam's house?"
he asked.
"No, you can't," grunted the superintendent with-
out looking up, and Inspector Bickerson stared at him.


MASTER OF THE SITUATION 331
"You will spend the rest of this evening in making
a very detailed statement about my connection with the
amateurs, my knowledge of Soyoka, and a few other
particulars with which I will not bother you for the
moment. After"
"After?" she repeated, when he paused.
"You shall please yourself whether you stay or whether
you go. Elsa, there are certain things in this house
that no man or woman has ever seen, important things
that Bickerson, at any rate, would give his head to see
with his own eyes. In a few days I am leaving Eng-
land and starting afresh—under another name, of
course"—he smiled—"in spite of the failure of Steb-
bing's Bank. My friend Mr. Tupperwill has dis-
appeared, as you probably know. His present loca-
tion is a mystery. I can assure you, my dear Elsa,
that his disappearance has made no difference to
me."
The smile faded from his face, and he looked at her
moodily for a long time, and then:
"Elsa, I wanted you once—wanted you very badly.
And maybe it's going to take a long time for you to
forgive my wanting. But somebody wants you more
than I—somebody who will not be denied."
He waited for her to speak, but her lips were closed
firmly.
"Come," he said suddenly and took her by the arm.
She struggled to free herself.
"Let me go—for Heaven's sake, let me go, Ralph!"
"I can't. I swear that you shall not be hurt!"
Weakened as she was, the grip about her arm was
too powerful to be shaken off, and she went with him up
the stairs, scarcely knowing what she was doing.
"This is your room," he pointed. "And this"—he
turned the handle of the second door which led, as she


334 THE SINISTER MAN
expected to," said the superintendent gruffly. "I'm not
pretending that the case was easy. It wasn't."
He opened the door leading into the garden and
stepped out.
"There is the shed at the bottom of the garden. Have
you got the key?"
Bickerson nodded and pulled out two keys tied with
red tape. Wille, taking them from his hand, walked
down the path and, swinging open the heavy door,
stepped inside. He looked down at the earth-filled
break in the concrete floor and then at the walls.
"And there is the ring bolt," he said. "You saw that?
You remember how Miss Marlowe in her statement de-
scribed the bolt through which a chain was drawn?"
He stopped suddenly and touched the wall above the
place where the ring protruded. "Do you see those?"
There were four pear-shaped stains on the brick wall.
"They may be blood, or they may not. Look, there'
are others on the floor!"
He went and called the laborers.
"Open up that hole," he said, "and dig down until
you can dig no deeper."
They strolled out into the garden, while the men be-
gan their work.
"Do you think Amery is dead?" asked Bickerson.
"I thought so yesterday; I'm not so sure to-day," was
the superintendent's reply, and then: "Did you have
this pit thoroughly cleared?"
"Absolutely. I went down as far as the pipes."
"What time did you do this?"
"Early yesterday morning, about eight o'clock."
"And you found nothing?"
"Nothing at all."
"Did you fill in the pit afterward?"
"Yes," said Bickerson; "why?"


336 THE SINISTER MAN
"Yoti have made a very serious statement, Major
Amery," said Bickerson. "You may be able to ex-
plain"
"I'm making another. Put up your hands, Stillman.
Put 'em up!"
Bkkerson's hands went up; his face had the pallor
of death.
"Yoa'll find in his inside waistcoat pocket a most per-
fccriy constructed beard. At the European Bank in
Threadneedle Street, superintendent, you will discover
a balance in his name that will stagger you. Crook from
the day he put on uniform, to the culmination of his
career, when he succeeded in joining the Soyoka gang,
there isn't .a straight place in his life."
A pair of handcuffs snapped about the detective's
wrists, and two of his former comrades hurried "him
through the house into the car that was waiting.
Wille took the arm of the sinister man, and together
they walked out of earshot.
"I got your message last night. How did you finally
escape?"
"I mightn't have got away at all, for Bickerson was
somewhere in the garden, and I was as weak as a rat
from loss of blood. Fortunately, I managed to get the
tfoor open that led into the lane, but even here Stiliman
snijjht have finished what the other devil began, only
there was somebody waiting for me, the last person in
the world I expected to find."
"Not Haflam?" gasped Wille.
"Haltam it was," said the major, with a little wince
of pain. "There is another kind of crook. He got me
out of the lane, took me home, put me to bed and dressed
the injury. There's this excuse for his being a crook,
that he's a pretty bad surgeon! But he was good to


340 THE SINISTER MAN
Ralph scratched his chin.
"N-no," he said. "I think I shall make a desperate
attempt to be respectable. Lou isn't exactly an inspira-
tion, but she's a warning!"
He was scarcely out of Wood Street and had crossed
Cheapside, when he saw the girl go up the street and
pass between the ancient portals.
Of a truth this was a day of wonder and magic to
Elsa Marlowe; for in the darkness of the night, in a room
where she had expected terror, she had met the face of
her dreams, and heard a voice, beloved over all, and had
felt the strength of the enfolding arms.
The sky above was blue, flecked by clouds as fine and
white as the veil of a bride. She came into her office,
hung up her hat, and prepared the typewriter for a
joyous day. And then, before she could sit down, the
bell rang.
Her heart was beating at a tremendous rate, as she
turned the handle and went in.
"Do you want anything, Major Amery?" she asked
breathlessly.
"I want you to kiss me," he said.
She stooped over him; their lips met.
"Take this," he said, in that old, gruff tone of his,
and with a little laugh she sat down and opened her
book. The trembling pencil was making lines of its
own, when he began:
"To THE MANAGER OF THE MONTE ROSA HOTEL, COMO,
ITALY.
DEAR SIK: In a month's time I am bringing my wife to
Como, and I should be glad if you would reserve me a suite!"
THE END


The greatest pleasure in life is
that of reading. Why not then
own the books of great novelists
when the price is so small

<I Of all the amusements which can possibly
be imagined for a hard-working man, after
his daily toS, or in its intervals, there is
nothing like reading an entertaining book.
It calls for no bodily exertion. It transports
him into a livelier, and gayer, and more di-
versified and interesting scene, and while he
enjoys himself there he may forget the evils
of the present moment. Nay, it accompanies
him to his next day's work, and gives him
something to think of besides the mere
mechanical drudgery of his every-day occu-
pation—something he can enjoy while absent,
and look forward with pleasure to return to.
Ask your dealer for a list of the titles
in Burfs Popular Priced Fiction
In buying the books bearing the
A. L. Burt Company imprint
you are assured of -wholesome en-
tertaining and instructive read'


THE BEST OF RECENT FICTION
Mary-Gusta. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Mary Wollaston. Henry Kitchell Webster.
Mason of Bar X Ranch. H. Bennett.
Master Christian, The. Marie Corelli.
Master Criminal, The. J. Jefferson Farjeon.
Master Mystery, The. Austin J. Small.
Master of Man. Hall Caine.
Master of the Microbe. Robert W. Service.
Mating Call, The. Rex Beach.
Mating of the Blades, The. Achmed Abdullah.
Matorni's Vineyard. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Mayflower. Vicente Blasco Ibanez.
Me an' Shorty. Clarence E. Mulford.
Mediocrat, The. Nalbro Bartley.
Meet Mr. Mulliner. P. G. Wodehouse.
Melody of Death, The... Edgar Wallace.
Memoirs of Sherlock Holmes. A. Conan Doyle.
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Mesquite Jenkins. Clarence E. Mulford.
Michael's Evil Deeds. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Million Dollar Doll, The. A. M. Williamson.
Millions in Motors. William West Winter.
Mind of a Minx, The. Berta Ruck.
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Minister of Grace, A. Margaret Widdemer.
Miracle. Clarence Budington Kelland.
Mischief Maker, The... E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Miss Blake's Husband. Elizabeth Jordan.
Miss Brown of X. Y. O. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Missing Initial, The. Natalie Sumner Lincoln.
Missing Millions, The. Edgar Wallace.
Mississippi Hawk, The. Oscar J. Friend.
Miss Mayhew and Ming Yun. Anne Duffield.
Mistral. Max Brand.
Moccasin Telegraph, The. Hal G. Evarts.
Modern Girl, A. W. B. Trites.
Moment of Beauty, The. Samuel Merwin.
Money For Nothing. P. G., Wodehouse.
Money For One. Berta Ruck.
Money, Love and Kate. Eleanor H. Porter.
Money Master, The. Gilbert Parker.
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Owl's House, The. Crosbie Garstin.
Owner of the Lazy D. William Patterson While.
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Painted Ponies. Alan LeMay.
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Pam at Fifty. Baroness Von Hutten.
Pandora Lifts the Lid. Christopher Morley and Dcui Marquis.
Panelled Room, The. Rupert Sargent Holland.
Paradise Bend. William Patterson White.
Partners of the Tide. Joseph C. Lincoln.
Party of the Third Part, The. Blanche Upright.
Passer-By, The, and Other Stories. Ethel M. Dell.
Passionate Quest, The. E. Phillips Oppenheim.
Passion Island. Juanita Savage.
Passionate Rebel, A. Pamela Wynne.
Patrol. Philip MacDonald.
Patrol of the Sun Dance Trail, The. Ralph Connor.
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Pawned. Frank L. Packard.
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Pay Gravel. Hugh Pendexter.
P. D. F. R. Inez Haynes Irwin.
Pearl of Orr's Island, The. Harriet B. Stowe.
Pearl Thief, The. Berta Ruck.
Peggy By Request. Ethel M. Dell.
Peregrine's Progress. Jeflfery Farnol.
Peter Ruff and the Double Four. E. Phillips Oypeuhiiiiu.
Peter Vacuum. Anthony Gibbs.
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Phyllis Anne. Florence Ward.
Pig Iron. Charles G. Norris.
Pigsties With Spires. Georgina Garry.
Pilgrims of Adversity. William McFee.
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Pimpernel and Rosemary. Baroness Orczy.
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Pledged to the Dead. Ernest M. Poate.
Pointed Tower, The. Vance Thompson.
Poisoned Paradise, The. Robert W. Service.
Pollyanna of the Orange Blossoms. Harriet Lummij Smith.
(Trade Mark)
Pollyanna's Debt of Honor. Harriet Lummis Smith.
(Trade Mark)