The quests of Paul Beck
Matthias McDonnell Bodkin



^^^^
PRINCETON
UNIVERSITY
LIBRARY





THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK


SENSATIONAL FICTION
Crown 8vo, Cloth, 6s.
THE BEETLE. By Richard Marsh.
THE DAZZLING MISS DAVISON.
By Florence Warden.
PARADISE COURT. By J. S.
Fletcher.
THE TRAITOR'S WIFE. By W. H.
Williamson.
MAROZIA. By A. G. Hales.
London: T. FISHER UNWIN.






"Slowly the hansom came back to him. The outline grew clearer
and darker. Nearer and nearer he crept." (Sic page 198.)
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THE
QUESTS of PAUL BECK
M.^McDONNELL BODKIN,' K.C.
AUTHOR OP "PAUL BECK, THE RULE-OP THUMB DETECTIVE,"
"DORA UVRL, THE LADY DETECTIVE," ETC ETC.

LONDON
T. FISHER UNWIN
ADELPHI TERRACE
MCMVUI


[All Hights Reserved]



CONTENTS
rAGE
Introduction xi
I. The Voice from the Dead - i
II. Trifles Light as Air 25
III. Drowned Diamonds - - - - 51
IV. The Spanish Prisoner - - - - 77
V. The Murder on the Golf Links- - 107
VI. The Rape of the Ruby- - - - 127
VII. The Ship's Run 161
VIII. Driven Home 189
IX. Twixt the Devil and the Deep Sea - 209
X. The Unseen Hand - - - - *37
XI. His Hand and Seal - - • - 261
XII. Quick Work - - - 289
DEO 101914 3215^0
ni








INTRODUCTION
It may be objected that among all these stories there
is no record of failure on the part of Mr Beck. The
incredulous question will be asked: Was he always
successful? The answer may be given in a confiden-
tial whisper; he was not; nearly always, not quite.
But only his successes are published because the
details are largely derived from after-dinner chats
with the unconscious Mr Beck himself. Like other
people less famous he did not like to talk much about
his failures. Besides, it would be hardly fair to put
them into print if he did. There is another reason
stronger still. Failures make dull stories. To any-
one who has read his adventures it must be plain that
Mr Beck is not devoid of that natural, unaffected
vanity which is one of the most agreeable of social
qualities because it is so conducive to good humour.
He was surprised, but he did not even pretend to be
displeased, when he found himself famous. He was
frankly delighted at the popularity his adventures
obtained, not merely in Great Britain and Ireland, but
in France, Germany and Sweden, where they have
been translated and published in sixpenny editions.
It is with his express permission that the following
stories are told. "They are too flattering," he said,
and, unlike other people who say that, he meant it.
It will be for the readers to judge if he was right.





THE
QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
i
THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD
Plainly Mr Beck was just about to start on a
journey. Piled together in the middle of his study
floor were a bulging Gladstone bag, strapped and
locked, an overcoat, a travelling-rug, a salmon rod,
a trout rod, and a fishing-basket.
He looked up over his shoulder from his desk,
where he was finishing a letter. "You might fetch
a hansom, Burns," he said to his factotum, who was
putting his things together.
"Yes, sir," said Burns, and started for the door.
Then the telephone bell rang in its little glass
closet in the corner of the room.
"See to that, Burns. Tell whoever it is that I
have gone off to the country. It's only anticipating
the truth by a minute or so."
"Yes, sir."
"Halloa! Are you there? Yes; are you there?"
—the usual interchanges went on.
"Yes," Mr Beck heard Burns say. "No; gone
A


2 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
x
away to the country, left no address. Cannot be
done. I tell you it's impossible."
"Well? " asked Mr Beck.
"Must see you, sir. I said you had left no
address. Says someone must know where you are.
Most important."
"They all say that if a teaspoon is stolen."
"She says it's a matter of life and death," said
Burns.
"She?" Mr Beck got up from his chair.
"Yes, sir; a lady's voice, particular clear and
most distinct, sir."
A smile wrinkled Burns' face as he made way for
his master at the telephone.
It was a lady's voice that spoke—a very pleasant
voice despite the metallic twang of the instrument.
"Mr Beck? Is it really! Oh! I'm so glad. I
knew I should find you. I want you here at once.
Yes, Ringwood Castle; you know Simon Rutherford
—he has been missing for two days. Yes, we have
searched everywhere. I'm his daughter, his only
child, Josephine Rutherford. Do please come at
once. Oh! thanks ever so much."
"Burns," said Mr Beck, ruefully turning from
the telephone, "you may put those rods back. I'm
not going fishing—for fish."
"But I thought, sir—"
"Never mind what you thought. Go and call a
hansom and put the bag in it. I'll catch the 10.40
if you look sharp."
The case was important. Simon Rutherford, the
millionaire, had vanished out of the palace he had
built for himself on the slope of a sunny hill amid


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD 3
embowering trees—vanished from the midst of an
army of attendants. "Here," thought Mr Beck,
as he leant back in the first-class carriage of the train
that he had caught with a second to spare, "is a
problem worth solving." The pleasant voice that
called to him for help through the telephone made
the problem more exciting.
A small electric motor waited for him at the
station and bowled him along a broad, smooth
road to Ringwood Castle.
For half its length the avenue of chestnut trees,
which were huge cones of flower, ran up a steep
incline. At a curve Mr Beck caught sight of the
Castle, and was startled by its magnificence. Mr
Rutherford, when he purchased the estate from
the impoverished Lord Hazelton, had pulled down
the crazy family mansion and had built Ringwood
Castle on its site. He was fortunate in his architect
and in his own supreme ignorance of architecture.
The stately building of grey stone, with towers
massive yet graceful, that rose above the tallest of
the trees, crowned the hill superbly, and harmonised
with the surrounding landscape.
The motor wheeled like a swallow on the wing,
and left Mr Beck at the door.
A girl waited for him in the hall and captured him
the moment he appeared. A tall girl, with the
figure of Diana, and gold hair coiled like a crown
on her shapely head.
"So glad you've come!" she cried impetuously,
as she led him along the corridor to a spacious room
that looked out through a French window on the
garden. The room might have been mistaken for


4
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
a bachelor's "den" but for its neatness and the
absence of tobacco.
There were golf clubs, and tennis racquets and
fishing rods. But there was also a couple of book-
cases with rows of standard books in honest, work-
aday binding, meant for use not show. The place,
with its light wicker chairs and its spindle-shanked
tables, was neat as a captain's cabin.
"Sit down there," the girl said, pushing a com-
fortable chair to Mr Beck, "and let me introduce
myself. I'm Josephine Rutherford, only daughter
of the man who has vanished. I sent for you be-
cause I needed you horribly."
Mr Beck smiled. His eyes swept the room at one
glance, and lighted on a man seated in a low chair
at the corner furthest from the door.
"That's Mr Herbert Ross, M.P. He knows who
you are. I don't mean to keep any secrets from
you, Mr Beck. Mr Ross and I are engaged to be
married."
Mr Beck had already guessed her secret as he
summed up the man at a glance. Tall—so far as
could be judged from the loose stretch of his long
limbs as he lay back in his low chair—handsome,
too, after a fashion; a dark, intelligent, keen face
alive with intense earnestness—the face of a man
not easily to be baulked in anything he had set his
heart on.
His dark eyes searched the face of the detective,
who nodded and smiled at the introduction.
"Mr Ross belongs to what I have to say, Mr
Beck," Miss Rutherford went on. "I'll say it as
quick as I can, because I may be interrupted.


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD 5
"We met first—Mr Ross and myself—when he
came down here to contest the seat against father
and won it. I went to one of his meetings and liked
his speech immensely. We met afterwards and
became friends, and to make a long story short he
liked me, and we got engaged to be married. Father
was furious. Herbert is poor, of course—he is a
barrister in London and hasn't much practice yet.
"But it was not that so much which made father
mad. He never could forgive one who had thwarted
him, and he had set his heart on a seat in Parliament,
so Herbert was forbidden the house.
"I was ordered not to write to him, an order to
which I didn't pay the least attention. About a
week later a young widow—at least, she said she
was a widow—was brought down here to be a com-
panion to me. You will see Lucy Lalladay presently,
so I won't say a word that might prejudice you
against her. I didn't like her, I may say that much,
but father did immensely. He could do nothing
without consulting her—had her constantly in his
study, where I was never allowed, and later went
on pleasure trips to London with her. He was
infatuated with her—" She broke off suddenly.
"Mr Beck, I am as certain as I can be
that this wretched woman is at the bottom of his
disappearance."
"But you have told me nothing yet about his
disappearance, Miss Rutherford," said Mr Beck,
ignoring the sudden onslaught on the widow.
"Oh! there is very little to tell. Father had
just come home from a trip with this woman—the
way she made eyes at him was disgusting! The


6 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
next afternoon he was in the study alone with Mr
Mark Strangley, his private secretary. Mr Strangley
had left the room for a few moments, and when he
came back my father had disappeared. Mr Strangley
thought little about it at the time.
"There is a glass door opening on the lawn, and
he fancied perhaps father had gone out for a stroll.
But when father didn't come in to dinner we had
a search made for him through the grounds. It
was no use. Then there was another surprise.
That woman confessed that they had been married a
week ago in London by special licence, and pretended
to go into hysterics, to make matters worse. Well,
we had a farther search next day, but still no
sign; so—"
"You sent for me," said Mr Beck. "Anything
more?"
"Oh, yes! There is another thing most important.
Herbert comes to see me, of course, whenever he
can spare time from his work in London—sometimes
in the morning, sometimes in the evening. He was
seen about the place. He is well known, and there
have been whispers."
"Not to put too fine a point on it, Mr Beck," spoke
up Herbert Ross from his corner, "I am strongly
suspected of having murdered Mr Simon Rutherford."
"Father is not dead," persisted the daughter;
"no one would kill him except that woman, and
she couldn't if she wanted to. You will find him
for us, Mr Beck?"
"I will try," said Mr Beck.
"Would you like to see the study now?"
"Why, certainly, but I would like just one word


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD
7
more with you before we go. What kind of man is
this secretary? I can guess what you think of Mrs
Lalladay, or I should say Mrs Rutherford "—the
daughter winced at the name, but Mr Beck did not
seem to notice. "Now I want to know what you
think of Mr Mark Strangley?"
"Oh! he is a good sort enough; not too clever
perhaps, but honest and straight as a die. For the
first few days after she came I thought he was going
to fall in love with the widow, but he soon found her
out. Afterwards he used to laugh at her with me,
and was almost as indignant as myself at the way
she played upon father's folly. He even spoke to
him about it, and was sharply told to mind his own
business. It was Mark—Mr Strangley I mean—
that advised me to telephone for you."
Again Mr Herbert Ross spoke straight out from
his corner. "I have seen Mark Strangley only
three times," he said, "and I believe him to be a
thoroughpaced scoundrel. Well, well, Joe," good-
humouredly but firmly withal to the girl, who was
about to protest, "we are not likely to agree on this
point. Time may tell who's right."
Then to Mr Beck very courteously: "I have
heard of you, sir, in many quarters and always in
high praise. I am glad you have come. If any
man living can unravel this mystery it is you. Good-
bye, Joe. I cannot stay here, you know. I have
taken a room at the Star and Anchor. It's not a
quarter of a mile off, Mr Beck, and I will come at a
word if you want me."
The two lovers stood for a moment together at
the door. Mr Beck happened to be busy with a note-


8 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
book at the moment and did not look up till the
girl spoke to him again.
Something of the life and buoyancy was gone
out of her voice and face when her lover left.
"You would like to see the study now?"
The study was a wide, airy room on the right of
the hall, with a great, ebony roll-top American
desk in the centre. The floor was of polished oak,
with no rug or carpet to mar the rich, glossy expanse.
The walls, painted a rich maroon, made an effective
background for masterpieces of Romney, Gains-
borough, and Reynolds—high-waisted, full-bosomed
beauties, simpering seductively.
Other ornament there was none. An electric
foot-warmer cushioned in furs was under the com-
fortable arm-chair at the desk, an electric cigar-
lighter was at the writer's elbow, electric lamps—
standard and suspended—were everywhere. There
were half a dozen phonographs in the room, each
perched on a little table of its own with high rubber
castors that glided at a touch over the polished floor.
On the left of the desk was the door from the hall;
to the right a large French window looked upon the
lawn. Facing the writer as he sat at his desk was a
huge safe ten feet square, painted, like the walls,
a dark maroon, with polished brass handles.
It was the first thing that took Mr Beck's atten-
tion. He walked straight to it and tried the handle.
"Locked," said Miss Josephine; "my father
had the key when he disappeared. Oh! is that you,
Mark; how quietly you come in! Mr Beck, this is
my father's secretary, Mr Strangley, who asked me
to send for you." ^


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD 9
Mr Beck's genial smile expressed his gratitude
while his keen eyes studied Mr Mark Strangley.
It was an easy book to read. The figure of an
athlete, clean and strong, a handsome face, blue-
eyed, flaxen-haired, not too clever, and boyish for
his age, which might be thirty. This was Mark
Strangley as Mr Beck first saw him.
"Glad to see you, sir," he said, with hearty
welcome, as he took Mr Beck's hand in a firm grasp.
"I'm glad for Miss Rutherford's sake, for all our
sakes, that you have come."
Miss Rutherford seemed to hesitate for a moment.
"Perhaps I'd better leave you two alone," she
said.
Plainly she wanted to be asked to stay, but Mr
Beck did not ask her. On the contrary, he gallantly
held the door open for her.
"You will find me in my own room when you
want me," she said as she passed out.
"A charming young lady," said Mr Beck when
the door had closed.
"A queen," said Mr Strangley, in accents of un-
disguised adoration; "I pity her from the bottom
of my heart."
"But why pity?"
"First for the loss of her father, then—Oh t
come in "—impatiently.
There had come a timid tap to the door.
As it opened softly Mr Strangley's impatience
changed to deferential welcome. "Mrs Lalladay,"
he said very gently, "I beg pardon, I should say
Mrs Rutherford; this is Mr Beck, the famous
detective, of whom you have heard me speak."


io THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Mr Beck, turning round, saw the most lovely
woman he had ever looked at. All the old-fashioned
similes were wanted to describe her: cheeks like
the rose-leaf, eyes blue as the violet, hair like fine
gold, alive with wave and curl. She was small, but
of figure marvellously erect, lithe, delicately poised
as a fairy. The winsome little lady was dressed all
in black, plain, close-fitting black—a perfect foil to
her rare beauty.
She divided an appealing smile between the two
men.
"Is there any news?" she asked. The question
was to Mr Strangley, but Mr Beck was not excluded.
"None yet," Mark Strangley answered, "but we
must not despair. While there's life there's hope,
you know. If any man living can find your husband
Mr Beck can and will."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" She looked Mr Beck full in
the eyes, and then gave him her hand impulsively—
a white, shapely, firm little hand. As usual, his
kindly face induced confidence. "They say I
didn't love my husband," she complained, " because
he was older than I; that I married him for his
money; but it's false. I couldn't help his leaving
everything to me—could I? But I loved him for
himself alone, and now that I have lost him my
heart is broken. We had a little quarrel that
morning. I spoke in favour of his daughter and
vexed him. He left me in anger, and I may never
see him again." The violet eyes were bright with
tears, but she held them back bravely. "I will give
you everything I have in the world if you find him
for me."


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD u
Beauty in distress always appealed to Mr Beck.
"There is no use meeting trouble half-way," he
said kindly. "Reward or no reward, you may be
sure I'll find him if I can." He did not add "for
your sake," but it was plain from his tone that he
meant it.
,A fleeting blush showed she knew he meant it.
"I won't keep you from your work," she said. "I
wish you all good luck and Godspeed."
Mark Strangley held the door open for her as she
went out.
Mr Beck's eyes were on his face. "If that man
is not in love with the widow," Mr Beck thought,
"he is a very fine actor."
"Let us get to work," he said briskly, when the
door closed. "There has been already too much
delay."
"Won't you have lunch first?"
"No, work first, if you please—lunch later. How
long were you out of the room when he disappeared?"
"About five minutes, not more."
"Could he not have gone out by the same door
that you went by?"
"Impossible. He would have to pass through the
room where I was looking for a paper he sent me for."
"Then he must have gone out through the glass
door?"
"So it would seem, unless he went up the
chimney."
Mr Beck did not resent the sneer. "Yes," he
said, "it seems quite obvious, but one cannot afford
to take even the obvious for granted."
He had opened the glass door and looked out.


12 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
The path ran in full view for at least a quarter of a
mile.
"If he had gone that way you must have seen him
when you returned," he said to Mr Strangley, who
had come up to the door and looked through over his
shoulder.
"Unless he had turned in on the grass, past that
clump of trees to the right," Strangley answered.
"Quite so," said Mr Beck, approvingly. "I
expected you to say just that. I wonder is it too
late to find any sign? Come along!"
Bending low he scrutinised the edge of the pathway
closely as he walked. Twice he found a break in the
clean-cut edge, examined it carefully and went on.
The third time he found the mark of one of the new-
fashioned round rubber heels in the turf. The
ground had been soft when the mark was made—it
was hard now. The segment of the circular heel was
cut deep and clear.
"Mr Rutherford wore rubber heels," he said to
the other, rather as one who makes a statement
than one who asks a question.
Strangley nodded. Mr Beck was on his knees on
the grass sward with a magnifying glass close to the
ground. He put the grass softly aside as a surgeon
parts the hair to examine a scalp wound.
"Was Mr Rutherford a heavy man?"
Mr Strangley did not hear him at first, and he
repeated the question. "Well, no, he was rather
light and wiry, but he had big feet, if that's what
you mean."
"Right," said Mr Beck, " here is a full footmark."
He got up from his knees and walked on briskly,


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD
13
picking up the trail as if it were the "scent" of a
paper-chase, though Strangley's eyes could find
only a few vague marks amongst the grass. The
track skirted the woods and led them to the banks
of a deep, dumb river that ran slowly, level with its
brim. Along the banks of the river the track led
them for about a mile, tending always away from
the house.
Under the shelter of a clump of beech Mr Beck
stopped short and began to cast about like a sporting
dog that makes a dead set, weakens on it when he
finds the bird has just left, and begins beating
cautiously again. He examined every mark about
the place with scrupulous care, went on about twenty
yards to where the river was crossed by a new iron
bridge, and walked a little with bent head on the
further side. Mr Strangley watched him curiously
all the time, till he came back at last to the place
where he had first pointed his game, and looked
fixedly at the water.
Then very quietly he said to Mr Strangley:
"Mr Rutherford's body is out there, under the
water."
Mr Strangley gasped, and no wonder; the
colour left his face. He gazed at Mr Beck dumb-
founded.
"Sure? " he asked at last in a frightened whisper.
"As sure as you and I are on the banks he is under
the water. We can do no more at present. Let
us get back now and have that lunch you spoke
about. After lunch we will drag the river and bring
the body home."
They walked in silence by the water's edge back to


THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
the house. In the midst of the brightness of the fair
scene and sunshine, of green leaf and singing birds,
they were haunted by the tragedy hidden by the
dark water of the deep stream that moved so
stealthily under the trees.
"Say nothing to the ladies," whispered Mr
Strangley, as they went back through the French
window, "until you are quite sure."
"I am quite sure," replied Mr Beck, " but I shall
say nothing."
His certainty was justified. Out of the dark
depths of the river, at the very spot he pointed to,
the men fished up the draggled body of Mr Ruther-
ford, millionaire. The pockets of the dead man's
coat bulged with stones. A horrid sight the body was
as it lay there on the soft grass under the trees, while
the moving boughs let the sunshine trickle through,
and the birds sang unconscious of the horror.
Again Mr Strangley's first kindly thought was for
the women.
"We must get him quietly to the house."
Mr Beck nodded.
"Have the coroner sent for," he added; "we
should have the inquest to-morrow."
The body was composed in decent state, the
staring eyes closed, the grey hands crossed over the
breast, before his wife and daughter were told of the
ghastly discovery.
Mr Beck watched them closely as they came, one
after the other, into the room with the dead.
The daughter made no display of violent grief.
She moved softly to the bedside and kissed the poor,
clammy forehead with a kiss that seemed to have in


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD
15
it as much of forgiveness as of affection. She knelt
for a moment at the bedside and went out quietly
as she entered.
The widow, on the other hand, was distraught.
"I loved him, I loved him," she cried continuously,
"and now I shall never see him again. It was I
drove him to it. I was unkind to him. I am his
murderess."
From the first she assumed he had committed
suicide, and the jury's verdict justified her instinct.
They found the customary verdict with the
charitable addition, " during temporary insanity."
Mr Beck's work was done, but he remained a day
or two at the special invitation of the widow, who,
when the first paroxysm of her grief was passed, was
lavish in childlike admiration and gratitude.
"But for you," she exclaimed, "we should never
have found him. My life would have passed in
a long agony of suspense. Horrible as the truth is
the suspense would have been more horrible. He
would never have lain in consecrated ground. I
could never have watered his grave with my
tears."
Not she alone, but all the neighbourhood were full
of wonder and admiration at the skill with which the
detective went straight to the root of the mystery.
There was one exception—Miss Joe Rutherford
was not in the least enthusiastic. If Mr Beck
expected congratulations from her when she sum-
moned him to her bachelor's den he was disappointed.
He found her standing at the great bow window,
and before she turned had time to admire the grace
of that tall, pliant figure clear against the evening


16 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
light. He noticed as she turned that the comely
face was pale, and the eyelids red with weeping.
"Sit down," she said abruptly. "I suppose I
ought to thank you, but I cannot. The thing you
have done is very clever and all that. But what does
it come to? You have found the body, but you have
not found the cause of death."
"The coroner's jury have found that," replied Mr
Beck, innocently, "as was their business, and they
have found it to be suicide."
"I don't believe it; I don't believe a word of it.
Do you?"
The question was a sharp home-thrust—the frank
eyes looked straight in his.
But Mr Beck never winced.
"I don't see what other verdict the jury could
find," he answered slowly. "The body was in the
water ; the footprints leading to the river were made
by the boots on his feet; the doctor testified that he
died of suffocation; there were no external marks
on the body, except that the nails and knuckles were
bruised and torn, but bruised knuckles and nails
don't kill a man."
"How were they bruised and torn?"
"How can I tell? The coroner and the coroner's
jury could not tell that. How can I?"
"Oh, I thought that you clever detectives knew
everything."
He spread out his big hands deprecatingly like a
clumsy Frenchman.
"My dear young lady, did I ever pretend to be
clever, did I now? We detectives are like children
with puzzle alphabets. We pick up letters here and


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD
17
there and try to get them in their proper order to
spell out a word or two. Don't smack me if I cannot
get the letters right at first. I'm doing my best all
the time."
Something in the contagious good-humour of the
man captured her.
Her face lightened with a smile. "Forgive me,''
she said, " I'm an ungrateful, selfish thing. I know
you did your best—and more than anyone else could
do. I'm worried—you mustn't mind me. I suppose
you heard that father left all he died possessed of
to his widow? Mr Strangley drew the will and
witnessed it, and never said a word, and he pretended
to be fond of me. Oh, the cur! I'm sure it was she
put him up to it."
"Do you stay on here? " Mr Beck asked sympa-
thetically.
"Do I stay here! As if I would stay an hour longer
than I could help under the same roof with that
woman. I wouldn't take a crust of bread or a glass
of water from her if I was starving and it was to save
my life. There is an animal in India Kipling wrote
about that knows a snake the first time it sees one,
and wants to kill it. I feel just like that."
"She speaks most kindly of you."
"Of course she does. Aren't snakes always
slimy? She came gushing to me here. She said we
were sisters in sorrow—' let us weep together on his
tomb.' I answered her pretty plainly."
"111 warrant you did," said Mr Beck under his
breath.
"But I could not vex her. Nothing I could say
would vex her. She was most loving to the very last.
B


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD 19
father and myself. His eyes were blinded; mine are
not. I know you from your heel to your top-knot.
You have got all his money. You have robbed me
of that. Cannot you be satisfied? Why must you
worry me as well?"
"Why will you speak in this cruel way?"
"You want to get rid of me. Well, I am going
to-morrow."
"I thought you said to-night."
The widow did not seem delighted at the change.
Joe Rutherford smiled scornfully.
"Mr Beck asked me to stay till to-morrow to have
his company to London."
"I'm so glad," gushed the widow, correcting her
mistake, "you have changed your mind. To-
morrow I may persuade you to prolong your stay.
Good-bye, dearest; good-bye, Mr Beck, I am very
grateful to you too."
"You may have reason to be," Mr Beck said to
himself as she left the room.
"Miss Rutherford," he added aloud when the door
was closed, "I would advise you to telegraph for
Mr Ross. I may have some startling news for you
to-morrow. By the way, could you lend me an alarm
clock? You are an open-air, early-rising young lady,
likely to have one. Thanks! No, no, I answer no
questions until to-morrow. I never speak till I am
quite sure."
The greater part of the night Mr Beck spent in
the dead man's study with the doors locked and no
company but the pictures, the great safe and the
phonographs.
Mr Strangley thought he heard loud shouting in


20 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
the room, and came out in his pyjamas to reconnoitre.
Mr Beck opened the door to his knocking.
"Thought I heard shouting," Strangley said;
"did you hear anything?"
"Nothing louder than my own voice," Mr Beck
returned, smiling.
"Why the deuce didn't you go to your bed?"
Strangley asked. "What are you doing here?"
"Thinking," Mr Beck answered gravely. "I am
pretty nearly done."
"Well, good luck, anyway. I'm off."
Next morning, when the two men were breakfasting
alone, by Mr Beck's special request, in the spacious
study, Strangley reverted to the incident of the night
before.
"Twopence for your thoughts, Beck," he said
laughingly; "what were you pondering over last
night?"
"The Rutherford mystery," Mr Beck answered
gravely.
For a moment the other seemed taken quite aback
by this unexpected reply.
"But there is no mystery now," he objected;
"the puzzle has been solved, thanks to you, old
man; a commonplace suicide after all."
"I'm not so sure of that," Mr Beck answered.
"The evidence doesn't show how he got to the
water."
"There were his own footprints leading straight
to the bank."
"The footprints were heavier than so light a man
could make. Besides, I found close to the place the
faint trace of a stockinged foot. What if the


THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD
21
murderer, wearing the dead man's boots, had carried
the corpse on his back to the river and changed the
boots to the dead man's feet before he threw it in?"
Mr Strangley grew pale at the horrible suggestion.
"But the man was drowned, suffocated," he
stammered.
"He was suffocated," Mr Beck answered, "but
was he drowned? There was no water found in the
lungs, and then the hands were bruised and torn as
if the wretched man, trapped in a living tomb, had
beaten them in vain against the iron wall." Mr
Beck's voice shook with the horror of his own
imagining.
His companion was strangely affected. His face
was ghastly, his eyes staring. He wiped a clammy
forehead with a trembling hand. He seemed listen-
ing for some terrible sound.
It came! In the long pause suddenly it came.
There was quick beating of hands against the door
of the great iron safe, and a faint cry of "Help!
Help! " was heard, stifled and strangled by the iron
walls.
Then Mark Strangley lost all self-control. "The
dead speaks! " he cried, "the dead speaks! I will
confess! I will confess! I murdered him! As he
stood at the safe I thrust him in and slammed the
door and locked it. That night I carried the body
to the river. I murdered him—she enticed me to it.
She had married him for his money; she hated him;
she swore she would marry me when he was dead!"
The sudden opening of the door cut short his
confession. The widow dashed into the room, not
soft and gentle now, but tense with rage. The fury


22 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
of the wild cat—fierce, untamable—flamed from her
eyes.
"You lie, you coward!" she screamed, "you
coward and fool! If you murdered my husband you
shall hang. I know nothing of it."
"Did you not urge me to it?"
"Never! Never!"
"And promise to marry me when he was dead?"
"Marry you, you wretched fool and craven!"
There was an infinite contempt in her voice which
stung him to the quick.
"You shall pay for this," he cried, " though I hang
for it!"
"Do your worst, fool—do your worst! You
have no scrap of writing of mine, no particle of proof.
You are the murderer—you cannot turn King's
evidence. I know that much law. No one will
believe your lies. I defy you! I defy you!" She
pointed a small, white finger at him and laughed
derisively. "I defy you, and your wise detec-
tive, and that great, stupid ploughman-girl—
curse her! I defy you all!" She turned to Beck.
"I don't care a farthing whether you hang that fool
there or not. I have the will. Everything is
mine."
Hereupon in his turn Mark Strangley broke into
loud, derisive laughter.
"If I hang, my lady, you will starve! " he cried.
"You know the law, do you? Then you know that
the will was revoked by marriage. You revoked it
yourself when you married the man you murdered.
The will is not worth the paper it is written on."
There was a ring of truth in the man's savage
triumph.




To /act page it.





THE VOICE FROM THE DEAD 23
The woman glared like a wild beast trapped—
ready to bite and claw.
She turned again to Mr Beck.
"Is that true?"
"Quite true."
With a snarl she sprang like a wild cat on Strangley.
A knife leapt out and flashed in the sunlight as she
plunged it once, twice in his heart. Before Mr Beck
could interfere she turned the red, smoking blade on
her own breast, and sank beside her victim on the
floor.
At that moment there came a knocking at the door.
Mr Beck rushed to turn the key in the lock.
"Who's there? " he called out.
"It's I, Joe Rutherford. You said you would
have exciting news for me."
"I have. The mystery is solved, the tragedy
ended," answered Mr Beck, through the closed door.
"You shall know all later."
A month later he told the strange story in detail to
Joe Rutherford, heiress, and Herbert Ross, her
affianced husband.
"I was right," whispered the girl, with pale lips.
"I knew the woman was the murderess. I am sorry
for poor Strangley."
"He got his deserts. He was the viler of the
two," retorted Ross, fiercely.
"But how came that voice?" queried the girl.
"How came that voice from the dead to force him to
confess? Did he imagine it was a real voice he
heard?"
"It was very real," replied Mr Beck. "The night
before I prepared that little surprise for him. I set


24
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
a phonograph in the safe with an alarum clock to
start it at the right moment. I worked up to the
crowning horror. I guessed the voice from the dead
would drag a confession from the murderer, and I
was right."


26 .THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"P.S.—The railway station is Woodland, on the
Great Southern Line. The rectory is a mile and a
half from the station. I have no money to pay you."
"Now what does it all mean?" pondered Mr
Beck. "The girl wants me down on her own
account. She has some strong interest in Mr
Richard Ackland. What is it—for or against?
Who is she, anyway, and where does the parson
come in? She must be a remarkable girl who could
write so precisely on such a subject. A wonderfully
cool card! and she has written just the letter that
would bring any man down."
The direction on the letter was a hamlet, half
town, half village, in a remote part of Gloucester-
shire. For reasons that will be appreciated it is
better not to be too precise about name or locality.
Mr Beck sent a wire: "Down by next train,
arrive two "—and went on deliberately with his
substantial breakfast, pausing every now and then
for another look at the letter, pulling the tangle
about in his mind to loosen the knots.
"What's her little game, I wonder? Clergyman
doesn't know she was sending for me. Did she
want him to know? Was she afraid he'd stop her
if he got the chance? He believes in the young
man's innocence. She says nothing about herself.
Does she want the young man cleared or hanged?
Did love or spite make her send that letter? Well,
I'll know that when I go down—a girl cannot keep
a secret."
The railway station was a rural cottage at the
end of a short branch line, which had stopped


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 27
disheartened about a mile and a half outside the
village. Mr Beck left his bag at the station with
the stout, good-humoured, elderly man that was a
compromise between porter and stationmaster.
He walked to the village through a deep lane carpeted
at the borders with wild flowers, and fenced with
high green walls of hawthorn sprayed with white
blossoms, and alive with the chirping and nutter
of birds.
A quarter of a mile from the village he passed
by the girls' school, a red-tiled and narrow-windowed
cottage, smothered in creepers and built on the verge
of a clear, shallow stream. A murmur of fresh
young voices poured out through the open window
into the spring air, to mingle with the babbling of
the brook and the bird-songs. A little further the
ground, steeply sloping, lifted him over the red-
roofed village which nestled in the valley. The
pointed spar of the village church sprang up through
the trees sharp and clear in the pure air. To the
right the gables and turrets of a red-brick Elizabethan
building showed over the billowy woods.
Mr Beck felt the tranquillising beauty of the
scene keenly, though he would have found it hard
to put his feelings in words.
"Rum scene for a murder," was his prosaic
comment as he strode on in the direction of the
church, rightly guessing he would find the vicarage
in its shadow.
If he doubted his welcome there the doubt was
quickly removed. The vicar met him at the gate
that led, through a shaven lawn dotted with lilacs,
laburnum and standard rose bushes, to the vicarage—


28
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
a delightful, old-fashioned place made up chiefly
of gables and bow windows.
Just for one moment a look of surprise flitted
over the vicar's handsome face as he caught sight
of the genial, innocent-looking visitor, so different
from what he expected.
"I have the pleasure of meeting—?" He hesi-
tated.
"Mr Beck," responded the other. "Don't look
much like a detective, do I? But I'm lucky some-
times, and it's better to be lucky than clever."
The vicar shook his hand heartily.
"My dear sir, I'm charmed to meet you. I've
heard of you, of course—who has not heard of Mr
Beck? I was delighted when Miss Dale told me
she had written to you and brought me your telegram
to say you were coming down. Sad affair this, Mr
Beck—so sudden and so mysterious!"
"Not much mystery," said Mr Beck, "if we are
to judge by Miss Dale's account. The jury found the
case clear."
"I trust you will reserve your judgment, my dear
sir. You mustn't judge wholly by the bald facts;
you must know the people as well; but I am for-
getting my hospitality; lunch is waiting."
From the first moment he laid eyes on that
handsome, intellectual face, Mr Beck knew that he
had seen the vicar before. But they had passed
from the soup to the cutlets in a pleasant little
tete-a-tete luncheon before his memory found the
man. Perhaps the quaint Indian trophies in the
low-panelled room, grotesque idols, wrought brass
and silver filigree, helped his memory.


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR
"If I mistake not," he said, "I have the honour
of lunching with the Rev. Ernest Greaves, the famous
Indian missionary."
Mr Greaves was plainly pleased with the recog-
nition, though he waved away the praise with a
deprecatory white hand.
"I heard you speak in London, sir, on your return
from the massacre," Mr Beck went on smoothly. "I
was never so impressed with anything in my life.
I had a word afterwards with the woman whose life
you saved. I am honoured to meet you again, Mr
Greaves, but I certainly never hoped to encounter
you in a quiet Gloucestershire vicarage."
"Lord Ripondale is responsible for that," said Mr
Greaves; "we will drink his health, if you don't
mind; you'll find this Madeira tolerable. I have
never set eyes on him to this hour, but he wrote to
me to say that he 'liked a priest with pluck,'
and offered me the living—eight hundred a year
and a charming residence, as you see. The con-
trast is curious from the hourly perils of India.
I have been here now for nearly two years, and
there hasn't been a ripple of excitement on the
current of our daily lives until this lamentable
affair."
"Was it far from here the thing happened?"
"A couple of miles. If you have quite finished
your lunch, Mr Beck, we might visit together the
scene of the tragedy. We can talk as we walk and
smoke if you care to."
Mr Beck declined the vicar's offer of a cigar.
He took a stumpy briar-root pipe from his pocket
and charged it with his own special mixture. The


30 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
vicar talked as they walked, and Mr Beck smoked
and listened in stolid silence.
The detective noticed that the vicar walked a
little lame and leant on a thick malacca cane with a
curved ivory handle. "An arrow in the foot," the
vicar explained, "and poisoned at that. One of the
converts sucked the wound and died of the venom.
The foot still aches a little at odd times, and I never
stir out without a stick if I can help it."
Though the scene of the murder was only two miles
from the vicarage, by the time they had got there
Mr Beck knew all the vicar had to tell of the tragedy
and the actors in it.
Squire Ackland, he learnt, was a middle-aged
bachelor whose reputation was none of the best
—a man of domineering character, with the char-
acteristic vices and virtues of the aristocrat.
He was overbearing, reckless of other people's
rights or wishes, harsh to the verge of cruelty if
thwarted.
On the other hand he was courageous, generous
when pleased, and brutally candid. He specially
prided himself on his truthfulness. "I never funked
a danger or broke a promise, for good or ill," he had
once boasted. But, as a rule, he was not given to
boasting. He was unpopular in the neighbourhood,
for he had scant regard for man's honour or woman's
virtue, and he always carried a revolver, which he
could use on occasion with deadly skill.
His nephew and heir, Richard Ackland, if the
vicar was not prejudiced in his favour, was a vast
improvement on the uncle, whom still in many ways
he resembled. He, too, was of a domineering spirit,


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 31
but he was neither selfish nor cruel, and was specially
chivalrous to women.
In courage and candour he rivalled his uncle.
Indeed, his recklessness was a proverb. No sport
attracted him that had not danger in it. He was
generally known as " Dare-Devil Dick."
"A conflict between two such men," the vicar
said, "was bound to be violent; for the occasion
and result of that quarrel I am in some degree
responsible."
"For the murder? " queried Mr Beck, imperturb-
ably.
"Well, remotely, if we can call it a murder. I am
responsible for bringing those two imperious, fiery-
tempered men into violent conflict. Some months
ago there was a vacancy in the position of village
schoolmistress. The matter was left in my hands.
I engaged a young girl whose mother I had once
known. The girl was a lady by birth, but had fallen
into straitened circumstances, and was glad to take
the position. The fact that I happened to be vicar
of the parish was, I may say, an inducement: for her
mother, when dying, had commended her to my care.
I had never even seen the girl at the time, but I
felt for her as a father might.
"These details may seem irrelevant, Mr Beck,"
the vicar interrupted himself, "but you will find
they have a bearing on the problem you have to
solve. I will say nothing about the appearance of
the young girl, Alice Dale. You will have an
opportunity of judging for yourself. But I may
say that, in my judgment, she is one of the sweetest
and purest of women, incapable of evil. I fear I


33
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
weary you by my prosiness; I suppose it's the
way with us parsons, but I will try to get to the
end.
"Before the girl was a week here it chanced that
both the uncle and nephew met her, and both fell
desperately in love, but in a very different fashion.
The nephew, headstrong and passionate as ever,
wooed her like a gentleman to be his wife, but I
understand—that is, I believe—got scant encourage-
ment.
"The uncle—but I need not go into details. You
will understand, It is hard to have to say harsh
things of the dead, but he was a reprobate who
scoffed alike at religion and at the virtue of women.
Alice Dale was young and guileless; she scarcely
knew his meaning when he spoke to her. But the
warning instinct of virtue protected her.
"Something of his uncle's vile pursuit of the
girl came, however, to the ears of the nephew.
There was a stormy interview between the two.
Both told me of it afterwards, and strangely enough
their version was the same. The uncle made no
secret of his purpose. The young man was furious
with the elder, and raged and threatened to no
purpose.
"' You young fool,' was the cynical, savage
answer to all his protests, 'cannot you see it is to
your interest I shouldn't marry! Lucky for you
I don't want to. Go get a wife for yourself if you
choose. I'll double your allowance; I'll treble it
when you marry. But you must leave this young
schoolmistress to me. You've got to stand out of
my way, young man, or I'll cut you off with a


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 33
shilling. Then, if you please, ask the girl to marry
you, and live together on your debts.'
"The young man turned pale—' the colour of a
corpse, egad!' the uncle told me afterwards, 'and
swore he would have my life if I hurt a hair of her
head. Well, I don't want to hurt a hair of her head,
so that's all right. I told him—eh, parson, I don't
want to shock your reverence, so you had best wink
the other eye if you find your schoolmistress and
myself philandering.'
"Now comes the exciting part of the story."
Mr Beck's face was as inscrutable as ever.
"Yesterday as I was strolling through this wood—
a favourite walk of mine—thinking out next Sunday's
sermon, I came suddenly on the squire, sitting on
that fallen tree yonder, smoking. I was passing
with a curt 'good day,' when suddenly the thought
flashed upon me what he was waiting for. Alice
Dale used to pass that way every afternoon from
the school to the cottage in the village where she
lodged. He waited there to meet her alone. I was
determined he should not have the chance.
"' By the way, squire,' I said, as politely as I
could manage, 'there is a matter I want to consult
you about. Your tenant, Giles Cossing, is down with
< fever, and I heard to-day when I called that two
of his children have caught it. I understand that
he is behindhand with his rent. Now I am quite
sure that, knowing the circumstances, you—'
"' All right, parson,' he broke in rudely. 'Talk
to me about it some other time. Confound it, man!
don't you see I'm busy, and I don't want to be
disturbed?'
c


34 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"But I was not to be turned from my purpose.
I affected to take his words as a jest.
"' Very well,' I replied lightly, '1 won't disturb
you while you are so busy. It is a pleasant spot for
a quiet smoke. I'll try a cigar myself, and when
you have finished your business you'll let me have
a word with you about Giles Cossing.'
"I found a seat at the further end of the fallen
tree and lit a cigar. He growled out a curse between
his teeth and glared at me like a wild beast. For
a moment I thought he would strike me, but I carried
this heavy stick, and I was not in the least afraid.
For ten minutes we sat and smoked in silence.
Then he gave in. 'Say what you've got to say
quick, and go.'
"' I'm afraid it will take some time,' I said. He
was quick to understand.
"' So that's the reason,' he snapped out.
"' Yes,' I replied, 'I mean to wait here till she
comes, and walk with her to her lodgings.'
"' Aha, parson!' he cried with a laugh like a
snarl, 'is that the way of it? Have you a sweet
tooth too, like the rest of us?'
"I confess I almost lost my temper then; my
grip tightened on my stick, but a missionary, Mr
Beck, .learns self-control.
"' She is coming,' I said, for I heard a distant
step in the wood. He got up slowly and knocked
the ashes from his pipe, rapping the edge viciously
against the rough bark of the fallen tree. His face
wore an ugly smile. I saw he had some plan in his
mind—what it was I shall never know.
"A moment later I knew it was not Alice Dale's


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 35
step I heard. It was too heavy and too hasty.
At the same moment I read in his eyes that the
squire knew who was coming.
"Young Richard Ackland broke through the trees
into the opening. He was in a furious rage, beside
himself with passion, and glared at his uncle, who
mocked him with a smile of utter contempt. I
could see the young fellow was as mad as a dog
that strains on his chain. He caught sight of me
as I stood a few yards apart from the squire.
"' I'm very glad to see you here, Mr Greaves.
I want a witness to all that passes between this
man and myself. He has offered the vilest insults
to Miss Dale. I cannot repeat what he has said
to her.'
"' Don't worry, old chap,' chimed in the squire,
'parson knows.'
"' And he still associates with you?'
"' Well, I would not call it association exactly.
He insisted on staying here in spite of me. He
wanted to play the watch-dog to gentle Alice.'
"' You were here lying in wait for Miss Dale?'
"' A love tryst,' laughed the squire. 'Don't
be so jealous, young man. Age before honesty—
you know the proverb. Your turn may come
afterwards.'
"At that Dare-Devil Dick whipped a revolver
from his pocket. 'You're jesting with death,' he
said. 'I mean to protect Alice Dale though it cost
your life and mine. Give me your word you will
never speak to her again.'
"The squire's mood changed instantly to black,
bitter anger.


36
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"' Drop that foolery,' he cried harshly; 'you
ought to know the man you have to deal with.
Put up that pistol and get out of my sight.'
"For answer Dick levelled the revolver. I
stepped between the two men. They were not five
paces apart. 'Put up the pistol, Dick,' I said,
'there is nothing to be gained by violence.' I came
close to him to take the weapon from his hand.
"Under his breath he said: 'It is not loaded,'
and louder, that the squire might hear, he ordered
me to stand aside.
"I was fool enough to appeal to the squire. 'Let
the girl alone,' I said, 'she is very young and inno-
cent. Let her be.'
"He flamed into sudden anger. 'You whining
sneak,' he cried, 'I believe you want the girl for
yourself,' and he struck me with his open hand across
the face.
"Dick spoke again. 'Your answer,' he shouted.
'Promise never to see the girl again, or take the
consequences.'
"' You young fool,' growled the squire, fiercely,
'do you think I'm to be frightened by these school-
boy tricks!'
"Crack!
"The revolver shot rang out sharp and harsh
through the silent woods. The squire clapped his
hand to his side, reeled a little like a drunkard that
tries to keep his balance, and fell. I had barely time
to drop my stick, catch him in my arms, and so let
him slide down to the sward, where he lay prone
and still.
"Dick Ackland, with the revolver, from which


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 37
curled a ringlet of smoke, dangling loosely by his
side, stood gazing with wild eyes—a very statue of
bewilderment.
"' But the pistol was not loaded,' he muttered,
speaking, it would seem, to himself more than to me;
'I took the bullet from the cartridge myself.'
"' It may be a fit of some kind,' I answered.
"' I will fetch a doctor.'
"Before he could move a foot there was a glimmer
of colour on the shady path, and Alice Dale appeared.
She stood still, her eyes questioning us; they seemed
to search our hearts. When you have seen her you
will understand.
"' I fear he is dead,' groaned poor Dick, constrained
to answer her questioning eyes.
'"And you?'
"Then she saw the revolver lying in his hand and
guessed. She gasped like one hurt to death. All the
colour ebbed swiftly from her face; she swayed and
fell forward in a dead faint, yet not so suddenly but
Dick caught her in his arms.
"' Look to her, Dick,' I said. 'It is only a faint—
the sudden shock; a little water from the brook will
revive her. I will bring Dr Hampden. There is a
short cut through the woods.'
"I don't think, Mr Beck, lame man ever covered
rough ground quicker. I had to climb the demesne
wall at the end of my run. You shall see the path
presently if you care to."
"I would like to see the young lady first," said Mr
Beck.
He had been poking about in the short, mossy
turf like a golfer in search of a lost ball. It was an


38
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
instinct of Mr Beck's to poke about. The gleam of
bright metal caught his eye. He picked up some-
thing and held it out for inspection to the vicar,
who eyed it curiously.
"It looks like the lid of a small brass box," the
vicar said tentatively.
It was like the lid of a very small circular brass
box, of less diameter than a farthing, but much
thicker, and fitted with a screw.
Mr Beck held it in the palm of his broad hand,
turning it over and over inquisitively with a strong,
thick forefinger, as if he questioned its use.
"I never saw a box so small," he said, "except a
pasteboard pill-box. I wonder who had it here, and
for what purpose?"
The question was addressed rather to himself than
to the vicar. Anyway, the vicar made no answer.
Mr Beck dropped the little disc of brass into his
waistcoat pocket.
"Shall we call on the young lady now," he said
briskly, "and find what she has to say for herself?"
"She is at the school," answered the vicar. "She
insisted on going on with her work, though she is
terribly cut up by this tragedy, poor child!"
"Naturally," said Mr Beck. "Let us go to the
school and see the young lady."
The walk led them through shady woodland ways
to the school which Mr Beck had seen in the morning
hard by the banks of a clear, swift-flowing stream.
The birds piped in the overhanging boughs, the sun-
beams danced on the ripples of the stream and made
a shifting network of gold on the sandy bottom.
There was a grim incongruity between the peaceful


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 39
rural scene and the tragedy they had come to
investigate.
"If you will wait here," said the vicar, " I will call
the girl to you. She can give the school in charge of
her assistant for a few minutes."
Presently she came towards him where he stood at
the fringe of the wood, a slim, girlish figure, bare-
headed, and clad in a close-fitting black gown, with
white at the neck and wrists. The sun was in her
eyes, and she walked with downcast lids.
Mr Beck was surprised. It was the face of a
schoolgirl, pretty, with the commonplace prettiness
of soft brown hair and pink and white complexion;
not in the least the girl he had expected to see; not
in the least the girl he would have thought likely to
kindle the flame of hot passion in the hearts of two
such headstrong men as the vicar had described.
"This is Mr Beck," the vicar said, and she looked
him straight in the eyes.
Then he understood. This was no ordinary
woman. Never in his life had he seen such wonder-
ful, such beautiful eyes. The colour was the pure,
deep blue of the violet; the light was clear and bright
as the sapphire. But violet or sapphire is trite,
meaningless comparison. It was not the colour
nor the light that made her eyes so wonderful. It
was the life, the thought, the soul of a woman that
shone through from their clear depths. Even the
stolid Mr Beck lost his self-possession under her gaze.
The girl spoke first.
"It was very good of you to come," she said. "I
hope you may be able to help the innocent. Richard
Ackland is quite innocent."


40
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"How do you know that? " Mr Beck asked.
Her eyes answered before she spoke.
"He told me so. Of course, I knew before he told
me, but I was glad to have his word."
"Well," said Mr Beck, "we'll assume his in-
nocence. That's all right for us, but, you see, we
have got to prove it to others. I'll find that task
easier when I know all the facts."
"Where shall I begin?"
"As near the beginning as you can, Miss Dale."
"A little while after I came here the elder Mr
Ackland said things to me which—" the fair cheeks
flushed, and the colour darkened in those wonderful
blue eyes with anger or pain.
Mr Beck saw her trouble and briskly interposed:
"Never mind about him—tell me about the younger
man."
"Later," she said simply, "Richard asked me to
be his wife. I refused him. I feared it would make
trouble. But to-day, when I saw him in the police-
station for a moment, I promised."
"If," began the vicar, fumblingly.
She caught his meaning in an instant.
"If he wins through this horrible trouble," she
said quietly; "if not, I shall never marry."
All this was said very quietly, in a sweet, even
voice. Only the girl's frank eyes told how intense
was the pain she suffered.
"I don't want to worry you more than I can help,"
said Mr Beck, compassionately; "just a word as to
what happened yesterday. You fainted, I believe,
Miss Dale."
"Only for a second; I recovered instantly."


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 41
"You thought at first that Mr Richard Ackland
had shot his uncle."
Hot anger kindled in the blue eyes.
"Never, never for a moment. How dare you say
so! I was frightened, that was all. I saw a man
He bleeding—a wicked man, a man I hated, I won't
deny it. But I was shocked all the same and wanted
to save him. I had studied nursing before I came
here and I thought he was still alive. I tried to bind
up his wound; it looked no more than a pin prick,'
with one or two drops of blood oozing from it. I sent
Mr Richard Ackland to fetch water. In the squire's
coat pocket I found a revolver. I must have
accidentally meddled with the trigger some way, for
the thing went off."
"I forgot to say I heard the report when I was
just climbing the demesne wall," said the vicar.
"The noise," the girl went on, "brought Richard
running back to me. The squire was then quite
dead, and we stayed together till the doctor came
back with Mr Greaves. A short time afterwards the
police appeared. That is all I know. Can you save
him?" The blue eyes were full of a piteous en-
treaty.
"I hope so," Mr Beck answered a little huskily.
Beauty in distress always moved him.
With a queer little, old-fashioned curtsey to the
vicar and to the detective, but without a word more
to either, the girl went back across the sunlit sward
to her school.
"If you are not tired," said Mr Beck, "I would
like to have a word with the police."
"I'm never tired," the vicar answered, "when


42 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
there is work to be done; and the police-station is
only a quarter of a mile away."
Sergeant Coleman knew Mr Beck by name and
reputation. He had a brother, he said, who had
been in a case with Mr Beck, and he was as proud of
it as Lord Dundreary was of the brother who played
the German flute. He regarded the detective with
the profound veneration of the small boy for the
head of the school.
Mr Beck took the good man's manifest worship
with modest unconcern. The corpse lay in the
guard-room. A hard, handsome face—the face of
one of the wicked old Roman Emperors carved in
grey marble.
In another room the nephew, Richard Ackland,
was held for the murder. Mr Beck managed to get
an unobserved peep through the window. The
young fellow sat bolt upright, with eyes half closed
and the handsome face rigid.
"Looks like a caged hawk," was Mr Beck's
comment as he moved away. "Always try to know
what they look like, sergeant, before you jump to
conclusions. It helps, believe me, it helps."
Mr Beck was very keen in his scrutiny of the two
revolvers. Both were six-chambered. The one
which was said to belong to the dead squire had four
chambers loaded with ball cartridge. The nephew's
weapon was loaded in five chambers, but the five
bullets had been carefully extracted from the
cartridges.
"You'll be wanting to see this, sir," said the
sergeant. "It was that bit of lead that did the job."
He handed him a little flattened fragment of lead.


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR
"Must have gone clean through," the sergeant
explained. "It fell out of his waistcoat when we
undressed him."
Mr Beck took it in the palm of his broad hand.
"Got a scales, sergeant? A letter-scales will
do." He weighed it to a hair. "Keep that care-
fully," he said, as he handed it back. "It will be
useful at the trial."
"Have you found a clue, Mr Beck? " the vicar
asked, as they strolled back to the vicarage.
"Too many, I'm afraid," said Mr Beck, dejectedly.
"The case is getting confoundedly plain."
In the vicarage there was a revolver hanging to a
nail in the hall.
"Loaded?" asked Mr Beck.pointing to the weapon.
"No," the vicar answered; "merely a scarecrow.
It is half a year since I fired a shot out of it. It was
a gift from young Richard Ackland."
Mr Beck took the pistol from the wall and examined
it.
"It is one of a pair," he said; "the same maker
and calibre, and takes the same cartridge. Could
you get me a bullet of this pistol, Mr Greaves? I
should like to weigh it."
For a moment the vicar looked startled and con-
fused. He must have realised how deadly it would
prove for Richard Ackland if the bullet of the pistol
proved the same weight as the lead that killed the
squire.
Mr Beck saw his hesitation—possibly he guessed
the cause.
"The truth is the truth, anyway, and it must
out," he said, "whoever brings it out."


44 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"I will get you the bullet," said the vicar, and left
the room.
In a moment or two he returned with a bullet
between his fingers. Mr Beck weighed it carefully.
It was the same weight as the morsel of lead he had
weighed at the police-station.
"I'm afraid that settles it," muttered the de-
tective; "the case has grown quite clear."
"I hope not, I sincerely hope not," cried the
vicar.
"Well, we must all hope for the best," said Mr
Beck, " but it is hard to hope strongly against strong
proof."
He refused the vicar's pressing invitation to put up
at the vicarage.
"There is a comfortable public-house, the sergeant
tells me, in the village. My mind, such as it is,
works best when I'm roughing it. Good-evening,
sir. I hope to call to see you early to-morrow with
some news."
Early next morning Mr Beck was on the scene of
the murder—not the stolid Mr Beck of the day
before, but active, eager, every sense keenly alert.
There was a curious suggestion about him of a
well-trained setter dog when it is close upon the game
—every nerve and muscle vibrant with suppressed
excitement.
Like a setter he beat round the spot, searching the
ground with his eyes. There had been much rain of
late, and the ground was still soft enough to take and
hold footprints. He found three or four prints, small
and sharp, of the heel of a girl's shoe. He could even
trace where Dick Ackland's foot had slipped and torn


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 45
the sod as he stopped and turned on his way to the
brook when he heard the second revolver shot.
The vicar's footprints were faint and hard to follow
(the lame foot lighter than the other) as he ran for
the doctor. At first Mr Beck could only find a mere
trace at intervals through the grass, but after a bit
he reached the bottom of stiff clay that took the mould
of the footprints like plaster of Paris.
Then suddenly he came upon something that
surprised him. It was a slight protuberance in the
clay, shaped somewhat like a button mushroom, a
foot or so distant from the vicar's footprint.
Mr Beck dropped on his knees and whipped out the
magnifying glass he always carried. He could just
distinguish a faint, spiral line on the surface of the
tiny thimble of clay.
Fumbling in his waistcoat pocket he got out the
little brass lid he had found at the scene of the murder.
It fitted the clay mushroom like a glove.
"I thought so," Mr Beck muttered, as he slipped
the little brass lid back into his pocket; "that makes
it quite certain." He followed the track carefully.
The little round knob showed at intervals beside the
footprints. Then it ceased.
Mr Beck's keen glance searched the ground on
either side. To the right the woods opened to a
clearing; to the left there was a sandy rabbit-warren
rising in stunted hillocks. In front, not a hundred
yards off, was the wall of the demesne. He had no
trouble in satisfying himself that someone had
recently scrambled over the wall—a stiff scramble
for a lame man. The mortar had been stripped in
several places by clinging feet and hands.


46 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
A moment's inspection satisfied Mr Beck there
was no more to be learnt there. He followed the
track no further, but went back to the rabbit-warren.
Here on the dry, shifting sand the traces of recent
feet were so slight as to be imperceptible to any
eyes less keen than his own.
He poked about curiously amongst the burrows
as if he were rabbit hunting, not crime hunting,
and he even stretched his arm to the shoulder into
two or three tortuous holes.
At last, apparently, he found what he sought
in a rabbit hole near the top of a sandy hillock.
Then he sat down, lit his pipe, and waited
placidly.
The blue smoke curled softly up through the still
air, the birds woke to song, and the peaceful rural
scene, with its clumps of trees and wide stretches,
of lawn, and silver gleam of water in the distance,
grew lovelier in the glowing sunlight, and still Mr
Beck smoked and waited.
At last he caught sight of the unmistakable figure
of the vicar limping swiftly over the ground, with
his inevitable walking-cane in his hand.
Almost at the same moment the vicar caught
sight of him as he sat conspicuous on the hillock,
paused for the fraction of a second and then came
on quickly as before.
"Good-morning, Mr Beck," he said genially,
as he took a seat beside him. "You are very early
abroad. Is it business or pleasure?"
"Both," said Mr Beck; "it is a lovely morning
to get an appetite for breakfast."
"Have you come to the rabbits for counsel? '*


TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 47
queried the vicar, smilingly. "Found any clues in
the rabbit holes?"
"Well, yes," answered Mr Beck, stolidly. "I
found the last clue there, but I knew pretty well
what I should find before I found it."
The vicar's face hardened for a second, as with
a sudden spasm of pain or fear. But his voice was
easy and careless as he said: "Tell me all about it.
You know I'm deeply interested."
"I know that," said Mr Beck, simply. "It's a
very interesting case." He took the little brass lid
from his pocket. "It puzzled me a bit at first,"
he said, "though I ought to have guessed. This
morning I found out what it is."
"And what is it? " asked the vicar.
"The ferrule of an air-gun," answered Mr Beck,
gravely, and again the vicar's face hardened with
pain or fear.
"Of course," Mr Beck went on, "I knew that it
was not his nephew who shot the squire."
"How did you know it—when did you know it?"
"When I weighed the bit of lead that killed him.
I knew the weight of the bullet that pattern of
revolver would carry. It is my business to know.
It was not the bullet of that revolver which killed
the squire. When you brought me a bullet of the
same weight as the lead and told me it was the
bullet of your revolver you gave the show away.
Then the idea of an air-gun flashed upon me, and I
came out this morning to make sure."
"Well?" The word came with a kind of gasp
from the vicar. "Did you make sure?"
Mr Beck answered slowly: "I made quite sure.


48 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
You see," he went on, "a man using the air-gun |
as a walking-cane with the ferrule off would leave I
little knobs on the clay. I found those little knobs I
and the little brass cap fitted them."
The vicar only nodded, but there was no fear
in his face now.
"Vicar," said Mr Beck, with grave concern in his
deep voice—almost with compassion—" you had
your cane in your hand when you started to run
for the doctor. You could not climb that wall
with your cane in your hand and yet it found its
way back to the vicarage. You can guess what
that told me."
"There were two identical canes," said the vicar.
"And one of the two was an air-gun. It only
remained to find out where you had hidden the
air-gun before you climbed the wall. That was an
easy task."
Mr Beck stooped over a rabbit hole beside him
and drew out a walking-cane, in appearance identical
with that which lay on the grass beside the vicar.
But the second was of steel, and there was a little
hole where the ferrule should have been.
The vicar never flinched. They were right who
praised the courage of the man. His eyes were
steady; there was no tremor in his voice.
"I'm glad I shot the brute," he said, "and I'm
half glad you found me out; but I hope you will
believe I had no notion of letting Dick Ackland suffer
for it. As a last resource I would have surrendered.
Still, I hoped to get him out of the country, and so
give me a chance with Alice Dale, for I love Alice
Dale."


1





TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR 49
The words were very quietly spoken, but the man's
whole soul was in them. His voice shook with
hopeless passion.
"I love Alice Dale," he repeated. "Now you
will understand why I killed the scoundrel who
insulted her. Perhaps you will even understand
why I hoped that if young Ackland were out of the
country I might have had a chance.
"The air-gun," he went on quietly, "was a gift
of a dear friend when I was going to India. It is
wonderfully powerful, and fires half a dozen bullets
to a single pumping. I found it very useful more
than once in India. The duplicate cane I bought
in London when I returned, because it was so like
the air-gun. I could hardly tell them apart, except
by the weight. I had put the air-gun aside. No
one in the vicarage knew anything of it.
"But I took it out of its hiding-place and carried
it constantly since I heard of Squire Ackland's
insult to Alice Dale. I had it with me loaded when
I met him in the wood, and I quietly screwed off
the ferrule, which slipped from my fingers into the
thick grass. I almost hoped he would give me a
chance to use the gun in self-defence. When Dick
Ackland fired the blank cartridge I saw my chance
and took it. I was standing close to the squire at
the time. I turned the point of the air-gun to
his side, pressed the little knob with my thumb,
like this:—"
With a quick movement he snatched the air-gun
from where it lay across the detective's knees, and
turned the nozzle to his side. There was a sharp,
metallic twang as the release of the tightly-packed
D


50
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
air drove the bullet home. The man toppled over,
and the gun went clattering down the hillock.
The spasm of the parting soul distorted the vicar's
face with sudden agony. Then a smile settled on
the dead face, and he lay limp and still, staring with
sightless eyes at the blue sky. Human justice had
no further claim on him.


Ill
DROWNED DIAMONDS
Mr Paul Beck went to Eagleton on business. He
stayed for pleasure.
He was sent down to secure evidence against a
young bank clerk suspected of serious defalcations.
The result of his investigations was to send to penal
servitude a highly-respectable bank manager who
had ingeniously endeavoured to shift his own guilt
on to the shoulders of a subordinate.
The amount at stake was very large and the fee
substantial. The job had only taken four days,
and Mr Beck, who had nothing pressing on his hands,
stayed on at the Rockwell Hotel, Eagleton. The
place has so recently and so suddenly grown into
public favour that it is hardly necessary to mention
that Eagleton has been always one of the most
beautiful, as it is now one of the most popular,
watering-places in the three kingdoms. The town
stands on a gentle slope, backed by a circle of high
hills and fronted by a beautiful bay.
Doubtless the building of Rockwell Hotel
largely helped to make Eagleton fashionable. At
one corner of the bay a broad flat tableland,
level as a billiard-table, runs out into the water.
A foot under the soil is solid rock which meets the
Si


52
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
sea in a sheer wall fifty feet high. Of this wall
twenty feet are over the water, and thirty feet
under it.
Right at the edge the great hotel is built. The
terrace at the back of the hotel looks not merely
over the sea, but down into it. The boats are moored
under the hotel windows, and spring-boards for
bathers strike out from the railings of the terrace.
It reminds one of Venice, with this difference, that
instead of a dark, muddy canal there is a wide ex-
panse of clear, blue water hedged in by the ever-
lasting hills. No wonder the Rockwell Hotel made
Eagleton popular.
Yet it was not the beauties of Nature—at least
the inanimate beauties—that kept Mr Beck in the
place after his work was over.
No doubt it suited him. There was a fine golf
links at the further end of the town where the land
begins to slope up from the sea. The sea-fishing
was excellent, and Mr Beck, as we know, loved fishing
of all kinds. A tiny motor launch—light and swift
as a bird—whisked him over the bay to the spot,
near or far, where fish were plentiful and hungry.
These were potent inducements, no doubt, but
there was still "metal more attractive."
The main inducement that held him in Eagleton
was the charming companionship of Miss Alice
Rosedale, the American heiress, who was staying
with her father, Joshua Rosedale, at the Rockwell
Hotel. Mr Beck liked girls—especially when they
were so young and pretty as Miss Alice Rosedale.
This stout, middle-aged detective was as devoted
to the service of the sex as a knight-errant of old,


DROWNED DIAMONDS 53
and as ready when the chance offered to do them a
service.
Let it be said the feeling was reciprocal. All the
girls were fond of Mr Beck and treated him with an
affectionate freedom and familiarity that made the
young men grind their teeth with envy.
Miss Alice Rosedale publicly declared she was
in love with him, and she was ready at any time to
throw over any of her young admirers for a round
of golf with Mr Beck, or a run over the bay in his
motor-boat.
Yet, strange to say, her two chief admirers, though
hating each other cordially, were both the very best
friends with Mr Beck; moreover, her father had
taken a special fancy to the good-humoured, good-
natured detective.
"May I come? " he said one morning as Mr Beck
went down the iron ladder from the hotel terrace to
his motor-boat. "There is something particular I
want to say to you."
"Of course," said Mr Beck, as he slipped the rope
from the ring.
Mr Rosedale sat in the stern, smoking a huge cigar,
while the boat slid out over the still blue waters of
the bay—swift, smooth and noiseless as a skater on
ice.
Plainly Mr Rosedale had a difficulty about that
something particular he wanted to say to Mr Beck.
He began awkwardly enough at last. "It is only
this morning," he said, "I heard you were the
detective who got the young fellow out of his trouble
and brought the real criminal to book. All the town
was talking about the business, but no one knew you


54 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
had a hand in it. I saw the new bank manager
yesterday. I had a pretty big lodgment to make,
and he told me the whole story in confidence. 'Gad!
it was the smartest thing I ever heard."
There was no false modesty about Mr Beck. He
beamed at the other's praise.
"Luck helped me as usual," he said, "but you'll
keep the story to yourself—won't you? I'm having
a real good time down here, which might be spoilt if
people knew who I was."
"Oh, that's all right! I'm close as a clam. But I
thought, perhaps, you might do me a trick of your
trade while you are here. Now keep your hair on,
at anyrate till you've heard what I've got to say.
I'm a rough sort of chap, and I've made my own
pile. I've been in everything but gold mines, and
I haven't missed that much, for pretty near every-
thing I touched turned to gold. Live meat, dead
meat, wheat and oil—I've had a go at everything
that had a dollar in it, and I've nearly always been
lucky enough to get in on the ground floor and come
out at the top."
"There's nothing like luck," Mr Beck agreed
sententiously.
"Well, my biggest bit of luck is Alice."
"That's so," assented Mr Beck, with emphasis.
"Alice gets what she wants," said her father.
"So I should imagine."
"Have you seen her necklace? No! Well, I'll
get her to wear it to-night. I tell you it's fine.
The middle diamond I picked up from a Kaffir at
the Cape. I didn't ask where he found it. I've
made many a good bargain in my day, but that was


DROWNED DIAMONDS 55
about the best. There's close on half a million dollars
squeezed tight in that bit of glass. The other stones
aren't bad—the smallest cost more than the big one.
You can't match that necklace in America, and you
can't match the girl in the world. Now I want you
to keep an eye on both for me. See!"
Mr Beck was jointing his rod, and they were near
the centre of the bay—sea, lake or river, he always
fished with a rod.
"From what I have seen of Miss Alice," he said,
"she is pretty well able to take care of her necklace
and of herself."
"She's spry—that's so, she's spry, but girls and
jewels tempt thieves. There have been three tries
for the necklace, and it was nearly gone once. You
know Jim Morgan?"
"He's no thief," interposed Mr Beck, bluntly.
"He's a man if I know a man."
"In a way you're right—in a way you're wrong.
He doesn't want the diamonds, but he's got a hanker-
ing after my girl. He'd steal her if he got half a
chance."
"I don't blame him."
"Nor I, but I'll stop him. Jim is right enough.
His father and I were pards once. Jim has made
his pile on a cattle ranch. He can shoot and ride
some, and he is very welcome to any girl in America
except mine."
"And why not yours?"
Mr Beck had hooked a heavy fish and was playing
him on his light rod while he listened and answered.
The struggling, splashing fish and the imperturbable
angler were curiously suggestive of the man's method.


56
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Why not yours? " he repeated, winding up his
line, for Mr Rosedale had come to a halt.
"Well, it's this way," he blundered out at last
shamefacedly, "Jim is a good chap. I'm not
denying it—and he and Alice ran together when they
were children. But I promised my old woman when
she was leaving that I'd marry the girl to a lord, and
I don't want to go back on my word. She's good
enough for any lord."
"Too good."
"Well, a lord it is to be. I'd sooner have a French
lord than a Britisher. Britishers are getting too
common. What do you think of the Count Victor
D'Armaund? He's spry!"
"Very spry," Mr Beck assented drily, as he
brought the meek, exhausted fish to the boat's edge,
and with a dexterous dip of the gaff flicked him on
board.
"He's got five chateaux and a forest in France,"
said the millionaire; "he told me so, and his title
comes down from the Crusaders. Of course I took
his word for it, but business is business, and I've
sent a man special to France to make sure. Alice
seems to cotton to him; if the title, etc., are O.K.,
he might do."
"Yes," assented Mr Beck, drily as before, "he
might—do." The last word came out by itself as he
unhooked his fish, and with a quick jerk of his wrist
swished the shiny bait back into the sea.
"But where do I come in?" he asked mildly,
when Mr Rosedale again came to a halt.
"Well, I thought you might just keep a look
round promiscuous - like, in case anything should


58
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
steel blue, and gave a special character to his other-
wise somewhat commonplace good looks. Most
men looked twice at Count Victor D'Armaund, and
most women oftener, to the danger of their peace of
mind.
He " waltzed divinely," and the eyes of Miss Alice,
as they swung and whirled to the languorous strain of
the music, beamed with the girl's delight in a jolly
dance and a perfect partner. Her dress was of fluffy
silk, with a pretty rosebud pattern, and round her
slim, white throat were the diamonds. It was a
collar of gems rather than a necklace, with the
famous Rosedale diamond blazing in the centre
under the pert dimple of her chin.
She caught sight of Mr Beck by the wall, and flung
him a saucy smile as she swept past. But there was
no smile for the young fellow who stood beside Mr
Beck—Yankee writ plain in his tall, lank, strong
figure and keen face with deep-set eyes that glowered
at the Count.
"Pop told me you wanted to see the diamonds,"
Alice said as she walked past after the dance, leaning
lightly on her partner's arm. "Catch!"
She undid the collar of diamonds from her neck and
tossed it—a flash of white light under the electric
lamps—to Mr Beck.
He caught it lightly in a big, brown hand, and
followed her to the door of the ballroom.
"I will sit out the next dance after supper with
you," said Miss Alice, generously. "Pop tells me
you are a judge of diamonds. I want to know what
you think of mine."
Mr Beck got to a quiet corner under a lamp and


DROWNED DIAMONDS 59
peered closely at the jewels that lay—a little pool of
limpid light—in his hollow palm, while his practised
eyes appraised their value. The huge Rosedale
diamond seemed to hold a fire imprisoned in its
heart which broke forth in streams of coloured
sparks through every facet.
"I wonder what your history will be," he said
gravely, "when you are a hundred years over
ground. Will you have the same grim story as the
other big diamonds to tell of trickery, cheat-
ing, robbery and murder? Mr Rosedale is right;
these gems will take some looking after. Well,
I'll do my best while I'm here — I can do no
more."
Miss Alice found him in his quiet corner, his eyes
still on the gems.
"Ours, I think," she said, with a demure little
curtsey, and with her hand on his arm stepped
daintily across the room to the passage that led to
the terrace by the sea.
"We will be quite comfy here," she said, as she
nestled down amid a pile of silk cushions in a big
wicker chair. "I sent Jim for the cushions," she
added wickedly; "he doesn't mind you. But
when I told him at first I was going to sit out
with the Count he gave me a look like a bowie-
knife."
"Why do you worry him? " asked Mr Beck.
"What do you think of my big diamond? " replied
Miss Alice.
"It's one of the finest I have ever seen. I believe
it is one of the twelve best in the world."
She clapped her hands in childish glee.


6o
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"I'm so glad! I couldn't quite trust Pop; he
so cracks up all that belongs to himself, daughter
included. You're sure?"
"Quite."
"Well, you shall put it on for telling me.
There!"
With big, strong fingers, that were wonderfully
light in their touch, Mr Beck fastened the glittering
collar round the fair neck, and the thought came to
him that Mr Rosedale was right again—the daughter,
too, would take some watching.
She was bewitchingly lovely in the moonlight, with
that magic circle of coloured light at her white
throat. Dainty and fragile she looked as a figure
of Dresden china, but he knew what a wonderful
reserve of strength was in that slight, girlish figure,
where every muscle was of fine steel. He knew, too,
that the dainty little lady had a mind and a will of
her own.
"Now what about these two men? " said Mr Beck,
coming, with quiet persistence, back to the topic she
had evaded.
"I do my best," she said, with an unctuous
upturning of the bright brown eyes, brimful and
running over with mischievous light. "I divide my
time fairly between the two. I row and swim with
Jim, and I play tennis and dance with the Count.
The Count doesn't swim or row, and Jim doesn't
play tennis or dance, so it's a sort of fair
divide. I'm sure neither of them grudges you your
golf."
"My good little girl," said Mr Beck, "you don't
want me to tell you that you can only make one man


DROWNED DIAMONDS 6r
in the world happy, though you can make as many
as you choose miserable? You cannot marry both
Jim and the Count—not in this country, any-
way."
She bubbled over with delicious laughter.
"Oh, you dear old Mrs Grundy! I see dad has
been talking to you of the daughter as well as of the
diamonds. He wants me to throw Jim over and
marry the Count. Now doesn't he?"
Mr Beck nodded.
"Can you keep a secret?"
He nodded again.
"Well, I can't marry the Count because he's
married already, and two wives are no more allowed
than two husbands in this country. The Count told
me himself the very first day. Perhaps he was
afraid I'd fall in love with him and break my
innocent little heart. Anyway he told me, and I
begged him not to tell anyone else. That's where
the fun comes in, you see. Pop is delighted and
Jim is distracted, and I have my amusement for
nothing."
"And when you are tired of your sport? " ventured
Mr Beck.
"When I am I'll tell you, but that's not yet.
Now take me back. I have promised the next
waltz to the Count, and I just love to see Jim
glowering."
She told the Count what Mr Beck had said about
the diamonds, and the Count was much impressed.
It seems that he also had some knowledge of precious
stones.
"But you can never judge fairly by artificial


62
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
light," he said; "it needs clear daylight to make
sure."
"I will bring them down with me to breakfast
to-morrow," interposed Alice—" I will be breakfast-
ing at eleven. And you?"
"The same hour," gravely responded the Count.
"What a curious coincidence," said the girl,
innocently. "Then we shall meet at breakfast most
likely."
Later in the night the girl and the Count
had paused by the open window, after a long waltz
which they had danced through from the first
note to the last. The room was hot and the
crowd great. Alice Rosedale was cool, fresh and
dainty as a newly-plucked flower. Nothing tired
her—nothing heated her. But the Count breathed
quickly, and was flushed with exercise, and his
gloves clung to his fingers as he took them off
slowly.
"Tired out, Count? " said the smiling Mr Beck,
pausing on his way to the door.
The Frenchman put the suggestion aside with a
scornful little shrug.
"One is never tired in heaven," he said with his
quaint French accent.
"I suppose I'm getting too old for heaven," Mr
Beck rejoined placidly. "Good-night, Miss Rose-
dale; good-night, Count."
Contrary to custom, he shook the Count heartily
by the hand as they parted.
When he got to his own room Mr Beck noticed
several faint, greyish stains on the pure, smooth
white of his right-hand glove. He examined them


DROWNED DIAMONDS 63
with a magnifying-glass, and then put the glove
carefully aside.
The Count and Miss Rosedale met as she had
prophesied at breakfast in the open air on the
terrace looking over the tranquil sea just touched
into sparkling ripples by the morning breeze.
A dainty breakfast tempted appetites that needed
no tempting, and the beautiful surroundings height-
ened their enjoyment of the meal.
"May I have the felicity?" the Count asked,
when they moved to a broad bench closer to the sea.
He held his gold cigarette-case open.
It was characteristic of the man and his gallantry
that the cigarettes had a faint odour of violets.
They were specially designed for ladies' smoking.
The girl nestled more cosily amongst her cushions
and looked out over the glorious view. The broad
floor of blue water was circled by a range of hills
whose peaks and curves stood in sharp outline against
the sky. A fresh breeze was on the wing, and
little waves, white-edged with foam, raced shore-
wards.
A white-sailed yacht a hundred yards from where
they sat gave brightness and life to the picture.
The crew were busy aboard, apparently hoisting sail
and weighing anchor for a cruise.
To the right Mr Beck in his motor-boat was
moving slowly with a fishing-rod arched over the
bow and a line trailing through the sparkling
water.
A softer light dawned in the girl's eyes as she looked
out over the sea, wholly oblivious of the handsome
Frenchman at her side.


64 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"You have forgotten the diamonds," he said
tentatively; "is it not so? Young ladies forget—
yes."
She woke up suddenly at the sound of his smooth
voice.
"Wrong," she said sharply; "women never
forget when they want to remember. I have brought
you the diamonds."
She drew the case from a flimsy little bag of
brocaded silk where she kept her handkerchief and
purse, and handed it to him carelessly.
He took it as carelessly, but she noticed at the time
that his hand trembled as he took it and his face
paled. Perhaps he had some presentiment of what
was to follow.
When he opened the case a cry of delight escaped
him. The diamonds were one blaze of dazzling,
many-coloured light in the sunshine. The Count
examined them carefully. "They are priceless!"
he'murmured. "Priceless! Matchless! May I be
permitted? In your dark hair they would superbly
show."
But as he took a hasty step forward to where she
sat his foot caught in the edge of the rug and a
stumble shot him against the railing that, waist
high, guarded the terrace. His feet went up and his
head down as he struck, and he was flung in an
awkward heap over the railing into the sea. The
diamonds left his hand as he fell and shot in front—
a curved streak of light.
A frightened scream broke from the girl's lips.
She was on her feet in a moment, at the edge of the
terrace, with eager eyes on the tossing water. Like a





DROWNED DIAMONDS 65
flash she remembered that the Count could not swim,
and she stood ready to plunge to his rescue the moment
he showed above the surface.
But he never showed. He went down like a stone,
and the water closed on him unbroken.
While the girl stood poised like a statue of a diver
at the terrace edge, Mr Beck, who had heard the
scream and seen the splash, turned his motor-boat
sharply towards the terrace, and as it shot by plunged
for the spot where the Count had disappeared. The
frightened girl thought he, too, was lost, so long he
remained beneath the water, but at last his head
broke the surface at least twenty yards further out
to sea than where he went in. He came up empty-
handed, and turned and swam straight for the
motor - boat which had drifted in close to the
terrace.
Meanwhile the crew of the yacht who had a
full view of the accident dropped the sails they
were hauling and rushed to the side excitedly.
Two of them clambered into the punt that
dangled at the stern, and rowed slowly back-
wards and forwards over the hundred yards'
space of water that lay between the terrace and the
yacht, with eyes close to the surface searching the
depths.
It was all in vain. All in vain, too, a little later,
a swarm of volunteers composed of expert swimmers
and divers from the hotel, explored the water
in all directions. There was no current in the
place. The water, though deep, was very clear
and free from wind, and the bottom of smooth,
firm sand. The disappearance of the unfortunate
E


66
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Frenchman and the diamonds was a bewildering
mystery.
Mr Rosedale rampaged over the place, now offer-
ing fabulous rewards for the recovery of the man
or the diamonds; now shouting directions to Jim
Morgan, who headed the splashing search party in
the bay, and who was as much under the water as
over it.
All this time the girl sat apart, silent and very
pale. She showed no interest in the search. The
man was drowned—nothing else mattered in the
least. The horror of it stunned her. The passage
from life to death had been so sudden—one moment
smiling beside her, gay, handsome, full of life and
spirit; the next dead.
What did it matter whether they found
the corpse or the diamonds? The man himself
whom she had laughed with and played with was
gone out of the world. Sitting there in the sun-
shine, with the beautiful world around her, her
warm heart was chilled with the horror of death.
It had come so close that she could never again
hope to escape from the grim shadow of that
remembrance.
Her listless eyes chanced to light on the figure
of Mr Beck, and in some vague way she was
cheered at the sight of him. That sedate, com-
fortable, commonplace figure made horror seem
unreal. After his first impetuous plunge into
the water Mr Beck seemed to take no further
part or interest in the performance. He had
changed his clothes, had .taken a solid, solitary
lunch, and now sat comfortably in the stern of


DROWNED DIAMONDS 67
the motor-boat watching the animated scene in the
water.
The quest was at last abandoned in despair.
The white-sailed yacht meanwhile had gathered
up its crew and put out to sea. Jim Morgan, his
search over, was lounging disconsolately on the
terrace when Mr Beck beckoned to him from the
motor-boat.
"Well? " said Mr Beck.
"It isn't well—it's confoundedly unwell."
"Keep cool, young man."
"You might as well tell the devil to keep cool
on his gridiron. I shouldn't mind the old chap
cursing and growling, but the girl's face takes the
life out of me. When I spoke to her just now she
didn't answer, but she stared at me as if I had
murdered that Frenchman. I never cared for him
overmuch, I admit, but I was sorry he went
under. I'd have saved him if I could. Where
did he go to, anyway? He's not in the water I'll
swear."
"Nor on the land," added Mr Beck.
"Of course not; I saw him go down."
"And didn't see him come up. So he's drowned
of course, isn't he?"
There was a curious tone in his voice as he put
the question that made the young American look
up suddenly. Mr Beck caught his eye and
winked.
"What the mischief are you driving at
now?"
"Will you come for a short trip with me in the
motor-boat?"


68
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Why?"
"I'll tell you and show you."
"Let her rip then; I'm just aching to know what's
up."
Mr Beck turned the electric switch and started
the engine. The bay was empty of pleasure
boats, only far out in the offing gleamed the
white sails of a yacht heading straight for the open
sea.
"Now," said Jim Morgan, "you've got to tell
me where are the man and the diamonds, if they
are not at the bottom of the sea."
"There!" said Mr Beck, laconically, and he
pointed a thick forefinger at the white-sailed vessel
that seemed to come slowly back to them across
the broad blue expanse of the bay.
"But how in creation," stammered the American,
"did he get there?"
"Dived from the terrace to the boat.
"Not to be done," retorted the other, sharply
"the Count cannot swim a stroke. The boat was a
good hundred yards off when he went down. The
man doesn't live that could dive the distance."
"That depends on circumstances," answered Mr
Beck, placidly as ever; "a tow-line was one of the
circumstances. I might have guessed if I didn't see,
but as it happened I did see. My blundering good
luck helped me as usual.
"When I jumped overboard to rescue the Count
it was all plain as a pikestaff. The trick was neatly
arranged. A weight was laid with a line attached
close to the terrace. Of course the Count could
swim like a fish. He first picked up the diamonds,


DROWNED DIAMONDS 69
caught the weight, and was hauled hand over hand
like a hooked fish under the yacht and up the other
side.
"When I was in the water I saw him shoot past
me without moving hand or foot as fast as a darting
trout. It was easy to guess the rest, so I just came
out and lunched and waited."
"But why wait? Why let us make a parcel of
fools of ourselves hunting in the water? Why not
nab him at once?"
"I .was taking no risks, young man. He might
have passed the diamonds to a pal. As it is, I'm
quite sure he and the diamonds are safe on board the
yacht, though we may have a little trouble in laying
hold of them."
Jim Morgan's eyes brightened, and his lips tightened
at the word " trouble."
Mr Beck nodded approvingly.
"So I thought," he said, as if answering some
remark of the other. "Can you shoot?"
"Some," said the American, modestly.
He had been reckoned the best rifle and revolver
shot in Texas.
Without a word more Mr Beck passed over a service-
able revolver.
"There are three of them, I think, on board,"
he said, "including the Count. But they won't
show fight—not real fight. I want you to do a
bit of fancy shooting to scare without hurting
them."
"I'm there," Jim Morgan answered, examining
the revolver approvingly; "it's a nice gun."
The space of sea between the motor-boat and


70 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
the yacht closed rapidly. Mr Beck and his companion
could distinguish the figure of a man at the wheel,
and another leaning over the rail. More and more
distinct the figures grew.
The man at the wheel was dressed in blue serge,
with a stiff straw hat; the man at the rail wore white
ducks, a blue coat with gilt buttons, and a gold-
braided yachting cap. He held a binocular to his
eyes pointed at the motor-boat.
With his hands hollowed to his lips Mr Beck sent a
loud-voiced hail over the narrowing strip of sea.
But the yacht held steadily on to her course. The
motor-boat racing at twenty miles an hour, her keen
prow cutting the water like a knife, doubled the
yacht's speed. They were close under the stern
when again Mr Beck yelled out a peremptory
"Stop!"
For answer the man at the helm raised his right
hand; there was a puff of white smoke and a sharp
report, but the bullet flew wide.
"I thought so," said Mr Beck; "poor shooting!
Your turn now, Morgan."
Jim Morgan raised his " gun " swiftly, his arm bent
double, his elbow to his side. Without a pause for aim
as the muzzle went up he fired. The straw hat, with
a bullet-hole through the crown, skidded into the air,
swooped on the wind like a soaring bird, and dropped
far out to sea.
The steersman let go the wheel, and the yacht
swung round with the wind. The man at the rails
rushed to the side. Jim Morgan fired again, and his
glasses jumped from his hand and crashed on the
deck.


DROWNED DIAMONDS 71
"What the blazes do you want? " he yelled.
"To come aboard," retorted Mr Beck; "lay to!"
"You'll pay dear for this outrage."
"Someone will pay dear, no doubt," Mr Beck
retorted. "Let down the ladder."
The motor-boat, with engines reversed, glided
smoothly under the yacht's side, and Mr Beck
climbed aboard. Jim Morgan, with revolver ready,
followed. There were three men on deck. The
stout man in the gold-laced cap, plainly owner and
skipper; the hatless helmsman—a good-looking,
fair-faced young fellow with close-cropped, straw-
coloured hair; the third a foreign, sallow-com-
plexioned, common sailor with shifty eyes.
The stout skipper foamed and spluttered with
rage.
"May I ask again," he growled, " what is the mean-
ing of this outrage? Why have you forced yourself
on board my boat? I demand an instant explana-
tion."
"Why, certainly," replied Mr Beck, with in-
vincible good humour. "I've come to arrest Count
D'Armaund and his accomplices for the robbery of
the Rosedale diamonds."
The stout man laughed scornfully.
"Find your Count," he said, " you are welcome to
search for him."
"Don't need to," retorted Mr Beck; "I've found
him."
He laid his big hand heavily on the shoulder of the
bare-headed helmsman.
Again the stout man laughed derisively, and the
bewildered Jim Morgan cried out:


7a
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"That's not the Count!"
But Mr Beck's strong hand gripped the man's
shoulder firmly.
"It's all right, sonny," he assured the young
American. "The Count's clothes, and the Count's
wig, moustache and complexion have gone into the
sea, but the Count himself is here. Allow me," and
he snapped a pair of handcuffs on the man's wrists.
"You're safe for seven years," he said pleasantly.
"I've got your thumb and finger-marks on a white
kid glove in a drawer in my bedroom at the hotel.
See! Your turn next, my friend."
The stout captain's hand dipped towards his coat
pocket, and on a sudden Mr Beck's smiling eyes
blazed with anger. Quick as light a pistol was at the
stout man's head.
"Hands up! " he cried sternly, "or I shoot you
like a dog!"
He picked a revolver from the right-hand pocket
of the pilot coat and tossed it overboard. "Ah!
that's better!" and again there was the snap of the
handcuffs. The third sailor submitted without
protest, and the three huddled together disconso-
lately like fowl when a hawk is overhead.
"Now to find the diamonds," said Mr Beck, and
as he spoke he caught out of the corner of his eye
a glance of triumph between the Count and the
captain, and guessed that his task would not be an
easy one.
Nor was it. For an hour and a half, aided by Jim
Morgan, he searched the yacht from stem to stern
without result.
A sudden thought seemed to strike Mr Beck, and


DROWNED DIAMONDS 73
he picked up the binocular that lay on the deck,
and examined it carefully. The bullet had cut the
leather casing and slightly dinted the metal; other-
wise the glasses were uninjured. Mr Beck adjusted
the focus and looked back over the bay.
"Ah!" he said at last briskly, and closed the
glasses with a snap. "What a confounded fool I am
to be sure!"
"Well? " queried Jim Morgan.
"We're going back," said Mr Beck. Then with
Jim's help he furled the sails, shipped his three
handcuffed prisoners into the motor-boat, and, with
the yacht in tow, trailed slowly back towards the
hotel.
"See that chunk of cork ahead?" he said to his
companion. "I want you to pick it up as we go by.
I've a fancy it may come in useful."
"What for? " queried his companion.
"Luck!" replied Mr Beck. "I've a notion it
means luck."
Leaning over the side Jim Morgan splashed his
hand in the water, and caught at the cork as Mr Beck
steered dexterously close.
He gave a cry of surprise as he pulled it aboard.
To the underside of the derelict cork was fastened a
fine silk fishing line, from which a weight hung far
down in the water.
"Haul in!" directed Mr Beck, and hand over
hand Jim brought his catch into the boat. It proved
to be a small, yellow oilskin bag tied tight at the neck.
"Oh!" cried the Yankee, with sudden under-
standing.
"Yes," assented Mr Beck. "Neat, wasn't it?"


74 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
And cutting thestring he poured therescued diamonds
like a stream of light from the dripping mouth of the
bag. "The 'Count,'" he said, "is the smartest
diamond thief in Europe."
Four people dined luxuriously together that night
at the Eagleton Hotel. The Rosedale diamonds
glittered again round the white throat of their lovely
owner, who sat at the head of the table.
"I'm glad to have them back again, of course,"
said Alice Rosedale, and she caressed her gems with
dainty finger-tips; "but I'm twice as glad the
wretched man wasn't drowned before my eyes."
"Serve him right if he were," growled the angry
millionaire. "I thought I knew a thing or two, but
he has taken the starch out of my shirt front. The
sneaking swindler! How they'll laugh on the other
side when they hear I mistook a low-down diamond
thief for a full-blooded French count."
"Oh, he was a French count all right," said Mr
Beck, "and as full-blooded and blue-blooded as
they make them. At the back of that he is the
cleverest scoundrel in Europe. He was suspected
of a hand in half a dozen big coups, but up
to this there never before was a particle of evidence
against him."
"Lucky I called you in," said Mr Rosedale.
"Your jolly good health, old man!" And he
drained a brimming bumper of champagne. "Say,
will you take charge of daughter and diamonds as a
permanent job, and name your own salary?"
"All right, if I may be allowed to choose my own
deputy," retorted Mr Beck, and he laid a kindly hand
on Jim Morgan's shoulder.


DROWNED DIAMONDS 75
"I'm satisfied," cried the millionaire, heartily.
"And you? " whispered Jim Morgan to the blush-
ing girl beside him.
"Certainly not," she answered sharply, yet Jim
Morgan seemed quite satisfied.





IV
THE SPANISH PRISONER
Mr Beck often looked in casually to a London police
court. Sometimes a seemingly trivial case put him
on the track of a great crime. He had been puzzling
for some time over the gigantic fraud of "The Spanish
Prisoner," which, worked by a gang of accomplished,
unscrupulous scoundrels, yearly numbers its dupes by
thousands, and its plunder by hundreds of thousands.
Mr Beck's services had been requisitioned by a wealthy
victim, and he was laying his plans to strike the
conspiracy at its headquarters, and had even gone so
far as to study the language.
By a strange coincidence, "Spanish Prisoner"
were the first words he heard as he dropped into the
Westminster police court. The silence of the squalid
crowd that thronged the court made it plain that a
case of more than ordinary interest was in progress.
The magistrate—a bald-headed man who generally
lay back bored by the dreary monotony of his work—
leant forward eagerly, with eyes that glanced
quickly from the dock to the witness chair.
In a moment Mr Beck recognised the voice of the
witness. It was Mr Jonas Millbank, M.P. for a
North of England constituency—able, wealthy, and
eminently respectable.
77


78 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Surely he has not been caught by this transparent
fraud," thought the detective, as the police respect-
fully made way for him to a place where he could see
and hear.
Mr Millbank, M.P., was a good-looking man, about
forty years of age. His mouth was firm lipped, nose
large, and the cheek-bones high, indicating the canny
Northern breed. But the light blue eyes looked you
straight in the face, frank and smiling.
"She claims, I believe, to be a daughter of this
Spanish Prisoner," he said at the moment that Mr
Beck dropped into his seat.
"She!" Mr Beck's eyes went straight to the
dock and opened wide with surprise.
He thought he had never seen a more beautiful
girl. She seemed wholly out of place amid her dismal
surroundings. The gay colours of her Spanish dress
would have overtaxed a beauty less resplendent;
they ministered to hers. The warm, lustrous tints
of cheek and lips, the brilliancy of her great black
eyes, the rich coils of her ebony hair piled on her
shapely head, and breaking here and there into an
unruly ringlet that fell to her shoulder—all challenged
admiration as a right. She stood up in the dock
straight and tall, her head well thrown back, her dark
eyes fixed with angry light on the witness.
"Do you know the girl, Mr Millbank? " asked the
magistrate, respectfully.
"Never saw her in my life before to-day, your
worship."
A low cry came from the prisoner. She spoke a
word or two in Spanish. Whatever might be the
meaning of the words, there was no mistaking the


THE SPANISH PRISONER
anger in her voice. Her eyes blazed on Mr Mill-
bank's face, a thin, white line showed her teeth
through the parted red lips.
"How then do you account for the annoyance,
Mr Millbank?"
"I cannot account for it, your worship. I can
only tell you the facts."
Mr Millbank was putting the magistrate in his place.
His worship meekly accepted the correction. The
witness went on:
"About six months ago, your worship, I received
this curious letter from Spain:
"' Dear Friend,—You will not have forgotten
me. I am in trouble and danger, and to you I cry for
help. But, first, I will tell you my sad story. I
am a prisoner in this town, and it is for debt. You
will say, what is that? can it be thus for my friend
that I have known? He was rich. Well I am still
rich, my dear friend, but my treasure is buried and
I cannot come to it. In crossing from the
mountains we buried it to escape the cruel guard
who were close on our track. It is in coin and jewels,
and value twenty thousand pounds of your English
money.
"' Now you will say, what am I to do in this? My
friend, as you know, I have a daughter. She was
but a child when you saw her last, now she has grown
to a woman and is very beautiful. I trust her in all
things, but there is none other I can trust, only you.
She has a map of the spot where the treasure is hid.
This she will give to you. It is a place easily found.
You will not be suspected. When the treasure is


THE SPANISH PRISONER 81
I know a little Spanish, I have travelled in Spain, but
she spoke so quickly I could only make out that she
charged me with having robbed her father of twenty
thousand pounds.
"I tried to soothe her. I said I knew nothing of
her father or herself. But she only cried in Spanish
the louder: 'Oh, you know him and you know me.'
"To avoid disturbance I left the place, but she
followed me into the street, calling me 'a traitor to
friendship.' A crowd gathered and some of them
began to hustle me when the policeman came up, and
I was reluctantly obliged to give the girl in charge.
I wish your worship to deal leniently with her; I
only want to be protected from annoyance.'
"The case is a grave one," said the magistrate.
"The girl is plainly in some way connected with
the gang of swindlers who are plundering the
unwary."
"She may be the dupe, your worship," suggested
Mr Millbank, kindly. "I have been a good deal in
Spain, and more than once in Seville. She may mis-
take me for someone else."
"You have no knowledge of her?"
"None."
"Hers is a remarkable face, not likely to be
forgotten?"
"I never saw her face before."
"You hear what the gentleman says, prisoner,"
said the magistrate. "Do you understand
English?"
"A little, sefior."
"He says he never saw you before."
"He is the liar, the villain, the coward, the thief!


82 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
He rob my father who is in prison, rob him of much
gold, I say again."
"Come, come, my girl, you must not say that
again. I cannot allow such language in Court. Is
the prisoner professionally represented?"
"I appear for the prisoner," said a tall, cadaverous-
looking man, with a long, yellow face and a long,
shiny black coat, buttoned close up to the throat.
"Kindly tell her she must restrain herself."
"You must conduct yourself reasonably, miss,"
said Mr Hastings, "or I cannot continue to appear
for you."
Undeterred by this terrible threat, the girl broke
out again: "I speak the truth, and he the lies. His
friend's money he has stolen; his friend that trusted
him; his friend, my father, that is in prison. Ah!"
Her anger overflowed the limits of her broken
English, and broke out in a rushing torrent of sonor-
ous Spanish. Her gestures were splendid as she
denounced the imperturbable Mr Millbank.
Mr Beck's recent study of the language enabled
him to fish up a word or two out of the rushing
stream.
"He is a traitor," she cried at last, "and I will have
my revenge."
Then, to the surprise of all in Court, she whipped
a short poinard from her girdle, held it in the air, and
so stood with black eyes blazing—a statue of
vengeance incarnate.
The magistrate jumped on the Bench. "Silence!"
he shouted. "Constable, take the knife from the
young woman."
The young woman put the dagger quietly back in


84 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
The young girl was in quite another mood when
they returned to Court. The fit of passion had
passed and left her limp. The constable had told her
she would surely be hanged, and she made a pitiful
appeal to the magistrate for mercy.
Mr Beck, watching her closely, as, with streaming
eyes, she prayed for her life, thought to himself she
would make the finest actress on the stage.
"It is all right, my girl," he said reassuringly,
"you are not going to be hurt this time." Then,
with an effort, he managed to screw out a few kindly
words in Spanish.
At the familiar sound she turned to him in eager
delight, and simply smothered him with a melodious
torrent of speech.
"All right," he protested, when at last he could get
a word in, " tell me the rest at your leisure. You are
to come with me, if you don't mind; we'll take a
hansom to your place. Where are you staying?"
But when she gave him the address he said: "No,
that won't do. That is not the place at all for a
nice-looking girl like you, my dear. Cabby, drive to
Dickens' Private Hotel, Norfolk Street.
"The landlady," he explained to the girl, in
stumbling Spanish, "is a great friend of mine and
will take care of you. Now tell me your name. I'll
have to introduce you."
"Aurora de Castro." The termagant had
vanished. A school-girl, shy and grateful, was
beside him in the hansom, and for the first time the
conviction came to Mr Beck that the girl—whatever
else she might be—was a lady born.
"Look here, Aurora! I may call you Aurora?"


THE SPANISH PRISONER 85
"Oh, yes."
"Well, if you will tell me the truth I will do what
I can for you."
"You will release my father; you will restore
our treasure; you will punish this most wicked
man?"
"Perhaps," said Mr Beck, drily; "we'll see about
that. I want your story first, if you please; but
here we are at the hotel."
Mrs Cunningham, manageress and proprietress,
met them in the hall—a good-humoured Irish-
woman whom twenty years of residence in London
had not robbed of her mellifluous brogue.
"Ah, then good day to you, Mr Beck," she said
cheerily, "and whom have we here ?"—with a swift
glance at the brilliant figure in the cab. "I'm
ashamed of you going about in hansom cabs with your
Italian countesses," she exclaimed mockingly, "and
at your time of life, too. An elderly person like
myself would be more suitable."
"That's all right," said the placid Mr Beck.
"I want you to do me a great favour, Mrs
Cunningham."
"If I can I will," she answered at once, " you may
take that for granted."
"Well, you must take care of this young lady for
me, and keep an eye on her comings and goings and
her visitors, if any."
"But, my dear Mr Beck, isn't she a 'leetle'
remarkable for a quiet place like mine?"
"Don't worry about that. She's Spanish and
she's a lady, and she'll dress as quietly as you like.
I want you to see to all that later on. Meanwhile,


86
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
will you let us have lunch in a private room? I must
have a chat with her before I leave. Come in,
Aurora," he said at the cab door, " I want to intro-
duce you to my friend, Mrs Cunningham, who'll take
care of you."
"Let me show you your room, my dear," said the
good-natured Irishwoman, captivated by the beauty
and gentle manners of the girl; "you are lucky to
have found a friend in Mr Beck."
Half an hour later Mr Beck and the daughter of
the Spanish Prisoner sat down to a comfortable little
luncheon in a private room, though Mrs Cunningham,
at the door, protested to Mr Beck she was " shocked
at his goings-on."
Mr Beck refused to hear a word of her story till
the girl had finished her luncheon. "You can-
not eat and talk," he said, "and you must be
hungry."
He was right there. No rubbler of fragments was
this young Spanish beauty. She ate with the hearty
appetite of youth and health, and Mr Beck watched
approvingly.
"I had only a cup of coffee and nothing
this morning," she explained, as she pushed
away her plate at last and sipped a glass of light
wine.
"Now," said Mr Beck, "what is it all about?"
"He is a traitor," she said, with a sudden flash of
her old anger.
"That's all right," he chimed in soothingly.
"You said that before, you know, and we'll take that
for granted. But your father—is he the Spanish
Prisoner?"


THE SPANISH PRISONER 87
"My father, alas! is still in prison, and his
treasure is stolen."
"We will never get any further at this rate; begin
at the beginning. Tell me all about your
father."
"His name? It is Don Aloroso de Castro.
My mother died when I was born. He has
no other child. He was very rich, but, alas!
now he is no longer rich; his treasure has been
stolen."
"I know all that," interpolated Mr Beck, "we'll
come to that later on. What was your father before
he became a Spanish prisoner?"
"My father was a banker at Konda. You know
it is about forty miles from Cadiz. We have also a
house at Cadiz, but chiefly we lived at Konda. He
had much treasure in his bank, gold, notes and
jewellery, and many customers. He was for Don
Carlos, of course."
"For what did you say?"
"For Don Carlos, the true King of Spain—a man,
not a foolish boy whom they dress in king's clothes.
You are for Don Carlos, are you not, Don
Becko?"
"Well, I have not quite made up my mind yet,"
Don Becko answered sedately. "I'll think it over;
meanwhile go on with your story."
"My father he helped Don Carlos with money,
and even bought arms for him which were stored in
the bank vaults and carried away at night. The
Civil Guard knew nothing of all this, but after a
while even they suspected. There were whispers
in Cadiz and the sound of them came across the


88
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
mountain to Konda. So my father thought he would
be wise to leave Konda and come to Cadiz. For you
see, while we were at Konda, the Carlists would come
to the house."
"I see," assented Mr Beck, shortly; "a case of
save me from my friends."
She only half caught his meaning.
"From our friends, no, from our enemies—the
friends of the tyrant. We did not wish to go. But
I feared for him and he for me, and so it was agreed
upon. The bank was closed and our debts were paid
—all except one to a great friend of my father who
lived in Cadiz, and to him we were bringing the
money. But you shall hear. It was—I cannot
count in your English—seven, eight, nine, ten weeks
since we set out to cross the mountains. The Civil
Guard offered to protect us, but we would not. My
father asked them to protect instead the bank, where
it was thought the treasure still lay, for we put it out
that we were going only on a visit to Cadiz, and
would return.
"So we two started early in the morning, hoping
to reach Cadiz by nightfall. We rode on
mules with a third mule to carry the baggage,
and amongst the rest of the baggage there was
a leather portmanteau in which the treasure
was packed."
Mr Beck made a mental note of the portmanteau.
It was a coincidence that all Spanish prisoners'
stories ran on the same lines; there was always a
leather portmanteau.
"We brought with us no servants to avoid sus-
picion. Our household remained for the time in


THE SPANISH PRISONER 89
Konda. There are two roads from Konda to Cadiz
as you must know, Don Becko?"
"Cannot say I do exactly," said Mr Beck,
modestly.
"We chose the longer but the easier of the two.
It was fortunate for us we did so. For miles it lay
through the valley with bordering vineyards and
olive groves—a smooth and pleasant road where
the mules went forward swiftly. Already four
leagues lay behind, when we came to the place
at the entrance to the pass where the two
roads join, and begin together to climb up into
the mountain.
"By this time the sun was nearly straight over us,
and the sky was like the lid of an oven closing in the
heat upon the roasting earth, for there was no cloud
nor wind. The mules sweated under their loads
and the heat pressed upon us like a weight. Our
shadows were no more than round blots on the
burnt ground.
"We welcomed the shelter and coolness of the inn
that stood at the meeting of the roads. The cup of
cold wine and water was what the souls in purgatory
pray for. My father, exhausted by the heat, lay
indoors, till the anger of the sun should have
passed. But for me I sat in the summer-house in
the garden, where the thatch of green leaves was so
thick that no sun could enter, and so slipped softly
into sleep.
"The sound of strange voices got mixed with my
dreams, till I suddenly woke to know they were real.
Close by the summer-house where I lay the road ran,
and by the roadside, under the trees, were men resting


90 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
and talking. They spoke of Don Carlos and the
Civil Guard, and suddenly I heard my father's
name. 'Don Aloroso,' said the rough voice of an old
man. 'Don Aloroso goes to meet the friends of Don
Carlos on the mountain. But the Civil Guard have
heard of it and pursue them. This morning a
company went down by the shortest road to Konda
to arrest him.'
"' I hear he gives money, much money, to Don
Carlos,' said the shriller voice of youth. 'By Bacchus,
if I had money, it should go for wine.'
"' It is but a mile now to my house where there
is a skinful of the best in Spain,' the first voice
answered, and then the noise of their speech passed
slowly out of my hearing.
"I had heard enough. My sleep was over for the
day. Going swiftly down to the posada, I woke my
father and told him what I had heard. It frightened
him, Don Becko, though he is not a man easily made
afraid. 'My little girl,' he said, 'it is ruin if they
catch us with this treasure in our possession. They
will swear, as these country fools have said, we bring
it to Don Carlos. It means death for me, and for my
little girl poverty and the misery that comes with
poverty. We must start instantly.'
"Then, though the sun was still high up in the
heavens, we resumed our journey at once, urging the
mules to their best speed. On from this inn the path-
way climbed the mountain, winding through the
rocks and passing here and there over a ledge that
made one dizzy to look down from.
"But the mules moved without fear, planting their
feet as steadily on the narrow ledge as on the broad


THE SPANISH PRISONER 91
high road. The air grew cooler as we climbed, and
the country below lay wide and lovely in the sunshine.
Like the narrow lines of a map we could distinguish
far beneath us the roads that lead out of Konda.
"My father had brought with him a field-glass,
and every now and then he turned to scan the roads
back to the horizon's edge. 'Safe so far, Aurora,'
he would say to me after each long look, and urge the
mules to better speed.
"When we had reached almost to the ridge of the
pass where the pathway begins to run down hill
towards Cadiz, my father stopped for a last look at
the ribbons of road that ran through the plain
far below.
"He started, looked again long and steadily, then
handed the glasses to me. 'Your eyes are younger
than mine, my child,' he said.
"I swept the road back from the foot of the hill
to the horizon's edge, and found at last what I sought
yet did not wish to find. Rocks and trees, small
and dim in the distance, grew large and clear
as they glided into the range of the glasses.
The ribbon widened into a rugged road, and along
it mounted men—small as toy soldiers, but
clear beyond mistaking—moved swiftly up towards
the mountain.
"' They will overtake us before we reach Cadiz,'
groaned my father.
"' We might hide,' I hinted.
"' Impossible, impossible; they must have already
seen us. But yet—oh, there is some hope yet, we
might hide the portmanteau with the money and
papers. They dare not arrest us without some


92
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
proof. Quick, child, quick! It is an hour before they
are here, and now the ridge hides us from view.'
"We urged the mules just over the edge of the
pass, and then looked around for a likely hiding-
place.
"By the side of the track on a terrace in the flank
of the hill was a Moorish ruin—shrine, or fortress, I
cannot say—sheltered from the north wind by three
tall pines, the centre of the three bent so."
With a few deft bold strokes of a pencil she drew
on a sheet of notepaper what she had described.
"As quickly as we could we carried the port-
manteau down to the terrace, and found by good
fortune just what we looked for. The walls and roof
had crumbled in. The place looked a solid mass of
masonry, overgrown with wild vines and weeds.
But circling it I spied on the side that faced the
valley, faintly showing through the thick overgrowth,
the outline of a stone or two cut in the fashion of a
Moorish arch.
"We drew the wild vines and creepers apart, and
found a window in the wall about two yards from the
ground. My father climbed to the window. I
helped to lift the portmanteau to him, and he
pushed it through, lowering it gently to the
ground. Then we re-arranged the curtain of wild
vine, with its close cluster of small berries, till no sign
of window or arch was visible.
"An hour later, when two of the Civil Guard came
softly over the ridge of the pass, they found a man
and girl resting in an angle of the track with their
mules tethered close by.
"There were the remains of a slight repast—bread


THE SPANISH PRISONER 93
and fruit and a flagon of wine. The man was rest-
fully smoking a cigarette, and the girl was sketching
the lovely view with a Moorish ruin and three tall pine
trees in the foreground. Oh, Don Becko, you will
understand?"
"A map of the place," said Mr Beck.
She nodded. "You understand; even before
their very eyes I drew it. But they never for one
moment suspected.
"The leader of the band, Don Fabrice, I
knew. I had met him before. I had danced with
him."
Mr Beck noted that the frank and easy narrative
suddenly became abrupt and disjointed.
"My father invited Don Fabrice to eat with us.
He would not. One would have thought we were
the police and he the fugitive, he looked so
frightened.
"' Don Aloroso,' he blurted out, 'I come on a
most unpleasant duty. I have been sent to seize
certain treasure, which it is said you carry to agents
of Don Carlos, and to arrest you for high treason.
I crave your pardon, and yours, Donna Aurora, but
if I had refused the duty it would have been intrusted
to another less considerate.' He looked aside at a
tall man, also in the uniform of an officer, who stood
apart glowering—Don Rodrigo, whom also I knew
and liked not.
"My father smiled, and rolled a cigarette between
his fingers. 'Trouble yourself not, my friend,' he
said. 'You are welcome to the treasure if you
find it.'
"Why should I weary you with a long story, Don


94 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Becko? They searched our baggage and found—
nothing. Don Rodrigo searched closest and was
savage at his failure. He was rude in manner
and question. Twice I thought that he and
Don Fabrice would have drawn swords on each
other.
"At last even Don Rodrigo was convinced there
was no treasure—neither dreamt we had hidden it.
Why should we hide it when we had had no notice of
their coming? Don Fabrice was most kind, and even
Don Rodrigo made a sulky apology.
"There is little more to be told. They both came
down with us to Cadiz, Don Fabrice riding at my
rein, and the other a score of paces behind.
"For awhile all went well at Cadiz. Suspicion
was at rest, and my father was planning a little
excursion into the hills, which were only a few hours'
ride, when suddenly he was arrested for debt at the
suit of Don Ambrosio de Legna.
"Don Ambrosio was a friend whom my father
loved and trusted. But he wanted me to marry him
and was furious when I refused him. He had money
in'our bank at Konda. Somehow, he learnt we had
brought no money with us to Cadiz. The day after
our return he asked me again to be his wife, and
when I again refused he had my father thrown into
prison for debt.
"I was in great trouble, Don Becko. My father
could not help me. I dared not tell Don Fabrice of
his persecution, or there would be a duello, and I
dared not slip away to the mountains for our treasure
to pay my father's debt, for Don Rodrigo was always
at my heels.


THE SPANISH PRISONER 95
"It was then we thought of writing to Don
Millbank in London."
"You knew him before?" asked Mr Beck.
"Oh, yes, for five years. We were in Toledo when
I was so high." She set a shapely brown hand within
half a yard of the floor to indicate her height "One
night it seems the Englishman had been rude to a
girl. I hardly know the story, I was so young then.
Her lover was angry. He had a knife drawn and
would have stabbed the Englishman, but my father
struck it from his hand. That night the Englishman
came home to supper. He was grateful, oh, so grate-
ful to my father. He called him the saviour of his
life, and asked us both to come and see him in
England. Behold, I alone have come to find
him."
The girl's full red lips tightened, and the angry
light rekindled in her black eyes.
"That's all right, my dear," put in Mr Beck,
soothingly; "go on with your story. Did Mr Mill-
bank go to Spain when your father wrote to
him?"
"At once, oh, at once, he was so kind. All we
wanted he would do, and would take no reward.
Then I gave him my sketch of the place, and told him
where to look; and so one morning he rode away to
the mountains, promising to bring the treasure back
the same evening. But he never came back, and
then I knew he was a liar and a thief. I sus-
pected him when I saw him, but my father trusted
him."
"What next?" asked Mr Beck. "Go on with
your story; it's interesting."


96 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"I sold my trinkets and my watch, and I followed
him here. There was a man in London I knew.
He was what you call a butler when we lived in
Toledo. Afterwards they say he was in trouble, and
joined the bandits. What do I know? It was only
talk. But he left the country and came to London.
I wrote to him, and he found a room for me, and told
me where I might find your Mr Millbank."
"Not mine," protested Mr Beck; "I claim no
share of him."
"Oh, you believe in him," she answered quickly.
"He is what you call respectable. He will not steal
—is it not so?"
She looked keenly in his face and read nothing
there but blank good-nature, and turned from him
with quick impatience.
"But Pedro believes in me; Pedro knows me well.
Oh, I should not have spoken—I should not have told
you his name!"
"Perhaps not," retorted Mr Beck. "Pedro
seems a modest and retiring kind of gentleman. If
I were you I would not trouble him any more in this
business. Will you promise you will have nothing
more to say to Pedro on the subject?"
She hesitated for a moment. "Yes," she said
slowly at last, "I will promise." She looked away
from Mr Beck's steady gaze as she said it.
"One thing more," he added. "I want to change
your Spanish money for English notes or gold."
"Certainly; it is not much." She bundled some
small notes and a few Spanish gold pieces out of her
purse, and gave them into his broad palm without a
look at what he offered in exchange.


THE SPANISH PRISONER 97
"Well, good-bye," he said; "steer clear of Pedro
till we meet. Mrs Cunningham will take care of you.
I hope to see you again in a week or a fortnight at
furthest."
"But you will help me to find the treasure?"
"Yes, I will help you to find the truth," he
answered gravely.
The girl flung herself back into the chair as the
door closed after Mr Beck and laughed softly to
herself with a laugh like the pleased purr of a cat.
"That's all right," she murmured in Spanish;
"he is a clever man, this Don Becko. We will
see."
"A man for me? " said Mr Millbank. "All right,
show him in." It was the day after his appearance
in the police-court, and he was having late breakfast
in his private room at the Grand Hotel.
A middle-aged, stoutly-built man, dressed plainly
but not shabbily, came quietly into the room, carry-
ing a new top hat awkwardly in his hand.
"I come about the situation, sir," he began
respectfully before Mr Millbank could question him.
"I understand you are on the lookout for a butler,
and I come to offer myself."
"Why not apply through the registry office?"
queried Mr Millbank.
"Because I believe in direct dealings, sir. I
like to come to headquarters. Here are my
testimonials."
He took a bundle of letters from his pocket and
laid them respectfully on the breakfast-table.
They were all excellent. One from the Duchess
G


98
THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
of Southern found special favour with Mr
Millbank.
He knew her Grace's handwriting. He had seen
it often and always with pleasure on delicate invita-
tions to dinner or dance, for her Grace was a social
leader of the party to which he belonged.
"I have much pleasure "—the letter ran—" in
strongly recommending Mr Marshall for the position
of butler. While in my service he proved himself
invaluable. He is sober, honest, and most trust-
worthy—a capital waiter and always at hand when
he is required. From what I know of him I feel
sure he will discharge efficiently any duties he may
undertake."
"The Duchess is very complimentary," said
Mr Millbank, smiling; "why did you leave
her?"
"I wanted a holiday, sir. The work was hard and
responsible."
"You will find my work lighter," said Mr
Millbank.
"I trust so, sir."
"I certainly do not entertain on the same scale
as the Duchess, nor do I pay the same wages."
"Wages are no great consideration with me, sir,
if I can give satisfaction."
"I think you will suit me. Can you come at
once?"
"At once, sir."
"The Duchess will recommend you, I
suppose?"
"She said she would be glad to give me a strong
personal recommendation, sir, at any time."


THE SPANISH PRISONER 99
"I'm afraid she is out of town at present. Well, I
may see her later on. She is a very intimate friend
of mine. Meanwhile, you may come at once if the
terms suit."
The terms suited Mr Marshall. He showed himself
easily pleased in money matters, and the upshot of
the interview was that he returned with Mr Millbank
to his handsome villa residence, which stood in its
own ground, five miles away, clear of the smoke and
tumult of London, but was brought close by train,
telegraph and telephone to the heart of the great
city.
For three whole days Mr Marshall proved himself
a model butler. On the third day Mr Millbank gave
a little bachelor's dinner, and everything went off
splendidly. The attendance was perfect, the cham-
pagne was cooled and the claret warmed to precisely
the right point. That night Mr Millbank flattered
himself he had found a treasure. The next night he
changed his mind.
He returned home late from dining in the City,
let himself in quietly with his latchkey, and entering
the dining-room found the electric light turned on to
the full, his model butler lolling in an easy chair
blind drunk, with a half-filled bottle of port on the
table in front of him, and two empty bottles on the
carpet beside his chair.
One glass, at least, had gone the wrong way, as
was shown by a broad, dark crimson stain on the
white damask. Mr Marshall's face, usually so placid,
wore a very truculent expression in liquor. With the
first quick glance Mr Millbank noticed the butt of a
big revolver bulging from his pocket.


ioo THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
The drunken butler did not seem the least disturbed
by the sudden advent of his master.
"Have a glass of port, old boy," he said, and lifted
the bottle to fill the glass, but it dropped with a crash
on the floor.
"All right, all right, my covey," stammered the
excellent Mr Marshall, "no hurry; get in another
bottle. You and I, old cracksman, will have a drain
together. Both in the same trade, don't you see;
both on the Spanish Main. Fetch another bottle, old
boy."
Mr Millbank's nerves were not strong. For a
moment he was frightened to death at the truculent
appearance of this drunken bully. But in an instant
he realised that the brute was too drunk to be
dangerous.
"What are you waiting for? " stammered Marshall,
lurching towards him. "Want money to pay for
the drink? Here it is for you." He clapped a
Spanish coin down on the table. "There's more
where that came from." He dived his hand into his
breeches pocket, and fished up a fistful of money—
Spanish notes and gold.
"Confidence trick, old man," mumbled the
drunken butler with an ugly laugh. "You did Don
what you call him, and I do you. Drink together, old
pal."
Mr Millbank's face flushed and paled as he saw the
money on the table. His resolution was quickly
taken and acted on.
"Right you are," he said, laying a timid hand on
the drunkard's shoulder and pressing him down into
his chair, " I'll fetch the wine."



"'You did Don what you call him, and I do you. Drink together, old pal.'"
no face P&ze 1Do•


THE SPANISH PRISONER 101
He would have locked the door behind him, but
the key was not in the lock; so he had to be content
with closing it carefully.
He went straight to the telephone, and got on to
Scotland Yard.
"Hullo! are you there? Yes; put me on to the
inspector. I'm Mr Millbank, of Burlington—yes,
Member of Parliament. Listen. I want you to send
two men out to my place as soon as possible. Yes,
my butler has got drunk and is violent. Yes,
they had better come armed. No, there is no
immediate danger, but send at once. All right;
good-bye."
"Now to see what the ruffian has stolen," he
muttered, as he rang off and replaced the receiver.
"How the blazes did he find out the secret of the
safe?"
Closing the door behind him, he switched on the
light in his bedroom. He took down a small picture
that hung on the panelled paper of the wall, and
pressed the little brass nail on which it hung. In-
stantly a thin sheeting of wood, opening neatly on
the lines of the paper panel, showed the door of a large
safe let into the wall. Mr Millbank fitted a tiny key
to the lock softly and smoothly, the massive door
opened level with the floor, and he lugged out a heavy
old leather portmanteau on the carpet.
"It feels all right," he said, " and it looks all right.
The lock has not been tampered with. But then,
where did the brute get all that Spanish money, and
what did he mean by his talk about Don what's-his-
name?"
"Will you kindly permit me to explain? " said a


102 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
quiet voice at his ear, and a strong hand was laid on
his shoulder. A glance was enough. Chill terror
froze his voice, for leaning over him, revolver in hand,
was his drunken butler.
No, not drunken. The hand that held the revolver
was steady as a rock—there was a bland, good-
humoured smile on the broad face. Mr Millbank
noticed, too, that the black mutton-chop whiskers
were gone, and the expression of the face wholly
changed. Surely he had seen that genial smile,
those twinkling eyes before. Through the mist of
bewilderment in which he was lost the truth dawned
on him suddenly.
"Oh, I see," said Mr Beck, pleasantly. "You
know me at last. I suppose I need not explain further.
I wanted to find out where you had hidden this "—
he touched the portmanteau with his toe—" and you
were kind enough to show me. That's why I showed
you the Spanish money. I knew the sight of
it would send you to see if your treasure were
safe.
"Now to business; allow me." He stooped and
extracted a dainty revolver from the breast-pocket of
Mr Millbank's frock coat. "We don't want those
playthings," he said, as he dropped the two weapons
into his own coat pocket, " they disturb conversation
and we have only a short time for our chat. You
know, I suppose, you have got to do what I tell
you?"
In spite of the good-humoured smile and twinkling
eyes there was a tone of quiet determination in the
spoken words that made Mr Millbank wince. "That's
all right," Mr Beck added. "I see you understand


THE SPANISH PRISONER 103
the situation. I heard you telephone for the police.
They will be here, I suppose, in half an hour. What
do you mean to say to them? You won't tell.
Have you any curiosity to know what I mean to say
or do? Does it occur to you that I might clap on a
pair of handcuffs and hand you over to your own
police for theft and perjury? They know me and
would take you quick enough on my word. That
portmanteau is chock-full of evidence for the prose-
cution. What do you say to that?"
Mr Millbank said nothing te that. Something
in Mr Beck's face and manner told him that
gentleman's mind was made up. He waited to hear
more.
"Well, I'm disposed to give you a chance," said
Mr Beck, after a pause, "though you don't deserve
it. It is not for your sake, mind you. I want the
young lady you cheated and her father to get back
their valuables at once. I don't want the fuss and
delay of a prosecution; see? That's where your
chance comes in. Now listen to what you have got
to say and do. When the police come you must tell
them you had a quarrel with your butler—that's me
—that you accused me of drunkenness and theft, and
that you found you were wrong and apologised.
You want me to stay on; I insist on leaving at once.
I have my portmanteau packed to go with me.
This is my portmanteau. You will give the men a
sovereign each for their trouble, and they will take
me and my portmanteau back to London. Mind,
it's that, or arrest and prosecution."
"What are you going to do with the port-
manteau?" asked Mr Millbank, tremulously.


104 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"That's my business. Are you afraid I'll cheat
the Spanish Prisoner and his daughter?"
"I'm honestly entitled to a third."
"Not exactly."
"But I was promised a third for my trouble."
"Easy there. You tried to steal it, not to save it
for the owner. You grabbed all and you've lost all.
We don't pay salvage on theft—not a farthing.
Do you take my offer?"
"I suppose I must," growled Mr Millbank, sulkily;
"there is nothing else."
"Oh, don't delude yourself. You can have the
handcuffs and the gaol instead if you prefer them.
Make up your mind which it is to be—quick!"
There was sudden menace in the curt word, and Mr
Millbank gasped out a hurried acceptance.
"I thought so—of two evils—you know the
proverb. Mind you play your part properly."
The two Scotland Yard men arriving in hot haste
were glad to hear the trouble was over. They each
pocketed a sovereign, and had a cold-meat supper,
washed down with a couple of glasses of port apiece
of Mr Beck's choosing, and cheerily carried the
offended butler and his portmanteau back with them
to London.
"Jolly old cock," said one to the other, when they
had dropped Mr Beck at Charing Cross, " sings a good
song."
"And opens a good bottle, by Jingo; he got the
bulge on his boss. See the way he packed him out
of the dining-room?"
Twelve days later a four-wheeler drove to the door
of Mrs Cunningham's hotel. There were three men


THE SPANISH PRISONER 105
in it, one young, one old, both stately looking, with
dark complexions and brilliant dark eyes. Mr Beck
was the third.
"She is waiting for you in the private sitting-room,"
he said. Carrying a heavy portmanteau as lightly
as if it were a brown-paper parcel, he led the way
upstairs.
"Come in," cried a sweet voice in answer to
the knock, and the old man went first into the
room.
Aurora had been reading. She put down her book
and sprang to her feet as he entered. A moment she
stood, her bosom heaving, her black eyes wide open
with amazement. Then sudden joy flooded them
with light.
"Father!" she cried exultingly, and flung her-
self into the arms of Don Aloroso. She lay there
laughing and sobbing, unconscious of all things
else in the world but her great joy. Mr Beck
coughed.
Lissom as a willow wand she slipped from
her father's embrace, caught the detective's heavy
face between her two hands and kissed him
twice.
"Now Don Fabrice," suggested Mr Beck,
maliciously.
The rich blood flooded her face.
"Don Fabrice is very welcome," she said demurely
with downcast eyes, and she gave him her hand, which
he clasped and kissed—the lover unmistakable.
"I came over with your father," he said, " only for
a day. I could get no longer leave, but I could not
deny myself the pleasure of telling you I have been


io6 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
promoted. I am now a captain. I have a future.
I will return again next year if I may?"
A shy consenting smile was her answer to the eager
entreaty in his voice.
"But my father? " she asked.
"Oh, your father," replied Mr Beck, briskly, as he
lifted a heavy old leather valise into the room,
"your father has come to stay. He has brought his
portmanteau."


V
THE MURDER ON THE GOLF
LINKS
"Don't go in, don't! don't! please don't!"
The disobedient ball, regardless of her entreaties,
crept slowly up the smooth green slope, paused
irresolute on the ridge, and then trickled softly down
into the hole; a wonderful " put."
Miss Mag Hazel knocked her ball impatiently away
from the very edge. "Lost again on the last green,"
she cried petulantly. "You have abominable luck,
Mr Beck."
Mr Beck smiled complacently. "Never denied
it, Miss Hazel. Better be born lucky than clever is
what I always say."
"But you are clever, too," said the girl, repent-
antly. "I hear everyone say how clever you are."
"That's where my luck comes in."
He slung the girl's golf bag over a broad shoulder,
and caught his own up in a big hand. "Come," he
said, "you will be late for dinner, and every man in
the hotel will curse me as the cause."
They were the last on the links. The western sky
was a sea of crimson and gold, in which floated a huge
black cloud, shaped like a sea monster with the
blazing sun in its jaws. The placid surface of the sea
107


io8 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
gave back the beauty of the sky, and in the clear, still
air familiar objects took on a new beauty. Their way
lay over the crisp velvet of the seaside turf, embroi-
dered with wild flowers, to the Thornvale Hotel in
the valley a mile away.
"How beautiful!" the girl whispered half to
herself, and caught her breath with a queer little sigh.
Mr Beck looked down and saw that the blue eyes
were very bright with tears. She met his look and
smiled a wan little smile.
"Lovely scenery always makes me sad," she ex-
plained feebly. Then after a second she added
impulsively: "Mr Beck, you and I are good friends,
aren't we?"
"I hope so," said Mr Beck, gravely. "I can speak
for myself anyway."
"Oh, I'm miserable! I must tell it to someone.
I'm a miserable girl!"
"If I can help you in any way," said Mr Beck,
stoutly, "you may count on me."
"I know I oughtn't to talk about such things, but
I must, I cannot stop myself; then perhaps you
could say a word to father; you and he are such good
friends."
Mr Beck knew there was a confession coming. In
some curious way Mr Beck attracted the most
unlikely confidences. All sorts and conditions of
people felt constrained to tell him secrets.
"It's this way," Miss Hazel went on. "Sit down
there on that bank and listen. I'll be in lots of time
for dinner, and anyhow I don't care. Father wants
me to marry Mr Samuel Hawkins, a horrible name
and a horrible man. I didn't mind much at the time


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 109
he first spoke of it. I was very young, you see; I
lived in a French convent school until father came
back from India, and then we lived in a cottage near
a golf links. Oh! such a quiet golf links, and Mr
Hawkins came down to see us, and he first taught
me how to play. I liked him because there
was no one else. So when he asked me to marry
him, and father wished it so much, I half promised
—that is, I really did promise, and we were en-
gaged, and he gave me a diamond ring, which I have
here—in my purse."
Mr Beck smiled benignly. The girl was very
young and pretty and innocent—little more than
a child, who had been playing at a make-believe
engagement.
"How long is it since you changed your mind?"
he asked.
"Well, I never really made it up to marry Mr
Hawkins. I only just agreed to become engaged.
But about a week or ten days ago I found I could not
go on with it."
"I see; that was about the time, was it not,
that the young electrical engineer, Mr Ryan,
arrived?"
She flushed hotly.
"Oh! it's not that at all—how hateful you are!
Mr Ryan is nothing to me, nothing. Besides, he was
most rude; called me a flirt, and said I led him on
and never told him I was engaged. Now we
don't even speak, and I'm so miserable. What
shall I do?"
"Don't fret," said Mr Beck, cheerily; "it will
come all right."


no THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Oh! but it cannot come all right. Father will
be bitterly disappointed if I don't marry Mr Hawkins.
He's awfully rich, carries diamonds about loose in
his waistcoat pocket. He has fifty thousand pounds'
worth of diamonds getting brightened up in Amster-
dam; that's where they put a polish on them, you
know. He showed father the receipt for them
mixed up with bank-notes in his pocket-book.
His friend, Mr Bolton, who is in the same business,
says Mr Hawkins is a millionaire."
"And Mr Ryan has only his brains and his profes-
sion," said Mr Beck, cynically.
"Now you are just horrid. I don't care twopence
about Mr Hawkins' diamonds or his millions. But I
love father better than anyone else."
"Except? " suggested Mr Beck, maliciously.
"There is no exception—not one. You come
second-best yourself."
"Oh, do I? Then I will see if I cannot find some
diamonds and cut out Mr Hawkins. Meantime, let
us get on to our dinner. You need not be in any
hurry to break your heart. You are not going to
marry Mr Hawkins to-morrow or the day after.
Something may happen to stop the marriage
altogether. Come along."
Something did happen. What that awful some-
thing was neither Miss Hazel nor Mr Beck dreamt of
at the time.
It was the fussy half hour before dinner when they
arrived at the veranda of the big Thornvale Hotel
that had grown out of the Thornvale golf links. As
Miss Mag Hazel passed through the throng every eye
paid its tribute of admiration; she was by reason of


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS in
her golf and good looks the acknowledged queen of
the place.
A tall, handsome young fellow near the porch gave
a pitiful look as she passed, the humble, appealing
look in the eyes of a dog who has offended his
master.
"How handsome he is; what beautiful black eyes
he has!" her heart whispered, but her face was
unconscious of his existence.
She evaded a small, dark man with a big hooked
nose who came forward eagerly to claim her. "Don't
speak to me, Mr Hawkins, don't look at me. I have
not five minutes to dress for dinner."
A tall, thin man with a grey, drooping moustache
stood close by her left in the central hall. To him she
said: "I will be down in a minute, dad. I want you
to take me in to dinner, mind. You are worth the
whole lot of them put together."
Colonel Hazel's sallow cheek flushed with delight,
for he loved his daughter with a love that was the
best part of his life.
Big, good-humoured, smiling Tom Bolton, as the
girl went in to dinner on her father's arm, whispered
a word in the ear of his friend, Sam Hawkins, and the
millionaire diamond merchant cast a scowling glance
at handsome Ned Ryan, who gave him frown for
frown with interest thereto.
At Thornvale Hotel the company lived, moved, and
had their being in golf. They played golf all day on
the links, and talked golf all the evening at the hotel.
All the varied forms of golf lunacy were in evidence
there. There was the fat elderly lady who went
round "for her figure," tapping the ball before her


lis THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
on the smooth ground, and throwing it or carrying
it over the bunkers. There was the man who was
always grumbling about his "blanked" luck, and
who never played what he was pleased to think was
his " true game."
There was the man who sang comic songs on the
green, and the man whose nerves were strained like
fiddle-strings and tingled at every stir or whisper,
whom the flight of a butterfly put off his stroke.
There was a veteran of eighty-five, who still played
a steady game. He had once been a scratch man,
and though the free, loose vigour of his "swing"
was lost, his eye and arm had not forgotten the
lesson of years. His favourite opponent was a boy
of twelve, who swung loose and free as if he were
a figure of indiarubber with no bones in his arms.
Mr Hawkins and Mr Bolton were a perfect match
with a level handicap of twelve; each believed that
he could just beat the other, and the excitement of
their incessant contests was intense.
But Miss Mag Hazel reigned undisputed queen of
the links. None of the ladies, and only one or two
of the men, could even " give her a game." Lissom
as an ash sapling, every muscle in her body, from her
shoulder to her ankle, took part in the graceful swing
which, without effort, drove the ball further than a
strong man could smite it by brute force. Her
wrist was like a fine steel spring, as sensitive and as
true.
Heretofore only one player disputed her supremacy
—Mr Beck, the famous detective, who was idling a
month in the quiet hotel after an exciting and
successful criminal hunt half way round the world.


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 113
Mr Beck was, as he always proclaimed, a lucky
player. If he never made a brilliant stroke, he never
made a bad one, and kept wonderfully clear of the
bunkers. The brilliant players found he had an
irritating trick of plodding on steadily, and coming
out a hole ahead at the end of the round.
He and Mag Hazel played constantly together
until young Ned Ryan came on the scene. Ryan
was a brilliant young fellow with muscles of whipcord
and whalebone, whose drive was like a shot from a
catapult. But he played a sporting game, and very
often drove into the bunker which was meant to catch
the second shot of a second-class player. Mag
Hazel found it easier to hold her own against his
brilliance than against the plodding pertinacity of
Mr Beck.
It may be that the impressionable young Irishman
could not quite play his game when she was his
opponent. He found it hard to obey the golfer's
first commandment: "Keep your eye on the ball."
He tried to play two games at the same time, and golf
will have no divided allegiance.
The end of a happy fortnight came suddenly. It
was a violent scene when, in a grassy bunker wide of
the course, into which he had deliberately pulled his
ball, he asked her to marry him, and learnt that she
was engaged to the millionaire diamond merchant, Mr
Hawkins. Poor Ned Ryan, with Irish impetuosity,
raved and stormed at her cruelty in leading him to
love her, swore his life was barren for evermore, and
even muttered some very mysterious, meaningless
threats against the more fortunate Mr Hawkins.
Tender-hearted Mag had been very meek and
B


H4 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
penitent while he raved and stormed, but he was not
to be appeased by her meekness, and flung away
from her in a rage.
Then it was her turn to be implacable when he
became penitent. All that evening he hovered
round her like a blundering moth round a lamp, but
she ignored him as completely as the lamp the moth
and shed the light of her smiles on Mr Beck.
So those two foolish young people played the old
game in the old, foolish fashion, and tormented them-
selves and each other. The two men concerned in the
matter, Mr Ryan and Mr Hawkins, scowled at each
other on the golf links and at the bridge table, to the
intense amusement of the company, who understood
how little golf or cards had to do with the quarrel.
At last Ned Ryan had an open row with Mr
Hawkins on the golf links, and told him, quite
unnecessarily, he was no gentleman.
Then suddenly this light comedy deepened into
sombre tragedy. The late breakfasters at the hotel
were still at table when the thrilling, shocking news
came to them that Mr Hawkins had been found
murdered on the links.
Perhaps it is more convenient to tell the dismal
story in the order in which it was told in evidence at
the coroner's inquest.
Mr Hawkins and Mr Bolton had arranged a round
in the early morning before breakfast, when they
would have the links to themselves. They had a
glass of milk and a biscuit, and started off in good
spirits, each boasting he was certain to win.
They started some time between half-past six and
seven, and about an hour afterwards Mr Bolton


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 115
returned hastily, saying that he had forgotten an
important letter he had to send by that morning's
post, and that he had left Mr Hawkins grumbling
at having to finish his round alone. Mr Bolton
then went up to his own room, and five minutes
later came back with a letter, which he carefully
posted with his own hand just as the box was being
cleared.
At half - past seven Colonel Hazel, strolling
across the links, specially noticed there were no
players to be seen. Ned Ryan went out at a quarter
to eight o'clock to have a round by himself, having
first asked Mr Bolton to join him. He had, as he
stated, almost completed his round, when in the great,
sandy bunker that guarded the seventeenth green he
found Mr Hawkins stone dead.
He instantly gave the alarm, and Mr Beck and Mr
Bolton were among the first on the scene. The
detective, placid and imperturbable as ever, poked
and pried about the body and the bunker where it
lay. Mr Bolton was plainly broken-hearted at the
sudden death of his life-long friend.
Beyond all doubt and question the man was
murdered. There was a deep dint of some heavy,
blunt weapon on the back of his head, fracturing the
skull. But death had not been instantaneous. The
victim had turned upon his assassin, for there were
two other marks on his face—one an ugly, livid bruise
on his cheek, and the other a deep, horrible gash on
the temple from the same blunt-edged weapon. The
last wound must have been instantly fatal. The
weapon slew as it struck.
It was plain that robbery was not the motive of


n6 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
the crime. His heavy purse with a score of sovereigns
and his pocket-book full of bank-notes were in his
pockets, his fine diamond pin in his scarf, and his
handsome watch in his fob.
The watch had been struck and smashed, and, as
so often happens in such cases, it timed the murder
to a moment. It had stopped at half-past eight.
It was five minutes after nine when Mr Ryan had
given the alarm.
While all the others looked on in open-eyed horror,
incapable of thought or action, Mr Beck's quick eyes
found a corner of the bunker where the sand had been
disturbed recently. Rooting with his hands as a dog
digs at a rabbit burrow with his paws, he dug out a
heavy niblick. The handle was snapped in two,
and the sand that clung damply round the iron
face left a dark crimson stain on the fingers that
touched it.
No one then could doubt that the murderous
weapon had been found.
Mr Beck examined it a moment, and a frown
gathered on his placid face. "This is Mr Ryan's
niblick," he said slowly.
The words sent a quiver of excitement through the
crowd. All eyes turned instinctively to the face of
the young Irishman, who flushed in sudden anger.
"It's a lie," he shouted, "my niblick is here."
He turned to his bag which lay on the sward beside
him. "My God! it's gone. I never noticed it until
this moment."
"Yes, that is mine," he added, as Mr Beck held
out the blood-stained iron for inspection. "But I
swear I never missed it till this moment."


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 117
Not a word more was said.
The crowd broke up into groups, each man
whispering suspicions under his breath. The
whisperers recalled the recent quarrel between the
men, and in every trifling circumstance clear proof
of guilt was found. Only Mr Bolton stood out
staunchly for the young Irishman, and professed his
faith in his innocence.
Like a man in a dream Ned Ryan returned alone to
the hotel, where an hour later he was arrested. On
being searched after arrest a five-pound note with
Hawkins' name on the back of it was found in his
pocket, and his explanation that he had won it at
golf provoked incredulous smiles and shrugs amongst
the gossipers. Two days later a coroner's jury
found a verdict of wilful murder against the young
engineer.
There was a second sensation, in its way almost as
exciting as the first, when it was found that the
murdered man had willed the whole of his huge
fortune unconditionally to Miss Margaret Hazel.
But the girl declared vehemently she would never
touch a penny of it, never, until the real murderer
was discovered. She had a stormy interview with
Mr Beck, whom she passionately charged with
attempts to fix the guilt on an innocent man. She
made no secret now of her love for the young Irish-
man, to the horror of the respectable and proper people
at the hotel, who looked forward with cheerful
assurance to her lover's execution.
But the distracted girl cared for none of those
things. She poured the vials of her wrath on Mr
Beck.


n8 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"You pretended to be my friend," she said, "and
then you did all in your power to hang the innocent
man I love."
Mr Beck was soothing and imperturbable.
"Nothing of the kind, my dear young lady. It is
always my pleasant duty to save the innocent and
hang the guilty."
"Then why did you find out that niblick?"
"The more things that are found," said Mr Beck,
"the better for the innocent and the worse for the
guilty."
"Oh! I'm not talking about that," she cried, with
a bewildering change of front. "But here you are
pottering about doing nothing instead of trying to
save him. I will give you every penny poor Mr
Hawkins left me if you save him."
Mr Beck smiled benignly at this magnificent offer.
"Won't you two want something to live on? " he
asked, " when I have saved him, and before he makes
his fortune."
She let the question go by. "Then you will, you
promise me you will! " she cried eagerly.
"I will try to assist the course of justice," he said,
with formal gravity, but his eyes twinkled, and she
took comfort therefrom.
"That's not what I want at all."
"You believe Mr Ryan is innocent? " asked Mr
Beck.
"Of course I do. What a question!"
"If he is innocent I will try to save him—if
not—"
"There is no 'if not.' Oh! I'm quite satisfied,
and I thank you with all my heart."


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 119
She caught up the big, strong hand and kissed it,
and then collapsed on the sofa for a good cry, while
Mr Beck stole discreetly from the room and set out
for a solitary stroll on the golf links, every yard of
which he questioned with shrewd eyes.
He made one small discovery on the corner of
the second green. He found a ball which had belonged
to the murdered man. There was no doubt about
the ownership. Mr Hawkins had a small gold seal
with his initial cut in it. This he used to heat with
a match to brand his ball. The tiny black letters,
"S.H.," were burnt through the white skin of the
new "Professional " ball, which Mr Beck found on
the corner of the second green. He put the ball in
his pocket and said nothing about his find.
But about another curious discovery of his he was
quite voluble that evening at dinner. He found, he
said, a peculiar-looking waistcoat button in the
bunker that guarded the second green. It seemed
to him to have been torn violently from the garment,
for a shred of the cloth still clung to it.
"If I had found it in the bunker where the murder
was committed," said Mr Beck, "I would have
regarded it as a very important piece of evidence.
Anyhow it may help. I will examine young Ryan's
waistcoats to see if it fits any of them."
Then for a few days nothing happened, and
excitement smouldered. People had no heart to
play golf over the scene of the murder. The parties
gradually dispersed and scattered homewards.
Colonel Hazel, who had been completely broken up
by the tragedy, was amongst the first to go.
Mag gave her address to Mr Beck, with strict


120 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
injunctions to wire the moment he had good news.
"Remember, I trust you," were the last words she
said as they parted at the hotel door.
Mr Bolton and Mr Beck were almost the two last
to leave. The diamond merchant was disconsolate
over the death of his old friend and comrade, and the
detective did all in his power to comfort him.
One morning Mr Bolton had a telegram which, as
he explained to Mr Beck, called him away on urgent
business. He left that afternoon, and Mr Beck went
with him as far as Liverpool, when they parted, each
on his respective business.
The next scene in the tragedy was staged in
Holland.
Two men sat alone together in a first-class railway
carriage that slid smoothly through a level landscape
intersected with canals. They had put aside their
papers, and talked and smoked. One of the men was
plainly a German by his dress and manner—the other
a Frenchman.
The Frenchman had tried vainly to stagger through
a conversation in German and the German in French
until they had found a common ground in English
which both spoke well though with a strong foreign
accent.
There had been an account of a big diamond
robbery in the papers, and their talk drifted on to
crimes and criminals of all countries—a topic with
which the Frenchman seemed strangely familiar.
He did most of the talking. The German sat back
in his corner and grunted out a word or two of assent,
to all appearance deeply interested in the talk.


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 121
Now and again a silver flask passed between the two
men, who grew momentarily more intimate.
"Heir Raphael," said the Frenchman, " I am glad
to have met you. You have made the journey very
pleasant for me. You are a man I feel I can trust.
I am not, as I told you, Victor Grandeau, a French
journalist. I am plain Mr Paul Beck, an English
detective, at your service."
With a single motion the shiny, sleek, black wig
and the black moustache disappeared into a small
handbag at his side. The whole character, and even
the features of the face, seemed to change as suddenly,
and the broad, bland, smiling face of our old friend
Mr Beck presented itself to the eyes of the astonished
German, who shrank back in his corner of the seat in
astonishment at the sudden revelation. But Mr
Beck quietly ignored his astonishment.
"As you seem interested in this kind of thing," he
said, "I will tell you the story of one of the most
curious cases I have ever had to deal with. You are
the very first to hear the story. Indeed, it is so new
that it hasn't yet got the right ending to it. Perhaps
you have heard of the Thornvale murder in England?
No! Then I'll begin at the beginning."
He began at the beginning and told the story
clearly and vividly as it was told at the inquest.
The German listened with most flattering interest and
surprise.
"When I found that golf ball," Mr Beck went on,
"it gave me an idea. Do you know anything of
golf? »
"I play a little," the other confessed.
"Then you will understand that from the place


122 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
where I found his ball I knew that the murdered man
—I told you his name was Hawkins—Samuel
Hawkins—never got as far as the second green. If
he had, his ball would not have been lying where I
found it. He would have holed it out and gone on.
"It was plain, therefore, he must have been
murdered just after he played that shot—murdered
somewhere between the tee and the green of the
second hole. I went back to the deep bunker I told
you of that guarded the second green, and I found
there traces of a struggle.
"They had been cunningly obliterated, but to a
detective's eye they were plain enough. The sand
was smoothed over the footprints, but here and there
the long grass and wild flowers had been torn away
by a desperate grasp. I even found a faint blood-
stain on one of the stones. Then, of course, I guessed
what had happened. The man had been murdered
in the bunker of the second green and carried under
cover of the ridge to the bunker of the seventeenth.
That, you see, disposed of the alibi of Mr Bolton, who
had left him early in the game."
"Oh, no! " interrupted the German, with eager
interest in the story, "you told me that Mr Bolton
was at the hotel from half-past seven, and the watch
of the murdered man showed the murder had been
committed at half-past eight."
Mr Beck looked at the German with manifest
admiration. "Forgive me for mentioning it. You
would have made a first-class detective if you hadn't
gone into another line of business. I should have
told you that the evidence of the watch had been
faked."


THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 123
"Faked!" queried the other, with a blank look
on his face.
"Oh! I see. Being a German, of course you
don't understand our slang phrases. I examined the
watch, and I found that though the glass had been
violently broken, the dial was not even scratched.
The spring had been snapped, not by the blow but by
overwinding. It was pretty plain to me the murderer
had done the trick. He first put the hands on to
half-past eight and then broke the spring, and so
made his alibi. He got the watch to perjure itself.
Neat, wasn't it?"
The German merely grunted. He was plainly
impressed by the devilish ingenuity of the
murderer.
"Besides," Mr Beck went on placidly, "to make
quite sure, I laid a trap for Mr Bolton which worked
like a charm. The night of the murder I went into
his room and tore one of the buttons out of his
waistcoat. The next day I mentioned at dinner that
I had found a button in the second bunker where, if
I guessed rightly, he and only he knew the murder
was really committed. It was a lie, of course. But
it caught the truth. That same evening Mr Bolton
burnt the waistcoat. It was a light cotton affair
that burnt like paper. The glass buttons he cut off
with a knife and buried. That looked bad, didn't
it?"
"Very bad," the German agreed. He was more
deeply interested than ever. "Did you arrest the
man, then?"
"Not then."
"But why?"


124 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"I wanted to make quite sure of my proofs. I
wanted to lay my hands on the receipts for the
diamonds which I believed he had stolen. I told you
of those, didn't I?"
"Oh, yes, you told me of those. Did you search
for them?"
"Yes, but I couldn't find them. I searched Mr
Bolton's room, and searched his clothes carefully,
but I couldn't find a trace of the papers."
Again the German grunted. He seemed somehow
pleased at the failure. Possibly the quiet confidence
of this cock-sure detective annoyed him.
"But," Mr Beck went on, placid as ever, " I tried
a guess. You may remember, Herr Raphael, that
when Mr Bolton came back from the golf links he
posted a letter immediately. I had a notion that he
stuck the receipts in the envelope and posted it
addressed to himself at some post-office to be left till
called for. Wasn't a bad guess, was it?"
"A very good guess."
"Then I did a little bit of forgery."
"You what?"
"Did a little bit of forgery. I forged the name of
Mr Bolton's partner to a telegram to say that five
thousand pounds were urgently needed. That, I
knew, was likely to make Mr Bolton gather up the
receipts and start for Amsterdam. We went to
Liverpool together and I changed to an elderly lad}'.
I saw him as an able-bodied seaman pick up his own
letter at the Liverpool Post-Office. I came over with
him in the boat to Rotterdam. As a French journal-
ist I saw him as a stout German get into this very
carriage and—here I am!"





7
THE MURDER ON THE GOLF LINKS 125
It was a very lame ending to an exciting story.
The stout German plainly thought so. He had
listened with flattering eagerness almost to the end;
now he leant back in the corner of his seat suppres-
sing a yawn.
"It is a very amusing story," he said slowly.
"But, my friend, you must be thirsty with much
talking. I in my bag have a flask of excellent
schnapps, you shall of it taste."
A small black bag rested on the seat beside him.
He laid his hand on the fastening.
"It is no use," Mr Beck interrupted, "no use, Mr
Bolton. I have taken the revolver out of the bag
and have it with my own in my pocket. The game
is up, I think. I have put my cards on the table.
What do you say?"
Suddenly Mr Bolton broke into a loud, harsh laugh
that ended in a sob. "You are a fiend, Beck," he
shouted, " a fiend incarnate. What do you mean to
do?"
"To take you back with me to London. I have a
man in the next carriage to look after you. No use
worrying about extradition. You have a return
ticket, I suppose; so have I. There will be a train
leaving as we arrive. Meanwhile, if you don't mind—"
He took a neat pair of handcuffs from his pocket and
held them out with an ingratiating smile.
Mr Bolton drew back a little. For a moment it
seemed as if he would spring at the detective's throat.
But the steady, fearless eyes held him. He put his
hands out submissively and the steel bracelets
clicked on his wrists.
They had only to cross the platform to reach the


VI
THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
"I want a room, not a rat-hole," said the Hon.
Staunton Toleron angrily to the manager of the
Hotel Cyril.
He had been offered a small room on the fifth floor
with one window looking out on nowhere.
The manager, a short, stout, dark man with close-
clipped whiskers and beady eyes, was all politeness.
Plainly he did not want to offend an " Honourable,"
though a more dishonourable "Honourable" than
Staunton Toleron could not be found in broad
England. A handsome young fellow enough of the
"dude" type, nose long, mouth weak, eyes light
blue, chin and forehead slightly receding, hair parted
smoothly in the centre, he looked the pigeon rather
than the hawk.
His face was his fortune at the racecourse and the
card-table, but of late his fortune had been somewhat
out of joint. There were ugly rumours afloat, and
men had become shy of playing or betting with the
Hon. Staunton.
"I'm so sorry," said the manager, "but it's the
best we can do for you; the place is crowded from
the floor to the roof."
"Couldn't you put me somewhere that looks out
127


128 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
on to the river? I want a breath of air; I don't
want to be roasted before my time."
"Yesterday we could have," said the manager;
"to-day we cannot. Our last suite of rooms—
about the best we have—were taken for Miss Betty
Barry."
"But she's in Paris; she doesn't open at the
Lyceum until Monday, and this is only Friday."
"She has taken the rooms in advance. She had
them last time she was here, and she likes them, and
she is a lady who doesn't let anything interfere with
her liking. She will be here on Monday afternoon."
"Put me in till she comes, there's a good fellow.
I know Betty; she is a pal of mine and a right good
sort. I'm sure she wouldn't object. I hope to clear
out before Sunday; but if I have to stay on I'l l take
the rat-hole when she comes. You can dock the
cost of the rooms for three days from Miss Betty's
bill."
The Hon. Staunton got his way, and also the
handsomest suite in the hotel—bedroom, sitting-
room and bathroom fronting the river.
The rooms were luxurious, and he was luxurious,
so they suited each other. The big sitting-room was
specially delightful. Every article in it, from the
rich Turkey carpet that covered the centre of the
room, to the spindle-shanked Sheraton chairs and
tables that stood or slipped on the polished mar-
queterie round its edges, had a history—and a
price.
For three days the Hon. Staunton made himself
perfectly comfortable till the famous Betty Barry
arrived to evict him. Naturally her coming made a


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
129
stir at the hotel. A lovely girl with the blue eyes,
and black hair, and narrow, arched eyebrows of the
true-born Celt, she had the two great qualities of
the actress—genius and beauty. Together they are
irresistible. The critics praised her, and the public
worshipped her. The theatres she played in were
always thronged out to the doors and up to the
ceiling, and she held the audience in thrall to laugh
or weep as she chose.
But it was neither her beauty nor her genius that
made such a stir at the Hotel Cyril, but her jewels.
They were a miraculous collection, and^she wore
them freely on all occasions, for Betty was not one
of those fine ladies who send their jewels to their
banker or pawnbroker and wear paste. Everything
she wore was real. Assured of that beforehand, the
ladies could admire without reserve.
Above all and beyond all there was the wonderful
ruby never before seen in England.
This famous jewel had a history—a true, romantic
and sensational history; a history that only just
escaped being scandalous. A certain Crown Prince
had fallen in love madly with the beautiful Betty
when she played Juliet in his father's capital.
There is no use raking up old scandals by repeating
the names. His mad passion burst all bounds of
discretion and decorum. He made no secret of
his infatuation. He followed her everywhere; he
offered her marriage, not even the morganatic imita-
tion, but the genuine article.
The Royal father and mother, who had promised
him to a discreet, steady and stolid young German
princess, were distracted. But Betty Barry behaved
1


130 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
admirably. She told her Royal lover gently but
firmly that she didn't love him and wouldn't have
him. What's more, she made him see that she
meant it. Then she good-humouredly coaxed him
out of his folly; they parted the best of friends, and
he went back obediently to his German princess.
"It is hard luck," he complained to his Royal
mother. "If I were not a fool of a Crown Prince
I might have a chance. But she won't have me,
that's flat, and she is too good a sort to worry.
I might as well cry for the moon. She is just as
bright and as cold and as much above me, though
I am a Crown Prince."
He did not say this in English, because he didn't
know any English, but in the foreign equivalent that
was spoken in his capital.
So the storm passed and the scandal was averted,
and the beautiful actress was made much of at
Court, and became the pet of an Empress who was
amiable and kind-hearted, if a little eccentric.
"Good-bye, my dear," she said at a private
audience, "I am half sorry my boy couldn't marry
you. He'll have a dull time with his princess. I'd
have had a dull time myself if it wasn't for fox-
hunting. But I suppose it is all for the best.
Anyway, you behaved just splendidly, and this
will help you to remember an Empress who is very
grateful."
It was then that she gave her the ruby—the
matchless, priceless ruby, that half the female
Royalties of Europe had envied. Of course there
was an outcry. The Imperial ruby to a mere
actress! It was a scandal—almost a sacrilege! But


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY 131
the Empress was a woman used to her own way.
The old Emperor, who was half in love with the
beautiful Betty himself, let her have it; and so the
actress carried the famous ruby back to London. No
wonder the ladies of London were agog for a sight of it.
They had their wish. The very first night of her
arrival at the Hotel Cyril, Betty Barry dined at the
table-d'hote instead of, as was expected, in her
own private room. She was in full evening dress—
a rich brocaded poplin, brilliant with many jewels.
A hundred sparks of coloured lights flashed on her
dress and in her coal-black hair, and the ruby burned
with a rosy, flickering fire on her bosom, outblazing
them all. It was cut to the shape of a heart—the
deep, rich red of pigeon's blood, warmed by an
imprisoned fire.
It so happened that the Hon. Staunton, who had
retired to the "rat-hole," sat beside her at dinner.
He had known her before she was famous, and she
never forgot old friends. She was delighted by his
frank admiration of the heart-shaped ruby.
"Isn't it glorious!" she said, with the naive
delight of a child. "I have never seen a jewel so
beautiful."
"It is peerless," said Staunton, "and I dare
say priceless. Aren't you afraid of losing it or having
it stolen?"
"Not in the very least," she cried gaily. "It is
precautions that provoke thieves. I have never
lost so much as a seed pearl. My maid I could trust
(with my life, not to speak of my jewels. Indeed, I'm
to be pitied," she said with mock pathos. "A good
jewel robbery is, as you know, the best advertisement


132 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
for an actress, and I cannot get anybody to steal
mine."
"Don't quarrel with your good luck, Betty,"
cautioned the Hon. Staunton, with the gravity of
the true gambler, " or it is bound to change."
It proved a prophecy. Next day her jewels
were stolen—the famous, priceless ruby amongst
them, and the Hon. Staunton Toleron was un-
pleasantly mixed up in the business.
It was Barbara Mullen, Betty's Irish maid, that
gave the first alarm. She was wild with excitement,
and her words tripped each other up as she poured
out her story to the hotel manager.
The actress was accustomed, when possible, to
dress for her part at the hotel, and drive in her
brougham to the theatre ready to step on to the
stage. While Barbara was engaged in laying out
her dress the telephone bell rang, and her mistress'
voice called her to the hall. She went down in the
lift, locking the door after her. Her mistress was
not in the hall. She went straight back to the room.
A gentleman was just leaving the room as she got
to the landing, and crossed her on his way to the
lift. She found the door of her mistress' sitting-
room was shut, but not locked.
The door and window of the bedroom were open,
and the jewels, including the great ruby, were
gone.
"What was the gentleman you met at the door
like? " queried the hotel manager.
"Tall, fair, with a long, blonde moustache, and
very handsome."
"The Hon. Staunton Toleron!" gasped the


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
133
manager. "Come, girl, we must find him at once."
They found him at once, and without much difficulty.
He was seated at a small table in the hall, reading
a sporting paper and smoking a cigarette.
"Stand here and watch that he does not move,"
whispered the manager, "while I will go for Mr
Nichols."
Mr Nichols, the private detective employed at
the hotel, came back a moment later with the
fussy little manager, to whom he made as sharp a
contrast as a greyhound to a poodle. A typical
detective was Mr Nichols—tall, gaunt, with a
long face, clean-cut features and a pair of piercing
eyes.
Together they came up quietly to Barbara, who
was quivering with excitement. "He has not made
a move," she said, " except to light another cigarette
and turn over the paper."
Mr Nichols made a note in a little notebook
shaped exactly like a matchbox. "In*the working
of a scientific problem, Mr Moulang," he said to the
manager, "there is nothing small enough to be
neglected."
"Will you arrest him? " whispered Mr Moulang.
"Not at first; I want to question him. Questions
are not allowed after arrest. We can go to your
private office, I suppose?"
Mr Moulang nodded.
"I shall want you and the girl later; wait here for
a moment."
Mr Nichols crossed the hall carelessly and seated
himself at the little table opposite the Hon. Staunton
Toleron.


134 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Can you oblige me with a match? " he asked
very politely.
As the Hon. Staunton leant across the table
with a light, Mr Nichols looked him in the eyes
and said softly: "I am a detective. I wish to
have a private interview with you. Resistance is
useless; I am armed." He touched his hip pocket
dramatically.
The Hon. Staunton looked at him for a moment
with blank bewilderment, that quickly gave place
to amusement.
"You are not serious, old chap."
"Quite serious. Will you come quietly with
me?"
"Why, certainly; lead on, Macduff!"
"Pardon me, you go first. Kindly follow Mr
Moulang and that girl to his office."
"Always ready to follow a pretty girl. But I say,
this is a rum joke."
"It is no joke, as you will soon find," retorted the
other, sternly. "I assure you, sir, your levity is
quite misplaced in the business, as I think this young
lady will speedily convince you."
Staunton's face grew grave as he listened to the
girl's story, but with no trace of anxiety or fear.
"Egad, this is serious," he said; "the ruby alone
should be worth a big fortune. But how can I
help?"
"The young lady says she saw you coming out
of the room just before the robbery. Is that true?"
"Why, certainly. We crossed each other on the
stairs. I mistook the room for my own. I said so
as she passed."


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
135
"You did not mention that," said Mr Nichols
sharply to the maid.
"I did not know what he said or meant," she
faltered.
"Mr Moulang will know what I meant," said the
Hon. Staunton. "I had occupied the room for some
days before. I turned in quite mechanically at the
open door as I passed."
"But the door was locked," interposed Mr
Nichols.
"Pardon me, the door was open."
"You said you locked the door—didn't you?"
The detective snapped the inquiry at Barbara.
"I'm almost sure I locked it," she faltered
nervously.
"You were mistaken, miss, I assure you," re-
marked the Hon. Staunton, politely; "it was
certainly open as I passed. I was thinking of
something else as I turned the handle. But of course
I recognised in a moment, when I saw the lady's
things about, that the room was not mine."
"How long were you out of the room, madam?"
demanded the detective.
"A minute I should think, perhaps two at the
outside."
"That wouldn't give the thief much time," said
the detective, grimly. There was a marked change
in his manner when he turned again to Staunton.
His tone was respectful, almost deferential.
"You won't mind telling us, sir, where you went
next?"
"Straight down in the lift to the table where you
found me ten minutes later."


136 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"I don't think we need trouble you further, Mr
Toleron, for the present."
"Pardon me, Mr Nichols; this is a serious matter.
The jewels, lost or stolen, are, as I happen to know,
of fabulous value. I was most unfortunately in
the rooms it seems just before they disappeared.
I do not choose that any suspicion, however pre-
posterous, should rest on me. I desire, before you
make any further inquiries, that I shall be thoroughly
searched."
Mr Moulang held up his hands in protest.
"He is right," said the detective. "It is only a
formality, but it is a very expedient formality.
Mr Moulang, will you kindly take the young lady
to another room—and keep a close eye on her," he
added in a whisper as the manager passed.
As might have been anticipated, nothing was
found in the search which Staunton Toleron had
insisted on. The evidence of the lift man and the
waiter showed it was impossible that he could have
got rid of the jewels.
He had gone down in the lift to the hall, and had
not left the waiter's sight until Mr Nichols had come
up to him.
In the hall he had taken a sheet of paper from his
pocket-book, put it in an envelope, and handed it to
the waiter to post. There was nothing in the en-
velope except the thin sheet of paper. Of that the
waiter was quite certain.
Had the jewels been thrown through the window
to an accomplice? That question, too, was quickly
settled. There was a policeman stationed outside.
He had been there for half an hour. He was quite


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
137
sure that no one had passed, and nothing had been
thrown while he was there.
Rapidly and discreetly Mr Nichols made his
inquiries, all leading straight to nothing. No one in
the hotel, except the parties concerned, knew of the
mysterious robbery, when Betty Barry, in her light
run-about motor driven by herself, swept smoothly
up to the hotel door.
The manager met her in the hall, consternation in
his face.
"Miss^Barry," he said, " I would wish a word with
you in private."
Some instinct told her what had happened.
"My jewels," she whispered, "they have been
stolen?"
He nodded dismally, and without another word she
followed him to his private room.
Mr Nichols was there, self-contained and composed;
the Hon. Staunton, eager and excited; poor Barbara
Mullen, her arms on a table and her face on her arms,
sobbed noiselessly.
Betty Barry walked straight to the girl, and patted
her encouragingly on the shoulder.
"Don't cry, Barbara," she said, "don't cry;
we'll find them yet."
But Barbara only sobbed on disconsolately.
As she turned from the girl, Betty found Mr
Nichols' keen eyes fixed on her face. A sudden
thought took her.
She faced him indignantly. "Has anyone,"
she cried, "dared to hint that Barbara took
them?"
Her own loss seemed forgotten in her sympathy


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY 139
"Oh, don't thank me, Miss Barry. It's more for
my own sake than yours. It is hateful to me to be
mixed up in this business."
"But you are not mixed up in it."
"But I am. What will the world say? It is
known I am a poor man. My character is not of
the best; though no one, so far, has accused me
of robbery. The evidence looks black enough
against me. Don't you see it does?" Then he
told his story, in no way cloaking or colouring the
facts.
"It is quite impossible that Mr Toleron could
have taken the jewels," said the unimpassioned
voice of the detective.
"I don't need you to tell me that," retorted
Betty Barry, petulantly. She had plainly taken a
dislike to Mr Nichols.
But he went on placidly without the slightest
notice of her irritation, checking the points off
methodically on his long, thin fingers.
"We have never lost sight of Mr Staunton Toleron
from the moment he left your room to the search
on which he himself insisted. It is a matter of
pure reason," he continued, "that the jewels must
have gone by the window or the door. The police-
man shows they did not go through the window;
Mr Toleron proves they did not come with him
through the door."
"Is that all? " said Miss Barry, curtly. "Then,
I suppose, I may put in my word. Of course, I'm
mad to lose my jewels, but I mean to have them
back. The newspapers will be all crying out it's an
advertisement. Now I don't want a fuss. I don't


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
"They can sometimes. But honestly, Miss Barry,
I hope you don't believe I had anything to do with
this business?"
"How absurd. Of course not." She gave him
her hand frankly. "I'll prove it to you. I want
you to do something for me now at once. You know
the Duchess of Southern?"
"A great friend of mine."
"And of mine. It is a coincidence that a few days
ago we were talking about jewels and robberies, and
she insisted on giving me the name of a man whom
she said was miraculous. I have it in my purse
somewhere."
From a jumble of miscellaneous rubbish in her
purse she fished out a little scrap of crumpled paper,
and smoothed it out with a forefinger on her palm.
"Here is the name—Paul Beck, Montague Street.
I haven't the number—can you find him, do you
think? " .
"Quite easily. What am I to do with him when
found?"
"Bring him straight back here. Now see how
I trust you. If I had the very faintest suspicion I
wouldn't ask you to get a rod to beat yourself. I
wouldn't send you for Mr Beck."
"I shall not forget your kindness. Some time I
may have a chance to repay it. I trust sincerely
that this man Beck will find the jewels and the
thief."
"Bring him to my room when you get him. I'm
going there now with Barbara."
When the door closed behind the two girls, Betty
Barry's self-possession collapsed as if an over-


142 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
strained something had snapped in her brain. She
plumped down in a cushioned chair and laughed
hysterically.
"I cannot help it, Barbara," she gasped, dabbing
her eyes with a wisp of cambric. "Another minute
and I would have broken down and disgraced
myself. There was that old fraud of a detective
posing and prosing like a man in a story-book, and
that woebegone Mr Toleron imploring me not to
suspect him, and the plump little manager fussing
about his hotel. The whole thing was a screaming
farce."
"But your jewels, miss, your beautiful, lovely
jewels!"
"I cannot somehow realise that they are gone.
I suppose I'll be very sorry for them later on. But
I don't and I won't believe they are gone for ever.
I feel quite certain they will come back again; don't
you?"
She sprang the question on her so suddenly that
Barbara coloured and looked confused. "You
know best, miss," she faltered.
"I! I know no more than you do. Would you
insinuate, Barbara, that I stole them myself? Oh,
fie for shame, you naughty girl!"
Then suddenly the girl's mood changed, and
her laughter broke without warning into sobbing.
"My beautiful, beautiful ruby!" she wailed. "I'll
never, never see it again!"
"But you said just now—" Barbara began.
"No matter what I said just now. Haven't I
a right to cry as well as you, I'd like to know? You
shouldn't have been so careless, Barbara. No, no,


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY 143
I don't mean that. Don't whimper, my dear girl,
it wasn't your fault. There's no use in crying after
lost rubies. Besides, I've got to dress for the
theatre. I will have to go on without my ruby
to-night. Well, I shall know for certain if it is
my acting or my jewels they go to see; that's
one comfort. What did you say were taken,
Barbara?"
"Only the diamond necklace and earrings, and the
ruby."
"Only! indeed! The thief took the pick of the
basket. But I have a few sparkles left yet, thank
goodness. I'll wear my emeralds to-night." Then,
as she turned and caught sight of her tear-stained
face in the big glass, "Oh, I say, Barbara, what a
fright I look!"
A sharp knock at the door jerked her up suddenly.
Barbara moved to open it.
"One moment," her mistress cried. She dipped
her face into cold water, patted it dry with a soft
towel, poured a little pool of eau de Cologne into the
hollow of her right palm, brought her hands together
with a splash, and dabbed her eyes and her forehead.
Then, while she patted the disordered little ripples
of hair back into their places, she called out to
Barbara: "Now!"
She was at the door herself as soon as Barbara—
cool, easy and completely self-possessed.
"Mr Beck, I am sure," she said, and gave her
hand graciously to the stout, good-humoured-look-
ing man who stepped shyly into the room.
"Oh, you're not a bit like what I expected, Mr
Beck!"


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
145
"Lots of jewels left," he said, fumbling among
the cases.
"Yes, but the best are gone."
"So Mr Toleron told me; the matchless ruby and
some diamonds—a small handful in all."
"But a very precious handful, Mr Beck."
"My dear young lady, I know that. But why
didn't the thief take more? Why didn't Aladdin
fill his pockets full when he got into the cave?"
"Because he hadn't time."
"A good shot, Miss Barry, but it hasn't quite hit
the mark. He might grab half a dozen cases almost
as quickly as one. Halloa! what's this!" He had
passed his hand over the outside sill of the open
window, and in the far corner his fingers closed
upon a key. A touch might have swept it into the
street, but Mr Beck's fingers were quick to grip and
hold.
It proved to be the key of a room door, with a tag
of metal attached, and a number engraved on the
tag.
"The key that I lost, no doubt," cried Betty
Barry. "Didn't I tell you, Barbara, I lost the key
of my room two days ago? Brought it with me to
the theatre; must have dropped it in my dressing-
room or on the stage. I left orders it should be
hunted for."
Just a shadow of disappointment crossed Mr
Beck's face, too swift and faint to notice. He
examined the key closely for a moment, ignoring
the hand held out for it.
"Yes, I suppose it must be mine," she said, look-
ing at the number when at last he passed it to
K


146 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
her. "But how in wonder's name did it come
there?"
"That's what we have to find out," said Mr Beck,
oracularly.
"If I can be of any help," interposed the Hon.
Staunton.
"Perhaps you may be later on. Meanwhile I'd
like a word with Mr Moulang. Good-evening, Miss
Barry, and don't despair of seeing your jewels again,"
he said as he left the room.
"The man's a fraud," said Mr Nichols to Staunton
Toleron as the door closed upon the rival detective.
"My dear sir, he knows as much about this business
as you do."
"Oh, I hope not," retorted Staunton, "I know
too much about it for my own peace of mind."
"I believe in Mr Beck," said Betty Barry, gravely.
"Good-evening, Mr Toleron; good-evening, Mr
Nichols. I've got to dress in ten minutes."
"You'll remember," said Mr Beck as he shook
hands with Mr Moulang at parting, "just one line
to me when any person specially wants those rooms
after Miss Barry has left them, and not a syllable to
anyone except me."
A few days later Betty Barry called at Mr Beck's
office.
"I hope I haven't put you on the wrong track,
Mr Beck," she said, "or off the right one. My
door key has just been discovered in Ophelia's grave
at the theatre. So you see it couldn't have been
mine you found on the window-sill."
"Oh, I knew that, of course," said Mr Beck.
"Then why didn't you say so?"


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
She glanced at him for a moment with sharp
suspicion, but he smiled his imperturbable smile.
"I thought it better not at the time."
"What are you doing about the jewels?" she
asked after a pause.
"Nothing."
"Nothing, Mr Beck!" she cried in surprise.
"Then have you given up in despair?"
"Not in the least, my dear Miss Barry. I'm just
waiting for someone to show me where the jewels
are hidden."
"How long do you propose to wait?"
"Until my guide turns up."
It was only a fortnight later that Mr Moulang
telephoned to Mr Beck that the rooms were taken,
and within ten minutes Mr Beck's hansom was at
the hotel door. His dialogue with Mr Moulang was
brevity itself.
"Who is your guest?"
"The Duke of Waldshire."
"You are sure it is he?"
"Certain."
"Then good-bye till the next time. He is not my
guide to the jewels." The visit lasted thirty seconds
by the clock.
The next time the guest was a young American
millionaire, Bertram D. Corcoran, who had come
across from Paris. It was his first visit to England,
and he was very particular about his rooms. He had
seen half a dozen suites before he made his choice.
"Is he your guide? " asked Mr Moulang, with a
touch of sarcasm in his voice as he gabbled his news
in guttural English.


148 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Don't know till I try. Can you give me a place
here as a waiter for a day or so?"
"Certainly. You want to—"
"Look after Mr Bertram D. Corcoran; to take
care that he is quite comfortable. I'll be back in
half an hour."
The man that came back in half an hour with a
light overcoat over his well-kept dress suit was like
Mr Beck and yet quite different. A man who knew
Mr Beck very well would say: "What an extra-
ordinaryYesemblance," but he would never be tempted
to confuse the two. The features were alike, but
in the expression and manner there was not a sugges-
tion of resemblance.
This was an unmistakable waiter, who had been
all his life a waiter. The deft movements of his
hands, the gliding walk, the smile insinuating and
deferential, all proclaimed him to the manner
born.
Mr Moulang presented the newcomer to the head
waiter. "An outsider, Jenkins," he said. "I've
been asked to give him a trial. I want you to let
him wait on our last American arrival, Mr Corcoran."
Jenkins frowned and growled. He had marked
the American millionaire for his own particular
quarry. But the new hand was so good-humoured,
so civil, so efficient that he soon emerged from his
sulk.
Mr Corcoran dined out, and returned, after the
theatre, to supper, and the new hand waited upon
him with respectful assiduity.
Mr Corcoran professed himself well pleased^with
his repast, only the green Chartreuse, which he tossed


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
149
off at a gulp, had a peculiar taste he thought. When
the waiter brought him a second glass he found the
same taste still, but less marked. He gave the
waiter half a crown, directing that he should be called
at six next morning, and Mr Beck pocketed the coin
without a twinge of conscience.
"Tell the boots to knock hard until I answer,"
said Mr Corcoran, as he tossed the napkin on the back
of his chair and lit a cigarette, " I'm a heavy sleeper."
"Well," said Mr Moulang, when he met Mr Beck
an hour later, " what do you propose to do next?"
"Burglary," said Mr Beck, laconically. "I want
the key of his room."
"But," expostulated Mr Moulang, "I really do
not see how I can. After all, there is nothing so far
as I know against Mr Corcoran. He is a guest at
our hotel, and if you—"
He stammered and came to a full stop. It was
not easy to put his suspicions into words.
Mr Beck helped him out. "Mr Moulang," he said
gravely, "I'm acting on a certainty. But I see
you've got to safeguard your hotel and your guests.
Will you be satisfied if Mr Nichols comes with me?"
Mr Moulang eagerly welcomed this way out of his
difficulty.
"Then send for Mr Nichols," said Mr Beck.
But Mr Nichols made difficulties of his own.
With his keen eyes on Mr Beck's face he listened to
his suggestion; his sharp, clean-shaven face im-
perturbable as a mask. Only the tight-closed lips
twitched with a scornful smile.
"I don't like it," he said quietly when Mr Beck
had finished. "It is too crude and amateurish for


150 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
my taste. Besides, I'm quite certain that this man
Corcoran has nothing to do with the theft. By
analytic reasoning I have already, by a process of
exhaustion, fixed the identity of the real thief."
Mr Beck was modestly persistent. "Give me a
chance," he pleaded. "I hope to find the clue to
the mystery in Mr Corcoran's pockets. If I am
wrong there'is no harm done, and you are at liberty
to call me a fool."
Mr Nichols consented under protest. He thought
a lesson would do Mr Beck no harm.
"But if Mr Corcoran should wake? " he suggested.
"He won't wake," said Mr Beck, confidently, "he's
a very heavy sleeper. I heard him say so himself."
Mr Nichols caught his meaning. "Drugged!"
he whispered in amazement. "You take heavy
risks, Mr Beck."
"There are no risks in the game when you hold the
right cards," said Mr Beck, philosophically, " besides,
my luck always pulls me through."
Mr Nichols smiled scornfully, but made no further
comment. "If you're ready," he said, " I am."
The two detective burglars slipped off their shoes
while Mr Moulang watched the proceedings in be-
wildered terror.
Fortunately the hotel was not full. By one o'clock
in the morning there was no one stirring in the
corridor. Mr Beck fitted the key to the door and
pushed softly, but it refused to open. "There is
something against the door, Nichols," he whispered to
his brother burglar. "Slip your hand through and
push it gently aside." Nichols' long arm went through
the opening and he pushed gently. The next moment


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
there was a crash of breaking crockery. A chair
had been put against the door, and the water-jug set
on the chair's edge.
Mr Beck instantly shoved the door open, over-
turning the chair, and drew Mr Nichols with him into
the room. ^
Then he listened eagerly for a step or sound in the
corridor. There was none. The tick, tick of a clock
on the chimney-piece, and the soft snoring of Mr
Corcoran in the inner room, like the cooing of an
unseen pigeon, alone broke the silence.
Mr Beck switched on the electric lamps and
flooded the room with sudden light.
"First to clear up the rubbish," he said, and
stooped to gather the bits of delf from the carpet.
Mr Nichols fumed at the delay. "Cannot we
get to our task at once," he said, " and be done with
it? I have no liking for this business."
"I want our friend when he wakes up to find
things as he left them," Mr Beck explained respect-
fully. "It may prevent trouble. While I carry off
these bits of delf with me and get another water-jug
you might go through his pockets, if you don't
mind."
Silent as a cat Mr Beck crept out through the open
door, and presently returned with a water-jug which
he had purloined from an empty room on the same
corridor. Meanwhile, Mr Nichols, who had carried
Mr Corcoran's clothes out from the bedroom, went
through the pockets with methodical dexterity.
He noted the contents of each pocket in a little
notebook as he set them on the table in order that
everything he took out might be properly replaced.


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY 153
For the first time Mr Nichols caught a glimpse of
the real Mr Beck.
The tension suddenly relaxed. Mr Beck breathed
a deep breath of relief, as a man who has solved at
last a tantalising problem. The tape measure lay on
the table at his hand. He pulled out the tiny ribbon
and measured the long arm of the cross on the paper
—exactly ten inches, the shorter eight inches.
Then he turned sharply to Mr Nichols. "Be
quick," he said. "Measure that carpet."
There was no deference in his tone now; he spoke
in curt command.
Mr Nichols meekly accepted the situation. He was
beginning to feel foolish. At last he recognised his
master.
"Twenty feet by sixteen," he said, when he had
completed the measurement.
"Half-inch scale," muttered Mr Beck to himself.
He took the tape measure from the passive hand
of Mr Nichols, who looked on wonderingly, and
measured each of the four sections of the cross.
Then he measured by scale the cross on the carpet,
allowing two feet for the inch, and so found the lines
corresponding to the lines on the paper, and the point
of intersection.
"Here," he said, pressing his thumb on the exact
spot, and with his shoulder pushing away an easy-
chair that stood over it.
Down he went on all fours with his eyes close to
the carpet.
"Give me the magnifying-glass," he said. Mr
Nichols fetched it. Even with the strong glass
Mr Beck's keen eyes could hardly detect an angular


154 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
slit cut with a razor edge—a mere hair line in the
thick carpet. At the point of the angle there was
the pinhead of a tiny tack that kept the tongue of
carpet in its place.
Mr Beck prised the little tack out with the blade
of his pocket-knife, lifted the angular flap, and
exposed some inches of the naked floor with what
looked like a circular scratch on the polished wood.
"Neat! " said Mr Beck with professional apprecia-
tion of fine workmanship. He inserted the sharp-
pointed corkscrew of his pocket-knife in the wood
and whipped out a circular bit with a plop like a
plug from a jar.
A long horsehair which had been bent by the wood
came up through the hole. Mr Beck took it gingerly
between his finger and thumb and drew out a small
silk bag from which he spilt out on the carpet the
big ruby heart and a string of diamonds that blazed
splendidly in the glow of the electric light.
Mr Nichols looked on in envious, bewildered
admiration. "Shall we arrest him at once?" he
whispered. "It's a clear case."
"Not so clear as you think," said Mr Beck.
"How can we connect Mr Corcoran, who has only
just arrived, with the jewellery found in the bedroom
floor? But why did he want to be called at six
this morning? Now let me think."
As a result of his thoughts he put the bag back
into the hole, pressed the button of wood down on the
protruding horsehair, and tacked the slip of carpet
over it.
"You are satisfied," he said to Mr Nichols, "that
we have found the jewels anyway?"


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
155
"And caught the thief," suggested Mr Nichols.
"Not quite," replied Mr Beck, "but we may
presently. I will bait the trap."
"Now," he said, "we will tell Mr Moulang how
far we have got."
Mr Moulang was intensely excited. He wanted to
arrest Mr Corcoran at once, but Mr Beck explained
they had not a scrap of evidence against him. "I'm
going out to look for some," he explained. "You
needn't wait up for me; good-night."
When he was gone Mr Nichols was good enough to
explain to Mr Moulang that it was sheer, blind,
blundering luck that carried Mr Beck through in
defiance of all recognised scientific methods.
In about an hour's time Mr Beck returned to the
hotel, and again he crept up silently to the door
behind which the unconscious Mr Corcoran still
slept the deep sleep so kindly provided for him.
Mr Beck entered this time alone, and without trouble
replaced the chair at the door and balanced the
water-jug on its edge. Then ensconcing himself
behind the silk window curtains, through which he
cut a small slit with his knife, he leant his shoulder
against the wall and went quietly to sleep on his feet.
A slight tap at the outer door awakened him at
once, but there was no sound in the bedroom. The
tap grew to a clamorous knocking. Still no move-
ment from Mr Corcoran. Just as Mr Beck was
beginning to fear he had made the dose too strong,
his mind was relieved by the welcome sound of a
yawn, followed by a sleepy cry "All right."
The next moment Mr Corcoran in his pyjamas
appeared in the sitting-room, rubbing his half-closed


156 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
eyes in which heavy sleep still lingered. Lifting off
the water-jug he pushed the chair from the door and
took in his boots and hot water.
"Down to breakfast in an hour," he said to the
boots, and locked the door again and replaced the
chair and jug. Then returning to his bedroom he
threw up the window silently and coughed into the
street.
Mr Beck, with ears strained like a hare's to the
cry of far-off dogs, heard a faint echo of Mr Corcoran's
cough from below.
With grim amusement, Mr Beck watched him take
the sheet of blue paper from his pocket and repeat
his own performance—measure the paper and the
floor, lift the flap of carpet, and draw the bag of
jewels from its hiding-place.
But as his hands closed on the treasure he was
gripped from behind, drawn gently backwards from
his knees to the flat of his back on the carpet, where
he lay gazing up in helpless bewilderment at the
good-humoured face of Mr Beck.
"Game is up," said Mr Beck, "hand over "—and
without waiting for permission he took the bag of
jewels from the nerveless hand of the prostrate
Corcoran.
"Now tell me who is in this game with you?"
said Mr Beck, pleasantly.
"See you hanged first," growled the other.
"Perhaps I know," suggested Mr Beck.
"Perhaps you don't! Here goes to warn him!"
The man's muscles stiffened and he half rose to his
feet, gripped Mr Beck, who leant over him, by the
collar, and strove by a sudden effort to throw him


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
157
off his balance. Muscle strained against muscle for
a moment. Then Mr Corcoran's head went down
with a bump on the carpet, a knee pressed heavily on
his chest, and a sponge steeped in chloroform was
squeezed tightly upon his hps and nostrils.
For a moment he struggled fiercely. His hands
struck out in all directions, and his heels thudded on
the soft carpet. But the struggle was soon over, and
he lay limp on the floor.
Mr Beck put a forefinger to his pulse. "All right
in half an hour," he said, "much simpler and safer
than handcuffs and gag. Now for the other."
With the bag of jewels in his hand he crossed into
the bedroom. The lower part of the window was
curtained; but through the curtain Mr Beck could
dimly distinguish the figure of a tall woman in the
street below.
He raised the window and coughed a very echo of
Corcoran's cough. There was an instant answer
from the street, and the figure which had been slowly
pacing up and down stopped right under the window.
Then Mr Beck did a very strange thing indeed.
He thrust his hand with the bag in it out the full
length of his arm, and let the precious parcel drop into
the street.
The figure below caught it smartly, thrust it into a
side pocket, and disappeared at a quick pace round
the corner, to be brought up suddenly in the arms
of a big policeman.
"No use struggling, sir," said the constable with
a grin, as he slipped the handcuffs dexterously on the
wrists of his wriggling prisoner; "don't want to hurt
a lady, Mr Toleron, but I must do my duty. I arrest


158 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
you for the robbery of the Barry jewels, which are at
this moment concealed on your person."
"Of course, I guessed from the first who did the
trick," said Mr Beck next day to Betty Barry.
He had shown her the nest in which her jewels
had lain, and they were having afternoon tea
together—a favourite meal of Mr Beck—in the same
room. The ruby heart lay on the table beside her.
She wanted to be sure, she said, that she had got it
safe back again.
"I guessed," he went on, "but I wasn't quite
sure. I might have suspected the girl if she had not
said she locked the door. You see, if she had stolen
the jewels she would have been quite sure to have
left the door open to turn suspicion from herself.
But, putting the girl out of the question, the facts
pointed like a sign-post to the Hon. Staunton.
He took the room to get ready the hiding-place,
and to have a duplicate key made. I knew I would
find that key in the room, for he dared not take it
out with him to be discovered when he was searched.
The fact that you had lost a key was a coincidence
that might have drawn a red herring across the
track, but the true scent of the fox was too strong.
As it was, it served to make the thief over-confident
and reckless.
"I knew that the jewels must be safe somewhere
in one of the two rooms, but I hadn't the least notion
which or where. So I waited for the thief's con-
federate to come and show me, and bring me the map
of the hiding-place Toleron had posted to him.
Afterwards, when I found a particularly tall lady


THE RAPE OF THE RUBY
159
loitering outside the window, the game was quite
plain, and I had only to play up to the lead. That's
the whole story."
"Not quite, Mr Beck. I have yet a small part to
play in the piece. I don't know how to thank you
enough. I am afraid to guess the value of the jewels
you have given me back when they were quite lost.
I want you to name your own fee."
"Another cup of tea, if you please, and a little
more sugar," said Mr Beck.





VII
THE SHIP'S RUN
It began this way. She dropped her purse and he
caught it as it fell. Don't run away with the notion
that this was the starting point of a romance, for
though the lady was young and pretty there was a
wedding ring on her finger, and the man was stout,
sedate and middle-aged.
They were standing together on the upper prome-
nade deck of the great ship Titanic as she slid in
the grey dusk, a softly-moving island, in and out
through the multitudinous shipping of New York
harbour. A soft mist was over the sea and the
sky, stealing away their colour. The huge statue
of Liberty stood up from the smooth floor of the
sea like a fine grey etching against the fainter grey
of the sky. High up in the lifted hand of the great
figure the beacon flared red through the haze. The
dawn grew slowly—the mist changed from grey to
white, from dark to light. There was a luminous
splash of brightness in the clouds to the east, and
without warning the blood-red rim of the sun
showed over the water.
It was at that instant that pretty Mrs Eyre
dropped her purse as she leant over the rail, and Mr
l 161


162 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Rhondel, with a snap like a swooping hawk, caught
it a yard from her hand.
"Cricket! " he explained, as he restored it to the
fair owner.
"Thanks," she said; "you're real smart. There
were five hundred dollars in that purse on their way
to the bottom of the sea, when you chipped in and
caught it. Say, isn't that just fine! "—she waved
a small hand admiringly at the red sun—" guess he
knows how to wake things up rather."
"Going over for the first time? " said Mr Rhondel,
ignoring the opportunity of discussing the sun's
capabilities.
"First time, Bob and I, to the old country."
"You're Irish, then?"
It was a bold shot. The girl—she was hardly a
woman—was typically American, tall, slim, graceful,
carrying her head well: and her voice had a faint
twang of the American drawl, which is pleasant from
pretty lips. But the shot was straight, all the same,
and went home. The eyes of forget-me-not blue
deepened to violet.
"Am I Irish? Why, sure; and Bob, too. My
grandfather by the mother's side came over in the
forties. But Bob is Irish all the way through, from
his toe-nails to his top-knot. There goes the bugle
for breakfast. Come along; we'll get together, we
three. I'll fix it all right with the steward; you'll
like my boy."
She fixed it all right, and Mr Rhondel sat beside
her at the bounteous breakfast-table. Beyond her,
on the other side was her "boy "—a handsome,
clean-shaven young fellow of twenty-five.


THE SHIP'S RUN
163
"Where have you been, Kitty? I've waited
a minute and a half, and I'm as hungry as a
hawk."
He dexterously peeled a big apple as he -
spoke.
"Seeing the sun up," Kitty exclaimed, "and
carelessly dropping my purse over the rails."
"I'm sorry."
"It's all right; don't worry. Mr Rhondel, here,
caught it as it fell. This is Bob, Mr Rhondel—Bob
Eyre, my husband; you can shake hands behind my
back."
She drew herself straight and close to the
table, and they shook hands behind her back, Mr
Eyre with an admiring wink at the shapely little
poll on which the coils of glossy, red-brown hair
were piled.
"Try a kippered herring, Mr Rhondel," said Bob,
"with tenderloin steak to follow—best thing to
begin breakfast with. Sole for you, Kitty?"
They chatted freely all through the long breakfast,
and by the time it was over they were old friends.
Mr Rhondel manoeuvred his deck chair close to Mrs
Eyre, making no secret of his admiration. Bob Eyre
sauntered off to play deck quoits. There was
quicksilver in the young fellow's blood. He could
not sit still for a moment; brain and muscle were full
of restless vitality that craved incessant exertion and
excitement.
Life on board soon settled down to a routine.
On the third day out the same hour found Mrs Eyre
and Mr Rhondel seated on their deck chairs close
together, and Mr Eyre playing shuffle-board.


THE SHIP'S RUN
165
when I met him; he was an inspector when I
married him. We went to Niagara for the honey-
moon and concluded the celebration in the
Manhattan Hotel till the dollars ran out. We
had fixed it up to live in New York, and we
were on the look-out for a flat when the news
came that started us homewards."
"What news?" said Mr Rhondel, as he lit a
cigar carefully all round from the glowing stump
which he tossed overboard into the froth of waves.
This frank-spoken little woman interested him.
It was not mere politeness that prompted the
question.
"Oh, you have got the soft end of the talk this
time. It is easy to say: 'Well, what's the news?'
It's not so easy to answer you slick. I'm not clear
about it myself; I doubt if Bob is. I had to get
the story out of him in bits, like the kernel out of
a walnut, and some stuck. He was a landlord
once over in Ireland. But there wasn't a cent in
the job. His income was considerably less than
nothing a year when he started for the States,
leaving his lawyer in charge of the mortgages.
"He often told me he was the first man of his
breed that had ever earned a cent. Then the British
Congress passed some Act or another to boom real
property, and Bob's land came in on the top of the
boom. I don't know what happened. The tenants
bought the land, and the State paid for it, and they
paid him a bonus for selling at a big price.
"Then the State Legislature, the Senate, House of
Lords, or the King of England for all I know, bought
Bob's castle and demesne lands, and sold them back


166 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
to Bob for less than was paid for them, and made
him a free gift of the balance. It was all set out in
the lawyer's letter; and I couldn't understand a
word of it, but the end was plain enough. Bob had
fifty thousand pounds clear out of the deal, and the
old castle was waiting for him on the other side.
"'We'll take on the job, Kitty,' he said to me;
'you'll like it and I'll like it. I always got on well
with the boys, though we had our little differences
about rent. I reckon they'll be glad to have me
back, and Mrs Kitty Eyre will make the county
folk sit up. Between us we'll set things humming.
Fifty thousand pounds is a fortune in Ireland. I'll
give the boys a lead in farming. There's money to
be made out of land if one knows how to make it.
We'll start a poultry farm and dairy farm. I'll give
you your choice, Kitty, and I'll lay a hundred dollars
I beat you on the year's return.' I took him up.
I've backed the chicken coop against the milk pails,
and I mean to win, sure."
Just then Bob Eyre in grey flannels and bright-
yellow, rubber-soled shoes came sauntering up,
flushed with his efforts at shuffle-board—a fine,
shapely cut of a man, with a figure that showed
breeding like a thoroughbred horse: light on his feet,
and agile in his motions as a cat.
As he reached his wife he opened a shapely hand
and showed a fistful of money, silver and gold.
"Won it with the shovel," he explained. "The
other chap fancied himself more than a bit."
He dropped down on the deck close to his wife's
feet, and pushed his tweed cap back from a tangle of
crisp curls.


THE SHIP'S RUN
167
"I'll make another bit," he said, "before
we touch land; you see if I don't. Play
poker, sir?" he said, turning abruptly to Mr
Rhondel.
"Sometimes," said Mr Rhondel, smiling at a
pleasant reminiscence. "Do you?"
"Rather, only in a small way up to this—
half-dollar rise and five-dollar limit. I take it a
gentleman should never risk more than he can pay
when the last hand is played. But I'd like to have
a chance of a real game. I fancy I'd sweep the
board."
"Why don't you? " asked Mr Rhondel, carelessly.
"Cannot. The captain has forbidden big play.
He's a sportsman all right himself—says he's very
sorry, but company's orders must be carried out.
There's a 'tec on board—a whipper-snapper chap,
rigged out as a sky pilot, nosing round. Old Colonel
Rollin pointed him out to me when I hinted at a
game. 'No use, my boy, when that chap's around,'
he said. 'Eyes like a ferret.'"
"I'm real glad, Bobsie," his wife interposed,
"the big game is barred. I know you. You'd
bet the fifty thousand pounds on a pair if you
thought the man next you was bluffing, and you'd
laugh when he raked in the pool on a straight
flush."
"Give us a chance, little one, I'm not that sort.
Besides, it's my last hope of a flutter. I have
promised never to bet more than five dollars on any
game after we touch Old Ireland, and you know I'm
a man of my word."
Miss Phoebe Everly passed at this moment—a


168 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
genuine Gibson girl, with superlative curves and
restless activity.
"Lazy! " she threw the word back at Bob Eyre
as she passed, and he leapt instantly to his feet at
the challenge.
"Have a game of shuffle-board? " he retorted.
"No, come for a smart walk instead. I want to
ask you something."
She nodded a gay little nod to Kitty and carried
him off.
"Well?" he said when they were half up the
promenade deck, "what's your question? If it is
the question, I cannot—I'm married already."
"Don't trouble on my account. I'll never take a
hand in that gamble. I want you to tell me what
they mean4by ' a bit on the run.'"
"Don't know."
"Then find out like a good boy. I heard old
Colonel M'Clure talking to Pop at lunch a lot of stuff
about the day's run and the auction of the numbers
and the high field and the low field. But when I
asked him what it meant he told me to run away and
play, it wasn't good for little girls to know everything.
So I want to find out just to spite him."
"Leave it to me," said Bob Eyre, " if it's a bit of a
gamble, and it sounds like it, I'll be glad to find out
on my own account."
Presently he accosted Colonel M'Clure with a
diplomatic question or two, and found him most
genial and freely communicative. His ruddy face
and white hair and whiskers gave the old Colonel a
benevolent, Father Christmassy appearance. But
his was not the goody-goody order of benevolence, for


THE SHIP'S RUN
169
he could drink his glass and tell a story with the best,
and his jolly laugh was a pick-me-up to a man in low
spirits.
"The run of the ship! " he cried in reply to Bob
Eyre's frank question. "My dear boy "—he was of
the kind that call all young men dear boys—" don't
tell me you have never heard of the lottery on the run
of the ship."
"Won't you let me tell the truth, Colonel, once in
a while? Remember, I've had only one voyage
before, and that was steerage."
"Well, you've come to the right shop for informa-
tion. I've been auctioneer and general boss of the
lottery a score of times. Couldn't live through the
voyage without it. The trip takes considerably less
than no time when you have the lottery going, you
bet your bottom dollar on that. I tell you what,
sir—"
"Easy there!" Bob Eyre broke in upon the
enthusiast before he got into his stride. "First tell
me, if you please, what the thing is, anyway."
The Colonel passed from enthusiasm to explana-
tion.
"You know the little map hanging in the broad
passage between the library and the smoking-room
on the upper deck?"
Eyre nodded.
"Then you have seen the day's run of the vessel
is drawn each day on that map in a red line across
the blue sea, with the length marked in plain figures?"
"With the last voyage marked in full," added
Eyre.
"Exactly, my boy. I see you have your eyes


170 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
skinned. Perhaps you have noticed that the length
of the day's run ranges from about four eighty-five
to five-twenty. The variation is twenty or thirty
miles, and the average run about five hundred.
Now, here is the way the lottery is worked. A score
of us—more or less—have a pound each in the
pool. We put numbers up to a certain limit in a hat
—say from 490 to 510—and draw. Whichever
number hits the ship's run for that day scoops the
pool. See?"
"But I don't see—"
"Easy on, my boy. I know what you were going
to say. Maybe none of the numbers would hit the
ship's run. To meet that chance there is the
'high field'—all numbers over the highest number in
that hat—and the 'low field '—all under the
lowest.
"But that's not the whole game either. The best
is to follow. The numbers, after they are drawn,
are put up to general auction. A man may bid for
his own number. If he buys it in he has only to pay
half the price into the general pool. If an outsider
buys, the owner gets half the price bid, and the
pool takes the other half. The 'high field' and the
'low field ' are not drawn for at all, but auctioned
right away. The auction is the real fun—eh,
what?"
"A bully game!" cried Bob Eyre with enthusiasm.
"Is there room for one more inside?"
"We'll try to squeeze you in, my boy. The draw
will be in half-an-hour's time. There are seventeen
in already; you'll make eighteen."
Later on, when Bob, as in duty bound, tried to


172 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
on a bit. I don't care for this game of chuck
farthing."
That evening, when they were only one day out
from Queenstown, Bob Eyre had his wish. The boat
had been making great time of late, averaging 515
miles a day, and there was general surprise when
Colonel M'Clure, to whom the arrangement of the
figure was intrusted for the most part, fixed the range
of the lottery from 485 to 510.
"It's a dead cert, for the 'high field,'" objected
one of the coterie.
"Don't you believe it," retorted the Colonel.
"Fine weather cannot last for ever. I have crossed
more times than you, my boy; there is generally a
bit of a blow as we come close to the poor distressful
country. I don't mind having a try at the 'low
field ' myself, I can tell you."
The majority were, however, of the other way of
thinking. The sky was without a cloud, the wind
behind them, the glass going up. "Shouldn't
mind betting an even pony," said one languid
youth in grey flannels, "that we do our 520 this
run."
"Done," cried the Colonel so sharply that the
languid youth's jaw fell, and he abandoned the
opposition.
Then Colonel M'Clure developed an unexpected
vein of obstinacy. He seemed hurt that his judg-
ment was questioned, and the talk began to grow
hot when Judge Everly, in the interests of peace,
came round to the side of the Colonel.
"Easy with the pepper castor, gentlemen," he
said, " let the Colonel have his way. It's as good for


THE SHIP'S RUN
173
the goose as the gander. We can each back our own
fancy in the lottery, and the laugh will be on him
when the ' high field ' romps in an easy winner."
Bob Eyre joined in on the same side, and the
Colonel carried the day.
"I know the Colonel was all wrong, of course,"
Bob confided to Kitty, "but it was not my cue to
tell him so. So I kept my eye on the ' high field ' as
a dead cert."
That night there was wild excitement in the smok-
ing-room when the numbers were put up to auction.
Colonel M'Clure, wielding a huge pipe-case for an
auctioneer's hammer, was better fun than ever.
His good-humoured jests were like oil on the
troubled waters of the gamblers' feverish excite-
ment. For the bidding ran high. By a chance,
lucky or unlucky, the Rev. Abel Lankin,
whose protesting presence was always a check
upon any kind of gambling, did not put in an
appearance.
The higlf spirits of the company, excited at the
thought of approaching their journey's end, found a
vent in high betting. Number after number was bid
close up to three figures. The bigger the number
the bigger the bidding, but when the Colonel reached
the "high field," which looked so like a certainty,
the company threw their self-control completely
away, and the bidding was fast and furious. All
joined in at first, and three hundred was bid before
the pack began to thin off.
When five hundred was reached three men had the
bidding between them—Judge Everly, thin-lipped
and determined; Colonel M'Clure, full of jovial


174 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
good-humour; and Bob Eyre, more reckless than
ever from a slight overdose of champagne.
These three kept capping each other's bids with
monotonous regularity, while the rest of the company
sat silent with the secondary excitement which high
gambling always begets amongst the onlookers.
The bidding mounted up and up, five pounds at each
jump, until it seemed it would never stop. At three
thousand pounds Colonel M'Clure suddenly gave
way.
"I'm out of it," he said, pausing to mop his red
face' with a big silk handkerchief, and sucking hard
at a huge cherry cobbler crowned with small icebergs
that stood beside him, " this is too hot for me! Any
bidding after three thousand?"
"Three thousand and five," said the Judge, in a
dogged voice.
"Guineas," shouted Bob Eyre, defiantly.
That settled it. There was a long, breathless
silence. The Judge seemed to hesitate for a moment.
A bid hung poised on the tip of his tongue; then with
an angry movement he abruptly turned his back on
the auctioneer.
"Three thousand one hundred and fifty bid,"
Colonel M'Clure went on imperturbably. "Any bid
after that? Now's your time, gentlemen, to make
your fortune; going for a trifle, the chance of a
lifetime. You will be cursing to-morrow when our
young friend here rakes in the pool. Going! going!
gone! The 'high field' to Robert Eyre, Esq., for
three thousand one hundred and fifty to be paid into
the pool."
It was thought that the auction of the " low field"


176 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
fortunes—" It was just picking up money "—the
jovial Colonel, his good-humour now completely
restored, knocked the "low field " down to himself.
Then there was the reaction after the excitement.
The high figures had sobered the company. Through
the dead silence the clear, incisive voice of Judge
Everly was heard:
"This is a big gamble, gentlemen," he said,
"and a ready-money business, I take it. There
should be about seven thousand three hundred all
told in the pool. I vote that we settle up and appoint
a stakeholder before we part."
There was a murmur of approval. "I'm agree-
able," said Bob Eyre, "I will pay in at once spot
cash. I beg to nominate Mr Rhondel as stakeholder,
as he is out of the gamble."
"I will be glad to have Mr Rhondel if he has no
objection," said Colonel M'Clure, cordially, " though
he did push me to the pin of my collar that time.
Another fiver and I would have knocked under.
But I love a stout fighter."
Thereupon Mr Rhondel, whose excitement seemed
to have completely fallen away when he was knocked
out of the bidding, declared his readiness to act.
Several of the men retired to their cabins for cheque-
books or money. Eventually the entire amount
to the last penny was paid over to Mr Rhondel.
There were several cheques, but Bob Eyre, Colonel
M'Clure and Judge Everly, who between them
contributed more than nine-tenths of the pool,
plumped down spot cash.
Mr Rhondel gave a receipt for the money and left
the saloon, one pocket bulging with a huge roll of


THE SHIP'S RUN
177
notes and cheques to the tune of seven thousand
three hundred pounds, and the other with a heavy
revolver of the latest pattern.
He had a few minutes' talk with Mrs Eyre, who
was seated in the starlight waiting for the news of
the final gamble, and to whom he gave a brief and
graphic description of the exciting scene in the
smoking-room.
"Three thousand guineas! " said the little woman,
dolefully. "How many dollars in that, I wonder?"
"Fifteen thousand seven fifty," replied Mr
Rhondel, promptly.
"That makes it sound a deal worse. Fifteen
thousand seven fifty dollars gone in a snap of the
fingers to the bottom of the sea!"
"Don't say that, young woman. See, I've got
it here in this pocket-book, with a lot more of other
people's money."
"I've a great mind to rob you."
"Better not." He showed the butt of a big
revolver protruding from his pocket.
"Sit further away," she cried in affected fear,
"the brute might go off; besides, I'm ashamed of
your getting mixed up in things of this kind, and
encouraging Bob to scatter his dollars. At your age,
too!"
"What would you say if I handed the pocket-
book and all its contents over to you to-morrow?"
"You don't mean it, of course, but I could almost
kiss you if you did."
"I hate that word 'almost.'"
"And I hate that word 'if.'"
"If I drop out ' if,' will you drop out ' almost'?"


178 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Sure."
"Good-night, then, and mind I'll keep you to
your word. I've an early start to-morrow morning.
The parson chap has arranged with Anderson, the
chief engineer, to show him over the engines and
machinery at eight o'clock, and I'm going too.
Halloa, Mr Anderson!"
A stout, dark-bearded man with a clever, resolute
face, passed them, peering into the semi-darkness as
if in search of somebody.
"Yes, I'm here and want a word with you," said
Mr Rhondel. "Good-night again, Mrs Eyre, and
don't forget your promise."
The two men walked up and down the full length
of the deck half a dozen times at least, talking
earnestly.
"It's the only way," Mr Rhondel said at last.
"And a dang good way too," retorted Sandy
Anderson, "if you're right in the rest. I'm your
man to the finish. You do your part, I'll do mine.
See you to-morrow morning at eight; meanwhile
take care of yourself."
An early party of five curious sightseers, including
Mr Rhondel and the parson, passed through a long
passage to the steerage decks, where already a number
of the early-rising Irish "boys " and " colleens " were
strolling affectionately in couples, and talking,
doubtless, of the old land.
"This way, gentlemen," said Mr Anderson, and
opened a door that led to a long iron staircase running
down to the hollow womb of the big boat.
The chief engineer welcomed them heartily to
his kingdom of steel and steam. Looking down


THE SHIP'S RUN
179
through the open ironwork of the hard-working giants
in the yawning cavern, they had only a vague,
confused vision of rushing pistons and revolving
cranks. But Mr Anderson led them down the
interminable iron steps to the very den of the
monsters.
He answered all questions with the pride and
delight of a fond father when his clever children
show off before strangers. Because his admiration
of those wonders was the most demonstrative of all,
the Rev. Abel Lankin came in for most attention.
The curate was like a child in his frank surprise
and delight at the steel miracles around him.
He pointed to one of two huge columns of polished
metal a hundred yards long that ran from the
engine-room right through the stern of the steamer.
"That's the rod of the screw," said Mr Anderson.
"Rod!" cried the Rev. Mr Lankin, in amaze-
ment, "it's more like a church pillar. What does
it do?"
"It pushes this big ship, twenty-three thousand
tons of steel without the extras, through the sea,
rough or smooth, it doesn't matter which, at the rate
of twenty miles an hour. Takes it easy, doesn't it?
Put your hand there."
Mr Lankin touched the shiny steel with timid
fingers.
"It doesn't seem to move at all," he said.
"Oh, it moves right enough, or this ship wouldn't
move. The surface is so smooth you don't feel it.
Easy on," he added laughingly, as Mr Lankin
stepped from the gangway down beside the revolving
column, "easy there, or you will burst your way


i8o THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
through. There's no more than three-quarters of an
inch of steel between your foot and the ocean."
"Am I so near the surface?"
"You are twenty feet under the surface, sir, and
that's as near as you want to go to land in that
direction I'm thinking. Come along, there are other
things worth seeing."
But Mr Lankin wouldn't budge an inch.
"What are those little holes for? " he said.
"For oil," Mr Anderson answered good-naturedly,
as humouring a child.
"And if you don't put oil in?"
"The metal would get red-hot, maybe melt, and
someone would have a wigging, you bet."
At last Mr Lankin tore himself away, and followed
with the exploring party through the great cavern
lit with electric light, and fresh and cool with clean
ocean air sent down through the ventilating shaft
that captured the Atlantic breezes a hundred feet
overhead. The fascination of the great propeller
shaft, however, still held the curate's imagination
amid all the mechanical marvels of this cave of
mystery. The white-hot furnaces, the swinging
cranks, the purring dynamos, could not capture his
attention.
He crept quietly back for a last look before he
returned with his party to the upper air. Mr
Anderson was plainly impatient at the delay.
"You should keep with the party, sir," he said
sharply, when the meek little curate showed himself
at last, "you might easily get hurt by the
machinery."
Undeterred by this sharp rebuke, and with a


THE SHIP'S RUN
181
muttered apology that he had forgotten his cigar-
case, Mr Rhondel bolted back into the hold.
The genial Mr Anderson tugged at his short beard
irritably, but he said no word. Mr Rhondel was
back again in a moment, his cigar-case ostentatiously
in his hand. He muttered a few words of apparent
apology to Mr Anderson that were inaudible to the
rest of the company.
But whatever he said failed to bring Mr Anderson
back to good-humour. The genial guide was sud-
denly transformed into the curt official.
"Kindly show these gentlemen their way back,"
he said sharply to one of his subordinates. "I've
got my work to attend to."
Without a word more he turned his back on the
party and again went swiftly down the long ladder
to his own restless dominions.
The party had scarcely got safely up to the deck
when a strange thing happened. The throbbing and
heaving of the giants in the hold, which day and
night sent an incessant tremor through the huge bulk
of the vessel, suddenly ceased. Swiftly and smoothly
at first, and then slowly and more slowly, the great
ship slid forward over the smooth sea till at last she
lay quite still:
"As idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean."
Then a wild hubbub arose amongst the passengers.
In less than a moment the captain was down
amongst them, cheerily assuring them that there was
not the slightest danger. There had been some
slight trouble with the machinery, which would be
put right in less than no time.


THE SHIP'S RUN
183
Mrs Kitty Eyre had come into the room with Miss
Phoebe Everly and two or three other ladies. But
there was no sign of the Rev. Mr Lankin, and all
knew whom the Colonel wished to keep out.
Mr Rhondel, mounted on a table, looked round at
the eager circle of listeners till his eyes rested on
Colonel M'Clure and Judge Everly, who stood close
to the table together. He startled them by his first
words.
"There has been foul play," he said—" the
machinery in the ship's hold has been tampered with.
That's how the vessel was stopped."
The smile died out of the Colonel's frank blue eyes
—the genial face set hard. As if by instinct his
right hand went down to a hip pocket that held his
weapon.
"Have a care, sir," he snapped out—" have a
care. Do you accuse any gentleman here of foul
play?"
But Mr Rhondel went on, bland, conciliatory,
unabashed.
"Certainly not, Colonel—most certainly not,
Judge. I accuse no one, I only state the facts.
After the chief engineer had shown a party of us
over the hold this morning, this was found sticking
in one of the holes for oiling the screw rod." He
held up for all to see the half of an hour-glass, full
of sand.
"How do you know it was found? " queried the
Judge.
"Well, I, myself, found it. I went back for my
cigar-case and found it. Only just in time—a
minute more and the machinery would have been


X&l THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
white-hot, and would have melted with the tre-
mendous friction, and the vessel stopped for the day.
As it was, there was an hour's delay to clean and
oil."
"Well," said the Colonel, briskly, "assuming
all this rigmarole is true—what have we got to say
to it?"
"What about the stakes I hold?" queried Mr
Rhondel, " are the bets off? I wanted to make sure
before the day's run is announced."
"Not likely," roared the Colonel. "I'm too old
a campaigner to be diddled in that style. If 'low
field ' wins, I take the pool."
"Hear, hear! " cried two or three of the men who
had got low figures and fancied their own chance.
Then Judge Everly spoke out sharply.
"The gamble was unconditional," he said, " every
man is entitled to his chance. I have no interest in
the thing one way or the other."
"I say so too," chimed in Bob Eyre, "a bet is a
bet, and I'm not the one to squeal if the luck goes
against me."
That settled it. There was a general murmur of
assent.
"Then the figure of the day's run takes the pool,"
said Mr Rhondel. "I've no objection to that; I
only want to know are you all agreed?"
"All! " they cried with one voice.
He looked at his watch, still standing on the
table.
"In five minutes the captain will be here to tell us
the day's run."
The five minutes seemed five hours, so intense was



• • The smile died out of the Colonel's frank blue eyes. . . . As if by instinct
his right hand went down to a hip pocket that held his weapon."
r0 yact past 184.


THE SHIP'S RUN
185
the excitement. A low buzz of talk was in the air,
like the eager whispering of a swarm of bees. It
ceased in dead silence when the captain's handsome
face showed at the door.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he cried in a pleasant
voice that filled the silent room, " I've good news for
you. In spite of the little trouble this morning
we've made the record of the voyage. The run is
521 miles. I will have the figure marked on the
chart."
The door had closed on him before the amazement
in the room had found its voice. The impossible had
happened—the "high field " had won!
"Three cheers for Bob Eyre," someone cried
suddenly, and the cheers were given with a will that
showed how popular was the winner.
"Ladies and gentlemen," cried Mr Rhondel again,
and there was a new and dominant note in his voice
that instantly captured attention. "You would
like to know the answer to this riddle—perhaps I
can help you to guess it. Don't go, Colonel, don't go,
Judge, my remarks are particularly intended for you.
Have you ever heard of a Mr Beck ?—Paul Beck at
your service." He plucked off his brown beard as he
spoke and whisked away a pair of bushy eyebrows,
and his face seemed to change its expression, almost
its features. Mr Rhondel disappeared—Mr Beck
arrived. »
"Ha! I thought so," he exclaimed—for the two
men stared at him open-mouthed. "I have met the
Judge and the Colonel before, and it's pleasant to
be remembered by old friends. Well, the Blue Star
Company were kind enough to think I would be


186 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
useful on board. There had been too much pro-
fessional gambling on their ships of late.
"Somehow, when I saw you so keen on the 'low
field,' I thought it possible that something might
happen to the machinery this morning—coincidences
are always occurring. That's why I made you pay
for your fancy. My good friend Anderson ran the
ship at extra speed all night, in case by any chance
there might be an accident in the morning. It was
Mr Lankin who left this pretty little toy behind him
by accident in the engine-room. Lucky, wasn't it,
that I found it before it had done much harm. You
don't know Mr Lankin, of course, Colonel; nor you,
Judge? He just played this monkey trick off his
own bat for the fun of the thing. Never had a
thought about the 'low field ' when he did it. No
one would suggest such a thing as collusion. But we
needn't go into that, need we? As Judge Everly
said just now, it was an unconditional gamble. The
stakes go by the figure, and the ' high field' scoops
the pool."
There followed a shout of applause and laughter,
for Mr Beck's exposure was complete. The Colonel
and the Judge cut very sorry figures, as, self-con-
fessed swindlers, they sneaked out of the room. All
were delighted at the neat way in which the tricksters
had been caught in their own trap.
"There only remains," went on Mr Beck, suavely,
"to pay over the cash to Mr Eyre—or rather, if he
will allow me, to his wife, who has kindly promised
me a receipt in full."
Kitty, who had listened delightedly to the rogues'
discomfiture, started at the sound of her own name,


VIII
DRIVEN HOME
"It was his luck," so Mr Beck always said. "The
whole thing might have happened to any man."
But no person who had heard the story quite agreed
with him.
It was luck, of course, that he found the silver
spoon in the hansom cab. Prying about keenly, as
was his wont, he saw the thin white edge shining
behind one of the cushions and fished out a curious-
looking teaspoon and put it in his pocket.
He had a good look at the number of the hansom
and the driver when he got out. The hansom was
one of the neatest in London, with a sweet little
twelve-mile-an-hour mare between the shafts. The
driver was a stoutly-built, jaunty fellow, with mottled
face and big red nose. He was smartly dressed,
with a nosegay in his button-hole and cigar between
his teeth.
Mr Beck dismissed his cab and walked to Mr Ophir,
the famous jeweller and silversmith, whose name
was on the spoon.
He was received by Mr Ophir himself—a mark of
special distinction—in the little glass pavilion in the
centre of the glittering warehouse.
Yes, Mr Ophir knew the spoon very well. It was
189


igo THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
one of a set made by his house in imitation of the'old
apostle pattern. Very creditable imitation; he
should say it would need a skilled eye to tell the
difference.
"Who got them? " asked Mr Beck, going straight
to the point.
"Who got them! Let me see; just one moment.
It is in the books, of course, but I ought to be able—"
He tapped his forehead, that was smooth and round
and polished as an ostrich egg. "Oh, yes, of course,
they were part of a tea-set made as a wedding present
for the Merediths. Now I remember, they were
stolen about a month ago."
"The suburban burglaries," interrupted Mr Beck,
and he slapped his big thigh excitedly with his broad
palm—an unusual lapse on the part of the most stolid
of men.
But his excitement was surely pardonable.
The London police had for the last few months
been startled, amazed, bewildered by a rapid series
of brilliant burglaries, all within a fifteen to twenty-
mile radius of London.
"The cribs had been cracked" in the highest
style of art, and the artists with their rich booty
had vanished into space, leaving as little trail as a fish
through the water. They were gentlemen who did
not stick at trifles. Three times, it would appear,
they had been interrupted at their work, and three
people had been left for dead behind them, and one—
a woman—had died.
No wonder then that Mr Beck was excited for a
moment at the hope that his " luck " had put him on
the track of the suburban burglaries at last. But


DRIVEN HOME
191
his excitement was quenched instantly like a spark
fallen in water. It was the good-humoured, easy-
going, imperturbable Mr Beck who walked home to
his cosy lodgings to puzzle his plan out.
He plunged into a great easy-chair, with a pipe
stem between his teeth and the spoon before him on
the table, as a saint sets a skull to concentrate his
meditations. It would be worse than useless, he
determined, to arrest or even question the driver.
If he knew anything he wouldn't tell it, and plainly
he could not be responsible for a silver spoon dropped
behind the cushion of his hansom.
If the man were guilty—and Mr Beck fondly hoped
he was guilty—a hint of suspicion would ruin all.
So Mr Beck sat and smoked and thought, and as
the smoke grew denser his thoughts cleared.
"If I could only get quietly inside that fellow's
skin," he thought, and with the thought came his
plan of campaign. Then he put by the little silver
spoon and smoked his pipe out in vacuous enjoy-
ment.
The result of his meditations was that Mr Beck—
this time a simple-looking farmer up for the cattle
show—had a drive in the same hansom next day
and found the cab neater and the mare faster than
he imagined.
He got in talk with the driver, whose name he
discovered was Jim Blunt. The Cockney cabby
made game of the simple-minded yokel. They had
several drinks together, and Mr Beck noted that the
spirited little mare was trained to stand quietly as a
lamb when the driver was away.
Next day Mr Beck was a portly clergyman on a


192 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
shopping expedition. He took Mr Blunt's hansom
here, there and everywhere, and acquired a multitude
of parcels. A most genial and cheerful clergyman
was Mr Beck and most affable with his driver,
with whom he talked a good deal and whom he
talked into the best of good humour. That was at
first.
Towards evening the zealous clergyman broached
the Temperance question with a distinct personal
application, and Mr Blunt got sullen. In parting,
the Rev. Mr Beck presented his driver with his exact
legal fare, and Mr Blunt was furious. He spoke his
views fully and freely, and the other looked and
listened, sorting up every trick of face and voice in
his retentive memory. Then when a policeman
loomed in sight at last the meek Mr Beck turned away
with a Christian benediction and meditatively
mounted the steps of his lodgings. He had seen and
heard enough of his model.
For two days after this Mr Beck was a shop
messenger in uniform, with a light tricycle parcel
cart, quite empty; and wherever Mr Blunt drove his
hansom the tricycle cart unobtrusively followed,
faithful as the little lamb to Mary in the nursery
rhyme.
In this way the patient Mr Beck found out many
things. He found that Mr Blunt was not keen on
fares and was keen on sport and drink. He spent his
leisure moments—often all day—in the sanctum of a
certain sporting public-house in the East End called
the "Ram's Horn." There he met a convivial
commercial traveller named Fulhamand a bookmaker
named Grime*, and the three drank and played cards,


DRIVEN HOME
193
while a tricycle cart with a heavy, stupid-looking
rider went past the door occasionally.
There was another change; a startling one this
time.
Mr Paul Beck became Mr James Blunt. In
clothes and figure and face and voice, in all his
tricks and ways, the counterfeit was perfect. Mr
Blunt's wife or mother could not have found a
difference.
The translated Mr Beck took to dropping into the
"Ram's Horn" on his own account at odd times
when he had reason to believe Mr Blunt was elsewhere
with a fare. He was made free of the sanctum, and
the unsophisticated commercial traveller Fulham
and the genial bookmaker Grimes received him as
"Jim " with rough but unsuspecting cordiality.
They were both big, strong men, active and sleek,
who spent money freely. They were full of sly,
chuckling jokes about "business" when the three
were drinking together. A very little time was
needed to convince Mr Beck by a hundred trivial
hints that he was on the straight track of the suburban
burglars. A dozen times in an hour he seemed on
the point of surprising some definite proof. But
lead the talk as cunningly as he might he could get
no further. For the others assumed he knew as
much as themselves, and he dared not appear too
curious.
It was a dangerous game. An indiscreet question
might arouse suspicion, and suspicion meant death.
Besides, it was a ticklish thing playing Box and Cox
with the real Mr Blunt, who had a knack of throwing
up his engagements and turning up at unexpected
N


194 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
times. Twice Mr Beck had barely time to slip away
quietly before his double appeared
It was in truth a difficult and dangerous game,
but lie played it out coolly and warily to the close.
Instinctively he felt that things were growing
rapidly to a climax. A new burglary was on foot; so
much he could gather from stray hints. Unfortun-
ately the coup had been planned with the real Jim
Blunt, and so the knowledge of the false Jim Blunt
was taken for granted. He only learnt that a crib
was to be cracked some distance outside London, and
that the three were to take part in the cracking.
Even the night he could not make quite sure of.
He determined on a final effort at any cost to get
hold of the secret.
An appointment was made with the real Mr Blunt
to call for an old lady at the theatre. At eleven
precisely the mock Mr Blunt strolled into the inner
parlour of the " Ram's Horn " with his driving whip
under his arm, as though he had just stepped down
from the driver's seat of his hansom. He had a ball
of whipcord in his hand and was platting a new
cracker for his whip thong, as was the habit of the
real Mr Blunt.
Both his friends were there smoking cigars and
drinking champagne out of pewter.
"Hello! Jim," cried Fulham, "up to time and
before it. Want that for to-night? "—pointing to
the whipcord. "Susie must put her best leg fore-
most." "Susie " was the sweet little mare.
"Have a touch of the whipcord yourself," he
added, pushing towards him a bright tankard
crowned with foam, " that will put spunk in you."


DRIVEN HOME
199
noose over the curl of the back rail. He had shot
his bolt; he could not have kept up the terrible
strain for ten yards more. He let the cord slip till
it came tight with a jerk that almost whipped the
bicycle from under him. But he steadied himself
in a moment, and then, with a fresh wind blowing
cool against his burning face, he felt his bicycle glide
smoothly and swiftly uphill of its own accord in the
wake of the flying hansom.
He straightened his chest and drew deep breaths
of the cool air into his labouring lungs, and still the
bicycle flew smoothly, easily, and almost as swiftly as
a bird.
So they sped on, mile after mile, uphill for the most
part, with now and again a sudden dip in the road
that slackened the tense cord and brought Mr Beck's
hands to the brakes for a time.
An hour and a quarter had passed—Mr Beck
could guess the time better than most modern
watches—when the hansom drew up suddenly on
the crest of a long hill, and the fast-following bicycle
almost ran into it.
Mr Beck, who had been expecting a halt,'saved
and steadied himself with a firm grip on the back
rail of the hansom, and waited and listened.
He heard the trap-door open and Fulham's voice
say: "Take it easy now, Jim; the house is on the
slope of the hill not a quarter of a mile off. We must
get round by the back way, and leave the horse and
trap in the lane. The middle window at the back is
open ready for us."
Mr Beck waited to hear no more. He undid the
cord from the rail, gathered it up in a loose fistful and


DRIVEN HOME
203
His elbow struck a porcelain ring stand and it
went down with a clatter of metal and broken china
on the carpet. The gems were scattered and rolled
and lay twinkling like coloured fireflies in the lantern's
rays. Blunt stooped to gather them in the half
darkness. He was still on his knees when suddenly
the whole room flashed out in the brilliant glow of a
dozen electric lights.
Turning round sharply he saw a lady fronting him
not five yards away.
She was graceful and beautiful as a statue in her
long white night robe, fastened with a knot of blue
ribbons at the throat. Her naked feet peeped from
under the lace trimming pure white on the rich
carpet. Down to her waist her hair fell in a tangle of
ripples and curJs. Her face was white even to the
lips, but her blue eyes shone big and bright, and she
held in her right hand a revolver grasped tight by
the barrel, the muzzle pointing at herself and the
butt at the burglar.
Jim Blunt was not in the least affected by this
vision of pale beauty. To him she was merely an
unwelcome interruption of business.
"Drop it! " he growled, referring to the inverted
revolver.
She dropped it obediently and it exploded as it
fell and a shrill shriek followed the report. The room
was full of the stinging smoke of gunpowder
Jim Blunt cursed volubly.
"Shut your blooming mouth! " he cried; "quit
squealing or III put a bullet in you!"
A second shrill shriek answered and the lady
opened her lovely lips wide for a third.


204 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Blunt whipped out his revolver and pointed it,
right side forward, straight at her breast.
The scream was frozen on the lady's lips by sheer
amazement, when straight behind the ruffian she
saw his own counterfeit suddenly appear moving
swiftly and silently as a shadow.
The revolver in Jim's hand went up with a sudden
jerk, boring a round black hole in the white ceiling.
A strong arm gripped his bull neck from behind and
brought him choking and sprawling on his back on
the carpet. The next moment he lay with handcuffs
on his wrists and a gag between his teeth, prone and
helpless.
Again the lady screamed shrilly.
"Not any more please, Mrs Meredith," said a
familiar voice persuasively.
"Mr Beck! " she gasped out in utter amazement.
"Take it coolly, my dear lady, the surprise is
nearly as great on my part, I assure you, at this
pleasant meeting. I will explain everything later
on. Just now I have a lot to do that won't wait.
I am afraid I must leave this brute here with you.
Don't look so frightened! he's quite harmless. I'll
tie his feet and kick him into the bathroom."
He drew the serviceable ball of whipcord from his
pocket and strained it tight, coil after coil, round
Blunt's legs and arms till he lay parcelled up stiff
and helpless as a log.
"You can make the maids roll him downstairs
into the cellar if you like later on," said Mr Beck—
"no! not the butler, I have taken the liberty of
turning the key on the butler. You had best leave
him where he is till I come back for him."


206 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Listen! " said Grimes, " there is someone kicking.
You haven't made a clean job of it, Jim, she wants
another dose of lead; I'll quiet her."
He turned to go up the stairs but Mr Beck's strong
hand dragged him back. He knew whose hob-nailed
boots were kicking the bathroom floor. "Let be,
I tell you; it's her last kick; she's got a brace of
bullets in her skull. I can do my work without your
helping."
He pushed Grimes roughly down the stairs before
him, Fulham following. So through the window
they passed and down the lane-way where the
hansom stood and the mare ready waiting with ears
cocked.
Grimes and Fulham got to their places and Mr
Beck climbed to the driver's seat with the big
portmanteau tied in front of him.
He closed the wooden apron across their knees
and let the plate-glass shutter down half way to
meet it.
The gallant little mare started as fresh as ever and
they bowled swiftly on noiseless, rubber-tyred wheels
back to town.
Grimes and Fulham had carried a couple of bottles
of champagne with them and the noise of the popping
corks was heard presently in the interior of the
hansom. After a brief interval a bottle's neck was
protruded through the trap door at the top.
"I'm not taking any," said the driver, "I have
the mare to look after—and you."
"Good old Jim! " said Grimes, effusively, elated
at the prospect of more drink to share, "we can
trust Jim to see us through. He knows where we


DRIVEN HOME
207
are bound for, better nor ourselves "—which was
truer than the speaker thought.
The two bottles were duly emptied and the two
inside passengers were pleasantly drowsy though
not in the least drunk. They leant back at either
side on the comfortable cushions while the hansom
sped on its smooth, noiseless way to London.
Now they are sweeping through the silent town
in the grey light of the early dawn. The streets
seemed a little unfamiliar to their sleepy, half-opened
eyes. But they had the most perfect confidence in
Jim.
Their confidence was rudely shattered. The
hansom took a sharp turn and drew up with a
scramble at the entrance to Scotland Yard. The
plate-glass shutter was let slip down on the wooden
apron and Mr Beck leapt from his seat to the pave-
ment.
"Hurry up! Hurry up! " he shouted, as four or five
men came rushing out, while the two figures trapped
in the hansom struggled madly like wild beasts in
a cage. "Here are two of the suburban burglars,
with their luggage, come to stay. Kindly help the
two gentlemen out and make them comfortable while
I go back for the third, who has arranged to wait for





IX
'TWIXT THE DEVIL AND THE
DEEP SEA
"What did you say? " asked Mr Beck, a little sur-
prised, and half suspecting a joke.
"I want you to go to Hong-Kong."
There was no hint of merriment in the speaker's
strong face or steady voice. Indeed, Mr Livingston
was not a man at all given to jesting. High up in the
service of Lloyds' great shipping insurance agency,
he was reputed one of the shrewdest and gravest
business men in the City. Mr Beck had met him in
his inner sanctum by appointment this morning, and
the result was this startling suggestion.
"To go to Hong-Kong?"
"Just so; starting in three days' time. Can
you?"
"Of course I can. The real question is, will I?
What is it for?"
"Well, it's this way. You know Joshua
Marable?"
"Well; big shipowner and strike breaker."
"Those are the very words I wanted. You re-
member, of course, how he broke up the dockyard
strike, imported coolies and all that. Well, the
workmen never forgave him. There were threats
o 209


2io THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
of dynamite at the time, and it seems they
were meant. Last year there was an infernal
machine found in the cellar of his house in Park
Lane. It missed fire somehow, as these things do.
But there was enough dynamite in it to blow up a
row of houses, and the scoundrel who put it there
was never caught. .
"You were not on that job," he added, after a
second's pause, and Mr Beck smiled genially at the
implied compliment. "Unluckily," the other went
on, "it did not end there. Marable, as perhaps
you know, does the very cream of the Chinese trade
—leaves the skimmed milk to the others. He
carries only picked tea crops—the delicate tips you
know, worth anything from five to ten shillings
a pound, rich silks, and fine porcelain — regular
shiploads of gold. He insures with us, and last
year two of his vessels were lost. You follow
me?"
Mr Beck nodded gravely.
"It was the biggest loss we have had for fifty
years. Of the first of the vessels nothing was ever
heard. It must have gone down with all hands on
board. But from the other, one man, a doctor
named Dalton, escaped by a miracle. He was
a strong swimmer, and was in the sea for nine hours,
clinging to a spar, before he was picked up. He told
of a terrible explosion in mid-ocean that tossed him
into the water like a cork. He is a shrewd fellow,
mind you, and he does not think it was steam. There
was no gunpowder on board, so—"
"You suspect dynamite?"
"You've hit it. We think a clockwork infernal


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 211
machine may have been put on board before they
started. They can wind them, I believe, to go for a
month; or perhaps the devil who did the job may
have stepped off at some port they touched at and
left the little keepsake behind him.
"Now, Marable is not a man to be put down. He's
plucky, and straight as they make them, though
perhaps a bit too hard when his blood is up. He
has made up his mind to go the next trip himself in
his own boat, The Queen—the newest and best of
his fleet—which clears for Shanghai the day after
to-morrow.
"He was here with me yesterday about the in-
surance. His impression is that his going himself
may make things all square.
"I take a different view. I don't doubt he will
keep a sharp eye out for his boat's sake and his own.
But it seems pretty plain that this devilish plot is
aimed at him, and the devils will be keen on the
chance to send him and his boat to the bottom
together. I want a better pair of eyes than his to
watch. There are no man's eyes I would sooner trust
than yours if you can go. Don't answer me for a
moment," the agent went on hastily, as if he feared a
refusal. "The Queen is a passenger as well as a
cargo boat, and is as comfortable as the best. I have
reserved two berths for you, and an assistant if you
want one. It's a big thing, Mr Beck; I know that.
I don't talk now of the fee, though naturally that
would be a big thing, too. But you may save a ship-
load of people from a horrible death. Of course,
there's the same risk for yourself; but—"
"I'll go," interrupted Mr Beck, quietly.


212 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"I thought so," responded the other, with a
shrewd smile'; he knew it was the last few words that
had caught his man. "Now, as to the fee—would a
thousand pounds—"
"It's a gamble with death," said Mr Beck, gravely,
"let us make it a complete gamble; nothing if I
fail, two thousand if The Queen comes back safe to
London; three if I catch the dynamitard."
"Done! " said Mr Livingston.
"Is the owner to know I'm going?"
"That rests with you. We leave the matter
wholly in your hands. He knows nothing so far.
Tell him or not, as you choose. Will you take an
assistant?"
"Perhaps; I'll take the two berths anyway, if you
don't mind. Well, I'm off. I've some things to see
to before I start."
"Good-bye and good luck. I'll have much
pleasure in drawing you a cheque for three thou-
sand."
Two hours before The Queen started, Mr Beck
stepped on board, carrying a big kit-bag, which
constituted his entire equipment for China and
back if Fate should see good to let him come
back.
An hour later Mr Marable arrived, and Mr Beck,
from a quiet corner, watched him come on board.
He was a big, square man, with a big, round face,
whose appearance claimed instant liking and respect.
The large head was liberally thatched with a thick
crop of wavy, light-brown hair, in which only a rare
streak of silver snowed. His blue eyes shone genially
under thick eyebrows. His face was full of good-


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 213
humoured benevolence. Only the firm lips and the
obtrusive chin hinted the fighting qualities of the
man who had broken one of the fiercest strikes that
London had ever known.
As was perhaps natural, he had much luggage,
with which a couple of porters struggled, while
he came on board carrying a large black bag. Mr
Beck, who noted everything, noticed that the
weight of this bag seemed to strain his strong right
arm.
Captain Manley—a handsome, well-set-up young
fellow—greeted the owner as he stepped on deck,
and Mr Beck heard him say as they shook hands:
"Miss Wilson has come, sir. I gave her the best
berth."
"That's all right, my boy," replied Mr Marable,
genially, and, following the porters, he went
below with his luggage, still carrying the large black
bag.
Sharp at the appointed hour the bell rang, and the
vessel crept slowly out of her berth, feeling her way
through the throng of shipping in the dock, and
gathering speed as she went. It was dead calm, and
when the harbour was cleared, and The Queen was
cutting the water cleanly on an even keel, the
passengers in the splendid saloon felt no hint of the
swift motion that carried them eastwards.
All on board were seasoned sea-goers—all except
one, and all but one settled down speedily and easily
to the pleasant, lazy life on shipboard. The excep-
tion was Miss Haid6e Wilson—a slim, pale, pretty
girl, whom the doctors had sent on a long sea voyage
for health's sake, and whose millionaire father, busy


214 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
about many things, had reluctantly intrusted her
to the guardianship of his old friend Mr Marable.
She sat at the right hand of the captain at dinner
in the sumptuous dining-saloon, resplendent with
rare woodwork, with sea pictures let into the panels,
but she hardly tasted the dainties abundantly pro-
vided. A sweet-faced girl was Miss Wilson, with a
certain gentle languor of movement that added to
her charm. Mr Marable sat at the captain's left
hand, and Mr Beck some places down at the same
table. The meal was invariably luxurious, worthy
of the best hotel on shore; the fowl and the fish as
fresh as if they had just come from the farmyard or
the river.
They might have been on land again, for any
suggestion of motion in that spacious saloon. The
illusion of perfect rest was complete, save now and
again as the great vessel, swinging ever so slowly to
the smooth swell, gave a glimpse through a sinking
port-hole of the blue sea and the white or red-sailed
vessels that went racing past with the speed of their
own swift motion.
Before they were three days out, something hap-
pened to send a current of excitement through the
stagnation of quiet, every-day life on shipboard. Of
the thirty passengers, one was missed. In the bustle
of departure his absence had not been noticed. But
when his place for three days stood vacant at the
table, inquiries were made, and it was found that
his luggage was in his berth, but no one had seen
the man himself come aboard.
The incident stimulated a certain vague disquiet
that was already abroad amongst the passengers, for


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 215
rumours of Mr Marable's misfortunes had gone
about.
"Why," they whispered amongst themselves,
"had this man funked the voyage at the last moment,
after his luggage had come aboard? " and could find
no satisfactory answer.
At a hint from Mr Beck, dropped casually in the
captain's ear, the luggage was carefully examined, but
nothing in the least dangerous or suspicious was found.
From the moment he had stepped on board Mr
Beck's eyes and ears had been on the alert. He had
nothing to go upon. It was his method to look out
for his facts first, and work them into a theory after-
wards, as a child fits the bits of a puzzle map into their
places.
As he himself was fond of saying, he worked by rule
of thumb. He searched all places, likely and unlikely.
If he did not find what he expected, he lost no time in
searching for it elsewhere. Experience had taught
him to regard nothing as impossible, nothing as incred-
ible. From the first he was inclined to suspect the
owner, who pocketed the insurance money, and his
curiosity was excited by the big, black dressing-bag
which Mr Marable had carried so carefully aboard in
his own hand.
After lunch one day, while Mr Marable, with a
fragrant cigar between his lips and Miss Wilson on
his arm, was pacing the long promenade deck, to
which the rare combination of cool breeze and
bright sunshine had tempted the passengers, Mr
Beck stepped quietly into the owner's state-room
with a skeleton key, which was an " open sesame " to
most locks.


216 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
The black bag, which had tempted his curiosity,
lay in a comer, and he began operations at once.
The bag, as he expected, was very heavy for its size,
but the lock was not by any means as facile as he
anticipated. This increased Mr Beck's suspicions.
Why so good and so rare a lock on a mere leather
bag, which could be easily cut to pieces? But could
it be cut to pieces?
He took a sharp-pointed borer from his tool-bag,
and ran it into the bottom of the bag. The point
grazed on a thin lining of fine steel. Mr Beck was
more determined than ever to see the inside of the
bag. A quarter of an hour, he thought, at the most,
would do it, and he set to work fitting and filing his
skeleton key.
The work was almost done, when he heard a quick,
heavy step—a step that he knew was Mr Marable's—
in the passage.
Mr Beck's nerves were of steel, but he may be
pardoned if the sharp tool he was using at the
moment slipped, and scratched the silver plating of
the lock slightly, and scored his thumb deeply. He
was almost caught in the act. The next moment
he laid the bag softly in its place, and skipped into
the berth behind the drawn curtains. Not a second
too soon. Mr Marable came briskly into the state-
room.
The curtains were still shaking, and, let it be con-
fessed, Mr Beck was shaking too. The situation
was delicate and trying. If he were caught he might
perhaps clear himself of the charge of burglary, but
only by revealing his real character of detective.
But the alternative was not pleasant. To explain


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 217
his presence he must confess that he suspected the
owner of a design to blow up his own vessel and all on
board. Mr Beck had had many close squeaks in
his adventurous life, but he never felt himself in a
tighter place than when he crouched breathless
behind those curtains.
Mr Marable came hastily and breathlessly into the
room, and glanced sharply around. Fortunately
the shaking curtains were out of range of that first
look. He picked the black bag from the floor, drew
the keys from his pocket, and for a moment it seemed
as if he would unlock it. But he changed his mind,
and put it down unopened. Then he walked to the
dressing-table, and touched his hair lightly with a
silver-backed brush and twisted the ends of his
moustache.
Amusement struggled with Mr Beck's fright as
he watched. Mr Marable was the last man on
earth that one would have suspected of personal
vanity.
Finally, he saw him take a fine cambric hand-
kerchief from a drawer in the wardrobe, sprinkle on
it a few drops of perfume, crush it into the pocket of
his lounge coat, and turn for the door.
Mr Beck's courage rose at his departure. It was
an accidental interruption after all; the man
suspected nothing. Then, while Mr Beck was chuck-
ling at his escape, Mr Marable paused just at the door,
turned, and stepped back straight across the cabin
to the berth. His hand was on the curtain, and Mr
Beck's heart was in his mouth, when Mr Marable
changed his mind again, dropped the curtain, which
he had raised a little, and went out without looking


218 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
back or closing the door behind him. As the sound
of his footsteps died away down the passage, Mr Beck
made a dash like a ferreted rabbit for his own
cabin.
Still his suspicions were not wholly appeased.
He felt he must get another look at the black bag,
so the next morning, when he found Mr Marable
lolling with a book and a cigar on deck, he tried a new
lead.
"Might I disturb you for a moment?"
Mr Marable looked up lazily, but with a smile
that invited disturbance.
"I think I saw you reading The Royal Magazine
yesterday," said Mr Beck, smoothly. "If you have
quite finished with it there is an article I should like
very much to see—"
"Certainly," interrupted Mr Marable, courteously.
"It's in my cabin; I'll fetch it."
"Oh, don't trouble," said Mr Beck, " if I might be
allowed?"
"You are very good," yielded Mr Marable, lazily,
"you'll find the magazine on the table, or in one
of the drawers. Seven is the number of the
cabin."
The black bag was on the table when Mr Beck got
to the cabin. He pounced on it swiftly and silently
as a panther on its prey. He had his skeleton key
in his hand ready, but it was not needed. The bag
was unlocked this time, and opened at a touch, and
the detective found he was all wrong. It was a
perfectly innocent bag that lay open before him—
a dressing-case and a dispatch-box combined.
There were heavy gold toilet fittings, and documents


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 219
which Mr Beck could see at a glance were of immense
importance. The steel lining was covered on the
inside with dark blue silk. Mr Beck examined the
bag thoroughly, and then put it down with a little
sigh, in which surprise and relief were curiously
blended.
"Found what you wanted? " asked Mr Marable,
as he passed him on the deck.
"Yes," Mr Beck answered courteously, "I found
exactly what I wanted."
Yet he did not read his magazine when he got to
his seat, but sat thinking, with his fingers between
the pages. It was always his way when one door
was closed in his face to look hard for another
opening.
As a result of his thinking he spoke to Mr Marable
as they came together on deck after dinner for the
inevitable smoke.
"Could I have a word or two with you, sir, on
private and important business?"
"Certainly, old chap. Fire away!"
"It is too important and too private to be talked
of here."
Mr Marable looked at the grave face, and grew
grave in sympathy.
"Come down to my state-room," he said and led
the way.
"To begin with," said Mr Beck, when the door of
the state-room had been closed and locked behind
them, "let me introduce myself. I am a detective.
I have been employed by Lloyds' people to look after
this dynamite business on your vessels. My name
is Beck—you may have heard of me."


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 221
just man, and I have no right to be angry. You did
not know me personally; it was your duty, as you
say, to investigate everything, to suspect everyone.
I am glad you told me. It was plucky and straight-
forward of you. Let bygones be bygones. Of course
I will help you all I can in your quest."
The very next morning there was more matter for
investigation. A ghost had been seen in one of the
corridors about midnight by Miss Wilson as she went
to fetch a book from the saloon. It moaned and she
fainted. That was all she knew. But the story
was supplemented by the steward, who reported that
a bottle of champagne and a chicken had been stolen
from the pantry.
The captain held a council of war in his own room,
a council consisting of the owner, Miss Wilson and the
steward. At Mr Marable's suggestion Mr Beck was
specially invited to the consultation.
The lady and the steward told their story.
Miss Wilson was very pale and wonderfully pretty.
She had not yet recovered from her fright. "I'm
ashamed of myself," she said; "but I am so afraid of
ghosts. If I had thought it was a man I would have
grabbed him."
"Anyone would have been frightened," murmured
the captain, sympathetically, but he did not him-
self look like a man whom it would be easy to
frighten.
"Don't fret, my dear young lady," broke in Mr
Marable, briskly. "The fellow cannot escape us
unless he is able to swim a thousand miles or so to the
nearest land.
"He is on board for no good, that's certain." he


222 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
added as an afterthought. "Likely as not he is at
the bottom of this horrible dynamite business.
What do you say, Mr Beck—do you begin to see
light?"
"I shouldn't be surprised if he had something to
do with it," said Mr Beck, judiciously; "he may help
us to the truth, but you've first got to catch your
hare, as the cookery books remark."
"How do you mean to catch him? " cried Miss
Wilson, with the liveliest interest.
"That ought to be a simple job enough, my dear
young lady. We'll set a little trap for him, and bait
it with a bottle of champagne. Have you by any
chance such a thing as a reel of fine black thread,
silk preferred?"
"Certainly; in my cabin."
"Will you be good enough to fetch it?"
"First tell me your plan, please. I cannot
understand how the black thread can catch
him."
She pleaded so prettily that Mr Beck smiled and
yielded. He was human, and never could resist a
pretty girl's pleading. "It is simplicity itself," he
said. "I will have a bottle of champagne left where
our midnight marauder will be likely to find it, with
one end of your black thread tied to the neck of the
bottle. The reel will run out as he goes. He cannot
see it, of course, in the dark. He will carry the bottle
to his hiding-place. Then, even if he breaks the
thread off it doesn't matter. The next morning—"
"Oh, I see, I see," she cried delightedly; "how
simple and clever! I'll fetch the thread at once;
I love to be in a game of this kind."


224 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
play, whatever he is. I will see what he has to say
for himself in my cabin. You will come, Mr Marable,
and you, Mr Beck?"
"May I come too, captain?" whispered Miss
Wilson.
"Certainly," replied the captain; "you are one
of our committee of public safety."
The stowaway had got rid of a good deal of his
fright by the time they had all come to the captain's
cabin. Now he stood upon his privileges; he even
posed as an injured person.
"My passage is paid for," he blustered. "I have
a right to be on board." To their amazement he
produced the order for his berth and his card—
Ernest Archer.
"Then why the—" the captain began angrily, but
he caught Miss Wilson's eye and broke off eonfused.
Miss Wilson's presence saved Mr Archer some
particularly strong language.
"The captain wants to know," chipped in Mr Beck,
politely, "why you didn't go to your cabin like an
ordinary Christian, instead of roosting in that
boat?"
"Oh, that, sir," retorted Mr Archer, "is capable
of very easy, and so far as I am concerned, very
creditable explanation. I had heard of the dynamite
outrages on board Mr Marable's vessels. I have, I
may say without boasting, a curious gift for amateur
detective work, which has heretofore been practised
only in my own domestic concerns. In this voyage
I had hoped to combine duty with pleasure. From
my station of secret observation overlooking the
vessel—"


226 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
passengers;" and he glanced shyly at the lady
passenger. "Of course, we will keep close watch
that the fellow does not leave the vessel. We can
trust our good friend, Mr Beck, for that."
"But," protested the young lady, " I don't believe
he is a dynamitard. I'm sure he isn't."
"I rather think he is, myself," remarked Mr
Marable, placidly; "that's why I propose to let him
loose. He won't willingly blow himself up, and he
cannot blow up the ship without blowing up himself.
But he may have set an infernal machine somewhere,
believing he could escape. If so, we must give him
a chance to unset it. Perhaps we may even catch
him and his playthings together if we look sharp."
Mr Beck sat silent, listening patiently, and
glancing from one speaker to another. All of them
now turned instinctively to him, willing to accept
his verdict.
"If I may express an opinion," he said modestly,
under compulsion of their looks, "I entirely agree
with Mr Marable. Our best chance of catching the
criminal—if there be a criminal on board to catch—
is to let this man go free."
"I'm sure he is innocent," persisted Miss Wilson.
"I'm beginning to think so myself," chimed in
the captain, shamelessly.
"Anyhow we must all say so," enjoined Mr Beck,
persuasively; "there must be no hint of suspicion.
Mr Archer must enter the saloon without a stain on
his character. The captain will inform the passengers
that his game of hide-and-seek was a harmless
frolic."
The passengers accepted the captain's statement


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 227
without demur. Mr Archer was freely received and
turned out a much pleasanter person than was
expected. He was a wonderful card juggler, sang
a good comic song, and knew how to make himself
generally agreeable.
The captain alone did not warm to the newcomer.
But Miss Wilson was particularly gracious. Mr
Archer was an adept at deck games, and she played
with him constantly. A charming picture she made,
her hair tossed loose by the wind as she poised and
darted the wooden shovel, and sent the wooden disc
gliding along the slippery deck. But the captain did not
love Mr Archer a bit better for his part in the picture.
Watching from the isolated grandeur of the bridge
he was more and more convinced that Archer was
a deep-dyed criminal. So much attention did he
give to their sport and so little to his duties that it
is a marvel he did not run the vessel on the nearest
desert island.
Mr Beck, too, watched the newcomer closely.
He had speedily wormed himself into Archer's
confidence and friendship. They had long confi-
dential talks together, or played chess—a game to
which they were both addicted—until the small
hours of the morning.
Mr Marable more than once congratulated Mr Beck
on his adroitness, and Mr Beck modestly replied:
"Congratulate me, sir, when I have caught my man,
not before."
Meanwhile the swift vessel sped on her allotted
course over the wide curve of the blue Pacific,
through calm waters under peaceful skies, carrying
her load of human life and mystery and crime.


230 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
cargo, and more than once was found in the hold,
to Mr Marable's manifest annoyance.
The work went briskly forward. The vast piles of
cargo vanished in smooth sequence into the hold.
Order grew again out of confusion. New passengers
were shipped until the total of thirty was complete.
Many were refused and returned to shore discon-
solate, for The Queen was the most popular boat that
sailed in these waters, and Captain Manley the most
popular captain.
It was a fine, sunshiny morning, hot and still.
Not a breeze stirred the air, not a ripple moved on the
glassy waters when The Queen, amid cheers and the
waving of handkerchiefs, edged slowly out from the
dock wall through the maze of shipping and set her
prow straight across the wide curve of the great
globe back to the little island—a tiny speck in the
far-off western sea.
Smoothly the vessel moved, and slowly at first, as
loth to leave the land. There followed in her wake
an evil companionship of sharks—hideous, swift-
gliding shadows whose dorsal fins showed like rough
cactus leaves over the still clear water and ripped it
into long ripples as they moved.
The Queen had passed the harbour mouth and had
glided out into the open sea when the bell rang of
itself in the secluded cabin amidships, and an
electric message quivered through the ether from
Hong-Kong five miles away.
"Owner wanted for an hour. Urgent.—Chin
Hang."
Mr Marable was surprised and annoyed by the


'TWIXT DEVIL AND DEEP SEA 231
untimely message and at first seemed disposed to
disregard it.
"You cannot afford to bring the ship back
again," he said to the captain, "for this tomfoolery.
Chin Hang is always in a fuss. What can he have
to say now that he could not have said before we
parted?"
"We could send a boat, sir," the captain sug-
gested, " and lie by for you here."
"How long would it take?"
"You should be there and back again in four
hours at the outside."
"All right," grumbled Mr Marable. "I suppose
I ought to go, but it's a nuisance all the same. Look
lively, captain, the sooner we get off the soonej we
get back."
But they did not get off as soon as he expected.
The morning dragged slowly away in unexpected
delays.
First Mr Archer manifested a sudden and passion-
ate desire to go back with Mr Marable. He insisted
and protested. It was his last chance, he cried, of a
peep at Hong-Kong. Mr Marable and Mr Beck were
polite and diplomatic in their persuasions. But it
needed a curt and stern refusal from Captain Manley
to cut short his importunity.
Then, to the surprise of everyone, Mr Beck wanted
to go, and even got down into the boat. He had
very special reasons, he said, for making the request,
but he refused to tell what his special reasons were,
and Mr Marable with manifest impatience reminded
him that it was more necessary than ever to keep
a watch on Mr Archer.


232 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Unlike Mr Archer, however, Mr Beck yielded
with a good grace, and admitted that after all his
duty was on shipboard.
Nearly an hour was wasted in this fashion, and
Mr Marable seemed feverish and impatient to
be off.
Yet, when at the last moment he met Haidee
Wilson on deck, he delayed a moment or two more
in an attempt to induce her to come %vith him.
"Just a pleasant few hours' row," he urged, "and
back again."
"No, no," she said, " I stick to the ship."
"And the captain," he added, smiling.
"Good-bye," she said with a swift blush as she
turned from him to the rails.
"Au revoir" he responded gaily, and with his
black bag in his hand he went down the ladder at
last to the boat.
"Now, my men," he cried impatiently as he
settled on his seat, "give way. I'm in a deuce of
a hurry." The four oars lifted together for the
stroke.
But before the blades could splash in the water Mr
Beck, leaning over the rail, cried out loudly:
"Mr Marable!"
"Curse you," growled Mr Marable in a sudden
burst of anger, "what is it now?"
"I've put your black bag in the locker."
"The black bag is here," said the coxswain, lifting
it in his hand.
"The other one I mean," cried Mr Beck. "Mr
Marable knows there are two."
With a howl of fear and rage like a wild beast


234 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"It is just," he said; "he deserves no pity. The
dynamitard has met his doom!"
The detective's genial face was pale and stern and
pitiless as death. A hush fell on the clamouring
crowd as they caught the meaning of his words.
"He meant to blow up the ship. He thought
his own infernal machine was in the boat with him,"
Mr Beck curtly explained to the men and women
that crowded round him excitedly. "Thank God
for your lives. You shall know all presently.
Meanwhile I must have a word with the captain."
While the boat and boat's crew were brought back
over the ship's side, Mr Beck went below with the
captain to his cabin.
Captain Manley was pale as a sheet.
"It was horrible! " he said hoarsely.
"It was just," retorted Mr Beck, sternly. "I
have no pity for him. Think what he has done,
what he meant to do! He meant death for us all,
even the sweet girl whom his friend gave in his
charge. Just think of it!"
"I daren't," said the captain in a whisper. "I
daren't. You are quite sure?"
"Sure as fate. So shall you be."
"But how? " began the captain again, when Mr
Beck smilingly interposed.
"Just luck," he said complacently—he was his
genial self again—" my never-failing luck. I began
poking about blindly a few days after I came on
board and thought I'd have a peep into the big black
bag he was so careful about, and failed. He almost
caught me in the act. I tried again the next day
and found a big black bag open for me to examine.


236 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
it a minute afterwards. Then I delayed his starting
on one excuse or another, and kept him dancing like
a bear on hot plates till it was time for his clock to
strike. His other ships were plainly destroyed in
much the same way."
"You saved every life on board," said the captain,
and he gripped Mr Beck's hand so hard he knew he
was thinking of Haid£e Wilson.
Later on the crew and passengers were told the
story and were allowed to examine the infernal
machine for themselves, and at dinner the captain
proposed the health of Mr Beck, and it was drunk
amid cheers and tears.
The good ship The Queen came back to England
without her owner, who was reported to have fallen
overboard.
Though there was no official inquiry, the gruesome
story crept abroad in various forms, none more
horrible than the truth.
Mr Beck got his cheque for three thousand pounds,
of which a hundred went to buy a wedding present for
Captain and Mrs Manley.


THE UNSEEN HAND
The train checked its speed and rumbled slowly into
Suberton Junction.
"Tickets, please, all tickets ready, please."
Brisk men in uniform bustled up and down the
platform, and carriages were opened and banged.
"Tickets, please. Oh! my God! What's this?"
The formal voice broke into a cry as the ticket
collector pulled the carriage door open. For there,
stretched on the floor in a crumpled heap, a man
lay dead.
Unmistakably dead. No living body ever lay
huddled up like that. There were great blotches
and streaks of blood on the whitey-grey face, and,
stooping a little, the ticket collector found that a
portion of the skull had been battered in. A foul,
sickening odour filled the carriage.
The sight and smell made him faint and dizzy,
but he was a man of coolness and resource. He
locked the carriage door and raced for the station-
master—only just in time. The train was trembling
into motion when at a word from the collector the
station-master rushed on the platform and stopped it.
An instant tumult broke out amongst the pas-
sengers. There had been an accident on the line
237


238 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
a short time before, and the public nerves were still
unstrung.
By magic the word got about—a man found dead
in one of the carriages—and the curious crowd
poured from many openings on to the platform.
But the station-master, with his back to the door,
drove them away.
"Take your seats," he shouted, " take your seats,
or you will be left behind. We will side-track this
carriage and send the train on."
Still the crowd pressed and fought for a peep into
this chamber of horrors, fought as for some rich
treat, the women worse than the men. In spite of
the station-master noses were flattened against the
carriage window, and there were guttural mutterings
of horror, tainted with a repulsive enjoyment of the
tragedy.
A tall young man, well built but languid, came
out of a smoking carriage immediately in front—a
good-looking young fellow, with straw-coloured
moustache and light blue eyes, a cool, imperturbable
dandy. He did not press and shoulder with the rest
of the crowd, but with glass in his eye sauntered
leisurely up to the station-master.
"Excuse me," said he politely, "my name is
Albert Malwood. I think it possible it is my uncle.
May I look?"
At a word from the station-master one of the
porters made way for him to the window.
One look was sufficient. The eye-glass dropped
from his eye, and his face was paler than before as
he turned from the window, but his drawl was
expressionless as ever.


THE UNSEEN HAND 239
"It was a good guess of mine, station-master;
it is my uncle. I will stay and see this thing out."
He coolly took a seat on one of the wooden benches
on the platform, and with fingers that trembled a
little picked out a cigarette from a gold case and
lit it.
The carriage in which the dead man lay was
quickly side-tracked. But it was nearly half an hour
before the train, with its load of excited, impatient
occupants, again began to draw out of the station.
There had gone before them to the London
terminus a note of their numbers, and a brief descrip-
tion of each. Two of Scotland Yard's sharpest men
met the train on its arrival, and all the passengers
were interrogated and closely examined—all except
one.
A tall, graceful woman, who had been foremost in
pressing to the window at the Suberton Junction,
managed, by accident or design, to slip unobserved
through the vigilant cordon of the police at London.
Before the train left the platform at Suberton
Junction the station-master wired for instructions
to headquarters, and in less than a quarter of an hour
had his answer:
"Mr Paul Beck goes down by next train to take
complete control."
The station-master had never heard of Mr Beck,
but Albert Malwood had.
"Met him once," he drawled, "queer-looking
cove in baggy trousers. Wouldn't take my fancy
as a detective, but they say he's too awfully clever
for anything."
When Mr Beck arrived from town an hour later


240 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
he surprised Mr Albert Malwood by recognising him
at once. ,
"Sad business about your uncle, Mr Malwood,
very sad." His voice was as impersonal as an
undertaker's.
"Of course it is very sad, and all that kind of
thing," said Albert, and his light blue eyes blinked
rapidly, "and I'm very sorry for the old chap, who
was always very decent. But I don't deny I have
my consolations. I believe he has left everything
in the world to me."
It sounded heartless, and the honest station-master
stared at him aghast. But it did not need eyes as
sharp as Mr Beck's to see that this was a pose, and
that the young fellow felt his uncle's death deeply.
"Have a care, Mr Malwood," said Mr Beck,
"that you are not suspected of murdering your
uncle. You have^most to gain by his death, you
know."
"I'm sure I don't care," replied Mr Malwood,
indifferently; "if it pleases the public to suspect
they are quite welcome."
Together the three had come to the door of the
carriage that held the ghastly murder mystery.
Mr Beck sniffed inquisitively as he unlocked and
opened it.
A wave of foul air met him full in the face.
"Asafcetida," he said. "Why on earth was he
drinking asafoetida?"
"He often took it," volunteered the nephew,
"as a stimulant for weak heart. Rather liked the
beastly smell of the stuff. Hated smoking, though;
that's why I travelled in the smoker by myself."








THE UNSEEN HAND 245
blacksmith's arm might have given such a blow.
Count suicide out of the case, Mr Malwood."
"But how—?" began Mr Malwood again, when
he was interrupted by the train's coming to a
standstill at the station, and a porter's voice shouting
"Oakdale."
"Our station," he said to Mr Beck, pleasantly
enough. "I have telegraphed for a trap to meet
us."
The trap—a light, high dog-cart—was in waiting,
drawn by an American trotter, and the two men
drove together to Oakdale. The languid Mr Mal-
wood proved himself a superb whip. With wrists of
steel he held the fresh, hard-mouthed trotter steadily
to his work, while they flew at motor speed along a
switchback country road bordered with great elms.
It was a still, calm, sunshiny afternoon, but the
swish of the cool air was pleasant in their faces with
a breeze born of their own speed. The rise and fall
of the road gave momentary glimpses of a country
fair and rich with many handsome houses showing
through the trees. Mr Beck, who was a keen lover
of Nature, was seemingly absorbed in the calm
beauty of the landscape, while Mr Malwood im-
passively smoked cigarette after cigarette, seemingly
oblivious alike of the great beast that tugged at the
reins, of the detective who sat by his side, of the
pleasant country through which they sped, and of the
ghastly mystery in which he was so nearly concerned.
They had gone nearly a quarter of an hour in
silence, and were a good four miles on their way,
when Mr Beck spoke.
"I want to get to London to-morrow," he said;


THE UNSEEN HAND 247
on the wide gravel sweep opposite the stone steps,
broad and high, that led to the massive door which
opened of itself at their approach.
The news of the tragedy had come before them.
It was writ plain on the faces of the footmen who
stood at the open door under the portico at the top
of the high steps beside the tall, Ionic pillars of grey
limestone, their gay liveries strangely out of keeping
with the sombre background. Plainer still the
tragedy was written on the face of the stout, middle-
aged man who stood behind the footmen in the great
square hall.
That face startled Mr Beck with a sudden twinge
of recollection. He knew it and he didn't know it.
He found the key to the puzzle in a second. It
resembled closely the face of the man murdered in
the railway carriage. The resemblance was not so
much in shape or feature, but in curious identity
in expression that grows between people—husbands
and wives, brothers and sisters, servants and
masters, who have lived long together in close
association.
"Jennings the butler," said Mr Malwood, following
the questioning look in the detective's eyes. "Lived
with the squire, man and boy, for over fifty years.
Surly old cock—never liked him myself."
Mr Beck caught the momentary look that Jennings
gave his new master from under lowering brows, and
decided there was no love lost between them.
"I would like to have a word or two with the
butler," he said, " if there is time."
1 "Lots of time," the young man answered lightly,
"we dine in an hour."


248 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
Mr Beck found Jennings cautious, almost sullen at
first. To the detective's discerning eyes it was plain
that the man laboured under some deep emotion
in which grief and anger struggled for mastery.
But he was one of those men whose feelings are not
articulate. If he were sorry for his master with
whom he had lived so long and so intimately, he at
least gave no sign of sorrow. But there were few
men—or women for that matter—who could resist
Mr Beck's genial persuasiveness.
"Sit down, Mr Jennings," he said. They were
alone in a small study to the right of the hall. "You
know I have been engaged to find out who murdered
your master?"
Mr Jennings sat down, but for a long minute he
spoke no word. Mr Beck waited patiently.
"You will have your work cut out for you, sir,"
said the butler at last. "The man that did that
deed don't mean to get caught."
"I want your help," Mr Beck went on smoothly.
"You need not tell me you were fond of the squire;
I know it, and I know, too, you will help if you
can."
The butler merely nodded with face wholly
expressionless.
"Did the squire intend yesterday to go to London
to-day? " queried Mr Beck.
"No, sir, I'm nearly sure not. He would have
told me."
"What made him go?"
"A letter he got at breakfast. It was in a woman's
handwriting, and the squire opened it carelessly, as
if he did not know the writing. But it caught hold


THE UNSEEN HAND 249
of him the very first line. His face turned red and
white as he read, and the tears were in his eyes.
He sat for a minute with the letter open on the table
under his hand, thinking. Then he seemed to make
up his mind. 'Read that, Albert,' he says, and
passes it over across the small, round table to his
nephew.
"Master Albert read it slowly in that quiet, easy
way of his. It might have been a paragraph in the
newspaper for any sign he gave.
"' You must go up to London at once, sir,' he said
immediately, 'it's your plain duty.'
"I never in my life saw a man so pleased as what
the squire was at that. He bounced up from his
seat and stretched a hand across the table to Mr
Albert. 'You're the best chap in the world, Albert,'
he cried, 'and the most generous. I always thought
it, now I am sure of it. I'll take care you don't lose
by this, my boy. You're right, you're right; I'll
go at once. You've made it very easy for me.
Jennings, tell them to have the brougham to meet the
morning train.'"
"Who kept the letter? " asked Mr Beck.
"Mr Albert, sir. I saw him ram it into his pocket
as I left the room."
More and more it was made plain that Jennings
hated the young man and would fix suspicion on him
if he could.
"When I came back to the breakfast parlour," he
went on, " through the room we're in now, I saw Mr
Albert standing at the desk there in the corner.
He crossed from that over to the big medicine chest
yonder. The squire always kept a medicine chest.


250 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
You see, he was at the medical profession before he
came in for the estate, and liked to physic the
tenants. Mr Albert was standing opposite the
medicine chest with his back to me when I went in to
the squire.
"' Look alive, Jennings,' the master cried, 'or
we'll miss the train. I have been an old fool, my
man, but things have come right in spite of me.'
"I never saw the squire looking better or happier
in my life. Five minutes later I saw him step into
the brougham. Mr Albert followed him. That
was the last I saw of my old master—the last
I ever shall see of him." The old man's voice
shook.
Mr Beck was examining the writing-table; he
turned to the butler with that look of genuine
sympathy with which he so often captured con-
fidence.
"It was a cruel murder, Mr Jennings," he said.
"You would like to catch the man that did it?"
"And hang him," cried Jennings, with a sudden
burst of savagery. His voice implied that he
suspected someone. Perhaps he meant Mr Beck
to press him for his suspicion, but Mr Beck went on
quietly examining the little table.
It was in perfect order. Letters neatly arranged
in piles under paper-weights. One bundle of letters,
however, took his attention. It had fallen sideways
on the desk. He took a paper or two, and glanced
through them. Then he beckoned to Mr Jennings.
"Had your master more paper-weights than
those two? " he asked.
Mr Jennings seemed startled.


THE UNSEEN HAND 253
Mr Beck smelt the nozzle. It had the smell of
asafcetida.
Plainly this part of Mr Beck's work was over, for
he walked back at once to the station, filled his pipe,
got a morning paper, smoked and read complacently,
especially the political news, for a good half hour,
until his train puffed impatiently into the station.
He found a first-class carriage reserved to himself.
With a cheery "Good-morning, sir, the guard
knows. It will be all right," his new-found friend,
the station-master, walked by the carriage door,
quickening his steps to keep up with it until the train
outpaced him.
Mr Beck took out his watch as they cleared the
station. "Twenty-five minutes," he said, put the
watch back, and resumed his paper. Twenty minutes
later, however, the paper was put aside in its turn for
the watch.
His eyes were glued on the dial as the minutes
went slowly by, one to each mile.
"One! Two! Three! Four!" At four, Mr
Beck jumped from his seat and jerked the com-
munication-cord. The brakes suddenly gripped the
wheels, and straining and jarring, the train pulled
suddenly to a standstill.
Every head was out of the windows as Mr Beck,
stepping briskly from his carriage, got down beside
the train, and waved a signal with his handkerchief
to the guard.
Almost instantly the train again stole into motion,
and the long row of carriages, with staring eyes at
every window, swept past the imperturbable Mr
Beck.


258 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
"Oh, I beg your pardon; then you have formed
some theory of the manner of this most mysterious
murder?"
"Certainly, sir. It is exceedingly simple. The
murderer squirted asafoetida into the carriage where
the squire was seated. The stench compelled the
old man to keep his head out of the window.
The murderer from the next carriage struck
him with this heavy paper-weight—a terrible
missile. With the rush of the air, over sixty
miles an hour, added to the force of the throw, it
crushed the skull like a hazel nut. The old man
tumbled back into the carriage where the porter
found him. The weight fell beside the line where
I found it."
The coroner and jury gazed at Mr Beck—in open-
eyed, open-mouthed amazement. The sudden and
simple explanation of the mystery took their breath
away.
Even the impassive Mr Malwood was affected.
He uttered a sharp cry of surprise, and half rose
from his seat. Then he dropped back heavily into
his chair, which in the dead silence creaked uneasily
under his weight. All felt there was something more
coming. The hot air of the crowded room seemed
to quiver with excitement. A big bumble-bee
blundered in through the open window, droned in
great circles round the room, and blundered out
before the coroner spoke again.
Mr Beck waited, as placid as ever. But the
coroner stammered and gasped, and his voice was
dry and husky with excitement. His question was
wholly illegal.


THE UNSEEN HAND 259
"Have you formed any idea, Mr Beck, who the
murderer is?"
"There is no room for doubt," said the detective,
speaking very slowly, his eyes fixed on Mr Albert
Malwood, who sat with his head bowed between* his
shoulders.
"The murderer is the man whose interest it was
to stop at any cost the squire's reconciliation with
his only son; the man who took the letter, the squirt
and the paper-weight from here; who travelled in
front of the squire's carriage, who—"
Crash!!!
Albert Malwood suddenly faced round on his
accuser, a revolver in his hand. Before the
flash left the barrel Mr Beck dropped from his
chair, and the bullet smashed into a mirror behind
him.
The murderer fired no second shot. With pistol
levelled, the smoke oozing softly from the barrel,
he made for the door. The crowd gave way before
him; the police, cowed by that pale, fierce face and
levelled weapon, moved aside. In a moment he
was through; then they jumped after in pursuit.
But Mr Beck was before them. He was at the
murderer's heel, through the corridor, and across
the broad hall. The front door stood open. But
Malwood tripped as he crossed the threshold, and,
with the momentum of his great speed, shot out head
foremost. With a crash his skull struck the sharp
angle of the lowest step. He rolled over on the
gravel like a shot rabbit; a quiver shook him from
head to foot, and he lay, his face to the sky, quite
still. His skull when it had struck the stone was


200 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
beaten in as you would beat in an egg-shell with a
spoon.
Mr Beck was beside him in an instant.
"It's all over," the detective said to the two
constables who came up panting, "Sergeant Death
has arrested him."


XI
HIS HAND AND SEAL
"Murder!" The shrill shriek rang out through
the still night air, striking sharp on the startled ears
of the two men in the lamp-lit streets of the town
of Deemington, a quarter of a mile away.
Silence, dead silence followed.
The two constables passing their nightly round
through the more lonely streets of the town were
brought to a sudden stand by the first wild cry.
"Hark! " cried the elder of the two, " that means
mischief, Roper, or I'm a Dutchman."
"It came from away down by Thornton Park,"
replied the other, anxiously. "If I am not mistaken,
sergeant, that was Squire Melville's voice."
"Come along! " cried Sergeant Dempsey, laconic-
ally, and the two men went clattering over the
pavement and out into the open country on the
western side of the town.
One minute's quick run brought them to a fine
wrought-iron gate, whose intricate traceries looked
like black lace •in the moonlight. They entered
softly through the little side door which they found
ajar, and paused, panting from their run, on the
broad avenue just inside.
"Left or right? " whispered the younger man.
261


HIS HAND AND SEAL 263
There had been no struggle, the strong man had
had no chance for his life. Yet the squire's dark,
fierce face had a look of sullen anger, frozen
on it by sudden death. He must have looked his
murderer full in the face for a single moment just
as the blow was struck, and uttered that one shrill,
despairing cry as the knife struck. The man was
in evening dress. From the wound over his heart
the blood, black in the moonlight, oozed slowly,
and trickled in a thin line down the glazed white
surface of the shirt-front. To the right of the wound
were five curious, dark stains, the largest of the five
standing clear of the rest.
The living man, motionless as the dead, was
gazing intently at the face of the corpse with face as
ghastly as its own.
For the moment the constables failed to recognise
him, so changed and strange he looked.
Then Sergeant Dempsey cried out: "It's Dr
Kerwan! My God! Dr Kerwan, what's the mean-
ing of this?"
The man addressed seemed to waken like one half
dazed by an ugly dream. "I don't know," he
stammered, "murder it would seem. I heard a
cry and I ran to it. I saw a man disappear in the
distance, I found this here. There is no hope,"
he added incoherently, "he is quite dead."
"How did you come here, sir, at this hour of
the night?" said Sergeant Dempsey, sharply, but
respectfully withal.
"I cannot tell you," said the doctor. He had got
back something of his composure, and spoke, as was
his wont, very quietly, though the handsome face


264 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
still looked ghastly, and the strong figure quivered
with suppressed excitement.
The constables interchanged glances of quick
suspicion. The doctor was well and favourably
known to both of them, not merely as a skilful
physician, but as one of the pleasantest-mannered
and kindliest-hearted of men. But constables are
constables, and, to use their own phrase, the case
looked very black against Dr Kerwan. His feud
with the dead man and the cause of it were the
common gossip of Deemington.
"Then, Dr Kerwan," said the sergeant, speaking
with a gravity that gave him a sort of dignity,
"I fear it is my duty to arrest you on suspicion of the
wilful murder of Squire Stanley Melville. You are
not bound to say anything, but I have to warn you
that anything you do say may be used in evidence
against you."
The very notion of such a thing plainly struck
the doctor then for the first time with sharp surprise.
There was anger in his voice as he turned upon the
sergeant.
"This is too absurd, Dempsey. Do you really
think I killed the man?"
"I must do my duty, sir," said the sergeant,
stolidly, but not without a certain respect, "you are
on the spot at the time of the murder. You can give
no account of why or how you came here. The
town knows that you and the squire were not good
friends. All this is for the magistrates, not for the
like of me. You'll excuse me, sir, but I must take
you to the police-station."
His right hand went into the breast of his tunic as


HIS HAND AND SEAL 265
he spoke, but his comrade whispered a remonstrance.
He, too, was a constable, but he was human.
Dr Kerwan had saved his sister's life the week
before.
"Never mind the handcuffs, Dempsey," he whis-
pered.
"Never mind the handcuffs, Dempsey," echoed
the doctor, whose quick ear had caught the whisper,
"I am quite willing to go whenever you choose to
take me."
A curious change had come over his face and voice.
With a sharp chill of returning consciousness he
seemed to realise for the first time his position. In
a flash he realised the deadly pressure of the
evidence against him, the horrible peril in which he
stood, the imprisonment, the trial, the shameful death
that might follow. No wonder a sickening feeling
stole shudderingly through his body. But he faced
the situation with the courage of conscious innocence,
or the despair of cunning guilt.
"If you are ready, sergeant, I am," he said.
There was no tremor in his voice, there was no
faltering in his step as he strode beside his captor
down the peaceful moonlit path, where the flowers
filled the air with perfume, and the running stream
with dreamy sound. The other constable kept
lonely vigil the while beside the murdered master of
that pleasant place.
Paul Beck was enjoying his early breakfast in
his own snug fashion in his own snug chambers in
the very pleasantest quarter of Deemington, when he
was startled by a quick, impatient knock at the


266 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
sitting-room door. Before he could say " Come in,"
Frank Wolfington burst into the room, crying out
as he entered:
"I'm so glad I've caught you, Mr Beck."
"Why, am I wanted for murder? " replied Paul
Beck, jestingly.
Then, as he turned and caught sight of the young
man's face, his whole manner changed. It was hard
enough to recognise in the excited young fellow who
had broken so abruptly into his chambers the genial
and jocund Frank Wolfington, the brightest and most
popular man in Deemington, who had gallantly
lived down the reputation of the driving, grinding,
grasping old miser his father.
Frank Wolfington's dashing appearance, his yellow
curls, and merry blue eyes, were the envy of the
young men and the delight of the young girls at
every gay gathering in the town. But no one had
ever seen Frank Wolfington in earnest or excited
before.
"Don't look at me like that," he cried impetuously
to Mr Beck, who continued gazing at him with
blank amazement. "You'll be as excited as I am
when you hear the news. Stanley Melville was
murdered last night, stabbed through the heart in
his own grounds."
"You are not serious!"
"Do I look like jesting? Is this a thing to jest
about? But bad as it is, there is worse behind;
Mark Kerwan—Dr Kerwan, you know, has been
arrested for the murder."
"What a stupid blunder! I haven't known the


HIS HAND AND SEAL 267
man long, but I know him well enough to know he
could not do a thing like that."
"I hope not. I most sincerely hope not; he was
a dear friend of mine. But they have got a pile of
evidence against him. He was found on the spot
by the police red-handed, as one might say. You
know he and Melville didn't pull at all. It was hard
to pull with Melville. But there was real bad blood
between these men. Then there's one awful piece of
evidence. The knife that killed the squire was a
black-handled knife, and there is one of the same
pattern missing from the case in Kerwan's surgery."
"You don't think yourself he did it?"
"Don't ask me. I cannot believe he did it, I
won't believe he did it, a cold-blooded, deliberate
murder. There must have been some terrible
provocation—Melville was such a proud, violent,
insulting chap—you remember he struck me across
the face with his riding-whip in the public street,
merely for handing his sister to her phaeton. I
should love to think there was some terrible provoca-
tion in this case. Kerwan himself denies the whole
thing, point-blank. But that's not the question
now. That's not what I came to talk to you about,
Mr Beck. You must get him off. It's his last chance.
Miss Melville is distracted, and it's hard to blame her,
poor girl. It is rough upon her; her only brother
murdered, and her sweetheart in danger of being
hanged for it."
"Her sweetheart? " said Mr Beck.
"Don't you know? I thought you knew. Yes!
They were engaged to be married. That's what
made the doctor and the squire so furious with one an-


HIS HAND AND SEAL 273
a child's boat turned mast downwards, a couple of
straw champagne cases from some picnic party up-
stream, and half a dozen corks, were one after the
other raked ashore.
But his interest seemed mainly excited by a
number of little, tiny scraps of white paper, torn as
small as the " scent " for a boys' paper chase. With
infinite care and patience he secured every morsel.
He wiped the fragments lightly with his handker-
chief and set them in the hot sunshine to dry.
There was writing on the paper, made fainter
indeed by the water, but still plainly legible. Beck
scanned the writing with intense eagerness, piecing
the fragments roughly together, so as to get a word
or two in sequence here and there. His keen grey
eyes brightened as he looked. A smile struggled
at the corners of his firm mouth. "I thought so,"
he muttered, " I thought so."
Then, packing the scraps carefully in the pocket
of his notebook, he cleared the stream once more
in a flying leap, and walked briskly back to the town,
in good time for the inquest.
The constables told their story with dull, damning
accuracy of detail. The bad feeling between the
murdered man and the accused, and the incidents of
the rinding of the knife and body and the prisoner,
were all in turn deposed to.
Then came an unexpected witness. Miss Lilian
Melville insisted on being examined. There was what
the reporters call "a sensation" in the court, as
the graceful figure stepped up to the table, and raising
her veil showed a face as pale as death and as sad.
A low murmur ran through the crowd. They had
s


HIS HAND AND SEAL 275
The Crown solicitor waited for a few moments
with old-fashioned courtesy. "Will you pardon
me a question or two, Miss Melville?" he said at
last very gently. "You arranged to meet Dr
Kerwan at ten o'clock, you waited twenty minutes;
he did not appear. Shortly after you heard the
death-cry of your murdered brother?"
She saw the trap into which she had fallen.
"Yes," she answered, so faintly the words were
scarcely audible, "that is so." ,
There was yet another surprise for the court
when Dr Kerwan himself stepped into the witness-
chair, calm and collected as if he was in his own sur-
gery. It was hard to look on that handsome face,
with the broad brow and frank, fearless eyes, and
think the man a murderer. "But appearances are de-
ceptive," said one man in the crowd to his neighbour.
Curiously enough Mr Beck made no objection to
his being examined. "When I believe a man is
innocent," he said, " I let him fire away; he cannot
hurt himself. I want all the facts brought out in this
case. All."
Very briefly Dr Kerwan confirmed the evidence of
Miss Melville. He had gone there to meet her by
appointment. He had heard the cry of murder,
came suddenly upon the dead body lying in the
centre of the pathway, and had been stunned by the
sight. It was at that moment the police arrived.
"You were more than half an hour late for your
appointment, Dr Kerwan," said Mr Lestrange.
"How was that?"
"I cannot account for it. I started from home
at half-past nine, and I can walk to the place in a


276 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
little over twenty minutes. I went straight there
without stopping. Perhaps Miss Melville's watch
was fast."
"She is confirmed as to the time by the constables.
They found the body at half-past ten, and, according
to your own story, you had only that moment arrived.
Is your own watch a good timekeeper?"
"Most accurate. It never loses or gains a minute.
It is a curious, old-fashioned, family watch, with a
modern lever movement inserted. The watchmaker
told me they make no such works in modern watches.
It has been going for a hundred years, and should go
for a hundred more."
"Have you it here?"
"I have, but it is run down. I forgot to wind it
last night."
"That is unfortunate. Was there anybody with
you in your rooms before you started last evening?"
"Yes, Mr Wolfington dined with me. We dined
early. I told him I had to keep an important
appointment at ten o'clock. He laughed, I remember,
and chaffed me about it. He asked me was it a case
of heart disease. I told him the hour—I did not
tell him what the appointment was, but I think he
guessed. He knew of my engagement to Miss
Melville."
"He went away before you?"
"Yes, he left about seven or half-past seven."
"Mr Wolfington is a particular friend of yours?"
"A very dear friend. Our friendship began with
a long attendance, in which I had the good fortune
to pull him through a bad attack of typhoid."
One of the jurors asked that Mr Wolfington might


• \
HIS HAND AND SEAL 277
be examined, but he had very little to say. There
was a manifest eagerness to make his evidence tell
as far as possible in Dr Kerwan's favour. He re-
membered dining with Dr Kerwan. He had sus-
pected where he was going that evening, but did not
know for certain.
"Did Dr Kerwan seem at all nervous or excited?"
asked Mr Lestrange.
"Not in the least."
"Pray remember yourself, sir. According to his
own story he was going to meet his betrothed.
Did he seem at all excited?"
"Oh, yes, now I remember, he was terribly
excited. He hardly touched his dinner. He could
not sit quiet in his chair."
"You left before he did?"
"Yes, but I think it only fair to say that Dr
Kerwan was quite accurate in his evidence about his
watch. I know it well. Only that very day he
was showing it to me, and telling me what a perfect
timekeeper it was. He took off the outer case to
show it to me. He said it was over a hundred years
old, and was as good as when it started."
"Do you remember was it correct when you
looked at it?"
"I'm not quite sure."
"Had you it in your hands?"
"I had."
"The owner was boasting of its accuracy? Would
you not have noticed if it were wrong then?"
"I'm sure I would. I'm sure it was quite
correct."
The prisoner's solicitor, prompted by Mr Beck,


278 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
asked only one question, and that seemed quite wide
of the case. "Squire Melville," he said, "was a
violent-tempered man to your own knowledge?"
"Yes," replied the witness, eager apparently to
help his friend in any way. "He once struck me
across the face without any provocation."
That closed the inquiry. The jury, after a very
brief deliberation indeed, found that Squire Stanley
Melville had been wilfully murdered by Dr Mark
Kerwan.
There was much disappointment at the "form"
displayed by Kerwan's solicitor. He was noted
alike for his getting a strong hold on a jury, and his
pulverising powers as a cross-examiner. He had
displayed neither faculty. He had been apathetic,
they said, almost inattentive, and certainly had
scarcely opened his mouth during the inquiry. His
chance had come and he had not taken it. It was
true the case was a hopeless one, but that was no
excuse for letting it drop.
"For that very reason," said a sporting solicitor
to a group of admirers, "Charley ought to have had
his fling out of it. He should have blazed away
right and left at everything that got up, and he might
have winged a witness with a stray grain at a snap-
shot. As it is, he has not knocked a feather out of
one of them. The last question of his was pure
bosh. Did he want to make out that Kerwan was
right in stabbing the squire because he had a bad
temper?"
But Mr Beck seemed in no way disconcerted with
the case or the comment. He even smiled a little
as the verdict was read.


HIS HAND AND SEAL
279
Lilian, who knew the man as only women know
men, took courage from his smile. Her shy look of
gratitude went straight to his heart. His answer
was like the man he was. He walked straight to
where Dr Kerwan stood with a constable guarding
him on either side, and, in full view of the hostile
crowd, shook his hand warmly like a friend.
"Keep a good heart, doctor," he said, "I know
you are innocent, and I believe we can pull you
through yet."
The man in deadly peril looking on that calm,
resolute face read hope of life and happiness.
The magistrate's investigation was little more
than a duplicate of the inquest. Dr Kerwan was
formally committed for trial at the ensuing Assizes.
One curious little incident might have been noticed
by a particularly sharp pair of eyes. A different
Bible was presented to Wolfington, when he came to
be sworn, from that given to the other witnesses,
and it quickly and quietly disappeared when his
oath was taken. As the two books were identical in
appearance, with the same smooth, black, shiny
covers, it was hard to notice the change. But Mr
Beck's lips twitched at the corners with the faint
inception of a smile when he saw the trick performed.
There happened to be little doing at the time,
and the newspapers of the three kingdoms made the
most of the sensational murder. The whole country
seethed in wild excitement over it, and Deemington
was of course the centre of the vortex. The Attorney-
General came down himself to prosecute, and stayed
in the town for a week before the Assizes.
He was much annoyed when he learnt that Mr


282 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
case there should be no room, not the space of a pin's
point, for doubt."
"Quite so, quite so," assented the Attorney-
General, " and you think the evidence vital?"
"I'm sure of it."
"You are very confident. Let me say again
frankly your confidence does not convince me. But
you have strong backers, Mr Beck. The Home
Secretary and the Prime Minister himself have
spoken very highly of you. I accept your con-
ditions."
So it came about that three days before the trial
there was an informal Crown consultation. All the
witnesses examined at the inquest were present,
together with the counsel and solicitor for the Crown.
Even Lilian Melville was there. A thick, black veil
hid her face, but in the pose of her head, in every
movement and gesture, there was a suggestion of
impatience.
As she entered, young Wolfington sought
her side with softly-uttered sympathy, but she
managed to elude him, and kept as close as
possible to Mr Beck, who for his part kept close to
the door. •
"Won't you sit down, Mr Beck?" said the
Attorney-General, with dangerous courtesy—the
courtesy of the cushioned paws of the cat with the
nails close to the surface.
"Thanks. I can say what I have got to say
standing," replied Mr Beck, mildly.
"Then perhaps you will be kind enough to say
what you have to say—if you have anything worth
saying," retorted the Attorney-General. The last


HIS HAND AND SEAL 283
few words were in an aside to a colleague, but loud
enough for Mr Beck to hear.
"Well, the first thing I have to say," he began
bluntly, "is that you have got hold of the wrong
man."
A quiver of surprise ran through his audience.
Lilian Melville turned her veiled face sharply
towards Mr Beck. One could see she was looking
and listening intently. Young Wolfihgton, sitting
by himself at the far end of the room, grew rigid with
excitement at the words. The Attorney-General
laughed jarringly. "Indeed! sir, and will you give
us the right one?"
"In good time."
"You have witnesses, I presume, to the truth
of this singular statement, Mr Beck. You will
perhaps offer us an alibi "—and he laughed again
contemptuously.
"I have no witnesses, only a few photos," said
Mr Beck.
"How interesting! You mean, I presume, to
produce them on behalf of the prisoner at his trial?"
"No, for the sufficient reason that the prisoner
you hold will never be tried."
"And why not, if I may inquire?"
"Because in half an hour you will yourself order
his release."
Then the Attorney-General, dropping his bantering
tone, lapsed into sudden anger.
"Let us have an end of this nonsense, sir," he
cried sharply. "If you have really anything to the
purpose, tell it. But remember I need proofs."
"You shall have them. Bear with me for just one


286 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
and to clear a favoured rival for ever out of his
way?"
Excitement and suspense were growing in the
room, but Mr Beck's insistent voice gave no time for
expression.
"It is easy to guess, but we need no guessing,"
he continued implacably, "when we have clear
proof.
"You remember the five blood marks on the shirt-
front of the murdered man?"
The Attorney-General nodded.
"I never had a doubt," said Mr Beck, "the
murderer pressed his blood-stained finger and thumb
tips on the breast of his victim as he drew out the
knife which was wedged in the wound. That was
his signature to his work—his hand and seal on the
deed. I need not tell you, sir, that there can be no
more infallible test of a man's identity. It is the
test used, as you know, in every prison in Europe.
Well, at my request, the solicitor for the Crown had
a magnified photo made of those marks, and here
it is."
He showed as he spoke a huge photo of five great
spots on a white ground. Each spot was traversed
with a thousand fine lines like a skeleton leaf, or a
close-woven cobweb.
"I wanted the murderer's finger and thumb
marks for comparison and I got them. A Bible
was prepared for his sole use at the inquest. A thin
coating of wax was on the cover, and took the
impression of his thumb and finger tips. Of this
impression, too, I had a magnified photo made to
compare with the other. In every line and curve it


2Q0 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
All of a sudden a startled cry, then the sharp
crack of a pistol-shot rang through the silence of the
still dawn. Instantly the whole household was
awake and buzzing like a beehive with excitement.
As by magic the great stairs and corridors were
thronged with a babbling and disorderly crowd.
The women in dressing-gowns, the men in pyjamas,
bare-footed and bareheaded, streamed with one
accord towards the room where the wedding-presents
were housed.
Alert and strenuous young Roland Parker headed
the throng. Within a minute after the shot was
heard his hand was on the door knob. The handle
turned, but the door refused to open. He stepped
back a pace or two into the thick of the following
crowd, his shoulder came against the door with a
crash like a battering ram, the fastening gave, and
he plunged headlong into darkness. Rebounding
from the floor like a rubber ball, he was on his feet
in a moment.
A breath of the cold night air struck across his
face, and from the farther end of the room came
a low moaning. Groping with stretched fingers,
Roland found the switch of the electric light. The
dazzling glare of a score of lamps flashed out at once,
as the crowd—wild-eyed with excitement—came
pouring into the room.
There all was confusion, tables overthrown and
their contents scattered on the ground. In a corner,
huddled in a shapeless heap, moaning, bleeding,
and blubbering, lay the footman who had been left
on guard during the night. The table in front of
him was overturned, his revolver lay on the floor, and


QUICK WORK
293
"That's so."
"You know the way, of course," with fine scorn.
"I can ask the way," stammered Roland, who
had missed this important point.
"Ask the trees! ask the stones! You won't
meet a soul on the road. Now don't be silly. Move
over a little on the seat; I'll show you the way."
Before he could remonstrate she had jumped
in beside him, and the great car went humming down
the avenue and out through the huge, wrought-iron
gates to the high road.
"To the right! " cried Lady Madcap, and nestled
comfortably amongst the cushions.
It was her boast that she could dress, and dress
well, in seven minutes. "Ten if I dawdle." And
now she had justified her boast. The trim blue
costume was perfect. Her cheeks were flushed, and
her brown eyes alight with excitement. She looked
her best, and knew it.
"Straight on," she said, as she jabbed in the hat
pins more tightly and drew a thick blue motor veil
over her face, "like a cloud over the sun," as Roland
observed with a lover's fatuity.
It was a delicious drive, so they confided to one
another. The cool freshness of the dawn, faintly
sweet with the perfumes of the may-blossoms, was in
the air, and the half-awakened birds were chirping
in the thick hedgerows. A sharp shower had fallen
during the night and laid the white dust under
a thin coat of grey mud through which the wheels of
the great motor slid noiselessly.
The lovers' hearts were elate as they sped through
the growing dawn. Lady Madcap half forgot her lost


294 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
trinkets, and Roland thought the drive was cheaply
bought at their loss. They sat needlessly close
together, though the front seat of the great motor
was wide, and Roland had only one hand on the
steering wheel as they sped along the straight
stretches, or whirled perilously on two wheels round
the curves. It was perhaps lucky that the roads
were so lonesome.
More and more light it grew, and of a sudden the
red rim of the sun blazed over the edge of a distant
hill, just as the motor drew up with a jerk at the
narrow entrance to the lane that led to the police-
station. Both leapt out together, leaving the motor
at the roadside.
The lane wound between high hedges white with
may-blossom, up the steep slope on which the police-
station stood, with rustic porch and creepers, dis-
guised as a rural cottage.
Early as was the hour, the inmates were already
astir in the police-station. The sound of voices
came down to their ears as they climbed the slope
of the lane.
"Yes, Mr Beck," a loud voice cried cheerily,
"as good a stream for trout as any in the county or
the county next it. Try the deep pool under the
crooked elm tree. There's a big trout there, five
pounds if it's an ounce. I hooked him last Sunday
fortnight, and he snapped my line as if it were sewing
cotton. Good-morning and good luck. I wish you
the best of sport."
A stout, good-humoured man, fishing-rod in
hand and fishing-basket over his shoulder, came
briskly past them in the lane, and they had a glimpse


QUICK WORK
297
With an American's curt clearness Roland told the
story, Mr Beck listening intently without question or
comment. "He was caught in a trap, you see,"
concluded Roland, "there is no way out of the
garden except into the yard."
"And out of the yard?"
"No way unless he flew."
"How did you come?"
"Oh, I drove out through the gate in my motor,
of course."
"Just so," said Mr Beck, drily.
Roland looked surprised at this question and
answer. "Don't let us lose time," he said eagerly;
"I've got to take you back as quick as the
motor can carry us to Alwood; if you'll come,
that is."
"We'll go first to the motor, anyway," said the
placid Mr Beck, "then—we'll see."
The motor, with its bright crimson morocco
cushions, and its big brass lamps glaring in the
sunshine in discordant contrast to the green and
white of the hedgerow, challenged the detective's
admiration.
"A fine car," said Mr Beck, with the quick,
appreciative glance of the expert. Then he went
round to the back, and, stooping, peered at the grey
layer of mud on the road between the motor and the
hedgerow.
"As I thought," he said sharply. Plainly he had
found what he sought for; he straightened himself
and beckoned to Roland.
"See," he said, and pointed.
Roland and the sergeant and the girl behind him


298 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
looked intently where he pointed, and all six eyes
saw nothing but the grey mud of the road.
Mr Beck's forefinger came down closer to the
surface. Then they saw two small marks, about a
yard apart, in the grey mud—one fainter than the
other—two small half-circles with lines across.
"The toes of ribbed rubber-soled shoes," Mr
Beck explained quietly. "You carried the burglar
and his bag with you from Alwood, Mr Parker, under
the back seat of your motor."
"By Jove!" cried Roland, "you don't say so.
What a plucky devil! If we had only caught him."
"Lucky you didn't," commented Mr Beck, drily.
"The fellow had a revolver and knew how to use it."
He glanced quickly at Lady Madcap, who stood
wide-eyed with startled surprise at this strange
discovery.
Roland caught the look, and his bronzed cheek
paled at the thought of what might have happened.
"What next? " he asked, eager for action.
Mr Beck answered the question with another
to the sergeant. "How far to the nearest railway
station?"
"Five short miles, straightforward."
"When does the next train start?"
The sergeant consulted a silver turnip. "Thirty-
five minutes, sir," he answered; "a fast train goes
through to London."
"Right," cried Mr Beck, cheerily. "Time
enough and to spare. Jump in all three. Stay!
Just one moment to make quite sure."
He crossed the road, pushed his head and shoulders
through the hedgerow with his eyes on the rank


300 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
As they swept round a long curve, Roland suddenly
shouted, and put the brakes down. But it was Mr
Beck who, leaning across, threw the machinery out
of gear. Only just in time. The front wheels
stopped not twenty paces from a man in a light tweed
cycling suit, who lay bareheaded prone on the road,
with a smashed bicycle beside him. A black bag
was strapped awkwardly to the handle-bar of his
machine.
"Got him!" shouted Roland, triumphantly, as
he plunged his hand into the black bag, and drew
out a small gold cup and a jewel-case from a jumble
of underclothing.
"Poor fellow! Is he dead?" asked Lady
Winifred.
Mr Beck was bending over the prostrate man,
with his hand over his heart.
"No, not dead, my lady; nor like to die," he said
gravely. "It was a close shave, though."
"This is no bicycle accident, Mr Parker," he
added; "more like an attempted murder. There
was nothing to throw the bike down on this smooth
track. That machine was broken up deliberately,
battered down on the road, and trampled on."
"We've got the right man, anyhow," persisted
Roland.
"Not a bit of it," said Mr Beck. "This poor
chap is an innocent victim."
"But the cap, Mr Beck, the black bag, and the
things I found in it."
"The cap was stolen by the thief," Mr Beck
explained, "the black bag, and the few things in it
were left behind by the thief. See this cap I found


QUICK WORK
301
on the road is three sizes too large for this poor
fellow's head. We have a clever and dangerous man
to deal with, Mr Parker. I can see what happened
as well as if I had been an eye-witness. Our man
wanted a cap for one thing. He wanted to throw
pursuit off the scent for another. Here was a
chance. He called to the bicyclist from the road-
side, pretended that he was hurt, no doubt. When
this foolish Samaritan dismounted to help him he
knocked him down. See this cut to the bone on the
right temple. A ring did that. See the bump on
the back of the poor chap's head where it met the
road. Look at the track on the mud, where the
scoundrel dragged the body across from the side to
the centre, covering up his own footmarks at the
same time.
"A neat piece of work," commented Mr Beck,
"a very neat piece of work, and all on the spur of
the moment. More proof," he added, as he picked
up a little spiral white rag, bloodstained through and
through. "Our man cut his finger with the window
glass. This is what he tied it up with."
But even while he rapped out these quick, sharp
sentences, Mr Beck's hands were not idle. He had
brought the cyclist back to the grassy bank on the
roadside, propped him up comfortably, and forced
some brandy and water, drop by drop, through his
tight-clenched teeth. It was a long ten minutes
before the man gave the slightest sign of returning
life. Then his lips quivered with a noiseless sigh,
and a faint colour showed in his cheek.
"He'll do now," cried Mr Beck, who had watched
and waited impatiently. "We will leave him and


302 THE QUESTS OF PAUL BECK
the brandy flask in your charge, sergeant. He'll
come through all right, and we'll be back in twenty
minutes to take him to the police-station." He
pulled out his watch. "God bless my soul, we're
nearly late. Jump in, Mr Parker, and let her rip!
Full speed! Never mind the law!" And they slid
down a long slope and climbed the opposite hill with
a rush.
Too late! The train went panting out of the
station as the motor pulled up abruptly at the
entrance.
Mr Beck's placidity had disappeared. He was out
and on the platform in a moment in eager con-
versation with the station-master.
"You've got a burglar on board your train," he
said, "and a would-be murderer. Wire to stop it
at the next station. Small, wiry man with bicycle
bag, wearing cap two sizes too small for him, diamond
ring on left hand, has cut finger tied with a strip of
handkerchief. Don't stand looking at me, man!
Wire at once!"
The station-master went off like a shot, but was
back in a moment with dismay writ plain on his
broad face.
"The wires are cut," he gasped.
Mr Beck growled like a dog when a bone is snatched
from between his teeth.
"I might have guessed it," he grumbled; "the
clever devil has taken no chances. Have you located
the break?"
"No. It is nowhere near the station."
"He must have climbed the telegraph pole a mile
ortwo outside, and probably broke the non-conductor


QUICK WORK
305
smoke as they slid down into the valley, but they
found it again, longer and thicker, at the next rise
of the ground. The road curved inwards and then
ran for three miles parallel with the railway line.
Now the trail of smoke is almost straight ahead
and very near. The rushing car is gaining on the
train, closer and closer it creeps till it is level with
the rearmost carriage. Slowly as a snail they seemed
to crawl along the line of carriages, though the car
is racing at the rate of sixty miles an hour. They are
level with the engine at last; they have passed
it, when a curve of the road sweeps them once more
apart.
"Two miles more! We'll do it yet," gasped Mr
Beck, and the words were blown back to those
behind by the rush of the wind. But fast upon the
words there followed a despairing cry.
The car came round a corner on two wheels, the
others spinning in the air. The road stretched long
and straight in front, but the despairing cry broke
from the driver's lips when he saw a railway level
crossing right before him. Even as he spoke, the
long gates closed with a clang across the road, to
guard the approaching train.
The motor brakes went down hard, the car jarred
and jolted as it slid with the fierce momentum of its
former speed down the smooth slope to the opposing
barrier. So fast it went before the brakes could hold,
it struck and bulged the strong steel of the gates.
In that moment, as if the sudden stopping had
shot him from the car, Mr Beck was out and over the
gate and on to the line. A vivid red silk handkerchief
waved in his hand.


QUICK WORK
307
rushing across the line, abandoning the quivering
motor at the gate.
The fallen man picked himself up and turned with
quiet fury on Mr Beck.
"This is an outrage," he hissed; "you have made
some damnable blunder, and you'll pay dearly for it.
Here is my card!"
"No you don't," said Mr Beck, quietly. He
caught the man's wrists with a sudden grip like a
steel trap, and drew from his breast pocket the right
hand and the revolver it held. The weapon dropped
harmless on the ground as Mr Beck jerked the man's
wrists together, and there was a glimmer and click
of steel as the handcuff catch snapped.
Lady Madcap screamed.
"It's all right, my lady," said Mr Beck, soothingly.
"I think you will find your pretty nick-nacks safe in
bicycle bag."
THE END


COLSTON AND CO. LTD.



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