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THE BANDBOX


BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
THE BANDBox
CyNTHIA-of-THE-MINUTE
No MAN's LAND
THE FoxTUNE HUNTER
THE Pool of FLAME
THE BRonze BELL
THE BLAck BAG
The BRAss Bowl
THE PRIvate WAR
TERENCE O'Rounke


tº H 0 P E R T Y
or THE
NEW - Yon II
* ETY LIBRARY
*


“Now, sir!” she exclaimed, turning
Frontispiece. See Page 83


, i.)POX
- : * *; i v * : :


--s------ ---------


THE BANDBOX
BY
LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE
AUTHoa of “THE BRAss Bowl,” “The BLAck Bag"
“CYNTHIA-or-THE-MINUTE,” etc.
With illustrations by
ARTHUR I. KELLER
BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
C, w
1912


151005B
- *...* |
Copyright, 1911, 1912,
By Louis Joseph WANce.
All rights reserved, including those of translation into foreign
languages, including the Scandinavian
Published, April, 1912
Reprinted, April, 1912
º:
- -
* *
- r
- ***
- tº 1 *-
** * *
39 rinters
8. J. Parkhill & Co., Boston, U.S. A.





C O N T ENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I INTRODUCING MR. IFF . . . . . . . 1
II THE BANDBox . . . . . . . . . . 14
III Twins . . . . . . . . . . . . 26.
IV QUEENstown . . . . . . . . . . 43
V ISMAY? . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
VI IFF2 . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
VII Stole Away ! . . . . . . . . . . 109
VIII THE WRONG Box . . . . . . . . . 128
IX A LIKELY StoRY . . . . . . . . . 158
X DEAD O' NIGHT . . . . . . . . . 177
XI THE Cold GREY DAwn . . . . . . . 194
XII Won’t You WALK INTO MY PARLour 2 . 216
XIII WRECK IsLAND . . . . . . . . . . 233
XIV THE STRONG-Box . . . . . . . . . 254
XV THE ENEMY's HAND . . . . . . . . 275
XVI NINETY MINUTEs . . . . . . . . . 295
XVII Holocaust . . . . . . . . . . . 312





ILLUSTRATIONS
“Now, sir!” she exclaimed, turning . . Frontispiece
PAGE
He fancied that he detected a faint, abrupt sound,
like a muffled sob . . . . . . . . . . 176
Fascinated, dumb with terror, she watched . . . 193
She turned in time to see the door open and the
face and figure of her father . . . . . . 274
The light of the great fire illumined not only all the
island, but the waters for miles around . . . 319





THE BANDBOX
I
INTRODUCING MR. IFF
T half-past two of a sunny, sultry afternoon late
in the month of August, Mr. Benjamin Staff sat
at table in the dining-room of the Authors' Club,
moodily munching a morsel of cheese and a segment of
cast-iron biscuit and wondering what he must do to
be saved from the death-in-life of sheer ennui.
Along, lank gentleman, surprisingly thin, of a slightly
saturnine cast: he was not only unhappy, he looked
it. He was alone and he was lonely; he was an Ameri-
can and a man of sentiment (though he did n’t look
that) and he wanted to go home; to sum up, he found
himself in love and in London at one and the same time,
and felt precisely as ill at ease in the one as in the other
of these, to him, exotic circumstances.
Inconceivable as it may seem that any rational man
should yearn for New York in August, that and noth-
ing less was what Staff wanted with all his heart.
He wanted to go home and swelter and be swindled
I


IN T R O DU C IN G M R. IFF 3
yet with a furtive air, as one who would throw a
dogging conscience off the scent — fled the premises
of his club, shaping a course through Whitehall and
Charing Cross to Cockspur Street, where, with the
unerring instinct of a homing pigeon, he dodged has-
tily into the booking-office of a steamship company.
Now Mystery is where one finds it, and Romantic
Adventure is as a rule to be come upon infesting the
same identical premises. Mr. Staff was not seeking
mysteries and the last rôle in the world in which he
could fancy himself was that of Romantic Adventurer.
But in retrospect he can see quite clearly that it was
there, in the humdrum and prosaic setting of a steam-
ship booking-office, that he first stumbled (all unwit-
tingly) into the toils of his Great Adventure.
When he entered, there was but one other person on
the outer or public side of the booking-counter; and
he, sticking close in a far corner and inaudibly con-
ferring with a clerk, seemed so slight and unpre-
tending a body that Staff overlooked his existence
altogether until circumstances obliged him to recog-
nise it.
The ignored person, on the other hand, showed an
instant interest in the appearance of Mr. Staff. You
might have thought that he had been waiting for the
latter to come in – absurd as this might seem, in view


4. T H E B A N D B O X
of the fact that Staff had made up his mind to book for
home only within the last quarter-hour. None the
less, on sight of him this other patron of the company,
who had seemed till then to be of two minds as to what
he wanted, straightened up and bent a freshened inter-
est on the cabin-plot which the clerk had spread out
upon the counter for his advisement. And a moment
after Staff had audibly stated his wishes, the other
prodded a certain spot of the chart with a thin and
fragile forefinger.
“I’ll take this one,” he said quietly.
“Upper’r lower?” enquired his clerk.
“Lower.”
“Then-Q,” said the clerk. . . .
Meanwhile Staff had caught the eye of an impreg-
nable young Englishman behind the counter; and,
the latter coming forward, he opened negotiations with
a succinct statement:
“I want to book on the Autocratic, sailing tomorrow
from Liverpool, if I’m not mistaken.”
“Quite so,” said his clerk, not without condescen-
sion. “For yourself, may I awsk?”
“For myself alone.”
“Then-Q.” The clerk fetched a cabin-plot.
“I’m afraid, sir,” he said, removing a pencil from
behind his ear the better to make his meaning clear,


IN T R O D UC IN G M R. IFF 5
“there's not much choice. It’s quite late to book, you
know; and this is the rush season for westbound traffic;
everything's just about full up.”
“I understand; but still you can make room for me
somewhere, I hope.”
“Oh, yes. Quite so, indeed. It's only a question of
what you'd like. Now we have a cabine de lure —”
“Not for me,” said Staff firmly.
“Then-Q. . . . The only other accommodation
I can offer you is a two-berth stateroom on the
main-deck.”
“An outside room?”
“Yes, sir. You can see for yourself. Here it is:
berths 432 and 433. You'll find it quite cosy, I'm
xx
Sure.
Staff nodded, eyeing the cubicle indicated by the
pencil-point.
“That’ll do,” said he. “I’ll take it.”
“Then-Q. Upper’r lower berth, sir?”
“Both,” said Staff, trying not to look conscious —
and succeeding.
“Both, sir?” — in tones of pained expostulation.
“Both!” — reiterated in a manner that challenged
curiosity.
“Ah,” said the clerk wearily, “but, you see, I thought
I understood you to say you were alone.”


6 T H E B A N D B O X
“I did; but I want privacy.”
“I see. Then-Q.” – as who should say: Another
mad Amayrican.
With this the clerk took himself off to procure a
blank ticket.
While he waited, Staff was entertained by snatches
of a colloquy at the far end of the counter, where
the other patron was being catechised as to his pedigree
by the other booking-clerk. What he heard ran some-
thing to the following effect:
“What did you say the name was, sir?”
“The name?”
“If you please —”
“What name?”
“Your name, sir.”
“I didn't say, did I?”
“No, sir.”
“Ah! I thought not.”
Pause; then the clerk, patiently: “Do you mind
giving me your name, sir, so that I may fill in your
ticket?”
“I’d r’ally rather not; but seein’ as it's you and
you make a point of it – Iff.”
Pause. . . . “Beg pardon?”
“Iff.”
“If what, sir?”


IN T R O DUCING MIR. IFF 7
“I-double-F, Iff: a name, not a joke. I–F–F–
William Howard Iff. W. H. Iff, Whiff: joke.”
“Ow-w?”
“But you need n’t laugh.”
With dignity: “I was not intending to laugh, sir.”
Staff could hardly refrain from refreshing himself
with a glance at the individual so singularly labelled.
Appraising him covertly, he saw a man whose stature
was quite as much shorter than the normal as his own
was longer, but hardly less thin. Indeed, Staff was in
the habit of defining his own style of architecture as
Gothic, and with reasonable excuse; but reviewing
the physical geography of Mr. Iff, the word emacia-
tion bobbed to the surface of the literary mentality:
Iff was really astonishingly slight of build. Otherwise
he was rather round-shouldered; his head was small,
bird-like, thinly thatched with hair of a faded tow
colour; his face was sensitively tinted with the faintest
of flushes beneath a skin of natural pallor, and wore
an expression curiously naïve and yet shrewd – an
effect manufactured by setting the eyes of a child, round
and dimly blue, in a mask of weathered maturity.
Now while Staff was receiving this impression, Mr.
Iff looked sharply round; their glances crossed. Pri-
marily embarrassed to be caught rudely staring, Staff
was next and thoroughly shocked to detect a distinct


8 T H E B A N D B O X
if momentary eclipse of one of Mr. Iff's pale blue eyes.
Bluntly, openly, deliberately, Mr. Iff winked at Mr.
Staff, and then, having accomplished his amazement
and discomfiture, returned promptly, twinkling, to
the baiting of his clerk.
“Your age, sir?”
Mr. Iff enquired in simple surprise: “Do you really
care to know?”
“It’s required, sir, by the –”
“Oh, well — if I must! But, mind you, strictly as
man to man: you may write me down a freeborn
American citizen, entitled to vote and more'n half
white.”
“Beg pardon?”
“I say, I am an adult –”
“Oh!” The clerk wrote; then, bored, resumed:
“Married or single, please?”
“I’m a spinster —”
“O-w?”
“Honestly — neither married nor unmarried.”
“Then-Q’” — resignedly. “Your business — ?”
But here Staff's clerk touched the exasperated cate-
chist on the shoulder and said something inaudible.
The response, while equally inaudible, seemed to con-
vey a sense of profound personal shock. Staff was
conscious that Mr. Iff's clerk glanced reproachfully in


IN T R O DU C IN G. M. R. IFF 9
his direction, as if to suggest that he would n’t have
believed it of him.
Divining that he and Mr. Iff were bargaining for the
same accommodations, Staff endeavoured to assume an
attitude of distinguished obliviousness to the entire
proceeding; and would have succeeded but for the
immediate and impatient action of Mr. Iff.
That latter, seizing the situation, glanced askance at
dignified Mr. Staff, then smiled a whimsical smile,
cocked his small head to one side and approached him
with an open and ingenuous air.
“If it’s only a question of which berth,” said he, “I’m
quite willing to forfeit my option on the lower, Mr.
Staff.”
That gentleman started and stared.
“Oh, lord, man!” said Iff tolerantly – “as if your
portrait had n’t been published more times than you
can remember! — as if all the world were unaware of
Benjamin Staff, novelist!”
There was subtle flattery in this; and flattery (we
are told) will warm the most austere of authors —
which Staff was not. He said “Oh!” and smiled his
slow, wry smile; and Mr. Iff, remarking these symptoms
of a thaw with interest and encouragement, pressed
his point.
“I don’t mind an upper, really — only chose the


10 ' T H E B A N D B O X
lower because the choice was mine, at the moment.
If you prefer it —” -
“The trouble is,” Staff interrupted, “I want the
whole room.”
“Oh! . . . Friend with you?”
“No; but I had some notion of doing a little work on
the way over.”
“Writing? I see. But if that's all — I’’ Mr. If
routed a negligible quibble with an airy flirt of his
delicate hand. “Trust me; you’ll hardly ever be
reminded of my existence — I’m that quiet. And
besides, I spend most of my time in the smoking-room.
And I don't snore, and I’m never seasick. . . . By
the way,” he added anxiously, “do or are you?”
“Never —”
“Then we'll get along famously. I'll cheerfully take
the upper, and even should I tumble out on top of you,
you'd never know it: my weight is nothing — hardly
that. Now what d'you say? Is it a go?”
“But — I don't know you — ”
“Business of making a noise like an Englishman!”
commented Mr. Iff with bitter scorn.
“– well enough to accept such a favour from you.
I'll take second choice myself — the upper, I mean.”
“You won't; but we’ll settle that on shipboard,”
said Mr. Iff promptly. “As for knowing me — busi-


IN T R O DU C IN G M R. IFF 11
ness of introducing myself. Mr. Staff, I want you to
shake hands with my friend, Mr. Iff. W. H. Iff, Whiff:
sometimes so-called: merry wheeze based on my
typographical make-up; once a joke, now so grey with
age I generally pull it myself, thus saving new acquaint-
ances the mental strain. Practical philanthropy —
what? Whim of mine.”
“Indeed 7”
“Believe me. You’ve no notion how folks suffer in
the first throes of that giddy pun. And then when it
falls flat – naturally I can't laugh like a fool at it
any longer — blooie!” said Mr. Iff with expression—
“like that — blooie! — they do feel so cheap. Where-
fore I maintain I do humanity a service when I beat
it to that moth-eaten joke. You follow me?”
Staff laughed.
“Then it's all settled. Good | We shan’t be in one
another's way. You'll see.”
“Unless you talk in your sleep, too.”
Mr. Iff looked unspeakable reproach. “You’ll
soon get accustomed to me,” he said, brightening—
“won't mind my merry prattle any more’n the song of
a giddy humming-bird.”
He turned and saw their booking-clerks in patient
waiting behind the counter. “Ah, there you are, eh?
Well, it's all settled. . . .”.


12 T H E B A N D B O X
Thus was the thing accomplished.
And shortly thereafter these two paused in parting
at the door.
“Going my way?” enquired Mr. Iff.
Staff named whatever destination he had in mind.
“Sorry. I go t'other way. Take care of yourself.
See you tomorrow.”
“Good-bye,” said Staff, and took himself briskly off.
But Mr. Iff did not at once go in the opposite direc-
tion. In fact, he moved no more than a door or two
away, and then stopped, apparently fascinated by an
especially stupid shop-window show.
He had very quick eyes, had Mr. Iff, so alert and
observant that they had made him alive to a circum-
stance which had altogether escaped Staff's notice – a
trifling incident that took place just as they were on
the point of parting.
While still they were standing in the doorway, a
motor-cab, plunging down Haymarket, had swooped
in a wide curve as if meaning to pull in at the curb in
front of the steamship company's office. The cab
carried a solitary passenger – a remarkably pretty
young woman – and on its roof a remarkably large
and ornate bandbox.
It was, in fact, the bandbox which had first fixed the
interest of Mr. Iff. Only an introspective vision, indeed,


IN T R O DU C IN G M R. IFF 13
such as that of the imaginative and thoughtful Mr.
Staff, could have overlooked the approach of a band-
box so big and upstanding, so profusely beflowered and
so prominently displayed.
Now before the cab could stop, its fare, who had been
bending forward and peering out of the window as if
anxious to recognise her destination, started still far-
ther forward, seized the speaking-tube and spoke into
its mouthpiece in a manner of sharp urgency. And
promptly the driver swerved out from the curb and
swung his car away down Pall Mall.
If it was mere inquisitiveness that held Mr. Iff rooted
to the spot, gaping at that uninteresting window show,
it served to discover him in the guise of an admirably
patient person. Fully fifteen minutes elapsed before
the return of the motor-cab was signalled unmistakably
by the blatant bandbox bobbing back high above the
press of traffic. And when this happened, Mr. Iff found
some further business with the steamship company,
and quietly and unobtrusively slipped back into the
booking-office.
As he did so the cab stopped at the curb and the
pretty young woman jumped out and followed Mr. Iff
across the threshold – noticing him no more than
had Mr. Staff, to begin with.


II
THE BANDBOX
N the playhouses of France, a hammering on the
stage alone heralds the rising of the curtain to dis-
close illusory realms of romance. Precisely so with Mr.
Staff, upon the door of whose lodging, at nine o'clock
the next morning, a knocking announced the first
overt move against his peace of mind.
At that time, Staff, all unconscious of his honourable
peril, was standing in the middle of the floor of the
inner room (his lodgings comprised two) and likewise
in the approximate geographical centre of a chaotic
assemblage of assorted wearing apparel and other
personal impedimenta.
He was wondering, confusedly, how in thunderation
he was to manage to cram all that confounded truck
into the limited amount of trunk space at his command.
He was also wondering, resentfully in the names of a
dozen familiar spirits, where he had put his pipe: it's
simply maddening, the way a fellow's pipe will persist
in getting lost at such critical times as when he's
14


T H E B A N D B O X 15
packing up to catch a train with not a minute to
spare. . . . In short, so preoccupied was Staff that
the knocking had to be repeated before he became
objectively alive to it.
Then, confidentially, he said: “What the devil now?”
In louder tones calculated to convey an impression
of intense impatience, he cried: “Come in!”
He heard the outer door open, and immediately,
upon an impulse esoteric even in his own understanding,
he chose to pretend to be extravagantly busy – as
busy as by rights he should have been. For a minute
or longer he acted most vividly the part of a man madly
bent on catching his train though he were to perish of
the attempt. And this despite a suspicion that he
played to a limited audience of one, and that one un-
appreciative of the finer phases of everyday histrionic
impersonation: an audience answering to the name of
Milly, whose lowly station of life was that of housemaid-
in-lodgings and whose imagination was as ill-nourished
and sluggish as might be expected of one whose wages
were two-and-six a week.
Remembering this in time, the novelty of make-
believe palled on Staff. Not that alone, but he could
hear Milly insisting in accents not in the least apolo-
getic: “Beg pardon, sir . . .”
He paused in well-feigned surprise and looked enquir-


T H E B A N D B O X 17
“It have just come,” said Milly calmly, in response
to his enquiring stare. “Where would you wish me to
put it, sir?”
“Put what?”
Milly gesticulated eloquently with the bandbox.
“That thing?” said Staff with scorn.
“Yessir.”
“I don't want you to put it anywhere. Take it
away.”
“But it's for you, sir.”
“Impossible. Some mistake. Please don't bother —
just take it away. There's a good girl.”
Milly's disdain of this blandishment was plainly
visible in the added elevation of her already sufficiently-
tucked-up nose.
“Beg pardon, sir,” she persisted coldly, “but it's
got your nime on it, and the boy as left it just now
asked if you lived here.”
Staff's frown portrayed indignation, incredulity and
impatience.
“Mistake, I tell you. I have n’t been buying any
millinery. Absurdl”
“Beg pardon, sir, but you can see as it's addressed
to you.”
It was: the box being held out for examination, Staff
saw plainly that it was tagged with a card inscribed in


18 T H E B A N D B O X
fashionably slapdash feminine handwriting with what
was unquestionably the name and local address of
Benjamin Staff, Esq.
Because of this, he felt called upon to subject the box
to more minute inspection.
It was nothing more nor less than the everyday
milliners' hat-box of commerce: a capacious edifice of
stout pasteboard neatly plastered with wall-paper in
whose design narrow stripes of white alternated with
aggressive stripes of brown, the whole effectively setting
off an abundance of purple blossoms counterfeiting no
flower known to botanists. And one gibbous side was
further decorated with bold black script advertising
the establishment of its origin.
“Maison Lucille, New Bond Street, West,” Staff read
aloud, completely bewildered. “But I never heard of
the d– the place l’’ -
Helplessly he sought Milly's eyes, and helpfully
Milly rose to the occasion.
“Nossir,” said she; and that was all.
“I know nothing whatever about the thing,” Staff
declared severely. “It’s all a mistake. Take it
away — it’ll be sent for as soon as the error's
discovered.”
A glimmer of intelligence shone luminous in Milly's
eyes. “Mebbe,” she suggested under inspiration of


T H E B A N D B O X 19
curiosity – “Mebbe if you was to open it, you'd find
a note or – or something.”
“Bright girl!” applauded Staff. “You open it. I'm
too busy — packing up – no time —”
And realising how swiftly the golden minutes were
fleeting beyond recall, he cast desperately about for
his pipe.
By some miracle he chanced to find it, and so resumed
packing. -
Behind him, Milly made noises with tissue-paper.
Presently he heard a smothered “O sir!” and looked
round to discover the housemaid in an attitude of
unmitigated adoration before what he could not deny
was a perfect dream of a hat — the sort of a hat that
only a woman or a society reporter could do justice to.
In his vision it bore a striking resemblance to a Gains-
borough with all modern improvements – as most
big hats do to most men. Briefly, it was big and black
and trimmed with an atmosphere of costly simplicity,
a monstrous white “willow” plume and a huge buckle
of brilliants. It impressed him, hazily, as just the
very hat to look ripping on an ash-blonde. Aside from
this he was aware of no sensation other than one of
aggravated annoyance.
Milly, to the reverse extreme, was charmed to dis-
traction, thrilled to the core of her and breathless —


T H E B A N D B O X 21
“It’s perfectly beautiful, sir — a won'erful hat,
really.”
“The devil fly away with it!”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“I said, I’m simply crazy about it, myself.”
“Oh, did you, sir?”
“Please put it back and tie it up.”
“Yessir.” Reluctantly Milly restored the creation
to its tissue-paper nest. “And what would you wish
me to do with it now, sir?” she resumed when at
length the ravishing vision was hidden away.
“Do with it?” stormed the vexed gentleman. “I
don't care what the d–ickens you do with it. It is n't
my hat. Take it away. Throw it into the street.
Send it back to the place it came from. Give it
or, wait!”
Pausing for breath and thought, he changed his mind.
The hat was too valuable to be treated with disrespect,
no matter who was responsible for the mistake. Staff
felt morally obligated to secure its return to the Maison
Lucille.
“Look here, Milly . . .”
“Yessir?”
“I’ll just telephone . . . No! Half a minute!”
He checked, on the verge of yielding to an insane
impulse. Being a native of New York, it had been his


22 T H E B A N D B O X
instinctive thought to call up the hat-shop and demand
the return of its delivery-boy. Fortunately the in-
stinct of a true dramatist moved him to sketch hastily
the ground-plot of the suggested tragedy.
In Act I (Time: the Present) he saw himself bearding
the telephone in its lair – that is, in the darkest and
least accessible recess of the ground-floor hallway. In
firm, manful accents, befitting an intrepid soul, he
details a number to the central operator – and meekly
submits to an acidulated correction of his Amurrikin
accent.
Act II (fifteen minutes have elapsed): He is clinging
desperately to the receiver, sustained by hope alone
while he attends sympathetically to the sufferings of
an English lady trying to get in communication with
the Army and Navy Stores.
Act III (ten minutes later): He has exhausted him-
self grinding away at an obsolete rotary bell-call.
Abruptly his ears are enchanted by a far, thin, frigid
moan. It says: “Are you theah?” Responding sav-
agely “NO!” he dashes the receiver back into its hook
and flings away to discover that he has lost both train
and steamer. Tag line: For this is London in the
Twentieth Century. Curtain: End of the Play. . . .
Disenchanted by consideration of this tentative
synopsis, the playwright consulted his watch. Already


T H E B A N D B O X 23
the incident of the condemnable bandbox had eaten
up much invaluable time. He would see himself doomed
to unending perdition if he would submit to further
hindrance on its behalf.
“Milly,” said he with decision, “take that . . .
thing down-stairs, and tell Mrs. Gigg to telephone the
hat-shop to call for it.”
“Yessir.”
“And after that, call me a taxi. Tell it to wait.
I'll be ready by ten or know —”
Promptly retiring, Milly took with her, in addition
to the bandbox, a confused impression of a room whose
atmosphere was thick with flying garments, in the
wild swirl of which a lanky lunatic danced weirdly,
muttering uncouth incantations. . . .
Forty minutes later (on the stroke of ten) Mr. Staff,
beautifully groomed after his habit, his manner (su-
perbly nonchalant) denying that he had ever known
reason why he should take a single step in haste, fol-
lowed his trunks down to the sidewalk and, graciously
bidding his landlady adieu, presented Milly with a
keepsake in the shape of a golden coin of the realm.
A taxicab, heavy-laden with his things, fretted before
the door. Staff nodded to the driver.
“Euston,” said he; “and a shilling extra if you drive
like sin.”


24 T H E B A N D B O X
“Right you are, sir.”
In the act of entering the cab, Staff started back
with bitter imprecations.
Mrs. Gigg, who had not quite closed the front door,
opened it wide to his remonstrant voice.
“I say, what's this bandbox doing in my cab? I
thought I told Milly — ”
“Sorry, sir; I forgot,” Mrs. Gigg interposed—“bein’
that flustered — ”
“Well?”
“The woman what keeps the 'at-shop said as 'ow
the 'at was n’t to come back, sir. She said a young
lidy bought it yestiddy ahfternoon and awsked to 'ave
it sent you this mornin' before nine o'clock.”
“The deuce she did!” said Staff blankly.
“An' the young lidy said as 'ow she'd write you a
note explynin'. So I tells Milly not to bother you no
more abaht it, but put the 'at-box in the keb, sir–
wishin' not to 'inder you.”
“Thoughtful of you, I'm sure. But did n’t the – ah
—woman who keeps the hat-shop mention the name of
the – ah — person who purchased the hat?”
By the deepening of its corrugations, the forehead of
Mrs. Gigg betrayed the intensity of her mental strain.
Her eyes wore a far-away look and her lips moved, at
first silently. Then – “I ain't sure, sir, as she did


T H E B A N D B O X 25
nime the lidy, but if she did, it was somethin' like
Burnside, I fancy — or else Postlethwayt.”
“Nor Jones nor Brown? Perhaps Robinson? Think,
Mrs. Gigg | Not Robinson?”
“I’m sure it may 'ave been eyether of them, sir, now
you puts it to me pl’in.”
“That makes everything perfectly clear. Thank
you so much.”
With this, Staff turned hastily away, nodded to his
driver to cut along, and with groans and lamentations
squeezed himself into what space the bandbox did not
demand of the interior of the vehicle.


T WINS 27
Who was there in London just then that knew him
well enough so to presume upon his good nature? None
that he could call to mind. Besides, how in the name
of all things inexplicable had anybody found out his
intention of sailing on the Autocratic, that particular
day? — something of which he himself had yet to be
twenty-four hours aware l
His conclusions may be summed up under two heads:
(a) there was n’t any answer; (b) it was all an unmiti-
gated nuisance. And so thinking, divided between
despair and disgust, Mr. Staff gave the problem up
against his arrival on board the steamship. There
remained to him a single gleam of hope: a note of
explanation had been promised; he thought it just
possible that it might have been sent to the steamship
rather than to his lodgings in London.
Therefore, the moment he set foot aboard the ship,
he consigned his hand-luggage to a steward, instructing
, the fellow where to take it, and hurried off to the
dining-saloon where, upon a table round which passen-
gers buzzed like flies round a sugar-lump, letters and
telegrams for the departing were displayed. But he
could find nothing for Mr. Benjamin Staff.
Disappointed and indignant to the point of suppressed
profanity, he elbowed out of the thronged saloon just
in time to espy a steward (quite another steward: not


28 T H E B A N D B O X
him with whom Staff had left his things) struggling up
the main companionway under the handicap of several
articles of luggage which Staff did n’t recognise, and
one which he assured himself he did: a bandbox as
like the cause of all his perturbation as one piano-case
resembles another.
Now if quite out of humour with the bandbox and
all that appertained thereunto, the temper of the young
man was such that he was by no means prepared to
see it confiscated without his knowledge of consent.
In two long strides he overhauled the steward, plucked
him back with a peremptory hand, and abashed him
with a stern demand:
“I say! where the devil do you think you're going,
my man?”
His man showed a face of dashed amazement.
“Beg pardon, sir! Do you mean me?”
“Most certainly I mean you. That's my bandbox.
What are you doing with it?”
Looking guiltily from his face to the article in ques-
tion, the steward flushed and stammered — culpability
incarnate, thought Staff.
“Your bandbox, sir?”
“Do you think I'd go charging all over this ship for
a silly bandbox that wasn't mine?”
“But, sir — ”


T WINS 29
“I tell you, it's mine. It's tagged with my name.
Where's the steward I left it with ?”
“But, sir,” pleaded the accused, “this belongs to
this lidy 'ere. I'm just tikin’ it to 'er stiteroom, sir.”
Staff's gaze followed the man's nod, and for the first
time he became aware that a young woman stood a
step or two above them, half turned round to attend to
the passage, her air and expression seeming to indicate
a combination of amusement and impatience.
Precipitately the young man removed his hat.
Through the confusion clouding his thoughts, he both
foreglimpsed humiliation and was dimly aware of a
personality of force and charm: of a well-poised figure
cloaked in a light pongee travelling-wrap; of a face
that seemed to consist chiefly in dark eyes glowing
lambent in the shadow of a wide-brimmed, flopsy hat.
He was sensitive to a hint of breeding and reserve in
the woman's attitude; as though (he thought) the con-
tretemps diverted and engaged her more than he did
who was responsible for it.
He addressed her in a diffident and uncertain voice:
“I beg pardon. . . .”
“The box is mine,” she affirmed with a cool and
even gravity. “The steward is right.”
He choked back a counterclaim, which would have
been unmannerly, and in his embarrassment did some-


30 T H E B A N D B O X
thing that he instantly realised was even worse, ap-
proaching downright insolence in that it demanded
confirmation of her word: he bent forward and glanced
at the tag on the bandbox.
It was labelled quite legibly with the name of Miss
Eleanor Searle.
He coloured, painfully contrite. “I’m sorry,” he
stammered. “I — ah — happen to have with me the
precise duplicate of this box. I didn't at first realise
that it might have a -ah – twin.”
The young woman inclined her head distantly.
“I understand,” she said, turning away. “Come,
steward, if you please.”
“I’m very sorry —very,” Staff said hastily in intense
mortification.
Miss Searle did not reply; she had already resumed
her upward progress. Her steward followed, openly
grinning.
Since it is not considered good form to kick a steward
for knowing an ass when he meets one, Staff could no
more than turn away, disguise the unholy emotions
that fermented in his heart, and seek his stateroom.
“It had to be me!” he groaned.
Stateroom 432–433 proved to be very much occupied
when he found it — chiefly, to be sure, by the band-
box, which took up most of the floor space. Round it


T WINS 31
were grouped in various attitudes of dejection sundry
other pieces of travelling-gear and Mr. Iff. The latter
was sitting on the edge of the lower berth, his hands in
his pockets, his brow puckered with perplexity, his
gaze fixed in fascination to the bandbox. On Staff's
entrance he looked up.
“Hello!” he said crisply.
“Afternoon,” returned Staff with all the morose
dignity appropriate to severely wounded self-esteem.
Iff indicated the bandbox with a delicate gesture.
“No wonder,” he observed mildly, “you wanted the
ship to yourself.”
Staff grunted irritably and, picking his way through
and over the mound of luggage, deposited himself on
the transom opposite the berths.
“A present for the missis, I take it?” pursued Iff.
“You might take it, and welcome, for all of me. . . .
Only it is n’t mine. And I am not married.”
“Pardon l’ murmured Mr. Iff. “But if it is n't
yours,” he suggested logically, “what the deuce-and-
all is it doing here?”
“I’m supposed to be taking it home for a friend.”
“Ah! I see. . . . A very, very dear friend, of
course. . . . 2”
“You’d think so, would n’t you?” Staff regarded
the bandbox with open malevolence. “If I had my


32 T H E B A N D B O X
way,” he said vindictively, “I’d lift it a kick over the
side and be rid of it.”
“How you do take on, to be sure,” Iff commented
placidly. “If I may be permitted to voice my inmost
thought: you seem uncommon’ peeved.”
“I am.”
“Could I soothe your vexed soul in any way?”
“You might tell me how to get quit of the blasted
thing.”
“I’ll try, if you'll tell me how you got hold of it.”
“Look here !” Staff suddenly aroused to a percep-
tion of the fact that he was by way of being artfully
pumped. “Does this matter interest you very much
indeed 7”
“No more, apparently, than it annoys you. . . .
And it is quite possible that, in the course of time, we
might like to shut the door. . . . But, as far as that
is, I don't mind admitting I'm a nosey little beast.
If you feel it your duty to snub me, my dear fellow, by
all means go to it. I don't mind – and I dessay I
deserve it.”
This proved irresistible; Staff's humour saved his
temper. To the twinkle in Iff's faded blue eyes he
returned a reluctant smile that ended in open laughter.
“It’s just this way,” he explained somewhat to his
own surprise, under the influence of an unforeseen


T WINS 33
gush of liking for this good-humoured wisp of a man —
“I feel I'm being shamelessly imposed upon. Just as
I was leaving my rooms this morning this hat-box was
sent to me, anonymously. I assume that some cheeky
girl I know has sent it to me to tote home for her. It's
a certificated nuisance — but that is n’t all. There
happens to be a young woman named Searle on board,
who has an exact duplicate of this infernal contrap-
tion. A few moments ago I saw it, assumed it must
be mine, quite naturally claimed it, and was properly
called down in the politest, most crushing way imagin-
able. Hence this headache.”
“Sol” said Mr. Iff. “So that is why he does n’t love
his dear little bandbox! . . . A Miss Earle, I think
you said?”
“No — Searle. At least, that was the name on her
luggage.”
“Oh — Searle, eh?”
“You don't happen to know her, by any chance?”
Staff demanded, not without a trace of animation.
“Who? Me? Nothing like that,” Iff disclaimed
hastily.
“I just thought you might,” said Staff, disap-
pointed.
For some moments the conversation languished.
Then Staff rose and pressed the call-button.


34 T H E B A N D B O X
“What's up?” asked Iff.
“Going to get rid of this,” said Staff with an air of
grim determination.
“Just what I was going to suggest. But don't do
anything hasty — anything you’ll be sorry for.”
“Leave that to me, please.”
From histone the assumption was not unwarrantable
that Staff had never yet done anything that he had
subsequently found cause to regret. Pensively pun-
ishing an inoffensive wrist, Iff subsided.
A steward showed himself in the doorway.
“You rang, sir?”
“Are you our steward?” asked Staff.
“Yes, sir.”
“Your name?”
“Orde, sir.”
“Well, Orde, can you stow this thing some place out
of our way?”
Orde eyed the bandbox doubtfully. “I dessay I can
find a plice for it,” he said at length.
“Do, please.”
“Very good, sir. Then-Q.” Possessing himself of
the bandbox, Orde retired.
“And now,” suggested Iff with much vivacity,
“s'pose we unpack and get settled.”
And they proceeded to distribute their belong-


T WINS 35
ings, sharing the meagre conveniences of their quar-
ters with the impartiality of courteous and experienced
travellers. . .
It was rather late in the afternoon before Staff found
an opportunity to get on deck for the first time. The
hour was golden with the glory of a westering sun.
The air was bland, the sea quiet. The Autocratic had
settled into her stride, bearing swiftly down St. George's
Channel for Queenstown, where she was scheduled to
touch at midnight. Her decks presented scenes of
animation familiar to the eyes of a weathered voyager.
There was the customary confusion of petticoats and
sporadic displays of steamer-rugs along the ranks of
deck-chairs. Deck-stewards darted hither and yon,
wearing the harassed expressions appropriate to per-
sons of their calling — doubtless to a man praying for
that bright day when some public benefactor should
invent a steamship having at least two leeward sides.
A clatter of tongues assailed the ear, the high, sweet
accents of American women predominating. The
masculine element of the passenger-list with singu-
lar unanimity — like birds of prey wheeling in ever
diminishing circles above their quarry — drifted im-
perceptibly but steadily aft, toward the smoking-room.
The two indispensable adjuncts to a successful voyage
had already put in their appearance: item, the Pest,


36 T H E B A N D B O X
an overdressed, overgrown, shrill-voiced female-child,
blundering into everybody's way and shrieking im-
pertinences; item, a short, stout, sedulously hilarious
gentleman who oozed public-spirited geniality at every
pore and insisted on buttonholing inoffensive strangers
and demanding that they enter an embryonic deck-
quoit tournament—in short, discovering every known
symptom of being the Life and Soul of the Ship.
Staff dodged both by grace of discretion and good
fortune, and having found his deck-chair, dropped into
it with a sigh of content, composing himself for rest
and thought. His world seemed very bright with
promise, just then; he felt that, if he had acted on
impetuous impulse, he had not acted unwisely: only a
few more hours—then the pause at Queenstown –
then the brief, seven-day stretch across the Atlantic
to home and Alison Landis
It seemed almost too good to be true. He all but
purred with his content in the prospect.
Of course, he had a little work to do, but he didn't
mind that; it would help immensely to beguile the
tedium of the voyage; and all he required in order to
do it well was the moral courage to shut himself up for
a few hours each day and to avoid as far as possible
social entanglements. . . .
At just about this stage in his meditations he was


T WINS 37
somewhat rudely brought back to earth — or, more
properly, to deck.
A voice shrieked excitedly: “Why, Mr. Staff I’”
To be precise, it miscalled him “Stahf": a shrill,
penetrating, overcultivated, American voice making
an attempt only semi-successful to cope with the broad
vowels of modern English enunciation.
Staff looked up, recognised its owner, and said be-
neath his breath: “O Lord!” – his soul crawling with
recognition. But nothing of this was discernible in the
alacrity with which he jumped up and bent over a bony
but bedizened hand.
“Mrs. Ilkington l’’ he said.
“R’ally,” said the lady, “the world is ve-ry small,
is n’t it?”
She was a lean, angular, inordinately vivacious body
whose years, which were many more than forty, were
making a brave struggle to masquerade as thirty. She
was notorious for her execrable taste in gowns and
jewelry, but her social position was impregnable, and
her avowed mission in life was to bring together Society
(meaning the caste of money) with the Arts (meaning
those humble souls content to sell their dreams for the
wherewithal to sustain life).
Her passion for bromidioms always stupefied Staff
—left him dazed and witless. In the present in-


38 T H E B A N D B O X
stance he could think of nothing by way of response
happier than that hoary banality: “This is indeed
a surprise.”
“Flatterer!” said Mrs. Ilkington archly. “I’m not
surprised,” she pursued. “I might have known you'd
be aboard this vessel.”
“You must be a prophetess of sorts, then,” he said,
smiling. “I did n’t know I was going to sail, myself,
till late yesterday afternoon.”
“Deceiver,” commented the lady calmly. “Why
can't you men ever be candid?”
Surprise merged into some annoyance. “What do
you mean?” he asked bluntly.
“Oh, but two can play at that game,” she assured
him spiritedly. “If you won't be open with me, why
should I tell all I know?”
“I’m sure I don't know what you're driving at,
Mrs. Ilkington.”
“Would it improve your understanding” –
she threatened him gaily with a gem-encrusted
forefinger — “if I were to tell you I met a certain
person in Paris last week, who talked to me about
you?”
“It would not,” said he stiffly. “Who – ?”
“Oh, well, if you won't be frank!” Mrs. Ilkington's
manner implied that he was a bold, bad butterfly,


T WINS 39
but that she had his entomological number, none the
less. “Tell me,” she changed the subject abruptly,
“how goes the great play?”
“Three acts are written,” he said in weariness of
spirit, “the fourth —”
“But I thought you were n’t to return to America
until it was quite finished ?”
“Who told you that, please?”
“Never mind, sir! How about the fourth act?”
“I mean to write it en voyage,” said he, perplexed.
From whom could this woman possibly have learned so
much that was intimate to himself?
“You have it all mapped out, then?” she persisted.
“Oh, yes; it only needs to be put on paper.”
“R'ally, then, it's true — is n’t it — that the writ-
ing is the least part of play construction?”
“Who told you that?” he asked again, this time
amused.
“Oh, a very prominent man,” she declared; and
named him.
Staff laughed. “A too implicit belief in that theory,
Mrs. Ilkington,” said he, “is responsible for the large
number of perfectly good plays that somehow never get
written — to say nothing of the equally large number
of perfectly good playwrights who somehow never get
anywhere.”


40 T H E B A N D B O X
“Clever!” screamed the lady. “But are n't you
wasteful of your epigrams?”
He could cheerfully have slain her then and there;
for which reason the civil gravity he preserved was all
the more commendable.
“And now,” he persisted, “won't you tell me with
whom you were discussing me in Paris?”
She shook her head at him reprovingly. “You don't
know?”
“No.”
“You can't guess?”
“Not to save me.”
“R'ally?”
“Honestly and truly,” he swore, puzzled by the
undertone of light malice he thought to detect in her
Inanner.
“Then,” said she with decision, “I’m not going to
get myself into trouble by babbling. But, if you
promise to be nice to me all the way home — ?” She
paused.
“I promise,” he said gravely.
“Then – if you happen to be at the head of the
companion-ladder when the tender comes off from
Queenstown tonight – I promise you a huge surprise.”
“You won't say more than that?” he pleaded.
She appeared to debate. “Yes,” she announced


T WINS 41
mischievously; “I’ll give you a leading hint. The
person I mean is the purchaser of the Cadogan
collar.”
His eyes were blank. “And what, please, is the
Cadogan collar?”
“You don't mean to tell me you've never heard
of it?” She paused with dramatic effect. “Incredi-
ble! Surely, everybody knows about the Cadogan
collar, the most magnificent necklace of pearls in the
world!”
“Everybody, it seems, but myself, Mrs. Ilkington.”
“R’ally!” she cried, and tapped his arm playfully.
“You are as stupid as most brilliant men!”
A bugle sang through the evening air. The lady
started consciously.
“Heavens!” she cried. “Time to dress for dinner:
I must fly! . . . Have you made your table res-
ervation yet?”
“Yes,” he said hastily.
“Then do see the second-steward at once and get
transferred to our table; we have just one vacant chair.
Oh, but you must; you’ve promised to be nice to me,
you know. And I do so want you to meet one of my
protégées — such a sweet girl — a Miss Searle. I’m
sure you'll be crazy about her – at least, you would
be if there were no Alison Landis in your cosmos. Now,


42 T H E B A N D B O X
do attend to that right away. Remember you've
promised.”
Staff bowed as she fluttered away. In his heart he
was thoroughly convinced that this were a sorry scheme
of things indeed did it not include a special hell for
Mrs. Ilkingtons.
What had she meant by her veiled references to this
mysterious person in Paris, who was to board the
steamer at Queenstown? How had she come by so
much personal knowledge of himself and his work? And
what did she know about his love for Alison Landis?
He swore thoughtfully, and went below to dress,
stopping on the way to make arrangements with the
second-steward to have his seat changed, in accordance
with his exacted promise.


IV
QUEENSTOWN
IMMEDIATEly he had allowed himself to be per-
suaded, Staff felt sure he should not have agreed
to change his seat to the table occupied by Mrs. Ilking-
ton's party, especially if he meant sincerely to try to
do any real work aboard the Autocratic; and it was n’t
long after he had taken his place for the first dinner
that he was convinced that he had blundered beyond
remedy or excuse.
The table was round and seated seven, though when
the party had assembled there remained two vacant
places. Staff was assigned the chair on Mrs. Ilkington's
right and was sensitive to a not over subtle implication
that his was the seat of honour. He would cheerfully
have exchanged it for a place on the lady's left, which
would have afforded a chance to talk to Miss Searle,
to whom he earnestly desired to make an explanation
and such amends as she would permit. But a male
person named Bangs, endowed with impressive self-
assurance, altogether too much good-looks (measured
43


44 T H E B A N D B O X
by the standards of the dermatological institute adver-
tisements) and no excess baggage in the way of intel-
lect, sat on Mrs. Ilkington's left, with Miss Searle
beyond him. The latter had suffered Staff to be pre-
sented to her with (he fancied) considerable repressed
amusement. Not that he blamed her, but . . .
His position was rendered unhappy to the verge of
being impossible, however, by the lady on his own right,
a Mrs. Thataker: darkly temperamental and buxom, a
divorcée and (she lost no time in telling him) likewise
a playwright. True, none of her plays had ever been
produced; but that was indisputably due to a mana-
gerial conspiracy; what she really needed was a friend
at court—some clever man having “the ear of the man-
ager.” (Staff gathered that a truly clever man could
warm up a play and pour it into the ear of the managers
like laudanum and sweet-oil.) With such a man, he
was given to understand, Mrs. Thataker would n’t
mind collaborating; she had manuscripts in her steamer-
trunk which were calculated to prove a number of
things . . .
And while he was easing away and preparing to run
before the wind to escape any such hideous complica-
tion, he was abruptly brought up all-standing by the
information that the colour of the lady's soul was pink.
She knew this to be a fact beyond dispute, because she


QUEEN STOWN 45
never could do her best work save when garbed ex-
clusively in pink. She enumerated several articles of
wearing apparel not customarily discussed between
comparative strangers but which — always provided
they were pink — she held indispensable to the task
of dramatic composition.
In his great agony, happening to glance in Miss
Searle's direction, he saw her with head bent and eye-
lids lowered, lips compressed, colour a trifle heightened,
shoulders suspiciously a-quiver.
Incongruously, the impression obtruded that they
were unusually handsome shoulders.
For that matter, she was an unusually handsome
young woman: tall, fair, with a face featured with faint,
exquisite irregularity, brown eyes and brows in striking
contrast to the rich golden colour of her hair; well-
poised and balanced – sure but not too conscious of
herself . . .
Staff heard himself saying “Beg pardon?” to a
third repetition of one of Mrs. Thataker's gratuitous
revelations.
At this he took fright, drew back into his reserve for
the remainder of the meal, and as soon as he decently
could, made his excuses and fled to join Iff in the
smoking-room. . . .
He found the little man indulging his two passions;


46 T H E B A N D B O X
he was drinking whiskey-and-sodas and playing bridge,
both in the most masterly fashion. Staff watched the
game a while and then, the opportunity offering, cut
in. He played till ten o'clock, at which hour, wearied,
he yielded his seat to another, leaving Mr. If the victor
of six rubbers and twelve whiskey-and-sodas. As Staff
went out on deck the little man cut for the seventh and
ordered the thirteenth. Neither indulgence seemed to
have had any perceptible effect upon him.
Staff strolled forward, drinking in air that seemed the
sweeter by contrast with the reeking room he had just
quitted. The wind had freshened since nightfall; it
blew strong and cool, but not keen. And there was
more motion in the seas that sang overside, wrapped in
Cimmerian blackness. The sky had become overcast;
there were no stars: only the 'longshore lights of Ireland
twinkled, small, bright, incredibly distant over the
waters. The decks were softly aglow with electric lights,
lending a deeper shade of velvety denseness to the night
beyond the rails.
He had n't moved far forward when his quick sight
picked out the shimmer of a woman's hair, like spun
gold, about amidships in the rank of deck-chairs. He
made sure it was Miss Searle; and it was. She sat alone,
with none near her, her head resting against the back
of the chair, her face turned a trifle forward; so that


48 T H E B A N D B O X
“There are some crimes for which no adequate
punishment has ever been contrived,” he returned,
beginning to see his way, and at the same time beginning
to think himself uncommonly clever.
“Oh!” said Miss Searle with a little laugh. “Now if
you're leading up to a second apology about that ques-
tion of the bandbox, you need n’t, because I've forgiven
you already.”
He glanced at her reproachfully. “You just naturally
had to beat me to that, did n’t you?” he complained.
“All the same, it was inexcusable of me.”
“Oh, no; I quite understood.”
“You see,” he persisted obstinately, “I really did
think it was my bandbox. I actually have got one
with me, precisely like yours.”
“I quite believed you the first time.”
Something in her tone moved him to question her face
sharply; but he found her shadowed eyes inscrutable.
“I half believe you know something,” he ventured,
perplexed.
“Perhaps,” she nodded, with an enigmatic smile.
“What do you know?”
“Why,” she said, “it was simple enough. I happened
to be in Lucille's yesterday afternoon when a hat was
ordered delivered to you.”
“You were! Then you know who sent it to me?”


QUEEN STOWN 49
“Of course.” Her expression grew curious. “Don’t
you?”
“No,” he said excitedly. “Tell me.”
But she hesitated. “I’m not sure I ought . . .”
“Why not?”
“It’s none of my affair — ”
“But surely you must see . . . Listen: I'll tell you
about it.” He narrated succinctly the intrusion of the
mysterious bandbox into his ken, that morning. “Now,
a note was promised; it must have miscarried. Surely,
there can be no harm in your telling me. Besides, I’ve
a right to know.”
“Possibly . . . but I'm not sure I’ve a right to tell.
Why should I be a spoil-sport?”
“You mean,” he said thoughtfully — “you think it's
some sort of a practical joke?”
“What do you think?”
“Hmm-mm,” said Staff. And then, “I don't like to
be made fun of,” he asserted, a trace sulkily.
“You are certainly a dangerously original man,” said
Miss Searle – “almost abnormal.”
“The most unkindest slam of all,” he murmured.
He made himself look deeply hurt. The girl laughed
softly. He thought it rather remarkable that they
should enjoy so sympathetic a sense of humour on
such short acquaintance. . . .


50 T H E B A N D B O X
“But you forgive me?”
“Oh, yes,” he said generously; “only, of course, I
could n’t help feeling it a bit — coming from you.”
“From me?” Miss Searle sat up in her deck-chair
and turned to him. “Mr. Staff! you're not flirting
with me?”
“Heaven forfend!” he cried, so sincerely that both
laughed.
“Because,” said she, sinking back, “I must warn you
that Mrs. Ilkington has been talking . . .”
“Oh,” he groaned from his heart – “damn that
woman!”
There was an instant of silence; then he stole a con-
trite look at her immobile profile and started to get up.
“I–Miss Searle,” he stammered – “I beg your
pardon . . .”
“Don’t go,” she said quietly; “that is, unless you
want to. My silence was simply sympathetic.”
He sat back. “Thank you,” he said with gratitude;
and for some seconds considered the case of Mrs.
Ilkington, not charitably but with murder in his bosom.
“Do you mean,” he resumed presently, “she has – ah
— connected my name with —”
“Yes,” nodded the girl.
“Something lingering in boiling oil,” he mused
aloud, presently. . . . “What staggers me is how she


QUEEN STOWN 51
found out; I was under the impression that only the
persons most concerned knew about it.”
“Then it's true? You are engaged to marry Miss
Landis? Or is that an impertinent question?” With-
out pause the girl answered herself: “Of course it
is; only I could n’t help asking. Please forget I
spoke –”
“Oh, I don't mind,” he said wearily; “now that Mrs.
Ilkington has begun to distribute handbills. Only . . .
I don't know that there's a regular, hard-and-fast en-
gagement: just an understanding.”
“Thank you,” said Miss Searle. “I promise not to
speak of it again.” She hesitated an instant, then added:
“To you or anybody else.”
“You see,” he went on after a little, “I’ve been
working on a play for Miss Landis, under agreement
with Jules Max, her manager. They want to use it to
open Max's newest Broadway theatre late this autumn.
That's why I came across – to find a place in London
to bury myself in and work undisturbed. It means a
good deal to me — to all of us – this play. . . . But
what I'm getting at is this: Alison — Miss Landis —
did n’t leave the States this summer; Mrs. Ilkington
(she told me at dinner) left New York before I did.
So how in Heaven's name — ?”
“I had known nothing of Mrs. Ilkington at all,”


52 T H E B A N D B O X
said Miss Searle cautiously, “until we met in Paris
last month.”
He was conscious of the hint of uneasiness in her
manner, but inclined to assign it to the wrong cause.
“I trust I have n’t bored you, Miss Searle – talking
about myself.”
“Oh, no; indeed no. You see –” she laughed —
“I quite understand; I keep a temperament of my
own — if you should happen to wonder why Mrs.
Ilkington interests herself in me. I'm supposed
to have a voice and to be in training for grand
xx
opera.
“Not really?”
And again she laughed. “I’m afraid there is n’t any
cure for me at this late date,” she protested; “I’ve
gone so far I must go farther. But I know what you
mean. People who sing are difficult. However . . .”
She stirred restlessly in her chair, then sat up.
“What is that light over there?” she asked. “Do
you know?”
Staff's gaze sought the indicated direction. “Roches
Point, I imagine; we're about due at Queenstown . . .”
“As late as that?” The girl moved as if to rise.
Staff jumped up and offered her a hand. In a moment
she was standing beside him. “I must go below,” said
she. “Good night.”


QUEEN STOWN 58
“You won't tell me who it was in Lucille's, yester-
day?” he harked back pleadingly.
She shook her head gaily as she turned forward to
the main companionway entrance: “No; you must find
out for yourself.”
“But perhaps it is n’t a practical joke?”
“Then – perhaps – I shall tell you all — some-
time.”
He paused by the raised door-sill as she stepped
within the superstructure. “Why not stop up and see
the tender come off?” he suggested. “It might be
interesting.”
She flashed him a look of gay malice. “If we're to
believe Mrs. Ilkington, you're apt to find it more inter-
esting than I. Good night.”
“Oh – good night!” he muttered, disturbed; and
turned away to the rail.
His troubled vision ranged far to the slowly shifting
shore lights. The big steamship had come very close
inshore – as witness the retarded speed with which she
crept toward her anchorage — but still the lights, for
all their singular brightness, seemed distant, incalcula-
bly far away; the gulf of blackness that set them apart
exaggerated all distances tenfold. The cluster of sparks
flanked by green and red that marked the hover-
ing tender appeared to float at an infinite remove,


54 T H E B A N D B O X
invisibly buoyed upon the bosom of a fathomless
void of night.
Out of this wind-swept waste of impenetrable dark-
ness was to come the answer to these many questions
that perplexed him — perhaps. Something at least
would come to influence him; or else Mrs. Ilkington's
promise had been mere blague. . . . Then what?
Afterwards he assured himself that his stupidity had
been unparalleled inconceivable. And indeed there
seems to be some colour of excuse for this drastic
stricture, self-inflicted though it were.
Below him, on the main deck, a squad of deckhands
superintended by a petty officer was rigging out the
companion-ladder.
Very suddenly — it seemed, because of the immense
quiet that for all its teeming life enveloped the ship
upon the cessation of the engine's song — the vessel
hesitated and then no longer moved. From forward
came the clank of chains as the anchor cables were
paid out. Supple to wind and tide, the Autocratic swung
in a wide arc, until the lights of the tender disappeared
from Staff's field of vision.
Before long, however, they swam silently again into
sight; then slowly, cautiously, by almost imperceptible
stages the gap closed up until the tender ranged along-
side and made fast to her gigantic sister.


Q U E E N STOWN 55
Almost at once the incoming passengers began to
mount the companion-ladder.
Staff promptly abandoned his place at the rail
and ran down to the main-deck. As he approached
the doorway opening adjacent to the companion-
ladder he heard a woman's laugh out on the deck: a
laugh which, once heard, was never to be forgot-
ten: clear, sweet, strong, musical as a peal of fairy
bells.
He stopped short; and so did his breath for an in-
stant; and so, he fancied, did his heart. This, then,
was what Mrs. Ilkington had hinted at! But one woman
in all the world could laugh like that . . .
Almost at once she appeared, breaking through the
cluster of passengers on the deck and into the lighted
interior with a swinging, vigorous manner suggestive of
intense vitality and strength. She paused, glancing
back over her shoulder, waiting for somebody: a mag-
nificent creature, splendidly handsome, wonderfully
graceful, beautiful beyond compare.
“Alison!” Staff breathed hoarsely, dumfounded.
Though his exclamation could by no means have
carried to her ears, she seemed to be instantly sensitive
to the vibrations of his emotion. She swung round,
raking her surroundings with a bright, curious glance,
and saw him. Her smile deepened adorably, her eyes


QUEEN STOWN 37
with a grave, direct gaze; “I’m afraid I don't under-
stand. . . . How does this happen?”
“Why, of course,” she said, maintaining her arti-
ficial elation – “I infer — you’ve finished the play and
are hurrying home. So — we meet, dear boy. Is n’t
it delightful?”
“But you're here, on this side —?”
“Oh, just a flying trip. Max wanted me to see Bis-
son's new piece at the Porte St. Martin. I decided to
go at the last moment — caught the Mauretania on
eight hours' notice — stayed only three days in Paris
– booked back on this tub by telegraph — travelled
all day to catch it by this wretched, roundabout route.
And – and there you are, my dear.”
She concluded with a gesture charmingly ingenuous
and disarming; but Staff shook his head impatiently.
“You came over — you passed through London
twice — you stayed three days in Paris, Alison — and
never let me know?”
“Obviously.” She lifted her shoulders an inch, with
a light laugh. “Have n’t I just said as much? . . .
You see, I did n't want to disturb you: it means so
much to — you and me, Staff — the play.”
Dissatisfied, knitting his brows faintly, he said: “I
wonder . . .1”
- “My dear!” she protested gaily, “you positively


58 T H E B A N D B O X
must not scowl at me like that! You frighten me; and
besides I'm tired to death — this wretched rush of
travelling! Tomorrow we'll have a famous young
pow-wow, but tonight—l Do say good night to me,
prettily, like a dear good boy, and let me go. . . . It's
sweet to see you again; I'm wild to hear about the play.
. . . Jane!” she called, looking round.
Her maid, a tight-mouthed, unlovely creature,
moved sedately to her side. “Yes, Miss Landis.”
“Have my things come up yet?” The maid
responded affirmatively. “Good! I’m dead,
almost. . . .”
She turned back to Staff, offering him her hand
and with it, bewitchingly, her eyes: “Dear boy!
Good night.”
He bent low over the hand to hide his dissatis-
faction: he felt a bit old to be treated like a petulant,
teasing child. . . .
“Good night,” he said stiffly.
“What a bear you are, Staff! Can't you wait
till tomorrow? At all events, you must. . . .”
Laughing, she swept away, following her maid
up the companion stairs. Staff pursued her with
eyes frowning and perplexed, and more leisurely with
his person.
As he turned aft on the upper deck, meaning to go


QUEEN STOWN . 59
to the smoking-room for a good-night cigarette -
absorbed in thought and paying no attention to his
surroundings — a voice saluted him with a languid,
exasperating drawl: “Ah, Staff! How-d'-ye-do?”
He looked up, recognising a distant acquaintance:
a man of medium height with a tendency toward
stoutness and a taste for extremes in the matter
of clothes; with dark, keen eyes deep-set in a face
somewhat too pale, a close-clipped grey moustache
and a high and narrow forehead too frankly be-
trayed by the derby he wore well back on his head.
Staff nodded none too cordially. “Oh, good
evening, Arkroyd. Just come aboard?”
Arkroyd, on the point of entering his stateroom,
paused long enough to confirm this surmise. “Beastly
trip — most tiresome,” he added, frankly yawning.
“Don’t know how I should have stood it if it had n't
been for Miss Landis. You know her, I believe?
Charming girl — charming.”
“Oh, quite,” agreed Staff. “Good night.”
His tone arrested Arkroyd's attention; the man
turned to watch his back as Staff shouldered
down the alleyway toward the smoking-room. “I
say!” commented Mr. Arkroyd, privately. “A
bit hipped — what? No necessity for being so
bally short with a chap. . . .”


60 T H E B A N D B O X
The guess was only too well founded: Staff was
distinctly disgruntled. Within the past ten minutes
his susceptibilities had been deeply wounded. Why
Alison should have chosen to slight him so cavalierly
when in transit through London passed his compre-
hension. . . . And the encounter with Arkroyd
comforted him to no degree whatever. He had
never liked Arkroyd, holding him, for all his wealth,
little better than a theatre-loafer of the Broadway
type; and now he remembered hearing, once or
twice, that the man's attentions to Alison Landis
had been rather emphatic.
Swayed by whim, he chose to avoid the smoking-
room, after all — having little wish to be annoyed
by the chatter of Mr. Iff — and swung out on
deck again for a half-hour of cigarettes and lonely
brooding. . . .
But his half-hour lengthened indefinitely while
he sat, preoccupied, in the deck-chair of some total
stranger. By definite stages, to which he was almost
altogether oblivious, the Autocratic weighed anchor,
shook off her tender and swung away on the seven-
day stretch. As definitely her decks became bare
of passengers. Presently Staff was quite a solitary
figure in the long array of chairs.
Two bells rang mellowly through the ship before


QUEEN STOWN 61
he roused, lifted himself to his feet and prepared
to turn in, still distressed and wondering – so
much so that he was barely conscious of the fact
that one of the officers of the vessel was coming aft,
and only noticed the man when he paused and spoke.
“I say — this is Mr. Staff, is n’t it?”
Staff turned quickly, searching his memory for
the name and status of the sturdy and good-looking
young Englishman.
“Yes,” he said slowly, “but —”
“I’m Mr. Manvers, the purser. If I’m not
mistaken, you crossed with us this spring?”
“Oh, yes; I did. How-d'-you-do?” Staff offered
his hand.
“Sure I recognised you just now — saw you on
the main-deck — talking to Miss Landis, I believe.”
“Yes . . . .”
“Beg pardon; I don't wish to seem impertinent;
but may I ask, do you know the lady very well?”
Staff's eyes clouded. “Why . . .”
“Knew you'd think me impertinent; but it is
some of my business, really. I can explain to your
satisfaction. You see” — the purser stepped nearer
and lowered his voice guardedly – “I was won-
dering if you had much personal influence with
Miss Landis. I’ve just had a bit of a chat with her,


62 T H E B A N D B O X
and she won't listen to reason, you know, about
that collar.”
“Collar?” Staff repeated stupidly.
“The Cadogan collar, you know — some silly
pearl necklace worth a king's ransom. She bought
it in Paris — Miss Landis did; at least, so the report
runs; and she does n’t deny it, as a matter of fact.
Naturally that worries me; it's a rather tempting
proposition to leave lying round a stateroom; and
I asked her just now to let me take care of it for her
— put it in my safe, you know. It'd be a devilish
nasty thing for the ship, to have it stolen.” The
purser paused for effect. “Would you believe it?
She would n’t listen to me! Told me she was quite
capable of taking care of her own property! Now
if you know her well enough to say the right word
... it’d be a weight off my mind, I can tell you!”
“Yes, I can imagine so,” said Staff thoughtfully.
“But — what makes you think there 's any pos-
sibility —”
“Well, one never knows what sort of people the
ship carries — as a rule, that is. But in this instance
I’ve got good reason to believe there's at least one
man aboard who would n’t mind lifting that collar;
and he 's keen enough to do it prettily, too, if what
they tell of him is true.”


QUE ENS TO WN 63
“Now you're getting interesting. Who is this
man?”
“Oh, quite the swell mobsman — Raffles and
Arsène Lupin and all that sort of thing rolled
into one. His name 's Ismay — Arbuthnot Ismay.
Clever — wonderful, they say; the police have
never been able to fasten anything on him,
though he 's been known to boast of his jobs in
advance.”
“You told Miss Landis this?”
“Certainly — and she laughed.”
This seemed quite credible of the lady. Staff
considered the situation seriously for a moment
Or two.
“I’ll do what I can,” he said at length; “though
I’m not hopeful of making her see it from your
point of view. Still, I will speak to her.”
“That’s good of you, I’m sure. You could n’t
do more.”
“You’re positive about this Ismay?” Staff pur-
sued. “You could n’t be mistaken?” -
“Not I,” asserted the purser confidently. “He
crossed with us last year — the time Mrs. Burden
Hamman’s jewels disappeared. Ismay, of course,
was suspected, but managed to prove every kind
of an alibi.”


64 T H E B A N D B O X
“Queer you should let him book a second time,”
commented Staff.
“Rather; but he's changed his name, and I don't
imagine the chaps in Cockspur Street know him by
sight.”
“What name does he travel under now?”
The purser smiled softly to himself. “I fancy
you won't be pleased to learn it,” said he. “He’s
down on the passenger-list as Iff – W. H. Iff.”


V
ISMAY?
HEN Staff went below a little later, he was
somewhat surprised to find his stateroom
alight, — surprised, because he had rather expected
that Mr. Iff would elect to sleep off his potations
in darkness.
To the contrary, the little man was very much
awake, propped up in his berth with a book for
company, and showed no effects whatever of over-
indulgence, unless that were betrayed by a slightly
enhanced brightness of the cool blue eyes which he
brought to bear upon his roommate.
“Good morning!” he piped cheerfully. “What
on earth got you up so early? The bar's been
closed an hour and more.”
“Is that why you came to bed?” enquired Staff.
“Sure,” agreed Mr. If complacently.
Staff quietly began to shed his clothing and to
insert his spare frame into pajamas. If lay back
and stared reflectively at the white-painted over-
head girders.
65


66 T H E B A N D B O X
“Got to slip it to you,” he observed presently,
“for perfect mastery of the dignified reserve thing.
I never knew anybody who could better control his
tumultuous emotions.”
“Thanks,” said Staff drily as he wound up his
watch.
“Anything 'special troubling you?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You talk so darn much.”
“Sorry if I’m keeping you awake,” said Staff
politely.
“Oh, I don't mean to seem to beef about it, only
. . . I was wondering if by any chance you'd heard
the news?”
“What news?”
“About me.”
“About you!” Staff paused with his fingers on
the light-switch.
“About my cute little self. May I look now?”
Iff poked his head over the edge of the upper berth
and beamed down upon Staff like a benevolent,
blond magpie. “Have n't you heard the rumour
that I’m a desperate character?”
“Just what do you mean?” demanded Staff,
eyeing the other intently.
“Oh, simply that I overheard the purser discuss-


IS M A Y P 67
ing me with his assistant. He claims to recognise
in me a bold bad man named Ismay, whose specialty
is pulling off jobs that would make Sherlock Holmes
ask to be retired on a pension.”
“Well?”
“Well What?”
“Are you Ismay?”
A broad, mocking grin irradiated the little man's
pinched features. “Don’t ask me,” he begged: “I
might tell you.”
Staff frowned and waited a minute, then, receiv-
ing no further response to his enquiry, grunted
“Good night,” turned off the light and got into his
berth.
A moment later the question came out of the dark-
ness overhead: “I say — what do you think?”
“Are you Iff or Ismay – you mean?”
“Aye, lad, aye!”
“I don't know. It's for you to say.”
“But if you thought I was Ismay you’d shift
quarters, would n’t you?”
-- Why?”
“Because I might pinch something of yours.”
“In the first place,” said Staff, yawning, “I can't
shift without going into the second cabin — and
you know it: the boat's full up. Secondly, I've
Pł (, P E R T i
, of THE
NEW - YOR;
ºff’i ETY LIGHABY


68 T H E B A N D B O X
nothing you could steal save ideas, and you have n't
got the right sort of brains to turn them to any
account.”
“That ought to hold me for some time,” Iff ad-
mitted fairly. “But I’m concerned about your
sensitive young reputation. Suppose I were to turn
a big trick this trip?”
“As for instance — ?”
“Well, say I swipe the Cadogan collar.”
“Then I’d stand just so much the better chance
of catching you red-handed.”
“Swell notion you’ve got of the cunning of the
Twentieth Century criminal, I must say. D'you
for an instant suppose my work's so coarse that you
could detect grits in it?”
“Then you are Ismay?”
“My son,”
tinacity shan’t go unrewarded: I will be frank with
you. You shall know all. I am Iff — the eternal
question.”
“Oh, go to thunder!” said Staff indignantly.
But as he slipped off to sleep he could hear
the man overhead chuckling quietly, beneath his
breath. . . .
The next few days would have provided him with
ample opportunity in which to ponder the question
said the other solemnly, “your per-


IS M A Y P 69
of his roommate's identity, had Staff chosen so to
occupy his time. As it happened, Heaven was kind
to the young man, and sent a gale of sorts, which,
breaking upon the Autocratic the following morn-
ing, buffeted her for three days and relegated to
their berths all the poor sailors aboard, including
the lady with the pink soul and underthings. Of
Mrs. Thataker, indeed, Staff saw nothing more until
just before the vessel docked in New York. He
was n’t heartless by any manner of means; he was,
as a matter of fact, frankly sorry for the other poor
passengers; but he could n’t help feeling there was
a lot of truth in the old saw about an ill wind. . . .
Otherwise the bad weather proved annoying
enough in several ways. To begin with, Alison
Landis herself was anything but a good sailor, and
even Miss Searle, though she missed no meals,
did n’t pretend to enjoy the merciless hammering
which the elements were administering to the ship.
Alison retired to her suite immediately after the
first breakfast and stuck religiously therein until
the weather moderated, thus affording Staff no chance
to talk with her about the number of immediately
interesting things on his mind. While Miss Searle
stayed almost as steadily in her quarters, keep-
ing out of harm's way and reading, she told


70 T H E B A N D B O X
Staff when they met at meals. Mrs. Ilkington, of
course, disappeared as promptly as Mrs. Thataker.
In consequence of all of which, Staff found himself
thrown back for companionship on Bangs, who bored
him to the point of extinction, Arkroyd, whom he
did n’t like, and Iff, who kept rather out of the way,
dividing his time between his two passions and
merely leering at the younger man, a leer of infi-
nite cunning and derision, when chance threw them
together.
In despair of finding any good excuse for wasting
his time, then, Mr. Staff took unto himself pens,
ink, paper and fortitude and – surprised even him-
self by writing that fourth act and finishing his
play. Again – an ill wind!
And then, as if bent on proving its integral
benevolence so far as concerned Mr. Staff, the wind
shifted and sighed and died – beginning the oper-
ation toward sundown of the third day out from
Queenstown. The morning of the fourth day dawned
clear and beautiful, with no wind worth mentioning
and only a moderate sea running – not enough to
make much of an impression on the Autocratic.
So pretty nearly everybody made public appear-
ance at one time or another during the morning, and
compared notes about their historic sufferings, and


I S M A Y 2 71
quoted the stewardess who had been heard to say
that this was the worst westbound passage the boat
had ever made, and regained their complexions, and
took notice of the incipient flirtations and — well,
settled down in the usual way to enjoy an ocean
voyage. -
Staff, of course, was on deck betimes, with an eye
eager for first sight of Alison and another heedful
of social entanglements which might prevent him
from being first and foremost to her side when
she did appear. But for all his watchfulness and
care, Mrs. Ilkington forestalled him and had Alison
in convoy before Staff discovered her; and then
Arkroyd showed up and Mrs. Ilkington annexed
him, and Bangs was rounded up with one or two
others and made to pay court to Mrs. Ilkington's
newly snared celebrity and . . . Staff went away and
sulked like a spoiled child. Nor did his humour
become more cheerful when at lunch he discovered
that Mrs. Ilkington had kept two seats at their
table reserved for Miss Landis and Arkroyd. It
had been a prearranged thing, of course; it had been
Alison with whom Mrs. Ilkington had talked about
him in Paris; and evidently Alison had been es-
quired by Arkroyd there. Staff did n’t relish the
flavour of that thought. What right had Arkroyd


72 T H E B A N D B O X
to constitute himself Alison's cavalier on her travels?
For that matter, what right had Alison to accept
him in such a capacity? . . . Though, of course,
Staff had to remind himself that Alison was in
reality not bound in any way. . . .
But he had his reward and revenge after lunch.
As the party left the table Alison dropped behind
to speak to him; and in interchange of common-
places they allowed the others to distance them
beyond earshot.
“You’re a dear,” the young woman told him in
a discreet tone as they ascended the companionway.
“I’m bound to say,” he told her with a faint,
expiring flicker of resentment, “that you hardly
treat me like one.”
Her eyes held his with their smiling challenge,
half provocative, half tender; and she pouted a
little, prettily. In this mood she was always quite
irresistible to Staff. Almost against his will his
dignity and his pose of the injured person evaporated
and became as if they had never been.
“Just the same,” she declared, laughing, “you
are a dear — if you don't deserve to be told so.”
“What have I done?” he demanded guiltily —
knowing very well on what counts he was liable
to indictment.


IS M A Y P 73
“Oh, nothing,” said Alison – “nothing what-
ever. You've only been haughty and aloof and
icy and indifferent and everything else that men
seem to consider becoming to them when they think
they're neglected.”
“You certainly don't expect me to like seeing
Arkroyd at your side all the time?”
“Oh!” she laughed contemptuously — “Arkroyd!”
And she dismissed that gentleman with a fine sweep-
ing gesture. “Can I help it if he happens to travel
on the same ship?” -
They halted at the top of the steps.
“Then it was accidental — ?” he asked seriously.
“Staff!” The young woman made an impatient
movement. “If I did n’t like you — you know
how much – upon my word I’d snub you for that.
You are a bear!”
“A moment ago I was a dear.”
“Oh, well, I'm fond of all sorts of animals.”
“Then I advise your future husband to keep you
away from zoos.”
“Oh, Staff! But would n’t you want me to come
to see you once in a while?”
He jerked up one hand with the gesture of a man
touched in a fencing-bout. “You win,” he laughed.
“I should 've known better. . . .”


74 THE BAN D Box
But she made her regard tender consolation for
his discomfiture. “You have n’t told me about
the play — our play — my play?”
“It’s finished.”
“Not really, Staff?” She clasped her hands in
a charmingly impulsive way. He nodded, smiling.
“Is it good?”
“You’ll have to tell me that — you and Max.”
“Oh — Max! He's got to like what I like. When
will you read it to me?”
“Whenever you wish.”
“This afternoon?”
“If you like.”
“Oh, good! Now I’m off for my nap – only
I know I shan’t sleep, I’m so excited. Bring the
'script to me at two — say, half-past. Come to my
sitting-room; we can be alone and quiet, and after
you’ve finished we can have tea together and talk
and – talk our silly heads off. You darling!”
She gave him a parting glance calculated to turn
any man's head, and swung off to her rooms, the
very spirit of grace incarnate in her young and
vigorous body.
Staff watched her with a kindling eye, then shook his
head as one who doubts — as if doubting his own
worthiness – and went off to his own stateroom to


IS M A Y P 75
run over the type-script of his fourth act: being for-
tunate in having chosen a ship which carried a typist,
together with almostevery otherimaginable convenience
and alleged luxury of life ashore.
Punctual to the minute, manuscript under his arm,
he knocked at the door of the sitting-room of the suite
de lure occupied by the actress. Her maid admitted
him and after a moment or two Alison herself came out
of her stateroom, in a wonderful Parisian tea-gown
cunningly designed to render her even more bewilder-
ingly bewitching than ever. Staff thought her so,
beyond any question, and as unquestionably was
his thought mirrored in his eyes as he rose and stood
waiting for her greeting – very nearly a-tremble, if
the truth 's to be told.
Her colour deepened as she came toward him and
then, pausing at arm's length, before he could lift a
hand, stretched forth both her own and caught him
by the shoulders. “My dear!” she said softly; and her
eyes were bright and melting. “My dear, dear boy!
It's so sweet to see you.” She came a step nearer,
stood upon her tiptoes and lightly touched his cheek
with her lips.
“Alison . . . .” he cried in a broken voice.
But already she had released him and moved away,
with a lithe and gracious movement evading his arms.


76 T H E B A N D B O X
“No,” she told him firmly, shaking her head: “no
more than that, Staff. You mustn't — I won’t have
you — carry on as if we were children — yet.”
“But Alison — ”
“No.” Again she shook her head. “If I want to
kiss you, I've a perfect right to; but that doesn't give
you any licence to kiss me in return. Besides, I’m not
at all sure I’m really and truly in love with you. Now
do sit down.”
He complied sulkily.
“Are you in the habit of kissing men you don't
care for?”
“Yes, frequently,” she told him, coolly taking the
chair opposite; “I’m an actress – if you’ve forgotten
the fact.”
He pondered this, frowning. “I don't like it,” he
announced with conviction.
“Neither do I — always.” She relished his exas-
peration for a moment longer, then changed her tone.
“Do be sensible, Staff. I’m crazy to hear that play.
How long do you mean to keep me waiting?”
He knew her well enough to understand that her
moods and whims must be humoured like a - well,
like any other star's. She was pertinaciously temper-
amental: that is to say, spoiled; beautiful women are
so, for the most part – invariably so, if on the stage.


IS M A Y P 77
That kind of temperament is part of an actress' equip-
ment, an asset, as much an item of her stock in trade
as any trick of elocution or pantomime.
So, knowing what he knew, Staff took himself in
hand and prepared to make the best of the situation.
With a philosophic shrug and the wry, quaint Smile so
peculiarly his own, he stretched forth a hand to take
up his manuscript; but in the very act, remembering,
withheld it.
“Oh, I'd forgotten . . .”
“What, my dear?” asked Alison, smiling back to his
unsmiling stare.
“What made you send me that bandbox?” he de-
manded without further preliminary; for he suspected
that by surprising the author of that outrage, and by no
other method, would he arrive at the truth.
But though he watched the woman intently, he was
able to detect no guilty start, no evidence of confusion.
Her eyes were blank, and a little pucker of wonder
showed between her brows: that was all.
“Bandbox?” she repeated enquiringly. “What do
you mean?”
“I mean,” he pursued with a purposeful, omniscient
air, “the thing you bought at Lucille's, the day before
we sailed, and had sent me without a word of expla-
nation. What did you do it for?”


78 T H E B A N D B O X
Alison relaxed and sat back in her chair, laughing
softly. “Dear boy,” she said – “do you know? —
you’re quite mad – quite!”
“Do you mean to say you did n't — ?”
“I can't even surmise what you're talking about.”
“That's funny.” He pondered this, staring. “I
made sure it was you. Weren't you in London last
Friday?”
“I? Oh, no. Why, didn't I tell you I only left Paris
Saturday morning? That’s why we had to travel all
day to catch the boat at Queenstown, you know.”
He frowned. “That's true; you did say so. . .
But I wish I could imagine what it all means.”
“Tell me; I’m good at puzzles.”
So he recounted the story of the bandbox incognito,
Alison lending her attention with evident interest,
some animation and much quiet amusement. But
when he had finished, she shook her head.
“How very oddl” she said wonderingly. “And you
have no idea — ?”
“Not the least in the world, now that you've estab-
lished an alibi. Miss Searle knows, but —”
“What's that?” demanded Alison quickly.
“I say, Miss Searle knows, but she won't tell.”
“The girl who sat next to Bangs at lunch?”
“Yes — ”


IS M A Y 2 79
“But how is that? I don't quite understand.”
“Oh, she says she was in the place when the bandbox
was purchased — saw the whole transaction; but it's
none of her affair, says she, so she won't tell me any-
thing.”
“Conscientious young woman,” said Alison approv-
ingly. “But are you quite sure you have exhausted
every means of identifying the true culprit? Did you
examine the box yourself? I mean, did you leave it
all to the housemaid — what's her name — Milly?”
He nodded: “Yes.”
“Then she may have overlooked something. Why
take her word for it? There may be a card or some-
thing there now.”
Staff looked startled and chagrined. “That's so.
It never occurred to me. I am a bonehead, and no mis-
take. I'll just take a look, after we’ve run through
this play.”
“Why wait? Send for it now. I'd like to see for
myself, if there is anything: you see, you’ve roused a
woman's curiosity; I want to know. Let me send
Jane.”
Without waiting for his consent, Alison summoned
the maid. “Jane,” said she, “I want you to go to
Mr. Staff's stateroom —”
“Excuse me,” Staff interrupted. “Find the steward


80 T H E B A N D B O X
named Orde and ask him for the bandbox I gave him
to take care of. Then bring it here, please.”
“Yes, sir,” said Jane; and forthwith departed.
“And now — while we're waiting,” suggested Alison
– “the play, if you please.”
“Not yet,” said Staff. “I’ve something else to talk
about that I'd forgotten. Manvers, the purser — ”
“Good Heavens!” Alison interrupted in exaspera-
tion. She rose, with a general movement of extreme
annoyance. “Am I never to hear the last of that man?
He's been after me every day, and sometimes twice
a day. . . . He's a personified pest!”
“But he's right, you know,” said Staff quietly.
“Right! Right about what?”
“In wanting you to let him take care of that neck-
lace — the what-you-may-call-it thing – the Cadogan
collar.”
“How do you know I have it?”
“You admitted as much to Manvers, and Mrs.
Ilkington says you have it.”
“But why need everybody know about it?”
“Enquire of Mrs. Ilkington. If you wanted the mat-
ter kept secret, why in the sacred name of the great
god Publicity did you confide in that queen of press
agents?”
“She had no right to say anything –”


I S M A Y 2 81
“Granted. So you actually have got that collar
with you?”
“Oh, yes,” Alison admitted indifferently, “I have it.”
“In this room?”
“Of course.”
“Then be advised and take no chances.”
Alison had been pacing to and fro, impatiently. Now
she stopped, looking down at him without any abate-
ment of her show of temper.
“You’re as bad as all the rest,” she complained.
“I’m a woman grown, in full possession of my fac-
ulties. The collar is perfectly safe in my care. It's
here, in this room, securely locked up.”
“But someone might break in while you're out —”
“Either Jane is here all the time, or I am. It's
never left to itself a single instant. It's perfectly
ridiculous to suppose we’re going to let anybody rob
us of it. Besides, where would a thief go with it, if
he did succeed in stealing it — overboard?”
“I’m willing to risk a small bet he 'd manage to
hide it so that it would take the whole ship's com-
pany, and a heap of good luck into the bargain, to
find it.”
“Well,” said the woman defiantly, “I’m not afraid,
and I'm not going to be browbeaten by any scare-cat
purser into behaving like a kiddie afraid of the dark.


82 T H E B A N D B O X
I'm quite competent to look after my own property,
and I purpose doing so without anybody's supervision.
Now let's have that understood, Staff; and don't
you bother me any more about this matter.”
“Thanks,” said Staff drily; “I fancy you can count
on me to know when I'm asked to mind my own busi-
ness.”
“Oh, I did n’t mean that – not that way, dear boy
— but —”
At this juncture the maid entered with the bandbox,
and Alison broke off with an exclamation of diverted
interest.
“There! Let's say no more about this tiresome
jewel business. I'm sure this is going to prove ever so
much more amusing. Open it, Jane, please.”
In another moment the hat was in her hands and
both she and Jane were giving passably good imita-
tions — modified by their respective personalities —
of Milly's awe-smitten admiration of the thing.
Staff was conscious of a sensation of fatigue. Bend-
ing over, he drew the bandbox to him and began to
examine the wrappings and wads of tissue-paper which
it still contained.
“It’s a perfect dear!” said Miss Landis in accents of
the utmost sincerity.
“Indeed, mum,” chimed Jane, antiphonal.


IS M A Y P 83
“Whoever your anonymous friend may be, she has
exquisite taste.”
“Indeed, mum,” chanted the chorus.
“May I try it on, Staff?”
“What?” said the young man absently, absorbed in
his search. “Oh, yes; certainly. Help yourself.”
Alison moved across to the long mirror set in the
door communicating with her bedroom. Here she
paused, carefully adjusting the hat to her shapely
head.
“Now, sir!” she exclaimed, turning.
Staff sat back in his chair and looked his fill of admi-
ration. The hat might have been designed expressly for
no other purpose than to set off this woman's imperious
loveliness: such was the thought eloquent in his
expression. -
Satisfied with his dumb tribute, Alison lifted off the
hat and deposited it upon a table.
“Find anything?” she asked lightly.
“Not a word,” said he – “not a sign of a clue.”
“What a disappointment!” she sighed. “I’m wild
to know. . . . Suppose,” said she, posing herself
before him, - “suppose the owner never did turn up
after all?”
“Hum,” said Staff, perturbed by such a prospect.
“What would you do with it?”


IS M A Y 2 85
“It’s splendid,” she said with a soft, warm glow
of enthusiasm – “simply splendid. It's coherent, it
hangs together from start to finish; you’ve got little
to learn about construction, my dear. And my part
is magnificent: never have I had such a chance to show
what I can do with comedy. I'm delighted beyond
words. But . . .” She sighed again, distrait.
“But — ?” he repeated anxiously.
“There are one or two minor things,” she said with
shadowy regret, “that you will want to change, I
think: nothing worth mentioning, nothing important
enough to mar the wonderful cleverness of it all.”
“But tell me — ?”
“Oh, it's hardly worth talking about, dear boy.
Only — there's the ingenue rôle; you’ve given her
too much to do; she's on the stage in all of
my biggest scenes, and has business enough in
them to spoil my best effects. Of course, that can
be arranged. And then the leading man's part — I
don't want to seem hypercritical, but he's altogether
too clever; you must n’t let him overshadow the
heroine the way he does; some of his business is
plainly hers — I can see myself doing it infinitely
better than any leading man we could afford to
engage. And those witty lines you’ve put into his
mouth — I must have them; you won't find it hard,


86 T H E B A N D B O X
I'm sure, to twist the lines a bit, so that they come
from the heroine rather than the hero. . . .”
Staff held up a warning hand, and laughed.
“Just a minute, Alison,” said he. “Remember this
is a play, not a background for you. And with a play
it's much as with matrimony: if either turns out to be
a monologue it's bound to be a failure.”
Alison frowned slightly, then forced a laugh, and rose.
“You authors are all alike,” she complained, pouting;
“I mean, as authors. But I’m not going to have any
trouble with you, dear boy. We'll agree on everything;
I’m going to be reasonable and you’ve got to be. Be-
sides, we’ve heaps of time to talk it over. Now I'm
going to change and get up on deck. Will you wait for
me in the saloon, outside? I shan’t be ten minutes.”
“Will I?” he laughed. “Your only trouble will be
to keep me away from your door, this trip.” He
gathered up his manuscript and steamer-cap, then with
his hand on the door-knob paused. “Oh, I forgot that
blessed bandbox!”
“Never mind that now,” said Alison. “I’ll have
Jane repack it and take it back to your steward.
Besides, I'm in a hurry, stifling for fresh air. Just give
me twenty minutes. . . .”
She offered him a hand, and he bowed his lips to it;
then quietly let himself out into the alleyway.


VI
IFF 2
ATE that night, Staff drifted into the smoking-
room, which he found rather sparsely patron-
ised. This fact surprised him no less than its
explanation: it was after eleven o'clock. He had
hardly realised the flight of time, so absorbed had
he been all evening in argument with Alison Landis.
There remained in the smoking-room, at this late
hour, but half a dozen detached men, smoking and
talking over their nightcaps, and one table of
bridge players – in whose number, of course, there
was Mr. Iff.
Nodding abstractedly to the little man, Staff
found a quiet corner and sat him down with a sigh
and a shake of his head that illustrated vividly his
frame of mind. He was a little blue and more than a
little distressed. And this was nothing but natural,
since he was still in the throes of the discovery that
one man can hardly with success play the dual rôle of
playwright and sweetheart to a successful actress.
87


88 T H E B A N D B O X
Alison was charming, he told himself, a woman
incomparable, tenderly sweet and desirable; and
he loved her beyond expression. But . . . his
play was also more than a slight thing in his life.
It meant a good deal to him; he had worked hard
and put the best that was in him into its making; and
hard as the work had been, it had been a labour
of love. He was n’t a man to overestimate his
ability; he possessed a singularly sane and clear
appreciation of the true value of his work, harbour-
ing no illusions as to his real status either as drama-
tist or novelist. But at the same time, he knew
when he had done good work. And A Single Woman
promised to be a good play, measured by modern
standards: not great, but sound and clear and
strong. The plot was of sufficient originality to
command attention; the construction was clear,
sane, inevitable; he had mixed the elements of
comedy and drama with the deftness of a sure hand;
and he had carefully built up the characters in true
proportion to one another and to their respective
significance in the action.
Should all this then, be garbled and distorted to
satisfy a woman's passion for the centre of the stage?
Must he be untrue to the fundamentals of drama-
turgic art in order to earn her tolerance? Could


IFF 2 89
he gain his own consent to present to the public as
work representative of his fancy the misshapen
monstrosity which would inevitably result of yield-
ing to Alison's insistence?
Small wonder that he sighed and wagged a doleful
head!
Now while all this was passing through a mind
wrapped in gloomy and profound abstraction, Iff's
voice disturbed him.
“Pity the poor playwright!” it said in accents
of amusement.
Looking up, Staff discovered that the little man
stood before him, a furtive twinkle in his pale
blue eyes. The bridge game had broken up, and
they two were now alone in the smoking-room —
saving the presence of a steward yawning sleepily
and wishing to 'Eaven they'd turn in and give 'im
a charnce to snatch a wink o' sleep.
“Hello,” said Staff, none too cordially. “What
d’ you mean by that?”
“Hello,” responded Iff, dropping upon the cush-
ioned seat beside him. He snapped his fingers at
the steward. “Give it a name,” said he.
Staff gave it a name. “You don't answer me,”
he persisted. “Why pity the poor playwright?”
“He has his troubles,” quoth Mr. If cheerfully,


90 T H E B A N D B O X
if vaguely. “Need I enumerate them, to you? Any-
way, if the poor playwright is n’t to be pitied, what
right've you got to stick round here looking like
that?”
“Oh!” Staff laughed uneasily. “I was think-
ing. . . .”
“I flattered you to the extent of surmising as
much.” Iff elevated one of the glasses which had
just been put before them. “Chin-chin,” said he –
“that is, if you've no particular objection to chin-
chinning with a putative criminal of the d'p'st
dye?”
“None whatever,” returned Staff, lifting his own
glass – “at least, not so long as it affords me con-
tinued opportunity to watch him cooking up his
cunning little crimes.”
“Ah!” cried Iff with enthusiasm – “there spoke
the true spirit of Sociological Research. Long may
you rave!”
He set down an empty glass.
Staff laughed, sufficiently diverted to forget his
troubles for the time being.
“I wish I could make you out,” he said slowly,
eyeing the older man.
“You mean you hope I'm not going to take you
in.”


IFF 2 91
“Either way — or both: please yourself.”
“Ah!” said the little man appreciatively – “I am
a deep one, ain't I?”
He laid a finger alongside his nose and looked
unutterably enigmatic.
At this point they were interrupted: a man burst
into the smoking-room from the deck and pulled up
breathing heavily, as if he had been running, while
he raked the room with quick, enquiring glances.
Staff recognised Mr. Manvers, the purser, betraying
every evidence of a disturbed mind. At the same
moment, Manvers caught sight of the pair in the
corner and made for them.
“Mr. Ismay —” he began, halting before their
table and glaring gloomily at Staff's companion.
“I beg your pardon,” said the person addressed,
icily; “my name is Iff.”
Manvers made an impatient movement with one
hand. “Iff or Ismay — it's all one to me — to
you too, I fancy —”
“One moment!” snapped Iff, rising. “If you
were an older man,” he said stiffly, “and a smaller,
I'd pull your impertinent nose, sir! As things
stand, I’d probably get my head punched if I did.”
“That’s sound logic,” returned Manvers with a
Sneer.


92 T H E B A N D B O X
“Well, then, sir? What do you want with me?”
Manvers changed his attitude to one of sardonic
civility. “The captain sent me to ask you if you
would be kind enough to step up to his cabin,” he
said stiltedly. “May I hope you will be good enough
to humour him?”
“Most assuredly,” Iff picked up his steamer-cap
and set it jauntily upon his head. “Might one
enquire the cause of all this-here fluster?”
“I daresay the captain —”
“Oh, very well. If you won't talk, my dear
purser, I’ll hazard a shrewd guess — by your leave.”
The purser stared. “What's that?”
“I was about to say,” pursued Iff serenely, “that
I'll lay two to one that the Cadogan collar has
disappeared.”
Manvers continued to stare, his eyes blank with
amazement. “You’ve got your nerve with you, I
must say,” he growled.
“Or guilty knowledge? Which, Mr. Manvers?”
A reply seemed to tremble on Manver's lips, but
to be withheld at discretion. “I’m not the captain,”
he said after a slight pause; “go and cheek him
as far as you like. And we're keeping him waiting,
if I may be permitted to mention it.”
Iff turned to Staff, with an engaging smile. “Re-


IFF 2 93
jecting the guilty knowledge hypothesis, for the
sake of the argument,” said he: “you'll admit I'm
the only suspicious personage known to be aboard;
so it’s not such a wild guess – that the collar has
vanished – when I’m sent for by the captain at
this unearthly hour. . . . Lead on, Mr. Manvers,”
he wound up with a dramatic gesture.
The purser nodded and turned toward the door.
Staff jumped up and followed the pair.
“You don’t mind my coming?” he asked.
“No – wish you would; you can bear witness
to the captain that I did everything in my power
to make Miss Landis appreciate the danger —”
“Then,” Iff interrupted suavely, “the collar has
disappeared – we’re to understand?”
“Yes,” the purser assented shortly.
They scurried forward and mounted the ladder to
the boat-deck, where the captain's quarters were
situated in the deckhouse immediately abaft the
bridge. From an open door — for the night was
as warm as it was dark — a wide stream of light
fell athwart the deck, like gold upon black velvet.
Pausing en silhouette against the glow, the purser
knocked discreetly. Iff ranged up beside him,
dwarfed by comparison. Staff held back at a little
distance.


94 T H E B A N D B O X
A voice from within barked: “Oh, come in!”
Iff and Manvers obeyed. Staff paused on the
threshold, bending his head to escape the lintel.
Standing thus, he appreciated the tableau: the
neat, tidy little room — commodious for a steam-
ship – glistening with white-enamelled woodwork
in the radiance of half a dozen electric bulbs; Alison
in a steamer-coat seated on the far side of a chart-
table, her colouring unusually pallid, her brows
knitted and eyes anxious; the maid, Jane, standing
respectfully behind her mistress; Manvers to one
side and out of the way, but plainly eager and dis-
traught; Iff in the centre of the stage, his slight,
round-shouldered figure lending him a deceptive
effect of embarrassment which was only enhanced
by his semi-placating, semi-wistful smile and his
small, blinking eyes; the captain looming over him,
authority and menace incarnate in his heavy,
square-set, sturdy body and heavy-browed, square-
jawed, beardless and weathered face. . . .
Manvers said: “This is Mr. If, Captain Cobb.”
The captain nodded brusquely. His hands were
in his coat-pockets; he did n’t offer to remove
them. Iff blinked up at him and cocked his small
head critically to one side, persistently smiling.
“I’ve heard so much of you, sir,” he said in a


IFF 2 95
husky, weary voice, very subdued. “It’s a real
pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
Captain Cobb noticed this bit of effrontery by
nothing more than a growl deep in this throat. His
eyes travelled on, above Iff's head, and Staff was
conscious of their penetrating and unfriendly ques-
tion. He bowed uncertainly.
“Oh — and Mr. Staff,” said Manvers hastily.
“Well?” said the captain without moving.
“A friend of Miss Landis and also – curiously
— in the same room with Mr. Iff.”
“Ah,” remarked the captain. “How-d'-you-do?”
He removed his right hand from its pocket and
held it out with the air of a man who wishes it under-
stood that by such action he commits himself to
nothing.
Before Staff could grasp it, Iff shook it heartily.
“Ah,” he said blandly, “h” are ye?” Then he
dropped the hand, thereby preventing the captain
from wrenching it away, and averted his eyes mod-
estly, thereby escaping the captain's outraged glare.
Staff managed to overcome an impulse to laugh
idiotically, and gravely shook hands with the cap-
tain. He had already exchanged a glance with the
lady of his heart's desire.
An insanely awkward pause marked Iff's exhibi-


96 T H E B A N D B O X
tion of matchless impudence. Each hesitated to
speak while the captain was occupied with a vain
attempt to make Iff realise his position by scowling
at him out of a blood-congested countenance. But
of this, Iff appeared to be wholly unconscious.
When the situation seemed all but unendurable for
another second (Staff for one was haunted by the
fear that he would throw back his head and bray
like a mule) Manvers took it upon himself to ease
the tension, hardily earning the undying gratitude
of all the gathering.
“I asked Mr. Staff to come and tell you, sir,” he
said haltingly, “that I spoke to him about this
matter the very night we left Queenstown — asked
him to do what he could to make Miss Landis
appreciate —”
“I see,” the captain cut him short.
“That is so,” Staff affirmed. “Unfortunately
I had no opportunity until this afternoon —”
Alison interposed quietly: “I am quite ready
to exonerate Mr. Manvers from all blame. In fact,
he has really annoyed me with his efforts to induce
me to turn the collar over to his care.”
“Thank you,” said Manvers bowing.
There was the faintest tinge of sarcasm in the
acknowledgment. Staff could see that Alison felt


IFF 2 97
and resented it; and the thought popped into his
mind, and immediately out again, that she was
scarcely proving herself generous.
“It’s a very serious matter,” announced the cap-
tain heavily – “serious for the service: for the
officers, for the good name of the ship, for the repu-
tation of the company. This is the second time a
crime of this nature had been committed aboard
the Autocratic within a period of eighteen months —
less than that, in fact. It was June, a year ago, that
Mrs. Burden Hamman’s jewels were stolen — on
the eastbound passage, I believe.”
“We sailed from New York, June 22,” affirmed
the purser.
“I want, therefore,” continued the captain, “to
ask you all to preserve silence about this affair until
it has been thoroughly sifted. I believe the knowl-
edge of the theft is confined to those present.”
“Quite so, sir,” agreed the purser.
“May I ask how it happened?” Staff put in.
The captain swung on his heel and bowed to
Alison. She bent forward, telling her story with
brevity and animation.
“You remember” – she looked at Staff – “when
we met in the saloon, about half-past five, and went
on deck? . . . Well, right after that, Jane left my


98 T H E B A N D B O X
rooms to return the hat you had been showing me
to your steward. She was gone not over five min-
utes, and she swears the door was locked all the time;
she remembers locking it when she went out and
unlocking it when she returned. There was no
indication that anybody had been in the rooms,
except one that we did n’t discover until I started
to go to bed, a little while ago. Then I thought of
my jewels. They were all kept in this handbag”
— she dropped a hand upon a rather small Law-
rence bag of tan leather on the table before her —
“under my bed, behind the steamer trunk. I told
Jane to see if it was all right. She got it out,
and then we discovered that this had happened
to it.”
She turned the bag so that the other side was
presented for inspection, disclosing the fact that
some sharp instrument had been used to cut a great
flap out of the leather, running in a rough semicircle
from clasp to clasp of the frame.
“It was n’t altogether empty,” she declared with
a trace of wonder in her voice; “but that only
makes it all the more mysterious. All my ordinary
jewels were untouched; nothing had been taken
except the case that held the Cadogan collar.”
“And the collar itself, I hope?” Iff put in quietly.


100 T H E B A N D B O X
fectly.” With this the little man subsided, smiling
feebly at vacancy.
Staff interposed hastily, in the interests of peace:
“The supposition is, then, that the thief got in
during those five minutes that Jane was away from
the room?”
“It could n’t have happened at any other time,
of course,” said Alison.
“And, equally of course, it could n’t have hap-
pened then,” said Iff.
“Why not?” the woman demanded.
“The girl was gone only five minutes. That's
right, is n’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Jane.
“And the door was locked – you’re positive
about that?”
“Quite, sir.”
“Then will anyone explain how any thief could
effect an entrance, pull a heavy steamer trunk out
from under a bed, get at the bag, cut a slit in its
side, extract the leather case — and the collar, to
be sure — replace the bag, replace the trunk, leave
the stateroom and lock the door, all in five short
minutes – and without any key?” Iff wound up
triumphantly: “I tell you, it could n’t be done;’
it ain't human.”


IFF P 101
“But a skeleton-key —” Manvers began.
“O you!” said Iff with a withering glance.
“The door to Miss Landis' suite opens directly
opposite the head of the main companionway, which
is in constant use – people going up and down all
the time. Can you see anybody, however expert,
picking a lock with a bunch of skeleton-keys in that
exposed position without being caught red-handed?
Not on your vivid imagination, young man.”
“There may, however, be duplicate keys to the
staterooms,” Alison countered.
“My dear lady,” said Iff, humbly, “there are;
and unless this ship differs radically from others,
those duplicate keys are all in the purser's care.
Am I right, Mr. Manvers?”
“Yes,” said Manvers sullenly.
“And here's another point,” resumed Iff. “May
I ask you a question or two, Miss Landis?” Alison
nodded curtly. “You kept the handbag locked,
I presume?”
“Certainly.”
“And when you found it had been tampered with,
did you unlock it?”
“There was n't any need,” said Alison. “You
can see for yourself the opening in the side is so
large — ”


102 T H E B A N D B O X
“Then you did n’t unlock it?”
“No.”
“That only makes it the more mysterious. Be-
cause, you see, it's unlocked now.” -
There was a concerted movement of astonishment.
“How do you make that out, sir?” demanded
the captain.
“You can see for yourself (to borrow Miss Landis’
phrase) if you'll only use your eyes, as I have. The
side clasps are in place, all right, but the slide on
the lock itself is pushed a trifle to the left; which it
could n’t be if the bag were locked.”
There was a hint of derision in the little man's
voice; and his sarcastic smile was flickering round
his thin lips as he put out one hand, drew the bag
to him, lifted the clasps, and pushing back the lock-
slide, opened it wide.
“The thot plickens,” he observed gravely. “For
my part I am unable to imagine any bold and enter-
prising crook taking the trouble to cut open this
bag when the most casual examination would have
shown him that it was n’t locked.”
“He might 've done it as a blind. . . .” Manvers
suggested.
“Officer!” piped Iff in a plaintive voice – “he’s
in again.”


IFF 2 103
The purser, colouring to the temples, took a step
toward the little man, his hands twitching, but at
a gesture from the captain paused, controlled him-
self and fell back.
For a few moments there was quiet in the cabin,
while those present digested Iff's conclusions and
acknowledged their logic irrefragable. Staff caught
Alison staring at the man as if fascinated, with a
curious, intense look in her eyes the significance of
which he could not fathom.
Then the pause was brought to an end by the
captain. He shifted his position abruptly, so that
he towered over Iff, scowling down upon him.
“That will do,” he said ominously. “I’m tired
of this; say what you will, you have n’t hoodwinked
me, and you shan't.”
“My dear sir!” protested Iff in amazement.
“Hoodwink you ? Why, I'm merely trying to make
you see –” -
“You’ve succeeded in making me see one thing
clearly: that you know more about this robbery
than you've any right to know.”
“Oh, you-all make me tired,” complained Iff.
“Now you have just heard Miss Landis declare
that this collar of pearls vanished between, say,
five-thirty and five-forty-five. Well, I can prove


104 T H E B A N D B O X
by the testimony of three other passengers, and I
don’t know how many more, to say nothing of your
smoke-room stewards, that I was playing bridge
from four until after six.”
“Ah, yes,” put in the purser sweetly, “but you
yourself have just demonstrated conclusively that
the robbery could n’t have taken place at the hour
mentioned.”
Iff grinned appreciatively. “You’re improving,”
he said. “I guess that does n’t get you even with
me for the rest of your life — what?”
“Moreover,” Manvers went on doggedly, “Ismay
always could prove a copper-riveted alibi.”
“That's one of the best little things he does,”
admitted Iff cheerfully.
“You don't deny you're Ismay?” This from the
captain, aggressive and domineering.
“I don't have to, dear sir; I just ain't — that's
the answer.”
“You’ve been recognised,” insisted the captain.
“You were on this ship the time of the Burden
Hamman robbery. Mr. Manvers knows you by
sight; I, too, recognise you.”
“Sorry,” murmured Iff – “so sorry, but you’re
wrong. Case of mistaken identity, I give you my
word.”


IFF P 105
- “Your word!” snapped the captain contemp-
tuously.
“My word,” retorted Iff in a crisp voice;
more than that, I don’t ask you to take it. I’ve
proofs of my identity which I think will satisfy
--
and
even you.”
“Produce them.”
“In my own good time.” Iff put his back against
the wall and lounged negligently, surveying the circle
of unfriendly faces with his odd, supercilious eyes,
half veiled by their hairless lids. “Since you’ve
done me the honour to impute to me guilty knowl-
edge of this – ah — crime, I don’t mind admitting
that I was a passenger on the Autocratic when Mrs.
Burden Hamman lost her jewels; and it was n’t a
coincidence, either. I was with you for a purpose
— to look out for those jewels. I shared a room with
Ismay, and when, after the robbery, you mistook
me for him, he naturally did n't object, and I did n’t
because it left me all the freer to prosecute my in-
vestigation. In fact, it was due to my efforts that
Ismay found things getting too hot for him over in
London and arranged to return the jewelry to Mrs.
Hamman for an insignificant ransom – not a tithe
of their value. But he was hard pressed; if he'd
delayed another day, I'd 've had him with the


106 T H E B A N D B O X
goods on. . . . That,” said Iff pensively, “was when
I was in the Pinkerton service.”
“Ah, it was?” said the captain with much irony.
“And what, pray, do you claim to be now?”
“Just a plain, ordinary, everyday sleuth in the
employ of the United States Secret Service, detailed
to work with the Customs Office to prevent smug-
gling – the smuggling of such articles as, say, the
Cadogan collar.”
In the silence that followed this astounding dec-
laration, the little man hunched up his shoulders
until they seemed more round than ever, and again
subjected the faces of those surrounding him to the
stare of his impertinent, pale eyes. Staff, more de-
tached in attitude than any of the others present,
for his own amusement followed the range of Iff's
gaze.
Captain Cobb was scowling thoughtfully. Man-
vers wore a look of deepest chagrin. Jane's jaw had
fallen and her eyes seemed perilously protrudant.
Alison was leaning gracefully back in her chair –
her pose studied but charmingly effective – while
she favoured Iff with a scrutiny openly incredulous
and disdainful. -
“You say you have proofs of this – ah — asser-
tion of yours?” demanded the captain at length.


IFF 2 107
“Oh, yes – surely yes.” Iff's tone was almost
apologetic. He thrust a hand between his shirt and
waistcoat, fumbled a moment as if unbuttoning
a pocket, and brought forth a worn leather wallet
from which, with great and exasperating deliberation,
he produced a folded paper. This he handed the
captain—his manner, if possible, more than ever self-
effacing and meek.
The paper (it was parchment) crackled crisply
in the captain's fingers. He spread it out and held
it to the light in such a position that Staff could
see it over his shoulder. He was unable to read
its many closely inscribed lines, but the heading
“Treasury Department, Washington, D. C.” was
boldly conspicuous, as well as an imposing official
seal and the heavily scrawled signature of the
Secretary of the Treasury.
Beneath the blue cloth, the captain's shoulders
moved impatiently. Staff heard him say something
indistinguishable, but of an intonation calculated
to express his emotion.
Iff giggled nervously: “Oh, captain! the ladies —”
Holding himself very stiff and erect, Captain
Cobb refolded the document and ceremoniously
handed it back to the little man.
“I beg your pardon,” he said in a low voice.


108 T H E B A N D B O X
“Don’t mention it,” begged Iff. He replaced the
paper in his wallet, the wallet in his pocket. “I’m
sure it's quite an excusable mistake on your part,
captain dear. . . . As for you, Mr. Manvers, you
need n't apologise to me,” he added maliciously:
“just make your apologies to Captain Cobb.”


VII
STOLE AWAY!
ND then (it seemed most astonishing!) nothing
happened. The net outcome of all this fuss and
fluster was precisely nil. With the collapse of the
flimsy structure of prejudice and suspicion in which
Manvers had sought to trap Iff, the interest of all
concerned seemed to simmer off into apathy. Nobody
did anything helpful, offered any useful suggestion or
brought to light anything illuminating. Staff could n’t
understand it, for the life of him. . . .
There was, to be sure, a deal more talk in the cap-
tain's cabin — talk in which the purser took little or
no part. As a matter of fact, Manvers kept far in the
background and betrayed every indication of a desire
to crawl under the table and be a good dog. The cap-
tain had his say, however, and in the end (since he was
rather emphatic about it) his way.
He earnestly desired that the matter should be kept
quiet; it would do no good, he argued, to noise it about
amongst the passengers; the news would only excite
109


110 THE BAN D Box
them and possibly (in some obscure and undesignated
fashion) impede official investigation. He would, of
course, spare no pains to fathom the mystery; drastic
measures would be taken to secure the detection of the
culprit and the restitution of the necklace to its right-
ful owner. The ship would be minutely, if quietly,
searched; not a member of the crew, from captain to
stoker, would be spared, nor any passenger against
whom there might develop the least cause for suspicion.
Detectives would meet the ship at New York and co-
operate with the customs officials in a most minute
investigation of the passengers' effects. Everything
possible would be done – trust the captain! In the
meantime, he requested all present to regard the case
as confidential.
Iff concurred, somewhat gravely, somewhat diffi-
dently. He was disposed to make no secret of the fact
that his presence on board was directly due to the miss-
ing necklace. He had been set to watch Miss Landis,
to see that she did n’t smuggle the thing into the United
States. He hoped she would n’t take offense of this:
such was his business; he had received his orders and
had no choice but to obey them. (And, so far as was
discernible, Miss Landis did not resent his espionage;
but she seemed interested and, Staff fancied, consider-
ably diverted.) Mr. Iff could promise Miss Landis that


S TO L E A W A Y 111
he would leave no stone unturned in his private in-
quiry; and his work, likewise, would be considerably
facilitated if the affair were kept quiet. He ventured
to second the captain's motion.
Miss Landis offered no objection; Staff and Manvers
volunteered to maintain discretion, Jane was sworn to
it. Motion seconded and carried: the meeting adjourned
sine die; the several parties thereto separated and went
to their respective quarters.
Staff accompanied Alison as far as her stateroom,
but did n't tarry long over his second good-nights.
The young woman seemed excusably tired and nervous
and anxious to be alone – in no mood to discuss this
overwhelming event. So Staff spared her.
In his own stateroom he found Mr. Iff half-undressed,
sitting on the transom and chuckling noiselessly, ap-
parently in such a transport of amusement that he
did n't care whether he ever got to bed or not. Upon
the entrance of his roommate, however, he dried his
eyes and made an effort to contain himself.
“You seem to think this business funny,” suggested
Staff, not at all approvingly.
“I do,” laughed the little man – “I do, indeed. It's
a grand young joke – clutch it from me, my friend.”
“In what respect, particularly, do you find it so
vastly entertaining?”


112 T H E B A N D B O X
“Oh . . . is n’t that ass Manvers enough?”
Further than this, Mr. Iff declined to be interviewed.
He clambered briskly into his berth and chuckled
himself to sleep. Staff considered his behaviour highly
annoying.
But it was on the following day — the last of the
voyage — that he found reason to consider the affair
astonishing because of the lack of interest displayed by
those personally involved. He made no doubt but that
the captain was keeping his word to the extent of con-
ducting a secret investigation, though no signs of any
such proceeding appeared on the surface of the ship's
life. But Alison he could not understand; she seemed
to have cast care to the winds. She appeared at break-
fast in the gayest of spirits, spent the entire morning
and most of the afternoon on deck, the centre of an
animated group shepherded by the indefatigable Mrs.
Ilkington, dressed herself radiantly for the grand final
dinner, flirted with the assiduously attentive Arkroyd
until she had reduced Staff to the last stages of corroded
jealousy, and in general (as Staff found a chance to
tell her) seemed to be having the time of her life.
“And why not?” she countered. “Spilt milk!”
“Judged by your conduct,” observed Staff, “one
would be justified in thinking the Cadogan collar an
article de Paris.”
*


S TO L E A W A Y 113
“One might think any number of foolish things,
dear boy. If the collar's gone, it's gone, and
not all the moping and glooming imaginable will
bring it back to me. If I do get it back — why,
that 'll be simply good luck; and I’ve never found
it profitable yet to court Fortune with a doleful
mouth.”
“You certainly practise your theory,” he said. “I
swear I believe I'm more concerned about your loss
than you are.”
“Certainly you are, you silly boy. For my part, I
feel quite confident the necklace will be returned.”
He stared. “Why?”
She opened her hands expressively. “I’ve always
been lucky. . . . Besides, if I never see it again, it’ll
come back to me this way or that – in advertising,
for one.”
“Is n't that dodge pretty well worked out with the
newspapers? It seems to me that it has come to that,
of late; or else the prime donne have taken to guarding
their valuables with greater care.”
“Oh, that makes no difference. With another
woman it might, but I” – she shrugged – “I’m
Alison Landis, if you please. The papers won't
neglect me. Besides, Max can do much as he likes
with them.”


114 T H E B A N D B O X
“Have you — ?”
“Of course — by wireless, first thing this morning.”
“But you promised —”
“Don’t be tiresome, Staff. I bought this necklace
on Max's suggestion, as an advertisement — I meant to
wear it in A Single Woman; that alone would help
make our play a go. Since I can't get my advertising
and have my necklace, too, why, in goodness’ name,
may n't I get what I can out of it?”
“Oh, well . . .”
Staff abandoned argument and resting his forearms
on the rail, stared sombrely out over the darkling waters
for a moment or two.
This was at night, during an intermission in a dance
on deck which had been arranged by special permission
of the weather — the latter holding very calm and
warm. Between halves Staff had succeeded in dis-
entangling Alison from a circle of admirers and had
marched her up to the boat-deck, where there was less
light — aside from that furnished by an obliging moon
— and more solitude.
Under any other circumstances Staff would have
been enchanted with the situation. They were quite
alone, if not unobserved; and there was magic in the
night, mystery and romance in the moonlight, the inky
shadows, the sense of swift movement through space


S TO L E A W A Y 115
illimitable. Alison stood with back to the rail so near
him that his elbow almost touched the artificial orchid
that adorned her corsage. He was acutely sensitive
of her presence, of the faint persistent odour of her
individual perfume, of the beauty and grace of her
strong, free-limbed body in its impeccable Paquin
gown, of the sheen of her immaculate arms and shoul-
ders and the rich warmth of her face with its alluring,
shadowed eyes that seemed to mock him with light,
fascinating malice, of the magnetism of her intense,
ineluctable vitality diffused as naturally as sunlight.
But — the thought rankled — Arkroyd had won three
dances to his two; and through all that day Alison
had seemed determined to avoid him, to keep herself
surrounded by an obsequious crowd, impenetrable to
her lover. . . .
On the deck below the band began to play again:
signalling the end of the intermission. Alison hummed
lightly a bit of the melody, her silken slipper tapping
the deck. -
“Do I get another dance?” he asked suddenly.
She broke off her humming. “So sorry,” she said;
“my card is quite full and running over.”
“May I see it?” She surrendered it without hesi-
tation. He frowned, endeavouring to decipher the
scrawl by the inadequate moonlight.


116 T H E B A N D B O X
“You wanted to know – ?” she enquired, with a
laugh back of her tone.
“How many has Arkroyd, this half?” he demanded
bluntly.
“Two, I think,” she answered coolly. “Why?”
He stared gravely into her shadowed face. “Is that
good advertising, too,” he asked quietly – “to show
marked preference to a man of Arkroyd's calibre and
reputation?”
Alison laughed. “You’re delicious when you're
jealous, Staff,” said she. “No; it is n’t advertising —
it's discipline.”
“Discipline?”
“Just that. I'm punishing you for your obstinacy
about the play. You'll see, my dear,” she taunted
him: “I’m going to have my own way or make your
life perfectly miserable.”
Before he could invent an adequate retort, the
beautiful Mr. Bangs came tripping across the deck,
elation in his manner.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Landis! My dance, you
know. Been looking everywhere for you.”
“So sorry: I was just coming down.”
Alison caught up the demi-train of her gown, but
paused an instant longer, staring Staff full in the face,
her air taunting and provocative.


118 T H E B A N D B O X
too, had dressed for this celebration of the last night
of the voyage.
Smiling, she shook her head slightly. “Neither are
you, apparently. Won't you sit down?”
He was n’t at all reluctant to take the chair by her
side. “Why not?” he asked.
“Oh, I did dance once or twice and then I began to
feel a bit tired and bored and stole away to think.”
“Long, long thoughts?” he asked lightly.
“Rather,” said she with becoming gravity. “You
see, it seems pretty serious to one, this coming home to
face new and unknown conditions after three years'
absence. . . . And then, after six days at sea, out of
touch with the world, practically, there's always the
feeling of suspense about what will happen when you
get solid earth under your feet. You know what I
mean.”
“I do. You live in New York?”
“I mean to try to,” she said quietly. “I have n't
any home, really — no parents and only distant family
connections. In fact, all I do possess is a little income
and an immense desire to work.”
“You 're meaning to look for an engagement,
then?”
, “I must.”
“Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “I might help


120 T H E B A N D B O X
web remains, if almost invisible. . . . Still, I know
what you mean. . . . Wasn't that Miss Landis you
were with, just now?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me” — she stirred, half turning to him —
“has anything new transpired — about the collar?”
“You know about that!” he exclaimed in surprise.
“Of course; the ship has been humming with it ever
since dinner.”
“But how — ?”
“Mrs. Ilkington told me, of course. I presume Miss
Landis told her.”
“Doubtless,” he agreed reluctantly, little relishing
the thought. Still, it seemed quite plausible, Alison's
views on advertising values considered. “No,” he
added presently; “I’ve heard nothing new.”
“Then the Secret Service man has n’t accomplished
anything?”
“So you know about him, too? . . . Can't say—
have n’t seen him since morning. Presumably he's
somewhere about, sniffing for clues.”
“Miss Landis,” said the girl in a hesitant manner–
“does n’t seem to worry very much . . . .”
“No,” admitted Staff.
“Either that, or she's as wonderful an actress off
the boards as on.”


S TO L E A W A Y | 121
“They mostly are,” Staff observed. He was hardly
ready to criticise his beloved to a comparative stranger.
The subject languished and died of inanition.
“By the way — did you ever solve the mystery of
your bandbox?”
Staff started. “What made you think of that?”
“Oh — I don’t know.”
“No – have n’t had any chance. I rather expect to
find out something by the time I get home, though.
It is n’t likely that so beautiful a hat will be permitted
to blush unseen.” His interest quickened. “Won't you
tell me, please?” he begged, bending forward.
But the girl laughed softly and shook her head.
“Please!”
“Oh, I could n’t. I’ve no right to spoil a good joke.”
“Then you think it’s a joke?” he enquired gloomily.
“What else could it be?”
“I only wish I knew!”
The exclamation was so fervent that Miss Searle
laughed again.
Six bells sounded in the pause that followed and
the girl sat up suddenly with a little cry of mock
dismay.
“Eleven o'clock! Good Heavens, I must n’t loaf
another minute! I’ve all my packing to do.”
She was up and standing before Staff could offer to


122 T H E B A N D B O X
assist her. But she paused long enough to slip a hand
into his.
“Good night, Mr. Staff; and thank you for vol-
unteering to help me.”
“I shan’t forget,” he promised. “Good night.”
He remained momentarily where she left him,
following with his gaze her tall and slender yet well-
proportioned figure as it moved along the moonlit
deck, swaying gracefully to the long, smooth, almost
imperceptible motion of the ship.
He wore just then a curious expression: his eyes
wondering, his brows puckered, his thin lips shaping
into their queer, twisted smile. . . . Funny (he found
it) that a fellow could feel so comfortable and content
in the company of a woman he did n’t care a rap about,
so ill at ease and out of sorts when with the mistress of
his dreams! It did n't, somehow, seem just right. . . .
With a dubious grimace, he went aft. If, however,
was n’t in the smoking-room. Neither was he any-
where else that Staff could discover in his somewhat
aimless wanderings. And he found his stateroom un-
occupied when at length he decided to turn in.
“Sleuthing,” was the word with which he accounted
for the little man's invisibility, as he dropped off to sleep.
If he were right, Iff was early on the job. When the
bath-steward's knock brought Staff out of his berth


S TO L E A W A Y | 123
the next morning, his companion of the voyage was
already up and about; his empty berth showed that it
had been slept in, but its occupant had disappeared
with his clothing; and even his luggage (he travelled
light, with a kit-bag and a suit-case for all impedimenta)
had been packed and strapped, ready to go ashore.
“Conscientious,” commented the playwright pri-
vately. “Wonder if he's really on the track of
anything?”
Idle speculation, however, was suddenly drowned in
delight when, his sleep-numb faculties clearing, he
realised that the Autocratic was resting without way,
and a glance out of the stateroom port showed him the
steep green slopes of Fort Tompkins glistening in new
sunlight.
Home! He choked back a yell of joy, and raced
to his bath. Within twenty minutes, bathed, clothed
and sane, he was on deck.
By now, having taken on the health officers, the great
vessel was in motion again, standing majestically up
through the Narrows. To starboard, Bay Ridge basked
in golden light. Forward, over the starboard bow,
beyond leagues of stained water quick with the life of
two-score types of harbour and seagoing craft, New
York reared its ragged battlements against a sky whose
blue had been faded pale by summer heat. Soft airs


124 T H E B A N D B O X
and warm breathed down the Bay, bearing to his nos-
trils that well-kenned, unforgettable odour, like none
other on earth, of the sun-scorched city.
Staff filled his lungs and was glad. It is good to be
an American able to go roaming for to admire and for
to see; but it is best of all to be an American coming
home.
Joy in his heart, Staff dodged below, made his cus-
toms declaration, bolted his breakfast (with the
greater expedition since he had for company only
Mrs. Thataker, a plump, pale envelope for a soul
of pink pining for sympathy) and hurried back to the
deck.
Governor's Island lay abeam. Beyond it the East
River was opening up – spanned by its gossamer
webs of steel. Ahead, and near at hand, New York
bulked magnificently, purple canyons yawning between
its pastel-tinted cliffs of steel and glass and stone: the
heat haze, dimming all, lent soft enchantment. . . .
Ranks of staring passengers hid the rail, each a
bundle of unsuspected hopes and fears, longings and
apprehensions, keen for the hour of landing that would
bring confirmation, denial, disappointment, fulfillment.
Amidships Staff descried Mrs. Ilkington's head and
shoulders next to Miss Searle's profile. Arkroyd was
with them and Bangs. Alison he did not see, nor


S TO L E A W A Y | 125
Iff. As he hesitated whether or not to approach them,
a steward touched his arm apologetically.
“Beg pardon — Mr. Staff?”
“Yes . . . .”
“Mr. Manvers — the purser, sir–awsked me to
request you to be so kind as to step down to Miss
Landis' stiteroom.”
“Certainly.”
The door to Alison's sitting-room was ajar. He
knocked and heard her voice bid him enter. As he
complied it was the purser who shut the door tight
behind him.
He found himself in the presence of Alison, Jane,
Manvers and three men whom he did not know.
Alison alone was seated, leaning back in an armchair,
her expression of bored annoyance illustrated by the
quick, steady tapping of the toe of her polished boot.
She met his questioning look with a ready if artificial
and meaningless smile.
“Oh, you were n’t far away, were you, Staff?” she
said lightly. “These gentlemen want to ask you some
questions about that wretched necklace. I wish to
goodness I’d never bought the thing!”
Her expression had changed to petulance. Ceasing
to speak, she resumed the nervous drumming of her
foot upon the carpet.


126 T H E B A N D B O X
__
Manvers took the initiative: “Mr. Staff, this is Mr.
Siddons of the customs service; this is Mr. Arnold of the
United States Secret Service; and this, Mr. Cramp of
Pinkerton's. They came aboard at Quarantine.”
Staff nodded to each man in turn, and reviewed
their faces, finding them one and all more or less com-
monplace and uninteresting.
“How-d-you-do?” he said civilly; and to Manvers:
“Well . . . .”
“We were wondering if you'd seen anything of Mr.
Iff this morning?”
“No — nothing. He came to bed after I’d gone to
sleep last night, and was up and out before I woke.
Why?”
“He –” the purser began; but the man he had
called Mr. Arnold interrupted.
“He claimed to be a Secret Service man, did n’t he?”
“He did,” returned Staff. “Captain Cobb saw his
credentials, I believe.”
“But that did n’t satisfy him,” Manvers put in
eagerly. “I managed to make him understand that
credentials could be forged, so he wirelessed for infor-
mation. And,” the purser added triumphantly after
a distinct dramatic pause, “he got it.”
“You mean Iff isn't what he claimed—?” exclaimed
Staff.


S TO L E A W A Y | 127
Arnold nodded brusquely. “There's no such person
in the service,” he affirmed.
“Then he is Ismay!”
The Pinkerton man answered him: “If he is and I
lay eyes on him, I can tell in two shakes.”
“By George!” cried Staff in admiration – “the
clever little scamp!”
“You may well say so,” said Manvers bitterly.
“If you'd listened to me – if the captain had —
this would n’t have happened.”
“What — the theft?”
“Yes, that primarily; but now, you know — because
he was given so much rope — he's vanished.”
“What!”
“Vanished — disappeared – gone!” said the purser,
waving his hands graphically.
“But he can't have left the ship!’
“Does n't seem so, does it?” said the Pinkerton
man morosely. “All the same, we've made a pretty
thorough search, and he can't be found.”
“You see,” resumed Manvers, “when the captain
got word yesterday afternoon that Iff or Ismay was n't
what he pretended to be, he simply wirelessed back
for a detective, and did n’t arrest Iff, because — he
said – he could n’t get away. I told him he was
wrong — and he was!”


VIII
THE WRONG BOX
HEN the janitor and the taxicab operator
between them had worried all his luggage up-
stairs, Staff paid and tipped them and thankfully saw
the hall-door close on their backs. He was tired, over-
heated and glad to be alone.
Shaking off his coat, he made a round of his rooms,
opening windows. Those in the front of the apart-
ment looked out from the second-story elevation upon
East Thirtieth Street, between Fourth and Lexing-
ton Avenues. Those in the rear (he discovered to his
consummate disgust) commanded an excellent view of
a very deep hole in the ground swarming with Italian
labourers and dotted with steam drills, mounds of
broken rock and carters with their teams; also a
section of East Twenty-ninth Street was visible
through the space that had been occupied no longer
ago than last spring by a dignified row of brownstone
houses with well-tended backyards.
Staff cursed soulfully the noise and dirt caused by
the work of excavation, shut the back windows to
128


130 T H E B A N D B O X
make as little trouble for himself as possible. To hunt a
new place to live would be quite as much of a nuisance
as to move to it, when found. And he was comfortable
enough where he was. He had taken the place some
eight years previously, at a time when it was rather
beyond his means; today when he could well afford
to live where he would in New York, he found that his
rooms had become a habit with him. He had no inten-
tion whatever of leaving them until the house should be
dismantled to make way for some more modern struc-
ture — like that going up in the rear – or until he
married.
He poked round, renewing acquaintance with old,
familiar things, unearthed an ancient pipe which had
lain in one of his desk-drawers like a buried bone,
fondled it lovingly, filled and lighted it, and felt all
the time more and more content and at ease.
Then Shultz knocked at the door and delivered to him
a bundle of afternoon papers for which he had filed a
requisition immediately on his arrival.
He sat down, enjoying his pipe to the utmost and
wondering how under the sun he had managed to worry
along without it all the time he had been away, and
began to read what the reporters had to say about the
arrival of the Autocratic and the case of the Cadogan
collar.


132 T H E B A N D B O X
been thorough beyond parallel. Not even the steerage
and second-cabin passengers had escaped; everybody's
belongings had been combed fine by a corps of inspectors
whose dutiful curiosity had been abnormally stimulated
by the prospect of a ten-thousand-dollar reward. Not
a few passengers had been obliged to submit to the
indignity of personal search – Staff and Alison in
their number; the latter for no reason that Staff could
imagine; the former presumably because he had roomed
with the elusive Mr. Iff on the way over. He had also
been mulcted a neat little sum as duty on that miserable
hat, which he had been obliged to declare as a present
for a friend.
In memory of this he now rose, marched over
to the bandbox, innocently reposing in the middle
of the floor, and dispassionately lifted it the kick
he had been promising it ever since the first day of
their acquaintance.
It sailed up prettily, banged the wall with a hollow
noise and dropped to the floor with a grievous dent in
one side.
There – out of his way–Staff left it. Immeas-
urably mollified, he proceeded to unpack and put his
house in order. By the time this was done to his
satisfaction and Shultz had dragged the empty trunks
into the hall, to be carried downstairs and stored in


T H E W R O N G B O X 133
the cellar, it was evening and time to dress. So Staff
made himself clean with much water and beautiful with
cold steel and resplendent with evening clothes, and
tucked the manuscript of A Single Woman into the
pocket of a light topcoat and sallied forth to dine with
Jules Max and Alison Landis.
It was late, something after midnight, when he
returned, driving up to his ‘house in a taxicab and a
decidedly disgruntled frame of mind. Alison had been
especially trying with regard to the play; and Max,
while privately letting the author see that he thought
him in the right in refusing to make changes until
rehearsals had demonstrated their advisability, and
in spite of his voluble appreciation of the play's
merits, had given Alison the support she demanded.
The inference was plain: the star was to be humoured
even at the cost of a crippled play. Between love
for the woman and respect for his work, desire to
please her and determination not to misrepresent him-
self to the public, Staff, torn this way and that, felt
that he had at length learned the true meaning of
“the horns of dilemma.” But this reflection availed
nothing to soothe his temper.
When he got out of the cab a short but sharp argu-
ment ensued with the operator; it seemed that “the
clock” was out of order and not registering — had


T H E W R O N G B O X 135
As he let himself into the house, a man in evening
dress came running down the stairs, brushed past
rudely and without apology, and slammed the door
behind him. Staff wondered and frowned slightly.
Presumably the fellow had been calling on one of the
tenants of the upper floors. There had been something
familiar in his manner – something reminiscent, but
too indefinite for recognition. And certainly he'd been
in the devil of a hurry!
In the meantime he had mounted the first flight of
stairs and turned through the hall to his study door.
To his surprise it was n't locked. He seemed dis-
tinctly to remember locking it when he had left for
dinner. Still, memory does play us odd tricks.
He pushed the door open and entered the room. At
the same moment he heard the trilling of the telephone
bell. The instrument stood upon his desk between the
two front windows. Without pausing to switch on one
of the lights in the combination gas- and electro-
lier in the centre of the room, he groped his way
through blinding darkness to the desk and, finding the
telephone instrument with the certainty of old
acquaintance, lifted the receiver to his ear.
“Hello?” he called.
A thin and business-like voice detailed his number.
“Yes,” he said. “What is it?”


T H E W R O N G B O X 137
“Good-bye,” he returned automatically, and hung up
the receiver.
What on earth could she be wanting, that could have
turned up so unexpectedly in the half-hour since he had
left her and that would n’t keep till morning?
Abruptly he became aware that the air in the room
was stiflingly close. And he had left the windows open
when he went out; he knew that he was n’t mistaken
about that; and now they were closed, the shades
drawn tight!
This considered in connection with the open door
that had been locked, and the heated desk-lamp
that should have been cold, he could n't avoid the
conclusion that somebody had been in his rooms,
an unlawful trespasser, just a few minutes before he
came in — possibly the very man who had rushed past
him in such violent haste at the front door.
He jumped up and turned on all the lights in the room.
A first, hasty glance about showed him nothing as it
had not been when he had left six hours or so ago —
aside from the front windows, of course. Mechanically,
thinking hard and fast, he went to these latter and
opened them wide.
The possibility that the intruder might still be in
the rooms — in his bedroom, for instance — popped
into his head, and he went hurriedly to investigate.


138 T H E B A N D B O X
-
But there was n’t anybody in the back-room or the
bath-room.
Perplexed, he examined the rear windows. They
were closed and locked, as when he had left. Opening
them, he peered out and down the fire-escape; he had
always had a notion that anybody foolish enough to
want to burgle his rooms would find it easy to effect an
entrance via the fire-escape, whose bottom rung was
only eight feet or so above the level of the backyard.
And now, since the Twenty-ninth Street houses had
been torn down, lending access easy via the excavation,
such an attempt would be doubly easy.
But he had every evidence that his rooms had n't
been broken into by any such route; although — of
course! – an astute burglar might have thought to
cover up his tracks by relocking the windows after
he had entered. On the other hand, the really wise
marauder would have almost certainly left them open
to provide a way of escape in emergency.
Baffled and wondering, Staff returned to his study.
An examination of the hall-closet yielded nothing illu-
minating. Everything was undisturbed, and there
was n’t room enough therein for anybody to hide.
He shut the closet door and reviewed the study more
carefully. Not a thing out of place; even that wretched
bandbox lay where he had kicked it, with a helpless,


T H E W R O N G B O X 139
abused look, the dented side turned pitifully to the
light — much like a street beggar exposing a maimed
limb to excite public sympathy.
He struggled to think: what did he possess worth
stealing? Nothing of any great value: a modest col-
lection of masculine jewelry — stick-pins and the like;
a quantity of clothing; a few fairly good pictures; a
few rare books. But the merest cursory examination
showed that these were intact, one and all. What cash
he had was all upon his person. His desk, where the
lamp had been lighted, held nothing valuable to any-
body other than himself: manuscripts, account books,
some personal papers strictly non-negotiable. And
these too proved undisturbed.
Swinging round from the desk, he rested his elbows
on his knees, clasped his hands, and lapsed into the
most profound of meditations; through which he
arrived at the most amazing discovery of all.
Very gradually his eyes, at first seeing not what they
saw, focussed upon an object on the floor. Quite ex-
cusably he was reluctant to believe their evidence.
Eventually, however, he bent forward and picked up
the thing.
It lay in his hand, eloquently absurd—in his study!
– a bow of violet-coloured velvet ribbon, cunningly
knotted, complete in itself. From its reverse, a few


142 T H E B A N D B O X
ing back did as bid. At the same time Alison disposed
herself negligently in a capacious wing-chair.
“Yes,” she took up his monosyllable; “it’s quite as
important as all that. I don't wish to be overheard.
Besides,” she added with nonchalant irrelevance, “I
do want a cigarette.”
Silently Staff found his metal cigarette-safe and
offered it, put a match to the paper roll held so
daintily between his lady's lips, and then helped
himself.
Through a thin veil of smoke she looked up into his
serious face and smiled bewitchingly.
“Are you thrilled, my dear?” she asked lightly.
“Thrilled?” he questioned. “How?”
She lifted her white, gleaming shoulders with an air
of half-tolerant impatience. “To have a beautiful
woman alone with you in your rooms, at this hour o'
night . . . Don't you find it romantic, dear boy? Or
are n't you in a romantic mood tonight? Or perhaps
I'm not sufficiently beautiful . . . .” She ended with
a charming little petulant moue.
“You know perfectly well you're one of the most
beautiful women in the world,” he began gravely; but
she caught him up.
“One of — ?”
“To me, of course-you know the rest: the usual


T H E W R O N G B O X 143
thing,” he said. “But you did n't come here to discuss
your charms — now did you?”
She shook her head slightly, smiling with light-
hearted malice. “By no means. But, at the same time,
if I’ve a whim to be complimented, I do think you
might be gallant enough to humour me.”
But he was in anything but a gallant temper. Mys-
tery hedged his thoughts about and possessed them; he
could n’t rid his imagination of the inexplicable cir-
cumstances of the man who had broken into his rooms
to steal nothing, and the knot of velvet ribbon that had
dropped from nowhere to his study floor. And when he
forced his thoughts back to Alison, it was only to feel
again the smart of some of the stinging things she had
chosen to say to him that night during their discussion
of his play, and to be conscious of a certain amount of
irritation because of the effrontery of her present pose,
assuming as it did that he would eventually bend to
her will, endure all manner of insolence and indignity,
because he hoped she would marry him.
Something of what was passing through his mind as
he stood mute before her, she read in his look — or
intuitively divined.
“Heavens!” she cried, “you're as temperamental
as a leading-man. Can't you accept a word or two of
criticism of your precious play without sulking like —


144 T H E B A N D B O X
like Max does when I make up my mind to take a week's
rest in the middle of the season?”
“Criticise as much as you like,” he said; “and I'll
listen and take it to heart. But I don't mind telling
you I'm not going to twist this play out of all
dramatic semblance at your dictation — or Max's
either.”
For a moment their glances crossed like swords; he
was conscious from the flicker in her eyes that her tem-
per was straining at the leash; and his jaw assumed a
certain look of grim solidity. But the outbreak he
expected did not come; Alison was an artiste too con-
summate not to be able to control and mask her emo-
tions — even as she did now with a quick curtaining
of her eyes behind long lashes.
“Don’t let's talk about that now,” she said in a
soft, placating voice. “That's a matter for hours of
business. We're getting farther and farther away from
my errand.”
“By all means,” he returned pleasantly, “let us go
to that at once.”
“You can't guess?” She unmasked again the bat-
tery of her laughing eyes. He shook his head. “I’ll
give you three guesses.”
He found the courage to say: “You did n't come to
confess that I'm in the right about the play?”


T H E W R O N G B O X 145
She pouted prettily. “Can't you let that be? No,
of course not.”
“Nor to bicker about it?”
She laughed a denial.
“Nor yet to conduct a guessing contest?”
“No.”
“Then I’ve exhausted my allowance. . . . Well?”
“I came,” she drawled, “for my hat.”
“Your hat?” His eyes opened wide.
She nodded. “My pretty hat. You remember
you promised to give it to me if nobody else claimed
it.”
“Yes, but . . .”
“And nobody has claimed it?”
“No, but . . .”
“Then I want my hat.”
“But — hold on — give somebody a chance —”
“Stupid?” she laughed. “Is n’t it enough that I
claim it? Am I nobody?”
“Wait half a minute. You've got me going.” He
paused, frowning thoughtfully, recollecting his wits;
then by degrees the light began to dawn upon him.
“Do you mean you really did send me that confounded
bandbox?”
Coolly she inclined her head: “I did just that, my
dear.”


T H E W R O N G B O X 147
necklace in, concealed in its lining. Up to that point
you were n’t involved. Then by happy accident I saw
your name on the list. Instantly it flashed upon me,
how I could make you useful. It was just possible,
you see, that those hateful customs men might be
shrewd enough to search the hat, too. How much
better, then, to make you bring in the hat, all unsus-
pecting! They'd never think of searching it in your
hands! You see?”
His face had been hardening during this amazing
speech. When she stopped he shot in a crisp
question:
“The necklace was n’t in the hat when delivered
to me? You did n’t trust it to the shop people over
night?”
“Of course not. I merely sent you the hat; then —
as I knew you would — you mentioned it to me aboard
ship. I got you to bring it to my room, and then sent
you out — you remember? While you waited I sewed
the necklace in the lining; it took only an instant.
Then Jane carried the hat back to your steward.”
“So,” he commented stupidly, “it was n’t stolen!”
“Naturally not.” -
“But you threw suspicion on Iff —”
“I daresay he was guilty enough in intent, if not in
deed. There's not the slightest doubt in my mind


148 T H E B A N D B O X
that he's that man Ismay, really, and that he shipped
with us for the especial purpose of stealing the neck-
lace if he got half a chance.”
“You may be right; I don't know — and neither do
you. But do you realise that you came near causing
an innocent man to be jailed for the theft?”
“But I did n’t. He got away.”
“But not Iff alone — there's myself. Have you
paused to consider what would have happened to me
if the inspector had happened to find that necklace in
the hat? Heavens knows how he missed it! He was
persistent enough! . . . But if he had found it, I’d
have been jailed for theft.”
“Oh, no,” she said sweetly; “I’d never have let it
go that far.”
“Not even if to confess would mean that you’d be
sent to jail for smuggling?”
“They'd never do that to a woman. . . .”
But her eyes shifted from his uneasily, and he saw
her colour change a trifle.
“You know better than that. You read the papers
– keep informed. You know what happened to the
last woman who tried to smuggle. I forgot how long
they sent her up for — five months, or something like
that.”
She was silent, her gaze evasive.


T H E W R O N G B O X 149
“You remember that, don't you?”
“Perhaps I do,” she admitted unwillingly. -
“And you don't pretend you'd 've faced such a
prospect in order to clear me?”
Again she had no answer for him. He turned up the
room to the windows and back again.
“I did n’t think,” he said slowly, stopping before her
– “I could n’t have thought you could be so heartless,
so self-centred . . . . .”
She rose suddenly and put a pleading hand upon his
arm, standing very near him in all her loveliness.
“Say thoughtless, Staff,” she said quietly; “I did n’t
mean it.”
“That's hard to credit,” he replied steadily, “when
I'm haunted by the memory of the lies you told me —
to save yourself a few dollars honestly due the country
that has made you a rich woman—to gain for yourself
a few paltry columns of cheap, sensational newspaper
advertising. For that you lied to me and put me in
jeopardy of Sing-Sing . . . me, the man you pretend
to care for —”
“Hold on, Staff!” the woman interrupted harshly.
He moved away. Her arm dropped back to her side.
She eyed him a moment with eyes hard and unfriendly.
“You’ve said about enough,” she continued.
“You’re not prepared to deny that you had these


150 T H E B A N D B O X
possibilities in mind when you lied to me and made me
your dupe and cat's-paw?”
“I’m not prepared to argue the matter with you,”
she flung back at him, “nor to hold myself answerable
to you for any thing I may choose to say or do.”
He bowed ceremoniously.
“I think that 's all,” he said pleasantly.
“It is,” she agreed curtly; then in a lighter tone she
added: “There remains for me only to take my blue
dishes and go home.”
As she spoke she moved over to the corner where the
bandbox lay ingloriously on its undamaged side. As
she bent over it, Staff abstractedly took and lighted
another cigarette.
“What made you undo it?” he heard the woman ask.
He swung round in surprise. “I? I have n’t touched
the thing since it was brought in — beyond kicking it
out of the way.”
“The string 's off — it’s been opened!” Alison's
voice was trembling with excitement. She straight-
ened up, holding the box in both hands, and came
hastily over to the table beside which he was standing
“You see?” she said breathlessly, putting it down.
“The string was on it when I saw it last,” he told her
blankly. . . .
Then the memory recurred of the man who had passed


T H E W R O N G B O X 151
him at the door — the man who, he suspected, had
forced an entrance to his rooms. . . .
Alison was plucking nervously at the cover without
lifting it.
“Why don't you look?” he demanded, irritated.
“I — I'm afraid,” she said in a broken voice.
Nevertheless, she removed the cover.
. For a solid, silent minute both stared, stupified.
The hat they knew so well — the big black hat with
its willow plume and buckle of brilliants — had van-
ished. In its place they saw the tumbled wreckage of
what had once been another hat distinctly: wisps of
straw dyed purple, fragments of feathers, bits of violet-
coloured ribbon and silk which, mixed with wads and
shreds of white tissue-paper, filled the box to brimming.
Staff thrust a hand in his pocket and produced the
knot of violet ribbon. It matched exactly the torn
ribbon in the box.
“So that,” he murmured – “that's where this
came from!” -
Alison paid no attention. Of a sudden she began
digging furiously in the débris in the box, throwing
out its contents by handfuls until she had uncovered
the bottom without finding any sign of what she had
thought to find. Then she paused, meeting his gaze
with one half-wrathful, half-hysterical.


152 T H E B A N D B O X
“What does this mean?” she demanded, as if ready
to hold him to account.
“I think,” he said slowly – “I’m strongly inclined
to believe it means that you're an uncommonly lucky
woman.”
“How do you make that out?” she demanded in
a breath.
“I’ll tell you,” he said, formulating his theory
as he spoke: “When I came home tonight, a man
passed me at the door, fairly running out — I fancy,
to escape recognition; there was something about
him that seemed familiar. Then I came up here,
found my door ajar, when I distinctly remembered
locking it, found my windows shut and the shades
drawn, when I distinctly remembered leaving them
up, and finally found this knot of ribbon on the floor.
I was trying to account for it when you drove up.
Now it seems plain enough that this fellow knew
or suspected you of hiding the necklace in the hat,
knew that I had it, and came here in my absence
to steal it. He found instead this hat, and knowing
no better tore it to pieces trying to find what he
was after.”
“But where — where's my hat?”
“I’ll tell you.” Staff crossed the room and picked
up the string and label which had been on the box.


T H E W R O N G B O X 153
Returning, he examined the tag and read aloud:
“Miss Eleanor Searle.” He handed the tag to Alison.
“Find Miss Searle and you'll find your hat. It
happens that she had a bandbox the exact dupli-
cate of yours. I remember telling you about it, on
the steamer. As a matter of fact, she was in the
shop the afternoon you ordered your hat sent to
me, though she steadily refused to tell me who was
responsible for that imposition. Now, on the pier
today, our luggage was placed side by side, hers
with mine – both in the S section, you understand.
My examination was finished first and I was taken
back to my stateroom to be searched, as you know.
While I was gone, her examination was evidently
finished, for when I came back she had left the pier
with all her things. Quite plainly she must have
taken your box by mistake for her own; this, of
course, is her hat. As I said at first, find Miss Searle
and you'll find your hat and necklace. Also, find
the person to whom you confided this gay young
swindling scheme of yours, and you'll find the man
who was intimate enough with the affair to come
to my rooms in my absence and go direct to the
bandbox for the necklace.”
“I — but I told nobody,” she stammered.
By the look in her eyes he disbelieved her.


154 T H E B A N D B O X
“Not even Max, this morning, before he offered
that reward?” he asked shrewdly.
“Well — yes; I told him.”
“Max may have confided it to somebody else:
these things spread. Or possibly Jane may have
blabbed.”
“Oh, no,” she protested, but without conviction
in her accents; “neither of them would be so
foolish. . . .”
“I’d find out, if I were you.”
“I shall. Meanwhile — this Miss Searle —
where 's she stopping?”
“I can’t tell you — some hotel. It’ll be easy
enough to find her in the morning.”
“Will you try?”
“Assuredly — the first thing.”
“Then – there appears to be nothing else to
do but go home,” said the woman in a curiously
subdued manner.
Without replying verbally, Staff took up her
chiffon wrap and draped it over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” said she, moving toward the door.
“Good night.”
“Oh,” he protested politely, “I must see you
out.”
“It’s not necessary – I can find my way.”


T H E W R O N G B O X 155
“But only I know how to fix the front door.”
At the foot of the stairs, while he fumbled with
the latch, doubting him, she spoke with some
little hesitation.
“I presume,” she said stiffly — “I presume that
this — ah – ends it.”
Staff opened the door an inch and held it so.
“If by ‘it,’” he replied, “we mean the same thing—”
“We do.”
“It does,” he asseverated with his twisted smile.
She delayed an instant longer. “But all the
same,” she said hastily, at length, “I want that
play.”
“My play?” he enquired with significant emphasis.
“Yes, of course,” she said sharply.
“Well, since I’m under contract with Max, I
don’t well see how I can take it away from you.
And besides, you’re the only woman living who
can play it properly.”
“So good of you.” Her hand lay slim and cool
in his for the fraction of an instant. “Good night,”
she iterated, withdrawing it.
“Good night.”
As he let her out, Staff, glancing down at the
waiting taxicab, was faintly surprised by the dis-
covery that she had not come alone. A man stood


156 T H E B A N D B O X
in waiting by the door — a man in evening clothes:
not Max but a taller man, more slender, with a
better carriage. Turning to help Alison into the
cab, the street lights threw his face in sharp relief
against the blackness of the window; and Staff
knew him.
“Arkroyd!” he said beneath his breath.
He closed the door and set the latch, suffering
from a species of mild astonishment. His psycho-
logical processes seemed to him rather unique; he
felt that he was hardly playing the game according
to Hoyle. A man who has just broken with the
woman with whom he has believed himself des-
perately in love naturally counts on feeling a bit
down in the mouth. And seeing her drive off with
one whom he has every right to consider in the light
of a hated rival, he ought in common decency to
suffer poignant pangs of jealousy. But Staff did n’t;
he could n’t honestly make himself believe that
he was suffering in any way whatever. Indeed, the
most violent emotion to which he was sensible was
one of chagrin over his own infatuate myopia.
“Ass!” he called himself, slowly reascending the
stairs. “You might've seen this coming long ago,
if you had n't wilfully chosen to be blind as a
bat!”


T H E W R O N G B O X 157
Re-entering his study, he pulled up with a start
and a cry of sincere amazement.
“Well, I'll be damned!”
“Then why not lead a better life?” enquired
Mr. Iff.
He was standing in the doorway to the bedroom,
looking much like an exceptionally cruel caricature
of himself. As he spoke, he slouched wearily over
to the wing-chair Alison had recently occupied, and
dropped into it like a dead weight.
He wore no hat. His clothing was in a shocking
condition, damp, shapeless and shrunken to such
an extent as to disclose exhibits of bony wrists and
ankles almost immodestly generous. On his bird-like
cranium the pale, smooth scalp shone pink through
scanty, matted, damp blond locks. His face was
drawn, pinched and pale. As if new to the light his
baby-blue eyes blinked furiously. Round his thin lips
hovered his habitualsmile, semi-sardonic, semi-sheepish.
“Do you mind telling me how in thunder you
got in here?” asked Staff courteously.
Iff waved a hand toward the bedroom.
“Fire-escape,” he admitted wearily. “Happened
to see your light and thought I’d call. Hope I
don't intrude. . . . Got anything to drink? I’m
about all in.”


IX
A LIKELY STORY
“I FI’m any judge, that’s no exaggeration.”
Thus Mr. Staff after a moment's pause which
he utilised to look Mr. Iff over with a critical eye.
Mr. Iff wagged his head. “Believe me,” said he
simply.
Staff fetched a decanter of Scotch and a glass,
placing them on the table by Iff's elbow, then turned
away to get a siphon of charged water from the
icebox. But by the time he was back a staggering
amount of whiskey had disappeared from the de-
canter, a moist but empty glass stood beside it, and
Mr. Iff was stroking smiling lips with his delicate,
claw-like fingers. He discontinued this occupation
long enough to wave the siphon away.
“Not for me,” he said tersely. “I’ve swallowed
enough water this night to last me for the rest of
my life – half of the North River, more or less;
rather more, if you ask me.”
158


A LIR. E. L. Y S TO R Y - 159
“What were you doing in the North River?”
“Swimming.”
This answer was evidently so adequate in Mr.
Iff's understanding that he made no effort to elabor-
ate upon it; so that presently, growing impatient,
Staff felt called upon to ask:
“Well? What were you swimming for?”
“Dear life,” said Iff – “life, liberty and the
pursuit of happiness: the incontestable birthright
of every freeborn American citizen — if you must
know.”
He relapsed into a reverie which seemed hugely
diverting from the reminiscent twinkle in the little
man's eyes. From this he emerged long enough to
remark: “That's prime whiskey, you know. . . .
Thanks very much, I will.” And again fell silent,
stroking his lips.
“I don’t want to seem to pry,” said Staff at
length, with elaborate irony; “but in view of the
fact that you’ve felt warranted in calling on me
via the fire-escape at one A.M., it does n’t seem
unreasonable of me to expect some sort of an
explanation.”
“Oh, very well,” returned Iff, with resignation.
“What would you like to know?”
“Why did you disappear this morning — ?”


160 T H E B A N D B O X
“Yesterday morning,” Iff corrected dispassionately.
“– yesterday morning, and how?”
“Because the time seemed ripe for me to do my
marvellous vanishing stunt. You see, I had a hunch
that the dear captain would turn things over in his
mind and finally determine not to accept my creden-
tials at their face value. So I kind of stuck round
the wireless room with my ears intelligently pricked
forward. Sure enough, presently I heard the mes-
sage go out, asking what about me and how so.”
“You mean you read the operator's sending by
ear?”
“Sure; I’ve got a telegrapher's ear as long as a
mule's. . . . Whereupon, knowing just about what
sort of an answer 'd come through, I made up my
mind to duck. And did.”
“But how — ?”
“That'd be telling, and telling would get some-
body aboard the Autocratic into terrible bad trouble
if it ever leaked out. I crawled in out of the weather
— let it go at that. I wish,” said Mr. If soulfully,
“those damn' Pinkerton men had let it go at that.
Once or twice I really thought they had me, or
would have me the next minute. And they would n’t
give up. That’s why I had to take to the water,
after dark. My friend, who shall be nameless, lent


A LIR. E. L. Y S TO R. Y 161
me the loan of a rope and I shinned down and had
a nice little swim before I found a place to crawl
ashore. I assure you that the North River tastes
like hell. . . . O thank you; don't mind if I do.”
“Then,” said Staff, watching the little man help
himself on his own invitation – “Then you are
Ismay!”
“Wrong again,” said Iff drearily. “Honest, it’s
a real shame, the way you can't seem to win any
bets at all.”
“If you're not Ismay, what made you hide?”
“Ah!” cried Iff admiringly — “shrewd and per-
tinent question! Now I'll tell you, and you won't
believe me. Because— now pay strict attention —
because we’re near-twins.”
“Who are twins?” demanded Staff staring.
“Him and me — Ismay and I-double-F. First
cousins we are: his mother was my aunt. Worse
and more of it: our fathers were brothers. They
married the same day; Ismay and I were born in
the same month. We look just enough alike to be
mistaken for one another when we're not together.
That's been a great help to him; he's made me
more trouble than I’ve time to tell you. The last
time, I was pinched in his place and escaped a peni-
tentiary sentence by the narrowest kind of a shave.


162 T H E B A N D B O X
That got my mad up, and I served notice on him to
quit his foolishness or I'd get after him. He re-
plied by cooking up a fine little scheme that almost
laid me by the heels again. So I declared war and
've been camping on his trail ever since.”
He paused and twiddled his thumbs, staring
reflectively at the ceiling. “I’m sure I don't know
why I bore myself telling you all this. What's the
use?”
“Never mind,” said Staff in an encouraging man-
ner; he was genuinely diverted. “At worst it's
a worthy and uplifting – ah – fiction. Go on. . . .
Then you’re not a Secret Service man after all?”
“Nothing like that; I’m doing this thing on my
own.” -
“How about that forged paper you showed the
captain?”
“Was n't forged — genuine.”
“Chapter Two,” observed Staff, leaning back.
“It is a dark and stormy night; we are all seated
about the camp-fire. The captain says: ‘Antonio,
go to it.’”
“You are certainly one swell, appreciative audi-
ence,” commented Iff morosely. “Let’s see if I
can't get a laugh with this one: One of the best
little things my dear little cousin does being to pass


A L I R. E. L. Y S TO R Y 163
himself off as me, he got himself hired by the Treas-
ury Department some years ago under the name of
William Howard Iff. That helped him a lot in his
particular line of business. But after a while he felt
that it cramped his style, so he just faded noise-
lessly away — retaining his credentials. Then —
while I was in Paris last week — he thought it would
be a grand joke to send me that document with his
compliments and the suggestion that it might be
some help to me in my campaign for his scalp. That's
how I happened to have it.”
“That's going some,” Staff admitted admir-
ingly. “Tell me another one. If you’re Iff and
not Ismay, what brought you over on the Auto-
cratic?”
“Business of keeping an eye on my dearly beloved
cousin,” said Iff promptly.
“You mean Ismay was on board, too?”
“’Member that undergrown waster with the red-
and-grey Vandyke and the horn-rimmed pince mez,
who was always mooning round with a book under
his arm?”
“Yes. . . .”
“That was Cousin Arbuthnot disguised in his
own hair.”
“If that was so, why did n't you denounce him


164 T H E B A N D B O X
when you were accused of stealing the Cadogan
collar?”
“Because I knew he had n’t got away with it.”
“How did you know?”
“At least I was pretty positive about it. You'll
have to be patient — and intelligent – if you want
to understand and follow me back to Paris. The
three of us were there: Ismay, Miss Landis, myself.
Miss Landis was dickering with Cottier's for the
necklace, Ismay sticking round and not losing sight
of her much of the time, I was looking after Ismay.
Miss Landis buys the collar and a ticket for London;
Ismay buys a ticket for London; I trail. Then Miss
Landis makes another purchase – a razor, in a shop
near the hotel where I happen to be loafing.”
“A razorl”
“That's the way it struck me, too. . . . Scene
Two: Cockspur Street, London. I’m not sure what
boat Miss Landis means to take; I’ve got a notion
it's the Autocratic, but I’m stalling till I know.
You drift into the office, I recognise you and recall
that you’re pretty thick with Miss Landis. Noth-
ing more natural than that you and she should go
home by the same steamer. Similarly – Ismay.
. . . Oh, yes, I understand it was pure coincidence;
but I took a chance and filled my hand. After we’d


A L I R. E. L. Y S T OR Y 165
booked and you’d strutted off, I lingered long enough
to see Miss Landis drive up in a taxi with a whaling
big bandbox on top of the cab. She booked right
under my nose; I made a note of the bandbox. . .
“Then you came aboard with the identical band-
box and your funny story about how you happened
to have it. I smelt a rat: Miss Landis had n’t sent
you that bandbox anonymously for no purpose.
Then one afternoon — long toward six o'clock —
I see Miss Landis's maid come out on deck and jerk
a little package overboard – package just about
big enough to hold a razor. That night I’m dragged
up on the carpet before the captain; I hear a pretty
fairy tale about the collar disappearing while Jane
was taking the bandbox back to your steward. The
handbag is on the table, in plain sight; it is n’t
locked – a blind man can see that; and the slit
in its side has been made by a razor. I add up the
bandbox and the razor and multiply the sum by
the fact that the average woman will smuggle as
quick as the average man will take a drink; and
I'm Jeremiah Wise, Esquire.”
“That's the best yet,” Staff applauded. “But
— see here — why did n't you tell what you knew,
if you knew so much, when you were accused?”
Iff grimaced sourly. “Get ready to laugh. This


166 T H E B A N D B O X
is one you won’t fall for – not in a thousand
years.”
“Shoot,” said Staff.
“I like you,” said Iff simply. “You’re foolish
in the head sometimes, but in the main you mean
well.”
“That's nice of you — but what has it to do
with my question?”
“Everything. You're sweet on the girl, and I
don't wish to put a crimp in your young romance
by showing her up in her true colours. Furthermore,
you may be hep to her little scheme; I don’t believe
it, but I know that, if you are, you won't let me
suffer for it. And finally, in the senility of my dotage
I conned myself into believing I could bluff it out;
at the worst, I could prove my innocence easily
enough. But what I did n’t take into con-
sideration was that I was laying myself open
to arrest for impersonating an agent of the
Government. When I woke up to that fact, the
only thing I could see to do was to duck in
out of the blizzard.”
Staff said sententiously: “Hmmm. . . .
“Pretty thin — what?”
“In spots,” Staff agreed. “Still, I’ve got to
admit you’ve managed to cover the canvas, even
32


A L I K E L Y S T OR Y 167
if your supply of paint was a bit stingy. One thing
still bothers me: how did you find out I knew about
the smuggling game?”
Iff nodded toward the bedroom. “I happened
in – casually, as the saying runs – just as Miss
Landis was telling on herself.”
Staff frowned.
“How,” he pursued presently, “can I feel sure
you're not Ismay, and, having guessed as accur-
ately as you did, that you did n't get at that band-
box aboard the ship and take the necklace?”
“If I were, and had, would I be here?”
“But I can't understand why you are here!”
“It’s simple enough; I've any number of reasons
for inviting myself to be your guest. For one, I'm
wet and cold and look like a drowned rat; I can't
offer myself to a hotel looking like this — can I?
Then I knew your address – you'll remember
telling me; and there 's an adage that runs ‘Any
port in a storm.’ You're going to be good enough
to get my money changed – I’ve nothing but Eng-
lish paper — and buy me a ready-made outfit in
the morning. Moreover, I'm after Ismay, and
Ismay 's after the necklace; wherever it is, he will
be, soon or late. Naturally I presumed you still
had it — and so did he until within the hour.”


168 T H E B A N D B O X
“You mean you think it was Ismay who broke
into these rooms tonight?”
“You saw him, did n't you? Man about my
size, was n’t he? Evening clothes? That’s his
regulation uniform after dark. Beard and glasses
— what?”
“I believe you're right!” Staff rose excitedly.
“I did n’t notice the glasses, but otherwise you’ve
described him!”
“What did I tell you?” Iff helped himself to a
cigarette. “By now the dirty dog's probably rais-
ing heaven and hell to find out where Miss Searle
has hidden herself.”
Staff began to pace nervously to and fro. “I
wish,” he cried, “I knew where to find her!”
“Please,” Iff begged earnestly, “don’t let your
sense of the obligations of a host interfere with
your amusements; but if you’ll stop that Marathon
long enough to find me a blanket, I’ll shed these
rags and, by your good leave, curl up cunningly on
yon divan.”
Staff paused, stared at the little man's bland and
guileless face, and shook his head helplessly, laughing.
“There 's no resisting your colossal gall,” he said,
passing into the adjoining room to get bed-clothing
for his guest.


A L I K E L Y S TO R. Y 169
“I admit it,” said Iff placidly.
As Staff returned, the telephone bell rang. In
his surprise he paused with his arms full of sheets,
blankets and pillows, and stared incredulously at
his desk.
“What the deuce now?” he murmured.
“The quickest way to an answer to that,” sug-
gested Iff blandly, “is there.” He indicated the
telephone with an ample gesture. “Help your-
Self.”
Dropping his burden on the divan, Staff seated
himself at the desk and took up the receiver.
“Hello?”
He started violently, recognising the voice that
answered: “Mr. Staff?”
“Yes —”
“This is Miss Searle.”
“I know,” he stammered; “I — I knew your
voice.”
“Really?” The query was perfunctory. “Mr.
Staff — I could n’t wait to tell you – I’ve just
got in from a theatre and supper party with some
friends.”
“Yes,” he said. “Where are you?”
Disregarding his question, the girl's voice con-
tinued quickly: “I wanted to see my hat and opened


170 T H E B A N D B O X
the bandbox. It was n’t my hat – it’s the one you
described — the one that —”
“I know,” he interrupted; “I know all about that
now.”
“Yes,” she went on hurriedly, unheeding his words.
“I admired and examined it. It – there's something
else.”
“I know,” he said again; “the Cadogan collar.”
“Oh!” There was an accent of surprise in her voice.
“Well, I've ordered a taxi, and I’m going to bring it
to you right away. The thing's too valuable — ”
“Miss Searle — ”
“I’m afraid to keep it here. I wanted to find out
if you were up — that's why I called.”
“But, Miss Searle — ”
“The taxi's waiting now. I’ll be at your door in
fifteen minutes.”
“But — ”
“Good-bye.”
He heard the click as she hung up the receiver; and
nothing more. With an exclamation of annoyance he
swung round from the desk.
“Somebody coming?” enquired Iff brightly.
Staff eyed him with overt distrust. “Yes,” he said
reluctantly.
“Miss Searle bringing the evanescent collar, eh?”


A L I K E L Y S TO R. Y 171
Staff nodded curtly.
“Plagued nuisance,” commented Iff. “And me
wanting to go to sleep the worst I ever did.”
“Don’t let this keep you up,” said Staff.
“But,” Iff remonstrated, “you can't receive a lady
in here with me asleep on your divan.”
“I don't intend to,” Staff told him bluntly. “I’m
going to meet the taxi at the door, get into it with her,
and take that infernal necklace directly to Miss Landis,
at her hotel.”
“The more I see of you,” said Mr. Iff, removing his
coat, “the more qualities I discover in you to excite
my admiration and liking. As in this instance when
with thoughtfulness for my comfort”— he tore from
his neck the water-soaked rag that had been his collar
– “you combine a prudent, not to say sagacious fore-
sight, whereby you plan to place the Cadogan collar
far beyond my reach in event I should turn out to be
a gay deceiver.”
By way of response, Staff found his hat and placed
it handily on the table, went to his desk and took from
one of its drawers a small revolver of efficient aspect,
unloaded and reloaded it to satisfy himself it was in
good working order – and of a sudden looked round
suspiciously at Mr. Iff.
The latter, divested of his clothing and swathed in


172 T H E B A N D B O X
a dressing-gown several sizes too large for him, fulfilled
his host's expectations by laughing openly at these
warlike preparations.
“I infer,” he said, “that you would n’t be sur-
prised to meet up with Cousin Arbuthnot before
sunrise.”
“I’m taking no chances,” Staff announced with
dignity.
“Well, if you should meet him, and if you mean
what you act like, and if that gun's any good, and if
you know how to use it,” yawned Mr. Iff, “you'll do
me a favour and save me a heap of trouble into the
bargain. Good night.”
He yawned again in a most business-like way, lay
down, pulled a blanket up round his ears, turned his
back to the light and was presently breathing with the
sweet and steady regularity of a perfectly sound and
sincere sleeper.
To make his rest the more comfortable, Staff turned
off all the lights save that on his desk. Then he filled
a pipe and sat down to envy the little man. The very
name of sleep was music in his hearing, just then.
The minutes lagged on leaden wings. There was a
great hush in the old house, and the street itself was
quiet. Once or twice Staff caught himself nodding;
then he would straighten up, steel his will and spur his


A LIKE L Y S TO R. Y 173
senses to attention, waiting, listening, straining to
catch the sound of an approaching taxi. He seemed to
hear every imaginable night noise but that: the crash
and whine of trolleys, the footsteps of a scattered hand-
ful of belated pedestrians, the infrequent windy roar
of trains on the Third Avenue L, empty clapping of
horses' hoofs on the asphalt . . . the yowl of a
sentimental tomcat . . . a dull and distant grumble,
vague, formless, like a long, unending roll of thunder
down the horizon . . . the swish and sough of waters
breaking away from the flanks of the Autocratic . . .
and then, finally, like a tocsin, the sonorous, musical
chiming of the grandfather's clock in the corner.
He found himself on his feet, rubbing his eyes, with
a mouth dry as paper, a thumping heart, and a vague
sense of emptiness in his middle.
Had he napped – slept? How long? . . . He
stared, bewildered, groping blindly after his wandering
wits. . . . .
The windows, that had been black oblongs in the
illuminated walls, were filled with a cool and shapeless
tone of grey. He reeled (rather than walked) to one
of them and looked out.
The street below was vacant, desolate and uncannily
silent, showing a harsh, unlovely countenance like
the jaded mask of some sodden reveller, with bleary


174 T H E B A N D B O X
street-lamps for eyes – all mean and garish in the
chilly dusk that foreruns dawn.
Hastily Staff consulted his watch.
Four o'clock!
It occurred to him that the watch needed winding,
and he stood for several seconds twisting the stem-
crown between thumb and forefinger while stupidly
comprehending the fact that he must have been asleep
between two and three hours.
Abruptly, in a fit of witless agitation, he crossed to
the divan, caught the sleeper by the shoulder and shook
him till he wakened – till he rolled over on his back,
grunted and opened one eye.
“Look here!” said Staff in a quaver — “I’ve been
asleep!”
“You’ve got nothing on me, then,” retorted Iff with
pardonable asperity. “All the same — congratulations.
Good night.”
He attempted to turn over again, but was restrained
by Staff's imperative hand.
“It’s four o'clock, and after!”
“I admit it. You might be good enough to leave a
call for me for eleven.”
“But – damn it, man! — that cab has n’t come —”
“I can't help that, can I?”
“I’m afraid something has happened to that girl.”


A L I K E L Y S T OR Y 175
“Well, it's too late to prevent it now — if so.”
“Good God! Have you no heart, man?” Staff
began to stride distractedly up and down the room.
“What am I to do?” he groaned aloud.
“Take unkie's advice and go bye-bye,” suggested
Iff. “Otherwise I'd be obliged if you’d rehearse that
turn in the other room. I’m going to sleep if I have to
brain you to get quiet.”
Staff stopped as if somebody had slapped him: the
telephone bell was ringing again.
He flung himself across the room, dropped heavily
into the chair and snatched up the receiver.
A man's voice stammered drowsily his number.
“Yes,” he almost shouted. “Yes — Mr. Staff at
the 'phone. Who wants me?”
“Hold the wire.”
He heard a buzzing, a click; then silence; a pro-
longed brrrrp and another click.
“Hello?” he called. “Hello?”
His heart jumped: the voice was Miss Searle's.
“Mr. Staff?”
It seemed to him that he could detect a tremor in her
accents, as if she were both weary and frightened.
“Yes, Miss Searle. What is it?”
“I wanted to reassure you – I’ve had a terrible
experience, but I'm all right now — safe. I started —”


He fancied that he detected a faint, abrupt sound, like a
muffled sob
Page 176





178 T H E B A N D B O X
that she had invited the girl to be her guest. And with
this she was thoughtful enough to select an unpreten-
tious if thoroughly well-managed house on the West
Side, in the late Seventies, in order that Eleanor might
feel at ease and not worry about the size of the bill
which she was n’t to be permitted to pay.
Accordingly the two ladies (with Mr. Bangs tagging)
went from the pier directly to the St. Simon, the
elder woman to stay until her town-house could be
opened and put in order, the girl while she looked round
for a spinster's studio or a small apartment within
her limited means.
Promptly on their arrival at the hotel, Mrs. Ilkington
began to run up a telephone bill, notifying friends of
her whereabouts; with the result (typical of the New
York idea) that within an hour she had engaged her-
self for a dinner with theatre and supper to follow —
and, of course, had managed to have Eleanor included
in the invitation. She was one of those women who
live on their nerves and apparently thrive on excite-
ment, ignorant of the meaning of rest save in association
with those rest-cure sanatoriums to which they repair
for a fortnight semi-annually — or oftener.
Against her protests, then, Eleanor was dragged out
in full dress when what she really wanted to do was to
eat a light and simple meal and go early to bed. In


D E A D O' NIGHT 179
not unnatural consequence she found herself, when they
got home after one in the morning, in a state of nervous
disquiet caused by the strain of keeping herself keyed up
to the pitch of an animated party.
Insomnia stared her in the face with its blind, blank
eyes. In the privacy of her own room, she expressed a
free opinion of her countrymen, conceiving them all in
the guise of fevered, unquiet souls cast in the mould of
Mrs. Ilkington.
Diverting herself of her dinner-gown, she slipped
into a négligée and looked round for a book, meaning
to read herself sleepy. In the course of her search she
happened to recognise her bandbox and conceive a
desire to reassure herself as to the becomingness of its
Contents.
The hat she found therein was becoming enough,
even if it wasn't hers. The mistake was easily ap-
parent and excusable, considering the confusion that
had obtained on the pier at the time of their departure.
She wondered when Staff would learn the secret of
his besetting mystery, and wondered too why Alison
hadwished to make amystery of it. The joke was hardly.
apparent — though one's sense of American humour
might well have become dulled in several years of
residence abroad.
Meanwhile, instinctively, Eleanor was trying on the


D E A D O' N IG HT 181
Landis would certainly not delay longer than a few
hours before demanding her hat of Mr. Staff. The
substitution would then be discovered and she, Eleanor
Searle, would fall under suspicion — at least, unless
she took immediate steps to restore the jewels.
She acted hastily, on impulse. One minute she was
at the telephone, ordering a taxicab, the next she was
hurriedly dressing herself in a tailor-made suit. The
hour was late, but not too late – although (this gave
her pause) it might be too late before she could reach
Staff's rooms. She had much better telephone him she
was coming. Of course he would have a telephone —
everybody has, in New York.
Consultation of the directory confirmed this assump-
tion, giving her both his address and his telephone
number. But before she could call up, her cab was
announced. Nevertheless she delayed long enough to
warn him hastily of her coming. Then she snatched
up the necklace, dropped it into her handbag, replaced
the hat in its bandbox and ran for the elevator.
It was almost half-past one by the clock behind the
desk, when she passed through the office. She had really
not thought it so late. She was conscious of the surprised
looks of the clerks and pages. The porter at the door,
too, had a stare for her so long and frank as to approach
impertinence. None the less he was quick enough to


182 T H E B A N D B O X
take her bandbox from the bellboy who carried it and
place it in the waiting taxi, and handed her in after it
with civil care. Having repeated to the operator the
address she gave him, the porter shut the door and went
back to his post as the vehicle darted out from the
curb.
Eleanor knew little of New York geography. Her
previous visits to the city had been very few and of
short duration. With the shopping district she was
tolerably familiar, and she knew something of the
district roundabout the old Fifth Avenue Hotel and
the vanished Everett House. But with these excep-
tions she was entirely ignorant of the lay of the land:
just as she was too inexperienced to realise that it is n’t
considered wholly well-advised for a young woman
alone to take, in the middle of the night, a taxicab
whose chauffeur carries a companion on the front seat.
If she had stopped to consider this circumstance at all,
she would have felt comforted by the presence of the
superfluous man, on the general principle that two
protectors are better then one: but the plain truth
is that she did n’t stop to consider it, her thoughts
being fully engaged with what seemed more important
matters.
The cab bounced across Amsterdam Avenue, slid
smoothly over to Columbus, ran for a block or so


D E A D O' N IG HT 183
beneath the elevated structure and swung into Seventy-
seventh Street, through which it pelted eastward and
into Central Park. Then for some moments it turned
and twisted through the devious driveways, in a
fashion so erratic that the passenger lost all grasp of
her whereabouts, retaining no more than a confused
impression of serpentine, tree-lined ways, chequered
with lamplight and the soft, dense shadows of foliage,
and regularly spaced with staring electric arcs.
The night had fallen black beneath an overcast sky;
the air that fanned her face was warm and heavy
with humidity; what little breeze there was, aside
from that created by the motion of the cab, bore
on its leaden wings the scent of rain.
A vague uneasiness began to colour the girl's con-
sciousness. She grew increasingly sensitive to the
ominous quiet of the hour and place: the stark, dark
stillness of the shrouded coppices and thickets, the
emptiness of the paths. Once only she caught sight
of a civilian, strolling in his shirt-sleeves, coat over his
arm, hat in hand; and once only she detected, at a
distance, the grey of a policeman's tunic, half blotted
out by the shadow in which its wearer lounged at ease.
And that was far behind when, abruptly, with a
grinding crash of brakes, the cab came from full
headlong tilt to a dead halt within twice its length.


184 T H E B A N D B O X
She pitched forward from the seat with a cry of alarm,
only saving herself a serious bruising through the in-
stinct that led her to thrust out her hands and catch
the frame of the forward windows.
Before she could recover, the chauffeur's companion
had jumped out and run ahead, pausing in front of the
hood to stoop and stare. In another moment he was
back with a report couched in a technical jargon un-
intelligible to her understanding. She caught the
words “stripped the gears” and from them inferred
the irremediable.
“What is the matter?” she asked anxiously, bending
forward.
The chauffeur turned his head and replied in a surly
tone: “We’ve broken down, ma'm. You can't go
no farther in this cab. I'll have to get another to tow
us back to the garage.”
“Oh,” she cried in dismay, “how unfortunate! What
am I to do?”
“Guess you’ll have to get out 'n' walk back to Cen-
tral Park West,” was the answer. “You c'n get a car
there to Cºlumbus Circle. You'll find a-plenty taxis
down there.”
“You’re quite sure —” she began to protest.
“Ah, they ain't no chanst of this car going another
foot under its own power — not until it's been a week


186 T H E B A N D B O X
thrust her away with staggering violence. She reeled
back half a dozen feet. Simultaneously she heard the
fellow say, sharply: “All right – go ahead!” and
saw him jump upon the step. On the instant, the cab
shot away through the shadows, the door swinging
wide while Eleanor's assailant scrambled into the body.
Before she could collect herself the car had dis-
appeared round a curve in the roadway.
Her natural impulse was to scream, to start a hue-
and-cry: “Stop thief!” But the strong element of
common-sense in her make-up counselled her to hold
her tongue. In a trice she comprehended precisely
the meaning of the passage. Somebody else — some-
body aside from herself, Staff and Alison Landis —
knew the secret of the bandbox and the smuggled
necklace, and with astonishing intuition had planned
this trap to gain possession of it. She was amazed
to contemplate the penetrating powers of inference
and deduction, the cunning and resource which had
not only in so short a time fathomed the mystery of
the vanished necklace, but had discovered the exchange
of bandboxes, had traced the right one to her hotel
and possession, had divined and taken advantage of
her impulse to return the property to its rightful owner
without an instant's loss of time. And with this
thought came another, more alarming: in a brace of


188 T H E B A N D B O X
distance; beneath them were visible patches of asphalt
walk, shining coldly under electric arcs.
Having absolutely no notion whatever of where she
was in the Park, after some little hesitation she de-
cided against attempting to cross the lawn and turned
instead, at random, to her right, stumbling away in
the kindly penumbra of trees.
She thanked her stars that she had chosen to wear
this dark, short-skirted suit that gave her so much free-
dom of action and at the same time blended so well
with the shadows wherein she must skulk. . . .
Before many minutes she received confirmation of
her fears in the drone of a distant motor humming
in the stillness and gaining volume with every beat
of her heart. Presently it was strident and near at
hand; and then, standing like a frozen thing, not
daring to stir (indeed, half petrified with fear) she
saw the marauding taxicab wheel slowly past, the
chauffeur scrutinising one side of the way, the man
in the grey duster standing up in the body and hold-
ing the door half open, while he raked with sweeping
glances the coppice wherein she stood hiding.
But it did not stop. Incredible though it seemed,
she was not detected. Obviously the men were at a
loss, unable to surmise which one she had chosen of
a dozen ways of escape. The taxicab drilled on at a


D E A D O' NIGHT 189
snail’s pace for some distance up the drive, then swung
round and came back at a good speed. As it passed
her for the second time she could hear one of its crew
swearing angrily.
Again the song of the motor died in the distance,
and again she found courage to move. But which way?
How soonest to win out of this strange, bewildering
maze of drives and paths, crossing and recrossing,
melting together and diverging without apparent
motive or design?
She advanced to the edge of the drive, paused,
listening with every faculty alert. There was no sound
but the muted soughing of the night wind in the trees
— not a footfall, not the clap of a hoof or the echo
of a motor's whine. She moved on a yard or two, and
found herself suddenly in the harsh glare of an arc-
lamp. This decided her; she might as well go for-
ward as retreat, now that she had shown herself.
She darted at a run across the road and gained the
paved path, paused an instant, heard nothing, and ran
on until forced to stop for breath.
And still no sign of pursuit! She began to feel a
little reassured, and after a brief rest went on aim-
lessly, with the single intention of sticking to one
walk as far as it might lead her, in the hope that it
might lead her to the outskirts of the Park.


D E A D O' N IG HT 191
And twice she thought to descry at a distance the
grey-coated figure of a policeman; but each time,
when she had gained the spot, the man had vanished
– or else some phenomenon of light and shadow had
misled her.
Minutes, in themselves seemingly endless, ran into
hours while she wandered (so heavy with fatigue that
she found herself wondering how it was that she did n’t
collapse from sheer exhaustion on any one of the in-
terminable array of benches that she passed) dragging
her leaden feet and aching limbs and struggling to
hold up her hot and throbbing head.
It was long after three when finally she emerged
at One-hundred-and-tenth Street and Lenox Avenue.
And here fortune proved more kind: she blundered
blindly almost into the arms of a policeman, stum-
bled through her brief story and dragged wearily on
his arm over to Central Park West. Here he put
her aboard a southbound Eighth Avenue surface-car,
instructing the conductor where she was to get off
and then presumably used the telephone on his beat
to such effect that she was met on alighting by an-
other man in uniform who escorted her to the St.
Simon. She was too tired, too thoroughly worn
out, to ask him how it happened that he was waiting
for her, or even to do more than give him a bare word


192 THE BAN D Box
of thanks. As for complaining of her adventure to
the night-clerk (who stared as she passed through to
the elevator) no imaginable consideration could have
induced her to stop for any such purpose.
But one thing was clear to her intelligence, to be
attended to before she toppled over on her bed: Staff
must be warned by telephone of the attempt to steal
the necklace and the reason why she had not been
able to reach his residence. And if this were to be
accomplished, she must do it before she dared sit
down.
In conformance with this fixed idea, she turned
directly to the telephone after closing the door of her
room — pausing neither to strip off her gloves and
remove her hat nor even to relieve her aching wrist
of the handbag which, with its precious contents,
dangled on its silken thong.
She had to refresh her memory with a consulta-
tion of the directory before she could ask for Staff's
number.
The switchboard operator was slow to answer; and
when he did, there followed one of those exasperating
delays, apparently so inexcusable. . . .
She experienced a sensation of faintness and dizzi-
ness; her limbs were trembling; she felt as though
sleep were overcoming her as she stood; but a little





D E A D O' NIGHT 193
more and she had strained endurance to the breaking-
point. . . .
At length the connection was made. Staff's agitated
voice seemed drawn thin by an immense distance.
By a supreme effort she managed to spur her flagging
faculties and began to falter her incredible story, but
had barely swung into the second sentence when her
voice died in her throat and her tongue clave to the
roof of her mouth.
The telephone instrument was fixed to the wall near
the clothes-closet, the door of which framed a long
mirror. This door, standing slightly ajar, reflected
to her vision the hall door.
She had detected a movement in the mirror. The
hall door was opening – slowly, gently, noiselessly,
inch by inch. Fascinated, dumb with terror, she
watched. She saw the hand that held the knob — a
small hand, thin and fragile; then the wrist, then part
of the arm. . . . A head appeared in the opening,
curiously suggesting the head of a bird, thinly thatched
with hair of a faded yellow; out of its face, small
eyes watched her, steadfastly inquisitive.
Almost mechanically she replaced the receiver on the
hook and turned away from the wall, stretching forth
her hands in a gesture of pitiful supplication. . . .


XI
THE COLD GREY DAWN
… ELL’” snapped Iff irritably. “What’re you
staring at?”
“You,” Staff replied calmly. “I was thinking —”
“About me? What?”
“Merely that you are apparently as much cut up
as if the necklace were yours – as if you were in danger
of being robbed, instead of Miss Landis — by way of
Miss Searle.”
“And I am!” asserted Iff vigorously. “I am, damn
it! I'm in no danger of losing any necklace; but if
he gets away with the goods, that infernal scoundrel
will manage some way to implicate me and rob me
of my good name and my liberty as well. Hell!”
he exploded – “seems to me I’m entitled to be
excited!”
Staff's unspoken comment was that this explanation
of the little man's agitation was something strained
and inconclusive: unsatisfactory at best. It was not
apparent how (even assuming the historical Mr. Ismay
to be at that moment stealing the Cadogan collar
194


T H E COL D G R E Y D A W N 195
from Miss Searle) the crime could be fastened on Mr.
Iff, in the face of the positive alibi Staff could
furnish him. On the other hand, it was indubitable
that Iff believed himself endangered in some mys-
terious way, or had some other and still more secret
cause for disquiet. For his uneasiness was so mani-
fest, in such sharp contrast with his habitual, semi-
cynical repose, that even he had n’t attempted to
deny it.
With a shrug Staff turned back to the telephone
and asked for the manager of the exchange, explained
his predicament and was promised that, if the call
could be traced back to the original station, he should
have the number. He was, however, counselled to be
patient. Such a search would take time, quite possibly
and very probably.
He explained this to Iff, whose disgust was ill-
disguised.
“And meanwhile,” he expostulated, “we’re sitting
here with our hands in our laps – useless — and
Ismay, as like ’s not, is —” He broke into profanity,
trotting up and down and twisting his small hands
together.
“I wish,” said Staff, “I knew what makes you act
this way. Ismay can't saddle you with a crime com-
mitted by him when you're in my company –”


196 THE BAN D Box
“You don't know him,” interpolated Iff.
“And you surely can’t be stirred so deeply by simple
solicitude for Miss Searle.”
“Oh, can't I? And how do you know I can't?”
barked the little man. “Gwan – leave me alone!
I want to think.”
“Best wishes,” Staff told him pleasantly. “I’m
going to change my clothes.”
“Symptoms of intelligence,” grunted Iff. “I was
wondering when you’d wake up to the incongruity
of knight-erranting it after damsels in distress in an
open-faced get-up like that.”
“It’s done, however,” argued Staff good-humouredly.
“It’s class, if the illustrators are to be believed.
Don't you ever read modern fiction? In emergencies
like these the hero always takes a cold bath and
changes his clothes before sallying forth to put a
crimp in the villain's plans. Just the same as me.
Only I’m going to shed evening dress instead of —”
“Good heavens, man!” snorted Iff. “Are you in
training for a monologist's job? If so – if not —
anyway — can it! Can the extemporaneous stuff!”
The telephone bell silenced whatever retort Staff
may have contemplated. Both men jumped for the
desk, but Staff got there first.
“Hello?” he cried, receiver at ear. “Yes? Hello?”
i


THE COL D G R E Y D A WN 197
But instead of the masculine accents of the ex-
change-manager he heard, for the third time that
night, the voice of Miss Searle.
“Yes,” he replied almost breathlessly — “it is I,
Miss Searle. Thank Heaven you called up! I’ve
been worrying silly —”
“We were cut off,” the girl's voice responded. He
noted, subconsciously, that she was speaking slowly
and carefully, as if with effort. . . . “Cut off,” she
repeated as by rote, “and I had trouble getting you
again.”
“Then you're — you're all right?”
“Quite, thank you. I had an unpleasant experience
trying to get to you by taxicab. The motor broke
down coming through Central Park, and I had to walk
home and lost my way. But I am all right now —
just tired out.”
“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “It’s too bad; I
was quite ready to call for the – you understand
— and save you the trouble of the trip down here.
But I'm glad you’ve had no more unpleasant
adventure.”
“The necklace is safe,” the girl's voice told him
with the same deadly precision of utterance.
“Oh, yes; I assumed that. And I may call for
it?”


198 T H E B A N D B O X
“If you please—today at noon. I am so tired I am
afraid I shan’t get up before noon.”
“That'll be quite convenient to me, thank
you,” he assured her. “But where are you stop-
ping?”
There fell a brief pause. Then she said something
indistinguishable.
“Yes?” he said. “Beg pardon — I did n’t get
that. A little louder please, Miss Searle.”
“The St. Regis.”
“Where?” he repeated in surprise.
“The St. Regis. I am here with Mrs. Ilkington
— her guest. Good night, Mr. Staff.”
“Good morning,” he laughed; and at once the con-
nection was severed.
“And that's all right!” he announced cheerfully,
swinging round to face Iff. “She was in a taxicab
accident and got lost in Central Park — just got home,
I infer. The necklace is safe and I’m to call and get
it at twelve o'clock.”
“Where's she stopping?” demanded Iff, shaking
his little head as though impatient. Staff named the
hotel, and Iff fairly jumped. “Why that 's impos-
sible!” he cried. “She can’t afford it.”
“How do you happen to know she can't?” enquired
Staff, perplexed.


T H E COL D G R E Y D A WN 199
Momentarily Iff showed a face of confusion. “I
know a lot of things,” he grumbled, evasively.
Staff waited a moment, then finding that the little
man did n’t purpose making any more adequate or
satisfactory explanation, observed: “It happens that
she's Mrs. Ilkington's guest, and I fancy Mrs. Ilking-
ton can afford it – unless you know more about her,
too, than I do.”
Iff shook his head, dissatisfied. “All right,” he
said wearily. “Now what’re you going to
do?”
“I’m going to try to snatch a few hours' sleep.
There's no reason why I should n’t, now, with nothing
to do before noon.”
“Pleasant dreams,” said Iff sourly, as Staff marched
off to his bedroom.
Then he sat down on the edge of the divan, hug-
ging the dressing-gown round him, scowled vindictively
at nothing and began thoughtfully to gnaw a bony
knuckle.
In the other room, his host was undressing with sur-
prising speed. In spite of his nap, he was still tremen-
dously tired; perhaps the reaction caused by Eleanor's
reassurance capping the climax of his excitement had
something to do with the sense of complete mental and
physical fatigue that swept over him the instant his


T H E COL D G R E Y D A W N 201
the bill-fold. Then he returned to the study, found
paper and pens and wrote Staff a little note, which he
propped against the mirror on the bedroom dresser.
Finally, filling one of his pockets with cigarettes, he
smiled blandly and let himself out of the apartment
and, subsequently, of the house.
Staff slept on, sublimely unconscious, until the sun,
slipping round to the south, splashed his face with
moulten gold: when he woke, fretful and sweatful. He
glanced at his watch and got up promptly: the hour
approached eleven. Diving into a bathrobe, he turned
the water on for his bath, trotted to the front room
and discovered the evasion of Mr. Iff. This, however,
failed to surprise him. Iff was, after all, not bound to
sit tight until Staff gave him leave to stir.
He rang for Mrs. Shultz and ordered breakfast.
Then he bathed and began to dress. It was during
this latter ceremony that he found his pockets turned
inside out and their contents displayed upon his
bureau.
This was a shock, especially when he failed to find
his bill-fold at the first sweep. The bottom dropped out
of the market for confidence in the integrity of Mr.
Iff and conceit in the perspicacity of Mr. Staff.
He saw instantly how flimsy had been the tissue of
falsehood wherewith the soi-disant Mr. Iff had sought


202 T H E B A N D B O X
to cloak his duplicity, how egregiously stupid had been
his readiness to swallow that extraordinary yarn. The
more he considered, the more he marvelled. It sur-
passed belief – his asininity did; at least he would n't
have believed he could be so easily fooled. He felt like
kicking himself—and longed unutterably for a chance
to kick his erstwhile guest.
In the midst of this transport he found himself
staring incredulously at the envelope on the dresser.
He snatched it up, tore it open and removed three
pieces of white paper. Two of them were crisp and
tough and engraved on one side with jet-black ink.
The third bore this communication:
“MY DEAR MR. STAFF:—Your bill-fold's in your waist-
coat pocket, where you left it last night. It contained
$385 when I found it. It now contains $200. I leave
you by way of security Bank of England notes to the
extent of £40. There’ll be a bit of change, one way or
the other — I’m too hurried to calculate which.
“The exchange manager has just called up. The inter-
rupted call has been traced back to the Hotel St. Simon
in 79th Street, W. I have called the St. Regis; neither
Miss Searle nor Mrs. Ilkington has registered there. I
have also called the St. Simon; both ladies are there.
Your hearing must be defective — or else Miss S. didn’t
know where she was at.
“I’m off to line my inwards with food and decorate my
outwards with purple and fine underlinen. After which I
purpose minding my own business for a few hours or


T H E COL D G R E Y D A W N 203
days, as the circumstances may demand. But do not
grieve — I shall return eftsoons or thereabouts.
“Yours in the interests of pure crime —
“WHIFF.
“P. S. — And of course neither of us had the sense to
ask: If Miss S. was bound here from the St. Regis, how
did her taxi manage to break down in Central Park?”
Prompt investigation revealed the truth of Mr. Iff's
assertion: the bill-fold with its remaining two-hundred
dollars was safely tucked away in the waistcoat pocket.
Furthermore, the two twenty-pound notes were un-
questionably genuine. The tide of Staff's faith in
human nature began again to flood; the flower of
his self-conceit flourished amazingly. He surmised
that he was n’t such a bad little judge of mankind,
after all.
He breakfasted with a famous appetite, untroubled
by Iff's aspersion on his sense of hearing, which was
excellent; and he had certainly heard Miss Searle
aright: she had named the St. Regis not once, but
twice, and each time with the clearest enunciation.
He could only attribute the mistake to her excitement
and fatigue; people frequently make such mistakes
under unusual conditions; if Miss Searle had wished
to deceive him as to her whereabouts, she needed only
to refrain from communicating with him at all. And


204 T H E B A N D B O X
anyway, he knew now where to find her and within the
hour would have found her; and then everything would
be cleared up.
He was mildly surprised at the sense of pleasant
satisfaction with which he looked forward to meeting
the girl again. He reminded himself not to forget to
interview a manager or two in her interests.
Just to make assurance doubly sure, he telephoned
the St. Simon while waiting for Shultz to fetch a taxi-
cab. The switchboard operator at that establishment
replied in the affirmative to his enquiry as to whether
or not Mrs. Ilkington and Miss Searle were registered
there.
On the top of this he was called up by Alison.
“I’m just starting out — cab waiting,” he told her
at once – “to go to Miss Searle and get your —
property.”
“Oh, you are?” she returned in what he thought a
singular tone.
“Yes; she called me up last night — said she 'd
discovered the mistake and the – ah — property —
asked me to call today at noon.”
There was no necessity that he could see of detail-
ing the whole long story over a telephone wire.
“Well,” said Alison after a little pause, “I don't
want to interfere with your amusements, but . .


T H E COL D G R E Y D A WN 205
I’ve something very particular to say to you. I wish
you'd stop here on your way up-town.”
“Why, certainly,” he agreed without hesitation or
apprehension.
The actress had put up, in accordance with her
custom, at a handsome, expensive and world-famous
hotel in the immediate neighbourhood of Staff's rooms.
Consequently he found himself in her presence within
fifteen minutes from the end of their talk by tele-
phone.
Dressed for the street and looking uncommonly
handsome, she was waiting for him in the sitting-room
of her suite. As he entered, she came forward and
gave him a cool little hand and a greeting as cool. He
received both with an imperturbability founded (he
discovered to his great surprise) on solid indifference.
It was hard to realise that he no longer cared for her,
or whether she were pleased or displeased with him.
But he did n’t. He concluded, not without profound
amazement, that his passion for her which had burned
so long and brightly had been no more than senti-
mental incandescence. And he began to think himself
a very devil of a fellow, who could toy with the
love of women with such complete insouciance, who
could off with the old love before he had found a new
and care not a rap! . . .


T H E COL D G R E Y D A W N 207
She nodded impatiently: “Oh, of course — with the
lining half ripped out and the necklace missing.” -
“Curious!” he murmured.
“Rather,” she agreed. “What do you make of it?”
“This address is n’t her writing,” he said, deep in
thought.
“Oh, so you're familiar with the lady's hand?”
There was an accent in Alison's voice that told him,
before he looked, that her lip was curling and her eyes
were hard.
“This is a man's writing,” he said quietly, wondering
if it could be possible that Alison was jealous.
“Well?” she demanded. “What of it?”
“I don't know. Miss Searle got me on the telephone
a little after one last night; she said she 'd found the
necklace in the hat and was bringing it to me.”
“How did she know it was mine?”
“Heard you order it sent to me, in London. You'll
remember my telling you she knew.”
“Oh, yes. Go on.”
“She did n’t show up, but telephoned again some
time round four o'clock explaining that she had been
in a taxicab accident in the Park and lost her way but
finally got home — that is, to her hotel, the St. Simon.
She said the necklace was safe – did n’t mention
the hat—and asked me to call for it at noon to-


208 T H E B A N D B O X
day. I said I would, and I’m by way of being late
now. Doubtless she can explain how the hat came
to you this way.”
“I’ll be interested to hear,” said Alison, “and to
know that the necklace is really safe. On the face of
it – as it stands – there's something queer – wrong.
. . What are you going to do?”
Staff had moved toward the telephone. He paused,
explaining that he was about to call up Miss Searle
for reassurance. Alison negatived this instantly.
“Why waste time? If she has the thing, the quickest
way to get it is to go to her now — at once. If she
has n’t, the quickest way to get after it is via the
same route. I’m all ready and if you are we'll go
immediately.” -
Staff bowed, displeased with her manner to the
point of silence. He had no objection to her being as
temperamental as she pleased, but he objected strongly
to having it implied by everything except spoken
words that he was in some way responsible for the
necklace and that Eleanor Searle was quite capable of
conspiring to steal it.
As for Alison, her humour was dangerously impreg-
nated with the consciousness that she had played the
fool to such an extent that she stood in a fair way to
lose her necklace. Inasmuch as she knew this to be


T H E COL D G R E Y D A W N 209
altogether her fault, whatever the outcome, she was in
a mood to quarrel with the whole wide world; and she
schooled herself to treat with Staff on terms of tol-
eration only by exercise of considerable self-command
and because she was exacting a service of him.
So their ride uptown was marked by its atmosphere
of distant and dispassionate civility. They spoke in-
frequently, and then on indifferent topics soon suf-
fered to languish. Indue course, however,Staff mastered
his resentment and – as evidenced by his wry, secret
smile — began to take a philosophic view of the sit-
uation, to extract some slight amusement from his
insight into Alison's mental processes. Intuitively
sensing this, she grew even more exasperated with
him – as well as with everybody aside from her own
impeccable self.
At the St. Simon, Staff soberly escorted the woman
to the lounge, meaning to leave her there while he
enquired for Eleanor at the office; but they had barely
set foot in the apartment when their names were
shrieked at them in an excitable, shrill, feminine voice,
and Mrs. Ilkington bore down upon them in full
regalia of sensation.
“My dears!” she cried, regarding them affection-
ately — “such a surprise! Such a delightful surprise!
And so good of you to come to see me so soon! And


210 T H E B A N D B O X
opportune – I'm dying, positively expiring, for some-
body to gossip with. Such a singular thing has
happened —”
Alison interrupted bluntly: “Where's Miss Searle?
Mr. Staff is anxious to see her.”
“That's just it – just what I want to talk about.
You'd never guess what that girl has done — and after
all the trouble and thought I've taken in her behalf,
too! I'm disgusted, positively and finally disgusted;
never again will I interest myself in such people.
I —”
“But where is Miss Searle?” demanded Alison, with
a significant look to Staff.
“Gone!” announced Mrs. Ilkington impressively.
“Gone?” echoed Staff.
Mrs. Ilkington nodded vigorously, compressing her
lips to a thin line of disapproval. “I’m positively at
my wits' end to account for her.”
“I fancy there's an explanation, however,” Alison
put in.
“I wish you'd tell me, then. . . . You see, we
dined out, went to the theatre and supper together,
last night. The Struyvers asked me, and I made them
include her, of course. We got back about one. Of
course, my dears, I was fearfully tired and did n’t get
up till half an hour ago. Imagine my sensation when


THE COL D G R E Y D A WN 211
I enquired for Miss Searle and was informed that she
paid her bill and left at five o'clock this morning, and
with a strange man!”
“She left you a note, of course?” Staff suggested.
“Not a line – nothing! I might be the dirt beneath
her feet, the way she's treated me. I’m thoroughly
disillusioned — disgusted!”
“Pardon me,” said Staff; “I’ll have a word with the
office.”
He hurried away, leaving Mrs. Ilkington still volubly
dilating on that indignity that had been put upon
her: Alison listening with an air of infinite de-
tachment.
His enquiry was fruitless enough. The day-clerk,
he was informed by that personage, had not come on
duty until eight o'clock; he knew nothing of the affair
beyond what he had been told by the night-clerk —
that Miss Searle had called for her bill and paid it at
five o'clock; had given instructions to have her luggage
removed from her room and delivered on presentation
of her written order; and had then left the hotel in
company with a gentleman who registered as “I.
Arbuthnot" at one o'clock in the morning, paying for
his room in advance.
Staff, consumed with curiosity about this gentle-
man, was so persistent in his enquiry that he finally


212 T H E B A N D B O X
unearthed the bell-boy who had shown that guest
to his room and who furnished what seemed to be a
tolerably accurate sketch of him.
The man described was — Iff.
Discouraged and apprehensive, Staff returned to the
lounge and made his report — one received by Alison
with frigid disapproval, by Mrs. Ilkington with every
symptom of cordial animation; from which it became
immediately apparent that Alison had told the elder
woman everything she should not have told her.
“‘I. Arbuthnot,” Alison translated: “Arbuthnot
Ismay.”
“Gracious!” Mrs. Ilkington squealed. “Is n’t that
the real name of that odd creature who called himself
Iff and pretended to be a Secret Service man?”
Staff nodded a glum assent. -
“It’s plain enough,” Alison went on; “this Searle
woman was in league with him —”
“I disagree with you,” said Staff.
“On what grounds?”
“I don’t believe that Miss Searle —”
“On what grounds?”
He shrugged, acknowledging his inability to explain.
“And what will you do?” interrupted Mrs. Ilkington.
“I shall inform the police, of course,” said Alison;
“and the sooner the better.”


214 T H E B A N D B O X
“Nevertheless, I shall set the police after her!”
Alison insisted obstinately.
“Again I advise you — ”
“But I shall deny the smuggling, base my charge
on — ”
“One moment,” Staff interposed firmly. “You
forget me. I'm afraid I can adduce considerable evi-
dence to prove that you not only attempted to smuggle,
but as a matter of fact did.”
“And you would do that — to me?” snapped the
actress.
“I mean that Miss Searle shall have every chance
to prove her innocence,” he returned in an even and
unyielding voice.
“Why? What's your interest in her?”
“Simple justice,” he said — and knew his answer
to be evasive and unconvincing.
“As a matter of fact,” said Alison, rising in her anger,
“you’ve fallen in love with the girl!”
Staff held her gaze in silence.
“You’re in love with her,” insisted the actress
– “in love with this common thief and confidence-
woman l’’
Staff nodded gently. “Perhaps,” said he, “you 're
right. I had n’t thought of it that way before. . . .
But, if you doubt my motive in advising you to go


W O N T Y O U W A L K IN ? 217
deeper and more hard than with Iff; and there was a
hint of elevation in the nostrils that lent the face a
guise of malice and evil — like the shadow of an im-
personal sneer.
The look he bent upon Eleanor was almost a sneer:
a smile in part contemptuous, in part studious; as
though he pondered a problem in human chemistry
from the view-point of a seasoned and experienced
scientist. He cocked his head a bit to one side and
stared insolently beneath half-lowered lids, now and
again nodding ever so slightly as if in confirmation of
some unspoken conclusion.
Against the cold, inflexible purpose in his manner,
the pitiful prayer expressed in the girl's attitude spent
itself without effect. Her hands dropped to her
sides; her head drooped wearily, hopelessly; her
pose personified despondency profound and irreme-
diable.
When he had timed his silence cunningly, to ensure
the most impressive effect, the man moved, shifting
from one foot to the other, and spoke.
“Well, Nelly . . . .”
His voice, modulated to an amused drawl, was much
like Iff's.
The girl's lips moved noiselessly for an instant before
she managed to articulate.


218 T H E B A N D B O X
“So,” she said in a quiet tone of horror — “So it
was you all the time!”
“What was me?” enquired the man inelegantly if
with spirit.
“I mean,” she said, “you were after the necklace,
after all.”
“To be sure,” he said pertly. “What did you think?”
“I hoped it was n’t so,” she said brokenly. “When
you escaped yesterday morning, and when tonight I
found the necklace – I was so glad!”
“Then you did find it?” he demanded promptly.
She gave him a look of contempt. “You know
it!”
“My dear child,” he expostulated insincerely, “what
makes you say that?”
“You don’t mean to pretend you did n't steal the
bandbox from me, just now, in that taxicab, trying to
get the necklace?” she demanded.
He waited an instant, then shrugged. “I presume
denial would be useless.”
“Quite.”
“All right then: I won't deny anything.”
She moved away from the telephone to a chair
wherein she dropped as if exhausted, hands knitted
together in her lap, her chin resting on her
chest.


220 THE BAN D Box
you want and go? And leave me to be accused of theft
unless I choose to tell the world — what it would n’t
believe – that my own father stole the necklace from
me!”
“Ah, but how unjust you are!” exclaimed the man.
“How little you know me, how little you appreciate a
father's affection!”
“And you tried to rob me not two hours ago!”
“Yes,” he said cheerfully: “I admit it. If I had
got away with it then – well and good. You need
never have known who it was. Unhappily for both of
us, you fooled me.”
“For both of us?” she repeated blankly.
“Precisely. It puts you in a most serious position.
That's why I'm here — to save you.”
In spite of her fatigue, the girl rose to face him.
“What do you mean?”
“Simply that between us we’ve gummed this busi-
ness up neatly — hard and fast. You see – I had n’t
any use for that hat; I stopped in at an all-night
telegraph station and left it to be delivered to Miss
Landis, never dreaming what the consequences would
be. Immediately thereafter, but too late, I learned –
I’ve a way of finding out what’s going on, you know –
that Miss Landis had already put the case in the hands
of the police. It makes it very serious for you – the


W O N 'T Y O U W A L K IN ? 221
bandbox returned, the necklace still in your possession,
your wild, incredible yarn about meaning to restore
it . . .”
In her overwrought and harassed condition, the soph-
istry illuded her; she was sensible only of the menace
his words distilled. She saw herself tricked and trapped,
meshed in a web of damning circumstance; every-
thing was against her – appearances, the hands of all
men, the cruel accident that had placed the necklace
in her keeping, even her parentage. For she was the
daughter of a notorious thief, a man whose name was
an international byword. Who would believe her
protestations of innocence – presuming that the police
should find her before she could reach either Staff or
Miss Landis?
“But,” she faltered, white to her lips, “I can take it
to her now — instantly —”
Instinctively she clutched her handbag. The man's
eyes appreciated the movement. His face was shadowed
for a thought by the flying cloud of a sardonic smile.
And the girl saw and read that smile.
“Unless,” she stammered, retreating from him a
pace or two – “unless you —”
He silenced her with a reassuring gesture.
“You do misjudge me!” he said in a voice that
fairly wept.


222 T H E B A N D B O X
Hope flamed in her eyes. “You mean – you can't
mean —”
Again he lifted his hand. “I mean that you miscon-
strue my motive. Far be it from me to deny that I
am – what I am. We have ever been plain-spoken
with one another. You told me what I was seven
years ago, when you left me, took another name, dis-
owned me and . . .” His voice broke affectingly for
an instant. “No matter,” he resumed, with an obvious
effort. “The past is past, and I am punished for all
that I have ever done or ever may do, by the loss of
my daughter's confidence and affection. It is my
fault; I have no right to complain. But now . . .
Yes, I admit I tried to steal the necklace in the Park
tonight. But I failed, and failing I did that which got
you into trouble. Now I'm here to help you extricate
yourself. Don't worry about the necklace — keep it,
hide it where you will. I don't want and shan’t touch,
it on any conditions.”
“You mean I’m free to return it to Miss Landis?”
she gasped, incredulous.
“Just that.”
“Then — where can I find her?”
He shrugged. “There 's the rub. She 's left town.”
She steadied herself with a hand on the table. “Still
I can follow her. . . .”


224 T H E B A N D B O X
by no means herself. She had no time for either
thought or calm consideration; and even with plenty
of time, she would have found herself unable to think
clearly and calmly.
“What am I to do, then?” she whispered.
“Trust me,” the man replied quietly. “There 's
just one way to reach this woman without risk of
detection — and that 's good only if we act now. Get
your things together; pay your bill; leave word to
deliver your trunks to your order; and come with me.
I have a motor-car waiting round the corner. In an
hour we can be out of the city. By noon I can have
you at Miss Landis' home.”
“Yes,” she cried, almost hysterical – “yes, that 's
the way!”
“Then do what packing you must. Here, I’ll lend
a hand.”
Fortunately, Eleanor had merely opened her trunks
and bags, removing only such garments and toilet
accessories as she had required for dinner and the
theatre. These lay scattered about the room, easily
to be gathered up and stuffed with careless haste into
her trunks. In ten minutes the man was turning the
keys in their various locks, while she stood waiting with
a small handbag containing a few necessaries, a motor-
coat over her arm, a thick veil draped from her hat.


W O N T Y O U W A L K IN ? 225
“One minute,” the man said, straightening up from
the last piece of luggage. “You were telephoning when
I came in?”
“Yes — to Mr. Staff, to explain why I failed to bring
him the bandbox.”
“Hmmm.” He pondered this, chin in hand. “He’ll
be fretting. Does he know where you are?”
“No — I forgot to tell him.”
“That's good. Still, you’d better call him up again
and put his mind at rest. It may gain us a few hours.”
“What am I to say?”
She lifted her hand to the receiver.
“Tell him you were cut off and had trouble getting
his number again. Say your motor broke down in
Central Park and you lost your way trying to walk
home. Say you're tired and don't want to be disturbed
till noon; that you have the necklace safe and will
give it to him if he will call tomorrow.”
Eleanor took a deep breath, gave the number to
the switchboard operator and before she had time
to give another instant's consideration to what she
was doing, found herself in conversation with Staff, re-
citing the communication outlined by her evil genius
in response to his eager questioning.
The man was at her elbow all the while she talked
— so close that he could easily overhear the other


226 T H E B A N D B O X
end of the dialogue. This was with a purpose made
manifest when Staff asked Eleanor where she was stop-
ping, when instantly the little man clapped his palm
over the transmitter.
“Tell him the St. Regis,” he said in a sharp whisper.
Her eyes demanded the reason why.
“Don’t stop to argue — do as I say: it'll give us
more time. The St. Regisl”
He removed his hand. Blindly she obeyed, reiterat-
ing the name to Staff and presently saying good-bye.
“And now — not a second to spare — hurry!”
In the hallway, while they waited for the elevator,
he had further instructions for her.
“Go to the desk and ask for your bill,” he said,
handing her the key to her room. “You’ve money,
of course? . . . Say that you're called unexpectedly
away and will send a written order for your trunks
early in the morning. If the clerk wants an address,
tell him the Auditorium, Chicago. Now . . .”
They stepped from the dimly lighted hall into the
brilliant cage of the elevator. It dropped, silently,
swiftly, to the ground floor, somehow suggesting to
the girl the workings of her implacable, irresistible des-
tiny. So precisely, she felt, she was being whirled
on to her fate, like a dry leaf in a gale, with no more
volition, as impotent to direct her course. . . .
*


W O N T Y O U W A L K IN ? 229
Dam Bridge; and for a little time thereafter she
was drowsily sentient — aware of wheeling streets and
endless, marching ranks of houses. Then again she
dozed, recovering her senses only when, after a lapse
of perhaps half an hour, the noise of the motor ceased
and the big machine slowed down smoothly to a dead
halt.
She opened her eyes, comprehending dully a com-
plete change in the aspect of the land. They had
stopped on the right of the road, in front of a low-
roofed wooden building whose signboard creaking over-
head in the breeze named the place an inn. To
the left lay a stretch of woodland; and there were
trees, too, behind the inn, but in less thick array, so
that it was possible to catch through their trunks and
foliage glimpses of blue water splashed with golden
sunlight. A soft air fanned in off the water, sweet
and clean. The sky was high and profoundly blue,
unflecked by cloud.
With a feeling of gratitude, she struggled to recollect
her wits and realise her position; but still her weari-
ness was heavy upon her. The man she called her
father was coming down the path from the inn door-
way. He carried a tumbler brimming with a pale
amber liquid. Walking round to her side of the car
he offered it.


280 T H E B A N D B O X
“Drink this,” she heard him say in a pleasant voice;
“it’ll help you brace up.”
Obediently she accepted the glass and drank. The
soul of the stuff broke out in delicate, aromatic bubbles
beneath her nostrils. There was a stinging but re-
freshing feeling in her mouth and throat. She said
“champagne” sleepily to herself, and with a word of
thanks returned an empty glass.
She heard the man laugh, and in confusion
wondered why. If anything, she felt more sleepy
than before.
He climbed back into his seat. A question crawled
in her brain, tormenting. Finally she managed to
enunciate a part of it:
“How much longer . . . .”
“Oh, not a great ways now.”
The response seemed to come from a far distance.
She felt the car moving beneath her and . . . no more.
Sleep possessed her utterly, heavy and dreamless. . . .
There followed several phases of semi-consciousness
wherein she moved by instinct alone, seeing men as
trees walking, the world as through a mist.
In one, she was being helped out of the motor-car.
Then somebody was holding her arm and guiding her
along a path of some sort. Planks rang hollowly
beneath her feet, and the hand on her arm detained


W O N 'T Y O U W A L K IN ? 231
her. A voice said: “This way — just step right out:
you're perfectly safe.” Mechanically she obeyed. She
felt herself lurch as if to fall, and then hands caught
and supported her as she stood on something that
swayed. The voice that had before spoken was ad-
vising her to sit down and take it easy. Accordingly,
she sat down. Her seat was rocking like a swing, and
she heard dimly the splash of waters; these merged
unaccountably again into the purring of a motor. . . .
And then somebody had an arm round her waist
and she was walking, bearing heavily upon that sup-
port, partly because she sorely needed it but the more
readily because she knew somehow — intuitively —
that the arm was a woman's. A voice assured her from
time to time: “Not much farther . . .” And she
was sure it was a woman's voice. . . . Then she was
being helped to ascend a steep, long staircase. . . .
She came to herself for a moment, probably not
long after climbing the stairs. She was sitting on the
edge of a bed in a small, low-ceiled room, cheaply and
meagrely furnished. Staring wildly about her, she
tried to realise these surroundings. There were two
windows, both open, admitting floods of sea air and
sunlight; beyond them she saw green boughs swaying
slowly, and through the boughs patches of water, blue
and gold. There was a door opposite the bed; it stood


232 T H E B A N D B O X
open, revealing a vista of long, bare hallway, regularly
punctuated by doors.
The drumming in her temples pained and bewildered
her. Her head felt dense and heavy. She tried to
think and failed. But the knowledge persisted that
something was very wrong with her world — some-
thing that might be remedied, set right, if only she
could muster up strength to move and . . . think.
Abruptly the doorway was filled by the figure of
a woman, a strapping, brawny creature with the arms
and shoulders of a man and a great, coarse, good-
natured face. She came directly to the bed, sat down
beside the girl, passed an arm behind her shoulders
and offered her a glass.
“You’ve just woke up, ain't you?” she said sooth-
ingly. “Drink this and lay down and you’ll feel
better before long. You have had a turn, and no
mistake; but you'll be all right now, never fear.
Come now, drink it, and I'll help you loose your
clothes a bit, so 's you can be comfortable. . . .”
Somehow her tone inspired Eleanor with confidence.
She drank, submitted to being partially undressed,
and lay down. Sleep overcame her immediately: she
suffered a sensation of dropping plummet-wise into a
great pit of oblivion. . . .


234 T H E B A N D B O X
she dimly remembered everything that had happened
with relation to the strange woman.
She wore a little wrist-watch. It told her that the
hour was after four in the afternoon.
She began hurriedly to dress, or rather to repair
the disorder of her garments, all the while struggling
between surprise that she felt rested and well and
strong, and a haunting suspicion that she had been
tricked.
Of the truth of this suspicion, confirmatory evidence
presently overwhelmed her.
Since that draught of champagne before the road-
side inn shortly after sunrise, she had known nothing
clearly. It was impossible that she could without
knowing it have accomplished her purpose with
relation to Alison Landis and the Cadogan collar.
She saw now, she knew now beyond dispute, that she
had been drugged — not necessarily heavily; a simple
dose of harmless bromides would have served the
purpose in her overtaxed condition — and brought
to this place in a semi-stupor, neither knowing whither
she went nor able to object had she known.
The discovery of her handbag was all that was re-
quired to transmute fears and doubts into irrefragable
knowledge.
No longer fastened to her wrist by the loop of its


236 T H E B A N D B O X
opened the door very gently and stepped out into
the hall.
It was a short hall, set like the top bar of a T-square
at the end of a long, door-lined corridor. The walls
were of white, plain plaster, innocent of paper and in
some places darkly blotched with damp and mildew.
The floor, though solid, was uncarpeted. Near at hand
a flight of steps ran down to the lower floor.
After a moment of hesitation she chose to explore
the long corridor rather than to descend at once by
the nearer stairway; and gathering her skirts about
her ankles (an instinctive precaution against making
a noise engendered by the atmosphere of the place
rather than the result of coherent thought) she stole
quietly along between its narrow walls.
Although some few were closed, the majority of the
doors she passed stood open; and these all revealed
small, stuffy cubicles with grimy, unpainted floors,
grimy plaster walls and ceilings and grimy windows
whose panes were framed in cobwebs and crusted so
thick with the accumulated dust and damp of years
that they lacked little of complete opacity. No room
contained any furnishing of any sort.
The farther she moved from her bedroom, the more
close and stale and sluggish seemed the air, the more
oppressive the quiet of this strange tenement. The


W. R. E. C K IS LAN D 289
case. For an instant, terrified by the fear that he
meant to ascend, she stood poised on the verge of
flight; but that he had another intention at once became
apparent. Stopping at the foot of the left-hand flight
of steps, he laid hold of the turned knob on top of
the outer newel post and lifted it from its socket. Then
he took something from his coat pocket, dropped it
into the hollow of the newel, replaced the knob and
turned and marched smartly out of the house, shutting
the door behind him.
Eleanor noticed that he did n’t lock it.
At the same time three separate considerations
moved her to fly back to her room. She had seen
something not intended for her sight; the knowledge
might somehow prove valuable to her; and if she were
discovered in the corridor, the man might reasonably
accuse her of spying. Incontinently she picked up
her skirts and ran.
The distance was n’t as great as she had thought;
in a brief moment she was standing before the door
of the bedroom as though she had just come out —
her gaze directed expectantly toward the small stair-
CaSe.
If she had anticipated a visit from her kidnapper,
however, she was pleasantly disappointed. Not a
sound came from below, aside from a dull and distant


W. R. E. C K IS LAN ID 243
—“this was the Wreck Island House oncet upon a
time. I calculate it's that now, only it ain't run as a
hotel any more. It’s been years since there was any
summer folks come here — place did n’t pay, they said;
guess that's why they shet it up and how your pa come
to buy it for a song.”
“Where is the Wreck Island House, then?” Eleanor
put in.
“On Wreck Island, of course.”
“And where is that?”
“In Long Island Sound, about a mile off ºn the
Connecticut shore. Pennymint Centre's the nearest
village.”
“That means nothing to me,” said the girl. “How
far are we from New York?”
“I could n’t rightly say — ain't never been there.
But your pa says — I heard him tell Eph once — he
can make the run in his autymobile in an hour and a
half. That's from Pennymint Centre, of course.”
Eleanor pressed her hands to her temples, temporarily
dazed by the information. “Island,” she repeated –
“a mile from shore — New York an hour and a half
away . . . .”
“Good, comfortable, tight little island,” resumed
Mrs. Clover, pleased, it seemed, with the sound of her
own voice; “you'll like it when you come to get


WR E C K IS LAND 245
of this dubious expedient; and besides, if she were to
accomplish anything toward regaining her freedom,
if it were no more than to register a violent protest,
she would need strength; and already she was weak
for want of food.
So she took her place and ate — ate ravenously,
enjoying every mouthful – even though her mind was
obsessed with doubts and fears and burning anger.
“You are the caretaker here?” she asked as soon
as her hunger was a little satisfied.
“Reckon you might call us that, me and Eph; we’ve
lived here for five years now, taking care of the island—
ever since your pa bought it.”
“Eph is your husband?”
“That's him — Ephraim Clover.”
“And — does n’t he do anything else but — care-
take?”
“Lord bless you, he don't even do that; I’m the
caretakeress. Eph don't do nothing but potter round
with the motor-boat and go to town for supplies and
fish a little and 'tend to the garden and do the chores
and —”
“I should think he must keep pretty busy.”
“Busy? Him? Eph? Lord! he 's the busiest thing
you ever laid your eyes on — poking round doing
nothing at all.”


246 THE BAN D B O X
“And does nobody ever come here . . . .”
“Nobody but the boss.”
“Does he often — ?”
“That's as may be and the fit’s on him. He comes
and goes, just as he feels like. Sometimes he's on and
off the island half a dozen times a week, and again
we don't hear nothing of him for months; sometimes
he just stops here for days and mebbe weeks, and
again he's here one minute and gone the next. Jumps
round like a flea on a griddle, I say; you can't never
tell nothing about what he's going to do or where he'll
be next. . . . My land o' mercy, Mr. Searle! What
a start you did give me!”
The man had succeeded in startling both women, as
a matter of fact. Eleanor, looking suddenly up from
her plate on hearing Mrs. Clover's cry of surprise, saw
him lounging carelessly in the hall doorway, where he
had appeared as noiselessly as a shadow. His sly, satiric
smile was twisting his thin lips, and a sardonic humour
glittered in the pale eyes that shifted from Eleanor's
face to Mrs. Clover's, and back again.
“I wish,” he said, nodding to the caretaker, “you'd
slip down to the dock and tell Eph to have the boat
ready by seven o'clock.”
“Yes, sir,” assented Mrs. Clover hastily. She
crossed at once toward the outer door. From her


W. R. E. C K IS LAN ID 247
tone and the alacrity with which she moved to do his
bidding, no less than from the half-cringing look with
which she met his regard, Eleanor had no difficulty
in divining her abject fear of this man whom
she could, apparently, have taken in her big hands
and broken in two without being annoyed by his
struggles.
“And, here!” he called after her — “supper ready?”
“Yes, sir – quite.”
“Very well; I'll have mine. Eph can come up as
soon as he's finished overhauling the motor. Wait
a minute: tell him to be sure to bring the oars up with
him.”
“Yes, sir, I will, sir.”
Mrs. Clover dodged through the door and, running
down the pair of steps from the kitchen stoop to the
ground, vanished behind the house.
“Enjoying your breakfast, I trust?”
Eleanor pushed back her chair and rose. She feared
him, feared him as she might have feared any loathly,
venomous thing; but she was not in the least spiritu-
ally afraid of him. Contempt and disgust only em-
phasised the quality of her courage. She confronted
him without a tremor.
“Will you take me with you when you leave this
island tonight?” she demanded,


248 T H E B A N D B O X
He shook his head with his derisive smile. She had
discounted that answer.
“How long do you mean to keep me here?”
“That depends on how agreeable you make your-
self,” he said obscurely.
“What do you mean?”
“Merely that . . . well, it's a pleasant, salubrious
spot, Wreck Island. You'll find it uncommonly health-
ful and enjoyable, too, as soon as you get over the
loneliness. Not that you 'll be so terribly lonely; I
shall be here more or less, off and on, much of the
time for the next few weeks. I don't mind telling you,
in strict confidence, as between father and child, that
I’m planning to pull off something pretty big before
long; of course it will need a bit of arranging in ad-
vance to make everything run smoothly, and this is
ideal for a man of my retiring disposition, not overfond
of the espionage of his fellow-men. So, if you're
docile and affectionate, we may see a great deal of
one another for some weeks — as I said.”
“And if not —?”
“Well” — he waved his hands expressively — “of
course, if you incline to be forward and disobedient,
then I shall be obliged to deny you the light of my
countenance, by way of punishment.”
She shook her head impatiently. “I want to know


WR E C K IS LA N D 249
when you will let me go,” she insisted, struggling
against the oppression of her sense of helplessness.
“I really can't say.” He pretended politely to sup-
press a yawn, indicating that the subject bored him
inordinately. “If I could trust you —”
“Can you expect that, after the way you treated
me last night — this morning?”
“Ah, well!” he said, claw-like fingers stroking his
lips to conceal his smile of mockery.
“You lied to me, drugged me, robbed me of the
necklace, brought me here. . . .”
“Guilty,” he said, yawning openly.
“Why? You could have taken the necklace from me
at the hotel. Why must you bring me here and keep
me prisoner?”
“The pleasure of my only daughter's society. . . .”
“Oh, you're despicable!” she cried, furious.
He nodded thoughtfully, fumbling with his lips.
“Won't you tell me why?” she pleaded.
He shook his head. “You would n’t understand,”
he added in a tone of maddening commiseration.
“I shan’t stay!” she declared angrily.
“Oh, I think you will,” he replied gently.
“I’ll get away and inform on you if I have to
swim.”
“It’s a long, wet swim,” he mused aloud – “over


WR E C K IS LAN D 251
“Well, that’s why I have these people in so strong a
hold. You see, Ephraim got himself into trouble trying
to pull off one of those bungling, amateurish burglaries
that his kind go in for so extensively; he wanted the
money to buy things for a pretty woman. And he was
already a married man. You can see how Mrs. Clover
felt about it. She – ah – cut up rather nasty. When
she got through with the other woman, no one would
have called her pretty any longer. Vitriol's a dread-
ful thing. . . .”
He paused an instant, seeming to review the case
sombrely. “I managed to get them both off, scot
free; and that makes them loyal. But it would go
hard with anyone who tried to escape to the mainland
and tell on them — to say nothing of me. . . . Mrs.
Clover has ever since been quite convinced of the virtue
of vitriol. She keeps a supply handy most of the time,
in case of emergencies. And she sleeps lightly; don't
forget that. I hate to think of what she might do if
she thought you meant to run away and tell tales.”
Slowly, step by step, guessing the way to the outer
door, the girl backed away from him, her face colour-
less with horror. Very probably he was lying to
frighten her; very possibly (she feared desperately) he
was not. What she knew of him was hardly reassur-
ing; the innate, callous depravity that had poisoned


252 T H E B A N D B O X
this man beyond cure might well have caused the death-
in-life of other souls. What he was capable of, others
might be; and what she knew him to be capable of,
she hardly liked to dwell upon. Excusably she con-
ceived her position more than desperate; and now her
sole instinct was to get away from him, if only for a
little time, out of the foetid atmosphere of his presence,
away from the envenomed irony of his voice — away
and alone, where she could recollect her faculties and
again realise her ego, that inner self that she had tried
so hard to keep stainless, unspoiled and unafraid.
He watched her as she crept inch by inch toward
the door, his nervous fingers busy about his mouth
as if trying to erase that dangerous, evil smile.
“Before you go,” he said suddenly, “I should tell
you that you will be alone with Mrs. Clover tonight.
I'm going to town, and Ephraim 's to wait with the
boat at Pennymint Point, because I mean to return
before morning. But you need n’t wait up for me;
Mrs. Clover will do that.”
Eleanor made no reply. While he was speaking she
had gained the door. As she stepped out, Mrs. Clover
reappeared, making vigorously round the corner of
the house.
Passing Eleanor on the stoop, she gave her a busy,
friendly nod, and hurried in.


W. R. E. C K IS LAND 258
“Eph 'll be up in half an hour,” she heard her say.
“Shall I serve your supper now?”
“Please,” he said quietly.
The girl stumbled down the steps and blindly fled
the sound of his voice.


XIV
THE STRONG-BOX
ER initial rush carried Eleanor well round the
front of the building. Then, as suddenly as
she had started off, she stopped, common-sense re-
asserting itself to assure her that there was nothing
to be gained by running until exhausted; her enemy
was not pursuing her. It was evident that she was to
be left to her own devices as long as they did not impel
her to attempt an escape – as long as she made her-
self supple to his will.
She stood for a long minute, very erect, head up and
shoulders back, eyes closed and lips taut, her hands
close-clenched at her sides. Then drawing a long
breath, she relaxed and, with a quiet composure ad-
mirably self-enforced, moved on, setting herself to
explore and consider her surroundings.
The abandoned hotel faced the south, overlooking
the greater breadth of Long Island Sound. In its
era of prosperity, the land in front of it to the water's
edge, and indeed for a considerable space on all sides,
254


258 T H E B A N D B O X
her mood. No case that she had ever heard of seemed
to her so desperate as that of the lonely, helpless girl
marooned upon this wave-bound patch of earth and
sand, cut off from all means of communication with
her kind, her destiny at the disposal of the maleficent
wretch who called himself her father, her sole compan-
ions two alleged criminals whose depravity, if what
she had heard were true, was subordinate only to
his.
She could have wept, but would n't; the emotion
that oppressed her was not one that tears would soothe,
her plight not one that tears could mend.
Her sole comfort resided in the fact that she was
apparently to be let alone, free to wander at will within
the boundaries of the island.
Sunset found her on a little sandy hillock at the
western end of Wreck Island — sitting with her chin
in her hands, and gazing seawards with eyes in which
rebellion smouldered. She would not give in, would
not abandon hope and accept the situation at its face
value, as irremediable. Upon this was she firmly
determined: the night was not to pass unmarked by
some manner of attempt to escape or summon aid.
She even found herself willing to consider arson as a
last resort: the hotel afire would make a famous torch
to bring assistance from the mainland. Only . . . she


260 T H E B A N D B O X
swell of dark water pursuing as if it meant to catch up
and overwhelm the boat and its occupants. These
latter occupied the extremes of the little vessel: Eph-
raim astern, beside the motor; the slighter figure at the
wheel in the bows.
Slowly the girl took her path back to the hotel,
watching the boat draw away, straight and swift of
flight as an arrow, momentarily dwindling and losing
definite form against the deepening blue-black surface
of the Sound. . . .
Weary and despondent, she ascended the pair of
steps to the kitchen porch. Mrs. Clover was busy
within, washing the supper dishes. She called out
a cheery greeting, to which Eleanor responded briefly
but with as pleasant a tone as she could muster. She
could not but distrust her companion and gaoler,
could not but fear that something vile and terrible
lurked beneath that good-natured semblance: else
why need the woman have become his creature?
“You ain't hungry again?”
“No,” said Eleanor, lingering on the porch, reluctant
to enter.
“Lonely?”
“No. . . .”
“You need n’t be; your pa’ll be home by three
o'clock, he says.”


T H E S T R O N G – B O X 261
Eleanor said nothing. Abruptly a thought had
entered her mind, bringing hope; something she had
almost forgotten had recurred with tremendous
significance.
“Tired? I'll go fix up your room soon 's I’m done
here, if you want to lay down again.”
“No; I'm in no hurry. I — I think I'll go for
another little walk round the island.”
“Help yourself,” the woman called after her heartily;
“I’ll be busy for about half an hour, and then we
can take our chairs out on the porch and watch
the moon come up and have a real good, old-fashioned
gossip. . . . .”
Eleanor lost the sound of her voice as she turned
swiftly back round the house. Then she stopped,
catching her breath with delight. It was true – splen-
didly true! The rowboat had been left behind.
It rode about twenty yards out from the end of the
dock, made fast to the motor-boat mooring. The
oars were in it; Ephraim had left them carelessly
disposed, their blades projecting a little beyond the
stern. And the water was so shallow at the mooring
that the man had been able to pole in with a
single oar, immersing it but half its length! An
oar, she surmised, was six feet long; that argued
an extreme depth of water of three feet – say at the


262 T H E B A N D B O X
worst three and a half. Surely she might dare to
wade out, unmoor the boat and climb in – if but
opportunity were granted her!
But her heart sank as she considered the odds against
any such attempt. If only the night were to be dark;
if only Mrs. Clover were not to wait up for her hus-
band and her employer; if only the woman were not
her superior physically, so strong that Eleanor would
be like a child in her hands; if only there were not
that awful threat of vitriol . . . .
Nevertheless, in the face of these frightful deterrents,
she steeled her resolution. Whatever the consequences,
she owed it to herself to be vigilant for her chance.
She promised herself to be wakeful and watchful:
possibly Mrs. Clover might nap while sitting up; and
the girl had two avenues by which to leave the house:
either through the kitchen, or by the front door to
the disused portion of the hotel. She need only
steal noiselessly along the corridor from her bedroom
door and down the broad main staircase and – the
front door was not even locked. She remembered
distinctly that he had simply pulled it to. Still, it
would be well to make certain he had not gone back
later to lock it.
Strolling idly, with a casual air of utter ennui —
assumed for the benefit of her gaoler in event she


T H E S T R O N G – B O X 263
should become inquisitive – Eleanor went round the
eastern end of the building to the front. Here a broad
veranda ran from wing to wing; its rotting weather-
eaten floor fenced in by a dilapidated railing save
where steps led up to the front door; its roof caved in
at one spot, wearing a sorry look of baldness in others
where whole tiers of shingles had fallen away.
Cautiously Eleanor mounted the rickety steps and
crossed to the doors. To her delight, they opened
readily to a turn of the knob. She stood for a trifle,
hesitant, peering into the hallway now dark with
evening shadow; then curiosity overbore her reluc-
tance. There was nothing to fear; the voice of Mrs.
Clover singing over her dishpan in the kitchen came
clearly through the ground-floor corridor, advertising
plainly her preoccupation. And Eleanor wanted des-
perately to know what it was that the man had hidden
in the socket of the newel-post.
Shutting the door she felt her way step by step
to the foot of the staircase. Happily the floor was
sound: no creaking betrayed her progress – there
would be none when in the dead of night she would
break for freedom.
Mrs. Clover continued to sing contentedly.
Eleanor removed the knob of the post and looked
down into the socket. It was dark in there; she could


266 T H E B A N D B O X
matched pearls separated and sold one by one, it would
not realise a third of its worth.
And the girl would have known the truth in five
minutes more (she was, in fact, already moving
back toward the newel-post) had not Mrs. Clover
chosen that moment to leave the kitchen and tramp
noisily down the corridor.
What her business might be in that part of the
house Eleanor could not imagine – unless it were
connected with herself, unless she had heard some
sound and was coming to investigate.
In panic terror, Eleanor turned back into the little
room and crouched down behind the safe, making
herself as small as possible, actually holding her breath
for fear it would betray her.
Nearer came that steady, unhurried tread, and
nearer. The girl thought her heart would burst with
its burden of suspense. She was obliged to gasp for
breath, and the noise of it rang as loudly and hoarsely
in her hearing as the exhaust of a steam-engine. She
pressed a handkerchief against her trembling lips.
Directly to the counter came the footsteps, and
paused. There was the thump of something being
placed upon the shelf. Then deliberately the woman
turned and marched back to her quarters.
In time the girl managed to regain enough con-


T H E S T R O N G – B O X 267
trol of her nerves to enable her to rise and creep
out through the office enclosure to the hall. Mrs.
Clover had resumed her chanting in the kitchen; but
Eleanor was in no mood to run further chances just
then. She needed to get away, to find time to compose
herself thoroughly. Pausing only long enough to see
for herself what the woman had deposited on the
counter (it was a common oil lamp, newly filled and
trimmed, with a box of matches beside it: preparations,
presumably, against the home-coming of the master
with a fresh consignment of booty) she flitted swiftly
to and through the door, closed it and ran down
the steps to the honest, kindly earth.
Here she was safe. None suspected her adventure or
her discovery. She quieted from her excitement, and
for a long time paced slowly to and fro, pondering ways
and means.
The fire ebbed from the heart of the western sky;
twilight merged imperceptibly into a night extraor-
dinarily clear and luminous with the gentle radiance
of a wonderful pageant of stars. The calm held un-
broken. The barking of a dog on the mainland carried,
thin but sharp, across the waters. On the Sound,
lights moved sedately east and west: red lights and
green and white lancing the waters with long quivering
blades. At times the girl heard voices of men talking


270 T H E B A N D B O X
a slant of moonlight through the window reassured
her as to the flight of time. It was nearly midnight;
she had three hours left, three hours leeway before
the return of her persecutor.
She lay without moving, listening attentively. The
house was anything but still; ghosts of forgotten foot-
steps haunted all its stairs and corridors; but the girl
could hear no sound ascribable to human agency. Mrs.
Clover no longer sang, her rocking-chair no longer
creaked.
With infinite precautions she got up and slipped out
of the room. Once in the hallway she did hear a noise
of which she easily guessed the source; and the choir-
ing of angels could have been no more sweet in her
hearing: Mrs. Clover was snoring.
Kneeling at the head of the staircase and bending
over, with an arm round the banister for support, she
could see a portion of the kitchen. And what she
saw only confirmed the testimony of the snores. The
woman had moved indoors to read; an oil lamp stood
by her shoulder, on the table; her chair was well tilted,
her head resting against its back; an old magazine
lay open on her lap; her chin had fallen; from her
mouth issued dissonant chords of contentment.
Eleanor drew back, rose and felt her way to the
long corridor. Down this she stole as silently as any


T H E S T R O N G – B O X 271
ghost, wholly indifferent to the eerie influences of the
desolate place, spectrally illuminated as it was with
faded chequers of moonlight falling through dingy win-
dows, alive as it was with the groans and complaints
of uneasy planks and timbers and the frou-frou, like
that of silken skirts, of rats and mice scuttling between
its flimsy walls. These counted for nothing to her;
but all her soul hung on the continuance of that noise
of snoring in the kitchen; and time and again she
paused and listened, breathless, until sure it was holding
on without interruption.
Gaining at length the head of the stairs, she picked
her way down very gently, her heart thumping madly
as the burden of her weight wrung from each individual
step its personal protest, loud enough (she felt) to
wake the dead in their graves; but not loud enough,
it seemed, to disturb the slumbers of the excellent, if
untrustworthy, Mrs. Clover.
At length she had gained the newel-post and ab-
stracted the key. The foretaste of success was sweet.
Pausing only long enough to unlatch the front door,
for escape in emergency, she darted through the hall,
behind the counter, into the little room.
And still Mrs. Clover slept aloud.
Kneeling, Eleanor fitted the key to the lock. Happily,
it was well oiled and in excellent working order. The


T H E S T R O N G – B O X 273
But Eleanor possessed no means of telling one package
from another; they were all so similar to one another
in everything save size, in which they differed only
slightly, hardly materially.
None the less, having dared so much, she was n’t
of the stuff to give up the attempt without at least a
little effort to find what she sought. And impulsively
she selected the first package that fell under her hand,
with nervous fingers unwrapped it and — found her-
self admiring an extremely handsome diamond brooch.
As if it had been a handful of pebbles, she cast it
from her to blaze despised upon the mean plank flooring,
and selected another package.
It contained rings — three gold rings set with soli-
taire diamonds. They shared the fate of the brooch.
The next packet held a watch. This, too, she dropped
contemptuously, hurrying on.
She had no method, other than to take the upper-
most packets from each pigeonhole, on the theory
that the necklace had been one of the last articles
entrusted to the safe. And that there was some sense
in this method was demonstrated when she opened the
ninth package — or possibly the twelfth: she was too
busy and excited to keep any sort of count.
This last packet, however, revealed the Cadogan
collar.





276 T H E B A N D B O X
with no business accomplished: Staff offering to re-
lease Max from his contract to produce, the manager
frantically begging him to do nothing of the sort, and
Alison making vague but disquieting remarks about
her inclination to “rest.” . . .
Staff dined alone, with disgust of his trade for a
sauce to his food. And, being a man — which is as
much as to say, a creature without much real under-
standing of his own private emotional existence — he
wagged his head in solemn amazement because he
had once thought he could love a woman like that.
Now Eleanor Searle was a different sort of a girl
altogether. . .
Not that he had any right to think of her in that
light; only, Alison had chosen to seem jealous of the
girl. Heaven alone (he called it honestly to witness)
knew why. . . .
Not that he cared whether Alison were jealous or
not. . . .
But he was surprised at his solicitude for Miss Searle
— now that Alison had made him think of her. He
was really more anxious about her than he had sus-
pected. She had seemed to like him, the few times
they’d met; and he had liked her very well indeed;
it’s refreshing to meet a woman in whom beauty and
sensibility are combined; the combination's piquant,


T H E E N E M Y'S HAN D 281
stamp. “Mailed at Hartford, Connecticut, at nine
this morning,” he commented.
“Read it,” insisted Iff irritably.
Staff withdrew the enclosure: a single sheet of note-
paper with a few words scrawled on one side.
“I’ve got her,’” he read aloud. “She thinks I'm
you. Is this sufficient warning to you to keep out of
this game? If not – you know what to expect.”
He looked from the note back to Iff. “What does
he mean by that?”
“How can I tell? It's a threat, and that's enough
for me; he's capable of anything fiendish enough to
amuse him.” He shook his clenched fists impotently
above his head. “Oh, if ever again I get within arm's
length of the hound . . . .”
“Look here,” said Staff; “I’m a good deal in the
dark about this business. You've got to calm your-
self and help me out. Now you say Miss Searle's
your daughter; yet you were on the ship together and
did n’t recognise one another — at least, so far as I
could see.”
“You don't see everything,” said Iff; “but at that,
you're right—she did n't recognise me. She has n’t
for years — seven years, to be exact. It was seven
years ago that she ran away from me and changed her
name. And it was all his doing! I’ve told you that


T H E E N E M Y'S HAN D 285
“Unsigned,” said Staff reflectively.
“Well?” demanded Alison, seating herself.
“Curious,” remarked Staff, still thinking.
“Well?” she iterated less patiently. “Is it a practi-
cal joke?”
“No,” he said, smiling; “to me it looks like
business.”
“You mean that the thief intends to come here —
to bargain with me?”
“I should fancy so, from what he says. . . . And,”
Staff added, crossing to his desk, “forewarned is fore-
armed.”
He bent over and pulled out the drawer containing
his revolver. At the same moment he heard Alison
catch her breath sharply, and a man's voice replied
to his platitude.
“Not always,” it said crisply. “Be good enough to
leave that gun lay – just hold up your hands, where
I can see them, and come away from that desk.”
Staff laughed shortly and swung smartly round,
exposing empty hands. In the brief instant in which
his back had been turned a man had let himself into
the study from the hall. He stood now with his
back to the door, covering Staff with an automatic
pistol.
“Come away,” he said in a peremptory tone, em-


290 T H E B A N D B O X
Standing with his back to them, he took up the in-
strument and lifted off the receiver.
“Hello?” he said irritably.
He was glad that his face was not visible to his
guests; he could restrain a start of surprise, but was
afraid his expression would have betrayed him when
he recognised the voice at the other end of the line
as Iff's.
“Don’t repeat my name,” it said quickly in a tone
low but clear. “That is Iff. Ismay still there?”
“Yes,” said Staff instantly: “it’s I, Harry. How
are you?”
“Get rid of him as quick’s you can,” Iff continued,
“and join me here at the Park Avenue. I dodged down
the fire-escape and caught his motor-car; his chauffeur
thinks I’m him. I’ll wait in the street – Thirty-
third Street side, with the car. Now talk.”
“All right,” said Staff heartily; “glad to. I'll
be there.”
“Chauffeur knows where Nelly is, I think; but he's
too big for me to handle alone, in case my foot slips
and he gets suspicious. That's why I need you.
Bring your gun.”
“Right,” Staff agreed promptly. “The club in half
an hour. Yes, I'll come. Good-bye.”
He turned back toward Ismay and Alison, his doubts


T H E E N E MY 'S HAN D 291
resolved, all his vague misgivings as to this case of
double identity settled finally and forever.
“Alison,” he said, breaking in roughly upon some-
thing Ismay was saying to the girl, “you've a cab
waiting outside, have n't you?”
Alison stared in surprise. “Yes,” she said in a tone
of wonder.
Staff paused beside the divan, one hand resting upon
the topmost of a little heap of silken cushions. “Mind
if I borrow it?” he asked, ignoring the man.
“No, but —”
“It’s business — important,” said Staff. “I’ll
have to leave you here at once. Only” — he watched
Ismay closely out of the corners of his eyes – “if I
were you I would n’t waste any more time on this
fellow. He's bluffing — can't carry out anything
he promises.”
Ismay turned toward him, expostulant.
“What d'you mean by that?” he demanded.
“Miss Searle has escaped,” said Staff deliberately.
“No!” cried Ismay, startled and thrown off his guard
by the fear it might be so. “Impossible!”
“Think so?” As he spoke Staff dextrously snatched
up the uppermost pillow and with a twist of his hand
sent it whirling into the thief's face.
It took him utterly unawares. His arms flew up


292 T H E B A N D B O X
too late to ward it off, and he staggered back a
pace.
“Lots of impossible things keep happening all the
time,” chuckled Staff as he closed in.
There was hardly a struggle. Staff's left arm clipped
the man about the waist at the same time that
his right hand deftly abstracted the pistol from its
convenient pocket. Then, dropping the weapon into
his own pocket, he transferred his hold to Ismay’s col-
lar and spun him round with a snap that fairly jarred
his teeth.
“There, confound you!” he said, exploring his pockets
for other lethal weapons and finding nothing but
three loaded clips ready to be inserted in the hollow
butt of the pistol already confiscated. “Now what 'm
I going to do with you, you blame' little pest?”
The question was more to himself than to Ismay,
but the latter, recovering with astonishing quickness,
answered Staff by suddenly squirming out of his coat
and leaving it in his assailant's hands as he ducked to
the door and flung himself out.
Staff broke into a laugh as the patter of the little
man's feet was heard on the stairs.
“Resourceful beggar,” he commented, going to
the window and rolling up the coat as he went. He
reached it just in time to see the thief dodge out.


T H E E N E MY 'S HAN D 293
The coat, opening as it descended, fell like a
blanket round Ismay's head. He stumbled, tripped
and fell headlong down the steps, sprawling and
cursing.
“Thought you might need it,” Staff apologised as
the man picked himself up and darted away.
He turned to confront an infuriated edition of Alison.
“Why did you do that?” she demanded with a stamp
of her foot. “What right had you to interfere? I
was beating him down; in another minute we'd have
come to terms —”
“Oh, don’t be silly, my dear,” said Staff, taking
his revolver from the desk-drawer and placing it in
the hip-pocket of tradition. “To begin with, I don't
mind telling you I don't give much of a whoop whether
you ever get that necklace back or not.” He grabbed
his hat and started for the door. “What I'm interested
in is the rescue of Miss Searle, if you must know; and
that's going to happen before long, or I miss my
guess.” He paused at the open door. “If we get
her, we get the necklace, of course — and the Lord
knows you’ll be welcome to that. Would you mind
turning out the lights before you go?”
“Staff!”
Her tone was so peremptory that he hesitated an
unwelcome moment longer.


294 T H E B A N D B O X
“Well?” he asked civilly, wondering what on earth
she had found to fly into such a beastly rage about.
“You know what this means?”
“You tell me,” he smiled.
“It means the break; I won't play A Single Woman!”
she snapped.
“That's the best guess you've made yet,” he
laughed. “You win. Good night and – good-bye.”


296 T H E B A N D B O X
meter into the driver's hand, and sprang into the body
of Ismay’s car. If snapped the door shut; as though
set in motion by that sharp sound, the machine began
to move smoothly and smartly, gathering momentum
with every revolution of its wheels. They were cross-
ing Madison almost before Staff had settled into his
seat. A moment later they were snoring up Fifth
Avenue.
Staff looked at his watch. “Ten,” he told Iff.
“We'll make time once we get clear of this island,”
said the little man anxiously; “we’ve got to.”
“Why?”
“To beat Ismay —”
Staff checked him with a hand on his arm and a
warning glance at the back of the chauffeur's head.
“Oh, that's all right now,” Iff told him placidly.
“I thought we might's well understand one another
first as last; so, while we were waiting for you, I slipped
him fifty, gave him to understand that my affectionate
cousin had about come to the end of his rope and —
won his heart and confidence. It's a way I have with
people; they do seem to fall for me,” he asserted with
insufferable self-complacence.
He continued to impart his purchased information
to Staff by snatches all the way from Thirty-fourth
Street to the Harlem River.


298 T H E B A N D B O X
in the Sound — Wreck Island. Used to be run as a
one-horse summer resort — hotel and all that. Went
under several years ago, if mem'ry serveth me aright.
Anyhow, they loaded Nelly aboard this motor-boat
and took her across. . . .
“Spelvin was told to wait. He did. In about an
hour – boat back; native running it hands Spelvin
a note, tells him to run up to Hartford and post it
and be back at seven P. M. Spelvin back at seven;
Ismay comes across by boat, is driven to town. .
“That's all, to date. Spelvin had begun to suspect
there was something crooked going on, which made
him easy meat for my insidious advances. Says he
was wondering if he had n’t better tell his troubles
to a cop. All of which goes to show that Cousin Artie's
fast going to seed. Very crude operating – man of his
reputation, too. Makes me almost ashamed of the
relationship.” -
“How are we going to get to Wreck Island from
Pennymint Point?”
“Same boat,” said Iff confidently. “Spelvin heard
Ismay tell his engineer to wait for him — would be
back between midnight and three.”
“He can't beat us there, can he, by any chance?”
“He can if he humps himself. This is a pretty good
car, and Spelvin says there is n’t going to be any car


N IN E TY MINUTES 299
on the road tonight that'll pass us; but I can't forget
that dear old New York, New Haven & Hartford.
They run some fast trains by night, and while of course
none of them stops at Pennymint Centre – station for
the Point — still, a man with plenty of money to fling
around can get a whole lot of courtesy out of a rail-
road.”
“Then the question is: can he catch a train which
passes through Pennymint Centre before we can rea-
sonably expect to get there?”
“That's the intelligent query. I don't know. Do
you?”
“No —”
“Spelvin doesn’t, and we haven't got any time to
waste trying to find out. Probabilities are, there is.
The only thing to do is to run for it and trust to luck.
Spelvin says it took him an hour and thirty-five minutes
to run in, this evening; and he 's going to better that
if nothing happens. Did you remember to bring a
gun?”
“Two.” Staff produced the pistol he had taken from
Ismay, with the extra clips, and gave them to the little
man with an account of how he had become possessed
of them — a narrative which Iff seemed to enjoy
immensely.
“Oh, we can't lose,” he chuckled; “not when Cousin


302 T H E B A N D B O X
A train hurtled past them, running eastwards: a
roaring streak of orange light crashing through the
world of cool night blues and purple-blacks.
The chauffeur swore audibly and let out another
notch of speed.
Staff sat spellbound by the amazing romance of it
all. . . . A bare eight days since that afternoon when
a whim, born of a love now lifeless, had stirred him
out of his solitary, work-a-day life in London, had lifted
him out of the ordered security of the centre of the
world's civilisation and sent him whirling dizzily
across three thousand miles and more to become a
partner in this wild, weird ride to the rescue of a damsel
in distress and durance vile! Incredible! .
Eight days: and the sun of Alison, that once he
had thought to be the light of all the world, had set;
while in the evening sky the star of Eleanor was rising
and blazing ever more brightly. . . .
Now when a man begins to think about himself and
his heart in such poetic imagery, the need for human
intercourse grows imperative on his understanding;
he must talk or – suffer severely.
Staff turned upon his defenseless companion.
“Iff,” said he, “when a man's the sort of a man who
can fall out of love and in again – with another woman,
of course — inside a week — what do you call him?”


306 T H E B A N D B O X
“Give you twenty-five if you get away from the dock
within five minutes,” Iff told the boatbuilder directly.
The man started as if stung. “Jemimal” he breathed,
incredulous. Then caution prompted him to extend a
calloused and work-warped hand. “Cross my palm,”
he said.
“You give it to him, Staff,” said Iff magnificently.
“I’m short of cash.”
Obediently, Staff disbursed the required sum. The
native thumbed it, pocketed it, lifted his coat from a
nail behind the door and started across the road in a
single movement.
“You come 'long, Spelvin,” he said in passing,
“’nd help with the boat. If you gents 'll get out on
the dock I'll have her alongside in three minutes,
'r my name ain’t Bascom.”
Pursued by the chauffeur, he disappeared into the
huddle of boat-houses and beached and careened boats.
A moment later, Iff and Staff, picking their way through
the tangle, heard the scrape of a flat-bottomed boat
on the beach and, subsequently, splashing oars.
By the time they had reached the end of the dock,
the boatbuilder and his companion were scrambling
aboard a twenty-five-foot boat at anchor in the midst
of a small fleet of sail and gasoline craft. The rumble
of a motor followed almost instantly, was silenced mo-


N IN E T Y MINUTES 807
mentarily while the skiff was being made fast to the
mooring, broke out again as the larger boat selected
a serpentine path through the circumjacent vessels
and slipped up to the dock.
Before it had lost way, Iff and Staff were aboard.
Instantly, Bascom snapped the switch shut and the
motor started again on the spark.
“Straight out,” he instructed Spelvin at the wheel,
“till you round that white moorin'-dolphin. Then
I’ll take her.” . . .
Not long afterward he gave up pottering round the
engine and went forward, relieving Spelvin. “You go
back and keep your eye on that engyne,” he ordered;
“she's workin' like a sewin'-machine, but she wants
watchin'. I'll tell you when to give her the spark.
Meanwhile you might's well dig them lights out of the
port locker and set 'em out.”
“No,” Iff put in. “We want no lights.”
“Gov'mint regulations,” said Bascom stubbornly.
“Must carry lights.”
“Five dollars?” Iff argued persuasively.
“Agin the law,” growled Bascom. “But — I dunno
—they ain't anybody likely to be out this time o’ night.
Cross my palm.”
And Staff again disbursed.
The white mooring-buoy swam past and the little


308 T H E B A N D B O X
vessel heeled as Bascom swung her sharply to the
southwards.
“Now,” he told Spelvin, “advance that spark all
you've a mind to.”
There was a click from the engine-pit and the steady
rumble of the exhaust ran suddenly into a prolonged
whining drone. The boat jumped as if jerked forward
by some gigantic, invisible hand. Beneath the bows
the water parted with a crisp sound like tearing
paper. Long ripples widened away from the sides,
like ribs of a huge fan. A glassy hillock of water sprang
up mysteriously astern, pursuing them like an avenging
Nemesis, yet never quite catching up.
The sense of irresistible speed was tremendous, as
stimulating as electricity; this in spite of the fact that
the boat was at best making about half the speed at
which the motor-car had plunged along the country
roads: an effect in part due to the spacious illusion of
moonlit distances upon the water.
Staff held his cap with one hand, drinking in the keen
salt air with a feeling of strange exultation. Iff crept
forward and tarried for a time talking to the boat-
builder.
The boat shaved a nun-buoy outside Barmouth
Point so closely that Staff could almost have touched
it by stretching out his arm. Then she straightened


310 T H E B A N D B O X
“There. . . .” he said, pointing.
Over the bows a dark mass seemed to have separated
itself from the shadowed mainland, with which it had
till then been merged. A strip of silver lay between the
two, and while they watched it widened, swiftly win-
ning breadth and bulk as the motor-boat swung to
the north of the long, sandy spit at the western end
of Wreck Island.
“See anything of another boat?” Iff asked. “You
look — your eyes are younger than mine.”
Staff stood up, steadying himself with feet wide
apart, and stared beneath his hand.
“No,” he said; “I see no boat.”
“We’ve beaten him, then!” Iff declared joyfully.
But they had n’t, nor were they long in finding it
out. For presently the little island lay black, a ragged
shadow against the blue-grey sky, upon the starboard
beam; and Bascom passed the word aft to shut off the
motor. As its voice ceased, the boat shot in toward
the land, and the long thin moonlit line of the landing-
stage detached itself from the general obscurity and
ran out to meet them. And so closely had Bascom
calculated that the “shoot” of the boat brought them
to a standstill at the end of the structure without a
jar. Bascom jumped out with the headwarp, Staff and
Iff at his heels.


314 T H E B A N D B O X
hands of Mrs. Clover or her husband, she gave all her
strength.
At the same time the first-floor windows of the hotel
were illumined by an infernal glare. All round her
there was lurid light, setting everything in sharp relief.
The face of the man who held her was suddenly re-
vealed; and it was her father's. . . . She had left him
inside the building and now . . . She was assailed with
a terrifying fear that she had gone mad. In a frenzy
she wrenched herself free; but only to be caught in
other arms.
A voice she knew said soothingly: “There, Miss
Searle — you're all right now. . . .”
Staff's voice and, when she twisted to look, Staff's
face, friendly and reassuring!
“Don’t be afraid,” he was saying; “we’ll take care
of you now — your father and I.”
“My father!” she gasped. “My father is in
there!”
“No,” said Iff at her side. “Believe me, he is n’t.
That, dear, is your fondly affectionate Uncle Arbuth-
not — and between the several of us I don't mind tell-
ing you that he's stood in my shoes for the last time.”
“But I don't,” she stammered – “I don't under-
stand —”
“You will in a minute,” Staff told her gently. At


316 T H E B A N D B O X
hotel. A third stuttering series of reports saluted this
action, and then there was a short pause ended by a
single shot.
“Come,” said Staff. He took her arm gently.
“Come away. . . .”
Shuddering, she suffered him to lead her a little
distance into the dunes. Here he released her.
“If you won't mind being left alone a few minutes,”
he said, “I’ll go back and see what's happened. You’ll
be perfectly safe here, I fancy.”
“Please,” she said breathlessly –“ do go. Yes,
please.” -
She urged him with frantic gestures. . . .
He hurried back to the front of the hotel. By now
it was burning like a bonfire; already, short as had been
the time since the overturning of the lamp, the entire
ground floor with the exception of one wing was a
roaring welter of flames, while the fire had leaped up
the main staircase and set its signals in the windows
of the upper story.
Iff was standing at some distance from the main
entrance, having pushed his way through the tangle
of undergrowth to escape the scorching heat that ema-
nated from the building. He caught sight of Staff
approaching and waved a hand to him.
“Greetings!” he cried cheerfully, raising his voice


The light of the great fire illumined not only all the island, but
the waters for miles around
Page 319


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H O L O C A U ST 319
peared, since I won't return to this place. And that’s
the easiest way: we don't got any use for inquests at
the wind-up of this giddy dime-novel!”.
The light of the great fire illumined not only all
the island but the waters for miles around. As
Bascom's boat drew away, its owner called Staff's
attention to a covey of sails, glowing pink against the
dark background of the mainland as they stood across
the arm of the Sound for the island.
“Neighbours,” said Mr. Bascom; “comin' for to
see if they can lend a hand or snatch a souvenir or so,
mebbe.”
Staff nodded, with little interest. Out of the corners
of his eyes he could see Iff and his daughter, on the
opposite side of the boat. Iff was talking to her
in a gentle, subdued voice strangely unlike his cus-
tomary acrid method of expression. He had an arm
round his daughter's shoulders; her head rested on
Staff looked away, back at the shining island. He
could not grudge the little man his hour. His own would
come, in time. . . .
THE END
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