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WILLIAM CHARVAT
American Fiction Collection
The Ohio State University Libraries











THE MAN WHO
CONVICTED HIMSELF





THE
M.A.N.
WHO CONWICTEI)
HIMSELF
DAVID
FQ X.
&
NEW YORK
ROBERT M. McBRIDE & CO.
1920


Copyright, 1920, by
RoBERT M. McBRIDE & Co.
P r in t e d i n t he
United States of America
Publish ed August, 1920


CHAPTER
II.
III.
IV.
VI.
VII.
VIII.
IX.
XI.
XII.
XIII.
XIV.
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
CONTENTS
THE REUNION .
THE SHADOWERs, INC.
WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT
DEVIL’s WORK .
THE SAFE .
VANISHED!
THE LUMP OF CLAY
IN NEW ROLES .
HANDS IN DARKNESS
TAXI |
THE SUMMONS
THE WATERFRONT SHACK
PHIL Howe's PASSENGER
THE CONFERENCE
FACE TO FACE
ALAN .
CLIFFORD SCORES
CLOSE QUARTERS
THE TREASURE OF THE MANCHUs
SIx SLIPS OF PAPER
THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF .
THE REWARD OF VIRTUE
PAGE
15
28
44
59
72
86
102
115
128
141
155
169
182
196
208
224
239
254
268
285
305





The Man Who Convicted Himself
CHAPTER I
THE REUNION
N the lobby of one of the city's most cosmopolitan hotels,
on an early evening in midsummer, was seated an in-
dividual worthy of a second glance even in the heterogene-
ous throng which at that season gathers from all points of
the compass to make of the metropolis a vast playground.
He was a man in perhaps the late fifties, with a thin,
lugubrious face and dark hair graying slightly at the tem-
ples, and the unrelieved black of his immaculate although
somewhat old-fashioned garments enhanced his ministerial
appearance.
He might have been a country clergyman on his first visit
to the city, save that his assured, dignified poise and the
lack of interest with which he regarded each passer-by be-
tokened a larger experience.
From behind a pillar near the telephone exchange a
stout, almost burly, figure in a gray business suit had been
watching him for some time and finally caught his eye. The
benevolent stranger returned his gaze without the flicker
of an eyelash, and with a grin and a shrug the burly one
turned away just as a man of quite another type entered
from the street door, paused, and then moved quietly and
1


2 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
unobtrusively around behind the leather lounge upon which
the older visitor was seated.
The newcomer was a man of forty-five or thereabout,
tall and well-built with keen gray eyes, and he bore himself
with the easy, well-bred manner of an aristocrat; yet as
he bent slightly toward the thin, black-clothed shoulders,
strange words issued from his apparently immobile lips:
“Will your control appear to-night, Professor?”
The elderly figure turned with an almost imperceptible
start. His bland eyes had narrowed, and over his ascetic
countenance a crafty, cautious expression had fallen as a
veil, but when he recognized the questioner it lifted swiftly.
“Rex, you old-timer!”
“Not so loud!” the other warned, turning away. “Egyp-
tian Room in ten minutes.”
He strolled off in the direction of the restaurant indi-
cated, leisurely relinquished his Panama and stick to the
coatroom boy, nodded with casual boredom in response to
the effusive greeting of the headwaiter, and selected a table
obviously intended for four in a secluded corner. As he
lighted a cigarette and leaned back to observe the brilliant
scene before him, he looked every inch the cultivated, afflu-
ent, experienced man of the world, and yet there seemed
to be something tense and eager beneath his composure and
there was a curious gleam in the lightning-like glance he
darted at the door.
The ten minutes lengthened into twenty before his ac-
quaintance of the lobby appeared in the doorway and, after
gravely surveying the gay groups before him, moved with
no sign of recognition toward the corner where the other
man sat all but concealed by the branching palms.


THE REUNION 3
He was passing the table when the man he had
called “Rex” uttered a low exclamation of cordial sur-
prise and rose with extended hand. To a possible on-
looker, the meeting would have seemed the most casual
in the world, but when they had ordered coffee and sat
facing each other across the table the “Professor” announced
grimly:
“Couldn’t come before. The house dick is watching me
like a lynx.”
“Has he got anything on you?” his host demanded sternly.
“Are you wanted anywhere, George? I’ve got to know
before we can talk business, and you know better than to
—er—dissemble with me.” -
“I should think not!” The ascetic individual’s face took
on an expression of injured dignity. “After being the
guest of the government in every state of the Union, do
you think I would have been sitting calmly there in the
lobby if there were anything out against me? I have been
leading an utterly blameless life and it palls, my friend,
it palls!—Have you anything good on?”
The swift change from ministerial dignity to avid in-
terest in the last question was ludicrous in the extreme,
but his companion did not smile.
“The biggest thing of our lives,” he responded, his utter
lack of emphasis making the statement all the more
weighty. “We shall need some others, though, whom we
can absolutely trust; those in other branches of our late
profession. Do you know where any of our former asso-
ciates are? I had intended to make discreet inquiries
when my plan was more fully matured.”
“Would Lucian Baynes be of any use to us?” George


4 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
suggested. “You remember him, don’t you? Best smug-
gler in his day—”
“And one of the greatest jewel experts and art con-
noisseurs alive!” supplemented Rex, the eagerness show-
ing for an instant beneath his iron control. “He will be
one of the best people we could get. Where is he?”
“Right here in this hotel.” George rose, as the waiter
approached with the coffee. “Saw him in the barber shop
not an hour ago and he told me to look him up—slipped
me his new monniker and room number. I'll bring him.”
In an incredibly short space of time he returned with
a man a few years younger than his host in tow.
“Mr. Powell, let me present Mr. Lester Ballyntine.”
George performed the introduction like a benediction. “I
have taken the liberty of mentioning your little proposi-
tion to Mr. Ballyntine, and he is much interested. I find
that he, like myself, is at perfect liberty to take it up.”
The two shook hands cordially and Lucian Baynes,
alias Mr. Ballyntine, the despair of the customs authorities
of more countries than his own, made a third at the coun-
cil table.
He was fastidious but not effeminate in appearance,
with light, slightly thin brown hair, blue eyes and a small
blond mustache which he stroked to mask the low, drawl-
ing words which issued from his lips.
“When George Roper told me that it was actually you,
Rex Powell, who awaited us here I was delighted, my
dear chap! I wanted to congratulate you on the disagree-
ment of the jury in that Los Angeles affair; it was a mas-
ter Stroke!”
“Thanks, old man,” Powell replied somewhat dryly. “I


THE REUNION 5
hadn’t heard that you had returned from the—er—health
resort to which your physician recommended you, or I
should have made an effort to look you up before this.”
Baynes' mustache lifted in a smile that was not all mirth.
“I have been in the best of health for the past two years,”
he remarked. “But suppose we talk business? What is
this little proposition which our reverend friend mentioned
to me?”
Powell shook his head.
“I won't go into it until we are all together,” he an-
nounced. “Can you suggest any more of the old fraternity
who might join us?”
“Well, without being conversant with the nature of the
proposition, I don’t know what type of chap would fit in,
but I saw Bunthorne the other day—”
“No. There will be no strong-arm work necessary. This
is purely a gentleman's game,” Powell explained. “That
was why I sent George for you the moment I learned that
you were here. I fear that George himself has reverted
slightly to the speech of his earlier profession, but a little
practice will obviate that. We will move only in the best
society, and we shall require at least three more experts in
different lines who can upon occasion shine in the highest
circles.”
“Rather a tall order, Rex.” Baynes shrugged. “Experts
in what, for instance?”
“Well, a person who might in courtesy be called a hand-
writing expert, for one. A gentleman whose study and
knowledge of various types of chirography has been pro-
found.”
“What is the matter with Clifford Nichols?” Baynes


6 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
asked. “Harvard graduate, Latin Quarter student and all
that. If he had confined his etching to pictures instead
of banknotes and his signatures to those of his father and
uncle rather than strangers', he would now be cooling his
heels at Newport, instead of cooped up in a Bronx flat.
Shall I go and telephone to him?”
“Clifford Nichols by all means!” Powell assented. “It
is odd, but I had not thought of him. Tell him to hurry,
old man, for we don’t want to hold too long a session here.”
“I am grieved that I am not up to the gentlemanly stand-
ard required for your new proposition!” George remarked
with an air of reproach when they were alone. “To which
of my previous professions were you alluding just now,
Trex P”
Rex Powell smiled for the first time and the sunny genial-
ity which swept over his face softened the tense lines with
an irresistible charm, as for an instant he laid his hand
over the thin, sallow one of his friend.
“To the days when you could sell an oblong of gilt to a
guileless stranger, or a block of stock consisting only of
pretty certificates to a wily investor with equal facility,”
he replied. “George, you old rascal, did you think I was
referring to those early wires from the races, or your In-
dian girl control who used to frighten elderly maiden ladies
with messages from another world until they parted with
their hoarded inheritances?”
A sanctimonious but unmistakable grin manifested itself
upon the solemn countenance of his companion.
“To revert, brother, to the vernacular you deplore, them
was the happy days!” he sighed, with his fingertips together


THE REUNION 7
and his eyes uplifted. “I doubt that we shall know them
again!” -
“Cliff Nichols will be here as soon as the subway can
bring him,” Baynes announced as he returned to the table.
“Now, who else, Rex? You spoke of two more.”
“A retired physician would be an admirable addition to
our circle.” Powell spoke musingly, as though thinking
aloud. “One who is not only learned in medicine but is a
bit of a specialist in toxicology.”
George Roper's face paled slightly.
“Good Lord, Rex, we are not going as far as that in this
thing, are we?” he asked. “I’m good for anything under
the canopy but poison—”
“My dear fellow, don’t jump to conclusions!” Powell
said sharply in a lowered tone. “When you know the
proposition you will understand how useful such a confrère
will be to us. Can you recall any one who would be suit-
able?”
“Well,” George reflected, “there's old Doc Raymond—”
“Chronic alcoholic,” interrupted Baynes tersely. “You
couldn’t trust him now to chloroform a dog. Pointdexter
might do—”
“He turned state's evidence in the Brice case, as you may
remember.” Powell pushed aside his cup and slipped an-
other cigarette into his amber holder. “Infernally clever
chap, but we want no cowards in this game.”
“Lord, I wish we knew where to lay our hands on Cor-
liss!” ejaculated George fervently. “Haven’t seen him in ten
years but he was a wizard at chemistry; learned it when
he was an undertaker's assistant as a boy. He knows poi-


8 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
sons that the Borgias forgot, and he can play the gentle-
man even if he wasn’t born one.”
“Henry Corliss?” Powell's face lighted eagerly. “Gad,
I had forgotten all about him! If he's still alive a night let-
ter to 053 Vernon Avenue, St. Louis, will bring him. I'll
send it when we leave here.—How are you, Cliff: Glad to
see you with us!”
He arose and shook the slender, tapering white hand
of an esthetic-looking individual who had strolled toward
their table. The latest arrival was well under forty and
the soft collar and bow tie which he affected made him
appear even younger, although there were tired lines about
the pale, cold eyes behind broad-rimmed glasses, and the
slightly long hair, spiked mustache and tiny, dark goatee
lent him an air of studied eccentricity.
There were lingering signs, too, of a significant pallor
upon his finely chiseled features, and he greeted the others
with short, halting phrases as though speech came not easily
to him.
“How long—?” Powell asked with a note of sympathy
in his tone as Clifford Nichols took the last vacant chair.
“Three months,” responded the other listlessly. “I can’t
seem to come back this time as I did before. Getting
neurasthenic, I imagine. That is why I rather jumped at
your message, old man. Glad to get out of a rut. I say,
what is the big idea? I'll have a try at anything, but they'll
never take me again. It would be life next time, you know,
and I’m fed up on the State's hospitality.”
“They’ll never take you on this proposition of mine, my
boy. There's just one more of the old fraternity with whom


THE REUNION 9
I want to get in touch and then I'll outline it to you. Do
you know when Philip Howe will be out?”
“Susceptible Phil?” Nichols shrugged. “When I left he
was in solitary for making eyes at the warden's daughter.
Poor little chap! He'll be out next Wednesday, though;
had a note from him yesterday via the underground.”
“Wednesday,” Powell repeated. “Henry Corliss will be
here by then if my wire reaches him, and our circle, as
George would say, will be complete. I shall have a lot to
arrange in the meantime, but one of you must go up and
meet Phil as he leaves the gates. I don’t want him to fall
into any other hands until I have put my proposition up to
him.”
“Not II” Nichols shuddered. “I see it at night now,
when I can get any sleep at all.”
“I will go,” George volunteered. “I’ll hang on to that
erring youth until we meet again. But when and where
will that be, Rex? Not here, surely. Even though our
consciences are all spotless for the moment I do not like
the attentions of my friend the house detective. He is a
coarse and skeptical creature and his opinion of his fellow
men is shockingly degraded.”
Rex Powell glanced at his watch.
“We will meet,” he announced, “at exactly ten o'clock
next Thursday morning in suite seventeen-twenty in the
new Bolingbroke Building on Forty-second Street. Is it
understood, gentlemen? Those who do not care to go into
the proposition may withdraw, and I shall not even impose
secrecy on them.”
“Phew!” whistled George and as instantly unpuckered


10 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
his lips into their usual thin line. “What kind of a game
is this anyway, Rex? And the Bolingbroke, too; newest
and biggest of the office buildings. Whom do we ask for
when we come?”
“Find the number and walk in. I shall be there,” Powell
responded. “At ten o'clock Thursday, then; suite seventeen-
twenty.—Waiter, my check.”
Precisely to the moment on the day appointed Lucian
Baynes and Clifford Nichols opened the door of suite num-
ber seventeen-twenty, and paused on the threshold. They
found themselves in a tiny but luxurious anteroom with
exquisitely carved old chairs, faded, mellow rugs of obvious
antiquity and almost priceless value and a painting or two
upon the walls at sight of which Baynes, the connoisseur,
caught his breath in wordless appreciation. Over it all
the glow of indirect lighting cast its soft effulgence, and
although there were no windows a noiseless, unseen fan
breathed a cool, refreshing wave of air upon them.
There was one incongruous note in the perfect room,
however. It was furnished by a fluffy, golden-haired young
person who sat behind an inlaid desk immediately opposite
the entrance door, and whose jaws worked rhythmically
and with such vigor that they forced her small red lips
apart as she bent a steady blue-eyed gaze upon the
visitors.
“I fear that we have made a mistake—” Baynes began,
but even as he uttered the first syllable his quick eyes noted
that one of the girl's slim fingers had touched a bit of the
lighter grained inlaid wood upon the desk, and she smiled.
“We were looking for a gentleman—”
“Mr. Powell?” The small jaws ceased their rhythmic


THE REUNION 11
motion for a moment. “He’s expecting you. Go right
in.”
She rose and turning to the wall immediately beside her
desk moved aside a panel, which slipped on noiseless rollers
behind a picture. In the aperture, beside a Jacobean table
black with age about which six huge leather chairs had
been arranged, stood Rex Powell in an office almost Spar-
tan in its simplicity, yet in which rugs and appointments
bespoke the same quiet elegance as the anteroom.
One of the chairs was already occupied and by a stranger,
an exceedingly fat, exceedingly bald man of perhaps fifty,
whose smooth, broad face bore a benevolent smile and who
rubbed his plump hands together in unctuous welcome as
he awaited an introduction.
“Good morning, Lucian. You're looking better, Cliff,
old man. Allow me to present Henry Corliss—Doctor Cor-
liss, for our professional purposes. He is an old friend of
mine and I believe will prove a valued associate.” Powell
motioned toward the stranger and when the formal ac-
knowledgments had been made he gestured about the office.
“What do you think of our new sanctum?”
Clifford Nichols sank into a chair, his tapering fingers
drumming lightly on its arms. The panel by means of which
they had entered had slid silently back into place, and he
saw that the room was hexagonal in shape, and in the
center of each side he descried a panel similar to the
first.
“The effect is excellent, Rex,” Baynes responded. “But
why a genuine Van Dyck in the same room with a young
person who masticates wintergreen gum? It is a false note,
old chap.”


12 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“I say, why is this room six-sided, and what is behind
each of the other panels?” demanded Nichols.
Powell laughed pleasantly.
“You will see for yourself presently.—But wait!”
He had seated himself once more in his chair at the head
of the long table and now his hand slipped beneath its edge.
Instantly, as clearly as though it were breathed into their
very ears, they heard the smooth, sympathetically paternal
tones of George Roper.
“My dear young lady, can you tell me where we can
find–?”
Powell's hand tensed beneath the table's edge and he
rose again as the panel swung back, disclosing the familiar,
tall, gaunt figure of George clad in ministerial black, and
just behind him a small, dapper man of about thirty-five
with a weak but undeniably handsome face and irrepressibly
merry eyes in which a trace of cowed furtiveness still lin-
gered.
“Come in, George. Here is your old friend, Henry Cor-
liss.—Philip, my boy!” Powell grasped the hand of the
last arrival, and shook it warmly. “Gentlemen, those of
you who have never met Mr. Howe will have the pleasure
of knowing the greatest safe-cracker of the age. There
isn’t a combination ever invented that he cannot work and
as for the less subtle methods he is an expert in all of them,
from nitro and violet rays to electricity.”
The slim little dandy's pale face flushed with pardonable
pride beneath the other's praise and, when they were all
seated, his eyes glanced curiously about the room and back
with eager expectancy to the man who had greeted him.
“Gentlemen,” began Rex Powell, “I know you all want


THE REUNION 13
to know without loss of time why I have called you to-
gether for this meeting. The proposition I have to put to
you is a startling one, but I ask that you let me have the
floor until I have finished. I have already said that any one
who wishes to drop out may do so. I have worked with
all of you at one time or another in each of your special
lines, and you know that I am a man of my word.”
“You’ve never been sent up, Rex, either!” Philip Howe
broke in irrepressibly.
“The luck of the game!” Powell shrugged. “However,
I want to ask you one question, gentlemen. How many of
you have averaged ten thousand a year every year since you
started in your several lines of work? Come, Lucian, you’ve
dealt in the riches of the earth, while we have been piking
along. Have you averaged ten thousand a year, counting
the years that you have been—er—retired from the practice
of your profession?”
“I cannot say that I ever kept a budget.” Baynes stroked
his small blond mustache. “I have made one or two ex-
ceedingly rich hauls, and gotten away with many that were
well worth while, but counting the periods you mention I
doubt if I have averaged more than half the sum you have
named.”
“Ten thousand!” sighed George. “Are you—er—smok-
ing anything stronger than Havana tobacco these days, dear
friend?”
“Exactly,” Powell resumed. “If I tell you that I have
a proposition that will net each of us more than that in a
year for as many years as we care to carry on; that the
authorities will never hear of our activities, or if they do,
that we shall be absolutely immune from them; when I tell


14 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
you that we will be merely using our specialized knowledge
in another way, safe, sure and highly profitable, will you
take my word for it and go in with me?”
There was a pause and then Nichols asked:
“What is the proposition, Rex?”
Rex Powell bent forward suddenly in his chair.
“That we become honest men.”


16 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Better than any one else in America, I guess,” he replied
modestly.
“Very good.” Powell pointed a finger at the lugubrious
face of George Roper. “George, when you were in the fake
spiritualistic game, your best play was to work on the emo-
tions and credulity of your clients, wasn’t it? Call it psy-
chology, if you want to ; it amounts to the same thing in
your case. You questioned them adroitly, suggested, led
them on to tell you things which you afterward ‘revealed’
to them; grew to be a mighty clever cross-examiner, didn’t
you?”
George nodded complacently.
“That is about the size of it,” he remarked.
“Lucian, you're an adept at smuggling.” Powell faced
the man at his left. “But to make it profitable, to become
the head of your profession, you had to learn the real from
the spurious, didn’t you? And in doing so you have be-
come perhaps the greatest jewel expert and connoisseur of
objects of art to-day.”
“Oh, come, my dear chap!” Baynes deprecated.
“And you, Cliff,” continued Powell. “I fancy you could
tell the cleverest counterfeit, bills or coin, at a glance,
couldn’t you? As for handwriting, couldn't you beat the
most celebrated expert who was ever called into court at
his own game? You’ve studied every line and curve and
slant and space—”
“I have,” admitted Nichols with a slight flush. “But
what are you driving at, Rex?”
“You, Henry.” Powell turned to the last man. “You’re
a chemist, a toxicologist. If poison were administered to
any one, you could diagnose the case or at least discover


THE SHADOWERS, INC. 17
by analysis what the nature of the poison was as well as
any coroner or medical examiner that ever lived.”
“I ought to be able to !” Henry Corliss emitted a fat
chuckle. “But what are you picking on us for, Rex?”
“Merely this. You are each a specialist in your own line,
only we have all tackled the game from the wrong side;
wrong not necessarily from the reformer's standpoint, but
from the standpoint of practicability and profit. Look here!
Suppose instead of a smuggler, Lucian became a tracer of
stolen jewels, and rare pictures; suppose instead of a forger
and counterfeiter, Clifford used his extraordinary genius
to detect forgery and counterfeiting; suppose George turned
his subtle, psychological methods of wringing facts from
people to good account by cross-examining informal and
unconscious witnesses; suppose instead of safe-cracking,
Philip—”
“Stop right there, Rex!” Philip Howe blazed out at him.
“I see the game now ! If you think that I’m going to turn
on my old pals and sell them out—if you think I am going
to become a phony detective, dig out evidence against the
boys who have stuck to me and perjured themselves for
me, and then hand them over to the police—!”
“I think nothing of the kind, Phill” Powell turned sharply
on him. “I told you our activities need never reach the
knowledge of the police, and I mean it. Have you ever
stopped to think of the number of cases which are never
reported because the victims themselves for one reason or
another have no desire to court investigation or publicity?
In the case of theft they may not themselves have come
honestly by the thing stolen, or they may suspect their own
relatives and only desire to recover what is gone. Forgery,


18 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
blackmail, fraud and chicanery of all sorts; there is no end
to the big cases we might get and the enormous fees we
might take in with a confidential investigating agency of a
kind which has never been tried before in the world! Res-
titution, not prosecution, is my idea, and we won’t double-
cross our friends or turn any one over to the police unless
he proves to be a rotter and a rank outsider even in the
case of murder, should we decide that the person killed
deserved his death. We'll hold court ourselves when we
find the guilty one, and acquit or condemn him by majority
vote. Will that satisfy your scruples?”
“Majority, with six of us?” George asked slowly.
“We'll arrange it so that no one of us knows what the
others have voted and if the count is even I promise to
step out,” Powell responded. “Is that fair?”
“Fair enough,” Nichols declared. There was a bright
spot of color in his cheeks and his pale eyes glowed behind
their glasses. “By Jove, old man, I think you have hit
upon a master plan; but how are we going to get our
clients? If there is to be no advertising, no publicity, we
might sit here till the crack of doom waiting for some one
to fall into that door out there.”
“A private detective agency which advertises in the news-
papers defeats its own ends unless it is only looking for
shady divorce cases or the smaller fry,” Powell explained.
“I figure that if you fellows all come in we could handle
every sort of case which might come our way. We’ve an
organization here that covers every crime in the calendar,
but we only want the cases of people who would ordinarily
fly from the general run of private agencies and the police.
Discretion is our biggest asset to gain the confidence of the


THE SHADOWERS, INC. 19
right people; we’ve got to reach them in their homes.”
“A fine chance we have of that, or of staying in business
a week, either, when our own records come out.” Philip
was still unconvinced.
“How are they to do so, if we work not only indepen-
dently of the police, but practically without their knowl-
edge?” demanded Powell. “I propose to call our organiza-
tion ‘The Shadowers’ and incorporate it as a bona fide con-
cern, as indeed it will be. If any one does come to look us
up, they will find only little Miss Jepson out there and she
can tell a straight story. Moreover, that young person can
smell a plainclothes man a block off, she says, and I am in-
clined to believe her.”
“Heavens, do you mean to tell me that that little queen
out there is one of us?” Philip gasped. “Noticed her when
we came in. Holy cat! What eyes!”
“She is a find of mine,” replied Powell. “I trailed her
and watched her work for several days, and she is the nifti-
est little shoplifter this town ever saw ! I had to pretend
it was a pinch in order to get a chance to talk to her at all,
but when I told her who I was and disclosed enough about
our records to fill her with admiration she was glad and
proud to throw her lot in with us. She is an expert office
manager and stenographer—that was her line until Lefty
Jane got hold of her and showed her how much easier it
was to steal. If she knew we were going in for a legitimate
thing she would desert us in disgust, but we are all heroes
to her now, poor kid l”
“Are we going in for it?” Lucian Baynes looked from
one to the other of them. “I admit that it looks like a good
thing and it would certainly be a novel experience, but I


20 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
see the same difficulty that Cliff has mentioned. How shall
we get our cases?”
“You told us last week that this proposition meant mov-
ing in high society,” George remarked. “Now you say
that we have got to reach people in their homes. If you
mean that you are going from house to house soliciting
trade to help them unearth their family skeletons, you won’t
find a very warm welcome.”
“I have had five hundred little notes engraved upon the
best quality note paper, invitation size, and I propose to send
them to five hundred matrons whose names I have culled
from the Blue Book and from my own knowledge of the
oldest and most exclusive families in town,” responded
Powell. “Here is a sample. How does it read to you?”
He handed a square of note-paper to Nichols, and as
the other perused it a slight smile broke over his face.
“Capital l’” Nichols exclaimed. “Listen to this: “Dear
Madam: Should you find yourself in need of any discreet,
strictly confidential investigation by a private corporation
of gentlemen, not blackmailers or inefficient bunglers, send
your visiting card to “The Shadowers, Inc.,” and an expert
will call upon you at once. No divorce evidence or inves-
tigation of a scandalous or trivial nature will be under-
taken. We have positively no connections with any so-
called private detective agency, give no information to the
press, permit no publicity, and never carry our results to
the authorities unless expressly requested to do so by our
clients. If you miss any documents, jewels or other valu-
ables of great importance; if any one of your acquaintance
is being subjected to blackmail; if your handwriting has
been forged or you fear for the safety of some one near


THE SHADOWERS, INC. 21
to you, communicate with us. Most respectfully yours,
“The Shadowers, Inc.”””
“Suppose some old dame feels herself insulted by the
insinuation, and takes your little missive to the police,
Rex?” Henry Corliss suggested with a chuckle. “The in-
vestigation will begin at this end, and if they cannot hang
anything on any of us, a column in the press will make
“The Shadowers’ fade into the shadows mighty quick!”
“These will go only to the sort of lady who could afford
no connection with the publicity which would follow. She
would realize that all her friends would believe there was
some special reason for the communication having been
sent to her, and that alone would effectually close her lips.”
Powell smiled. “I am sending five hundred other letters,
differing slightly in tone, to as many financiers here and in
other cities. After that it must be a waiting game, of course,
but I don’t think it will be long.”
“Well,” Henry Corliss planted his fat hands on the table
and gazed about at the serious, intent faces, “I’m with you,
Rex. How is it with the rest?”
“I, too.”
“And I.” The responses came almost simultaneously
from Baynes and Nichols.
“Well, I'll try anything once, and Rex has never steered
me wrong yet,” Philip announced. “But I’m going to state
right here that if I hit upon the trail of any of my old
friends I drop the whole thing right there. The boys have
been good to me, and if they are smart enough to get away
with anything from that bunch they are welcome to keep it
as far as I’m concerned.”
“As for me,” supplemented George, “I’m with you all,


22 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
as I said, but life is short and I am getting on in years. I
hope something starts soon.”
“Then it is settled, gentlemen.” Powell rose. “‘The
Shadowers, Inc., is actively in business. Now let me show
you your private offices and then we will go to lunch.”
He opened the panel to the left of that by which they
had entered and disclosed an office similar in size to the
anteroom, and like it suffused with indirect lighting. Here
the resemblance ended, however. The floor was of marble,
a porcelain sink and wash basin stood in one corner, and
the table, cabinets and shelves—which with a chair or two
completed the furnishings of the room—were enameled and
glass covered. Retorts, strange instruments of delicate
mechanism and vials and jars of various chemicals stood
about, and Powell took them all in with a comprehensive
wave of his hand as he turned to the dumbfounded Henry
Corliss.
“Your laboratory, Doctor. How do you like it?”
Without vouchsafing a reply Henry Corliss moved about
the room dazedly fingering a retort here, a vial there, and
when he paused again before Powell his fat, placid face
had undergone a miraculous change. It was no longer
that of a shrewd, good-natured rogue; his small eyes glowed
with enthusiasm, and keen, eager lines lent character to
the pendulous cheeks. The criminal was lost in the scien-
tist and it was the latter who spoke.
“I’ve always dreamed of a laboratory like this! Rex, I
shall do big things here, perhaps even perfect—” he broke
off, and Powell patted him affectionately on a plump shoul-
der.
“I am sure you will, but don’t let your researches inter-


THE SHADOWERS, INC. 23
33
Tere with business, you know. The next office is Cliff's.
He led the way back into the center room and through
the third sliding panel. There they beheld walls lined with
handsomely bound books of reference and a table covered
with magnifying glasses, weighing machines and bottles
of various acids, dyes and inks.
It was with difficulty that Clifford could be torn away
to accompany them to the next office, which, unlike the
others, was brilliant with the sunshine from two deep win-
dows through which could be seen a wide vista over neigh-
boring rooftops to the broad, distant river.
“No need to tell me where I get off!” Philip Howe cried
excitedly, pointing to the tools and instruments scattered
about, and the batteries and jars on the long shelves. “With
these to help me, I could get into the Bank of England!
Say, Rex—?”
“No turning any tricks on the side, my boy. That must
be understood between us all. We’re honest men now, re-
member, and as soon as one of us wants to quit the game
he has only to say so, but while he remains a member of
this organization he runs straight!”
“I was only kidding,” Phil protested. “My job now is
to run the other fellow down if he is an outsider, and if I
don’t succeed, Rex, it won’t be your fault after handing me
this splendid layout. Who is my neighbor on my right?”
“Lucian. It is just an office, you see, very much like
Cliff's, but I think he will find any little help he may need
in his work here.”
The room with its books of reference, bottles of acids
and magnifying glasses was in truth not unlike the one on
the other side of Phil's, but in place of the weighing ma-


24 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
chines stood an easel to hold paintings of doubtful origin
while they were being tested, and teakwood cases for the
repository of ceramics.
But Lucian Baynes scarcely saw them; a certain shelf
of books had caught his eye and he was oblivious to all else.
“Bracaloni on intaglios!” he murmured in an almost awe-
struck voice. “Where under the heavens did you find that
monograph, Rex? I ransacked Italy for it! And surely—
surely that is a first edition of the third volume of Hoku-
sai’s ‘Mangwa'! I had understood that there were only
three known to be left in the world!”
“It is reputed to be the real thing, but only you can tell
that, old man,” Powell replied. “Come now and see
George's study, and then we'll go to lunch while Miss Jep-
son gets out those circulars.”
But Lucian felt not the slightest interest in George's
apartment nor in the prospect of food, and they were
obliged to leave him there poring with rapt absorption over
a huge and musty tome on emeralds.
“Can you beat it?” whispered Phil, as they entered the
last of the offices which radiated from the main one. “If
he is out of stir in his old age he'll be curator in some mu-
seum ! What in the world—? Going to hold séances here,
George, old boy?”
The last room, windowless like that from which they
had just come, was dimly lighted by braziers swung from
the ceiling. A throne or dais of dull, glimmering, metallic
stuffs faced them against the opposite wall, while in a dark-
ened corner stood the incongruous but familiar cabinet of
the medium's delight. The ebony center table was a small,
quaintly carved affair and upon it, on a cushion of black


THE SHADOWERS, INC. 25
velvet, rested a huge crystal which glowed with a shim-
mering, opalescent radiance like some gigantic soap-bubble.
“Rex, the beard of the prophet has descended upon you!”
gasped George as he stared about him. “With such an
atmosphere I could drag secrets out of the Sphinx herself!
If I only had had it in Peoria—! But what's behind that
curtain?”
Smilingly, Rex Powell advanced to it and drew it aside,
disclosing a plain office door of mahogany and frosted
glass.
“It leads into the main corridor,” he explained. “Yours
is the only room which has a separate entrance from the
outer office. I thought it advisable in the event that it be-
came necessary to examine possible witnesses under the in-
fluence of psychic suggestion, as it were, that your sanctum
should seem to have no connection with “The Shadowers,
Inc., next door.”
George approached the table upon which the crystal
rested and felt carefully down one of its legs. Then he
straightened himself and a significant smile broke over
his lean countenance.
“All the latest improvements,” he murmured. “Brother,
bring on your suspects!”
The circulars went their way and “The Shadowers, Inc.,”
waited expectantly, but no client presented himself at their
office. Henry Corliss, reveling in his chemical laboratory,
was as blissfully content as were Lucian Baynes with his
books on jewels and Clifford Nichols in his scientific study
of the basic forms of chirography; an art which in his case
had heretofore been strictly home developed.
But Philip Howe's active brain and agile fingers were


26 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
alike beginning to chafe under the inaction, and when he
read in the papers of the robbery of a certain “safe” de-
posit vault, and recognized in the description of the outrage
the unmistakable handiwork of two of his oldtime asso-
ciates, he began to ask himself disgustedly why he had fallen
for this fantastic scheme.
George Roper wore a more lugubrious air than ever,
and even the leader of the new enterprise began to lose
heart, although he would not admit it even to himself.
The days lengthened into a fortnight and early one sultry
August morning as they all sat together in Rex Powell's
six-sided sanctum, Philip remarked:
“Say, Rex, we haven’t had even a sign of a case yet, so
you could hardly say that we had started in business.
Couldn’t I just go out and hunt up some of the live ones
and turn one little trick? You know, I could go and work
up trade for you!” he added brightly. “Say the word and
to-morrow I'll bring you such a bunch of some nervous
old lady's sparklers that you'll have her visiting card chased
down here by the butler within an hour. You can monkey
around for a few days and then return them to her and
get the reward. What's fairer than that? She'll recom-
mend her friends, too, and that will start the ball rolling.
As long as restitution and not prosecution is your aim, I
don’t mind being the goat.”
Powell shook his head.
“This is not a new kind of graft, but a legitimate busi-
ness,” he reminded his eager confrère. “We must wait un-
til work comes to us in a legitimate way.”
“I might at least do some legitimate business,” George
sighed. “What with the credulous populace seething about


THE SHADOWERS, INC. 27
us and all that gorgeous paraphernalia in there going to
waste I could clean up, as our young friend Phil would
say. If you would listen to me, Rex, and let me put that
mystic Indian sign on my door—” -
“And hang an Indian sign on the whole concern,” Clif-
ford Nichols interrupted, yawning behind his hand.
“Really, Rex—”
But Rex Powell stopped him with a gesture. He was
listening intently to something which had escaped their
ears, and all at once he touched the invisible spring beneath
the edge of his desk.
Instantly a well-modulated girlish voice came to them,
clear but trembling with some all but overwhelming emo-
tion.
“Oh, are any of the gentlemen who call themselves ‘The
Shadowers’ in ? My mother received one of their notes
and I—I have brought her card. Something terrible has
happened out at our house!”


CHAPTER III
WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT
ILENTLY George arose from his chair and with one
hand thrust in the breast of his tightly buttoned, funereal
coat he made a profound obeisance toward the panel which
led to the outer office, but Rex motioned him impatiently
to his seat once more, and at that instant a faint ticking
sound reached their ears to mingle with Miss Jepson's reply.
“Card, please? One of our experts will call immediately.”
“Oh, but—but could I not bring him back in the car
with me?” the clear, troubled voice went on. “You see,
mother wanted me to explain a little before he got there. It
is all so dreadful, and we daren’t even call a doctor!”
In the inner office Lucian uttered a low exclamation and
all but Rex followed his gaze to the place from which the
ticking sound came. Close beside the panel a tiny slit, like
those in a slot machine, had appeared in what seemed to
be the solid wall and through it a narrow ribbon of paper
was unwinding itself rapidly.
Lucian glanced toward their leader and at a nod from
the latter, he moved over to the slit and, taking up the
strip of paper, he read the message to the end as though
glancing over a stock report. Then, as the part which issued
now from the aperture was blank he tore off the first length
28


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 29
and spread it out on the table. Upon it in small typed
characters they read:
“Swell flapper scared stiff been crying trying to be up
stage but lost her nerve smart clothes thrown on anyhow
only one glove pumps don’t match guess about twenty name
on card Mrs. Horace Punderford.”
They gazed questioningly at Rex as the unique descrip-
tion impressed itself upon them, but the voice of Miss Jep-
Son Canne Once more.
“Well, it isn’t usual but I’ll see if the head of the firm
will talk to you.”
“Oh, please do! Tell him we will pay anything if he
will only be—be discreet as he promised in the note, and
will help us out of this awful affair!”
The ticker had run and stopped again and as before
Lucian tore off the strip and brought it to the table.
“Going to cry I’ll get what dope I can and phone.”
Then the voice of the indefatigable Miss Jepson:
“It's really against the rules. I have instructions not to
bother him if the case is a trivial one—”
“Trivial?” came the softer voice, sobbing now. “When
m-my father has gone insane and the s-safe is open and
there's a d-dead—! But I can’t tell you; I mustn't!—
P-please tell the h-head of the firm that I m-must see him.”
The circle about the table gripped the arms of their chairs
and stared at one another with relaxed jaws.
“The safe!” muttered Phil in an ecstasy. “Lead me to
it !”
The telephone at Rex's elbow whirred and as he lifted
the receiver Miss Jepson announced in a highly artificial
tone :


30 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“There is a young lady here with a card from Mrs.
Horace Punderford, sir. She says that Mrs. Punderford
received one of our notes and that the matter is urgent.
The young lady wishes to consult you personally now.”
“Mrs. Punderford? Wait till I consult our files, Miss
Jepson. I will call you.”
Then while the others gaped at their leader they were
suddenly plunged into darkness which was slowly super-
seded by a soft glow like sunlight through rose-colored
curtains. From a drawer in the lower section of the filing
case Rex drew a rose-colored cloth of some silky material
and flung it over the somber table. The Spanish leather
screen in the corner, turned about, revealed a delicate tapes-
try, all downy clouds and dainty shepherdesses, and from
behind it Rex brought forth a tall, slender vase containing
some cherry blossoms, so perfect that one could have sworn
they were real. This he placed upon the table and moving
swiftly about the room turned the gloomy, dull-toned prints
with their faces to the wall upon which they hung. In
their places smiling landscapes and sunny water scenes ap-
peared, and in a trice the office was changed from that of a
rather sumptuous but depressing consulting room to a
charming apartment where the most highly strung woman
might find repose of spirit.
His companions had followed his maneuvers in wordless
astonishment, but Lucian could contain himself no longer.
“Wonderful, Rex! I don’t quite gather the reason for
this transformation, but just these few touches have made
all the difference in the world! Jove, it looks like a lady's
bower l’”


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 31
“Some quick-change artist!” Phil supplemented. “What's
the big idea, Rex?”
The magician who had performed the miracle turned
to his confrères with a low laugh.
“I’m just applying a little of George's psychology only
in a slightly different manner,” he explained. “There is a
young girl outside, agitated, in deep trouble and perhaps
distrustful of us. If she walked into a stiff, awe-inspiring,
cold office with an atmosphere of impersonal professional-
ism, would it not daunt her spirit, cause her to become em-
barrassed and make her still more reluctant to give her
confidence? As it is her eyes light upon things of beauty
and charm, reassuringly feminine touches here and there,
and a soothing sense of peace and mental ease and well-
being will steal insensibly over her perturbed mind in this
soft, rosy, glow.”
“It's got my psychology beaten a mile,” George assev-
erated. “Whatever put such an idea into your head? It's
immense!”
“When I was planning this organization I realized that
the type of people who would become our clients would not
be of the general run; that although they came voluntarily
they would come reluctantly, distrustfully, fearing notoriety
above all things and determined not to give us any more
information than was absolutely necessary in their eyes.
In other words, they would be cautious, self-conscious,
tense, and laboring under the stress of deep emotion,
whether anger, fear, grief or vengeance. I worked out a
scheme of the different main types into which people of
the class I sought for clients might be divided, and the sort


32 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
of atmosphere which would be most conducive to confi-
dence from them. I then arranged that this room might
by a few simple changes such as you have just seen be
made into a psychologically perfect atmosphere for each of
them, and I depend upon Miss Jepson's description, as you
have also seen, to guide me in my choice of scenic effect.
Now,” Rex added in a changed tone, “there is a table in
each of your studies. If you haven’t discovered it yet,
look for the little spring concealed beneath the edge;
press it, and you will be able to hear all that is said in
here.”
“But what is that ticker business?” demanded George.
“If that isn’t like the old poolroom days—!”
“Haven’t time to explain now, but Miss Jepson holds a
tiny, noiseless keyboard concealed upon her lap, and types
off with one hand her personal impressions of the pros-
pective client. The reel of paper is automatically wound
out through that aperture in the wall to me. I told her to
put her impressions in her own words and I find them
illuminating. But go each of you to your own study and
listen and wait. If I need your actual presence a buzzer
will sound.”
Scarcely had they vanished through the several panels
when Rex took up the receiver once more.
“I am disengaged now, Miss Jepson. Will you show
the young lady in, please?”
The panel leading to the outer office slid aside, disclosing
a slender girl whose youth was as obvious as her breeding.
She was clad all in white, yet no whiter were her garments
than the little face which must have been undeniably pretty
under normal circumstances. Now her light brown hair


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 33
was disordered and her soft, blue eyes were swollen and
glittered with unshed tears. There was a hint of firmness
in the little square chin, but at the moment of her appear-
ance her lips were trembling woefully.
Then all at once The Shadowers in their various offices
had a remarkable demonstration of the soundness of their
leader's psychology. The girl halted, her eyes widened with
wonder as they roved about the room, a hint of color crept
into her pale cheeks and her lips broke into a wavering
smile.
“Why, how—how lovely!” she breathed. “I—I never
thought—! Oh, what a darling screen!”
As she silenced herself in swift confusion, Rex rose.
“Come in.” He smiled encouragingly and pushed for-
ward a low chair. “Mrs. Horace Punderford sent you, I
believe?”
She nodded, wetting her lips with the tip of her small
pink tongue.
“She is my mother. I—I was terribly afraid to come
here at first but it doesn’t seem at all dreadful now. The
atmosphere here—why, it's almost like my own room at
home!” The girl paused and then added: “Terrible things
happened at our home last night!—Terrible, mysterious
things for which no one can account!”
“Why did your mother not communicate with us imme-
diately?” asked Rex.
“She—she didn’t know what to do! We were all dis-
tracted, nearly as insane as my poor father seems to have
become! It was only toward morning that she remembered
your card, Mr.—?”
“Powell,” Rex supplied. “Please tell me what these


34 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
terrible things were which occurred at your home, Miss
Punderford.”
“Oh, can’t I tell you in the car? It is waiting outside
and every moment is precious! I—I know you are the
head of the firm, but we need the very best help that we
can obtain, and if you cannot render it to us, no one can!
We must have absolute secrecy; I don’t quite understand
why, but mother will explain that to you, and—and she
would give almost all we possess to have this terrible affair
hushed up and the mystery of it all solved.”
“The question of terms can be arranged later, and I am
quite willing to accompany you, Miss Punderford, but I do
not work alone. We have experts in every line of possible
investigation, criminal and otherwise, and I must decide
whom to bring with me.” Rex paused. “Just tell me the
main events which occurred last night without detail and
I shall know what to do.”
The girl sat silent for a minute biting her lips and then
the words came in a little rush.
“My father went suddenly mad and began raving like a
maniac, poor Aunt Selina has had a stroke or something—
father’s safe has been robbed and there is a man—a
stranger—lying dead on the library floor! He must have
been one of the burglars, I think, although I only caught
one glimpse of him before Alan dragged me away!”
“But my dear Miss Punderford, tell me the sequence of
events!” Rex himself was staggered by the strange, in-
coherent story. “Your father perhaps discovered that the
safe had been robbed and the shock—?”
Miss Punderford shook her head.


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 35
“It all happened at once,” she replied, “while the lights
were out.”
“During the night, you mean?” Rex persisted. “Or had
the electricity been short-circuited in some way?”
“No. We were holding a séance. Aunt Selina is a
spiritualist, and mother and father are getting to be, too.
We were all holding hands around the dining-room table
in the dark when all at once there came a sound of some-
thing falling in the library. I don’t know who turned the
lights on again but it was then that Aunt Selina became
insensible and father began to rave and—and we found
the body.”
“What has become of it?”
“Oh, it is still there! Mother insisted on locking the
library and refused to call the police or even a doctor for
father, he was saying such queer, awful things! But
something must be done at once, of course, or the servants,
faithful as they are to us, may learn what has occurred and
tel1.”
“Your mother locked the library without stopping to
find out what had been taken from the safe, Miss Punder-
ford P”
“Oh, yes, but I don’t think father kept anything of value
there. That is the odd part of it. All his securities and
things were down-town at his office.”
“Your car is not a limousine, surely, at this time of
year?” Rex shot the seemingly irrelevant question at her
and the girl eyed him for a moment in surprise before she
replied:
“No. It is an open touring car.”


36 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Does your chauffeur know everything that occurred last
night?”
“Heavens, no! None of the servants know a thing about
the—the library or why it is locked! They think it was the
séance which frightened poor father and Aunt Selina into
fits, and although they are steady, matter-of-fact people
who have been in our employ for ages, they are very badly
frightened, too. I shouldn’t wonder if the cook, at least,
gives notice. But what made you ask about the chauffeur,
Mr. POWell ?”
“To impress upon you the fact that nothing save the
séance itself and a few casual questions I may put to you
must be discussed in the car. I think I have learned enough
facts concerning the burglary to go upon until I can obtain
a detailed statement from Mrs. Punderford.”
Rex pressed three buttons rapidly on his desk.
“Have you room in your car for three of my associates
as well as ourselves?” he queried.
“Oh, yes. It is a seven passenger—”
She paused as three panels opened unexpectedly and
three gentlemen of widely different types appeared.
“Miss Punderford, may I present Doctor Corliss? He
will diagnose the cases of your father and aunt, examine
the body in the library and dispose of it without publicity,
if the man's death was a natural one and your mother re-
quests its private removal. This gentleman is Mr. Howe,
our expert on safes, and Mr. Roper is a special investigator.
We will accompany Miss Punderford to her home, and I
would suggest that you take her down to the car, while I
leave a few instructions here.”
Scarcely had they departed when Lucian Baynes stalked


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 37
into the consulting room tweaking his small blond mustache
with an injured air.
“I say, that was confoundedly mean of you, old chap! I
heard the girl say that the car was a seven passenger. Why
can’t we all be in at the death?”
“Because there is nothing in your line connected with
the case, Luce, as far as we know yet.” Rex pressed a but-
ton which started the buzzer in Clifford's study. “If any-
thing turns up concerning jewels or papers which may have
been stolen from the safe I will send for you both at once.
—Cliff,” he turned, as that individual sauntered in and
pretended to be oblivious to the look of reproach cast upon
him, “please get out the files for me like a good fellow and
look up Punderford, so that you can give me a line on him
if it is necessary for me to send for you. There is some-
thing listed about every one of the thousand men and
women we sent those circulars to. And be prepared for a
message from me at any moment. This looks as though it
were going to be some case!”
Leaving two very much disgruntled colleagues behind, Rex
passed through the panel to the outer office and ascertained
from the card left with Ethel Jepson that the Punderford
residence was on the upper Drive. He evaded the young
woman's eager questions with a hasty, laughing rejoinder
and descended to the waiting car.
Miss Punderford greeted him with a little cry of impa-
tience.
“Oh, I thought that you were never coming!” she ex-
claimed. “Please forgive me, but mother will be almost be-
side herself. You see, she made a point of insisting that all
our guests of last night should remain until you or some


38 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
one from your firm should come, and I am afraid that
Audrey is going to be rather nasty about it, for she meant
to catch a train this morning and now she has lost it. She
is a dear, but then last night's horrors upset her nerves
frightfully, and she and mother had quite a scene be-
cause—”
She paused in sudden confusion with a quick glance
toward the chauffeur.
“Who is “Audrey, Miss Punderford?” Rex asked. “Tell
us who your guests were last evening, please.”
“Audrey is Mrs. Audrey Fraser. I had forgotten that
you did not know.” The girl had regained a little of her
composure and she spoke in a more steady, formal tone.
“She came with Mr. Stephen Leacraft for dinner and to
attend the séance. They are both old friends of ours. Mr.
Goodhue was there, too.”
A faint blush spread over her pale face at the mention
of the last name and Philip nudged Rex significantly as
they swayed with the swiftly moving car.
“These three were the only persons present except the
immediate members of your family?” Rex coldly ignored
his irrepressible associate.
“Oh, there was a friend of father's who is staying with
us, Mr. Scaynes. He is very much interested in spiritual-
ism and table levitation and all that sort of thing. He's
quite old.”
“Was it he who arranged for the séance last evening,
my child?” George Roper's tones were blandly paternal,
but a peculiar light had dawned in his eyes.
“He and Aunt Selina together, I believe. I don’t know


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 39
much about such things and since last night I never want
to hear about them again as long as I live!”
There was a trace of hysteria in her voice once more,
and Rex asked hastily:
“Your family consists only of your father, mother, aunt
and yourself?”
Miss Punderford nodded.
“That is all since my brother died. Mother believes she
is receiving messages from him.”
“And the household servants?”
“We have only a few with us; the rest are down at our
country home on Long Island. You see, we ran in town
for a fortnight so that father could have his eyes treated.
He has had a great deal of trouble with them lately and
the doctor thought that an immediate operation might be
necessary if they did not respond to treatment. But I have
not answered your question, Mr. Powell. Mickens the but-
ler is with us, of course, and the cook and kitchenmaid
and housemaid. Fortunately my mother's personal maid
Mona came yesterday with some things which had been
forgotten, for she was a great help to us all last night.
Williams,” she nodded toward the chauffeur's stolid, im-
personal back which was presented to them, “sleeps over
the garage, and his family are down at the Long Island
place.”
Remembering Powell's warning, she had lowered her
voice and now silence fell upon them until they had swept
in at a pair of square stone gate-posts and under a spacious
porte-cochère.
A pompous, elderly man in the conventional black of the


40 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
house-servant held the door already open for them, and as
Miss Punderford alighted she asked anxiously:
“Any change, Mickens?”
“No, miss.” The butler coughed deprecatingly and eyed
the strangers somewhat askance. “Mrs. Punderford re-
quests that you go immediately upstairs, miss. She will
see the gentlemen at once in the drawing-room.”
He accepted their hats and would have taken possession
of the small black bag which “Dr.” Corliss bore, but the
latter clung to it tenaciously.
“Never mind that, my man,” he announced. “I am a
physician, and it contains some remedies which must not
be jarred.”
“Quite so, sir.” Mickens threw open the doors of the
drawing-room with markedly increased respect. “Mrs.
Punderford will receive you in a moment.”
From force of habit Philip Howe glanced about him
with professional interest, but Rex drew George aside.
“We'll divide this up,” he announced rapidly. “You in-
terview this man Scaynes while Henry is examining the
body in the library and trying to discover what the trouble
is with the aunt and Punderford himself. All this after
we have listened to Mrs. Punderford's story, of course.”
“I understand,” George responded. “Phil's job is the
safe exclusively, but I feel that Mr. Scaynes is my meat.”
There was time for no more, for a slow, dragging step
sounded upon the stairs and the drawing-room curtains
parted. A tall, majestic looking woman stood before them,
her manner a curious mixture of hauteur and appeal. Her
iron-gray hair rose in immaculate waves from her fore-
head, but no amount of cosmetics, however skillfully ap-


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 41
plied, could mask the drawn, tragic look upon her face,
and she clung to the curtain for a moment as though to
brace herself for the coming interview.
The next instant her hand fell to her side and she ad-
vanced.
“My daughter tells me that the head of your firm himself
has come to my assistance in this crisis,” she observed,
glancing from one to another of them. “May I ask
which—?”
“I am Mr. Powell, Mrs. Punderford, and very much at
your service.” Rex introduced his colleagues and added:
“Your daughter has given us a list of your household and
the guests you entertained last night; she has also told us
enough of what occurred to bring us swiftly here. Other
of our colleagues may be summoned as they are required,
but now we should like to have a detailed statement from
you so that we may start our investigation at once. I need
not repeat the assurance given in the little note which was
sent to you of our absolute discretion, and the fact that
nothing shall reach the authorities except by your own
command.”
“Thank you, Mr. Powell.” She seated herself and mo-
tioned them to chairs.
“I fear that I can give you a scarcely more coherent ac-
count of what occurred than my daughter's must have been,
for it was all so sudden and coming as it did at a moment
when we were keyed up to the highest pitch of emotional
excitement made the full horror all the more poignant. It
must have been about eleven o’clock when we left the draw-
ing-room here and going to the dining-room seated our-
selves about the table and holding each other's hands in an


WHILE THE LIGHTS WERE OUT 43
a strange cry and flung his hands up and out before him
as though he were trying to force something back. At
least that was his attitude when I reached the library door.
Then I saw that his safe was open and a man's body lay
as if collapsed upon the floor near one of the French win-
dows, which leads to a narrow balcony. This window was
open and just before it was a small black bag, its contents
—which consisted of a collection of steel tools—scattered
all about. I advanced to approach him, but Mr. Scaynes
drew me back. At that instant I heard a hideous, raucous
cry behind me, more like that of a wild beast than a human
being!” Mrs. Punderford paused, shuddering, and when
she spoke again her voice was shaken and very low. “I
turned to find that the strange sound had issued from my
husband's lips. Mr. Leacraft was holding him, but he was
struggling fearfully, and one look at his face showed me
the appalling truth. He had gone mad!”


CHAPTER IV
DEVIL’s woRK
66 RE you sure, Mrs. Punderford?” Rex asked quickly.
“Might it not have been just a momentary frenzy
of rage at finding that he had been robbed?”
She shook her head but a slight change had come over
her face and her eyes narrowed as if in swift caution.
“There was foam upon his lips and he kept flinging out
his arms as though into immeasurable space, then turning
them so that his hands were thrown palms outward and
drawing them back in an indescribable way, almost as if
some one or something were forcing them back. His eyes
looked strange and dilated with fear and horror. He was
not looking at the—the safe but into space and he did not
know me or any of us!”
“Was his gesture something like this, madam?” In the
excitement of his interest Henry had risen from his chair
and his plump arms were working in a manner which would
have been comic under less tense circumstances. “You
say he seemed at first to be flinging his arms out into space;
was he not rather appearing to be reaching out after some-
thing which eluded him?”
“My poor husband's crazed gesture may have been some-
thing like that. I cannot find words to describe it other
than I have used, and I was naturally all but distraught at
44


DEVIL'S WORK 45
the moment, Dr. Corliss. He was assisted to his room by
Mr. Leacraft and Mr. Scaynes while I drew myself together
sufficiently to quiet the perturbation of the butler, who had
appeared at the foot of the staircase, and dismiss him for
the night.”
“And then you locked the door of the library, Mrs. Pun-
derford?” suggested George Roper significantly.
Mrs. Punderford flushed slightly.
“I wanted time to think what to do to avoid the almost
inevitable scandal and notoriety which must ensue.” She
nodded. “It was only during the later hours of the night
that I recalled your note and decided to put the case in your
hands. I returned to the dining-room to find that my daugh-
ter had recovered from her hysteria and with Mr. Good-
hue's assistance Mrs. Fraser and I succeeded in getting my
unconscious sister to her room, where she has remained in
a comatose condition ever since in spite of all our efforts to
arouse her.”
“Your husband, is he still suffering from his seeming
delusions?” asked Henry.
“No Toward morning he fell into a heavy sleep from
which he has not awakened. If you would care to see him
now—”
“I think, since both the patients are unconscious for the
present, I would prefer to make my examination of the body
in the library first,” Henry interrupted smoothly. “You
are quite sure that nothing has been disturbed there?”
“Quite,” Mrs. Punderford responded, her lips tightening
once more as if the suggestion were for some reason un-
welcome, but she rose promptly. “I have the key here and
I will show you the way.”


46 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
It was Rex Powell who held out a deferentially detain-
ing hand.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Punderford. Have you informed
any of your guests yet as to who we are or why we are
here?”
“No one knows but my daughter, not even the servants.”
She gazed wonderingly at him.
“Then, not only for your better protection against gossip
and possible scandal, but because it is the only way our or-
ganization works we prefer to be known in other than our
true characters. In fact, it is only under this condition that
we can accept the case.”
The others gazed at him in no less wonder, for it was
the first they had heard of this decision of their leader,
but Mrs. Punderford gestured helplessly.
“But how can that possibly be arranged, Mr. Powell? I
have detained my dinner guests of last evening, some of
them unwillingly, until your arrival simply in order that
you may question them. Then there is our house guest,
Mr. Scaynes. He will be sure to observe you at your in-
vestigation, to say nothing of the servants!”
“Our special investigator here, Mr. Roper, can interview
any one of your guests whom he may choose without arous-
ing their suspicions, if you will present him as one of your
husband's old-time business friends, for whom you have
sent because of his sudden illness,” Rex responded easily.
“Your own doctor may have been called out of town on an
unexpected case and have sent our Dr. Corliss, which would
account for his presence. If you can slip him, Mr. Howe
and myself into the library now, we can remain there until
your guests have departed. I understand that one of them,


DEVIL'S WORK 47
Mrs. Fraser, is anxious to leave in order to catch a train.
I shall be able to manage the servants without their learn-
ing too much. Will you tell us your first name, please?”
“Luella.—But Mr. Scaynes?” Mrs. Punderford queried.
“One cannot summarily eject a house guest of weeks’ stand-
ing—!”
“He could be requested to go upon an urgent errand for
you; to your husband's attorneys, perhaps, or better still
out to your country place on Long Island in your car for
some important papers which he will not be able to find
there.” Rex was smiling now. “That will give us time
to complete our investigation here and be off before his
return.”
“I should like to meet them all before their departure,”
George remarked. “A few words, alone or collectively with
them, are all that I shall require for the moment. You
can, of course, give me their addresses should it be neces-
sary for me to interview them later.”
“We-ell, I presume that can be managed, and I promised
to place the case absolutely in your hands,” Mrs. Punder-
ford replied somewhat doubtfully. “I will return and pre-
sent them to you at once.”
She led the way and Rex, Henry and Phil Howe filed out
in her wake.
George pursued the vanishing quartette with an oddly
quizzical gaze. Mrs. Punderford's explanation of the
locked library door had plainly been a mere subterfuge—
to use his own mental colloquialism, she was “holding out
on them.”—and if he could not learn the truth from one of
her guests he meant to wring the inner facts from that
lady herself if he had to resort to a psychological third de-


48 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
gree more searching than any to which he had subjected
his gullible clients in the days of his fake spiritualism.
And here, too, lay his present client's weakness. He
did not make the mistake of underrating her intelligence
or well poised self-control, but her predilection for spiritual-
ism might be turned to good account if the necessity arose.
An inspiration came to him and he arose and went to
the desk telephone which he had descried in a shadowed
corner of the huge drawing-room. -
Lifting the receiver cautiously, he gave the number of
“The Shadowers” headquarters.
In an incredibly short space of time the matter-of-fact
tones of Ethel Jepson came to him over the wire.
“Ethel, this is Mr. Roper speaking. I want you to go
into my study and look under the skull—”
“Me?” The interruption came with emphasis. “Excuse
me, Mr. Roper, but I ain’t exactly pinin’ to fondle that
thing.”
“I didn’t ask you to touch it, my dear child.” A dry
chuckle emanated from George's usually solemn lips. “I
mean, look in the stand beneath it and you will find a small
collection of books. Take out two of them; one is a list
of gentlemen who were in my former profession, a small
green leather volume. The other is a still smaller one
bound in black cloth and labeled ‘Code. Do you know what
a ‘code is, Ethel?”
“Something like a puzzle?” she replied quickly. “I’ll say
I do! I never worked one but I’ll tackle it if you say so!
What’s the Stunt?”
“Take down quickly the seven letters I am going to give


DEVIL’S WORK 49
55
you.” He spoke with a lack of hesitation born of long
practice. “S—E—O—U—E–H–S. Got that? Repeat it,
please. . . . Yes, that's correct. Now look up code num-
ber three in the little book and see if you can dope out what
those letters mean. It won’t sound like anything to you,
but see if you can find the resulting word in the other
book. If you can, ring me up here and let me know what
it says in connection with that word. Better ring me up
even if you fail, and tell me.”
“I’ll do that little thing, Mr. Roper. Anything else?”
“No. Good-by.”
He rang off not any too easy in his mind that he had
trusted the harum-scarum bit of femininity at the office in
this emergency, but there had been no help for it. If she
were clever enough to work out the code without the key,
and could apply it the truth at the immediate moment would
be invaluable to him.
His meditations were interrupted by the reëntrance of
Mrs. Punderford. She was accompanied by a slender, red-
haired woman in her early thirties, the curve of whose lips
and latent twinkle in her blue eyes suggested a sense of
humor, albeit of a cynical, worldly sort. They were fol-
lowed by a well-built man of about forty, with prematurely
graying hair and the affable manner of a prosperous busi-
ness man. Behind them in the doorway a slender youth
had paused.
“Audrey, may I present Horace's old friend, Mr. Roper.
Mrs. Fraser—Mr. Leacraft, Mr. Goodhue; Mr. Roper,”
Mrs. Punderford announced glibly. “Mr. Roper is almost
as anxious about Horace as I am, and I am sure you will


50 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
be willing to give him the details of what happened last
night; I was too agitated to tell him more than the merest
outline.”
“I am sorry to trouble you about this terrible thing,”
George began apologetically as soon as their hostess had
departed. “But what I was able to gather from Luella
seemed so mysterious, so awful that I felt for poor Horace's
sake I must know all about it. I should like to help them
both if I could.”
“It was devil's work, Mr. Roper, if you ask me
Alan Goodhue had advanced from the doorway.
“Nonsense!” Mrs. Fraser retorted crisply. “Mrs. Pun-
derford told you of the séance, did she not, Mr. Roper?
Miss Hornbottle was all wrought up by it—she believes in
that sort of thing implicitly, you know—and it is my opinion
that she has been simply frightened out of her wits. A
burglary is not an unprecedented occurrence even in the
best regulated of families, and personally I see nothing
mysterious about the whole affair except Mr. Punderford's
seizure, if you choose to call it that. No doubt a medical
examination will disclose the cause of it.”
“Why was a physician not summoned before this?”
George asked of the others in general, but again it was the
lady who replied.
“I haven’t the least idea.” Her eyes were as blandly in-
scrutable as those of a cat. “We suggested sending for
one, of course, but if you are an old friend of the family,
you will realize that Mrs. Punderford is a rather dominant
person and she wouldn’t hear of it. I fancy she supposed
that her sister was merely in a faint and Mr. Punderford
!”
Young


DEVIL'S WORK 51
beside himself because of the burglary. There is really
nothing more that I can tell you.”
“And I have been detaining you!” George spoke with
well-simulated remorse. “I know that you must make your
train—”
“My train has gone.” The lady shrugged. “In any event
I have given up my trip. Last night's scene has unnerved
me too much for traveling. I don’t mean the séance; that
was merely ridiculous. But the hideous interruption, the
discovery of the burglary and the effect upon Miss Horn-
bottle and Mr. Punderford! It was positively harrowing!”
“Then if you have time will you tell me about it, please?”
George insisted.
“Oh, we sat there in the dark around the dining-room
table holding hands in the most idiotic manner when that
noise came from the library and somebody switched on the
lights just as Miss Hornbottle fainted. I went to her assist-
ance naturally and I was too busy attending to her to note
anything that went on in the library until Mr. Punderford
cried out in that dreadful way and then Mr. Leacraft and
Mr. Scaynes carried him out raving between them. Then
Mrs. Punderford came out and locked the library door—”
“Now, I wonder why she did that?” George interrupted
meditatively, as if to himself.
“Really, Mr. Roper, you will have to ask her that ques-
tion.” Mrs. Fraser shrugged again. “Perhaps the safe was
still open and she didn’t wholly trust the servants. Mr.
Leacraft can tell you what went on in the library. If you
will excuse me now I think I will go home. Please tell
Mrs. Punderford to let me know if there is anything I can


DEVIL'S WORK 53
however, for his cap had fallen or been pushed off the back
of his head, and his hair was brown and curly. I noticed
that much as I started toward him, but Scaynes passed me
and a queer, choking sound from Punderford made me
pause. It was an odd sort of cry and as he uttered it Mrs.
Punderford rushed in, saw the body and approached it, but
Scaynes drew her back and then poor old Punderford went
mad! I don’t know what else to call it; he raved for hours
but you couldn’t make anything out of what he said. At
least it didn’t seem to have any possible connection with
the robbery; the poor old boy seemed to be in sheer terror
but of what or whom it was impossible to tell.”
“What were his words? Can you recall any of them,
Mr. Leacraft?”
“Well, I can’t imagine what he was trying to get at, and
in a way he seemed to be contradicting himself, for at one
moment he would cry out: ‘Take them away! Oh, God,
take them away!’ and the horror and fear in his voice was
like nothing I have ever heard before!” Stephen Leacraft
shivered. “Gad, it was enough to unnerve a chap just to
listen to him! Then he would mutter: “They’re receding.
They’re opening out! I can’t even feel them. What does
it mean?' That was when he would stretch out his arms
and he seemed to have the strength of ten men; it was all
Scaynes and I could do to hold him down in bed. With
the very next breath he would draw his arms back and
scream: ‘They’re crushing me! I can’t breathel That is
all I can remember, but it is pretty average incoherent,
don't you think?”
“Holy—!” George caught himself up hastily in his first
unguarded slip and passed his handkerchief across his face.


54 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
He emerged from behind it as urbane and inscrutable as
eVer.
“Extremely incoherent, my dear Mr. Leacraft, but one
never can tell what form delirium brought on by sudden
shock will take.—My poor old friend! I can only hope that
this attack will be but a passing seizure. I have heard him
mention the safe here at home frequently but I was under
the impression that he kept merely family trinkets in it; I
know for a fact that his securities and more valuable docu-
ments are in his office. Have you any idea what the safe
in the library here contains?”
Mr. Leacraft raised his eyebrows slightly.
“I have never heard it discussed, Mr. Roper,” he re-
sponded. “Mrs. Punderford will doubtless tell you when
she is more calm.”
Before George could reply the telephone in the corner
buzzed softly, and he rose in a haste scarcely in keeping
with his air of magisterial dignity.
“If you will pardon me, I think that is for me. I am
expecting a message—!” He strode over to the instru-
ment and as he removed the receiver a clear young voice
came to him in gaminesque derision.”
“That you, Mr. Roper? Say, I could do puzzles like that
when I was a kid I got the name, all right, but he ain’t
on your private social register.”
“Are you sure that you did get the—er—word that I
sent you correctly?” George spoke anxiously but in a
guarded tone.
“I’ll say I did l Code three is just the one sentence about
a ghost walkin', isn’t it?—‘One who has passed on is among
us.” It didn't mean anything to me at first except a shiver


56 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
pounding a felony, or accessories after the fact or what-
ever it is that the legal chaps call it. Mrs. Punderford told
her daughter and Miss Punderford told Mr. Goodhue, here,
I believe”—he paused, smiling at the young man who red-
dened slightly—“but aside from us no one knows except
Mr. Scaynes, who was in the library with us, you know.”
“I don’t think I know Mr. Scaynes,” George spoke re-
flectively. “I’ve heard Horace speak of him often, though.
He must be a mighty interesting man.”
Even though his tone was slow and drawling, the man
who had worked a shell game in the side show of a coun-
try circus in his early days had lost nothing of his light-
ning quickness of vision and while his mild eyes appeared
to be looking meditatively down at his long, slender, inter-
locked fingers he had darted one swift, keen glance at the
face of Stephen Leacraft and noted the frown which passed
over it.
“If you are Mrs. Punderford's adviser in this crisis, Mr.
Roper, cannot you persuade her to send for the police at
once?” Leacraft asked irrelevantly. “With that man lying
murdered—or dead, anyway—in there all these hours she
is placing herself and every one who was present in a
desperately awkward position.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” George demurred. “It could easily
be explained that every one's attention had been centered
on the safe and no one had noticed the body over in the
corner, but the authorities must be informed now, of course.
I will try to make Luella see the importance of it. She
tells me that her first thought last night was to avoid the
notoriety of it, for her guests as well as herself, but now
she must be calm and collected enough to realize that some-


DEVIL'S WORK 57
thing must be done at once.—Why do you say ‘murdered,’
Mr. Leacraft?”
The question came so suddenly and in such a change of
tone that for a moment the other hesitated.
“Well, I don’t know exactly,” he admitted frankly at
last. “There was something in the pose of the body, some-
thing tense and strained. We had no time to examine it;
we were up all night with Mr. Punderford, you know. I
suppose I took it for granted that the scoundrel's accom-
plice, if he had one, had killed him; it didn’t occur to me
that a burglar, like any one else, might die naturally and
suddenly in the pursuit of his profession.”
“We will have to look into this,” George said gravely,
as he rose. “I won’t keep you any longer, Mr. Leacraft.
You will think me a tiresome old amateur detective, but I
felt that I had to get all the details I could if I were to be
of any help to Luella.” -
“Not at all.” Leacraft held out his hand. “I should like
to be of service myself. Look me up at the office whenever
you like—you'll find me in the 'phone book—and we'll talk
the case over. So long, Alan. Don't forget to tell your
father about those deeds.”
As his footsteps echoed down the hall, denuded of rugs
for the summer, Alan Goodhue leaned forward suddenly in
his chair.
“What do you make of it, sir?” he demanded.
“I don’t know,” George responded truthfully enough.
“I can’t make heads or tails of it. You remained in the
dining-room, did you not, with Miss Punderford?”
The young man nodded.
“Yes, but she caught a glimpse of the body in there and


58 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
she was awfully frightened, and then Miss Hornbottle had
to faint—I wish I had gotten a peep into that library!” he
added wistfully. “Mr. Punderford must have had some-
thing in that safe that the thieves knew about, but I’ve
often heard Mrs. Punderford say that it was unsightly and
ask him to have it removed as long as he never kept any-
thing of value in it. What do you suppose killed that chap
they found in there?”
“We will know when the police come.” George turned
toward the door. It was evident from the young man’s
questions that he knew nothing which could be of use in
the investigation, and moreover George had caught the flirt
of a dainty summer skirt as it passed down the hall and
fancied that Mildred was waiting for Alan. He must reach
her first and warn her of the status of himself and his col-
leagues in the house. “If you will excuse me a mo-
ment—?”
He found her standing in a curtained recess near one of
the tall windows and at first he thought she was alone, but
as he drew nearer he saw that she was talking to a tall,
slender, dark man who turned slowly at his approach.
He would have no opportunity of warning her, and
George's spirits sank; but at her first words he realized that
she had already been informed.
“Mr. Scaynes, this is Mr. Roper, father's old friend of
whom I have just been telling you—Uncle George,” she
added, “this is Mr. Scaynes.”


CHAPTER V
THE SAFE
EANTIME, Mrs. Punderford had led her three
pseudo-guests down the hall and ushered them into
a spacious dining-room where monumental silver gleamed
upon the sideboard, and shelves of cut glass glistened in a
huge cabinet.
In the center of the room stood a massive round table
and grouped about it were eight chairs, three of them over-
turned.
“I have permitted nothing to be disturbed,” she am-
nounced. “See, everything is just as we left it.”
“Will you show us exactly how the party was seated?”
Rex asked.
“I sat here.” Mrs. Punderford laid her hand upon the
chair, the back of which was nearest the door by which they
had entered. “Mr. Leacraft was on my left and Alan Good-
hue on my right. Mildred was next to him, then Mr.
Scaynes, Mrs. Fraser, my husband—he was nearest the
library door, you see—then my sister Miss Hornbottle with
Mr. Leacraft on her right, bringing up the complete circle.”
“And the light-switch which Mr. Scaynes turned on—
where is that?”
“There in the wall, midway between his chair and that
of my daughter.”
59


60 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“I see.” Rex was taking in the room and all its details
in a swift, comprehensive glance. “Then the overturned
chairs are those of Miss Hornbottle, Mr. Punderford and
Mr. Scaynes?”
“Yes; my sister fainted, you know, and my husband
must have inadvertently overturned his in his anxiety to
reach the library in the darkness, but Mr. Scaynes' chair
is so far from the table that I fancy he must have deliber-
ately kicked it out of his way when he rose to turn on the
light.”
“You are quite a detective yourself, Mrs. Punderford,”
Rex remarked in a pleasantly congratulatory tone. Then
he walked slowly around the table scrutinizing its top and
the floor beneath. “You leave your velvet carpets down
in summer?”
“Only in this room. The carpet, as you see, is worn and
faded in places, and in the autumn it is to be relegated to
the servant's hall. It seemed scarcely worth while taking
it up until then.” Mrs. Punderford added in swiftly rising
agitation: “But we are wasting time here! I only wanted
you to see the room as it was, but in there your real work
lies.”
She passed around the table to the library door, inserted
her key in the lock and flung it wide. For a moment she
cowered upon the threshold, then drew herself up with a
determined effort and stepped over the sill.
They beheld a pleasant, lofty-ceilinged room, its high
walls lined with books save where the monotony was broken
by the tall windows which faced them, the huge fireplace
on the left and the small but heavily made safe beside it


THE SAFE 61
which stood behind a screen of ancient Spanish leather.
The latter had been hastily flung aside and rested crazily
against the corner of the mantel.
A long, narrow table of carved wood blackened with
age was in the center of the room before the fireplace, and
several great chairs stood about, while over on the floor
beneath the window, where a thin but brilliant ray of sun-
light streamed in upon it through a narrow fissure in the
blind, lay a motionless form.
Rex and Henry Corliss advanced toward it, but Phil
Howe with professional interest had gone straight to the
safe and Mrs. Punderford lingered near him.
“I thought rigor mortis set in sooner than this,” Rex
muttered in an undertone as “Dr.” Corliss drew the crossed
arms down from the set face and they fell limply on either
side of the body.
“Not always. Don't talk so loud; we don’t want the
old girl gasping and pulling off a faint over here! Gee! he
was a tough customer for a kid, wasn’t he?”
The face thus revealed to them was undeniably youthful,
but bloated and lowering and seamed about the eyes and the
lips—where the dropped jaw had parted them—with vicious,
ugly lines. The cheeks were thin and sallow, the nose had
obviously been broken at some earlier period and one “cauli-
flower” ear matched the other natural one only in its almost
lobeless formation.
The body was clothed in a frazzled dark gray sweater,
shiny trousers of some rough, nondescript material, and
worn, rubber-soled boots.
“He was the real thing, all right; no fake about this


62 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
get-up,” Henry whispered. “Don’t see a sign of a wound
on him, though. Let's turn him over; maybe he got a
knife in the back and spun around before he fell.”
Together they rolled the body over on its face, but no
wound was visible, and no stain darkened the inlaid mar-
quetry of the floor.
Henry Corliss sat back on his heels and ran one hand
absentmindedly over his bald head.
“I’m damned if I can understand this, unless it's poison
or heart disease!” he muttered. “When I get him down to
the laboratory I’ll find out, though. Get that leather screen
over there, will you, Rex, and stick it up around me? I'm
going to look him over thoroughly and I don’t want the
old girl butting in.”
Rex complied, and approached the safe just as Phil ob-
served in disgusted tones:
“There's nothing to—I mean, this safe has not been
opened in any forcible way; it hasn’t even been tampered
with by any yegg—burglars tools. The fellow who opened
it was either a top-notcher—an expert—or else he knew the
combination and used it, that's all.”
“What!” Mrs. Punderford exclaimed. “Do you mean
to tell me that the safe was not opened by force? But no
one on earth knew the combination except my husband.
He would not confide it to a living soul!”
“Why not, since he kept nothing of value in it?” Rex's
voice sounded from just behind her and she started vio-
lently.
“It was an idiosyncrasy of his,” she responded coldly,
recovering her poise on the instant. “Besides, when I
told you that my husband kept nothing of value here I


THE SAFE 63
spoke comparatively; he never keeps cash here and all his
business documents are downtown, but he has gathered
curios from all parts of the world and those which were too
valuable in his estimation to be placed in the open glass
cabinets in the drawing-room he kept here to show to con-
noisseurs. Semi-precious things, you know; bits of carved
ivory and jade and lapis lazuli and odd old rings. Their
worth to him was simply in their association, I think, for I
remember that the guests to whom he showed them were
never greatly impressed, and it angered him so that he
has shown them to no one of late years. But what have
you done, Mr. Howe!”
For Phil had clanged to the door of the safe and was
carelessly twirling the knob.
“Merely closed the safe, Mrs. Punderford.” The irre-
pressible Phil winked slyly at Rex.
“But now no one can open it until my husband recovers,
if he ever does! We must ascertain what is gone and every
moment is precious!”
She wrung her hands in hopeless dismay, but Phil made
no reply. Instead he placed his ear close to the knob and
turned it slowly to right and left, nodding at intervals as
if in satisfaction. At length after what seemed an age to
Rex, vexed as he was at his colleague's vainglorious dis-
play, the door of the safe swung open once more.
“Why—why, I thought no one could open it without
knowing the combination!” Mrs. Punderford turned in re-
proachful astonishment to Rex.
“But my colleague here is an expert on safes, you know,”
he hastened to reassure her after a quick scowl at the grin-
ning Phil. “I doubt if there is one in America which he


64 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
cannot open. He has been sent for on tremendously impor-
tant cases; for instance, where some financier has died and
left no record of the combination of his safe or vault.
He—”
“You may remember also, Mrs. Punderford, that I told
you the fellow who opened this safe was either an expert
burglar or knew the combination. The latter was not abso-
lutely necessary, you see. There are several notorious
safebreakers in this country who are as expert in their line
as I am in mine.” Phil realized his leader’s discomfiture
and came to the rescue. “I think there is no doubt that one
of them visited you last night.”
“That one over there?” Mrs. Punderford glanced with
a shudder toward the screen.
“No! He was just a common ye-er-amateur, as one
might say; just starting out on his career of crime.” Phil's
tone was full of honest contempt. “He never opened this
Safe!”
“Then there must have been two of them, at least.” Mrs.
Punderford sighed. “I cannot understand why we did not
hear them when we were all sitting there in the next room
fairly straining our ears for the slightest sound!”
“But you were all concentrating, my dear Mrs. Punder-
ford,” Rex remarked smoothly. “Concentrating your minds
on something far different than one of evil intent!”
“Ah, true!” she sighed.
Phil coughed irrepressibly, and Rex added in haste:
“Let us go over the contents of the safe now, and you
must make a note of what is missing.”
“Of course! How stupid of me! I seem to be dazed
this morning.” Mrs. Punderford drew close to the safe


THE SAFE 65
and as she did so her foot crunched upon some hard sub-
stance. “What is this?—Ugh! A lump of mud which one
of those ruffians must have brought in on his foot!”
Phil stooped gallantly and removed the offending morsel
of clay, and their client bent forward once more and thrust
her hand into the safe.
“Here is the jade and the ivory and the box of rings;
there should be thirty-seven—will you count them, please,
Mr. Powell?” Her voice sounded muffled as she stooped
with her head almost in the aperture of the safe, and yet
there seemed to be a strained, gasping note of suspense in
her tones which made the two confrères glance at each
other significantly. She reached behind her with a square
leather box in her hand and Rex took it from her. Then
there came a sharp, unfeigned cry of surprise.
“Why, what can this be?” She straightened with a
packet of letters and a small red note-book fastened to-
gether with a stout rubber band. “I have never noticed
this in the safe before !”
Sinking into the nearest chair their agitated client pulled
the rubber band off the packet with such nervous force that
it snapped and the red note-book fell to the floor. She
opened the first envelope on the top of the packet and read
its contents—a single sheet—with staring eyes.
“I—I cannot understand! It isn’t possible—!”
Her inert hand dropped into her lap and Rex took the
note from her unresisting fingers.
“‘500 Munday nite,’” he read. “Remember hill of
coles. Pay!’”
There was no form of address or signature, but the note
was unmistakable in its meaning. Upon hearing it read


66 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
aloud its significance seemed suddenly borne in upon Mrs.
Punderford and she held out an imperious but trembling
hand for the missive.
“Give it back, please. I should not have read it or per-
mitted you to do so.”
“Mrs. Punderford, do you realize what this means?”
Rex retained the letter in a firm grasp. “It means that
your husband is being blackmailed!”
“How dare you!” She rose to her feet in swift anger.
“How dare you make such an assertion against my hus-
band l”
“Because it is the truth. That note is a clear demand
for money and an implied threat if it is not forthcoming.
Read the others and see if they are not of the same tenor,
but first look at this !” He held before her the little red
note-book which he had picked up from the floor. “This
is his handwriting, is it not? He says:—‘Have paid to
that scoundrel to date: and there follows a long row of
figures varying from one hundred to one thousand dollars,
with dates extending back ten years! Philip, go to the
main telephone which I saw in the hall under the stairs as
we passed; cut off all the extensions and 'phone Lucian and
Clifford to come at once. There is work for both of them.”
“Stop!” Mrs. Punderford cried. “You exceed your au-
thority in this house, Mr. Powell! You had no right to
look into that note-book or read this letter! If my hus-
band is under a-a cloud of this sort, it is his affair and
his alone. I cannot believe it, I will not believe it until I
hear it from his own lips! But you were engaged to in-
vestigate the burglary, nothing more! Whatever these let-
ters and the note-book refer to is no concern of yours!”


68 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
soon after that affair last night has given me such an inex-
pressible shock that I scarcely knew what I was saying.
My one thought was to protect my husband.”
“You will best do that by leaving everything in our
hands.” Rex turned as the expert on safes reëntered the
room. “Did you get them, Phil?”
“They’re coming out in the fast roadster; ought to be
here in half an hour,” Phil responded laconically. “Gone
through the safe yet?”
“Not yet. Give me the packet and the little red book,
please, Mrs. Punderford; but first tell me if you recog-
nize the writing in the letters. It is palpably disguised, but
it may bear a remote semblance to that of some one you
know. They have no stamps or postmarks as you see,
and must have been delivered in some other fashion than
through the mail.”
She gazed at the sheet of paper he held out before her
as though it were some loathsome thing and shook her
head.
“No. I am certain that I never saw it before in all my
life.”
“Philip, you count the rings in the box—Mrs. Punder-
ford says that there should be thirty-seven—and I will as-
sist her at the safe,” Rex commanded. “You say that all
the jades and ivories are here?”
“I think so.” She hurried forward, forestalling him, and
this time she knelt, thrusting her head and shoulders into
the narrow opening of the safe as though to prevent him
from seeing what she was doing; but he could hear her
hands searching feverishly, almost desperately, amid the
fragile collection. At last she paused motionless, save that


THE SAFE 69
a tremor shook her whole body, and then it drooped as if
she were on the point of collapse.
Slowly she withdrew from the safe, but as she rose her
face was composed and her voice when she spoke was cool
and steady.
“Nothing! They have taken nothing; they must have
been frightened away. Look for yourself, Mr. Powell.”
He complied and bending before the safe in his turn
he beheld a marvelous collection of miniature carving in
limpid greens and blues and creamy white. Strange amu-
lets there were and scarabs and a score of odd and beauti-
ful bits of virtu to which he could give no name; but all
at once he caught sight of a small, silver cube hollowed out
in the center, in the bottom of which nestled several lead-
colored and pinkish globules whose soft sheen seemed fairly
to glow up at him. Taking them in his hand, he approached
Mrs. Punderford and held them out to her.
“Are these not pink and black pearls?” he asked.
She smiled again faintly. -
“Yes, but they are irregular in shape as you see and their
skin is poor. Place them beside this ring of white pearls
which I am wearing and you will see that they are almost
without luster in comparison.”
“They look good to me, but then I am no judge of pearls
Rex laughed. “We leave all that sort of thing to our jewel
expert; he will be here in a few minutes now.”
“Your jewel expert!” Mrs. Punderford repeated. “It
was he for whom you had Mr. Howe telephone?”
“And our handwriting expert also.” Rex nodded. “We
have specialists in every line, who pursue their own branch
of every investigation and coöperate in the final result.”
!”


70 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“And have you never failed?” Their client's tone was
filled with amazement.
“We never have yet!” It was Phil who replied to her
and he had the grace not to glance at his superior.
“That is the advantage of having so many minds working
together yet each following an individual line of thought,”
Rex interposed hastily. “We don't follow one precon-
ceived theory blindly, casting aside any possible clue in-
stinctively that does not conform to that theory, as the
best of detectives working alone is bound to do. I want
to place these blackmailing notes in the care of our hand-
writing expert—”
He was interrupted by the reappearance of Henry Cor-
liss from behind the screen. The latter was rolling down
his sleeves in a professional manner and his broad face
was wreathed in smiles, but it sobered instantly as he
met the curious regard of the others.
“What is it?” Mrs. Punderford asked half fearfully.
“How did that man come to his death?”
Henry shook his head lugubriously.
“I fear there has been foul play,” he responded. “I can
give you all the particulars when I have performed the
autopsy, but I prefer not to say any more now. Kindly
leave him as I have placed him and do not look behind the
screen, my dear Mrs. Punderford. I am afraid the sight
would not be a pleasant one for your eyes.”
“Ugh!” she shuddered. “I—I haven’t the slightest in-
tention of doing so! But when do you propose to remove
the body, and how?”
“As soon as I have seen my patients upstairs. Leave


THE SAFE 71
the details of the removal to me and you will have no fur-
ther annoyance about it.”
“Thank you, doctor.” She turned to the door. “Will
you come now? My husband has not yet awakened, or I
should have been notified, but he—he may never awaken
again!”
As she drew the pseudo-doctor from the room Phil asked
Rex in a sepulchral whisper:
“Do you suppose she was hep to the old man’s being
blackmailed? Was that why she was so anxious for us
not to get a peep into that safe until she had had a chance
to go over it alone first?”
Rex shook his head.
“The thing she didn’t want us to see is gone, Phil. It’s
been stolen!”


CHAPTER VI
VANISHED!
66T AM delighted to know you, sir.” Ralph Scaynes
held out a long, thin, white hand with fingers as
tapering as those of a girl. “‘The friends of my friends
are my friends.’”
His voice was low and as harmoniously attuned as a deep
church bell, but with an odd crack in it, and as he quoted,
his ascetic face lightened with a dreamy, fanatic smile
which seemed distorted, like that of one whose mind wan-
ders.
George felt uncomfortable nevertheless—as uncomfort-
able as he had on one unfortunate occasion in the past
when he had been suddenly unmasked in his chicanery.
He murmured a response, recovered his hand and strove
to throw off the disquieting influence of the other man. If
he were a faker, with his spiritualism and all the rest of it,
then most assuredly he was a bird!
Alan appeared in the drawing-room doorway, beckoned
to Mildred and their disappearance into the music room
broke the tension.
“Mr. Scaynes,” George began warily, “I am particularly
glad to have had this opportunity to talk with you because
I think you may be able to give me a more clear account of
what happened last night than any one has, so far, and
72


VANISHED ! 73
if you will be kind enough to give me the benefit of your
own opinion I shall be grateful. You know, of course,
that Luella sent for me as one of Horace's oldest friends,
but I scarcely feel that I can be of much service to her,
for I cannot understand the affair at all.”
“Because you start on the wrong premise, my dear sir.
Nothing ‘happens’; all is ordained from the beginning of
time until this hour. From the Atman of the Sanskrit
Upanishads—but perhaps you are not a mystic, a theoso-
phist?”
“I—I’ve looked into it a little,” George said weakly.
“And has it not proved of inestimable value to you, even
as slightly as you may have penetrated its profundities?”
“Well,” George reflected for a fleeting moment upon his
past career, “I should say that it had been of fair value.
I am going to take it up again; Horace has been urging
me to.”
“It is strange,” Scaynes put the tips of his long, white
fingers together and his deep, brown eyes gazed without
expression into George's slaty gray ones, “that Horace
has never spoken to me of you. But perhaps you did not
know of our long friendship?”
“No. You are old friends too, then, Mr. Scaynes?”
“We have known each other for centuries, aeons ! It
is a variation of the law of reincarnation that we should
meet upon this plane now, for once I was upon a far higher
one, but the will of the All-Soul is not to be comprehended
by a mere Adept and I am not yet a Master.”
George felt the perspiration starting on his forehead. If
this man wasn’t the biggest faker since the world began he
was just plain bughouse!


74 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Neither, my friend.” There was a note of sadness un-
tinged by any resentment in the Adept's singsong tones.
“See, I read your thoughts. You are still sleeping the sleep
of gross skepticism and materialism. Your eyes are closed
to the existence of a vast cosmos moved by occult forces
of which this earth of ours is but an infinitesimal part.
Ah, if I could only reveal to you the reality of the occult
world which reaches everywhere into ours, even into the
aura of these our friends in this most tragic hour; if I
could but make you see the instability of material existence
you would no longer be puzzled or amazed at that which
took place here last night.”
George's mouth was dry and he felt a curious drawn
sensation in the back of his neck, but he responded dog-
gedly:
“Perhaps so, Mr. Scaynes, but some very material things
have hap—have taken place here, and I want to help Luella
all I can. You, being on a-er—higher plane than the
others, might have seen any manifestation while you all sat
there in the dark which might have revealed itself to Miss
Hornbottle also and frightened her into a faint. Did you
see any such manifestation?”
“I did not, sir. The evil influences which were even
then hovering over this house precluded our coming in con-
tact with the spirit world.”
“Do you think then that she just fainted at the sound
of the burglar's fall in the next room? But what do you
make of poor Horace's sudden breakdown? He must have
had something of great value in that looted safe—”
“Valuable? No, not in a materialistic sense of the word.”
Scaynes smiled once more in gentle deprecation as though


VANISHED ! 75
humoring the foibles of a friend. “Many odd and beauti-
ful curios from the different countries in which he has
traveled, but nothing of value as you look upon it.”
“You have seen the interior of the safe, then, Mr.
Scaynes?”
“Many times. Horace has shown all his treasures to
me. I remember some exquisite bits of carving on jade
and lapis lazuli, a handful of pink and black pearls—beauti-
ful but of no intrinsic worth—and an odd stork set with
semi-precious stones. The miscreant who broke into the
safe must have been disappointed indeed at his gains.”
“Then to what do you attribute Horace's sudden mad-
ness?”
A shadow passed over Scaynes' sensitive features and
he sighed. “Sanity as we know it hangs by a thread. Who
shall say what influence temporarily snapped that thread?
I have no fear for our friend. I am confident that he will
awaken his former self again, for his course is not yet run
upon this plane and he has much still to accomplish before
he passes on.”
“But the man who lies dead in the library, the burglar?
You don’t mean to say there was nothing material about
his death?”
“Death itself is immaterial.” Scaynes laid his hand upon
George's black coatsleeve and again the latter felt that
strange, half-pitying, half-repellent magnetism running
through him like a resistless tide, as though toward a help-
less maniac. “You will think me an idealist, a dreamer;
many men have called me so. It is merely because I see
in all acts, in all events, the Ultimate, the working out of
that which is to be. Does it matter how a certain thing is


76 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
brought to pass? The poor creature lying there has many
ages to travel in darkness, many planes to reach and rise
above. He has left this plane for one perhaps a step higher,
a step of the way upon his journey to the Light.”
“True!” George raised his eyes heavenward and then
brought them down swiftly to meet the gaze of the fanatical
man. “But his earthly body is lying there in the library.
Have you any suggestions to make in regard to its re-
moval?” *
“The police. They attend to such things usually, do they
not?” The self-styled Adept replied vaguely and passed a
slim hand across his high white brow. “It should be done
at once; all evil influences, all those opposed to the har-
mony of the infinite should be removed, that my poor friend
may return the more quickly to his former mental state.”
George accepted this as a subtle hint and rose.
“It was good of you, Mr. Scaynes, to let me have this
little talk with you. I feel easier in my mind about Horace
now that you are sure all is well with him, but I hope I
have not detained you.”
“It was nothing.” The Adept waved a vague hand.
“But now my hour of meditation—”
“I understand,” interrupted George sympathetically. “I
must go and see if I can do anything for Luella.”
At that moment the lady herself issued from the library
with Dr. Corliss in tow and hearing her first name spoken
so familiarly stopped and glared for a moment, then re-
covered herself and came forward.
“George, I wish you would go into the library now and
tell me what is to be done. Ah, Mr. Scaynes, I wonder if
you, too, will do me a service?”


VANISHED ! 77
“I shall be honored, my dear Mrs. Punderford!”
He bent low over her hand and George waited for no
more but strode down the hall and into the library, where
he found Rex and Phil deep in consultation before the
open safe.
“Hello, George, did you interview them all?” Rex hailed
him in a lowered tone. “Get anything?”
“Only that both the Fraser woman and Stephen Lea-
craft seem to be regular human beings. They didn’t cotton
to this spiritualist stunt last night but attended it for a sort
of lark. They think Miss Hornbottle was just scared into
her faint and that the burglary might have happened any-
where. Mrs. Fraser don’t see anything mysterious about
the whole affair except the old man going crazy like that,
and she is ready to attribute it to a sort of fit when he found
his safe rifled. She knows nothing, of course, about the
dead yegg in here—he is behind that screen, isn’t he? No,
I don’t want to see him now—” George added as Phil
made a move toward the screen. “It might put me out of
harmony with the infinite.”
“‘Out of'—say, where did you get that?” Phil demanded.
“I’ve been getting the greatest line of crazy patter just
now. Oh, boy, if I ever go back in the business again I'll
knock 'em off their feet at every séance!—But let me tell
you about Leacraft; he made one funny crack. He spoke
of the stiff in here as having been murdered just as if
that were a foregone conclusion with him and when I
asked why, he said it hadn’t occurred to him that a bur-
glar, like any one else, might die a natural death in the
pursuit of his profession.”
“The big stiff!” Phil snorted.


78 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Did you get anything from young Alan Goodhue?”
asked Rex.
“Nothing but questions.” George's lean face was creased
with a grin. “He spent the time looking after his girl who
was in hysterics, and he missed all the big show. He was
dying to get a peep in here, and fired questions at me until
I closed the interview.—Hello, here are the boys now !”
A low, swift roadster had purred up to the front of the
house, and they could hear the opening and closing of
the hall door. Then quick, muffled footsteps sounded down
the hall and Cliff Nichols peered nearsightedly through the
doorway, with Lucian Baynes twirling his slight blond mus-
tache just behind him.
“What is it?” the latter asked. “Cliff received your
telephone message and he fairly tore up the road getting
here.”
“I want you to have a look at the contents of that safe,
Luce, and tell me what you think of the value of it,” Rex
announced.
Lucian complied, and George Roper peered speculatively
over his shoulder while Rex turned to Cliff.
“I want to show you something.” He drew the note-
book and the packet of letters from his pocket. “Mrs.
Punderford found these in the safe just now and tried to
keep them from us but I threatened to throw up the case
if she did. It was evident that she knew nothing about
it previously, and she is willing to swear that she never
saw any one's handwriting that remotely resembled this.
Mr. Punderford was being systematically blackmailed.”
Cliff scanned the note-book. Then drawing a small but
powerful magnifying glass from his pocket he began to


VANISHED! 79
study the letters, when a surprised exclamation from George
drew Rex and Phil to the safe once more where Lucian
was absorbedly going over its contents.
“Have you been all through this, Rex?” he asked.
“Of course, George; with Mrs. Punderford herself.”
“What did she say was missing?”
“Nothing. She said that the thieves must have been
frightened away.”
“Then where are the rest of the pearls?” George de-
manded.
“What do you know about any pearls?” Rex asked in
his turn. “Those were all that I saw, those black and pink
ones.”
He pointed to the little silver cube with the top hollowed
out, but George shook his head in scorn.
“You don’t call that lot a handful, do you? Why, you
could almost put them in a pipel”
“What do you mean? Mrs. Punderford didn't observe
that any were missing.”
“Well, there were a whole handful of them here, these
black and pink ones,” George insisted. “Scaynes told me
so; the old man showed them to him, himself!—And where’s
the bird?”
“What bird? Did Scaynes say there was some sort of a
bird here?”
“Yes. A stork set with some sort of stones, but he said
that they were not of much value.”
“Is there anything of value there, Luce?” Rex turned to
the other.
“Some of the carvings in miniature are really charming,
and a few are very decent examples of different periods.


80 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
If I went into the details you chaps wouldn’t understand
me, anyway. Mr. Punderford or his collectors must have
traveled extensively, but save as a source of pleasure for
the undeveloped artistic sense of the mediocre mind, I
should say that the result had been scarcely worth the time
and trouble. The whole collection is worth only a few
hundred at most and would be extremely difficult to dis-
pose of, besides the fact that an ordinary safecracker would
look upon it as mere junk.”
“Maybe they didn’t know what was in the safe at all but
just took a chance,” Phil retorted, stung by the seeming
slur on his former profession. “I’ve struck a bloomer or
two myself when I was in the game.”
“Nevertheless, the pearls are missing and that bird,”
George remarked obstinately. “Scaynes knew what he was
talking about, if he is a nut, and it was the only time I
ever got any sense out of him at all.”
“I will ask Mrs. Punderford. about them,” Rex was be-
ginning, when Cliff came toward them impatiently.
“I say, I’ve got to have more light. This place is like a
morgue, anyway. If you fellows have finished with the
safe for the time being, can’t we go where there is better
light?”
“The drawing-room,” Rex suggested and led the way.
“Walk quietly and the last one out lock the door here and
pocket the key.”
They reached the drawing-room, found it empty and
closed the door behind them. The others seated them-
selves, but Rex went directly to the same telephone which
George had previously used and called the same number.
“That you, Ethel? You know who is speaking? . . .


VANISHED ! 81
Very good. I want you to call up every dealer in second-
hand household furnishings whom you can find in the classi-
fied directory and buy up a lot of pieces of worn, old vel-
vet carpet, no matter what color. Have them there not
later than to-morrow.”
“But how big?” asked Ethel in surprise. “Are we going
to move into a hall, Mr. Powell ?” ... --
“Not precisely. Single strips will do but they must be
at least six feet long—just old odds and ends, you know,
not whole carpets. Good-by.”
The others looked at him in wonderment, but Rex turned
abruptly to George.
“Now then, tell us about this man Scaynes.”
“I couldn’t in a million years.” . George shook his head.
“It’s something that has got to be seen to be appreciated.
I can’t get his number, and I admit it. I thought before I
met him that he was a cheap impostor, putting it over with
his spiritualism and all that on two gullible females and
the old man. He didn’t seem to have impressed Mrs.
Fraser and Leacraft, and I thought I was too old a hand
myself to be taken in by any one in my own line of graft;
but if he is a faker, all I can say is that I would like to go
to school to him for a few years and then start out again;
I’d clean up the country!”
“You don’t mean to tell us that you think he is on the
level; that you have fallen for a lot of your own old bunk!”
Phil exclaimed.
“No. I think he is sincere enough but that he is a plain
nut, gone dippy about this theosophy business. That is the
only way I can dope it out now. I started in by asking
him what happened last night and he told me that nothing


VANISHED ! 83
were opposed to the harmony of the infinite, meaning me.
Then he said it was his hour for meditation, and quit. I
guess he didn’t meditate much, though, for Mrs. Punder-
ford came along and grabbed him to do something for her.”
“It is extraordinary, really l” Lucian looked from one to
another of his colleagues. “Our first case, and work in it
for every one of us, each in his special line.”
“My part of it is finished,” Phil remarked gloomily.
“The safe hadn’t even been forced; the fellow who opened
it either had the combination or worked at the tumblers
until he doped it out for himself.”
“The way you did with your grand-stand play before
Mrs. Punderford!” Rex reminded him severely. “None
of that on the job, Phil; it might get some client thinking.”
“That's it! Do a man a favor and he rounds on you for
it!” Phil exclaimed with a gloomy air. “What do you sup-
pose I shut that safe for and then opened it again? To
keep my hand in ? Didn’t the old lady say that no one on
earth but her husband knew the combination? I thought
the figures might come in handy for you some day, old
man, so I doped them out.”
“And I apologize!” Rex cried. “Upon my word, I
thought you were pulling a kid trick, Phil. What are the
numbers?”
“If you can find a kid that can do that stunt, lead me to
him and I'll have him working for me. The combination
is 3-46-18-6-25.” -
“The old chap made it complicated enough, didn’t he?”
remarked Lucian. “I’ve met his sort before, crazy about
some collection of useless and comparatively worthless
things and guarding them like priceless treasure.”


84 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“I am not so sure—” Rex was beginning but the voice
of Mrs. Punderford sounded from the hall and he sprang
up and opened the door for her.
“Have you discovered anything further—” She stopped
at sight of Lucian and Cliff, and Rex hastened to present
them.
“The letters, Mr. Nichols, I—” She turned to him.
“It will not be an easy matter to identify the writer,
madam; the hand has been cleverly disguised,” he responded.
“I shall ask you to obtain for me a specimen of penman-
ship of every one with whom your husband has come in
contact in a business or social way that you can think of.
I am certain from the general tenor of the letters them-
selves that the writer is familiar with every phase of your
husband's daily life and has a close and intimate knowledge
of his habits.”
“That will be rather a task.” She smiled wanly. “How-
ever, I shall try my utmost.—Mr. Baynes, you have exam-
ined the contents of the safe?”
He nodded and was about to reply when Rex inter-
vened.
“Mrs. Punderford, how many of those pink and black
pearls were there originally?”
“Well, really, I never counted them.” She paused.
“They were of so little value—”
“But surely you would know at least if there were a
large quantity—say, a handful—or merely a few. Those
which I took up in my hand and showed to you to-day
were all that were in the little silver receptacle.”
She shook her head and a puzzled look came into her
5


VANISHED ! 85
eyes, but it gave place to a startled gleam, as instantly sup-
pressed, at his next words.
“What has become of the jeweled stork?”
Mrs. Punderford drew in her breath sharply, then ex-
haled it with a little forced laugh.
“Oh, the brooch in the shape of a stork, made of Ger-
man silver and set with tiny seed pearls?” she asked. “My
husband bought it in Carlsbad years ago. I cannot imagine
how you happened to hear about it. He permitted Mil-
dred to wear it some time ago and she lost it.”
“I see.” Rex's tone was noncommittal as he rose and
glanced at the others. “If you will pardon us now we will
return to the library; we have something further to look
into there. Is Doctor Corliss still with his patients?”
“I left him with my sister—” Her voice trailed off into
silence and she stood immovable as they departed from the
room, watching them with darkened, inscrutable eyes.
“I say, close the safe, Phil, since you can open it again,
and as soon as Henry comes down let us get rid some way
of that chap behind the screen there.” Lucian's fastidious
face was crossed by a grimace. “I never went in for the
rough stuff myself, and I don’t fancy working so near that
sort of thing.”
“Let’s have a look at him.” Cliff advanced to the
screen. “How was he killed, Rex? Did Henry find out?”
“No. There wasn’t a mark—”
He was interrupted by a shout from Cliff that brought
them all up standing.
“It isn’t here! The window is wide open and the body is
gome!”


CHAPTER VII
THE LUMP OF CLAY
HEY stood staring at each other in speechless amaze-
ment until at last Phil found his voice.
“My God! It couldn’t have walked off! What kind of
a crazy house have we gotten into, anyway?”
“Could Henry have—?” George turned to Rex.
The latter shook his head.
“Didn’t you hear Mrs. Punderford say just now that he
was still with his patients upstairs? She had just left him
with her sister. Some one must know about this affair and
I mean to find out who it is!”
“Scaynes may be the one,” suggested Phil. “You re-
member that Mrs. Punderford arranged to send him out
to her country place in the car on some fake errand in
order to get him out of our way. What if, in spite of his
airy aloofness from the whole affair, he might not relish
the police investigation after all and carted the body away
with him in the car?”
“Not hel” retorted George. “It could stay here for a
month and he would step right over it and never even see
it. I tell you he's up in the clouds, nothing on earth mat-
ters to him except his Hatman of the Bazinkus, or what-
ever he calls it.—What's that?”
86


88 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
the master had been taken suddenly ill, but it would be all
right and there was nothing I could do, so I went back to
my room.
“Mona was called, though, to attend some of the ladies
who seemed to be sort of hysterical, and this morning she
said that she had heard them say something about a bur-
glary, but Mona being an excitable creature at best I didn't
think anything of it until just now. She's always making
up stories about sensational things that never happened,
Sir.”
“Did you think nothing, either, of the fact that the library
door was locked this morning?” queried Rex.
“I didn’t think about it one way or the other, sir.” A
shade of doggedness had crept into the butler's tones. “I
was that worried about the master that I didn’t put my mind
on anything else.”
He spoke almost mechanically, his eyes fastened as if
hypnotized on the yawning safe door. He had taken a
tentative step toward it when Rex halted him.
“Nothing of value has been taken, Mickens, and your
master is doing nicely. The doctor is with him now.—You
will please your mistress if you say nothing to the other
servants about the attempted robbery.” He made an em-
phatic gesture to Phil and the latter closed the safe door
with a resounding clang.
A flush of resentment mounted in the face of the butler,
but he gave no other sign.
“I shall say nothing, sir. Very good, sir.” He bowed
and withdrew.
“Solicitude for his master, eh?” Lucian observed when


THE LUMP OF CLAY 89
the door had safely closed. “It seems that several people
are exhibiting a rather remarkable interest in that safe
considering the nature of its contents.”
“Its contents now, perhaps, but we do not know what it
may have held yesterday. I fancy that Mickens could tell
us a great deal if he chose, but this is not the time to force
his hand,” replied Rex.
“He seemed like a decent enough chap,” George re-
marked. “Perhaps he did know something but wanted to
protect his master's interests. But what gets me is the
disappearance of the body. Let's have a look, Rex.”
Cliff Nichols was again absorbed in his study of the
blackmailing letters, and Lucian turned to Phil.
“Open the safe again, will you, old chap? I want to
make a more thorough examination of it than I had an
opportunity to do before. It may be that I missed some-
thing of real value; it would be just fool's luck for a man
of Punderford's evident ignorance of such things to pick
up a veritable treasure without the least conception of its
true worth.”
There were traces of mud from the place where the
body had lain behind the screen to the balcony outside the
window, but the footprints all led inward. Two long, dull
lines in the polished floor showed where the body had
slipped down, the soft rubber-soled shoes failing to scratch
through to the inlaid wood of the floor itself.
Rex and George examined the long side panels of the
window, the sill and the narrow balcony, but failed to find
any indication of the manner in which the body had been
removed.


90 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“The fellow climbed up here to get in, that's sure,”
George observed. “It would be easier still for any one
to climb down again.” -
“Not with a dead man to carry and in broad daylight,”
returned Rex dryly. “Remember, that body was here not
an hour ago.”
“The next house is pretty near,” admitted George. “But
it appears to be boarded up for the summer, and the vines
trailing over that high iron fence in front would prevent
any one from seeing in from the Drive. Besides, how else
could the body have been taken out of the house? The
tradesmen's driveway runs directly under this balcony and
—hello! What’s this?”
He had been leaning over the railing as he spoke and
now one of his long arms reached down and plucked some-
thing off a protruding scrollwork of iron. It was a raveled
bit of dark gray woolen yarn.
“It's from the yegg's sweater,” Rex commented. “Might
just as well have been torn off as he climbed up, though, as
when some one carried him down. Has it occurred to you,
George, that the body may be still in the house? Some one
may have had another key to the library and hidden the
body while we were all in the drawing-room a little while
ago.”
“Then let's search the house!” George was shaken from
his habitual air of sanctimonious gravity. “I should think
that any one possibly connected with this affair would want
to get rid of it instead of keeping it around as a souvenir,
but this whole damned business is such a mystery that
there's no telling where to start. We certainly picked a
good one for our first case!”


THE LUMP OF CLAY 91
As they passed through the library and started upon
their search of the house Phil was still before the safe
and Cliff bent over the papers which he had spread out on
the table, but Lucian had risen and was talking into the
wall telephone which the dislodged screen had disclosed.
“Are you there, Ethel? . . . Yes, Mr. Baynes . . . Will
you kindly go to the shelf of books in my study marked
‘Egyptiana’ and take down—”
“Aw, please have a heart, Mr. Baynes!” wailed the beset
Ethel. “Spell it! The only college I ever went to was the
open-air one called ‘Third Avenue'!”
“Oh, the fifth shelf on your right as you enter!” Lucian
explained somewhat impatiently. “Take down the volume
labeled “Scarabs’ and—No! Not ‘Scabs’; ‘S-c-a-r-a-b-s, and
bring it to the telephone.”
There was an appreciable interval and then a plaintive
voice announced. “If you mean these bugs that look like
a cross between a cockroach and a June-bug I guess I’ve
got it, Mr. Baynes.”
“Now turn to the illustrations on page nineteen and tell
me if any of the—ahem—June-bugs are larger than a-
well, a nickel ?”
Another pause and then a decided reply.
“No, Mr. Baynes, not them, but on page—”
“Very well, that is all I wanted to know; I can look
at the rest of the book myself when I return. Good-by.”
Meanwhile, omitting only the two sick-rooms, Rex and
George went through the entire residence from trunkroom
to cellar, but found no trace of the body. Mrs. Punder-
ford was presumably in the room of either her husband or
her sister and Mildred out somewhere with young Alan


92 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
Goodhue, for they encountered no one but the astonished
ServantS.
As they reascended from the cellar after their fruitless
search, Rex and his companion heard Henry Corliss’ usually
good-natured tones raised in indignation from the library.
“Gone? Who did it? You're a fine lot, you fellows!
Lord A'mighty, I left enough of you on guard here while
I ran up to look at my two patients—”
“‘Ran up?’” Phil repeated disgustedly. “You’ve been
gone an hour and a half, at least. You didn’t think we were
holding a wake down here, did you? We’ve had other
things to do!”
“We are finished here now for the present, anyway,”
Rex announced as he entered the library and saw that the
safe was closed once more and Cliff was gathering up his
papers. “Henry, the body isn’t in the house, that's sure;
George and I have searched it from top to bottom. Did
you find out what happened to Mr. Punderford and Miss
Hornbottle last night?”
Henry's rotund face was set in peculiar lines as he re-
plied:
“Yes, but I don’t want to go into it here. They'll be all
right, though.”
“Then suppose we all go back to the office now and talk
it over?” suggested Rex. “I don’t think there is any need
of leaving some one on guard here, do you?”
He appealed to Henry and the latter shook his head.
“Not until this evening. Then I want a strong-arm male
nurse who speaks precious little English sent up here to
take care of Mr. Punderford.”
Rex glanced at him in quick questioning, but Henry


THE LUMP OF CLAY 93
vouchsafed no explanation, and they prepared to depart.
Mrs. Punderford awaited them in the entrance hall. She
bore a slight air of relief, but although she addressed Rex
her strained gaze was fastened on Cliff.
“Dr. Corliss has removed one of my chief anxieties, Mr.
Powell; he tells me that my husband and my sister will
both recover shortly, that it was acute nervous shock in both
cases. But the—the letters—”
“We are returning to our office for a consultation now,
Mrs. Punderford, and we will report to you as soon as
possible,” Rex said smoothly. “The body has been removed,
the safe is closed with its contents intact and here is the
key to the library. Mr. Nichols is taking the letters and
the note-book for further study. Would you care for a
receipt for them?”
“Oh, no!” She made a gesture of repulsion. “I—I pre-
fer to leave everything in your hands without question.
The car is at the door waiting to take you back whenever
you are ready, for Mr. Scaynes took the runabout out to
Long Island. Here is a specimen of my husband's writing
and letters from as many of our friends and his business
associates as I have been able to gather together in the last
hour.”
She held a bundle of papers out to Cliff who pocketed
them gravely.
“You will let me hear from you as soon as possible?”
They promised and took their departure, Lucian and
Cliff returning in the roadster as they had come. The
others, mindful of the presence of Williams, the chauffeur,
talked but little and that on extraneous topics until the
office was reached.


94 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
There they found that Lucian and Cliff in the faster car
had preceded them by several minutes and were holding a
somewhat heated discussion in the hexagonal inner office.
“Don’t be an ass.” Lucian's drawling admonition came
to their ears as they slid back the panel to enter. “How
could it have been an inside job with one of the thieves
left there dead?”
“I tell you it was !” Cliff insisted. “I know I am sup-
posed to stick to my own specialized line, but that body
was spirited away somehow by a member of the household,
and in my opinion it was planted there in the first place to
throw every one else off the true scent.—Hello, you chaps!”
“I shouldn’t be surprised if Cliff were right,” observed
George as they took their places around the council table.
“When Leacraft in that matter-of-fact way of his described
to me the symptoms displayed by our friend Punderford
during the night in his supposed delirium I thought I rec-
ognized them. Seen the same effect in my own old line
more than once, eh, Henry?”
“You’ve hit it,” Henry Corliss nodded. “To a certain
extent it must have been an inside job. The old gentleman
was doped, that's all. You recognized our old friend can-
nabis indica, George, or hashish as it is generally known
among addicts—”
“Hashish!” exclaimed Rex. “Do you think Punderford
could be addicted to it, Henry? He has traveled all over
the world from what I learned.”
“No.” Henry shook his head. “He would have known
how to regulate the dose if he had. As a matter of fact, the
one who administered it to him neither miscalculated the
proportion nor the time in which it would take effect, for


96 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“You haven’t told us yet what is the matter with Miss
Hornbottle,” Cliff reminded him. “Was she drugged, too?”
“No, but she is in a state of severe nervous shock amount-
ing to extreme prostration,” Henry replied. “She is rather
the worse off of the two, and it may take her weeks or
even months to recover from it. What did the rest of you
find out?”
“Suppose we sum it up?” Rex suggested. “According
to George, the man Scaynes is either a faker or a superior
sort of a plain nut; the other guests seem to be out of it as
far as we can see now, although Leacraft did assert with-
out any admitted proof that the dead man in the library
had been murdered. I think we can leave the daughter out
of it; she seems to have told a straight story. Mrs. Pun-
derford for some reason not as yet ascertained seemed
anxious to look into that safe before we did and for a
purpose other than those blackmailing letters, for she
plainly knew nothing about them until they were discov-
ered in our presence. I cannot understand why she didn’t
examine the safe for herself before we were summoned,
but she was probably too excited during the night and in
the morning did not dare absent herself from the others
for fear of arousing their suspicion that there was some-
thing more about that robbery than appeared on the sur-
face. Her principal effort and object before the finding
of the letters was to avoid scandal and notoriety, but of a
different sort than that which she claimed. I’m convinced
that although she did not know her husband was being
blackmailed, she instantly guessed the reason for it and
wild horses wouldn’t drag it from her.”
“Do you remember how she appeared to be almost on


THE LUMP OF CLAY 97
the verge of collapse when she had finished examining the
safe for herself, Rex, and how odd she seemed afterward?”
Phil asked.
“Yes.” Rex nodded. “I told you then that in spite of
her denial the thing, whatever it was, which she hoped to
find had been stolen. We haven’t questioned any of the
servants yet except the butler and I’m sure that he knows
something; we'll have to get it out of him later. I brought
you all back here for a consultation before our investiga-
tion there was finished because I have a special method of
work to suggest to you. We'll collect all the data that we
have at hand first, however. Cliff, what did you learn
from the files before you left the office about Horace Pun-
derford P”
“Sixty-two years old, son of the late Ezra Punderford
and his wife Cynthia Van Praag,” responded Cliff glibly as
he drew a memorandum from his pocket. “Married Luella
Hornbottle of Boston in 1901. No known blood relations
living. Started his business career as tea-taster for down-
town importing house; later established himself as importer
of teas, spices and various foreign condiments. Traveled
extensively during different periods before his marriage
and retired in 1905, apparently wealthy but extent of prop-
erty not known. Since retirement has maintained an office
in Wall Street and trades on market principally through
Leacraft and Company.”
“Humph! Nothing new there except his former business
and the fact that Leacraft is his broker,” Rex remarked.
“Leacraft didn’t tell you that, did he, George?”
“No. Probably didn’t consider it necessary; if I was
Horace's old friend as I purported to be, I might have been


THE LUMP OF CLAY 99
fat, jolly face suddenly crimsoned. “We'll all take a hand,
of course, in trying to solve the mystery that is back of
the whole thing, but what with drugging and sudden death,
probably murder—”
“There hasn’t been any murder!” Henry exploded. “I
was going to try to hold out on you fellows until I got the
dope, but I guess I’d better come across. That young yegg
wasn’t any more dead than you are this minute!”
“What in the—”
“Good heavens, was he drugged, too?”
“He’s escaped—!”
“Where is he?”
The exclamations and questions came thick and fast,
but it was Rex who uttered the final one and to him Henry
explained sheepishly:
“He’s down in a room over a Third Avenue saloon which
I happened o remember and two of my former friends are
—er—nursing him. He was drugged all right, but I can’t
find out how just yet. When you were all in the drawing-
room—I heard your voices talking to Mrs. Punderford as
I came downstairs after looking my patients over—I went
out to the garage and got the roadster out which Cliff and
Luce had come up in and drove it under the balcony. I
found a short, stout ladder in the garage, too, and slid the
body down into the car on that. Then after putting the
ladder away I drove like hell to that saloon and back. I
knew the man wasn’t dead when we found no marks on
him and suspected that it was a case of drugging, although
in all my experience I never came across any that reacted
in such a way; that was why I wanted that screen put up


100 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
around him and why I wanted to get him off quickly before
he came to. I didn’t want all you fellows questioning him
until I had had a chance to study his condition.”
“You wanted to steal all the thunder, that's what!” grum-
bled Phil. “Talk about me making grandstand plays—!”
“We won’t talk about the ethics of your move just now,
Henry.” Rex's tone was a trifle stern. “What I want to
know is, has the fellow regained consciousness?”
“No, and he may come out of it as crazy as a bat for all
I know.” Henry passed a hand across his bald head in
perplexity. “You see, I can’t make out what the stuff is
he was doped with. When the boys helped to carry him
up to the room I had arranged for and laid him down on
the bed he began to breathe again so as you could notice it
and he muttered something about three bright spots.”
That was all, over and over as if they had scared him to
death. Crazy as a bat then, at any rate. ‘Three bright
spots’l”
“If there had been a Sherlock Holmes among our bril-
liant aggregation of investigators I suppose we might have
deduced the ladder, and observed the length of time ‘Dr.’
Corliss was absent from our midst.” Lucian's drawl had
quickened. “What is the next step, until our friend the
burglar regains his senses, if he ever does? It appears that
we have evidence enough now for three or four separate
cases, but we don't know what to do with it.”
Rex flushed and his usual imperturbability had for the
moment deserted him.
“The next step,” he announced, “is to discover if any one
else is holding out on us! Come clean, everybody! It is
cards on the table when we have a conference like this!”


THE LUMP OF CLAY 101
“Maybe I am!” laughed Phil as with a flash of sudden
remembrance he stuck two fingers into his waistcoat pocket.
“Do you remember, Rex, when Mrs. Punderford first
stooped to look into the safe she trod on a lump of dried
mud that one of the yeggs had brought in on his boot and I
politely removed it? The fireplace was blocked up, the
screen was in front of the window and I didn’t see any
scrap basket, so I dropped it into my pocket. Perhaps it
is a possible clue!”
With mock gravity and circumstance he produced and
laid upon the table a small, flattened square of dried mud
with its edges turned up as though it had clung to some
heavy heel. One side had crumbled under the inadvertent
tread of Mrs. Punderford, and the mud or clay itself was
of a peculiar blackish shade with here and there a glint as
of sand.
For a moment no one spoke and Rex was on the point
of thrusting it contemptuously aside in disapproval of Phil's
flippant attempt at a jest, when with a strange, inarticulate
murmur Lucian reached forward and seized the lump of
clay.
All eyes turned to him as he produced a magnifying glass
and studied the object with a strained, tense expression.
The next instant he had leaped to his feet.
“‘Three bright spots!’” he repeated. “‘Three bright
spots! Gad, if it could be!”
“What on earth—!” Phil began, but the expression on
the other's face halted him.
“Gentlemen,” Lucian spoke with ill-concealed excitement,
“I will take this case!”


IN NEW ROLES 103
doped thief's mutterings mean anything to you and what
they mean?”
“I can’t. If I am running this case I shall keep my own
counsel. This much I am going to tell you, though; if I
am on the right track there is more danger in it than any
of us has faced in all our lives, no matter what crises we
may have faced. It is the biggest thing that has ever been
pulled off in this country, without exception.” Lucian’s
face was very grave. “Don’t laugh, Phil ' If you had suc-
ceeded in looting the bank of England; if I had smuggled
the entire contents of the Louvre into this country safely,
or Cliff had passed a check for a billion it would be nothing
in comparison to this! We’ve taken on a colossal thing,
but we'll try to see it through. I understand you chaps are
to work under my direction?” -
“It was my suggestion.” Rex looked about at the ring
of eager faces. “Do you all agree?”
They gave unanimous and hearty assent, then Phil grew
swiftly downcast.
“But what is there left for me to do?” he demanded for-
lornly. “Biggest show since the world began according to
Luce and all I did was twiddle a combination l”
“Don’t worry. There may be more than one crib for you
to crack before this is over.” Lucian turned to the others.
“Henry, will Punderford do all right without your atten-
tion if you get that male nurse up there this afternoon?”
“Yes, for twenty-four hours anyway. I’ve left prescrip-
tions for Miss Hornbottle but nothing will do her any good
for weeks except absolute rest.”
“Then I want you to get back over town to that yeggman
of yours and guard him with your life! Don’t leave him


104 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
for an instant night or day until he regains consciousness
or you’re sure that he is hopelessly insane. Even in the
latter case we will place him in some retreat where he can
be constantly watched and studied, but if he becomes con-
scious get what you can from him, leave him under guard
and report here.”
“But the two uptown, Punderford especially?” Henry
demurred.
“We'll let you know if there is any change and one of
us will take your place for an hour with the yeggman,”
Luce promised.
“Then I'll get right on back to him now.” Henry rose
with what alacrity his girth permitted. “I’m going heeled,
too! Nobody is going to get to him before I find out what
put him to sleep!”
When the rotund little medical expert had taken his
departure Lucian turned to George.
“Did you ever see a superannuated, retired clergyman
going about selling religious books?” he demanded.
George's lean face wrinkled in a smile.
“‘Seen one?’” he chuckled. “Good Lord, Luce, I’ve
been one! It's a poor graft but I’ve worked it more than
once when I’ve had to get out of a state by an inconspicu-
ous route.”
“Very well. I want you to find out the address of that
firm for which Punderford first worked as a tea-taster—if
it is still in existence—get an assortment of autobiographies
of foreign missionaries and go there and try to sell one or
two. Incidentally find out all you can about Horace Pun-
derford. From there go to the next place where he worked
and so on until you come to the firm to which he sold out


IN NEW ROLES 105
when he retired. Get every possible detail, no matter how
irrelevant it may seem to you and then report here.”
“I shall go, brother.” George rose. “It is too late for
me to start upon my weary rounds to-day, but I shall betake
me to the publishers of religious literature and lay in my
stock; also to array myself in garments more fitting for a
seedy down-at-heel laborer in the vineyards. Till we meet
again, dear brethren”
He turned to go, but suddenly halted, and asked in an
utter change of tone.
“Phil, what is the name of the firm of importers for
which my old friend Horace tasted tea?”
“It's in the files.” Phil rose and pulled out one of the
sections from the case. “I didn’t think it worth while to
make a note of it. Let me see, Punderford—Pun—Oh,
here it is! Kotoba & Jennings, Bleecker Street.”
“By the way, George”—Lucian stopped the embryo ex-
clergyman as he turned again to the door—“did you get
the addresses of Mrs. Punderford's guests?”
“No, but Leacraft told me to look him up at his office
and said that he was in the phone book, and from the
glances which passed between Mrs. Fraser and him I think
he could tell you where the lady resides if he were prop-
erly approached. As to young Alan Goodhue, you will
probably find him wherever Miss Mildred is at any reason-
able hour.”
He stalked from the office and Phil looked after him with
envy.
“Some guys are lucky!” he sighed.
“We can’t wait for any round-about way of getting Mrs.
Fraser's address,” Lucian remarked and the drawl was


106 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
quite gone from his voice now. “Rex, do you think it
would arouse any wild and unfounded suspicions on Mrs.
Punderford's part if you telephoned to her and asked her
where Mrs. Fraser lives?”
“I think not.” Rex took up the receiver, called for the
number which he had noticed on the telephone in their
client's own boudoir when he and George had made their
own fruitless search of the house and then waited, his
eyes fixed in astonishment on his colleague. Leadership
and authority had wrought a miraculous change in the erst-
while lazy, slightly supercilious dilettant. Could this be
the fastidious, languid connoisseur, the cunning smuggler
—this brisk, clear-eyed, vigorous man who issued his or-
ders as though a definite plan had leaped full-grown into
his mind?
But a faint “hello” came over the wire and Rex's medita-
tions ceased.
“Mrs. Punderford? Mr. Powell speaking. Could you
tell me Mrs. Fraser's address? . . . Oh, no; Mr. Roper
merely wishes to see her on a trivial matter which they
discussed this morning. . . . Yes, this is a private wire
also. . . . Thank you. . , . No, nothing as yet. Good-by.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to Lucian.
“Number 034 West End Avenue,” he announced. “I
fancy you will find that it is one of those huge monstrosities
of apartment houses that have been springing up of late
years in that vicinity.”
“Then it may not be so easy, but—” Lucian swung about
in his chair. “Phil, in the old days when you were actively
engaged in your late profession and had marked out a
certain vault or safe for your next coup, didn't you look


IN NEW ROLES 107
over the lay of the land, study the people in the household
or bank or wherever it may have been situated—their ap-
pearance and habits and comings and goings?”
“You’ve said it, old top!” Phil grinned. “I took no
chances" of walking in on a little surprise party!”
“Exactly. Think you could go up to 034 West End Ave-
nue, shoot craps or match quarters with the elevator boy,
talk over the tenants and get a good description of Mrs.
Fraser, or better still get him to point her out to you?
There ought to be a taxi stand somewhere near; it would
be well to keep one constantly a few doors away, and trail
her whenever she goes out, wherever she goes at any hour.
Report back here once a day to Cliff if Rex or I shouldn’t
happen to be in the office at the hour when your own ob-
servations have led you to believe that she will remain at
home.”
“I don’t know what luck I'll have.” The cheerful grin
had faded and Phil squirmed uneasily in his chair. “I—
I’ve trailed many a skirt but not continuously or without
a little encouragement. What if she gets on to me, thinks
I am annoying her and hands me over to the bulls?”
“Did you think of that when you were safe-breaking?”
Lucian demanded, and the scorn in his cool, high-bred
tones cut like a whiplash. “Are you going to be the first
of us to welch? I told you there was danger in this case
for us all, but of course if you want to back out now-l”
“This ain’t in my line, and you know it!” Phil retorted,
his face flushed. “No pal could ever say I fell down on a
job yet, and I'll take a chance on this even if I can’t get
away with it. Gimme that address!”
“So I'm to be the merry little housekeeper, am I?” Cliff


108 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
asked when the panel had closed after Phil's indignant
exit.
“You have your own particular work cut out for you;
to find the blackmailer through those letters,” Lucian re-
minded him. “I don’t believe it will be difficult, for he or
she must be a rank amateur.”
“What makes you so sure'?” Cliff's eyebrows were raised
almost above the rims of his owl-like glasses.
“Because he was so moderate in his demands. If the
blackmail has anything to do with what I suspect he could
have demanded and received all that Punderford possessed
inside of a year.”
“You talk as if this thing whatever it is were worth a
king's ransom.”
“It is,” Lucian responded quietly.
“Then how could Punderford get it in the first place?
He's no multi-millionaire.” His question ignored, Cliff
shrugged, and gathering up his papers he strolled over td
the panel which led into his own private office and it closed
behind him.
When they were alone together Rex smiled and asked:
“Well, chief, what orders for me?”
“I don’t know whether you will like it or not, Rex,” Lu-
cian began. “Of course, you are really the chief here—”
“Not in this case,” Rex interrupted firmly. “We are
all working together to solve it. What do you want me
to do?”
“Go after Leacraft; buy stock from him or find out
what clubs he belongs to and have some one put you up.
You are the only one of us who could do that, and he
hasn’t seen you. Get intimate with him, look up his finan-


IN NEW ROLES 109
cial rating, study his character, lend him money, anything
so that you can get a line on him.” Lucian paused. “You
see what I’m driving at, don’t you, old man?”
Rex nodded.
“Process of elimination. You haven’t a lead that points
to any one suspect so you are going to weed out the irre-
proachables. I'll be one of Leacraft's best little playmates
in a week if he is the genial good-fellow sort. But there is
Alan Goodhue and Scaynes, to say nothing of the servants
if this is an inside job or aided from the inside.”
“That is the devil of it!” Lucian groaned. “If I could
only plant some one right in the household, some one who
could stay there night and day and whose presence would
never be questioned! I tell you this organization of ours
isn’t complete, Rex. There is one element needed in it that
I’ll wager you never thought of—a woman!”
Rex lifted his eyebrows.
“What do you call our esteemed guardian bf the outer
office?” he inquired.
“That frivolous, gum-chewing, slangy infant?” Lucian
cried disgustedly.
“All of that,” responded Rex with the utmost gravity.
“She is right on the job, though, as you may have observed
this morning, and the only human being I ever saw who
could do three things at once and keep her wits about her.
She questioned Miss Punderford, sized her up, ticked off
her personal description to us in here, took my instruc-
tions over the phone and carried them out to the letter,
playing two distinct parts at the same time. I put her out
there thinking that she might prove a valuable adjunct to
us some day. You'll admit that she is cool and shrewd, a


110 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
quick and accurate observer, and I'll testify that mothing
can feaze her. What more do you want?”
“But she is so young, and—and inexpressibly vulgar!
That sounds caddish, I know, but how could she possibly
be placed in the Punderford household?”
“Well, it might be possible to persuade Mrs. Punderford
to send her personal maid back to the Long "Island house
and take on a new one for a few days,” Rex suggested.
“By Jove, it might work, at that!” Lucian seemed to
be yielding almost against his will. “But can we absolutely
rely on her discretion? Just how much does she know
about us anyway?” -
“My dear boy, Ethel Jepson's career, short as it has been,
has taught her caution and an astonishing creed of cyni-
cism; the parents of discretion,” Rex replied to the first
question and added: “She thinks we are the most brilliant
and unscrupulous aggregation of crooks the world has ever
known, and admires us accordingly. She believes that we
are going to perpetrate something new and startling in the
annals of robbery; she hasn’t the slightest idea of our real
occupation and would have the utmost contempt for us if
she learned the truth. She is tickled to death just to sit in
the outer office there and act as decoy; if she thought that
she could really help us, that we were actually letting her
in on the game her happiness would be as boundless as her
loyalty.”
“But don’t forget that one frightful feminine attribute:
curiosity!” Lucian shuddered.
“I don’t; I'm banking on it!” retorted Rex. “Every
woman is a detective in embryo. She is too much in awe


IN NEW ROLES 111
of us to question our methods or motive, but if there is
anything to be learned in that Punderford household she
will find it out in less than a week.”
“Well,” Lucian gave in with a shrug, “have it your way,
Rex; there is no one else whom we can use in the case so
we will be compelled to give her a trial, anyway.”
Rex touched a button beneath his desk slide and in an-
other moment the panel opened and Ethel Jepson, her
small rounded jaw for once motionless, stuck her golden
head inquiringly in the aperture.
“Come in, Ethel.” Rex moved a chair forward invit-
ingly. “I want to ask you something. The work here
has been slow until this morning, but do you like it?”
“Like it? Believe you me!” she responded with a ner-
vous little pat at the fluffy yellow hair which fuzzed out
over each ear. Then she added in a suddenly dejected
tone: “Didn’t I do it right this morning, Mr. Powell?
That society kid was so rattled that she almost got me
going, and I didn’t get half a chance to give her the once-
over—”
“You managed it splendidly!” Rex interrupted her in
hearty reassurance. “So well, in fact, that Mr. Baynes and
I were wondering if you would like to leave the office for
a few days and help us out in a more important way.”
“O-oh! I'll say I would !” Her blue eyes opened wide.
“I—I haven’t had much experience in any line except my
own but I learn quick and I’ll do anything, no matter what,
if you will only give me a chance!”
She looked pleadingly from one to the other of them and
Rex remarked in an undertone:


112 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“You observe that our young friend does not say she
will try’ but that she will do.’ That is one of the qualities
to which I referred.”
Lucian modded.
“Do you know anything about the duties of a lady's
maid?” he asked.
“Rah-ther!” Impishly she imitated his pronouncedly
English accent, then flashed him a quick deprecatory smile.
“Seen them in the movies; high heels and bows on their
aprons and flirting—”
“Not at all.” Lucian winced as he interrupted her.
“Flat heels, plain clothes and no flirting whatever! This is
real life, my dear child. I don’t suppose you can dress hair
and manicure, but at least you can—er—help ladies to dress
and—oh, well, that sort of thing.”
“I guess I can; I ain’t a cripple.” She grinned at his
obvious embarrassment. “As to hairdressing and manicur-
ing, I worked in a beauty parlor once. It was too slow for
me, nothing but a lot of fussy old dames, but I haven’t
forgotten what I learned. This is the latest thing in hair,
though you may not know it.” She patted her own sou-
brette coiffure complacently. “And look at those! Did 'em
myself!” -
Ethel held out her hands and in spite of the awful glit-
ter of the sharp-pointed, pink nails Lucian regarded with
approval the dimples which dented the soft knuckles.
“That is very fortunate. You will be able to pass mus-
ter, then. Of course, the young lady who was here this
morning will recognize you and her mother will know who
you are, but to the rest of the household you will be simply
a new maid.”


IN NEW ROLES 113
“You are going to send me to the Punderford house?”
The blue eyes were dancing now. “What am I to do
there?”
“Mrs. Punderford will believe that you are a sort of fe-
male detective,” Rex interposed hastily. “She thinks we
are detectives too, you see, and you will be one—for us! I
can’t tell you the game, Ethel, but if you will do your part
just as you are instructed, you will share with the rest of
us when we pull it off. All we want you to do is to keep
your eyes and ears open, study the members of the house-
hold and every one who comes there. Watch them, listen
to their conversation, cut in on the telephone messages, read
any letters you may find lying about; in short, get a line
on them generally as if you had known them all your life,
and then on your first free afternoon or evening come down
here and let us know what you think of them. You will
hear some queer things, for a burglary happened up there
last night and two of the family are very ill. They think
we are investigating it, you see, but in reality—”
He paused suggestively, and Ethel threw back her little
head and laughed joyously.
“I get you, Mr. Powell! Gee, it'll be great! To the old
lady and her daughter I'll be a dick, but to the servants and
the rest I’ll be the maid. I’ll keep my eyes and ears open
all right, but I’m going to take precious good care they
don’t catch me at it! When do I go?”
“To-morrow morning,” Lucian answered now. “Mr.
Powell has told you just what we want you to do, but you
will have to wear your hair very plain and get a suitable
outfit. Any of the smart Fifth Avenue shops will give you
the proper thing if you go to the maids’ department and


CHAPTER IX
HANDS IN DARKNESS
N a small, dingy room where the low, bluish flame hiss-
ing from the single gas jet served only to accentuate the
squalor and bring out weird shadows on the walls from
which the greasy paper was peeling, a young man lay mo-
tionless upon the narrow bed.
He was not a prepossessing young man. His cheeks
were thin and sallow and there were vicious, ugly lines
about his mouth and sunken closed eyes. Only his ster-
torous breathing betokened the fact that he still lived, and
the rotund, bald-headed individual who sat beside him shook
his head despondently.
The hot, humid air which came in at the single window
bore with it the accumulated odors of refuse heaps and
garbage which had basked for long beneath the summer
sun. It bore also the thin wailing of a sick baby upon the
fire escape just beyond the network of clothes’ lines, but
the monotonous cry was drowned by the uproar which rose
at intervals from below; the crash of glassware, a woman’s
coarse laughter, a man’s voice raised in raucous, drunken
song. Decidedly, Pink-Eye Mike was having a big night.
All at once the youth upon the bed stirred, and the older
man bent eagerly over him.
“Three bright spots,” he muttered. “Those hands!
115


HANDS IN DARKNESS 117
about with wild, bewildered eyes. When he caught sight
of the stranger he made a desperate leap from the bed,
but Henry with surprising quickness and strength seized
him and thrust him back upon his pillow.
“Don’t be a fool!” he admonished, his voice hoarse from
relief, for with all the terror and bewilderment there was
returning sanity in his patient's eyes. “Lie still till I get
you a cup of coffee. Smell it?”
“Lemme go!” The ungrateful recipient of his attentions
struggled violently. “Lemme go, — you!”
“Shut up!” Henry returned. “Do you want me to call
in a couple of the boys to hold you down?”
The struggle ceased and after a moment a whining voice
asked:
“Say, am I in stir again?”
“Stir, nothing! Listen to that!”—as renewed bursts of
revelry echoed from below. “Does that sound like jail to
you? You're in Pink-Eye Mike's, if you want to know.”
“Pink-Eye—? Gawd!” He went limp with relief and
Henry seized the opportunity to go to the washstand and
pour out a steaming cup of black coffee.
He brought it to the bedside and the younger man drank
eagerly.
“That's good. Say, who're you, and how the hell did I
get here?”
“Oh, I’m just one of the old crowd; I’ve been working
the Middle West lately. I brought you here. Pink-Eye's a
pal of mine from the old days,” Henry replied easily.
“Just take it easy now and I’ll give you some more coffee
in a little while.”
The boy looked older now: he must be at least twenty-


118 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
five or -six, Henry concluded. The lines in his face had
deepened with returning consciousness and his close-set
rat's eyes shifted suspiciously around the room.
“I can’t get it through my block,” he muttered at last.
“Where did I meet up with you, anyhow? I ain’t been on
no tear. What in hell’s it all mean?”
“You’ve been kind of sick, kid, that's all. Somebody got
to you and put you out but you're coming around all right
now.”
“Somebody—!” The other looked up at him with glow-
ering suspicion.
“That's right!” Henry said bitterly. “After I brought
you down here and got this room for you and have been
sitting here nursing you like a mother!”
“Then where'd you find me?” the “kid” demanded bellig-
erently. “Come clean; I been double-crossed somewhere.
Seems to me I was out on some lay uptown—”
“You were !” Henry's patience was exhausted and he
thought a shock might aid returning memory. “You were
lying on the library floor in a certain house out on the
Upper Drive this morning when I found you, and it's lucky
I did, for they were just going to call for the wagon and
have you carted off to the morgue!”
The younger man had listened and as Henry finished a
dawning look of such unutterable horror crept into his
eyes that the latter feared for the possible result of his ex-
periment. The sallow cheeks grew ashen and the lean, wiry
body beneath the dirty coverlet seemed to shrink and writhe
as though every muscle and nerve were crawling.
“Gawd!” he whispered huskily. “It’s comin' back to me!
Those three bright spots—!”


HANDS IN DARKNESS 119
“What three bright spots?” Henry demanded. “You’ve
been muttering about that all the afternoon!”
But the other seemed not to have heard. He was staring
straight before him and the horror had deepened in his
eyes.
“Three bright spots, there in the darkness, and then those
hands! Those hands like claws with the fingers crooked
comin' straight at me! Oh, Gawd! I'm goin' dippy! I'm
off my nut!”
“Not yet, but you will be if you go on like that.” Henry
took him by the shoulder and shook him gently. “Come out
of it, kid, and tell me what happened to you, as clear as you
can remember.”
“Who are you, anyway?” His eyes turned slowly to
the older man and the brooding horror lightened a trifle.
“What's your monniker?”
“What's yours?” Henry parried.
“I’m Dan Cronin. You been damn white to me an’ if
you’re a pal of Pink-Eye you’re all right. I’d like to tell
you but honest to Gawd, I don’t know what did happen to
me! I spotted the house I was after an’ climbed up the
balcony—”
“Were you working alone?” Henry interrupted him.
“Sure, I always work alone; that's where I got my mon-
niker, ‘Solo Dan.' I climbed up the balcony to the lib’ary
window—”
“How did you know it was the library?”
“Say, ain’t I tellin' you that I’d spotted my lay? I knew
what I was after; that crib in there.” His voice had
changed to a sing-song whine and he did not raise his shifty
eyes. “I’m tellin’ my own story! It was early, but I fig-


120 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
ured they was all in bed or away, maybe, except for the
caretaker, for the house was all dark and had been for half
an hour. The lib’ary window didn’t give me no trouble,
and I’d just stepped inside when all of a sudden, right over
where the crib stood near the fireplace I saw three little
bright spots. Not bright like a light, you understand, but
glowin' sort of cold. They was about as high as my shoul-
der and movin', comin’ toward me! Then they went out
like eyes that had been lookin’ at you an’ closed, but not
before I seen two hands shoot out at me this way!” He
spread his spatulate fingers, crooked them slightly and
thrust them savagely out before him.
“They didn’t touch me, but I felt as if fire had been
dashed in my face or vitriol or somethin'! There was a
flash in my eyes and they burned somethin fierce and then
—well, just nothin'. That was when I passed out.”
“Those spots—were they close together or spread out?”
“Close. Not in a row but all bunched together. Little,
they was; little an gleaming.—Say, mister”—the shrewd
rat-like eyes were regarding Henry with a quizzical inten-
sity—“I guess you are a pal of Pink-Eye Mike's all right
or you would never have got in here, an he wouldn’t let a
dick pull anything on me under his roof. He don’t have to,
he's got protection enough an’ besides he's white. All the
same I don’t get your number. What did you do all this
for me for?”
Henry laughed.
“Not to hand you over to the bulls, you can be sure of
that. I’ve done a stretch myself in Joliet but it was for
fraud—selling fake medicine.” He spoke in perfect truth.
“Now I’ve come into a bit of money and I’m getting old


HANDS IN DARKNESS 121
so I quit the game. I’ve always been interested in medical
stuff, though, and I happened to be at that house this morn-
ing when a supposed dead man was found on the library
floor. I examined you and saw that you weren’t any more
dead than I was, but suffering from the effects of a sort
of drug I had never run across before. I wouldn’t leave
one of my own fraternity in trouble, and besides I wanted
to study you and find out if I could what had put you to
sleep. I’m giving it to you straight. When Pink-Eye closes
we'll have him up and he'll tell you.”
“I guess I don’t need Pink-Eye, mister, to speak for you,”
Solo Dan said slowly. “I’d like nothin’ better than to know
myself what it was that hit me between the eyes, but I
can’t tell you nothin more about it than what I just did.
Somehow, I can’t get them three bright spots out of my
mind; I see 'em now when I shut my eyes, just burnin’ into
me! If the little flash that comes on steel when you turn
it in the light could show in the dark it’d be like them only
they was softer, an’ they give out a sort of misty light all
'round 'em. That misty glow seemed to stay for a minute
after they winked out an’ it was then that I saw them
hands.”
“Just the hands? No coat sleeve or lace or anything to
show whether they were a man's or a woman’s? No face
above them?”
“No. I just saw 'em for a second shootin’ out toward
me. Then I felt burnin' up and passed away. I tell you,
mister, I’d like to get hold of the guy who put that over on
me! I’d make him sweat for it!”
“Didn’t you notice anything else? Think now, Solo,”
Henry urged. “Did you smell anything?”


122 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Seems to me I did, but I can’t be sure of nothin’,” Solo
Dan responded meditatively. “Somethin like the joss
sticks down at Lal Moy’s, only different; not sickish and
sweet, but strong as raw ammonia. Get me? I ain’t good
at describin’ things, specially when I only got one whiff
before it put me out.”
“How near were those hands to you?”
“Well, the guy couldn’t have been more’n three or four
feet away, 'cause he almost touched me.”
“And you say that the moment before you fell uncon-
scious a light flashed before your eyes?” persisted Henry.
“Yes, but it might have been just the burnin’ pain that
made me see stars. When I first got a flash at them three
bright spots they was over across the room, remember,
and they moved toward me before they went out. If they
was anywhere around that guy with the hands, then he
must have been standin’ by the safe. Gawd, I wonder
could it have been a frame-up P”
He added the last almost involuntarily as the sudden sus-
picion surged through his mind and Henry asked quickly:
“On you? Solo, did any one know you were going to
crack that crib last night?”
Solo Dan's head had sunk a trifle deeper into his thin
pillow and his face was in shadow, but when he spoke his
voice had again taken on that whining note.
“How could they, mister? Ain't I tellin' you I work
alone? I—I got stewed the other night, though, with a
skirt, and I may have let out somethin'. She's sore on me
now, Maggie is, an’ she might have got some guy to put it
over on me.”
The explanation came haltingly and there was a signifi-


HANDS IN DARKNESS 123
cant lack of rancor in his tone against the lady. Henry
noted it but did not press the point.
“When you saw those bright spots and then the hands,
did you hear anything?”
“Not a sound; they just seemed to float toward me,”
Solo Dan replied quickly in evident relief at the change of
topic. “He was tall, whoever the guy was, a head taller'n
me, for his hands seemed to shoot down to my face.”
“Funny you and the other guy should have chosen the
same night to turn that trick, if it wasn’t a frame-up on
you, as you say.” The other had pulled himself up in bed
and Henry watched his face closely. “You sure were out
of luck. How did you happen to pick out last night, any-
way?”
The rat-eyes darted quickly at him and then away.
“No moon, an all the lights out.” Solo Dan spoke in a
sullen tone. “I’d been watchin’ my chance for nearly a
week—Say, mister, it's about time I asked a few questions.
Who found me? Why didn’t they send for the bulls? How
did you get me out of there?”
“The housemaid didn’t go into the library until nearly
ten o’clock to clean up and when she found you she let a
yell out of her that brought everybody in. I’d got there
early to catch the old man before he went down to his
office and try to interest him in a little patent medicine
scheme I’ve got on hand; straight stuff, not any more fake
for mine!” Henry explained glibly. “He thinks I’m a re-
tired physician, and he asked me to look you over and see
what had killed you. While they were all jawing about
the notoriety of calling in the police and getting their names
in the papers and maybe being called for the inquest I


124 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
offered to dispose of the body for them and they jumped
at it. I brought you down here in my own car, on the floor
under a rug.”
Solo Dan grinned appreciatively.
“You’re sure there with the brains, Doc. What do you
suppose that guy done to me anyway? He had nothin’ in
his hands, I could swear to that.”
The question proved unanswerable and after a second
cup of coffee Solo Dan dozed off once more. Quiet reigned
from below and even the wail of the sick baby out on the
fire escape had ceased. Henry pulled up another chair,
put his feet on it and presently his snores mingled with the
lighter breathing of his patient. Outside the door two men
sat grimly on guard.
On the midnight train which was nearing Philadelphia
en route to Washington Lucian Baynes was sleeping, too,
but lightly, and one hand which was thrust beneath the
pillow clutched a small revolver. All about him reverber-
ated the snores and sighs of slumbering humanity save from
the lower berth immediately opposite where a man in un-
dershirt, trousers and stockinged feet sat hunched in medi-
tation, his hands clasping his drawn-up knees. There
seemed an element of anticipation in his thoughts, however,
for now and then his gaze wandered toward the buttoned
curtains which concealed him from the aisle, and now and
then he cocked his ear as if he were listening.
All at once, above the rattle and roar of the train a
sound came to him, a muffled thud so light that it would
scarcely have been heard by one not waiting for it. In-


HANDS IN DARKNESS 125
stantly the man pressed the bell at the head of his berth,
waited, then pressed it again more insistently. No reply
coming to his summons, he opened the curtains, peered
quickly down either side of the deserted aisle with its row
of boots, then slipped out and darted with noiseless feet
to the end of the car.
The porter had slumped from his seat to the floor and
lay huddled in a heap. His dusky face had taken on a
grayish hue and the breath came stertorously from his thick
lips.
Waiting for no further evidence, the man darted back to
the berth opposite his own: the berth in which Lucian lay.
He listened cautiously for a moment then slowly unbut-
toned the curtains and drew them aside inch by inch. Lu-
cian slept on, undisturbed.
The other worked his hand with infinite care beneath
the pillow, touched the cold steel of the revolver and smiled,
but a frown of perplexity crossed his face when his fingers
as light as thistle-down had felt about the waist of the
sleeper and found no money-belt there.
He hesitated for a second, glancing again at the blank
curtains up and down the corridor, then swiftly but methodi-
cally went through the clothing hanging in the berth. His
frown deepened as his search proved of no avail, for the
pockets were empty. Not a banknote or coin, scrap of
paper or even a match rewarded his efforts. Leaning over
as far as he dared, he felt desperately about the woodwork,
along the narrow shelf and even under the mattress.
His lips moved in an inaudible curse as he straightened,
his clenched fist hovering impotently within an inch of the


126 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
sleeper's face, but instantly his self-control returned and
he buttoned the curtains, shrugging with an air of philo-
sophical resignation to defeat.
From far down the car came the lusty yell of a suddenly
awakened baby, and instantly the man dived between the
curtains of his own berth and they fell into place. For a
moment they swayed, then drew together and puckered
slightly as they were buttoned once more.
No further sound or movement disturbed the car after
the childish cries had ceased, but in his berth Lucian lay
wide awake, with a curious smile lifting his blond mustache
and crinkling the corners of his eyes. He had dared only
one quick glance at the face of the intruder and that had
been in shadow; he doubted if he would recognize the man
again, but it was a valuable asset to be warned at least of
the fact that already his adversaries were on his trail.
In the morning when he had partially dressed Lucian
turned to the bell at the head of his berth. He did not
press it, however; instead he unscrewed the round mahog-
any frame about it, drew forth a wad of paper which had
been twisted beneath and hastily screwed it in place again.
The paper was glossy and of surprising thinness, with
strange hieroglyphics scrawled upon it, and it was wrapped
around a single hundred-dollar bill.
At Washington he left the train, walked across the street
to a nearby hotel and breakfasted leisurely. Then he
strolled out to a taxi at the curb, gave rather lengthy in-
structions to the chauffeur and climbed inside.
A long and tortuous drive ensued. Three times he
changed taxis, and three times he chose long and arduous
routes, watching constantly through the little window at the
back for a possible trailer. At first he thought that another


HANDS IN DARKNESS 127
taxi clung rather persistently in his wake, and later a little
green sedan seemed to be following, but after his second
change no car of any sort turned more than a single corner
after him and he finally became convinced that he was free
from espionage.
He tapped on the glass, gave the chauffeur an address,
and when they drew up before a small but imposing house
he alighted, paid the bill and turned to survey the street.
An open taxi, empty, had halted across the way, its driver
bent solicitously over one of the front tires; delivery cars
chugged by and touring cars of more or less opulence, but
there was no sign of that which Lucian feared. He turned
and entered the house, the door of which opened as if by
magic before him.
Across the way, the chauffeur rose from his examination
of the tire, seated himself behind the wheel and drove
swiftly back to the station.
There he alighted, gave the taxi together with his cap
and coat into the hands of a bare-headed man who was evi-
dently awaiting their return, and hurried to the check stand,
where he redeemed a hat and coat of quite a different sort;
the hat and coat of the man who had occupied the berth
opposite Lucian’s on the sleeper.


TAXII 129
Shadowers and he wouldn’t welch, but he most assuredly
was out of luck.
A sign in the window of a shop caught his eye and he
stopped.
“Used Taxis. Perfect Repair. Lowest Prices in City.”
Behind the sign a taxi stood on exhibition. It was glisten-
ing with new paint, and its door stood invitingly open to
display the fresh upholstery of the interior. The price card
affixed made Phil gasp. Why, he had more than that in
his pocket for expenses right now!
Then his inspiration came. He had only to follow the
lady, in a taxi, if she drove out, afoot if she walked. Why
not on the driver's seat of his own taxi? Providing he
could obtain a license to stand at the corner nearest her
home the scheme was flawless. It would give him an ex-
cuse to remain there at any hour without question, and
when once he learned the identity of the lady, the rest
would be a cinch. Before the gentle art of safebreaking
had ever been suggested to his mind, Phil had been a racing
driver in the far-off days when the Vanderbilt Cup had
been run over the open Long Island roads, and his only
drawback in obtaining a chauffeur's license was the danger
of being recognized at the bureau even under a false name;
but there was less risk in that than in hanging aimlessly
about an apartment house under the eyes of a possible bull.
Phil gave one more look at the taxi on display, then turned
and entered the shop.
An hour later he alighted from a Broadway surface car
and strolled over to West End Avenue. Number 034 proved
as he had expected to be a towering apartment building of
gray stone, and cut deep over the impressive entrance was


130 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
the name: “The Fitzroy-Lennox.” Lucian's suggestion
would have been of no avail in any case, for a giant door-
man, resplendent in gold braid and white gloves, guarded
the entrance.
Phil sauntered past and on up the avenue racking his
brains for a means of identifying the subject of his future
espionage, but no method suggested itself and he strolled
back again. Rounding the corner upon which the Fitzroy-
Lennox stood, he started for Broadway once more. The
colored glass bottles in the window of a drug store on the
opposite corner of that thoroughfare caught the last rays
of the setting sun and dazzled his eyes. It had been a
blistering hot day and he had eaten nothing since break-
fast; the thought of an iced milk-shake came to him re-
freshingly and on an impulse he entered. A pretty maid,
-immaculate in her dainty uniform but plainly distressed
about something, stood at the prescription counter and at
her first words he halted, transfixed.
“But it should have been sent over an hour ago. Mrs.
Fraser has 'phoned twice. She has one of her nervous at-
tacks, and must have that medicine immediately! She told
me to wait here for it.”
“Sorry, but it won’t be ready for another half-hour.”
The clerk's perfunctory words were pitched in a lower key.
“We had to send out for one of the ingredients.”
“Goodness! I can’t wait that long! I'm afraid you had
better send it, after all. You know, the Fitzroy-Lennox,
apartment Five-A.”
The clerk nodded and she hurried past Phil with a wor-
ried frown which changed to a coquettish smile as he
sprang to open the door for her.


TAXII 131
He drank his milk-shake complacently. He wasn’t so
much out of luck as he had thought! At least he knew
the number of Mrs. Fraser's apartment, and if she were ill
there would be no chance of his seeing her that night.
Should no other means present itself of identifying her
he must fabricate some errand which would admit him to
her presence and trust to luck that she would not recognize
him later when he trailed her.
Well satisfied with what he had accomplished so far,
Phil found a neighboring garage, made arrangements for
the care of his taxi and returned to the offices of The
Shadowers, where he discovered Cliff alone, working over
the blackmailing letters.
“Hello! What luck?” the latter asked absentmindedly
and bent again above his magnifying glass.
“Standstill,” Phil responded. “Got the number of her
apartment but she is sick with a nervous attack, whatever
that is. Come on out and have dinner. I’m starved.”
“Good enough,” Cliff responded, straightening with a
sigh. “This isn’t as easy as I thought it would be. Where
shall we go?”
Phil named a chop house within a few blocks of Times
Square and they locked the office and departed, talking in
lowered tones of the mystery to the solving of which they
had all committed themselves. -
So engrossed were they that in crossing Sixth Avenue
oblivious to the traffic rules they were almost run down
by an open taxi headed east, and when it had passed them
by the narrowest margin they stood still and stared at each
other.
“Did you see him?” Phil gasped as the warning hoot of


132 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
another car sent them plunging for the curb. “Did you see
old Rex in a soup-and-fish, lounging back in that taxi as if
he had his monogram on the door? Heading for Fifth
Avenue, too! Wonder what's in the wind?”
Cliff shrugged.
“Luce has probably sent him to see some of the Punder-
fords’ crowd,” he responded shrewdly. “Come on, Phil.
I’ve got to get back to the office and finish with the rest
of those letters Mrs. Punderford gave me before they lock
up.”
Bright and early the next morning Phil emerged from
the subway station and walked briskly over to West End
Avenue. A man in livery was hosing the sidewalk in front
of the Fitzroy-Lennox and whistling cheerily. He had a
merry, round Irish face and as Phil loitered watching him
he playfully sprinkled two venturesome sparrows who had
paused in their bickering to drink from a puddle, and
laughed aloud at their indignation.
Phil had arrayed himself that morning in an old suit in
preparation for going over the taxi which he had purchased,
and now he crossed the street and hailed the other man.
“Nice cool job you’ve got for a hot day.”
“”Tis that now,” the other responded. “But I’m in
charge of the refrigerating plant, and it's hotter than hell
down in that sub-cellar—Thank ye.”
He accepted the cigarette which Phil tendered, looking
him over frankly with bland, unsuspicious eyes, and Phil
decided on a chance shot.
“Say, do you know any of the girls that work for the
people in your apartments?” he asked.


TAXI. 133
“I might.” The man rubbed his chin and spoke with a
measure of caution in his tones.
“I’m in a nice jam,” Phil continued confidentially. “I
thought maybe you could help me out. I’ve got a girl who
works in Five-A; she is the housemaid and the cutest little
trick you ever laid eyes on.”
“I’ve seen her and she is all of that!” The Irishman
grinned.
“Well, I promised to take her to the movies last night
but my time is not my own; I'm a chauffeur. I told her
if I got a theater call I’d drive up here first on the side
street and honk three times so she'd know I couldn’t get
away, and she was to wave at the window to show me she
understood. I came and honked all right, but nobody waved
although I watched the whole side of the building.”
“And on which street were ye honkin’?” demanded the
other.
“Why, on this, of course. I don’t know where Five-A
is—”
“”Tis plain to be seen ye don't!” his companion inter-
rupted him. “Five-A is the corner apartment on the fifth
floor on the next street. Didn’t ye know that the Fitzroy-
Lennox reaches the len’th of the whole block?”
“No.” Phil hid his elation behind a crestfallen counte-
nance. “I hope she don’t think I cut the date or I'll have
some explaining to do.”
“I don’t believe she has any too easy a job of it.” The
Irishman resumed his hosing. “That Fraser party's for-
ever kickin’ to the management about this or that. Them
red-headed ones is always the divils for temper.”


134 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“She won't be there long if I can help it.” Phil grinned
significantly. “I’ll get the right windows next time, thanks
to you.”
“’Twas nothin’.” The other waggled a cordial farewell
with the nozzle of the hose which almost drenched Phil.
“I’m not lookin' up at windeys, bein’ a married man, but
I’ve sympathy for them that do!”
His cheery whistle sounded again as Phil moved off but
the latter scarcely heard it. Fifth floor corner on the north-
ern end of the building and she had red hair. It ought to
be a cinch if she came to the window !
He carefully skirted the block and came back to the
Fitzroy-Lennox on the other side, relieved to see that the
pavement there was wet and glistening. It was as well that
his late acquaintance had finished his labors and he would
not have to invent an excuse for an immediate second en-
COunter.
He crossed to the opposite side of the street and contem-
plated the windows of Five-A. They were still shrouded
in drawn blinds but it was only a little after eight o'clock.
Phil glanced somewhat uneasily about him. The street was
a residential one and the row of private houses on the side
on which he stood were without exception boarded up for
the summer, affording him no vantage point from which to
watch. If he lurked in an area-way and a bull caught him
it would go hard with him, he knew, and he dared not
loiter.
He could only walk briskly around the next block and
up and down the avenue, trusting to the luck which had
not failed him yet that the red-headed lady would come to
one of her windows while he was passing.
*


TAXI? 135
For three interminable hours Phil promenaded the neigh-
borhood, footsore and perspiring as the heat increased with
the approach of noon. Once he met the policeman on his
beat face to face and passed him briskly with his heart in
his mouth, but the “bull” was young and green and evi- .
dently new to the force, and gave him a casual glance
which bore no recognition.
Phil breathed freely once more, but he was heartily sick
of the task to which he had assigned himself. He would
make one final lap around that block and then if Mrs.
Fraser did not show herself he would go back to the office and
wait for Rex to come in and give him further instructions.
As he approached the Fitzroy-Lennox again he saw with
a sudden start that the shades of apartment Five-A had
been raised and thin, dainty curtains were swaying in the
breeze from the open windows. Forgetting his caution, he
loitered, staring up at them. Once he caught a glimpse of
the pretty maid he had encountered in the drug store on
the previous day, and once a buxom cook leaned out for a
breath of air, but the minutes lengthened into half an hour
and no one else appeared.
Phil concluded that the mistress of the establishment
must be still sick, and he was on the point of giving up his
vigil when just as he was turning away the curtains of the
fourth window from the corner parted and a woman's head
and shoulders appeared in the aperture. Phil did not need
to note the richness of her peignoir to decide that his sub-
ject was revealed to him at last, for her tumbled hair was a
mass of glowing red when the sun touched it and for the
brief moment before she withdrew he studied her features
carefully with his sharp eyes.


136 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
At length the curtains drew together once more and Phil
turned and made for the subway. He must brave the license
bureau, obtain his taxi, and take up his stand as soon as
possible.
In the meantime, a speedy roadster was making its way
along the Upper Drive with Cliff at the wheel and an ex-
ceedingly blonde young woman beside him.
“You won’t have any trouble, Ethel,” Cliff was assuring
her. “You will only have to pretend to serve Mrs. Pun-
derford and her daughter, for they are the only ladies in
the household except the aunt, Miss Hornbottle, and she
is ill in bed. Of course, they know who you are, so you
will only have to pretend before the servants and this guest
Scaynes.”
“I’m not going to have any trouble, Mr. Nichols,” re-
sponded Ethel serenely. “I got pinched once lifting a two-
hundred-buck real lace collar—what they call an exhibition
piece—and got left off on my own recognizance because I
buffaloed 'em with my baby stare. I’m not bragging, I’m
just telling you. I'll be the nifty little maid all right and
keep my place with the servants, too.”
“I believe you will,” Cliff remarked in unfeigned admira-
tion. “The girl up here doesn’t matter so much or the
young chap who comes to call on her. It's the old lady
principally whom we want to get a line on, and Scaynes
and the butler.”
“The butler?” she echoed.
“Yes. We’ve got a sneaking suspicion that he is on to
us, but not the other two. Do you know anything about
spiritualism?”
“Not much, but what I do know I want to forget in a


TAXI? 137
hurry!” Ethel shivered. “I went once with a girl who
shared the flat with me last year; she was one of the swell-
est leather lifters you ever saw and used to work the sub-
way. The woman who ran the meeting threw a fit and be-
gan seeing things and talking right out about 'em, and when
she got around the circle to Sadie, she told her somebody
from the other world wanted to warn her that she was
going to get in terrible trouble over a bag that was all shiny
and yellow; I didn’t wait to hear any more because I was
next; I went away from there. Sure enough, Sadie got
pinched the very next month for lifting a gold bag off a fat
old dame and went up for three years. I don’t want any
nosey old spooks telling me what's coming; I'm willing to
wait and find out for myself.—Are these Punderfords that
kind of nuts?”
“Mrs. Punderford is, I believe. You must be careful to
believe in it, too, if she mentions it to you,” Cliff warned.
“It’s the third house from here and I’m going to let you
out now. See, the place with the high iron fence?”
“All right. I'm to go to the front door and tell the butler
I’m the new lady's maid; have I got that straight? Good-
by.”
She stepped out of the car, took her suit-case in one hand
and held the other out to Cliff.
“Good-by.” He shook hands gravely. “Good luck to
you, Ethel, and take care of yourself.”
To Mickens, when he opened the door in response to a
timid ring, there appeared a vision of loveliness which
caused his sedate middle-aged heart to flutter beneath its
rolls of adipose tissue. It was not the modest little black
hat but the glorious golden hair drawn back in severe bands


138 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
~ *
beneath it and the soft, appealing blue eyes, rosebud mouth
and white, rounded throat rising from the folds of the plain
white waist which made him forget alike the visitor's sim-
ple attire and the notice he had received of the new maid's
coming.
He bowed in his best manner, and threw the door wide,
reaching for her suit-case.
“Does Mrs. Horace Punderford live here?” Ethel’s tone
was that of one equal to another, yet it held an unmistak-
able element of reserve. “She sent for me. I am the new
lady's maid.”
“Er—quite so.” Mickens' outstretched hand fell quickly
to his side. He was plainly taken aback but he strove to
assume the air of patronizing dignity which would impress
her with his own importance. “Come this way and I will
let Madam know that you have arrived.”
He led her up the broad staircase to a small sitting-room
on the second floor and closed the door, shutting her in.
The absolute silence of the house was borne in upon her
as minute followed dragging minute and no one came. In
spite of her avowed assurance Ethel began to feel a sink-
ing sensation somewhere in the region of her breast; not for
herself but in fear lest after all she should fail the men
who had trusted her, and most of all, the one who had taken
her from the sordid, petty round of shoplifting and opened
up this new and enchanting underworld of stirring adven-
ture and tremendous risk.
He believed that she could perform the task which had
been given her; he had trusted her, and although she was
still slightly hazy as to just what sort of information she
was supposed to gather, she determined with all her might


'TAXII 139
that she would get a line on the people in this gloomy, silent
house if she stayed forever.
At last footsteps sounded on the bare floor of the hall
and the door opened slowly, revealing a tall, dignified look-
ing woman with an austere face and graying hair.
She entered, closed the door softly and came forward with
outstretched hand.
“You are—?” she hesitated.
“Ethel Jepson, your new maid.” Ethel smiled pleasantly
but still with that air of conscious reserve. “Mr. Powell
sent me.”
“Yes, I—I understand. You know why you are here, of
course, Miss Jepson? What you have to do?”
“I have my instructions,” Ethel answered primly. “You
need not have the least uneasiness on account of my pres-
ence, Mrs. Punderford. No one but yourself and your
daughter will ever know me as any one but your maid.”
“Thank you. Mr. Powell assured me that I could place
absolute confidence in your discretion.” Mrs. Punderford
rang the bell. “Mickens will show you to your room, and
you are to have the freedom of the house.”
The butler appeared, received his instructions and Ethel
meekly picked up her suit-case and followed in his wake.
Once safely out of the range of Mrs. Punderford's vision,
however, she smiled grimly.
Why hadn’t she remembered the name? Had she been
of an analytical turn of mind Ethel might have wondered
what subconscious memory had linked it with the event of
a year ago, when she told the story to Clifford Nichols not
ten minutes before, but there was no room in her superficial
brain for mere idle speculation.


140 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
She had seen Mrs. Punderford before—in court, when
she sat beside Sadie during her trial. For it was Mrs. Pun-
derford whose gold bag her friend had lifted, Mrs. Pun-
derford who had sent the girl up for three long years; and
Mrs. Punderford should pay!


CHAPTER XI *
THE SUMMONS
LIFFORD’S shrewd guess as to Rex's errand when he
had been observed going toward Fifth Avenue in the
taxi on the previous evening had not been an erroneous one,
but he as well as the other members of The Shadowers would
have been mightily surprised could they have followed their
leader's movements during the subsequent hours.
The taxi took him straight to one of the most aristocratic
bachelor apartment houses in that section of the East Six-
ties which was immediately adjacent to the Avenue, where
he descended, paid his fare and, strolling languidly into the
lobby, gave to the clerk at the desk a name which none of
his associates in the underworld had ever heard and asked
to see Mr. Gideon Ormsby.
The response was immediate, and as Rex stepped from
the elevator he faced the opened door of an apartment
where a smiling Japanese servant awaited him.
“Hello, Matzu,” he observed.
Matzu drew in his breath in a sharp little hiss of welcom-
ing delight.
“Good evening, sare! Honorable Mr. Pinckney does not
forget!” He bowed. “Mr. Ormsby he say come right into
bathroom.”
Rex followed down the hall and through the living-room
141


142 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
to the bath where in the doorway a huge figure clad in a
riotously colored robe precipitated itself upon him.
“Rannie, you old scoundrel, where have you been keeping
yourself these last four years?”
“Trotting about all over the globe.” Rex clapped his
friend heartily on the shoulder and then extricated himself
from the bear-like embrace. “You look the same as ever,
Gid. How’s the market?”
“Rotten, thanks,” retorted the other cheerfully. “I’m
just managing to stagger along, but I have lots of company.
More than one of us was hard hit in that merger last
month. But where did you drop from?”
“Literally, the clouds,” Rex laughed. “Friend of mine
was making a trial flight in from Chicago and I came with
him as I had some little matters to attend to before I am
off again for the other side. I thought of you, Gid, and
wondered if you had the evening free.”
“It will be as soon as Matzu can get to the telephone.”
Gideon Ormsby raised his voice to a bellow. “Hey, Matzu!
Call up Mr. Leacraft and tell him I can’t join him this
evening. See him at lunch to-morrow—”
“Wait a minute.” Rex gave a sudden start. Could it
be that chance was playing so fortuitously into his hands?
“You don’t mean a broker named Stephen Leacraft, do
you?”
“That's the chap.” Gideon stared. “Know him?”
“No, but I’d like to. I’ve heard a lot about him.” Rex
appeared to hesitate and then added as though impulsively,
“I say, old man, if your engagement with him to-night isn’t
anything of an especial or private nature—?”
He paused deliberately and Gideon rose to the bait,


THE SUMMONS 143
“It isn’t. We were just going to find a cool roof-garden
somewhere and have a quiet bite together. Likeable chap,
Leacraft; if you’d care to, we'll take him along with us.
You hadn’t anything definite in mind, had you?”
“No. Your program sounds good to me.” Rex's tone
was just the correct blend of interest and listlessness. “This
Leacraft is rather a daring speculator, isn’t he? Was he
caught in that merger too, last month?”
“He sure was ! Had all he could do to get out from
under, I hear.” Gideon climbed laboriously into his dinner
clothes. “He’s daring enough, but he doesn’t always use
good judgment. There are rumors that he is in rather a
hole now selling short on a false lead from the Corcoran
crowd, but you never can tell with a fellow like Leacraft;
he's always going up like the proverbial sky-rocket and
coming down like the stick. We'll pick him up at the Sand-
ringham; been there lately?”
“Not in years.” Rex's tone was absent and musing.
The Sandringham! The club at which, following immem-
orable custom, he had been put up at birth and which he had
long ago relinquished, together with all the other appurte-
nances of the life which was his by right of inheritance, to
follow the dark trail of unlawful adventure and risk. How
many there would recognize him? There might be several
who remembered the Randolph Pinckney of other days, but
suppose one among them should see in Gideon Ormsby's
guest the Rex Powell of the immediate past and should cry
out his name?
However, the weather was still scorchingly hot and it
being Monday night most of the members had prolonged
their week-end sojourns in the country. Rex succeeded in


144 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
passing even the ancient doorman without recognition, and
in another moment found himself being presented to a tall,
well-built man of approximately forty, with prematurely
graying hair and a frank, affable manner.
Rex studied him covertly as they taxied to the roof-gar-
den and later as over their cigars and coffee they watched
the indefatigable dancers on the cleared space under the
soft glow of colored lights. Leacraft had talked con-
versantly and well on a number of varied topics in the brisk,
slangy, hearty way of the modern business man, yet there
seemed beneath his sangfroid to lurk a certain undercurrent
of anxiety warily concealed. It might have been the lights
which cast strange grayish shadows upon his candid, smooth-
shaven face, but to his vis-à-vis it appeared that now and
then an expression of mental anguish crossed it and was
gone in a flash of quick repression.
“These lights are ghastly.” Rex ventured on a bold shot.
“Reminds one of a séance or spiritualistic meeting, doesn’t
it? Ever attend one, Gid?”
His query was addressed to his host but he was acutely
aware of the uncontrollable start with which Stephen Lea-
craft turned toward him.
“Good Lord, no!” Gideon was placidly unconscious of
the sudden tension in the air. “I’m glad enough to let
sleeping dogs lie. You don’t mean to say that you go in
for that sort of rot, do you?”
“Now and then, purely as a bystander. Of course, I
don’t take any stock in it myself, but I’ve met some rather
interesting people who do, or at least they seem to; the
leaders, I mean, those whom they call mediums.”
“All poppycock! It's just a graft and a mighty cheap one


146 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Especially if you don’t know which division of the next
world they come from, eh, Leacraft?” laughed Gideon.
“We’ve played a couple in our time that seemed to have
come straight from the devil himself, haven’t we?”
Leacraft's hearty laughter rang out in accord and Rex
wondered if there were not a note of relief in it at the
change of topic.
“Right you are!” he responded, adding: “Heard you
got nicked rather badly in that merger last month,
Ormsby.”
“There were others,” Gideon retorted succinctly. “By
the way, they say that Corcoran crew are letting down
their friends on a false lead. You’ve been selling short for
the last few days, haven’t you?”
“I have,” admitted Leacraft in perfect good humor, “and
if you want to climb upon the band wagon, you old pessi-
mist, now's your time to make a clean-up.”
He spoke with the utmost ease and assurance and yet
to the watchful eyes of Rex it seemed that again for just
an instant that harassed shadow crossed his face.
The conversation turned more or less on matters of
finance until the little party of three broke up, but Rex was
satisfied. He had accomplished his purpose; Leacraft had
accepted an invitation to lunch with him on the following
day, and in turn had extended the courtesies of his office
at any time.
For the greater part of the following day Clifford Nichols,
to his deep disgust, found himself in sole possession of
the offices of The Shadowers. Absorbing as was his task
of tracing the writer of the blackmailing letters he would
have welcomed even the garrulous Phil's presence or that


THE SUMMONS 147
of the pert, gum-chewing Miss Jepson, but no one came in
to report and the very difficulties of his task began to get
upon his nerves. He had proved to his own satisfaction
that from among the batch of social correspondence with
which Mrs. Punderford had provided him not one specimen
bore enough likeness to the disguised, anonymous hand to
warrant suspicion; and from that premise he had turned to
an exhaustive study of the chirography of the blackmailer
in connection with the books provided for his use by Rex,
when late in the evening that gentleman himself appeared.
“Any news?” Cliff looked up eagerly.
“None, except that I have struck up a promising ac-
quaintance with Stephen Leacraft, one of the guests at the
Punderfords', for the séance, you know. Have any of the
others reported?”
“Not since yesterday, when Phil came in and said he
had located Mrs. Fraser’s apartment but she was ill, so
matters were at a standstill with him. We went out to
dinner together and saw you in all your glad rags chasing
toward the Avenue in a taxi; you did not observe us hum-
ble folk.”
Rex laughed.
“I was too busy planning my campaign to have eyes for
passing pedestrians. Did Ethel get up to the Punderfords’
this morning all right?”
Cliff nodded.
“Took her there myself. I really do think that if there
is anything to be found out up there she will turn the trick;
she's as smart as a steel trap. As for me—” he shrugged.
“I’ve made no progress beyond a purely negative one. No
one who wrote those letters which Mrs. Punderford gave


148 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
me yesterday wrote the blackmailing ones, too. I must
say, though, that these books the fool experts have written
are a great help! By certain characteristics they inform
me infallibly that the letters were written by a man of a
stolid, unimaginative disposition and by other equally in-
fallible signs I am assured that the writer was a woman
of extreme nervous sensibilities. Instead of taking the
bull by the horns as in the old days I find that I am now
twisting its tail and I am not at all sure what the result
Will be.”
“Stick to it, Cliff; I’m not afraid that you will fail. It
is just a case of inverse ratio, and when once you get study-
ing backward instead of forward— But whom have we
here? My very good and reverend sir, you can sell us no
books to-day!”
George Roper, in the seediest of clerical black and with
a bundle of somber looking volumes under his arm had
slunk in with an inimical, hangdog, apologetic air, but now
his manner changed abruptly.
Slamming the books down on the table, he reached into
his pocket and producing six one-dollar bills he smoothed
them out with pride.
“I don’t know what you, my brethren, have accomplished,
but I at least have not been idle. Behold the fruits of my
labors! Three books sold ! The experiences of two most
eminent missionaries among the benighted heathen and the
biography of the third written by his widow after he had
proved manna in the wilderness for a bunch of wandering
and hungry natives. And I suppose my profit has to go
back into the expense account!”
“George, you old rascal, Luce didn’t send you out to sell


THE SUMMONS 149
books!” Rex chuckled. “Did you learn anything definite
about Horace Punderford?”
“About my old friend Horace? Several things about
him and also on him. But where is Luce, by the way?”
Rex's face sobered.
“I don’t know when he'll be back. Henry hasn’t shown
up to-day, either. I only hope his patient hasn’t died upon
his hands.”
“But Henry wasn’t to report, don’t you remember?”
Cliff intervened. “Luce told him to stay on the job with
the yegg until old Horace recovered consciousness. Mrs.
Punderford telephoned three times to-day and there had
been no change in his condition.—Here's Luce now!”
They all turned with relief as the panel slid aside once
more and the familiar, slight, dapper figure appeared. His
blond mustache lifted in a smile, but there was a light in
his keen, cold blue eyes which hinted at adventure of a
sterner sort than the others had known.
“What luck?” he asked laconically as he advanced to
the table, stripping off the gray gloves which even the heat
of midsummer could not persuade him to go without.
“None, I'm afraid,” Rex answered for the rest. “Henry,
Ethel Jepson and Phil haven’t been heard from; Cliff and
I have nothing definite to report and George has sold three
books.”
“That is not all,” George reminded him reproachfully.
“I’ve made a start, Luce, and although I haven’t found
anything yet in Horace Punderford's past which bears any
connection with what happened on Sunday evening, I learned
quite by chance of one significant episode in that estimable
and upright citizen’s career which may be illuminating.


150 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
He was dismissed from Kotoba & Jennings for a series of
petty thefts.”
“‘Thefts?’” Lucian repeated with a quick glance at Rex.
“Come, this is interesting! He wasn’t prosecuted?”
“No. I found that the old firm of Kotoba & Jennings
still exists, although both of the original members are dead
and the establishment has joined the march of progress
and moved to Fifth Avenue. The old name is still used
and the firm is represented now by Jennings' two sons,
with no Japanese affiliations. Judging by the resplendent
footman before the door they are doing a flourishing busi-
ness among what is vulgarly known as the carriage trade,
and they have augmented their imports to include rugs and
carved ivories and that sort of thing. One whole window
is given up to an ugly gray vase with three unspeakable
white cats cavorting about on it. If that is art—!”
“Oh, my sainted aunt!” murmured Lucian. “It is art
indeed, my pagan friend! Your ugly' gray vase is worth
exactly eighteen thousand dollars! Genuine Ming! I tried
to—er—intercept it en route but was unsuccessful.—But
we digress; this does not bring us to Horace and his pilfer-
ing.”
“It did me,” George retorted. “I stood looking at it so
long and pondering on the waste of space, with Fifth Ave-
nue worth a million a square inch, that an elderly clerk
came to the door to see if I were a plutocrat in disguise.
He got me in one nearsighted look and was turning away
but I followed him in, and tried to sell him ‘The Heathen
and God.” I didn’t put it over but the shop was practically
empty and I got him into conversation; I’ve worked it with
far more difficult subjects in my time. I found he had a


152 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
to have been the ruling spirit in Punderford's life, and
yet he retired at a comparatively early age and in perfect
health. That is curious, isn’t it?”
“The warning seems to have thrown a scare into him,
for all that,” George resumed. “He didn’t try it at the
next place he got, which was with—”
He paused and the others stood for a moment as if elec-
trified, for the telephone on the table was ringing shrilly.
Rex motioned to Lucian who took up the receiver, listened
intently and then replying with a monosyllable put it down
and turned to the rest.
“Horace Punderford is conscious at last,” he said.
At that exact moment Henry Corliss, his round face
unusually stern, was standing over a refractory patient clad
in virulent lavender pajamas who sat sullenly on the edge
of the bed in the upper room at Pink-Eye Mike's.
“You gimme my clothes an’ lemme beat it out o' here,
doc!” Solo Dan whined. “It don’t matter a damn what
that feller laid me out with so long as I'm all right now
and I ain’t goin’ to stick around here an’ let you make a
monkey out o' me! You done me a good turn an I ain’t
goin’ to forget it, but I got a date! Honest t'Gawd, I
have!”
“You’re right on that,” responded Henry grimly. “Two
of them, in fact, and it rests with you which one you will
keep; with me or with the bulls.”
“You ain’t got anything on me—l”
“Haven't I? How about where I found you, and how?
The old man will press a charge against you in a minute
and you know what a third offense for housebreaking means.
Think it over.”


THE SUMMONS 153
“But I gotter get out, I tell you! Just for an hour, doc,
an’ I’ll come back—”
Henry laughed shortly.
“Can that!” he ordered. “You’ll go when I'm good and
ready to let you, and don’t get any fool motion in your head
about making a break for it, either. There are two husky
guys outside the door, one on the fire escape and one down
at the mouth of the alley, and besides that Pink-Eye is on
the level with me. You’d never make it in a thousand
years, Solo.”
“I must be worth a hell of a lot to you, doc,” Solo Dan
sneered.
“You are,” replied Henry. “Not only till I find out what
put you to sleep might before last, but until you come across
with who it was might have framed you; who you were
working with or for !”
“Ain’t I tellin' youse all last might and to-day that I
work alone? Nobody hired me to toin that trick; it was
my own idea, see? What are you buttin’ in on it for, any-
way? What's the game? If I didn’t know Pink-Eye I’d
think you was a dick for fair! I'll frame youse when I get
out o' here, see if I don't!”
The dire threat had scarcely issued from the much-abused
young man’s lips when cautious, heavy footsteps sounded
upon the creaking stairs outside and the husky voice of
Pink-Eye came through a crack in the door.
“Hey, doc! Dere's t’ree gents in a car down at de side
door what says dy're frien's o' yours. Dey says to tell yer
dat Horace is awake, an’ youse is to go wid two o’ dem,
whilst de other one is to come up here an’ take yer place.
Is dat on de level?”


154 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“It sure is, Mike!” Henry tried to keep the elation from
his voice. “Let that one come up and I'll tell him what
to do.”
The heavy steps descended to return after a moment
accompanied by lighter, swifter ones, and Henry turned
the key cautiously, then stepped back in amazement as Rex
Powell entered the room.
“You, Rex? Aren’t you going too?” he demanded.
“No. You and George and Luce are enough. You're
the doctor, remember; George is the old family friend and
Luce is a specialist you have brought along to help you
diagnose the case. I’ve a particular reason for not showing
up there at present any oftener than necessary. Is this our
young patient?”
He turned to the pajama-clad youth who had been eyeing
him in silent, shrewd interest.
“Yes. Allow me to introduce Solo Dan Cronin. Mr.
Cronin has almost entirely recovered from the results of
the drug administered to him, and like most convalescents
he resents further treatment, but it is absolutely necessary.
I’ll return as soon as I can and relieve you, but in the mean-
time, if he tries to make a break for it, you will know what
to do.”
Rex nodded grimly.
“Hurry along, Henry, the others are waiting for you.
If you should see Ethel and get a chance for a word with
her tell her to meet us when she can.”
With one last look at his sullen patient, Henry hastened
down the stairs, through the hall and back room, and out
to the waiting car.


CHAPTER XII
THE WATERFRONT SHACK
66VOU will be very gentle with him, and very brief,
doctor?” pleaded Mrs. Punderford, as she met them
in the hallway of her home, her tall figure losing nothing
of its dignity because of the dark, shapeless wrapper with
which it was clothed nor the wisps of graying hair which
strayed about her haggard face. “I sent for you at once,
of course, but I did not think it would be necessary for
these other gentlemen to see him. He is not in any con-
dition to be questioned now. Perhaps in the morning he
will be stronger—”
“It is absolutely necessary for Mr. Roper and Mr. Baynes
to accompany me, Mrs. Punderford,” Henry responded
with respectful firmness. “They can sit in different parts
of the room where they will not come within his line of
vision, but we three must see him absolutely alone.”
“Alone? Do you mean that I am not to be present?”
Her tones had risen sharply. “I shall never consent to that!
Never! My husband has only just aroused from his stu-
por; he is weak, he needs my care, the comfort of my
presence! I will not have him harassed, tortured by ques-
tions now !”
“Is that your real reason, madam?” Lucian had stepped
155


156 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
forward quietly. “You have assured us that nothing is
missing from the safe and that all that remains of the case
for us to handle is the discovery of the blackmailer. What
if I were to remind your husband of something else, some-
thing that was taken from the safe whether you were aware
of its presence there or not? Is it not rather for him to
decide than for you?”
White to the very lips, Mrs. Punderford drew back with
a gesture of defeat.
“I told you the truth,” she murmured. “Nothing has
been taken from the safe, nothing! He will tell you so
himself. You are over-zealous in the pursuit of your pro-
fession, Mr. Baynes, but I have placed the case in your
hands and it is too late to reconsider now, even if I would.
Only, please be very gentle with him!”
She led the way as noiselessly as a wraith up the stairs.
On the landing above they came upon a quiet little figure
still fully dressed even to the diminutive apron, and it
required more than a second glance from them to identify
the demure maid as Ethel Jepson.
Mrs. Punderford glanced at her in silent exasperation
but she coolly ignored the older woman and drew Lucian
aside.
“Look sharp that that loony old Billy Sunday doesn’t
butt in on you!” she warned. “He had a scrap with the
nurse because he wasn’t allowed to go in and pray over
Mr. Punderford. Hear him now in his own room jabber-
ing away!”
“You mean Scaynes?” Lucian whispered back, and even
as he did so a low, crooning sound with a weird, monotonous


THE WATERFRONT SHACK 157
cadence in its slow measures came from behind a closed
door halfway down the hall.
Ethel nodded.
“Fierce, ain’t it? I'll tell the world this is some bughouse
you put me in 1”
“Oh, Ethel,” Henry edged close to her, “Mr. Powell told
me to tell you to be sure to report as soon as you can get
away.”
“It’ll be some report!” promised that young lady darkly
as she stepped back that the others might follow to where
Mrs. Punderford waited in cold displeasure at the door of
the sick-room.
A night light was burning very low at the bed's head and
by its glow they discerned a short, plump figure drawn up
grotesquely beneath the sheets and became aware of a pair
of small, drug-dulled eyes which stared at them fixedly
from among the pillows.
In health Horace Punderford must have been a well-
preserved, well-groomed looking little man of the smug,
unctuous type; now his white side-whiskers straggled for-
lornly from the flabby, pendulous cheeks which had as-
sumed a pasty, gray hue and his portly body shrank limply
as if deflated into the soft expanse of the huge, canopied
bed.
From beside it a tall, ungainly figure arose and as Mrs.
Punderford closed the door softly but impressively behind
her and moved off down the hall, he addressed himself to
Henry, speaking quickly in low, guttural tones. Then he
too retired and the three Shadowers were alone with their
client.


158 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Who are you?” It was a hoarse whisper, little more
than a breath which issued from the parched lips, and the
dull eyes moved slowly, heavily from one face to another.
“What do you want of me?”
“I’m Doctor Corliss,” observed Henry, moving forward
in his best professional manner. “This is my colleague,
Doctor Baynes. You’ve been a very sick man, you know,
Mr. Punderford, but you are coming around nicely now,
nicely Nothing at all to worry about. Mrs. Punderford
called us in—”
“I remember now.” The words came slowly and the
plump fingers which had been picking at the silken coverlet
were all at once motionless. “You are The Shadowers.”
“We are, and at your complete service,” Henry responded
as he poured a few drops of dark liquid into a glass of
water and held it to his patient's lips. “Mrs. Punderford
told you of us?”
Punderford drank deeply and sighed with relief as his
flaccid head sank back among the pillows.
“Detectives?” His dull eyes seemed to burn.
“Not exactly.” It was Lucian who replied as he took
Henry's place and seated himself by the side of the bed.
“Call us rather adjuncts to yourself if you are in any dif-
ficulty; eyes for you, ears and brains and hands working
for you alone, but with closed lips. Is your mind quite
clear enough for you to understand me, Mr. Punderford?
We are absolutely discreet, we take nothing to the author-
ities, we work wholly in your interests. No matter what
your problem, you are safe in our hands.”
Punderford's eyes closed slowly, and a faint tinge of
color crept into his pasty, gray cheeks.


THE WATERFRONT SHACK 159
“You refer to the—the blackmail?” His breath came
gaspingly. “It has been—been hell, gentlemen, but I have
reason to believe that it has ceased.”
“I referred also to the robbery of your safe.” Lucian
bent closer to the form upon the bed, then glanced sig-
nificantly at George. The fingers which had commenced
once more to pluck at the coverlet were as suddenly
still.
“There was none. My—my wife assures me that noth-
ing is missing but the letters which—which she permitted
you to remove.”
“Mr. Punderford”—George seated himself on the other
side of the bed and Lucian moved his chair back into
shadow—“to-morrow when you are stronger I will bring
you an inventory of the present contents of the safe and
you shall check it off for yourself. It may be that your
wife is mistaken.”
The head with its flowing white whiskers moved impa-
tiently from side to side on the pillow.
“She could not be; she knows its contents as well as I
myself.” His voice was stronger and his fingers began
their restless picking once more. “Do not concern your-
selves with the safe, gentlemen. The attempt at robbery
failed.”
“Suppose you tell us as nearly as you remember the
events of last Sunday night? If you have reason to be-
lieve that nothing is missing and that the person who has
been systematically blackmailing you will cease his efforts
to extort more money from you, Mr. Punderford, there
is still a greater problem to be solved and one which is
fraught with more danger to yourself.” George paused


160 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
and added impressively, “We must discover who it is that
has been poisoning you.”
The effect was electrifying. Horace Punderford drew
himself up from his pillow and a steely glitter burst for an
instant through the drug-film over his eyes.
“Poison!” he croaked. “You are mad! Why should
any one wish to poison me? No one will profit from my
death except my wife and daughter! How—when have I
been poisoned?”
“You are suffering from the effects of poison now, Mr.
Punderford; one of the deadliest poisons known to medical
science,” Henry interposed gravely. “Tell us what you
remember of last Sunday night.”
“I know that I had been feeling queerly all day; my
head, I mean. It did not ache but felt congested and as if
—as if my brain were pressing against my skull.” The
feeble voice was gradually steadying under the influence of
the powerful medicine which Henry had given him in the
draught of water. “I laid my condition to the oppressive
heat which had continued all day, but with the cool of the
evening my head seemed to grow worse instead of better.
I said nothing of it for fear of worrying my wife, who was
disturbed enough over the serious trouble I have had lately
with my eyes.
“When the séance started the darkness was a relief to
me at first, and then as the minutes lengthened I seemed
to see strange shapes moving toward me in a rush and then
receding. Absurd, of course, when there was not a ray
of light in the room. I—I assure you, gentlemen, that I
actually feared that I was going mad! I could scarcely
control myself in that silence which was broken only by


THE WATERFRONT SHACK 161
the convulsive breathing of those in the circle. I don’t
remember it very clearly, it—it all seems now like a haze,
a nightmare!”
His trembling hands went up to his face, and Henry
poured some fresh water into a glass adding the drops from
his vial. As he passed George to administer it to his pa-
tient he whispered:
“Cut it short; I don’t dare give him another dose.”
Punderford drank eagerly as before and then raising
himself a little on his pillow he went on:
“I do remember, though, when that sound as of some-
thing soft but heavy falling came from the library. It
seemed to break something in me that had held me taut and
I sprang up and rushed in there. I saw the open safe, and
heard some one scream and then—then the walls seemed to
rush at me as those strange shapes had in the darkness!
I don’t know what I did, nor how I came to reach my room,
but I must have been conscious, for that frightful effect—
nightmare, if you choose to call it that, for I know no other
way to describe it—continued for days and days! Lots of
hideous unnameable creatures all about me, and the walls
—the walls—!”
“I know, Mr. Punderford. The symptoms are perfectly
familiar to me, and I shall not distress you further to-
night,” Henry interposed soothingly. “There is one thing
I must impress upon you, however; do not tell any one in
your household that there is a suspicion of your having
been poisoned. No—” as the aged man started up in bed
once more in wild alarm—“there is no thought in any of
our minds that a soul beneath your roof would be capable
of such a deed, and the intention was not to kill you, you


THE WATERFRONT SHACK 163
sponded Lucian gravely. “The man is our client and in
common decency he must be warned that his secret is no
longer his own.”
The nurse was recalled and after Henry had given him
copious instructions the three took their leave. They saw
no more of Ethel and the crooning chant from the theoso-
phist's room had ceased, but in the lower hall Mrs. Pun-
derford awaited them.
“My husband—he is—? He will recover?” She spoke
quietly but one quivering hand found its way to her throat.
“Absolutely, if you will not interfere with the instruc-
tions which I have just given to the nurse.” Henry spoke
with uncompromising sternness. “I know that it will be
difficult for you, but you must remember that your selfish
desire to appease your own anxiety by being with your
husband will positively endanger his life.”
“Doctor Corliss! I—I have never been spoken to in
this manner in my life!” She drew herself up indignantly,
but as he did not abate an iota of his severity of expres-
sion she added: “Do you mean that I may not even
See—?”
“I mean that your husband must remain in absolute seclu-
sion with his nurse; that not even you must cross the
threshold of his room until I have pronounced him out of
danger.” -
With this decisive order they took their departure and
made their way down town once more to Pink-Eye Mike's.
The drive was a comparatively silent one for Lucian at the
wheel of the car was not inclined to be communicative and
his reference to his Washington trip had given the others
food for thought.


164 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
When the Third Avenue saloon was reached Henry
asked:
“You’ll let me know the next time you go to interview
Punderford, won't you, Luce? There is something else I
want to ask you about his condition, something entirely
apart from this hashish business, and yet it may prove to
be the key to this whole matter.”
“Will he be in any condition to talk to-morrow morning?”
Lucian countered.
“I’m afraid not, after the scare you threw into him just
at the last. Better give him another twenty-four hours'
rest at least before you tackle him again. I think Hendrik
can be relied upon to look after him all right, and you
don’t anticipate another attempt to poison him, do you?”
Lucian shook his head.
“No. The object of that has been achieved. Neverthe-
less, I want one more conversation with him at the earliest
possible moment. I'll see that you are relieved here when
we go up there again.”
“You’ll see that I’m relieved before that, if you want to
know by what means our young friend upstairs here was
made to play dead!” Henry retorted. “I’m not sure, but
I think I have discovered the nature of the drug which was
used upon him and the method of its application, and if I
am right it is the most fiendish thing that has been perpe-
trated in the civilized world. I’ve sent for a specimen of
the drug I have in mind. It will be delivered at the office
and the minute it arrives I want to make some experiments
in my laboratory. You'll be sure to let me know?”
Lucian promised and Henry mounted the rickety stairs


THE WATERFRONT SHACK 165
to change places with Rex and take up once more his du-
ties as jailor.
To his unbounded amazement he found Solo Dan and
Rex seated side by side on the narrow bed talking appar-
ently in the most confidential and friendly manner imagin-
able.
At his entrance Rex looked up with a quizzical smile.
“Hello, Henry. Do you know, I don’t think we have
been treating our young friend here quite fairly. He is
obviously over the effects of the drug sufficiently to get
about alone, and he assures me that he has a most impor-
tant engagement which he must keep.”
“Yes; he gave me that stall, too!” Henry retorted dis-
gustedly.
Solo Dan scowled ferociously at his late benefactor and
then turned eagerly to his new ally.
“I don’t think it is a stall,” Rex remarked, blandly dis-
regarding his colleague's scorn. “He assures me that if
he is prevented from keeping this engagement he is likely
to get in bad again with the authorities and I am inclined
to believe him, and to take his word for it that he will re-
turn here of his own accord within an hour.”
“Rex, have you gone crazy?” Henry stared at him open-
mouthed. “You know what Luce said—”
“And Luce is below? Let us go down and talk to him
about it. Remember, my boy,” Rex turned to the lowering
youth, “don’t try the fire escape route. “I’ll do the best I
can for you.”
Seizing the reluctant Henry by the arm, he led him reso-
lutely out and down the stairs.


166 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“I don’t get you!” Henry groaned. “I don’t get you at
all! That kid has more than hinted, unconsciously of
course, that he had an accomplice in that job or was hired
to do it, and that the man, whoever he was, double-crossed
him by putting him out with that drug and leaving him to
face the music. We've got to keep him until we can make
him come across and tell us who it was.”
“Why not let him lead us to the man?” Rex asked quietly.
“Huh?”
“Why not turn him loose now and trail him? It is by
far the simplest way. I'll shadow him and you and Luce
and George can follow in the car to grab him again when
he reaches his destination, for, of course, he has no inten-
tion of returning to be shut up again at Pink-Eye Mike’s.
That is what is bothering him—his accomplice or employer.
He wants to find out if he has been double-crossed or not,
and if the other has the swag.”
“It listens mighty well, even if it is the old dick stuff,”
Henry agreed. “Let us go and see what Luce thinks of it.”
What Luce thought of it was evident from the fact that
after the briefest of colloquies beside the waiting car Henry
returned to the guarded room upstairs and presented to
Solo Dan the bundle containing his clothes.
In less than five minutes that worthy was slinking stealth-
ily down the stairs doubtful still of his good fortune and
fearing a new frame-up, yet when he shot the bolts and
slipped out of the side door of Pink-Eye Mike's no car
was visible and no human figure met his practiced scrutiny
of doorways and alleys in the fast graying dawn.
“For the luva Gawd, they meant it!” he muttered to him-
self. “They’re bughouse, the lot of them!”


THE WATERFRONT SHACK 167
Like a gaunt, gray cat he slunk through an alley, emerged
behind a shanty, climbed a heap of rusting old iron, dodged
behind a warehouse and through a short passageway be-
tween two houses to emerge upon the “avenoo” whose every
haunt to him was familiar. At this hour it was deserted
except for an occasional dray, and only the rattle and rum-
ble of the elevated road over his head disturbed the silence.
Once again he peered cautiously about him, then, finally
convinced that he was not being trailed, he struck off to the
south and eastward. Habit made him weave his way in a
zigzag course through the side streets, but his thoughts
were busied with the coming tryst. Here it was Tuesday
night—or rather, Wednesday morning. He was to have
been there at midnight, and it would go hardly with him to
arrive empty handed, let alone five hours late! Would his
story be believed or had it really been a frame-up, after
all?
He did not dream that behind him, now near, now blocks
away but always keeping him in sight, a silent, sure-footed
figure shadowed him relentlessly and still further back a
carefully muffled car, gray as the dawn itself, trailed in
their rear.
At length he reached a narrow, noisome street close to
the river, the dank odors of which mingled with those of
tanning hides, street refuse, garlic and stale malt. Close
to the water-front, a taxi was drawn up before a low
wooden shack, its cornice still gay with the tarnished gilt
of a brewery sign, and Solo Dan gave an audible sigh of
relief at the incongruous sight. He wasn’t too late after
all.
The taxi was empty of passenger and chauffeur alike,


168 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
but its wheels were significantly locked and Solo Dan
grinned slyly to himself as he pushed aside the battered
swinging doors and without a backward glance disappeared
inside.
Three minutes later Rex Powell cautiously crept up,
not to the swinging doors but to a chink in the blinds
through which a low light rivaled the dawn, and glued his
eyes to the aperture. The silent motor car glided halfway
down the block and stopped, its occupants alighting and
slowly approaching that stooped, watchful figure.
“Wonder what's going on in there?” George muttered
to Henry. “Something pretty lively, or Rex wouldn't—!”
He broke off in astonishment, for Rex had turned and
was speeding toward them on light, noiseless feet. When
he reached them they saw that his eyes glittered strangely,
and his usually impassive face was alive with an emotion
which they could not fathom.
“What is it?” Lucian asked quickly.
“Come!” Rex's voice sounded as though he were slowly
strangling. “Come, all of you, and see with whom Solo
Dan is keeping his appointment!”


CHAPTER XIII
PHIL HoWE's PASSENGER
N the early afternoon of the previous day any one who
chanced to pass the northern corner of the Fitzroy-
Lennox might have observed a resplendent taxi glistening
in new paint drawn up comfortably under the single shade
tree which grew upon the curb at the opposite side of West
End Avenue. Its flag denoted that it was engaged and the
trim chauffeur sat very straight behind the wheel, his eyes
fixed unwaveringly on the entrance of the ornate apartment
house across the way, yet the motor was dead, the meter
remained at zero and hour after hour passed while still
his fare made no appearance.
The inquiring policeman who came along was properly
snubbed by the production of a brand new license and an
order permitting independent taxi number 06439 to stand
at that particular corner until it disintegrated, if its owner
so willed. A stray dog came and investigated the rear lamp
and number, but a sleek cat upon a nearby stoop diverted
his attention, and a lone chauffeur chugging garage-ward
paused to pass the time of day. More than that was passed
when he learned that this strange upstart driver belonged
to no union, but Phil met his recriminations with such a
vigorous flood of underworld invective in retaliation that
he decided to continue on his way.
169


170 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
Thereafter peace and boredom reigned. The afternoon
was very hot and the warm, enervating breeze rustled the
dry leaves on the branches above him in a restful, soothing
way. In spite of his mission Phil began to nod over the
wheel and his thoughts were growing nebulous when all at
once a sound pierced his consciousness which aroused him
to instant alertness.
It was a whistle, mellow and dulcet but unmistakably
a command. Straightening he glanced across at the en-
trance of the Fitzroy-Lennox and observed the majestic
doorman in all the panoply of his gold braid and brass
buttons beckoning to him in a lofty, dignified manner.
Phil was in a quandary. Should he point to his flag and
shake his head, thereby losing a chance of gaining the fare
he sought? The odds were strongly against the possibility
that Mrs. Fraser, out of all the occupants of that vast
establishment, should be the one to require a car now. He
glanced up at her windows, but their dainty curtains were
closely drawn and blank. What should he do?
Another blast of the whistle, exasperated and not so
mellow, smote upon his ear and he darted another swift
look across to the entrance. A woman, slender and clad
in black stood beside the doorman; a veil was loosely draped
about her large, flat hat and as he watched a traitorous puff
of that warm, little breeze lifted it. Surely that was a
glint of red beneath!
With a speed and dexterity which would have done jus-
tice to the celebrated Hairpin Turn, Phil threw the wheel
over and brought the car up with a swirl before the en-
trance of the Fitzroy-Lennox.
“Look sharp, my man!” warned the doorman haughtily.


PHIL HOWE'S PASSENGER 173
stroll, but walked briskly as though with a definite purpose
in view. Could it be that this had been her ultimate destina-
tion? What if she had never intended to go down Fifth
Avenue at all, but from the first had made for this rendez-
vous?
Remembering Lucian's instructions, Phil stopped his mo-
tor and moved off cautiously in the direction which Mrs.
Fraser had taken, not without misgiving lest he bungle this
unaccustomed task and around some turning come unex-
pectedly face to face with his quarry and—in his own men-
tal phraseology—gum the game for fair.
After a hundred yards the path straightened and he saw
her far ahead of him, pausing irresolutely beside an empty
bench. This, then, must be the place of meeting; but why
should it have been arranged in such a clandestine manner
unless there were something wrong about the whole affair,
something which must be concealed from even the em-
ployees of the apartment house and her own servants? Mrs.
Fraser was no schoolgirl whose possible sentimental affairs
must be carried on sub rosa; she need account to no one for
her actions, and could receive any one in her home unless
—and the thought made his breath quicken—unless the
business upon which she was bound must be kept secret
for some sinister reason.
There was no shrubbery near behind which he might
conceal himself, but a wide-girthed old oak stood upon the
lawn not a dozen feet away and he stepped quickly to it
and peered around the trunk. Mrs. Fraser was walking
up and down now before the bench with hasty, impatient
steps, but glancing ever in the direction opposite to that
from which they had come. Ten minutes passed, twenty, a


176 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
you’ll let me give you a card, madam, in case you should
want a taxi in a hurry any time.”
He proffered one of those which he had had struck off
on the previous day in hopeful anticipation of just this con-
tingency, and Mrs. Fraser dropped it into her purse.
“I shall perhaps be able to use your car frequently.”
Her eyes had narrowed and she spoke absently as though
her thoughts were not upon her words. “Now drive me
back to the Fitzroy-Lennox, please.”
As he obeyed Phil chuckled to himself and his confi-
dence rose. This detective business was a snap, now that
he was on the inside looking out. Any boob could work it!
This dame with the red hair had fallen for his game right
off the reel, but—and with the thought his face sobered—
it had its disadvantages.
If she took it into her head to walk abroad and he had
to follow her afoot she would most certainly recognize
him, and the whole thing would be off. Still the chance
must be risked and at least he had succeeded so far beyond
his wildest hopes.
When Mrs. Fraser alighted and paid her fare she added
a generous tip far out of proportion to his charges.
“You drive carefully and well,” she observed. “I shall
need you quite soon again.”
Phil pocketed his money, murmured his thanks, and as
she entered the apartment house he turned and for appear-
ances' sake took up his stand once more under the tree on
the opposite side of the Avenue.
He was sure Lucian would approve of his progress and
even old Rex would not kick at his acting upon his own


PHIL HOWE'S PASSENGER 177
initiative in purchasing the car and assuming a new rôle
without orders if he could discover anything which might
help the case along. It certainly looked as if the dame
across the street had something on her mind and if it should
happen that she was connected—
“Taxi!”
A stout choleric old gentleman stood upon the stoop of a
house farther down the block waving imperiously with his
cane, and Phil's heart sank. It wasn’t likely that Mrs.
Fraser would leave the house again so soon after her re-
turn but he couldn’t be sure and Lucian’s orders had been
emphatic. Still, he could not afford to arouse suspicion in
the neighborhood as to the legitimacy of his station there,
and taking a chance he backed slowly down the edge of
the curb to where the old gentleman waited.
To his relief the trip was a short one, marred only by
the fact that he had forgotten to put his meter back to the
regular rates. He stopped at a lunchroom for a hasty bite
and then drove back at top speed to his stand. The win-
dows of Mrs. Fraser's apartment were brilliantly lighted
to his great relief and once he caught a glimpse of her
shadow as it moved across the filmy curtain.
He waited at his post until ten, and then satisfied that
his subject could safely be left without further espionage
until the following day he drove to the garage and put up
his car. He was anxious to get down to the offices of The
Shadowers and make his report, but the chauffeurs and
helpers hanging about the garage were disposed to be
friendly, and in order to establish his new character he
thought it wise to stop for a smoke and a chat with them.


178 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
It was fortunate that he did so, for scarcely twenty min-
utes after he had arrived the telephone rang and the man
who answered it called him.
“Some one for you, Fred.” It was the name he had
assumed, and Phil hastened to respond. Only to Mrs.
Fraser had he given that number and his heart beat quickly
at thought of further adventure.
The voice which came to him over the wire was that of
the pretty maid whom he had encountered in the drug store
on the previous day. Would he bring his taxi at once to
the Fitzroy-Lennox? The lady whom he had driven that
afternoon had been summoned to the home of a sick friend
and must reach there without loss of time.
He responded with alacrity and hanging up the receiver
got out his car once more. The night was warm but the
female figure which awaited him at the apartment house
entrance was heavily veiled and muffled in some dark,
filmy stuff which even in the bright rays from the door
lamps rendered her unrecognizable.
Phil identified his passenger of the afternoon, however,
by the voice in which she directed him to drive across
town to Madison Avenue and south until she told him to
stop.
Remembering the maid’s injunction as to the need of
haste, Phil drove off at high speed with a wary eye for the
lights which would betray the presence of a motor-cycle
policeman, but he had scarcely gone a half-dozen blocks
when Mrs. Fraser tapped upon the window.
“You need not drive so fast; I—I am not in such a hurry
as my maid led you to believe.”
Phil's spirits soared as he started off once more at a


180 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
to be anxiously studying his face in the half-light. At last
she said:
“I believe you. I wish to be taken to a strange part of
town and I may need your protection. For that I shall
pay extra whether you require it or not. Please drive over
to Third Avenue and down to Sixteenth Street; then east
to an old wooden shack on the waterfront.”
During that drive and the long wait of hours which en-
sued Phil wondered mightily, but his companion vouch-
safed no information. She barely spoke after requesting
him to enter the deserted, ramshackle building with her, but
produced an electric night lamp which she placed on the
sagging bar and then fell to pacing the floor much as she
had paced before the park bench that afternoon.
Phil did not know what to do with himself. The silence,
the low, steady gleam of the lamp, and that mute, restlessly
moving figure got upon his nerves. Confound the dame!
Why couldn’t she at least tell him what to expect!
He surreptitiously felt for his gun, pursed up his lips to
whistle, but repressed the impulse in time, wished fervently
and profanely that he might smoke, and ended by leaning
against the wall with folded arms, studiously staring at
nothing but waiting for a step outside and a movement of
the swinging door.
“Sit down.” Mrs. Fraser had halted in her interminable
walk as if suddenly aware once more of his presence, and
pointed to one of the rickety chairs which stood about in
all stages of dilapidation. “You may smoke if you like; it
is quite all right, I have not the least objection under the
circumstances and I may have to keep you here for hours.”
Hours! Good Lord, they had been there for hours al-


PHIL HOWE'S PASSENGER 181
ready! The darkness was lifting and there was a percep-
tible light in the east. It must be nearly morning! What
could have brought this woman from a swell apartment
house to the most notorious part of the slums and kept her
waiting here through the night?
The answer came at last. Came with a shock which
almost made Phil betray himself. A slinking, sidling tread
upon the broken sidewalk outside, the silent opening of
the swinging doors, and a man entered whom Mrs. Fraser
whirled upon in a cold, repressed fury.
“Well?” That was all she said, but there was an ele-
ment in her tone which made the newcomer cringe before
her like a whipped dog.
Phil had scarcely heard that pregnant monosyllable, how-
ever. His brain was whirling and his jaw dropped in utter
stupefaction. If that shabby, cringing, evil-faced creature
before him were not a ghost, it was the man who had lain
unconscious on the floor of the Punderford’s library !


THE CONFERENCE 183
“That she would take the subway and come here at once.
I believe from her tone that she has something of impor-
tance to tell us. Sure your bird is safely locked up in your
laboratory, Henry?”
“Sure thing, but I don’t believe after the reward you
promised him that you could drive him away from here
with a shot-gun, especially since he is assured of immunity
from the police.—Here's Phil now, thank God!”
A sigh of relief went around the table and the faces of
all of them brightened as the panel slipped aside and Phil
in his smart chauffeur's outfit smiled breezily in at them.
“Hello, you fellows! Meant to get here before but I
over-slept. I’ll tell the world I had some night of it last
night! Phew!”
“You have news for us?” Rex asked quietly, motioning
to a chair.
“News? Say, I’ve got the greatest—! But you're a
fine boob, Henry, to let your pet yegg get away from you!”
Phil turned to Henry in fine scorn. “I could have collared
him for you this morning as easy as shooting, only I had
the dame on my hands and Luce told me to stick.—Say,
what the hell is the joke?”
For a relieved chuckle had run around the table develop-
ing into a general roar of laughter.
Rex clapped the astonished young man on the back af-
fectionately.
“It’s all right, Phil, only you did look such a boob your-
self, standing there in that shack with your mouth open
and your eyes popping out when Solo Dan came to make
his explanations to the lady who had hired him to turn that
little trick up at the Punderford's l’”


184 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
Phil looked from one to the other in unmitigated disgust.
“You guys give me a pain!” he announced gloomily.
“Here I think I'm Sherlock, the boy wonder, and you beat
me to it! Where were you, for the love of Mike, when
that stunt was pulled off?”
They explained, and Phil listened thoughtfully.
“What happened to the yegg?” he asked when they had
concluded. “As soon as he showed up at the shack the
Fraser dame told me to go out and wait in the taxi for her
and I had to, because it was getting lighter every minute
and from where she stood she could see right into the
driver's seat. She came out in about twenty minutes with
her face as black as a thunder cloud and told me to drive
her straight back to the Fitzroy-Lennox, and when we
got there she gave me a ten dollar tip and told me to keep
my mouth shut, or words to that effect.”
“Oh, we surrounded the shack as soon as that taxi of
yours had turned the corner and closed in on Solo Dan.
He's in Henry's laboratory now, mad as a hatter because
your fair passenger didn’t keep her part of the bargain
with him. He was to have five hundred dollars if he suc-
ceeded in his undertaking and fifty if he failed, and Mrs.
Fraser held out on the fifty,” Rex explained. “He has told
us all he knows.”
“What is it?” Phil cried eagerly. “What was the dame
after from Punderford’s safe?”
“A brooch set solidly with pearls, in the shape of a
stork, with a pink beak.” It was Lucian who replied to
him. “The same brooch which Scaynes told George about
and which Mrs. Punderford declared, if you remember, was
a mere trifle that her husband had picked up in Germany


THE CONFERENCE 185
years ago and that her daughter had lost. What she wanted
it for Mrs. Fraser will doubtless explain when George
brings her here, as he will shortly.—But tell us how you
came to turn taxi driver and what luck put the lady into
your hands.”
“Luck! I like that! It was the cleverest bit of detec-
tive work that has been pulled off in this town in many a
day, if I do say it myself,” Phil retorted warmly. “I’m a
genius and I never knew it until yesterday!”
He described his adventures in detail and added with a
grin: -
“I’m a taxi to the good even if you fellows did crab the
fine little story I had all cooked up for you this morning!
What else have you been doing besides gum my game?”
They were in the midst of a general recital when there
came a light tapping on the panel and it slid aside, disclos-
ing a demure little figure with very yellow hair pushed up
decorously under a modest little black hat and eyes dancing
with mischievous elation.
“Good morning, everybody!”
They chorused a greeting and Rex himself made a place
for her at the table.
Ethel removed her hat without ceremony and ran her
fingers through her outraged fluff of hair.
“Believe you me, I'm glad to get out of that bughouse for
a while !” she exclaimed. “It’ll be better though now that
that old nut has gone.”
“Scaynes?” Lucian asked quickly.
She nodded.
“He got sore because he couldn’t get in to his twin soul
—that's what he called old Horace, can you beat it?—and


186 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
pray over him and cure him. He told Mrs. Punderford
that there were too many disturbing elements in the house,
but for her to send for him when peace had descended
again and he would return. He's dippy for fair! Just
wait till I tell you—”
“Then Mrs. Punderford knows where he has gone?”
Rex asked.
“And so do I.” Ethel nodded affirmatively. “I heard
him arranging over the 'phone to go and stay with some
friend of his that he calls “Swammy’ something, who lives
in that big studio building on Fifty-seventh Street. You
know, it's all full of artists and composers and people who
use all that bunk that Mr. Roper has in there.”
She indicated George's sanctum with a wave of her hand,
and that gentleman shuddered at her unconscious candor.
“Swami,” he repeated. “That must be the Swami Aba-
denarath. You, my brethren, may look him up when the
spirit moveth you. As for me, I knew him as Bill Saun-
ders out in Battle Creek fifteen years ago, and he'll re-
member my face because he doesn’t like it. He has reason
not to. But continue, my child.”
Ethel giggled.
“If he's a faker, you can bet that an "ated string bean
doesn’t know it!” she remarked. “He almost salaamed
into the telephone receiver!—He's terribly goodlookin',
though, that Scaynes man, isn’t he? He's got the grandest
come-hither voice, and when he puts his hand on you it
makes you feel all warm and tingly—”
“Did Scaynes—?” There was a new note in Rex's tones.
Ethel nodded.
“Sure. Put his hand on my forehead and blessed me


THE CONFERENCE 187
when he was leaving; I hope it wasn’t any Indian sign he
handed me, but I haven’t lifted a thing since—”
“I shouldn’t worry, if I were you,” Lucian interrupted
dryly. “Please tell us what happened up there since you
were installed yesterday morning.”
“Well, nothing much happened, but there were a lot of
queer things I noticed; little things that perhaps don’t
amount to much, but I’d better tell you, anyway.” Ethel
wriggled forward in her chair and rested her elbows com-
fortably on the table. “In the first place, did you ever see
so many telephones in any house in your life? Half of
them are not extensions from the central wire, either;
they’re direct connections, and the wires outside the house
run in different directions, too. There's a 'phone of one
sort or another in every room in the house. There isn't a
place in the neighborhood that has a high spiked iron fence
around it like that, and it can be electrified; it's supposed
to be every night, Mickens told me, as a precaution against
burglars. Did you notice the locks on the doors and the
catches on the windows?”
“My dear girl—!” Clifford began impatiently but Lucian
interposed.
“Let her alone. I think I understand. What about the
locks, Ethel?”
“That house would be safe in a raid!” Her tone was
awestruck. “You couldn’t get in unless you used the soup
and then your luck would have to be runnin’ strong. The
locks are a new heavy kind I never saw before, and the
window-catches, too. Every door has a bolt on both sides,
high up and hidden in some scroll-work so you can hardly
see it. You can take it from me, if a yegg did get in there


THE CONFERENCE 189
meant to watch that young Alan more closely but I had a-
a flirtation of my own on my hands, and you can’t very
well do two things at once.”
“A flirtation!” Phil cried reproachfully. “Ethel, don’t
tell me you are fickle!”
“With a nice old man named Mickens,” Ethel continued
imperturbably. “We were gettin’ on fine, considering the
short acquaintance. He told me all about the robbery and
what happened in the night—do you know,” she broke off
with maddening irrelevance, “when I was a kid at school
after the truant officers got hold of me, we had a little
story in the Second Reader about the teacher telling the
kids that if they caught each other lookin' up from their
books they must tell, and sure enough one little rat of a
snitcher told on the boy next him and the teacher said,
‘And where were your eyes when you saw him; were they
on your own book?' I always remembered that because I
thought the teacher was such a bum sport.”
“Ethel.” Rex's tone was as near exasperation as she had
ever heard it. “What on earth has that to do with what
happened at the Punderford's that night?”
“Everything,” she responded blandly. “I let Mickens
hold my hand last evening in the servants' dining-room and
he got real confidential. He said that after the house had
quieted down from the excitement over the robbery and
both Mr. Punderford and Miss Hornbottle had been taken
to their rooms and every one else had gone to bed, some-
body got up and crept down stairs and tried to open the
library door where the safe was, and when they couldn’t
they got down and looked through the keyhole. And who
do you think it was? A lady guest that was in the house


THE CONFERENCE I91.
clear. I passed that closed door at the head of the stairs
—you know?” She addressed Lucian, who nodded affirma-
tively. “Well, I thought I’d just see what was behind it
and I got the scare of my life! I opened it real softly,
and there facin’ me, sittin’ cross-legged on a cushion was
a man in a purple silk kind of a bathrobe thing, with more
purple silk wound around his head. His arms were crossed,
too, on his chest and he was staring right into my face and
yet he never seemed to see me at all! His lips were mov-
ing, but there wasn’t any sound coming from them and he
just squatted there like a graven image. Scared? I'll say I
was ! I backed out and shut that door just as quick as I
could and went away. I met the housemaid in the hall
and asked her what Exhibit A. was doin’ in there, and she
laughed and said that was Mr. Scaynes, a great friend of
the family, and that he held séances for them and brought
people back from the dead and got messages from them.
I asked if she had ever heard any of them and she said she
had listened once, and peeped in on one of their parties
and saw somethin like a white light floating around his
head in the dark. There was nothin’ to that, of course, she
was just scared, but it was gettin’ dark in the hall where we
were talkin', too, and I let her go on her way.”
Rex laughed.
“Did you see Scaynes again last night?”
“Yes, when he came out of his room to go down to
dinner. He was dressed like a regular guy then. He
stopped still and looked at me and I–I stopped too, I don’t
know why. It seemed as if his eyes sort of held me. They
were kind of dreamy and puzzled like he was just recog-
nizin’ me, and he said: ‘Where have we met before?” It


192 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that I didn’t know,
I hadn’t ever lifted anything in a gents’ furnishing store,
but instead I mumbled somethin’ about havin' butted into
his room a while back. He put his hand to his forehead
as if I’d given him a pain and said: ‘No, no. Centuries
ago! You were a handmaiden in the court of Nebuch—’
something. I’ve never been in court in my life!—Not as a
star performer, I mean, and as soon as I find out what a
handmaiden is, if I don’t like it I’m going to hunt up that
nut in the studio building he's gone to and let him know
where he gets off!”
Clifford coughed and even Rex stared very hard at the
opposite panel, but Lucian's face did not relax a line in
its earnestness.
“Was that all?” he asked.
“Yes. He went on down stairs shakin’ his head as if
he was still worrying about our past acquaintance and I
ducked into his room; I wanted to see what he took to get
that way.”
“What did you find?” Lucian bent forward eagerly.
“Well, besides his regular clothes, like any gentleman
would have, there were lots of those silk kimono things in
different colors like the purple one he'd had on when I first
saw him, and heaps and heaps of queer books. The print-
ing in them wasn’t in letters but in funny marks like a
Chinese laundry ticket, only different, and some of them
looked as if they had been done by hand. They weren’t
all on paper, either, but on some thin, dry, rattley stuff like
oil silk. I didn’t come across any lay-out, nor hypo, nor
snow, though, so I guess he must be just plain dippy.”
“Did you look everywhere?” Rex's tone showed a shade


THE CONFERENCE 193
of disappointment. “Not for drugs of that sort I mean,
but for anything strange or unusual that you might find?”
Ethel stared.
“I wasn’t exactly lookin’ for trouble,” she remarked. “I
didn’t know when he might come sneakin' up stairs again
so I just went through things in a general way. There
wasn't any bed in the room, just a pile of cushions in one
corner and no other furniture except a chest of drawers.
They were all unlocked except one and I opened that with
a hairpin. I might have saved myself the trouble, though;
there was nothing in it but some old odds and ends maybe
left by some lady guest that had visited the Punderfords
before he came.”
“What were they; do you remember?” Lucian picked
up a paper knife from the table and weighed it absently
between his fingers as he spoke.
“Oh, just an old jar of paste rouge and some knotted-up
cord and a pair of soiled gray silk gloves and a nail file
and a pair of nail scissors, both rusty. I shut the drawer
and left the room, for I’d seen everything that was there
and besides there was a funny smell like joss sticks that
made me feel sort of woozy. I went back in there this
morning after he'd gone and sure enough I found a lot
of half burned joss sticks in a jar in the bathroom; I'd
forgotten to look in there last night.” Ethel wrinkled her
small nose. “After dinner, though, when they were all
in the drawing-room I went down and peeked in and
listened to them talkin’—at least I listened to him, for he
was doing a regular monologue. Mrs. Punderford was
drinkin’ it all in, but Miss Mildred was yawning behind
her hand and young Alan—who'd come over again right


CHAPTER XV
FACE TO FACE
O the excited girl the minutes seemed to drag inter-
minably while they waited for George Roper's return
with Mrs. Fraser. Lucian and Rex were talking together
in lowered tones, Phil and Henry Corliss were comparing
notes as to some event of the previous night concerning a
shack by a river somewhere of which she knew nothing
and Clifford had wandered off to his own study. •
Ethel felt furtively in her pocket, produced a stick of
chewing gum and with this for a solace she leaned back in
her chair and tried to compose herself to patience. The
last twenty-four hours had been filled with excitement and
she had had very little sleep the night before. In spite of
her lively anticipation of the coming scene her lids began
to droop, her thoughts grew nebulous and in a few minutes
she was sound asleep.
When at length she opened her eyes it was with a start,
and for a moment she gazed wonderingly about her. Where
in the world was she? How had she gotten into this room?
It was utterly strange to her, yet more beautiful than any-
thing she had ever seen before. The walls were draped
with damask of a warm shade of old blue, and hung with
French prints of a type which to her worldly young eyes
did not need the explanatory verse beneath to convey their
196


FACE TO FACE 197
subjects. A luxurious chaise longue covered with the
same blue drapery and heaped with gorgeous cushions stood
near and there were more cushions everywhere, piled upon
the floor and overflowing from every chair. A blue scarf
embroidered in gold covered the table upon which stood a
low bowl of glorious deep-red roses, a few of which had
fallen and lay like blotches of warm, crimson blood upon
the delicately bound books which were scattered here and
there.
The room itself was bathed in a ruby glow from the floor
lamps with their crimson shades which, blending with the
cerulean draperies, produced the hue of some rare, exotic,
purplish orchid, and the very air was impregnated with
some tropical, cloying perfume, heady as new wine.
Ethel came gradually to herself as the details impressed
themselves upon her senses. She had heard about such
rooms as this, read about them in a certain kind of lurid
literature which she occasionally affected, but to find herself
actually in one—l What was she doing here, anyway?
Only a little while ago she had been in Rex Powell's office
—Rex Powell-l
Ethel sprang from her chair with a bound and nearly
swallowed her chewing gum but managed to retrieve it by
a convulsive gulp. She was about to voice her almost
overwhelming astonishment when she heard a low laugh
behind her and whirled about to find Rex himself regard-
ing her with amused eyes.
“Why—what—how did we get here?” she stammered.
“You are right where you were when you went to sleep,
my dear,” he reassured her smilingly. “This is still my
office but I have made some changes so that it may be more


198 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
attractive to the lady who will be here any moment now. I
will show you later how it is done. Do you like it?”
Ethel looked about once more and slowly shook her
head.
“It—it's very beautiful.” She strove for words to ex-
press her thought. “But isn’t there sort of too much about
everything? Too many cushions and roses and low lights
and too much perfume? It sort of makes you want the
sunshine and fresh air.”
“For you, perhaps.” Still impersonal, there was a gentler
note in Rex's voice. “But the lady we are expecting will
appreciate it, because I think it is somewhat in accord with
what she is accustomed to. But get your note book and
pencil, Ethel. I may want you to take some notes.”
Scarcely had she complied when a buzzer of warning
sounded from the outer door, and they heard it open and
George's diplomatically suave tones reached their ears.
“This way, please, Mrs. Fraser.”
The panel leading to Clifford's study slipped aside and
he appeared with Solo Dan in tow, just as the correspond-
ing panel which opened from the outer office disappeared
in its casing and Mrs. Fraser stepped daintily over the
low sill.
For a moment her eyes swept in amazed pleasure about
the voluptuously arranged room, then as if drawn by a
magnet they met the sullen, lowering ones of Solo Dan.
With a little cry of dismay she turned to escape, but the
tall, gaunt form of George Roper barred her way.
“What does this mean?” Her voice was low and vibrant
with passion. “Why have you brought me here, Mr. Roper ?
Who are these—gentlemen?”


FACE TO FACE 199
The pause before the last word was pregnant with studied
insult but Lucian rose with a smile.
“Come in, Mrs. Fraser, and sit down. We shall keep
you only as long as you yourself determine. My colleagues
and I would like a little information from you as to pre-
cisely what part you played in the Punderford affair last
Sunday night, and after you have given it to us we shall
not detain you.”
“The Punderford—!” Her big blue eyes had turned a
steely gray. “But this is infamous! Who are you and
by what right do you presume to question me?”
“You recognize our friend here, do you not?” Lucian
gestured toward Solo Dan, who drew his weazened frame
up and met her cold stare with a defiant one.
“Certainly not! I—I never saw him before!” Her tones
were shrill now with swiftly rising hysteria. “If you at-
tempt to keep me here I shall call for the police!”
“Do so, madam, and we shall hand you over to them as
accessory before the fact to an attempted robbery!”
“Robbery!” she shrieked, and her dilated gaze fell for
the first time on Phil. “You!—you, too! It was a trap,
then, a trap!”
She sank into the nearest chair and covered her face
with her hands, but in another moment they had fallen
to the arms of the chair and she faced them tearlessly, her
cheeks ghastly beneath the rouge.
“I shall not answer one question, speak one more word
until you tell me who and what you are.”
“We are private investigators in the employ of Mrs.
Horace Punderford.” The reply came tersely from Lu-
cian's lips.


200 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Private—!” Mrs. Fraser stared at him as though hypno-
tized. “And Luella Punderford suspects—!”
“She does not, Mrs. Fraser. No one outside this room
knows that you hired this man Cronin, known as Solo Dan,
to rob Mr. Punderford's safe of the pearl stork and at a
time when you knew that the house would be dark and
the family engrossed in a spiritualistic séance. No one
need know it if you are sensible and will give us the in-
formation we require.” *
“You mean—?” Felinely she moistened her lips with
the tip of her tongue. “You mean that you will say noth-
ing to Mrs. Punderford? That I shall not be socially
ruined?”
“Why should you be?” Lucian's tone had grown softly
persuasive. “Your vicarious attempt at burglary failed;
your henchman fell unconscious before he had an oppor-
tunity to approach the safe. I do not think you will make
such a desperate effort again, and it is not our intention
to prosecute if you will be perfectly frank with us. You
appear to be too sensible a person, Mrs. Fraser, to go to
such lengths for the mere possession of a bauble like the
stork brooch; what induced you to make an attempt fraught
with such risk to yourself and your good name?”
“Do you know anything about that brooch? Its value,
its history?” she asked nervously.
“Do you?” he countered.
“I only know that there is a certain man in town, a col-
lector, who will give forty thousand dollars for its posses-
sion and no questions asked.” She had cast dissimulation
to the winds and her tones rang out metallically hard. “I
shall not tell you his name, for he had nothing to do with


202 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
but he was just a Bowery saloon keeper and all the older
guys that hung around his place knew her when she was
a kid. When she wanted this trick turned she went to one
of them, and he put me next. I fell for it! Fell like a
damned sucker, and now she's welched !”
“That will do, Cronin. Cliff, take him out,” Lucian or—
dered peremptorily; then turning to Mrs. Fraser he added:
“Now will you tell us all that you really know about the
affair last Sunday night?”
“But I have told you already,” Mrs. Fraser protested.
“I do not know why Miss Hornbottle screamed and fainted
nor what caused Mr. Punderford's sudden seizure. It
seems incredible that any one should have been in the
library when the—the man I had hired entered. I had de-
cided upon that night because I knew Mr. Punderford's ex-
traordinary precautions against burglars, and I would be
there to unfasten the window for Cronin to enter. Just
before the séance Mrs. Punderford ordered Mickens to
close up the house and go to bed, and after he had gone
his rounds I slipped into the library and slid back the catch
on the window. Then I joined the others and the séance
commenced. You can imagine how I felt when I heard
that awful thud in the library there in the dark. I literally
did not have the courage even to glance in at the doorway,
but when Mr. Leacraft or some one cried out that the safe
had been rifled and no mention was made of any man dead
or alive being found in there, I naturally concluded that my
—my plan had been carried out.
“Still I could not understand why Mr. Punderford should
suddenly have gone stark mad, even over the loss of a


FACE TO FACE 203
forty-thousand-dollar brooch. He is a rich man, of course,
and jewels are his hobby. He had thought too much of
the brooch to sell it to my collector friend at any price, and
yet men do not lose their minds over such a thing. I was
nervous and unstrung and I felt, I don’t know why, that
something had gone wrong. I did not know that Mrs.
Punderford had locked the library door, and toward morn-
ing I could endure the suspense no longer.
“I put on soft slippers and a dark robe and crept down
the stairs and through the dining-room to the library. When
I tried the door and it wouldn’t open I was in despair; I
felt that I simply had to know whether Cronin had suc-
ceeded or not, and when I could not get in the room I
stooped down and tried to look through the keyhole, but
I could see nothing in the semi-darkness. The dawn had
not yet come.
“While I crouched there trying to pierce the gloom I
thought that I heard a noise behind me as if some one
were approaching stealthily. It was too much, after all I
had gone through that evening, and I turned and fled back
to my room.
“Mrs. Punderford had insisted upon all of us staying
there for the night, you know, but I felt that I could not
get away quick enough, so I invented that trip, and the
train that I had to make; I hadn’t really the slightest inten-
tion of leaving town, for naturally I expected to meet the
man Cronin and conclude my bargain with him, yet all
the time there was that anxiety in my mind that things had
not gone well. I could not forget that sound as of some
one falling there in the library.


204 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“I tried to convince myself that Cronin had merely stum-
bled over something in making good his escape, but the pre-
monition still clung to me.”
She paused and Lucian asked:
“Where were you to meet Cronin and when?”
“On Monday afternoon at the same spot in Central Park
to which this man of yours drove me yesterday.” She
cast a withering glance at Phil's complacent face. “I
walked there and waited hours, it seemed to me, and when
he did not come I returned to my home in a state bordering
on nervous collapse. I did not know whether anything had
really happened to him or whether he had broken faith
with me and meant to take apart the stork brooch and sell
the pearls for his own profit. I had made him solemnly
promise that he would take nothing from the safe except
the brooch, but the horrible thought came to me that he
might have stolen other and far more valuable things, and
I would have been instrumental in doing greater harm to
the Punderfords than I had ever intended! I—I’m not
really a bad woman, a criminall I was just simply desper-
ate for money!
“When I realized to the full what I might have been
guilty of in letting a thief into the home of people who had
entertained me, whose bread I had eaten, I was almost
mad! I could think of nothing but to reach Cronin in
some way and wring the truth from him, but I didn’t dare
go then to the place where I had met him first, that dread-
ful shack down by the river. Instead, I waited until the
next day—yesterday—and decided to go to the same place
in the Park, hoping that Cronin might come.
“I was so weak that I concluded to take a taxi in spite


FACE TO FACE 205
of the risk, and told the doorman at my apartment house
to get me one. Was he in league with you, too?”
She turned fiercely on Phil, who shook his head smil-
ingly.
“No, Mrs. Fraser. I managed the whole thing by my-
self; just bought a taxi and waited around for you to come
out. I knew when I juggled with the meter and reduced the
fare that you would be looking for me again.”
Mrs. Fraser glared.at him in unrestrained animosity and
contempt, but his pride in his achievement was impregnable,
and with a shrug of disdain she turned again to Lucian.
“You have finished with me, have you not? I have told
you all I know—”
“Not quite.” His tone was persuasive still, but there
was a ring of authority in it. “When Cronin failed for
the second time to meet you at the rendezvous what did
you do?”
“I was desperate. I dared not appeal to the man who
had arranged for the affair with Cronin for me because he
had warned me that he wanted nothing to do with the mat-
ter and would not be drawn into it. Cronin and I had
agreed that if anything should go wrong with the plans we
had made to meet in the Park I was to go to that shack on
the waterfront at midnight last night. You know how
easily I was duped into engaging the same taxi, and what
happened when I got there and Cronin finally appeared.
Naturally I could not without proof believe such an ex-
traordinary story as he told me, to account for his inability
to produce the brooch, and I thought that my worst fears
were realized.
“I went home and passed a sleepless night, and when Mr.


206 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
Roper called me up this morning and asked me to come
down here with him later and help to identify some of the
things which had been stolen from the safe, I was completely
deceived. I thought he was an old friend of Mr. Punder-
ford, you see.”
She rose wearily to her feet and turned her ghastly,
rouge-patched face from George to Lucian once more.
“You know everything now. What are you going to do
with me? Tell your client the truth and have every decent
door closed to me, or hand me over to the police?”
“You have absolutely no knowledge of the cause of Mr.
Punderford’s condition?” Lucian had risen when she did
and now he advanced until he could look straight into her
eyes. “You had no other accomplice than Cronin?”
“None! I swear it!” The hardened, steely look van-
ished from her eyes and they opened wide in unmistakably
candid surprise. Then a look of almost superstitious fear
clouded them. “Who could have been in that library with
Cronin?”
Her voice had sunk to a whisper, and Ethel, listening
with all her ears, shuddered in sympathy.
“That is what we mean to find out.” Lucian’s tone was
very grave. “As I assured you before, Mrs. Fraser, we
have no intention of betraying you to the Punderfords or
placing you in the hands of the authorities as long as your
plan was never consummated and you are willing to be
frank with us. One more question and we shall not detain
you any longer. Do you know the origin and true value
of the stork brooch P”
“No. I have no idea as to the origin of the brooch or
its history, but I do know a little about pearls, and if that


CHAPTER XVI
ALAN
HEN the contrite Mrs. Fraser had taken her de-
parture there was silence for a time. It was finally
broken by Rex.
“Well”—he turned to Lucian—“so much for that. One
possibility is removed in your process of elimination; that
is, if you believe the lady's story that she knows nothing
of the real state of affairs.”
“I do, absolutely.”
“Then I'm out of a job again!” Phil exclaimed ruefully.
“With a fine new taxi on my hands, at that!”
“We'll keep that taxi,” Rex observed thoughtfully. “Un-
der your registry name and number, too, Phil. It will be
useful in future cases if not again in this, and we should
have had one from the beginning. I wonder none of us
thought of it. Lucian, hadn't Ethel better be getting back
to her post?”
“Yes. You’ve done splendid work, Ethel. Run along
back to your job now and keep us informed of anything that
takes place.”
Ethel rose and pinned on her hat with alacrity.
“I’m on my way,” she announced and then hesitated. “Is
anybody allowed to make suggestions?”
208


210 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“What!” The exclamation came simultaneously from
Rex and Lucian.
“Do you remember what his daughter told us about his
having had trouble with his eyes for some weeks and that
the specialists were puzzled about it and thought they
would be forced to operate? I ascertained from Mrs. Pun-
derford that this trouble only manifested itself after they
had closed their town house and gone to their place on Long
Island for the summer.” Henry paused and then added:
“The motive should be obvious to you, of course. It was
to get the family back to town that the safe might be
accessible to the scoundrel who had planned the robbery.
If the main guy isn’t a member of the household he has a
confederate who is, you can bank on that.”
“But the poison 1’’ cried Rex.
“A combination of atropine and some drug with which I
am not familiar but which I suspect to be as rare and subtle
as the one that was used to put our friend Solo Dan out
of business, since it nullified the atropine as far as exam-
ination goes and has fooled the specialists. I do not know
how it was administered; it may have been injected into
his eyes while he slept.”
“Good heavens!” gasped Phil. “We must be up against
a regular fiend!”
“We are,” Lucian observed gravely. “I am beginning
to doubt if Ethel is safe up there. But let us get down
to business now. Rex, you haven’t made up your mind
about Leacraft yet, have you?”
“No, beyond the fact that he is practically on the verge
of ruin. I’ve studied him carefully, and although he is un-
doubtedly unscrupulous I don’t think he would go as far


ALAN 211
as this crime indicates, even if he possessed the knowledge
and the subtlety to carry it out. I have an appointment
with him for this afternoon when I believe I can definitely
settle the matter as to whether he is implicated or not.”
“Go ahead, then. If he is out of it I shall want your help
in another direction.—Phil, get your taxi and plant it be-
fore some private house in Fifty-seventh Street near that
studio building with the flag down, then hang around the
building and see what you can find out about the Swami
Abadenarath, and incidentally Scaynes.”
“Write it,” Phil demanded tersely. “Why didn’t he
pick out something easy—”
The panel leading to Cliff's study was slammed aside with
a violence that shook the partition and the fledgling hand-
writing expert burst in upon them waving a handful of
papers wildly over his head.
“Got it!” he cried triumphantly. “I’ll take back all I
said about those books you collected for me, Rex! They're
great! Every line and space and curve and slant, when I
got the hang of working the way you told me, point abso-
lutely to the truth!”
“Do you mean that you have discovered the author of
those anonymous blackmailing letters?” Lucian half rose
from his chair.
“Not yet, but I’ve got a line on him that narrows down
the investigation to one certain type and the rest ought to
be mere child's play. It's a man, all right, and he is be-
tween fifty and sixty years old; nearer sixty, I should say.
He is as avaricious as the devil, cunning and crafty and
shrewd, but a coward at heart. Patient, too; he'd wait years
to attain his end, and although he has a violent temper he


212 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
keeps it well under control. Ambitious, secretive—oh, I
could go on for an hour telling you the traits that are
shown here as plain as day, but the main points are that
money is his god, and—he has unmistakable heart disease.
You needn't laugh, it's manifested in every line!”
“We’re not laughing, Cliff,” Rex protested. “If you’re
sure of your ground, you have made an immense stride
toward discovering your man, eh, Luce?”
Before Lucian could reply the telephone on the table
rang insistently, and he picked up the receiver.
“Listen!” Ethel's voice sounded breathlessly in his ears.
“I don’t want anybody to know I am 'phoning, so I’ve got
to be quick! Is this Mr. Baynes?”
He replied in the affirmative and she went on hurriedly:
“I simply flew up here on the subway and I found that
Miss Hornbottle—the aunt, you know—is conscious, but
Mrs. Punderford hasn’t the least intention of letting you
know. Mr. Punderford has been asking for you, too. He
seems awfully anxious to see you, but when the nurse car-
ried his message to Mrs. Punderford she flatly refused to
send for you; said she was not going to have him disturbed
until he was stronger, that if she couldn’t see him no one
else should. Oh, can’t you come up right away? I know
you can get some dope, and that Alan kid is hanging around
again, acting as if he were going to have a fit any minute—!”
“We'll be there as soon as the car can bring us!” Lucian
assured her, and replacing the receiver he turned to the
others. “Rex, you and Phil have your work cut out for
you. George, I want you and Henry; we're going up to
the Punderfords at once. Cliff, you had better come along


ALAN 213
too; you can get some more specimens of handwriting from
Mrs. Punderford.”
On the brief, swift ride uptown he explained the situa-
tion to them, adding:
“Evidently Mrs. Punderford would rather let that which
was stolen go than have us investigate any further. I'll
wager right now that she would give anything in the world
if she could persuade us to withdraw from the case, but
she may sing a different tune when she learns how her hus-
band has been systematically poisoned. Poor devil! I
don’t wonder he is anxious to see us again! Cliff, I'll leave
it to your diplomacy to keep Mrs. Punderford from but-
ting in on us when we go to visit her husband; we'll see
Miss Hornbottle first.”
Mickens looked his astonishment when he admitted them
but quickly recovered himself and led the way to the draw-
ing-room, where Mrs. Punderford joined them almost im-
mediately.
“I did not expect you this morning, gentlemen.” Her
lips were set in a hard, straight line. “Is there anything I
can do for you? My husband, I believe, is still very ill,
and so is my sister.”
“Nevertheless, I should like to examine them both,”
Henry observed. “According to my diagnosis of Miss
Hornbottle's case, she should have regained consciousness
by now, and since she has not I must see what is wrong.
Not only my professional reputation but her very life may
be at stake.”
Mrs. Punderford bit her lips.
“Oh, she has regained consciousness,” she admitted re-


216 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
that in health the older woman dominated her and probably
the entire household as well. “You have been very ill, you
know. I had to call in a physician even though I knew
that you would be displeased.”
“Stuff and nonsense!” the other retorted in a weak but
irascible tone. “I have not been ill, and I need nothing
material. I was merely overcome last night by the mani-
festation of what I had been waiting for so long; as you
very well know, I only require privacy and freedom to
commune with the infinite, to adjust myself—”
“Ha-hem!” Henry cleared his throat and seating him-
self beside the bed he coolly took her wrist between his
fingers. “You think that you were overcome last night,
madam? You have been unconscious for three days, and
had I not attended you promptly you would have faced
months of prostration, in which you might have communed
with the infinite to your heart's content. Just now you are
going to take some very material medicine, and do every-
thing in your power to assist me in bringing you back to
health.”
Behind him, Mrs. Punderford gasped, and the woman on
the bed looked at him as though she could scarcely believe
her ears.
“Indeed! You are assuming a great deal, aren’t you,
doctor? Luella, I protest against this man’s presence, I
refuse his treatment and I am astounded that you—!”
The rest was lost as he unceremoniously thrust a ther-
mometer between her opened lips.
“Don’t talk, please. Your heart action is bad, and I
am afraid that you have a temperature. Don’t bite through
the glass; that's it, quiet now.” He spoke with the utmost


ALAN 217.
sangfroid, and mechanically her lips had closed, but her
keen old eyes glared at him the words she was unable to
utter. Henry glanced up at the preternaturally grave faces
of George and Lucian. “You see, it is as I told you: a
matter of psychological disturbance. Delirium and then
coma will ensue unless we can get at the root of the trouble.
If the patient will not be entirely frank with us and amen-
able to treatment I think it would be best to remove her
to the hospital for observation.”
He removed the thermometer with a flourish, and Miss
Hornbottle tried to rise up in her bed, but from sheer weak-
ness she fell back.
“Luella!” she gasped. “You heard what this insufferable
person said? I refuse to go to any hospital! I refuse!
‘Observation’ indeed! Does the idiot think that I am in-
sane? How dare you call in these—these veterinarians to
treat me!—Luella, I have not been unconscious for three
days, have I? I am not really ill?”
A quaver had come into her domineering tones at last,
and the final question held a note of unmistakable fear.
“Yes, Selina.” It was evident from Mrs. Punderford's
voice that she, too, had been impressed by Henry's words.
“The séance was on Sunday night, you know, and this is
Wednesday noon. I am afraid that you must—must be
guided by what the doctor decrees. He has assured me
that you are in a very serious condition.”
The three Shadowers were dumbfounded at this unex-
pected ally and George surreptitiously nudged Lucian once
more, but Henry placidly pursued his advantage.
“Ah! High temperature; I thought so.” He put the
thermometer back into its case and then leaned toward his


218 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
patient. “Now, madam, I want you to tell me just what
materialization manifested itself to you on Sunday night
at the séance. You need have no hesitation in speaking;
Mr. Roper, here, is an eminent psychologist and an ardent
believer in spiritualism. We can only help you if we have a
thorough knowledge of the cause of your present condi-
tion.”
Miss Hornbottle's eyes turned questioningly to George,
who smiled, and seating himself on the other side of the
bed bent toward her.
“Some one who has passed on manifested his or her
presence to you at the séance?” he asked softly. “It was
a man, I think. Was it not?”
Her keen eyes had dimmed but they were fastened on
his face as if hypnotized and she nodded dumbly.
“He passed on a long while ago, did he not? Many
years?” He was feeling his way with all the half-forgot-
ten skill of former days, reading from her unconscious ex-
pression that he was upon the right track. “His interest
in your welfare, though, has kept him on a lower plane,
but he has not been able to communicate with you before
last Sunday night. That is right, is it not?”
A faint flush had come into her withered cheeks and
she replied almost mechanically:
“Twenty-five years! Since I became convinced that
those who had passed on could actually communicate with
the living I have tried through every medium I could find
to reach him; and then on Sunday night, when Mr. Scaynes’
control had not come, there in the darkness I saw his face
before me!”
“Remarkable!” George's tone was deep and vibrant.


ALAN 219
“He had come to warn you of this impending illness, no
doubt, and he is still earth-bound because of his strong in-
terest in you. Ah, dear lady, you understand now why he
needed no control as intermediary! He would have come
to you long ago without the aid of any medium had you
been psychically in a sufficiently receptive condition! You
say his face appeared before you; how close was it? Did
it manifest itself gradually and then fade away or did it
come suddenly From what direction?”
“Quite suddenly, and it did not seem to come from any
direction. It just appeared, as if it were floating on the
air! We had been sitting in the darkness and silence for
almost half an hour, I should say, and nothing had occurred,
when all at once I looked up and there he was, looking
steadily at me. He had not changed at all since he passed
on; there on my dressing-table is a picture of him, the last
one taken a month before—before—” Her voice quavered
into silence for a moment but she steadied it and went on:
“He looked exactly as he does in that picture and his face
was just a few feet away from me on a level with my own.
It appeared faintly luminous; that was why I was able to
recognize him so unmistakably in the darkness. It stayed
only a moment, then disappeared as suddenly as it had
come, and I knew nothing more until I awakened this
morning.”
“He did not intend to startle you, I am sure, but to warn
you of this illness and to bid you accept what material aid
is given to you. Doctor Corliss, I am of the opinion that
the atmosphere of a hospital would not be conducive to
your patient's rapid recovery, but the case is in your hands,
of course.”


220 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
George had risen as he spoke and now Henry looked
up at him and deliberately closed one eye.
“I agree with you. Miss Hornbottle may remain here
and we will have her on her feet again in a few weeks if
she will submit to the treatment which I prescribe.”
Miss Hornbottle capitulated, with a return of her old
in anner.
“I hope I have common sense enough to know what is
for my own good!” she remarked. “I am perfectly willing
to take your medicine, but don’t think you are going to keep
me here in bed for weeks on end! I shall be up and about
in no time!”
At Henry's suggestion Mrs. Punderford recalled the
maid to whom he gave instructions, and they withdrew,
but not before the three Shadowers had taken a glance at
the photograph on the dressing-table; a photograph of a
staring-eyed young man with a flowing mustache and the
lap-winged collar of the period.
“It—it was the gentleman to whom my sister was en-
gaged,” Mrs. Punderford explained as they descended the
stairs. “He died very suddenly on the eve of their mar-
riage; a most distressing affair! My sister has never quite
gotten over it.”
“Did you see the—er—the manifestation too, Mrs. Pun-
derford?” asked George. “Did any one else see it except
Miss Hornbottle?”
“No. I only knew of it this morning, when she regained
consciousness. I asked Mr. Scaynes before he left, and
Mildred and Alan, but none of them seems to have seen it.”
“You are going in to see Mr. Punderford now?” George
asked suddenly, and at Henry’s mod he turned to Lucian.


CHAPTER XVII
CLIFFORD SCORES
S Ethel and George went up the stairs together she
whispered excitedly:
“What do you think? That Mickens has been all over
the world ! India and China and Africa and everywhere!
He was showing me a lot of photographs just now.”
“Oh, I suppose he accompanied Mr. Punderford,” George
responded absently, his thoughts on the coming interview.
“No, he didn’t. He only came to the Punderfords after
they were married and he says that Mr. Punderford hasn’t
been abroad since. There was something funny about the
way he spoke; I wish you would tell Mr. Baynes.”
George turned and looked sharply at the girl.
“What do you mean?” he demanded.
“Well, he was just bragging to me at first, of course, but
when I asked if he had traveled with Mr. Punderford, he
said no, that Mr. Punderford had never seen him then but
he had seen Mr. Punderford, and he sort of smirked, as if
he could tell a lot more if he felt like it.” Ethel hesitated.
“He’s an old fox, that Mickens! If he ever finds out my
game here before I can make my getaway I can see my
finish !”
In a quick flash of memory Lucian's words of that
morning returned to George's mind: “I am beginning to
224


CLIFFORD SCORES 225
doubt if Ethel is safe up there.” Could it be that Mickens,
the soft-footed, the subservient, had really anything to
do with the problem they were all trying to solve? He had
shown an interest in the rifled safe on the morning after
the robbery, when he had come to them in the library
ostensibly to inquire about his master's condition; that had
impressed them all as being unusual. Could it be that he
was a factor in the case?
Promising to deliver Ethel's message to Lucian as soon
as the opportunity presented itself, George took leave of
her in the upper hall and softly entered the sickroom. To
his surprise he saw at once that a marked change for the
better had taken place in Horace Punderford. He was sit-
ting up in bed and a healthy color had superseded the
drawn, grayish pallor in his cheeks. The dull, drugged look,
too, had vanished from his eyes and his snowy side-whiskers
fairly bristled.
“By God, gentlemen, you show me the scoundrel who
has done this infernal thing to me, and there will be no
need of handing him over to the police!” he exclaimed in
a strong, vigorous voice as George opened the door. “Poi-
soned my eyes, you say, so as to force me to come back and
open this house that my safe might be robbed? Infamous!
Diabolical! It served them right that they got nothing
for their pains! Gad, I might have gone blind but for
Scaynes!”
“Scaynes?” Henry repeated.
“Yes. When my eyes first began to trouble me he in-
sisted on my using a wash that he had prepared especially
for me, and although the relief it gave was only temporary,
of course, it may have counteracted the poison to some ex-


226 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
tent. It is in my bathroom now, with the eye-dropper
beside it. Fine fellow, Scaynes!—Ah, good morning, Mr.
—er—?”
“Roper,” supplied George, taking the seat which Henry
had just vacated to saunter unobtrusively into the bath-
room. “How long have you known Mr. Scaynes, Mr.
Punderford? I had a most interesting chat with him here
the other day.”
“You’ll find him more interesting as you get to know
him. Too bad he went away this morning, but we must
have him back. A lot of people don’t understand him;
think he's a bit cracked and all that, but it is only because
they can’t appreciate what a wonderful mind he has and
how far he has advanced beyond the rest of us on the road
to knowledge.” The enthusiast paused and added: “I
have only had the privilege of knowing him a comparatively
short time; a few months, in fact, just since the ladies—
my wife and sister-in-law—took up spiritualism. I thought
he was only a faker at first like the rest of them, but I
found that the man was absolutely sincere, and he certainly
has tremendous psychic powers. I was materialistic to
the backbone, a scoffer, a skeptic, but he has proved to me
that I was living in darkness!”
“He certainly read my mind very cleverly,” George re-
marked.
“Nothing is hidden from him, nothing!” Mr. Punder-
ford replied. “Mind-reading is child's play to him. Why,
once when he was demonstrating his powers to a group of
our friends he asked me to think of some numbers—a
whole string of them—and he called them off correctly,
every one! He can see things in a crystal, too, that would


CLIFFORD SCORES 229
exposed to the machinations of such a fiendish wretch! In-
famous!”
Henry stuffed the handkerchiefs and eye-glass cases into
his pockets, and leaving their client still fuming the three
went down to the drawing-room, where they found Cliff
alone poring over what was evidently a fresh batch of
correspondence with which Mrs. Punderford had supplied
him.
“How goes it?” He looked up as they entered.
“Pretty badly for you, old top !” Lucian responded. “If
you are going to find out who wrote those blackmailing
letters you'll have to work fast before old Horace gets
about again. He has just ordered us to call you off; says
he has been assured that there will be no more of them
and he doesn’t want the affair investigated any further.”
Cliff's jaw set in a hard line.
“Not me he won’t call off!” he announced. “Not when
I am as hot on the trail as this! What’s he think he can
do, blindfold and muzzle us and tie our hands behind our
backs and then expect us to get him out of his trouble?
Why doesn’t he tell us to drop the whole business and be
done with it?”
“He would in a minute, my son, only I’ve thrown such
a scare into him about being poisoned that he will cling
to us until we find out who administered it to him, at
least.”
“I played up, didn't I?” Henry grinned. “All that stuff
about the handkerchiefs and eye-glasses was rot; whatever
the poison is that has been raising the mischief with his
sight, it could only have been injected into the eye itself.
It wouldn’t have had the slightest effect otherwise.”


CLIFFORD SCORES 231
“You remember how he acted on Monday, Luce, when
you were examining the safe in the library and he came in
to ask how Punderford was getting along and pulled that
old-retainer stuff?” George went on. “When he saw that
the safe was open he said: “So that was it!’ and tried his
best to get a look inside. Do you suppose—could it be—?”
“Good Lord!” Henry ejaculated. “He would have had
every chance in the world not only to put the hashish into
old Horace's food but to inject that other poison into his
eyes by getting into his room at night when he was asleep
down at the Long Island place! Why haven’t we thought
of him before? He may be the inside man who is working
for the main guy. What do you think, Cliff?—Hello, where
did Cliff go to?”
“To interrogate Ethel, I suppose,” Lucian responded ab-
sently.
“What if Mickens were the ‘main guy himself?” asked
George.
Lucian shook his head.
“The main guy, unless I am very much mistaken, trailed
me to Washington on Monday night,” he said. “I saw him,
though very indistinctly, but he had not at all the figure of
Mickens. However, he may be a confederate; as you say,
he would have had every opportunity to do the inside
work.—What have you got there, Cliff?”
For Cliff had reëntered with an air of suppressed excite-
ment and gone straight toward the table at which he had
been working when they descended. He held a pad of
some sort backed with scarlet leather and he was ruffling
the pages madly, holding them close to his nearsighted
eyes.


232 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“A hunch,” Cliff responded succinctly. “A hunch, and
I believe by the Lord that it is going to work!”
He seated himself at the table refusing to answer any
further questions even from his chief, and with a shrug
Lucian left him to his own devices and turned once more
to the others.
“We mustn't take too much for granted,” he said. “It
may be a mere coincidence that he was in India at one
time and that he saw Punderford—if he really did—some-
where on his travels. We must allow for the personal equa-
tion, feminine prejudice; Ethel does not like Mickens. I
don’t think the child would be consciously unjust, but she
is inexperienced in this line of work and she might be apt
to read into the man's mere inflection a significance which
has no basis in fact.”
“‘Inexperienced?’” George murmured. “So are all the
rest of us in this line of work, remember. I’ll allow for
the feminine prejudice if you like; Ethel's feminine through
and through, but she hasn’t made a false step in this thing
yet and she has been going it blind at that. If we don’t
look out that fluffy-headed young woman will beat us all
at this game before we know it. Our friend Horace made
a good bluff about that blackmailing business a while ago
but it sounded fishy to me; that and the poisoning and the
robbery of the safe all hang together. I wish to heavens
you would loosen up and tell us what those three bright
spots of Solo Dan's are, anyway!” -
“I will, as soon as I have a little more data on this case,”
Lucian promised. “When we leave here to-day, George, I
want you to climb into your clerical regalia again and go
out and sell some more missionaries’ biographies; get a


CLIFFORD SCORES 233
line if you can on Horace Punderford's life from where
you left off until the date of his retirement. Hurry it all
you can, for I’ve something else for you to do that is more
in your old line.—Henry, how long before Punderford will
be about and able to go out?”
“Oh, in a couple of days, I should say. It's like getting
over a jag, you know, this hashish business; he has slept
off the effects and it is only a matter of recuperation now,”
Henry replied. “You saw how greatly he had improved
to-day?”
“Yes. You think then that it would be safe to bring him
down to the office by—say—the day after to-morrow, Fri-
day? I want to try a little experiment. Anything the mat-
ter with his heart? Will he be able to withstand a shock?”
“He has had a few this week so far and I guess one more
won’t hurt him. His heart is as sound as yours or mine.”
Henry paused. “Then you don’t think it worth while to
look into the—er—coincidence of Mickens having been in
India?”
“Not at this stage of the game. We will do the same as
we did with Solo Dan; turn him loose, or rather let him
feel that he is unsuspected, and sooner or later if he is
really in league with the man who conceived this affair
he will lead us to him.”
A discreet knock sounded upon the door as if in perora-
tion, and they glanced quickly at each other before Lucian
called: “Come in l”
Mickens himself stood upon the threshold, a mildly in-
quiring expression upon his smug, elderly countenance.
After a mutual wait Lucian asked:
“Well, Mickens?”


CLIFFORD SCORES 237
seen these letters before that you are so sure? I have not
shown them to you now. Mickens, we are not connected
with the police and I was going to give you a run for your
money if you behaved; a chance to make your getaway. I
see now, though, that it is of no use.—Luce, go to that
'phone over there and call up Police Headquarters. Tell
them that unless you are very much mistaken you’ve caught
“Fat Michaels, an old offender—”
“Oh, for God’s sake don’t do that!” With a sharp cry
Mickens broke. Groveling at Cliff's feet, his chubby fingers
clawing at the other's knees, he raised an agonized face
from which all traces of defiance had disappeared. “You
said that you’d give me a chance! A chance! God, I'll
do anything! I'll make restitution, I'll give back every
penny—!”
“Now you’re talking!” Cliff stepped back from those
flabby, clutching hands. “You haven’t spent it nor half
of your legitimate savings. Where have you cachéd
it?”
“In savings banks all over the city,” faltered Mickens.
“I’ve got the books up in my room hid under the mattress—
I'll show you! I'll make out checks to Mr. Punderford
for the full amount—!”
“No. I’ll go upstairs with you while you get your bank
books and your hat and coat, and then we'll take you around
to each of your banks while you draw out your money
and close your accounts. You can mail a draft to Mr.
Punderford for the thirty-eight thousand, keep your savings
from your wages and beat it. But understand there is to
be no come-back on Mr. Punderford. You'll forget him
and his affairs from now on.”


238 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Yes, sir!” Mickens drew a shaking hand across his
brow. “God knows I'll be glad to, sir!”
“Just a minute.” Lucian confronted him. “Why didn’t
you blackmail Mr. Punderford for more than you did?
You knew the strength of the hold you had over him; you
could have gotten thousands more.”
A crafty look passed over the ex-butler's face.
“There was plenty of time. I didn’t want to drive him
into doing anything desperate and I was putting the screws
on him gradually.”
“I see. After you had gotten all he had you meant to
possess yourself of the very things you were blackmailing
him about—?”
An expression of mingled fear and horror spread over
Mickens’ face.
“No, sir!” he cried in low, shuddering tones. “I wouldn’t
have touched them for anything in all the world!”


CHAPTER XVIII
CLOSE QUARTERS
66/THAT was great business, Cliff! I told you that you
would have to work fast and, by Jove, you took me
at my word!”
It was Lucian who spoke. He, Cliff, Henry and George
were driving back to their office after having seen the draft
mailed to Mr. Punderford and extracting a promise from
the thoroughly cowed blackmailer to remain at the tem-
porary lodgings he had engaged until he should hear from
them.
“What I can’t get through my bean,” George observed
thoughtfully, “is how you happened to hit on him all of a
sudden.”
“That was your doing, or rather Ethel's. That message
she sent to Luce about Mickens having been in India did
the trick,” Cliff responded. “I began thinking about that
hashish stuff and it came over me like a shot that he fitted
the characteristics of that handwriting to a T. as I had
doped it out, so I went scouting around for a specimen of
his. I came on that telephone pad, saw that the writing
was identical in spite of his efforts to disguise it and sent
for him.” He added modestly, “The rest was just bluff.”
“But how did you dope out that he had been in stir for
239


240 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
those six years, and on an old charge, too?” Henry de-
manded.
“Because he couldn’t explain where he had been during
that period and instead tried to get up on his dignity. Good
Lord, haven’t we all been there ourselves?” There was a
note of bitterness in his tone, but he checked it and went
on: “As to his having been convicted on an old charge, I
figured that he wouldn’t stop by the wayside to pull off any
cheap stuff with such a rich prospect as Punderford in
view, but would have gone straight to it unless the dicks
picked him up on some old charge that had been hanging
over him and which he had probably fled the country to
escape.”
“But the name! When you bluffed and told Luce to
call Headquarters it was your mention of ‘Fat Michaels
that finally broke him down. Where did you get that
stuff?” Henry persisted. “I never heard of ‘Fat Michaels!”
“You would have if you had broken rocks on the same
pile with him fifteen years ago!” Cliff laughed shortly. “It
is lucky he hasn’t such a good memory for faces as I have.
I thought from my very first sight of him that his was
familiar but it wasn’t until I was questioning him to-day
that the truth came to me. He was in then for blackmail
but his work was pretty rough.”
“Well, you handled the situation to-day splendidly, old
man.” Luce laid his hand for a moment on the other’s
shoulder in sympathetic understanding as well as congratu-
lation. “Wait till Rex hears of this !”
“It’s just more deadwood out of the way, unless he's
in league with the real crook who is back of the robbery,”
Cliff protested.


CLOSE QUARTERS 241
“We'll soon find that out,” responded Lucian as they
drew up before the door of the Bolingbroke building. “I’m
going to give a little personal attention to ‘Fat Michaels
from now on.”
Rex had evidently gone to keep his appointment with
Leacraft, for the offices were deserted; but Henry found
to his immense satisfaction that the drug for which he had
been waiting had finally arrived, and he forthwith immured
himself in his laboratory.
George departed for some belated lunch, after which he
intended to take up his rôle of book agent once more, but
Cliff sank moodily into a chair. The reaction from the
excitement of accomplishing his task had come and the
shadow of the past hung heavily over his spirit.
Lucian affected not to notice his gloomy abstraction but
went briskly to the telephone and called up the Punderford
house.
Mrs. Punderford herself answered the summons.
“Ah, it is you, Mr. Baynes! Have you any idea where
Mickens has gone? The maids could not find him
anywhere after your departure and he is quite inval-
uable.”
“I am afraid you will have to dispense with his services
in future, Mrs. Punderford,” Lucian responded. “This
morning your husband requested us to drop all investiga-
tion in regard to the letters—I do not care to speak more
definitely over the 'phone but you will understand.”
“Yes?” There was a sharper note in her voice.
“When we left him and went down stairs, however, we
found that the instructions had been given too late. Our
handwriting expert had already discovered the author of


242 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
the letters and obtained a statement from him; he was
your invaluable butler, Mickens.”
A shocked exclamation came over the wire and then after
a pause:
“What have you done with him, Mr. Baynes?”
“Knowing your husband's wishes in the matter and be-
lieving that yours coincided, we have strongly advised him
to leave the city and we have reason to think that he will
never care to return.”
“Oh, I cannot thank you or Mr. Nichols enough for
the tact and skill with which you have handled this mat-
ter!” Her voice shook. “I—I can scarcely believe it of
Mickens! Mr. Punderford will be much indebted to
you—!”
“It is the mere routine work of the case. Will you
please tell your husband that we shall call for him on Fri-
day morning with a car? We want him to come down to
the office for an hour and Doctor Corliss says that it will
do him no harm; he will probably be up and about the
house to-morrow.” Lucian paused. “And now, Mrs. Pun-
derford, I am going to relieve you of the presence of Miss
Jepson. There is no longer any need of her remaining
with you, and I know you will be glad to get your real maid
back.”
“If Miss Jepson were not so accomplished an investiga-
tor, I fancy she would have made a splendid maid.” There
was ill-concealed malice in the cool reply, and her voice had
steadied. “Would you like to speak to her now?”
“Yes, please.” There was silence for a moment except
for Cliff's idle drumming on the table and then Lucian
spoke in a low, rapid tone. “Ethel? Pack your things;


CLOSE QUARTERS 243
Mr. Nichols is coming up right away for you in the car.
Your work up there is finished and we need you at the
Office.”
He hung up the receiver and turned to where his col-
league sat brooding.
“Cliff, chase up to the Punderfords and get Ethel, will
you? Take her to lunch somewhere—she's earned it—and
then I'll have some more work for both of you.”
“All right.” Cliff rose unenthusiastically from his chair
and then stared in amazement. In the aperture leading to
the outer office stood Henry holding gingerly by the neck a
spitting, yowling, black-and-white cat of obviously low
degree. “Where in the world did you get that?”
“Outside the tobacconist's on the corner,” Henry replied
literally, adding with pride: “Isn’t she a beauty? She's
come to pay her Uncle Henry a little visit. Come along,
kitty.”
He disappeared once more into his laboratory and Cliff
departed upon his errand. Lucian, left alone, flung him-
self into a chair and was deep in thought when the outer
door opened and Rex appeared.
“Hello. Glad you’re here, Luce.” He clapped the other's
shoulder as he passed him and flinging his hat on the table
seated himself with a sigh. “Well, I’ve drawn that cover
and there's nothing doing. Mrs. Fraser had evidently been
in communication with Leacraft and he is scared pink for
fear he will be dragged into the investigation. She couldn't
have told him, of course, of her part in the affair, but sim-
ply that the Punderfords had put private detectives on
the case and that they had bothered her. I think she
wanted that money to keep up the splurge she is making a


244 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
little longer in order to bluff Leacraft into marrying her;
he as much as admitted to me to-day that he was looking
for a rich wife.”
“Why should he be afraid if he is not implicated?” asked
Lucian.
“He is in a rather precarious position financially just
now; make or break, you know. If there were a rumor
that detectives were nosing about his office, bluey! His
customers would fly like birds before a storm and he'd be
done for. He hasn’t the ghost of an idea who I really am,
of course.” Rex paused to laugh softly as though some
ambiguity in his own words amused him. “I got an old
friend to introduce me under another name, the one he
has always known me by. Leacraft takes me for a good
fellow with more money than I know what to do with, and
he told me the whole story of the Punderford affair from
his point of view and asked my advice; perfectly straight
story, too, and identical with the account he gave George
of it on Monday. We'll have to scratch him—What's
next?”
“Do you feel in a psychic mood?” Lucian inquired. “If
you do I would suggest that you run up to that studio of
the Swami Abadenarath's and enroll yourself as a pupil.
I have an idea he is a teacher of theosophy but I am not
sure, so you had better find out first just what his particu-
lar graft is and then fall for it hard. Incidentally, get
what dope you can about our friend Scaynes.”
Rex looked sharply at his colleague.
“So the wind blows from that quarter,” he observed. “I
fancied the fellow was just a harmless sort of a lunatic,
but it may be that I have overlooked a bet. I have no


CLOSE QUARTERS 249
office had opened and closed and that Rex, without in-
vestigating to see if any of his colleagues were in, had
gone straight to his own sanctum and was busily engaged
with a different sort of experiment.
What did arouse Cliff, however, was a draught on the
back of his neck. He wheeled about impatiently in his
chair and saw that the panel leading into Henry's laboratory
had slipped aside. As he rose to close it he saw something
else. It was Henry's acquisition of the previous day, the
black-and-white cat, and it was lying on its side with all
four legs stretched out stiff and stark.
There was no mistaking that attitude and Cliff snorted
in disgust. If he was expected to work with a dead cat
practically under his nose it was a little bit too much !
Thrusting the panel aside he entered the laboratory, picked
up the animal gingerly by the tail and passing through the
outer office to the main corridor he traversed it and dropped
his burden into the trash box.
Returning, he heard strange sounds repeated at inter-
vals from Rex's office, and sliding the panel cautiously he
peered in. Rex was seated in a high-backed chair which
had been placed in the exact center of a strip of moth-eaten
green velvet carpet; and while his amazed audience of one
watched with interest he slid the chair violently backward,
then rising kicked it aside and instantly dropped to his
knees and began scrutinizing the carpet.
“What in the world are you doing that for?” Cliff de-
manded.
Rex rose, dusting his hands and the knees of his trousers.
“Just a little experiment to test a certain theory of mine,”
he responded. “I didn’t hear you come in.”


CLOSE QUARTERS 251
hear no more. Rushing out into the hall, he returned bear-
ing the object of his solicitude, and going into the labora-
tory, he drew the panel shut with an indignant slam.
For half an hour Rex and Cliff discussed the case in des-
ultory fashion, the former continuing his mysterious ex-
periments without explanation, when the panel opened once
more and Henry stood before them.
“Now come and see your dead cat!” he cried triumph-
antly. “And after this if there is a-a dead elephant in my
laboratory I want it let alone!”
They followed him in silence. There in the center of
the laboratory floor a sleek black-and-white cat was con-
tentedly lapping milk from a saucer.
“And I picked it up by the tail!” Cliff exclaimed in awed
wonder. “What does this mean, Henry?”
“That cat was no more dead than Solo Dan was !” Henry
took up a small jar from the table. It was half filled with
a reddish brown powder like particles of rust and a pro-
tective cap of glass covered its top. “I’ve found out what
put him out of business, Rex. It was this!”
“What is it?” Cliff hastily backed away.
“The natives in India call it 'chhota maut,” or “little death,”
and that is practically the effect it produces, for it does not
render one unconscious but causes suspended animation,”
Henry explained. “A person under its influence reveals no
evidence of life, and nine physicians out of ten would sign
a death certificate without a moment's hesitation. One
breath of air in which particles of chhota maut are floating
about will produce suspended animation for from twenty-
four hours to five or six days, depending on how thickly
the atmosphere is impregnated with it. The native fakirs


252 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
use it in their trick of burying a man alive, leaving him for
four or five days and then digging him up and resuscitating
him. It is made from the pithy marrow of a thick-stemmed
plant dried and ground to powder. You can see what a
diabolical weapon it would become in the hands of a mur-
derous character. Solo Dan might have been sent to the
morgue and then buried alive if I hadn’t noticed a grain
or two of the powder adhering to his face and remembered
what I had heard about chhota maut. I had made a pretty
shrewd guess as to the cause of Punderford's seizure, and
hashish being an Indian drug made me think of this, I
suppose.”
“It’s a blessing for Solo Dan that you did,” Rex re-
marked. “I’ve bragged about you but I did not know
that you were such an authority on poisons, Henry. This
must be a particularly rare one.”
“It is. Whoever carried it under his fingernails and
flung it in Solo Dan's face must have been only the third
or fourth man to bring it into this country.” He screwed
an extra cover on the jar as he spoke and placed it upon a
high shelf. “That cat will probably be drowsy for a day
or two, but it will suffer no further ill effects from the dose
I gave it. I am going to take it back now and drop it at
the tobacconist's door and then discreetly disappear in the
crowd.”
He picked up the cat and started for the door just as
it opened and Lucian stepped in. At the sight of his face
Henry recoiled.
“God, Luce, what is the matter? What's happened to
you?”
“Nothing.” Lucian’s voice was hoarse and he spoke


THE TREASURE OF THE MANCHUS 255
spent last evening, as if he felt it incumbent upon him to
give an account of himself, and said that he was going out
then to buy a ticket for the West; that he would call up
here later if I wished and tell us what train he was going
to take.” Lucian's voice had grown more husky with the
effort to speak and he raised one hand to his aching throat.
“Seems anxious to square himself with us as well as he
can, as though he were on a sort of probation.”
Henry's burden showed signs of resentment at the delay,
and he turned again to the door.
“If you will accept a word of advice, Luce, you won’t
talk any more than you have to,” he remarked over his
shoulder. “Why don’t you let Rex take over things for
to-day? You ought to be home and in bed.”
“Henry's right,” Rex declared when the former had taken
his belated departure. “Give me your instructions for the
rest of us and I’ll see that they are carried out. You have
had a mighty narrow escape and you're in no condition to
work to-day.”
“I’m afraid I am rather done up,” Lucian responded
weakly. “What are you doing, Cliff?”
“Working on some letters I picked up yesterday.” There
was manifest eagerness in Cliff's tone. “Please don’t take
me off them unless you absolutely need me, Luce, for at
our next conference I think I will have something really
important for you.”
“All right; go to it.” Lucian turned to Rex. “As soon
as Henry comes back, tell him to go up on the same bluff
you worked yesterday and see Scaynes and the Swami;
ask him to study Scaynes particularly, if he succeeds in
seeing him, for signs of insanity. Send George to me at


256 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF ».
my rooms; I want to give him some instructions about
Punderford's visit here to-morrow. Tell Phil, too, to get
his taxi and stick around that studio building, but I want
him to keep his eye on the Swami to-day if the latter should
go out and never mind about Scaynes.”
“And what about me?” asked Rex smilingly.
“You’ll take your rightful place as chief, old man.” Lu-
cian tried to return the smile faintly. “After to-morrow
I think you will reassume it for good.”
“You don’t mean—!”
“Yes. I think to-morrow will see the finish of the Pun-
derford case, but don’t ask me now. In the morning you
and Cliff stop by for me in the car and we will go up about
eleven o’clock and get Horace Punderford. George will be
busy here and I want Phil and Henry on hand also with-
out fail. After Punderford’s visit we'll hold a council of
war and decide on our final steps. For God’s sake tell all
the boys to guard themselves well to-day, especially Henry
and Phil, for the man who planned that robbery with such
consummate skill and daring and who does not hesitate at
murder itself is playing for the most tremendous stakes
in the history of thievery, and he is out to get us before
we get him.”
At eleven o’clock the next morning Phil and Henry stood
in the entrance to George's sanctum watching that worthy
rogue as he prepared for Horace Punderford's coming.
The swinging braziers which hung from the ceiling were
unlighted and the dais as well as the medium's cabinet were
in shadow. A black velvet cover that reached to the floor
had been placed over the ebony table on which upon its
cushion of the same sable hue rested the huge crystal. At


THE TREASURE OF THE MANCHUS 257
the moment it resembled merely an enormous sphere of
glass, yet from about it there seemed to spring forth a mel-
low but brilliant light that would play vividly upon the
faces of those who bent above it.
“I say, George, aren’t you going to have any light in
the room at all except around that glass ball of yours?”
Phil asked. “It’s positively ghastly!”
“That, my son, is the intention.” George was doubled
up on the floor with his head and shoulders concealed by
the table cover and his voice was muffled in consequence.
“I want old Horace to concentrate on the crystal here, and
the ghastlier he feels the more easily he will be impressed.
Now remember, you two, that he will not have the least
idea any one is listening in on this consultation, so don’t
make any noise no matter what you hear! You are to share
Lucian's study and listen in together on his dictaphone re-
ceiver; he will share Rex's and Henry will have the one
in the outer office to himself. Luce told Ethel not to come
down until this afternoon; we don’t want that young lady
to learn any more than is necessary of what is going on or
she will discover that we are decent, law-abiding citizens
and quit us cold!”
He drew back from beneath the table cover and sitting
on his heels wiped his perspiring face.
“But what's the idea of it, anyway?” Henry demanded.
“You know yourself that crystal is a fake; nobody ever sees
anything in them. What does Luce hope to get out of old
Horace by all this bunk?” -
“It’s precisely because this particular crystal is a fake
that Punderford will see things that he thinks are hidden
in his own mind forever, and if he doesn’t break down


258 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
and tell all he knows it will be because I’ve forgotten my
own old game. Too bad I can’t be in costume—it helps a
lot—but I’ve had two interviews with him in ordinary clothes
and it would seem too much like the bunkum to dress the
part now.”
“Well, if you're going to show him pictures and lead him
on to tell what he really had in that safe, you must know
what you are after; Luce must have told you about those
‘three bright spots of Solo Dan's and why he took charge
of the case just because of that lump of mud I brought
down from the Punderfords’ in my pocket and suggested
for a joke that it might be a clue,” Phil remarked. “Why
don’t you be clubby and tell us about it?”
“Because I promised Luce.” George's tone was very
grave. “You’ll know soon enough now and when you
do—! Gad, he was right; it is the most stupendous case
in years!”
He lowered the light about the crystal until it became
the merest glow and placed two chairs at the table facing
each other from opposite sides. As he did so footsteps
sounded upon the marble corridor outside and the voices
of Rex and Cliff came to them.
“There they are! Beat it!” George gesticulated vio-
lently and like rabbits bolting for cover Phil and Henry
scurried through the paneled entrance to Lucian's study.
George threw open the door which led to the main corridor
and held out his hand in cordial welcome.
“My dear Mr. Punderford ' I am so glad that you were
able to come!—Why, you have improved wonderfully
You are quite yourself again?”
Punderford had indeed improved. His plump cheeks


262 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
ure of all the possessions of the Emperor! But there is no
longer an emperor, the reign of the Manchus is over. What
has become of the treasure, the greatest that history has
known? What has become of the three Burning Black
Pearls?—See! You are looking down now from an emi-
nence just outside the walls of the Forbidden City, from
the summit of the mysterious Coal Hill. Do you see that
go-down there in the northwestern part of the city? It
is there that the treasure lies, well hidden by the eunuchs
of Prince Ching.—Ah! The darkness descends once more;
it is night. There is the go-down again, the crystal has
brought us close to it.—Look! Is that a lantern bobbing
there? And that figure in the flowing robe—is it a China-
man or an American in a Chinese robe P I cannot tell, and
the crystal grows dark. But see! There in the swirling
darkness are those three glowing pin-points of light, the
three Burning Black Pearls! They have been looted from
the treasure of the Manchus, for the safety of which the
head of Prince Ching is forfeit! Who is the thief? Who
has the three Burning Black Pearls?—See! The crystal
will answer, the crystal will reveal the truth! There stands
the man, but his back is toward us. Do you see him? Look
deep, deep into the crystall—See | He is turning, but
slowly, slowly In another moment we shall see his face—!”
“A-ah!” With a sharp, quavering cry Punderford flung
both arms up in the air and fell back in his chair. “It was
I—Il I bargained with Chien Wai! He had the secret
from one of the eunuchs who escaped the massacre which
Prince Ching ordered after the treasure was buried. He
brought me the pearls and the sacred stork with the coral


THE TREASURE OF THE MANCHUS 265
Punderford groped weakly for the nearest chair and
sank into it.
“No one knows except my wife—and Chien Wai, who is
dead.” He passed a tremulous hand across his brow. “For
years I bore the burden alone and then one night I told her
in my sleep. For years we have lived in terror, loathing
the pearls yet not daring to dispose of them. Now they are
gone, and I am tired—tired ! I do not care how soon the
yellow men come.”
“That is only weakness, Mr. Punderford,” Lucian said
earnestly. “If they were again in your possession and you
were promised immunity, would you restore them to the
Chinese government?”
“Would I—?” Punderford gripped the arms of his
chair. “I would give half of the few years remaining to
me if I might return them and feel free to walk without
glancing over my shoulder, to lie in the dark without see-
ing grinning yellow faces all about my bed! But the pres-
ent government is not that of the Manchus, and their hatred
will follow me when they know; besides, the pearls and
the sacred stork are gone!”
“But if we could recover them for you?” Lucian insisted.
“If one of us happened to have enough influence with the
Chinese government to persuade them to turn over to a
representative of the Manchus the pearls and the sacred
stork on condition that they demanded no explanation, will
you authorize us to act for you? As a matter of fact I
saw the Chinese ambassador in Washington last Tuesday
morning and arranged for just such a contingency.”
“You did?” Punderford rose from his chair. “Mr.
Baynes, gentlemen, do this for me and there is nothing you


266 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
can ask of me to my last penny that I will not gladly give.
“The question of our fee can be settled later,” Lucian
assured him hurriedly, with a quick side-glance at Rex.
“I am not even certain that I can recover the pearls and
the stork and I do not want to raise your hopes too high,
but I believe that it will be possible to do so. In the event
that it is, we have your authorization, then?”
“With all my heart!” Punderford openly wiped his eyes.
“I do not resent the trick you played upon me; I wish now
that I could have brought myself to trust you fully from the
start. I feel that a burden has been lifted from me already,
for it has been a relief to tell it to some one. My wife and
I have gotten so of late years that we do not speak of it, we
dare not, and yet the shadow of it has hung over us always!”
“Do not tell her a word of what has passed this morning
until we have definite news for you one way or the other,”
Lucian warned. “I will not keep you in suspense an hour
longer than is necessary. Mr. Nichols will take you home
in the car now, and you may rest assured that you will
hear from me the moment we have anything to report.”
When the shaken but grateful old man had departed with
Cliff, George flung himself down on the dais in an attitude
of utter exhaustion.
“Phew! I never worked harder in my life!” he ex-
claimed. “I thought the old codger never would come
through! Did I ball up the patter, Luce? I stayed awake
all last night studying it.”
“No. You were great! Did the pictures project them-
selves all right into the crystal?”
“Without a hitch.” George sat up and grinned at the
others. “What did you think of the session? I was as


THE TREASURE OF THE MANCHUS 267
nervous as a cat for fear that Phil or Henry would let out
a whoop when they learned what those three bright spots
of Solo Dan's were, and bust up the show.”
“I’d like to know how you knew about it, Luce.” Phil
turned to him. “How could you tell? I don’t believe you
ever knew that the stuff had been disturbed where they
buried it!”
“I didn’t,” Lucian confessed. “And it’s a safe bet that
the surviving members of the Manchu family don’t either,
or their emissaries would have scoured the world for the
sacred stork alone. It is too bad that Punderford didn’t
sell it to that collector friend of his who according to Mrs.
Fraser would have paid him his own price for it, but it’s
my opinion that he was in a funk about it and didn’t dare
let it out of his possession. I think he showed it now and
then to some of his friends in the same spirit that makes
a murderer haunt the place where he killed his man. He
never showed the pearls, however.”
“And you propose to get them back?” Rex asked thought-
fully.
“I do.” It was confidence not braggadocio which rang
in Lucian’s tones. “I admit that I haven’t an iota of evi-
dence against the person I suspect, and I have learned to
my cost that he is more than a match for me. I vote that
we go to lunch and when Cliff gets back we'll talk it all
over and decide what to do. I don’t know whether it will
work or not, but I have a plan. If my suspicions are cor-
rect and the guilty man is the one I think he is, I could
never convict him in a thousand years, and I don’t even
intend to try. I’m going one better than that—I’m going
to make him convict himself "


CHAPTER XX
SIX SLIPS OF PAPER
T two o'clock that afternoon the half-dozen regular
members of The Shadowers, Inc., were gathered to-
gether in Rex's office, and the single newly appointed hon-
orary member was seated in the outer one, placidly chew-
ing gum and reading the latest best-seller.
“I wonder”—Lucian looked from one face to another
about the table—“if any of you has formed an opinion
as to the identity of the man we are after? I haven’t heard
the later reports of any of you except George, for I was
too ill yesterday and too busy to-day. But to pass that over
for the moment—has any of you an idea you would care
to express?”
There was silence for a moment and then Phil looked up.
“I’ve got a pretty good hunch,” he remarked. “I’m not
going to make any break, though. You guys go to it.”
“I haven’t a bit of evidence to support my theory—” Rex
began, but Cliff interrupted him.
“I have, but you would probably throw it out of court.”
“And I shouldn’t care to express mine,” George added.
“I'm afraid my notion wouldn’t be worth expressing.”
Henry pulled out a fat cigar. “It is only a wild guess from
something Ethel said.”
“Yet we each have a theory, at least.” Lucian smiled.
268


SIX SLIPS OF PAPER 269
“I propose that we each write down the name of the man
we think is guilty on separate slips of paper, jumble them
all together and let Rex read them out. It will clear the
atmosphere anyway, and then we can give our reasons, if
we like, in turn.”
“Good enough.” Rex opened a drawer in the table and
producing a pair of library shears and a large sheet of pa-
per began cutting narrow slips from it. “Here you are.
Everybody got pencils?”
He passed the slips around and for a brief space there
was no sound but the rustle of the paper. When all the
slips were folded and tossed across the table to him again
Rex scattered them lightly about, then picked up the one
nearest to his hand and unfolded it. As he read the name
written upon it he laughed.
“Somebody evidently agrees with me,” he remarked.
The second slip made him smile again, but with the third
a thoughtful look came over his face. The fourth was his
own and after a glance he laid it aside; at sight of the
fifth the thoughtful look gave way to one of blank amaze-
ment, and with the sixth he leaned back in his chair for a
moment and stared about at the others as if scarcely be-
lieving the evidence of his eyes. Then he bent forward
once more and spread the slips slowly out upon the table.
“Gentlemen,” he said gravely, “it is unanimous. We
have all written the name of the same man—Ralph
Scaynes.”
“No!” Always the most excitable, Phil sprang to his
feet. “You can’t mean it! I’d like to know how everybody
else got the same hunch that I did?”
“For the Lord's sake!” Henry dropped his cigar and


270 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
retrieved it with a grunt. “Did I hit it? It was just a shot
in the dark on my part!”
A broad smile had spread itself over George's lean face,
but he said nothing, while Cliff, too, was silent.
“That is gratifying anyway.” Lucian smiled. “I had
hardly expected that you would all be of the same opinion
with me, especially as we must all have arrived at our
theories by different means. Rex, you’re first. Tell us
what made you suspect Scaynes.”
“Some marks on the dining-room carpet,” he replied
slowly. “Do you remember how they all had been seated
around the table at the séance as Mrs. Punderford de-
scribed it to us? She was sitting with her back to the
door leading into the hall, and the library door was on her
left at the farther end of the room.
“Stephen Leacraft was seated directly at her left and
young Alan Goodhue at her right, with Miss Mildred next
to him, of course, then Scaynes, Mrs. Fraser, Horace Pun-
derford—who was nearest the library door—then Miss
Hornbottle with Mr. Leacraft on her right, making the
circle complete. It was pitch dark and they were all hold-
ing each other by the hand.
“It occurred to me while Mrs. Punderford was explain-
ing the layout how easy it would have been for any one who
was so minded to get out of that circle simply by slipping
the hand of the person on one side of them into that of
the one on the other; people are bound to be restless and
move about a little when they have been sitting like that
for twenty minutes in a tense, strained atmosphere. George
can tell you that it is one of the easiest stunts worked in
his former profession.”


SIX SLIPS OF PAPER 271
“That's right,” agreed George. “As a matter of fact,
young Alan did free his hands—or one of them—for a
minute just before the crash came, but I'll tell you all about
that later.”
“I noticed,” continued Rex, “that three chairs were over-
turned; Miss Hornbottle's, Punderford's and Scaynes'. The
button of the light switch which Scaynes pressed when the
alarm came was in the wall midway between his chair and
Miss Mildred's. Mrs. Punderford advanced the theory
that when her sister fainted and fell to the floor the chair
went with her and that Punderford had inadvertently over-
turned his in his anxiety to reach the library in the dark-
ness after the sound of the falling body came, which were
both likely enough.
“That lady is shrewd and sharp-eyed, but when she said
that Scaynes must have deliberately kicked his chair out of
the way when he rose to turn on the light because it lay so
far from the table, she did not take into consideration the
long streaks which were left in the heavy pile of the velvet
carpet. It was plain that he had pushed his chair back with
all his weight in it and then overturned it.
“Now, suppose he wanted to open the safe. He could
have switched hands as I have told you, pushed his chair
back slowly and noiselessly and tiptoed into the library;
suppose he found a rival there in the person of Solo Dan,
dashed the chhota maut in his face and slipped back quickly
before the body had even fallen to the floor. Then when
the sound came and the uproar arose, he might have kicked
his chair over and switched on the light. That's the way I
figured it out, and I’ve learned nothing since to contradict
my theory.”


272 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“I never noticed any tracks in the carpet at all,” con-
fessed Phil. “I was too anxious to get to the safe my-
self.”
“Nor I,” Henry supplemented. “All I could think of
was the body in the library, and those two sick people up-
stairs.”
“By the way, Henry, what was it Ethel said that put
you on the same track as the rest of us?” asked Lucian.
“It was when she told us about going into Scaynes' room
to examine it when he was at dinner and prying open the
locked drawer. According to her, it contained only some
articles left by a female guest; a jar of paste rouge, some
knotted cord, a pair of soiled gray silk gloves, and a rusty
nail file and scissors.
“Now, I knew about the hashish, of course, and I
suspected about the chhota maut and the means by which
it had been thrown into the air before Solo Dan's face.
They were both Indian drugs, remember, and with them in
mind I could very easily associate those other articles with
them.
“As I told you, it was only a wild guess, but what if that
jar had contained not paste rouge but betel paste, from
the betel nut which all the lower caste chew in India?
What if those soiled gray gloves had been put on to obviate
the danger of finger-prints in opening the safe. Silk draws
on much more quickly than kid, you know, and if the
second thief were Scaynes he was working against time.
“It flashed over me, too, that the knotted cord might
well have been the ‘rumal' of the thuggees, and I think
Luce's experience proves that part, at least. As for the
‘rusty' nail file and scissors—well, Rex and Cliff have seen


274 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
isn’t evidence, any more than Rex's tracks on the carpet,
but it all counts.—George, how did you reach the conclu-
sion that he was the guilty man?”
“Well, I admit that he had me going good and plenty
when I first met him. I’ve never gone in for that intellec-
tual patter, you know, never had the opportunity to learn
it and I couldn’t make out whether he was a faker or just
a nut.” George paused. “I found out differently, though,
the day before yesterday when I went out again as a book
agent.
“I found that Punderford’s life had been a perfectly
open one since that first little slip he made at Kotoba &
Jennings’, and the only significant thing about it in the light
of this morning's revelations was that he was abroad two
or three times, the last trip having been made at the time
of the Boxer uprising in China.—But everywhere I went
from one shop and importing house to another where Pun-
derford had worked his way up from office boy to head of
the firm, I found that within the last year some one else
had been before me, asking the most minute incidents about
his work and his every-day life; and the description of
that person fits Scaynes like the proverbial glove.
“That isn't all. Two of these shops employ Hindoos in
native costumes to sell certain Indian importations, and I
learned that my predecessor had conversed fluently with
them in Hindustani. If he weren’t Scaynes he must, as I
say, have been a dead ringer for him, but if he were, then
as sure as you’re born Scaynes has been in India, and not
only been there but lived there. People can’t pick up the
Hindoo language and customs in a day, or a year for that
matter. I got so interested in this man who had been so


SIX SLIPS OF PAPER 277
ringing of the telephone I slipped a page or two of the
letter into my pocket.
“I couldn’t examine it very well that night, but yesterday
morning I got down here early and went to work on it, and
to say that I was astonished is putting it mildly. It's—it's
the damnedest handwriting I ever saw ! I looked up every
line and quirk, and if those books Rex got for me do not
lie he is the most thoroughly evil person I ever heard of !
We're whited sepulchers compared to him, in spite of his
wonderful voice and magnetic manner. -
“It is a typical murderer's hand and yet thievishness and
greed almost predominate. He is totally lacking in a moral
sense, of course, but he doesn’t kid himself along; he knows
what he is doing every minute and why he is doing it, and
he never tries to blink the motive. Ruthlessness is strong
in his hand and so is caution and a passion for detail.
Right then and there I discounted that pretty little tale the
janitor of the studio building told Phil, although I don’t
doubt he honestly believed what the Swami had told him.
It isn’t natural for a sly fox like that to make a confidant
of the janitor and brag about his victims to him.
“Privately, I think the Swami is only a cover for Scaynes'
activities. I’d like to put that letter in the hands of a real
expert and see what he thinks of it!”
“Is that all?” demanded Phil. “Haven’t you anything
more to go on than just what you thought you saw in his
handwriting?”
“It's enough for me!” responded Cliff firmly. “Of course
because a man has possibilities of criminal tendencies as
shown in his writing it doesn’t signify that he has already
committed a crime, but here we have a crime with pecu-


SIX SLIPS OF PAPER 279
telling me to drive twice slowly around the block. And
then I saw you! You were standing looking in the window
of the shop next to the lunchroom. I whistled as I started
off trying to attract your attention, but you never even
turned. I drove as the man had told me twice around the
block, and he must have timed things pretty accurately, for
as I drew up the second time before the lunchroom, who
should come out but Mickens!
“Well, I guess I don’t need to tell you what happened for
the next few hours; we started off in a procession and I
could have laughed if the situation hadn’t been so darn
serious. Mickens led and then you and then me, following
at a snail’s pace behind. When we got to the picture house
Mickens went in and you followed and my two fares brought
up the rear, telling me to wait.
“I thought they were trailing Mickens, of course, and I
was more sure than ever that he was in cahoots with them.
You see, I had pretty well decided that my second man
was the Swami, and when I described him to the janitor
yesterday I found that I was right.
“Mickens and you and the other two came out after the
show was over in the order that you went in and our pro-
cession started up Broadway just as before. Mickens was
taking in the sights as if he hadn’t the slightest notion that
he were being trailed, and it came over me then that he had
double-crossed the other two and they were after him. It
was the hour that the theaters let out and Broadway was
jammed, but I noticed that another taxi joined our pro-
cession at Fortieth Street, and at Forty-second in the crush
there it drew up close beside me for just a minute, but I
didn’t think of that until afterwards.


SIX SLIPS OF PAPER 281
“You can imagine how I felt when I walked in here yes-
terday morning and Rex told me what had happened to
you! I realized then that it was you the Swami had at-
tacked and you they had been trailing all the time, and the
thought that I could have saved you if I hadn’t been such
a bonehead made me fairly sick!”
“By Jove, that is a queer mix-up, isn’t it?” Lucian said
musingly. “So it was the Swami, after all!—But you don’t
call that proof that Scaynes took the pearls, do you? Ac-
tually all the evidence it gives us is that the Swami is
guilty of assault with intent to kill, and we are not in a
position to touch him. I'll tell you my own story now.—
Scaynes wasn’t fooled from the moment we entered the
Punderford house to start our investigation: he was play-
ing George for a sucker all during that interview, and when
Mrs. Punderford—at our suggestion, I will admit—sent him
on that false errand to Long Island it gave him just the
opportunity he wanted to get in touch with the Swami and
have us shadowed. Ethel did not see him at the Punder-
ford house until late the afternoon of the next day, and
it was either he or the Swami who went to Washington
with me on the same sleeper and searched my birth after
drugging the porter.”
He told them in detail of his experience, and at the con-
clusion he added:
“You see, it is as I told you this morning. We are all
morally certain that Scaynes is the man and yet we have
not an iota of real proof against him. If we go to the
Swami’s studio en masse and attempt to search it we
wouldn’t have a ghost of a chance, for there would be a row
and police and everything that we must avoid. Strategy


282 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
won’t do, for you may be sure they are guarding those
pearls and the sacred stork with their lives.”
“Then what is to be done?” demanded Cliff.
“I can see only one way out of it,” Lucian replied. “We
cannot convict him so we must make him convict him-
Self.”
“But how?” Rex asked curiously.
“By the use of one of your own pet devices: psychology.
It's a safe bet that they know all about our organization if
not our past careers, and they are probably trying to shadow
us and prevent our interfering with them until Scaynes
can make his getaway. Now, my idea is to work a constant,
subtle third degree on him until his nerve is broken. We’ll
get at him in a thousand ways, watch him, study his habits
and hound him always with the one message—to give up
the pearls. George, you’re a bit of a ventriloquist, aren’t
you?”
“I used to be in the old days,” George responded cau-
tiously. “I’m afraid I’ve lost the knack, but a little practice
will bring it back.”
“You’ll do for the 'phone messages and the still, small
voice in public places. Cliff, could you be persuaded to
shave off that hirsute adornment of yours?”
“In a good cause,” Cliff drawled.
“You played in amateur theatricals once upon a time,
didn’t you?”
Cliff stiffened slightly.
“As a matter of fact I did, but—”
“No offense, old man. You're going to be a Chinaman
for a while. I'll teach you a few phrases and give you a


284 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
“Phil, got your taxi downstairs? We'll go and get the
properties and start the game going at once. You fellows
wait here for us.”
“I see in a way what you are going to do, Luce, although
I don’t know all the details,” Rex observed. “It’s a clever
stunt, but do you think it will work? He's a man of ex-
traordinary will-power, remember. He'll realize the game
we are playing and steel himself against it.—Good heavens,
he may be making his getaway now!”
“He is too clever for that. He knows of my trip to
Washington, remember, but he can have no knowledge of
what my visit portended for him. He will make no move
until he is sure. You may not have any faith in my plan
now, Rex, but wait a day or two. Scaynes' will-power
may be tremendous but no living man could stand up under
the strain I mean to put upon him. Before three days
have passed unless I am very much mistaken he will walk
into this office and place upon this table the three Burning
Black Pearls.”


CHAPTER XXI
THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
T five o’clock that afternoon the last of the Swami’s
pupils departed and with a sigh of relief he divested
himself of his gorgeous robe and turban and stretched out
upon the divan with a malodorous pipe between his teeth.
“All over?” Scaynes peered into the studio cautiously
then strode in and seated himself astride a chair. “No
sign of any further meddling from those fools? It's too
bad you didn't stop to finish that job the other night, Bert.”
“With that bull appearing just as I pulled on the knot?”
the Swami asked feelingly. “Maybe you would like me
to have finished the job and got run in for murder; it
would have killed two birds with one stone, eh?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Scaynes replied coldly.
“You are still of use to me, my friend.”
“Yes, and I’ve been the goat for you for a good many
years, Ralph.” The Swami scowled as he pulled on his
pipe.
“You’ve been well paid for it, haven’t you?”
“Perhaps, up to now. I don’t think you're giving me a
square deal in this, though. Ten thousand bucks for that
little affair the other night—”
“In which you failed,” interrupted Scaynes.
“I get it, though; that was the agreement,” the Swami
285


288 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
At six o'clock the pair went out to dinner and Scaynes,
his nerves on edge, chose a restaurant of the glittering
Broadway type. He wanted to get away for a while from
himself and his own thoughts.
A cabaret performance was in full swing and they were
half way through their meal when in a lull between num-
bers a voice said very distinctly in Scaynes' ears:
“The pearls. Take them to The Shadowers.”
The glass which he was lifting to his lips shook so that
the contents spurted out over his hand and as he set it
down he glanced nervously about and behind him. A very
much absorbed couple or two, an Army officer alone and
three elderly gentlemen were his only near neighbors. He
did not observe a tall, cadaverous individual seated with
his back to him just beyond the officer.
“Let’s get out of here!” he exclaimed savagely. “That
damned cabaret gets on my nerves.”
As the erstwhile Swami opened the studio door a quar-
ter of an hour later he paused and sniffed.
“Do you smell that?” he demanded.
“Smell what?”
“Like joss sticks. Some one's been in here, Ralph. Some
one whose clothes are impregnated with the damned stuff.”
“Nonsense!” For all his long-practiced control of him-
self, Scaynes could not make his voice sound quite natural,
for he, too, detected that faint, spicy odor. “You’ve got
that Tuang Lung bunch on the brain!”
The other advanced into the studio and switched on the
light and after a minute Scaynes followed. As he crossed
the threshold a nasal voice rang through the room.


THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF 289
“Surrender the Burning Black Pearls to the brotherhood
of The Shadowers.”
“You heard that?” whispered Bert after a moment of
tense silence. “I told you some one was here!”
He cowered back against the wall, but Scaynes set his
jaw grimly.
“I’m going to search the place,” he declared.
He went from room to room of the apartment with which
the studio was connected, leaving no possible hiding-place
for a human body uninvestigated, but found no one.
“If we didn’t both imagine it, it is just some fool trick
of that ‘Shadowers’ bunch.” He shrugged. “They must
have gained entrance here during our absence and installed
some idiotic mechanical device.”
“We didn’t imagine it.” Bert pointed a shaking finger
at the opposite wall. “Look at that picture!”
Scaynes’ eyes followed the gesture and a smothered ex-
clamation escaped him. Where before had hung a plausible
imitation Corot there now appeared in the same frame a
soft-toned print of a quaint palace rising behind high walls.
“What is it?” faltered Bert. “It’s—it's Chinese, isn’t
it?”
“It is the imperial palace in the Forbidden City, in Pek-
ing,” responded Scaynes through set teeth. “— —
those Shadowers l”
He sprang across the room and in an unprecedented out-
burst of fury he tore the print from the frame. There be-
neath it was another: a life-sized photograph of the head
of Prince Ching.
With a savage mutter he tore that out also and the blank


THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF 291
Scaynes shrugged again.
“More tricks,” he said contemptuously. “I don’t know
what this Bill Saunders phase of your existence was, and
you aren’t likely to tell me, but don’t let them get your
nerve. Remember, you're in this with me to stay! Get
that? If you try to back out now or double-cross me you
know the consequences!”
“Not for a paltry fifty thousand I’m not!” the other
cried with sudden fury. “My life's worth more than that
to me! I'll put myself under the protection of the bulls
first! They’re white men at least, not yellow, and I’d
rather do a stretch or two for past performances in a safe
jail than have my throat slit!”
Scaynes scrutinized his partner's desperate face, saw that
he meant what he said and capitulated.
“A hundred thousand then, and that's final. I tell you,
it's nothing but that cheap gang of amateurs and they prob-
ably will keep it up in one form or another until they’ve
finally satisfied themselves that it won’t work. A hundred
thousand and you stick to the finish !”
How long Scaynes slept that night he did not know. He
only realized that he found himself sitting bolt upright in
bed in the darkness and that somewhere a bell was tolling
faintly, musically. He had not heard one like it for more
than a year, and the goose-flesh rose upon him. It was a
temple bell!
It ceased, and suddenly upon the ensuing silence, so close
to him that involuntarily he cowered back, a voice breathed:
“Take the pearls to The Shadowers or the vengeance of
the East will be upon you!”
He sprang up, switched on the light and searched every


292 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
inch of the room, but no trace of any mechanical device
rewarded him, and finally he returned to bed to lie wide-
eyed until the dawn.
With the morning, Bert's courage seemed to have re-
turned. Scaynes, shaving in the bathroom, could hear him
whistling cheerfully as he prepared the coffee in the per-
colator, and he scowled. His hand wasn’t quite steady;
twice he had nicked his chin rather badly-
“Take the pearls to The Shadowers before the rise of
three more suns.”
The solemn voice came from just behind him, just over
his shoulder, and the razor slipped, once more cutting a
deep gash in his cheek. He dropped it and wheeled about,
but no one was there, nor was there a break in the solid
tiling of the wall where an instrument could have been
concealed. He sat down weakly on the edge of the tub, a
towel pressed to his bleeding cheek. He knew that The
Shadowers had established relations with the Chinese Em-
bassy in Washington. Was he one man against not six
others, but against that sleeping giant of a nation?
“Say, you're all shot to pieces!” Bert remarked consol-
ingly at the breakfast table. “What have you done to your
face? I’ve got all over my funk; if we are just bucking
that bunch of would-be dicks let ’em bring on all the tricks
they have got in their box! What's your trouble?”
“N-nothing.” Scaynes' teeth chattered as he spoke.
“Well, you’ll never be able to pull yourself together at
this rate. I know you hate it, but you'd better let me give
you a shot of dope just this once. You ought to see your-
Self l’”
Scaynes submitted, and Bert had hardly put his hypoder-


THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF 293
mic away when the telephone rang. This time it was
Scaynes who slumped and Bert who replied to it.
“Mr. Scaynes?” He used the rolling, unctuous tones he
reserved for his clients. “Just a moment, Miss Punder-
ford.”
“It's really she?” Scaynes demanded. “You know her
voice; it isn’t a trick?”
“It’s the little lady all right,” Bert responded in a stage
whisper.
Reluctantly Scaynes dragged himself to the 'phone, but
returned with a faint trace of a smile.
“She is coming down for me with the car in an hour,”
he announced. “Worried about her father. Wants me to
take a little drive with her and give her some advice.”
Several letters lay beside his plate, and still smiling he
picked up the topmost one. It was addressed in a negligible
hand and he slit the envelope carelessly and pulled out the
single sheet of paper it contained. Gradually his smile
faded and he sat staring at it with darkening eyes. It was
covered with Chinese characters and its portent was that
of the verbal warnings ending with a threat truly Oriental
in its subtlely fiendish suggestion. He tore it in small pieces
and sat for a long time gazing down at his untouched plate,
careless of his companion's curious scrutiny.
When he joined Mildred Punderford in her car an hour
later, however, there was no trace in his stately, calm
manner of the emotions which were consuming him. He
was again the absent-minded dreamer, the lofty soul apart
from material things, yet condescending to lend his services
to one upon a lower plane.
Yet material things forced themselves upon him in a


294 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
most unexpected manner. They had reached a part of the
East Drive where the bridle-path ran close beside the road
and a man cantering easily along upon a superb horse
bowed impressively to Miss Punderford, who was on the
farther side of the car.
Without instructions the chauffeur slowed down and the
man—a distinguished-looking foreigner whom Scaynes had
never seen before—rode straight up to the side of the car
and bending from his saddle said rapidly in a low, meaning
tone :
“When are you going to obey the voices? It is your
only chance.”
Then, without waiting for a reply, he bowed again pro-
foundly to Miss Punderford and galloped swiftly away.
“Who was that man?” Scaynes asked hoarsely, his pose
for once forgotten.
“A friend of father's. He brought him to dinner once,
but I have forgotten his name.” She added curiously:
“What did he say to you, Mr. Scaynes?”
“He evidently took me for some one else,” Scaynes re-
sponded vaguely, but his mind was busy with a new and
startling train of thought. Did Punderford know? Had
he in some way gained immunity for his act of long ago
and was he in league with The Shadowers and those they
represented to recover the pearls? Had this drive been a
plant?
He possessed a key to the studio and on his return he
let himself in, supposing that the “Swami’s” morning classes
had commenced; but silence reigned throughout the place
and he peered curiously in at the studio door. Bert, clad in
his gorgeous robe and with the turban upon his head, lay


296 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
and yet the evidence that he had lay before him! No one
could imitate that hand; he had spent years in developing
its rounded, impressive flourishes. Yet he must believe it
an imitation or else madness indeed would come!
The seeming purposelessness of the forgery recurred
again and again to him as he disrobed the inert body of
the pseudo-Swami and put him to bed. There was nothing
to be done for him, he knew, save to wait until the coma
produced by the drug had worn off, and throughout the
long day as he sat beside the bed he pondered over the
message.
The telephone sounded repeatedly but he would not re-
ply, and twice the echo of those infernal temple bells rang
through the room, but he stopped his ears. In one moment
of weakness the idea of submission flashed across his brain,
but he put it determinedly from him. He would not be
thwarted now ! With vast riches within his grasp he would
not relinquish them because of this ingeniously maddening
persecution. His enemies were clever but they dared not
harm him or they would have made some attempt long ago.
They could only reach him in this way, and he had only to
fight off the mental pressure of suggestion.
Yet for all his sophistries, when evening came he realized
that he was on the verge of hysteria. He had passed a sleep-
less night, he had eaten nothing since the previous day
and the thought of hours of waiting beside that uncon-
scious form was more than he could endure.
He wanted lights, food, wine and the comforting presence
of careless, pleasure-seeking humanity all about him, close
to him, to drive this nightmare away. Swiftly, feverishly he
donned dinner clothes and rushing from the apartment as


THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF 299
seemed the dreariest patter imaginable, the songs tuneless,
and his sense of isolation grew.
The act was over at last, the lights went up and Scaynes
discovered to his surprise that the seat beside him was occu-
pied. His neighbor had slipped in so quietly that he had
been unaware of his coming, and involuntarily Scaynes
glanced at him. The man was in correct evening dress, but
his cheek bones were broad, his skin yellow and he returned
Scaynes' horrified stare with a quizzical light in his almond-
shaped eyes.
The rest of the evening was sheer torture. Scaynes
dared not leave, he dared not pass the Chinaman who
barred his way to the aisle. His very flesh crawled and
once when their elbows touched he cringed as if he had
received a blow.
After what seemed like countless ages the curtain fell at
last and he rose. Instead of preceding him the Chimaman
stood back to let him pass, and though he spoke no word his
eyes as Scaynes met them once again bore a warning and
an unmistakable threat beneath their courteous deprecation.
On reaching the studio he found Bert's condition un-
changed and dropped wearily into a chair by the bed. Sheer
exhaustion brought sleep to his eyes, but twice he was
awakened by the tinkling temple bells and once a warning
voice spoke to him in Chinese, but he flung himself on his
knees and buried his head in the bedclothes. If Bert would
only wake!
It was noon on the following day, however, before the
pseudo-Swami opened his eyes and fastened them in a dazed
fashion upon the wreck of a man beside him. As he did


302 THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF
maut, for I had no more. Believe this or not as you please.
Good-by, Bert.”
He stalked to the front door and as he closed it behind
him an echo of those temple bells seemed to ring mockingly
in his ears.
He avoided taxicabs and took a car downtown, thinking
fast. He would be safest in a large, crowded hotel where
he could lie low in his room for a few days and telephone
to Bert when the latter should have had time to think
things over. He could neither leave the pearls nor carry
them about with him; he was tied hand and foot until his
associate should come to his aid.
Entering the newest and most glittering of the city’s
huge caravansaries, he registered under an assumed name
and on reaching the room to which he had been assigned
flung himself across the bed. At least he could sleep
here; no devilish mechanical devices could call him from
his rest to sound that sinister warning in his ears. He
would have a respite, time to plan for his next move.
It was late afternoon when he awakened, normal and
refreshed, to look upon the situation from a sane point of
view. He ordered dinner and a sheaf of magazines and
spent a tranquil evening. What a fool he had been to
think for a minute of giving up the treasure and all that
he could negotiate it for ! He hadn’t heard those voices
in the taxi or the restaurants; that had been simply his
overwrought imagination. Somehow those Shadowers had
managed to gain entrance to the studio and rigged up some
concealed dictaphone arrangements while he and Bert were
out to dinner on Friday night, and again on the following
morning when they had drugged Bert. That was all there


THE MAN WHO CONVICTED HIMSELF 303
was about it. He was free here, they couldn’t reach him—
“One sun has set. Before two more, take the pearls to
The Shadowers.”
With a groan of utter despair he covered his face with
his hands. The voices had followed him even here! He
was lost!
:k 2k sk * >k *k >k
At ten the next morning the six Shadowers were gath-
ered in their office waiting in a strained silence for what
might eventuate. It was Lucian who spoke at last.
“You’re very sure, George, that he'll come through?”
George nodded solemnly.
“I’ve seen strong men broken in prison and I know. It
was lucky I could get the room next him at the hotel last
night, wasn’t it? I'll bet that was the first time ventrilo-
quism was ever practiced through a key-hole! The third
time I talked to him he was gibbering like an idiot, and
when I rung the temple bells in on him he went all to pieces
and cried.—What's that? Didn't I tell you?”
The door leading from the main hall had opened and
Ethel's voice was raised in query. Lucian listened for a
minute and then pressed a button quickly twice. The panel
opened and a man appeared upon the threshold. He was
tall and dark, but there his resemblance to the personage
whom George had interviewed on the previous Monday had
disappeared. His shoulders were bowed, his eyes sunken,
and the stateliness was gone from his manner as he moved
slowly forward and placed upon the table an open jewel-
case which contained a quaint stork made of solid pearls
with a rosy coral beak. Then, stooping, he set the bag
which he had carried upon the floor and opening it brought








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