AGO NY
COLUMN
EARL- DERR- BIGGERS








The Agony Column











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THE AGONY
COLUMN
by
EARL DERR BIGGERS
cAuthor of Seven Keys to Baldpate,
Love Insurance, etc.
Illustrated by
WILL GREFé
Indianapolis
The Bobbs-Merrill Company
Publishers


CopyRIGHT 1916
The Curris PUBLISHING Company
CopyRIGHT 1916
THE Bobbs-MERRILL Company
PRESS or
BRAJNworth & co.
Book MAnufacturers
BRooklyn, N. Y.


The Agony Column





The Agony Column
CHAPTER I
WO years ago, in July, London
was almost unbearably hot. It
seems, looking back, as though
the big baking city in those days was
meant to serve as an anteroom of torture
—an inadequate bit of preparation for the
hell that was soon to break in the guise of
the Great War. About the soda-water bar
in the drug store near the Hotel Cecil
many American tourists found solace in
the sirups and creams of home. Through
the open windows of the Piccadilly tea
shops you might catch glimpses of the
English consuming quarts of hot tea in
I


they swearby.
About nine o'clock on the morning of
Friday, July twenty-fourth, in that mem-
orable year nineteen hundred and four-
teen, Geoffrey West left his apartments
in Adelphi Terrace and set out for break-
fast at the Carlton. He had found the
breakfast room of that dignified hotel the
coolest in London, and through some
miracle, for the season had passed, straw-
berries might still be had there. As he
took his way through the crowded Strand,
surrounded on all sides by honest British
faces wet with honest British perspira-
tion he thought longingly of his rooms in
Washington Square, New York. For
West, despite the English sound of that
Geoffrey, was as American as Kansas, his
native state, and only pressing business


2


W was at that moment holding him in Eng- 6 º
land, far from the country that glowed
unusually rosy because of its remoteness.
At the Carlton news stand West
bought two morning papers—the Times
for study and the Mail for entertainment
—and then passed on into the restaurant.
His waiter—a tall soldierly Prussian,
more blond than West himself—saw him
coming and, with a nod and a mechanical
German smile, set out for the plate of
strawberries which he knew would be
the first thing desired by the American.
West seated himself at his usual table
and, spreading out the Daily Mail,
sought his favorite column. The first
item in that column brought a delighted
smile to his face:
“The one who calls me Dearest is not
genuine or they would write to me.”


3


Any one at all familiar with English &
journalism will recognize at once what §
department it was that appealed most to
West. During his three weeks in Lon-
don he had been following, with the keen-
est joy, the daily grist of Personal No-
tices in the Mail. This string of intimate
messages, popularly known as the Agony
Column, has long been an honored insti-
tution in the English press. In the days
of Sherlock Holmes it was in the Times
that it flourished, and many a criminal
was tracked to earth after he had inserted
Some alluring mysterious message in it.
Later the Telegraph gave it room; but,
with the advent of halfpenny journalism,
the simple souls moved en masse to the
Mail.
Tragedy and comedy mingle in the Ag-
ony Column. Erring ones are urged to


4.


always about that column.
So, while waiting for his strawberries,
he smiled over the ungrammatical out-
burst of the young lady who had come to
doubt the genuineness of him who called
her Dearest. He passed on to the second
item of the morning. Spoke one whose
heart had been completely conquered:
MY LADY sleeps. She of raven tresses.
Corner seat from Victoria, Wednesday
night. Carried program. Gentleman an-
swering inquiry desires acquaintance.
Reply here.—LE ROI.
West made a mental note to watch for
the reply of raven tresses. The next mes-
sage proved to be one of Aye's lyrics—
now almost a daily feature of the column:
DEAREST: Tender loving wishes to my
dear one. Only to be with you now and


6


W always. None “fairer in my eyes.” Your ſº
9 name is music to me. I love you more
than life itself, my own beautiful darling,
my proud sweetheart, my joy, my all!
Jealous of everybody. Kiss your dear
hands for me. Love you only. Thine
ever.—AYE.
Which, reflected West, was generous of
Aye—at ten cents a word—and in strik-
ing contrast to the penurious lover who
wrote, farther along in the column:
loveu dearly; wantocu; longing;
missu
But those extremely personal notices
ran not alone to love. Mystery, too, was
present, especially in the aquatic utter-
211CC :
DEFIANT MERMAID: Not mine. Alli-
gators bitingu now. 'Tis well; delighted.
—FIRST FISH.



7


&R) Column for the day, and West, like the
solid citizen he really was, took up the
Times to discover what might be the
morning's news. A great deal of space
was given to the appointment of a new
principal for Dulwich College. The af-
fairs of the heart, in which that charming
creature, Gabrielle Ray, was at the mo-
ment involved, likewise claimed atten-
tion. And in a quite unimportant corner,
in a most unimportant manner, it was re-
lated that Austria had sent an ultimatum
to Serbia. West had read part way
through this stupid little piece of news,
when suddenly the Thunderer and all its
works became an uninteresting blur.
A girl stood just inside the door of the
Carlton breakfast room.
Yes; he should have pondered that des-
patch from Vienna. But such a girl! It


9


ſº
º
º adds nothing at all to say that her hair
was a dull sort of gold; her eyes violet.
Many girls have been similarly blessed.
It was her manner; the sweet way she
looked with those violet eyes through a
battalion of head waiters and resplendent
managers; her air of being at home here
in the Carlton or anywhere else that fate
might drop her down. Unquestionably
she came from oversea—from the States.
She stepped forward into the restau-
rant. And now slipped also into view,
as part of the background for her, a mid-
dle-aged man, who wore the conventional
black of the statesman. He, too, bore the
American label unmistakably. Nearer
and nearer to West she drew, and he saw
that in her hand she carried a copy of the
Daily Mail.
West's waiter was a master of the art

IO


the people back in Texas that you showed
any interest in kings and such—if you will
show just a little. Otherwise I'll spread
the awful news that you took off your hat
when King George went by.”
The statesman smiled. West felt that
he, who had no business to, was smiling
with him.
The waiter returned, bringing grape-
fruit, and the strawberries West had or-
dered. Without another look toward
West, the girl put down her paper and
began her breakfasting. As often as he
dared, however, West looked at her.
With patriotic pride he told himself:
“Six months in Europe, and the most
beautiful thing I've seen comes from back
home!”
When he rose reluctantly twenty min-
“You’re a dear! I promise not to tell (º


I4.


Wutes later his two compatriots were still
at table, discussing their plans for the day.
As is usual in such cases, the girl ar-
ranged, the man agreed.
With one last glance in her direction,
West went out on the parched pavement
of Haymarket.
Slowly he walked back to his rooms.
Work was waiting there for him; but,
instead of getting down to it, he sat on
the balcony of his study, gazing out on
the courtyard that had been his chief rea-
son for selecting those apartments. Here,
in the heart of the city, was a bit of the
countryside transported—the green, trim,
neatly tailored countryside that is the
most satisfying thing in England. There
were walls on which the ivy climbed
high, narrow paths that ran between
blooming beds of flowers, and opposite


I5


W his windows a seldom-opened, most ro-
mantic gate. As he sat looking down he
seemed to see there below him the girl of
the Carlton. Now she sat on the rustic
bench; now she bent above the envious
flowers; now she stood at the gate that
opened out to a hot sudden bit of the city.
And as he watched her there in the gar-
den she would never enter, as he reflected
unhappily that probably he would see her
no more—the idea came to him.
At first he put it from him as absurd,
impossible. She was, to apply a fine word
much abused, a lady; he supposedly a
gentleman. Their sort did not do such
things. If he yielded to this temptation
she would be shocked, angry, and from
him would slip that one chance in a thou-
sand he had—the chance of meeting her
somewhere, some day.


I6


} And yet—and yet— She, too, had found 6.
the Agony Column entertaining and— tº
quite nice. There was a twinkle in her
eyes that bespoke a fondness for romance.
She was human, fun-loving—and, above
all, the joy of youth was in her heart.
Nonsense! West went inside and
walked the floor. The idea was prepos-
terous. Still—he smiled—it was filled
with amusing possibilities. Too bad he
must put it forever away and settle down
to this stupid work!
Forever away? Well—
On the next morning, which was Sat-
urday, West did not breakfast at the Carl-
ton. The girl, however, did. As she and
her father sat down the old man said:
“I see you've got your Daily Mail.”
“Of course!” she answered. “I couldn't
do without it. Grapefruit—yes.”


17


cheeks flushed and she put the paper
down.
“What is it?” asked the Texas states-
IIl 211.
“To-day,” she answered sternly, “you
do the British Museum. You've put it
off long enough.”
The old man sighed. Fortunately he
did not ask to see the Mail. If he had,
a quarter way down the column of per-
sonal notices he would have been enraged
—or perhaps only puzzled—to read:
CARLTON RESTAURANT: Nine A. M.,
Friday morning. Will the young woman
who preferred grapefruit to strawberries
permit the young man who had two plates
of the latter to say he will not rest until
he discovers some mutual friend, that they
may meet and laugh over this column to-
gether?
º
º
tº
ſº º
She began to read. Presently her º








18


strawberries that his nerve had failed him
and he was not present at the Carlton that
morning! He would have been quite
overcome to see the stern uncompromis-
ing look on the beautiful face of a lady
at her grapefruit. So overcome, in fact,
that he would probably have left the
room at once, and thus not seen the mis-
chievous smile that came in time to the
lady's face—not seen that she soon picked
up the paper again and read, with that
smile, to the end of the column.


CHAPTER II
HE next day was Sunday; hence
| it brought no Mail. Slowly it
dragged along. At a ridiculously
early hour Monday morning Geoffrey
West was on the street, seeking his favor-
ite newspaper. He found it, found the
Agony Column—and nothing else. Tues-
day morning again he rose early, still
hopeful. Then and there hope died. The
lady at the Carlton deigned no reply.
Well, he had lost, he told himself. He
had staked all on this one bold throw;
no use. Probably if she thought of him
at all it was to label him a cheap joker,
a mountebank of the halfpenny press.
Richly he deserved her scorn.
On Wednesday he slept late. He was
2O


QN in no haste to look into the Daily Mail; &
his disappointments of the previous days &
had been too keen. At last, while he was
shaving, he summoned Walters, the care-
taker of the building, and sent him out to
procure a certain morning paper.
Walters came back bearing rich treas-
ure, for in the Agony Column of that day
West, his face white with lather, read
joyously:
STRAWBERRY MAN: Only the grape-
fruit lady's kind heart and her great fond-
ness for mystery and romance move her
to answer. The strawberry-mad one may
write one letter a day for seven days—to
prove that he is an interesting person,
worth knowing. Then—we shall see.
Address: M. A. L., care Sadie Haight,
Carlton Hotel.
All day West walked on air, but with


2I


º
º
W.
§The Agony Columnà
&N) the evening came the problem of those %
letters, on which depended, he felt, his
entire future happiness. Returning from
dinner, he sat down at his desk near the
windows that looked out on his wonderful
courtyard. The weather was still torrid,
but with the night had come a breeze to
fan the hot cheek of London. It gently
stirred his curtains; rustled the papers on
his desk.
He considered. Should he at once
make known the eminently respectable
person he was, the hopelessly respectable
people he knew? Hardly! For then, on
the instant, like a bubble bursting, would
go for good all mystery and romance, and
the lady of the grapefruit would lose all
interest and listen to him no more. He
spoke solemnly to his rustling curtains.
“No,” he said. “We must have mys-
º
Aº º







22


&W) knew it immediately for what it was— ſº
the timid tentative clutch of a shy man
at the skirts of Romance in passing. Be-
lieve me, old Conservatism was with me
when I wrote that message. He was
fighting hard. He followed me, strug-
gling, shrieking, protesting, to the post
box itself. But I whipped him. Glory
bel I did for him.
We are young but once, I told him.
After that, what use to signal to Ro-
mance? The lady at least, I said, will
understand. He sneered at that. He
shook his silly gray head. I will admit
he had me worried. But now you have
justified my faith in you. Thank you a
million times for that!
Three weeks I have been in this huge,
ungainly, indifferent city, longing for the
States. Three weeks the Agony Column


24


|
º:
§
§§
#
has been my sole diversion. And then— (§
through the doorway of the Carlton res-
taurant—you came—
It is of myself that I must write, I
know. I will not, then, tell you what is
in my mind—the picture of you I carry.
It would mean little to you. Many Tex-
an gallants, no doubt, have told you the
same while the moon was bright above
you and the breeze was softly whispering
through the branches of the branches of
the-of the-
Confound it, I don’t know! I have
never been in Texas. It is a vice in me
I hope soon to correct. All day I in-
tended to look up Texas in the encyclo-
pedia. But all day I have dwelt in the
clouds. And there are no reference books
in the clouds.
Now I am down to earth in my quiet
ſ
º
§






25


&N study. Pens, ink and paper are before º
me. I must prove myself a person worth
knowing.
From his rooms, they say, you can tell
much about a man. But, alas! these peace-
ful rooms in Adelphi Terrace—I shall
not tell the number—were sublet fur-
nished. So if you could see me now you
would be judging me by the possessions
left behind by one Anthony Bartholo-
mew. There is much dust on them.
Judge neither Anthony nor me by that.
Judge rather Walters, the caretaker, who
lives in the basement with his gray-haired
wife. Walters was a gardener once, and
his whole life is wrapped up in the court-
yard on which my balcony looks down.
There he spends his time, while up above
the dust gathers in the corners—
Does this picture distress you, my lady?.



26


N You should see the courtyard! You &
would not blame Walters then. It is a &
sample of Paradise left at our door—that
courtyard. As English as a hedge, as
neat, as beautiful. London is a roar some-
where beyond; between our court and the
great city is a magic gate, forever closed.
It was the court that led me to take these
IOOInS.
And, since you are one who loves mys-
tery, I am going to relate to you the odd
chain of circumstances that brought me
here.
For the first link in that chain we must
go back to Interlaken. Have you been
there yet? A quiet little town, lying
beautiful between two shimmering lakes,
with the great Jungfrau itself for scenery.
From the dining-room of one lucky hotel
you may look up at dinner and watch the


27


É mountain. You would not say then of &
strawberries: “I hate them.” Or of any-
thing else in all the world.
A month ago I was in Interlaken. One
evening after dinner I strolled along the
main street, where all the hotels and shops
are drawn up at attention before the love-
ly mountain. In front of one of the shops
I saw a collection of walking sticks and,
since I needed one for climbing, I paused
to look them over. I had been at this
only a moment when a young Englishman
stepped up and also began examining the
sticks.
I had made a selection from the lot and
was turning away to find the shopkeeper,
when the Englishman spoke. He was
lean, distinguished-looking, though quite
young, and had that well-tubbed appear-
º
%
§



28


ºn-arº
º §
- Nº
ſº
jº
factor that has enabled the English to §§
assert their authority over colonies like
Egypt and India, where men are not so
thoroughly bathed.
“Er—if you'll pardon me, old chap,”
he said. “Not that stick—if you don't
mind my saying so. It's not tough enough
for mountain work. I would suggest—”
To say that I was astonished is putting
it mildly. If you know the English at
all, you know it is not their habit to ad-
dress strangers, even under the most press-
ing circumstances. Yet here was one of
that haughty race actually interfering in
my selection of a stick. I ended by buy-
ing the one he preferred, and he strolled
along with me in the direction of my ho-
tel, chatting meantime in a fashion far
from British.



29


&M tachment that Archie had formed forme? &
Why should he want to pass me along º
to his cousin at a time when that gentle-
man, back home after two years in India,
would be, no doubt, extremely busy? I
made up my mind I would not present
the letter, despite the fact that Archie had
with great persistence wrung from me a
promise to do so. I had met many Eng-
lish gentlemen, and I felt they were not
the sort—despite the example of Archie
—to take a wandering American to their
bosoms when he came with a mere letter.
By easy stages I came on to London.
Here I met a friend, just sailing for home,
who told me of some sad experiences he
had had with letters of introduction—of
the cold, fishy, “My-dear-fellow-why-
trouble-me-with-it?” stares that had
greeted their presentation. Good-heart-


32.


V ed men all, he said, but averse to stran-
gers; an ever-present trait in the English
—always excepting Archie.
So I put the letter to Captain Fraser-
Freer out of my mind. I had business ac-
quaintances here and a few English
friends, and I found these, as always,
courteous and charming. But it is to my
advantage to meet as many people as may
be, and after drifting about for a week I
set out one afternoon to call on my cap-
tain. I told myself that here was an Eng-
lishman who had perhaps thawed a bit in
the great oven of India. If not, no harm
would be done.
It was then that I came for the first
time to this house on Adelphi Terrace,
for it was the address Archie had given
me. Walters let me in, and I learned
from him that Captain Fraser-Freer had


33


º | wº SS
ſº
§§ not yet arrived from India. His rooms &
ſº were ready—he had kept them during his
- absence, as seems to be the custom over
here—and he was expected soon. Per-
haps—said Walters—his wife remem-
bered the date. He left me in the lower
hall while he went to ask her.
Waiting, I strolled to the rear of the
hall. And then, through an open window
that let in the summer, I saw for the first
time that courtyard which is my great
love in London — the old ivy-covered
walls of brick; the neat paths between the
blooming beds; the rustic seat; the magic
gate. It was incredible that just outside
lay the world's biggest city, with all its
poverty and wealth, its sorrows and joys,
its roar and rattle. Here was a garden for
Jane Austen to people with fine ladies






34


ºsºvº
ſº
ſº $º
time, the tread of his military boots. Now @
again my courage began to fail. I should
have preferred to leave Archie's letter
lying in my desk and know my neighbor
only by his tread above me. I felt that
perhaps I had been presumptuous in com-
ing to live in the same house with him.
But I had represented myself to Walters
as an acquaintance of the captain's and the
caretaker had lost no time in telling me
that “my friend” was safely home.
So one night, a week ago, I got up my
nerve and went to the captain's rooms. I
knocked. He called to me to enter and
I stood in his study, facing him. He was
a tall handsome man, fair-haired, mus-
tached—the very figure that you, my lady,
in your boarding-school days, would have






36


W wished him to be. His manner, I am {}
bound to admit, was not cordial.
“Captain,” I began, “I am very sorry to
intrude—” It wasn't the thing to say, of
course, but I was fussed. “However, I
happen to be a neighbor of yours, and I
have here a letter of introduction from
your cousin, Archibald Enwright. I met
him in Interlaken and we became very
good friends.”
“Indeed!” said the captain.
He held out his hand for the letter, as
though it were evidence at a court-mar-
tial. I passed it over, wishing I hadn't
come. He read it through. It was a long
letter, considering its nature. While I
waited, standing by his desk—he hadn't
asked me to sit down—I looked about the
room. It was much like my own study,



37


ſº The Agony Columnº
third floor it was farther from the garden,
consequently Walters reached there sel-
dom.
The captain turned back and began to
read the letter again. This was decidedly
embarrassing. Glancing down, I hap-
pened to see on his desk an odd knife,
which I fancy he had brought from India.
The blade was of steel, dangerously sharp,
the hilt of gold, carved to represent some
heathen figure.
Then the captain looked up from
Archie's letter and his cold gaze fell full
upon me.
“My dear fellow,” he said, “to the best
of my knowledge, I have no cousin
named Archibald Enwright.”
A pleasant situation, you must admit!
It's bad enough when you come to them




38








ºW with a letter from their mother, but here (§
flaunting in his face a warm note of com-
mendation from a cousin who did not
exist!
“I owe you an apology,” I said. I tried
to be as haughty as he, and fell short by
about two miles. “I brought the letter in
good faith.”
“No doubt of that,” he answered.
“Evidently it was given me by some
adventurer for purposes of his own,” I
went on; “though I am at a loss to guess
what they could have been.”
“I’m frightfully sorry—really,” said
he. But he said it with the London in-
flection, which plainly implies: “I’m
nothing of the sort.”
A painful pause. I felt that he ought to
give me back the letter; but he made no


39


ſº The Agony Columnſº
“Ah—er—good night,” said I, and hur-
ried toward the door.
“Good night,” he answered, and I left
him standing there with Archie's ac-
cursed letter in his hand.
That is the story of how I came to this
house in Adelphi Terrace. There is
mystery in it, you must admit, my lady.
Once or twice since that uncomfortable
call I have passed the captain on the
stairs; but the halls are very dark, and
for that I am grateful. I hear him often
above me; in fact, I hear him as I write
this.
Who was Archief What was the idea?
I wonder.
Ah, well, I have my garden, and for
that I am indebted to Archie the garru-










4O


murmur, and somehow across this baking
town a breeze has found its way. It whis-
pers over the green grass, in the ivy that
climbs my wall, in the soft murky folds
of my curtains. Whispers—what?
Whispers, perhaps, the dreams that go
with this, the first of my letters to you.
They are dreams that even I dare not
whisper yet.
And so—good night.
THE STRAWBERRY MAN.


W sisted on returning to the hotel for lunch-
eon, though, as her father pointed out,
they were far from the Carlton at the
time. Her journey was rewarded. Letter
number two was waiting; and as she read
she gasped.
DEAR LADY AT THE CARLTON: I am
writing this at three in the morning, with
London silent as the grave, beyond our
garden. That I am so late in getting to it
is not because I did not think of you all
day yesterday; not because I did not sit
down at my desk at seven last evening to
address you. Believe me, only the most
startling, the most appalling accident
could have held me up.
That most startling, most appalling ac-
cident has happened.
I am tempted to give you the news at



43


&R) once in one striking and terrible sentence.
And I could write that sentence. A trag-
edy, wrapped in mystery as impenetra-
ble as a London fog, has befallen our quiet
little house in Adelphi Terrace. In their
basement room the Walters family, sleep-
less, overwhelmed, sit silent; on the dark
stairs outside my door I hear at intervals
the tramp of men on unhappy missions—
But no; I must go back to the very start
of it all:
Last night I had an early dinner at
Simpson's, in the Strand—so early that I
was practically alone in the restaurant.
The letter I was about to write to you was
uppermost in my mind and, having
quickly dined, I hurried back to my
rooms. I remember clearly that, as I
stood in the street before our house fum-
bling for my keys, Big Ben on the Parlia-


44


&R) ment Buildings struck the hour of seven.
The chime of the great bell rang out in
our peaceful thoroughfare like a loud and
friendly greeting.
Gaining my study, I sat down at once
to write. Over my head I could hear
Captain Fraser-Freer moving about—at-
tiring himself, probably, for dinner. I
was thinking, with an amused smile, how
horrified he would be if he knew that the
crude American below him had dined at
the impossible hour of six, when suddenly
I heard, in that room above me, some
stranger talking in a harsh determined
tone. Then came the captain's answering
voice, calmer, more dignified. This con-
versation went along for some time, grow-
ing each moment more excited. Though
I could not distinguish a word of it, I had
the uncomfortable feeling that there was





45


with my composition of your letter, which
I regarded as most important, you may be
SUlſC.
At the end of five minutes of argument
there came the heavy thump-thump of
men struggling above me. It recalled my
college days, when we used to hear the
fellows in the room above us throwing
each other about in an excess of youth
and high spirits. But this seemed more
grim, more determined, and I did not like
it. However, I reflected that it was none
of my business. I tried to think about
my letter.
The struggle ended with a particularly
heavy thud that shook our ancient house
to its foundations. I sat listening, some-
how very much depressed. There was no

46


&W further sound. It was not entirely dark &
outside—the long twilight—and the fru-
gal Walters had not lighted the hall
lamps. Somebody was coming down the
stairs very quietly—but their creaking
betrayed him. I waited for him to pass
through the shaft of light that poured
from the door open at my back. At that
moment Fate intervened in the shape of
a breeze through my windows, the door
banged shut, and a heavy man rushed by
me in the darkness and ran down the
stairs. I knew he was heavy, because the
passageway was narrow and he had to
push me aside to get by. I heard him
swear beneath his breath.
Quickly I went to a hall window at the
far end that looked out on the street. But
the front door did not open; no one came
out. I was puzzled for a second; then I


47


{}The Agony Columnſ
'N reentered my room and hurried to my (§
balcony. I could make out the dim figure
of a man running through the garden at
the rear—that garden of which I have so
often spoken. He did not try to open the
gate; he climbed it, and so disappeared
from sight into the alley.
For a moment I considered. These
were odd actions, surely; but was it my
place to interfere? I remembered the
cold stare in the eyes of Captain Fraser-
Freer when I presented that letter. I saw
him standing motionless in his murky
study, as amiable as a statue. Would he
welcome an intrusion from me now?
Finally I made up my mind to forget
these things and went down to find Wal-
ters. He and his wife were eating their
dinner in the basement. I told him what
had happened. He said he had let no


48








clined to view my misgivings with a cold
British eye. However, I persuaded him
to go with me to the captain's rooms.
The captain's door was open. Remem-
bering that in England the way of the
intruder is hard, I ordered Walters to go
first. He stepped into the room, where
the gas flickered feebly in an aged chande-
lier.
“My God, sir!” said Walters, a servant
even now.
And at last I write that sentence: Cap-
tain Fraser-Freer of the Indian Army lay
dead on the floor, a smile that was almost
a sneer on his handsome English face!
The horror of it is strong with me now
as I sit in the silent morning in this room
of mine which is so like the one in which
the captain died. He had been stabbed


49


º
was of that odd Indian knife which I had
seen lying on his study table. I turned
quickly to seek it, but it was gone. And as
I looked at the table it came to me that
here in this dusty room there must be
finger prints—many finger prints.
The room was quite in order, despite
those sounds of struggle. One or two odd
matters met my eye. On the table stood a
box from a florist in Bond Street. The lid
had been removed and I saw that the box
contained a number of white asters. Be-
side the box lay a scarf-pin—an emerald
scarab. And not far from the captain's
body lay what is known—owing to the
German city where it is made—as a Hom-
burg hat.
I recalled that it is most important at
such times that nothing be disturbed, and
§§ just over the heart, and my first thought ſº
g






50


& I turned to old Walters. His face was like
this paper on which I write; his knees (
trembled beneath him.
“Walters,” said I, “we must leave
things just as they are until the police ar-
rive. Come with me while I notify Scot-
land Yard.”
“Very good, sir,” said Walters.
We went down then to the telephone in
the lower hall, and I called up the Yard.
I was told that an inspector would come
at once and I went back to my room to
wait for him.
You can well imagine the feelings that
were mine as I waited. Before this mys-
tery should be solved, I foresaw that I
might be involved to a degree that was
unpleasant if not dangerous. Walters
would remember that I first came here
as one acquainted with the captain. He


5 I


§The Agony Columnſ
§ § had noted, I felt sure, the lack of intimacy &
between the captain and myself, once the é
former arrived from India. He would
no doubt testify that I had been most anx-
ious to obtain lodgings in the same house
with Fraser-Freer. Then there was the
matter of my letter from Archie. I must
keep that secret, I felt sure. Lastly, there
was not a living soul to back me up in
my story of the quarrel that preceded the
captain's death, of the man who escaped
by way of the garden.
Alas, thought I, even the most stupid
policeman can not fail to look upon me
with the eye of suspicion!
In about twenty minutes three men ar-
rived from Scotland Yard. By that time
I had worked myself up into a state of
absurd nervousness. I heard Walters let
them in; heard them climb the stairs and




52


&R walk about in the room overhead. In a É
short time Walters knocked at my door (
and told me that Chief Inspector Bray
desired to speak to me. As I preceded
the servant up the stairs I felt toward him
as an accused murderer must feel toward
the witness who has it in his power to
swear his life away.
He was a big active man—Bray; blond
as are so many Englishmen. His every
move spoke efficiency. Trying to act as
unconcerned as an innocent man should—
but failing miserably, I fear—I related to
him my story of the voices, the struggle,
and the heavy man who had got by me in
the hall and later climbed our gate. He
listened without comment. At the end he
said:
“You were acquainted with the cap-
tain?”


53


“Slightly,” I told him. Archie's letter &
kept popping into my mind, frightening º
me. “I had just met him—that is all;
through a friend of his—Archibald En-
wright was the name.”
“Is Enwright in London to vouch for
you?”
“I’m afraid not. I last heard of him in
Interlaken.”
“Yes? How did you happen to take
rooms in this house?”
“The first time I called to see the cap-
tain he had not yet arrived from India. I
was looking for lodgings and I took a
great fancy to the garden here.”
It sounded silly, put like that. I wasn't
surprised that the inspector eyed me with
scorn. But I rather wished he hadn't.
Bray began to walk about the room,
ignoring me.


54


º
| gº
“No,” replied Bray sharply.
mind. I'll attend to it—”
There was a knock at the door. Bray
called “Come!” and a slender boy, frail
but with a military bearing, entered.
“Hello, Walters!” he said, smiling.
“What's up? I—”
He stopped suddenly as his eyes fell
upon the divan where Fraser-Freer lay.
In an instant he was at the dead man's
side.
“Stephen!” he cried in anguish.
“Who are you?” demanded the inspec-
tor—rather rudely, I thought.
“It's the captain's brother, sir,” put in
Walters. “Lieutenant Norman Fraser-
Freer, of the Royal Fusiliers.”
There fell a silence.
“A great calamity, sir—” began Wal-
ters to the boy.




56


Chief of the Special Branch at the Yard.
This is no ordinary murder. For reasons
I can not disclose—and, I may add, for
the best interests of the empire—news of
the captain's tragic death must be kept
for the present out of the newspapers. I
mean, of course, the manner of his going.
A mere death notice, you understand—
the inference being that it was a natural
taking off.”
“I understand,” said the lieutenant, as
one who knows more than he tells.
“Thank you,” said Bray. “I shall leave
you to attend to the matter, as far as your
family is concerned. You will take charge
of the body. As for the rest of you, I for-
bid you to mention this matter outside.”
And now Bray stood looking, with a
puzzled air, at me.


58


“You are an American?” he said, and I &
judged he did not care for Americans. ſ
“I am,” I told him.
“Know any one at your consulate?” he
demanded.
Thank heaven, I did! There is an un-
der-secretary there named Watson—I
went to college with him. I mentioned
him to Bray.
“Very good,” said the inspector. “You
are free to go. But you must understand
that you are an important witness in this
case, and if you attempt to leave London
you will be locked up.”
So I came back to my rooms, horribly
entangled in a mystery that is little to my
liking. I have been sitting here in my
study for some time, going over it again
and again. There have been many foot-
steps on the stairs, many voices in the hall.



59


Some captain. After all, he was a man;
his very tread on the floor above, which I
shall never hear again, told me that.
What does it all mean? Who was the
man in the hall, the man who had argued
so loudly, who had struck so surely with
that queer Indian knife? Where is the
knife now?
And, above all, what do the white asters
signify? And the scarab scarf-pin? And
that absurd Homburg hat?
Lady of the Carlton, you wanted mys-
tery. When I wrote that first letter to
you, little did I dream that I should soon
have it to give you in overwhelming
InCaSUITC.
And—believe me when I say it—
through all this your face has been con-

6o


§ stantly before me—your face as I saw it
that bright morning in the hotel breakfast
room. You have forgiven me, I know, for
the manner in which I addressed you. I
had seen your eyes and the temptation was
great—very great. -
It is dawn in the garden now and Lon-
don is beginning to stir. So this time it is
—good morning, my lady.
THE STRAWBERRY MAN.
º


formed; and the witty Irishman would
have been annoyed to see the scant atten-
tion one lovely young American in the
audience gave his lines. The American in
question retired at midnight, with eager
thoughts turned toward the morning.
And she was not disappointed. When
her maid, a stolid Englishwoman, ap-
peared at her bedside early Saturday she
carried a letter, which she handed over,
with the turned-up nose of one who aids
but does not approve. Quickly the girl
tore it open.
DEAR TEXAS LADY: I am writing this
late in the afternoon. The sun is casting
long black shadows on the garden lawn,
and the whole world is so bright and mat-
ter-of-fact I have to argue with myself to

63


ſº night through which I passed really hap- Q
pened.
The newspapers this morning helped to
make it all seem a dream; not a line—not
a word, that I can find. When I think of
America, and how by this time the re-
porters would be swarming through our
house if this thing had happened over
there, I am the more astonished. But
then, I know these English papers. The
great Joe Chamberlain died the other
night at ten, and it was noon the next day
when the first paper to carry the story
appeared—screaming loudly that it had
scored a beat. It had. Other lands, other
methods.
It was probably not difficult for Bray
to keep journalists such as these in the
dark. So their great ungainly sheets


64


unhappy position. I had not liked the
looks cast at me by Inspector Bray, or his
voice when he asked how I came to live
in this house. I told myself I should not
be safe until the real murderer of the poor
captain was found; and so I began to puz-
zle over the few clues in the case—espe-
cially over the asters, the scarab pin and
the Homburg hat.
It was then I remembered the four
copies of the Daily Mail that Bray had
casually thrown into the waste-basket as
of no interest. I had glanced over his
shoulder as he examined these papers, and
had seen that each of them was folded so
that our favorite department—the Agony
Column—was uppermost. It happened
I had in my desk copies of the Mail for
the past week. You will understand why.


66


I rose, found those papers, and began
to read. It was then that I made the as-
tounding discovery to which I have al-
luded.
For a time after making it I was dumb
with amazement, so that no course of ac-
tion came readily to mind. In the end I
decided that the thing for me to do was
to wait for Bray's return in the morning
and then point out to him the error he had
made in ignoring the Mail.
Bray came in about eight o'clock and a
few minutes later I heard another man
ascend the stairs. I was shaving at the
time, but I quickly completed the opera-
tion and, slipping on a bathrobe, hurried
up to the captain's rooms. The younger
brother had seen to the removal of the un-
fortunate man's body in the night, and,
aside from Bray and the stranger who had


67


WA) arrived almost simultaneously with him, ſº
there was no one but a sleepy-eyed con-
stable there.
Bray's greeting was decidedly grouchy.
The stranger, however—a tall bronzed
man—made himself known to me in the
most cordial manner. He told me he was
Colonel Hughes, a close friend of the
dead man; and that, unutterably shocked
and grieved, he had come to inquire
whether there was anything he might do.
“Inspector,” said I, “last night in this
room you held in your hand four copies
of the Daily Mail. You tossed them into
that basket as of no account. May I sug-
gest that you rescue those copies, as I have
a rather startling matter to make clear to
you?” Too grand an official to stoop to a
waste-basket, he nodded to the constable.
The latter brought the papers; and, se-


68


on the table. “The issue of July twenty-
seventh,” I said.
I pointed to an item half-way down the
column of Personal Notices. You your-
self, my lady, may read it there if you
happen to have saved a copy. It ran as
follows:
“RANGOON: The asters are in full
bloom in the garden at Canterbury. They
are very beautiful—especially the white
ones.”
Bray grunted, and opened his little
eyes. I took up the issue of the following
day—the twenty-eighth:
“RANGOON: We have been forced to sell
father's stick-pin—the emerald scarab he
brought home from Cairo.”
I had Bray's interest now. He leaned


69


W heavily toward me, puffing. Greatly ex- º
cited, I held before his eyes the issue of &
the twenty-ninth:
“RANGOON: Homburg hat gone for-
ever—caught by a breeze—into the
river.” -
“And finally,” said I to the inspector,
“the last message of all, in the issue of the
thirtieth of July—on sale in the streets
some twelve hours before Fraser-Freer
was murdered. Seel”
“RANGOON: To-night at ten. Regent
Street.—Y. O. G.”
Bray was silent.
“I take it you are aware, Inspector,” I
said, “that for the past two years Captain
Fraser-Freer was stationed at Rangoon.”
Still he said nothing; just looked at me
with those foxy little eyes that I was com-
ing to detest. At last he spoke sharply:




7O -


“Just how,” he demanded, “did you
happen to discover those messages? You
were not in this room last night after I
left?” He turned angrily to the consta-
ble. “I gave orders—”
“No,” I put in; “I was not in this room.
I happened to have on file in my rooms
copies of the Mail, and by the merest
chance—”
I saw that I had blundered. Undoubt-
edly my discovery of those messages was
too pat. Once again suspicion looked my
way.
“Thank you very much,” said Bray.
“I’ll keep this in mind.”
“Have you communicated with my
friend at the consulate?” I asked.
“Yes. That's all. Good morning.”
So I went.
I had been back in my room some


71


º'The Agony Column
º:
º twenty minutes when there came a knock
% on the door, and Colonel Hughes entered.
He was a genial man, in the early forties
I should say, tanned by some sun not Eng-
lish, and gray at the temples.
“My dear sir,” he said without pre-
amble, “this is a most appalling business!”
“Decidedly,” I answered. “Will you
sit down?”
“Thank you.” He sat and gazed
frankly into my eyes. “Policemen,” he
added meaningly, “are a most suspicious
tribe—often without reason. I am sorry
you happen to be involved in this affair,
for I may say that I fancy you to be ex-
actly what you seem. May I add that, if
you should ever need a friend, I am at
your service?”
I was touched; I thanked him as best
I could. His tone was so sympathetic and











72


|
º
§
§
kindly, and, above all, so sincere, that be-
fore I realized it I was telling him the
whole story—of Archie and his letter; of
my falling in love with a garden; of the
startling discovery that the captain had
never heard of his cousin; and of my sub-
sequent unpleasant position. He leaned
back in his chair and closed his eyes.
“I suppose,” he said, “that no man ever
carries an unsealed letter of introduction
without opening it to read just what
praises have been lavished upon him. It
is human nature—I have done it often.
May I make so bold as to inquire—”
“Yes,” said I. “It was unsealed and I
did read it. Considering its purpose, it
struck me as rather long. There were
many warm words for me—words beyond
all reason in view of my brief acquaint-
ance with Enwright. I also recall that he








73


&M mentioned how long he had been in Inter- (§
laken, and that he said he expected to 6
reach London about the first of August.”
“The first of August,” repeated the
colonel. “That is to-morrow. Now—if
you'll be so kind—just what happened
last night?”
Again I ran over the events of that
tragic evening—the quarrel; the heavy
figure in the hall; the escape by way of the
seldom-used gate.
“My boy,” said Colonel Hughes as he
rose to go, “the threads of this tragedy
stretch far—some of them to India; some
to a country I will not name. I may say
frankly that I have other and greater in-
terest in the matter than that of the cap-
tain's friend. For the present that is in
strict confidence between us; the police
are well-meaning, but they sometimes


74


&N blunder. Did I understand you to say %
that you have copies of the Mail contain- (
ing those odd messages?”
“Right here in my desk,” said I. I got
them for him.
“I think I shall take them—if I may,”
he said. “You will, of course, not men-
tion this little visit of mine. We shall
meet again. Good morning.”
And he went away, carrying those pa-
pers with their strange signals to Ran-
goon.
Somehow I feel wonderfully cheered
by his call. For the first time since seven
last evening I begin to breathe freely
again.
And so, lady who likes mystery, the
matter stands on the afternoon of the last
day of July, nineteen hundred and four-
teen.

75


I shall mail you this letter to-night.
is my third to you, and it carries with it (º
three times the dreams that went with the
first; for they are dreams that live not
only at night, when the moon is on the
courtyard, but also in the bright light of
day.
Yes—I am remarkably cheered. I re-
alize that I have not eaten at all—save a
cup of coffee from the trembling hand of
Walters—since last night, at Simpson's.
I am going now to dine. I shall begin
with grapefruit. I realize that I am Sud-
denly very fond of grapefruit.
How bromidic to note it—we have
many tastes in commonl
EX-STRAWBERRY MAN.
The third letter from her correspond-
ent of the Agony Column increased in the
mind of the lovely young woman at the


76








º
second had created. For a long time, on
the Saturday morning of its receipt, she
sat in her room puzzling over the mys-
tery of the house in Adelphi Terrace.
When first she had heard that Captain
Fraser-Freer, of the Indian Army, was
dead of a knife wound over the heart, the
news had shocked her like that of the loss
of some old and dear friend. She had de-
sired passionately the apprehension of his
murderer, and had turned over and over
in her mind the possibilities of white as-
ters, a scarab pin and a Homburg hat.
Perhaps the girl longed for the arrest
of the guilty man thus keenly because this
jaunty young friend of hers—a friend
whose name she did not know—to whom,
indeed, she had never spoken—was so
dangerously entangled in the affair. For,
ſa
W Carlton the excitement and tension the 6:




77


&N from what she knew of Geoffrey West,
from her casual glance in the restaurant
and, far more, from his letters, she liked
him extremely.
And now came his third letter, in which
he related the connection of that hat, that
pin and those asters with the column in
the Mail which had first brought them to-
gether. As it happened, she, too, had
copies of the paper for the first four days
of the week. She went to her sitting-
room, unearthed these copies, and—
gasped l For from the column in Mon-
day's paper stared up at her the cryptic
words to Rangoon concerning asters in a
garden at Canterbury. In the other three
issues as well, she found the identical mes-
sages her strawberry man had quoted.
She sat for a moment in deep thought;
sat, in fact, until at her door came the en-


78


§§WS
&R) raged knocking of a hungry parent who
had been waiting a full hour in the lobby
below for her to join him at breakfast.
“Come, come!” boomed her father, en-
tering at her invitation. “Don’t sit here
all day mooning. I'm hungry if you're
not.”
With quick apologies she made ready
to accompany him down-stairs. Firmly,
as she planned their campaign for the
day, she resolved to put from her mind all
thought of Adelphi Terrace. How well
she succeeded may be judged from a
speech made by her father that night just
before dinner:
“Have you lost your tongue, Marian?
You're as uncommunicative as a newly-
elected office-holder. If you can't get a
little more life into these expeditions of
ours we'll pack up and head for home.”


79


She smiled, patted his shoulder and
promised to improve. But he appeared
to be in a gloomy mood.
“I believe we ought to go, anyhow,” he
went on. “In my opinion this war is go-
ing to spread like a prairie fire. The
Kaiser got back to Berlin yesterday.
He'll sign the mobilization orders to-day
as sure as fate. For the past week, on the
Berlin Bourse, Canadian Pacific stock has
been dropping. That means they expect
England to come in.”
He gazed darkly into the future. It
may seem that, for an American states-
man, he had an unusual grasp of Euro-
pean politics. This is easily explained by
the fact that he had been talking with the
bootblack at the Carlton Hotel.
“Yes,” he said with sudden decision,
“I’ll go down to the steamship offices
early Monday morning—”


8O


CHAPTER V.
IS daughter heard these words
H with a sinking heart. She had a
most unhappy picture of her-
self boarding a ship and sailing out of
Liverpool or Southampton, leaving the
mystery that so engrossed her thoughts
forever unsolved. Wisely she diverted
her father's thoughts toward the question
of food. She had heard, she said, that
Simpson's, in the Strand, was an excellent
place to dine. They would go there, and
walk. She suggested a short detour that
would carry them through Adelphi Ter-
race. It seemed she had always wanted
to see Adelphi Terrace.
81


As they passed through that silent street (§
she sought to guess, from an inspection AV.
of the grim forbidding house fronts, back
of which lay the lovely garden, the ro-
mantic mystery. But the houses were so
very much like one another. Before one
of them, she noted, a taxi waited.
After dinner her father pleaded for a
music-hall as against what he called
“some highfaluting, teacup English
play.” He won. Late that night, as they
rode back to the Carlton, special editions
were being proclaimed in the streets.
Germany was mobilizing!
The girl from Texas retired, wonder-
ing what epistolary surprise the morning
would bring forth. It brought forth this:
DEAR DAUGHTER OF THE SENATE: Or
is it Congress? I could not quite decide.
But surely in one or the other of those


82


- -





§§ day, the first of August dawned, and still (§
} all was quiet. Indeed, it was not until ®
this evening that further developments in
the sudden death of Captain Fraser-Freer
arrived to disturb me. These develop-
ments are strange ones surely, and I shall
hasten to relate them.
I dined to-night at a little place in
Soho. My waiter was Italian, and on him
I amused myself with the Italian in Ten
Lessons of which I am foolishly proud.
We talked of Fiesole, where he had lived.
Once I rode from Fiesole down the hill to
Florence in the moonlight. I remember
endless walls on which hung roses, fresh
and blooming. I remember a gaunt nun-
nery and two-gray-robed sisters clang-
ing shut the gates. I remember the
searchlight from the military encamp-
ment, playing constantly over the Arno


85


flowers nodding above me, stooping now
and then to brush my face. I came to
think that at the end Paradise, and not a
second-rate hotel, was waiting. One may
still take that ride, I fancy. Some day—
Some day—
I dined in Soho. I came back to Adel-
phi Terrace in the hot, reeking August
dusk, reflecting that the mystery in which
I was involved was, after a fashion, stand-
ing still. In front of our house I noticed
a taxi waiting. I thought nothing of it as
I entered the murky hallway and climbed
the familiar stairs.
My door stood open. It was dark in
my study, save for the reflection of the
lights of London outside. As I crossed
in Europe, never closes. And always the @


86


the faint sweet perfume of lilacs. There
are no lilacs in our garden, and if there
were it is not the season. No, this per-
fume had been brought there by a woman
—a woman who sat at my desk and raised
her head as I entered.
“You will pardon this intrusion,” she
said in the correct careful English of one
who has learned the speech from a book.
“I have come for a brief word with you—
then I shall go.”
I could think of nothing to say. I stood
gaping like a schoolboy.
“My word,” the woman went on, “is in
the nature of advice. We do not always
like those who give us advice. None the
less, I trust that you will listen.”
I found my tongue then.


87


) “I am listening,” I said stupidly. “But
first—a light—” And I moved toward
the matches on the mantelpiece.
Quickly the woman rose and faced me.
I saw then that she wore a veil—not a
heavy veil, but a fluffy, attractive thing
that was yet sufficient to screen her fea-
tures from me.
“I beg of you,” she cried, “no light
And as I paused, undecided, she added,
in a tone which suggested lips that pout:
“It is such a little thing to ask—surely you
will not refuse.”
I suppose I should have insisted. But
her voice was charming, her manner per-
fect, and that odor of lilacs reminiscent
of a garden I knew long ago, at home.
“Very well,” said I.
“Oh—I am grateful to you,” she an-
swered. Her tone changed. “I under-
p



88


&W stand that, shortly after seven o'clock last
Thursday evening, you heard in the room
above you the sounds of a struggle. Such
has been your testimony to the police?”
“It has,” said I.
“Are you quite certain as to the hour?”
I felt that she was smiling at me. “Might
it not have been later—or earlier?”
“I am sure it was just after seven,” I
replied. “I’ll tell you why: I had just
returned from dinner and while I was un-
locking the door Big Ben on the House
of Parliament struck—”
She raised her hand.
“No matter,” she said, and there was a
touch of iron in her voice. “You are no
longer sure of that. Thinking it over,
you have come to the conclusion that it
may have been barely six-thirty when you
heard the noise of a struggle.”


89


“Indeed?” said I. I tried to sound sar-
castic, but I was really too astonished by
her tone.
“Yes—indeed!” she replied. “That is
what you will tell Inspector Bray when
next you see him. “It may have been six-
thirty,’ you will tell him. “I have thought
it over and I am not certain.’”
“Even for a very charming lady,” I
said, “I can not misrepresent the facts
in a matter so important. It was after
seven—”
“I am not asking you to do a favor for
a lady,” she replied. “I am asking you to
do a favor for yourself. If you refuse the
consequences may be most unpleasant.”
“I’m rather at a loss—” I began.
She was silent for a moment. Then she
turned and I felt her looking at me
through the veil.


90


demanded. My heart sank. I recog-
nized the weapon in her hands. “The
police,” she went on, “do not yet know
that the letter of introduction you brought
to the captain was signed by a man who
addressed Fraser-Freer as Dear Cousin,
but who is completely unknown to the
family. Once that information reaches
Scotland Yard, your chance of escaping
arrest is slim.
“They may not be able to fasten this
crime upon you, but there will be compli-
cations most distasteful. One's liberty is
well worth keeping—and then, too, be-
fore the case ends, there will be wide pub-
licity—”
“Well?” said I.
“That is why you are going to suffer a
lapse of memory in the matter of the hour
“Who was Archibald Enwright?” she º s



9I


ſº
W at which you heard that struggle. As you &
think it over, it is going to occur to you &
that it may have been six-thirty, not seven.
Otherwise—”
“Go on.”
“Otherwise the letter of introduction
you gave to the captain will be sent anon-
ymously to Inspector Bray.”
“You have that letter!” I cried.
“Not I,” she answered. “But it will be
sent to Bray. It will be pointed out to
him that you were posing under false col-
ors. You could not escape!”
I was most uncomfortable. The net of
suspicion seemed closing in about me.
But I was resentful, too, of the confidence
in this woman's voice.
“None the less,” said I, “I refuse to
change my testimony. The truth is the
truth—”








92


tºº
The woman had moved to the door. 6 s
She turned. ºn
“To-morrow,” she replied, “it is not
unlikely you will see Inspector Bray. As
I said, I came here to give you advice.
You had better take it. What does it mat-
ter—a half-hour this way or that? And
the difference is prison for you. Good
night.”
She was gone. I followed into the hall.
Below, in the street, I heard the rattle of
her taxi.
I went back into my room and sat down.
I was upset, and no mistake. Outside my
windows the continuous symphony of the
city played on—the busses, the trams, the
never-silent voices. I gazed out. What
a tremendous acreage of dank brick
houses and dank British souls! I felt hor-
ribly alone. I may add that I felt a bit










93


slowly closing in on me.
Who was this woman of mystery?
What place had she held in the life—and
perhaps in the death—of Captain Fraser-
Freer? Why should she come boldly to
my rooms to make her impossible de-
mand?
I resolved that, even at the risk of my
own comfort, I would stick to the truth.
And to that resolve I would have clung
had I not shortly received another visit—
this one far more inexplicable, far more
surprising, than the first.
It was about nine o'clock when Walters
tapped at my door and told me two gentle-
men wished to see me. A moment later
into my study walked Lieutenant Nor-
man Fraser-Freer and a fine old gentle-
man with a face that suggested some

94


W faded portrait hanging on an aristocrat's º
wall. I had never seen him before. ()
“I hope it is quite convenient for you to
see us,” said young Fraser-Freer.
I assured him that it was. The boy's
face was drawn and haggard; there was
terrible suffering in his eyes, yet about
him hung, like a halo, the glory of a great
resolution. *
“May I present my father?” he said.
“General Fraser-Freer, retired. We have
come on a matter of supreme impor-
tance—”
The old man muttered something I
could not catch. I could see that he had
been hard hit by the loss of his elder son.
I asked them to be seated; the general
complied, but the boy walked the floor in
a manner most distressing.
“I shall not be long,” he remarked.





95


QN) “Nor at a time like this is one in the mood &
to be diplomatic. I will only say, sir, that
we have come to ask of you a great—a
very great favor indeed. You may not see
fit to grant it. If that is the case we can
not well reproach you. But if you can—”
“It is a great favor, sir!” broke in the
general. “And I am in the odd position
where I do not know whether you will
serve me best by granting it or by refusing
to do so.”
“Father—please—if you don't mind—”
The boy's voice was kindly but deter-
mined. He turned to me.
“Sir—you have testified to the police
that it was a bit past seven when you
heard in the room above the sounds of
the struggle which—which— You un-
derstand.”
In view of the mission of the caller


96


QN) who had departed a scant hour previous- {
ly, the boy's question startled me.
“Such was my testimony,” I answered.
“It was the truth.”
“Naturally,” said Lieutenant Fraser-
Freer. “But—er—as a matter of fact, we
are here to ask that you alter your testi-
mony. Could you, as a favor to us who
have suffered so cruel a loss—a favor we
should never forget—could you not make
the hour of that struggle half after six?”
I was quite overwhelmed.
“Your—reasons?” I managed at last to
ask.
“I am not able to give them to you in
full,” the boy answered. “I can only say
this: It happens that at seven o'clock last
Thursday night I was dining with friends
at the Savoy—friends who would not be
likely to forget the occasion.”


97


The old general leaped to his feet. º
“Norman,” he cried, “I can not let you
do this thing! I simply will not—”
“Hush, father,” said the boy wearily.
“We have threshed it all out. You have
promised—”
The old man sank back into the chair
and buried his face in his hands.
“If you are willing to change your tes-
timony,” young Fraser-Freer went on to
me, “I shall at once confess to the police
that it was I who—who murdered my
brother. They suspect me. They know
that late last Thursday afternoon I pur-
chased a revolver, for which, they believe,
at the last moment I substituted the knife.
They know that I was in debt to him;
that we had quarreled about money mat-
ters; that by his death I, and I alone,
could profit.” -


98


-------
//////）\，





pleading gesture I can never forget.
“Do this for me!” he cried. “Let me
confess! Let me end this whole horrible
business here and now.”
Surely no man had ever to answer such
an appeal before.
“Why?” I found myself saying, and
over and over I repeated it—“Why?
Why?”
The lieutenant faced me, and I hope
never again to see such a look in a man's
eyes.
“I loved him!” he cried. “That is
why. For his honor, for the honor of our
family, I am making this request of you.
Believe me, it is not easy. I can tell you
no more than that. You knew my
brother?”

99


“Slightly.” Fº
“Then, for his sake—do this thing I
ask.”
“But—murder—”
“You heard the sounds of a struggle.
I shall say that we quarreled—that I
struck in self-defense.” He turned to his
father. “It will mean only a few years
in prison—I can bear that!” he cried.
“For the honor of our name!”
The old man groaned, but did not raise
his head. The boy walked back and forth
over my faded carpet like a lion caged.
I stood wondering what answer I should
make.
“I know what you are thinking,” said
the lieutenant. “You can not credit your
ears. But you have heard correctly. And
now—as you might put it—it is up to
you. I have been in your country.” He


IOO


fuse a man when he is sore beset—as I
am.”
I looked from him to the general and
back again.
“I must think this over,” I answered,
my mind going at once to Colonel
Hughes. “Later—say to-morrow—you
shall have my decision.”
“To-morrow,” said the boy, “we shall
both be called before Inspector Bray. I
shall know your answer then—and I hope
with all my heart it will be yes.”
There were a few mumbled words of
farewell and he and the broken old man
went out. As soon as the street door
closed behind them I hurried to the tele-
phone and called a number Colonel
Hughes had given me. It was with a

IOI


Colonel Hughes smiled.
“It makes little difference what you
do,” he said. “Norman Fraser-Freer did
not kill his brother, and that will be
proved in due time.” He considered for
a moment. “Bray no doubt would be glad.
to have you alter your testimony, since he
is trying to fasten the crime on the young
lieutenant. On the whole, if I were you, I
think that when the opportunity comes
to-morrow I should humor the in-
spector.”
“You mean—tell him I am no longer
certain as to the hour of that struggle?”
“Precisely. I give you my word that
young Fraser-Freer will not be perma-
nently incriminated by such an act on
your part. And incidentally you will be
aiding me.”



IO3


3% ºxº
º Yº
} derstand this at all.”
“No–of course not. I wish I could
explain to you; but I can not. I will say
this—the death of Captain Fraser-Freer
is regarded as a most significant thing by
the War Office. Thus it happens that
two distinct hunts for his assassin are un-
der way—one conducted by Bray, the
other by me. Bray does not suspect that
I am working on the case and I want to
keep him in the dark as long as possible.
You may choose which of these investiga-
tions you wish to be identified with.”
“I think,” said I, “that I prefer you to
Bray.”
“Good boy!” he answered. “You have
not gone wrong. And you can do me a
service this evening, which is why I was
º:
Újº





IO4


&R) on the point of coming here, even before (;
you telephoned me. I take it that you {
remember and could identify the chap
who called himself Archibald Enwright
—the man who gave you that letter to
the captain?”
“I surely could,” said I.
“Then, if you can spare me an hour, get
your hat.”
And so it happens, lady of the Carlton,
that I have just been to Limehouse. You
do not know where Limehouse is and I
trust you never will. It is picturesque;
it is revolting; it is colorful and wicked.
The weird odors of it still fill my nostrils;
the sinister portrait of it is still before
my eyes. It is the Chinatown of London
—Limehouse. Down in the dregs of the
town—with West India Dock Road for
its spinal column—it lies, redolent of


IO5


The Agony Columnſ&
&N ways that are dark and tricks that are
vain. Not only the heathen Chinee so
peculiar shuffles through its dim-lit al-
leys, but the scum of the earth, of many
colors and of many climes. The Arab
and the Hindu, the Malayan and the Jap,
black men from the Congo and fair men
from Scandinavia—these you may meet
there—the outpourings of all the ships
that sail the Seven Seas. There many
drunken beasts, with their pay in their
pockets, seek each his favorite sin; and
for those who love most the opium, there
is, at all too regular intervals, the Sign of
the Open Lamp.
We went there, Colonel Hughes and
I. Up and down the narrow Causeway,
yellow at intervals with the light from
gloomy shops, dark mostly because of
tightly closed shutters through which




106


&N most unpleasant. A handsome young &
lieutenant has begged me to tell that N
same lie for the honor of his family, and
thus condemn him to certain arrest and
imprisonment. And I have been down
into hell to-night and seen Archibald En-
wright, of Interlaken, conniving with the
devil.
I presume I should go to bed; but I
know I can not sleep. To-morrow is to
be, beyond all question, a red-letter day
in the matter of the captain's murder.
And once again, against my will, I am
down to play a leading part.
The symphony of this great, gray, sad
city is a mere hum in the distance now,
for it is nearly midnight. I shall mail
this letter to you—post it, I should say,
since I am in London—and then I shall
wait in my dim rooms for the dawn. And



IO9


º The Agony Columnº
Hughes, or Limehouse and Enwright,
but often—oh, very often—of you.
In my last letter I scoffed at the idea
of a great war. But when we came back
from Limehouse to-night the papers told
us that the Kaiser had signed the order
to mobilize. Austria in; Serbia in; Ger-
many, Russia and France in. Hughes
tells me that England is shortly to fol-
low, and I suppose there is no doubt of
it. It is a frightful thing—this future
that looms before us; and I pray that for
you at least it may hold only happiness.
For, my lady, when I write good night,
I speak it aloud as I write; and there is
in my voice more than I dare tell you of
IlOW.
THE AGONY COLUMN MAN.






I IO


girl from Texas were the last words of
this letter, read in her room that Sunday
morning. But the lines predicting Eng-
land's early entrance into the war recalled
to her mind a most undesirable contin-
gency. On the previous night, when the
war extras came out confirming the fore-
cast of his favorite bootblack, her usually
calm father had shown signs of panic.
He was not a man slow to act. And she
knew that, putty though he was in her
hands in matters which he did not regard
as important, he could also be firm where
he thought firmness necessary. America
looked even better to him than usual, and
he had made up his mind to go there im-
mediately. There was no use in arguing
with him.
At this point came a knock at her door
Not unwelcome to the violet eyes of the @


I I I


&M and her father entered. One look at his @
face—red, perspiring and decidedly un- ( Ö
happy—served to cheer his daughter.
“Been down to the steamship offices,”
he panted, mopping his bald head.
“They're open to-day, just like it was a
week day—but they might as well be
closed. There's nothing doing. Every
boat's booked up to the rails; we can't get
out of here for two weeks—maybe more.”
“I’m sorry,” said his daughter.
“No, you ain't! You're delighted!
You think it's romantic to get caught like
this. Wish I had the enthusiasm of
youth.” He fanned himself with a news-
paper. “Lucky I went over to the express
office yesterday and loaded up on gold.
I reckon when the blow falls it'll be tol-
erable hard to cash checks in this man's
town.”


II 2


“That was a good idea.”
“Ready for breakfast?” he inquired.
“Quite ready,” she smiled.
They went below, she humming a song
from a revue, while he glared at her. She
was very glad they were to be in London
a little longer. She felt she could not go,
with that mystery still unsolved.


CHAPTER VI
T NHE last peace Sunday London
was to know in many weary
months went by, a tense and anx-
ious day. Early on Monday the fifth let-
ter from the young man of the Agony
Column arrived, and when the girl from
Texas read it she knew that under no cir-
cumstances could she leave London now,
It ran:
DEAR LADY FROM Home: I call you
that because the word home has for me,
this hot afternoon in London, about the
sweetest sound word ever had. I can see,
when I close my eyes, Broadway at mid-
day; Fifth Avenue, gay and colorful,
even with all the best people away;
I I4


s We o
*W Washington Square, cool under the trees,
lovely and desirable despite the presence
everywhere of alien neighbors from the
district to the South. I long for home
with an ardent longing; never was Lon-
don so cruel, so hopeless, so drab, in my
eyes. For, as I write this, a constable sits
at my elbow, and he and I are shortly to
start for Scotland Yard. I have been ar-
rested as a suspect in the case of Captain
Fraser-Freer's murder!
I predicted last night that this was to
be a red-letter day in the history of that
case, and I also saw myself an unwilling
actor in the drama. But little did I sus-
pect the series of astonishing events that
was to come with the morning; little did
I dream that the net I have been dreading
would to-day engulf me. I can scarcely
blame Inspector Bray for holding me;





II 5


“There is one detail to be cleared up,” ſº
he said. “You told me the other night
that it was shortly after seven o'clock
when you heard the sounds of struggle
in the room above you. You were some-
what excited at the time, and under sim-
ilar circumstances men have been known
to make mistakes. Have you considered
the matter since? Is it not possible that
you were in error in regard to the hour?”
I recalled Hughes' advice to humor the
inspector; and I said that, having thought
it over, I was not quite sure. It might
have been earlier than seven—say six-
thirty.
“Exactly,” said Bray. He seemed
rather pleased. “The natural stress of
the moment—I understand. Wilkinson,
bring in your prisoner.”
The constable addressed turned and


117


later with Lieutenant Norman Fraser-
Freer. The boy was pale; I could see at
a glance that he had not slept for several
nights.
“Lieutenant,” said Bray very sharply,
“will you tell me—is it true that your
brother, the late captain, had loaned you
a large sum of money a year or so ago?”
“Quite true,” answered the lieutenant
in a low voice.
“You and he had quarreled about the
amount of money you spent?”
“Yes.”
“By his death you became the sole heir
of your father, the general. Your posi-
tion with the money-lenders was quite al-
tered. Am I right?”
“I fancy so.”
“Last Thursday afternoon you went to


I 18


&M) the Army and Navy Stores and purchased (ft.
a revolver. You already had your serv- &
ice weapon, but to shoot a man with a
bullet from that would be to make the
hunt of the police for the murderer ab-
surdly simple.”
The boy made no answer.
“Let us suppose,” Bray went on, “that
last Thursday evening at half after six
you called on your brother in his rooms
at Adelphi Terrace. There was an argu-
ment about money. You became enraged.
You saw him and him alone between you
and the fortune you needed so badly.
Then—I am only supposing—you no-
ticed on his table an odd knife he had
brought from India—safer—more silent
—than a gun. You seized it—”
“Why suppose?” the boy broke in.
“I’m not trying to conceal anything.


I 19


º
*
y
ńº The Agony Column
º
º
`
“Certainly,” smiled Bray.
“When you were kind enough to let me
have two of your men this morning,” said
Hughes, “I told you I contemplated the
arrest of a lady. I have brought that lady
to Scotland Yard with me.” He stepped
to the door, opened it and beckoned. A
tall, blonde handsome woman of about
thirty-five entered; and instantly to my
nostrils came the pronounced odor of li-
lacs. “Allow me, Inspector,” went on the
colonel, “to introduce to you the Countess
Sophie de Graf, late of Berlin, late of
Delhi and Rangoon, now of 17 Leitrim
Grove, Battersea Park Road.”
The woman faced Bray; and there was
a terrified, hunted look in her eyes.
“You are the inspector?” she asked.
“I am,” said Bray.
“And a man—I can see that,” she went
ſº
ſº






I 22


§§ on, her eyes flashing angrily at Hughes. (;
“I appeal to you to protect me from the (\
brutal questioning of this—this fiend.”
“You are hardly complimentary, Count-
ess,” Hughes smiled. “But I am willing
to forgive you if you will tell the inspec-
tor the story that you have recently re-
lated to me.”
The woman shut her lips tightly and
for a long moment gazed into the eyes of
Inspector Bray.
“He”—she said at last, nodding in the
direction of Colonel Hughes—“he got it
out of me—how, I don’t know.”
“Got what out of you?” Bray's little
eyes were blinking.
“At six-thirty o’clock last Thursday
evening,” said the woman, “I went to the
rooms of Captain Fraser-Freer, in Adel-
phi Terrace. An argument arose. I


I23


&W had known the captain in Rangoon. My
husband was in business there—an ex-
porter of rice—and Captain Fraser-Freer
came often to our house. We—he was a
charming man, the captain—”
“Go on!” ordered Hughes.
“We fell desperately in love,” said the
countess. “When he returned to Eng-
land, though supposedly on a furlough,
he told me he would never return to Ran-
goon. He expected a transfer to Egypt.
So it was arranged that I should desert
my husband and follow on the next boat.
I did so—believing in the captain—
thinking he really cared for me—I gave
up everything for him. And then—”
Her voice broke and she took out a
handkerchief. Again that odor of lilacs
in the room.
“For a time I saw the captain often in


I 25


change. Back among his own kind, with
the lonely days in India a mere memory
—he seemed no longer to—to care for
me. Then—last Thursday morning—he
called on me to tell me that he was
through; that he would never see me
again—in fact, that he was to marry a
girl of his own people who had been wait-
ing—”
The woman looked piteously about at
US.
“I was desperate,” she pleaded. “I had
given up all that life held for me—given
it up for a man who now looked at me
coldly and spoke of marrying another.
Can you wonder that I went in the eve-
ning to his rooms—went to plead with
him—to beg, almost on my knees? It
W London; and then I began to notice a 6.


126


& was no use. He was done with me—he
said that over and over. Overwhelmed
with blind rage and despair, I snatched
up that knife from the table and plunged
it into his heart. At once I was filled with
remorse. I—”
“One moment,” broke in Hughes.
“You may keep the details of your sub-
sequent actions until later. I should like
to compliment you, Countess. You tell it
better each time.”
He came over and faced Bray. I
thought there was a distinct note of hos-
tility in his voice.
“Checkmate, Inspector!” he said.
Bray made no reply. He sat there
staring up at the colonel, his face turned
to Stone.
“The scarab pin,” went on Hughes, “is'

127


W less maze of mystery in which we were &
involved. The woman gave a little cry &
and Lieutenant Fraser-Freer leaped to
his feet.
“How the devil do you know that?”
he cried.
“I know it,” said Colonel Hughes, “be-
cause one of my men happened to be hav-
ing tea at a table near by. He happened
to be having tea there for the reason that
ever since the arrival of this lady in Lon-
don, at the request of er—friends in In-
dia, I have been keeping track of her
every move; just as I kept watch over
your late brother, the captain.”
Without a word Lieutenant Fraser-
Freer dropped into a chair and buried his
face in his hands.
“I’m sorry, my son,” said Hughes.
“Really, I am. You made a heroic effort




I29


'N to keep the facts from coming out—a
f) man's-size effort it was. But the War Of-
fice knew long before you did that your
brother had succumbed to this woman's
lure—that he was serving her and Berlin,
and not his own country, England.”
Fraser-Freer raised his head. When
he spoke there was in his voice an emo-
tion vastly more sincere than that which
had moved him when he made his absurd
confession.
“The game's up,” he said. “I have
done all I could. This will kill my fa-
ther, I am afraid. Ours has been an hon-
orable name, Colonel; you know that—a
long line of military men whose loyalty
to their country has never before been in
question. I thought my confession would
end the whole nasty business, that the in-
vestigations would stop, and that I might
§



130


horrible thing about him—about my
brother.”
Colonel Hughes laid his hand on the
boy's shoulder, and the latter went on:
“They reached me—those frightful in-
sinuations about Stephen—in a round-
about way; and when he came home from
India I resolved to watch him. I saw
him go often to the house of this woman.
I satisfied myself that she was the same
one involved in the stories coming from
Rangoon; then, under another name, I
managed to meet her. I hinted to her
that I myself was none too loyal; not com-
pletely, but to a limited extent, I won her
confidence. Gradually I became con-
vinced that my brother was indeed dis-
loyal to his country, to his name, to us
all. It was at that tea time you have men-
º





I31


ſº The Agony Column
ſº
tioned when I finally made up my mind. § §
I had already bought a revolver; and,
with it in my pocket, I went to the Savoy
for dinner.”
He rose and paced the floor.
“I left the Savoy early and went to
Stephen's rooms. I was resolved to have
it out with him, to put the matter to him
bluntly; and if he had no explanation to
give me I intended to kill him then and
there. So, you see, I was guilty in inten-
tion if not in reality. I entered his study.
It was filled with strangers. On his sofa I
saw my brother Stephen lying—stabbed
above the heart—dead!” There was a
moment's silence. “That is all,” said
Lieutenant Fraser-Freer.
“I take it,” said Hughes kindly, “that
we have finished with the lieutenant. Eh,
Inspector?”







I32


“Yes,” said Bray shortly.
go.”
“Thank you,” the boy answered. As
he went out he said brokenly to Hughes:
“I must find him—my father.”
Bray sat in his chair, staring hard
ahead, his jaw thrust out angrily. Sud-
denly he turned on Hughes.
“You don't play fair,” he said. “I
wasn't told anything of the status of the
captain at the War Office. This is all
news to me.”
“Very well,” smiled Hughes. “The
bet is off if you like.”
“No, by heaven!” Bray cried. “It's
still on, and I'll win it yet. A fine morn-
ing's work I suppose you think you've
done. But are we any nearer to finding
the murderer? Tell me that.”
“Only a bit nearer, at any rate,” re-


I33


() colonel's sudden turn against me or the
promise of his whisper in my ear. I shall,
no doubt, spend the night behind those
hideous, forbidding walls that your guide
has pointed out to you as New Scotland
Yard. And when I shall write again,
when I shall end this series of letters so
filled with—
The constable will not wait. He is as
impatient as a child. Surely he is lying
when he says I have kept him here an
hour.
Wherever I am, dear lady, whatever be
the end of this amazing tangle, you may
be sure the thought of you—
Confound the man!
YoURS, IN DURANCE WILE.
This fifth letter from the young man of
the Agony Column arrived at the Carlton


137


W same Congressman how she happened to §
know all about a crime that was as yet &
unmentioned in the newspapers.
So she reread the latter portion of the
fifth letter, which pictured her hero
marched off ingloriously to Scotland
Yard and with a worried little sigh, went
below to join her father.


CHAPTER VII
I. THE course of the morning she
made several mysterious inquiries of
her parent regarding nice points of
international law as it concerned murder,
and it is probable that he would have been
struck by the odd nature of these questions
had he not been unduly excited about an-
other matter.
“I tell you, we've got to get home!” he
announced gloomily. “The German
troops are ready at Aix-la-Chapelle for
an assault on Liège. Yes, sir—they're
going to strike through Belgium! Know
what that means? England in the war!
Labor troubles; suffragette troubles; civil
war in Ireland—these things will melt
I40


) “Provincial to the death!” she said
thoughtfully. “You old dear—I love you
sol Some of our statesmen over home are
going to look pretty foolish now in the
face of things they can't understand. I
hope you're not going to be one of them.”
“Twaddle!” he cried. “I’m going to
the steamship offices to-day and argue as
I never argued for a vote.”
His daughter saw that he was deter-
mined; and, wise from long experience,
she did not try to dissuade him.
London that hot Monday was a city
on the alert, a city of hearts heavy with
dread. The rumors in one special edi-
tion of the papers were denied in the
next and reaffirmed in the next. Men
who could look into the future walked
the streets with faces far from happy.
Unrest ruled the town. And it found its
%


I42


The Agony Column
Stº
§§
§
* Scotland Yard, a prisoner! She could &
% not leave if that were true—she simply N
could not. Almost she was on the point
of telling her father the story of the whole
affair, confident that she could soothe his
anger and enlist his aid. She decided to
wait until the next morning; and, if no
letter came then—
But on Tuesday morning a letter did
come and the beginning of it brought
pleasant news. The beginning—yes. But
the end! This was the letter:
º &
§
DEAR ANXIOUS LADY: Is it too much
for me to assume that you have been just
that, knowing as you did that I was locked
up for the murder of a captain in the In-
dian Army, with the evidence all against
me and hope a very still small voice in-
deed?




















I44


&N at the consulate, Watson, called on me late
in the evening; and he was very kind. But
there was a note lacking in his voice, and
after he was gone the terrible certainty
came into my mind—he believed that I
was guilty after all.
The night passed, and a goodly portion
of to-day went by—as the poets say—with
lagging feet. I thought of London, yel-
low in the sun. I thought of the Carlton
—I suppose there are no more strawber-
ries by this time. And my waiter—that
stiff-backed Prussian—is home in
Deutschland now, I presume, marching
with his regiment. I thought of you.
At three o'clock this afternoon they
came for me and I was led back to the
room belonging to Inspector Bray. When
I entered, however, the inspector was not
there—only Colonel Hughes, immaculate


146


in them; his little eyes were bloodshot.
But in those eyes there was a fire I shall
never forget. Hughes bowed.
“Good afternoon, Inspector,” he said.
“I’m really sorry I had to interrupt you
as I did; but I most awfully wanted you
to know that you owe me a Homburg
hat.” He went closer to the detective.
“You see, I have won that wager. I
have found the man who murdered Cap-
tain Fraser-Freer.”
Curiously enough, Bray said nothing.
He sat down at his desk and idly glanced
through the pile of mail that lay upon it.
Finally he looked up and said in a weary
tone :
“You’re very clever, I’m sure, Colonel
Hughes.”
His clothes looked as though he had slept º


I49


first. I am really very glad to have been
of service in the matter, for I am con-
vinced that if I had not taken part in the
search it would have gone hard with
some innocent man.”
Bray's big pudgy hands still played
idly with the mail on his desk. Hughes
Went On :
“Perhaps, as a clever detective, you will
be interested in the series of events which
enabled me to win that Homburg hat?
You have heard, no doubt, that the man I
have caught is Von der Herts—ten years
ago the best secret-service man in the em-
ploy of the Berlin government, but for
the past few years mysteriously missing
from our line of vision. We've been won-
dering about him—at the War Office.”

I 50


tain, too, in a general way, for I'm
ashamed to say I was not quite sure of
The colonel got up and walked to the
window; then turned and continued:
“Captain Fraser-Freer and Von der
Herts were completely unknown to each
other. The mails were barred as a means
of communication; but Fraser-Freer
knew that in some way word from the
master would reach him, and he had had
a tip to watch the personal column of the
Daily Mail. Now we have the explana-
tion of those four odd messages. From
that column the man from Rangoon
learned that he was to wear a white aster
in his button-hole, a scarab pin in his tie,
a Homburg hat on his head, and meet
Von der Herts at Ye Old Gambrinus Res-
the countess; and I kept track of the cap- (§


I 53


night at ten o'clock. As we know, he
made all arrangements to comply with
those directions. He made other arrange-
ments as well. Since it was out of the
question for him to come to Scotland
Yard, by skilful maneuvering he man-
aged to interview an inspector of police at
the Hotel Cecil. It was agreed that on
Thursday night Von der Herts would be
placed under arrest the moment he made
himself known to the captain.”
Hughes paused. Bray still idled with
his pile of letters, while the colonel re-
garded him gravely.
“Poor Fraser-Freer!” Hughes went on.
“Unfortunately for him, Von der Herts
knew almost as soon as did the inspector
that a plan was afoot to trap him. There
was but one course open to him: He lo-


I54


at seven that night, and killed a loyal and
brave Englishman where he stood.”
A tense silence filled the room. I sat
on the edge of my chair, wondering just
where all this unwinding of the tangle
was leading us.
“I had little, indeed, to work on,” went
on Hughes. “But I had this advantage:
The spy thought the police, and the police
alone, were seeking the murderer. He
was at no pains to throw me off his
track, because he did not suspect that I
was on it. For weeks my men had been
watching the countess. I had them con-
tinue to do so. I figured that sooner or
later Von der Herts would get in touch
with her. I was right. And when at last
I saw with my own eyes the man who
must, beyond all question, be Von der


I55


tor, I was overwhelmed.”
“Yes?” said Bray.
“I set to work then in earnest to connect
him with that night in Adelphi Terrace.
All the finger marks in the captain's study
were for some reason destroyed, but I
found others outside, in the dust on that
seldom-used gate which leads from the
garden. Without his knowing, I secured
from the man I suspected the imprint of
his right thumb. A comparison was
startling. Next I went down into Fleet
Street and luckily managed to get hold of
the typewritten copy sent to the Mail
bearing those four messages. I noticed
that in these the letter a was out of align-
ment. I maneuvered to get a letter writ-
ten on a typewriter belonging to my man.
The a was out of alignment. Then Archi-


156


º Von der Herts realized the danger he
% was in. I felt that if opportunity were
offered he would attempt to escape from
England; and then our proofs of his guilt
would be unanswerable, despite his clev-
erness. True enough, in the afternoon he
secured the release of the countess, and to-
gether they started for the Continent. I
was lucky enough to get him at Dover—
and glad to let the lady go on.”
And now, for the first time, the start-
ling truth struck me full in the face as
Hughes smiled down at his victim.
“Inspector Bray,” he said, “or Von der
Herts, as you choose, I arrest you on two
counts: First, as the head of the Wil-
helmstrasse spy system in England; sec-
ond, as the murderer of Captain Fraser-
Freer. And, if you will allow me, I wish
to compliment you on your efficiency.”


158


He bade me good-by in Trafalgar (, s
Square, saying that he must at once seek éº
out the father and brother of the late cap-
tain, and tell them the news—that their
kinsman was really loyal to his country.
“It will come to them as a ray of light
in the dark—my news,” he said. “And
now, thank you once again.”
We parted and I came back here to my
lodgings. The mystery is finally solved,
though in such a way it is difficult to be-
lieve that it was anything but a nightmare
at any time. But solved none the less; and
I should be at peace, except for one great
black fact that haunts me, will not let me
rest. I must tell you, dear lady— And
yet I fear it means the end of everything.
If only I can make you understand!
I have walked my floor, deep in
thought, in puzzlement, in indecision.


165


CHAPTER VIII
O BEGAN an anxious day, not only
for the girl from Texas but for all
London as well. Her father was
bursting with new diplomatic secrets re-
cently extracted from his bootblack ad-
viser. Later, in Washington, he was des-
tined to be a marked man because of his
grasp of the situation abroad. No one
suspected the bootblack, the power behind
the throne; but the gentleman from Texas
was destined to think of that able diplo-
mat many times, and to wish that he still
had him at his feet to advise him.
“War by midnight, sure!” he pro-
claimed on the morning of this fateful
Tuesday. “I tell you, Marian, we're
169


point out to you that he had offended me
in some way; if I could prove to you that
his death was necessary to me, as it really
was to Inspector Bray—then there might
be some hope of your ultimate pardon.
But, alas! he had been most kind to me—
kinder than I have allowed you to guess
from my letters. There was no actual
need to do away with him. Where shall
I look for a defense?
At the moment the only defense I can
think of is simply this—the captain knows
I killed him!
Even as I write this, I hear his footsteps
above me, as I heard them when I sat here
composing my first letter to you. He is
dressing for dinner. We are to dine to-
gether at Romano's.

172


very kind to me since I presented my let-
ter of introduction from his cousin, Arch-
ibald Enwright. Poor Archie! A meek,
correct little soul, who would be horrified
beyond expression if he knew that of him
I had made a spy and a frequenter of
Limehouse!
The dim beginnings of the plot were in
my mind when I wrote that first letter,
suggesting that all was not regular in the
matter of Archie's note of introduction.
Before I wrote my second, I knew that
nothing but the death of Fraser-Freer
would do me. I recalled that Indian
knife I had seen upon his desk, and from
that moment he was doomed. At that
time I had no idea how I should solve the
mystery. But I had read and wondered at

I75


&W and I was with him there. He had been 6:
so bully about it all! A chance remark (
of his gave me my solution. He said he
had it on good authority that the chief of
the Czar's bureau for capturing spies in
Russia was himself a spy. And so—why
not a spy in Scotland Yard?
I assure you, I am most contrite as I set
all this down here. You must remember
that when I began my story there was no
idea of war. Now all Europe is aflame;
and in the face of the great conflict, the
awful suffering to come, I and my little
plot begin to look—well, I fancy you
know just how we look.
Forgive me. I am afraid I can never
find the words to tell you how important
it seemed to interest you in my letters—
to make you feel that I am an entertain-
ing person worthy of your notice. That


177


§The Agony Columnſ:
And leaving her thus, let us go back to 6 §
Adelphi Terrace and a young man ex-
ceedingly worried.
Once he knew that his letter was de-
livered, Mr. Geoffrey West took his place
most humbly on the anxious seat. There
he writhed through the long hours of
Wednesday morning. Not to prolong
this painful picture, let us hasten to add
that at three o'clock that same afternoon
came a telegram that was to end suspense.
He tore it open and read:
STRAWBERRY MAN: I shall never,
never forgive you. But we are sailing to-
morrow on the Saronia. Were you think-
ing of going home soon?
MARIAN A. LARNED.
Thus it happened that, a few minutes
later, to the crowd of troubled Americans
in a certain steamship booking office there




181


ºfºrº
ºù4
§ § 2.
º
ASAE
At five o'clock on Thursday afternoon 6 §
the Saronia slipped smoothly away from
a Liverpool dock. Twenty-five hundred
Americans—about twice the number the
boat could comfortably carry—stood on
her decks and cheered. Some of those in
that crowd who had millions of money
were booked for the steerage. All of
them were destined to experience during
that crossing hunger, annoyance, discom-
fort. They were to be stepped on, sat on,
crowded and jostled. They suspected as
much when the boat left the dock. Yet.
they cheered!
Gayest among them was Geoffrey
West, triumphant amid the confusion.
He was safely aboard; the boat was on its
way! Little did it trouble him that he
went as a stowaway, since he had no
ticket; nothing but an overwhelming de-
The Agony Columnſ:
wº





184


-
-
º
-
--
-
º
º


any time! And, before I go down and &
beard a harsh-looking purser in his den, §
won't you believe me when I say I'm
deeply in love—”
“In love with mystery and romance! In
love with your own remarkable powers of
invention! Really, I can't take you seri-
ously—”
“Before this voyage is ended you'll
have to. I'll prove to you that I care. If
the purser lets me go free—”
“You have much to prove,” the girl
smiled. “To-morrow—when Mrs. Tom-
my Gray introduces us—I may accept you
—as a builder of plots. I happen to know
you are good. But—as— It's too sillyl Bet-
ter go and have it out with that purser.”
Reluctantly he went. In five minutes
he was back. The girl was still standing
by the rail.


I88


the suspicion of a hint, my dear—except (,
to tell you that—my answer will be—
yes.”
THE END


THE UNIVERSITY LIBRARY
UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA, SANTA CRUZ
This book is due on the last DATE stamped below.
DEC2 '84 A.
MAY 6'85
MAY 6 1985 RECT,
APR 15'91
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