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CONTENTS
. The Inventor’s Fireside
. Midnight Meditations
. The Making of Morrison’s Machine
. In the Guarded Room
. The Machine is Made
. The Last Straw
. Messengers of Sorrow
. \Vridsdale Decides for Evil
. Lucy’s Firm Conviction
Wridsdale’s Great Invention
Lucy Shows Herself a True Woman
Lucy Declares War
The Wedding Guest
PAGE
IS
29
43
57
71
35
100
I79
iii


iv
Contents
CHAR
XV.
XVI.
XVII.
XVIII.
XIX.
XX.
XXI.
XXII.
XXIII.
XXIV.
XXV.
Don Quixote of the Press
Stumpy Todd’s Conscience
Denounced .
The Aid of the Law
The Strength of the Crafty
Immured in a Living Tomb
Stumpy Todd Comes Back
Silenced
The Cloud Lifts
Wridsdale v. Cleaver
Stumpy Todd says Farewell

254
266
280
295
310
324
339


MORRISON’S MACHINE
<CHAPTERI
THE BIRTH OF A GREAT IDEA
THE workshop had closed its doors for the
day, and the whirring of its wheels and
throbbings of its engines had given place
to a profound silence. It was difficult to
realise that only ten minutes had elapsed
since the wheels had ceased to whirr and
the engines to throb, so quiet was the place
now that the last man had passed out on
his way to home and rest. In the vague
light of the March evening little could be
seen of the long, low shed in which so much
human labour had been uniting itself with
mechanical appliance during a day of toil,
but here and there the faint glow of a gas—
jet threw a wavering gleam over burnished
steel or shining brass, and showed that nothing
A


2 Morrison’s Machine
but dawn and the touch of a human hand on
valve or lever was needed to transform the
quiet scene into a picture of busy industry.
Under the arched roof, through the glass
slides of which one or two stars were already
beginning to shine, lay a potentiality as great
as that of an army which lies sleeping ere it
awakes in sudden response to the call to
arms.
It may be that some such thoughts as
these half formed themselves in Richard
Morrison’s brain as he sat in the dimly-
lighted counting-house of the workshop, wait-
ing a summons from the inner room, where his
employer, careless himself of how many hours he
laboured, still sat at his desk. Morrison had
come from the draughtsmen’s room on the
stroke of six, and had tapped, in obedience
to previous orders, at Mr Wridsdale’s private
door, only to be bidden to wait without. He
had sat down obediently to watch workpeople
pass out into the street, clerks close their desks
and go home, and in this way fifteen minutes
had passed, and still Mr Wridsdale did not
call him. Morrison made no complaint; he
sat facing the door which looked into the


The Birth of a Great Idea 3
workshop, his arms caressing a long roll of
papers as if it had been a baby, his eyes fixed
on a gas-jet burning dimly in the distance.
He knew that when the door of that inner
room opened, and the master’s voice called
him, he would experience a sudden throbbing
of the heart, a sudden shyness, a sudden feeling
of mental stupefaction that would make his
knees tremble under him and give his voice
a. curious shakiness. But he smiled as he
thought of these things, and his long, thin
fingers patted the roll of paper with a caressing
touch. He had that in his hands, he said to
himself, which would not only astonish Mr
Wridsdale, but make his own name known
the wide world over. He felt his heart leap
as he formed this last thought. It meant so
much—to him, to his sister Lucy, to Mr
Wridsdale, to the great captains of industry,
to the vast multitude of workers. And it was
all his—his—his idea, his notion, his darling
invention, the work of his own brain, the
result of his own labour, the thing on which
he had lavished love in the shape of long,
sleepless nights of work and thought. He
laughed softly and proudly as he thought of it,


4 Morrison’s Machine
laughed as a young mother laughs when she
sees her first-born stretch sturdy limbs in
promise of strength to come.
He began to think as the minutes passed
by of how the thing had come to be. He had
always been of an inventive turn of mind,
had made many useful and more useless things
as a lad, and had suffered in the flesh many
a time because of his irrepressible juvenile
habit of taking things to pieces for the express
purpose of putting them together again. It
was in the very nature of things that he should
find himself, almost as soon as he was in his
teens, an inmate of Mr Wridsdale’s workshop;
it was in the nature of things, too, that ere
he was out of his teens he knew everything
that could be learnt there, and had proved
himself a clever mechanic and a skilful
draughtsman. The old hands watched him
keenly, and wagged their heads as they saw -
him poke and potter and ponder until he had
solved some secret which had baffled him.
But as one secret had been solved after
another, there had come upon Morrison the
desire to invent, the burning fever of the true
inventor to fashion some great machine such


The Birth of a Great Idea 5
as the world had never known the like of,
some wonderful thing which should revolu-
tionise the conditions of trade and labour, and
after that his mind had never rested. He had
performed his duties with mechanical regu-
larity and efficiency, but the folk about him
saw a curious light at the back of his deep-
set eyes which astonished them. It was the
light seen in the eyes of a pilgrim who presses
forward, heeding nothing, to the longed-for
object of his devotion.
And for Morrison the shrine was at last
reached. The thing had been born within
him, the divine idea had passed from concep-
tion to generation, until on one memor-
able night, when his mind was sharpened by
long vigils, he had seen it through and through,
from first to last, and knew in the seeing it
that he had triumphed. The machine was to
Be—and it was to be His—the first great,
stalwart child of his brain. He had reeled
under the joy and the greatness of its promise
—and then he had set to work silently, strenu-
ously, to see it into the world. And at last
here it was on the rolls of paper which he held
in his arms—the diagrams and drawings, the


6 Morrison’s Machine
calculations and dimensions and figures which
represented, when they were all put together,
the perfect thing he had conceived.
Still the minutes passed and Morrison’s
thoughts transformed themselves into day-
dreams. Utterly ignorant of almost every side
of life though he was, he knew that money
is power. He had seen it proved that with
money a man may do great things; without it,
little. He knew that his invention meant the
possession of money to him—much money,
heaps of money, untold money. He began to
think of what he would do with that money.
Certainly he would build a workshop—a work-
shop in which the wonderful inventions that
he meant to devote his life to making should
be fashioned and perfected. It should be
stocked withevery appliance known to the age
—nobody should ever have seen anything like
it. He conjured up a picture of it in his mind’s
eye and saw the picture as plainly as if it
stood before his bodily vision. And he would
give much money to his sister, and she and
her sweetheart, George Broadclough, should
be married, and live in a good house——
‘ Come in, Morrison!’


The Birth of a Great Idea 7
He turned to find Mr Wridsdale holding
open the door of the inner room and speaking
in a rather tired, somewhat impatient manner.
The sudden feeling of nervousness which he
had anticipated came over him as he rose from
his seat and advanced into the room, but he
held his precious papers closely to him and
strove to be calm.
‘ I’m sorry to have kept you waiting so long,
Morrison,’ said the master, ‘but I’ve had so
much correspondence to attend to personally
that I really couldn’t help it. Sit down.’
‘I didn’t mind waiting, Mr Wridsdale,’ said
Morrison. ‘ 1—1 was quite comfortable.’
Wridsdale laughed. He was one of those
men who would have chafed to death under
half-an-hour’s forced inactivity, and he had
little regard for any man who could calmly
wait another’s pleasure without showing im-
patience.
‘Well?’ he said, pointing to the roll of
papers. ‘ I suppose you have something there
which you wish me to see? What is it this
time ?’
Morrison untied the roll of papers with
fingers which trembled somewhat. Now that


8 Morrison’s Machine
he was at last to speak of his invention to a
human being, to tell for the first time the
story of his two years' thought and labour, he
became suddenly aware that it was difficult to
find words in which to express all that he
wished to say. He glanced at Wridsdale with
an air of diffidence.
‘These—these,’ he began lamely, ‘these
are the drawings and plans, sir, of a—a
machine which I have invented.’
‘A machine, eh, Morrison? What sort of
machine ? ’
Morrison was still fumbling with the roll of
papers; his nervousness had increased. With
an effort he unrolled a large sheet of paper and
suddenly laid it open on the desk before his
employer. He tapped the drawing upon it
with a forefinger that trembled slightly.
‘That machine, Mr Wridsdale,’ he said
quietly. His confidence came back to him as
he looked at the pictured result of his long
labour, and he pulled himself together and held
his head up with some pride. ‘ T [mt machine,
sir,’ he repeated with emphasis.
The great machine-maker looked down at
the drawing before him, and a slight gasp


The Birth of a Great Idea 9
escaped his lips as he saw the words, written
with that scrupulous care which distinguished
all that Morrison ever did, beneath it. He
glanced up at his draughtsman’s face with eyes
that were half-astounded, half-incredulous,
‘Good God, man!’ he burst out. ‘ Do you
know what—what that means if you’ve really
done it? Do you know—do you realise?’
Morrison nodded his head slowly; his eyes
fixed themselves dreamily upon the drawing.
‘1 know, Mr Wridsdale. I realise—and
I’ve done it.’
‘You’ve done it ?—you! You mean that-—
that you’ve really made the machine—made
a machine that will revolutionise—’
The inventor raised his hand deprecatingly.
‘No, sir, no; that's what I came to you
about, if I may explain.’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Wridsdale, testily. ‘Yes,
explain.’
Morrison laid his hand on the rest of his
precious papers.
‘ That’s the finished drawing of the machine,
Mr Wridsdale,’ he said. ‘And these are the
details. If you’ll go through them carefully
with me, you’ll find that the thing is perfect-—


IO Morrison’s Machine
yes, perfect. I can swear to the perfection of
every detail, every movement. The machine
can be built from—'
‘Stop!’ said Wridsdale. He turned the
drawings over one by one, scrutinising each
rapidly, but with a thoroughness that bespoke
the intelligent examiner. ‘Now, Morrison,’
he said, ‘draw that chair up and go through
these things with me, point by point.’
Morrison obeyed with a glad heart. His
nervousness vanished. He knew that the
notion, the mere elementary notion, the almost
inchoate idea of the great machine had already
fastened itself upon his employer's mind, and
he knew the character of that mind sufficiently
to know that it never wasted a moment on
trifles, and that it now meant to have the initial
idea expanded into the perfect comprehension.
He bent over the papers lying on the desk
before Wridsdale, and began his explanation.
The clock on the mantelpiece of Wridsdale’s
room struck the hour twice, and still master
and man remained deeply engrossed in their
task—arguments, discussions, explanations fol-
lowing each other in continuous succession.
A watchful observer, had there been one there,


The Birth of a Great Idea I!
would have found a curious pleasure in watching
these two men. The machine-maker, nearly
middle-aged, somewhat tall and burly of figure,
well-dressed and appointed, formed a striking
contrast to the shabbily-attired, untidy, slight-
boned and shock-headed man standing at his
side. Not less striking was the contrast be-
tween the faces and movements of the two
men. The mass of unkempt black hair
tumbling in all directions over Morrison’s
head made his thin face look almost cadaverous ;
the fire in his eyes, as he talked with voluble
enthusiasm, gave him something of the air of
a prophet or a poet. Wridsdale’s florid, well-
fed countenance, on the other hand, displayed
nothing but the keen instincts of the self-
possessed man of business. There was
nothing of enthusiasm in his cold grey eye,
no desire of much speech in his firmly-cut
lips, but every look betrayed quick intelligence,
and every word he spoke was to the purpose.
He listened and heard and stored everything
in his brain as it came to his ears.
At last there was no more to be said. The
master rolled up the papers with a quick move—
ment of his fingers and rose from his seat.


12 Morrison’s Machine
He walked across the room with a rapid step,
then turned and faced the man.
‘ You have not mentioned this idea to a soul,
Morrison ?’ he said, coming to a standstill
before the inventor.
‘ Not to anyone, Mr Wridsdale—not even to
my sister. You’re the first man to hear of it.’
‘ Ah!’ Wridsdale breathed sharply. ‘ Well?’
he said questioningly, ‘and now, what do you
want to do ?’
‘ I want to make the machine,’ answered
Morrison. His agitation came back to him;
he began to twist his long, bony fingers one
over the other, and a faint flush of colour came
into his pale face. ‘ That’s what I want, sir—to
make the machine. I know the details are
perfect, but I want to see the machine itself, to
see it as it will be, to set it working, to— ’
‘Yes, yes,’ said Wridsdale, ‘ I understand.
And you want me to make it?’
Morrison's face fell.
‘ No,’ he replied slowly. ‘ I want to make it
myself. Nobody but myself could make it.
Nobody but myself must make it, Mr
\Vridsdale. And no one must know of it until
it’s made. I know it’s all right—it's perfect—


The Birth of a Great Idea 13
but I want to make it and see it work
before—’
‘What is it you propose, Morrison?’ said
Wridsdale, again interrupting him.
‘I thought that if you would give me
facilities, and material, and time—’
‘All three, willingly. But you’ll want
something else than that, Morrison,’ said
the machine-maker, meaningly. ‘You’ll want
secrecy. Now, listen to me. You shall have,
from to-morrow morning, the small workshop
by the draughtsmen’s room, and it shall be
kept strictly for your use. None but you
and I shall enter it until the thing’s finished.
Whatever material you want you’ll get in
the sheds. Anything you want specially
made you’ll get the men to make. But
remember—not a word to anyone—not even
to your sister—until your work’s done. After
that we must discuss matters further. How
long will this take you?’
‘ A month,’ answered Morrison.
‘Well, your time’s your own until it’s done.
By-the-bye, leave the drawings with me until
to-morrow. I should like to look them
through again. Good-night, Morrison.’


I4 Morrison's Machine
‘Good-night, Mr Wridsdale,’ said the in-
ventor. He passed out of the room slowly,
and in the outer office half-paused as if there
were something he had forgotten to say, then
the striking of a clock roused him, and he
went away quickly into the darkness outside.


CHAPTER II
THE INVENTOR,S FIRESIDE
UTTERLY absorbed in his thoughts and plans,
Morrison neither perceived the coldness of
the night nor the fact that a steady rain was
falling. He trudged along the gloomy street
which led from Wridsdale’s Works into the
heart of Blackford without regard to weather
or surroundings, and though two or three
people spoke to him as they caught sight of
his pale face in the yellow glare of the gas-
lamps, he returned no salutation. Everybody
who lived along that street, tenanted chiefly
by Wridsdale’s workpeople, knew the inventor.
Most of them regarded him as being highly
eccentric, some of them secretly thought him
a little mad. Every morning saw him ap-
proaching the workshop at a rapid pace;
every evening saw him returning homeward
just as rapidly. He invariably walked in the
same fashion, his head bent forward as if in
IS


16 Morrison's Machine
deep thought, his hat pulled down over his
forehead, his hands thrust deep into the
pockets of his trousers, or, when his sister had
made him put it on, into those of his overcoat.
Under his arms he usually carried books or
rolls of paper, and as he walked he talked to
himself. People knew all these traits and
tricks, and though they bade him good-
morning or good-night, they never expected
any greeting in return. It was well under-
stood that he was so absorbed and pre-
occupied that he recognised little of any
immediate surroundings save those of the
work to which his whole life and though
was devoted. ."
The square which stands in the heart of
modern Blackford, and from whence several
streets branch off to the various suburbs of
the town, was full of light as Morrison turned
into it. Never looking to right or left, he
darted across it at his usual swift pace,
dodging cabs, tramcars and people with an
unerring precision which seemed strangely
at variance with the absent-mindedness of his
appearance. But as he turned into another
road, he was suddenly brought up by a tall


The Inventor’s Fireside I 7
young man advancing from the opposite direc-
tion, who forcibly laid hands on his shoulder
and wheeled him sharply round into the light
of a neighbouring lamp. Morrison looked up.
‘Oh! ah! George, is it?’ he said. ‘I’m
just on my way home, George. Are you
going there to—night?’
‘ I’ve just come from there,’ said George.
‘Lucy sent me to meet you. Look there,
you star-gazing chap, what’s that look like?’
He held out an overcoat as he spoke and
regarded the inventor with an expression of
amusement.
‘It—it appears to be an overcoat,’ said
Morrison, half-doubtfully.
‘Your overcoat, you old donkey! Here,’
said George, ‘on with it, man; don’t you
know it’s raining; you’re pretty wet now.’
Morrison struggled into the coat: his hands
immediately sought the pockets, and he
hitched his shoulders with a familiar shrug
which George had seen a thousand times.
‘I hadn’t noticed it,’ he said, looking about
him. ‘ Dear me, it is raining! You shouldn’t
have come come Out, George; you must be
quite damp.’
B


18 Morrison’s Machine
George laughed and pushed him forward,
marching on at his side as if he were a police-
man guarding an acquiescent prisoner.
‘Come along home,’ he said indulgently.
‘ Lucy’s had your supper ready since half-past
six, and it’s past ten now. I'll tell you what,
Richard, my boy, you’ll go out some day and
come back without your head, that's what
you’ll do.’
Morrison looked up at his companion and
smiled—the smile of a child which has con-
ceived a great admiration for something very
much stronger and taller and more powerful
than itself. To him his sister’s lover was
the most beautiful man in the world—a being
of strength and wisdom, a species of elder
brother who knew a great many things which
he himself would never know since he would
never have time to learn them. It fitted in
with his absorbed temperament that the things
of which George Broadclough knew so much
and could talk of so pleasantly—the very
ordinary affairs, pleasures and subjects which
occupy a young and healthy man’s mind—
were to him as far-away matters which he
could never reach nor comprehend. He liked


The Inventor’s Fireside 19
to hear George hold forth on the virtues of
this cricket eleven, or that football fifteen, or
describe his adventures during his last holi-
day, and he often sat in admiring silence
while the young man informed Lucy and
himself as to the correct state of politics, and
pointed out where the Government for the
time being was making mistakes, and how he,
George, would obviate them. To Morrison,
indeed, absorbed, idealistic, lost in dreams
and essentially absent-minded, George Broad-
clough, quick of tongue and thought, always
ready to say and do, was an amazing person.
‘ That’s what you’ll do, some day, old chap! ’
repeated George, cheerily. ‘Go and leave
your head behind you somewhere—see if you
don’t.’
‘That’s your fun, you know, George,’
answered Morrison, with his quiet smile. ‘ I—
I believe I am a little preoccupied just now.
In fact, I’d quite forgotten that I ought to have
been home at half-past six.’
‘1’“ tell you what, Richard,’ said George;
‘don’t you put in such a lot of extra time for
old Wridsdale. I don’t think he appreciates
devotion from anybody. At anyrate, I’m not


20 Morrison’s Machine
going to stick in that counting-house a moment
longer than is necessary to the strict per-
formance of my duties. Does it never strike
you that you won’t do your health any good
by working so late? And going without food
so long, too—I’m sure it’s dangerous.’
‘ I—I haven’t been working to-night, George.
I remained behind to have a conversation with
Mr Wridsdale.’
‘That must have been extremely pleasant,’
remarked George. ‘I hope the results of it
may be as profitable to you as I am sure they
will be to Wridsdale.’
Morrison looked at his friend wistfully.
‘I’m afraid you don’t like Mr Wridsdale,
George,’ he said.
‘ There is certainly not much affection
wasted upon him by me,’ answered George.
‘ Though why on earth I don’t like him, seeing
that he finds me in bread and butter to the
tune of three poor pounds per week, I’m
sure I don’t know. Case of Dr Fell, I
suppose. Hello, Richard, there’s Lucy at the
door—she must have got anxious about
you.’
The inventor and his sister lived in one of


The Inventor’s Fireside 21
a row of small houses turning off from a
suburban road and separated from the little
street of which they formed one side by
miniature gardens wherein nothing ever grew.
They were very small, unpretentious dwellings
—two rooms below, two rooms above, and a
narrow hall wherein it was just possible to turn
round by means of skilful manoeuvring—but
to the two men who entered the particular one
at whose door a girl stood watching they
formed the immediate surroundings of the
most delightful spot on earth—made so, of
course, by the fact that the girl lived there.
It mattered nothing to either of them that the
night was cold and wet, and that all around
them lay the smoke and grime of a great manu-
facturing town—the gleam of firelight in which
the girl’s figure stood framed, and the presence
of the girl herself, blotted out everything but
thoughts of home and love and contentment.
‘Here he is, Lucy,’ said George, pushing
the inventor forward. ‘I caught him red-
handed in the square, apprehended him
straight away, and marched him off. What’s
to be done with him?’
‘ He ought to be whipped and sent to bed,’


22 Morrison’s Machine
said the girl, retreating into the house. ‘ Richard,
how dare you go out without your overcoat?’
‘Yes, how dare you?’ said George, closing
the door and pushing Morrison into the little
living-room.
‘I—it didn’t rain this morning, you know,
Lucy,’ said Morrison. ‘At least 1—1 believe
it didn’t.’ .
‘I wonder if you’d have known if it did?’
she said, laughing and pulling at his coat.
‘George, get a cloth and rub him down, and
then rub yourself down—you’re damp, too.
Now, Richard, off with those boots this instant
and then wash your hands. I suppose you have
had nothing to eat for hours.’
‘No, Lucy, I haven't,’ Morrison admitted.
‘NowI come to think of it, I believe I am
rather hungry.’ He sniffed the air. ‘ Some-
thing,’ he remarked, ‘something smells good.’
‘Something,’ said Lucy, ‘is good. Some-
thing was very much better at half-past six, if
only somebody had been here to eat it. I’ll
tell you what it is, Richard, I shall go down
to Mr Wridsdale’s works myself some day and
tell him that I won’t have you staying there
until these late hours.’


The Inventor’s Fireside 23
‘Hooray!’ said George. ‘That’s exactly
what ought to be done.’
‘You see, there was something of a special
reason to-night, Lucy,’ said Morrison. ‘ Some-
thing—’
‘Oh, go and wash your hands and come
back to your supper! ’ said Lucy, pushing him
into the little kitchen, and shutting the door
upon him. She turned to George and smiled.
George smiled too and looked at her meaningly.
‘ It is usual,’ he said, coming up to the fire-
side, ‘for the cook to—er—tip the policeman
when his duty is properly performed.’
‘Very well,’ said Lucy, ‘which will the
policeman have from the cook—a kiss or a
glass of ale?’
‘The policeman,’ said George, possessing
himself of her waist, ‘will kiss the cook first and
enjoy the well-earned refreshment afterwards.
It is also customary,’ he added when the first
part of these ceremonies had been performed,
‘for the cook to kiss the policeman ’--here
there was a further interval—‘ not merely once,
or even twice, or thrice—but unto as many
times as he, or she, or both—3
Lucy drew away from her lover with a laugh


24 Morrison’s Machine
as Morrison re-entered the room. She pushed
Richard into a chair, set his meal before him,
and bade him eat and drink, warning him of
the dreadful things which usually happen to
persons who neglect to cultivate proper habits.
The inventor ate and drank and laughed at
his sister’s motherly scoldings, and at George’s
terrible stories illustrating the awful folly of
working overtime and going without meals.
He was used to all of it, and would not have
been happy without some such accompaniment
to his arrival home.
‘And what might the special reason be
which kept you so late to-night, Richard?’
asked Lucy when Morrison had finished his
supper and they were all sitting round the
hearth. ‘Something for Mr W ridsdale’s
benefit, I expect?’
Morrison lifted his head and looked at his
sister. She sat in a low chair between him
and George, her hands busied with her sewing,
her face bent above it, her whole attitude
suggestive of a thorough and placid content-
- ment. He looked round about him—every-
thing in the little room was bright and clean
and homelike and typical of housewifely care,


The Inventor’s Fireside 25
and George himself, smoking his pipe in the
easy-chair across the hearthrug, helped to
strengthen the homeliness and comfort. Lucy
and George—these two made the inventor's
world. In his opinion Lucy was the perfec-
tion of womanhood—the good, kindly, warm-
hearted, fireside-loving woman destined to
make those about her happy and to be happy
herself. He had never asked himself if
she was pretty or handsome, and had never
compared her with other women: he only
knew that to him as brother and to George
as lover she was queen of their world. He
began to wonder as he looked at her and
George if all that money which he was going
to give them would add to their happiness.
Would a palace, for instance, be any happier
a place than that little room where they three
had spent so many pleasant evenings, all con-
scious of each other’s love and friendship? It
had taken so little to make them happy—
Lucy looked up at her brother and smiled.
‘ Dreaming again, Richard,’ she said.
‘Come, you didn’t answer my question.’ '
‘I’m sorry, Lucy,’ he said, starting out of
his thoughts. ‘I got thinking. I—oh, I had


26 Morrison's Machine
to see Mr Wridsdale on a very important
matter—very important. We talked it over
very exhaustively, and somehow the time
passed.’
‘And what was it?’ inquired Lucy.
Morrison hesitated.
‘Well,’ he said slowly, ‘I promised Mr
Wridsdale that I would not mention the matter
even to you. It is one on which it is necessary
to observe the strictest secrecy, you see.’
‘ How mysterious! Somehow, one doesn’t
associate Mr Wridsdale with mysteries, though,’
said Lucy. ‘Do you, George?’
‘ There are mysteries and mysteries,’ replied
George, oracularly. ‘One sort of mystery fits
in with one person; another sort with another.
I believe I could bring myself to believe that
Wridsdale is a person of mystery, but of what
exact species of mystery I should not like to
say, being an extremely cautious person in—’
‘ Pooh, talk!’ interrupted Lucy. ‘ Well,
Richard, when are we to hear of this mystery?’
Morrison threw back his head and stared at
the ceiling.
‘ In a month, I hope, Lucy,’ he replied.
‘Perhaps—that is, I think I might tell you and


The Inventor’s Fireside 27
George something of it without breaking any
promise. The fact is, I’ve completed the
invention of a machine—a most wonderful
machine, George !—a machine which will set the
whole mechanical world astir. I can't tell you
anything about it beyond that, and that Wrids-
dale is giving me facilities for making it. I’m
to have a whole month’s time, all to myself, for its
making. Nobody could have been kinder than
Wridsdale was about that, George. And—
and at the end of the month you shall both
know everything, and see the finished machine
-—Morrison’s machine, eh, Lucy?’
‘And when it’s finished, Richard?’ said Lucy.
‘ Ah ! ’ The inventor drew a long breath and
stretched out his arms as if he wanted more
space. ‘Ah ! when it’s finished—well, just wait
and see i ’
‘Is it your machine, Richard?’ asked
George.
‘ My machine? Mine? Why, of course it
is! lt—’ '
‘I meant it's not yours and Wridsdale’s?’
‘Mine and Wridsdale’s? Of course not,
George. It’s mine all through—every bit—
every idea—every detail.’


28 Morrison’s Machine
‘And it’s to revolutionise—why, Richard,
you’ll be a rich man!’ said Lucy.
‘We shall all be rich,’ he said contentedly.
‘All of us—you and George and I—all
millionaires.’
He spoke seriously, nodding his head as if he
already saw the wealth on the table before his
eyes. George laughed and rose to his feet.
‘I’ll go home and dream of that,’ he said,
holding out his hand to Morrison. ‘Good-
night, Richard, old chap, and let me give you
a tip—don’t work too hard at this wonderful
machine of yours—don’t. If you do, you’ll be
getting—but there, I know it’s no good advis-
ing you; you’re a demon for hard labour.
Lucy, come and see me off the premises—the
cook always accompanies the policeman to the
area steps.’
When Lucy came back to the fireside five
minutes later she found the inventor staring
into its flames with wide eyes. She brushed
the thick hair away from his forehead and
'stooped down and kissed him. Morrison
smiled and patted her hand.
‘Ah, Lucy ! ’ he said. ‘Wait till you see my
machine!’


3o Morrison’s Machine
covering a sheet of paper with notes and
figures.
A curious, uncertain, stumping noise
presently sounded from the counting-house
without—the noise made in walking by a man
who possesses one long leg and one short one.
Wridsdale heard it and showed no conscious-
ness; he went on scribbling at his paper and
did not lift his head when the door opened. It
was a strange figure which the open doorway
framed—a figure so misshapen and twisted of
build and limb as to present at first the ap-
pearance of some grotesque animal rather than
of a human being. A massive head, covered
by an old cap from beneath the battered peak
of which a pair of brilliant eyes looked out,
strong shoulders, hunched and bent, a twisted
body inclining to the left side, where a short
leg was painfully apparent, long arms reaching,
as the man stood in a waiting attitude, to a
point nearer his feet than his knee—these were
the unsightly features which Wridsdale would
have seen had he looked up when the door
opened. But the machine-maker did not look
up; he was absorbed in his calculations and had
apparently forgotten that he had rung the bell.


Midnight Meditations 31
He went on noting down figure after figure, and
the man in the doorway stood, statue-like,
waiting, with his eyes fixed on the rapidly-
moving pen.
‘ Are you there, Todd,’ said Wridsdale at last.
‘I’ve been here exactly five minutes,’
answered Todd. Then he added in a tone
that precluded all further argument, ‘ By the
clock—your clock.’
‘ I didn’t ask how long you had been there,’
said Wridsdale. ‘ I asked if you were there.’
‘ Well, I am here,’ retorted the other. ‘ Any-
body could see that if they used their eyes.’
A very faint smile curved the machine-
maker’s determined lips. He wrote down
some more figures on the paper before him
ere he spoke again. Todd remained motion—
less : one long arm hung at his side, the hand
of the other rested on the handle of the door.
‘I want you to go across to the inn,’ said
Wridsdale, looking up at last. ‘ Ask the land-
lady to send me some supper in here—a chop
and some stale bread.’
‘ And a glass of toast-and-water,’ said Todd.
‘1 know. Chop, stale bread, toast-and-water, all
right. Are you going to stayhere for some time?’


32 Morrison’s Machine
‘Well, what if I am?’
‘ Oh, nothing—I don’t care. But if you are
I shall have to bring some coal from the engine-
house; your scuttle’s empty.’
‘ Well then, I am—an hour or two, at anyrate.’
‘ All right,’ said the misshapen man, nodding
his head. ‘Supper—coals.’
He pulled the door to and stumped off
heavily through the counting-house. He un-
locked the street entrance, let himself out, and
locked the door behind him ere he crossed
the road towards the lights of an inn at the
opposite side. Into its open door he shambled,
elbowing his way through two or three loungers
until he reached a bar-window, behind which
stood a comfortable-looking landlady. Todd
nodded confidentially to her.
‘ Usual thing, Mrs Crabtree,’ he said.
‘Governor’s supper, you know what. Don’t
forget the toast-and-water. Toast-and-water,
ugh! Tell the girl to knock hard when she
brings it.’
As Todd made this communication his eyes
fixed themselves on a certain bottle which
stood conveniently to hand, and they grew
brighter as he saw the landlady follow their gaze.


Midnight Meditations 33
‘You’ll take ataste, Stumpy,’she said kindly,
laying hold of the bottle. ‘It’s rather cold
to-night, isn’t it? I’ll send Mr Wridsdale’s
chop across in a quarter of an hour. I expect
he’s working late—he’s a rare ’un to work.’
‘ Thankee, Mrs Crabtree. Here’s your good
health,’ said Stumpy Todd, emptying the prof-
ferred glass at a draught. ‘Ah! that’s good,
better than toast-and-water. Let the girl
knock hard.’
He stumped heavily out of the house and
across the road again, elbowing aside anybody
who chanced to be in his way, without cere-
mony or consideration. He let himself into
the workshop again and secured the entrance,
and Wridsdale, still busy with his calculations,
heard him approaching his door. The latter
opened, and the two unequal legs fought out
their never-ending difference across the floor.
‘Coal-scuttle,’ said Todd, and laid hold of
the article in question and went away again.
The stumping sound died gradually out of
hearing along the emptiness of the long shed,
and in a few minutes came into evidence once
more. The door opened. ‘Coals,’ said the
misshapen man, depositing his burden. He
c


34 Morrison’s Machine
went outside and sat down in the counting-
house until a loud knocking sounded at the
street entrance. ‘Crabtree’s girl,’ he said to
himself, and went to the door and took in the
supper tray. This he carried into Wridsdale’s
private room and set on a small table near the
fire. He drew up a chair and turning to his
master said, ‘Supper,’ in a voice calculated to
wake a sound sleeper. \Vridsdale moved
uneasily and said, ‘Right, right, Todd !’ some-
what testily. The man waited for a minute
and then said, ‘ Supper!’ again, this time in a
voice which might have been heard all over the
building. The machine-maker uttered an im-
patient exclamation and left his desk. Todd
retreated to the door. ‘ Getting cold,’ he said,
pointing to the chop, and closed the door upon
his grotesque figure.
Wridsdale sat down to his simple meal, and
ate and drank slowly. He was a plain, liver,
thinking little of either food or drink, and it
was easy to see that as he consumed his chop,
and sipped his toast-and-water, his mind was
utterly oblivious that he was doing the one or
the other. His mind, indeed, at that moment
was speculating in a half-dreamy fashion upon


36 Morrison's Machine
world would be filled with amazement to find
that at last something had become actual fact
which many a mechanical genius had dreamt
about—and had left a mere dream still.
And that something would be known as
Morrison’s machine.
Wridsdale smiled—a strange, inscrutable
smile—as he thought of this. It was that
thought which had made him begin speculating
on the vagaries of life, on the curious fashion
in which Nature, or Providence, or whatever
it is that gives out gifts to men, bestows talents
and capabilities, and other matters good to
possess. Why—why had that blind chance
which seemed to influence this distribution
given that glorious idea, that perfect inspira-
tion to Richard Morrison instead of to Mark
\Vridsdale? He smiled again and shook his
head, and again asked himself, Why?
It seemed absolutely unreasonable to
Wridsdale that a man like Richard Morrison
should have been so wonderfully gifted as
to conceive the notion Of such a machine. It
would have been wonderful, he said to him-
self, if he had even thought of it as a mere
inchoate idea; that he should struggle with


Midnight Meditations 37
a well-known scientific difficulty, and triumph-
antly overcome it, was nothing short of
marvellous. And yet, he further said to him-
self, was it not true that madness and genius
not seldom went together? He had always
regarded Morrison as being a little mad, or,
if not mad, at anyrate so eccentric as to be
easily mistaken for a harmless madman, and
the events of the evening had not dispossessed
him of the idea. No! it was a momentary
flash of that highest form of genius which is
little removed from insanity in which Morrison
had conceived this daring notion, he said to him-
self ——it was the thoroughness of his training that
had enabled him to work it out. And Morrison
owed that thoroughness to him—Wridsdale.
He had finished his supper by this time
and had lighted a cigar, and he stood with
his back to the fire, looking at the roll of
papers which Morrison had left lying in his
desk. He began to recall the young man’s
career. He remembered Morrison’s father, a
steady old Scotsman, who had spent half a
century in a neighbouring cotton-mill, coming
to him and telling him that Richard had a
rare turn for machines and the like, and


38 Morrison’s Machine
begging him to take the lad into his work-
shop. He remembered the lad coming; he
remembered thinking him a bit of a fool, and
speedily discovering that he had quick fingers
and a perfect genius for mechanical work.
He remembered how he had constantly come
across him, while Morrison was yet a boy,
engaged in satisfying himself why such an
effect was produced by such a cause, or in
taking some decrepit machine to pieces in
order to find out all about its motion and
properties. As years had gone on, he had
proved Morrison to be a first-rate workman,
but he had never altered his first personal
opinion of him as being a bit of a fool, or
eccentric, or half mad. Apart from machinery,
Morrison knew nothing; nobody ever saw him
reading a newspaper, or anything, indeed, but
a scientific book, or knew him to hold converse
on aught but the subject closest at mind. His
manner was against him, too; he had the shy-
ness, the awkwardness, the timidity in address
and speech which almost invariably distinguishes
the student. Decidedly, said Wridsdale to him-
self, decidedly, anybody who did not know much
of him would consider Morrison a bit of an ass.


Midnight Meditations 39
And yet this was the man within whose
grasp lay the potentiality of vast stores of
wealth. What the invention of Morrison’s
machine meant to Morrison nobody knew
better than Wridsdale. It would revolutionise
a certain trade ; there would be such a demand
for it as it was almost confusing to think of;
its inventor, if he pleased, might roll in wealth.
Wridsdale laughed, a little bitterly, as he tried
to connect the thought of Morrison with the
thought of wealth. He knew everything about
Morrison’s antecedents and his present posi-
tion; he knew all about the little house in
the suburban street wherein Lucy officiated
as mistress and maid, and be contrasted his
employee’s present modest establishment with
one which readily presented itself to his mind’s
eye when he thought of the royalties that
would accrue from the machine. And he
laughed again, more bitterly than before, as he
made the contrast.
If only that notion, that brilliant bit of in-
spiration, or madness, or genius, had come to
him, Mark Wridsdale! He would have known
how to use the wealth it would have brought
him. He had his ambitions, social and


4o Morrison’s Machine
political, and had chafed under his inability to
carry them out. He had worked hard all
his life of five-and-forty years, and he was not
afraid of work now; but there were moments
in his life in which he experienced a desire to
gratify some of his longings and to be able to
pay a little less attention to the daily task.
He was a man of some note in his native town,
and he enjoyed the respect, if not the affection,
of his fellow-townspeople; but he wanted
something more than mere note, something
that would enable him to snap his fingers at
either affection or respect. He knew, and had
known for some years, that as things were
going he would never be in command of the
wealth which would alone enable him to fulfil
his ambitions. If this discovery, this invention
of Morrison’s, had only been his, why, then,
there would have been no reason why he
should not fulfil the desire of his heart. With
the wealth which would spring from the
invention of that machine a man might enter
Parliament, be the foremost personage in his
own neighbourhood, purchase a title, endow
public institutions, and die leaving a great
name behind him. A man might do all this,
"“'M.,. _
__ M W A 4.


Midnight Meditations 41
but not any man. Was Morrison the sort of
man who would?
Wridsdale thought all these matters over
as he stood with his back to the fire, smoking
his cigar slowly and meditatively. It was a
long time before he threw what remained of
it away, and went across to his desk again.
There he sat down and unrolled Morrison’s
papers, and for the fourth time went carefully
through them, making fresh notes and calcula-
tions, and covering sheet after sheet with
figures and rough diagrams. It was past
midnight when he rolled the papers up again,
and secured them in the wrapper in which
Morrison had laid them upon the desk.
‘I can’t see a flaw in it anywhere,’ he
murmured to himself. ‘It’s perfect; and, like
all these big things, it’s simplicity itself, when
you’ve once got the notion of it, the clear
vision. And it’s been left, to Morrison—my
clerk—to get it!’
He carried the papers over to a safe, and
locked them securely away. Then he looked at
his watch, lighted another cigar, and slowly put
on his coat and hat. He lingered a moment,
staring meditatively at the last gleam of the fire.


42 Morrison’s Machine
‘I ought to have a half of it,’ he said to
himself. ‘I’ve taught him everything he
knows—he owes everything to me. He’s
worked this notion out in my time. He’ll
use my material to make the machine. It’s
I who give him room and facility. Certainly
I ought to have half—at least half.’
The clock struck one, and Wridsdale started
out of his reverie. He left his room, and,
passing through the counting-house, called
gently to the night-watchman. Todd, carry-
ing a great lantern, came through the shed,
his misshapen form swaying in the gloom,
and looming large against the faint gas-jets.
‘ Going?’ said Todd.
‘Yes,’ answered his master. ‘Good-night,
Todd.’
‘ Morning, you mean,’ retorted Todd. ‘ It’s
past one now.’
‘Oh, well, good morning, then.’
‘Morning,’ grunted the night-watchman, hold-
ing the door open. ‘Ugh, it’s cold!’ He
closed the door upon Wridsdale’s retreating
form, and, having secured it, stumped slowly
back to his sheltered corner in the engine-
house.


C H A P T E R I V
THE MAKING OF MORRISON’S MACHINE
MORRISON began the making of his machine
with a quiet elation which was patent to
everybody who came in contact with him. On
the morning following his revelation of the
secret to Wridsdale, he rose at an hour which
was unusually early, even for him, and went
off to the workshop at his quickest pace.
Before breakfast time, he had made everything
ready in the room which Wridsdale had set
apart for him. It was a room that had been
used but little, and much rubbish had accumu-
lated in it. When all the useless odds and
ends had been cleared away, and the place
swept and laid bare, Morrison looked at its
empty expanse as a general might look upon
a wide plain on which he means to engage
the enemy and win a great victory. That
emptiness was to be the scene of his opera-
tions, the theatre of his ultimate triumph.
43


44 Morrison’s Machine
VVhere there was now nothing but so many
feet of vacant floor space, surrounded by blank
walls, there should stand, within a few weeks,
the first actual presentation, wrought in visible
and tangible form, of his great machine.
The inventor went about his work silently
and methodically. There were preliminaries
to arrange, details to settle; due provision to
make for the observance of strict secrecy as to
what it was that was being fashioned in the
empty room. Absolute secrecy it was im-
possible to keep; before many days had
elapsed, every workman about the place knew
that Wridsdale and Morrison had some new-
fangled notion in hand, and that they were
giving a great deal of time and thought and
labour to working it out. Into the closed
room were taken certain materials, implements,
appliances; from behind its locked door came
hammerings and tappings, and sometimes long
intervals of profound silence. Sometimes
Morrison emerged, pale and anxious, to seek
the services and help of one of the more ex-
perienced mechanics in fashioning something
or other, the exact purpose or use of which
the mechanic thus employed found it im-


46 Morrison’s Machine
mystery and secrecy invariably attached to
them. The master would go to the locked
door and satisfy the man within as to his
identity ere the latter opened it. When
Wridsdale left, the door was immediately
locked behind him. When Morrison left for
the night, it was secured in the most careful
fashion by a special safety lock, of which he
and Wridsdale held master keys. Daytime
and night-time the door was as jealously
guarded as a house which holds much treasure.
\Vith the first day of the operations a curious
change came over Morrison. Always quiet,
retiring, and self-absorbed, he developed all
these qualities to an almost abnormal degree.
He stole away from home early in the morning
and returned late at night, worn, pale and
silent. He ate in purely mechanical and
absent-minded fashion the food which his
sister set before him, and would then sit by his
fireside with his brows knit and corded in
continuous thought and his eyes unnaturally
bright with mental excitement. Sometimes he
would seize paper and pencil and begin calcu-
lations or drawings which kept him up until
long after midnight—twice during the first


The Making of Morrison’s Machine 47
fortnight he rose in the night and hurried away
to the workshop. As every day went by the
strain and excitement began to tell upon him
more palpably, and the workfolk through whom
he pushed his way in the grey morning shook
their heads as they looked at his drawn face
and burning eyes. Morrison saw nothing;
heard nothing; knew nothing of all this or of
anything else-he had one thing fixed in his
mind and one thing only. It is probable that
during that month he never understood a single
word of what was said to him—unless the
words had direct reference to the making of
his machine.
Lucy grew seriously alarmed. Day after
day went by whereon Morrison never came
home until midnight, and then arrived in a
condition which was little short of collapse.
She noted that his face was growing thinner
and paler and his eyes larger and brighter, and
there was a certain wildness about his look
which frightened her. At last, when he came
home one night staggering like a drunken man,
she determined that something must be done;
and when she had made him eat and drink and
seen a little of the strangeness go out of his


48 Morrison’s Machine
face she spoke to him firmly on the foolishness
of his conduct. But to her great consternation
and alarm she found that Morrison, usually
the most docile of men and indulgent of
brothers where she was concerned, was
absolutely impervious to whatever she said to
him. It seemed to her that he had lost all
capacity to understand her meaning; to what-
ever she said to him he offered no reply other
than a meaningless, foolish smile or a wag of
the head. It was abundantly clear to her that
the strain was already telling upon him severely.
After that Lucy naturally took council with
her lover as to what should be done. George,
usually full of suggestions and schemes about
anything and everything, felt himself at an
utter loss when confronted with this difficulty.
‘I don’t see what we can do,’ he said dole-
fully. ‘You know what Richard is, Lucy;
once he gets wrapped up in a thing he’ll see it
through, or burst or die or something of the
sort. Do you remember when he made that
improvement in your sewing-machine ? how he
began pottering ab0ut with it one Saturday
afternoon and neither ate, drank, slept nor
washed until he got it to his satisfaction on the


The Making of Morrison’s Machine 49
Monday morning, just at daylight! It’s no
good; he’ll go through with this thing. You
can’t stop him.’
‘ It will kill him,’ said Lucy. ‘ It’s impossible
for him to go on as he is doing. He’s up at
five o’clock and off to the works with scarcely a
mouthful of food, and I don’t suppose he eats
anything during the day. It’s rarely mid-
night before he comes home. How can he go
on like that without a break-down of some
sort?’
‘He does get something during the day,
though,’ said George. ‘I didn’t like telling
you before, but I don’t know why I shouldn’t.
Wridsdale’s taken him in hand in that respect.’
‘ Mr Wridsdale ? ’
‘ Yes. Every day for the past week Wrids-
dale’s sent out for lunch for two and had it
brought to his private room. jolly good lunch,
too, Lucy; oysters, chops, champagne—I’ve
seen ’em taking it through the counting-house.
Now, Wridsdale himself is the sort of man
who lunches off a chop or a cut from the joint,
and he actually drinks toast-and-water—that’s a
standing joke at the works—and it made me
wonder a bit when I saw this sudden departure
D


50 Morrison’s Machine
into the habits of the luxuriant. But the first
day it happened, Wridsdale went off to
Richard’s room and brought him back after
the usual mysteries of lock and key, and I’m
firmly convinced that he feeds him, and doses
him with champagne. You know what Richard
is; he’ll eat and drink just what he’s told to,
like a child, and never know anything of it.’
Lucy looked somewhat relieved.
‘Well, if Mr Wridsdale is looking after him
in the daytime,’ she said, ‘ things are not quite
so bad as I feared. But you know, George,
he ought to have more sleep, and he ought
not to work so continuously. I wonder what
this thing is he is making?’
‘It’s something very big, Lucy. I’ll bet a
year’s screw on it. It’s something so big that
Wridsdale’s pretty nearly as bad as Richard.
He spends half his time in Richard’s room
now. It seems to us in the counting-house
that he’s thrown everything aside in favour
of whatever it is that Richard is concocting.
He’s at the works early in the morning and at
Richard’s door. We can’t get him to give his
attention to letters or accounts. He puts us
off or tells us to use our own discretion. Fancy


The Making of Morrison’s Machine 51
Wridsdale doing that! Oh, it’s something very
big, Lucy. I bet it is.’
‘ Richard said we should all be millionaires,’
she said, looking at her lover with a smile.
‘But I don’t know that I should much care
for that. Things are very nice as they are,
aren’t they, dear? If only Richard wouldn’t
work himself silly. There’s one thing you
might do, George,’ she added abruptly. ‘I
wish I’d thought of it before.’
‘ What’s that?’ asked George.
‘ Bring Richard home from the works every
night. You know how absent-minded he is
at all times, and he is so queer just now that I
am in terror every night lest anything should
happen to him. Will the policeman oblige
the cook in this?’ said Lucy, with an arch
smile, which caused George to assume the
ro’Ye of active lover. ‘ It will be a duty worthy
his past achievements.’
It was an ancient but evergreen jest amongst
George’s friends and acquaintances that he had
enrolled himself as a special constable during the
time of the Blackford Riots, and that the only
duty he had been called upon to perform was
to escort a cook home in safety, who had fallen


52 Morrison’s Machine
amongst a party of the rioters while out on a
shopping expedition. It was also said that the
cook had been so charmed with George’s polite-
ness and fascinated by his six-foot-two of manly
proportions that she had invited him to supper
and had absolutely refused to part with him
until he had drunk her health. Hence it came
about that Lucy frequently teased him by call-
ing him the policeman—why George called
Lucy the cook is an obvious matter, nor did
he ever trouble to explain to her that she was
much more charming than the lady to whom he
had done special service.
‘ The policeman is ready and willing in that
as in everything else,’ said George, after an
interval. ‘ But it’s no light work, Lucy. I’ll
promise to see Richard home, but I won’t
promise to bring him home by any particular
hour. Wild horses wouldn’t drag him out of
that room if he isn’t ready to come.’
Lucy was as well aware of that fact as George
was, and was satisfied to know that he would
do what he could. So every night after that
found George sharing a corner in the engine-
house with Stumpy Todd, waiting in patience
until the unlocking of Richard’s door warned


The Making of Morrison’s Machine 53
him that his friend was going home. He and
Stumpy made a curious pair. Each sat on a
low stool near the fire; each smoked his pipe ;
each was in turn loquacious or taciturn as the
humour took them. Beside George’s tall and
stalwart figure, the figure of a lifeguardsman
rather than of a mercantile clerk, Stumpy’s
misshapen body looked like a monstrosity;
compared with George’s good-humoured, hand-
some face, Stumpy’s ill-favoured countenance
was as that of a gnome. But not even George’s
eyes were as bright and keen as Stumpy’s
black orbs peering out from the shock of
unkempt hair which covered his great head,
nor were his ears as sharp as the misshapen
creature’s were.
‘Know what’s going on in there?’ said
Stumpy, as they sat one night listening to
the tapping and hammering and the metallic
ring of steel which came from Richard’s room.
‘No,’ answered George. ‘Don’t know at
all.’
‘ N’more do I,’ said Stumpy. ‘ N’more does
anybody in the place. That is, ’ceptin’ Wrids-
dale. He knows.’
‘ Think so? ’


54 Morrison’s Machine
‘Sure he does. I know him—known him
ever since he was that high. He knows.’
‘I suppose everybody’ll know some day,’
said George.
‘ It’s a machine of some sort,’ said Stumpy.
‘ Heard the men talking about bits of it they’ve
made. They can’t make head or tail of it—
think it’s some new-fangled thing or other.
Wish I could set eyes on it.’
‘ 	hy, do you know anything about machin-
ery?’ asked George.
Stumpy blew a great cloud of smoke towards
the ceiling.
‘Haven't been here boy and man without
picking something up,’ he grunted. ‘How
d’ye think I spend my time at night, eh?’
‘Smoking over the fire and sipping at that
bottle of yours, perhaps?’ answered George,
interrogatively.
‘Y’re a blooming liar!’ retorted Stumpy.
"Cause I don’t.’
‘ All right,’ said George. ‘ Then you don’t. I
never said you did, you know, when you come to
think about it. That’s what I should do, though,
if I were night-watchman at Wridsdale’s.’
‘ No, you wouldn’t,’ said Stumpy. ‘ No, you


The Making of Morrison’s Machine 55
wouldn’t. Smoking’s all very well, and a taste
of something’s all very well, but they don’t fill
up a whole night. You’d do as I do if you’d
been here as long as I have.’
‘What’s that?’ asked George.
‘Take your lantern and walk round, a-look-
ing at the machines and passing the time 0’
day with ’em,’ answered the night—watchman.
‘Lor’ bless you, many’s the talk I have with
this here engine and with some 0’ them
machines in the bottom floor there.’
George looked at Stumpy Todd critically.
He had known him for some years as a curious
and eccentric creature who made a point of
being personally rough and rude to everybody
in the place from Wridsdale downwards. He
now found himself wondering if Stumpy’s
solitary vigils had made him a little mad.
‘ Must be a one-sided conversation,’ he said
musingly.
‘Would be if you were mixed up in it,’
answered Stumpy. ‘It takes a man of brains
to talk to a machine—a man like him,’ he
added, jerking his head in the direction of
Morrison’s room. ‘Ah, he’s a headpiece on
him, he has! Better than Wridsdale’s.’


_ 56 Morrison’s Machine
‘ Think so ?’
‘ Umph !’ grunted Stumpy.
‘ Well, I wish he’d get that confounded thing
finished and rest his brains for a while, then,’
yawned George. ‘ He’ll wear ’em out working
like that, all day and half the night.’
‘You leave him a-be,’ said the night-watch-
man. "Tis his meat and drink and wife and
child is that there thing what he’s a-pottering
at. Leave him a-be till such times as ’tis
finished.’
‘ No other choice,’ said George, with another
yawn of increased size. ‘You might as well
try to wake the dead as get him out of that
room until he wants to come.’
But every night, now at this hour, now at
that, sometimes earlier, sometimes later, the
noise of the key turning in the lock of Richard’s
room could be heard, harsh and startling in the
silence of the empty workshop, and the inventor
would come out, pale and worn, and after lock-
ing and double-locking his treasure house would
go quietly home with his friend, usually in a
dead silence which frightened honest George
more than an earthquake would have done.


C H A P T E R V
IN THE GUARDED ROOM
THE misshapen night-watchman’s opinion as
regards the relations between Morrison and
his machine was of the essence of absolute
truth. It was meat and drink, wife? and child
to him—the only thing of which he had any
real cognisance. As it grew under his hands,
the feverish desire to see it finished, perfected
and proved, increased in fervour and intensity.
If he could have had all his own way, Morrison
would not have left his workshop until all was
completed; but in spite of his absorption
something impelled him to tear himself away
every night and go home to Lucy. He had a
dim, vague notion that he was giving her cause
for uneasiness and anxiety, but the power of
his brain was so fixed on the work he had in
hand that the notion never got beyond the
chaotic stage. It was just strong enough to
take him home and that was all.
57


58 Morrison’s Machine
If either Lucy or George could have seen
Morrison at work, their fears on his behalf
would have been somewhat allayed. He
entered the strictly-guarded room with the
alacrity of a lover who steps into his mistress’s
chamber. The worn look which was so notice-
able when his task no longer claimed him dis-
appeared from his face when he set to work
again. He toiled on all day, unconscious of
hunger or fatigue or distress—it was only when
he literally tore himself away from his labour
that outraged nature refused to be further
goaded. He was one of those men whose
spiritual natures are much in advance—so
far as strength is concerned—of their physical
powers, and he had always been able to throw
himself into the work of the moment with such
thoroughness as to forget everything else—even
the needs of his own weak body. Thus it was
that he frequently worked on and on, utterly
unconscious of the fact that the tired faculties
which he was- exercising were strained to
snapping point, with the result that when he
suddenly stopped the relaxation which followed
acted like a sharp shock to the system. But of
all this, of its why and wherefore, Morrison was


In the Guarded Room 59
in no condition to think soberly. He only
knew, in a dull, half-dazed way, that he was
very tired—very—and very sleepy, when he
was not working, and that he was wider awake,
quicker of thought and action, more fertile in
resource and invention when actually at work
than he had ever been in his life.
Wridsdale, watching him closely from the
first, saw the strain beginning to tell upon him
sooner perhaps than either Lucy or George
did. It surprised him to find that Morrison
began working at the first beginnings of his
machine with an absolutely feverish impatience,
as though he were an artist who feared that
his conception might take wing ere he could
transfer it to canvas or embody it in marble.
There was no fear of Morrison’s ' conception
taking wing—it was all down in accurate draw-
ings, diagrams and calculations, and Wridsdale
wondered that the man should behave as if he
had but a month of life left to him. But when
the preliminaries were over, and Morrison
began the actual construction of his machine,
Wridsdale experienced another sort of surprise
in seeing the feverish impatience give way to
an almost too-conscientious carefulness. It


60 Morrison’s Machine
seemed to him that Morrisonv was sparing no
pains to insure the absolute success of his
machine from the moment it should be set in
motion. No detail, however trifling or insig-
nificant, escaped his notice; whatever was to
be done was done in the most thorough
fashion.
While Morrison laboured, Wridsdale used
to sit in the room for hours watching him in
dead silence. Nothing escaped his quick eye,
and there was no need for him to ask, nor
for Morrison to offer, any explanations. With
the plans and diagrams spread out before
him it was easy to follow the making of the
machine. And as it grew, Wridsdale knew
that it was going to be a success, that he
was watching a process which must result in
a great triumph of mechanical effort and con—
trivance. Perhaps no such sight had ever
been seen in the world before as might
have been seen any day in that somewhat
small and stuffy room where the only light
was artificial. There were two men there
who spoke little at first and not at all later
on, and one of them sat with folded arms
and impassive face watching and noting and


In the Guarded Room 61
storing things up in his memory, while the
other worked eagerly and silently at bench
or lathe, or at the machine which slowly grew
into shape on the little platform in the centre
of the floor.
At first, when Wridsdale went to the door
of the guarded room Morrison used to let
him in with some eagerness, and when he
was safely inside explain to him what he
was doing and how he was getting on. But
as the days passed the master frequently
found himself kept waiting outside the door
until the man forgot his preoccupation suffi—
ciently to allow him to comprehend that
Wridsdale was seeking admittance. Wrids-
dale understood and said nothing. There
came a time when he had to wait even longer,
and when Morrison would admit him with
some show of impatience, slam and lock the
door upon him and turn back to his work with-
out a word. Wridsdale said nothing as to that
either. He knew what was taking place, and
was not the man to let little rudenesses or
discourtesies stand in the way. It was the
first time in his life that he had seen a
really great theoretical idea transformed into


62 Morrison’s Machine
a tangible, solid thing of iron and steel, and
he felt sometimes as if he were surreptitiously
assisting at a new creation.
When Wridsdale saw the first signs of
physical exhaustion showing themselves all too
plainly on Morrison’s face, he grew anxious
and uneasy. He made inquiries as to how
long Morrison was working, and was still more
uneasy when he found out that he was usually
at the workshop by six or seven o’clock in
the morning and remained there until mid-
night.
‘ Leastways,’ said Stumpy Todd, of whom
he made his first inquiries as to Morrison’s
self -imposed working hours, ‘he’s here as
soon as anybody in the morning, and he's
never gone before twelve at midnight and
sometimes he’s here later than that.’
Wridsdale shook his head.
‘This will never do,’ he said, half to him-
self. ‘ He’ll never stand it—he’ll kill himself.’
‘ Not till the thing’s finished,’ said Stumpy.
Wridsdale turned on the night-watchman
like a flash.
‘Till what thing’s finished?’ he asked
angrily.


In the Guarded Room 63
‘How do I know?’ retorted Stumpy. ‘ It .
might be a gun, or a spinning-jenny, or a
carding-machine. I only said thing. Lots
0’ things a man can make, isn’t there?’
Wridsdale scowled at him and went away
to his private room. He often wondered——
in company with a good many other people—
why he tolerated Stumpy’s brusque manners.
He had once dismissed him in a fit of sudden
temper, only to discover later on that Stumpy
had utterly disregarded everything that was
said, and had point-blank denied to the
foreman that any order of dismissal had
reached his ears. After that Stumpy became
a fixture and doubly rude to everybody; but
Wridsdale knew him for a faithful and de-
voted servant and humoured him.
After hearing Stumpy’s evidence Wridsdale
became more uneasy than ever. He began
to be afraid that Morrison might break down
ere the machine was finished. That must
not happen, he said to himself, and he went
straight off to the guarded room and sought
admission. Morrison let him in and went
back silently to his work. Wridsdale looked
at him and thought he was growing morose.


64 Morrison’s Machine
‘I say, Morrison,’ he said, ‘I think you’re
working too hard at this thing. What hours
are you working?’
Morrison looked at him as if he scarcely com-
prehended the question. Wridsdale repeated
it with emphasis.
‘I—I don’t quite know, Mr Wridsdale,’
Morrison answered. ‘About the usual time,
I should think.’
‘Your usual time isn’t till midnight,’ said
Wridsdale, drily. ‘And you’re not usually
here at six o’clock in the morning. This
won’t do—you’ll knock yourself up.’
Morrison shook his head.
‘ I’m all right,’ he said. ‘ 1—] want to get
it finished.’
‘You’re not all right,’ said Wridsdale, look-
ing at him narrowly. Another thought passed
into his mind. ‘What about your meals,
Morrison? Are you getting them regularly?’
Morrison turned a puzzled look upon his
tormentor.
‘ I suppose so,’ he said. ‘ I—don’t remember
making any difference;’ and he resumed the
work on which he had been engaged when
Wridsdale entered the room. In another


In the Guarded Room 65
moment he had become utterly oblivious of
\Vridsdale’s presence.
Wridsdale went out to some of his clerks
and made inquiry as to Morrison’s meal times.
The result was what he had expected; there
was general agreement that for the past week
or so Morrison had worked continuously
throughout the day, that was if whatever he
was doing in the locked room kept him at
work. He had certainly not followed his
usual practice of going out to dinner at noon.
It appeared that it had been his custom to
lunch or dine at a little restaurant near the
workshop, also patronised by some of \Nrids-
dale’s clerks, and that for some days his
particular corner there had been empty.
The next day Wridsdale—who in the mean-
time had taken some medical advice on the
matter—made provision for Morrison after the
fashion narrated by George to Lucy. It was
easy enough to do that, but it was not easy
to make Morrison eat or drink. Wridsdale
by pretext got him into his own private room
and, having fastened the door, told him very
plainly that he was behaving in a foolish
fashion in not taking care of his health, and
E


66 Morrison’s Machine
intimated that as he seemed disinclined to do
so, he, Wridsdale, would take care of it for
him. Thereupon he commanded him to eat
and drink. Morrison looked annoyed, excused
himself, and finally protested. Wridsdale
heard him out, and then told him in so many
words that unless he did as he was told he
should not go back to the guarded room.
Morrison gave way on the instant, and after
that Wridsdale was his master in the matter
of food. But when it came to the question
of Morrison’s working too many hours per
diem Wridsdale was obliged to give way.
Morrison begged to be allowed to work as
he pleased—he grew almost eloquent in his
appeal to Wridsdale to remember his promise
that every facility should be given him. He
was all right, he said, quite all right, and all
he wanted was to be left alone to complete his
work. It filled his mind; he could think of
nothing else until it was done. And Wridsdale
believed him fully and left him to work as he
pleased.
The month which Morrison had spoken of
as necessary for the making of his machine
drew towards a close. When more than three


In the Guarded Room 67
weeks of it had passed Wridsdale made -
another discovery that filled him with admira-
tion for Morrison’s power of sticking to his
labour. Chancing to need something out of
his office one Sunday he strolled down to the
works during the afternoon and rang Stumpy
Todd’s bell. Stumpy opened the door and
stared at him.
‘I shall not stay a minute, Todd,’ said
Wridsdale, hurrying in. ‘ Keep the door open.’
He passed up the steps towards the
counting-house and suddenly paused, arrested
by a sound of hammering. He turned sharply
on Todd.
‘ What’s that ?’ he demanded.
‘ What’s what? ’ said Stumpy.
‘ Confound your impudence!’ snapped Wrids-
dale. ‘You know what I mean well enough.
That noise—somebody’s at work.’
‘Oh—that?’said Stumpy. ‘That? That’s
him, of course.’
‘ Him ?’
‘ Morrison,’ said Stumpy. ‘ Tinkering away
as gay as a lark.’
Wridsdale took a step or two towards the
guarded room: then paused and turned back.


68 Morrison’s Machine
‘You don’t mean to say he’s working
to-day?’ he said.
‘All days and every day—ever since he
locked his self into that room,’ answered
Stumpy. ‘Not to speak of nights.’
‘What the devil did you let him in for?’
demanded Wridsdale.
‘Your orders,’ said Stumpy. ‘Leastways—
he said so.’
Wridsdale got what he wanted from his
office and went away. He had taken but a
few steps along the street when a voice called,
‘Hi!’ and he turned to see Stumpy’s stolid
face regarding him from the door.
‘Well—what is it?’ he snapped.
‘ Him?’ said Stumpy, jerking his head over
his shoulder. ‘Am I to let him in next
Sunday? What?’
Wridsdale turned away and hurried down
the street with a muttered oath. As he walked
homeward his mind occupied itself in thinking
of the future of the machine which was now so
nearly completed. Ever since Morrison had
first laid his papers before him he had thought
of little else. He knew what the successful
making of the machine meant. He knew that


In the Guarded Room 69
ere long a certain trade would be revolutionised
and labour cheapened, and that the work then
being done by half a score of men would be
done, and done better and more expeditiously,
by the machine at which its inventor was even
then toiling.
And the machine was Morrison’s—not his.
As he entered his house Wridsdale felt that
the vagaries of fate are too foolish. The
machine should have been of his invention,
not of Morrison’s, for then the wealth which it
would bring would have come to him—to him
in whose hands it would have been used to
such great advantage. He knew what to do
with wealth—what could Morrison do with it?
He would never be anything but a genius of
mechanical invention all his life; if wealth came
to him—as it was coming—he would fritter it
away in experiments, as many another brilliant
inventor had done before him.
As Wridsdale sat in his study that evening
he thought of these matters over and over
again. He had never married, and he had few
friends, and he often spent lonely evenings
which, as he sometimes bitterly reflected, might
be spent in better fashion if he were a man of


CHAPTER VI
THE MACHINE rs MADE
ON the morning of the twenty-ninth day from
the time Morrison had begun work in the
guarded room, Wridsdale sat alone in his
private office, his mind still harping on the
subject which had filled it almost continuously
for the past month. The covetousness which
was inherent in him had grown with feeding,
and from a feeling at first closely akin to simple
envy had developed into something like a'
resolute determination to share in the wealth
created by another man’s brains. That deter-
mination once arrived at, the only thing which
remained was to consider the ways and means
of carrying it out. Of those ways and means
Wridsdale was now thinking—thinking steadily
and keenly with a firmly-concentrated mind.
He was going to cheat Morrison of, at anyrate,
a portion of the just fruits of his labour; on
that point his mind was made up. He had
71


72 Morrison’s Machine
utterly dismissed all mental processes which
concerned the rights and wrongs of the action
—all he now cared about was the formulating
of a successful plan of campaign which would
result in victory to himself.
As he sat wrapped in thought a tap came at
his door. As the door opened, he looked up
and saw Morrison enter. Wridsdale knew
from a first glance at the inventor’s face that
the end of his labours was reached. There
was a curious look of achievement in Morrison’s
face, and something of the worn appearance
which it had lately presented had gone from it.
But Wridsdale noticed—and remembered it
afterwards—that the strange light in the deep-
set eyes had grown fiercer and more intensified
in its brilliance.
Wridsdale sprang from his chair with a
half-uttered question.
‘Is it—?’ he began, and looked the rest.
Morrison nodded his head carelessly, as
though the thing he had completed were some
ordinary implement.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s finished, Mr Wridsdale.
I’ve just put the last touches to it.’ He walked
over to a calendar which hung above the mantel-


The Machine is Made 73
piece and followed its lines with his finger.
‘ I’ve been at it twenty-nine days,’ he remarked,
turning away with an air of indifference.
‘I congratulate you,’ said Wridsdale. He
half held out his hand, then drew it back, re-
membering what he had in his mind. ‘I con-
gratulate you. You’ve worked hard — too
hard, I’m afraid, Morrison. Well, I’d like
to see the machine now.’
‘No,’ said Morrison, suddenly, ‘not to-day.
I want your permission to make the necessary
power-communication. I’ll do it myself; it’s
quite an easy thing—only requires a shafting
made through to the engine-house—my room’s
above that, you know—and then to-morrow I’ll
start it, and you shall see it working. Then—-
then, Mr Wridsdale, you’ll See it’s reallyfinished.’
‘Very good,’ said Wridsdale. He saw it
was useless to insist or to argue with Morrison
in his present excited state. ‘ Do all that you
want,’ he added. ‘It will be easy, as you say,
to get the necessary power. Here,’ he said,
stopping Morrison as he was leaving the room,
‘come back, Morrison, and we’ll drink the
machine’s success ! ’
But Morrison shook his head, and mutter-


74 Morrison’s Machine
ing, ‘To-morrow! to-morrow!’ left the room.
The clerks stared at him as he passed through
the counting-house, and George slipped off his
stool and followed him into the workshop.
‘Richard,’ he said, ‘is it finished?’
Morrison looked up moodily, and nodded
his head.
‘ It’s finished,’ he repeated.
‘Then go home and get to sleep,’ urged
George.
‘ I’ll go home early to-night,’ said Morrison.
‘ I’ve a little to do yet. Yes, I’ll go home with
you, George, at six,and sleep. I’ve—I’ve abit of
a pain ust there,’ he added, tapping his forehead.
‘ It’ll be all right when I’ve had a good sleep.’
Then he turned away, and George went
back to his clerical duties, somewhat disturbed.
He did not like the abnormally quiet look on
Morrison’s face, nOr the fact of the pain in
his forehead. But there was one cause of
thankfulness—the machine was made. When
noon came he hurried across the town to the
little suburban street and told the news to
Lucy, promising to bring Morrison home early
that evening for the first time for weeks.
During the rest of that day Morrison was


The Machine is Made 75
, busily engaged in making the necessary ar-
rangements for the supply of steam-power to
his machine. As he worked he thought of
the moment when he should connect the old
giant with the new—born child of his brain,
and hear the music which the latter w0uld
make as it uttered its first cry. Somehow the
thought did not give him as much pleasure
as it used to give. That curious pain in his
forehead prevented him from feeling very much
at all. It was a dull, numbing pain, and it
seemed to spread and spread. But Morrison
did not allow it to interfere with his work.
He toiled on without break throughout the
afternoon, and at last all that he had wished
to do was done. He looked wistfully around
the room which had seen his labours and
would see his triumph on the morrow. The
machine stood in the middle of the room, care-
fully wrapped in sheeting. Through the shaft-
ing which Morrison had made through the
floor came the belt which would connect steam-
power with the machine. It lay carelessly
coiled and inert at the foot of the sheeted
machine. To-morrow, in Wridsdale’s presence,
he would slip it on to the wheel above it,


76 Morrison’s Machine
touch a lever, and the first great offspring of
his brain would begin its labours.
But his brain was growing tired. That dull
pain in his forehead grew duller and duller,
and it seemed to him that he was already
asleep. He locked the door of the guarded
room and made his way through the workshops
to the counting-house door. It was not yet
six o’clock, but when George caught sight of
him he put his work away and made ready to
depart. They went out into the street, arm-
in-arm, and set out homeward in silence.
Wridsdale remained in his office that even-
ing until the workmen had left the sheds and
the clerks had gone away from the counting-
house. There was then no one left in the
place but himself and Stumpy Todd, who came
on duty at six o’clock. Until seven o’clock
Wridsdale sat at his desk, thinking and schem-
ing. As the clock struck be stirred into activity.
He wrote a few words on a sheet of paper,
enclosed and secured the latter in an envelope,
and rang the night watchman’s bell. In a few
minutes Todd came limping through the count-
ing-house and looked in at the open door of
the private office.


The Machine is Made 77
‘ Ring?’ he inquired.
‘Yes,’ said Wridsdale. ‘You know where
my house is, Todd?’
‘ No. 12 Albert Park North,’ replied Stumpy,
eyeing the note which Wridsdale held in his
hand with a look of disfavour and suspicion.
‘Right. I want you to take this note there
and wait for an answer. You can get a tram-
car from the square.’
‘There’s no one in the place but me, you
know,’ said Todd. ‘ It’s against orders—your
orders—for it to be left.’
‘All right, Todd. 1 shall be here until you
return. There’s the note, and off you go.’
Stumpy picked up the note as if it had been
a red-hot coin, and made great show of be-
stowing it safely within the breast-pocket of
his ancient coat. Then he pulled his cap
firmly over his ears, and having looked at
Wridsdale pretty much as a dog looks at its
master when made to obey, he turned away
towards the main entrance. Wridsdale followed
him.
‘Don’t forget to ring the bell when you
return, Todd,’ he said.
‘Couldn’t get in without, could I?’ growled


78 Morrison’s Machine
Stumpy. ‘I’ll ring. Mind the fires don’t go
down while I’m out.’
\Vridsdale locked the door on Stumpy’s.re-
treating figure, and then walked slowly back
towards the counting-house. Ere he reached
it he turned off through the workshop to the
guarded room. He had seen Morrison go
away with George Broadclough, and he knew
that there was now nothing to prevent him
from inspecting the finished machine, or from
doing something which he had meant, if chance
offered, to do all day. He produced from his
pocket the key which opened the safety lock,
and in another moment stood within the room.
He groped in the darkness for the button which
turned on the electric light ; his finger touched it,
and the room was suddenly filled with radiance.
\Vridsdale shut and locked the door from
pure habit, and then turned and gazed at the
sheeted machine. It seemed almost like sacri-
lege to draw the sheeting aside and look on
the thing in all its virgin proportions. But
that was sentiment, and for sentimental ideas
he had no time. He drew the wrappings
away and revealed the machine, and stood
gazing at it with eyes that criticised and


The Machine is Made 79
admired. He knew as he looked at it that it
was the work of a greater man than he could
ever hope to be ; he felt that with all his training
and all his experience he could never have con—
ceived a machine like that, nor have fashioned
it so perfectly and with such delicacy of finish.
Wridsdale drew a long breath. He put out
his hand and touched the gleaming metal here
and there. He had studied the plans and
diagrams so carefully, and had watched Mor-
rison’s operations so narrowly, that he knew
the use and properties of every delicate bit of
machinery. He had no doubt at all about the
success of the first experiment, and he meant
to make it himself—now. The machine should
be wedded to its motive power at his hands.
Wridsdale unlocked the door and went
downstairs to the engine-house. The great
engine which supplied the power for his work-
shops lay like a giant asleep and snoring—a
touch of his fingers and it woke into lazy
stretchings that quickened speedily into fierce,
resistless life. The mighty crank began its
one—two—t/zree—four, one—two—t/zree—four,
one—two—t/zree—four in a cadence that in-
creased in speed at every movement, and the


80 Morrison’s Machine
silent, gloomy sheds were suddenly alive with
the sibilant hiss of steam. Wridsdale went
back to the virgin machine. And this time
he left the door open.
The belting lay curled like a hangman’s
noose on the floor at the foot of the machine.
He gathered it up till it drew taut against the
shafting which ran the length of the shed
below, and at the same instant he slipped it on
to the wheel of the machine and pulled a lever.
For the hundredth part of a second he held his
breath, then it came with a great sigh as the
machine, with a sudden shivering throughout
its frame, broke into sound and began the mar-
vellous evolutions at which the world was soon
to wonder. The sweat suddenly burst out in
great beads upon Wridsdale’s forehead; he
knew that his were the first eyes to see the
first motions of this wonderful invention, and
he knew too that he was taking a mean
advantage of the inventor.
But of the latter knowledge Wridsdale
recked little. His agitation came from the
pure joy and delight of the mechanician in
watching the perfect motion of the machine
before him. He walked round and round the


The Machine is Made 81
machine, listening to its pulsations, its whirrings,
its clickings and beatings, and he said to him-
self that it was a thing of perfection. Finally
he sat down on the one chair which the room
contained, and, folding his arms, gave himself
up to the pure joy of watching the thing run.
And the great engine below throbbed and sang
and the wheels whirred and the machine clanked
and clattered, and the clanking and clattering
were to Wridsdale’as music. He said to him-
self, as he sat there, that he would have given
the world to invent a thing like that, and in
his heart he cursed Morrison because it had
been his luck to do what he himself had never
believed it possible to do. And, as he looked,
the desire to claim some share in the machine
grew fiercer and stronger, and he knew that for
good or evil he must fight for his own hand
and will in the matter.
While Wridsdale was thus occupied, Stumpy
Todd was proceeding very unwillingly and
at an exceeding slow pace in the direction of
the square. Never in the best of humours, he
was now put thoroughly out of temper by
being sent on his present errand. He never
remembered doing such a thing before. It
F


82 Morrison’s Machine
was true that Wridsdale sometimes sent him
across to the inn for a chop, or to the
neighbouring post-office with a late letter, but
to send him to the other side of the town
was an unheard-of indignity. Why hadn’t
Wridsdale sent him off to the North Pole at
once? It was beyond Stumpy’s powers to
remember when he had last travelled so far
as he must needs do that night. His ordinary
daily amount of travelling, year in and year
out, consisted of a short journey of twenty
yards from his lodgings to the works and
back again, with various trottings and stump-
ings up and down the sheds thrown in. It
was more than flesh and blood could bear
to be packed off at a moment’s notice to
the other side of Blackford.
Ere he reached the top of the street leading
from the works to the square, Stumpy Todd
grew not merely ill-tempered but suspicious.
What did Wridsdale send him out for? He
could have got a messenger-boy in two minutes
—he usually did employ messenger-boys. Why
didn’t he on this occasion —ah! why didn’t he?
It suddenly flashed upon Stumpy that Wrids-
dale was anxious to secure his absence for


The Machine is Made 83
a while in order to carry out some project of his
own. On the top of this sudden illumination
come another; Wridsdale was up to something
in that room where young Morrison had worked
almost day and night for the past month.
Stumpy Todd deliberately paused in his
progress towards the square. He took off
his cap and scratched his head for a full
minute . . . and then with equal deliberation
turned and went back by the way he had
come. During the head-scratching process
he had considered all the facts of the case,
and had decided that it was his duty as night-
watchman at Wridsdale’s to keep himself
fully acquainted with whatever happened
there between the hours of 6 pm. and 6 am.
No matter that Wridsdale himself had caused
his absence. Wridsdale had once impressed
upon him the absolute necessity of sticking
to his post, and he would follow the behests’
of the Wridsdale of that day rather than
the Wridsdale of this.
It is scarcely necessary to say that, with
his long and intimate acquaintance with the
place, Stumpy Todd know how to enter
W ridsdale’s Machine Works without going in


84 Morrison’s Machine
by the front door. Within a few minutes of
his turning back he stood in the deepest
shadows of the engine~house listening with
all his ears. He saw the great engine at
work, he heard the whirring of the great
driving-wheel, and above it he caught a sound
which he knew had never been heard in that
place before. When he heard that, Stumpy
Todd divested himself of his boots. Then,
keeping close to walls, and in shadows, he
went out into the workshop and by devious
ways and staircases until he drew near to the
guarded room. He saw that the door was
open and the light streaming forth. And
from a very dark corner opposite the open
door Stumpy Todd saw the new machine
working and watched Wridsdale’s face as the
latter sat gloating over it.
After a while Stumpy Todd retired by the
way he had come, and presently set out on
his mission for the second time. It was
nearly ten o’clock when he came back to the
works, but Wridsdale asked him no questions
as to his dilatoriness. And for once in his
life Stumpy felt no desire to engage in
recriminatory conversation.


CHAPTER VII
THE LAST STRAW
IN anticipation of Morrison’s early home-
coming that evening, Lucy had taken special
pains to make all things pleasant for him.
The little house was lighted as if for a
festival; a special feast was cooking at the
kitchen fire, and Lucy herself was gaily
apparelled and in the best of spirits. It
seemed to George Broadclough, as he followed
Morrison out of the spring twilight into the
cheery parlour where Lucy awaited them,
that he had never seen her look so attractive
or so womanly as she did that night. For
once, however, Lucy seemed to have no eyes
for her lover. All her attention was given
to Richard, whom she fussed after in a
motherly fashion that made George laugh.
Richard accepted his sister’s attentions meekly,
doing all that he was hidden to do, and
generally comporting himself after the fashion
85


86 Morrison’s Machine
of an obedient child. While he was changing
his clothes Lucy took the opportunity of
examining George.
‘ It’s really finished, George?’ she asked
anxiously.
‘So he says,’ answered George. ‘ He
hasn’t said much, coming home. It’s my
opinion he ought to go to bed pretty early,
Lucy, and get a jolly good night’s sleep.
He complains of a dull sort of pain in his
forehead, just there, and he’s rather quieter
than I like to see him. Look here—after
we’ve had supper I’ll sit with him a bit and
then I’ll go home, and you get him off to
bed; that’s the place for him, I’m certain.’
Lucy kissed him in reward for the sugges-
tion. It was one of George’s greatest charms
in her eyes that he was always ready to give
sound advice to anybody—she was sure that in
this case the advice was good and should be
acted upon.
Morrison sat down to table with his sister
and George with something like a gleam of his
usual self. He insisted that the feast had been
prepared because George was present, and asked
him if the cook of famous memory had offered


The Last Straw 89
‘Well—I—it struck me—of course I’m a
suspicious beggar, you know, Richard, but it
struck me that as the two of you had been
chained up together in that room so long, you
know,’ said George, blundering along as he
best could, ‘he might say, you know, that it
was a joint production, or something like that,
eh ?’
Then he wished he had bitten his tongue out
rather than have spoken. A new look came
into Morrison’s face—a look which George
remembered with many bitter self-reproaches
afterwards—‘ the sort of look, you know,’ he
said in trying to describe it, ‘ that you’d think a
young mother would have if you told her some-
body had stolen her baby.’ And he half-started
from his seat as if he meant to rush off to the
works there and then and seize his machine.
But he sank back and looked at his friend
reproachfully.
‘ He couldn’t do that l ’ he said. ‘ He knows
it’s all mine. He couldn’t lay claim to a cog-
wheel in it. Oh, I can trust Wridsdale—he
wouldn’t do that, George.’
‘Well, I thought I’d just mention it, old chap,’
said George. ‘One hears of such a lot of


90 Morrison’s Machine
brain-picking nowadays. Of course, now
that the thing is finished, you’ll get all the
necessary protection, and that sort of thing, I
suppose?’
‘Yes,’ answered Morrison. He suddenly
lay back on the sofa, and clasped his hands
over his eyes and forehead—a favourite atti-
tude of his, as George knew well, when he
was going to think some new idea out. He
kept silence and George felt no inclination to
break it. So they remained for some time,
Morrison racking his already wearied-out
brain in new and perturbing thought, and
George smoking steadily in full enjoyment
of his tobacco. Then Lucy came back, free
of her household apron and its attendant cares,
and looked at them questioningly. Her face
grew anxious as she saw her brother’s attitude.
‘ Richard !’ she said, laying her hand on his
arm. ‘Give up! I know what that means;
you’re thinking something out ! You’re not to
think any more just yet. Come!’
Morrison unclasped his hands and sat up.
His forehead was a mass of corded veins and
knots; his eyes burnt; the lines about his
mouth were tense and harsh. He looked from


The Last Straw 91
Lucy to George with a somewhat vacant
expression.
‘All right, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I was just
thinking—something I’d not thought of. [—1
think I shall go to bed.’
‘Best thing you can do, old chap!’ said
George. ‘A jolly good night’s sleep’ll make
you feel like a prize-fighter in the morning.
Sleep’s the thing.’
‘Yes,’ said Morrison, half-stupidly. ‘I’ll—
I’ll go to bed.’
He went out of the room forthwith, and they
heard him climbing the stairs slowly and
wearily. Lucy looked at George with troubled
eyes.
‘ Is he going to be ill, George?’ she said.
‘Looks like it,’ answered George. ‘ My
word, little woman, I’m glad I'm not one of
the brain-y sort like poor Dick! It must be
dreadful to go through all that sort of thing.
But I don’t wonder he feels it. Fancy working
night and day as he’s done for the past month !
Well, I’m glad I’m one of the stupids.’
‘You’ve been a very good old stupid and a
very great comfort,’ said Lucy, nestling into
his arms. ‘There! But, oh, George, what


92 Morrison’s Machine
shall we do about Richard? He looks as if he
were going to be very ill.’
‘ I daresay he’ll be all right in a day or two,’
said George. ‘He’s been in a terribly over-
wrought condition for this past month, you
know. I’ll tell you what, Lucy—take him
away.’
Lucy shook her head.
‘That’s no good,’ she said. ‘If he ever
goes with me anywhere he spends all his time
in visiting mills and factories and workshops
and in examining anything in the way of
machinery that he comes across. Don’t you
remember that when we all three went to
Beachstowe he spent all the week at that
pumping-station, and never saw the sea at
all ?’
‘It did him good, anyhow,’ said George.
‘It was something new. What he wants now
is something new—his brain’sgot running too
much on one thing.’
‘Well, I hope he’ll havea long night’s sleep,’
said Lucy. ‘I'm glad he’s gone to bed so
early.’
But Morrison had not gone to bed. While
Lucy and George talked of him downstairs the


The Last Straw 93
inventor was lying on a sofa in his bedroom in
the attitude from which his sister had aroused
him when she entered the parlour. He lay
there with his hands pressed over eyes and fore-
head, thinking . . . thinking . . . thinking.
The chance words which George had dropped
had set Morrison off in a new train of thought.
He had made light of George’s suggestion, but
it had fixed itself in his mind for all that. His
brain, weak and weary with its prolonged
exertion, was only too ready to receive a new
impression, and having received it, to brood
upon it. And so Morrison lay there, motion-
less of body, but alive with strenuous thought.
Supposing that Wridsdale should play him
false? There was nothing to prevent him
doing so as things stood. He had shown
Wridsdale the plans with every confidence,
never thinking of all the legal jargon of pro-
visional protection and all the rest of it. Wrids-
dale had learnt and known every secret of the
machine. Supposing he claimed some credit
in its invention? There was brain-picking, as
George had said . . . Morrison had heard of
it... knewofit...
He had thought all this within a minute after


94 Morrison’s Machine
George had spoken. It passed through his
mind like a flash of white light. Within the
next minute another thought had flashed
through—up to then Wridsdale knew every-
thing: between then and the morning some-
thing must be added to the machine of which
Wridsdale should know nothing. Added?
The machine was perfect! But something . . .
something . . .
This was what Morrison was grappling with
as he lay there alone in the darkness. He
heard the clock downstairs strike nine, and ten,
and then the front door closed very gently, and
he knew that George had said good-night to
his sweetheart and was going home ; he heard
Lucy come softly up the stairs and pause a
moment outside his door and go as softly away,
and still he lay there motionless, with burning
eyes and throbbing brain, and hands that
pressed tighter and tighter around his forehead
as if they would compel the thought that
laboured within.
It was near midnight when Morrison
suddenly sprang to his feet. He felt for the
candle, which he had extinguished on entering
his room, and found and lighted it. Within


The Last Straw 95
another moment he was outside his room and
creeping softly down the stairs. His footfall
made scarce a sound, but ere he had reached the
stair-foot Lucy’s door was open and she was
following him.
‘ Richard I’ she cried. ‘What is it ? Where
are you going?’
Morrison’s voice was as calm and unemo-
tional as it had ever been in all his life as he
turned to face her.
‘ It’s nothing, Lucy,’ he answered soothingly.
‘ Don’t be alarmed, dear. I’ve forgotten some-
thing—something that I ought to have done—
and I must go back to the works and do it.
I’ll come back as soon as it’s done, and go to
bed for the whole of to-morrow—there! ’
She looked at him in some doubt; her face
was still afraid and her eyes were troubled.
‘Ohl’ she said, ‘I wish you wouldn’t,
Richard. Wouldn’t it do in the morning?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I must go. I’ll be back
to breakfast. Don’t be afraid, Lucy.’
He was half-way to the door by that time,
putting on his hat and coat as he went.
He turned and gave her a smiling nod, then
the door opened and shut again, and he was


96 Morrison’s Machine
gone. Lucy went back to bed, anxious and
doubtful. She was not the sort of girl who
whimpers, but she felt very like crying as she
heard the sound of Richard’s hurrying foot-
steps grow fainter and fainter along the street.
And for the rest of that night she lay awake,
full of thought.
Stumpy Todd was full of thought, too, that
night. He sat in his favourite corner of the
engine-house, his well-blackened pipe in full
blast, his bottle of refreshment at hand, and
his lantern on the table, and thought hard and
long. His thoughts were many. Wridsdale
had sent him on a fool’s errand. Wridsdale
wanted him out of the way. He had been
one too many for Wridsdale. He had seen
the new machine. What on earth was that
machine? Why did Wridsdale sit grinning at
it as if he were a love-struck lad gazing at
his lass's picture? VVhy—
The bell, ringing with startling abruptness
in close proximity to Stumpy’s ear, put a
sudden end to his cogitations, and jerked him
to his feet with an alacrity that was amazing
to himself. He stared at it for a moment as
if in doubt of its behaviour; then he picked up


The Last Straw 97
his lantern and set out for the door. Ere he
reached it, the bell rang again, peremptorily.
‘Hellol hello! hello !’ said Stumpy, coming
up to the door. ‘ Who’s that?’
‘ Morrison!’ said a voice outside.
Stumpy sighed deeply. ‘S’pose I’ll have
to,’ he said, as he unfastened bars and bolts.
‘ Nice time 0’ night to—’ he began, as the door
flew open and Morrison rushed in. But the
inventor paid no heed. His figure flitted
through the workshop and up the stair, and
Stumpy heard the door of the locked room
open and shut again. He secured the entrance
and went back to his corner in the engine-
house.
‘This,’ said Stumpy, as he re-lit his pipe,
‘this is what they call a corker. I’ve no idea
0’ what a corker is, but this is one. What
that blessed machine is, and why Wridsdale
and Morrison’s both going mad over it, the
Lord only knows ! ’
At three o’clock Stumpy, in accordance with
his usual routine, took his lantern and went
round the establishment. He paused at the
door of Morrison’s room and listened. He
heard the inventor at work—hammering and
G


98 Morrison’s Machine
chipping and filing—he heard the click of
metal and the ring of steel, and he went
away shaking his head.
At a quarter to six in the morning Morrison
flashed into the engine-house like a devastating
angel—his face ablaze with excitement, his
black hair tumbling about his eyes and ears.
He gave a rapid glance at the engine, seized
the lever and set the great thing to work, and,
ere Stumpy could say a word, was gone again.
Stumpy fell back in his seat motionless.
Above and around him rose and surged the
whirring of wheels.
The sight of the clock handles pointing to
the hour of six roused him out of his astonish-
ment. He hurried across the shed and threw
open the doors to the group of yawning men
who waited outside, or were leisurely approach-
ing. The engineman was one of the first to
cross the threshold; his quick ear caught the
sobbings and complainings of his pet. He
seized Stumpy by the shoulder.
‘Who the blazes set my engine going?’ he
shouted. A
Stumpy jerked his head towards the stairs.
‘ Him!’ he said. ‘ Him! Morrison.’


The Last Straw 99
The engineman stared . . . then went
across the shed and up the stairs, taking two
at a time. He stopped outside the door of
the locked room for a few seconds and turned
down the stairs again. His face was white
as a sheet, and he jerked his head over his
shoulder as he came.
‘There’s something wrong yonder,’ he said,
stopping before the in-coming group. ‘ There’s
a—a machine clicking away like the devil—
and—and there’s a man laughing.’
It was within the hour after that, that
Wridsdale, pale and nervous, dashed up to the
works in a cab and made for the locked room
in company with the man who had fetched
him post-haste. It was the work of a second
to unlock the door and throw it open . . .
but on the threshold both men stopped, filled
with a sudden terror of what they saw. For
there in the midst of the floor stood Morrison’s
machine, clicking and clattering gaily, and in
the corner stood Morrison, watching it with
staring eyes, and laughing as only a man can
laugh upon whom madness has suddenly fallen.


CHAPTER VIII
MESSENGERS OF sonnow
IT was George Broadclough’s habit to rise
somewhat early in the morning—earlier, that
is to say, than is deemed necessary by most
young men whose business or professional
duties do not require their personal attention
until nine o’clock. Most of George’s fellow-
clerks at Wridsdale’s Machine Works rose at
eight, or even at a quarter past that hour,
dressed hurriedly, breakfasted in a scrambling
fashion, and left themselves but a few minutes
in which to make their port of destination
from whatever particular point of the compass
they hailed. There were two reasons why
George did not conform to this time-honoured
custom. The first was that he hated to do
anything in a hurry; the second, that he was
the owner of a dog. The latter, an animal
of miserably uncertain lineage and breed, had
been rescued by George from a gang of
[0°


Messengers of Sorrow 101
youthful miscreants who were haling him by
a string to the nearest pond, and, as not
seldom happens in these cases, had contrived
to worm himself, with much tact and celerity,
into his rescuer’s good graces, and, ere long,
into his affections. He was a beast of large
head, small body, and long tail, and was
known to those who so far put off their
dignity as to notice him by the name of
Mixture, because of the very apparent blends
in his composition. The greater part of
Mixture’s life was spent in the garden at
the rear of the house in which George lodged,
and the only drawback to it was that he was
confined by a chain which terminated near
a kennel. But at the beginning and the end
of every day Mixture knew the joys of life.
About seven o’clock every morning George
appeared, undid the chain, and conducted
Mixture for something like an hour’s walk.
After that was over, Mixture sat on his
hind legs on the hearth of George’s sitting-
room and watched George breakfast. He
breakfasted himself at a more fashionable
hour in the privacy of the back-garden,
with the chain attached to his collar and


102 Morrison’s Machine
George gone to business, and for the rest of
the day he slept, or caught flies, or barked
at the cats, until evening came and brought
back George and liberty.
On the morning following the little feast
at Morrison’s, George rose at his usual hour
and in due course descended to the back-
garden, where Mixture awaited him with
frantic and foolish manifestations of doggish
joy. It was a fine morning for a walk, and
both man and dog knew it. But for them
there was to be no companionship that day.
Mixture was loose, and jumping for joy, and he
and George were at the gate of the back-
garden when the voice of the landlady gave
pause to their movements.
‘Mr Broadclough! Here’s a man wants
to see you.’
George turned back to the house, wonder-
ing. What should a man want with him at
that hour? He strode through the little hall
into his sitting-room. There, still panting for
breath, stood one of Wridsdale’s mechanics.
‘ Hello, Smith!’ said George. ‘What’s the
matter?’
‘Mr Wridsdale wants you at once,


Messengers of Sorrow 1 o 3
Mr Broadclough. There’s—there’s something
wrong with Mr Morrison.’
‘Wrong with Morrison! What—here, wait
a minute while I fasten my dog up.’
Mixture whined and wept as the chain
secured him, but George did not even bestow
a glance upon him. In another moment he
and Smith were walking away from the house
with quick strides.
‘ What is it?’ asked George.
‘ They say he’s mad,’ answered Smith.
‘Mad? What! Morrison?’ ’
‘Yes. It seems he turned up about mid-
night, and locked himself into that room
where he’s been working lately, and when
some of us went in at six o’clock this morn-
ing he was in there with a machine going
and him laughing at it. Murgatroyd, the
engineman, heard him first, and he said it was
awful ; it made him look bad,’ said Smith.
‘ Is Mr Wridsdale there?’ asked George.
‘ Yes, he’s there. He sent me for you.’
‘ Has he sent anybody for Miss Morrison?’
Smith was not able to answer this question.
He had run off, he said, in a great hurry,
and knew nothing beyond what he had been


104 Morrison’s Machine
told. He himself had not seen Morrison—
he had only heard Murgatroyd speak of
hearing his wild laughter.
George hurried across the town to the
works at his best speed, finally leaving the
mechanic well in the rear. He was full of
wonder as to what had occurred, and more
puzzled as to the events of the night. Smith
had said that Morrison had gone to the
works at midnight. That meant that he had
risen and gone out within two hours of his,
George’s, leaving the house. He wondered
if Lucy knew of this. If Wridsdale’s message
had not been so imperative, he would have
called to see Lucy on his way to the works;
as it was he hurried on to the latter, de-
termining to see Lucy as soon as he had
learnt the extent of Richard’s mishap.
There was nothing in the appearance of the
lower floor of the great workshop to show
that any tragedy had taken place. The men
were already at work, and the throbbing of
the engine and the whirring of wheels was
going on as it always did during working hours.
George turned hastily towards the counting-
house, expecting to find it empty. As he


Messengers of Sorrow 105
opened the door he confronted Wridsdale,
looking pale and anxious. Wridsdale motioned
him to silence and pointed to the door of
his private room.
‘He’s in there,’ he said in a whisper.
‘lnspector Wood and two doctors are with
him. . . . I expect one of them out in a
minute.’
‘What does it all mean?’ asked George.
Wridsdale shook his head. It was easy to
see that his anxiety was deep and real.
‘I’m afraid his mind’s given way,’ he said.
‘You know that he has been working almost
day and night at a new machine for the
past month?’
‘ Yes, I know,’ answered George.
‘Well, I fear the strain has been too much
for him. He told me yesterday morning that
the machine was finished, and we arranged
that he should go home early—that is, at his
usual hour, or, indeed, whenever he pleased—
and show me the finished result this morning,’
said Wridsdale.
‘I know,’ said George; ‘I went home with
him. He went to bed soon after eight
o’clock.’


106 Morrison’s Machine
‘ Did he !’ said Wridsdale. ‘ Well, according
to Todd, he was back here at midnight and
at work until nearly six; then he rushed into
the engine-house and set the engine going.
At six, when the men came in, Murgatroyd
heard a strange sound in Morrison’s room
and they sent off for me. I unlocked the
door—it wasn’t a pleasant sight, Broadclough.’
‘What was it?’ asked George.
‘ He had set the new machine going, and he
was standing in a corner of the room watching
it and laughing,’ replied Wridsdale. He
shuddered at the recollection. ‘I shall never
forget it to the day of my death,’ he said.
‘ How did you get him down here?’ asked
George, pointing to the private room.
‘Oh, very easily. I led him down. He
came quietly enough, except that once or twice
he began to laugh again. Since he has been
in there he has sat in my chair perfectly quiet,
tying and untying a piece of string, and
sometimes laughing gently to himself. I sent
for the police-surgeon—he was close at hand,
you see—and he brought Wood with him, and
they sent for Dr Clapham. Clapham has only
just come ; I expect he’ll be out soon.’


Messengers of Sorrow I 07
‘ Have you sent to Miss Morrison?’ asked
George.
‘No, that’s why I sent for you. You’re
engaged to her, aren’t you, Broadclough?’
‘I am.’
‘ So I had heard, and I thought perhaps you
would go and break the news to her. After all,
it mayn’t be so serious as we think, but . . .
my God! I’ll never forget that laughter, or his
face. It was . . ’
‘ Here’s Dr Clapham,’ said George.
Wridsdale, who had paced restlessly about
the room as he talked, turned and confronted
the doctor.
‘Well, doctor?’ he said anxiously, ‘what
is it?’
The doctor shook his head.
‘ It is a very serious matter, Mr Wridsdale,’ he
answered with some emphasis. ‘Very serious;
there is no doubt whatever that Mr—Morrison,
did you say ?—yes, that Mr Morrison’s mind
is affected—no doubt whatever.’
‘You mean that he is mad?’ asked
Wridsdale.
‘In popular parlance—yes,’ answered the
doctor. ‘Madness and insanity are terms


108 Morrison’s Machine
which require some qualification. But in the
ordinary form of speech he is mad—quite mad.
His mind has been thrown off its balance by
some sudden shock or as the result of a great
nervous strain; too long continued. It is not
an uncommon case, Mr Wridsdale, in these
days of high pressure. You tell me he has
been working very hard and been very deeply
interested in his work? Ah, yes, just so,
just so!’
‘ Is this likely to be of long duration?’ asked
Wridsdale. The doctor’s mouth tightened and
he became much interested in the fit of his
gloves.
‘That I cannot say,’ he answered at last.
‘It is useless to conceal from you, Mr Wrids-
dale—I apprehend that this young gentleman
is Mr Morrison’s friend? just so, just so—
well, gentlemen, it is useless to conceal from
you the fact that Mr Morrison is seriously
affected. It will, I fear, be some time before
more than that can be said.’
‘And in the meantime?’ said George, sick
at heart and feeling as if the world had
suddenly stopped still. ‘In the meantime,
doctor?’


I 10 Morrison’s Machine
When he looked around him George
registered a solemn vow that Lucy should not
see her brother. . . . No—not while he was
like that. He himself looked and turned
away, sick of heart and mind. Morrison sat
in Wridsdale’s chair, very quietly. His fingers
held a piece of string in which he was tying
and untying knots with steady persistence.
On one side of him stood the police-surgeon,
regarding him attentively; on the other stood
the inspector, with something of wonder
in his face. While George stood there
Morrison raised his eyes from the string and
looked at the faces round about him, and
smiled the smile of a child which neither
understands nor comprehends. George went
hastily out of the room. . . . Wridsdale
followed him. ‘You’d better go to her,
Broadclough,’ he said huskily. ‘ And—I think
she’d better not see him—like that.’
‘ No,’ said George. ‘ She shall not.’
He went away then and at first walked
swiftly along the street, feeling as if he must
reach Lucy as quickly as possible. But when
he came to the square and had stepped on a
tram-car, George suddenly realised what


Messengers of Sorrow 111
message it was that he was carrying to
Morrison’s sister. Morrison’s sister! —he
forgot for the moment that she was also his
own affianced wife; his only thought was of
Richard sitting there in Wridsdale’s room and
of Lucy waiting in the little house. He
dropped off the tram-car again, and walked
slowly along, feeling that a task had been laid
upon him which was hard to perform.
At last he was there and Lucy stood before
him, surprised that he should present himself
at that unusual hour. And then all uncon-
sciously George did the best thing that he
could have done. For at the sight of Lucy
he suddenly broke down and wept, as only a
strong man can, and it was with Lucy’s arms
around him, and Lucy’s face pressed close to
his, that he told her all that was to be told,
and in the telling found comfort for her and
for himself.


C H A P T E R I X
WRIDSDALE DECIDES FOR EVIL
DURING the next few days George Broadclough
felt as if he were living in dreamland. There
were many things to be done and much to be
thought of, but neither action nor thought
seemed real to him. He, Lucy, and Richard
had lived in such close and constant com-
panionship that the sudden blow which de-
stroyed it seemed for the time being to have
obliterated everything and left nothing but a
dull feeling of weariness behind it. He could
scarcely believe that the blow had really fallen
—it was impossible to realise at first that so
much misery had descended upon the house
of his friends and left a shadow there that
was little less sombre than the shadow of
death. And so he went about his necessary
duties mechanically, sometimes wondering if
he would not suddenly wake up and find that
it had all been a horrible nightmare and that
112


Wridsdale Decides for Evil 113
the gloom was a figment of his brain. But
while he wondered he was only too conscious
of the knowledge that it was no dream and
that Richard was already the inmate of a
madhouse and the complexion of everything
had entirely changed.
If George was mentally disturbed by his
friend’s sudden calamity so was Wridsdale also.
While the necessary arrangements were being
made for the proper care of Morrison, Wrids-
dale gave no thought to the affair of the
machine, beyond seeing that the room which
sheltered it was properly secured against the
curious. The men in his employ knew quite
well that some new invention had been carried
out in that room and that Morrison’s mental
breakdown had come from the strain involved
in working at it, and their knowledge had
spread into the town. For some days after
Morrison had been removed to the asylum
Wridsdale was annoyed by inquiries as to how
the affair had happened and what it was that
his man had been engaged upon. At first he
put his questioners aside with answers which
conveyed nothing, but later, having thought
the matter over, he gave vague, guarded replies
H


1 14 Morrison’s Machine
which left his friends under the impression that
he and Morrison had each been giving much
time and thought to a new construction, and
that the latter’s mind, never too strong, had
given way under the strain. The truth was
that at’ this juncture Wridsdale was engaged in
carefully feeling his way. As soon as he
heard the doctor's first report as to Morrison’s
condition his active mind recognised the ad-
vantage to himself of Morrison’s lapse into
insanity. With the machine’s creator out of
the way the machine was at his mercy. He
alone of all the world knew the secret of the
machine; he alone held possession of the
finished invention. The only question to be
answered was—How long would Morrison’s
insanity last ? was it temporary or permanent?
If the black night had fallen upon the inventor
for ever—why, then, there was no obstacle in
\Vridsdale’s way.
He sat in the smoking-room of his club one
afternoon, thinking these things carefully over.
Of late he had been considering what attitude
he should adopt towards Morrison’s sister. He
felt inclined to be very generous—every ex-
pense incurred on Morrison’s behalf he himself


Wridsdale Decides for Evil II 5
would pay, and if the calamity was of a per-
manent nature he would insure that Morrison
was provided for during the remainder of his
life. Also he would provide for Lucy. It was
only just, he would tell her when he had that
interview with her which he was carefully plan-
ning in his mind, that he should make proper
provision for the sister of the man who had
lost his reason through over-devotion to his
interests. And in his heart \Nridsdale felt
that he was acting very fairly, and that public
opinion would be on his side. There would
be an advantage in that; he knew where public
opinion may be of great value just as well as
he knew where it may possess no value at all.
It chanced that as Wridsdale sat there, plan-
ning and scheming, there came up to him an
acquaintance, who, like himself, was the head
of a great machine-making business, and who
sat down at his side and opened conversation
by inquiring about Morrison. Had Wridsdale
heard any later news? was there any improve-
ment ?
‘There is no improvement,’ Wridsdale
answered. ‘It is too soon to expect any.’
‘I t’s sad for the poor fellow,’ said the other


1 16 Morrison’s Machine
man. ‘He was a very clever draughtsman
and mechanic, wasn’t he?’
‘Very,’ said Wridsdale. ‘Very.’
The other man looked at him inquisitively.
It seemed to him that Wridsdale was taciturn.
‘ What was it that really knocked him over ?’
he asked, with a sudden malicious desire to
extract such information as he could get.
‘ I’ve heard such widely-varying accounts of
it that I don’t know what to believe.’
‘Ay?’ said Wridsdale. ‘I hadn’t thought
it possible there could have been more than
one version. The case was simple enough.
Given a certain temperament, it was only
what was to be expected.’
‘Ah—and what sort of temperament?’
Wridsdale drew out his cigar-case and
lighted a fresh cigar before he answered.
‘Morrison was a highly-strung, nervous,
excitable man,’ he replied half-carelessly.
‘The sort of man who gets very enthusiastic
about anything he takes in hand. When that
sort of man does get enthusiastic he literally
works himself to death. He was working day
and night at this machine of mine—got so
wrapped up in it that he wouldn’t leave it.


Wridsdale Decides for Evil 117
The result was that he had a sudden collapse—
which is just what might have been expected.’
‘ It was your machine, was it?’
Wridsdale turned slowly in his seat and gave
the other man a long, deliberate stare.
‘ Whose else should it have been ? ’ he asked.
‘You don’t suppose I’m fool enough to waste
time and labour on other folk’s schemes, do
you ? ’
‘I heard,’ said the other, ‘I heard that this
chap Morrison had invented some very mar-
vellous thing, and that you’d afforded him
facilities for putting it in shape, and that he
worked himself into a perfect fever over it and
finally lost his reason as soon as he’d finished it.’
‘ And where,’ asked Wridsdale, with an ironi-
cal laugh, ‘ where might you have heard that?’
‘I rather think it came, somehow, from the
man’s friends,’ answered the other man.
‘Though I really don’t know—it’s common
rumour.’
‘Then common rumour, as usual, is a liar,’
said Wridsdale; ‘ It’s a very unfortunate fact
that Morrison, poor fellow, has lost his reason,
though it’s not surprising, for he was always a
little—well, eccentric. Something a bit loose


118 Morrison’s Machine
somewhere, you know. He was wrapped up,
heart and soul, in this machine of mine, and he
worked at it much too hard—you couldn’t stop
him.’
‘Ah!’ said the other man. ‘And the
machine—what sort of thing may it be?’
Wridsdale gave his questioner another long
look.
‘ It’s the sort of thing that will make some
people envious, and everybody wonder, when
they get to know what it really is,’ he answered
coolly. ‘Any more questions?’
The other man said no more. He picked
up a newspaper and unfolded it, and Wridsdale
settled himself back in his easy-chair, and gave
his mind to his own thoughts. What the
other man had said had made him somewhat
uneasy. Until then he had been under the
firm impression that Morrison had not said
a word to any living soul about the machine.
It now seemed evident that he had. Wridsdale
began to reckon up the chances of what that
meant.
He was a quick thinker, and before many
minutes had gone by he had decided upon the
value of the news which the other man had


Wridsdale Decides for Evil 119
given him. Morrison had evidently told his
sister and George Broadclough that he had
invented a machine, and that he, Wridsdale,
had given him the opportunity of making it.
Well, there was no great harm done by that.
He felt sure that Morrison had not told them
what the machine was. He had no more
doubt that he and Morrison shared the secret
of that machine than that he was sitting there.
The situation resolved itself into this——
Morrison had no doubt told his sister and
his friend, her lover, that he had invented a
machine. He had not told them what sort of
machine it was. He, Wridsdale, was the only
person who knew that. Morrison was in a
madhouse, likely to remain there for some
time; it might be for ever. He, Wridsdale,
was in possession of the machine, and of its
secret. Against his full claim to it there was
a vague rumour—a rumour which nothing
could support but Morrison himself. And
Morrison was voiceless as the dead—and if
he ever came out of his living tomb who would
believe the word of a man of disordered
intellect against that of a man whose brain was
universally acknowledged to be clear and sound ?


120 Morrison’s Machine
There was no doubt in Wridsdale’s mind
that he had affairs in his own hands now.
But it was necessary to act at once—he must
make good his claim to the machine, and
establish his inalienable rights in it without
delay. He had made his choice between good
and evil, and there was now nothing to do but
to follow the path which he had chosen.
It was not out of accordance with the strange,
mysterious perversities of human nature that
Wridsdale not only set out on the path of his
choice without fear or compunction, but with
something of the spirit which fills the breast
of a general to whom the conduct of a danger-
ous campaign is committed. He knew the
dangers before him and welcomed them—they
only served, in his mind, to give so much more
zest to his further proceedings. And he had
already advanced a long way towards an
absolute conviction that what he was doing
was a just thing. Over and over again he had
said to himself that the machine was his by
virtue of the fact that he had taught Morrison
all he knew, that he had given Morrison time,
facilities, and advice—valuable things all, which
Morrison could have obtained nowhere else.


Wridsdale Decides for Evil 121
And at last he had come to believe in his own
arguments—to believe in them so thoroughly
that he felt a certain pleasure in justifying his
own claim to another man’s property. His was
a psychological experience which is not un-
common—it is known in a crude and element-
ary form to the common thief, and in a more
dangerous and insidious one to many folk of
higher degree.
When Wridsdale left the club and the man
who had asked him unpleasant questions, it was
with a fixed determination to begin his cam-
paign at once. He walked to his works and,
after transacting some business in his private
office, sent for George Broadclough. George,
wearied and worn with the doings of the past
few days, waited on Wridsdale in some surprise.
‘Sit down, Broadclough,’ said Wridsdale,
when they were alone. ‘I wanted to have a
talk with you about Morrison. Have you
heard anything to-day from Holmwood?’
‘Yes,’ answered George. ‘There is no
change in his condition—none whatever.’
‘You heard from the resident doctor there,
I suppose?’
‘ Yes.’


122 Morrison’s Machine
‘Did he hold out any hope of Morrison’s
speedy recovery, or say anything fresh about
him? ’ asked Wridsdale.
‘No,’ George replied. ‘ No, he didn’t. I
didn’t expect it either, Mr Wridsdale. He
told me the other day, if you remember, that
it must be some time, a considerable time,
before there could be any appreciable change.’
‘Yes, I remember,’ said Wridsdale. ‘But
doctors are sometimes mistaken. I had hoped
there might have been a speedier change. It’s
an unfortunate business for me, this sudden
collapse of Morrison’s, Broadclough, just as it’s
a very terrible thing for him. He is rendered
useless at the very moment he would have been
most useful.’
‘ Yes?’ said George, questioningly.
‘Yes?’ said Wridsdale. ‘He is. By-the-
bye, I heard a curious rumour today which
was said to have emanated from Morrison’s
family—a rumour to the effect that the cause
of his mental breakdown was that he had
invented the machine on which he had been
working, and had become unduly excited about
it. Do you know anything of that?’
George felt that something was in the air.


Wridsdale Decides for Evil 123
He felt, too, that he was scarcely in fit mental
condition to grapple with it, whatever it might
be. He looked at Wridsdale as though the
question puzzled him, and Wridsdale noticed
his wonder.
‘ I know that he had invented a machine and
that you were giving him facilities for making
it,’ said George. ‘ He told me so much, but-J
Wridsdale interrupted him with a smile.
‘So the rumour came from you?’ he said.
‘I thought so. Well, it’s just as well, Broad-
clough, that you should know that Morrison
was under a delusion. It’s my firm conviction,’
he resumed, rising from his seat and beginning
to pace the floor, ‘it's my firm conviction,
Broadclough, that Morrison’s brain was dis-
ordered some weeks ago. Didn’t you notice
something strange about him yourself?’
‘ He—he certainly has been strange of late,”
George admitted. ‘ But—do you mean, Mr
Wridsdale, that this machine, or whatever it is,
was not his invention? He—why, he told me
only the night before he was seized that it
was !—his, every bit, he said!’
Wridsdale nodded his head.
‘ I thought that was it,’ he said meaningly.


1 24 Morrison’s Machine
‘ I had no idea when he first began working at
it that he had become so absorbed in it that he
was identifying himself entirely with it. You
know how enthusiastic he got over anything he
specially took in hand.’
‘ Then—then the machine was—not his?’
said George.
‘ The machine is mine,’ answered Wridsdale.
‘It will be duly announced as mine almost at
once.’ '
Then the conversation ended, and George
went back to his desk feeling that mystery had
added itself to sorrow.


C H A P T E R X
Lucv’s FIRM CONVICTION
As George went homeward that evening, the
day’s labours being over, his mind was entirely
occupied with the conversation which had taken
place between Wridsdale and himself during
the afternoOn. The more he thought over
what Wridsdale had said the more he was con-
vinced that there was something wrong. He
endeavoured to recall everything that Morrison
had mentioned to him in connection with the
machine and to remember the exact circum-
stances under which he had given him any
confidences, however slight, about it. It had
never occurred to him that Morrison’s mental
powers were failing; on the contrary, he had
looked upon them as growing in strength.
For Morrison as a genius of inventive power
George had always cherished a profound
admiration, not unmixed with wonder that any
single brain could even imagine the marvel
125


Lucy's Firm Conviction I 27
George had never thought so deeply or so
earnestly in all his life as he did then ; yet the
more he thought the more his brain grew
anxious and puzzled. Finally he shook him-
self out of his reflections, fetched his dog from
the back-garden and set out on a stroll which
ended half an hour later at Morrison’s door.
All the time he walked he thought and
pondered, and the full tide of his reflections
was in him as he sat down by the hearth which
Lucy had made bright for his coming.
Both George and Lucy knew and felt the
difference in the little house, though neither
said much respecting it. It seemed to them
that something very nearly akin to death had
swept over it and had suddenly blotted out the
life and happiness from it. There were so
many evidences of Morrison on every side
that he still dominated the place—that he
might never come there again, never resume
the old, pleasant life, was a thought too dread-
ful for either George or Lucy to dare to put
into words. But Lucy had faced that thought
over and over again during the loneliness
through which she had been compelled to live
since the blow had fallen upon them. She was


128 Morrison’s Machine
well used to loneliness—the greater part of her
day had been spent without company for years,
for she had few friends and had never formed
the habit of gossiping with her neighbours—
but she had always had the pleasure of know-
ing that in her loneliness she was keeping the
house bright and comfortable against her
brother’s return, and that the two beings she
loved were each working for her and gave her
their company when the day’s toil was over.
Now that one of them was suddenly removed
—removed in a fashion which caused a bitter-
ness greater even than that of death—the
loneliness was hard to bear. But Lucy was
one of those rare beings who are bravest when
there is most need of bravery, and she put a
bold front on the face of things and determined
that it should remain there.
It seemed to her that on this particular
evening George was unusually thoughtful. He
always occupied a certain chair on the Morrison
hearth—a chair which enabled him to stretch
his long legs—and he now sat in it in his
characteristic attitude, staring with moody
eyes at the leaping flames in the fireplace.
Lucy looked and wondered, and suddenly


Lucy’s Firm Conviction I 29
noticed that though George’s pipe was in his
mouth there was no evidence that George was
smoking the tobacco in its bowl. Then she
knew that George was in deep thought. And
instead of asking him what he thought of she
let him think. That a man should never be
interrupted in the process of thought was an
axiom impressed upon Lucy by her brother at a
very early stage of her existence as sole mistress
of their house, and one which she had never
forgotten. So she let George think, knowing
that when the time came he would tell her his
thoughts.
At last, with a mighty sigh, George rose to
his feet and stretched his whole body as if it
were physically weary. He lighted his pipe,
put his hands in his pockets, and stood with his
back to the fire, looking down on Lucy. Lucy
knew what the signs portended: George was
going to begin a serious conversation.
‘ Look here, Lucy,’ he said. ‘ I’m bothered
about something—awfully bothered. I’d a talk
with Wridsdale this afternoon that’s knocked
me over altogether. I’ve been think—think—
thinking about it ever since and I can’t make
head or tail of it at all. You know that Richard
I


130 Morrison’s Machine
told us that he had invented a machine—some
very wonderful thing—and that Wridsdale was
giving him facilities for making it?’
‘ Yes—of course,’ answered Lucy.
‘W ridsdale says the machine was not of
Richard’s invention—that it was his,’ said
George.
Lucy dropped her sewing upon her knees
and looked up at her lover with eyes of amazed
surprise.
‘ No l ’ she exclaimed. ‘ But, George, it was
Richard’s machine—why, he told us so often.
Didn’t he say more than once, poor Richard,
that we should all be millionaires when his
machine was finished and put in the
market ?’
‘Yes, he did,’ answered George. ‘ He told
me a dozen times, told me emphatically, that it
was his machine—his, not Wridsdale’s. Only
the night before—before he was taken ill, poor
chap, he said that Wridsdale could not lay
claim to even a cog-wheel of it. And now
Wridsdale says that it is his machine—his, not
Richard’s.’
Lucy sat motionless, listening. A sudden
sense of impending evil filled her—it seemed to


Lucy’s Firm Conviction I31
her that some malign influence was at work
against her and hers.
‘ George—what does it mean?’ she said at
last.
George shook his head helplessly.
‘I’m afraid it means that there’s wrong
being done,’ he answered. ‘I can’t think any-
thing else.’
‘ By Wridsdale ? ’
‘ By W ridsdale. Look here, Lucy, Wrids-
dale says that Richard’s statement that he
had invented the machine was due to pure
hallucination, that he was in fact not quite
himself even when he first began work on
it. That’s a thing I can’t make out,’ said
George, knitting his brow with the expression
of a man who feels himself in the midst of a
mental maze from which escape seems im-
possible. ‘I can’t see how a man whose brain
was at all affected could do what Richard
must have done during the last month or so,
do you?’
‘Richard’s mind was not affected during
that time,’ said Lucy, quietly. ‘He was
over-wrought and excited, but he was
mentally sound up to the last, of that I


132 Morrison’s Machine
am sure, George. He was perfectly sane
when he went out of this house for the last
time. I know that.’
George groaned.
‘It’s a perfect mystery to me!’ he said.
‘Whatever did he go out again that night
for, Lucy? He told me the machine was
finished the previous afternoon; why should
he want to go back to the works at mid-
night? They say he was pottering about at
it for hours. Stumpy Todd heard him.’
‘Richard said to me that there was some-
thing he had forgotten,’ said Lucy. ‘That
was why he returned.’
‘ Well, there we are,’ said George. ‘ Wrids-
dale says the machine is his. That means, of
course, that if it really is a valuable invention
Wridsdale will rget all the credit and all the
reward. What should be Richard’s will be
Wridsdale’s.’
‘It is Richard’s machine,’ said Lucy.
‘ Richard said so, and what he said would
be the truth.’
‘ It’s no use disguising the fact from ourselves
that Wridsdale has the upper hand,’ said
George. ‘I know that Richard had not pro-


Lucy’s Firm Conviction I 33
tected himself in any way, and now that he
is silenced no one knows the real truth but
Wridsdale. Richard trusted Wridsdale im-
plicitly. I say, Lucy, I wonder if there is
anything in Richard’s papers that would give
us any clue to this affair? He used to do a
lot of work at home, didn’t he?’
‘ Yes,’ answered Lucy. ‘ But he usually took
his work back to Wridsdale’s next morning.
Shall we look through his desk? we might find
something that would help us. Nobody else
shall have the credit of Richard’s work if I
can stop it,’ she said, with a sudden gust of
passion. ‘It is shameful that such things
should be, shameful!’
‘ From what I’ve heard,’ said George, ‘ such
things are by no means uncommon. I wish
Richard had protected himself. You see
we’re quite in the dark, Lucy; we’ve nothing
to go upon. We don’t even know what sort
of machine this is which he’s invented.’
‘ Perhaps we may find something,’ said Lucy.
She produced the key of an old-fashioned
escritoire in which Morrison kept his papers,
and unlocked the desk and drawers. ‘ It seems
like looking through a dead man’s things,’ she


Lucy’s Firm Conviction 1 35
ing her face, saw a look of sudden recognition
come into her eyes.
‘I remember Richard making this sketch,’
she said. ‘ He made it to illustrate something
he was endeavouring to explain to me—some-
thing about some great mechanical difficulty
which it was considered impossible to sur-
mount. That’s three years ago—see, there’s
the date.’
‘I wonder if this is the famous machine,’
said George. ‘Anyhow, I never saw a thing
like that, and they turn out some fearsome-
looking things at Wridsdale’s. I can’t make
out what it would be used for, either. I’ll bet
anything that’s something to do with this
machine of Richard’s. Let’s take care of that,
Lucy—lock it up safely.’
After George had taken leave of his sweet-
heart that night and had started out homeward,
with Mixture in attendance, he realised that his
unwonted mental exertions had rendered him
indisposed for sleep, and he accordingly walked
on and on, in accordance with his belief that
there is nothing like walking for rendering
slumber certain. The trend of his thoughts
influenced the direction of his footsteps. Ere


136 Morrison’s Machine
he realised it he had passed through the heart
of the town and approached Wridsdale’s
Machine Works. He paused and stood for
some time, looking at the roofs of the sheds
outlined against the star-lit sky, and while he
stood there something suddenly impelled him
to ring the bell which summoned Stumpy Todd
to the door.
Stumpy answered the summons slowly and
surlily. George, knowing his character, took
care to slip within the door ere the night
watchman could close it again.
‘What is it?’ asked Stumpy, with a voice
full of resentment. ‘You’ve no business here
at night.’
‘I want to see you for a minute,’ answered
George. ‘Come to the engine-house.’
‘You’ve no call there either,’ said Stumpy;
but he followed George through the shed, eye-
ing him with much disfavour when they arrived
in the light of the engine-house. ‘Wridsdale
’ud be fine and mad if he knew I let you in.’
‘ Never you mind,’ said George. ‘ Look here,
Stumpy, I want you to just tell me about what
happened here that night before Morrison
went mad. Was Wridsdale here late that


Lucy’s Firm Conviction I 37
night? Come—it’ll do you no harm to tell.
I’ll treat you to a bottle of gin if you tell me.’
Stumpy’s face grew black and threatening.
‘ Sha’n’t,’ he said snappishly. ‘ Not a word.’
‘ Two bottles,’ said George, persuasively.
‘ Come now.’
‘ No,’ said Stumpy. ‘ I never tells nothing-—
not for a hundred bottles.’
George went away again, knowing it was
useless to attempt to extract any information
from Stumpy Todd. He had hoped to gain a
little from him—after Stumpy’s last solemn
protestation, he knew that that hope was utterly
vain.


C H A P T E R X I
WRIDSDALE’S GREAT INVENTION
IN spite of his midnight peregrinations, George
found that sleep came to him very unwillingly
that night. He tossed and turned about in
his bed during the small hours of the morning,
alternately anathematising his wakeful brain and
puzzling himself anew over the matter which
made it wakeful. It was so hard, he said to
himself over and over again, to know what to
do, and yet something must be done for Lucy’s
sake ; and there was no one to do it save him-
self, and none to give advice about its doing.
Then there was a mystery about the whole
affair which gave him more anxiety than any
other feature of it. Like most men of his
stamp, George felt absolutely powerless in face
of the mysterious. If he had been asked to
knock another man down—the quarrel being
right and just—he would have advanced to the
attack without hesitation. Anything that he
138


Wridsdale’s Great Invention 139
could see and understand he had no fear of,
but he was very much afraid indeed of things
which appeared to be obscured by the veil of
mystery. And so he groaned and tossed
through the night, sometimes dropping away
into the unprofitable side-walks of doziness, and
coming back with a start to recognise that he
was still awake and very miserable.
The cold bath in which George gloried every
morning of his life pulled him together when he
rose at his usual hour and sent him out for his
accustomed promenade with something of a
cheerier glow at his heart. The night had been
sorrowful, but the morning dispersed some of
its gloom. After all, it was his duty to protect
Lucy, and he would do it. If Wridsdale was
playing a crooked game, it should be his
business to fight him at every turn of it. He
loved a scrimmage—he would let Wridsdale
know it. All these and many other thoughts
of a similar nature passed through George’s
mind as he walked along with Mixture barking
at his heels, and they were still busily whirling
there when he was suddenly brought up to a
sharp mental halt which drove everything away
from him and left him staring helplessly at


14o Morrison’s Machine
something which he had never expected to see.
He caught his breath with a sudden gasp and
then gave utterance to a sharp whistle of
surprised astonishment.
The thing that suddenly reduced George to
this curious state of mind was nothing more
than the contents-bill of the Blackfora' News,
posted up outside a small stationer’s shop. He
saw a similar contents-bill every morning, and
usually glanced at its heavy lines to learn what
had happened to the world during the previous
four-and-twenty hours. There were several
lines on the contents-bill this morning, but
George saw only two of them—the two at the
very foot. They were of no larger type than
the others, but they seemed to him to be
fashioned of letters at least a yard high. This
is how they read :—
MR WRIDSDALE’S GREAT INVENTION.
A MARVELLOUS MACHINE—SPECIAL.
George read these two lines over and over
again as he stood there staring at the poster.
He had a dim notion that there were some
other lines above them, something about a
battle, or a speech, or a great law case, but


Wridsdale’s Great Invention 141
he felt no interest in them. He repeated
the words of the final lines over to himself
several times as if they formed some shibbo-
leth or mystic incantation, and it was not until
Mixture recalled him to himself by audibly
protesting against the unaccustomed halt that
he sufficiently realised the situation. Then he
woke out of his stupefaction with a start and
went into the little shop and purchased a copy
of that morning’s Blackford News.
It was a quiet street in which he stood, and
there were few people about. Here and there
was a milk-cart, here and there a sleepy-looking
domestic swept the doorsteps, here and there a
man hurried off to his business. George took
no notice of anything or anybody. He stopped
on the edge of the pavement outside the shop
and unfolded the paper. There it was—a
special article in leaded type on the fifth page,
just where everyone’s eye must fall on it when
the paper was open, and Wridsdale’s name in
great letters at the top. There was a column
and a half of it, and George read it through,
word for word, with set face and gleaming eyes,
and Mixture whined and whimpered unheard at
his feet.


I 42 Morrison’s Machine
There was W ridsdale’s influence, Wridsdale’s
promptings, all through the article. Whoever
had written it had written it with Wridsdale at
his elbow. The writer began by remarking that
the Blackford News felt it a distinction and a
privilege to be the first to announce a mar-
vellous invention which would revolutionise
mechanical science in certain directions and
be ranked as one of the greatest achievements
in engineering skill which the nineteenth cen-
tury had ever known. It was proud, too, to
know that this wonderful machine was the
invention of a Blackford man— Mr Mark
Wridsdale—long esteemed and respected by
his fellow-townspeople, and well known all
over the country as a clever mechanical en-
gineer. Mr Wridsdale, it proceeded to re-
mark, had laboured for years at the task
which he had at last brought to a successful
issue—to an issue so successful, indeed, that
within a few days the whole mechanical world
would hail his name as that of an inventor
worthy to rank with Cartwright, or Stephenson,
or Edison: in short, with the greatest.
Then the article went, very guardedly, into
details. The greatness of Mr Wridsdale’s


Wridsdale’s Great Invention I43
achievement, its writer said, would be best
realised when it was pointed out that he had
succeeded in doing what the greatest mechanical
experts had long believed it impossible to do.
It had been held that it was impossible to
obtain a certain motion and to apply it to a
particular form of machinery, and though many
great mechanical engineers had striven hard to
solve this difficult problem,no one had ever come
within an appreciable measure of success until
now. To Mr Wridsdale, then, belonged the
honour and glory of this great discovery—a
discovery which would have a most important
and far-reaching effect. It was obviously im-
possible, continued the writer, to explain the
exact details of Mr Wridsdale’s invention or of
the machine; all that would be made known to
the world in good time and in the proper fashion ;
but it was permissible to state at once that it
would revolutionise a certain staple trade of the
country. Where many men were now doing a
certain amount of work only one man, armed
with Wridsdale’s machine, would be required.
Nor would this mean such a disadvantage to
the wage-earning classes as the words seemed
to imply. The construction of the machine


144 Morrison’s Machine
would so develop the particular trade in which
it was intended to be used that the probabilities
were that within a very short time it would have
grown—considerable as it now was—out of all
knowledge. Wridsdale’s machine, therefore,
would take rank with the greatest inventions
of the world in not merely changing the con-
dition of labour but in developing trade and
bringing added wealth to the capitalist and the
worker.
George read steadily through the article.
He believed every word of it, but he mentally
substituted Morrison’s name whenever he came
across Wridsdale’s. Doing this, he felt proud at
every word of praise which the machine received
and fiercely angry to think that its real inventor
was being robbed of his just dues. It flashed
through his mind that if Richard and Lucy and
himself had read that article together, with the
name of the real inventor in place of the thief’s,
they would have been the proudest and happiest
people in the world. As it was—
But there was more of the article left.
George dropped his useless reflections and
went on reading. He suddenly caught sight
of Richard’s name, and his grip on the news-


Wridsdale’s Great Invention 145
paper tightened. There was but one more
paragraph, and it was more obviously of Wrids-
dale’s inspiration than all that had preceded it.
‘There is one most sad and unfortunate
feature of the history of Mr Wridsdale’s great
invention,’ concluded the writer of the special
article; ‘a feature so sad indeed that we
question if there has ever been a parallel case
in the whole fascinating story of mechanical
science. Mr Wridsdale as he approached the
final stages of his work confided its results to
one of his draughtsmen, Mr Richard Morrison,
whom he had trained from boyhood, and who
was remarkably expert as a mechanician. Mr
Morrison entered eagerly into his employer’s
project and was of the utmost assistance to
him. Himself an enthusiast as regarded any-
thing appertaining to mechanics, he appears to
have thrown himself heart and soul into the
complete success of Mr Wridsdale’s machine.
To him Mr Wridsdale finally entrusted the
making of the machine, he himself, of course,
superintending its construction. Mr Morrison
entered upon the task with characteristic
energy. He worked at it, despite his em-
10 er’s remonstrances, night and da, and
P Y I: Y
K


I 46 Morrison’s Machine
could not, indeed, be kept away from the
strictly guarded room in which operations were
carried on. The result is terribly sad. Always
nervous, excitable, and indeed very eccentric,
Mr Morrison’s mind gave way immediately the
machine was an accomplished fact, and it be-
came necessary to remove him to the asylum
at Holmwood. It is a still sadder feature of
the affair that at present the chances of Mr
Morrison’s recovery seem very remote. Despite
his great skill and ability there would seem to
have been symptoms of latent insanity in him,
and it is highly improbable that he will defin-
itely recover. It is satisfactory to know that
in his affliction he will be well cared for by
Mr Wridsdale, and that the latter, with a gener-
osity worthy of his great talents, intends to
make handsome provision for life for him and
for his sister, who, it is understood, is Mr
Morrison’s only relative and was dependent
upon him.’
The shopkeeper, who had watched George’s
unduly attentive reading of the newspaper, and
had wondered what made the young man so
interested, was considerably startled to see him
suddenly crush the unoffending sheet in his


Wridsdale’s Great Invention 147
hands as though he meant to do it an injury.
He was still more startled to see George
suddenly dart away across the street at a
furious pace, slashing the air with his stick in
such violent fashion as to suggest strange
ideas.
‘ He must be a little mad,’ thought the shop-
keeper. ‘Or perhaps he’s lost a lawsuit, or
been betting,’ and he turned over the paper
to see if his eye could light on any clue to the
young man’s strange behaviour.
But George was not mad—he was never
saner in all his life. The doubts and worries
were over now, and he recognised that the
decks were cleared for action. The fighting
instinct in him rose, strong, resolute, and even
joyous.
‘Well, Mr Thief Wridsdale!’ he said, with
another savage slash of his stick, ‘ I’ve done
my last day’s work for you—rogue, liar, swindler
that you are. Not another word will I write
on your paper, not another figure will I set
down in your books. Not if I have to starve,
you dog !’
And as he said this George suddenly re-
membered how difficult the fight would be.


148 Morrison’s Machine
He and Lucy—poor folk—against Wridsdale
—a well-to-do man, as things went, who must
necessarily soon be a very rich one. And not
only he and Lucy to provide for, but Richard
also, for it was impossible that the man who
was robbing him should maintain him—im-
possible! Yes, it would indeed be a hard task,
but he would not flinch. He would work no
longer for Mark Wridsdale.
Mixture received small attention from his
master as the latter breakfasted that morning.
George was looking into the immediate future,
making his plan of campaign. It was not long
ere he left his breakfast half-finished and went
off to pour out his story to Lucy.
Lucy knew that something had happened as
soon as she set eyes on George’s face. They
greeted each other in silence, and then George
drew out the newspaper.
‘See here, Lucy,’ he said. ‘Wridsdale’s
announced the machine as his own. There it
all is in black and white.’
Lucy picked up the newspaper and read the
article, at first with dilated eyes, at last with
burning cheeks. She turned to George
quietly.


Wridsdale’s Great Invention 149
‘There’s one thing must be done at once,
George,’ she said. ‘We must not allow this
man to do anything further on Richard’s
behalf. That’s certain.’
‘I thought of that, Lucy. You’re right—it’s
utterly impossible,’ said George. ‘And there’s
another thing, it’s quite impossible for me to
remain in Wridsdale’s employ. Quite im-
possible—after that,’ he added, tapping the
newspaper.
‘ Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘ But—what then?’
‘Get another job,’ said George. ‘Turn day-
labourer, or coal-beaver, or out-porter—any-
thing rather than work for a thief like
\Nridsdale.’
Lucy stared at the fire with troubled eyes.
‘ The world seems very dark just now, dear,’
she said at last. ‘But we’ll not be afraid.
Is there anything we can do? Have you
thought?’
‘ I’ve done nothing else but think all night,’
answered George. ‘And I don’t know what
we can do. I’ve been wondering if it would do
any good to see a solicitor and tell him our
story. What do you think, Lucy?’
‘ It would do no harm,’ she answered. ‘ Let


I 50 Morrison’s Machine
us see one this morning—at once. Whom
shall we go to?’
‘Don’t know any of ’em,’ said George.
‘They say Philbrick’s an awfully clever chap;
suppose we go to him? I expect the charge is
just the same as if we went anywhere else.’
So Lucy attired herself for going out, and in
a little while they set off together for the town,
both full of anxious thought for the present and
the future. Their anxiety did not lessen as
they sat in the solicitor’s private office, discuss-
ing their trouble with him. He was a parch-
ment-faced, leaden-eyed old gentleman, with a
tender corner in his heart for young lovers ; and
that he found something interesting in them, or
their story, may be judged from the fact that he
gave them an hour of his valuable time and
bade George put his purse back into his pocket
when the interview was over. But the result
was vain; they could do nothing—absolutely
nothing. Until Richard Morrison came out of
his living tomb they were powerless. So said
the man of law, and the lovers knew that he
spoke from stern conviction. They went out
into the street again, and looked at each other
doubtfully.


Wridsdale’s Great Invention I 51
‘Well, what can we do now?’ said George.
Lucy shook her head.
‘ I can think of nothing,’ she answered.
‘ Everything seems to be shut against us.
Stay, there is one thing I must do, and I must
do it at once, George.’
‘ What’s that?’ asked George.
‘I must see this man Wridsdale and tell him
that he must cease to regard Richard as being
under his care. He’s no legal right to look
after him, has he, George?’
‘ Not a bit! ’ answered George. ‘ Nor moral
either, Lucy. But look here, if you’re going to
see Wridsdale I’m going with you. I shall
have to see him to-day anyway, for my own
sake, and we may as well go together. I’m
afraid it won’t be a pleasant interview, my clear.
It will certainly not be pleasant for Wridsdale.
And yet it might be worse for him—oh, much
worse! If he and I were together in a nice
quiet spot, I would first tell him my mind, and
then— Ah!’ said George, throwing out his
arms, ‘ah, wouldn’t I take it out of him! But
come along; we’ll see him together.’


Lucy Shows Herself a True Woman I53
greeted should have proved himself such a
genius. Several times that morning, as he
walked to his works, was Wridsdale stopped
and congratulated on his great achievement—
once or twice by great men of the town, who
on the previous day would have passed him
with a mere acknowledgment of his salutation.
He replied to these people with due apprecia-
tion, and in a quiet and dignified manner. He
knew exactly how to take his new honours; it
was part of the game he was playing to be
modest and unassuming and perfectly collected
in the first flush of victory. His face betrayed
little as he passed through the town, though he
was conscious that men were pointing him out
to each other and discussing him, and that the
yellow poster and big black letters of the Black-
fom' News were glaring at him and proclaiming
his greatness from a hundred points of vantage.
But if he enjoyed some of the sweets of fame
Wridsdale also had to taste a little of the
bitters which invariably mix themselves up
with them. As he turned out of the square
into the long, dingy street in which his works
were situated, he came across the man who
had questioned him about Morrison in the


I54 Morrison’s Machine
smoking-room of the club. The man looked
at him half-quizzically.
‘Hello, Wridsdale!’ he said. ‘Walking
down as usual! I should have thought you
would have had quite a triumphal procession
this morning, with trumpeters and so on, after
that grand panegyric of your genius and virtues
in the News. How do you feel with all your
blushing honours thick upon you, eh?’
‘ I feel exactly what I felt yesterday at this
time and what I shall feel to-morrow at this
time,’ said Wridsdale, icily.
‘Then you’re an uncommon sort of party,’
said the other. ‘Well, I’m sure I congratulate
you. When’s the great invention to be seen
of the ordinary mortal?’
‘All in due course,’ answered Wridsdale,
still more icily, and with obvious signs of
aloofness. He had no wish to converse with
the other man, either then or at any other
time. But the other man was not to be easily
shaken off.
‘ It’s ajolly fine thing for you, Wridsdale,’
he said, ‘that you had such a clever chap as
Morrison to help you, and a fortunate thing,
too, that he went off his head just when he


1 56 Morrison’s Machine
ing him with eyes full of curiosity. In a few
minutes he was deep in the correspondence
which lay on his desk, but ere he had opened
many letters he rang his bell.
‘Ask Broadclough to come here,’ he said,
without looking up, as the door opened.
‘ Broadclough has not come yet, sir,’ replied
the head clerk’s voice.
W ridsdale looked up quickly from his desk.
‘Not come?’ he said. ‘ Why, it’s much
past ten—his usual hour is nine, isn’t it ?’
‘ Yes, sir, nine o’clock.’
Wridsdale looked at his head clerk. ‘Has
he sent any message?’ he inquired.
‘No, Mr Wridsdale, he’s sent no word at
all,’ answered the head clerk.
‘ Tell him, when he does come, that I want
to see him,’ said Wridsdale, and bent over his
letters again. The head clerk shut the door
and went away. Wridsdale laid down the
letter which he had taken up and leaned back
in his chair thinking. He began to wonder if
George Broadclough’s failure to attend the
office at his usual time had anything to do with
the special article in the Black/ford News. He
never remembered hearing that George was


Lucy Shows Herself a True Woman I 57
late before—he was generally regarded in the
establishment as a model of punctuality.
As Wridsdale sat wondering about this, the
head clerk tapped at his door and entered with
a surprised look on his face.
‘There is Broadclough here now, sir,’ he
said, coming up to Wridsdale’s desk. ‘And
there is Miss Morrison—Morrison’s sister—
with him, and they wish to see you privately.’
Wridsdale’s heart gave a bound of excite-
ment. There was something afoot—another
stage of the battle to be fought. He dreaded
an encounter with Morrison’s sister—it was no
easy work, he knew, to hold mental combat
with a woman —but his face betrayed no sign
of feeling as he rose from his chair.
‘Certainly,’ he said. ‘Show Miss Morrison
and Mr Broadclough in.’
He was standing at his desk, self-collected
and business-like, when Lucy and George
entered. He looked straight at both, and
knew that they had declared war against him.
But he showed nothing of his knowledge as
he advanced towards Lucy with outstretched
hand and sympathetic manner, and George,
who was secretly longing to kick him, felt a


1 58 Morrison’s Machine
sudden compelling admiration for a man who
could act a part so well.
‘Good morning, Miss Morrison,’ said Wrids-
dale. ‘I am sorry that I have not yet been
able to call upon you. I had meant to do so,
however, this evening. I trust you have no
worse news of your brother? I was rather
anxious when I found you had not come to the
office this morning, Broadclough,’ he went on,
turning to George. ‘I thought you might have
had bad news. Pray sit down, Miss Morrison
—sit down, Broadclough.’
Lucy made no response to Wridsdale’s in-
vitation, nor did she take the hand which he
held out to her. She and George advanced
into the middle of the room without a word.
Lucy laid the Blackford News upon Wridsdale’s
desk, and pointed to the special article.
‘I have called, Mr Wridsdale,’ she said
quietly, ‘to ask you for an explanation of this
matter. You are here spoken of as the in-
ventor of the machine which was really invented
by my brother.’
Wridsdale lifted a deprecating hand.
‘My dear Miss Morrison,’ he said sooth-
ingly, ‘your brother laboured under a very


Lucy Shows Herself a True Woman I 59
unfortunate delusion, as I remarked to Mr
Broadclough only yesterday. If you will sit
down and let us talk this matter over, I think
I shall be able to convince you that his delusion
was very real.’
Lucy remained standing, watching him with
grave, steadfast eyes.
‘It is not necessary to attempt that, Mr
Wridsdale,’ she said slowly. ‘I have read
your untruthful account of my brother’s health
already here in the newspaper. I know it to
be untrue—untrue from beginning to end.
No one knew my brother as I knew him. I
know that his mind, however strained it may
have been, was sound enough until the over-
work suddenly prostrated him, and I know,
too, that this machine which you say is yours
was his—his, Mr Wridsdale. And you know
it—you!’
Wridsdale shrugged his shoulders.
‘ I am sorry to find you adopting this position,
Miss Morrison,’ he said, ‘very sorry. I was
intending to call upon you this evening in
order to discuss certain arrangements—’
‘These arrangements, I suppose,’ said Lucy,
pointing to the last paragraph of the special


160 Morrison’s Machine
article. ‘Arrangements for bestowing your
charity upon the people you have robbed!
Thank you, Mr Wridsdale, I refuse to discuss
such arrangements. Not one penny-piece will
I take from you, though I should come to
starvation. Not one shilling shall you spend
upon my brother. What you have laid out
upon him during the last few days shall be
repaid to you at once. We will take nothing
from you, Mr Wridsdale, but our rights—the
rights of which you are robbing us.’
Wridsdale turned towards Broadclough.
‘ You surely don’t agree with Miss Morrison,’
he began. ‘I explained—’
‘I agree with Miss Morrison in every word
she has said,’ answered George, very quietly.
‘ I believe that Morrison invented this machine
in every particular, and that you are defrauding
him.’
‘Very good,’said Wridsdale. ‘ Then I refuse
to argue the matter further. There is a place
where it can be argued if you care to go to the
trouble and expense of arguing it. I warn you
that you have not a jot or tittle of evidence.
There is no lawyer in the world who, after
listening to your case, would advise you to


Lucy Shows Herself a True Woman I61
proceed with it. On your side you have the
hallucinations of an insane man and your own
foolish conclusions; on mine I have positive
fact, indisputable proof, everything that carries
conviction. What have you to say to all that,
either of you?’
‘I have this to say,’ answered Lucy, ‘that
as sure as there is a God in heaven, Mr Wrids-
dale, your wrong-doing will be found out. You
are robbing a man who trusted in you im-
plicitly and gave you his best thoughts, and I
pray God bring you to a better mind. That
is my last word. Come, George.’
But George laid his hand on her shoulder.
He turned to Wridsdale, who stood, defiant,
determined, but not absolutely unmoved, at his
desk, watching them with eyes as steady as
their own.
‘Stay a moment, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I have
a last word to say to Mr Wridsdale, too.
You’ll understand,’ he continued, looking more
narrowly at his employer, ‘you’ll understand
that I cannot remain in your employ. There’ll
be a month’s salary due to me to-morrow.
You’ll please to keep it in lieu of my notice.
And you’ll understand, too, Mark Wridsdale,
L


162 Morrison’s Machine
that, poor as this girl and I are, we’ll fight you
for all we’re worth, and all you’re worth too,
before we’ll stand by quietly and see her brother
robbed of his rights. So help us God, we will!
And now, Lucy, we’ll go.’
He opened the door, and they passed out
without another look at Wridsdale. In the
counting-house George paused.
‘Go along, Lucy,’ he said, pointing to the
door. ‘ I’ll join you outside in a minute.’
Lucy went out and George walked over to
the desk at which he had earned his daily
bread for several years. He unlocked and
took from it various private belongings, and
then handed the key over to the head clerk.
The men in the counting-house watched his
proceedings curiously. George faced them
with something of diffidence.
‘I don’t want any fuss,’ he said, ‘but—but
I’ll just say good-bye to all you fellows. I’ll
see you elsewhere, you know.’
‘ You’re not leaving, Broadclough?’ exclaimed
the head clerk.
‘Thank God I am!’ said George. ‘Good-
bye, Mr Brown—good-bye, boys—see all of
you again soon—can’t wait now, you know,’ and


Lucy Shows Herself a True Woman 163
he ran out into the street. Lucy awaited him
near the entrance to the workshop and they
walked away together.
‘ There, that’s over!’ said George, after
they had proceeded some little way in silence.
‘ That’s step number one, Lucy.’
‘Yes,’ said Lucy. ‘What will step number
two be?’
‘ Look out for some new work,’ answered
George.
‘ I’m afraid that may not be easy,’ said Lucy,
with a sigh. ‘One hears so much of the
difficulty of finding employment.’
‘All the more reason to lose no time about
it,’ said George, cheerily. ‘I’ll see you safely
home, Lucy, and then set to work. We shall
have plenty to do during the next few days, for
we must make new arrangements about Richard.
And, Lucy, there’s another thing we must do,
and the sooner the better.’
‘ What’s that, George?’ she asked.
‘Get married, my dear,’ answered George,
with a look and a smile that brought a sudden
glow of colour into the girl’s face. ‘ See here,
Lucy, I’ve been thinking that little matter-—
which is really a very great matter—very


164 Morrison’s Machine
seriously over and I'm sure it will be the best
thing we can do. As things are I am handi-
capped—as your husband, dear, I shall have
more right to fight your battle. We’ll have no
fuss, and we’ll spend our honeymoon at home.
I’ve found out all about the way it’s done—with
a special license we can be married in a few
days from now. I shall give up my rooms and
come to your house, and we’ll keep it going
until Richard comes back to us. There, dear,
that’s my plan. What’s your answer, Lucy?’
‘ There only is one answer,’ she said, lifting
her eyes towards his for a moment, ‘And you
know what it is, dearest.’
And George knew and was more than satisfied.


C H A PT E R XIII
LUCY DECLARES WAR
HAVING seen Lucy safely home George returned
to his lodgings and surprised his landlady by
asking her to prepare him some dinner. His
morning’s work had given him an appetite, and
the consciousness that everything was now
clear for future action added a zest to it. What
that future action was to be George scarcely
knew, but it was a relief to feel that something
of the mystery of the past few days had cleared
away and that Wridsdale stood openly confessed
as enemy. As he ate his food George dis-
cussed some of the chances of campaign against
Wridsdale. He knew only too well that at
present Wridsdale’s position was impregnable
—nothing could break it down. All that he
and Lucy could do was to wait patiently and
to secure Richard’s comfort and proper care.
George reckoned matters up—he had saved a
little money, not much, certainly, but enough to
165


166 Morrison’s Machine
tide him over a possible period of forced ab-
stention from work, and he knew that Morrison
had saved some too. If he speedily found fresh
employment, there would be no difficulty in
making proper provision for Richard, even if
his recovery were still far distant. It was not
such a gloomy outlook, after all, he confessed to
himself, and in the end he believed Wridsdale
would be confounded. George possessed a fine
old-fashioned belief in poetic justice, and he
felt that somehow there must be retribution and
punishment in store for Wridsdale, though he
did not as yet see how it was to be brought
about.
Being one of those people who invariably
deal with present blessings and necessities,
George now dismissed Wridsdale and his
iniquities from his mind and turned to the
matters which required immediate attention.
He astonished his landlady by informing her
that he was going to be married within a few
days, and should therefore have to leave her
house. Then he repaired to the registrar and
made the necessary arrangements, subsequently
visiting Lucy to tell her of them. He found
Lucy busied with pen and ink and paper, and


Lucy Declares War 167
wearing a very thoughtful expression. When
he had told her that they were to be married on
the fifth day from that, and they had settled
the details of the ceremony, George asked his
sweetheart what she was busied with. Lucy
produced a much interlineated sheet of manu-
script.
‘ After you left me this morning,’ she said, ‘ it
struck me that there was one thing I ought to
do at once, George. Indeed, it’s a thing I feel
that I must do. You remember the concluding
paragraph in the article about Wridsdale—that
one which says that he is making handsome
provision for Richard and myself?’
George scowled, and nodded his head.
‘Well?’ he said.
‘Well, don’t you think that ought to be con-
tradicted at once?’ said Lucy. ‘ We can’t
allow that to remain as a truth.’
‘ By jove, of course not !’ exclaimed George.
‘ Now that is clever of you, Lucy; I never
thought of it. But how shall we contradict it
so that everybody will know ? ’
‘ By writing to the newspaper, of course,’ she
answered. ‘See—here’s what I’ve written—-
if you can make it out. If you think that will


168 Morrison’s Machine
do I’ll copy it afresh and you shall take it to
the office.’
George read Lucy’s letter to the newspaper
with admiring eyes—it seemed to him a
marvellously clever idea that she should thus
publicly denounce Wridsdale. It ran as
follows :—
To THE EDITOR OF THE Blarkford News.
‘SIR,—In the article headed “Invention of
a Remarkable Machine by Mr Wridsdale of
Blackford,” which appeared in your newspaper
this morning, you state that it is Mr Wridsdale’s
intention to make “handsome provision” for
my brother, Richard Morrison, and for myself.
I beg to inform you that I have personally in-
timated to Mr Wridsdale my distinct refusal to
receive any assistance whatever from him,
either for my brother or myself, and have also
declined to hold further communication with
him on the matter. I shall accordingly be
obliged if you will contradict this statement at
once, so that it may be known that we are in
no way benefiting by what you term Mr
Wridsdale’s generosity.-—I am, sir, yours truly,
‘ Lucv MORRISON.’


Lucy Declares War 169
‘Hooray, Lucy!’ cried George. ‘That’s
immense -— that’ll hit old Wridsdale right
amidships. Of course we must print it. Sit
down and write out a clean copy and I’ll take
it down to the News office. Wouldn’t I like
to see Wridsdale’s face when he sees that
letter ?’
‘There’s one thing this letter will do,’ said
Lucy, as she prepared to copy it out. ‘ It will
show Blackford people that there is something
wrong between Wridsdale and us, and they’ll
begin to make inquiries. Haven’t I often
heard you say, George, when you get spouting
politics, that there’s nothing like stirring up
healthy public feeling.’
‘ And there is nothing like it,’ said George,
emphatically.
‘ Well, perhaps we can stir up a little healthy
public feeling,’ said Lucy. ‘Wridsdale shall
not have matters all his own way, my dear.
We’re going to fight him, and this is my
declaration of war. You see, George, when
people read that letter they’ll immediately say,
“Hello, this is rather queer. What’s it all
mean ? ” And then they’ll get suspicious, and
they’ll talk in clubs and places, and Wridsdale


17o Morrison’s Machine
will find that some people at anyrate will begin
to look out of their eye-corners at him. Eh,
George ?’
George’s face was a study of intense
admiration.
‘By jove, little woman!’ he said, ‘you’re a
clever ’un. That’s all true as the Gospel—I’d
never thought of it.’
‘Well, there’s the letter,’ said Lucy, folding
and addressing it. ‘ Off you go and deliver it,
George, and tell them to put it in to-morrow’s
paper. Then we’ll see what Wridsdale does
next.’
George set off for the town with what is
commonly known as a heart-and-a-half. He
whistled as blithely as a blackbird and swung his
stick as though he had never a care in the
world. And filled with superb self—confidence
he marched boldly into the office of the
Blackford News and asked to see the editor
in as unconcerned a fashion as he would have
requested to be supplied with a copy of the
current issue. The clerk behind the counter
stared at him.
‘Have you an appointment, sir?’ he in-
quired.


Lucy Declares War ’ I71
‘Appointment! No,’ said George, who was
utterly ignorant of the difficulties of access.
The clerk hesitated and then produced a
mysterious slip of paper and pushed it across
the counter.
‘If you’ll fill that up, sir,’ he said, handing
George a pen, ‘ I’ll send it upstairs.’
George looked at the slip of paper and found
that his name and the nature of his business
was wanted. He hesitated for a moment and
then wrote boldly, ‘George Broadclough—re
special article on Wridsdale, etc.,’ and handed
the paper back to the clerk, who politely begged
him to take a chair in the neighbouring waiting-
room. And after that George cooled his heels
for half an hour and wondered why an editor
should be so unapproachable. But at last,
when he was beginning to fume and fret at the
delay, the clerk appeared again and requested
him to follow. George found himself being
piloted up steps and along passages, and at
length was shown into a room whereat a
youngish man sat writing at a desk. The
clerk closed the door and the man at the desk
looked up.
‘ Mr Broadclough ? ’ he said interrogatively.


I74 Morrison’s Machine
looked at George with a long and searching
gaze. George stared back at him.
‘Are you telling me that Mr Wridsdale is
palming off as his own an invention which
really belongs to another man?’ said the editor
at last.
‘I didn’t come here to tell you anything,
sir,’ said George. ‘That is the fact, as
Morrison’s sister and I know, but I don’t know
that it’s any good telling it to you or to any-
body else. What I came for was to ask you
to put Miss Morrison’s letter in your paper to-
morrow morning. It is a scandalous lie to say
that either she or Richard will live on Wrids-
dale’s generosity! ’ he cried, with some show of
passion. ‘She wouldn’t touch a penny of it.’
‘The letter shall appear,’ said the editor.
‘ You know exactly, Mr Broadclough, what
will follow?’
‘N o, I don’t,’ said George.
‘This will follow. People will immediately
say that there must be some reason why Miss
Morrison should not accept pecuniary recom-
pense for her brother’s labours from Mr Wrids-
dale, and they will begin to ask what that
reason is.’


Lucy Declares War 175
‘Oh, I know that,’ said George. ‘And we
don’t mind it. We’re not afraid, Miss Morrison
and I, of letting anybody know what we think.
We know that this machine was invented by
Richard, and not by Wridsdale, and we won’t
have it said that she and Richard are living on
Wridsdale when it’s not true. She wouldn’t
touch a penny of Wridsdale’s ! ’
The editor looked at his watch and then at
George.
‘ Do you mind telling me your version of all
this affair?’ he said pleasantly. ‘I don’t want
you to tell me it in my editorial capacity, but
as a man. My name is Eustace Cleaver.
Now if you will give me your confidence about
this I shall respect it. The whole thing inter-
ests me very deeply.’
George saw no reason why he should not
respond to this invitation, which attracted his
simple nature by the kindliness with which it
was given. He poured out his story after his
own fashion, as he might have poured it out to
an old friend, and Eustace Cleaver heard it in
silence, comprehending it perhaps a great deal
better than George imagined. He learnt all
about the little suburban household, with Lucy


176 Morrison’s Machine
as its presiding genius, and found no difficulty
in imagining certain situations which George
described in somewhat graphic, if unstudied,
language. And as he listened, a certain con-
viction began to arise within him that the story
he was listening to had within it all those
elements of romance which can only be found
amidst the plain facts of truth.
‘ And so you and Miss Morrison have openly
declared war against Mr Wridsdale ?’ he said
pleasantly, as George made an end of his story.
George laughed.
‘That’s what Lucy—Miss Morrison, you
know—said when she wrote that letter,’ he
replied. ‘ You’ll be sure to put it in the paper
to-morrow morning, won’t you, sir? She—
she’s a very proud sort of girl, and she won’t
stand anyone thinking that Wridsdale’s—’
‘I understand,’ said Cleaver. ‘Yes—you
shall see the letter in the paper to-morrow
morning, Mr Broadclough. Will you let me
give you a word of advice? Don’t do anything
in this matter just now; wait a little. Wait
at anyrate until you see how Mr Wridsdale
takes this letter.’
George rose to his feet.


Lucy Declares War 1 77
‘ I believe you’re on our side ! ’ he exclaimed.
‘You don’t believe all that stuff in your special
article, eh?’
Cleaver rose too, and held out his hand with
a smile.
‘I must assume my professional capacity
again,’ he said. ‘Good-day, Mr Broadclough,
I wish you and Miss Morrison every happiness.’
George thanked him and went away, feeling
in even better spirits than when he had entered
the office. He forgot that he had meant to
spend the rest of the day in seeking after new
employment, and went back to Lucy to tell
her that her letter would appear in the news-
paper, and to give an account of his interview
with the editor.
Wridsdale opened his copy of the Blackford
News as he sat at breakfast next morning.
He turned it over once or twice, and read the
money articles and two editorials, before his
eye fell on certain words printed in type of
some size, the meaning of which made him
suddenly pause in his eating and drinking. He
stared again and again, and then read Lucy’s
letter through. It was simply headed, ‘Mr
Wridsdale and Miss Morrison—A Disclaimer.’
M


I78 Morrison’s Machine
Wridsdale threw the newspaper down in a
sudden paroxysm of rage'and fear. A dis-
claimer! He had never anticipated that—why,
the whole town would be talking! The whole
town, which yesterday envied him his greatness
and his skill. A disclaimer!
He had not long to wait before being in a
position to appreciate some of the effects of
Lucy’s letter. As he walked down to his
works he noticed curious looks directed upon
him from men who only twenty-four hours
previously had gazed at him with envy or
respect. Worse than this, the rival machine-
maker passed him in the square and looked at
him with something like a sneer.
‘ Seen the News, Wridsdale ? ’ he said mean-
ingly, and walked on, careless of an answer.
Wridsdale cursed him under his breath.
He felt that suspicion was in the air already.
But he showed no signs of annoyance, and
transacted his business after his usual fashion
all the morning. At noon he left the works
and went round to the office of the Blackford
A/ews.


I80 Morrison’s Ma chine
‘What can I do for you, Mr Wridsdale?’
asked Cleaver.
‘ What made you print that letter this morn-
ing?’ demanded Wridsdale. ‘That letter from
Morrison’s sister? Don’t you realise that it is
bound to do me harm, coming as it does im-
mediately after the publication of that special
article? ’
‘ Is there anything untrue in Miss Morrison’s
letter, Mr Wridsdale?’ asked Cleaver.
‘ N—no,’ said Wridsdale, hesitatingly. ‘ No.
The girl has some quixotic ideas about not
taking anything from me—’
‘It is a good deal of a pity,’ said Cleaver,
interrupting him, ‘that you made a definite
statement as to the matter which turns out to
be incorrect. You informed the representative
whom I sent to you at your special request,
that you had already made these arrangements,
and that, of course, led me to believe that they
were made with Miss Morrison’s consent. It
now appears that they were not.’
‘Confound it, man, how was I to know the
girl would be such a fool!’ exclaimed Wrids-
dale. ‘Why on earth did you print her letter
without consulting me? You don’t know what


The Wedding Guest 181
harm it will do me. People will be saying
all sorts of things.’
Cleaver regarded him with a quiet stare, and
with a slight lifting of his eyebrows.
‘If you imagine that I propose to consult
you, Mr Wridsdale,’ he said pointedly, ‘as to
what I shall and what I shall not print, you
are very much mistaken. If you desire to
reply to Miss Morrison’s letter, my columns
are open to you. You will remember that you
began this matter—you made a positive state-
ment as to the young lady and her brother
which was unfounded, and she is perfectly
within her rights in stating her version of the
matter. As to her letter doing you harm, I
have nothing to do with that. I gave you
space in my columns, at your own request, for
the announcement of your invention; that
you used a part of it in making an unfounded
statement is a matter for you more than for me.’
‘The statement was not unfounded,’ said
Wridsdale, angrily. ‘I did intend to make
handsome provision for these people.’
‘ It would have been better if you had ascer-
tained their willingness to accept it first,’ said
Cleaver. ‘ It necessarily puts you in a strange


182 Morrison’s Machine
position, for people will not fail to ask why
Miss Morrison refuses pecuniary assistance
from you to which, on your facts of the case,
she seems to be very justly entitled.’
Wridsdale looked at the editor as if endeav—
ouring to probe his mind. Inwardly he was
cursing himself for a slight lack of foresight.
He was so utterly ignorant of women that it
had never occurred to him that Lucy Morrison
might be too proud to accept charity. He now
blamed himself that he had not seen the girl,
and bargained with her before inspiring the
special article. To him it was an article of
faith that anybody could be bargained with—
every man and every woman had his or her
price in W'ridsdale’s opinion.
Cleaver took up a pen and turned to his desk
with an air of dismissal.
‘If you desire to deny or to explain Miss
Morrison’s letter, Mr Wridsdale,’ he said, ‘ my
columns are open to you, as I have already
said.’
‘ Deny? explain?’ exclaimed Wridsdale.
‘ There’s neither denial nor explanation can be
given, man ! It’s true that the girl, like a fool,
has refused to allow me to provide for her and


The Wedding Guest 183
her brother. But how do I know that it isn’t
because she’s hanging out for higher terms?
The thing is here—your printing of that con-
founded letter will lead to all sorts of things
being said. I daresay things are being said now.’
Cleaver laid down his pen and looked at
Wridsdale.
‘I believe things were being said yesterday,
Mr Wridsdale,’ he observed quietly. ‘ A good
deal of the gossip and rumour of the town
comes to my ears, and I have information that
certain rumours were afoot yesterday long be-
fore Miss Morrison’s letter came to this office.’
‘Ay—what rumours?’ asked Wridsdale,
with a sneer. ’
‘ Rumours to the effect that this invention is
not wholly your own ; that Morrison had a share
in it,’ answered Cleaver, watching the other’s face.
Wridsdale smiled contemptuously.
‘I care no more for rumour than for that
scrap of paper,’ he said. ‘They’re saying all
these things, are they? Let them say them.
We’ll see who comes out best at the finish.
Good morning, Mr Cleaver. By-the-bye,
what do I owe you for printing that special
article? Don’t be afraid of asking too much ?"


The Wedding Guest 185
have said if I’d shown him that remarkable
communication I got this morning. And I
wonder if there really is anything in that com-
munication, or if it’s a hoax.’
He unlocked a drawer and took from it a
dirty, much crumpled envelope addressed in
pencil to the ‘ Editor of the Blackford News-
paper.’ From this he drew forth a sheet of
that whitey-brown wrapping paper much in use
in grocers’ shops. It was covered with ill-
formed handwriting, loose and sprawling, and
had evidently been inscribed with much pains
and undue labour. Cleaver read it over with
a puzzled smile.
‘ SUR ’—it ran,-—‘ The piece as you have in
your newspaper to-day about Wridsdale’s in-
vention isn’t trew. Not by a long way it isn’t
trew cos Wridsdale dident make the machine
but anuther man as Wridsdale knows only he
won’t say other and has had you for the bloomin’
mug to write him that piece. He is actin’ off
the square thing is Wridsdale in this here but
will be found out see if he ain’t cos such like
allways is though sometimes slow but dead
certain in the end as is well known to religious


186 Morrison’s Machine
folk. Anyhow he’s had you for the bloomin’
mug in gettin’ of you to riting that piece in
your newspaper though nothing to say agen
your way of riting it. But the machine isent
Wridsdale machine but another man machine
so think on that you was told by
' ‘ONE WOT KNows.’
Cleaver read this mysterious and perplexing
epistle over twice before restoring it to the
drawer.
‘That would be found very amusing by a
good many of my readers, I’ve no doubt,’ he
said, as he locked it safely away. ‘But it
would be much more to the point if its writer
had come round here and told me what it is
that he really does know. I wonder, now, if
that scrawl was written by one of Wridsdale’s
workpeople—by some man who has had an
opportunity of finding something out? There
might be something in that, but how can the
man be got at? Or it may be a mere hoax—
a lark on some practical joker’s part. The only
thing is to wait for some further development.’
With that conclusion Cleaver put the Wrids-
dale and Morrison case out of his mind for the


The Wedding Guest 187
time being, and turned to the pressing work of
the day. But when he had seen the paper to
press that night, and was walking home under
the stars, he thought a good deal about it, and
especially about Wridsdale, whose action in
offering payment for the special article still
rankled in his mind.
‘ If Wridsdale had not figuratively pulled his
purse out,’ he said to himself, ‘I don’t think I
should have been inclined to take sides against
him—just yet, at anyrate. But that was just
the little touch of his character that I wanted to
complete some half-formed suspicion. Some-
thing seems to tell me that Wridsdale and truth
are not on the best of terms in this matter. But
how far are they at variance? It’s rather more
than possible that there’s that half-truth in this
matter which is a more bothersome thing than
a full-blooded lie. And who’s going to say
whether it is a full-blooded lie or a half~truth?
And a good many people—most people, I’m
afraid—would ask what Mr Eustace Cleaver
has to do with the matter. Hadn’t he better
mind his paper and keep an eye on his accounts
and let off his steam in abusing his political
opponents, which is always a safer game for


188 Morrison’s Machine
news-mongering people than sticking their
noses into private affairs? In the name of
common sense, of course he had! But the
question is—will he?’
Cleaver laughed and went on his way through
the night, wondering what it was that invariably
made him so deeply interested in the affairs of
those to whom wrong, public or private, was
being done. It had only been necessary to
suggest that here was a poor man being cheated
out of his lawful rights to enlist his sympathy,
and something in George Broadclough’s plain
narrative had impressed him exceedingly.
Something in Lucy’s indignant repudiation of
Wridsdale’s generosity had also made him feel
greatly interested in her. Thus he was led to
take the whole matter into his mind, and to
give much thought to it, puzzling his brain
somewhat unduly as to where the exact rights
and wrongs of the case might lie, and what the
real wrong might be when finally discovered.
One afternoon, a few days after Wridsdale’s
call at the Blackford News office, Cleaver bent
his steps in the direction of the Morrison estab-
lishment, impelled by a desire to see Lucy
Morrison personally and to ask her some


190 Morrison’s Machine
Lucy interrupted him with the merest motion
of her hand and with a sudden blush that gave
a new charm to her pleasant face.
‘I beg your pardon, Mr Cleaver,’ she said.
‘ I——-I ought to have told you at first. I am
not Miss Morrison any longer—Mr Broadclough
and I were married this morning.’
Cleaver looked at her in some surprise ; she
looked back frankly and smilingly at him.
‘I expect my husband here every minute,’
Lucy went on. ‘ The truth is-—I think he told
you that he had left Mr Wridsdale’s employ——
the truth is, he heard of a rather advantageous
post in the town, and he has gone down to
apply for it.’
Cleaver smiled—a smile which made Lucy
suddenly feel that this was a man who possessed
a good deal of sympathy for his fellow-beings
and was quick to understand human thoughts
and actions.
‘You are a very brave couple, Mrs Broad-
clough,’ he said. ‘ You deserve every happiness
that I can wish you, and I don’t doubt that you
will have it.’
Then, without further reference to the
event of the day, he told Lucy with what


The Wedding Guest 191
object he had called upon her, and invited her
to tell him whatever she thought necessary
about Richard, and especially her opinion as
to his mental state during the time he was
making the machine. He listened attentively
as Lucy talked, and now and then made notes
of anything which struck him particularly.
They were thus engaged when the front door
was opened with considerable noise and
energy, and George’s voice was heard voci-
ferating loudly for his wife in tones of un-
disguised pleasure. In another instant he had
burst into the parlour and was staring in
astonishment at Cleaver.
‘Hello!’ he exclaimed. ‘Why, it’s Mr
Cleaver. How are you, sir, I’m delighted
to see you. Lucy, old girl, I’ve got it—got a
new post, Mr Cleaver—and it’s a better one
than the last.’
‘ Oh, George, that’s good news,’ cried Lucy,
‘good news, indeed!’
‘I congratulate you, Mr Broadclough,’ said
Cleaver. ‘And I congratulate you on your
marriage, too. This is a very happy day in
every respect.’
‘It is a big day, sir,’ said George, with


192 Morrison’s Machine
hearty appreciation of all the blessings it was
bringing upon him. ‘And it gives me a
good deal of happiness to have your good
wishes.’
‘I had no idea of finding a bride and
bridegroom,’ said Cleaver, laughingly. ‘I
wished to ask your wife for some information
about her brother, that’s why I called in.’
‘There’s nobody we would more have
welcomed, sir,’ said George, earnestly. ‘ We’ve
no wedding guests, but we’ll make you into
one if your time will allow it, and we’ll be
proud to have you. I daresay Lucy hasn’t
told you of it, but there’s our wedding feast
laid out in the next room, and you must share
it with us, if only to do us the honour, mustn’t
he, Lucy?’
And Cleaver stayed without protest or
excuse, and went away an hour later with
some very warm feelings in his heart for these
two young people, and with a great desire
to do them what service lay in his power.


C H A P T E R X V
DON QUIXOTE OF THE PRESS
THE result which Cleaver had foreseen in
respect of the publication of Lucy Morrison’s
letter was speedily accomplished. Within a
day or two a good many people were asking
themselves and their friends what it meant;
and finding that neither their own ingenuity
nor their friends’ knowledge could supply an
answer, were inventing theories and reasons
of their own to account for it. It was inevit-
able that much of the gossip thus aroused
should reach Wridsdale’s ears. He heard it
with impatience and put it by, and in so far
as it came from people of no consequence
cared nothing for it. What troubled him was
that he saw questioning looks on the faces of
responsible men—looks which, in some cases,
amounted to little more than mere curiosity,
in others to something like suspicion. He
affected to ignore these looks, but the task
N 193


194 Morrison’s Machine
of affecting indifference made him feel them
all the more keenly. And whenever he saw
them he cursed Lucy very heartily for putting
that unexpected spoke in his wheel. It had
never occurred to him that she would refuse
what could only be regarded as wealth by a
person in her position. He had thought that
she would fall in quite agreeably with his
general scheme, and here she had marred its
first proportions at the very outset! Wrids-
dale felt that it was not in human nature to
avoid feeling resentment at such an action.
It would have been strange if some of his
acquaintances in the town had not spoken of
these matters to Wridsdale. Many of them
did, but it was only to find that Wridsdale
was entirely disinclined for conversation on
the subject. He had never been a talkative
man, and those who approached him were not
surprised at his reticence. They were surprised,
however, that he should show manifest signs of
great irritability when the subject was mentioned.
It seemed to them that he was unreasonably
sore on the matter, and somewhat too ready
to hint that it concerned himself alone. To
one man, however, an elderly person of great


Don Quixote of the Press 195
influence in the town, who in past days had
given Wridsdale a helping hand when it was
much needed, he did not dare to show either
reticence or irritation.
‘It is a pity,’ said this man, talking with
him on the subject, ‘that this difficulty with
Miss Morrison should have arisen and should
have been made public. The publicity of it
is bad for you.’
‘It is not my fault,’ answered Wridsdale.
‘If people are so obstinate as to abide by
a mere delusion and to refuse well-meant
generosity, what can one do? How was I
to know that the young woman would be so
foolish?’
‘All the same, it is a pity,’ said the older
man again. ‘ A great pity, for a simple reason—’
‘And that is—?’ asked Wridsdale.
‘That the coming into the world of such a
wonderful invention should not have any
breath of suspicion attached to it,’ answered
the other, gravely. ‘A great pity, indeed—
a great pity!’
Wridsdale knew the speaker was right.
There was suspicion abroad where there should
have been none. But he braced himself


196 Morrison’s Machine
against it. Who, he said to himself, ever
began a campaign without meeting disaster
and reverse at some point of the initial stages?
Was he going to turn back? He suddenly
remembered that to turn back was now im-
possible, even if he had wished to turn back.
No! there should be no turning back. The
machine was his and the wealth it would give
him would bring the world—his world, at any-
rate—to his feet.
Meanwhile Cleaver went on thinking things
over. He confessed, after a few days’ process
of thought, that the VVridsdale-Morrison case
was getting upon his brain. He was one of
those men who are never really happy unless
they have some special cause in hand, in the
interests of which they can work with all the
zeal and energy that becomes bottled 11p in the
inner chambers of their minds during periods
of enforced inaction. Cleaver had been living
through some such period of enforced inaction
for some little time. There was nothing doing
in the political world ; there was no local public
scandal to investigate and hold up to scorn;
the members of the Blackford corporation were
all doing their duty in a satisfactory if far from


Don Quixote of the Press 197
brilliant fashion; and the ocean of public life
was generally stagnant. Cleaver’s mind was
thus ready to seize upon anything which
promised the chance of a new crusade against
wrong or oppression; and as days went by he
became more and more convinced, with that
curious intuition which some folk possess and
can never account for, that Wridsdale was
wrong and that Lucy and her husband were
right. In everything they had said to him
there was the ring of truth; they both spoke
with the frankness, the candour, and the fear-
lessness which can only come from absolute
sincerity.
‘ I always was a sentimentalist,’ said Cleaver
to himself, as he sat thinking these things over
one day, ‘and these two young people have
made me more sentimental than ever. Well,
there are worse things than sentiment, if the
sentiment be sound. Unfortunately, sentiment
won’t clear the matter up. Sentiment versus
Wridsdale, I fear, would only result in a
verdict for the defendant, with costs—very
heavy costs!’
It was with some such feeling as this in his
mind that he sent for George Broadclough one


198 Morrison’s Machine
evening about a fortnight after the marriage.
George presented himself at the editorial door
with some wonder outlined in his face. Cleaver
gave him the easiest chair in the place, offered
him a cigar and sat for some time in silence
staring at him. George allowed himself to be
stared at. He stared back in turn, wishing
that he had half the brains which he thought
he could see working under the editor’s mass
of hair. ‘You haven’t the least doubt in the
world about this affair?’ said Cleaver at last,
with a disconcerting abruptness.
‘Which —- what affair?’ asked George.
‘The machine affair? Not a doubt, sir, not
one doubt. How could I have a doubt when
I know the truth of it?’
Cleaver came out of his chair and, crossing
over to the fireplace, put his hands in his
pockets and stood looking down at George
with a strange smile on his face.
‘ I don’t think I’ve a doubt about it either,’
he said. ‘I wish the absolute proofs were as
clear as my conviction is strong. Even as
things are, I’ve a mind to do it—a great mind
to do it !’
‘ To do what?’ asked George, wonderingly.


Don Quixote of the Press I99
‘To denounce Wridsdale publicly as a
robber of another man’s idea,’ answered Cleaver,
with a strange, inscrutable smile. ‘It was in
my paper that this invention was announced
to the world as having sprung from the brain
of Mark Wridsdale—it ought to be my paper
which tells the world that Mark Wridsdale is a
liar.’
George nodded his head slowly—he did not
yet fully comprehend all that Cleaver meant.
‘I suppose you know what all that would
mean?’ continued Cleaver. ‘If I wrote a
special article in my paper charging Wridsdale
with being a thief and a liar, it would oblige
Wridsdale, for his own sake, to take action
against me, in order to prove his bona fides to
the world. If we could then prove that
Richard Morrison was really the inventor of
the machine we should achieve our object; if
we could not it would mean—’
He paused and looked at George with a
glance of humorous significance.
‘Yes, what would it mean?’ said George,
eagerly.
‘I think it would mean my financial ruin,’
answered Cleaver, with a quiet laugh.


200 Morrison’s Machine
George sighed and nodded his head. Cleaver
still continued to regard him smilingly.
‘ If it were a matter of acting on conviction,’
he said presently, ‘I’d denounce Wridsdale
to-morrow. But one must not be rash. Did
it ever strike you, Broadclough, that it is not
always easy to right the wrong?’
‘It never did, until recently,’ answered
George. ‘ Because I never thought about it.
But it’s beginning to strike me very 'forcibly
indeed.’
‘ It isn’t easy,’ said Cleaver. ‘I know it. See
here—I’m going to show you how it isn’t easy.
I daresay you know that I have only owned
this paper during the past eighteen months—-
that I am practicallya newcomer in Blackford ?’
‘ I think I have heard so,’ answered George.
‘You never heard of me before?’ said
Cleaver, with a strange smile.
‘No,’ replied George. ‘No, sir—can’t say
I ever did.’ ~
Cleaver’s eyes grew thoughtful and rumina-
tive.
‘It’s strange,’ he said, ‘how the fame of a
nine-days’ wonder limits itself to the nine days!
Well, I must tell you that seven years ago


Don Quixote of the Press 201
I was proprietor and editor of an evening
newspaper in a large town. I was younger,
and perhaps a little more enthusiastic then, and
I was very fond of playing the part of knight-
errant. I championed various causes, some of
which I am very fond of still; some of which
I have forgotten. I tilted at so many wind-
mills that I became known as the Don Quixote
of the press, and I used to be laughed at a
good deal for the extraordinary enthusiasm
which I used to throw away on what most
people called fads. Well, that was all mainly
in the field of politics or municipal matters, and
it made—as it always does make—very little
difference to anybody. It’s the inalienable
right of the political journalist to go on crusades
for his party—nobody objects to it. But at
last it fell to my lot to be confronted with a
difficult matter. I became possessed — no
matter how—of information respecting one of
the most abominable scandals of the last half-
century. I knew that certain men, of high
position, were privy to an abomination, and . . .
I denounced them by name.’
‘Yes?’ said George. ‘Yes — and the
result?’


Don Quixote of the Press 203
that special article. But to denounce Wrids-
dale as a wrong-doer and to prove Wridsdale’s
guilt are two very different things, and at
present I don’t see where the exact proof is to
come from. And yet I feel so strongly about
the matter that I am half inclined, and more
than half, to denounce him, and leave the rest
to him.’
George shook his head.
‘ No,’ he said. ‘It’s not fair, sir, that you
should do all that. As you say, the thing’s hard
of proof. It might mean very serious things
if you made charges against Wridsdale and
failed to substantiate them. I know what he
is—he’d leave no stone unturned to crush you.
He’d not think so much about vindicating him-
self as about punishing you for daring to attack
him. That’s the sort of man he is.’
Cleaver began walking about the room, his
hands crossed behind his back, his head bent
forward as if in deep thought.
‘ What evidence have we?’ he said. ‘There’s
that of your wife, and of yourself, and you can
only testify, in each case, that you had always
understood that the machine was Morrison's,
and not Wridsdale’s. That, I fear, goes for


204 Morrison’s Machine
little. Then there is the little sketch which
Mrs Broadclough showed me the other day,
with the date attached. That might be of some
value, but I don’t know how much. Then we
might get some evidence out of Wridsdale’s
workpeople.’
George shook his head.
‘ Not much to be had there,’ he said gloomily.
‘ They knew nothing very much except that
Morrison was shut up in a room working un-
commonly hard. No, there’s nobody knows
much there.’
Cleaver suddenly remembered the anonymous
letter lying in his desk. He went over and un-
locked the drawer.
‘ By-the-bye,’ he said, coming back to the
fireplace, ‘here’s a curious document which I
received soon after the special article appeared.
Read it and see what you can make of it.’
George received the sheet of grocers’ wrap-
ping paper with something of awe and mystifi-
cation. He turned it over, he turned it upside
down, he held it up to the light, and looked from
it to Cleaver as if the latter had handed him
a parchment covered with hieroglyphics.
‘ This is a rummy sort of thing,” said George.


Don Quixote of the Press 205
‘Why on earth didn’t the fellow use a decent
sheet of paper. What’s it all about? Nice
writing, I must say. And nice spelling,
too.’
He spread the sheet over his knees, smoothed
it out, and set to work deciphering it. As he
read he kept turnirig from the paper to Cleaver
with looks that grew more and more surprised,
until at last he handed the document back with
a stare of utter astonishment.
‘Well?’ asked Cleaver; ‘what do you think?’
‘ That’s been written by one of Wridsdale’s
workpeople,’ said George. ‘ But which of ’em ?
Lord! it’s like seeking a needle in a bundle of
hay.’
‘ Are there so many of them?’
‘ Over a hundred and fifty.’
‘ But surely most of them are intelligent
mechanics, sufficiently educated to write a
better hand than this?’ said Cleaver.
‘ It might be badly written on purpose,’
answered George. ‘ I’ve heard of such things.
Who can have written it ? Who is' it that
knows ?’
‘ You believe it, then ?’ said Cleaver.
‘ Believe it? I do, indeed. You read it


206 Morrison’s Machine
again and you’ll see why. There’s a good
deal there that’s between the lines,’ exclaimed
George, confidently. ‘Yes, sir, that’s no hoax,
it’s gospel truth. But who—who—who wrote
it?’
He sat down, buried his face in his hands,
and rocked his body to and fro as if he were
trying to wring an answer out of it. Suddenly
he jumped to his feet with a shout of exulta-
tion.
‘Of course!’ he cried. ‘I’ve got it. Of
course it was—couldn’t be anyone else. That
letter was written by Stumpy Todd! Stumpy
Todd, sir! What a fool I was not to see it
at once.’
‘And who,’ asked Cleaver, ‘is Stumpy
Todd ?’
‘He’s the night watchman and general house-
dog at Wridsdale’s works,’ answered George.
‘ Of course it’s Stumpy! Good heavens, what
is it he knows?’
‘That,’ said Cleaver, ‘is what we must find
out. Where can we get at him?’
George threw out his arms with a gesture
of despair.
‘That’s just it!’ he exclaimed. ‘You can’t


Don Quixote of the Press 207
get at him. I’ve been at him. I could get
nothing out of him. But, by George, sir, it’s
a step further after all. Stumpy Todd knows
—-knows! and I’ll move heaven and earth to
make him tell. Yes, it’s a step further!’


C H A P T E R X V I
S'l‘UMPY TODD’S CONSCIENCE
BOTH Cleaver and George went home that
night—the former many hours later than the
latter—puzzling their brains as to the best
means of extracting information from Stumpy
Todd’s breast. In point of fact that informa-
tion was travelling towards them at something
more than express speed, and that through no
labour of theirs. It was not coming without
sore travail of mind and much searching of
heart, but it was coming, and coming from
Stumpy Todd himself.
Ever since the sad morning which witnessed
the completion of the machine and Morrison’s
terrible breakdown Stumpy Todd had been
much disturbed and afflicted in mind. He
was in possession of a secret, and the secret
was wearing him, physically as well as mentally.
During the time which elapsed between that
morning and the publication of the special
208


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 209
article Stumpy Todd was merely concerned
and bothered ; after the special article made
its appearance, he grew fretful, morose and
surlier than ever to those with whom he came
in contact. As a matter of fact the secret
haunted him. It sat with him all night before
the fire in the engine-house, and it went about
with him during his waking hours of the day,
and he disliked its company, day or night. At
first he solemnly swore that he would never part
with it, and he felt very virtuous and very strong-
minded when he refused George’s offer of so
much consumable gin in exchange for it. But
as the novelty of sole possession wore off, and
as events began to develop themselves gener-
ally, Stumpy Todd grew more and more miser-
able. He passed through many stages of feeling
at this time. He was scornful,’indignant and
contemptuous when he read the special article
in the Blackford News; he was fiercely trium-
phant and full of admiration when he read Lucy
Morrison’s disclaimer in the same journal, and
still more admiring and savagely angry when he
heard that George Broadclough had left Wrids-
dale’s, that he and Lucy were married, and that
George had found a new and better situation.
0


2 IO Morrison’s Machine
The scorn, indignation, contempt and other
similarly unpleasant feelings were all for Wrids-
dale; the admiration, triumph and joy arose
from Lucy’s and George’s actions. Stumpy
Todd, in short, knew what controversy had
arisen and he knew who was right and who
wrong, and he sided with the right all the more
vehemently because it had cut him to the quick
to discover that a man whom he had trusted,
and in his rough way been fond of, could be
guilty of compassing such wickedness.
Added to the possession of his secret, Stumpy
Todd during this time was much afflicted by
visions. He spent many hours staring at the
glow of the banked-up fires, and in their glow
he saw several things. He saw Morrison’s
face more than anything else, and he did not
like to see it. It seemed to look at him re-
proachfully; its eyes seemed to keep saying,
‘ Why don’t you go and tell the truth, Stumpy
Todd?’ Then he saw Wridsdale gloating
over the thing which wasn’t his, and that vision
made him feel so nauseated that he invariably
had to seek relief from his little bottle. Then
he saw George Broadclough, and he didn’t like
to see George’s face in the glow either, because


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 21!
——well, George was a fine fellow. And he saw
Lucy’s face there, too—and had to put his lips
to the bottle again, very hurriedly, for Lucy
looked at him reproachfully, too, and her eyes
seemed to say, ‘ Be a man, Stumpy Todd, be a
man, and speak out ! ’ They were not pleasant,
those visions—and a man had such a lot of time
for seeing ’em and thinking about ’em when he
sat there alone all night.
On the night on which Cleaver showed the
anonymous letter to George Broadclough,
Stumpy Todd approached his final consum-
mation of misery. He had never felt so
unhappy in all his life ; in fact, he never
remembered being really unhappy before. But
on this particular night his unhappiness was so
great that nothing could relieve it. He wan-
dered round about the sheds, trying to keep up
a conversation with his favourite machines and
failing utterly. He sat in his usual corner and
smoked his little black pipe, and the tobacco
seemed to have lost all its nutty flavour. He
sought comfort at the mouth of his bottle, but
the mixture which it contained was bitter, bitter
as aloes, in the mouth of Stumpy Todd. And
Stumpy knew that here was the end of all—


2 1 2 Morrison’s Machine
when his bottle was no longer a comfort, his
pipe a friend, and the machines failed to respond,
then, why then—!
‘ I’ll do it!’ said Stumpy, as the grey dawn
broke through the glass in the workshop roof.
‘I’ll do it. I’ve run on straight lines all
through the journey, and I ain’t a-goin’ round
no bloomin’ curves now. I’m a-goin’ straight,
I am. And so, good-bye to Wridsdale. This
is where him and me parts company. ’Tain’t
my fault—no, ’taint my fault.’
After that Stumpy Todd set out to make a
farewell inspection of the sheds and his favour-
ite machines. This over, he returned to the
engine-house, sat down, lighted his pipe afresh,
and again resorted to his bottle. And, lo! the
tobacco was nuttier than ever, and the mixture
in the bottle—specially invented by Stumpy for
his own special use in years gone by—had never
tasted so nice, so comforting, so invigorating
before. It seemed to Stumpy Todd that he
hadientered into a new world.
About one o’clock that day George Broad-
clough, emerging in haste from the counting-
h0use where he had recently secured fresh
employment, was astonished to find himself


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 213
suddenly arrested by Stumpy Todd, who first
seized him by the arm and then planted himself in
front of him. George glanced at Stumpy with
some amazement. He had never seen the mis-
shapen creature in aught but his greasy, toil-
worn clothes before; he now beheld him in all
the glories of a rough blue serge suit, with a
clean collar round his neck, and a felt hat on
his head. He stared at Stumpy’s altered
appearance without attempting to conceal his
wonder.
‘That’s it!’ growled Stumpy. ‘That’s it!
Never saw me before, did you ? When you’ve
done staring as if I was a Guy Fawkes, perhaps
you’ll attend to me.’
‘I didn’t mean to stare,’ said George.
‘ Couldn’t help it. Are you going for a holiday,
Stumpy ? ’
‘That’s naught to you,’ answered Todd.
‘ Here, I want a word wi’ you about Morrison
—and about Wridsdale. A word in private—
you understand.’
George heard and suddenly understood. He
looked round him—there were several people
in the street where they were standing, quiet as
it was, and he knew that if anything serious


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 215
‘If the young missus thinks well 0’ that,’ he
said, ‘why, then . . .’
‘I do, indeed,’ said Lucy. ‘I think it very
advisable.’
‘ Fetch him,’ growled Stumpy. ‘ I’ll bide
here very comfortable.’
When George returned with Cleaver nearly
an hour later they found Stumpy exceedingly
comfortable. He had eaten a very good dinner,
he said, with a look of great admiration at
Lucy, and had never tasted finer ale anywhere,
not even at Mrs Crabtree’s near the works, and
he was prepared to talk.
‘ But mind you,’ he said, shaking his head at
Cleaver, ‘mind you, no printing on it i’ the
paper. If so be as ever a time comes when it’s
a law case, I’m willing to stand in the box and
take my Bible oath, and say afore judge and
jury what I’m a-goin’ to say to you. But no
printing on it now.’
‘ I shall respect your wishes,’ answered Cleaver.
‘ Rely on that. It was you who wrote me the
letter signed “ One who knows,” was it not?’
‘Yes, it were,’ answered Stumpy. ‘Cos I
do know. Ain’t I a-goin’ to tell yer'all what
I do know?’


2 16 Morrison’s Machine
‘Yes, go on, tell us, Stumpy,’ said George,
impatiently. ‘Go ahead!’ ,
‘All in good time—all in good time,’ growled
Stumpy. ‘ If so be as the young missus don’t
object to it, I’ll light my pipe; I ain’t a-used
to talking without it.’
‘ Light up, then,’ said George. ‘Here, have
some of mine.’
Stumpy looked at George’s proffered tobacco
with contempt, and slowly drew forth a screw of
twist from his waistcoat pocket. The three
impatient listeners waited and watched with
what patience they could command while he
shredded a portion of it into his palm and
deliberately filled his pipe. He struck a match
on the bowl and began his story as he lighted
the tobacco.
‘ It were i’ this way, Broadclough, and young
missus, and Newspaper ’——puff—puff—puff—
‘that I found out what ’—puff—puff—-‘ the
secret were about yon machine ’—puff—puff—
puff. ‘It wor th’ night ’—puff—‘afore poor
Morrison went off his head ’—puff--puff—puff
—puff—puff--‘ ay, now, she’s a-goin’. You see,
he’d been workin’ i’ that closed room close on
a month then. I never knew what he were


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 217
really at, though I knew it were something big,
and I didn’t know whether it were his or
whether it were Wridsdale’s. But I argied to
myself that he wouldn’t be killin’ himself as he
were if it were Wridsdale’s. Well, the night
afore he were taken bad, he went home early
wi’ Broadclough there. That might be a bit
before six. I don’t come on duty till six, but
I’m always there at half-past five or thereabouts,
and I saw him and Broadclough going away
together. After everybody had gone Wrids-
dale and me was left. That were th’ usual
thing—he’d stop working till late and send me
to Crabtree’s, across the road, for a chop and
bread, and toast-and-water. Toast-and-water!
Well, that night he fidgeted about and about,
and at last he rings for me and tells me I were
to take a message to his house, to’ther side of
Blackford—me, that was supposed to be always
on duty. I remonstrated with him, but it were
no use, and off I had to go. Ay !’
Stumpy paused, and pressed the tobacco into
the bowl of his pipe, shaking his head distaste-
fully the while.
‘Ay!’ he resumed, ‘I went—but not far.
I turned back. I wanted to know what Wrids-


2 18 Morrison’s Machine
dale had sent me out o’ the way for. I’d been
there five-and-twenty year, and he’d always
impressed it on me that I should never leave
them works, not for naught. So I went back,
and I went in by a way that nobody else
knows aught about—nobody. And as soon
as I were in I knew that something was up.
Ay!’
He paused again, and, looking at Lucy, shook
his head ominously.
‘ Ay! ’Cause why? Th’ engine was a-
running, and th’ power was on, and there was
a machine going i’ that shop that had never
gone there afore—never afore. Nobody had
never heard a machine run like that did, I
know. I ain’t talked to machines all them
years wi’out knowing their voices. An’ that
voice was new, as new as—as a new-born
babby’s what hasn't had no voice until it
comes alive. Ay !’
Stumpy’s pipe had gone out. Stumpy had
forgotten it, too. He leaned forward with
his hands on his knees, his eyes glancing from
one eager face to another.
‘Ay!’ he continued, ‘as new as that. And
so, Broadclough, and young missus, and News-


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 219
paper, I says to myself, “I’m a-goin’ to see
what that is,” and off I goes, boots off, and
walking gentle, down the sheds, and across
the sheds, and along back passages, and
round front ’uns, till I comes to the room
they’d kept locked and double-locked all the
time. And the door was open, and I could
see inside. Ay!’
George would have cried out, but Lucy
pressed his hand sharply and Cleaver held
up a warning finger. Stumpy went on.
‘Ay! I saw inside. I saw the machine
a-working in the middle of the floor, a-click-
ing and a-clattering like twelve o’clock. And
I saw Wridsdale a-watching of it, with his
eyes following every movement on’t, and his
face like as if he could eat it. And he gets
up after a bit and stops the machinery, and he
walks all round the machine with his arms
folded and still looking as if he’d like to eat it.
And at last he stood between me and the
machine, and he spoke, talking like to him-
self, and I heard what he said. Ay!’
Lucy’s hand tightened on George’s: it
seemed ages ere Stumpy Todd spoke again.
Her own breath was hard to draw; she


220 Morrison’s Machine
heard the beating of George’s heart, she
saw the strained look on Cleaver’s face, all
as in a dream. Then came Stumpy’s voice
again.
‘Ay! I heard. “ So here’s Morrison’s
machine,” he says. “ Morrison's machine,
finished, perfected, a success. Morrison’s
machine—Morrison’s machine! Who’d ha’
thought,” he says, “that Morrison could ever
have invented a machine like that?” And
he turns th’ power on again and the machine
starts clicking and clattering as gay as afore.
And I slipped away i’ the darkness.’
From the three witnesses came a great
simultaneous sigh. Stumpy Todd drew out
a bright-coloured handkerchief and wiped his
forehead and his face.
‘An’ that’s all, Broadclough, and young
missus, and Newspaper,’ he said. ‘The rest
on’t you know better, happen, than me. I’ve
had no rest 0’ late in thinking it over, and I
felt I must out wi’ it. I knew Morrison had
made and contrived yon machine as soon as
I set eyes on it. Wridsdale hasn’t it in him
to make such a thing. And I couldn’t abide
no longer to stand by and see Wridsdale cheat-


Stumpy Todd’s Conscience 221
ing Morrison and the young missus here out
0’ what’s theirs, and now I ha’ had my say,
and what I ha’ said here I’ll say in th’ box.
But not a word 0' this goes i’ print, News-
paper!’
‘All right, Stumpy,’ said Cleaver. ‘Not a
word about you at present.’ For some time
longer they sat asking Stumpy further
questions arising out of his narrative. It was
long past the hour at which George should
have returned to his employment, but he
took no heed, and had apparently forgotten,
too, that he was still dinnerless. Lucy and
Cleaver were not less anxious than himself
to get what further information they could
from Stumpy Todd. But at last there was
no more to be said at that time, and Stumpy
prepared to depart.
‘I've a longish journey,’ he said, fumbling
at his cap, ‘and I’m not like to be in these
parts again until I’m wanted, so I’ll leave
you my directions, Broadclough, and News—
paper, in case I’m to send for.’
‘You’re not leaving Blackford!’ exclaimed
George.
‘I ha’ left Wridsdale’s works for good,’


222 Morrison’s Machine
answered Stumpy, ‘and I’d ne’er work else-
where i’ Blackford. So I’m going.’
Then he gave them his address, and they
shook hands with him, and he told George,
who took him aside and asked him if he
wanted for anything, that he had saved ‘a
bit 0’ brass’ in his time and wanted naught,
and Lucy let him out of the house and
thanked him again and again, and so Stumpy
Todd went stumping away, sad enough, but
freed of his unhappiness. The train which
carried him out of Blackford ran past Wrids-
dale’s works, but Stumpy looked resolutely
through the opposite window.


CHAPTER XVII
DENOUNCED
THAT night Cleaver made up his mind. He
had been making it up all the afternoon and
evening, getting nearer to a definite solution as
he got further away from the termination of the
interview with Stumpy Todd. He weighed
every argument for and against his proposed
course of action, and endeavoured to estimate
the full value of each, but he was conscious
during the whole process that he was certain
to arrive at the conclusion which he had long
foreseen to be inevitable. He had a love of
fair play and of justice which amounted to a
passion, and he was now so convinced of
Wridsdale’s guilt that he knew it to be im-
possible for him to remain silent. He must
ride afield on this quest as he had ridden afield
on others—whether he went down or came
back victorious, he must ride, and ride at once.
This was one of those things which, if clone,
223


224 Morrison’s Machine
must be done quickly. ‘ It’s well I’m my own
proprietor,’ he said with a sigh of genuine
satisfaction. ‘I’m risking nobody’s property
but my own. And it’s well, too, that I’m a
single man. If I go down, I go down alone,’
and with that comfortable reflection he sat
down to his desk and began the article which
was to open the eyes of all Blackford ere many
hours were over.
While Cleaver was thus occupied, Wridsdale
was occupied in a very different fashion. Late
that afternoon a note had been laid on his desk
at which he had looked with some astonishment.
It was a very dirty and unsightly-looking note,
and the handwriting was quite unknown to
him. But there was no mistaking the fact that
it was addressed to him, and by someone who
scorned the use of prefixes or affixes like ‘ Mr ’
or ‘Esquire.’ His name, Mark Wridsdale,
appeared upon the envelope, in the glories of
badly-formed print, and again, in worse-formed
handwriting, on the much crumpled sheet of
very common notepaper which it enclosed.
Wridsdale took it for some begging petition,
and was for throwing it aside, when he suddenly
caught sight of the signature at the foot—


Denounced 225
Albert Edward Todd. Then he pulled it
towards him and read it through quickly . . .
and as he read his face paled and with the last
word he jumped to his feet with the sheet of
paper crumpled in his hand.
Within a few minutes Wridsdale was in the
engine-house asking for Stumpy Todd’s ad-
dress. It was given him as at a house in a
neighbouring court, and he went out by a back
way to find it. There was little difficulty in
discovering it, but he did not discover the object
of his search. All that Stumpy Todd’s late
landlady knew was that that worthy gentleman
had packed up his small belongings that morning
and had conveyed them to the railway station ;
had later returned, attired himself in his best
suit, settled up with her—‘and behaved very
’andsome to the childher, too, Mestur Wrids-
dale ’—and had then departed for unknown
regions, much to her sorrow. And that
was all that Wridsdale could find out—
not a man about the works knew anything
of Stumpy Todd’s sudden departure from a
scene of which he had become an integral
part.
Wridsdale went home that night in a state
P


226 Morrison’s Machine
little removed from absolute fear. The events
which had already happened were as nothing
compared to the defection of Stumpy Todd,
especially after the explanation vouchsafed by
Stumpy in his valedictory letter. For Stumpy
had plainly let Wridsdale see that he knew of
his guilt. ‘If you’d done the right thing and
acted on the square, I’d never have left you,’
Stumpy had said in effect, and Wridsdale knew
what that meant, for he knew Stumpy Todd.
And now he wanted to know more—he wanted
to know how much Stumpy Todd really knew,
and if he meant to use his knowledge against
him. He read the ill-written letter over and
over again, but gained nothing from it beyond
his first impression.
As the night wore on Wridsdale became still
more afraid. If Stumpy Todd knew his secret,
why should not others know it? He had
thought it absolutely safe, considering all the
elaborate precautions which he and Morrison
had taken during the making of the machine.
How could Stumpy Todd have found him out?
Was it possible that he had discovered the
secret during some of Morrison’s nightly vigils,
or had Morrison, like the fool that he was,


Denounced 227
talked to him? And if Morrison had talked to
Stumpy Todd, why should he not have talked
to others ?
It was an ugly species of fear which domin-
ated Wridsdale at this period—that species of
fear which will make the bravest as affrighted
as the veriest child who finds itself alone in the
night. It had the same effect upon him,
indeed, which is produced upon a sensitive
child who is suddenly plunged into impenetrable
darkness—the fear of the unknown. He would
have had no fear of anything that he could
touch and see and grapple with, but he was in
mortal fear of the mystery which seemed to
be wrapping itself round him more closely and
still more closely every day. He had thought
everything would be easy, and, in respect of the
mere business details of the affair, everything
had been easy, but this mysterious threatening
of coming evil unnerved him. If only his foes
would come out and face him in fair and open
field he would meet and fight with them—it
was this mysterious marching and counter-
marching in the shadow of the night that made
him afraid and uneasy. So he said to himself
as he lay in his bed that night, still plotting


228 Morrison’s Machine
and scheming that all might yet be well with
him.
He came down next morning after a night of
troubled sleep and disquieting dreams to find
that one foe at anyrate had all unconsciously
satisfied the desire of his heart. He opened
his copy of the Blackford News, caught a head-
line with his own name prominent in it, read a
few words in the article beneath, and recognised
that Cleaver had joined his enemies and had
settled down in earnest at their head. A
sudden feeling of absolute relief, amounting
almost to joy, stole through Wridsdale. He
knew that now the fight would be in open day-
light. He laid the newspaper aside and made
a hearty and leisurely breakfast ere he took it
up again and sat down to read Cleaver’s attack
upon him word by word.
There was a certain curiosity in Wridsdale’s
mind as he began his careful reading of
Cleaver’s denunciation. He wanted to know
exactly how much could be said against him.
For mere rumour, mere suspicion, he cared
nothing ; neither suspicion nor rumour could do
him harm. He was curious to know how
much Cleaver knew; he wanted his enemy to


Denounced 229
unmask the battery which so far had remained
closely masked, so that he might be made fully
aware of the enemy’s strength. It was in the
confident expectation that Cleaver would thus
show his hand that Wridsdale settled himself
in his easy-chair to read the article.
But as Wridsdale read, the feeling of satis-
faction which had filled him on finding the
threatened attack actually begun faded quickly
away. His brow grew clouded and perplexed ;
the fear of the unknown which had filled him
for many days came back increased in strength.
Instead of the enemy unmasking his battery
and showing every gun hid behind its cover,
he appeared to be masking it more carefully
than ever. If Wridsdale had only given other
men credit for the possession of some of the
qualities which he himself lacked, he would not
have been surprised that Cleaver had adopted
such tactics. But Cleaver knew his man, and
had been at pains to shape his attack accord-
ingly, and the attack left Wridsdale more con-
fused, afraid and angry than before. Nothing,
indeed, could more effectually have given
Wridsdale occasion for doubt and speculation
than the special article at which he sat staring.


230 Morrison’s Machine
It was a short, incisive article; rather an
open indictment than a thing of arguments and
theories. As it figured, printed in bold type in
the middle page of the newspaper, exactly
where every eye would fall on it when the
sheet was opened, it looked like the ultimatum
of one great power to another. It ran as
follows :—
‘THE SO-CALLED “WRIDsDALE MACHINE.”
‘It will be within the minds of our readers
that there recently appeared in these columns
an account of a very remarkable machine
which was then said to be the invention of Mr
Mark Wridsdale, a well-known mechanical
engineer and machine-maker of this town, to
whom we gave hearty praise for his manifesta-
tion of ability and genius, and for certain
generous conduct arising out of circumstances
connected with the making of the machine. It
is with deep regret that we now confess our-
selves to have been misled, and with a strong
feeling that we owe reparation to the public
that we proceed to offer this statement.
‘ Our share in this matter is as follows z—VVe
were waited upon on the day previous to the


Denounced 23 I
publication of the special article just referred
to by Mr Wridsdale, who briefly informed us
that he had completed a new invention of a
remarkable nature and requested us to send a
representative over to his works in order to
receive information concerning it. We immedi-
ately instructed our chief reporter to visit Mr
Wridsdale’s works. He was there seen by Mr
W ridsdale, who supplied him with every single
fact which appeared in the special article
published in these columns next morning.
‘ It will be remembered that in the conclud-
ing paragraph of that article, reference was
made to the unfortunate break-down in mental
health of Mr Richard Morrison, who, according
to Mr Wridsdale, had “assisted” him in the
final making of the machine, and that it further
referred to the generous spirit which Mr
Wridsdale had betrayed in making provision
for life for Mr Morrison and for his sister. On
the day on which that article appeared, we re-
ceived a communication from Miss Morrison
utterly repudiating Mr Wridsdale’s statement.
This communication we published in our issue
of the next day.
’ ‘ From certain information supplied to us on


232 Morrison’s Machine
the day on which the special article appeared in
our columns, we felt impelled in the interest
of truth and justice to made inquiry into the
truth of the particulars supplied to our repre-
sentative by Mr Wridsdale. It is with regret
that we now state that the main “facts” of
that article are based on falsehood, and that
our representative was wilfully deceived and
erroneously informed by Mr Wridsdale.
‘We shall not at this time place the proofs
of the true facts of this case before the public ;
at another time (and, we trust, in “another
place ”) we shall feel the greatest pleasure in
doing so. We content ourselves at present
by informing our readers :—
‘(I) That the very remarkable machine now
safely locked up in Mr Wridsdale’s
works is the whole, sole and entire
invention of Richard Morrison;
‘(2) That until the evening of March 20th
Mr Wridsdale never heard of, or saw
the plans, drawings and particulars of
that machine;
‘(3) That on that evening Richard Morrison
showed these plans, drawings and par-
ticulars to Mr Wridsdale in the latter’s


Denounced 233
private office, and obtained permission
from him to make the first machine in a
private room in Wridsdale’s works;
‘(4) That Richard Morrison made the
machine himself;
‘ (5) That Richard Morrison never gave, de-
signed, or granted to Mr Wridsdale any
share, part, lot, or interest in the machine ;
and
‘(6) That the claim now put forward by Mr
Wridsdale that he is the inventor of the
machine is utterly false.
‘We are aware that this matter will not rest
here. We have done what we have done, and
we have said what we have said, under a strong
sense of duty to the public and with a feeling
that we owe some reparation to the family of
the man who unfortunately is not able to defend
his own rights. We are now prepared to fight
this matter to a finish, and the address of our
solicitors is at Mr Wridsdale’s disposal when-
ever he or his solicitors please to ask for it.’
Wridsdale laid the paper down and rose
slowly to his feet. He glanced at the clock;
it was already past his usual hour for setting


234 Morrison’s Machine
out to his works, and he hastily prepared him-
self for his walk. While thus occupied his
mind was busily engaged, and that fear of the
unknown which he had come to dread so
bitterly repossessed him with increased force.
He would have given a great deal to know
exactly how much of the real truth Cleaver was
in possession of. There were certain things
in the article which increased his dread and
suspicion. Morrison had promised him that
he would say nothing to anybody about the
machine—not even to his sister—yet here was
this newspaper fellow stating boldly that on a
certain night, actually giving the exact date,
Morrison showed him the papers, and further
affirming that until then, he, Wridsdale, had
never so much as heard of them. That was
true—and where had Cleaver got the truth
from? Morrison must have disregarded his
promise and told something of his project to
somebody. Wridsdale tried to reason this out.
He knew Morrison to be wholly sincere and
conscientious (he had counted on that as mak-
ing it easier to defraud him), and he could not
bring himself to believe that he would break a
promise. A sudden ray of hope flashed into


Denounced 235
his mind—it was possible that Morrison had
told his sister and perhaps George Broadclough
that he had invented a machine and that
Wridsdale was going to afford him facilities
for making it. If that was all they knew he
could afford to snap his fingers at them. With
Morrison silent in his living tomb, he, Wrids-
dale, was the only person living who knew
the secret of the machine. That was unless—-
the old, nameless fear seized him again—unless
someone else had somehow found it out. And
then he suddenly thought of Stumpy Todd.
Strange that Stumpy Todd should disappear
one day and that this denunciation of himself
should appear next morning! Could there be
some connection between the two ? He cursed
fate with all his heart; it was maddening to
feel that clouds of portent were hovering about
him, and that he could not see them ; madden-
ing to think that he was in the position of the
fighting man who is in the midst of concealed
forces and does not know from which quarter
the attack will come.
But Wridsdale was far from being a beaten
man. He walked from his house to his works
in his accustomed fashion. He received and


2 36 Morrison’s Machine
returned salutations as usual, betraying nothing
of the emotions which were raging within him.
He seemed to observe nothing—in reality he
was more keenly observant than ever. He
saw the inquisitive eye, the look of curiosity,
of doubt, of speculative wonder, of surprised
amazement; he saw, too, the look of disbelief
in him which was patent in the faces of certain
men who but a few days earlier were ready to
fawn upon him. But nothing occurred until, as
he turned out of the square into the street
leading to his own works, he met the rival
machine-maker, the man who had more than
once spoken to him in a suspicious fashion.
They were old club-acquaintances, and though
there had never been any love lost between
them, they had always remained on speaking
terms. But on this particular morning the
man met Wridsdale, looked him up and down,
and cut him dead.
That acted on Wridsdale like a sudden
plunge into an icy sea. He pulled himself up,
and walked into his works, harder, colder,
sterner than ever. He was going to fight and
fight to the death.


238 Morrison’s Machine
about it. The invention was scarcely in the
world yet, its birth was only announced, and yet
what a vast amount of doubt and suspicion was
already wrapped up with it! He knew that
when he had steered his ship through the
mists and storms which now encompassed it—
as he had no doubt of doing—into clearer air
and smoother waters, there would still be a
considerable trace of its early vicissitudes left
upon it. Nothing would ever entirely clear it
of that. In years to come, when he had reaped
the reward of his labours, there would always
be folk who would be only too ready to throw
out hints and to raise rumours, and to tell rising
generations that he, Wridsdale, was somewhat
of an impostor after all. But what did that
matter? Was it not always the case? Why,
there, in a neighbouring town, at that very
moment, was there not the spectacle of two
eminent men squabbling in public as to the real
authorship of one of the greatest inventions 0f
the age ?--this publishing a pamphlet to prove
that lee was the real inventor; that printing
another in proof of his contention that the
invention was Ms. There must always be
doubt and controversy about these things, said


The Aid of the Law 239
Wridsdale to himself: it was for the strong and
resolute to be above all suspicion and its results.
But as the day wore on which witnessed
Cleaver’s denunciation of him, Wridsdale found
that it is not pleasant to be the object of even
qualified suspicion. As he transacted business
in his private office or in his counting-house, he
became aware that there was something in the
atmosphere which had only come there recently.
His clerks were outwardly respectful to him,
but there was something—something—some
constraint, some indefinable change of manner,
some scarcely perceptible difference in voice,
which Wridsdale felt rather than noticed, and
resented all the more because it was scarcely
perceptible. He knew that he was being
talked over and discussed; that when his
clerks went out to dinner they would gather
together and hold a debate, of which he would
form the subject. He could make a pretty
shrewd guess as to what would be said in the
course of that debate. He knew that he was
not popular, and that the sudden defection of
George Broadclough from his service had not
inclined the hearts of his employees of the
counting-house towards him. And though


24o Morrison’s Machine
Wridsdale cared no more for the opinion of
one of his clerks, as a clerk, than for that of
the man in the m00n, he cared a good deal
about the opinion of even an office-boy if that
had the potentiality of evil in it. An isolated
opinion, as he knew, is powerless, and of next
to no consequence; bunch a thousand isolated
opinions of the same sort together, and you
have a new occasion for respect and fear.
If Wridsdale felt that there was an atmo-
sphere of suspicion gathering in his counting-
house, be recognised that there was a still
stronger one growing in his workshop. It
was his habit to visit the sheds every morning,
immediately after attending to his correspond-
ence, and to spend some time in conversing
with his principal men, inspecting the work
that was going on, and occasionally superin-
tending the carrying out of some particular
operation. On entering the workshop that
morning he knew that every man and boy
there had read Cleaver’s denunciation of him
and was full of it. He knew that although the
machines were whirring as usual, and that the
clink and clatter of hammers and the musical
ripple of tools never ceased, there was not a


The Aid of the Law 241
human being in the place who was not keenly
anxious to turn his eyes away from his labours
in order to see how the governor was taking it.
He moved about from shed to shed, from bench
to bench, criticising, advising, discussing, in-
structing, and he knew that every eye was on
him and every mind trying to worm itself into
the secret recesses of his own. Moreover,
just as there hung about the counting-house
that atmosphere of suspicion which had ex-
tended to the workshop, so in the workshop
there was increasing a sense of mystery which
Wridsdale knew would soon spread to the
counting-house and beyond its borders. The
men knew that Stumpy Todd had disappeared
suddenly, and they were wanting to know why.
Wridsdale needed no magical aid to tell him
that as soon as his back was turned, and when-
ever two workmen, apprentices, or mere lads
could foregather, there would be questioning
and surmising and speculation, and that he
would form the subject of it all.
Whatever he felt, Wridsdale gave no sign
that he perceived any of these things. He
went through the morning's work in his usual
fashion, and at one o’clock left his office and
Q


242 Morrison’s Machine
walked slowly through the town on his way to
lunch at the club. It was market-day in Black-
ford, and the dining-room of the club was full.
Wridsdale, who loved to get a quiet corner all
to himself, found himself obliged to take a seat
at one of the large tables. He knew all the
men around him, and exchanged nods with
them—he as unconcernedly as usual, they with
some curiosity in their faces. He knew that
there was not a man of the half-dozen who
shared the table with him who was not burning
to talk to him about the article in the local
newspaper. But not a man of them dared to
mention the subject. Wridsdale, when he sat
down, made some reference to the political
situation, and led the conversation which
followed with ease, and with some show of
interest. The other men marvelled at his
coolness—it was not every man, they thought,
who could endure a public attack upon his
honour with such equanimity. But presently
there came in, and occupied the only vacant
space at the table, one of those irrepressible
young gentlemen who are much in evidence in
commercial circles in our larger towns, and who
believe that a year’s acquaintance with the


244 Morrison’s Machine
with which Mr Youngman is not in any way
concerned.’
Mr Youngman choked, gasped, turned
scarlet and picked up the menu card with an
air of extreme interest in its contents. Wrids-
dale turned quietly to his immediate neighbours.
‘Where I think the policy of the Govern-
ment is at fault, lies here,’ he said, and calmly
continued the conversation on which they had
been engaged. His voice was as unemotional
as ever, but the keen glitter of his eyes had not
quite died out when he rose and left the table.
One or two of the men with whom he had
lunched drew their chairs closer together as he
strolled away.
‘Takes it coolly,’ said one man, looking
significantly at the others.
‘Ay, doesn’t he,’ assented another. ‘But
he’ll have to speak, you know, sooner or later.
Can’t sit down quietly with a charge like that
hanging over him.’
‘ I don’t know,’ said a third. ‘ I’m not sure
that if I were in his place I shouldn’t disregard
the whole thing. There’s always all this sort
of thing said about inventions. If I were
Wridsdale I think I should pay no attention


The Aid of the Law 245
to what the News says. He’s a harum-scarum
sort of chap, that Cleaver—a new man, too,
and how does anybody know that he’s got any
wool on his back ?’
The second speaker shook his head.
‘Wool or no wool,’ he said, ‘ Wridsdale’ll
have to take action against him. It’s the only
course open to him.’
That indeed was what Wridsdale was just
then being told by his old business friend in a
quiet corner of the smoking-room. They had
met at the door, and forthwith repaired to a
couple of easy-chairs somewhat removed from
the gossiping knots of men, who, having
lunched, were discussing every subject under
the sun over coffee and cigars. Wridsdale’s
friend lighted his cigar with an air of grave
deliberation. He seemed to expect Wridsdale
to speak, but Wridsdale gave no sign of speak-
ing. He, too, had lighted a cigar, and sat
smoking it with an air of complete indifference
to his surroundings.
‘Well, Mark?’ said the older man, at last.
‘ What have you done?’
Wridsdale looked at him questioningly.
‘ Done ? ’ he said.


246 Morrison’s Machine
‘As regards this attack upon you in the
News. You cannot afford to disregard it.
You are bound to take notice of it.’
Wridsdale smoked in silence for a few
minutes before he replied to these observations.
‘1 can’t see,’ he said at last, ‘ why on earth
because this fellow chooses to sling mud at me
as he has done I should be expected to waste
time and money in noticing it, as you term it.
The mud will fall off. If I could horsewhip
the fellow—’
The other man made an impatient gesture.
‘ Mark!’ he said. ‘ That is nonsense. As I
said to you the other day, this thing ought not
to come into the world with any suspicion
attaching to it. You must vindicate yourself.
You have been challenged—you must respond
to that challenge.’
‘ So, then,’ said Wridsdale, slowly, ‘so, then,
it amounts to this—that any penny-a-liner may
asperse a man’s character and then put that
man to the expense of proving that the
aspersion is a damnable lie and concoction?
Well—if it is so, it is so—it’s part of the
general disposition of things in this world,
no doubt’


The Aid of the Law 247
The elder man shook his head and looked
troubled.
‘ What does all this rumour mean, Mark?’
he said. ‘What does it mean when Cleaver
talks of being in possession of facts which will
prove that this machine was Morrison’s inven-
tion and not yours? I don’t like that, Mark, I
don’t like that! For consider, this young man
Cleaver has much to lose. I happen to know
that he has sunk the whole of his fortune in
the Blaakford News—it is his own property
entirely—and however wrong-headed he may
be in pursuing this line of conduct against you,
we must admit that he has vastly improved it,
as a prOperty, since he purchased the paper.
Now, you know that if you take action against
him, and succeed, you will be entitled to the
heaviest damages. He must know it, too—the
man is no fool, Mark. He knows that
success on your side would ruin him. What is
it that prompts him to go so fearlessly into this
fight—not only fearlessly, but with, one might
say, a certain amount of something very like
arrogance? What is it—what is this proof
which he talks of—this proof which is to show
that—'


2 5o Morrison’s Machine
pure and simple waste of energy. Thus he
communed with his own thoughts as he wended
his way to his solicitor’s office. He had made
up his mind to go there while he had talked
with his friend at the club: the final issue
between himself and his enemies might be
expedited as speedily as was possible.
Mr Satterthwaite, Wridsdale’s solicitor,
seemed to be expecting him. He stood with
his back to the fire of his private office, warm-
ing himself after the approved fashion of Eng-
lishmen, and on the hearthrug at his feet lay
a copy of the Blaekfiard News. He looked
significantly at this as he shook hands with his
client and motioned him to a seat.
‘ How-do, Wridsdale,’ said the man of law.
‘ Thought you’d be dropping in to-day. I say,
this is a pretty hot article of Cleaver’s, isn’t it?
There’s no doubt about it, between you and
me and the post, you know, he knows how to
do this sort of thing—no man of his profession
can do it better. Stands fair up to you, you
know. Are you ready? One—two—three—
Fire! That’s the sort of thing Cleaver does.
’Pon my honour, I rather admire him for it,
though it’s damned quixotic, you know. I never


The Aid of the Law 253
you’ll proceed against Cleaver? Civil business
this, you know, Wridsdale—big damages.’
‘ Is he worth it P ’ asked Wridsdale.
Satterthwaite nodded.
‘Yes,’ he answered, ‘he’s worth it. I know
a bit about his finances. He’s worth powder
and shot, and we’ll smite him hip and thigh.
These sort of chaps, Wridsdale, invariably
over-reach themselves sooner or later. This
is—later, eh ? ’


The Strength of the Crafty 255
him!’ he exclaimed, as he sat discussing matters
with Satterthwaite one afternoon. ‘ It’s not so
much the question of establishing my rights as
of punishing him for his insolence.’
‘ He will be punished, my dear fellow,’ said
Satterthwaite, with a confident nod of the head.
‘ It will cost Mr Eustace Cleaver more than he
can readily lay hands on, will this little affair.
Pooh! the other side hasn’t a leg to stand on.
It’s a perfect marvel to me that Philbrick should
have taken their case up. But, of course, that’s
Cleaver’s pertinacity. He’ll see the thing
through now that he’s started out with it—
I’ll give him that credit.’
‘ How do things stand now?’ asked Wridsdale.
‘They stand thus,’ answered the solicitor,
putting the tips of his fingers together and
leaning back in his chair, ‘they stand thus:
It is now—let me see—yes, the I 5th of May,
and the Grandchester Assizes will begin about
the 12th of june. I think we shall get an
early place on the list for Wridsdale v. Cleaver.
We have got the Attorney-General and Mr
Pauncefote. They’ve retained Sir Henry
Liddell and Mr jukes. Liddell’s a good man,
and Jukes cross-examines very closely. Make


256 Morrison’s Machine
up your mind for a nice half-hour with jukes,
Wridsdale. Well, now, the course of things
will run as follows: The Attorney-General, of
course, will open, and then you’ll be called.
Now, look here, Wridsdale, I’ve thought of a
masterly piece of business. This machine of
yours is not a very monstrous affair, is it? N o?
—well, I propose to have it set up in court, in
full view of judge, jury, and all the rest of ’em,
and to let you, in the course of your evidence,
explain it to his lordship and the jury and give
’em a demonstration. There’s no reason why
that shouldn’t be done, is there? You’ve com-
pleted all details and arrangements about the
patent rights, and so on, eh?’
‘Yes,’ said Wridsdale, ‘everything is com-
plete. There is no reason why your proposal
shouldn’t be carried out.’
‘ Have a splendid effect, my dear fellow, you
know,’ remarked Satterthwaite, with enthusi-
astic confidence. ‘Immense effect indeed!
There you are practically accused of stealing
this thing from another man. You tell the
court how you made it, how it’s the child of
your inventive genius, how you laboured at it,
how you know its every detail—you do know


The Strength of the Crafty 257
its every detail, of course, Wridsdale ?—and so
on, and so on. Finally, you show ’em the
marvellous machine in motion. Splendid!
That, my dear sir, is what they call moral
effect—tells heavily with jury. By George,
though, Wridsdale, what about your motive-
power?’
‘ If this case is taken in the Crown court
at Grandchester we can manage that easily,’
answered Wridsdale. ‘They have an electrical
installation, you know. It will only be neces-
sary to knock a hole through the flooring into
the basement. The machine can be set up
and all arrangements made within a couple of
hours.’
‘Good. Well, that demonstration over,’
continued Satterthwaite, ‘and such cross-
examination as they can manage to rake you
fore and aft with concluded, I should propose
to wind up our case. A few strong, pungent
remarks from our leader on the perfect clear-
ness of your evidence and explanation, and
so on, and then we’ll sit down and let the
other side have an innings. Ay,’ said Sat-
terthwaite, ‘a rather poor innings they’ll
have, too, I think, Wridsdale.’
R


258 Morrison’s Machine
‘You have some idea of the value of their
evidence ? ’
‘From answers to interrogatories, yes. It
practically amounts to this—that Morrison’s
friends will endeavour to prove that there
is sufficient weight of evidence to justify
Cleaver in saying that Morrison was the real
inventor and that you are not. There will be
the evidence of the sister, and of her husband,
and they have subpoenaed several of your
workmen to prove that Morrison worked almost
continually, day and night, at the machine.’
‘ That I have never denied,’ said Wridsdale.
‘No. Amongst the names of these men is
that of the man you told me of, the man who
left your employ so suddenly—Todd.’
‘Ah!’ exclaimed Wridsdale. ‘ I wonder where
he is. I wish we could get hold of him.’
‘That I don’t know ; he seems to be a sort of
trump card, and it’s my impression that Cleaver
has him out of the way somewhere. However,’
said Satterthwaite, with strong conviction in his
tones, ‘the whole weight of their evidence, so
far, of course, as one may at this stage make
oneself legitimately acquainted with it, is to my
mind very light, very light indeed. We shall


26o Morrison’s Machine
Wridsdale had not been idle in furthering his
schemes with regard to his sole possession of
the machine. If all went well, he would very
shortly reap the first rewards; the machine was
already being talked of all over the world, and
he knew that the great financial benefits which
he had anticipated from the first would be
realised beyond even his most sanguine hopes.
It had been an unpleasant beginning to his cam-
paign, he said to himself, but all would yet be
well.
‘ By-the-bye,’ asked Satterthwaite, as Wrids-
dale was leaving him after this encouraging
conversation, ‘have you heard anything of
Morrison? how he is getting on, you know!’
‘Yes,’ answered Wridsdale, ‘I heard from
Holmwood yesterday. There is no change in
him; they do not see any probability of any
change, either. He is as silent as if he were
in the grave.’ ‘
‘I was thinking,’ said Satterthwaite, ‘that if
he recovered his reason his testimony would
have been of value. He was doubtless affected
during the very time that he was working at
your machine; now, if his reason is fully restored,
you know, Wridsdale, his mind will assume the


262 Morrison’s Machine
He was within sight of the crowning heights of
victory.
While Wridsdale’s man of law was confident,
and full of pleasurable anticipation, Mr Philbrick,
the solicitor to whom Cleaver had entrusted his
case, was downcast and anxious about the
prospects of his client, and on the very day
which witnessed Satterthwaite’s joyous prog-
nostications of victory, Cleaver was listening to
a quite different exordium. Ever since he had
placed the matter in his hands, Cleaver had felt
that Philbrick was doubtful about its issue, and
he had seen as time went on that the doubt and
perplexity were deepening. On this particular
occasion, the solicitor was fidgety and troubled,
and Cleaver saw that he was desirous of de-
livering his soul. At last Philbrick spoke.
‘ I may as well tell you, Mr Cleaver,’ he
began, ‘that I am daily becoming more and
more anxious about our success, more and more
doubtful about our prospects. We have gone
a long way, a long way—in fact, we are now
at the eleventh hour, but I don’t know whether
it would not be the best plan to—’
‘ To do what?’ asked Cleaver, quietly.
‘ Really, I don’t know!’ answered the other,


The Strength of the Crafty 265
that what the parsons call the craft and subtlety
of the devil and man are very difficult things to
contend against when combined. If Wridsdale
is really the man you take him to be, Mr
Cleaver, Wridsdale’s case will be strong, sir,
strong. The strength of the crafty, sir, is great.
Pity ’tis that ’tis so, you know, but I have found
it to be so a thousand times.’
‘And always melt into the weakness of a
child in the end?’ said Cleaver. ‘ Come, now,
isn’t that so?’
‘Ay--in the end,’ said the elderly solicitor.
‘ But the end, my dear sir, is sometimes a long,
long way off.’
‘The end comes at last,’ answered Cleaver.
‘The end will come here. And it will be as
witness of our triumph when it does come.’


C H A P T E R X X
IMMURED IN A LIVING TOMB
WHILE all these things were going on in the
world which he had left, Richard Morrison
remained unconscious that they were in process
or that there was any particular world at all.
He did not know that frightened men had
broken in upon him and his machine, and had
stood aghast and trembling when they heard
his wild laughter mingling with its click and
clatter. He did not know that other men,
skilled in disease of body and mind, had stood
by himplearnedly discussing him, and finally
shaking their heads because of their inability to
lift him out of the dark abyss into which he
had suddenly been plunged. He did not know
that others had brought him away from the
scene of his labours to another world which to
everybody but himself was as full of horror
as the world beyond the grave. Of all these
things he was mercifully unconscious. The
266


Immured in a Living Tomb 267
blow had fallen swiftly; within the fraction of
a second he had passed from the realisation
of things to a state of non-realisation. One
moment he was a sensate, thinking, under-
standing human being, terribly strained and
conscious that a vague shadow was somehow
hanging over him, but still able -to distinguish,
to feel, and to analyse ; the next he was a child,
ready to catch at shadows on the wall, and to
smile at their vagaries.
He was very quiet, this man whose brain had
so suddenly been put to sleep. For days and
days he sat where they made him sit, or walked
where they directed his footsteps, apparently
quite happy and contented so long as those who
had him in charge did not deprive him of the
piece of string which he had possessed himself
of in his first moments of mental aberration, and
which be continually knotted and unknotted as if
he would never grow weary. They showed him
books and pictures and endeavoured to arouse
his interest in them, but to every advance his
only response was a quick, shy smile, the smile
of a child which does not understand, and an
immediate return to the making and unmaking
of the knots. There was no trouble with him ;


Immured in a Living Tomb 269
with the doctor’s reports. But when the
special article inspired by Wridsdale appeared
in the Blaekford News and Lucy publicly re-
nounced the machine-maker’s charity, it became
necessary for them to visit the asylum without
delay, and they accordingly repaired thither on
the day following the publication of Lucy’s letter.
It was not a visiting day, and the doctor seemed
somewhat surprised to see them. George under-
took the task of explaining matters to him.
‘We came to see you, sir,’ began George.
‘We wished to see you personally on a—well,
on a personal matter. I don’t know whether
you have seen the Blackford News of yester-
day’s and to-day’s issues?’
The doctor shook his head, somewhat
wonderingly. No, he answered; he had not
seen the newspaper in question; he was so
much engaged that he had little time for
reading the newspapers at all, and he usually
devoted himself to the T z'mes. But if there
was something which Mr Broadclough particu-
larly desired him to see—?
George pulled that and the previous day’s
issues of the Blackford News out of his pocket
and pointed to certain marked places. The


27o Morrison’s Machine
doctor sat down and read the special article and
turned from it to Lucy’s letter. Lucy and George,
watching him narrowly, saw a slight shade of
astonishment pass over his face as he read it. He
laid the newspaper down and turned to them.
‘I am to understand from this—’ he said
questioningly.
‘ We would like you to understand, sir,’ said
George, ‘that every expense incurred here on
Richard’s behalf will be borne by his family——
we will not receive one penny of Mr Wrids-
dale’s money. Morrison himself is not without
means, and I am not without either, and We
will exhaust everything before we turn to
Wridsdale for help.’
The doctor began to feel curious.
‘I gather that there is some mystery about
all this,’ he said. ‘ May I know what it is? I
am deeply interested in Mr Morrison’s case,
and it might be of some assistance to me ifI
knew all the facts of the matter. You must
bear in mind that I know nothing save what
was told me when Mr Morrison was admitted
here. I understood that he had been working
very hard, almost continually, indeed, in con-
nection with this machine, but I do not know


Immured in a Living Tomb 271
any details of the matter as it stands between him
and Mr Wridsdale. Perhaps if I knew more—’
‘ We shall be only too pleased to tell you
anything,’ said Lucy, and signalled to George
to explain matters. George told their story, in
a few words, and the doctor listened attentively
and was deeply interested. When he had
heard it all he began to ask questions about
Richard, and to make notes of their answers to
them. Lucy and George answered every ques-
tion readily enough, but at that moment they
were not so much concerned with the doctor’s
cross-examination of them as with the indigna-
tion which was still hot in their hearts against
Wridsdale, and when they went away it was
with reiterated commands that no money of
the machine-maker’s should be received there
for Richard’s benefit. That properly under-
stood, they felt relieved.
From that time the doctor began to feel a
fresh and a deeper interest in the case of
Richard Morrison, and, in a non-professional
fashion, in the controversy which so soon arose
as to the real authorship of the famous machine.
He began to look out for news of it in the local
newspapers, and when at last he read Cleaver’s


272 Morrison’s Machine
denunciation of Wridsdale, he felt that he would
give a good deal to restore Richard Morrison
to the full possession of his reasoning faculties,
so that some final light might be thrown on the
matter. But he had to confess to himself that
Morrison was still as far from the dawn as when
he had entered the institution. He was still a
child—tractable, obedient, but utterly lacking
in comprehension of the things around him.
Throughout the greater part of the day he still
pursued his favourite occupation of knotting
and unknotting his piece of string, and nothing
else seemed to satisfy him.
The doctor was not surprised to have Wrids-
dale’s card handed to him one morning. He
gave orders for the machine-maker’s admission,
and presently went to him with some curiosity
as to what manner of man he should meet.
Wridsdale, pacing impatiently about the hearth-
rug of the reception-room, found himself being
looked at as he himself often looked at some
intricate piece of machinery, and he became
somewhat restive under the process. He re-
plied curtly to the doctor’s greeting, and took the
chair which the latter offered him, as though» he
had little time to waste in sitting down anywhere.


274 Morrison’s Machine
‘ Every arrangement for Mr Morrison’s care
and comfort has been made by his own family,
Mr Wridsdale,’ he replied. ‘ He is fully pro-
vided for.’
‘ Ay ! ’ said Wridsdale. ‘ For the present, no
doubt. But what of the future ? Who’s going
to provide for him then?’
‘ You wished to inquire as to his present
state, I think?’ said the doctor, quietly ignoring
the last remark. ‘ As to that I am afraid I
cannot give you any fresh news. Physically,
he is in a very much sounder state of health
than when he came here; mentally, his condi-
tion is almost exactly the same.’
‘ Almost?’ asked Wridsdale. ‘ How do you
mean—almost ? ’
‘ Because it has slightly—very slightly—im-
proved. When he came here he was in a
worse state than he is in to-day.’
Wridsdale’s face assumed an air of deep
thought, and he gazed at the doctor with
inquiring eyes.
‘ Will that slight improvement go on increas-
ing?’ he asked presently. ‘Will he go on improv-
ing until—well, until his reason is quite restored?’
‘I cannot tell you that definitely, lVIr Wrids-


Immured in a Living Tomb 275
dale. I have known of more than one case
similar to this of Mr Morrison, in which a
sudden total loss of reason was followed by
a sudden total recovery. It would not sur-
prise me if I were informed that Mr Morrison had
suddenly become perfectly sane and rational.’
Wridsdale looked at him meditatively.
‘Ay!’ he said. ‘It wouldn’t surprise you?
I see—I see! But—do you expect to ever
have information of that sort? Eh?’
Dr Greenholme smiled slightly. His eyes,
deep and inscrutable at all times, had never
taken themselves off his visitor’s face since he
had entered the reception-room. He suddenly
rose to his feet, still watching Wridsdale’s face
and expression.
‘Would you like to see Mr Morrison?’ he said.
Wridsdale started, and looked at the doctor
sharply. The latter saw an unmistakable sign
of fear in his eyes.
‘Ah, I don’t know,’ Wridsdale answered.
‘I shall never forget seeing him that morning.
It upset me for days. If he is still anything
like that, I would rather not see him.’
‘He is not at all like that. He was then
labouring under great excitement—he is now


276 Morrison’s Machine
perfectly quiet. If you choose to see him I
will take you to him, Mr Wridsdale.’
Wridsdale hesitated. He wanted to see
Richard for some reasons, not to see him for
others. If he saw him, he said to himself, he
could perhaps gain some idea of his actual con-
dition: he was not inclined to place too much
reliance on anything that doctors said. And he
wanted to know what chance of danger from
Richard there might be—it was as well to be
as fully acquainted with everything as possible.
‘Very well. I’ll see him,’ he said.
‘ This way, Mr Wridsdale,’ said the doctor.
‘ Pray don’t be alarmed at anything.’
Wridsdale shook his head.
‘I have a horror of insanity,’ he said, as he
followed the doctor from the reception-room.
‘It is, I think, the only thing of which I have
always felt an absolute loathing. Spare me
any sights, if you please, doctor.’
‘You shall see nothing unpleasant, Mr
Wridsdale. Follow me through this room,
please,’ answered Dr Greenholme, opening a
door, ‘and imagine that you are in the smoking-
room of your own club.’
Wridsdale found himself walking through a


Immured in a Living Tomb 279
ing sight of the doctor he rose to his feet, and
Greenholme beckoned him to come forward.
‘You have noticed no change in Mr Morrison?’
he said, as the man approached.
‘No, sir, none particular, sir. He’s had his
walk round, and I believe he does seem to be
noticing things a bit more, sir,’ answered the
man. ‘Otherwise, he’s just the same—sits
quiet like, and plays with his bit 0’ string.’
The doctor nodded, and the man retired.
Wridsdale, after another look at Morrison,
turned away. He and Dr Greenholme walked
back to the house in silence. At the door
Wridsdale spoke.
‘ I’m much obliged to you,’ he said. ‘ It’s a
very terrible thing, very. He doesn’t suffer,
you think?’
‘ He is in very good health,’ said the doctor.
‘His brain is—asleep. He might suddenly
wake, Mr Wridsdale, to the knowledge of much
greater suffering than any he knows of now.’
Wridsdale went away, failing to comprehend
the medical man’s meaning. He said to him-
self as the train carried him back to Blackford
that Richard Morrison was as good as dead—he
would never, never come out of that living tomb.


C H A P T E R X X I
STUMPY TODD COMES BACK
STUMPY TODD went away from Blackford with
such a load of care and perplexity upon him as
he had never previously been called upon to
carry. He steadfastly refused to allow his in-
clination to persuade him to look out of the
railway-carriage window as the train ran past
the lights of Wridsdale’s works, but there was
a moisture suspiciously like tears upon his
cheeks when he at length turned his head from
the window through which he had obstinately
stared. Stumpy felt, in fact, pretty much what
a boy feels who is leaving home for the first
time and going out into the world of school.
He had grown to be a part of Wridsdale’s
works, and was already homesick because of
them, and they had formed his world so en-
tirely that he was somewhat afraid of the vaster
world into which he was now being carried by
the rumbling railway train. Moreover, Stumpy
28o


284 Morrison’s Machine
him some little time to make up his mind as
to what he should do, but when it was once
made up he lost no further time in shilly-shally-
ing. Wridsdale had gone wrong, therefore
he and Wridsdale must part. Brusque, rude,
overbearing, Stumpy Todd possessed some-
where within his misshapen body a stern
morality, which was fashioned on the most
symmetrical lines, and he was not going to
deface it. And so he cut himself adrift from
Wridsdale, and here he was.
Until he reached the Blackford railway
station on the evening of the day on which he
had made his revelation to George, Lucy and
Cleaver, Stumpy Todd was not absolutely
certain in his mind as to his immediate des-
tination. He had left his ‘directions’ with
George, and had explained that a letter thus
addressed would be sure to find him with
little delay. The ‘directions’ assumed the
form of an address in a Yorkshire colliery
village, where Stumpy’s sister had resided for
several years. Her, Stumpy thought of jour—
neying to see at this juncture of his affairs.
He had seen none of his relatives for a long
time, but he had corresponded at pretty regular


Stumpy Todd Comes Back 285
intervals with his sister, and he was now minded
to seek her out and enjoy a little family inter-
course. But as he went down to the station
he remembered that he had a brother resident
in Staffordshire, on the confines of the Black
Country, and it occurred to him that it might
be advisable to go to him, as being the most
likely person to put him in a new way of get-
ting a living. Once arrived in the station, how-
ever, he reflected that it was then late in the
afternoon; that Staffordshire was further off
than Yorkshire; that he should like to see his
sister’s children, and that he was in no immedi-
ate need of a job. Stumpy, indeed, was in his
way a man of means; he had a small canvas
bag in one pocket in which several golden coins
and at least one much creased bank-note were
safely stowed away, and in another he carried
a Post Office Savings Bank book, the columns
of which, when duly balanced, showed a very
substantial amount on the credit side. No,
there was no great hurry about a new job; he
would visit his sister first, and his brother later.
It was the middle of the evening when
Stumpy descended upon the platform of the
station at Weatherstone. He had two ancient


286 Morrison’s Machine
wooden trunks with him, wherein were con-
tained his belongings, and he stood looking at
them with something of a forlorn air, feeling
very strange and lonely. At last he decided
to leave them in the station office, and that
done he turned into the main street of the
colliery village. The strangeness and loneli-
ness doubled themselves in strength as Stumpy
looked about him; he had always understood
from his sister’s letters that the place was only
a village, but it was already a small town, with
streets and shops, and abundance of public-
houses, and gas-lamps everywhere, and a per-
fect babel of voices rising all around him as he
walked, and a worse babel, it seemed to him,
than he had ever heard in Blackford. He
grew confused, asked his way, went wrong,
and wrong again, and was tired and wearied
when he knocked at last at his sister’s door and
asked a slip of a girl who opened it if Mrs
Pearse lived there.
The sister, sewing by the fire within the
cottage, heard Stumpy’s voice and flew to the
door with a sharp exclamation. She flung the
door wide open and bade Stumpy enter, turn-
ing with a beaming face to the girl and to a


290 Morrison’s Machine
he handed over to the sister so much coin of
the realm in half-crowns, florins, shillings and
sixpences, invariably remarking that a little
change would do her good. Every Saturday
night they all sallied forth in solemn procession,
the sister carrying a large basket, the niece
a small one, the brother-in-law and Stumpy
smoking their pipes, and the nephew whistling
blithely in the rear. They visited butcher,
baker, grocer and sundry other folk of similar
degree. Every Saturday night Stumpy, with
much show of mystery, used to purchase some
small gift for one of the other four, always
taking somebody into his confidence. He
would seize upon the niece and drag her off
to consult with her upon some little present for
her mother; or upon the nephew to ask him
what his father would like; or upon the
brother-in-law to dubitate upon what would be
good for the boy ; or on the mother to request
her advice as to a small purchase in the interest
of the girl. Thus, within a few weeks of his
sudden arrival in Weatherstone, Stumpy had
presented his brother-in-law with a wonderful
meerschaum pipe, which that worthy regarded
as worshipfully as if it had been a fetish or a


Stumpy Todd Comes Back 291
charm, and only brought out when there was
company present; his sister with a new bonnet
in which there were at least five different
colours and quite a small garden of flowers;
his niece with a garment described in the shop
windows as a pelerine, and which created some-
thing more than a sensation at the Sunday
School; and his nephew with a flute, which
was embellished with real silver mountings, and
put all the cats of the neighbourhood to open
shame when properly discoursed upon.
And yet Stumpy was not happy. He was
not happy even when, one Saturday night, the
four relatives somehow contrived to escape him
and come home later in great joy and with
much appearance of mystery, bearing between
them a parcel which proved to contain a
gorgeous smoking-cap of real velvet, lavishly
decorated with real silk and furnished with a
gold tassel, and embellished on the front with
the letters A. E. T. in gold braid. He appreci-
ated the little kindness and wore the cap all
next day and aired it in the backyard and at
the front door, just for the benefit of the
neighbours, but not even its magnificence
could console him. The old scenes and the


Stumpy Todd Comes Back 293
card and read it. He knew at once that its
bearer—a clerk from Mr Philbrick’s office—
had come to see him about the Wridsdale
and Morrison affair, and he immediately went
outside and lay in wait for him. When the
clerk approached, Stumpy hailed him, and
after a few words they went up the street and
ensconced themselves in a snuggery in the
principal inn of the place, where no one was
just then likely to disturb them. There they
remained for half an hour. Then Stumpy re-
turned to his sister’s house bearing in the inside
pocket of his old coat a fearsome-looking docu-
ment which bade him, in the name of Our
Sovereign Lady the Queen, to present himself
at the Assizes shortly to be held at Grand-
chester, there to do certain things, etc., etc.
Stumpy knew that the end was coming.
The clerk had told him a great deal—as much,
and indeed much more than so much, as he
knew—and Stumpy felt that the affair was
coming to a head. He would have to stand
up in a witness-box, even as he had promised
he would do, and say that which would show
the world that Wridsdale—Wridsdale of Wrids-
dale’s worksl—was a liar and a scoundrel.


CHAPTER XXII
SILENCED
IT was nearly dark when Stumpy Todd reached
Wridsdale’s works and took a careful observa-
tion of their exterior. He saw a faint glimmer
of gas in some of the windows of the sheds;
from the window of Wridsdale’s private room a
stream of bright light shot across the gloomy
street. Stumpy had expected to see that—it
would have surprised him greatly if he had
found no evidence of Wridsdale’s presence.
He lingered in the shadow, wondering how he
could but obtain audience of Wridsdale with-
out attracting the attention of anyone else. To
ring the night watchman’s bell was out of the
question: he was not minded that any third
person should know of his presence there that
night; and if he tapped at Wridsdale’s window
it would only result in Wridsdale’s sending the
watchman out to see who was thus annoying
him. No-he must see Wridsdale in strict
295


300 Morrison’s Machine
He looked around. The engine-house was
innocent of any human presence. From the
corner of the floor in which the trap-door was
situated he could see all over it. The engine
was running, but there was no engine-man in
attendance—the place was open to him.
In another moment Stumpy had pushed the
trap-door aside and got one leg over the edge
of the floor. Another, and he was in the
engine-house altogether, and the trap-door was
concealed again. He darted behind the engine
and listened, and suddenly he caught the
peculiar click and clatter of Morrison’s machine.
There was no mistaking its curious sound—no
other machine in the world had any action
like it.
Stumpy Todd drew off his boots. His thick
woollen socks helped him to cross the floor of
the sheds in perfect silence and to ascend
various flights of stairs and traverse certain
passages without making a sound. And so, for
the second time, he came to the door of the
guarded room and found it open, and saw
Wridsdale watching the machine.
That day Wridsdale had rehearsed over and
over again the part he was to play in the


302 Morrison’s Machine
workmen would pack the machine in a case,
mount it on a light waggon, and escort it by
road from one town to the other. The work-
men would ride on the waggon; he himself
w0uld follow close behind in a conveyance.
They would set the machine up in the space
provided for it in court, and remain by it until
the judge took his seat. Out of his sight, until
the affair was over, the machine should not go,
said Wridsdale.
When night came he proceeded to carry out
the last of his preparations. He wished to
give the machine a thorough testing to make
himself absolutely and accurately acquainted
with the most insignificant detail in its con-
struction, so that he might show himself next
day to be as fully cognisant of its powers and
technicalities as a young mother is of every
dimple in her first baby’s face. Wridsdale
knew the advantage of thoroughness. He
knew what an impression it would make when
he demonstrated his knowledge of the machine
in open court, and he meant that demonstration
to be so complete, to be so convincing that no
reasonable man who witnessed it could have a
moment’s further doubt as to the question atissue.


Silenced 303
In order to test the machine for the last time
Wridsdale was minded to have his works all
to himself that night. He sent the watchman
away at nine o’clock, saw that every entrance
was secure, and made his final preparations.
He went through the drawings and diagrams
for the thousandth time, comparing them with
the machine, and fixing all the principal points
firmly in his mind. After a time he went
down and turned on the engine and set the
machine to work, and it was while he stood
watching and examining it that he suddenly
heard a slight sound behind him, and turned to
find Stumpy Todd standing in the doorway of
the guarded room.
For a moment neither of the two men spoke.
Wridsdale stared at Stumpy with anger,
wonder, and fear betraying themselves in his
face; Stumpy looked at Wridsdale with eyes
which might have been those of a dog who
alternately reproaches and coaxes. Wridsdale
spoke first.
‘ Well?’ he said. ‘ Well ? ’
Stumpy limped a step nearer. He stretched
out a hand.
‘Guv’nor!’ he said. ‘Let’s. have a word


Silenced 307
Broadclough, and that you’re going to tell to
judge and jury to-morrow, is it? Ah—ah—
we’ll see!’
Stumpy suddenly turned on Wridsdale with
an imploring gesture. He held out both hands
—his unequal legs bent themselves as if he
meant to kneel to his old master.
‘ Guv’nor ! ’ he burst out imploringly. ‘Guv’-
nor—don’t do it! Shoot me, if you like—l
ain’t afraid o’ dying, not me !—but don’t do it,
guv’nor. It’s not too late, now. Go straight,
guv’nor—don’t let it be said that Wridsdale 0’
Wridsdale’s works was a . . . guv’nor!’
Wridsdale spurned him away with a sudden
movement. He raised the revolver again.
‘ Hold your tongue, fool,’ he said. ‘ Here—
find a stout piece of board, a hammer, some
strong nails—you know where they all are.
Be quick!’
Stumpy Todd obeyed—covered all the time
by the revolver. There were all the things
that Wridsdale wanted close at hand—within a
moment Stumpy turned to him for instructions.
‘ Nail up that door and fasten the board over
it,’ said Wridsdale, pointing to the trap-door
with his foot.


Silenced 309
conclusion. ‘ We’ll see. I’ve the means of
silencing one witness, at anyrate. Come here.’
Wridsdale marched Stumpy across the room
to a door at the further side. Covering him
with his right hand he drew out a key with his
left, unlocked the door, and revealed a strong
room of some size, deeply built into the wall.
He motioned Stumpy to enter—Stumpy hung
back.
‘ Not in there, guv’nor, for God’s sake!’ he
said. ‘ I shall choke—I—’
Wridsdale pushed him in roughly, the revolver
pressed to his temple.
‘ You’ll not choke, you dog !’ he said. ‘ But
you shall starve till I please to feed you. There
—howl to your heart’s content—no one will
hear you there!’ and he locked the heavy door
and slipped the revolver back to its place. He
stood for a moment listening; no sound came
from behind the door.
Two hours later, as the sky grew red, the
famous machine was on its way to Grandchester,
and Wridsdale rode behind it, thinking of what
was yet to come.


CHAPTER XXIII
THE CLOUD LIFTS
WHILE Morrison’s machine, safely packed and
guarded against damage, was being escorted by
Wridsdale and his men along the high road
which connects Blackford with Grandchester,
Morrison himself was coming back to the light.
The darkness that had enshrouded him was
clearing away, and at the very time that Wrids-
dale entered the cathedral city with the machine
in charge, Morrison, all unknown to him, was
waking up to sanity and consciousness.
For some days Dr Greenholme had been
watching Morrison more closely than ever.
The inventor was beginning to show signs of
returning intelligence; he had given up knot-
ting and unknotting his piece of string, and in
his walks about the garden had begun to take
notice of the flowers. He betrayed no inclina-
tion to hold converse with his attendant or
with the doctor, but the look of vacancy which
had characterised his expression was gradually
310


The Cloud Lifts 313
of machines or parts of machines, and towards
the end of the book one pattern of machine
appeared over and over again. The doctor put
the book back where Richard had hidden it.
Next morning Richard found drawing
materials of all sorts and sizes on his table.
The doctor, who was watching him unobserved,
saw his eyes glisten as their glance fell on
sketching blocks, drawing-books, and pencils.
Richard sat down and began to draw, apparently
oblivious of any presence. After that he used
to spend all his indoor time in drawing, and
when taken for outdoor exercise was impatient
to get back to his pencils and papers. Every
night, with an air of profound mystery, he used
to roll up the results of the day’s work and hide
them somewhere. Sometimes he would find a
safe place for them in his bed; sometimes
under the carpet; sometimes beneath the
fender. But having once hidden his papers
he appeared to lose all further interest in them
and never looked for them again, and the
attendant gathered them up and handed them
over to Dr Greenholme. As time went on the
drawings which Richard made were all of the
same thing—a curious looking machine which


314 Morrison’s Machine
neither the doctor nor the attendant recognised.
Of this he began a fresh drawing every day,
and carefully hid the result every evening.
One evening a new development occurred.
He had been drawing steadily for some time
when the attendant saw him suddenly lay down
his pencil, begin to sob, and finally burst into
tears. He laid his head on his arms and cried
like a child who has striven hard to accomplish
some task and finds it too difficult. He was
thus weeping when Dr Greenholme came in
answer to the attendant’s summons. The
doctor endeavoured to console him, and Richard,
still behaving like a child, pointed to a certain
part of the drawing and moaned, shaking his
head. The doctor gradually quieted him, and
from that moment became more hopeful.
While all this was going on George Broad-
clough came to the asylum two or three times,
and to him Dr Greenholme showed the draw-
ings, which be carefully put away in the order
in which the attendant supplied them to him.
George, who at that time had not seen the
famous machine, immediately recognised their
similarity to the rough pencil sketch which he
and Lucy had discovered in the old pocket-book.


The Cloud Lifts 315
‘That’s the machine, sir, without a doubt!’
exclaimed George. ‘ It’s a bit different here
and there, but it’s the same thing that we have
a very rough pencil sketch of. Poor Richard!
And he’s drawing these things over and over
again, is he, doctor?’
‘ Yes, and you will observe, Mr Broadclough,’
said the doctor, ‘that each drawing is more
finished than the previous one. I have had
the date attached to each. See, here are the
first attempts—here are the last. You see how
much stronger his hand is growing, how much
more detail he puts into his work in the later
drawings.’
‘What importance do you attach to these
things, doctor?’ asked George. ‘ Do they
mean that he is coming round again—that he’ll
regain the full use of his mind?’
‘ There is a good deal of hope to be found in
them,’ said Dr Greenholme. ‘ I think they may
be taken as showing that his brain is gradually
asserting its normal functions, and that he is
unconsciously going over the ground of his
invention again.’
George looked thoughtfully at the heap of
drawings.


(The Cloud Lifts 317
Greenholme, as Mr Cleaver already knows, and
it would be all the better for Morrison’s testi-
mony. Do you think that testimony will ever
be given?’
The doctor shook his head.
‘I hope so,’ he answered, ‘but I dare not
say with certainty that it will be. I think there
are good prospects of Mr Morrison’s recovery,
but it is one of these cases in which it is
impossible to say definitely what will happen.’
‘ I should like to hear Morrison’s version of
the matter, as opposed to Wridsdale’s,’ re-
marked Mr Philbrick. ‘I really should, if
only out of pure and simple curiosity.’
Then they separated, little dreaming that
the gratification of the solicitor’s desire was
already near at hand. Even then it was
within appreciable distance, but not even the
doctor guessed at its coming.
The attendant who had been detailed to
constitute himself Richard’s constant com-
panion was naturally vastly interested in the
Wridsdale-Morrison controversy, and lost
no opportunity of reading all that he could
find about it in the newspapers. As the trial
drew near the newspapers contained a good


318 Morrison’s Machine
deal of gossip and rumour relative to the
affair, and it used to strike the attendant as
being distinctly, though grimly, humorous
that while he sat in Richard’s room reading
paragraphs about the case, one of the persons
most concerned in it was seated near him
quietly drawing another picture of the famous
machine. Sometimes, after reading what the
Grandchestez Evening News or the Black-
ford Star had to say about the latest
development of the case, the attendant would
glance from the paper to Richard, and from
Richard back to the paper, and then relieve
his feelings by informing himself that this was
about as rummy a world as they made ’em,
blow him if it wasn’t! By that time Richard
had arrived at sufficient knowledge of the
attendant as to warrant his disordered
faculties in smiling at him, and he used to
smile frequently, in a shy, childish fashion,
whenever he caught the attendant’s eyes
fixed upon him. Then the attendant used to
nod at him, just as adult people nod at
babies, and they were very agreeable to-
gether. But when Richard had bent over
his drawing again, the attendant used to


322 Morrison’s Machine
man reached it, and in another second he was at
Richard’s side, and questioning the attendant.
‘I believe his senses have come back, sir,’
said the man, still agitated from the shock.
‘ He saw the picture of his machine there in
the paper, and he suddenly cried out that
Wridsdale had robbed him after all. And lze
cried out as lze knew w/zat lze was saying, sz’r!’
Within a few minutes, Richard opened his
eyes and looked round him. One glance at
him was sufficient to tell the doctor what had
occurred. He was looking into the eyes of a
sane man. The reason which had so suddenly
fled had just as suddenly come back.
‘Where am I ?’ said Richard. ‘Who are you?
Am I ill? Ah, I remember now. Wridsdale—J
The doctor soothed him gently.
‘You have been ill, Mr Morrison, very ill,’
he said. ‘ But you are better now. You will
be quite well to-morrow if you sleep soundly to-
night. You are in good hands. I want you to
drink this and then go to sleep. I shall sit by
you—have no fear.’
Richard drank the draught which was given
him. In a few minutes he was sleeping as
calmly as a child. So he slept through the


The Cloud Lifts 323
greater part of the night, and the doctor sat by
watching him and wondering what new de-
velopment of the Wridsdale and Cleaver case
would arise from this sudden change in the
condition of things.
When Richard Morrison woke, he woke a
sane man. After he had listened to as much
of the history of the past few weeks as Dr
Greenholme thought it advisable to tell him,
he in his turn told the doctor what he remem-
bered. The time of his madness was as a
dream to him ; he knew nothing of it. He told
the doctor of his doings on the night when he
left his house at midnight in order to do
certain things to his machine. Little by little
the doctor told him of what had happened since.
Richard listened and comprehended; it seemed
like a special dispensation of Providence, like
some marvellous miracle, that he should have
so suddenly recovered from his illness—as he
believed it to be—at that moment. For he
knew now that Wridsdale’s craft was in vain;
he, Richard Morrison, had been brought back
as from the grave to confound and to destroy
the treachery which had been wrought upon
him while his life had lain in deep shadow.


C H A P T E R X X I V
WRIDSDALE v. CLEAVER
LONG before noon of that day there were three
people in the crowded court at Grandchester who
were full of sad and even dismal forebodings as to
the result of the trial which had already made
great progress; To Mr Philbrick, to George
Broadclough and to Lucy it seemed impossible
that the cause which Cleaver had championed
could triumph at that time and in that place. Fate
seemed to be against its success ; the solicitor,
in particular, was nervous, fidgety and per-
turbed. The case had been called immediately
the court sat, and the plaintiff’s counsel had
such obvious confidence in his case that within
a very short time the preliminaries were over,
and Wridsdale was in the box. Mr Philbrick’s
heart sank as he sat listening to Wridsdale’s
evidence. He was already put out by the
absence of Stumpy Todd, of whom there was
no news to hand. Again, he was surprised
324


326 Morrison’s Machine
crowded public gallery. To Lucy the sight
was painful. She knew that it was her brother's
work, his first masterpiece; that he had given
it all his thought and labour at a terrible cost,
and that he was being robbed of it by the man
who should have been one of the first to pro-
tect his interests when he was rendered defence-
less. As she looked at its gleaming lines, at
the shining metals which caught the glint of the
june sunlight streaming into the dingy court,
she could scarce repress a feeling that it some-
how symbolised the hardness of fate—the cold,
cruel, machine-like fate which she and those
with her seemed powerless to stop.
Nothing could have been more matter-of-
fact, more practical, more deliberate than the
fashion in which Wridsdale gave his evidence.
Everything done on his side was done in the
same way. The Attorney-General in opening
the case was brief, pungent, and almost openly
contemptuous of the defendant’s action. He
lost little time in putting Wridsdale into the
box to prove his right to the authorship of the
machine. Once there \Vridsdale told a plain,
unvarnished story. He was modest, quiet and
dignified, and it was not difficult to see that he


\Vridsdale 71. Cleaver 327
was making a vast impression on the court.
He set forth the whole story of the invention ;
how he had laboured at it for years; how at
last he had crowned his labour with success;
and what share the unfortunate Richard
Morrison had had in making the machine
before then. Finally, at the request of his
counsel and with the permission of the judge,
he stepped down into the well of the court and
proceeded to give a practical demonstration
of the machine. He explained every principle
of its construction; proved himself to be
thoroughly acquainted with every detail of
its mechanism; and altogether gave the court
such a lucid and interesting account of the
invention and its powers that an unbiased
mind could scarcely believe it possible that the
machine was not of his own creation. Nor did
the good impression which Wridsdale made in
the box and during his demonstration wear off
while his cross-examination was proceeding.
In spite of the efforts of Cleaver’s counsel,
senior and junior, the machine-maker finally
stepped down with his testimony unshaken.
Mr Philbrick turned to Cleaver with a look of
utter dismay ; it was plain to see that his faith


Wridsdale 21. Cleaver 331
‘ My lord,’ he said, ‘I said just now that
we had received a very serious and surprising
communication. I have now to make its effect
known to your lordship and to you, gentlemen
of the jury. Gentlemen, you have heard the
evidence of the plaintiff in this case, given with
consummate assurance, apparently with absolute
candour, at first seeming, a piece of frank,
honest testimony. That evidence, gentlemen,
[shall prove to be a gross fabrication from
beginning to end, a cunningly-woven web of
lies—n0 more and no less—based upon the
plaintiff’s belief that there was no human being
who was in the position of being able to expose
the villainy which prompted them. We had
—we have—evidence which we intended to—
and possibly may yet—put before you which
we believe weakening and damaging to that
testimony, but we are suddenly placed in
possession of other evidence which we shall
place before you at once—evidence, my lord
and gentlemen, which will destroy the web of
deceit which the plaintiff has spun, and prove
the truth as regards the real authorship of this
great invention. My lord, Richard Morrison,
of whom we have heard so much in connection


Wridsdale 7/. Cleaver 333
been in a certain state of health for some time,
it was only reasonable that before he was per-
mitted to give evidence the court should be
convinced that . . .
Sir Henry Liddell interrupted. That diffi-
culty he had foreseen. During the adjourn-
ment he had caused Mr Morrison to be
examined by two physicians, and he would put
them and Dr Greenholme, in whose care Mr
Morrison had remained since his unfortunate
seizure, into the box at once. This he pro-
ceeded to do, and Lucy heard expert testimony
as to the completeness of Richard’s sudden re-
covery. Then Richard was recalled, and duly
sworn, and Sir Henry himself began his ex-
amination. The silence was breathless; even
the judge himself seemed to catch some of the
prevalent excitement, and Wridsdale’s counsel
listened with an eager interest which their pro-
fessional gravity could not conceal.
Ere long Richard was in the midst of an
account of his invention. He was introduced
to it by a pertinent question from Sir Henry.
He saw the machine there before him—on his
oath, who was the real inventor of it? The
answer came in quick, earnest tones.


336 Morrison’s Machine
pressure until nearly six o’clock in the morn-
ing. I completed it, ran down to the engine-
house, turned on the steam-power, went back
and tested the machine and the alteration. Both
were perfect. I was very much excited, and
much worn out, and I had a violent pain in my
head. I remember starting the machine afresh,
after trying the alteration, and laughing to think
how I had circumvented any attempt to rob me
of it. After that I do not remember anything
clearly until I found myself looking at a picture
of my machine and reading that Mr Wridsdale
had claimed it.’
Richard paused. For a moment there was
a painful silence. Every eye was turned on
Wridsdale ; Satterthwaite was eagerly whisper-
ing in his ear; the two counsel looked grave and
concerned. Wridsdale paid no heed to his
solicitor; he sat with his face slightly shaded
by his hand, apparently heedless of the concern
which was being manifested. Sir Henry
Liddell’s voice rose above the slight murmur.
‘ You made a secret alteration in this machine,
Mr Morrison, the effect of which is known to
yourself only? What was that alteration?
‘It is a contrivance,’ answered Richard, ‘by


\Vridsdale 7/. Cleaver 337
which the entire machine can be instantaneously
thrown out of gear, and cannot be started again
except by one who knows the secret.’
Satterthwaite felt Wridsdale start. One
look at his client’s face and the astute man of
law knew that the end was near. Sir Henry
Liddell turned to the judge.
‘ My lord, I propose to ask the witness
to demonstrate this alteration, and I must ask
your lordship to direct the plaintiff’s with-
drawal while it is being made. I think the
reason for my request will be clearly apparent
to your lordship.’
The Attorney-General was on his feet on the
instant. His face was very grave, and there was
a good deal of concern in his voice as he spoke.
‘I am sure your lordship will understand
that we on our side are anxious to further the
interests of justice in every way we can,’ he
said, glancing at Wridsdale with an anxious
eye. ‘If my client—’ he paused and looked
from ’Wridsdale to the bench.
‘ The plaintiff will withdraw,’ said the judge,
somewhat curtly.
Then there was silence, and the excitement
quivering through the court became almost
v


338 Morrison’s Machine
unbearable in its intensity. Every eye turned
on Wridsdale, and people held their breath.
The only man who seemed unmoved was
Richard Morrison. He stood watching Wrids-
dale’s face.
Wridsdale made no immediate motion in
obedience to the judge’s behest. He sat with
bowed head and face as if he had not heard it.
Satterthwaite tugged at his elbow.
‘For God’s sake, man!’ he whispered, ‘pull
yourself together—quick ! ’
Wridsdale lifted his head. His face was ashy
pale. He rose slowly and heavily to his feet, and
shook away Satterthwaite’s hand. He looked
round him, and his lips moved with difficulty.
‘ No!’ he said. ‘ I’m—I’m not going. It is
useless. The machine is—is Morrison’s. It
is his entirely—all his! I—’
Then he suddenly lifted his hand to his heart,
and with a quick drawing of his breath sank
heavily forward and fell into the arms of those
who were sitting nearest to him. They carried
him out of court hurriedly and into an adjoin-
ing waiting-room, and before the judge could
adjourn, the news went round the excited crowd
that Mark Wridsdale was dead.


34o Morrison’s Machine
of singular solitude, and had had to fall back
upon himselffor companionship. But as he had
left a thriving business and a certain amount of
wealth behind him, the solicitor was anxious
to discover some clue to their just inheritors
and was accordingly carrying out a thorough
examination of the dead man’s papers.
In company with the head clerk at the works,
Mr Satterthwaite, after examining \Vridsdale’s
desk, proceeded to unlock the door of the strong
room which opened out of the private office.
It was somewhat dark in there, and the head
clerk procured a light. And there was revealed,
much to their wonder and amazement, the form
of Stumpy Todd, lying on the floor, his head
buried in his arms, his entire body inert and
motionless. At first they thought he was dead,
and having turned him over and recognised
him, they looked at each other'with a rare fear
in their eyes, both having a suspicion as to how
he had got there. But when they had poured
brandy between his lips and carried him into
the office, Stumpy Todd revived and looked
round him with questioning glances. They
asked him how he came to be in there, and
how long he had remained a prisoner, but he


344 Morrison’s Machine
papers,’ said the solicitor, and did not refer to
the incident again.
Stumpy Todd, once free of his prison, and
out in the fresh air again, went round to his old
lodgings, and presented himself to his erstwhile
landlady with a request for food. Within half
an hour he had refreshed himself, told the
woman three distinct lies whereby to account
for his presence at that particular moment, and
had heard the news and details of the Wrids-
dale-Cleaver case. The landlady possessed a
copy of the Blackford News containing an
account of the trial, and Stumpy read it
through with much bitterness and sorrow. It
was a brief and reticent account, for Cleaver had
given strict orders to his staff to say as little as
was possible; but Wridsdale’s admission that
the machine was Morrison’s was given in full,
and Stumpy Todd’s heart lightened as he read
of it.
‘ He went straight at th’ end,’ said Stumpy to
himself. ‘I knew he would. He were not a
real crooked ’un, weren’t Wridsdale. It were
th’ sudden temptation as threw him off the line,
that’s what it were. But he come straight
again i’ th’ end. Ay—he did!’


Stumpy Todd says Farewell 345
As the day wore towards evening, Stumpy
arranged with his landlady for a night’s lodg—
ings, and that done, he set out for the Morrisons’
house, presenting himself there soon after dusk ‘
and finding Richard, Lucy and George at
supper. They pressed him to sit down and
eat with them, but Stumpy declined. He
accepted a glass of ale and a seat near the
hearth, however, and faced George’s questions
with a resolute air. George wanted to know
many things—why he had not presented him-
self at Grandchester, and where he had been
since, and why he had not written to explain
his absence, and so on. Stumpy answered
him readily, and with a singular fertility of in-
vention, and nobody suspected him of telling
aught but the truth. No one said much of
the trial, nor of the terrible scene at its close,
and they were all somewhat silent, each having
many serious thoughts in mind. It was in the
midst of one of these silences that Stumpy
Todd rose up as if for the purpose of taking
his leave. He fumbled nervously with his cap
and looked from one face to another.
‘ It’s time I were—were going, Morrison and
Broadclough and young missus,’ he said. ‘ I’m


346 Morrison’s Machine
a bit wearied to-night wi’ so much railway
travelling, and I’ll be getting to bed. I just
wanted to shake hands, like, wi’ you all, and
to say how it were that I didn’t come—being
ill and a long way off, you’ll understand. And,
now that things is over and come right, like,
happen you’ll not think hardly o’ Wridsdale,
Morrison and Broadclough and young missus,
’cause he acted straight ,at the end. It were
th’ sudden temptation, you know—it’s what
might happen to all on us. So you’ll happen
think better on him than afore—~but I’ll be
saying good-night to all on you—than afore
th’ end came to him.’
Then Lucy, being a woman and soft-hearted,
began to shed tears, and some of them fell on
Stumpy Todd’s hand as he took her own in
his horny palm. He shook hands hurriedly
with Richard and George and hurried away,
and the three whom he left behind sat round
their hearth in silence for a long time after he
had gone.
Next day they laid Mark Wridsdale to rest
in the cemetery outside the town. It was a
very quiet and private affair, and of the few
men who attended the ceremony there were


348 Morrison’s Machine
Every year since Stumpy has arrived on the
anniversary of that day, similarly laden. Every
year he spends an hour or two in talking to
Lucy and to George, or in admiring their babies,
or in hearing of Richard’s latest invention or
of the success of the now world-famous machine.
And every year, on the day on which he saw
his old master laid to rest, Stumpy Todd re-
visits his grave, and there unconsciously renews
the wealth of human charity which lies, all un-
suspected of most folk, within his rough and
unpromising exterior.
THE END
Cola-Inn 6“ Co]. Limited, Printers, Ediniurg/r.
‘-