UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA LIBRARY
X030805744


o.r. Dave
LIBRARY OF THE
UNIVERSITY OF VIRGINIA
TY
OF
VIRGINIA
1819
FROM THE BOOKS
OF
JOHN STAIGE DAVIS


I. L. Dani
anni





THE GIRL IN THE FOG





THE
GIRL IN THE FOG
A Mystery Novel
BY
JOSEPH GOLLOMB
BONI AND LIVE RIGHT
PUBLISHERS
NEW YORK





CONTENTS
CHAPTER
PAGL
I. THE VIGIL IN THE Fog
11
.
.
II. THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
22
.
III. THE SLEEPERS
.
.
40
IV. THE NIGHT COMES Down
47
.
V. THE TOUCH OF THE DEAD
54
.
69
74
.
.
VI. THE UNRESTING QUEST
VII. THE FACE OF LIGHT
VIII. THE PLUNGE IN THE Fog
IX. THROUGH THE FOG
88
.
95
.
X. THE NERVOUS HOUSE
105
XI. NAIDA
120
XII. THE NAIDA OF YESTERDAY
.
131
XIII. THE AFFAIR IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
137
.
XIV. A BREATH OF FORGETTING
to;
150
XV. Hugo's STORY
158
XVI. Nama Plays
172
XVII. THE BLACK CAR
10
182
XVIII. IN THE LABORATORY
202
XIX. THE DUEL OF MADNESS .
213
.
XX. THE DUEL IN THE DARK
224
.
.
XXI. TANGLED TRAILS
228
.
XXII. JOURNEY ENDS
O
242





THE GIRL IN THE FOG


ܘ
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1


THE GIRL IN THE FOG
CHAPTER I
THE VIGIL IN THE FOG
By half-past four in the afternoon the three men,
silently watching from a darkened window overlooking
Fleet Street, knew that their hopes for the fog, which
was settling over London, were gradually being realized.
It was developing into what the jocular have dubbed a
“London particular" and the over-imaginative, "a death
fog.” A dead sun was early obliterated by leaden clouds
which sank lower and lower. The smoke from a wilderness
of chimneys mushroomed against the descending pall and
added its color and irritant to the air. Such light as still
remained took on a jaundiced hue. Already the windows
in shops and offices showed yellow with incandescents.
Overhead the arclights began to sputter but in the thick
atmosphere they looked like half-smothered torch ends,
sullen and red, and gave little illumination. For a yard
or two about these arcs the fog took on the delicate colors
of a new flesh bruise. Beyond that the light lost courage
and became little more than a blur.
11


12
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
The harsh medley of heavy traffic sounded a sharper,
more irritable note as motor horns raised their voices.
As yet the pace of vehicles had not slowed up. Many
drivers and pedestrians, the more impatient ones, even
hurried to get as near their destinations as they could
before the fog should stop them. There would still be an
hour or so of comparative visibility.
In the blur men and vehicles loomed large and took on
an aura of vague mystery. Anything might come at you
out of the fog before you could avoid it. The familiar
bustling world, which ordinarily you threaded with your
mind on something else if you wished, now became partly
strange, almost hostile, and a little dangerous.
The room in which the three men stood vigilant showed
no light except a carefully shaded desk lamp, which cast
its circle of yellow on a spread of charts and numerical
tables. Some of the papers were government weather
reports; some were forecasts clipped from The Times;
still others were in handwriting. These last seemed to be
studies made of former fogs. The paper that appeared
most in use, from its prominent place, read:
September 30.
Visibility
Street lights, 4:48 p. m.
5 p. m...
4 yds.
5:30
3 yds.
6:00
3 feet
6:10
Complete


THE VIGIL IN THE FOG
13
From none of the three men came any sound. But
somewhere in the room there droned two tiny metallic
voices, the nasal resonance of telephone talk. Two re-
ceivers were off their hooks and lying untended, pouring
out a tangle duet of monotonous information, which in
the otherwise silent room could be made out even at a
distance:
“_industrials are advancing slightly in response to
the rise in Mexican mines and British rails— Bourse
transactions reacted to yesterday's brisk selling in steel,
motor and rubber shares-her performance in 'La Tosca'
being poignant but classical in tone production-formerly
one of the leading potassium producing districts in South
America"
To nothing of this did the three men in the room pay
the least attention. Indeed anyone listening to the voices
coming over the telephones would know from the lack of
emphasis in the talk that the speakers knew they were
not being heeded. Suddenly, however, one of the two
voices ceased with a click. Instantly from the group at
the window a man sprang to a desk in the dark and seized
the silent receiver.
“Hello, hello!” he called sharply into the instrument.
“Simms! I say, operator, you've cut us off just as-
Ah, is that you, Simms? For heaven's sake, man, don't
lose the wire!"
In his voice there was the note of keyed-up nerves. He
reached up and pulled the metal chain of an electric light.


14
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
It revealed him a man with hair too gray for his middle
thirties, slender and keen in type. His features were too
sharp. His eyes, gray and nervous, were at once cold
and vivid. Under their unexpectedly black brows they
showed the glint of unpleasant excitement. They were
shaded with a green celluloid visor as though he were
carefully guarding their sensibility for the dark. Taking
out his timepiece, he laid it by the side of the telephone.
“What does
your
watch
say:
7?” he spoke into the mouth-
piece.
“About twenty to,” came the voice.
“ 'About' be damned!" snapped the listener. “I want
absolute synchronization. Look at your second hand and
tap the mouthpiece when it reaches 60.”
As he sat waiting, his long, lean fingers would not rest.
They drummed a little, fidgeted with the watch, snapped
noiselessly in irritation.
From the dark at the window a second man came
slowly toward him, his complete contrast in physical type.
If the first man looked the surgeon, the second suggested
the butcher. He was heavily thewed and apparently with-
out a nerve in his thick-set body. Certainly his blunt,
strong features showed no sign of them. But as he came
into the light, now somewhat dimmed by the fog which
was making its way into the room, his half-closed eyes
of steel blue looked sharp with uneasiness.
"What's the matter, Dargan; nervous?” he asked.
The man at the telephone paid apparently as little


THE VIGIL IN THE FOG
15
attention to him as to the droning of the other telephone.
He was listening for the tap on the mouthpiece at the
other end and when he got it he glanced at his watch.
“You're four seconds behind,” he said, frowning.
“Remember that. Now, go on."
He laid down the receiver on its side and again the
voice at the other end took up its listless recital of in-
dustrials, foreign bonds and grain reports. Dargan, with-
out even looking at the stocky man, went over to the
other lighted desk and compared the visibility chart with
his watch. The thick-set man regarded him with narrow-
ing eyes that increased in hostility as he received no re-
sponse to his question.
Dargan's fingers came into the circle of yellow light.
With lightning rapidity he began to spell out in the sign-
alphabet of the deaf mutes to someone in the shadow.
“The fog is ahead today."
The stocky man fidgeted, his temper rising.
“You haven't answered me," he said to Dargan.
Dargan did not look up from his study of the charts.
"I don't intend to," he said.
The other moved nearer.
“Oh you don't?” he asked, his voice affectedly polite.
“May I ask why not?"
“Because the state of my nerves is purely my own
affair."
The look in the other's eyes became piggish, ugly.
“Say,” he drawled. “My neck is going to be risked


16
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
between those lady-like hands of yours. And if you're
nervous it's very much my affair, too." His temper was
breaking
Dargan glanced up from the corners of his eyes. There
was an acid quirk on his lips.
“Ah, Pete, getting a bit nervous yourself?" he laughed.
The heavy man shifted as if something had stuck him.
A flush crept up
his hard, fleshy cheeks. His fists clenched
and his body pivoted a little. But with a glance toward
the window, he restrained himself. Instead he extended
two powerful arms into the light and tensely spread his
thick fingers. They were bent with over-muscularity.
Rigidly he held them stretched.
“Look at 'em!” he said. “Do you see a quiver?”
They were as steady as stone.
“Now you do it!" Pete insisted, dropping his arms.
Dargan watched the ugliness in his face.
“You've no nerves, but you're nervous, just the same,”
he gibed. “Big as you are!"
The flush in the other's face deepened, his eyes glit-
tered. There was between the two men that elemental
antagonism which their physical types, so strongly anti-
pathetic, would ordinarily feel, each despising the other's
deficiencies and jealous of what he himself lacked and
knew the other possessed. It was the situation, however,
in which they found themselves, one of vital mutual de
pendence, that brought the latent antagonism to the
edge of their nerves.


THE VIGIL IN THE FOG
17
“Say that to me again when we're through tonight,”
Pete said softly, edging up to him.
Dargan's thin features were alight with a sneer. Pete's
body swelled and tensed. Then his temper broke. His
hands shot out and would have caught Dargan's throat
but for the incredible swiftness with which the other
dodged and whipped out a squat-nosed automatic. The
next instant would have seen sudden issue.
But from the window a fantastic figure came bounding
and caught the two men in the grip of his long arms.
Like the rest of his body, they were gorilla-like in pro-
portion. The face gleaming with fury was bestial only
in the abandon of its passion. Otherwise it looked like
some phantasy of over-breeding. The forehead was abnor-
mally high and bulging, veined and fragile; the skin deli-
cate as a baby's; the features large and over-developed
as a dwarf's. His body indeed was undersized for the rest
of him. But there was such a spread of shoulders that
joined to a bull throat, such a tremendous thickness of
breast and back muscles that the effect was one of
power
and size in spite of the spinal deformity of the man.
At that moment all the power of the newcomer blazed
in his eyes. They were astounding. Great and blue as
a child's, there was hypnotic compulsion in them as they
glared at the two men he held. They seemed to grow
larger, more burning and furious until they dominated
attention like the headlights of an on-rushing automobile
in the dark. At the same time the veins in his forehead


THE VIGIL IN THE FOG
19
Pete shot a glance at the open, growing fear in Dar-
gan's face and his own reflected it.
“What are you waiting for?” he shouted at the deaf-
mute. "Every minute means more chance of broken necks
for Dargan and me!”
Hutch read their speech from their writhing lips. His
eyes closed as though after a perilous exertion. When
he opened them again he was calmer.
“I can't give you the word,” his fingers said, "till I get
word myself.” The two men stared.
"What do you mean?” Dargan stormed. “Word from
whom? You're boss, aren't you?”
Hutch let them wait long for the answer. Then he
shook his head slowly.
“What!" Dargan and Pete cried as one. "What game
are you playing?” Dargan snarled. “D'you mean it?”
snapped Pete. They were on their toes, ready to leap
at him or to run.
The deaf-mute waved them down.
"It makes not the slightest difference to you," his
fingers flashed. “You'll go when you get the word and
not before !"
Dargan turned to Pete, his face a frenzy.
"He's got something up his sleeve," he cried. “Who is
the boss if he isn't? We're pulling out chestnuts for
somebody who'll shove us into the fire! Let's get out of
this !!
“I'm with you,” Pete exclaimed.


THE VIGIL IN THE FOG
21
Hutch turned out the electric lights in the room and
going to the window looked down. He could barely dis-
cern in the yellow fog the outline of a large, closed auto-
mobile standing before the door of the house. Even as
he looked, he sensed the vibrations of a starting motor.
From the doorway a heavy man limped out on crutches
and got into the car. With a thrumming the car lurched
out of sight.
In the now dark room the deaf-mute strode catlike
back and forth.
The blare of motor horns sounded incessantly, as traffic
crawled at snail's pace. Ponderously Big Ben tolled the
quarter-hours. In the Thames a stray boat hooted dis-
mally, another answered with a wail. The man in the
dark heard nothing of this. At principal corners gas
mains were being tapped and torches erected, their angry
blowing flames making red blurs in the fog. Hutch did
not see them. But no one in the whole of London that
night followed with keener sensibility and tension the
movements of a well-rehearsed scene about to take place
in the fog, a scene which was to shock the great metropolis
with its weird tragedy.


CHAPTER II
THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
EVEN into the main ballroom of the Piccadilly Palace,
where a late afternoon thé dansant was in full swing, the
fog penetrated. Here, however, it showed itself only as
a rose gold nimbus about the apricot-colored lights of
chandeliers and silk-covered table lamps; and while it soft-
ened the colors of the suave scene, it also enhanced its
charm.
The eyes of many guests that afternoon wandered to
a table in a corner where a young woman sat with a
slightly older man.
“By Jove, look at her!” muttered a swarthy youth with
restless eyes, to his companion. He had been drinking.
“ 'Beauty born of murmuring sound. ... Vital feelings
of delight. ... What can she find to be so happy about
in this fogbound world? And the man with her! Black
sky and forked lightning. Waiter !"
"Don't, Steve, you've been going it,” remonstrated his
companion uneasily.
“Another of the same," Steve said to the waiter. He
leaned to his friend and spoke in an undertone. “Do you
know that little bird that haunts our English countryside,
the shrike? Sweet creature! He delights in grubs, worms,
22


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
23
butterflies, young frogs and such. Out of each he bites
only a tidbit as his meal. .. The rest-he sees to it
there's enough left so they don't die at once,-he impales
on thorns and lets it go at that. . . . Denny, when I
think of what we're about to do to that radiant girl over
there—comparatively modest as is our share of the job
I feel we are human shrikes! Human!” The word caught
his fancy and set him laughing. “Human!"
His companion reached and took away the drink the
waiter had set before the other. “Not another drop,
young fellow,” he said evenly, his eyes flashing.
“No?” The manner was careless, even sympathetic.
“Then you've a hard choice, Denny. I either get that
drink or I don't get enough nerve for my part of the
shrikish job. I may even have to get up here and shriek
out the thing we're about to do"
He rose, unsteadily. The other man, pale and sound-
lessly cursing, shoved the drink over to him, watching
him like a hawk. Steve stared into his cocktail glass,
then at the girl. With a quick movement he gulped the
drink and hurried from the room, his companion following.
The girl, Eileen Goodrich, daughter of Doctor Ernest
Goodrich, a scientist whose name was in the day's news
as the discoverer of a new and cheaper process of extract-
ing radium, was no more than twenty. But she was so
instinct with sensibility, and in her white forehead, arched
and framed in fine, corn-gold hair, there showed such
power of intelligence that the observer saw in her an


24
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
understanding far beyond her years. Only youth, how-
ever, could gleam so with happiness. Her spirits on tip-
toe sparkled in her blue eyes and played about her lips.
It was only when she looked at the man with her that
a puzzled expression and a pang obscured her gayety.
He was in every way a striking contrast to her. There
brooded in his otherwise handsome face something half-
veiled, saturnine. Its pallor was only partly due to the
vivid black of hair, eyes and brows. In his eyes, which
he kept half-closed, and about his mouth, partly hidden by
his cupped hand, lurked a deep-lying bitterness.
Their scant talk was impersonal. But the mind of the
girl, at least, was asking questions of herself, of him,
deep-probing personal questions, in a ceaseless effort to
understand the miracle and mystery that had descended
on her since their first meeting two months before.
It was on board the Mauretania, on which she had
come to England with her father and her mother was
dead-her teacher and companion, Naida Sangree. A fury
of storm had struck the ship and confined the passengers
to their cabins. But Eileen, against ship's orders, had
stolen on deck to watch it. Only one other passenger was
there. He was staring out over the sea, unseeing. Eileen
was shocked at the bitterness and loneliness she saw in his
face. She herself had so much to rejoice in-her father's
great achievement after many years of privation, the
wealth and fame that had come as his reward, this trip
that was his gift to her that at sight of this young


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
25
man.
man, staring out of some inferno, she was overwhelmed
with pity.
Suddenly there was a rushing roar, and from behind
a Niagara engulfed her. Whirled off her feet, strangling
and blinded, she felt herself going. Something grasped
her, held her, and when the wave sluiced off, dragged her
into the shelter of the companionway. It was the young
All the bitterness of his look was now bent on her.
"Fool!”
The word escaped him with such venom that, half-
stunned though she was, Eileen flinched. A moment later
he was gone.
That afternoon when she was alone in the ship's library
pondering upon the encounter, he came up to her, down-
cast.
“If you can forgive me, please do. I was- I am
He gave up, and abruptly left her. His unhappiness
and contrition haunted her sleep that night.
After that he sought her out often, always when she
was alone. He never again alluded to their first meeting,
and avoided personal talk with the sensitiveness with
which a wounded animal avoids a hurt. She learned
nothing about him, his business, family, hopes or plans.
But in a very real sense she felt she knew him pro-
foundly. She found in him a trained, scientific mind,
sensibilities of an artist's, character that at once appealed
to her feminine protectiveness and yet vibrated with
strength of its own.


26
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
But these discoveries led to a still more disturbing
discovery in herself. She could not get him out of her
thoughts. With all her heart she wanted to be the one
to free him from whatever inferno held him in its depths.
In London Eileen invited him to call. Dr. Goodrich
had taken a small but well-appointed house near Gros-
venor Square and his daughter impatiently waited for
Hugo Malvin—the name the stranger gave to meet her
father under her own roof. Up to the day before, no word
had come from him. Then he wrote, begging her to meet
him at the Piccadilly Palace for tea. Eileen accej zd
but made plans of her own.
When they met she saw he was thinner and more haunted
than ever. She, on the other hand, elated at his nearness,
drew all eyes by her happiness.
From the orchestra, half hidden in palms, came the
clicking of castanets and the tamping of a tambourine,
the prelude to a fox-trot, with a teasing, irregular rhythm.
Couples were rising from the tables about the dance floor.
The girl listened with increasing pleasure to the music
and looked quizzically at Malvin. Finally she could no
longer desist.
“I don't usually pester a man to dance with me.” She
laughed down a note of reproach. “But it's 'El Relicario'
they're playing and you've never yet asked me to dance.”
He stirred uneasily.
“I dance so miserably, I'm sure I'd tramp on your feet.”
“I shan't believe that,” she said stoutly. “I can tell


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
27
by the way you carry yourself that you could learn at
a touch."
“I don't want to make you conspicuous.'
She was on her feet, at once, arms in anticipation,
mischief in her eyes.
(Then come and dance,” she whispered, “or people
will see you refuse me!"
He flushed, crushed out his cigarette and arose. With
face a little averted, he took his position with a show
of awkwardness and they walked off into the dance. At
first she guided his passive self, a little conscious smile
u on her lips. Then, as he yielded to the rhythm, her
uncertainty relaxed. With each beat of the music he
surrendered more and more until he answered perfectly
in tempo and nuance.
She gave herself up to the joy of the dance. But
gradually she realized that her partner's dancing could
not be the result of the assistance she had given. Little
by little her face sobered, buoyancy left it. When they
came round to their table she stopped.
“Do you mind?” Her eyes for the first time avoided
his, unable to hide the pang she felt.
They seated themselves, in silence. But silence was a
pretense she could no longer endure. Clasping her hands
and leaning her elbows on the table, she faced him, her
eyes concealing nothing.
“You hurt me, Mr. Malvin," she said slowly, trying to
smile. "Why did you pretend you couldn't dance?”


28
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
99
He looked away, his eyes seeking escape.
“I'm sorry," he said lamely. “The truth is, I've been
in a savage mood for days, weeks. Life becomes intoler-
able at times. One finds it easier to lie a little than to
pretend gayety.”
Her hurt gave way to quick sympathy.
“How stupid of me You shouldn't have asked me
to come. Or, if you had changed your mind, I would
have understood.”
“I thought we'd just talk,” he answered, ill at ease.
“Gladly!” She smiled, her eagerness itself again.
“Shall we tell all about ourselves, like old friends who
haven't met for years?"
“That's a talent," evasively. "I haven't it.”
“It's as easy as a child's game, 'Follow Master'! I
don't mind leading-—will you follow ?”
“If I can."
She rested her chin on propped hands, her eyes reminis-
cent. Then she laughed apologetically.
“It's humiliating to think how uneventful my life has
A schoolgirl's. Childhood in a small university
town. School in the same town. College in the same
town. My mother died five years ago. Then Dad sent
me to New York to see if I wanted to study music. I
tried it for a time. It was there I met Naida- Miss
Sangree. She had been a violinist but had given up
the concert stage.
“The public thought her cold; and so she is on the


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
29
surface. But when you know her and she cares for
you—!” Her eyes became tender with reminiscence. “Of
course the public couldn't know that. So she turned from
it and became a teacher of the violin. It was how I came
to meet her. Someone I forgot who-told her I was
hesitating between chemistry and the violin as a voca-
tion—" She laughed deprecatingly. “You see what a
dilettante I was! ... Well, she gave me lessons. She
was so devoted to me that we also became fast friends.
But I realized soon that it was Dad and chemistry I
wanted. So I went back. She went back with me for a
visit. Then Dad asked her to stay as my teacher and
companion. She did. And she is with us now in London.
“That's all there is to me," she smiled waveringly. “It's
Dad who is the wonder. You know, don't you, that he
has developed a process for extracting radium at a
hundredth of the present cost?”
It was not in boasting she said this but with a purpose
that increased the anxiety in her smile. She could not
see the expression on Malvin's face, as his hand was over
his lips and eyes were half closed in the smoke of his
cigarette.
“The papers are full of it,” he finally said.
There was something grudging in his reaction, some-
thing her eagerness missed.
“Aren't you glad-a little at least?"
“For your sake,” he replied, after a struggle.
Eileen regarded him, puzzled, distressed.


30
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“Mr. Malvin—what is it? What have you against my
father?"
“Nothing~" nervously, "I"
“Be frank with me," she begged. “I have tried in vain
to have you meet him on board ship. You never gave
me the chance. I have invited you repeatedly to call
upon us.
You always plead another engagement. Oh,
what is it?”
An inarticulate sound broke from Malvin, born of
nerves and some emotion the girl did not understand. It
sent the color from her face. With an effort he recovered
and composed his explanation.
“You will despise me.” His eyes avoided hers. "It is
only the envy a failure feels toward one who is a success.”
“Oh!” She was touched. “But you've no right at
your age to call yourself a failure. If only you knew
how many years of drudgery, deprivation, failure after
failure, Father suffered! That's the part Mother knew
-and she died before he saw the least glimmer of light
ahead. Nothing in all this to envy, is there? A man
plodding on for years all alone! No one believed enough
in his search to help him. He had to do it all himself-
“All himself ?” Malvin broke in sharply.
Eileen was startled by the harshness of his tone as the
question-it was more an angry exclamation-escaped
him.
“Now that you ask," she resumed in a troubled voice,
“I suppose I ought to tell you about Mr. Garra. I know


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
31
so little about it. When the whole thing took place I
was away in New York. Father never speaks of it, as
the matter ended in tragedy, and I haven't the heart to
ask him. About the time Dad was near the end of his
search Mr. Garra, a chemical engineer, heard of it and
wrote him that he was at work on a process of extracting
radium that would fit in perfectly with Father's.
“They came together, formed a partnership, and later
went to Mexico where they located some big pitchblende de
posits in the Yaqui country. They got some money to-
gether, built a small plant and had started production
when some dreadful quarrel took place. They went to
law, and Father won. Mr. Garra was ruined by the
lawsuit and for some terrible reason killed himself.
Father was like a beaten man.
A flush of loyalty warmed Eileen's face, and she made
a little gesture toward him, her hands clenched but appeal-
ing. “Mr. Malvin,-if you knew how utterly incapable
my Father is of injustice to anyone
He had risen suddenly, a queer smile on his lips.
"Let's dance,” he said, “they're playing my favorite
now.” And he swept her off into the waltz.
Eileen tried to see his face, to understand the change
in him, which troubled her greatly. When they were
seated again she returned to the attack determinedly, con-
fident that he had really nothing to hide, nothing to be
ashamed of before her.
"I have told you all about myself,” she said with a pre-


32
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
tense of teasing, “now do tell me the dreadful secret of
yourself.”
“There's little of interest in my life.” The girl flushed
at the curtness. “A drifter is all I am."
“From where to where?” she urged sympathetically.
“You're probably going far and are discouraged for the
moment. Father was, for many years.”
“I have no such glorious hope.” His bitterness was
ambiguous. “My drifting is just the contemptible kind.”
Suddenly his nerves gave way. “Why, why do you insist
that I tell you just how contemptible my life is !"
She winced, and all the brightness went out of her.
“I will not insist.” Her eyes filled with pain as she
spoke. “I ask your pardon- Oh, I am ashamed!” Her
face burned. She seemed literally to shrink from him.
He looked at her as though he were guilty of striking
her, and his face went white. Quite without warning, his
whole being taut with emotion, he caught one of her hands
in both of his.
"Listen!" His breath came as though he had been run-
ning. “Forgive me. Don't give me up. I'll tell you why
you needn't feel ashamed. You have insisted, as you
say, only because I have so terribly wanted, wanted you
to do it. If you knew how very much I have wanted you,
you wouldn't be surprised that you should feel a little
drawn to me!!!
She shook her head.
"You are saying this to make me feel less ashamed."


34
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
"Do you like me?" she whispered.
"I hate you," he smiled.
She laughed delightedly, her cheek brushing his
shoulder
When the music. stopped they walked back without a
word, their shoulders close. At the table she glanced at
the tiny watch on her wrist. A little anxious smile played
about her mouth.
"Hugo" she lingered on the first use of his name.
"Eileen?”
“Hugo, I've asked a dear friend of mine to come here"
she laughed a bit nervously. “A very dear friend, my
father. Don't you want to meet him—now?”
She pleaded, hoped and feared, all in one. Then, at
Malvin's look, all emotion went out of her but fear. He
had risen quickly, looking about the room.
“You didn't tell me" he began.
Before Eileen could stammer a reply, a page in uniform
came near them.
"Doctor Ernest Goodrich-Doc-tor Goodrich !” he
called.
Eileen Goodrich started.
"Someone's looking for my father. Please call the boy."
Malvin's nod brought him.
“I am Dr. Goodrich's daughter,” Eileen said. “I expect
Dr. Goodrich here at any moment."
“He's wanted on the telephone in the manager's office,
miss,” the boy reported.


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE 35
Eileen looked up at Malvin.
“I had better answer.
Will
you
excuse me?” She rose,
her eyes pleading. “If Father should come in while I'm
gone, you'll tell him, won't you?"
She did not catch his inarticulate response but hurried
off. The boy led the way out of the ballroom, through
several corridors and into what looked like a reception
room, small but furnished with a sort of theatrical sump-
tuousness. From the ceiling came a light suggesting the
silver-blue of the moon. At one end of the room was an
imitation antique fountain, the jet spouting from a satyr's
mouth to an ivy-grown basin below. A hedge of palms
and stone benches gave the effect of a corner of ancient
Sicily. There were no windows, and but two doors, the
one by which they had entered and another of polished
mahogany on which a brass plate announced "Office of the
Manager."
At this the page respectfully knocked. The door
opened and the correct manager of the Piccadilly Palace
looked polite inquiry at Eileen.
“Dr. Goodrich hasn't come yet, sir," the page
informed
him. “This is Miss Goodrich."
“May I take the message?” Eileen asked.
“Certainly. Just make yourself comfortable here."
And the manager indicated his desk. He placed the
chair for her before the telephone and left the room,
closing the door softly. Eileen took up the receiver.
“Hello this is Dr. Goodrich's daughter-


36
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
99
“Eileen?" came a woman's contralto voice over the
wire.
“Ah, Naida! Yes? Father hasn't come yet-
“He hasn't?” The question came sharply. "Why, he
left in the car an hour ago. The fog is bad but Dennis
has had more than time to drive to the Piccadilly Palace.
What can be keeping them?"
“Perhaps they've lost their way. Dennis doesn't know
London so very well."
“Strange!" the other woman insisted. "He's a careful
driver and would ask the way if he had the slightest
doubt.”
“Oh, I wouldn't worry," the girl comforted. “What
shall I tell Father when he comes ?”
“Sir Henry Allerdale of the Royal Scientific Society
wants him to get in touch with him as soon as possible.
Just tell him that, if you will."
“Yes, dear, I will. Comfy?”
“Perfectly. Are you enjoying yourself, Eileen?”
“Oh, Naida, he's—he's driving me wild!" Eileen's face
was wreathed in comic despair. “One moment I want to
shake him into being human; the next, dear, I feel so
sorry for him I could—” Her voice shook and she
stopped.
“I know. Now run back to him and I'll hear all about
it when you come home.”
“Dear Naida !"
Replacing the receiver she left the room slowly and


38
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
sound. The glass roof was intact. The door to the
manager's office and the other, leading to the stairs, were
also closed, but she tried them to make sure. She peered
behind the fountain, under the settees, everywhere.
A shamefaced look came into her face. Somewhat un-
steadily she went out into the corridor and saw the
manager coming back with a sheaf of bills in his hand.
He stepped aside politely.
“You got your message?” Then, seeing her dazed
look—"Nothing serious, I hope?”
"I—no," she faltered. “I must be a little giddy from
the dancing, I think, because
think, because” Briefly she told him
of what she had heard in the room.
“Why, bless my soul,” he cried, perplexed. “You
haven't
anyone with
you would play a practical joke?”
She shook her head.
“If you come back with me, I'll look into this,” he
said.
Eileen returned with him, dreading to cross the thresh-
old. He opened both doors, looked everywhere, as she
had done.
“Really," he said blankly, “what could it have been?”
She threw out her hands in a half-hopeless, half-humor-
ous gesture.
“Some nonsense I imagined," she laughed nervously.
“I'll question the page," the man offered, “though I
don't imagine he would dare
“No, no!" she remonstrated. “Of course the child


THE VOICE FROM NOWHERE
39
99
knows nothing of it. It—it's the day or the-heat-
“I must get more windows open in the main hall,” he
agreed solicitously. “It does get above seventy there
sometimes when it's crowded, and we're trying to shut
out the fog. I'll go back with you."
“No,,please don't! I'm all right now. And thank
you a thousand times.”
She hurried to the ballroom and drew a long breath
of relief at the sight of many people, her glance darting
toward her table. More than anything else at that
moment she wanted to see her father and Malvin together.
Neither was there. She hurried to the table. The
waiter came up.
“The gentleman paid the bill and left this cloak check
for you, miss," he said with the deadness of tone of a
well-trained servant repeating a message that seems queer
to him. “He said you'd understand his leaving, miss."
“But I don't !” broke from her before she could stop.
The waiter bowed and tried not to stare at the girl
as she hurried, ran blunderingly out of the room.


CHAPTER III
THE SLEEPERS
THERE is perhaps no vigil so long-drawn to the nerves
as one in the dark. But the only relief which Hutch per-
mitted himself, as he stalked the unlighted room in which
Pete and Dargan left him, were frequent glances at the
luminous watch-dial on his wrist. Incredulously he would
stare that time could crawl so slowly. Then he would
resume his catlike pacing of the room.
Suddenly he divined a trilling vibration in the room.
He came to a standstill and moved his head delicately
as a deer snuffing something faint on the breeze. Thus
he felt his way an inch at a time until his approach to the
telephones told him that one of them was ringing. His
body stiffened. There was but one explanation possible
for a call on the telephone at that hour—a mistake of
the operator's. He waited for the bell to stop, for the
telephone operator to convince herself that there was
no one there to answer the call.
The ringing did stop for some moments. Hutch was
about to turn away in relief; but the vibration began
again. Plainly some one must have insisted, "Try again,
operator! I know there is someone there! Keep ringing
till I tell you to stop!” Hutch's massive forehead knitted
40


THE SLEEPERS
41
and his mouth twisted like an ape's, as he tried to under-
stand the meaning of the incessant ringing. Finally the
vibration so infuriated him that he seized the receiver and
tore it off by the roots. The bell stopped.
Hutch leaned against a wall pondering, breathless.
Then he started as he sensed the door of the room was
being opened. The light flashed up. Dargan had come in.
The man was tearing off his fog-soaked garments as
though they were strangling him. His face had the
pallor of skimmed milk. His eyes, his hands, his whole
body twitched.
“Well?” Hutch's face asked the question like a cry.
Dargan slowly nodded an affirmative.
“Any slip?” Hutch flashed with his fingers.
“N-no,” Dargan let him read from his lips.
Hutch caught the hesitation.
"Was it you telephoned me?”
Dargan turned like a flash. “Hell, no!” he snapped.
“Why do you ask such an idiot question?"
“Because someone rang up while you were away."
“What!”
"Where's Pete?” Hutch signed. Dargan turned his
head.
Through the door came the burly fellow, slowly, heavily.
His waterproof and hat were pushed back from his
flushed face and throat, which looked distended with blood.
In his almost closed eyes there was a gutted deadness, like
some animals that had gorged and drunk. He looked


42
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
at neither man as he took off his clothes on his
way
to
the inner room.
Hutch glared at him until the door closed. Then he
turned to the fidgeting Dargan.
“Why did you hesitate when I asked if there was a
slip?” he demanded with signs.
Dargan glanced at the door behind which he could
hear Pete washing.
“Because Peter slipped away from me for a quarter
of an hour after we were through. He will not tell where
he'd been,” Dargan said with fingers.
Hutch's face flooded with rage. He was about to rush
into the next room when the door opened and Pete came
out himself, clad only in trousers, his red torso gleaming
with water, his bulking muscles relaxed. In his hand he
held the shreds of a discolored shirt. The sleepiness in
his face was bestial.
"Did you telephone me?” Hutch demanded of him.
Pete slowly turned his head to him. “You're crazy!” he
growled. He put a small zinc tub in the fireplace, poured
slowly some benzine into it, threw the shreds of shirt into
it and struck a match on the wall. Hutch faced him, his
veins swelling.
“Where did you go
when
you left Dargan?” his fingers
twitched.
Pete threw the lighted match into the benzine-soaked
rags in the tub and laughed shortly as the belch of


THE SLEEPERS
43
“I've got
flames made Hutch leap. The half-strangled squeal of
the enraged deaf-mute made no impression on him.
“My business!” he condescended to answer, the sleepi-
ness returning to his eyes.
“Careful, you fool!" Dargan cried out to him. “He'll
tear your heart out!"
“Ugh! will he?" Pete grunted. He shoved his hand into
his trousers pocket and turned that side toward Hutch.
The weapon was sharply outlined. "Watch my lips, you
-orang-outang!” Pete growled at Hutch.
something to say to you. After we'd done the-the-I
slipped away from Dargan. What I did then is none
of your business-just yet. I didn't drink.” Hutch's
flaring nostrils had already told him that. "But I did
something. And let me tell you, Hutch, don't ever make
me peevish. Don't cross me. For if you do, you'll spring
something that will make you wish some one had drawn
a razor across your
throat."
“What do you mean?” Dargan shouted, his face livid.
"Oh, shut up!" Pete growled contemptuously. "I'm
not talking to you—just yet. Careful !” he yelled, as
Hutch's arm made a lunge for his throat. His hand in
the pocket twitched toward Hutch and the long ape arm
stopped instantly. But the blazing eyes bored into the
stupid eyes of Pete, measuring chances of fraction-of-a-
second fineness. Vacillating between waves of blind fury
and fear, the poise of the hunchback and his outstretched
hand had the wavering tension of a cat about to venture
99


44
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
an outlash of claws. Pete, amused, but quietly intent,
teased Hutch with slight movements. Then his face turned
murderous.
"Look here, you spider!” he growled. “You're a good
judge of human nature. You know enough to believe
what I'll tell you. You will have to take mighty good
care of my health, Hutch. Don't let anything happen
to it! Whether the fault will be yours or another's, if
anything happens to me, you and Dargan, and the whole
outfit, will die most unpleasantly. Here!"
He took out of his pocket a snub-nosed revolver and
contemptuously chucked it on the table. Hutch caught
it as a fish seizes a fly. But Pete, his sleepy look returning
once more,
turned
away and poured more benzine
into the now nearly extinct flames in the zinc tub and
watched them turn the shreds of shirt to twists of carbon.
Hutch stood over him, his long fingers curled inches
from Pete's throat. Inarticulate sounds came from him.
But he might have been non-existent so far as Pete's atten-
tion was concerned.
Dargan, seeing the drama poised for an instant, turned
to the telephone, called a number and waited. Hutch, in
a torpor of fury, drew away from Pete, and sinking into
a chair, propped his great head in his hands. Some one
answered on the telephone.
“Dargan speaking,” Dargan said.
said. "Did any of you
telephone here after I left?” He waited. “Make sure.”
Again a wait. “All right.” He hung up the receiver.


46
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Dargan's temples as he did so. His brilliant eyes, now
staring like lights, fixed the twitching, bloodshot eyes of
the other. Dargan began to quiet. Then a disturbed look
came into his face.
“Hutch !” he murmured. “You need me? Don't you?
You won't-when I'm asleep you won't -
“I need you,” Hutch's eyes
told him. “Go to sleep!”
Dargan's eyes closed. His voice trailed for a while like
the whimper of a sleepy child's. Then it died. His body,
however, did not relax. Even when Hutch left him in
his chair, it remained rigid as though in catalepsy.
For some time Hutch remained awake pondering the two
men. Then he rose from his chair and went to a far cor-
ner of the room. There was a curious arrangement there
of a kind of saddled rest and two perches like wooden
clubs, fixed solidly into the wall. Like some great bat,
Hutch perched himself astride the saddle, hung his arms
over the rests and, curling his legs under him, closed his
eyes. Gradually his head sank and his body relaxed. But
it clung to its perch as instinctively as some creature of
the jungle.
Something caused the light to go out just as the murmur
of Big Ben's tones, tolling out midnight, barely penetrated
into the room.


CHAPTER IV
THE NIGHT COMES DOWN
As there was no crowd about the cloakroom Eileen was
hardly hindered in her distracted flight until she came to
the door. Under a canopied entrance to the Piccadilly
Palace there was almost a solid wall of people. It was
then that the fog forced itself to her notice as an obstacle.
Over the heads of the people, immediately beyond the
massive globes of light at the door, she saw the fog slowly
stirring, like roiled sediment. She heard cries, commands,
a woman's half-stifled scream, the tentative bark of a
motor.
“Is there a doctor about?” some one shouted.
These things came to Eileen vaguely. She was domi-
nated by one thought. She must fly home. She must see
her father. Pushing through the crowd, she came to a
liveried man at the curb.
“Please, a taxi,” she begged.
The man shook his head.
“Not a wheel moving, miss," he said. "It'd be no use
even if I could get you one. Taxis couldn't go more'n
a yard an hour. Better wait till the fog lifts a bit.”
“I must not. Which way is Grosvenor Square?”
47


48
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“Turn to your right to begin with, madam, but I
wouldn't try to manage it-"
“Thank you,” she said, and started off.
"Well, if you insist on going, madam,” the doorman
called, “I'll send a boy with you. Here, page, guide this
lady to her address.”
“Can I make it?” the page asked, uneasily.
“You can try,” the doorman said. “Off with you.
Good luck, madam!"
Grumbling, the page sought the wall and with Eileen
in touch with him started on his groping way. A dank
chill sent little quivers through her. The smoke in the
fog rasped her throat and made her cough to the increase
of her misery. Everywhere about her she heard others
afflicted similarly. Every few yards some one collided with
her. Occasionally she saw a blur of light and in these
islands of comparative visibility she breathed as though
the fog elsewhere were devoid of air.
In such atmosphere the imagination incubates haunting
shapes and thoughts. Sturdily Eileen's common sense
fought them. After all, she reasoned, there was nothing
substantial on which to build her fears, nothing but a
moment of hallucination and a puzzling bit of behavior on
the part of Malvin. Worries have a way of resolving them-
selves into shamefaced explanations, she told herself. But
her nerves, tired and excited, refused to listen to reason.
They clamored for an end to groping, for sight of her


THE NIGHT COMES DOWN
49
father, the sound of his voice laughing at her. Would she
never reach home?
In point of time it took them about an hour. But
Eileen had lost all sense of time or reality when at last
she found herself before her door. Crushing money into
the boy's hand, she dismissed him and tried with trembling
fingers to open the door. The key dropped from her hand.
A last vestige of self-command kept her from clamoring
for help. Groping, she finally found the key and let herself
into the corridor. Exhausted, she sank into a chair in
the hall, waiting for speech and thought to liquefy. She
rose to her feet but they refused to carry her.
“Naida !” she called with the edge of a cry in her voice.
For some moments there was no response. Then on the
floor above a door opened. On the turn of the landing a
woman appeared. To unaccustomed eyes she was start-
ling. A long, clinging scarf of purple silk covered her
head and face to the
eyes,
and on the softly lit stairs gave
her figure a touch of unreality. Tall and splendidly
formed with a touch of majesty, there was yet something
about her that sent an unpleasant thrill through one.
It was perhaps the hiding of the face that was responsi-
ble. One of her exquisitely modeled hands clad in purple
silk kept her face draped with the scarf. A momentary
glimpse, however, showed the reason for the scarf.
Although the features in line and proportion bore out
the beauty of the body, one caught a fleeting impression
of some hideous discoloration, blotches of angry color and


THE NIGHT COMES DOWN
51
ing A perfect whirl.
I don't seem to be myself
today-
The street door bell clamored long and unremittingly.
Both women listened for it to stop.
Eileen had sprung
to her feet and was about to run down but Naida held
her back.
“Let Mary open it," she said.
The maid was slow in answering the bell.
“I can't wait,” Eileen whispered.
“Stay here, I'll go down,” Naida insisted. “It's prob-
ably your father and I'd be sorry to have him see how he
has worried you."
Pressing Eileen down on the couch, she arranged a
cushion behind her and with a look compelled her to re-
main. Then she left the room.
With straining senses Eileen heard the servant reach
the street door first. Locks clicked. There was the
sudden sound of heavy voices; the quick cry of the servant;
an exclamation from Naida; the shuffle of many feet.
Commands sounded.
Eileen sprang up from the couch and darted out on
the landing. Some one was being carried into the hall from
the street, wrapped in overcoats. It was an inert body.
“Naida-Father!" Eileen sobbed, rushing down the
stairs.
Naida caught her and held her face against her breast.
“Don't look,” she whispered.


52
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Eileen tore from her. She seized the sleeve of a giant
policeman, rubber clad and glistening wet.
“Is it my father?” she begged.
“I'm afraid, miss,” he said, distressed, kindly.
“My father!" Eileen cried. “Dennis, tell me!"
A man in chauffeur's uniform, his head bound in fresh
bandages on which a dark stain showed, had come in from
the street.
“Ah, Miss Eileen,” the young man said weakly, "it was
-it was—tell her, officer,” he asked, turning a little giddy.
The body was being carried into the reception room.
It took the combined efforts of Naida and the policeman
to keep Eileen from following. Two huge policemen
barred her way.
“There's been a shocking accident, miss” the police-
man began.
“Is he dead?” Eileen screamed.
“Some madman ran his car into your father's in the
fog—the
window
smashed—your father
found
“Murdered !" Eileen moaned.
“Eileen!" Naida protested.
"It was an accident, miss,” the policeman continued
gravely. “So far as we know it's nothing more criminal
than carelessness, though it's shocking enough. The
other car got away."
“Murdered !” sobbed Eileen.
“What are you saying?” Naida demanded.
was
was


THE NIGHT COMES DOWN
53
Eileen seized her.
“I heard his voice” she gasped. “I heard the breaking
of glass—"They've murdered me, the fiends," he said."
Naida shook her. “Where did you get this?” she
questioned.
“In a room with nobody in it-outside the manager's
office-Piccadilly Palace" Eileen was swaying.
“When? At what time? Tell me!” Naida cried.
"When you telephoned—immediately after-"
“A quarter past six !" Naida was herself agitated.
"Officer, when did the collision take place?"
"Well, madam, it was not on my post, so I don't know
exactly. But the clock in the car has been smashed. And
the hands point to about a quarter past six, too. The
smash took place near the Piccadilly Palace, though,
and the young lady may have heard him through some
window->
“There was no window.in: the room," Eileen sobbed.
“And it was on my post it took place,” another police-
man added. “It was too far from the hotel to be heard
there and I heard no other sound but the smash of the cars
and the breaking of glass.”
Naida stiffened, as though for the first time fear as
strong as her courage were approaching.
“Apparition of the dead,” she whispered aloud. “A
message from him! Now we shall know.”


CHAPTER V
THE TOUCH OF THE DEAD
“BEG pardon, madam?” The policeman was puzzled.
"I don't quite understand.” Even Eileen, distracted for
the moment from herself, asked, “Naida, what do you
mean?"
Naida's manner changed abruptly. “It's not important
just now," she said. “I'll tell you later, if necessary.”
She took Eileen's arm and tried gently to lead her
upstairs, but the girl disengaged herself and sat down by
the chauffeur, who was in a chair with his eyes closed, his
head against the wall. “Dennis—"
“Dennis-” Her lips were as
gray as his. “Tell me what happened.”
The chauffeur put his kand to his head. "I'll try,
Miss Eileen,” he said unsteadily. “There are things I
don't understand ... bits missing in my recollection of
it. ... You were at the Piccadilly Palace, I remember.
Your father ordered the car for five o'clock. The fog was
pretty thick by then. I remember we talked over the
chances of its lifting. He got in and I started slowly.
Couldn't see more than twenty feet ahead. By the time
we got into Piccadilly we were barely crawling. At some
corners we had to stop for as much as a quarter of an
hour to let the cross traffic crawl past. At the corner of
54


THE TOUCH OF THE DEAD
55
9
St. James Street we got stuck. It was there that-let
me see, what happened there?-Oh, my fool head! No,
the whole thing took place near the Piccadilly Palace itself.
I'd just managed to win a place near the curb. I could
make out the hotel. Suddenly there came about the most
awful smash! Without the least warning, Miss Eileen.
Something hit full tilt on the rear right wheel. The other
car must have been heavy and going like mad. It knocked
my car halfway around and sent me flying. I must have
struck my head falling, because I was stunned. But I
heard the crash of glass and ard some one cry out some-
thing--seemed to me it was your father, though I shouldn't
want to swear to it. It was something about 'murdering
fiends:
Both Eileen and Naida exclaimed:
“How far from the Piccadilly Palace ?”
“About a block, I should judge."
“Did he cry out strongly-enough to be heard far?”
Naida asked. “Think hard, think-Dennis !"
“Well, no, Miss Sangree," the chauffeur said uncer-
tainly. “It seemed to me if it was his voice I heardas
if he was himself hit, because his voice sounded sort of
feeble. But I was pretty well knocked out. I remember
feeling broken glass under my hand as I tried to get up.
“That's my car,' I says to myself and then went off in a
kind of faint. The officer there," he pointed to one of
the rubber-clad giants, "raised me and bound up my head.
Well, when my head cleared a bit I took a look at


56
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
the car. Then I saw your father, Miss Eileen he was
he must have been looking out with his face close to the
windowpane because when we hit- Officer, you'll have to
tell it !"
“Your father's head broke the glass, miss,” the police-
man said gravely.
"It was
so we found him. Some
unlucky accident made him lean forward just at the
moment the smash came. When I came up his head was
partly out of the window—the thick glass with its cutting
edge-his throat"
Naida caught Eileen. But the girl had not really
fainted. When Naida tried to take her away she resisted.
“I must hear it all.” She turned to the policeman. “Do
you-do you think it was an accident?”
“I don't very well see how it could be anything else,
miss,” the policeman said. “We haven't heard from the
other car-it escaped in the fog, and when we find the
man who drove it he will have to answer some serious
questions. But who would want to drive through the
fog, miss, just to make collisions? And as there was
no one in the car with
your
father-
He stopped and turned in surprise as the chauffeur
jumped to his feet, striking his fist into the palm of his
gloved hand.
“I remember now," he cried, excitedly. “There was
somebody in the car with him.” He pressed his hand to
his forehead. “It had been clean knocked out of me,
I remember now why I kept thinking of the stop at the


58
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Dennis suggested excitedly. “But he didn't look the pick-
pocket type to me. More of the bruiser, though he had
his coat collar turned up and hat pulled down so I could
hardly see his face."
Naida stepped to an alcove in the hall where there was
a telephone. "What is the number of New Scotland
Yard?” she asked.
“I'll call it, miss, if you'll permit me," the policeman
said. “I was about to do it myself.” She gave him the
telephone. He called a number. There was a silent wait;
then a response. The policeman reported.
Eileen heard questions answered; numbers given; an
outline story. It was all so utterly beyond her, so pat-
ently futile that her mind went into a kind of numbness, a
respite by whatever power it is that tempers the wind to
the shorn lamb.
The imperious hooting of an automobile horn before the
street door roused her. Into the hall hurried several tall
men, some carrying handbags, one a photographer's para-
phernalia. The leader, tallest of them all, was announced
by one of the policemen.
"Inspector Barton Hawley,” he said. “Of the Central
Office."
The man introduced colored as though he were a coun-
try lad being presented, a self-betrayal which not even
fifteen years of crime hunting and responsibility had en-
tirely cured. In this respect and in a touch of awkwardness
in the presence of women, he would always remain the


THE TOUCH OF THE DEAD
59
Shropshire farmer's son. Of a race of farmers, he was
yet, in the scientific sense of the word, a "sport,” different
from the rest of the strain. In him nature laid stress on
a sensitiveness, a vigor and delicacy of perceptions that
soon took the boy out of the world of hewers of wood and
drawers of water. Chance brought him into the ranks of
the Metropolitan Police of London. A natural kindliness,
especially toward those neglected by others, soon made him
a favorite of his fellow workers and gained the confidence
of many whom society punished for wrongdoing. His
eager, plastic mind and genuineness won him rapid promo-
tion in the detective service, until now, at the age of thirty-
seven, he was one of the chiefs in New Scotland Yard.
At sight of him Eileen felt a little of the relief a fever
patient feels at the coming of morning. His honesty was
as patent as the come-and-go of color in his clear blond
face. His slightly worried expression expressed sympathy,
rather than a bafflement at mystery. His ample, intelli-
gent forehead gave a comforting impression of efficiency.
He looked at Eileen with the troubled eyes—their blue
had still the luster of an outdoor race of a kinsman
nearly enough related to feel more than a stranger's
concern
“We'll do our best to clear this up, miss," he said.
“Rest assured of that. Hinkle" There was no assump-
tion of rank as he called the policeman, only the dignity
of the man who demands for himself the respect he accords
others. "It was on your post this thing happened, wasn't


60
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
it? You might tell us what you know about it while Dr.
Brent is examining."
The policeman saluted.
“It was about 6:15 this evening, Inspector. I was on
point duty about thirty feet north of the Piccadilly Pal-
ace. The fog was too thick for me to see more than four
feet away. The traffic was crawling down Piccadilly at
snail's pace. Suddenly I heard the crash of motor cars
and the splintering of glass. I started in the direction of
the crash when something struck me hard on the thigh and
knocked me half about. Next moment it was gonean
automobile. It was trying to evade answering for the
collision, I supposed, and was taking a blind chance of
running away. I heard two other shocks of collision,
light ones, in the direction of St. James Street; then noth-
ing more. It took me quite a time to locate the Goodrich
car in the fog. On the pavement this chauffeur was
sitting, dazed, his forehead bleeding. Dr. Goodrich's head
was halfway out of the window, the broken edges at his
throat. From the looks of things-"
“Just a moment, officer,” Hawley interrupted. “Miss
Goodrich, we don't have to trouble you with all this?
Eileen shook her head.
“I want to hear,” she said.
Inspector Hawley hesitated, then nodded for the police-
man to proceed.
“I did what I could in the way of first aid, though I had
no doubt Dr. Goodrich was-dead. Constables Jevons and


64
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Yard before and their prints and records are with us.
I'm going down now to find out. I shall telephone
you.”
“Mr. Hawley, please let me come, too,” Eileen begged.
“I am strong, really I am. But not strong enough to stay
in the dark and wait, wait, wait! Don't you see I must
do something? I knew so much about Father. At
any moment in
your
search you may want to ask a ques-
tion about him. I want to be there to answer it. I want
oh, I want to do something--I mustn't be left to think!
I beg you!"
Hawley colored. Even to criminals he accorded a sym-
pathetic understanding and did all he could for them, short
of sacrificing efficiency. He pondered for a moment, not
to find some way of refusing Eileen, but to determine how
to shift the consequences of his consent entirely on
himself.
“If you wish, Miss Goodrich,” he said simply. "You
will want to come with her, Miss Sangree?"
“Very much, thank you,” Naida said.
“We'll make better time on foot,” Hawley said, taking
out a pocket electric torch and leading the way to the
street. Eileen, at his suggestion, had drawn her arm
through his and the contact gave her confidence, a sense
of reality in a maze of nightmare. Naida kept in touch
with her.
An hour later they mounted steps and found themselves
in the lighted corridors of New Scotland Yard.


THE TOUCH OF THE DEAD
65
Hawley opened the door to his office.
“Please make yourselves comfortable."
There was a sleepy fire in a small grate, and Hawley
drew
up
chairs before it. Eileen sat down, but rose almost
immediately.
“Please forgive me," she smiled wanly. “But I can't-
relax."
Hawley nodded.
“I know," he said sympathetically. He spoke into
the telephone—"Jerry? Are those prints ready?
Good !” He hung up the receiver. "I should hear from
them any moment now. Meanwhile, Miss Goodrich, I will
give you something to do to help,” he smiled. “Will you
tell me about your chauffeur?” Eileen thanked him with
a look.
“Dennis has been father's man-of-all-work for five years,
helping in the laboratory, in the house, everywhere. Father
had been instrumental in getting a radium cure for Den-
nis' wife and the cancer was caught in time. Dennis has
given us complete devotion and service. When father sold
the process and got our car Dennis learned to drive it
and came to England with us. You don't suspect him,
do you?”
"No," Hawley replied. “Only, as a matter of routine
we must know as much as we can about everyone connected
with your household, if only to be able to eliminate them
from our consideration."
Naida turned to him.


66
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“I shall be glad to leave the room if you wish to ask
about me,” she said.
Hawley colored.
“It won't be necessary," he said. "Just a few words
from yourself.”
“I am a violinist by profession-or was till I was
injured in an-accident,” Naida spoke tonelessly. “Then
I gave private lessons. A mutual friend introduced me
to Miss Goodrich and her father asked me to give Eileen
lessons. Later he asked me to take charge of the house-
hold, which I did.”
Hawley nodded. “Thank you very much.” A knock
sounded. At Hawley's call a man entered, the typical
worker among documents. He held a sheaf of papers,
photographs of fingerprints and a large catalogue card.
“Ah, Jerry, you've traced them?” Hawley asked,
brightening
The man laid the papers on Hawley's desk.
“Yes—and no,” he said, with a worried, apologetic
smile. “Of one of the sets of fingerprints there is no trace
in our records. The other we found at once. But-"
He stopped in evident embarrassment.
“What is it, man?” Hawley asked, surprised.
"Well, sir, there's been a blunder somewhere and I've
done my best to trace it. But so far I haven't been able
to find out where the mistake comes in. It's a most
bewildering mistake, too. Look here, sir. One of the sets


THE TOUCH OF THE DEAD
67
of fingerprints—they're the same on Dr. Goodrich's throat
and in the car—is identical with the prints on this cat-
alogue card-aren't they?”
He pointed to the two exhibits. “Why, yes,” Hawley
said. “Whose is it?” He read the card rapidly. Sud-
denly he exclaimed, "Why, how extraordinary!"
“Isn't it, sir?” Jerry asked. “And I've had Pentonville
Prison on the telephone before I came down here. They
can't help us find the error. You see, they sent the card
down promptly and all the documents in the case are
clear."
Eileen looked at Hawley's troubled face.
“May I know?" she asked.
He looked from the photographs of the bloody finger-
prints to the catalogue card, and then to another card,
his embarrassment reflecting Jerry's.
"I don't know whether I ought to parade our blunder,"
he said with an uneasy smile, “but it's so extraordinary,
you had better see for yourself.”
With an effort Eileen looked at the photograph of her
father's throat. She saw on it fingerprints clearly repro-
duced. Then Hawley showed her the catalogue card
with fingerprints in black on it.
“You see, don't you, that the fingerprints on the photo-
graph and those on the card from our records correspond
in every respect?” he asked.
"Yes," she cried.
“Well-" Inspector Hawley's voice was deeply


CHAPTER VI
THE UNRESTING QUEST
EILEEN stared at Hawley as though this solid steady
man were beginning to wane in a new access of fog.
Hawley himself for the first time avoided her eyes.
“All right, Jerry,” he said, "we sha'n't trouble you any
more just now.” The man from the Fingerprint Bureau
withdrew.
Hawley turned to Eileen. "It does seem queer, doesn't
it?” he said with a little awkward laugh. “We'll look into
it further, however. Meanwhile,” he glanced anxiously at
her white face, “may I suggest that you've had enough
strain for one day. Rest assured we will put every avail-
able man on the case. You can be more helpful to us by
resting tonight."
She looked dully at him.
“Will your mind rest until this matter is explained ?"
He turned to Naida. “Won't you persuade her?” he
entreated. Naida neither looked at him nor replied. She
addressed herself to Eileen.
“I thought at first that Scotland Yard could help us,”
she said. "It seems, however, they are themselves only the
more mystified. Eileen-
She stopped and steadily regarded Eileen until the dis-
29
69


70
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
tracted girl realized Naida was about to say something
that would call upon her for some great effort. When
Eileen looked up, Naida resumed, with rising tension in her
tone.
“Eileen,” she said, "there is only one quarter from
which we can get light on this.” She stopped.
“What is it?" the girl asked tonelessly.
“Your father."
Hawley turned sharply. Naida's eyes
kindled as Eileen
did not reply.
"Don't you want to ask him?” Naida demanded.
"Naida !” begged the girl. “Please don't talk that
way! We must keep hold of our senses, we really must.
You're tired. Perhaps I'd better go home with you after
all.”
“There will be no rest for you or me, Eileen,” Naida
insisted, "until we have asked your father. There will be
no time so opportune as tonight.”
Hawley looked anxiously at Eileen.
“Miss Goodrich is willing to go home," he said. “I'll
get a machine for you if you wish. It will be better than
trying to negotiate the fog on foot-"
"Eileen, don't you want to ask him?” Naida's voice
rose.
The girl tried to answer in a matter-of-fact tone. "I
can't, dear.”
“You mean you think him 'dead'?” Naida spoke with
increasing rapidity. “Of all that splendid spirit, mind


THE UNRESTING QUEST
71
and heart, you think nothing remains but that poor,
broken body! What a shocking thought!"
Eileen sank back in her chair, her hand pressed to her
forehead. “Of course, dear," she stammered wearily, "of
course. But really, I can't discuss these things now! And
what would be the use?”
“Listen, Eileen," Naida insisted. “If at the moment
of his murder he could speak to you through many walls
of stone, why can't he speak to you still?”
Hawley broke in. “Really, Miss Sangree, both you
and Miss Goodrich are too tired"
“Eileen," Naida disregarded Hawley. "Whether you
believe it or not, your father is anxious to speak with
you. At no time hereafter will he be so eager to do it
as now when you are groping in terror and grief. He
cannot speak to you directly as he did at the moment of
his passing. But his spirit is close to the portals, and
his one thought and yearning is for you.
I know a woman
gifted with the power of mediumship. She can go through
that door and bring you word. Through her your father
will speak. If we go to her tonightmat once you shall
will be convinced.”
Eileen pleaded, “But I don't believe in spiritism, Naida
-neither did Father."
Naida stiffened with resentment.
“Your father's was a great mind," she said coldly.
“But no greater than the combined intellects of people
like Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir William Crookes, Alfred Russel
hear, you


72
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
9
Wallace and Madame Curie, without whose discovery of
radium your father would not have achieved his life
work. They have given many years of hard toil to prove
the things you dismiss so lightly. They have proved them
as a chemist proves atomic equations. And you, an im-
mature girl-
Eileen broke down, sobbing. “I can't argue—I'm nearly
mad. Some other time"
"I am not asking you to talk,” Naida insisted ruth-
lessly. “I want you to come to this medium and let your
father talk to you."
Hawley intervened.
“Miss Sangree," he said sternly, “this is not the time
to try Miss Goodrich further. I advise her to refuse.”
Between the folds of the scarf that draped her face,
Naida's eyes and Hawley's fought an angry duel.
“Eileen,” she said, “I am your guardian now. Whom
will you follow in a question I consider of paramount
importance—this man or me?”
"You are cruel, Naida," Eileen moaned.
“I am cruel only to the weakness in you. Remember
that when the occasion came to save you, I proved I could
be cruel to myself.”
The girl rose wearily. "I remember,” she said.
“Mr. Hawley,” Eileen turned to him, “you have been
very kind. I shall lean on you heavily for help, I am
afraid. But I must do as Miss Sangree asks.”


THE UNRESTING QUEST
773
“Forgive me," Hawley persisted. “But it's simple com-
mon sense for you to rest now instead of-
“Come, dear,” Naida interrupted.
The girl gave him her hand. For a moment he held it
as though in his resentment of the step she was about to
take he was ready to hold her by force. She, too, clung
for the strength she lacked. Slowly he released her.
"I'll send a man to guide you," he said simply. “Good-
night, Miss Goodrich."
“Good-night,” she whispered.
Naida had preceded Eileen out of the room.
Hawley took
up
the telephone.
"Is that you, Berk?” he said. “You are to guide two
ladies who are on their way down. A word. Please keep
close watch of all that happens at the place to which they
go. Under no circumstances are you to stay outside the
house. If by any chance the two become separated I want
you to remain with the woman in the scarf. Discreetly,
of course."
“I understand. Inspector."


CHAPTER VII
THE FACE OF LIGHT
As Eileen, following Berk and Naida, emerged into the
fog again, chill damp sent shudders through her frame.
Naida's arm, locked through hers, felt like a weight. End-
less seemed their groping through the sulphur-laden murk.
The formless figures that blundered past seemed no more
real than those in a troubled sleep.
In a side street near Russell Square the Scotland Yard
man flashed his light on a house number and called out:
“This must be it, miss."
Naida looked at the shabby door and nodded. Opening
her purse she took out some money, offering it to Berk.
“Thank you for bringing us,” she said.
“Very kind of you, miss, but I can't accept,” he said
simply. “I shall be waiting to take you home.”
“As you wish,” Naida said resentfully, pulling the
bell.
Faintly, somewhere in the house, a cheerless tinkle
sounded. It was several minutes before they heard slapping
footsteps descend. There was a rattle of bolts and chains
and the door opened. A slatternly servant girl appeared,
holding a kerosene lamp; in her eyes the look of the
rebellious drudge. Damp garments hung on the cheap
74


THE FACE OF LIGHT
75
hall rack. A sour, airless smell pervaded the hallway.
“What is it?" the girl demanded, sharpening at sight
of Naida.
“We wish to see Mrs. Lewis,” Naida said, stepping into
the hallway.
“Mrs. Lewis carn't be seen; she's sick a-bed.”
"Come in, Eileen,” Naida persisted.
“She's sick, I tell you,
" the maid protested.
“Worn
to the bone. Cryin' tired!”
"I'll be the judge of that," Naida answered. “Please
come in, Eileen,” for the girl had stepped back.
“Naida, you can't insist->
Naida put her arm through Eileen's and drew her in.
The girl turned to the servant.
“Will you permit this gentleman to wait in the hall for
us?" she asked.
"I don't seem to have nothin' to say, miss,” the maid
muttered, glowering at Naida.
Berk stepped in and sat down on a rickety chair.
“I'll wait here,” he said.
Reluctantly Eileen followed Naida up two flights of
stairs covered with worn carpet. At the second landing,
Naida opened a door without knocking. Even the gloom
of the partly-lit hall was lighter than the room they
entered.
“I told 'er you was sick,” the servant called out to
some one in the room, “but she wouldn't listen."


76
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
In a little grate a faint glow showed round the edges of
a great block of coal. By its light Eileen saw a figure
huddled in an armchair.
“Who is it?" came a woman's tired voice.
“It is I, Mrs. Lewis,” Naida said. “Sorry to trouble
you, but we need you very much tonight. Dr. Goodrich
has been mysteriously murdered. An apparition of him
appeared before his daughter at the moment of his pass-
ing. He spoke to her, tried to give her some message.
It was incomplete and we must know what it was he tried
to communicate. There seems to be a poltergeist at work.
There are fingerprints in blood on the body which corre-
spond only to those of a man executed three days ago. I
am sure Dr. Goodrich will want to help us hunt down those
responsible for his murder."
From before the fire arose a slight figure. Fumbling in
the dark, she pulled a string. There was the "plop” of a
gas flame and the room became palely visible.
Eileen saw a woman tragically worn. Under her luster-
less eyes were brown pouches. It was a commonplace face,
redeemed only by suffering and an indefinable look of
aloneness. Her hair, sparse and gray, she tried to put
in order with a wasted hand.
On the walls hung a colored lithograph of Alexander
III. of Russia; a portrait of Mme. Blavatsky, with her
rotund face and full, brooding eyes; and several photo-
graphs that sent a chill through Eileen. They seemed the


THE FACE OF LIGHT
7777
picturizations of disordered dreams, with blurs of faces
large and small, embedded in smokelike scrolls.
"I ain't equal to it tonight, Miss Naida,” the woman
was pleading with pathetic simplicity. "I've been givin’
séances till it's killin' me. And I caught cold and fever.
Maybe a night's sleep will put me right and tomorrow
or the day after”
“In this matter we can't risk delay," broke in Naida.
“Every minute Dr. Goodrich's slayers gain is just so much
added to their chances of escape. We'll have the séance
tonight. Tomorrow, if necessary, I will send you to the
country for rest. But we need you tonight."
The woman broke into tears.
"If I must go through that agony tonight I'd just as
soon die!" she cried.
"Don't talk nonsense !” broke in Naida sharply.
Eileen turned to the door.
“Naida," she said, “it is cruel of you to insist! And I
am not in the least interested. I am going.'
She stepped into the hall.
"Eileen-wait for me!" called Naida.
The girl paused. She heard Naida speak sharply but
in an undertone, and a frightened moan came from Mrs.
Lewis. Then the woman raised her voice, in pleading.
“Please come back, Miss Goodrich. I'll give the séance.
I want to, really I do. Miss Sangree says I can then go to
the country, and won't have to give any more séances


78
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
99
unless I want to. If I don't give the séance tonight she
won't send me."
“Then I'll send you,” said Eileen determinedly. “But
there shall be no séance tonight as far as I am concerned.
I am going!"
“Your going, Eileen, will save her nothing," Naida said
coldly. “I mean to stay and find out what she can tell us.
“Please don't go !” pleaded Mrs. Lewis with new fear.
Eileen reëntered the room and sank into a springless
chair. The medium looked relieved.
“That's right, dearie,” she said, leaning back in her
chair before the fireplace and closing her eyes. “Just a
few moments and I'll be fit. Just a few moments” she
repeated drowsily.
Naida went to the door and locked it. Eileen felt her
nerves tautening
A bit of coal clattered in the grate and the dull fire
stirred slightly. Somewhere in the house a violin began,
acidulously. It was not a beginner's touch, although the
notes were exceedingly unpleasant. The tones were firm,
and the player was undoubtedly seeking something, some
unusual tonal effect, for they were ever on the edge of a
chord. But it would not be a chord of harmony. Each
attempt yielded some peculiarly subtle discord that felt
its way to the most sensitive cell in the human system,
and scraped it. A discord or two, a rising passage in
quarter and third notes. A pause. A closer and more
penetrating discord, as though the player had had a


THE FACE OF LIGHT
79
report from tormented sensibility and, slow-smiling, were
aiming at still greater torment.
Eileen rose, tense and quivering.
“I shall go mad!” she whispered.
Naida rose and went to a wall against which a shelf
held some books and a small metal Buddha. With the little
image, she rapped sharply upon the wall. The violinist
broke off as though to listen. But he did not resume.
The medium stirred in her chair and sat up.
“All right,” she sighed, “I feel a bit rested. Will you
come here, my dear, and sit in this chair opposite me?"
Eileen slowly approached. She felt no repugnance;
on the contrary, her heart went out in pity. Yet some-
thing in this woman made her draw back. It was not
dishonesty. The woman's eyes, blue and faded, were
eager as a child's to win her. But there was also a sub-
mission to something other than herself, to some power
that would not let her be the simple, commonplace soul
she yearned to be.
Eileen sat down in the hard, small chair opposite. This
faced her to the fire, so that its scaht red fell on her face
and left the medium's in the shadow.
“Tell me, my dear child,” Mrs. Lewis began with a none
too skillful simulation of innocence, “what were the last
words your father spoke to you?”
Her eyes were searching Eileen's. For the first time
Eileen felt repugnance. She was pretending, and it was


80
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
So you
obvious. Eileen closed her eyes to shut out the intrusion
of the woman's gaze. Naida's voice came sharply.
“No necessity for questions. You are trying to save
yourself the trouble of getting the answers from the source
we want."
The woman answered without looking at Naida, the fra..
body appearing to shrink.
"If you think I'm trying to cheat” she began resent-
fully. Taking out of a pocket a soiled silk handkerchief,
she bound her eyes with it. "Now I can't see.
needn't shut your eyes, my child."
Eileen looked at her. Between the upper edge of the
bandage and her brow was a deep line of shadow. Eileen
felt the woman was still spying on her over the top of the
bandage. But again Naida intervened.
“You shall not cheat!” She rose and came quickly to
Mrs. Lewis. "You can see over the top of that bandage.
For the last time, I ask you to give us genuine phenomena.”
The older woman wearily took off the bandage.
“Give me your hand, my child,” she said, and instantly
Eileen again felt pity for her. She sensed coming pain
in her voice. Her hand went out to Mrs. Lewis-who
grasped it tightly.
“People talk so easy of cheating," she began in a
monotonous voice. She had noticeably relaxed and her
voice took on a drowsy drone. “Unless we give 'em blue
fire and spirits and tambourines they think we aren't tell-
ing 'em anything. But there's more'n one way to skin a


82
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
she said, answering instantly the question in Eileen's
mind. "Most spirits can't talk to us direct. They use
other spirits like Lilybelle, who can. Sometimes spirits
are so killin' keen to talk, and are so strong, dearie, they
just brush poor Lilybelle aside and talk with their own
voices and even build themselves up into something you
can see. Materialization, we calls it. But, oh, I hope and
pray there won't be no materialization tonight. I just
can't-can't stand-Lilybelle, you do pull so!”
Her voice had risen a key. Her head fell back on the
cushions as though she had half swooned. Her closed eyes
twitched and she sighed. Then a strange little laugh
sounded.
‘Ginger' they call him, dear Lilybelle, because his hair
is so red--so pretty, so pretty you are, Lilybelle—I've a
cousin, dearie, who passed to your world. Why don't he
ever, ever speak to me -? My, but you've company to-
night, Lilybelle! It's the first time I see you with him.
Ho, he is masterful, isn't he?” She rattled off a descrip-
tion. "Deep-chested, about forty-five, and what a deal
of brain-case! A thinker-a thinker! Slate blue eyes,
and the flaxen thick hair of him. His mouth is big and
firm, and one corner's puckered up a little like he's think-
ing hard about something all the time. Dearie me, what
is that sad red line on his throat? Ah-so sad! He's
been cruelly hurt”
Eileen rose from her chair. The telling picture of her
father was unmistakable.


84
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
her fingers whenever she saw them—she recognized them
all.
There was in Eileen a hardihood, a physical resistance,
of which she did not dream. She had never in her life
fainted. Her heart had been equal to any emergency she
had been called upon to meet and even at this moment it
pounded blood into a brain reeling with shock. So that
while her limbs remained incapable of moving, her senses did
not leave her. Everything before her eyes, however, began
to blur. But it was only because that ghostly light on
which all her being was intent, was itself blurring, fading,
darkening, until finally the shadow in that corner attained
the gloom of the others.
Eileen’s limbs stirred, under the whipping of her will.
She sprang into that corner and tore at the old clothing
that hung there. A faded chintz curtain, which had
acted as a screen across the corner, snapped from its
string and fell.
“Lift the lampshade!” Eileen cried, tearing down the
garments in the alcove. She heard the shade clink against
the rim of the lamp as Naida obeyed, and its light reached
over her shoulder. The girl's furious search discovered
only a cheaply-papered wall, with neither crack nor seam
in it to suggest a door.
She dragged herself back to Naida.
“What was it?" she asked dully.
"I don't know," whispered the other. For once the
scarf about her face was widely parted. The shadows-
she stood well away from the lampdealt mercifully with


THE FACE OF LIGHT
85
the discoloration on her regally-modeled face. Her eyes
glistened with a strange excitement, half fear, half exulta-
tion. “It must be a materialization. I have never known
her to cheat at that. Go back.”
The medium had begun to whimper. Eileen turned to
the door, but the key was in Naida's hand. The medium
resumed.
“Ah, Lilybelle, he isn't as mute as we thought, is he,
dearie? Now he says, 'Chickabiddy' so nicely and so
often. He says he wishes she could know there is nothing
to weep about so far as he is concerned. He is a little
confused, like all newcomers. But he knows he will be all
right. It is Chickabiddy he feels so sad for- Once when
they were in the Yo-sem-ite Valley, Chickabiddy and he
alone - Oh, such a beautiful scene, Lilybelle—is it really
on earth? They were alone on donkeyback on top of a
tall, tall mountain-Clouds' Rest, they call it. 'Chicka-
biddy,' he said to her then, 'it's a little like being in
Heaven, isn't it?' And now he says, 'Chickabiddy, it is
just like that; only in—finitely better here. He
wants Chickabiddy to be of stout heart. He is all right,
He can't be hurt or frightened or bedeviled.
Only-
Her voice abruptly took on depth and strength.
"Daughter, Eileen,” the medium went on in her new
tone, “I am beyond hurt any more by Garra. But what
hatred! It burns like vitriol in him across this chasm
called death. How he hates me and mine! Even here.
What a place to bring a feud! He cannot forget. He will
he says.


86
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
.
I
.
.
never forgive, he says. I cheated him out of the fruits of
his discovery, he thinks. I didn't, Chickabiddy.
"That he died by his own hand was the end of his earthly
misery. It is only the beginning of misery here. They
who destroy themselves fare badly here. Worst of us all.
It is not for always, but for long.
And now
he
says
killed him. Think of it, Chickabiddy, I, who so wanted him
to share all. But I, too, wanted a share, the share that
was rightly mine. It is terrible, this hate of his. Like a
pestilence that will not die. It infected his son with his
father's hate of me. He will yet do something with it.
It is his only inheritance from his father.
“Chickabiddy, never hate! But, oh, my little daughter,
beware! My little one chick, alone and loving and unsus-
picious. I will try to help you. But his hate-Garra's
hate reaches across. It works through hands not his
but guided by him, just as I now try to reach you, and
touch
you,
and guide you.
If
you
believe, my child, I can
do more. If you don't, still I will try. But evil is willing
to use any means. He finds this one and that upon earth,
willing to do the wicked thing, and he prompts them.
That, my girl, is how he murdered me. They murdered
me in the hour of my success. But that is little, so little
to weep about, to mourn. He cannot hurt me any more
except through you, daughter, daughter! And he is
aiming to hurt me that way. He will snatch from you
your strongest supports. Those you love most, trust
most, depend on. ..."
Again the medium's voice came back to the personal


CHAPTER VIII
THE PLUNGE IN THE FOG
A "BOBBY” on duty in the fog at the corner of Aldwych
and the Strand heard a persistent whistling. It was such
a whistle as a practiced hand can produce with thumb
and forefinger in the mouth. The "bobby” decided that it
would bear investigation. From the sound of the whistle
he felt his way through the fog, blowing his own whistle
as he went. In ten minutes he was near enough to call out
and be heard.
“ 'Ere we are, horficer!” he heard a cockney voice.
“Just a bit to the right and you'll be wiv us!"
The policeman's electric torch showed a middle-aged
man of the coster type, holding in his arms an unconscious
girl. Her head was on his shoulder, the face hidden by
it. From her clothes, covered though they were with
mud, the policeman knew she was "gentry.” The coster
was eager to explain.
“ 'Ere's a rum go,” he said, relief in his voice. “I was
turnin' in from Covent Garden, going to my work at the
market, feelin' my way 'and-and-foot, so to say~-Lors
love you, horficer, did you ever see such a fog in yer
life?—when, blimey, if I didn't hear some one runnin'!
Lor', says I to meself, think of anyone runnin' in this 'ere
foga
88


THE PLUNGE IN THE FOG
89
“Never mind comments; tell me what happened,” the
policeman interrupted. He had taken off his rubber cape
and, spreading it on the sidewalk, gently laid the young
woman upon it. He felt her pulse. Taking off her hat,
he parted the heavy, pale-gold hair and looked at the
pur-
pling lump on her temple.
“How did she get that?" he asked.
"I was tryin' to tell yer," said the coster resentfully,
“but you constables think nobody knows how to tell any-
think. I 'adn't time to ask myself wot was up with the
lunatic or 'oever it was runnin' through the fog, w’en,
bang! this 'ere young lady runs into me and knocks me to
me knees, she 'it so hunexpected. She fell, too, but was
up again like a deer, and hoff she ran full tilt. She must
'ave been scared to death w'en she 'it me because she let
out a cry that was somethin' terrible. You should 'ave
heard 'er, horficer! Did
you
’un that's
been near scared out of its wits by somethin' let out a
yell w'en somethin' else scared her while she was still wild
wiv fear? Well, that's 'ow she sounded.
“Then she ran on again, a bit, and all of a sudden I
'eard her no more. I knew she must 'ave 'it somethin'
again and mebbe got knocked on the 'ead. So I felt my
way cautious-like and 'ere I found 'er lyin' still as death.
She'd 'it the lamp-post wiv her forehead."
"Find your way to the nearest house and rouse the
people," the policeman said. “Tell them a young lady's
been hurt and we're bringing her in. Hurry back.”
ever
hear a young
3


THE PLUNGE IN THE FOG
91
dering. “Naida must have hidden behind the rocks on top
of Clouds' Rest. Otherwise how could she know what you'd
said to me? But there was snow everywhere. How could
she have been there all the time waiting for us to come up?
If it wasn't she, it couldn't have been dear Hugo, could
it? Tell me why he doesn't want to meet you. He dances
perfectly, but he's so bitter, and so alone! But he did
desert me, didn't he, when I wanted that satyr fountain to
tell me how it could talk in
your
voice? Oh, my God!”
And she was racked with sobbing.
The doctor gave her a sedative that succeeded in dulling
the terrors pursuing her.
A little later Inspector Hawley came.
With him were
Naida and a second physician. Between Naida and Haw-
ley there passed neither word nor look. On his face was
an expression of dislike which not even the customary
reserve of the Englishman could suppress. Naida, envel-
oped in a greatcoat and her face hidden in her purple scarf,
gave no indication of what she felt.
“How badly is she hurt?” she asked the first physician.
"It's too soon to tell,” he replied. “If it is a fracture
at the base of the skull”
“Can she be moved immediately?” she asked. “We have
a car downstairs."
“I think so.”
After a brief consultation between the two doctors,
Eileen was warmly wrapped and carried down to a closed
motor. Naida had preceded her. But as the physician


92
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
who had come with her was about to follow, Inspector
Hawley stopped him.
“May I see you a moment?”
“Certainly."
Hawley waited until they were alone.
“I think we have met before, Dr. Ramey. You have
helped Scotland Yard on several occasions, and I know
we have a friend in you. May I ask, are you to attend
Miss Goodrich ?”
“Yes, why?”
Hawley hesitated.
“That's difficult to answer without saying too much or
being misunderstood. Yet it is very important for Miss
Goodrich's welfare. She must be kept from further shock
or strain, mustn't she?”
“It is the first essential,” said the doctor.
“Then, in the interest of your patient, I advise, if I may,
that you be with her every moment you can."
Dr. Ramey looked at him, puzzled. “Isn't that a matter
of which I should be judge?” he asked.
Hawley shook his head.
“I knew you would misunderstand," he said regretfully.
“I have not the slightest wish to instruct you, Doctor.
What I refer to is something I have learned, and which
you cannot possibly know. I have only this in mind:
that unless you stay by the side of your patient as much
as possible, at least while she is in a critical state, she
may
be submitted to further shocks and strains."


THE PLUNGE IN THE FOG
93
Dr. Ramey glanced at him.
“There will be trained nurses in attendance," he said.
“The nurses will not be in absolute charge."
“The understanding on which I accept the case is that
as long as I am in charge of it I am in complete charge.
When I am away the nurse is my deputy. Who is likely
to interfere in Miss Goodrich's case?"
“The same person who called you in,” said Hawley
seriously.
Dr. Ramey looked relieved.
“Miss Sangree?” he asked. “A strange woman, a very
strange woman-and there is no denying she is somewhat
autocratic. But neither is there any doubt of her great
intelligence.”
"Not the least in the world."
“Then why do you think she will hinder my treatment
of Miss Goodrich ?"
“Doctor" Hawley spoke as one who knows he is
making a serious charge, "Miss Goodrich met the shock
of her father's murder very well. Be that as it may, she
did not succumb to it as most women would. But cer-
tainly she should not have been called upon to undergo any
other ordeal tonight. Miss Sangree insisted that she go
with her for a spiritualist séance. It was at that séance
that Miss Goodrich received the second shock that gent
her running into the fog. Do you think that Miss Good-
rich should be left in Miss Sangree's hands?"
Dr. Ramey was troubled.


94
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“Now that her father is dead, I suppose Miss Sangree
is temporarily her guardian. Why do you doubt her
devotion to Miss Goodrich ?”
Hawley stroked the back of his head perplexedly.
“There you have me, Doctor! I never met Miss
Sangree before tonight. What she feels toward Miss
Goodrich I cannot even guess.
One minute she seems
devoted, the next she seems ready to sacrifice her to any
whim of hers. It is bewildering. But, then, the whole case
is the most bewildering in my experience. When you
find
fingerprints on a murdered man's throat, made presumably
by another executed five days before, weird is the only
word that describes the matter."
He checked abruptly his confession of bewilderment.
"Doctor, what are Miss Goodrich's chances ?”
Dr. Ramey was a shrewd psychologist, and Hawley had
betrayed himself before he knew it. It was not the com-
monplace question that did it, but the flux of color and a
momentary revelation in Hawley's frank eyes that told
the physician there was something beyond merely a detec-
tive's interest in the question.
“It's too early to tell,” the doctor said. "But rest
assured that
you shall be kept informed.”
In the seasoned Scotland Yard official there showed for
a moment the country lad, naïvely anxious.
“I'll appreciate it more than words can tell,” he said,
blushing.
2


CHAPTER IX
THROUGH THE FOG
For seven days and nights Eileen fought through a fog
peopled with phantoms. Sometimes it was impenetrable
but rolling in billows as though harried by some restless
wind that brought neither coolness nor cleared the miasma.
At such times the billows would almost take on shapes-
stupid, sullen and heavy, unlike anything familiar, and
always instinct with some malignant spirit that withheld
for the moment from striking.
Eileen fought for breath and to throw off the persistent
leadenness that weighed down every limb. At other times
the fog cleared to a mist—and then it was worst of all.
Flashes of visibility sent through her lightning-like shocks
of terror. The vision of a swathed head, unfamiliar, yet
somehow personal and vaguely remembered, melted in and
out of the mist, regarding her with a maddening steadiness.
“Naida, you've changed so," the girl moaned.
A laugh, barely audible, but hostile, answered.
“No, not Naida. But
Always the malignant spirits hid, while uttering un-
spoken threats of something yet to come that would exceed
in awfulness anything she could picture. It was this
refusal of the Terror to name itself that caught the girl
19
.
95


96
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
in talons of torment. She tried to hurl herself at some
frightening shape, to end the suspense, to know and to feel
the worst, to break the band about her forehead which
pressed but withheld the merciful end of it all.
“Hugo, why do you hide your face?” she pleaded.
“Look, if it will bring you peace to frighten me, I shall not
run away. But I implore you, tell me what it all means?
You surely don't hate me enough to want to drive me mad,
Hugo! Yet you are driving me mad. Ah, you are so
hard! ... Daddy_will there ever be forgiveness-
ever?”
Dr. Ramey gave more time to the girl than usual even
in such cases. He had engaged two of the best nurses in
London, steady, nerveless women who had tended his
patients for years. When he was at the house, only he and
the nurses were admitted to the sickroom. When he
attended other urgent cases of his, only the nurses were
left with Eileen. He had had a brief talk with Naida when
Eileen was brought to her room.
“Frankly," he said, “I don't know the outcome of this.
The result will depend upon Miss Goodrich's condition
and my skill, such as it is. May I count on you?"
“You mean
?"
“Nobody is to see her," was his quiet answer.
He could not see Naida's face, but he felt her cold, deep
resentment. After a moment she nodded and went to her
room.
After that, the doctor saw her only after he had made


THROUGH THE FOG
97
his visit to Eileen. Naida asked him nothing, but he
invariably gave
her ample reports, hoping to make up
in
some measure for his strict order, given solely because
of Inspector Hawley's grave words.
Hawley, too, gave himself over to the case to an extent
greater than his usual devotion to duty would explain.
It was true the case was one of the most bewildering he
had ever encountered. The murder, which was filling the
newspapers with speculation and theory, was deepening
in mystery.
With the removal of Dr. Goodrich's body from the
house, the matter of the fingerprints was again and again
gone into, checked and rechecked. The operatives at Scot-
land Yard worked as hard to prove that somewhere in the
records at the Fingerprint Department an error had been
made as others worked to find some clue to the murder
that would not dissolve like mist, as most of the clues
had done.
The results stood the same as on the night of the crime.
There were still only two sets of fingerprints, those found
on the throat of the murdered man, and on the light-
colored upholstery and doorframes of the car. One of
these sets of prints was still unidentified. The other corre-
sponded to those of the man executed in Wormwood
Scrubbs five days before the killing of Dr. Goodrich. ...
With Hawley, who came often to see how Eileen was
faring and to question the domestics on the case, Naida


100
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
He banks with the London City Midland. No particular
occupation. Spends most of his time, when he isn't watch-
ing the Goodrich house, almost entirely in his room, where
he occasionally has meals sent. Has no callers, gets no
letters. Reads only newspapers. But he does buy all he
can get. The only ones he doesn't get are those that say
little of the Goodrich murder. That's all I can find out
so far, sir."
“It's all anyone could get in so short a time, Fetter.
You might cover him until further orders. Thank you."
On the eighth day Dr. Ramey noted a slight improve-
ment in Eileen. She had fallen into a sound sleep. The
ramblings had sunk to almost inaudible whispers, then
99
died away.
For a whole day and night she slept, while her body,
exhausted by its long pursuit through the realms of fever,
drank in rest. On the tenth day she opened her eyes
drowsily. Dr. Ramey, who was present, saw the look in
them and knew she was out of danger.
For several days after that she drifted in and out of
sleep, saying nothing, feeling nothing—a state of heavy
sleep of the spirit. The tide of vitality, that had been
ebbing, was slowly, almost imperceptibly turning, so grad-
ually that to the girl it as yet gave no hint that she was
returning to a world of feeling and problems. Dr. Ramey,
however, was gratified, as he looked into the drowsy eyes
of his patient.
He also saw in them, however, a timidity that showed


THROUGH THE FOG
103
99
He followed Markel to the house. On the threshold of
Eileen's room Dr. Ramey met him.
“You understand she must be shielded from excite
ment?
Malvin's eyes burned in his pale face.
“Doctor-how is she? Perhaps I had better come
another day.”
"No, better go in now. Only make it as easy as
possible.”
Malvin drew a deep breath and stepped into the room.
The
nurse, catching the doctor's
eye, went out, leaving the
two young people together.
The girl tried to prop herself on her elbow as Malvin
entered, but her strength failed. She sank back, her eyes
hungrily upon him, pained, puzzled, waiting.
He came slowly to her, his own eyes hungry. His face
Below his eyes were shadows.
ey looked at each other without speaking. Eileen
tried to smile, waiting for him to speak. But she saw he
could not. She raised one of her hands.
“Come here,” she said softly.
He dropped on one knee by her and she drew his face to
her, pressing it to her cheek. She felt a spasm go through
his frame. It was like some deep-buried seismic shudder
that cannot find outlet through hard earth. With what
strength she had she held him as a mother holds a fright-
ened child, herself frightened, but conscious that whatever
the cause, she must still its panic. Gradually the tremors
was worn.


104
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
stilled. She turned his face to her. Then she kissed him.
Swiftly he took her in his arms and held her, gently, but
with his muscles turned to iron.
She leaned back presently, and smiled, smoothing back
his thick, black hair with her fingers.
“You'll come to see me often?" she whispered.
“If you want me to."
“Then say—it!” Her voice was scarcely more than
a breath. “Say you care for me."
“Oh, don't you know !” he groaned. “Don't you know
I love you!"
She nodded, her cheek to his.
“Yes, I know. Come very soon. 1-1-" Her voice
failed, but her eyes still smiled.
He rose, his eyes lingering on her. "I will come !” And
with a swift touch of his lips he left the room.


CHAPTER X
THE NERVOUS HOUSE
“THE NERVOUS House,” as its distant neighbors
thought of it when they gave it a thought, began as a
sanitarium hopefully, but deteriorated so badly that the
very building looked discouraged and sullen. Of heavy
weather-dark stone its very solidity only accentuated its
look of failure. Four or five dejected willows and an
exotic plant that looked like a tortured shaggy cactus
made a gloomy screen about it.
It stood at the end of a long, sparsely inhabited lane
and at the edge of a great weedy flat. Occasionally, it was
supposed by its few neighbors, a stray case of alcoholic
excess or some drug addict was brought to "The Nervous
House" for treatment. But with surly reticence those in
charge of the house told little of their affairs.
Nor were neighborly visits encouraged at “The Nervous
House" and the neighbors reciprocated with a genuine lack
of interest. Hospitals and sanitariums do not make cheer-
ful visiting. Nor did this particular one afford spectacle.
Occasionally a big, black, closed car with blinds drawn
arrived. Some pathetic human wreck was bundled into the
house. The heavy outer door opened and closed. After
105


106
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
that no sound came from within the house. No face
appeared at the heavily barred windows.
It had been raining depressingly and when the big, black
car with its drawn blinds lurched down the road toward
“The Nervous House" not even its nearest neighbors, a
quarter of a mile away, troubled to look out of their win-
dows. The car stopped as close to the entrance door as its
mudguards let it. Simultaneously the door of the car and
that of the house opened. Two men swathed in mackin-
toshes passed rapidly into the house. The door closed with
a rattle of chains and the click of bolts and the car rolled
off toward a stone garage by the side of the road.
In the gloom of the heavily built interior the figure of
Hutch, the powerful hunchback, magnified as it was by his
greatcoat, looked superhuman in bulk. By his side the
slender, nervously alert Dargan with his prematurely gray
hair and his harassed gray face, seemed fragile. The
iron-faced woman who admitted them selected a big key
from the wire hoop at her belt and let the men into what
seemed to be the office of the institution. Then she with-
drew; but not without a keen look that told the men she
would not wait long to learn the cause of their quite
apparent anxiety.
Dargan tore off his mackintosh with his characteristic
manner of nerves on edge. Hutch seemed more self-
possessed; but it was clear that his thoughts were too
engrossed for outward nervousness. He sat down in a
chair without taking off his rain-soaked garments, as


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
107
Dargal
though he would permit nothing to disturb the deep-
groping process in his mind.
He and Dargan had good reason to feel uneasy. Pete
Ennis, of the burly butcher mien, who on the night of the
murder of Dr. Goodrich had come back out of the fog in
a mood so strangely fearless of Hutch, so defiant of them
all, had disappeared. When on the following morning
Hutch opened his eyes and climbed down from his tree-like
perch and waked Dargan from his hypnotic sleep, Pete
was already gone. For two weeks now they had not heard
from him; and even Hutch writhed with anxiety.
Was Pete preparing to betray them and himself escape?
What was behind the threat he had uttered so indefinitely
but with such a power of sincerity that even Hutch was
impressed? Or had something befallen Pete, something
that would drag them with him?
Hutch's fingers began to speak.
“Show me, move for move, exactly how Pete behaved
and looked after you had done it?”
out of a car; pausing as though to think; turning to
another-apparently Dargan himself, with a look of sneer-
ing contemplation. Then without a word the man he was
imitating apparently strode off.
“He was gone about fifteen minutes,” Dargan said.
He enacted Pete reëntering the scene, an inscrutable
sardonic look on his face.
When Dargan completed his imitation of Pete's move-


108
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
ments, the hunchback himself went through the same
motions. He did it with a skill of mimicry excelling Dar-
gan's, good though the other's was. Hutch went through
the movements one at a time, stopping after each, some-
times repeating one several times. At the same time
his face with astonishing fidelity assumed Pete's general
expression.
After each imitated movement and expression Hutch
pondered. Dargan, as he watched him, thought of him
as a kind of bloodhound on a trail, scenting delicately for
his quarry. Not smells were his clues but the exquisitely
subtle reports from nerve centers as his muscles assumed
pose after pose of Pete's. Dargan knew by what theory
Hutch was hunting. If a man in anger frowns, will not
another man who assumes his expression feel something
of the first man's emotion?
Pete Ennis was no mean game to hunt thus. Added to
his powerful bulk and brute courage there was a quick,
hard cunning. But keen as were his thought processes,
Hutch compared to him was like lightning playing among
heavily moving clouds. Dargan himself, more finely strung
than Pete, felt stupid compared to Hutch.
Yet Hutch was finding difficulty in reading Pete's
designs through the only available clues he had. Dargan
could see that while something was gathering in Hutch's
consciousness, a growing synthesis of Pete's state of mind
on the night of the fog, it was as yet too nebulous to
report.


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
109
Night came down with Hutch still hunting. Dargan
went downstairs for a scant meal with the woman. They
knew better than to disturb Hutch.
Toward midnight, however, Dargan could no longer
bear the silence from Hutch. He reëntered the dark room
and switched on the light. He heard the screech of chair
legs as Hutch violently started.
The hunchback's anger
only partly checked Dargan's own nervous anger.
“Haven't you come to any conclusion?" Dargan cried.
Hutch's glare was baleful, but he controlled himself.
His fingers flashed.
“Get the small car. You and Cora come.'
“Then you've thought out something?"
Hutch did not answer. Dargan broke out.
“Look at me, you fool!” he shouted. “I'll go loco if you
don't tell me something soon!"
Hutch shrugged.
“Nothing to report."
“Where is he?"
"Don't know. I can only guess that he is hiding. In
London. We'll have to scour the city.”
Dargan was speechless. To search all London for a
man who was hiding, above all one so experienced as Pete
Ennis! But he left the room to carry out Hutch's orders.
A quarter of an hour later a little closed car with
Dargan at the wheel and the woman and Hutch inside,
stole off toward London. Hutch sat peering through the
narrow slit between the drawn blind and the sash. His


110
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
right hand was resting through the partly open front
window on Dargan's shoulder, the pressure of the hunch-
back's fingers giving steering directions.
As they passed through various neighborhoods in the
poorer sections of London, Hutch studied them with as
nearly the frame of mind of Pete as he could approximate.
One section was too slatternly for Pete, who had a certain
surprising fastidiousness. Another was too slum-like to
afford that incuriousness on the part of neighbors, which
Pete would be sure to seek. Still another was too quiet
and a stranger would stand out too prominently.
When they came to a promising quarter Dargan drove
till he saw a policeman. He then stopped the car and
Cora got out. Advancing to meet the policeman she
invariably told the same tale. Her brother—she described
Pete minutely—had been shell-shocked in Flanders; was
given to wandering from his family and taking up lodging
among strangers. He was in the habit of walking about
the city at night and she, his sister, was anxious to get him
back. Had the policeman seen such a man?
The results that night were disheartening to the trio.
Most of the policemen asked had seen no such man. Others
had seen a considerable number answering the description.
But having seen them they could tell nothing more about
them.
The trio returned to “The Nervous House" in the
morning, exhausted. They slept during the day and went
out on the same quest again the following night. They


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
111
returned a second time without their quarry. True, their
hunting ground was narrowing by elimination. It was
centering about Limehouse Reach. But it was more than
possible that the whole basis of suppositions by which they
were hunting was but a wrong guess.
On the third night it was only fear of Hutch that kept
Dargan and Cora in obedience. Their waning faith in the
hunt affected Hutch like a red rag and the others kept
from crossing his lightest wish.
The little car was gliding along Commercial Road about
three in the morning. Cora was beginning to feel she would
run amuck; Dargan was reveling in a picture in which the
car with Hutch in it had sped over a precipice.
Suddenly they heard something between a snarl and a
sigh from Hutch; and Hutch's fingers almost crushed
Dargan's shoulder. They looked ahead. Some one looking
like Pete was turning the corner.
Dargan brought the car to a quick stop; got out and
softly sprinted up the street. Cautiously turning the
corner he saw Pete cross the street and stop before a rusty
but decent looking three-story private dwelling. Before
mounting its stoop, Pete stopped apparently to light a
cigarette. But Dargan guessed that over his cupped hands
Pete was studying the street. Dargan's dark automobile
coat, upturned collar and low peaked cap showed not a
glimmer against the dark wall where he stood, and he saw
that Pete did not suspect his presence. For he turned and
quickly mounting the stoop let himself into the house.


112
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Dargan waited before venturing forward. He knew
Pete would probably go to a front window and continue
his scrutiny of the street. After a quarter of an hour,
however, Dargan emerged from his place of concealment,
in the gait of belated reveler. He did not stop at the house
as he passed it. But he noted the number. Rounding the
block he came to their machine.
“It's Pete sure enough!” he reported. “Number 354.”
In the dark of the car Hutch's teeth showed a line of
white. They drove around to the street in back of Pete's
house, Dargan and Hutch surveying possibilities. A
garage seemed promising. From the car's tool chest Dar-
gan took out several implements. In short time the lock
on the garage door was picked. Dargan and Hutch stole
into the garage, found their way to the rear and there
picked another lock. They came out into a yard and were
rewarded by seeing light between the slats of shutters
on the second floor of the house to which Pete was
traced.
Hutch reached a long arm to the top of the wall sepa-
rating the two backyards and with effortless ease vaulted
over. Dargan worked his way over more slowly.
Thick and gnarled old vines twisted up the side of the
house. By the aid of this, a rain spout and window sills
Hutch worked his way up as though they had been ex-
pressly put there for his use. Outside of Pete's window
he stopped, half hidden in the tangle of vine.
Dargan, waiting below, involuntarily shuddered at the


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
113
likeness of that climbing blob of shadow to some gorilla
stalking its prey. He saw Hutch peer through the chink
in the shutters. A little later the light went out. Hutch,
clinging outside the window, seemed to lose outline.
Dargan knew how readily Pete fell asleep and how
soundly he slept. But whether under the present circum-
stances Pete would feel sufficiently at ease to fall asleep
without precautions Dargan could not be sure. When,
therefore, he saw Hutch move-so slowly that one who did
not know he was there would not suspect his presence—and
knew that Hutch was working his way into the room, he
was keyed up for a revolver shot.
Hutch remained inside for what seemed hours. Several
times Dargan was on the point of climbing up after him.
But the very silence served to reassure him. At last a
shadow bulged slowly outside Pete's window and Hutch
flowed over the sill and climbed down.
One glance at Hutch's face told Dargan that Pete still
lived. Hutch led him to the edge of the shadows so that
his fingers showed in the moonlight.
“I'm going back there now,” they told Dargan. “Will
hide till morning. We can use this in more ways than one.
You and Cora go to Fleet Street. Telephone S.
Tell
him-"
One detail after another of his plans Hutch spelled out
with his fingers and made Dargan spell them back. When
Dargan had convinced him that he understood perfectly
Hutch nodded and sent him back over the fence, while he


114
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
himself climbed the vine again, reëntered Pete's room and
started on a silent exploration of the house.
Pete's heavy breathing was ample to cover the infini-
tesimal sounds Hutch made in his prowling. His eyes
seemed to be more at home in the dark than by day. He
moved as exquisitely as a cat hunting. He stood over the
sleeping Pete, as though he would read something there.
His touch on Pete's pillow disturbed it less than Pete's
own breathing With infinite patience and slowness
Hutch's arm slid under the pillow a fraction of an inch
a minute.
In the same way he explored the room, noted the position
of furniture, planning strategic moves that took into
account mere inches. In a drawer of the dresser he found
some papers and transferred them to his pockets without
so much as a rustle.
Soundlessly he explored the rest of the house. Practi-
cally no door within the house was locked. When Hutch
was through with his exploration he knew just how many
there were in the household and how the house itself was
arranged. He then made his way to the top floor and
found, as he expected, a ladder reaching to the trap door
in the roof.
Mounting he discovered a space between the ceiling of
the top floor and the roof proper, a sort of garret. In this
space, a storage room for odds and ends of house and ship
furniture, Hutch found on the criss-cross of beams a satis-


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
115
factory perch. Apparently without a qualm of uneasiness
he fell asleep.
Had some one timed him he would have found that Hutch
slept exactly eighty minutes, as he had set himself to do.
The bluish gray of early morning barely showed; but it
was enough for Hutch.
From his hiding place he made his way down to the
entrance hall. Here dawn came in from the street over
the transom.
From his pocket Hutch took out several small circular
mirrors, some convex, others concave. Each had a sharp,
short nail fixed to its back, One of these mirrors he
fastened to the baseboard at the back of the hall in such
a way that it reflected the length of the hall and at the
same time sent the image deflecting up.
On the story
above in the turn of the banister he fixed another tiny
mirror where it would not be seen but would receive the
reflection from the first mirror and tilt it up to the next
story. There still another hidden mirror sent the reflec-
tion to Hutch in his hiding place. Then he crawled back
into the garret and with a bit of mirror fixed in the edge
of the trap door, lay down and watched. Thus he waited
for hours.
One by one the waking household came out on the land-
ings and were seen by Hutch in his mirrors. It appeared
to be a boarding house for seafaring folks. Its keeper
looked a retired seaman with a big, kindly face surrounded
by a fringe of beard. In the course of the morning one by


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
117
Hutch walked to Pete's door with no precautions for
silence. He knocked confidently. A minute later Pete's
door slowly opened. It had swung a quarter of its arc
before Pete saw his visitor. Then it was too late. Hutch
gave the door a powerful push and darted into the room,
slamming it with his foot. With a quick movement he
turned the key and tore it out of the lock.
Pete in his pajamas, his open shirt showing a heavily
thewed chest, crouched on guard. Hutch was grinning.
The blood in Pete's face slowly ebbed. Then as realization
came of how little hope there was for a peaceful interview,
Pete backed quickly to the bed. Hutch made no attempt
to stop him. Without turning Pete dug his hand under
his pillow and whisked out a big automatic.
Before he had found his revolver, there was in Pete's
face the pallor of fear. Now with his fingers clutched
about the hard rubber handle of the weapon a change came
over him. Hatred flamed with bestial pleasure in his hard,
red face. He advanced a step.
“You bloated spider !” he growled softly. “So you've
come into my parlor, eh?”
Hutch laughed soundlessly. Pete stared at that. Blind
rage followed. Thrusting the revolver forward, Pete pulled
the trigger.
Instead of a drum of revolver fire there was only a
click. Frantically Pete pumped at the trigger. Now he
knew the meaning of Hutch's grin. Throwing away
the revolver, Pete lunged and seized a heavy horsehair


118
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
It was
armchair.
& prodigious feat to raise that
Victorian-heavy chair and make a ferocious swing as
Pete did.
But speed is relative, and Pete's crashing blow missed
its mark. Hutch ducked and caught the chair as it passed
over his head. The very momentum of Pete's blow helped
Hutch twist the chair out of Pete's hand. Simultaneously
Hutch leaped at Pete.
The big fellow was only partly caught off his guard.
He met the onslaught standing and equalized the attack
by a heavy lurch forward. But Hutch's long, lean fingers
were clutched about Pete's windpipe and contracting.
Pete drove a sledge-hammer fist at Hutch's face. The two
were too tightly locked to fall. One long arm of Hutch's
was circled about Pete's back. With the other, clutched
about his windpipe, Hutch was bending Pete's back.
Pete's body at first resisted like iron. At the same time
his fingers worked under those of Hutch at his windpipe.
When Pete had secured three of his fingers about two of
Hutch's he twisted his clenched fist back. There was a
sound of snapping and through Hutch's body shot a whip-
like convulsion.
But the very spasm that seized him wrought a more
deadly grip about Pete. Little by little Pete's body bent
back under the hunchback's terrific pressure. Pete's free
hand groped for a vital spot to strike. His face was
purpling. The veins in his throat stood out like roots.
On Hutch's dripping face there was only animal ecstasy.


THE NERVOUS HOUSE
119
Suddenly with a lightning twist Hutch got both arms
locked under Pete's chin and whirled about. With his
own body behind him as a fulcrum and with a terrific heave
he bent forward, drew Pete’s body into a taut bow and
then gave a sidewise lurch, much as a terrier shakes a rat.
The crack of a great bone sounded and Pete's body broke
in Hutch's grip. It slid from Hutch's back to the floor
and remained in a posture hideously distorted.
Hutch stood over him, his vast chest heaving, his mouth
huge and open, his short legs and long arms bowed, his
eyes small, bloody and glinting, his wide nostrils fluttering.
For five minutes more he stayed on in the room—busy
with a gruesome concern.
Then a quick tap sounded on the door. Hutch slipped
out into the hall, locked the door, put the key in his pocket,
and ran down to the entrance door, where the other two
of his party joined him.
Someone was inserting a key in the street door from
outside. The three threw the door open from within and
stepped out, much to the surprise of the seafaring keeper
of the boarding house. The end of the woman's scarf
caught, as she hurried down, on a wicker point of the
basket over his arm. The pull on the scarf revealed her
face and gave the beholder a shock.
The next moment the trio had hurried down the street
and entering a little closed car, drove off.


CHAPTER XI
NAIDA
AFTER Hugo Malvin had left, Eileen lay with closed
eyes, awaiting strength with which to face her next effort.
She was in a state of lassitude not unpleasant after the
unresting pursuit of the fever. She courted sleep and
drifted into it, giving herself up thankfully.
It was late in the afternoon when she awoke. Watery
sunshine still lingered in the room. As she opened her eyes
the nurse came to her side.
“How are you, my dear?" she asked.
“Rested, thank
you.
Please ask Naida to come.”
The nurse smoothed the bedclothes into neatness.
“Don't you think you'd better deny yourself another
visitor to-day?"
Eileen shook her head.
“I can't rest till I've unsaid some things.
“Dr. Ramey advises"
“Ah, he is a dear man but -a man! Sometimes they
don't understand-
-please !"
“I'll telephone him," said the nurse, and left the room.
After some time she came back.
.
120


NAIDA
121
“Dr. Ramey strongly urges-
Eileen struggled to a half-sitting posture.
“I hate to be insistent,” she said quietly, "but-may
I have my dressing gown, please?”
The nurse stood, undecided, not because she lacked
decision, but because it depended on how far her patient
would resist pressure.
“I'll call Miss Sangree,” she said, and left the room
again.
Eileen leaned back
upon her pillow, her heart beating
fast. After some minutes the door opened slowly and
Naida came in alone. She was in black except for the
purple scarf about her head and face. She walked to
the middle of the room, and stood waiting.
“Naida," whispered Eileen, her hand out. "Will you
forgive me? You know, don't you, how distracted
I was?”
“I hope you are much better,” said Naida, without
emotion.
“Come and help me be," pleaded the girl.
Naida did not stir.
“The nurse advises no more visitors today."
Eileen's hand fell back. A weary sigh escaped her.
“You are unforgiving—but I—don't blame you," she
murmured.
The dark figure turned toward the door. Eileen sat up
and cried out:
"I can't bear to have you go!"
The woman did not pause till she was at the threshold,


122
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
where, half-facing the girl, she said in a dull, unmodulated
tone:
“Mrs. Teiller will look after the house. Llewellyn and
Chilton are attending to your business affairs. I have given
them power to act as your guardians in my place"
"Naida !” The girl's voice was a cry. “What are you
going to do?”
Miss Sangree put her hand on the door knob.
“Your father,” she said over her shoulder, "appointed
me your guardian with full power to transact business,
administer your property and hold it in trust until you
are twenty-two." Her manner became precise and em-
phatic. “Yesterday morning I spent with Mr. Llewellyn
at his office arranging for the transfer of guardianship.
I told him I must decline the trust. I wish you well."
She had opened the door and was fairly out of the room
when Eileen's sharp cry halted her:
"You don't wish me well, Naida! You are planning to
drive me mad!"
Naida slowly reëntered the room and closed the door
but came no nearer the girl.
what
you mean by that.” Her tone was hostile
and her dark eyes between the folds of the purple veil
regarded Eileen steadily.
Eileen struggled up and dragged herself out of bed.
Reaching for the robe on the footboard she drew it on and,
supporting herself by the furniture, came haltingly over
to Naida Sangree.
“Dear,”_her breath came painfully, "see, I come to
“Tell me


NAIDA
123
you pleading. It was an unspeakable thing I did after all
you have done for me. "Cheat I called you! I can under-
stand that you should not want to forgive me, even
though I was half mad when I said it. But I can't under-
stand your hating me so—"
“I do hate you,” Naida said with slowly rising passion.
“I hate you. ... Almost as much as I hate myself !”
So unexpected was the note of bitterness, so profound
its weariness of life, that Eileen could not bear it.
She flung her arms about the other's neck and buried
her face in her bosom, sobbing.
Without emotion, Naida unclasped the arms about her
and led Eileen back to bed. With hands not ungentle she
took off the girl's peignoir, made her lie down, covered
her and sat down by the bedside. When Eileen was com-
posed enough to listen, Naida began in a low, dispassionate
tone as though she were speaking of someone only remotely
connected with them:
"You know, Eileen, that until two years ago I was
utterly alone in the world. It is true I had some family
and a few acquaintances, but never a friend. There is a
coldness in me that repels people. Rightly so. I am too
critical, demand too much, despise too genuinely, hate
too well.
“The few persons who could have reached me never took
the trouble. For them there were other friendships more
promising, much more easily attained. Perhaps they were
right. . .. I only know that until you came there were
few who made the effort.


124
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“I tried to console myself with the thought that if these
people had only taken the trouble to know me, they could
have counted on a devotion not many would be willing to
give
My life
“I know," Eileen whispered.
“Then because the few whose friendship I wanted held
off, I hated them. A vicious circle, you see.
became intolerable. I longed so passionately for extinc-
tion, for an end to all feeling-—I would long ago have
killed myself—without the least compunction.
“What held me was the thought not of the moment of
death but of the terrible Thereafter. I know with all the
conviction in me that we can't achieve unconsciousness
with mere 'death.' For those who destroy themselves there
is in store a period of consciousness much harder to endure
than the wait for 'death' on this plane. You don't believe
these things, Eileen. But for me, who do believe, it has
terrible force.
“You see what a cruel dilemma life has been. I must
continue my days and come to my next existence corroded
with hate, or, if I kill myself I sink into a spiritual abyss
from which I must climb again through some such hell as
I live in now."
She sensed the rising pity in Eileen and fiercely
checked it.
“Don't !” she cried. .. “Don't pity me.
Bitterness
is the one thing that sustains me. ..
I met you and your father. You were among the few I
wanted to want me. I hoped you would fight past the
Two years ago


NAIDA
125
99
barrier of coldness. You did. Your father, too, wanted
me to be your companion. And for that I have been glad
to give you all there was in my starved nature"
“And it was you I called 'cheat?!” Eileen murmured.
"You, the best of women-
"No," Naida broke in. “I am really bad in the most
significant sense of the word. No one is good who can
hate as I do. Even the things I want to do kindly, I do
with a hardness, a ruthlessness of will, that turns my
action into a cruel thing.
“I drove you to visit the medium, when anyone else
would have foreseen what would follow. You would have
done better to take the Scotland Yard man's advice
instead. But not even when I saw how unstrung you were
from the séance did I relent. And when you called me
“cheat,' Eileen, the hate leaped up in me!
“It is hate that makes people bad. And—I-can-hate,
Eileen! I hated you at that moment. And when you
rushed out into the fog I was glad! When I heard
you were hurt and in delirium, even then I found it in
my heart not to feel sorry! When Dr. Ramey forbade my
seeing you, just as Inspector Hawley had warned you not
to go with me to the séance, I felt free again, with no one to
make me feel a conscience. So I resigned my guardian-
ship-
"Dearest!" Eileen broke in, rising to an elbow and seiz-
ing Naida's hands. “You say you don't know how to do
a kind thing without hurting. I don't believe that. But
here is your chance to do as wonderful a thing for me as


126
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
when you— All right, I won't speak of that! But please
let me send my lawyers word that you have decided at my
pleading to take back the trust my father placed on you.
Will you?”
Naida remained silent so long that Eileen sank back.
The older woman turned sharply in her despairing sigh.
“All right, Eileen,” she said quietly.
“Thank you,” whispered the girl.
They watched the gathering twilight without speaking.
It was Eileen who finally broke the silence.
"What must I believe-of-of what the medium, Mrs.
Lewis-
At first Naida did not answer. Then she said:
“I cannot advise you on that."
“Why not, dear?”
“It compels me to protest that I did not cheat.”
A flush crept into Eileen's cheeks. She tightened her
hold on Naida's hands.
“No. But someone else may have cheated."
"Possibly."
“Oh, Naida, help me! If I must really believe in spirit-
ism and its revelations, I can see only madness before me.
The face of light I saw in the corner of that room-
The girl's hands crept up to her eyes.
“That apparition need not trouble you,” said Naida
slowly. “It could well have been a piece of trickery on
the part of Mrs. Lewis->
"Do you really mean that pº


NAIDA
127
9
“Perfectly possible," the other nodded. "Many mediums
have been caught cheating and have been exposed. It is
not on such phenomena that serious spiritualists like
Lodge and others base their belief. But when a medium
speaks for a spirit and tells you things which only you
and the dead' knew in common-
She stopped.
“Go on, Naida, please
“No, Eileen. There is no point to it. I asked you to
go to her that night, not because I wanted to convert you
but in the hope that the séance would lead to some clue
to
“Oh-h!”
It was a low, rising wail, as from one coming out of
ether to unbearable realization and pain. Naida’s words
had opened the dykes of memory, and Eileen went down
in the flood. Her senses reeled and rocked.
But again the splendid vitality of the girl came to her
rescue. From every part of her came painfully summoned
help. Her hands strangled the wild cry on her lips. Her
nerves fought off the panic. Her mind clung desperately
to sanity. Her will marshaled all her efforts and kept
them cruelly to their task until the shock and storm had
slowly passed. Then, spent and breathless, Eileen came
back to self-mastery.
“Now,” she whispered, “now-go on.”
Naida proceeded.
“I hoped the séance would bring some clue to your
father's murderer; some clue we could follow."


128
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“Then you admit the séance told us nothing?"
"No. I don't admit it.”
“What did it tell us?"
"Eileen," said Naida slowly, "I shall tell you because
I know your insistence will win in the end. But as you
will not believe what I shall tell you, my speaking can do
little harm. If, however,” she went on gravely, "I
thought you would believe it, as I believe it-I should not
tell you what you ask.”
"You frighten me—a little.” Eileen tried to smile.
"It frightens me still more. Eileen, do you remember
my using the word poltergeist at Mrs. Lewis's?”
“Yes."
“Spiritualists believe that most spirits try to communi-
cate with those on earth through mediums. Some spirits,
however, either through lack of self-control or because evil
still dominates in them, attempt it through any means they
can seize upon. They try to force themselves on the atten-
tions of those in this world by noises, by breaking things,
by throwing objects about, by doing injury-terrible
injury often—to people here.
“Through Mrs. Lewis, your father spoke of his former
partner, Garra, who killed himself when your father beat
him in the lawsuit. Your father told us of the hate the
man still feels in the other world, and of his passion for
revenge.
“That your father-kind man that he was--should
be murdered by mysterious agencies without possible
motive that the bloody fingerprints corresponding only


NAIDA
129
to those of a man executed five days before the mur-
der-such things seem to me the work of a poltergeist,
the poltergeist of Garra! Fortunately for your peace
of mind, this sounds to you like claptrap."
Eileen remained silent for a long time.
“Frankly," she said at last, “I shall fight against any
such belief, Naida. You see yourself that I must. Other-
wise I shall fear the pursuit of that spirit. That would
make such a horror of life that"
A gentle knock on the door interrupted them.
The maid entered.
"Inspector Hawley, of Scotland Yard, wishes to speak
to Miss Sangree."
Naida rose. "I will see him in the library.”
"Please! Oh, I want to see him too!” cried Eileen
eagerly.
“Will you insist on it, as you have hitherto?” asked
Naida. "You know, Dr. Ramey-
“I know my strength best. I have been eager to see
that man.
“Ask him to come here," said Naida to the maid.
“I beg pardon, miss, but he said particularly he wanted
to see you alone."
“That is because he thought I was too ill,” explained
Eileen. "Please ask him to come here."
“There are several strangers with him."
“Have them wait in the library."
“Yes, Miss Eileen,” as the girl left the room. A few
moments later she returned.
9
92


130
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
"I have told Inspector Hawley that Miss Eileen wishes
to see him here. He insists it is you, Miss Sangree, and
you alone he must see.”
Naida rose. “I will bring him in here.” She left the
room, her scarf close about her face. In the library she
found Inspector Hawley and three other men.
“Miss Goodrich insists that she must see you," Naida
said coldly.
The big Scotland Yard man shook his head.
“I really must see you alone."
“I can't think of anything you have to say to me,
she replied, regarding him steadily, “that cannot be said
before her.”
“Nevertheless there is something that will disturb her
too much," he insisted. “She has undergone too much
shock already.”
“She and I must be the judges of that.” Naida moved
toward the door, but Hawley made as if to intercept her.
“Please do not go."
Naida drew back. “Are you speaking now as a police
officer?”
Hawley was distressed.
"Perhaps if you
let me explain-
“I shall listen in Miss Goodrich's room-unless
you
wish
to keep me here by virtue of your authority."
Hawley pondered. Then, turning to the men with him,
he said: “Wait here.” Stepping aside he let her precede
him to Eileen's room.
99


CHAPTER XII
THE NAIDA OF YESTERDAY
ELLEEN greeted the Inspector eagerly.
“I'm so very glad to see you,” she exclaimed, giving
him her hand.
“Thank you," he said gravely. “I must ask you, Miss
Goodrich, to use your influence with Miss Sangree to give
me an interview with her alone. It is of the highest
importance."
“We must consider the matter settled," broke in Naida.
"You either say what you wish before Miss Goodrich, or
take the responsibility of arresting me. I shall not agree
otherwise.”
Hawley's face grew stern.
“I sincerely hope there will be no need for drastic
measures
Eileen stared from one to the other.
“Why, what is the matter?" she asked. “What is this
talk of arrest? You frighten me.”
“Forgive my saying so,” said Hawley with a touch of
sternness, “but from Miss Sangree's insistence I should
say she has no objection to frightening you."
Naida’s reply was to draw away from him.
181


192
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“Mr. Hawley!” cried Eileen, "You mustn't say such a
thing of Naida—because you really don't mean it."
Hawley was silent, unrelenting.
“Won't you say you didn't mean that?" Eileen pleaded.
Hawley did not reply.
“That you could think Naida would want to frighten
me !"
He was silent.
“But what possible motive could Naida have,” persisted
Eileen, "in wanting to frighten me?"
There was something of the quality of steel shears
closing in Naida's tone.
“Inspector Hawley probably knows,” she said, “that by
the will of your father I was made executrix of his estate,
and your guardian. It would be decidedly to my advantage
if you-became insane through shock or strain. It would
give me practically unlimited power over your property."
“Naida, don't talk that way!" cried the girl. “Please
ask her forgiveness, Mr. Hawley. You are hurting her.”
To her great distress, the man from Scotland Yard said
nothing. Eileen saw he was not disinclined to believe what
Naida suggested. The girl's eyes widened with alarm.
Then she came to a firm decision.
“On that mantelpiece,” she said quietly, turning to
Hawley, “is a photograph. Will you do me the favor,
Mr. Hawley, of bringing it?”
The Inspector wonderingly did as she asked him, looking
at the large silver-framed photograph as he brought it.


THE NAIDA OF YESTERDAY
133
A woman's face of breath-taking beauty looked coldly.
from the picture. The face had the modeling of Grecian
sculpture of the classic period. There was not a flaw in
its proportions, in its regal cast of feature, the perfect
clarity and smoothness of skin. The large eyes were as
coldly dispassionate as those of Praxiteles' Minerva. The
arms were lightly crossed upon the breast, showing hands
and fingers of exquisite line and sensibility—the fingers not
only expressive of the artist, but themselves instruments
of art.
“Mr. Hawley," said Eileen, “that photograph is only
so much paper compared to the beauty it faintly repre-
sented. And the face there is only a cold mask when I
think of the music she used to evoke from her violin. Why,
she could have stood beside Kreisler as a violinist! Her
technique was not one bit less wonderful than his.
“But life and something in her nature had made her
bitter toward most men and women. She could not keep
it out of her playing. She gave up the concert stage and
became my teacher and companion. My father and I felt
that life had not treated her fairly, and we tried to make
up, a little, for it. At first it seemed only a matter of
business with her, of earning a living. She was with us,
not of us. We thought she didn't care Then, one day-
please, dearest, don't go” For Naida, who had been
standing at the window, her back to them, now moved
toward the door.
"Eileen," she said, "what you are telling can be of no


134
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
value whatever to Mr. Hawley, and it is very unpleasant
to me to have my private life unfolded before him."
"Naida !” entreated Eileen. "You have done so much
for me that I can only beg of you to do this little more.
Please stay!"
Saying no more, Naida remained.
“One day,” Eileen continued in a low voice, “in our
cottage in Concord, near Boston, I was at work alone in
Father's laboratory. It was dreadfully hot. I had been
up late the night before, reading. I fell asleep in my chair.
I must have left the Bunsen burner with the flame under
à retort half filled with some preparation I had been
experimenting with.
“While I slept-" Eileen's voice grew a little breath-
less, "the stuff boiled over, caught fire and wrapped the
laboratory in flames. Father was in Boston and the two
servants were both out. Only Naida was at home. I was
so fast asleep that she became aware of the fire before I
did. She ran to the laboratory. At the door she was
driven back by smoke and flame. But she saw me in the
chair by the window, and disregarding all danger she flew
to me. I seemed to be drugged by the smoke and gases.
She tried to awaken me, but could not. So she took me up
in her arms and started to carry me out. Chemicals were
exploding all about her. ..."
Eileen's voice grew fainter. She stopped, gathered
breath and with an effort went on.
“As she passed a carboy of acid, it exploded, drenching


THE NAIDA OF YESTERDAY
135
.
her face and hands with the burning fluid. ... I was
burned only where the stuff splashed on my back and
shoulder, fully clothed. She got me outside and put me
down on the lawn. Neighbors revived me, and asked for
Naida.
“She was nowhere to be found.
“We searched everywhere. At first we were afraid she
had gone back and had been caught. But when the fire
was out, we found no trace.
“Then one day in a hospital in Brockton, a doctor we
knew telephoned us he had recognized in a patient who
had come in terribly burned about the face and hands the
beautiful woman he used to hear playing the violin at our
house. Naida denied her identity. But Father and I went
to see her.
“When she realized what had happened to her face and
hands, she wanted no one who knew her ever to see her
again Her religious belief against suicide was all that
kept her from killing herself. We had the greatest diffi-
culty getting her to come back to us. . . Naida__
Eileen's voice was shaken.
"Please, for my sake” The girl's hands went to the
scarf about Naida's face and gently parted it.
Hawley glanced at the once beautiful face, disfigured
with patches of angry brown, and averted his eyes.
“Noplease look,” Eileen begged.
He turned. Naida's face was again covered, but Eileen


CHAPTER XIII
THE AFFAIR IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
WHEN Inspector Hawley reëntered the room it was with
a squat, bowlegged old man, obviously a mariner. He was
dressed in blue and held awkwardly a ship officer's cap.
His face was huge, ruddy and a fringe of soft white beard
framed it. In his washed-out blue eyes there was the
expression of a kindly man engaged in a stern errand.
“Captain Higgmore,” Hawley said presenting him.
“Formerly in the Australasian Transport. His record
of forty-five years of service is one of the finest in the
mercantile service. Captain, this is Miss Goodrich.”
The captain gravely saluted.
“And Miss Sangree," Hawley added.
The mariner turned uneasily, stared a little, nodded and
involuntarily turned away.
“Will you tell the ladies what took place in your
house since the coming of Streeter, Captain?” Hawley
requested.
Eileen had drawn Naida to her side and drew her arm
through hers. The captain addressed himself wholly to
Eileen.
“Since I left active service, miss, my wife and I have
kept a boarding house in Redman's Road for officers of
137


138
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
the merchant marine and their families. In the seven years
we've been at it we've never had anything at our house
but quiet, comfort and steady sailing. Well. About ten
days ago our best room on the second floor was empty on
our hands. One day a stranger came, an American by the
speech of him, and asked if he could see the room. He said
he'd been with the American army, got gassed in the
Argonne and was looking for a quiet room.
“Well, miss, I hesitated. I didn't like to refuse a former
soldier. But this man didn't look just right to me. He
was big and red and seemed as tough as a butcher; and
there was something in his look I didn't like. I felt that
if he was crossed there wouldn't be anything he'd stop at.
So I was about to refuse him the room; not blunt-like,
because after all he really may have been a soldier, though
I had a bit of a doubt, too. But I put a stiff price on the
room, expecting he would find it too dear. He just took
out a pocketbook and stuffed a week's rent into my hand
before I could say another word. After that there was
nothing to do but let him in and keep a weather eye open.
“He spent almost all his time in his room, quiet and
minding his own business and went out only at night. And
not a soul came to see him—till yesterday morning."
The captain steadfastly avoided looking at Naida.
“Yesterday morning three people must have come to see
Streeter-that was the name he gave us. But how they
got into the house is a mystery to me. Our maid heard
no bell. My wife was in bed with a bit of fever she'd


AFFAIR IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
139
caught in Madagascar on a trip with me. I was out
marketing. I ought to know something about provision-
ing crafts," he added with a suggestion of apology for
his errand. “But I did see the three strangers when I came
back. I had just put my key into the front door when
it opened from the inside and two men and a woman hur-
ried out. I couldn't see the faces of any of them at first-
you remember it was raining yesterday morning, and they
were all muffled
up
with scarfs and hats and coat collars.
“One of the men I'll never forget. He wasn't as tall
as I. But he made me think of a gorilla. He had a chest
that was tremenjus, miss. Tremenjus! And his arms
were very long. He gave you the feeling that he could
crack your ribs in with them. The other man was young
and slim and quick moving. That's all I can say about
him, not seeing his face or anything striking in his appear-
ance. As to the woman—the lady-
He colored and stopped with a look of inquiry at
Hawley. Then remembering his errand there, he said
doggedly: "For all the world she looked like Miss Sangree
there!"
Eileen looked at him wonderingly.
“Are you sure, Captain, since you say you didn't see
her face?” she asked,
“She had on the same kind of silk scarf this lady is
wearing,” the captain said sternly. “She kept her face
hidden in the same way. And as she passed me the scarf
caught on a twig of my basket and I did catch a glimpse


140
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
It was-
of her face. It sent a shock through me.
He turned to Hawley in embarrassment.
“For the moment you
needn't
go
into that, Captain,"
Hawley suggested.
“They got into a taxi that had been waiting for them
a few doors down," Captain Higgmore resumed. “And
off they went. I went into the house and asked the maid
whom these people had been visiting. She didn't know
they'd been there.
“I went into my wife's room to talk it over with her,"
the captain went on. "Simon," she said, 'I thought I heard
noises in Streeter's room this morning! And as she said
that she looked up at the ceiling—his room was exactly
over hers. The next moment she grabs my wrist with a
kind of squeal. Well, I looked up too, and my heart fairly
jumped. There on my good white ceiling was a dark spot
that wasn't there before. In the center of the spot it was
shiny—and wet. It was terrible, miss, that spot coming
there so quiet-and spreading as we looked.
“I rushed up and found Streeter's door locked. I
pounded but he didn't answer. So I let myself in with
the maid's key. At first I couldn't see him. But the sofa
was pulled into the middle of the room, right over the spot.
And when I bent down to look under it~he was lying
there, his cheek to the floor, his head terribly loose-like.
I pulled the sofa away and saw—»
A low cry from Eileen cut him off. It was Hawley who
continued.


AFFAIR IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
141
"His throat was cut,” he said, himself avoiding Eileen's
horrified eyes. “There were signs of a powerful struggle.
Captain Higgmore called the police. I was notified that
the dead man answered the description of the 'lame' man
your chauffeur saw get into your
father's car. Later your
man positively identified him. And there were fingerprints
found on 'Streeter'—the same fingerprints as were found
on your father. Not those of George Holwick, however,
the man who was executed in Pentonville Prison. On
Streeter we found fingerprints of the other man, whom we
had not identified until this morning."
“Who is it?" gasped Eileen.
"In Streeter's right hand was clutched a bit of cloth
torn off in the struggle, I suppose," Hawley went on,
evading Miss Goodrich's question. “With it was a bit
of paper. The cloth was part of an outer coat-pocket
and the paper that came away with it was a check for
something left in the parcel room of a small London hotel.
Through it we traced our man.”
“Who is it?" Eileen cried.
“May I not first dispose of the difficulty of Miss San-
gree?” Hawley entreated. You realize, of course, that
Captain Higgmore's description involves her. Captain,
was this the lady you saw leave your
house yesterday
morning?”
“I shouldn't want to swear to that unless I saw the
face,” the mariner protested.
It was Eileen who parted Naida's scarf.


144
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
an
Naida laughed.
“You're very simple, Eileen,” Her manner cut like a
scalpel. “Can't you see that we've been under surveillance
-police surveillance ever since your father's death? I
find that some of our servants have been mysteriously re-
placed by strangers in the last few days. It is barely pos-
sible that Inspector Hawley may be able to inform you
why.”
Hawley flushed.
“Since you have refused to coöperate,” he said, "we
must use what m we can. You insist on secrecy as
to your movements yesterday morning?”
“Since your espionage is so thorough why is it neces-
sary for me to tell you?”
“Because, unfortunately, at the time we did not feel the
necessity of following you.
." His hand reached toward the
bell button. But before he could touch it Eileen broke
into a glad cry.
“Wait! I have it !"
She snatched an address book from her desk and
opened it.
“Mr. Hawley, you have heard of my father's attorneys,
Llewellyn and Chilton?” He nodded. “Here is their tele-
phone number. Please call them up and ask for Mr. Llew-
ellyn.”
Hawley, surprised by her excitement, did as he was
told. In the silence of waiting he avoided Naida's gaze,


AFFAIR IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
145
in which was the glint of sneering triumph. "What do
you want to ask him, Miss Goodrich ?” he said.
“What you want Naida to tell you." Eileen's voice
reflected her excitement.
“Mr. Llewellyn?” Hawley spoke into the tele-
phone. “You may remember me, Inspector Hawley of
C. I. D.? ... I'm well, thank you. And you?-Good.
Mr. Llewellyn, I am speaking for Miss Eileen Goodrich on
her telephone. She wants me to ask you where Miss San-
gree was yesterday morning between ten and half-past
eleven?"
“What a curious question! Ah, I see,” replied the
attorney. “Well, Miss Sangree was in conference with us
at our office at that time. The appointment had been
made the day before and Miss Sangree came promptly at
half-past ten. It was in reference to the carrying out of
certain provisions of Dr. Goodrich's will."
“There would be no difficulty in establishing exactly
the time of the conference?" Hawley interrogated.
“An office-full of affidavits, if necessary," Llewellyn
replied.
“Thank you very much and good-by.” Hawley hung
up the receiver slowly. His face was burning with embar-
rassment. “Mr. Llewellyn relieves me of the necessity of
pressing a painful matter just now," he said with an eva-
sion uncharacteristic of him.
Eileen put her arms about Naida.


146
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
"Say something to Naida,” she urged Hawley with a
tired smile.
“I can only make the excuses of a bewildered man,” he
said lamely. “And I sincerely hope that I shall be equally
bewildered in the case of someone else in whom you are
interested, Miss Goodrich."
“The man you connect with the murder of
my
father
and Mr. Streeter's?" she faltered. “Who is it?" she asked,
but did not dare to utter the name on her lips.
“Where so many bewildering things have happened one
may hope that even this matter may not be as serious as
it appears.” Hawley was casting about for some comfort
for Eileen. “You have had more than enough to distress
you for one day,” he apologized. “And if I bring up this
matter now, it's because it's bound to come to you any-
way~and I prefer to bring it myself.”
“Who is it?" Eileen's voice was barely a whisper.
Hawley slowly went to the door and opened it. A man
stood in the hallway. “Bring him in, will you, Berk?”
Hawley said.
He remained at the door, uneasy and
harassed. Footsteps sounded in the corridor. “You may
wait in the reception room, Berk, if you will.” Hawley
stepped aside.
Into the room stepped Hugo Malvin, his face haggard
and gray, his eyes dull with fires burnt out, his clothes
wrinkled and hair disordered. He looked at Eileen with
compassion. But he stayed aloof, waiting her reaction.
She looked at him without a word. Then unsteadily she


AFFAIR IN LIMEHOUSE REACH
147
held out her arms. He approached hesitatingly. She
touched his hair, smoothing it to neatness.
“My poor boy,” she murmured. Hawley turned to the
window.
Malvin smiled with twitching lips.
“Never mind," he faltered, “it will turn out all right.”
She drew him to the lounge and made him sit close to
her.
“I don't know what it's all about, Hugo," she said
quietly, “but I do know you have never wronged a human
being.”
He flinched.
"I don't deserve that,” he responded, "but I ask you to
believe I had nothing to do with what they charge me.”
“Of course I believe it,” she answered in earnest. “I
love you, so I know.”
"Eileen, my hands are clean of your father's blood !” he
cried.
Hawley looked at Malvin, but turned away again.
“Need you say it, Hugo?”
“Ah,” he smiled wanly. “I do indeed need to
say
it.
If I could only prove it!"
She drew a long breath. “I can listen to it now."
“Tell her, Inspector,” Malvin said.
Hawley spoke like a tired man. “He has no explana-
tion to make of why he left you the night of the murder
when you went to the telephone. The murder occurred
at an hour and place where he could have been present.”
29


148
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
"I have told you, Inspector, that I went out of the res-
taurant into the fog and wandered about half the night-
lost and unseen,” Malvin said dully.
Eileen stopped the question on her lips. She, too,
wanted to know why he had left her; where he had gone.
But his need of protection at this moment was her first
concern.
“Mr. Hawley,” she protested, "there were thousands of
other people in the neighborhood at the time and place we
are speaking of, who could not prove it with witnesses !"
Hawley shook his head.
“There is only one person whose fingerprints correspond
to some of those found both on your father and on
Streeter-
The girl smiled piteously.
“I haven't much faith in fingerprints as clues," she said.
“Otherwise I would have to believe that a man five days
dead had_killed my father. No—" she shook her head,
"I cannot believe in them."
Hawley made a gesture of despair.
“Alas! But a jury will."
“You must find a motive," persisted the girl.
Malvin got to his feet.
"I'm ready to go, Hawley," said he.
Eileen put her arms around him. “I am not ready to
let you go! You have not told me, Mr. Hawley, what pos-
sible motive Hugo Malvin could have had for murdering
my father.”


A BREATH OF FORGETTING
151
with him alone? You see, don't you, he's trying to get
out of a perfectly good engagement. Just five minutes !"
Garra cried, “Hawley, don't !"
“Five minutes," Eileen begged Hawley, disregarding
Garra but clinging to his arm.
She looked anxiously into Hawley's face; for he had
not answered. He was avoiding her eyes. There was
something in his own eyes he would not for the world have
her see. It was a refusal, though it was not the mere fact
of the refusal he wanted to hide. That of course would
have to be said; it was his duty. What he tried to hide
was something that reinforced that refusal, something
personal to him-a deep, unaccustomed emotion.
But the translucent honesty of the man gave him away.
Eileen saw and sensed; and it startled and affected her.
It would have been a trying dilemma for any woman of
sensibility to beg a favor of a man under such circum-
stances. But Eileen's profound and instinctive sincerity
lifted the moment above lesser considerations. Impulsively
her hand went out and clasped his.
"My dear friend” Even with her smile it was a
deep and beautiful avowal and pledge. "I need you. I
shall never forget you!"
The color flooded his face. But it went again at the
pain in her cry, "Five little minutes!...
Hawley turned to the door and held it open for Naida.
Without a word she left.
“You shall not be disturbed,” he said gently to Eileen.


A BREATH OF FORGETTING
153
“I must tell
you
what I am!”
She shook her head.
“That's what I mean to find out for myself. But I want
to know much more important things than what you want
to tell me. Will you answer?”
"Anything !"
“Then tell me
A tender smile illuminated her.
“Tell me and tell me truly-how good a game of tennis do
you play?"
He looked at her, distressed.
“You promised," she insisted, “and it's very important.
Tennis is one of the joys of my life; and if I am to marry
a man for some sixty or eighty years I must know that he
can share that joy with me. Answer me, Hugo!"
He saw her brave design. She meant to make this a
brief respite, a breath of forgetting. With an effort, he
brought himself to her pitch of will.
“Well" He, too, tried to smile. "The silver cup
for the Middle West Intercollegiate singles for 1919 is
mine!"
She uttered a cry of delight and unbelief.
"Hugo-no!"
“Yes!”
She seized his face in her hands and studied the tremen-
dous announcement.
“Do you mean to say
that you are the man who beat
Chick Owen of Wisconsin University?"
"I am. Why?”


154
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
She looked at him as though speechless.
“And did
you
shake hands with him after the match ?”
“Certainly,” with a puzzled smile. "Why not?”
She leaned back and regarded him with wide eyes.
“Do
you
know what
you
did when
you
did that?" she
demanded dramatically.
“I thought I knew," he said wondering.
"Hugo Malvin-"She checked herself abruptly and
asked: "Where did you get the name Malvin?”
“My mother's.”
"I am glad.” Then, resuming her former manner,
“Hugo Malvin Garra, you shook hands and exchanged
felicitations with the man who once cruelly, brutally beat
your wife!”
He stared.
“What do you?” Then realization broke on him
and in spite of himself there came a shout of wondering
laughter. "No."
“Yes," she laughed. “I was having it all my way in the
semi-finals mixed doubles when up came Chick Owen. Then
the outrageous manner in which he beat me! Oh, and you,
you shook hands with him! And you aren't ashamed of it
or penitent! Are you?"
“No, I can't say I am!” He had to laugh again.
She shook him by the shoulders.
"What a creature! What a disposition! What shall
I do with a husband like that? You will probably treat
me brutally too !"


A BREATH OF FORGETTING
155
He could not respond to that. The mood of forgetting
was slipping from him. She caught it back.
“Another thing I must know, dear. Do you like fires?
Indoors and out?"
“Very much.”
"Because I love them,” she went on, regarding the
drowsy hearth. “And I shall insist on being taken camp-
ing. On second thought, I don't think we will begin with
Yosemite, Too grand a mood at first, too stimulat-
ing. I own a tiny island on Raquette Lake in the
Adirondacks. It's as big as a hat but it's away from
everything and in the bluest lake in the world. It's pro-
tected from storm by the friendliest old bald-headed moun-
tain. The islet is so shaggy that deer cross the ice in
winter and nest in it. We shall go there, you and I, and
pitch camp. A canoe, an axe for firewood, a dozen books
of verse, provisions from the village seven miles away,
and Thee beside me in the wilderness- Why, Hugo,
my dearest!”
Hot tears, which the seared lines of his face had not
known in the fieriest ordeals, sprang to his eyes. He tried
to hide them but she saw and with her arms about him
pressed his face to her cheek. Holding him so she went
on quietly.
“A launch comes with the provisions we order the day
before. You see, sometimes we don't feel like paddling to
the village. . . . The sunsets are beyond words there.
And in the fall come the Northern Lights. Beautiful!


CHAPTER XV
HUGO'S STORY
let us say
DR. RAMEY sat by Eileen's bed at his wits' end with
a problem in human endurance.
“My dear Eileen, have you any faith in me as your
physician?” he asked finally.
“Yes, Doctor,” she murmured.
“Then please believe me, that what you propose to do
will make me very uneasy
for
your-
- endur-
ance. You've been splendid, considering how finely organ-
ized you are and what shocks you have undergone. But it
is not wise to overdo, is it? For some days you should rest
in bed. So we'll say nothing of the folly of getting up
today—and to visit a prison, of all places.”
“Hugo, not prison."
"Eileen, I'm going to propose something I consider
imperative for you. You will think me heartless. But all
my judgment and experience is behind this advice to you.
My dear, you must leave England. Go back to America.
Get out of this environment for you so full of-painful
associations. You must!"
The earnest words came with added force from a man
who ordinarily expressed himself conservatively, hopefully.
158


HUGO'S STORY
159
Eileen smiled faintly. “You aren't asking me to go
away and leave everything?"
“Otherwise I shall be afraid for you."
“Leave Hugo-deserted—in prison? Why, I hope to
marry him!”
9
Dr. Ramey rose and paced the room.
“He can join you when he is free.”
“When will that be?”
“I don't know, Eileen.”
"I want to help get him free.”
He stopped before her.
“You can't !” he said with a sort of gentle impatience.
"You will only spend yourself. There is too much evi-
dence-
“All the more reason why I must see him this morning."
She rose to a sitting position as she spoke. He stared
helplessly at that stubborn will in so fragile a frame.
Expert in human dynamics though he was, he knew of no
formula that would tell him in advance which would prove
the greater ordeal for her -a scene in prison with the man
she loved and whom by all the laws of evidence she would
soon have to surrender to a murderer's fateor the stress
of emotion inevitable should she be kept from seeing Garra.
Characteristically she settled his indecision.
“Doctor, you must realize that I cannot possibly endure
not seeing Hugo today. I shall take all the responsibility
of anything happening to me. Do ring for Ann, like a
dear.”


160
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Dr. Ramey went to the door.
“I shall be held responsible just the same." There was
a touch of anger in his tone. “It is difficult for me to re-
main your physician if you persist in this course.'
He left the room abruptly. Eileen's thoughts were too
intent elsewhere to realize the distress she was causing her
doctor and friend.
The maid entered and Eileen told her what clothes she
wanted. Comparatively unimportant as the choice was,
Eileen had already given the matter some thought, charged
with feeling. Her father had often spoken of his dislike
for mourning dress. A parade of gloom, he called it; and
had made her promise she would never wear black for him.
“Whether I am able to see you or not, I want to think
of you always wearing your newest frock and the little
mouse-gray toque with the silver buckle and the perky
feather."
The time had come for her to fulfil his wish. She chose
a simple blue dress that had come from Paris a few weeks
before. When she had completed her toilette, dressing
slowly to conserve every bit of strength, she put on the
toque her father loved. The narrow buckle of crusted
silver had been her great-grandmother's. In it was set
a short blue feather at an angle that had a touch of the
rakish. It made her wince as she saw it in the mirror but
she went through with it.
Then she went to the telephone and called up Inspector
Hawley at Scotland Yard.


HUGO'S STORY
161
“I want very much to talk to Hugo this morning," she
said, without any preliminary amenities.
He hesitated.
"All right, Miss Goodrich," he agreed. "I shall try to
arrange it."
“Why, is there the slightest doubt about it?”
Her voice rose. It was unlike her, this impatience and
brusqueness. She was more unstrung than she had real-
ized. Although Ann had helped her dress, the exertion
had made her giddy. But that alone would not have made
her forget her habitual considerateness. It was a peculiar
headache that had come on suddenly. She first felt it as
soon as she had put on her hat. Momentarily it grew in
violence. With it came quivering pain unlike any she had
ever felt. It began just inside her skull and progressed
inward until her head seemed to harden to a core of agony.
She realized, however, her lack of courtesy to Hawley.
“Please forgive me! I don't mean to be peevish. I
am-so anxious to see Hugo.”
“It's quite all right, Miss Goodrich. By the time you
arrive it will be arranged for you."
She dropped back into an armchair and pressed her
throbbing head. When she got into her car she pulled
down the blinds frantically. Even mere daylight was
agony. Every move of the car was added torture.
At Scotland Yard Hawley met her and escorted her
through miles of corridor of the great brooding building.
“Have you any news, Inspector?” she asked.


HUGO'S STORY
163
without my adding to it," he said, his tone harsh with
determination. “I am going to tell you about myself.
What I tried to tell you at your house. It will be no more
pleasant for you than for me. And if after what I have
told you you decide to have nothing more to do with me
I shall understand.”
“I shouldn't.”
“You're very rash,” he said unsteadily. Then he took
hold of himself. “Like you, I lost my mother when I was
a kid. And like you I too was at college when my father
and yours came together to develop their process of ex-
tracting radium. Summers I worked in construction
camps. Just before graduation--I was studying engineer-
ing I got an offer of a decent job in the oil fields in Meso-
potamia. I accepted it and ran down to see Father before
going off to the East.
“I had always admired Dad for a certain idealism in
him. He was bent on research for its own sake, for the
cause of science, the good of humanity. That is why I
was so shocked at the change in him when I came back two
years later.
“I knew he had gone to Mexico with your father; that
there had been some distressing quarrel between them
about the division of profits. They had even fought-
those two men of science had fought like brawling sailors—
with fists. Then came the lawsuit and Father lost. I
came back soon after.
“Eileen, instead of the man of science I had left, I found


164
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
a feverish gambler, greedy, frenzied at losing, lusting with
revenge. He was so full of hate against your father, he
had brooded over his case so much and the whole affair
had made such a terrible change in him that I began to
share his feeling toward your father. It seemed to me
too that Dr. Goodrich had given less than my father; that
he had grasped a larger share than he deserved ; that it
was luck and a sort of mean ability that won the lawsuit
for him; just as it was only physical superiority that
won that fist fight in the wilderness. I used to see a vision
of my father on the ground, bleeding at the lips with your
father standing over him, leering.
“One morning Dad did not come down to breakfast. I
went up to his room and found him dead. He had taken
cyanide."
“There was a note," he went on. “It seems death was
not the last of the matter. My father-he"
"Hugo, why do you
do this?” Eileen pleaded. “Do you
think anything you can tell me will make me feel differently
toward you?”
“It must come from me. . . My father had used other
people's money in the fight-without their knowledge. I
had seen your father only once or twice. But I came to
feel a corroding hate that would not let me be. I could
not get my mind back to work. I lost three positions in
succession and gave up another because I could think of
nothing but how to break your father as he had broken
mine, body and soul,


HUGO'S STORY
165
“You knew your father offered us part of everything
after he had won the suit. Dad saw nothing in the offer
but conscience money-and refused it. "I'll get what's
mine by fighting,' he said, 'not as charity.' Well, I could
not bear to take what my father had refused, unless I too
had fought and won. Meanwhile I avoided your father,
afraid of what I should say and do.
“Then I read that he was going to England to enjoy-
as I saw it-the triumph my father had made possible.
I determined to go too—to see that some sort of grim
justice was meted out to him. I took passage on the same
boat with you—under my mother's family name. I didn't
know just what I was going to do. But I used to watch
him and you walk the deck, happy, prosperous, carefree
and, as I felt, careless of what it had all cost. He was
radiant with success—and with love of you. You I saw
only as the heiress of what should have been mine.
“Then during that big storm, when I was out on deck,
I saw the wave sweep you off your feet. I was glad—but
I found myself fighting the sea for you. When I got you
inside I told myself I had saved you only to use you as
a means of revenge. Any misery I should cause you would
be so much misery for him.”
He looked with a sort of wonder at himself.
“But later, in my cabin, I found myself thinking of you
and not of your father. I wondered about you, how much
you had to do with my father's defeat.
The more I
thought of you the less it seemed you were at fault. I


166
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
began to want to see you again, talk to you. I couldn't
understand it. I told myself it was in order to find a
chance to hurt your father through you.
But soon I
realized it wasn't that-and I became bewildered. One
thing was clear, however, I wanted to see you. And I
had to avoid being seen by your father. He would recog-
nize me. I was afraid of that.
“That is why I sought you out only when your father
was not with you; why I didn't call on you in London; why
I asked you to meet me at the Piccadilly Palace, believing
your father would not come there. I was in a grisly mood.
All that was decent in me bade me give over my bestial
lust for revenge. To take the next steamer back to Amer-
ica and work. To forget you both. But what I felt for
you made it an effort not to reach out and touch you.
That was why I didn't trust myself to dance with you.
“But when I saw I had hurt you—when you found I was
pretending I could not dance-why-why, Eileen, I just
could not keep from blurting out how much I loved you!"
“Don't flatter your impetuosity," she laughed brokenly.
“I blush to think how hard I had to work to get you."
“Small reward to you!” he said bitterly. “But no sane
man believes in just rewards in life. ... Then
you
told
father was coming there to meet me. I was beside
myself. To have him come and recognize me. To take
you away from me at that moment. To have the feud
break out into the open. To have you turn against me."
me your


HUGO'S STORY
167
“I see it now,” she whispered. “So that was why you
left me when I went to answer the telephone call !"
“I ran out into the fog, as I told you, and wandered
about most of the night. In the morning I went to my
room and opened the paper to look for sailings. I was
strong enough then to do the right thing. I read of what
had happened to your father—to you— Listen,
Eileen!” His face flamed with the passion of truth. “I
give you my word, I know nothing of your father's—”
Her hand stopped his protestations; and the touch of it
on his lips seemed to unnerve him more than disbelief would
have.
“I read that you were lying hurt at your house; that
it was a toss-up whether you would come out of it. And
it was all because of my cowardice. Had I stayed and
faced it all — Dear, I got my just punishment in the
days that followed. I haunted the street near your home,
wondering how I could keep from going to you, telling
myself I had not the right to see you."
“Hugo, I can't bear it!” She leaned against the door,
trying to keep from crying out.
“Just a word more, Eileen. I came to you when you
called for me. The day before that something peculiar
happened. Someone, a stranger, called me on the tele-
phone. He refused to tell me anything about himself.
“ 'But if you want to know something that will help find
the people who murdered Dr. Goodrich,' the man said,


170
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
“Stand out of my way, Naida, or I shan't be answerable
for myself !”
Naida stared at the ferocity in her manner. Eileen
flung up the stairs and rushed into her room. The little
toque seemed to be crushing her skull, searing her brain.
With a cry she whipped it off and sent it flying across
the room.
When Dr. Ramey, summoned by Naida, came in some
time later, he found Eileen face down in bed. But at the
sound of his entrance with Naida she sprang to her feet
and turned a smiling countenance to them.
“How dear of you to come!" she laughed. “Just in
time for tea. Naida, will you ring?”
Naida did not move. Dr. Ramey sat down by Eileen.
“What's ailing you, Eileen?”
She pressed her forehead with her knuckles as though
it would give her relief to hurt it.
“Why—there is something so funny in my head—that
I just feel like laughing-laughing-
She clasped her knees and throwing back her head,
laughed. Dr. Ramey looked concerned. Naida remained
distant, aloof, disapproving. Eileen caught sight of her.
"What's the matter, dear?" she asked. “You look dis-
gruntled. And you haven't rung for tea. Don't you
like
your-situation?"
A stiffening of the stately figure told Eileen how her
wild shaft had struck home.
"No." Naida turned and left the room.


HUGO'S STORY
171
Dr. Ramey approached with some water in a glass.
“Drink this, Eileen.”
Mechanically she drank. Then with a start she stopped.
“What have you given me?" she cried shrilly.
Dr. Ramey rose. “A sedative. You will sleep a little
and I trust will be rested when you wake. Then you must
decide on another physician. When you distrust me and
fear me I can no longer do you any good. I wish you a
speedy recovery, Eileen.”
With a stiff little bow he left. Her pain was lessening
and she was becoming drowsy. Her brain refused to think,
her eyelids weighed down.
Some time later the door to her room stealthily opened
no more than an inch. No one entered; nor did the door
close again. Even were Eileen awake she might not have
noticed that it remained ajar.


NAIDA PLAYS
173
son she was subjecting herself to the torture it must be
for her to play it?
Rising she went to the door and, without noticing that
it was ajar, went out quietly into the corridor. Eileen
would have opened Naida's door and looked. But the
memory of disagreeable things she had said, even though
under the lash of suffering, held her back. Naida's cold
rages took long to get over and at that moment she was
probably furious at her. And Eileen was not equal to
apology and prostrating.
But curiosity drew her to Naida's door to listen. She
noticed an interesting alternation in playing. Most of it
was wavering, lacking in attack. Tears came to Eileen's
eyes as she remembered why.
Then, as though Naida were determined to achieve
beauty no matter what it cost her, there followed a swift
arpeggio of her old time playing, lovely if cold, perfect,
triumphant. But it was swift and nervous in tempo as if
wrought in spite of flesh in agony. Each time it was cut
off as though with a snatching away of the hand. And a
sort of moan sounded, as with lips pressed to keep from
crying out.
Silence followed. Then again the tentative wavering
notes. Again a heroically achieved passage of beauty.
This time there was a cry of pain.
Eileen kneeled and looked through the keyhole. Naida
had sunk in a chair by the table and was looking at her
tortured fingers as a mother might look at her maimed


NAIDA PLAYS
177
A knock on the door roused her. It was the new butler.
“A messenger has brought you this letter, Miss Good-
rich.”
Eileen leaned to the fire and recognized Naida’s hand-
writing.
“Where is he-the messenger?" she cried.
“He said there was no answer expected, so I let him go.
But we know the agency that employs him, if you wish to
trace anything."
Eileen tore open the envelope, caught the word "Good-
bye!” in the letter and sprang to her feet.
“Trace her—Miss Sangree !" she cried. “I must know
where she is at once. Get a car ready!”
The butler nodded.
“Very well, miss. But I can tell you something of her
whereabouts. I had a suspicion this came from Miss San-
gree. I heard you pleading with her not to leave, if you'll
pardon me. I thought you would want to know where she
is. So I looked to see the number of the taxi she took.
Then I phoned the taxi company, traced the driver and
found he had taken Miss Sangree to Philharmonic Hall,
studio entrance, not the concert hall side, miss. I checked
this up by phoning the messenger's office that brought
this and was informed that the call for the boy came from
one of the studios in Philharmonic Hall."
“The car, please!"
Even before the butler left the room Eileen was deep in
the letter:


178
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
"Eileen:
I want you to know how little of resentment I feel for you
at this moment when I am to embark on a journey so mighty
as mine. Furious as I felt at your stupid outlash at me, at
your intrusion when I wanted to be alone, I now have only one
wish-a profound one. To have one perfect quarter-hour with
my
violin and then go.
Yet I cannot forbear a parting revenge. For what I feel
for
you is not mere resentment. I hate you, you for whom I
have gone through fire; and because of whom I am now going
to hellfire. I want you to know the manner of my going, my
dear Eileen. For I am going beautifully.
You know how much I loved Max Bruch's "Kol Nidre,"
the Joachim arrangement. Well, I shall play it again, my
dear, perfectly as before I dragged you out of your father's
burning laboratory. I shall play it well, Eileen, for no one
will ever put so much into the playing as I shall. I will do
it because I shall need no more strength after that except
for one instant.
A girl, poor fool, who thinks she is rehearsing me, will
accompany me on the piano. At the very last she will hear
a note that is not in the score. And yet I wonder that no
composer has ever used the poignant beauty of a revolver shot
in a composition.
Did you ever think that your hand could stop me from
anything to which I have been driven by life? How shallow
youth is! How utterly unable to plumb the depths of loathing
and despair.
Naida.


NAIDA PLAYS
179
Eileen dressed with frantic haste. Pressing the little
gray toque on her head without a look into the mirror, she
ran down.
“Is the car ready?" she cried to the butler.
“Not quite, but-"
“I can't wait!” She ran out of the house up to a
loitering taxi.
“Philharmonic Hall-life and death!".
The driver stared; then, impressed by the girl's drawn
face as she got in, he drove off rapidly.
Eileen's dash left her breathless. The swaying of the
machine as it turned corners brought back the misery of
that morning's torment. Harder and harder it gripped
her skull. But it was something secondary to the need
of saving Naida.
When the taxi turned into the street where the Philhar-
monic Hall was Eileen could see the glare of the entrance
hall. As the taxi slowed up before it, a great poster told
her that Fritz Kreisler was playing there at that moment.
The thought flashed through her that if Naida's studio was
near enough to the concert stage the sound of a revolver
shot might break into the midst of Kreisler's exquisite
music. Even if the walls killed the dread sound what a
grisly jest to have two people playing perhaps the same
selection for there was Bruch's "Kol Nidre" on the
poster program-playing to such different endings! For
one the thunder of applause; for the other the cry of a
frightened accompanist and the stillness of death.


NAIDA PLAYS
181
nerve.
“Naida, no! Dearest, you shall not! Naida !”
Speech left her. A sort of dazzling mist swam before
her
eyes.
Then it cleared and left her paralyzed in
every
Unable to move, even to think, she realized the
horrible, the unbelievable thing that had happened to
her.
She had burst out on to the stage of the Kreisler con-
cert, crying, sobbing her plea to Naida, in the very climax
of his playing!
A regal figure of a man put down his violin and stared
at her. An accompanist rõse white-faced from the piano.
Beyond the two, tier upon tier, a vast audience was
rising, in astonishment, protest, incipient panic.


CHAPTER XVII
THE BLACK CAR
As Eileen stood rooted on the stage of the Philharmonic,
someone recognized the sensitive face that had looked from
the columns of the newspapers since the Goodrich murder.
Eileen heard her name called. Several frockcoated ushers
hurried toward her.
It had taken only several seconds, although for all it
had the timelessness of a nightmare. At the sight of the
ushers Eileen whirled and dashed out of the door through
which she had come.
She found herself in the empty corridor again. At the
street door a frockcoated gentleman met her.
“Reporters coming from in front,” he said hurriedly.
“We want as little publicity as you do, Miss Goodrich.
This way, please !"
Reporters! And the reliving of her nightmare on the
vaster stage of publicity. Eileen followed the frock-
coated gentleman to the curb.
“But Naida,” she pleaded. “Miss Sangree! At this
moment she
may be dying !”
“I'll take you to Naida,” the man snapped. “She's at
the Colburn. Come.”
182


THE BLACK CAR
183
From around the corner hurried several men toward
them. Eileen, her nerves reacting in fractions of seconds,
caught the man's mention of Naida.
He was holding open the door of a big, black, closed car.
Without thinking she sprang into it. The door slammed.
The engine had been running and the car was off. The
machine was running smoothly, rapidly. Its speed a little
calmed Eileen. Speed was what she craved-speed, to
take her from the fantastic horror behind her; to bring
her to Naida, perhaps in time.
Nor did she have to endure light. Spent and dizzy as
she
was,
the darkness in the car was mercy to her. True,
against its black there began to appear the retinal memory
of the Philharmonic stage. The face of the startled
master musician glowered fiercely. Eyes, eyes by the
thousands glared from the auditorium and bore down upon
her.
But these retreated and faded before a concentrating
sensation in her skull—the now familiar but unendurable
agony she had for the time forgotten. As though her
little gray toque were a crushing casque of steel she
snatched it off and with a half-stifled scream threw it to
the floor.
Her head against the cushions and every nerve prostrate
and trembling, Eileen sank into partial unconsciousness.
Just as an overdose of poison may foil its own deadliness,
so the piling up of stress, shock and pain numbed her and
for the time fell short of its effect.


186
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
began the moment she put on her toque. While she wore it
it seemed about to crush her brain. When she flung it
off the pain somewhat ceased.
It was the radium on her toque that caused the pain.
Eileen knew how destructive to nervous tissue radium
can be. Was it someone's deliberate design to injure her?
If so, why?
"To drive me mad!"
Through every nerve cell went a thrill of horror. Her
knees began to knock and would not cease.
“It is beginning !" she thought.
Then as though some other self, a stranger, strong,
composed, unimpressed had come upon her panic, another
thought answered the first.
“Then it's high time you took hold of yourself!"
Little by little the newcomer dealt with Eileen's chat-
tering nerves. A sort of cool courage born of desperation
took charge of the mob of fears and marshalled them
into something like control.'
With the cooler mind Eileen began to study her situa-
tion. She noticed the machine lurched more than before.
The road was too uneven for city pavements.
Cautiously she explored the car with her free hand and
foot. She found other shackles fixed in the floor and
walls.
Evidently a car used for the transportation of prison-
ers—or insane. New panic threatened. But a stronger
thought quelled it. It was not only for herself that she


THE BLACK CAR
189
almost immediately—a single croak of a horn, some hun-
dreds of feet ahead.
The car went forward, then stopped. The door was
flung open.
In the rectangle of somewhat less opaque
dark outside showed the figure of the driver.
“Get out,” he ordered.
A glitter in his hand revealed a weapon. The negro
stumbled out, his movements eloquent of depression, defeat.
The opening of a heavy house door sounded in the dark.
A shaft of electric-torch light slashed the night and picked
out the negro. He was a huge creature, splendidly pro-
portioned, with a face cunning and gross with murky buť
gleaming eyeballs, a big mouth and glistening lips.
Someone catapulted him toward the torchlight. The
shaft turned and Eileen saw in a doorway a bulk of a
man, shorter than the negro but broader and even more
powerful. With one hand the man in the doorway pulled
the negro into the house as though he were made of straw.
“Get out, please.”
The voice of the driver, notwithstanding the "please,"
was sinister. But Eileen was steeling herself.
“I'm caught," she said quietly.
The driver took out a bunch of keys and reaching into
the car freed Eileen. She stepped out, poised for flight.
A powerful hand on her wrist pulled her to the house
and in.
Behind her sounded the rattle and click of chains and
bolts on a heavy door. Overhead a single bulb gave out


190
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
a sickly light. Eileen saw a stone corridor with deep-set
oak doors and an iron stairway leading up.
She turned. For the first time she saw the face of the
man who had brought her there. He was gray-haired,
gray-eyed, with startlingly black lashes and brows, highly
keyed in manner but with not the least touch of softness
in his nervousness.
She saw too the back of the monstrously powerful and
misshapen figure entering a room. She caught only a
glimpse of him but it sent a shudder through her.
By her side stood a tall, angular woman, broad shoul-
dered, flat-chested but powerful, with a visage like iron.
The gray-faced man who had brought Eileen took off
his automobile coat.
“Take her into Hutch's," he said to the woman.
She hesitated. Then as the man turned to leave, she
called out:
"Dargan, the negro is in there."
“Damn it, Cora, do as you're told !” snapped Dargan.
He left the two women alone,
“In there," Cora said curtly.
Eileen preceded her into what looked like the unattrac-
tive office of a hospital or a prison. The negro was already
there, slumped dejectedly in a chair ludicrously too small
for him.
As Eileen entered, obviously as a prisoner, he looked
up puzzled, then smiled feebly.
“Sho, lil lady, Ah thought you wuz a detective! Hehe!


192
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
on something behind her. She turned. The door had
been soundlessly opened by the creature whose ponderous
misshapen back she had seen in the corridor. The face
was fascinating and terrifying.
He sat down in an enormous chair Eileen had already
noticed. Evidently this was "Hutch" into whose office she
had been ordered. Hutch appeared not to see her but bent
his compelling eyes on the negro.
Then the hunchback looked to Dargan for an explana-
tion. Dargan's fingers flashed the story of the encounter
in the night. With a few curt signs Hutch gave instruc-
tions. Dargan turned to the negro.
“I'm going out to investigate your story. Any changes
you want to make before I go?”
The negro's eyes lowered before Dargan's.
“Ain't done nobuddy no hahm,” he muttered.
Dargan left the room. Hutch continued his regard of
the negro, who affected nonchalance. He rose and
stretched his limbs. There even came a gleam of famil-
iarity into his manner. Plainly he did not enjoy the role
of being ill at ease before another. He came over to
Hutch.
“Hello, brudder, yo’ seem to have a pow'ful strong ahm
an'han'. See kin yo' play grips wiv me.”
He extended a great arm writhing with muscles. The
hunchback's lips curled in amusement. His hand went
out and met the negro's. He did not even rise from his


THE BLACK CAR
193
chair. The negro, with all the leverage he needed, could
do no more than hold his own. The grin on his lips grew
fixed, then anxious; the two bodies stiffened, the negro's
more than the other's. Inch by inch his body was forced
about, his arm twisted to the back of him. A nervous
laugh broke from him.
“All right, boss, yo'win! Leggo !”
Instead of letting go Hutch strengthened his grip. The
negro cried out.
“Ah give up oh, Gawd!”
“Then tell the truth!” Cora snapped.
Hutch gave his victim a sudden twist and a babble of
tortured pleading came.
“Ah'll tell —Oh, Ah'll tell. Please leggo! Ah broke in
de white house-quarter mile fum heah-lookin' fo'
table silver-oh, Gawd, yo'll break mah ahm! Some man
shot at me-Ah shot back. He's lyin' there but Ah swear
he ain't dead."
Hutch, reading the confession from the negro's lips,
gave Cora an order with a mere look. She hurried out
of the room to overtake Dargan.
Hutch slowly released the negro, who backed from him
in terror, kneading his crushed hand and arm. Hutch
leaned back in his chair and seemed to forget the presence
of the others. The negro shrank as far from him as the
room allowed and waited like a whipped animal. Eileen
closed her eyes and tried not to think of the monster.
The three sat in what seemed to Eileen endless silence


THE BLACK CAR
195
The negro drew a deep breath and his face relaxed to a
grin.
“Praise be to hell, Ah's among frien's !"
He followed Dargan and Cora out of the room, leaving
Eileen alone with Hutch. For some moments the hunch-
back was lost in thought. Then he raised his eyes and held
hers. Eileen felt as if he were tightening his grip on her as
palpably as his hand had tightened on the negro's. She
bent her strength to resist his will. He drew nearer, his
eye widening, the pupils contracting. With an effort that
cost her almost a scream she tore her gaze away and felt
as though she had broken from some physical hold.
The hunchback rose and Eileen rose too. Instead of
touching her he went to a cabinet from which he took a
physician's ophthalmic mirror and strapped it to his bulg-
ing, veined forehead. Then he motioned her to sit down.
Had she refused he would have put his hand on her.
She sat down. He brought his chair close and leaned
forward until the circular concave mirror caught and con-
centrated the light from the lamp overhead and sent it into
Eileen's eyes.
The mirror became a glittering magnet and shared in
compelling power the fascination of Hutch's eyes which
gleamed with a steady anger, a voiceless command.
"Down, down with your resistance! Obey!
Obey! Sleep!
Submit and sleep!”
The thought suggested itself to Eileen that sleep would
be a pleasant thing. She was so tired. Sleep was so


196
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
peaceful. Then this creature would be forgotten. He
was so insistent-so insistent! Would it not be best to
obey? And rest?
It was like plucking out her eyes to tear away her
glance from his glaring orbs. But she had sense of
momentary escape from a vise; and with a deep breath
she found herself thinking and seeing clearly.
The hunchback's eyes fairly screamed. His bulging
forehead shone with perspiration. The veins swelled.
Rage contorted his face. He rose and great prehensile
fingers reached for her.
There leaped up in Eileen an animal-like tension, a
stiffening of fingers to claws. She felt in them a catlike
capacity for speed. She knew that if he laid his hand
on her she could yet claw those glowing eyes out of their
sockets before she died.
The hunchback paused. She saw it was not fear that
made him pause but something more cruel than his original
intention,
He pressed a button in the desk and Dargan entered.
A dumb colloquy followed. Dargan left the room and re-
entered, followed by the negro.
“We're going to set a watch over this woman-you,"
Dargan said to him.
The negro looked pleased. Dargan went on.
“But I warn you-
“Don't have to, boss. Dis nigger is a-gonna behave


THE BLACK CAR
197
hisself fo’ a lil while to come. Ain't even gonna put
mah lil' finger on de lady-
“I didn't say anything about that !” Dargan broke in.
Eileen's heart stopped beating. The negro looked puz-
zled. Then his lids drooped as he turned his sidelong
look at Eileen. There was anticipation in the hissing
intake of his breath.
“Sweet baby!” he murmured. “Ah sure thanks yo',
boss !”
“Take her upstairs," Dargan ordered. “Cora will show
you."
The
negro sidled
up to Eileen. She leaped to the win-
dow but a long arm caught her with the ease of a child
handling a doll. A black, hairy arm was tight about her
waist.
Her nails raked long lines of laceration in that arm and
with a catlike twist she whipped about and clawed the
negro's face. He cried out, flung her into a chair, and
glared.
Eileen rose.
Of all strange things that had happened
to her the strangest was her new self. She had never felt
so self-sufficient, so single, so intent, so unperplexed. To
this new self the situation had the simplicity of an animal's
plight. Danger threatened. Very well, she had her swift
claws.
Blood trickling down the negro's face reached his lips.
He wiped it with his sleeve and cautiously circled toward
Eileen.


CHAPTER XVIII
IN THE LABORATORY
The negro's head drooped as if he were drowsing. For
a while he gave no other sign. Then he began to snore.
It is not hard to pretend sleep. Was he doing that to
put Eileen off her guard, to tempt her to venture out into
the corridor? That would give him the excuse to seize
her.
Alive in every nerve to this possibility Eileen yet felt
she must chance it. Her eyes on the negro, her hand stole
to the doorknob and by minute degrees turned it. Pre-
sently she felt the door free. As stealthily she drew it
open a fraction of an inch. The negro did not stir.
An inch at a time she edged out of her cell. Behind her
the girl, troubled by some phantom, cried out in her sleep.
Eileen darted back into the cell. The negro stirred un-
easily but did not raise his head. Again dreaming, the
girl tore out of her sleep, this time with a shriek. The
negro was only half roused. He raised his head sleepily
and seeing Eileen at the grating dropped off again.
The girl behind her also relapsed into tormented dream-
ing. Eileen, her nerves quivering, waited a long time, then
resumed her stealthy attempt.
202


IN THE LABORATORY
203
This time she opened the door sufficiently to slip out
of the cell. Then she turned and ran.
At the end of the corridor were stairs leading down and
a door. Through a barred panel in the door, like that in
her cell, she could see shelves of chemicals. Bending over
the stairwell Eileen thought she heard someone stirring
below.
She peered into the room through the barred panel.
It was a small laboratory. A counter of oak hid a part
of the room. The only window was barred like the one
in the other cell. The light in the corridor ceiling threw
a warped gridiron of yellow into the laboratory. She
tried the knob; the door opened.
She stepped into the room and glanced about her. She
was alone. No one could get into the room except by
the door.
Down the corridor came again the shrieks of the
haunted girl. They must surely awake the soundest
sleeper. The negro would now discover Eileen had
escaped.
Her hand touched a key on the inside of the door.
She turned it. The chain of a lock rattled. She made
that fast. Then she retreated into the shadow of the room
and waited.
Moments lengthened to minutes. The girl's shrieks sub-
sided. Of the negro Eileen heard nothing. Could he be
really asleep? Then she realized that by now he must
be accustomed to the shrieks—as were the rest of the


IN THE LABORATORY
205
been shocked at the use to which her mind was putting
the knowledge she had gained.
Into a test tube standing in a rack on the table she
poured some sulphuric acid. From other bottles she added
several sulphates. Deftly, carefully, by the semi-light
that came from the hall she mixed a liquid that took on
greenish color and lazily smoked. About the edges of
the liquid tiny bubbles generated as though it were sim-
mering. Eileen handled the test tube with the delicate
caution of a surgeon at work.
With a long iron spindle she found in a drawer she
tested the liquid by immersing one end of the metal in it.
The tip of the spindle became covered with minute green
bubbles. Eileen took it out and watched the acid-covered,
lazily smoking tip. Its smooth surface grew coarser, cor-
roded. Slowly its point melted, became blunted, shorter.
The acid was eating, consuming the iron.
Carefully Eileen put the test tube back in its rack, con-
venient to her hand. The thought of its greenish contents
gave her a clean-cut satisfaction.
She went to the door and listened. The girl down the
corridor could not rest even in her sleep. From below came
light sounds, detached, intermittent, apparently unimpor-
tant. But someone was stirring.
It was to these sounds that Eileen attended with all her
faculties. She was debating whether to undo the locks
and venture out to reconnoiter, when something she heard
made her pause. It was the sound of a light step on the
stairs.


206
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Some one was coming up; not a man's step. Eileen
slipped below the edge of the barred opening in the door.
Some one had turned the corner of the stairs and was com-
ing directly towards her. Eileen heard the swish of a
dress, the soft scrape of a woman's shoes.
Whoever it was passed her door. Eileen heard the foot-
steps pause at about where Eileen's first cell was. Silence.
The footsteps slowly came back and were nearing
Eileen's hiding place. Then she heard a whisper. It came
nearer. Eileen could now make out the word.
It was her own name. "Eileen!”
Though greatly startled, Eileen did not betray herself.
She was learning to think rather than feel under stress.
But she almost cried out when a few moments later she
recognized in the whisper the unmistakable voice of Naida.
"Eileen! Where are you?”
The sibilant message was too important for Eileen to
disregard. If this was really Naida how did she come
there? Was she too a prisoner?
Or—was she one of the household?
Eileen's suspicion shocked her as much as Naida's pres-
ence. Naida, who had plunged into the fire to save her!
Naida, who had gone away to die because of what the fire
and life had robbed her! It was a monstrous thought.
Across the opposite wall of the laboratory the shadow
of Naida's draped head was passing. Another moment
and she would pass beyond Eileen's whisper, perhaps for-
ever.


IN THE LABORATORY
207
"Naida !" Eileen breathed.
The figure in the hall turned. “Eileen, where are you?”
came the eager whisper.
Eileen showed her face.
Naida glided over. "Thank God. Let me in!”
For another moment Eileen hesitated. Even if Naida
was only a captive like herself, to open the door would be
to court the chance that someone else might rush in before
it could be locked again. But to leave Naida out in the
corridor
Swiftly she undid the locks and opened the door. Naida
entered and Eileen slammed the door and rammed home
the bolts and locks.
Then she faced her. "Naida, you're alive!"
Naida looked about her. "For how long, Eileen?”
“How did they get you?"
“They seized me as I was walking in Green Park,” Naida
said slowly.
“Then-you-you left Philharmonic Hall before »
Naida looked at her.
“Philharmonic Hall? What is it, Eileen? You look
as if I'd come back from the dead.”
Eileen drew Naida toward the door and was trying to
read her face.
“Naida, after
you left the house I got a letter from you
saying you meant to kill yourself. We traced the message
to a studio in Philharmonic Hall."
Naida’s manner turned impassive.


IN THE LABORATORY
209
Naida looked at Eileen's fingers. Then at her own.
Where Eileen's acid-wet fingers had touched Naida's the
latter's skin was almost white, as if the acid had washed off
mere paint. What had been apparently scarred and
wrinkled flesh was now smooth, white and whole-Naida's
exquisite fingers before the fire.
“What can it be?” Eileen whispered, electrified. “Why
—it's only color-paint!"
Something in Naida's manner as Eileen said this sent
terror through the girl. Instead of expressing amazement
Naida drew nearer, seeming to grow incredibly.
Now a cry broke from Eileen.
Naida came nearer. The scarf had fallen from her face
and in her cold eyes there dawned a wicked light.
"Naida!” Eileen screamed.
As though to assure herself that Naida was flesh and
blood and not some phantom Eileen's touch rested on
Naida's cheek. Naida struck her hand down. But on her
skin, supposedly discolored for life, the flesh showed paler
where Eileen's fingers had touched.
Naida was smiling now; a smile that affected Eileen
more than anything she had as yet experienced.
“So, Eileen, you've found out my little secret in cos-
metics !!
Wave on wave of sickening realization swept over the
girl.
“Naida! I thought you were burned beyond all cure.”


210
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Naida's smile remained unchanged. For a giddy mo-
ment Eileen thought some nightmarish hoax had been
played upon her; that Naida's smile meant that the cruel
joke was over; the next moment would show the whole
structure of terrors to be but a Hallowe'en mask over the
smiling faces of friends; perhaps even her father-
“Naida, dearest, you're smiling. Tell me this is all a
dream->
But Naida's smile did not reassure her.
"Not quite a dream, Eileen. Though you did wake up a
bit too soon.”
She turned to the door.
“What do you mean to do?” Eileen cried.
“I'll let the others tell you."
Her fingers grasped the first lock.
The next moment she was flung away from the door. In
the light from the hall Naida saw the eyes of a changed
Eileen. In them was the blazing anger of a cat at bay.
The girl had her back to the door.
“So you mean to give me up?”
Naida had been thrown against a glass-encased cabinet.
Had Eileen lashed her across the face she could not have
roused more violently the blaze of fury in Naida.
Naida turned to the cabinet, pulled out a drawer and
from it snatched a pointed laboratory knife. With the
feel of its handle in her grasp a malicious humor returned.
The knife, the wicked smile on Naida's lips beat down


IN THE LABORATORY
211
.
.
Eileen's animal courage. She shrank before Naida's ap-
proach.
“Naida-don't
you dare touch me!” she whispered. “I
shall tell the police
“No, you won't, Eileen,” Naida purred. “You won't tell
anyone.
Remember you
have suffered greatly of late
many shocks. Enough to unhinge duller minds than
yours.
So the world will hear no more from you ex-
cept through your legal guardian ... myself ... ten-
derly watching over you
in this excellent sanitarium
of my brother's.”
“You can't mean it," Eileen stammered.
“The world will be prepared for the pathetic news after
reading what happened on the Philharmonic stage »
“So you know of it?”
“Naturally, my dear, since it was I who staged it all-
the little scene in my room—the play at suicide-the
letter. Of course, I have had help.”
“Why—why do you do this pº
“I once told you why."
“You mean—that to drive me mad would benefit you-
put my father's money in your hands—as my guardian,
should I go mad?”
“Yes, wasn't it chic of me? To tell it before that Scot-
land Yard oaf?” Naida smiled.
“But I am not mad!"
99


212
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
Naida stepped close. "You have shown astonishing re-
sistance, Eileen. Really a disappointing lack of sensi-
bility. And I took such trouble to impress you. Your
father's voice calling to you—the séance—the lantern
show of your father's face was a bit poor, but you didn't
know it—the fingerprints of the dead man-your dear
Hugo's apparent complicity in the crime. Eileen, I have
felt discouraged at times. Not even radium nor Hutch nor
sharing the cell with poor Belle have affected you. But
we shall not give up trying !"
Beyond all terror, there sprang to Eileen's lips a hot
anger.
“You ungrateful-beast!”
The words lashed Naida to fury.
“Ungrateful! Eileen, when we are through with
you I shall show my gratitude by a most becoming exhibi-
tion of grief for my beloved ward."
She turned once more to the door. Quick as a cat Eileen
got there before her. Her back was to it, her claws tense.
“Naida-I shall be no use to you-dead. You'll have
to kill me before I let you out!"
“With the keenest-pleasure!”
Eileen saw the fingers about the knife go white with ten-
sion. In Naida’s face the ecstasy of hate shone, Up went
the hand for the savage downthrust.
Eileen screamed and cowered to the floor.
“The jonquils. Naida, don't hurt the darling flowers!”
.


THE DANCE OF MADNESS
215
dropped to her knees, clutching the tortured hand. Her
eyes glared at Eileen.
“You've maimed me!”
Eileen bent toward her.
“It's real this time, Naida, isn't it? Come behind this
table, my dear, quick!"
Naida's pupils contracted to pin points.
“Do you think I shall let you go?” She spoke through
clenched teeth.
“Do you think I shall grudge you the rest of this tube?
Come behind the table !"
The greenish liquid was very near Naida. With her
eyes fascinated by it, she retreated till the oaken labora-
tory table was between her and the door. Eileen crouched
down with her.
“Tell me, Naida, how to get out."
Naida laughed with a sob.
“You can't!"
Eileen believed it. Naida's scream was so piercing that
it had set the poor girl down the corridor screaming too.
“Who killed my father, Naida ?”
Trembling on the rim of the test tube, immediately
over Naida's eyes was the green horror, lazily smoking.
The plunge of a knife into quivering flesh would have
been sweet mercy compared to the menace in that test
tube. Only a mood as terrible as the liquid itself could
have been equal to pouring it into Naida's horror-wide


216
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
eyes. But it was just that mood Naida saw in the girl
she had always known as sweet and gentle.
“Who killed my father?" Eileen repeated, whispering.
The next moment would bring such hideous torture that
the very thought of it made Naida forget the point of
torment in her hand. She answered slowly, not knowing
what instant would find her screaming. She answered
fully, hoping to appease Eileen thereby, though just as
fearful that her words would have the opposite effect.
“It was Pete Ennis ... Hutch planned the thing in
all its details. We waited for a thick fog
studying beforehand other fogs, to find out how fast it
became dark. Hutch, Dargan and Pete were in their
place in Fleet Street, waiting for a telephone call from
me at home and from Steve Duchamps and Denny Howe,
who were watching you at the Piccadilly Palace. . .
Our wires to Fleet Street were kept open by our people
telephoning in what sounded like news agency reports.
“When your father left the house in the car I sent
them word.
She pronounced these words one at a time, halting to
watch the effect of each. Eileen was as motionless, her
face changed as little as if she were not listening. But
Naida knew better.
“Pete and Dargan thereupon got into their heavy auto-
mobile. Pete had with him—a knife ..." Naida got
the word over with the caution of one stepping from one
brink of a precipice to the other. "He also had with him


THE DANCE OF MADNESS
217
two gloves. On the tips of their fingers were thin rubber
strips. These strips were stamps-on them the replicas
of finger-prints—just as you make rubber stamps of ordi-
nary things—dates, signatures.
“One glove, finger for finger, had the finger-prints of
the murderer who was executed at Pentonville five days
before. A cell-mate of the man—in our pay—who helped
carry out the body of the man from the execution chamber,
took impressions-secretly with bits of wax. We had
the impressions made into rubber stamps.
“The other glove had the imprints of Hugo Garra's
fingers. I hated him, Eileen, because his marriage to
you—if we allowed it-would make all our plans as
nothing. We took his finger-prints on board ship—from
the door knob to his cabin-which we coated with wax-
just as a detective takes finger-prints.
"Dargan drove the car in the fog. They came near
your father's car at St. James Street. Pete Ennis got
out-pretended he had to use crutches. Went to your
father's machine ... told him he was an American
soldier, wounded at the front, asked for a ride. Your
father asked him in. Dargan followed behind in his
Just before your father's car, with him and Pete
Ennis in it, got to the Piccadilly Palace. ...
Her courage was not equal to facing the danger of
what might follow the next phase of her confession. But
Eileen, perceiving it, smiled assuringly—a terribly enig-
matic smile. "Go on, it's all right!” she whispered.
car.
99


218
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
99
“_Just before the Piccadilly Palace—at a signal
from Dargan's horn-Pete Ennis-cut your father's
throat...
She caught her breath. “Then with
blood.
and the rubber stamps of both sets of finger-
prints he touched
your
father's throat. Dargan rammed
your father's car with his. The window of
your
father's
car was smashed by Pete Ennis.
Your father was so
placed that it would appear his throat ... had been cut
by the heavy window pane. Pete Ennis escaped by
the other door and jumped into Dargan's car. ... They
drove off like mad through the fog . escaped.”
“Naida, tell me," Eileen's voice was almost a purr.
“Why all this bewildered business of the finger-prints
of dead men?”
“To confuse the police—but mostly to make you so
confused that you would believe everything--and believing
everything, as I told you a few minutes ago—to make
you doubt your senses—to drive you out of them!”
“And my father's voice—in the Piccadilly Palace-cry-
ing out to me—he was being murdered ?"
“For the same purpose. I called you on the telephone
to get you to pass the room where Steve Duchamps was
hidden-in the glass dome of the ceiling. He imitated
your father's voice and rattled a little broken glass in
a bag—" Her courage picked up a little and a gleam
of malicious triumph came into her voice. "Frightened
you a bit, didn't it, Eileen?"
The girl darted a glance behind her, more intent on


220
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
1
me.
Naida's lips curled and there was something animal-like
in the hatred they expressed.
“Yes, Eileen, in return for what your father did for
Or rather for what he did not do. I did not hate
Hugo Garra's father-
“So you knew him ?”
“When his son was in Mesopotamia my brother and I
learned that Garra was on the way to a precious discovery,
the radium process. I attached myself, ingratiated my
proud self to that old formula searcher. He became like
a child in my hands. When your father took away what
should have come into my
hands I made old Garra fight
for it like a fiend-
“So it was you who changed Hugo's father?”
“And when that did not serve, when the old fool took
his own life after embezzling other people's money, I de-
cided to transfer my devotion to your father. I sought
you out in New York-found you interested in the violin
-lucky for me I could play well enough to fool you with
my abandoned-concert-career story. Then you took me
to your home, as I planned. I tried to make your father
see the charm of me. I-wooed him, the old pedant! So
polite was he! He flinched from my touch with such fin-
ished politeness that I could have tortured him slowly-
with delight-for that polite flinching from my touch.
No, you were all he wanted in life aside from his radium.
So I put him in my debt by ‘risking my life and ‘spoiling'


THE DANCE OF MADNESS
221
a
my beauty for you in that laboratory tìre I myself
started !”
For a moment, as Eileen's eyes took on a sharper look
Naida was afraid perhaps she had gone too far in her
taunts. But Eileen only smiled.
“You're a genius, Naida!"
The girl's self-control, so superior to the abandon of
passion Naida felt, lashed the older woman.
"Don't flatter yourself, Eileen! It took no genius to
fool you and the others. It was you all that were so
stupid. A little veronal in your tea to make you fall
asleep in the laboratory. A match in a waste basket-
little staging with the fire-a few days' disappearance on
my part, and you were yokels at a play, gaping at it, be-
lieving every little detail. I flatter myself that my work
with astringent and paint to make my face and hands and
fingers take on the appearance of permanent injury was
not inartistic—that and my scarf. And how easily your
father followed every suggestion of mine for coming here
straight to where my brother Hutch was waiting for you
all with my friends!"
Eileen started.
“That monster Hutch-your brother!” she exclaimed.
“Yes, of course, the spiritual resemblance is perfect!”
Naida's eyes left Eileen's. Her voice suddenly rang
out with triumph.
“Yes, and if you look there you will see still more
resemblance!


THE DANCE OF MADNESS
223
over
the hands of Naida but red claws. They writhed like
snakes. They grasped the bars in the panel and held.
Her head came up, thrown back as in paroxysm, so that
Eileen saw the forehead.
It was as though the flesh had been removed. Eileen
could bear no more. Shuddering she pressed her hands
her
eyes
and sank to the floor. Naida's screams were
becoming coherent.
“Hutch-if
you
love me kill me!”
Something compelled Eileen to look up again. In the
mirror she saw Hutch's face. His eyes were glaring at
Naida's upturned face, which Eileen could not see. But
what was there was reflected in Hutch's. Hideous as
Eileen had thought him when she first saw him she could
not recognize him now.
A struggle was writhing there. The ape-like fury was
in conflict with a staring pity, and for the first time in
Hutch's face she saw the look of horror. As though
doubting his senses, Hutch seemed to be waiting for the
horror to become dispelled. His mouth took on the curve
of a sobbing mask.
Then he drew away from the panel. Through the bars
appeared the muzzle of a revolver pointed downward.
One of Naida's red hands seized the muzzle and drew
it to her.
A shot screamed through the room, echoed shrilly, and
when it died silence had the laboratory to itself.
Mercifully came unconsciousness to Eileen.


CHAPTER XX
THE DUEL IN THE DARK
In the corridor Hutch placed the muzzle of his smoking
revolver against the keyhole in the door and fired again
and again. Over the lock a black hole was spreading
through which the bullets poured into the springs and
bolts.
Hutch turned to Dargan for his revolver but stopped
at the look in the other. Following Dargan's gaze he
looked up at the wall. A little above his head the wall
was freshly scarred. Even as he looked another rip sent
bits of plaster down at his feet.
Someone was shooting in their direction from the far
end of the corridor. Dargan jerked his revolver up
and shot out the ceiling light. Only a blur of yellow
came from below. No more shots came from the end of
the corridor.
But Dargan's fingers clutched Hutch's shoulders, once,
twice, three times, in reaction to something else. Hutch
could not hear. But to Dargan's ears there came muffled
thud of battering at the front door. One, two, three re-
volver shots sounded from within the house. Electric
buzzers, low, insistent and nervous, sounded warning.
224


THE DUEL IN THE DARK
227
“He's done for !” someone said.
“That leaves the hunchback," another replied. “Care-
ful!"
But no sound came from above.
The iron stairs gave not the slightest hint that four
heavily built men were creeping up, on all fours, in touch
with each other, fingers on triggers.
On the upper floor sounded only the babbling of the
crazed girl. One of the advancing party slid a lighted
electric torch along the corridor. It threw a broken
shaft along the floor and on the door to the laboratory.
The door was open.
Someone touched the torch and sent the shaft full into
the room.
It revealed the body of Naida Sangree, the
laboratory counter, the white face of the still unconscious
Eileen, and reached the barred window.
“Someone's twisted a bar loose,” came a whisper.
“He's gone by the window.”
“Maybe not.”
"I'll chance it."
A tall figure skirted the shaft of light and stole into
the laboratory.
“Yes, he's gone,” the man shouted; then to someone out
on the night—"Look sharp down there. Someone's
escaped by way of this window and the trees. The hunch-
back !
Turning he called, “All right, come up with lights.
There are two women here."


CHAPTER XXI
TANGLED TRAILS
EILEEN came back to consciousness with a nervous
start. It was a sound-the negro's voice that had
shocked her. Convulsively she put up her hand to protect
herself. The glare of an electric torch blinded her.
“Ah, please!” she begged for her life.
“It's all right!” A voice, deep, kindly and familiar,
penetrated slowly the girl's panic. “This is Hawley of
New Scotland Yard."
A big hand closed protectively over her tensed fingers.
The blinding light shifted off and left only illumination.
Eileen found herself seated, Inspector Hawley by her
side. But just beyond him stood the big negro, un-
molested.
"Inspector!" Eileen moaned, shrinking from the negro.
“He's for you,” Hawley smiled. “It's Jemmy, Lieu-
tenant Jemmy Neal of the Yard, one of my very best.
And he's more afraid of you than you need be of him.
You've nearly done his eyes in, he tells me."
Eileen did not try to think. Indeed she had hard work
to keep from swooning again. But she clung to the
strong friend she knew and felt she could not be in danger.
“Eileen, I'm a bit jealous of Inspector Hawley," another
228


230
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
conscious state. She was aware, however, of questions by
Dr. Ramey, and answers by Lieutenant Neal.
"All accounted for except one subordinate member of
the gang and, of course, the hunchback," Neal was saying.
“Hm!” Dr. Ramey commented. Eileen's attention
sharpened at something uneasy in his tone.
“The Hutch beast!” she cried, starting up. “Where is
he?"
“We're in full cry after him," the negro said thought-
fully. “But there is still a full hour or so of dark and
that—that beast has some time to work in. He's got the
cunning of a beast, too, a beast in his own woods— But
you're all right, miss. He won't try anything single-
handed against the crowd of us. But he may lead us a
long chase, I am thinking."
Eileen glanced at the men on all sides of her, dimly
outlined on the night—the car bore no lights and felt
assured.
“And Naida ?" she asked tremulously.
“Sorry, Miss Goodrich, I don't think you'll see her any
more!” Neal said gravely.
“Ah!” A long quivering sigh was Eileen's farewell to
the woman she had so loved and so hated.
Then the living claimed her.
"Hugo?”
There was relief in Neal's voice.
“You will see him-soon."
She did not believe it. But the speed of the car, lurch-


TANGLED TRAILS
231
ing fast through the night, was like a promise. She yielded
to the importunities of utter exhaustion and relaxed
against the comforting presence of Dr. Ramey.
Neal resumed his narrative for Dr. Ramey.
"Remarkable pair, the Sangrees. That ugly hunch-
back and the beautiful woman were children of a former
surgeon who'd been in prison for some nasty experiment
he'd tried on a living subject-don't exactly know what.
The children were born and brought up at the edge of a
jungle in India, somewhere near Lahore, I think. The
boy was powerful as a young gorilla and queerly like
one in soul-if you can call it a soul. He had learned
the cunning of the jungle, it seems to me, and with it had
the mental power of his father, who would have been
great if he hadn't got into that trouble. When the
children got older they were sent abroad. Miss Sangree
-their right name was Moder-
"I remember the name," Dr. Ramey said. "The father
was experimenting with a theory of his that involved the
grafting of major nerve tracts and was suspected of using
live subjects, as you have said.”
“That was it. Well, the hunchback went to medical
school in Germany but because of his disabilities-scarlet
fever when a child, did it he decided he could do better
by himself. He dropped out of sight. Now we know
that he conceived the pleasant idea that there was money
to be made by incubating-well, madness. People are
always to be found who will be benefited if some other
9


238
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
>
plunged toward the car. You were in it, Miss Goodrich,
though I didn't know it. Your driver held me up with his
revolver—as I hoped he would. I was even willing that
he should take away my own revolver--as he did. When
I found myself in the car with you I had to play my part.
“I told them a story of having tried to rob a house
up the road and shooting someone there. When they sent
out Dargan to check
up the truth of my story they found
the stage all set for them. My friend, Sergeant Keeler,
was lying face down in the living room with a pool of
red ink artistically spilled near his temple
“When they told me I would have to guard you I again
had to play the villain. You punished me good and
proper,” he chuckled ruefully. “I was quite uneasy when
they put you in the cell with the poor insane girl,
“What became of her?” Eileen cried, starting up.
“She's on her way to the first kind care she's had
since those beasts got hold of her. But Dr. Ramey, who
examined her, thinks she'll be all right with time."
“A few months' quiet and kindness will do it," Dr.
Ramey assented.
“I knew I was being watched by that Cora woman at
the end of the corridor,” Neal went on, “when I was sta-
tioned in front of your cell. I was without a revolver and
had to find out more than I knew. So I had to play a
part I did not enjoy much. But I did manage to leave
your cell door unlocked. I pretended sleep to encourage
you to slip out-as you did. I saw you go into the labo-
ratory and I thought there was nothing to harm you there.


TANGLED TRAILS
239
“I then decided to risk a little investigation. Sneaking
along the corridor I found a door leading to what proved
to be that Cora woman's bedroom. I heard her coming
along so I hid in the angle of the hall. When she passed
me I rose and put my hand pretty tight over her mouth.
It was not a gentlemanly thing to do but she was an
exceptionally powerful woman and in the pocket of her
skirt was, as I knew, a serviceable pistol I wanted. I had
to strangle her a bit; till she lost consciousness; couldn't
take chances of her alarming the others. Took her into
her room and tied her up with a pillow over her mouth.
Then I went out to see what I could see.
“I got back to your part of the building, Miss Good-
rich, when I heard Miss Sangree's scream. You'd given
her a bit of that vitriol, I suppose.
"I heard you two carry on in sharp whispers and was
a bit afraid the others of the gang would show up. So I
tiptoed about to see if they were coming. Sure enough,
after a time I heard them run out of that office of theirs.
They'd rung for Cora and when she did not answer they
started out to investigate and found her trussed up. I
knew then we were in for it.
“So I made my way to the nearest window and smashed
a pane of glass. I knew my mates were out there in the
night surrounding the house. I heard Hutch and Dargan
in the hall firing at the lock to the laboratory. I crouched
down at the turning of the corridor and fired at them to
divert them. Then Dargan shot out the lights and our


240
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
friends smashed in the door and-well, that's about all.
We've got Cora and six others. Dargan is done for. Only
Hutch and a Lascar are at large."
Involuntarily Neal peered out into the nightman elo-
quent tribute to the respect Hutch inspired.
But the car had now reached the paved and lighted
city.
At an all-night restaurant Neal got out.
“I've a bit of telephoning to do that will please you,
Miss Goodrich. And an engagement with the chef here
that will help put me in better temper," he laughed apolo-
getically. He held out his hand tentatively.
Eileen grasped it and thanked him with the fervor of
her pressure. Something about his remark on telephon-
ing left her speechless with tension, hope and fear.
The machine with Dr. Ramey and her guards continued
rapidly toward her house. When it stopped before the
familiar door Eileen could hardly credit her senses, so
bewildered she was with what she had survived.
Dr. Ramey entered with her. The guards were dis-
posed in the different parts of the house.
Dr. Ramey smiled down on Eileen as she sank into her
chair before the fire in her room. But his smile was not
without a touch of speculation.
"You have gone through so much, my dear," he said
gently. “Do you think you could stand another-scene,
a pleasant one? Or had we better postpone it till the
morning?”


CHAPTER XXII
JOURNEY ENDS
WHEN Hutch wrenched loose the bar in the laboratory
window and leaped in the dark his chance was not as
blind as it seemed. Ten feet away was the top of an elm-
and Hutch knew it. He knew every tree, fence, thicket
and shrub for a mile about that house. He landed in the
treetop close to the main stem, eyes closed, face averted,
hands ready. Branches splintered against his barrel chest.
A spike grazed the corner of his eye. But his hands and
arms were gripped about the trunk of the tree and he
clung, the wind out of him, waiting for the shot that
should bring him down.
With an overcast sky, from which a drizzle came down,
the night was at its darkest. No shot came, but looking
down Hutch made out the pale ovals of several faces look-
ing up in steady watch. Now these converged toward
his tree.
Ten feet away from the tree was the high wall that
inclosed “The Nervous House." Its cement top bristled
with blades of broken glass. Beyond that wall Hutch saw
no faces.
Planting his feet in the crotch of the topmost
limb he lurched his heavy body back and forth until the
242


244
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
way he had known for several years and known it best
under cover of night, when he could prowl about for
exercise and in preparation for just such an emergency.
He ran on all fours in the shadow of walls and box
hedge; crossed the road with three bounds; elastically
cleared a ten-foot wall; sprinted noiselessly across an
overgrown weed flat; zigzagged down a stretch of another
road, crossing only in patches of inky shadows and finally
stopped by a wall in the narrowest part of the road, which
in this part was a hybrid of country thoroughfare and
suburban street, no more than about twenty feet from
side to side.
Over the top of the wall a small shaggy tree looked
out on the road like a child with its chin over the top of
a table. In its tangle of branches Hutch found a hiding
place that yet enabled him to watch the road while he
rested on the broad, vine-covered wall. Again it was not
accident but strategy well prepared and long before.
With his eyes having also to do the work of his hearing,
Hutch read the dark with the keenness of a feline. As
yet in the east there was no sign of pallor. Then Hutch
turned his regard down the road, in the direction not of
the city but the country, intent on something he was
expecting.
For half an hour he watched without seeing anything.
Now the sky in the east was thinning to a dirty gray.
The drizzle still came down. Hutch was keenly watching


246
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
in his native Dorsetshire, for all the suspicion he had of
anything that should disturb his sleep.
Hutch slid to the ground and crept up behind the last
cart. Reaching up he clutched the tarpaulin and squatted
on the top of the load. Writhing forward on his stomach
he reached the carter's bedroom. The entrance to it
would be from either side of the wagon. Craning his
head forward Hutch made out the way the man lay.
A long prehensile hand reached inside the tarpaulin
and fingertips delicately explored the location of the
carter's throat. Then they wrapped themselves about a
warm, thick neck and closed.
There was a startled heave of a powerful body. But
Hutch was already inside, on top of the carter, both his
hands crushing his windpipe. Furious was the struggle,
but brief and decisive. The carter's body slacked, slumped,
grew still. The rattle of breath through constricted wind-
pipe, a snarl of animal fury from Hutch—and under the
tarpaulin-shelter silence came again.
Hutch, squatting on the carter's body, raised the edge
of the tarpaulin gently. The slack reins had conveyed
no hint to the plodding horses of a change in drivers.
Now that the struggle was over even an onlooker in the
road would not have suspected anything wrong under that
tarpaulin. The crib was as well protected from public
view as though it were really a bedroom. And in this
mode the seventh cart plodded behind its leaders; down
the increasingly urban road toward Covent Garden; in


JOURNEY ENDS
247
the broadening dawn; past awakening city life; past semi-
watchful policemen on guard for a hunchback fugitive
but not against the familiar sight of farm carts going
to market.
But well in the city the seventh cart lagged gradually.
By the time the caravan reached The Strand it was fully
a block behind the others. When the six wagons turned
into Covent Garden, the seventh continued down The
Strand.
A “bobby” speculated whether the horses had not really
lost their way and started forward to investigate. But
from within the tarpaulin-enclosed crib came the brisk jerk
of reins that told of a wakeful driver, bound perhaps for
another part of the city. So the “bobby” turned away
again, meditating on the still alarm sent out an hour be-
fore in connection with that mysterious Goodrich murder.
But as the escaped hunchback was reported making away
on foot in a suburb ten miles away the "bobby” did not
take more than an academic interest in the hunt.
In Commercial Road the cart went forward at a brisker
pace in the general direction of Tillbury Docks. In and
out of the maze of riverfront streets it wound until it
came before a small warehouse. Here it halted.
For some moments Hutch watched from under his tar-
paulin cover. Then seeing only deserted street he stuck
out his head cautiously and looked about again. Still see-
ing no one, he emerged from his shelter, carefully turned


250
THE GIRL IN THE FOG
.
threw to one side to make room for Hutch-and at last
took his position.
The Lascar closed the bale again, leaving breathing
holes, and with a huge needle sewed together again the
bale of goods, until it looked again exactly as it did be-
fore he had opened it.
Then moving it carefully he so placed it that when the
loading began in a few hours Hutch’s bale would be the
last to leave.
In a few hours it would be on board; in another few
hours the rusty steamer would be out of London port and
on her way to the Orient with the Lascar, a member of
the crew, overcome suddenly with a desire to see his old
home once more.
The only thing Hutch did not count on was that the
Lascar, named in Pete Ennis's letter as a member of the
gang, had been unmolested by Inspector Hawley's men
-for a reason. They felt he would be of less service in
prison than outside under beneficent and, by him, unsus-
pected surveillance.
The freight tramp, Sally Dee, was taking on a hetero-
geneous cargo of cotton goods, kitchen tinware and shoddy
blankets at Tillbury Docks, with steam up for a halting
voyage to the Straits Settlements and points beyond. Her
rusty winch was squealing and puffing as it raised its
hammock of iron chain, for its swing ashore.
Two longshoremen had rolled a goodly sized bale of
felt mattresses consigned to a small hospital in Lahore.


JOURNEY ENDS
253
about two strands, engaged his tremendous chest and
began to strain. The chain cradle had been once broken
and the break pieced out with half-inch hemp. Hutch's
hands were tearing at that break. His teeth sank into the
hemp and gnawed.
Something snapped. Hutch's arm lunged through a
suddenly enlarged opening and a mighty shoulder followed.
But the hole was not large enough. One strand of chain
clutched the thick throat, red and swollen. Another
wedged under his armpit.
Hutch could have drawn back and relieved the strain.
Instead he tried to force himself through the inadequate
opening
“He's
gone
mad!" one of the men said.
Inspector Hawley stepped close to Hutch and scanned
his blazing eyes.
"No," he said slowly. “He's trying to do away with
himself."
“Strangle?”
"No. Look at the veins of him."
Every vein and artery visible stood out as though about
to burst. He no longer perspired. The red of his face,
throat and hands was turning to blue and purple. And
still he strained.
“Good Lord, it's beastly!" one of the men muttered.
“Letting him torture himself that way."
Inspector Hawley turned to him, a stern light in his
usually kind eyes.
“I am very little grieved,” he said shortly.
Silently they watched the struggle. It came to an end
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