The Gift of Venus and Other Stories (2024)

Roy Glashan's Library.
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ERLE COX

Stories first published in Australian newspapers, 1920-1944

First book edition: Roy Glashan's Library, 2018
Version Date: 2018-06-04
Produced by Terry Walker and Roy Glashan

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

INTRODUCTION

ERLE COX (1873-1950) was a Melbourne journalist,book and film reviewer who wrote three novels and a number ofshort stories for his newspapers, The Argus and TheAustralasian.

His first novel, Out of the Silence (1919), was formany years listed as one of the classics of the genre. Its lustrehas faded now, but its status as the first Australia sciencefiction novel to stride the world's stage remains.

First published as a serial in The Argus, a Melbournedaily newspaper, in 1919, it subsequently made it into book form(Vidler, Melbourne), (Hamilton, London) and (Librairie des ChampsElysées, Paris), all in 1925, and Henkle, New York in 1928. Itwas turned into a comic strip serialised in The Argus in1934, and the same year adapted to an Australian radio serial.The novel was reprinted several times in the 1930s and 1940s andhas recently been revived both in print and e-book form.

His second novel is Fools' Harvest (1938). This seemsto be science fiction in the "alternate history" mode, but reallyits roots lie in the "awful warning, wake-up" novels whichabounded before World War I, postulating various forms of theinvasion of Britain. William Le Queux, Edgar Wallace and severalothers wrote on this theme. This book, published as Japan wastearing through China and aiming south, tells of the rapid,Blitzkrieg conquest of Australia by the Japanese (lightlydisguised as "Cambasians") from the viewpoint of fleeing refugeesfrom the cities, some of whom become resistance fighters.

His third novel is a comic take on the "Faust" theme, entitledThe Missing Angel (1946), in which a henpecked,downtrodden man accidentally summons the Devil, with farcicalcomplications. The devil assumes the guise of a suave man-about-town named Nicholas Senior (from the euphemism "Old Nick"),rather than the cloven-footed horned version.

COX's short stories are equally varied in theme and type.The Mendax stories tell of an abrasive scientist and his madschemes; they are comic, and sometimes a little cruel in tone:Grimm's fairy tales for grownups.

The others range from straight romance through social comedyto fantasy. The short stories are mostly set in or aroundMelbourne and all reflect a pre-war, and even pre-first-war,Australia that is long lost. Some of the colloquial language andreferences used will be unfamiliar even to modern Australianreaders, never mind non-Australians. The very first story in thiscollection was, after all, published a century ago.

I have included brief above-the-title teasers in the manner ofpulp science fiction and detective story magazines of the period.They are unique to this collection and not part of the originalstories as published.

The first-publication credit is included under the story'stitle.

—Terry Walker, May 2018

1: THE GIFT OF VENUS

The Australasian (Melbourne), 10 April 1920

Meet Cupid's mother...

MARK PEARSON MAITLAND COURTNEY (remember he wasonly one man) slid from by his saddle and closed the gates of thehome paddock, and turned with the bridle over his arm to watchsome 3,000 sheep spread fanwise from him towards the timber andwater of the creek.

If you were to open up the red and gold covers of Burkeyou would find the above named gentleman mentioned, after severalcolumns of condensed history, all more or less disreputable didyou know the facts, as "6th. B July 16th., 1888."

Australians have been said, rather unjustly, to be ratherreserved in referring to any of their ancestors who diedsuddenly, but Mark, English born and bred, was entirely withoutconceit except on one point: he could prove conclusively thatthree of his progenitors had ended their mortal careers suddenlyon Tower Hill, in a manner not unconnected with an axe. Once,after three whiskies (he hadn't much of a head), he was heard tosay that it was a pity his father hadn't made a fourth.

It was rumoured that his father, who was a very respectablepeer as peers go, had coldly discouraged Mark's early aspirationsto bankrupt all the bookmakers in England, and as a consequenceAustralia was the gainer, when hard work had modified his exaltedideas, by a valuable citizen. Mark was rather proud, too, of thefact that one could scarcely mention the name of a castle in theUnited Kingdom in which one or other of his forefathers had notdone time. The fourth Earl had gone into well deserved retirementfor fifteen years for being connected with a plan to create avacancy in the Sacred College by poisoning Cardinal Wolsey.Morals and manners are only relative after all, and timegraciously tones down the unpleasant features of such incident,still it is hard to think that the future Burke of theCommonwealth would find space even in its advertising columns forthe name of the person who used prussic acid as a politicalexpedient, whatever the provocation.

However, Courtney stood watching the sheep until his horse gavea sudden jump and pull on the bridle without any apparent cause,The man drew on some years Australian experience to remonstratewith the animal, and it was proof of his adaptability that hisremarks would have done credit to a native.

He was considering further eloquence when a small green applepassed the horse's withers, and struck him where his necktieshould have been. Several words on his lips were checked as heglanced up and saw on the other side of the hedge a picture thathad been in his mind since he had left the out-farm. The facewould have stopped a saint at his prayers, let alone a mere man'swhole-souled remarks at his horse's uncalled for agitation.

First, there was a shapeless broad-rimmed straw hat, torn inplaces, through which a gleam of gold showed against the dustybrown, and underneath a face bright with successful mischief. Thered mouth curved into smiles below a pair of eyes that in theshade looked black but were really blue, and just in the middleof the chin was a dimple that Courtney had sworn to subjugate. Heformed endless designs for the conquest of that dimple, designsthat seemed flawless when he turned them over in his mind. Whenaway from its devastating influence its downfall seemed merely amatter of determination and self-assertion. In its presence,however, his courage melted, and his carefully built plans endedin confusion. Even now, as he looked, a quickening of his pulseswarned him of coming defeat.

"Oh, you do look tired," said the owner of the dimple, as hereyes took in the dust covered figure of Courtney as he steppedfrom behind his horse.

"Your judgment is faultless," he laughed, glancing at thewatch on his wrist. "I started at five, and it is now half-pastfour. I plead guilty, Miss Rita."

There was something more than sympathy in the girl's eyes,could he have but read it.

"I have something for you." Two shapely hands held up abrimming basin over the hedge. "It's half milk and halfsoda—much better than anything else."

"To the Gods," said Courtney, and spilled a few drops on theground before he raised the bowl to his lips and returned itempty. "I thank you, Miss Rita, for watching for me. You havegiven me new life."

"Watching for you, indeed!" The dimple flickered a moment,and disappeared. "You flatter yourself, most noble Mr. Courtney.It was only the dust raised by those wretched sheep that remindedme of your existence, and made me think you might be thirsty."

Of course the man did not know that she was angry with herselfbecause her heart beat so quickly, and that nervousness and theexquisite coquetry of maidenhood made her say the words that shefelt least like saying.

He swung into the saddle, thinking that her words expressedher real thoughts, and hat in hand, made a bow that his cavalierancestors might have envied. "Nevertheless it was extremely kindof you," he said stiffly, and as the horse clattered towards thestables he never turned in his saddle. He might have lingered hadhe been able to see the eyes of the girl as they followed him, orhad he known of the sigh that she would hardly have confessed toherself.

Courtney made his way forwards the creek, after seeing to hishorse, in a frame of mind that was rare with him. He consideredit an affront to the whole of his race that a dimple and two darkeyes, to say nothing of a perfect mouth, should destroy his peaceof mind.

He flung himself down on the grass tussocks at the edge of thecreek, and through a break in the green leaves high above himwatched a speck that he knew to be an eagle, almost motionless inthe eternal blue. The silence of the closing day settled over allas he stared upwards. He was aching in every limb, and did notrealise how absolutely worn out he felt until he relaxed himselffrom the strain of his day-long ride.

He wondered vaguely why his temples throbbed so painfully, andwhy the leaves on the branches blurred at one moment and the nextstood out with photographic detail. Then he became aware that thebird he was watching was slowly settling earthward. The circlesnarrowed, and with tense interest, scarcely daring to move, hesaw it come to rest on a charred stump not thirty yards away.

At the moment it alighted he became aware he was not alone.There was a stir and shiver amongst the grass, and just besidehim he saw a boy, such a boy as he had never dreamt of before. Hewas exquisitely formed and completely nude, except for a beltthat held a quiver full of arrows to his side. The body seemedtransparent, as if fire and not blood pulsed through it, and aglow of strange lambent light seemed to emanate from his wholebeing. A mass of tumbled hair crowned a face that held in itswilful expression the simplicity and mischief of a child, blendedin some strange way with awful and age-long knowledge. One chubbyhand held an ivory bow, and his eyes were fixed on the greatbird.

With infinite cunning and stealth, the child fitted an arrowto the cord of the bow. There was a soft twang, and the dartbroke on the stiff-feathered wing pinions of the bird. Whatfollowed, Courtney never really knew. He saw the eagle rise andswoop savagely at the boy. He sprang to his feet with a yell,and, seizing a stick, struck wildly at the bird, which came toearth with one wing dragging helplessly on the ground. It wasstill full of fight, however, for hissing, and, with its clawsout-turned, it watched the child that had taken refuge betweenhis feet with baleful yellow eyes.

"You brute! You brute!" gasped the man, as he sent the sticksmashing down on the evil head, and then stood dazed as he sawthe eagle was dead at his feet.

For a few moments he was aware of the child's clinging armsabout his leg; and then he became conscious of a strange awe thatheld him. What had he done? Where was he? He became conscious ofsome unearthly and terrible music that blended with the sound ofthe wind through the leaves overhead. The golden atmospherearound him seemed to liquefy in quivering robes of splendour. Allthe colour of the opal was in the sound and sight, and in themidst of all there was a Presence.

Dazed and dumbstricken he watched motionless, while his sensesreeled before the majesty of that awful being. The love of thisworld, the world above, and the world below shone from her eyes.Maidenhood and maternity were there, and the all-embracing loveof the almighty gods, and with them the wisdom of the ages andthe pity of a Madonna.

"Thou hast done well, mortal. My son is very dear." He heardthe words come to him through the music wonderful that surroundedhim. "Speak, and do not fear. What would you?" Through hisdazzled senses ran the thought, "What can it be?"

The answer to his unspoken words came slowly and with infinitesweetness.

"I am she whom men call Love, and swine call Harlot. I am thelife of mortals and their power. For once I will answer yourprayer."

"Give me the one I love," came the ready thought.

"Think, mortal. If I grant your heart's desire it may bringearthly sorrow, and the gift once granted cannot be recalled. Ican give you peace without her."

"Give me the one I love." Courtney knew his soul answered, forhis lips were dumb.

"Then let it be so. She will be yours for ever. Sorrow andtrial shall ye know, but this I grant, wherever the sorrow andtrial may fall, the love I give will heal the wounds. Hand-in-hand along the path of life shall ye go together, shielding eachother by the way, and hand-in-hand shall ye go into the shadows.The love I give will glorify all, and last, not only here butbeyond. Farewell."

The vision of the Presence seemed to fade, but the dazzlingsplendour grew in a hurricane of fire that split and rolledtogether with a crash of thunder, and Mark Pearson MaitlandCourtney dropped forward with a broken stick in his hand andgreat dead eagle-hawk beneath him.

A doctor summoned by a frantic girl, who had not stayed tosaddle her horse, called it a mild attack of sunstroke, but hedidn't attempt to account for the bird. If you ask Rita, she willtell you that she thinks the doctor was an old stupid. If you askCourtney he will say he doesn't know what happened, and, further,as things have turned out, he doesn't care.

2: THE DEMORALISATION OF MURIEL

The Australasian (Melbourne), 2 April 1921, page38

An amused look at the arrival of women'sswimsuits with short legs and without sleeves, scandalouslyskimpy in 1921.

"NOTHING," she said decisively, "will make me agree that it is either right or proper."

It is not much use arguing with Muriel when she speaks thus,and I dropped the subject for the moment. The sun, which lookedas if it had been drinking heavily for the past week, haddisappeared in a red haze, and the crowd of miscellaneouslydressed people along the foreshore grew momentarily. Theindividual cries from the bathers blended as their numbers grewinto an ear-satisfying volume of sound. Then half-a-dozensplendid, clean-limbed Australian girls broke from a group in thecrowd, deployed on the water's edge with clasped hands, and wentforward with a run, their clear, ringing laughter rising for awhile, till it and they were swallowed up in the throng in thewater.

"Now," I asked, returning to the charge, "what's wrong withthat?"

"Nothing, and everything. To my mind, it is demoralising, andat any rate I'm not going to follow their example."

The deep-rooted Puritan strain in Muriel has its attractiveside, but there have been times when I have found itinconvenient. To lay down the law that broad-mindedness is merelyan excuse for behaviour that is not conventional may be allright, theoretically, but a too strict adherence to its letterspoils a lot of fun.

I tossed off my dressing-gown and stood up. "But wouldn't youcare to come?"

"Indeed, no. I've been to bathe twice today, and I'm quitecool enough."

I trust this kind of fib is not permanently recorded, or myMuriel is in a parlous state. "Please yourself, my good woman," Iretorted, and made for the water. I wonder why a good woman shouldthink it be offensive to be called a "good woman." I shouldprobably have heard if I had stayed.

Friday night came. I lounged on the sand, waiting for Muriel(waiting for Muriel is chronic). At length she arrived.

Fortunately I had enough self-possession not to comment on thefact that she was wearing a raincoat, and that her slipperscovered bare feet.

"Don't go in yet," she said uneasily, "wait until it isdarker," and so when the hazy gloom settled she nerved herselffor the plunge.

It needed nerve too. I don't know where she had obtained thatgarment. I imagine it was an heirloom. It was just made in one piece of some khaki coloured material, and looked like canvas.There were bands of Turkey red about the neck, knees, and cut offsleeves. But the most demented tailor in Bedlam could not haveachieved a more atrocious shape. However, it was modest beyondthe imaginings of the sternest moralist, and most infernally (theonly word) ugly.

Muriel, if you please, prides herself too, on ordinaryoccasions, on being a little ahead of the latest mode. But as Ipride myself on knowing just when to be silent, I said nothingvigorously.

Half an hour later we had rejoined the crowd on the sand, thepeace of the water upon us. All round were chattering groups,many of them flashing into view for a few seconds as the match ofa smoker lit up their faces. Presently three girls pattered upthe sand from the water, and stopped at a small pile of garmentsand towels beside us. They seemed supremely happy and unconsciousof the white limbs that gleamed vaguely in the dark.

In a few minutes I found myself unconsciously listening tothem. It was hardly fair perhaps, but it would have beendifficult not to hear.

"Oh, Millie! I wish you had been down earlier, and you wouldhave seen her," said one.

"What was she like?" came from the depths of a towel.

"Well, just like a bag of potatoes tied up with Turkey red,"came the answer that took my breath away. There followed a chorusof delighted giggles, and I felt the start that Muriel gave asshe sat upright.

"Was she old?" came the question in another voice.

"Well, I don't think she really was, but she looked about 55to 60. You never saw such a fright. Poor thing, I was sorry forher. It was just the colour of mustard." Then after a pause. "Theman with her was awfully decent looking too; it's a wonder hedidn't get her to put more ginger into it." I failed to followthe finishing phrase, but I thanked Providence for the kindlydark that hid my face from Muriel.

I turned to my wife. She was sitting bolt upright, staringstraight ahead.

"About time we were going, I think."

Without a word she stood up, disregarding my profferedassistance, and we made our way homeward. I had a wild desire toreturn and embrace those three merry damsels; indeed I would havedone so but for the fear of being misunderstood. As we walked onin silence, I mentally took the three of them to afternoon teaevery day for a week, and fed them on ices and strawberries andcream, and all that could delight the heart of a maid.

As I sat on the edge of the bed later, smoking a finalconcessionary cigarette, the humour of the situation becameirresistible.

Muriel standing in white before the dressing-table, turned onme with flashing eyes. I sobered myself rapidly. "If you laughagain, you creature, I'll throw this brush at you."

I wasn't afraid of her hitting me, but those silver toiletthings dent so easily. "And look here," she went on, "if you dareto tell your sisters I won't dine there on Sunday."

It was most disappointing, but I forced myself to say that Ihad not the remotest intention of retailing the incident toanyone. As I watched her, I felt pleased to think that it was herown hair that Muriel was combing, not mine. Then she went on tomake a few remarks that made me feel more pleased that thosethree merry maidens were not in her power for the moment; hadthey been I fear the brush would have been used for other than itslegitimate purpose.

One Saturday evening after we had washed up, (like the rest ofour friends we are maidless), I put the usual question toMuriel.

"No I can't come yet. I have a few things to do about thehouse. Don't wait for me."

All the morning in the office I had been hungering for themoment, and fled, like a boy released from school. It was only 7o'clock, but the beach was thronged. For nearly an hour Isplashed round in perfect enjoyment, then I made for the beach.Thirty yards from the edge I paused. There in the half light,coming straight towards me, superb and unafraid, was a figuresemi-clad in an emerald green Canadian, banded with yellow.

"Holy Smoke!" I gasped us she came up with me, "Muriel!"

She fled past me. "Come on, boy, I feel as if there were athousand eyes on me, and I want to hide in the water."

"Two thousand would be nearer the mark," I answered as wesplashed off together.

Presently she turned to me, "What are you laughing at, yougreat stupid?"

"I was just thinking," I said, "how demoralising it all is.Just four days' hot weather, and where are your scruples?"

"In the water, here with Caesar," she answered laughing."Anyhow I'd like to see that minx who pitied me the other night,I'd show her something."

"Indeed you would, my dear," I replied with meaning.

"Oh! not that way, you creature," she laughed as we dived.

And now with Kipling, and the late lamented Sir AnthonyGloster, I repeat, "Anyhow, women are queer."

3: WHAT THE ARCHBISHOP KNEW

The Australasian (Melbourne) 18 June 1921

The Archbishop was a man of greatlearning...

TO begin with, I have no desire to misleadanyone into thinking that I have ever been on speaking terms withan archbishop. I have little doubt that all archbishops arecompanionable beings in their lighter hours, but I have lessdoubt that an archiepiscopal atmosphere would prove too rarefiedfor my comfort. What Father Duret did not know about them,however, was not worth knowing.

Because the coach was late in starting it most naturallyfollowed that we broke a tyre while still ten miles out from St.Hildas, and we arrived at that deplorable township, with the backaxle supported by a sapling, just about an hour after the onlytrain had left. The day was just the sort of day on which suchthings happen.

I crawled down from my perch on the box half-frozen, and madefor the bar. Larry Burns, who knew me, pushed across theessentials of life without waiting for me to speak. When I felt alittle better he went across to the letter-rack, and pushedacross a non-essential in the form of a telegram.

"Guessed you would be on board. This came along yesterday," heobserved.

I read the message, and Larry and the driver, who had arriveda bad second, listened to my remarks in respectful silence. SaidBurns when I paused for breath, "That's one of the advantages oftravel, a man does pick up some language. What is it? Onlymurder, or twins?"

"Pretty nearly as bad as both in a heap," I growled. "I mustget down to Ringbar this afternoon. Fix me up with a feed, Larry,and then I must have a trap."

"The feed's ready, but as for the trap, well, I don't likeyour chance."

"You don't? And why not?"

"Races at Dovertown—everything with a wheel on it, oranything that would pull it, went down there this morning. I'd bethere myself only someone had to stay at home."

The obligation of getting to Ringbar that day, and the visionof a 16-mile tramp to do so, detonated my reserve language. "Hangit all, Larry, don't stand there grinning, don't you suggestanything?"

"Nothing better than hoofing it—unless you see hisreverence," he added as an afterthought.

I failed to see any advantage in spiritual consolation, andsaid so. Anyhow, what had his reverence to do with the case?

"Dunno; we always go to him when we're in a hole," answeredLarry stolidly.

I shelved the question for the time being, and went to thebig, empty, dining-room. When I came out half an hour later Larrymet me.

"Come along here. I've been talking to his reverence." BeforeI could enter a protest he opened a door and called out, "Here'sthe gent, Father," pushed me inside and closed the door afterme.

There and then I discovered what Father Christmas does when heis not crawling down chimneys.

In an armchair was Father Christmas in the flesh; rosy cheeks,white hair and whiskers, and twinkling grey eyes all complete. Hehad changed his red furred cloak to the outfit of a RomanCatholic cleric.

Only his dancing eyes betrayed his amusem*nt at myembarrassment, as I tried to apologise for my intention. "Larry'smethods are a little crude," he interrupted, "but his intentionsare excellent. I hear you are in a fix."

I pointed out that I had no earthly right to worry him with mymisfortunes, but he insisted gently. So I explained that a man inMelbourne to whom I owed obedience had wired me that theimportant man would he in Ringbar next day in pursuit of acontract that we regarded as our own. Therefore I must be atRingbar before him, even if I had to walk.

He nodded a complete understanding, staring into the fire.Then he looked at the drizzling rain.

"I think I can manage it for you," he said presently, and hestood up and reached for his overcoat. I entered a guiltyprotest. It was too much to ask any man to leave such a fire onsuch a day. He waved my protest aside with, "I knew I was toocomfortable; it is better this way." He spoke and acted like a manwhose actions are seldom challenged.

We went out though the muddy, wet lanes, and found a cottagewhere a sour faced woman was feeding some draggled chickens.

Her face lit up when His Reverence spoke to her. Yes, ofcourse he could have the horse and trap but the horse was in thepaddock, and would His Reverence step inside while she caught it?But Father Duret would do nothing of the kind.

The catching of that horse left the two of us pretty limp.With me the limpness was due as much to laughter as exertion. Ifound neither rain nor discomfort could damp that man'sirrepressible humour.

We harnessed the animal to a spring-cart and drove back to thehotel. I put my baggage on board, and commenced to thank myrescuer, who was still seated in the cart holding the reins. Hesmiled down at me through his whiskers.

"My son, if I borrow a horse, I drive it. Not that I doubtthat you would take every care of it, but it's a matter ofprinciple. Come, get in."

I stood back; this was too much.

"But it's sixteen miles to Ringbar," I wailed, feeling an uttercriminal.

"And sixteen miles back," he answered serenely, stillsmiling.

"But I can't. It's an outrage—I—" I broke off,looking helplessly at Larry, who stood by grinning.

"Better do what he tells you," said Larry, "we all do in theend."

It seemed there was nothing else for it; so I climbed into thecart again, thinking of painful ways in which to slay Burns.

Off we went, jolting down one of the worst roads in a Statenotorious for its roads. That drive lives in my memory. It shouldhave stood out as the worst of many bad ones; but as a matter offact, I began to laugh when I left St. Hildas and scarcelystopped till we reached Ringbar.

Once I said to him, "But why should you do this for a totalstranger? Why, I am not even one of your creed?"

The grey eyes twinkled as he turned to me. "Ah! my son. Thenyou're in for a bad time hereafter so I must do what I can foryour comfort in this world."

When we reached Ringbar I begged him to be my guest for thenight, but he shook his head. There was an early service on thefollowing morning. He must go back. He stayed with me for dinner,rather on the horse's account than his own, and afterwards herattled off into the darkness on the lonely drive home, cuttingshort with a jest every attempt of mine to thank him.

So far nothing about archbishops. I merely wanted tointroduce you to Father Duret before touching on hisecclesiastical chief. When one meets a man like Father Duret onedoes not like to miss a chance of seeing more of him. Whenever Iwent into that district afterwards I made a point of putting upfor the night at St. Hildas, and always the old man welcomed me.Some of the evenings I spent at the presbytery were good toremember. He was always a fresh delight. In some of the world'sdoings his simplicity was childlike, while in the ways of men andtheir motives his knowledge was appalling. He had come fromFrance over forty years before, and had been in the one parishever since. And the hardest bitten coal-miner in the districtwould have eaten out of his hand.

We were sitting opposite one another one night. The stem ofhis pipe was between his lips. Its great meerschaum bowl wasresting on his lap, and at intervals he emitted fragrant smokeand fragments of his own inimitable philosophy. He liked a goodlistener, and I filled the part, merely dropping a question hereand there, as he described it, to "prod his thinking works".

He had caught a look in my eye after some chance phrase he hadused.

"What was it my son?" he queried.

"Nothing of moment," I answered, "it was your accent justnow."

"French?" With raised eyebrows.

"No, Irish—undoubtedly Irish. I have not heard a traceof French yet," I answered.

He chuckled, a chuckle that rippled all over him. "Ah! thatwas not mine but Kitty Riley's, bless her ould soul. I'll neverlose it so long as I live."

Then he told me how, when he had arrived in the country first,his knowledge of English was in inverse ratio to his zeal tolearn, and Kitty Riley, his housekeeper, had laboured to impartinstruction. He had told her to correct him whenever she heardhim make a mistake. "Say pase, yer rivirince, say pase," she hadsaid over, his shoulder in a stage whisper one night at dinnerwhen he had asked a guest to have some more peas.

"It must have been pretty uphill work for a start underthese conditions," I commented, for he had given me a fewsidelights on his early troubles.

"It was, and—" he paused reflectively, "the worst, of itwas that in my innocence I picked up some of the language I couldwell have done without."

"That was hard luck."

"You see," he explained, "this place was so far out of the waythen that I had no one to guide me in my excursions intocolloquial English," and he chuckled again, reminiscently. Thenhe spoke suddenly: "I'll tell you about it, and I've not toldhalf a dozen people since it happened."

With his beard in his hands and between clouds of smoke, hewent on:

"The archbishop used to have a dozen of us at a time on anannual visit. It was more of an honour than a pleasure," heexplained, dryly, "for His Grace was a disciplinarian of no meancalibre. But he had one weakness, and that weakness was whist.Not solo or bridge, they were unknown, but the old-fashioned,long whist. And I'll tell you this, there are a number ofunpleasant things I would have done rather than sit out a gamewith him. Whist wasn't his religion exactly, but it came a goodsecond. He'd choose three men each night, and each night heplayed a rubber, and one night to my undoing he chose me. When wecut for partners I was against him, and that was a littlesatisfaction, for the man who was his partner had a sorry hour togo through. It was a great rubber we had that night. Game each,and one hand to get the odd trick, and His Grace was in a goodhumour almost. The game was so close that the other men stoodround the table to see the finish. He was getting the fall of mylead, and every time that evening I had played a king he had anace for it. It was the last hand, and almost the last lead, whenI got his king of trumps with an ace, and as I threw down thecard I said, almost shouted, in fact—" here he leanedforward and whispered in my ear words of lurid and amazingprofanity.

"Scott! Father! You didn't! You couldn't!" I gasped, rockingwith laughter and horror.

"But I could, my son, and did. Those very words I hurled atthe Archbishop across his own table." I sat back, and laughed tillthe tears came to my eyes, and he rumbled in sympathy.

"What happened?" I asked at last.

"Well, at first the group round the table was too stunned todo anything but gape. I felt some catastrophe had happenedwithout knowing what. But remember they were all Irishmen exceptme, and suddenly one of them whooped, and the whole flock wentoff into fits of laughter, all except the Archbishop. His facewas like a marble image of retribution, and it sobered them upquickly enough when they got a glimpse of it."

"He glared round the group. 'You will all retire, I will speakof this further in the morning.' I rose to follow the others, buthe snapped, 'You will remain,' so I sat down again."

"My son, one night I lay out in the scrub with a compoundfracture of the leg, but I'd go through that again rather thanthat half hour with his Grace."

"He explained in detail the exact nature of my exclamations,and insisted on knowing where I had learned them; whether I usedthem habitually, and whether I knew any more. The first twoquestions I could answer. The third—well, as I explained,any word used might be better left unsaid, through my ignoranceof colloquial English. He took my point and thought it over. Thenhe commenced to comb out my vocabulary. To a listener unaware ofthe circ*mstances it must have been an astounding proceeding.Picture the big bare room. The Archbishop and I stood at the cardtable strewn with cards, and the candles between us, and usingswear words at one another as if for a wager."

He paused, and his eyes twinkled across at me through thesmoke.

"And my son, believe me or not, but the Archbishop knew agreat deal more than I had ever heard then, or have heardsince!"

4: THE COG WHEELS

The Australasian (Melbourne), 26 June 1920

The wheels of love turn slowly... or dothey?

"OH! How lovely!" the mother exclaimed from herend of the breakfast table, over her paper. The father looked upfrom his eggs with a mild inquiry in his eyes. "It's KittyDumereque. She has a little daughter."

The man returned to his breakfast unmoved by the announcement,and there was no shadow of interest in his voice when he inquiredwho Kitty Dumereque might be. He only smiled at his wife'sexplanation that she and Kitty had been at school together, andshe was sure he had heard her spoken of dozens of times."Anyhow," his wife continued, "you never take any interest inthings."

"Well," answered the husband, "it's pretty hard to work upinstant enthusiasm over the new-born infant of a woman one'snever seen. However," he went on soothingly, "if you like I'llsay it's glorious news, and I'm sorry it's not twins."

"But Kitty was the prettiest girl in the school. She wasmarried just about the time Tony was born," the wife went on asthough to urge the two points as a claim on his interest. Tony,aged five, hearing his name mentioned, looked up from his bowl ofbread and milk, but, seeing the grownups were engaged in one oftheir totally uninteresting talks he returned to more importantmatters.

The husband laughed lightly. "Upon my word, old girl, thoseschoolmates of yours are the most patriotic crowd in theCommonwealth. I am prepared to swear and take oath, that scarcelya week passes without your announcing at breakfast that one orother of them is responsible for another citizen."

"But this was Kitty, she was the pret—"

"Right-oh!" he interrupted, "It should have beentriplets."

"You horror!" and a table napkin fluttered across thetable.

The man chuckled and handed the missile back. "That's a niceexample to set your son. Assaulting his father in his presence,and telling most outrageous fibs at the same time."

"Fibs! What fibs?"

"Well she couldn't possible have been the prettiest girl inthe school," he answered, smiling across at her meaningly.

"Oh you goose!" his wife smiled back. "But she wasnevertheless."

The man stood up, and at the same instant the clock chimed thehalf-hour. "Great Scott! Late again!" he exclaimed, "bother yourfriends and their babies. I'll miss my train." A few minuteslater he departed tempestuously, and his wife returned to herinterrupted meal. Unheeded by both, two cogs in the mightymachine of fate had engaged for a moment, and the wheels hadrolled on.

EIGHT years passed before the wheels swung round again. Beforethe train had well stopped, a boy of 13 or 14 sprang from acarriage on to the suburban platform, and hurried towards thewicket. He was wearing the cap and badge of one of the big publicschools, and was, from the pace he made, in a desperate hurry.Just as he reached the wicket, a woman, holding a small girl bythe hand, ran through and made for the nearest carriage. Sheturned the door handle, but the door had jammed, and the trainwas on the point of starting. In one jump the boy was at herside; with a wrench, and a heave of a pair of shoulders thatalready gave promise of a mighty growth, the door was opened. Thewoman turned to thank him as he closed it after her, and as shespoke the boy noticed for the moment what nice shiny eyes theywere that smiled on him. "Just like mum's," he thought. He raisedhis cap and turned away bent on some boy's business of desperateimportance. Had anyone asked him a moment later what he thoughtof the little girl he had just seen, his probable reply wouldhave been: "Oh, that kid? I didn't notice her."

None the less, true to the second, the machine had brought thecogs together at the appointed time.

A GREAT queen had reigned for 60 years, and at night the Cityblazed in her honour. At a point where two streets intersected,a mighty torrent of people whirled and eddied. The torrentreached from wall to wall, and the volition of the human unitsthat composed it was merged into that of the mass. In the thickof the press, two men, each a total stranger to the other, metface to face. The younger, amused at the involuntary encounter,smiled as he said cheerfully, "Pretty thick, is it not?"

The elder nodded. "Too thick to be pleasant. I'm trying to getout. I have my daughter here and she is getting crushed."

The younger looked down, and bearing backward with mightystrength, he made a shelter between them for the slight figure ofthe girl. Then raising his head above the crowd, he looked overthe singing mass. When he turned again he said, "It looks clearerover at the south corner, shall we try for it? I'll be only tooglad to help."

The elder man thanked him heartily, and they commenced theirstruggle. It took ten minutes to cover the sixty feet to theirobjective. The younger man only knew that some tender, helplessbeing was committed to his care, and was sheltering beneath hisarms, and exulting in his strength, he used it to the full inprotecting her from the crowding mass that surrounded them.

When they reached the corner of the building where the throngthinned out slightly, and their progress was assured, he nodded acheerful farewell to the elder man and in a moment was swallowedup again in the crowd.

An hour later father and daughter were again beneath their ownroof.

"I'm glad you didn't come with us, Kitty," said the man tohis wife. "The crowd was terrific, and we got caught near theTown Hall. Faith! I think we'd be there yet if it hadn't been fora young giant who came to the rescue.

"How did you get on, Babs?" asked the mother, turning to thegirl.

"I was nearly squeezed to pieces," answered the maid. "I thinkI would have been if Daddy's giant had not come to the rescue.Then he put out his arms over me, and I was saved."

"What was he like?" inquired the mother, with interest.

"Couldn't say, mummy. His head was miles in the air, but hiscoat was rough and scratchy, and he smelt of nice cigars, so Ithink he must have been a nice man." She smothered a yawndaintily. "Anyhow, I'm going to bed now. Battling with the entirepopulation of the city has simply unravelled me. Good night,dears," and she departed.

THE man lay back in an armchair, book in hand, but manyminutes had passed since his eyes had fallen on its pages. To himentered his sister, hatted and veiled, drawing on the secondglove.

"Tony!" she exclaimed in dismay, "not dressed yet, and itsnearly three."

"No reason to get excited, dear child," he answered calmly."Fact of the matter is that I'm not going."

"But, you promised," she said, angrily.

"Provisionally. Don't forget, provisionally."

"Pooh!" she said derisively; "I suppose you've got hold ofsome horrible book."

He looked at the offending volume reflectively. "Well, thatdepends on the viewpoint; the book deals with skin diseasesmainly, but, to tell the truth, I'm not very interested in it. Iwas just trying to decide when you er—exploded into theroom, whether I should go after schnapper or down to thehospital. Now which would you recommend?"

She held out her wrist, disdaining to answer. "Here, fasten,that glove for me, please; and remember this, it will be many along day before I go to the trouble of getting an invitation foryou to meet the prettiest girl in Melbourne. There are men whowould give their eyes for the chance."

He laughed quietly as he fastened the glove. "Same old tale.I've fallen in too often. Does she pose, or gush? I think I'llmake it schnapper."

"Do come, Tony," she said coaxingly, making a last attempt tobreak down his indifference.

"Schnapper, my dear," was the only answer the brothermade.

"All right! You can go killing fishes or humans, whichever youplease; it was silly of me to bother about such a superiorperson," and she fled wrathfully. The man looked after herthoughtfully.

"By Jove!" he said half aloud, "the little sister does getinto a paddy easily—I wonder who the girl is?" Then hestrolled off to change for his fishing, and the matter droppedout of his mind.

THREE years passed before the unerring machine brought thecogs together again!

In the early morning of a perfect day a liner passed throughthe Heads and nosed her way up the channel. A man, lyingindolently smoking in the stern of a small motor launch, watchedher idly as she neared him, with the newly risen sun blazing onher white upper works, and turning the long lines of ports todazzling gold.

As she drew abreast she came almost close enough for the manto distinguish the faces of the people on her decks. He followedher with his eyes without turning his body, and noticed withmomentary interest that someone was waving to him, and apparentlyendeavouring to attract his attention. For a moment he feltinclined to reply, but to get at his handkerchief he would havehad to turn over. Why, he thought, should he inconveniencehimself for a total stranger, who chose to flap at him from apassing steamer, so he watched the tiny white speck withindifferent eyes until its fluttering presently ceased.

On the steamer's deck a young woman was leaning over the rail,watching the passing shore with eyes alight with pleasure. Shemade such a picture that the Captain paused beside her on his wayfrom the bridge.

"You are an early riser this morning, Miss Dumereque."

"I've been up since daylight to see the first of home. Isn'tit splendid? Look, there is Sorrento. It's been a lovely trip,Captain; and everyone has been so kind, but I can't help beingglad that I'm home again."

The skipper smiled at the radiant face.

"Do you know that if all my unmarried officers desert inMelbourne I'll hold you personally responsible?"

"They're dears, all of them, but it's hardly fair to bringsuch a charge against me."

"Oh," he laughed, "I didn't say it was done with maliceaforethought. It's just the corollary of certain naturalmanifestations."

The girl laughed heartily. "I don't think it's quite nice tobe called a natural manifestation, besides it's not true. I'vejust been waving my arms tired at the first of my countrymen I'veseen in nearly three years, and he took not the slightest notice.So you see—" she paused.

"Yes," went on the skipper, "I do see, and had he seen with myeyes he would have upset his boat in an endeavour to wavesomething in reply. In fact, I think by now he would he swimmingafter us."

The dimples on the girl's cheeks melted into laughter. "Nowthat's enough to make me hope the skipper will desert with thecrew."

"Retro me Satanus," he said, with twinkling eyes, and he passed on, followed by her exclamation of mock protest.

WITH a small tea table between, two young women were seated onthe veranda of a house set some way back from the street, butclose enough to it for them to be able to distinguish the casualpassers-by. They were indulging in tea and gossip in proportions in which the tea had a very insignificant part.

Suddenly the elder of the two paused with the words she wasspeaking cut short on her lips, and with more than passinginterest in her eyes she watched the movements of a man who wasapproaching from the opposite side of the street. "What's theexcitement, Biddy?" inquired the younger, watching hercuriously.

"Oh, Babs! It's a man, and I think he's coming here."

"How provoking," said her friend, sitting up; "just as we wereso comfy, too. Shoo him off." Biddy made no answer at the moment,and both continued to watch the approaching figure. The mancrossed the street leisurely, and walked to the gate, At theinstant he reached it a hooting motor car stopped with a jerk ina cloud of dust beside the footpath, and its driver jumped out.The newcomer crossed the footpath in two strides.

"The very man I'm after, Tony. I just called at your house,and missed you. Look here—" and here followed a technical,and, to a layman, unpleasant description of badly mangledhumanity—"it's the chance of a lifetime," he wound up; "Iwant you to give a hand with the rays. Will you come?"

"Will a duck swim," answered Tony, eagerly. "Hop in," and hefollowed the other lightly into the car that sped away in anodour of petrol. The two on the verandah were too far off to heara word of what had passed between the two men.

"Saved!" exclaimed. Babs, as the car started. "Who is he?"

Biddy gave a little exclamation of disgust. "Now, isn't thattoo bad," she said; "he would have been inside the gate inanother second. I did want you to meet him."

"I'll survive the loss. There are quite a few others in theworld. Might I remind you that you haven't told me who or what heis."

"Oh, Tony!" answered Biddy, turning back to her tea. "I forgotyou've been away so long you don't know him. Tony's a medicineman of sorts. He's a most fascinating devil to know, but he's shyof women. I'm one of the few he visits, and, my dear, if you knewhim, you'd realise why I preen my plumage on that account."

"Perhaps he saw I was here, and bolted," said Babs.

Biddy shook her head. "The man in the car was Doctor Gray-Forbes, and I expect he has taken Tony to help him cut some poorcreature into little bits. He and Tony get more inside knowledgeof society than any other men in Melbourne."

Babs made a little face. "Horrid! Is he married?"

"Confirmed bachelor, Babs," answered Biddy. "He's got heaps ofmoney, too. Cissie Farmer says he's got no heart—nothingbut an automatic muscular organ in his chest, and a stony glarein his eye. What are you grinning at?"

Babs laughed lightly. "Rich bachelors have no right toexistence, in that form at any rate; still, I was just wonderinghow Cissie made the discovery."

"She's not the only one who went exploring in that direction.But none of them ever returned. I'm married; so I suppose hethinks I'm safe!"

"I wonder—now I wonder if he's really immune. I'dlike—" Babs paused and smiled introspectively.

Biddy caught the look in her eye. "Babs Dumereque," she cried,threatening her with a teaspoon, "you're a menace to the safetyof the public. If I catch you trying any of your tricks on TonyI'll most certainly warn him beforehand."

"Oh! keep your precious Tony, I don't want him," Babs laughed.

Biddy looked rather seriously. "Do you know, Babs, I thinkgirls like you ought to be handicapped. You should be compelledby law to wear curl papers in public and calico frocks, and neverbe allowed to talk to a nice man unless masked. It's not fair tothe rest of us."

The lovely brown eyes sparkled mischievously.

"I can't help them falling down in battalions, dear. Perhapsyou might persuade your Tony to take, say, an inch off my nose toeven things up."

Meanwhile Tony, because the time was not yet come, was busiedwith other mysteries. But the wheels of the tale were moving moreswiftly now.

"TONY," said the father from the head of the table, "Iconsider you are shirking your just responsibilities. At my age,I should be the one to stay at home, and you should be takingyour womenkind out."

Tony only laughed. "Dad, you're younger than I am, and ifyou'll only be honest, you'll confess you actually like thesekiddy doings. The customs and manners of the tribes in theseparts don't appeal to me."

"Pooh!" from his sister, "Diogenes the Cynic lived in atub."

Tony took not the slightest notice of the interruption. "I'vebeen talking things over with Forbes, and I've definitely decidedon the European trip."

"Oh! When?" asked the mother eagerly.

"No use wasting time now. If I can get a passage tomorrow,I'll leave next week. You see, if the rest of you are going nextyear we can all meet somewhere." As he was speaking a maidbrought a note, which she handed to his father, who read it withan exclamation of annoyance.

"Tony, my boy, luck's against you. You'll have to take myplace tonight, after all. Carter finds he must leave in themorning, and I must see him before he goes. There is no chance ofour getting our yabber over before midnight, either."

The sister laughed merrily. "Just time to dress, Tony, and puton a party face. What a lovely time we'll have! You look sodelighted at the prospect of taking us out."

Tony rose and turned to leave the room. "Hang Carter, dad; butI suppose it can't be helped. We men do suffer for our womenkind,don't we?"

Two hours later he was standing alone at the door of a greatballroom watching the whirling crowd with absent eyes. He seldomdanced, and he felt supremely bored, and his thoughts turnedlongingly to certain books he had brought home with him that day,and which were still unopened. He did not notice that his hostesswas beside him until she spoke.

"Tony, you poor boy, you look bored to death."

He attempted a protest, but she shook a finger at him,laughing.

"I know you too well, and too long, Tony. In your heart ofhearts you are calling me anything but blessed."

Again he protested, and again she laughed.

"I'm going to punish you, and I'm doing it deliberately.There's a girl just arrived late, and you're going to look afterher for me, like a good boy. Discipline of the kind is good foryou. Here she comes now."

He turned quickly, and the hostess murmured two names, andleft them; He looked straight into the upturned eyes of the girl,and then for a space of time, for two people in it, the worldstood still.

NEXT day at lunch, striving desperately to keep a casual tonein his voice, he said, "After all, I think I'll change my mind,and wait till next year to go to Europe with you people."

"Why, Tony," said the mother with amazement, "What hashappened? Last night you were so keen on leavingimmediately."

"Oh!" he said carelessly; "it will be rather lonely by myself,so I may as well wait."

The mother looked at him in perplexity, but the sister stoodup, pointing the finger of derision. "Diogenes, the Cynic, livedin a tub. I know! I know! I counted. Four times, and you sat outas well. Habet! Habet! Thumbs down!" and she suited the action tothe word.

He stood up with dignity. "My dear child, what you require isa tonic, and complete rest. I've always had my suspicions aboutyour mental balance," and before she could retort he left theroom. She followed tumultuously, while the parents, used to thefamily outbreaks, looked on bewildered, but without comment.

Presently the sister returned, looking flushed, but happy.

"The wretch," she exclaimed, "He locked his door, and when Iwent round to the window to commiserate with him he pulled downthe blind."

"May I be permitted to inquire," asked the father mildly, "thecause of this unseemly riot?"

The girl laughed. "He lonely! Why, its Babs Dumereque. He mether last night. All the men are mad over her." Then, after apause. "Still, old Tony's got more sense than I thought hehad."

SIX months later they were standing together watching theferry lights weaving networks of jewels across the moonlit watersof the harbour.

"Just we two together, Tony, and to think that six months agoneither of us had ever heard of the existence of the other."

He held her closer. "Had my father had not been prevented fromgoing to the dance that night we would never have met."

Then Fate, who sometimes listens to the prattle of mortals,smiled—almost.

5: A BLACK CAT FOR LUCK

The Australasian (Melbourne) 17 December 1921

Some say black cats are good luck. Mr Pincemandiffers...

MR. ALBERT PINCEMAN was perfectly happy. It wasSaturday afternoon, and the afternoon was fine, and to make hishappiness complete Mrs. Pinceman had gone to the pictures. He wassitting on his back doorstep overlooking his back garden. Thefront, he knew, was a picture that arrested the steps of everypasserby. There were a few ragged fringes round his lawns at theback that he purposed to remedy, and as he sat with his pipebetween his teeth he worked industriously at putting a razor edgeon a pair of sheep shears.

He was a metal engraver, not only by trade, but by instinct,and the long sensitive fingers, as delicate as a woman's, thatheld the stone, carried out their office almost of their ownaccord. Nature, who had made Pinceman a superb craftsman, hadbeen nigg*rdly in the matter of brains, but generous in theendowment of his body. Given the proper costume, he would havepassed as one of Ouida's guardsmen, both physically andintellectually.

He was not a vain man, and had long ago found that the samegood looks that had won him his wife were the cause of thatlady's ceaseless jealousy and their almost ceaseless domesticfriction. Indeed, Albert sometimes wished he were asinsignificant in appearance as that scrubby little animal Hicks,who lived next door, and whose wife, according to Lydia, spenther time in endeavouring to capture Albert's affections.

Neither Mrs. Hicks nor Lydia perceived how remote was theprospect of success in such a venture, for, from the sounds thatoccasionally came across the fence, Pinceman knew that Hicks hadeven a worse time than he had himself, which was someconsolation.

Presently Pinceman tested the edges of the shears on his thumbnail, and was satisfied. He picked up a sack that lay beside him,and strolled across his garden. Beside one bed he stopped, andscowling angrily breathed a few such words as are written on aslip of paper and handed up for the inspection of virtuousJ.P.'s. The tomato plants which he had cherished through a sicklyinfancy to a vigorous youth had been infamously treated. Fourwere completely out of the earth, and lay wilting in the sun. Noneed to ask the culprit's name; it was that blanked cat,Diddums.

Lydia owned Diddums, a black she-cat, for luck, and Diddumsowned the house. It was Diddums who was responsible for thefrieze of toms of all sizes and colours that decorated the backfence all day and made night one long classical concert, and heloathed Diddums from the innermost recesses of his soul. Hereplaced the plants, gloomily, wondering whether they wouldsurvive the outrage, and cursing the criminal. Then he turned tohis lawns.

Squatting on the bag he had brought with him, Pinceman trimmedthe edges of the lawns with the same care as a barber wouldbestow upon a head of hair. As he worked, his irritation dieddown, and peace returned. For half an hour there was no othersound in the garden save the grating ring of the shears.

Then he happened to look up, and contentment vanished. Thirtyfeet away from him on the tomato-bed, he saw Diddums, andDiddums was gardening on her own account. Albert sat up andyelled, "Shoo!" Diddums remained calm, and went on with her work.He looked round for something to throw; but his garden was bareof stick or stone.

Then, in his anger, he hurled the shears.

He had no intention of hurting the brute; he merely wished tofrighten her; but he reckoned without his hands: those hands thathad been trained for a lifetime and met the commands of hisbrain with unerring accuracy. The twin blades whirled flashingthrough the air. From the corner of her eye Diddums saw themcoming, and stretched her neck for flight. Too late! Even as shemoved her fate was upon her; a point of the shears drove down oneither side of her slim neck, and deep into the ground.

Pinceman sat paralysed at the success of his endeavour. Thenhe breathed one word: "Gosh!" and rose to his feet.

The guillotine could not have severed the head more completelyor neatly. On one side lay the sleek black body, scarcelytwitching, and on the other the small black head. Seldom hadAlbert thought more quickly than he did then. Diddums wasdeceased; that was one outstanding fact. Another was that themeans of her decease must remain for ever unknown to Lydia. Shehad enough ammunition for nagging already without his providingsuch a tit-bit as the murder of Diddums.

"A black cat for luck" murmured Pinceman, looking down on hishandiwork, "I wonder whose luck, mine or Lydia's or Diddums'?"Then he made a swift resolution to bury his victim deeply, andprofess not only ignorance of her whereabouts, but intensesympathy for her loss.

Swiftly he went to his tool shed, glancing as he did towardsthe attic in the window of Hicks's house, where Mrs. Hickssometimes sat working in the afternoon. He knew the sensations ofa murderer and feared a witness. He took a spade and returned tothe scene of his crime. As he turned the corner of the shed, hestood wide eyed and speechless.

Reclining on the grass beside the bed was a woman.

That in itself was sufficient to stagger Mr. Pinceman, but ashis slow brain took in the details of her appearance his eyesfairly goggled with amazement. She was young, not more than 20,and beautiful.

Yes she was beautiful enough to make Albert feel almost dizzy.She was more beautiful than her costume was scandalous in theeyes of the owner of Namecnip Lodge. He wondered vaguely ifmortal woman could possess such large and melting brown—no,black, eyes, as gazed up at him, or how could it be possible thatthe owner of such eyes could possess such a tiny scarlet flowerfor a mouth. Her hair (there were storm-cloud masses of it) wasloosely bound with a blazing band of jewels, pendants of whichfell across her forehead. About her neck was a thin band ofrubies that looked almost like a streak of blood. The roundnessof her bosom was tightly confined in pink gauze thickly coveredwith flashing gems. Below this was a hiatus; her costume peteredout completely, until it recommenced with a heavy rose and goldsash about her slim waist and hips, and instead of skirts shewore trousers of pink gauze that were banded closely at herankles. On the tiny, the absurdly tiny feet, were dainty slipperswith curled up toes. Across her waist was a thin gold chain, fromwhich hung a small jewelled knife.

Taken all in all, she was not the lady that the ordinarysuburban householder would expect to find in his back garden ona fine Saturday afternoon.

For a long minute he stood gazing at her, while the visionsmiled up at him unabashed. Then the spade dropped from his hand,and with dragging feet he moved towards her trying to find words.He paused beside her. The only speech he could find blurted out:"Who the dickens are you?"

The answer came unhesitatingly: "I am Miriam, daughter of BenHafiz Ben Sadi. Do you not remember?"

To Albert the only thing mundane that resembled her voice wasiced beer being poured into a crystal goblet on a hot day. But hesteeled his heart, and thought of Lydia.

"Are you?" he said, shortly. "Well, all I can say is, it's apity Ben doesn't look after you better. Don't you know you couldbe had up for coming out in those togs? You get back to yourtheatre quick and lively."

The girl laughed lightly, and sat up supporting herselfimpudently with both hands on the grass behind her. "Don't youreally remember?"

"Don't be a fool," he answered irritably, "as though a man whohad met you once would forget you.".

She looked up at him, still smiling mischievously. "And yet,Selim, jeweller to my lord the King Solomon, you once swore underthe orange-trees that death itself could not make you forget. Ah,you men! you men!"

The sign and the glance made him quiver to his fingertips. Thetwo were so absorbed that neither heard the gasp of astonishmentfrom the attic of the house of Hicks, whence its overlady hadobtained her first amazed view of the scene below.

The delicate flattery of the glance was turned aside by athought of Lydia. "Now, dinkum!" said Mr. Pinceman. "What are youtrying to come at? Who are you?"

"Forgotten! Forgotten!" she sighed, "that I will tell. Ourgreat lord King Solomon, the wisest of men, had 700 wives, and300 of us, and I was his favourite."

The much married Pinceman interrupted. "The wisest ofmen—seven hun—Strewth! Must have been balmy as abandicoot."

The girl went on without noticing the interjection, justaltering her attitude to clasp her hands across her knees, andAlbert unconsciously sank beside her on the grass, to theedification of Mrs. Hicks, who now had an uninterrupted view ofthe scene.

"We were lovers, you and I, Selim, before they took me to thepalace, and you swore that you would never forget, but you neverheard what happened to me."

He looked at her helplessly. "All right, have it your own way.Though mind, I'll swear I never laid eyes on you before."

She shook her head. "I was the favourite, beloved of our lordthe king. He would have made me his wife also, but those otherspoisoned his mind with lies against me; horrible lies, and hebelieved, but would have pardoned me, but those wives urged andbegged him night and day to punish me."

"Excuse me, Miss," broke in Pinceman, "How many wives did yousay?"

"Seven hundred," she answered, "and the King yielded."

Mr. Pinceman nodded with complete understanding. "My oath hewould!" he muttered.

"And Selim—" "Name's Albert, please Miss, if you don'tmind," he interrupted)—"Can you guess the punishment?"

Pinceman shook his head.

"I was transformed into a black cat by the magic of the King,who laid it upon me that I could never regain my human form untiltwo blades on the one hilt struck off my head at a singleblow."

Had anyone mentioned transmigration in the hearing of Mr.Pinceman, he would have wondered, for which race it had beenentered. A wiser head might have been pardoned for doubting thesanity of his visitor, and Albert doubted frankly.

"Look here miss," he said sharply, "I don't know where youcome from, but you're clean batty in the nut. You go home like agood girl."

For answer a hand fluttered like a white jewelled moth to hissleeve. "Ah! Selim, can you not understand? I was Diddums, andyou have broken the spell. You are my deliverer, and I still loveyou."

For the first time since he had seen the girl he rememberedthe tragedy, and looked at the spot where the body of his victimlay. The shears were still sticking in the ground, but theremains had vanished.

"Somebody's pinched my dead cat!" he gasped; then rememberingthat a dead cat was not a negotiable security, he turned to stareat the girl.

"Yes, Selim, my beloved," she went on, and again the softcooing voice brought the vision of iced beer to Albert's mind."Your hand has freed me, and you and I will live together forever."

Consternation fell on the man at this announcement.

"Here!" he said aghast, "I'm married; what about mymissus?"

She pouted deliciously. "Phoo! That fat cow, Selim! I canpoison her. I'm quite good at poisoning. I learned from my lordthe King."

The amazing suggestion made Albert overlook the disparagingdescription of his wife.

"Cripes!" he gasped, "You're a bit hot, ain't you miss? Nicesort of bird that King must have been." Gradually it had filteredinto his mind that there might be truth in the girl'sstatements.

"Oh, well," said his visitor airily, "You can keep her if youwish. I don't mind. Marry me and she will be our slave."

Said Mr Pinceman, more to himself than her, "A bonzer timeI'll have, I don't think."

Up in the attic Mrs. Hicks was straining her senses to a pointthat threatened serious consequences in her endeavour to catchthe words of the murmuring voices. Down in the yard she could seeHicks with his eye glued to a hole in the palings.

"Now look here, my girl—"

"Miriam," she corrected softly.

"All right, Miriam if you like. How long ago do you think thisKing business happened?"

"Three thousand years ago, my Selim. Three thousand years haveI lived waiting for release."

"Rats!" said Mr. Pinceman indignantly. "Why, Lydia got you asa kitten not two years ago from her sister Maggie. Cats have ninelives, but you can't kid me they live 3,000 years."

She nodded her head. "That was the worst of my punishment.Nearly 2000 times have I been born a cat. Over 700 times I have beendrowned as a kitten. I know, Selim, girl cats are not loved byhuman beings. And all this time I waited for the blow from adouble-bladed hilt, and now—" She paused and looked upinto his eyes.

Mr. Pinceman felt his pulses beat quicker as she did so, butthought of Lydia saved him. He pulled himself together with aneffort, and drew away. There was a shade of vexation in thegirl's eyes for a moment. Then she smiled at him again.

"Can you not remember, Selim?"

"No!" he said, shortly. "I'm blowed if I can. Just rememberI'm married and I don't hold with carrying on with girls."

"Once," she said, softly, "you loved to see me dance. You saidI was like a moonbeam glancing on a rippling stream of foam-flecked golden wine of Persia."

Albert looked at her in amazement.

"Did I ever say that, miss?" he inquired incredulously.

"Aye," she answered, "that and more."

"Then," he said, with deep conviction, "I must have beenshickered."

She shook her head and laughed.

"Yet Selim, your tongue was very ready with sweet soft wordsin those days. But watch, even now I may be able to waken the oldmemories."

She sprang to her feet and with a wriggle of her ankles,discarded the pink slippers and stood balanced lightly before himwith outstretched arms. Glancing at her tiny white feet Albertgrew hot all over at an almost irresistible desire to tell herthat they looked like orange blossoms dropped upon the sward.Never before had such ideas entered his head.

With half-closed eyes Miriam commenced to sway her body fromthe hips. Now there are some Oriental dances that may beperformed before the most censorious of Occidentals withoutgiving cause for uneasiness, and then again there are others. Andthe performance of Miriam, daughter of Hafiz Ben Sadi, in theback garden of Mr Pinceman in broad daylight was one of theothers.

Albert sat glued to the grass. Not for a bank full of moneycould he have moved. But the dance had an entirely contraryeffect on the shocked Mrs. Hicks. It stung her into activity.Safety first, however, was her motto, and who could blame her?Downstairs she fled, and swiftly and silently her hands pouncedon the heel of Mr. Hicks, who still bent with protruding eye atthe crack in the fence.

"Not a sound," she hissed, and led him indoors.

"In there, and stay there," she said as she pushed him intothe sitting-room and turned the key in the door. Then she fled tothe grocer's shop at the corner, where there was a publictelephone. She sent her message over the wires, and spedhomeward. Even before she reached her gate on the screen of asuburban picture theatre there flashed a message. "Mrs.Pinceman—Honeysuckle street—Wanted home urgently.Take a cab."

MRS. HICKS, on arriving home, was breathless with exertion andindignation, and there was Hicks back at the palings again. Hehad escaped through the window. The brute! Again she descended onhim like a hissing fury, and sat him in a far corner of the attic,while she returned to her post.

All her strict, hopelessly commonplace training was in arms atwhat she saw. She breathed words like "Hussy" and "Shamelessminx," and occasionally turned to call Hicks a low brute, overher shoulder and all the time she listened for the sound ofwheels. But if a thunderbolt had fallen beside Pinceman at themoment it would have passed unheeded, for he was witnessing adisplay of temptation that had turned a much wiser head thanhis.

He had risen to his feet, when or how he had no notion.Gradually the swaying figure drew closer to him. The strangeperfume of her hair wakened memories undreamed of. His sensesreeled before the out-stretched arms and the appealing, white, jewelled hands.

Before he knew it Miriam was nestling closely to him, and hisarms were about her slim body. Resistlessly his head bent and hislips hovered over the red parted lips of the girl.

Then the storm smote him. One mighty avenging hand reached hisear, and another wrenched at the collar of his shirt and drew himbackward as he released the girl.

"You devil!" his wife almost shrieked. "You dastardly beast!In your own home, no sooner than my back is turned. Who is thisvile creature?"

The two women glared furiously at each other. Miriam's handfell on the hilt of her knife. Albert was at no time ready-witted, and the magnitude of the disaster scattered his senses tothe four winds. He just gaped.

"Who is she?" snorted Lydia.

Pinceman found his voice. A really satisfactory lie was out ofthe question, so he told the truth. "She's the cat, Liddy."

The disengaged hand landed swiftly on his ear. "Cat! Cat! Ofcourse she's a cat, as if I couldn't see that. What's hername?"

"Diddums!" answered the worm feebly.

Here Miriam intervened. "He speaks the truth, you fat cow! Bychance he slew your cat, and I am his reward. Peace, fool! Forhenceforth he is mine."

The mighty bosom of Mrs. Pinceman heaved like a blacksmith'sbellows, and her face grew purple.

"Fat cow!" she gasped. "Yours!" She released her husband andmade one stride towards the girl.

Albert threw an arm round her and checked her momentum with aneffort.

"Don't listen to her, Liddy, she's mad! I never saw her tillan hour ago. I'll swear it."

Again the wrath of the outraged woman fell on him. "So, foran undressed hussy like that, you forget me in an hour!"

Here a shriek from the girl cut into her speech.

"My hour is passing. My lord the King gave me but an hour towin a kiss from the man who released me, or die a cat!Selim—" she flung herself upon him, and her arms about hisneck. "Selim, my beloved, kiss me. Kiss me but once—"

Albert wrenched the arms from around his neck.

"Be blowed if I do," he said simply.

Speech failed Lydia, but her feelings found vent in action,and she landed one full-handed slap just where she thought itwould have the greatest moral effect. The girl spun around, and aknife flashed in her hand.

"I go!" she hissed, "I go; but I take you to Gehenna withme!"

Mrs Pinceman's courage failed before the fury in the eyes, andshe fled.

Up in the attic Mrs. Hicks had watched with keen enjoyment:but this new development spurred her into action, and again shefled to the grocer's shop, and this time her message sent aconstable flying to his motorcycle.

Mrs. Pinceman screamed. Miriam darted after her, but Albertthrew himself across her track. To dodge him the girl ran acrossthe tomato-bed, and as she did so the shears, still stickingupright, caught her foot. She tumbled—fell—and AlbertPinceman stood staring at the ground. There was no jewelled furythere, but the body of Diddums, still twitching slightly as itlay.

Mrs. Pinceman had locked herself in the woodshed.

An intense relief filled the soul of Albert.

"Liddy! Liddy!" he called. "It's all right, she's gone."

The door of the shed opened, and the white face his wifepeered out.

HALF an hour later a constable made a report at thestation to the sergeant.

"Nothing doing," he said, hanging up his helmet and laughing."Chap named Pinkhman or something, killed his wife's cat, andwhen I got up there she'd hauled about three handfuls of hair outof the poor devil. I had to pull her off, or she'd have got itall. Seems he'd been cuddling a chorus girl as well. I couldn'tget the hang of it altogether. No charge, anyway. Sorry forhim."

The sergeant nodded sympathetically. He, too, had a Lydia.

"Dashed unlucky to kill a cat!"

6: HER ONE AIM IN LIFE

The Australasian (Melbourne) 28 July 1923

Sometimes accuracy is everything...

SHE had seated herself on the arm of his chair;one bare arm was round his neck, and one soft hand had pushed hishead back so that his eyes could not avoid hers even had they sowished; Jim Benton, who still loved his wife desperately,although they had been married a whole month, found the positionbecoming increasingly untenable. It would have been hard enoughto refuse Betty anything she asked in ordinary circ*mstances, butto have to deny Betty her heart's desire—with Betty's eyes,with a slight mist of tears in them, looking down intohis—was, as Jim thought, "the very devil." Still, becausehe did love her, he steeled his heart and tried to lookinflexible.

"Jimmy," she said mournfully, "I believe you've stopped lovingme."

Jim tried to draw her to his knees, but she resistedstubbornly. "I don't sit on the knees of a man who doesn't loveme, even if he is my husband."

Benton laughed and shrugged his shoulders. "Aren't yousatisfied with being on committees and things, without going onthe platform to be heckled by any rotter in the crowd who likesto attend a meeting?"

"That's just why I want to do it," she put in defiantly.

"Well, all I've to say is that it's a queer perversion oftaste."

"Oh, Jim, won't you see it from my point of view? The easythings are not worth doing. It's the difficulties that appeal tome. I want to be one of the leaders, not one of the mob." And shethrew out one small hand in appeal.

Benton dropped one arm over the back of his chair, and staredat the half-written page on the table before him for a moment."Jove! Betty, if I had my way, I'd close the universities againstwomen. Here you are a B.A., and your head full of fantastictheories that wouldn't run two pennyweights to the 100 tons forpractical application."

She bridled. "Oh, yes, close the universities to women, by allmeans, my lord the Sultan."

"All right; Sultan if you like, Betty; but I hear what othermen think of the woman politician, and if the newspapers are notkind they're just."

She went on without heeding his interruption. "Any way, ifwomen couldn't do better than men, they couldn't make a worsehash of government. Where have we ever failed when we had thechance? Look at—"

"Oh, yes, I know," he broke in; "I've heard the whole listbefore, from Boadicea and Joan of Arc down to Ella Wheeler Wilcoxand the Pankhursts."

The frown vanished from her forehead for a moment as shelaughed. "Oh, you bear! It's nothing but masculine jealousy. Butit's no use, Jim; we've got to stand with you as equals ineverything." The hobby-horse had the bit between its teeth now."We're your equals in science now. Look at Madame Curie. We havebroken into law and medicine, and we'll lead you there in theend. Aren't women going more and more into business everyday?"

"Humph!" he growled. "They are. I've had four typists in threemonths, and I couldn't say whether their ideas of business ortheir spelling were the more remarkable."

She waved his words away. "Phoo! the ruck's the same whetherthey're men or women. I mean in the big things. Jim, if we setour minds to it, there's nothing on earth we can't do as well asor better than men. Nothing! Nothing! Look!" she said, pointingto the attaché case on the table at his hand, "there's a case inpoint. I'll wager that if you had had a woman accountant with anounce of brains that blunder would never have occurred."

He looked at the case sourly. "That, my dear girl, is the gistof what I intend to tell the usually impeccable Mr. Percy Lincolnat a quarter past nine in my office in the morning. I'll admitthat drawing nearly £300 too much for the wages at the mine forme to bring home again is over the odds. Still, accidents willhappen."

"Any excuse so long as it's a man who makes the mistake."

"Lincoln will have to find a much better one, I can assure you ofthat." He picked up his pen.

"You re not going on with that tonight, Jim? It's aftereleven."

"Must," he said, bending over the table.

"Get off to bed, there's a dear girl—I'm absolutely,dog-tired—up till two this morning, and seven hours in thecar today. Still the meeting's at 10 am, and I must have thereport ready for the board."

"Bother the board! Your rest's more important than thatwretched report," she said, standing up.

He smiled at her. "Betty, one half of you—no, onequarter of you—is B.A. and Women's Rational League, but therest, praise be, is good, sound, illogical woman. Trot off tobed."

Standing beside him she pressed her lips to his hair. "May I,Jimmy?"

He reached up and took the hand that rested on his shoulder."Please yourself, Betty. It's unfashionable for a man to giveorders to his wife these days, and besides," he went on with ashake of his head, "it is rather a waste of good orders."

"I'll make you very proud of me in the end, Jim," she said,bending over him tenderly.

"I'm all that now, chick," he said, "still, if it makes youhappy—"

"Good night, you dear. Shall I close the window before Igo?"

He looked up at the French window opened on to the veranda."No, I'll lock up when I have finished. Let me have all the air Ican. It will keep me from going to sleep."

Long after she had vanished through the curtains that fellacross the doorway behind, he stared before him musing as amillion million others have done over the eternal feminineriddle.

BETTY went to her room. Her fingers rested for a momenton the switch of the electric light, but the splash of moonlightacross the floor drew her irresistibly. She crossed over, andsettling herself in the window seat sat looking out into the garden.The night could justly have been described as perfect—stilland cool after a hot day, with a cloudless sky and a full moon.The silence was unbroken except for the occasional distant hootof a honking motor-car.

In spite of her desire to lead nations, Betty, because she wasyoung, and because she loved her obstinate husband, let herselfdrift away in the romance of the moonlight. Dreaming dreams, shesmiled to herself, thinking of her interview with Jim. He was aperfect dear, and there was not another man in the world to equalhim (that was a discovery of her own that would startle the worldsome day), but in some things he was "horribly" (her adverb)conservative. She wouldn't let the words "old fashioned" shapethemselves in her mind in connection with Jim. Still she was notcontent with the result of her petition. True, Jim had consented;but unwillingly. Not because he had thought it right for her togo on the platform, but because her womanhood had lured it fromhis manhood.

Her eyebrows came together slightly, and she gave a littlesigh. He would go on thinking all the time she was wrong. Thatwas what she wanted to overcome, that "spoiled child" idea. Shewanted a consent given not only enthusiastically, but proudly. Hehad been proud enough of her swimming and tennis and riding. Shewanted to show him that, in spite of her sex, she was equal toany emergency. She did not want to be considered something tocoddle, but Jim's equal in everything as well as his wife. Shefelt there would be no pleasure in using the consent as it hadbeen won, but only if it were given ungrudgingly.

How? That was the question she sat turning over in her mind.How to convince Jim?

Time had ceased to exist for Betty. The magic of the moon heldher. Truly she saw the garden in its light, but as truly she wasunconscious of its existence, had drifted into another worldwhere she had triumphed over every obstacle; to another worldwhere women ruled and were led by a Betty Benton, who was PrimeMinister of Australia, and the moon light made it seem quitefeasible.

Then she came back to life and found herself standing staringinto the night, with one hand pressed to a heart that stilled fora moment, then bounded like a racing engine. She had seen thefigure of a man detach itself from some bushes, and run, bentlow, towards the house.

In a moment she found herself on her feet.

Two thoughts rushed to her mind—Jim, and the money.Then came a discovery, a splendid discovery, she was notfrightened. Excited, yes—the leaping heart told that, butthere was no trace of fear. Betty moved to the door, but, swiftlyas she moved, another thought had time to shape itself. Here washer chance. Dare she take it?

She paused. There was no irresolution, no hesitation. Herthoughts came clearly and in proper sequence. She knew there wasno weapon in the house, but she must have one of some kind.

Without a sound she crossed the room again to the mantelpiece.So sure were her movements that her outstretched hand fell onwhat it sought in the darkness at first attempt, and her fingersclosed round the piece of silver-lead ore which she knew Jim hadleft there. It was small enough to fit her hand easily yet itweighed nearly two pounds. The weight of it brought her comfort.With that in her hand, she felt she was ready to faceanything.

Then she turned and glided into the passage. She had no planof action. Something rose in her and told her that she would beready to meet any contingency as soon as it arose. Holding herskirts closely in her left hand to hide the sound of hermovements, she made her way swiftly to the front of the house.The passage was in darkness, except for the thin streak of yellowlight that lay across the polished floor, from between thecurtains of Jim's study door. She stooped quickly and drew offher slippers, so that the sound would not betray her when sheleft the rugs, and a moment later gained the curtains and peeredbetween them into the room.

The tableau before her eyes was one that stamped itself intoher brain with photographic detail. Jim was still at his table,but his head was lying against the padded back of his chair, andhis body was relaxed in sleep.

Beside him the attaché case lay open. Half hidden by a blueprint, but terribly conspicuous, she could see the roll of notes,with its rubber band. On top of the blue print lay Jim's collarand tie that he had discarded for the sake of comfort. She evennoticed the tiny star of light reflected from the gold band ofthe fountain pen that lay on the unfinished report.

But it was the other occupant of the room that fascinated her.He was quite unlike her conception of a criminal—a tall,slight figure, with clear-cut features. He was not badly dressed,and it was only for a second, when he raised his eyes from herhusband, that she realised the relentless cruelty in them. He waswithin two feet of Jim's chair, and directly behind it, and notfear, but a storm of anger, rose in Betty's heart when she sawthe short thick baton the right hand held. He had bent forward,with his left hand outstretched, to the open case. Caution fled.With one swift sweep of her hand, Betty dashed the curtainsaside, and stepped into the room.

At the ring and rattle of her entrance, the intruderstraightened up, staring at her, and at the same instant Jim'seyes opened on her with mild surprise and question at the tenseexpression on her face. What followed was not a matter of seconds,but fractions of seconds.

"Jim!" she gasped. Then—"You brute! You unspeakablebrute!" As she spoke she stepped forward and hurled her weightyweapon with all the strength of her arm at the burglar's head.

The direction was splendid; but, alas! the elevation was awoman's, and that flying chunk of metal took Jim Benton like ashell fragment, and thudded fairly on the third button of hiswaistcoat, and Jim's eyes closed again to the sound of grunts,but not in sleep. By the time he had recovered himself andpartially revived a hysterical wife, a burglar whose hip pocketbulged with loot, was leaning against a fence more than half amile away, shaking with unrighteous but heartfelt mirth.

Now, if there be a moral to this parable, dearly belovedsisters, it may be in that your aim, although directed by thebest intentions, is not always as straight as you think it maybe.

7: WHEN KEAN FUNKED

The Australasian (Melbourne), 15 March 1924

Kean, the intrepid world adventurer, meets hisWaterloo...

BECAUSE Holcroft spent most of his time on asofa, his remarkable circle of friends used his smoking-room as aclub. Two or three at least would drop in every evening, andsometimes as many as a dozen would be spread out in Holcroft'seasy chairs, exchanging anecdotes of the unconventional domesticpolicies of little-known nations, and hair-raising stories of theunderworld of international diplomacy.

They told their yarns in slow even voices, and with littleemphasis or adornment, and what was more amazing than the storiesthemselves was that they were all true.

In Holcroft's smoking-room were discussed the lives and deedsof international celebrities in detail that would never appear inany obituary notice or biography. There I heard the true story ofthe now almost forgotten Dogger Bank incident, from one who hadtaken part in it. I heard the rotund, innocent Macrae tellwithout a smile on his face why certain great oil concessionswere cancelled, and his part in the matter, to an audience thatrocked with mirth.

Most of Holcroft's friends were men who had done the actualwork, taking their lives in their hands, for which statesmen athome and in Europe had received the credit and rewards. They hadgone alone into strange places, and, escaping by miraclesthemselves, had seen men die horribly. All ordinary emotionsseemed to have burnt out of them. To them, the amazing wascommonplace, and what would stir a normal man to the depths leftthem unmoved and cold.

It followed, naturally that they viewed life from unusualangles. Because they had lived and worked in outlandish placesand among savage men, they were strangely "woman-shy." Theirideas of woman dated back to the early nineties, and she of thethird decade of this century was something beyond theircomprehension, Rossiter, who had lived five years in Moscow witha price on his head, and thought little of it, was stricken dumbone day when I introduced him to Kitty Carew, and apparentlysuffered agonies until he excused himself awkwardly and fled.Kitty was certainly rather overpowering, but few men wished tofly from her presence; indeed the effect of her personality wasusually the reverse.

One night at Holcroft's I heard Kean raging against theprogress of science and all its works, and the lunacy of a Frenchconfrère who had introduced it into their peculiar brand ofdiplomacy. The incident concerned the involved policies of somenative state near Chitral, and the iniquities of one Nazim El-Mulk, its ruler, whom, for some reason, both England and Francewished to remove from his throne during the war. In that part ofthe world, it appeared from Kean, a natural death was so unusualas to excite comment, assassination was a dignified profession,and treachery was regarded as a virtue (especially ifsuccessful).

Kean's idea of handling the situation was to finance a ratherless blackguardly aspirant to the throne to get rid of Nazim El-Mulk by one of the orthodox local revolutionary methods. However,the Frenchman had brought with him a gaudy brass clock, the baseof which was filled with high explosives. This he insisted onpresenting to the simple ruler, who accepted it with childishgratitude.

"I knew he'd make a mess of things, and, by Jove! he did,"said Kean, and went on to explain how one of El-Mulk's lady-lovessaw the clock immediately, and persuaded him to give it to her.That night, instead of blowing Nazim El-Mulk to Jehennum, hisharem and its inhabitants were spread thin over about five acresof ground by French science, and the infuriated monarch chasedthe two of them into Siberia, from where they had a little Hadesof a time in making their way to Manchuria and comparativesafety. I sympathised with Kean's conservatism, and agreedsolemnly that old and tried methods were the best. It wouldscarcely have been safe to express any other opinion, for Keansaw nothing abnormal in the incident beyond his confrère'sdeparture from established custom.

The emotion known as fear was the least likely to affect anyof them. They had seen others die and a violent death as atermination of their work was always at their elbow while thework lasted. Now it was all over and they had come here; alittle coterie, living on half pay or on what they had savedduring their hectic careers, to settle down and dwell inpeace—a crew with chilled steel nerves, and granitecourage. Being a class apart, they lived apart, and mixed onlywith their kind.

As a friend of Holcroft's I had been accepted by them as partof the scheme of things, and gradually they came to discusssubjects before me where they would have been dumb in thepresence of a stranger.

One night I had pulled my chair up to Holcroft's sofa, and wasyarning quietly with him while half a dozen of the others talkedspasmodically and filled the room with thick blue clouds oftobacco smoke. The reason why Holcroft stuck to his sofa was thathis legs were in New Guinea. In an interval of other work he hadundertaken to collect bugs and butterflies for one of theRothschilds, a raiding party of natives, also collectors of akind, had added Holcroft to their bag. He was not killedimmediately, he explained, because they wanted him to keep"fresh," which he would not have done after death, very long, inthat climate. But so that he should not escape they fracturedboth his legs with clubs. This necessitated their carrying him,of course, so they suspended him by wrists and ankles from abamboo pole which they carried over their shoulders. When hetalks about the episode at all, he will say that he was not oftenconscious during the two days he was being carried to hisculinary destination, but he could still remember everyresting-place, for his bearers used to throw the pole from theirshoulders as though he had been a bunch of bananas.

Holcroft is somewhat of a Germanophile, because it was asurvey party of Germans who fell in with his captors, and withtrue Teutonic thoroughness shot them down to the last man. "Nowwe," he would say, "would have let them all escape rather thanplug one who was innocent, while the Germans laid out the wholelot rather than let a guilty one escape. The natives understandthe Huns, but they think we are all cracked."

As we talked, occasional snatches of what the others weresaying drifted to us through the smoke. Heavy-handed banter, andnow and again a chuckle of laughter. Presently I noticed Kean'svoice without actually hearing what he was saying, but from theirsilence the others were apparently deeply interested. Then thewords, "I don't mind admitting that I was in a perspiring funk,"made Holcroft straighten up in his cushions and me turn in mychair.

Kean was leaning back his thin leathery length in his seat,and speaking slowly. "It was the most beastly hole I was ever inin my life. I had completely lost my bearings, and knew I shouldnever find my way out alone. Reminded me of a time when I wasgetting snakes for Jamrach's in Borneo in '93, and a gang ofDyaks had chased me into one of those old ruined temples away inthe mountains, full of dark corridors and vaults, and I was in itfor two hours before I got clear. The jolly place seemed to carryabout two cobras to the square yard, and I cursed myself a gooddeal for an idiot for not staying to have it out with the Dyaksin the open with my rifle. Anyhow this was worse. I was thrashinground like an alligator on a hook, wondering what was going tohappen next, when I lifted a curtain and turned into a big dimroom. It was light enough though to see what I had stumbledagainst as I crossed the threshold—" He paused and bentforward towards the listening group. "It was half the body of awoman. The eyes were staring, up at me from the floor—justglazed, staring, empty eyes, and the lips were drawn back fromthe teeth in a grin."

"Phew! Jim, cut out the beastly details," broke in Rossiter."Had she been a white woman?"

"Yes," replied Kean, "she was white—except where she wasred," he added significantly. Then he went on, "and the arms weremissing too. There was just the head with its wide staring eyesand the upper part of the trunk lying at my feet. That aboutfinished me. I was feeling pretty pale before, and it only neededthat to break my nerve—that and the grisly silence of theplace just put me in a perspiring funk. I didn't know which wayto turn, and anyhow I couldn't have moved if I did, because myknees had gone. Then as I looked up I saw the inhabitants of theSheol, just as one of them looked up and saw me.

"Women no less! Four of them, all dressed in long black robes,and they had another in a chair practising some of their devilishwork on her. Then the four of them turned and stared at me. Gad!Never in my life did I see anything more baleful and malignantthan those faces. I couldn't see their victim properly, and I wasglad of it; I had seen too much of their work already. I felt asif someone were rubbing my backbone with a chunk of ice. It wouldn'thave been so bad if I'd had any means of defence, but I stoodthere as helpless as a child and watched the high-priestess comeat me. She was a tall, gaunt woman, and her face—youremember Kipling's line, 'White and stale as a bone'—itfitted her like an old glove. Except for that, she reminded me ofa black panther ready to strike. There was the same stealthyfeline poise of body, and the same remorseless glare in the eyes.I'd have given a pension to be back in the old temple with thecobras; they would have been friendly in comparison. Shewalked—no, glided—to within a foot of me, and staredright into my face; it was only then my eye caught the gleam ofsteel in her hand. I wanted to explain, but couldn't, and stoodthere shivering and waiting for her to speak. Then it came."

"The haberdashery department is on the first floor; this isthe millinery department. There is the lift," and she pointed toa door behind her with her scissors; "and, by Jove! I nearlyfainted when I tumbled into it."

8: A MATTER OF CREED

The Australasian (Melbourne), Saturday 7 June1924

Sometimes a reporter earns a very harddollar...

IT was sheer lunacy to turn into the office onSaturday morning to look at the letter rack, and it was worse toventure upstairs, but I only perceived this when I barged intothe chief as he was mining out of his room. The pleasure of themeeting was all on his side.

"You'll do," he said; pushing a slip of paper at me; "Carton,of the Primitive Bethellists' Mission, was to have sent me inthis chap's photograph today, and rang up to say he could not getone. Dig out the man himself. I want the photograph in here bymidday at the latest."

He turned to go, but stayed to hear my wail that I was on myway to tennis, that I was already on the book for an afternoonand evening job, and that in any case he ought to catch a cub andsend him instead.

The chief grinned, "Sorry, but I can't help that. I'll takeyou off the night job"—a pause—"You'll probably haveas much exercise getting the photograph as you would at tennis,"and he left me glaring at the slip of paper.

"The Reverend Horace Gorster, Evangelist," ran the legend;only that, and nothing more. I got Carton on the telephone, andinquired for the Gorster's address. Carton was "awfully sorry,"but he did not know; if I inquired at the church there, thecaretaker could tell me; and he went on to enlarge on theReverend gentleman's piety and eloquence. He was a recentarrival, and had done some wonderful work in England.

I cut Carton short, and left for the church. The time was then9.35. The caretaker did not know the address either, but if Icalled at the house where he formerly boarded, kept by "the widowof one of our ministers of the Gospel," I could find out. Thecaretaker was also inclined to tell me of Mr. Gorster's burningeloquence, and how the church had been crammed every night duringthe mission.

I made the widow's boarding-house by 10.15. She came to thedoor in person. She gave me the address, and then it occurred tome that the parson had infected everyone with whom he came intocontact with his own flow of speech. The widow would have beentalking of his amazing oratory still, I think, had I waited tolisten. It would have taken me as long to reach a tram as towalk, so I followed the lady's directions on foot, throughstreets swarming with kids, whose average of complete seats intheir pants was one in three.

Number 676 was a weatherboard cottage standing on land with afrontage of 25 feet, with a depth to a right-of-way, where ahawker was bellowing "Rabbi, wild rabbi!"

A pale woman, with pale eyes and pale hair, opened the door.Under cross-examination she admitted that the Reverend HoraceGorster lived there, and that he was at home. She took my card,and held the door open for me to enter. I had already made oneidiotic error that morning in going into the office, but I made aworse one in accepting that invitation. From a 3ft. 6in. passageI was ushered into the operating theatre. It was a small room,and as stuffy as the inside of a church hassock. The dulltapestry-covered suite, with red plush embellishments, filled itso that navigation was hazardous. There was a wool and waxbouquet in the middle of the mantelpiece under a glass cover, andon either end was a white china poodle-looking dog, with blackears, a blue ribbon round its neck, and a vivid scarlet tonguehanging out. From the distant clash of crockery, it was evidentthat the pale woman was washing up. I glanced at my watch. It wasthen 10.35. Just bear that 10.35 in mind.

He slid into the room so quietly that I did not hear the dooropen, and he was beside me, blinking at me like a benevolent owlthrough his horn-rimmed glasses, before I knew of his presence.He certainly looked anything but the fiery evangelist of whom Ihad heard—a short, thick man with sandy hair, and a stubbysandy moustache. He had not shaved, and he wore no collar, andhis baggy suit was snuff coloured. I had always thought thatcarpet slippers became extinct about the time when sub-editorsbegan putting the boot into devouring element. Anyhow, he had apair—carpet slippers, not boots. They were red, with a pinkand green design on them. Providence only knows how he acquiredthem, for he did not look like the sort who would pilfer themfrom a museum.

Gently and persuasively I unfolded my mission. We needed hisphotograph for publication, and would be extremely grateful, etc.Now bishops, priests, and deacons had jumped at the distinction Iwas holding out to the Reverend Horace Gorster, Evangelist, andhe just blinked at me and ruminated.

Presently he asked, "Is yours a daily publication?"

I remembered that he was a new arrival, but even then thequestion was disconcerting. In a few words I sketched for him whatsort of a paper it was, and what it stood for.

He nodded, and continued to ruminate. Then, "And do you think,my friend, that if I do this for you I will advance the Lord'swork?"

That would have been a poser had I been on oath, but asthings were I took it in my stride. More rumination, and then heturned aside to a small table, and picked up a frame with apostcard-sized picture of himself on it. It would do splendidly.I told him, and held out my hand for the prize.

He replaced it on the table, however, and said, "Well, well!I shall let you have it. Now, my dear friend, tell me, have youour dear Lord in your heart? Have you really found Him?"

Whatever reputation I possess among my peers has not beengained either for or by exuberant piety, and having the questiondirect and searching, and demanding an immediate answer, hurledstraight at my head, put me in an embarrassing position. Had Ianswered as the spirit moved me, he might have gone "cold" onthe photograph, and that I had to get at all costs. There wasnothing for it but evasion. I replied that perhaps my views mightnot agree with his, but I was very busy, and (pulling out mywatch) would be glad to discuss the question with him at anothertime. I had something to learn, however, of the Reverend HoraceGorster, and I had come to the right man to teach me.

"My very dear friend, can you say, with absolute certaintythat you will be alive tonight? No, no, you cannot. 'Now' is theappointed time. I feel that our dear Lord has sent you here to methat you may be saved. Hear me while I give you His message."

I quarrel with no man's creed; that is his own affair, andwhen I thought the matter over quietly afterwards, I had to admitto myself that Gorster's job was to convert me as much as it wasmine to get his photograph; more, he was working overtime on ahopeless contract, and drawing no pay for it. So give him allthat in—that, and his transparent sincerity of purpose.Where I did quarrel with him was in that he mixed my professionalvisit with his professional aims, and even an English evangelistshould have known better than to try and convert a newspaper man;an American would not have wasted his breath. Why, even GeneralWilliam Booth apologised to a reporter whom he had inadvertentlyapproached with similar intent.

The position then was that I had to sit tight, and take whatwas coming to me or lose the photograph. There was no secondchoice. So I sat tight. He had pressed me into a chair, and hisown chair effectually barred the exit, even if I had wanted tograb the frame on the table and bolt—an alternative towhich I gave serious consideration.

Now it is one thing to make one of a congregation from 500 to1,000 in a church, and stand fire at a long range, from even themost incandescent evangelist, who ever hurled threats ofdamnation, or offered promissory-notes on the future, from thepulpit. But it is another thing to sit in a 10ft. by 12ftparlour, with china dogs poking out their tongues at one, and bethe sole object of the same enthusiastic manifestations. What myinformants had told me about his oratory was far, far short ofthe truth, glowing as were their tributes. Never had I conceivedof a human being with such an amazing store of speech: or such arelentless flow of discourse. He sawed the air, and he pawed atme, and he talked, and he talked, and he talked, and the more hetalked the more furious he grew. He was a wet orator, too, and ashe was not more than three feet from we the verbosity was morelike a nightmare of a demented gramophone with a Grinnellsprinkler attachment, than anything I know. The raucous voicefilled the stuffy room until it vibrated under the strain. Heforgot he was speaking to one and not a thousand, and more thanonce he sideslipped and called me "brethren." But he neverpaused, and burning charge and sentence flowed over my brainuntil it almost reeled.

It is a queer point of psychology that, in spite of my rage,and thoroughly mixed up with it, was a wild and almostuncontrollable desire for laughter;yyyyyy it had flashed through mymind how gladly some of my confrères would have been unseenwitnesses to my plight, and how gladly I would have watched anyof them under similar conditions; and I had fairly to wrench backthe laughter that kept rising to the surface. At the same time mywrath was encouraging speculation as to what would be theextreme penalty for "outing" an evangelist with a chinapoodle.

I think a jury would have given me a strong recommendation tomercy at any rate, if they had had the case fairly presented tothem. It seemed ages since the din commenced, and I thought thattime had ceased and that the eternity he raved about had started.Then there came a ray of hope. He began to misfire, thengradually he slowed down and stopped. I think his petrol musthave run out.

Right from the deepest depths of my being came a sigh ofrelief, and had he let me go then all would have been well withhim, but in what followed he was "asking for it" fairly, and hegot what he asked for. He rose and slipped the photograph fromits frame and handed it to me. Then he said, shaking his unkempthead: "Not yet, my dear friend, not yet, but it will come." Islipped the card for which I had suffered so much into my walletand picked up my hat, but—

"We will now pray," said the Rev. Horace Gorster, and before Ihad realised what was happening he had plumped on his kneesbefore me, and barred my projected flight. If I looked such anass as I felt, my expression must have been priceless. There atmy feet was the untidy bulk, and as he knelt he fingeredpurposefully in his waistcoat pocket. I watched the proceedingwith dazed curiosity. Presently he produced my card, the one Ihad handed to the pale woman. He held it up to his short-sightedeyes and read it carefully, and then he began. He commended me tothe notice of the Almighty, calling me by name and address (I hadnot noticed that I had given him a card with my private addresspencilled on it), and he told the Deity all he knew aboutme—how I was walking in darkness, and how I was a poormiserable sinner. (I admit I am poor, that I was infernallymiserable at the time, and that I am not by any stretch ofimagination a saint; but still, that did not justify theemphasis he laid on my spiritual condition).

From that he went on to speak to the Creator with morefamiliarity than he did to me, and in much the same way as youwould tell Jenkins going home in the train at night of how Brownwould not lock up his fowls, and how they got into your garden.He told of my stony heart, of my middle age (confound him), of mywhitening hair (confound him again). He gave an interesting butembarrassing catalogue of my moral infirmities, as they appearedto him—not nearly as amply as I could have done myself; butstill he did not do too badly. He made rather a fuss about mysmoking, too. He must have deduced that from the aroma Igenerally have hanging around me. Then suddenly he switched off andbegan putting in a word for the paper. That was the last straw.There were men in the Trades Hall who could have told him that itwas past praying for; it still did me good to think that I hadbeen present on the only occasion in its history in which theceremony had been performed. Strange to say, through my wilddesire to yell, I found myself mentally adding a few words onbehalf of the chief. They might not do any good, but they wouldnot do much harm.

It was about then that I saw a light, and a light that floodedmy injured spirit into a soothing balm. I saw my way to deal withGorster, so let him pray on, which he did for a good 10 minutesuntil even he could not hold out longer, and I was "all in".

He saw me to the door, and grabbed my hand in his soft damppaw. "My dear friend, make me a promise. Come to my servicetonight, and let me lead you to the light."

He stood in the doorway blinking, still holding my hand lest Ishould escape without giving an answer. I looked at himdoubtfully, and murmured that I thought it would be scarcelyexpedient; indeed, hardly right.

"Why?" he demanded, earnestly.

Then I said slowly and very sweetly, "You see, Mr. Gorster, Iam a member of the Jewish community."

He dropped my hand as if I had shot him and stepped back, andwith a gay "Good morning," I fled.

It was only when I got round the nearest corner that I letmyself go, though my watch showed 11.40. It had lasted one hourand five minutes. And I had only 20 minutes to reach the office:but I spent the first five of them in mirth.

9: FAUX PAS

The Argus (Melbourne), 22 December 1928

An old colloquialism is put to thetest...

IF there be any reason for relating this storyas a Christmas story, it is because the main incident, in which Iwas concerned, happened on Christmas Day. It might just as easilyhave happened on Guy Faux Day. But for a miserable attempt on mypart to be facetious it would never have happened at all.

The event which made the whole wretched business possible tookplace unknown to me in the first year of the present century,just before the period when the motor-car and the flappercombined to wreck the Victorian social order. In that year HenryWinston Clifford, articled clerk, was travelling by coach fromWonga to Ringunyah. He was the sole passenger, and he occupiedthe box seat with Simeon Rice, the driver, who was a humorist ina quiet way.

At Wonga someone had told Clifford, who knew little ofwallabies and less of shooting, that wallabies were plentifulalong the road and could be easily shot from the coach. For thisreason Clifford carried a loaded Winchester across his knees;while Simeon, who knew there was not a wallaby within fiftymiles, encouraged him cheerfully with the assurance that everyturn in the road would open up wallaby. Simeon said afterwardsthat the sport lay in the anticipation of sport. It was only whena mile from Ringunyah, where the bush thinned out to thedesolation of old diggings, that Clifford awoke to the fact thatit was an off day for wallaby. Then, as the coach swung round abend in the road, there happened that which was to affect vitallythe remainder of his life.

About 100 yards ahead slightly off the road Clifford saw amost disreputable looking shanty. It was composed principally ofkerosene-tins, packing-cases, and hessian, and it seemed to be asuninhabitable as it was ugly. A small door faced the road, and inone side was a very small square opening. Clifford had acartridge in his rifle, and he was pining for a shot at somethingafter his disappointment over the wallabies.

"I'll bet you," he said suddenly to Simeon, "I can put abullet through that hole." Before Simeon could speak or changethe reins from his left to his right hand, Clifford threw therifle to his shoulder and fired.

"A fool's trick, young feller," snorted Simeon. "That's achow's hut. You might have killed someone."

A moment later as the coach drew abreast of the hut the dooropened violently and an excited and unprepossessing Chinamanstood framed in the doorway. He waved his arms widely andsquealing "Whaffor? Whaffor you shoot my bally mate?"

Simeon swore deeply but softly as he reined in his team andleaped to the ground. The Chinaman still danced and reiteratedhis pertinent but unpleasant demand for information. Clifford saton the box seat and his knees knocked together as he sat, whileSimeon thrust the gibbering Chinaman aside and entered the hut,to reappear in a moment looking very white.

"Is he—?" gurgled Clifford.

"Slap between the eyes," answered Simeon.

One does not kill a Chinaman every day. It was a novelexperience for Clifford, who there and then became exceedinglyill.

An influential uncle arrived at Ringunyah in answer to afrantic telegram and bailed Clifford out. The same uncle arrangedfor his defence when the coroner's court found a verdict ofmanslaughter. Being what it is, the law makes as much fuss overthe sudden death of a tubercular and opium-sodden Louey Chee asover a useful citizen. Clifford's uncle retained the bestcriminal barrister in the State, and after one disagreement ofthe jury, on the second trial he obtained a verdict of "notguilty" directly in the face of the evidence and the judge'ssumming up. The judge raised his eyebrows, but made no comment.The foreman of the jury was heard to say later in the day that"they weren't going to jug a decent young bloke for a bloomin'chow."

Clifford was a naturally sensitive soul. The anxiety and thepublicity of the case, apart from its cause, hit deeply into hischaracter. Thereafter, with great circ*mspection, his friendsavoided any reference to China or the Chinese in his presence.They spoke of porcelain rather than china, and were careful tooffer him nothing but Ceylon tea.

AS they say in the theatre programmes, ten years have elapsedsince act one. The scene of act two is Denny Morrisy's hotel atWhiting Bay. Denny was a bachelor by instinct and conviction.Women he would not have about the place, either as guests orservants. Denny ran his hotel solely for men who came there forthe fishing, which was ideal, from year's end to year's end.Occasionally women did inflict themselves on Denny as guests, butthey did not stay long. He was studiously polite and attentive,but never a woman who left in a hurry but had some hair-raisingstory of snakes to tell. The snakes were harmless, and Denny usedto catch them himself for use as required.

Within reason visitors could do as they pleased. The same menused to make for Denny Morrisy's season after season. They coulddress as they pleased, and if the spirit moved them to go to thekitchen at 2 o'clock in the morning to make Welsh rarebits no oneworried. Denny's Japanese cook, too, was an artist in preparingany food that wore fins, scales, or shells.

A few days before Christmas I arrived at Denny's with BillyGarnett and Jack Mason. They were rather a godless pair, but theywere sound on fishing. Anyhow, we went to the bay for whitingrather than morals. We found the usual cheery crowd, and acceptedone another as members of a brotherhood, dropping into easyfriendships. There was one man the others called Cliff who tookmy fancy. He was quiet almost to shyness. Though he never laughedoutright at the nonsense of the crowd his eyes would dance withappreciation, and when he did drop a word or two into the riot itwas to score heavily. He fished with us most of the time, and themore I saw of him the more I liked him.

Came Christmas evening. The day had been perfection. We wereall tired and all fit for bed—all except Garnett. Hisguardian demon, never far from his shoulder, prompted him topropose a game of draw poker before we turned in. In vain we toldhim that it was an unhallowed pastime, unfitted to the day. Hewas a pertinacious brute. First Mason surrendered, and Cliff'sgood nature led him to follow. Two others joined them, andfinally Garnett's jibes spurred me to make a sixth in the hope ofwinning his money.

As a game it was a wash-out. Never before or since did I see aman hold such cards as Cliff. The more we rushed him the worsethe disaster. Coolly he raked in our cash; his eyes twinkling atour comments on his luck. By eleven o'clock, when Denny came into leave what bottles and glasses we required, we told him thatif he wanted his accounts settled when we left he'd have to applyto Cliff. We were permanently and hopelessly "broke."

Just about midnight the crisis arrived. The table rocked withlaughter when Cliff calmly showed four sevens to my full hand,and relieved me of 15 shillings. Garnett picked up the cards anddealt.

"Gad! Cliff," growled Mason, picking up his hand, "I wishyou'd show us how to do it?"

"Shame to take the money!" Garnet grinned. "Where do you getyour luck, Cliff?"

Here my guardian angel must of got tired of her job. I waslooking at my cards and said lightly, "Don't you know how he gothis luck?"

There was a chorus of "Put him away?" "How?" "Or is itskill?"

Still looking at my cards and wondering whether to draw for aflush or throw in, I said, "One card, Billy," and added, "Don'tyou know the beggar killed a Chinaman. Didn't you Cliff?"

I had picked up the card Billy dealt me and for the moment,looking at my hand, I did not notice the silence that had fallen.It was the crash of a chair to the floor that made me look up.Cliff was standing glaring at me, his face white as paper. For amoment I thought he was going to strike. The other four satstaring at me in open-mouthed dismay. Then without a sound Cliffturned on his heel, flung open the door, strode through, andslammed it behind him.

The tension broke.

"You blazing idiot," gasped Mason. "Great Scott! You have tornit," from Garnett. "Red hot!" and "Help!" from the others.

"What the deuce—?" I began in bewilderment.

"Good Lord! Didn't you know he did?"

"Did what?" I gasped; "kill a Chinaman?"

"Plugged him with a Winchester, and nearly got into quod,"growled Garnett, throwing three kings face up on the table in hisexcitement.

Then from the fragments told by all present I heard for thefirst time the story of the death of Louey Chee.

"And you, you flathead," wound up Mason, "go and rub his nosein it."

"How was I to know?" I demanded feebly. "Everyone says it'sluck to kill a Chinaman. Anyhow, who'd expect that a man in acrowd like this had slaughtered a Mongolian, unless he were adoctor? I suppose I must try to apologise and live it down."

"Apologise my foot!" was Mason's rude comment. "Cliff's asensitive bird, and you won't see him again. He'll be gone bymorning."

Mason's surmise proved to be correct. At breakfast he wasmissing, and Denny enlightened us by telling how Cliff had rousedhim at daybreak, settled his account, and departed in his car inan atmosphere of gloom.

About eleven o'clock that morning the crowd was lounging aboutthe hotel veranda, waiting for a favourable fishing tide. Most ofthem were making me the butt of their alleged wit. Theycomplimented me on my tact, and made oblique references to myappalling "break."

Suddenly Garnett shouted, "He's coming back!" The chaffceased, as all stopped to watch the approaching car. It was notCliff, however, but Martin Burns, a relative of Mason.

Burns returned the hilarious greeting of the gang, as hescrambled from among his gear. "Any news, Mart?" askedGarnett.

"By Jove, yes—hullo, Denny, make it a full pint. News!You know Harry Clifford, the solicitor?"

There was a chorus of "Yes—he's just left here."

"Well, he's made a deuce of a mess of things."

Never did news-bearer have a more attentive audience.

"Get on with it, Mart; you can drink that afterwards," saidsomeone, as Burns showed an inclination to pay more attention tothe beer Denny had handed him than to his story.

Mart stood with the pint in his hand. "You know that S bendjust this side of Montrose. I heard this as I came through thetown—"

"Get on with it, dash you!" interjected Garnett, as Martpaused to dip his nose in the froth.

"Well, he swung his car wide to avoid another, and hit a cartcoming up behind. Clifford's car went clean over the bank withCliff underneath."

"Hurt?" barked half a dozen voices.

"Not a scratch," replied Burns. "Did you ever know such luck?What happened was that he absolutely did in the cart, and killedthe Chinaman who was driving it."

Then he paused and gaped. It was not a matter for laughter,but every man in his audience doubled up with ill-timedmirth.

10: CHARLOTTE BRONTE IS SHOCKED

The Argus (Melbourne), 22 September 1928

Beware of Distinguished Personages bearinggifts...

IT would be well perhaps not to go into thedetails of the service I was, by the merest chance, enabled torender to a very Distinguished Personage. The cost to me in timeand trouble was very slight. It merely entailed opening a churchdoor that had slammed violently before the DistinguishedPersonage was quite clear of it. His gratitude to me seemed to beso much out of proportion to my share in the incident that I havesince thought that there were far greater issues involved thanrelief from temporary inconvenience and perhaps some pain. He wasthanking me very courteously as we stepped from the darkness ofthe church porch into the light from a nearby standard, and forthe first time I became aware of his identity, although I hadnever seen him before. I must confess that the disclosurestartled me considerably. One might expect to find even anarchbishop in the somewhat undignified plight of being caught ina church door, but not the distinguished personage. He evidentlywas aware that I recognised him, for he said, "Perhaps you wouldhave hesitated to come to my assistance if you had knownbefore."

I replied candidly that the knowledge would have made nodifference, as I believed that he was by no means as black as hewas painted, and that, so far as he was concerned, the Churchseemed to consider that the ninth commandment did not exist.

"The old story," he said, and I think I caught a chuckle inhis voice. "If you have no argument, abuse the other side. Afterall, publicity is everything nowadays, and I am in the debt ofthe clergy to that extent. However, to return to what I wassaying, I would really like to give you some proof of mygratitude."

Although I was sincere in saying that I would have assistedhim in any case, I felt that it was another matter to accept anytoken of his gratitude, even though the service had warranted it,and this service certainly did not. I hesitated, uncomfortably ata loss to reply. He saw my hesitation, and I have no doubt thathe understood the reason for it. He smiled a kindly encouragementas he shook his head. "Timeo Danaos et dona ferentes,"* he said, and then he laughed outright. It was so true that denial was out of the question.

[*Beware of Greeks bearing gifts.]

"Well, well," he went on still smiling. "I assure you that inaccepting some mark of my thanks you commit yourself to nothing.Come?"

I felt that his offer was genuine, but I knew of nothing thathe could do for me, and I said so.

He looked at me reflectively for a moment. Then he said, "Ithink you are a journalist by profession?"

I pleaded guilty. The Distinguished Personage was not one withwhom one would care to temporise, in spite of his friendlydemeanour.

"Good." Then holding my eyes with his he said, "Now supposingI make you a gift. It is this: Once a week, but no oftener, I cangive you the power of calling up any person who has lived onearth in the form in which he or she lived."

I caught my breath. "Do you mean to say that they would talkto me, answer questions," I said. "I mean, could I interviewthem?" My brain whirled at the prospect.

"That," he smiled, "was exactly my idea."

"And," I asked, scarcely able to find my voice, "could I takethem about the city with me?"

He thought a moment. "Yes," he said slowly. "There could be noobjection, only you will be under one slight disability. The termof their stay will be indefinite. It may be only thirteenminutes, or it may be four or five hours. You must take the riskof embarrassing situations."

There was no need to think, but there was one vague doubtstill in my mind.

"And I in no way commit myself, you say?" I asked.

"You mean endanger your soul?" he replied, reading mythoughts.

I nodded.

"My dear friend," he said, and his dark eyes twinkled, "Ishould hate to hurt your feelings, but the soul of ajournalist—we wouldn't use it even for kindling where Icome from."

It was a more reassuring than a flattering estimate, but itdecided me.

"I accept the offer," I said. "I accept it gratefully."

He held out his hand. "Then it is a pleasure to me to endowyou with the gift. All you need do is to call on the name of theperson you require three times—but, remember, no more thanone a week." As he ceased speaking he vanished, and the hand thathad held his a moment before was clasping empty air.

It was not until later that I awoke to the fact that while itwas one thing to possess the power bestowed upon me it wasanother thing to make use of it. In certain exalted journalisticquarters I completely destroyed a not too distinguishedreputation for veracity by submitting a perfectly priceless andabsolutely genuine interview with Queen Victoria. Her Majesty wasnot pleased by my presumption, and she took no trouble whateverto conceal her feelings. Nevertheless she answered my questions,and the things she said about William II and Bismarck—

Was I thanked for my zeal? No! I was told that the expressionsattributed to Queen Victoria and given them verbatim were simplyscandalous. There were some further remarks to the effect thatsuch hoaxes were in very bad taste, and that my claim that theinterview was genuine was merely another of many manifestationsof an apparently innate lack of veracity. I merely give the senseof the oration, the context of which could not very well appearin print. It was only after much pleading for a test of myability to call up any of the great ones gone, that exaltedpersonages gave a reluctant consent, to which was added a warningthat if I were "leg-pulling" the offence would be regardedseriously. It was agreed, however, that I would be notified indue course of the name of someone known to fame by interviewingwhom I must stand or fall.

The blow fell no later than last Wednesday. Without warning Iwas told by the editor, "Look here! You can interview one of theBrontes, say, about a column and a half."

"Good business," I answered cheerfully. "Great copy, too. Ican ask her about her experiences in Australia."

There was astonishment as well as suspicion in his abrupt"What on earth are you talking about?"

"You said Lola Montez—" I began.

"I said 'one of the Brontes,' and I mean one of the Brontes,"he cut in severely, "and no funny business, either. I'm comingalong again presently to meet her." He conveyed as clearly aspossible, without actually saying so, that he was convinced thatI was perpetrating a fraud of no small magnitude. Even the way heclosed the door expressed disapproval, not only of my claims, butof my character.

It was enough to give even a hardy optimist a pain. One of theBrontes! It would have to be Charlotte, of course. To think ofit! With such material as Ninon de L'Enclos*, Catherine II ofRussia, and the Borgia girl to be had. Even though interviewswith them might need a good deal of "subbing" they would be worthmeeting. Any man could learn something from one of them, butCharlotte Bronte! Of course Jane Eyre was considered "hotstuff" in its day, but not a flapper in the world would open itnow. Well, it was no use kicking. They wanted Lottie, and theyshould have her. There was precious little enthusiasm in my voiceas I called the name of Charlotte Bronte thrice, in the formulaprescribed by the distinguished personage.

[ *Notorious French courtesan, intellectual,and author, 1620-1705.]

I had arisen from my chair as I spoke. For a moment or two Ithought I had failed, and I was rather more relieved thandisappointed. Then I heard a deprecatory little cough, and Iswung round. Charlotte Bronte in the flesh was seated in mychair! I do not know what I really expected to see, but itcertainly was not this tiny figure. She was neatly dressed insome dark material that swept the floor about her feet. Her blackgloved hands, little larger than a child's, were folded in herlap. The unprepossessing face turned up to me was framed in asmall, tight-fitting bonnet. With her big strange brown eyesstaring shyly up at me, she reminded me more of a mouse thananything else. The only circ*mstance that in any way reconciledme to the situation was that she seemed to take her environmentand myself as a matter of course.

I would have met, say, Miss Borgia, with even pulses, but whatto do with this strange-looking, old-fashioned little creaturewas beyond me. Shy as she was, she was evidently quite self-possessed, and she returned my greeting quietly. At the same timeit was apparent that while she was willing to answer questionsshe had no intention of initiating any conversation. To myinquiry whether she would kindly talk about her work, she bowedher assent. At that my troubled spirit landed me fairly in whatis known in Australian idiom as "the soup." I had alwayscontrived to get Charlotte Bronte mixed up with Jane Austen in mymind somehow, but that was no excuse for my remarking that, ofcourse, Pride and Prejudice was her first novel.

There was a stiffening in the little figure as she saidprimly, "I have always been led to believe that Pride andPrejudice was written by Miss Jane Austen." It was not apleasant situation to retrieve at the very outset, and there wasvery little grace in my hasty retreat on Jane Eyre. I couldread her thoughts of me very plainly, and I trusted she could notread my views of him who had let me in for the interview.

Then I had a brain wave. Why not take a taxi and run her roundthe city, then give her afternoon tea somewhere? The jolt overPride and Prejudice had wrecked my nerve for talkingliterature. Besides, her opinion of Melbourne would be worthpublishing. She accepted the situation complacently, and remarkedthat she had no doubt that I would prove an able cicerone. Hertone implied very clearly that I might know more about the citythan her work—at least she hoped so.

For what followed I accept no responsibility. Had I paused toconsider the effect of the impact of 1928 on the 'forties of lastcentury, I doubt whether I would have foreseen the disaster thatovertook me. I took my hat and opened the door for her, followedher into the passage, and pressed the lift bell. Charlotte gazedat the glazed doors with patient expectancy. I heard swiftfootsteps coming along the corridor, and looked up, and the resthappened like a nightmare film produced in Hades under thespecial supervision of the Distinguished Personage.

The footsteps were those of Miss Kitty, one of the manydamsels who inhabit the building between the hours of 9 o'clockand 5 in the evening. She was young and tall and comely, and shecarried herself in her brief modern raiment like a young Diana.Me she always favoured with a wide and bright smile on our casualmeetings. It was she who paused before the lift door. BothCharlotte and I looked up together. I am sorry that I did not seeCharlotte's face. It must have been instructive. Miss Kitty's, asher eyes rested on the figure beside me changed from smilinggreeting to round-eyed incredulous astonishment. I heard a smallsquawk, and Miss Kitty's, "Catch her! Quickly!" and turned justin time to catch Miss Charlotte Bronte to prevent her slumping tothe rubber-covered floor.

I lifted her in my arms, bore her back to my room, and placedher in the chair, followed by the girl, expressing her sincere ifsomewhat amazed sympathy.

"The poor little thing," cooed Miss Kitty. "Whatever happenedto her? Wait!" She fluttered off and returned in a few momentswith a bottle of ammonia. A man feels an utter fool in such acrisis, and I was true to form.

"Think I'd better get a doctor?" I asked in trepidation.

"No need," said the efficient and cool Miss Kitty. "She hasonly fainted, has she often done this before?" she went on,looking up for a moment.

"Blessed if I know," I replied a little curtly. "I've neverseen her before today."

"I wonder what could have startled her, the quaint, littlething," murmured Miss Kitty, still busy with the ammoniabottle.

I had a pretty fair idea of the cause of the collapse, but Ihad no intention of putting my thoughts into words. At thismoment the editor, true to his promise, entered the room. Hesurveyed the scene with suspicion and displeasure.

"What has happened?" he asked, turning to me.

"That," I replied, indicating the limp figure, "is MissCharlotte Bronte, and she has fainted."

"Have you been telling her any of your stories?" hedemanded.

The imputation hurt my feelings and I said so,

"Then," he asked, still suspiciously, "what else could havemade her faint?"

At this juncture Miss Kitty silenced us with a frown. "She iscoming round," she said warningly.

Miss Kitty stood aside as we bent over the figure in thechair. Charlotte opened her eyes, looked up at us for a moment,then asked very distinctly, "Has that very indelicate youngperson gone?"

I thought for a moment that Miss Kitty had not caught eitherthe question or its implication.

"What was that?" she asked, stepping forward.

As she spoke Charlotte took one glance at her, gave anothersquawk, and fainted again.

"That," I announced, "has absolutely torn it."

"What on earth is the matter with her?" demanded Miss Kitty.Comprehension was dawning in her eyes. The editor lookeddistinctly puzzled.

There was no use in hiding the truth. I broke it as gently aspossible.

"The fact of the matter is, Miss Kitty, that our droopingflower is unused to seeing so much girl at either end of a frock.Her views are conservative."

I could both sympathise with and excuse the indignation thatflashed from Miss Kitty's eyes. "Indelicate young person! Am I? Idid not faint when I saw her, and I might have. You can bring theold frump round yourself." And she stormed out of the room.

"She's taken the ammonia with her, too," I moaned. "What's tobe done?"

"Get a doctor," suggested the Editor.

"Not on your life," I objected vigorously. "Don't you see thatnothing can really affect her. Leave her alone and she will comeround."

"Well, what are you going to do with her then?" he demandedimpatiently.

I explained my idea of taking Charlotte for a spin round thecity. "But that's off now," I added.

"Can't see that it will make any difference," he retorted.

"Oh, can't you? If she is going to faint every time she sees aflapper the only way to get her round the city that I can thinkof is in an ambulance with a nurse." I was beginning to feel alittle warm.

"Have you got any copy at all from her?"

"Not a line," I answered shortly. I was not going to admit howI had crashed over Pride and Prejudice. "She is too shy to talkabout her work."

He nodded comprehension. "She had a reputation forshyness."

"Gad!" I said feelingly, "she's added a bit to it thisafternoon, too."

"Well, you'll have to get something from her when she comesround," he said decisively.

"What about having a shot at it yourself," I continued, "sinceyou think her views would be so entrancing in print."

"You've undertaken to do it," he replied, dodging theresponsibility.

"Because you forced me to," I answered tartly. "You don'tthink for a moment I'd have chosen Charlotte wilfully, doyou?"

"No, Lola Montez would have been more in your line. GreatScott!" His face had changed from irritation to dazedastonishment. My eyes followed the direction of his. The chairwas empty. Lottie had returned to the shadows.

"She's gone!" he gasped.

"And gone for good, too," I added. "Now, if you had only letme choose—"

"Pah!" he came back at me, "what's the good of going over itagain. Here I was depending on you for an absolutely uniqueinterview—something priceless and—" he waved hishands. His feelings were too deep for words.

"All your own fault."

There are some men with whom you cannot argue. He slammed thedoor after him. And how was I to blame because Lottie'sconstitution couldn't stand the shock of a twentieth centuryfrock?

11: EVEN THE VALKYRIE

The Australasian (Melbourne), 15 July 1933

Who said all journeys end in lovers'meetings?

HE was aged barely nineteen years, and she was a bachelor of arts. She had taken honours in pure and mixedmathematics, and held an astonishing record for languages; but asshe stood taking a laughing farewell of her hostess she lookednone of these things. She was one of Nature's rareexperiments—Tennyson's "Daughter of the gods, divinelytall" incarnate.

She was perfectly proportioned and stood almost six feet inheight, and, since it was in the days when women were stillwomen, the helm of burnished black hair she wore made her lookstill taller. Neither of the two boys, of her own age, who stoodwatching her was undersized, but both were short of herstatuesque magnificence by inches. In the classic regularity ofher features she was imposing rather than beautiful, but thehumour and joy of living dancing in the wide brown eyes werepurely human and feminine.

Turning, she saw her waiting escort and approached them withher hostess. "I've kept you waiting," she smiled; "I'm sosorry!"

"Don't worry, Jess," grinned Thornton. "We have not beenstanding here more than fifteen minutes."

"Anyway, we had the view to admire," was Payne's contribution."Bingo loves magnificent scenery."

"You're a pair of conscienceless fibbers," she retorted; "youwere not here five minutes ago." She turned to her hostess forconfirmation.

"Don't mind them, Jessica, they're a pair of young ruffians."Then, to the boys, "I'm trusting you to see Jessica home, sobehave yourselves."

"I'll see they do," chuckled the daughter of the gods.

"It will be all right, Mrs. Blades," answered Thornton."Anyone who sees us will immediately assume that our nurse hascalled for us to bring us home."

"You impudent young imp," began Jessica.

"Young yourself! You're not six months older than we are," putin Payne.

"Silence, Tommy! The bachelor of arts speaks with the lips ofJuno. Fall in, the escort, or there'll be trouble." Thornton cameto attention beside her.

"If anything happens, Mrs. Blades, you can bear witness I didnot begin it." Her eyes were dancing with mirth.

"Home, the three of you," laughed the hostess from the door."There is not much to choose between any of you."

The three turned into the moonlit street, and JessicaLawrence, a boy on each side, kept pace with them easily andswiftly, moving as a daughter of the gods should move. As theywent they wrangled and laughed, as careless youth will. The boyschaffed her mercilessly on her intellectual triumphs, and Jessicathrust back swiftly and cleanly. It was Tommy who began the realtrouble.

"It's all very well being a B.A., Jess," he ventured, "buthave you ever been kissed—"

In an instant the womanhood in her sprang on guard. "Stopthat, Tommy," she said, shortly.

"Why, we haven't begun yet," corrected Bingo.

"Better not, either." Her voice was ominous.

"But, Jess," protested the grinning Tommy, "you can't be abachelor of arts all your life."

"You'll have to begin some time." Bingo spoke with theearnestness of one enunciating a great truth for the firsttime.

"If I ever do begin, it will not be with a pair of youngdemons like you." There was no fear in her voice, but an immensescorn, as she paused at the gate of her house.

"Jess, your young life has been wasted up till now,but—" As Bingo Thornton spoke she read the intention inhis eyes. What happened, happened very swiftly. In the briefscuffle Payne had the lesser success, for not more than the coollobe of her ear was his; but Bingo's kiss alighted just where allgood kisses should alight. In almost the same instant Jessica's vigorous hand landed on Bingo where all nice girls hands shouldland when subject to similar treatment, and Bingo's head fairlyrang under the impact. The next instant she was through the gateand turned towards them, speechless, her breath coming swiftly.It may have been all anger that shone from her eyes, but evenBingo's half dazed senses suspected a trace of mirth in them.

"After her, Tommy," he laughed. "She has almost fractured myjaw."

Jessica Lawrence, B.A., turned and fled. Their unfamiliaritywith the gate fastening gave her a start, and before they reachedthe shadow of the wide veranda she was through the door. Theycould see her face and frock a white blur in the darkness as sheturned towards them. Then came the voice of Jessica in a derisive'Booh!' from her safety, and the door closed, quietly butdecisively.

The two boys looked at the uncompromising blankness of thedoor for a moment and then at one another and slowly turned andwent their way. But as they went Bingo Thornton, tenderlycaressing a bruised cheek, paid little heed to Tommy's chatter.He was wondering. Now did she, or did she not, return thatkiss?

And again and again at intervals for a few days he pondered onthe problem, but never found a satisfactory answer.

Now this incident, slightly discreditable to two of its threeparticipants, was enacted in the year of grace 1892. Let us skipthe intervening years lightly and come down to 1932. In theinterval Queen Victoria celebrated her second jubilee and wasgathered to her forbears, and on the nature of that reunion it isnot profitable to speculate. The Boer War was fought; Edward VIIreigned and passed on; the Great War shook the world and shookdown thrones; skirts dwindled almost to nothing, and burgeonedagain; women lived to smoke, drink, and swear; some few evenlearned to play bridge; Tommy Payne married and died in '21.Bingo Thornton remained single and lived; several hundred milliongirls were kissed more or less willingly, in which activity Bingohad a fair share, and finally after an orgy of glad living theNemesis of depression overtook the world.

It will be recognised, therefore, that one kiss, however welland truly placed, and one only partially successful, delivered asfar back as 1892, does not loom very largely when compared withthe events of the ensuing forty years.

Let us inspect Mr. Bernard Thornton, C.M.G.—to his veryintimates Bingo—as he sits towards the close of 1932 at thedinner table of his cousin, Clare Langdon, the wife of an eminentspecialist. The years have not used him ill. He has retained mostof his hair, which is white and smooth clipped. There is a veryslight widening of the once slim figure, and the rather lean andhawk-like face is scarcely lined. A stark knowledge of "bigbusiness" and the methods used by some of his fellow men inmoneymaking have given him a somewhat cynical air, but this ismodified, by the humour of the wise grey eyes, which show slightwrinkles of laughter at their corners. There is no stoop in thesquare shoulders as he bends forward a little to listen toClare.

"Yon know, Bernard," she was saying. "I do feel a littleguilty about letting you in for this, and I won't feel a bit putout if you would rather stay here and really Harry must go ofcourse."

"Nonsense, Clare," he laughed, "I'll stick it out like a man.I have never yet attended such a joyous ceremony as the speechnight of a girls' school, especially such a girls' school asGlendon, and I may never have another chance. Besides, I promisedMadge."

"Good for you! Uncle Bingo," came the voice of that damselfrom farther down the table—it was plain "Bingo" in hermother's absence—"you'll just adore the Valkyrie."

"Madge!" protested the mother, "How often am I to tell you notto use that absurd name in speaking of Miss Lawrence?" She turnedto Thornton. "I'm tremendously fond of Jessica. She was my firstteacher. You'll meet her later, as she has promised to havesupper with us afterwards."

But Bernard Thornton scarcely heard her voice. As a bubblerises to the surface from black depths rose a memory throughforty years to the surface of his mind, where it arrived with a"plop" he could almost hear. Unconsciously his left hand caressedhis cheek. "Jessica Lawrence!" he thought as he remembered, butthe face, trained through many emergencies, gave no visible signof his interest.

"What is Miss Lawrence like, Madge?" he risked.

"Simply gorgeous," came the enthusiastic answer. "You'd justlove her."

"Hump!" said Bingo, registering a mental doubt. "Is shestrict?"

"In some things, terrifically." Madge had all the love ofsuperlatives of her years. "But in others she's a perfect dear.She can be good fun too."

"But why the Valkyrie?" Madge would have been astonished hadshe read the curiosity behind the question.

"Oh! That's only for when there is big trouble in the school.Then she is—" the girl paused, feeling for the rightwords.

"Pretty tough," suggested her father.

"Pooh! what a silly description." Madge looked from her fatherto Thornton. "She's—she's"—then with arush—"She's as terrible as an army with banners."

Both men leaned back in their chairs to laugh at their ease.It was Thornton who was able to speak first. "You mean theSalvation Army, of course, Madge?"

"No, I don't," answered the indignant maiden warmly. "I mean areal army in armour with oriflammes and pennants on their lances,and all sorts of things like that: charging into battle in athunderstorm. That's what she's like."

"Lord! Madge," gasped Thornton, through his laughter."Magnificent! That makes her perfectly visible. But I'm afraid Iwill not be able to adore her as you suggest. She must be anacquired taste."

Madge regarded her father and Thornton with unfeigned disgust."Anyhow," she reiterated, "the Valykrie is a perfect dear."

Nor was she appeased when Thornton, half speaking and halfsinging, amended "Iolanthe":

"It seems she is Valkyrie.
And I took her for
The proprietor
Of a ladies' seminary."

Nevertheless, there was not one among the assemblage inthe brightly lit school hall an hour later who observed MissJessica Lawrence, M.A., with a deeper interest than did Mr.Bernard Thornton, as she stood reading her annual report from thepalm-decked stage.

Although she would not have recognised in the white-haired,upright Thornton, the Bingo of forty years ago, to him she wasunmistakable.

"Wonderful!" he mused as he listened to the clear, precisediction. "She must be 59, and looks barely forty." There was aslight powder of grey in the dark mass of her hair. "She wouldn'tbe fool enough to have that shorn," thought Thornton as headmired the dignity and finish it gave to the stately head. Deepwithin him bubbled laughter as the memory of their last meetingof two score years ago returned to him.

"Terrible as an army with banners. Gad! Madge was inspired tothink of that. She could be, too. The Valkyrie—apt, byJove! Very! One can imagine her riding the storm clouds andselecting those about to be slain."

Miss Lawrence gave place to the Archbishop, who said all thosethings archbishops should say on such occasions. He was mildlyfacetious at first, and Bingo observed appreciatively how hersmile lit the face of Jessica Lawrence. M.A. Then, in due course,the Archbishop deplored gravely the unwise latitude that parentsof today permitted their daughters, and proceeded to indicate thecorrect lines for the training of girls, while Bingo reflected onwhat a thin time the youngsters would have if the good prelatehad his way.

Then the Archbishop was followed by Senator the Honourable SirHenry Deanwell, K.C.B.E., Federal Minister for Small Affairs, anold friend of Bingo's and a noted orator, Sir Henry was well intohis stride on the subject of the future mothers of the nationwhen, in the fourth row from the platform, he caught the cold,sardonic, and unwed eye of the last man he expected to see insuch a place. Then a number of people wondered why the usuallyfluent Sir Henry Deanwell gulped, repeated himself, floundered,and sat down without treating the audience to one of his famousperorations.

They would have known the cause of the senator's embarrassmenthad they heard the fierce, half-whispered epithet he hissed atBingo as the assemblage broke up, and both the Archbishop andMiss Jessica Lawrence would have been horrified at the exchangesthat took place so close to the group of which they were thecentre.

For the graceless Bingo returned to the vernacular of youth topaint Sir Henry Deanwell's insincerity, while Sir Henry framedhis retorts according to the best traditions of our troops inFlanders. It was Clare who unconsciously separated the combatantsby asking Bingo to take Madge home, as the Archbishop had kindlyoffered to drop Clare and Miss Lawrence at their gate.

A little later, when Mr. Thornton was formally presented toMiss Lawrence by Clare, Bingo observed with satisfaction thatthere was not a flicker of recognition in the frank brown eyesthat he, perforce, looked up to. Madge had been dismissed to herrest, and the elders settled to a quiet chat on the events of theevening. Jessica Lawrence accepted the stranger without reserve,and before long the quiet chat developed into a sprightlyargument because of the gentle raillery of Miss Jessica Lawrenceby Harry Langdon and Bingo on the rigidity of her views on thetraining of young girls.

Harry ventured the opinion that a reasonable latitude ofassociation between growing boys and girls was good for bothsides.

"Even," he said, "if there is an occasional sentimentalkiss—what harm?"

"Impossible and beyond pardon, as was anything that tendedever so slightly to touch the bloom of a girl's self-respect,"was the verdict of Miss Lawrence, "You men cannot or will not seethe matter in its true perspective. I have been guiding andtraining girls for thirty-five years, and I should know," shewound up.

Mr. Bernard Thornton looked at Miss Jessica Lawrence, M.A.,speculatively.

Then he said, "Do you know, Miss Lawrence, that I think we arenot altogether strangers."

Jessica's hand moved toward her cup. "Do you mean that we havemet before?"

"Yes," said Bingo gently. "It was quite a long time ago, butperhaps you can recall it. It was at Mrs. Blades's home atFairmont. I was Bingo Thornton then."

Jessica's cup was half way to her lips, but for all the wealthof the Indies she could not have raised it farther. Bingo'smemory of her had risen like a bubble to his mind; her memory ofhim burst with the shattering shock of a shell. Nevertheless shereturned her cup gently to its saucer, and Bingo's admirationgrew as he saw that the hand that replaced it did not quiver. Itrose to dizzy heights when, after a thoughtful gaze, she shookher head slowly and said, "I think I remember the dance, but I'mafraid I cannot recall you. There were so many there, if youremember."

The intonation of that brazen fib was perfect, and Bingoadmitted to himself that at his best he could not have donebetter.

Said Bingo, in smiling self-depreciation, "I could scarcelyhope you would have remembered me in that crowd, but, if you donot mind my saying it, your figure is too striking to beforgotten easily." The slight, emphasis on the one word was loston all but Miss Lawrence, as Bingo knew from the slight flickerof her lashes as he said it.

"Not at all," and there was genuine amusem*nt in her lightlaugh. "I think I should feel flattered at leaving an impressionthat has endured for so many years." The slight caressing gestureof his hand on his cheek had not passed unnoticed.

At this moment a maid brought a whispered message to HarryLangdon, who rose with a groan of dismay. To Clare's protest heanswered, "No use, dear; I must go. You married a doctor and youmust take the consequences. Bingo will see Jessica home," And hewent from among them blessing Nature and all her works.

It was in vain that a little later Jessica protested she hadno need for an escort. Bingo was pleasantly insistent.

"I shall feel dreadfully hurt if you do not allow me to seeyou home." This, despite the veiled glance he received thatindicated he was more likely to be dreadfully hurt if he did.Unconsciously Clare assisted in Bingo's mischief by assuringJessica that she knew that Mr. Thornton would regard the walk asa pleasure rather than a duty. Bingo could not have put the casebetter himself. Finally Jessica accepted the inevitable, and ofthe three Clare alone was unaware with what bad grace theproffered service was regarded.

For the first fifty yards they walked side by side in silence.Occasionally Bingo glanced at the fine but uncompromisingprofile. Then he declaimed dramatically, "Out of her terribledead past—the past she thought to be buried andforgotten—rose a spectre to haunt her."

"You idiot!" snapped the much-tried Jessica.

"But my dear Jessica—" he began.

"Mr. Thornton"—(wilful damsels had dissolved intoquivering jelly at that voice)—"I consider your use of myfirst name as an unpardonable impertinence." It was the Valkyriewho spoke.

But Bingo was no damsel, and he had broken strong men to hiswill. Besides, he was enjoying the encounter immensely. "Well,considering our past tender association and my delightfulrecollections of it, I did not think you would insist onformalities when we were alone."

"You—"

"Tut, tut, Jessica." he interrupted. "Remember your highoffice, and, besides, vituperation is not argument."

"Oh, very well." She was still the Valkyrie. "If you like tobe an idiot, be an idiot. I think that common decency would haveprotected me from having that humiliating incident recalled."

"Perhaps I am an agent of Providence."

"An agent of Pro—" gasped Miss Jessica Lawrence, "Don'tyou think you flatter yourself a little?"

"Well, no." He appeared to consider the question carefully."An agent of the devil would seriously rebuke self-righteousness."

"Well, of all the—the cheek!" The place of the Valkyriehad been taken by a very human woman.

Bingo chuckled appreciatively. "Now you are yourself again,"he said, "I can explain that I thought that considering your owndark past you might be less intolerant with sufferingcharges."

At this audacity Miss Jessica Lawrence had some littledifficulty in suppressing the gurgle of laughter that rose to herthroat, "It is because I remember your brutality, and that ofyour precious friend, that I hold the views I do."

"My brutality?" Bingo's voice bore incredulous amazement."Why, do you know that for a fortnight I had to pretend I had agumboil, to explain my swollen face? You to talk ofbrutality!"

"Did I really hurt you. Mr. Thornton?" she asked with a shadeof concern in her voice.

"Bingo," he corrected.

"Bingo," she conceded; and the gurgle came to the surface.

"You caught me a most frightful sock in the jaw," headmitted.

"I'm so glad," said Miss Jessica Lawrence, sedately.

"Really, Jessica, for a Valkyrie you are most delightfullyhuman," was Bingo's amused comment.

"For a what?" she demanded.

"Valkyrie was the word I used. Didn't you know?"

"It's absurd, but of course I did. But I had no idea that youdid. That imp Madge, I suppose?"

"No tales out of school, Jessica, but it suits as though itwere moulded on you."

They walked in silence for perhaps fifty yards. Then Bingosaid, "Jessica, ever since I saw you first on the platform thisevening I've had something on my mind. May I ask you aquestion?"

She glanced at him suspiciously. "What is it?" she asked non-committally.

"I don't want you to misunderstand me, and it is not merelyidle or impertinent curiosity. It is something in which I amreally concerned." He paused. "You won't be angry?"

"I doubt if anger is any use with you," she smiled.

"Not much use, really," he agreed, "but what I want to know isif anyone has kissed you since that night."

Jessica stopped in her track as one paralysed. She turnedtowards Bingo and she laughed a laugh of unalloyed amusem*nt."Bingo!" she gasped. "Of all the—" her speech failedher.

"You are not angry?" he grinned up at her.

"Angry!" the laughter was still in her voice. "It is impudenceso sublime that it rises above human emotion. But why? Why?" Shemoved on as she spoke.

"Well," he replied, falling into pace beside her, "I have somelittle reputation as an economist, and it seemed to me to be suchdreadful waste of magnificent material if it had not beenused."

Again mirth got the better of Jessica. When she could speakshe demanded, "Do you think for a moment that I am in the habitof permitting that sort of thing?"

"Then, you did permit it in my case," he interposed.

"Oh you—I mean, submit to it," she corrected.

"Then you admit you submitted," he persisted.

She put out her hands, helplessly. "Oh, you creature! You knowvery well what I mean."

"But, Jessica, I don't," he chuckled. "For a specialist inlanguages you use words so ambiguously."

"You're enough to make saints blaspheme," laughter getting thebetter of her exasperation. They had reached the wide gates ofthe drive into Glendon. "This will do. I can go on by myselfnow," she said, holding out her hand.

"I must complete my duties as escort," said Bingo, moving on."And, besides, you have not answered my question."

"Do you really expect an answer?" she asked.

"Why not?" urged Bingo. "Since my interest is purelyacademic."

"Bingo, you are absolutely incorrigible." Then, after a pause,"Since you must know, I am thankful to answer with an emphaticand grateful No."

"Good Lord!" said Bingo, shocked into amazed but creduloussobriety. "What a dreadfully dull life you have had,Jessica!"

The mass of the buildings of Glendon Girls' School loomed upbefore them. A light shone through the fanlight above the frontdoor, and a faint streak of light beneath it showed the door wasajar.

They had halted by the low steps when some sixth sense warnedJessica Lawrence of danger. She glanced swiftly at Bingo.

"Don't you dare! Don't you dare!" and her voice was smotheredmomentarily, and there was a sound as though someone hadviciously slain a mosquito. A moment later Miss Jessica Lawrence.M.A., breathless, reached the safety of her front door.

"Jessica! Jessica! Wait a moment," begged a voice from thedark.

"Don't tell me you're attempting to apologise?" she demanded.She scarcely recognised her own voice.

"Apologise be hanged!" came the injured voice of Mr. BernardThornton. C.M.G. "What I wanted to suggest it that we make it aregular celebration. I'll be round again in 1972."

There was a brief pause. Then came a sound in which mirth hadovercome wrath.

"Booh!" said Miss Jessica Lawrence, M.A. and principal ofGlendon. And the great door closed quietly but decisively.

Bingo turned and walked slowly down the drive, gentlycaressing a smarting cheek. In the street he paused and looked upat the moon.

Then he chuckled softly. "Even the Valkyrie. Even theValkyrie."

12: THE SOCIAL CODE
AN AMAZING STORY OF MARS

The Sunday Mail (Brisbane), 5 January 1941

An alien culture is justthat—alien.

"I ENVY you, Gray; you don't know how much!"said Tarrant, head of the Commonwealth Astronomical Department."Think of your chance! Youth, in the first place, and then thebridge we have built for you. You're 32 now, with perhaps 35priceless years in front, and tonight you start. Oh yes. I envyyou!"

Warren Gray, the international officer in charge of the MountKosciusko Stellascope, walked smartly over the snow to the greatcircular building that crowned the summit. Tonight, for the firsttime, he was to take sole charge of that wonder of the age.Chosen for the task from more than a thousand candidates by aninternational committee, his task was to carry on, to the best ofhis powers, the work of formulating practicable means ofcommunication between the earth and Mars that the great Barstow'sinvention had made possible, and to give the results of hisinvestigations to the world. The work was one of tremendousdifficulty, on account of the almost entire absence of a basis towork on and the great dissimilarity of the conditions of lifeexisting on the two planets.

Gray nodded good-evening to the two assistants in the ante-room, and passed straight on to the instrument chamber. This wasa vast domed apartment, 150ft from wall to wall unbroken by asingle pillar; but the great size was dwarfed by the tube of agiant telescope, some 20ft. in diameter, that was reared to theopen roof, its muzzle being almost lost in a maze of guys andstays that held it in position. Radiating from the main columnran a series of stands, each bearing its appointed instrument,many of them under glass, all glittering like an array ofjewellers' treasures under the steady glow of the electriclight.

Gray wandered amongst them with keenly observanteyes—here adjusting a screw with delicate touch, therenoting carefully the reading of some beautiful piece of mechanismwith anxious precision.

Satisfied at last, he walked to the frame and unveiled acircular reflector, 15ft. across, that was set in it, then tookhis place in an easy-chair some 10ft. away, and busied himselfwith the array of delicate machinery on a table beside him. Allaround were telephone-receivers, speaking tubes, and buttons. Hefrowned over the reading of a thermometer, and called down a tubethat the temperature of the observation chamber was three-tenthsof a degree too high. Even that variation affected the adjustmentof the instruments that were built for absolute accuracy at 60degrees Centigrade. His face cleared only when the mercury receded the offending fractions and became stationary.

At last his critical survey was complete. Gray leaned back inhis chair, and, taking up a telephone receiver, gave a few brieforders. Each was followed by a movement through the room as thegreat telescope slowly picked up its appointed spot in theheavens. A small voice from the receiver told him that his orderswere carried out. Then he switched off all the lights in theroom, except a carefully-shaded one at his elbow, and as thevelvety darkness settled down, the reflector glowed with a softlight.

Gradually the light became brighter, and vast distorted imagesbegan to flit across the polished surface—images thatbecame clearer every moment, until they showed a weird andfleeting landscape, as from a great height in a balloon. Seas andlands, cities and rivers, sped past in the field of view inbewildering succession. Gray still held the receiver, and as hecaught sight of a familiar mark, his orders altered the movementof the stellascope.

At last a great city spun into view, and was held in answer toa swift call. Reaching his hand in the dark his fingers workedswiftly on screws and buttons. The towered and domed buildingsseemed to rush upwards to meet him. In the midst of all was oneof tremendous proportions and Gray worked it swiftly into thecentre of the reflector. Nearer and nearer it came. First thereflector held it all, then only the central dome, then only awindow-like aperture in the roof, until at last the wholeinterior was exposed and then Warren saw in the mirror a view ofa portion of a room almost the exact counterpart of the one heoccupied, except for strange and subtle differences of detail ofworkmanship and architecture. Practically the instruments werethe same, and he knew he was in contact with what was officiallyknown as the No. 10 Martian Observatory, at that time some onehundred and twenty millions of miles away from the earth.

A glance showed him that the chair in front of the reflectorwas empty, and Gray turned impatiently to a chronometer on thetable. It wanted three minutes to the half hour.

"My friend is nothing if not punctual," he murmured tohimself, and settled to wait with an occasional glance at thelarge hand on the clock. Precisely as it touched the point of thehalf hour there was a movement on the reflector, and a man cladin a long, dark robe stepped into view and faced him. He wasbelow the average terrestrial height, and would pass for perhaps60 on this planet. His long hair was quite white, and under hishigh, round forehead were two dark, deep-set eyes, as brilliantas an eagle's. The face was hairless, and showed a straight, firmmouth, under his thin, hooked nose. It was a stern face, almostcruel, but one that told of great intellectual force. Gray hadbecome familiar with the man's appearance during his probationaryperiod under Tarrant. Tonight, however, he regarded him withkeener interest.

He arose from his chair as the Martian stopped and held outboth arms towards him in salutation. Warren repeated the actionwith a nod and a smile, and then each took his seat. The far-offobserver seemed quite unaffected by the absence of Tarrant, andgravely commenced to carry out a chemical experiment for theedification of Gray, who watched every movement with closeattention. It was by means of such demonstrations that much ofthe common knowledge of the two planets was made manifest.

WARREN followed the progress of the work, judging fromexperience and results the chemicals used, and subsequently herepeated the work under the eyes of the Martian, to show that theformula was known on earth, and understood. Sometimes they wouldcome to a deadlock, as some operation foreign to one or the otherwas uncomprehended, and then would follow an earnest search forthe missing link in the chain. It often happened that weeks werespent over some trifling detail, until the solution of thetrouble was found.

They usually worked for about five hours, and succeedingnights were much like the first, the only breaks being due tometeorological troubles on the earth that prevented freeobservation, and this time was utilised by Gray to write up hisnotes and reports, and to compare them with those of otherstations. Six months passed, and left Warren Gray still as far asever from the faintest clue to the work he had promised himselfto undertake.

The Martian observer absolutely ignored all overtures towardselucidation of their social code. Gray had prepared an elaborateseries of enlarged photographs of scenes from our everyday workand occupations, and exhibited them to his far-off vis-à-vis.Some were examined with curious care, but others in which womenfigured always had the one result. The Martian immediatelycovered his face with the flowing sleeve of his robe—adecided hint that the subject was distasteful, and would not beinvestigated—and on such occasions Gray swore vividly atthe reflector.

He instructed Mars in the use of photography, in the hope thatthe result would give him a clue. It took three months' hardwork, and when the Martian observer proved he had mastered theart he quietly but firmly dropped it. About this time, too, Grayhad another annoyance to contend with, for the observer in No. 10Martian station on several occasions went to sleep at his post.At first Warren was able to rouse him when he nodded by flashinga magnesium lamp, the sudden glare recalling him to his senses,but at other times the man slept for two or three hours, leavingthe terrestrial observer in a state of helpless anger.

Then came a wonderful night. Gray had started early, and afteran hour's work the old observer nodded and finally sank to sleep.Warren shook his fist at the unconscious figure, and started towrite quietly by the shaded lamp. For an hour he worked, when amovement on the reflector brought him to his feet with a start.For the first time on record there was a second figure imaged inthe Martian observatory. Gray held his breath with astonishment.It was a woman! She was leaning over the man in the chair. Shewas veiled, as was usual, from head to foot, not even her handswere uncovered, but Gray knew from her attitude that she wasintently watching the sleeper. Apparently she had not yet noticedthe reflector. As he watched her she straightened herself, and asshe did so her figure seemed to start with astonishment under therobes. He could see every movement with perfect distinctness,even the quick heaving of her breast.

Gray held out his arm in salute, but the figure remainedmotionless. He cursed his inability to make her understand. Hecaught up a rug from his chair, and, throwing it over his head,he suddenly tossed it back, as though unveiling. He saw hismeaning was understood from the start she gave. For a moment shebent over the sleeper again, and then turned her back and made asthough to leave. Gray threw out his arms in entreaty. Suddenly,almost as she was lost to view, the woman paused, turned, andwalked slowly back again.

WATCHING her, Gray commenced in his excitement to speak aloud:"Ye gods! What a chance. Daughters of Eve! She hesitates. They'rethe same all over the universe! I win! I win! She'll do it!"

The figure had paused behind the sleeping man and bent again,alert intentness in her every attitude. She appeared to belistening to his breathing. As though satisfied, she stood erect.Gray saw the hands moving under the veil. Then, while he scarcelydrew breath from anxiety, she paused a moment. Then suddenly twoslender white hands parted the shimmering fabric from head tofoot, and Warren gave a gasp of mingled pleasure and amazement.He was looking straight into the woman's eyes.

From that moment onwards Gray know he was a changed man. In asecond his office and his training were forgotten. Science andthe work he was living for, which had hitherto occupied the soleplace in his thoughts, fell into a distant background, and intheir place was the image of a woman. He could always rememberher as he saw her then shadowed in the great mirror. Her paleoval face was framed in the soft folds of the parted veil. Itswonderful, its appealing beauty, and changing expressions oftimid curiosity and surprise moulded themselves on his memory. Henever knew how long they stood watching each other. He knew thatshe feared something, for her glance went uneasily now and againto the sleeper, and he realised that she was listening as thoughfor some unseen danger.

Once when he involuntarily held his arms towards her sheplaced her finger on her lips as though to warn him to silence,not realising the vast gulf that parted them. But across the gulfthe man bowed his heart in mute worship of the being whose voicehe could never hear, and who could never be more than anintangible shadow in his life. Minute after minute went by. Hewas wondering vaguely what fascination kept her there, untilslowly she held her arms towards him and then let the veil dropforward till it hid her completely, and turned with haltingfootsteps and disappeared.

It was long before Gray roused himself from the stupor thatheld him, and sank into his chair with his mind in a whirlinghurricane of self-questioning. His first rational action was towork swiftly at an elaborate calculation, and when he finallysolved the problem he sat staring first at the figures and thenat the reflection of the Martian station in the mirror.

HITHERTO he had looked on the constantly varying space thatseparated the two planets as merely a scientific fact on whichcomment was unnecessary. Now, for the first time, he realised itsmeaning. Between himself and that woman who had so suddenlyflashed into his life lay the awful distance of one hundred andtwenty three million miles of space! The whole idea wasmonstrous. He was mad, he told himself. What was the woman tohim? He would never see her again.

Hours passed, but still he sat there gazing straight beforehim, with unseeing eyes, one moment feeling the intoxication ofpassionate love and the next all the despair of its absolutehopelessness. At last he roused himself, and seeing the Martianstill sleeping he left his post. Next night he waited anxiouslyfor signs of weariness in the old observer, but quite a monthpassed before he fell from grace and dozed again; but even then,although Gray waited eagerly, watching for a sign of her coming,his hopes were unrewarded, and so they remained for three monthsand then she came once more.

With beating heart he saw her advancing through the gloom.This time she went straight to the sleeper, and, after bendingover him and satisfying herself that he was unconscious, shethrew back her veil and faced him. To his famished eyes sheappeared more beautiful than ever. Her expression was alert, andshe moved quickly as with a fixed purpose. She held a scroll inher hands, which she unrolled and held towards him. Gray saw at aglance that it was a rough but accurate chart of the solarsystem, on which the earth and Mars were deeply ringed with red.She indicated first Mars, and then touched her breast, and thenthe earth and pointed to him as though to verify her ideas.

Gray nodded in affirmation, and she let the chart fall to herfeet. She smiled at him with infinite sadness, realising the gulfthat separated them. Then, to his great wonder, she held out herarms to him and slowly sank to her knees. There was no need ofspoken word to read her meaning. There is just one language thatis formed neither of sounds nor written characters, but is mosteloquent to those who have learned it, and that language passedbetween this man and this woman through countless miles ofinfinite space.

It was the commencement of the strangest wooing the worldshave ever known. For over an hour that night she stayed with him,but he understood by her restless anxiety that there was risk inthe meeting, and, though he feared her departure, he began tofear still more for her in staying. At last she went, lingeringas though loath to leave him, but he knew she would comeagain.

For three days after, a storm that forbade work howled roundthe summit of Mount Kosciusko, and Gray raged with increasingimpatience. The storm passed, and Gray was early at his post. Thefamiliar old observer came as usual. They started their work, butin ten minutes the Martian was in the deepest slumber. In tenmore the impatient man saw the girl beside him. This time therewas no hesitation. She immediately commenced to shake the sleepervigorously, but without rousing him. Then, being apparently quitesatisfied, she stood before him unveiled and smiling. After theirfirst mute greeting she took a metal vessel, and, pointing to thesleeping observer, raised it to her lips as though drinking. Nextshe rested her face in her hands and closed her eyes in imitationof sleep. Then she looked up laughing merrily, and shook theMartian again. Gray knew that she had drugged the watcher toclear the way for their meeting, and signalled hisappreciation.

That night was the first of many. The man was too deeply inlove to stop to ask himself where it would end. He was livingonly in the present. With a speed far beyond his hopes a thoroughunderstanding was established, but the understanding was one thatGray considered would not interest the inhabitants of the earth.They formed hundreds of ways of recording their impressions.Every night a splendid spray of flowers was laid before the girlas an offering, and she never failed to express her delight withthem. She learned to kiss the tips of her dainty fingers to herterrestrial lover, and taught him many quaint devices that gavethem both infinite amusem*nt. They even quarrelled once, becausehe was late at the tryst and had kept her waiting. For an hour ormore she declined to move the veil from her face, in spite of hisentreaties. Then he turned his back in anger, and when he lookedagain she was standing with tearful eyes, an exquisite picture ofpenitence, and did not smile until she read full forgiveness inhis face.

IN Melbourne, Tarrant, head of the AstronomicalDepartment, reading Gray's reports, observed uneasily thefrequency of interruption through neglect at No. 10 Martianstation. It was not so in his time, and he was worried. Not thatthere was any falling off in Gray's work; it was always keen andbrilliant, but latterly it had become woefully brief, but oneday, when Gray wrote asking him to purchase and forward a diamondring costing over a month's pay and enclosing a cheque for themoney. Tarrant did as he was asked, but packed his bags for avisit to Mount Kosciusko.

"Some infernal woman," he said to himself. "I mustinvestigate. We can't afford to spoil so good a man."

Gray's greeting, though warm, did not deceive his old friend.There was something being kept back, a reticence that could onlybe due to one cause. Over dinner that evening Tarrant boldlytaxed his chum with the heinous crime of being in love. He did itnot unkindly, but firmly as between father and son.

Gray squirmed and floundered hopelessly, and finally confessedto his amazed hearer the truth of the matter. Warming up to thesubject, he raved as only a lover can to a sympatheticfriend.

"It's no use, Tarrant," he concluded. "It would kill me if Ilost her. I'm only living now to watch for her coming. She's mylife, and all there is in it. Don't laugh, old man; it must soundmad to you, but it's all in all to me."

Tarrant listened with increasing gravity. Never did a man feelless like laughing. Ahead he saw inevitable tragedy.

"What is the end to be?" was all he said.

"I haven't dared to think of the end. I simply dare not," wasthe answer he got.

He would have asked to be present at a meeting between thetwo, but he knew that Warren would never consent, and thereforehis anxiety made him decide to prolong indefinitely a visit hehad only intended to last for a few hours. Something warned himthat the end was not far off, and that Gray would want him then.The end was nearer than even Tarrant dreamed. That very eveninghe sat up before the fire long after Gray had left to take up hispost at the observatory. He was nearly dozing. The hour was aftermidnight, when suddenly a furious ring at the telephone broughthim to his feet. He snatched the receiver to his ear.

"What? What, Gray? Yes! Yes! Right! I'm coming!"

Without waiting for hat or cloak he ran from the house to theobservatory. There was something in the agonised cry from the farend of the wire that told of disaster.

Gray met him at the door of the instrument-room, wild-eyed andwith his face deathly pale. He seized Tarrant's arm without aword and hurried him to the reflector. There a strange scene methis gaze.

Crouched on the floor was the cowering figure of a veiledwoman, and over her stood, storming with furious gestures, theold Martian observer. His face was twisting with rage. Withimpassioned violence he was evidently addressing a dozen or moremen grouped round him, pointing first at the shivering woman andthen at the mirror. When he saw Gray he shook his fist savagely,and looked as though spitting venom in his fury. To the twowatchers, helpless as they were to interfere, it seemed like avile dream. Though they knew they were confronted with a terriblecrisis, the very silence of it all appalled them. When he ceasedhis harangue a man much older than all present stepped forward,and, after first speaking a few words to the old Martian, helooked down on the girl at his feet. He held out one hand overher.

"Some infernal woman," he said to himself.

They saw his lips moving, and as she spoke she rose slowly andstood before him with bowed head. The others closed round her, asthough preparing to move her away, but as they did so she brokefrom amongst them, and swiftly tore her veil aside and faced thereflector, and for a brief moment stood gazing at Gray in mutefarewell. Then, with a rush, the men closed on her and draggedher from view.

When they were gone Tarrant heard the story, told in a voicealternating between rage and despair. They had met as usual. Theold Martian was apparently soundly asleep. Gray was trying tomake the girl understand the significance of the ring he hadprocured, when suddenly he observed that the man was onlyfeigning sleep, and was observing their every action. Gray hadtried, but in vain, to warn her of the danger, when suddenly theman had sprung to his feet and flung her to the floor, and theothers had rushed in.

Tarrant persuaded Gray to return to his quarters. Nothingcould be done, and they could only await events, but there was nosleep for either that night. Tarrant had a terrible forebodingthat he dared not mention to his friend.

With keen anxiety they awaited the night, and when the timecame they found the No. 10 Martian station empty. Gray refused toleave the observatory, and Tarrant stayed out of sympathy.

The night dragged on, until in the small hours of the morninga telephone bell broke the aching silence. Gray mechanicallypicked up the receiver. It was the Singapore station speaking. Itreported an unusual excitement in the city in which the No. 10station was situated. He repeated this message to Tarrant, whogrew pale when he heard it.

"Gray, you had better go," he said.

Tarrant was thinking of the one time previously he had seen anunveiled woman in Mars. "I must know," said Gray. "The doubtwould be worse than the truth. Turn the instrument on to thegreat square."

Tarrant obeyed, and then almost wished he had refused tohumour his friend. Each one of the Martian cities had thisfeature in common—an enormous square in its midst, and inthe centre of it a cone-shaped mound of dark stone. When it swunginto the field of the reflector both the watchers saw that it wasoccupied by countless thousands of men, and the cone, usuallysombre and forbidding, was wreathed and festooned with masses ofvivid scarlet flowers.

Tarrant knew his surmise was correct, and the memory of asimilar awful scene came back to him. At all costs Gray must bespared the end.

"Gray, you must go."

"No. Tarrant, I'll see her once more if it kills me. I muststop."

Even as he spoke the head of a procession appeared, and thecrowd fell back to right and left to give it room. Straight forthe cone it came, and parted on each side. Tarrant saw the girl'sfigure separate from the rest, and again he urged Gray to leave,but the other remained staring into the reflector, rigid andmotionless. Then she stood alone on the summit, and as she threwback her veil the thronging thousands fell prostrate.

Gray made no sound or movement, but an involuntary cry ofwonder came from Tarrant. On the supremely beautiful face therewas no sign of fear. Her gaze turned upwards as though seekingsomething above her, and her eyes were so full of pride. So sheraised her arms as though in signal. Then came a blazing blueflash, but Tarrant had shut out the scene with his hands. When heturned again he saw that Gray was sitting smiling vacantly, andwhen he realised what had happened he was glad, for he knew thatit was not good for a man to see what they had seen and live toremember it.

13: THE TWO VOWS OF LADY ANNE

The Australasian (Melbourne), 26 December 1936

Be careful what you wish for. You may getit...

"AND so," said the Lord of Wrotham, "it isHertford who has added to the charter that Wrotham descendsthrough the female line."

"And therefore the walking wine-sack would be my husband." Theglint in Lady Anne's eyes suggested that such a marriage wouldnot mean unalloyed happiness for the Earl of Hertford.

In an age when heiresses were State pawns, the suggestedalliance was more normal than exceptional. It was the revolt ofclean and splendid youth against the threat of debauched middleage that lit the fires of battle in her eyes. Besides, there wasSir Hugh Daventry to be considered, and Hugh—well, he wasHugh, and that meant her universe to Lady Anne.

Her father watched the flushed, angry face, understanding."It's a sorry affair, Anne. Though he did not put it in words,Hertford means to have you and Wrotham or the King will not signthe charter."

"But what brings the dog here in such haste? What's afoot?"Anne tapped a small foot impatiently among the rushes on thefloor.

"He rode in with the Bishop of Bury but an hour since, with ascore of men—"

"Those cutthroats I saw in the yard?" Anne interrupted.

Wrotham nodded. "He said he rode ahead of Henry to warn methat the King would be at Wrotham till Monday. They ridewest—to school the Welsh chiefs."

"And our good bishop? Why does he herd in such company?" Anneasked.

Her father shook his head. "I had no chance for speech withhim. Mayhap Stephen scented trouble and came as watchdog."

Ann took a step forward and laid a white hand on her father'sshoulder gently. "What must be, must be. I will obey if youcommand."

With his hand grasping his grizzled beard Wrotham staredbefore him a moment. Then the old warrior suddenly stood erectand brought his hand smashing to the trestle beside him. "No!" healmost shouted. "Must I peddle my daughter for my land at thebidding of Hertford?"

Anne shook her head sadly. "Cross Hertford, dear old wolf, andyou go landless. He holds us in a cleft stick."

For a minute Wrotham strode to and fro across the narrowchamber. Then stopped and said resolutely. "Better that than livebeneath his hand. There is always France. Phillip would give meVaux for my allegiance. Listen, Anne! The choice is yours. I amold and little matters for me. Choose as you please!"

"You mean—?"

"Aye! Mean it and will stand by you." Anne stood irresolute,but Wrotham urged her on. "Go, Anne! He is in the lower towerchamber, where he roosts, talking some King's business withStephen."

BUT Lady Anne did not go directly to Hertford. First she madeher way to her own stone-walled, tapestry-hung room, anddismissed the women she found there. Then she flung herself onher couch. For nearly half an hour she lay pondering over thedisaster that threatened her life.

Slowly a thought took shape. With closed eyes she lay, testingits every desperate turn, so still that she appeared to beasleep. That morning Lady Anne had arisen from her couch a happygirl, without a care in the world. She rose from it the secondtime that day a woman—a woman, steel-nerved by aninflexible purpose. With head erect, imperious and splendid, shepassed to the lower tower room. By its low arched doorway one ofHertford's cutthroats stood on guard. Leering at her as shepaused, the man dropped his pike across her path. The Lady Anneof an hour ago would have shrunk back. The Lady Anne of themoment turned blazing eyes on the guard and hissed—"Wouldyou hang? You dog!"

The pike jerked erect. At a peremptory motion of her hand theman drew aside the leather curtain, and Anne swept past him intothe room.

Two torches on the walls and a thick candle on a heavy tablelit the small, circular chamber. On one side of the table loungedHertford. Opposite him, with parchments spread before him, satStephen, Bishop of Bury. To him Anne bowed reverently. The twomen had been taken by surprise at Anne's unceremonious entrance.Hertford sat twirling, by the stem, a dull and dented silver winecup. His dark green, velvet robe was marked in front by stains offood and wine. Against the wall beside him lay the mail he hadput off.

Stephen had greeted her with a smile. Hertford glowered up ather without moving, and Anne recognised the intentional insolencethat he assumed to overawe her. It was Hertford who broke thesilence. "Your pardon, Lady Anne, but we are deep in the King'sbusiness." There was a curt dismissal in his tone.

"Then the King's business can wait on mine." Hertford gaped,but there was a smile mingled with the astonishment on theBishop's face as he surveyed a new and surprising Lady Anne.

Hertford scrabbled in his thick, unkempt beard with stubbyfingers. "Oh!" he sneered, "since my Lady Anne Wrotham's affairsare greater than King's let us hear them."

Anne smiled over sweetly at the Bishop, and, nodding inHertford's direction, murmured, "A truly gallant lover, my LordBishop."

Hertford sat erect. "Our affairs may rest till another time,"he snapped.

"They will not." Her voice was decisive, and she continued,"My father tells me that the Earl of Hertford has offered me theinsult of marriage. Better one of our swineherds!"

Anne caught a warning glance from the Bishop as a dark flushspread over Hertford's face. He half arose from the settle, butrecovered himself before his almost involuntary outburst ofanger. When he spoke again his voice was cool and even.

"Still, I think you will accept my insult, Lady Anne."

"Never!"

Stretching his arm across the table Hertford tapped one of theparchments that lay before the Bishop. "It is the King's will, aswell as my own—"

"So," interrupted the Bishop, and his voice was icy, "that isthe real reason for withholding the charter."

Hertford nodded, "A State matter, my Lord. There are wings tobe clipped. Wrotham, with his nest of knights about him, such asDaventry, carries himself a little high. Henry would have Wrothamin safe hands."

"Safe hands!" Anne's voice cut like a knife. "The safe handsof the man who urged four knights to a foul deed at Canterbury,before its altar." The two men sat frozen. Spoken by a man, thewords Anne had uttered would have been a death warrant. For itwas common talk that Hertford's hand had been behind the murderof Becket.

When at last Hertford found his voice, though he controlledit, he was trembling with rage. "Still will you marry me," hesaid hoarsely.

"And, if I still refuse?"

"Then your father goes landless!"

Anne tossed her head defiantly. "A small price for such anescape!"

Hertford bent forward, and as Anne looked at his eyes theyreminded her of those of a wicked wild boar. "Listen, you pinkand white fool," he growled. "You forget—I am Earl Marshalof England and answer for the safety of the King's Grace. Do Inot know of the lands in France your father claims, at Vaux? Do Iwait like a dolt while a discontented and dispossessed Baroncrosses over to France—a traitor?"

Anne drew a deep breath. "You mean?"

"I mean the loss of Wrotham is but part of the price you willpay; and your father will pay."

Suddenly Anne felt very cold. "I must have time to think." shemuttered.

Hertford banged his hand on the table. "No," he thundered."You demanded your business comes before the King's and so itshall. Your answer?"

LADY ANNE gazed blankly at the narrow arrow slot before her,and her heart missed a beat as she glimpsed a knight in mail rideby. It was Sir Hugh Daventry. For all their sakes she must carryout her desperate plan. Inwardly, she prayed for strength.

She bowed with a humility she was far from feeling. "I agree!"she said quietly.

"Then the marriage takes place tomorrow, when the King ishere," said Hertford.

Anne held up a slender white hand.

"One moment, my lord. I agree, but on my own terms. You willaccept those, or I choose, and choose cheerfully, the worst youcan do." There was no mistaking her inflexible determination.

"And your precious terms?" Hertford grunted.

"First, the charter of Wrotham is sealed by the King. Second,that the marriage does not take place until the week after HolyWeek."

Hertford spluttered a vicious oath. "Do you think you dealwith a page or a ninny? What safeguard have I that you will keepyour word, with Holy Week nigh on six months away."

"This," replied Anne calmly. "On Sunday, at High Mass, beforethe King and his lords, I will swear on the Holy Elements to giveyou my hand during the week after Holy Week, if the charter issealed, and if not to you I will give it to none other."

Hertford thought deeply and then turned to the bishop. "Whatthink you, my lord?"

The bishop, who had watched the scene with increasing anxiety,answered with an edge on his voice. "I think much, but this Isay, that vow will bind our Lady Anne faster than steel couldbind her."

"Have your way," he snorted at Anne.

Without another glance at Hertford, Anne bowed low before thebishop, asking his blessing, and then, head high, she left thechamber.

BUT Anne swept down the passage until she came on a pagedicing with Simon, the captain of her father's horse. It was aforbidden pastime for the page, and at another time would havewon swift retribution.

"Boy," she ordered hastily. "Go, find Sir Hugh Daventry andbid him come to me at—" she paused to think, "at thestillroom, and let none hear the message."

Then to Simon: "I need help, Simon. Let Sir Hugh pass through,and then wait near the stillroom lest any of Hertford's cut-throats trouble us."

Simon clanked after her, and a few moments later, as Sir Hughhurried by, nodded him cheerfully towards the stillroomdoor.

Between Hugh and the Lady Anne, their greetings were likely tobe prolonged, because they had been separated for nearly 24hours. But with a lover's sensitiveness, Hugh recognised theanxiety in her face. The speedily told story sent Hugh's hand tothe hilt of his great sword, and his wrath blazed up in a piousdesire to hew Hertford into pieces.

But Lady Anne's arms clung about his neck. "Oh, Hugh. I loveyou for it, but it is madness," she cried. "Would you playHertford's game for him? Suppose you killed him, what of theKing?"

Hugh paused in his struggle to free himself. "But, dearheart," he said, "if you take that oath we are parted."

Anne stepped back, shaking her head, and smiling a littlesadly. "Force is useless. You and my father are a pair—dearfighting blunderers alike. Cannot you see we can only meet guilewith guile and cunning with cunning? It will take a woman's witto beat Hertford."

"But—" he began, bewildered.

Anne's hand sought a fine gold chain about her neck. By it shedrew from her bosom a small gold crucifix, rudely formed in theart of the day. "Listen, my dear love," she said gently; then,holding the crucifix before her she went on, "I swear by the bodyof our dear Lord that in the week following Holy Week I will wedyou and none other," and she sealed the vow by raising the crossto her lips.

"But," he protested, "the oath you make before the altar!"

Lady Anne put her arms about him and laughed softly. "Hugh, mylover, there is but small joy in hugging a man in mail—"then, after a moment, "the oath before the altar I will takealso." Then, seeing his bewilderment, she said, "Hugh, will youtrust me and help me?"

"Both trust and help you with life itself, if need be," heanswered fervently.

"Promise."

Hugh nodded emphatically.

"Well, all you have to do is to do all I ask without questionor hesitation."

"But, Anne! two such oaths!"

They lived in a day when faith was more simple and religionmore a vital force than it is to-day. Hugh was even more anxiousthan perplexed.

"I will keep both vows," smiled Anne, and stifling furtherprotest with her soft, pink fingers she said, "Remember, youpromised to trust me, but I dare not trust you or anyoneelse."

Hugh surrendered with a lover's grace. "Your orders, my lady?"he asked.

"Only this—guard jealously your peace with Hertford, andwhen the King comes tomorrow beg permission from him to ride withhim into Wales. With you near him, Hertford's suspicions, if hehas any, will be lulled."

"And you, dearest?" he ventured.

"What's a lover's promise worth?" she laughed. "You were toask no questions. But this I will tell you. Until the Mondayafter Holy Week I take refuge with the Abbess of St. Albans. Andnow, dear heart, you must go."

NEXT day Henry came to Wrotham, and in the castle for threedays there was high revel. On the Saturday Henry sealed thecharter of Wrotham, and on the Sunday, before the King and hislords, Anne made her vow in the chapel, where the Bishop of Buryheld the Holy Elements.

It was with nothing short of consternation that Bishop Stephenheard the story of Anne's conflicting oaths. His admonishment,stern and uncompromising, was listened to with more levity thanreverence.

"But Anne, my dear child," he expostulated, "you have done aterrible wrong."

"If I keep both vows?" Anne smiled.

"That were beyond the wit of man," countered the Bishopbetween anger and pity.

The Lady Anne held up her hand, on which gleamed a great ruby,set there by Hertford in the chapel. "But not beyond the wit ofwoman, an' it please my lord." Then she added after a pause "Thatis, if a certain gruff, cross, but rather dear Bishop will helpme."

"Help you to keep both vows and fool Hertford," hedemanded.

"That is what I thought you would be clever enough tounderstand," murmured Ann.

"To foil Hertford I would—" he broke off his restlesspacing and faced her. "Mind you, Anne! I'll take no part in evilof the sacrilege of broken oaths."

Impudently Anne kissed his cheek—"You old dear, all Iask is a parchment giving protection of the Church to all whohelp, so their help does no hurt to canon law or the law of theKing."

He stared at her irresolute for a moment. "Faith! youbaggage," he said at last, "Much would I like to know what's inyour mind."

"Best not, my Lord," she laughed, "then you can declare so toHertford and the King with a clear conscience."

Without another word to Anne the Bishop turned to BrotherMartin and dictated the protection Anne demanded. When he hadsigned it and sealed it with his own signet he passed it to Anne,who again kissed him and, with a hearty word of gratitude,fled.

As his Lordship watched the swaying curtain through which LadyAnne had passed, he said: "Brother Martin, we who serve our Lordthrough His Church have many blessings. But of those blessings,my son, the greatest, I think, is celibacy."

ON the Monday a peace fell on Wrotham. Henry departed, and inhis train took Hertford, whereat my Lady Anne was much pleased,and also Sir Hugh Daventry, at which she was by no means pleased,though she had so ordered it.

On the day following Lady Anne entered her horse litter, and,accompanied by two of her women and an escort led by Simon, madeher journey to the nunnery of St. Albans. By the way she pausedfor a long space at the home, half-hut and half-cave, of thehermit, Bernard. For the hermit Bernard was a very wise and avery holy man, who had great repute in those parts also as aleech, for he had studied in France and Rome, and cured thewounds and the ills of all for miles around Wrotham, and whatLady Anne said to the hermit only he knows, but it was clear tothose who watched that Bernard did not like what he heard.

It was only after Lady Anne had shown him the Bishop'sparchment that she left well contented. But long after she hadpassed on her way Bernard, the hermit, knelt before his simplealtar in profound prayer.

IT was on the Thursday of Holy Week that Henry and his court descended on Wrotham and there keptthe fast of Good Friday. That year Easter fell late and springcame early. The whole countryside round Wrotham was ablaze withnew life.

None the less there were still three anxious and worried menin the castle. Both Sir Hugh and Stephen of Bury sought news fromWrotham, but beyond that she was well he could tell them no morethan they themselves knew.

On the Sunday after evensong, as the Bishop paced the castlewall, there fell into step beside him Sir Hugh, limping slightlyfrom a wound from a Welsh arrow. Question and answer told thatneither knew more than the other.

"Hugh, my son," sighed the Bishop, "my mind is vexed, for Ifear some madcap trick that may bring sorrow to her—andmayhap shame."

"Never shame, my Lord," defended Hugh stoutly. "But I, too, amheavy at heart. What may hap to me is nothing, but if Hertforddoes her harm—" here his hand crept across to the heavyhilt of his sword.

"None of that, my son," said the Bishop sternly. "Anne isright, only guile can defeat the guile of Hertford." Then pausinghe looked along the wall and exclaimed "But what ails Simon," forthe grim old captain was hovering uncertainly 20 feet away.

Seeing he was noticed, Simon approached. "What news, Simon?"demanded Sir Hugh.

The captain hesitated, staring from one to the other. "Forme?" asked Hugh, and Simon nodded.

"Then I had best get beyond earshot," said the Bishop,turning, after exchanging glances with Hugh.

"Well, Simon?"

"From my Lady Anne, Sir Hugh. She bids you wait her at the cotof Bernard the hermit at noon tomorrow, and not to forget yourpromise." Simon recited a well-learned lesson and took himselfoff without waiting for an answer.

The Bishop rejoined Hugh. "A message from—?"

Hugh nodded gravely. "I cannot understand."

"I ask nothing, Hugh," replied the Bishop, "but whatever shemay desire, obey without question."

Hugh laughed grimly. "You and she have minds alike, my Lord,for she has wrenched a promise from me that I obey her blindly.The devil's in it all."

NEXT day at noon, Hugh, an hour before his time, greeted Annewith a glad heart as her escort of a dozen men, headed by Simonand her litter, came to a halt before the hermit's hut.

Anne waved the escort away, and turned with Hugh into thehermit's hut, bidding her women wait outside. Under her arm shebore a small carved cedar casket, which she placed upon thealtar. Then for a few precious moments she lay quiet in his arms,before she drew herself gently free.

"Hugh, there is no moment to waste! For this one hour you mustpromise blind obedience." Then she smiled up at him gravely."After that, for all my life, dear one, will I obey you."

"As you please, Anne, and what next?"

"Bernard, we are ready," called Anne to the hermit, who stoodaside with his head bowed.

"Your women, my Lady," said the hermit, and Anne called theminto the hut.

Then while the castle of Wrotham rang with the roar and bustleof preparation for the marriage of Lady Anne and Hertford, at thehermit's hut was that same Lady Anne wed to Sir Hugh—abewildered and enraptured Sir Hugh—as fast as the Churchcould bind them.

When the groom walked into the open air Anne turned to him."Now is your moment of trial, Hugh."

"I have promised, Lady Anne——," he added with ahappy laugh.

"Then for two hours we part," commanded the bride, "for I mustkeep my vow to that black dog Hertford."

"But—"

"No buts, my husband—nothing but obedience," said Annegaily. "You ride alone to——manor. Leave me Simon and theescort, and in two hours I will be with you. Go now, my dear, mydear, or I can never let you go!"

For a second Hugh hesitated, then he stooped and kissed her,and flung himself across his horse.

"Ride, and ride fast," she cried as he turned his horse, andas Hugh spurred across the meadow to the woodland she stoodwatching him until he was out of sight, her hand pressed to herbreast.

Then slowly she turned to Simon and said; "Simon, my friend,there is a grave mission for you. Remember, I trust you."

"Have I ever failed my Lady Anne?" he grinned under his bushybeard.

"Never, Simon, but least of all can you fail me now. I havebusiness with the hermit. When that is done I will pass to mylitter, not speaking to you. With me go to——the escort andmy women. You will remain here, and take your orders fromBernard, as from me. You understand?"

"Trust me, my lady," growled the old war dog, and Anne turnedaway content.

At the door of his hut the hermit awaited her. "My lady," hesaid gently, "and is your will the same? Your heart stillset?"

"Now more than ever," said Anne decisively. "Do swiftly andwithout fear what is to be done."

She passed into the hut with Bernard, calling her women inwith her, and its frail door was closed.

FOR nearly an hour, while the men of the escort diced on, acloak thrown on the grass, Simon stood in the warm sunlight. Nosound came from the hut. He heard nothing but the buzzing of beesin the clover at his feet. Then as the door shook he barked theescort to their saddles as Lady Anne came from the hut, and withher face half-veiled by her cloak took her place in thelitter.

As she had said, she neither spoke to Simon nor looked towardshim. He watched the little troop and the litter, with the twowomen pacing beside it, follow the path taken by Hugh, until ittoo disappeared. Again Simon stood, waiting.

Then suddenly Bernard appeared, and Simon swung himselfheavily into his saddle. The hermit bore under his arm the casketthat Lady Anne had brought with her, and in his hand a small rollof parchment. "Take these with care, Simon," he ordered, "andplace them yourself in the hands of his Lordship the Earl ofHertford at Wrotham. Giving him greetings from our LadyAnne."

Without a word Simon took the casket, and horse and manlumbered creaking and clanking toward Wrotham.

IN the great hall of the castle, at the high table, sat Henry.With him sat Hertford, Wrotham, and the Bishop of Bury, and aboutthem stood a dozen nobles of the Court.

All looked up as Simon clanked his way to the dais and haltedbefore Hertford.

"My Lord Earl Marshal," boomed Simon. "Greeting from our LadyAnne, who bade me place these before your lordship with my ownhands." And Simon deposited casket and parchment on the trestle.Then he saluted abruptly and departed, his duty done.

"Ho!" laughed Henry, "a gift from the bride, Hertford!"

His Majesty was in high good humour, and called for a healthto the Lady Anne.

Hertford took up the parchment and snapped the silken threadabout it testily. "Does she take me for a monk, to read herwriting? Here, my lord bishop, please you to be my clerk for themoment."

Stephen, more curious than the rest, opened the scroll eagerlyas Hertford fumbled with the lid of the cedar casket.

And this is what Stephen of Bury read aloud to the listeninggroup:—

"To my Lord the Erle of Hertforde:—

"Greeting from Anne—

"My Lord will have in minde how on the bodieand bloode of our Dere Lord did I take oathe that on the weekenext after Holie Week would I give him my hand, and so mine oatheI kyp, and purge me of my vowe before ourLord.—Anne."

As he was reading Hertford had opened the casket, fromwhich he had taken a small white silken bundle. As Stephenfinished reading the last fold of the silk fell away from what itheld.

As their eyes fell on what lay before them every man gaspedand remained for a little space as though frozen. Only Stephenmoved, as he crossed himself with eyes involuntarily closed. Thenhe broke the silence, his voice hard and relentless.

"My Lord Hertford. I bear witness before God and man that LadyAnne has kept her vow. Remember, my Lord, the cloak of the Churchis about her and hers; harm her at your peril." And slowly theBishop of Bury went from the hall with bowed head.

But as he moved Hertford burst out with a terrible oath."Fooled, by God!" he shouted, dashing his cup to the table. "Am Ito be cheated by—"

In a second Wrotham was on his feet, with his sword drawngleaming in the torchlight. "Silence, you—"

But Hertford's sword, too, was out.

What Wrotham might have said was cut short by a burst of thatterrible Plantagenet rage, against which no man among them daredstand.

"Up swords! Up swords, I say!" thundered Henry, "Is WrothamCastle a tavern, that you dare to brawl before your King?"

In the silence as he paused the blades could be heard gratinginto the scabbards. Then he turned to Hertford.

"Your work, my Lord, and foul work!" he hissed, pointingtowards the table. "Hear me, Hertford. My cloak also is aboutLady Anne and her people. One move against them and your headanswers for it. You have what you bargained for—take it."There was bitter scorn in the King's voice.

But my Lord Hertford did not take what was his. He shrunkbackwards—for there on the table, whiter than the silk onwhich it lay, waxen and exquisite, was the severed left hand ofLady Anne. On its third finger gleamed evilly the great rubywhich Hertford had set upon it.

That night the Earl of Hertford got drunker than usual, andthose who knew the Earl Marshal best regarded that as a notableachievement.

THE END

Roy Glashan's Library.
Non sibi sed omnibus
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