 THE PROBLEM OF THE STOLEN BANK NOTES by Jacques Foutrelle There was no mystery whatever about the identity of the man who, alone and unaided, robbed the 13th National Bank of $109,437 in cash and $1.29 in postage stamps. It was Mort Dolan, an expert safecracker, albeit a young one, and he had made a clean sweep. Nor yet was there any mystery as to his whereabouts. He was safely in a cell at police headquarters, having been captured within less than 12 hours after the robbery was discovered. Dolan had offered no resistance to the officers when he was cornered, and had attempted no denial when questioned by Detective Mallory. He knew he had been caught fairly and squarely, and no argument was possible, so he confessed, with a glow of pride at a job well done. It was four or five days after his arrest that the matter came to the attention of the thinking machine. Then the problem was, but perhaps it were better to begin at the beginning. Despite the fact that he was considerably less than 30 years old, Mort Dolan was a man for whom the police had a wholesome respect. He had a record, for he had started early. This robbery of the 13th National was his big job, and was to have been his last. With the proceeds he intended to take his wife and quietly disappear beneath a full beard and an alias in some place far removed from former haunts. But the mutability of human events is a matter of proverb. While the robbery is a robbery, was a thoroughly artistic piece of work, and in full accordance with plans which had been worked out to the minutest details months before, he had made one mistake. This was leaving behind him in the bank the can in which the nitroglycerin had been bought. Through this carelessness he had been traced. Dolan and his wife occupied three poor rooms in a poor tenement house. From the moment the police got a description of the person who bought the explosive, they were confident for they knew their man. Therefore four clever men were on watch about the poor tenement. Neither Dolan, nor his wife was there then, but from the condition of things in the rooms the police believed that they intended to return, so took up positions to watch. Unsuspecting enough, for his one mistake in the robbery had not recurred to him, Dolan came along just about dusk and started up the five steps to the front door of the tenement. It just happened that he glanced back and saw a head drawn suddenly behind a projecting stoop. But the electric light glared strongly there, and Dolan recognized Detective Downey, one of many men who revolved around Detective Mallory within a limited orbit. Dolan paused on the stupa moment and rolled a cigarette while he thought it over. Perhaps instead of entering it would be best to stroll on down the street, turn a corner, and make a dash for it. But just at that moment he spied another head in the direction of contemplated flight. That was Detective Blanton. Deeply thoughtful Dolan smoked half the cigarette and stared blankly in front of him. He knew of a back door opening on an alley. Perhaps the detectives had not thought to guard that. He tossed a cigarette away, entered the house with effect and unconcern, and closed the door. Running lightly through the long, unclean hall which extended the full length of the building, he flung open the back door. He turned back instantly. Just outside he had seen and recognized Detective Cunningham. Then he had an inspiration. The roof. The building was four stories. He ran up the four flights lightly but rapidly, and was halfway up the short flight which led to the opening in the roof when he stopped. From above he caught the whiff of a bad cigar. Then the measured tread of heavy boots. Another detective. With a sickening depression at his heart, Dolan came softly down the stairs again, opened the door of his flat with a latch key, and entered. Then and there he sat down to figure it all out. There seemed to no escape for him. Every way out was blocked, and it was only a question of time before they would close in on him. He imagined now they were only waiting for his wife's return. He could fight for his freedom, of course, and even kill one, perhaps two of the detectives who were waiting for him. But that would only mean his own death. If he tried to run for it past either of the detectives he would get a shot in the back. And besides, murder was repugnant to Dolan's artistic soul. It didn't do any good. But could he warn Isabel, his wife? He feared she would walk into the trap as he had done, and she had no connection of any sort with the affair. Then from a fear that his wife would return there swiftly came a fear that she would not. He suddenly remembered that it was necessary for him to see her. The police could not connect her with the robbery in any way. They could only hold her for a time, and then would be compelled to free her, for her innocence of this particular crime was beyond question. And if he were taken before she returned, she would be left penniless. And that was the thing which Dolan dreaded to contemplate. There was a spark of human tenderness in his heart, and in prison it would be comforting to know that she was well cared for. If she would only come now, he would tell her where the money. For ten minutes Dolan considered the question in all possible lights. A letter telling her where the money was? No. It would inevitably fall into the hands of the police. A cipher? She would never get it. How? How? How? Every moment he expected a clamor at the door which would mean that the police had come for him. They knew he was cornered. Whatever he did must be done quickly. Dolan took a long breath, and started to roll another cigarette. With the white paper held in his left hand and tobacco bag raised in the other, he had an inspiration. For a little more than an hour after that he was left alone. Finally his quick ear caught the shuffle of stealthy feet in the hall. Then came an imperative wrap on the door. The police had evidently feared to wait longer. Dolan was leaning over a sewing machine when the summons came. Instinctively his hand closed on his revolver. Then he tossed it aside, and walked to the door. Well, he demanded. Let us in, Dolan, came the reply. That you downy? Dolan inquired. Yes. Now don't make any mistakes, Mort. There are three of us here, and Cunningham is in the alley watching your windows. There's no way out. For one instant, only an instant, Dolan hesitated. It was not that he was repentant. It was not that he feared prison. It was regret at being caught. He had planned it all so differently, and the little woman would be heartbroken. Finally, with a quick backward glance at the sewing machine, he opened the door. Three revolvers were thrust into his face with the unanimity that spoke well for the police opinion of the man. Dolan promptly raised his hands over his head. Oh, put down your guns, he expostulated. I'm not crazy. My gun is over on the couch there. Detective Downey, by a personal search, corroborated this statement, then the revolvers were lowered. The chief wants you, he said. It's about that 13th National Bank robbery. All right, said Dolan calmly, and he held out his hands for the steel nippers. Now Mort, said Downey, ingratiatingly, you can save us a lot of trouble by telling us where the money is. Doubtless I could, was the ambiguous response. Detective Downey looked at him and understood. Cunningham was called in from the alley. He and Downey remained in the apartment, and the other two men led Dolan away. In the natural course of events, the prisoner appeared before Detective Mallory at police headquarters. They were well acquainted professionally. Dolan told everything frankly from the inception of the plan to the actual completion of the crime. The detective sat with his feet on his desk, listening. At the end he leaned forward toward the prisoner. And where is the money, he asked. Dolan paused long enough to roll a cigarette. That's my business, he responded, pleasantly. You might just as well tell us, insisted Detective Mallory. We will find it, of course, and it will save us trouble. I'll just bet you a hat you don't find it, replied Dolan, and there was a glitter of triumph in his eyes. On the level, between man and man, now I will bet you a hat that you never find that money. You're on, replied Detective Mallory. He looked keenly at his prisoner, and his prisoner stared back without a quiver. Did your wife get away with it? From the question Dolan surmised that she had not been arrested. No, he answered. Is it in your flat? Downey and Cunningham are searching now, was the rejoinder. They will report what they find. There was silence for several minutes, as the two men, officer and prisoner, stared at each other. When a thief takes refuge in a refusal to answer questions, he becomes a difficult subject to handle. There was the third degree, of course, but Dolan was the kind of man who would only laugh at that. The kind of man for whom anything less than physical torture could not bring a statement if he didn't choose to make it. Detective Mallory was perfectly aware of this dogged trait in his character. It's this way, Chief, explained Dolan at last. I robbed the bank. I got the money, and it's now where you will never find it. I did it by myself, and am willing to take my medicine. Nobody helped me. My wife, I know your men waited for her before they took me. My wife knows nothing on earth about it. She had no connection with the thing at all, and she can prove it. That's all I'm going to say. You might just as well make up your mind to it. Detective Mallory's eyes snapped. You will tell where that money is, he blustered. Or I'll see that you get twenty years is the absolute limit, interrupted Dolan quietly. I expect to get twenty years. That's the worst you can do for me. The detective stared at him, hard. And besides, Dolan went on. I won't be lonesome when I get where you're going to send me. I've got lots of friends there. Been there before. One of the jailers is the best pinnacle player I ever met. Like most men who find themselves balked at the outset, Detective Mallory sought to appease his indignation by heaping invective upon the prisoner, by threats, by promises, by weedling, by bluster. It was all the same. Dolan remained silent. Finally he was led away and locked up. A few minutes later, Downey and Cunningham appeared. One glance told their chief that they could not enlighten him as to the whereabouts of the stolen money. Do you have any idea where it is, he demanded. No, but I have a very definite idea where it isn't, replied Downey grimly. It isn't in that flat. There's not one square inch of it that we didn't go over. Not one object there that we didn't tear to pieces looking. It simply isn't there. He hid it somewhere before we got him. Well, take all the men you want and keep at it, instructed Detective Mallory. One of you, by the way, had better bring in Dolan's wife. I am fairly certain she had nothing to do with it, but she might know something. And I can bluff a woman. Detective Mallory announced that accomplishment as if it were a thing to be proud of. There's nothing to do now but get the money. Meanwhile, I'll see that Dolan isn't permitted to communicate with anybody. There's always the chance, suggested Downey, that a man as clever as Dolan could in a cipher letter or by a chance remark inform her where the money is if we assume she doesn't know. And that should be guarded against. It will be guarded against, declared Detective Mallory emphatically. Dolan will not be permitted to see or talk to anyone for the present. Not even an attorney. He may weaken later on. But they succeeded and Dolan showed no signs of weakening. His wife, meanwhile, had been apprehended and subjected to the third degree. When the sordial was over, the net result was that Detective Mallory was convinced that she had had nothing whatever to do with the robbery and had not the faintest idea where the money was. Half a dozen times Dolan asked permission to see her or to write to her. Each time, the request was curtly refused. Newspaper men, with and without inspiration, had sought the money vainly, and the police were now seeking to trace the movements of Mort Dolan from the moment of the robbery until the moment of his appearance on the steps of the house where he lived. In this way they hoped to get an inkling of where the money had been hidden, for the idea of the money being in the flat had been abandoned. Dolan simply wouldn't say anything. Finally, one day, Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, made an exhaustive search of Dolan's flat for the fourth time, then went over to police headquarters to talk it over with Mallory. While there, President Ash and two directors of the victimized bank appeared. They were worried. Is there any trace of the money? asked Mr. Ash. Not yet, responded Detective Mallory. Well, could we talk to Dolan a few minutes? If we didn't get anything out of him, you won't, said the detective. But he won't do any harm. Come along. Dolan didn't seem particularly glad to see him. He came to the bars of his cell and peered through. It was only when Mr. Ash was introduced to him as the president of the 13th National that he seemed to take any interest in his visitors. This interest took the form of a grin. Mr. Ash evidently had something of importance on his mind and was seeking the happiest method of expression. Once or twice he spoke aside to his companions, and Dolan watched them curiously. At last he turned to the prisoner. You admit that you robbed the bank, he asked. There's no need of denying it, replied Dolan. Well, and Mr. Ash hesitated a moment. The board of directors held a meeting this morning, and speaking on their behalf, I want to say something. If you will inform us of the whereabouts of the money we will upon its recovery, exert every effort within our power to have your sentence cut in half. In other words, as I understand it, you have given the police no trouble. You have confessed a crime, and this, with the return of the money, would weigh for you when sentence is pronounced. Say, the maximum is twenty years. We might be able to get you off with ten if we get the money. Detective Mallory looked doubtful. He realized perhaps the futility of such a promise. Yet he was silent. The proposition might draw out something on which to proceed. Can't see it, said Dolan at last. It's this way. I'm twenty-seven years old. I'll get twenty years. About two of that'll come off for good behavior, so I'll really get eighteen years. At the end of that time I'll come out with one hundred and nine thousand dollars odd. Rich for life, and able to retire at forty-five years. In other words, while in prison, I'll be working for a good, stiff salary. Something really worthwhile. Very few men are able to retire at forty-five. Mr. Ash readily realized the truth of this statement. It was the point of view of a man to whom mere prison has few terrors, a man content to remain a mirrored for twenty years for a consideration. He turned and spoke aside to the two directors again. But I'll tell you what I'll do, said Dolan after a pause. If you'll fix it so I get only two years, say, I'll give you half the money. There was silence. Detective Mallory strolled along the corridor beyond the view of the prisoner, and summoned President Ash to his side by a jerk of his head. Agree to that, he said. Perhaps he'll really give up. But it won't be possible to arrange it, would it? Asked Mr. Ash. Certainly not, said the detective. But agree to it. Get your money if you can, and then we'll nail him anyhow. Mr. Ash stared at him a moment vaguely indignant at the treachery of the thing. Then greed triumphed. He walked back to the cell. We'll agree to that, Mr. Dolan, he said briskly. Fix a two-year sentence for you and return for half the money. Dolan smiled a little. All right, go ahead, he said. When sentence of two years is pronounced, and a first-class lawyer arranges it for me so that the matter can never be reopened, I'll tell you where you can get your half. But of course you must tell us that now, said Mr. Ash. Dolan smiled cheerfully. It was a taunting, insinuating, accusing sort of smile, and it informed the bank president that the duplicity contemplated was discovered. Mr. Ash was silent for a moment, then blushed. Nothing doing, said Dolan, and he retired into a recess of his cell as if his interest in the matter were at an end. But, but we need the money now, stammered Mr. Ash. It was a large sum, and the theft has crippled us considerably. All right, said Dolan carelessly. The sooner I get two years, the sooner you get it. How could it be, be fixed? I'll leave that to you. That was all. The bank president and the two directors went out fuming impotently. Mr. Ash paused in Detective Mallory's office long enough for a final word. Of course it was brilliant work on the part of the police to capture Dolan, he said costically. But it isn't doing us a particle of good. All I see now is that we lose $109,000. It looks very much like it, assented the detective. Unless we find it. Well, why don't you find it? Detective Mallory had to give up. What did Dolan do with the money? Hutchinson Hatch was asking of Professor Augustus S. F. X. Von Dueson, the thinking machine. The distinguished scientist and logician was sitting with his head pillowed on a cushion and with squint eyes turned upward. It isn't in the flat. Everything indicates that it was hidden somewhere else. Ann Dolan's wife inquired the thinking machine in his perpetually irritated voice. It seems conclusive that she had no idea where it is. She had been through the third degree, explained the reporter, and if she had known, she would probably have told. Is she living in the flat now? No, she is stopping with her sister. The flat is under lock and key. Mallory has the key. He has shown the utmost care in everything he has done. Dolan has not been permitted to write to or see his wife for fear he would let her know some way where the money is. He has not been permitted to communicate with anybody at all, not even a lawyer. He did see President Ash and two directors of the bank, but naturally he wouldn't give them a message for his wife. The thinking machine was silent. For five, ten, twenty minutes he sat with long, slender fingers pressed tip to tip, squinting unblinkingly at the ceiling. Hatch waited patiently. Of course, said the scientist at last. One hundred and nine thousand dollars, even in large bills, would make a considerable bundle and would be extremely difficult to hide in a place that has been gone over so often. We may suppose, therefore, that it isn't in the flat. What have the detectives learned as to Dolan's whereabouts after the robbery and before he was taken? Nothing, replied Hatch. Nothing, absolutely. He seemed to disappear off the earth for a time. That time, I suppose, was when he was disposing of the money. His plans were evidently well laid. It would be possible, of course, by the simple rules of logic, to sit still here and ultimately locate the money, remarked the thinking machine, usingly. But it would take a long time. We might begin, for instance, with the idea that he contemplated flight. When, by rail or steamer, the answers to those questions would, in a way, enlighten us as to the probable location of the money, because, remember, it would have to be placed where it was readily accessible in case of flight. But the process would be a long one. Perhaps it would be best to make Dolan tell us where he hid it. It would, if he would tell, agree the reporter. But he is reticent to a degree that is maddening when the money is mentioned. Naturally, remarked the scientist, that really doesn't matter. I have no doubt he will inform me. So Hatch, and the thinking machine called upon Detective Mallory. They found him in deep abstraction. He glanced up at the intrusion with an appearance almost of relief. He knew intuitively what it was. If you can find out where that money is, Professor, he declared emphatically. I'll, I'll... Well, you can't. The thinking machine squinted into the official eyes thoughtfully, and the corners of his straight mouth were drawn down disapprovingly. I think perhaps there has been a little too much caution here, Mr. Mallory, he said. I have no doubt Dolan will inform me as to where the money is. As I understand it, his wife is practically without means. Yes, was the reply. She is living with her sister. And he has asked several times to be permitted to write to or see her. Yes, dozens of times. Well, now suppose you do let him see her, suggested the thinking machine. Lord, that's just what he wants, blurted the detective. If he ever sees her, I know he will, in some way, by something he says, by a gesture, or a look inform her where the money is. As it is now, I know she doesn't know where it is. Well, if he informs her, won't he also inform us? demanded the thinking machine tartly. If Dolan wants to convey knowledge of the whereabouts of the money to his wife, let him talk to her. Let him give her the information. I dare say if she is clever enough to interpret a word as a clue to where the money is, I am too. The detective thought that over. He knew this crabbed little scientist with the enormous head of old, and he knew, too, some of the amazing results he had achieved my methods wholly unlike those of the police. But in this case, he was frankly in doubt. This way, the thinking machine continued, get the wife here, let her pass Dolan's cell and speak to him so that he will know that it is her. Then let her carry on a conversation with him while she is beyond his sight. Have a stenographer, without the knowledge of either, take down just what is said word for word. Give me a transcript of the conversation and hold the wife on some pretext until I can study it a little. If he gives her a clue, I'll get the money. There was not the slightest trace of egotism in the irritable tone. It seemed merely a statement of fact. Detective Mallory, looking at the wizened face of the logician, was doubtfully hopeful, and at last he consented to the experiment. The wife was sent for and came eagerly, as stenographer was placed in the cell adjoining Dolan, and the wife was led along the corridor. As she paused in front of Dolan's cell, he started toward her with an exclamation. Then she was led on a little way out of his sight. With face pressed close against the bars, Dolan gloured out upon Detective Mallory in hatch. An expression of awful ferocity leapt into his eyes. What are you doing with her? he demanded. Mort, Mort, she called. Belle, is it you? he asked in turn. They told me you wanted to talk to me, explained the wife. She was panting fiercely as she struggled to shake off the hands which held her beyond his reach. What sort of a game is this, Mallory? demanded the prisoner. You wanted to talk to her, Mallory replied. Now go ahead, you may talk, but you must not see her. Oh, that's it, eh? snarled Dolan. What did you bring her here for, then? Is she under arrest? Mort, Mort, came his wife's voice again. They won't let me come where I can see you. There was utter silence for a moment. Hatch was overpowered by a feeling that he was intruding upon a family tragedy and tiptoed beyond reach of Dolan's roving eyes to where the thinking machine was sitting on a stool, twiddling his fingers. After a moment the detective joined them. Belle called Dolan again. It was almost a whisper. Don't say anything, Mort, she panted. Cunning him and Blanton are holding me. The others are listening. I don't want to say anything, said Dolan easily. I did want to see you. I wanted to know if you were getting along all right. Are you still at the flat? No, at my sister's was the reply. I have no money. I can't stay at the flat. You know they're going to send me away? Yes, and there was almost a sob in the voice. I, I know it. That I'll get the limit? 20 years? Yes. Can you get along? Ask Dolan solicitously. Is there anything you can do for yourself? I will do something, was the reply. Oh, Mort. Mort, why? Oh, never mind that, he interrupted impatiently. It doesn't do any good to regret things. It isn't what I planned for, little girl. But it's here. So, so I'll meet it. I'll get the good behavior allowance. That'll save two years. And then there was a menace in the tone which was not lost upon the listeners. Eighteen years, he heard her moan. For one instant Dolan's lips were pressed tightly together, and in that instant he had a regret. Regret that he had not killed Blanton and Cunningham rather than submit to capture. He shook off his anger with an effort. I don't know if they'll permit me ever to see you, he said desperately. As long as I refuse to tell where the money is hidden, and I know they'll never permit me to write to you for fear I'll tell you where it is, so I suppose the good-bye'll be like this. I'm sorry, little girl. He heard her weeping, and hurled himself against the bars in a passion. It passed after a moment. He must not forget that she was penniless in the money. That vast fortune. There's one thing you must do for me, Bell, he said after a moment, more calmly. This sort of thing doesn't do any good. Brace up, little girl, and wait. Wait for me. Eighteen years is not forever. We're both young and—but never mind that. I wish you would please go up to the flat and— Do you remember my heavy brown coat? Yes, the old one, she asked. That's it, he answered. It's cold here in this cell. Will you please go up to the flat when they let you loose and sew up that tear under the right arm and send it to me here? It's probably the last favor I'll ask of you for a long time. So will you do it this afternoon? Yes, she answered, tearfully. The rip is under the right arm. And be certain to sew it up, said Dolan again. Perhaps when I am tried, I shall have a chance to see you when the thinking machine arose and stretched himself a little. That's all that's necessary, Mr. Mallory, he said. Ever held until I tell you to release her. Mallory made a motion to Cunningham and Blanton, and the woman was led away, screaming. Hatch shuddered a little, and Dolan, not understanding, flung himself against the bars of his cell like a caged animal. Clever, aren't you? he snarled as he caught sight of Detective Mallory. Thought I'd try to tell you where it was, but I didn't, and you never will know where it is. Not in a thousand years. Accompanied by the thinking machine and hatch, the detective went back to his private office. All were silent, but the detective glanced from time to time into the eyes of the scientist. Now, Mr. Hatch, we have the whereabouts of the money settled, said the thinking machine, quietly. Please go at once to the flat and bring the brown coat, Dolan mentioned. I daresay the secret of the hidden money is somewhere in that coat. But two of my men have already searched that coat, protested the detective. That doesn't make the least difference, snapped the scientist. The reporter went out without a word. Half an hour later, he returned with the brown coat. It was a commonplace-looking garment, badly worn and in sad need of repair, not only in the rip under the arm, but in other places. When he saw it, the thinking machine nodded his head abruptly, as if it were just what he had expected. The money can't be in that, and I'll bet my head on it, declared Detective Mallory, flatly. There isn't room for it. The thinking machine gave him a glance in which there was a touch of pity. We know, he said, that the money isn't in the coat. But can't you see that it is perfectly possible that a slip of paper on which Dolan has written down the hiding place of the money can be hidden in it somewhere? Can't you see that he asked for this coat, which is not as good a one as the one he is wearing now, in order to attract his wife's attention to it? Can't you see it is the one definite thing that he mentioned, when he knew that in all probability he would not be permitted to see his wife again, at least for a long time? Then, seam by seam, the brown coat was ripped to pieces. Each piece in turn was submitted to the sharpest scrutiny. Nothing resulted. Detective Mallory, frankly, regarded it all as wasted effort, and when there remained nothing of the coat saved strips of cloth and lining, he was inclined to be triumphant. The thinking machine was merely thoughtful. It went back further than that, the scientist mused, and tiny wrinkles appeared in the dome like a brow. Ah! Mr. Hatch, please go back to the flat, look in the sewing machine drawers, or workbasket, and you will find a spool of brown thread. Bring it to me. Spool of brown thread, repeated the detective in amazement. Have you been through the place? No. How do you know there's a spool of brown thread there, then? I know it because Mr. Hatch will bring it back to me, snapped the thinking machine. I know it by the simplest, most rudimentary rules of logic. Hatch went out again, and half an hour he returned with a spool of brown thread. The thinking machine's white finger seized upon it eagerly, and his watery, squint eyes examined it. A portion of it had been used, the spool was only half gone. But he noted, and as he did his eyes reflected a glitter of triumph, he noted that the paper cap on each end was still in place. Now, Mr. Mallory, he said, I'll demonstrate to you that in Dolan the police are dealing with a man far beyond the ordinary bank thief. In his way, he is a genius. Look here. With a pin-knife he ripped off the paper caps, and looked through the hole of the spool. For an instant his face showed blank amazement. Then he put the spool down on the table, and squinted at it for a moment in absolute silence. It must be here, he said at last. It must be. Else why did he...? Of course! With quick fingers he began to unwind the thread. Yard after yard it rolled off in his hand, and finally in the mass of brown on the spool appeared a white strip. In another instant the thinking machine held in his hand a tiny thin sheet of paper, a cigarette paper. It had been wound around the spool, and the thread wound over it so smoothly that it was impossible to see that it had ever been removed. The detective and Hatch were leaning over his shoulder, watching him curiously. The tiny paper unfolded, something was written on it. Slowly the thinking machine deciphered it. 47 Causeway Street Base meant Tenth Flagstone from North East Corner. And there the money was found, $109,000. The house was unoccupied and within easy reach of a wharf from which a European-bound steamer sailed. Within half an hour of sailing time it would have been an easy matter for Dolan to have recovered at all, and that without in the least exciting the suspicion of those who might be watching for him. For a saloon next door opened into an alley behind, and a broken window in the basement gave quick access to the treasure. Dolan reasoned, the thinking machine explained, that even if he was never permitted to see his wife, she would probably use that thread and in time find the directions for recovering the money. Further he argued that the police would never suspect that a spool contained the secret for which they sought so long. His conversation with his wife today was merely to draw her attention to something which would require her to use the spool of brown thread. The brown coat was all that he could think of, and that's all, I think. Dolan was a sadly surprised man when news of the recovery of the money was broken to him. But a certain quaint philosophy didn't desert him. He gazed at Detective Mallory incredulously as the story was told, and at the end went over and sat down on his cell caught. Well, Chief, he said, I didn't think it was in you. That makes me owe you a hat. End of The Problem of the Stolen Bank Notes by Jacques Foutrelle The Samurai divorced his wife, a good and beautiful woman, under the belief that he could better obtain promotion by another alliance. He then married the daughter of a family of some distinction and took her with him to the district whither he had been called. But it was in the time of the thoughtlessness of youth and the sharp experience of want that the Samurai could not understand the worth of the affection so lightly cast away. His second marriage did not prove a happy one. The character of his new wife was hard and selfish, and he soon found every cause to think with the regret of Kyoto days. Then he discovered that he still loved his first wife, loved her more than he could ever love the second, and he began to feel how unjust and thankless he had been. Gradually his repentance deepened into a remorse that left him no peace of mind. Memories of the woman he had wronged. Her gentle speech, her smiles, her dainty pretty ways, her faultless patience, constantly haunted him. Sometimes in dreams he saw her at her loom, weaving as when she toiled night and day to help him during the years of their distress. More often he saw her kneeling alone in the desolate little room where he had left her, veiling her tears with her poor worn sleeve. Even in the hours of official duty his thoughts would wander back to her. Then he would ask himself how she was living, what she was doing. Something in his heart assured him that she could not accept another husband, and that she would never refuse to pardon him. And he secretly resolved to seek her out as soon as he could return to Kyoto, then to beg her forgiveness, to take her back, to do everything that a man could do to make atonement. But the years went by. At last the Governor's official term expired, and the Samurai was free. Now I will go back to my dear one, he vowed to himself. Ah, what a cruelty! What a folly to have divorced her! He sent his second wife to her own people. She had given him no children. And hurrying to Kyoto, he went at once to seek his former companion, not allowing himself even the time to change his traveling garb. When he reached the street where she used to live, it was late in the night, the night of the tenth day of the ninth month, and the city was silent as a cemetery. But a bright moon made everything visible, and he found the house without difficulty. It had a deserted look. Tall weeds were growing on the roof. He knocked at the sliding doors, and no one answered. Then, finding that the doors had not been fastened from within, he pushed them open and entered. The front room was matthless and empty. A chilly wind was blowing through crevices in the planking, and the moon shone through a ragged break in the wall of the alcove. Other rooms presented a like-forlorn condition. The house, to all seeming, was unoccupied. Nevertheless the Samurai determined to visit one other apartment at the further end of the dwelling, a very small room that had been his wife's favourite resting place. Approaching the sliding screen that closed it, he was startled to perceive a glow within. He pushed the screen aside, and uttered a cry of joy, for he saw her there, sewing by the light of a paper lantern. Her eyes at the same instant met his own, and with a happy smile she greeted him, asking only, When did you come back to Kyoto? How did you find your way here to me, through all those black rooms? The years had not changed her. Still she seemed as fair and young as in his fondest memory of her. But sweeter than any memory, there came to him the music of her voice, with its trembling of pleased wonder. Then joyfully he took his place beside her, and told her all, how deeply he repented his selfishness, how wretched he had been without her, how constantly he had regretted her, how long he had hoped and planned to make amends, caressing her the while, and asking her forgiveness over and over again. She answered him, with loving gentleness, according to his heart's desire, in treating him to cease all self-reproach. It was wrong, she said, that he should have allowed himself to suffer on her account. She had always felt that she was not worthy to be his wife. She knew that he had separated from her, notwithstanding, only because of poverty, and while he lived with her, he had always been kind, and she had never ceased to pray for his happiness. But even if there had been a reason for speaking of amends, this honourable visit would be ample of amends. What greater happiness than this to see him again, though it were only for a moment. Only for a moment, he answered with a glad laugh. Say, rather, for the time of seven existences. My loved one, unless you forbid, I am coming back to live with you always, always, always. Nothing shall ever separate us again. Now I have means and friends. We need not fear poverty. Tomorrow my goods will be brought here, and my servants will come to wait upon you, and we shall make this house beautiful. Tonight, he added apologetically, I came this late, without even changing my dress, only because of the longing I had to see you, and to tell you this. She seemed greatly pleased by these words, and in her turn she told him about all that had happened in Kyoto since the time of his departure, accepting her own sorrows, of which she sweetly refused to speak. They chatted far into the night. Then she conducted him to a warmer room, facing south, a room that had been their bridal chamber in former time. Have you no one in the house to help you? he asked, as she began to prepare the couch for him. No, she answered, laughing cheerfully. I could not afford a servant, so I have been living all alone. You will have plenty of servants to-morrow, he said, good servants, and everything else that you need. They lay down to rest, not to sleep. They had too much to tell each other, and they talked of the past, and the present, and the future, until the dawn was gray. Then, involuntarily, the samurai closed his eyes and slept. When he awoke, the daylight was streaming through the chinks of the sliding shutters, and he found himself, to his utter amazement, lying upon the naked boards of a mouldering floor. Had he only dreamed a dream? No. She was there. She slept. He bent above her, and looked, and shrieked, for the sleeper had no face. Before him, wrapped in its grave-sheet only, lay the corpse of a woman, a corpse so wasted that little remained save the bones and the long black-tangled hair. Slowly, as he stood shuddering and sickening in the sun, the icy horror yielded to a despair so intolerable, a pain so atrocious that he clucked at the mocking shadow of a doubt. Fainting ignorance of the neighborhood, he ventured to ask his way to the house in which his wife had lived. There is no one in that house, said the person questioned. It used to belong to the wife of a samurai who left the city several years ago. He divorced her in order to marry another woman before he went away. And she fretted a great deal, and so became sick. She had no relatives in Kyoto, and nobody to care for her. And she died in the autumn of the same year, on the tenth day of the ninth month. End of THE RECONSILIATION I can assure you, said I, that it will take a very tangible ghost to frighten me. And I stood up before the fire with my glass in my hand. It's your own choosing, said the man with the withered arm, and glanced at me as cans. Eight and twenty years, said I, I have lived, and never a ghost have I seen as yet. The old woman set staring hard into the fire, her pale eyes wide open. I, she broke in. And 18, 20 years you have lived, and never seen the likes of this house, I reckon. There's are many things to see, when once still but eight and twenty. She swayed her head slowly from side to side. There are many things to see, and sorrow for her. I half suspected the old people were trying to enhance the spiritual terrors of their house by their droning insistence. I put down my empty glass on the table, and looked about the room, and caught a glimpse of myself, abbreviated, and brought into an impossible sturdiness in the queer old mirror at the end of the room. Well, I said, if I see anything tonight, I shall be so much the wiser, for I come to the business with an open mind. It's your own choosing, said the man with the withered arm once more. I heard the sound of a stick and a shambling step on the flags in the passage outside. And the door creaked on its hinges, as a second old man entered, more bent, more wrinkled, more aged even than the first. He supported himself by a single crutch. His eyes were covered by a shade, and his lower lip, half averted, hung pale and pink from his decaying yellow teat. He made straight for an armchair on the opposite side of the table, sat down clumsily, and began to cough. The man with the withered arm gave this newcomer a short glance of positive dislike. The old woman took no notice of his arrival, but remained with her eyes fixed steadily on the fire. I said, it's your own choosing, said the man with the withered arm, when the coughing had ceased for a while. It's my own choosing, I answered. The man with the shade became aware of my presence for the first time, and threw his head back for a moment and sideways to see me. I caught a momentary glimpse of his eyes, small and bright and inflamed. Then he began to cough and splutter again. Why don't you drink? said the man with the withered arm, pushing the beer towards him. The man with the shade poured out a glassful with a shaky arm that splashed half as much again on the deal table. A monstrous shadow of him crouched upon the wall and mocked his action as he poured and drank. I must confess I had scarce expected these grotesque custodians. There is, to my mind, something in human insinility, something crouching and atavistic. The human qualities seem to drop from old people insensibly day by day. The three of them made me feel uncomfortable with their gaunt silences, their bent carriage, their evident unfriendliness to me, and to one another. If, said I, you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will make myself comfortable there. The old man with the cough jerked his head back so suddenly that it startled me and shot another glance of his red eyes at me from under the shade. But no one answered me. I waited a minute, glancing from one to the other. If, I said a little louder, if you will show me to this haunted room of yours, I will relieve you from the task of entertaining me. There is a candle on the slam outside the door, said the man with the withered arm, looking at my feet as he addressed me. But if you go to the red room tonight, this night of all nights, said the old woman, you go alone. Very well, I answered, and which way do I go? You go along the passage for a bit, said he, until you come to a door. And through that is a spiral staircase, and halfway up that is a landing, and another door covered with bays. Go through that and down the long corridor to the end, and the red room is on your left up the steps. Have I got that right? I said, and repeated his directions. He corrected me in one particular. And are you really going? said the man with the shade, looking at me again for the third time, with that queer unnatural tilting of the face. This night of all nights, said the old woman. It is what I came for, I said, and moved towards the door. As I did so, the old man with the shade rose and staggered round the table so as to be closer to the others and to the fire. At the door, I turned and looked at them, and so they were all close together, dark against the firelight, staring at me over their shoulders, with an intent expression on their ancient faces. Good night, I said, setting the door open. It's your own choosing, said the man with the withered arm. I left the door wide open until the candle was well alight, and then I shut them in and walked down the chilly, echoing passage. I must confess that the oddness of these three old pensioners in whose charge her ladyship had left the castle, and the deep-tend old-fashioned furniture of the housekeeper's room in which they foregathered, affected me in spite of my efforts to keep myself at a matter-of-fact phase. They seemed to belong to another age, an older age, an age when things spiritual were different from this of ours, less certain, an age when omens and witches were credible, and ghosts beyond denying. Their very existence was spectral, the cut of their clothing, fashions born in dead brains. The ornaments and conveniences of the room about them were ghostly, the thoughts of vanished man which still haunted rather than participated in the world of today. But with an effort I sent such thoughts to the right about. The long, drafty, subterranean passage was chilly and dusty, and my candle flared and made the shadows cower and quiver. The echoes rang up and down the spiral staircase, and the shadow came sweeping up after me, and one fled before me into the darkness overhead. I came to the landing and stopped there for a moment, listening to a rustling that I fancied I heard. Then, satisfied of the absolute silence, I pushed open the best covered door and stood in the corridor. The effect was scarcely what I expected, for the moonlight coming in by the great window on the grand staircase picked out everything in vivid black shadow or silvery illumination. Everything was in its place, the house might have been deserted on the yesterday instead of 18 months ago. There were candles in the sockets of the sconces, and whatever dust had gathered on the carpets or upon the polished flooring was distributed so evenly as to be invisible in the moonlight. I was about to advance and stopped abruptly. A bronze group stood upon the landing, hidden from me by the corner of the wall. But its shadow fell with marvelous distinctness upon the white panelling, and gave me the impression of someone crouching to wailay me. I stood rigid for half a minute, perhaps. Then, with my hand in the pocket that held my revolver, I advanced, only to discover a ganamid and eagle glistening in the moonlight. That incident for a time restored my nerve, and the porcelain Chinaman on a ball table whose head rocked silently as I passed him scarcely startled me. The door to the red room and the steps up to it were in a shadowy corner. I moved my candle from side to side in order to see clearly the nature of the recess in which I stood before opening the door. Here it was, thought I, that my predecessor was found. And the memory of that story gave me a sudden twinge of apprehension. I glanced over my shoulder at the ganamid in the moonlight and opened the door of the red room rather hastily, with my face half turned to the pallid silence of the landing. I entered, closed the door behind me at once, turned a key I found in the lock within, and stood with the candle held aloft, surveying the scene of my vigil, the great red room of Lorraine Castle, in which the young Duke had died, or rather in which he had begun his dying, for he had opened the door and fallen headlong down the steps I had just ascended. That had been the end of his vigil, of his gallant attempt to conquer the ghostly tradition of the place, and never, I thought, had apoplexy better served the ends of superstition. And there were other and older stories that clung to the room, back to the half-credible beginning of it all, the tale of a timid wife and the tragic end that came to her husband's gesture frightening her. And looking around that large shadowy room with its shadowy window base, its recesses and alcoves, one could well understand the legends that had sprouted in its black corners, its germinating darkness. My candle was a little tongue of light in its vastness that failed to pierce the opposite end of the room, and left an ocean of mystery and suggestion beyond its island of light. I resolved to make a systematic examination of the place at once, and dispel the fanciful suggestions of its obscurity before they obtained a hold upon me. After satisfying myself of the fastening of the door, I began to walk about the room, peering round each article of furniture, tucking up the valances of the bed, and opening its curtains wide. I pulled up the blinds and examined the fastenings of the several windows before closing the shutters, lent forward and looked up the blackness of the wide chimney, and tapped the dark oak paneling for any secret opening. There were two big mirrors in the room, each with a pair of sconces bearing candles, and on the mantel shelf too, were more candles in china candlesticks. All these I lit one after the other, the fire was laid, an unexpected consideration from the old housekeeper, and I lit it to keep down any disposition to shiver. And when it was burning well, I stood round with my back to it and regarded the room again. I had pulled up a chintz covered armchair and a table to form a kind of barricade before me, and on this lay my revolver ready to hand. My precise examination had done me good, but I still found the remote darkness of the place and its perfect stillness too stimulating for the imagination. The echoing of the stir and crackling of the fire was no sort of comfort to me. The shadow in the alcove, at the end in particular, had that undefinable quality of a presence, that odd suggestion of a lurking living thing that comes so easily in silence and solitude. At last, to reassure myself, I walked with a candle into it and satisfied myself that there was nothing tangible there. I stood that candle upon the floor of the alcove and lifted in that position. By this time I was in a state of considerable nervous tension, although to my reason there was no adequate cause for the condition, my mind however was perfectly clear. I postulated quite unreservedly that nothing supernatural could happen and to pass the time I began to string some rhymes together, Ingalls be fashion of the original legend of the place. A few I spoke aloud, but the echoes were not pleasant. For the same reason I also abandoned, after a time, a conversation with myself upon the impossibility of ghosts and haunting. My mind reverted to the three old and distorted people downstairs and I tried to keep it upon that topic. The somber reds and blacks of the room troubled me, even with seven candles the place was merely dim. The one in the alcove flared in a draft and the fire flickering kept the shadows and pinumbra perpetually shifting and stirring. Casting about for a remedy I recall the candles I had seen in the passage and, with a slight effort, walked out into the moonlight carrying a candle and leaving the door open and presently returned with as many as ten. These I put in various knickknacks of china with which the room was sparsely adorned, lit and placed where the shadows had lain deepest, some on the floor, some in the window recesses. Until at last my seventeen candles were so arranged that not an inch of the room but had the direct light of at least one of them. It occurred to me that when the ghost came I could warn him not to trip over them. The room was now quite brightly illuminated. There was something very cheery and reassuring in these little streaming flames and snuffing them gave me an occupation and afforded a reassuring sense of the passage of time. Even with that, however, the brooding expectation of the vigil weighed heavily upon me. It was after midnight that the candle in the alcove suddenly went out and the black shadows sprang back to its place there. I did not see the candle go out. I simply turned and so that the darkness was there as one might start and see the unexpected presence of a stranger. By Jove, said I aloud, that draughts a strong one and taking the matches from the table I walked across the room in a leisurely manner to relight the corner again. My first match would not strike and as I succeeded with the second something seemed to blink on the wall before me. I turned my head involuntarily and so that the two candles on the little table by the fireplace were extinguished. I rose at once to my feet. Odd, I said, did I do that myself in a flash of absent-mindedness? I walked back, relit one and as I did so I saw the candle in the right sconce or one of the mirrors wink and go right out and almost immediately its companion followed it. There was no mistake about it. The flame vanished as if the wicks had been suddenly nipped between a finger and a thumb leaving the wick neither glowing nor smoking but black. While I stood gaping the candle at the foot of the bed went out and the shadows seemed to take another step towards me. This won't do said I and first one and then another candle on the mental shelf followed. What's up? I cried with a queer high note getting into my voice somehow. At that the candle on the wardrobe went out and the one I had relit in the alcove followed. Steady on, I said, these candles are wanted. Speaking with a half hysterical facetiousness and scratching away at a match the while for the mental candlesticks. My hands trembled so much that twice I missed the rough paper of the matchbox. As the mantle emerged from darkness again two candles in the remote end of the window were eclipsed but with the same match I also relit the larger mirror candles and those on the floor near the doorway so that for the moment I seemed to gain on the extinctions but then in a volley there vanished four lights at once in different corners of the room and I struck another match in quivering haste and stood hesitating wither to take it. As I stood undecided an invisible hand seemed to sweep out the two candles on the table. With a cry of terror I dashed at the alcove then into the corner and then into the window relighting three as two more vanished by the fireplace then perceiving a better way I dropped the matches on the iron bound deed box in the corner and coat up the bedroom candlestick. With this I avoided the delay of striking matches but for all that the steady process of extinction went on and the shadows I feared and fought against returned and crept in upon me first the step gained on this side of me and then on that it was like a ragged storm cloud sweeping out the stars now and then one returned for a minute and was lost again I was now almost frantic with the horror of the coming darkness and my self-possession deserted me I leaped panting and disheveled from candle to candle in a vain struggle against that remorseless advance I bruised myself on the thigh against the table I sent the chair headlong I stumbled and fell and whisked the cloth from the table in my fold my candle rolled away from me and I snatched another as I rose appropriately this was blown out as I swung it off the table by the wind of my sudden movement and immediately the two remaining candles followed but there was light still in the room a red light that staved off the shadows from me the fire of course I could still thrust my candle between the bars and relighted I turned to where the flames were still dancing between the glowing coals and splashing red reflections upon the furniture made two steps towards the grate and incontinently the flames dwindled and vanished the glow vanished the reflections rushed together and vanished and as I thrust the candle between the bars darkness closed upon me like the shutting of an eye wrapped about me in a stifling embrace sealed my vision and crushed the last vestiges of reason from my brain the candle fell from my hand I flung out my arms in a vain effort to thrust that ponderous blackness away from me and lifting up my voice screamed with all my might once twice thrice then I think I must have staggered to my feet I know I thought suddenly of the moonlit corridor and with my head bound and my arms over my face made a run for the door but I had forgotten the exact position of the door and struck myself heavily against the corner of the bed I staggered back turned and was either struck or struck myself against some other bulky furniture I have a vague memory of bettering myself thus to and fro in the darkness of a cramped struggle and of my own wild crying as I darted to and fro over heavy blow it lost upon my forehead a horrible sensation of falling that lasted an age of my last frantic effort to keep my footing and then I remember no more I opened my eyes in daylight my head was roughly bandaged and the man with the withered arm was watching my face I looked about me trying to remember what had happened and for a space I could not recollect I rolled my eyes into the corner and saw the old woman no longer abstracted pouring out some drops of medicine from a little blue file into a glass where am I I asked I seem to remember you and yet I cannot remember who you are they told me then and I heard of the haunted red room as one who hears a tale we found you at dawn said he and there was blood on your forehead and lips it was very slowly I recovered by memory of my experience you believe now said the old man that the room is haunted he spoke no longer is one who greets an intruder but is one who greaves for a broken friend yes said I the room is haunted and you have seen it and we who have lived here all our lives have never set eyes upon it because we have never dared tell us is it truly the older who no said I it is not I told you so said the old lady with the glass in her hand it is his poor young count as it was frightened it is not I said there is neither ghost of earth nor ghost of counters in that room there is no ghost there at all but worse far worse well they said the worst of all the things that haunt poor mortal man said I and that is in all its nakedness fear fear that will not have light nor sound that will not bear with reason that defends and darkens and overwhelms it followed me through the corridor it fought against me in the room I stopped it properly there was an interval of silence my hand went up to my bandages then the man with the shade sighed and spoke that is it said he I knew that was it a power of darkness to put such a curse upon a woman it lurks there always you can feel it even in the daytime even of a bright summer's day in the hangings in the curtains keeping behind you however you face about in the dusk it creeps along the corridor and follows you so that you dare not turn there is fear in that room of hers black fear and there will be so long as this house of sin endures and of the red room recording by neslihan stamboli the signal man by charles dickens narrated by tony shunman this is a libervox recording all libervox recordings are in the public domain for further information or to volunteer visit libervox.org the signal man by charles dickens when he heard a voice thus calling to him he was standing at the door of his box with a flag in his hand furled round its short pole one would have thought considering the nature of the ground that he could not have doubted from what quarter the voice came but instead of looking up to where I stood at the top of the steep cutting nearly over his head he turned himself about and looked down the line there was something remarkable in his manner of doing so though I could not have said for the life of me what but I know it was remarkable enough to attract my notice even though his figure was foreshortened and shadowed down in the deep trench and mine was high above him so steeped in the glow of an angry sunset that I had shaded my eyes with my hand before I saw him at all hello below from looking down the line he turned himself about again and raising his eyes saw my figure high above him is there any path by which I can come down and speak to you he looked up at me without replying and I looked down at him without pressing him too soon with a repetition of my idle question just then that came a vague vibration in the earth and air quickly changing into a violent pulsation and an oncoming rush that caused me to start back as though it had forced to draw me down when such vapor as rose to my height from this rapid train had passed me and was skimming away over the landscape I looked down again and saw him refurling the flag he had shown while the train went by I repeated my inquiry after a pause during which he seemed to regard me with fixed attention he motioned with his rolled up flag towards a point on my level some two or three hundred yards distant I called down to him all right and made for that point there by dint of looking closely about me I found a rough zigzag descending path notched out which I followed the cutting was extremely deep and unusually precipitate it was made through a clammy stone that became oozier and wet as I went down for these reasons I found the way long enough to give me time to recall a singular air of reluctance or compulsion with which he had pointed out the path when I came down low enough upon the zigzag descent to see him again I saw that he was standing between the rails on the way by which the train had lately passed in an attitude as if he were waiting for me to appear he had his left hand at his chin and that left elbow rested on his right hand crossed over his breast his attitude was one of such expectation in watchfulness that I stopped a moment wondering at it I resumed my downward way and stepping out upon the level of the railroad and drawing near to him saw that he was a dark sallow man with a dark beard and rather heavy eyebrows his post was in a solitary and as dismal a place as ever I saw on either side a dripping wet wall of jagged stone excluding all view but a strip of sky the perspective one way only a crooked prolongation of this great dungeon the shorter perspective in the other direction terminating in a gloomy red light and the gloomier entrance to a black tunnel in whose massive architecture there was a barbarous depressing and forbidding air so little sunlight ever found its way to this spot that it had an earthy deadly smell and so much cold wind rushed through it that it struck chill to me as if I had left the natural world before he stirred I was near enough to him to have touched him not even then removing his eyes from mine he stepped back one step and lifted his hand this was a lonesome post to occupy I said and it had riveted my attention when I looked down from up yonder a visitor was a rarity I should suppose not an unwelcome rarity I hoped in me he immediately saw a man who had been shut up within narrow limits all his life and who being at last set free had a newly awakened interest in these great works to such purpose I spoke to him but I'm far from sure of the terms I used for besides that I am not happy in opening any conversation there was something in the man that daunted me he directed a most curious look towards the red light near the tunnel's mouth and looked all about it as if something were missing from it and then looked at me that light was part of his charge was it not he answered in a low voice don't you know it is the monstrous thought came into my mind as I perused the fixed eyes and the satinine face that this was a spirit not a man I've speculated since whether there may have been infection in his mind in my turn I stepped back but in making the action I detected in his eyes some latent fear of me this put the monstrous thought to flight you look at me I said forcing a smile as if you had a dread of me I was doubtful he returned whether I had seen you before where he pointed to the red light he had looked at there I said intently watchful of me he replied but without sound yes my good fellow what should I do there however be that as it may I never was there you may swear I think I may he rejoined yes I'm sure I may his manner cleared like my own he replied to my remarks with readiness and in well-chosen words had he much to do there yes that was to say he had enough responsibility to bear but exactness and watchfulness were what was required in him and of actual work manual labor he had next to none to change that signal to trim those lights and to turn this iron handle now and then was all he had to do under that head regarding those many long and lonely hours of which I seem to make so much he would only say that the routine of his life had shaped itself into that form and he had grown used to it he had taught himself a language down here if only to know it by sight and who have formed his own crude ideas of its pronunciation could be called learning it he had also worked at fractions and decimals and tried a little algebra but he was and had been as a boy a poor hand at figures was it necessary for him when on duty always to remain in that channel of damp air and could he never rise into the sunshine from between those high stone walls why that depended upon times and circumstances under some conditions there would be less upon the line than under others and the same held good as to certain hours of the day and night in bright weather he did choose occasions for getting a little above these lower shadows but being at all times liable to be called by his electric bell and at such times listening for it with redoubled anxiety the relief was less than I would suppose he took me into his box where there was a fire a desk for an official book in which he had to make certain entries a telegraphic instrument with its dial face and needles and the little bell of which he had spoken on my trusting that he would excuse the remark that he had been well educated and I hoped I might say without offense perhaps educated above that station he observed that instances of slight incongruity in such wise would rarely be found wanting among large bodies of men that he had heard it was so in workhouses in the police force even in that last desperate resource the army and that he knew it was so more or less in any great railway staff he had been when young if I could believe it sitting in that hut he scarcely could a student of natural philosophy and had attended lectures but he had run wild misused his opportunities gone down and never risen again he had no complaint to offer about that he had made his bed and he lay upon it it was far too late to make another all that I have here condensed he said in a quiet manner with his grave dark regards divided between me and the fire he threw in the word sir from time to time and especially when he referred to his youth as though to request me to understand that he claimed to be nothing but what I found him he was several times interrupted by the little bell and had to read off messages and send replies once he had to stand without the door and display a flag as a train passed and make some verbal communication to the driver in the discharge of his duties I observed him to be remarkably exact and vigilant breaking off his discourse at a syllable and remaining silent until what he had to do was done in a word I would have set this man down as one of the safest of men to be employed in that capacity but for the circumstances that while he was speaking to me he twice broke off with a fallen color turned his face toward the little bell when it did not ring opened the door of the hut which was kept shut to exclude the unhealthy damp and looked out towards the red light near the mouth of the tunnel on both of those occasions he came back to the fire with the inexplicable air upon him which I had remarked without being able to define when we were so far asunder said I when I rose to leave him you almost make me think that I have met with a contented man I am afraid I must acknowledge that I said it to lead him on I believe I used to be so he rejoined in the low voice in which he had first spoken but I am troubled sir I am troubled he would have recalled the words if he could he had said them however and I took them up quickly with what what is your trouble it is very difficult to impart sir it is very very difficult to speak of if ever you make me another visit I will try to tell you but I expressly intend to make you another visit say when shall it be I go off early in the morning and I shall be on again until ten tomorrow night sir I will come at eleven he thanked me and went out at the door with me I'll show you my white light sir he said in his peculiar low voice till you have found the way up when you have found it don't call out and when you are at the top don't call out his manner seemed to make the place strike colder to me but I said no more then very well and when you come down tomorrow night don't call out let me ask you a parting question what made you cry hello below there tonight heaven knows said I I cried something to that effect not to that effect sir those were the very words I know them well admit those were the very words I said them no doubt because I saw you below for no other reason what other reason could I possibly have you had no feeling that they would convey to you in any supernatural way no he wished me good night and held up his light I walked by the side of the down line of rails with a very disagreeable sensation of a train coming behind me until I found the path it was easier to mount than to descend and I got back to my inn without any adventure punctual to my appointment I placed my foot on the first notch of the zigzag next night as the distant clocks were striking 11 he was waiting for me at the bottom with his white light on I have not called out I said when we came close together may I speak now by all means sir good night then and here's my hand good night sir and here's mine with that we walked side by side to his box entered it closed the door and sat down by the fire I have made up my mind sir he began bending forward as soon as we were seated and speaking in a tone but a little above a whisper that you shall not have to ask me twice what troubles me I took you for someone else yesterday evening that troubles me that mistake no that's someone else who is it I don't know like me I don't know I never saw the face the left arm is across the face and the right arm is waved violently waved this way I followed his action with my eyes and it was the action of an arm gesticulating with the utmost passion and vehemence for God's sake clear the way one moonlit night said the man I was sitting here when I heard a voice cry hello below there I started up looked from that door and saw this someone else standing by the red light near the tunnel waving as I just now showed you the voice seemed hoarse with shouting and it cried look out look out and then again hello below there look out I caught up my lamp turned it on red and ran towards the figure calling what's wrong what has happened where it stood just outside the blackness of the tunnel I advanced so close upon it that I wondered at its keeping the sleeve across its eyes I ran right up at it and had my hand stretched out to pull the sleeve away when it was gone into the tunnel said I know I ran on into the tunnel five hundred yards I stopped and held my lamp above my head and saw the figures of the measured distance and saw the wet stains stealing down the walls and trickling through the arch I ran out again faster than I had run in for I had a mortal abhorrence of the place upon me and I looked all round the red light with my own red light and I went up the iron ladder to the gallery atop of it and I came down again and ran back here I telegraphed both ways an alarm has been given is anything wrong the answer came back both ways all well resisting the slow touch of a frozen finger tracing out my spine I showed him how that this figure must be a deception of his sense of sight and how that figures originating in disease of the delicate nerves that ministered to the functions of the eye were known to have often troubled patients some of whom had become conscious of the nature of their affliction and had even proved it by experiments upon themselves as to an imaginary cry said I do but listen for a moment to the wind in this unnatural valley while we speak so low and to the wild harp it makes up the telegraph wires that was all very well he returned after we had sat listening for a while and he ought to know something of the wind and the wires he who so often passed long winter nights there alone and watching but he would beg to remark that he had not finished I asked his pardon and he slowly added these words touching my arm within six hours after the appearance the memorable accident on this line happened and within ten hours the dead and wounded were brought along the tunnel over the spot where the figure had stood a disagreeable shutter crept over me but I did my best against it it was not to be denied I rejoined that this was a remarkable coincidence calculated deeply to impress his mind but it was unquestionable that remarkable coincidences did continually occur and they must be taken into account in dealing with such a subject though to be sure I must admit I added for I thought I saw that he was going to bring the objection to bear upon me men of common sense did not allow much for coincidence in making the ordinary calculations of life he again begged to remark that he had not finished I again begged his pardon for being betrayed into interruptions this he said again laying his hand upon my arm and glancing over his shoulder with hollow eyes was just a year ago six or seven months passed and I had recovered from the surprise and shock when one morning as the day was breaking I standing at the door looked towards the red light and saw the specter again he stopped with a fixed look at me did it cry out no it was silent did it wave its arm no it leaned against the shaft of the light with both hands before the face like this once more I followed his actions with my eyes it was an action of mourning I have seen such an attitude on stone figures on tombs did you go up to it I came in and sat down partly to collect my thoughts partly because it had turned me faint when I went to the door again daylight was above me and the ghost was gone but nothing followed nothing came of this he touched me on the arm with his forefinger twice or thrice giving a ghastly nod each time that very day as a train came out of the tunnel I noticed at a carriage window on my side what looked like a confusion of hands and heads and something waved I saw it just in time to signal the driver stop he shut off and put his brake on but the train drifted past here a hundred and fifty yards or more I ran after it and as I went along heard terrible screams and cries a beautiful young lady had died instantaneously in one of the compartments and was brought in here and laid down on this floor between us involuntarily I pushed my chair back as I looked from the boards at which he had pointed to himself true sir true precisely as it happened so I tell it you I could think of nothing to say to any purpose and my mouth was very dry the wind and the wires took up the story with a long lamenting wail he resumed now sir mark this and judge how my mind is troubled the specter came back a week ago ever since it has been there now and again by fits and starts at the light at the danger light what does it seem to do he repeated if possible with increased passion and vehemence that former gesticulation of for god's sake clear the way then he went on I have no peace or rest for it it calls to me for many minutes together in an agonized manner below there look out look it stands waving to me it rings my little bell I caught at that did it ring your bell yesterday evening when I was here and you went to the door twice why see said I how your imagination misleads you my eyes were on the bell and my ears were open to the bell and if I am a living man it did not ring at those times no not at any other time except when it was rung in the natural course of physical things by the station communicating with you he shook his head I have never made a mistake as to that yet sir I have never confused the specter's ring with the man's the ghost's ring is a strange vibration in the bell that it derives from nothing else and I have not asserted that the bell stirs to the eye I don't wonder that you failed to hear it but I heard it and did the specter seem to be there when you looked out it was there both times he repeated firmly both times will you come to the door with me and look for it now he bit his underlip as though he were somewhat unwilling but arose I opened the door and stood on the step while he stood in the doorway there was the danger light there was the dismal mouth of the tunnel there were the high wet stone walls of the cutting there were the stars above them do you see it I asked him taking particular note of his face his eyes were prominent and strained but not very much more so perhaps than my own head directed them earnestly towards the same spot no he answered it is not there agreed said I we went in again shut the door and resumed our seats I was thinking how best to improve this advantage if it might be called one when he took up the conversation in such a matter of course way so assuming that there could be no serious question of fact between us that I felt myself placed in the weakest of positions by this time you will fully understand sir he said that what troubles me so dreadfully is the question what does the specter mean I was not sure I told him that I did fully understand what is its warning against he said ruminating with his eyes on the fire and only by times turning them on me what is the danger where is the danger there is danger overhanging somewhere on the line some dreadful calamity will happen it is not to be doubted this third time after what has gone before but surely this is a cruel haunting of me what can I do he pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the drops from his heated forehead if I telegraph danger on either side of me or on both I can give no reason for it you went on wiping the palms of his hands I should get into trouble and do no good they would think I was mad this is the way it would work message danger take care answer what danger where message don't know but for god's sake take care they would displace me what else could they do his pain of mind was most pitiful to see it was the mental torture of a conscientious man oppressed beyond endurance by an unintelligible responsibility involving life when it first stood under the danger light he went on putting his dark hair back from his head and drawing his hands outward across and across his temples in an extremity of feverish distress why not tell me where that accident was to happen if it must happen why not tell me how it could be averted if it could have been averted when on its second coming it hid its face why not tell me instead she is going to die let them keep her at home if it came on those two occasions only to show me that its warnings were true and so to prepare me for the third why not warn me plainly now and I lord help me a mere poor signal man on this solitary station why not go to somebody with credit to be believed and power to act when I saw him in this state I saw that for the poor man's sake as well as for the public safety what I had to do for the time was to compose his mind therefore setting aside all question of reality or unreality between us I represented to him that whoever thoroughly discharged his duty must do well and that at least it was his comfort that he understood his duty though he did not understand these confounding appearances in this effort I succeeded far better than in the attempt to reason him out of his conviction he became calm the occupations incidental to his post as the night advanced began to make larger demands on his attention and I left him at two in the morning I had offered to stay through the night but he would not hear of it that I more than once looked back at the red light as I ascended the pathway that I did not like the red light and that I should have slept but poorly if my bed had been under it I see no reason to conceal nor did I like the two sequences of the accident and the dead girl I see no reason to conceal that either but what read most in my thoughts was the consideration how ought I to act having become the recipient of this disclosure I had proved to the man to be intelligent vigilant painstaking and exact but how long might he remain so in his state of mind though in a subordinate position still he held a most important trust and would I for instance like to stake my own life on the chances of his continuing to execute it with precision unable to overcome a feeling that there would be something treacherous in my communicating what he had told me to his superiors in the company without first being plain with himself and proposing a middle course to him I ultimately resolved to offer to accompany him otherwise keeping his secret for the present to the wisest medical practitioner we could hear of in those parts and to take his opinion a change of time in his duty would not come round next night he had apprised me and he would be off an hour or two after sunrise and on again soon after sunset I had appointed to return accordingly next evening was a lovely evening and I walked out early to enjoy it the sun was not yet quite down when I traversed the field path near the top of the deep cutting I would extend my walk for an hour I said to myself half an hour on and half an hour back and it would then be time to go to my signal man's box before pursuing my stroll I stepped to the brink and mechanically look down from the point from which I had first seen him I cannot describe the thrill that seized upon me when close at the mouth of the tunnel I saw the appearance of a man with his left sleeve across his eyes passionately waving his right arm the nameless horror that oppressed me past in a moment for in a moment I saw that this appearance of a man was a man indeed and that there was a little group of other men standing at a short distance to whom he seemed to be rehearsing the gesture he made the danger light was not yet lighted against its shaft a little low hut entirely new to me had been made of some wooden supports in tarpaulin it looked no bigger than a bed with an irresistible sense that something was wrong with a flashing self-reproachful fear that fatal mischief had come of my leaving the man there and causing no one to be sent to overlook or correct what he did I descended the notched path with all the speed I could make what is the matter I asked the man signal man killed this morning sir not the man belonging to that box yes sir not the man I know you will recognize him sir if you knew him said the man who spoke for the others solemnly uncovering his own head and raising an end of the tarpaulin for his face is quite composed oh how did this happen how did this happen I asked turning from one to another as the hut closed in again he was cut down by an engine sir no man in England knew his work better but somehow he was not clear of the outer rail it was just a broad day he had stuck the light and had the lamp in his hand as the engine came out of the tunnel his back was the water and she cut him down that man drove her and was showing how it happened show the gentleman Tom the man who wore a rough dark dress stepped back to his former place at the mouth of the tunnel coming round the curve in the tunnel sir he said I saw him at the end like as if I saw him down a perspective glass there was no time to check speed and I knew him to be very careful as he didn't seem to take heed of the whistle I shut it off when we were running down upon him and called him as loud as I could call what did you say I said below there look out look out for God's sake clear the way I started ah it was a dreadful time sir or he never left off call into him or he put this arm before my eyes not to see and I waved this arm to the last but it was no use without prolonging the narrative to dwell on any one of its curious circumstances more than on any other I may in closing it point out the coincidence that the warning of the engine driver included not only the words which the unfortunate signal man had repeated to me as haunting him but also the words which I myself not he had attached and that only in my own mind to the gesticulation he had imitated end of the signal man