 CHAPTER XIII It was two o'clock when Sir Henry Wilding's motor turned its back upon the outskirts of London, and it was a quarter-past seven when it whirled up to the stables of Wilding Hall, and the baronet and his grey-headed, bespectacled, and white-spatted companion alighted, having taken five hours and a quarter to make a journey which the trains which run daily between Liverpool Street and Darsham make in four. As a matter of fact, however, they really had outstripped the train, but it had been Cleeke's pleasure to make two calls on the way—one at Saxmondom, where the paralysed myrple lay in the infirmary of the local practitioner, the other at the mortuary where the body of Tolliver was retained, awaiting the sitting of the coroner. Both the dead and the still living man, Cleeke had subjected to a critical personal examination, but whether either furnished him with any suggested clue he did not say. Indeed, the only remark he made upon the subject was when Sir Henry, on hearing from Myrple's wife that the doctor had said he would probably not last the week out, had inquired if the woman knew where to put her hand on the receipt for the payment of the last premium, so that her claim could be sent into the life-assurance company without delay when the end came. "'Tell me something, Sir Henry,' said Cleeke, when he heard that, and noticed how gratefully the woman looked at the baronet when she replied, "'Yes, Sir Henry, God bless you, sir.' "'Tell me, if it is not an impertinent question, did you take out an insurance policy on Myrple's life and pay the premium on it yourself? I gathered the idea that you did from the manner in which the woman spoke to you.' "'Yes, I did,' replied Sir Henry. As a matter of fact, I take out a similar policy, payable to the widow, for every married man I employ in connection with my racing stud. "'May I ask why?' "'Well, for one thing they usually are too poor and have too many children to support, to be able to take it out for themselves. And exercising races has a good many risks. Then for another thing I'm a firm believer in the policy of life-assurance. It's just so much money laid up in safety, and one never knows what may happen.' "'Then it is fair,' said Cleeke, to suppose, in that case, that you have taken out one on your own life. Yes, rather, and a whacking big one, too. And Lady Wilding is, of course, the beneficiary. Certainly there are no children, you know, as a matter of fact we have been married only seven months. Before the date of my wedding the policy was in my uncle Ambrose's, the reverent Mr. Smear's, favour.' "'Ah, I see,' said Cleeke, reflectively. Then fell to thinking deeply over the subject, and was still thinking of it when the motor whizzed into the stable-yard at Wilding Hall, and brought him into contact for the first time with the trainer Logan. He didn't much fancy Logan at first blush, and Logan didn't fancy him at all at any time. "'Hur,' he said disgustedly, in a stage aside to his master, as Cleeke stood on the threshold of the stable, with his head thrown back, and his chin at an angle, sniffing the air somewhat after the manner of a bird-dog. "'Hur, if unto the best Scotland yard could let out to ye, sir, half-baked old softy like that, the rest of them must be a blessed poor lot, I'm thinking. What's him doing now, the noodle, snuffing the air like he did not understand the smell of it? He'd not be expecting a stable to be scented with old a cologne, would he? What's her name, sir?' "'Cleeke.' "'Hur,' sounds like a golf stick, and I have no doubt he's got a head-like one, main-thick and with a twist in him. "'I've done a like, Tex, sir Henry, and I've done a like this one, a special. Of course to tell, as he aren't in with a devil's as it after Black Riot. No, I've done a like him at all.' Meantime, serenely unconscious of the displeasure he had excited in Logan's breast, Cleeke went on sniffing the air and poking about, as he phrased it, in all corners of the stable. And when a moment later Sir Henry went in and joined him, he was standing before the door of the steel room, examining the curving scratch of which the baronet had spoken. "'What do you make of it, Mr. Cleeke?' "'Not much in the way of a clue, sir Henry, a clue to any possible intruder, I mean. If your artistic soul hadn't rebelled against bare steel, which would, of course, have soon rusted in this ammonia impregnated atmosphere, and led you to put a coat of paint over the metal, there would have been no mark at all, the thing is so slight. I am of the opinion that Tolliver himself caused it, in short that it was made by either a pin or a cuff-button in his wristband when he was attacked and fell. But enlighten me upon a puzzling point, Sir Henry. What do you use coriander and oil of sassafras for in a stable?' "'Coriander—oil of sassafras—I don't know what the dickens they are. Have you found such things here?' "'Nah, simply smelt them. The combination is not usual. Indeed, I know of but one race in the world who make any use of it, and they merely for a purpose which, of course, could not possibly exist here, unless—' He allowed the rest of the sentence to go by default, and turning looked all round the place. For the first time, he seemed to notice something unusual for the equipment of a stable, and regarded it with silent interest. It was nothing more nor less than a box covered with sheets of virgin cork, and standing on the floor, just under one of the windows, where the light and air could get to a weird-looking rubbery-leaved orchid-like plant, covered with legulated scarlet blossoms which grew within it. "'Sir Henry,' he said, after a moment, may I ask how long it is, since you are in South America?' "'I never was there in my life, Mr. Cleak. Never.' "'Ah, then who connected with the hall has been?' "'Oh, I see what you are driving at,' said Sir Henry, following the direction of his gaze. "'That Patagonian plant, eh? That belonged to poor Tolliver. He had a strange fancy for ferns and rock plants and things of that description. And as that particular specimen happens to be one that does better in the atmosphere of a stable than elsewhere, he kept it in here. "'Who told him that it does better in the atmosphere of a stable?' "'Lady Wilding's cousin, Mr. Sharpless. It was he who gave Tolliver the plant.' "'Ah, how? Then Mr. Sharpless has been to South America, has he?' "'Why, yes. As a matter of fact he comes from there. So also does Lady Wilding. I should have thought you would have remembered that, Mr. Cleak, when—' "'But perhaps you have never heard. She—they—that is, stammering confusedly and colouring to the temples. Up to seven months ago, Mr. Cleak, Lady Wilding was on the music-hall stage. She and Mr. Sharpless were known as Señor Morando and Label Creole. They did a living statue turn together. It was highly artistic. People raved. I, uh, fell in love with the lady, and—that's all. But it wasn't. For Cleak, reading between the lines, saw that the mad infatuation which had brought the lady a title and an over-generous husband had simmered down, as such things always do sooner or later, and that the marriage was very far from being a happy one. As a matter of fact he learned later that the county to a woman had refused to accept Lady Wilding, that her ladyship chafing under this ostracism was for having a number of her old professional friends come down to visit her and make a time of it, and that on Sir Henry's objecting a violent quarrel had ensued, and the Reverend Ambrose Smear had come down to the hall in the effort to make peace. And he learned something else that night which gave him food for deep reflection. The Reverend Ambrose Smear, too, had been to South America, and when he met that gentleman—well, in spite of the fact that Sir Henry thought so highly of him, and it was known that his revival meetings had done a world of good—Cleak did not fancy the Reverend Ambrose Smear any more than he fancied the trainer Logan. But to return to the present—by this time the late-falling twilight of May had begun to close in, and presently, as the day was now done, and the night approaching, Logan led in Black Riot from the paddock, followed by a slim, sallow-featured, small, moustached man bearing a shotgun, and dressed in grey tweeds. Sir Henry, who it was plain to see had a liking for the man, introduced this newcomer to Cleak as the South American, Mr. Andrew Sharpless. That's the English of it, Mr. Cleak, said the latter jovially, but with an undoubted Spanish twist to the tongue. I wouldn't have your risk breaking your jaw with the Brazilian original. Delighted to meet you, sir. I hope to heaven you will get at the bottom of this diabolical thing. What do you think, Henry? Lamson Boll's jockey was over in this neighborhood this afternoon, trying to see how Black Riot shapes, of course, the bounder. Fortunately I saw him skulking along the other side of the hedge, and gave him two minutes in which to make himself scarce. If he hadn't, if he had come a step nearer to the mare, I'd have shot him down like a dog. That's right, Logan, put her up for the night, old chap, and I'll get out your bedding. I, said Logan, through his clamped teeth, and God help man or devil that comes anire this night. God help him, London, Mr., that's all I say. Then he passed into the steel room with the mare, attended her for the night, and, coming out a minute or two later, locked her up and gave Sir Henry the key. Broke her and trained her, I did, and willing to die for her, I am, if I can't pull on through no other way. He said, pausing before clique and giving him a black look. A derby winner's cut out for London, Mr., and a derby winner's gonna be, in spite of all the Lamson Bolls's and the low-down horse noblas in Christendom. Then he switched round and walked over to Sharpless, who had taken a pillow and a bundle of blankets from a convenient cupboard, and was making a bed of them on the floor at the foot of the locked steel door. Thank ye, sir, blige to answer, said Logan, as Sharpless hung up the shotgun, and, with a word to the baronet, excused himself and went in to dress for dinner. Then he faced round again on clique, who was once more sniffing the air, and pointed to the rude bed. There's where Ted Logan sleeps this night, there, he went on, suddenly. And Themmers tries to get at Black Riot, comes to grips with me, first, me and the shotgun, Mr. Sharpless has left. Ah, and if I shoot London, Mr., I shoot to kill. Do me a favour, Sir Henry, said clique. For reasons of my own, I want to be in this stable alone for the next ten minutes, and after that, let no one come into it until morning. I won't be accountable for this man's life if he stops in here tonight, and for his sake, as well as for your own, I want you to forbid him to do so. Logan seemed to go nearly mad with rage at this. I won't listen to it. I will stop here. I will. I will. He cried out in a passion. Who comes or find a year waiting to come to grips with an? I won't stop out. I won't. Don't un-listen to London, Mr. Sir Henry, for God's sake, don't. I am afraid I must, in this instance, Logan. You are far too suspicious, my good fellow. Mr. clique doesn't want to get at the mayor. He wants to protect her, to keep anybody else from getting at her, so join the guard outside if you are so eager. You must let him have his way. And in spite of all Logan's pleading, clique did have his way. Protesting, swearing almost weeping, the trainer was turned out, and the doors closed, leaving clique alone in the stable. And the last Logan and Sir Henry saw of him until he came out and rejoined them, he was standing in the middle of the floor with his hands on both hips, staring fixedly at the impromptu bed in front of the steel-wound door. Put on the guard now, and see that nobody goes into the place until morning, Sir Henry. He said, when he came out and rejoined them some minutes later. Logan, you silly fellow, you'll do no good fighting against fate. Make the best of it, and stop where you are. Clique met Lady Wilding for the first time. He found her what he afterwards termed a splendid animal. Beautiful, statuesque, more of Juno than of Venus, and freely endowed with the languorous temperament, and the splendid earthy loveliness which grows nowhere but under tropical skies, and in the shadow of palm groves, and the flame of cactus flowers. She showed him but scant courtesy, however, for she was but a poor hostess, and after dinner carried her cousin away to the billiard-room, and left her husband to entertain the reverent ambrose and the detective as best he could. Clique needed but little entertaining, however, for in spite of his serenity he was full of the case on hand, and kept wandering in and out of the house and upstairs and down until eleven o'clock came, and bed claimed him with the rest. His last wakeful recollection was of the clock in the lower corridor, striking the first quarter after eleven. Then sleep claimed him, and he knew no more until all the stillness was suddenly shattered by a loud-voiced gong hammering out an alarm, and the sound of people tumbling out of bed and scurrying about in a panic of fright. He jumped out of bed, pulled on his clothing, and rushed out into the hall, only to find it alive with people, and at their heads to Henry with a dressing-gown thrown on over his pajamas and a bedroom candle in his shaking hand. The stable! he cried out excitedly. Come on, come on, for God's sake! Someone has touched the door of the steel room, and yet the place was left empty, empty! But it was no longer empty, as they found out when they reached it, for the doors had been flung open, the men who had been left on guard outside the stables were now inside it. The electric lights were in full blaze, the shotguns still hanging where sharpness had left it. The impromptu bed was tumbled and tossed in a man's death-agony, and at the foot of the steel door, Logan lay, curled up in a heap, and stoned dead. He would get in, Sir Henry. He'd have shot one or the other of us if we hadn't let him, said one of the outer guards, as Sir Henry and Cleak appeared. He would lie before the door and watch her. He simply would, and God have mercy on him, poor chap. He was faithful to the last. And the last might not have come for years, the fool, if he had only obeyed, said Cleak. Then lapsed into silence, and stood staring at a dust of white flower on the red-tiled floor, and at a thin, wavering line that broke the even surface of it. It was perhaps two minutes later when the entire household, mistress, guests, and servants alike came trooping across the open space between the hall and the stables in a state of semi-dezabillo. But in that brief space of time, friendly hands had reverently lifted the body of the dead man from its place before the steel door, and Sir Henry was nervously fitting the key to the lock in a frantic effort to get in and see if Black Riot was safe. "'Deus, what is it? What has happened?' cried Lady Wilding, as she came hurrying in, followed closely by Sharpless in the reverent Ambrose Smear. Then, catching sight of Logan's body, she gave a little scream and covered her eyes. "'The trainer, Andrew, the trainer, now!' she went on half hysterically. "'Another death! Another! Surely they had got the wretch at last!' "'The mare, the mare, Henry, is she safe!' exclaimed Sharpless excitedly, as he twirled away from his cousin's side and bore down upon the barrenet. "'Give me the key, your two nervos!' and, taking it from him, unlocked the steel room and passed swiftly into it. In another instant Black Riot was led out, uninjured, untouched, in the very pink of condition, and in spite of the tragedy in the dead man's presence, one or two of the guards were so carried away that they essayed a cheer. "'Stop that! Stop it instantly!' wrapped out, Sir Henry, facing round upon them. "'What's a horse? Even the best? Beside the loss of an honest life like that!' and flung out a shaking hand in the direction of dead Logan. "'It will be the story of last night over again, of course. You heard his scream, heard his fall, but he was dead when you got to him, dead, and you found no one here?' "'Not a soul, Sir Henry! The doors were all locked, no grill is missing from any window, no one is in the loft, no one in any of the stalls, no one in any crook or corner of the place. "'Send for the constable the justice of the peace, anybody!' chimed in the reverent Ambrose smear at this. "'Henry, will you never be warned? Never take these awful lessons to heart, these sinful practice of racing horses for money. "'Oh, hush, hush, don't preach me a sermon now, uncle!' interposed Sir Henry. "'My heart torn, my mind crazed by this abominable thing. Poor old Logan, poor faithful old chap. Oh!' he whirled and looked over at Clicke, who still stood inactive, staring at the flower-dusted floor. "'And they said that no mystery was too great for you to get to the bottom of it. No riddle too complex for you to find the answer. Can't you do something? Can't you suggest something? Can't you see any glimmer of light at all?' Clicke looked up, and that curious smile which Narcom knew so well, and would have known had he been there was the danger signal, looped up one corner of his mouth. "'I fancy it is all light, Sir Henry,' he said. "'I may be wrong, but I fancy it is merely a question of comparative height.' "'Do I puzzle you by that?' "'Well, let me explain. Lady Wilding there is one height, Mr. Sharpless is another, and I am a third. And if they too were to place themselves side by side and say about four inches apart, and I were to stand immediately behind them, the difference would be most apparent. There you are. Do you grasp it? Not in the least. "'Bother if I do either,' supplemented Sharpless, eat all sounds like Tommy wrought to me. "'Does it?' said Clicke. Then let me explain it by illustration.' And he walked quietly towards them. "'Lady Wilding, will you oblige me by standing here?' "'Thank you very much. Now, if you please, Mr. Sharpless, will you stand beside her ladyship, while I take up my place here, immediately behind you both? That's it, exactly. A little nearer, please, just a little, so that your left elbow touches her ladyship's right. "'Now, then.' His two hands moved briskly, there was a click-click, and after it. "'There you are. That explains it, my good, Mr. and Mrs. Filippo Buccarelli. That explains it completely.' And as he stepped aside on saying this, those who were watching, those who heard Lady Wilding's scream, and Mr. Sharpless's snarling oath, and saw them vainly try to spring apart and dart away, saw also that a steel handcuff was on the woman's right wrist, its mate on the man's left one, and that they were firmly chained together. "'In the name of heaven, man!' began Sir Henry, appalled by this, and growing red and white by rapid turns. "'I fancy that heaven has very little to do with this precious pair, Sir Henry,' interposed click. "'You want the two people who are accountable for these diabolical crimes, and there they stand?' "'What? Do you mean to tell me that Sharpless—that my wife— "'Don't give the lady a title to which she has not and never had any legal rights, Sir Henry. "'If it had ever occurred to you to emulate my example tonight and search the lady's effects, you would have found that she was christened Enrica Dolores Tochado, and that she was married to Senor Filippo Buccarelli here at Valparaiso in Chile three years ago, and that her marriage to you was merely a clever little scheme to get hold of a pot of money and share it with her rascally husband.' "'Eat a lie!' snarled out the male prisoner. "'Eat an infernal policeman's lie! You never found any such thing!' "'Pardon me, but I did,' replied click serenely. "'And what's more, I found the little file of coriander and oil of sassafras in your room, Senor, and I shall finish off the minga-worm in another ten minutes.' Buccarelli and his wife gave a mingled cry, and chained together, though they were, made a wild boat for the door, only, however, to be met on the threshold by the local constable, to whom click had dispatched a note some hours previously. "'Thank you, Mr. Filippo, to your very prompt,' he said. "'There are your prisoners, nicely trust and waiting for you. Take them away. We are quite done with them here.' "'Sir Henry,' he turned to the baronet. "'If Black Riot is fitted to win the derby, she will win it, and you need have no more fear for her safety. No one has ever, for one moment, tried to get at her. You yourself were the one that precious pair were after, and debate was your life assurance. By killing off the watchers over Black Riot one by one, they knew that there would come a time when being able to get no one else to take the risk of guarding the horse and sleeping on that bed before the steel-room door, you would do it yourself, and when that time came they would have had you.' "'But how? By what means?' "'By one of the most diabolical imaginable. Among the reptiles of Patagonia Sir Henry there is one, a species of Black Adder, known in the country as the Mingo Worm, whose bite is more deadly than that of the Rattler or the Copperhead, and as rapid in its action as Prussick Acid itself. It has, too, a great velocity of movement and a peculiar power of springing and hurling itself upon its prey. The Patagonians are a barbarous people in the main, and, like all barbarous people, are vengeful, cunning, and subtle. A favourite revenge of theirs upon unsuspecting enemies is to get within touch of them, and secretly to smear a mixture of coriander and oil of sassafras upon some part of their bodies, and then either to lure or drive them into the forest. For by a peculiar arrangement of mother nature this mixture has a fascination, a maddening effect upon the Mingo Worm, just as a red rag has on a bull, and enraged by the scent it finds the spot smeared with it and delivers its deadly bite. Good Heaven! How horrible! And you mean to tell me that they employed one of these deadly reptiles in this case? Yes, Sir Henry. I suspected it the very moment I smelt the odour of the coriander and sassafras, but I suspected that an animal or a reptile of some kind was at the bottom of the mystery at a prior period. That is why I wanted the flower. Look, do you see where I sifted it over this spot near the Patagonian plant? And do you see those serpentine tracks through the middle of it? The Mingo Worm is there, in that box at the roots of that plant. Now, see, he caught up a horse-blanket, spread it on the floor, lifted the box and plant, set them down in the middle of it, and with a quick gathering up of the ends of the blanket, converted it into a bag, and tied it round with a hitching strap. Get spades, forks, anything, and dig a hole outside in the paddock. He went on. A deep hole, a yard deep at the least. Then get some straws, some paraffin, turpentine, anything that will burn furiously and quickly, and we will soon finish the little beast. The servants flew to a bay, and when the hole was dug, he carried the bag out and lowered it carefully into it, covered it with straw, drenched this with a gallon or more of lamp oil, and rapidly applied a match to it, and sprang back. A moment later, those who were watching saw a small black snake make an ineffectual effort to leap out of the blazing mass, fall back into the flames, and disappear for ever. The method of procedure said Creeke, answering the Baronet's query, as the latter was pouring out what he called a nerve-settler prior to following the reverent Ambrose's example and going to bed. Very cunning and yet very, very simple, Sir Henry. Buccarelli made a practice, as I saw this evening, of helping the chosen watcher to make his bed on the floor in front of the door to the steel room. But during the time he was removing the blankets from the cupboard, his plan was to smear them with the coriander and sassafras, and so arranged the top blanket that, when the watcher lay done, the stuff touched his neck or throat, and made that the point of attack for the snake, whose fangs make a small, round spot, not bigger than a knitting needle, which is easily passed over by those not used to looking for such a thing. There was such a spot on Tolliver's throat, such another at the base of Merple's skull, and there is a third in poor Logan's left temple. No, thank you, no more to-night, Sir Henry. Alcohol and I are never more than speaking acquaintances at the best of times, but if you really wish to do me a kindness. I don't think there is room to doubt that, Mr. Clicke. If I am certain of anything in this world, I am certain of Black Riot's success on Wednesday, and that success I feel I shall own to you. Money can't offset some debts, you know, and if there is anything in the world I can do, you have only to let me know. Thank you, said Clicke. Then invite me to spend tomorrow here, and give me the freedom of those superb gardens. My senses are drunk already with the scent of your hyacinths, and if I might have a day among them, I should be as near happy as makes no difference. He had his day, breaking it only to phone up to Clarge's street, and quiet any possible fears upon Dollop's part. And if ever man was satisfied, that man was he. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Of Clicke the Man of the Forty Faces This LibriVox recording is in the public domain, recording by Ruth Golding. Clicke the Man of the Forty Faces by Thomas W. Hanshaw Chapter 15 It was late on the afternoon of the day following when he turned up at Clarge's street, and threw Dollop's into a very trance-bort of delight at the bare sight of him. Crumbs, Governor, but I am glad to see you, sir! said the boy, with a look of positive adoration. A fish out of water ain't a pact to what I've felt like Lord Know. Why, sir, it's the first time you've ever been away from me since you took me on. And the dreams I've had is enough to drive a body fair, Dotty. I've seen parties as sticking knives in your back, and putting poison in your food, and doing the Lord knows what not to you, sir. And every blessed nerve in my body has been a doing of a constant shake, like a jellyfish on a cold day. Clicke laughed, and catching him by the shoulder, whirled him round, looked at him, and then clapped him on the back. Look here! Don't you get to worrying and to developing nerves, young man? he said. Or I shall have to ship you off somewhere for a long rest, and I'm just beginning to feel as if I couldn't do without you. What you want is a change, and what I want is the river, so, if there is no message from the yard, there isn't, sir. Good! Then phone through to Mr. Narcombe, and tell him that you and I are going for a few days up the river, as far as Henley, and that we're going to break it on Wednesday to go to the Derby. Gavner! God's truth, sir! You aren't never going to give me two such treats as that! From now till Thursday, with just you! Just you, sir! Oh, go bar me on the crumpet! I'll get to sticking straws in me blooming air! You get to the telephone, and send that message to the yard, if you know when you're well off! said Cleeke, laughing. And after that, out with the kitbag, and in with such things as we shall need. And, oh, no! What's this thing? A necktie and a rose-bush, what I took the liberty of buying for you, sir. Being as you give me ten shillings for myself, said Dollops sheepishly. I've been a-keeping of my arm at Rose-bush and that necktie for a week, sir. I hope you'll take him, Gavner, and not think me presuming, sir. Cleeke faced round and looked at him. A long look, without saying anything. Then he screwed round on his heel and walked to the window. It is very nice and very thoughtful of you, Dollops. He said presently, his voice a little thick, his tones a little uneven. But don't be silly and waste your money, my lad. Lay it by. You may need it one day. Now, toddle on and get things ready for our arting. But afterwards, when the boy had gone and he was alone in the room, he walked back to the potted rose-bush and touched its buds lovingly, and stood leaning over it and saying nothing for a long time. And though the necktie that hung on its branches was a harlequin thing of red and green and violent purple, when he came to dress for that promised arting, he put it on and adjusted it as tenderly, wore it as proudly as ever night of old wore the colours of his lady. You look a fair tree in it, sir, said Dollops delightedly and admiringly, when he came in later and saw that he had it on. And if anything had been wanting to make him quite, quite happy, it was wanting no more. Or, if it had been, the night that came down and found them housed in a little old world in, with a shining river at its door and the hush and the odorous darkness of the country lanes about it, must of itself have supplied the omission. For when all the house was still and all the lights were out, he crept from his bed and curled up like a dog on the mat before Cleek's door, and would not have changed places with an emperor. They were up and on the river master and man almost as soon as the dawn itself, taking their morning plunge under a sky that was but just changing the tints of rose to those of Saffron, before they merged into the actual light of day. And to the boy the man seemed almost a god in that dim light, which showed but an ivory shoulder lifting now and again as he struck outwards and deft his way through a yielding yellow-gray waist that lept in little lilac-hued ripples to his chin, and then swavoured off behind him in dancing lines of light. And once, when he heard him lift up his voice and sing as he swam, he felt sure that he must be a god, that that alone could explain why he had found him so different from other men, and cared for him as he had never cared for any human thing before. From dawn to dark that day was one of unalloyed delight to him. Never before had the starved soul of him fed all his life when it was fed at all from the drippings of the flesh-pots and the leavings of the city found any savor in the insipid offerings of the country. Never before had he known what charms lie on a river's breast, what spells of magic a blossoming hedge and the white candles of a horse-chestnut tree may weave, and never before had a meadow been anything to him but a simple grass-grown field. Today nature, through this man who was so essentially bred in the very womb of her, spoke to his understanding, and found her words not lost on air. The dormant things within the boy had awakened, life spoke, hope sang, and between them all the world was changed. Yesterday he had looked upon this day of idling in the country, as a pleasant interlude, as a happy prologue to those greater delights that would come when he at last went to Epsom and really saw the famous race for the Derby. Today he was sorry that anything, even so greater thing as that, must come to disturb such placid happiness as this. And yet when the wondrous Wednesday came, and he was actually on his way to Epsom dance at last, ah well, joy is elastic, use is a time of many dreams, and who blames a boy for being delighted that one of them is coming true at last? Cleek did not at all events. Indeed, Cleek aided and abetted him in all his boisterous outbursts from first to last, and was quite as excited as he when the event of the meeting, the great race for the famous Derby stakes, was put up at last. Indeed he was a bit wilder, if anything, than the boy himself when the flag fell, and the whole field swept by in one thunderous rush, with Minnow in the lead, and Black Riot farmed away behind. Nor did his excitement abate when, as the whole cavalcade swung onwards over the green turf, with the yelling thousands waving and shouting about it, Sir Henry Wilding's mayor began to lessen that lead, and foot by foot to creep up towards the head. He shouted then as wildly as dollops himself, as wildly as any man present. He jumped up on his seat and waved his hat. He thumped dollops on the back and cried, She's creeping up! She's creeping up! Stick to it, old chap! Stick to it! Give her a head, you fool! She'll do it! By God, she'll do it! Hurrah! Hurrah! And was shouted down, and even seized, and pulled down by others whose view he obstructed, and whose interest and excitement were as great as his. Onwards they flew horses and riders, the whole pounding, mixing, ever-changing mass of them. Jackets and caps of every hue, flashing here and there, now in a huddled mass, now with this one in the lead, and again with that. A fast, ever-moving, ever-altering kaleidoscope that was presently hidden entirely from the main mass of the onlookers by the surging crowd. The mass of drags and carriages of all sorts in the huge square of the central enclosure, and most of all by the people who stood up on seats and wheels and even the tops of the vehicles. Then, for a little time, the roars came from a distance only, from those in the enclosure who alone could see. Then neared and neared and grew in volume as the unseen racers pounded onward, and came pelting up the long stretch towards Tatterham Corner. And by and by they swung into view again, still the huddled mass, still so closely packed together that the positions of the individual horses was a matter of uncertainty. But always the roaring sound went on, and always it came nearer and nearer, until a thousand voices took it up at the foot of the grandstand, and other thousands bellowed it up and up from tear to tear to the very roof. For, of a sudden, that blaze of caps and jackets, that huddle of horses red and horses gray, horses black and horses rown, piebald, white—every colour that a horse may be—had come at last to Tatterham Corner, and burst into the full view of everybody. Yet as they came, a black mare, hugging the railed enclosure on the inner side of the sweep, arrowed forward with a sudden spurt, came like a rocket to the fore, and all the earth and all the sky seemed to ring with the cry, Wilding! Wilding! Black riot leads! Black riot leads! She did, and kept it to the end. In half a minute her number was up, yelling thousands were tumbling out upon the fields to cheer her, to cheer her rider, to cheer her proud owner, when he came out to lead her to the paddock and the weighing-room, and to feel in that moment the proudest and the happiest man in England. And of those not the least excited and delighted was Cleek. Carried away by enthusiasm he had risen again in his seat, and with his hat held aloft upon a walking stick was waving and stamping and shouting enthusiastically, Black riot wins! Black riot! Black riot! Bully boy! Bully boy! And so he was still shouting when he felt a hand touch him, and looking round saw Mr. Narcombe. Ripping wasn't it, old chap? said the superintendent. No wonder you're excited, considering what interest you have. Been looking for you, my dear fellow. Knew, of course, from your telling me that you would be here today, but shouldn't have been able to identify you but for the presence of young dollops here. I say you're not going to stop now that the great race is over, are you? The rest won't amount to anything. No, I shall not stop, said Cleek. Why, do you want me? Yes. Leonard's outside with the limousine. Hop into it, will you, and meet me at the fiddland horseshoe between Shepard's Bush and Acton. It's only half past three, and the limousine can cover the distance in less than no time. Can't go with you. Got to round up my men here first. Join you shortly, however. Merk Tavish has a sixty-horsepower Mercedes, and he'll rush me over almost on your heels. Let dollops go home by train, and you'll meet me as I've asked, will you? Yes, said Cleek. And so the joyous holiday came to an unexpected end. Parting from dollops and leaving the boy to journey on to Clarges Street alone, he fared forth to find Leonard and the red limousine, and was whirled away in record time to the inn of the fiddland horseshoe. CHAPTER XVI It had but just gone five when Narcom walked into the little bar, Parler, and found him standing there, looking out on the quaint old-fashioned bowling green that lay all steeped in sunshine, and zoned with the froth of pear and apple blossoms, thick piled above the time-stained bricks of an enclosing wall. What a model of punctuality you are, old chap! The superintendent said, nodding approvingly, wait a moment while I go and order tea, and then we'll get down to business in real earnest, shan't be long. Pray don't hurry yourself on my account, Mr. Narcom, returned Cleek, coming down to earth out of a mental airship. I could do with another hour of that, nodding toward the view, and still wonder where the time had gone. These quaint old inns, which the march of what we are pleased to call progress, is steadily crowding off the face of the land, are always deeply interesting to me. I love them. What a day! What a picture! What a sky! As blue as what dollops calls the merry geranium's sea! I'd give a Jew's eye for a handful of those apple blossoms. They are divine. Narcom hastened from the room without replying, the strain of poetry underlying the character of this strange, inscrutable man, his amazing love of nature, his moments of almost womanish weakness and sentiment astonished and mystified him. It was as if a hawk had acquired the utterly useless trick of fluting like a nightingale, and, being himself wholly without imagination, he could not comprehend it in the smallest degree. When he returned a few minutes later, however, the idealist seemed to have simmered down into the materialist, the extraordinary to have become merged in the ordinary, for he found his famous ally no longer studying the beauties of nature, but giving his whole attention to the sordid common places of man. For he was standing before a glaringly printed bill, one of many that were tacked upon the walls, which set forth in amazing pictures and double-leaded type the wonders that were to be seen daily and nightly at Olympia, where, for a month past, Van Zandt's royal Belgian circus and world-famed menagerie had been holding forth to crowded and delighted audiences. Much was made of two star turns upon this lurid bill, Mamzelle Marie de Zanoni, the beautiful and peerless bear-back equestrian, the most daring lady rider in the universe, for the one, and for the other Chevalier Adrienne di Roma, king of the animal world with his great aggregation of savage and ferocious wild beasts, including the famous man-eating African lion Nero, the largest and most ferocious animal of its species in captivity. And under this latter announcement there was a picture of a young and handsome man literally smothered with medals, lying at full length with his arms crossed, and his head in the wide-open jaws of a snarling wild-eyed lion. My dear chap, you really do make me believe that there actually is such a thing as instinct, said Narcum as he came in. Fancy your selecting that particular bill out of all the others in the room. What an abnormal individual you are. Why, has it anything to do with the case you have in hand? Anything to do with it, my dear fellow, it is the case. I can't imagine what drew your attention to it. Can't you? said Clicke, with a half smile. Then he stretched forth his hand and touched the word Nero with the tip of his forefinger. That did. Things awaken a man's memory occasionally, Mr. Narcum, and tell me, isn't that the beast there was such a stir about in the newspapers a fortnight or so ago? The lion that crushed the head of a man in full view of the audience. Yes, replied Narcum with a slight shudder. Awful thing, wasn't it? Gave me the creeps to read about it. The chap who was killed, poor beggar, was a mere boy, not twenty, son of the Chevalier de Roma himself. Now, there's a great stir about it. Talk of the authorities forbidding the performance and all that sort of thing. They never did, however, for on investigation. Ah, the tea at last, thank fortune. Come, sit down, my dear fellow, and we'll talk whilst we refresh ourselves. Landlady, see that we're not disturbed, will you, and that nobody is admitted but the parties I mentioned. Clients, queried Clicke, as the door closed and they were alone together. Yes, one Mamzel Zilly, the Chevalier's only daughter, a slack-wire artist, the other Signor Scarmelli, a trapeze performer, who is the Lady Fiancée. Ah, then our friend the Chevalier is not so young as the picture on the bill would have us believe he is. No, he is not. As a matter of fact, he's considerably past forty and is, or rather was, up to six months ago, a widower with three children, two sons, and a daughter. I suppose, said Clicke, helping himself to a buttered scorn, I am to infer from what you say that at the period you mentioned, six months ago, the intrepid gentleman showed his courage yet more forcibly by taking a second wife, young or old. Young, said Narcum in reply. Very young, not yet four and twenty, in fact, and very, very beautiful. That is she who is featured on the bill as the star of the equestrian part of the program, Mamzel Marie de Zanoni. So far as I've been able to gather, the affair was a love match. The lady, it appears, had no end of suitors both in and out of the profession. It has even been hinted that she could, had she been so minded, have married an impressionable young Austrian nobleman of independent means who was madly in love with her. But she appears to have considered it preferable to become an old man's darling, so to speak, and to have selected the middle-aged chevalier rather than someone whose age is nearer her own. Nothing new in that, Mr. Narcum. Young women before Mamzel Marie de Zanoni's day have been known to love elderly men sincerely. Young Mrs. Baudry, in the case of the nine-fingered skeleton, is an example of that. Still, such marriages are not common, I admit, so when they occur one naturally looks to see if there may not be other considerations at the bottom of the attachment. Is the chevalier well to do, as he expectations of any kind? To the contrary, he has nothing but the salary he earns, which is by no means so large as the public imagines. And as he comes of a long line of circus performers, all of whom died early and poor, expectations, as you put it, do not enter into the affair at all. Apparently the lady did marry him for love of him, as she professes, and as he imagines. Although, if what I hear is true, it would appear that she has lately outgrown that love, in short, that a Romeo more suitable to her age has recently joined the show, in the person of a rider called Signore Antonio Martinelli, that he has fallen desperately in love with her, and that— He bit off his words short and rose to his feet. The door had opened suddenly to admit a young man and a young woman, who entered in a state of nervous excitement. Ah, my dear Mr. Scarmelli, you and Miss Elia are most welcome," continued the superintendent. My friend and I were this moment talking about you. Cleak glanced across the room, and as was customary with him, made up his mind instantly. The girl, despite her association with the arena, was a modest, unaffected little thing of about a team. The man was a straight-looking, clear-eyed, boyish-faced young fellow of about eight and twenty, well, but by no means flashily, dressed, and carrying himself with the air of one who respects himself, and demands the respect of others. He was evidently an Englishman, despite his Italian nom de théâtre, and Cleak decided out of hand that he liked him. We can shelve George Headland in his instance, Mr. Narcombe, he said, as the superintendent led forward the pair for the purpose of introducing them, and suffered himself to be presented in the name of Cleak. The effect of this was electrical. Would, in fact, had he been a vain man, have been sufficient to gratify him to the fullest, for the girl, with a little— Oh! of amazement, drew back, and stood looking at him with a sort of awe that rounded her eyes and parted her lips. While the man leaned heavily upon the back of a convenient chair, and looked and acted as one utterly overcome. Cleak, he repeated, after a moment's despairful silence. You, sir, of that great man? This is a misfortune indeed. A misfortune, my friend? Why a misfortune, pray? Do you think the riddle you have brought is beyond my powers? Oh, no! Not that! Never that! he made reply. If there is any one man in the world who could get at the bottom of it, could solve the mystery of the lion's change, the lion's smile, you are that man, sir, you. That is the misfortune, that you could do it, and yet I cannot expect it, cannot avail myself of this great opportunity. Look, I am doing it all on my own initiative, sir, all for the sake of Zellie and that dear lovable old chap her father. I have saved fifty-eight pounds, Mr. Cleak. I had hoped that that might attempt to clever detective to take up the case. But what is such a sum to such a man as you? If that is all that stands in the way, don't let it worry you, my good fellow, said Cleak, with a smile. Put your fifty-eight pounds in your pocket against your wedding day, and good luck to you. I'll take the case for nothing. Now, then, what is it? What the dickens did you mean just now when you spoke about the lion's change, and the lion's smile? What lion, Nero? Here, sit down, and tell me all about it. There is little enough to tell heaven knows, said young Scarmele, with a sigh, accepting the invitation after he had gratefully wrung Cleak's hand, and his fiancée, with a burst of happy tears, had caught it up as it slipped from his, and had covered it with thankful kisses. That, Mr. Cleak, is where the greatest difficulty lies. There is so little to explain that has any bearing upon the matter at all. It is only that the lion, Nero, that is, the Chevalier's special pride and special pet, seems to have undergone some great and inexplicable change, as though he is, at times, under some evil spell, which lasts but a moment, and yet makes that moment a tragical one. It began, no one knows why nor how, two weeks ago, when, without hint or warning, he killed the person he loved best in all the world, the Chevalier's eldest son. Doubtless you have heard of that. Yes, said Cleak. But what you are now telling me sheds a new light upon the matter. Am I to understand, then, that all that talk on the bills and in the newspapers about the lion being a savage and a dangerous one is not true, and that he really is attached to his owner and his owner's family? That is the truth, replied Scarmelli. Nero is, in fact, the gentlest, most docile, most intelligent beast of his kind living. In short, so there's not a bite in him. And added to that, he is over thirty years old. Zellie, Miss Dioroma, will tell you that he was born in captivity, that from his earliest moment he has been the pet of her family. That he was, so to speak, raised with her and her brothers. That as children they often slept with him, that he will follow those he loves like any dog, fight for them, protect them, let them tweak his ears and pull his tail without showing the slightest resentment, even though they may actually hurt him. Indeed, he is so general a favourite, Mr. Cleak, that there isn't an attendant connected with the show who would not, and indeed has not at some time, put his head in the beast's mouth, just as the chivalier does in public, certain that no harm could possibly come of the act. You may judge, then, sir, what a shock, what a horrible surprise it was, when the tragedy of two weeks ago occurred. Often, to add zest to the performance, the chivalier varies it by allowing his children to put their heads into Nero's mouth, instead of doing so himself, merely making a fake of it that he has the lion under such control that he will respect any command given by him. That is what happened on that night. Young Henri was chosen to put his head into Nero's mouth, and did so without fear or hesitation. He took the beast's jaws and pulled them apart and laid his head within them, as he had done a hundred times before. But of a sudden, an appalling, an uncanny thing happened. It was as though some supernatural power laid hold of the beast, and made a thing of horror of what a moment before had been a noble-looking animal. For suddenly a strange hissing noise issued from its jaws, its lips curled upward until it smiled. Smiled, Mr. Kleeke. Oh, the ghastliest, most awful, most blood-curdling smile imaginable. And then, with a sort of mingled snarl and bark, it clamped its jaws together and crushed the boy's head as though it were an eggshell. He put up his hands, and covered his eyes as if to shut out some appalling vision. And for a moment or two nothing was heard but the low sobbing of the victim's sister. Oh, suddenly as that change had come over the beast, Mr. Kleeke, Scarbelly went on presently. Just so suddenly it passed, and it was the docile affectionate animal it had been for years. It seemed to understand that some harm had befallen its favourite, for Henri was its favourite, and curling itself up beside his body licked his hands, and moaned disconsolently in a manner almost human. That's all there is to tell, sir. Save that at times the horrid change, the appalling smile repeat themselves when either the chivalier or his son bend to put a head within its jaws. And but for their watchfulness and quickness the tragedy of that other awful night would surely be repeated. Sir, it is not natural. I know now, as surely as if the lion itself had spoken, that some one is at the bottom of this ghastly thing. That some human agency is at work. Some unknown enemy of the chivaliers is doing something God alone knows what or why, to bring about his death as his sons was brought about. And here, for the first time, the chivalier's daughter spoke. Ah, tell him all, Jim. Tell him all, she said in her pretty broken English. Monsieur, may the good God in heaven forgive me if I wrong her. But, but, ah, Monsieur Clique, sometimes I feel at she, my stepmother and that man, that rider, who knows not how to ride as the artist should, monsieur. I cannot help it, but I feel that they are at the bottom of it. Yes, but why, queried Clique, I have heard of your father's second marriage, Mamzelle, and of this senior Antonio Martinelli to whom you allude, Mr. Narcum has told me. But why should you connect these two persons with this inexplicable thing? Does your father do so too? Oh no, oh no, she answered excitedly. He does not even know that we suspect Jim and I. He loves her, Monsieur. It would kill him to doubt her. Then why should you? Because I cannot help it, Monsieur, God knows I would if I could, for I care for her dearly. I am grateful to her for making my father happy. My brother's too cared for her. We believed she loved him. We believed it was because of that she married him. And yet, and yet, oh Monsieur, how can I fail to feel as I do when this change in the lion came with that man's coming? And she, oh Monsieur, she is always with him. Why does she carry favor of him and his rich friend? He has a rich friend then. Yes Monsieur, the company was in difficulties. Monsieur Van Zandt, the proprietor, could not make it pay. And it was upon the point of disbanding. But suddenly, this indifferent performer, this rider, who is after all but a poor amateur and not fit to appear with the company of trained artists, suddenly this senior Martinelli comes to Monsieur Van Zandt to say that if he will engage him, he has a rich friend, one senior Esperati, a Brazilian coffee planter who will back the show with his money and buy a partnership in it. Of course, Monsieur Van Zandt accepted, and since then, this senior Esperati has traveled everywhere with us, as at the entree like one of us and his friend, the bad rider, has fairly bewitched my stepmother, for she is ever with him, ever with them both, and, and, oh mon Dieu, the lion smiles and my people die. Why does it smile for no others? Why is it only they, my father, my brother, they alone? Yes, that a fact, said Clicke, turning to young Scarmelli. You say that all connected with the circus have so little fear of the beast that even attendants sometimes do this foolhardy trick? Does the lion never smile for any of those? Never, Mr. Clicke, never under any circumstances, nor does it always smile for the Chevalier and his son. That is the mystery of it. One never knows when it is going to happen. One never knows why it does happen, but if you could see that uncanny smile, I should like to, interposed Clicke, that is, if it might happen without any tragical result. Hmm, nobody but the Chevalier and the Chevalier's son, and when does it happen in their case, during the course of the show, or when there is nobody about but those connected with it? Oh, always during the course of the entertainment, sir. Indeed, it has never happened at any other time, never at all. Uh-huh, said Clicke. Then it is only when they are dressed and made up for the performance, eh? Hmm, I see. Then he relapsed into silence for a moment, and sat tracing circles on the floor with the toe of his boot. But of a sudden, you came here directly after the matinee, I suppose. He queried, glancing up at young Scar Melly. Yes. In fact, before it was wholly over. I see. Then it is just possible that all the performers have not yet got into their civilian clothes. Couldn't manage to take me round behind the scenes, so to speak, if Mr. Narkham will lend us his motor to hurry us there. Good, eh? That's good. I think I'd like to have a look at that lion, and if you don't mind, an introduction to the party's concerned. No, don't fear. We won't startle anybody by revealing my identity or the cause of the visit. Let us say that I am a vet, to whom you have appealed for an opinion regarding Nero's queer conduct. Already, Mr. Narkham? Thanks. Then let's be off. Two minutes later the red limousine was at the door, and stepping into it with his two companions he was whizzed away to Olympia, and the first step towards the solution of the riddle. End of Chapter 16 Chapter 17 of Cleak the Man of the Forty Faces This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding Cleak the Man of the Forty Faces by Thomas W. Handshugh Chapter 17 As it is the custom of those connected with the world of the circus to eat, sleep, have their whole being as it were within the environment of the show, to the total exclusion of hotels, boarding houses, or outside lodgings of any sort, he found on his arrival at his destination the entire company assembled in what was known as the living tent. Chatting, laughing, reading, playing games, and killing time generally, whilst waiting for the call to the dining tent. And this gave him an opportunity to meet all the persons connected with the case, from the chevalier himself to the Brazilian coffee-planter who was backing the show. He found this latter individual a somewhat sullen and taciturn man of middle age, who had more the appearance of an Austrian than a Brazilian, and with a swinging gate and an uprightness of bearing which were not to be misunderstood. Hmm! known military training was Cleak's mental comment as soon as he saw the man walk. Got it in Germany too, I know that peculiar swing. What's his little game, I wonder? And what's a Brazilian doing in the army of the Kaiser? And having been in it, what's he doing dropping into this line backing a circus and travelling with it like a bohemian? But although these thoughts interested him, he did not put them into words nor take anybody into his confidence regarding them. As for the other members of the company, he found the indifferent rider known as Sr. Antonio Martinelli, an undoubted Irishman of about thirty years of age, extremely handsome, but with a certain shiftiness of the eye which was far from inspiring confidence, and with a trick of the tongue which suggested that his baptismal certificate probably bore the name of Antony Martin. He found too that all he had heard regarding the use and beauty of the Chevalier's second wife was quite correct, and although she devoted herself a great deal to the Brazilian coffee-planter and the Irish-Italian Martinelli, she had a way of looking over at her middle-aged spouse, without his knowledge, that left no doubt in Cleak's mind regarding the real state of her feelings towards the man. And last, but not least by any means, he found the Chevalier himself a frank, open-minded, open-hearted, lovable man, who ought not, in the natural order of things, to have an enemy in the world. Despite his highfalutin non de théâtre, he was Belgian, a big, soft-hearted, easygoing, unsuspicious fellow, who worshipped his wife, adored his children, and loved every creature of the animal world. How well that love was returned, Cleak saw, when he went with him, to that part of the building where his animals were kept, and watched them nose his hand, or lick his cheek, whenever the opportunity offered. But Nero the lion was, perhaps, the greatest surprise of all. For so tame, so docile, so little feared was the animal, that its cage-door was open, and they found one of the attendant squatting cross-legged inside, and playing with it, as though it were a kitten. There he is, doctor," said the Chevalier, waving his hand towards the beast. Ah, I will not believe that it was anything but an accident, sir. He loved my boy. He would hurt no one that is kind to him. Fetch him out, Tom, and let the doctor see him at close quarters. Despite all these assurances of the animal's docility, Cleak could not but remember what the creature had done. And, in consequence, did not feel quite at ease when it came lumbering out of the cage with the attendant, and ranged up alongside of him, rubbing its huge head against the Chevalier's arm after the manner of an affectionate cat. Don't be frightened, sir," said Tom, noticing this. Nothing more than a big dog, sir. I had to care of him for eight years, I have. Have a nice Chevalier. And never a growl or scratch out of him. No smile for your old Tom, is there, near-o boy, eh? No fear. Ain't a thing as anybody does with him, sir, that I wouldn't do off-hand and feel quite safe. Even to putting your head in his mouth, queried Cleak. Lord, yes! returned the man with a laugh. That's nothing. Done it many a day. Look here. With that he pulled the massive jaws apart, and, bending down, laid his head within them. The lion stood perfectly passive, and did not offer to close his mouth until it was again empty. It was then that Cleak remembered and glanced round at young Scarmelli. He never smiles for any but the Chevalier and his son, I believe you said, he remarked. I wonder if the Chevalier himself would be as safe if he were to make a faint of doing that. For the Chevalier, like most of the other performers, had not changed his dress after the matinee, since the evening performance was soon to begin, and if, as Cleak had an idea that the matter of costumed makeup had anything to do with the mystery of the thing, here surely was a chance to learn. Make a faint of it. Certainly I will, doctor," the Chevalier replied. But why a faint? Why not the actual thing? No, please. At least, not until I have seen how the beast is likely to take it. Just put your head down close to his muzzle, Chevalier. Go slow, please, and keep your head at a safe distance. The Chevalier obeyed. Bringing his head down until it was on a level with the animal's own, he opened the ponderous jaws. The beast was as passive as before, and finding no trace of the coming of the mysterious and dreaded smile, he laid his face between the double row of gleaming teeth, held it there a moment, and then withdrew it, uninjured. Cleak took his chin between his thumb and forefinger, and pinched it hard. What he had just witnessed would seem to refute the idea of either costume or makeup having any bearing upon the case. Did you do that today at the matinee performance, Chevalier? He hazarded, after a moment's thoughtfulness. Oh, yes, he replied. It was not my plan to do so, however. I alter my performance constantly to give variety. Today I had arranged for my little son to do the trick, but somehow, ah, I am a foolish ma monsieur. I have odd fancies, odd whims, sometimes odd fears, since that awful night. Something came over me at the last moment, just as my boy came into the cage to perform the trick I changed my mind. I would not let him do it. I thrust him aside, and did the trick myself. Oh, how! said Cleak. Will the boy do it tonight, then, Chevalier? Perhaps, he made reply, he is still dressed for it. Look, here he comes now, monsieur, and my wife, and some of our good friends with him. Ah, they are so interested, they are anxious to hear what report you make upon Nero's condition. Cleak glanced round. Several members of the company were advancing towards them from the living tent. In the lead was the boy, a little fellow of about twelve years of age, fancifully dressed in tights and tunic. By his side was his stepmother, looking pale and anxious. But although both Signor Martinelli and the Brazilian coffee-planter came to the edge of the tent and looked out, it was observable that they immediately withdrew, and allowed the rest of the party to proceed without them. Dearest, I have just heard from Tom that you and the doctor are experimenting with Nero, said the Chevalier's wife, as she came up with the others and joined him. Oh, do be careful, do. Much as I like the animal doctor, I shall never feel safe until my husband parts with it or gives up that ghastly trick. My dearest, my dearest, how absurdly you talk! interrupted her husband. You know well that without that my act would be common place, that no manager would want either it or me, and how brave should we live if that were to happen. There would always be my salary, we could make that too, as if I would consent to live upon your earnings and add nothing myself. No, no, I shall never do that, never. It is not as though that foolish dream of long ago had come true, and I might hope one day to retire, I am of the circus, and of it I shall always remain. I wish you might not. I wish the dream might come true even yet," she made reply. Why shouldn't it? Wilder ones have come true for other people. Why should they not for you? Before her husband could make any response to this, the whole trend of the conversation was altered by the boy. Father, he said, am I to do the trick tonight? Senor Sparati says it is silly of me to sit about or dress unready if I am to do nothing, like a little super, instead of a performer and an artist. Oh, but that is not kind of the senor to say that. His father replied, soothing his ruffled feelings. You are an artist, of course. Never, super, no, never. But if you shall do the trick or not, I cannot say. It will depend, as it did at the matinee. If I feel it is right, you shall do it. But if I feel it is wrong, then it must be no. You see, doctor, catching Creeks' eye, what a little enthusiasm he is, and with how little fear. Yes, I do see Chevalier, but I wonder if he would be willing to humour me in something. As he is not afraid, I have an odd fancy to see how he'd go about the thing. Would you mind letting him make the faint you yourself made a few minutes ago? Only, I must insist, that in this instant it be nothing more than a faint, Chevalier. Don't let him go too near at the time of doing it. Don't let him open the lion's jaws with his own hands. You do that. Do you mind? Off a certainty not, monsieur. Gustave, show the good doctor how you go about it, when papa lets you do the trick. But you are not really to do it just yet. As he spoke, he divided the lion's jaws and signalled the child to bend. He obeyed. Very slowly the little head drooped nearer to the gaping, full-fanged mouth. Very slowly and very carefully, for Cleek's hand was on the boy's shoulder, Cleek's eyes were on the lion's face. The huge brute was as meek and as undisturbed as before, and there was actual kindness in its fixed eyes. But all of a sudden, when the child's head was on a level with those gaping jaws, the lips curled backward in a ghastly parody of a smile. A weird uncanny sound whizzed through the bared teeth. The passive body bolted us with a shock, and Cleek had just time to snatch the boy back when the great jaws struck together with a snap that would have splintered a skull of iron had they closed upon it. The hideous and mysterious smile had come again. And brief though it was, its passing found the boy's sister lying on the ground in a dead faint. The boy's stepmother cowering back with covered eyes and shrill afrighted screams, and the boy's father leaning shaken and white against the empty case and nursing a bleeding hand. In an instant the whole place was in an uproar. It smiled again! It smiled again! Ran in broken gasps from lip to lip. But through it all, Cleek stood there, clutching the frightened child close to him, but not saying one word, not making one sound. Across the dark arena came a rush of running footsteps, and presently Senors Berati came panting up, breathless and pale with excitement. What's the matter? What's wrong? he cried. Is he the lion again? Is the boy killed? Speak up! No, said Cleek very quietly, nor will he be. The father will do the trick tonight, not the son. We've had a fright and a lesson, that's all. And putting the sobbing child from him, he caught young Scarmelli's arm and hurried him away. Take me somewhere that we can talk in safety, he said. We are on the threshold of the end, Scarmelli, and I want your help. Oh, Mr. Cleek! Have you any idea? Any clue? Yes, more than a clue. I know how, but I have not yet discovered why. Now, if you know, tell me, what did the Chevalier mean? What did his wife mean, when they spoke of a dream that might have come true but didn't? Do you know? Have you any idea? Or, if you have not, do you think your fiancé has? Why, yes, he made reply. Zellie has told me about it often. It is of a fortune that was promised and never materialised. Oh, such a long time ago, when he was quite a young man, the Chevalier saved the life of a very great man, a Prussian nobleman of great wealth. He was profuse in his thanks and his promises that nobleman swore that he would make him independent for life and all that sort of thing. And didn't. No, he didn't. After a dozen letters, promising the Chevalier things that almost turned his head, the man dropped him entirely. In the midst of his dreams of wealth a letter came from the old skin-flint steward, enclosing him the sum of six hundred marks, and telling him that as his master had come to the conclusion that wealth would be more of a curse than a blessing to a man of his class and station, he had thought better of his rash promise. He begged to tender the enclosed as a proper and sufficient reward for the service rendered, and should not trouble the young man any further. Of course, the Chevalier didn't reply, who would, after having been promised wealth, education, everything one had confessed at one most desired? Being young, high-spirited, and bitterly, bitterly disappointed, the Chevalier bundled the six hundred marks back without a single word, and that was the last he ever heard of the Baron von Steinheite from that day to this. The Baron von Steinheite! repeated clique, pulling himself up as though he had trodden upon something. Do you mean to say that the man whose life he saved, Scarmelli, tell me something, does it happen by any chance that the Chevalier di Roma's real name is Peter Janssen Pullen? —Yes—said Scarmelli in reply. That is his name. Why? —Nothing, but that it solves the riddle, and the lion has smiled for the last time. No, don't ask me any questions, there isn't time to explain. Get me as quickly as you can to the place where we left Mr. Narcombe's motor. Will this way lead me out? Thanks. Get back to the others, and look for me again in two hours' time, and, Scarmelli— —Yes, sir? —One last word. Don't let that boy get out of your sight for one instant, and don't, no matter at what cost, let the Chevalier do his turn to-night before I get back. Good-bye for a time. I'm off. Then he moved, like a fleetly passing shadow round the angle of the building, and two minutes later he was with Narcombe in the red limousine. To the German embassy as fast as we can fly, he said, as he scrambled in. I've something to tell you about that lion's smile, Mr. Narcombe, and I'll tell you it while we're on the wing. End of Chapter 17 Chapter 18 of Clicke, The Man of the Forty Faces This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Recording by Ruth Golding Clicke, The Man of the Forty Faces by Thomas W. Hanshaw Chapter 18 It was nine o'clock and after. The great show at Olympia was at its height. The packed house was roaring with delight over the daring equestrionship of Mme Zell Marie de Zannoni, and the sound of the cheers rolled in to the huge dressing tent where the artists awaited their several turns, and the chivalier, in spangled trunks and tights, all ready for his call, sat hugging his child, and shivering like a man with the ague. Come, come, bug up, man, and don't funk it like these, said Senor Spirati, who had graciously consented to assist him with his dressing, because of the injury to his hand. The idea of you losing your nerve, you of all men, and because of a little affair like that, you know very well that Nero is as safe as a kitten tonight, that he never has two smiling turns in the same week, much less the same day. Your act, the next on the programme, buck up and go at it like a man. I can't, Senor, I can't, almost wailed the chivalier. My nerve is gone, never if I live to be a thousand shall I forget that awful moment that appalling smile. I tell you there is wizardry in the thing, the beast is bewitched, my work in the arena is done, done forever, Senor. I shall never have courage to look into the beast's jaws again. Rod, you're not going to ruin the show, are you, and after all the money I've put into it? If you have no care for yourself, it's your duty to think about me. You can at least try. I'll tell you, you must try. Here, take a sip of brandy and see if that won't put a bit of courage into you. Ah, lo, as a burst of applause and the thud of a horse's hoofs down the passage to the stables came rolling in. There's your wife's turn over at last, and there, listen, the Ringmaster is announcing yours. Get up, man, get up and go out. I can't, Senor. I can't, I can't. But I tell you, you must. And just here an interruption came. Bad advice, my dear captain, said a voice, Clicke's voice, from the other end of the tent, and with a twist and a snarl, the Senor screwed round on his heel in time to see that other intruders were putting in an appearance as well as this unwelcome one. Oh, the deuce asked you for your opinion, wrapped out the Senor savagely, and what are you doing in here anyhow? If we want the service or a vet, we're quite capable of getting one for ourselves, without having him shove his presence upon us unasked." You are quite capable of doing a great many things, my dear captain, even making Lion smile, said Clicke serenely. It would appear that the gallant captain von Gosler, nephew and in the absence of one who has a better claim, heir to the late Baron von Steinheit. That's it, nab the beggar. Played, sir, played. Hustle him out and into the cab with his precious confederate, the Irish-Italian Senor, and make a clean sweep of the pair of them. You'll find it a neck-stretching game, captain, I'm afraid, when the jury comes to hear of that poor boy's death, and your beastly part in it. By this time the tent was in an uproar, for the Chevalier's wife had come hurrying in, the Chevalier's daughter was on the verge of hysterics, and the Chevalier's prospective son-in-law was alternately hugging the great beast tamer, and then shaking his hand and generally deporting himself like a respectable young man who had suddenly gone daft. Governor! he cried, half laughing, half sobbing. Bully old Governor! It's over! It's over! Never any more danger! Never any more hard times! Never any more lion's smiles! No, never! said Clicke. Come here, Madame Pullen, and hear the good news with the rest. You married for love, and you've proved a brick. The dreams come true, and the life of ease and of luxury is yours at last, Mr. Pullen. But, sir, I do not understand, stammered the Chevalier. What has happened? Why have you arrested the Seigneur Spérati? What has he done? I cannot comprehend. Can't you? Well, it so happened, Chevalier, that the Baron von Steinheit died something like two months ago, leaving the sum of sixty thousand pounds sterling to one Peter Jansen Pullen, and the heirs of his body, and that a certain Captain von Gosler, son of the Baron's only sister, meant to make sure that there was no Peter Jansen Pullen, and no heirs of his body to inherit one farthing of it. Sir, dear God, can this be true? Perfectly true, Chevalier. The late Baron's solicitors have been advertising for some time for news regarding the whereabouts of Peter Jansen Pullen, and if you had not so successfully hidden your real name under that of your professional one, no doubt some of your colleagues would have put you in the way of finding it out long ago. The Baron did not go back on his word, and did not act ungratefully. His will, dated twenty-nine years ago, was never altered in a single particular. I rather suspect that that letter and that gift of money which came to you in the name of his steward, and was supposed to close the affair entirely, was the work of his nephew, the gentleman whose exit has just been made. A crafty individual, that Chevalier, and he laid his plans cleverly and well. Who would be likely to connect him with the death of a beast-tamer in a circus, who had perished in what would appear an accident of his calling? Ah, yes. The lion's smile was a clever idea. He was a sharp rascal to think of it. Sir, you... you do not mean to tell me that he caused that? He never went near the beast, never, even once. Not necessary, Chevalier. He kept near you and your children. That was all that he needed to do to carry out his plan. The lion was as much his victim as anybody else, you or your children. What it did, it could not help doing. The very simplicity of the plan was its passport to success. All that was required was the unsuspected sifting of snuff on the hair of the person whose head was to be put in the beast's mouth. The lion's smile was not, properly speaking, a smile at all, Chevalier. It was the torture which came of snuff getting into its nostrils, and when the beast made that uncanny noise and snapped its jaws together, it was simply the outcome of a sneeze. The thing would be farcical if it were not that tragedy hangs on the thread of it, and that a life, a useful human life, was destroyed by means of it. Yes, it was clever, it was diabolically clever. But you know what Bobby Burns says about the best-laid schemes of my saint men? There's always a power higher up that works the ruin of them. With that he walked by and, going to Young Scarmelli, put out his hand. You are a good chap, and you've got a good girl, so I expect you will be happy, he said, and then lowered his voice so that the rest might not reach the Chevalier's ears. You were wrong to suspect the little stepmother, he added. She is true blue, Scarmelli. She was only playing up to those fellows because she was afraid the senor would drop out and close the show if she didn't, and that she and her husband and the children would be thrown out of work. She loves her husband, that's certain, and she's a good little woman. And Scarmelli? Yes, Mr. Cleak? There's nothing better than a good woman on this earth, my lad. Always remember that. I think you too have found one. I hope you have. I hope you'll be happy. What's that? Ome, not a rat, my boy. Or, if you feel that you must give me something, give me your prayers for equal luck, and send me a slice of the wedding cake. Good night. And twisted round on his heel, and walked out, making his way out to the streets, and facing the journey to Claude's street afoot. For, to be absolutely without envy of any sort, is not given to anything born of woman, and the sight of this man's happiness, the knowledge of this man's reward, brought upon him a bitter recollection of how far he still was from his own. Would he ever get that reward, he wondered? Would he ever be nearer to it than he was tonight? It hurt, yes. It hurt horribly sometimes, this stone-cold silence, this walking always in shadowed paths, without a ray of light, without the certainty of arriving anywhere, though he plod onward for a lifetime. And the old feeling of savage resentment, the old sense of self-pity, the surest thing on God's earth, to blaze a trail for the oncoming of the worst, that his inner man bit at the soul of him, and touched him on the roar again. He knew what that boded, and he also knew the antidote. Dolops, they broke into our holiday. They did us out of a part of it, didn't they, old chap? He said, when he reached home at last, and found the boy anxiously awaiting him. Well, we'll have a day for every hour they deprived us of, a whole day, bonny boy. Pack up again, and we'll be off to the land as God made it, and where God's things still live, and we'll have our fortnight of it, a whole-blessed fortnight, my boy, with the river, and the fields, and the flowers, and the dreams that hide in trees. Dolops made no reply. He simply bolted for the kit-bag, and began to pack it once. And the morrow, when it came, found these two, the servant who was still a boy, and the master who had discovered the way back to boyhood's secrets, forging up the shining river, and seeking the land of nightingales again. End of chapter 18