 The Phantom Coach by Amelia B. Edwards. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information, or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by E. Johnston. The circumstances I am about to relate to you have truth to recommend them. They happen to myself, and my recollection of them is as vivid as if they had taken place only yesterday. Twenty years, however, have gone by since that night. During those twenty years, I have told the story to but one other person. I tell it now with a reluctance which I find it difficult to overcome. All I entreat, meanwhile, is that you will abstain from forcing your own conclusions upon me. I want nothing explained away as I desire no arguments. My mind on this subject is quite made up, and having the testimony of my own senses to rely upon, I prefer to abide by it. Well, it was just twenty years ago, and within a day or two of the end of the grouse season, I had been out all day with my gun, and had no sport to speak of. The wind was due east, the month December, the place, a bleak white moor in the far north of England, and I had lost my way, and it was not a pleasant place in which to lose one's way. With the first feathery flakes of a coming snowstorm just fluttering down upon the heather, and the leaden evening closing in all around, I shaded my eyes with my hand, and stared anxiously into the gathering darkness where the purple moorland melted into a range of low hills, some ten or twelve miles distant, not the faintest smoke wreath, not the tiniest cultivated patch, or fence, or sheep-track met my eyes in any direction. There I was nothing for it but to walk on, and take my chance of finding what shelter I could. By the way, so I shouldered my gun again, and pushed wearily forward, for I had been on foot since an hour after daybreak, and had eaten nothing since breakfast. Meanwhile, the snow began to come down with ominous steadiness, and the wind fell. After this, the cold became more intense, and the night came rapidly up. As for me, my prospects darkened with the darkening sky, and my heart grew heavy as I thought how my young wife was already watching for me through the window of our little inn parlor, and thought of all the suffering in store for her throughout this weary night. We had been married four months, and having spent our autumn in the highlands, we're now lodging in a remote little village situated just on the verge of the great English moorlands. We were very much in love, and, of course, very happy. This morning, when we parted, she had implored me to return before dusk, and I had promised her that I would. What would I not have given to have kept my word? Even now, weary as I was, I felt that with a supper, an hour's rest, and a guide, I might still get back to her before midnight, if only guide and shelter could be found. And all this time the snow fell in the night thickened, and I stopped and shouted every now and then, but my shout seemed only to make the silence deeper. Then a vague sense of uneasiness came upon me, and I began to remember stories of travelers who had walked on and on in the falling snow until, weary out, they were feigned to lie down and sleep their lives away. Would it not be possible, I asked myself, to keep on, thus, through all the long dark night, would there not come a time when my limbs must fail and my resolution give way? When I, too, must sleep the sleep of death, death, I shuddered. How hard to die just now when life lay all so bright before me! How hard for my darling whose whole loving heart, but that thought was not to be born! To banish it I shouted again, louder, and longer, and then listened eagerly. Was my shout answered, or did I only fancy that I heard a far-off cry? I hollowed again and again, and the echo followed. Then a wavering speck of light came suddenly out of the dark, shifting, disappearing, growing momentarily nearer and brighter. Running towards it at full speed I found myself, to my great joy, face to face with an old man and a lantern. Thank God! was the exclamation that burst involuntarily from my lips. Blinking and frowning, he lifted his lantern and peered into my face. What for, growled he, sulkily? Well, for you. I began to fear I should be lost in the snow. Eh, then folks do get cast away, hear about from time to time. And what's to hinder you from being cast away, likewise, if the Lord is so minded? If the Lord is so minded that you and I shall be lost together, friend? We must submit, I replied. But I don't need to be lost without you. How far am I now from dwalding? A good twenty mile, more or less. And the nearest village? The nearest village is Wike, and that's twelve miles to the other side. Where do you live, then? I'll yonder, said he, with a vague jerk of the lantern. You're going home, I presume? Maybe I am. Then I'm going with you. The old man shook his head and rubbed his nose reflectively with the handle of the lantern. It ain't no use, crowd he. He'll let you in, not he. We'll see about that, I replied briskly. Who is he? The Master. Who is the Master? That's not to you, was the unceremonious reply. Well, well, you lead the way, and I'll engage that the Master shall give me shelter and a supper tonight. You can try him, muttered my reluctant guide. And, still shaking his head, he hobbled, no one like, away through the falling snow. A large mass loomed up presently out of the darkness, and a huge dog rushed out, barking furiously. Is this the house, I asked? Aye, and it's the house. Down bay! And he fumbled in his pocket for the key. I drew up close behind him, prepared to lose no chance of entrance. And saw in the little circle of light, shed by the lantern, that the door was heavily studded with iron nails, like the door of a prison. In another minute, he had turned the key, and I had pushed past him into the house. Once inside, I looked round with curiosity, and found myself in a great raptor hall, which served, apparently, a variety of uses. One end was piled to the roof with corn, like a barn. The other was stored with flower sacks, agricultural implements, casks, and all kinds of miscellaneous lumber. While from the beams, overhead hung rows of hams, flitches, and bunches of dried herbs for winter use. In the center of the floor stood some huge object, gauntly dressed in a dinghy wrapping cloth, and reaching halfway to the raptors. Lifting a corner of his cloth, I saw, to my surprise, a telescope of very considerable size, mounted on a rude movable platform with four small wheels. The tube was made of painted wood, bound round with bands of metal rudely fashioned. The speculum, so far as I could estimate its size in the dim light, measured at least 15 inches in diameter. While I was yet examining the instrument and asking myself whether it was not the work of some self-taught optician, a belt rang sharply. That's for you, said my guide, with a malicious grin. Yonder's his room. He pointed to a low blank door at the opposite side of the hall. I crossed over, wrapped somewhat loudly, and went in, without waiting for an invitation. A huge white-haired old man rose from a table covered with books and papers, and confronted me sternly. Who are you? said he. How came you here? What do you want? James Murray barristered law on foot across the moor. Meat, drink, and sleep. He bent his bushy brows into a portentious frown. Mine is not a house of entertainment, he said, hodlily. Jacob, how dared you admit this stranger? I didn't admit him in, grumbled the old man. He followed me over the moor, and shouldered his way in before me, on no match for six foot two. And pray, sir, by what right have you forced an entrance into my house? It was the same by which I should have clung to your boat if I were drowning, the right of self-preservation. Self-preservation? There's an inch of snow on the ground already, I replied briefly, and it would be deep enough to cover my body by daybreak. He strode to the window, pulled aside a heavy black curtain, and looked out. It is true, he said, you can stay if you choose till morning. Jacob served the supper. With this he waved me to his seat, resumed his own, and became at once absorbed in the studies from which I had disturbed him. I placed my gun in a corner, drew a chair to the hearth, and examined my quarters at leisure. Smaller, and less incongruous in its arrangements than the hall, this room contained, nevertheless, much to my awakened curiosity. The floor was carpetless. The white-washed walls were in parts scrawled over with strange diagrams, and in others covered with shelves crowded with philosophical instruments, the uses of many of which were unknown to me. On one side of the fireplace stood a bookcase filled with dinghy folios. On the other, a small organ fantastically decorated with painted carvings of medieval saints and devils. Through the half-open door of a cupboard at the further end of the room, I saw a long array of geological specimens, surgical preparations, crucibles, retorts, and jars of chemicals. While on the mantle shelf beside, amid a number of small objects, stood a model of the solar system, a small galvanic battery, and a microscope. Every chair had its burden, and every corner was heaped high with books. The very floor was littered over with maps, casts, papers, tracings, and learned lumber of all conceivable kinds. I stared about me with an amazement increased by every fresh object upon which my eyes chanced to rest. So strange a room I had never seen yet seemed, it's stranger still, to find such a room in a lone farmhouse amid those wild and solitary moors. Over and over again I looked from my host to his surroundings and from his surroundings back to my host, asking myself who and what could he be? His head was singularly fine, but it was more the head of a poet than of a philosopher. Broad in the temples, prominent over the eyes, and clothed with a rough profusion of perfectly white hair. It had all the ideality and much of the ruggedness that characterizes the head of Louis von Beethoven. There were much the same lines about the mouth, and the same stern furrows in the brow, there was the same concentration of expression. While I was yet observing him, the door opened and Jacob brought in the supper. His master then closed his book, rose, and with more courtesy of a manner than he had yet shown, invited me to the table. A dish of ham and eggs, a loaf of brown bread, and a bottle of admirable sherry were placed before me. I have but the homeliest farmhouse fare to offer you, sir, said my entertainer. Your appetite, I trust, will make up for the deficiencies of our larder. I had already fallen upon the viands and now protested with the enthusiasm of a starving sportsman that I had never eaten anything so delicious. He bounced stiffly and sat down to his own supper, which consisted primarily of a jug of milk and a basin of porridge. We ate in silence, and when we had done, Jacob removed the tray. I then drew my chair back to the fireside. My host, somewhat to my surprise, did the same, and turning abruptly towards me, said, Sir, I have lived here in strict retirement for three and twenty years. During that time, I have not seen as many strange faces, and I have not read a single newspaper. You are the first stranger who has crossed my threshold for more than four years. Will you favor me with a few words of information, respecting that outer world from which I have parted company so long? Pray interrogate me, I replied. I am heartily at your service. He bent his head in acknowledgment, leaned forward, with his elbows resting on his knees, and his chin supported in the palms of his hands, stared fixedly into the fire, and proceeded to question me. His inquiries related chiefly to scientific matters, with the later progress of which, as applied to the practical purposes of life, he was almost wholly unacquainted. No student of science myself, I replied as well as my slight information permitted, but the task was far from easy, and I was much relieved when, passing from interrogation to discussion, he began pouring forth his own conclusions upon the facts which I had been attempting to place before him. He talked, and I listened spellbound. He talked till I believed he almost forgot my presence, and only thought aloud, I have never heard anything like it then, I have never heard anything like it since. Familiar with all systems of all philosophies, subtle in analysis, bold in generalization, he poured forth his thoughts in an uninterrupted stream, and still leaning forward in the same moody attitude with his eyes fixed upon the fire, watered from topic to topic, from speculation to speculation, like an inspired dreamer, from practical science to mental philosophy, from electricity in the wire to electricity in the nerve, from Watts to Mesmer, from Mesmer to Reichenbach, from Reichenbach to Swedenborg, Spinoza, Kondal, Descartes, Berkeley, Aristotle, Plato, and the Magi and the Mystics of the East were transitions which, however bewildering in their variety and scope, seemed easy and harmonious upon his lips as sequences in music. Thirteen years and by, I forget now, by what link of conjecture or illustration he passed on to that field which lies beyond the boundary line of even conjectural philosophy and reaches no man knows wither. He spoke of the soul and its aspirations, of the spirit and its powers, of second sight, of prophecy, of those phenomena which under the name of ghosts, spectres, and supernatural appearances have been denied by the skeptics and attested by the credulous of all ages. The world, he said, grows hourly more and more skeptical of all that lies beyond its own narrow radius, and our men of science foster the fatal tendency. They condemn as fable all that resists experiment. They reject as false all that cannot be brought to the test of the laboratory or the dissecting room. Against what superstition have they waged so long in obstinate a war as against the belief in apparitions, and yet what superstition has maintained its hold upon the minds of men so long and so firmly? Show me any fact in physics, in history, in archaeology, which is supported by testimony so wide and so various. Attested by all races of men, in all ages, and in all climates, by the sober assages of antiquity, by the rudest savage of today, by the Christian, the pagan, the pantheist, the materialist, this phenomena is treated as a nursery tale by the philosophers of our century. Circumstantial evidence weighs with them as a feather in the balance. The comparison of causes with effects, however valuable in physical science, is put aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence of the competent witness, however conclusive in accord of justice, counts for nothing. He who pauses before he pronounces is condemned as a trifler. He who believes is a dreamer or a fool. He spoke with a bitterness and, having said thus, relapsed for some minutes into silence. Presently, he raised his head from his hands and added, with an altered voice and manner, I, sir, paused, investigated, believed, and was not ashamed to state my convictions to the world. I, too, was branded as a visionary, held up to ridicule by my contemporaries, and hooted from that field of science in which I had labored with honor during all the best years of my life. These things happened just three and twenty years ago. Since then, I have lived as you see me living now, and the world has forgotten me, as I have forgotten the world. You have my history. It is a very sad one, I murmured, scarcely knowing what to answer. It is a very common one, he replied. I have only suffered for the truth, as many a better and wiser man have suffered before me. He rose as if desirous of ending the conversation and went over to the window. It has ceased snowing, he observed, as he dropped the curtain and came back to the fireside. Seized, I exclaimed, starting eagerly to my feet. Oh, if only it were possible, but no, it is hopeless. Even if I could find my way across the moor, I could not walk twenty miles tonight. Walk twenty miles tonight, repeated my host. What are you thinking of? Of my wife, I replied impatiently. Of my young wife, who does not know that I have lost my way and who is at this moment breaking her heart with suspense and terror? Where is she? At Dwalding, twenty miles away. At Dwalding, he echoed thoughtfully. Yes, the distance, it is true. It is twenty miles. But are you so very anxious to save the next six or eight hours? So very, very anxious that I would give ten guineas at this moment for a guide and a horse. Your wish can be gratified at a less costly rate, said he, smiling. The night mail from the north, which changes horses at Dwalding, passes within five miles of this spot and will be due at a certain crossroad in about an hour and a quarter. If Jacob were to go with you across the moor and put you in the old coach road, you could find your way, I suppose, to where it joins the new one. Easily, gladly. He smiled again, rang the bell, gave the old servant his directions and, ticking a bottle of whiskey and a wine glass from the cupboard in which he kept his chemicals, said, The snow lies deep and it will be difficult walking tonight on the moor. A glass of osquibo before you start? I would have declined the spirit, but he pressed it on me and I drank it. I went down my throat like liquid flame and almost took my breath away. It is strong, he said, but it will help to keep out the cold and now you have no moments to spare. Good night. I thanked him for his hospitality and would have shaken hands, but that he had turned away before I could finish my sentence. In another minute, I had traversed the hall. Jacob had locked the outer door behind me and we were out on the wide, white moor. Although the wind had fallen, it was still bitterly cold. Not a star glimmered in the black vault overhead, not a sound saved the rapid crunching of the snow beneath our feet disturbed the heavy stillness of the night. Jacob, not too well pleased with his mission, shambled on before in silent silence, his lantern in his hand and his shadow at his feet. I followed, with my gun over my shoulder, as little inclined for conversation as himself. My thoughts were full of my late host. His voice yet rang in my ears. His eloquence yet held my imagination captive. I remembered to this day, with surprise, how my overexcited brain retained whole sentences and parts of sentences, troops of brilliant images and fragments of splendid reason in the very words in which he had uttered them. Musing thus over what I had heard and striving to recall a lost link here and there, I strode on at the heels of my guide, absorbed and unobservant. Presently, at the end, as it seemed to me, of only a few minutes, he came to a sudden halt and said, Yod, zeroed. Keep the stone fence to your right hand, and you can't fail it away. This, then, is the old coach road. Aye, this is the old coach road. And how far do I go, before I reach the crossroads? Nine upon three mile. I pulled out my purse, and he became more communicative. The road's a fair road enough, said he, for foot passengers. But it was over-steep and narrow for the northern traffic. You'll mind where the parapet's broken away. Close again the signpost. It's never been ended since the accident. What accident? The nightmare pitched right over into the valley below a guide. Fifty feet more, just at the worst bit of road in the whole country. Horrible! How many lives were lost? All four were found dead, to other two died next morning. How long has it since this happened? Just nine years. Near the signpost, you say, I will bear it in mind. Good night. Good night, sir. Thank you. Jacob pocketed his half-crown. It made a faint pretense of touching his hat, and then trudged back the way he had came. I watched the light of his lantern till it quite disappeared, and then turned to pursue my way alone. This was no longer a matter of the slightest difficulty for, despite the dead darkness ahead, the line of stone fence showed distinctly enough against the pale gleam of the snow, how silent it seemed now, with only my footsteps to listen to, how silent and how solitary. A strange, disagreeable sense of loneliness stole over me. I walked faster. I hummed a fragment of a tune. I cast up my enormous sums in my head, and accumulated them at compound interest. I did my best, in short, to forget the startling speculations to which I had just been listening. And, to some extent, I succeeded. Meanwhile, the night air seemed to become colder and colder. Before I walked fast, I found it impossible to keep myself warm. My feet were like ice. I lost sensation in my hands and grasped my gun mechanically. I even breathed with difficulty, as though, instead of traversing a quiet North Country highway, I was scaling the uppermost heights of some gigantic out. This last symptom became presently so distressing that I was forced to stop for a few minutes to face the stone fence. As I did so, my chance to look back up the road, and there, to my infinite relief, I saw a distant point of light, like the gleam of an approaching lantern. I at first concluded that Jacob had retraced his steps and followed me, but even as the conjecture presented itself, a second light flashed into sight, a light evidently parallel with the first, and approaching at the same rate of motion. It needed no second thought to show me that it must be the carriage lamps of some private vehicle, though it seemed strange that any private vehicle should take a road professively, disused, and dangerous. There could be no doubt, however, of the fact that the lamps grew larger and brighter every moment, and I even fancied I could already see the dark outline of the carriage between them. It was coming up very fast, and quite noiselessly, the snow being nearly a foot deep under the wheels. And now the body of the vehicle became distinctly visible behind the lamps. It looked strangely lofty, a sudden suspicion flashed upon me. Was it possible that I had passed the country roads in the dark without observing the signpost, and this could be the very coach which I had come to meet? No need to ask myself that question a second time, for here it came round the bend of the road, guard and driver, one outside passenger, and four steaming grays, all wrapped in a soft haze of light through which the lamps blazed out like a pair of fiery meteors. I jumped forward, waved my hat, and shouted. The mail came down at full speed and passed me. For a moment I feared that I had not been seen or heard, but it was only for a moment. The coachman pulled up, the guard, muffled to the eyes in capes and comforters, and apparently sound asleep in the rumble. Neither answered my hail, nor made the slightest effort to dismount the outside passenger did not even turn his head. I opened the door for myself and looked in. There were but three travelers inside, so I stepped in, shut the door, slipped into the vacant corner, and congratulated myself on my good fortune. The atmosphere of the coach seemed, if possible, colder than that of the outer air, and was pervaded by a singularly damp and disagreeable smell. I looked round at my fellow passengers. They were all three, men, and all silent. They did not seem to be asleep, but each leaned back in his corner of the vehicle as if absorbed in his own reflections. I attempted to open a conversation. How intensely cold it is tonight, I said, addressing my opposite neighbor. He lifted his head, looked at me, but made no reply. The Windsor, I added, seems to have begun in earnest. Although the corner in which he sat was so dim that I could distinguish none of his features very clearly, I saw that his eyes were still turned full upon me, and yet he answered never a word. At any other time I should have felt and perhaps expressed some annoyance, but at the moment I felt too ill to do either. The icy coldness of the night air had struck a chill to my very marrow, and the strange smell inside the coach was affecting me with an intolerable nausea. I struggled from head to foot and, turning to my left-hand neighbor, asked if he had any objection to an open window. He neither spoke nor stirred. I repeated the question somewhat more loudly, but with the same result. Then I lost my patient and let the sash down. As I did so, the leather strap broke in my hand, and I observed that the glass was covered with a thick coat of mildew, the accumulation, apparently, of years. My attention being thus drawn to the condition of the coach, I examined it more narrowly and saw by the uncertain light of the outer lamps that it was in the last stage of dilapidation. Every part of it was not only out of repair, but in a condition of decay. The sashes splintered at a touch. The leather fittings were crusted over with mold and literally rotting from the woodwork. The floor was almost breaking away beneath my feet. The whole machine, in short, was fouled with damp and had evidently been dragged from some outhouse in which it had been moldering away for years to do another day or two of duty on the road. I turned to the third passenger, whom I had not yet addressed, and hazarded one more remark. This coach, I said, is in deplorable condition. The regular mail, I suppose, is under repair. He moved his head slowly and looked me in the face without speaking a word. I shall never forget that look while I live. I turned cold at heart under it. I turned cold at heart even now as I recall it. His eyes glowed with a fiery, unnatural luster. His face was livid as the face of a corpse. His bloodless lips were drawn back as if in the agony of death and showed the gleaming teeth between. The words that I was about to utter died upon my lips in a strange horror. A dreadful horror came about me. My sight had by this time become used to the gloom of the coach and I could see with tolerable distinctness. I turned to my opposite neighbor. He, too, was looking at me with the same startling pallor in his face and the same stony glitter in his eyes. I passed my hand across my brow and turned to the passenger on the seat beside my own and saw, oh, heaven, how shall I describe what I saw? I saw that he was no living man, that none of them were living, men, like myself. A pale phosphorescent light in the light of putrefaction played upon their awful faces, upon their hair, dank with the do's of the grave, upon their clothes, earth stained and dropping to pieces, upon their hands which were as the hands of corpses, long buried. Only their eyes, their terrible eyes, were living and those eyes were all turned menacingly upon me. A shriek of terror, a wild, unintelligible cry for help and mercy burst from my lips as I flung myself against the door in strove and vein to open it. In that single instant brief and vivid as a landscape beheld in the flash of summer lightning, I saw the moon shining down through a rift of stormy cloud. The ghastly sign post-rearing its morning finger by the wayside, the broken parapet, the plunging horses, the black gulf below. Then the coach reeled like a ship at sea. Then came a mighty crash, a sense of crushing pain and then darkness. It seemed as if years had gone by when I awoke one morning from a deep sleep and found my wife watching by my bedside. I will pass over the scene that ensued and give you in half a dozen words the tale she told me with tears of thanksgiving. I had fallen over a precipice close against the junction of the old coach road and the new and had only been saved from certain death by lighting upon a deep snowdrift that had accumulated at the foot of the rock beneath. In this snowdrift I was discovered at Daybreak by a couple of shepherds who carried me to the nearest shelter and brought a surgeon to my aid. The surgeon found me in a state of raving delirium with a broken arm and a compound fracture of the skull. The letters in my pocketbook showed my name and address. My wife was summoned to nurse me and thanks to youth and a fine constitution I came out of danger at last. The place of my fall, I need scarcely say, was precisely that at which a frightful accident had happened to the North Mail nine years before. I never told my wife the fearful events which I have just related to you. I told the surgeon who attended me but he treated the whole adventure as a mere dream born of the fever in my brain. We discussed the question over and over again until we found that we could discuss it with temper no longer and then we dropped it. Others may form a conclusion they please. I know that twenty years ago I was the fourth passenger inside that phantom coach. End of the Phantom Coach. Recording by E. Johnston. The Phantom Motor by Jacques Foutrelle. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Phantom Motor by Jacques Foutrelle. Two dazzling white eyes bulged through the night as an automobile swept suddenly around a curve in the wide road and laid a smooth glaring pathway ahead. Even at the distance, the rhythmical crackling chug informed Special Constable Baker that it was a gasoline car and the headlong swoop of the unblinking lights toward him made him instantly aware of the fact that the speed ordinance of Yarborough County was being a little more than broken. It was being obliterated. Now the county of Yarborough was a wide expanse of summerous states and superbly kept roads, level as a floor, and offered distracting temptations to the dangerous pastime of speeding. But against this was the fact that the county was particular about its speed laws, so particular in fact that had stationed half a hundred men upon its highways to abate the nuisance. Incidentally, it had found that keeping record of the infractions of the law was an excellent source of income. 40 miles an hour if an inch remarked Baker to himself. He arose from a campstool where he was want to make himself comfortable from six o'clock until midnight on watch, picked up his lantern, turned up the light, and stepped down to the edge of the road. He always remained on watch at the same place, at one end of a long stretch which autoists had unanimously dubbed the Trap. The Trap was singularly tempting, perfectly macadamized roadbed, lying between two tall stone walls with only enough of a sinuous twist in it to make each end invisible from the other. Another man, Special Constable Bowman, was stationed at the other end of the Trap, and there was telephonic communication between the points, enabling the men to check each other and, incidentally, if one failed to stop a car or get its number, the other would. That at least was the theory. So now, with the utmost confidence, Baker waited beside the road. The approaching lights were only a couple of hundred yards away. At the proper instant, he would raise his lantern, the car would stop, its occupants would protest, and then the county would add a mite to its general fund for making the roads even better, and tempting autoists still more. Or sometimes the cars didn't stop. In that event, it was part of the Special Constable's duties to get the number as it flew past, and reference to the monthly automobile register would give the name of the owner. An extra find was always imposed in such cases. Without the slightest diminution of speed, the car came hurtling on toward him and swung wide so as to take the straight path of the Trap at full speed. At the psychological instant, Baker stepped out into the road and waved his lantern. Stop, he commanded. The crackling chug came on, heedless of the cry. The auto was almost upon him before he leaped out of the road, a feat at which he was particularly expert. Then it flashed by and plunged into the Trap. Baker was at the instant so busily engaged in getting out of the way that he couldn't read the number, but he was not disconcerted because he knew there was no escape from the Trap. On the one side, a solid stone wall, eight feet high marked the eastern boundary of the John Phelps Stocker country estate. And on the other side, a stone fence nine feet high marked the western boundary of the Thomas Q. Rogers country estate. There was no turnout, no place, no possible way for an auto to get out of the Trap, except at one of the two ends guarded by the Special Constables. So Baker, perfectly confident of results, seized the phone. Car coming through 60 miles an hour, he bowled. It won't stop, I missed the number. Look out. All right, answered Special Constable Bowman. For 10, 15, 20 minutes, Baker waited, expecting a call from Bowman at the other end. It didn't come. And finally he picked up the phone again. No answer. He rang several times, battered the box, and did some tricks with the receiver. Still, no answer. Finally he began to feel worried. He remembered that at that same post one Special Constable had been badly hurt by a reckless chauffeur who refused to stop or turn his car when the officer stepped out into the road. In his mind's eye he saw Bowman now lying helpless, perhaps badly injured. If the car held the pace at which it passed him, it would be certain death to whoever might be unlucky enough to get in its path. With these thoughts running through his head, and with genuine solicitude for Bowman, Baker at last walked on along the road of the trap toward the other end. The feeble rays of the lantern showed the unbroken line of the cold stone walls on each side. There was no shrubbery of any sort, only a narrow strip of grass close to the wall. The more Baker considered the matter, the more anxious he became and he increased his pace a little. As he turned a gentle curve he saw a lantern in the distance coming slowly toward him. It was evidently being carried by someone who was looking carefully along each side of the road. Hello! called Baker when the lantern came within distance. That you Bowman! Yes! came the hallowed response. The lanterns moved on and met. Baker's solicitude for the other Constable was quickly changed to curiosity. What are you looking for? he asked. That auto! replied Bowman. It didn't come through my end and I thought perhaps there had been an accident so I walked along looking for it. Haven't seen anything. Didn't come through your end! repeated Baker in amazement. Why it must have! It didn't come back my way and I haven't passed it so it must have gone through. It didn't! declared Bowman conclusively. I was on the lookout for it too standing beside the road. There hasn't been a car through my end in an hour. Special Constable Baker raised his lantern until the rays fell full upon the face of Special Constable Bowman and for an instant they stared each at the other. Suspicion glowed from the keen, avaricious eyes of Baker. How much did they give you to let him by? he asked. Give me, exclaimed Bowman, and righteous indignation. Give me nothing. I haven't seen a car. A slight sneer curled the lips of Special Constable Baker. Of course, that's all right to report at headquarters, he said. But I happened to know that the auto came in here that it didn't go back my way that it couldn't get out except at the ends. Therefore, it went your way. He was silent for a moment. And whatever you got, Jim, seems to me I ought to get half. Then the worm, i.e. Bowman, turned. A polite curl appeared about his lips and was permitted to show through the grizzled mustache. I guess, he said deliberately, you think because you do that everybody else does. I haven't seen any autos. Don't I always give you half, Jim? Baker demanded, almost pleadingly. Well, I haven't seen any car, and that's all there is to it. If it didn't go back your way, there wasn't any car. There was a pause. Bowman was framing up something particularly unpleasant. You're seeing things. That's what's the matter. So was sown discord between two officers of the county of Yarborough. After a while, they separated with mutual sneers and open derision and went back to their respective posts. Each was thoughtful in his own way. At five minutes of midnight when they went off duty, Baker called Bowman on the phone again. I've been thinking this thing over, Jim. And I guess it would be just as well if we didn't report it or say anything about it when we go in, said Baker slowly. It seems foolish. And if we did say anything about it, it would give the boys the laugh on us. Just as you say, responded Bowman. Relations between Special Constable Baker and Special Constable Bowman were strained on the morrow. But they walked along side by side to their respective posts. Baker stopped at his end of the trap. Bowman didn't even look around. You'd better keep your eyes open tonight, Jim, Baker called as a last word. I had him open last night was the disgusted retort. Seven, eight, nine o'clock passed. Two or three cars had gone through the trap at moderate speed and one had been warned by Baker. At a few minutes past nine, he was staring down the road which led into the trap when he saw something that brought him quickly to his feet. It was a pair of dazzling white eyes far away. He recognized them, the mysterious car of the night before. I'll get it this time, he muttered grimly between closed teeth. Then when the onrushing car was a full two hundred yards away, Baker planted himself in the middle of the road and began to swing the lantern. The auto seemed, if anything, to be traveling even faster than on the previous night. At a hundred yards, Baker began to shout. Still, the car didn't lessen speed, merely rushed on. Again, at the psychological instant, Baker jumped. The auto whisked by as the chauffeur gave it a dexterous twist to prevent running down the special constable. Safely out of its way, Baker turned and stared after it, trying to read the number. He could see there was a number because a white board swung from the tail axle, but he could not make out the figures. Dust in a swaying car conspired to defeat him, but he did see that there were four persons in the car dimly silhouetted against the light reflected from the road. It was useless, of course, to conjecture as to sex for even as he looked, the fast receding car swerved around the turn and was lost to sight. Again, he rushed to the telephone. Bowman responded promptly. That car s gone in again, Baker called. 90 miles an hour. Look out! I m looking, responded Bowman. Let me know what happens, Baker shouted. With the receiver to his ear, he stood for ten or fifteen minutes. Then Bowman hallowed from the other end. Well, Baker responded. Get him? No car passed through, and there s none in sight, said Bowman. But it went in, insisted Baker. Well, it didn t come out here, declared Bowman. Walk along the road till I meet you and look out for it. Then was repeated the search of the night before. When the two men met in the middle of the trap, their faces were blank. Blank as the high stone walls which stared at them from each side. Nothing, said Bowman. Nothing, echoed Baker. Special constable Bowman perched his head on one side and scratched his grisly chin. You re not trying to put up a job on me, he inquired coldly. You did see a car. I certainly did, declared Baker, and a belligerent tone underlay his manner. I certainly saw it, Jim, and if it didn t come out your end wa... wa... He paused and glanced quickly behind him. The action inspired a sudden similar caution on Bowman s part. Maybe... Maybe, said Bowman after a minute. Maybe it s a spook-ado. Well, it must be, Muse Baker. You know as well as I do that no car can get out of this trap except at the ends. That car came in here, it isn t here now, and it didn t go out your end. Now where is it? Bowman stared at him a minute, picked up his lantern, shook his head solemnly, and wandered along the road back to his post. On his way, he glanced around quickly, apprehensively, three times. Baker did the same thing, four times. On the third night, the phantom car appeared and disappeared precisely as it had done previously. Again, Baker and Bowman met halfway between posts and talked it over. I ll tell you what, Baker, said Bowman in conclusion. Maybe you re just imagining that you see a car. Maybe if I was at your end, I couldn t see it. Special Constable Baker was distinctly hurt at the insinuation. All right, Jim, he said at last. If you think that way about it, we ll swap posts tomorrow night. We won t have to say anything about it when we report. Now that s the talk, exclaimed Bowman with an air approaching enthusiasm. I ll bet I don t see it. On the following night, Special Constable Bowman made himself comfortable on Special Constable Baker s camp stool, and he saw the phantom auto. It came upon him with a rush and a crackling chug of engine, and then sped on, leaving him nervous. He called Baker over the wire, and Baker watched half an hour for the phantom. It didn t appear. Ultimately, all things reached the newspapers, so with the story of the phantom auto. Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, smiled incredulously when his city editor laid aside an inevitable cigar and tersely stated the known facts. The known facts, in this instance, were meager, almost to the disappearing point. They consisted merely of a corroborated statement that an automobile, solid and tangible enough to all appearances, rushed into the trap each night, and totally disappeared. But there was enough of the bizarre about it to peak the curiosity, to make one wonder. So Hatch journeyed down to Yarborough County, an hour s ride from the city, met and talked to Baker and Bowman, and then, in broad daylight, strolled along the trap, twice. It was a leisurely, thorough investigation with the end in view of finding out how an automobile once inside might get out again, without going out either end. On the first trip through, Hatch paid particular attention to the Thomas Q. Rogers side of the road. The wall, nine feet high, was an unbroken line of stone, with not the slightest indication of a secret wagon way through it anywhere. Secret wagon way, Hatch smiled at the phrase. But when he reached the other end, Bowman's end of the trap, he was perfectly convinced of one thing, that no automobile had left a hard, macadamized road to go over, under, or through the Thomas Q. Rogers wall. Returning, still leisurely, he paid strict attention to the John Phelps stalker side, and when he reached the other end, Baker's end, he was convinced of another thing, that no automobile had left the road to go over, under, or through the John Phelps stalker wall. The only opening of any sort was a narrow footpath, not more than sixteen inches wide. Hatch saw no shrubbery along the road, nothing but a strip of scrupulously cared-for grass, therefore the phantom auto could not be hidden any time, night or day. Hatch failed too to find any holes in the road, so the automobile didn't go down through the earth. At this point, he involuntarily glanced up at the blue sky above. Perhaps, he thought whimsically, the automobile was a strange sort of bird. Or, or, and he stopped suddenly. By George, he exclaimed, I wonder if, in the remainder of the afternoon, he spent systematically making inquiries. He went from house to house, the stalker house, the roger's house, both of which were at the time unoccupied, then to cottage, cabin, and hut in turn. But he didn't seem overladen with information when he joined Special Constable Baker at his end of the trap that evening, about seven o'clock. Together they rehearsed the strange points of the mystery, shadows grew about them until finally the darkness was so dense that Baker's lantern was the only bright spot in sight. As the chill of the evening closed in, a certain odd tone crept into their voices. Occasionally an auto bowled along, and each time as it hoven sight, Hatch glanced at Baker, questioningly. And each time Baker shook his head. Each time, too, he called Bowman, in this manner accounting for every car that went into the trap. It'll come all right, said Baker after a long silence, and I'll know it the minute it rounds the curve coming toward us. I know it's two lights in a thousand. They sat still and smoked. After a while two dazzling white lights burst into view far down the road, and Baker, in excitement, dropped his pipe. That's her, he declared. What are coming? And Hatch did look at her coming. The speed of the mysterious car was such as to make one look. Like the eyes of a giant the two lights came on toward them, and Baker perfunctorily went through the motions of attempting to stop it. The car fairly whizzed past them, and the rush of air which tugged at their coats was convincing enough proof of its solidity. Hatch strained his eyes to read the number as the auto flashed past. But it was hopeless. All of the car was lost in an eddying whirl of dust. She certainly does travel, commented Baker softly. She does, Hatch assented. Then for the benefit of the newspaper man, Baker called Bowman on the wire. Car's coming again, he shouted. Look out and let me know. Bowman, at his end, waited twenty minutes. Then made the usual report, the car had not passed. Hutchinson Hatch was a calm, cold, dispassionate young man, but now a queer, creepy sensation stole along his spinal column. He lighted a cigarette and pulled himself together with a jerk. There's one way to find out where it goes, he declared at last, emphatically. And that's to place a man in the middle just beyond the bend of the trap and let him wait and see. If the car goes up, down, or evaporates, he'll see and can tell us. Baker looked at him curiously. I'd hate to be the man in the middle, he declared. There was something of uneasiness in his manner. I rather think I would, too, responded Hatch. On the following evening, consequent upon the appearance of the story of the Phantom Otto in Hatch's paper, there were twelve other reporters on hand. Most of them were openly, flagrantly skeptical. They even insinuated that no one had seen an Otto. Hatch smiled wisely. Wait! he advised with deep conviction. So when the darkness fell that evening, the newspaper men of a great city had entered into a conspiracy to capture the Phantom Otto. Thirteen of them, making a total of fifteen men with Baker and Bowman, were on hand and they agreed to a suggestion for all to take positions along the road of the trap, from Baker's post to Bowman's. Watch for the Otto, see what happened to it, and compare notes afterwards. So they scattered themselves along, a few hundred feet apart, and waited. That night the Phantom Otto didn't appear at all, and twelve reporters jeered at Hutchinson Hatch and told him to light his pipe with the story. And next night when Hatch and Baker and Bowman alone were watching, the Phantom Otto reappeared. Like a child with a troublesome problem, Hatch took the entire matter and laid it before Professor Augustus S. F. X. Von Dusen, the master brain, the thinking machine, with squint eyes turned steadily upward and long slender fingers pressed tip to tip, listen to the end. Now I know of course that automobiles don't fly, Hatch burst out savagely in conclusion. And if this one doesn't fly, there is no earthly way for it to get out of the trap, as they call it. I went over the thing carefully. I even went so far as to examine the ground and the tops of the walls to see if a runway had been let down over the Otto to go over. The thinking machine squinted at him inquiringly. Are you sure you saw an automobile? He said irritably. Certainly I saw it, blurted the reporter. I not only saw it, I smelled it. Just to convince myself that it was real, I tossed my cane in front of the thing and it smashed it to toothpicks. Perhaps then, if everything is as you say, the Otto actually does fly, remarked the scientist. The reporter stared into the calm, inscrutable face of the thinking machine, fearing first that he had not heard a right. Then he concluded that he had. You mean, he inquired eagerly, that the phantom may be an Otto aeroplane affair and that it actually does fly? It's not at all impossible, commented the scientist. I had an idea of something like that myself, Hatch explained and questioned every soul within a mile or so, but I didn't get anything. The perfect stretch of road there might be the very place for some daring experimenter to get up sufficient speed to soar a short distance and a light machine continued the scientist. Light machine, Hatch repeated. Did I tell you that this car had four people in it? Four people, exclaimed the scientist. Dear me, dear me, that makes it very different. Of course, four people would be too great a lift for an... For ten minutes he sat silently and tiny cobwebby lines appeared in his dome-like brow. Then he arose and passed into the adjoining room. After a moment, Hatch heard the telephone bell jingle. Five minutes later, the thinking machine appeared and scowled upon him, unpleasantly. I suppose what you really want to learn is if the car is a... A material one and to whom it belongs, he queried. That's it, agreed the reporter. And of course, why it does what it does and how it gets out of the trap. Do you happen to know a fast, long-distance bicycle rider? Demanded the scientist abruptly. A dozen of them replied the reporter promptly. I think I see the idea, but you haven't the faintest inkling of the idea, declared the thinking machine positively. If you can arrange with a fast rider who can go a distance, it might be 30, 40, 50 miles, we may end this little affair without difficulty. Under these circumstances, Professor Augustus S. F. X. Von Dusen, Ph.D., L.L.D., FRS, MD, etc., etc., scientist and logician met the famous Jimmy Thouhauer, the world's champion long-distance bicyclist. He held every record from five miles up to and including six hours, had twice won the six-day race and was, altogether, a master in his field. He came in chewing a toothpick. There were introductions. You ride the bicycle, inquired the crusty little scientist. Well, some confessed the champion modestly with a wink at hatch. Can you keep up with an automobile for a distance of, say, 30 or 40 miles? I can keep up with anything that ain't got wings, was the response. Well, to tell you the truth, volunteered the thinking machine. There is a growing belief that this particular automobile has wings. However, if you can keep up with it, ah, quit your kidding, said the champion easily. I can ride rings around anything on wheels. I'll start behind it and beat it where it's going. The thinking machine examined the champion, Jimmy Thouhauer, as a curiosity. In the seclusion of his laboratory, he had never had an opportunity of meeting just such another worldly young person. How fast can you ride, Mr. Thouhauer, he asked at last. I'm ashamed to tell you confided the champion in a hushed voice. I can ride so fast that I scare myself. He paused a moment. But it seems to me, he said, if there is 30 or 40 miles to do, I ought to do it on a motorcycle. Now, that's just the point, explained the thinking machine. A motorcycle makes noise, and if it could have been used, we would have hired a fast automobile. This proposition briefly is, I want you to ride without lights behind an automobile, which may also run without lights, and find out where it goes. No occupant of the car must suspect that it is followed. Without lights, repeated the champion. Gee, rubber shoe, eh? The thinking machine looked his bewilderment. Yes, that's it, Hatch answered for him. I guess it's good for a full column head, huh? Inquired the champion. Special pictures posed by the champion, eh? Yes, Hatch replied. Tracked on a bicycle. Sounds good to me, eh? Hatch nodded. So arrangements were concluded, and then and there the thinking machine gave definite and conclusive instructions to the champion. While these apparently bore broadly on the problem in hand, they conveyed absolutely no inkling of his plan to the reporter. At the end, the champion arose to go. You're a most extraordinary young man, Mr. Thalhauer, commented the thinking machine. Not without admiration for the sturdy, powerful figure. And as Hatch accompanied the champion out the door and down the steps, Jimmy smiled with easy grace. Nutty old guy, ain't he, huh? Night, utter blackness, relieved only by a white, ribbon-like road which winds away mistily under a starless sky. Shadowy hedges line either side and occasionally a tree thrusts itself upward out of the somberness. The murmur of human voices in the shadows, then the crackling chug of an engine and an automobile move slowly, without lights, into the road. There is the sudden clatter of an engine at high speed and the car rushes away. From the hedge comes the faint rustle of leaves as of wind stirring, then a figure moves impalpably. A moment and it becomes a separate entity, a quick movement in the creak of a leather bicycle saddle. Silently the single figure bent low over the handlebars moves after the car with ever-increasing momentum. Then a long, desperate race. For mile after mile, mile after mile, the auto goes on. The silent cyclist has crept up almost to the rear axle and hangs there doggedly as a racer to his pace. On and on they rush together through the darkness, the chauffeur moving with the perfect knowledge of his road, the single rider behind clinging on grimly with set teeth. The powerful piston-like legs move up and down to the beat of the engine. At last, with dust-dry throat and stinging, aching eyes, the cyclist feels the pace slacken and instantly he drops back out of sight. It is only by sound that he follows now. The car stops, the cyclist is lost in the shadows. For two or three hours the auto stands deserted and silent. At last the voices are heard again, the car stirs, moves away and the cyclist drops in behind. Another race which leads off in another direction. Finally, from Manol, the lights of a city are seen. Ten minutes elapse, the auto stops, the headlights flare up and more leisurely it proceeds on its way. On the following evening the thinking machine and Hutchinson Hatch called upon Fielding Stanwood, president of the Fordyce National Bank. Mr. Stanwood looked at them with interrogative eyes. We called to inform you, Mr. Stanwood, explained the thinking machine, that a box of securities, probably United States bonds, is missing from your bank. What? exclaimed Mr. Stanwood and his face paled. Robbery! I only know the bonds were taken out of the vault tonight by Joseph Marsh, your assistant cashier, said the scientist, and that he, together with three other men, left the bank with the box and are now at a place I can name. Mr. Stanwood was staring at him in amazement. You know where they are, he demanded. I said I did, replied the scientist, shortly. Then we must inform the police at once and I don't know that there has been an actual crime interrupted the scientist. I do know that every night for a week these bonds have been taken out through the connivance of your watchmen and in each instance have been returned intact before morning. They will be returned tonight. Therefore I would advise if you act to do so until the four men return with the bonds. It was a singular party which met in the private office of President Stanwood at the bank, just after midnight. Marsh and three companions, formally under arrest, were present as were President Stanwood, the thinking machine and hatch, besides detectives. Marsh had the bonds under his arms when he was taken. He talked freely when questioned. I will admit, he said without hesitating, that I have acted beyond my rights in removing the bonds from the vault here, but there is no ground for prosecution. I am a responsible officer of this bank and have violated no trust. Nothing is missing, nothing is stolen. Every bond that went out of the bank is here. But why? Why did you take the bonds? demanded Mr. Stanwood. Marsh shrugged his shoulders. It's what has been called a get rich quick scheme, said the thinking machine. Mr. Hatch and I made some investigations today. Mr. Marsh and these other three are interested in a business venture, which is ethically dishonest, but which is within the law. They have sought backing for the scheme, amounting to about a million dollars. Those four or five men of beans with whom they have discussed the matter were called each night for a week at Marsh's country place. It was necessary to make them believe that there was already a million or so in the scheme, so these bonds were borrowed and represented to be owned by themselves. They were taken to and fro between the bank and his home in a kind of an automobile. This is really what happened, based on knowledge which Mr. Hatch has gathered and what I myself developed by the use of a little logic, and his statement of the affair proved to be correct. Marsh and the others admitted the statement to be true. It was while the thinking machine was homework bound that he explained the Phantom Auto Affair to Hatch. The Phantom Auto, as you call it, he said, is the vehicle in which the bonds were moved about. The Phantom idea came merely by chance. On the night the vehicle was first noticed, it was rushing along. We'll say to reach Marsh's house in time for an appointment. A roadmap will show you the most direct line from the bank to Marsh's was through the trap. If an automobile should go halfway through there, then out across the stocker estate to the other end, distance would be lessened by a good five miles. This saving at first was, of course, valuable, so the car in which they rushed into the trap was taken across the stocker estate to the road in front. But how demanded Hatch? There's no road there. I learned by phone from Mr. Stocker that there is a narrow walk from a very narrow foot gate in Stocker's wall on the trap leading through the grounds to the other end. The Phantom Auto wasn't really an auto at all. It was merely two motorcycles arranged with seats and a steering apparatus. The French Army has been experimenting with them. The motorcycles are, of course, separate machines, and as such it was easy to trundle them through a narrow gate and across to the other road. The seats are light and they can be carried under the arm. Oh! exclaimed Hatch suddenly, then after a minute. But what did Jimmy Thouhauer do for you? He waded in the road at the other end of the footpath from the trap, the scientist explained. When the auto was brought through and put together, he followed it to Marsh's home and from there to the bank. The rest of it you and I worked out today. It's merely logic, Mr. Hatch. Logic. There was a pause. That Mr. Thouhauer is really a marvelous young man, Mr. Hatch. Don't you think? End of The Phantom Motor by Jacques Foutrelle A Piece of String by Jacques Foutrelle This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. A Piece of String by Jacques Foutrelle It was just midnight. Somewhere near the center of a cloud of tobacco smoke which hovered over one corner of the long editorial room, Hutchinson Hatch, reporter, was writing. The rapid click-click of his typewriter went on and on, broken only when he laid aside one sheet to put in another. The finished pages were seized upon one at a time by an office boy and rushed off to the city editor. That astute person glanced at them for information and sent them on to the copy desk once they were shot down into that noisy, chaotic wilderness, the composing room. The story was what the phlegmatic head of the copy desk, speaking in the vernacular, would have called a butte. It was about the kidnapping that afternoon of Walter Francis, the four-year-old son of a wealthy young broker, Stanley Francis. An alternative to the abduction had been proposed in the form of a gift to certain persons, identity unknown, of fifty thousand dollars. Francis, not unnaturally, objected to the bestowal of so vast a sum upon anyone, so he told the police, and while they were making up their minds, the child was stolen. It happened in the usual way, closed carriage, and all that sort of thing. Hatch was telling the story graphically, as he could tell a story when there was one to be told. At the clock, jerked out another sheet of copy, and the office boy scuttled away with it. How much more? called the city editor. Just a paragraph, Hatch answered. His typewriter clicked on merrily for a couple of minutes, and then stopped. The last sheet of copy was taken away, and he rose and stretched his legs. Some guy once you're at the phone, an office boy told him. Who is it? asked Hatch. Search me, replied the boy. Talks like he'd been eating pickles. Hatch went into the booth, indicated. The man at the other end was Professor Augustus S. F. X. von Dusen. The reporter instantly recognized the crabbed, perpetually irritated voice of the noted scientist, the thinking machine. That you, Mr. Hatch, came over the wire. Yes? Can you do something for me immediately? he queried. It is very important. Certainly. Now, listen closely, directed the thinking machine. Take a car from Park Square, the one that goes toward Wooster through Brookline. About two miles beyond Brookline is Randall's Crossing. Get off there, and go to your right until you come to a small white house. In front of this house, a little to the left, and across an open field, is a large tree. It stands just in the edge of a dense wood. It might be better to approach it through the wood, so as not to attract attention. Do you follow me? Yes, Hatch replied. His imagination was leading him on a chase. Go to this tree now. Immediately, tonight, continued the thinking machine. You will find a small hole in it near the level of your eye. Feel in that hole, and see what is there, no matter what it is. Then return to Brookline, and telephone me. It is of the greatest importance. The reporter was thoughtful for a moment, and sounded like a page from a Dumas romance. What's it all about? he asked curiously. Will you go? came the counter-question. Yes, certainly. Good-bye! Hatch heard a click as the receiver was hung up at the other end. He shrugged his shoulders, said good-night to the city editor, and went out. An hour later he was at Randall's crossing. The night was dark, so dark that the road was barely visible. The car whirled on, and as its lights were swallowed up, Hatch set out to find the white house. He came upon it at last, and turning, faced across an open field toward the wood. Far away over there outlined vaguely against the distant glow of the city. Was a tall tree. Having fixed its location the reporter moved along for a hundred yards or more to where the wood ran down to the road. Here he climbed a fence, and stumbled on through the dark, doing sundry injuries to his shins. After a disagreeable ten minutes, he reached the tree. With a small electric flashlight he found the hole. It was only a little larger than his hand, a place where Decay had eaten its way into the tree trunk. For just a moment he hesitated about putting his hand into it. He didn't know what might be there. Then, with a grim smile, he obeyed orders. He felt nothing save crumblings of decayed wood, and finally dragged out a handful, only to spill it on the ground. That couldn't be what was meant. For the second time he thrust in his hand, and after a deal of grabbing about, produced a piece of string. It was just a plain, ordinary, common piece of string, white string. He stared at it, and smiled. I wonder what Van Dusen will make of that, he asked himself. Again his hand was thrust into the hole, but that was all, the piece of string. Then came another thought, and with that due regard for detail which made him a good reporter, he went looking around the big tree for a possible second opening of some sort. He found none. About three quarters of an hour later he stepped into an all-night drugstore in Brookline, and phoned to the thinking machine. There was an instant response to his ring. Well, well what did you find? came the query. Nothing to interest you, I imagine, replied the reporter grimly. Just a piece of string. Good, good! exclaimed the thinking machine. What does it look like? Well, replied the newspaper man judiciously. It's just a white piece of string, cotton, I imagine, about six inches long. Any knots in it? Wait till I see. He was reaching into his pocket to take it out, when the startled voice of the thinking machine came over the line. Didn't you leave it there? it demanded. No, I have it in my pocket. Dear me! exclaimed the scientist irritably. That's bad. Well, has it any knots in it? he asked with marked resignation. Hatch felt that he had committed the unpardonable sin. Yes, he replied after an examination. It has two knots in it, just plain knots, about two inches apart. Single or double knots? Single knots. Excellent. Now, Mr. Hatch, listen. Untie one of those knots. It doesn't matter which one. And carefully smooth out the string, then take it and put it back where you found it. Phone me as soon after that as you can. Now, tonight? Now, immediately. But—but—began the astonished reporter. It is a matter of the utmost consequence, the irritated voice assured him. You should not have taken the string. I told you merely to see what was there. But as you have brought it away you must put it back as soon as possible. Believe me, it is of the highest importance. And don't forget to phone me. The sharp commanding tone stirred the reporter to new action and interest. A car was just going past the door outward bound. He raced for it and got aboard. Once settled he untied one of the knots, straightened out the string, and fell to wondering what sort of fools errand he was on. Randall's crossing, called the conductor at last. Hatch left the car and retraced his torturous way along the road and threw the wood to the tall tree, found the hole, and had just thrust in his hand to replace the string when he heard a woman's voice directly behind him, almost in his ear. It was a calm, placid, convincing sort of voice. It said, hands up. Hatch was a rational human being with ambitions and hopes for the future. Therefore his hands went up without hesitation. I knew something would happen, he told himself. He turned to see the woman. In the darkness he could only dimly trace a tall slender figure, steadily poised just a couple of dozen inches from his nose, was a revolver. He could see that without any difficulty. It glinted a little, even in the gloom, and made itself conspicuous. Well, asked the reporter at last as he stood reaching upward. It's your move. Who are you? asked the woman. Her voice was steady and rather pleasant. The reporter considered the question in the light of all he didn't know. He felt it wouldn't be a sensible thing to say just who he was. Somewhere at the end of this the thinking machine was working on a problem. He was presumably helping in a modest, unobtrusive sort of way. Therefore he would be cautious. My name is Williams, he said promptly. Jim Williams, he added circumstantially. What are you doing here? Another subject for thought. That was a question he couldn't answer. He didn't know what he was doing there. He was wondering himself. He could only hazard a guess, and he did that with trepidation. I came from him, he said with deep meaning. Who demanded the woman suspiciously? It would be useless to name him, replied the reporter. Yes, yes, of course, the woman mused. I understand. There was a little pause. Hatch was still watching the revolver. He had a lively interest in it. It had not moved a hair's breath since he first looked at it. Hanging up there in the night, it fairly stared him out of countenance. And the string asked the woman at last. Now the reporter felt that he was in the mire. The woman herself relieved this new embarrassment. Is it in the tree? She went on. Yes? How many knots are in it? One. One? She repeated eagerly. Put your hand in there and hand me the string. No tricks now. Hatch complied with a certain deprecatory manner which he intended should convey to her the impression that there would be no tricks. As she took the string her fingers brushed against his. They were smooth and delicate. He knew that even in the dark. And what did he say? She went on. Having gone this far without falling into anything, the reporter was willing to plunge. Felt that he had to as a matter of fact. He said yes. He murmured without shifting his eyes from the revolver. Yes? The woman repeated again eagerly. Are you sure? Yes, said the reporter again. The thought flashed through his mind that he was tangling up somebody's affair sadly. He didn't know whose. Anyhow, it was a matter of no consequence to him, as long as that revolver stared at him that way. Where is it? asked the woman. Then the earth slipped out from under him. I don't know, he replied weakly. Didn't he give it to you? Oh no, he wouldn't trust me with it. How can I get it then? Oh, he'll fix it all right. Hatch assured her soothingly. I think he said something about tomorrow night. Where? Here. Thank God! the woman gasped suddenly. Her tone betrayed deep emotion, but it wasn't so deep that she lowered the revolver. There was a long pause. Hatch was figuring possibilities. How to get possession of the revolver seemed the imminent problem. His hands were still in the air, and there was nothing to indicate that they were not to remain there indefinitely. The woman finally broke the silence. Are you armed? Oh, no. Truthfully? Truthfully. You may lower your hands, she said, as if satisfied. Then go on ahead of me straight across the field to the road. Turn to your left there. Don't look back under any circumstances. I shall be behind you with this revolver pointing at your head. If you attempt to escape or make any outcry, I shall shoot. Do you believe me? The reporter considered it for a moment. I'm firmly convinced of it, he said at last. They stumbled on to the road, and their hatch turned as directed. Walking along in the shadows with the tread of small feet behind him, he first contemplated a dash for liberty. But that would mean giving up the adventure, whatever it was. He had no fear for his personal safety, as long as he obeyed orders. And he intended to do that implicitly. And besides, the thinking machine had his slender finger in the pie somewhere. Hatch knew that, and knowing it was a source of deep gratification. Just now, as he was taking things at face value, hoping that with their arrival at whatever place they were bound for he would be further enlightened. Once he thought he heard the woman sobbing, and started to look back, then he remembered her warning, and thought better of it. Had he looked back he would have seen her stumbling along, weeping, with the revolver dangling limply at her side. At last a mile or more further on, they began to arrive somewhere. A house sat back some distance from the road. Go in there, commanded his captor. He turned in at the gate, and five minutes later stood in a comfortably furnished room on the ground floor of a small house. A dim light was burning. The woman turned it up. Then almost defiantly she threw aside her veil and hat and stood before him. Hatch gasped. She was pretty, bewilderingly pretty, and young, and graceful, and all that a young woman should be. Her cheeks were flushed. You know me, I suppose, she exclaimed. Oh yes, certainly, Hatch assured her. And saying that, he knew he had never seen her before. I suppose you thought it perfectly horrid of me to keep you with your hands up like that all the time. But I was dreadfully frightened, the woman went on, and she smiled a little, uncertainly. But there wasn't anything else to do. It was the only thing, Hatch agreed. Now I'm going to ask you to write and tell him just what happened, she resumed, and tell him, too, that the other matter must be arranged immediately. I'll see that your letter is delivered. Sit here. She picked up the revolver from the table beside her and placed a chair in position. Hatch walked to the table and sat down. Pin an ink clay before him. He knew now he was trapped. He couldn't write a letter to that vague hymn of whom he had talked so glibly about that still more vague it. Whatever that might be. He sat dumbly staring at the paper. Well, she demanded suspiciously. I, I can't write it, he confessed suddenly. She stared at him coldly for a moment, as if she had suspected just that. And he in turn stared at the revolver with a new and vital interest. He felt the tension. But saw no way to relieve it. You are an imposter, she blurted out at last. A detective? Hatch didn't deny it. She backed away toward a bell-call near the door, watching him closely, and rang vigorously several times. After a little pause, the door opened, and two men evidently servants entered. Take this gentleman to the rear room upstairs, she commanded, without giving them a glance, and lock him up. Keep him under close guard. If he attempts to escape, stop him. That's all. Here was another page from a Dumas romance. The reporter started to explain, but there was a merciless gleam, danger even, in the woman's eyes, and he submitted to orders. So he was led upstairs, a captive, and one of the men took a place on guard inside the room. The dawn was creeping on when Hatch fell asleep. It was about ten o'clock when he awoke, and the sun was high. His guard, wide-eyed and alert, still sat beside the door. For several minutes the reporter lay still, seeking vainly some sort of explanation of what was happening. Then, cheerfully, Good morning! the guard merely glared at him. May I inquire your name? the reporter asked. There was no answer. Or the lady's name? No answer. Or why I am where I am? Still, no answer. What would you do? Hatch went on casually. If I should try to get out of here. The guard handled his revolver carelessly. The reporter was satisfied. He is not deaf, that's certain, he told himself. He spent the remainder of the morning yawning and wondering what the thinking machine was about. Also he had a few casual reflections as to the mental state of his city editor, and his failure to appear and follow up the kidnapping story. He finally dismissed all these ideas with a shrug of his shoulders and sat down to wait for whatever was coming. It was in the early afternoon that he heard laughter in the next room. First there was a woman's voice, then the shrill cackle of a child. Finally he distinguished some words. You-ticky! exclaimed the child, and again there was the laugh. The reporter understood, you-ticky, coupled with the subsequent peel to be a sort of abbreviated English for you-tickle. After a while the merriment died away, and he heard the child's insistent demand for something else. You be ha-si! No, no, the woman expostulated. Yes, you be ha-si! No, let Morris be ha-si. No, no, you be ha-si! That was all. Evidently someone was ha-si because there was a sound of romping, but finally even that died away. Hatch yawned away another hour or so under the constant eye of his guard, and then began to grow restless. He turned on the guard savagely. Isn't anything ever going to happen, he demanded. The guard didn't say. You'll never convict yourself on your own statement, hatch burst out again in disgust. He stretched out on a couch, bored by the sameness which had characterized the last few hours of his adventure. His attention was attracted by some movement at the door, and he looked up. His guard heard too and with revolver in hand went to the door, carefully unlocking it. After a few hurriedly whispered words he left the room, and Hatch was meditating an instant rush for a window when the woman entered. She had the revolver now. Hatch quickly wiped and gripped the weapon menacingly. She did not lock the door, only closed it, but with her own person and the attention-compelling revolver she blocked the way. What is it now? Asked Hatch wearily. You must not speak or call or make the slightest sound, she whispered tensely. If you do, I'll kill you. Do you understand? Hatch confessed by a nod that he understood. He also imagined that he understood this sudden change in guard morning. It was because someone was about to enter, or had entered the house. His conjecture was partially confirmed instantly by a distant rapping on a door. Not a sound now, whispered the woman. From somewhere below he heard the sound of steps, as one of the servants answered the knock. After a short wait he heard two voices mumbling. Suddenly one was raised clearly. Why, Wooster can't be that far! It protested irritably. Hatch knew. It was the thinking machine. The woman noted a change in his manner and drew back the hammer of the revolver. The reporter saw the idea. He didn't dare call. That would be suicide. Perhaps he could attract attention though. Drop a key, for instance. The sound might reach the thinking machine and be interpreted or write. One hand was in a pocket and slowly he was drawing out a key. He would risk it. Maybe. Then came a new sound. It was the patter of small feet. The guarded door was pushed open and a tassel-headed child, a boy, ran in. Mama! Mama! He called loudly. He ran to the woman and clutched at her skirts. Oh, my baby! What have you done? She asked piteously. We are lost. Lost! Me fade! The child went on. With the door, his avenue of possible escape open, Hatch did not drop the key. Instead he gazed at the woman, then down at the child. From below he again heard the thinking machine. How far is the car track then? The servant answered something. There was a sound of steps and the front door closed. Hatch knew that the thinking machine had come and gone, yet he was strangely calm about it. Quite himself, despite the fact that a nervous finger still lay on the trigger of the pistol. From his refuge behind his mother's skirts, the boy peered around at Hatch shyly. The reporter gazed, gazed all eyes, and then was convinced. The boy was Walter Francis, the kidnapped boy whose pictures were being published in every newspaper of a dozen cities. Here was a story, the story, the superlative story. Mrs. Francis, if you wouldn't mind letting down that hammer, he suggested modestly. I assure you, I contemplate no harm, and you, you are very nervous. You know me then? she asked. Only because the child there, Walter, called you Mama. Mrs. Francis lowered the revolver hammer so recklessly that Hatch involuntarily dodged. And then came a scene, a scene with tears in it and all those things which stir men, even reporters. Finally the woman dropped the revolver on the floor and swept the boy up in her arms with the gesture of infinite tenderness. He cuddled there, content. At that moment Hatch could have walked out the door, but instead he sat down. He was just beginning to get interested. They shan't take you, sobbed the mother. There is no immediate danger, the reporter assured her. The man who came here for that purpose is gone. Meanwhile, if you will tell me the facts, perhaps. Perhaps I may be of some assistance. Mrs. Francis looked at him, startled. Help me? If you will explain, perhaps I can do something, said Hatch again. Somewhere back in a remote recess of his brain he was remembering. And as it became clearer, he was surprised that he had not remembered sooner. It was a story of marital infelicity and its principles were Stanley Francis and his wife. This bewilderingly pretty young woman before him. It had been only eight or nine months back. Technically she had deserted Stanley Francis. There had been some violent scene and she left their home and little son. Soon afterward she went to Europe. It had been rumored that divorce proceedings would follow or at least a legal separation, but nothing had ever come of the rumors. All this Mrs. Francis told Hatch and little incoherent bursts punctuated with sobs and tears. He struck me. He struck me, she declared with a flush of anger and shame. And I went then on impulse. I was desperate. Later, even before I went to Europe I knew the legal status of the affair. The thought of my boy lingered and I resolved to come back and get him, abduct him if necessary. I did that and I will keep him if I have to kill the one who opposes me. Hatch saw the mother instinct here, that tigerish ferocity of love which stops at nothing. I conceived the plan of demanding fifty thousand dollars of my husband under threat of abduction. Mrs. Francis went on. My purpose was to make it appear that of professional, what would you call it? Kidnappers. But I did not send the letter demanding this until I had perfected all my plans and knew I could get the boy. I wanted my husband to think it was the work of others, at least until we were safe in Europe, because even then I imagined there would be a long legal fight. After I stole the boy and he recognized me I wanted him as my own, absolutely safe from legal action by his father. Then I wrote to Mr. Francis telling him I had Walter and asking that in pity to me he legally give me the boy by a document of some sort. In that letter I told how he might signify his willingness to do this. But of course I would not give my address. I placed a string, the one you saw, in that tree after having tied two knots in it. It was a silly romantic means of communication he and I used years ago in my girlhood when we both lived near here. If he agreed that I should have the child he was to come or send someone last night and untie one of the two knots. Then to hatch the intricacies passed away. He understood clearly instead of going to the police with the second letter from his wife Francis had gone to the thinking machine. The thinking machine sent the reporter to untie the knot which was an answer of yes to Mrs. Francis's request for the child. Then she would have written giving her address and there would have been a clue to the child's whereabouts. It was all perfectly clear now. Did you specifically mention a string in your letter? He asked. No, I merely stated that I would expect his answer in that place and would leave something there by which he could signify yes or no as he did years ago. The string was one of the odd little ideas of my girlhood. Two knots meant no, one knot meant yes and if the string was found by anyone else it meant nothing. This then was why the thinking machine did not tell him at first that he would find a string and instruct him to untie one of the knots in it. The scientist had seen that it might have been one of the other tokens of the old romantic days. When I met you there, Mrs. Francis resumed I believed you were an imposter. I don't know why, I just believed it. Yet your answers were in a way correct. For fear you were not what you seemed that you were a detective I brought you here to keep you until I got the child's release. You know the rest. The reporter picked up the revolver and whirled it in his fingers. The action apparently did not disturb Mrs. Francis. Why did you remain here so long after you got the child, asked Hatch. I believe it was safer than in a city, she answered frankly. The steamer on which I planned to sail for Europe with my boy leaves tomorrow. I had intended going to New York tonight to catch it, but now the reporter glanced down at the child. He had fallen asleep in his mother's arms. His tiny hand clung to her. The picture was a pretty one. Hatch made up his mind. Well, you'd better pack up, he said. I'll go with you to New York and do all I can. It was on the New York-bound train several hours later that Hatch turned to Mrs. Francis with an odd smile. Why didn't you load that revolver, he asked. Because I was horribly afraid someone would get hurt with it, she replied laughingly. She was gay with that gentle happiness of possession which blesses woman for the agonies of motherhood. And glanced from time to time at the birth across the aisle where her baby was asleep. Looking upon it all, Hatch was content. He didn't know his exact position in law, but that didn't matter after all. Hutchinson Hatch's exclusive story of the escape to Europe of Mrs. Francis and her boy was remarkably complete, but all the facts were not in it. It was a week or so later that he detailed them to the thinking machine. I knew it, said the scientist at the end. Francis came to me and I interested myself in the case, practically knowing every fact from his statement. When you heard me speak in the house where you were a prisoner, I was there merely to convince myself that the mother did have the baby. I heard it call her and went away satisfied. I knew you were there, too, because you had failed to phone me the second time as I expected, intuitively what you would do when you got the real facts about Mrs. Francis and her baby. I went away so that the field might be clear for you to act. Francis himself is a detestable puppy. I told him so. And that was all that was ever said about it. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org Recording by Louise J. Bell The Return by Algernon Blackwood It was curious that sense of dull uneasiness that came over him so suddenly, so stealthily at first he scarcely noticed it. But with such marked increase after a time that he presently got up and left the theater. His seat was on the gangway of the dress circle and he slipped out awkwardly in the middle of what seemed to be the best and jolliest song of the piece. The full house was shaking with laughter so infectious was the gaiety that even strangers turned to one another as much as to say now isn't that funny. Curious too the way the feeling first got into him at all here in the full swing of laughter, music, light-heartedness for it came as a vague suggestion I've forgotten something something I meant to do something of importance what in the world was it now? And he thought hard searching vainly through his mind then dismissed it as the dancing caught his attention. It came back a little later again during a passage of long-winded talk that bored him and set his attention free once more but came more strongly this time insisting on an answer what could it have been that he had overlooked left undone omitted to see too it went on nibbling at the subconscious part of him several times this happened this dismissal and return till at last the thing declared itself more plainly and he felt bothered troubled distinctly uneasy he was wanted somewhere there was somewhere else he ought to be that describes it best perhaps some engagement of moment had entirely slipped his memory an engagement then involved another person too but where what and with whom and at length this vague uneasiness amounted to positive discomfort so that he felt unable to enjoy the peace and left abruptly like a man to whom comes suddenly the horrible idea that the match he lit his cigarette with and flung into the waste paper basket leaving was not really out a sort of panic distress he jumped into a taxicab and hurried to his flat to find everything in order of course no smoke no fire no smell of burning but his evening was spoiled he sat smoking in his armchair at home this businessman of 40 practical in mind some called stolid cursing himself for an imaginative fool it was now too late to go back to the theater the club bored him he spent an hour with the evening papers dipping into books sipping a long cool drink doing odds and ends about the flat I'll go to bed early for a change he laughed but really all the time fighting yes deliberately fighting this strange attack of uneasiness that so insidiously grew upwards outwards from the buried depths of him that sought so strenuously to deny it it never occurred to him that he was ill he was not ill his health was good he was robust as a coal heaver the flat was roomy high up on the top floor yet in a busy part of town so that the roar of traffic mounted round it like a sea through the open windows came the fresh night air of june he had never noticed before how sweet the london night air could be and that not all the smoke and dust could smother a certain touch of wild fragrance that tinctured it with perfume yes almost perfume as of the country he swallowed a draft of it as he stood there staring out across the tangled world of roofs and chimney pots he saw the procession of the clouds he saw the stars he saw the moonlight falling in a shower of silver spears upon the slates and wires and steeples and something in him quickened nothing that had never stirred before he turned with a horrid start for the uneasiness had of a sudden leapt within him like an animal there was someone in the flat instantly with action even this slight action the fancy vanished but all the same he switched on the electric lights and made a search for it seemed to him that someone had crept up close behind him while he stood there watching the night someone moreover whose silent presence fingered with unerring touch both this new thing that had quickened in his heart and that sense of original deep uneasiness he was amazed at himself angry indignant that he could be thus foolishly upset over nothing yet at the same time profoundly distressed at this vehement growth of a new thing in his well-ordered personality growth he dismissed the word the moment it occurred to him but it had occurred to him it stayed while he searched the empty flat the long passages the gloomy bedroom at the end the little hall where he kept his overcoats and golf sticks it stayed growth it was oddly disquieting growth to him involved though he neither acknowledged nor recognized the truth perhaps some kind of undesirable changeableness instability unbalance yet singular as it all was he realized that the uneasiness and the sudden appreciation of beauty that was so new to him had both entered by the same door into his being when he came back to the front room he noticed that he was perspiring there were little drops of moisture on his forehead and down his spine ran positively chills little faint quivers of cold he was shivering he lit his big mirsham pipe and left the lights all burning the feeling that there was something he had overlooked, forgotten left undone had vanished whatever the original cause of this absurd uneasiness might be he called it absurd on purpose because he now realized in the depths of him that it was really more vital than he cared about it was much nearer to discovery than before it dodged about just below the threshold of discovery it was as close as that any moment he would know what it was he would remember yes he would remember meanwhile he was in the right place no desire to go elsewhere afflicted him as in the theater here was the place here in the flat and then it was with a kind of sudden burst and rush it seemed to him the only way to phrase it memory gave up her dead at first he only caught her peeping round the corner at him drawing aside a corner of an enormous curtain as it were striving for more complete entrance as though the mass of it were difficult to move but he understood he knew he recognized it was enough for that an entrance into his being heart mind soul was being attempted and the entrance because of his stolid temperament was difficult of accomplishment there was effort strain something in him had first to be opened up widened made soft and ready as by an operation before full entrance could be affected this much he grasped though for the life of him he could not have put it into words also he knew who it was that sought an entrance deliberately from himself he withheld the name but he knew as surely as though strong stood in the room and faced him with a knife saying let me in let me in I wish you to know I'm here I'm clearing a way you recall our promise he rose from his chair open window again the strange fear slowly passing the cool air fanned his cheeks beauty till now had scarcely ever brushed the surface of his soul he had never troubled his head about it it passed him by indifferent and he had ever loathed the mouthy preting of it on others lips practical beauty was for dreamers for women for men who had means and leisure he had not exactly scorned it rather it had never touched his life to sweeten cheer uplift artists for him were like monks another sex almost useless beings who never helped the world go round for action always work activity achievement as he saw them he remembered strong vaguely strong the ever impecunious friend of his youth always talking of color sound mysterious ineffective things he even forgot what they had quarreled about if they had quarreled at all even or why they had gone apart all these years ago and certainly he had forgotten any promise memory as yet only peeped round the corner of that huge curtain at him tentatively suggestively yet he was obliged to admit it somewhat winningly he was conscious of this gentle sweet seductiveness that now replaced his fear and as he stood now at the open window peering over huge London beauty came close and smote him between the eyes she came blindingly with her train of stars and clouds and perfumes night mysterious myriad eyed and flaming across her sea of haunted shadows invaded his heart and shook him with her immemorial wonder and delight he found no words of course to clothe the new unwanted sensations he only knew that all his former dread uneasiness distress and with them this idea of growth that it seemed so repugnant to him were merged up and gathered magnificently home into a wave of beauty that enveloped him see it and understand ran a secret inner whisper across his mind he saw he understood he went back and turned the lights out then he took his place again at that open window drinking in the night he saw a new world a species of intoxication held him he sighed as his thoughts blundered for expression among words and sentences that knew him not but the delight was there the wonder the mystery he watched with heart alternately tightening and expanding the transfiguring play of moon and shadow over the sea of buildings he saw the dance of the hurrying clouds the open patches into outer space the veiling and unveiling of that ancient silvery face and he caught strange whispers of the hierophantic sacerdotal power that has echoed down the world since time began and dropped strange magic phrases into every poet's heart since first god dawned on chaos the beauty of the night a long time passed it may have been one hour it may have been three when at length he turned away and went slowly to his bedroom a deep peace lay over him something quite new and blessed had crept into his life and thought he could not quite understand at all he only knew that it uplifted there was no longer the least sign of affliction or distress even the inevitable reaction that of course set in could not destroy that and then as he lay in bed nearing the borderland of sleep suddenly and without any obvious suggestion to bring it to another thing he remembered the promise memory got past the big curtain for an instant and showed her face she looked into his eyes it must have been a dozen years ago when strong and he had made that foolish solemn promise that whoever died first should show himself if possible to the other had utterly forgotten it till now but strong had not forgotten it the letter came three weeks later from India that very evening strong had died at nine o'clock and he had come back in the beauty that he loved end of The Return by Algernon Blackwood recording by Louise J. Bell Sebastopol, California