 Story 1 of THE LOOT OF CITIES. THE LOOT OF CITIES by Arnold Bennett. Story 1. THE LOOT OF CITIES. CHAPTER I. THE FIRE OF LONDON. Your Wanted on the Telephone, Sir? Mr. Bruce Bowering, Managing Director of the Consolidated Mining and Investment Corporation Limited, capital two millions in one-pound shares, which stood at twenty-seven and six, turned and gauged queerlessly across the electrically-spaces of his superb private office, had the confidential clerk who addressed him. Mr. Bowering, in shirt sleeves before a Florentine mirror, was brushing his hair with the solicitude of a mother who has failed to rear most of a large family. Who is it? he asked, as if that demand for him were the last straw but one. Nearly seven on Friday evening, he added, martyrized. I think a friend, sir. The middle-aged financier dropped his gold-mounted brush and waited through the deep pile of the oriental carpet, pressed into the telephone cabinet and shut the door. Hello! he accosted the transmitter, resolved not to be angry with it. Hello! Are you there? Yes, I'm Bowering. Who are you? The faint, unhuman voice of the receiver whispered in his ear. I'm a friend. What name? No name. I thought you might like to know that a determined robbery is going to be attempted tonight at your house in Lown Square. A robbery of cash and before nine o'clock. I thought you might like to know. Ah! said Mr. Bowering to the transmitter. The feeble exclamation was all he could achieve at first. In a confined, hot silence of the telephone cabinet, this message coming to him mysteriously out of the vast unknown of London struck him with a sudden, sick fear that perhaps his wondrously organized scheme might yet miscarry even at the final moment. Why, that night of all nights, and why, before nine o'clock, could it be that the secret was out then? In any further interesting details, he inquired, bracing himself to an assumption of imperturbable and gay coolness. But there was no answer. And when, after some difficulty, he got the exchange girl to disclose the number which had rung him up, he found that his interlocutor had been using a public call-office in Oxford Street. He returned to his room, dawned his frock coat, took a large envelope from a locked drawer, and put it in his pocket and sat down to think a little. At that time Mr. Bruce Bowering was one of the most famous conjurers in the city. He had begun ten years earlier with nothing but a silk hat, and out of that empty hat had been produced, first the hoopla limited, a South African gold mine, of numerous stamps and frequent dividends, then the hoopla number two limited, a mine with as many reincarnations as Buddha, and then a dazzling succession of mines and combination The more the hat emptied itself, the more it was full, and the emerging objects, which now included the house in Lown Square and a perfect dream of a place in Hampshire, grew constantly larger and the conjurer more impressive and persuasive, and the audience more enthusiastic in its applause. At last, with a unique flourish and a new turning up of sleeves, to prove that there was no deception, had come out of the hat the CMIC, a sort of incredibly enormous Union Jack, which enwrapped all the other objects in its splendid folds. The shares of the CMIC were affectionately known in the Kaffir Circus as solids. They yielded, handsome though irregular dividends, earned chiefly by flotation and speculation. The circus believed in them, and in view of the annual meeting of shareholders to be held on the following Tuesday afternoon, the conjurer in the chair and his hat on the table, the market price after a period of depression, had stiffened. Mr. Bowring's meditations were soon interrupted by a telegram. He opened it and read, Cook, drunk again, will dine with you Devonshire 730, impossible here, have arranged about luggage Marie. Marie was Mr. Bowring's wife. He told himself that he felt greatly relieved by that telegram. He clutched at it, and his spirits seemed to rise. At any rate, since he could not now go near Lown Square, he could certainly laugh at the threatened robbery. He thought what a wonderful thing Providence was, after all. Just look at that, he said to his clerk, showing the telegram with a humorous affectation of dismay. Said the clerk, discreetly sympathetic towards his employer, thus victimized by debauched Cook's. I suppose you're going down to Hampshire tonight as usual, sir. Mr. Bowring replied that he was, and that everything appeared to be in order for the meeting, and that he should be back on Monday afternoon, or at the latest, very early on Tuesday. Then with a few parting instructions, and with that eagle glance round his own room, and into circumjacent rooms, which a truly efficient head of affairs never omits on leaving business for the weekend, Mr. Bowring, sedately yet magnificently, departed from the noble registered office of the CMIC. Why didn't Marie telephone instead of wiring, emused, as his pair of greys whirled him and his coachmen and his footmen off to the Devonshire? Two. The Devonshire mansion, a bright edifice of eleven stories in the Foster and Dixie style, constructional ironwork by Homan, lifts by way good, decorations by Waring, and terracotta by the rude, is situate on the edge of Hyde Park. It is a composite building. Its foundations are firmly fixed in the tube railway. Above that comes the wine cellarage, then the vast laundry, and then a row of windows scarcely level with the street, a sporting club, a billiard room, a grill room, and a cigarette merchant, whose name ends in Opoulos. On the first floor is the renowned Devonshire mansion restaurant. Always in London, there is just one restaurant where, if you are an entirely correct person, you can get a decent meal. The place changes from season to season, but there is never more than one of it at a time. That season it happened to be the Devonshire. The chef of the Devonshire had invented tripe suppers, trips à la mode de camp, and these suppers, seven and six, had been the rage. Consequently, all entirely correct people fed, as a matter of course, at the Devonshire, since there was no other place fit to go to. The vogue of the restaurant favorably affected the vogue of the nine floors of furnished suites above the restaurant. They were always full, and the heavenward attics, where the servants took off their smart liveries and became human, held much wealth. The vogue of the restaurant also exercised a beneficial influence over the status of the Kit Kat club, which was a cock and hen club of the latest pattern, and had its house on the third floor. It was a little after half-past seven when Mr. Bruce Bowering haughtily ascended the grand staircase of this resort of opulence, and paused for an instant near the immense fireplace at the summit. September was inclement, and a fire burned nicely, to inquire from the head-waiter whether Mrs. Bowering had secured a table. But Marie had not arrived. Marie, who was never late. Uneasy and chagrante, he proceeded under the escort of the head-waiter to the glittering Saul Louis and selected, because of his mourning attire, a table half-hidden behind an onyx pillar. The great room was moderately full of fair women and possessive men, despite the month. Immediately afterwards, a youngish couple, the man handsomer and better dressed than the woman, took the table on the other side of the pillar. Mr. Bowering waited five minutes, then he ordered the Saul Mornay and a bottle of Rumini Conti, and then he waited another five minutes. He went somewhat in fear of his wife, and did not care to begin without her. Can't you read? It was the youngish man at the next table, speaking in a raised voice, to a squinting lackey with a telegraph form in his hand. Solids, solids, my friend, sell solids to any amount tomorrow and Monday. Got it? Well, send it off at once. Quite clear, my lord, said the lackey, and fled. The youngish man gazed fixedly, but absently, at Mr. Bowering, and seemed to see through him to the tapestry behind. Mr. Bowering, to his own keen annoyance, reddened. Partly to conceal the blush, and partly because it was a quarter to eight, and there was the train to catch, he lowered his face and began upon the soul. A few minutes later, the lackey returned, gave some change to the youngish man, and surprised Mr. Bowering by advancing towards him, and handing him an envelope. An envelope which bore on its flap the legend Kit Kat Club. The note within was scribbled in pencil in his wife's handwriting, and ran. Just arrived, delayed by luggage, and too nervous to face the restaurant and am eating a chop here alone. The place is fortunately empty. Come and fetch me as soon as you're ready. Mr. Bowering sighed angrily. He hated his wife's club, and this succession of messages, telephonic, telegraphic, and calligraphic, was exasperating him. No answer, he ejaculated, and then he beckoned the lackey closer. Who's that gentleman at the next table with the lady, he murmured? I'm not rightly sure, sir, was the whispered reply. Some authorities say he's the strong man at the hippodrome, while others affirm he's a sort of American millionaire. But you addressed him as my lord. Just then I thought he was the strong man, sir, said the lackey, retiring. My bill! Mr. Bowering demanded fiercely of the waiter, and at the same time the youngish gentleman and his companion rose and departed. At the lift Mr. Bowering found the squinting lackey in charge. You're the lift man, too? Tonight, sir, I am many things. The fact is the regular lift man has got a couple of hours off, being the recent father of twins. Well, Kit Kat Club. The lift seemed to shoot far upwards, and Mr. Bowering thought the lackey had mistaken the floor. But on gaining the corridor he saw across the portals in front of him the remembered gold sign Kit Kat Club, members only. He pushed the door open and went in. Three. Instead of the familiar vestibule of his wife's club, Mr. Bowering discovered a small ante-chamber, and beyond, through a doorway half-screened by a portier, he had glimpses of a rich rose-lit drawing-room. In the doorway, with one hand raised to the portier, stood the youngish man who had forced him to blush in the restaurant. I beg your pardon, said Mr. Bowering stiffly. Is this the Kit Kat Club? The other man advanced to the outer door. His brilliant eyes fixed on Mr. Bowering's. His arm crept round the cheek of the door and came back, bearing the gold sign. Then he shut the door and locked it. No, this isn't the Kit Kat Club at all, he replied. It is my flat. Come and sit down. I was expecting you. I shall do nothing of the kind, said Mr. Bowering disdainfully. But when I tell you that I know that you are going to decamp tonight, Mr. Bowering, the youngish man smiled affably. Decamp! The spine of the financier suddenly grew flaxid. I use the word. Who the devil are you? Snapped the financier, forcing his spine to rigidity. I am the friend on the telephone. I specially wanted you at the Devonshire tonight, and I thought that the fear of a robbery at Lown Square might make your arrival here more certain. I am he who devised the story of the inebriated cook and favored you with the telegram signed Marie. I am the humorist who pretended in a loud voice to send off telegraphic instructions to sell solids in order to watch your demeanor under the test. I am the expert who forged your wife's handwriting in a note from the Kit Kat. I am the patron of the cross-side menial who gave you the note and who afterwards raised you too high in the lift. I am the artificer of this gold sign, an exact duplicate of the genuine one, Two Floors Below, which induced you to visit me. The sign alone cost me nine and six. The servant's livery came to two pounds fifteen. But I never consider expense when by dint of a generous outlay I may avoid a violence. I hate violence. He gently waved the sign to and fro. Then my wife, Mr. Bowering stammered in a panic rage, is probably at Lown Square wondering what on earth has happened to you. Mr. Bowering took breath, remembered that he was a great man, and steadied himself. You must be mad, he remarked quietly, open this door at once. Perhaps the stranger judicially admitted, perhaps a sort of madness, but do come and sit down. We have no time to lose. Mr. Bowering gazed at that handsome face with the fine nostrils, large mouth and square clean chin, and the dark eyes, the black hair and long black mustache. And he noticed the long thin hands. Decadent, he decided. Nevertheless, and though it was with the air of indulging the caprice of a lunatic, he did in fact obey the stranger's request. It was a beautiful Chippendale drawing-room that he entered, near the hearth to which a morsel of fire gave cheerfulness, were two easy chairs, and between them a small table. Behind was extended a four-fold draft-screen. I can give you just five minutes, said Mr. Bowering, magisterially, sitting down. They will suffice, the stranger responded, sitting down also. You have in your pocket, Mr. Bowering, probably your breast pocket, fifty Bank of England notes for a thousand pounds each, and a number of smaller notes amounting to another ten thousand. Well, I must demand from you the first named fifty. Mr. Bowering, in the silence of the rose-lit drawing-room, thought of all the Devonshire mansion with its endless corridors and innumerable rooms, its acres of carpets, its forests of furniture, its gold and silver and its jewels and its wines, its pretty women and possessive men. The whole humming microcosm founded on a unanimous pretense that the sacredness of property was natural law. And he thought how disconcerting it was that he should be trapped there, helpless in the very middle of the vast pretense, and forced to admit that the sacredness of property was a purely artificial convention. By what right do you make this demand? he inquired, bravely sarcastic. By the right of my unique knowledge, said the stranger with a bright smile, listen to what you and I alone know. You are at the end of the tether. The consolidated is at the same spot. You have a past consisting chiefly of nineteen fraudulent flotations. You have paid dividends out of capital until there is no capital left. You have speculated and lost. You have cooked balance sheets to a turn and ruined the eyesight of auditors with dust. You have lived like ten lords. Your houses are mortgaged. You own an unrivaled collection of unreceited bills. You are worse than a common thief. Excuse these personalities. My dear good sir, Mr. Bowering interrupted grandly. Permit me, what is more serious. Your self-confidence has been gradually deserting you. At last, perceiving that some blundering person was bound as soon to put his foot through the brittle shell of your ostentation and tread on nothing. And for seeing for yourself an immediate future consisting chiefly of Holloway, you have, by a supreme effort of your genius, borrowed sixty thousand pounds from a bank on CMIC script for a week. And you have arranged you and your wife to melt into thin air. You will affect to set out as usual for your country place in Hampshire, but it is Southampton that will see you tonight and Ave will see you tomorrow. You may run over to Paris to change some notes, but by Monday you will be on your way to, frankly, I don't know where, perhaps, Montevideo. Of course, you take the risk of extradition, but the risk is preferable to the certainty that awaits you in England. I think you will elude extradition. If I thought otherwise, I would not have had you here tonight, because, once extradited, you might begin to amuse yourself by talking about me. So it's blackmail, said Mr. Bowering Grimm. The dark eyes opposite to him sparkled gaily. Desolates me, the young man observed, to have to commit you to the deep with only ten thousand. But really, not less than fifty thousand will require to me for the brain tissue which I have expended in the study of your interesting situation. Mr. Bowering consulted his watch. Come now, he said huskily, I'll give you ten thousand. I flatter myself, I can look fax in the face, and so I'll give you ten thousand. My friend, answered the spider, you are a judge of character. Do you honestly think I don't mean precisely what I say, to say expense? It is eight thirty. You are, if I may be allowed the remark, running it rather fine. And suppose I refuse to part, said Mr. Bowering upon reflection. What then? Well, I have confessed to you that I hate violence. You would, therefore, leave this room unmolested, but you wouldn't step off the island. Mr. Bowering scanned the agreeable features of the stranger, then, while the lifts were ascending and descending, and the wine was sparkling, and the jewels flashing, and the gold clinking, and the pretty women being pretty, in all the four quarters of the Devonshire, Mr. Bruce Bowering, in the silent parlor, counted out fifty notes onto the table. After all, it was a fortune that little pile of white on the crimson polished wood. Bon voyage, said the stranger. Don't imagine that I am not full of sympathy for you. I am. You have only been unfortunate. Bon voyage. Now, by heaven, Mr. Bowering almost shouted, rushing back from the door and drawing a revolver from his hip pocket. It's too much. I don't mean too, but, confounded, what's a revolver for? The youngish man jumped up quickly and put his hands on the notes. Violence is always foolish, Mr. Bowering, he murmured. Will you give them up, or won't you? I won't. The stranger's fine eyes seemed to glint with joy in the drama. Then the revolver was raised, but in the same instant a tiny hand snatched it from the hand of Mr. Bowering, who turned and beheld by his side a woman. The huge screen sank slowly and noiselessly to the floor in the surprising manner peculiar to screens that have been overset. Mr. Bowering cursed. An accomplice, I might have guessed, he grumbled, in final disgust. He ran to the door, unlocked it, and was no more seen. Four. The lady was aged twenty-seven or so of medium height and slim, with a plain, very intelligent and expressive face lighted by courageous gray eyes and crowned with loose, abundant, fluffy hair. Perhaps it was the fluffy hair, and perhaps it was the mouth that twitched as she dropped the revolver, who can say, but the whole atmosphere of the rose-lit chamber was suddenly changed. The incalculable had invaded it. You seemed surprised, Miss Fincastle, said the possessor of the bank notes, laughing gaily. Surprised, echoed the lady, controlling that mouth, my dear Mr. Thorold, when strictly as a journalist I accepted your invitation, I did not anticipate this sequel. Frankly, I did not. She tried to speak coldly and evenly on the assumption that a journalist has no sex during business hours, but just then she happened to be neither less nor more a woman than a woman always is. If I have had the misfortune to annoy you, Thorold threw up his arms and gallant despair. Annoy is not the word, said Miss Fincastle, nervously smiling. May I sit down? Thanks. Let us recount. You arrive in England from somewhere, as the sun and air of the late Ahasuras Thorold, the New York operator who died worth six million dollars, it becomes known that while in Algiers in the spring, you stayed at the Hotel Saint James, famous as the scene of what is called the Algiers Mystery, familiar to English newspaper readers since last April. The editor of my journal, therefore, instructs me to obtain an interview with you. I do so. The first thing I discover is that, though an American, you have no American accent. You explain this by saying that since infancy you have always lived in Europe with your mother. But surely you do not doubt that I am Cecil Thorold, said the man. Their faces were approximate over the table. Of course not. I merely recount to continue. I interview you as to the Algerian mystery and get some new items concerning it. Then you regale me with tea and your opinions, and my questions grow more personal. So it comes about that strictly on behalf of my paper I acquire what your recreations are, and suddenly you answer, my recreations, come to dinner tonight, quite informally, and I will show you how I amuse myself. I come. I dine. I am stuck behind that screen and told to listen, and the millionaire proves to be nothing but a blackmailer. You must understand, my dear lady. I understand everything, Mr. Thorold, except your object and admitting me to the scene. Oh, well, cried Thorold vivaciously, a freak of mine, possibly due to the eternal and universal desire of man to show off before woman. The journalist tried to smile, but something in her face caused Thorold to run to a chiffonniere. Drink this, he said, returning with a glass. I need nothing, the voice was a whisper. Oblige me, Ms. Fincastle drank and coughed. Why do you do it? She asked sadly, looking at the notes. You don't mean to say, Thorold burst out, that you are feeling sorry for Mr. Bruce Bowering? He has merely parted with what he stole, and the people from whom he stole stole. All the activities which center about the stock exchange are simply various manifestations of one primeval instinct. Suppose I had not interfered. No one would have been a penny the better off except Mr. Bruce Bowering. Whereas you intend to restore this money to the consolidated, said Ms. Fincastle eagerly. Not quite. The consolidated doesn't deserve it. You must not regard it shareholders as a set of innocent shorn lambs. They knew the game. They went in for what they could get. Besides, how could I restore the money without giving myself away? I want the money myself. But you are a millionaire. It is precisely because I am a millionaire that I want more. All millionaires are like that. Oh, I'm sorry to find you a thief, Mr. Thorold. A thief? No. I am only direct. I only avoid the middleman. At dinner, Ms. Fincastle, you displayed somewhat advanced views about property, marriage, and the aristocracy of brains. You said that labels were for the stupid majority and that the wise minority examined the ideas behind the labels. You label me a thief, but examine the idea, and you will perceive that you might as well call yourself a thief. Your newspaper every day suppresses the truth about the city, and it does so in order to live. In other words, it touches the pitch. It participates in the game. Today it has a fifty-line advertisement of a false balance sheet of the consolidated at Tushilling's Align. That five pounds, part of the loot of a great city, will help to pay for your account of our interview this afternoon. Our interview tonight, Ms. Fincastle corrected him stiffly, and all that I have seen and heard. At these words she stood up, and as he so thorough gazed at her, his face changed. I shall begin to wish, he said slowly, that I had deprived myself of the pleasure of your company this evening. You might have been a dead man had you done so, Ms. Fincastle retorted, and observing his blank countenance, she touched the revolver. Have you forgotten already? she asked heartily. Of course it wasn't loaded, he remarked. Of course I had seen to that earlier in the day. I'm not such a bungler. Then I didn't save your life. You forced me to say that you did not, and to remind you, that you gave me your word not to emerge from behind the screen. However, seeing the motive, I can only thank you for that lapse. The pity is that it hopelessly compromises you. Me, exclaimed Ms. Fincastle. You can't you see that you are in it, in this robbery, to give the thing a label? You were alone with the robber. You suckered the robber at a critical moment. Accomplice, Mr. Bowering himself said. My dear journalist, the episode of the revolver, empty though the revolver was, seals your lips. Ms. Fincastle laughed rather hysterically, leaning over the table with her hands on it. My dear millionaire, she said rapidly, you don't know the new journalism to which I have the honor to belong. You wouldn't know it better had you lived more in New York. All I have to announce is that, compromised or not, a full account of this affair will appear in my paper tomorrow morning. No, I shall not inform the police. I am a journalist simply, but a journalist I am. And your promise, which you gave me before going behind the screen, your solemn promise that you would reveal nothing? I was loath to mention it. Some promises, Mr. Thurold, it is a duty to break, and it is my duty to break this one. I should never have given it had I had the slightest idea of the nature of your recreations. Thurold still smiled, though faintly. Really, you know, he murmured, this is getting just a little serious. It is very serious, she stammered, and then Thurold noticed that the new journalist was softly weeping. Five. The door opened. Miss Kitty Satorius said the erstwhile liftman, who was now in plain clothes and had mysteriously ceased to squint. A beautiful girl, a girl who had remarkable loveliness, and was aware of it, one of the prettiest women of the Devonshire, ran impulsively into the room and caught Miss Fincastle by the hand. My dearest Eve, you're crying. What's the matter? Leckie, said Thurold, aside to the servant, I told you to admit no one. The beautiful blonde turned sharply to Thurold. I told him I wished to enter. She said, imperiously, half-closing her eyes. Yes, sir, said Leckie, that was it. The lady wished to enter. Thurold bowed. It was sufficient, he said. That will do, Leckie. Yes, sir. But I say, Leckie, when next you address me publicly, try to remember that I am not in the peerage. The servant squinted. Certainly, sir. And he retired. Now we are alone, said Miss Satorius. Introduce us, Eve, and explain. Miss Fincastle, having regained self-control, introduced her dear friend, the radiant star of the Regency Theatre, and her acquaintance, the millionaire. Eve didn't feel quite sure of you, the actress stated, and so we arranged that if she wasn't up at my flat by nine o'clock, I was to come down and reconnoit her. What have you been doing to make Eve cry? Oh, unintentional, I assure you, Thurold began. There's something between you two, said Kitty Satorius, sagaciously in significant accents. What is it? She sat down, touched her picture hat, smoothed her white gown, and tapped her foot. What is it now, Mr. Thurold? I think you had better tell me. Thurold raised his eyebrows and obediently commenced the narration, standing with his back to the fire. How perfectly splendid, Kitty exclaimed. I'm so glad you cornered Mr. Bowering. I met him one night, and I thought he was horrid. And these are the notes. Well, of all the Thurold proceeded with his story. Oh, but you can't do that, Eve, said Kitty, suddenly serious. You can't go and split. It would mean all sorts of bother. Your wretched newspaper would be sure to keep you hanging about in London, and we shouldn't be able to start on our holiday tomorrow. Eve and I are starting on quite a long tour tomorrow, Mr. Thurold. We begin with Austin. Indeed, said Thurold. I too am going in that direction soon. Perhaps we may meet. I hope so. Kitty smiled, and then she looked at Eve and Castle. You really mustn't do that, Eve, she said. I must. I must. Miss Fincastle insisted, clinching her hands. And she will, said Kitty tragically, after considering her friend's face, she will and our holidays ruined. I see it. I see it, plainly. She's in one of her stupid, conscientious moods. She's fearfully advanced and careless and unconventional in theory, Eve is. But when it comes to practice, Mr. Thurold, you have just got everything into a dreadful knot. Why did you want those notes so very particularly? I don't want them so very particularly. Well, anyhow it's a most peculiar predicament. Mr. Bowering doesn't count, and this consolidated thing of me isn't any the worse off. Nobody suffers who oughtn't to suffer. It's your unlawful gain that's wrong. Why not pitch the wretched notes in the fire? Kitty laughed at her own playful humor. Certainly, said Thurold, and with a quick movement, he put the fifty trifles in the gray, where they made a bluish yellow flame. Both the women screamed and sprang up. Mr. Thurold! Mr. Thurold! He's adorable, Kitty-breathe. The incident, I ventured a hope, is now closed, said Thurold calmly, but with his dark eyes sparkling. I must thank you both for a very enjoyable evening. Someday, perhaps, I may have an opportunity of further explaining my philosophy to you. End of chapter one. Story one of The Loot of Cities by Arnold Bennett. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Story one, The Loot of Cities, chapter two, a comedy on the Gold Coast. It was five o'clock on an afternoon in mid-September, and a couple of American millionaires, they abounded that year, did millionaires, sat chatting together on the wide terrace, which separates the entrance to the cursal from the promenade. Some yards away against the balustrade of the terrace in the natural, unconsidered attitude of one to whom short frogs are a matter of history, certainly about very recent history, stood a charming and imperious girl. You could see that she was eating chocolate while meditating upon the riddle of life. The elder millionaire glanced at every pretty woman within view, accepting only the girl. But his companion seemed to be intent on counting the chocolates. The immense crystal dome of the cursal dominated the Gold Coast, and on either side of the Great Building, were stretched out in a straight line, the hotels, the restaurants, the cafes, the shops, the theaters, the concert halls, and the pawnbrokers of the city of pleasure, Ostend. At one extremity of that long array of ornate white architecture, which resembled the icing on a bright cake more than the roofs of men, was the Palace of a King. At the other were the lighthouse and the railway signals, which guided into the city the continuously arriving cargos of wealth, beauty, and desire. In front the ocean, gray and lethargic, idly beat up a little genteel foam under the promenade for the wedding of pink feet and stylish bathing costumes, and after a hard day's work, the sun, by arrangement with the authorities during August and September, was setting over the sea exactly opposite the superb portals of the cursal. The younger of the millionaires was Cecil Thurold. The other, a man, fifty-five or so, was Simeon Rancher, father of the girl at the balustrade, and president of the famous dry-good's trust of exciting memory. The contrast between the two men, like only in extreme riches, was remarkable. Cecil, still youthful, slim, dark, languid of movement, with delicate features, eyes almost Spanish, and an accent of purest English, and Rancher, with his nasal twang, his stout frame, his rounded bluish-red chin, his little eyes, and that demeanor of false briskness, by means of which aging men seek to prove to themselves that they are as young as ever they were. Simeon had been a friend and opponent of Cecil's father. In former days, those twain had victimized each other for colossal sums. Consequently, Simeon had been glad to meet the son of his dead antagonist, and in less than a week of off-ständ repose, despite a fundamental disparity of temperament, the formidable president and the Europeanized wanderer had achieved a sort of intimacy, an intimacy which was about to be intensified. The difference between you and me is this, Cecil was saying, you exhaust yourself by making money among men who were all bent on making money, in a place specially set apart for the purpose. I amuse myself by making money among men who, having made or inherited money, are bent on spending it, in places specially set apart for the purpose. I take people off their guard. They don't precisely see me coming. I don't rent an office and put up a sign, which is equivalent to announcing that the rest of the world had better look out for itself. Our codes are the same, but is not my way more original and more diverting. Look at this place. Half the wealth of Europe is collected here. The other half is that groovy. The entire coast reeks of money. The sands are golden with it. You've only to put out your hand, so. So, ejaculated range-sure quizzical, how? Show me. That would be telling. I guess you wouldn't get much out of Simeon. Not as much as your father did. Do you imagine I should try? said Cecil gravely. My amusements are always a discreet. But you confess you are often bored. Now on Wall Street we are never bored. Yes, Cecil admitted. I embarked on these enterprises, mainly to escape boredom. You ought to marry, said range-sure pointedly. You ought to marry, my friend. I have my yacht. No doubt, and as she's a beauty and feminine too, but not feminine enough, you ought to marry. Now I'll, Mr. Range-sure, pause. His daughter had suddenly ceased to eat chocolates and was leaning over the balustrade in order to converse with a tall young man whose fair tanned face and white hat overtopped the carved masonry and were thus visible to the millionaires. The latter glanced at one another and then glanced away, each slightly self-conscious. I thought Mr. Volory had left, said Cecil. He came back last night, range-sure replied curtly, and he leaves again to-night. Then it's a match after all, Cecil ventured. Who says that? Was Simeon's sharp inquiry? The birds of the air whispered. One heard it at every corner three days ago. Range-sure turned his chair a little toward Cecil's. You'll allow I ought to know something about it, he said. Well, I tell you it's a lie. I'm sorry I mentioned it, Cecil apologized. Not at all, said Simeon, stroking his gen. I'm glad you did, because now you can just tell all the birds of the air direct from me, that in this particular case there isn't going to be the usual alliance between the beauty and dollars of America and the aristocratic blood of Great Britain. Listen right here, he continued confidentially, like a man whose secret feelings have been inconveniencing him for several hours, this young spark, mind I have nothing against him, asked me to consent to his engagement with Geraldine. I tell him that I intend to settle half a million dollars on my daughter, and that the man she marries must cover that half million with another. He says he has a thousand a year of his own, pounds, just nice for Geraldine's gloves and candy, and that he is the heir of his uncle Lord Lowry, and that there is an entail, and that Lord Lowry is very rich, very old, and very unmarried. But that, being also very peculiar, he won't come down with any money. It occurs to me to remark, suppose Lord Lowry marries and develops into the father of a man-child, where do you come in, Mr. Vo Lowry? Oh! Lord Lowry marry? Impossible! Laughable! Then Geraldine begins to worry at me and her mother too. And so I kind of issue an ultimatum, namely, I will consent to an engagement without a settlement, if on the marriage Lord Lowry will give a note of hand for half a million dollars to Geraldine, payable on his marriage. See? My Lord's nephew goes off to persuade my Lord, and returns with my Lord's answer in an envelope, sealed with a great seal. I open it and I read, this is what I read, to Mr. S. Rainshaw, American draper, sir. As a humorist, you rank high, accept the admiration of your obedient servant, Lowry. The millionaire laughed. Oh! it's clever enough, said Rainshaw. It's very English and grand, dashed, if I don't admire it. All the same, I've requested Mr. Vo Lowry under the circumstances to quit this town. I didn't show him the letter. No, I spared his delicate feelings. I merely told him Lord Lowry had refused, and that I would be ready to consider his application favorably any time when he happened to have half a million dollars in his pocket. And Miss Geraldine? She's flying the red flag, but she knows when my back's against the wall. She knows her father. She'll recover. Great Scotch, he's eighteen and he's twenty-one. The whole affair is a high farce. And moreover, I guess I want Geraldine to marry an American, after all. And if she elopes, Cecil murmured, as if to himself, gazing at the set features of the girl, who was now alone once more. Elopes! Rainshaw's face reddened as his mood shifted suddenly from indulgent cynicism to profound anger. Cecil was amazed at the transformation until he remembered to have heard long ago that Simeon himself had eloped. It was just a fancy that flashed into my mind, Cecil smiled diplomatically. I should let it flash out again if I were you, said Rainshaw, with a certain grimness, and Cecil perceived the truth of the maxim that a parent can never forgive his own fault in his child. Two. You've come to sympathize with me, said Geraldine Rainshaw calmly, as Cecil, leaving the father for a few moments, strolled across the terrace towards the daughter. It's my honest, kindly face that gives me away, he responded lightly, but what am I to sympathize with you about? You know what, the girl said briefly. They stood together near the balustrade, looking out over the sea into the crimson eye of the sun, and all the afternoon activities of Ostend were surging round them, the muffled sound of musical instruments from within the Kursall, the shrill cries of late bathers from the shore, the toot of a tramway horn to the left, the roar of a siren to the right, and everywhere the ceaseless hum of an existence at once gay, feverish, and futile. But Cecil was conscious of nothing, but the individuality by his side. Some women he reflected are older at eighteen than they are at thirty-eight, and Geraldine was one of those. She happened to be very young and very old at the same time. She might be immature, crude, even gawky in her girlishness, but she was just then in the first flush of mentally realizing the absolute independence of the human spirit. She had force, and she had also the enterprise to act on it. As Cecil glanced at her intelligent expressive face, he thought of her playing with life as a child plays with a razor. You mean, he inquired, I mean that Father has been talking about me to you. I could tell by his eyes. Well, your directness unnerves me, he smiled. Pull yourself together, then, Mr. Thurrow, to be a man. Will you let me treat you as a friend? Why, yes, she said, if you'll promise not to tell me I'm only eighteen. I am incapable of such rudeness, Cecil replied. A woman is as old as she feels. You feel at least thirty. Therefore you are at least thirty. This being understood, I'm going to suggest as a friend that if you and Mr. Vaux-Laurie are perhaps pardonably contemplating any extreme step. Extreme step, Mr. Thurrow? Anything rash? And suppose we are, Geraldine demanded, raising her chin scornfully and defiantly and dangling her parasol. I should respectfully and confidentially advise you to refrain. Be content to wait, my dear middle-aged woman. Your father may relent. And also I have a notion that I may be able to… to… help us? Possibly. You are real good, said Geraldine Coldly, but what gave you the idea that Harry and I were meaning to… Something in your eyes, your fine, daring eyes. I read you as you read your father, you see. Well then, Mr. Thurrold, there's something wrong with my fine, daring eyes. I'm just the last girl in all America to do anything… rash. Why, if I did anything rash, I'm sure I should feel ever afterwards as if I wanted to be excused off the very face of the ear. I'm that sort of girl. Do you think I don't know that father will give way? I guess he's just got to. With time and hammering, you can knock sense into the head of any parent. I apologize, said Cecil, both startled and convinced, and I congratulate Mr. Vos Lowry. Say, you like Harry, don't you? Oh, very much. He's the ideal type of Englishman. Geraldine nodded sweetly, and so obedient, he does everything I tell him. He is leaving for England tonight, not because father asked him to, but because I did. I'm going to take mother to Brussels for a few days shopping. Lace, you know, that will give father an opportunity to meditate in solitude on his own greatness. Tell me, Mr. Thurrold, do you consider that Harry and I would be justified in corresponding secretly? Cecil assumed a pose of judicial gravity. I think you would, he decided, but don't tell anyone, I said so. Not even Harry? She ran off into the curse hall, saying she must seek her mother. But instead of seeking her mother, Geraldine passed straight through the concert hall, where a thousand and one wondrously attired women were doing fancy needlework to the accompaniment of a band of music into the maze of corridors beyond, and so to the rear entrance of the curse hall on the boulevard Van Isom. Here she met Mr. Harry Vol Lowry, who was most obviously waiting for her. They crossed the road to the empty tramway waiting room and entered it and sat down, and by the mere act of looking into each other's eyes, these two, the stiff, simple, honest-faced young Englishmen, with Oxford written all over him, and the charming child of a civilization equally proud, but with fewer conventions, suddenly transformed, the little bureau into a cupid's bower. It's just as I thought, you darling boy! Geraldine began to talk rapidly. Father's the least bit in the world scared, and when he's scared, he's bound to confide in someone, and he's confided in that sweet Mr. Thurold, and Mr. Thurold has been requested to reason with me and advise me to be a good girl and wait. I know what that means. It means that Father thinks we shall soon forget each other, my poor Harry, and I do believe it means that Father wants me to marry Mr. Thurold. What did you say to him, dear? The lover demanded. Pale! Trust me to fool him, Harry. I simply walked round him. He thinks we're going to be very good and wait patiently, as if Father ever would give way until he was forced. She laughed disdainfully, so we're perfectly safe so long as we act with discretion. Now, let's clearly understand. Today's Monday you return to England to-night. Yes, and I'll arrange about the license and things. Your cousin Mary is just as important as the license, Harry, said Geraldine Brimley. She will come. You may rely on her being at Ostend with me on Thursday. Very well. In the meantime I behave as if life were blank. Brussels will put them off the scent. Mother and I will return from there on Thursday afternoon. That night there is a soiree Don Saund at the cursor. Mother will say she is too tired to go to it, but she will have to go all the same. I will dance before all men until a quarter to ten. I will even dance with Mr. Thurold. What a pity I can't dance before Father, but he's certain to be in the gambling-rooms then, winning money. He always is at that hour. At a quarter to ten I will slip out, and you'll be here at this back door with a carriage. We drive to the Quay and just catch the 1105 steamer, and I meet your cousin Mary. On Friday morning we are married, and then, then we shall be in a position to talk to Father. He'll pretend to be furious, but he can't say much, because he eloped himself. Didn't you know? I didn't, said Harry, with a certain dryness. Oh yes, it's in the family, but you needn't look so starched, my English Lord. He took her hand. You sure your uncle won't disinherit you, or anything horrid of that kind? He can't, said Harry. What a perfectly lovely country England is, Geraldine exclaimed. Fancy the poor old thing not being able to disinherit you. Why, it's just too delicious for words. And for some reason or other he kissed her violently. Then an official entered the bureau, and asked them if they wanted to go to Blankenburg, because if so, the tram was awaiting their distinguished pleasure. They looked at each other foolishly, and a sidled out, and the bureau ceased to be Cupid's Bower. 3. By Simeon's request Cecil dined with the rangers that night at the Continental. After dinner they all sat out on the balcony, and sustained themselves with coffee, while watching the gay traffic of the douche, the brilliant illumination of the Cursol, and the distant lights on the invisible but murmuring sea. Geraldine was in one of her moods of philosophic pessimism, and would persist in dwelling on the uncertainty of riches, and the vicissitudes of millionaires. She found a text in the famous Bowering Case, of which the newspaper contained many interesting details. I wonder if he'll be caught, she remarked. I wonder, said Cecil. What do you think, Father? I think you'd better go to bed, Simeon replied. The chit rose and kissed him deutiously. Good night, she said. Aren't you glad the sea keeps so calm? Why? Can you ask? Mr. Volkdlari crosses the night, and he's a dreadfully bad sailor. Come along, Mother. Mr. Therrold, when Mother and I return from Brussels, we shall expect to be taken for a cruise in the Clarabel. Simeon sighed with relief upon the departure of his family, and began a fresh cigar. On the whole his day had been rather too domestic. He was quite pleased when Cecil, having apparently by accident broached the subject of the Dry Good's Trust, proceeded to exhibit a minute curiosity concerning the past, the present, and the future of the greatest of all the rain-shore enterprises. Are you thinking of coming in? Simeon demanded at length, breaking up his ears. No, said Cecil. I'm thinking of going out. The fact is, I haven't mentioned it before, but I'm ready to sell a very large block of shares. The deuce you are, Simeon exclaimed, and what do you call a very large block? Well, said Cecil, it would cost me nearly half a million to take them up now. Dollars? Pound sterling. Twenty-five thousand shares at ninety-five and three-eight. Rain-shore whistled two bars of Follow Me from the Bell of New York. Is this how you amuse yourself at Ostend? he inquired. Cecil smiled. This is quite an exceptional transaction, and not too profitable either. But you can't dump that lot on the market, Simeon protested. Yes, I can, said Cecil. I must, and I will. There are reasons. You yourself wouldn't care to handle it, I suppose. The President of the Trust pondered. I'll handle it at ninety-three and three-eight, he answered quietly. Oh, come! That's dropping two points, said Cecil's shock. A moment ago you were prophesying a further rise. Rain-shore's face gleamed out momentarily in the darkness as he puffed at his cigar. If you must unload, he remarked, as if addressing the red end of the cigar. I'm your man at ninety-three and three-eight. Cecil argued, but Simeon Rainshore never argued. It was not his method. In a quarter of an hour the younger man had contracted to sell twenty-five thousand shares of a hundred dollars each in the United States Dry Goods Trust at two points below the current market quotation, and six and five-eight points below par. The hoot of an outgoing steamer sounded across the city. I must go, said Cecil. You're in a mighty hurry, Simeon complained. Four. Five minutes later Cecil was in his own rooms at the Hotel de la Plage. Soon there was a discreet knock at the door. Come in, Lucky, he said. It was his servant who entered, the small, thin man, with very mobilized and of no particular age, who in various capacities and incarnations, now as lift man, now as financial agent, now as, no matter what, assisted Cecil in his diversions. Mr. Vollauri really did go by the boat, sir. Good, and you have given directions about the yacht? The affair is in order, and you've procured one of Mr. Rainshore's Homburg hats. It is in your dressing room. There was no mark of identification on it, so in order to smooth the difficulties of the police when they find it on the beach, I have taken the liberty of writing Mr. Rainshore's name on the lining. A kindly thought, said Cecil. You'll catch the special GSN steamer, direct for London at one a.m. That will get you into town before two o'clock tomorrow afternoon. Things have turned out as I expected, and I've nothing else to say to you. But before leaving me, perhaps you'd better repeat your instructions. With pleasure, sir, said Lucky. To see afternoon, I call at Cloak Lane an intimate that we want to sell dry good shares. I ineffectually try to conceal a secret cause for alarm, and I gradually disclose the fact that we are very anxious indeed to sell really a lot of dry good shares in a hurry. I permit myself to be pumped, and the information is wormed out of me, that Mr. Simeon Rainshore has disappeared, has possibly committed suicide, but that at present no one is aware of this except ourselves. I express doubts as to the soundness of the trust, and I remark on the unfortunateness of this disappearance so soon after the lamentable panic connected with the lately vanished Bruce Bowring's and his companies. I send our friends on change with orders to see what they can do and to report. I then go to Birch and Lane and repeat the performance there without variation. Then I call at the city office of the evening messenger and talk privately in a despondent vein with the financial editor concerning the trust, but I breathe not a word as to Mr. Rainshore's disappearance. Wednesday morning, the rot in dry goods has set in sharply, but I am now, very foolishly, disposed to haggle about the selling price. Our friends urge me to accept what I can get, and I leave them saying that I must telegraph to you. Wednesday afternoon, I see a reporter of the morning journal and let out that Simeon Rainshore has disappeared. The journal will wire to all stand for confirmation, which confirmation it will receive. Thursday morning, the bottom is knocked out of the price of dry goods shares. Then I am to call on our other friends at Throgmorton Street and tell them to buy, buy, buy in London, New York, Paris, everywhere. Go in peace, said Cecil, if we are lucky the price will drop to seventy. Five. I see, Mr. Thurold, said Geraldine Rainshore, that you are about to ask me for the next dance. It is yours. You are the Queen of Diviners, Cecil replied, bowing. It was precisely half past nine on Thursday evening, and they had met in a corner of the pillard and balcony to sell the dance in the cursal behind the concert hall. The slippery, glittering floor was crowded with dancers. The men in ordinary evening dress, the women very variously attired, save that nearly all wore picture hats. Geraldine was in a white frock high at the neck with a large hat of black velvet, and amidst that brilliant multicolored light-hearted Throgm, lit by the blaze of the electric chandeliers and swayed by the irresistible melody of the doctrine and waltz, the young girl simply dressed as she was, easily held her own. So you've come back from Brussels, Cecil said, taking her arm and ways. Yes, we arrived just in time for dinner. But what have you been doing with Father? We've seen nothing of him. Ah, said Cecil mysteriously. We've been on a little voyage, and, like you, we've only just returned. In the caribel? He nodded. You might have waited, she pouted. Perhaps you wouldn't have liked it. Things happened, you know. Why? What? Do tell me. Well, you left your poor father alone, and he was moping all day on Tuesday. So on Tuesday night I had the happy idea of going out in the yacht to witness a sham night attack by the French channel squadron on Calais. I caught your honoured parent just as he was retiring to bed, and we went. He was only too glad, but we hadn't left the harbour much more than an hour and a half when our engines broke down. What fun! And at night, too. Yes, wasn't it? The shaft was broken. So we didn't see much of any night attack on Calais. Fortunately, the weather was all that the weather ought to be when a ship's engines break down. Still, it took us over forty hours to repair. Over forty hours. I'm proud we were able to do the thing without being ignominiously towed into port. But I fear your father may have grown a little impatient, though we had excellent views of Ostend and Dunkirk, and the passing vessels were a constant diversion. Was there plenty to eat, Geraldine, as simply ample? Then father wouldn't really mind. When did you land? About an hour ago. Your father did not expect you to-night, I fancy. He dressed and went straight to the tables. He has to make up for a night lost, you see. They danced in silence for a few moments, and then suddenly Geraldine said, Will you excuse me? I feel tired. Good night. The clock under the orchestra showed seventeen minutes to ten. Instantly, Cecil queried, instantly, and the girl added, with a hint of mischief in her voice as she shook hands, I look on you as quite a friend since our last little talk, so you will excuse this abruptness, won't you? He was about to answer when a sort of commotion arose near behind them. Still holding her hand, he turned to look. Why, he said, it's your mother. She must be unwell. Mrs. Rainshaw, a stout and rode, as always, in tight, sumptuous black, sat among a little bevy of chaperones. She held a newspaper in trembling hands, and she was uttering a succession of staccato, oh, oh, oh, oh, while everyone in the vicinity gazed at her with alarm. Then she dropped the paper and murmuring, Simeon's dead, sank gently to the polished floor, just as Cecil and Geraldine approached. Geraldine's first instinctive move was to seize the newspaper, which was that day's Paris edition of The New York Herald. She read the headlines in a flash. Strange disappearance of Simeon Rainshaw, suicide feared, takes advantage of his family's absence, heavy drop in dry goods, shares at seventy-two, and still falling. Six. My good Rebecca, I assure you that I am alive. This was Mr. Rainshaw's attempt to calm the hysteric sobbing of his wife, who had recovered from her short swoon in the little retreat of the person who sold the Touchnitzes, picture postcards and French novels, between the main corridor and the reading rooms. Geraldine and Cecil were also in the tiny chamber. As for this, Simeon continued, kicking the newspaper, it's a singular thing that a man can't take a couple of days off without upsetting the entire universe. What should you do in my place, Thurold? This is the fault of your shaft. I should buy dry goods shares, said Cecil, and I will. There was an imperative knock at the door, and an official of police entered. Mr. Rainshaw, the same. We have received telegrams from New York Alondra to demand if you are dead. I am not. I still live. But Mr.'s hat has been found on the beach. My hat? It carries Mr.'s name. Then it isn't mine, sir. Mais commentant? I tell you it isn't mine, sir. Don't be angry, Simeon. His wife pleaded between her sobs. The exit of the official was immediately followed by another summons for admission, even more imperative. A lady entered and handed to Simeon a card. Miss Eve Fincastle, the morning journal. My paper, she began. You wish to know if I exist, madam? said Simeon. I, uh, Miss Fincastle, caught sight of Cecil Thurold, paused and bowed stiffly. Cecil bowed. He also blushed. I continue to exist, madam. Simeon proceeded. I have not killed myself. But homicide of some sort is not improbable if, in short, madam, good night. Miss Fincastle, with a long searching, a silent look at Cecil, departed. Bolt that door, said Simeon to his daughter. Then there was a third knock, followed by a hammering. Go away, Simeon commanded. Open the door, pleaded a muffled voice. It's Harry, Geraldine whispered solemnly in Cecil's ear. Please go and call him. Tell him I say it's too late tonight. Cecil went astounded. What happened to Geraldine? cried the boy, extremely excited in the corridor. There are all sorts of rumours. Is she ill? Cecil gave an explanation, and in his turn asked for another one. You look unnerved, he said. What are you doing here? What is it? Come, have a drink, and tell me all, my young friend. And when over Cognac he had learnt the details of a scheme, which had no connection with his own, he exclaimed with the utmost sincerity, the minx, the minx. What do you mean, inquired Harry Volkswagen? I mean that you and the minx have had the nearest possible shave of ruining your united careers. Listen to me. Give it up, my boy. I'll try to arrange things. You delivered a letter to the father-in-law of your desire a few days ago. I'll give you another one to deliver, and I fancy the result will be different. The letter, which Cecil wrote, ran thus. Dear Rangeaur, I enclosed check for a hundred thousand pounds. It represents parts of the gold that can be picked up on the Gold Coast by putting out one's hand, so you will observe that it is dated the day after the next settling day of the London Stock Exchange. I contracted on Monday last to sell you twenty-five thousand shares of a certain trust at ninety-three and three-eighths. I did not possess the shares then, but my agents have today bought them for me at an average price of seventy-two. I stand to realize, therefore, rather more than half a million dollars. The round half million Mr. Vol Lowry happens to bring you in his pocket. You will not forget your promise to him, that when he did so you would consider his application favorably. I wish to make no profit out of the little transaction, but I will venture to keep the balance for out-of-pocket expenses, such as mending the Clarabel Shaft. How convenient it is to have a yacht that will break down when required. The shares will doubtless recover in due course, and I hope the reputation of the trust may not suffer. And that, for the sake of old times, with my father, you will regard the episode in its proper light, and bear me no ill will. Your sincerely see-thoroughed. The next day the engagement of Mr. Harry Nigel Selencourt Vol Lowry and Ms. Geraldine Rainshaw was announced to two continents. THE LOOT OF CITIES The bracelet had fallen into the canal, and the fact that the canal was the most picturesque canal in the old Flemish city of Bruges, and that the ripples caused by the splash of the bracelet had disturbed reflections of wondrous belfries, towers, steeples, and other unique examples of gothic architecture did nothing whatever to assuage the sudden agony of that disappearance. For the bracelet had been given to Kitty Sartorius by her grateful and lordly manager, Lionel Belmont, USA, upon the completion of the unexampled run of the Delmonico doll at the Regency Theatre of London, and its diamonds were worth five hundred pounds, to say nothing of the gold. The beautiful Kitty and her friend Yves Fincastle, the journalist, having exhausted Ostend, had duly arrived at Bruges in the course of their holiday tour. The question of Kitty's jewellery had arisen at the start. Kitty had insisted that she must travel with all her jewels, according to the custom of the theatrical stars, of great magnitude. Yves had equally insisted that Kitty must travel without jewels, and had exhorted her to remember the days of her simplicity. They compromised. Kitty was allowed to bring the bracelet, but nothing else saved the usual half-dozen rings. The ravishing creature could not have persuaded herself to leave the bracelet behind, because it was so recent a gift, and still new and strange and heavenly to her. But since prudence forbade even Kitty to let the trifle lie about in hotel bedrooms, she was obliged always to wear it. And she had been wearing it this bright afternoon in early October, when the girls, during a stroll, had met one of their new friends, Madame Laurence, on the world-famous ski de Rosaires, just at the back of the Hotel de Villa and the Hall. Madame Laurence resided permanently in Bruges. She was between twenty-five and forty-five, dark, with the air of continually subduing a natural instinct to dash, and well-dressed in black. Equally interested in the peerage and in the poor, she had made the acquaintance of Yves and Kitty at the Hotel de la Grande Place, where she called from time to time to induce English travellers to buy genuine Bruges lace, wrought under her own supervision by her own paupers. She was Belgian by birth, and when complimented on her fluent and correct English, she gave all the praise to her deceased husband, an English barrister. She had settled in Bruges, like many people settled there, because Bruges is inexpensive, picturesque, and inordinately respectable. Besides an English church and chaplain, it has two cathedrals and an episcopal palace, with a real bishop in it. What an exquisite bracelet! May I look at it? It was these simple but ecstatic words that spoken with Madame Laurence's charming foreign accent, which had begun the tragedy. The three women had stopped to admire the always admirable view from the little key, and they were leaning over the rails when Kitty unclasped the bracelet for the inspection of the widow. The next instant there was a plop, and a frighted exclamation from Madame Laurence in her native tongue, and the bracelet was engulfed before the very eyes of all three. The three looked at each other, none plused. Then they looked around, but not a single person was in sight. Then for some reason, which doubtless psychology can explain, they stared hard at the water, though the water there was just as black and foul as it is everywhere else in the canal system of Bruges. Surely you've not dropped it, Eve Fincastle exclaimed in a voice of horror, yet she knew positively that Madame Laurence had. The delinquent took a handkerchief from her muff and sobbed into it, and between her sobs she murmured, We must inform the police! Yes, of course, said Kitty, with the lightness of one to whom a five hundred pound bracelet is a bag of tell. They'll fish it up in no time. Well, Eve decided, you go to the police at once, Kitty, and Madame Laurence will go with you, because she speaks French, and I'll stay here to mark the exact spot. The other two started, but Madame Laurence, after a few steps, put her hand to her side. I can't, she sighed pale, I'm too upset, I cannot walk. You go with Miss Sartorius, she said to Eve and I will stay, and she leaned heavily against the railings. Eve and Kitty ran off, just as if it was an affair of seconds, and the bracelet had to be saved from drowning. But they had scarcely turned the corner, thirty yards away, when they reappeared in company with a high official of police, whom by the most lucky chance in the world they had encountered in the covered passage, leading to the Place de Bouge. This official, instantly enslaved by Kitty's beauty, proved to be the very mirror of politeness and optimism. He took their names and addresses in a full description of the bracelet and informed them that at that place the canal was nine feet deep. He said that the bracelet should undoubtedly be recovered on the morrow, but that as dusk was imminent it would be futile to commence angling that night. In the meantime the loss should be kept secret and to make all sure a succession of gendarm should guard the spot during the night. Kitty grew radiant and rewarded the gallant officer with smiles. Eve was satisfied and the face of Madame Laurence wore a less mournful hue. And now, said Kitty to Madame, when everything had been arranged, and the first of the gendarm was duly installed at the exact spot against the railings, you must come and take tea with us in our winter garden, and be gay, smile, I insist, and I insist that you don't worry. Madame Laurence tried feebly to smile. You are very good-natured, she stammered, which was decidedly true. 2. The winter garden of the Hotel de la Grand Place referred to in all the hotel's advertisements was merely the inner court of the hotel, roofed in by glass at the height of the first story. Cain flourished there in the shape of lounge chairs but no other plant. One of the lounge chairs was occupied when, just as the carillon in the Belfry at the other end of the plas began to play Gounot's Nazareth. Indicating the hour of five o'clock, the three ladies entered the winter garden. Apparently the toilettes of two of them had been adjusted and embellished as for a somewhat ceremonious occasion. Lo! cried Kitty Sartorius when she perceived the occupant of the chair, the millionaire, Mr. Thurold, how charming of you to reappear like this. I invite you to tea. Cecil Thurold rose with appropriate eagerness. Delighted! he said, smiling, and then explained that he had arrived from Ostend about two hours before and had taken rooms in the hotel. You knew we were staying here? Eve asked as he shook hands with her. No, he replied, but I'm very glad to find you again. Are you? she spoke languidly about her color heightened, and those eyes of hers sparkled. Madam Lawrence, Kitty cheer up, let me present Mr. Cecil Thurold. He is appallingly rich, but we mustn't let that frighten us. From a mouth less adorable than the mouth of Miss Sartorius, such an introduction might have been judged lacking in the elements of good form. But for more than two years now, Kitty had known that whatever she did or said was perfectly correct because she did or said it. The new acquaintances laughed amably, and a certain intimacy was at once established. Shall I order tea, dear? Eve suggested. No, dear, said Kitty quietly. We will wait for the count. The count, demanded Cecil Thurold. The comte rect, Kitty explained, he is staying here. A French nobleman doubtless. Yes, said Kitty, and she added, you will like him. He is an archeologist and a musician. Oh, and lots of things. If I am one minute late, I entreat pardon, said a fine tenor voice at the door. It was the count. After he had been introduced to Madame Laurence and Cecil Thurold had been introduced to him, tea was served. Now, the comte rect was everything that a French count ought to be. As dark as Cecil Thurold and even handsomer, he was a little older and a little taller than the millionaire, and a short pointed black beard, exquisitely trimmed, gave him an appearance of staid reliability, which Cecil lacked. His bow was a vertebrate poem, his smile a consolation for all misfortunes, and he managed his hat, stick, gloves, and cup with the dazzling assurance of a conjurer. To observe him at afternoon tea was to be convinced that he had been specially created to shine gloriously in drawing-rooms, winter gardens, and tableaux d'hôte. And he was one of those men who always do the right thing at the right moment, who are capable of speaking an indefinite number of languages with absolute purity of accent. He spoke English much better than Madame Laurence, and who can and do discourse with verve and accuracy on all sciences, arts, sports, and religions. In short, he was a phoenix of a count, and this was certainly the opinion of Miss Kitty Sartorius and of Miss Eve Fincastle, both of whom reckoned that what they did not know about men might be ignored. Kitty and the count, it soon became evident, were mutually attracted. Their souls were approaching each other with a velocity, which increased inversely as the square of the lessening distance between them. And Eve was watching this approximation with undisguised interest and relish. Nothing of the least importance occurred, save the count's marvelous exhibition, of how to behave at afternoon tea until the refection was nearly over. And then, during a brief pause in the talk, Cecil, who was sitting to the left of Madame Laurence, looked sharply round at the right shoulder of his tweed coat. He repeated the gesture a second and yet a third time. What is the matter with the man, asked Eve Fincastle. Both he and Kitty were extremely bright, animated, and even excited. Nothing, I thought, I saw something on my shoulder. That's all, said Cecil. Ah, it's only a bit of thread. And he picked off the thread with his left hand and held it before Madame Laurence. See, it's a piece of thin black silk, knotted. At first I took it for an insect. You know how queer things look out of the corner of your eye. Pardon! He had dropped the fragment onto Madame Laurence's black silk dress. Now it's lost. If you will excuse me, kind friends, said Madame Laurence, I will go. She spoke hurriedly and as though in mental distress. Poor thing, Kitty Satorius exclaimed when the widow had gone. She still dreadfully upset. And Kitty and Eve proceeded jointly to relate the story of the diamond bracelet, upon which hitherto they had kept silence, though with difficulty, out of regard for Madame Laurence's feelings. Cecil made almost no comment. The count, with the sympathetic excitability of his race, walked up and down the winter garden, as severating, earnestly, that such clumsiness amounted to a crime. Then he grew calm and confessed that he shared the optimism of the police as to the recovery of the bracelet. Lastly, he complimented Kitty on her equitable demeanor under this affliction. Do you know Count, said Cecil Thurold later, after they had all four ascended to the drawing-room overlooking the Grand Place? I was quite surprised when I saw a tea that you had to be introduced to Madame Laurence. Why so, my dear Mr. Thurold, the count inquired suavely. I thought I had seen you together at O's Den a few days ago. The Count shook his wonderful head. Perhaps you have a brother, Cecil paused. No, said the count, but it is a favorite theory of mine that everyone has his double somewhere in the world. Previously the Count had been discussing planchette. He was a great authority on the supernatural, the subconscious, and the subliminal. He now deviated gracefully to the discussion of the theory of doubles. I suppose you aren't going out for a walk, dear, before dinner, said Eve to Kitty. No, dear, said Kitty, positively. I think I shall, said Eve. And her glance at Cecil Thurold intimated in the plainest possible manner that she wished not only to have a companion for a stroll, but to leave Kitty and the Count in a dual solitude. I shouldn't, if I were you, Ms. Fincassel, Cecil remarked, with calm and steady de-blindness. It's risky here in the evenings, with these canals exhaling my asthma and mosquitoes and bracelets and all sorts of things. I will take the risk, thank you, said Eve, in an icy tone, and she hotly departed. She would not cower before Cecil's millions. As for Cecil, he joined in the discussion of the theory of doubles. Three. On the next afternoon, but one, policemen were still fishing, without success, for the bracelet, and raising from the ancient duct long-buried odors which threatened to destroy the inhabitants of the Quay. When Kitty Sartorius had hinted that perhaps the authorities might see their way to drawing off the water from the canal, the authorities had intimated that the death rate of Bruges was already as high as convenient. Nevertheless, though nothing had happened, the situation had somehow developed, and in such a manner that the bracelet itself was in danger of being partially forgotten, and of all places in Bruges, the situation had developed on the top of the renowned Belfry, which dominates the grand plots in the particular and the city in general. The summit of the Belfry is 350 feet high, and it is reached by 402 winding stone steps, each a separate menace to life and limb. Eve Fencastle had climbed those steps alone, perhaps in quest of the view at the top, perhaps in quest of spiritual calm. She had not been leaning over the parapet more than a minute before Cecil Thurold had appeared, his fueled glasses slung over his shoulder. They had begun to talk a little, but nervously and only in snatches. The wind blew free up there among the 48 bells, but the social atmosphere was oppressive. The Count is a most charming man, Eve was saying, as if in defense of the Count. He is, said Cecil, I agree with you. Oh, no you don't, Mr. Thurold, oh no you don't. Then there was a pause, and the twain looked down upon Bruges with its venerable streets, its grass-grown squares, its waterways, and its innumerable monuments, spread out map-like beneath them in the mellow October sunshine. Citizens passed along the thoroughfare and the semblance of tiny dwarfs. If you didn't hate him, said Eve, you wouldn't behave as you do. How do I behave then? Eve schooled her voice to an imitation of jocularity. All too steaming and all day yesterday you couldn't leave them alone, you know you couldn't. Five minutes later the conversation had shifted. You actually saw the bracelet fall into the canal, said Cecil. I actually saw the bracelet fall into the canal, and no one could have got it out while Kitty and I were away, because we weren't away half a minute. But they could not dismiss the subject of the Count, and presently he was again the topic. Naturally it would be a good match for the Count, for any man, said Eve, but then it would also be a good match for Kitty. Of course he is not so rich as some people, but he is rich. Cecil examined the horizon with his glasses, and then the streets near the Grand Place. Rich is he. I'm glad of it. By the way, he's gone to Ghent for the day, hasn't he? Yes, he went by the 927 and returns by the 438. Another pause. Well, said Cecil at length, handing the glasses to Eve Fincastle, kindly glanced down there. Follow the line of the Ruse and Nicola. You see the cream-colored house with the enclosed courtyard. Now do you see two figures standing together near the door? A man and a woman, the woman on the steps. Who are they? Oh, I can't tell very well, said Eve. Oh yes, my dear lady, you can, said Cecil. These glasses are the very best. Try again. They look like the Comptavec and Madame Lawrence, Eve murmured. But the Count is on his way from Ghent. I see the steam of the 438 over there. The curious thing is that the Count entered the house of Madame Lawrence, to whom he was introduced for the first time the day before yesterday, at ten o'clock this morning. Yes, it would be a very good match for the Count. When one comes to think of it, it usually is that sort of man that contrives to marry a brilliant and successful actress. There, he's just leaving, isn't he? Now let us descend and listen to the recital of his day's doings in Ghent, shall we? You mean to insinuate, Eve burst out in sudden wrath, that the Count is an adventurer, and that Madame Lawrence? Oh, Mr. Thoreau, she laughed condescendingly. This jealousy is too absurd. Do you suppose I haven't noticed how impressed you were with Giddy at the Devonshire mansion that night? And again at Ostan, and again here. You're simply carried away by jealousy, and you think because you are a millionaire you must have all you want. I haven't the slightest doubt that the Count, by anyhow, says he, so let us go down and hear about Ghent. His eyes made a number of remarks, indulgent, angry, amused, protective, admiring, purpose-acious, puzzled, too subtle for the medium of words. They groped their way down to earth in silence, and it was in silence that they crossed the grand loss. The Count was seated on the terrassa in front of the hotel, with a liqueur glass before him, and he was making graceful and expressive signs to Giddy Sartorius, who leaned her marvelous beauty out of a first-story window. He greeted his Cecil Thoreau and Eve with an equal grace. And how is Ghent, Cecil inquired? Did you go to Ghent after all count, Eve put in? Le Comte d'Avrac looked from one to another, and then, instead of replying, he sipped at his glass. No, he said, I didn't go. The rather curious fact is that I happened to meet Madame Laurence, who offered to show me her collection of lace. I have been an amateur of lace for some years, and really Madame Laurence's collection is amazing. You have seen it? No, you should do so. I'm afraid I have spent most of the day there. When the Count had gone to join Giddy in the drawing room, Eve and Castle looked victoriously at Cecil, as if to demand of him, will you apologize? My dear journalist, Cecil remarked simply, you gave the show away. That evening, the continued obstinacy of the bracelet, which still refused to be caught, began at last to disturb the bird-like mind of Giddy Sartorius. Moreover, the secret was out, and the whole town of Bruges was discussing the episode and the chances of success. Let us consult Planchette, said the Count. The proposal was received with enthusiasm by Giddy. Eve had disappeared. Planchette was produced, and when asked if the bracelet would be recovered, it wrote, under the hands of Giddy and the Count, a trembling, a yes. When asked by whom, it wrote a word which faintly resembled Avrec. The Count stated that he should personally commence dragging operations at sunrise. You will see, he said, I shall succeed. Let me try this toy, may I? Cecil asked blandly, and upon Giddy agreeing, he addressed Planchette in a clear voice. Now, Planchette, who will restore the bracelet to its owner? And Planchette wrote thoroughed, but in characters as firm and regular as those of a copybook. Mr. Thurold is laughing at us, observed the Count, imperturbably bland. How horrid you are, Mr. Thurold, Giddy exclaimed. Four. Of the four persons more or less interested in the affair, three were secretly active that night in and out of the hotel. Only Giddy's sartorius, chief mourner for the bracelet, slept placidly in her bed. It was towards three o'clock in the morning that a sort of preliminary crisis was reached. From the multiplicity of doors, which ventilate its rooms, one would imagine that the average foreign hotel must have been designed immediately after its architect had been to see a palais royale farce in which every room opens into every other room in every act. The Hotel de la Grand Place was not peculiar in this respect. It abounded in doors. All the chambers on the second story over the public rooms, fronting the plaz, communicated one with the next, but naturally most of the communicating doors were locked. Cecil Thurold and a Comte de Vec had each a bedroom and a sitting room on that floor. The Count's sitting room adjoined Cecil's and the door between was locked and the key in the possession of the landlord. Nevertheless, at three a.m. this particular door opened noiselessly from Cecil's side and Cecil entered the domain of the Count. The moon shone and Cecil could plainly see not only the silhouette of the belfry across the plaz but also the principal objects within the room. He noticed the table in the middle, the large, easy chair turned towards the hearth, the old-fashioned sofa. But not a single article did he perceive which might have been the personal property of the Count. He cautiously passed across the room through the moonlight to the door of the Count's bedroom, which apparently, to his immense surprise, was not only shut but locked, and the key in the lock on the sitting room's side. Silently unlocking it, he entered the bedroom and disappeared. In less than five minutes he crept back into the Count's sitting room, closed the door, and locked it. Odd, he murmured reflectively, but he seemed quite happy. There was a sudden movement in the region of the hearth and a form rose from the armchair. Cecil rushed to the switch and turned on the electric light. Eve Fincastle stood before him. They faced each other. What are you doing here at this time, Miss Fincastle? He asked only. You can talk freely. The Count will not awaken. I may ask you the same question. Eve replied with cold bitterness. Excuse me, you may not. You are a woman. This is the Count's room. You are in error. She interrupted him. It is not the Count's room. It is mine. Last night I told the Count I had some important writing to do, and I asked him as a favor to relinquish this room to me for twenty-four hours. He very kindly consented. He removed his belongings, handed me the key of that door, and the transfer was made in the hotel books. And now she added, May I inquire, Mr. Thurold, what you are doing in my room? I thought it was the Count's. Cecil faltered, decidedly at a loss for a moment, in offering my humblest apologies, permit me to say that I admire you, Miss Fincastle. I wish I could return the compliment, Eve exclaimed, and she repeated with almost plaintive sincerity, I do wish I could. Cecil raised his arms and let them fall to his side. You meant to catch me, he said. You suspected something, then? The important writing was an invention, and he added, with a faint smile, you really ought not to have fallen asleep. Suppose I had not wakened you. Please don't laugh, Mr. Thurold. Yes, I did suspect. There was something in the demeanor of your servant Lecky that gave me the idea. I did mean to catch you. Why, you, a millionaire, should be a burglar, I cannot understand. I never understood that incident at the Devon Gemention. It was beyond me. I am by no means sure that you didn't have a great deal to do with the ranger affair at Outstand. But that you should have stooped to slander is the worst. I confess you are a mystery. I confess that I can make no guess at the nature of your present scheme. And what I shall do now that I have caught you, I don't know. I can't decide. I must think. If, however, anything is missing tomorrow morning, I shall be bound, in any case, to denounce you. You grasp that? Why, grasp it perfectly, my dear journalist, it is a reply, and something will not, improbably, be missing. But take the advice of a burglar and a mystery, and go to bed. It is half-past three. And Eve went. And Cecil bowed her out, and then retired to his own rooms, and the Count's apartment was left to the moonlight. Five. Plant Chet is a very safe prophet, said Cecil to Giddy Sartorius, the next morning, provided it has firm guidance. They were at breakfast. What do you mean? I mean that Plant Chet prophesied last night that I should restore to you your bracelet. I do. He took the lovely giga from his pocket and handed it to Giddy. How did you find it, you dear thing? Giddy stammered, trembling under the shock of joy. I fished it up out of the mire by a contrivance of my own. But when? Very early, three o'clock a.m., you see, I was determined to be first. In the dark then. I had a light. Don't you think I'm rather clever? Giddy's scene of ecstatic gratitude does not come into the story. Suffice it to say that not until the moment of its restoration did she realize how precious the bracelet was to her. It was ten o'clock before Eve descended. She had breakfast in her own room, and Giddy had already exhibited to her the prodigal bracelet. I particularly want you to go up the belfry with me, Miss Fincastle, Cecil greeted her, and his tone was so serious and so urgent that she consented. They left Giddy playing waltzes on the piano in the drawing room. And now, O man of mystery, Eve questioned when they had toiled to the summit and saw the city and its dwarfs beneath them. We are in no danger of being disturbed here, Cecilbian, but I will make my explanation the explanation which I certainly owe you as brief as possible. Your comptaverk is an adventurer. Please don't be angry, and your Madame Laurence is an adventurerce. I knew that I had seen them together, they work in concert, and for the most part make a living on the gaming tables of Europe. Madame Laurence was expelled from Monte Carlo last year for being too intimate with a groupie. You may be aware that at a roulette table one can do a great deal with the aid of the groupie. Madame Laurence appropriated the bracelet on her own, as it were. The Count, he may be a real Count for anything I know, heard first of that enterprise from the lips of Miss Sartorius. He was annoyed, angry, because he was really a little in love with your friend, and he saw a golden prospect. It is just this fact, the Count's genuine passion for Miss Sartorius, that renders the case psychologically interesting. To proceed, Madame Laurence became jealous. The Count spent six hours yesterday in trying to get the bracelet from her, and failed. He tried again last night, and succeeded, but not too easily, for he did not re-enter the hotel till after one o'clock. At first I thought he had succeeded in the daytime, and I had arranged accordingly, for I did not see why he should have the honor and glory of restoring the bracelet to its owner. Lucky and I fixed up a sleeping draft for him. The minor details were simple. When you caught me this morning, the bracelet was in my pocket, and in it stead I had left a brief note for the perusal of the Count, which has had the singular effect of inducing him to de-camp. Probably he has not gone alone. But isn't it amusing that since you so elaborately took his sitting-room, he will be convinced that you are a party to his undoing—you, his staunchest defender. Eve's face gradually broke into an embarrassed smile. You haven't explained, she said, how Madame Laurence got the bracelet. Come over here, Cecil answered. Take these glasses and look down at the key to Rosaire. You see everything plainly? Eve could, in fact, see on the key the little mounds of mud, which had been extracted from the canal in the quest of the bracelet. Cecil continued, On my arrival in Bruges on Monday, I had a fancy to climb the Belfry at once. I witnessed the whole scene between you and Miss Satorius and Madame Laurence through my glasses. Immediately your backs were turned, and Madame Laurence, her hands behind her, and her back against the railing, began to make a sort of rapid drawing up motion with her forearms. Then I saw a momentary glitter. Considerably mystified, I visited the spot after you had left it, chatted with the gendarme on duty, and got round him, and then it dawned on me that a robbery had been planned, prepared, and executed with extraordinary originality and ingenuity. A long, thin thread of black silk must have been ready-tied to the railing, with perhaps a hook at the other end. As soon as Madame Laurence held the bracelet, she attached the hook to it and dropped it. The silk, especially as it was the last thing in the world you would look for, would be as good as invisible. When you went for the police, Madame retrieved the bracelet, hid it in her muff, and broke off the silk. Only in her haste she left a bit of silk tied to the railing. That fragment I carried to the hotel. All along she must have been a little uneasy about me, and that's all, except that I wonder you thought I was jealous of the Count's attentions to your friend. He gazed at her admiringly. I'm glad you're not a thief, Mr. Thurold, said Eve. Well, Cecil smiled, as for that, I left him a couple of louis for fairs, and I shall pay his hotel bill. Why? There were notes for nearly ten thousand francs with the bracelet. Ill-gotten gains, I am sure. A trifle, but the only reward I shall have for my trouble. I shall put them to good use. He laughed serenely gay. And a story I, Chapter III