 The Rope of Fear by Mary E. and Thomas W. Hanshugh. If you know anything of the country of Westmoreland, you will know the chief market town of Merton Shepherd, and if you know Merton Shepherd you will know there is only one important building in that town, besides the massive town hall, and that building is the Westmoreland Union Bank, a private concern well-backed by every wealthy magnate in the surrounding district, and patronized by everyone from the highest to the lowest degree. Anybody will point the building out to you, firstly because of its imposing exterior, and secondly because every one in the whole county brings his money to Mr. Naylor Brent, to do with it what he wills. For Mr. Naylor Brent is the manager, and besides being known far and wide for his integrity, his uprightness of purpose, and his strict sense of justice, he acts to the poorer inhabitants of Merton Shepherd as a sort of father-confessor in all their troubles, both of a social and a financial character. It was toward the last of September that the big robbery happened, and upon one sunny afternoon at the end of that month Mr. Naylor Brent was pacing the narrow confines of his handsomely appointed room in the bank, visibly disturbed, that he was awaiting the arrival of someone was evident by his frequent glances at the marble clock, which stood upon the mantle-shelf, and which bore across its base a silver plate upon which were inscribed the names of some fifteen or more grateful customers, whose money had passed successfully through his managerial hands. At length the door opened, after discreet knock upon its open panels, and an old, bent, and almost decrepit clerk ushered in the portly figure of Mr. Maverick Narcombe, superintendent of Scotland Jard, followed by a heavily built, dull-looking person in navy blue. Mr. Naylor Brent's good-looking rugged face took on an expression of the keenest relief. Mr. Narcombe himself—this is indeed more than I expected, he said, with extended hand—we had the pleasure of meeting once in London some years ago. Perhaps you have forgotten? Mr. Narcombe's bland face wrinkled into a smile of appreciation. Oh, no, I haven't, he returned pleasantly. I remember quite distinctly. I decided to answer your letter in person, and bring with me one of my best men—friend and colleague, you know—Mr. George Headland. Pleased to meet you, sir, and if you'll both sit down we can go into the matter at once. That's a comfortable chair over there, Mr. Headland. They seated themselves, and Mr. Narcombe, clearing his throat, proceeded in his usual official manner to take the floor. I understand from headquarters, said he, that you have had an exceptionally large deposit of banknotes sent up from London for payments, in connection with your new canal. Isn't that so, Mr. Brent? I trust the trouble you mentioned in your letter has nothing to do with this money. Mr. Naylor Brent's face paled considerably, and his voice had an anxious note in it when he spoke. Gads, sir, but it has, he ejaculated. That's the trouble itself. Every single banknote is gone. Two hundred thousand pounds is gone, and not a trace of it. Heaven only knows what I'm going to do about it, Mr. Narcombe, but that's how the matter stands. Every penny is gone. Gone! Mr. Narcombe drew out a red silk handkerchief, and wiped his forehead vigorously. A sure sign of nervous excitement. While Mr. Headland exclaimed loudly, Well, I'm hanged. Someone certainly will be wrapped out, Mr. Brent, sharply, for not only have the notes vanished, but I've lost the best night-watchman I ever had, a good, trustworthy man. Lost him? put in Mr. Headland curiously. What exactly do you mean by that, Mr. Brent? Did he vanish with the notes? What? Will Simmons? Never in this world. He's not that kind. The man that offered Will Simmons a bribe to betray his trust would answer for it with his life. A more faithful servant or better fellow never drew breath. No, it's dead, he is, Mr. Headland, and—I can hardly speak of it yet. I feel so much to blame for putting him on the job at all, but you see we've had a regular series of petty thefts lately. Small sums unable to be accounted for, safes opened in the most mysterious manner, and money abstracted. Though never any large sums, fortunately, even the clerk's coats had not been left untouched. I have had a constant watch kept, but all in vain. So naturally, when this big deposit came to hand on Tuesday morning, I determined that special precautions should be taken at night, and put poor old Simmons down in the vault with the bank's watchdog for company. That was the last time I saw him alive. He was found writhing in convulsions, and by the time that the doctor arrived upon the scene he was dead. The safe was found open, and every note was… gone. Bad business indeed, declared Mr. Headland with a shake of the head. No idea as to the cause of death, Mr. Brent. What was the doctor's verdict? Mr. Naylor Brent's face clouded. That's the very dickens of it. He didn't quite know. Said it was evidently a case of poisoning, but was unable to decide further, or to find out what sort of poison, if any, had been used. Hmm, I see. And what did the local police say? Have they found any clues yet? The manager flushed, and he gave vent to a forced laugh. As a matter of fact, he responded, the local police know nothing about it. I have kept the loss an entire secret until I could call in the help of Scotland Yard. A secret, Mr. Brent, with such a loss? Ejaculated Mr. Narcombe. That's surely an unusual course to pursue. When a bank loses such a large sum of money, and in bank notes, the most easily handled commodity in the world, and in addition a mysterious murder takes place, one would naturally expect that the first act would be to call in the officers of the law. That is, unless, I see, well it's more than I do, responded Mr. Brent sadly. Do you see any light, however? Hardly that, but it stands to reason that if you are prepared to make good the loss, a course to which there seems no alternative, there is an obvious possibility that you yourself have some faint idea as to who the criminal is, and are anxious that your suspicions should not be verified. Mr. Headland, otherwise clique, looked at his friend with considerable admiration shining in his eyes. Beginning to use his old head at last, he thought, as he watched the superintendent's keen face. Well, well, it's never too late to mend, anyhow. And then allowed. Exactly my thought, Mr. Narcombe, perhaps Mr. Brent could enlighten us as to his own suspicions, for I am positive that he has some tucked away somewhere in his mind. Jove, if you're not almost supernatural, Mr. Headland, returned that gentleman with a heavy sigh. You have certainly unearthed something which I thought was hidden only in my own soul. That is exactly the reason I have kept silent. My suspicions, were I to voice them, might—er—drag the person accused still deeper into the mire of his own foolishness. There's Patterson, for instance. He would arrest him on sight without the slightest compunction. Patterson? Threw in clique quickly? Patterson. The name's familiar. Don't suppose, though, that it would be the same one. It is a common enough name. Company promoter who made a pile on copper the first year of the war, and retired with the swag, to put it brutally? Tisn't that chap, I suppose? The identical man, returned Mr. Brent excitedly. He came here some five years ago, bought up Mount Morris Court, a fine place having a view of the whole town, and he has lately started to run an opposition bank two hours, doing everything in his power to overthrow my position here. It's—it's spite, I believe, against myself as well as George. The young fool had the impudence to ask his daughter's hand, and what was more, ran off with her and they were married, which increased Patterson's hatred of us both almost to insanity. Hmm, I see, said clique. Who is George? My stepson, Mr. Headland, unfortunately for me, my late wife's boy by her first marriage. I have to admit it regretfully enough, he was the cause of his mother's death. He literally broke her heart by his wild living, and I was only too glad to give him a small allowance, which however helped him with his unhappy marriage, and hoped to see the last of George Barrington. Clique twitched up an inquiring eyebrow. Unhappy, Mr. Brent, he queried, but I understood from you a moment ago it was a love match. In the beginning it was purely a question of love, Mr. Headland, responded the manager gravely, but as you know, when poverty comes in at the door, love sometimes flies out the window, and from all accounts the late Miss Patterson never ceases to regret the day she became Mrs. George Barrington. George has been hanging about here this last week or two, and I noticed him trying to renew acquaintance with old Simmons only a day or two ago in the bar of the Rosen anchor. He—he was also seen prowling round the bank on Tuesday night. So now you know why I was loath to set the ball rolling. Old man Patterson would lift the sky to get the chance to have that young waster imprisoned, to say nothing of defaming my personal character at the same time. Sooner than that I must endeavor to raise sufficient money by private means to replace the notes. But the death of old Simmons is, of course, another matter. His murderer must and shall be brought to justice while I have a penny-piece in my pocket. His voice broke suddenly into a harsh sob, and for a moment his hands covered his face. Then he shook himself free of his emotion. We will all do our best on that score, Mr. Brent, said Mr. Narcombe, after a somewhat lengthy silence. It is a most unfortunate tragedy indeed—almost a dual one, one might say—but I think you can safely trust yourself in our hands, eh, headland?" Cleak bowed his head, while Mr. Brent smiled appreciation of the superintendent's kindly sympathy. I know I can, he said warmly. Believe me, Mr. Narcombe, and you too, Mr. Headland, I am perfectly content to leave myself with you. But I have my suspicions and strong ones they are, too, and I would not mind laying a bet that Patterson has engineered the whole scheme and is quietly laughing up his sleeve at me. That's a bold assertion, Mr. Brent, put in Cleak quietly. But justified by facts, Mr. Headland, he has twice tried to bribe Simmons away from me, and last year offered Calcott, my head clerk, a sum of five thousand pounds to let him have the list of our clients. Oh, ho! said Cleak in two different tones. One of that sort, is he? Not content with a fortune one by profiteering, he must try and ruin others, and having failed to get hold of your list of clients, he tries the bogus theft game and gambles on that. Hmm. Well, young Barrington may be only a coincidence, after all, Mr. Brent. I shouldn't worry too much about him, if I were you. Suppose you tell Mr. Narcombe and myself the details, right from the beginning, please? When was the murder discovered, and who discovered it? Mr. Naylor Brent leaned back in his chair and sighed heavily as he polished his gold glasses. For an affair of such tragic importance, Mr. Headland, he said, it is singularly lacking in details. There is really nothing more to tell you than that at six o'clock, when I myself retired from the bank to my private rooms overhead, I left poor Simmons on guard over the safe. At nine o'clock I was fetched down by the inspector on the beat who had left young Wilson with the body. After that, Cleak lifted a silencing hand. One moment, he said, who is young Wilson, Mr. Brent, and why should he instead of the inspector have been left alone with the body? Wilson is one of the cashiers, Mr. Headland, a nice lad but of no particular education. It seems he found the bank's outer door unlatched and called upon the constable on the beat. As luck would have it, the inspector happened along and down they went into the vaults together. But as to why the inspector left young Wilson with the body instead of setting him up for me? Well, frankly I had never given the thing a thought until now. I see. Funny thing this chap Wilson should have made straight for the vaults, though. Did he expect a murder or robbery beforehand? Was he acquainted with the fact that the notes were there, Mr. Brent? No, he knew nothing whatever about them. No one did. That is no one but the head-clarke, Mr. Calcutt, myself and old Simmons. In bank matters, you know, the less said about such things the better and—Mr. Narcombe nodded. Very wise, very wise indeed, he said approvingly. One can't be too careful in money-matters, and if I may say so, bank pay being none too high, the temptation must sometimes be rather great. I have a couple of nephews in the bank, myself. Cleek's eyes suddenly silenced him as though there had been a spoken word. This Wilson, Mr. Brent, Cleek asked quietly, is he a young man? Oh, quite young, not more than four or five and twenty, I should say. Came from London with an excellent reference, and so far has given every satisfaction. Universal favourite with the firm and also with old Simmons himself. I believe the two used to sometimes lunch together, and were firm friends. It seems almost a coincidence that the old man should have died in the boy's arms. He made no statement, I suppose, before he died to give an idea of the assassin, but of course you wouldn't know that as you weren't there. As it happens I do, Mr. Headland. Young Wilson, who is frightfully upset—in fact the shock of the thing has completely shattered his nerves, never very strong at the best of times—says that the old man just writhed and writhed and muttered something about a rope, then he fell back dead. A rope? said Cleek in surprise. Was he tied or bound then? That's just it. There was no sign of anything whatever to do with a rope about him. It was possibly a death delusion or something of the sort. Perhaps the poor old chap was semi-conscious. Undoubtedly, and now just one more question, Mr. Brent, before I tire your patients out. We policemen, you know, are terrible nuisances. What time was it when Young Wilson discovered the door of the bank unmatched? About half-past nine I had just noticed my clock striking the half-hour when I was disturbed by the inspector. And wasn't it a bit unusual for a clerk to come back to the bank at that hour, unless he was working overtime? Mr. Naylor Brent's fine head went back with a gesture which conveyed to Cleek the knowledge that he was not in a habit of working any of his employees beyond the given hours. He was doing nothing of the sort, Mr. Headland. He responded a trifle brusquely. Our firm is particularly keen about the question of working hours. Wilson tells me he came back for his watch, which he left behind him, and— And the door was conveniently unlatched and ready, so he simply fetched in the inspector and took him straight down into the vaults? Didn't get his watch, I suppose? Mr. Naylor Brent jumped suddenly to his feet, all his self-possession gone for the moment. Gad! I never thought of that. Hang it! Man, you're making a bigger puzzle of it than ever. You're not insinuating that that boy murdered old Simmons, are you? I can't believe that. I'm not insinuating anything, responded Cleek blandly, but I have to look at things from every angle there is. When you got downstairs with the inspector, Mr. Brent, did you happen to notice the safe or not? Yes, I did. Indeed, I feared that was my first thought. It was natural, with two hundred thousand Bank of England notes to be responsible for, and at first I thought everything was all right. Then young Wilson told me that he himself had closed the safe door. What are you smiling at, Mr. Headland? It's no laughing matter, I assure you. The queer little one-sided smile so indicative of the man travelled for a moment up Cleek's cheek and was gone again in a twinkling. Nothing, he responded briefly, just a passing thought. Then you mean to say young Wilson closed the safe. Did he know the notes had vanished? But of course you said he knew nothing of them. But if they were there when he looked in—his voice trailed off into silence—and he let the rest of the sentence go by default. Mr. Brent's face flushed trims in with excitement. Why, at that rate, he ejaculated, the money wasn't stolen until young Wilson sent the inspector up for me, and we let him walk quietly out. You were right, Mr. Headland, if I had only done my duty and told Inspector Corcoran at once, steady man, steady, I don't say it is so, put in Cleek with a quiet little smile, I'm only trying to find light, and making it a dashed sight blacker still, begging your pardon, returned Mr. Brent briskly. That says may be, but the devil isn't always as black as he's painted, responded Cleek. I'd like to see this, Wilson, Mr. Brent, unless he is so ill he hasn't been able to attend the office. Oh, he's back at work today, and I'll have him here in a twinkling. And almost in a twinkling he arrived, a young, slim, pallid youngster, rather given to overbrightness in his choice of ties, and somewhat better dressed than is the lot of most bank clerks. Cleek noted the pearl pin, the well-cut suit he wore, and for a moment his face wore a strange look. Mr. Naylor Brent's brisk voice broke the silence. These gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, Wilson, he said sharply, and they want to know just what happened here on Tuesday night. Tell them all you know, please. Young Wilson's pale face went a queer drab shade like newly baked bread. He began to tremble visibly. Happened, sir? Happened?" he stammered. How should I know what happened? I only got there just in time, and— Yes, yes, we know just when you got there, Mr. Wilson, said Cleek. But what we want to know is what induced you to go down into the vaults when you fetched the inspector. It seemed a rather unnecessary journey to say the least of it. I heard a cry, at least, right through the closed door of a nine-inch concrete-walled vault, Wilson—struck in, Mr. Brent, promptly. Simmons had been shut in there by myself, Mr. Headland, and— Shut in, Mr. Brent. Shut in, did you say? Then how did Mr. Wilson here and the inspector enter? Young Wilson stretched out his hand imploringly. The door was open, he stammered. I swear it on my honour! And the safe was open, and—and the notes were gone! What notes? It was Mr. Brent's voice which broke the momentary silence as he realized the significance of the admission. Before answer the young man dropped his face into his shaking hands. Oh! the notes! The two hundred thousand pounds! You may think what you like, sir, but I swear I am innocent. I never touched the money, nor did I touch my—Mr. Simmons! I swear it! I swear it! Don't swear too strongly, or you may have to unswear again, struck in, clique severely. Mr. Narkham and I would like to have a look at the vault itself, and see the body, if you have no objection. Certainly, Wilson you had better come along with us, we might need you. This way, gentlemen. Speaking the manager rose to his feet, opened the door of his private office, and proceeded downstairs by way of an equally private staircase to the vaults below. Clique, Mr. Narkham, and young Wilson, very much agitated at the coming ordeal, brought up the rear. As they passed the door leading into the bank, for the use of the clerks, old Calcott came out, and paused respectfully in front of the manager. If you excuse me, sir, he said, I thought perhaps you might like to see this. He held out a Bank of England five-pound note, and Mr. Brent took it, and examined it critically. Then a little cry broke from his lips. A. five-four-one-zero-six-three, he exclaimed. Good heavens, Calcott! Where did this come from? Who—? Calcott rubbed his old hands together as though he were enjoying a tit-bit with much satisfaction. Half an hour ago, sir, Mr. George Barrington brought it in, and wanted smaller change. George Barrington! The members of the little party looked at one another in amazement, and Clique noticed for a moment that young Wilson's tense face relaxed. Mr. George Barrington, eh? The curious little one-sided smile travelled up Clique's cheek, and was gone. The party continued their way downstairs, somewhat silenced by this new development. A narrow dark corridor led to the vault itself, which was by no means a large chamber, but remarkable for the extreme solidity of its building. It was concrete, as most vaults are, and lit only by a single electric light, which, when switched on, shone dully against the grey stone walls. The only ventilation it boasted was provided by means of a row of small holes, about an inch in diameter, across one wall, that, nearest to the passage, and exactly facing the safe. So small were they that it seemed almost as if not even a mouse could get through one of them, should a mouse be so minded. These holes were placed so low down that it was physically impossible to see through them, and though Clique's eyes noted their appearance there in the vault, he said nothing, and seemed to pay them little attention. A speedy glance round the room gave him all the details of it, the safe against the wall, the figure of the old bank-servant beside it, sleeping his last sleep, and guarding the vault in death, as he had not been able to do in life. Clique crossed toward him, and then stopped suddenly, peering down at what seemed a little twist of paper. Hello, he said. Surely you don't allow smoking in the vault, Mr. Brent? Not that it could do much harm, but— Certainly not, Mr. Headland, returned the manager warmly. That is strictly against orders. He glared at young Wilson, who, nervous as he had been before, became obviously more flustered than ever. I don't smoke, sir, he stammered, in answer to that managerial look of accusation. Glad to hear it, Clique stroked his cigarette case lovingly inside his pocket, as though in apology for the libel. But it's my mistake, not a cigarette end at all, just a twist of paper, of no account anyway. He stooped to pick it up, and then giving his hand a flirt appeared to have tossed it away. Only Mr. Narcombe, used to the ways of his famous associate, saw that he had pawned it into his pocket. Then Clique crossed the room and stood a moment looking down at the body, lying there huddled and distorted in the death-agony that had so cruelly and mysteriously seized it. So this was Will Simmons. Well, if the face is any index to the character, which in nine cases out of ten it isn't, then Mr. Naylor Brent's confidence had certainly not been misplaced. A fine, clean, rugged face this, with set lips, a face that would never fail a friend and never forgive an enemy. Young Wilson, who had stepped up beside Clique, shivered suddenly as he looked down at the body, and closed his eyes. Mr. Brent's voice broke the silence that the sight of death so often brings. I think, he said quietly, if you don't mind, gentlemen, I'll get back to my office. There are important matters at stake just now, so if you'll excuse me—it's near closing time, you know, and there are many important matters to see to—Wilson, you stay here with these gentlemen, and render any assistance that you can. Show them round if they wish it. You need not resume work to-day. Anything which you wish to know, please call upon me. Thanks, we'll remember—Clique bowed ceremoniously, as the manager retreated—but no doubt Mr. Wilson here will give us all the assistance we require, Mr. Brent. We'll make an examination of the body first, and let you know the verdict. The door closed on Mr. Brent's figure, and Clique and Mr. Narcombe and Young Wilson were alone with the dead. Clique went down upon his knees before the still figure, and examined it from end to end. The clenched hands were put to the keenest scrutiny, but he passed no comment, only glancing now and again from those same hands to the figure of the young cashier who stood trembling beside him. Hmm, convulsions, he finally said softly to himself, and Mr. Narcombe watched his face with intense eagerness. Might be Akinite, but how administered? Again he stood silent, his brain moving swiftly down an avenue of thought, and if the thoughts could have been seen, they should have shown something like this. Convulsions, writhing, twisting, tied up in knots of pain, a rope. Suddenly he wheeled swiftly upon Wilson, his face a mask for his emotions. Look here, he said sternly, I want you to tell me the exact truth, Mr. Wilson. It's the wisest way when dealing with the police, you know. Are you positively certain Simmons said nothing as to the cause of his death? What exactly were his last words to you? I begged him to tell me who it was who had injured him, replied Wilson, in a shaking voice, but all he could say was the rope, mind the rope. The rope of fear, the rope of fear. And then he was gone. But there was no sign of any rope, Mr. Headland, and I can't imagine what the dear old man was driving at. And now to think he is dead, dead, his voice broke and was silent for a moment. Once again Cleak spoke. And you saw nothing, heard nothing? Well, I hardly know. There was a sound, a faint whisper, read-like and thin, almost like a long-drawn sigh. I really thought I must have imagined it, and when I listened again it had gone. After that I rushed to the safe and—why did you do that? Because he had told me at dinner-time about the notes, and made me promise I wouldn't mention it, and I was afraid someone had stolen them. Is it likely that anyone overheard your conversation then? Where were you lunching? In the rose and crown, Wilson's voice trembled again as though the actual recalling of the thing terrified him anew. Simmons and I often had lunch together. There was no one else at our table, and the place was practically empty. The only person near was old Rammagey, the black chap who keeps the Indian bazaar in the town. He's an old inhabitant, but even now hardly understands English, and most of the time he's so drugged with opium, that if he did here he'd never understand. He was certainly blind to the world that lunch-time, because my—my friend Simmons, I mean, noticed it. Indeed! Cleak stroked his chin thoughtfully for some moments. Then he sniffed to the air, and uttered a casual remark. Fond of sweets still are you, Mr. Wilson? Peppermint drops or anisey balls, eh? Mr. Narcombe's eyes fairly bulged with amazement, and young Wilson flushed angrily. I am not such a fool as all that, Mr. Hedlund, he said quickly. If I don't smoke, I certainly don't go about sucking candy like a kid. I never cared for him as a youngster, and I haven't had any for a cat's age. What made you ask? Nothing, simply my fancy. But nevertheless Cleak continued to sniff, and then suddenly, with a little excited sound, went down on his hands and knees, and began examining the stone floor. It's not possible, and yet—and yet I must be right. He said softly, getting to his feet at last. A rope of fear was what he said, wasn't it? A rope of fear. He crossed suddenly to the safe, and bending over it examined the handle and doors critically. And at the moment Mr. Brent reappeared. Cleak switched around upon his heel and smiled across at him. "'Able to spare us a little more of your valuable time, Mr. Brent?' he said politely. "'Well, I was just coming up. There's nothing really to be gained here. I've been looking over the safe for fingerprints, and there's not much doubt about whose they are. Mr. Wilson here had better come upstairs and tell us just exactly what he did with the notes, and—' King Wilson's face went suddenly gray. He clenched his hands together and breathed hard like a spent runner. "'I tell you they were gone,' he cried desperately. "'They were gone! I looked for them, and didn't find them. They were gone! Gone! Gone!' But Cleak seemed not to take the slightest notice of him, and swinging upon his heel, followed in the wake of the manager's broad back, while Wilson perforce had to return with Mr. Narcombe. Halfway up the stairs, however, Cleak suddenly stopped, and gave vent to a hurried ejaculation. "'Silly idiot that I am,' he said crossly, "'I have left my magnifying glass on top of the safe, and it's the most necessary tool we policemen have. Don't bother to come, Mr. Brent, if you'll just lend me the keys of the vault. Thanks, I'll be right back.' It was certainly not much more than a moment when he did return, and the other members of the little party had barely reached the private office, when he fairly rushed in after them. There was a look of supreme satisfaction in his eyes. "'Here it is,' he said, lifting the glass up for all to see. "'And look here, Mr. Brent, I've changed my mind about discussing the matter any further here. The best thing you can do is to go down in a cab with Mr. Narcombe to the police station, and get a warrant for this young man's arrest. No, don't speak, Mr. Wilson, I've not finished yet. And take him along with you. I will stay here and just scribble down the facts. It'll save no end of bother, and we can take our man straight up to London with us, under proper arrest. I shan't be more than ten minutes at the most.' Mr. Brent nodded ascent. "'As you please, Mr. Headland,' he said gravely, "'we'll go along at once. Wilson, you understand you are to come with us? It's no use trying to get away from it, man, you're up against it now. You'd better just keep a stiff upper lip and face the music.' I'm ready, Mr. Narcombe." Quietly they took their departure, in a hastily found cab, leaving Cleak, the picture of stolid policemenism, with notebook and pencil in hand, busily inscribing what he was pleased to call the facts. Only ten minutes Cleak had asked for, but it was nearer twenty before he was ushered out of the side entrance of the bank by the old housekeeper, and though perhaps it was only sheer luck that caused him to nearly tumble into the arms of Mr. George Barrington, whom he recognized from the word picture of that gentleman, given by Mr. Brent some time before, it was decidedly by arrangement that after a few careless words on the part of Cleak, Barrington, his face blank with astonishment, accompanied this stranger down to the police-station. They found a grim little party awaiting them, but at sight of Cleak's face Mr. Narcombe started forward and put a hand upon his friend's arm. What have you found, Hedlund? he asked excitedly. Just what I expected to find, came the triumphant reply. Now, Mr. Wilson, you are going to hear the end of the story. Do you want to see what I found, gentlemen? Here it is. He fumbled in his big coat-pocket for a moment and pulled out a parcel which crackled crisply. The notes! Good God! it was young Wilson who spoke. Yes, a very good God, even to sinners, Mr. Wilson. We don't always deserve all the goodness we get, you know. Cleak went on. The notes are found, you see. The notes! You murderer! You despicable thief! The notes which were entrusted to your care by the innocent people who pinned their faith to you. Speaking, he leapt forward past the waiting inspector in Mr. William, past the shabby, down-at-heel figure of George Barrington, past the slim, shaking Wilson, and straight at the substantial figure of Mr. Naylor Brent, as he stood leaning with one arm upon the inspector's high desk. So surprising, so unexpected was the attack, that this victim was overpowered and the bracelet snapped upon his wrists before any one present had begun to realize exactly what had happened. Then Cleak rose to his feet. What's that, inspector? he said, in answer to a hurriedly spoken query. A mistake? Oh, dear no! No mistake, whatever. Our friend here understands that quite well. Thought you'd have escaped with that two hundred thousand pounds and left your confederate to bear the brunt of the whole thing, did you? Or else young Wilson here, whom you'd so terrorized? A very pretty plot indeed. May Hamilton Cleak happen to come along instead of Mr. George Headland and show you a thing or two about plots? Hamilton Cleak! The name fell from every pair of lips, and even Brent himself stared at this wizard whom all the world knew, and who, unfortunately, had crossed his path when he least wanted him. Yes, Hamilton Cleak, gentlemen, Cleak of Scotland Jard, and a very good thing for you, Mr. Wilson, that I happen to come along. Things looked very black for you, you know, and those beastly nerves of yours made it worse. And if it hadn't been for this cad's confederate— Confederate, Mr. Cleak? put in Wilson, shakily. I—I don't understand. Who could have been his confederate? None other than old Ramagy, responded Cleak. You'll find him drugged as usual in the Rose and Crown. I've seen him there only a while ago, but now he is minus a constant companion of his. And here is the actual murderer. He put his hand into another capacious pocket and drew forth a smallish glass box. The rope of fear, gentlemen, he said quietly, a vicious little rattler of the most deadly sort, and it won't be long before that gentleman there becomes acquainted with another sort of rope. Take him away, Inspector! The bare sight of him hurts an honest man's eyes. And they took him away forthwith, a writhing, furious thing utterly transformed from the genial personality which had for so long swindled and outwitted a trusting public. As the door closed upon them, Cleak turned to young Wilson and held out his hand. I'm sorry to have accused you as I did, he said softly, with a little smile. But that is a policeman's way, you know. Strategy is part of the game. Though it was a poor trick of mine to cause you additional pain, you must forgive me. I don't doubt the death of your father was a great shock, although you tried manfully to conceal the relationship. No doubt it was his wish, not yours. A sudden transformation came over Wilson's pale, haggard face. It was like the sun shining after a heavy storm. You knew? He said over and over again. You knew? Oh, Mr. Cleak, now I can speak out at last. Father always made me promise to be silent. He wanted me to be a gentleman, and he'd spent every penny he possessed to get me well enough educated to enter the bank. He was mad for money, mad for anything which was going to better my position, and I was afraid when he told me about the notes. He might be tempted. Oh, it was dreadful of me, I know, to think of it, but I knew he doted upon me. I was afraid he might try and take one or two of them, hoping they wouldn't be missed out of so great an amount. You see, we'd been in money difficulties, and were still paying my college fees off after all this time. So I went back to keep watch with him, and found him dying. Though how you knew? His voice trailed off into silence, and Cleak smiled kindly. By the identical shape of your hands, my boy, I never saw two pairs of hands so much alike in all my life, and then your agitation made me risk the guess. What's that, Inspector? How was the murder committed, and what did this little rattler have to do with it? Well, quite simple. The snake was put in the safe with the notes, and a trail of aniseed, of which snakes are very fond, you know, laid from there to the foot of old Simmons. The safe-door was left ajar, though in the half-dusk the old man certainly never noticed it. I found all this out from those few words of Wilson's about the rope, and from his having heard a reed-like sound. I had to do some hard thinking, I can tell you. When I went downstairs again, Mr. Narcombe, after my magnifying glass, I turned down poor Simmons's sock, and found the mark I expected. The snake had crawled up his leg, and struck home. Why did I suspect, Mr. Brent? Well it was obvious almost from the very first, for he was so anxious to throw suspicion upon Mr. Barrington here, and Wilson, with Patterson thrown in for good measure. Then again it was certain that no one else would have been allowed into the vault by Simmons, much less to go to the safe itself, and open it with the keys. That he did go to the safe was apparent by the fingerprints upon it, and as they too smelt of aniseed, the whole thing began to look decidedly funny. The trail of aniseed led straight up to where Simmons lay, so I can only suppose that after Brent released the snake—the trail, of course, having been laid beforehand when he was alone—Brent must have stood and waited until he saw it actually strike, and— How do I know that, Mr. Wilson? Well he smoked a cigarette there anyhow. The stub I found bore the same name as those in his box, and it was smoked identically the same way as a couple which lay in his ashtray. I could only conclude that he was waiting for something to happen, and as the snake struck he grabbed up the bundle of notes, quite forgetting to close the safe door, and rushed out of the vault. Ramagy was in the corridor outside, and probably whistled the snake back through the ventilating holes near the floor, instead of venturing near the body himself. Do you remember you heard the sound of that pipe, Mr. Wilson? Ramagy probably made his escape while the inspector was upstairs. Unfortunately for him, he ran right into Mr. George Barrington here, and when, as he tells me, he later told Brent about seeing Ramagy, well, the whole thing became as plain as a pike-staff. Yes, put in George Barrington excitedly, taking up the tale in his weak, rather silly voice. I stepped farther, refused to believe me, and gave me twenty pounds in notes to go away. I suppose he didn't notice they were some of the stolen ones. I changed one of them at the bank this morning, but I had no idea how important they were, until I knocked into Mr.—Mr. Cleak here, and he made me come along with him. Mr. Narcum looked at Cleak, and Cleak looked at Mr. Narcum, and the blank wonder in the superintendent's eyes caused him to smile. Another feather in the cap of foolish old Scotland yard, isn't it? he said. Time we made tracks, I think. Coming our way, Mr. Wilson? We'll see you back home, if you like. You're too upset to go on alone. Good afternoon, inspector, and—good-bye. I'll leave the case with you. It's safe enough in your hands, but if you take my tip, you'll put that human beast in as tight a lock-up as the station affords. Then he linked one arm in Mr. Narcum's, and the other arm in that of the admiring and holy speechless Wilson, and went out into the sunshine. End of the Rope of Fear. Napoleon and the Spectre by Charlotte Bronte 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 Bologna Times. Napoleon and the Spectre by Charlotte Bronte Well, as I was saying, the Emperor got into bed. Chevalier, says he to his valet, let down those window-curtains and shut the casement before you leave the room. Chevalier did as he was told, and then, taking up his candlestick, departed. In a few minutes the Emperor felt his pillow becoming rather hard, and he got up to shake it. As he did so a slight rustling noise was heard near the bed-head. His Majesty listened, but all was silent as he laid down again. Scarcely had he settled into a peaceful attitude of repose when he was disturbed by a sensation of thirst. Seeing himself on his elbow, he took a glass of lemonade from the small stand which was placed beside him. He refreshed himself by a deep draught. As he returned the goblet to its station a deep groan burst from a kind of closet and one corner of the apartment. "'Who's there?' cried the Emperor, seizing his pistols. "'Speak, or I'll blow your brains out!' This threat produced no other effect than a short, sharp laugh, and dead silence followed. The Emperor started from his couch and hastily throwing on a robe de chambre which hung over the back of a chair, stepped courageously to the haunted closet. As he opened the door something rustled. He sprang forward, sword and hand. No soul or even substance appeared, and the rustling, it was evident, proceeded from the falling of a cloak which had been suspended by a peg from the door. Half ashamed of himself, he returned to bed. Just as he was about once more to close his eyes, the light of the three waxed tapers which burned in a silver branch over the mantelpiece was suddenly darkened. He looked up. A black, opaque shadow obscured it. Sweating with terror, the Emperor put out his hand to seize the bell-rope, but some invisible being snatched it rudely from his grasp, and at the same instant the ominous shade vanished. "'Poo!' exclaimed Napoleon. It was but an ocular delusion. Was it,' whispered a hollow voice, in deep, mysterious tones, close to his ear, "'Was it a delusion, Emperor of France? All thou hast heard and seen is sad for warning, reality. Rise, lifter of the eagle standard. Awake, swear of the lily scepter. Follow me, Napoleon, and thou shalt see more.' As the voice ceased, a form dawned on his astonished sight. It was that of a tall, then-man, dressed in a blue surto edged with gold lace. It wore a black cravat very tightly round its neck, and confined by two little sticks placed behind each ear. The countenance was livid, the tongue protruded from between the teeth, and the eyes all glazed and bloodshot, started with frightful prominence from their sockets. "'Mondieu!' exclaimed the Emperor. What do I see? Spectre, whence cometh thou?' The apparition spoke not, but gliding forward, beckoned Napoleon, with uplifted finger to follow. Controlled by a mysterious influence which deprived him of the capability of either thinking or acting for himself, he obeyed in silence. The solid wall of the apartment fell open as they approached, and when both had passed through it closed behind them with a noise-like thunder. They would now have been in total darkness had it not been for a dim light which shone round the ghost and revealed the damp walls of a long vaulted passage. On this they proceeded with mute rapidity. Air long a cool, refreshing breeze which rushed wailing up the vault and caused the Emperor to wrap his loose nightdress close around, announced their approach to the open air. This they soon reached, and Knapp found himself in one of the principal streets of Paris. Were they spirit, said he, shivering in the chill night air, permit me to return and put on some additional clothing, I will be with you again presently. Forward replied his companion sternly. He felt compelled in spite of the rising indignation which almost choked him to obey. One they went through the deserted streets till they arrived at a lofty house built on the banks of the Seine. Here the specter stopped. The gates rolled back to receive them, and they entered a large marble hall which was partly concealed by a curtain drawn across through the half-transparent folds of which a bright light might be seen burning with dazzling luster. A row of fine female figures, richly attired, stood before the screen. They wore on their heads garlands of the most beautiful flowers, but their faces were concealed by ghastly masks representing death's heads. What is all this mummery? cried the Emperor, making an effort to shake off the metal shackles by which he was so unwillingly restrained. Where am I? And why have I been brought here? Silence said the guide, lulling out still further his black and bloody tongue. Silence if thou wouldst escape instant death. The Emperor would have replied his natural courage overcoming the temporary awe to which he had at first been subjected, but just then a strain of wild supernatural music swelled behind the huge curtain which waved to and fro, and bellied slowly out as if agitated by some internal commotion or battle of waving winds. At the same moment an overpowering mixture of the sense of mortal corruption, blunt with the richest eastern odors, stalled through the haunted hall. A murmur of many voices was now heard at a distance, and something grasped his arm eagerly from behind. He turned hastily round. His eyes met the well-known countenance of Marie-Louise. What? Are you in this infernal place too? said he. What has brought you here? Where your Majesty permit me to ask the same question of yourself? said the Empress, smiling. He made no reply, astonishment prevented him. No curtain now intervened between him and the light. It had been removed as if by magic, and a splendid chandelier appeared suspended over his head. Thongs of ladies, richly dressed, but without death's head-masks, stood round, and a due proportion of gay cavaliers was mingled with them. Magic was still sounding, but it was seen to proceed from a band of mortal musicians stationed in an orchestra near at hand. The air was yet redolent of incense, but it was incense unblended with stench. Mondeux, cried the Emperor, how is all this come about? Where in the world is Peach? Peach! replied the Empress. What does your Majesty mean? Did you not better leave the apartment and retire to rest? Leave the apartment? Why? Where am I? In my private drawing-room, surrounded by a few particular persons of the court whom I had invited this evening to a ball, you entered a few minutes' sense in your nitress, with your eyes fixed and wide open. I suppose from this astonishment you now testify that you were walking in your sleep. The Emperor immediately fell into a fit of catalepsy, in which he continued during the whole of that night and the greater part of the next day. of Napoleon and the Spectre. A lady to see you, sir. I looked up and was at once impressed by the grace and beauty of the person thus introduced to me. Is there anything I can do to serve you? I asked, rising. She cast me a childlike look full of trust and candour as she seated herself in the chair I pointed out to her. I believe so. I hope so. She earnestly assured me. I am in great trouble. I've just lost my husband, but it is not that. It's the slip of paper I found on my dresser, and which—which— She was trembling violently, and her words were fast becoming incoherent. I calmed her and asked her to relate her story just as it had happened, and after a few minutes of silent struggle she succeeded in collecting herself sufficiently to respond with some degree of connection and self-possession. I have been married six months. My name is Lucy Holmes. For the last few weeks my husband and myself have been living in an apartment house on 59th Street, and as we had not a care in the world we were very happy, till Mr. Holmes was called away on business to Philadelphia. This was two weeks ago. Five days later I received an affectionate letter from him, in which he promised to come back the next day. And the news so delighted me that I accepted an invitation to the theatre from some intimate friends of ours. The next morning I naturally felt fatigued and rose late, but I was very cheerful, for I expected my husband at noon. And now comes the perplexing mystery. In the course of dressing myself I stepped to my bureau, and seeing a small newspaper slip attached to the cushion by a pin I drew it off and read it. It was a death notice, and my hair rose and my limbs failed me, as I took in its fatal and incredible words. Died this day at the colonnade, James Forsythe DeWitt Holmes, New York papers please copy. James Forsythe DeWitt Holmes was my husband, and his last letter, which was at that very moment lying beside the cushion, had been dated from the colonnade. Was I dreaming, or under the spell of some frightful hallucination, which led me to misread the name on the slip of paper before me? I could not determine. My head, throat, and chest seemed bound about with iron, so that I could neither speak nor breathe with freedom. And suffering thus I stood staring at this demoniacal piece of paper, which in an instant had brought the shadow of death upon my happy life. Before was I at all relieved when a little later I flew with the notice into a neighbour's apartment, and praying her to read it for me, found that my eyes had not deceived me, and that the name was indeed my husband's, and the notice one of death. Not from my own mind, but from hers came the first suggestion of comfort. It cannot be your husband who is meant, said she, but some one of the same name. Your husband wrote to you yesterday, and this person must have been dead at least two days for the printed notice of his decease to have reached New York. Someone has remarked the striking similarity of names, and wishing to startle you, cut the slip out and pinned it on your cushion. I certainly knew of no one inconsiderate enough to do this, but the explanation was so plausible I at once embraced it, and sobbed aloud in my relief. But in the midst of my rejoicing I heard the bell ring in my apartment, and running thither encountered a telegraph boy holding in his outstretched hand the yellow envelope which so often bespeaks death or disaster. The sight took my breath away. Summoning my maid whom I saw hastening towards me from an inner room, I begged her to open the telegram for me. Sir, I saw in her face, before she had read the first line, a confirmation of my very worst fears. My husband was— The young widow choked with her emotions, paused, recovered herself for the second time, and then went on. I had better show you the telegram. Taking it from her pocket-book she held it towards me. I read it at a glance. It was short, simple, and direct. Come at once, your husband found dead in his room this morning. Doctors say heart disease, please telegraph. You see it says this morning. She explained, placing her delicate finger on the word she so eagerly quoted. That means a week ago Wednesday, the same day on which the printed slip recording his death was found on my cushion. Do not see something very strange in this? I did, but before I ventured to express myself on this subject, I desired her to tell me what she had learned in her visit to Philadelphia. Her answer was simple and straightforward. But little more than you found in this telegram. He died in his room. He was found lying on the floor near the bell-button which he had evidently risen to touch. One hand was clenched on his chest, but his face wore a peaceful look as if death had come too suddenly to cause him much suffering. His bed was undisturbed. He had died before retiring, possibly in the act of packing his trunk, for it was found nearly ready for the expressmen. Indeed, there was every evidence of his intention to leave on an early morning train. He had even desired to be awakened at six o'clock, and it was his failure to respond to the summons of the bell-boy which led to so early a discovery of his death. He had never complained of any distress in breathing, and we had always considered him a perfectly healthy man, but there was no reason for assigning any other cause than heart failure to his sudden death. And so the burial certificate was made out to that effect, and I was allowed to bring him home and bury him in our vault at Woodlawn. But— And here her earnestness dried up the tears which had been flowing freely during this recital of her husband's lonely death and sad burial. Do you not think an investigation should be made into a death preceded by a false obituary notice? For I found, when I was in Philadelphia, that no paragraph such as I had found pinned to my cushion had been inserted in any paper there, nor had any other man of the same name ever registered at the colonnade. Much less died there. Have you this notice with you? I asked. She immediately produced it, and while I was glancing it over, she remarked, Some persons would give a superstitious explanation to the whole matter, think I had received a supernatural warning and been satisfied with what they would call a spiritual manifestation. But I have not a bit of such folly in my composition. Living hands set up the type and printed the words which gave me so deathly a shock, and hands, with a real purpose in them, cut it from the paper and pinned it to my cushion for me to see when I woke on that fatal morning. But whose hands? That is what I want you to discover. I had caught the fever of her suspicions long before this, and now felt justified in showing my interest. First, let me ask, said I, who has access to your rooms besides your maid? No one, absolutely no one. And what of her? She is innocent itself. She is no common housemaid but a girl my mother brought up, who for love of me consents to do such work in the household as my simple needs require. I should like to see her. There is no objection to your doing so, but you will gain nothing by it. I have already talked the subject over with her a dozen times, and she is as much puzzled by it as I am myself. She says she cannot see how any one could have found an entrance to my room during my sleep, as the doors were all locked. Yet, as she very naturally observes, someone must have done so, for she was in my bedroom herself just before I returned from the theatre, and can swear, if necessary, that no such slip of paper was to be seen on my cushion at that time, for her duties led her directly to my bureau, and kept her there for full five minutes. And you believed her, I suggested. In what direction, then, do your suspicions turn? Alas! In no direction. That's the trouble. I don't know whom to mistrust. It was because I was told that you had the credit of seeing light, where others can see nothing but darkness, that I have sought your aid in this emergency. For the uncertainties surrounding this matter is killing me, and will make my sorrow quite unendurable if I cannot obtain relief from it. I do not wonder, I began, struck by the note of truth in her tones, and I shall certainly do what I can for you. But before we go any further, let us examine this scrap of newspaper, and see what we can make out of it. I had already noted two or three points in connection with it, to which I now proceeded to direct her attention. Have you compared this notice I pursued with such others as you find every day in the papers? No, was her eager answer. Is it not like them all? Read was my quiet interruption, on this day at the colonnade. On what day? The date is usually given in all the bona fide notices I have seen. Is it? She asked, her eyes moist with unshed tears, opening widely in her astonishment. Look in the papers on your return home and see. Then the print, observed that the type is identical on both sides of this make-believe clipping, which in fact there is always a perceptible difference between that used in the obituary column and that to be found in the columns devoted to other matter. Notice also, I continued, holding up the scrap of paper between her and the light, that the alignment on one side is not exactly parallel with that on the other. A discrepancy which would not exist if both sides had been printed on a newspaper press. These facts lead me to conclude, first, that the effort to match the type exactly was the mistake of a man who tries to do too much, and secondly, that one of the sides at least, presumably that containing the obituary notice, was printed on a hand-press on the blank side of a piece of galley-proof picked up in some newspaper office. Let me see. And stretching out her hand with the utmost eagerness she took the slip and turned it over. Instantly a change took place in her countenance. She sank back in her seat, and a blush of manifest confusions effused her cheeks. Oh! She exclaimed, What will you think of me? I brought this scrap of print into the house myself, and it was I who pinned it on the cushion with my own hands. I remember it now. The sight of those words recalls the whole occurrence. And there is one mystery less for us to solve, I remarked, somewhat dryly. Do you think so? She protested with a deprecatory look. For me the mystery deepens, and becomes every minute more serious. It is true that I brought this scrap of newspaper into the house, and that it had, then as now, the notice of my husband's death upon it. But the time of my bringing it in was Tuesday night, and he was not found dead till Wednesday morning. A discrepancy worth noting, I remarked. Involving a mystery of some importance, she concluded. I agreed to that. And since we have discovered how the slip came into your room, we can now proceed to the clearing up of this mystery, I observed. You can, of course, inform me where you procured this clipping, which you say you brought into the house? Yes, you may think it's strange, but when I alighted from the carriage that night, a man on the sidewalk put this tiny scrap of paper into my hand. It was done so mechanically that it made no more impression on my mind than the thrusting of an advertisement upon me. Indeed I supposed it was an advertisement, and I only wonder that I retained it in my hand at all. But that I did so, and that in a moment of abstraction I went so far as to pin it to my cushion, is evident from the fact that a vague memory remains in my mind of having read this recipe which you see printed on the reverse side of the paper. It was the recipe, then, and not the obituary notice that attracted your attention the night before? Probably, but in pinning it to the cushion it was the obituary notice that chanced to come uppermost. Oh, why should I not have remembered this till now? Can you understand my forgetting a matter of so much importance? Yes, I allowed, after a momentary consideration of her ingenuous countenance. The words you read in the morning were so startling that they disconnected themselves from those you had carelessly glanced at the night before. That is it, she replied, and since then I have had eyes for the one side only. How could I think of the other? But who could have printed this thing, and who was the man who put it into my hand? He looked like a beggar, but—oh! She suddenly exclaimed, her cheeks flushing scarlet, and her eyes flashing with a feverish, almost alarming glitter. What is it now, I asked, another recollection? Yes. She spoke so low I could hardly hear her. He coughed, and— At what? I encouragingly suggested, seeing that she was under some new and overwhelming emotion. That cough had a familiar sound, now that I think of it. It was like that of a friend who—but no, no, I will not wrong him by any false surmises. He would stoop to much, but not to that, yet— The flush on her cheeks had died away, but the two vivid spots which remained showed the depth of her excitement. Do you think— She suddenly asked— That a man out of revenge might plan to frighten me by a false notice of my husband's death, and that God, to punish him, made the notice a prophecy. I think a man influenced by the spirit of revenge might do almost anything, I answered, purposely ignoring the latter part of her question. But I always considered him a good man. At least I never looked upon him as a wicked one. Every other beggar we meet has a cough, and yet— She added, after a moment's pause— If it was not he who gave me this mortal shock, who was it? He is the only person in the world I ever wronged. Had you not better tell me his name, I suggested. No, I am in too great doubt. I should hate to do him a second injury. You cannot injure him if he is innocent. My methods are very safe. If I could forget his cough, but it had that peculiar catch in it that I remembered so well in the cough of John Graham, I did not pay any a special heed to it at the time. Old days and old troubles were far enough from my thoughts. But now that my suspicions are raised, that low choking sound comes back to me in a strangely persistent way, and I seem to see a well-remembered form in the stooping figure of this beggar. Oh, I hope the good God will forgive me if I attribute to this disappointed man a wickedness he never committed. Who is John Graham? I urged, and what was the nature of the wrong you did him? She rose, cast me one appealing glance, and perceiving that I meant to have her whole story turned towards the fire and stood warming her feet before the hearth, with her face turned away from my gaze. I was once engaged to marry him. She began. Not because I loved him, but because we were very poor. I mean my mother and myself. And he had a home and seemed both good and generous. The day came when we were to be married. This was in the west, way out in Kansas. And I was even dressed for the wedding, when a letter came from my uncle here, a rich uncle, very rich, who had never had anything to do with my mother since her marriage. And in it he promised me fortune and everything else desirable in life, if I would come to him, unencumbered by any foolish ties. Think of it! And I within half an hour of marriage with a man I had never loved, and now suddenly hated. The temptation was overwhelming, and heartless as my conduct may appear to you, I succumbed to it. Telling my lover that I had changed my mind, I dismissed the minister when he came, and announced my intention of proceeding east as soon as possible. Mr. Graham was simply paralyzed by his disappointment, and during the few days which intervened before my departure, I was haunted by his face, which was like that of a man who had died from some overwhelming shock. But when I was once free of the town, especially after I arrived in New York, I forgot alike his misery and himself. Everything I saw was so beautiful, life was so full of charm, and my uncle so delighted with me and everything I did. Then there was James Holmes, and after I had seen him, but I cannot talk of that. We loved each other, and under the surprise of this new delight, how could I be expected to remember the man I had left behind me in that barren region in which I had spent my youth? But he did not forget the misery I had caused him. He followed me to New York, and on the morning I was married, found his way into the house, and mixing with the wedding guests, suddenly appeared before me just as I was receiving the congratulations of my friends. At sight of him I experienced all the terror he had calculated upon causing, but remembering at whose side I stood, I managed to hide my confusion under an aspect of apparent haughtiness. This irritated John Graham. Flushing with anger and ignoring my imploring look, he cried peremptorily, Present me to your husband! And I felt forced to present him. But his name produced no effect upon Mr. Holmes. I had never told him of my early experience with this man, and John Graham, perceiving this, cast me a bitter glance of disdain and passed on, muttering between his teeth, false to me and false to him. Your punishment will be upon you. And I felt as if I had been cursed. She stopped here, moved by emotions readily to be understood. Then with quick impetuosity she caught up the thread of her story and went on. That was six months ago, and again I forgot. My mother died, and my husband soon absorbed my every thought. How could I dream that this man, who is little more than a memory to me, and scarcely that, was secretly planning mischief against me? Yet this scrap about which we have talked so much may have been the work of his hands, and even my husband's death. She did not finish, but her face, which was turned towards me, spoke volumes. Your husband's death shall be inquired into, I assured her. And she, exhausted by the excitement of her discoveries, asked that she might be excused from further discussion of the subject at that time. As I had no wish myself to enter any more fully into the matter just then, I readily acceded to her request, and the pretty widow left me. Obviously the first fact to be settled was whether Mr. Holmes had died from purely natural causes. I accordingly busied myself the next few days with this question, and was fortunate enough to so interest the proper authorities that an order was issued for the exclamation and examination of the body. The result was disappointing. No traces of poison were to be found in the stomach, nor was there to be seen on the body any mark of violence, with the exception of a minute prick upon one of his thumbs. This speck was so small that it escaped every eye but my own. The authorities assuring the widow that the doctor's certificate given her in Philadelphia was correct, he was again interred. But I was not satisfied, neither do I think she was. I was confident that this death was not a natural one, and entered upon one of those secret and prolonged investigations which have constituted the pleasure of my life for so many years. First I visited the Colonnade in Philadelphia, and being allowed to see the room in which Mr. Holmes died went through it carefully. As it had not been used since that time I had some hopes of coming upon a clue. But it was a vain hope, and the only result of my journey to this place was the assurance I received that the gentleman had spent the entire evening preceding his death in his own room, where he had been brought several letters and one small package, the letter coming by mail. With this one point gained, if it was a point, I went back to New York. Calling on Mrs. Holmes I asked her if while her husband was away she had sent him anything besides letters, and upon her replying to the contrary requested to know if in her visit to Philadelphia she had noted among her husband's effects anything that was new or unfamiliar to her. For he received a package while there I explained, and though its contents may have been perfectly harmless it is just as well for us to be assured of this before going any further. Oh! you think then he was really the victim of some secret violence? We have no proof of it, I said. On the contrary, we are assured that he died from natural causes. But the incident of the newspaper slip outweighs in my mind the doctor's conclusions, and until the mystery surrounding that obituary notice has been satisfactorily explained by its author, I shall hold to the theory that your husband has been made away with in some strange and seemingly unaccountable manner, which it is our duty to bring to light. You are right, you are right, oh John Graham! She was so carried away by this plain expression of my belief that she forgot the question I had put to her. You have not told whether or not you found anything among your husband's effects that can explain this mystery, I suggested. She at once became attentive. Nothing, said she. His trunks were already packed, and his bag near Liso. There were a few things lying about the room which were put into the latter, but I saw nothing but what was familiar to me among them, at least I think not. Perhaps we had better look through his trunk and see. I have not had the heart to open it since I came back. As this was exactly what I wished, I said as much, and she led me into a small room against the wall of which stood a trunk with a travelling bag on top of it. Opening the latter, she spread the contents out on the trunk. I know all these things. She sadly murmured, the tears welling in her eyes. This, I inquired, lifting up a bit of coiled wire with two or three little rings dangling from it. No, why, what is that? It looks like a puzzle of some kind. Then it is of no consequence. My husband was forever amusing himself over some such contrivance. All his friends knew how well he liked these toys and frequently sent them to him. This one evidently reached him in Philadelphia. Meanwhile, I was eyeing the bit of wire curiously. It was undoubtedly a puzzle, but it had appendages to it that I did not understand. It is more than ordinarily complicated, I observed, moving the rings up and down in a vain endeavour to work them off. The better he would like it, said she. I kept on working with the rings. Suddenly I gave a painful start. A little prong in the handle of the toy had started out and pricked me. You had better not handle it, said I, and laid it down. But the next minute I took it up again and put it in my pocket. The prick made by this treacherous bit of mechanism was in or near the same place on my thumb as the one I had noticed on the hand of the deceased Mr. Holmes. There was a fire in the room, and before proceeding further I cauterized that prick with the end of a red hot poker. Then I made my adieu to Mrs. Holmes, and went immediately to a chemist friend of mine. "'Test the end of this bit of steel for me,' said I. I have reason to believe it carries with it a deadly poison.' He took the toy, promised to subject it to every test possible, and let me know the result. Then I went home. I felt ill or imagined that I did, which under the circumstances was almost as bad. Next day, however, I was quite well, with the exception of a certain inconvenience in my thumb. But not till the following week did I receive the chemist's report. It overthrew my whole theory. He had found nothing, and returned me the bit of steel. But I was not convinced. I will hunt up this John Graham, thought I, and study him. But this was not so easy a task as it may appear. As Mrs. Holmes possessed no clue to the whereabouts of her quantum lover, I had nothing to aid me in my search for him. Save her rather vague description of his personal appearance, and the fact that he was constantly interrupted in speaking by a low, choking cough. However my natural perseverance carried me through. After seeing and interviewing a dozen John Graham's without result, I at last lit upon a man of that name who presented a figure of such vivid unrest, and showed such desperate hatred of his fellows, that I began to entertain hopes of his being the person I was in search of. But determined to be sure of this before proceeding further, I confided my suspicions to Mrs. Holmes, and induced her to accompany me down to a certain spot on the elevated, from which I had more than once seen this man go by to his usual lounging-place in printing-house square. She showed great courage in doing this, for she had such a dread of him that she was in a state of nervous excitement from the moment she left her house, feeling sure that she would attract his attention and thus risk a disagreeable encounter. But she might have spared herself these fears. She did not even glance up in passing us, and it was mainly by his walk she recognized him. But she did recognize him, and this nerved me at once to set about the formidable task of fixing upon him a crime which was not even admitted as a fact by the authorities. He was a man about town, living to all appearances by his wits. He was to be seen mostly in the downtown portions of the city, waiting for hours in front of some newspaper-office, gnawing at his finger-ins and staring at the passers-by with a hungry look, but alarmed the timid, and provoked alms from the benevolent. Needless to say that he rejected the latter expression of sympathy, with angry contempt. His face was long and pallid, his cheekbones high, and his mouth bitter and resolute in expression. He wore neither beard nor moustache, but made up for their lack by an abundance of light-brown hair which hung very nearly to his shoulders. He stooped in standing, but as soon as he moved showed decision and a certain sort of pride which caused him to hold his head high and his body more than usually erect. With all these good points his appearance was decidedly sinister, and I did not wonder that Mrs. Holmes feared him. My next move was to accost him. Standing before the doorway in which he stood, I addressed him some trivial question. He answered me with sufficient plightness, but with a grudging attention which betrayed the hold which his own thoughts had upon him. He coughed while speaking, and his eye, which for a moment rested on mine, produced upon me an impression for which I was hardly prepared, great as was my prejudice against him. There was such an icy composure in it, the composure of an envenomed nature conscious of its superiority to all surprise. As I lingered to study him more closely, the many dangerous qualities of the man became more and more apparent to me, and convinced that to proceed further without deep and careful thought would be to court failure where triumph would set me up for life, I gave up all present attempt at enlisting him in conversation, and went my way in an inquiring and serious mood. In fact my position was a peculiar one, and the problem I had set for myself one of unusual difficulty. Only by means of some extraordinary device such as is seldom resorted to by the police of this or any other nation could I hope to arrive at the secret of this man's conduct, and triumph in a manner which to all appearance was beyond human penetration. At what device I knew of none, nor through two days and nights of strenuous thought did I receive the least light on the subject. Indeed my mind seemed to grow more and more confused the more I urged it into action. I failed to get inspiration indoors or out, and feeling my health suffer from the constant irritation of my recurring disappointment, I resolved to take a day off and carry myself and my perplexities into the country. I did so, governed by an impulse which I did not then understand, I went to a small town in New Jersey, and entered the first house on which I saw the sign Room to Let. The result was most fortunate. No sooner had I crossed the threshold of the neat and homely apartment thrown open to my use than it recalled a room in which I had slept two years before, and in which I had read a little book I was only too glad to remember at this moment. Indeed it seemed as if a veritable inspiration had come to me through this recollection, for though the tale to which I allude was a simple child's story written for moral purposes, it contained an idea which promised to be invaluable to me at this juncture. Indeed by means of it I believed myself to have solved the problem that was puzzling me, and relieved to beyond expression I paid for the night's lodging I had now determined to forego, and returned immediately to New York, having spent just fifteen minutes in the town where I had received this happy inspiration. My first step on entering the city was to order a dozen steel coils made similar to the one which I still believed answerable for James Holmes' death. My next, to learn as far as possible all of John Graham's haunts and habits. At a week's end I had the springs, and knew almost as well as he did himself where he was likely to be found at all times of the day and night. I immediately acted upon this knowledge. Assuming a slight disguise I repeated my former stroll through printing-house square, looking into each doorway as I passed. John Graham was in one of them, staring in his old way at the passing crowd, but evidently seeing nothing but the images formed by his own disordered brain. A manuscript roll stuck out of his breast pocket, and from the way his nervous fingers fumbled with it I began to understand the restless glitter of his eyes, which were as full of wretchedness as any eyes I have ever seen. Entering the doorway where he stood I dropped at his feet one of the small steel coils with which I was provided. He did not see it. Seeing near him I directed his attention to it by saying, "'Pardon me, but did I not see something drop out of your hand?' He started, glanced at the seeming, inoffensive toy at which I pointed, and altered so suddenly and so vividly that it became instantly apparent that the surprise I had planned for him was fully as keen and searching a one as I had anticipated. Recoiling sharply he gave me a quick look, then glanced down again at his feet as if half expecting to find the object vanished, which had startled him. But perceiving it still lying there, he crushed it viciously with his heel, and uttering some incoherent words dashed impetuously from the building. Confident that he would regret this hasty impulse and return I withdrew a few steps and waited, and sure enough in less than five minutes he came slinking back. Looking up the coil with more than one sly look about, he examined it closely. Suddenly he gave a sharp cry and went staggering out. Had he discovered that the seeming puzzle possessed the same invisible spring which had made the one handled by James Holmes so dangerous, certain as to the place he would be found in next I made a shortcut to an obscure little saloon in Nassau Street, where I took up my stand in a spot convenient for seeing without being seen. In ten minutes he was standing at the bar asking for a drink. Whiskey! He cried. Straight! It was given him. But as he set the empty glass down on the counter, he saw lying before him another of the steel springs, and was so confounded by the sight that the proprietor, who had put it there at my instigation, thrust out his hand toward him as if half afraid he would fall. Where did that thing come from? He hammered John Graham, ignoring the other's gesture and pointing with a trembling hand at the seemingly insignificant bit of wire between them. Didn't it drop from your coat pocket? inquired the proprietor. It wasn't lying here before you came in. With a horrible oath the unhappy man turned and fled from the place. I lost sight of him after that for three hours. Then I suddenly came upon him again. He was walking uptown with a set purpose in his face that made him look more dangerous than ever. Of course I followed him, expecting him to turn towards 59th Street, but at the corner of Madison Avenue and 47th Street he changed his mind and dashed toward 3rd Avenue. At Park Avenue he faltered, and again turned north, walking for several blocks as if the fiends were behind him. I began to think that he was but attempting to walk off his excitement, when at a sudden rushing sound in the cut beside us he stopped and trembled. An express train was shooting by. As it disappeared in the tunnel beyond he looked about him with a blanched face and a wandering eye, but his glance did not turn my way, or if it did he failed to attach any meaning to my near presence. He began to move on again and this time towards the bridge spanning the cut. I followed him very closely. In the centre of it he paused and looked down at the track beneath him. Another train was approaching. As it came near he trembled from head to foot and catching at the railing against which he leaned was about to make a quick move forward when a puff of smoke arose from below and sent him staggering backward, gasping with a terror I could hardly understand, till I saw that the smoke had taken the form of a spiral and was sailing away before him in what to his disordered imagination must have looked like a gigantic image of the coil with which twice before on this day he had found himself confronted. It may have been chance, and it may have been providence, but whichever it was it saved him. He could not face that semblance of his haunting thought, and turning away he cowered down on the neighbouring curbstone where he sat for several minutes with his head buried in his hands. When he rose again he was his own daring and sinister self. Knowing that he was now too much master of his faculties to ignore me any longer I walked quickly away and left him. I knew where he would be at six o'clock, and had already engaged a table at the same restaurant. It was seven, however, before he put in an appearance, and by this time he was looking more composed. There was a reckless air about him, however, which was perhaps only noticeable to me, for none of the habitues of this special restaurant were entirely without it, wild eyes and unkempt hair being in the majority. I let him eat. The dinner he ordered was simple, and I had not the heart to interrupt his enjoyment of it. But when he had finished and came to pay, then I allowed the shock to come. Under the bill which the waiter laid at the side of his plate was the inevitable steel coil, and it produced even more than its usual effect. I own I felt sorry for him. He did not dash from the place, however, as he had from the liquor saloon. A spirit of resistance had seized him, and he demanded to know where this object of his fear had come from. No one could tell him or would. Whereupon he began to rave, and would certainly have done himself or somebody else an injury if he had not been calmed by a man almost as wild looking as himself. Paying his bill, but vowing he would never enter the place again, he went out, clay-white, but with the swaggering air of a man who had just asserted himself. He drooped, however, as soon as he reached the street, and I had no difficulty in following him to a certain gambling den, where he gained three dollars and lost five. From there he went to his lodgings in West Tenth Street. I did not follow him in. He had passed through many deep and wearing emotions since noon, and I had not the heart to add another to them. But late the next day I returned to this house and rang the bell. It was already dusk, but there was light enough for me to notice the unrepaired condition of the iron railings on either side of the old stone stoop, and to compare this abode of the decayed grandeur with the spacious and elegant apartment in which pretty Mrs. Holmes mourned the loss of her young husband. Had any such comparison ever been made by the unhappy John Graham, as he hurried up these decayed steps into the dismal halls beyond? In answer to my summons there came to the door a young woman to whom I had but to intimate my wish to see Mr. Graham, for her to let me in with the short announcement. As an open door meant liberty to enter, I lost no time in following the direction of her pointing finger, and presently found myself in a low attic chamber overlooking an acre of roofs. A fire had been lighted in the open grate, and the flickering red beams danced on ceiling and walls, with the cheeriness greatly in contrast to the nature of the business which had led me there. As they also served to light the room, I proceeded to make myself at home, and drawing up a chair, sat down at the fireplace in such a way as to conceal myself from anyone entering the door. In less than half an hour he came in. He was in a state of high emotion. His face was flushed, and his eyes burning. Stepping rapidly forward he flung his hat on the table in the middle of the room, with a curse that was half cry and half groan. Then he stood silent, and I had an opportunity of noting how haggard he had grown in the short time which had elapsed since I had seen him last. But the interval of his inaction was short, and in a moment he flung up his arms with a loud, curse her, that rang through the narrow room and betrayed the source of his present frenzy. Then he again stood still, grating his teeth and working his hands in a way terribly suggestive of the murderer's instinct. But not for long. He saw something that attracted his attention on the table, a something upon which my eyes had long before been fixed, and starting forward with a fresh and quite different display of emotion he caught up what looked like a roll of manuscript and began to tear it open. Back again, always back! wailed from his lips, and he gave the roll a toss that sent from its midst a small object which he no sooner saw than he became speechless and reeled back. It was another of the steel coils. Good God! fell at last from his stiff and working lips. Am I mad or has the devil joined in the pursuit against me? I cannot eat, I cannot drink, but this diabolical spring starts up before me. It is here, there, everywhere. The visible sign of my guilt, the—the— He had stumbled back upon my chair, and turning, saw me. I was on my feet at once, and noting that he was dazed by the shock of my presence, I slid quietly between him and the door. The movement roused him. Turning upon me with a sarcastic smile in which was concentrated the bitterness of years, he briefly said, So I am caught. Well there has to be an end to men as well as to things, and I am ready for mine. She turned me away from her door to-day, and after the hell of that moment I don't much fear any other. You had better not talk, I admonished him, all that falls from you now will only tell against you on your trial. He broke into a harsh laugh. And do you think I care for that? And having been driven by a woman's perfidy into crime, I am going to bridle my tongue and keep down the words which are my only safeguard from insanity? No. No, while my miserable breath lasts I will curse her, and if the halter is to cut short my words it shall be with her name blistering my lips. I attempted to speak, but he would not give me the opportunity. The passion of weeks had found vent, and he rushed on recklessly. I went to her house to-day. I wanted to see her in her widow's-weeds. I wanted to see her eyes red with weeping over a grief which owed its bitterness to me. But she would not grant me an admittance. She had me thrust from her door, and I shall never know how deeply the iron has sunk into her soul. But— And here his face showed a sudden change. I shall see her if I am tried for murder. She will be in the courtroom, on the witness-stand. Doubtless, I interjected, but his interruption came quickly and with vehement passion. Then I am ready, welcome trial, conviction, death even. To confront her eye to eye is all I wish. She shall never forget it, never. Then you do not deny, I began. I deny nothing. He returned, and held out his hands with a grim gesture. How can I, when there falls from everything I touch, the devilish thing which took away the life I hated? Have you anything more to say or do, before you leave these rooms, I asked? He shook his head, and then, be thinking himself, pointed to the roll of paper which he had flung on the table. Burn that!" He cried. I took up the roll and looked at it. It was the manuscript of a poem in blank verse. I have been with it into a dozen newspaper and magazine offices. He explained with great bitterness, Had I succeeded in getting a publisher for it I might have forgotten my wrongs and tried to build up a new life, on the ruins of the old. But they would not have it, none of them. So I say burn it, that no memory of me may remain in this miserable world. Keep to the facts, I severely retorted. It was while carrying this poem, from one newspaper to another, that you secured that bit of print upon the blank side of which you yourself printed the obituary notice with which you savoured your revenge upon the woman who had disappointed you. You know that? Then you know where I got the poison with which I tipped the silly toy with which that weak man fooled away his life? No, said I. I do not know where you got it. I merely know it was no common poison bought at the drug-ists or from any ordinary chemist. It was Whirl-Eye, the deadly secret Whirl-Eye. I got it from—but that's another man's secret. You'll never hear from me anything that will compromise a friend. I got it, that is all. One drop, but it killed my man. The satisfaction, the delight, which he threw into these words are beyond description. As they left his lips, a jet of flame from the neglected fire shot up and threw his figure for one instant into bold relief upon the lowering ceiling. Then it died out, and nothing but the twilight dusk remained in the room and on the countenance of this doomed and despairing man. End of a difficult problem.