[Illustration: "I'll come here, I'll be your model, I'll sit for you bythe hour"]

MURDER IN ANY DEGREE: ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK: A COMEDY FOR WIVES:THE LIE: EVEN THREES: A MAN OF NO IMAGINATION: LARRY MOORE:MY WIFE'S WEDDING PRESENTS: THE SURPRISES OF THE LOTTERY

BY OWEN JOHNSON Author of "Stover at Yale, " "The Varmint, " etc. , etc. 

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY F. R. GRUGER AND LEON GUIPON

NEW YORK THE CENTURY CO. 1913

1907, 1912, 1913, THE CENTURY CO. 

1911, THE CURTIS PUBLISHING COMPANY

1911, THE NATIONAL POST CO. 

1912, GOOD HOUSEKEEPING MAGAZINE

1908, THE RIDGWAY COMPANY

1906, ASSOCIATED SUNDAY MAGAZINES, INCORPORATED

1910, THE PEARSON PUBLISHING COMPANY

_Published, August, 1913_

CONTENTS

MURDER IN ANY DEGREE

ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK

A COMEDY FOR WIVES

THE LIE

EVEN THREES

A MAN OF NO IMAGINATION

LARRY MOORE

MY WIFE'S WEDDING PRESENTS

THE SURPRISES OF THE LOTTERY

ILLUSTRATIONS

"I'll come here, I'll be your model, I'll sit for you by the hour"

From his tone the group perceived that the hazards had brought to himsome abrupt coincidence

Rantoul, . . . Decorating his ankles with lavender and black

Our Lady of the Sparrows

"Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"

Wild-eyed and hilarious they descended on the clubhouse with themiraculous news

A committee carefully examined the books of the club

"You gave him--the tickets! The Lottery Tickets!"

MURDER IN ANY DEGREE

I

One Sunday in March they had been marooned at the club, Steingall thepainter and Quinny the illustrator, and, having lunched late, had boredthemselves separately to their limits over the periodicals until, preferring to bore each other, they had gravitated together in easyarm-chairs before the big Renaissance fireplace. 

Steingall, sunk in his collar, from behind the black-rimmed spectacles, which, with their trailing ribbon of black, gave a touch of Continentalelegance to his cropped beard and colonel's mustaches, watched withoutenthusiasm the three mammoth logs, where occasional tiny flames gaveforth an illusion of heat. 

Quinny, as gaunt as a militant friar of the Middle Ages, aware ofSteingall's protective reverie, spoke in desultory periods, addressinghimself questions and supplying the answers, reserving his epigrams fora larger audience. 

At three o'clock De Gollyer entered from a heavy social performance, raising his eyebrows in salute as others raise their hats, and slightlydragging one leg behind. He was an American critic who was busilyengaged in discovering the talents of unrecognized geniuses of theEuropean provinces. When reproached with his migratory enthusiasm, hewould reply, with that quick, stiffening military click with which healways delivered his _bons mots_:

"My boy, I never criticize American art. I can't afford to. I have toomany charming friends. "

At four o'clock, which is the hour for the entrée of those who escapefrom their homes to fling themselves on the sanctuary of the club, Rankin, the architect, arrived with Stibo, the fashionable painter offashionable women, who brought with him the atmosphere of pleasant soapand an exclusive, smiling languor. A moment later a voice was heard fromthe anteroom, saying:

"If any one telephones, I'm not in the club--any one at all. Do youhear?"

Then Towsey, the decorator, appeared at the letterboxes in spats, militant checks, high collar and a choker tie, which, yearning towardhis ears, gave him the appearance of one who had floundered up out ofhis clothes for the third and last time. He came forward, frowned at thegroup, scowled at the negative distractions of the reading-room, andfinally dragged over his chair just as Quinny was saying:

"Queer thing--ever notice it?--two artists sit down together, eachbegins talking of what he's doing--to avoid complimenting the other, naturally. As soon as the third arrives they begin carving up another;only thing they can agree on, see? Soon as you get four or more of thespecies together, conversation always comes around to marriage. Evernotice that, eh?"

"My dear fellow, " said De Gollyer, from the intolerant point of view ofa bachelor, "that is because marriage is your one common affliction. Artists, musicians, all the lower order of the intellect, marry. Theymust. They can't help it. It's the one thing you can't resist. You beginit when you're poor to save the expense of a servant, and you keep it upwhen you succeed to have some one over you to make you work. You belongpsychologically to the intellectually dependent classes, theclinging-vine family, the masculine parasites; and as you can't helpbeing married, you are always damning it, holding it responsible for allyour failures. "

At this characteristic speech, the five artists shifted slightly, andlooked at De Gollyer over their mustaches with a lingering appetite, much as a group of terriers respect the family cat. 

"My dear chaps, speaking as a critic, " continued De Gollyer, pleasantlyaware of the antagonism he had exploded, "you remain children afraid ofthe dark--afraid of being alone. Solitude frightens you. You lack thequality of self-sufficiency that is the characteristic of the highercritical faculties. You marry because you need a nurse. "

He ceased, thoroughly satisfied with the prospect of having brought ona quarrel, raised thumb and first finger in a gingerly loop, ordered adash of sherry and winked across the group to Tommers, who was listeningaround his paper from the reading-room. 

"De Gollyer, you are only a 'who's who' of art, " said Quinny, with, however, a hungry gratitude for a topic of such possibilities. "Youunderstand nothing of psychology. An artist is a multiple personality;with each picture he paints he seeks a new inspiration. What isinspiration?"

"Ah, that's the point--inspiration, " said Steingall, waking up. 

"Inspiration, " said Quinny, eliminating Steingall from his preserveswith the gesture of brushing away a fly--"inspiration is only a form ofhypnosis, under the spell of which a man is capable of rising outside ofand beyond himself, as a horse, under extraordinary stress, exerts amuscular force far beyond his accredited strength. The race of geniuses, little and big, are constantly seeking this outward force to hypnotizethem into a supreme intellectual effort. Talent does not understand sucha process; it is mechanical, unvarying, chop-chop, day in and day out. Now, what you call inspiration may be communicated in many ways--by thespectacle of a mob, by a panorama of nature, by sudden and violentcontrasts of points of view; but, above all, as a continual stimulus, it comes from that state of mental madness which is produced by love. "

"Huh?" said Stibo. 

"Anything that produces a mental obsession, _une idée fixe_, is a formof madness, " said Quinny, rapidly. "A person in love sees only one face, hears only one voice; at the base of the brain only one thought isconstantly drumming. Physically such a condition is a narcotic; mentallyit is a form of madness that in the beneficent state is powerfullyhypnotic. "

At this deft disentanglement of a complicated idea, Rankin, who, likethe professional juryman, wagged his head in agreement with each speakerand was convinced by the most violent, gazed upon Quinny with absoluteadoration. 

"We were speaking of woman, " said Towsey, gruffly, who pronounced thesex with a peculiar staccato sound. 

"This little ABC introduction, " said Quinny, pleasantly, "is necessaryto understand the relation a woman plays to the artist. It is not thewoman he seeks, but the hypnotic influence which the woman can exert onhis faculties if she is able to inspire him with a passion. "

"Precisely why he marries, " said De Gollyer. 

"Precisely, " said Quinny, who, having seized the argument by chance, waspleasantly surprised to find that he was going to convince himself. "Buthere is the great distinction: to be an inspiration, a woman shouldalways represent to the artist a form of the unattainable. It is thesearch for something beyond him that makes him challenge the stars, andall that sort of rot, you know. "

"The tragedy of life, " said Rankin, sententiously, "is that one womancannot mean all things to one man all the time. "

It was a phrase which he had heard the night before, and which he flungoff casually with an air of spontaneity, twisting the old Spanish ringon his bony, white fingers, which he held invariably in front of hislong, sliding nose. 

"Thank you, I said that about the year 1907, " said Quinny, whileSteingall gasped and nudged Towsey. "That is the tragedy of life, notthe tragedy of art, two very different things. An artist has need often, fifteen, twenty women, according to the multiplicity of his ideas. He should be always violently in love or violently reacting. "

"And the wife?" said De Gollyer. "Has she any influence?"

"My dear fellow, the greatest. Without a wife, an artist falls a prey tothe inspiration of the moment--condemned to it; and as he is not ananalyst, he ends by imagining he really is in love. Takeportrait-painting. Charming lady sits for portrait, painter takes up hisbrushes, arranges his palette, seeks inspiration, --what is below thesurface?--something intangible to divine, seize, and affix to hiscanvas. He seeks to know the soul; he seeks how? As a man in love seeks, naturally. The more he imagines himself in love, the more completelydoes the idea obsess him from morning to night--plain as the nose onyour face. Only there are other portraits to paint. Enter the wife. "

"Charming, " said Stibo, who had not ceased twining his mustaches in hispink fingers. 

"Ah, that's the point. What of the wife?" said Steingall, violently. 

"The wife--the ideal wife, mind you--is then the weapon, the refuge. Toescape from the entanglement of his momentary inspiration, the artistbecomes a man: my wife and _bonjour_. He returns home, takes off theduster of his illusion, cleans the palette of old memories, washes awayhis vows, protestations, and all that rot, you know, lies down on thesofa, and gives his head to his wife to be rubbed. Curtain. The comedyis over. "

"But that's what they don't understand, " said Steingall, withenthusiasm. "That's what they will _never_ understand. "

"Such miracles exist?" said Towsey with a short, disagreeable laugh. 

"I know the wife of an artist, " said Quinny, "whom I consider the mostremarkable woman I know--who sits and knits and smiles. She is one whounderstands. Her husband adores her, and he is in love with a woman amonth. When he gets in too deep, ready for another inspiration, youknow, she calls up the old love on the telephone and asks her to stopannoying her husband. "

"Marvelous!" said Steingall, dropping his glasses. 

"No, really?" said Rankin. 

"Has she a sister?" said Towsey. 

Stibo raised his eyes slowly to Quinny's but veiled as was the look, DeGollyer perceived it, and smilingly registered the knowledge on theledger of his social secrets. 

"That's it, by George! that is it, " said Steingall, who hurled theenthusiasm of a reformer into his pessimism. "It's all so simple; butthey won't understand. And why--do you know why? Because a woman isjealous. It isn't simply of other women. No, no, that's not it; it'sworse than that, ten thousand times worse. She's jealous of your _art_!That's it! There you have it! She's jealous because she can't understandit, because it takes you away from her, because she can't _share_ it. That's what's terrible about marriage--no liberty, no individualism, noseclusion, having to account every night for your actions, for yourthoughts, for the things you dream--ah, the dreams! The Chinese areright, the Japanese are right. It's we Westerners who are all wrong. It's the creative only that counts. The woman should be subordinated, should be kept down, taught the voluptuousness of obedience. By Jove!that's it. We don't assert ourselves. It's this confounded Anglo-Saxonsentimentality that's choking art--that's what it is. "

At the familiar phrases of Steingall's outburst, Rankin wagged his headin unequivocal assent, Stibo smiled so as to show his fine upper teeth, and Towsey flung away his cigar, saying:

"Words, words. "

At this moment when Quinny, who had digested Steingall's argument, waspreparing to devour the whole topic, Britt Herkimer, the sculptor, joined them. He was a guest, just in from Paris, where he had beenestablished twenty years, one of the five men in art whom one counted onthe fingers when the word genius was pronounced. Mentally and physicallya German, he spoke English with a French accent. His hair was cropped_en brosse_, and in his brown Japanese face only the eyes, staccato, furtive, and drunk with curiosity, could be seen. He was direct, opinionated, bristling with energy, one of those tireless workers whodisdain their youth and treat it as a disease. His entry into the groupof his more socially domesticated confrères was like the return of awolf-hound among the housedogs. 

"Still smashing idols?" he said, slapping the shoulder of Steingall, with whom and Quinny he had passed his student days, "Well, what's therow?"

"My dear Britt, we are reforming matrimony. Steingall is for theimportation of Mongolian wives, " said De Gollyer, who had written twofavorable articles on Herkimer, "while Quinny is for founding a schoolfor wives on most novel and interesting lines. "

"That's odd, " said Herkimer, with a slight frown. 

"On the contrary, no, " said De Gollyer; "we always abolish matrimonyfrom four to six. "

"You didn't understand me, " said Herkimer, with the sharpness he used inhis classes. 

From his tone the group perceived that the hazards had brought to himsome abrupt coincidence. They waited with an involuntary silence, whichin itself was a rare tribute. 

"Remember Rantoul?" said Herkimer, rolling a cigarette and using a jerkydiction. 

"Clyde Rantoul?" said Stibo. 

"Don Furioso Barebones Rantoul, who was in the Quarter with us?" saidQuinny. 

"Don Furioso, yes, " said Rankin. "Ever see him?"

"Never. "

"He's married, " said Quinny; "dropped out. "

"Yes, he married, " said Herkimer, lighting his cigarette. "Well, I'vejust seen him. "

"He's a plutocrat or something, " said Towsey, reflectively. 

"He's rich--ended, " said Steingall as he slapped the table. "By Jove! Iremember now. "

"Wait, " said Quinny, interposing. 

[Illustration: From his tone the group perceived that the hazards hadbrought to him some abrupt coincidences]

"I went up to see him yesterday--just back now, " said Herkimer. "Rantoul was the biggest man of us all. It's a funny tale. You'rediscussing matrimony; here it is. "

II

In the early nineties, when Quinny, Steingall, Herkimer, little Bennett, who afterward roamed down into the Transvaal and fell in with theForeign Legion, Jacobus and Chatterton, the architects, were livingthrough that fine, rebellious state of overweening youth, Rantoul wasthe undisputed leader, the arch-rebel, the master-demolisher of thegroup. 

Every afternoon at five his Gargantuan figure came thrashing through thecrowds of the boulevard, as an omnibus on its way scatters the fragilefiacres. He arrived, radiating electricity, tirades on his tongue, tohis chair among the table-pounders of the Café des Lilacs, and his firstwords were like the fanfare of trumpets. He had been christened, in thefelicitous language of the Quarter, Don Furioso Barebones Rantoul, andfor cause. He shared a garret with his chum, Britt Herkimer, in the Ruede l'Ombre, a sort of manhole lit by the stars, --when there were anystars, and he never failed to come springing up the six rickety flightswith a song on his lips. 

An old woman who kept a fruit store gave him implicit credit; a muchyounger member of the sex at the corner creamery trusted him for eggsand fresh milk, and leaned toward him over the counter, laughing intohis eyes as he exclaimed:

"Ma belle, when I am famous, I will buy you a silk gown, and a pair ofearrings that will reach to your shoulders, and it won't be long. You'llsee. "

He adored being poor. When his canvas gave out, he painted his ankles tocaricature the violent creations that were the pride of Chatterton, whowas a nabob. When his credit at one restaurant expired, he strodeconfidently up to another proprietor, and announced with the air of onebestowing a favor:

"I am Rantoul, the portrait-painter. In five years my portraits willsell for five thousand francs, in ten for twenty thousand. I will eatone meal a day at your distinguished establishment, and paint yourportrait to make your walls famous. At the end of the month I willimmortalize your wife; on the same terms, your sister, your father, yourmother, and all the little children. Besides, every Saturday night Iwill bring here a band of my comrades who pay in good hard silver. Remember that if you had bought a Corot for twenty francs in 1870, youcould have sold it for five thousand francs in 1880, fifty thousand in1890. Does the idea appeal to you?"

But as most keepers of restaurants are practical and unimaginative, andwithal close bargainers, at the end of a week Rantoul generally wasforced to seek a new sitter. 

"What a privilege it is to be poor!" he would then exclaimenthusiastically to Herkimer. "It awakens all the perceptions; hungermakes the eye keener. I can see colors to-day that I never saw before. And to think that if Sherman had never gotten it in his head to march tothe sea I should never have experienced this inspiration! But, oldfellow, we have so short a time to be poor. We must exhibit nothing yet. We are lucky. We are poor. We can feel. "

On the subject of traditions he was at his best. 

"Shakspere is the curse of the English drama, " he would declare, with adescending gesture which caused all the little glasses to rattle theiralarm. "Nothing will ever come out of England until his influence isdiscounted. He was a primitive, a Preraphælite. He understood nothing ofform, of composition. He was a poet who wandered into the drama as asheep strays into the pasture of the bulls, a colorist who imagines hecan be a sculptor. The influence of Victoria sentimentalized the wholeartistic movement in England, made it bourgeois, and flavored it withmint sauce. Modern portraiture has turned the galleries into anexhibition of wax works. What is wrong with painting to-day--do youknow?"

"_Allons_, tell us!" cried two or three, while others, availingthemselves of the breathing space, filled the air with their orders:

"Paul, another bock. "

"Two hard-boiled eggs. "

"And pretzels; don't forget the pretzels. "

"The trouble with painting to-day is that it has no point of view, "cried Rantoul, swallowing an egg in the anaconda fashion. "We areinterpreting life in the manner of the Middle Ages. We forget art shouldbe historical. We forget that we are now in our century. Ugliness, notbeauty, is the note of our century; turbulence, strife, materialism, themob, machinery, masses, not units. Why paint a captain of industryagainst a François I tapestry? Paint him at his desk. The desk is athrone; interpret it. We are ruled by mobs. Who paints mobs? What iswrong is this, that art is in the bondage of literature--sentimentality. We must record what we experience. Ugliness has its utility, itsmagnetism; the ugliness of abject misery moves you to think, to readjustideas. We must be rebels, we young men. Ah, if we could only burn thegalleries, we should be forced to return to life. "

"Bravo, Rantoul!"

"Right, old chap. "

"Smash the statues!"

"Burn the galleries!"

"Down with tradition!"

"Eggs and more bock!"

But where Rantoul differed from the revolutionary regiment was that hewas not simply a painter who delivered orations; he could paint. Histirades were not a furore of denunciation so much as they were theimpulsive chafing of the creative energy within him. In the school hewas already a marked man to set the prophets prophesying. He had a styleof his own, biting, incisive, overloaded and excessive, but withsomething to say. He was after something. He was original. 

"Rebel! Let us rebel!" he would cry to Herkimer from his agitatedbedquilt in the last hour of discussion. "The artist must alwaysrebel--accept nothing, question everything, denounce conventions andtraditions. "

"Above all, work, " said Herkimer in his laconic way. 

"What? Don't I work?"

"Work more. "

Rantoul, however, was not vulnerable on that score. He was not, it istrue, the drag-horse that Herkimer was, who lived like a recluse, shunning the cafes and the dance-halls, eating up the last gray hours ofthe day over his statues and his clays. But Rantoul, while living lifeto its fullest, haunting the wharves and the markets with avid eyes, roaming the woods and trudging the banks of the Seine, mingling in thecrowds that flashed under the flare of arc-lights, with a thousandmysteries of mass and movement, never relaxed a moment the savage attackhis leaping nature made upon the drudgeries and routine of technic. 

With the coveted admittance into the Salon, recognition came speedilyto the two chums. They made a triumphal entry into a real studio in theMontparnasse Quarter, clients came, and the room became a station ofhonor among the young and enthusiastic of the Quarter. 

Rantoul began to appear in society, besieged with the invitations thathis Southern aristocracy and the romance of his success procured him. 

"You go out too much, " said Herkimer to him, with a fearful growl. "Whatthe deuce do you want with society, anyhow? Keep away from it. You'venothing to do with it. "

"What do I do? I go out once a week, " said Rantoul, whistlingpleasantly. 

"Once is too often. What do you want to become, a parlor celebrity?Society _c'est l'ennemie_. You ought to hate it. "

"I do. "

"Humph!" said Herkimer, eying him across his sputtering clay pipe. "Getthis idea of people out of your head. Shut yourself up in a hole, work. What's society, anyhow? A lot of bored people who want you to amusethem. I don't approve. Better marry that pretty girl in the creamery. She'll worship you as a god, make you comfortable. That's all you needfrom the world. "

"Marry her yourself; she'll sew and cook for you, " said Rantoul, withperfect good humor. 

"I'm in no danger, " said Herkimer, curtly; "you are. "

"What!"

"You'll see. "

"Listen, you old grumbler, " said Rantoul, seriously. "If I go intosociety, it is to see the hollowness of it all--"

"Yes, yes. "

"To know what I rebel against--"

"Of course. "

"To appreciate the freedom of the life I have--"

"Faker!"

"To have the benefit of contrasts, light and shade. You think I am not arebel. My dear boy, I am ten times as big a rebel as I was. Do you knowwhat I'd do with society?"

He began a tirade in the famous muscular Rantoul style, overturningcreeds and castes, reorganizing republics and empires, while Herkimer, grumbling to himself, began to scold the model, who sleepily receivedthe brunt of his ill humor. 

In the second year of his success Rantoul, quite by accident, met a girlin her teens named Tina Glover, only daughter of Cyrus Glover, a man ofmillions, self-made. The first time their eyes met and lingered, by themysterious chemistry of the passions Rantoul fell desperately in lovewith this little slip of a girl, who scarcely reached to his shoulder;who, on her part, instantly made up her mind that she had found thehusband she intended to have. Two weeks later they were engaged. 

She was seventeen, scarcely more than a child, with clear, blue eyesthat seemed too large for her body, very timid and appealing. It is trueshe seldom expressed an opinion, but she listened to every one with aflattering smile, and the reputations of brilliant talkers have beenbuilt on less. She had a way of passing her two arms about Rantoul'sgreat one and clinging to him in a weak, dependent way that was quitecharming. 

When Cyrus Glover was informed that his daughter intended to marry adauber in paints, he started for Paris on ten hours' notice. But Mrs. Glover who was just as resolved on social conquests as Glover was incontrolling the plate-glass field, went down to meet him at the boat, and by the time the train entered the St. Lazare Station, he had beencompletely disciplined and brought to understand that a painter was onething and that a Rantoul, who happened to paint, was quite another. Whenhe had known Rantoul a week; and listened open-mouthed to his eloquentschemes for reordering the universe, and the arts in particular, he waswilling to swear that he was one of the geniuses of the world. 

The wedding took place shortly, and Cyrus Glover gave the bridegroom acheck for $100, 000, "so that he wouldn't have to be bothering his wifefor pocketmoney. " Herkimer was the best man, and the Quarter attendedin force, with much outward enthusiasm. The bride and groom departed fora two-year's trip around the world, that Rantoul might inspire himselfwith the treasures of Italy, Greece, India, and Japan. 

Every one, even Herkimer, agreed that Rantoul was the luckiest man inParis; that he had found just the wife who was suited to him, whosefortune would open every opportunity for his genius to develop. 

"In the first place, " said Bennett, when the group had returned toHerkimer's studio to continue the celebration, "let me remark that ingeneral I don't approve of marriage for an artist. "

"Nor I, " cried Chatterton, and the chorus answered, "Nor I. "

"I shall never marry, " continued Bennett. 

"Never, " cried Chatterton, who beat a tattoo on the piano with his heelto accompany the chorus of assent. 

"But--I add but--in this case my opinion is that Rantoul has found apure diamond. "

"True!"

"In the first place, she knows nothing at all about art, which is anenormous advantage. "

"Bravo!"

"In the second place, she knows nothing about anything else, which isbetter still. "

"Cynic! You hate clever women, " cried Jacobus. 

"There's a reason. "

"All the same, Bennett's right. The wife of an artist should be acreature of impulses and not ideas. "

"True. "

"In the third place, " continued Bennett, "she believes Rantoul is ademigod. Everything he will do will be the most wonderful thing in theworld, and to have a little person you are madly in love with think thatis enormous. "

"All of which is not very complimentary to the bride, " said Herkimer. 

"Find me one like her, " cried Bennett. 

"Ditto, " said Chatterton and Jacobus with enthusiasm. 

"There is only one thing that worries me, " said Bennett, seriously. "Isn't there too much money?"

"Not for Rantoul. "

"He's a rebel. "

"You'll see; he'll stir up the world with it. "

Herkimer himself had approved of the marriage in a whole-hearted way. The childlike ways of Tina Glover had convinced him, and as he wasconcerned only with the future of his friend, he agreed with the restthat nothing luckier could have happened. 

Three years passed, during which he received occasional letters fromhis old chum, not quite so spontaneous as he had expected, but filledwith the wonder of the ancient worlds. Then the intervals became longer, and longer, and finally no letters came. 

He learned in a vague way that the Rantouls had settled in the Eastsomewhere near New York, but he waited in vain for the news of the stirin the world of art that Rantoul's first exhibitions should produce. 

His friends who visited in America returned without news of Rantoul;there was a rumor that he had gone with his father-in-law into theorganization of some new railroad or trust. But even this report wasvague, and as he could not understand what could have happened, itremained for a long time to him a mystery. Then he forgot it. 

Ten years after Rantoul's marriage to little Tina Glover, Herkimerreturned to America. The last years had placed him in the foreground ofthe sculptors of the world. He had that strangely excited consciousnessthat he was a figure in the public eye. Reporters rushed to meet him onhis arrival, societies organized dinners to him, magazines sought thedetails of his life's struggle. Withal, however, he felt a strangeloneliness, and an aloofness from the clamoring world about him. Heremembered the old friendship in the starlit garret of the Rue del'Ombre, and, learning Rantoul's address, wrote him. Three days later hereceived the following answer:

 _Dear Old Boy:_

 I'm delighted to find that you have remembered me in your fame. Run up this Saturday for a week at least. I'll show you some fine scenery, and we'll recall the days of the Café des Lilacs together. My wife sends her greetings also. 

 Clyde. 

This letter made Herkimer wonder. There was nothing on which he couldlay his finger, and yet there was something that was not there. Withsome misgivings he packed his bag and took the train, calling up againto his mind the picture of Rantoul, with his shabby trousers pulled up, decorating his ankles with lavender and black, roaring all the whilewith his rumbling laughter. 

At the station only the chauffeur was down to meet him. A correctfootman, moving on springs, took his bag, placed him in the back seat, and spread a duster for him. They turned through a pillared gateway, Renaissance style, passed a gardener's lodge, with hothouses flashing inthe reclining sun, and fled noiselessly along the macadam road thattwined through a formal grove. All at once they were before the house, red brick and marble, with wide-flung porte-cochère and verandas, beyondwhich could be seen immaculate lawns, and in the middle distances thesluggish gray of a river that crawled down from the turbulent hills onthe horizon. Another creature in livery tripped down the steps and heldthe door for him. He passed perplexed into the hall, which was freshwith the breeze that swept through open French windows. 

[Illustration: Rantoul, . . . Decorating his ankles with lavender andblack]

"Mr. Herkimer, isn't it?"

He turned to find a woman of mannered assurance holding out her handcorrectly to him, and under the panama that topped the pleasant effectof her white polo-coat he looked into the eyes of that Tina Glover, whoonce had caught his rough hand in her little ones and said timidly:

"You'll always be my friend, my best, just as you are Clyde's, won'tyou? And I may call you Britt or Old Boy or Old Top, just as Clydedoes?"

He looked at her amazed. She was prettier, undeniably so. She hadlearned the art of being a woman, and she gave him her hand as thoughshe had granted a favor. 

"Yes, " he said shortly, freezing all at once. "Where's Clyde?"

"He had to play in a polo-match. He's just home taking a tub, " she saideasily. "Will you go to your room first? I didn't ask any one in fordinner. I supposed you would rather chat together of old times. You havebecome a tremendous celebrity, haven't you? Clyde is so proud of you. "

"I'll go to my room now, " he said shortly. 

The valet had preceded him, opening his valise and smoothing out hisevening clothes on the lace bedspread. 

"I'll attend to that, " he said curtly. "You may go. "

He stood at the window, in the long evening hour of the June day, frowning to himself. "By George! I've a mind to clear out, " he said, thoroughly angry. 

At this moment there came a vigorous rap, and Rantoul in slippers andlilac dressing-gown broke in, with hair still wet from his shower. 

"The same as ever, bless the Old Top!" he cried, catching him up in oneof the old-time bear-hugs. "I say, don't think me inhospitable. Had toplay a confounded match. We beat 'em, too; lost six pounds doing it, though. Jove! but you look natural! I say, that was a stunning thing youdid for Philadelphia--the audacity of it. How do you like my place? I'vegot four children, too. What do you think of that? Nothing finer. Well, tell me what you're doing. "

Herkimer relented before the familiar rush of enthusiasm and questions, and the conversation began on a natural footing. He looked at Rantoul, aware of the social change that had taken place in him. The oldaggressiveness, the look of the wolf, had gone; about him was anenthusiastic urbanity. He seemed clean cut, virile, overflowing withvitality, only it was a different vitality, the snap and decision of aman-of-affairs, not the untamed outrush of the artist. 

They had spoken scarcely a short five minutes when a knock came on thedoor and a footman's voice said:

"Mrs. Rantoul wishes you not to be late for dinner, sir. "

"Very well, very well, " said Rantoul, with a little impatience. "Ialways forget the time. Jove! it's good to see you again; you'll give usa week at least. Meet you downstairs. "

When Herkimer had dressed and descended, his host and hostess were stillup-stairs. He moved through the rooms, curiously noting the contents ofthe walls. There were several paintings of value, a series of drawingsby Boucher, a replica or two of his own work; but he sought withoutsuccess for something from the brush of Clyde Rantoul. At dinner he wasaware of a sudden uneasiness. Mrs. Rantoul, with the flattering smilethat recalled Tina Glover, pressed him with innumerable questions, whichhe answered with constraint, always aware of the dull simulation ofinterest in her eyes. 

Twice during the meal Rantoul was called to the telephone for aconversation at long distance. 

"Clyde is becoming quite a power in Wall Street, " said Mrs. Rantoul, with an approving smile. "Father says he's the strength of the youngermen. He has really a genius for organization. "

"It's a wonderful time, Britt, " said Rantoul, resuming his place. "There's nothing like it anywhere on the face of the globe--thepossibilities of concentration and simplification here in business. It'sa great game, too, matching your wits against another's. We're buildingempires of trade, order out of chaos. I'm making an awful lot of money. "

Herkimer remained obstinately silent during the rest of the dinner. Everything seemed to fetter him--the constraint of dining before thesilent, flitting butler, servants who whisked his plate away before heknew it, the succession of unrecognizable dishes, the constant jargon ofsocial eavesdroppings that Mrs. Rantoul pressed into action the momenther husband's recollections exiled her from the conversation; but aboveall, the indefinable enmity that seemed to well out from his hostess, and which he seemed to divine occasionally when the ready smile left herlips and she was forced to listen to things she did not understand. 

When they rose from the table, Rantoul passed his arm about his wife andsaid something in her ear, at which she smiled and patted his hand. 

"I am very proud of my husband, Mr. Herkimer, " she said with a littlebob of her head in which was a sense of proprietorship. "You'll see. "

"Suppose we stroll out for a little smoke in the garden, " said Rantoul. 

"What, you're going to leave me?" she said instantly, with a shade ofvague uneasiness, that Herkimer perceived. 

"We sha'n't be long, dear, " said Rantoul, pinching her ear. "Our chatterwon't interest you. Send the coffee out into the rose cupola. "

They passed out into the open porch, but Herkimer was aware of thelittle woman standing irresolutely tapping with her thin finger on thetable, and he said to himself: "She's a little ogress of jealousy. Whatthe deuce is she afraid I'll say to him?"

They rambled through sweet-scented paths, under the high-flung networkof stars, hearing only the crunching of little pebbles under foot. 

"You've given up painting?" said Herkimer all at once. 

"Yes, though that doesn't count, " said Rantoul, abruptly; but there wasin his voice a different note, something of the restlessness of the oldDon Furioso. "Talk to me of the Quarter. Who's at the Café des Lilacsnow? They tell me that little Ragin we used to torment so has made somegreat decorations. What became of that pretty girl in the creamery ofthe Rue de l'Ombre who used to help us over the lean days?"

"Whom you christened Our Lady of the Sparrows?" "Yes, yes. You know Isent her the silk dress and the earrings I promised her. "

Herkimer began to speak of one thing and another, of Bennett, who hadgone dramatically to the Transvaal; of Le Gage, who was now in theforefront of the younger group of landscapists; of the old types thatstill came faithfully to the Café des Lilacs, --the old chess-players, the fat proprietor, with his fat wife and three fat children who dinedthere regularly every Sunday, --of the new revolutionary ideas among theyounger men that were beginning to assert themselves. 

"Let's sit down, " said Rantoul, as though suffocating. 

They placed themselves in wicker easy-chairs, under the heavy-scentedrose cupola, disdaining the coffee that waited on a table. From wherethey were a red-tiled walk, with flower beds nodding in enchanted sleep, ran to the veranda. The porch windows were open, and in the goldenlamplight Herkimer saw the figure of Tina Glover bent intently over anembroidery, drawing her needle with uneven stitches, her head seeminginclined to catch the faintest sound. The waiting, nervous pose, theslender figure on guard, brought to him a strange, almost uncannysensation of mystery, and feeling the sudden change in the mood of theman at his side, he gazed at the figure of the wife and said to himself:

[Illustration: Our Lady of the Sparrows]

"I'd give a good deal to know what's passing through that little head. What is she afraid of?"

"You're surprised to find me as I am, " said Rantoul, abruptly breakingthe silence. 

"Yes. "

"You can't understand it?"

"When did you give up painting?" said Herkimer, shortly, with a surefeeling that the hour of confidences had come. 

"Seven years ago. "

"Why in God's name did you do it?" said Herkimer, flinging away hiscigar angrily. "You weren't just any one--Tom, Dick, or Harry. You hadsomething to say, man. Listen. I know what I'm talking about, --I've seenthe whole procession in the last ten years, --you were one in a thousand. You were a creator. You had ideas; you were meant to be a leader, tohead a movement. You had more downright savage power, undeveloped, buttugging at the chain, than any man I've known. Why did you do it?"

"I had almost forgotten, " said Rantoul, slowly. "Are you sure?"

"Am I sure?" said Herkimer, furiously. "I say what I mean; you know it. "

"Yes, that's true, " said Rantoul. He stretched out his hand and drankhis coffee, but without knowing what he did. "Well, that's all of thepast--what might have been. "

"But why?"

"Britt, old fellow, " said Rantoul at last, speaking as though tohimself, "did you ever have a moment when you suddenly got out ofyourself, looked at yourself and at your life as a spectator?--saw thestrange strings that had pulled you this way and that, and realized whatmight have been had you turned one corner at a certain day of your lifeinstead of another?"

"No, I've gone where I wanted to go, " said Herkimer, obstinately. 

"You think so. Well, to-night I can see myself for the first time, " saidRantoul. Then he added meditatively, "I have done not one single thing Iwanted to. "

"But why--why?"

"You have brought it all back to me, " said Rantoul, ignoring thisquestion. "It hurts. I suppose to-morrow I shall resent it, but to-nightI feel too deeply. There is nothing free about us in this world, Britt. I profoundly believe that. Everything we do from morning to night isdictated by the direction of those about us. An enemy, some one in theopen, we can combat and resist; but it is those that are nearest to uswho disarm us because they love us, that change us most, that thwart ourdesires, and make over our lives. Nothing in this world is soinexorable, so terribly, terribly irresistible as a woman withoutstrength, without logic, without vision, who only loves. "

"He is going to say things he will regret, " thought Herkimer, and yethe did not object. Instead, he glanced down the dimly flushed path tothe house where Mrs. Rantoul was sitting, her embroidery on her lap, herhead raised as though listening. Suddenly he said:

"Look here, Clyde, do you want to tell me this?"

"Yes, I do; it's life. Why not? We are at the age when we've got to facethings. "

"Still--"

"Let me go on, " said Rantoul, stopping him. He reached outabsent-mindedly, and drank the second cup. "Let me say now, Britt, forfear you'll misunderstand, there has never been the slightest quarrelbetween my wife and me. She loves me absolutely; nothing else in thisworld exists for her. It has always been so; she cannot bear even tohave me out of her sight. I am very happy. Only there is in such a lovesomething of the tiger--a fierce animal jealousy of every one andeverything which could even for a moment take my thoughts away. At thismoment she is probably suffering untold pangs because she thinks I amregretting the days in which she was not in my life. "

"And because she could not understand your art, she hated it, " saidHerkimer, with a growing anger. 

"No, it wasn't that. It was something more subtle, more instinctive, more impossible to combat, " said Rantoul, shaking his head. "Do you knowwhat is the great essential to the artist--to whoever creates? Thesense of privacy, the power to isolate his own genius from everything inthe world, to be absolutely concentrated. To create we must be alone, have strange, unuttered thoughts, just as in the realms of the soulevery human being must have moments of complete isolation--thoughts, reveries, moods, that cannot be shared with even those we love best. Youdon't understand that. "

"Yes, I do. "

"At the bottom we human beings come and depart absolutely alone. Friendship, love, all that we instinctively seek to rid ourselves of, this awful solitude of the soul, avail nothing. Well, what others shrinkfrom, the artist must seek. "

"But you could not make her understand that?"

"I was dealing with a child, " said Rantoul. "I loved that child, and Icould not bear even to see a frown of unhappiness cloud her face. Thenshe adored me. What can be answered to that?"

"That's true. "

"At first it was not so difficult. We passed around the world--Greece, India, Japan. She came and sat by my side when I took my easel; everystroke of my brush seemed like a miracle. A hundred times she would cryout her delight. Naturally that amused me. From time to time I wouldsuspend the sittings and reward my patient little audience--"

"And the sketches?"

"They were not what I wanted, " said Rantoul with a little laugh; "butthey were not bad. When I returned here and opened my studio, it beganto be difficult. She could not understand that I wanted to work eighteenhours a day. She begged for my afternoons. I gave in. She embraced mefrantically and said; 'Oh, how good you are! Now I won't be jealous anymore, and every morning I will come with you and inspire you. '"

"Every morning, " said Herkimer, softly. 

"Yes, " said Rantoul, with a little hesitation, "every morning. Shefluttered about the studio like a pink-and-white butterfly, sending me akiss from her dainty fingers whenever I looked her way. She watched overmy shoulder every stroke, and when I did something that pleased her, Ifelt her lips on my neck, behind my ear, and heard her say, 'That isyour reward. '"

"Every day?" said Herkimer. 

"Every day. "

"And when you had a model?"

"Oh, then it was worse. She treated the models as though they wereconvicts, watching them out of the corners of her eyes. Herdemonstration of affection redoubled, her caresses never stopped, asthough she wished to impress upon them her proprietorship. Those daysshe was really jealous. "

"God--how could you stand it?" said Herkimer, violently. 

"To be frank, the more she outraged me as an artist, the more shepleased me as a man. To be loved so absolutely, especially if you aresensitive to such things, has an intoxication of its own, yes, shefascinated me more and more. "

"Extraordinary. "

"One day I tried to make her understand that I had need to be alone. Shelistened to me solemnly, with only a little quiver of her lips, and letme go. When I returned, I found her eyes swollen with weeping and herheart bursting. "

"And you took her in your arms and promised never to send her awayagain. "

"Naturally. Then I began to go out into society to please her. Nextsomething very interesting came up, and I neglected my studio for amorning. The same thing happened again and again. I had a period of wildrevolt, of bitter anger, in which I resolved to be firm, to insist on myprivacy, to make the fight. "

"And you never did?"

"When her arms were about me, when I saw her eyes, full of adoration andpassion, raised to my own, I forgot all my irritation in my happiness asa man. I said to myself, 'Life is short; it is better to be loved thanto wait for glory. ' One afternoon, under the pretext of examining thegrove, I stole away to the studio, and pulled out some of the oldthings that I had done in Paris--and sat and gazed at them. My throatbegan to fill, and I felt the tears coming to my eyes, when I lookedaround and saw her standing wide-eyed at the door. 

"'What are you doing?' she said. 

"'Looking at some of the old things. '

"'You regret those days?'

"'Of course not. '

"'Then why do you steal away from me, make a pretext to come here? Isn'tmy love great enough for you? Do you want to put me out of your lifealtogether? You used to tell me that I inspired you. If you want, we'llgive up the afternoons. I'll come here, I'll be your model, I'll sit foryou by the hour--only don't shut the door on me!'

"She began to cry. I took her in my arms, said everything that shewished me to say, heedlessly, brutally, not caring what I said. 

"That night I ran off, resolved to end it all--to save what I longedfor. I remained five hours trudging in the night--pulled back and forth. I remembered my children. I came back, --told a lie. The next day I shutthe door of the studio not on her, but on myself. 

"For months I did nothing. I was miserable. She saw it at last, and saidto me:

"'You ought to work. You aren't happy doing nothing. I've arrangedsomething for you. '

"I raised my head in amazement, as she continued, clapping her hands with delight:

"'I've talked it all over with papa. You'll go into his office. You'lldo big things. He's quite enthusiastic, and I promised for you. '

"I went. I became interested. I stayed. Now I am like any other man, domesticated, conservative, living my life, and she has not theslightest idea of what she has killed. "

"Let us go in, " said Herkimer, rising. 

"And you say I could have left a name?" said Rantoul, bitterly. 

"You were wrong to tell me all this, " said Herkimer. 

"I owed you the explanation. What could I do?"

"Lie. "

"Why?"

"Because, after such a confidence, it is impossible for you ever to seeme again. You know it. "

"Nonsense. I--"

"Let's go back. "

Full of dull anger and revolt, Herkimer led the way. Rantoul, after afew steps, caught him by the sleeve. 

"Don't take it too seriously, Britt. I don't revolt any more. I'm nolonger the Rantoul you knew. "

"That's just the trouble, " said Herkimer, cruelly. 

When their steps sounded near, Mrs. Rantoul rose hastily, spilling hersilk and needles on the floor. She gave her husband a swift, searchinglook, and said with her flattering smile:

"Mr. Herkimer, you must be a very interesting talker. I am quitejealous. "

"I am rather tired, " he answered, bowing. "If you'll excuse me, I'll gooff to bed. "

"Really?" she said, raising her eyes. She extended her hand, and he tookit with almost the physical repulsion with which one would touch thehand of a criminal. The next morning he left. 

III

When Herkimer had finished, he shrugged his shoulders, gave a shortlaugh, and, glancing at the clock, went off in his curt, purposefulmanner. 

"Well, by Jove!" said Steingall, recovering first from the spell of thestory, "doesn't that prove exactly what I said? They're jealous, they'reall jealous, I tell you, jealous of everything you do. All they want usto do is to adore them. By Jove! Herkimer's right. Rantoul was thebiggest of us all. She murdered him just as much as though she had put aknife in him. "

"She did it on purpose, " said De Gollyer. "There was nothing childlikeabout her, either. On the contrary, I consider her a clever, adevilishly clever woman. "

"Of course she did. They're all clever, damn them!" said Steingall, explosively. "Now, what do you say, Quinny? I say that an artist whomarries might just as well tie a rope around his neck and present it tohis wife and have it over. "

"On the contrary, " said Quinny, with a sudden inspiration reorganizinghis whole battle front, "every artist should marry. The only danger isthat he may marry happily. "

"What?" cried Steingall. "But you said--"

"My dear boy, I have germinated some new ideas, " said Quinny, unconcerned. "The story has a moral, --I detest morals, --but this hasone. An artist should always marry unhappily, and do you know why?Purely a question of chemistry. Towsey, when do you work the best?"

"How do you mean?" said Towsey, rousing himself. 

"I've heard you say that you worked best when your nerves were all onedge--night out, cucumbers, thunder-storm, or a touch of fever. "

"Yes, that's so. "

"Can any one work well when everything is calm?" continued Quinny, triumphantly, to the amazement of Rankin and Steingall. "Can you work ona clear spring day, when nothing bothers you and the first of the monthis two weeks off, eh? Of course you can't. Happiness is the enemy of theartist. It puts to sleep the faculties. Contentment is a drug. My dearmen, an artist should always be unhappy. Perpetual state offermentation sets the nerves throbbing, sensitive to impressions. Exaltation and remorse, anger and inspiration, all hodge-podge, chemicalaction and reaction, all this we are blessed with when we are unhappilymarried. Domestic infelicity drives us to our art; happiness makes usneglect it. Shall I tell you what I do when everything is smooth, nonerves, no inspiration, fat, puffy Sunday-dinner-feeling, too happy, can't work? I go home and start a quarrel with my wife. "

"And then you _can_ work, " cried Steingall, roaring with laughter. "ByJove, you _are_ immense!"

"Never better, " said Quinny, who appeared like a prophet. 

The four artists, who had listened to Herkimer's story in that gradualthickening depression which the subject of matrimony always let downover them, suddenly brightened visibly. On their faces appeared the lookof inward speculation, and then a ray of light. 

Little Towsey, who from his arrival had sulked, fretted, and fumed, jumped up energetically and flung away his third cigar. 

"Here, where are you going?" said Rankin in protest. 

"Over to the studio, " said Towsey, quite unconsciously. "I feel like alittle work. "

ONE HUNDRED IN THE DARK

They were discussing languidly, as such groups do, seeking from eachtopic a peg on which to hang a few epigrams that might be retold in thelip currency of the club--Steingall, the painter, florid of gesture andeffete, foreign in type, with black-rimmed glasses and trailing ribbonof black silk that cut across his cropped beard and cavalry mustaches;De Gollyer, a critic, who preferred to be known as a man about town, short, feverish, incisive, who slew platitudes with one adjective andtagged a reputation with three; Rankin, the architect, always in adefensive explanatory attitude, who held his elbows on the table, hishands before his long sliding nose, and gestured with his fingers;Quinny, the illustrator, long and gaunt, with a predatory eloquence thatcharged irresistibly down on any subject, cut it off, surrounded it, andraked it with enfilading wit and satire; and Peters, whose methods ofexistence were a mystery, a young man of fifty, who had done nothing andwho knew every one by his first name, the club postman, who carried thetittle-tattle, the _bon mots_ and the news of the day, who drew up apetition a week and pursued the house committee with a daily grievance. 

About the latticed porch, which ran around the sanded yard with itsfeeble fountain and futile evergreens, other groups were eying oneanother, or engaging in desultory conversation, oppressed with theheaviness of the night. 

At the round table, Quinny alone, absorbing energy as he devoured theconversation, having routed Steingall on the Germans and archæology andRankin on the origins of the Lord's Prayer, had seized a chance remarkof De Gollyer's to say:

"There are only half a dozen stories in the world. Like everythingthat's true it isn't true. " He waved his long, gouty fingers in thedirection of Steingall, who, having been silenced, was regarding himwith a look of sleepy indifference. "What is more to the point, is thesmall number of human relations that are so simple and yet sofundamental that they can be eternally played upon, redressed, andreinterpreted in every language, in every age, and yet remaininexhaustible in the possibility of variations. "

"By George, that is so, " said Steingall, waking up. "Every art does goback to three or four notes. In composition it is the same thing. Nothing new--nothing new since a thousand years. By George, that istrue! We invent nothing, nothing!"

"Take the eternal triangle, " said Quinny hurriedly, not to surrender hisadvantage, while Rankin and De Gollyer in a bored way continued to gazedreamily at a vagrant star or two. "Two men and a woman, or two womenand a man. Obviously it should be classified as the first of the greatoriginal parent themes. Its variations extend into the thousands. By theway, Rankin, excellent opportunity, eh, for some of our modern, painstaking, unemployed jackasses to analyze and classify. "

"Quite right, " said Rankin without perceiving the satirical note. "Nowthere's De Maupassant's Fort comma la Mort--quite the most interestingvariation--shows the turn a genius can give. There the triangle is theman of middle age, the mother he has loved in his youth and the daughterhe comes to love. It forms, you might say, the head of a wholesubdivision of modern continental literature. "

"Quite wrong, Rankin, quite wrong, " said Quinny, who would have statedthe other side quite as imperiously. "What you cite is a variation ofquite another theme, the Faust theme--old age longing for youth, the manwho has loved longing for the love of his youth, which is youth itself. The triangle is the theme of jealousy, the most destructive and, therefore, the most dramatic of human passions. The Faust theme is themost fundamental and inevitable of all human experiences, the tragedy oflife itself. Quite a different thing. "

Rankin, who never agreed with Quinny unless Quinny maliciously tookadvantage of his prior announcement to agree with him, continued tocombat this idea. 

"You believe then, " said De Gollyer after a certain moment had beenconsumed in hair splitting, "that the origin of all dramatic themes issimply the expression of some human emotion. In other words, there canexist no more parent themes than there are human emotions. "

"I thank you, sir, very well put, " said Quinny with a generous wave ofhis hand. "Why is the Three Musketeers a basic theme? Simply theinterpretation of comradeship, the emotion one man feels for another, vital because it is the one peculiarly masculine emotion. Look at DuMaurier and Trilby, Kipling in Soldiers Three--simply the ThreeMusketeers. "

"The Vie de Bohème?" suggested Steingall. 

"In the real Vie de Bohème, yes, " said Quinny viciously. "Not in theconcocted sentimentalities that we now have served up to us by athletictenors and consumptive elephants!"

Rankin, who had been silently deliberating on what had been left behind, now said cunningly and with evident purpose:

"All the same, I don't agree with you men at all. I believe there aresituations, original situations, that are independent of your humanemotions, that exist just because they are situations, accidental andnothing else. "

"As for instance?" said Quinny, preparing to attack. 

"Well, I'll just cite an ordinary one that happens to come to my mind, "said Rankin, who had carefully selected his test. "In a group of sevenor eight, such as we are here, a theft takes place; one man is thethief--which one? I'd like to know what emotion that interprets, and yetit certainly is an original theme, at the bottom of a whole literature. "

This challenge was like a bomb. 

"Not the same thing. "

"Detective stories, bah!"

"Oh, I say, Rankin, that's literary melodrama. "

Rankin, satisfied, smiled and winked victoriously over to Tommers, whowas listening from an adjacent table. 

"Of course your suggestion is out of order, my dear man, to thisextent, " said Quinny, who never surrendered, "in that I am talking offundamentals and you are citing details. Nevertheless, I could answerthat the situation you give, as well as the whole school it belongs to, can be traced back to the commonest of human emotions, curiosity; andthat the story of Bluebeard and the Moonstone are to all purposesidentically the same. "

At this Steingall, who had waited hopefully, gasped and made as thoughto leave the table. 

"I shall take up your contention, " said Quinny without pause for breath, "first, because you have opened up one of my pet topics, and, second, because it gives me a chance to talk. " He gave a sidelong glance atSteingall and winked at De Gollyer. "What is the peculiar fascinationthat the detective problem exercises over the human mind? You will saycuriosity. Yes and no. Admit at once that the whole art of a detectivestory consists in the statement of the problem. Any one can do it. I cando it. Steingall even can do it. The solution doesn't count. It isusually banal; it should be prohibited. What interests us is, can weguess it? Just as an able-minded man will sit down for hours and fiddleover the puzzle column in a Sunday balderdash. Same idea. There you haveit, the problem--the detective story. Now why the fascination? I'll tellyou. It appeals to our curiosity, yes--but deeper to a sort ofintellectual vanity. Here are six matches, arrange them to make foursquares; five men present, a theft takes place--who's the thief? Whowill guess it first? Whose brain will show its superior cleverness--see?That's all--that's all there is to it. "

"Out of all of which, " said De Gollyer, "the interesting thing is thatRankin has supplied the reason why the supply of detective fiction isinexhaustible. It does all come down to the simplest terms. Sevenpossibilities, one answer. It is a formula, ludicrously simple, mechanical, and yet we will always pursue it to the end. The marvel isthat writers should seek for any other formula when here is one sosafe, that can never fail. By George, I could start up a factory on it. "

"The reason is, " said Rankin, "that the situation does constantly occur. It's a situation that any of us might get into any time. As a matter offact, now, I personally know two such occasions when I was of the party;and devilish uncomfortable it was too. "

"What happened?" said Steingall. 

"Why, there is no story to it particularly. Once a mistake had been madeand the other time the real thief was detected by accident a year later. In both cases only one or two of us knew what had happened. "

De Gollyer had a similar incident to recall. Steingall, afterreflection, related another that had happened to a friend. 

"Of course, of course, my dear gentlemen, " said Quinny impatiently, forhe had been silent too long, "you are glorifying commonplaces. Everycrime, I tell you, expresses itself in the terms of the picture puzzlethat you feed to your six-year-old. It's only the variation that isinteresting. Now quite the most remarkable turn of the complexities thatcan be developed is, of course, the well-known instance of the visitorat a club and the rare coin. Of course every one knows that? What?"

Rankin smiled in a bored, superior way, but the others protested theirignorance. 

"Why, it's very well known, " said Quinny lightly. 

"A distinguished visitor is brought into a club--dozen men, say, present, at dinner, long table. Conversation finally veers around tocuriosities and relics. One of the members present then takes from hispocket what he announces as one of the rarest coins in existence--passesit around the table. Coin travels back and forth, every one examiningit, and the conversation goes to another topic, say the influence of theautomobile on domestic infelicity, or some other such asininelyintellectual club topic--you know? All at once the owner calls for hiscoin. 

"The coin is nowhere to be found. Every one looks at every one else. First they suspect a joke. Then it becomes serious--the coin isimmensely valuable. Who has taken it?

"The owner is a gentleman--does the gentlemanly idiotic thing of course, laughs, says he knows some one is playing a practical joke on him andthat the coin will be returned to-morrow. The others refuse to leave thesituation so. One man proposes that they all submit to a search. Everyone gives his assent until it comes to the stranger. He refuses, curtly, roughly, without giving any reason. Uncomfortable silence--the man is aguest. No one knows him particularly well--but still he is a guest. Onemember tries to make him understand that no offense is offered, that thesuggestion was simply to clear the atmosphere, and all that sort ofbally rot, you know. 

"'I refuse to allow my person to be searched, ' says the stranger, veryfirm, very proud, very English, you know, 'and I refuse to give myreason for my action. '

"Another silence. The men eye him and then glance at one another. What'sto be done? Nothing. There is etiquette--that magnificent inflatedballoon. The visitor evidently has the coin--but he is their guest andetiquette protects him. Nice situation, eh?

"The table is cleared. A waiter removes a dish of fruit and there underthe ledge of the plate where it had been pushed--is the coin. Banalexplanation, eh? Of course. Solutions always should be. At once everyone in profuse apologies! Whereupon the visitor rises and says:

"'Now I can give you the reason for my refusal to be searched. There areonly two known specimens of the coin in existence, and the secondhappens to be here in my waistcoat pocket. '"

"Of course, " said Quinny with a shrug of his shoulders, "the story iswell invented, but the turn to it is very nice--very nice indeed. "

"I did know the story, " said Steingall, to be disagreeable; "the ending, though, is too obvious to be invented. The visitor should have had onhim not another coin, but something absolutely different, somethingdestructive, say, of a woman's reputation, and a great tragedy shouldhave been threatened by the casual misplacing of the coin. "

"I have heard the same story told in a dozen different ways, " saidRankin. 

"It has happened a hundred times. It must be continually happening, "said Steingall. 

"I know one extraordinary instance, " said Peters, who up to the present, secure in his climax, had waited with a professional smile until the bigguns had been silenced. "In fact, the most extraordinary instance ofthis sort I have ever heard. "

"Peters, you little rascal, " said Quinny with a sidelong glance, "Iperceive you have quietly been letting us dress the stage for you. "

"It is not a story that will please every one, " said Peters, to whettheir appetite. 

"Why not?"

"Because you will want to know what no one can ever know. "

"It has no conclusion then?"

"Yes and no. As far as it concerns a woman, quite the most remarkablewoman I have ever met, the story is complete. As for the rest, it iswhat it is, because it is one example where literature can do nothingbetter than record. "

"Do I know the woman?" asked De Gollyer, who flattered himself onpassing through every class of society. 

"Possibly, but no more than any one else. "

"An actress?"

"What she has been in the past I don't know--a promoter would betterdescribe her. Undoubtedly she has been behind the scenes in many anuntold intrigue of the business world. A very feminine woman, and yet, as you shall see, with an unusual instantaneous masculine power ofdecision. "

"Peters, " said Quinny, waving a warning finger, "you are destroying yourstory. Your preface will bring an anticlimax. "

"You shall judge, " said Peters, who waited until his audience was instrained attention before opening his story. "The names are, of course, disguises. "

Mrs. Rita Kildair inhabited a charming bachelor-girl studio, veryelegant, of the duplex pattern, in one of the buildings just off CentralPark West. She knew pretty nearly every one in that indescribablesociety in New York that is drawn from all levels, and that imposes butone condition for membership--to be amusing. She knew every one and noone knew her. No one knew beyond the vaguest rumors her history or hermeans. No one had ever heard of a Mr. Kildair. There was always abouther a certain defensive reserve the moment the limits ofacquaintanceship had been reached. She had a certain amount of money, she knew a certain number of men in Wall Street affairs and her studiowas furnished with taste and even distinction. She was of any age. Shemight have suffered everything or nothing at all. In this mingledsociety her invitations were eagerly sought, her dinners werespontaneous, and the discussions, though gay and usually daring, wereinvariably under the control of wit and good taste. 

On the Sunday night of this adventure she had, according to herinvariable custom, sent away her Japanese butler and invited to aninformal chafing-dish supper seven of her more congenial friends, all ofwhom, as much as could be said of any one, were habitués of the studio. 

At seven o'clock, having finished dressing, she put in order herbedroom, which formed a sort of free passage between the studio and asmall dining room to the kitchen beyond. Then, going into the studio, she lit a wax taper and was in the act of touching off the brasscandlesticks that lighted the room when three knocks sounded on the doorand a Mr. Flanders, a broker, compact, nervously alive, well groomed, entered with the informality of assured acquaintance. 

"You are early, " said Mrs. Kildair, in surprise. 

"On the contrary, you are late, " said the broker, glancing at his watch. 

"Then be a good boy and help me with the candles, " she said, giving hima smile and a quick pressure of her fingers. 

He obeyed, asking nonchalantly:

"I say, dear lady, who's to be here to-night?"

"The Enos Jacksons. "

"I thought they were separated. "

"Not yet. "

"Very interesting! Only you, dear lady, would have thought of serving usa couple on the verge. "

"It's interesting, isn't it?"

"Assuredly. Where did you know Jackson?"

"Through the Warings. Jackson's a rather doubtful person, isn't he?"

"Let's call him a very sharp lawyer, " said Flanders defensively. "Theytell me, though, he is on the wrong side of the market--in deep. "

"And you?"

"Oh, I? I'm a bachelor, " he said with a shrug of his shoulders, "and ifI come a cropper it makes no difference. "

"Is that possible?" she said, looking at him quickly. 

"Probable even. And who else is coming?"

"Maude Lille--you know her?"

"I think not. "

"You met her here--a journalist. "

"Quite so, a strange career. "

"Mr. Harris, a clubman, is coming, and the Stanley Cheevers. "

"The Stanley Cheevers!" said Flanders with some surprise. "Are we goingto gamble?"

"You believe in that scandal about bridge?"

"Certainly not, " said Flanders, smiling. "You see I was present. TheCheevers play a good game, a well united game, and have an unusualsystem of makes. By-the-way, it's Jackson who is very attentive to Mrs. Cheever, isn't it?"

"Quite right. "

"What a charming party, " said Flanders flippantly. "And where does MaudeLille come in?"

"Don't joke. She is in a desperate way, " said Mrs. Kildair, with alittle sadness in her eyes. 

"And Harris?"

"Oh, he is to make the salad and cream the chicken. "

"Ah, I see the whole party. I, of course, am to add the element ofrespectability. "

"Of what?"

She looked at him steadily until he turned away, dropping his glance. 

"Don't be an ass with me, my dear Flanders. "

"By George, if this were Europe I'd wager you were in the secretservice, Mrs. Kildair. "

"Thank you. "

She smiled appreciatively and moved about the studio, giving thefinishing touches. The Stanley Cheevers entered, a short fat man with avacant fat face and a slow-moving eye, and his wife, voluble, nervous, overdressed and pretty. Mr. Harris came with Maude Lille, a woman, straight, dark, Indian, with great masses of somber hair held in alittle too loosely for neatness, with thick, quick lips and eyes thatrolled away from the person who was talking to her. The Enos Jacksonswere late and still agitated as they entered. His forehead had not quitebanished the scowl, nor her eyes the scorn. He was of the type thatnever lost his temper, but caused others to lose theirs, immovable inhis opinions, with a prowling walk, a studied antagonism in his manner, and an impudent look that fastened itself unerringly on the weakness inthe person to whom he spoke. Mrs. Jackson, who seemed fastened to herhusband by an invisible leash, had a hunted, resisting quality back of acertain desperate dash, which she assumed rather than felt in herattitude toward life. One looked at her curiously and wondered what sucha nature would do in a crisis, with a lurking sense of a woman whocarried with her her own impending tragedy. 

As soon as the company had been completed and the incongruity of theselection had been perceived, a smile of malicious anticipation ran therounds, which the hostess cut short by saying:

"Well, now that every one is here, this is the order of the night: Youcan quarrel all you want, you can whisper all the gossip you can thinkof about one another, but every one is to be amusing! Also every one isto help with the dinner--nothing formal and nothing serious. We may allbe bankrupt to-morrow, divorced or dead, but to-night we will begay--that is the invariable rule of the house!"

Immediately a nervous laughter broke out and the company chatteringbegan to scatter through the rooms. 

Mrs. Kildair, stopping in her bedroom, donned a Watteaulike cookingapron, and slipping her rings from her fingers fixed the three on herpincushion with a hatpin. 

"Your rings are beautiful, dear, beautiful, " said the low voice of MaudeLille, who with Harris and Mrs. Cheever were in the room. 

"There's only one that is very valuable, " said Mrs. Kildair, touchingwith her thin fingers the ring that lay uppermost, two large diamonds, flanking a magnificent sapphire. 

"It is beautiful--very beautiful, " said the journalist, her eyesfastened to it with an uncontrollable fascination. She put out herfingers and let them rest caressingly on the sapphire, withdrawing themquickly as though the contact had burned them. 

"It must be very valuable, " she said, her breath catching a little. Mrs. Cheever, moving forward, suddenly looked at the ring. 

"It cost five thousand six years ago, " said Mrs. Kildair, glancing downat it. "It has been my talisman ever since. For the moment, however, Iam cook; Maude Lille, you are scullery maid; Harris is the chef, and weare under his orders. Mrs. Cheever, did you ever peel onions?"

"Good Heavens, no!" said Mrs. Cheever, recoiling. 

"Well, there are no onions to peel, " said Mrs. Kildair, laughing. "Allyou'll have to do is to help set the table. On to the kitchen!"

Under their hostess's gay guidance the seven guests began to circulatebusily through the rooms, laying the table, grouping the chairs, openingbottles, and preparing the material for the chafing dishes. Mrs. Kildairin the kitchen ransacked the ice box, and with her own hands chopped the_fines herbes_, shredded the chicken and measured the cream. 

"Flanders, carry this in carefully, " she said, her hands in a towel. "Cheever, stop watching your wife and put the salad bowl on the table. Everything ready, Harris? All right. Every one sit down. I'll be rightin. "

She went into her bedroom, and divesting herself of her apron hung it inthe closet. Then going to her dressing table she drew the hatpin fromthe pincushion and carelessly slipped the rings on her fingers. All atonce she frowned and looked quickly at her hand. Only two rings werethere, the third ring, the one with the sapphire and the two diamonds, was missing. 

"Stupid, " she said to herself, and returned to her dressing table. Allat once she stopped. She remembered quite clearly putting the pinthrough the three rings. 

She made no attempt to search further, but remained without moving, herfingers drumming slowly on the table, her head to one side, her lipdrawn in a little between her teeth, listening with a frown to thebabble from the outer room. Who had taken the ring? Each of her guestshad had a dozen opportunities in the course of the time she had beenbusy in the kitchen. 

"Too much time before the mirror, dear lady, " called out Flanders gaily, who from where he was seated could see her. 

"It is not he, " she said quickly. Then she reconsidered. "Why not? He isclever--who knows? Let me think. "

To gain time she walked back slowly into the kitchen, her head bowed, her thumb between her teeth. 

"Who has taken it?"

She ran over the character of her guests and their situations as sheknew them. Strangely enough, at each her mind stopped upon some reasonthat might explain a sudden temptation. 

"I shall find out nothing this way, " she said to herself after amoment's deliberation; "that is not the important thing to me just now. The important thing is to get the ring back. "

And slowly, deliberately, she began to walk back and forth, herclenched hand beating the deliberate rhythmic measure of her journey. 

Five minutes later, as Harris, installed _en maître_ over the chafingdish, was giving directions, spoon in the air, Mrs. Kildair came intothe room like a lengthening shadow. Her entrance had been made withscarcely a perceptible sound, and yet each guest was aware of it at thesame moment, with a little nervous start. 

"Heavens, dear lady, " exclaimed Flanders, "you come in on us like aGreek tragedy! What is it you have for us, a surprise?"

As he spoke she turned her swift glance on him, drawing her foreheadtogether until the eyebrows ran in a straight line. 

"I have something to say to you, " she said in a sharp, businesslikemanner, watching the company with penetrating eagerness. 

There was no mistaking the seriousness of her voice. Mr. Harrisextinguished the oil lamp, covering the chafing dish clumsily with adiscordant, disagreeable sound. Mrs. Cheever and Mrs. Enos Jackson swungabout abruptly, Maude Lille rose a little from her seat, while the menimitated these movements of expectancy with a clumsy shuffling of thefeet. 

"Mr. Enos Jackson?"

"Yes, Mrs. Kildair. "

"Kindly do as I ask you. "

"Certainly. "

She had spoken his name with a peremptory positiveness that was almostan accusation. He rose calmly, raising his eyebrows a little insurprise. 

"Go to the door, " she continued, shifting her glance from him to theothers. "Are you there? Lock it. Bring me the key. "

He executed the order without bungling, and returning stood before her, tendering the key. 

"You've locked it?" she said, making the words an excuse to bury herglance in his. 

"As you wished me to. "

"Thanks. "

She took from him the key and, shifting slightly, likewise locked thedoor into her bedroom through which she had come. 

Then transferring the keys to her left hand, seemingly unaware ofJackson, who still awaited her further commands, her eyes studied amoment the possibilities of the apartment. 

"Mr. Cheever?" she said in a low voice. 

"Yes, Mrs. Kildair. "

"Blow out all the candles except the candelabrum on the table. "

"Put out the lights, Mrs. Kildair?"

"At once. "

Mr. Cheever, in rising, met the glance of his wife, and the look ofquestioning and wonder that passed did not escape the hostess. 

"But, my dear Mrs. Kildair, " said Mrs. Jackson with a little nervouscatch of her breath, "what is it? I'm getting terribly worked up! Mynerves--"

"Miss Lille?" said the voice of command. 

"Yes. "

The journalist, calmer than the rest, had watched the proceedingswithout surprise, as though forewarned by professional instinct thatsomething of importance was about to take place. Now she rose quietlywith an almost stealthy motion. 

"Put the candelabrum on this table--here, " said Mrs. Kildair, indicatinga large round table on which a few books were grouped. "No, wait. Mr. Jackson, first clear off the table. I want nothing on it. "

"But, Mrs. Kildair--" began Mrs. Jackson's shrill voice again. 

"That's it. Now put down the candelabrum. "

In a moment, as Mr. Cheever proceeded methodically on his errand, thebrilliant crossfire of lights dropped in the studio, only a fewsmoldering wicks winking on the walls, while the high room seemed togrow more distant as it came under the sole dominion of the threecandles bracketed in silver at the head of the bare mahogany table. 

"Now listen!" said Mrs. Kildair, and her voice had in it a cold note. "My sapphire ring has just been stolen. "

She said it suddenly, hurling the news among them and waitingferret-like for some indications in the chorus that broke out. 

"Stolen!"

"Oh, my dear Mrs. Kildair!"

"Stolen--by Jove!"

"You don't mean it!"

"What! Stolen here--to-night?"

"The ring has been taken within the last twenty minutes, " continued Mrs. Kildair in the same determined, chiseled tone. "I am not going to mincewords. The ring has been taken and the thief is among you. "

For a moment nothing was heard but an indescribable gasp and a suddenturning and searching, then suddenly Cheever's deep bass broke out:

"Stolen! But, Mrs. Kildair, is it possible?"

"Exactly. There is not the slightest doubt, " said Mrs. Kildair. "Threeof you were in my bedroom when I placed my rings on the pincushion. Eachof you has passed through there a dozen times since. My sapphire ring isgone, and one of you has taken it. "

Mrs. Jackson gave a little scream, and reached heavily for a glass ofwater. Mrs. Cheever said something inarticulate in the outburst ofmasculine exclamation. Only Maude Lille's calm voice could be heardsaying:

"Quite true. I was in the room when you took them off. The sapphire ringwas on top. "

"Now listen!" said Mrs. Kildair, her eyes on Maude Lille's eyes. "I amnot going to mince words. I am not going to stand on ceremony. I'm goingto have that ring back. Listen to me carefully. I'm going to have thatring back, and until I do, not a soul shall leave this room. " She tappedon the table with her nervous knuckles. "Who has taken it I do not careto know. All I want is my ring. Now I'm going to make it possible forwhoever took it to restore it without possibility of detection. Thedoors are locked and will stay locked. I am going to put out the lights, and I am going to count one hundred slowly. You will be in absolutedarkness; no one will know or see what is done. But if at the end ofthat time the ring is not here on this table I shall telephone thepolice and have every one in this room searched. Am I quite clear?"

Suddenly she cut short the nervous outbreak of suggestions and in thesame firm voice continued:

"Every one take his place about the table. That's it. That will do. "

The women, with the exception of the inscrutable Maude Lille, gazedhysterically from face to face while the men, compressing their fingers, locking them or grasping their chins, looked straight ahead fixedly attheir hostess. 

Mrs. Kildair, having calmly assured herself that all were ranged as shewished, blew out two of the three candles. 

"I shall count one hundred, no more, no less, " she said. "Either I getback that ring or every one in this room is to be searched, remember. "

Leaning over, she blew out the remaining candle and snuffed it. 

"One, two, three, four, five--"

She began to count with the inexorable regularity of a clock's ticking. 

In the room every sound was distinct, the rustle of a dress, thegrinding of a shoe, the deep, slightly asthmatic breathing of a man. 

"Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three--"

She continued to count, while in the methodic unvarying note of hervoice there was a rasping reiteration that began to affect the company. A slight gasping breath, uncontrollable, almost on the verge ofhysterics, was heard, and a man nervously clearing his throat. 

"Forty-five, forty-six, forty-seven--"

Still nothing had happened. Mrs. Kildair did not vary her measure theslightest, only the sound became more metallic. 

"Sixty-six, sixty-seven, sixty-eight, sixty-nine and seventy--"

Some one had sighed. 

"Seventy-three, seventy-four, seventy-five, seventy-six, seventy-seven--"

All at once, clear, unmistakable, on the resounding plane of the tablewas heard a slight metallic note. 

"The ring!"

It was Maude Lille's quick voice that had spoken. Mrs. Kildair continuedto count. 

"Eighty-nine, ninety, ninety-one--"

The tension became unbearable. Two or three voices protested against theneedless prolonging of the torture. 

"Ninety-six, ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine and one hundred. "

A match sputtered in Mrs. Kildair's hand and on the instant the companycraned forward. In the center of the table was the sparkling sapphireand diamond ring. Candles were lit, flaring up like searchlights on thewhite accusing faces. 

"Mr. Cheever, you may give it to me, " said Mrs. Kildair. She held outher hand without trembling, a smile of triumph on her face, which had init for a moment an expression of positive cruelty. 

Immediately she changed, contemplating with amusement the horror of herguests, staring blindly from one to another, seeing the indefinableglance of interrogation that passed from Cheever to Mrs. Cheever, fromMrs. Jackson to her husband, and then without emotion she said:

"Now that that is over we can have a very gay little supper. "

When Peters had pushed back his chair, satisfied as only a trainedraconteur can be by the silence of a difficult audience, and had busiedhimself with a cigar, there was an instant outcry. 

"I say, Peters, old boy, that is not all!"

"Absolutely. "

"The story ends there?"

"That ends the story. "

"But who took the ring?"

Peters extended his hands in an empty gesture. 

"What! It was never found out?"

"Never. "

"No clue?"

"None. "

"I don't like the story, " said De Gollyer. 

"It's no story at all, " said Steingall. 

"Permit me, " said Quinny in a didactic way; "it is a story, and it iscomplete. In fact, I consider it unique because it has none of thebanalities of a solution and leaves the problem even more confused thanat the start. "

"I don't see--" began Rankin. 

"Of course you don't, my dear man, " said Quinny crushingly. "You do notsee that any solution would be commonplace, whereas no solution leavesan extraordinary intellectual problem. "

"How so?"

"In the first place, " said Quinny, preparing to annex the topic, "whether the situation actually happened or not, which is in itself amere triviality, Peters has constructed it in a masterly way, the proofof which is that he has made me listen. Observe, each person presentmight have taken the ring--Flanders, a broker, just come a cropper;Maude Lille, a woman on the ragged side of life in desperate means;either Mr. And Mrs. Cheever, suspected of being card sharps--very goodtouch that, Peters, when the husband and wife glanced involuntarily ateach other at the end--Mr. Enos Jackson, a sharp lawyer, or his wifeabout to be divorced; even Harris, concerning whom, very cleverly, Peters has said nothing at all to make him quite the most suspicious ofall. There are, therefore, seven solutions, all possible and alllogical. But beyond this is left a great intellectual problem. "

"How so?"

"Was it a feminine or a masculine action to restore the ring whenthreatened with a search, knowing that Mrs. Kildair's clever expedientof throwing the room in the dark made detection impossible? Was it awoman who lacked the necessary courage to continue, or was it a man whorepented his first impulse? Is a man or is a woman the greater naturalcriminal?"

"A woman took it, of course, " said Rankin. 

"On the contrary, it was a man, " said Steingall, "for the second actionwas more difficult than the first. "

"A man, certainly, " said De Gollyer. "The restoration of the ring was alogical decision. "

"You see, " said Quinny triumphantly, "personally I incline to a womanfor the reason that a weaker feminine nature is peculiarly susceptibleto the domination of her own sex. There you are. We could meet anddebate the subject year in and year out and never agree. "

"I recognize most of the characters, " said De Gollyer with a littleconfidential smile toward Peters. "Mrs. Kildair, of course, is all yousay of her--an extraordinary woman. The story is quite characteristic ofher. Flanders, I am not sure of, but I think I know him. "

"Did it really happen?" asked Rankin, who always took the commonplacepoint of view. 

"Exactly as I have told it, " said Peters. 

"The only one I don't recognize is Harris, " said De Gollyer pensively. 

"Your humble servant, " said Peters, smiling. 

The four looked up suddenly with a little start. 

"What!" said Quinny, abruptly confused. "You--you were there?"

"I was there. "

The four continued to look at him without speaking, each absorbed in hisown thoughts, with a sudden ill ease. 

A club attendant with a telephone slip on a tray stopped by Peters'side. He excused himself and went along the porch, nodding from table totable. 

"Curious chap, " said De Gollyer musingly. 

"Extraordinary. "

The word was like a murmur in the group of four, who continued watchingPeters' trim disappearing figure in silence, without looking at oneanother--with a certain ill ease. 

A COMEDY FOR WIVES

At half-past six o'clock from Wall Street, Jack Lightbody let himselfinto his apartment, called his wife by name, and received no answer. 

"Hello, that's funny, " he thought, and, ringing, asked of the maid, "DidMrs. Lightbody go out?"

"About an hour ago, sir. "

"That's odd. Did she leave any message?"

"No, sir. "

"That's not like her. I wonder what's happened. "

At this moment his eye fell on an open hat-box of mammoth proportions, overshadowing a thin table in the living-room. 

"When did that come?"

"About four o'clock, sir. "

He went in, peeping into the empty box with a smile of satisfaction andunderstanding. 

"That's it, she's rushed off to show it to some one, " he said, with ahalf vindictive look toward the box. "Well, it cost $175, and I don'tget my winter suit; but I get a little peace. "

He went to his room, rebelliously preparing to dress for the dinner andtheater to which he had been commanded. 

"By George, if I came back late, wouldn't I catch it?" he said with someirritation, slipping into his evening clothes and looking critically athis rather subdued reflection in the glass. "Jim tells me I'm getting ina rut, middle-aged, showing the wear. Perhaps. " He rubbed his hand overthe wrinkled cheek and frowned. "I have gone off a bit--sedentarylife--six years. It does settle you. Hello! quarter of seven. Verystrange!"

He slipped into a lilac dressing-gown which had been thrust upon him onhis last birthday and wandered uneasily back into the dining-room. 

"Why doesn't she telephone?" he thought; "it's her own party, one ofthose infernal problem plays I abhor. I didn't want to go. "

The door opened and the maid entered. On the tray was a letter. 

"For me?" he said, surprised. "By messenger?"

"Yes, sir. "

He signed the slip, glancing at the envelope. It was in his wife'shandwriting. 

"Margaret!" he said suddenly. 

"Yes, sir. "

"The boy's waiting for an answer, isn't he?"

"No, sir. "

He stood a moment in blank uneasiness, until, suddenly aware that shewas waiting, he dismissed her with a curt:

"Oh, very well. "

Then he remained by the table, looking at the envelope which he did notopen, hearing the sound of the closing outer door and the passing of themaid down the hall. 

"Why didn't she telephone?" he said aloud slowly. 

He looked at the letter again. He had made no mistake. It was from hiswife. 

"If she's gone off again on some whim, " he said angrily, "by George, Iwon't stand for it. "

Then carelessly inserting a finger, he broke the cover and glancedhastily down the letter:

 My dear Jackie:

 When you have read this I shall have left you forever. Forget me and try to forgive. In the six years we have lived together, you have always been kind to me. But, Jack, there is something we cannot give or take away, and because some one has come who has won that, I am leaving you. I'm sorry, Jackie, I'm sorry. 

 Irene. 

When he had read this once in unbelief, he read it immediately again, approaching the lamp, laying it on the table and pressing his fistsagainst his temple, to concentrate all his mind. 

"It's a joke, " he said, speaking aloud. 

He rose, stumbling a little and aiding himself with his arm, leaningagainst the wall, went into her room, and opened the drawer where herjewel case should be. It was gone. 

"Then it's true, " he said solemnly. "It's ended. What am I to do?"

He went to her wardrobe, looking at the vacant hooks, repeating:

"What am I to do?"

He went slowly back to the living-room to the desk by the lamp, wherethe hateful thing stared up at him. 

"What am I to do?"

All at once he struck the desk with his fist and a cry burst from him:

"Dishonored--I'm dishonored!"

His head flushed hot, his breath came in short, panting rage. He struckthe letter again and again, and then suddenly, frantically, began torush back and forth, repeating:

"Dishonored--dishonored!"

All at once a moment of clarity came to him with a chill of ice. Hestopped, went to the telephone and called up the Racquet Club, saying:

"Mr. De Gollyer to the 'phone. "

Then he looked at his hand and found he was still clutching a forgottenhair brush. With a cry at the grotesqueness of the thing, he flung itfrom him, watching it go skipping over the polished floor. The voice ofDe Gollyer called him. 

"Is that you, Jim?" he said, steadying himself. "Come--come to me atonce--quick!"

He could have said no more. He dropped the receiver, overturning thestand, and began again his caged pacing of the floor. 

Ten minutes later De Gollyer nervously slipped into the room. He was aquick, instinctive ferret of a man, one to whose eyes the hidden life ofthe city held no mysteries; who understood equally the shadows thatglide on the street and the masks that pass in luxurious carriages. Inone glance he had caught the disorder in the room and the agitation inhis friend. He advanced a step, balanced his hat on the desk, perceivedthe crumpled letter, and, clearing his throat, drew back, frowning andalert, correctly prepared for any situation. 

Lightbody, without seeming to perceive his arrival, continued his blindtraveling, pressing his fists from time to time against his throat tochoke back the excess of emotions which, in the last minutes, had dazedhis perceptions and left him inertly struggling against a shapelesspain. All at once he stopped, flung out his arms and cried:

"She's gone!"

De Gollyer did not on the word seize the situation. 

"Gone! Who's gone?" he said with a nervous, jerky fixing of his head, while his glance immediately sought the vista through the door to assurehimself that no third person was present. 

But Lightbody, unconscious of everything but his own utter grief, wasthreshing back and forth, repeating mechanically, with increasing_staccato_:

"Gone, gone!"

"Who? Where?"

With a sudden movement, De Gollyer caught his friend by the shoulder andfaced him about as a naughty child, exclaiming: "Here, I say, old chap, brace up! Throw back your shoulders--take a long breath!"

With a violent wrench, Lightbody twisted himself free, while one handflung appealingly back, begged for time to master the emotion whichburst forth in the cry:

"Gone--forever!"

"By Jove!" said De Gollyer, suddenly enlightened, and through his mindflashed the thought--"There's been an accident--something fatal. Tough--devilish tough. "

He cast a furtive glance toward the bedrooms and then an alarmed onetoward his friend, standing in the embrasure of the windows, pressinghis forehead against the panes. 

Suddenly Lightbody turned and, going abruptly to the desk, leanedheavily on one arm, raising the letter in two vain efforts. A spasm ofpain crossed his lips, which alone could not be controlled. He turnedhis head hastily, half offering, half dropping the letter, andwheeling, went to an armchair, where he collapsed, repeatinginarticulately:

"Forever!"

"Who? What? Who's gone?" exclaimed De Gollyer, bewildered by theappearance of a letter. "Good heavens, dear boy, what has happened?Who's gone?"

Then Lightbody, by an immense effort, answered:

"Irene--my wife!"

And with a rapid motion he covered his eyes, digging his fingers intohis flesh. 

De Gollyer, pouncing upon the letter, read:

My dear Jackie: When you read this, I shall have left you forever--

Then he halted with an exclamation, and hastily turned the page for thesignature. 

"Read!" said Lightbody in a stifled voice. 

"I say, this is serious, devilishly serious, " said De Gollyer, nowthoroughly amazed. Immediately he began to read, unconsciouslyemphasizing the emphatic words--a little trick of his enunciation. 

When Lightbody had heard from the voice of another the message thatstood written before his eyes, all at once all impulses in his brainconverged into one. He sprang up, speaking now in quick, distinctsyllables, sweeping the room with the fury of his arms. 

"I'll find them; by God, I'll find them. I'll hunt them down. I'llfollow them. I'll track them--anywhere--to the ends of the earth--andwhen I find them--"

De Gollyer, sensitively distressed at such a scene, vainly tried to stophim. 

"I'll find them, if I die for it! I'll shoot them down. I'll shoot themdown like dogs! I will, by all that's holy, I will! I'll butcher them!I'll shoot them down, there at my feet, rolling at my feet!"

All at once he felt a weight on his arm, and heard De Gollyer saying, vainly:

"Dear boy, be calm, be calm. "

"Calm!" he cried, with a scream, his anger suddenly focusing on hisfriend, "Calm! I won't be calm! What! I come back--slaving all day, slaving for her--come back to take her out to dinner where she wants togo--to the play she wants to see, and I find--nothing--this letter--thisbomb--this thunderbolt! Everything gone--my home broken up--my namedishonored--my whole life ruined! And you say be calm--be calm--becalm!"

Then, fearing the hysteria gaining possession of him, he dropped backviolently into an armchair and covered his face. 

During this outburst, De Gollyer had deliberately removed his gloves, folded them and placed them in his breast pocket. His reputation forsocial omniscience had been attained by the simple expedient of neverbeing convinced. As soon as the true situation had been unfolded, aslight, skeptical smile hovered about his thin, flouting lips, and, looking at his old friend, he was not unpleasantly aware of somethingcomic in the attitudes of grief. He made one or two false starts, buttoning his trim cutaway, and then said in a purposely higher key:

"My dear old chap, we must consider--we really must consider what is tobe done. "

"There is only one thing to be done, " cried Lightbody in a voice ofthunder. 

"Permit me!"

"Kill them!"

"One moment!"

De Gollyer, master of himself, never abandoning his critical enjoyment, softened his voice to that controlled note that is the more effectivefor being opposed to frenzy. 

"Sit down--come now, sit down!"

Lightbody resisted. 

"Sit down, there--come--you have called me in. Do you want my advice? Doyou? Well, just quiet down. Will you listen?"

"I am quiet, " said Lightbody, suddenly submissive. The frenzy of hisrage passed, but to make his resolution doubly impressive, he extendedhis arm and said slowly:

"But remember, my mind is made up. I shall not budge. I shall shootthem down like dogs! You see I say quietly--like dogs!"

"My dear old pal, " said De Gollyer with a well-bred shrug of hisshoulders, "you'll do nothing of the sort. We are men of the world, myboy, men of the world. Shooting is archaic--for the rural districts. We've progressed way beyond that--men of the world don't shoot anymore. "

"I said it quietly, " said Lightbody, who perceived, not withoutsurprise, that he was no longer at the same temperature. However, heconcluded with normal conviction: "I shall kill them both, that's all. Isay it quietly. "

This gave De Gollyer a certain hortatory moment of which he availedhimself, seeking to reduce further the dramatic tension. 

"My dear old pal, as a matter of fact, all I say is, consider first andshoot after. In the first place, suppose you kill one or both and youare not yourself killed--for you know, dear boy, the deuce is thatsometimes does happen. What then? Justice is so languid nowadays. Certainly you would have to inhabit for six, eight--perhaps tenmonths--a drafty, moist jail, without exercise, most indigestible foodabominably cooked, limited society. You are brought to trial. A jury--anemotional jury--may give you a couple of years. That's another risk. Yousee you drink cocktails, you smoke cigarettes. You will be made toappear a person totally unfit to live with. "

Lightbody with a movement of irritation, shifted the clutch of hisfingers. 

"As a matter of fact, suppose you are acquitted, what then? You emerge, middle-aged, dyspeptic, possibly rheumatic--no nerves left. Yourphotograph figures in every paper along with inventors of shoes andcorsets. You can't be asked to dinner or to house parties, can you? As amatter of fact, you'll disappear somewhere or linger and get shot by thebrother, who in turn, as soon as he is acquitted, must be shot by yourbrother, et cetera, et cetera! _Voila!_ What will you have gained?"

He ceased, well pleased--he had convinced himself. 

Lightbody, who had had time to be ashamed of the emotion that he, as aman, had shown to another of his sex, rose and said with dignity:

"I shall have avenged my honor. "

De Gollyer, understanding at once that the battle had been won, took upin an easy running attack his battery of words. 

"By publishing your dishonor to Europe, Africa, Asia? That's logic, isn't it? No, no, my dear old Jack--you won't do it. You won't be anass. Steady head, old boy! Let's look at it in a reasonable way--as menof the world. You can't bring her back, can you? She's gone. "

At this reminder, overcome by the vibrating sense of loss, Lightbodyturned abruptly, no longer master of himself, and going hastily towardthe windows, cried violently:

"Gone!"

Over the satisfied lips of De Gollyer the same ironical smile returned. 

"I say, as a matter of fact I didn't suspect, you--you cared so much. "

"I adored her!"

With a quick movement, Lightbody turned. His eyes flashed. He no longercared what he revealed. He began to speak incoherently, stifling a sobat every moment. 

"I adored her. It was wonderful. Nothing like it. I adored her from themoment I met her. It was that--adoration--one woman in the world--onewoman--I adored her!"

The imp of irony continued to play about De Gollyer's eyes and slightlytwitching lips. 

"Quite so--quite so, " he said. "Of course you know, dear boy, youweren't always so--so lonely--the old days--you surprise me. "

The memory of his romance all at once washed away the bitterness inLightbody. He returned, sat down, oppressed, crushed. 

"You know, Jim, " he said solemnly, "she never did this, never in theworld, not of her own free will, never in her right mind. She's beenhypnotized, some one has gotten her under his power--some scoundrel. No--I'll not harm her, I'll not hurt a hair of her head--but when I meet_him_--"

"By the way, whom do you suspect?" said De Gollyer, who had longwithheld the question. 

"Whom? Whom do I suspect?" exclaimed Lightbody, astounded. "I don'tknow. "

"Impossible!"

"How do I know? I never doubted her a minute. "

"Yes, yes--still?"

"Whom do I suspect? I don't know. " He stopped and considered. "It mightbe--three men. "

"Three men!" exclaimed De Gollyer, who smiled as only a bachelor couldsmile at such a moment. 

"I don't know which--how should I know? But when I do know--when I meethim! I'll spare her--but--but when we meet--we two--when my hands are onhis throat--"

He was on his feet again, the rage of dishonor ready to flame forth. DeGollyer, putting his arm about him, recalled him with abrupt, militarysternness. 

"Steady, steady again, dear old boy. Buck up now--get hold of yourself. "

"Jim, it's awful!"

"It's tough--very tough!"

"Out of a clear sky--everything gone!"

"Come, now, walk up and down a bit--do you good. "

Lightbody obeyed, locking his arms behind his back, his eyes on thefloor. 

"Everything smashed to bits!"

"You adored her?" questioned De Gollyer in an indefinable tone. 

"I adored her!" replied Lightbody explosively. 

"Really now?"

"I adored her. There's nothing left now--nothing--nothing. "

"Steady. "

Lightbody, at the window, made another effort, controlled himself andsaid, as a man might renounce an inheritance:

"You're right, Jim--but it's hard. "

"Good spirit--fine, fine, very fine!" commented De Gollyer in criticalenthusiasm, "nothing public, eh? No scandal--not our class. Men of theworld. No shooting! People don't shoot any more. It's reform, you know, for the preservation of bachelors. "

The effort, the renunciation of his just vengeance, had exhaustedLightbody, who turned and came back, putting out his hands to steadyhimself. 

"It isn't that, it's, it's--" Suddenly his fingers encountered on thetable a pair of gloves--his wife's gloves, forgotten there. He raisedthem, holding them in his open palm, glanced at De Gollyer and, lettingthem fall, suddenly unable to continue, turned aside his head. 

"Take time--a good breath, " said De Gollyer, in military fashion, "fillyour lungs. Splendid! That's it. "

Lightbody, sitting down at the desk, wearily drew the gloves to him, gazing fixedly at the crushed perfumed fingers. 

"Why, Jim, " he said finally, "I adore her so--if she can behappier--happier with another--if that will make her happier than I canmake her--well, I'll step aside, I'll make no trouble--just for her, just for what she's done for me. "

The last words were hardly heard. This time, despite himself, De Gollyerwas tremendously affected. 

"Superb! By George, that's grit!"

Lightbody raised his head with the fatigue of the struggle and the prideof the victory written on it. 

"Her happiness first, " he said simply. 

The accent with which it was spoken almost convinced De Gollyer. 

"By Jove, you adore her!"

"I adore her, " said Lightbody, lifting himself to his feet. This time itcame not as an explosion, but as a breath, some deep echo from the soul. He stood steadily gazing at his friend. "You're right, Jim. You'reright. It's not our class. I'll face it down. There'll be no scandal. No one shall know. "

Their hands met with an instinctive motion. Then, touched by the fervorof his friend's admiration, Lightbody moved wearily away, saying dully, all in a breath:

"Like a thunderclap, Jim. "

"I know, dear old boy, " said De Gollyer, feeling sharply vulnerable inthe eyes and throat. 

"It's terrible--it's awful. All in a second! Everything turned upsidedown, everything smashed!"

"You must go away, " said De Gollyer anxiously. 

"My whole life wrecked, " continued Lightbody, without hearing him, "nothing left--not the slightest, meanest thing left!"

"Dear boy, you must go away. "

"Only last night she was sitting here, and I there, reading a book. " Hestopped and put forth his hand. "This book!"

"Jack, you must go away for a while. "

"What?"

"Go away!"

"Oh, yes, yes. I suppose so. I don't care. "

Leaning against the desk, he gazed down at the rug, mentally andphysically inert. 

De Gollyer, returning to his nature, said presently: "I say, dear oldfellow, it's awfully delicate, but I should like to be frank, from theshoulder--out and out, do you mind?"

"What? No. "

Seeing that Lightbody had only half listened, De Gollyer spoke with somehesitation:

"Of course it's devilish impudent. I'll offend you dreadfully. But, Isay, now as a matter of fact, were you really so--so seraphicallyhappy?"

"What's that?"

"As a matter of fact, " said De Gollyer changing his note instantly, "youwere happy, _terrifically_ happy, _always_ happy, weren't you?"

Lightbody was indignant. 

"Oh, how can you, at such a moment?"

The new emotion gave him back his physical elasticity. He began to paceup and down, declaiming at his friend, "I was happy, _ideally_ happy. Inever had a thought, not one, for anything else. I gave her everything. I did everything she wanted. There never was a word between us. It was_ideal_"

De Gollyer, somewhat shamefaced, avoiding his angry glance, saidhastily:

"So, so, I was quite wrong. I beg your pardon. "

"_Ideally_ happy, " continued Lightbody, more insistently. "We had thesame thoughts, the same tastes, we read the same books. She had a mind, a wonderful mind. It was an _ideal_ union. "

"The devil, I may be all wrong, " thought De Gollyer to himself. Hecrossed his arms, nodded his head, and this time it was with theprofoundest conviction that he repeated:

"You adored her. "

"I _adored_ her, " said Lightbody, with a ring to his voice. "Not a wordagainst her, not a word. It was not her fault. I know it's not herfault. "

"You must go away, " said De Gollyer, touching him on the shoulder. 

"Oh, I must! I couldn't stand it here in this room, " said Lightbodybitterly. His fingers wandered lightly over the familiar objects on thedesk, shrinking from each fiery contact. He sat down. "You're right, Imust get away. "

"You're dreadfully hard hit, aren't you?"

"Oh, Jim!"

Lightbody's hand closed over the book and he opened it mechanically inthe effort to master the memory. "This book--we were reading it lastnight together. "

"Jack, look here, " said De Gollyer, suddenly unselfish before such agreat grief, "you've got to be bucked up, boy, pulled together. I'lltell you what I'll do. You're going to get right off. You're going to belooked after. I'll knock off myself. I'll take you. "

Lightbody gave him his hand with a dumb, grateful look that brought aquick lump to the throat of De Gollyer, who, in terror, purposelyincreasing the lightness of his manner, sprang up with exaggeratedgaiety. 

"By Jove, fact is, I'm a bit dusty myself. Do me good. We'll run offjust as we did in the old days--good days, those. We knocked about abit, didn't we? Good days, eh, Jack?"

Lightbody, continuing to gaze at the book, said:

"Last night--only last night! Is it possible?"

"Come, now, let's polish off Paris, or Vienna?"

"No, no. " Lightbody seemed to shrink at the thought. "Not that, nothinggay. I couldn't bear to see others gay--happy. "

"Quite right. California?"

"No, no, I want to get away, out of the country--far away. "

Suddenly an inspiration came to De Gollyer--a memory of earlier days. 

"By George, Morocco! Superb! The trip we planned out--Morocco--the verything!"

Lightbody, at the desk still feebly fingering the leaves that heindistinctly saw, muttered:

"Something far away--away from people. "

"By George, that's immense, " continued De Gollyer exploding withdelight, and, on a higher octave, he repeated: "Immense! Morocco and asmashing dash into Africa for big game. The old trip just as we plannedit seven years ago. IMMENSE!"

"I don't care--anywhere. "

De Gollyer went nimbly to the bookcase and bore back an atlas. 

"My boy--the best thing in the world. Set you right up--terrific air, smashing scenery, ripping sport, caravans and all that sort of thing. Fine idea, very fine. Never could forgive you breaking up that trip, youknow. There. " Rapidly he skimmed through the atlas, mumbling, "M-M-M--Morocco. "

Lightbody, irritated at the idea of facing a decision, moved uneasily, saying, "Anywhere, anywhere. "

"Back into harness again--the old camping days--immense. "

"I must get away. "

"There you are, " said De Gollyer at length. With a deft movement heslipped the atlas in front of his friend, saying, "Morocco, devilishsmart air, smashing colors, blues and reds. "

"Yes, yes. "

"You remember how we planned it, " continued De Gollyer, artfullyblundering; "boat to Tangier, from Tangier bang across to Fez. "

At this Lightbody, watching the tracing finger, said with someirritation, "No, no, down the coast first. "

"I beg your pardon, " said De Gollyer; "to Fez, my dear fellow. "

"My dear boy, I know! Down the coast to Rabat. "

"Ah, now, you're sure? I think--"

"And I _know_, " said Lightbody, raising his voice and assumingpossession of the atlas, which he struck energetically with the back ofhis hand. "I ought to know my own plan. "

"Yes, yes, " said De Gollyer, to egg him on. "Still you're thoroughlyconvinced about that, are you?"

"Of course, I am! My dear Jim--come, isn't this my pet idea--the onetrip I've dreamed over, the one thing in the world I've longed to do, all my life?" His eyes took energy, while his forefinger began viciouslyto stab the atlas. "We go to Rabat. We go to Magazam, and wecut--so--long sweep, into the interior, take a turn, so, and back toFez, so!"

This speech, delivered with enthusiasm, made De Gollyer reflect. Helooked at the somewhat revived Lightbody with thoughtful curiosity. 

"Well, well--you may be right. You always are impressive, you know. "

"Right? Of course I'm right, " continued Lightbody, unaware of hisfriend's critical contemplation. "Haven't I worked out every foot ofit?"

"A bit of a flyer in the game country, then? Topple over a rhino or so. Stunning, smart sport, the rhino!"

"By George, think of it--a chance at one of the brutes!"

When De Gollyer had seen the eagerness in his friend's eyes, the impsreturned, ironically tumbling back. He slapped him on the shoulder asMephistopheles might gleefully claim his own, crying, "Immense!"

"You know, Jim, " said Lightbody, straightening up, nervously alert, speaking in quick, eager accents, "it's what I've dreamed of--a chanceat one of the big beggars. By George, I have, all my life!"

"We'll polish it off in ripping style, regiments of porters, red andwhite tents, camels, caravans and all that sort of thing. "

"By George, just think of it. "

"In style, my boy--we'll own the whole continent, buy it up!"

"The devil!"

"What's the matter?"

Lightbody's mood had suddenly dropped. He half pushed back his chair andfrowned. "It's going to be frightfully extravagant. "

"What of it?"

"My dear fellow, you don't know what my expenses are--this apartment, anautomobile--Oh, as for you, it's all very well for you! You have tenthousand a year and no one to care for but yourself. "

Suddenly he felt almost a hatred for his friend, and then a rebellionat the renunciation he would have to make. 

"No--it can't be done. We'll have to give it up. Impossible, utterlyimpossible, I can't afford it. "

De Gollyer, still a little uncertain of his ground, for several momentswaited, carefully considering the dubious expression on his friend'sface. Then he questioned abruptly:

"What is your income--now?"

"What do you mean by _now_?"

"Fifteen thousand a year?"

"It has always been that, " replied Lightbody in bad humor. 

De Gollyer, approaching at last the great question, assumed an air ofconcentrated firmness, tempered with well-mannered delicacy. 

"My dear boy, I beg your pardon. As a matter of fact it has always beenfifteen thousand--quite right, quite so; but--now, my dear boy, you aretoo much of a man of the world to be offended, aren't you?"

"No, " said Lightbody, staring in front of him. "No, I'm not offended. "

"Of course it's delicate, ticklishly delicate ground, but then we mustlook things in the face. Now if you'd rather I--"

"No, go on. "

"Of course, dear boy, you've had a smashing knock and all that sort ofthing, but--" suddenly reaching out he took up the letter, and, lettingit hang from his fingers, thoughtfully considered it--"I say it might belooked at in this way. Yesterday it was fifteen thousand a year to dressup a dashing wife, modern New York style, the social pace, clothes thatmust be smarter than Thingabob's wife, competitive dinners that you stirup with your fork and your servants eat, and all that sort of thing, youknow. To-day it's fifteen thousand a year and a bachelor again. "

Releasing the letter, he disdainfully allowed it to settle down on thedesk, and finished:

"Come now, as a matter of fact there is a little something consoling, isn't there?"

From the moment he had perceived De Gollyer's idea. Lightbody had becomevery quiet, gazing steadily ahead, seeing neither the door nor theretaining walls. 

"I never thought of that, " he said, almost in a whisper. 

"Quite so, quite so. Of course one doesn't think of such things, rightat first. And you've had a knock-down--a regular smasher, old chap. " Hestopped, cleared his voice and said sympathetically: "You adored her?"

"I suppose I could give up the apartment and sell the auto, " saidLightbody slowly, speaking to himself. 

De Gollyer smiled--a bachelor smile. 

"Riches, my boy, " he said, tapping him on the shoulder with the samequick, awakening Mephistophelean touch. 

The contact raised Lightbody from revery. He drew back, shocked at theways through which his thoughts had wandered. 

"No, no, Jim, " he said. "No, you mustn't, nothing like that--not at sucha time. "

"You're right, " said De Gollyer, instantly masked in gravity. "You'requite right. Still, we are looking things in the face--planning for thefuture. Of course it's a delicate question, terrifically delicate. I'malmost afraid to put it to you. Come, now, how shall I expressit--delicately? It's this way. Fifteen thousand a year divided by one isfifteen thousand, isn't it; but fifteen thousand a year divided by two, may mean--" He straightened up, heels clicking, throwing out his elbowsslightly and lifting his chin from the high, white stockade on which itreposed. "Come, now, we're men of the world, aren't we? Now, as a matterof fact how much of that fifteen thousand a year came back to you?"

"My dear Jim, " said Lightbody, feeling that generosity should be hispart, "a woman, a modern woman, a New York woman, you just saidit--takes--takes--"

"Twelve thousand--thirteen thousand?"

"Oh, come! Nonsense, " said Lightbody, growing quite angry. "Besides, Idon't--"

"Yes, yes, I know, " said De Gollyer, interrupting him, now with freshconfidence. "All the same your whiskies have gone off, dear boy--they'vegone off, and your cigars are bad, very bad. Little things, but theyshow. "

A pencil lay before him. Lightbody, without knowing what he did, took itup and mechanically on an unwritten sheet jotted down $15, 000, drawingthe dollar sign with a careful, almost caressing stroke. The sheet wasthe back of his wife's letter, but he did not notice it. 

De Gollyer, looking over his shoulder, exclaimed:

"Quite right. Fifteen thousand, divided by one. "

"It will make a difference, " said Lightbody slowly. Over his face passedan expression such as comes but once in a lifetime; a look defyinganalysis; a look that sweeps back over the past and challenges thefuture and always retains the secret of its judgment. 

De Gollyer, drawing back slowly, allowed him a moment before saying:

"And no alimony!"

"What?"

"Free and no alimony, my boy!"

"No alimony?" said Lightbody, surprised at this new reasoning. 

"A woman who runs away gets no alimony, " said De Gollyer loudly. "Nothere, not in the effete East!"

"I hadn't thought of that, either, " said Lightbody, who, despitehimself, could not repress a smile. 

De Gollyer, irritated perhaps that he should have been duped intosympathy, ran on with a little vindictiveness. 

"Of course that means nothing to you, dear boy. You were happy, _ideally_ happy! You adored her, didn't you?"

He paused and then, receiving no reply, continued:

"But you see, if you hadn't been so devilish lucky, so seraphicallyhappy all these years, you might find a certain humor in the situation, mightn't you? Still, look it in the face, what have you lost, what haveyou left? There is something in that. Fifteen thousand a year, libertyand no alimony. "

The moment had come which could no longer be evaded. Lightbody rose, turned, met the lurking malice in De Gollyer's eyes with the blankindecision screen of his own, and, turning on his heel, went to a littlecloset in the wall, and bore back a decanter and glasses. 

"This is not what we serve on the table, " he said irrelevantly. "It'swhisky. "

De Gollyer poured out his drink and looked at Lightbody _enconnoisseur_. 

"You've gone off--old--six years. You were the smartest of the oldcrowd, too. You certainly have gone off. "

Lightbody listened, with his eyes in his glass. 

"Jack, you're middle-aged--you've gone off--badly. It's hit you hard. "

There was a moment's silence and then Lightbody spoke quietly:

"Jim!"

"What is it, old boy?"

"Do you want to know the truth?"

"Come--out with it!"

Lightbody struggled a moment, all the hesitation showing in his lips. Then he said, slowly shaking his head, never lifting his eyes, speakingas though to another:

"Jim, I've had a hell of a time!"

"Impossible!"

"Yes. "

He lifted his glass until he felt its touch against his lips andgradually set it down. "Why, Jim, in six years I've loved her so thatI've never done anything I wanted to do, gone anywhere I wanted to go, drank anything I've wanted to drink, saw anything I wanted to see, woreanything I wanted to wear, smoked anything I wanted to smoke, readanything I wanted to read, or dined any one I wanted to dine! Jim, itcertainly has been a _domestic_ time!"

"Good God! I can't believe it!" ejaculated De Gollyer, too astounded toindulge his sense of humor. 

All at once a little fury seemed to seize Lightbody. His voice rose andhis gestures became indignant. 

"Married! I've been married to a policeman. Why, Jim, do you know whatI've spent on myself, really spent? Not two thousand, not one thousand, not five hundred dollars a year. I've been poorer than my own clerk. I'dhate to tell you what I paid for cigars and whisky. Everything went toher, everything! And Jim--" he turned suddenly with a significantglance--"such a temper!"

"A temper? No, impossible, not that!"

"Not violent--oh, no--but firm--smiling, you know, but irresistible. "

He drew a long breath charged with bitter memories and said between histeeth, rebelling: "I always agreed. "

"Can it be? Is it possible?" commented De Gollyer, carefully masteringhis expression. 

Lightbody, on the new subject of his wrongs, now began to explode withwrath. 

"And there's one thing more--one thing that hurts! You know what sheeloped in? She eloped in a hat, a big red hat, three white feathers--onehundred and seventy-five dollars. I gave up a winter suit to get it. "

He strode over to the grotesquely large hat-box on the slender table, and struck it with his fist. 

"Came this morning. Jim, she waited for that hat! Now, that isn't right!That isn't delicate!"

"No, by Jove, it certainly isn't delicate!"

"Domesticity! Ha!" At the moment, with only the long vision of pettytyranny before him, he could have caught her up in his hands andstrangled her. "Domesticity! I've had all I want of domesticity!"

Suddenly the eternal fear awakening in him, he turned and commandedauthoritatively:

"Never tell!"

"Never!"

De Gollyer, at forty-two, showed a responsive face, invincibly, gravelysympathetic, patiently awaiting his climax, knowing that nothing is socumulatively dangerous as confession. 

Lightbody took up his glass and again approached it to his lips, frowning at the thought of what he had revealed. All at once a freshimpulse caught him, he put down his glass untasted, blurting out:

"Do you want to know one thing more? Do you want to know the truth, thereal truth?"

"Gracious heavens, there is something more?"

"I never married her--never in God's world!"

He ceased and suddenly, not to be denied, the past ranged itself beforehim in its stark verity. 

"She married me!"

"Is it possible?"

"She did!"

What had been an impulse suddenly became a certainty. 

"As I look back now, I can see it all--quite clear. Do you know how ithappened? I called three times--not one time more--three times! I likedher--nothing more. She was an attractive-looking girl--a certainfascination--she always has that--that's the worst of it--but gentle, very gentle. "

"Extraordinary!"

"On the third time I called--the third time, mind you, " proceededLightbody, attacking the table, "as I stood up to say good-by, all atonce--the lights went out. "

"The lights?"

"When they went on again--I was engaged. "

"Great heavens!"

"The old fainting trick. "

"Is it possible?"

"I see it all now. A man sees things as they are at such a moment. "

He gave a short, disagreeable laugh. "Jim, she had those lights allfixed!"

"Frightful!"

Lightbody, who had stripped his soul in confession, no longer wasconscious of shame. He struck the table, punctuating his wrath, andcried:

"And that's the truth! The solemn literal truth! That's my story!"

To confess, it had been necessary to be swept away in a burst of anger. The necessity having ceased, he crossed his arms, quite calm, laughing alow, scornful laugh. 

"My dear boy, " said De Gollyer, to relieve the tension, "as a matter offact, that's the way you're all caught. "

"I believe it, " said Lightbody curtly. He had now an instinctive desireto insult the whole female sex. 

"I know--a bachelor knows. The things I have seen and the things I haveheard. My dear fellow, as a matter of fact, marriage is all very wellfor bankers and brokers, unconvicted millionaires, week domestic animalsin search of a capable housekeeper, you know, and all that sort ofthing, but for men of the world--like ourselves, it's a mistake. Don'tdo it again, my boy--don't do it. "

Lightbody laughed a barking laugh that quite satisfied De Gollyer. 

"Husbands--modern social husbands--are excrescences--they don't count. They're mere financial tabulators--nothing more than socialsounding-boards. "

"Right!" said Lightbody savagely. 

"Ah, you like that, do you?" said De Gollyer, pleased. "I do say a goodthing occasionally. Social sounding-boards! Why, Jack, in one-half ofthe marriages in this country--no, by George, in two-thirds--if theinconsequential, tabulating husband should come home to find a letterlike this--he'd be dancing a _can-can_!"

Lightbody felt a flood of soul-easing laughter well up within him. Hebit his lip and answered:

"No!"

"Yes. "

"Pshaw!"

"A _can-can_!"

Lightbody, fearing to betray himself, did not dare to look at thetriumphant bachelor. He covered his eyes with his hands and sought tofight down the joyful hysteria that began to shake his whole body. Allat once he caught sight of De Gollyer's impish eyes, and, unable longerto contain himself, burst out laughing. The more he laughed at DeGollyer, who laughed back at him, the more uncontrollable he became. Tears came to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, washing away allillusions and self-deception, leaving only the joy of deliverance, acknowledged at last. 

All at once holding his sides, he found a little breath and criedcombustibly:

"A _can-can_!"

Suddenly, with one impulse, they locked arms and pirouetted about theroom, flinging out destructive legs, hugging each other with bear-likehugs as they had done in college days of triumph. Exhausted at last, they reeled apart, and fell breathless into opposite chairs. There was ashort moment of weak, physical silence, and then Lightbody, shaking hishead, said solemnly:

"Jim--Jim, that's the first real genuine laugh I've had in six vastyears!"

"My boy, it won't be the last. "

"You bet it won't!" Lightbody sprang up, as out of the ashen cloak ofage the young Faust springs forth. "To-morrow--do you hear, to-morrowwe're off for Morocco!"

"By way of Paris?" questioned De Gollyer, who likewise gained a dozenyears of youthfulness. 

"Certainly by way of Paris. "

"With a dash of Vienna?"

"Run it off the map!"

"Good old Jack! You're coming back, my boy, you're coming strong!"

"Am I? Just watch!" Dancing over to the desk, he seized a dozen heavybooks:

"'Evolution and Psychology, ' 'Burning Questions!' 'Woman's Position inTasmania!' Aha!"

One by one, he flung them viciously over his head, reckoning not thecrash with which they fell. Then with the same _pas de ballet_ hedescended on the hat-box and sent it from his boot crashing over thepiano. Before De Gollyer could exclaim, he was at the closet, workinghavoc with the boxes of cigars. 

"Here, I say, " said De Gollyer laughing, "look out, those are cigars!"

"No, they're not, " said Lightbody, pausing for a moment. Then, seizingtwo boxes, he whirled about the room holding them at arms' length, scattering them like the sparks of a pin-wheel, until with a finalmotion he flung the emptied boxes against the ceiling, and, coming to anabrupt stop, shot out a mandatory forefinger, and cried:

"Jim, you dine with me!"

"The fact is--"

"No buts, no excuses! Break all engagements! To-night we celebrate!"

"Immense!"

"Round up the boys--all the boys--the old crowd. I'm middle-aged, am I?"

"By George, " said De Gollyer, in free admiration, "you're getting intoform, my boy, excellent form. Fine, fine, very fine!"

"In half an hour at the Club. "

"Done. "

"Jim?"

"Jack!"

They precipitated themselves into each other's arms. Lightbody, asdelirious as a young girl at the thought of her first ball, cried:

"Paris, Vienna, Morocco--two years around the world!"

"On my honor!"

Rapidly Lightbody, impatient for the celebration, put De Gollyer intohis coat and armed him with his cane. 

"In half an hour, Jim. Get Budd, get Reggie Longworth, and, I say, getthat little reprobate of a Smithy, will you?"

"Yes, by George. "

At the door, De Gollyer, who, when he couldn't leave on an epigram, liked to recall the best thing he had said, turned:

"Never again, eh, old boy?"

"Never, " cried Lightbody, with the voice of a cannon. 

"No social sounding-board for us, eh?"

"Never again!"

"You do like that, don't you? I say a good thing now and then, don't I?"

Lightbody, all eagerness, drove him down the hall, crying:

"Round 'em up--round them all up! I'll show them if I've come back!"

When he had returned, waltzing on his toes to the middle of the room, hestopped and flung out his arms in a free gesture, inhaling a deliciousbreath. Then, whistling busily, he went to a drawer in the book-shelvesand came lightly back, his arms crowded with time-tables, schedules ofsteamers, maps of various countries. All at once, remembering, he seizedthe telephone and, receiving no response, rang impatiently. 

"Central--hello--hello! Central, why don't you answer? Central, giveme--give me--hold up, wait a second!" He had forgotten the number of hisown club. In communication at last, he heard the well-modulated accentsof Rudolph--Rudolph who recognized his voice after six years. It gavehim a little thrill, this reminder of the life he was entering oncemore. He ordered one of the dinners he used to order, and hung up thereceiver, with a smile and a little tightening about his heart at theentry he, the prodigal, would make that night at the Club. 

Then, seizing a map of Morocco in one hand and a schedule of sailings inthe other, he sat down to plan, chanting over and over, "Paris, Vienna, Morocco, India, Paris, Vienna--"

At this moment, unnoticed by him, the doors moved noiselessly and Mrs. Lightbody entered; a woman full of appealing movements in her lithebody, and of quick, decisive perceptions in the straight, gray glance ofher eyes. She held with one hand a cloak fastened loosely about herthroat. On her head was the hat with the three white feathers. 

A minute passed while she stood, rapidly seizing every indication thatmight later assist her. Then she moved slightly and said in a voice ofquiet sadness:

"Jackie. "

"Great God!"

Lightbody, overturning chair and table, sprang up--recoiling as onerecoils before an avenging specter. In his convulsive fingers were thetime-tables, clinging like damp lily pads. 

"Jackie, I couldn't do it. I couldn't abandon you. I've come back. "Gently, seeming to move rather than to walk, advancing with none of theuncertainty that was in her voice, she cried, with a little break:"Forgive me!"

"No, no, never!"

He retreated behind a chair, fury in his voice, weak at the thought ofthe floating, entangling scarf, and the perfume he knew so well. Then, recovering himself, he cried brutally:

"Never! You have given me my freedom. I'll keep it! Thanks!"

With a gradual motion, she loosened her filmy cloak and let it slip fromthe suddenly revealed shoulders and slender body. 

"No, no, I forbid you!" he cried. Anger--animal, instinctiveanger--began to possess him. He became brutal as he felt himself growingweak. 

"Either you go out or I do!"

"You will listen. "

"What? To lies?"

"When you have heard me, you will understand, Jack. "

"There is nothing to be said. I have not the slightest intention oftaking back--"

"Jack!"

Her voice rang out with sudden impressiveness: "I swear to you I havenot met him, I swear to you I came back of my own free will, because Icould not meet him, because I found that it was you--you only--whom Iwanted!"

"That is a lie!"

She recoiled before the wound in his glance. She put her long white handover her heart, throwing all of herself into the glance that sought toconquer him. 

"I swear it, " she said simply. 

"Another lie!"

"Jack!"

It was a physical rage that held him now, a rage divided againstitself--that longed to strike down, to crush, to stifle the thing itcoveted. He had almost a fear of himself. He cried:

"If you don't go, I'll--I'll--"

Suddenly he found something more brutal than a blow, something that mustdrive her away, while yet he had the strength of his passion. Hecrossed his arms, looking at her with a cold look. 

"I'll tell you why you came back. You went to him for just one reason. You thought he had more money than I had. You came back when you foundhe hadn't. "

He saw her body quiver and it did him good. 

"That ends it, " she said, hardly able to speak. She dropped her headhastily, but not before he had seen the tears. 

"Absolutely. "

In a moment she would be gone. He felt all at once uneasy, ashamed--sheseemed so fragile. 

"My cloak--give me my cloak, " she said, and her voice showed that sheaccepted his verdict. 

He brought the cloak to where she stood wearily, and put it on hershoulders, stepping back instantly. 

"Good-by. "

It was said more to the room than to him. 

"Good-by, " he said dully. 

She took a step and then raised her eyes to his. 

"That was more than you had a right to say, even to me, " she saidwithout reproach in her voice. 

He avoided her look. 

"You will be sorry. I know you, " she said with pity for him. She wenttoward the door. 

"I am sorry, " he said impulsively. "I shouldn't have said it. "

"Thank you, " she said, stopping and returning a little toward him. 

He drew back as though already he felt her arms about him. 

"Don't, " she said, smiling a tired smile. "I'm not going to try that. "

Her instinct had given her possession of the scene. He felt it and wasirritated. 

"Only let us part quietly--with dignity, " she said, "for we have beenhappy together for six years. " Then she said rapidly:

"I want you to know that I shall do nothing to dishonor your name. I amnot going to him. That is ended. "

An immense curiosity came to him to learn the reason of this strangeavowal. But he realized it would never do for him to ask it. 

"Good-by, Jackie, " she said, having waited a moment. "I shall not seeyou again. "

He watched her leaving with the same moving grace with which she hadcome. All at once he found a way of evasion. 

"Why don't you go to him?" he said harshly. 

She stopped but did not turn. 

"No, " she said, shaking her head. And again she dared to continue towardthe door. 

"I shall not stand in your way, " he said curtly, fearing only that shewould leave. "I will give you a divorce. I don't deny a woman'sliberty. "

She turned, saying:

"Do you allow a woman liberty to know her own mind?"

"What do you mean?"

She came back until he almost could have touched her, standing lookinginto his eyes with a wistful, searching glance, clasping and unclaspingher tense fingers. 

"Jack, " she said, "you never really cared. "

"So it is all my fault!" he cried, snapping his arms together, sure nowthat she would stay. 

"Yes, it is. "

"What!" he cried in a rage--already it was a different rage--"didn't Igive you anything you wanted, everything I had, all my time, all--"

"All but yourself, " she said quietly; "you were always cold. "

"I!"

"You were! You were!" she said sharply, annoyed at the contradiction. But quickly remembering herself, she continued with only a regretfulsadness in her voice:

"Always cold, always matter-of-fact. Bob of the head in the morning, jerk of the head at night. When I was happy over a new dress or a newhat you never noticed it--until the bill came in. You were alwaysmatter-of-fact, absolutely confident I was yours, body and soul. "

"By George, that's too much!" he cried furiously. "That's a fine one. I'm to blame--of course I'm to blame!"

She drew a step away from him, and said:

"Listen! No, listen quietly, for when I've told you I shall go. "

Despite himself, his anger vanished at her quiet command. 

"If I listen, " he thought, "it's all over. "

He still believed he was resisting, only he wanted to hear as he hadnever wanted anything else--to learn why she was not going to the otherman. 

"Yes, what has happened is only natural, " she said, drawing her eyebrowsa little together and seeming to reason more with herself. "It had tohappen before I could really be sure of my love for you. You men knowand choose from the knowledge of many women. A woman, such as I, comingto you as a girl, must often and often ask herself if she would stillmake the same choice. Then another man comes into her life and she makesof him a test to know once and for all the answer to her question. Jack, that was it. That was the instinct that drove me to try if I _could_leave you--the instinct I did not understand then, but that I do now, when it's too late. "

"Yes, she is clever, " he thought to himself, listening to her, desiringher the more as he admired what he did not credit. He felt that hewanted to be convinced and with a last angry resistance, said:

"Very clever, indeed!"

She looked at him with her clear, gray look, a smile in her eyes, sadness on her lips. 

"You know it is true. "

He did not reply. Finally he said bruskly:

"And when did--did the change come to you?"

"In the carriage, when every turn of the wheel, every passing street, was rushing me away from you. I thought of you--alone--lost--andsuddenly I knew. I beat with my fists on the window and called to thecoachman like a madman. I don't know what I said. I came back. "

She stopped, pressing back the tears that had started on her eyelids atthe memory. She controlled herself, gave a quick little nod, withoutoffering her hand, went toward the door. 

"What! I've got to call her back!" He said it to himself, addingfuriously: "Never!"

He let her go to the door itself, vowing he would not make the advance. 

When the door was half open, something in him cried: "Wait!"

She closed the door softly, but she did not immediately turn round. Thepalms of her hands were wet with the cold, frightened sweat of thatawful moment. When she returned, she came to him with a wondering, timid, girlish look in her eyes. 

"Oh, Jack, if you only could!" she said, and then only did she put outher hands and let her fingers press over his heart. 

The next moment she was swept up in his arms, shrinking and very still. 

All at once he put her from him and said roughly:

"What was his name?"

"No, no!"

"Give me his name, " he said miserably. "I must know it. "

"No--neither now nor at any other time, " she said firmly, and her lookas it met his had again all the old domination. "That is my condition. "

"Ah, how weak I have been, " he said to himself, with a last bitter, instinctive revolt. "How weak I am. "

She saw and understood. 

"We must be generous, " she said, changing her voice quickly togentleness. "He has been pained enough already. He alone will suffer. And if you knew his name it would only make you unhappy. "

He still rebelled, but suddenly to him came a thought which at first hewas ashamed to express. 

"He doesn't know?"

She lied. 

"No. "

"He's still waiting--there?"

"Yes. "

"Ah, he's waiting, " he said to himself. 

A gleam of vanity, of triumph over the discarded, humiliated one, leapedup fiercely within him and ended all the lingering, bitter memories. 

"Then you care?" she said, resting her head on his shoulder that hemight not see she had read such a thought. 

"Care?" he cried. He had surrendered. Now it was necessary to beconvinced. "Why, when I received your letter I--I was wild. I wanted todo murder. "

"Jackie!"

"I was like a madman--everything was gone--nothing was left. "

"Oh, Jack, how I have made you suffer!"

"Suffer? Yes, I have suffered!" Overcome by the returning pain of thememory, he dropped into a chair, trying to control his voice. "Yes, Ihave suffered!"

"Forgive me!" she said, slipping on her knees beside him, and buryingher head in his lap. 

"I was out of my head--I don't know what I did, what I said. It was asthough a bomb had exploded. My life was wrecked, shattered--nothingleft. "

He felt the grief again, even more acutely. He suffered for what he hadsuffered. 

"Jack, I never really could have _abandoned_ you, " she cried bitterly. She raised her eyes toward him and suddenly took notice of thetime-tables that lay clutched in his hands. "Oh, you were going away!"

He nodded, incapable of speech. 

"You were running away?"

"I was running away--to forget--to bury myself!"

"Oh, Jack!"

"There was nothing here. It was all a blank! I was running away--to burymyself!"

At the memory of that miserable hopeless moment, in which he hadresolved on flight, the tears, no longer to be denied, came drippingdown his cheeks. 

THE LIE

I

For some time they had ceased to speak, too oppressed with the needlessanguish of this their last night. At their feet the tiny shining windowsof Etretat were dropping back into the night, as though sinking underthe rise of that black, mysterious flood that came luminously from theobscure regions of the faint sky. Overhead, the swollen August stars hadfaded before the pale flush that, toward the lighthouse on the cliff, heralded the red rise of the moon. 

He held himself a little apart, the better to seize every filmy detailof the strange woman who had come inexplicably into his life, watchingthe long, languorous arms stretched out into an impulsive clasp, thedramatic harmony of the body, the brooding head, the soft, half-revealedline of the neck. The troubling alchemy of the night, that before hiseyes slowly mingled the earth with the sea and the sea with the sky, seemed less mysterious than this woman whose body was as immobile as thestillness in her soul. 

All at once he felt in her, whom he had known as he had known no other, something unknown, the coming of another woman, belonging to anotherlife, the life of the opera and the multitude, which would again flatterand intoxicate her. The summer had passed without a doubt, and now, allat once, something new came to him, indefinable, colored with the vagueterror of the night, the fear of other men who would come throngingabout her, in the other life, where he could not follow. 

Around the forked promontory to the east, the lights of the littlepacket-boat for England appeared, like the red cinder in a pipe, slipping toward the horizon. It was the signal for a lover's embrace, conceived long ago in fancy and kept in tenderness. 

"Madeleine, " he said, touching her arm. "There it is--our little boat. "

"Ah! _le p'tit bateau_--with its funny red and green eyes. "

She turned and raised her lips to his; and the kiss, which she did notgive but permitted, seemed only fraught with an ineffable sadness, theend of all things, the tearing asunder and the numbness of separation. She returned to her pose, her eyes fixed on the little packet, saying:

"It's late. "

"Yes. "

"It goes fast. "

"Very. "

They spoke mechanically, and then not at all. The dread of the morningwas too poignant to approach the things that must be said. Suddenly, with the savage directness of the male to plunge into the pain whichmust be undergone, he began:

"It was like poison--that kiss. "

She turned, forgetting her own anguish in the pain in his voice, murmuring, "Ben, my poor Ben. "

"So you will go--to-morrow, " he said bitterly, "back to the great publicthat will possess you, and I shall remain--here, alone. "

"It must be so. "

He felt suddenly an impulse he had not felt before, an instinct to makeher suffer a little. He said brutally:

"But you want to go!"

She did not answer, but, in the obscurity, he knew her large eyes weresearching his face. He felt ashamed of what he had said, and yet becauseshe made no protestation, he persisted:

"You have left off your jewels, those jewels you can't do without. "

"Not to-night. "

"You who are never happy without them--why not to-night?"

As, carried away by the jealousy of what lay beyond, he was about tocontinue, she laid her fingers on his lips, with a little brusk, nervousmovement of her shoulders. 

"Don't--you don't understand. "

But he understood and he resented the fact that she should have putaside the long undulating rope of pearls, the rings of rubies andemeralds that seemed as natural to her dark beauty as the roses to thespring. He had tried to understand her woman's nature, to believe thatno memory yet lingered about them, to accept without question what hadnever belonged longed to their life together, and remembering what hehad fought down he thought bitterly:

"She has changed me more than I have changed her. It is always so. "

She moved a little, her pose, with instinctive dramatic sense, changingwith her changing mood. 

"Do not think I don't understand you, " she said quietly. 

"What do you understand?"

"It hurts you because I wish to return. "

"That is not so, Madeleine, " he said abruptly. "You know what big thingsI want you to do. "

"I know--only you would like me to say the contrary--to protest that Iwould give it all up--be content to be with you alone. "

"No, not that, " he said grudgingly, "and yet, this last night--here--Ishould like to hear you say the contrary. "

She laughed a low laugh and caught his hand a little tighter. 

"That displeases you?"

"No, no, of course not!" Presently she added with an effort:

"There is so much that we must say to each other and we have not thecourage. "

"True, all summer we have never talked of what must come after. "

"I want you to understand why I go back to it all, why I wish every yearto be separated from you--yes, exactly, from you, " she added, as hisfingers contracted with an involuntary movement. "Ben, what has come tome I never expected would come. I love, but neither that word nor anyother word can express how absolutely I have become yours. When I toldyou my life, you did not wonder how difficult it was for me to believethat such a thing could be possible. But you convinced me, and what hascome to me has come as a miracle. I adore you. All my life has beenlived just for this great love; ah yes, that's what I believe, what Ifeel. " She leaned swiftly to him and allowed him to catch her to him inhis strong arms. Then slowly disengaging herself, she continued, "Youare a little hurt because I do not cry out what you would not accept, because I do not say that I would give up everything if you asked it. "

"It is only to _hear_ it, " he said impulsively. 

"But I have often wished it myself, " she said slowly. "There's not a daythat I have not wished it--to give up everything and stay by you. Do youknow why? From the longing that's in me now, the first unselfishlonging I have ever had--to sacrifice myself for you in some way, somehow. It is more than a hunger, it is a need of the soul--of my loveitself. It comes over me sometimes as tears come to my eyes when you areaway, and I say to myself, 'I love him, ' and yet, Ben, I shall not, Ishall never give up my career, not now, not for years to come. "

"No, " he said mechanically. 

"We are two great idealists, for that is what you have made me, Ben. Before I was always laughing, and I believed in nothing. I despised evenwhat my sacrifice had won. Now, when I am with you, I remain in arevery, and I am happy--happy with the happiness of things I cannotunderstand. To-night, by your side, it seems to me I have never felt thenight before or known the mystery of the silent, faint hours. You havemade me feel the loneliness of the human soul, and that impulse it musthave before these things that are beyond us, that surround us, dominateus, to cling almost in terror to another soul. You have so completelymade me over that it is as though you had created me yourself. I amthirty-five. I have known everything else but what you have awakened inme, and because I have this knowledge and this hunger I can see clearerwhat we must do. You and I are a little romanesque, but remember thateven a great love may tire and grow stale, and that is what I won'thave, what must not be. " Her voice had risen with the intensity of hermood. She said more solemnly: "You are afraid of other men, of othermoods of mine--you have no reason. This love which comes to some as theawakening of life is to me the end of all things. If anything shouldwound it or belittle it, I should not survive it. "

She continued to speak, in a low unvarying voice. He felt his mind clearand his doubts dissipate, and impatiently he waited for her to end, toshow her that his weakness of the moment was gone and that he was stillthe man of big vision who had awakened her. 

"There are people who can put in order their love as they put in ordertheir house. We are not of that kind, Ben. I am a woman who has lived onsensations. You, too, are a dreamer and a poet at the bottom. If Ishould give up the opera and become to you simply a housewife, if therewas no longer any difficulty in our having each other, you would stilllove me--yes, because you are loyal--but the romanticism, the mystery, the longing we both need would vanish. Oh, I know. Well, you and I, weare the same. We can only live on a great passion, and to have fierce, unutterable joys we must suffer also--the suffering of separation. Doyou understand?"

"Yes, I do. "

"That is why I shall never give up my career. That is why I can bearthe sadness of leaving you. I want you to be proud of me, Ben. I wantyou to think of me as some one whom thousands desire and only you canhave. I want our love to be so intense that every day spent apart isheavy with the longing for each other; every day together preciousbecause it will be a day nearer the awful coming of another separation. Believe me, I am right. I have thought much about it. You have yourdiplomatic career and your ambitions. You are proud. I have never askedyou to give that up to follow me. I would not insult you. In January youwill have a leave of absence, and we will be together for a fewwonderful weeks, and in May I shall return here. Nothing will bechanged. " She extended her arm to where a faint red point still showedon the unseen water. "And each night we will wait, as we have waited, side by side, the coming of our little boat, --_notre p'tit bateau_"

"You are right, " he said, placing his lips to her forehead. "I wasjealous. I am sorry. It is over. "

"But I, too, am jealous, " she said, smiling. 

"You?"

"Of course--no one can love without being jealous. Oh, I shall be afraidof every woman who comes near you. It will be an agony, " she said, andthe fire in her eyes brought him more healing happiness than all herwords. 

"You are right, " he repeated. 

He left her with a little pressure of the hand, and walked to the edgeof the veranda. A nervous, sighing breeze had come with the full comingof the moon, and underneath him he heard the troubled rustle of leavesin the obscurity, the sifting and drifting of tired, loose things, thestir of the night which awakened a restless mood in his soul. He hadlistened to her as she had proclaimed her love, and yet this love, without illusions, sharply recalled to him other passions. He rememberedhis first love, a boy-and-girl affair, and sharply contrasting it with asudden ache to this absence of impulse and illusions, of phrases, vows, without logic, thrown out in the sweet madness of the moment. Why hadshe not cried out something impulsive, promised things that could notbe. Then he realized, standing there in the harvest moonlight, in thebreaking up of summer, that he was no longer a youth, that certainthings could not be lived over, and that, as she had said, he too feltthat this was the great love, the last that he would share; that if itended, his youth ended and with his youth all that in him clung to life. 

He turned and saw her, chin in the flat of her palm, steadily followinghis mood. He had taken but a dozen steps, and yet he had placed athousand miles between them. He had almost a feeling of treachery, andto dispel these new unquiet thoughts he repeated to himself again:

"She is right. "

But he did not immediately return. The memory of other loves, faint asthey had been in comparison with this all-absorbing impulse, had yetgiven him a certain objective point of view. He saw himself clearly, andhe understood what of pain the future had in store for him. 

"How I shall suffer!" he said to himself. 

"You are going so far away from me, " she said suddenly, warned by somewoman's instinct. 

He was startled at the conjunction of her words and his moods. Hereturned hastily, and sat down beside her. She took his head in herhands and looked anxiously into his eyes. 

"What is it?" she said. "You are afraid?"

"A little, " he said reluctantly. 

"Of what--of the months that will come?"

"Of the past. "

"What do you mean?" she said, withdrawing a little as though disturbedby the thought. 

"When I am with you I know there is not a corner of your heart that I donot possess, " he began evasively. 

"Well?"

"Only it's the past--the habits of the past, " he murmured. "I know youso well, Madeleine, you have need of strength, you don't go on alone. That is the genius of women like you--to reach out and attach tothemselves men who will strengthen them, compel them on. "

"Ah, I understand, " she said slowly. 

"Yes, that is what I'm afraid of, " he said rapidly. 

"You are thinking of the artist, not the woman. "

"Ah, there is no difference--not to a man who loves, " he saidimpulsively. "I know how great your love is for me, and I believe in it. I know nothing will come to efface it. Only you will be lonely, you'llhave your trials and annoyances, days of depression, of doubt, when youwill need some one to restore your faith in yourself, your courage inyour work, and then, I don't say you will love any one else, but youwill need some one near you who loves you, always at your service--"

"If you could only understand me, " she said, interrupting him. "Men, other men, are like actors to me. When I am on the stage, when I amplaying Manon, do you think I see who is playing Des Grieux? Not at all. He is there, he gives me my _replique_, he excites my nerves, I say athousand things under my breath, when I am in his arms I adore him, butwhen the curtain goes down, I go off the stage and don't even say goodnight to him. "

"But he, he doesn't know that. "

"Of course not; tenors never do. Well, that is just the way I havelived, that is just what men have meant to me. They give the _replique_to my moods, to my needs, and when I have no longer need of them, I gooff tranquilly. That is all there is to it. I take from them what Iwant. Of course they will be around me, but they will be nothing to me. They will be like managers, press-agents, actors. Don't you understandthat?"

"Yes, yes, I understand, " he said without sincerity. Then he blurtedout, "I wish you had not said it, all the same. "

"Why?"

"I cannot see it as you see it, and besides, you put a doubt in my mindthat I never wish to feel. "

"What doubt?"

"Do I really have you, or only a mood of yours?"

"Ben!"

"I know. I know. No, I am not going to think such things. That would beunworthy of what we have felt. " He paused a moment, and when he spokeagain his voice was under control. "Madeleine, remember well what I sayto you now. I shall probably never again speak to you with such absolutetruth, or even acknowledge it to myself. I accept the necessity ofseparation. I know all the sufferings it will bring, all the doubts, theunreasoning jealousies. I am big enough in experience to understand whatyou have just suggested to me, but as a man who loves you, Madeleine, Iwill never understand it. I know that a dozen men may come into yourlife, interest you intensely, even absorb you for a while, and that theywould still mean nothing to you the moment I come. Well, I amdifferent. A man is different. While you are away, I shall not see awoman without resentment; I shall not think of any one but you, and if Idid, I would cease to love you. "

"But why?"

"Because I cannot share anything of what belongs to you. That is mynature. There is no use in pretending the contrary. Yours is different, and I understand why it is so. I have listened to many confidences, understood many lives that others would not understand. I have alwaysmaintained that it is the natural thing for a human being to love manytimes--even that there might he in the same heart a great, overpoweringlove and a little one. I still believe it--with my mind. I know it isso. These are the things we like to analyze in human nature together. Iknow it is true, but it is not true for me. No, I would never understandit in you. I know myself too well, I am jealous of everything of thepast--oh, insanely jealous. I know that no sooner are you gone than Iwill be tortured by the most ridiculous doubts. I will see you in themoonlight all across that endless sea with other men near you. I willdream of other men with millions, ready to give you everything your eyesadore. I will imagine men of big minds that will fascinate you. I willeven say to myself that now that you have known what a great love canmean you will all the more be likely to need it, to seek something tocounterfeit it--"

"Ben, my poor Ben--frightful, " she murmured. 

"That is how it is. Shall I tell you something else?"

"What?"

"I wish devoutly you had never told me a word of--of the past. "

"But how can you say such things? We have been honest with each other. You yourself--"

"I know, I know, I have no right myself, and yet there it is. It issomething fearful, this madness of possession that comes to me. No, Ihave no fear that I will not always be first in your heart, only Iunderstand the needs, the habits, of your nature. I understand myselfnow as I have not before, and that's why I say to you solemnly, Madeleine, if ever for a moment another man should come into yourlife--never, never, let me know. "

"But--"

"No, don't say anything that I may remember to torture me. Lie to me. "

"I have never lied. "

"Madeleine, it is better to be merciful than to tell the truth, and, after all, what does such a confession mean? It only means that you freeyour conscience and that the wound--the ache--remains with the other. Whatever happens, never tell me. Do you understand?"

This time she made no answer. She even ceased to look at him, her headdropped back, her arms motionless, one finger only revolving slowly onthe undulating arm of her chair. 

"I shall try by all the strength that is in me never to ask thatquestion, " he rushed on. "I know I shall make a hundred vows not to doso, and I know that the first time I look into your face I shall blurtit out. Ah, if--if--if it must be so, never let me know, for there arethoughts I cannot bear now that I've known you. " He flung himself at herside and took her roughly in his arms. "Madeleine, I know what I amsaying. I may tell you the contrary later. I may say it lightly, pretending it is of no importance. I may beg the truth of you with tearsin my eyes--I may swear to you that nothing but honesty counts betweenus, that I can understand, forgive, forget everything. Well, whatever Isay or do, never, never let me know--if you value my happiness, my peaceof mind, my life even!"

She laid her hand on his lips and then on his forehead to calm him, drawing his head to her shoulder. 

"Listen, Ben, " she said, gently. "I, the Madeleine Conti who loves you, am another being. I adore you so that I shall hate all other men, as youwill hate all other women. There will never be the slightest deceit orinfidelity between us. Ask any questions of me at any time. I know therecan be from now on but one answer. Have no fear. Do not tire yourselfin a senseless fever. There is so little time left. I love you. "

Never had he heard her voice so deep with sincerity and tenderness, andyet, as he surrendered to the touch of her soft hands, yielding up allhis doubts, he was conscious of a new alarm creeping into his heart;and, dissatisfied with what he himself had a moment before implored, inthe breath with which he whispered, "I believe you, " he said to himself:

"Does she say that because she believes it or has she begun to lie?"

II

For seven years they lived the same existence, separated sometimes forthree months, occasionally for six, and once because of a trip taken toSouth America for nearly a year. 

The first time that he joined her, after five months of longing, heremained a week without crying out the words that were heavy on hisheart. One day she said to him:

"What is there--back of your eyes, hidden away, that you are stifling?"

"You know, " he blurted out. 

"What?"

"Ah, I have tried not to say it, to live it down. I can't--it's beyondme. I shall have no peace until it is said. "

"Then say it. "

He took her face in his two hands and looked into her eyes. 

"Since I have been away, " he said brutally, "there has been no one elsein your heart? You have been true to me, to our love?"

"I have been true, " she answered with a little smile. 

He held his eyes on hers a long while, hesitating whether to be silentor to continue, and then, all at once, convinced, burst into tears andbegged her pardon. 

"Oh, I shouldn't have asked it--forgive me. "

"Do whatever is easiest for you, my love, " she answered. "There isnothing to forgive. I understand all. I love you for it. "

Only she never asked him any questions, and that alarmed him. 

The second time report had coupled her name with a Gabriel Lombardi, agreat baritone with whom she was appearing. When he arrived, as soon asthey were alone, he swung her about in his arms and cried in a strangledvoice:

"Swear to me that you have been faithful. "

"I swear. "

"Gabriel Lombardi"?

"I can't abide him". 

"Ah, if I had never told you to lie to me--fool that I was. "

Then she said calmly, with that deep conviction which always moved him:"Ben, when you asked me that, I told you I would never lie. I have toldyou the truth. No man has ever had the pressure of my fingers, and noman ever will. "

So intense had been his emotion that he had almost a paroxysm. When heopened his eyes he found her face wet with tears. 

"Ah, Madeleine, " he said, "I am brutal with you. I cannot help it. "

"I would not have you love me differently, " she said gently, and throughher tears he seemed to see a faint, elusive smile, that was gone quicklyif it was ever there at all. 

Another time, he said to himself: "No, I will say nothing. She will cometo me herself, put her arms around me, and tell me with a smile that noother thought has been in her heart all this while. That's it. If I waitshe will make the move, she will make the move each time--and that willbe much better. "

He waited three days, but she made no allusion. He waited another, andthen he said lightly:

"You see, I am reforming. "

"How so?"

"Why, I don't ask foolish questions any more. "

"That's so. "

"Still--"

"Well?" she said, looking up. 

"Still, you might have guessed what I wanted, " he answered, a littlehurt. 

She rose quickly and came lightly to him, putting her hand on hisshoulder. 

"Is that what you wish?" she said. 

"Yes. "

She repeated slowly her protestations and when she had ended, said, "Take me in your arms--hurt me. "

"Now she will understand, " he thought; "the next time she will notwait. "

But each time, though he martyrized his soul in patience, he was forcedto bring up the question that would not let him rest. 

He could not understand why she did not save him this useless agony. Sometimes when he wanted to find an excuse he said to himself it wasbecause she felt humiliated that he should still doubt. At other times, he stumbled on explanations that terrified him. Then he remembered withbitterness the promise that he had exacted from her, a promise that, instead of bringing him peace, had left only an endless torment, andforgetting all his protestations he would cry to himself, in a coldperspiration:

"Ah, if she is really lying, how can I ever be sure?"

III

In the eighth year, Madeleine Conti retired from the stage and announcedher marriage. After five years of complete happiness she was takensuddenly ill, as the result of exposure to a drenching storm. Oneafternoon, as he waited by her bedside, talking in broken tones of allthat they had been to each other, he said to her in a voice that hetried nervously to school to quietness:

"Madeleine, you know that our life together has been without theslightest shadow from the first. You know we have proved to each otherhow immense our love has been. In all these years I have grown inmaturity and understanding. I regret only one thing, and I haveregretted it bitterly, every day--that I once asked you, if--if ever fora moment another man came into your life to hide it from me, to tell mea lie. It was a great mistake. I have never ceased to regret it. Ourlove has been so above all worldly things that there ought not to be theslightest concealment between us. I release you from that promise. Tellme now the truth. It will mean nothing to me. During the eight yearswhen we were separated there were--there must have been times, times ofloneliness, of weakness, when other men came into your life. Weren'tthere?"

She turned and looked at him steadily, her large eyes seeming larger andmore brilliant from the heightened fever of her cheeks. Then she made alittle negative sign of her head, still looking at him. 

"No, never. "

"You don't understand, Madeleine, " he said, dissatisfied, "or you arestill thinking of what I said to you there in Etretat. That was thirteenyears ago. Then I had just begun to love you, I feared for the future, for everything. Now I have tested you, and I have never had a doubt. Iknow the difference between the flesh and the spirit. I know your twoselves; I know how impossible it would have been otherwise. Now you cantell me. "

"There is nothing--to tell, " she said slowly. 

"I expected that you would have other men who loved you about you, " hesaid, feverishly. "I knew it would be so. I swear to you I expected it. I know why you continue to deny it. It's for my sake, isn't it? I loveyou for it. But, believe me, in such a moment there ought nothing tostand between us. Madeleine, Madeleine, I beg you, tell me the truth. "

She continued to gaze at him fixedly, without turning away her greateyes, as forgetting himself, he rushed on:

"Yes, let me know the truth--that will be nothing now. Besides, I haveguessed it. Only I must know one way or the other. All these years Ihave lived in doubt. You see what it means to me. You must understandwhat is due me after all our life together. Madeleine, did you lie tome?"

"No. "

"Listen, " he said, desperately. "You never asked me the samequestion--why, I never understood--but if you had questioned me I couldnot have answered truthfully what you did. There, you see, there is nolonger the slightest reason why you should not speak the truth. "

She half closed her eyes--wearily. 

"I have told--the truth. "

"Ah, I can't believe it, " he cried, carried away. "Oh, cursed day when Itold you what I did. It's that which tortures me. You adore me--youdon't wish to hurt me, to leave a wound behind, but I swear to you ifyou told me the truth I should feel a great weight taken from my heart, a weight that has been here all these years. I should know that everycorner of your soul had been shown to me, nothing withheld. I shouldknow absolutely, Madeleine, believe me, when I tell you this, when Itell you I must know. Every day of my life I have paid the penalty, Ihave suffered the doubts of the damned, I have never known an hour'speace! I beg you, I implore you, only let me know the truth; thetruth--I must know the truth!"

He stopped suddenly, trembling all over, and held out his hands to her, his face lashed with suffering. 

"I have not lied, " she said slowly, after a long study. She raised hereyes, feebly made the sign of the cross, and whispered, "I swear it. "

Then he no longer held in his tears. He dropped his head, and his bodyshook with sobs, while from time to time he repeated, "Thank God, thankGod. "

IV

The next day Madeleine Conti had a sudden turn for the worse, whichsurprised the attendants. Doctor Kimball, the American, doctor, and PèreFrançois, who had administered the last rites, were walking together inthe little formal garden, where the sun flung short, brilliant shadowsof scattered foliage about them. 

"She was an extraordinary artist and her life was more extraordinary, "said Dr. Kimball. "I heard her début at the Opéra Comique. For ten yearsher name was the gossip of all Europe. Then all at once she meets a manwhom no one knows, falls in love, and is transformed. These women arereally extraordinary examples of hysteria. Each time I know one it makesme understand the scientific phenomenon of Mary Magdalene. It is reallya case of nerve reaction. The moral fever that is the fiercest burnsitself out the quickest and seems to leave no trace behind. In this caselove came also as a religious conversion. I should say the phenomenawere identical. "

"She was happy, " said the curé, turning to go. 

"Yes, it was a great romance. "

"A rare one. She adored him. Love is a tide that cleanses all. "

"Yet she was of the stage up to the last. You know she would not haveher husband in the room at the end. "

"She had a great heart, " said the curé quietly. "She wished to sparehim that suffering. "

"She had an extraordinary will, " said the doctor, glancing at himquickly. He added, tentatively: "She asked two questions that werecurious enough. "

"Indeed, " said the curé, lingering a moment with his hand on the gate. 

"She wanted to know whether persons in a delirium talked of the past andif after death the face returned to its calm. "

"What did you say to her about the effects of delirium?" said the curéwith his blank face. 

"That it was a point difficult to decide, " said the doctor slowly. "Undoubtedly, in a delirium, everything is mixed, the real and theimagined, the memory and the fantasy, actual experience and the innerdream-life of the mind which is so difficult to classify. It was afterthat, that she made her husband promise to see her only when she wasconscious and to remain away at the last. "

"It is easily understood, " said the curé quietly, without change ofexpression on his face that held the secrets of a thousandconfessionals. "As you say, for ten years she had lived a differentlife. She was afraid that in her delirium some reference to that timemight wound unnecessarily the man who had made over her life. She had agreat courage. Peace be with her soul. "

"Still, "--Doctor Kimball hesitated, as though considering the phrasingof a delicate question; but Father François, making a little amical signof adieu, passed out of the garden, and for a moment his blank face wasillumined by one of those rare smiles, such as one sees on the faces ofholy men; smiles that seem in perfect faith to look upon the mysteriesof the world to come. 

EVEN THREES

I

Ever since the historic day when a visiting clergyman accomplished thefeat of pulling a ball from the tenth tee at an angle of two hundred andtwenty-five degrees into the river that is the rightful receptacle forthe eighth tee, the Stockbridge golf-course has had seventeen out of theeighteen holes that are punctuated with possible water hazards. Thecharming course itself lies in the flat of the sunken meadows which theHousatonic, in the few thousand years which are necessary for the properpreparation of a golf-course, has obligingly eaten out of the high, accompanying bluffs. The river, which goes wriggling on its way asthough convulsed with merriment, is garnished with luxurious elms andwillows, which occasionally deflect to the difficult putting-greens therandom slices of certain notorious amateurs. 

From the spectacular bluffs of the educated village of Stockbridgenothing can be imagined more charming than the panorama that the coursepresents on a busy day. Across the soft, green stretches, diminutivecaddies may be seen scampering with long buckling-nets, while from theriver-banks numerous recklessly exposed legs wave in the air as the moresocially presentable portions hang frantically over the swirlingcurrent. Occasionally an enthusiastic golfer, driving from the eighth orninth tees, may be seen to start immediately in headlong pursuit of adiverted ball, the swing of the club and the intuitive leap of the legsforward forming so continuous a movement that the main purpose of thegame often becomes obscured to the mere spectator. Nearer, in thenumerous languid swales that nature has generously provided to protectthe interests of the manufacturers, or in the rippling patches of unmowngrass, that in the later hours will be populated by enthusiasticcaddies, desperate groups linger in botanizing attitudes. 

Every morning lawyers who are neglecting their clients, doctors who haveforgotten their patients, business men who have sacrificed theiraffairs, even ministers of the gospel who have forsaken their churches, gather in the noisy dressing-room and listen with servile attentionwhile some unscrubbed boy who goes around under eighty imparts a littleof his miraculous knowledge. 

Two hours later, for every ten that have gone out so blithely, tworeturn crushed and despondent, denouncing and renouncing the game, onceand for all, absolutely and finally, until the afternoon, when theyreturn like thieves in the night and venture out in a desperate hope;two more come stamping back in even more offensive enthusiasm; and theremainder straggle home moody and disillusioned, reviving their sunkenspirits by impossible tales of past accomplishments. 

There is something about these twilight gatherings that suggests thedegeneracy of a rugged race; nor is the contamination of merely localsignificance. There are those who lie consciously, with a certain frank, commendable, whole-hearted plunge into iniquity. Such men return totheir worldly callings with intellectual vigor unimpaired and a naturalreaction toward the decalogue. Others of more casuistical temperament, unable all at once to throw over the traditions of a New Englandconscience to the exigencies of the game, do not burst at once intofalsehood, but by a confusing process weaken their memories and corrupttheir imaginations. They never lie of the events of the day. Rather theyreturn to some jumbled happening of the week before and deludethemselves with only a lingering qualm, until from habit they can createwhat is really a form of paranoia, the delusion of greatness, or theexaggerated ego. Such men, inoculated with self-deception, return to theouter world, to deceive others, lower the standards of businessmorality, contaminate politics, and threaten the vigor of the republic. R. N. Booverman, the Treasurer, and Theobald Pickings, the unenviedSecretary of an unenvied hoard, arrived at the first tee at preciselyten o'clock on a certain favorable morning in early August to begin thethirty-six holes which six times a week, six months of the year, theyplayed together as sympathetic and well-matched adversaries. Theirintimacy had arisen primarily from the fact that Pickings was the onlyman willing to listen to Booverman's restless dissertations on themalignant fates which seemed to pursue him even to the neglect of theirinternational duties, while Booverman, in fair exchange, sufferedPickings to enlarge ad libitum on his theory of the rolling versus theflat putting-greens. 

Pickings was one of those correctly fashioned and punctilious golferswhose stance was modeled on classic lines, whose drive, though itaveraged only twenty-five yards over the hundred, was always awell-oiled and graceful exhibition of the Royal St. Andrew's swing, theleft sole thrown up, the eyeballs bulging with the last musculartension, the club carried back until the whole body was contorted intothe first position of the traditional hoop-snake preparing to descend ahill. He used the interlocking grip, carried a bag with a spoon driver, an aluminium cleek, three abnormal putters, and wore one chamois glovewith air-holes on the back. He never accomplished the course in lessthan eighty five and never exceeded ninety four, but, having aimed toset a correct example rather than to strive vulgarly for professionalrecords, was always in a state of offensive optimism due to a completesartorial satisfaction. 

Booverman, on the contrary, had been hailed in his first years as acoming champion. With three holes eliminated, he could turn in a carddistinguished for its fours and threes; but unfortunately these sadlapses inevitably occurred. As Booverman himself admitted, hisappearance on the golf-links was the signal for the capricious imps ofchance who stir up politicians to indiscreet truths and keep the Balkanpot of discord bubbling, to forsake immediately these prime duties, andenjoy a little relaxation at his expense. 

Now, for the first three years Booverman responded in a manner todelight imp and devil. When standing thirty-four for the first sixholes, he sliced into the jungle, and, after twenty minutes of franticbeating of the bush, was forced to acknowledge a lost ball and no score, he promptly sat down, tore large clutches of grass from the sod, andexpressed himself to the admiring delight of the caddies, who favorablycompared his flow of impulsive expletives to the choice moments of theirown home life. At other times he would take an offending club firmly inhis big hands and break it into four pieces, which he would drive intothe ground, hurling the head itself, with a last diabolical gesture, into the Housatonic River, which, as may be repeated, wriggles its waythrough the course as though convulsed with merriment. 

There were certain trees into which he inevitably drove, certain waggishbends of the river where, no matter how he might face, he was sure toarrive. There was a space of exactly ten inches under the clubhousewhere his balls alone could disappear. He never ran down a long put, butalways hung on the rim of the cup. It was his adversary who executedphenomenal shots, approaches of eighty yards that dribbled home, sliceddrives that hit a fence and bounded back on the course. Nothing of thisagreeable sort had ever happened or could ever happen to him. Finallythe conviction of a certain predestined damnation settled upon him. Heno longer struggled; his once rollicking spirits settled into a moodydespair. Nothing encouraged him or could trick him into a display ofhope. If he achieved a four and two twos on the first holes, he wouldsay vindictively:

"What's the use? I'll lose my ball on the fifth. "

And when this happened, he no longer swore, but said gloomily with evena sense of satisfaction: "You can't get me excited. Didn't I know itwould happen?"

Once in a while he had broken out, "If ever my luck changes, if itcomes all at once--"

But he never ended the sentence, ashamed, as it were, to have indulgedin such a childish fancy. Yet, as Providence moves in a mysterious wayits wonders to perform, it was just this invincible pessimism that alonecould have permitted Booverman to accomplish the incredible experiencethat befell him. 

II

Topics of engrossing mental interests are bad form on the golf-links, since they leave a disturbing memory in the mind to divert it from thatabsolute intellectual concentration which the game demands. ThereforePickings and Booverman, as they started toward the crowded first tee, remarked _de rigueur_:

"Good weather. "

"A bit of a breeze. "

"Not strong enough to affect the drives. "

"The greens have baked out. "

"Fast as I've seen them. "

"Well, it won't help me. "

"How do you know?" said Pickings, politely, for the hundredth time. "Perhaps this is the day you'll get your score. "

Booverman ignored this set remark, laying his ball on the rack, wheretwo predecessors were waiting, and settled beside Pickings at the footof the elm which later, he knew, would rob him of a four on the homegreen. 

Wessels and Pollock, literary representatives, were preparing to drive. They were converts of the summer, each sacrificing their season's outputin a frantic effort to surpass the other. Pickings, the purist, did notapprove of them in the least. They brought to the royal and ancient gamea spirit of Bohemian irreverence and banter that offended his seriousenthusiasm. 

When Wessels made a convulsive stab at his ball and luckily achievedgood distance, Pollock remarked behind his hand, "A good shot, damn it!"

Wessels stationed himself in a hopefully deprecatory attitude andwatched Pollock build a monument of sand, balance his ball, andwhistling nervously through his teeth, lunge successfully down. Whereupon, in defiance of etiquette, he swore with equal fervor, andthey started off. 

Pickings glanced at Booverman in a superior and critical way, but atthis moment a thin, dyspeptic man with undisciplined whiskers broke inserenely without waiting for the answers to the questions he propounded:

"Ideal weather, eh? Came over from Norfolk this morning; ran over atfifty miles an hour. Some going, eh? They tell me you've quite a coursehere; record around seventy-one, isn't it? Good deal of water to keepout of? You gentlemen some of the cracks? Course pretty fast with allthis dry weather? What do you think of the one-piece driver? My friend, Judge Weatherup. My name's Yancy--Cyrus P. "

A ponderous person who looked as though he had been pumped up for thejourney gravely saluted, while his feverish companion rolled on:

"Your course's rather short, isn't it? Imagine it's rather easy for astraight driver. What's your record? Seventy-one amateur? Rather high, isn't it? Do you get many cracks around here? Caddies seem scarce. Dideither of you gentlemen ever reflect how surprising it is that betterscores aren't made at this game? Now, take seventy-one; that's only oneunder fours, and I venture to say at least six of your holes arepossible twos, and all the rest, sometime or other, have been made inthree. Yet you never hear of phenomenal scores, do you, like a run ofluck at roulette or poker? You get my idea?"

"I believe it is your turn, sir, " said Pickings, both crushing andparliamentary. "There are several waiting. "

Judge Weatherup drove a perfect ball into the long grass, wheresuccessful searches averaged ten minutes, while his voluble companion, with an immense expenditure of force, foozled into the swale to theleft, which was both damp and retentive. 

"Shall we play through?" said Pickings, with formal preciseness. Heteed his ball, took exactly eight full practice swings, and drove onehundred and fifty yards as usual directly in the middle of the course. 

"Well, it's straight; that's all can be said for it, " he said, as hewould say at the next seventeen tees. 

Booverman rarely employed that slogan. That straight and narrow path wasnot in his religious practice. He drove a long ball, and he drove agreat many that did not return in his bag. He glanced resentfully to theright, where Judge Weatherup was straddling the fence, and to the left, where Yancy was annoying the bullfrogs. 

"Darn them!" he said to himself. "Of course now I'll follow suit. "

But whether or not the malignant force of suggestion was neutralized bythe attraction in opposite directions, his drive went straight and far, a beautiful two hundred and forty yards. 

"Tine shot, Mr. Booverman, " said Frank, the professional, nodding hishead, "free and easy, plenty of follow-through. "

"You're on your drive to-day, " said Pickings, cheerfully. 

"Sure! When I get a good drive off the first tee, " said Boovermandiscouraged, "I mess up all the rest. You'll see. "

"Oh, come now, " said Pickings, as a matter of form. He played his shot, which came methodically to the edge of the green. 

Booverman took his mashy for the short running-up stroke to the pin, which seemed so near. 

"I suppose I've tried this shot a thousand times, " he said savagely. "Any one else would get a three once in five times--any one but Jonah'sfavorite brother. "

He swung carelessly, and watched with a tolerant interest the white ballroll on to the green straight for the flag. All at once Wessels andPollock, who were ahead, sprang into the air and began agitating theirhats. 

"By George! it's in!" said Pickings. "You've run it down. First hole intwo! Well, what do you think of that?"

Booverman, unconvinced, approached the hole with suspicion, gingerlyremoving the pin. At the bottom, sure enough, lay his ball for aphenomenal two. 

"That's the first bit of luck that has ever happened to me, " he saidfuriously; "absolutely the first time in my whole career. "

"I say, old man, " said Pickings, in remonstrance, "you're not angryabout it, are you?"

"Well, I don't know whether I am or not, " said Booverman, obstinately. In fact, he felt rather defrauded. The integrity of his record wasattacked. "See here, I play thirty-six holes a day, two hundred andsixteen a week, a thousand a month, six thousand a year; ten years, sixty thousand holes; and this is the first time a bit of luck has everhappened to me--once in sixty thousand times. "

Pickings drew out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. 

"It may come all at once, " he said faintly. 

This mild hope only infuriated Booverman. He had already teed his ballfor the second hole, which was poised on a rolling hill one hundred andthirty-five yards away. It is considered rather easy as golf-holes go. The only dangers are a matted wilderness of long grass in front of thetee, the certainty of landing out of bounds on the slightest slice, orof rolling down hill into a soggy substance on a pull. Also there is atree to be hit and a sand-pit to be sampled. 

"Now watch my little friend the apple-tree, " said Booverman. "I'm goingto play for it, because, if I slice, I lose my ball, and that knocks mywhole game higher than a kite. " He added between his teeth: "All I askis to get around to the eighth hole before I lose my ball. I know I'lllose it there. "

Due to the fact that his two on the first brought him not the slightestthrill of nervous joy, he made a perfect shot, the ball carrying thegreen straight and true. 

"This is your day all right, " said Pickings, stepping to the tee. 

"Oh, there's never been anything the matter with my irons, " saidBooverman, darkly. "Just wait till we strike the fourth and fifthholes. "

When they climbed the hill, Booverman's ball lay within three feet ofthe cup, which he easily putted out. 

"Two down, " said Pickings, inaudibly. "By George! what a gloriousstart!"

"Once in sixty thousand times, " said Booverman to himself. The thirdhole lay two hundred and five yards below, backed by the road andtrapped by ditches, where at that moment Pollock, true to his traditionsas a war correspondent, was laboring in the trenches, to theunrestrained delight of Wessels, who had passed beyond. 

"Theobald, " said Booverman, selecting his cleek and speaking withinspired conviction, "I will tell you exactly what is going to happen. Iwill smite this little homeopathic pill, and it will land just where Iwant it. I will probably put out for another two. Three holes in twoswould probably excite any other human being on the face of this globe. It doesn't excite me. I know too well what will follow on the fourth orfifth. Watch. "

"Straight to the pin, " said Pickings in a loud whisper. "You've got adead line on every shot to-day. Marvelous! When you get one of yourstreaks, there's certainly no use in my playing. "

"Streak's the word, " said Booverman, with a short, barking laugh. "Thankheaven, though, Pickings, I know it! Five years ago I'd have beenshaking like a leaf. Now it only disgusts me. I've been fooled toooften; I don't bite again. "

In this same profoundly melancholic mood he approached his ball, whichlay on the green, hole high, and put down a difficult put, a good threeyards for his third two. 

Pickings, despite all his classic conservatism, was so overcome withexcitement that he twice putted over the hole for a shameful five. 

Booverman's face as he walked to the fourth tee was as joyless as aLondon fog. He placed his ball carelessly, selected his driver, andturned on the fidgety Pickings with the gloomy solemnity of a fatherabout to indulge in corporal punishment. 

"Once in sixty thousand times, Picky. Do you realize what a start likethis--three twos--would mean to a professional like Frank or even anamateur that hadn't offended every busy little fate and fury in thewhole hoodooing business? Why, the blooming record would be knocked intothe middle of next week. "

"You'll do it, " said Pickings in a loud whisper. "Play carefully. "

Booverman glanced down the four-hundred-yard straightaway and murmuredto himself:

 "I wonder, little ball, whither will you fly? I wonder, little ball, have I bid you good-by? Will it be 'mid the prairies in the regions to the west? Will it be in the marshes where the pollywogs nest? Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"

[Illustration: "Oh, tell me, little ball, is it ta-ta or good-by?"]

He pronounced the last word with a settled conviction, and drove anotherlong, straight drive. Pickings, thrilled at the possibility of anothermiracle, sliced badly. 

"This is one of the most truly delightful holes of a picturesquecourse, " said Booverman, taking out an approaching cleek for his secondshot. "Nothing is more artistic than the tiny little patch ofputting-green under the shaggy branches of the willows. The receptivegraveyard to the right gives a certain pathos to it, a splendid, quietnote in contrast to the feeling of the swift, hungry river to the left, which will now receive and carry from my outstretched hand this littlewhite floater that will float away from me. No matter; I say again thefourth green is a thing of ravishing beauty. "

This second shot, low and long, rolled up in the same unvarying line. 

"On the green, " said Pickings. 

"Short, " said Booverman, who found, to his satisfaction, that he wasright by a yard. 

"Take your time, " said Pickings, biting his nails. 

"Rats! I'll play it for a five, " said Booverman. 

His approach ran up on the line, caught the rim of the cup, hesitated, and passed on a couple of feet. 

"A four, anyway, " said Pickings, with relief. 

"I should have had a three, " said Booverman, doggedly. "Any one elsewould have had a three, straight on the cup. You'd have had a three, Picky; you know you would. "

Pickings did not answer. He was slowly going to pieces, forgetting theinvincible stoicism that is the pride of the true golfer. 

"I say, take your time, old chap, " he said, his voice no longer undercontrol. "Go slow! go slow!"

"Picky, for the first four years I played this course, " saidBooverman, angrily, "I never got better than a six on this simplethree-hundred-and-fifty-yard hole. I lost my ball five times out ofseven. There is something irresistibly alluring to me in the mosquitopatches to my right. I think it is the fond hope that when I lose thisnice new ball I may step inadvertently on one of its hundred brothers, which I may then bring home and give decent burial. "

Pickings, who felt a mad and ungolfish desire to entreat him to caution, walked away to fight down his emotion. 

"Well?" he said, after the click of the club had sounded. 

"Well, " said Booverman, without joy, "that ball is lying about twohundred and forty yards straight up the course, and by this time it hascome quietly to a little cozy home in a nice, deep hoof track, just as Ifound it yesterday afternoon. Then I will have the exquisite pleasure oftaking my niblick, and whanging it out for the loss of a stroke. That'llinfuriate me, and I'll slice or pull. The best thing to do, I suppose, would be to play for a conservative six. "

When, after four butchered shots, Pickings had advanced to whereBooverman had driven, the ball lay in clear position just beyond thebumps and rills that ordinarily welcome a long shot. Booverman played aperfect mashy, which dropped clear on the green, and ran down a moderateput for a three. 

They then crossed the road and arrived by a planked walk at a dirt moundin the midst of a swamp. Before them the cozy marsh lay stagnant aheadand then sloped to the right in the figure of a boomerang, making forthose who fancied a slice a delightful little carry of one hundred andfifty yards. To the left was a procession of trees, while beyond, on thecourse, for those who drove a long ball, a giant willow had fallen theyear before in order to add a new perplexity and foster the enthusiasmfor luxury that was beginning among the caddies. 

"I have a feeling, " said Booverman, as though puzzled but not duped bywhat had happened--"I have a strange feeling that I'm not going to getinto trouble here. That would be too obvious. It's at the seventh oreighth holes that something is lurking around for me. Well, I won'twaste time. "

He slapped down his ball, took a full swing, and carried the far-offbank with a low, shooting drive that continued bounding on. 

"That ought to roll forever, " said Pickings, red with excitement. 

"The course is fast--dry as a rock, " said Booverman, deprecatingly. 

Pickings put three balls precisely into the bubbling water, and drewalongside on his eighth shot. Booverman's drive had skimmed over thedried plain for a fair two hundred and seventy-five yards. His secondshot, a full brassy, rolled directly on the green. 

"If he makes a four here, " said Pickings to himself, "he'll be playingfive under four--no, by thunder! seven under four!" Suddenly he stopped, overwhelmed. "Why, he's actually around threes--two under three now. Heavens! if he ever suspects it, he'll go into a thousand pieces. "

As a result, he missed his own ball completely, and then topped it for abare fifty yards. 

"I've never seen you play so badly, " said Booverman in a grumbling tone. "You'll end up by throwing me off. "

When they arrived at the green, Booverman's ball lay about thirty feetfrom the flag. 

"It's a four, a sure four, " said Pickings under his breath. 

Suddenly Booverman burst into an exclamation. 

"Picky, come here. Look--look at that!"

The tone was furious. Pickings approached. 

"Do you see that?" said Booverman, pointing to a freshly laid circle ofsod ten inches from his ball. "That, my boy, was where the cup wasyesterday. If they hadn't moved the flag two hours ago, I'd have had athree. Now, what do you think of that for rotten luck?"

"Lay it dead, " said Pickings, anxiously, shaking his headsympathetically. "The green's a bit fast. "

The put ran slowly up to the hole, and stopped four inches short. 

"By heavens! why didn't I put over it!" said Booverman, brandishing hisputter. "A thirty-foot put that stops an inch short--did you ever seeanything like it? By everything that's just and fair I should have had athree. You'd have had it, Picky. Lord! if I only could put!"

"One under three, " said Pickings to his fluttering inner self. "He can'trealize it. If I can only keep his mind off the score!"

The seventh tee is reached by a carefully planned, fatiguing flight ofsteps to the top of a bluff, where three churches at the back beckon somany recording angels to swell the purgatory lists. As you advance tothe abrupt edge, everything is spread before you; nothing is concealed. In the first plane, the entangling branches of a score of apple-treesare ready to trap a topped ball and bury it under impossible piles ofdry leaves. Beyond, the wired tennis-courts give forth a musical, tinnynote when attacked. In the middle distance a glorious sycamore draws youto the left, and a file of elms beckon the sliced way to a marsh, wilderness of grass and an overgrown gully whence no balls return. Infront, one hundred and twenty yards away, is a formidable bunker, running up to which is a tract of long grass, which two or three times ayear is barbered by a charitable enterprise. The seventh hole itselflies two hundred and sixty yards away in a hollow guarded by a sunkenditch, a sure three or--a sure six. 

Booverman was still too indignant at the trick fate had played him onthe last green to yield to any other emotion. He forgot that a dozengood scores had ended abruptly in the swale to the right. He was onlyirritated. He plumped down his ball, dug his toes in the ground, andsent off another long, satisfactory drive, which added more fuel to hisanger. 

"Any one else would have had a three on the six, " he muttered as he leftthe tee. "It's too ridiculous. "

He had a short approach and an easy put, plucked his ball from the cup, and said in an injured tone:

"Picky, I feel bad about that sixth hole, and the fourth, too. I'velost a stroke on each of them. I'm playing two strokes more than I oughtto be. Hang it all! that sixth wasn't right! You told me the green wasfast. "

"I'm sorry, " said Pickings, feeling his fingers grow cold and clammy onthe grip. 

The eighth hole has many easy opportunities. It is five hundred andtwenty yards long, and things may happen at every stroke. You may beginin front of the tee by burying your ball in the waving grass, which isalways permitted a sort of poetical license. There are the traps to theseventh hole to be crossed, and to the right the paralleling river canbe reached by a short stab or a long, curling slice, which theprevailing wind obligingly assists to a splashing descent. 

"And now we have come to the eighth hole, " said Booverman, raising hishat in profound salutation. "Whenever I arrive here with a good score Itake from eight to eighteen, I lose one to three balls. On the contrary, when I have an average of six, I always get a five and often a four. Howthis hole has changed my entire life!" He raised his ball and addressedit tenderly: "And now, little ball, we must part, you and I. It seems ashame; you're the nicest little ball I ever have known. You've stuck tome an awful long while. It's a shame. "

He teed up, and drove his best drive, and followed it with a brassy thatlaid him twenty yards off the green, where a good approach brought thedesired four. 

"Even threes, " said Pickings to himself, as though he had seen a ghost. Now he was only a golfer of one generation; there was nothing in hisinheritance to steady him in such a crisis. He began slowly todisintegrate morally, to revert to type. He contained himself untilBooverman had driven free of the river, which flanks the entire greenpassage to the ninth hole, and then barely controlling the impulse tocatch Booverman by the knees and implore him to discretion, he burstout:

"I say, dear boy, do you know what your score is?"

"Something well under four, " said Booverman, scratching his head. 

"Under four, nothing; even threes!"

"What?"

"Even threes. "

They stopped, and tabulated the holes. 

"So it is, " said Booverman, amazed. "What an infernal pity!"

"Pity?"

"Yes, pity. If only some one else could play it out!"

He studied the hundred and fifty yards that were needed to reach thegreen that was set in the crescent of surrounding trees, changed hisbrassy for his cleek, and his cleek for his midiron. 

"I wish you hadn't told me, " he said nervously. 

Pickings on the instant comprehended his blunder. For the first timeBooverman's shot went wide of the mark, straight into the trees thatbordered the river to the left. 

"I'm sorry, " said Pickings with a feeble groan. 

"My dear Picky, it had to come, " said Booverman, with a shrug of hisshoulders. "The ball is now lost, and all the score goes into the air, the most miraculous score any one ever heard of is nothing but a crushedegg!"

"It may have bounded back on the course, " said Pickings, desperately. 

"No, no, Picky; not that. In all the sixty thousand times I have hittrees, barns, car-tracks, caddies, fences, --"

"There it is!" cried Pickings, with a shout of joy. 

Fair on the course, at the edge of the green itself, lay the ball, whichsoon was sunk for a four. Pickings felt a strange, unaccountable desireto leap upon Booverman like a fluffy, enthusiastic dog; but he fought itback with the new sense of responsibility that came to him. So he saidartfully: "By George! old man, if you hadn't missed on the fourth or thesixth, you'd have done even threes!"

"You know what I ought to do now--I ought to stop, " said Booverman, inprofound despair--"quit golf and never lift another club. It's a crimeto go on; it's a crime to spoil such a record. Twenty-eight for nineholes, only forty-two needed for the next nine to break the record, andI have done it in thirty-three--and in fifty-three! I ought not to try;it's wrong. "

He teed his ball for the two-hundred-yard flight to the easy tenth, andtook his cleek. 

"I know just what'll happen now; I know it well. "

But this time there was no varying in the flight; the drive went true tothe green, straight on the flag, where a good but not difficult putbrought a two. 

"Even threes again, " said Pickings, but to himself. "It can't go on. Itmust turn. "

"Now, Pickings, this is going to stop, " said Booverman angrily. "I'm notgoing to make a fool of myself. I'm going right up to the tee, and I'mgoing to drive my ball right smack into the woods and end it. And Idon't care. "

"What!"

"No, I don't care. Here goes. "

Again his drive continued true, the mashy pitch for the second wasaccurate, and his put, after circling the rim of the cup, went down fora three. 

The twelfth hole is another dip into the long grass that might serve asan elephant's bed, and then across the Housatonic River, a carry of onehundred and twenty yards to the green at the foot of an intruding tree. 

"Oh, I suppose I'll make another three here, too, " said Booverman, moodily. "That'll only make it worse. "

He drove with his midiron high in the air and full on the flag. 

"I'll play my put carefully for three, " he said, nodding his head. Instead, it ran straight and down for two. 

He walked silently to the dreaded thirteenth tee, which, with thereturning fourteenth, forms the malignant Scylla and Charybdis of thecourse. There is nothing to describe the thirteenth hole. It is notreally a golf-hole; it is a long, narrow breathing spot, squeezed by therailroad tracks on one side and by the river on the other. Resolute andfearless golfers often cut them out entirely, nor are ashamed toacknowledge their terror. As you stand at the thirteenth tee, everythingis blurred to the eye. Near by are rushes and water, woods to the leftand right; the river and the railroad; and the dry land a hundred yardsaway looks tiny and distant, like a rock amid floods. 

A long drive that varies a degree is doomed to go out of bounds or totake the penalty of the river. 

"Don't risk it. Take an iron--play it carefully, " said Pickings in avoice that sounded to his own ears unrecognizable. 

Booverman followed his advice and landed by the fence to the left, almost off the fair. A midiron for his second put him in position foranother four, and again brought his score to even threes. 

When the daring golfer has passed quaking up the narrow way and stillsurvives, he immediately falls a victim to the fourteenth, which is abend hole, with all the agonies of the preceding thirteenth, augmentedby a second shot over a long, mushy pond. If you play a careful iron tokeep from the railroad, now on the right, or to dodge the river on yourleft, you are forced to approach the edge of the swamp with a cautiousfifty-yard-running-up stroke before facing the terrors of the carry. Adrive with a wooden club is almost sure to carry into the swamp, andonly a careful cleek shot is safe. 

"I wish I were playing this for the first time, " said Booverman, blackly. "I wish I could forget--rid myself of memories. I have seenclass A amateurs take twelve, and professionals eight. This is the endof all things, Picky, the saddest spot on earth. I won't waste time. Here goes. "

To Pickings's horror, the drive began slowly to slice out of bounds, toward the railroad tracks. 

"I knew it, " said Booverman, calmly, "and the next will go there, too;then I'll put one in the river, two the swamp, slice into--"

All at once he stopped, thunderstruck. The ball, hitting tire or rail, bounded high in the air, forward, back upon the course, lying in perfectposition; Pickings said something in a purely reverent spirit. 

"Twice in sixty thousand times, " said Booverman, unrelenting. "That onlyevens up the sixth hole. Twice in sixty thousand times!"

From where the ball lay an easy brassy brought it near enough to thegreen to negotiate another four. Pickings, trembling like a toy dog inzero weather, reached the green in ten strokes, and took three moreputs. 

The fifteenth, a short pitch over the river, eighty yards to a slantinggreen entirely surrounded by more long grass, which gave it theappearance of a chin spot on a full face of whiskers, was Booverman'sfavorite hole. While Pickings held his eyes to the ground and tried tobreathe in regular breaths, Booverman placed his ball, drove with therequisite back spin, and landed dead to the hole. Another two resulted. 

"Even threes--fifteen holes in even threes, " said Pickings to himself, his head beginning to throb. He wanted to sit down and take his templesin his hands, but for the sake of history he struggled on. 

"Damn it!" said Booverman all at once. 

"What's the matter?" said Pickings, observing his face black with fury. 

"Do you realize, Pickings, what it means to me to have lost those twostrokes on the fourth and sixth greens, and through no fault of mine, neither? Even threes for the whole course--that's what I could do if Ihad those two strokes--the greatest thing that's ever been seen on agolf-course. It may be a hundred years before any human being on theface of this earth will get such a chance. And to think I might havedone it with a little luck!"

Pickings felt his heart begin to pump, but he was able to say with somedegree of calm:

"You may get a three here. "

"Never. Four, three and four is what I'll end. "

"Well, good heavens! what do you want?"

"There's no joy in it, though, " said Booverman, gloomily. "If I hadthose two strokes back, I'd go down in history, I'd be immortal. Andyou, too, Picky, you'd be immortal, because you went around with me. Thefourth hole was bad enough, but the sixth was heartbreaking. "

His drive cleared another swamp and rolled well down the fartherplateau. A long cleek laid his ball off the green, a good approachstopped a little short of the hole, and the put went down. 

"Well, that ends it, " said Booverman, gloomily. 

"I've got to make a two and a three to do it. The two is quite possible;the three absurd. "

The seventeenth hole returns to the swamp that enlivens the sixth. It isa full cleek, with about six mental hazards distributed in Indianambush, and in five of them a ball may lie until the day of judgmentbefore rising again. 

Pickings turned his back, unable to endure the agony of watching. Theclick of the club was sharp and true. He turned to see the ball in fullflight arrive unerringly hole high on the green. 

"A chance for a two, " he said under his breath. He sent two balls intothe lost land to the left and one into the rough to the right. 

"Never mind me, " he said, slashing away in reckless fashion. 

Booverman with a little care studied the ten-foot route to the hole andputted down. 

"Even threes!" said Pickings, leaning against a tree. 

"Blast that sixth hole!" said Booverman, exploding. "Think of what itmight be, Picky--what it ought to be!"

Pickings retired hurriedly before the shaking approach of Booverman'sfrantic club. Incapable of speech, he waved him feebly to drive. Hebegan incredulously to count up again, as though doubting his senses. 

"One under three, even threes, one over, even, one under--"

"Here! What the deuce are you doing?" said Booverman, angrily. "Tryingto throw me off?"

"I didn't say anything, " said Pickings. 

"You didn't--muttering to yourself. "

"I must make him angry to keep his mind off the score, " said Pickings, feebly to himself. He added aloud, "Stop kicking about your old sixthhole! You've had the darndest luck I ever saw, and yet you grumble. "

Booverman swore under his breath, hastily approached his ball, droveperfectly, and turned in a rage. 

"Luck?" he cried furiously. "Pickings, I've a mind to wring your neck. Every shot I've played has been dead on the pin, now, hasn't it?"

"How about the ninth hole--hitting a tree?"

"Whose fault was that? You had no right to tell me my score, and, besides, I only got an ordinary four there, anyway. "

"How about the railroad track?"

"One shot out of bounds. Yes, I'll admit that. That evens up for thefourth. "

"How about your first hole in two?"

"Perfectly played; no fluke about it at all--once in sixty thousandtimes. Well, any more sneers? Anything else to criticize?"

"Let it go at that. "

Booverman, in this heckled mood, turned irritably to his ball, played along midiron, just cleared the crescent bank of the last swale, and ranup on the green. 

[Illustration: Wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on the clubhousewith the miraculous news]

"Damn that sixth hole!" said Booverman, flinging down his club andglaring at Pickings. "One stroke back, and I could have done it. "

Pickings tried to address, but the moment he swung his club, his legsbegan to tremble. He shook his head, took a long breath, and picked uphis ball. 

They approached the green on a drunken run in the wild hope that a shortput was possible. Unfortunately the ball lay thirty feet away, and thepath to the hole was bumpy and riddled with worm-casts. Still, there wasa chance, desperate as it was. 

Pickings let his bag slip to the ground and sat down, covering his eyeswhile Booverman with his putter tried to brush away the ridges. 

"Stand up!"

Pickings rose convulsively. 

"For heaven's sake, Picky, stand up! Try to be a man!" said Booverman, hoarsely. "Do you think I've any nerve when I see you with chills andfever? Brace up!"

"All right. "

Booverman sighted the hole, and then took his stance; but the cleek inhis hand shook like an aspen. He straightened up and walked away. 

"Picky, " he said, mopping his face, "I can't do it. I can't put it. "

"You must. "

"I've got buck fever. I'll never be able to put it--never. "

At the last, no longer calmed by an invincible pessimism, Booverman hadgone to pieces. He stood shaking from head to foot. 

"Look at that, " he said, extending a fluttering hand. "I can't do it; Ican never do it. "

"Old fellow, you must, " said Pickings; "you've got to. Bring yourselftogether. Here!" He slapped him on the back, pinched his arms, andchafed his fingers. Then he led him back to the ball, braced him intoposition, and put the putter in his hands. 

"Buck fever, " said Booverman in a whisper. "Can't see a thing. "

Pickings, holding the flag in the cup, said savagely:

"Shoot!"

The ball advanced in a zigzag path, running from worm-cast to aworm-cast, wobbling and rocking, and at the last, as though preordained, fell plump into the cup!

At the same moment, Pickings and Booverman, as though carried off by thesame cannon-ball, flattened on the green. 

III

Five minutes later, wild-eyed and hilarious, they descended on theclubhouse with the miraculous news. For an hour the assembled golfersroared with laughter as the two stormed, expostulated, and swore to thetruth of the tale. 

[Illustration: A committee carefully examined the books of the club]

They journeyed from house to house in a vain attempt to find someconvert to their claim. For a day they passed as consummate comedians, and the more they yielded to their rage, the more consummate was theirart declared. Then a change took place. From laughing the educated townof Stockbridge turned to resentment, then to irritation, and finally tosuspicion. Booverman and Pickings began to lose caste, to be regarded asunbalanced, if not positively dangerous. Unknown to them, a committeecarefully examined the books of the club. At the next election anothertreasurer and another secretary were elected. 

Since then, month in and month out, day after day, in patient hope, thetwo discredited members of the educated community of Stockbridge may beseen, _accompanied by caddies_, toiling around the links in a desperatebelief that the miracle that would restore them to standing may berepeated. Each time as they arrive nervously at the first tee andprepare to swing, something between a chuckle and a grin runs throughthe assemblage, while the left eyes contract waggishly, and a murmuringmay be heard, "Even threes. "

 * * * * *

The Stockbridge golf-links is a course of ravishing beauty and theHousatonic River, as has been said, goes wriggling around it as thoughconvulsed with merriment. 

A MAN OF NO IMAGINATION

I

Inspector Frawley, of the Canadian Secret Service, stood at attention, waiting until the scratch of a pen should cease throughout the dim, spacious office and the Honorable Secretary of Justice should acquainthim with his desires. 

He held himself deferentially, body compact, eyes clear and steady, faceblank and controlled, without distinction, without significance, a manmediocre as a crowd. His hands were joined loosely behind his back; hisglance, without deviating, remained persistently on the profile of theHonorable Secretary, as though in that historic room the human notealone could compel his curiosity. 

The thin squeak of the pen faded into the silences of the great room. The Secretary of Justice ran his fingers over his forehead, looked up, and met the Inspector's gaze--fixed, profound, and mathematical. With asudden unease he pushed back his chair, troubled by the analysis of hisbanal man, who, in another turn of Fate, might pursue him asdispassionately as he now stood before him for his commands. With a fewrapid strides he crossed the room, lit a cigar, blew into the swirl ofsmoke this caprice of his imagination, and returned stolidly, as becamea man of facts and figures. 

Flinging himself loosely in an easy chair, he threw a rapid glance athis watch, locked his fingers, and began with the nervous directness ofone who wishes to be rid of formalities:

"Well, Inspector, you returned this morning?"

"An hour ago, sir. "

"A creditable bit of work, Inspector Frawley--the department ispleased. "

"Thank you indeed, sir. "

"Does the case need you any more?"

"I should say not, sir--no, sir. "

"You are ready to report for duty?"

"Oh, yes, sir. "

"How soon?"

"I think I'm ready now, sir--yes, sir. "

"Glad to hear it, Inspector, very glad. You're the one man I wanted. " Asthough the civilities had been sufficiently observed, the Secretarystiffened in his chair and continued rapidly: "It's that Toronto affair;you've read the details. The government lost $350, 000. We caught four ofthe gang, but the ringleader got away with the money. Have you studiedit? What did you make of it? Sit down. "

Frawley took a chair stiffly, hanging his hat between his knees andconsidering. 

"It did look like work from the States, " he said thoughtfully. "I begpardon, did you say they'd caught some of the gang?"

"Four--this morning. The telegram's just in. "

The Honorable Secretary, a little strange yet to the routine of theoffice, looked at Frawley with a sudden desire to test his memory. 

"Do you know the work?" he asked; "could you recognize the ringleader?"

"That might not be so hard, sir, " said Frawley, with a nod; "we knowpretty well, of course, who's able to handle such jobs as that. Wouldyou have a description anywhere?"

The Honorable Secretary rose, took from his desk a paper, and began toread. In his seat Inspector Frawley crossed his legs carefully, drew hisfists up under his chin, and stared at the reader, but without focusinghis glance on him. Once during the recital he started at some item ofdescription, but immediately relaxed. The report finished, the Secretarylet it drop into his lap and waited, impressed, despite himself, at thethought of the immense galleries of crime through which the Inspectorwas seeking his victim. All at once into the unseeing stare thereflickered a light of understanding. Frawley returned to the room, sawthe Secretary, and nodded. 

"It's Bucky, " he said tentatively. A moment his glance wentreflectively to a far corner, then he nodded slowly, looked at theSecretary, and said with conviction: "It looks very much, sir, likeBucky Greenfield. "

"It is Greenfield, " replied the Secretary, without attempting to concealhis astonishment. 

"I would like to observe, " said Frawley thoughtfully, without noticinghis surprise, "that there is a bit of an error in that description, sir. It's the left ear that's broken. Furthermore, he don't toeout--excepting when he does it on a purpose. So it's Bucky GreenfieldI'm to bring back, sir?"

The Secretary nodded, penciling Frawley's correction on the paper. 

"Bucky--well, now, that is odd!" said Frawley musingly. He rose and tooka step to the desk. "Very odd. " Mechanically he saw the stragglingpapers on the top and arranged them into orderly piles. "Well, he can'tsay I didn't warn him!"

"What!" broke in the Secretary in quick astonishment, "you know thefellow?"

"Indeed, yes, sir, " said Frawley, with a nod. "We know most of thecrooks in the States. We're good friends, too--so long as they stay overthe line. It's useful, you know. So I'm to go after Bucky?"

The Secretary, judging the moment had arrived to be impressive, saidsolemnly:

"Inspector Frawley, if you have to stick to it until he dies of old age, you're never to let up until you get Bucky Greenfield! While theBritish Empire holds together, no man shall rob Her Majesty of afarthing and sleep in security. You understand the situation?"

"I do, sir. "

The Honorable Secretary, only half satisfied, continued:

"Your credit is unlimited--there'll be no question of that. If you needto buy up a whole South American government--buy it! By the way, he willmake for South America, will he not?"

"Probably--yes, sir. Chile or the Argentine--there's no extraditiontreaty there. "

"But even then, " broke in the Secretary with a nervous frown--"there areways--other ways?"

"Oh, yes. " Frawley, picking up a paper-cutter, stood by the manteltapping his palm. "Oh, yes--there are other ways! So it's Bucky--well, Iwarned him!"

"Now, Inspector, to settle the matter, " interrupted the Secretary, anxious to return to his routine, "when can you go on the case?"

"If the papers are ready, sir--"

"They are--everything. The Home Office has been cabled. To-morrow everyBritish official throughout the world will be notified to render youassistance and honor your drafts. "

Inspector Frawley heard with approval and consulted his watch. 

"There's an express for New York leaves at noon, " he saidreflectively--then, with a glance at the clock, "thirty-five minutes; Ican make that, sir. "

"Good, very good. "

"If I might suggest, sir--if the Inspector who has had the case in handcould go a short distance with me?"

"Inspector Keech shall join you at the station. "

"Thank you, sir. Is there anything further?"

The Secretary shook his head, and springing up, held out his handenthusiastically. 

"Good luck to you, Inspector--you have a big thing ahead of you, a verybig thing. "

"Thank you, sir. "

"By the way--you're not married?"

"No, sir. "

"This is pretty short notice. How long have you been on this othercase?"

"A trifle over six months, sir. "

"Don't you want a couple of days to rest up? I can let you have thatvery easily. "

"It really makes no difference--I think I'll leave to-day, sir. "

"Oh, a moment more, Inspector--"

Frawley halted. 

"How long do you think this ought to take you?"

Frawley considered, and answered carefully:

"It'll be long, I think. You see, there are several circumstances thatare unusual about this case. "

"How so?"

"Well, Buck is clever--there's no gainsaying that--quite at the top ofthe profession. Then, he's expecting me. "

"You?"

"They're a queer lot, " Frawley explained with a touch of pride. "Crooksare full of little vanities. You see, Bucky knows I've never dropped atrail, and I think it's rather gotten on his nerves. I think he wasn'tsatisfied until he dared me. He's very odd--very odd indeed. It's alittle personal. I doubt, sir, if I bring him back alive. "

"Inspector Frawley, " said the new Secretary, "I hope I have sufficientlyimpressed upon you the importance of your mission. "

Frawley stared at his chief in surprise. 

"I'm to stick to him until I get him, " he said in wonder; "that's all, isn't it, sir?"

The Secretary, annoyed by his lack of imagination, essayed a finalphrase. 

"Inspector, this is my last word, " he said with a frown; "remember thatyou represent Her Majesty's government--you are Her Majesty'sgovernment! I have confidence in you. "

"Thank you, sir. "

Frawley moved slowly to the door and with his hand on the knobhesitated. The Secretary saw in the movement a reluctance to take thedecisive step that must open before him the wide stretches of the world. 

"After all, he must have a speck of imagination, " he thought, reassured. 

"I beg pardon, sir. "

Frawley had turned in embarrassment. 

"Well, Inspector, what can I do for you?"

"If you please, sir, " said Frawley, "I was just thinking--after all, ithas been a bit of a while since I've been home--indeed, I should like itvery much if I could take a good English mutton-chop and a musty ale atold Nell's, sir. I can still get the two o'clock express. "

"Granted!"

"If you'd prefer not, sir, " said Frawley, surprised at the vexation inhis answer. 

"Not at all--take the two o'clock--good day, good day!"

Inspector Frawley, sorely puzzled, shifted his balance, opened hismouth, then with a bob of his head answered hastily:

"A--good day, sir!"

II

Sam Greenfield, known as "Bucky, " age about 42, height about 5 feet 10inches, weight between 145 and 150. Hair mouse-colored, thinning outover forehead, parted in middle, showing scalp beneath; mustache wouldbe lighter than hair--if not dyed; usually clipped to about an inch. Waxy complexion, light blue eyes a little close together, thin nose, aprominent dimple on left cheek--may wear whiskers. Laughs in low key. Left ear lobe broken. Slightly bowlegged. While in conversation strokeschin. When standing at a counter or bar goes through motions, as ifjerking himself together, crowding his elbows slowly to his side for amoment, then, throwing back his head, jumps up from his heels. Whendreaming, attempts to bite mustache with lower lip. When he sits in achair places himself sidewise and hangs both arms over back. In walkingstrikes back part of heel first, and is apt to waver from time to time. Dresses neatly, carries hands in side-pockets only--plays pianoconstantly, composing as he goes along. During day smokes twenty tothirty cigarettes, cutting them in half for cigarette-holder andthrowing them away after three or four whiffs. After dinner invariablysmokes one cigar. Cut is good likeness. Cut of signature is facsimile ofhis original writing. 

With this overwhelming indictment against the liberty of the fugitive, to escape which Greenfield would have to change his temperament as wellas his physical aspect, Inspector Frawley took the first steamer fromNew York to the Isthmus of Panama. 

He had slight doubt of Greenfield's final destination, for the flight ofthe criminal is a blind instinct for the south as though a franticreturn to barbarism. At this time Chile and the Argentine had not yetaccepted the principle of extradition, and remained the Mecca of thelawbreakers of the world. 

Yet though Frawley felt certain of Greenfield's objective, he did notat once strike for the Argentine. The Honorable Secretary of Justice hadeliminated the necessity for considering time. Frawley had no need toguess, nor to risk. He had simply to become a wheel in the machinery ofthe law, to grind slowly, tirelessly, and inexorably. This idea suitedadmirably his temperament and his desires. 

He arrived at Colon, took train for Panama across the laborious pathwhere a thousand little men were scratching endlessly, and on the brinkof the Pacific began his search. No one had heard of Greenfield. 

At the end of a week's waiting he boarded a steamer and crawled down thewestern coast of South America, investigating every port, braving theyellow fever at Guayaquil, Ecuador, and facing a riot at Callao, Peru, before he found at Lima the trail of the fugitive. Greenfield had passedthe day there and left for Chile. Dragging each intermediate port withthe same caution, Frawley followed the trail to Valparaiso. Greenfieldhad stayed a week and again departed. 

Frawley at once took steamer for the Argentine, passed down the tongueof South America, through the Straits of Magellan, and arrived at lengthin the harbor of Buenos Ayres. 

An hour later, as he took his place at the table in the CriterionGardens, a hand fell on his shoulder and some one at his back said:

"Well, Bub!"

He turned. A thin man of medium height, with blue eyes and yellowcomplexion, was laughing in expectation of his discomfiture. Frawleylaid down the menu carefully, raised his head, and answered quietly:

"Why, how d'ye do, Bucky?"

III

"We shake, of course, " said Greenfield, holding out his hand. 

"Why not? Sit down. "

The fugitive slid into a chair and hung his arms over the back, askingimmediately:

"What took you so long? You're after me, of course?"

"Am I?" Frawley answered, looking at him steadily. Greenfield, with atwitch of his shoulders, returned to his question:

"What took you so long? Didn't you guess I'd come direct?"

"I'm not guessing, " said Frawley. 

"What do you say to dining on me?" said Greenfield with a malicioussmile. "I owe you that. I clipped your vacation pretty short. Besides--guess you know it yourself--you can't touch me here. Why nottalk things over frankly? Say, Bub, shall it be on me?"

"I'm willing. "

A waiter sidled up and took the order that Greenfield gave withouthesitation. 

"You see, even the dinner was ready for you, " he said with a wink; "seehow you like it. " With a gesture of impatience he pushed aside the menu, squared his arms on the table, and looked suddenly at his pursuer withthe deviltry of a schoolboy glistening in his eyes. "Well, Bub, I wentinto your all-fired Canady!"

"So you did--why?"

"Well, " said Greenfield, drawing lines with his knife-point on the nap, "one reason was I wanted to see if Her Majesty's shop has such anall-fired long arm--"

"And the other reason was I warned you to keep over the line. "

"Why, Bub, you _are_ a bright boy!"

"It ain't me, Bucky, " Frawley answered, with a shake of his head; "it'sthe all-fired government that's after you. "

"Good--first rate--then we'll have a little excitement!"

"You'll have plenty of that, Bucky!"

"Maybe, Bub, maybe. Well, I made a neat job of it, didn't I?"

"You did, " admitted Frawley with an appreciative nod. "But you werewrong--you were wrong--you should have kept off. The Canadian Governmentain't like your bloomin' democracy. It don't forgive--it don't forget. Tack that up, Bucky. It's a principle we've got at stake with you!"

"Don't I know it?" cried Greenfield, striking the table. "What else doyou think I did it for?"

Frawley gazed at him, then said slowly: "I told them it was a personalmatter. "

"Sure it was! Do you think I could keep out after you served notice onme? D---- your English pride and your English justice! I'm a good enoughYank to see if your dinky police is such an all-fired cute little bunchof wonder-workers as you say! Bub--you think you're going to get Mr. Greenfield--don't you?"

"I'm not thinking, Bucky--"

"Eh?"

"I'm simply sticking to you. "

"Sticking to me!" cried Greenfield with a roar of disgust. "Why, youunimaginative, lumbering, beef-eating Canuck, you can't get me that way!Why in tarnation didn't you strike plump for here--instead of rubbin'yourself down the whole coast of South Ameriky?"

"Bucky, you don't understand the situation properly, " objected Frawley, without varying the level tone of his voice. "Supposing it had been abloomin' corporation had sent me--? that's what I'd have done. But it'sthe government this time--Her Majesty's government! Time ain't noconsideration. I'd have raked down the whole continent if I'd hadto--though I knew where you were. "

"Well, and now what? You can't touch me, Bub, " he added earnestly. "Ilike straight talk, man to man. Now, what's your game?"

"Business. "

"All right then, " said Greenfield, with a frown, "but you can't touchme--now. There's an extradition treaty coming, but then there'd have tobe a retroactive clause to do you any good. " He paused, studying theexpression on the Inspector's face. "There's enough of the likes of mehere to see that don't occur. Say, Bub?"

"Well?"

"You deal a square pack, don't you?"

"That's my reputation, Bucky. "

"Give me your word you'll play me square. "

Inspector Frawley, leaning forward, helped himself busily. Greenfield, with pursed lips, studied every movement. 

"No kidnapping tricks?"

Without lifting his eyes Frawley sharpened his knife vigorously againsthis fork and fell to eating. 

"Well, Bub?"

"What?"

"No fancy kidnapping?"

"I'm promising nothing, Bucky. "

There was a blank moment while Greenfield considered. Suddenly he shotout his hand, saying with a nod: "You're a white man, Bub, and I neverheard a word against that. " He filled a glass and shoved it towardFrawley. "We might as well clink on it. For I rather opinionate beforewe get through this little business--there'll be something worth talkingabout. "

"Here's to you then, Bucky, " said Frawley, nodding. 

"Remember what I tell you, " said Greenfield, looking over his glass, "there's going to be something to live for. "

"I say, Bucky, " said Frawley with a lazy interest, "would they serve youfive-o'clock tea here, I wonder?"

Greenfield, drawing back, laughed a superior laugh. 

"Bub, I'm sorry for you--'pon my word I am. "

"How so, Bucky?"

"Why, you plodding little English lamb, you don't have the slightestsuspicion what you're gettin' into!"

"What am I getting into, Bucky?"

Greenfield threw back his head with a chuckle. 

"If you get me, it'll be the last job you ever pull off. "

"Maybe, maybe. "

"Since things are aboveboard--listen here, " said Greenfield with suddenseriousness. "Bub, you'll not get me alive. Nothing personal, youunderstand, but it'll have to be your life or mine. If it comes to thepinch, look out for yourself--"

"Oh, yes, " said Frawley, with a matter-of-fact nod, "I understand. "

"I ain't tried to bribe you, " said Greenfield, rising. "Thank me forthat--though another man might have been sent up for life. "

"Thanks, " Frawley said with a drawl. "And you'll notice I haven'tadvised you to come back and face the music. Seems to me we understandeach other. "

"Here's my address, " said Greenfield, handing him a card; "may save yousome trouble. I'm here every night. " He held out his hand. "Turn up andmeet the profesh. They're a clever lot here. They'd appreciate meetingyou, too. "

"Perhaps I will. "

"Ta-ta, then. "

Greenfield took a few steps, halted, and lounged back with a smile fullof mischief. 

"By the way, Bub--how long has Her Majesty's dinkies given you?"

"It's a life appointment, Bucky. "

"Really--bless me--then your bloomin' government has some sense afterall. "

The two men saluted gravely, with a parting exchange. 

"Now, Bub--keep fit. "

"Same to you, Bucky. "

IV

The view of Greenfield sauntering lightly away among the noisy tables, bravado in his manner, deviltry in his heart, was the last glimpseInspector Frawley was destined to have of him in many months. True, Greenfield had not lied: the address was genuine, but the man was gone. For days Frawley had the city scoured without gaining a clue. No steamerhad left the harbor, not even a tramp. If Greenfield was not in hiding, he must have buried himself in the interior. 

It was a week before Frawley found the track. Greenfield had walkedthirty miles into the country and taken the train for Rio Mendoza on theroute across the Andes to Valparaiso. 

Frawley followed the same day, somewhat mystified at this sudden changeof base. In the train the thermometer stood at 116°. The heat made ofeverything a solitude. Frawley, lifeless, stifling, and numbed, gluedhimself to the air-holes with eyes fastened on the horizon, while thetrain sped across the naked, singeing back of the plains like the weltthat springs to meet the fall of the lash. For two nights he watched thedistended sun, exhausted by its own madness, drop back into the heatedvoid, and the tortured stars rise over the stricken desert. At the endof thirty-six hours of agony he arrived at Rio Mendoza. Thence hereached Punta de Vacas, procured mules and a guide, and prepared forthe ascent over the mountains. 

At two o'clock the next morning he began to climb out of hell. Thetortured plains settled below him. A divine freshness breathed upon himwith a new hope of life. He left the burning conflict of summer andpassed into the aroma of spring. 

Then the air grew intense, a new suffocation pressed about histemples--the suffocation of too much life. In an hour he had run thegamut of the seasons. The cold of everlasting winter descended and stunghis senses. Up and up and up they went--then suddenly down, with thehalf-breed guide and the tireless mule always at the same distancebefore him; and again began the insistent mechanical toiling upward. Hegrew listless and indifferent, acquiescent in these steep efforts thatthe next moment must throw away. The horror of immense distance roseabout him. From time to time a stone dislodged by their passage rushedfrom under him, struck the brink, and spun into the void, to fallendlessly. The face of the earth grew confused and dropped in a mistfrom before his eyes. 

Then as they toiled still upward, a gale as though sent in anger rusheddown upon them, sweeping up whirlwinds of snow, raging and shrieking, dragging them to the brink, and threatening to blot them out. 

Frawley clutched the saddle, then flung his arms about the neck of hismule. His head was reeling, the indignant blood rushed to his nostrilsand his ears, his lungs no longer could master the divine air. Thensuddenly the mules stopped, exhausted. Through the maelstrom the guideshrieked to him not to use the spur. Frawley felt himself in danger ofdying, and had no resentment. 

For a day they affronted the immense wilds until they had forcedthemselves thousands of feet above the race of men. Then they began todescend. 

Below them the clouds lapped and rolled like the elements before thecreation. Still they descended, and the moist oblivion closed aboutthem, like the curse of a world without color. The bleak mists separatedand began to roll up above them, a cloud split asunder, and through theslit the earth jumped up, and the solid land spread before them as whenat the dawn it obeyed the will of the Creator. They saw the hills andthe mountains grow, and the rivers trickle toward the sea. The masses ofbrown and green began to be splashed with red and yellow as the fieldsbecame fertile and fructified; and the insect race of men began to crawlto and fro. 

The half-breed, who saw the scene for the hundredth time, bent his headin awe. Frawley straightened in his saddle, stretched the stiffness outof his limbs, patted his mule solicitously, glanced at the guide, andstopped in perplexity at the mute, reverential attitude. 

"What's he starin' at now?" he muttered in as then, with a glance athis watch, he added anxiously, "I say, Sammy, when do we get a bit toeat?"

V

In Valparaiso he readily found the track of Greenfield. Up to the timeof his departure, two boats had sailed: one for the north, and one bythe Straits of Magellan to Buenos Ayres. Greenfield had bought a ticketfor each, after effecting the withdrawal of his account at a local bank. Frawley was in perplexity: for Greenfield to flee north was to run intothe jaws of the law. The withdrawal of the account decided him. Hereturned to Buenos Ayres by the route he had come, arriving the daybefore the steamer. To his discomfiture Greenfield was not on board. Byridiculously casting away his protection he had thrown the detective offthe track and gained three weeks. Without more concern than he mighthave shown in taking a trip from Toronto to New York, Frawley a thirdtime crossed the Andes and set himself to correcting his first error. 

He traced Greenfield laboriously up the coast back to Panama and therelost the trail. At the end of two months he learned that Greenfield hadshipped as a common sailor on a freighter that touched at Hawaii. Fromhere he followed him to Yokohama, Singapore, Ceylon, and Bombay. 

Thence Greenfield, suddenly abandoning the water route, had proceededby land to Bagdad, and across the Turkish Empire to Constantinople. Without a pause, Frawley traced him next into the Balkans, throughBulgaria, Roumania, amid massacre and revolution to Budapest, back toOdessa, and across the back of Russia by Moscow and Riga to Stockholm. Ayear had elapsed. 

Several times he might have gained on the fugitive had he trusted to hisinstinct; but he bided his time, renouncing a stroke of genius, in orderto be certain of committing no error, awaiting the moment whenGreenfield would pause and he might overtake him. But the fugitive, asthough stung by a gad-fly, continued to plunge madly over sea andcontinent. Four months, five months behind, Frawley continued thetireless pursuit. 

From Stockholm the chase led to Copenhagen, to Christiansand, down theNorth Sea to Rotterdam. From thence Greenfield had rushed by rail toLisbon and taken steamer to Africa, touching at Gibraltar, Portugueseand French Guinea, Sierra Leone, and proceeding thence into the Congo. For a month all traces disappeared in the veldt, until by chance, ratherthan by his own merits, Frawley found the trail anew in Madagascar, whither Greenfield had come after a desperate attempt to bury his trailon the immense plains of Southern Africa. 

From Madagascar, Frawley followed him to Aden in Arabia and by steamerto Melbourne. Again for weeks he sought the confused track vainlythrough Australia, up through Sydney, down again to Tasmania and NewZealand on a false clue, back to Queensland, where at last in Cooktownhe learned anew of the passing of his man. 

The third year began without appreciable gain. Greenfield still wasthree months in advance, never pausing, scurrying from continent tocontinent, as though instinctively aware of the progress of his pursuer. 

In this year Frawley visited Sumatra, Java, and Borneo, stopped atManila, jumped immediately to Korea, and hurried on to Vladivostok, where he found that Greenfield had procured passage on a sealer boundfor Auckland. There he had taken the steamer by the Straits of Magellanback to Buenos Ayres. 

There, within the first hour, he heard a report that his man had gone onto Rio Janeiro, caught the cholera, and died there. Undaunted by theepidemic, Frawley took the next boat and entered the stricken city byswimming ashore. For a week he searched the hospitals and thecemeteries. Greenfield had indeed been stricken, but, escaping with hislife, had left for the northern part of Brazil. The delay resulted in again of three months for Frawley, but without heat or excitement hebegan anew the pursuit, passing up the coast to Para and the mouth ofthe Amazon, by Bogota and Panama into Mexico, on up toward the borderof Texas. The months between him and Greenfield shortened to weeks, thento days without troubling his equanimity. At El Paso he arrived a fewhours after Greenfield had left, going toward the Salt Basin and theGuadalupe Mountains. Frawley took horses and a guide and followed to theedge of the desert. At three o'clock in the afternoon a horseman grewout of the horizon, a figure that remained stationary and attentive, studying his approach through a spy-glass. Suddenly, as thoughsatisfied, the stranger took off his hat and waved it above his head inchallenge, and digging his heels into his horse, disappeared into thedesert. 

VI

Frawley understood the challenge--the end was to be in the desert. Failing to move his guide by threat or promise, he left him clamoringfrantically on the edge of the desert and rode on toward where thefigure of Greenfield had disappeared on the horizon in a puff of dust. 

For three days they went their way grimly into the parched sands, husbanding every particle of strength, within plain sight of each other, always at the same unvarying walk. At night they slept by fits andstarts, with an ear trained for the slightest hostile sound. Then theycast aside their saddles, their rifles, and superfluous clothing, in avain effort to save their mounts. 

The horses, heaving and staggering, crawled over the yielding sandslike silhouettes drawn by a thread. In the sky not a cloud appeared;below, the yellow monotony extended as flat as a dish. Above them a lazybuzzard, wheeling in languid circles, followed with patient conviction. 

On the fourth morning Frawley's horse stopped, shuddered, and went downin a heap. Greenfield halted and surveyed his discomfiture grimly, without a sign of elation. 

"That's bad, very bad, " Frawley said judicially. "I ought to have sentword to the department. Still, it's not over yet--his horse won't lastlong. Well, I mustn't carry much. "

He abandoned his revolver, a knife, $200 in gold, and continued on foot, preserving only the water-bag with its precious mouthful. Greenfield, who had waited immovably, allowed him to approach within a quarter of amile before putting his horse in motion. 

"He's going to make sure I stay here, " said Frawley to himself, seeingthat Greenfield made no attempt to increase the lead. "Well, we'll see. "

Twelve hours later Greenfield's horse gave out. Frawley uttered a cry ofjoy, but the handicap of half a day was a serious one; he was exhausted, famished, and in the bag there remained only sufficient water to moistenhis lips. 

The fifth day broke with an angry sun and no sign on the horizon torelieve the eternal monotony. Only the buzzard at the same distancealoft bided his time. Hunter and hunted, united perforce by their commonsuffering, plodded on with the weary, hopeless straining of human beingsharnessed to a plow, covering scarcely a mile an hour. From time totime, by common consent, they sat down, gaunt, exhausted figures, eyeingeach other with the instinct of beasts, their elbows on their bonyknees. Whether from a fear of losing energy, whether under the spell ofthe frightful stillness, neither had uttered a word. 

Frawley was afire with thirst. The desert entered his body with its drymortal heat, and ran its consuming dryness through his veins; his eyesstarted from his face as the sun above him hung out of the parched sky. He began to talk to himself, to sing. Under his feet the sand siftedlike the soft protest of autumn leaves. He imagined himself back in theforest, marking the rustle of leafy branches and the intermittentdropping of acorns and twigs. All at once his legs refused to move. Hestood still, his gaze concentrated on the figure of Greenfield a longmoment, then his body crumpled under him and he sank without volition tothe ground. 

Greenfield stopped, sat down, and waited. After half an hour he drewhimself to his feet, moved on, then stopped, returned, approached, andlistened to the crooning of the delirious man. Suddenly satisfied, heflung both arms into the air in frenzied triumph, turned, staggered, and reeled away, while back over the desert came the grotesque, hideousrefrain, in maddened victory:

 "Yankee Doodle Dandy oh! Yankee Doodle Dandy!"

Frawley watched him go, then with a sigh of relief turned his glance tothe black revolving form in the air--at least that remained to break thehorror of the solitude. Then he lost consciousness. 

The beat of wings across his face aroused him with a start and a cry ofagony. The great bird of carrion, startled in its inspection, flewclumsily off and settled fearlessly on the ground, blinking at him. 

An immense revolt, a furious anger brought with it new strength. He roseand rushed at the bird with clenched fist, cursing it as it lumberedawkwardly away. Then he began desperately to struggle on, following thetracks in the sand. 

At the end of an hour specks appeared on the horizon. He looked at themin his delirium and began to laugh uneasily. 

"I must be out of my head, " he said to himself seriously. "It's amirage. Well, I suppose it is the end. Who'll they put on the case now?Keech, I suppose; yes, Keech; he's a good man. Of course it's a mirage. "

As he continued to stumble forward, the dots assumed the shape of treesand hills. He laughed contemptuously and began to remonstrate withhimself, repeating:

"It's a mirage, or I'm out of my head. " He began to be worried, sayingover and over: "That's a bad sign, very bad. I mustn't lose control ofmyself. I must stick to him--stick to him until he dies of old age. Bucky Greenfield! Well, he won't get out of this either. If thedepartment could only know!"

The nearer he drew to life, the more indignant he became. He arrivedthus at the edge of trees and green things. 

"Why don't they go?" he said angrily. "They ought to, now. Come, I thinkI'm keeping my head remarkably well. "

All at once a magnificent idea came to him--he would walk through themirage and end it. He advanced furiously against an imaginary tree, struck his forehead, and toppled over insensible. 

VII

Frawley returned to consciousness to find himself in the hut of ahalf-breed Indian, who was forcing a soup of herbs between his lips. 

Two days later he regained his strength sufficiently to reach a ranchowned by Englishmen. Fitted out by them, he started at once to return toEl Paso; to take up the unending search anew. 

In the late afternoon, tired and thirsty, he arrived at a shanty wherea handful of Mexican children were lolling in the cool of the wall. Atthe sound of his approach a woman came running to the door, shriekingfor assistance in a Mexican gibberish. He ran hastily to the house, hishand on his pistol. The woman, without stopping her chatter, huddled inthe doorway, pointing to the dim corner opposite. Frawley, following herglance, saw the figure of a man stretched on a hasty bed of leaves. Hetook a few quick steps and recognized Greenfield. 

At the same moment the bundle shot to a sitting position, with a cry:

"Who's that?"

Frawley, with a quick motion, covered him with his revolver, crying:

"Hands up. It's me, Bucky, and I've got you now!"

"Frawley!"

"That's it, Bucky--Hands up!"

Greenfield, without obeying, stared at him wildly. 

"God, it is Frawley!" he cried, and fell back in a heap. 

Inspector Frawley, advancing a step, repeated his command with nouncertain ring:

"Hands up! Quick!"

On the bed the distorted body contracted suddenly into a ball. 

"Easy, Bub, " Greenfield said between his teeth. "Easy; don't getexcited. I'm dying. "

"You?"

Frawley approached cautiously, suspiciously. 

"Fact. I'm cashin' in. "

"What's the matter?"

"Bug. Plain bug--the desert did the rest. "

"A what?"

"Tarantula bite--don't laugh, Bub. "

Frawley, at his side, needed but a glance to see that it was true. Heran his hand over Greenfield's belt and removed his pistol. 

"Sorry, " he said curtly, standing up. 

"Quite keerect, Bub!"

"Can I do anything for you?"

"Nope. "

Suddenly, without warning, Greenfield raised himself, glared at him, stretched out his hands, and fell into a passionate fit of weeping. Frawley's English reserve was outraged. 

"What's the matter?" he said angrily. "You're not going to show thewhite feather now, are you?"

With an oath Greenfield sat bolt upright, silent and flustered. 

"D---- you, Bub--show some imagination, " he said after a pause. "Doyou think I mind dying--me? That's a good one. It ain't that--no--it'sending, ending like this. After all I've been through, to be put out ofbusiness by a bug--an ornery little bug. "

Then Frawley comprehended his mistake. 

"I say, Bucky, I'll take that back, " he said awkwardly. 

"No imagination, no imagination, " Greenfield muttered, sinking back. "Why, man, if I'd chased you three times around the world and got you, I'd fall on you and beat you to a pulp or--or I'd hug you like along-lost brother. "

"I asked your pardon, " said Frawley again. 

"All right, Bub--all right, " Greenfield answered with a short laugh. Then after a pause he added seriously: "So you've come--well, I'm gladit's over. Bub, " he continued, raising himself excitedly on his elbow, "here's something strange, only you won't understand it. Do you know, the whole time I knew just where you were--I had a feeling somewhere inthe back of my neck. At first you were 'way off, over the horizon; thenyou got to be a spot coming over the hill. Then I began to feel thatspot growin' bigger and bigger--after Rio Janeiro, crawling up, creepingup. Gospel truth, I felt you sneaking up on my back. It got on mynerves. I dreamed about it, and that morning on the trail when you wasjust a speck on any old hoss--I knew! You--you don't understand suchthings, Bub, do you?"

Frawley made an effort, failed, and answered helplessly:

"No, Bucky, no, I can't say I do understand. "

"Why do you think I ran you into Rio Janeiro?" said Greenfield, twisting on the leaves. "Into the cholery? What do you think made me layfor this desert? Bub, you were on my back, clinging like a catamount. Iwas bound to shake you off. I was desperate. It had to end one way ort'other. That's why I stuck to you until I thought it was over withyou. "

"Why didn't you make sure of it?" said Frawley with curiosity; "youcould have done for me there. "

Greenfield looked at him hard and nodded. 

"Keerect, Bub; quite so!"

"Why didn't you?"

"Why!" cried Greenfield angrily. "Ain't you ever had any imagination?Did I want to shoot you down like a common ordinary pickpocket aftertaking you three times around the world? That was no ending! God, what achase it was!"

"It was long, Bucky, " Frawley admitted. "It was a good one!"

"Can't you understand anything?" Greenfield cried querulously. "Where'sanything bigger, more than what we've done? And to have it end likethis--to have a bug--a miserable, squashy bug beat you after all!"

For a long moment there was no sound, while Greenfield lay, twisting, his head averted, buried in the leaves. 

"It's not right, Bucky, " said Frawley at last, with an effort at sympathy. "It oughtn't to have ended this way. "

"It was worth it!" Greenfield cried. "Three years! There ain't much dirtwe haven't kicked up! Asia, Africa--a regular Cook's tour throughEurope, North and South Ameriky. And what seas, Bub!" His voicefaltered. The drops of sweat stood thickly on his forehead; but hepulled himself together gamely. "Do you remember the Sea of Japan withits funny little toy junks? Man, we've beaten out Columbus, Jools Verne, and the rest of them--hollow, Bub!"

"I say, what did you do it for?"

"You are a rum un, " said Greenfield with a broken laugh. The words beganto come shorter and with effort. "Excitement, Bub! Deviltry andcussedness!"

"How do you feel, Bucky?" asked Frawley. 

"Half in hell already--stewing for my sins--but it's not that--it's--"

"What, Bucky?"

"That bug! Me, Bucky Greenfield--to go down and out on account of abug--a little squirmy bug! But I swear even he couldn't have done it ifthe desert hadn't put me out of business first! No, by God! I'm notdowned so easy as that!"

Frawley, in a lame attempt to show his sympathy, went closer to thedying man:

"I say, Bucky. "

"Shout away. "

"Wouldn't you like to go out, standing, on your feet--with your bootson?"

Greenfield laughed, a contented laugh. 

"What's the matter, pal?" said Frawley, pausing in surprise. 

"You darned old Englishman, " said Greenfield affectionately. "Say, Bub. "

"Yes, Bucky. "

"The dinkies are all right--but--but a Yank, a real Yank, would 'a' gotme in six months. "

"All right, Bucky. Shall I raise you up?"

"H'ist away. "

"Would you like the feeling of a gun in your hand again?" said Frawley, raising him up. 

This time Greenfield did not laugh, but his hand closed convulsivelyover the butt, and he gave a savage sigh of delight. His limbscontracted violently, his head bore heavily on the shoulder of Frawley, who heard him whisper again:

"A bug--a little--"

Then he stopped and appeared to listen. Outside, the evening was softand stirring. Through the door the children appeared, tumbling over oneanother, in grotesque attitudes. 

Suddenly, as though in the breeze he had caught the sound of a step, Greenfield jerked almost free of Frawley's arms, shuddered, and fellback rigid. The pistol, flung into the air, twirled, pitched on thefloor, and remained quiet. 

Frawley placed the body back on the bed of leaves, listened a moment, and rose satisfied. He threw a blanket over the face, picked up therevolver, searched a moment for his hat, and went out to arrange withthe Mexican for the night. In a moment he returned and took a seat inthe corner, and began carefully to jot down the details on a piece ofpaper. Presently he paused and looked reflectively at the bed of leaves. 

"It's been a good three years, " he said reflectively. He considered amoment, rapping the pencil against his teeth, and repeated: "A goodthree years. I think when I get home I'll ask for a week or so tostretch myself. " Then he remembered with anxiety how Greenfield hadrailed at his lack of imagination and pondered a moment seriously. Suddenly, as though satisfied, he said with a nod of conviction:

"Well, now, we did jog about a bit!"

LARRY MOORE

I

The base-ball season had closed, and we were walking down Fifth avenue, Larry Moore and I. We were discussing the final series for thechampionship, and my friend was estimating his chances of again pitchingthe Giants to the top, when a sudden jam on the avenue left us aninstant looking face to face at a woman and a child seated in aluxurious victoria. 

Larry Moore, who had hold of my arm, dropped it quickly and wavered inhis walk. The woman caught her breath and put her muff hastily to herface; but the child saw us without surprise. All had passed within asecond, yet I retained a vivid impression of a woman of strangeattraction, elegant and indolent, with something in her face which leftme desirous of seeing it again, and of a pretty child who seemed alittle too serious for that happy age. Larry Moore forgot what he hadbegun to say. He spoke no further word, and I, in glancing at his face, comprehended that, incredible as it seemed, there was some bond betweenthe woman I had seen and this raw-boned, big-framed, and big-heartedidol of the bleachers. 

Without comment I followed Larry Moore, serving his mood as heimmediately left the avenue and went east. At first he went with excitedstrides, then he slowed down to a profound and musing gait, then hehalted, laid his hand heavily on my shoulder, and said:

"Get into the car, Bob. Come up to the rooms. "

I understood that he wished to speak to me of what had happened, and Ifollowed. We went thus, without another word exchanged, to his rooms, and entered the little parlor hung with the trophies of his career, which I looked at with some curiosity. On the mantel in the center I sawat once a large photograph of the Hon. Joseph Gilday, a corporationlawyer of whom we reporters told many hard things, a picture I did notexpect to find here among the photographs of the sporting celebritieswho had sent their regards to my friend of the diamond. In someperplexity I approached and saw across the bottom written in large firmletters: "I'm proud to know you, Larry Moore. "

I smiled, for the tribute of the great man of the law seemed incongruoushere to me, who knew of old my simple-minded, simple-hearted friendwhom, the truth be told, I patronized perforce. Then I looked about morecarefully, and saw a dozen photographs of a woman, sometimes alone, sometimes holding a pretty child, and the faces were the faces I hadseen in the victoria. I feigned not to have seen them; but Larry, whohad watched me, said:

"Look again, Bob; for that is the woman you saw in the carriage, andthat is the child. "

So I took up a photograph and looked at it long. The face had somethingmore dangerous than beauty in it--the face of a Cleopatra with a look inthe deep restless eyes I did not fancy; but I did not tell that to LarryMoore. Then I put it back in its place and turned and said gravely:

"Are you sure that you want to tell me, Larry Moore?"

"I do, " he said. "Sit down. "

He did not seek preliminaries, as I should have done, but began at once, simply and directly--doubtless he was retelling the story more tohimself than to me. 

"She was called Fanny Montrose, " he said, "a slip of a girl, withwonderful golden hair, and big black eyes that made me tremble, the dayI went into the factory at Bridgeport, the day I fell in love. 'I'mLarry Moore; you may have heard of me, ' I said, going straight up to herwhen the whistle blew that night, 'and I'd like to walk home with you, Fanny Montrose. '

"She drew back sort of quick, and I thought she'd been hearing tales ofme up in Fall River; so I said: 'I only meant to be polite. You may haveheard a lot of bad of me, and a lot of it's true, but you never heardof Larry Moore's being disrespectful to a lady, ' and I looked her in theeye and said: 'Will you let me walk home with you, Fanny Montrose?'

"She swung on her foot a moment, and then she said: 'I will. '

"I heard a laugh go up at that, and turned round, with the bit in myteeth; but it was only the women, and you can't touch them. FannyMontrose hurried on, and I saw she was upset by it, so I said humbly:'You're not sorry now, are you?'

"'Oh, no, ' she said. 

"'Will you catch hold of my arm?' I asked her. 

"She looked first in my face, and then she slipped in her hand soprettily that it sent all the words from my tongue. 'You've just come toBridgeport, ain't you?' she said timidly. 

"'I have, ' I said, 'and I want you to know the truth. I came because Ihad to get out of Fall River. I had a scrap--more than one of them. '

"'Did you lick your man?' she said, glancing at me. 

"'I licked every one of them, and it was good and fair fighting--if Iwas on a tear, ' I said; 'but I'm ashamed of it now. '

"'You're Larry Moore, who pitched on the Fall Rivers last season?' shesaid. 

"'I am. '

"'You can pitch some!' she said with a nod. 

"'When I'm straight I can. '

"'And why don't you go at it like a man then? You could get in theNationals, ' she said. 

"'I've never had anyone to work for--before, ' I said. 

"'We go down here; I'm staying at Keene's boarding-house, ' she said atthat. 

"I was afraid I'd been too forward; so I kept still until we came to thedoor. Then I pulled off my hat and made her a bow and said: 'Will youlet me walk home with you steady, Fanny Montrose?'

"And she stopped on the door-step and looked at me without saying aword, and I asked it again, putting out my hand, for I wanted to gethold of hers. But she drew back and reached for the knob. So I said:

"'You needn't be frightened; for it's me that ought to be afraid. '

"'And what have you to be afraid of, you great big man?' she said, stopping in wonder. 

"'I'm afraid of your big black eyes, Fanny Montrose, 'I said, 'and I'mafraid of your slip of a body that I could snap in my hands, ' I said;'for I'm going to fall in love with you, Fanny Montrose. '

"Which was a lie, for I was already. With that I ran off like a fool. Iran off, but from that night I walked home with Fanny Montrose. 

"For a month we kept company, and Bill Coogan and Dan Farrar and therest of them took my notice and kept off. The women laughed at me andsneered at her; but I minded them not, for I knew the ways of thefactory, and besides there wasn't a man's voice in the lot--that Iheard. 

"But one night as we were wandering back to Keene's boarding-house, Fanny Montrose on my arm, Bill Coogan planted himself before us, andcalled her something to her face that there was no getting around. 

"I took her on a bit, weeping and shaking, and I said to her: 'Standhere. '

"And I went back, and caught Bill Coogan by the throat and the belt, andswung him around my head, and flung him against the lamp-post. And thepost broke off with a crash, and Coogan lay quiet, with nothing more tosay. 

"I went back to Fanny Montrose, who had stopped her crying, and said, shaking with anger at the dirty insult: 'Fanny Montrose, will you be mywife? Will you marry me this night?'

"She pushed me away from her, and looked up into my face in a frightenedway and said: 'Do you mean to be your wife?'

"'I do, ' I said, and then because I was afraid that she didn't trust inme enough yet to marry me I said solemnly: 'Fanny Montrose, you needhave no fear. If I've been drunk and riotous, it's because I wanted tobe, and now that I've made up my mind to be straight, there isn't athing living that could turn me back again. Fanny Montrose, will you sayyou'll be my wife?'

"Then she put out her two hands to me and tumbled into my arms, alllimp. "

II

Larry Moore rose and walked the length of the room. When he came back hewent to the wall and took down a photograph; but with what emotion Icould not say, for his back was to me. I glanced again at the oddvolatile beauty in the woman's face and wondered what was the word BillCoogan had said and what was his reason for saying it. 

"From that day it was all luck for me, " Larry Moore said, settling againin the chair, where his face returned to the shadow. "She had a head onher, that little woman. She pulled me up to where I am. I pitched thatseason for the Bridgeports. You know the record, Bob, seven games lostout of forty-three, and not so much my fault either. When they were forsigning me again, at big money too, the little woman said:

"'Don't you do it, Larry Moore; they're not your class. Just hold out abit. '

"You know, Bob, how I signed then with the Giants, and how they boostedmy salary at the end of that first year; but it was Fanny Montrose whomade the contracts every time. We had the child then, and I was happy. The money came quick, and lots of it, and I put it in her lap and said:

"'Do what you want with it; only I want you to enjoy it like a lady. '

"Maybe I was wrong there--maybe I was. It was pride, I'll admit; butthere wasn't a lady came to the stands that looked finer than FannyMontrose, as I always used to call her. I got to be something of afigure, as you know, and the little woman was always riding back andforth to the games in some automobile, and more often with Paul Bargee. 

"One afternoon Ed Nichols, who was catching me then, came up with aserious face and said: 'Where's your lady to-day, Larry--and PaulBargee?' And by the way he said it I knew what he had in mind, and goodfriend that he was of mine I liked to have throttled him. They told meto pitch the game, and I did. I won it too. Then I ran home withoutchanging my clothes, the people staring at me, and ran up the stairs andflung open the door and stopped and called: 'Fanny Montrose!'

"And I called again, and I called a third time, and only the child cameto answer me. Then I knew in my heart that Fanny Montrose had left meand run off with Paul Bargee. 

III

"I waited all that night without tasting food or moving, listening forher step on the stairs. And in the morning the postman came without aline or a word for me. I couldn't understand; for I had been a goodhusband to her, and though I thought over everything that had happenedsince we'd been married, I couldn't think of a thing that I'd done tohurt her--for I wasn't thinking then of the millions of Paul Bargee. 

"In the afternoon there came a dirty little lawyer shuffling in to seeme, with blinking little eyes behind his black-rimmed spectacles--a toadof a man. 

"'Who are you?' I said, 'and what are you doing here?'

"'I'm simply an attorney, ' he said, cringing before my look--'SolomonScholl, on a very disagreeable duty, ' he said. 

"'Do you come from her?' I said, and I caught my breath. 

"'I come from Mr. Paul Bargee, ' he said, 'and I'd remind you, Mr. Moore, that I come as an attorney on a disagreeable duty. '

"With that I drew back and looked at him in amazement, and said: 'Whathas he got to say to me?'

"'My client, ' he said, turning the words over with the tip of histongue, 'regrets exceedingly--'

"'Don't waste words!' I said angrily. 'What are you here for?'

"'My client, ' he said, looking at me sidelong, 'empowers me to offer youfifteen thousand dollars if you will promise to make no trouble in thismatter. '

"I sat down all in a heap; for I didn't know the ways of a gentlemanthen, Bob, and covered my face with the horror I had of the humiliationhe had done me. The lawyer, he misunderstood it, for he crept up softlyand whispered in my ear:

"'That's what he offers--if you're fool enough to take it; but if you'llstick to me, we can wring him to the tune of ten times that. '

"I got up and took him and kicked him out of the room, and kicked himdown the stairs, for he was a little man, and I wouldn't strike him. 

"Then I came back and said to myself: 'If matters are so, I must get thebest advice I can. '

"And I knew that Joseph Gilday was the top of the lot. So I went to him, and when I came in I stopped short, for I saw he looked perplexed, and Isaid: 'I'm in trouble, sir, and my life depends on it, and other lives, and I need the best of advice; so I've come to you. I'm Larry Moore ofthe Giants; so you may know I can pay. ' Then I sat down and told him thestory, every word as I've told you; and when I was all through, he saidquietly:

"'What are you thinking of doing, Mr. Moore?'

"'I think it would be better if she came back, sir, ' I said, 'for herand for the child. So I thought the best thing would be to write her aletter and tell her so; for I think if you could write the right sort ofa letter she'd come back. And that's what I want you to show me how towrite, ' I said. 

"He took a sheet of paper and a pen, and looked at me steadily and said:'What would you say to her?'

"So I drew my hands up under my chin and thought awhile and said: 'Ithink I'd say something like this, sir:

"'"My dear wife--I've been trying to think all this while what hasdriven you away, and I don't understand. I love you, Fanny Montrose, andI want you to come back to me. And if you're afraid to come, I want totell you not a word will pass my lips on the subject; for I haven'tforgotten that it was you made a man of me; and much as I try, I cannothate you, Fanny Montrose. "'

"He looked down and wrote for a minute, and then he handed me the paperand said: 'Send that. '

"I looked, and saw it was what I had told him, and I said doubtfully:'Do you think that is best?'

"'I do. '

"So I mailed the letter as he said, and three days after came one from alawyer, saying my wife could have no communication with me, and would Isend what I had to say to him. 

"So I went down to Gilday and told him, and I said: 'We must think ofother things, sir, since she likes luxury and those things better; forI'm beginning to think that's it--and there I'm a bit to blame, for Idid encourage her. Well, she'll have to marry him--that's all I can seeto it, " I said, and sat very quiet. 

"'He won't marry her, ' he said in his quick way. 

"I thought he meant because she was bound to me, so I said: 'Of course, after the divorce. '

"'Are you going to get a divorce then from her?'

"'I've been thinking it over, ' I said carefully, and I had, 'and I thinkthe best way would be for her to get it. That can be done, can't it?' Isaid, 'because I've been thinking of the child, and I don't want her togrow up with any stain on the good name of her mother, ' I said. 

"'Then you will give up the child?' he said. 

"And I said: 'Yes. '

"'Will he marry her?' he said again. 

"'For what else did he take her away?'

"'If I was you, ' he said, looking at me hard, 'I'd make sure ofthat--before. '

"That worried me a good deal, and I went out and walked around, and thenI went to the station and bought a ticket for Chicago, and I said tomyself: 'I'll go and see him'; for by that time I'd made up my mind whatI'd do. 

"And when I got there the next morning, I went straight to his house, and my heart sank, for it was a great place with a high iron railing allaround it and a footman at the door--and I began to understand why FannyMontrose had left me for him. 

"I'd thought a long time about giving another name; but I said tomyself: 'No, I'll him a chance first to come down and face me like aman, ' so I said to the footman: 'Go tell Paul Bargee that Larry Moorehas come to see him. '

"Then I went down the hall and into the great parlor, all hung withdraperies, and I looked at myself in the mirrors and looked at thechairs, and I didn't feel like sitting down, and presently the curtainsopened, and Paul Bargee stepped into the room. I looked at him once, andthen I looked at the floor, and my breath came hard. Then he stepped upto me and stopped and said:

"'Well?'

"And though he had wronged me and wrecked my life, I couldn't helpadmiring his grit; for the boy was no match for me, and he knew it too, though he never flinched. 

"'I've come from New York here to talk with you, Paul Bargee, ' I said. 

"'You've a right to. '

"'I have, ' I said, 'and I want to have an understanding with you now, ifyou have the time, sir, ' I said, and looked at the ground again. 

"He drew off, and hearing me speak so low he mistook me as others havedone before, and he looked at me hard and said: 'Well, how much?'

"My head went up, and I strode at him; but he never winced--if he had, Ithink I'd have caught him then and there and served him as I did BillCoogan. But I stopped and said: 'That's the second mistake you've made, Paul Bargee; the first was when you sent a dirty little lawyer to pay mefor taking my wife. And your lawyer came to me and told me to screw youto the last cent. I kicked him out of my sight; and what have you to saywhy I shouldn't do the same to you, Paul Bargee?'

"He looked white and hurt in his pride, and said: 'You're right; and Ibeg your pardon, Mr. Moore. '

"'I don't want your pardon, ' I said, 'and I won't sit down in yourhouse, and we won't discuss what has happened but what is to be. Forthere's a great wrong you've done, and I've a right to say what youshall do now, Paul Bargee. '

"He looked at me and said slowly: 'What is that?'

"'You took my wife, and I gave her a chance to come back to me, ' I said;'but she loved you and what you can give better than me. But she's beenmy wife, and I'm not going to see her go down into the gutter. '

"He started to speak; but I put up my hand and I said: 'I'm not here todiscuss with you, Paul Bargee. I've come to say what's going to be done;for I have a child, ' I said, 'and I don't intend that the mother of mylittle girl should go down to the gutter. You've chosen to take my wife, and she's chosen to stay with you. Now, you've got to marry her andmake her a good woman, ' I said. 

"Then Paul Bargee stood off, and I saw what was passing through hismind. And I went up to him and laid my hand on his shoulder and said:'You know what I mean, and you know what manner of man I am that talksto you like this; for you're no coward, ' I said; 'but you marry FannyMontrose within a week after she gets her freedom, or I am going to killyou wherever you stand. And that's the choice you've got to make, PaulBargee, ' I said. 

"Then I stepped back and watched him, and as I did so I saw the curtainsmove and knew that Fanny Montrose had heard me. 

"'You're going to give her the divorce?' he said. 

"'I am. I don't intend there shall be a stain on her name, ' I said; 'forI loved Fanny Montrose, and she's always the mother of my little girl. '

"Then he went to a chair and sat down and took his head in his hands, and I went out. 

IV

"I came back to New York, and went to Mr. Gilday. 

"'Will he marry her?' he said at once. 

"'He will marry her, ' I said. 'As for her, I want you to say; for I'llnot write to her myself, since she wouldn't answer me. Say when she'sthe wife of Paul Bargee I'll bring the child to her myself, and she'sto see me; for I have a word to say to her then, ' I said, and I laid myfist down on the table. 'Until then the child stays with me. '

"They've said hard things of Mr. Joseph Gilday, and I know it; but Iknow all that he did for me. For he didn't turn it over to a clerk; buthe took hold himself and saw it through as I had said. And when thedivorce was given he called me down and told me that Fanny Montrose wasa free woman and no blame to her in the sight of the law. 

"Then I said: 'It is well. Now write to Paul Bargee that his week hasbegun. Until then I keep the child, law or no law. ' Then I rose andsaid: 'I thank you, Mr. Gilday. You've been very kind, and I'd like topay you what I owe you. '

"He sat there a moment and chewed on his mustache, and he said: 'Youdon't owe me a cent. '

"'It wasn't charity I came to you for, and I can pay for what I get, Mr. Gilday, ' I said. 'Will you give me your regular bill?' I said. 

"And he said at last: 'I will. '

"In the middle of the week Paul Bargee's mother came to me and went downon her knees and begged for her son, and I said to her: 'Why shouldthere be one law for him and one law for the likes of me. He's taken mywife; but he sha'n't put her to shame, ma'am, and he sha'n't cast acloud on the life of my child!'

"Then she stopped arguing, and caught my hands and cried: 'But youwon't kill him, you won't kill my son, if he don't?'

"'As sure as Saturday comes, ma'am, and he hasn't made Fanny Montrose agood woman, ' I said, 'I'm going to kill Paul Bargee wherever he stands. '

"And Friday morning Mr. Gilday called me down to his office and told methat Paul Bargee had done as I said he should do. And I pressed his handand said nothing, and he let me sit awhile in his office. 

"And after awhile I rose up and said: 'Then I must take the child toher, as I promised, to-night. '

"He walked with me from the office and said: 'Go home to your littlegirl. I'll see to the tickets, and will come for you at nine o'clock. '

"And at nine o'clock he came in his big carriage, and took me and thechild to the station and said: 'Telegraph me when you're leavingto-morrow. '

"And I said: 'I will. '

"Then I went into the car with my little girl asleep in my arms and satdown in the seat, and the porter came and said:

"'Can I make up your berths?'

"And I looked at the child and shook my head. So I held her all nightand she slept on my shoulder, while I looked from her out into thedarkness, and from the darkness back to her again. And the porter keptpassing and passing and staring at me and the child. 

"And in the morning we went up to the great house and into the bigparlor, and Fanny Montrose came in, as I had said she should, very whiteand not looking at me. And the child ran to her, and I watched FannyMontrose catch her up to her breast, and I sobbed. And she looked at me, and saw it. So I said:

"'It's because now I know you love the child and that you'll be kind toher. '

"Then she fell down before me and tried to take my hand. But I steppedback and said:

"'I've made you an honest woman, Fanny Montrose, and now as long as Ilive I'm going to see you do nothing to disgrace my child. '

"And I went out and took the train back. And Mr. Gilday was at thestation there waiting for me, and he took my arm, without a word, andled me to his carriage and drove up without speaking. And when we got tothe house, he got out, and took off his hat and made me a bow and said:'I'm proud to know you, Larry Moore. '"

MY WIFE'S WEDDING PRESENTS

I

I don't believe in wedding functions. I don't believe in honeymoons andparticularly I abominate the inhuman custom of giving wedding presents. And this is why:

Clara was the fifth poor daughter of a rich man. I was respectably poorbut artistic. We had looked forward to marriage as a time when twopersons chose a home and garnished it with furnishings of their ownchoice, happy in the daily contact with beautiful things. We had oftendiscussed our future home. We knew just the pictures that must hang onthe walls, the tone of the rugs that should lie on the floors, the styleof the furniture that should stand in the rooms, the pattern of thesilver that should adorn our table. Our ideas were clear and positive. 

Unfortunately Clara had eight rich relatives who approved of me and Ihad three maiden aunts, two of whom were in precarious health and mustnot be financially offended. 

I am rather an imperious man, with theories that a woman is happiestwhen she finds a master; but when the details of the wedding came up fordecision I was astounded to find myself not only flouted but actuallyforced to humiliating surrender. Since then I have learned that my owncase was not glaringly exceptional. At the time, however, I wasnonplused and rather disturbed in my dreams of the future. I had decidedon a house wedding with but the family and a few intimate friends to bepresent at my happiness. After Clara had done me the honor to consultme, several thousand cards were sent out for the ceremony at the churchand an addition was begun on the front veranda. 

Clara herself led me to the library and analyzed the situation to me, inthe profoundest manner. 

"You dear, old, impracticable goose, " she said with the wisdom of justtwenty, "what do you know about such things? How much do you suppose itwill cost us to furnish a house the way we want?"

I said airily, "Oh, about five hundred dollars. "

"Take out your pencil, " said Clara scornfully, "and write. "

When she finished her dictation, and I had added up the items with agroan, I was dumbfounded. I said:

"Clara, do you think it is wise--do you think we have any right to getmarried?"

"Of course we have. "

"Then we must make up our minds to boarding. "

"Nonsense! we shall have everything just as we planned it. "

"But how?"

"Wedding presents, " said Clara triumphantly, "now do you see why it mustbe a church wedding?"

I began to see. 

"But isn't it a bit mercenary?" I said feebly. "Does every one do it?"

"Every one. It is a sort of tax on the unmarried, " said Clara with adetermined shake of her head. "Quite right that it should be, too. "

"Then every one who receives an invitation is expected to contribute toour future welfare?"

"An invitation to the house. "

"Well, to the house--then?"

"Certainly. "

"Ah, now, my dear, I begin to understand why the presents are alwaysshown. "

For all answer Clara extended the sheet of paper on which we had madeour calculations. 

I capitulated. 

II

I pass over the wedding. In theory I have grown more and more opposed tosuch exhibitions. A wedding is more pathetic than a funeral, andnothing, perhaps, is more out of place than the jubilations of theguests. When a man and a woman, as husband and wife, have lived togetherfive years, then the community should engage a band and serenade them, but at the outset--however, I will not insist--I am doubtless cynicallyinclined. I come to the moment when, having successfully weathered thepitfalls of the honeymoon (there's another mistaken theory--but let thatpass) my wife and I found ourselves at last in our own home, in themidst of our wedding presents. I say in the midst advisably. Clara sathelplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from thefireplace. 

"My dear Clara, " I said, with just a touch of asperity, "you've had yourway about the wedding. Now you've got your wedding presents. What areyou going to do with them?"

"If people only wouldn't have things marked!" said Clara irrelevantly. 

"But they always do, " I replied. "Also I may venture to suggest thatyour answer doesn't solve the difficulty. "

"Don't be cross, " said Clara. 

"My dear, " I replied with excellent good-humor, "I'm not. I'm onlyamused--who wouldn't be?"

"Don't be horrid, George, " said Clara. 

"It _is_ deliciously humorous, " I continued. "Quite the most humorousthing I have ever known. I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have madea profound discovery. I know now why so many American marriages are nothappy. "

"Why, George?"

"Wedding presents, " I said savagely, "exactly that, my dear. This beingforced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don'twant, you never will want, and which you've got to live with or loseyour friends. "

"Oh, George!" said Clara, gazing around helplessly, "it is terrible, isn't it?"

"Look at that rug you are sitting on, " I said, glaring at a six by tenmodern French importation. "Cauliflowers contending with unicorns, surrounded by a border of green roses and orange violets--expensive! Anduntil the lamp explodes or the pipes burst we have got to go on and onand on living over that, and why?--because dear Isabel will be here oncea week!"

"I thought Isabel would have better taste, " said Clara. 

"She has--Isabel has perfect taste, depend upon it, " I said, "she did iton purpose!"

"George!"

"Exactly that. Have you noticed that married people give the mostimpossible presents? It is revenge, my dear. Society has preyed uponthem. They will prey upon society. Wait until we get a chance!"

"It is awful!" said Clara. 

"Let us continue. We have five French rugs; no two could live together. Five rooms desecrated. Our drawing-room is Art Nouveau, furnished byyour Uncle James, who is strong and healthy and may live twenty years. I particularly abominate Art Nouveau furniture. "

"So do I. "

"Our dining-room is distinctly Grand Rapids. "

"Now, George!"

"It is. "

"Well, it was your Aunt Susan. "

"It was, but who suggested it? I pass over the bedrooms. I will simplysay that they are nightmares. Expensive nightmares! I come to thelamps--how many have we?"

"Fourteen. "

"Fourteen atrocities, imitation Louis Seize, bogus Oriental, feathered, laced and tasseled. So much for useful presents. Now for decoration. Wehave three Sistine Madonnas (my particular abomination). Two, thankheaven, we can inflict on the next victims, one we have got to live withand why?--so that each of our three intimate friends will believe it hisown. We have water colors and etchings which we don't want, and aphotograph copy of every picture that every one sees in every one'shouse. Some original friend has even sent us a life-size, marblereproduction of the Venus de Milo. These things will be our artistichome. Then there are vases--"

"Now you are losing your temper. "

"On the contrary, I'm reserving it. I shan't characterize thebric-à-brac, that was to be expected. "

"Don't!"

"At least that is not marked. I come at last to the silver. Give me thelist. "

Clara sighed and extended it. 

"Four solid silver terrapin dishes. "

"Marked. "

"Marked--Terrapin--ha! ha! Two massive, expensive, solid silverchampagne coolers. "

"Marked. "

"Marked, my dear--for each end of the table when we give our beefsteakdinners. Almond dishes. "

"Don't!"

"Forty-two individual, solid or filigree almond dishes; forty-two, Clara. "

"Marked. "

"Right again, dear. One dozen bonbon dishes, five nouveau riche sugarshakers (we never use them), three muffineers--in heaven's name, what'sthat? Solid silver bread dishes, solid silver candlesticks by the dozen, solid silver vegetable dishes, and we expect one servant and anintermittent laundress to do the cooking, washing, make the beds andclean the house besides. "

"All marked, " said Clara dolefully. 

"Every one, my dear. Then the china and the plates, we can't even eatout of the plates we want or drink from the glasses we wish; everythingin this house, from top to bottom has been picked out and inflicted uponus against our wants and in defiance of our own taste and we--we havegot to go on living with them and trying not to quarrel!"

"You have forgotten the worst of all, " said Clara. 

"No, my darling, I have not forgotten it. I have thought of nothingelse, but I wanted you to mention it. "

"The flat silver, George. "

"The flat silver, my darling. Twelve dozen, solid silver and teaset tomatch, bought without consulting us, by your two rich bachelor uncles incollusion. We wanted Queen Anne or Louis Seize, simple, dignified, something to live with and grow fond of, and what did we get?"

"Oh, dear, they might have asked me!"

"But they don't, they never do, that is the theory of wedding presents, my dear. We got Pond Lily pattern, repoussé until it scratches yourfingers. Pond Lily pattern, my dear, which I loathe, detest, andabominate!"

"I too, George. "

"And that, my dear, we shall never get rid of; we not only must adoptand assume the responsibility, but must pass it down to our children andour children's children. "

"Oh, George, it is terrible--terrible! What are we going to do?"

"My darling Clara, we are going to put a piece of bric-à-brac a day onthe newel post, buy a litter of puppies to chew up the rugs, select abutter-fingered, china-breaking waitress, pay storage on the silver andtry occasionally to set fire to the furniture. "

"But the flat silver, George, what of that?"

"Oh, the flat silver, " I said gloomily, "each one has his cross to bear, that shall be ours. "

III

We were, as has been suggested, a relatively rich couple. That's a pun!At the end of five years a relative on either side left us a gracefulreminder. The problem of living became merely one of degree. At the endof this period we had made considerable progress in the building up of ahome which should be in fact and desire entirely ours. That is, we hadbeen extensively fortunate in the preservation of our wedding presents. Our twenty-second housemaid broke a bottle of ink over the parlor rug, her twenty-one predecessors (whom I had particularly selected) hadalready made the most gratifying progress among the bric-à-brac, twointelligent Airdale puppies had chewed satisfactory holes in the ArtNouveau furniture, even the Sistine Madonna had wrenched loose from itssupports and considerately annihilated the jewel-studded Oriental lampin the general smashup. 

Our little home began at last to really reflect something of theartistic taste on which I pride myself. There remained at length onlythe flat silver and a few thousand dollars' worth of solid silverreceptacles for which we had now paid four hundred dollars storage. Butthese remained, secure, fixed beyond the assaults of the imagination. 

One morning at the breakfast table I laid down my cup with a crash. 

Clara gave an exclamation of alarm. 

"George dear, what is it?"

For all reply I seized a handful of the Pond Lily pattern silver andgazed at it with a savage joy. 

"George, George, what has happened?"

"My dear, I have an idea--a wonderful idea. "

"What idea?"

"We will spend the summer in Lone Tree, New Jersey. "

Clara screamed. 

"Are you in your senses, George?"

"Never more so. "

"But it's broiling hot!"

"Hotter than that. "

"It is simply deluged with mosquitoes. "

"There _are_ several mosquitoes there. "

"It's a hole in the ground!"

"It certainly is. "

"And the only people we know there are the Jimmy Lakes, whom I detest. "

"I can't bear them. "

"And, George, there are _burglars_!"

"Yes, my dear, " I said triumphantly, "heaven be praised there _are_burglars!"

Clara looked at me. She is very quick. 

"You are thinking of the silver. "

"Of all the silver. "

"But, George, can we afford it?"

"Afford what?"

"To have the silver stolen. "

"Supposing there was a burglar insurance, as a reward. "

The next moment Clara was laughing in my arms. 

"Oh, George, you are a wonderful, brilliant man: how did you ever thinkof it?"

"I just put my mind to it, " I said loftily. 

IV

We went to Lone Tree, New Jersey. We went there early to meet themigratory spring burglar. We released from storage two chests and threebarrels of solid silver wedding presents, took out a burglar insurancefor three thousand dollars and proceeded to decorate the dining-room andparlor. 

"It looks rather--rather nouveau riche, " said Clara, surveying theresult. 

"My dear, say the word--it is vulgar. But what of that? We have comehere for a purpose and we will not be balked. Our object is to offerevery facility to the gentlemen who will relieve us of our silver. Nothing concealed, nothing screwed to the floor. "

"I think, " said Clara, "that the champagne coolers are unnecessary. "

The solid silver champagne coolers adorned either side of the fireplace. 

"As receptacles for potted ferns they are, it is true, not quite in thebest of taste, " I admitted. "We might leave them in the hall forumbrellas and canes. But then they might be overlooked, and we must takeno chances on a careless burglar. "

Clara sat down and began to laugh, which I confess was quite the naturalthing to do. Solid silver bread dishes holding sweet peas, individualalmond dishes filled with matches, silver baskets for cigars andcigarettes crowded the room, with silver candlesticks sprouting fromevery ledge and table. The dining-room was worse--but then solid silverterrapin dishes and muffineers, not to mention the two dozen almonddishes left over from the parlor, are not at all appropriatedecorations. 

"I'm sure the burglars will never come, " said Clara, woman fashion. 

"If there's anything will keep them away, " I said, a little provoked, "it's just that attitude of mind. "

"Well, at any rate, I do hope they'll be quick about it, so we canleave this dreadful place. "

"They'll never come if you're going to watch them, " I said angrily. 

We had quite a little quarrel on that point. 

The month of June passed and still we remained in possession of ourwedding silver. Clara was openly discouraged and if I still clung to myfaith, at the bottom I was anxious and impatient. When July passedunfruitfully even our sense of humor was seriously endangered. 

"They will never come, " said Clara firmly. 

"My dear, " I replied, "the last time they came in July. All the morereason that they should change to August. "

"They will never come, " said Clara a second time. 

"Let's bait the hook, " I said, trying to turn the subject into afacetious vein. "We might strew a dozen or so of those individual dishesdown the path to the road. "

"They'll never come, " said Clara obstinately. 

And yet they came. 

On the second of August, about two o'clock in the morning I was awakenedout of a deep sleep by the voice of my wife crying:

"George, here's a burglar!"

I thought the joke obvious and ill-timed and sleepily said so. 

"But, George dear, he's here--in the room!"

There was something in my wife's voice, a note of ringing exultation, that brought me bolt upright in bed. 

"Put up your hands--quick!" said a staccato voice. 

It was true, there at the end of the bed, flashing the conventionalbull's-eye lantern, stood at last a real burglar. 

"Put 'em up!"

My hands went heavenward in thanksgiving and gratitude. 

"Make a move, you candy dude, or shout for help, " continued the voice, shoving into the light the muzzle of a Colt's revolver, "and this foryou's!"

The slighting allusion I took to the credit of the pink and whitepajamas I wore--but nothing at that moment could have ruffled myfeelings. I was bubbling over with happiness. I wanted to jump up andhug him in my arms. I listened. Downstairs could be heard the sound offeet and an occasional metallic ring. 

"Oh, George, isn't it too wonderful--wonderful for words!" said Clara, hysterical with joy. 

"I can't believe it, " I cried. 

"Shut up!" said the voice behind the lantern. 

"My dear friend, " I said conciliatingly, "there's not the slightest needof your keeping your finger on that wabbling, cold thing. My feelingstowards you are only the tenderest and the most grateful. "

"Huh!"

"The feelings of a brother! My only fear is that you may overlook one ortwo articles that I admit are not conveniently exposed. "

The bull's-eye turned upon me with a sudden jerk. 

"Well, I'll be damned!"

"We have waited for you long and patiently. We thought you would nevercome. In fact, we had sort of lost faith in you. I'm sorry. I apologize. In a way I don't deserve this--I really don't. "

"Bughouse!" came from the foot of the bed, in a suppressed mutter. "Outand out bughouse!"

"Quite wrong, " I said cheerily. "I never was in better health. You aresurprised, you don't understand. It's not necessary you should. It wouldrob the situation of its humor if you should. All I ask of you is totake everything, don't make a slip, get it all. "

"Oh, do, please, please do!" said Clara earnestly. 

The silence at the foot of the bed had the force of an exclamation. 

"Above all, " I continued anxiously, "don't forget the pots. They standon either side of the fireplace, filled with ferns. They are not pewter. They are solid silver champagne coolers. They are worth--they areworth--"

"Two hundred apiece, " said Clara instantly. 

"And don't overlook the muffineers, the terrapin dishes and thecandlesticks. We should be very much obliged--very grateful if youcould find room for them. "

Often since I have thought of that burglar and what must have been hissensations. At the time I was too engrossed with my own feelings. Neverhave I enjoyed a situation more. It is true I noticed as I proceeded ourburglar began to edge away towards the door, keeping the lanternsteadily on my face. 

"And one favor more, " I added, "there are several flocks of individualsilver almond dishes roosting downstairs--"

"Forty-two, " said Clara, "twenty-four in the dining-room and eighteen inthe parlor. "

"Forty-two is the number; as a last favor please find room for them; ifyou don't want them drop them in a river or bury them somewhere. Wereally would appreciate it. It's our last chance. "

"All right, " said the burglar in an altered tone. "Don't you worry now, we'll attend to that. "

"Remember there are forty-two--if you would count them. "

"That's all right--just you rest easy, " said the burglar soothingly. "I'll see they all get in. "

"Really, if I could be of any assistance downstairs, " I said anxiously, "I might really help. "

"Oh, don't you worry, Bub, my pals are real careful muts, " said theburglar nervously. "Now just keep calm. We'll get 'em all. "

It suddenly burst upon me that he took me for a lunatic. I buried myhead in the covers and rocked back and forth between tears and laughter. 

"Hi! what the ----'s going on up there?" cried a voice from downstairs. 

"It's all right--all right, Bill, " said our burglar hoarsely, "veryaffable party up here. Say, hurry it up a bit down there, will you?"

All at once it struck me that if I really frightened him too much theymight decamp without making a clean sweep. I sobered at once. 

"I'm not crazy, " I said. 

"Sure you're not, " said the burglar conciliatingly. 

"But I assure you--"

"That's all right. "

"I'm perfectly sane. "

"Sane as a house!"

"There's nothing to be afraid of. "

"Course there isn't. Hi, Bill, won't you hurry up there!"

"I'll explain--"

"Don't you mind that. "

"This is the way it is--"

"That's all right, we know all about it. "

"You do--"

"Sure, we got your letter. "

"What letter?"

"Your telegram then. "

"See here, I'm not crazy--"

"You bet you're not, " said the burglar, edging towards the door andchanging the key. 

"Hold up!" I cried in alarm, "don't be a fool. What I want is for you toget everything--everything, do you hear?"

"All right, I'll just go down and speak to him. "

"Hold up--"

"I'll tell him. "

"Wait, " I cried, jumping out of bed in my desire to retain him. 

At that moment a whistle came from below and with an exclamation ofrelief our burglar slammed the door and locked it. We heard him go downthree steps at a time and rush out of the house. 

"Now you've scared them away, " said Clara, "with your idiotic humor. "

I felt contrite and alarmed. 

"How could I help it?" I said angrily, preparing to climb out on theroof of the porch. "I tried to tell him. "

With which I scrambled out on the roof, made my way to the next room andentering, released Clara. At the top of the steps we stood clingingtogether. 

"Suppose they left it all behind, " said Clara. 

"Or even some!"

"Oh, George, I know it--I know it!"

"Don't be unreasonable--let's go down. " Holding a candle aloft wedescended. The lower floor was stripped of silver--not even anindividual almond dish or a muffineer remained. We fell wildly, hilariously into each other's arms and began to dance. I don't knowexactly what it was, but it wasn't a minute. 

Suddenly Clara stopped. 

"George!"

"Oh, Lord, what is it?"

"Supposin'. "

"Well--well?"

"Supposin' they've dropped some of it in the path. "

We rushed out and searched the path, nothing there. We searched theroad--one individual almond dish had fallen. I took it and hammered itbeyond recognition and flung it into the pond. It was criminal, but Idid it. 

And then we went into the house and danced some more. We were happy. 

Of course we raised an alarm--after sufficient time to carefully dress, and fill the lantern with oil. Other houses too had been robbed beforewe had been visited, but as they were occupied by old inhabitants, theoccupants had nonchalantly gone to sleep again after surrendering theirsmall change. Our exploit was quite the sensation. With great difficultywe assumed the proper public attitude of shock and despair. Thefollowing day I wrote full particulars to the Insurance Company, with ademand for the indemnity. 

"You'll never get the full amount, " said Clara. 

"Why not?"

"You never do. They'll send a man to ask disagreeable questions and tobeat us down. "

"Let him come. "

"You'll see. "

Just one week after the event, I opened an official envelope, extracteda check, gazed at it with a superior smile and tendered it to Clara bythe tips of my fingers. 

"Three thousand dollars!" cried Clara, without contrition, "threethousand dollars--oh, George!"

There it was--three thousand dollars, without a shred of doubt. Womanlike, all Clara had to say was:

"Well, was I right about the wedding presents?"

Which remark I had not foreseen. 

We shut up house and went to town next day and began the rounds of thejewelers. In four days we had expended four-fifths of our money--butwith what results! Everything we had longed for, planned for, dreamed ofwas ours and everything harmonized. 

Two weeks later as, ensconced in our city house, we moved enrapturedabout our new-found home, gazing at the reincarnation of our silver, atelegram was put in my hand. 

"What is it?" said Clara from the dining-room, where she was fondlingour chaste Queen Anne teaset. 

"It's a telegram, " I said, puzzled. 

"Open it, then!"

I tore the envelope, it was from the Insurance Company. 

"Our detectives have arrested the burglars. You will be overjoyed tohear that we have recovered your silver in toto!"

THE SURPRISES OF THE LOTTERY

I

The Comte de Bonzag, on the ruined esplanade of his Château deKeragouil, frowned into the distant crepuscle of haystack and multipliedhedge, crumpling in his nervous hands two annoying slips of paper. Therugged body had not one more pound of flesh than was absolutelynecessary to hold together the long, pointed bones. The bronzed, haphazard face was dominated by a stiff comb of orange-tawny hair, whichfaithfully reproduced the gaunt unloveliness of generations of Bonzags. But there lurked in the rapid advance of the nose and the abrupt, obstinate eyes a certain staring defiance which effectively limited thefield of comment. 

At his back, the riddled silhouette of ragged towers and crumbling roofreflected against the gentle skies something of the windy raiment of itsowner. It was a Gascon château, arrogant and threadbare, which had nevercried out at a wound, nor suffered the indignity of a patch. About itand through it, hundreds of swallows, its natural inheritors, crossedand recrossed in their vacillating flight. 

Out of the obscurity of the green pastures that melted away into thenear woods, the voice of a woman suddenly rose in a tender laugh. 

The Comte de Bonzag sat bolt upright, dislodging from his lap a blackspaniel, who tumbled on a matronly hound, whose startled yelp ofindignation caused the esplanade to vibrate with dogs, that, scurryingfrom every cranny, assembled in an expectant circle, and waited withhungry tongues the intentions of their master. 

The Comte, listening attentively, perceived near the stable his entiredomestic staff reclining happily on the arm of Andoche, theSapeur-Pompier, the hero of a dozen fires. 

"No, there are no longer any servants!" he exclaimed, with a bitternessthat caused a stir in the pack; then angrily he shouted with all hisforces: "Francine! Hey, there, Francine! Come here at once!"

The indisputable fact was that Francine had asked for her wages. Such ademand, indelicate in its simplest form, had been further aggravated bya respectful but clear ultimatum. It was pay, or do the cooking, and ifthe first was impossible, the second was both impossible anddistasteful. 

The enemy duly arrived, dimpled and plump, an honest thirty-five, asolid widow, who stopped at the top of the stairs with the distantrespect which the Comte de Bonzag inspired even in his creditors. 

"Francine, I have thought much, " said the Comte, with a conciliatorylook. "You were a little exaggerated, but you were in your rights. "

"Ah, Monsieur le Comte, six months is long when one has a child who mustbe--"

"We will not refer again to our disagreement, " the Comte said, interrupting her sternly. "I have simply called you to hear what actionI have decided on. "

"Oh, yes, M'sieur; thank you, M'sieur le Comte. "

"Unluckily, " said Bonzag, frowning, "I am forced to make a greatsacrifice. In a month I could probably have paid all--I have a greatuncle at Valle-Temple who is exceedingly ill. But--however, we will holdthat for the future. I owe you, my good Francine, wages for sixmonths--sixty francs, representing your service with me. I am going togive you on account, at once, twenty francs, or rather somethingimmeasurably more valuable than that sum. " He drew out the two slips ofpaper, and regarded them with affection and regret. "Here are twotickets for the Grand Lottery of France, which will be drawn this month, ten francs a ticket. I had to go to Chantreuil to get them; number77, 707 and number 200, 013. Take them--they are yours. "

"But, M'sieur le Comte, " said Francine, looking stupidly at the ticketsshe had passively received. "It's--it's good round pieces of silver Ineed. "

"Francine, " cried de Bonzag, in amazed indignation, "do you realizethat I probably have given you a fortune--and that I am absolving you ofall division of it with me!"

"But, M'sieur--"

"That there are one hundred and forty-five numbers that will drawprizes. "

"Yes, M'sieur le Comte; but--"

"That there is a prize of one quarter of a million, one third of amillion--"

"All the same--"

"That the second prize is for one-half a million, and the first prizefor one round million francs. "

"M'sieur says?" said Francine, whose eyes began to open. 

"One hundred and forty-five chances, and the lowest is for a hundredfrancs. You think that isn't a sacrifice, eh?"

"Well, Monsieur le Comte, " Francine said at last with a sigh, "I'll takethem for twenty francs. It's not good round silver, and there's mylittle girl--"

"Enough!" exclaimed de Bonzag, dismissing her with an angry gesture. "Iam making you an heiress, and you have no gratitude! Leave me--and sendhither Andoche. "

He watched the bulky figure waddle off, sunk back in his chair, andrepeated with profound dejection; "No gratitude! There, it's done: thistime certainly I have thrown away a quarter of a million at thelowest!"

Presently Andoche, the Sapeur-Pompier, the brass helmet under his arm, appeared at the top of the steps, smiling and thirsty, with covetouseyes fastened on the broken table, at the carafe containing curaçoa thatwas white and "Triple-Sec. "

"Ah, it's you, Andoche, " said the Comte, finally, drawn from hisabstraction by a succession of rapid bows. He took two full-heartedsighs, pushed the carafe slightly in the direction of theSapeur-Pompier, and added: "Sit down, my good Andoche. I have need to bea little gay. Suppose we talk of Paris. "

It was the cue for Andoche to slip gratefully into a chair, possess thecarafe and prepare to listen. 

II

At the proper age of thirty-one, the Comte de Bonzag fell heir to theenormous sum of fifteen thousand francs from an uncle who had made thefortune in trade. With no more delay than it took the great Emperor tofling an army across the Alps, he descended on Paris, resolved torepulse all advances which Louis Napoleon might make, and to lend thesplendor of his name and the weight of his fortune only to the CercleRoyale. Two weeks devoted to this loyal end strengthened the Bourbonlines perceptibly, but resulted in a shrinkage of four thousand francsin his own. Next remembering that the aristocracy had always been thepatron of the arts, he determined to make a rapid examination of the_coulisses_ of the opera and the regions of the ballet. A six-days'reconnaissance discovered not the slightest signs of disaffection; butthe thoroughness of his inquiries was such that the completion of hismission found him with just one thousand francs in pocket. Being notonly a Loyalist and a patron of the arts, but a statesman and aphilosopher, he turned his efforts toward the Quartier Latin, to thegreat minds who would one day take up the guidance of a more enlightenedFrance. There he made the discovery that one amused himself more than atthe Cercle Royale, and spent considerably less than in the arts, andthat at one hundred francs a week he aroused an enthusiasm for theBourbons which almost attained the proportions of a riot. 

The three months over, he retired to his estate at Keragouil, havingprofoundly stirred all classes of society, given new life to the causeof His Majesty, and regretting only, as a true gentleman, the frightfuldevastation he had left in the hearts of the ladies. 

Unfortunately, these brilliant services to Parisian society and his kinghad left him without any society of his own, forced to the considerationof the difficult problem of how to keep his pipe lighted, his cellarfull, and his maid-of-all-work in a state of hopeful expectation, onnothing a year. 

Nothing daunted, he attacked this problem of the family bankruptcy withthe vigor and the daring of a D'Artagnan. Each year he collectedlaboriously twenty francs, and invested them in two tickets for theGreat Lottery, valiantly resolved, like a Gascon, to carry off bothfirst and second prizes, but satisfied as a philosopher if he couldfigure among the honorable mentions. Despite the fact that one hundredand forty-five prizes were advertised each year, in nineteen attempts hehad not even had the pleasure of seeing his name in print. This result, far from discouraging him, only inflamed his confidence. For he haddipped into mathematics, and consoled himself by the reflection that, according to the law of probabilities, each year he became the moreirresistible. 

Lately, however, one obstacle had arisen to the successful carrying outof this system of finance. He employed one servant, a maid-of-all-work, who was engaged for the day, with permission to take from the gardenwhat she needed, to adorn herself from the rose-bushes, to share theoutput of La Belle Etoile, the cow, and to receive a salary of tenfrancs a month. The difficulty invariably arose over the interpretationof this last clause. For the Comte was not regular in his payments, unless it could be said that he was regular in not paying at all. 

So it invariably occurred that the maid-of-all-work from a state ofunrest gradually passed into open rebellion, especially when the gardenwas not productive and the roses ceased to bloom. When the ultimatum wasserved, the Comte consulted his resources and found them invariably toconsist of two tickets of the Lottery of France, cash value twentyfrancs, but, according to the laws of probability, increasingly capableof returning one million, five hundred thousand francs. On one side wasthe glory of the ancient name, and the possibility of another descent onParis; opposed was the brutal question of soup and ragout. The manprevailed, and the maid-of-all-work grudgingly accepted the conditionsof truce. Then the news of the drawing arrived and the domestic staffdeparted. 

This comedy, annually repeated, was annually played on the same lines. Only each year the period intervening between the surrender of thetickets and the announcement of the lottery brought an increasing agony. Each time as the Comte saw the precious slips finally depart in thehands of the maid-of-all-work, he was convinced that at last the laws ofprobability must fructify. Each year he found a new meaning in thecabalistic mysteries of numbers. The eighteenth attempt, multiplied bythree, gave fifty-four, his age. Success was inevitable: nineteen, anumber indivisible and chaste above all others, seemed speciallydesignated. In a word, the Comte suffered during these periods as only agambler of the fourth generation is able to suffer. 

At present the number twenty appeared to him to have properties noother number had possessed, especially in the reappearance of the zero, a figure which peculiarly attracted him by its symmetry. His despair wasconsequently unlimited. 

Ordinarily the news of the lottery arrived by an inspector of roads, whopassed through Keragouil a week or so after the announcement in thepress; for the Comte, having surrendered his ticket, was only troubledlest he had won. 

This time, to the upsetting of all history, an Englishman on a bicycletrip brought him a newspaper, an article almost unknown to Keragouil, where the shriek of the locomotive had yet to penetrate. 

The Comte de Bonzag, opening the paper with the accustomed sinking ofthe heart, was startled by the staring headlines:

RESULTS OF THE LOTTERY

A glance at the winners of the first and second prizes reassured him. Hedrew a breath of satisfaction, saying gratefully; "Ah, what luck! God bepraised! I'll never do that again!"

Then, remembering with only an idle curiosity the one hundred andforty-three mediocre prizes on the list, he returned to the perusal. Suddenly the print swam before his eyes, and the great esplanade seemedto rise. Number 77, 707 had won the fourth prize of one hundred thousandfrancs; number 200, 013, a prize of ten thousand francs. 

III

The emotion which overwhelmed Napoleon at Waterloo as he beheld histriumphant squadrons go down into the sunken road was not a whit morecomplete than the despair of the Comte de Bonzag when he realized thatthe one hundred and ten thousand francs which the laws of probabilityhad finally produced was now the property of Francine, the cook. 

One hundred and ten thousand francs! It was colossal! Five generationsof Bonzags had never touched as much as that. One hundred and tenthousand francs meant the rehabilitation of the ancient name, therestoration of the Château de Keragouil, half the year at Paris, in theCercle Royale, in the regions of art, and among the great minds thatwere still young in the Quartier--and all that was in the possession ofa plump Gascony peasant, whose ideas of comfort and pleasure weresatisfied by one hundred and twenty francs a year. 

"What am I going to do?" he cried, rising in an outburst of anger. Thenhe sat down in despair. There was nothing to do. The fact was obviousthat Francine was an heiress, possessed of the greatest fortune in thememory of Keragouil. There was nothing to do, or rather, there wasmanifestly but one way open, and the Comte resolved on the spot to takeit. He must have back the lottery tickets, though it meant a Comtesse deBonzag. 

Fortunately for him, Francine knew nothing of the arrival of the paper. Though it was necessary to make haste, there was still time for acompatriot of D'Artagnan. There was, of course, Andoche, theSapeur-Pompier; but a Bonzag who had had three months' experience withthe feminine heart of Paris was not the man to trouble himself over aSapeur-Pompier. That evening, in the dim dining-room, when Francinearrived with the steaming soup, the Comte, who had waited with a spoonin his fist and a napkin knotted to his neck, plunged valiantly to theissue. 

"Ah, what a good smell!" he said, elevating his nose. "Francine, you arethe queen of cooks. "

"Oh, M'sieur le Comte, " Francine stammered, stopping in amazement. "Oh, M'sieur le Comte, thanks. "

"Don't thank me; it is I who am grateful. "

"Oh, M'sieur!"

"Yes, yes, yes! Francine--"

"What is it, M'sieur le Comte?"

"To-night you may set another cover--opposite me. "

"Set another cover?"

"Exactly. "

Francine, more and more astonished, proceeded to place on the table aplate, a knife and a fork. 

"M'sieur le Curé is coming?" she said, drawing up a chair. 

"No, Francine. "

"Not M'sieur le Curé? Who, then?"

"It is for you, Francine. Sit down. "

"I? I, M'sieur le Comte?"

"Sit down. I wish it. "

Francine took three steps backward and so as to command the exit, stopped and stared at her master, with mingled amazement and distrust. 

"My dear Francine, " continued the Comte, "I am tired of eating alone. Itis bad for the digestion. And I am bored. I have need of society. So sitdown. "

"M'sieur orders it?"

"I ask it as a favor, Francine. "

Francine, with open eyes, advanced doubtfully, seating herself nicely onthe chair, more astonished than complimented, and more alarmed thanpleased. 

"Ah, that is nicer!" said the Comte, with an approving nod. "How have Iendured it all these years! Francine, you may help yourself to thewine. "

The astonished maid-of-all-work, who had swallowed a spoon of soup withgreat discomfort, sprang up, all in a tremble, stammering with defiantvirtue:

"M'sieur le Comte does not forget that I am an honest woman!"

"No, my dear Francine; I am certain of it. So sit down in peace. I willtell you the situation. "

Francine hesitated, then, reassured by the devotion he gave to his soup, settled once more in her chair. 

"Francine, I have made up my mind to one thing, " said the Comte, fillinghis glass with such energy that a red circle appeared on the cloth. "This life I lead is all wrong. A man is a sociable being. He needssociety. Isolation sends him back to the brute. "

"Oh, yes, M'sieur le Comte, " said Francine, who understood nothing. 

"So I am resolved to marry. "

"M'sieur will marry!" cried Francine, who spilled half her soup with theshock. 

"Perfectly. It is for that I have asked you to keep me company. "

"M'sieur--you--M'sieur wants to marry me!"

"Parbleu!"

"M'sieur--M'sieur wants to marry me!"

"I ask you formally to be my wife. "

"I?"

"M'sieur wants--wants me to be Comtesse de Bonzag?"

"Immediately. "

"Oh!"

Springing up, Francine stood a moment gazing at him in frightenedalarm; then, with a cry, she vanished heavily through the door. 

"She has gone to Andoche, " said the Comte, angrily to himself. "Sheloves him!"

In great perturbation he left the room promenading on the esplanade, inthe midst of his hounds, talking uneasily to himself. 

"_Peste_, I put it to her a little too suddenly! It was a blunder. Ifshe loves that Sapeur-Pompier, eh? A Sapeur-Pompier, to rival a Comte deBonzag--faugh!"

Suddenly, below in the moonlight, he beheld Andoche tearing himself fromthe embrace of Francine, and, not to be seen, he returned nervously tothe dining-room. 

Shortly after, the maid-of-all-work returned, calm, but with telltaleeyes. 

"Well, Francine, did I frighten you?" said the Comte, genially. 

"Oh, yes, M'sieur le Comte--"

"Well, what do you want to say?"

"M'sieur was in real earnest?"

"Never more so. "

"M'sieur really wants to make me the Comtesse de Bonzag?"

"_Dame!_ I tell you my intentions are honorable. "

"M'sieur will let me ask him one question?"

"A dozen even. "

"M'sieur remembers that I am a widow--"

"With one child, yes. "

"M'sieur, pardon me; I have been thinking much, and I have been thinkingof my little girl. What would M'sieur want me to do?"

The Comte reflected, and said generously: "I do not adopt her; but, ifyou like, she shall live here. "

"Then, M'sieur, " said Francine, dropping on her knees, "I thank M'sieurvery much. M'sieur is too kind, too good--"

"So, it is decided then, " said the Comte, rising joyfully. 

"Oh, yes, M'sieur. "

"Then we shall go to-morrow, " said the Comte. "It is my manner; I liketo do things instantly. Stand up, I beg you, Madame. "

"To-morrow, M'sieur?"

"Yes, Madame. Have you any objections?"

"Oh, no, M'sieur le Comte; on the contrary, " said Francine, blushingwith pleasure at the twice-repeated "Madame. " Then she added carefully:"M'sieur is quite right; it would be better. People talk so. "

IV

The return of the married couple was the sensation of Keragouil, for theComte de Bonzag, after the fashion of his ancestors, had placed hisbride behind him on the broad back of Quatre Diables, who proceededwith unaltered equanimity. Along the journey the peasants, who held theComte in loyal terror, greeted the procession with a respectful silence, congregating in the road to stare and chatter only when the amiableQuatre Diables had disappeared in the distance. 

Disdaining to notice the commotion he produced, the Comte headedstraight for the courtyard, where Quatre Diables, recognizing the footblock, dropped his head and began to crop the grass. The new Comtesse, fatigued by the novel position, started gratefully to descend by themost natural way, that is, by slipping easily over the rear anatomy ofthe good-natured Quatre Diables. But the Comte, feeling the commotionbehind, stopped her with a word, and, flinging his left leg over theneck of his charger, descended gracefully to the block, where, bowingprofoundly, he said in gallant style:

"Madame, permit me to offer you my hand. "

The Comtesse, with the best intentions in the world, had considerabledifficulty in executing the movement by which her husband had extricatedhimself. Luckily, the Comte received her without yielding ground, drewher hand under his arm, and escorted her ceremoniously into the château, while Quatre Diables, liberated from the unusual burden, rolledgratefully to earth, and scratched his back against the cobblestones. 

"Madame, be so kind as to enter your home. "

With studied elegance, the Comte put his hat to his breast, orthereabout, and bowed as he held open the door. 

"Oh, M'sieur le Comte; after you, " said Francine, in confusion. 

"Pass, Madame, and enter the dining-room. We have certain ceremonies toobserve. "

Francine dutifully advanced, but kept an eye on the movements of herconsort. When he entered the dining-room and went to the sideboard, shetook an equal number of steps in the same direction. When, havingbrought out a bottle and glasses, he turned and came toward her, sheretreated. When he stopped, she stopped, and sat down with the sameexact movement. 

"Madame, I offer you a glass of the famous Keragouil Burgundy, " beganthe Comte, filling her glass. "It is a wine that we De Bonzags havealways kept to welcome our wives and to greet our children. Madame, Ihave the honor to drink to the Comtesse de Bonzag. "

"Oh, M'sieur le Comte, " said Francine, who, watching his manner, emptiedthe goblet in one swallow. 

"To the health of my ancestors!" continued the Comte, draining thebottle into the two goblets. "And now throw your glass on the floor!"

"Yes, M'sieur, " said Francine, who obeyed regretfully, with the newinstinct of a housewife. 

"Now, Madame, as wife and mistress of Keragouil, I think it is wellthat you understand your position and what I expect of you, " said theComte, waving her to a seat and occupying a fauteuil in magisterialfashion. "I expect that you will learn in a willing spirit what I shallteach you, that you may become worthy of the noble position you occupy. "

"Oh, M'sieur may be sure I'll do my best, " said Francine, quiteovercome. 

"I expect you to show me the deference and obedience that I demand ashead of the house of Bonzag. "

"Oh, M'sieur le Comte, how could you think--"

"To be economical and amiable. "

"Yes, indeed, M'sieur. "

"To listen when I speak, to forget you were a peasant, to give me threedesserts a week, and never, madame, to show me the slightestinfidelity. "

At these last words, Francine, already overcome by the rapid whirl offortune, as well as by the overcharged spirits of the potent Burgundy, burst into tears. 

"And no tears!" said De Bonzag, withdrawing sternly. 

"No, M'sieur; no, " Francine cried, hastily drying her eyes. Thendropping on her knees, she managed to say: "Oh, M'sieur--pardon, pardon. "

"What do you mean?" cried the Comte, furiously. 

"Oh, M'sieur forgive me--I will tell you all!"

"Madame--Madame, I don't understand, " said the Comte, mastering himselfwith difficulty. "Proceed; I am listening. "

"Oh, M'sieur le Comte, I'll tell you all. I swear it on the image of St. Jacques d'Acquin. "

"You have not lied to me about your child?" cried Bonzag in horror. 

"No, no, M'sieur; not that, " said Francine. Then, hiding her face, shesaid: "M'sieur, I hid something from you: I loved Andoche. "

"Ah!" said the Comte, with a sigh of relief. He sat down, addingsympathetically: "My poor Francine, I know it. Alas! That's what lifeis. "

"Oh, M'sieur, it's all over; I swear it!" Francine cried in protest. "But I loved him well, and he loved me--oh, how he loved me, M'sieur leComte! Pardon, M'sieur, but at that time I didn't think of being acomtesse, M'sieur le Comte. And when M'sieur spoke to me, I didn't knowwhat to do. My heart was all given to Andoche, but--well, M'sieur, thetruth is, I began to think of my little girl, and I said to myself, Imust think of her, because, M'sieur, I thought of the position it wouldgive her, if I were a Comtesse. What a step in the world, eh? And Isaid, you must do it for her! So I went to Andoche, and I told himall--yes, all, M'sieur--that my heart was his, but that my duty was toher. And Andoche, ah, what a good heart, M'sieur--he understood--we wepttogether. " She choked a minute, put her handkerchief hastily to hereyes, "Pardon, M'sieur; and he said it was right, and I kissed him--Ihide nothing, M'sieur will pardon me that, --and he went away!" She tooka step toward him, twisting her handkerchief, adding in a timid appeal:"M'sieur understands why I tell him that? M'sieur will believe me. Ihave killed all that. It is no more in my heart. I swear it by the imageof St. Jacques d'Acquin. "

"Madame, I knew it before, " said the Comte, rising; "still, I thankyou. "

"Oh, M'sieur, I have put it all away--I swear it!"

"I believe you, " interrupted the Comte, "and now no more of it! I alsoam going to be frank with you. " He went with a smile to a corner wherestood the little box, done up in rope, which held the trousseau of theComtesse de Bonzag. "Open that, and give me the lottery-tickets I gaveyou. "

"Hanh? You--M'sieur says?"

"The lottery-tickets--"

"Oh, M'sieur, but they're not there--"

"Then where are they?"

"Oh, M'sieur, wait; I'll tell you, " said Francine, simply. "When Andochewent off--"

[Illustration: "You gave him--the tickets! The lottery-tickets!"]

"What!" cried the Comte, like a cannon. 

"He was so broken up, M'sieur, I was so afraid for him, so just toconsole him, M'sieur--to give him something--I gave him the tickets. "

"You gave him--the tickets! The lottery-tickets!"

"Just to console him--yes, M'sieur. "

The lank form of the Comte de Bonzag wavered, and then, as though thebody had suddenly deserted the clothes, collapsed in a heap on thefloor. 

THE END