The fifteen cells

By Stuart Martin

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Title: The fifteen cells

Author: Stuart Martin


        
Release date: May 28, 2026 [eBook #78778]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: Harper & Brothers, 1928

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/78778

Credits: Tim Miller, Mary Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FIFTEEN CELLS ***




                           THE FIFTEEN CELLS

                           BY STUART MARTIN

                    HARPER & BROTHERS _Publishers_
                         New York _and_ London
                                 1928

                        PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.
                                  E-C




                               CONTENTS


                              THE VISITOR

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIRST CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SECOND CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRD CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SIXTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SEVENTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE EIGHTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE NINTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TENTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE ELEVENTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWELFTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRTEENTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTEENTH CELL

              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTEENTH CELL




                           THE FIFTEEN CELLS




                              THE VISITOR


It was all a matter of routine.

Precisely at nine o'clock in the morning the Governor entered the
prison, just as he had entered for years.

The warder who met him at the gates saluted smartly and said, "All
correct, sir," just as he had said it for years.

Every warder who was stationed between the gates and the Governor's
office saluted and said, "All correct, sir," just as they had said it
for years.

The Deputy-Governor rose from his chair as the Governor entered the
office, and said, "All correct, sir. Good morning, sir."

The correspondence was looked over. The Governor dictated a few replies
to his clerk; routine replies. The stewards received their portion of
the mail dealing with the accounts and the cookhouse, laundry, etc.
The chief warder reported that the adjudication room was ready. The
Governor and the Deputy-Governor went in to adjudicate.

The newcomers to the prison were attended to first. They had been
brought in the previous day, had been bathed, medically examined, and
given prison clothes. There were fourteen arrivals. Next came those
who were due to return to the world shortly. Their papers were put in
order.

The Governor went to his lunch.

In the afternoon he attended to his less important correspondence.
He adjudicated on the applications for petitions, wherein prisoners
desired to tell the Home Secretary that their sentences were too long
or complained of other matters. Every prisoner has a right to petition.
Very few have their petitions granted.

The Governor went to tea.

His work was not ended. He returned to his office and signed a request
to the local coroner to be good enough to hold an inquest the following
day on the body of a man who was at that moment perfectly healthy; but
he was in the condemned cell.

The Governor then took a walk round the grounds. It was a dull, heavy
evening. Fog had been coming up all day. In a corner of the prison
precincts two warders had almost finished digging a grave. The Governor
wondered how the condemned man would face his execution; and came to
the conclusion that he would probably do as practically all condemned
men did--take his ounce or so of brandy, toss it off, and wipe his lips
with his cuff. The executioner would be at the door and would enter
the cell, while the chaplain, the assistants, the officials, would
look on. The executioner would pretend to be cheerful. Most of them
affect this frightful cordiality. He would say persuasively: "Hullo,
old man. Put your hands behind your back, if you don't mind. That's
the idea." By the time the executioner ceased to speak the condemned
man would be pinioned. The chaplain would lead the procession, reading
aloud the Burial Service (a kindness granted to ordinary people when
they can no longer hear it). The shed, ten yards off, would be reached.
A belt would be strapped round the prisoner's ankles, the executioner
would put a white cap over the man's head and adjust the noose; then,
stepping back quickly from the platform, he would pull the lever. The
trap-door would open, its sides thudding against the sides of the
pit with a crash that would be heard throughout the prison. The law
would be satisfied; at any rate, it would be fulfilled. Everything was
routine.

The Governor had still one call to make. He had to go to the condemned
cell.

He passed into the prison, walked along the corridors, which were
steam-heated and scrupulously clean. He stopped before the condemned
cell at the door of which a warder was on guard.

"All correct, sir," said the warder, saluting.

The Governor looked into the cell through the trap in the door. The
prisoner was enjoying a smoke. The Governor closed the trap.

"Gives you no trouble?" he asked in a low tone.

"None at all, sir."

"Chaplain been here?"

"Yes, sir."

"There is a visitor coming to see him to-night. Report him to my
deputy. Don't bother me."

The warder saluted. The Governor went back to his room. His rounds
were finished. He would not be disturbed. The friends of condemned men
always wanted to see the Governor just before the executions--as if he
could do anything! The Governor drew a chair close to the fire, lit a
cigar, and picked up a newspaper.

His room was a large apartment. There were no curtains on the
windows, but the glass was of the frosted, corrugated kind so that
nobody could see inside, even if the position of the room had made it
possible otherwise; which it did not. The Governor had attended many
executions in his prison and had seen men die on the scaffold. These
ceremonies did not affect him, never made him turn a hair. Like many
other Governors he had been an Army officer before he became a prison
official. He had no interest in the present case. The crime had been
cold-blooded. The Governor had asked his deputy to represent him at the
final scene. Everything was in readiness to launch the criminal out of
this world.

The Governor went to dinner.

The clock on the mantel-piece of his private room was just striking
eight when he returned. He was going to write some private letters,
and he had just lit another cigar when a knock sounded on the door. A
warder appeared.

"That visitor is here, sir."

"Has he been to the condemned cell?"

"Yes, sir."

"Has he seen my deputy?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why trouble me? I left instructions----"

"Yes, sir. But he insists on seeing you."

"Very well. Bring him up and then leave us. Do not trouble me again. I
will show him out."

The warder departed, but was back in less than a minute. At his heels
was the visitor who had come to see the condemned man. The warder
closed the door on them and clumped along the corridor for good. The
Governor raised his eyes from his desk where he had pretended to be
busy.

"You wish to see me?"

"I do."

"I can't give you much time. The prison is already officially closed
for the night----"

"That doesn't matter."

"You have already interviewed my deputy?"

"It's you I want to speak to."

"What can I do for you?"

Up to this point the routine had been strictly followed. At this point
routine suddenly received a jolt that destroyed it and blew it to
smithereens.

"You can just sit where you are, Governor. And don't attempt to move."

The Governor obeyed--he who was in the habit of being obeyed. He was
facing the barrel of a small revolver which the visitor had thrust
forward and was holding in his gloved hand. For a moment neither of
the two men spoke. Neither of them was afraid. It was a meeting of two
persons well drilled in the art of controlling emotions. The Governor
examined his visitor. The visitor examined the Governor.

The Governor saw a man of medium height, dressed shabbily, but with a
certain air of superiority. His face was furrowed, two lines running
down, one on either side of his cheeks, from the nose past the corners
of the mouth, to the chin. It was a prominent chin, and hiding under it
was a duplicate one. The man's brow was broad and wide, his eyebrows
shaggy and heavy. At the corners of his eyes were wrinkles telling of
concentration and meditation. The eyes themselves were small, piercing,
alert, with no trace of nervousness about them. They were a trifle too
close together, however, and this gave them a touch of cunning. The
general impression was that the face might have belonged to a student,
a professor. On the other hand, it might have belonged to a criminal.
Prison often moulds such faces. It was a face at once interesting
and common; pleasing and yet unattractive; arresting and still
unremarkable. But the Governor knew that only an uncommon personality
would have come into his room with a revolver levelled at him.

The stranger, on his part, studied the Governor minutely. He saw a tall
man, nearly six feet high, head going bald on the top, military face,
lean flanks, broad shoulders. In contrast to the intruder's face the
Governor's had no superfluous flesh. His eyelids were heavy, especially
at the corners where they almost over-lapped the eyes. The hands,
which were spread out on the edge of the desk, were well shaped. They
were hands that could hit hard. The wrists, which appeared under the
cuffs, were well developed and strong. The fact that the Governor had
gripped the desk as he swung round, and still gripped it when he saw
the revolver, proved that he had disciplined himself to crises. A less
disciplined man would have leaped to his feet; and would have been dead
next moment. The visitor's revolver was equipped with a silencer.

"You can take your hands off the desk now, Governor," said the visitor.
"Swing round so that you can sit at your ease. I don't want to kill
you--yet."

The Governor swung round as directed, but out of the corner of his eye
he saw the visitor step backwards to the door and turn the key in the
lock. He put the key into his pocket and advanced until he was on the
opposite side of the desk. He laid the revolver down.

Why did the Governor not leap up and over-power this visitor who
menaced him? Because the Governor knew men. He knew from the way this
individual handled his weapon that he was a master and that before he
could raise his arm to sweep it from the desk the bullet would be
fired. The Governor could read men. It was his business to read them.
He was aware that he faced a man capable of extraordinary things,
and of ordinary things too; but for the moment the extraordinary
predominated.

The Governor took up the cigar he had laid on the ash-tray beside his
chair and lit it leisurely.

"Will you kindly come to business?" he asked. "What is it that you
want?"

"You have a man in the condemned cell?"

"I have."

"He is due to be hanged to-morrow morning?"

"At eight o'clock exactly."

"He must not be hanged."

"It is the law, and I am afraid that he will be."

"If he is hanged you will die quickly."

"I don't see how I can prevent it."

"You can sign this paper."

The stranger pulled a blue sheet of foolscap from his pocket and tossed
it across the desk. The Governor glanced at it.

"You have procured this at the Home Office."

"I brought it from the Home Office specially for you."

"That means you stole it. Burglary of State documents."

"What does it matter? I mean you to sign it. It will constitute the
completion of an official reprieve. You will notice that the Home
Secretary's signature is there."

"Forgery."

"You may put it that way. I obtained his signature and traced it by
using a piece of carbon paper. Over that tracing I used ink. You will
be able to plead that the document has all the signs of genuineness."

"You mean that I have to act on this as an official reprieve?"

"That is what I am about to compel you to do."

The Governor stared at his visitor. The whole thing was preposterous;
but it was possible. One point was obscure and presented a difficulty.

"Supposing the condemned man is freed on this paper, there are
formalities to be gone through. The trick would be found out in the
morning----"

"By that time he would be safe."

"I don't quite follow."

"It is simplicity itself. I suggest that you, in your official
capacity, send for the prisoner to be brought to this room. Your
warders would bring him."

"Well?"

"This would be quite in the usual course of procedure. When he arrives
you would acquaint your officers with the arrival of the official
reprieve. I should be here. It would not be untrue to say that I have
come direct from the Home Office with it."

"And if I refused to do this?"

"Well, sir, you would die. I shoot straight. Do you care to see proof
of my shooting?"

"It would be interesting to have such proof, but----"

"Please hold your cigar up above your head."

The Governor did so. The visitor raised his revolver with the swiftness
of a flash of light, a sharp "ping" sounded, followed by a second
similar sound. The ash of the cigar fell in a cloud on the Governor's
knees.

"You see?" said the visitor quietly.

"Where did the bullet go?"

"Ah, you expected to hear the crash of it against the furniture, a
sound that might have brought one of your warders--is it not so? If you
will note the angle at which I fired you will see that the bullet went
through the bottom right-hand corner of the window about six inches
from the sash."

The Governor turned his head and saw that such was the case. A small,
perfectly drilled hole had been cut in the glass.

"It was well gauged," said the Governor. "You can shoot. But still I
insist that the shooting of myself would not help you personally, nor
your friend the prisoner. My warders would fall on you. Ultimately you
would be hanged."

"You are wrong. You would send two warders only for the prisoner. That
is the usual number. There are still five rounds in this gun."

"It is usual for a Governor to acquaint a prisoner with his reprieve in
the cell."

"We must depart from routine on this occasion."

The Governor considered while he gazed at the carpet. Presently he
lifted his head.

"And if I accepted this as a genuine, official document?"

"The rest would be easy. The warders would be dismissed while you
acquainted the prisoner with the lifting of the death sentence. I would
do the few necessary acts that are required for the plan I have formed.
The prisoner would be dressed in another suit of clothes----"

"Where would he get them?"

"I am wearing two suits now. He could have one. He and I are the same
height."

"Oh, I see."

"We would go out by your window, after switching off the light. I have
a length of stout cord around my waist. We would not be seen."

The visitor walked over to the window and pointed towards the glass.

"A heavy fog is coming up. It is fairly thick now. The weather prophets
state in the evening papers that it is likely to last for some time.
You, of course, would have to be considered. I assure you there would
be no damage to your reputation."

"How so?"

"I have in my pocket a small phial of dope. A few drops in a glass of
water, or in a whisky and soda, would put you to sleep for many hours.
If you objected to that there is another way."

"What is it?"

"We could bind you to your chair and gag you. In either case you would
be found helpless."

"That would be awkward."

"It would be better than being dead."

The Governor threw the stub of his cigar into the fire and pondered the
situation for a little while.

"There is one point which you have overlooked," he said quietly,
"though I hardly dare hope that it will appeal to you."

"What is it?"

"It is a simple one also. The prisoner who is to be executed to-morrow
morning----"

"You mean who is sentenced to be executed to-morrow morning."

"If you put it that way you can do so. My point is that he does not
deserve a reprieve. Do you understand the nature of his crime? It was a
most repulsive one----"

"You mean that therefore you, as Governor of this prison, would
naturally suspect that a reprieve would never be granted, and so would
take all precautions, such as calling up the Home Secretary on the
telephone?"

"Well, you must give me credit for taking measures to make sure----"

"I see. Then there is still another way out whereby you could not be
accused of laxity."

"I shall be interested to hear it."

"It is this. You could send for him as I suggest, for the purpose
of having a last talk with him. He has never repented of his act,
according to the newspapers. Would not a Governor be acting within
his province in giving a prisoner a chance of a final opportunity of
repentance?"

"The chaplain has charge of prisoners' consciences."

"I was merely offering an alternative suggestion to save your
reputation."

While this conversation had been taking place the Governor had been
busy looking for an opening to defeat the plan of his visitor. He had
not been discussing the most unusual situation merely to pass the time.
He recognised that the man in front of him was no ordinary person, and
that he was one who was determined as well as daring. All the time
they had been speaking, the eyes of the visitor had been fixed on the
Governor with the intentness of a cat watching a mouse. One false move,
one attempt to reach the bell-push on the wall, and the revolver would
have spoken. The Governor did not want to die. But he knew he would die
if he met the proposal of his visitor with a blank refusal. Besides,
it was not a Governor's place, nor his duty, to die. It was his duty
to hold a criminal once he had him. He recognised in his visitor a man
who ought to be inside the prison. Already this man had committed acts
sufficient to give him a long sentence.

There was no doubt that, up to a point, the visitor held the winning
cards. His scheme had been planned with a thoroughness that defied
criticism. But how was it that a visiting permit had been obtained
by him, and how was it that he had dared the cast-iron rules of the
gaol and had walked through them? These things puzzled the Governor.
Discipline was part of the Governor's nature. His whole life had been
lived under discipline, his entire nature was bound up in it. He also
held strong views in regard to crime and criminals, views which were
well known to his superiors and to the Commissioners. Yet he realised
that this was a case which discipline and routine failed to handle.
Something else had to be brought into play.

"Supposing," he said, as he crossed his legs and put his clasped hands
behind his head, "that we take a little time to discuss this matter? I
give you my word that I shall make no attempt to test the accuracy of
your shooting abilities. I have observed that you know how to handle a
gun. But the situation is unusual and is worth analysis. We have plenty
of time to spare."

The visitor glanced at the clock on the mantel-piece.

"It is now 9:45," he said with a nod. "We have ten and a quarter hours."

"Have you a watch?" asked the Governor.

"No. But you have a clock."

The Governor smiled.

"That is so; and I was just about to wind it up for the night when you
entered. Permit me to do so now."

The visitor did not object, and the Governor rose and wound up the
clock, explaining as he did so that he wound it every night. They were
beginning to understand each other. Each knew that he could trust the
other's word.

The Governor sat down again in his chair, and the visitor took the
chair on the opposite side of the desk. He placed his revolver within
easy reach of his hand, then unbuttoned his overcoat.

"Would you care for a cigar, or a cigarette?" asked the Governor
amiably. "And perhaps a whisky and soda?"

"A cigarette will do. I never touch spirits."

"Ah, then perhaps a plain soda?"

"Thank you."

The Governor opened a cupboard and provided a box of choice cigarettes
and a siphon. These he placed on the desk, while the visitor's hand
closed over his weapon. But there was no need for the movement. The
Governor smiled. They resumed their former positions.

"The man who is in the condemned cell at this moment," began the
Governor, "was caught after he had committed a callous crime of murder,
the object of which was burglary. I need not go into details, since
you doubtless know them. The newspapers were full of the case, which
was tried at the Old Bailey before a wise judge and an intelligent
jury. There was practically no defence. The prisoner, whose name is
Floxton, was proved to be the culprit. He had been a music-hall artist
before he became a criminal. He and another man, named Steve Jenkins,
toured the halls as knock-about comedians. Jenkins always took the part
of the gentleman in their turns. It is believed that the murderer was
the less intelligent of the two and that his actions have for some time
been dominated by Jenkins, a cleverer criminal, and an intellectual.
The two took to fraud when they fell on bad times. They went to Chicago
and became gunmen. Floxton had served more than one sentence. Jenkins
was too clever to be caught. I would be glad to think that he was in
prison with his companion. I have said he was an intellectual----"

"You see him before you," interrupted the visitor. "I appreciate your
testimonial."

"Ah, as I suspected. The two suits of clothes you mentioned gave me the
clue. Of course, these heavy eyebrows are not your own?"

"They are not."

"The make-up is clever. The permit to visit the prisoner--how did you
obtain it?"

"It was made out on the application of a third party. That is all you
need know."

"Impersonation? Really, my friend, you have broken the law in a great
number of ways to carry out your scheme. I admit its bravery. But I see
also another side to it. What will it profit you or your companion even
if you save him from the gallows? You know I have firm theories on the
question of crime. You would be hunted, every avenue of escape would
be closed to you. This island would be merely a large prison. England
would be your gaol."

"It would be big enough."

"But in the end it would be too small. You would make a mistake one day
and your liberty, perhaps your life, would be forfeit."

"You think that a mistake is inevitable?"

"Decidedly so."

"I do not agree with you."

"I never expected that you would. But the fact remains. Every man
in prison to-day is there because he made a mistake in tactics, in
judgment, in action. Consider what you criminals are up against! To
escape the law you must never make a mistake! Is that humanly possible?"

"I do not claim infallibility. Since every man in every walk of life
must make mistakes, we may do so. But it is possible to recover. You
have proof that I can defy your rules and regulations. I am here."

"It is true you are here. But is that any guarantee that you will not
make a mistake?"

"I have made none so far. You are my prisoner."

"That is also true; and yet I am Governor of a prison full of men who
have made mistakes. Indeed, so sure am I that all criminals must make
a mistake somewhere, somehow, some time--the fatal mistake that places
them in the cells--that I have arranged the floors of this prison in a
sort of series of degrees. In the main block I have placed those whose
mistakes are the mistakes of ignorant, brutal men. They are by far the
great majority of criminals. Their mistakes are blunt, coarse ones; I
call them the Errors of the Illiterate. The ordinary police have run
these men to earth."

"I have heard of your theories," said the visitor grimly. "You are a
crank."

"In the right wing," went on the Governor, "are the men who have
a higher intelligence. They are the blackmailers, the cruder kind
of forgers, the confidence men. I call their tactical mistakes the
Errors of the Intelligent. They were arrested by the detectives of the
Criminal Investigation Department."

"I remember reading your evidence before a Select Committee," smiled
the visitor. "You rather let yourself go on your theories. If I mistake
not, your idea was that by keeping your prisoners in grades they kept
to their own lines of crime?"

"Exactly, that was my theory. I have special accommodation for each
grade. My third and highest in the scale are housed in the left
wing. They are all men of highly developed mentality. But they
all made their mistakes when they became criminals, and they were
all caught. I call them the Intellectuals. The condemned cells are
placed in a separate portion of the building, apart from these graded
prisoners, because into the condemned cells go men of all these
grades--illiterate, intelligent, intellectual. Murder, you see, is
mostly an impulse. Spasmodic acts are not controlled by intelligence or
intellect."

"That is your theory, but there are exceptions. What about premeditated
murder--such as I contemplate if you refuse to do as I say?"

"You have entered the region of pathology now," replied the Governor.
"Murder is degeneracy, and men who commit murder are always
degenerates. For the moment they revert to the primitive. That
reversion may be the result of a deliberate plan or the work of a
moment."

"It does not matter much, does it?"

"In a way it does not--to the victim. But in a way it does--to the
students of crime. If we can grade law-breakers we can see the
operations of their minds, and so classify them. We can almost
anticipate their acts. For these reasons I never allow my illiterate
prisoners to mix with my intelligent ones, nor my intelligent ones to
mix with my intellectual ones. At least I contrive to separate them as
much as possible. A prison, you must be aware, has three functions to
perform."

"What are they?"

"The first is punitive. The criminal must be chastised."

"And the second?"

"The second is deterrent. The punishment must be a warning to others,
as well as to the criminal himself."

"And the third?"

"The third is educational. We strive to cure evil propensities."

"How do these functions apply to hanging?"

"The first function automatically wipes out the second and the third
so far as the defaulter is concerned; but it is held the others still
operate with potential defaulters."

The visitor shrugged his shoulders, and a grim smile played round his
lips.

"My presence here proves that you are wrong," he said. "If I wished to
kill a man I would kill him. The satisfaction of having done so would
out-weigh all other considerations. It is up to you. Have you decided
whether you will hand over your prisoner--or die?"

"You mistake my meaning," said the Governor. "You may be the exception
that proves the rule. Or you may not. I am not talking in the hope
of help arriving. We shall not be disturbed. I dismissed the officer
who brought you here, and the night staff are now in charge. They
do not know you are with me. I often sleep on that settee in the
corner.... Allow me to elaborate my meaning on the question of the
miscalculations of criminals. I maintain that they all, ultimately,
make a fatal error; and that error brings them to the cells. Some get
short sentences, some get long ones, some walk to the scaffold. Did you
notice, as you came along to this room, that you passed, in the middle
block, a corridor which is barred off from the remainder of the prison?"

"I noticed it."

"There are fifteen cells in that corridor. Into these fifteen cells
go fifteen of the new prisoners when they are admitted here. They are
the men whose cases interest me most. I study them before classifying
them into the three grades. This morning I had only fourteen prisoners
to put in that corridor. It would be a great favour to me if you would
consent to hear why these fourteen men came to be in my charge."

"You imagine it would influence me? You are surely a crank."

"I love to test my theories. You know, of course, that the Central
Criminal Court is in session. The fourteen prisoners who joined my
company this morning received their sentences there. I am convinced
that you will be interested to hear how these fourteen men made their
mistakes, and came to the cells they now occupy. Their stories are
intensely fascinating, I assure you. Will you not allow me to give
you the benefit of their errors? If I bore you, then you may tell me
to stop, but we have still plenty of time at our disposal, and your
friend in the condemned cell can be brought out at very short notice."

"You are a curious person to be a Governor," said the visitor with a
smile, "but then you are a crank. Why should I not humour you? But
first let me make absolutely sure that we will not be interrupted."

He took a small pair of pliers from his pocket and snipped the
telephone cord. Then he walked over to the bell-push in the wall,
unscrewed the wooden top, and pulled out the small piece of metal that
acted as a contact. He put the wooden top on again. His revolver had
been in his right hand all the time and his eye had flirted constantly
towards the Governor. The latter had not moved in the slightest. He was
well aware that he was in considerable danger.

The visitor returned to his chair and laid the small piece of metal
from the bell on the desk.

"When you ring for your warders," he said, "this may still be used.
I see by the clock that we have now precisely ten hours before the
proposed execution time. Allow half an hour for getting my friend out
of the cell. That gives you nine and a half hours to live if you go the
full length; provided, of course, I don't tire of your recital before
then."

"Thank you," said the Governor. "The reason I am anxious that you hear
the stories of these fourteen newcomers to my prison is that I desire,
even if it is the last thing I do in life, to demonstrate the accuracy
of my theory that all criminals make one fatal error some time. You
have called me a crank. I am conscious that others have thought so,
even if they have not been frank enough to say it. It is a crank's
weakness to be whimsical even at the risk of his existence. So, if you
will please make yourself comfortable, I shall do my best to play the
part of the amiable Scheherazade, while you assume the attitude of the
excellent Sultan Schahriah, holding the gift of Life and the sentence
of Death in your hands."




              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIRST CELL


There is at least one disadvantage under which I labour (said the
Governor) in taking upon myself the mantle of the wise and delightful
Sultana Scheherazade. While she knew that she would be allowed to live
so long as she amused and engaged the attention of the Sultan of the
Indies, I am restricted to barely ten hours; and though I believe that
I also could entertain you for one thousand and one nights, I will
do my best, in the single unit at my disposal, to prove to you the
theories I hold so strongly. Without, therefore, entering into any of
the side issues which would otherwise give rise to much profitable
speculation, permit me to relate to you the story of the occupant of
the first of the fourteen cells to which I have directed your attention.

David Fleming and his wife lived in a little cottage about twenty miles
from London. They never went up to town except occasionally, and then
only on business, and their business was not lawful. In the intervals
between their "jobs" they posed as respectable citizens.

On the night of which I speak they were in the sitting-room of their
small house, which was situated several miles from the nearest village.
They had a visitor, a dealer in precious stones, who had come down in
haste from London to treat with them for some jewels which he had heard
were for sale. The jewels were part of a tiara which David Fleming's
wife had risked much to obtain--her liberty and her reputation as a
thief. Having no honour, in the matter of honesty she did not count
honour. She, like her husband, was a social bandit.

She stood in the shadow of the badly lit room while her husband sat
at the table with the prospective buyer of the stones. The tiara had
been melted down, and the gold had been disposed of elsewhere. Only the
gems remained. Loose gems can always be sold at any of the subterranean
markets in London, but these were better than the average thus disposed
of, and to get a purchaser who could pay the extra price had been
somewhat difficult. But the visitor they wanted had come at last, one
who was in a position to bargain.

"You want one thousand pounds for these?" asked the dealer, shrugging
his shoulders. "I will give you eight hundred, their utmost value. Say
the word and it is a deal."

Fleming raised his huge head and looked towards his wife who stood in
the shadow beyond the table. She was motionless, a small woman with a
keen, sharp face like the face of a weasel.

"Shall we take it?" asked Fleming.

His wife retreated a step so that the dim light of the lamp on her face
became dimmer. She was like a ghost in the gloom. Presently she spoke,
though her features could not be distinguished.

"Has he brought the money?"

"No; but he says he will write out a cheque."

The dealer lifted his head, but did not look round as he addressed the
woman, nor did he look at the man whose eyes were fixed on his face.

"I have written out a cheque," he said.

"For a thousand?" came the query from the dim outline of the woman.

"For eight hundred."

There was a silence. The dealer was one of those business men who do
not speak much. He picked up one or two of the stones and began to lay
them out on the table under the shaded lamp. David Fleming watched him
curiously, unemotionally. His wife watched also, holding her breath.

The dealer seemed to be absorbed in handling the stones. His fingers
lifted one after another and held each before his eyes and against
the light of the lamp for a moment before he placed them on the white
table-cloth. On the window the rain was beating furiously. When the
dealer had placed all the stones, large and small, rubies and topazes,
cat's-eyes and peridots, diamonds and sapphires, in the position he
desired, he cast a glance at Fleming and breathed deeply.

An exclamation from the back of the room brought Fleming's eyes from
the table. He peered over the dealer's shoulder towards his wife.

"Did you speak? Shall I close the deal?"

Her weasel face emerged from the shadow and her finger pointed to the
stones arranged on the table.

"Why did he put them in that fashion?"

The dealer answered, still looking at Fleming, to whom the question had
been directed.

"These stones are, I think, from a tiara that disappeared from a
dressing-room of a London ballroom a few months ago. This is the
arrangement they formed in the tiara. One stone is missing."

"Well?"

The woman took a step nearer. Her husband glanced at the dealer, then
at his wife.

"I am wondering," said the dealer, "where the little stone is. Perhaps
it was lost when you broke up the tiara?"

"You are wrong. The stone fell out when I grabbed it and ran off. What
of it? We take the risk. All you have to do is to buy what you see."

There was a challenge and a sneer in her tone, to which the dealer
merely replied:

"What you say is true. It is your risk. Come, I must get back to town.
My car is out there in all the rain. Is it a deal?"

"Why didn't you bring cash?"

"I came down after the banks closed. Besides, it is easier to carry a
cheque--and safer."

"But I wanted the money."

"You can apply at the bank in London to-morrow morning. I have given
you a card with my address, and I have shown you a bank-book with a
balance that will easily meet the cheque."

"I must think it over."

It was noticeable that she said, "I," not "we." Her husband had not
uttered a word during the latter part of the conversation. He sat with
his eyes fixed on the stones arranged in the form of the tiara. The
woman crossed the room and went out. The two men heard her go along the
passage leading to the back door. They heard her open it and go outside.

She returned to the room in a few minutes and approached the table.
Rain had damped her shoulders and glistened on her dress.

"It is a wild night," she said. "I went to get some coal from the
cellar in the yard. We need fires in this weather."

Her husband lifted his eyes towards her and now spoke.

"What have you decided?"

The question revealed the relationship between them vividly. It was she
who was the master--he the servant. Beside her, Fleming was a giant in
stature. In brain he was a pigmy.

They were a couple who had been attracted--if one can use the word--to
each other by the law of contrasts. In their relationship as a married
pair everything about them seemed inconsistent. In the normal run
of things they ought to have been mutually antagonistic. Even in
appearance this was so.

Fleming was a mountain of a man. She was a mouse of a woman. Her
very features suggested the sharpness of a rat. Her teeth stuck out
in front, yet she was not bad-looking. She appeared to be a woman of
fifty, yet she was her husband's age exactly--thirty. She looked ill
and she was perfectly well. This physical deception had been of use to
her more than once when she had been arrested for stealing jewellery.
The hotels were her hunting ground, ballrooms her gold mines. Her game
was the rich people who frequented social events. Sometimes she went as
a servant, sometimes as a guest. She never returned empty-handed. When
she was caught, as had happened once or twice, her captors pitied her
seeming frailty. Judges had been misled by her physical fraudulence and
had been lenient where they might have been severe. She was a living
imposture.

Her audacity was out of all proportion to her appearance. It was she
who planned the part her husband played in their lawlessness. It was
she who had taken the tiara from a dressing-room in front of a watching
maid, and had given it to Fleming, who was hiding by the side entrance.
It was she who had flung pepper into the maid's eyes, and had then
stalked confidently among the guests raising the alarm. She had gone
out by the front door as the police came in. The maid had been blinded
permanently. In the agony of her torture she could not give a detailed
account of the incident.

To this monstrous paradox her husband had surrendered his personality,
unconsciously but finally. He was himself a paradox, which explains the
curiosity. In spite of his bulk David Fleming was merely a pickpocket.
His courage never went beyond taking a wallet, or a watch, from a
stranger's dress. He looked a burglar capable of murder. In reality he
was afraid of a single policeman. He had not the courage to take risks.
His whole life had been spent among the sneaks of the street corners.
He had married this needle of a woman because she willed it, knowing
that he would be of use to her. He did not know whether to admire her
or fear her. She ruled him because her rodent mind gnawed constantly at
his bovine one. It was in the nature of both of them to steal, but she
had been the cleverer of the two--she had stolen his personality from
him. It was the case of the mosquito moving the elephant.

All this, of course, did not enter into the docketed information which
the police possessed of them. Scotland Yard, having their finger-prints
and their photographs, swept aside subtleties. It classified them both
as rogues.

"What have you decided?"

For the second time Fleming asked the question, blinking his big
eyes towards her as she stood beyond the circle of light. She rubbed
her thin hands together, making a smooth noise like the rubbing of
sandpaper on a polished surface.

"I have not decided anything--yet."

The dealer turned in his chair and looked at her.

"The cheque is here," he said, tapping his breast. "I wrote it out,
knowing that eight hundred was the limit I could go to. Have you had
these stones here since you stole the tiara?"

The woman did not move a muscle of her face as she replied.

"We melted the piece down and sold the gold. We kept the stones because
there are not many who can give the cash they are worth. How did you
get to know they were for sale?"

"News travels, you know. I had the word from a mutual friend. I gave
you his name when I wrote to you saying I was coming to-night. But I
could not get off before the bank closed. It will be difficult for you
to dispose of these stones if you don't sell them to me."

"Well?"

"Isn't that all the more reason why you should take my offer?"

"Perhaps."

"Look here. I can't waste my time. Take it or leave it. I must get back
to London to-night, rain or shine. It is not as if there was a hotel
here. You have fairly buried yourselves in this neck-of-the-woods."

"Will you stay the night if we provide a bed for you?"

"What would be the use? You don't need all night to make up your mind?
No, I'll get back home."

He rose to his feet and began to button up his coat.

"Eight hundred is my offer. Take it or leave it. I will give you ten
minutes to decide. I am going out to crank up my car, and when I come
in you must say what it is to be. Eight hundred is better than nothing."

"Eight hundred is less than we ought to get."

"You can't tell me of another diamond merchant who is willing to give
you eight hundred and ask no questions. Just think of the trouble you'd
have to get rid of the loot."

With that the dealer strode to the door. As soon as he was gone from
the room the woman approached her husband, who was still seated at the
table.

"He must not go back to-night," she said in a low tone, banging her
clenched fist on the table.

"Why? If you'd take his price----"

"You fool! Don't you see? He is no dealer. That man is a detective. He
is one of the Flying Squad."

The words sent a shock like electricity through Fleming. He sat up
suddenly, his large face white and scared.

"How do you know?" he stammered.

"It is easy. Had he been a dealer he would have paid in cash. A cheque
would be evidence against him if anything came out later. And he used
the word 'stole.' No dealer uses that word. He gave a name in his
letter--the name of the man who he says told him we had the goods to
sell. I don't believe it. I tell you that man is a detective from the
Yard. I was watching him. I know now."

"Are you sure?"

"Sure? Of course I'm sure. I tell you he is one of the Flying Squad who
came to investigate after the tiara was lifted. I have been watching
his face. I can place him. That is why I kept to the background. He is
setting a trap for us."

"If he is a detective, why doesn't he arrest us?"

"Don't you see? He heard about the stones somehow, but hadn't time to
get a warrant made out for us. It was late when he left London. He came
to make sure we were here--to make sure we had his letter----"

"But his cheque? His offer to buy?"

"A snare! A ruse! Had he brought the warrants and arrested us, did that
give him the diamonds? He had to come to see them for himself--as a
dealer. He needed evidence. Did you not see him working out his case
as he arranged the stones on the table? Detectives don't carry big
money--so he offered us a cheque."

"Well?"

"Ass! A dealer would have had the money, as I tell you. Think, fool! If
we accepted a cheque from this so-called dealer we would have to go to
London to cash it. It would be made out on a London office. And they
would be waiting for us at the bank door, or at the counter when we
presented the paper--so!"

She made a movement with her hands to imitate the clasping of handcuffs
over her wrists. Fleming shivered.

"It will go hard with you, wife. There is the blind maid. It means
penal servitude--almost life for you----"

"It will be as much for you as for me, unless we do something. We can
get out of it yet. We must."

"How can it be prevented?" he demanded dully.

"By countering plot by plot. He has set a snare for us and we have
walked into it. Let us set one for him. Do as I say. Here he comes."

The door of the room was thrown open and the dealer entered hurriedly.
Rain was running from his coat. His shoulders glistened like black
mirrors.

"Here is a fine thing!" he cried angrily. "My car is standing on her
rims. Somebody has slashed my tyres. Who could have done it?"

"Who indeed?" echoed the woman. David Fleming jumped to his feet,
glancing from his wife to the dealer.

"Your tyres?" he said. "Your tyres cut!"

"Oh, we have had some trouble with tramps in these parts lately," said
his wife quickly. "They hate cars and motorists. They say that at night
they are sometimes nearly run down by cars. One of them has played a
bad trick on you, mister."

"It is a trick I'd make him pay for if I could find him," said the
dealer in wrath. "I cannot go to London on three rims. I have only one
spare tyre. The nearest garage----"

He looked helplessly from one to the other, while the rain dripped
from his coat and formed pools on the floor. The woman looked at the
sitting-room clock.

"It is miles off," she said. "It is closed long ago, anyway. Don't you
see it is nearly midnight?"

"What can be done?"

"What I said before you went outside. We'll give you a bed until
morning. Switch off your lights and put the car in our shed. If you
stay it will serve a double purpose. I may make up my mind about the
stones and let you have them at your price, and you may take us both up
to London in the morning so that we can cash the cheque."

"That means that you are willing to accept eight hundred?"

The dealer took the slip of paper from his pocket-book and signed it,
receiving in return the stones in a small canvas bag. He put the bag
into his inside pocket.

"It is kind of you to put me up," he said, "but all the same there
must be a way to get back. The village is not more than three or four
miles off."

"It is merely a place of one short street."

"But I may be able to telephone----"

"The telephone is in the post office. It closed early in the evening."

"Is there no train?"

"None before dawn. And that is a slow milk train."

"Well, London is twenty miles away. It is a nuisance. But surely there
is a garage where I may hire a car?"

"There is a garage, but they have no cars to let for hiring. They just
do repairs and sell petrol."

A slash of rain hit the window. The dealer could think of no more
suggestions.

"I may as well stay in that case," he said. "I'll go up by train in the
morning and tell the garage people to call for it after I've gone. I
can come down in a few days for it."

"That is the best plan," said the woman. "And in the meantime you two
men had better push the car into the shed and I'll prepare your room."

As she went upstairs she struck her hands together repeatedly,
muttering to herself.

"He does not want to drive us up to town. He wants to go alone with his
evidence. I know! I know! We'll see who can set snares best!"

She was still up in the bedroom when the men returned to the
sitting-room. The dealer walked through the room straight to the
kitchen and bent down in front of the dwindling fire, spreading his
hands out. Fleming followed him. The dealer glanced round the kitchen.
He lifted the lid of the coal-scuttle in order to put some fuel on the
dying fire, but there was no coal in the scuttle. When Fleming offered
to get some the dealer shook his head.

"I'll go up to bed soon. I came in here because there isn't a fire in
the sitting-room. It doesn't matter. These tyres will cost me a bit to
repair."

At that moment the woman entered.

"Would you like a bite of supper?" she asked.

"No, thanks. I'm going to bed."

"Then let me show you the way to your room."

The dealer nodded to Fleming and followed her. She lit a candle and
took him to his room. The room was small and mean. The bed was ready,
the blind drawn. He thanked her once more and flung himself into a
chair, yawning. She bade him good-night and went downstairs.

When she descended to the kitchen her husband was standing gazing at
the embers in the grate. He looked up as she entered.

"Well?"

"The snare is set," she answered, primping at her straight hair. "We
have only an hour or so to wait."

"What do you intend to do?"

There was a tremble in his tone and a startled look spread over his
face. Her features were more than ever like those of a rat just then.

"You shall see. It is him or us. He knows all. And he is the only one
who knows."

"What then?"

"There is an old mine shaft less than a mile off. What could be a
better hiding-place for his car?"

"A mine shaft?" repeated Fleming, and his face became livid.

"It is better than the river," she said calmly. "It would never be
found in the mine shaft."

She went to the cupboard and drew out a long carving knife, running her
finger along the edge. Her husband trembled at her coolness. She saw
his agitation and smiled, her front teeth showing.

"All you have to do," she said, "is to obey. I have his cheque. If we
get someone to cash it we shall have ready money. We need not go to the
bank. Let someone else go. We shall find a 'fence' who will cash it.
For the present, consider that the stones are in his inside pocket--his
coat pocket. We shall have them also. There is no lock on his bedroom
door. If you are afraid, you may go to bed."

"What are you going to do?" asked Fleming in a shaking voice.

She replied quite coolly.

"Close the jaws of the trap. While he lives he has evidence. It is his
existence or ours."

There was a cold ferocity about her that even Fleming had never
previously seen, and the new knowledge of her character stupefied him
with horror. Into his dull brain there crept a vague knowledge of a
terrible truth. This was the climax of evildoing. First a small theft,
then a larger one, then a still greater, then a crime that chilled
his bones and branded them both for ever. The progress of crime, of
violation of the law, had worked to its consummation.

"Woman!" he cried suddenly, in desperate revolt. "Woman, I have married
you!"

She answered his outburst swiftly and with venom.

"Fool! I have kept you!"

It was the truth. Left to himself he would never have become more
than a minor criminal, snatching small prizes, swaying between the
gutter and the prison cell. Her greed had done two things; it had
enriched them, but it had involved them. The law of compensation, of
responsibility clinging to the heels of daring, worked in crime as in
respectability. She had always viewed the prize and had disregarded the
corollary. He coveted the one but always shrank from the other.

In a little while she spoke again.

"It was I who slashed his tyres. That was the beginning of the
counter-snare. It kept him here. There is nothing much for you to do.
When I have made it possible, you shall take him in his car----"

"When you have made it possible?" he repeated.

"When I have made it possible. Listen. This is what you have to do.
Carry him down and lay him in his car. It must be done before dawn.
You know how to drive a car. Bring it out of the shed and lay him in
it. Then drive it to the mine shaft. On the rims of the wheels. It
doesn't matter. Stop the car just as you come near the mine shaft, and
get out. Then start it again and let it plunge into the shaft. Him with
it."

"But the car tracks?"

"There is more rain coming. The tracks will be washed out. And nobody
can prove anything."

"What about us after this?"

"We will leave this house. When we get the money from a receiver for
this cheque we will be all right. We have had passports ready for some
time. There will be no difficulty at all. We can sell the stones over
in Paris."

Fleming let his head fall into his hands, and remained in that position.

The woman put a handful of sticks on the fire, and crossed her hands in
her lap, her eye on the clock.

It was nearly one hour after midnight. The rain had ceased, but the
moon was struggling behind great clouds which chased each other across
the sky. A strange quiet fell on the house.

Another hour passed. Fleming remained with his hands clasping his
forehead, his eyes on the floor. His wife kicked off her shoes and rose
softly to her feet.

She moved noiselessly towards the door and passed out. Fleming did not
stir.

He strained his ears, nevertheless. Would there be a struggle? His wife
was agile, swift, inexorable. The sleeper was defenceless.

A floorboard above the kitchen creaked. Fleming took his hands from
his forehead and listened, his head cocked in a strained position.
The ceiling of the kitchen was old and thin; it was the floor of the
bedroom to which his wife had gone.

Did he hear a cry? Breathlessly he waited. A blow? A groan? No. Not a
sound. All was silent. He wanted to shout and dared not. His nerves
were all unstrung.

It seemed like an eternity, but in reality it was not more than fifteen
minutes before the kitchen door was pushed open. His wife appeared. She
was like a ghost. Her face was pale and grim, but her lower lip was
held down by her projecting teeth. In her hand was a small canvas bag.
It was the bag in which the precious stones were kept. She sat down and
emptied the contents into her lap. They sparkled and gleamed in the
darkness.

"It is done," she said. "We hold the trump card. The snare worked."

She put the stones back into the bag and hid it in her bosom. Her
husband waited for her to speak. She pulled on her shoes slowly.

"He did not stir. His coat was lying over him--to keep him warm, no
doubt. It was easy to get the stones. He had not even taken them out
of his coat pocket."

"Did he--did he--move?"

"No. Lay like a log. One blow was enough! One blow! The knife is sharp.
I sank it deep into him. The point must be through his heart."

"He did not turn?"

"He had the bedclothes over his head. The room was dark, but I knew my
way. I did not touch him. I stood beside the bed and struck. I left the
knife there. One blow! It was easy. The knife slid down deep."

Fleming gazed, speechless with horror at her recital. Her words were
ghastly in their simplicity.

"It is your turn next," she said.

"For what?"

"In a little while we shall be going--away. The car must be got out.
You will bring him down. You know what to do. We needn't go to bed now.
Let us eat."

She went about the business without a shiver. They ate a hurried meal
and drank some liquor. His wife allowed Fleming a free supply of
liquor, knowing him for what he was. When they finished their meal she
made a gesture, and he got to his feet.

It was raining again, but Fleming did not notice this as he walked from
the front door to the shed. He pushed the car out and guided it to the
front entrance. He coaxed the engine, and saw that there was a supply
of petrol in the tank. All that was needed was to crank it up. He
returned to the house and found his wife putting on her coat.

He turned his head away from her and walked towards the narrow stairs.
His hand was on the siderail when a noise struck into the heavy silence
of the night. The sound petrified them both. They gazed at each other.
A motor-car was roaring its way up the lane.

It stopped at their door. They were without power to act.

Into the house strode three men. The foremost stepped into the lamp
light, and the Flemings saw his face and cried aloud in terror. The
woman's eyes seemed to start from her head.

"His ghost!" she screamed.

"Not his ghost," replied the man. "I heard you and your husband
planning my death when I went out to start my car and when I went to
my room. I slipped out of the window, leaving the pillows made up to
appear as if I were asleep. I have been to the village. I telephoned to
Scotland Yard. These men are also detectives. They came down in a fast
car. You are being arrested, both of you, for the theft of the tiara,
the blinding of the maid, and the attempted murder of myself. Had you
really brought coal for the fire when you went out, madam, you might
have killed me in bed, for I did not suspect you would try murder. But
I saw that you had been out and that you had not brought coal as you
professed, so I knew _you_ had slashed my tyres. Let me warn you both
that whatever you say will be taken down in writing."

David Fleming did not answer. His wife thrust out her rodent-like face
as she saw the handcuffs being produced.

"Why did I forget to bring the coal?" she muttered, a rat to the end.




             THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SECOND CELL


"An interesting narrative," was the comment of the visitor when the
Governor finished his tale, "but David Fleming was obviously a man of
low intelligence or he would not now be in the cell of your prison. His
wife made the error that brought them both to gaol--at least I presume
she also is now in a cell."

"She is, but not under my charge, of course," said the Governor in
reply. "Now, had you been in David Fleming's place, could you have
foreseen, do you think, the small item that led to their undoing?"

"I am certain that any man of ordinary common sense would have avoided
the pitfall," smiled the visitor. "It is fatal to trust a woman."

"There may be something in what you say," rejoined the Governor. "You
have the historic case of Antony and Cleopatra on your side. But
generalisations do not always apply. It is curious that you should have
mentioned that point, because it is the very one that influenced the
actions of John Dennison."

"Who is John Dennison?"

"In order to know John Dennison," said the Governor, "you must hear the
story of the occupant of the second cell, which I shall have pleasure
in relating to you now."

       *       *       *       *       *

Imagine yourself (continued the Governor) in a certain jewellery shop
in the West End of London just after closing time. It is the custom
in most warehouses of this description to take all the goods from the
windows and lock them up in the safe every night, and Dennison and
another salesman were engaged in this duty.

"One claw diamond ring--£1,000!" called Dennison, as he stood in front
of the safe, holding a tray of jewellery.

"One claw diamond ring--£1,000," repeated his fellow-assistant, who
bent over a stock sheet at the counter.

"One necklace--£300!" called John.

The checker repeated the words, and ticked the item off.

The manager, from the back office, watched the two assistants at their
work. The shop was closed, the front door bolted and locked, the iron
fence padlocked across the plate glass windows. All the other hands
had gone home, and Dennison and his fellow-salesman were taking the
valuable goods from the window and putting them in the safe. This was
Dennison's job--to carry the trays from the window and deposit them in
the safe. While he called out the contents of the trays and the prices
his helper checked each article off from a list. This occurred twice
daily--in the morning, when the goods were taken from the safe to be
displayed in the windows, and in the evening, when they were returned
to the safe.

Under such conditions one would think a robbery impossible. John
Dennison did not think so. He was robbing the firm under the manager's
nose.

Dennison was given the job of handling the trays because he was the man
who, next to the manager, best knew jewels. He could value stones at a
glance. He could detect a flaw in pearls before the average salesman
was able to recognise that a flaw was present. For over a year he had
held the position with this firm in the West End. For over a year he
had been using his brains towards one end--the idea of the robbery.

"One brooch, Burma ruby--£450," he called.

"Completion of trays!"

He stepped towards the door of the large safe as the checker droned
his reply. John Dennison's long, thin fingers moved across the tray as
he placed it on the shelf, the brooch was lifted and dropped inside
his coat cuff. It was the work of an instant, showing no more than
the flash of a hand. A second later he drew his handkerchief from his
sleeve, holding it tightly as he dabbed his brow; then he put it into
his coat pocket. The brooch now lay under the handkerchief, beside the
necklace, the claw ring, and several other articles he had extracted
from the trays in exactly the same way.

"That's all, sir," he said to the manager.

The manager nodded. John Dennison put his weight on the safe door
to close it. He heard the lock click into position. This made him
perfectly satisfied, for only someone who knew the combination could
open the door again, and the manager, who was the only person in the
shop who knew it, already had his hat on his head and was pulling on
his gloves.

Dennison took the sheet of foolscap from the checker and laid it on
the manager's desk. The manager dropped it into a drawer and turned
the key. The list would not see daylight until the next morning.
Dennison bade the manager good night and went out, with his assistant,
by the side door. At the corner of the street he bought a newspaper
and scanned it casually. He was not interested in the news, but he was
waiting to see that the manager left the shop, and he was content when
the manager emerged immediately and entered the car that was waiting
for him.

Dennison did not go straight home, though he knew his wife was eagerly
waiting for him. His next move was proof of the extreme care with which
he had built up the fabric of the crime that was to leave no clue.
First he went to a shop and bought a cheap, small, metal attaché-case.
He then went by bus to Richmond. At Richmond he hired a skiff and rowed
a considerable distance up the river.

It was almost dark by this time. It was completely dark when he
reached a spot he had previously selected for his cache. Along the
river-bank was a row of wooden piles. Dennison went ashore and searched
for a heavy stone. This he took into the boat with him and pushed off
into mid-stream. He anchored there.

Wrapping his stolen goods in the newspaper, he put them into the case
and bound it firmly with a roll of blind-cord which he had brought with
him. On the top of the closed case he bound the stone, leaving plenty
of cord free to take to the bank. He slipped the case over the side
of his boat and paid out the cord until the case was at the bottom of
the river. Then he rowed ashore, letting the slack cord run out as he
rowed. Round one of the wooden piles he cast a wide noose, and, having
used another stone as a sinker, he dropped the noose into the water and
watched it disappear.

After this was done he rowed back to Richmond, paid for the hire of the
boat, and went home.

It was late when he reached the flat where he and his wife lived. She
met him as he opened the door.

"Ted Hughes has been here all evening," she said. "Is everything all
right?"

"Yes, it's all right. Glad to see you, Ted."

A young man about his own age had come from the sitting-room to greet
him.

"We expected you at the usual time," he said.

"Kitty was getting anxious. I wanted to take her out to a show."

Dennison shrugged his shoulders, grinning.

"Sorry to upset your evening. You may go now, if it isn't too late."

"Won't you come with us, John?" asked his wife.

"Me? No. I'm not a gay bird like Hughes. I'm not keen on shows."

She pulled off her cloak and flung it in a chair.

"It's late. I'll not go to-night."

Dennison turned to Hughes with a smile.

"Come round again, Ted, and take her out."

Hughes nodded, and took his leave reluctantly. As soon as the door
closed, Dennison slumped into a chair.

"There's nearly ten thousand pounds' worth in this haul, Kitty. When I
say 'Go,' prepare to come out of England."

"John, have you got it?"

"Not here. Hidden."

"Of course; but where?"

He shook his head slowly.

"Keep to your department, Kitty."

"Why not tell me? You always keep me in the dark! It isn't fair!"

"Adam went wrong when he trusted too much to Eve. I'm not making the
same mistake. You know our methods."

She glanced sulkily at him and turned away, but he caught her arm.

"Look here, Kitty. There may be inquiries. There may be searches. Maybe
the cops will come here. They'll be sure to watch, anyway. They have
ways of frightening women. I don't want you to blurt out anything under
excitement. That's what the cops aim for. If you don't know anything,
you can say so and stick to it."

"You will be careful when you sell the stuff?"

"Ted Hughes will do the carrying for me, as usual. I'll explain to him
in time where to find the goods. If he's nabbed, it's up to him. The
great thing is to keep suspicion away from us."

"You're sure of yourself--as usual?"

"Oh, I'm all right. I can trust myself. I gave notice to the manager
to-day. I leave in a month."

"But if Hughes is caught and gives you away?"

"He daren't. I'd kill anyone who gave me away. Hughes knows that."

"Me too?" she asked, with a curled lip.

"I suppose so," he answered quietly. "Why not?"

They went to bed without another word.

There was this to be said for John Dennison--he was remorselessly cool.
The theft at the shop was not his first lapse into crime by any means.
He had never been caught in any of his previous escapades, so that the
police did not have his finger-prints or his photograph. His career had
been one of implacable accuracy. He had always covered himself by using
other individuals, and he always saw to it that the other individuals
were encompassed in the toils of the net he spread. For himself he
always left a loophole.

In South Africa he had been an I.D.B.--which means that he had been an
illicit diamond buyer. The workers in the mines had been his tools,
taking the risks and accepting his percentage. It was there he had
learned the value of stones.

He had come to London on the tracks of stones he wished to possess. He
had used his wife to find them. It was she who had gone through every
fashionable shop until she was able to direct him to the store in which
he was now engaged as an assistant. It was she who had made friends
with Ted Hughes, who was then a salesman in the shop. Bit by bit she
had led Hughes on, fascinating him, alluring him, ultimately destroying
him, so that he was discharged from his post.

All this time John Dennison had kept in the background. When Hughes
was discharged, he had applied for the post, armed with credentials
from diamond men in South Africa, had been willing to find the security
the firm demanded, and had secured the position. It was worth while
depositing a hundred or two pounds to be inside such premises.

While he worked at the shop his wife had played her part. She had
not thrown Hughes over. She had retained him, according to plan.
His infatuation was deepened by the loyalty she displayed in his
misfortune. He became a hanger-on on the fringe of the trade, and a
friend of John Dennison as well as an admirer of John Dennison's wife.
He knew London. He went with Kitty Dennison to dance-clubs. Her husband
did not object. It was all in the plan.

There was little to choose between this strange pair of criminals, this
husband and wife who worked from different angles towards a common
goal. Both played their parts independent of the other. Both retained
a peculiar individuality of action. Both were equally deserving of
punishment. The only bond between them was their marriage certificate.

The life in London attracted her. She found all that she, as a woman,
desired, just as her husband found all that he, as a diamond thief,
desired. The dance-clubs did not interest him, but they interested
her. She liked gaiety, and Hughes was able to show her where it was to
be had. He strove to please her. He succeeded, but at a cost he did
not then realise. For her part, she was so used to being directed by
the cold, intense implacability of her husband that she found in the
society of Hughes a bath of pleasure. She went about with him without
restraint. John Dennison watched, and waited.

Gradually Hughes became financially overwhelmed. He had been led out
of his depth. His discharge from his position constantly rankled as an
injustice. Resentment breeds revenge. The time was ripe for a coup.
Dennison sounded him. Hughes, desperate and in debt, was willing to
do what Hughes, solvent, would never have dreamed of doing. He was
prepared to be a seller of stolen property. He was introduced to
"receivers."

Dennison tested him with small stuff at first. All that was asked of
Hughes was that he went to a spot, found a parcel, and took it to an
address. He did not even know the contents of the parcel. A day later
he received his share of the proceeds from Dennison. He believed he was
dealing with smuggled diamonds.

Thus it was that John Dennison was a criminal, but was safe even under
police observation. It was Hughes who faced the accusing law. If Hughes
was caught, Dennison was ready to prove that he was guilty of nothing
more than a passing friendship with him. Not once had he discussed the
shop with Hughes, though he was aware that Hughes knew the combination
of the safe. Knowledge of the lock was nothing to Dennison. He was not
a burglar.

In the present case he was content to wait long enough to allay
suspicion. He held the winning card.

The robbery was discovered when the manager came to the shop the next
morning and opened the safe. The shock sent a thrill through the
establishment. The police were called. Detectives came. They examined
the premises, the safe door, the locks and bars of the shop entrance.
They could make nothing of it.

The manager was able to show that the goods had been put in the safe
as usual. He had seen Dennison and the other assistant take them from
the window. He had seen the safe closed. He had tested the lock before
he left the premises. His finger-prints, and those of Dennison, were
still on the safe door. Who knew the combination? Not an assistant
save the head salesman, who had been gone before the trays were taken
out of the window, and the manager himself, who was, of course, above
suspicion.

The detectives hovered about the shop all day. Others came, examined,
and went away. The manager spent most of his time being interviewed by
them in his office. The end was that all agreed it was a mystery, a
classic crime. John Dennison had done what every thief, every burglar,
every criminal, dreams of doing--he had robbed, and obliterated his
trail completely. This was a tribute to his daring as well as to his
skill.

But John Dennison was not content with this. He went one better. He
aided the detectives. It was he who supplied them with a clue. Under
his counter he discovered a skeleton key and a small jemmy. He bore
them in triumph to the manager.

The detectives surged round him as he explained how he had come across
them when he was looking for a polishing-brush. He did not explain that
he had slipped the articles from his sleeve as he stooped towards the
floor!

Why had Dennison given the detectives this clue? Obviously because
he knew the working of the official mind. If no clue was available,
they would come to the conclusion that this was an "inside" job, that
it had been carried out by someone within the shop. The key and the
jemmy supplied them with something to investigate while he made his
preparations for escape.

While the detectives were busy examining the jemmy and the key, other
investigators came--the insurance people. Two experts came to represent
their interests. One of these two, a tall, thin man with dreamy eyes,
looked at the safe for a long time. The manager explained everything in
detail. The tall, thin man listened attentively. He examined the jemmy
and the key, fitted it into the lock of the side door, cast his eyes on
the ceiling, the cellar trap-door, the cabinets ranged along the walls.

"A clever theft," he murmured.

He joined the other detectives, who were comparing notes. They took
away the key and the jemmy, and the excitement died down in the routine
of the shop duties.

That night when John Dennison went home he told his wife to advance the
next step in his scheme.

"Book passages for Cape Town on the ship sailing the day after I finish
with the firm. Give any name except our own."

"Everything all right, John?"

"Everything."

She did not go out that evening, but remained content beside him,
listening to the wireless.

Dennison went about his business as usual. Every evening for a week he
asked the same question as he hung up his hat in the hall.

"Anybody been here?"

"Nobody."

During the second week his question changed.

"Seen Hughes to-day?"

"No."

During the third week the query was:

"Going out to-night?"

The answer remained the same:

"No."

One morning a few days before he was due to leave the shop he looked up
from his breakfast.

"Kitty, I'll want Hughes soon."

"Well?"

"You'd better tell him so."

"I haven't seen him for some time."

"You haven't quarrelled?"

There was a challenge and a menace in his swiftly raised voice.

"No."

"You've been keeping indoors a lot of late. Hasn't he been asking you
out to shows?"

"No."

"You've got to bring him along. I need him--for the last time."

"I told him not to call again, John."

"What?"

"I told him not to come for me."

"Why?"

She looked at him strangely, biting her lip. There was a trace of
nervousness in her tone as she answered:

"I didn't want him to come. He told me the last time I saw him that he
loved me."

Dennison threw back his head and laughed.

"Well, what about that? I knew he was infatuated. I'm not blind, but
it's all in the game, isn't it? You've got to keep it up with him, as
you've done with others. We're leaving London soon. Better send a note
asking him to come and take you out. He has to pick up a parcel for
me----"

"The diamonds you took from the shop?"

"Sure."

"Is it safe now?"

"The insurance people have paid. That's good enough."

"Then why worry about Hughes? Tell me where it is, and I'll get the
stuff----"

"And deliver it to the fence? Not at all, Kitty. Cops sometimes hang
round fences' homes. I won't expose you to risk. Your job is to bring
Hughes here. The money will be sent to us on board the ship by special
messenger, after Hughes delivers the loot."

She pouted, eyeing him in a way that showed she felt hurt.

"John, why don't you let me into the secret? I'm not a baby. You seem
to be almost inhuman at times, keeping everything locked up inside you.
You just use people like pawns. Why can't you be like Hughes--nice and
sociable----"

"It is because Hughes is nice and sociable that he is aiding us, Kitty.
Hughes is part of my plan. He is necessary to side-track suspicion.
I'll tell you where I hid the stuff when we are away, but not now. In
the meantime it's your job to be nice to Hughes. I expect to meet him
here this evening. We leave in about twenty-four hours."

"Why not write to him yourself?"

"He'll come quicker to see you, and letters may be used as evidence."

His eye travelled to the telephone on the hall table.

"He's not on the 'phone, and I'd hesitate to use it, anyway. You never
know who's tapping the line. We'll keep that for emergency, Kitty.
Hughes has got to deliver the loot at once; then you may have a last
outing with him--but don't tell him it's the last!"

"You want me to go out with him to-night?"

"I do; after he has delivered the goods he can join you at the
dance-club. He'll work swiftly to get there, and, as he'll be paid by
the fence, he'll have money to burn. I'll pack up while you are away.
Hughes will report progress to you, and you to me on your return."

He noticed an anxious look in her eyes as he went off to his work. This
was his last day at the shop.

Ted Hughes was at the flat when Dennison returned in the evening. Kitty
was dressing, and kept to her room while the two men talked, and, as
soon as everything was arranged, she and Hughes departed. Dennison
began to pack.

He reckoned that by the following midday he and Kitty would be aboard
the liner. Hughes would not know they had gone from the furnished flat
until he called one day to find it empty of tenants. Swift action was
the keynote of Dennison's plans. Hit and run! Sell and vanish! No trail
was ever left behind.

He finished packing, and sat down to wait for his wife's return.
Reviewing the situation, he decided that he had managed it rather well.
Kitty would be able to tell him when she came back how Hughes had
succeeded. He had parted from the manager of the shop on very friendly
terms. His excuse for leaving was that he was going to America.
There had been no hint or mention of the robbery, which had become
history--unexplained, if not forgotten, history.

There was only one point on which he was not quite satisfied. He
wondered why Kitty had mentioned to him that Hughes had fallen in
love with her. He considered this carefully. The fact that Hughes was
infatuated with her did not disturb him. Other men had been infatuated.
But the fact that she had allowed him to fall seriously in love
with her was unusual, for she had hitherto played her part with the
joyous daring of irresponsibility. Was it possible that she had become
attached to Hughes because he was "nice and sociable"? Thinking all
this out in cold blood, John Dennison, for the first time in his life,
experienced a pang of jealousy.

He became restless as the hours passed. Midnight came and went. One
o'clock struck. Two. Three. Four. Daylight broke. The city began to
awaken to life. John Dennison watched the clock steal hour after hour
from him. He gnashed his teeth and beat his hands together. But still
his wife did not come.

He was at his wits' end by breakfast-time. He was sleepless, haggard,
red-eyed. Yet he was helpless until Kitty arrived. For want of
something to do, he made himself a cup of coffee on the gas stove in
the kitchen. He was drinking the coffee when the door knocker thudded.

He knew this was not his wife, for she had a latchkey. He went to the
door, opening it cautiously. Facing him was the tall, thin detective
who had represented the insurance company.

"Can I have a word with you, Mr. Dennison?"

Before Dennison could answer, the man strode into the hall.

"I saw your light on early in the morning. I suppose you are waiting
for your wife?"

"What is that to you?"

"Well, I don't expect you'll see her again. I am a private detective,
Mr. Dennison. I was engaged on the robbery at the shop, and in the
course of my duties I had to keep an eye on you and your wife. Are
you aware that she has been friendly with, and is now running off
with, a man named Hughes? I considered it my duty to tell you. I have
discovered they are leaving the country as Mr. and Mrs. Hughes----"

John Dennison saw red in that moment.

"How do you know?" he demanded hoarsely.

"I have watched your wife's movements."

Dennison blazed.

"They've turned on me!" he cried in wrath. "She's gone off with him
because he was nice and sociable! They've taken the swag!"

He threw his hands above his head savagely.

"I'll give you no trouble. I confess everything! But I'm confessing so
that you may beat Hughes and her! They mustn't get away with it! It was
I who took the diamonds. Hughes was the carrier. I'll tell the whole
story if you catch them. We are all in it--the three of us----What are
you staring at? You're losing time instead of getting after them!"

The telephone bell tinkled in the hall. He leaped for it, the detective
at his heels, but he waved the man back. The receiver was already at
his ear. Someone was calling him. It was his wife's voice.

"Hullo, John! It's me--Kitty! I didn't come home last night because a
detective was on my heels. I've seen him hanging about before, but I
gave him the slip and came to this hotel. I didn't dare telephone you,
in case he was tapping the line, but this morning I slipped out the
back way. Hughes found the loot and delivered it safely. We've just
time to catch the boat-train. I'll meet you at the station. You'll find
the passage tickets in my dressing-case. I had them made out in the
name of Mr. and Mrs. Hughes----"

John Dennison dropped the receiver and sagged into a chair.

The detective, who represented the insurance company, was watching him;
and the look on the man's face told John Dennison that he had beaten
himself. His unfounded jealousy had made him say too much, and the
passage tickets were not any use to him, nor to the wife who was above
suspicion.

It had proved disastrous to him _not_ to trust a woman.




              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRD CELL


"I admit," said the visitor, who seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed the
stories he had just heard, "I admit that a generalisation does not
always work in regard to women any more than in regard to anything
else. In both the instances you have given, however, the flaw was that
the people concerned (whom you would call the criminals) did not get
away quick enough. They delayed their exit."

"Pardon me," said the Governor, "if I suggest that there have been
cases where swift flight has been on the side of the culprit and yet,
through some unknown, some subtle, misgiving, some unexplainable
cause, it has availed him nothing in the end. And this has happened
not because the pursuers have known where to find their man. It is one
of the strange things of crime that always, somewhere, at the most
unexpected moments, the flaw appears and the whole fabric of defence
and escape falls to dust. I hold that in case after case the criminal
defeats himself."

"Not if he knows his objective and goes straight for it," retorted the
visitor. "Now, I know my objective----"

"So did Samuel Vining," interrupted the Governor. "And yet Samuel
Vining is at the present moment the occupant of the third cell in the
corridor beneath us. He is one of those who will pay with his life for
his error. Since his is a very remarkable case, I propose to relate his
experience in support of what I say."

The visitor settled himself in his chair and helped himself to another
cigarette, while the Governor took a sip of whisky and soda and cleared
his throat.

       *       *       *       *       *

There was nothing subtle (began the Governor) about the murder
committed by Samuel Vining. He struck down a man in the bar of a small
public-house during a heated argument--buried a seaman's knife to
the hilt in the man's side. There the victim lay, his glazing eyes
turned towards the ceiling. It had been the deed of a moment. When the
bystanders realised that the man was dead, Vining had disappeared.

He had not more than half an hour's start of the police, but half
an hour is a long time when a man is speeding from justice. Vining
had the world to roam, the whole earth in which to hide. His impulse
was to flee. He boarded a bus going westward and took a ticket to
the terminus, not knowing where the route would lead him. His main
object was to get away, to get away, to get away! The desire to escape
from humanity surged through his brain. Did he repent of his crime?
Repentance was nothing. Punishment was the avenging force he had to
escape from. Repentance was an inward thing. Punishment was not
anything _he_ could decide. _That_ was in the hands of those who were
pursuing him at that very moment.

When the bus reached its journey's end he continued along the country
road. He had no idea where it would lead. He did not, for the moment,
care. Sometimes he ran, but he found running consumed his energy too
quickly, so he walked mainly. The night was dark, but the stars were
out. The road was lonely except for an occasional motor-car going
towards, or coming from, London. He drew into the hedge when the cars
passed, hiding from them. The stars told him he was walking south. In
the south was the sea. This thought gave him some comfort.

By dawn he was so weary that he was almost dropping from exhaustion;
but he stumbled on, blindly getting away! He was passing through
undulating country by this time. In the meadows he saw occasional
houses. Workers were stirring. A labourer could be seen in the paths
now and then. Dogs awoke and barked. The barks sent a shiver through
Vining's frame. They were like warnings, challenges to him. They were
the voices of civilisation telling him that he was observed. This made
him hurry once more. He reflected that the police were on his trail,
searching for him everywhere. Their net would be cast in the city,
the telephones would be bearing messages, the telegraph would be
issuing calls for his arrest. How could he defeat these means? Not by
swiftness, but by cunning.

At a bend in the road he came upon a road-mender seated beside a
heap of stones. Beside the roadman was a can of tea, and in a red
handkerchief was his early morning meal. A newspaper was spread over
his knees. He looked up as Vining approached.

They stared at each other for a moment. The road-mender spoke.

"Bin on the road for a bit, I reckon. Goin' to the coast, hey?"

"How do you know I've been on the road for a bit?" demanded Vining
challengingly.

"Humph! By the dust on your clothes. Makin' for the coast?"

"Yes."

"It's a tidy way. Well over a score of miles. Hastings lies over the
hill yonder."

"Does it?"

"Nearer a score and a half of miles. I've seen a few walkers to the
coast in my time. They generally walk durin' the night. Cooler, I
dassay. You're fagged out."

"Give me something to eat."

It was more a demand than a request, and the road-mender lifted his
eyes from the newspaper suddenly, then dropped them again to the
printed page.

"Take what you want," he said, his tone changing. "There's tea, an'
bread, an' cheese, an' a scrap of meat."

Vining slumped down on the roadside and started to eat ravenously.
He finished the man's allowance and drank the tea. The food gave him
strength, and the tea washed the dust from his parched throat. The
road-mender was watching him, his right hand holding his long, thin
hammer close to his side. Suddenly he rose to his feet, moving off
backward.

"Where are you going?" demanded Vining quickly.

"For help."

"Help? What for?"

"I know you. Think you can escape, do you? It's in the newspapers about
you. At first I didn't think--but I bin watchin' you. The dust of you
gave you away."

"The dust?" echoed Vining dully.

"It told me you'd bin walkin', an' then I looked at the paper. It says
that a man named Sam Vining, a seaman, killed another man in a pub in
the East End last night. You're him--Vining."

"How do you know?"

"The dust told me you'd bin walkin', then I read your description.
It's there--in print. Medium-sized, broad, dressed in shabby navy
suit, tattoo marks on the back of right hand, brown eyes, mole on left
temple, black-and-white check cap. That's you. They have a photo,
too--not very like you, but near enough; must have bin taken a while
ago. You killed this man because of a woman. She gave the police a lot
of information. Her name is there."

"Sarah," muttered Vining hoarsely.

"That's it--Sarah. Sarah something. It's you, isn't it?"

"It is me. What about it?"

"Your number's up."

The road-mender was moving farther off, still walking backwards.

"Where are you going?" asked Vining.

The roadman pointed to a hollow beyond the road, from which a thin
trickle of smoke issued among the trees.

"Down there is a village. A policeman lives there. I'm going to tell
him. Better come with me quietly. Give yourself up. Come on. I've got
you."

He stood erect, swinging his long, thin hammer by his side. Vining made
a movement as if he was about to rise.

"Don't try to escape," warned the road-mender. "I can throw this hammer
straight as a die!"

Vining put his hand on the stones to raise himself. Next moment he
fired one--a jagged rock that took the road-mender on the cheek. Vining
was used to slinging pins and tools aboard ship. The road-mender went
down, blood spurting from his cheek. Vining was gone by the time he
gathered himself up.

Down the road, then through a gap in the hedge into the meadows, went
the fugitive, bending almost double as he dodged along ditches and
under cover of hedges. From a nook he saw the policeman, some time
later, go along the road on a bicycle at a great speed. He watched the
officer's helmet disappear round a bend; then he struck deeper into the
meadows.

The one thing that stuck in his mind was that he was within possible
distance of the coast. He knew the general position of Hastings. It was
south of Dungeness point; and Dungeness was almost opposite Cape Gris
Nez. If only he could take a boat at Hastings he could row to Gris Nez.
His tiredness seemed to lift as the plan came to him.

But before he stole a boat he had to get to the coast; and before he
got to the coast he had to travel unseen during a long day. He decided
to sleep for a few hours. He slept in a dry ditch in a small wood.

When he awoke, the sun's position told him it was late afternoon. He
was hungry. He had a few shillings in his pocket; but what was money if
he dared not show his face to human beings? He searched for a brook,
found one, and bathed his hands and face in the muddy water. It was
cooling at any rate. He even drank some of it. As he dried himself with
his handkerchief he pondered the situation.

"They are all against me," he muttered, "but I'll win through.
At Gris Nez I'll ship off--anywhere! They always want firemen--on
coasters--anything!"

He recollected suddenly that to get a job he must show discharge papers
from his previous ships. For an instant the thought staggered him; but
only for an instant.

"I'll knock somebody down and take his papers. Then I'll pretend I'm
dumb. I only want to get to Gris Nez."

This became his passion, the objective to which his mind clung. Gris
Nez! Gris Nez! He rose and stumbled on.

Towards night he was near the hill which the road-mender had pointed
out. But he was again exhausted. Not used to marching, the fatigue
was telling on him; on mind as on body. He sat down by the edge of a
cornfield and closed his eyes.

Suddenly he heard voices. He dived into the corn, flattening the grain
as he floundered along. The voices grew louder. He lay down. A man was
calling.

"Dick, where'd you put the rake?"

Another voice answered unintelligibly. The sound of someone thrusting
his way along the edge of the field came nearer. An exclamation burst
out, and the first voice called harshly:

"Someone's gone and trampled the corn down. If I only got hold of
him----"

Another step brought the man almost on top of Vining. The latter did
not wait for the alarm to be raised. He jumped to his feet and attacked.

It was all done so suddenly that the farm worker had no chance to
defend himself. He went down before the onslaught, kicking and
struggling, but Vining was desperate. He pounded the man into
unconsciousness and left him. Rising to his feet he ran--straight
through the cornfield.

He heard voices as he ran, but he took no heed. He did not stop until
he reached the opposite end of the field. As he forced his way through
the hedge he looked back. Two men were pursuing, smashing their way
through the corn in his wake. Vining gritted his teeth. He had laid a
trail of flattened grain which was impossible to mistake. The harvest
of the fields was aiding his enemies.

He broke through the hedge and ran. Fear gave fleetness to his feet,
but he did not know the ground. There were rabbit-holes which hurt his
ankles when he stepped into them. There were hidden hillocks, mounds,
rushes, tufts of grass, that seemed to try to impede him. He crashed
on, labouring like a wounded animal. He ran for nearly an hour. When he
stopped there was no sign nor sound of his pursuers.

"They'll come after me," he muttered. "They know the country, and I
don't. They'll come after me. I'll keep to the hill----What was that?"

From somewhere behind he heard the bark of a dog, the baying of a
hound. His heart stood still. They were pursuing him by scent! Their
dogs could come where a vehicle could not follow. What was to be done?
His right ankle suddenly bent under him. He fell as a sharp pain shot
up his leg. He had put his foot into a rabbit-hole.

The shooting pain made him, for the moment, forget his pursuers. He
could hardly rise, but he got on his feet by strength of will and
hobbled on. As he toiled along he cast his eyes about. What was he
looking for? He found it soon enough in that natural backyard. A thick
branch of a tree lay on the ground. He tore it up and sat down to wait.

The baying came nearer. It was almost dark now. If only he could get
one good blow at the dog, that was all he asked. One blow would be
enough. Samuel Vining knew how to strike.

He sat motionless, waiting. Suddenly something that seemed to be a part
of the gloom swept past him. He caught a glimpse of a brown, furry
animal which leaped aside as he stirred, and vanished suddenly.

"A hare," he thought. "The dog has disturbed it."

He had no time to think more, for just then there broke on his ears a
deep bay, and a white dog plunged into view. Vining gripped his club
and waited, tense for the stroke.

The dog was running to a scent. He had his nose to the ground. Vining
drew back to make sure his arms had the swing he wanted. He held the
branch aloft. The dog came straight towards him. Vining struck.

It was a terrible blow, with all the force of a pair of powerful
shoulders behind it. The rough branch caught the dog on the head just
above the eyes. Such a blow would have killed a man.

The club was shattered, the dog's breath came in a strange gasp, its
body crumpled up and rolled over. Vining scrambled to his feet as he
heard other dogs in the distance.

"They've sent a pack after me," he cried. "That one will stop them."

He staggered into the gathering gloom, making his direction towards
a small wood that clung to the hill-side. He heard no more from his
pursuers, but when he lay down he was surprised to see that his hands
trembled. A peculiar throbbing was in his breast, the blood was
pounding in his ears, his teeth were chattering. He was not cold.
He was perspiring. Through his body the trembling continued; he was
shaking as if he had ague. It was his nerve that had deserted him.

Samuel Vining did not know the psychology of his case. He had never
heard of psychology. All he knew was that he was feeling "done in."
His vision was becoming blurred. His mind had become rusty, almost
incapable of acting. He started at the least sigh of the wind, the
slightest rustle of the trees.

"Gris Nez!" he muttered constantly. "Gris Nez! Hastings, then Gris Nez!"

When he tried to sleep he found it impossible. He could not even rest.
The ground was hard, the surface uneven. His body was pained, his limbs
ached. Hunger did not trouble him, but thirst did. He felt terribly
thirsty. It is a peculiar fact that nervousness brings thirst; dry,
cracked thirst which cannot be relieved.

"Hastings," he cried suddenly. "I must get to Hastings! Then Gris Nez!
Before morning!"

But, though he cried aloud his necessity, he lay where he was, unable
for the time being to rise and make the effort to march. Was this
conscience? Conscience did not trouble Samuel Vining. It was merely
exhaustion of mind and body that was lashing at him, wearing him down
with a grinding pressure that was irresistible. He went over the events
of the murder and his subsequent actions slowly and methodically,
dwelling on every point with a mind that was strung up to high tension.

He could not stop thinking of the past twenty-four hours. He could not
sleep. The fear of the dogs was upon him. He could not rest. A strange
paradox was present within him, one part of him declaring for repose,
the other clamouring for action. He was hardly able to keep still.
At last he rose, bound his handkerchief about his injured ankle, and
stumbled on. He broke off a stick from a tree to aid him as he marched.

Things were becoming vague, but his mind was clear, strange as the
seeming contradiction may be. He was constantly remembering the
incidents of his flight and his escapes. His brain was fumbling at the
problem, searching for a way out. It ought to be comparatively easy for
him to make his escape. Why had he not done so? Why had these people
come upon his trail? Like a flash he saw, and he uttered an exclamation
as the reason struck him like a blow.

Man was his enemy. From man he need expect no aid. He had run from the
face of man. In the wide fields he ought to have found the solitude
he sought; but he had found the woods and meadows willing to give him
up. The dust of the main road had betrayed him to the road-mender.
The cornfield had betrayed him to the farm hands. The scent of his
clothes had betrayed him to the hounds. Where could he escape from this
accusing Nature? The answer came as swiftly as the question was uttered.

"Hastings! Then Gris Nez!"

The sea would hide him as she hid untold secrets. That was it. Let him
get back to the sea, his natural element, and he would put his pursuers
to confusion! He was at home where the sea was. This land, where roads
were unsheltered and meadows were cultivated, was his enemy also. He
toiled on, filled with a new hope and trembling resolve.

He did not know how many hours he walked, but he kept his position by
the big hill. He understood that this hill was part of the white cliffs
he had seen so often from the Channel. He reached the shoulder of the
hill when the night was still dark. He stopped, raised his head, and
sniffed. A new tang came to him. It was the tang of the sea.

He pushed his way round the shoulder and saw the Channel at his feet.
The lights of a town twinkled away to his right, the long promenade
showing up like an uneven line of burning matches.

"That is Hastings," he told himself. "There are caves among the cliffs."

He had heard, like many others, of the caves which were at one time
used by the smugglers of the coast. He determined to find one of
these caves and stay there for the next day. From the cave he could
mark a boat, and go for it as soon as the following night covered his
movements. He was jubilant, for in the darkness he felt that many boats
were lying there.

He crawled down the hill facing the sea, moving slowly because his
strained ankle pained him, and because he was on dangerous ground. The
dawn broke grey and sullen while he searched for a cave. By its light
he found what he wanted, a hole in the shoulder of the cliff into which
he could crawl. It was reached by a narrow, scarcely visible track, and
was in a part of the cliff which visitors were not likely to roam.
Vining drew himself into the hole and lay down his full length, gazing
out to sea.

The wash of the waves on the shingle sounded eerily, but above the wash
and rattle of the shingle came a cry that thrilled his bones and caused
him to sit up in swift alarm.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

The command came unexpectedly, high pitched, with the muffled blur of a
voice shouting in a strong wind. To Vining the words were a cataclysmic
disturbance. He had been seen! He leaned far out of the cave, his hair
on end, his nerves tingling.

A bird flew past the opening of the cave--a white gull with grey wings
and open beak.

"You can't see me!" he called in wild derision, a swift defiance in his
tone.

He waited in suspense for a reply, expecting to hear a challenge, an
order to surrender. None came.

The bird that had flown past the cave swung back again, a beautiful
thing sailing against the lightening sky. He saw its outline moving
steadily, perfectly poised, with outstretched wings, beating up against
the cold breeze that heralded dawn. It swung close to him, its little
beak open, its feet dangling, ready to alight. He lost it in the gloom.

The waves breaking on the shingle surged far up the beach, then swept
back, and the stones rattled down after the receding water with a noise
like thick hail.

"Who are you, anyway?"

Vining shouted to make himself heard above the clatter of the shingle,
but he was conscious that his voice was drowned in the noise. He
shouted a third time. There was no reply. Only the swish of the spent
waves and the rattle of the rolling pebbles came to him.

"There's someone down there," he muttered uneasily. "Someone was
calling."

Fear came to him in renewed force. Had he been trailed? Had someone,
some night prowler, seen him descend to the cave? Or was it his fancy?
Was it possible that no one had called, no one at all? Were his ears
deceiving him? Was his nerve gone?

He put his hands to his head, which was aching and throbbing, and
held his temples. His hands trembled. He was shaking all over. As he
crouched there, a wretched figure, afraid, scared, shivering with cold,
and with the thrill of his breaking spirit racing within him, he heard
it again.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

There was no mistaking it, though the call was much fainter. It came to
him borne on the wind, a cry from far up the beach.

"_Get away!_"

He bounded to his feet, every shred of his former self abandoned, every
sinew urging him to action.

"All right," he cried. "I'll get away! I'll get away!"

He had been seen. Someone had observed him. He had stumbled on to a
forbidden piece of the cliff. Was it a watchman who had seen him and
had warned him to go away? It could not be the police. They would
not have warned him to go away! They would have come and taken him.
He dared not wait there. The observer would give information of his
presence. The police would come to investigate. He would be found, and
then--the scaffold!

The land was his enemy. His soul clamoured for the sea and the things
of the sea. He knew the sea. He had sailed on it for years--deep-water
sailing, out of the sight of land and human beings. The sea would cover
him, and his pursuers would be baffled.

The land was for landsmen. The police worked on land. The land had
betrayed him thrice already--first by the dust of the road, next by
the corn in the meadow, then by the scent of his clothes. The land had
tried to hinder his escape; it had tried to maim him. How he cursed the
rabbit-hole that had sprained his ankle!

Dawn was coming up in the east. He must move at once, before his
pursuers came after him. He would go down and take a boat at once and
be off before daylight--off to Gris Nez! He would outwit the unseen
observer, and be halfway across the Channel before the boat was missed.

Crawling out of his cave, he toiled slowly and painfully up the cliff,
stopping every now and then to listen. Once he heard the call, but it
sounded far away, almost like an echo.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

He smiled grimly to himself. The observer was on the wrong tack,
evidently moving towards the town, while he moved in the opposite
direction. The dawn was present by this time--a grey dawn--but daylight
was coming fast. Every minute brought more light. Now was his time to
get to the beach and choose his boat from those he could see lying
about the shingle.

He reached the crest of the hill, intending to descend on the other
side; but, as he peered over the ridge, he heard cries and shouts and
saw a strange sight. Coming along the top of the cliff was a pack
of hounds--brown and white hounds, like the one he had slain in the
meadow. They were coming straight for him; and behind them were men on
horseback. He had no time to think, no time to do anything except rise
to his feet and strike at the foremost dog as he had struck before.
This time he did not kill, but he sent the animal howling to the rear;
and, as he saw the pack breasting the hill, he took to his heels.

Oblivious of the pain in his ankle, he ran towards the sloping cliff.
He had no time to select his place of descent, but he found one. He
slid, rolled, bumped, towards the shore, landing in a heap on the
shingle. He was up again, and ran towards the boats. They were after
him. He saw some men on horseback shaking their whips at him and
shouting. He did not care. His hands were on a boat, but he could not
move it alone. He looked out to the sea. A small fishing-boat bobbed to
the swell less than a hundred yards from the beach. He ran into the sea
and struck out for it.

"Gris Nez! Gris Nez!" he called. He would show them some sailing! Was
he not a seaman? He swam fast and reached the fishing-boat, hauling
himself aboard by a fender. He did not trouble to look at his enemies.
He had too much to do to escape. The anchor-rope refused to come; he
cut the line in desperation and began to haul the sail up as he drifted.

"_Get away! Get away!_"

The command startled him, so clear was it, so sharp. His fingers let go
the rope, the sail dropped, crumpling up in a tangled mass. He looked
aloft, and saw a little white gull, with grey wings, perched on the
masthead, and above it another gull wheeled and circled.

Vining was still staring at the gulls when a motor-boat ran alongside
his drifting craft. Over the gun-wale men clambered and faced him. One
was a policeman, but a man in the garb of a huntsman thrust his way
forward and pointed to Vining.

"That is the man, constable. We had a dog killed yesterday, and that
broke the chase, and we routed out a cub this morning, and chased it
along the cliff, when this man----"

"I killed the dog in the meadow yesterday. I am Samuel Vining."

"The murderer!" cried the constable. "We have been watching for you."

Samuel Vining did not move, though the others shrank from him. He was
staring insanely at the gulls overhead.

The wild things of the sea had joined forces with the wild things of
the land to betray him. There had just penetrated his tossing brain the
knowledge that it was no human voice that bade him run from the cave
where he might have lain unobserved and safe.

What he had imagined, in his anxiety, to be a watcher's warning was
merely the call of the little, grey-backed bird, the Jenny gull, the
kittiwake, that gets its name because of its chatter, so imitative of a
plaintive human call.

_Kittiwake! Kittiwake!_

_Get away! Get away!_




             THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTH CELL


Before his visitor had time to raise any plea of weakness in the story
he had just been told, the Governor lifted his hand, coughed, and
continued apologetically:

"You are about to say that the capture of Vining was inevitable from
the start? That was true so long as he remained on land. But had he
been a stronger man mentally he might have succeeded in calming his
nerves. Alas, there is always the one 'if' that makes what seems the
perfect, clueless crime a failure in the end! Now, it so happens that
in the cell next to that occupied by Vining there is a man who has been
found guilty of a similar crime, but he committed it in what is perhaps
the nearest approach to perfection--if one can use the word in this
connection--I have ever heard of."

"Just a moment," said the visitor, as he sipped from a glass of
soda-water. "May I ask why you have other condemned men in cells next
to crooks and thieves?"

"It is a delicate explanation I am forced to give," responded the
Governor. "You see, when an execution takes place, all the prisoners
are kept in their cells until it is over. Even this precaution, this
consideration for their feelings, however, does not prevent them
knowing that the ceremony has taken place. When the executioner pulls
his lever the sides of the trap fall with a resounding bang against
the sides of the pit. Every man in the prison hears that bang. Now,
to-morrow morning I intend to place these fourteen prisoners in their
respective and proper grades and cells----"

"And I am here to see that they will not be offended by hearing the
bang," interrupted the visitor firmly, as his fingers toyed with his
revolver.

"Just so," agreed the Governor. "That is why you have favoured me with
your company, which I find very exhilarating, in spite of its menace to
my self. But to proceed with my explanation to your question. Whether
I am alive or dead the fourteen prisoners will, before their midday
meal, be transferred to the cells which will be theirs so long as they
remain. Their present abode is merely, let us say, expedient."

"You excite my curiosity by the mention of the man who almost succeeded
in making a clueless trail," commented the visitor. "I presume you will
place him among the Intellectuals?"

"I am not prepared to say so. His crime was one of murder. That is a
class by itself. But let us proceed to compare his methods with that of
cruder persons."

With that the Governor leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands
as he took up the story of the occupant of the fourth cell.

When a fox sets out to kill [said the Governor] he uses craft. Harvey
Wilkins was a fox.

He had pondered long on his crime; so long that it had ceased to be
hideous to him. It was merely a means to an end. He had made up his
mind to kill Gilbert Hoey and he had got him into the best position for
the purpose. He had balanced his chances so cleverly that he knew that,
even if the result of his action was discovered, ordinary investigation
could not lay the blame at his door. Third degree methods are not
resorted to in England.

A few yards beneath where he and Hoey stood was the white-hot, moving
surface of molten metal in one of the factory's cauldrons. They were
standing on a narrow platform that ran a few yards above the edge of
the huge fire-clay crucible from which the liquid metal would be poured
by machinery. The furnaces were roaring. Wilkins had planned it well.
They were alone. The workers of the factory had just gone for the
night, the staff of night workers were coming in at the gates.

They had halted above the glowing pit, watching the tiny bubbles that
shot up to the surface as the gases escaped and the scum arose. Harvey
Wilkins glanced at Gilbert Hoey. He noted Hoey's eager features, his
intent air. He hated Hoey with all the force of his jealous nature.

They were both engineers, both employed by the firm, both ambitious.
They had worked side by side, both in charge of their own gangs of
workers. But Hoey was beating Wilkins in the prizes of their calling.
It was Hoey who had discovered a recipe for purifying steel, a swifter
method for puddling pig-iron. It was Wilkins who kept to the old ways.

The two men were a contrast in almost everything. Hoey was brilliant
and erratic; careless in many things, such as keeping his own set of
books. He left details to others. Wilkins was deliberate and watchful
of details; a plodder who lacked vision.

As he saw Hoey gazing down at the bubbling metal, Wilkins noted that he
was resting his arms on the steel rail that guarded the platform. This
rail was a sliding one, fitted in a similar manner to the deck rails of
a ship. It could be slipped from its socket by the removal of a long
steel pin, so that part of the machinery above the casting could be
cleaned and oiled when the furnaces were not in blast. Wilkins glanced
at the steel pin. His fingers fumbled with it. His eyes travelled to
Hoey, who was leaning on the rail intent on the examination of the
metal below. The heat came up to both men in waves. Wilkins closed his
hand over the pin. Just one tiny pull and he would be free to carry out
the schemes he had long contemplated but had been unable to achieve
because of his rival Hoey. He pulled at the pin. It came away in his
hand.

Down fell the rail, borne adrift by the weight of Hoey's elbows. Down
went Hoey, his arms flung wide, his hands grabbing at space and failing
to find a hold. His body plunged into the boiling metal. A flame shot
up, a blue flame with a white fringe. And that was all.

There had been no cry, no shout of alarm. The whole thing had been
so quick that even Wilkins was amazed. It had been so simple that it
seemed impossible to believe.

The steel rail dangled idly from the stanchion. The metal bubbled and
stirred in the cauldron. There was no more Gilbert Hoey. Not a vestige
of him could ever be traced henceforth. He had been obliterated more
efficiently than a man blown to atoms. He had been engulfed in a liquid
that had made of him nothing more than a shooting flame.

Harvey Wilkins picked up the hanging rail and put it back into its
socket. He pushed the steel pin home. He looked about the works. No one
was there, the place was deserted. The last of the nightshift men were
beginning to come through the timekeeper's wicket on the other side of
the yard. Wilkins walked back to his office.

He sat down and drew his handkerchief over his perspiring forehead.
He was pulling himself together. As he sat in his chair he heard the
hooter sounding, telling him that another casting was about to be made,
that another furnace had finished its job. In a few more minutes the
molten metal would run like seething silver into the moulds and cool
off in time in the shape of rails, ships' propeller-shafts, and other
necessaries for the world beyond.

Harvey Wilkins felt perfectly safe, if a little nervous. His love of
detail had stood him in good stead for this, the greatest risk he had
ever taken, the foulest act he had ever committed. There was no one to
say that his hand had withdrawn the steel pin that dropped the guarding
bar. There was no one to say that Gilbert Hoey had been examining the
job. The entrance to the office was on the other side of the building
from the men's entrance. Hoey did not come down at night usually.
It had been at the suggestion of Wilkins that he had come down this
evening. No one had seen Hoey fall to his death. The murder had been
complete, clueless, without a trail leading to its author.

"He couldn't have felt it," Wilkins murmured. "The temperature is the
highest a furnace can reach. He couldn't have felt a thing."

He kept repeating the last sentence to himself for some time; perhaps
as a sort of a salve to his screaming conscience. But now and then he
shuddered as he thought of the scene.

The thudding and crashing of the steam hammers, the dull roar of the
moving machinery, came to him suddenly, though the noise had been going
on since the sounding of the hooter. He stirred himself, took a glass
of spirits from a bottle in a cupboard, and began to set about the
minor part of his crime. He intended to prove that the man who had thus
been blotted out of life had gone from the factory in quite another way
and of his own accord. One thing was certain, he told himself, getting
great comfort from the reflection: Hoey would never be able to disprove
what Wilkins was going to say about him!

Wilkins rose from his chair and went into the small office which Hoey
had used. They had separate rooms, but the girl who typed their letters
and acted as their joint secretary was always gone for the night before
her two superiors. Wilkins sat down at the typewriter and typed a short
note on a sheet of paper. He left the paper in the machine.

Next he took down a cash-book and a ledger and did some figuring on
the last pages on which entries had been made. He left the books open.
He opened Hoey's desk with his keys and searched among the contents.
He found what he sought without much trouble. It was a small enamelled
cash-box. Using a key on Hoey's key-ring, he opened the box. It
contained a bundle of treasury notes and a handful of silver. Wilkins
emptied the contents into his own pockets. He put the cash-box back in
the drawer, left Hoey's keys dangling in a lock of the desk, switched
out the light, and returned to his own room.

From his own desk he took a shipping company's brochure and put it in
the pocket of Hoey's overcoat, which hung from a peg in the passage
outside. The brochure was an illustrated one giving the fares and
passenger services to and from South American ports. When he had
finished these arrangements, Harvey Wilkins put on his own hat and coat
and hurried from the office.

He went straight to the house of his employer, the head of the firm. He
was admitted on his application to see his employer urgently. In a few
minutes he was faced with the man he had come to see.

"Mr. Mynes," he began, acting the part well, "I have come up at once
because I have reason to think that you ought to know what has been
going on. I am afraid that the news I bring is rather terrible."

"What is it, Wilkins?" asked Mr. Mynes, settling himself in his chair.
"Nothing gone wrong at the works, is it?"

"I'm afraid, sir, it has something to do with the works. Do you realise
that you have been swindled by Gilbert Hoey, and that he has absconded
with the money he drew to pay his men's wages?"

"God bless my soul!" exclaimed the factory owner, jumping to his feet.
"It is impossible!"

"I could hardly believe it myself, sir, when I saw what was going on.
But it is true. I came to you to-night because the crisis has been
reached."

He stopped as the door of the study opened, and on the threshold stood
a girl dressed in white. She had dark chestnut hair which, exquisitely
shingled, made a fitting frame for her attractive features.

"I'm sorry," she began, seeing Wilkins, "I thought you were alone,
father."

Wilkins knew that this was not strictly true. She had come to the study
because she thought Gilbert Hoey had arrived. She and Hoey had been on
very friendly terms for some time; more friendly than Wilkins liked,
for he had hoped to marry his employer's daughter.

"Come in, Ada," cried her father. "Come in and hear what Mr. Wilkins
has come to tell me. What do you think? Hoey, the man I trusted
implicitly--the man who was carrying out one of the biggest jobs for
me--the man----Words fail me when I think how I trusted him."

"What has he done?" asked the girl.

"Listen to Mr. Wilkins. Go on, Wilkins, and let me have this in detail.
I want proof, not suspicions. You say Hoey has run off with the wages
money of his men."

"That is what I say, sir. You may remember that a few months ago I
took over the books of Hoey at your suggestion, so that they might be
brought up to date?"

"I told you to do so. Hoey said he couldn't do book-keeping. He hated
book work unless it was connected with engineering specifications."

"That is what you told me, sir. I took over his books. I found finally
that it was impossible to make them balance. He had used sums of money
for which he could not account. You allowed him to pay the workers on
his contracts himself. A week ago I spoke to him about it. He promised
to make reparation."

"Why didn't you come to me at once?"

"Because I wanted to give him a chance. I thought he might have been
negligent."

"Go on."

"To-day I knew that he had drawn a large sum for wages. The big
contract for steel rails and forgings was in his hands to a great
extent. He has been managing the laying of the new railroad. I asked
him to come down to the office to-day and talk things over. He came
into his office late in the afternoon, but did not come near me. I
waited, doing overtime on my own books. His typist stopped work and
went home. I called out to him, saying I was ready to go over the books
with him. He replied that he would come to me later. Some time passed.
I heard him go out. I went into his office. A sheet of paper was in the
typewriter. It contained a short message to you, sir. I have left it
just as I found it."

"Well, what was the message?"

"It was to the effect that, as he saw no hope of getting a partnership
with you, he was taking matters into his own hands, and was going away
with the wages. He says that it is useless for you to seek him, as he
will never be found."

"And the money?"

"I looked into the cash-box. It was empty. He must have been gone an
hour before I went into his office."

"The fool!"

Mynes sat back in his chair and gritted his teeth. Suddenly he rose to
his feet.

"He was a fool," he said bitterly. "I trusted him, and I intended to
make him a partner. I had not told him so, because I wanted it to be a
surprise after he had put the present contract through. Hoey a thief!
Hoey a common swindler! Wilkins, you and he were my right-hand men!
Well, I'll make an example of him!"

He strode towards the door, then turned and beckoned to Wilkins.

"Come down to the factory at once. I want to go into this matter. I can
hardly believe it, but if it is as you say, I'll have a warrant out for
his arrest to-night----"

"You will have to be swift, sir. I searched his overcoat which he left
in the office. In the pocket I found a shipping list dealing with
sailings for South America. I fancy he has laid his plans----"

"He won't get there. I'll have every ship watched; I'll bring him back
and send him to prison. Ada, you and Hoey were fairly friendly. Don't
let this upset you. I'll deal with him."

He rushed out to get his hat and coat. Wilkins raised his eyes to the
face of the girl, who had stood still during his recital.

"I'm sorry to be the bearer of such news, Miss Ada, but it was my duty."

The girl sat down suddenly, clasping her hands in her lap. Her eyes
were fixed on Harvey Wilkins's face.

"I don't believe a word of it," she said quietly.

Wilkins merely bowed. He knew that Hoey had been friendly with Ada
Mynes, and her disbelief in his story let him see how deep that
friendship had been; but he held the whip handle. Time would change
her. Circumstances would make her alter her ideas. One thing at a time,
he told himself. Hoey had disappeared. That was enough for a day.

He went down to the office with Mr. Mynes. He showed him the evidence
he had arranged. He repeated his statements. He advised caution,
suggesting that the news need not be published broadcast as it would
damage the firm. He went with the factory owner to the police station
and laid the information. On the sworn evidence of Wilkins and Mynes a
warrant for the arrest of Gilbert Hoey was made out, and the network
of police resources began to operate. By telephone and telegraph every
port was notified of the disappearance of Hoey. Harvey Wilkins was
congratulated by his employer and went home to bed.

That he was a murderer did not disturb him. Who was there to say it had
been murder? Who could find the body of a man who had been consumed in
a flash of fireworks? The crucibles would be emptied by the morning,
the metal would be turned into moulds, into rails, ships' propellers,
pig iron--a hundred different matters. Giant rollers would soon be
pressing out this particular cauldron's contents into long sheets.
These would be rolled up again and pounded by great steam-hammers into
the form desired. Gilbert Hoey had disappeared like a puff of smoke.
The boiling metal had not only killed him--it had also wiped out every
trace of the incident.

The following morning Wilkins went down to the works as usual. On his
way he called at the police station to see how far they had gone. The
inspector who had seen him the previous night was not at the desk, but
his substitute told Wilkins all the news they had. Hoey's description
would be telegraphed up and down the country. His rooms had been
searched, and his belongings were intact. He had not been traced.

"I expect he fled when I challenged him," said Wilkins. "He didn't even
take time to pack a suitcase. He must have been scared badly."

"I expect so," said the officer drily. "I can't give you any more
information, as I'm not in charge of the case."

Wilkins went to his office feeling surer than ever. He had put dust
into the eyes of the law. He smiled to think of the police watching
ports, railway stations, roads, hotels--looking for a man who would
never be found.

Mr. Mynes did not come to the office at his usual time, and Wilkins
continued his work leisurely. He was at his desk just before lunch
time, when the door of his office opened. Miss Ada Mynes walked in and
took a seat. She left the door ajar. Wilkins rose to find a chair for
her near his desk, but she waved him back to his seat. There was a
strangeness about her he had never seen before. She was all strung up,
but she was holding herself in check.

"I came to you because the police can't say what I want to say," she
said. "I came to hear about the disappearance of Gilbert Hoey."

"If I can be of any help, Miss Mynes, I shall be glad; but the police
have the matter in hand, and your father----"

"My father knows I am here. I told him I was coming."

"If he gave you permission that is all right, Miss Ada. What is it you
want to know?"

"Everything."

"I can tell only what I myself know."

"That may be enough."

The tone struck him. It was antagonistic, but she was nervous and was
trying to control herself. Her eyes were on his face--eyes that seemed
to be gimlets. There was no escaping them. He sought to pacify her,
beginning to tell once more the story he had told the previous night.
She waved it aside.

"I have come to ask questions."

Again that tone--strange, incisive, charged with meaning. He suddenly
felt the sharpness of it. It was the tone of a terrier; without snarl,
without growl; the tone of a terrier when it is about to worry.
Persistent and annoying.

"I told you yesterday I did not believe your story," she said in a
level tone. "I repeat that now. Gilbert Hoey is no defaulter."

"You were friendly with him, Miss Ada; but that does not alter facts."

"Why do you say 'were'? Why speak in the past tense?"

He saw the grimness with which she thrust the question at him; but he
smiled. He knew that she felt the situation keenly. She was fighting
for Hoey's reputation. He would be easy with her, since she was a
woman; a woman whom he wanted in his own time.

"I used the past tense because I hardly think you can remain friendly
with him after this. Your father would object, I fear."

"Leave my father out of it. I was yesterday more than friendly with Mr.
Hoey."

"Indeed. I did not know it had gone so far."

"That is why I am here."

Again the biting tone gave him the impression of a terrier. It was as
if a household pet had become an enemy. He saw a strain of her father
in her then; the strong, determined forcefulness of the parent was
coming out in the child. He admired her for it.

"Ask your questions," he said, leaning back in his chair.

She drummed her fingers on the desk for a moment, looking at him from
under her eyelashes.

"When Mr. Hoey came down to the office last evening, did he go into the
works?"

"No."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

"He told me you had invited him to look at the cauldron."

"I cannot help what he told you, Miss Mynes."

"We have proof that he did not leave this town last night."

"Who has proof?"

"The police. I have been with them all night. Mr. Hoey did not go by
train. We inquired at the booking office. He did not go by car. His own
is still in the garage. No car was hired. We have been to every car
owner, every hirer there is."

"If he did not leave the town he must be about somewhere. Let the
police find him."

There was a sneer in the taunt he flung at her--a sneer that had been
his natural retort.

"Was there any need for him to steal the money?"

"His bank balance was not large, I believe, Miss Mynes."

"You know that?"

"He made no secret of it."

She bit her lip. The terrier in her attitude had received a check; but
she tried another grip. Just like a terrier.

"Mr. Hoey told me yesterday that he was coming down to see how a
casting was going on. You say he did not look at any casting?"

"That is what I have told you."

"The furnaces were preparing a job of which he was in charge?"

"Yes."

"He was expecting to leave for the Continent in a few days to
superintend this job's delivery?"

"Yes."

"The money in his care was for payment of his men who were going with
him?"

"Yes."

"It was not a large amount?"

"It was over a thousand pounds. There were other expenses he was to
clear off--quite large enough to be a temptation when I had challenged
his books."

"You expected to get this job?"

"Your father preferred him."

"You were rivals in the factory?"

"Not rivals; co-workers."

"You told me once you were rivals."

"When?"

"The day you told me you were in love with me; the day I told you I did
not desire your affection."

"Oh, I may have said that in a moment of disappointment at finding you
liked Hoey."

"You asked my father for a partnership?"

"Yes, and he declined--for the present. What do you mean by raking up
these things?"

"I want to prove that you were rivals."

"And then?"

"I am seeking a motive."

The terrier was there openly, defiantly, frankly, facing the fox that
had covered his tracks. There was no use hiding the situation longer.
It was a duel between them. Her eyes told him more than her words. Had
she been a stranger, a detective, he would have shown her the door. But
she was the daughter of his employer. He became frigid.

"A motive for what?" he demanded.

"A motive for Gilbert Hoey's disappearance."

The sudden suspicion that had flamed in his mind died down. She was
floundering, he told himself; floundering in her use of words because
of her anxiety for Hoey. He felt that he could handle her. Was she not,
after all, only a woman? She would forget Hoey in time.

"I see," he said gently. "You are seeking a motive for his running
away."

"For his disappearance."

"It is the same thing."

"Perhaps."

"Do you mean to suggest any other explanation?"

Now was his time, he thought, to bully her into reason! They were
alone. He would frighten her, as she had almost frightened him. He knew
he was safe. The cauldron of molten metal would tell no tales. The fox
is seldom afraid of one dog. But he runs from a pack. This girl was
hysterical, he told himself; she needed to go home and rest.

"I am very busy this morning, Miss Mynes. If you don't mind I would
suggest that you take things easy and do not worry. Hoey may not have
been worthy of your thoughts. And really you ought not to come here and
question me. It is most unusual----"

"Many things are unusual. But they are sometimes necessary."

"What do you mean?"

"You will learn in time. I have a few more questions to ask."

"Very well. Ask them. But I shall tell your father I have been
interrupted----"

"Has the metal which was in the cauldron last night been poured off?"

"Yes, by the night gang."

"So that the machinery above would be oiled and cleaned to-day?"

"I gave orders for it to be done this morning. I expect it has been
attended to. We are very busy."

"It has _not_ been attended to."

"Why not?"

"The police decided that it was to be left as it was. No workmen have
been near it."

"Indeed?" cried Wilkins; and there was, for the first time, a hint of
alarm in his tone.

The girl leaned across the desk. Her mood was that of the terrier more
than ever; a terrier that has got a hold at last.

"If any sand or grit were in that cauldron with the metal it would be
skimmed off or the casting would be spoiled, would it not?"

"Yes, but what----"

The answer was a movement by the girl. She slammed a small package on
the desk and separated the blackened, ruined fragments as she raised
her finger. The terrier had the fox in a corner.

"See this? It is the remains of a meerschaum pipe in an asbestos case
which I gave to Gilbert Hoey yesterday evening before he came down
here. This was fished out of the cauldron."

Wilkins gave a stifled cry. He felt his feet slipping, but he was
crafty.

"He may have thrown it into the cauldron!" he cried.

"But you said he did not go to the works! You said he never left this
office!"

There was a silence. Wilkins knew then that he was faced by a girl who
was fighting to avenge her lover with all the subtlety of a woman's
nature. She was more than terrier then. But she had no proof. This was
his trump card. She had no proof. It was merely intuition that had
prompted her. He faced the terrier and steadied himself with an effort.

"He may have gone without my seeing him," he declared quickly.

For a moment the terrier lost her hold. But she came back to it.

"The police want your finger-prints!" she cried, jumping to her feet.

"What for?" he countered.

"Do you not see on this asbestos case are Gilbert Hoey's initials in
platinum? I gave him the case. It takes a greater heat than that of
molten iron to melt platinum! He would not throw it away. He came
down to look at the casting. He stood on the platform above the
crucible. There is a sliding bar there, held by a pin. On that pin are
finger-prints. They are his or yours. No one else has been there. The
police have taken a print of these fingers, to compare with the prints
on the typewritten message."

"You can prove nothing!" he cried. "He fell in! It was an accident! It
was an accident!"

The fox was at his last ditch; a safe one, he was sure. But the terrier
pursued him, knowing she was near victory.

She ran to the door and threw it open. There, in the next room, stood
her father, the police inspector, and another man who was busy with a
note-book.

"Our talk has been taken down in shorthand," she cried. "The defence
you put up could not have been torn down by ordinary methods, so I came
alone to you. I accuse you of murder!"

The fox had still his last defence.

"It was an accident!" he cried. "You cannot prove anything!"

"You were seen!"

Harvey Wilkins stared at his accuser, then at the inspector; at the man
who was busy with his pencil, at his employer. He dropped into a chair.

"In that case," he muttered, "it is useless to deny it. I confess. I
pulled the pin and let him fall into the cauldron."

A cry from the girl startled him. She had played her trump card. It had
broken down his defence. The inspector stepped forward. Wilkins raised
his head.

"Who saw me?" he asked hoarsely. "Bring your witness. Was it you?"

"No," she answered. "God!"

The fox had been tricked.




              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTH CELL


"Women are certainly the deuce," commented the visitor as the Governor
dramatically ended his story of the fourth prisoner. "So far you have
proved that my contention is right. A man ought not to have anything to
do with them."

"And yet," replied the Governor, "men can make errors even when they
think they are most safe. My experience has shown me that very vividly.
And, since you may be pained at the part women have played in the tales
I have already related to you, I commend to your attention my next
story, which deals with the occupant of the fifth cell."

"I shall be happy to hear it," said the visitor.

       *       *       *       *       *

I intend to introduce to your notice (said the Governor) a remarkable
young man in the person of Frederick Clausen. We will find him seated
in a cheap coffee-house in one of the northern districts of London.
His elbows were on the marble-topped table at the moment I have in
mind, and he was looking up into the face of the not too immaculate
proprietor of the cheap restaurant.

"Yes," he said loudly, "the money was taken from the bank to-day and is
safe in a black japanned box in the boss's escritoire. I myself put it
in his study. There are two thousand pounds in notes alone, and----"

"Not so loud, Mr. Clausen," hastily interrupted the restaurant-keeper
in a whisper, as he glanced over his shoulder. "Not so loud."

But Frederick Clausen took no heed of the warning. He laughed and threw
back his head, then took a sip of coffee as his eyes travelled round
the small, dingy room.

"It would be an easy haul for any robbers," he continued, "but there's
nothing to fear on that score. We start paying out to-morrow at nine
o'clock. I thought I'd let you know, so that you could tell anybody who
hasn't been notified. Two thousand pounds, mark you! Fancy all that
money lying in a little japanned box in the study!"

His eyes looked over the rim of his cup. Two men sitting at a table
within two yards of him were busy looking at the moving traffic in the
street. They were typical of the residents in the district--at least, a
certain proportion of the residents--drifters, nondescripts. The peaks
of their caps were drawn over their brows, their clothes hung loosely
on them; yet their hands were soft and white. At other tables sat other
people of similar type. There were derelicts there, and workers too,
some furtive-eyed, some weary, some crooked-mouthed.

Frederick Clausen put down his cup and rose to his feet.

"I'll be going back home," he said. "To-morrow means a hard day's
work--paying out all that money."

As he moved towards the door the restaurant-keeper came with him and
laid a hand on his arm as they stood on the front step.

"You're getting on well, Fred," he said in a low tone, "and I'm glad
to see one of the boys of the district making good. It isn't often
you look in here; but you oughtn't to speak so loud about that money.
You're forgetting what you ought to remember--that there's always
someone sitting about. You know what I mean!"

"Oh, was I speaking too openly? I'm sorry."

"I'm saying nothing, Fred, except this. If I was you I'd shift that box
of money from the study when you get back. I can't stop people coming
into my shop for a cup of coffee so long as they behave themselves; but
I'm giving you a hint. See? So-long."

He turned and went back to his frowsy counter. Frederick Clausen
shrugged his shoulders and walked smartly along the grim street, his
lips set in an equally grim smile.

"The old fool!" he muttered. "As if I didn't speak loud on purpose!
Does he think I didn't know those two crooks were drinking in every
word? Well, I'll bet it comes off all right."

He felt like laughing out loud, so pleased was he with himself. It was
late in the evening, but he had spent the time to advantage. Was he
not, in the eyes of his employer, above suspicion?

Turning into a quiet street, he mounted the steps of a tall, narrow
house and let himself in with his latchkey. He shot the bolts of the
front door with considerable force, spoke a cheery word to a maid who
was finishing her dreary duties in the kitchen, saw that she had a
candle to light her way to her bedroom, then put out the hall light and
went to his own apartment. He undressed and jumped into bed at once.

But if Frederick Clausen went to bed he did not go to sleep. He did
not want to sleep. In a few minutes he heard the scullery-maid mount
to her room. A deep silence pervaded the house. Clausen lay still for
nearly two hours, smoking an occasional cigarette to pass the time. It
was long past midnight before he decided to move. He got up, put on
a dressing-gown, took a small phial from his coat pocket and, with a
handkerchief in his hand, opened the bedroom door. All was still.

He crept along the corridor to a door at the end of the passage and
tried the handle. It turned easily. He shook some drops of the contents
of the phial into his handkerchief and slipped into the room.

In a short time he came out again and went to another bedroom. This
time he listened at the door some time before he entered. Then he
slipped in, and came out again noiselessly.

He crept up a short flight of stairs and soaked his handkerchief from
the phial before entering a third bedroom half way to the next floor.
When he returned to the semi-darkness of the corridor he stood still,
his face expressing satisfaction, his nerves jumping just the slightest.

He stood in the corridor and breathed deeply, but smiling to himself.
In his hand he held the small phial and the handkerchief. In his head
he held the scheme he had evolved and was now executing step by step.

What he had just done was the second stage of his plan, and both had
been remarkably easy--easier than he had anticipated. He had entered
the bedroom of his employer and had laid the handkerchief, soaked with
chloroform, on his face. He had done the same with his employer's
wife, with their son--a young man about his own age--and with the
housekeeper. The servant who slept at the top of the house was far
enough removed from the scene of operations to be dispensed with as a
danger.

Clausen had gone to this trouble because he wanted to eliminate risk
in carrying out his intention of robbing his employer, an intention he
had harboured for some time. Robbery as an idea was old, of course;
but robbery by his method was sufficiently original, he calculated, to
place its author beyond suspicion. He had used chloroform merely to
intensify the sleep of those who might disturb his work.

There still remained the third and final stage of his plan. He put
the phial, in which were only a few remaining drops of the drug, into
the pocket of his dressing-gown beside his handkerchief, and went
downstairs towards the study on the ground floor back. The curtains of
the room were open, and the fading moon gave him all the illumination
he needed. He knelt beside the escritoire, opened it with a key, and
extracted a black japanned box. He opened the box and gazed on the
money.

It did not take him long to extract the major portion of the notes,
which were done up in handy bundles. Some silver was in paper bags.
He took most of it also; but he did not touch several cheques and
postal orders which lay in a drawer beside the notes. Cheques and
postal orders are traceable. Treasury notes, unless the owner knows the
numbers, are not; and Clausen was well aware that his employer did not
know the number of a single note.

He was gathering up the money when something soft brushed against his
hand. He started, but next instant smiled at his alarm.

"Hullo, puss," he whispered, as he stroked the large black cat that was
rubbing its head against his leg. "A black cat for luck!"

He tickled the cat's ears, then pushed the family pet away and
completed his theft. He closed the japanned box and put it back in the
escritoire, then wiped the metal with his handkerchief. He removed his
finger-prints from the escritoire in the same way, and went back to his
room. The cat came with him, purring and pleased as it rubbed itself
against his ankles.

It wanted to follow him into his bedroom, but he pushed it out into the
corridor and closed the door. His next act was to conceal the money.

This part of his scheme was also well prepared. From the fireplace he
removed a brick, which he had loosened by degrees during his leisure
hours, and in a cavity behind the loose brick he placed the notes and
silver. As he replaced the brick a small fall of soot dropped on his
hands. He shook most of it off into the fireplace, but, as some grime
remained, he went to the bathroom and washed the smuts off. He was not
taking any chances. Everything had been flawless in his plan so far,
and he intended to be sure that the high efficiency continued to the
end. Frederick Clausen was very thorough.

When he had cleaned his hands he returned to his bedroom, closed the
door, threw his dressing-gown on a chair beside his bed, and turned in.
He had finished the work he had set himself. The phial of chloroform
and the handkerchief he had used could not be got rid of until the
morning. For the present they were safe in his gown pocket.

Clausen was quite at ease regarding his theft. He was not an habitual
criminal by any means. He was private secretary to Mr. James Holson,
and he therefore knew all about Mr. Holson's affairs. The latter was
what was known as a welfare worker, who gave his spare time to help
those who desired to help themselves.

James Holson was well known in the charitable world, or, rather, the
world of charities. He was founder and treasurer of one of the largest
welfare societies in England--a society of the club type, which
accepted contributions from its members and disbursed the funds on
certain days of the year to the investors. Mr. Holson made no profit
for himself out of his club-society. He was content to preach the duty
and virtue of thrift. He handed out the savings from his office on the
ground floor of his house in Euston district with the same smiling
cheerfulness as he accepted the contributions.

Frederick Clausen was one of his "finds"--a young man of the lower
working-class community who had aspirations, and ambition. He too was
a member of the society, and he had become Holson's secretary because
he was a young man who had shown a desire to "get on." Through his
hands passed most of the details of the organisation. He lived in his
employer's house, capable and trusted.

It was Clausen's desire to succeed in life, and this very ambition led
to his present crime, strange though that may seem. His salary was
small--too small, he believed, for his abilities. He had often asked
for an increase, but had as often been told that an increase was not
possible for the time being. To Clausen this was a grievance. He did
not care that charitable societies such as his were incapable of paying
large salaries to their staffs. He did not argue that the organisation
was limited in funds by its very objects. But he did care that money
in a lump sum was a very valuable possession, and he argued that to
possess money enough to fill his dreams was worth a small risk. In him
his ancestry warred with his lately acquired respectability. He felt
his opportunities limited. He was not perhaps morally strong enough
to step outside the limitations and go farther afield. His quarrel
was that his limitations were limitations. Thus his alleged grievance
gradually became a vague sense of injustice. There are many similar
cases. Temptation fed on mistaken ideas grows strong. Thus the sapling
became an oak.

So long as there is temptation there will be crime. So long as there
is crime there will be law. So long as there is law there will be
law-breakers. Rectitude and guiltiness are not separated by a straight
line, as is commonly supposed. They are segments of a circle. Frederick
Clausen had passed the first two segments, and now, having taken the
money from the japanned box, had completed the last arc of the circuit.

He had approached his act as do practically all who, for the first
time, set out to beat the law. That is to say, he approached it with
acumen and knowledge born of considerable study. The average burglar
who has adopted theft as a trade goes straight to his objective, and
retreats swiftly from it after accomplishment. The amateur criminal is
much more elaborate. He believes that he has the wit to do what others
have failed to do.

Clausen was not content to steal and wipe out all traces of his trail.
That, to his acute mind, was but to leave the structure of his plan
half finished. He had gone much farther than that. He had seen to it
that a burglary would be provided to send the authorities on a false
scent.

His knowledge of the district guided him towards the keystone of
his crime and supplied him with an alibi that seemed proof against
suspicion. He had called at the dingy coffee-house deliberately to give
information to ears that were always open to receive and act on stray
news. To this mean eating-house came characters he had known in his
unregenerate days--men who trod the shady paths of life, youths who
lived by lawlessness. Clausen himself was of the locality. He knew the
suspects who frequented the side-streets and roamed the dim by-ways,
seeking like wolves, the opportunity to plunder.

He had timed his visit to the restaurant with care, and had sat at a
table reading his newspaper and exchanging a spasmodic conversation
with the proprietor, knowing that the visitors would come who could
make use of his words. He was perfectly aware that the two men who sat
at the next table were thieves, convicted and hardened in roguery. He
had spoken for their benefit. The chances were a thousand to one that
they had inwardly smiled at his seeming innocence as they listened to
his information. Simple people are the carriers of news. What burglar
could turn his back on a proposition where the details were handed to
him so guilelessly?

So Frederick Clausen argued, knowing the district and the men. Their
minds were less subtle than his. They would act true to type. He
had left something in the japanned box for them, a reward for their
trouble. They would take the postal orders, even if they did not take
the cheques, and thus they would be convicted.

As he lay in bed, Clausen went over every point. He had made things
easy for the burglars. He had undone the catch of the study window, he
had left the japanned box unlocked. Even if they did not come, he was
still safe. The chloroform he had used on the occupants of the house
would work off before morning. They would have heard nothing, and the
released window-catch would tell that a burglary had been committed
from the outside.

He estimated that the burglars would come within three hours after he
had taken the money, if they came at all. The time passed slowly, and
he was conscious of a tinge of anxiety. He heard the public clocks
strike the hours. Dawn was not far off when his slumbering senses were
jerked into action. Somewhere in the house a bell was ringing.

He sat up in bed. What was the bell? With an exclamation of irritation
he lay down again.

"It's the scullery-maid's alarm clock," he muttered. "I'd forgotten she
uses one to awaken her. I wonder what is the time."

His hand was under the pillow, searching for his watch, when he
suddenly became tense. The bell had ceased to ring, but another noise
came to his ears. It was from the ground floor. At first the sound was
a confused jumble, then what seemed to be the smashing of glass and the
rumbling of men's voices. Clausen's heart beat quickly. The burglars
had arrived. His theories had worked out after all. Was this not proof
of his ability to gauge men and their actions accurately? A glow of
triumph swept over him.

And then, out of the stillness that followed the noise, there came
other sounds. He heard feet on the corridor pass his door. He lay down
and drew the bedclothes up to his chin. Voices were talking. Someone
was knocking at a door. More voices added to the confused sounds. He
heard the sound of feet on the corridor again--more feet, heavy feet.
Someone knocked at his door. He lay still and did not answer.

The knock was repeated. A voice called his name. He did not answer. The
handle of the door turned. A light flashed. He lay still, breathing
regularly, feigning sleep.

Fingers touched his shoulders and shook him. He opened his eyes,
pretending to be startled, and called out in well-acted alarm:

"What's that? Who are you?"

"It's all right, sir," said a policeman who was standing at his
bedside. "You've had a visit from burglars. We came in through the
study window after them, and the maid told me this was your room.
You're Mr. Holson's secretary, aren't you?"

"Yes! Burglars! In here! Where are they? What's to be done?"

He was sitting up now, rubbing his eyes, running his fingers through
his hair, apparently dazed.

"It's all right, sir, don't be alarmed. The burglars didn't come this
length----"

"Burglars! The scoundrels! It's the money they're after--the money in
the box--two thousand pounds--the society's money to be paid out this
morning. This is terrible."

"Better get dressed quickly, sir. I've awakened young Mr. Holson and
told him to waken his father. You must all sleep soundly in this house
not to have heard us. Will you please come downstairs quickly? We want
your information."

"I'll come now."

Clausen leaped out of bed, intending to snatch up his gown; but as he
put his hand out he hesitated. Snuggled on the top of the gown as it
lay on the chair was the lazy black cat, the household pet, curled up
on the soft cloth which formed for it an ideal resting-place.

The black cat for luck! Clausen's mind was quick to take advantage of
the cat's choice of a bed. The dawn was beginning to struggle through
the curtains, giving a strange coldness to the room. He shivered and
turned to the policeman.

"I might as well dress. A secretary's work is never done, and I may as
well get up for the day. Will you give me a few minutes?"

"Oh, I'll wait, sir. My mate is downstairs on guard. We'll want Mr.
Holson and you to go over the study with us. Come down when you are
ready."

The constable moved into the corridor, leaving the door ajar. Clausen
heard his employer's son calling to his father, who answered drowsily.
The house was awaking jerkily. Clausen began to dress, smiling towards
the black cat asleep on his gown. What could have been better? The
animal must have slipped into his room when he was washing the soot
from his hands. He stroked its neck as he passed. His gown was safe
under that cat.

As Clausen dressed hurriedly, he heard Mr. Holson and his son stumble
along the corridor on their way downstairs. The policeman was with
them. Mr. Holson was talking in half-awake, grumbling accents, coughing
and groaning as he moved. Clausen did not wash himself, nor shave. He
hurried down at their heels, pulling his jacket on as he went.

All the lights in the house were lit by this time. The servants were
in the hall. Clausen joined the investigators. He found his employer at
the foot of the stairs, on the brink of a collapse, supported by his
son and the policeman.

"Mr. Holson," cried Clausen, "this is terribly unfortunate, sir! How
can we face the club members? Don't you worry, sir. We may be able to
arrange a loan from the bank----"

Mr. Holson waved his hand feebly and groaned.

"Mr. Holson is a bit seedy," explained the constable. "I think he had
better get back to bed--or, wait, there he goes--better lay him down
here and fetch some water. He's going to faint."

Clausen ran to get water, and when he returned they were carrying his
employer back to bed. They did not take him into his own bedroom,
however, but into Clausen's, which was the nearest at the top of the
stairs. They laid him on Clausen's bed, and Clausen bathed his brow and
hands.

Holson's son sank into a chair and stared vacantly around. Clausen was
the only person besides the policeman who kept his head.

"It is not surprising that Mr. Holson, poor man, takes it like this,"
he said sympathetically. "Two thousand pounds gone! I hope you have got
the burglars, constable. Have you found a clue? How many burglars were
there? It is a wonder they did not kill us in our sleep. It must have
been men who knew we took the money from the bank yesterday----"

"Oh, that's all right, Mr. Clausen," said the policeman. "We've got the
best of clues. We've got the burglars--two of them."

"Is that so? Ah, that is smart! Caught in the act, I hope. And the
money--did they have time to dispose of it, or have you recovered it
too?"

The policeman was paying attention to Mr. Holson, so that he did not
answer then. The philanthropist was showing signs of recovery and had
opened his eyes, then tried to sit up.

"Be careful, sir," cautioned Clausen. "Take it easy. Everything is all
right. The constable says the burglars have been caught. Did you say
you had recovered the money, constable?"

"That's a bit that puzzles my mate and me," replied the policeman
thoughtfully as he wiped the inside of his helmet with his
handkerchief. "We've got the burglars all right. The money wasn't taken
by them, sir, because me and my mate got them before they opened the
escritoire. And yet, when Mr. Holson took the box out just now, most of
the money was gone----"

"They must have hid it before you came on the scene," cried Clausen.

"We were on the scene practically all night," said the constable.
"You didn't know, Mr. Clausen, that Mr. Holson informed our station
yesterday about the money being here. He asked us to keep watch during
the night. There are bad characters around the district, and me and my
mate were on special duty. With Mr. Holson's consent we fixed a trap
last night. You didn't know about it, because you were out until late
in the evening----"

"A trap!" cried Clausen. "What was the trap?"

"We laid down an alarm bell that rang in Mr. Holson's bedroom the
moment the burglars stepped over the window-sill of the study. In this
way he was to know if, and when, any burglars came. In the meantime
we were to keep watch from outside--you know, patrolling about in our
rubbered boots. The idea was that the bell would bring Mr. Holson down
with his son, and we would have the thief, or thieves, back and front.
Well, the bell rang, but nobody came down. Did you hear the bell, Mr.
Clausen?"

"No," replied Clausen, lying coolly. "I did not hear any bell."

"That's funny, for Mr. Holson and his son say the same thing, yet me
and my mate heard it from the lane at the back of the house. And the
housekeeper says she did not hear it either. We had a lot of trouble to
get Mr. Holson and his son awake, and the housekeeper too. They've all
got headaches and--it's funny."

He put his helmet on carefully, looking from one to the other.
Frederick Clausen stood motionless, the dripping sponge in his ice-cold
hand.

The policeman's eye wandered round the room, resting finally on the
fat, black cat sleeping on the dressing-gown on the chair.

"Everybody seems to sleep well in this house," he grinned. "Even the
cat. And a cat is generally scared of us when we enter a house. This
one is unconcerned----"

He stepped to the chair and laid his hand on the animal, stroking it
gently.

"Look here," he said. "This cat has its nose stuck into the pocket of
the gown----"

His laugh ceased suddenly. With a jerk he lifted the cat from its soft
bed. It hung dangling in his grip, limp and unconscious. A faint, not
unpleasant odour drifted through the room.

Next moment the policeman dropped the cat and plunged his hand into
the pocket of the gown, bringing forth the handkerchief and the small
phial, the cork of which stuck awry from the neck.

He turned his eyes on Frederick Clausen; and Frederick Clausen knew
that, in spite of all his precautions, in spite of legends to the
contrary, the black cat had brought, not luck, but evidence against him
which was at once undeniable and convicting.

It was a matter of detail from the suspicion to the search of the room,
the finding of the stolen money, and then the charge. After that, the
cell.




              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SIXTH CELL


"And _now_," said the Governor as he took a sip of the whisky and
soda that was near his elbow, "we will continue our examination of
criminals, and their personal strengths and weaknesses, by going on to
the next story, if you will permit."

"Go on," said the visitor.

"Before I do so," said the Governor, "might I invite you to make
yourself more at ease? You have your overcoat on, and these gloves you
are wearing----"

"The overcoat may be discarded, but not the gloves," smiled the
visitor, who pulled off his coat with a quick movement that surprised
the Governor by its rapidity. "I can shoot quite as well with my gloves
as with bare hands. And I notice that your desk is of highly polished
mahogany."

"I was thinking of your personal comfort, I assure you," returned the
Governor. "As for any finger-prints, a man of your courage would not
allow a small matter like that to stop him----"

"Your diagnosis is right in that instance. If I thought it worth
while to take off my gloves I would do so. I don't. Come, the night
is passing and you seem to want to talk for some time. Why mention my
gloves?"

"The sight of kid gloves reminds me of the case of Daniel Callow,
whose story I am about to give you."

The Governor slipped a throat tablet into his mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

The case of Daniel Callow (he said) leaves me in a quandary. Ought he
to go into the Intellectual section or into the Intelligent grade?
Perhaps you will aid me to determine.

Consider Daniel Callow just in the act of closing the heavy door of
the bank safe and switching out his electric torch. He put the torch
into his pocket. After listening for a moment, he lifted the handbag in
which he had packed the loot he had just stolen and stepped towards the
door. He was wearing kid gloves. On his feet were goloshes drawn over
his shoes. He opened the door and looked out. There was no one about.
He closed the door behind him softly. Next moment he was walking away
with his loot.

It had been easy. It had been simple. It had been without a hitch. He
boarded a bus and went home.

As he entered the semi-detached, bijou, suburban residence of which he
was tenant, the dining-room clock struck eight. Daniel Callow smiled to
himself. He was home on the stroke of the hour, as he had been for a
week. He heard the maid setting his supper in the dining-room. She came
out as he closed the hall wardrobe in which he had put his bag and
overcoat.

"Did you clean the aerial, Annie?" he asked.

"Yes, sir. I've got it as bright as a new wire, but I didn't have time
to wind it up."

"I'll do that after supper. Have the rose-trees come?"

"Yes, sir. I laid 'em out on the plot where you dug the holes for 'em."

"That was right. I think you can go now, Annie. I won't require you any
more to-night."

He heard her go out by the back door while he was at supper. When he
had finished eating his meal he rose and pulled on a pair of heavy
boots. He went out to the garden and wound up his aerial. He took out
the bag of notes and silver, extracted a handful or so of the latter
currency, and deposited the bag in one of the holes in the rose-plot.
On the top of the bag he planted a rose, stamping the bush well down.
He planted others also. This work had to be done before darkness, but
it did not occupy him more than ten minutes. After this he returned to
the house, took off his garden boots, pulled on a pair of slippers, and
lifted his head-phones. The time signal was just being broadcast.

Now, of the three types of criminals, we may take it that the lowest
are those who become law-breakers because it is their instinct. The
next above them are those who, while not making a habit of crime,
side-step once or so. Then there are those who are among the
Intellectuals, the professionals. In this class are those who have
never been caught. Daniel Callow was trying to graduate from the second
to the top class in one step.

When a man belongs to a fast set, and spends his money as if his annual
income was a month's salary, he is heading for one of two places--the
Bankruptcy Court or the debtors' prison. A bank clerk cannot live like
a landed proprietor with immense wealth; but it was "the thing" in the
set to which Daniel Callow and his wife belonged that responsibility
should come after pleasure.

Callow had married his wife, Irene, because she belonged to the set.
She never knew what salary he received at the bank. She never asked.
The night-club life was what brought them together. It held them
together. During the day Daniel was at his counter at the bank. During
the night he and Irene were generally at banker with a count. In their
club, counts were common and honourables were not even remarked on.
Debts were usual; but there was this difference. The debts of the
counts and the honourables were paid when pressure was applied. They
had means. Daniel Callow had none.

It was because he saw the Bankruptcy Court or the debtors' prison in
front of him that Daniel Callow had thought out his scheme. For him it
was simple. To an ordinary burglar it would have been daring.

There was no man in the bank whose efficiency was greater. He had
also earned a reputation for punctuality that was a criterion of the
establishment. Every morning he was at his place before the other
clerks, even before the manager. The keys of the safe were deposited
every evening by the manager at the local police station. Daniel
called for them every morning, and had the books and ledgers out on
the desks by the stroke of the hour. What was easier than to take a
wax impression of the keys as he handled them? There was only one that
mattered, and it Daniel had left in the safe door. This was part of his
plan.

Sitting with his head-phones on, by his fire, Daniel Callow smiled as
he thought of the reputation he had earned. How was the manager to know
that he had earned it with a purpose in view? He had been early every
morning so that his great idea might come to fruition.

The main part of the plan, however, was that which dealt with covering
his trail. He had advised Irene to pay a visit to some friends of their
circle who had rented a house at the coast. Irene never asked anything
about money so long as Daniel provided it. She did not bother about
finance. You can find her type easily enough. The midnight set don't
trouble about the next morning. They have no next mornings. So, from
the whirl of the West End dance-club, Irene went off to another kind of
whirl at the seaside. Daniel stayed at home and went to the bank as
usual.

During Irene's absence he came home every night just in time for
supper. He dined at the club about six. He reached home about eight.
The maid then went off duty--the plan on which he and Irene had agreed.
Every morning Daniel went to the bank at his usual hour, or, if
anything, slightly earlier. He had that wax impression of the key to
get. He got it. After that the remainder of his idea was simple.

He was under no disillusionment as to what would happen when the
burglary was discovered. He knew that detectives would be called in.
He knew that there would be an inquiry. There might even be a search.
Callow was no professional thief. He did not attempt to run off with
the swag. He had nowhere to run to, for that matter. He knew no "fence"
who would hide it. He wanted no accomplice. Alone in the house, he had
thought of the rose-bed in the garden. Even if detectives came to his
house? He would sit tight and watch his roses grow. Ah, there was a
brain for you!

Theoretically he was right. The first desire of the ordinary criminal
is to escape, to flee from the scene of his crime, and to hide his
proceeds in a place some distance from where he himself lurks.

Daniel Callow reversed both these ordinary rules, which are so well
known to the police. He not only kept his loot in his garden, he went a
step farther. He discovered the burglary for the benefit of the staff
next morning.

When the manager arrived, he was told how the keys of the safe were
found in the door, how the safe had been rifled, how several thousands
of pounds had been taken, how Daniel Callow had sent for the police at
once. The manager complimented Daniel, whose story was backed by the
cleaners.

The police took down statements, examined the safe door, the keys,
the door knobs, the floor, the windows. They did not find a clue. The
deficiency in cash was made up by hurried loans from other branches of
the bank, so that the public might never guess a theft had taken place.
The staff was sworn to secrecy.

In the afternoon, every member of the staff was called in turn into the
manager's room. When Daniel Callow was sent for, he entered without
fear.

Next to the manager sat an elderly man, who was introduced as Detective
Morat. Daniel told himself that he had never seen anyone more unlike
a detective. Here was no rat-faced, keen sleuth. Morat had a big
reputation, but he confessed, after hearing Daniel's story, that the
whole thing was a mystery. Daniel had expected to be put through a
cross-examination. Morat did not bother with any cross-examination. He
merely sat smiling, his big face beaming with kindliness.

When he left the bank that night, Daniel Callow did not go straight
home, but called at the night-club. He had a hand or two at cards,
listened to the latest stories of the set, indulged in a few dances,
and then went his way. The maid was waiting for him, though it was long
past his usual time of arrival.

"A gentleman has been here for you twice," she announced.

"What was his name?"

"He wouldn't give any."

"What was he like?"

"Looked like a policeman to me. He asked when you came home last night,
and when you usually came."

"You told him, didn't you?"

"Yes, sir."

"That's right. Sorry I'm late, Annie. You may go."

When the maid was gone, Daniel Callow sat down and began to think. Was
this part of a game the police were playing? Did they suspect him?
This was the beginning of the period he had anticipated, the period
of suspicion and investigation. Probably every other member of the
staff was undergoing the same thing. He went over his acts, and came
to the confident conclusion that he had nothing to fear. If the police
suspected him, why did they not come and search his house? Even if they
did----? He could wait his time. The money was safe enough under his
rose-tree.

The following morning, as he stood behind the counter of the bank,
he saw the thick form of Detective Morat enter and go through to the
manager's office. In a little while Daniel was summoned to the inner
office. He went without a tremor.

"Mr. Callow," said the manager, "we want you to tell us again just how
you came to discover that a burglary had been committed. Detective
Morat is not quite sure of one or two points. He is correcting the
statements of the staff which were made yesterday."

Daniel told them once more, word for word. He had his evidence all
ready for them. The cleaners could back him up. Detective Morat sat
smiling as he listened.

"What time did you get home that night?" he asked.

"Eight o'clock exactly."

"Did you stay in all evening? Didn't you go up to your club?"

"I stayed in. I was listening to the broadcast."

Morat smiled again and rose to his feet.

"I've an idea the cleaners must know the man who did the job," he
said. "By the way, Mr. Callow, that was a fine programme we had on the
wireless that night. I've got a one-valve set at home, and I heard Lord
Halford's speech from the London studio as clear as a bell. Scientific
stuff. Good, wasn't it?"

"You must be mistaken," replied Daniel Callow coldly. "There was no
such speech the evening you refer to."

Detective Morat looked disappointed.

"Maybe it was the previous night," he murmured. "All right, Mr. Callow.
We won't trouble you again."

Daniel went back to his counter, and his eyes glimmered as he took his
stand.

"The fool!" he muttered. "Calls himself a detective, and tries such
a clumsy one! He wanted to see if I was really listening-in. Oh, and
that's what they call a first-class detective!"

He went home later than usual that evening, for it was the maid's night
off and he would have found no meal ready for him. He dined and supped
in the West End.

When he arrived home, a strange sense of uneasiness swept over him.
This sense struck him as soon as he switched on the hall light. He was
suddenly seized with the suspicion that the house had been entered.

He went into the dining-room. All was in order. He went through every
room in the house. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed, yet he
knew someone had been there. He could have sworn this, though he could
not have proved it. He examined every cupboard, looked at the carpets,
watched for the slightest disarrangement of the beds. He saw no sign of
strange hands, yet every cupboard, every carpet, every bed shrieked a
warning at him.

Was this needless fear? Was it super-nervousness? Daniel Callow was
too blasé to be afraid, too confident to be nervous. He experienced no
pricks of conscience. He had planned the theft too carefully to leave a
clue, but his home had been searched. Who had done this? There was only
one answer. Morat!

He hurried out to the garden. The rose-plot was undisturbed, the tall
rose-bush which he had planted over the loot was there as he had placed
it in the centre of the flower-bed. It was surrounded by the other
roses.

The light from his small drawing-room flooded this limited area
and threw his shadow across the tiny dark lawn. He was in the act
of stretching out his hand towards the rose-bush when he drew back
quickly. Did he hear a sound from the fence at the bottom of the garden?

He stood still, watching. The sound was not repeated. He lit a
cigarette, and walked slowly up towards the pole he had erected for his
aerial, pretending to tinker with the pulley by which he could lower
the wire. In reality he was watching the fence. All was quiet. He went
indoors.

He lit the gas fire of the drawing-room, and sat down with his
head-phones on his knee. He did not draw the curtains. If anyone was
watching him from the garden fence, that person would have a full
view. Daniel did not wish to hinder the spy. He would give him plenty
of rope, but nothing to report.

All the same, as he put the head-phones on he was not listening to
the musical programme. He was thinking hard. Were the police after
him? Morat had shown his suspicions when he made the clumsy remark
about the speech. Morat was behind the search that had been made of
the house: for that they had waited until the maid was out. Well, he
was proof against their lumbering methods. The maid could prove that
the rose-trees were on order several days before they arrived. The
maid could prove that she had been instructed to clean the aerial. He
himself had proved that he spent the evening listening-in. There was
not a clue left at the bank pointing in his direction. The manager had
placed entire reliance on him in every way.

It had become a game of patience. Daniel knew that the police often
adopted a wearing-down method of tactics when they were suspicious and
longed for evidence. He was proof against that also. He would attend to
his roses and wear down all suspicion. It was a game at which two could
play. All he had to do was to be more upright in his actions than ever,
more diligent in business than he had ever been. There was plenty of
time. His roses would grow.

The wireless programme had just concluded when a knock sounded on the
front door, and the bell rang sharply. Daniel Callow did not hesitate,
though his instinct told him who was on the other side of the door. He
opened it without a fear. A man stood facing him.

"I think you know me, Mr. Daniel Callow?"

"Oh, you are Detective Morat, aren't you?"

"Yes."

The two eyed each other steadily. Morat smiled and stroked his smooth,
plump jaw.

"May I have a word with you, Mr. Callow--about the burglary?"

"Certainly. Come inside."

Question and answer had come without hesitation, one after the other;
both men appeared to be on the best of terms. They went into the
drawing-room. Daniel Callow was perfectly cool. Not a flutter showed as
he offered a chair to his visitor.

"Sorry my wife is not at home just now, Mr. Morat. You find me
handicapped somewhat."

"It doesn't matter. I came to see _you_."

Morat sat down, smiling still as he looked kindly towards Callow. His
fat fingers fiddled with his hat, which he held on his knees. He looked
into the fire thoughtfully.

"Well?" asked Daniel quietly.

Morat asked him one or two questions--trivial questions about the
routine of work at the bank--and pondered the answers so long that
his silence became an irritant. The ticking of the clock on the
mantel-piece sounded very loud. The hissing of the gas fire became
like the noise of escaping steam from a locomotive. It took Daniel
Callow all the restraint of which he was capable to endure the menacing
silence between the slow questions. He felt like shouting at Morat to
get on with it; but he held himself in check. This was the wearing-down
process in action, he thought. All right, let Morat try it. And then,
suddenly, before he was aware, the detective's tactics changed. He
leaned forward and pointed a stubby forefinger straight at Callow.

"We are on the track of a suspect!"

"Who?" asked Daniel, without blinking.

"You!"

It was like the report of a pistol. But Daniel Callow met the
accusation with the coolness of a dueller.

"I know that. You searched my house to-night."

Detective Morat withdrew his finger and sank back in his chair.

"I had two men on that job," he said.

"I knew it the moment I entered."

"You've planted that money somewhere!"

"If you think so, find it."

"I'll find it."

They looked at each other curiously. The smile had gone off Morat's
face, but a smile had come on that of Daniel Callow. He knew where he
was now. The gage had been thrown down.

"You are a smart young man, Callow. You have worked well at the bank.
The manager upholds you. He wouldn't listen to my suggestions. Yes,
you're smart. But you'll make a mistake. I've met your kind before. And
I've beaten them."

"Is it part of a detective's job to insult people in their own homes?"
asked Callow quietly.

"It is a detective's job to get evidence."

"By these methods?"

"By the methods he thinks fit the occasion. Are you personally opposed
to my methods?"

"Intensely so."

"Then you know your remedy."

"What is it?"

"Start a law case against me, claiming damages for what I have said."

"I'll think about that."

"But you won't do it."

"How do you know?"

"You daren't."

"You think so?"

"Positively."

"Why?"

Detective Morat leaned forward again and looked into Daniel Callow's
face.

"I'll tell you. Because you are in a bad hole, Callow. You have been
spending money too freely at your midnight clubs--you and your wife.
You are in the hands of moneylenders. You are living above your income.
You are in debt all round."

"Has that anything to do with you?"

"It has."

"In what way?"

"In this way. You are in a hole for want of money. Your wife doesn't
even know your salary----"

"You leave her out of it! How do you know she doesn't know my income?"

"My men have asked her."

"What?"

"One of my men has seen her within the last twenty-four hours. He
presented a bill on behalf of a firm, and asked for payment. She told
him to give it to you. He asked her if she was sure it would be paid.
She said you always paid. She does not know that you have unpaid bills
in your pocket now, bills you cannot hope to pay on your income. I have
not told your employers this--yet."

Daniel Callow shrugged his shoulders, but he was uncomfortable.
He knew what would happen if his manager found out that he was so
overwhelmingly in debt.

"Will you pay this bill if I present it to you?" asked Morat
remorselessly, laying an envelope in Callow's lap.

"I can't."

"I knew that. And before you could start an action against me I could
have you declared bankrupt. You know what that means."

"It means I would lose my job, but your bills would not be paid. I
don't see that would be any gain to you."

"It might. It would give me a chance to complete the evidence I seek."

"If you are so sure I stole the money, why don't you arrest me, or
detain me?"

"Because I want to produce the money as evidence, and I want you to
tell me where you have deposited it. If I had you arrested or detained
you would close your mouth. I haven't anything solid enough to go to a
jury."

"It will take you a hundred years to prove I am the burglar."

"Not so long, I think."

"Well, I have had enough of your insults. I do not care to endure it
any longer. If you have finished, you can go. And don't forget, I'll
report this to the bank to-morrow morning and ask for protection from
your uncouth methods."

Morat rose and left.

When he had gone, Daniel Callow smiled grimly to himself. He had met
the famous detective, and he had beaten him in the battle of wits.
Instead of Morat wearing him down, he had worn Morat down. Had the
detective had anything like a clue, he would have arrested him, or
detained him. His admissions proved that he was acting on nothing more
than suspicion. Suspicion didn't get men arrested; and, if it did, it
didn't get them convicted.

What had brought Morat to the house at all? It was clear. He had come
to make Callow commit himself by a stray word. He had come to test
him by a deliberate accusation. This was the thing to guard against.
Detectives often got their victims by a swift surprise. An unexpected
slip, an unguarded remark, had sent many a man to prison. To refuse to
be surprised into admission was the cue. So long as he remained cool,
never being flurried or agitated, Daniel Callow believed he was safe.

He saw his way, too, to cut the feet from Morat in the matter of the
bill. He would go to a money-lender and borrow. The day would come,
after the burglary had passed into the limbo of unsolved thefts, when
he could pay back the money. If he was able to show that the bill had
been paid, he need not fear Morat.

He got the money and paid the bill next day, and he interviewed the
manager, asking protection from Morat. In this he was successful. The
manager promised that Morat's crude methods would be stopped. He was
indignant that his smartest man should be so insulted. Daniel Callow
came out of the manager's office feeling that he had scored again.

There was only one item of the burglary that Callow had retained in
his possession that would have given him away. He got rid of it that
evening as he went home. This was the new key he had had made for the
front door of the bank. He flung it into the Thames.

Detective Morat came no longer to the bank. A week passed. Nobody was
arrested. Nothing happened. The staff grew easier in their minds.
Daniel Callow's wife returned from her holiday. They went to the
night-club together, as of yore. They had their fun. They mixed with
the members, old and new, all belonging to the set. Life resumed its
care-free jollity.

Daniel was proud of Irene. She was the life of the club. She was gay,
irresponsible, beautiful. She went the pace more than ever. Men envied
Daniel his wife. They did not know what she cost him.

The one drawback to his new plunge into life was the number of
bills and the call for money it occasioned. Daniel found that the
moneylenders declined to let him have another advance. He had not
mentioned to Irene that there had been a robbery at the bank. If she
found this out he was always able to defend his lack of confidence
by the fact that the staff had been sworn to keep the matter from
the public. Nor did he tell her that the loot was buried under the
rose-bush. He was waiting a favourable opportunity to lift the bag.
He intended to circulate the notes in a way whereby they would not be
traced to him. He could do this over on the Continent. A week-end trip
was enough for this.

He chose an evening for the job of lifting the bag--an evening when
he would be alone. The maid was to be out. Irene, unable to be absent
from the club, was going there alone, and he was to call for her
later. He did not need to find excuses for not accompanying her. She
asked for no reason so long as she was allowed to go the pace with the
set.

Darkness had just fallen when Daniel pulled on his garden boots. He was
on his way to the back door when the bell of the front rang. He opened
it, and faced Detective Morat.

With Morat were two other men. Morat was smiling kindly, as usual, his
hand smoothing his stout jaw.

"I want a word with you, Mr. Callow."

"Come inside. What do you want now?"

Morat closed the door behind him and faced Daniel.

"You are a good bluffer, Daniel Callow, but I see no reason to change
my suspicions."

"You mean about the bank robbery?"

"That is what I mean."

"Well? Have you come to insult me again? The manager promised----"

"It's out of the manager's hands now, Callow. I have made a lot of
inquiries, and I have gone over every yard of the case. I have come to
the conclusion that the stolen money is here."

"Find it!" scoffed Daniel Callow.

They were bluffing each other. At least, that is what Daniel Callow
thought; and his regard for this famous detective was very small. Had
he not beaten him once?

"I have a warrant authorising me to search the house. You raise no
objection?"

Daniel Callow's self-command was excellent.

"I'm going out to attend to my rose-trees," he said with a smile. "Call
me when you've finished. I'm getting tired of this inquisition, and the
daylight is fading fast."

He turned and went out to the garden, leaving Morat stroking his smooth
jaw thoughtfully.

Ten minutes later, when Daniel was loosening the earth round his
bushes, Morat appeared. He looked at the rose-trees and at Callow. The
latter was laughing to himself. He stepped off the rose-bed and struck
the mud from his boots.

"Found that money yet?" he asked sarcastically.

Morat stroked his smooth jaw softly.

"Daniel Callow, what would you give to keep your wife out of this?"

The question struck Daniel in the weakest link of his armour.

"You keep her name out of this!" he cried. "You've mentioned her
before----"

Morat plunged his hand into his pocket and thrust a five-pound note
into Daniel Callow's face.

"And I'll mention her again," he retorted. "What if your wife tendered
this at the club you frequent? Don't you know that all the numbers of
the missing notes are known? Do you want her charged with being in
possession of stolen money?"

Daniel Callow's jaw dropped. He staggered back, his legs weakened
under him, and his face went white as paper.

"Where did your wife get this note?" thundered Morat.

"It's impossible!" cried Daniel. "She didn't know where I hid the
money!"

As soon as the words were out, torn from him unexpectedly, he realised
what he had said. But it was too late. Detective Morat turned to the
two men who came out of the doorway at his signal.

"He'll confess now," he said quietly. "Take him indoors."

And Daniel Callow did confess; but it was not until afterwards that he
discovered that Morat had bluffed him to the end. The five-pound note
had never been in Irene's hands. Morat had brought it with him to aid
his test.




             THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE SEVENTH CELL


The visitor had taken a great interest in the story of Daniel Callow,
and when the Governor finished he spoke quietly.

"I would not advise you to put Daniel Callow among your Intellectuals."

"Thank you. I think you are right in your judgment. He shall stay
among the Intelligents. I have given you proof that certain men give
themselves away under certain circumstances. I will now give you a case
where Nature intervened and sent Robert Lyons to the seventh cell."

       *       *       *       *       *

But for a caprice of Nature (continued the Governor), Robert Lyons
would now be facing the scaffold. As it is, he has been for some time
in hospital, and it is extremely unlikely that he will ever go outside
these walls, or, rather, the confines of the prison, so long as he
lives. Such is the sentence for his evildoing that a judge and jury
have passed on him.

Lyons was a gamekeeper and odd-job man, and one day, when he was out in
the woods, he rested his rifle in the fork of a tree and took careful
aim at a piece of granite formed in the shape of a chair that stood out
of the scrub five hundred yards across the valley. There was murder
in his heart, but it was not the wild, irresponsible desire to slay,
which is often associated with the taking of human life, that swayed
him. The murder he contemplated was deliberate, cold, implacable.

In studying Lyons we are studying a man who is in many ways different
from most men. His design to kill was clever, original, worthy of an
Intellectual. As a matter of fact, I have thought that if Lyons had
been in another sphere of life he would have made his mark, for he
possessed many of the traits of almost genius. After all, brains are no
monopoly of wealth or high birth.

Lyons pressed the trigger of his rifle, eased the weapon from his
shoulder as soon as he had fired, took a pair of binoculars from his
pocket, and focused them.

Above the irregular top of the granite block that took the form of a
natural chair--in the locality it was known as the "Wishing Chair,"
owing to some legend--he had fastened a target of wood shaped to
represent a man's head. With the aid of his binoculars he observed that
his .303 bullet had passed through this head. The observation convinced
him that the way to final accomplishment of his intention was clear.
His intention was to put a bullet from his gun through the head of his
employer, Professor Roche; and he was going to do it without his hand
or finger being nearer the trigger than the width of the valley.

You will perhaps agree (said the Governor, in parenthesis) that within
recent years a change has taken place in the methods of criminals
quite as much as in their motives. A generation ago murder was usually
committed because of some grudge, some grievance, some desire for
revenge, or hope of gain. The murdered persons were almost always aware
of their enemy, or enemies, and of the cause of the antagonism. In
these days the victim is less often aware of having an enemy. Within
the last few years the victims have been the friends, the benefactors
sometimes, of their slayers in more than fifty per cent. of the murders
committed. Does this indicate that humanity is retrograding instead
of progressing? No one can answer definitely. Some have said that
war revives in man the savage impulse to slay. The question is more
complicated than appears on the surface. Why did Robert Lyons wish to
slay his employer?

It has become an axiom that to find the culprit of any breakage of
the law it is necessary to find the motive. The old Frenchman was not
infallible when he said, "Find the woman." The police first seek for
a motive, and then trace the person involved. It is all a matter of
team-work, all a business of routine. It is a process of elimination.
So much for the police and their methods. Let us get back to Lyons
and his intention. Motive played a part, as usual, fear another,
greed another, and at base these were, singly, small enough, but when
combined they were everything.

Professor Roche was one of the savants who are to be found in the
backwaters of English life. London is the home of active men. The
provinces are as often the home of thinking men. Professor Roche was
one of the most retiring, yet one of the most learned, men in this
country. He had travelled widely in pursuit of his science. He was
an archæologist, naturalist, conchologist. It was he who presented
to our best museums the collections that are most prized. He had
been all over Europe and America at the invitation of private and
public organisations, aiding them in appraising and displaying their
treasures. And yet this man, who could have had many honours given him,
desired none. He was content to live away from the hub of things, and
his pleasure was in his work. His collections were envied by curators
of museums, who often begged them on loan. These collections had been
gathered from the four corners of the world. Time after time he had
been approached, indeed tempted, to sell some of his collections, but
he had always refused. It was because Robert Lyons had overheard such a
conversation between the professor and the representative of a museum
that he became aware of the chance of making something for himself
without much effort.

Lyons acted as gamekeeper and handyman on the small estate. His duty
was, among other things, to keep poachers away, and allow the wild life
of the land to live to its natural fullness, so that the professor
might study the habits of the creatures living above, on, deep in the
earth. He accompanied Professor Roche on many tours, for he knew the
ways of hares, squirrels, field animals, as well as he knew the ways
of birds. He knew them from the woodsman's point of view, while the
professor knew them from the scientific angle. Squirrels came to feed
out of his hand, rabbits did not budge when he passed, rooks looked
down on him from their nests unafraid. It was to be expected that such
a sanctuary for wild life would attract poachers bent on killing where
killing was profitable as well as easy.

One step leads to another. Lyons was the man who made the cases in
which the professor's specimens were kept. It was he who, under the
professor's directions, arranged the preserved butterflies of many
countries, the humming-birds of the Amazon, the rare shells of the
tropics, the eggs of a thousand wonderful species.

At first the value of the exhibits loomed only faintly behind their
beauty. The conversation he had overheard turned his thoughts from the
beauty to the value. He lacked the scientific enthusiasm which is above
the consideration of money, and gradually he began to compare himself,
a humble gamekeeper, with the wealth which he handled. He ended by
coveting.

He took another step. The professor did not miss the humming-bird Lyons
put into his pocket and sold in London on one of his occasional trips
to town. He found it comparatively easy to sell when he had satisfied
the dealer that Professor Roche had commissioned him to dispose of the
rare curio. He named a price and stuck to it. The dealer saw this man
knew values, and paid the price.

Other specimens went the same way, to other dealers. It was easy to say
that the professor was getting rid of a few specimens quietly in order
to obtain ready money, but this could not go on indefinitely. Lyons was
perfectly aware of this, but he was already involved and could not turn
back.

There was one shell in the professor's collection which had attracted
the attention of Lyons more than anything else. It nestled in a bed of
plush, and was about six inches long, pale ivory in colour, overlaid
with wonderful mosaic markings, and had a slender, tapering spire. Its
label gave its name as "Glory of Coram--very rare." Lyons took the
trouble, when in London, to find out that there were not half a dozen
such shells in the world's museums. It was valued at many hundreds of
pounds. Might he not take this as a final toll? He took it.

Crime is like a steep incline. The criminal starts slowly, gathering
speed and daring as he descends. This speed and daring are largely
generated by the momentum of descent. At a given distance down the
slope, stoppage is impossible without danger of a crash. Robert Lyons
had reached this distance.

The dealer in London to whom he took the shell examined it for a long
time. He asked questions. Had Lyons been more business-like he would
have known that rare shells are not sold over counters without the
buyer's protecting himself by negotiation and written statements. He
listened to the dealer telling him that he must have a note from the
professor authorising the sale.

"Give me a note and I'll get his signature," he said. The dealer gave
him a typewritten note--such a one as is generally kept for reference
when curios change hands. Robert Lyons left the shop, and returned to
his home that evening realising that he had thrown a net about his own
feet.

His position was now one of peril. He had stepped beyond the bounds
of petty theft. He spent a considerable part of that night in his
little cottage trying to forge the professor's signature. His hand was
clumsy, and could not form the letters well. He knew his forgery would
be detected at once. As he sat pondering the situation the great idea
came to him. He would get the signature, and make it impossible for the
professor ever to say that he had been forced to sign.

Curiously enough, he never thought of returning the Glory of Coram to
its case. In this he was like the majority of criminals, whose brains
do not harbour a thought of retreat. They must go on, driven by some
force of their own making against which they cannot strive. If he
retreated, there would be inquiries, and his other thefts would come
to light. The dealer would probably write to Professor Roche, for
the Glory of Coram was a treasure not often put into the market. All
this meant prison, humiliation, the brand of the broad arrow. By the
unusually cunning plan that had come to him Robert Lyons saw that the
only other way was to blot out the life of Professor Roche.

This alternative may seem to rational people to be an enormity. Is it
any more so than the decision of the murderer to kill the girl who
expected to marry him, so that he might marry another? Or more heinous
than the poisoning of an old woman to gain the few hundreds of pounds
for which her life was insured? Lyons, like other criminals, did not
balance his proposed crime by the material gain it would bring him. He
balanced it by his own safety.

After he had satisfied himself that his rifle was capable of carrying
out his plan he threw it over his shoulder, crossed the valley, and
took down the target, all bullet-marked, and trudged back to his
cottage. He put his rifle in a cupboard and took out an older weapon,
which he stacked in the porch. This was part of his plan also. He had
bought the newer rifle in London some days previously, and had brought
it home after dark. It was of different bore from his old piece, which
everybody in the neighbourhood knew he possessed.

He brought out some pieces of wood, and a saw and hammer and nails. He
measured the pieces carefully, and was busy at the work of carpentry
when he heard a footfall approaching. He looked up. Professor Roche was
coming up the gravel path to his cottage.

"I heard your gun go off over by the valley, Lyons," said the
professor. "Shooting at anything?"

"It's them poachers, sir," replied Lyons, with an upward glance from
under his shaggy brows. "It wasn't my gun that went off. Here it is
here, loaded up, but I never see the poachers or I'd fire."

"Not at them, I hope, Lyons."

"No, sir, above their heads, just to give 'em a fright. They've been
poaching over by the Wishing Chair."

"What are they after this time, birds or hares?"

"Anything they can get, sir."

"I'd have got the police to help you, Lyons, if you weren't against
it----"

"Never mind the police, sir. I can manage. When are we goin' over to
continue the excavations?"

"I was hoping to go to-day."

"Make it to-morrow, sir. I'll spend the day clearin' out the poachers,
and we won't be disturbed to-morrow."

"All right, Lyons."

The professor was looking dreamily at the pieces of wood which Lyons
was fitting together carefully into a curious shape.

"What's that you are making, Lyons?"

"A cradle, sir."

"A cradle?"

"Yes, for my gun. The fore-end has warped through being laid on the
damp ground, and that affects the barrel. I'm making a cradle so I can
keep it off the ground when I'm resting, while I watch for poachers."

The professor nodded and walked away slowly, his head bent and his
hands behind his back. Lyons was well aware that his explanation
had not been followed, for the professor was always thinking of his
specimens and had little interest in anything else.

When he had gone, Lyons bent over his task and worked fast. The cradle
was finished by midday, and he went indoors to prepare his dinner. When
dinner was ready he laid it on the table and piled a handful of nuts on
a plate beside it. Then he stepped into his inner room and brought out
a box two feet long by one foot high. He laid the box on the floor and
shut his front door. When he sat down at the table he flicked open the
lid of the box. A squirrel jumped out.

"Hullo, Brownie," said Lyons. "I reckon I've starved you about enough
for the job. Keep away from that plate of nuts."

The squirrel had leaped to the table, but a blow from the hand of the
gamekeeper sent it flying to the floor. It ran about the place, poking
into corners, mounting the chairs, and always turning its little,
sparkling eyes towards the table where the nuts were piled temptingly.

Robert Lyons ate his dinner slowly, watching the squirrel all the time.
Every time it came on the table he threw it off. When it jumped on his
knee and poked its head upward towards his plate he allowed it to sniff
the dinner; but when it tried to steal a morsel he threw it to the
floor. This went on for quite a long time.

After dinner, Lyons rose and put the remains of his dinner and the
plate of nuts into a cupboard, taking one or two loose nuts in his
hand. With these he tempted the squirrel repeatedly, making it believe
that he was giving it one, and drawing away the prize when the animal
ventured to seize it.

There was something pathetic in the small eyes of the squirrel when
this was repeated several times. At last Lyons changed his method of
teasing the hungry thing. He tied a nut to a piece of string and let it
hang from the table. Every time the squirrel dashed for it he drew it
away. Finally he took the squirrel and put it into his capacious coat
pocket, lifted his new gun and cradle, and went out, locking the door
behind him.

He walked straight down the valley until he came to a spot opposite the
Wishing Chair. Near it was a large mound of earth which had been newly
dug up. The professor had been making excavations in search of fossils,
Lyons doing the digging while the savant searched.

Robert Lyons went straight to the tree from which he had fired the
shot in the morning. He fitted the cradle he had made into the fork,
hammered it down with a few nails, laid his rifle in the cradle, and
sighted it for the Wishing Chair.

Next he took a nut from his pocket, and tied it with a piece of twine
to the trigger of the gun so that it dangled in the desired position.
He then brought the squirrel out, and let it see the nut and play with
it; but when the little animal made any attempt to bite it, Lyons drew
it out of reach. He held the squirrel in his hands all this time.

After some time he descended the slope into the valley and climbed to
the Wishing Chair. He sat down in the stone seat. Once more he brought
the squirrel out of his pocket. But this time he did not tease it. He
set it on the ground and let it go. As soon as it bounded off he ran
after it. He knew where it was going.

The squirrel led him back to the spot where he had left his rifle. When
he arrived, the animal was seated on its haunches nibbling at a nut,
and the loop which dangled from the trigger of the gun was empty. Lyons
examined the rifle. The spring had been released. He tested the sights
without touching the weapon. The aim was truly laid for the Wishing
Chair.

He took another nut from his pocket, offering it to the brown squirrel.
It came timidly, but the gamekeeper did not tease any more. He let the
squirrel take the nut and eat it, as he held it in the crook of his
arm. When it was finished with the nut, he returned it to his pocket
and went back home. He left the rifle in the cradle fastened to the
tree-fork.

It had taken Robert Lyons a week to train the squirrel to run across
the valley from the Wishing Chair to the spot where the rifle was now
placed; and he had accomplished the training by the method which is the
first to break-in any animal--starvation. Who would ever suspect such a
death-trap?

Robert Lyons was up early next morning to meet his employer. The latter
came down to the cottage soon after breakfast, and was pleased to see
that the gamekeeper had every tool in readiness for their excavations.
They proceeded to the site at once.

Lyons did not talk as they marched ahead. The morning was dull, the sky
was heaped with cumulus clouds, the wind was rising.

"I'm afraid it isn't too promising for work, Lyons," said the professor
as they descended into the valley. "If it rains, we can return and
arrange some specimens indoors."

"We'll see," replied Lyons, grimly smiling to himself. "This is the
very weather for poachers."

"Do you think they'll be about?"

"Maybe. We'll see."

They reached the Wishing Chair on the top of the hill, and Lyons threw
down his tools. The professor sat down on the stone seat, as was his
habit, and drew out a handkerchief to wipe the perspiration from his
face. It had been a stiff climb up the slope.

Lyons stepped behind the Wishing Chair, pretending to look at the
landscape beyond; but his hands fumbled about his waist. In a moment he
had uncoiled a length of thin rope, at the end of which was a running
noose. Before the innocent professor was aware, the noose was thrown
over his shoulders and the gamekeeper circled him twice, tying him to
the stone seat. Professor Roche was a prisoner.

He tried to rise, shouting to Lyons to loosen the rope, shouting
indignant orders, but Lyons did not heed his employer's words. His face
had become grim and dark, and his jaws were set as if clamped by iron
braces.

"If you howl, I'll gag you," he said viciously. "It's time we had a
talk. You're going to sign this first."

He shoved under the bewildered professor's nose the typewritten
declaration which the dealer had given him.

"What's all this? What's the meaning of this treatment, Lyons? I cannot
see what is written on the paper----"

"I'll read it to you."

Robert Lyons read it, slowly and distinctly. It was to the effect that
the Glory of Coram, being the property of Professor Roche, was being
offered for sale by that person, who was willing to take a certain sum
for it.

In vain the professor protested that this was robbery with violence;
the look in the grey eyes of the gamekeeper proved that both men were
in a new situation just then. Their past knowledge of each other was
gone for ever, and in its place was something terrible and menacing.
The professor sat very still, staring across the valley, trying to
convince himself that he was not dreaming. He found out soon enough.
Lyons hit him savagely in the face.

"Sign!" he cried.

"I haven't a pen."

"But I have. It is your own fountain one. I brought it on purpose."

"I missed it a week ago," murmured the professor thoughtfully. "Is it
only the Glory of Coram you wish, Lyons?"

"Is there anything more you'd like to give me?" sneered Lyons. "I've
had a few things out of the cases lately, but you haven't missed 'em."

"You have been stealing my goods?"

"And selling 'em, professor. When I sell the shell I'll have as much
money as I need."

"But if I sign this it is still possible that you will repent it. The
money will be paid into my bank----"

"It won't. It will be paid into my hand. I've made all that secure. It
will be paid by to-night."

"But you will be caught as soon as I give the alarm!"

"You will not give an alarm."

"No?"

"You will be dead. They'll find you to-morrow, maybe. Who is to prove
that poachers haven't been here to-day?"

A shiver passed through the professor's frame. He raised his head and
looked about for aid. All was bare, wild country, the nearest house
being his own home, over two miles off. Up the valley the rising wind
came steadily, increasing in volume every minute. The huge clouds above
were driving from the southwest. That meant rain.

"Do you intend to kill me?" he asked, after a pause. There was a hint
of the scholar's curiosity in his question.

"I do."

"Might I ask how?"

"Since it won't help you, I'll explain," said Lyons, "but you got to
sign that slip first."

The professor gravely took the pen and signed. His hand shook a little,
and the paper fluttered on his knee, but his face was serene as he
handed the sheet back to Lyons. The latter held the signature to the
wind until it was dry, then pushed it into his inside pocket. With his
eyes on Professor Roche, he brought the squirrel from his coat pocket
and held it aloft.

"This little fellow is going to kill you," he said. "He's the one who
is going to clear away every clue. Ain't you, Brownie?"

"This is very curious," said Professor Roche. "How is he going to do
it?"

"This way. Over the valley, in that clump of trees, is a rifle, loaded
and laid straight for your head. It is five hundred yards away. The
bullet in that rifle is a .303, which will kill at a much greater
distance. Hanging from the trigger is a nut. This squirrel is going
to snatch that nut. You won't have any pain, I assure you. I've had a
target often enough where your head is."

"Then you will hang," said the professor.

"I won't. The rifle will be buried in the valley within an hour of it
being fired. My own gun isn't a .303. Everybody in the house knows that
you and I are working at these excavations. Our trail shows we came
here. I have worked it all out."

The wind was coming in gusts, so that Lyons, who was standing to
leeward, had to bend forward to hear the professor's reply to his
boast. To his surprise, the professor merely wrinkled his brows and
bent his head. Lyons placed the squirrel on the ground ready to let him
free. Professor Roche's voice spoke.

"Have you laid the rifle true for me, Lyons?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"True and straight, as I have laid it every day for a week. You can't
escape the bullet."

He threw the squirrel from him with a savage laugh.

"Say your prayers!" he cried. "Nothing can save you now!"

The professor's eyes were on the disappearing squirrel, now bounding
towards the clump of trees in which the gun-trap was hidden.

"Lyons," he said, "I have no prayers to say, but since you bound me in
this natural Wishing Chair I have been wishing--and thinking. I believe
my wish will come true. Come nearer to me. The wind makes it difficult
to talk."

Lyons moved from the windward to the leeward side of the chair. He
admired the gameness of the old professor.

"What is it you want to say?" he asked. "Hurry! The rifle will go off
any moment."

"One of the things I have studied, Lyons, is the question of velocity.
We have been having good weather of late----"

"What are you talking about?" roared Lyons. "Gone mad, eh?"

"Not quite, Lyons. Stand a little nearer and listen closely. I have had
my wish. The wind is very strong. Hark!"

From the clump of trees across the valley the crack of a rifle broke
out, and a tiny puff of smoke arose swiftly. Robert Lyons jumped back
from the Wishing Chair, but as he leapt something smote him in the
chest and stretched him unconscious on the ground.

Professor Roche was able to undo the fastenings that bound him, and
he went for the police, who took Lyons to hospital. He has just been
tried, and sentenced to imprisonment for life. It was indeed a wonder
he was not killed by the bullet he intended for the professor.

You see, the wind always takes a bullet off the target at five hundred
yards' range. Three feet at that distance is an average wind allowance.

Robert Lyons had forgotten the rising wind.




             THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE EIGHTH CELL


As the Governor finished his seventh story, the visitor shrugged his
shoulders and glanced at the window, where the fog was swirling up
against the glass.

"I hope you do not find it too cold," said the Governor politely.
"Shall I turn up the gas stove to its full capacity? It is rather a
large stove, but we can regulate it----"

"I find it warm enough, thank you," interrupted the visitor. "I was
merely taking note that the fog is becoming denser than ever."

"Naturally," agreed the Governor, "you are interested in the fog, for
reasons we shall not discuss; and mention of fog reminds me that in my
eighth cell is one who relied on just a similar density of atmosphere
to escape from this very prison. He has just been sentenced to an
additional term for that escapade."

"Then you admit that it is possible to escape from your prison?"
inquired the visitor quickly, eager to make a point.

"It is possible to do almost anything, but every action has its
consequences. We seldom escape the consequences after we have committed
the act. If a prisoner behaves himself and gives the impression that
he is willing to accept the punishment which the law has given him,
we do not make his punishment more of a torture than we can help. In
other words, we give prisoners some slight benefits, some privileges.
These help to mould their characters. But Harry Sarlon, I am afraid,
took advantage of the privileges given him. As there is an element of a
certain kind of humour in his case I am sure you will be interested to
hear of his case. The fog makes it definitely apposite."

The Governor then proceeded:

       *       *       *       *       *

Harry Sarlon had broken out of prison quite easily. He stood bracing
himself against the rough wall of the archway, knowing that he was
being sought, knowing that the warders were on his trail.

At his feet were a paint-pot and two brushes, the materials with which
he had been working when he escaped. His convict dress was hidden by
a loose smock which, though prison property, was a disguise for his
prison clothes. In his right hand he held a heavy stone which he had
picked up from the ground.

The fog swirled past him, thick and heavy; so thick that he could not
see objects a few yards away. It was because of the fog that he had
escaped.

The scrape of a foot on the ground sounded near his hiding-place. A
man's form appeared in the strange gloom, woolly and indistinct. A
lantern, blurred and ruddy-yellow, swung slowly to and fro.

"Sarlon, you had better surrender if you are there! You can't get away!"

The voice was a challenge, besides being an order. It was the voice of
Warder Tully, the man of all his guards whom Sarlon hated and feared
most.

For just one moment Sarlon hesitated. He felt that the warder was in
the act of sounding his whistle. He heard the barking of a dog some
distance off. The lantern moved towards him. Then Sarlon leaped.

The warder had no chance, for Sarlon was upon him like a panther. He
bore Tully to the ground, hitting him with the stone. Tully was knocked
unconscious and lay still.

It is possible, with imagination, to appreciate the wild, passionate
desire for freedom that urged the convict to attack. The discipline and
strict regulations of a place of detention arouse, in some natures,
a ferocity against restraint which at times becomes ungovernable.
There are men in prisons who can never be trusted beyond the ordinary
routine. But Sarlon had seen to it that he was not regarded as of that
type. He had deliberately suppressed his rebellion in order to make his
escape. Therefore it was all the harder for him to admit defeat when
challenged at that moment. He was in the full flush of belief in his
ability to escape from Mincester gaol.

From the beginning of his term he had stifled his resentment, his
hatred of prison and gaolers. He had done this to outwit them. This
shows that he was a man of great self-control, yet he could not control
his criminal leanings; a strange paradox. He could control himself in
order to retaliate in time; there was something in him of the nature of
the cat tribe. A tiger can lie still, waiting to catch its prey. Caged,
it cannot keep passive.

Burglar, crook, law-breaker, he had run the whole gamut of crime with
the exception of the capital charge. And now that he had visited his
vengeance on Warder Tully he was aware that he must run.

By trade Sarlon was a house painter. He had attained to the position
of a first-class convict because of his good behaviour. He had given
no trouble at all, and had seemed to accept his punishment as the
inevitable result of his lawless acts. As a result of this good
behaviour and in an endeavour to reclaim him as a useful member of the
community, he had been allowed to use his trade abilities. He had, in
short, with another man, been put to the job of painting the windows
of some outbuildings. This suited him very well. From the top of his
ladder he had a view of the world beyond the prison. There is an old
parish church, as you may have noticed, not very far off, on the
steeple of which workmen were then engaged in repairs. The steeple was
shored up by beams that slanted from the ground almost to the top; and,
at stages, scaffolding framed the square tower in regular platforms.
Sarlon knew that these workmen were engaged in tearing out the inside
of the tower preparatory to re-buttressing it. This work was but one of
the instances where local authorities were attempting to preserve the
relics of England for future generations.

Sarlon had seen this work, and the sight helped him to make his plans.
Only one thing was needed to obscure his escape. That one thing was
night--or fog. He could not escape during the night, so he hoped for
fog. There is a saying that the Devil looks after his own. The fog came.

The fog had swept down from the north suddenly, and, from the top of
his ladder, Sarlon had watched it coming. This district is liable to
get fogs at certain times of the year, as is well known. When the
foremost fringe of the mist touched the prison wall and floated into
the yard, the warders sounded the signal to stop work. Sarlon at first
pretended not to hear; then, when he could keep up the pretence no
longer without arousing suspicion, he acted as slowly as possible.

He came down the ladder, leaving his paint-pot on a window-ledge. He
had to go back for it. This time he left a brush on the window-sill. He
had to climb again for the brush. He was playing for time. The warders
urged him to hurry, all unsuspecting his motive.

By this time all was indistinct and shadowy in the yard, and the fog
was getting thicker every minute. When he descended the second time
everything was in his favour. The yard was dense with mist. The fog
had come quickly, as fogs generally come in marshy districts. Sarlon
heard the other convicts being marshalled, though he could no longer
see them. He saw a warder waiting for him at the foot of the ladder.
With a quick movement he kicked the warder in the chest, sending him
sprawling; then he took the ladder in his muscular hands, rushed across
the yard with it, flung it against the wall and swarmed to the top.

He was astride the wall when the warder he had knocked down appeared
below him. Sarlon kicked the ladder away and heard the warder's cry of
alarm as he fell. Sarlon jumped to the other side of the wall. He was
outside the prison.

His paint-pot, which was fastened to the top rung of the ladder by a
hook, had fallen beside him. He picked it up as he started his flight.
His paint-brushes were in his pocket. Why did Harry Sarlon take the
paint-pot and his paint-brushes with him? All part of his scheme. If he
met any civilians he could easily pretend that he was merely a painter
on his way home. He threw away his prison cap. Who was to know that a
convict had been using paints? By the time the circumstances of his
flight were known to the public he reckoned he would be safe.

He ran through the fog until he reached the canal, which was to be his
guide-rope. It would lead him towards the centre of the city and the
place where he wanted to hide. He waded into the cold, muddy water
which reached to his waist, and as he waded he held his smock high so
that it would not be soaked, for it was his disguise. Climbing back to
the bank, he ran on until he reached the rear of the parish church. He
scaled the wall of the cemetery and was crawling among the tombstones
when he heard a sound and saw a lantern moving towards him. Someone was
on his trail.

Sarlon crouched behind a tombstone and waited. He saw the lantern
pass in the fog and disappear. He wondered, in a moment of terrific
concentration, if all his efforts were to be frustrated. The minutes
passed. From somewhere to the right he heard another sound that set his
teeth on edge. This was the baying of a hound.

Sarlon knew where the dog was at that moment, and he knew the dog was
on his track. Two dogs are kept in this prison, in a yard shut off from
the sight of every inmate; but every prisoner knows that these dogs are
kept should an escape be made. I ought to say the idea of the dogs was
mine.

Every day the dogs are exercised by the warders; and it was to throw
the dogs off the scent that Sarlon had entered the canal. He argued
that if he threw them off until he was deep in the city he would be
safe. But, on the other hand, there was the fact that the very scent
the dogs were following was his disguise. The dogs were following the
smell of the paint which clung to his boots, his smock, his clothes.
He dared not remain behind the tombstone, so he crept out and found the
shelter of the archway. It was when he was here that the lantern came
out of the mist again and the voice of Tully challenged him. There was
nothing left for Sarlon except to surrender or attack. He clamoured for
liberty; so he attacked. The dogs were not with Tully.

Sarlon found some satisfaction in attacking Tully. The latter was the
one warder on the staff who could not be bluffed or deceived. He was
the warder who had tried to prevent Sarlon from escaping by the ladder.
He had rushed out, before the dogs had been loosed, to search on his
own. Finding that the dogs took the road to the canal, Tully had struck
away from it.

It was like Tully to argue that Sarlon had not crossed the canal and
made for the open country, because Tully was the clearest-headed
warder of the staff, the most relentless in pursuit as he was the
most suspicious in his daily dealings with prisoners. No convict ever
asked a favour, or made a request, which Tully did not suspect; he had
acquired the habit of disbelieving every plea, every complaint! he was
always on the alert to suspect excuses to evade rules. His duty became
a sort of perpetual query mark. He was the most feared, as well as the
most hated, warder.

He was as remorseless as iron and as merciless as logic. If a prisoner
went sick he treated it as a feigned ruse until he saw the man
collapse. He even regarded the doctor's examinations of prisoners
as too gentle and as erring on the side of leniency. He grudged the
hospital diet which patients were given. To his mind a convict was
no longer a man but a number--a number which still constantly strove
to evade punishment. There was no pity in Tully. He was incapable of
compassion. But he believed he was just. His duties were, to him,
part of a large organisation for the protection of organised society.
"Prisoners," he once said to a Commission which sat to gather evidence
on crime and criminals, "are the weeds in God's garden. Prison is the
refuse heap of that garden." He took his work seriously, as became a
grave and unimaginative nature.

Harry Sarlon in many ways justified Tully's words. His idea of freedom
was to do as he liked--selfish to the core--without any sense of shame.
His idea of law was that which restricted his raids on civilisation.
But prison had shown him that to do as he liked he had to blind the
law and hoodwink it when he could. To escape from prison was, to
him, a duty to himself, any means justifying the end. To trick the
authorities, to lie to them, to deceive them, was merely his way of
"getting his own back." Rules and restrictions were a challenge to him.
He had no sense of honour. He would have killed Tully with as little
compunction as he would have told a lie or trod on a worm.

A mutual mistrust and antagonism had always existed between the two
when they came into contact. It was the clash of opposites.

As he stood in the archway looking at the fallen man, Harry Sarlon,
thinking he had killed Tully, was glad Tully was out of his way; but
the baying of a dog came to his ears, and he knew that he must act
quickly. It was only a matter of time before the dog, or dogs, found
his trail again. Tully, he was aware, had taken a short cut ahead, and
the dogs would come too. Quick as thought, Sarlon stripped off his
smock and threw it beside his paint-pot and brushes. He had no use for
these things now.

He took off his prison clothes also and left them in a heap beside his
smock. He stripped the uniform off the warder, who had been so battered
by the stone that he had every appearance of being dead, and found to
his delight that there was some money in the warder's pockets.

He extinguished the lantern, clapped the warder's cap on his head, and,
seizing the warder by the heels, dragged him into the cemetery over the
heaps of earth. He knew where he was going and what he intended to do.

From his ladder in the prison yard he had observed the deep excavations
that had been made around the tower of the old church; deep holes had
been dug for the shoring timbers, and much of the foundations of the
building had been exposed. Into one of these excavations Sarlon threw
the warder. He intended to bury the man, and he had already started
with hands and feet to push earth into the trench when once more he
heard the baying of the hound. He dared not finish his ghoulish work.
The other warders were on his trail and were coming fast. Sarlon leaped
to his feet, and ran towards the church tower.

He had to go right round the tower before he found an entrance, and
he gave a queer little laugh as he looked above the Gothic stone that
frowned over the porch. It reminded him of the entrance to the prison
he had just left; the stone was the same grey colour, the heavy doorway
was the same design, the builders having evidently erected both from
similar plans. It seemed funny to Sarlon that a church and a prison
should be of the same construction--the one a sanctuary, the other a
tomb to his hopes.

He found himself in a wide, open space beyond the doorway, and knew
that he was at the base of the tower. It took him some time to find the
ladder leading aloft, and when he climbed up to the top he was aware
that he was on the first scaffold. He walked carefully round the narrow
platform on the outside of the square tower and came upon another
ladder. It was the way to the second scaffold higher up. He climbed
slowly and carefully, found the third scaffolding and mounted it also,
to find a fourth. This brought him to the opening into the belfry. He
crawled through the window and lay on the beams that were laid under
the huge bell. Keeping his head out of the window he looked below,
watching and listening.

The indistinct, muffled voices of men came up to him. The fog was too
thick for him to see anything. He lay still, listening, wondering if
his pursuers would mount the scaffolding. Half an hour passed. The
voices were no longer heard. His enemies had gone.

Lying up there, Harry Sarlon began to take stock of his position and
prospects. He guessed that it was now late in the evening. The workmen
who were engaged on the tower had ceased work with the coming of
the fog, so that he would be safe from their interference until the
morning. But he did not intend to wait until the morning, for the fog
might then be cleared off and that would make his escape all the more
difficult. He must get away as soon as possible. The money he had taken
from Tully's pockets supplied the means if only he could get to the
railway station.

"It's got to be done soon," he muttered. "If I stay here the town will
be raised against me. They may have offered a reward by now for my
capture, but I'll beat 'em with a little bluff."

He descended slowly to the ground and walked out into the roadway. The
fog was still very thick, so that it was almost impossible to see more
than a yard or two, but while this was a benefit to Sarlon it was
also a drawback. He did not know the town very well, and he realised
the danger of losing his way. Adjusting his cap and dusting down his
clothes he marched forward.

People passed him like ghosts, silent and mysterious. He walked on
until he observed the glimmering lights of shops. The smell of a
cookshop's wares made him pause. He was hungry. He opened the door and
stepped into the shop.

It was a small place, such a one as is used by workmen; a few customers
were seated at tables beyond the counter, and a stout man, in soiled
apron and shirt-sleeves, was frying potatoes on a coke fire.

Sarlon would have enjoyed nothing so much as to sit at a table and
order a meal, but he dared not risk this, even if he was dressed in
warder's uniform. He contented himself with buying several sandwiches,
and the stout man leaned over the counter confidentially as he wrapped
the food up.

"Say, mate, is it true one of your fellows has got away in the fog? A
policeman tipped me off not long ago, but no sane convict would ever
come in here, now, would he, not if he was starvin', poor devil?"

Sarlon was counting out the money for the sandwiches, and paid no
attention to the man's talk; but the latter went on.

"Of course, I know it's against the rules to talk, but the escape ain't
official yet, or the town would know it. They haven't sent out the
signal, because some of you warders are still looking for him. He ain't
a desperate character, him that's got away, is he?"

"How much for the sandwiches?" asked Sarlon quietly.

"One and six, boss. Rotten night, ain't it? Rather you were doin' a
search than me in this fog. Of course, I know it ain't official about
that escaped convict, or they'd hev sent out the signal----"

Sarlon picked up the parcel of food and swung out of the shop, glad
to escape into the gloom of the street. He had felt the eyes of every
customer on him while he stood at the counter. He trudged on, eating
the sandwiches ravenously.

He heard the tramcars moving slowly along the street. Flares were
lit at the corners. At a crossing he stood to think matters out. He
wanted to get to a railway station. The plan he had formed was a bold
one. Originally he had hoped to make his way to one of his pals, but
now that he had money he decided on a better plan. He knew the police
would search his usual haunts for him. He saw that he would be safer
at his home, where his relatives would hide him. He was not a Londoner
by birth. If only he could get on board an express he would be safe.
His warder's dress would carry him past the ticket-collector at the
barrier; especially since the news of his escape was not yet officially
broadcast he would be free from suspicion.

He stopped a pedestrian and asked the way to the station. He was
directed to follow the trams, then take certain turnings. The station
was within an hour's walk at ordinary times.

Sarlon strode along exultantly. His disguise had carried him through
so far, and he had little fear for the next steps. He experienced a
strange uplift as he walked. People shuffled past him, coughing and
peering about them. Buses and traffic moved very slowly in the middle
of the road, crawling furtively, with glaring headlights that came and
went in ghostly procession. The lighted windows of the shops glimmered
in the yellow fog.

He had walked for well over an hour when he heard the shriek of a
railway locomotive, followed by the bang of a fog signal. He knew he
was near the railway station at last.

He approached it cautiously and found the entrance, a dully lit tunnel
in which people were moving about like gnomes of the night. He made
his way towards the booking office and was almost at it when someone
touched his arm. He turned to find a policeman at his elbow. The sight
almost unnerved him.

"What's the news, mate?"

"The news?" stammered Sarlon; then, getting a grip on himself, he
answered steadily enough: "There ain't any news."

The policeman shrugged his shoulders.

"I expect you had an idea that your man would come this way, but I
give you my word he hasn't showed up, nor anybody like him. I've been
on duty here for over an hour, keeping an eye on everybody. Some of
our plain-clothes men are on the platform too, and we're watching the
siding so that he won't get aboard a train."

"Is that so?" said Sarlon.

"You bet. The prison people telephoned to our station and we were sent
out at once. By the way, do you know that you men are being called in?"

"No, is that so?"

"We have been told to notify any of you we meet to return to the
prison. The Governor wants to interrogate every warder before he sends
out an official call."

The policeman rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet.

"That runaway will get it in the neck when he is nabbed," he went on.
"After what he did to one of your men."

"What did he do?"

"Haven't you heard? He nearly killed a warder named Tully--expect you
know him----"

"I know him."

"I heard at the station just before I left. They found this warder
in a trench over by the church. He had been battered badly. The dogs
found him, led by the smell of paint. Tully must have found the escaped
convict and been attacked. I don't know the particulars, but they say
that the convict has crossed the canal. We've notified every barge
owner and expect he'll come this way before the fog lifts."

"Oh, I see."

"So that's why the job is out of your hands now, mate. It's a police
job, beyond your jurisdiction. The dogs have been called off and it's
up to us."

Sarlon passed his hand over his face thoughtfully. He was very cool,
yet he was very alert.

"What's you people's idea of his likely way of escape?"

"Well, they've put us to watch the railway and sidings. He won't stay
about this district if he can get away, and he can't get away by
walking the streets. The inspector believes he'll get out of town,
maybe make for a port. He could change his clothes somewhere----"

"Well, I suppose it isn't any use me hanging about if we are called
in," said Sarlon. "They'll think I'm lost if I don't report. So long."

He turned on his heel and walked out into the fog once more. Once
outside, he strode swiftly along the street, his brain active and
searching for a way out. His disguise as a warder had saved him, or
perhaps it was his nerve, but he had had a narrow shave. Had the
policeman not spoken to him he would have bought a ticket and then he
would have had to explain. He ground his teeth at the thought of having
been balked; but he was thankful for the policeman's talk all the same.

What was his position now? He dared not go back to the railway station.
He dared not risk walking about, lest he meet other policemen. But he
had to get away. He considered anxiously.

"There is a workmen's train in the early hours that will take me to
some station beyond the city," he muttered. "I'll go back to the church
steeple and wait until it's about time to catch the workmen's train.
There won't be any police at the station then. Anyway, I'll have a rest
in the church steeple and think it out."

With the thought of returning to this excellent hiding-place came
another. How was he to get back? He had been walking in the fog so much
that he had lost sense of direction. He stood still wondering which way
to turn.

Just then, as he pondered, there came a sound that sent a reassuring
thrill through him. His luck was holding after all. A bell was booming
out above and through the fog.

"Evensong!" he exclaimed. "The church bell!"

He could find his way to the church by the clanging of the parish
bell. It was the only bell that rang during every day of the week, and
he blessed the fog and the bell and the church as he plodded towards
the sound, a voice calling to him to come and be hidden, ringing its
message, its invitation to sanctuary indeed.

As he walked, he thought out his plan. He would not go into the church
while the people were there. He would slip round to the back and climb
to the tower as soon as the congregation had settled to worship. Once
there he could think out his next step without the harassing need to
avoid people at every step.

Gradually the sound of the bell drew nearer. He was walking down the
side street towards the church now. He pictured the scene as it was
on fogless days; but his reckoning sometimes was out, because he was
not too well acquainted with the streets; but he was happy--grimly
triumphant.

The bell's notes began to dwindle. Its clang softened, its call faded.
Harry Sarlon saw the dim outline of the stone porch silhouetted in the
fog by a light beyond the Gothic structure.

He waited some distance from the door until the bell was stilled. Then
he walked forward, pushed the iron gate open, and passed into the porch
and so through--as he thought--the square tower.

But at that moment a lantern was swung behind him, its light flashed
into his face.

A man's voice, gruff and menacing, challenged him.

"Hullo, there! We were told all you men had returned. I was just
locking up the gate. What's this? Oh, I say----!"

A hand pulled off Sarlon's cap and a pair of strong arms pinned his
arms to his sides while the man shouted an alarm.

"Help! Quick! I've got Sarlon!"

Harry Sarlon did not struggle in the grasp that held him, nor did he
make any attempt to escape. He felt suddenly sick at the trick the bell
had played him.

He was not in the porch of a parish church. What he had heard was the
prison bell signalling officially to the wide world that a convict had
escaped; and he had walked back to prison, guided there by the alarm.




              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE NINTH CELL


"I think," said the visitor, when the Governor had completed the
eighth story, "that this man Sarlon made his mistake because he was
unacquainted with the district near his prison."

"Precisely--up to a point," admitted the Governor, who was about to add
something else, when he was interrupted.

"It is not a mistake _I_ shall make," remarked the visitor grimly. "And
I frankly tell you that I am aware one of the Big Five of Scotland Yard
has been interesting himself in my movements of late."

"It is no secret that your capture has been much desired," returned the
Governor. "It may not be fog that will lead to your undoing at last.
It may not be a mistake on your part; but something, somewhere, will
happen, I assure you, and you will be caught."

"If it pleases you to think so, please continue in your error,"
responded the visitor. "In the meantime, now that I have listened to
your stories, may I press the question that I came here to put to you?
Are you willing to act in either of the two ways I have suggested
regarding the condemned man?"

The Governor seemed lost in thought for a moment; but presently he
lifted his head and smiled at the man who sat opposite.

"We have still plenty of time to come to a decision on that matter, and
your mention of the Big Five has interested me. Most people--that is,
most people in the general public--are under the impression that the
final details relating to the capture of criminals are in the hands
of a Big Four whose headquarters are at Scotland Yard. Now, since you
mention a Big Five, I take it that you are including that able officer,
Detective Seed?"

"I am. But----"

"Ah, how curious! You know, our thoughts evidently run parallel
on quite a number of lines. The fact is that Detective Seed was
responsible for the occupant of my ninth cell being in my prison
to-night. I do not know if you ever met, or heard of, a most notorious
burglar named Sockem?"

"You are not going to tell me that Sockem is in your prison!" sneered
the visitor suddenly. "He is dead. I have seen his grave. He was
drowned up the Thames."

"That is where you are wrong, I assure you. He was not drowned at all.
But he is dead all the same, and it is of the manner of his death that
I would like to tell you. The man who occupies the ninth cell was a
mere cipher in the story of Sockem's end, but he was an agent for a
receiver of stolen property named Eckhardt, of whom I shall have a
word or two to say very soon. Mackintosh is the name of this man in
the ninth cell--a cautious man who came from Aberdeen, an elder of a
Scottish church, an ex-soldier. Ah, well, he is insignificant, but he
is in the ninth cell to-night, and to tell you how he came to be there
I must tell you the truth of Sockem's final flutter in crime. There are
points that will interest you, believe me."

"It interests me to hear that Sockem was not drowned," remarked the
visitor. "He was no ordinary man. Pray proceed, but don't make it too
long."

"I shall be as short as possible in my recital, but one must do justice
to facts as well as to dead men, and I am a stickler for etiquette.
Besides, I happen to know more about Sockem than most people, even
his friends. To begin with, Sockem was not his name at all. But I am
anticipating. Let us first set the stage for the drama."

The Governor leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, as if to
recall the story he was about to relate. Only the ticking of the clock
sounded in the room.

       *       *       *       *       *

One must admit [so the Governor began, after a short space] that Jimmy
Sockem had pluck. But a burglar cannot always work alone, and when Ben
Foss, who had for a long time acted as his "scout," turned to honest
ways, Jimmy had either to find another scout or work by himself. He
tried to find a helper, and did not succeed. None that he employed on
his raids on society was so pliable as Ben Foss. Then he tried working
alone. That did not do either, for a second man is useful. You will
admit the truth of this.

So, then, one night Jimmy Sockem might have been seen (or, rather,
might not have been seen) climbing a water-spout in the West End of
London. There were two objects in his mind as he climbed. The first was
to get certain jewellery in a flat. The second was to compel Ben Foss
to give up honesty and return to lawlessness.

So far as Ben Foss was concerned, there is no doubt that he wanted to
be free of Sockem; but, not having the strength of will to defy Jimmy,
he shrank from heroic measures. In a word, he was afraid of Sockem.

With his finger-tips on the edge of the window-sill and his left hand
grasping the drain-pipe, Jimmy paused for the final effort. He had
climbed more than forty feet from the back garden of the block of
flats. Someone was down below him. He could hear feet crunching the
gravel path with hesitating steps; but the thin fog that rose from
the earth was his protection, as ground mist has so often been the
protection of London burglars ever since there was London, or fogs.

From the street beyond the building he heard the rumble of the traffic,
the roar of the buses, the hooting of motor-horns. He listened
attentively, hanging, spread-eagled, against the wall like a gigantic
beetle. The movements beneath him became blurred and indistinct, then
gradually faded away. He was safe.

From his pocket Jimmy Sockem took his favourite and only tool, and dug
it into the mortar between the bricks. It was an extra-long horseshoe
nail, made of steel, bright and polished, pointed and sharpened like
a rapier. On this nail he rested his knee, then his right foot, and
finally raised himself and swung over to the sill, on which he knelt.

He withdrew the nail from the mortar and slid it up between the frame
of the window and the catch. A sudden twist was all that was required.
The window opened. Jimmy put his leg over the sill and stepped into the
dark room, drawing the heavy curtains behind him.

He crouched low as his quick ear detected a footstep outside the
door. He heard the door open, a light was snapped on, and he saw a
silver-haired, elderly man standing on the threshold. He faced Jimmy
before the latter had time to hide behind the furniture.

"The cat burglar! Put your hands up!"

Jimmy did not answer the accusation. His eyes were glancing about the
room. The elderly man was pointing a revolver towards him.

"You disturbed an alarm when you opened the window," he said quietly.
"Put your hands above your head. My man will tie you until----"

It was then that Jimmy attacked. His gloved hands rose as if in
obedience to the order, but as his right came up it caught, in its
swing, a heavy bronze statuette from a small table and launched the
missile with the accuracy of a practised thrower. The crack of the
revolver and the crash of the bronze on the elderly man's head were
simultaneous.

Both men dropped to the floor; the attacker, because it was his usual
stratagem, the other for quite a different reason.

Then, swiftly, one leaped upright. It was Sockem. The man who had fired
the revolver was down and out. A great, bleeding wound on his head
showed where he had been struck.

Jimmy crept over to where his victim lay and peered at him grimly.

"Serve him right!" he muttered. He was under the impression that he had
killed his man, but it did not trouble him--much.

A sound behind him caused him to wheel. He found himself face to face
with another man, but this individual did not, to him, constitute an
enemy. It was Ben Foss.

"That you, Ben? I done your boss in."

"You've killed him, Jimmy! Why did you come?"

"Anybody else around?"

"No, there was just him and me. An' he was a decent sort."

"I wrote you that I was comin', didn't I? You didn't have the window
open. I had to bust the catch."

"I didn't want you to come, Jimmy! I wrote back askin' you not to. I'm
on the level now. He fixed the alarm a while ago----"

"And I fixed him, see? Serve him right! You thought your letter would
keep me away? What are you standing there shakin' like a jelly for?
Let's take the jewellery and get off quick."

"_We?_ You said _us_?"

"Of course. You're comin' with me. We were pals before we went to
Parkhurst, weren't we? We'll be partners again."

"Jimmy, I was tryin' to run straight. I was his servant."

"Huh! Birds like us can't turn over a new leaf. An' don't you try to
double-cross me either. You know my name, see?"

Unthinkingly Ben stooped and picked up the bronze, but a shout of
derision from Jimmy made him drop it.

"You've done it now, Ben! You've got to come!"

"What do you mean?"

He shrank back with a shudder as the other flung out a gloved hand and
pointed to the bronze figure.

"You've put your finger-prints on it! If you stay, the cops will arrest
you!"

Ben started at the words, and stretched out his hand for support.
His fingers gripped the edge of a table, and a laugh burst from the
mocking lips of the burglar.

"An' now you've planted your whole hand on a polished surface! With
bloodstains! Oh, Ben, ain't you giving them evidence to hang you?"

"Stop that, Jimmy! I didn't do it!"

"There's the evidence, Ben!"

The two men presented a striking contrast in every particular. Jimmy
Sockem was thin, small, dark-skinned, black-haired. The other was above
medium height, stoutish, ruddy, bald. Jimmy was cool, alert, waspish.
Ben was flurried, confused, lumbering.

"They couldn't say it was me," he rumbled, staring from his hands to
the table. "It wasn't me. I've run on the level since I came out of
Parkhurst."

"You've been there, and that's against you, Ben!"

"It was you as did it."

"I'm wearin' gloves. Them finger-prints say it was you!"

"He was a decent boss. I wouldn't 'ave harmed him."

"He's dead, Ben, and can't talk!"

"It was Detective Seed as got me the job."

"I've got a better one for you!"

"I don't want to be your partner again."

"But I came for you! I need a scout!"

"I told Seed I'd run on the level. He said honesty was the best
policy."

"It don't pay! As my partner you'd be rich now!"

"Seed knows I'm tryin' to run straight."

"Seed couldn't stop your arrest!"

"I could tell 'em it wasn't me as did this."

"They wouldn't believe you! Your record's bad!"

"But it's the truth that I didn't do it!"

"You daren't say it was me!"

"Why?"

"Because I'd kill you if you did! See?"

Ben groaned. He knew that this little, dark-skinned man would carry out
his threat. He was in a cleft stick, but he fought feebly at his last
ditch, his heavy mind clinging to the central fact that was his only
hope.

"I didn't do it! I didn't do it! Supposin' you went away, I'd not
mention your name!"

"Then they'd hang you! Come on, get the swag and we'll be off."

"No, no. They wouldn't hang me! I don't want to be your partner again!"

"I need you. I'll make you come!"

"You can't."

"All right. Listen!"

Footsteps were coming along the corridor outside the front door of the
flat. The bell tinkled. Someone was seeking admittance.

"That's settled it, Ben," whispered Jimmy in a hoarse voice. "That's a
cop. I heard one down in the garden. He's come up here to get me. They
know I usually go out by the front door."

"Well?"

"He's tryin' this door first. Then he'll go up to the flat above,
maybe. All I have got to do is open that door and invite him in. I can
say you killed your boss to collar the swag for yourself. My word's as
good as yours. Your finger-prints! You'd swing, sure! They couldn't
hang me, see?"

"Jimmy!"

"Get the stuff together quick and we can hop off. I'll wipe out the
prints while you collect. Hurry! Or else----"

"I'm beat!" groaned Ben. "I'll come, you fox!"

Thus this smaller man of the two, the greater criminal, constituted
himself the leader, the counsel, the judge of both. He triumphed in
that he was able to make his very crimes of use to him. In other men
their misdeeds would have been an anchor, a drag on their brains,
clogging their thoughts and chaining them with unseen manacles. In him
these considerations were absent. He was most dangerous when he was
cornered.

Who was this man? His real name was not English, though he was a native
of Limehouse. He was the son of a Japanese waif who, after having been
a housebreaker in Tokio, took to the sea because his own country sought
to punish him for lawlessness. Before he had been a housebreaker this
father had been a fireman. The change from the one profession to the
other is not so strange as it might appear. The Japanese fire brigades
are famed for their acrobatic skill. They can climb to dizzy heights,
bearing ladders on their shoulders; they can leap from one point to
another with a daring that can only be acquired after long practice.
This man had become a burglar owing to the temptation offered after the
Tokio earthquake some years ago.

He joined the _Gorotsuki_, the thieves' brotherhood. This organisation
gave endless trouble to the authorities of Tokio and Yokohama and other
cities. These men disdained to use gloves, jemmies, or flashlamps. They
depended on their swift action and their daring. Their movements were
like lightning. Many of these men ultimately came to England. Jimmy
Sockem's father was among them.

When this individual came to England he mated with a woman of the
East End. When they presented the world with a son they added another
criminal to the population. This son, who inherited peculiarities
from both parents, in fact owed them nothing socially valuable save
life. He seemed to duplicate his father in everything--certainly in
wickedness. He lived about the docks, he climbed rigging, he stole from
seamen as well as from his own companions. None could compete with him
in ability. His inventiveness was as great as his sense of honesty
was deficient. He could swarm up water-pipes like a monkey, and he
challenged the seamen of sailing-ships to go to the top of the masts
before he was in his teens. Fortunately--or unfortunately--he was never
caught, or he might have been sent to Borstal.

In this youth a psychologist would have observed the meeting of the
Orient and the Occident. He had never been to Japan, yet he was more
Japanese than English in habit. Once or twice he went voyages in
sailing-ships to the European countries, but he objected to the sea
because he was confined to shipboard. He ultimately declined any offer
to leave London. He became the first "cat" burglar.

His mind was a moral chaos. In this he resembled his father, who died
in a brawl; and he revered his father's memory with Japanese tenacity.
His father had found no refuge in his own land, and had never adapted
himself to the point of view of the West, being incapable of such
adjustment. He had objected to all law because it was a restraint. The
only law he bowed to was the law of the jungle. The result was that his
son, Jimmy, was not so much his son as he was a cub.

Strangely enough, the West that was in Jimmy Sockem aided him to
outrage its ideas of conduct. The English strain in him struggled
vaguely in his youth to assert itself above the abnormalities of the
old _inkyo_ tradition, but it was smothered because the latter were the
stronger. The mind-substances of his parents could not blend in him.
They warred.

Because of his mixed blood he became the object of indiscriminate
charity administered by emotional people who visited Limehouse. He was
invited to the West End houses, and there exhibited as an example of
race blending. As a boy he did not object to this; he was rather proud
of it. But as he grew he saw the gulf between the East End and the West
End. He could not reason things which, to him, were unreasonable. He
flung a bridge across the gulf with Eastern fixity of purpose. As a
burglar he might take what he could never otherwise handle. He left the
shipyards and became a night marauder. The boy had become a man.

The name which his father handed down to him was lost in the tempest
of his activities. That name was Sok-Emm; but, with that remarkable
facility which the East End possesses for making a nick-name proclaim
a man's character, his companions had extracted its foreign meaning
and had endowed it with a grim, local significance. Sok-Emm to them
was nothing. Sockem was everything. The word preserved his pitiless
savagery. His career was marked with episodes of jungle ferocity.
Physically he was an engine of destruction. Mentally he was cunning as
a leopard. He had been guilty of maiming, and was suspected of murder.
But he had brought into human life that quality of elusiveness, that
protective resemblance to surroundings, which makes it difficult to
tell where the forest ends and the tiger begins. Both physically and
mentally he had the characteristics of a chameleon. In a word, he was
a monster.

With all his cleverness, however, he had been caught. Ben Foss had
been his partner, the man who acted as scout on big jobs. It was Foss
who hung about mansions, hotels, shops, when a burglary was planned.
It was Foss who collected the information necessary before the blow
was struck. When all was ready, Sockem struck the blow. But on their
previous expedition he had struck too quickly. Both he and Foss had
made a mistake. They had been captured and sent to prison.

Foss, because he was not so dangerous as Sockem, had been given a
shorter term, but the grind of prison life had wrought changes in both.
Foss had been shaken to the roots of his pliable nature. He had emerged
from his confinement with his nerve broken, a scared man. His mentality
could take punishment up to a certain limit before it collapsed. The
sentence exceeded this limit. Repentance had come through fear.

On Jimmy Sockem the prison life had had another effect. He had gone
to his cell snarling. He came out silent. His spell, which would have
broken ordinary men, hardened him. While still enduring the punishment
society had inflicted on him, he planned future crimes against society.
He did this out of a twisted idea that clamoured for revenge.

Foss was clay when he went to prison. Like some clay subjected to
pressure, he at first rebelled. The clay became brick. The limit of
resistance to the pressure was reached and passed. The brick broke into
fragments of rubble.

Sockem endured the pressure without breaking. He was like the
one-celled animals called protozoa. He became flint.

Having fixed his purpose, he sought the old partnership when he
re-entered the world. He wanted to lose no time in carrying out his war
against organised order. But Ben Foss had shrunk from his old habits;
he had obtained a post as manservant to a wealthy connoisseur of
_objets d'art_, a bachelor and a philanthropist. To steal from this man
became doubly attractive to Sockem.

It is not every burglar who can be a "cat." It is not every "cat"
who can be a burglar. Sockem could be both--and more. He could be a
murderer with the same lack of compunction as he could be a thief. The
one idea which dominated his acts supplied at once the excuse and the
reason for his cold ruthlessness.

At first he had suspected Foss of taking the position in the flat so
that he could steal its treasures easily, but the truth was now clear.
Foss was no longer his partner; he was a danger unless he was involved.
Fear of prison had to be overcome by fear of something else. To save
himself, he had to make Foss a criminal once more.

He stood watching Ben as the latter moved about the room, collecting
what valuables were worth taking and handing them to Sockem. The latter
was as cool as ice. The door-bell tinkled once more. Sockem smiled, and
stepped over to a gramophone, selected a record, and set the instrument
going.

"Hurry!" he whispered. "That will blind him for a minute."

He wiped the bloodstained bronze with his handkerchief and took the
marks off the polished table.

To Foss the whole affair seemed a kind of dream. He moved as he
was ordered, doing as he was bid without protest. He had once more
surrendered what remained of his personality into the hands of his
master in crime; he had again become the jackal to the lion. Fear had
driven him towards crime as it had driven him away from it.

They left the light burning and the gramophone playing. The door bell
was ringing as they slid over the window-sill. Everything had been done
swiftly, deftly, as experts work. Sockem had provided for emergencies.
Half way down the drain-pipe they swung across a branch pipe that
brought them to the roof of a smaller building. From this they landed
into a side-lane.

They were gone some way along the main road, through the thick fog,
when Foss found his tongue.

"Where are we going? The cops will come to the old place."

"I've found a new one."

They walked out of the fog into Waterloo Station. Something of the old
thrill of bravado stirred in Foss's blood as they passed close to the
platform policeman. He experienced the old elation, or a hint of it, as
they mingled with the theatre crowds on their way home. Who could trace
them in the surge of hurrying figures? Who would pick up the trail
which the fog had covered?

At the booking office, Sockem bought a ticket for Foss and handed it to
him. Foss saw the name of a riverside station on the slip of cardboard.

"Jimmy, why are we goin' there?" he asked in surprise. He had expected
a ticket for Southampton.

"You'll see," replied Jimmy grimly.

They journeyed with other passengers, and emerged at their destination
in a heavy drizzle. The fog had given way to rain. The drizzle gave way
to heavy torrents as they trudged along a country road. In an hour they
had struck off the road into a lane. A few minutes brought them to the
bank of the river.

In spite of the questions that Foss constantly asked, Sockem did not
answer. His mind was filled with one object. He began to search among
the bushes by the bank. At last he found what he wanted. It was a rope
hitched to a sapling. He unhitched the rope and began to haul it in. A
dinghy came out of the misty rain and bumped against the bank.

"Get in, Ben."

Drenched and sodden, Foss obeyed and sat down in the stern. Sockem took
the oars and pulled out into the stream. Practised rower as he was, he
made no noise with the oars as he pulled against the tide. The rain
was coming down in torrents when he ceased rowing and turned to peer
through the thick atmosphere.

"Here we are!" he announced triumphantly. "Our place!"

"What is it?"

"A house-boat. Hold on to the stage. Bill Hemsey ought to be here."

In another moment they were alongside the dark river dwelling. They
landed on the floating stage, and Sockem tied the boat to a rail, then
led the way inside, opening the door with confidence. He knew his way.

"Bill Hemsey hasn't got back yet," he said. "He is coming--ought to
have been here now. He was getting stuff on his own. I put him up to a
job."

Hemsey was one of a small gang who kept more or less close company with
Sockem--a snatch-thief who posed as a sportsman.

"Ain't this safe?" Sockem cried, as he lit a lamp in the centre of the
apartment. "It's one of them boat-houses used in summer, but left to
itself during the winter. Wasn't it a good idea?"

"It was, if it's safe."

"Nobody comes, I tell you. I've watched this place for weeks. It's
derelict. I boarded up the windows so's the light won't show. Hemsey
is coming to-night, too. And Mackintosh, who gathers the stuff for
Eckhardt, the fence, is due to-morrow. We're safe as houses. You can't
tell me how to cover our tracks. Look!"

He pointed to a ring in the floor at their feet.

"My safe! The river hides our loot."

He bent and pulled at the ring. One of the floorboards came away. On
its under side a large screw hook had been fixed, and from this hook a
thin rope hung down into the black depths. Sockem hauled at the rope. A
sack, dripping with water, came into view.

"Put the stuff in the sack," he said, grinning.

They deposited the goods they had brought into the canvas sack, where
other valuables were already placed, and Sockem lowered it again and
slammed the floorboard. There was a flush of pride on his face as he
stood up.

"And supposin' the cops come here, what would they find?" he demanded.
"All they could give us is a week or two for breaking into the boat. We
could say we came for shelter. Who'd think that thousands of pounds'
worth of stuff was swinging in the bilge below our feet? Most of these
craft collect water in winter."

He laughed and slapped Foss on the shoulder.

"And Bill Hemsey is coming with more to-night. He ought to have been
here now. You know Bill, don't you?"

"I remember him," said Foss. "What's he after?"

"Money. Ready money. He's getting the rents of a certain party. The
money and what we've got will make the biggest haul we've made yet. The
money will take us abroad. What are you looking so dismal about?"

"Seed told me honesty was the best policy," mumbled Foss hesitatingly.
"I gave him my word----"

"That don't matter, Ben. You've joined me now. And I want you to start
work to-morrow. Bill will bring us news."

"What do you want me for?"

"Same as you did before. Scouting. There's a village less than a mile
off. You'll fetch us grub until the coast is clear."

"But if I'm caught?"

"Then Bill or I will go. If you're caught we'll know the cops are
about."

The truth was out, and the shock of it drilled through Foss.
Alternately he had been swayed between fears of capture and the
possibility of escape. Now he saw that he was being made use of. He was
the shield, the protection, the bait, the foil. A sick smile passed
over his face.

"You needn't get caught unless you're careless," said Sockem, as he
wrung the water from his coat. "And we'll be rich now. I'll tell you
why I came to the flat. They said you had reformed."

"Who said it? I promised Seed----"

"Oh, Hemsey told me. And I needed you as a scout. You know my ways,
and I know yours. See? And Mackintosh, the agent for the fence, is
due to-morrow to make a deal. He's a Scot, is Mackintosh. Works for
Eckhardt, the big fence. We'll get away maybe to-morrow night. You'll
get your share."

"How much?"

"We'll see what Mackintosh gives us for the stuff."

"And after that?"

"He is arranging a passage to Cherbourg for me. You, too, can come.
We'll get a ship for America there. There's enough in that sack to keep
us for years. You couldn't make that amount in a lifetime by honesty,
see?"

There was a scanty store of provisions, which had been brought by
Sockem, in the house-boat, and they ate a cold, frugal supper in
silence. Then they retired for the night. The only bedding available
was a couple of old mattresses which had been left by the owner of the
house-boat. There were no blankets or coverings, but to men who had
been in prison this was not a great hardship.

Sockem occupied a small room on one side of the alleyway; Foss had
one opposite. The lamp was extinguished. Only the beating of the rain
on the roof above their heads and the swish of the river broke the
stillness of the night.

But, if Sockem slept well, the reverse was true of Foss. He lay
tossing on his mattress, tormented and restless. The silence and the
darkness brought fears that grew big and fantastic. He wanted to go
back. He remembered the vow he had made to the detective who had
obtained the job for him. He remembered the kindnesses of his late
employer. He remembered the security with which he had gone to bed in
the flat--security because he was not being hunted, because he was not
opposing the law, but was protected by it.

The hours passed slowly. The rain increased. It fell with relentless
monotony, lashing on the house-boat and streaming down the windows. The
structure swayed with the fury of the rising wind. The tide cradled
it violently. Dawn broke grey and dull. And there was no sign of
Mackintosh, or of Bill Hemsey.

Sockem was in the kitchen when Foss rose and joined him.

"Can't think what's keeping Bill Hemsey," growled Sockem. "He promised
to be here. Anyway, Mackintosh will come. Bill, too, after the rain."

They broke up some chairs for firewood and started a fire in the stove.
The atmosphere was cold and clammy. The roof leaked.

"We ain't got any grub, Ben. Our supper was the last I had. You'll have
to go out and get something. Bill was to bring some eats. He's got a
girl. That's where he was going after his stunt. Girls are the devil.
Well, you've got to go."

Foss moved to the landing-stage sullenly, with the intention of looking
for the boat they had moored the previous night. It was not there. He
looked across the tumbling river. Over by the opposite bank, fifty
yards down, the boat was caught by a fallen tree. It had been swept
away by the rising river, which during the night had reached flood
point. The water was overflowing the banks, and swirling down in a
heavy, brown billowy mass. The house-boat was tugging at the chains
that moored it. They were marooned.

"We can't get any grub, Jimmy. We're too far from the banks."

Something like dismay came into Jimmy Sockem's eyes.

"I broke down the shore gangway," he muttered. "It spanned a dozen
yards from the bank."

"We're twice that distance now, Jimmy."

"Can you swim?"

"No. Can you?"

"No."

A silence fell on them, broken at last by Sockem.

"It means we'll wait here until the fence comes. He'll find the boat
and bring it along."

They went back to the sitting-room, where two aged cane chairs
remained. These Sockem broke up and burned in the stove. They picked
the last crumbs off the supper-plates. Sockem took his horseshoe nail
from his pocket and began to sharpen it on a small hone. He hummed a
tune as he worked. The rain became heavier than ever.

By midday the river had risen still more. Not a sign of anything living
appeared along the streaming banks. Drip, drip, drip; slash, slash,
slash; rumble, rumble, rumble--the first from the leaking roof, the
second from the whipping rain, the third from the rising river--these
were the only sounds that came to the two men in the house-boat; these,
and the constant honing of his large steel nail, which Jimmy Sockem
kept up until the weapon shone like a knife-blade.

No receiver of stolen property came that day. They went to their
mattresses hungry, cold, miserable. They no longer spoke to each other.
The rain increased. The wind rose to the strength of a gale. When they
woke the next morning the waters were crested with small breakers. The
rain was worse than ever. The roof leaked everywhere.

The second day passed as the first, the third came as the second. They
looked out and saw, not a river, but a real flood. The water had spread
into the adjoining meadows, and had formed a huge lake, which was ever
increasing. Their boat had been driven away in the spate. In the midst
of this desolation the house-boat floated, dragging at its foundations,
its stage under water. The two men were helpless.

That day Sockem fished up the sack of loot and went over the valuables
like a miser counting his hoard. Foss, who watched him in silence, saw
the water ooze in under the floorboards. The truth struck him like a
blow. The rising river was driving them from their shelter.

The afternoon made this definite; both of them saw it. Foss had reached
the limit of his endurance. Sockem was now tigerish and unapproachable.
Cowed and afraid though he was, Foss spoke his thoughts.

"Seed said honesty was the best policy. It is true."

"It is a lie," thundered Sockem. "Is not this sack proof I am right? I
can break any law I wish to. We are rich."

"We are poor. We are starving."

"That is your fault. I have supplied the loot that makes us rich. You
must supply the food to keep us till the floods go down. I have been
thinking. You have to be driven. I shall drive you."

"How?"

"You are the scout. Why don't you scout? You must be forced. Listen. I
am going to make a raft from the timber of this house. On that raft you
will pole your way to the village and bring back food."

"I daren't. I should be drowned."

"If you don't go I shall kill you."

His face assumed the horrible cunning peculiar to his nature, and he
stretched out his hand for the shining, dagger-like nail which lay on
the table.

"Why don't you go yourself?" cried Foss in desperation.

"Because I must not. Seed knows I climbed to the flat that night I
killed your boss. It was he who came to the door. I heard him in the
garden as I climbed. He has been on my heels for days. You can go for
food. You must. Or else----"

He shrugged his shoulders and turned to the work he had indicated.
He worked with savage ferocity while Foss watched him, shivering and
biting his lip. He was scared. He saw Sockem, by prodigious efforts,
and with the aid of a hammer taken from the kitchen, beat down a large
section of the wall. It fell across the flooded staging, and lay ready
to be launched.

"That's my job finished," announced Sockem. "It is up to you. Go--or
say your prayers."

He laughed wolfishly and went to his room, banging the door and bolting
it.

Foss was alone with his thoughts. His thoughts chilled and roasted him
alternately. It was death to go and death to remain. Dusk had fallen.
Away in the distance he saw the twinkling lights of the village. The
rain had slackened, but the river rushed wildly on its course.

An hour passed. The darkness deepened. Foss stirred. An idea had come
to him. He crept towards the room in which Sockem had locked himself
and listened at the keyhole. From the room came regular breathing.
Sockem was sleeping, tired out with his labour.

Foss went back to the raft. His idea was to take his chance with the
floods. He repented having given in to Sockem. Why should he not try to
save himself and leave this savage to his fate?

He had laid hold of the raft when a glimmer of light pierced the
darkness far down the river. He looked, and saw it become bigger. It
was a light from a boat. Already he heard the "chug-chug" of a motor.
Someone was coming up in face of the racing tide--evidently rescuers
out to aid river-dwellers caught in the storm.

Here was a chance indeed! He could escape from the terror that
was Sockem. He would go to Seed and explain all. He would ask for
protection against Sockem's vengeance. Seed knew he had tried to run
straight. Honesty was the best policy. If a man was honest he need
never have these fears and despairs that had gripped him and terrorised
him since Sockem had come back for him.

The boat was now almost level with the house-boat. It would pass
without seeing him. With a cry he thought of a way out.

He ran to the kitchen and took the lantern, lighting it hurriedly. Then
he came back to the stage, waving it to and fro. But the waters drove
him in again, lashing against his legs. He dared not shout lest he
wakened Sockem. A voice came over the floods.

"Keep steady! Give us a chance to get you!"

Ah, the light must be steady! Foss dashed back to the kitchen. On the
table was the long, steel nail, Sockem's one tool. He picked up the
hammer and ran out to the staging again. Muffling the head of the nail
in his handkerchief, he drove it into the wooden wall. It sank through,
met an obstruction half way, but a blow fixed it securely. He hung the
flickering lantern on the nail and waited.

The boat came towards him. Its motor chugged so loudly he was afraid
Sockem would hear. Out of the darkness the boat glided, and a man
sprang on to the submerged staging.

"Hullo! Floods held you prisoner--Foss!"

The man who had spoken was Detective Seed.

He took hold of Foss's shaking frame and looked into his scared eyes.

"Steady up, Foss! You're all right with us! Have you found Sockem?"

Ben gulped hard, but his tongue could not utter words. His hand jerked
towards the room behind him.

"All right, Foss, you've had a hard time, but we're the river police,"
said Seed quickly. "Lucky Sockem didn't kill you. I suppose he's
barricaded himself in. By the way, your boss told me you had gone after
the burglar----"

"Ain't he dead?"

"No, but he got a bad rap on the head. He's recovering all right. He
knows you're straight. Well, we've caught Sockem's receiver of goods,
Mackintosh. We got him as we were coming up. He's confessed that Sockem
was here, but we'd have passed you but for your lantern. I knew Sockem
had a nest on the river. Don't worry. We've got him now."

He drew a revolver and approached the door of the room, and at his
heels went two men from the motor-boat. They burst the lock open. One
man switched on a flashlamp.

"Get up, Jimmy Sockem! I'm arresting you for burglary----_Ah!_"

Seed moved forward suddenly, and looked at the prone figure in the
narrow bunk.

"Look!" he cried, pointing to the wall against which Sockem's head
rested.

The long, shining horseshoe nail which had been driven through
the wooden partition had caught Jimmy Sockem as he slept, and had
penetrated to his brain.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Governor bent forward as he finished his story and tapped the edge
of his desk with his forefinger.

"So you see that Jimmy Sockem was not drowned. He was buried in the
East End, and I don't doubt that you have seen his grave. As he had no
relatives, the police paid for his funeral, after an inquest had been
held very quietly. The verdict was 'accidental death.' And Ben Foss
went back to his job. He has never again been tempted, or bullied,
back to lawless ways. As for Mackintosh, the agent for Eckhardt, the
receiver of stolen goods, I think I have already informed you that he
is just now occupying the ninth cell below us."

The visitor remained silent for some time, thinking over what he had
heard.

"I suppose I ought to be thankful to you," he remarked, "for telling me
the real nature of the famous 'cat's' end. The story current in certain
circles is that he was drowned in his bunk during the flood. But there
is one point which your narrative leaves undetermined."

"What is it?"

"Why was it that Bill Hemsey did not come to the house-boat when he was
expected?"

"Ah," smiled the Governor, "that is still to be explained, and in
order to elucidate that matter I now propose to give you the story of
the occupant of the tenth cell, who is none other than Bill Hemsey
himself."




              THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TENTH CELL


I am living in hopes (said the Governor) that one day--though I may
not see it (at this the visitor slightly inclined his head and laid
his hand on his revolver)--criminals will realise that crime does not
pay. For the time being, however, the difficulty is that whenever one
man is taken and sent to prison another seems to step into his place.
Thus crime appears to be continuous, though it could be proved by
analytical discussion that it is not so. However that may be, it was
evident to those whose duty it is to observe such things that Eckhardt,
the receiver of stolen property, must find a crook to take the place of
Mackintosh.

Up to this point, mark you, Eckhardt was merely under suspicion. The
law could not lay its hands on him for lack of evidence--that is,
evidence that would produce a conviction in a court of law. There was
plenty of suspicion against Eckhardt, all the same, but suspicion is
not evidence. But it was noticed that Eckhardt did find somebody else
to do odd jobs for him, jobs that never brought him into conflict with
the police, but were again suspicious.

This man was a young member of an East End company of loafers and
hangers-on. His name was Tommy Conn. He openly boasted of being
a burglar, but he took care that boasting was all that could be
said about it. After he became friendly with Eckhardt he ceased to
boast--itself a circumstance worth noting.

Conn will interest us after we have dealt with Bill Hemsey, for Conn
occupied, in some ways, the same position in relation to Eckhardt as
Bill Hemsey did in regard to Jimmy Sockem. That is to say, both were
minor crooks who worked under the directions and suggestions of their
leaders.

It was Jimmy Sockem who had put Hemsey up to the idea of taking the
rent money of old Luke Kohl, the Jew who owned property in the lower
reaches of the Thames. And so, on the evening that he was expected to
reach the house-boat, we find Bill Hemsey on his business of annexing
these rents.

Bill was not high up in the scale of criminal cunning, but he was high
enough to know that he could lift the money belonging to Kohl if he
worked properly. As a matter of fact, he found the actual theft easier
than he had imagined it would be. He went to Kohl's house prepared for
some sort of opposition, and he found none.

I think you will remember that Jimmy Sockem, during his talk with Ben
Foss on the house-boat, grumbled because Bill Hemsey had said he was
going to see his girl that same evening. The truth was that Bill needed
his girl's help to get away with the swag, but she did not know it;
or, rather, one ought to say that Bill needed the help of his girl's
father, but neither did the father know it. They were not the sort of
people who would have aided him had they known.

All these things come out at trials, and the trial of Hemsey resulted
in him losing more than his liberty, much as he prized that.

Here, then, we have Bill in possession of the bag of money, and
standing in the small back shop of Kohl, listening intently for sounds
from above. No sounds came. Bill had entered the shop by the back door
when Kohl was upstairs at tea. He had found the bag on the top of the
safe. He opened it to make sure that the money was there. It was all
there in notes and silver. Bill sighed with delight.

He snapped the catch and was on the point of leaving the shop when he
thought he heard a step on the stairs. He braced himself, prepared for
a struggle. But it was a false alarm. Nobody came downstairs. Hemsey
did not wait. He took a firm grip on the handle and walked out by the
door which he had forced in order to enter.

He went over the yard wall, and turned towards the main thoroughfare
feeling that he wanted to laugh. It had been so simple that he could
hardly believe it. Yet there was the money in the black handbag, the
small canister of pepper which he had intended to shoot towards Kohl's
eyes was in his pocket, unused, and not a soul had observed his way
of entry. He had left no finger-prints on the door or anywhere about.
He still wore the leather gloves he had drawn on his hands before he
committed the crime. And he was nearly two hundred pounds richer than
he had been a few minutes previously.

It all proved, he told himself, how easy things could be done if one
took the trouble to lay the scheme beforehand. In this case he had
certainly been very careful. With care comes success, in crime as in
respectability. Honesty and lawlessness both require consideration.

Bill Hemsey had known about how old Kohl collected his rents for some
time, though Bill did not belong to the district. There had been more
than one attempt by the roughs of the riverside streets to waylay
old Kohl and grab his money-bag, but these attempts had always been
frustrated because old Kohl, if he was feeble and rich, was also
decidedly suspicious. He knew that the bad men of the Thames wharves
were anxious to purloin his money in the dark corners through which he
had to pass when he collected the rents; but those who had tried to
snatch his bag found it was fastened by a light, strong, steel chain to
his waist. Thus a thief who wanted the bag and its contents must take
Luke Kohl also; and no thief wanted his screaming accuser to accompany
the loot.

Besides the chain, Luke Kohl had another means of protection. This was
a police whistle, and on the occasions when he had been molested he
had sounded his whistle while the would-be robbers tugged at the bag.
They had been captured before they had run the length of a street, for
the police were generally in the vicinity, thanks to Kohl's anxious
requests for their services.

These were difficulties which Bill Hemsey had to overcome before he
could possess the rent money of Luke Kohl, but Bill had found a way to
beat the opposition. If Kohl was crafty, Bill was more crafty. He found
the weak link in Kohl's armour. That link was Rachel, the old man's
daughter.

Rachel lived with her parents in rooms above their small bric-à-brac
shop. She was neither beautiful nor the reverse. She was "homely,"
getting on in years for a maiden. She met Bill Hemsey at a local
dance-hall. It was not an accidental meeting so far as Bill was
concerned, for he had come to the hall with the distinct intention of
becoming acquainted with Rachel. He met her several times afterwards,
he spent money taking her to the cinemas, to local music-halls, to
various places where cheap amusement was to be found up West. He walked
out with her two evenings a week for a month, and by that time he
had wormed his way into her affections and knew the whole routine of
her father's business, even down to where he placed his bag with the
rent money when he brought it home. The bag was placed on the top of
the safe in the back shop while Kohl locked the front door and went
upstairs to tea; after tea the bag was put, with the till, into the
safe.

The taking of the bag was Bill's supreme crime. It was to be his final
one. Working with Sockem, his business was to lift the ready money,
take it up the river, and in return he was to get a share of Sockem's
loot. This trading of stolen goods is done quite often, helping to
baffle the police and making the real source of a robbery difficult to
trace.

As for Rachel, she was not the girl to whom Sockem referred. Rachel
was merely a pawn in Bill's game. Indeed, her friendship with Bill had
been a little troublesome to him. She presumed more than he intended,
and she had asked him on more than one occasion to come home and meet
her parents. These invitations had always been side-tracked by Bill,
who had no desire to step into what might be a trap for himself; he did
not want to meet Luke Kohl, who might then be able to identify him at
a crucial moment--for instance, when the pepper was being thrown into
his eyes. So that Rachel might be well out of the way, Bill had written
to her asking her to meet him at a point up West, and he had seen her
start for the rendezvous. Exit Rachel from Bill's life.

As he walked along, Bill felt confident, and had not any anxiety.
Nobody had seen him take the bag, nobody could accuse him of entering
by the back door, not a soul knew that he was a petty thief and
had been one for years. Between his "jobs" in crime he conducted a
perfunctory street-corner business of bookmaking, a cloak for his
other activities and a means of getting the information to enable
him to carry them out. It was as a book-maker that his friends knew
him; even Rene Toler, his real girl, whom he intended to marry almost
immediately, regarded him as a sporting person. It was to her rooms
that Bill Hemsey was now making his way.

He left the main thoroughfare and took to side streets, past one of
the blocks of flats which Luke Kohl owned, the flats the rents of
which were in the bag he carried. Tall dismal buildings, these were
situated near the riverside, and let out in mean dwellings of single,
double, and triple rooms. They were peopled by the casual workers of
the docks, labourers of the river, the families who hung on to life by
short spells of work sandwiched between periods of unemployment. It was
because of this unreliability of income that Kohl collected his rents
regularly, never allowing arrears to accumulate.

From the streets behind the river were many dark, narrow passages,
sombre and badly lit by scattered street lamps. In front of the houses
was the river front, a narrow flagged pathway. No railing or fence was
erected by the river's edge, and here and there lonely barges from
Gravesend and Tilbury squatted on the sticky mud that was squelchy as a
quagmire when the tide was out. This ooze, three feet deep, was covered
at full tide with sufficient water to float the barges and the boats of
the water-men up to the wall of the river front.

During the daytime the "esplanade," as it was called by courtesy,
was the rendezvous of loiterers and bargemen. By night the place was
deserted save for an occasional boat that crossed the river as an
unofficial ferry, since the nearest bridge was a considerable distance
away. It was Rene's father who worked this spasmodic ferry.

Rene did not stay with her father. She worked in a laundry on the same
side of the river as Bill had rooms, and she had given Bill proof of
being able to look after his wants in the future by doing his washing
and pressing his suits in her spare time. Pretty, hard-working, and
capable, she was as straight as a fiddle-string, and Bill knew that she
would make an ideal wife. She had no silly ideas of romance about her.
Her one strong point was her profound common sense. It was because he
was fond of her that Bill had made the raid on Luke Kohl's money; this,
he told himself, was to be his last excursion into crime.

As she opened the door in answer to his knock, he was met by a rush of
hot atmosphere from the apartment.

"Hullo," said Rene. "You're early."

"Better early than late," replied Bill, grinning. "What you busy at?
Same old stuff, hey?"

He sat down on a chair and looked at the heap of washed clothes on
the table at which she had been ironing. His reception had not been
as cordial as he had hoped, but Rene was never demonstrative. Bill
chuckled to think that he had now enough money to set the two of them
up comfortably.

"Give us a kiss, Rene," he said.

He rose and advanced towards her, but she waved him aside and returned
to her ironing table.

"What's the matter, Rene?"

She turned on him quickly.

"There isn't anything the matter with _me_," she flashed.

Her tone startled him for a moment, but he quickly dismissed his fears.
She could not possibly know that he had money in the bag and that he
had stolen it.

"Well, don't be funny," he grumbled, watching her all the time. "I told
you I was coming over home with you to-night. I want to talk things
over with your dad. Ain't you glad to see me? I've got an appointment,
but I'll be back late."

"What things are you going to talk over?"

"About you and me. I was thinking we might get married soon."

"You said that a while ago."

"I know I did. But I hadn't the money."

"Have you got it now?"

He smiled. This was his great secret, the winning card he held up his
sleeve.

"More'n you think, Rene. I'll show you what I've got all in good time.
And your dad too. Did you ask him to bring his boat over for us, same
as I said to you?"

"I told him."

"Well, stop working and let's go."

"There's plenty of time yet. Besides, I've got these things to iron,
and the suit you left me has to be pressed. I promised I'd do it by
to-night."

He gazed at her cunningly.

"How long will it take you?"

"I'll be finished in an hour."

"Mind if I stay here to watch you?"

"Please yourself."

"What's the matter with you, Rene? I come here to give you a pleasant
surprise and you're hardly civil."

"If you found that I'd been flirting with other men you'd be mad too."

"Oh!"

He began to see the reason for her coldness. But before he could say
anything she glanced at him from the hot iron her eye was following.

"You needn't deny it. You were seen."

"Who saw me?"

"I did."

"You're jealous, Rene, and there's nothing to worry about; honest,
there ain't. I give you my word."

She was ironing determinedly, her lips straight and tight.

"It was only a business affair," he began.

"Business?" she scoffed.

"I'm telling you, Rene. It was business. A man has to be friendly with
them that bring money to him."

"Has he to take them to the theatres?"

"It's good for business----"

"Or to dances?"

"It's good for----"

"Or buy them chocolates?"

"Aw, you needn't be jealous. There was nothing in it."

"Funny way of doing a betting business," she answered bitingly.

"Rene," he began, but stopped; for to make her understand he was bound
to tell everything, and he dared not tell everything. The crime was his
one secret which he must keep to himself, even if it was to be his last.

"It ain't the first time," she added. "You've been with her lots of
times."

"I won't again, Rene."

"How do I know you're speaking the truth?"

"I give my oath on it. It was only business."

"What would you say if I started gadding about with men?"

He had not seen it this way, and the idea struck him forcibly, for he
was fond of Rene in his way.

"What would you do?" she demanded.

"You wouldn't do that, Rene?"

"What if I did? Ain't I got the right to go to the cinema with a boy,
if you go with a girl?"

He did not answer, but the look in his face was dour and ominous. She
suddenly became afraid of him.

"It was only business," he muttered. "Just business."

He was standing at her elbow as she laid out his suit for the ironing
process. There was something menacing in his attitude. Man-like, he did
not understand her mental injury nor appreciate her point of view; his
environment had never taught him that women had any right to question,
yet he longed in a dull way to probe the suspicion her words had
raised. She seemed to sense this, for she spoke quietly without looking
at him.

"I didn't do it," she said simply. He breathed deeply, as if relieved.

"How long will you be at this job?"

"A bit yet."

"What about a drink of something?"

"I can't leave this. There's time enough before dad comes. You can go
out for a drink. Come back in half an hour."

She glanced at the clock as she spoke.

"All right," he said, as he picked up his cap and kicked the leather
bag under his chair. "I'll bring a bottle back for your dad. He can
take it home with him."

"Didn't you say he was to meet us by the esplanade? He won't come up
here----"

"Well, I'll give it him in the boat."

He clumped downstairs with something of his usual complacency gone
from him. He had never been suspicious of Rene before. He was angry
that she should want to know the reason he had been friendly with
Rachel Kohl; and he dared not tell that. Even if he was forced to tell
something of the truth, he had to hide his crime, for then Rene would
tell her father, and her father would deny him the use of the boat.
Bill Hemsey needed the boat that night. He could not chance taking a
bus, or be seen walking in the streets with the bag. Kohl would have
discovered the theft by this time and would have told the police. The
police would be on the watch, and the only way to evade them was to
get down to the dark esplanade and cross the river by boat. He would
destroy the bag when he got to his rooms.

In fifteen minutes he returned to Rene's room, hugging three bottles
of stout. He pushed the door open with his foot and entered. He heard
voices. A young man about his own age was in the room.

"All right," he was saying, "I don't need to see you home if that's the
case."

Bill Hemsey blundered in and placed the bottles on the tables. The
stranger said he would be going. He went out, and Rene lifted from the
table the coat she had been pressing. Bill wheeled as the door closed.

"Who was that?" he demanded.

"Jim Harlek. He lives next door to dad----"

"So that's why you asked me to go out and fetch a drink? You expected
him here and thought I was better out of the way. He slunk off when he
saw me. He came here to see you home----"

He shouted his accusations at her, giving her no chance to answer him.
For the moment he was seeing red. All his suspicions were returned,
flaming high. He saw it all. He had been duped, misled, deceived. He
seized her shoulder in a fierce grip.

"So it's Jim Harlek! He came to see you home. Don't deny it. Up here in
your room. That's why you said I was early. You expected him. You sent
me out so's you could warn him I was here. Tit for tat, hey? That's
because you were jealous. Thought you'd pay me out----"

"Bill, you're hurting me!"

"Hurting you! I'll hurt you more. Mine was business. You can't say that
about Jim Harlek. And you said you hadn't done anything like that----"

"Let go!" she cried, wriggling from him; but he pursued her, anger
raging and flushing his face.

"I'll teach you," he cried. "Playing that trick on me."

"What about the trick you played on me? What about Rachel Kohl? What
about the theatres and the dances and the letters you wrote her?"

"That was business, I tell you."

"I don't believe it."

"Maybe you'll say that Jim Harlek came here on business? I'll find out
about you and him. I'll teach you----"

"Let go! Let go!"

She struggled to free herself from his grasp, and the more she
struggled the more he raged at her. The very resistance she made seemed
to his inflamed brain to be proof that she was guilty of deception.
And because he was then incapable of reason he kept up a torrent of
accusation, a cataract of threats and insinuations, the words pouring
from him as he shook her. He beat down the opposition she had at first
shown. He silenced her by the ferocity of his wrath; and then he flung
her into a chair.

"From now on," he cried, wagging a finger at her, "you ain't going out
of my sight. You get your things on and come home. We'll see what your
dad has to say when I tell him. You women all need to be broken in.
I'll break you in. Come on, get on your hat."

She sat white and trembling, but there was a gleam in her eyes that he
had never seen before.

"Get on your hat," he thundered.

She obeyed him, biting her lip. A change had come over her. She no
longer tried to answer him. She put on her hat and coat while he packed
the suit she had pressed. They went downstairs, he carrying his bag and
his suit in a parcel. He was still muttering to himself.

At the street corner she was about to walk towards the main
thoroughfare, but he growled at her:

"Not that way. You're going down to the river."

"But----"

"Shut up and don't answer. I know your game. You'll do as I say, or
I'll make you. Think I don't know what I'm doing? I don't want any
talk. It's me that's seeing you home, not Jim."

"If you let me explain----"

"I don't want explanations. Not yet, I don't. That's enough. Not
another word."

He saw what she was after, did Bill. Once out on the main street, where
the traffic was, he would not be able to handle her. He knew that he
must keep the mastery.

"If you cross me again I'll give you worse than I gave you up in your
room," he growled grimly. "I ain't finished with you yet, Rene. You've
got to know that I'm boss. See?"

She gave a queer little laugh at that; a laugh that stung Bill more
than any accusations or defiance. It spoke to him of contempt, it was a
sneer, a ridicule that cut him to the quick. He dropped his parcel and
struck her, sending her staggering against the wall.

"That'll learn you," he said, glowering at her. "I'll break you in, I
will. Come on, or I'll give you more."

She stood leaning against the wall, panting and holding her cheek. In
her eyes there was a swift gleam that died as he looked at her. She
was at his mercy, and she knew it as well as he.

"Come on," he ordered.

She obeyed without a word of protest.

He kept beside her as they turned down a side street, glancing at her
now and then from under his brows, knowing by her silence that he had
conquered.

Down through dark, narrow passages he marched towards the river bank.
There were few lamps now and the mist from the river thickened the
gloom. Bill welcomed the mist and the darkness. It hid them from
prying eyes and thus made his escape with the stolen loot easier. Rain
came--heavy rain.

Once the shadowy form of a policeman appeared across the street, and
Bill feared that Rene would seek his protection; but she marched on
without taking notice of the policeman if she saw him.

Soon they were in the black regions of the river. The cold damp from
the water came to them in a murky breath. All was silent and black, and
wet. The rain was steaming now.

Bill's eyes tried to pierce the thick atmosphere. He was looking for
the boat and the light that would be fixed at her stern. He moved
across the flagged front of the esplanade, peering intently. And just
then he felt a pair of hands on his back. He was pushed forward. He
could not help himself. He uttered a loud shout--and then stepped into
space.

His bag and parcel flew from his hands as he fell, crashing against
the stones and following him downward. He dropped straight into the
three feet deep ooze that held him as he floundered. He felt himself
sinking as he struggled. The more he struggled the more he sank. The
sticky mud hindered his movements; and as he at last found bottom there
came to his ears the voice of Rene Toler tauntingly:

"If you'd let me explain, Bill Hemsey, you'd have known that Jim Harlek
came with a message from dad to say he couldn't come in the boat
because the tide ain't full yet. I've had enough of you and your lies!
You and your business meetings with Rachel Kohl! You forgot to take her
love-letter out of your pocket when you gave me your suit to press, so
you can go back to your Rachel Kohl, and don't ever come near me or
I'll give you in charge."

And then, as she moved away, a little compassion perhaps stirred her.
She called again.

"But I'll send a cop down to get you out of your mess in the mud. And
if you want to know, I was out with somebody. It was Tommy Conn."

That was the last Bill Hemsey heard of Rene that night; but she kept
her word. Five minutes later a policeman strolled down to see if it was
really true a man had fallen over the "esplanade" into the mud.

He flashed his lantern on Bill Hemsey, still fighting his way ashore;
and the blaze of the lantern showed a burst bag and numerous notes
lying about the quagmire.

Of course this led to inquiry; and inquiry led to a charge; and a
charge led to the Old Bailey.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Governor paused.

His visitor smiled and shrugged his shoulders.

"And the Old Bailey led to the tenth cell?" he said.

The Governor nodded, stroking his chin.

"Bill Hemsey didn't have much of a chance with the jury," he said
dreamily. "Not so much as even the police expected he would have.
Eckhardt, apparently, promised that he would pay for a defence. But he
didn't. Neither he nor Tommy Conn took much interest in Bill Hemsey."

"How was that?"

"In order to understand the full circumstances," replied the Governor,
"you ought to know the story of the next cell's occupant."




            THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE ELEVENTH CELL


"At any rate," said the visitor to the Governor, "there can be no doubt
as to the category in which you will place Bill Hemsey. He does not
appear to have much hope of getting higher than the Illiterates."

"I agree with you. Hemsey belongs to the grade you have mentioned. His
place is fixed for the remainder of his term. His case--so far as his
trial is concerned--reminds me of the biblical injunction not to put
our trust in princes. Eckhardt was certainly one of the chiefs of the
profession he had chosen. He was known among the criminal fraternity as
the Prince of Receivers, though how he came to the title I have never
been able to find out exactly. It may have been because he was rich,
and appeared to be above the law."

The Governor cleared his throat and folded his arms on his chest as he
bent a thoughtful gaze on the carpet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Among the acquaintances of Tommy Conn (he began) was one who was,
to some degree, a man who was his rival in crime. This man's name
was Billiter. The two were rivals, although they worked by different
methods. Conn was a burglar who lifted goods without opening safes;
Billiter was an expert at safe-opening. These different methods
originated in the early training of the men. Conn had never learned a
trade. Billiter had been an engineer and mechanic before he became a
burglar. Each believed his method the safest.

Let us take the case of Conn first, and see where it led him, and how
he came to forget, not only Bill Hemsey, but even Rene Toler, within a
week of Hemsey's arrest.

Tommy Conn was a burglar who possessed resource and was capable of
quick decision. He often said that the last lap on a job was the only
one that counted. Eckhardt, the receiver, had the knowledge of a
connoisseur. Combine these qualities, and you have the most dangerous
union at war with the law.

Conn entered a large house one night--a house in Park Lane--on what was
perhaps the biggest job in his career. He stood in the large gallery
listening for a sound that might betray his presence to the owners of
the valuables he had come to steal. All was quiet save for the distant
and indistinct movement that told him he had timed his visit well.

All was dark in the gallery, but a yellow line showed at the bottom of
the door. Conn stepped over on tiptoe and turned the key in the lock.
Thus he put a barricade between himself and anyone who might try to
enter.

He was not afraid. He was careful. In the cases lined under the massive
pictures on the walls were the valuables he had come to steal. He set
to work at once. The family who possessed the goods were at dinner.

Only once or twice did he use his flashlight, and then he used it to
make sure that he was taking what he had been instructed to take. From
under his coat he produced a small cotton sack half filled with down.
Into this sack he deposited the loot, one article at a time, gently and
with care.

It was easy to insert his jemmy under the lids of the cases and give a
slight upward wrench to the locks. While he did so he covered the locks
with a soft scarf, to deaden the sound of splintering wood. This was
child's play to Conn. Not a single lock gave more than a faint groan
when he gave the twist needed.

There were valuables of all kinds--jewels, gold, pearls, ivory and
onyx, diamonds and rubies. Most of them were set in exquisite form,
paired and graduated in small antiques. There were tiny statuettes,
treasures from the four corners of the world, all of which had been
gathered by past generations and had been handed down as heirlooms;
treasures that were too precious for public museums to buy.

Tommy Conn did not need his flashlight to direct his hand towards the
best of these valuables. The sparkle of the gems guided him. He went
through every case, taking the best; then he stepped towards the door
again, unlocked it, and tiptoed to the window.

He was on the first floor of the house, not a great distance from the
garden. He went out as he had entered, took care to close the window
after him as he hung on to the gutter-pipe that was within easy reach,
and slid down to the ground. He landed on the gravel path and stepped
on the lawn. Across this he sped, and leaped for the top of the wall
that separated the grounds from a side-street. He had to wait a few
moments before the road was clear; a policeman was strolling down
towards the main thoroughfare. When the policeman was gone, Tommy Conn
clambered over without making a noise. He walked round the corner into
the main road and approached a small two-seater car that was drawn up
by the gutter.

The lights of this car streamed down the road. The general traffic was
streaming past it. The policeman who had come down the side-street was
standing not far off. Tommy Conn walked up to the car from the rear,
lifted the luggage grid and deposited his bag of loot in the space
underneath, tipped the loafer who had been watching it for him, and
took his seat.

It was not a new car, but it was a swift one, powerful and capable of
tremendous energy. As he was about to start he saw the policeman's eye
on the car, taking in its proportions. Tommy signalled to the policeman.

"I was told there was a garage up that street," he said, "but I can't
find one. Can you tell me where I may get a supply of petrol? I must
get to Oxford to-night."

"There's a garage at the top of that street, sir," answered the
policeman, "but it's a long way up. A nearer one is straight ahead, ten
minutes' walk from here."

"Thanks, I'll go that way. Good night."

"Good night, sir."

Tommy operated the self-starter, and the car slid forward. He felt the
policeman's eyes on his number-plate at the back of the car. That did
not worry him. The number-plate had been changed before he started on
his job, and the number he showed would take a great deal of tracing.
He forged his way among the moving vehicles and put on a little speed.
The garage to which he had been directed flared at him as he passed it.
He swept up the first turning beyond it, dodged into Oxford Street,
came down through Piccadilly Circus, and headed south. He was bound for
Southampton.

Why did Tommy speak to the policeman? He did it because he had learned
by bitter experience that to take the bull by the horns is safer,
if bolder, than to let the bull take you. The burglary he had just
committed had been done as many of his burglaries had been done--on
commission. He regarded himself as an efficient burglar, just as
a man might regard himself as an efficient plumber, or tailor, or
stockbroker. He worked for clients. In Conn's case, the client for whom
he worked most was Eckhardt. He was working for Eckhardt now, driving
Eckhardt's car, going to the rendezvous on which they had agreed. When
he reached the place he would receive his fee, hand over the car to
another of Eckhardt's servants, have the number-plate changed, and
depart. All clues had been covered, all suspicion could be met, all
inquiries answered.

It was one of the biggest hauls he had ever made. The idea had been
Eckhardt's, the planning of the theft had been Eckhardt's, the loot
would be Eckhardt's--Tommy Conn's percentage was his fee. In this Conn
was cunning. He did the work and let Eckhardt dispose of the proceeds.
Eckhardt was able to do this because he was a dealer in valuable
antiques, with a reputation in America and Europe. It is true that
his reputation was shady, but he was always careful in his deals, and
he knew that in antiques there are always collectors whose love of
possession overtops every other consideration. Watch a salesroom during
an auction of famous treasures and the truth of this will become very
apparent.

At first Tommy Conn had protested to Eckhardt that the risk of breaking
into Lord Calcott's private gallery was too great. It was known in
burglarious circles that a policeman was constantly near the house, day
and night. The mansion had become a kind of point duty, because Lord
Calcott had great influence in political quarters and it was expected
that at his death he would leave many of his valuables to the nation.

To all Conn's objections Eckhardt had a reply. The greatest risk was
in getting away with the loot. Late at night, when the occupants of
the house were asleep, burglar alarms would be working. The obvious
thing to do was to get the goods when the alarms were not fixed up for
the night. The best time to attack the house was when the family were
elsewhere. Dinner! That was the time.

How to get away swiftly? Eckhardt had a car. He offered to lend it to
Conn. The latter had been in the car often enough, and he knew how
to handle it. A burglar in a car was sufficiently uncommon to escape
remark. A burglar who had a car such as Eckhardt's might laugh at any
pursuing taxicab. To disguise the car the number only need be changed,
for it was of a popular make, seen daily in the West End.

For the job Conn was to receive three thousand pounds in notes. These
were to be handed over to him at Southampton, on board a small petrol
yacht-fishing-boat which Eckhardt had hired for the purpose of escape.
This vessel was of the type often let out to amateur yachtsmen at
south coast resorts. In reality, they are converted fishing-craft, but
they have the appearance of stodgy private yachts of heavy beam, and
look worth twice their actual value. Eckhardt was taking one of these
vessels over the Channel to a French port; from there he could get a
ship to America.

The United States was Eckhardt's ultimate destination, because he could
get a big price for his loot in that country. He intended to get a big
price. He had tapped his market already. He had secured an offer for
most of the stolen pieces. Receivers of stolen property have their own
markets.

The master stroke of all Eckhardt's arrangements was that by which
he was able to give Tommy Conn minute instructions and descriptions
of the articles he was to extract. Eckhardt had paid a visit to Lord
Calcott, pretending to act on behalf of a "client" who was prepared to
offer a large sum for a certain medallion. Lord Calcott had politely
declined to sell, valuing his collection as he valued the names of his
ancestors who had brought it under one roof; but, seeing that Eckhardt
knew his business, he permitted him to view the collection for a few
moments. Eckhardt peered into every case, complimented the peer on his
possessions, and left. He had seen enough. A month later he called on
Tommy Conn, and the crime was discussed.

As he drove the small, powerful car through South London on his way to
Southampton, Tommy Conn was under no misapprehension as to the value
of the jewels hidden under the luggage grid behind him. He was able to
appraise and judge such things. He estimated that he was carrying loot
worth at least a hundred thousand pounds.

A lesser man might have been tempted to make the error of keeping
the whole for himself, considering that he was being paid but a
small fraction of the value of his burglary. Conn knew better than
be tempted. For a lone burglar to sell the jewels would be suicidal.
Burglars cannot approach principals in such deals. On the other hand,
to have taken the gems from their settings, to have dug them out of the
gold, and to have melted down the glittering statuettes and ornaments,
would have been to reduce the value to vanishing-point. The truth was
that only one receiver in London was able to take the risk, or had
the facilities to make it worth while assuming the responsibility, of
disposing of them. That receiver was Eckhardt, the dealer in antiques,
who knew every avenue by which treasures could be sold, as he knew the
worth of every piece he saw. After all, thought Tommy Conn, the main
risk was on the shoulders of Eckhardt. When Eckhardt had paid him his
three thousand, the deal was closed so far as he was concerned. He was
safe, too, for Eckhardt dared not give him away. Their partnership
covered too many transactions for one of them to point the finger of
accusation at the other.

Conn kept the car at an easy pace, taking a circuitous route--the
one which had been mapped out by him when he had detailed his plans
to Eckhardt. He went through Bromley, swerved into Croydon, speeded
through Sutton, and passed Epsom at twenty miles an hour. It was just
nine o'clock when he swung up Dorking main street and headed for the
ridge known as the Hog's Back. As far as possible he had avoided the
towns, and had not put on headlights when he was in the country. He
reckoned that, by putting on speed, he would be in Southampton shortly
after midnight.

He was over the Hog's Back and well on his way when he saw, glimmering
faintly in the distance, the lights of an inn. He knew the inn. It
was one used by those discriminating motorists who prefer quiet and
good cooking rather than bustle and feeble imitation of West End
restaurants. He was beginning to feel hungry, and wondered if he might
stop at the inn for a meal. The matter was decided for him as he was
sliding down a slope with his foot on the brake. From immediately
behind him a loud report filled his ears, and almost deafened him for
an instant.

Tommy Conn's nerves were strong, but for an infinitesimal period of
time fear shook him. Presently he smiled. It was not a gun he had
heard. He was not being held up. The report had been one of his tyres
bursting. He jammed the brakes on, and came to a standstill.

When he dismounted, and looked at the rear tyre which had exploded, he
bit his lip. This was no ordinary puncture. The tyre had been cut by a
piece of broken bottle and was embedded in the cover. He pulled it out
and looked at it curiously.

Taking a lamp, he walked back, flashing his light on the ground. Forty
yards from his car he saw a broad band of jagged pieces of glass.
Someone had deliberately laid down broken bottle-glass in the path of
motorists.

Luckily, the inn was not far off. He decided to go there and see if he
could get someone to fix on his spare wheel while he had some supper.
He mounted his seat, and rode to the inn on three tyres and a rim,
taking the car into a wide yard behind the square building.

There was no mechanic on the staff capable of fitting his spare wheel,
so he had to tackle the job himself. To save time, he ordered a meal to
be ready for him in the dining-room. He was jacking up his car when the
landlord came out, carrying a lantern.

"This will help you, sir," he said, putting the lantern down so that
the light fell on the number-plate, which he scanned. "I dassay you'll
be surprised if I said a friend expects to get you here."

Tommy Conn gripped the jack tightly, but kept his head down and his
back to the landlord.

"Expects me? Someone expects me?"

"That's so, sir. I suppose he'll be back for you by the time you've
finished supper."

There was geniality in the man's tone, but Conn was in no mood to
appreciate geniality. He turned with a snarl.

"I suppose it was you that laid a trap of broken beer-bottles on the
hill?" he cried. "I'd have passed your beastly inn but for my tyre
going phut!"

"Beer-bottles, sir? Why, that would be the gentleman who came to look
for you. He was anxious to find you, he was. I'll send a lad up to
clear the glass off the road at once. That's dangerous, sir, that is."

He bustled into the house, and Conn heard him giving directions. Tommy
Conn was no coward, but the landlord's words set his heart leaping. Who
had laid the line of broken beer-bottles on the road? It had been done
with a definite intention. Through his mind there flashed the thought
of the policeman who had stood near his car just after the burglary.
The policeman had seen the number beside the rear lamp. There was time
for them to find out about the burglary and wire outlying stations. Was
it possible----?

His thoughts were disturbed by the return of the landlord. The man was
frowning.

"Who was this gentleman who was looking for me?" demanded Tommy Conn.
"What was he like?"

"Why, I couldn't tell you that, sir, seeing as he kept inside his car
while he spoke to me. He druv up and asked if you had called here."

"How do you know it was me he wanted?"

"Why, sir, he told me the number of your car!"

"What was his name?"

"He didn't give one, sir. Just said it was urgent for him to see you;
and then he asked for half a dozen bottles of beer. He said he'd make
sure of gettin' you, if you hadn't come this length by that time."

"What time was that?"

"Barely half an hour ago. He said you would be on the road somewhere.
He asked me to keep you if he patrolled the road towards Winchester."

"Asked you to keep me, did he?"

"That he did."

"And you intend to do it?"

"Well, sir, he said he'd come back to see if you'd arrived. I fancy
he laid them broken beer-bottles up there to puncture your tyres. He
laughed funny when he bought the beer-bottles, sayin' as how they would
make sure you called here. His joke, maybe; but if other motorists find
it out I'll get into trouble, sure as fate. You can't blame me for the
burst tyre, sir, can you?"

"Oh, no. Is my supper ready?"

The landlord bustled off to inquire. Tommy Conn crouched beside the
wheel, thinking hard. There was only one explanation. The policeman
in London had noted the number of his car. The burglary had been
discovered. The telephone wires had been working. It was the police,
beyond a doubt, who were after him. Who but a policeman would use the
word "patrolled"? It was a local detective who had been sent out to
intercept him. The landlord had been asked to "keep" him. That was a
localism for "detain." And the broken beer-bottles on the road--that
was a mean trick to stop him, a dodge to block his path.

"They haven't got me yet," muttered Conn between his teeth.

He worked feverishly, unscrewing the nuts and bolts. He had the spare
wheel almost fitted when the landlord came back again.

"Your supper's ready, sir. Just come upstairs for a wash first.
Bathroom is first to the right on the landing."

"All right."

"Can I give you a hand?"

"No. Leave me alone. I can manage."

The landlord went indoors--hesitatingly, as it seemed to Tommy Conn.
The latter had made up his mind. He would give them the slip yet. His
car was a fast one. He knew the main roads. The route had been well
planned.

When the wheel was fixed he pushed the car out to the front of the inn,
mounted the seat, and started. He did not look back, though he heard
the landlord calling something after him. The answer Tommy Conn gave to
the shout was to give the car more speed. He whirled out to the main
road and let her go. Speed limits had no terrors for him now.

He had not covered a mile when he was aware that another car was
rushing towards him. There were no headlights on his approaching car,
but the lamps gleamed brightly--too brightly. Conn glanced at his
speedometer. He was going at thirty miles per hour. He opened up, and
saw the indicator move to thirty-five, then forty, then fifty. More
than that he dared not venture on the dark road, which was not wide.

As the two cars came near each other Tommy Conn saw a head pushed out
of the window behind the driver. He smiled to himself. It was a hired
car of the taxicab type--just the kind of car the police used. He had a
glimpse of a white face and waving arms thrust out from the window. A
voice roared something at him. He did not heed. In a flash and a roar
he was past and away.

He sat grimly at the wheel for several miles. He whirled past cottages
by the roadside. He saw a policeman's lamp in the middle of the road
ahead. This was one of the famous spots where the police had a trap. He
took no notice of the warning winking of the policeman's flashlamp. He
hurled his car at the darkness. The policeman leaped aside just in time.

Through more than one village he swept, reducing his speed only
at corners. When he was on the stretch he let the car go at her
utmost--faster than an express train. Once he was compelled to stop
altogether. He had reached a level crossing, and the gates were against
him. He sat in the panting car grinding his teeth. Minute after minute
passed. He rose and looked back. A car was coming on his heels. He
recognised the lamps as those of the car he had already passed. The
driver had turned and was chasing him.

The desperate resolve to charge the gates of the level crossing was
in Conn's mind when he heard the rumble of a train. It came sweeping
round the bend and roared between the gates. Conn glanced behind once
more. The pursuing car was within a hundred yards of him. He pressed
his hand on his hooter, to stir the signalman in the box above him. The
signalman looked out, saw him, waved his hand, and nodded. A moment
later the level-crossing gates began to move. Conn's car was moving as
soon as the gates.

He had bumped over the railroad track and was gathering speed when he
heard a voice shouting to him. The cry came indistinctly above the
running of his engine:

"Stop! Conn! Stop!"

Tommy did not even turn his head. Was it likely that he would allow
himself to be arrested when there was still a chance of escape?

The two-seater bounded forward into the night. Only once did Tommy
Conn glance behind. He saw the car still pursuing him, but he was
gaining ground slowly. He had underestimated the going power of the
taxicab behind. It hung on to his trail doggedly, its hooter constantly
sounding a call to him to stop.

Tommy Conn realised that he must do more than run away from his
pursuer. The lights of Winchester were in the distance, but he dared
not fly through the town. For all he knew there might be other cars
there ready to block his path, or to take up the chase. He resolved to
skirt the city, keeping to the open roads. His task now became one not
only of straight running flight. He had to employ cunning as well as
fleetness.

First he put on as much speed as the car was capable of. This had to
be done carefully, for the night was dark. He was constantly switching
his lights on and off. He turned up side-roads which were strange to
him. He took chances that no ordinary driver would have taken. He had
to take them. There was no alternative save the arrest that was on his
heels.

In one of these side-roads he was almost shaken out of his seat. The
car bumped over large rocks, over mounds of earth. A flash of his
headlights told him that he had run into a new road; about him were
heaps of stones, barrels containing tar, and mounds of gravel. He
glanced over his shoulder--cautiously this time. The car was still
pursuing, but it was some distance away. Now was the time for a final
act. Tommy Conn drew his car into the hedge, switched out the lights,
and dismounted.

He went round and put out the tail-light. He stopped his engine. The
darkness around him was intense. His car was almost hidden by a high
line of bushes. He gritted his teeth and ran towards a pile of stones
and rubble.

There was murder in Tommy Conn's brain at that moment. It was his only
chance of getting a fresh start. He had but one thought, and that was
to escape arrest. If only he could gain Eckhardt's yacht at Southampton
he would be free. Eckhardt and he were going over to France together.
The idea had been that Conn would return to London as soon as he
received his fee; now he saw that he must do something which would keep
him away from London. He did not mind that. With three thousand pounds
he could get along in a foreign country.

Besides, it was either his freedom or--this arrest, this pursuing fate
that was driving him to desperation. The police had always been his
foes. He did not hesitate.

He rolled a barrel of tar into the centre of the roadway. He lifted
large blocks of stones, intended to line the edge of the footpath, and
dragged them over also. He threw boulders beside them. Already he had
piled a heap beside the barrel when he heard the hum of the car. It was
turning into the new roadway.

Tommy Conn ran back to the cover of his hedge. He crouched there while
the pursuing car came up the road at thirty miles an hour. He heard the
driver loosen up to a greater speed. Then he heard the shock.

It was like the explosion of a bomb. What damage was done Conn could
not guess. He did not care. He heard the crash, listened to the
splintering of glass and wood, the sudden scream of bursting metal,
heard the report of the engine, and saw a tongue of flame shoot up into
the air. Simultaneously with the explosion, flames burst out around the
doomed vehicle.

Tommy Conn was in the seat of his own car by this time. He was gone by
the time the tumult died down. Looking back, he saw a figure outlined
against the furnace; then he turned his head, grinning to himself. He
had checked his pursuers decisively. He did not look back any more.

Less than an hour later he drove steadily, and well within the
speed limit, into Southampton. Dawn was coming. He had changed the
number-plate of his car again, and now it bore the proper registration.
He garaged the car in town, giving the name of Eckhardt for the
receipt, took his sack of loot from its hiding-place, and walked
towards the docks.

Had the car belonged to him, Tommy Conn would have plunged it into
the sea, or sunk it in a river, so that all traces of it would have
been lost. In garaging it he was not risking himself. His brain was
one divided into two compartments. In one he thought of what he was
receiving; in the other of what he was giving. He had agreed to accept
his fee for the burglary. The risk of the chase was not included in the
bargain, therefore the risk lay with Eckhardt. It was up to Eckhardt to
instruct the man he had engaged for the return journey how to get the
car back to London. Since Conn was delivering the goods as promised, he
had carried out his part of the agreement. Eckhardt never gave anything
for nothing. Why should he?

He found the boat lying near the steps of one of the docks, as he had
expected, and he went on board. A seaman was swabbing the deck. He
saluted Conn.

"You're the gentleman from London we're waiting for, I suppose," he
said. "I'm ready to move as soon as Mr. Eckhardt gets the clearance
papers."

"He can get them as quick as he likes for me," replied Conn with a
smile. "I'm dog-tired. Show me where I can sleep."

He was given a small, poky cabin, along one side of which was a berth.
He shut the door, put his sack on a table, and turned in at once.

He woke with the sunlight streaming through the porthole. He was
conscious that he was not alone. A man was standing by his bunk.

"Sorry to wake you, but I came to inquire about the garaging of Mr.
Eckhardt's car."

"All right, I know. What time is it? Nearly midday. I'll give you the
receipt for the car. You're the one to take it back to London for
Eckhardt, aren't you?"

The man took the receipt, and was looking at it as Conn climbed to the
floor, stifling a yawn.

"I'll give you a tip, mate," Conn said suddenly. "Be careful on the
return. I had a rough trip down, but I beat 'em."

"Beat who?"

"The cops. Oh, I'm not going back to London for a bit, I tell you.
They laid broken beer-bottles on the road to stop me. One tyre was
punctured, but I put on the spare wheel and got away. Then they chased
me, so I built a pile of rock in the middle of the road, and their car
charged it and blew up. We'd better get away. Isn't this boat moving
yet?"

"What's all the stuff in the sack?" asked the other.

"That's the loot for Eckhardt----"

Tommy Conn stopped and peered into the face of the stranger. Something
in the man's eyes glimmered.

"What's it got to do with you?" he challenged.

"A lot. I am a police officer."

Conn gasped, and fell back a pace.

"Where's Eckhardt?" he cried. "Has he squealed?"

"No, Eckhardt didn't squeal. But what you've just told me links things
up."

"Links what up?"

"A few things that puzzled me. Last night I called here to request
Eckhardt to come to the police station. We knew he had hired this boat.
Instead of calling, he went ashore and hired a car to go inland. And
then, when we found his own car garaged this morning----"

"He's bolted! Saved his own skin!"

"Well, he tried to save yours, evidently. The driver of the car
Eckhardt hired tells me it was Eckhardt who strewed the broken bottles
on the road."

"What's this?" demanded Conn hoarsely.

"The driver of the car has made a statement. He says Eckhardt was
chasing his own car, trying to stop it from coming down. He must have
been frightened by the request to call at the police station. He kept
following his own car until they ran into the obstruction. Luckily the
driver wasn't hurt, but Eckhardt was inside the vehicle and hadn't a
chance. He was killed. As you've stated that you drove that car, you'll
be charged with the affair. Your name is Cohen, isn't it?"

"My name is Conn," gasped that individual. "I didn't guess--tell me,
what were you charging Eckhardt with?"

"We weren't charging him with anything," replied the officer. "We
merely wanted him to sign the clearance papers to let this boat sail.
Hold out your wrists. I advise you not to say anything until I have
gone through this sack and examined the contents."

       *       *       *       *       *

"And that," said the Governor, "was the reason Tommy Conn and Eckhardt
were unable to help in the defence of Bill Hemsey, as it was also the
reason for the sudden and desirable termination of the rivalry between
Conn and his friend Billiter, the clever criminal who boasted that he
always erected a perfect defence. Each, as I have said, was of the
opinion that his own particular method was the best. Alas, is there
ever a best in crime?"

"Billiter seems to have proved it," said the visitor with a smile.

"And yet," replied the Governor, "there is an answer to your theory
even there. The answer will be found in the twelfth cell in the row.
I have Joseph Billiter under lock and key at this moment, and I shall
tell you at once how he arrived at that position."




             THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE TWELFTH CELL


I have already decided (continued the Governor), and I think you will
agree with me, that Conn's place is among the Intelligents. But I am
going to put Joseph Billiter into the class above that. He is certainly
one of the Intellectuals. I have more than one reason for coming to
this decision.

Joseph Billiter was a student at one time at a public school. He was
intended by his parents for one of the professions, but his whole
inclinations were in the direction of engineering and mechanics. He
went to one of the big universities, took honours in his examinations,
and then came to London to seek a career. He became a teacher in a
school demonstrating the sciences. At one of his lectures he stated
that it was possible to defy any apparatus that civilisation had ever
erected, or could erect, to protect itself against criminals.

That lecture was widely quoted and commented upon. The result was that
one of the biggest firms of safe-makers in the country offered to stake
a certain sum of money that it was impossible to enter one of their
safes within a given space of time. Frankly, I believe the offer was
made in order to calm the unrest that had been caused in financial
circles by Billiter's declaration. It was felt that his remarks might
tempt the criminal fraternity to increase their activities, and,
in any case, it was stated over more than one conference-table that
Billiter had been most indiscreet in telling openly what had been
feared privately. Really the blame, perhaps, ought to have been put on
the newspapers who gave prominence to his challenge; but these things
are so complicated, and their threads run under and about so many
interests, that it is difficult to trace blame, or to define what a man
may or may not declare.

Briefly, then, it was admitted in inner circles that if what Joseph
Billiter had said was true, it would be a bad thing for the safe-making
industry; and, on the other hand, the safe-makers would not sit down
to such a challenge, which meant loss of business and lack of faith
in their wares. You observe how commerce is delicately balanced, and
how even a lecture may cause a flutter in finance! At this stage the
newspaper which had given most prominence to the lecture conceived
the idea of staging a test. It was a great idea that came to the news
editor of the journal in question. He was not a rich man.

The safe-makers were approached. Joseph Billiter was approached. The
test was arranged, but there was one condition imposed by all the
clients of the safe-makers. These clients included firms on the Stock
Exchange, jewellers in the West End, even banks in the city. They
combined in protesting against the test unless it was made in secret.
After many discussions this was agreed to. And all the readers of the
newspaper ever heard of the affair, in spite of their optimism and
their hope of seeing photographs of the scientist at work as a burglar,
was a small paragraph which stated that the test had taken place and
that its results were "satisfactory."

The truth was that its results were satisfactory to only one of the
parties. That one was Joseph Billiter. He had cut through the strongest
safe made as if it were cheese.

How had he done this? you may ask. Simply enough. It is a scientific
fact that any safe made by heat can be destroyed by a greater heat. And
after he had bored his way into that safe he gave the small company
another lecture, in which he made one admission. It was to the effect
that the only place that was burglar-proof was a specially built bank
vault, and then it beat the average burglar because it had several
doors and an outside gate, and to get through these required time.
In reality, it was time that beat the criminal, not the actual vault
itself.

Now, the safe-breaker is certainly the most efficient of all criminals.
One cannot be a safe-breaker unless one possesses patience, ingenuity,
knowledge. Billiter demonstrated several methods. He used a powerful
electric drill, operating it by tapping the cable in the building and
showing how a modern burglar could thus add insult to injury if he knew
his business. Then he used an oxy-acetylene burner. These burners give
an intensity of heat of 3,000 degrees Centigrade--sufficient to cut
through the hardest steel as if it were butter. The drawback to this
method is the transportation of the oxygen and acetylene cylinders
needed.

There was, again, the dynamite and nitro-glycerine method which he
showed, and he gave the spectators much information that was new even
to the police, representatives of whom were also present. He showed
how, by boiling several sticks of dynamite for a certain time, the
"grease," as it is called in the profession, is prepared. This "grease"
is actually the stuff used so that there will not be too much noise. It
can be carried to the scene of operation in a bottle, and, after a hole
is drilled in the safe, it is filled with this "grease," covered with
soap, and a fuse is inserted.

Joseph Billiter's demonstrations were very conclusive, and proved what
the police have known for many years, namely, that the safe-breaker is
the very top-notch man of crime. But success went to his head. He was
still young, and he was very conceited, while he was very able. We do
not know exactly what incident proved the downfall of Billiter. I fancy
it was a woman, or women. It may have been wine, but that was not his
failing originally. I seem to remember that he got tied up with a fast
set up West, a set that frequented night-clubs and cabaret dancers'
haunts. At any rate, he was discharged from his post. He did not get
another.

For a time he disappeared from this country. It was said that he went
to America; but one thing is certain; when he was next heard of he had
turned crook. It is more than likely that he adopted this profession
when he was abroad, for he felt very bitter at his discharge, and
constantly declared that if Society would not give him the opportunity
to live he would have his revenge--a sort of Bolshevik theory of
injustice and injury turned to rebellion.

There were several safes burgled in and around London that caused
the police to suspect a master craftsman such as he could be. He was
shadowed, watched, suspected, but he was never caught red-handed. He
always had an alibi, always a perfect defence. But everything pointed
to suspicion of him. He married a girl who lived with crooks long
before he became a criminal--that is, lived among them and knew their
ways and their works. She was one of his assets.

Carney, the detective whose duty it was to investigate these
burglaries, was convinced that they were the work of Billiter and no
other. This belief almost became an obsession. He tried time after time
to catch Billiter. He had him questioned; he questioned the people who
supported his alibis; he kept on his trail; but he was always defeated.
Billiter never seemed to make a mistake.

One evening Billiter went out on what he anticipated would be one of
his best raids. It was a jeweller's shop within a hundred yards of
Charing Cross. To see how he worked, let us observe him coming up from
the cellar where the safe of his firm was kept.

The job had been done, and Joseph Billiter crept up the stone steps.
The goods he had stolen were in his pockets and in the special belt
strapped round his waist. He had placed over a hundred gold watches in
this belt, in little compartments, every one worth a considerable sum,
for he never took cheap goods. In his pockets were pearls, pendants,
rings, brooches, necklaces. Taking him as he stood he was, at that
moment, worth a few thousands of pounds sterling.

He closed the trap-door gently, and, stooping low, crossed the shop
floor and made his way upstairs to the next storey. All was dark here.
The single light which cast a dim glow through the shop on the ground
floor had been his one danger, for from the street it was just possible
that an inquiring policeman might peer through the slit in the iron
shutter at exactly the moment Joseph was to be seen. Yet, even then, he
would not have identified Billiter; but he would have raised an alarm.
This passage from the cellar trap-door to the stairs leading aloft was
the one risk Billiter faced.

As will be understood, the opening of the safe was not, to such an
expert craftsman as himself, a real risk. He had made no noise, and he
wore rubber gloves, which were thin and did not hamper his fingers
as ordinary gloves might. There was also another advantage of rubber
gloves. Some of the owners of safes had lately taken to leaving live
electric wires in positions so that a burglar might be tempted to grasp
them, and get shocks that would throw him into a state of panic. It
would not, of course, kill him; but to a man like Billiter all these
things were child's play. He knew how to evade such traps as well as
the best.

Having negotiated the space between the cellar and the staircase,
Billiter had still much farther to go. He never rushed. Standing in
the darkness that enveloped the upper showroom and the offices of the
firm, he listened intently. From the Strand came the distinct hum of
taxicabs and the occasional scream of their hooters. The buses were
thundering past. In a short time the streets would be crammed with the
crowds coming from the theatres, and, by joining these crowds, Billiter
had planned to make his escape without observation. For the present
he was not merely listening to the traffic. He was anxious to hear if
the policeman on the beat had seen him as he crossed the ground floor
downstairs.

He thought he had heard a footstep under the back window. He tiptoed
over to the window-sill and peered down obliquely. Yes, there was
someone underneath. Had the policeman been watching? He prepared for
flight.

Billiter was not afraid that he had been recognised, for he still wore
the mask he had donned when he entered the premises. Nor was he afraid
of being caught. His entrance had been by a way that was anything but
direct. An ordinary burglar would have come into the shop by the back
door, or by the side window. A very daring one might have bored his
way through the wall from the premises next door, which were under
repair at the time. But Joseph Billiter was not an ordinary burglar,
even if he was a daring one. He had come to the store by a circuitous
route, and he was making his exit the same way--a route that proved his
superiority over usual methods.

It was because he had entered in this round-about fashion that he did
not fear capture. A policeman, seeing an intruder, would go to the back
door; he would call a colleague or two, and they would block likely
exits before they entered to search. But by that time Billiter would be
gone, without leaving a single clue for them to follow.

He moved back from the window and noiselessly opened a door that led
to the top floor. He closed the door after him, locking it with one of
his skeleton keys. He went up the narrow staircase without a sound. He
was now in the workshop of the store, a small apartment in which were
several benches, polishing wheels, and racks littered with the repair
jobs of the firm. This room was really an attic, with one dormer window
leading to the tiles. Billiter had left the dormer window open when he
entered. He now made his exit by it, and pulled it down slowly as he
lay with his feet braced against the coping-stone.

He crawled for some distance along the coping on his hands and knees
until he reached a flat roof, in the middle of which a square glass
studio was built. He was now two doors away from the jewellery shop.
Once more his long skeleton key went to work in the lock of the door.
He slipped into the studio, once more locking the door behind him.

He knew quite well where he was; he had studied every yard of the
way he had travelled. He was just about to leave the studio by going
downstairs when he stopped and drew back. Someone was coming up.

He retreated behind a large piece of furniture and pulled a small
revolver from his pocket. He had never used his gun on any of his
burglarious expeditions, but he always carried it, nevertheless. He did
not want to kill; but a gun was always handy to intimidate, to menace,
to scare. He told himself that all he needed to do was to put the fear
of death into whomsoever was coming up to the room, manœuvre towards
the door, and dash out, locking it from the outside. It was a simple
enough plan; such a one had served him previously. As he crouched
behind the furniture the opposite door of the studio opened, there was
a faint "click," and the room was flooded with light.

"Put out that light!"

Billiter's order whipped across the apartment like the crack of a whip.
By the door stood a man in his shirt-sleeves, his hands wet, as if he
had been washing them. Billiter slid from behind the piece of furniture.

He knew the room quite well. He saw around the shelves were several
bottles and jars; pictures were hung on the walls, large and small
photographs. From the centre of the ceiling a large, powerful arc lamp
was suspended, but this was not the light that was illuminating the
studio. The arc lamp was controlled by a hanging pear-switch, the other
by a switch on the wall next the door.

The man in the shirt-sleeves was standing on the threshold, startled
and hesitating. The sight of a masked burglar had, for the moment,
unnerved him.

"Put out that light!"

This time Billiter's revolver was raised. The man obeyed instinctively,
without a word; and as the light was extinguished another bored a small
circle through the darkness and fell on the figure by the door. This
second light came from an electric torch which Billiter held in his
left hand.

"What are you doing here?" demanded the man at the door. "This
studio----"

"Cut that out! Step over here and I won't harm you!"

Billiter jerked his torch in the direction he wished the man to walk;
but just then the other seemed to overcome his surprise and fright.
He stooped, and raised the first thing that came to his hand and
threw it with all his force at the gleaming torch. What he threw was
inoffensive enough. It was a cushion taken from a chair near the door;
but it caught Billiter full in the face, making him drop his torch and
bringing an oath to his lips.

"Don't move!" he cried swiftly. "If you make a step I'll shoot!"

The warning halted the man by the door. He did not see, in the gloom,
that his missile had torn the mask from Billiter's face just then; but
he saw it a moment later, when Billiter stooped to regain his torch,
the light of which, as he lifted it, suddenly flashed across his
features.

"Stand away from that door!" roared Billiter harshly.

As he spoke he threw the torchlight full on the man once more, jerking
it commandingly. He did not want to shoot, angry though he was. He knew
the consequences of shooting, and he shrank from murder; besides, the
noise of the shot might disturb others. Billiter was playing his game
of bluff, of menace, confidently. He saw, by the changing expression on
the man's face, that his mind was a prey to swift and changing emotions
and ideas. But Billiter held the winning hand. If it came to a fight,
he could always shoot; but he would shoot only to frighten.

The man moved hesitatingly from the doorway. Billiter took a step
towards it. It was like a game of draughts, each man taking a step,
cat-like, watching his opponent, the one gliding towards the interior
of the apartment, the other towards the exit.

Suddenly the man seemed to lose his nerve, and ran forward to hide
behind the heavy piece of furniture which was placed, easel-like, under
the hanging arc lamp, and was covered by a dust sheet. Billiter knew
then that he had won. The man was scared stiff. But a scared man may
be dangerous, and as Billiter threw his torchlight on the spot he saw
the man's hand go up as if to reach the pear-switch. Billiter aimed and
fired at the hand.

There was a smash of glass, a cry as one of the bottles on a distant
shelf crashed down, and then a blinding flash filled the room. The
glare made Billiter's eyes sting. He could no longer see things, but he
dashed for the door, switching out his torch. He reached the door and
closed it at his heels, and turned the key in the lock. Then he stood
blinking in the darkness of the landing.

"Some of his blinking chemicals," he muttered. "I hit his hand too.
That will be a lesson to him not to try tricks. One thing, he never saw
me properly, so he can't identify me."

He went down the stairs, confident still, his eyes a little misty, but
they soon cleared and he was able to see normally. He no longer feared
pursuit, since he had locked the door behind him. He reached the ground
floor, put his mask in his pocket, and went out.

A few minutes later he was in the Strand, one of the crowd that was
moving along. He was safe. All he had to do now was to present an alibi
with which to face the police.

He knew they would make inquiries. He knew Carney would come to see
him, as he always came. The same old things would be said, the same old
questions asked and answered. He had begun to laugh at the suspicions
the police had of him. He had grown used to being suspected. But
suspicion is one thing and evidence is another. He never gave them
evidence.

In this case he had worked with his usual caution and luck. He
reflected, as he walked along, that he had just fired the shot in
time. The intruder had hoped to throw his big light on him; perhaps he
had intended to attack as soon as the studio was lit up. The shot had
prevented this, as it had also prevented any chance of his own identity
being discovered.

It had taken Billiter some time to work out this burglary. First he had
observed the position of the store. He had never dreamed of entering it
by its own doorways. He had observed the premises on either side. One
was a small teashop of the kind that provides light suppers and quick
lunches. It remained open until after the theatres closed, so that
entrance could not possibly be made that way.

Billiter found his means on the other side of the store. Next door
to the jeweller's was a sweet-shop, with offices above. Next the
sweet-shop was an outfitter's, occupying two floors. The third floor
was used as a photographic studio--one of the kind where passport
portraits are turned out in a hurry. Because this studio was erected on
a flat roof Billiter chose it as his line of advance.

He had visited the place to get information, as he pretended, about
prices; but as he held the assistant in conversation his eyes were on
the flat roof beyond the glass studio. He found out when the premises
closed at night. Then he made his raid.

The appearance of the photographer just when Billiter was making his
escape was but one of the incidents that could not have been foreseen,
a risk that had always to be taken; and it was because he was aware
of such unexpected possibilities that Billiter carried his revolver.
Without it he would have no advantage over an antagonist--a fatal
condition for one whose great problem was always escape.

Billiter did not loiter in the Strand. He mounted a bus at Aldwych and
rode on the top eastwards. Just beyond the limits of the City proper
he got off, and hurried to the destination where he desired to dispose
of his loot--the house of a receiver of stolen property. A price was
offered and accepted, and Billiter received the hard cash he wanted.
He knew that in a few hours the jewellery would be dissected, the gold
would be in the melting-pot, and all traces would have vanished.

Having thus dealt with the proceeds of the robbery, the next step
was to provide an alibi with which to face the police, and especially
Carney, the man-hunter whom Billiter hated (and perhaps feared a little
too) more than any other. You see, Carney, if not brilliant, was
dogged. He had looked up Billiter's career, and knew his descent, step
by step. That descent was curious, for not only had Billiter adopted
the manner of criminals; he had adopted the speech of the ordinary East
End crook, whose mentality he despised and whose habits he loathed.
Indeed, it appeared that he was not only at war with Society, but was
also annoyed at his own failings and weaknesses.

In the present instance he had taken Carney into his calculations as
usual, and had made provision for the detective's moves. He found
everything set as he anticipated when he reached home, which he entered
just before midnight. His wife was preparing a late supper, and in the
mean sitting-room were several acquaintances. They greeted his arrival
with eagerness.

"Everything all right?" asked his wife, a heavy-featured woman who had
once been pretty.

"Yes. What was the show like?"

"Fair. We're newly home. Supper's ready."

As they ate the meal, Billiter handed money to each. It was their pay,
for they worked to his plans, ready to swear an alibi when asked.

When his guests had gone, Billiter hid his tools and most of the money
under the floorboards. His wife watched him curiously.

"Sure everything's right, Joe?"

"What's frightening you?"

"Carney. The last time he was here he said he'd get you. He said you'd
make a mistake some time."

"Aw, Carney couldn't get me, nor anybody else, with the defence I've
raised. Ain't we able to put forward plenty of witnesses? He wasn't
on duty last night. I know his hours. Give me that half-ticket of the
show."

She handed over the torn portion of the entrance ticket to the theatre,
which she had retained. He put it into his waistcoat pocket.

"Ain't that proof?" he grinned. "Carney can't get over that. I'm going
to bed. If he comes at all, he won't come before morning."

His knowledge of police routine was sound; they had just finished
breakfast, and Billiter was reading a newspaper, when a knock sounded
on the door. Joseph glanced at his wife knowingly.

"Let him in. I'll bet it's Carney."

It was Carney, and with him was another man in plain clothes. They
entered quietly, and Carney sat down on a chair facing Billiter.

"There was a burglary in the Strand last night," he announced quietly.

"I was just beginning to read about it in the paper," answered
Billiter, glowering. "Go on, get the questions over. I know you've
come to try to pin it on me."

"It looks like your work, Billiter."

"Aw, you've said that before about other things. It makes me tired. I
suppose the cop on the beat saw a man, and you jumped to it that it was
me, same as you have done before? And then I've to show you that it
couldn't have been me. You've got a down on me, Carney, that's what."

"The burglar last night got away with a lot of stuff," went on
Carney, taking no notice of the indignation of Billiter. "He entered
a jewellery store by crawling along the roof. As for the policeman on
the beat, he didn't see anybody. But the burglar got clear away after
shooting at a man who tried to stop him."

"Humph!"

Billiter was as cool as usual. He suppressed a smile. He had asked the
question about the policeman on the beat as a feeler; he wanted to make
sure if he had really been seen, or if he himself had guessed right in
regard to the figure under the window in the yard. The answer relieved
him immensely. He now knew that the figure under the window must have
been that of the worker coming up to the studio.

He folded the newspaper on his knees and faced Carney.

"Well? Spit it out. You've been after me long enough."

"I've always hoped to get you--you and your friends."

"Keep on hoping, then."

It was a jeer, but they knew each other well enough to dispense with
formalities. The duel had begun again.

Carney was a big man, heavy and rotund--a contrast to Billiter, who was
wiry and agile. The detective seemed too deliberate for Billiter. He
was on edge to get Carney away; he wanted to hurry the examination.

"Have you come to prove that I did it?" he demanded.

"Can you prove that you didn't?"

"You bet. I'll give you an alibi that'll satisfy any magistrate."

"In that case you will be able to tell me where you were between the
hours of nine and eleven last evening. I'd like a statement."

He made a motion to the plain-clothes man beside him, and the latter
prepared to write in his note-book. Billiter felt amused. He had
seen the same performance on previous occasions. It was always the
same--questions and answers, then inquiries to prove the statements,
and after that nothing happened. This time Billiter did not wait for
the questions. He brought the torn theatre ticket from his waistcoat
pocket and threw it on the table.

"That'll tell you where I was."

Carney looked at the ticket, examining it thoughtfully.

"You were at this theatre?"

"That's what I'm telling you. Some friends were with me. I'll give you
their names, if you like."

"We'll take them down right away."

The plain-clothes man wrote the names and addresses down as Billiter
gave them. The latter's wife stood behind the writer, biting her lip
as she watched his pencil glide across the paper. Carney looked up and
caught her eye.

"Were you with your husband at the theatre?" he asked.

"Yes," she snapped.

Carney rubbed his chin thoughtfully, then turned to his colleague.

"Better go along to these people right away and take their statements
and signatures. Mrs. Billiter will go with you to direct you. And
notify them to come to the station before midday."

"Going to question them there?" snarled Billiter bitterly. "Maybe
you'll want their finger-prints too. You officials give me a pain."

He pulled out his pipe and began to fill it from a tobacco-jar held
between his knees. His wife and the plain-clothes officer departed
as he was striking a match. The first puff of smoke had just escaped
Billiter's lips when Carney rose to his feet.

"And now," he said, "I think you'd better be coming along."

"Where to?"

"The station."

"Same old routine, Carney. I know all about it. I go there, and you
write out a long rigmarole, and I sign. And then I walk out until the
next time you get a hunch----"

"Not this time, Billiter. You won't walk out this time."

Billiter threw his match down with a gesture of protest.

"You can't detain me," he cried. "You haven't got a charge, and I've
given you a perfect alibi."

"The alibi doesn't work on this occasion, Billiter. It is too perfect.
Listen to me. The photographer's assistant who came back to the studio
to develop some prints has given us a statement. The burglar tried
to keep the studio in darkness so as to escape, but as he was making
for the door he passed the screen usually used for portraits, and the
assistant reached for the hanging switch that controls the camera."

"Well?" cried Billiter.

"The result was that a flashlight picture of the room was taken, and we
have a portrait of the burglar with his mask down about his neck. Here
it is."

He threw on the table a large print, in which Joseph Billiter was shown
in the very act of firing his revolver.

"As for the alibi your friends helped you to make up," went on Carney,
"I expected that defence, as usual, from you, but I'll rope them in on
a charge of making false declarations. Now will you come quietly?"

"I'll come," said Billiter hoarsely. "You've got me at last, Carney."

And Carney marched him off.

       *       *       *       *       *

The Governor paused, and glanced at his visitor.

"I daresay," he remarked, "you have noticed how events of importance
sometimes have a way of treading on each other's heels, so to speak.
It was while he was making arrangements at the police station for the
disposal of Joseph Billiter that Carney came into touch with the last
case that interested the celebrated Dr. Caffyn, criminologist and
pathologist. It was he who had so often advanced his theory of a cure
for murder----"

"A cure?" interrupted the visitor.

"That is what Dr. Caffyn called it. A case had just cropped up that
enabled him to apply his tests finally in front of Carney, who, as
you know, was opposed to theories. It was a curious case, and baffled
investigators greatly."

"Did Dr. Caffyn find a cure?" asked the visitor scornfully.

"The best way to answer that question is to show you how Dr. Caffyn
arrived at the answer; and this I intend to do right away."




           THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE THIRTEENTH CELL


Having refreshed himself from the glass at his elbow, the Governor
then began the story of the occupant of the thirteenth cell, while his
visitor, beyond a glance at the clock, made no attempt to interrupt.
The fact was that the visitor found this eccentric prison official very
entertaining.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is no doubt (said the Governor) that, of all crimes, murder is
at once the most interesting and the most repellent. On the average we
have about one hundred and fifty every year in Britain, and, though
this may seem a large number, it is small compared with the record of
some American cities--Chicago, for instance--where the average is about
one per day. We are also in the happier position, if you will allow
me to say so--I speak from the point of view of a representative of
the law--of having a much smaller number of murders unsolved. Indeed,
there are very few in Britain that have not been brought home to the
culprits----

"I could name a few," cried the visitor triumphantly. "Since the year
1912 there has been a growing list of undiscovered killers, and most of
them were killers of women. Take the case, in 1919, of Mrs. Ridgley,
of Hitchin; of Miss Nellie Rault, at Bedford, a few months later; of
Nurse Shore in a Hastings train the following year; of Mrs. Buxton,
at Chelsea, shortly afterwards; of Henrietta Weightman, at Bushey, in
1921; of Miss Lawn, at Cambridge, and Violet Mansfield, at Farnham,
both the same year; and there are others--Mrs. Luard, at Sevenoaks;
Emily Dimmock at Camden Town, Lily Templeton at Brixton, a child named
Bailes at the Elephant and Castle, the boy Willie Starchfield. There's
a list to go on with."

I realise (replied the Governor) that you have taken great interest in
those crimes to have them so glibly on your tongue, but it may be that
there were exceptional circumstances at work in those instances which
you do not take into account. I do not claim that the police, and the
law, are always flawless and that they are without failure. But what
have you proved? That out of, say one hundred and fifty, one person
has succeeded in escaping. I think you have even here over-estimated
the chances of escape, slender though they are on your own showing;
but if I were to give you proof of this I might incur the penalty of
infringing the Act which binds Governors, as well as the humblest of
prison staffs, to secrecy in certain matters. I am not saying that such
an Act is good, or that it is bad. I am a servant and carry out my
orders.

As for those who have escaped, I could mention a dozen for your one
of those who, by all the laws of chance and calculation, ought to
have escaped, but did not. The man Bennett, who murdered his wife on
Yarmouth sands a score or so years ago, was convicted because of a
gold chain which he gave away to a girl in a moment of forgetfulness.
Bodart, the Frenchman, who murdered a widow, was discovered because of
the grease spot on his clothes, the dripping of a candle. The finding
of a few brads was the cause of the conviction of a boot repairer named
Lafargue, who murdered Madame du Bois. The famous Professor Webster
was sent to the scaffold because he forgot that, while he might burn
to ashes the body of his victim, Dr. Parkman, the latter's false teeth
were made of a composition that resisted fire. Wainwright made a
similar mistake when he tried to destroy traces of a murder by covering
the body with chloride of lime, which preserves and does not destroy.
The man who shot Mrs. Breaks at Blackpool had filed off the maker's
name from the outside plate of the revolver, but did not know that the
name was also printed on the backbone inside. A child's claim to the
ownership of a toy lantern was the cause of Fowler being hanged for the
Muswell Hill crime. In Buckinghamshire a cobweb on a man's shoulder
took him to the condemned cell.

And what shall we say of those would-be assassins who, though they have
thought out their schemes, have either erred at the crucial moment, or
have been caught by a simple, unforeseen circumstance? I could tell
you of cases wherein it might seem that the intended victims have a
charm against violent deaths. The present King of Spain, who has come
to London quite often, has a private collection of relics of incidents
where he was saved from the assassin's murderous intent. Many monarchs
have likewise escaped. Only recently we have had the most prominent man
of Italy telling his friends, after an attempt on his life, that it was
useless for enemies to try to kill him. What a faith!

All this, of course, leads us back to the primary question: Why do men
commit murder? It was this question that Dr. Caffyn had considered for
many years. As a matter of fact, Dr. Caffyn was writing a treatise on
the subject when the ringing of his telephone bell interrupted his
labours. Detective Carney was at the other end of the wire, telling him
that a murder had been committed.

Dr. Caffyn was a man of method, not one to be easily thrown from his
well-trained habits; and he was training his only son, Dick, to walk in
his own footsteps. Both father and son were fine specimens of men; both
were surgeons, both were pathologists, but the son was sufficiently
independent not to accept every theory put forward by the parent
without himself being convinced of its accuracy.

It was because he wished to put his theories to the test in front of
his son that Dr. Caffyn was regretful that Richard was not present when
the telephone message informed him of this new case.

The first thing that Dr. Caffyn did after having received the message
was to sit down again at his desk and add a few sentences to the
treatise he was writing. The sentences seemed to be singularly
appropriate. Here are the sentences which the doctor wrote on that
occasion:

"The answer to the question, why a man commits a murder, is to be found
in the state of the man's mind. To understand this mental state we must
analyse the mind's material counterpart--the brain. The problem becomes
pathological. The lower forms of life are governed by instinct and
rude emotion where self-control is practically absent. Self-control is
gained by education."

There Dr. Caffyn stopped. He then pressed an electric button on his
desk and waited. The door of his study opened, and his man appeared on
the threshold.

"Jones, has Mr. Richard arrived yet?"

"No, sir," replied the man, "but he is expected any minute for dinner."

"I shall not be able to see him at dinner," said Dr. Caffyn, "but when
he comes tell him that I hope to join him at the theatre. I am leaving
a ticket for him in case I do not come back. There has been a murder
and I am called away. You needn't wait up for us. We shall have supper
in town. See that we are awakened early to-morrow, and that his things
are packed. He is going to lecture at college to-morrow."

The man bowed and withdrew.

Dr. Caffyn fingered his watch-chain absently, his brows contracted. He
had hoped to work much longer at the manuscript in development of his
views on murder and the question of capital punishment. But he had to
go where duty called, and in a few minutes he was walking rapidly along
the street.

Let me here point out that Dr. Caffyn had held for many years the
position of perhaps the most famous pathologist in London. His
knowledge was so great that he was retained by the authorities to aid
them with his evidence. He had for years been on practically every kind
of murder case as soon as the police. He had been called to examine
murderers as well as their victims. At the trials his voice was the
voice of authority. He was as steeped in the science of psychology in
relation to crime as he was steeped in the pathological knowledge of
it. To those who advocated the abolition of the death sentence Dr.
Caffyn was an opponent whose scientific reasoning could not be answered.

He was thinking of his manuscript when he reached the block of flats
where this latest murder had been committed. It was a fashionable
district, such as are becoming more and more common in London--blocks
of flats with silent lifts to every floor and stairs carpeted with
rich material. A policeman at the door saluted as Dr. Caffyn presented
himself. He directed Dr. Caffyn to the flat where he was expected.

The victim was a woman. She lay on her settee, her head thrown back and
her rounded arms stretched limply over the upholstery. She had been a
very pretty girl; was, indeed, still beautiful even in death. Her age
was about twenty-five or twenty-six. A bullet had caught her square in
the forehead.

The weapon from which the bullet had been fired was in the hands of
Carney, who stood on the other side of the settee. He was examining the
revolver, which was one of service pattern.

Dr. Caffyn returned the greeting of Detective Carney with a curt nod.
He was more interested in the dead woman than in the weapon with which
she had been killed. A few drops of red stained her golden shaded
semi-evening gown, turning the colour of the fabric to a strange and
fascinating hue. Beyond a smear of blood half hidden by her wealth of
bobbed hair there was nothing to mar her beauty. She had bled inwardly
and had died at once.

"We thought it was suicide at first, sir," said Carney, "but the
finding of this revolver on the rug and a man's glove puts that out of
court. It's murder."

Dr. Caffyn nodded and slipped his sensitive fingers along the wrist of
the dead woman. It was merely a formal matter. Her pulse had stopped
when the bullet cut short her young life.

"She has been dead for about an hour," said the doctor quietly. "Yes,
it is murder. The shot was fired from the chair on the other side of
the fireplace."

There were no signs of a struggle, no agonising contortions of the
victim's features. Her eyes were open, almost wide. The blue pupils
were slightly turned upward, and seemed to express mild surprise. There
was a hint of a smile on the well-moulded features. Her lips were
parted, showing heavy traces of lipstick. Her teeth were white and
dazzling. There were rings on her fingers. On her feet were a pair of
small, green slippers, half buried in a thick woollen rug in front of
the gas fire, which was burning.

There she lay, retaining her attractiveness, her pose suggesting the
audacity and daring which even death could not subdue.

"Who was she?" asked Dr. Caffyn.

"An actress--a chorus girl. Gladys Crieff," replied Carney. "She lived
in this flat with a maid. She was due at the theatre this evening. It
was the maid who gave the alarm."

Carney gave his replies shortly because he did not want the specialist
to begin theorising. He wanted to get on with the hunt for the
criminal. He distrusted the intricacies of psychology and the
conclusions of pathology. He got his men by team work, by inquiry, by
elimination; which was the recognised method of the police.

"It is a _crime passionnel_, some love affair that has ended
disastrously, I suspect," said the doctor. "I fancy you will find it
so, Carney."

The officer was a little nettled at the swift conclusion.

"I'm not sure of that, sir. It may be that burglary is the cause. Of
course, this girl could not afford to keep up a flat on her own. Chorus
girls can't. But she was not an ordinary chorus girl. She had played
parts, and was waiting to get a leading one in a new show."

"You know her, then?"

"Oh, no. The maid told me, and I verified it on the telephone. Of
course, I didn't spill the news that she was dead. Then there is
something else. The maid says that this girl had a very expensive
necklace and was intending to wear it to-night at the theatre. The case
is here, but the necklace has gone. And I found a small gold watch on
the staircase, which the murderer must have dropped on his way down.
Further, a locket which she had round her neck lay on the settee beside
her. The chain was broken as if it had been snatched from her. A tiny
fragment of a photograph remained in the locket."

"Then you have nothing very substantial as a clue?"

"Oh, we'll manage on what we have, Dr. Caffyn. The maid, whom I have
questioned, is a new one, and did not see the visitor--she was out
shopping; but she says that when she returned she heard voices in the
room, one of them being a man's. The maid had to go out again, but
before she went out she listened, as maids do. She heard the man say
that this dead girl would never belong to anyone but him. And this dead
girl seemed to be soothing his temper."

"Then the maid did not see the man?"

"No, she had to go out again. When she came back the door was open and
she saw--this. I examined the stairs and found a glove. The man left
that. It is a rubber glove. There isn't a finger-print anywhere."

"What about the revolver, Carney?"

"A common service one. No prints on it."

Dr. Caffyn was silent for a moment, looking at the dead woman. Her
beauty was not the beauty of an intellectual woman. It was the beauty
of physique.

"Had she many friends, Carney?"

"You mean men? They generally have. She was to be married soon, I know
that. If she had other friends I'll soon round them up."

"Not a vampire, then?"

"Most likely a butterfly, sir."

Dr. Caffyn looked at his watch and began to button his coat.

"When you find the murderer, Carney, I should like to see him as well,
for observation. There are points of similarity in all murders which I
have noticed. This man, I suspect, is some poor, unbalanced individual
whose brain has been overturned by a flood of jealousy. That is, if he
was the girl's friend. If he was a common burglar, he must also be a
degenerate. Only such an one would kill a woman. A hidden hereditary
instinct suddenly flashed out, and he shot her. Lack of self-control.
Lack of the necessary education. Don't you think so?"

"I don't worry about that. He shot her, and I have to get him. To my
thinking, education has little to do with murder."

Dr. Caffyn raised his head and gazed piercingly at the detective who
had dared to challenge his theories.

"Ah," he said, "I fancy you will agree with me later, Carney. In the
meantime, if you have completed your examination, the body may be
removed. I shall attend the mortuary later and let you have my report
to-night."

"Very good, doctor."

Dr. Caffyn went out.

It was too late to return to his home for dinner and too early to go to
the theatre, so he decided to dine at his club.

He dined alone, as was his custom at the club. He had a favourite seat
by the window, and there he sat apart thinking over the crime. It
seemed to prove to him once again that there was a cure for murder,
just as there was a penalty for it.

So absorbed was he in his reflections that he sat longer than he
intended; but he decided to go and see one act of the play before
returning to the mortuary and making the examination so that his
report would be accurate. A great deal depended on his report. The
counsel for the accused would scrutinise his wording, searching for a
loose expression or a hesitating phrase. He would be in the witness-box
to be questioned and to explain the nature and cause of death. From the
witness-box he would see the prisoner in the dock.

Dr. Caffyn smiled grimly as he thought of this. It was interesting to
him to note the expressions on the faces of prisoners while he gave his
medical testimony. He watched their varying emotions, the functioning
of their brains, as he destroyed the hypotheses which the defending
counsel laboured to erect. As a scientist, Dr. Caffyn was never
embarrassed by the frightfulness of crime. His interest was in studying
the men who had committed the crimes. He studied them in their cells,
from his stand in the witness-box, when they waited for the verdict;
and he had given certificates of their deaths when they had paid the
penalty.

A taxicab drove him quickly to the theatre, where he met his son
Richard. It was in the middle of an act when he arrived, but he did not
hesitate to make his way to the empty stall. He and Richard nodded to
each other, and then they turned to watch the play.

Richard Caffyn was one of the rising young surgeons of the day, heading
straight for a fame, as his colleagues agreed, that would make history
in his profession. But, then, he had his father at his back, a father
who was very proud of his son.

When the curtain fell at the end of the act they sauntered out to the
corridor to enjoy cigarettes. They had reached the doorway when a voice
spoke at the father's elbow.

"Sorry to bother you, doctor, but have you finished the examination?"

Dr. Caffyn turned to see Carney at his side.

"Not yet, Carney, but I'll give you the report to-night. I want you to
meet my son Richard. I think you have heard of him."

Carney shook hands with the young man, and they continued towards the
bar. They sat down on a couch facing the counter.

"Found your degenerate yet, Carney?" asked Dr. Caffyn.

"Not yet, sir, but I'm hoping."

The doctor turned to his son and explained the case in a few sentences.

"Do you know, Dick," he said smilingly, "Carney is too polite to say
he doesn't agree with me, but I know he holds antagonistic theories to
mine generally. But that, I fancy, comes of the discipline and routine
of police methods. I was telling him that undoubtedly all murderers are
degenerates. Look here, Carney, when you are hunting a man, one of the
best rules is to get at what makes him a criminal--for the time being,
of course."

"Well, sir," replied Carney, "I have had some experience in hunting
men, and I find all sorts of things make them bad; especially
murderers. Fear, hate, love, lust, selfishness, greed--these are some,
but there are others."

"I agree, and yet I have a notion that a cure for murder may be found."

"A cure?"

"Yes, a cure. Dick, my boy, you know my theories. Now, take this murder
to-night. I told Jones to tell you why I had been called away----"

"He told me," replied Dick, who was looking absently towards the bar
and listening to the orchestra. "Have you been trying to convert Carney
to your point of view?"

"I have, but it takes some doing. Let us go into it again, Carney. The
reasons you have named are but the forces that convert the thought of
murder into the act. We must get behind that. The murder-plan has its
origin in pathology in most cases. In a few one finds it in psychology."

"We do not deal in these sciences when we are after a man," said Carney
doggedly.

"Perhaps not. You represent the material side. I represent the other.
Yet it is material in the end. The mind governs the brain. We have two
brains, an upper and a lower. The upper functions in thought. The lower
functions in emotions and instincts which require no thought. This
lower brain is in every animal that has a skull. It is this brain which
functions when men commit murder. Civilisation has developed the upper
brain; and murderers are men whose upper brain is primitive. That is
what I mean by a degenerate."

"Does it matter much?" asked Carney.

"It matters a great deal. It supplies the key to the great mystery as
to why men commit murder."

"How about your cure?"

"Ah, the cure. It is pathological."

The bell above the bar buzzed, signalling that the curtain was about to
rise again, but the three men did not take notice of it.

"I'm not sure, father," said Richard Caffyn, "that I don't find sound
sense in what Detective Carney says. Pathology can only apply to
habitual criminals. Spasmodic acts are outside rules."

The detective glanced at Dick and nodded.

"My job is to get my man," he persisted. "I don't think we shall ever
find a cure for murder, with all respect to your father's knowledge."

"Tut, tut," cried Dr. Caffyn. "There you are again, ignoring all I
desire you to observe! Pathology is the science of the nature, cause,
and remedy of disease. Murder is disease. It is degeneracy. The causes
of degeneracy are several--among which are debauchery, depravity,
poverty."

"Murderers are not always poor men," said the detective.

"No, but they are always degenerates. They have reverted to the
primitive type. The animalism of their forebears clings to them. Dick,
you and I have talked this over----"

"That is true, father, but still there is a lot in what the detective
says. I cannot always agree with you, as you know. Let me put it this
way."

He turned and spread out his hand as if he were delivering a lecture at
his hospital.

"There are such things as uncontrollable impulses. Take the case
of a mother who sacrifices herself to save her child. She does not
think. It is her lower brain that is working--her instinct. She is not
responsible, really, for the act, yet she is heroic----"

"But, Dick----"

"Wait a moment, father. I am trying to show that there is a force, or
forces, against which we cannot fight. Pathology does not enter here.
Psychology may. In any case, the law does not take much note of either,
as Carney says. I could put up a good case for impulsive acts arising
from instinctive and automatic feelings. Is a man responsible when
urged to act under a wave of extreme emotion?"

"The law says," replied Carney, "that acts are irresponsible only when
a person does not know the nature or quality of those acts."

"In that case, the best plan would be for a defence to put forward a
suggestion of insanity. The truth is we are hard put to it to define
responsibility. It is a tangle of conflicting emotions."

He yawned and strolled towards the bar to get a match for his cigarette.

"Dick will come round to my view after he has had experience," said the
doctor to Carney, "and so will you. At present he does not distinguish
between compulsive acts and obsessions, which are two different terms.
They do not affect the result, however. Heredity--there you find the
reason for most cases of degeneration. If we admit such arguments as my
son has put forward we might as well abolish the death penalty."

"As for me," retorted Carney, "I have seen cases where the death
penalty might have been better set aside--and I say that though I
brought such men to the cells."

"There may be cases of persons who are utterly insane--raving
lunatics--but for the others of man-kind the one law must remain.
Society must be protected. I commend these views to you in the course
of your labours--for instance, in the case of this girl who was shot
this evening."

Detective Carney was silent for a few moments.

"What was your cure, doctor?" he asked quietly.

"My cure for murder lies in the future generations. If a man commits a
murder there is no proof that he may not commit another. There is only
one way to deal with him. He must be removed--painlessly if you like,
but effectively."

The detective did not answer, and seemed to be pondering the
standpoint of the specialist. The doctor went on.

"If we remove evil environment and substitute education for ignorance
we shall have no more murders. That is a pathological fact, and when
you have found your man in this case----"

"We'll find him, sir."

"Very well. When the trial comes off I shall certainly use all my
influence to oppose the torrent of sympathy which seems to go out at
every recent case towards the criminal in this country. Think of the
dead girl! Is it safe for the community that a man who deliberately
took her life should live? Is it wise that he should be kept alive?"

"Well, there may be the plea of insanity----"

"Bah, that has become a common plea! Murder by a proved maniac is an
exception to the general rule. You know that as well as I do. The only
safe cure for murder is to send the guilty into oblivion and educate
the community."

Detective Carney got to his feet, gnawing at his moustache. He had
spent more time than he had expected.

"Are you going to remain until the play is over, sir?" he asked.

"Oh, that report!"

"I really wanted to suggest, sir, that if you could let us have it
immediately we should be obliged. I could get a taxi for you, right
away. I was asked to see you about it and to suggest----"

Dr. Caffyn sighed and nodded. He was a slave to duty.

"Very well. I'll have the taxi. Shall I dismiss it at the mortuary?"

"Why, sir, you could just keep it and bring your report to the station,
where it is expected. I may be there when you arrive, as I have a call
to make on this case."

"All right, I'll tell my son."

He went out with Carney, and the latter obtained a cab and sent the
doctor off. As he rode to the mortuary, the doctor wondered if he had
been wasting his breath on Carney; he was, at least, sure that the
detective did not fully appreciate all he had been saying.

The examination of the victim at the mortuary was not lengthy. When it
was over Dr. Caffyn made his notes and ordered the driver to hurry to
the police station.

As he entered the reception-room, he saw Detective Carney standing with
his back to the fire. A frown was on Carney's face.

"There is the report, Carney," said the doctor. "What are you worried
about? Have you been thinking over what I told you, or have you failed
to get your man?"

"We have got him, sir," replied Carney, coughing.

"Got him? Congratulations. A degenerate, I'll wager, as I said. May
I have a look at him--just a look, or a word, maybe, to support my
theory? You promised."

The detective nodded and led the way to the cells. As he was about to
put the key into a door, the surgeon touched him on the shoulder.

"A _crime passionnel_--and a primitive brain, I suppose? Or perhaps a
burglar of the base type?"

"He has written a confession," said Carney, without looking at the
doctor. "He shot her because she threw him over for another man."

He swung the door open. The prisoner, his face buried in his hands, was
huddled in a corner of the cell.

He raised a haggard countenance to the visitors.

Dr. Caffyn looked into the face of his son.




           THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FOURTEENTH CELL


The visitor looked at the clock once more.

"Don't you think," he said in a grave tone, "that in the recital of
these stories, which I confess are full of interest and are the best I
have ever heard, you are losing sight of the reason of my presence?"

"Not at all. I have kept that constantly before me, I assure you,"
smiled the Governor. "But to a man in my position the great matter is
to cram into the limited time at his disposal as much of the work he
most desires done before----"

He stopped, and the visitor interpreted the wave of hand which the
Governor made.

"I understand," said the visitor. "To tell the truth, I shall not
relish the business of killing you, but if you leave me no alternative,
what can I do? I merely point out that time is slipping past rapidly.
It is now some time after dawn--a while after, in fact. The limit I set
you is within measurable distance."

"Alas," said the Governor, "how true it is that time waits for no man!
Let me repeat that I had for my object the desire to prove to you that
criminals make mistakes in practically all cases. I have shown you how,
in a selection of the most carefully planned and deliberately executed
crimes, the unforeseen something gave the law-breakers away. But did
you notice, in the case of the story I have just ended, that there is
one point left in the air, so to speak--one item unexplained?"

"I fancy I did. You mentioned that a necklace was missing from that
chorus girl's flat. You did not say if young Caffyn had taken it. I
thought it must have been one of his presents."

The Governor shook his head.

"I have the greatest pleasure in congratulating you on your
observance," he said pleasantly. "The item I was compelled to leave
unexplained was the disappearance of the necklace. Richard Caffyn did
not take it, and the police hunted high and low for it. As a matter of
fact, it had been stolen by Alfred Mushet."

"Who is Alfred Mushet?" asked the visitor.

"He is at present in the fourteenth cell, and he is there because he
made one of the most curious mistakes ever heard of in crime. And
so, though I observe that you are inclined to be impatient--which I
perfectly understand--I do, in the words of the charming Scheherazade
whose example I am following, humbly entreat you to listen to the queer
history of Alfred Mushet. I promise that the time will not be wasted."

The Governor then began in these terms:

       *       *       *       *       *

One day, some weeks after the tragic death of Gladys Crieff, the
actress, Alfred Mushet stood in the shop of Abe Hartz, a little
be-spectacled Jew in the East End. Mushet was in a temper, and he did
not disguise it.

"It is no good denying anything," he cried fiercely. "You can't deny
it. I left my attaché-case with you yesterday. You promised to look
after it until I came back. Just you hand it over."

"You 'ave called me many names without letting me eggsplain," answered
Hartz mildly, as he clawed at his beard and gazed innocently through
his thick spectacles. "It was not me that you gif your case to. You
mus' come back."

"I want it now, you old crook! I'm in a hurry. Don't finger your
spectacles, but get a move on and look for my attaché-case!"

"But I cannot see without my spectacles," smiled Hartz. "And even with
them I cannot see your case. Go away and then come back----"

"I will not come back. You hand the case over, or you'll be sorry."

"But, my dear sir----"

"Don't 'dear sir' me. I know your kind. And don't try any tricks with
me."

Hartz raised his hands and waved them in indignation.

"What for it is that you insult me? If you think I want your case, you
bring in a policeman, and to him I shall eggsplain----"

"I don't need any cop to settle with you," flared Mushet. "I know why
you are keeping it. I'll fix you for that, you dirty little Yid."

And he picked up a counter weight and flung it at Hartz's head as he
left the shop.

He walked along the street biting his finger-nails and fuming
internally.

There is no doubt that Alfred Mushet was in an awkward predicament.
In the attaché-case was the necklace which the police were seeking
throughout London. How he had taken it was simple enough. He had been
in the pit of the theatre one night and had seen it on the neck of
Gladys Crieff, and he had made up his mind to steal it; and, by a
remarkable chance, he had gone to the flat at the very time that Gladys
Crieff was alone, waiting for the visit of Richard Caffyn. All this
came out afterwards, of course.

Mushet had watched the flat carefully. He had seen the maid go out on
her shopping expedition. He had seen Richard Caffyn go up to the flat,
and he had seen Caffyn leave. He followed at once, intending to make
his raid. He had a skeleton key with which to open the door, but he had
no need to use it. The door, as I have already mentioned, was open when
the maid returned from her second shopping expedition. Caffyn had left
it open, and Alfred Mushet had, between the departure of Caffyn and the
return of the maid, entered and secured the necklace.

He had seen the actress lying on the settee in front of the
sitting-room fire. But he had thought she was resting, and he did
not enter that room. He had found the necklace in the jewel-case on
the dressing-table in the bedroom. It was a case of a swift raid and
flight. I don't suppose it would have made any difference to him had he
known that the girl was dead.

But, once he had the necklace, he found that it was a difficult thing
to hide. The police were seeking it everywhere. No dealer would handle
it; no receiver would look at it until the hue and cry had died down.
From place to place Mushet had taken it with him until he had borrowed
enough money to take a run over to the Continent. But when he was
getting his passport and making his arrangements he could not always
carry the necklace in his possession, lest the police took it into
their heads to suspect him. For this reason he had placed the necklace,
inside the attaché-case, in the keeping of Hartz. He chose Hartz's
place because Hartz did a quite respectable business in the pawnbroking
line, and Mushet had pawned his watch and had asked Hartz to keep his
case until he called for it the next day or so.

It was a small shop in a mean thoroughfare. Above the door was the
one word, _Hartz_, in faded letters, and the three golden globes that
proclaimed the kind of business transacted. Mushet had never been
across the threshold until he entered to sell his watch and leave his
case. And now, having secured his passport, and with his ticket already
purchased, he was held up because Hartz pretended that he could not
find the case. It was a very annoying situation.

Alfred Mushet had reckoned to be in Paris that night, and the more he
thought over the situation the more he came to the conclusion that
Hartz was trying on a piece of bluff. The barefaced way that Hartz had
denied having received the case was exasperating. Mushet saw through
the whole thing. The old rascal had opened the case, had seen the
necklace, and had recognised it, and was either keeping it, or intended
to hand it over to the police for the sake of the reward that had been
offered for its recovery. Yes, Hartz was a wily one!

If Hartz had been a regular receiver of stolen property, Mushet would
have handled him differently than by merely threatening him; but
Hartz was not a receiver. He was a hard old man who loaned money and
bargained with all the cunning of his race. He had no friends locally.
He was available for business at any hour. It was said that he never
slept; he was always the same when his door bell rang. He was too mean,
the neighbours declared, to leave his shop on any pretext. If he ever
went to bed, he must have gone with his clothes on, for at every hour
he was ready to answer a summons without delay.

Mushet knew that Hartz had this reputation. He knew that Hartz was
sneered at, and derided, by those who borrowed from him or pawned
their goods with him--a sort of Ishmael in the wilderness of London.

Mushet had lodgings in the street from which he could see the shop; and
he ground his teeth as he marched along trying to find a plan by which
he could compel Hartz to disgorge the swag.

Now, Mushet was a clever man in his way. He had started life as a
chemist's assistant, having been given this chance by a friendly
chemist who took an interest in the welfare of needy boys. Mushet
had learned a great deal in the shop; but he had turned out a bad
speculation, for he had robbed his employer and had been sent to
prison. After that he no longer tried to redeem his lost character.
Prison had taught him one thing--the advantage of waiting and planning.
He was clever enough to see that if one acted on the spur of a moment
the results might be disastrous. It may have been that his life as a
chemist's assistant had taught him much in this way also, for he had
been sent to school where he had learned Latin, and had reached the
stage where he could dispense prescriptions. This requires care and
concentration.

The more he thought of Hartz the more he felt a terrible desire for
revenge. Hartz had taunted him with the suggestion that he could
fetch the police in order to "eggsplain" the situation. That taunt
rankled. It was very obvious, of course, that Mushet dared not fetch
a policeman. To prove that any case was his he would be compelled
to state the contents. To state the contents would send him to the
criminal dock.

He smiled grimly the more he considered the audaciously simple way by
which Hartz had drawn his prize from him; and when Alfred Mushet smiled
in that way there was cruelty in his expression--ice-cold ferocity as
relentless as it was deep.

Taking a bus to Hyde Park Corner, he entered the Park and sat down to
think it out. There was one point that troubled him. Was it possible
that Hartz had already handed over the attaché-case to the police? Was
Hartz in league with the police? Or was the case still in the shop? As
he sat in Hyde Park, there came to Alfred Mushet an idea whereby he
could find out this and also exact a nice revenge on Hartz.

It was late when he left Hyde Park and made his way to his lodgings.
He did not wait there long--just long enough to secure a pair of
rubber gloves, a new pair--for it was one of his that had been found
at the flat of Gladys Crieff--a few tools, three small phials, and
a flashlamp. Having put these into his pockets, he started out for
Hartz's shop.

It was quite dark, and the street was fairly quiet. To enter the shop
was an easy job for Alfred Mushet. He was used to taking risks, to
cutting out glass and sawing off locks. He did not require much energy
to get into the little pawnbroker's place. Everything seemed to be
in his favour. In the yard at the back of the shop there was a back
window to the premises. Mushet tore the catch off the rotten sash and
pushed the window up without noise. He stepped inside.

His first precaution was to pull down the blind. He was in the back
shop, and it looked like a lumber-room. The edge of a large safe peeped
out from a litter of old clothes, parcels, boots, all kinds of goods
thrown around. On the shelves were more articles, crammed together
without care or any semblance of order.

Between the front shop and the back was a narrow staircase, uncarpeted
and dusty. It was up there that Hartz lived; but Mushet did not intend
to disturb him. He was bent on other work. He was searching for the
attaché-case.

Into the front shop he stepped gingerly, his flashlamp shedding its ray
over the counter and the shelves. He searched everywhere--under the
counter, among the piles of goods on the shelves, behind the shelves.
He drew blank. The back room was still to explore. He returned to it,
and was on the point of stepping over a heap of goods on the floor
when a board creaked on the stair. Mushet stiffened suddenly and
extinguished his flashlamp.

Another board creaked. Someone was coming down the stairs. A glimmer
of light flickered from the narrow opening between the two rooms. Next
moment the figure of Hartz appeared.

He was clad in his shirt and trousers, and above his head he held a
candle. He looked the queerest figure imaginable as he stood on the
bottom step, clawing at his beard and peering about like a hawk,
startled and suspicious. His large round spectacles glinted as the
glass caught the light of the candle. He did not see Mushet, who had
drawn himself close to the wall behind the heap of goods; but Mushet
saw him, and acted at once.

He bounded forward and threw his arms round the man's neck, dragging
him to the ground and pressing his throat so that he could not utter a
sound. The candle dropped to the floor and the flame was extinguished.
Hartz's spectacles were knocked off in the attack, but he had a
resistance that surprised Mushet. It was the hysterical strength of an
old man.

Mushet held him down, nevertheless.

"Lie still," he commanded.

"My spectacles! My spectacles!" cried Hartz. "I cannot see."

"I don't want you to see," answered Mushet. "I knocked them off on
purpose."

"A burglar, is it?" gasped Hartz. "But you will find nothing! I am
poor. You are killing me."

Mushet released the pressure on Hartz and rose to his feet. He believed
he had frightened Hartz, but, as soon as his grip was loosened, the
latter threw his hands out and clutched Mushet by the shoulders.

"I know you! Your voice! You are the one who came for an attaché-case
and would not let me eggsplain. Help! Help! Robbers!"

It was the worst thing that Hartz could have done, but he was
frightfully afraid, and his nerves were all to pieces. Mushet gave
him no chance to repeat the cry for help. They fought it out in the
darkness.

It was an unequal fight. But Mushet was desperate, since he had been
recognised. It was a brutal fight. It ended when Mushet struck Hartz
with all his force above the heart. Hartz dropped, and lay still.

Mushet found his flashlight, which had been lost in the struggle, and
pressed the trigger. He saw that Hartz was dead, or, rather, he tried
not to believe it. He had never killed anyone, though he had been in
fights; and it seemed unbelievable that a man should die from a blow.
And then, as he looked down at Hartz and remembered how he had struck
him, the truth penetrated his brain. It is comparatively easy to kill a
man with a blow on the heart when the victim is being pressed against a
wall and half strangled as well.

And now, out of the medley of emotions that surged up within Mushet,
there emerged the clear need for keeping his head. The death of Hartz
shocked him, but he still saw how he could get clear away. All he had
to do was to carry out the scheme he had come to execute.

Mushet did not see, of course, that he was just then proving what
criminologists have always held. One crime must take place to cover
another, until it ends in the grand climax. That is the usual way,
according to theorists; but Mushet now unconsciously began to work
that theory backwards. With the death of Hartz events must be made to
resolve themselves into their original unsuspicious parts. By carrying
out his original plan he could cover the greater crime.

He let Hartz lie as he had fallen, and set about taking what was worth
stealing. There was not much--mostly trinkets and old things that would
fetch a small sum. Mushet took his choice.

He next attacked the large safe in the back room. It was a tough safe,
but he used a chemical from one of the phials in his pocket, and the
liquid bit deep into the metal and softened it for his tools. But when
at last he swung the heavy door open he found that the safe contained
only a cash-book, deeds, and documents connected with loans. This
proved to Mushet that Hartz had handed the necklace over to the police.

The time he had spent on the safe had been wasted. He had been over
an hour on the premises, and he must leave quickly. But before he
left he laid the most cunning plan to cover his tracks that could be
conceived. His chemical knowledge prompted it.

He returned to the front shop and found the electric bell, operated
by the front-door bell-push. With a screwdriver he took off the bell
and balanced in its place a thin phial. This phial contained sulphuric
acid. Then he went upstairs to the living-room and returned with a cup.
Into this cup he poured some sugar and chloride of potassium. He fixed
the cup under the phial of sulphuric acid; and around it, leading to
the floor, he placed some inflammable material. He had not intended to
do this so elaborately, but, now that Hartz was dead, he took his time.
The idea was a masterpiece.

This is how he had planned. When the button of the door-bell was
pressed the hammer would be thrown on the phial of acid. The thin glass
would break, the acid would fall on the contents of the cup, and a
flame would arise sufficient to set alight the material surrounding it.
The fire would destroy any clue of an intruder's presence. It would
do more. It would also supply a reason for Hartz being found lying in
his shop--if he was found at all. What theory was more likely than
that Hartz, being awakened by a fire, had hurried downstairs? Without
his spectacles, he had fallen. Or even with them; it did not matter.
Accidental death! And if the fire got a good hold, there would be no
need for any theory at all!

Having set everything in proper working order, Alfred Mushet left the
premises as he had entered them. It was now the small hours of the
morning. He sauntered past the front door of the pawnshop and pressed
the bell. He listened intently. He peered through the window. He saw
a tiny flame spring up in the depths of the shop. He went home to his
lodgings.

A few hours later, as he lay in bed, he heard a commotion in the
street. Voices were shouting; a policeman's whistle was sounding.
People were throwing up their windows. Mushet was knocked up by his
landlady. She called that there was a fire. Alfred Mushet leaped from
his bed and dressed. It was now dawn, and getting lighter every minute.

Mushet joined the people who crowded to their doors to see the
fire-engine when it arrived. The premises of Hartz, the pawnbroker,
were blazing. To Mushet there came a great satisfaction, for he knew
that by thus getting rid of Hartz he had taken from the police the only
witness who could accuse him of having handed over the attaché-case
containing the necklace. Thus he had preserved his freedom.

A crowd stood in front of the burning shop, and Mushet strolled down
to watch. A fire-escape came at last with a rattle as the flames burst
from the windows and the door fell inward. Mushet pushed his way to the
front of the crowd. The excitement was intense.

"There's someone inside! There's someone inside!"

The word was taken up and repeated on all hands, but Mushet did not
listen to the babble, for he knew better. Hartz was dead. A strange
exhilaration filled Mushet as he watched the flames gain hold of the
ramshackle place. He wanted to fan the blaze. The firemen were sending
streams of water on the shop by this time, and clouds of smoke were
filling the street. The police were keeping the crowd back as more hose
was laid down.

And then, as he stood in the front rank of the crowd, Alfred Mushet
uttered a shout. There, through the smoke and flames, he saw a moving
figure emerge from the burning house. The figure was outlined against
the red glow of the interior for a moment, then faded in the smoke that
swirled down and blotted out the flames.

Alfred Mushet felt the hands of a policeman on him, forcing him
backward. He staggered, his eyes riveted on the figure that loomed
up, struggling through the smoke. His eyes started from his head. He
screamed, and threw a finger out towards that figure that seemed to
move towards him.

"Hartz!" he cried. "It can't be Hartz! He's dead! It's his ghost! Take
it away! Hartz is dead! I killed him!"

The figure came forward; and, the smoke clearing, showed to Alfred
Mushet the shabby figure of Hartz as he had been in life. His
spectacles were on his nose, his beard was thick and matted, his hands
clawing at it, as was his habit. Mushet cried out in agony, and fell in
a faint to the ground.

Well, he was considerably shaken at the sight, and one could excuse him
losing his wits, and his nerve also.

He was carried to his lodgings, and when he came to consciousness a
policeman was sitting by his bed.

"Hartz is dead," murmured Mushet. "But I saw his ghost. What are you
doing here?"

"I'm here," said the policeman, "because the inspector ordered
me to stay. Hartz has identified you as the man who gave him the
attaché-case, and found a necklace we have been hunting for. You'll
have to explain that. Here comes the inspector."

At that moment the inspector entered the room and came over to the bed.

"Hartz is dead!" cried Mushet doggedly. "I saw his ghost."

"Wait a minute," said the inspector. "About that attaché-case. A
fireman helped Hartz to bring out a small safe that was in the bedroom
upstairs, containing the valuables of the shop. You called out that you
had killed Hartz, and we have found a body. But, Mushet, didn't you
know there were two of them? They kept that shop between them, and not
many people knew there was more than one Hartz. The one to whom you
gave the attaché-case was the one that did the outside business. He
arrived back from the North by the night train, in time to raise the
alarm of fire. It was he you saw, not a ghost. We'll have to question
you about the death of his twin brother."

And an hour or so later Alfred Mushet was on his way to prison. His
nerve and imagination deserted him during the interrogation. He broke
down and confessed.




            THE STORY OF THE OCCUPANT OF THE FIFTEENTH CELL


As the Governor concluded the story of Alfred Mushet, he yawned
involuntarily.

"I was thinking," he said, "that Mushet ought to go among my
Intellectuals----"

But he got no further, for the visitor suddenly picked up his revolver
and backed away menacingly.

"My dear sir," cried the Governor in expostulation, "is there anything
I have said----"

"I have no fault to find with your stories," replied the other, with an
alarming grimness, "but that is the last I wish to hear. You have run
it very close. I ask you to look at your clock!"

The Governor turned his head and saw that the time was exactly five
minutes to seven.

"Which is it to be?" pursued the visitor; and as he spoke he lifted his
revolver so that the barrel pointed straight towards the Governor.

The Governor glanced round the room. He saw the fog swirling up outside
the window, the glass of which was streaming with moisture. Not a sound
came from any part of the large prison.

"You have just time," said the visitor quietly.

The Governor shrugged his shoulders, and a faint smile passed over his
features, which had become somewhat haggard with the strain of his
recitals.

"You are right," he said. "I have just time."

He lifted the bogus order of reprieve and glanced at the wording. Then
he took up a fountain-pen that lay on his pen-tray.

"I am afraid," he said, in a gentle tone, "that you have more than one
advantage over me. I do not refer to your gun, in the manipulation of
which I admit you are an expert. If this thing is to be done, I must
ring for my warders; and I think you will remember that you somewhat
dislocated my bell. Now, if the warders are to come here they must
not, for your own sake, find anything suspicious, or they would make a
scene. The result of a scene might be deplorable----"

"For you!" interrupted the visitor.

"For both of us, I fancy. You might shoot _me_, you might shoot my
warders, you might escape through the window. But, as I remarked at the
beginning of our prison night's entertainment, _you_ would ultimately
be caught. I am not thinking, believe me, of this matter without
experiencing a personal interest in it. I wish to avoid bloodshed."

"You alone are able to provide the other way out."

"That is exactly what I have been thinking. You seem to hold the trump
cards. Why should I permit you to kill me in cold blood? I daresay my
warders, if the point were put to them, would feel the same emotions as
I do. Therefore I propose to sign this warrant."

He lifted his pen and bent over the order; but, just as he was about to
sign, he looked up at his visitor.

"I am afraid you do not quite follow," he said. "Would it not be as
well if you put the bell into working order and yourself pressed it?
There is my cut telephone line also--but I do not insist on that."

The visitor picked up the small piece of metal that formed the contact
of the bell, and also the wooden top.

"I'll attend to it while you sign," he said. "But--_sign_!"

The Governor at once complied with what was no longer a request, but
had become an order.

As he finished the signature he saw his visitor insert the contact and
screw the top of the bell-push into position.

The visitor then pressed the ivory knob and walked swiftly towards the
position he had previously taken up. In this way he was on the opposite
side of the desk, and was near the window. He put his revolver into his
pocket; but he kept his hand there also.

The two men faced each other in terrible silence.

The Governor once more looked at the clock.

The hands marked the time as three minutes to the hour.

"My friend," said the Governor in a low tone, suddenly, "you have
forgotten something."

"What is it?"

"You have not unlocked the door!"

"Ah!"

The visitor strode over, took the key from his pocket, and inserted it
in the lock. He twisted it quickly and returned to his position, his
right hand once more in his coat pocket, covering his revolver.

"You observe," said the Governor, with a faint attempt at a smile,
"that what I said originally was true. You people almost always forget
something. Now, supposing my warders had come and found that door
locked? Would that not have been a suspicious matter? It was I who
remembered. You see how I am really protecting you from yourself? Alas,
prison is an institution where we always try to protect criminals from
themselves. That is the second function of a prison, as I took pains to
explain to you when I invited you to listen to my theories."

The visitor was about to reply, but the Governor continued quickly:

"You will observe that I have signed this order in the proper way." (He
held the document up for inspection, and the visitor satisfied himself
that everything was as the Governor stated.) "I will give this to the
warder who is now on the way here. He will take it to my deputy----"

"Why to your deputy? I want the condemned man brought here!"

The visitor flashed out his question suspiciously, but the Governor
spread his hand in a gesture of explanation.

"My dear sir, a warder has no power to release a prisoner, especially
one in the condemned cell, until he has been given the proper
authority, and the Governor, or his deputy, is present. That is
routine. You cannot complain of it, since you went to the trouble to
get a reprieve in the authoritative way; and you are wise enough to
know that any departure from routine would imperil your scheme, as it
would imperil my reputation. Here comes my warder, I fancy."

The visitor was about to say something in reply to the Governor, but at
that moment feet could be heard in the corridor. A knock sounded on the
door. The Governor did not move.

"Come in!" he called.

The door opened, and a warder stood on the threshold, saluting stiffly.

The Governor lifted the order of reprieve, folded it up, and held it
out towards the warder.

"Take that to the Deputy-Governor at once," he said. The visitor's eyes
were watching closely.

"Any answer, sir?" asked the warder.

"Yes, there will be an answer. Tell my deputy I have a gentleman
here who has come urgently on behalf of the condemned prisoner. I am
waiting. Make haste."

The warder saluted, and went out hurriedly.

As soon as he had departed, the Governor turned towards his visitor.

"I think you were about to make a remark when my warder approached," he
said. "It was not a complaint, I hope."

"I was about to say that, with all your talk, lasting throughout the
night, you have proved nothing to convince me that I shall fail to do
what I came to do. I still hold the winning hand. In a few minutes I
shall be gone with my friend. When the Deputy-Governor comes with the
prisoner, you will bid him leave the matter between you and me, as I
proposed originally. I shall still see that your reputation does not
suffer. You object to taking either of two methods I suggested--that
of being bound to your chair, or that of taking a drink that would
send you to sleep. You have chosen to pretend that the reprieve is all
correct. Perhaps it is the best way out for you. And yet I must inform
you that I have formed a conclusion. It would not be safe for me to
take my friend out by the prison gates, because you could raise an
alarm immediately I left this room. I shall see to it that we have some
time to make our escape."

"What do you intend to do?"

"That must be left to me. As soon as your deputy leaves, and my friend
and I are alone with you, it will be simple. I shall not injure you in
any way. We may go out by the window after all. The fog is very thick."

He had lost the attitude of antagonism that had until then been
dominant in his speech.

"We have been opponents," he went on, "and we have come to an
understanding, as I knew we would. I thank you for having told me the
stories; but, while I enjoyed them, I would remind you that, while
these narratives have been entertaining, they have not proved a single
point in your contentions. The reason is very obvious."

"What is the reason?" asked the Governor humbly.

"It is this: you have been telling stories concerning _persons who have
been captured_. The thought came to me this moment. And the fact that
you have been forced to carry out my wishes proves that your theories
are all wrong. In my one triumph lies the destruction of your many
axioms. Of course, had I not been interested in your eccentricity I
would never have allowed you any latitude; but, for a crank, I find
you a very engaging one--a theorist, with all the faults of one. On
the other hand, you are not oblivious of the fact that you have been
beaten, and that your life is being spared because I see that you have
surrendered without useless opposition. I admire you for it."

The Governor bowed.

"In my turn," he said, "let me ask you one question. If, by some fluke
of circumstances, by some unforeseen error on your part or on mine, you
had been unable to save your accomplice from the scaffold--which is a
fate he richly deserves--would you have admitted failure with the same
readiness, and in the same spirit, with which you give me credit?"

"I would. It has always been a point with me to surrender when it is
impossible to escape." Then he added with emphasis: "But, at the same
time, my code of war is such that I have never yet admitted that every
chance was lost. If, however, such a position should arise in the
future, I am well aware that resistance would be an aggravation, and it
would probably lengthen the sentence a judge might hand out."

The Governor held out his hand frankly.

"It is refreshing to hear you speak in this way," he remarked. "I will
be able to pass the expression of your views to the quarter where they
will be duly appreciated."

As the two men clasped hands a loud bang, like the shutting of a heavy,
distant door, disturbed the silence that had fallen on the room.

The Governor's fingers tightened on those of his visitor and held them
firmly, his left hand fell gently on the man's shoulder. They stood for
a fraction of time facing each other. They might have been two friends
taking grave farewell of each other.

The Governor spoke.

"I am glad my poor attempt to emulate the feat of the amiable
Scheherazade has been pleasing to you. As the Sultan Schahriah you have
been excellent. But, nevertheless, the result _has_ convinced me in my
theories."

"How?" demanded the visitor, with a start of uneasiness.

"You have claimed the victory; but, sir, victory ought not to be
claimed until a game or a contest is ended."

"Explain yourself."

"Ah," said the Governor steadily, as he still held his visitor's right
hand and increased the pressure of his hold on the man's shoulder, "my
deputy and two warders will, according to routine, be here in a moment.
I hear their footsteps."

A knock sounded on the door. The Governor called, "Come in!" and,
without turning his head, continued to his visitor:

"The victory is not yours after all. _Your accomplice is dead._ The
bang we heard a moment ago was the noise of the trap-door on the
scaffold falling into the pit. You did not know, of course, that my
clock is an hour slow! You are under arrest!"

Two warders and the deputy had meanwhile entered the apartment, closing
the door behind them.

The visitor's face went livid. For a frightful instant he stared at the
Governor; and then the Governor's cry to his men changed, even as it
was uttered, to one of sharp pain. He staggered back, bent double like
a half-shut knife, into the arms of his deputy.

The visitor had dealt him a fearful blow in the abdomen with his knee:
and as he dealt it he leaped backward with a snarl that might have come
from a wild beast.

"Put up your hands, all of you!" His gun was thrust forward in a
lightning movement. "Up! Quick!"

One of the warders disregarded the order and sprang forward, but he
had not advanced a yard when "ping!" and he fell like a sack, gasping,
blood streaming from his throat.

"My God!" he cried in a strangled voice. "My God! My God!"

"Up with them!"

The Governor obeyed, though his face was twisted with pain; the deputy
and the remaining warder followed suit.

The wounded man on the floor continued to call "My God!" in a curious,
gurgling, monotonous way, the exclamation becoming feebler every time.

It might have been part of a play, so swiftly, so definitely, had
act followed act, so like a series of tableaux had movement followed
movement. But there the resemblance to a play ended.

The countenance of the visitor was transformed. The previous minute
he had been listening calmly to the Governor's harangue. Now he stood
facing the three men, his body thrust forward, shoulders hunched, teeth
gritted, passionate fury sweeping over his face in dark clouds, his
eyes gleaming with a brightness that was no longer human. He was now an
animal at bay. He was a wolf.

And from the bleeding warder on the floor there came the unceasing
whimpering, "My God! My God!" No one took notice of his agony.

The visitor was the first to speak.

"If one of you three move an inch!" He made a significant movement with
his gun. "I have four shells left!"

The Governor nodded towards the fallen warder.

"That," he said quietly, "was a mistake, my friend."

The visitor replied with savage exultation.

"Sure. His, not mine."

As he spoke the wailing of the wounded man died away, his frame
quivered and then was still.

The visitor's left hand fumbled at his waist and a coil of thin rope
fell at his feet. He bent down, never once taking his eyes off the
others, and picked up an end formed into a loop. He stepped backward
towards the window, his left hand feeling along the wood work until his
fingers touched the heavy metal hook that held the curtain fastener. He
slipped the loop of his rope into the hook.

Next his fingers unfastened the window catch. He threw up the sash.
A billow of fog swirled into the apartment. Not for an instant while
he was doing all this did he cease to face the three officials. A
terrible, grim leer spread over his features. He tossed his rope
backward out of the window, then brought his gun into position so that
it pointed straight at the Governor's breast.

"I told you there was always a chance for me," he sneered. "It's you
that hasn't a chance now. Listen. I have four shells in this gun. One
is for you because you hanged Floxton, another is for the electric
bulb----"

Suddenly the Governor started. His eyes, wide with astonishment and
what seemed relief, fastened themselves upon the open window beyond the
visitor. An instant of fearful tension followed, in which the visitor
sought desperately to read the truth in the Governor's eyes without
turning to see what menace was at his back. Then, as if answering the
agonizing doubt, the curtain at the window moved with a crisp sound. At
the very instant, the Governor shouted in the direction of the noise:

"Quick! Get him, men!"

As the visitor, in startled alarm, swung his gun round towards the open
window, the Governor bounded forward, his left arm crooked and poised.

_Crack!_

All the weight of his muscular shoulders was behind the fist
that struck the visitor's jaw with fearful force. The action was
piston-like, a flash out and in and under that terrific blow the man's
head jerked oddly, his body arose, then crashed, his gun flew across
the carpet.

The deputy and the warder were upon him like cats, but the visitor was
incapable of resistance. He lay motionless and unconscious.

The Governor looked for a moment at his own knuckles, then rapped out
his orders.

Handcuffs were snapped on the wrists of the prostrate visitor, the body
of the dead warder was removed, the window was closed.

The Governor sat down at his desk and toyed with the visitor's gun
which he had picked up. Two warders were working on the unconscious
visitor bringing him back to life. The deputy was standing by. The
Governor looked up.

"Was the execution carried out expeditiously?"

"All correct, sir," replied the deputy.

"You will see to the repairing of my telephone and window."

"Yes, sir."

"You will inform Scotland Yard that we have here the man they
want--Steve Jenkins, the accomplice of the murderer who has just been
hanged."

"Very good, sir."

"Take charge of this fake reprieve and this gun. They are necessary
evidence."

The deputy took the articles, and as he did so he remarked: "I think
that was a great trick you played him, sir, and most original."

The Governor shook his head as his eye rested on the visitor who was
now being hoisted to his feet.

"Steve Jenkins," he said, "you came here to dispute my theories and you
have merely succeeded in proving them. All criminals make mistakes.
Apart from the murder of my warder, for which you will hang, you made
two bad mistakes within five minutes."

He rose to his feet and assumed his official manner.

"To be a professional criminal and expect to get away with it every
time," he continued gravely, "is really to presume too much. It
involves the possession of knowledge that must never be at fault. Why,
you fell for the old trick of false alarm! I staked--correctly, it
seems--on your ignorance of the historic precedent of Lord Berkeley
who, one night on Hounslow Heath, shot dead, by the same ruse, a
highwayman who held up his carriage at pistol point."

The prisoner eyed him balefully.

"Your next mistake was more gross. It is true I did not possess a
pistol like my Lord Berkeley; but was it carelessness that made you
overlook what a reference book might have told you about my few
accomplishments? If so, the oversight led you into the error of leaving
open a mark for an ex-champion heavy-weight of the Army who had watched
all night for it."

The Governor sat down.

One of the warders who held the prisoner saluted.

"Where shall we take him, sir?"

The Governor replied grimly.

"To the fifteenth cell."

The wheels of routine began to grind once more.


                               THE END.


                          THE HOUSE OF HARPER

                               NEW YORK

                      Publishers of BOOKS and of
                           HARPER'S MAGAZINE

                          _Established 1817_

       *       *       *       *       *

    [Transcriber's Note: Inconsistent hyphenation left as printed.]




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