The Lost Duchess, by an anonymous author, as edited by Julian Hawthorne for the Locke and Key Library. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by Jonathan Trachtenberg. The Lost Duchess, edited by Julian Hawthorne. Chapter 1 Has the Duchess returned? No, Your Grace. Noles came farther into the room. He had a letter on a salver. When the Duke had taken it, Noles still lingered. The Duke glanced at him. Is an answer required? No, Your Grace. Still Noles lingered. Something a little singular has happened. The carriage has returned without the Duchess, and the men say that they thought her grace was in it. What do you mean? I hardly understand myself, Your Grace. Perhaps you would like to see Barnes? Barnes was the coachman. Send him up. When Noles had gone, and he was alone, his grace showed signs of being slightly annoyed. He looked at his watch. I told her she'd better be in by four. She says that she's not feeling well, and yet one would think that she was not aware of the fatigue entailed in having the Prince come to dinner, and a mob of people to follow. I particularly wished her to lie down for a couple of hours. Noles ushered in not only Barnes, the coachman, but Moisey, the footman, too. Both these persons seemed to be ill at ease. The Duke glanced at them sharply. In his voice there was a suggestion of impatience. What is the matter? Barnes explained as best he could. If you please, Your Grace, we waited for the Duchess outside Cain and Wilson's, the draper's. The Duchess came out, got into the carriage, and Moisey shut the door, and her grace said, Home, and yet when we got Home, she wasn't there. She wasn't where? Her grace wasn't in the carriage, Your Grace. What on earth do you mean? Her grace did get into the carriage, you shut the door, didn't you? Barnes turned to Moisey. Moisey brought his hand up to his brow in a sort of military salute. He had been a soldier in the regiment in which, once upon a time, the Duke had been a subaltern. She did. The Duchess came out of the shop. She seemed rather in a hurry, I thought.  We never stopped anywhere, and we never noticed nothing happened on the way, and yet when we got Home, the carriage was empty. The Duke started. Do you mean to tell me that the Duchess got into the carriage while you were driving full pelt through the streets without saying anything to you, and without you noticing it? The carriage was empty when we got Home, your Grace. Was either of the doors open? No, your Grace. You fellows have been up to some infernal mischief. You've made a mess of it.  Barnes was moved to adoration. I'll take my Bible oath, your Grace, that the Duchess got into the carriage outside Cain and Wilson's. Moisey seconded his colleague. I will swear to that, your Grace.  The Duke looked as if he did not know what to make of the story and its tellers. What carriage did you have? Her Grace's Browam, your Grace. Knowles interposed. The Browam was ordered, because I understood the Duchess was not feeling very well, and there's a rather high win, your Grace. The Duke snapped at him. What is that to do with it? Are you suggesting that the Duchess was more likely to jump out of a Browam while it was dashing through the streets than out of any other kind of vehicle? The Duke's glance fell on the letter which Knowles had brought him when he first had entered. He had placed it on his writing-table. Now he took it up. It was addressed to his Grace, the Duke of Dachett, private, very pressing. The name was written in a fine, clear, almost feminine hand. The words in the left-hand corner of the envelope were written in a different hand. They were large and bold, almost as though they had been painted with the end of the pen-holder instead of being written with the pen. The envelope itself was of an unusual size, and bolded out as though it contained something else besides a letter. The Duke tore the envelope open. As he did so something fell out of it on to the writing-table. It looked as though it was a lock of a woman's hair. Easy glanced at it, the Duke seemed to be a trifle startled. The Duke read the letter. Your Grace will be so good as to bring five hundred pounds in gold to the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade within an hour of the receipt of this. The Duchess of Dachett has been kidnapped. An imitation Duchess got into the carriage, which was waiting outside Cain and Wilson's, and she alighted on the road. Unless your Grace does as you are requested, the Duchess of Dachett's left-hand little finger will be at once cut off and sent home in time to receive the Prince to dinner. Other portions of her Grace will follow. A lock of her Grace's hair is enclosed with this as an earnest of our good intentions. Before 5.30 p.m. your Grace is requested to be at the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade with five hundred pounds in gold. You will there be accosted by an individual in a white top hat and with a gardenia in his buttonhole. You will be entirely at liberty to give him into custody, or to have him followed by the police, in which case the Duchess's left arm, cut off at the shoulder, will be sent home for dinner, not to mention other extremely possible contingencies. But you are advised to give the individual in question the five hundred pounds in gold, because in that case the Duchess herself will be home in time to receive the Prince to dinner, and with one of the best stories with which to entertain your distinguished guests they ever heard. Remember, not later than 5.30, unless you wish to receive her Grace's little finger. The Duke stared at this amazing epistle when he had read it as though he found it difficult to believe the evidence of his eyes. He was not a demonstrative person, as a rule, but this little communication astonished even him. He read it again, then his hands dropped to his sides, and he swore. He took up the lock of hair which had fallen out of the envelope. Was it possible that it could be his wife's, the Duchess? Was it possible that a Duchess of Duchet could be kidnapped, in broad daylight, in the heart of London, and be sent home, as it were, in pieces? Had sacrilegious hands already been playing pranks with that great lady's hair?  He turned on Messure's barns and Moisey as though he would have liked to rend them. You scoundrels! He moved forward as though the intention had entered his doogle-heart to knock his servants down. But, if that were so, he did not act quite up to his intention. Instead, he stretched out his arm, pointing at them as if he were an accusing spirit. Will you swear that it was the Duchess who got into the carriage outside Cain and Wilson's? Grace began to stammer. I swear, your Grace, that I thought the Duke stormed in interruption. I don't ask what you thought. I ask you will you swear it was? The Duke's anger was more than barns could face. He was silent. Moisey showed a larger courage. I could have sworn that it was at the time, your Grace, but now it seems to me that it's a rummy-go. A rummy-go? The peculiarity of the phrase did not seem to strike the Duke just then. At least he echoed it as if it didn't.  Do you know that I am told in this letter that the woman who entered the carriage was not the Duchess, what you are thinking about or what case you will be able to make out for yourselves you know better than I, but I can tell you this, that in an hour you will leave my service and you may esteem yourselves fortunate if, to-night, you are not both of you sleeping in jail. One might almost have suspected that the words were spoken in irony, but before they could answer another servant entered, who also brought a letter for the Duke. When his Grace's glance fell on it he uttered an exclamation. The writing on the envelope was the same writing that had been on the envelope which had contained the very singular communication, like it in all respects, down to the broomstick and thickness of the private and very pressing in the corner. Who brought this? Storm the Duke. The servant appeared to be a little startled by the violence of his Grace's manner. A lady, or at least your Grace, she seemed to be a lady. Where is she? She came in a handsome your Grace. She gave me that letter and said give that to the Duke of Dachet at once without a moment's delay. Then she got into the handsome again and drove away. Why didn't you stop her? Your Grace! The man seemed surprised, as though the idea of stopping Chan's visitors to the Duke of Manchin via Tharmé had not, until that moment, entered into his philosophy. The Duke continued to regard the man as if he could say a good deal if he chose. Then he pointed to the door. His lips said nothing, but his gesture much. The servant vanished. Another hoax! The Duke said grimly as he tore the envelope open. This time the envelope contained a sheet of paper, and in the sheet of paper another envelope. The Duke unfolded the sheet of paper. On it some words were written, these. The Duchess appears so particularly anxious to drop you a line that one really hasn't the heart to refuse her. Her Grace's communication, written amidst blinding tears, you will find enclosed with this. Nulls! To the Duke, in a voice which actually trembled, Nulls, hoax on no hoax, I will be even with a gentleman who wrote that! Handing the sheet of paper to Mr. Nulls, his Grace turned his attention to the envelope which had been enclosed. It was a small square envelope of the finest quality, and it reeked with perfume. The Duke's countenance assumed an added frown. He had no fondness for envelopes which were scented. In the centre of the envelope were the words, to the Duke of Dachett, written in the big, bold, sprawling hand which he knew so well. Mabel's writing! He said, half to himself, as with shaking fingers he tore the envelope open. The sheet of paper which he took out was almost as stiff as cardboard. It, too, emitted what his Grace deemed the nauseous odour of the perfumer's shop. On it was written this letter. My dear Herward, for heaven's sake do what these people require. I don't know what has happened or where I am, but I am nearly distracted. They have already cut off some of my hair, and they tell me that if you don't let them have five hundred pounds in gold by half past five, they will cut off my little finger, too.  By the token which I send you, and which has never, until now, been off my breast, I conjure you to help me. Herward, help me! When he read that letter, the Duke turned white, very white, as white as the paper on which it was written. He passed the epistle on to Knowles. I suppose that also is a hoax. Mr. Knowles was silent. He still yielded to his constitutional disrelish to commit himself. At last he asked, What is it that your Grace proposes to do? The Duke spoke with a bitterness which almost suggested a personal animosity toward the inoffensive Mr. Knowles. I propose, with your permission, to release the Duchess from the custody of my estimable correspondent. I propose, always with your permission, to comply with his modest request, and to take him his five hundred pounds in gold. He paused, then continued in a tone which, coming from him, meant volumes. Afterwards I propose to crack quits with the concoctor of this petty little hoax. And if it cost me every penny I possess, he shall pay more for that five hundred pounds that he supposes. CHAPTER II The Duke of Dachet, coming out of the bank, lingered for a moment on the steps. In one hand he carried a canvas bag which seemed well-weighted. On his countenance there was an expression which, to a casual observer, might have suggested that his Grace was not completely at his ease. That casual observer happened to come strolling by. It took the form of Ivor Daker. Mr. Daker looked at the Duke of Dachet up and down in that languid way he has. He perceived the canvas bag. Then he remarked, possibly intending to be facetious, "'Bin robbing the bank?  Nobody minds what Ivor Daker says. Besides, he is the Duke's own cousin. Perhaps a little removed still, there it is. So the Duke's smile, the sickly smile, as if Mr. Daker's delicate wit had given him a passing touch of indigestion. Mr. Daker noticed that the Duke looked sallow, so he gave his pretty sense of humour another airing. "'Kitchen boiler burst? When I saw the Duchess just now I wondered if it had.' His Grace distinctly started. He almost dropped the canvas bag. "'You saw the Duchess just now, Ivor? Win!' The Duke was evidently moved. Mr. Daker was stirred to languid curiosity. "'I can't say I clocked it. Perhaps a half an hour ago? Maybe a little more?' "'A half an hour ago? Are you sure? Where did you see her?' Mr. Daker wondered. The Duchess of Dachet could scarcely have been eloping in broad daylight. Moreover she had not yet been married a year. Everyone knew that she and the Duke were still as fond of each other as if they were not man and wife, so, although the Duke, for some cause or other, was evidently in an odd state of agitation, Mr. Daker saw no reason why he should not make a clean breast of all he knew. She was going like blazes in a handsome cab. In a handsome cab? Where? Down Waterloo Place. Was she alone?' Mr. Daker reflected. He glanced at the Duke's gut of the corners of his eyes. His languid utterance became a positive drawl. "'I rather fancy that she wasn't.' Who was with her?' "'My dear fellow, if you were to offer me the bank, I couldn't tell you.' "'Was it a man?' Mr. Daker's drawl became still more pronounced. "'I rather fancy that it was.' Mr. Daker expected something. The Duke was so excited, but he by no means expected what actually came. "'Ivor! She's been kidnapped!' Mr. Daker did what had never been known to do before within the memory of man. He dropped his eyeglasses. "'Datch it!' "'She has!' Some scoundrel has decoyed her away and trapped her. He's already sent me a lock of her hair, and he tells me that if I don't let him have five hundred pounds in gold by half past five, he'll let me have her little finger!' Mr. Daker did not know what to make of his grace at all. He was a sober man. It couldn't be that. Mr. Daker felt really concerned. "'I'll call a cab, old man, and you'd better let me see you home.' Mr. Daker half-raced his stick to hail a passing handsome. The Duke caught him by the arm. "'You ass! What do you mean? I'm telling you the simple truth. My wife's been kidnapped!' Mr. Daker's countenance was a thing to be seen and remembered. "'Oh! I hadn't heard that there was much of that sort of thing about just now. When they talk of poodles being kidnapped, but as for duchesses, you'd really better let me call that cab.' "'Ivore, do you want me to kick you? Don't you see that to me it's a question of life and death? I've been in there to get the money!' His grace motioned toward the bank. "'I'm going to take it to the scoundrel who has my darling and his mercy. Let me but have her hand in mine again, and he shall continue to pay for every sovereign with tears of blood until he dies.' "'Look here, Dodger, I don't know if you're having a joke with me or if you're not well.' The Duke stepped impatiently into the roadway. "'I'm all your fool! Can't you tell just from Ernest health from disease? I'm off. Are you coming with me? It would be as well that I should have a witness.' "'Where are you off to? To the other out-of-the-arcade.' "'Who is the gentleman you expect to have the pleasure of meeting there?' "'How should I know?' The Duke took a letter from his pocket. It was the letter which had just arrived. The fellow was to wear a white top hat and a gardenia in his butthole.' "'What is it you have there?' "'It's the letter which brought the news. Look for yourself and see. But for God's sake, make haste!' His grace glanced at his watch. "'It's already twenty after five.' "'And do you mean to say that on the strength of a letter such as this you are going to hand over five hundred pounds to—' The Duke cut Mr. Daker short. "'What are five hundred pounds to me? Besides, you don't know all there is another letter, and I have heard from Mabel, but I will tell you all about that later if you are coming come.' Folding up the letter, Mr. Daker returned it to the Duke. "'As you say, what are five hundred pounds to you? It is well they are not as much to you as they are to me, or I'm afraid, hang it, I've all Duke prose afterwards!' The Duke hurried across the road. Mr. Daker hastened after him. As they entered the arcade, they passed a constable. Mr. Daker touched his companion's arm. "'Didn't you think we'd better ask our friend in blue to walk behind us? His neighbourhood might be handy.' "'Nonsense!' The Duke stopped right. "'I bought this as my affair, not yours. If you are not content to play the part of silent witness, be so good as to leave me.' "'My dear dachet, I'm entirely at your service. I can be every bit as insane as you, I do assure you.' Side by side they moved rapidly down the Burlington arcade. The Duke was obviously in a state of the extremist nervous tension. Mr. Daker was equally obviously in a state of the most supreme enjoyment. People stared as they rushed past. The Duke saw nothing, Mr. Daker saw everything, and smiled. When they reached the Piccadilly end of the arcade, the Duke pulled up. He looked about him. Mr. Daker also looked about him. "'I see nothing of your white-hatted and gardenia button-hold friend,' said Ivor.' The Duke referred to his watch. "'It's not yet half past five. I'm up to time.' Mr. Daker held his stick in front of him and leaned on it. He indulged himself with a beatific smile. "'It strikes me, my dear old dachet, that you've been the victim of one of the finest things in hoaxes. I hope I haven't kept you waiting.' The voice which interrupted Mr. Daker came from the rear. While they were looking in front of them, someone approached them from behind, apparently coming out of the shop which was at their backs. The speaker looked a gentleman. He sounded like one, too. Costume, appearance, manner were beyond reproach, even beyond the criticism of two such keen critics as were these. The glorious attire of a London dandy was surmounted with a beautiful white top hat. And his buttonhole was a magnificent gardenia. In age the stranger was scarcely more than a boy, and a sunny-faced handsome boy at that. His cheeks were hairless, his eyes were blue. His smile was not only innocent, it was bland. Never was there a more conspicuous illustration of that repose which stamps the case of Vir de Vir. The Duke looked at him and glowered. Mr. Daker looked at him and smiled. Who are you? asked the Duke. Ah, that is the question. The newcomers refined in musical voice breathed the very soul of affability. I am an individual who is so unfortunate as to be in want of five hundred pounds. Are you the scoundrel who sent me that infamous letter? The charming stranger never turned a hair. I am the scoundrel mentioned in that infamous letter who wants to accost you at the Piccadilly end of the Burlington Arcade before half-past-five, as witness my white hat and my gardenia. Where is my wife?  He regarded the Duke as a merry-hearted son might regard his father. The thing was beautiful. Ha! Grace will be home almost as soon as you are. When you have given me the money which I perceive you have all ready for me in that scarcely elegant-looking canvas bag—he shrugged his shoulders quite gracefully—unfortunately in these matters one has no choice, one is forced to ask for gold.  Or suppose, a minute, Mr. Dacre, that you do better and commend this gentleman to the tender mercies of the first policeman we encounter. The stranger turned to Mr. Dacre. He can't descend it to become conscious of his presence. Is this gentleman your Grace's friend? Ah, Mr. Dacre, I perceive! I have the honour of knowing Mr. Dacre, though possibly I am unknown to him. You were, until this moment. With an airy little laugh the stranger returned to the Duke. He brushed an invisible speck of dust off the sleeve of his coat. As has been intimated in this infamous letter, his Grace is at perfect liberty to give me into custody. Why not? Only, he said it with his boyish smile, if a particular communication is not received from me in certain quarters within a certain time, the Duchess of Datchett's beautiful white arm will be hacked off at the shoulder. You hound! The Duke would have taken the stranger by the throat and have done his best to choke the life right out of him, then and there, if Mr. Dacre had not intervened. Steadily, old man, Mr. Dacre turned to the stranger. You appear to be a pretty sort of scoundrel! The stranger gave his shoulders that almost imperceptible shrug. Oh, my dear Dacre, I am in want of money. I believe that you sometimes are in want of money, too. Everybody knows that nobody knows where I've where Dacre gets his money from, so the illusion must have tickled him immensely. For a cool hand, he said. Some men are born that way. So I should imagine men like you must be born not made. Precisely, as you say. The stranger turned, with a graceful smile to the Duke. But are we not wasting precious time? I can assure your grace that, in this particular matter, moments are of value. Mr. Dacre interposed before the Duke could answer. If you take my strongly urged advice, Statute, you will summon this constable who is now coming down the arcade, and hand this gentleman over to his keeping. I do not think that you need fear that the Duchess will lose her arm, or even her little finger. Scoundrels of this one's kidney are most amenable to reason when they have handcuffs on their wrists. The Duke plainly hesitated. He would, and he would not. The stranger, as the item, seemed much amused. My dear Duke, by all means, act on Mr. Dacre's valuable suggestion. As I said before, why not? It would at least be interesting to see if the Duchess does, or does not lose her arm. Almost as interesting to you as to Mr. Dacre. Those blackmailing, kidnapping scoundrels do you such empty menaces. Besides, you would have the pleasure of seeing me locked up. My imprisonment for life will recompense you even for the loss of her grace's arm. And five hundred pounds is such a sum to have to pay merely for a wife. Why not, therefore, act on Mr. Dacre's suggestion. Here comes the Constable. The Constable referred to was advancing toward them. He was not a dozen yards away. Let me beckon to him, I will with pleasure. He took out his watch, a gold chronograph repeater. There are scarcely ten minutes left during which it will be possible for me to send the communication which I spoke of, so that it may arrive in time, as it will then be too late, and the instruments are already prepared for the little operation which her grace is eagerly anticipating. It would perhaps be as well, after all, that you should give me into charge. You would have saved your five hundred pounds, and you would, at any rate, have something in exchange for her grace's mutilated limb. Ah, here is the Constable, officer! The stranger spoke with such a pleasant little air of easy geniality that it was impossible to tell if he were in gestor and earnest. This fact impressed the Duke much more than if he had gone in for a liberal indulgence of the, under the circumstances, orthodox melodramatic scouting. And indeed, in the face of his own common sense, it impressed Mr. Ivor Dacre, too. This well-bred, well-groomed youth was just the being to realize, Au bout des englais, a modern type of the devil, the type which depicts himself as a perfect gentleman, who keeps smiling all the time. The Constable, whom this audacious rogue had signalled, approached the little group. He addressed the stranger. Do you want me, sir? No, I do not want you. I think it is the Duke of Datchett. The Constable, who knew the Duke very well by sight, saluted him as he turned to receive instructions. The Duke looked white, even savage. There was not a pleasant look in his eyes and about his lips. He appeared to be endeavouring to put a great restraint upon himself. There was a momentary silence. Mr. Dacre made a movement as if to interpose the Duke caught him by the arm. He spoke, No, Constable, I do not want you. This person is mistaken. The Constable looked as if he could not quite make out how such a mistake could have arisen. Hesitated, then, with another salute, he moved away. The stranger was still holding his watch in his hand. Eight minutes, he said. The Duke seemed to experience some difficulty in giving utterance to what he had to say. If I give you this five hundred pounds, you'll—you'll—as the Duke paused, as if at a loss for language which was strong enough to convey his meaning, the stranger laughed. Let us take adjectives for granted. Besides it is only boys who call each other names. Men do things. If you give me the five hundred sorens which you have in that bag, at once, in five minutes it will be too late, I will promise, I will not swear. If you do not credit my simple promise, you will not believe my solemn affirmations, I will promise that, possibly within an hour, certainly within an hour and a half, the Duchess of Dattetso returned to you absolutely uninjured, except, of course, as you are already aware, with regard to a few of the hairs on her head. I will promise this on the understanding that you do not yourself attempt to see where I go, and that you will allow no one else to do so. This with a glance at Ivor Dacre, I shall know at once if I am followed, if you entertain such intentions you had better, on all accounts, remain in possession of your five hundred pounds. The Duke eyed him very grimly. I entertain no such intentions, until the Duchess returns. Again the stranger indulged in that musical laugh of his, ah, until the Duchess returns. Of course, then, the bargain set an end. When you are at once more in the enjoyment of her grace's society, you will be at liberty to set all the dogs in Europe at my heels. I assure you, I fully expect that you will do so, why not? As the Duke raised the canvas-bag, my dear Duke, ten thousand thanks, you shall see her grace at Dachet House upon my honour, possibly within the hour." Well," commented Ivor Dacre, when the stranger had vanished, with the bag into Piccadilly, and as the Duke and himself moved toward Burlington Gardens, if a gentleman is to be robbed, it is as well that he should have another gentleman rob him. Mr. Dacre eyed his companion covertly as they progressed. His grace of Dachet appeared to have some fresh cause for uneasiness. All at once he gave it utterance, in a tone of voice which is extremely somber. Ivor, do you think that scoundrel dared to play me false? I think, murmured Mr. Dacre, that he has dared to play you pretty false already. I don't mean that, but I mean how am I to know, now that he has his money, that he will not he still keep Mabel in his clutches. There came an echo from Mr. Dacre, just so, how are you to know? I believe that something of the sort has been done in the States. I thought that there they were content to kidnap them after they were dead. I was not aware that they had as yet got so far as the living. I believe I have heard of something just like this. I believe they are giants over there. And in that case the scoundrels, when their demands were met, refused to keep to the letter of their bargain and asked for more. The duke stood still. He clenched his fists and swore, Ivor, if that villain doesn't keep his word and Mabel isn't home within the hour by, I shall go mad.  Let us trust a time and a little to your white-headed and Godinia button-hold friend's word of honour. You should have thought of possible eventualities before you showed your confidence really. Suppose instead of going mad, we first of all go home. A handsome stood waiting for a fare at the end of the arcade. Mr. Dacre had handed the duke into it before. His grace had quite realised that the vehicle was there. Tell the fellow to drive faster! That was what the duke said when the cab had started. Dear Dachet, the man's already driving his guirage off its legs. If a bobby catches sight of him, he'll take his number. A moment later, a murmur from the duke, I don't know if you're aware that the prince is coming to dinner. I am perfectly aware of it. Take it uncommonly cool how easy it is to bear our brother's burdens. Ivor, if Mabel doesn't turn up, I shall feel like murder. I sympathise with you, Dachet, with all my heart, though I may observe, parenthetically, that I very far from realise the situation even yet. Take my advice, if the duchess does not show quite as soon as we both of us desire, don't make a scene, just let me see what I can do. Judging from the expression of his countenance, the duke was conscious of no overwhelming desire to witness an exhibition of Mr. Dacre's prowess. When the cab reached Dachet's house, his grace dashed up the steps three at a time. The door flew open. Was the duchess returned? Ivor! A voice floated downward from above. Someone came running down the stairs. It was her grace of Dachet. Mabel! She actually rushed into the duke's extended arms, and he kissed her, and she kissed him before the servants. So you're not quite dead, she cried. I am almost, he said. She drew herself a little away from him. Ivor, were you seriously hurt? Do you suppose that I could have been otherwise, then seriously hurt? My darling, was it a Pickford's van? The duke stired. A Pickford's van? I don't understand, but come in here. Come along. Ivor! Mabel! You don't see Ivor. How do you do, Mr. Dacre? Then the trio withdrew into a little anti-room. It was really time. Even then the pair conducted themselves as if Mr. Dacre had been nothing and no one. The duke took the lady's two hands, and his, he eyed her fondly. So you are uninjured with the exception of that log of hair? Where did they then take it from? The lady looked a little puzzled. What log of hair? From an envelope which she took from his pocket the duke produced a shining tress. It was the lock of hair which had arrived in the first communication. I will have it framed! You will have what framed? The duchess glanced at what the duke was so tenderly caressing, almost as it seemed a little dubiously. What ever is it you have there? It is the lock of hair which that scoundrel sent me! Something in the lady's face caused him to ask a question. Did he tell you he had sent it to me? Who would? Did the brute tell you he meant to cut off your finger? A very curious look came into the lady's face. She glanced at the duke as if she, all at once, was half afraid of him. She cast at Mr. Daker, what really seemed to be a look of inquiry. Her voice was tremulously anxious. Who would? Did the accident affect you mentally? How could it not have affected me mentally? Do you think my mental organisation is of steel? But you look so well. Of course I look well, now that I have you back again.  If he did, I shall have you have inclined to kill him yet! The duke seemed positively to shrink from her better half's near neighbourhood. What? Was it a Pickford's van? The duke seemed puzzled. Well he might be. What a Pickford van! The lady turned to Mr. Daker, in her voice there was a ring of anguish. Mr. Daker, tell me, was it a Pickford's van? I for could only imitate his relative's repetition of her inquiry. I didn't quite catch you. Was what a Pickford's van? The duchess clasped her hands in front of her. What is it you're keeping from me? What is it you're trying to hide, and implore you to tell me the worst whatever it may be? Do not keep me any longer in suspense. You do not know what I have already endured. Mr. Daker, is my husband mad? One needs scarcely observe that the lady's amazing appeal to Mr. Daker as to her husband's sanity was received with something like surprise. As the duke continued to stare at her, a dreadful fear began to loom in his brain.  He advanced to take her two hands again in his, but to his unmistakable distress she shrank away from him. How it! Don't touch me! How is it that I missed you? Why did you not wait until I came? Wait until you came? The duke's bewilderment increased. Surely if your injuries turned out after all to be slight, that was all the more reason why you should have waited after sending for me like that. I sent for you? I? The duke's tone was grave. My darling, perhaps you had better come upstairs. Wait until we have had an explanation. You must have known that I should come. Why did you not wait for me after you had sent me that? The Duchess held out something to the duke. He took it. It was a card, his own visiting card. Something was written on the back of it. He read aloud what was written. Mabel, come to me at once with the bearer. They tell me that they cannot take me home. It looks like my own writing. Looks like it, it is your writing. It looks like it, and written with a shaky pen. Dear child, one's hand would shake at such a moment as that. Mabel, where did you get this? It was brought to me in Cain and Wilson's. Who brought it? Who brought it? Why, the man you sent? The man I sent? A light burst upon the duke's brain. He fell back at pace. It's the decoy. Her grace echoed the words. The decoy? The scoundrel to set the trap with such a bait. My boy, it isn't darling. Did you think it came from me?  Cut off my hair? Your grace put her hand to her hand as if to make sure that her hair was there. Where did he take you to? He took me to Draper's buildings. Draper's buildings? I have never been in the city before, but he told me it was Draper's buildings. Isn't that near the Stock Exchange? Near the Stock Exchange? It seemed rather a curious place to which to take a kidnapped victim. The man's audacity.  He said that he thought it was a Pickford's van. Was it a Pickford's van? No, it was not a Pickford's van. Mabel, were you and Draper's buildings when you wrote that letter? Wrote what letter? Have you forgotten it already? I do not believe that there was a word in it which will not be branded on my brain until I die. How it what do you mean? Surely you cannot have written me such a letter as that and then forgotten it already. He handed her the letter which had arrived in the second communication. She glanced at it as Gantz. Then she took it with a little gasp. Herward, if you don't mind, I think I'll take a chair. She took a chair. Wh—whatever—whatever's this? As she read the letter, the varying expressions which passed across her face were, in themselves, a study in psychology. Is it possible that you can imagine that under any conceivable circumstances I could have written such a letter as this? Mabel! She rose to her feet with emphasis. How it don't say you thought this came from me! Not from you! You remembered Noel's diplomatic reception of the epistle on its first appearance. I suppose you would say next that this is not a lock of your hair! My dear child would be, have you gotten your wallet? This a lock of my hair? Why it's not the least bit like my hair! Which was certainly inaccurate, as far as colour was concerned it was an almost perfect match. The duke turned to Mr. Daker. I've or I've had to go through a good deal this afternoon. If I have to go through much more, something will crack! He touched his forehead. I think it's my turn to take a chair. Not the one which the duchess had vacated, but one which faced it.  He thrust his hands into his trouser pockets. He said, in a tone which was not gloomy, but absolutely gruesome— And I ask, Mabel, if you have been kidnapped. Kidnapped? The word I used was kidnapped, but I will spell it if you like, or I will get a dictionary that you may see as meaning. The duchess looked as if she was beginning to be not quite sure if she was awake or sleeping. She turned to Ivor. Mr. Daker has the accident affected her with brain. The duke took the words out of his cousin's mouth. On that point, my dear, let me ease your mind. I don't know if you are under the impression that I should be in the same shape after a Pickford's van had run over me as I was before, but in any case I have not been run over by a Pickford's van. So far as I am concerned there has been no accident. Dismiss that delusion from your mind. Oh! You appear surprised. One might even think you were sorry, but may I now ask what you did when you arrived at Draper's buildings? Did! I've looked for you! Indeed! And when you had looked in vain, what was the next item in your programme? The lady shrank still farther from him. Hurwood, have you been having a jest at my expense? Can you have been so cruel? Tears stood in her eyes, rising the duke laid his hand upon her arm. Mabel, tell me, what did you do when you had looked for me in vain? I looked few upstairs, downstairs, and everywhere. It was quite a large place. It took me ever such a time. I thought that I should go. Distracted! Nobody seemed to know anything about you, or even that there had been an accident at all. It was all offices. I couldn't make it out in the least, and the people didn't seem to be able to make me out either. So when I couldn't find you anywhere, I came straight home again. The duke was silent for a moment. Then, with a funeral gravity, he turned to Mr. Daker. He put to him this question. Mabel, what are you laughing at? Mr. Daker drew his hand across his mouth, with a rather suspicious gesture. My dear fellow, only a smile. The judges looked from one to the other. What have you two been doing? What is the joke? With an air of pretty natural solemnity, the duke took two letters from the breast pocket of his coat. Mabel, you have already seen your letter. You have already seen the lock of your hair. Just look at this and that. He gave her the two very singular communications, which had arrived in such a mysterious manner, and so quickly one after the other. She read them with wide open eyes. Where would these come from?  I would give another five hundred pounds to know. Shall I tell you, madam, what I have been doing? I have been presenting five hundred golden sovereigns to a perfect stranger with a top hat and a gardenia in his buttonhole. Whatever for? If you have perused these documents which you have in your hand, you will have some faint idea. I have all, when it is your funeral, I'll smile. Mabel, Duchess of Dattet, it is beginning to dawn upon the vacuum which represents my brain, that I have been the victim of one of the prettiest things and practical jokes that ever yet was planned. When that fellow brought you that card at Cain and Wilson's, which I need to discuss, they tell you never came from me.  Moisey showed her into the carriage, and Barnes drove her home. But when the carriage retold, it was empty. Your double had got out upon the road. The Duchess uttered a sound which was half gasp, half sigh, Howard! Barnes and Moisey, with beautiful and childlike innocence, when they found that they had brought the thing home empty, they came straight away and told me you had jumped out of the Browamon that had been driving full pelt through the streets. While I was digesting that piece of information, there came the first epistle, with the lock of your hair. Before I had time to digest that, there came the second epistle, with yours inside. It seems incredible. It sounds incredible, but unfathomable is the folly of man, especially of a man who loves his wife. You do cross to Mr. Dacre. I don't want, I've all, to suggest anything in the way of bribery and corruption, but if you could keep this matter to yourself, not mention it to your friends, our white-hattered and gardenia-button-holder acquaintance, is welcome to his five hundred pounds, and maybe what on earth are you laughing at? The Duchess appeared all at once to be seized with inextinguishable laughter. Howard! Just think how that man must be laughing at you! And the Duke of Dachet thought of it. End of the Lost Duchess. The Moabite Cipher by R. Austin Freeman. The Moabite Cipher by R. Austin Freeman. A large and motley crowd lined the pavements of Oxford Street as Thorndike and I made our way leisurely eastward. Floral decorations and drooping bunting announced one of those functions inaugurated from time to time by a benevolent government for the entertainment of fashionable loungers and the relief of distressed pickpockets. For a Russian Grand Duke who had torn himself away amidst valedictory explosions from a loving if too demonstrative people was to pass anon on his way to the Guildhall, and a British prince, heroically indiscreet, was expected to occupy a seat in the dookal carriage. Near Rathbone Place, Thorndike halted and drew my attention to a smart-looking man who was lounging in a doorway, cigarette in hand. Our old friend, Inspector Badger, said Thorndike, he seems mightily interested in that gentleman in the light overcoat. How do you do, Badger? For at this moment the detective caught his eye and bowed. Who is your friend? That's what I'd like to know, sir, replied the inspector. I've been shadowing him for the last half hour, but I can make him out, though I believe I've seen him somewhere. He don't look like a foreigner, but he has something bulky in his pocket, so I must keep him in sight until the dook is safely passed. I wish, he added gloomily, these beastly Russians would stop at home. They give us no end of trouble. Are you expecting any occurrences, then? Asked Thorndike. Bless you, sir, exclaimed Badger. The whole route is lined with plain clothesmen. You see, it is known that several desperate characters followed the dook to England, and there are a good many exiles living here who would like to have a wrap at him. Hello! What's he up to now? The man in the light overcoat had suddenly caught the inspector's two inquiring eye, and forthwith dived into the crowd at the edge of the pavement. In his haste he trod heavily on the foot of a big, rough-looking man, by whom he was in a moment hustled out into the road with such violence that he fell sprawling face downwards. It was an unlucky moment. A mounted constable was just then backing in upon the crowd, and before he could gather the meaning of the shout that arose from the bystanders, his horse had set down one hind hoofed firmly on the prostrate man's back. The inspector signaled to a constable, who forthwith made away for us through the crowd, but even as we approached the injured man he rose stiffly and looked round with a pale, vacant face. Are you hurt? Thorndike asked gently, with an earnest look into the frightened, wondering eyes. No, sir, was the reply, only I feel queer, sinking just here. He laid a trembling hand on his chest, and Thorndike, still eyeing him anxiously, said in a low voice to the inspector, cab or ambulance as quickly as you can. A cab was led round from Newman Street, and the injured man put into it.  As we proceeded, our patient's face grew more and more ashen, drawn and anxious. His breathing was shallow and uneven, and his teeth shattered slightly. The cab swung round into Goode Street, and then, suddenly, in the twinkling of an eye, there came a change. The eyelids and jaw relaxed. The eyes became filmy, and the whole form subsided into the corner in a shrunken heap, with the strange gelatinous limpness of a body that is dead as a whole, while its tissues are still alive.  He sat, staring at the corpse, as it nodded gently with the jolting of the cab, until we drew up inside the courtyard of the Middlesex Hospital, when he got out briskly, with suddenly renewed cheerfulness, to help the porter to place the body on the wheeled couch. Well, we shall know who he is now at any rate, said he. As we followed the couch to the casualty room, Thorndike nodded unsympathetically. The medical instinct in him was for the moment stronger than the legal. The house surgeon leaned over the couch and made a rapid examination as he listened to our account of the incident. Then he straightened himself up and looked at Thorndike. Little hemorrhage I expect, said he, at any rate he's dead, poor beggar, as dead as Nebuchadnezzar. Ah! Here comes the Bobby. It's his affair now." A sergeant came into the room, breathing quickly, and looked in surprise from the corpse to the inspector. But the latter, without loss of time, proceeded to turn out the dead man's pockets, commencing with the bulky object which had first attracted his attention, which proved to be a brown paper parcel tied up with red tape. Pork pie, begad! He exclaimed, with a crestfallen air, as he cut the tape and opened the package. You had better go through his other pockets, sergeant. The small heap of odds and ends that resulted from this process tended, with a single exception, to throw a little light on the man's identity, the exception being a letter, sealed but not stamped, addressed in an exceedingly illiterate hand to Mr. Adolf Schoenberg, 213 Greek Street, Soho. He was going to leave it by hand, I expect, observed the inspector, with a wistful glance at the sealed envelope. I think I'll take it round myself, and you had better come with me, sergeant. He slipped a letter into his pocket, and leaving the sergeant to take possession of the other effects, made his way out of the building. I suppose, doctor, said he, as we crossed into Burner Street, you are not coming our way. Don't want to see Mr. Schoenberg, hmm? Thornberg reflected for a moment. Well, it isn't very far, and we may as well see the end of the incident. Yes, let's go together. Number 213 Greek Street was one of those houses that irresistibly suggested the observer the idea of a church organ, either jam of the doorway being adorned with a row of brass bell handles corresponding to stop knobs. These the sergeant examined with the air of an expert musician, and having, as it were, gauged the capacity of the instrument, selected the middle knob on the right side and pulled it briskly, whereupon a first floor window was thrown up and a head protruded. But it afforded us a momentary glimpse only, for having caught the sergeant's upturned eye, it retired with surprising precipitancy, and before we had time to speculate on the apparition, the street door was opened and a man emerged. He was about to close the door after him when the inspector interposed. Does Mr. Adolf Schoenberg live here? The newcomer, a very typical Jew of the red-haired type, surveyed us thoughtfully, through his gold-rimmed spectacles, as he repeated the name. Schoenberg? Schoenberg? Ah, yes, I know. He lives on the third floor. I saw him go up a short time ago, third floor, back, and indicating the open door with a wave of the hand, he raised his hat and passed into the street. I suppose we had better go up, said the inspector, with a dubious glance at the row of bell-pulls. He accordingly started up the stairs, and we all followed in his wake. There were two doors at the back of the third floor, but as the one was open, displaying an unoccupied bedroom, the inspector wrapped smartly on the other. It flew open almost immediately, and a fierce looking little man confronted us with a hostile stare. Well, said he, Mr. Adolf Schoenberg, inquired the inspector, well thought about him, snapped our new acquaintance. I wish to have a few words with him, said Badger. Then thought that you still come bangin' at my door, four, demanded the other. Why doesn't he live here? No. First floor, front, replied our friend, preparing to close the door. Pardon me, said Thorndike, but what is Mr. Schoenberg like? I mean, like? Interrupted the resident, he's like a blooming shini with a karate beard and gold gig lamps. And having presented this impressionist sketch, he brought the interview to a definite close by slamming the door and turning the key. With a wrathful exclamation the inspector turned toward the stairs, down which the sergeant was already clattering in hot haste, and made his way back to the ground floor, followed as before by Thorndike and me. On the doorstep we found the sergeant breathlessly interrogating a smartly dressed youth, whom I had seen alight from a handsome as we entered the house, and who now stood with a notebook tucked under his arm, sharpening a pencil with deliberate care. Mr. James saw him come out, sir, said the sergeant. He turned up towards the square. Did he seem to hurry? asked the inspector.  You won't catch him now. We don't want to catch him, the detective rejoined gruffly. When backing out of earshot of the eager pressman he said in a lower tone, that was Mr. Schoenberg, beyond a doubt, and it is clear that he has some reason for making himself scarce, so I shall consider myself justified in opening that note. He suited the action to the word, and having cut the envelope open with official neatness drew out the enclosure. My hat, he exclaimed, as his eye fell upon the contents. What in creation is this? It isn't shorthand, but what the deuce is it? He handed the document to Thorndike, who, having held it up to the light and felt the paper critically, proceeded to examine it with keen interest. It consisted of a single half sheet of thin note paper, both sides of which were covered with strange, crabbed characters, written with a brownish-black ink in continuous lines, without any spaces to indicate the divisions into words, and, but for the modern material which bore the writing, it might have been a portion of some ancient manuscript or forgotten codex. What do you make of it, doctor? inquired the inspector anxiously, after a pause, during which Thorndike had scrutinized the strange writing with knitted brows. Not a great deal, replied Thorndike. The character is the Moabite or Phoenician-primitive Semitic, in fact, and reads from right to left. The language I take to be Hebrew. At any rate I can find no Greek words, and I see here a group of letters which may form one of the few Hebrew words that I know. The word badim lies. But you had better get it deciphered by an expert. If it is Hebrew, said Badger, we can manage it all right. There are plenty of Jews at our disposal. You had better take that paper to the British Museum, said Thorndike, and submit it to the keeper of the Phoenician antiquities for decipherment. Inspector Badger smiled a foxy smile as he deposited the paper in his pocketbook. We'll see what we can make of it ourselves first, he said. But many thanks for your advice, all the same, doctor. No, Mr. James, I can't give you any information just at present. You had better apply at the hospital. I suspect, said Thorndike, as we took our way homewards, that Mr. James has collected enough material for his purpose already. He must have followed us from the hospital, and I have no doubt that he has his report with full details mentally arranged at this moment, and I am not sure that he didn't get a peep at the mystery's paper in spite of the inspector's precautions. By the way, I said, what do you make of the document? A cipher, most probably, he replied. It is written in the Primitive Semetic Alphabet which, as you know, is practically identical with Primitive Greek. It is written from right to left like the Phoenician, Hebrew and Moabite, as well as the earliest Greek inscriptions. The paper is common cream-laid no-paper, and the ink is ordinary indelible Chinese ink, such as is used by draftsmen. Those are the facts, and without further study of the document itself they don't carry us very far. Why do you think it is a cipher rather than a document in straightforward Hebrew? Because it is obviously a secret message of some kind. Now every educated Jew knows more or less Hebrew, and although he is able to read and write only the modern square Hebrew character, it is so easy to transpose one alphabet into another that the mere language would afford no security. Therefore, I expect that, when the experts translate this document, the translation or transliteration will be a mere pharago of unintelligible nonsense, but we shall see. And meanwhile, the facts that we have offer several interesting suggestions which are well worth consideration. Now, my dear Jervis, said Thorndike, shaking an monetary forefinger at me, don't, I pray you, give way to mental indolence. You have these few facts that I have mentioned. Consider them separately and collectively, and in their relation to the circumstances.  On the following morning the papers fully justified my colleague's opinion of Mr. James. All the events which had occurred, as well as a number that had not, were given in the fullest and most vivid detail, a lengthy reference being made to the paper, found on the person of the dead anarchist, and written in a private shorthand or cryptogram. The report concluded with the gratifying, though untrue, statement that, in this intricate and important case, the police have wisely secured the assistance of Dr. John Thorndike, to whose acute intellect and vast experience the pretentious cryptogram will doubtless soon deliver up its secret. Very flattering laughed Thorndike, to whom I read the extract on his return from the hospital. But a little awkward if it should induce our friends to deposit a few trifling mementos in the form of nitro compounds on our main staircase or in the cellars. By the way, I met Superintendent Miller on London Bridge. The cryptogram, as Mr. James calls it, has set Scotland Yard in a mighty ferment. Naturally, what have they done in the matter? They adopted my suggestion, after all, finding that they could make nothing of it themselves, and took it to the British Museum. The museum people referred them to Professor Popelbaum, the great paleographer, to whom they accordingly submitted it. Does he express any opinion about it? Yes, provisionally. After a brief examination, he found it to consist of a number of Hebrew words sandwiched between apparently meaningless groups of letters. He furnished the superintendent offhand with a translation of the words, and Miller, forthwith, struck off a number of hectograph copies of it, which he has distributed among the senior officials of his department, so that at present, here Thorndike gave event to a soft chuckle. Scotland Yard is engaged in a sort of missing word, or rather, missing sense competition. Miller invited me to join in the sport, and to that Anne presented me with one of the hectograph copies, on which to exercise my wits, together with a photograph of the document. And shall you? I asked. Not I, he replied, laughing. In the first place, I have not been formally consulted, and consequently am I passive, though interested, spectator. In the second place, I have a theory of my own, which I shall test if the occasion arises. But if you would like to take part in the competition, I am authorized to show you the photograph and the translation. I will pass them on to you, and I wish you joy of them. He handed me the photograph and a sheet of paper that he had just taken from his pocketbook, and watched me with grim amusement as I read out the first few lines. Woe, city, lies, robbery, pray, noise, whip, rattling, wheel, horse, chariot, day, darkness, gloominess, clouds, darkness, morning, mountain, people, strong, fire, them, flame. It doesn't look very promising at first sight, I remarked. What is the professor's theory? His theory, provisionally, of course, is that the words form the message, and the groups of letters represent mere filled-up spaces between the words. But surely, I protested, that would be a very transparent device. Thorndike laughed. There is a childlike simplicity about it, said he, that is highly attractive, but discouraging. It is much more probable that the words are dummies, and that the letters contain the message. Or again the solution may lie in an entirely different direction. But listen, is that a cap coming here? It was. It drew up opposite our chambers, and a few moments later a brisk step ascending the stairs heralded a smart rat-tat at our door. Flinging open the ladder I found myself confronted by a well-dressed stranger, who, after a quick glance at me, peered inquisitively over my shoulder into the room. I am relieved, Dr. Jervis, said he, to find you and Dr. Thorndike at home, as I have come on somewhat urgent professional business. My name, he continued, entering in response to my invitation, is Barton, but you don't know me, though I know you both by sight. I have come to ask you if one of you, or better still both, could come to-night and see my brother. That, said Thorndike, depends on the circumstances and on the whereabouts of your brother. The circumstances, said Mr. Barton, are, in my opinion, highly suspicious, and I will place them before you, of course, in strict confidence. Thorndike nodded and indicated a chair. My brother, continued Mr. Barton, taking the proffered seat, has recently married for the second time. His age is fifty-five, and that of his wife, twenty-six, and I may say that the marriage has been, well, by no means a success. Now, within the last fortnight, my brother has been attacked by a mysterious and extremely painful affection of the stomach, to which his doctor seems unable to give a name. It has resisted all treatment hitherto. Day by day the pain and distress increase, and I feel that, unless something decisive is done, the end cannot be far off. Is the pain worse after taking food? inquired Thorndike. That's just it, exclaimed our visitor. I see what is in your mind, and it has been in mine, too, so much so that I have tried repeatedly to obtain samples of the food that he is taking. This morning I succeeded. Here he took from his pocket a wide-mouth bottle, which, disengaging from its paper wrappings, he laid on the table. When I called, he was taking his breakfast of arrowroot, which he complained had a gritty taste, supposed by his wife to be due to the sugar. Now I had provided myself with this bottle, and during the absence of his wife I managed, unobserved, to convey a portion of the arrowroot that he had left into it, and I should be greatly obliged, if you would examine it, and tell me if this arrowroot contains anything that it should not. He pushed the bottle across to Thorndike, who carried it to the window, and, extracting a small quantity of the contents with a glass rod, examined the pasty mass with the aid of a lens. Then, lifting the bell-glass cover from the microscope, which stood on its table by the window, he smeared a small quantity of the suspected matter onto a glass slip, and placed it on the stage of the instrument. I observed a number of crystalline particles in this, he said after a brief inspection, which have the appearance of arsineus acid. Ah! ejaculated Mr. Barton, just as I feared, but are you certain? No, replied Thorndike, but the matter is easily tested. He pressed the button of the bell that communicated with the laboratory, a summons that brought the laboratory assistance from his lair with characteristic promptitude. Will you please prepare a marshes apparatus, Poulton? said Thorndike. I have a couple ready, sir, replied Poulton, then pour the acid into one and bring it to me with a tile, as his familiar vanished silently, Thorndike turned to Mr. Barton. Supposing we find arsenic in this arrow-root, as we probably shall, what do you want us to do? I want you to come and see my brother, replied our client. Why not take a note from me to his doctor? No, no, I want you to come. I should like you both to come, and put a stop at once to this dreadful business. Consider it is a matter of life and death. You won't refuse. I beg you not to refuse me your help in these terrible circumstances. Well, said Thorndike, as his assistant reappeared, let us first see what the test has to tell us. Poulton advanced to the table on which he deposited a small flask, the contents of which were in a state of brisk effervescence, a bottle labeled calcium hypochlorite and a white porcelain tile. The flask was fitted with a safety funnel and a glass tube drawn out to a fine jet, to which Poulton cautiously applied a lighted match. Instantly there sprang from the jet a tiny, pale violet flame. Thorndike now took the tile and held it in the flame for several seconds. When the appearance of the surface remained unchanged, save for the small circle of condensed moisture. His next proceeding was to thin the arrowroot with distilled water until it was quite fluid, and then pour a small quantity into the funnel. It ran slowly down the tube into the flask, with the bubbling contents of which it became speedily mixed. Almost immediately a change began to appear in the character of the flame, which from a pale violet turned gradually to a sickly blue, while above it hung a faint cloud of white smoke. Once more Thorndike held the tile above the jet, but this time no sooner had the pale violet flame touched the cold surface of the porcelain than there appeared on the latter a glistening black stain. That is pretty conclusive, observed Thorndike, lifting the stopper out of the reagent bottle. But we will apply the final test. He dropped a few drops of the hypochlorite solution onto the tile, and immediately the black stain faded away and vanished. We can now answer your question, Mr. Barton, said he, replacing the stopper as he turned to our client. The specimen that you brought us certainly contains arsenic and in very considerable quantities. Then, exclaimed Mr. Barton, starting from his chair, you will come and help me to rescue my brother from this dreadful pearl. Don't refuse me, Dr. Thorndike, for mercy's sake. Don't refuse. Thorndike reflected for a moment. Before we decide, said he, we must see what engagements we have. With a quick, significant glance at me, he walked into the office, with or I followed in some bewilderment, for I knew that we had no engagements for the evening. Now, Jervis, said Thorndike, as he closed the office door, what are we to do? We must go, I suppose, I replied. It seems a pretty urgent case. It does, he agreed. Of course the man may be telling the truth, after all. You don't think he is, then? No, it is a plausible tale, but there is too much arsenic in that arrow-root. Still, I think I ought to go. It is an ordinary professional risk. But there is no reason why you should put your head into the noose. Thank you, I said somewhat huffily. I don't see what risk there is, but if any exists I claim the right to share it. Very well, he answered with a smile, we will both go. I think we can take care of ourselves. He re-entered the sitting-room and announced his decision to Mr. Barton, whose relief and gratitude were quite pathetic. But, said Thorndike, you have not yet told us where your brother lives. Rex Ford, was the reply, Rex Ford in Essex. It is an out-of-the-way place, but if we catch the 715 from Liverpool Street, we shall be there in an hour and a half. And as to the return, you know the trains, I suppose? Oh, yes, replied our client, I will see that you don't miss your train back. Then I will be with you in a minute, said Thorndike, and taking the still-bubbling flask he retired to the laboratory, once he returned in a few minutes carrying his hat and overcoat. The cab which had brought our client was still waiting, and we were soon rattling through the streets toward the station, where we arrived in time to furnish ourselves with dinner baskets and select our compartment at leisure. During the early part of the journey our companion was in excellent spirits. He dispatched the cold fowl from the basket and quaffed the rather indifferent claret with as much relish as if he had not had a single relation in the world, and after dinner he became genial to the verge of hilarity. But as the time went on, there crept into his manner a certain anxious restlessness. He became silent and preoccupied, and several times furtively consulted his watch. The train is confoundedly late, he exclaimed irritably, seven minutes behind time already. A few minutes more or less are not of much consequence, said Thorndike. No, of course not, but still. Ah, thank heaven, here we are. He thrust his head out of the offside window, and gazed eagerly down the line. Then leaping to his feet he bustled out onto the platform while the train was still moving. Even as we alighted, a warning bell rang furiously on the up-platform, and as Mr. Barton hurried us through the empty booking-office to the outside of the station, the rumble of the approaching train could be heard above the noise made by our own trade moving off. My courage does not seem to have arrived yet, exclaimed Mr. Barton, looking anxiously up the station approach. If you will wait here a moment, I will go and make inquiries. He darted back into the booking-office, and threw it onto the platform, just as the up-train roared into the station. Barton followed him with quick but stealthy steps, and peering out of the booking-office door watched his proceedings, then he turned and beckoned to me. There he goes, said he, pointing to an iron footbridge that spanned the line, and as I looked I saw clearly defined against the dim-night sky a flying figure racing toward the upside. It was hardly two-thirds across when the guard's whistle sang out its shrill warning.  He leaped down onto the line, with her eye followed instantly, and crossing the rails we clambered up together onto the footboard opposite an empty first-class compartment. Thorndike's magazine knife, containing, among other implements, a railway key, was already in his hand. The door was speedily unlocked, and as we entered, Thorndike ran through and looked out onto the platform. Just in time, he exclaimed, he is in one of the forward compartments. He relocked the door, and seating himself proceeded to fill his pipe. And now, said I, as the train moved out of the station, perhaps you will explain this little comedy. With pleasure, he replied, if it needs any explanation, but you can hardly have forgotten Mr. James's flattering remarks in his report of the Greek street incident, clearly giving the impression that the mysterious document was in my possession. When I read that, I knew I must look out for some attempt to recover it. Though I hardly expected such promptness, still, when Mr. Barton called without credentials or appointment, I viewed him with some suspicion. That suspicion deepened when he wanted us both to come. It deepened further when I found an impossible quantity of arsenic in his sample, and it gave place to certainty when, having allowed him to select the trains by which we were to travel, I went up to the laboratory and examined the timetable, for I then found that the last train for London left Rexford ten minutes after we were due to arrive. Obviously, this was a plan to get us both safely out of the way, while he and some of his friends ransacked our chambers for the missing document. I see, and that accounts for his extraordinary anxiety at the lateness of the train, but why did you come if you knew it was a plant? My dear fellow, said Thorndike, I never miss an interesting experience if I can help it. There are possibilities in this, too, don't you see? But supposing his friends have broken into our chambers already. That contingency has been provided for, but I think they will wait for Mr. Barton, and us. Our train, being the last one up, stopped at every station, and crawled slothfully in the intervals, so that it was past eleven o'clock when we reached Liverpool Street. Here we got out cautiously, and mingling with the crowd, followed the unconscious Barton up the platform, through the barrier and out into the street. He seemed in no special hurry, for after pausing to light a cigar he set off at an easy pace up New Broad Street. Thorndike hailed a handsome, and motioning me to enter, directed the cab men to drive to Clifford's in passage. "'Sit well back,' said he, as we rattled away up New Broad Street.  In fact there he is, a living walking illustration of the folly of underrating the intelligence of one's adversary. At Clifford's in passage we dismissed the cab, and retiring into the shadow of the dark narrow alley kept an eye on the gate of inner Temple Lane. In about twenty minutes we observed our friend approaching on the south side of Fleet Street. He halted at the gate, plied the knocker, and after a brief parlay with the night-porter vanished through the wicket. We waited yet five minutes more, and then having given him time to get clear of the entrance we crossed the road. The porter looked at us with some surprise. "'There's a gentleman just gone down to your chambers, sir,' said he. He told me you were expecting him. "'Quite right,' said Thorndike with a dry smile. I was. Good night.' We slunk down the lane, past the church, and through the gloomy cloisters, giving a wide berth to all lamps and lighted entries, until, emerging into paper buildings, we crossed at the darkest part to King's Bench Walk, where Thorndike made straight for the chambers of our friend Anstie, which were two doors above our own. "'Why are we coming here?' I asked as we ascended the stairs. But the question needed no answer when we reached the landing. For through the open door of our friend's chambers I could see in the darkened room Anstie himself with two uniform constables and a couple of planes' clothesmen. "'There has been no signal yet, sir,' said one of the latter, whom I recognized as a detective sergeant of our division. "'No,' said Thorndike, but the MC has arrived. He came in five minutes before us. Then,' exclaimed Anstie, "'the ball will open shortly, ladies and gents. The boards are waxed, the fiddlers are tuning up, and—' "'Not quite so loud, if you please, sir,' said the sergeant. I think there is somebody coming up Crown Office Row.' The ball had, in fact, opened. As we peered cautiously out of the open window, keeping well back in the darkened room, a stealthy figure crept out of the shadow, crossed the road and stole noiselessly into the entry of Thorndike's chambers. It was quickly followed by a second figure, and then by a third, in which I recognized our elusive client. "'Now, listen for the signal,' said Thorndike. "'They won't waste time. Con found that clock.' The soft-voiced bell of the inner temple clock, mingling with the harsher tones of St. Dunstan's and the law-courts, slowly told out the hour of midnight, and as the last reverberations were dying away, some metallic object, apparently a coin, dropped with a sharp clink onto the pavement under our window. At the sound the watchers simultaneously sprang to their feet. "'You two go first,' said the sergeant, addressing the uniformed men, who thereupon stole noiselessly in their rubber-soled boots, down the stone stairs and along the pavement. The rest of us followed, with less attention to silence. And as we ran up to Thorndike's chambers, we were aware of quick but stealthy footsteps on the stairs above. "'They've been at work, you see,' whispered one of the constables, flashing his lantern onto the iron-bound outer door of our sitting-room, on which the marks of a large gemmy were plainly visible. The sergeant nodded grimly, and bidding the constables to remain on the landing, led the way upwards. As we ascended, faint rustlings continued to be audible from above, and on the second floor landing we met a man descending briskly, but without hurry from the third. It was Mr. Barton, and I could not put admire the composure with which he passed the two detectives. But suddenly his glance fell on Thorndike and his composure vanished. With a wild stare of incredulous horror he halted as if petrified. Then he broke away and raced furiously down the stairs, and after a moment a muffled shout and the sound of a scuffle told us that he had received a check. On the next flight we met two more men, who were hurried and less self-possessed, endeavored to push past, but the sergeant barred away. "'Why, bless me,' exclaimed the latter, "'it's Moky, and isn't that Tom Harris?' "'It's all right, sergeant,' said Moky, plaintively, striving to escape from the officer's grip. "'We've come to the wrong house, that's all.' The sergeant smiled indulgently. "'I know,' he replied, but you're always coming to the wrong house, Moky, and now you're just coming along with me to the right house.' He slipped his hand inside his captive's coat and adroitly fished out a large, folding gemmy, whereupon the discomforted burglar abandoned all further protest. On our return to the first floor we found Mr. Barton sulkily awaiting us, handcuffed to one of the constables, and watched by Poulton with pensive disapproval. "'I needn't trouble you to-night, doctor,' said the sergeant, as he marshaled his little troop of captors and captives. "'You'll hear from us in the morning. Good-night, sir.' The melancholy procession moved off down the stairs, and we retired to our chambers, with antsy to smoke a last pipe. "'A capable man,' that Barton, observed Thurndyke, "'ready, plausible and ingenious, but spoiled by prolonged contact with fools. I wonder if the police will perceive the significance of this little affair. "'They'll be more acute than I am, if they do,' said I. "'Naturally,' interposed antsy, who loved to cheek his revered senior, "'because there isn't any. It's only Thurndyke's bounce. He is really in adduce of a fog himself.' "'However this may have been, the police were a good deal puzzled by the incident, for on the following morning we received a visit from no less a person than Superintendent Miller of Scotland Yard.' "'This is a queer business,' said he, coming to the pointed ones. "'This burglary, I mean. Why should they want to crack your place? Right here in the temple, too. We've got nothing of value here, have you? No hard stuff, as they call it, for instance.' "'Not so much as a silver teaspoon,' replied Thurndyke, who had a conscientious objection to plate of all kinds. "'It's odd,' said the superintendent. "'Doosed odd.  You saw the papers, I suppose, and wanted to go through your rooms for some reason. We thought we had our hands on the gang, instead of which we find a party of common crooks that we're sick of the sight of.  It must be a great disappointment,' Thurndyke agreed, suppressing a smile. "'It is,' said the detective. "'Not but what we're glad enough to get these beggars, especially Hulket, or Barton as he calls himself. A mighty, slippery customer is Hulket, and mischievous, too. But we're not wanting any disappointments just now. There was that big jewel job in Piccadilly—taplin and horns. I don't mind telling you that we've not got a ghost of the clue.' Then there's this anarchist affair. We're all in the dark there, too.' "'But what about the cipher?' asked Thurndyke. "'Oh, hang the cipher,' exclaimed the detective irritably. This Professor Popplebaum may be a very learned man, but he doesn't help us much. He says the document is in Hebrew, and he has translated into double Dutch. Just listen to this.' He dragged out of his pocket a bundle of papers, and dabbing down a photograph of the document before Thurndyke commenced to read the professor's report. The document is written in the characters of the well-known inscription of Mesha, king of Moab, who the devils he never heard of him—well known indeed. The language is Hebrew, and the words are separated by groups of letters which are meaningless and obviously introduced to mislead and confuse the reader. The words themselves are not strictly consecutive. But by the interpolation of certain other words, a series of intelligible sentences is obtained, the meaning of which is not very clear, but is no doubt allegorical. The method of the cipherment is shown in the accompanying tables, and the full rendering suggested on the enclosed sheet. It is to be noted that the writer of this document was apparently quite unacquainted with the Hebrew language, as appears from the absence of any grammatical construction. That's the professor's report, doctor, and here are the tables showing how he worked it out. It makes my head spin to look at them. He handed to Thurndyke a bundle of ruled sheets, which my colleague examined attentively for a while, and then passed on to me. "'This is very systematic and thorough,' said he, but now let us see the final result at which he arrives. "'It may be all very systematic,' growled the superintendent, sorting out his papers.  The latter word he jerked out viciously, and as he slapped down on the table the final product of the professor's labors. "'There,' he continued. "'That's what he calls the full rendering, and I reckon it'll make your hair curl. It might be a message from Bedlam.' Thurndyke took up the first sheet, and as he compared the constructed renderings with the literal translation, the ghost of a smile stole across his usually immovable countenance. "'The meaning is certainly a little obscure,' he observed, though the reconstruction is highly ingenious, and moreover, I think the professor is probably right. That is to say, the words which he has supplied are probably the omitted parts of the passages from which the words of the cryptogram were taken. What do you think, Jervis?' He handed me the two papers, of which one gave the actual words of the cryptogram, and the other a suggested reconstruction with omitted words supplied. The first read, Whip, noise, pray, robbery, lies, city, woe, horse, wheel, rattling, darkness, day, chariot, mountain, morning, darkness, cloud, gloominess, flame, them, fire, strong, people.' Turning to the second paper, I read out the suggested rendering.  The prey departeth not, the noise of a whip, and the noise of the rattling of the wheels, and of the prancing horses, and of the jumping chariots. A day of darkness and of gloominess, a day of clouds and of thick darkness, as the morning spread upon the mountains a great people and a strong. A fire devoureth before them, and behind them a flame burneth. Here the first sheet ended, and as I laid it down Thorndike looked at me inquiringly. There is a good deal of reconstruction in proportion to the original matter I objected. The professor has supplied more than three-quarters of the final rendering. "'Exactly,' burst in the superintendent, it's all professor, and no cryptogram. "'Still, I think the reading is correct,' said Thorndike, as far as it goes, that is. "'Could Lord!' exclaimed a dismayed detective. "'Do you mean to tell me, sir, that all that balder-dash is the real meaning of the thing?' "'I don't say that,' replied Thorndike. "'I say it is correct, as far as it goes, but I doubt it's being the solution of the cryptogram.' "'Have you been studying that photograph that I gave you?' demanded Miller, with sudden eagerness. "'I have looked at it,' said Thorndike evasively. "'But I should like to examine the original if you have it with you.' "'I have,' said the detective. "'Professor Poppelbaum sent it back with the solution. You can have a look at it, though I can't leave it with you without special authority.' He drew the document from his pocketbook and handed it to Thorndike, who took it over to the window and scrutinized it closely. From the window he drifted into the adjacent office, closing the door after him, and presently the sound of a faint explosion told me that he had lighted the gas-fire. "'Of course,' said Miller, taking up the translation again, "'This gibberish is the sort of stuff you might expect from a parcel of crack-brained anarchist, but it doesn't seem to mean anything.' "'Not to us,' I agreed, but their phrases may have some prearranged significance, and then there are the letters between the words. It is possible that they may really form a cipher.' "'I suggested that to the Professor,' said Miller, but he wouldn't hear of it. He is sure they are only dummies.' "'I think he is probably mistaken, and so I fancy, does my colleague, but we shall hear what he has to say presently.' "'Oh, I know what he will say,' growled Miller. He will put the thing under the microscope and tell us who made the paper and what the ink is composed of, and then we shall be just where we are.' The superintendent was evidently deeply depressed. We sat for some time, pondering in silence, on the vague sentences of the Professor's translation. Until at length, Thorndike reappeared, holding the document in his hand. He laid it quietly on the table by the officer, and then inquired. "'Is this an official consultation?' "'Certainly,' replied Miller. "'I was authorized to consult you, respecting the translation. But nothing was said about the original. Still, if you want it for further study, I will get it for you.' "'No, thank you,' said Thorndike. I have finished with it. My theory turned out to be correct. "'Your theory?' exclaimed the superintendent eagerly. "'Do you mean to say?' "'And as you are consulting me officially, I may as well give you this.' He held out a sheet of paper, which the detective took from him and began to read. "'What is this?' he asked, looking up at Thorndike, with a puzzled frown. "'Where did it come from?' "'It is the solution of the cryptogram,' replied Thorndike. The detective reread the contents of the paper, and with the frown of perplexity deepening, once more gazed at my colleague. "'This is a joke, sir. You are fooling me,' he said, sulkily. "'Nothing of the kind,' answered Thorndike. "'That is the genuine solution.' "'But it is impossible,' exclaimed Miller. "'Just look at it, Dr. Jervis.' I took the paper from his hand, and as I glanced at it, I had no difficulty in understanding his surprise. It bore a short inscription in printed Roman capitals, thus. The Pickardilly stuff is up to Chimbley. Four sixteen, Warder Street, second floor back. It was hid because of old Mokie's Jude. Mokie is a blighter. "'Then that fellow wasn't an anarchist at all,' I exclaimed. "'No,' said Miller. He was one of Mokie's gang. We suspected Mokie of being mixed up with that job, but we couldn't fix it on him. "'By Jove!' he added, slapping his thigh. "'If this is right, and I can lay my hands on the loot, can you lend me a bag, doctor? I'm off to Warder Street this very moment.' We furnished him with an empty suitcase, and from the window watched him making for Mitre Court at a smart double. "'I wonder if he will find the booty,' said Thorndike. It just depends on whether the hiding-place was known to more than one of the gang. "'Well, it has been a quaint case and instructive, too. I suspect our friend Barton and the evasive Schoenberg were the collaborators who produced that curiosity of literature. May I ask how you deciphered the thing?' I said. It didn't appear to take long. It didn't. It was merely a matter of testing a hypothesis. And you ought not to have to ask that question,' he added with Mark Severity. "'Seeing that you had would turn out to have been all the necessary facts two days ago. But I will prepare a document and demonstrate to you tomorrow morning.' "'So Miller was successful in his quest,' said Thorndike, as we smoked our morning pipes after breakfast. The entire swag, as he calls it, was up the chimbly undisturbed. He handed me a note which had been left with the empty suitcase by a messenger shortly before, and I was about to read it when an agitated knock was heard at our door. The visitor, whom I admitted, was a rather haggard and dishevelled elderly gentleman who, as he entered, peered inquisitively through his concave spectacles, from one of us to the other. "'Allow me to introduce myself, gentlemen,' he said. I am Professor Poppelbaum,' Thorndike bowed and offered a chair. I called yesterday afternoon. Our visitor continued at Scotland Yard, where I heard of your remarkable decipherment and of the convincing proof of its correctness. Thereupon I borrowed the cryptogram, and have spent the entire night in studying it, but I cannot connect your solution with any of the characters. I wonder if you would do me the great favour of enlightening me as to your method of decipherment, and so save me further sleepless nights? You may rely on my discretion.' "'Have you the document with you?' asked Thorndike. The professor produced it from his pocketbook, and passed it to my colleague. "'You observe, Professor,' said the latter, that this is a laid paper and has no watermark. "'Yes, I noticed that. And that the writing is an indelible Chinese ink?' "'Yes, yes,' said the savant impatiently. "'But it is the inscription that interests me, not the paper and ink?' "'Precisely,' said Thorndike. "'Now, it was the ink that interested me when I caught a glimpse of the document three days ago. Why?' I asked myself, should anyone use this troublesome medium? For this appears to be stick ink, when good writing ink is to be had. "'What advantages has Chinese ink over writing ink? It has several advantages as a drawing ink, but for writing purposes it has only one. It is quite unaffected by wet. The obvious inference, then, was that this document was, for some reason, likely to be exposed to wet. But this inference instantly suggested another, which I was yesterday able to test, thus. He filled a tumbler with water, and rolling up the document dropped it in. Immediately there began to appear on it a new set of characters of a curious gray color. In a few seconds Thorndike lifted out the wet paper, and held it up to the light. Now there was plainly visible an inscription in transparent lettering, like a very distinct watermark. It was printed in Roman capitals, written across the other writing, and read. The Pickardilly stuff is up the Chimbley, 416 Warder Street, second floor back. It was hid because of old Mokie's Jude. Mokie is a blighter. The professor regarded the inscription with profound disfavor. "'How do you suppose this was done?' he asked gloomily. "'I will show you,' said Thorndike. "'I have prepared a piece of paper to demonstrate the process to Dr. Jervis. It is exceedingly simple. He fetched from the office a small plate of glass, and a photographic dish in which a piece of thin note paper was soaking in water. "'This paper,' said Thorndike, lifting it out and laying it on the glass, has been soaking all night and is now quite pulpy. He spread a dry sheet of paper over the wet one, and on the former wrote heavily with a hard pencil, Mokie is a blighter. On lifting the upper sheet the writing was seen to be transferred in a deep gray to the wet paper, and when the latter was held up to the light, the inscription stood out clear and transparent as if written with oil. "'When this dries,' said Thorndike, the writing will completely disappear, but it will reappear whenever the paper is again wetted.' The professor nodded. "'Very ingenious,' said he, a sort of artificial palimpset in fact, but I do not understand how that illiterate man could have written in the difficult mullified script.' "'He did not,' said Thorndike. The cryptogram was probably written by one of the leaders of the gang, who, no doubt, supplied copies to the other members to use instead of blank paper for secret communications. The object of the Moabite writing was evidently to divert attention from the paper itself, in case the communication fell into the wrong hands, and I must say it seems to have answered its purpose very well.' The professor started, stung by the sudden recollection of his labours. "'Yes,' he snorted. "'But I am a scholar, sir, not a policeman. Every man to his trade.' He snatched up his hat and, with a curk, good morning, flung out of the room in dudgeon. Thorndike laughed softly. "'Poor professor,' he murmured. "'Our playful friend Barton has much to answer for.' End of The Moabite Cypher by R. Austin Freeman