THE MONKEY'S PAW by W. W. JAKOPS Without the night was cold and wet, but in the small part of the Burnham Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his king into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire. "'Hark! at the wind,' said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it. "'I'm listening,' said the latter, grimly surveying the board, as he stretched out his hand. "'Check! I should hardly think that he'd come to-night,' said his father, with his hand poised over the board. "'Mate,' replied the son. "'That's the worst of living so far out,' bawled Mr. White, with sudden and un-look-for violence. "'Of all the beastly slushy out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. There is a bog, and the road's a torrent. I don't know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses on the road are let, they think it doesn't matter. "'Never mind, dear,' said his wife soothingly, "'perhaps you'll win the next one.' Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time, to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin gray beard. "'There he is,' said Herbert White, as the gate banged loudly, and heavy footsteps came toward the door. The old man rose with hospitable haste, and, opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall burly man, beady of eye, and rubicant of visage. "'Sergeant Major Morris,' he said, introducing him. The Sergeant Major shook hands and, taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly, while his host got out whiskey and tumblers, and stood a small copper kettle on the fire. At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor, from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of strange scenes and dowdy deeds, of wars and plagues and strange peoples. "'Twenty-one years of it,' said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.' "'He don't look to have taken much harm,' said Mrs. White politely. "'I'd like to go to India myself,' said the old man, just to look around a bit, you know. "'Better where you are,' said the Sergeant Major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass and, sighing softly, shook it again. "'I should like to see those old temples and faquirs and jugglers,' said the old man. "'What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey's paw or something, Morris?' "'Nothing,' said the soldier hastily, least wise, nothing worth hearing. "'Monkey's paw?' said Mrs. White curiously. "'Well, it's just a bit of what you might call magic,' perhaps, said the Sergeant Major, offhandedly. His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor, absentmindedly, put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him. "'To look at,' said the Sergeant Major, fumbling in his pocket, it's just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy. He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously. "'And what is there special about it,' inquired Mr. White, as he took it from his son and, having examined it, placed it upon the table. "'It had a spell put on it by an old fakir,' said the Sergeant Major, a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people's lives and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it. His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat. "'Well, why don't you have three, sir?' said Herbert White cleverly. The soldier regarded him in the way that Middle Ages won't regard presumptuous youth. "'I have,' he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened. "'And did you really have the three wishes granted?' asked Mrs. White. "'I did,' said the Sergeant Major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth. "'And has anybody else wished?' inquired the old lady. "'The first man had his three wishes, yes,' was the reply. "'I don't know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That's how I got the paw.' His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group. "'If you've had your three wishes, it's no good to you now, then, Morris,' said the old man at last. "'What do you keep it for?' the soldier shook his head. "'Fancy, I suppose,' he said slowly. "'If you could have another three wishes,' said the old man, eyeing him keenly, "'would you have them?' "'I don't know,' said the other. "'I don't know.' He took the paw and dangling it between his front finger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off. "'Better let it burn,' said the soldier solemnly. "'If you don't want it, Morris,' said the old man, "'give it to me.' "'I won't,' said his friend, doggedly. "'I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don't blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again, like a sensible man.' The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. "'How do you do it?' he inquired. "'Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud,' said the sergeant-major. "'But I warn you of all the consequences.' "'Sounds like the Arabian knights,' said Mrs. White, as she rose and began to set the supper. "'Don't you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?' Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm. "'If you must wish,' she said gruffly, "'wish for something sensible.' Mr. White dropped it back into his pocket, and placing chairs motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterwards the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second installment of the soldier's adventures in India. "'If the tale about the Monkey Paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us,' said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, we shan't make much out of it. "'Did you give him anything for it, Father?' inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely. "'A trifle,' said he, coloring slightly. He didn't want it, but I made him take it, and he pressed me again to throw it away. "'Likely,' said Herbert, with pretended horror, "'why we're going to be rich and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, Father, to begin with, then you can't be hen-packed.' He darted around the table pursued by the malign Mrs. White, armed with an anti-McCosser. Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. I don't know what to wish for, and that's a fact,' he said slowly. "'It seems to me I've got all I want. If you only cleared the house, you'd be quite happy, wouldn't you?' said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. "'Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then, that'll just do it.' His father, smiling shame-facedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman as his son, with a solemn face somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords. "'I wish for two hundred pounds,' said the old man distinctly. A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran toward him. "'It moved,' he cried with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. "'As I wished, it twisted in my hands like a snake.' "'Well, I don't see the money,' said his son, as he picked it up and placed it on the table. "'And I bet I never shall. "'It must have been your fancy, father,' said his wife, regarding him anxiously. He shook his head. "'Never mind, though. There's no harm done. But it gave me a shock, all the same. They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night. "'I expect you'll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed,' said Herbert, as he bade them good night, and something horrible squatting on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains. He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that with a little uneasy laugh he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it.  In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning, as it streamed over the breakfast-table, Herbert laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room, which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shriveled little paw was pitched on the side-board with a carelessness which betoken no great belief in its virtues. "'I suppose all old soldiers are the same,' said Mrs. White, the idea of our listening to such nonsense. How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?' Might drop on his head from the sky,' said the frivolous Herbert. "'Morris said the things happen so naturally,' said his father, that you might, if you so wished, attribute it to coincidence. "'Well, don't break into the money before I come back,' said Herbert, as he rose from the table. "'I'm afraid it'll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.' His mother laughed and followed him to the door, watched him down the road, and returning to the breakfast-table was very happy at the expense of her husband's credulity, all of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman's knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits, when she found that the post brought a tailor's bell. Herbert will have some more of these funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home, she said, as they sat at dinner. "'I dare say,' said Mr. Pite, pouring himself out some beer. "'But for all of that, the thing moved in my hand, that I'll swear to.' "'You thought it did,' said the old lady soothingly. "'I say it did,' replied the other. "'There was no thought about it. I had just—' "'What's the matter?' His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, appearing in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well-dressed and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then, with sudden resolution, flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White, at the same moment, placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly, unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair. She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively and listened in a preoccupied fashion, as the old lady apologized for the appearance of the room, and her husband's coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit for him to broach his business. And he was, at first, strangely silent. I was asked to call, he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. I come from Ma and Meghans. The old lady started. Is anything the matter, she asked breathlessly. Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it? Her husband interposed, there, there, mother, he said hastily. Sit down and don't jump to conclusions. Move not, brought bad news, I'm sure, sir, and he eyed the other, wistfully. I'm sorry, began the visitor.  The visitor bowed in ascent. Badly hurt, he said quietly. But he is not in any pain. Oh, thank goodness, said the old woman, clasping her hands. Thank goodness for that. Thank—she broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her, and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other's averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence. He was caught in the machinery, said the visitor, at length in a low voice. Caught in the machinery, repeated Mr. White in a dazed fashion. He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife's hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courting-days nearly forty years before. He was the only one left to us, he said, turning gently to the visitor. It is hard. The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. The firm whisked me to convey their sincere sympathy with you and your great loss, he said, without looking round. I beg that you will understand. I am only their servant, and merely obeying orders. There was no reply.  On the husband's face was a look such as his friend the sergeant might have carried into his first action. I was to say that Ma and Megan disclaim all responsibility, continued the other. They admit no liability at all. But in consideration of your son's services they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation. Mr. White dropped his wife's hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, ha, how much? Two hundred pounds was the answer.  In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realize it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen, something else which was to lighten this load too heavy for old hearts to bear. But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation, the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about. And their days were long to weariness. It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened. Come back, he said tenderly. You will be cold. It is colder for my son, said the old woman, and wept afresh. The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start. The paw, she cried wildly. The monkey's paw! He started up in alarm. Where? Where is it? What's the matter? She came stumbling across the room toward him. I want it, she said quietly. You've not destroyed it. It's in the parter on the bracket, he replied, marveling. Why? She cried and laughed together, and bending over kissed his cheek. I only just thought of it, she said hysterically. Why didn't I think of it before? Why didn't you think of it? Think of what, he questioned. The other two wishes, he replied rapidly. We've only had one. Was that not enough, he demanded fiercely. No, she cried triumphantly. We'll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again. The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. Good heavens! You're mad, he cried aghast. Get it, she panted. Get it quickly, and wish. Oh, my boy, my boy! Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. Get back to bed, he said unsteadily. You don't know what you're saying. We had the first wish granted, said the old woman, feverishly. Why not the second? A coincidence, stammered the old man. Go and get it and wish, cried the old woman, quivering with excitement. The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. He has been dead ten days, and besides he, I would not tell you else, but I could only recognize him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now? Bring him back, cried the old woman, and dragged him toward the door. Do you think I fear the child I have nursed? He went down in the darkness, and fell his way to the parter, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him, ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he fell his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand. Even his wife's face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her. Wish! she cried in a strong voice. It is foolish and wicked, he faltered. Wish! repeated his wife. He raised his hand. I wish my son alive again! The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind. He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burnt below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterward the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him. Neither spoke, but both lay silently, listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage the husband took the box of matches and striking one went downstairs for a candle. At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another, and at the same moment a knock so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible sounded on the front door. The matches fell from his hand. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house. "'What's that?' cried the old woman, starting up. "'A rat!' said the old man, in shaking tones. "'A rat!' it passed me on the stairs. His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house. "'It's Herbert!' she screamed. "'It's Herbert!' she ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm held her tightly. "'What are you going to do?' he whispered orcely. "'It's my boy! It's Herbert!' she cried, struggling mechanically. "'I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go! I must open the door. "'For heaven's sake, don't let it in!' cried the old man, trembling. "'You're afraid of your own son,' she cried, struggling. "'Let me go. I'm coming, Herbert. I'm coming.' There was another knock and another. The old woman, with a sudden wrench, broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing and called after her, appealingly, as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman's voice, strained and panting. "'The bolt!' she cried loudly. "'Come down! I can't reach it!' But her husband was on his hands and knees, groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in, a perfect fuselot of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey's paw and frantically breathed his third and last wish. The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back and the door opened.  The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road. End of The Monkey's Paw. Recording by Ralph Nelson, Springville, Utah. The Stranger's Latch Key by R. Austin Freeman. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. The Stranger's Latch Key by R. Austin Freeman. The contrarity of human nature is a subject that has given a surprising amount of occupation to makers of proverbs and to those moral philosophers who make it their province to discover and expound the glaringly obvious, and especially have they been concerned to enlarge upon that form of perverseness which engenders dislike of things offered under compulsion and arouses desire of them as soon as their attainment becomes difficult or impossible. They assure us that a man who has had a given thing within his reach and put it by will, as soon as it is beyond his reach, find it the one thing necessary and desirable. Even as the domestic cat, which has turned disdainfully from the preferred saucer, may presently be seen with her head jammed hard in the milk jug, or secretly and with horrible relish, slaking her thirst at the scullery sink. To this peculiarity of the human mind was due, no doubt, the fact that no sooner had I abandoned the clinical side of my profession in favor of the legal and taken up my abode in the chambers of my friend Thorndike, the famous medical legal expert, to act as his assistant or junior than my former motive life, that of the locum tenens, or minder of other men's practices, which had, when I was following it, seemed intolerably irksome, now appeared to possess many desirable features, and I found myself occasionally hankering to sit once more by the bedside to puzzle out the perplexing train of symptoms, and to wield that power, the greatest after all possessed by man, the power to banish suffering and ward off the approach of death itself. Hence it was that on a certain morning of the long vacation I found myself installed at the larches, burling, in full charge of the practice of my old friend Dr. Hanshaw, who was taking a fishing holiday in Norway. I was not left desolate, however, for Mrs. Hanshaw remained at her post, and the roomy, old-fashioned house accommodated three visitors in addition. One of these was Dr. Hanshaw's sister, a Mrs. Haldine, the widow of a wealthy Manchester cotton factor. The second was her niece by marriage, Miss Lucy Haldine, a very handsome and charming girl of twenty-three, while the third was no less a person than Master Fred, the only child of Mrs. Haldine, and a strapping boy of six. It is quite like old times, and very pleasant old times, too, to see you sitting at our breakfast table, Dr. Gervus. With these gracious words and a friendly smile, Mrs. Hanshaw handed me my teacup. I bowed. The highest pleasure of the altruist, I replied, is incontemplating the good fortune of others. Mrs. Haldine laughed. Thank you, she said. You are quite unchanged, I perceive, still as suave as, shall I say, oleaginous? No, please don't, I exclaimed in a tone of alarm. Then I won't. But what does Dr. Thorndike say to this backsliding on your part? How does he regard this relapse from medical jurisprudence to common general practice? Thorndike, said I, is unmoved by any catastrophe, and he not only regards the decline and fall-off of the medical jurist with philosophic charm, but he even favors the relapse, as you call it. He thinks it may be useful to me to study the application of medical legal methods to general practice. That sounds rather unpleasant. For the patients, I mean, remarked Mrs. Haldine. Very, agreed her aunt, most cold-blooded. What sort of man is Dr. Thorndike? I feel quite curious about him. Is he at all human, for instance? He is entirely human, I replied. The accepted tests of humanity being, as I understand, the habitual adoption of the direct posture in locomotion, and the relative position of the end of the thumb. I don't mean that, interrupted Mrs. Haldine. I mean human in things that matter. I think those things matter, I rejoined. Consider, Mrs. Haldine, what would happen if my learned colleague were to be seen in wig and gown, walking towards the law courts in any posture other than the erect? It would be a public scandal. Don't talk to him, Mabel, said Mrs. Hanshaw. He is incorrigible. What are you doing with yourself this morning, Lucy? Miss Haldine, who had hastily set down her cup to laugh at my imaginary picture of Dr. Thorndike in the character of a quadruped, considered a moment. I think I shall sketch that group of birches at the edge of Bradham Wood, she said. Then, in that case, said I, I can carry your traps for you, for I have to see a patient in Bradham. He is making the most of his time, remarked Mrs. Haldine maliciously to my hostess. He knows that when Mr. Winter arrives, he will retire into the extreme background. Douglas Winter, whose arrival was expected in the course of the week, was Miss Haldine's fiancée. Their engagement had been somewhat protracted, and was likely to be more so, unless one of them received some unexpected accession of means, for Douglas was a subaltern in the Royal Engineers, living with great difficulty on his pay, while Lucy Haldine subsisted on an almost invisible allowance left her by an uncle. I was about to reply to Mrs. Haldine when a patient was announced, and as I had finished my breakfast, I made my excuses and left the table. Half an hour later, when I started along the road to the village of Bradham, I had two companions. Master Freddy had joined the party, and he disputed with me the privilege of carrying the traps, with the result that a compromise was affected, by which he carried the camp stool, leaving me in possession of the easel, the bag, and a large, bound sketching block. Where are you going to work this morning? I asked when we had trudged on some distance. Just off the road to the left there, at the edge of the wood, not very far from the house of the mysterious stranger. She glanced at me mischievously as she made this reply, and chuckled with delight when I rose at the bait. What house do you mean? I inquired. Ha! she exclaimed. The investigator of mysteries is aroused. He saith, Ha-ha! Amidst the trumpets, he smelleth the battle afar off. Explain instantly, I commended, or I drop your sketch block into the very next puddle. You terrify me, she said. But I will explain. Only there isn't any mystery except to the bucolic mind. The house is called Lavender Cottage, and it stands alone in the fields behind the wood. A fortnight ago it was let furnished to a stranger named Whitelock, who has taken it for the purpose of studying the botany of the district, and the only really mysterious thing about him is that no one has seen him. All arrangements with the house agent were made by letter, and as far as I can make out, none of the local tradespeople supply him. So he must get his things from a distance. Even his bread, which really is rather odd. Now say I am an inquisitive gossiping country bumpkin. I was going to, I answered, but it is no use now. She relieved me of her sketching appliances with pretended indignation, and crossed into the meadow, leaving me to pursue my way alone. And when I presently looked back, she was setting up her easel and stool, gravely assisted by Freddie. My round, though not a long one, took up more time than I had anticipated, and it was already past the lunch an hour when I passed the place where I had left Miss Haldine. She was gone, as I had expected, and I hurried homewards, anxious to be as nearly punctual as possible. When I entered the dining-room, I found Miss Haldine and our hostess seated at the table, and both looked up at me expectantly. Have you seen Lucy? The former inquired. No, I answered. Hasn't she come back? I expected to find her here. She had left the wood when I passed just now. Miss Haldine knitted her brows anxiously. It is very strange, she said, and very thoughtless of her. Freddie will be famished. I hurried over my lunch, for two fresh messages had come in from outlying hamlets, effectually dispelling my visions of a quiet afternoon. And as the minutes passed without bringing any signs of the absentees, Miss Haldine became more and more restless and anxious. At length her suspense became unbearable. She rose suddenly, announcing her intention of cycling up the road to look for the defaulters. But as she was moving towards the door, it burst open, and Lucy Haldine staggered into the room. Her appearance filled us with alarm. She was deadly pale, breathless, and wild eyed. Her dress was draggled and torn, and she trembled from head to foot. God, Lucy, gasped Miss Haldine, what has happened? And where is Freddie? She added in a sterner tone. He has lost, replied Miss Haldine in a faint voice, and with a catch in her breath. He strayed away while I was painting. I have searched the wood through and called to him and looked in all the meadows. Oh, where could he have gone? Her sketching kit, with which she was loaded, slipped from her grasp and rattled onto the floor, and she buried her face in her hands and sobbed hysterically. And you have dared to come back without him? exclaimed Miss Haldine. I was getting exhausted. I came back for help, was the faint reply. Of course she was exhausted, said Mrs. Hanshaw. Come, Lucy, come, Mabel, don't make mountains out of molehills, the little man is safe enough, we shall find him presently, or he will come home by himself. Come and have some food, Lucy. Miss Haldine shook her head. I can't, Mrs. Hanshaw, really I can't, she said. And seeing that she was in a state of utter exhaustion, I poured out a glass of wine and made her drink it. Mrs. Haldine darted from the room and returned immediately, putting on her hat. You have got to come with me and show me where you lost him, she said. She can't do that, you know, I said rather brusquely. She will have to lie down for the present, but I know the place, and we'll cycle up with you. Very well, replied Mrs. Haldine, that will do. What time was it? She asked, turning to her niece, when you lost the child, and which way? She paused abruptly, and I looked at her in surprise. She had suddenly turned ashen and ghastly.  There was a deathly silence for a few seconds. Then, in a terrible voice, she demanded, What is that on your dress, Lucy? And after a pause, her voice rose into a shriek. What have you done to my boy? I glanced in astonishment at the dazed and terrified girl, and then I saw what her aunt had seen, a good-sized bloodstain, halfway down the front of her skirt, and another smaller one on her right sleeve. The girl herself looked down at the sinister patch of red, and then up at her aunt. It looks like—like blood, she stammered. Yes, it is. I think—of course it is. He struck his nose, and it bled. Come, interrupted Mrs. Haldine, let us go, and she rushed from the room, leaving me to follow. I lifted Mrs. Haldine, who was half fainting with fatigue and agitation, onto the sofa, and, whispering a few words of encouragement in her ear, turned to Mrs. Hanshaw. I can't stay with Mrs. Haldine, I said. There are two visits to be made at Rebworth.  Yes, she answered. I will send giles, or come myself if Lucy is fit to be left. I ran to the stables for my bicycle, and as I pedaled out into the road, I could see Mrs. Haldine already far ahead, driving her machine at frantic speed. I followed at a rapid pace, but it was not until we approached the commencement of the wood when she slowed down somewhat that I overtook her. This is the place, I said, as we reached the spot where I had parted from Mrs. Haldine. We dismounted and wheeled our bicycles through the gate, and laying them down beside the hedge, crossed the meadow, and entered the wood. It was a terrible experience, and one that I shall never forget—the white-faced, distracted woman, tramping in her flimsy house-shoes over the rough ground, bursting through the bushes, regardless of the thorny branches that dragged at skin and hair and dainty clothing, and sending forth from time to time a tremulous cry so dreadfully pathetic in its mingling of terror and coaxing softness that a lump rose in my throat, and I could barely keep my self-control. Freddy! Freddy, boy, mommy's here, darling! The wailing cry sounded through the leafy solitude, but no answer came save the whir of wings or the chatter of startled birds. But even more shocking than that terrible cry, more disturbing and eloquent with dreadful suggestion, was the way in which she peered furtively, but with fearful expectation, among the roots of the bushes, or halted to gaze upon every mole hill and hummock, every depression or disturbance of the ground. So we stumbled on for a while, with never a word spoken, until we came to a beaten track or footpath leading across the wood. Here I paused to examine the footprints, of which several were visible in the soft earth, though none seemed very recent. But, proceeding a little way down the track, I perceived, crossing it, a set of fresh imprints, which I recognized at once as Miss Haldine's. She was wearing, as I knew, a pair of brown golf boots, with rubber pads in the leather soles, and the prints made by them were unmistakable. Miss Haldine crossed the path here, I said, pointing to the footprints. Don't speak of her before me, exclaimed Miss Haldine. But she gazed eagerly at the footprints, nevertheless, and immediately plunged into the wood to follow the tracks. You were very unjust to your niece, Miss Haldine, I ventured to protest.  You don't understand, she exclaimed. You don't know, perhaps, that if my poor child is really dead, Lucy Haldine will be a rich woman, and may marry tomorrow if she chooses. I did not know that, I answered. But if I had, I should have said the same. Of course you would, she retorted bitterly. A pretty face can muddle any man's judgment. She turned away abruptly to resume her pursuit, and I followed in silence. The trail which we were following zigzagged through the thickest part of the wood, but its devious windings eventually brought us out onto an open space on the farther side. Here we at once perceived traces of another kind, a litter of dirty rags, pieces of paper, scraps of stale bread, bones and feathers with hoof marks, wheel ruts, and the ashes of a large wood fire, pointed clearly to a gypsy encampment, recently broken up. I laid my hand on the heap of ashes and found it still warm, and on scattering it with my foot a layer of glowing cinders appeared at the bottom. These people have only been gone an hour or two, I said. It would be well to have them followed without delay.  Yes, she exclaimed breathlessly, she may have bribed them to take him away. Let us see which way they went. We followed the wheel tracks down to the road, and found that they turned towards London. At the same time I perceived the dog cart and the distance, with Mrs. Hanshaw standing beside it, and as the coachman observed me, he whipped up his horse and approached. I shall have to go, I said, but Mrs. Hanshaw will help you to continue the search. And you will make inquiries about the gypsies, won't you? She said.  The extent of a country doctor's round is always an unknown quantity. On the present occasion I picked up three additional patients, and as one of them was a case of incipient pleurisy, which required to have the chest strapped, and another was the neglected dislocation of the shoulder, a great deal of time was taken up. Moreover, the gypsies whom I ran to earth on Rebworth Common delayed me considerably, though I had to leave the rural constable to carry out the actual search, and as a result the clock of burling church was striking six as I drove through the village on my way home. I got down at the front gate, leaving the coachman to take the dog cart round, and walked up the drive, and my astonishment may be imagined when, on turning the corner, I came suddenly upon the inspector of the local police in earnest conversation with no less a person than John Thorndike. What on earth has brought you here, I exclaimed, my surprise getting the better of my manners. The ultimate motive force, he replied, was an impulsive lady named Mrs. Haldine. She telegraphed for me in your name. She oughtn't have done that, I said. Perhaps not, but the ethics of an agitated woman are not worth discussing, and she has done something much worse. She has applied to the local J.P., a retired major general, and our gallant and unlearned friend has issued a warrant for the arrest of Lucy Haldine on the charge of murder. But there has been no murder, I exclaimed. That, said Thorndike, is a legal subtlety that he does not appreciate. He has learned his law in the orderly room, where the qualifications to practice are an irritable temper and a loud voice. However, the practical point is, inspector, that the warrant is irregular. You can't arrest people for hypothetical crimes. The officer drew a deep breath of relief. He knew all about the irregularity, and now joyfully took refuge behind Thorndike's great reputation. When he had departed, with a brief note from my colleague to the general, Thorndike slipped his arm through mine, and we strolled toward the house. This is a grim business, Jervis, said he. That boy has got to be found for everybody's sake. Can you come with me when you have had some food? Of course I can. I have been saving myself all afternoon with a view to continuing the search. Good, said Thorndike, then come in and feed. A nondescript meal, half tea and half dinner, was already prepared, and Mrs. Hanshaw, grave but self-possessed, presided at the table. Mabel is still out with Giles, searching for the boy, she said. You have heard what she has done, I nodded. It was dreadful of her, continued Mrs. Hanshaw, but she is half mad, poor thing. You might run up and say a few kind words to poor Lucy while I make the tea. I went up at once and knocked at Miss Haldine's door, and, being bidden to enter, found her lying on the sofa, red-eyed and pale, the very ghost of the merry, laughing girl who had gone out with me in the morning. I drew up a chair and sat down by her side, and as I took the hand she held out to me, she said, It is good of you to come and see a miserable wretch like me. And Jane has been so sweet to me, Dr. Jervis, but Aunt Mabel thinks I have killed Freddy. You know she does, and it was really my fault that he was lost. I shall never forgive myself. She burst into a passion of sobbing, and I proceeded to chide her gently.  Your aunt is not responsible just now, as you must know. But when we bring the boy home, she shall make you a handsome apology. I will see to that. She pressed my hand gratefully, and as the bell now rang for tea, I bade her have courage, and went downstairs. You need not trouble about the practice, said Mrs. Hanshaw, as I concluded my lightning repast, and Thorndike went off to get our bicycles. Dr. Simons has heard of our trouble, and has called to say that he will take anything that turns up, so we shall expect you when we see you. How do you like Thorndike? I asked. He's quite charming, she replied enthusiastically, so tactful and kind, and so handsome, too. You didn't tell us that. But here he is. Goodbye, and good luck. She pressed my hand, and I went out into the drive, where Thorndike and the coachman were standing with three bicycles. I see you have brought your outfit, I said, as we turned into the road, for Thorndike's machine bore a large, canvas-covered case strapped onto a strong bracket. Yes, there are many things that we may want on a quest of this kind. How did you find Miss Haldine? Very miserable, poor girl. By the way, have you heard anything about her pecuniary interest in the child's death? Yes, said Thorndike. It appears that the late Mr. Haldine used up all his brains on his business, and had none left for the making of his will, as often happens. He left almost the whole of his property, about eighty thousand pounds, to his son, the widow to have a life interest in it. He also left to his late brother's daughter, Lucy, fifty pounds a year, and to his surviving brother, Percy, who seems to have been a good for nothing, a hundred a year for life. But, and here is the utter folly of the thing, if the son should die, the property was to be equally divided between the brother and the niece, with the exception of five hundred a year for life to the widow. It was an insane arrangement. Quite, I agreed, and a very dangerous one for Lucy Haldine, as things are at present. Very, especially if anything should have happened to the child. What are you going to do now, I inquired, seeing that Thorndike rode on as if with a definite purpose. There is a footpath through the wood, he replied. I want to examine that. And there is a house behind the wood which I should like to see. The house of the mysterious stranger, I suggested. Precisely, mysterious and solitary strangers invite inquiry. We drew up at the entrance of the footpath, leaving Willet the coachman in charge of the three machines, and proceeded up the narrow track. As we went, Thorndike looked back at the prints of our feet and nodded approvingly. This soft loam, he remarked, yields beautifully clear impressions, and yesterday's rain has made it perfect. We had not gone far when we perceived a set of footprints which I recognized, as did Thorndike also, for he remarked, Miss Haldine, running and alone. Presently we met them again, crossing in the opposite direction, together with the prints of small shoes with very high heels. Mrs. Haldine on the track of her niece was Thorndike's command, and a minute later we encountered them both again, accompanied by my own footprints. The boy does not seem to have crossed the path at all, I remarked, as we walked on, keeping off the track itself to avoid confusing the footprints. We shall know when we have examined the whole length, replied Thorndike, plotting on with his eyes on the ground. Ha! Here is something new, he added, stopping short and stooping down eagerly.  Notice the difference between the two feet, and the peculiar way in which he uses his stick. Yes, Jervis, there is a great deal to interest us in these footprints. Do you notice anything very suggestive about them? Nothing but what you have mentioned, I replied. What do you mean? Well, first there is the very singular character of the prints themselves, which we will consider presently. You observe that this man came down the path, and at this point turned off into the wood. Then he returned from the wood, and went up the path again. The imposition of the prints makes that clear. But now look at the two sets of prints, and compare them. Do you see any difference? The returning footprints seem more distinct. Better impressions. Yes, they are noticeably deeper, but there is something else. He produced a spring tape from his pocket, and took half a dozen measurements. You see, he said, the first set of footprints have a stride of 21 inches, from heel to heel. A short stride, but he is a smallish man, and lame. The returning ones have a stride of only 19 and a half inches. Hence the returning footprints are deeper than the others, and the steps are shorter. What do you make of that? I would suggest that he was carrying a burden when he returned, I replied. Yes, and a heavy one, to make that difference in the depth. I think I will get you to go fetch Willet and the bicycles. I strode off down the path to the entrance, and, taking possession of Thorndyke's machine with its precious case of instruments, Bade Willet followed with the other two. When I returned, my colleague was standing with his hands behind him, gazing with intense preoccupation at the footprints. He looked up sharply as we approached and called out to us to keep off the path, if possible. Stay here with the machines, Willet, he said. You and I, Jervis, must go and see where our friend went to when he left the path, and what was the burden that he picked up. We struck off into the wood, where last year's dead leaves made the footprints almost indistinguishable, and followed the faint double track for a long distance between the dense clumps of bushes. Suddenly my eye caught, beside the double trail, a third row of tracks, smaller in size and closer together. Thorndyke had seen them, too, and already his measuring tape was in his hand. Eleven and a half inches to the stride, said he, and that will be the boy, Jervis. But the light is getting weak. We must press on quickly or we shall lose it. Some fifty yards farther on the man's tracks ceased abruptly, but the small ones continued alone, and we followed them as rapidly as we could in the fading light. There can be no reasonable doubt that these are the child's tracks, said Thorndyke, but I should like to find a definite footprint to make the identification absolutely certain. A few seconds later he halted with an exclamation and stooped on one knee.  Thorndyke drew from his pocket a tiny shoe and pressed it on the soft earth beside the footprint, and when he raised it the second impression was identical to the first. The boy had two pairs of shoes exactly alike, he said, so I borrowed one of the duplicate pair. He turned and began to retrace his steps rapidly, following our own fresh tracks and stopping only once to point out the place where the unknown man had picked the child up. When we regained the path we proceeded without delay until we emerged from the wood within a hundred yards of the cottage. I see Mrs. Haldine has been here with Giles, remarked Thorndyke, as he pushed open the garden gate. I wonder if they saw anybody. He advanced to the door and having first wrapped with his knuckles and then kicked at it vigorously tried the handle. Locked, he observed. But I see the key is in the lock, so we can get in if we want to. Let us try the back. The back door was locked, too, but the key had been removed. He came out this way, evidently, said Thorndyke. Though he went in at the front, as I suppose you noticed. Let us see where he went. The back garden was a small, fenced patch of ground with an earth path leading down to the back gate. A little way beyond the gate was a small barn or outhouse. We are in luck, Thorndyke remarked, with a glance at the path. Yesterday's rain has cleared away all old footprints and prepared the surface for new ones. You see there are three sets of excellent impressions, two leading away from the house, and one towards it. Now you notice that both of the sets leading from the house are characterized by deep impressions and short steps, while the set leading to the house has lighter impressions and longer steps. The obvious inference is that he went down the path with a heavy burden, came back empty-handed, and went down again, and finally with another heavy burden. You observe, too, that he walked with his stick on each occasion. By this time we had reached the bottom of the garden, opening the gate we followed the tracks toward the outhouse, which stood beside a cart track, but as we came round the corner we both stopped short and looked at one another. On the soft earth with the very distinct impressions of the tires of a motor car leading from the wide door of the outhouse. Finding that the door was unfastened, Thorndyke opened it and looked in to satisfy himself that the place was empty. Then he fell to studying the tracks. Of course if events is pretty plain, he observed, first the fellow brought down his luggage, started the engine, and got the car out. You can see where it stood, both by the little pool of oil and by the widening and blurring of the wheel tracks from the vibration of the free engine. Then he went back and fetched the boy, carried him pick-a-back, I should say, judging by the depth of the tow-marks and the last set of footprints. That was a tactical mistake he should have taken the boy straight into the shed. He pointed as he spoke to one of the footprints beside the wheel tracks, from the toe of which projected a small segment of the print of a little rubber heel. We now made our way back to the house, where we found Willet pensively wrapping at the front door with a cycle-spanner.  One of these he inserted into the keyhole, and as he gave it a turn, the lock clicked, and the door stood open. The little sitting-room, which we now entered, was furnished with the barest necessaries. Its centre was occupied by an oil-cloth-covered table, on which I observed with surprise a dismembered bee-clock, the works of which had been taken apart with a tin-opener that lay beside them, at a boxwood bird-call. At these objects Thorndyke glanced and nodded, as though they fitted into some theory that he had formed, examined carefully the oil-cloth around the litter of wheels and pinions, and then proceeded on a tour of inspection round the room, peering inquisitively into the kitchen and store-covered. Nothing very distinctive or personal here, he remarked. Let us go upstairs. There were three bedrooms on the upper floor, of which two were evidently disused, though the windows were wide open. The third bedroom showed manifest traces of occupation, though it was as bare as the others, for the water still stood in the wash-hand basin, and the bed was unmade. To the latter Thorndyke advanced, and having turned back the bed-clothes, examined the interior attentively, especially at the foot and the pillow. The latter was soiled, not to say grimy, though the rest of the bed linen was quite clean. Hair-dye, remarked Thorndyke, noting my glance at it, then he turned and looked out of the open window. Can you see the place where Miss Haldine was sitting to sketch? He asked. Yes, I replied. There is the place, well in view, and you can see right up the road. I had no idea this house stood so high. From the three upper windows you can see all over the country, excepting through the wood. Yes, Thorndyke rejoined, and he has probably been in the habit of keeping watch up here with a telescope or a pair of field glasses. Well, there is not much of interest in this room. He kept his effects in a cabin trunk, which stood there under the window. He shaved this morning. He has a white beard to judge by the stubble on the shaving paper, and that is all. Wait, though. There is a key hanging on that nail. He must have overlooked that, for it evidently does not belong to this house. It is an ordinary town latch key. He took the key down, and having laid a sheet of note paper from his pocket on the dressing table, produced a pin with which he began carefully to probe the interior of the key barrel. Presently there came forth, with much coaxing, a large ball of grave fluff, which Thorndyke folded up in the paper with infinite care. I suppose we mustn't take away the key, he said, but I think we will take a wax mold of it. He hurried downstairs, and, unstrapping the case from his bicycle, brought it in and placed it on the table. As it was now getting dark, he detached the powerful acetylene lamp from his machine, and having lighted it, proceeded to open the mysterious case. First he took from it a small insufflator, or powder blower, with which he blew a cloud of light yellow powder over the table, around the remains of the clock. The powder settled on the table in an even coating, but when he blew at it smartly, with his breath, it cleared off, leaving, however, a number of smeary impressions, which stood out in strong yellow against the black oil cloth. To one of these impressions, he pointed significantly. It was the print of a child's hand. He next produced a small portable microscope, and some glass slides and cover slips, and having opened the paper and tipped the ball of fluff from the key barrel onto a slide, set to work with a pair of mounted needles to tease it out into its component parts. Then he turned the light of the lamp onto the microscope mirror, and proceeded to examine the specimen. A curious and instructive assortment this, Jervis, he remarked, with his eye at the microscope, woollen fibers, no cotton or linen. He is careful of his health to have woollen pockets, and two hairs, very curious ones, too. Just look at them, and observe the root bulbs. I applied my eye to the microscope, and saw, among other things, two hairs, originally white, but encrusted with a black, opaque, glistening stain. The root bulbs I noticed were shriveled and atrophied. But how on earth, I exclaimed, did the hairs get into his pocket? I think the hairs themselves answered that question, he replied, when considered with the other curios. The stain is obviously lead sulfide, but what else do you see? I see some particles of metal, a white metal, apparently, and a number of fragments of woody fiber and starch granules. But I don't recognize the starch. It is not wheat starch, nor rice, nor potato. Do you make out what it is? Thorneite chuckled. Experiencia, does it? said he. You will have, Jervis, to study the minute properties of dust and dirt. Their evidential value is immense. Let us have another look at that starch. It is all alike, I suppose. It was, and Thorneite had just ascertained the fact, when the door burst open, and Mrs. Haldine entered the room, followed by Mrs. Hanshaw and the police inspector. The former lady regarded my colleague with a glance of extreme disfavor. We heard that you had come here, sir, said she, and we suppose that you were engaged in searching for my poor child. But it seems we were mistaken, since we find you here amusing yourselves fiddling with these nonsensical instruments. Perhaps Mabel, said Mrs. Hanshaw stiffly, it would be wiser and infinitely more polite to ask if Dr. Thorneite has any news for us. That is, undoubtedly so, madam, agreed the inspector, who had apparently suffered also from Mrs. Haldine's impulsiveness. Then perhaps, the latter lady suggested, you will inform us if you have discovered anything. I will tell you, replied Thorneite, all that we know. The child was abducted by the man who occupied this house, and who appears to have watched him from an upper window, probably through a glass. This man lured the child into the wood by blowing this bird call. He met him in the wood and induced him by some promises, no doubt, to come with him. He picked the child up and carried him, on his back, I think, up to the house, and brought him in through the front door, which he locked after him. He gave the boy this clock and the bird call to amuse him while he went upstairs and packed his trunk. He took the trunk out through the back door and down the garden to the shed there, in which he had a motor car. He got the car out and came back for the boy, whom he carried down through the car, locking the back door after him. Then he drove away.  Why are you not following him? We have just finished ascertaining the facts, Thorneite replied calmly, and should by now be on the road, if you had not come. Here the inspector interposed anxiously. Of course, sir, you can't give any description of the man. You have no clue to his identity, I suppose. We have only his footprints, Thorneite answered, and this fluff, which I raked out of the barrel of his latch-key, and have just been examining. From these data I conclude that he is a rather short and thin man, and somewhat lame. He walks with the aid of a thick stick, which has a knob, not a crook, at the top, and which he carries in his left hand. I think that his left leg has been amputated above the knee, and that he wears an artificial limb.  He takes snuff, and carries a leaden comb in his pocket. As Thorneite's description proceeded, the inspector's mouth gradually opened wider and wider, until he appeared the very type and symbol of astonishment. But its effect on Mrs. Haldine was much more remarkable. Rising from her chair, she leaned on the table, and stared at Thorneite with an expression of awe, even of terror, and as he finished, she sank back into her chair, with her hands clasped, and turned to Mrs. Henshaw. Jane, she gasped, it is Percy, my brother-in-law. He has described him exactly, even to his stick and his pocket comb. But I thought he was in Chicago. If that is so, said Thorneite, hastily repacking his case, we had better start at once. We have the dog cart in the road, said Mrs. Henshaw. Thank you, replied Thorneite, we will ride on our bicycles, and the inspector can borrow willets. We go out at the back by the cart track, which joins the road farther on. Then we will follow in the dog cart, said Mrs. Haldine, come, Jane. The two ladies departed down the path, while we made ready our bicycles and lit our lamps. With your permission, inspector, said Thorneite, we will take the key with us. It's hardly legal, sir, object to the officer. We have no authority. It is quite illegal, answered Thorneite, but it is necessary, and necessity, like your military JP, knows no law. The inspector grinned and went out, regarding me with a quivering eyelid, as Thorneite locked the door with his skeleton key. As we turned into the road, I saw the light of the dog cart behind us, and we pushed forward at a swift pace, picking up the trail easily on the soft, moist road. What beats me, said the inspector confidentially as we rode along, is how he knew the man was bald. Was it the footprints or the latch key? And that comb, too, that was a regular knockout. These points were, by now, pretty clear to me. I had seen the hairs with their atrophied bulbs, such as one finds at the margin of a bald patch, and the comb was used evidently for the double purpose of keeping the bald patch covered and blackening the sulfur-charged hair. But the knobbed stick and the artificial limb puzzled me so completely that I presently overtook Thorneite to demand an explanation. The stick, said he, is perfectly simple. The ferrule of a knobbed stick wears evenly all round. That of a crooked stick wears on one side, the side opposite the crook. The impressions showed that the ferrule of this one was evenly convex, therefore it had no crook. The other matter is more complicated. To begin with, an artificial foot makes a very characteristic impression, owing to its purely passive elasticity, as I will show you tomorrow. But an artificial leg fitted below the knee is quite secure, whereas one fitted above the knee, that is, with an artificial knee joint worked by a spring, is much less reliable. Now this man had an artificial foot, and he evidently distrusted his knee joint, as is shown by his steadying it with his stick on the same side. If he had merely had a weak leg, he would have used the stick with his right hand, with the natural swing of the arm, in fact, unless he had been very lame. Which he evidently was not. Still, it was only a question of probability, though the probability was very great. Of course, you understand that those particles of woody fiber and starch granules were disintegrated snuff grains. This explanation, like the others, was quite simple when one had heard it, though it gave me material for much thought as we peddled on along the dark road, with Thorndyke's light flickering in front and the dog cart pattering in our wake. But there was ample time for reflection, for our pace rather precluded conversation, and we rode on mile after mile until my legs ached with fatigue. On and on we went through village after village, now losing the trail in some frequented street, but picking it up again unfailingly as we emerged onto the country road, until at last, in the paved high street of the little town of Horsefield, we lost it for good. We rode on through the town, out on to the country road, but although there were several tracks of motors, Thorndyke shook his head at them all. I have been studying those tires until I know them by heart, he said. No, either he is in the town or he has left it by a side road. There was nothing for it but to put up the horse and the machines at the hotel, while we walked round to Reconoiter. And this we did, tramping up one street and down the other, with eyes bent on the ground, fruitlessly searching for a trace of the missing car. Suddenly, at the door of the blacksmith's shop, Thorndyke halted. The shop had been kept open late for the shoeing of a carriagehorse, which was just being led away, and the smith came to the door for a breath of air. Thorndyke accosted him genially. Good evening, you are just the man I wanted to see. I have mislead the address of a friend of mine, who I think called on you this afternoon, a lame gentleman who walks with a stick. I expect he wanted you to pick a lock or make him a key. Oh, I remember him, said the man. Yes, he had lost his latch key. And what had the lock picked before he could get into his house? Had to leave his motor car outside while he came here. But I took some keys round with me and fitted one to his latch. Then he directed us to a house at the end of a street close by, and, having thanked him, we went off in high spirits. How did you know he had been there, I asked. I didn't, but there was a mark of a stick and part of a left foot on the soft earth inside the doorway, and the thing was inherently probable, so I risked a false shot. The house stood alone at the far end of a straggling street, and was enclosed by a high wall, in which, on the side facing the street, was a door and a wide carriage gate. Advancing to the former, Thorndike took from his pocket the perloined key and tried it in the lock. It fitted perfectly, and when he had turned it and pushed open the door, we entered a small courtyard. Crossing this, we came to the front door of the house, the latch of which fortunately fitted the same key, and this having been opened by Thorndike, we trooped into the hall. Immediately we heard the sound of an opening door above, and a really nasal voice sang out, Hello there? Who's that below? The voice was followed by the appearance of a head projecting over the baluster rail. You are Mr. Percy Haldine, I think, said the Inspector. At the mention of this name, the head was withdrawn, and a quick tread was heard, accompanied by the tapping of a stick on the floor.   He looked as if he meant it, and we accordingly halted with remarkable suddenness, while the Inspector proceeded to parlay. Now, what's the good of this, Mr. Haldine, said he, the game's up and you know it. You clear out of my house, and clear out sharp, was the inhospitable rejoinder, or you'll give me the trouble of burying you in the garden. I looked round to consult with Thorndike, when, to my amazement, I found that he had vanished, apparently through the open hole door. I was admiring his discretion when the Inspector endeavored to re-open negotiations, but was cut short abruptly. I am going to count fifty, said Mr. Haldine, and if you aren't gone then, I shall shoot. He began to count deliberately, and the Inspector looked round at me in complete bewilderment. The flight of stairs was a long one, and well lighted by gas, so that to rush it was an impossibility. Suddenly my heart gave a bound, and I held my breath, for out of an open door behind our quarry, a figure emerged slowly and noiselessly onto the landing. It was Thorndike, shoeless, and in his shirt sleeves. Slowly, and with cap-like stealthiness, he crept across the landing until he was within a yard of the unconscious fugitive, and still the nasal voice droned on, monotonously counting out the allotted seconds. There was a lightning-like movement, a shout, a flash, a bang, a shower of falling plaster, and then the revolver came clattering down the stairs. The Inspector and I rushed up, and in a moment the sharp click of the handcuffs told Mr. Percy Haldine that the game was really up. Five minutes later, Freddy Boy, half asleep but wholly cheerful, was born on Thorndike's shoulders into the private sitting-room of the Black Horse Hotel. A shriek of joy saluted his entrance, and a shower of maternal kisses brought him to the verge of suffocation. Finally the impulsive Mrs. Haldine, turning suddenly to Thorndike, seized both his hands, and for a moment I hoped that she was going to kiss him, too, but he was spared, and I have not yet recovered from the disappointment. End of The Stranger's Latch Key, by R. Austin Freeman. Recording by Tisto, TYSTO.COM Or to volunteer, please visit Libervox.org. A strange tale of cannibalism, by Lefkadi Hurn. Occasionally a caravan passes, retreaters armed to the teeth, prepared to fight every yard of the way against the Torregg. To be robbed in the desert is death, for without camels, traveling is impossible. Vast distances separate the green islands in this yellow ocean of sand, where the mouths of the wells are still guarded, against the drift with great stones, as in the days when Jake observed seven years for Rachel.  The thermometer registers an incredible temperature. The least portion of the features exposed is scorched as by fire, and traveling is possible only with a veiled face. Then there are sandstorms, sand pillars reaching from earth to sky, and the wrecks of the camel skeleton, bleaching to the whiteness of chalk. In this ghastly desolation, the last fragment of the exploring mission finds itself reduced to such misery, that even with a certainty of water a few miles off, the men cannot summon strength to advance. There is only one camel. It is their ship, their engine, their forlorn hope. The riches of a thousand kingdoms would be as nothing in their eyes at such a juncture in exchange for one day, one hour of that camel's life. There is a single native French officer alive, the quartermaster. He is trusted by the Moslem Spahis to go forward with the camel to the well, procure water, and send back the animal with the supply of well-filled skin. But within a few hundred yards of the well, his strength fails him. The Arab soldier accompanying him volunteers to obtain water, but rewards himself for his pains by stealing the camel. The frightful despair of the survivors may be imagined. Without their camel, to carry water with them is impossible. For days subsequently, that little band of human skeletons struggling vainly to keep the well, compelled by infernal thirst and heat to return after having marched a few miles under the sun. Lizards and sand insects are eaten alive, reason weakens, and loses its grasp upon the reins of passion. An Arab sent out for assistance is shot and eaten by his comrades. Two more are subsequently murdered. The survivors devour the bodies, and a new face of horror commences. Those who had marched on in advance return upon hearing the shots. They partake of the repass.  After this, the wreck of the expedition supports itself by cannibalism, as a pack of wolves devour each other in the madness of hunger. There is little flesh on those starving bodies. The bones are crushed and devoured. Discipline is of course forgotten. The French officer is killed and eaten, then appears the most horrible face of the long tragedy. The sufferers conceive a hideous dread of each other. They separate. They fear at night to sleep. The man who yields to slumber, in spite of himself, may never wake. Carrying with them a provision of human flesh, they continue to struggle backward and forward between two oases, dreading each other more than death. Fearing the sunset, the flesh-coloured sunset of the desert. Fearing the tippiness of night, tempting the weary to close their eyes. Fearing the furnace glow of dawn, heralding another day of horrors. In the glare of his comrades' eyes. In the fleshlessness of his comrades' face. Each sees a menace and a mockery of death. Each keeps his finger upon the trigger of his revolver, only when nearly one half of the survivors have been devoured by the rest. Does the remnant of the expedition succeed in reaching a nomad camp, whose friendly shake affords them true Arab hospitality?   But the Arab host suspects something. He insists upon accompanying them, and beholds sight that would have sickened the fiercest even of Toreg. By his coming, the life of the Spahi is safe. But his fear of his old comrade is such that he refuses to accept aid, until they have themselves departed another way. At last a troop of friendly horsemen escort the victims to Owargla, the tuness of the desert, whence it is generally possible to obtain an escort to the last of the French military outposts, to Garth. But even Owargla is remote from the civilized world proper, and the French flag could never be maintained there, except under the protection of an expeditionary column. When the reader pictures to his mind the unutterable misery of that march through a waste fantastically desolate as a lunar landscape, under a sky whose very clouds are flying sand, under a perpendicular sun whose beams scorch like molten iron, against a wind whose heat flails the face, excoriates the hands, shrivels even the water skins upon the backs of the Drameteries. And when he imagines that silent struggle about to oasis, the murder of sleepers at the well, the frenzy of mutual hatred inspired by cannibalism, the emaciation that rendered it almost impossible to obtain three days food from nearly 12 adult bodies, the crunching of bones when starvation had consumed the muscles of the victim, the thirst that blackens the lips and makes the tongue crack open and stifles speech in the throat. It is indeed difficult to conceive how man can pass through such experience and remain sane. The most pitiful case of all seems that of the poor Spahi, left alone for nearly a week at the well, who took the flight whenever his ghoulish companions came back for water and returned by stealth in the night to gnaw the bones of the dead. End of A Strange Tale of Cannibalism It was a pretty house in the daytime, but owing to its steep, sloping roof and small bediment windows, it had a lonesome nook at night, non-bestending the crimson-hole light which shone through the leaves of its vine-covered doorway. Ned Chivers lived in it with his six months married bride, and as he was both a busy fellow and a gay one, there were many evenings when pretty Lady Shiffer sat alone until near midnight. She was of an uncomplaining spirit, however, and said little, though there were times when both the day and evening seemed very long and married life not altogether the paradise she had expected. On this evening, a memorable evening for her, the 24th of December, 1894, she had expected her husband to remain with her, for it was not only Christmas Eve, but the night when, as manager of a large manufacturing concern, he brought up from New York the money with which to pay off the men on the next working day, and he never left her when there was any unusual amount of money in the house. But from the first glimpse she had of him coming up the road, she knew she was to be disappointed in this hope, and indignant, alarmed almost, at the prospect of a lonesome evening under these circumstances, she ran hastily down to the gate to meet him, crying, O Ned, you look so troubled. I know you have only come home for a hurried supper, but you cannot leave me to-night. Tenny, their only maid, has gone for a holiday, and I never can stay in this house alone with all that. She pointed to the small bag he carried, which, as she knew, was filled to bursting with banknotes. He certainly looked troubled. It is hard to resist the entreaty in a young bride's uplifted face. But this time he could not help himself, and he said, I am dreadful sorry, but I must ride over to Fairbanks to-night. Mr. Pearson has given me an imperative order to conclude a matter of business there, and it is very important that it should be done. I should lose my position if I neglect this matter, and no one but House broken software knows that we keep the money in the house. I have always given out that I entrusted to Hale safe overnight. But I cannot stand it, she persisted. You have never left me on these nights. That is why I let Tenny go. I will spend the evening at the Larches, or, better still, call in Mr. and Mrs. Talcott to keep me company. But her husband did not approve of her going out, or of her having company. The Larches was too far away, and, as for Mr. and Mrs. Talcott, they were middle some people whom he had never liked. Besides, Mrs. Talcott was delicate, and the night threatened storm. It seemed hard to subject her to disordial, and he showed that he thought so by his manner, but, as circumstances where, she would have to stay alone, and he only hoped she would be brave and go to bed like a good girl, and think nothing about the money which she would take care to put away in a very safe place. Or, said he, kissing her downcast face, perhaps you would rather hide it yourself. Women always have curious ideas about such things. Yes, let me hide it, she murmured. The money I mean, not the bag. Everyone knows the bag. I should never dare to leave it in that.  But, as he saw no way of averting it, he confined himself to using such suzing words as were at his command, and then, humoring her weakness, helped her to arrange the bills in the place she had chosen, and restuffing the bag with old receipts till it acquired its former dimensions. He put a few bills on top to make the whole look natural, and, laughing at her right face, relocked the bag and put the key back in his pocket. There, dear, a notable scheme, and one that should relieve your mind entirely, he cried. If any one should attend burglary in my absence, and should succeed in getting into a house, as safely locked as this will be when I leave it, then trust to their being satisfied when they see this booty, which I shall hide where I always hide it, in the cupboard above my desk. And when will you be back, she murmured, trembling in spite of herself at these preparations. By one o'clock, if possible. Certainly by two. And our neighbors go to bed attend, she murmured. But the words were low, and she was glad he did not hear them, for if it was his duty to obey the orders he had received, then it was her duty to meet the position in which it left her as briefly as she could. At supper she was so natural that his face rapidly brightened, and it was with quite an air of cheerfulness that he rose at last to lock up the house, and make such preparations as were necessary for his dismal ride over the mountains to Fairbanks. She had the supper dishes to wash up in Tini's absence, and as she was a busy little housewife she found herself singing a snatch of a song as she passed back and forth from dining room to kitchen. He heard it, too, and smiled to himself as he bolted the windows on the ground floor and examined the locks of the three lower doors, and, when he finally came into the kitchen with his great coat on to give her his final kiss, he had but one parting and junction to urge, and that was that she should lock the front door after him and then forget the whole matter till she heard his stubble knock at midnight.  Be careful of yourself, she murmured.  And she ran with him to the door to look out. It is certainly very dark, he responded, but I am to have one of Brown's safest horses. Do not worry about me. I shall do well enough, and so will you, too, or you are not the plucky little woman I have always taught you. She laughed, but there was a choking sound in her voice that made him look at her again. But outside of his anxiety she recovered herself, and pointing to the clouds set earnestly. It's going to snow. Be careful as you ride by the gorge, Ned. It's very deceptive there, in a snowstorm. But he vowed that it would not snow before morning, and given her one final embrace he dashed down the path towards Brown's livery stable. Oh, what is the matter with me, she murmured to herself, as his steps died out in the distance.  And she paused for a moment, looking up and down the road, as if in spite of her husband's command she had the desperate idea of running away to some neighbor. But she was too loyal for that, and smothering aside, she retreated into the house. As she did, so the first flakes fell off the storm that was not to have come till morning. It took her an hour to get to her kitchen in order, and nine o'clock struck before she was ready to sit down. She had been so busy she had not noticed how the wind had increased, or how rapidly the snow was falling. But when she went to the front door, for another glance up and down the road, she started back, appalled at the fierceness of the gale, and at the great pile of snow that had already accumulated on the doorstep. To delicate to breast such a wind, she saw herself robbed of her last hope of any companionship, and sighing heavily she locked and bolted the door for the night, and went back into her little sitting-room, where a great fire was burning. Here she sat down, and determined, not that she must pass the evening alone, to do it as cheerfully as possible, and so began to sow. Oh, what a Christmas Eve she thought, and a picture of other homes rose before her eyes, homes in which husbands sat by wives and brothers by sisters, and a great wave of regret poured over her, and in longing for something, she hardly dared say at what, lest her unhappiness should acquire a sting that would leave traces beyond the passing moment. The room in which she sat was the only one on the ground floor, except the dining-room and kitchen. It was therefore used both as parlor and sitting-room, and held not only her piano, but her husband's desk. Communicating with it was the tiny dining-room. Between the two, however, was an entry leading to a side entrance. A lamp was in this entry, and she had left it burning, as well as the one in the kitchen, that the house might look cheerful and as if all the family were at home. She was looking toward this entry, and wondering whether it was the mist made by her tears, that made it look so dismally dark to her, when there came a faint sound from the door at its furthest end. But no further sound came from that direction, and after a few minutes of silent terror she was allowing herself to believe that she had been deceived by her fears, when she suddenly heard the same sound at the kitchen door, followed by a muffled knock. Fright now in good earnest, but still alive to the fact that the intruder was as likely to be a friend as a foe, she stepped to the door, and with her hand on the lock, stooped and asked boldly enough who was there. But she received no answer, and more affected by this unexpected silence than by the knock she had heard. She recalled father and father till not only the width of the kitchen, but the dining room also lay between her and the scene of her alarm. When, to her utter confusion, the noise shifted again to the side of the house, and the door she thought so securely fastened, flung violently open as if blown in by a fierce gust, and she saw, precipitated into the entry, the burly figure of a man covered with snow and shaking with the violence of the storm that seemed at once to fill the house. Her first thought was that it was her husband come back, but before she could clear her eyes from the cloud of snow which had entered with him, he had thrown off his outer covering, and she found herself face to face with a man in whose powerful frame and cynical visage she saw little to comfort her and much to surprise an alarm. Boog was his course and rather familiar greeting. A hard night, missus. Enough to drive any man indoors. Pardon the liberty, but I couldn't wait for you to lift the latch, the wind drove me right in. Was—was not the door locked? She feebly asked, thinking he must have staved it in with his foot that looked only too well fitted for such a task. Not much, she chuckled. I suppose you're too hospital for that. And his eyes passed from her face to the comfortable firelight shining through the sitting room. Is it refuge you want, she demanded, suppressing as much as possible all signs of fear. Sure, missus, what else? A man can't live in a gale like that, especially after a tramp of twenty miles or more.   But one glance into the swirling snowstorm deterred her, and making the best of the alarming situation she closed the door, but did not lock it, being more afraid now of what was inside the house than of anything left to threaten her from without. The man, whose clothes were dripping with water, watched her with a cynical smile, and then, without any invitation, entered the dining-room, crossed it, and moved toward the kitchen fire. Ugg, ugg, but it's warm here, he cried, his nostrils dilating with an animal-like enjoyment that, in itself, was repugnant to her womanly delicacies. Do you know, missus, I shall have to stay here all night. Can't go out in that gale again. Not such a fool! Then, with a sly look at her trembling form and white face, he insinuatingly added, all alone, missus. The suddenness with which this was put, together with the lea that accompanied it, made her start. Alone? Yes, but should she acknowledge it? Would it not be better to say that her husband was upstairs? The man evidently thought a struggle going on in her mind, for he chuckled to himself, and called out quite boldly. Never mind, missus, it's all right. Just give me a bit of cold meat and a cup of tea or something, and we'll be very comfortable together.  I'll keep you company, if you don't mind, less twice than till the storm lets up a bit, which ain't likely for some hours to come. Rough night, missus, rough night. I expect my husband at home any time, she hasten to say. And thinking she saw a change in the man's countenance, at this she put on quite an air of sudden satisfaction and bounded towards the front of the house. There, I think, I hear him now, she cried. Her motive was to gain time, and if possible to obtain the opportunity of shifting the money from the place where she had first put it into another and safer one. I want to be able, she thought, of swearing that I have no money with me in this house. If I can only get it into my apron, I will drop it outside the door into the snow bank. It will be as safe there as in the bank it came from. And dashing into the sitting-room, she made a faint of dragging down a shawl from a screen while she secretly filled her skirt with the bills which had been put between some old pamphlets on the bookshelves. She could hear the man grumbling in the kitchen, but he did not follow her front, and take an advantage of the moment's respite from his none-to-encouraging presence, she unbarred the door, and cheerfully culled out her husband's name. The ruse was successful. She was able to fling the notes where the falling flakes would soon cover them from sight, and feeling more courageous, now that the money was out of the house, she went slowly back, saying she had made a mistake, and that it was the wind she had heard. The man gave a gruff but knowing guffaw, and then resumed to switch over her, following her steps as she proceeded to set him out a meal, with a persistency that reminded her of a tiger just on the point of springing. But the inviting looks of the vines with which she was rapidly setting the table soon distracted his attention, and allowing himself one grunt of satisfaction, he drew up a chair, and set himself down to what to him was evidently a most savoury repast. No beer, no ale, nothing of that sort, eh? Don't keep a bar, he growled, as his teeth closed on a huge hunk of bread. She shook her head, wishing she had a little cold poison bottled up in a tight-looking jog. Nothing but tea, she smiled, astonished at her own ease of manner in the presence of this alarming guest. Then let's have that, he grumbled, taken the bowl she handed him, with an odd look that made her glad to retreat to the other side of the room. Just listen to the howling wind, he went on between the huge mouthfuls of bread and cheese with which he was gorging himself. But we are very comfortable, we too, we don't mind the storm, do we? Shocked by his familiarity, and still more moved by the look of mingled inquiry and curiosity, with which his eyes now began to wander over the walls and cupboards, she took an anxious step towards the side of the house, looking toward her neighbours, and lifting one of the shades, which had all been religiously pulled down, she looked out. A swirl of snowflakes alone confronted her. She could neither see her neighbours, nor could she be seen by them. A shout from her to them would not be heard. She was as completely isolated as if the house stood in the centre of a desolated western plain. I have no trust but in God, she murmured, as she came from the window. And, nerfed to meet her fate, she crossed to the kitchen. It was now half past ten, two hours and a half must elapse before her husband could possibly arrive. She said her teeth at the thought and walked resolutely into the room. Are you done? she asked. I am, ma'am, he leered. Do you want me to wash the dishes? I can, and I will. And he actually carried his plate and cup to the sink, where he turned the water upon them with another loud guffaw. If only his fancy would take him into the pantry, she thought I could shut and lock the door upon him and hold him prisoner till Ned gets back. But his fancy ended its flight at the sink, and before her hopes had fully subsided, he was standing on the threshold of the sitting-room door. It's pretty here, he exclaimed, allowing his eye to row again over every hiding place within sight. I wonder now, he stopped. His glance had fallen on the cupboard over her husband's desk. Well, she asked, anxious to break the thread of his thought, which was only to plainly mirror it in his eager countenance. He started, dropped his eyes, and turning looked at her with a momentary fierceness. But, as she did not let her own glance quail, but continued to look at him, with what she meant for a smile on her pale lips, he subdued this outward manifestation of passion, and, chuckling to hide his embarrassment, began back in into the entry, leering an evident enjoyment of the fears he caused with what she felt was a most horrible smile. Once in the hall, he hesitated, however, for a long time. Then he slowly went toward the garment he had dropped on entering, and, stooping, drew from underneath its fold a wicked-looking stick. Given a kick to the coat, which sent it into a remote corner, he bestowed upon her another smile, and still carrying the stick when slowly and reluctantly away into the kitchen. Oh, God Almighty, help me, was her prayer. There was nothing for her to do now but endure. So, throwing herself into a chair, she tried to calm the beating of her heart, and summoned up courage for the struggle which she felt was before her. That he had come to rob, and only waited to take her off her guard, she now felt certain, and rapidly running over in her mind all the expedience of self-defense possible to one in her situation. She suddenly remembered the pistol which Ned kept in his desk. Oh, why had she not thought of it before? Why had she let herself grow mad with terror when here, within reach of her hand, lay such a means of self-defense? With a feeling of joy, she had always hated pistols before, and scolded Ned when he bought this one. She started to her feet, and slid her hand into the drawer. But it came back empty. Ned had taken the weapon away with him. For a moment a surge of the bitterest feeling she had ever experienced passed over her. Then she called reason to her aid, and was obliged to acknowledge that the act was but natural, and that from his standpoint he was much more likely to need it than herself. But the disappointment, coming so soon after hope, unnerved her, and she sank back in her chair, giving herself up for last. How long she sat there with her eyes on the door, through which she momentarily expected her assailant to reappear, she never knew. She was conscious only of a sort of apathy that made movement difficult, and even breathing a task. In vain she tried to change her thoughts. In vain she tried to follow her husband in fancy over the snow-covered roads, and into the gorge of the mountains. Imagination felt her at this point. Do what she would, always misty in her mind's eye, and she could not see that wandering image. There was blankness between his form and her, and no life or movement anywhere, but here in the scene of her terror. Her eyes were on a strip of rug that covered the entry floor, and so strange was the condition of her mind that she found herself mechanically counting the tassels that finished its edge, growing wroth over one that was worn, till she hated that six tassel and mentally determined, that if she ever outlived this night she would strip them all off and be done with them. The wind had lessened, but the air had grown cooler, and the snow made a sharp sound where it struck the pains. She felt it falling, though she had cut off all view of it. It seemed to her that a pawl was setting over the world, and that she would soon be smothered under its folds. Meanwhile no sound came from the kitchen, only the dreadful sense of a doom creeping upon her, a sense that grew in intensity till she found herself watching for the shadow of that lifted stick on the wall of the entry, and almost imagined she saw the tip of it appearing, when without any premonition that fatal sight-door again blew in and admitted another man of so threatening an aspect that she succumbed instantly before him and forgot all her former fears, in this new terror. The second intruder was a negro of powerful frame and glowering aspect, and as he came forward and stood in the doorway, there was observable in his fierce and desperate countenance no attempt at the insinuation of the other only a fearful resolution that made her feel like a puppet before him, and drove her, almost without violation, to her knees. Money? Is it money you want? was a desperate greeting. If so, here's my purse, and here are my rings and watch. Take them, and go. But the stolid wretch did not even stretch out his hands. His eyes went behind her, and the mingled anxiety and resolve which he displayed would have cowed a stouter heart than that of this poor woman. Keep the trash, he growled. I want the company's money. You've got it. Two thousand dollars. Show me where it is. That's all, and I won't trouble you long after I close on it. But it's not in the house, she cried. I swear it is not in the house. Do you think Mr. Chivers would leave me here alone with two thousand dollars to guard? But the negro, swearing that she lied, leaped into the room, and tearing open the cupboard above her husband's desk, seized the bag from the corner where they had put it. He brought it in dis, he muttered, and tried to force the bag open, but finding dis impossible, he took out a heavy knife and cut a big hole in its side. Instantly they fell out the pile of old receipts with which they had stuffed it, and seeing dis, he stamped with rage, and flinging them in one great handful at her rushed to the drawers below, emptied them, and, finding nothing, attacked the bookcase. The money's somewhere here. You can't fool me, he yelled. I saw the spot your eyes lit on when I first came into the room. Is it behind these books, he growled, pulling them out, and throwing them helter-skelter over the floor. Women is smart in the hiding business. Is it behind these books, I say? They had been, or rather had been, placed between the books, but she had taken them away, as we know, and he soon began to realize that his search was bringing him nothing, for leaving the bookcase he gave the books one kick, and seizing her by the arm, shook her with a murderous glare on his strange and distorted features. Where's the money, he hissed? Tell me, or you're a goner. He raised his heavy fist. She crouched, and all seemed over, then, with a rush and a cry, a figure dashed between them, and he fell, struck down by the very stick she had so long been expecting to see fall upon at her own head. The man who had been her terror for hours had, at the moment of need, acted as her protector. She must have fainted, but if so, her unconscious was but momentary, for when she again recognized her surroundings, she found the tramp still standing over her adversary. I hope you don't mind, ma'am, he said, with an air of humbleness she certainly had not seen in him before, but I think the man's dead. And he stirred with his foot the heavy figure before him. Oh no, no, no, she cried. That would be too fearful. He's shocked, stunned. You cannot have killed him. But the tramp was persistent. I'm afraid I have, he said. I'd done it before, and it's been the same every time. But I couldn't see a man of that color frightening a lady like you. My supper was too warm in me, ma'am. Shall I throw him outside the house? Yes, she said, and then, no, let us first be sure there is no life in him. And, hardly knowing what she did, she stooped down and peered into the glassy eyes of the prostrate man. Suddenly she turned pale, no, not pale, but ghastly, and cowering back, shook so that the tramp, into whose feature a certain refinement had passed since he had acted as her protector, saw that she had discovered life in those said orbs, and was stooping down to make sure that this was so, when he saw her suddenly lean forward and, impetiously plunging her hand into the neaker's throat, tear open the shirt and give one look at his bare breast. It was white. O God, O God, she moaned, and, lifting the head in her two hands, she gave the motionless features a long and searching look. Water, she cried. Bring water. But before the now obedient tramp could respond, she had torn off the woolly wick disfiguring the dead man's head, and seeing the blonde curls beneath had uttered such a shriek that it rose above the gale and was heard by her distant neighbors. It was the head and hair of her husband. They found out afterwards that he had contemplated this theft for months, that each and every precaution possibly to a successful issue to this most daring undertaking had been made use of, and that but for the unexpected presence in the house of the tramp, he would doubtless have not only extorted the money from his wife, but have so covered up the deed by a plausible alibi as to have retained her confidence and that of his employers. Whether the tramp killed him out of sympathy for the defenseless woman, or enraged at being disappointed in his own plans, has never been determined. Mrs. Chivers herself thinks he was actuated by a rude sort of gratitude.