Section 4 of Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels, this LibriVox recording is in the public domain, Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels by Stephen Lee Cock. Section 4. Who Do You Think Did It? or The Mixed Up Murder Mystery? Done after the very latest fashion in this sort of thing. Note, any reader who guesses correctly who did it is entitled, in all fairness, to a beautiful gold watch and chain. Chapter 1. He Dined With Me Last Night The afternoon edition of the Metropolitan Planet was going to press. Five thousand copies a minute were reeling off its giant cylinders. A square acre of paper was passing through its presses every hour. In the huge planet building, which dominated Broadway, employees, compositors, reporters, advertisers surged to and fro. Placed in a single line, only, of course, they wouldn't be likely to consent to it, they would have reached across Manhattan Island. Placed in two lines, they would probably have reached twice as far. Arranged in a procession, they would have taken an hour in passing a saloon, easily that. In the whole vast building, all was uproar. Telephones, megaphones, and gramophones were ringing throughout the building. Elevators flew up and down, stopping, nowhere. Only in one place was quiet, namely, in the room where sat the big man on whose capacious intellect the whole organization depended. Masterman Throghton, the general manager of the planet, was a man in middle life. There was something in his massive frame which suggested massiveness and a certain quality in the poise of his great head which indicated a balanced intellect. His face was impenetrable and his expression imponderable. The big chief was sitting in his swivel chair with ink all around him. Through this man's great brain passed all the threads and filaments that held the news of a continent. Snap one and the whole continent would stop. At the moment when our story opens, there was no sense in opening it sooner, a written message has just been handed in. The chief read it. He seemed to grasp its contents in a flash. Good God! he exclaimed. It was the strongest expression that this solid, self-contained, semi-detached man ever allowed himself. Anything stronger would have seemed too near to profanity. Good God! he repeated. Keep us, Kelly, murdered in his own home. Why, he dined with me last night. I drove him home. For a brief moment the big man remained plunged in thought, but with Throghton the moment of musing was short. His instinct was to act. You may go, he said to the messenger. Then he seized the telephone that stood beside him, this man could telephone almost without stopping thinking, and spoke into it in quiet measured tones without wasting a word. Hello, operator. Put me through to 22222. Is that 22222? Hello, 22222. I want transom Kent. Kent speaking? Kent, this is Throghton speaking. Kent, a murder has been committed at the Kelly residence Riverside Drive. I want you to go and cover it. Get it all. Don't spare expense. The planet is behind you. Have you got car fare? Right. In another moment the big chief had turned round in his swivel chair, at least forty degrees, and was reading telegraphic dispatches from Jerusalem. That was the way he did things. Chapter 2. I Must Save Her Life Within a few minutes, transom Kent had left into a car, a surface car, and was speeding north towards Riverside Drive with the full power of the car. As he passed uptown, a news boy was already calling, Clubman murdered, another Clubman murdered. Carelessly throwing assent to the boy, Kent purchased a paper and read the brief notice of the tragedy. Davis Kelly, a well-known Clubman and Bon Vivant, had been found dead in his residence on Riverside Drive with every indication, or at least with a whole lot of indications, of murder. The unhappy Clubman had been found fully dressed in his evening clothes, lying on his back on the floor of the billiard room, with his feet stuck up on the edge of the table. The narrow black scarf, presumably his evening tie, was twisted tightly about his neck by means of a billiard cue inserted in it. There was a quiet smile upon his face. He had apparently died from strangulation. A couple of bullet holes passed through his body, one on each side, but they went out again. His suspenders were burst at the back. His hands were folded across his chest. One of them still held a white billiard ball. It was a sign of a struggle or of any disturbance in the room. A square piece of cloth was missing from the victim's dinner jacket. In its editorial columns, the same paper discussed the more general aspects of the murder. This, it said, was the third Clubman murdered in the last fortnight. While not taking an alarmist view, the paper felt that the killing of Clubmen had got to stop. There was a limit, a reasonable limit, to everything. Why should a Clubman be killed? It might be asked, why should a Clubman live? But this was hardly to the point. They do live. After all, to be fair, what does a Clubman ask of society? Not much. Merely wine, women, and singing. Why not let him have them? Is it fair to kill him? Does the gain to literature outweigh the social wrong? The writer estimated that at the rate of killing now going on, the Clubmen would be all destroyed in another generation. Something should be done to conserve them. Transom Kent was not a detective. He was a reporter. After sweeping everything at Harvard in front of him, and then behind him, he had joined the staff of the planet two months before. His rise had been phenomenal. In his first week of work, he had unraveled a mystery. In his second, he had unearthed the packing scandal, which had poisoned the food of the entire nation for ten years. And in his third, he had pitilessly exposed some of the best and most respectable people in the metropolis. Kent's work on the planet consisted now almost exclusively of unraveling and unearthing. It was natural that the manager should turn to him. The mansion was a handsome sandstone residence, standing in its own grounds. On Kent's arrival, he found that the police had already drawn a cordon around it with cords. Groups of morbid curiosity seekers hung about it in twos and threes, some of them in fours and fives. Policemen were leaning against the fence in all directions. They wore that baffled look so common to the detective force of the metropolis. It seems to me, remarked one of them to the man beside him, that there is an inexorable chain of logic about this that I am unable to follow. So do I," said the other. The chief inspector of the detective department, a large, heavy-looking man, was standing beside a gatepost. He nodded gloomily to transom Kent. Are you baffled, Edwards? asked Kent. Baffled again, Mr. Kent, said the inspector with a sob in his voice. I thought I could have solved this one, but I can't. He passed a handkerchief across his eyes. Have a cigar, chief," said Kent, and let me hear what the trouble is. The inspector brightened. Like all policemen, he was simply crazy over cigars. All right, Mr. Kent," he said. Wait till I chase away the morbid curiosity seekers. He threw a stick at them. Now, then, continued Kent, what about tracks, footmarks, had you thought of them? Yes, first thing, the whole lawn is covered with them all stamped down. Look at these, for instance. These are the tracks of a man with a wooden leg," Kent nodded. In all probability a sailor newly landed from Java carrying a Singapore walking stick and with a tin whistle tied around his belt. Yes, I see that," said Kent thoughtfully. The weight of the whistle weighs him down a little on the right side.  Would he do it? He would, said the investigator. They generally do as soon as they land. The inspector nodded. And look at these marks here, Mr. Kent. You recognize them, surely. These are the footsteps of a barkeeper out of employment waiting for the Eighteenth Amendment to pass away. See how deeply they sink in. Yes, said Kent, he'd commit murder. There are lots more," continued the inspector. But they're no good. The morbid curiosity seekers were walking all over this place while we were drawing the cord and rounded. Stop a bit," said Kent, pausing to think a moment. What about thumbprints? Thumbprints," said the inspector. Don't mention them. The house is full of them. Any thumbprints of Italians with a peculiar incurvature of the ball of the thumb that denotes a Sicilian brigand? There were three of those, said Inspector Edwards gloomily. No, Mr. Kent. The thumbstuff is no good. Kent thought again. Inspector, he said, what about mysterious women? Have you seen any around? Four went by this morning, said the inspector, one at eleven thirty, one at twelve thirty, and two together at one thirty. At least, he said sadly, I think they were mysterious. All women look mysterious to me. I must try in another direction, said Kent. Let me reconstruct the whole thing. I must weave a chain of analysis. Kivas Kelly was a bachelor, was he not? He was. He lived alone here. Very good. I suppose he had in his employ of Butler, who had been with him for twenty years. Edwards nodded. I suppose you've arrested him? At once, said the inspector, we always arrest the Butler, Mr. Kent. They expected. In fact, this man, Williams, gave himself up at once. Then let me see, continued the investigator. I presume there was a housekeeper who lived on the top floor and who had been stoned deaf for ten years? Precisely. She had heard nothing during the murder? Not a thing, but this may have been on account of her deafness. True, true, murmured Kent, and I suppose there was a coachman, a thoroughly reliable man, who lived with his wife at the back of the house, but who had taken his wife over to see a relation on the night of the murder and who did not return until an advanced hour. Mr. Kent, we've been all over that. There's nothing in it. Were there any other persons belonging to the establishment? There was Mr. Kelly's stenographer, Alice Delary, but she only came in the mornings. Have you seen her? asked Kent eagerly. What is she like? I have seen her, said the inspector. She's a Lulu. Ha! said Kent, a Lulu. The two men looked into one another's eyes. Yes, repeated Edwards thoughtfully, a peach. A sudden swift flash of intuition and inspiration leapt into the young reporter's brain. This girl, this peach, at all hazards he must save her life. Chapter 3 I Must Buy a Book on Billiards Kent turned to the inspector. Take me to the house, he said. Edwards led the way. The interior of the handsome mansion seemed undisturbed. I see no sign of a struggle here, said Kent. No, answered the inspector gloomily. We can find no sign of a struggle anywhere, but then we never do. He opened for the moment the door of the stately drawing-room. No sign of a struggle there, he said. The closed blinds, the draped furniture, the covered piano, the muffled chandelier, showed absolutely no sign of a struggle. Come upstairs to the billiard-room, said Edwards. The body has been moved for the inquest, but nothing else is disturbed. They went upstairs. On the second floor was the billiard-room with a great English table in the center of it. But Kent had it once dashed across to the window, an exclamation on his lips. Ha! Ha! he said. What have we here? The inspector shook his head quietly. The window, he said, in a monotonous, almost sing-song tone, has apparently been opened from the outside, the sash being lifted with some kind of a sharp instrument. The dust on the sill outside has been disturbed as if by a man of extraordinary agility lying on his stomach. Don't bother about that, Mr. Kent. It's always there. True, said Kent, then he cast his eyes upward, and again an involuntary exclamation broke from him. Did you see that trap door? he asked. We did, said Edwards. The dust around the room has been disturbed. The trap opens into the hollow of the roof. A man of extraordinary dexterity might open the trap with a billiard-cue, throw up a fine manila rope, climb up the rope, and lie there on his stomach. No use, continued the inspector. For the matter of that, look at this huge old-fashioned fireplace. A man of extraordinary prococity could climb up the chimney, or this dumb-waiter on a pulley for serving drinks leading down into the maid's quarters. A man of extreme indelicacy might ride up and down in it. Stop a minute, said Kent. What is the meaning of that hat?  We thought of that, said Edwards, and we have left it there. Whoever comes for that hat has had a hand in the mystery. We think—but transom Kent was no longer listening. He had seized the edge of the billiard-table. Look! Look! he cried eagerly. A clue to the mystery—the positions of the billiard-balls, the white ball in the very center of the table, and the red just standing on the verge of the end-pocket. What does it mean, Edwards? What does it mean?" He had grasped Edwards by the arm and was peering into his face. I don't know, said the inspector. I don't play billiards. Neither do I, said Kent, but I can find out. Quick, the nearest bookstore! I must buy a book on billiards. With a wave of the arm Kent vanished. The inspector stood for a moment in thought. Gone! he murmured to himself. It was his habit to murmur all really important speeches allowed to himself. Now, why did Throgton telephone me to put a watch on Kent? Ten dollars a day to shadow him. Why? Chapter 4. That is not billiard chalk. Meantime at the planet office, Master Man Throgton was putting on his coat to go home. Excuse me, sir, said an employee. There's a lot of green billiard chalk on your sleeve. Throgton turned and looked the man full in the eye. That is not billiard chalk, he said. It is face-powder. Saying which this big, imperturbable, self-contained man stepped into the elevator and went to the ground floor in one drop. Chapter 5. Has anybody here seen Kelly? The inquest upon the body of Kivas Kelly was held upon the following day. Far from being any solution of what had now become an unfathomable mystery, it only made it deeper still. The medical testimony, though given by the most distinguished consulting expert of the city, was entirely inconclusive. The body, the expert testified, showed evident marks of violence. There was a distinct lesion of the esophagus and a decided excreation of the fibula. The misadenome was gibbous. There was a certain quantity of slab in the binomium and the proscenium was wide open. One striking fact, however, was decided from the testimony of the expert, namely that the stomach of the deceased was found to contain half a pint of arsenic. On this point the questioning of the district attorney was close and technical. Was it unusual, he asked, to find arsenic in the stomach?  He would not say that. Was it a small quantity? He should not care to say that it was.  Of a club man, no, not necessarily. That was all. The other testimony submitted to the inquest jury brought about various facts of a substantive character, but calculated rather to complicate than to unravel the mystery. The butler swore that on the very day of the murder he had served his master a half pint of arsenic at lunch, but he claimed that this was quite a usual happening with his master. On cross-examination it appeared that he meant a Polinaris. He was certain, however, that it was half a pint. The butler, it was shown, had been in Kivas Kelly's employ for twenty years. The coachman and Irishman was closely questioned. He had been in Mr. Kelly's employ for three years, ever since his arrival from the old country. Was it true that he had had, on the day of the murder, a violent quarrel with his master? It was. Had he threatened to kill him? No. He had threatened to knock his block off, but not to kill him. The coroner looked at his notes. Call Alice Delary, he commanded. There was a deep sensation in the court as Miss Delary quietly stepped forward to her place in the witness box. Tall, graceful, and willowy Alice Delary was in her first burst of womanhood. Those who looked at the beautiful girl realized that if her first burst was like this, what would the second or the third be like? The girl was trembling and evidently distressed, but she gave her evidence in a clear, sweet, low voice. She had been in Mr. Kelly's employ three years. She was his stenographer, but she came only in the mornings and always left at lunchtime. The question immediately asked by the jury, where did she generally have lunch? Was disallowed by the coroner. Asked by a member of the jury what system of shorthand she used, she answered, Pittman's. Asked by another jury man whether she ever cared to go to moving pictures, she said that she went occasionally. This created a favorable impression. Miss Delary, said the district attorney, I want to ask if it is your hat that was found hanging in the billiard room after the crime. Don't you dare ask that girl that, interrupted the magistrate. Miss Delary, you may step down. But the principal's sensation of the day arose out of the evidence offered by Master Minth Roghton, general manager of the planet. Kivas Kelly, he testified, had dined with him at his club on the fateful evening. He had afterwards driven him to his home. When you went into the house with the deceased, asked the district attorney, how long did you remain there with him? That, said Throghton quietly, I must refuse to answer. Would it incriminate you? Asked the coroner leaning forward. It might, said Throghton. Then you're perfectly right not to answer it, said the coroner. Don't ask him that any more. Ask something else. Then did you question the attorney turning to Throghton again? Did you play a game of billiards with the deceased? Stop, stop, said the coroner. That question I can't allow. It's too direct, too brutal. There's something about that question, something mean, dirty. Ask another. Very good, said the attorney. Then tell me, Mr. Throghton, if you ever saw this blue envelope before. He held up in his hand a long blue envelope. Never in my life, said Throghton. Of course he didn't, said the coroner. Let's have a look at it. What is it? This envelope, your honor, was found sticking out of the waistcoat pocket of the deceased. You don't say, said the coroner. And what's in it? Amid breathless silence, the attorney drew forth a sheet of blue paper bearing a stamp and red. This is the last will and testament of me, Keevis Kelly of New York. I leave everything of which I die possessed to my nephew, Peter Kelly. The entire room gassed. No one spoke. The coroner looked all around. Has anybody here seen Kelly? He asked. There was no answer. The coroner repeated the question. No one moved. Mr. Coroner, said the attorney, it is my opinion that if Peter Kelly is found, the mystery is fathomed. Ten minutes later, the jury returned a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown, adding that they would bet a dollar that Kelly did it. The coroner ordered the butler to be released and directed the issue of a warrant for the arrest of Peter Kelly. Chapter 6 Show me the man who wore those boots. The remains of the unhappy club man were buried on the following day as reverently as those of a club man can be. None followed him to the grave except a few morbid curiosity seekers who wrote on top of the hearse. The great city turned again to its usual avocations. The unfathomable mystery was dismissed from the public mind. Meantime, transom Kent was on the trail. Sleepless, almost foodless, and absolutely drinkless, he was everywhere. He was looking for Peter Kelly. Wherever crowds were gathered, the investigator was there, searching for Kelly. In the great concourse of the Grand Central Station, Kent moved to and fro, peering into everybody's face. An official touched him on the shoulder. Stop peering into the people's faces, he said. I am unraveling a mystery, Kent answered. I beg your pardon, sir," said the man. I didn't know. Kent was here and everywhere, moving ceaselessly, pro and con, watching for Kelly. For hours he stood beside the soda water fountains examining every drinker as he drank. For three days he sat on the steps of Masterman Thragton's home, disguised as a plumber waiting for a wrench. But still no trace of Peter Kelly. Young Kelly, it appeared, had lived with his uncle until a little less than three years ago. Then suddenly he had disappeared. He had vanished as a brilliant writer for the New York Press framed it as if the earth had swallowed him up. Transom Kent, however, was not a man to be baffled by initial defeat. A week later the investigator called in at the office of Inspector Edwards. Inspector, he said, I must have some more clues. Take me again to the Kelly residence. I must reanalyze my first diarysis. Together the two friends went to the house. It is inevitable, said Kent, as they entered again into the fateful billiard room that we have overlooked something. We always do, said Edwards gloomily. Now tell me, said Kent, as they stood beside the billiard table, what is your own theory, the police theory, of this murder? Give me your first theory first and then go on with the others. Our first theory, Mr. Kent, was that the murder was committed by a sailor with a wooden leg newly landed from Java. Quite so, quite proper, nodded Kent. We knew that he was a sailor, the inspector went on, dropping again into his sing-song monotone by the extraordinary agility needed to climb up the thirty feet of bare brick wall to the window. A landsman could not have climbed more than twenty. The fact that he was from the East Indies, we knew from the peculiar nod about his victim's neck. We knew that he had a wooden leg. The inspector paused and looked troubled. We knew it, he paused again. I'm afraid I can't remember that one. Tut, tut, said Kent gently. You knew it, Edwards, because when he leaned against the billiard table, the impress of his hand on the mahogany was deeper on one side than the other. The man was obviously top-heavy, but you abandoned this first theory. Certainly, Mr. Kent, we always do. Our second theory was, but Kent had ceased to listen. He had suddenly stooped down and picked up something off the floor. Ha-ha, he exclaimed. What do you make of this? He held up a square fragment of black cloth. We never saw it, said Edwards. Claw, muttered Kent, the missing piece of Kiva's Kelly's dinner-jacket. He whipped out a magnifying glass. Look, he said, it's been stamped upon by a man wearing hob-nailed boots made in Ireland, a man of five feet nine and a half inches high. One minute, Mr. Kent, interrupted the inspector, greatly excited. I don't quite get it. The depth of the dinge proves the lift of his foot, said Kent impatiently, and the lift of the foot indicates at once the man's height. Edwards, find me the man who wore those boots and the mystery is solved. At that very moment a heavy step, unmistakably to the trained ear that of a man in hob-nailed boots, was heard upon the stair. The door opened, and a man stood hesitating in the doorway. Both Kent and Edwards gave a start, two starts of surprise. The man was exactly five feet nine and a half inches high. He was dressed in Coachman's dress. His face was saturnine and evil. It was Dennis, the Coachman of the murdered man. If you're Mr. Kent, he said, there's a lady here asking for you. Chapter 7 Oh, Mr. Kent, save me. In another moment an absolutely noiseless step was heard upon the stair. A young girl entered, a girl tall, willowy and beautiful, in the first burst, or just about the first burst, of womanhood. She was Alice Delary. She was dressed with extreme taste, but Kent's quick eye noticed at once that she wore no hat. Mr. Kent, she cried, you are Mr. Kent, are you not? They told me that you were here. Oh, Mr. Kent, help me, save me. She seemed to shudder into herself a moment. Her breath came and went quickly. She reached out her two hands. Calm yourself, my dear young lady, said Kent, taking them.  Trust me, tell me all. Mr. Kent, said Delary, regaining her control but still trembling, I want my hat. Kent let go the beautiful girl's hands. Sit down, he said. Then he went across the room and fetched the hat, the light gossamer hat with flowers in it that still hung on a peg. Oh, I am so glad to get it back, cried the girl. I can never thank you enough. I was afraid to come for it. It is all right, said the inspector. The police theory was that it was the housekeeper's hat. You are welcome to it. Kent had been looking closely at the girl before him. You have more to say than that, he said. Tell me all. Oh, I will, I will, Mr. Kent, that dreadful night. I was here. I saw, at least I heard it all. She shuddered. Oh, Mr. Kent, it was dreadful. I had come back that evening to the library to finish some work. I knew that Mr. Kelly was to dine out and that I would be alone. I had been working quietly for some time when I became aware of voices in the billiard room. I tried not to listen, but it seemed to be quarreling and I couldn't help hearing. Oh, Mr. Kent, was I wrong? No, said Kent, taking her hand a moment. You were not. I heard one say, get your foot off the table. You've no right to put your foot on the table. Then the other said, well, you keep your stomach off the cushion, then. The girl shivered. Then presently one said quite fiercely, get back into Bach there. Get back fifteen inches. And the other voice said, by God, I'll shoot from here. Then there was a dead stillness and then a voice almost screamed, you've potted me, you've potted me. That ends it. And then I heard the other say in a low tone, forgive me, I didn't mean it. I never meant it to end that way. I was so frightened, Mr. Kent, I couldn't stay any longer. I rushed downstairs and ran all the way home. Then next day I read what had happened. And I knew that I had left my hat there and was afraid. Oh, Mr. Kent, save me. Mr. Larry, said the investigator, taking again the girl's hands and looking into her eyes. You are safe. Tell me only one thing. The man who played against Keevis Kelly, did you see him? Only for one moment the girl paused through the keyhole. What was he like? asked Kent. Had he an impenetrable face? He had. Was there anything massive about his face? Oh, yes, yes, it was all massive. Mr. Larry, said Kent, this mystery is now on the brink of solution. When I have joined the last links of the chain, may I come and tell you all? She looked full in his face. At any hour of the day or night, she said, you may come. Then she was gone. Chapter 8 You are Peter Kelly. Within a few moments Kent was at the phone. I want 4444. Is that 4444? Mr. Throgton's house? I want Mr. Throgton. Mr. Throgton speaking? Mr. Throgton, Kent speaking, the riverside mystery is solved. Kent waited in silence a moment. Then he heard Throgton's voice, not a note in it disturbed. Has anybody found Kelly? Mr. Throgton, said Kent, and he spoke with a strange meaning in his tone. The story is a long one. Suppose I relate it to you. He paused and laid a peculiar emphasis on what followed, over a game of billiards.  Let me come round to your house and tell the story. There are points in it that I can best illustrate over a billiard table.  It required no little hardy-hood to challenge masterman Throgton at billiards. His reputation at his club as a cool, determined player was surpassed by few. Throgton had been known to run 9, 10, and even 12 at a break. It was not unusual for him to drive his ball clear off the table. His keen eye told him infallibly where each of the three balls was. Instinctively he knew which to shoot with. In Kent, however, he had no mean adversary. The young reporter, though he had never played before, had studied his book to some purpose. His strategy was admirable. Keeping his ball well under the shelter of the cushion, he eluded every stroke of his adversary and in his turn caused his ball to leap or dart across the table with such speed as to bury itself in the pocket at the side. The score advanced rapidly, both players standing precisely equal. At the end of the first hour it stood at 10 all. Throgton, a grim look upon his face, had settled down to work playing with one knee on the table. Kent, calm but alive with excitement, leaned well forward to his stroke, his eye held within an inch of the ball. At 15 they were still even. Throgton, with a sudden effort, forced a break of three. But Kent rallied and in another 20 minutes they were even again at 19 all. But it was soon clear that Transom Kent had something else in mind than to win the game. Presently his opportunity came. With a masterly stroke, such as few trained players could use, he had potted his adversary's ball. The red ball was left over the very jaws of the pocket. The white was in the center. Kent looked into Throgton's face. The balls were standing in the very same position on the table as on the night of the murder. I did that on purpose, said Kent quietly. What do you mean? asked Throgton. The position of those balls, said Kent, Mr. Throgton, come into the library. I have something to say to you. You know already what it is. They went into the library. Throgton, his hand on steady, lighted a cigar. Well, he said, what is it? Mr. Throgton, said Kent, two weeks ago you gave me a mystery to solve. Tonight I can give you the solution. Do you want it? Throgton's face never moved. Well, he said. A man's life, Kent went on, may be played out on a billiard table. A man's soul, Throgton, may be pocketed. What devil's foolery is this? said Throgton. What do you mean? I mean that your crime is known, plot or schemer that you are.  Yes, masterman Throgton, or rather, let me give you your true name, Peter Kelly, murderer, I denounce you. Throgton never flinched. He walked across to where Kent stood, and with his open palm he slapped him over the mouth.  Then he walked back to his chair and sat down. Kent, he continued, From the first moment of your mock investigation, I knew who you were. Your every step was shadowed, your every movement dogged. Transom Kent, by your true name, Peter Kelly, murderer, I denounce you. Kent walked quietly across to Throgton and dealt him a fearful blow behind the ear.  I am not Peter Kelly. They sat looking at one another. At that moment Throgton's servant appeared at the door. A gentleman to see you, sir. Who, said Throgton? I don't know, sir, he gave his card. Masterman Throgton took the card. On it was printed Peter Kelly. Chapter 9.  For a moment Throgton and Kent sat looking at one another. Show the man up, said Throgton. A minute later the door opened and a man entered. Kent's keen eye analyzed him as he stood. His blue clothes, his tanned face, and the extraordinary dexterity of his fingers left no doubt of his calling. He was a sailor. Sit down, said Throgton. Thank you, said the sailor. It rests my wooden leg. The two men looked again. One of the sailor's legs was made of wood. With a start Kent noticed that it was made of East Indian sandalwood. I've just come from Java, said Kelly quietly as he sat down. Kent nodded. I see it all now, he said. Throgton, I wronged you. We should have known it was a sailor with a wooden leg from Java. There is no other way. Gentlemen, said Peter Kelly. I've come to make my confession. It is the usual and right thing to do, gentlemen, and I want to go through with it while I can. One moment, said Kent. Do you mind interrupting yourself with a hacking cough? Thank you, sir, said Kelly. I'll get to that a little later.  No, no, urged Throgton and Kent. Don't do that. Kelly frowned. I think I have a right to, he said. You've got to hear it. As a boy I had a wild impulsive nature, had it been curbed. But it wasn't, said Throgton. What next? I was the sole relative of my uncle and heir to great wealth. Pampered with every luxury I was on a footing of One minute interrupted Kent, rapidly analyzing as he listened. How many legs had you then? Two on a footing of ease and indolence. I soon lost your leg, said Throgton. Mr. Kelly, pray come to the essential things. I will, said the sailor. Gentlemen, bad as I was, I was not altogether bad. Of course not, said Kent and Throgton soothingly. Perhaps not more than ninety percent. Even into my life, gentlemen, love entered. If you had seen her, you would have known that she is as innocent as the driven snow. Three years ago she came to my uncle's house. I loved her. One day, hardly knowing what I was doing, I took her. He paused. Yes, yes, said Throgton and Kent, you took her? To the aquarium. My uncle heard of it. There was a violent quarrel. He disinherited me and drove me from the house. I had a liking for the sea from a boy. Excuse me, said Kent, from what boy? Kelly went right on. I ran away as a sailor before the mast. Pardon me, interrupted Kent, I am not used to sea terms. Why didn't you run behind the mast? Hear me out, said Kelly, I am nearly done. We sailed for the East Indies, for Java. There a Malay pirate bit off my leg. I returned home bitter, disillusioned, the mere wreck that you see. I had but one thought. I meant to kill my uncle. For a moment a hacking cough interrupted Kelly. Kent and Throgton nodded quietly to one another. I came to his house at night. With the aid of my wooden leg I scaled the wall, lifted the window and entered the billiard room. There was murder in my heart. Thank God I was spared from that. At the very moment when I got in a light was turned on in the room and I saw before me. But no I will not name her, my better angel. Peter, she cried. Then with a woman's intuition she exclaimed, You have come to murder your uncle, don't do it. My whole mood changed. I broke down and cried like a, like a, Kelly paused a moment. Like a boob, said Kent softly. Go on. When I had done crying we heard voices. Quick, she exclaimed, flee, hide. He must not see you. She rushed into the adjoining room closing the door. My eye had noticed already the trap above. I climbed up to it. Shall I explain how? Don't, said Kent. I can analyze it afterwards. There I saw what passed. I saw Mr. Throgton and Keevis Kelly come in. I watched their game. They were greatly excited and quarreled over it. Throgton lost. The big man nodded with a scowl. By his potting the white, he said. Precisely, said Kelly, he missed the red. Your analysis was wrong, Mr. Kent. The game ended. You started your reasoning from a false diarysis. In billiards people never marked the last point. The board still showed 99 all. Throgton left and my uncle, as often happens, kept trying over the last shot. A half-ball shot, sir, with the red over the pocket. He tried again and again. He couldn't make it. He tried various ways. His rest was too unsteady. Finally he made his tie into a long loop around his neck and put his cue through it. Now, by gad, he said, I can do it. Ha! said Kent, fool that I was. Exactly, continued Kelly. In the excitement of watching my uncle, I forgot where I was. I leaned too far over and fell out of the trap. I landed on Uncle, just as he was sitting on the table to shoot. He fell. I see it all, said Kent. In his head, the loop tightened, the cue spun round and he was dead. That's it, said Kelly. I saw that he was dead and I did not dare to remain.  It exceeds anything in its line that I have seen published for months. But there is just one point that I fail to grasp. The two bullet holes? They were old ones, answered the sailor quietly. My uncle and his youth had led a wild life in the West. He was full of them. There was silence for a moment, then Kelly spoke again. My time, gentlemen, is short. A hacking cough interrupted him. I feel that I am withering. It rests with you, gentlemen, whether or not I walk out of this room a free man. Transom Kent rose and walked over to the sailor. Mr. Kelly, he said, here is my hand. CHAPTER X. SO DO I A few days after the events last narrated, Transom Kent called it the boarding-house of Miss Alice Delary. The young investigator wore a light gray tweed suit with a salmon-colored geranium in his buttonhole. There was something exultant yet at the same time grave in his expression as of one who has taken a momentous decision affecting his future life. I wonder, he murmured, whether I am acting for my happiness. He sat down for a moment on the stone steps and analyzed himself. Then he rose. I am, he said, and rang the bell. Miss Delary, said a maid, she left here two days ago. If you are Mr. Kent, the note on the mantelpiece is for you. Without a word, Kent never wasted them. The investigator opened the note and read, Dear Mr. Kent, Peter and I were married yesterday morning and have taken an apartment in Java, New Jersey. You will be glad to hear that Peter's cough is ever so much better. The lawyers have given Peter his money without the least demure. We both feel that your analysis was simply wonderful. Peter says he doesn't know where he would be without it. Very sincerely, Alice Kelly. P.S., I forgot to mention to you that I saw Peter in the billiard room, but your analysis was marvelous just the same. That evening Kent sat with Throgton talking over the details of the tragedy. Throgton, he said, it has occurred to me that there were points about that solution that we didn't get exactly straight somehow. So do I, said Throgton. Broken barriers or red love on a blue island. The kind of thing that has replaced the good old sea story. It was on a bright August afternoon that I stepped on board the steamer Patagonia at Southampton outward bound for the West Indies and the port of New Orleans. I had at the time no pre-sentiment of disaster. I remember remarking to the ship's purser as my things were being carried to my state room that I had never in all my travels entered upon any voyage with so little premonition of accident. Very good, Mr. Boris, he answered. You will find your state room in the starboard aisle on the right. I distinctly recall remarking to the captain that I had never in any of my numerous sea fairings seen the sea of a more limpid blue. He agreed with me so entirely as I recollected that he did not even trouble to answer. Had anyone told me on that bright summer afternoon that our ship would within a week be wrecked among the dry tortugas I should have laughed. Had anyone informed me that I should find myself alone on a raft in the Caribbean sea I should have gone into hysterics. We had hardly entered the waters of the Caribbean when a storm of unprecedented violence broke upon us. Even the captain had never, so he said, seen anything to compare with it. For two days and nights we encountered and endured the full fury of the sea. Our soup plates were secured with racks and covered with lids. In the smoking room our glasses had to be set in brackets and as our steward came and went we were from moment to moment in imminent danger of seeing him washed overboard. On the third morning just after daybreak the ship collided with something probably either a floating rock or one of the dry tortugas.  The captain, after a brief consultation, decided to abandon her. The boats were lowered and, the sea being now quite calm, the passengers were emptied into them. By what accident I was left behind I cannot tell. I had been talking to the second mate and telling him of a rather similar experience of mine in the China Sea and holding him by the coat as I did so when quite suddenly he took me by the shoulders and rushing me into the deserted smoking room said, Sit here, Mr. Boris, till I come back for you. The fellow spoke in such a menacing way that I thought it wiser to comply. When I came out they were all gone. By good fortune I found one of the ship's rafts still lying on the deck. I gathered together such articles as might be of use and contrived, though how I do not know, to launch it into the sea. On my second morning in my raft I was sitting quietly polishing my boots and talking to myself when I became aware of an object floating in the sea close beside the raft. Judge of my feelings when I realized it to be the inanimate body of a girl. Hastily finishing my boots and stopping talking to myself I made shift as best I could to draw the unhappy girl towards me with a hook. After several ineffectual attempts I at last managed to obtain a hold of the girl's clothing and drew her onto the raft. She was still unconscious. The heavy life-belt round her person must, so I divined, have kept her afloat after the wreck. Her clothes were sodden, so I reasoned with the sea water. On a handkerchief which was still sticking into the belt of her dress I could see letters embroidered, realizing that this was no time for hesitation and that the girl's life might depend on my reading her name, I plucked it forth. It was Edith Croydon. As vigorously as I could I now set to work to rub her hands. My idea was partly to restore her circulation. I next removed her boots which were now rendered useless as I argued by the sea water and began to rub her feet. I was just considering what to remove next when the girl opened her eyes. Stop rubbing my feet, she said.  I rose with a sense of peak which I did not trouble to conceal and walked to the other end of the raft. I turned my back upon the girl and stood looking out upon the leaden waters of the Caribbean Sea. The ocean was now calm, there was nothing in sight. I was still searching the horizon when I heard a soft footstep on the raft behind me and a light hand was laid upon my shoulder. Forgive me," said the girl's voice. I turned about, Miss Croydon was standing behind me. She had, so I argued, removed her stockings and was standing in her bare feet. There is something I am free to confess about a woman in her bare feet which hits me where I live.  Seaweed as a rule gets me every time, but I checked myself. Miss Croydon, I said, there is nothing to forgive. At the mention of her name the girl blushed for a moment and seemed about to say something, but stopped. Where are we, she queried presently. I don't know, I answered as cheerfully as I could, but I am going to find out.  Not at all, I said, putting as much heartiness into my voice as I was able to. The girl watched my preparations with interest. With the aid of a bent pin hoisted on a long pole I had no difficulty in ascertaining our latitude. Miss Croydon, I said, I am now about to ascertain our longitude. To do this I must lower myself down into the sea. Pray do not be alarmed or anxious, I shall soon be back. With the help of a long line I lowered myself deep down into the sea until I was enabled to ascertain, approximately at any rate, our longitude. A fierce thrill went through me at the thought that this longitude was our longitude hers and mine. On the way up, hand over hand, I observed a long shark looking at me. Realizing that the fellow, if voracious, might prove dangerous, I lost but little time. Indeed, I may say I lost absolutely no time in coming up the rope. The girl was waiting for me. Oh, I am so glad you have come back, she exclaimed, clasping her hands. It was nothing, I said, wiping the water from my ears and speaking as melodiously as I could. Have you found our whereabouts? she asked. Yes, I answered. Our latitude is normal, but our longitude is, I fear, at least three degrees out of the plum. I am afraid, Miss Croydon, I added, speaking as mournfully as I know how, that you must reconcile your mind to spending a few days with me on this raft. Is it as bad as that? she murmured, her eyes upon the sea. In the long day that followed, I busied myself as much as I could, with my work upon the raft, so as to leave the girl as far as possible to herself. It was, so I argued, absolutely necessary to let her feel that she was safe in my keeping, otherwise she might jump off the raft and I should lose her. I sorted out my various cans and tins, tested the oil in my chronometer, arranged in neat order my various ropes and apparatus, and got my frying pan into readiness for any emergency, of food we had for the present no lack. With the approach of night I realized that it was necessary to make arrangements for the girl's comfort. With the aid of a couple of upright poles I stretched a gray blanket across the raft so as to make a complete partition. Miss Croydon, I said, this end of the raft is yours, here you may sleep in peace. How kind you are, the girl murmured. You will be quite safe from interference, I said. I give you my word that I will not obtrude upon you in any way. How chivalrous you are, she said. Not at all, I answered, as musically as I could. Understand me, I am now putting my head over this partition for the last time. If there is anything you want, say so now. Nothing, she answered. There is a candle in matches beside you, if there is anything that you want in the night, call me instantly. Remember, at any hour I shall be here, I promise it. Good night, she murmured. In a few minutes her soft regular breathing told me that she was asleep. I went forward and seated myself in a tar-bucket with my head against the mast to get what sleep I could, but for some time, why I do not know, sleep would not come. The image of Edith Croydon filled my mind. In vain I told myself that she was a stranger to me, that, beyond her longitude, I knew nothing of her. In some strange way this girl had seized hold of me and dominated my senses. The night was very calm and still, with great stars in a velvet sky. In the darkness I could hear the water lapping the edge of the raft. I remained thus in deep thought, sinking further and further into the tar-bucket. By the time I reached the bottom of it I realized that I was in love with Edith Croydon. Then the thought of my wife occurred to me and perplexed me. Our unhappy marriage had taken place three years before. We brought to one another youth, wealth and position. Yet our marriage was a failure. My wife, for what reason I cannot guess, seemed to find my society irksome. In vain I tried to interest her with narratives of my travels. They seemed, in some way that I could not divine, to fatigue her. Leave me for a little Harold, she would say. I forgot to mention that my name is Harold Horace. I have a pain in my neck. At her own suggestion I had taken a trip around the world. On my return she urged me to go round again. I was going round for the third time when the wrecking of the steamer had interrupted my trip. On my own part, too, I am free to confess that my wife's attitude had roused in me a sense of peak, not to say injustice. I am not in any way a vain man. Yet her attitude wounded me. I would know sooner begin. When I was in the Himalayas hunting the Humphill or Humpt Buffalo, then she would interrupt and say, Oh, Harold, would you mind going down to the billiard-room and seeing if I left my cigarettes under the billiard-table? When I returned she was gone. By agreement we had arranged for a divorce. On my completion of my third voyage we were to meet in New Orleans. Clara was to go there on a separate ship, giving me the choice of oceans. Had I met Edith Croydon three months later I should have been a man free to woo and win her. As it was I was bound. I must put a clasp of iron on my feelings. I must wear a mask.  After a great struggle I rose at last from the tar bucket, feeling, if not a brighter, at least a cleaner man. Don was already breaking. I looked about me. As the sudden beams of the tropic sun illuminated the placid sea, I saw immediately before me only a hundred yards away an island. A sandy beach sloped back to a rocky eminence, broken with scrub and jungle. I could see a little stream leaping among the rocks. With eager haste I paddled the raft close to the shore, till it ground in about ten inches of water. I leaped into the water. With the aid of a stout line I soon made the raft fast to a rock. Then as I turned I saw that Miss Croydon was standing upon the raft, fully dressed and gazing at me. The morning sunlight played in her hair, and her deep blue eyes were as soft as the Caribbean sea itself. Don't attempt to wait ashore, Miss Croydon, I cried in agitation. Pray do nothing rash. The waters are simply infested with bacilli. But how can I get ashore, she asked, with a smile which showed all or nearly all of her pearl-like teeth. Miss Croydon, I said, there is only one way I must carry you. In another moment I had walked back to the raft and lifted her as tenderly and reverently as if she had been my sister, indeed more so in my arms. Her weight seemed nothing. When I get a girl like that in my arms I simply don't feel it. Just for one moment as I clasped her thus in my arms a fierce thrill ran through me, but I let it run. When I had carried her well up the sand close to the little stream I set her down. To my surprise she sank down in a limp heap. The girl had fainted. I knew that it was no time for hesitation. Running to the stream I filled my hat with water and dashed it in her face. Then I took up a handful of mud and threw it at her with all my force. After that I beat her with my hat.  I must have fainted, she said with a little shiver. I am cold. Oh, if we could only have a fire. I will do my best to make one, Miss Croydon, I replied, speaking as gymnastically as I could. I will see what I can do with two dry sticks. With dry sticks, queried the girl, can you light a fire with that? How wonderful you are! I have often seen it done, I replied thoughtfully, when I was hunting the Humple or Humped Buffalo in the Himalayas. It was our usual method. Have you really hunted the Humple?  I have indeed, I said, but you must rest. Later on I will tell you about it. I wish you could tell me now, she said with a little moan. Meantime I had managed to select from the driftwood on the beach two sticks that seemed absolutely dry. Placing them carefully together, in Indian fashion, I then struck a match and found no difficulty in setting them on fire. In a few moments the girl was warming herself beside a generous fire. Together we breakfasted upon the beach beside the fire discussing our plans like comrades. Our meal over I rose. I will leave you here a little, I said, while I explore. With no great difficulty I made my way through the scrub and climbed the eminence of tumbled rocks that shut in the view.  Miss Croydon, I said, we are on an island. Is it inhabited? She asked. Once perhaps, but not now. It is one of the many keys of the West Indies. Here, in old buccaneering days, the pirates landed and careened their ships. How did they do that? She asked, fascinated. I am not sure, I answered. I think with whitewash. At any rate they gave them a good careening. But since then these solitudes are only the home of the seagull, the sea-mew and the albatross. The girl shuttered. How lonely, she said. Lonely or not, I said with a laugh. Luckily I can speak with a laugh when I want to. I must get to work. I set myself to work to haul up and arrange our effects. With a few stones I made a rude table and seats. I took care to laugh and sing as much as possible while at my work. The close of the day found me still busy with my labours. Miss Croydon, I said, I must now arrange a place for you to sleep. With the eight of four stakes driven deeply into the ground and with blankets strung upon them, I managed to fashion a sort of rude tent, ruthless but otherwise quite sheltered. Miss Croydon, I said when I was done, go in there. Then with little straps which I had fastened to the blankets, I buckled her in reverently. Good night, Miss Croydon, I said. But you, she exclaimed, where will you sleep? Oh, I, I answered, speaking as exuberantly as I could, I shall do very well on the ground, but be sure to call me at the slightest sound. Then I went out and lay down in a patch of cactus plants. I need not dwell in detail upon the busy and arduous days that followed our landing upon the island. I had much to do. Each morning I took our latitude and longitude. By this I then set my watch, cooked porridge, and picked flowers till Miss Croydon appeared. With every day the girl came forth from her habitation as a new surprise in her radiant beauty. One morning she had bound a cluster of wild arbitus about her brow. Another day she had twisted a band of convolvulus around her waist. On a third she had wound herself up in a mat of bullrushes. With her bare feet and wild bullrushes all around her she looked as a cavewoman might have looked, her eyes radiant with the Caribbean dawn. My whole frame thrilled at the sight of her. At times it was all I could do not to tear the bullrushes off her and beat her with the heads of them. But I schooled myself to restraint and handed her a rock to sit upon and passed her her porridge on the end of a shovel with the calm politeness of a friend. Our breakfast over my more serious labors of the day began. I busied myself with hauling rocks or boulders along the sand to build us a house against the rainy season. With some tackle from the raft I made myself a set of harness by means of which I hitched myself to a boulder. By getting Miss Croydon to beat me over the back with a stick I found that I made fair progress. But even as I worked thus for our common comfort my mind was fiercely filled with the thought of Edith Croydon. I knew that if once the barriers broke everything would be swept away. Heaven alone knows the effort that it cost me. At times nothing but the sternest resolution could hold my fierce impulses in check. Once I came upon the girl riding in the sand with a stick I looked to see what she had written. I read my own name Harold. With a wild cry I leapt into the sea and dived to the bottom of it. When I came up I was calmer. Edith came towards me. All dripping as I was she placed her hands upon my shoulders. How grand you are! she said. I am! I answered. Then I added, Miss Croydon for Heaven's sake don't touch me on the ear. I can't stand it. I turned from her and looked out over the sea. Presently I heard something like a groan behind me. The girl had thrown herself on the sand and was coiled up in a hoop. Miss Croydon I said, for God's sake don't coil up in a hoop. I rushed to the beach and rubbed gravel on my face. With such activities, alternated with wild bursts of restraint, our life on the island passed as rapidly as in a dream. Had I not taken care to notch the days upon a stick and then cover the stick with tar, I could not have known the passage of the time. The wearing out of our clothing had threatened a serious difficulty, but by good fortune I had seen a large black and white goat wandering among the rocks and had chased it to a standstill. From its skin leaving the first still on, Edith had fashioned us clothes. Our boots we had replaced with alligator hide. I had, by a lucky chance, found an alligator upon the beach and attaching a string to the fellow's neck I had led him to our camp. I had then poisoned the fellow with tin salmon and removed his hide. Our costume was now brought into harmony with our surroundings. For myself, garbed in goatskin with the hair outside, with alligator sandals on my feet and with whiskers at least six inches long, I have no doubt that I resembled the bow ideal of a caveman. With the open air life a new agility seemed to have come into my limbs. With a single leap in my alligator sandals I was enabled to spring into a coconut tree. As for Edith Croydon, I can only say that as she stood beside me on the beach in her suit of black goatskin, she had chosen the black spots. There were times when I felt like seizing her in the frenzy of my passion and hurling her into the sea. Fur always acts on me just like that. It was at the opening of the fifth week of our life upon the island that a new and more surprising turn was given to our adventure. It arose out of a certain curiosity, harmless enough, on Edith Croydon's part. Mr. Boris, she said one morning, I should like so much to see the rest of our island, can we? Alas, Miss Croydon, I said, I fear there is but little to see. Our island, so far as I can judge, is merely one of the uninhabited keys of the West Indies. It is nothing but rock and sand and scrub. There is no life upon it. I fear, I added, speaking as gently as I could, that unless we are taken off it we are destined to stay on it. Still I should like to see it, she persisted. Come on then, I answered, if you are good for a climb we can take a look over the ridge of rocks where I went up on the first day. We made our way across the sand of the beach, among the rocks and through the close matted scrub, beyond which an eminence of rugged boulders shut out the further view. Making our way to the top of this, we obtained a wide look over the sea. The island stretched away to a considerable distance to the eastward, widening as it went, the complete view of it being shut off by similar and higher ridges of rock. But it was the nearer view, the foreground, that it once arrested our attention. Edith seized my arm. Look, oh look! she said. Down just below us on the right hand was a similar beach to the one we had left. A rude hut had been erected on it and various articles lay strewn about. Seated on a rock with their backs towards us were a man and a woman. The man was dressed in goat skins and his whiskers, so I inferred from what I could see of them from the side, were at least as exuberant as mine. The woman was in white fur with a filet of seaweed round her head. They were sitting close together as if in earnest colloquy. Cave people! whispered Edith, aborigines of the island. But I answered nothing. Something in the tall outline of the seated woman held my eye. A cruel pre-sentiment stabbed me to the heart. In my agitation my foot overset a stone which rolled noisily down the rocks. The noise attracted the attention of the two seated below us. They turned and looked searchingly towards the place where we were concealed. Their faces were in plain sight. I looked at that of the woman.  I looked into Edith's face. It was as pale as mine. What does it mean? she whispered. Miss Croydon, I answered. Edith, it means this. I have never found the courage to tell you. I am a married man. The woman seated there is my wife, and I love you. Edith put out her arms with a low cry and clasped me about the neck. Harold, she murmured, my Harold. Have I done wrong? I whispered. Only what I have done too, she answered. I too am married Harold, and the man sitting there below, John Croydon, is my husband. With a wild cry such as a caveman might have uttered, I had left to my feet. Your husband, I shouted, then by the living God, he or I shall never leave this place alive. He saw me coming as I bounded down the rocks. In an instant he had sprung to his feet. He gave no cry. He asked no question. He stood erect as a caveman would, waiting for his enemy. And there upon the sands beside the sea we fought, bare-handed and weaponless. We fought as caveman fight. For a while we circled round each other, growling. We circled four times, each watching for an opportunity. Then I picked up a great handful of sand and threw it flap into his face. He grabbed a coconut and hit me with it in the stomach. Then I seized a twisted strand of wet seaweed and landed him with it behind the ear. For a moment he staggered. Before he could recover I jumped forward, seized him by the hair, slapped his face twice and then leaped behind a rock. Looking from the side I could see that Croydon, though half dazed, was feeling round for something to throw. To my horror I saw a great stone lying ready to his hand. Beside me was nothing. I gave myself up for lost when at that very moment I heard Edith's voice behind me saying, The shovel, quick, the shovel! The noble girl had rushed back to our encampment and had fetched me the shovel. Swat him with that, she cried. I seized the shovel and with the roar of a wounded bull, or as near as I could make it, I rushed out from the rock, the shovel swinging over my head. But the fight was all out of Croydon. Don't strike, he said. I'm all in. I couldn't stand a crack with that kind of thing. He sat down upon the sand, limp. Seen thus, he somehow seemed to be quite a small man, not a caveman at all. His goatskin suit shrunk in on him. I could hear his pants as he sat. I surrender, he said. Take both the women, they are yours. I stood over him leaning upon the shovel. The two women had closed in near to us. I suppose you are her husband, are you? Croydon went on. I nodded. I thought you were. Take her. Meantime, Clara had drawn near to me. She looked somehow very beautiful with her golden hair in the sunlight and the white furs draped about her. Harold, she exclaimed. Harold, is it you? How strange and masterful you look! I didn't know you were so strong. I turned sternly towards her. When I was alone, I said, on the Himalayas hunting the Humphill or Hummed Buffalo. Clara clasped her hands looking into my face. Yes, she said, tell me about it. Meantime I could see that Edith had gone over to John Croydon. John, she said, you shouldn't sit in the wet sand like that. You'll get a chill. Let me help you to get up. I looked at Clara and at Croydon. How has this happened? I asked. Tell me. We were on the same ship, Croydon said. There came a great storm. Even the captain had never seen. I know, I interrupted. So had ours. The ship struck a rock and blew out her four funnels. Ours did too, I nodded. The bowsprit was broken and the steward's pantry was carried away. The captain gave orders to leave the ship. It is enough, Croydon, I said. I see it all now. You were left behind when the boats cleared by what accident you don't know. I don't, said Croydon. As best you could, you constructed a raft and with such haste as you might, you placed on it such few things. Exactly, he said, a chronometer, a sextant. I know, I continued. Two quadrants, a bucket of water and a lightning rod. I presume you picked up Clara floating in the sea. I did, Croydon said. She was unconscious when I got her, but by rubbing, Croydon, I said, raising the shovel again, cut that out. I'm sorry, he said. It's all right, but you'd needn't go on. I see all the rest of your adventures plainly enough. Well, I'm done with it all, anyway, said Croydon gloomily. You can do what you like. As for me, I've got a decent suit back there at our camp, and I've got it dried and pressed, and I'm going to put it on. He rose wearily, Edith standing beside him. What's more, Boris, he said, I'll tell you something. This island is not uninhabited at all. Not uninhabited, exclaimed Clara and Edith together. I saw each of them give a rapid look at her goatskin suit. Nonsense, Croydon, I said. This island is one of the West Indian Keys. On such a key as this, the pirates used to land. Here they careened their ships. Did what to them? asked Croydon. Careened them all over from one end to the other, I said. Here they got water and buried treasure. But beyond that the island was, and remained, only the home of the wild gull and the sea muse. All right, said Croydon. Only it doesn't happen to be that kind of key. It's a West Indian island, all right, but there's a summer hotel on the other end of it, not two miles away. A summer hotel, we exclaimed. Yes, a hotel. I suspected it all along. I picked up a tennis racket on the beach the first day, and after that I walked over the ridge and through the jungle, and I could see the roof of the hotel. Only, he added rather shame-facedly, I didn't like to tell her. Oh, you coward! cried Clara. I could slap you. Don't you dare, said Edith. I'm sure you knew it as well as he did. And anyway, I was certain of it myself. I picked up a copy of last week's paper and a lunch basket on the beach and hid it from Mr. Boris. I didn't want to hurt his feelings. At that moment, Croydon pointed with a cry towards the sea. Look, he said, for heaven's sake, look! He turned. Less than a quarter of a mile away, we could see a large white motor-launch coming round the corner.  Great heavens, said Croydon. I know that launch. It's the Appan Joneses. The Appan Joneses, cried Clara. Why, we know them too. Don't you remember, Harold, the Sunday we spent with them on the Hudson? Instinctively, we had all jumped for cover behind the rocks. Whatever shall we do, I exclaimed. We must get our things, said Edith Croydon.  Mrs.  My suit is nearly ready, anyway. I thought someone might come. Mr. Boris, would you mind running and fetching me my things? They're all in a parcel together. And perhaps, if you have a looking-glass and some pins, Mrs. Boris, I could come over and dress with you. That same evening, we found ourselves all comfortably gathered on the piazza of the Hotel Christopher Columbus. Appan Jones insisted on making himself our host, and the story of our adventures was related again and again to an admiring audience with the accompaniment of cigars and iced champagne. Only one detail was suppressed by common instinct. Both Clara and I felt that it would only raise needless comment to explain that Mr. and Mrs. Croydon had occupied sacred encampments. Nor is it necessary to relate our safe and easy return to New York. Both Clara and I found Mr. and Mrs. Croydon delightful travelling companions, though perhaps we were not sorry when the moment came to say goodbye. The word goodbye, I remarked to Clara as we drove away, is always a painful one. Oddly enough, when I was hunting the Humphill or Humpt Buffalo of the Himalayas, do tell me about it, darling," whispered Clara as she nestled beside me in the cab. End of Section 5, Recording by Tricia G. Section 6 of Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels. This LibriVox recording is in the public domain. Winsome Winnie and Other New Nonsense Novels by Stephen Lee Cock. Section 6. The Kidnapped Plumber, A Tale of the New Time. Being one chapter and quite enough from the reminiscences of an operating plumber. Personally, said Thornton, speaking for the first time, I never cared to take a case that involved cellar work. We were sitting, a little group of us, round about the fire in a comfortable corner of the steam and air club. Our talk had turned, as always happens with a group of professional men, into more or less technical channels. I will not say that we were talking shop. The word has an offensive sound and might be misunderstood. But we were talking as only a group of practicing plumbers, including some of the biggest men in the profession, would talk. With the exception of Everett, who had a national reputation as a consulting barber, and Thomas, who was a vacuum cleaner expert, I think we all belonged to the same profession. We had been holding a convention, and Fortescue, who had one of the biggest furnace practices in the country, had read us a paper that afternoon, a most revolutionary thing, an external diagnosis of defective feed pipes, and naturally the thing had bred discussion. Fortescue, who is one of the most brilliant men in the profession, had stoutly maintained his thesis that the only method of diagnosis for trouble in a furnace is to sit down in front of it and look at it for three days. Others held out for unscrewing it and carrying it home for consideration. Others of us, again, claimed that by tapping the affected spot with a wrench the pipe might be fractured in such a way as to prove that it was breakable. It was at this point that Thornton interrupted with his remark about never being willing to accept a cellar case. Naturally all the men turned to look at the speaker. Henry Thornton, at the time of which I relate, was at the height of his reputation. Beginning quite literally at the bottom of the ladder, he had in twenty years of practice as an operating plumber, raised himself to the top of his profession. There was much in his appearance to suggest the underlying reasons of his success. His face, as is usual with men of our calling, had something of the dreamer in it, but the bold set of the jaw indicated determination of an uncommon kind. Three times president of the Plumber's Association, Henry Thornton had enjoyed the highest honors of his chosen profession. His book on nut call was recognized as the last word on the subject and had been crowned by the French Academy of Nuts. I suppose that one of the principal reasons for his success was his singular coolness and resource. I have seen Thornton enter a kitchen with that quiet reassuring step of his and lay out his instruments on the table while a kitchen tap with a broken washer was sprizzling within a few feet of him as calmly and as quietly as if he were in his lecture room of the Plumber's College. You never go into a cellar, asked Fortescue, but hang it, man, I don't see how one can avoid it. Well, I do avoid it, answered Thornton, at least as far as I possibly can. I sent down my solderist, of course, but personally, unless it is absolutely necessary, I never go down. That's all very well, my dear fellow, Fortescue cut in, but you know as well as I do that you get case after case where the cellar diagnosis is simply vital. I had a case last week, a most interesting thing. He turned to the group of us as he spoke. A double lesion of a gas pipe under a cement floor. Half a dozen of my colleagues had been absolutely baffled. They had made an entirely false diagnosis, operated on the dining room floor which they removed and carried home, and when I was called in they had just obtained permission from the Stone Masons Protective Association to knock down one side of the house. Excuse me in interrupting just a minute, interjected a member of the group who hailed from a distant city. Have you much trouble about that? I mean about knocking the sides out of houses. No trouble now, said Fortescue. We did have, but the public is getting educated up to it. Our law now allows us to knock the side out of a house when we feel that we would really like to see what is in it. We are not allowed, of course, to build it up again. No, of course not, said the other speaker, but I suppose you can throw the bricks out on the lawn. Yes, said Fortescue, and sit on them to eat lunch. We had a big fight in the legislature over that, but we got it through. Thank you, but I feel I am interrupting. Well, I was only saying that as soon as I had made up my mind that the trouble was in the cellar the whole case was simple. I took my colleagues down at once, and we sat on the floor of the cellar and held a consultation till the overpowering smell of gas convinced me that there was nothing for it but an operation on the floor. The whole thing was most successful. I was very glad as it happened that the proprietor of the house was a very decent fellow employed, I think, as a manager of a bank or something of the sort. He was most grateful. As he who gave me the engraved monkey wrench that some of you were admiring before dinner, after we had finished the whole operation I forgot to say that we had thrown the coal out on the lawn to avoid any complication. He quite broke down. He offered us to take his whole house and keep it. You don't do that, do you? asked the outsider. Oh, no, never, said Fortescue. We've made a very strict professional rule against it. We found that some of the younger men were apt to take a house when they were given it, and we had to frown down on it. But, gentlemen, I feel that when Mr. Thornton says he never goes down into a cellar there must be a story behind it. I think we should invite him to relate it to us. A murmur of assent greeted the speaker's suggestion. For myself I was particularly pleased in as much as I have long felt that Thornton, as a recon tour, was almost as interesting as in the role of an operating plumber. I have often told him that, if he had not happened to meet success in his chosen profession, he could have earned a living as a day writer, a suggestion which he has always taken in good part and without offence. Those of my readers who have looked through the little volume of reminiscences which I have put together will recall the narrative of the missing nut and the little tale entitled The Blue Blowtorch as instances in point. Not much of a story, perhaps, said Thornton, but such as it is you are welcome to it. So if you will just fill up your glasses with raspberry vinegar you may have the tale for what it is worth. We gladly complied with the suggestion and Thornton continued. It happened a good many years ago at a time when I was only a young fellow fresh from college very proud of my plum bee and inclined to think that I knew it all. I had done a little monograph on choked feed in The Blowtorch which had attracted attention and I suppose that altogether I was about as conceited a young puppy as one would find in the profession. I should mention that at this time I was not married but had set up a modest apartment of my own with a consulting room and a single man servant. Naturally I could not afford the services of a solderist or a gassist and did everything for myself, though Simmons my man could add a pinch be utilized to tear down plaster and break furniture. Thornton paused to take a sip of raspberry vinegar and went on. Well then, I had come home to dinner particularly tired after a long day. I had sat in an attic the greater part of the afternoon a case of top story valvular trouble and had had to sit in a cramped position which practically forbade sleep. I was feeling therefore none too well pleased when a little while after dinner the bell rang and Simmons brought word to the library that there was a client in the consulting room. I reminded the fellow that I could not possibly consider a case at such an advanced hour unless I were paid emergency overtime wages with time and a half during the day of recovery. One moment interrupted the outside member. You didn't mention compensation for mental shock. Do you not draw that here? We do now, explained Thornton, but the time of which I speak is some years ago and we still got nothing for mental shock nor disturbance of equilibrium. Nowadays of course one would insist on a substantial retainer in advance. Well to continue, Simmons to my surprise told me that he had already informed the client of this fact and that the answer had only been a plea that the case was too urgent to admit of delay. He also supplied the further information that the client was a young lady. I am afraid added Thornton looking round his audience with a sympathetic smile that Simmons, I had got him from Harvard and he had not yet quite learned his place even said something about her being strikingly handsome. A general laugh greeted Thornton's announcement. After all, said Fortescue, I never could see why an iceman should be supposed to have a monopoly on gallantry. Oh I don't know, said Thornton. For my part I say it without affectation. The moment I am called in professionally women as women cease to exist for me. I can stand beside them in the kitchen and explain to them the feedtap of a kitchen range without feeling them to be anything other than simply clients. And for the most part I think they reciprocate that attention. There are women of course who will call a man in with motives, but that's another story. I must get back to what I was saying. On entering the consulting room I saw at once that Simmons had exaggerated nothing in describing my young client as beautiful. I have seldom even among our own class seen a more strikingly handsome girl. She was dressed in a very plain and simple fashion which showed me at once that she belonged merely to the capitalist class. I am, as I think you know, something of an observer and my eye at once noted the absence of heavy gold earrings and wrist bangles. The blue feathers at the side of her hat were none of them more than six inches long and the buttons on her jacket were so inconspicuous that I could hardly notice them. In short, while her dress was no doubt good and serviceable, there was an absence of chic, a lack of noise about it that told at once the tale of narrow circumstances. She was evidently in great distress. Oh, Mr. Thornton! she exclaimed, advancing towards me. Do come to our house at once. I simply don't know what to do. She spoke with great emotion and seemed almost on the point of breaking into tears. Pray calm yourself, my dear young lady, I said, and try to tell me what is the trouble. Oh, don't lose any time, she said. Do, do come at once. We will lose no time, I said reassuringly as I looked at my watch. It is now seven thirty. We will reckon the time from now with overtime at time and a half. But if I am to do anything for you, I must have some idea of what has happened. The cellar boiler, she moaned, clasping her hands together, the cellar boiler won't work. Ah, I said soothingly, the cellar boiler won't work. Now tell me, is the feed choked, Miss? I don't know, she exclaimed. Have you tried letting off the exhaust?  I don't know what it is. She said. But already I was hastily gathering together a few instruments, questioning her rapidly as I did so. How's your pressure gauge? I asked. How's your water? Do you draw from the mains, or are you on the high-level reservoir? It had occurred to me at once that it might be merely a case of stoppage of her main feed, complicated perhaps with a valvular trouble in her exhaust. On the other hand it was clear enough that, if her feed was full and her gauge is working, her trouble was more likely a leak somewhere in her piping. But all attempts to draw from the girl any clear idea of the symptoms were unavailing. All she could tell me was that the cellar boiler wouldn't work. Beyond that her answers were mere confusion. I gathered enough, however, to feel sure that her main feed was still working and that her top-story check valve was probably in order. With that I had to be content. As a young practitioner I had as yet no motor car. Simmons, however, summoned me a taxi into which I hurriedly placed the girl and my basket of instruments and was soon speeding in the direction she indicated. It was a dark, lowering night with flecks of rain against the windows of the cab and there was something in the lateness of the hour it was now after half-past eight and the nature of my mission which gave me a stimulating sense of adventure. The girl directed me as I felt sure she would towards the capitalist quarter of the town. We had soon sped away from the brightly lighted streets and tall apartment buildings among which my usual practice lay and entered the gloomy and dilapidated section of the city where the unhappy capitalist class reside. I need not remind those of you who know it that it is scarcely a cheerful place to find oneself in after nightfall. The thick growth of trees the silent gloom of the ill-lighted houses and the rank undergrowth of shrubs give it an air of desolation not to say danger. It is certainly not the place that a professional man would choose to be abroad in after dark. The inhabitants living so it was said on their scanty dividends and on such parts of their income as our taxation is still unable to reach are not people that one would care to fall in with after nightfall. Since the time of which I speak we have done much to introduce a better state of things. The opening of day schools of carpentry, plumbing and calcium mining for the children of the capitalist is already producing results. Strange enough it may seem one of the most brilliant of our boiler fitters of today was brought up half hazard in this very quarter of the town and educated only by a French governess and a university tutor. But at the time practically nothing had been done. The place was infested with consumers and there were still so it was said servants living in some of the older houses. A butler had been caught one night in a thick shrubbery beside one of the gloomy streets. We alighted at one of the most somber of the houses and our taxi driver with evident relief made off in the darkness. The girl admitted us into a dark hall where she turned on an electric light. We have light she said with that peculiar touch of pride that one sees so often in her class. We have four bulbs. Then she called down a flight of stairs that apparently led to the cellar. Father the plumber has come do come up now dear and rest. A step sounded on the stairs and there appeared beside us one of the most forbidding looking men that I have ever beheld. I don't know whether any of you have ever seen an Anglican bishop. Probably not. Outside of the bush they are now never seen. But at the time of which I speak there were a few still here and there in the pearl use of the city. The man before us was tall and ferocious and his native ferocity was further enhanced by the heavy black beard which he wore in open defiance of the compulsory shaving laws.   Can you fix the accursed thing? He asked. I was not accustomed to being spoken to but I was willing for the girl's sake to strain professional courtesy to the limit. I don't know, I answered, but if you will have the goodness first to fetch me a little light supper I shall be glad to see what I can do afterwards. My firm manner had its effect. With obvious reluctance the fellow served me some biscuits and some not-bad champagne in the dining-room. The girl had meantime disappeared upstairs. If you're ready now, said the bishop, come on down. We went down to the cellar. It was a huge gloomy place with a cement floor lighted by a dim electric bulb. I could see in the corner the outline of a large furnace. In those days the poorer classes had still no central heat and near it a tall boiler. In front of this a man was kneeling evidently trying to unscrew a nut but twisting it the wrong way. He was an elderly man with a gray mustache and was dressed in open defiance of the law in a military costume or uniform. He turned round towards us and rose from his knees. I'm dashed if I can make the rotten thing go round, he said. It's all right, general, said the bishop. I have brought a plumber. For the next few minutes my professional interest absorbed all my faculties. I laid out my instruments upon a board, tapped the boiler with a small hammer, tested the feed tube and in a few moments had made what I was convinced was a correct diagnosis of the trouble. But here I encountered the greatest professional dilemma in which I have ever been placed. There was nothing wrong with the boiler at all. It was connected as I ascertained it once by the thermodynamic valvular test with the furnace. In fact I could see it did evidently had been allowed to go out. What was I to do if I told them this I broke every professional rule of our union. If the thing became known I should probably be disbarred and lose my overalls for it. It was my plain professional duty to take a large hammer and knock holes in the boiler with it, smash up the furnace pipes, start a leak of gas and then call in three or more of my colleagues. But somehow I couldn't find it in my heart to do it. The thought of the girl's appealing face arose before me. How long has this trouble been going on? I asked sternly. Quite a time answered the bishop. It began did it not general the same day that the confounded furnace went out. The general here and Admiral Hay and I have been working at it for three days. Well gentlemen I said I don't want to read you a lesson on your own ineptitude and I don't suppose you would understand it if I did. But don't you see that the whole trouble is because you let the furnace out? The boiler itself is all right but you see gents it feeds off the furnace. Ah! said the bishop in a deep melodious tone it feeds off the furnace now that is most interesting let me repeat that I must try to remember it it feeds off the furnace so. The upshot was that in twenty minutes we had the whole thing put to rights I set the general breaking up boxes and had the bishop break out the clinkers and very soon we had the furnace going and the boiler in operation. But now tell me said the bishop suppose one wanted to let the furnace out suppose I mean to say that it was summertime and suppose one rather felt that one didn't care about a furnace and yet one wanted one's boiler going for one's hot water and that sort of thing what would one do? In that case I said you couldn't run your heating off your furnace you'd have to connect it in your tubing with a gas generator Ah! there you get me rather beyond my depth said the bishop the general shook his head bishop he said just step upstairs a minute further leading me below to my surprise and consternation as they reached the top of the cellar stairs I saw the general swing the door shut and heard a key turn in the lock I rushed to the top of the stairs and tried in vain to open the door I was trapped in a moment I realized my folly entrusting myself in the hands of these people I could hear their voices in the hall apparently in eager discussion but the fellow was priceless the general was saying we could take him round to all the different houses and make him fix them all hang it bishop I haven't had a decent tap running for two years and Admiral Hayes Pantry has been flooded since last March but one couldn't compel him certainly why not I'd compel him belly quick with this I couldn't see what the general referred to but had no doubt that it was the huge wrench that he still carried in his hand we could gag the fellow he went on take him from house to house and make him put everything right ah but afterwards said the bishop afterwards answered the general why kill him knock him on the head and bury him under the cement in the cellar Hayes and I could easily bury him or for that matter I imagine one could easily use the furnace I must confess that my blood ran cold as I listened but do you think it right objected the bishop you will say of course that it is only killing a plumber but yet one asks oneself whether it wouldn't be just a little bit unjustifiable nonsense said the general you remember that last year when Hayes strangled the income tax collector you yourself were very keen on it ah that was different said the bishop one felt that there was an end to serve but here nonsense repeated the general come along and get hay he'll make short work of him I heard their retreating footsteps then all was still the horror which filled my mind as I sat in the half darkness waiting for their return I cannot describe my fate appeared sealed and I gave myself up for last when presently I heard a light step in the hall and the key turned in the lock the girl stood in front of me she was trembling with emotion quick quick Mr. Thornton I heard all that they said oh I think it's dreadful of them simply dreadful Mr. Thornton I'm really ashamed that father should act that way I came out into the hall still half dazed they've gone over to Admiral Hayes house they're among the trees that's their lantern please please don't lose a minute do you mind not having a cab I think really you'd prefer not to wait and look won't you please take this she handed me a little packet as she spoke this is a piece of pie you always get that don't you and there's a bit of cheese with it but please run in another moment I had bounded from the door into the darkness a wild rush through the darkened streets and in twenty minutes I was safe back again in my own consulting room Thornton paused in his narrative and at that moment one of the stewards of the club came and whispered something in his ear he rose I'm sorry he said with a grave face I'm called away a very old client of mine valvular trouble of the worst kind I doubt if I could do anything I must at least go please don't let me break up your evening however with the courtly bow he left us and do you know the sequel to Thornton's story asked Fortescu with a smile we looked expectantly at him why he married the girl explained Fortescu you see he had to go back to her house for his French one always does of course we exclaimed in fact he went three times and the last time he asked the girl to marry him and she said yes he took her out of her surroundings had her educated at a cooking school and had her given lessons on the parlor organ she's Mrs. Thornton now and the bishop asked someone oh Thornton looked after him he got him a position heating furnaces in the synagogues he worked at it till he died a few years ago they say that once he got the trick of it he took the greatest delight in it well I must go too good night end of section 6 recording by Tricia G