Produced by David T. Jones, Mary Meehan, Al Haines & the
online Distributed Proofreaders Canada team at
http://www.pgdpcanada.net










                     THE LONE WOLF RETURNS

                     BY LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

    AUTHOR OF ALIAS THE LONE WOLF, THE DARK MIRROR, Etc.


    ILLUSTRATED WITH SCENES
    FROM THE PHOTOPLAY
    A COLUMBIA PRODUCTION

    GROSSET & DUNLAP
    PUBLISHERS       NEW YORK

    Published by Arrangement with E. P. Dutton & Company

    Copyright, 1923
    By INTERNATIONAL MAGAZINE CO. (_COSMOPOLITAN
    MAGAZINE_)

    Copyright, 1923
    By LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE

    _All rights reserved, including the rights of translation into
    foreign languages, including the Scandinavian_

    First printing, August, 1923
    Second printing, August, 1923
    Third printing, August, 1923
    Fourth printing, August, 1923
    Fifth printing, August, 1923
    Sixth printing, August, 1923
    Seventh printing, October, 1923
    Eighth printing, October, 1923
    Ninth printing, December, 1923

    Printed in the United States of America


                 To
          FRANK EDWIN VERNEY
    because he asked for more and
    because there won't be any more




    NOTE--This is the fifth, and in the intention of the author the
    last, of the Lone Wolf stories. Although in strict sense a sequel it
    is, like "The Lone Wolf," "The False Faces," "Red Masquerade," and
    "Alias the Lone Wolf," entirely self-contained and able to stand on
    its own plot.

    If anybody else cares . . .

    LOUIS JOSEPH VANCE.

    _Darien, August, 1923._




[Illustration: BILLIE DOVE AS EVE DE MONTALAIS AND BERT LYTELL AS THE
LONE WOLF.]




The Lone Wolf Returns




I


"I love you," said Michael Lanyard.

He spoke in French; and that simple phrase, covered by the surging song
of strings and woodwinds, was inaudible to other ears. Only the woman
with him heard and, hearing, roused from the reverie into which she too
insensibly had lapsed, turning back from the prismatic pageantry of the
dance eyes whose grave regard gave never a clue to the emotions his
words inspired.

Making no more acknowledgment than this, she studied him intently but
kindly, touched by the wistfulness that shadowed the demeanour of
unpretending dignity which she had learned to like best of all the many
phases of the man their friendship had revealed.

The severity of evening dress in line and lack of colour became him
well, setting off the lean, sculptured contours of his face, giving
value to its even warmth of tone. Traces of silver at his temples hinted
at that history, not too happy, with which she was in part acquainted.
The strength with which his mouth was modelled affected her, as always,
with a faint, strangely pleasant thrill of alarm, the dark, clear eyes,
at once deferential and demanding, held her in a spell she had no wish
to break.

"I love you," he repeated.

Her brows took on a quaintly plaintive cast. "I know, my friend," she
replied in the same tongue and tone. "For a long time I have known . . .
as you have known my love was all for you. And yet . . ." The slender
shoulders lifting their fairness out of the corsage of her jetted gown
sketched a shrug.

"I had to wait to tell you," he said, "till I was sure--"

In indulgent raillery she interrupted: "Sure that you loved me?"

He smiled, but wagged his head in stubborn earnestness: "Sure of what
else I must say."

"There is more?"

"Much more." The man leaned over the table, with an even deeper accent
of sincerity in his guarded voice: "I love you so dearly, Eve, the
thought of a life without you is beyond my understanding . . . Yet I may
not ask you to be my wife."

"May not?" Hands of consummate grace fluttered above the cloth in
tragicomic impatience. "Or will not?"

"Will not because I may not."

Eve de Montalais held a small pause of perplexity, made a small sign of
frustration. "It is a riddle," she said. "But when one speaks in
riddles, one speaks playfully . . . as you do not. Tell me, then, my
Michael! why you think you may not ask me to marry you, when between us
all else has been said?"

"I love you too well--"

"Too well to make me happy?"

"Too well to let you stake your happiness on the hazards of such a life
as mine."

"You forget, if you deny me the right to share those hazards, whatever
they may be, I shall have no happiness to risk."

"You are young," the man thoughtfully stated, "the best of your life
lies before you. And you are, I think, the loveliest woman that ever
lived. Many men after me will long for and love you, one of them you
will find worthy . . ."

"Still, you forget, my heart is given."

"Time heals all memories."

"You believe that?" She withdrew a little, settling back in her chair,
and used her fan, gazing away over its nodding plumes. "I was mistaken,
then; I believed you loved me too well to hold my love the whim of a day
or a month or a year. I thought you knew me too well to think my love
was lightly given, or once given might be recalled."

He winced under that reproach. "Without your help," he pleaded, "how
shall I be strong? You know what it costs me to say what I am saying,
that I could not say anything to displease you if I held your happiness
second to my own. It is of you alone I am thinking; you whom I love and
who are not for me."

"If you love me," Eve de Montalais said quietly, "you will never leave
me."

"Better that; better you should learn to hold the memory of me in
contempt, than I should risk your waking up too late, as some day you
would surely waken, to realize you had joined your life to the life of
one whom the world esteems a common thief."

"'The world esteems'!" Disdain touched her lips. "You are not that."

"I was once--"

"The past is dead."

"Or merely sleeping? Who shall say?"

"Ah no! my friend, you waste your time if you ask me to believe that."

The music fell, and the gay rumour of voices that replaced it, as the
dancers began to move back to their tables, was not enough to warrant
the former sense of security from eavesdropping by inadvertence or
intention. In tacit silence Madame de Montalais extended her hand,
Lanyard offered his cigarette-case, then a match. But after a single
inhalation the woman forgot to smoke, and permitted the tobacco to fume
to waste in its jewelled holder, her attention seemingly diverted by the
pomp and vanity of that sumptuous cavern wherein the folk of her world
were accustomed nightly to foregather and play yet once again the
time-old game whose fascination never fails, whose stake is love . . .

But Lanyard had eyes for his love alone.

Her beauty in his sight was like a pain in his heart, a hand at his
throat. Slender and gracious and fair, with a sense, hard to define, of
something more than human in that warmly human loveliness, something
that made one think of a sickle of moon afloat in an azure midnight sky,
of dawn-light fleeting breathlessly athwart a summer sea . . .

His for the asking!

He had loved before, but never as now, never with this tenderness, this
all-possessing wish to serve and safeguard, this passionate
self-abnegation . . .

"What is it?" he asked, seeing her start, with an almost imperceptible
suggestion of aversion, as she sat looking away across the room.

"That man," she replied--"that creature, rather, whom one never sees
without shuddering. And one sees him everywhere."

Even before he looked Lanyard had divined the occasion of this
antipathy. It was true, what she had said: ever since this tide in their
affairs had brought these two together in New York, no matter where they
turned of an evening in quest of amusement, or rather for an excuse to
be with each other, at some time in its course they seemed fated to
cross the path of this personality, odd, compelling, and in some how
forbidding.

One saw the man now, with a party of guests laying claim to a table on
the far side of the floor, a table that had been conspicuously reserved
and refused to others, though the Crystal Room was crowded and
late-comers were importunate. A gross body, ponderous and slow of
movement, with a heavy face of singularly immobile cast, resembling and
for all its fleshiness as destitute of colour as a mask of papier-mâché,
with a strange effect of transparency as if lighted by an inner glow
akin to phosphorescence. Punctiliously mannered and at all times dressed
with the nicest care as to the cut and propriety of his clothing, but
unfailingly bedecked like a sultan with an incalculable wealth of
jewellery in sets meticulously matched; yesterday with emeralds, today
with diamonds, tomorrow with rubies, at another time it might be with
fire-opals burning on fingers and watch chain, serving as cuff-links,
waistcoat buttons, and studs for his shirt: a bizarre shape to meet in
the haunts of fashion . . . And never alone, always surrounded by a
little court of sycophants, seldom twice of the same composition, but as
a rule including a few fragile beauties, apparently of the stage, and
invariably one whom Lanyard took to be a paid clown, an undersized man
with the face of a sage droll, the dress and deportment of a diplomat,
and something in his fixed solemnity which suggested an ever-present
expectation that his lightest word would win a gale of laughter--as,
indeed, more often than not it seemed to.

The other sat, as by habit, taciturn and aloof in the heart of his noisy
company. A dull man or a deep. Speaking seldom, eating little, drinking
nothing, always smoking, holding one pose without stir for long minutes
at a time: only the eyes beneath hood-like lids, eyes of a repellant
pallor and surprising brightness, were restless, ranging from face to
face, not only of his companions but of every person within his scope of
vision, peering into each with a steadfast, imperturbable and
penetrating curiosity . . .

Lanyard had more than once been resentfully conscious of that prying
look. He was conscious of it now and rather hoped its author could read
his lips, reckoning its impertinence ample provocation for the temper of
what he was about to say.

"The Sultan of Loot," he mused aloud, adding in answer to Eve's mirthful
glance: "my private nickname for the animal. If it does him injustice,
he ought to take in his sign, don't you think? I know him by sight, of
course; but that is all. Some bucketeer or bootlegger, no doubt;
Prohibition no less than Providence makes strange bedfellows, nowadays,
in this mad country."

"Strange," the woman observed, "how people one doesn't know sometimes
seem to haunt one."

"When it _is_ strange."

Her eyes narrowed. "Why do you say that, Michael?"

"I hardly know," he confessed with a deprecatory laugh. "More, at least,
than this: that it has seldom been my fortune to be so haunted without
something in the nature of a sequel."

She made a mental shudder graphic. "In this instance, for your sake, I
trust the rule will not hold good."

"I hope so, indeed. I entertain the least inclination imaginable to
better my acquaintance with that monsieur. And yet, it would surprise me
not at all if I were to see much more of him before I see less."

There was music again, a retrograde movement from tables to open floor.

"Why so mysterious, Michael?"

"Upon my word, I can't tell you. Why did you shiver when you spoke of
the fellow? Blame it, if you like, to that sixth sense, that instinct of
self-preservation which serves some men as intuition serves most
women--call it what you will, I have quite definitely a feeling I am no
more done with that one whom I do not know than I am as yet begun with
him."

A sidelong glance discovered the personage in question indulging in one
of his rare smiles, an introspective smile that might mean he had indeed
been reading Lanyard's lips, or might mean nothing of the sort. True,
that he was no longer looking at Lanyard; it remained equally true that
he was apparently paying no attention to the conversation of his
company.

"And that is why"--a derisive shift of the woman's eyes indicated the
quarter of the room in which the subject of their speculations had
established himself--"you are trying to jilt me--is it?--and excusing
your ungallant conduct with vague references to the 'hazards' of your
life!"

Lanyard shook his head, again possessed by the gravity of his purpose.
"I am scarcely so childish," he said. "But for days--for months, indeed,
but especially in these last few days--I have been thinking of the life
I have to offer a wife, the life of a man hunted, without fortune or
position, friendless in a strange land but for you."

"'Hunted'?"

The echo deprecated the strength of that term, but he would not modify
it. "Hunted," he reiterated: "the life of an outlaw. Society does not
forgive: it will sometimes applaud a successful transgressor, but it
never has patience with the penitent."

"Tell me why you say that, Michael. I have the right to know."

"It is this, then," Lanyard said with reluctance: "wherever I go, I am a
marked man. The world wears mocking eyebrows when it hears that the Lone
Wolf no longer prowls. 'Perhaps, today,' it says: 'but wait. Let him
prove his sincerity and fortitude against the dead drag of my
indifference, let him make his way if he can, I have my own affairs to
busy me.' . . . The police are satisfied my change of character is
merely a blind. Another class, even more skeptic, is made up of those
whose lot today is as mine was yesterday, creatures of envy, greed, and
uncharitableness, all those qualities that make criminals. These, should
they see me in rags, would say: 'Another turn or two of the screw and he
will be one of us again.' Seeing me apparently prosperous, they say:
'Observe that he wants for nothing: he is cunning, that one.' Or suppose
some unknown makes a famous coup; the chorus is then: 'The Lone Wolf has
done this thing!' . . . Society indifferent, its police distrustful, its
enemies envious: one needs strength to make way against so strong a
tide!"

"You have it."

"But will it last?"

"With mine to comfort and encourage you when your strength
wearies . . ."

"But figure to yourself a possible event: We marry. What happens? Your
friends are affronted, they turn from you--"

"Did you call them friends?"

"Even friendship fails when its self-esteem is flouted. . . . You are
left alone," Lanyard obstinately pursued, "but for me. And for every
friend you have lost, you have found an enemy--my enemies. These good
haters of mine will resort to every expedient to poison your mind
against me, while to me they will come saying, 'Do as we bid you or
prepare yourself to see her suffer.' Conceive me mad enough to tell them
to go to the devil: the next time we find ourselves conspicuously placed
in public, a hand falls on my shoulder, I your husband am arrested on a
trumped-up charge. Assume that I clear myself: still the disgrace
remains, the shame. And I its cause. . . . No! never ask me to condemn
you to a life like that."

He sat brooding, in a silence which she respected for a little, watching
him with shrewd vision all the while.

"Something has happened," she said at length, "to make you think such
things."

"You are right." He nodded sadly: "I have come to my senses. These
months I have spent in almost daily association with you have been the
happiest of my life. I have been too happy . . . They can't continue: I
love you too well."

The plumed fan was arrested, the woman's eyes grew wide and dark, her
breathing quickened. "What do you propose?"

"I think you must know . . ."

"Tell me!"

He entreated her with haggard eyes. "Since we may not marry, what else
can I do but go my way?"

"No!" she impatiently countered. "There is something more in your mind
than you have told me."

"Neither there nor in my heart."

"You are keeping something back for fear of frightening me: some danger
threatens you--!"

"Nothing."

"Nevertheless you have reason to fear--"

"I have always to be on my guard. Misfortune visits in strange guises,
and most often unannounced. For myself, I am accustomed to that; I do
not greatly care. But for you--that is another matter."

The fan resumed its weaving. After a pause Eve said: "If you must go, so
be it. But 'whither thou goest, there go I'--"

"No!"

"It matters not how far," she nodded. "What is it to me where I live, so
I am with you?"

"Can you require that of me?"

"I!" she cried, startled--"of _you_?"

"You are a woman of this world, Eve. Do I not know? Can I forget how you
were when I found you, buried to life in that isolate château half a
hundred years to the south of Paris? Can I not see what a change has
come over you in these few months of your own New York?"

"Of you--"

But he would not listen. "You were born and bred to breathe this
atmosphere. Can you ask me to doom you to exile in some hole or corner,
some place so lost that the whisper of my ill fame will not find it?
Some kraal in South Africa!----an iron hut in the Australian
bush!--where else? . . . You would die of such a life, or live only to
learn to hate me."

"Never that. Love outweighs all."

"So we tell ourselves, so we believe, till we are required to lay down
for love even our self-respect. Could I retain that--could I forgive
myself--knowing I had robbed you of all that had made life fair for you,
and left you only the happiness of giving up your life for love?"

"Selfishness speaks there . . ."

"Vanity, the father of selfishness, is present in every human affair. It
is not a pretty thought; but men and women in this world are made that
way. There is my vanity, too, to be thought of." Lanyard had a wry,
apologetic smile. "Consider that you have never known a want you could
not gratify out of your private means; while I am a penniless
adventurer, a man living from hand to mouth, today on a modest pension,
tomorrow on God knows what . . ."

"At last!" said Eve de Montalais: "it is that, then, your pride that
stands between us."

"A man with less is not a man whom you could love."

She made no direct reply, but after a time sat up and began to gather
round her the folds of her wrap.

"I am a little weary," she told Lanyard. "There is more to be said than
you have said, my Michael! but not now, not here . . . Perhaps another
night . . . Please take me home."




II


The breath of that November night was soft and warm, its dim sky
distilled a pensive rain with frequent lulls. Burnished by the daily
traffic of eighty thousand tires the wet pave of the Avenue resembled a
broad channel of black marble veined with pulsing gold. Over churning
tides of after-theatre travel the police towers watched like great gaunt
goblins, stabbing the misty mirk with angry eyes, ruby, emerald, and
amber.

The brougham drifted sedately with the northbound press; its pace all
too swift notwithstanding, its journey too quickly accomplished. Yet
neither of the lovers had spoken since leaving the Ritz. Only when the
grey palisades of the Hotel Walpole loomed ahead, spangled with the gilt
of a thousand windows, the woman stirred in her corner and sat forward,
peering with fond concern into the face of the man, giving him her
hands.

"Be patient with me, Michael," she said. "It isn't that I can't read
your heart--I know, my dear, I know! . . . All you said just now was
true enough; but all the truth has not yet been said. Neither are my
wits as ready as yours. You must give me time to think. You will, I
know."

"I am altogether yours," he answered. "Your happiness is all that
matters."

"Not all, not my happiness alone, but yours as well--ours!"

She swayed into his arms; for the first time Lanyard knew her lips . . .

He came to himself, after a fashion, standing bare of head beneath a
lamp-fringed canopy of bronze and glass, formally touching her fingers
and mouthing polite phrases as to a woman he barely knew . . . Absurd!

And on her part only enriched colour and a heightened radiance in her
eyes betrayed the revolutionary work of those too few moments.

"Tomorrow," he heard Eve saying . . . "No: not tomorrow; I'm dining with
the Druces. The day after. Call for me early, Michael: we'll have a long
drive and a little dinner somewhere in the country."

Her look said so much more, he had no certain knowledge of what he
stammered in response. But presumably the phrases served. She nodded
gayly, ran up the steps. He watched her whisk through the revolving door
and fade away from view in the hot illumination of the foyer before it
occurred to him to cover his head. And his stare was vacant when her
chauffeur delayed him with a respectful query; to which, after a moment,
Lanyard replied, many thanks, but he felt more in the humour for a
stroll than to be motored to his rooms; he wouldn't mind the drizzle.

The goblin eyes blinking from red to green, he profited by the
interruption of up-and-down-town travel to cross to the west side of the
Avenue before settling into stride for a walk of a mile to his modest
lodgings; in a mood of exaltation too rare to countenance return of
those misgivings to which he had that night for the first time given
voice, those doubts and fears by which his lonelier hours of late had
none the less been ridden, ever since he had learned that his love for
Eve de Montalais had grown to be a passion passing his strength to
withstand.

He had done his best but had essayed the impossible tonight, in
attempting to make her see that marriage between them were for her a
madness. He admitted that, now he knew of her own confession that she
loved him. Now with the music of her incomparable voice still chiming
that assurance in his memory, now with the fragrance of her lips
lingering on his own, Lanyard knew that whether he had fought well or
ill to save her from himself, the fight was lost; one course alone
remained to him: to do away with every hindrance to the firm
establishment of Eve's happiness, to reorganize his life so that every
objection to their union might be compromised, every echo of the past
silenced, every embarrassment of the present compensated.

A task to tax the wits and heart of a superman, contemplation of it in
that hour affected Lanyard with no dismay: armoured in and inspired by
her love he could not fail.

In this ecstatic temper only subconsciously aware of his surroundings,
the man was measuring off a round four miles an hour, southbound on the
sidewalk over across from the Cathedral, when that occurred which
brought his head down from the clouds: the semaphores signalled for
another suspension of traffic on the Avenue, and an instant later a
taxicab inexpertly driven at unlawful speed passed Lanyard crabwise,
skidding wildly on the greasy asphaltum as its chauffeur threw out
clutch and applied brakes to avoid crashing into a file of cars
debouching from West Fiftieth street.

An old-fashioned, gloomy contraption, of that high-chested hobbledehoy
type now fast becoming extinct, the cab performed two complete
revolutions like a skittish monstrosity chasing its tail, and toppled
perilously as if minded to try a somersault as well, before it brought
up, rocking and growling, broadside to the curb.

From its black pocket of a body noises of embittered expostulation were
issuing in a woman's voice and a foreign tongue; neither the voice of a
gentlewoman nor language such as one would employ with whatever
provocation. It was to Lanyard, indeed, like a souvenir of younger years
to hear that broadside of vituperation couched in the argot of the
thieves'-kitchens of Paris. And at a discreet distance he paused,
diverted, humanly hoping for the worst.

At the same time a badly rattled driver, comprehending no word of the
abuse cascading upon his head but sensitive enough to its tone, tumbled
off his box and made for the door, vainly seeking to make an authentic
brogue audible. But his hand was no sooner lifted to its latch than the
door flew open in his face and a lovely lady in resplendent attire and a
towering fury bounced out and--a figure of flaming colour in the
blue-blacks of the nocturnal scheme--addressed herself to the man with
gesticulation so vividly adequate to her temper that instinctively he
lifted both arms to guard his features and, stumbling over his own heels
in panic retreat, sat down with suddenness and shocking force.

No national spirit is so exquisitively responsive as that of the French
to comedy of physical misadventure. When the chauffeur coming into
contact with the sidewalk gave up his breath in one vast "_Ouf!_" his
fare forgot to be angry, bit a blistering epithet in two, and
incontinently passed into such spasms of mirth that she was fain to lean
her finery against the dripping side of the cab lest her limbs refuse to
sustain her. And while she shook and held her sides and uttered peal
upon peal of laughter--heedlessly permitting her wrap to fall open and
expose to the inclement air the most cynical of decolletages framing
flesh quite literally crusted with jewels--the chauffeur was scrambling
to his feet in a rage that threatened to rival her own late transports,
and a crowd was beginning to gather, too, as crowds will in New York,
upon any provocation, in any street, at any hour of any day or night. On
which accounts Lanyard reckoned in time to interfere.

Hurriedly consulting the taximeter, he stepped between the two, fished a
bill from his pocket, and thrust it into the palm of the chauffeur
before this last comprehended what was happening.

"None of that!" he enjoined, raising a peremptory voice to drown the
snarl with which the man was tuning up to repay abuse and derision with
the drippings of his own vocabulary. "You've got your fare, so clear
out before this officer whom I see approaching hands you a summons for
careless driving. D'you hear?--not another word!"

And as the chauffeur, cowed by this appearance of authority, shut a
gaping mouth and stumbled to his seat, Lanyard turned to the woman and
caught her arm in a firm grasp. "Come, Liane! compose yourself. I'll
find you another cab."

The woman responded with a moment of stupefied silence during
which her eyes incredulously rounded, then with a squeal of
rapture--"Lanyarrrrd!"--and an impulsive offer to enfold him to that
generous bosom, which only clever footwork foiled.

"Michael!" she cried in French--"my Michael! Of all men living the one
whom I most have longed to find!"

"Observe that the lost is now found," he advised in the same language,
smiling. "But be so amiable as not to keep me waiting here in the rain.
Pull yourself together, Liane--your wrap as well, if you don't want to
catch cold in your chest--in most of it, at least." In a more urgent
voice he added: "Can you not understand your danger? Cover yourself,
Liane--you are mad to expose such treasure on a public street at night!"

"What flattery!" the woman demurely responded. Nevertheless she did as
he bade, clipping her cloak at the throat with one hand while the other
slipped beneath his arm. "I am so overjoyed to find you again, my dear
friend, I do not believe any evil could affect me. But come . . ."

She tugged him out of the grinning ring that had begun to form, and away
from the kerb, where the grumbling chauffeur was settling into place
behind his wheel, and where Lanyard had been preparing to beckon in the
first vacant cab.

"But you want another taxi--"

"Not I, monsieur. It is but a step, where I am going. As for this rain,
it is nothing"--she held out a hand--"already it has ceased. And surely
I can count upon your gallantry . . ."

He consented with entire good-nature--"As ever, irresistible,
Liane!"--and found himself with the woman on his arm rounding the corner
and moving toward Sixth avenue. "New York, by what appears, has the
honour of entertaining you once again . . ."

"Again? But still, if you please."

"Proving the weakness of deductive reasoning," he observed. "When one
saw you in a hired cab, one inferred you were merely a bird of passage."

"But I have never been away, monsieur, never since that luckless voyage
landed us here last Spring. I find it amusing, this great town; as Paris
is no more, alas! thanks to the War and the poor health of the
franc. . . . As for that infamous taxicab, I ask you: what is one to do
when one's own car is, as these quaint Americans put it, laid out?"

"Laid up."

"Laid out or laid up--it is all the same."

"I believe you," Lanyard chuckled--"at my age, Liane."

He was aware, but seemed not to be, of sidelong scrutiny, keenly
inquisitive.

"Is it that you begin to find yourself bored with this America,
Michael?"

"Ah!" he parried--"I must not complain."

"The old life calls, eh?" (So she construed that equivoque as confirming
her surmise; which argued an anxiety to do so. But why?) "You miss
something, my friend, in this land where more things are verboten than
in Germany before the War?"

"I miss my youth," Lanyard admitted with a rueful laugh--"those misspent
years!"

"You would have them back?" she inquisitively demanded. "What for? To
misspend them all over again?" He smiled illegibly; she laughed in
impish glee. "I felt sure of it, when I thought of you today, Michael, I
said to myself: By this time he will be well weary of this country of
atrocious cookery, ice-water, and virtue with the indigestion."

"You, then, knew I was still here?"

"One was so informed."

"One has, it seems, friends of whose kind interest one was unaware."

"It was a little bird that told me."

"An idle little bird, if it finds no better gossip to twitter than the
tale of my dull days."

"It is truly as I said!" She squeezed his arm. "You _are_ bored. So,
then! a little patience and you will call it, as I do, a happy chance
that threw me in your way tonight."

"Impossible that one should esteem it otherwise."

Lanyard smiled down at the woman, openly taking advantage of the
illumination of a street lamp to study her.

In her day reputed the most beautiful demi-mondaine in Paris and the
most dangerous, the old allure of her charms, by this tricky light at
least, seemed unimpaired; while that she was still dangerous one had
memories of events by no means stale to prove. And now what diablerie
was she fostering behind that mask of fair, seductive flesh? what
mischief had she in mind that required his co-operation?

An innate flair for anything in the nature of an intrigue stirred in its
sleep, lifted its head, sniffed the wind with eager nostrils . . .

They came to Sixth avenue, where the hand under his arm gently led him
south again, in the shadow of the Elevated.

"A long 'step' to this rendezvous of yours, Liane."

"Patience: we are nearly there. Or is it that your soul has grown so
deeply ennuied even I--?"

"To the contrary, as you see, I am coming along quite peaceably. I have
but one regret."

"And that?"

"It desolates me to know we must part so soon."

"This way, impostor." Guiding him across the Avenue, the woman held on
toward Broadway. "What hour is it, do you know?"

"A quarter to one," Lanyard reported on the advice of his watch.

"Then I am fifteen minutes beforehand--"

"That is to say, practically unsexed."

"Furthermore, my friends are never on time. Why not keep me company
while I wait, and enjoy a little raking over of old scandals?"

"It would be a pleasure, Liane; but are you sure--?"

"We are arrived."

The woman was diverging toward a dwelling which wore an aspect of too
much decorum; a modest establishment with just two windows on the street
level diffusing a benign, domestic glow through heavy draperies behind
stout bars of iron, and a tight-lipped look about the solid door at the
back of its mildly lighted vestibule.

Coupling the atmosphere of its environment, which was both tawdry and
rowdy, with certain rumours that had come to his attention, the reticent
expression of the house with the rank of private cars that lined the
kerb before it, Lanyard hazarded with an accent of distaste: "The Clique
Club, eh?"

"You are acquainted?"

"With its reputation only. One hears that the percentage of mortality
resulting from indulgence in its bootliquor is unusually low."

"Do you suspect me of luring you here to poison you, Michael?"

"Not while you remain incontestibly the mistress of weapons so much more
deadly than moonshine. Moreover, it is written in my horoscope,
curiosity will be the death of me."

Liane giggled, planting a finger on a push-button which, Lanyard
remarked, she located without looking. By way of response a horizontal
slit opened in the upper half of the door, and through this a pair of
anonymous eyes appraised them, Lanyard without favour, but otherwise in
respect of the woman. Then with an impressive clanking and thumping of
chains and bolts the door swung wide, disclosing an entry, the habitat
of a good actor in the make-up of a movie gangster, functioning as
Cerberus to this institution of post-Prohibition New York. And passing
through a second and less formidable door, Lanyard and the woman entered
a reception-hall of voluptuous embellishment and devilishly subtle
illumination.

Here, in a chair before an ardent grate, a youthful odalisque was
lounging with crossed knees, a waspy young blood of the town was holding
a pose of elegance, with elbow on the mantel, and both were engaging in
conversation an overmannered person distinguished by ornate evening
dress and the beak and bald head of a bird of prey; a scene that might
readily have passed for one in a private home but for wild squalls of
jazz drifting down the broad staircase and the vibration of the floor
above with the rhythmical shuffle and stamp of many feet.

At sight of the newcomers the hairless Wonder with a perfect bow excused
himself to his gossips, and glided forward, smirking, shaping
deferential shoulders, giving his bleached talons a good air-wash.

"Mademoiselle Delorme!" he uttered in accents of intense gratification.

"Good evening, Theodore," Liane gave him in French, with friendly
nonchalance. "Monsieur Morphew is here so soon, no?"

"Not yet, mademoiselle. But before long, beyond doubt . . ."

"The usual room? We will go up and wait . . . But I believe you do not
know Monsieur Lanyard, Theodore."

"The Clique Club is so unfortunate," Theodore deplored, saluting Lanyard
profoundly, "as not to number monsieur among its members."

"And very stupid of it, if you ask me," Liane retorted. "See that he
gets a card, will you."

"You are much too gracious, Liane; I shall have so little use for a
guest-card--"

"What are you talking about, Michael? Guest-card! I should say not. I am
proposing you for membership. It costs nothing when one is properly
introduced. Eh, Theodore?"

"As mademoiselle says . . . If Monsieur Lanyard will be so kind as to
let me have his address . . ."

With a shrug, Lanyard gave in. After all, it didn't matter. . . . And
when he had duly been entered in the club register, Theodore escorted
the newly fledged member to the foot of the stairs, upon which Liane
Delorme was picturesquely waiting, and there turned both over to the
guidance of a highly polished sub-altern.

Wide doorways on the first landing disclosed a chain of rooms dedicated
to the rites of jazz, liquid, instrumental, terpsichorean. Calculated to
remind a crusading clergyman of Belshazzar's Feast, they reminded
Lanyard of almost any Broadway restaurant at midnight.

On the second landing, however, a break in the dance music below made
audible the heartless laughter of an ivory ball coquetting with a
roulette wheel behind one closed door, while a waiter emerging from
another room permitted a glimpse of a private supper party at the peak
of its lead, an interior tolerably Hogarthian.

Lanyard exchanged amused glances with Liane. "Busy little club,"
he commented, "but wants rechristening--Clique's far too
conservative--should be known as the Liberal."

At the rear end of the hall another door admitted to a prettily
furnished supper room, where a table was being laid and, in coolers on a
side-table, several bottles of champagne were enjoying their last rest.
Requesting the waiter in attendance to open one of these, Liane shrugged
out of her wrap--which Lanyard took, though he kept his overcoat on by
way of pointing an intention to stop for a few minutes only--and having
made herself at ease upon the club fender of an open fire, clinked her
glass to Lanyard's.

"To you, my too-long lost friend, and to me--to a friendship that has
known too many interruptions and must henceforth know fewer."

He toasted with cool ambiguity: "To a rapport more complete."

With professional ease the waiter faded from their knowledge; and the
woman dimpled bewitchingly, patting the broad seat of the fender.

"Come, sit by my side, Michael: let us talk."

"With all the pleasure in life," he assented, placing himself at a
discreeter distance than she had designated--"on one condition, my dear
Liane: none of your artfulness."

"Michael!" she reproached, delighted--"you don't trust me?"

"Really, you read one's mind."

"Don't be alarmed, my old one." She made a face to match her tone of
mocking reassurance. "I was mad about you once, I don't deny; but that
was long ago. Besides, you little know me if you think it likely I would
lay myself open to be scorned another time."

"I little know you," Lanyard conceded, "whatever I may think; and I've
got the quaintest notion, Liane, that the less I learn about you the
more likely I am to enjoy ordinary peace of mind. Be a good child, now;
treat me as you would a father, not as you might a prospective papa.
Tell me: what the deuce is your little game?"

"'Game'?" she repeated, petulant. "Michael, my dear! your manners aren't
as good as they were when your morals were worse."

"Admit that you didn't ask me up here to amuse yourself with innocent
flirtation."

"That is true."

"Admit, then, I am pardonably curious."

"Well! if you will have the truth . . . When I got over being foolish
about you, Michael . . . How long ago it seems!"

"A good half-year."

"I found I was still fond of you. When all's said about that sad affair,
you know, it was I who was rather a devil, and you who were rather a
dear. I owe you for more than one good turn I never did anything to
deserve."

"I wish I might think your associates in that adventure had come out of
it as well disposed."

"That absurd Monk, that clown Phinuit! Why bother your head about such
canaille?"

"And what has become of the precious pair?"

Plump but pretty shoulders described a gesture of indifference. "I know
nothing of them since that day when last you saw us all together. I was
out of patience with them then--as I think you guessed. When you
dismissed us, I sent them packing. And you?" Lanyard, smiling, shook his
head, and the woman cheerfully consigned reminiscences to the grave of
those dead yesterdays where they belonged. "Tell me now about yourself."

"What is there to tell?"

"Much, monsieur. You are a mystery."

"I am flattered . . ."

"That's all blague," the woman scoffed. "You know I'm interested in all
you do. I've just told you so, and why." She endured his quizzical
scrutiny with a frank and friendly countenance, more entertained than
irritated by his mistrust. "Surely, my dear! you've not been misbehaving
so badly you need hesitate to confide in me."

"But a little while ago you were telling me my life was dull."

"You don't find it so?"

"You might the tale of it. Tastes differ."

"One is to infer your conduct has been good?"

"Irreproachable--by certain standards."

"Mine?" Liane twinkled--"or yours?"

"Yours certainly, since I hesitate to bore you."

"But you are provoking! And not at all polite." Lanyard looked
apologetic and said nothing. "Very well, then! if you won't answer when
I ask you prettily, I presume I shall have to tell you all I know about
yourself."

Lanyard pricked up his ears. "The little bird again?"

She solemnly nodded. "It is industrious; every day it brings me news of
this and that."

"And it tells you what of this?"

"Enough to make you what I styled you a moment ago: a mystery."

"Is it permitted to ask, how a mystery?"

"Assuredly. To begin with: It is now six months since you settled down,
apparently to vegetate in this dry climate."

"You distrust appearance?"

"Always when so far out of character. It is not like Michael Lanyard to
become static all at once. But here you live quietly, in the cheapest
decent lodgings, you have no callers, you write few letters, you see no
friends--but one--and spend no money on yourself; only when you are seen
in public with Madame de Montalais you seem indifferent to expense. You
see--?"

"I see one thing plainly: that it were well to put salt on the tail of
that little bird and wring its damned neck."

"But you do not see that this is, in one of your history, questionable
conduct? It is too much like reversion to your old days, when you lived
solitary and worked alone, making the name of the Lone Wolf famous in
Europe by following out your theory that a thief to be successful should
have no friends to betray him."

"But today!" Lanyard remonstrated--"the source of this astonishingly
detailed and accurate information about my modest habits can hardly have
failed to assure itself that they are all well within the law."

"On the surface. As were those of Michael Lanyard, the world-known
Parisian connoisseur of art before the War. But the cunning that made it
possible for the Lone Wolf to maintain that disguise, unsuspected by the
keenest criminal investigators of the Continent, has not necessarily
failed with years. To the contrary: what you did once you should be able
to do again, with even greater success, since you are now older, less
hot-headed, more astute. Let me tell you, my dear friend!" the woman
concluded with an unmistakable note of earnestness: "they have great
respect for your abilities, those who are interested in you today."

"It seems, then," said Lanyard after a reflective pause, "I have to
thank you for a warning."

"I would be an ungrateful wretch did I fail to give it, who owe you my
life twice over at least."

"I think we may call that debt cancelled if you'll answer one question."

"No questions!" A jewelled hand flashed a sign of refusal. "I have said
more than was wise as it is."

He persisted: "You won't tell me--?"

"Ask me nothing, my friend," Liane Delorme begged. "But use your wits;
they will tell you more than I dare, perhaps--fond as I am of you,
Michael--they are more to be trusted. Remember, with women like me
self-interest is ever at work. Perhaps it may be that the pleasure of
seeing you tonight has made me for once self-forgetful, another time may
find me less indiscreet."

"I will be careful," Lanyard said gravely, "not to expect too
much . . ."

With equal gravity she responded: "Then you will be wise."

"And now," he concluded, rising, "your friends can't be much longer; I
mustn't put them to the trouble of kicking me out."

Liane put out a hand and caught his. "But I wish you to stay. I promise
you will be welcome. My friends will be delighted. One of them in
especial I am anxious you should know. You will find him well worth your
while, one of the most interesting men in New York, quite a social power
in his way."

"In his way--?"

"A quiet way, my friend, but a very real one."

There was more meaning in her eyes than in her words. Lanyard hung in
doubt. Impossible to misread the sincerity of her desire to have him
stay on. But her motive?

He had delayed too long. Voices sounded in the hallway, the gay accents
of a woman predominating. Then the door opened; five people entered.




III


The first was a pretty young thing, piquantly fair and petite, with
glowing face and merry eyes, at sight of whom Lanyard felt warranted in
breathing an invocation to his prophetic soul. For now, it seemed,
chance or predestination was making good that presentiment to which he
had confessed during supper at the Ritz.

This brilliant little shape of life in the dark rectangle of the doorway
had been conspicuously one of that party whose forbidding host had
excited the aversion of Eve de Montalais and, in himself, half-formed
forebodings. The man at whom she was so gayly gurgling over her
shoulder, who wore both topper and grin at the doggish slant which
becomes the author of an amusingly improper wheeze, was the little chap
of the weazened wise mask whom Lanyard privately reckoned court jester
to the Sultan of Loot. The latter in very person bulked in the shadowy
background provided by the corridor, a presence vast but vague, betrayed
by the baleful burning of fire opals as a thunderhead on a summer's
night may remain more sensed than seen till a glimmer of lightning lends
definition to its loom. Behind lurked a fourth, a figure still more
indefinite. And in the rear a gleam picked out the hairless poll of
Theodore, inclined at a servile angle.

Discovering Liane Delorme all at once, the lady on the threshold
registered rapture, then ran to her with glad hands extended, her slight
little body bearing an extravagant wrap of Russian sables with a grace
as dainty as a fay's. Lips that didn't need paint to point their pretty
contours bubbling joyously--"Darling Liane! You luscious thing! How
we've missed you!"--she precipitated herself into Liane's arms and
printed inconsiderate kisses upon that studiously composed complexion.
When she permitted Liane to disengage and present Lanyard, he received
an almost disconcertingly cordial smile and a tiny hand on which blazed
in insolent beauty what he rated at first glance the most exquisite
emeralds he had ever seen, who in his day had been somewhat an amateur
of emeralds.

"Mr. Lanyard!"--Liane's introduction had been effected in English--"I
_am_ so glad to know you. It seems to me Liane knows all the interesting
people--and nobody else."

"One trusts very truly you will not find need tonight to revise that
recommendation," Lanyard returned, bowing low over the little hand. He
added with an enquiring inflexion, because he wasn't sure of having
caught the name aright: "Mrs. McFee . . ."

"Mrs. Folliott McFee," Liane supplied with an accent on the Folliott
that supplemented something to this sense: 'Surely you must know that
magic name!'

All the same, Lanyard didn't.

"Folly for short," laughed Mrs. McFee--"Folly to my friends." Then she
gave a small make-believe shriek because the sable robe was being lifted
from her shoulders by the gentleman of the carven countenance. "Peter
Pagan! how you startled me . . . You know Peter Pagan, of course, Mr.
Lanyard: everybody does."

"Business of initiating you to the inner circle of certified somebodies,
Mr. Lanyard," quoth Mr. Pagan solemnly, shaking hands, and leaving
Lanyard with a feeling that no man had a right to look like that if he
couldn't extemporize more tellingly.

But Liane had dropped a hand upon his sleeve and was drawing him aside
to be made known to the Sultan of Loot.

"Mr. Morphew: Mr. Lanyard . . . You must become good friends, you two
who are both such good friends of mine."

This impressive figure of the immobile and livid face and the hooded
eyes, this Mr. Hugh Morphew, met Lanyard with a manner subtly allusive
beneath a show of non-committal courtesy. His smile was grave, reticent
and fugitive, a solitary cat's-paw flawing the surface of plumbless
deeps; his few words were carefully chosen and cast in polished periods
by an orotund voice: he was honoured to make the acquaintance of Mr.
Lanyard and hoped that he, as a friend of Mademoiselle Delorme, would be
so very good as to become one of their number for the remainder of the
evening . . . But in the cast of his eye, the clasp of his hand, in an
undertone his accents had as he pronounced these perfunctory phrases,
there was meaning intended to be seized by Lanyard only, and which the
latter interpreted much to this effect: 'We have been waiting a long
time for this meeting, you and I. But patience: all in good time we
will come to understand each other perfectly.' . . .

To this finesse Lanyard returned no acknowledgement of any sort. Indeed,
he contrived to appear unconscious of it, to interpose an amiably modest
manner between the scrutiny of those inquisitive but illegible eyes and
a nature anything but easy to impress. He had lived so long in this
world, in the course of a busy life had had so much to do with
pretentiousness, that secretly, and the innuendoes of Liane Delorme to
the contrary notwithstanding, he inclined to suspect Mr. Morphew of
being a pompous fraud, a character of the utmost commonplaceness
skulking behind the consequential false front of a jerry-built
personality. He might be mistaken; but for the present the best he was
disposed to grant Mr. Morphew was suspended judgement.

Moreover, at the moment, Folly McFee was demanding his attention on
behalf of one Mr. Mallison, another whom Lanyard remembered having
noticed at the Ritz.

This final introduction was transacted without casualties but without
eliciting crows of ecstasy from either party. Mr. Mallison, indeed, was
unaffectedly off-hand in his attitude, he didn't care a damn who knew
that, to him, Mr. Lanyard was an interloper, an upstart, nobody in
particular. A gesture for which Lanyard was grateful since it enabled
him to reciprocate the sentiment that shaped it without feeling remiss
in the matter of everyday urbanity.

Tall and gracefully made, Mr. Mallison aired evening clothes and hair
of a lustre seldom to be observed this side of the cinema screen. His
speech had the tune of the educated English, or something nearly
resembling it, his manners were silky and sulky, he practised a furtive
smile down his nose as if he knew something but wouldn't tell, he had
mastered a killing trick or two of the eyes for use in talking to women.
And when it transpired, on the word of Folly McFee, that Mally tango'd
quite too divinely, one felt that one needed to know no more. . . . A
person of importance, if you asked Lanyard, solely as he might upon
occasion shine with incandescence borrowed from the genius of Mr.
Morphew, upon whom Mallison seemed assiduous to fawn in season and out.

Having offered the apology for his intrusion which custom prescribed and
accepted the equally conventional assurance that all hands were ravished
to have the privilege of welcoming one so well sponsored, Lanyard
settled down to use his wits, as Liane had recommended, and find out for
himself what this party was all about; if, indeed, it was 'about'
anything more unusual than mankind's native predisposition to make light
of whatever laws there be.

Certainly, if its members had foregathered at the Clique Club for any
purpose other than the desire to drink forbidden wine upon premises of
unholy repute, it wasn't at first blush apparent. Nobody was hungry,
every soul present having sat through a supper elsewhere and earlier. On
the other hand, everybody was famously thirsty with the exception of Mr.
Morphew, who was alleged never to drink, and Lanyard who, having
sampled it, didn't frightfully care for the Clique cellar. But all of a
sudden Folly McFee, in whom artificial exhilaration was mounting apace,
announced that she craved sure-enough excitement. Whereupon at a sign
from Morphew the cloth was whisked away and the green baize of a
card-table disclosed; whose top manipulation of a hidden catch reversed,
bringing to light a small layout for roulette, complete but for chips
and the metal wheel to fit in the bowl. These being supplied by
Theodore, Mr. Morphew announced that he would stand the first trick as
banker and croupier in one, and that white chips would cost one dollar
apiece and the sky would be the limit; Mrs. McFee produced an impressive
roll of bills from a jewelled mesh-bag and bought chips with a free
hand; while Liane Delorme, Mallison, and Pagan purchased more
conservatively but still eagerly.

But Lanyard, when Morphew's heavy-lidded eyes turned his way, shook his
head: "Thanks; but if you don't mind I'll just look on."

"O Mr. Lanyard!" Folly McFee remonstrated--"and you look like such a
good sport."

"You see how deceitful I am," Lanyard pointed out. "Let this be a lesson
to Folly, not to trust appearances."

"But really, my friend!" Liane observed reproachfully--"you are no
longer the man you were."

"I have always made it a rule not to gamble without money in pocket."

"But I will let you have any amount you want."

"You are too good, Liane. Another rule I have all my life observed is
never to gamble with borrowed money."

"Your credit is good, Mr. Lanyard," Morphew tersely put in.

"Rule Number Three: Never play on credit . . . I am deeply sensible of
your courtesy, Mr. Morphew, but really I will be most grateful if you
will permit me to sit by and look on merely. The novelty of seeing
myself in such a rôle at a roulette table will be compensation enough
for the self-denial."

"As you prefer . . ." Morphew politely gave in. But before long he made
occasion to exchange with Liane a look clouded with meaning, which
Lanyard wasn't supposed to see and which, so far as anybody else knew,
he didn't, who was busy just then refilling Folly McFee's glass and
making amused response to the coquetry with which the flushed and
laughing face turned up to his was instinct.

All the same, Lanyard wasn't missing much that went on, Life had too
well trained his faculties to overlook nothing that fell within their
range and to be wary of dismissing as necessarily negligible the most
minor and incidental details of any affair. He was beginning now to
experience glimmerings, to perceive that this curious post-midnight
party was 'about' something after all. Even before intercepting that
mute consultation of eyes he had felt tolerably satisfied that a
community of interests existed between at least three of those present,
that Liane, Morphew and Pagan were playing prearranged parts in complete
mutual sympathy. It was just possible that Mallison, too, was privy to
their confidence; but one rather doubted that, Mallison impressed one as
more likely to prove a tool, a pawn, a wage-loyal henchman, than a peer
of this interesting confederation.

The arguments he had adduced in his endeavour to make Eve understand
that he was not a man of the sort she ought to marry began to seem
inspired. Liane had never brought him here simply to gratify a vagrant
whim. Neither had her half-veiled hints been idly uttered, concerning
those nameless acquaintances of hers who were taking such a profound if
gratuitous interest in Lanyard, and the one whom she most wanted him to
meet, either Pagan or Morphew unquestionably, and who was "quite a
social power . . . in a quiet way." Because the woman was well-disposed,
for old sake's sake she had chosen to warn him, if in her own oblique
fashion, to be on his guard with those two in whose minds, Lanyard
hadn't any manner of doubt, the project for some time had been forming
of inveigling him into some shady sort of association with them, for
purposes of their own in the last degree questionable.

Undoubtedly they had taken a good deal of pains to inform themselves as
to Lanyard's circumstances. How they expected to be repaid for their
trouble remained for him to find out. Hardly out of his pocket; knowing
as much as Liane had revealed, they probably knew more, even that the
debacle of his unregenerate days had left him without resources other
than the half-pay attaching to an extended leave of absence from the
British Secret Service, and that the not inconsiderable cost of squiring
about New York a woman of fashion had brought him to a pass where he
might no longer refuse to face the prospect of being unable to pursue
that sweet association for sheer inability to finance it--he who had
been accustomed to waste money away as freely as in more spacious times
he had been wont to appropriate it! A plight the more painful in that it
was one he couldn't possibly confess to the woman he loved. He had gone
tonight as far in that direction as pride would let him. . . .

Since, then, it was manifestly not pence they wanted of him, this
precious pair, this Morphew and this Pagan, it followed that they wanted
something less tangible but probably in the upshot more profitable,
something which they might have found themselves in a position to
require of him if he could have been induced to play roulette on credit
and had lost--as he made no doubt he would have lost. Setting aside all
question of the honesty of the wheel which Morphew's huge hands were
manipulating with notable deftness, the observation and experience of
this inveterate gambler of other days had convinced Lanyard that luck
seldom or never favours him to whom its smile is a matter of life or
death.

Not that he conceived the game to have been planned with any idea of
inducing him to play and lose, his attendance had come about too
fortuitously. To believe that was to believe Liane had foreseen that he
would be marching down Fifth avenue at half an hour after midnight and
had deliberately arranged to have her cab skid and land her on the kerb
a dozen paces ahead of him.

No: by every sign acceptable to a fairly sophisticated intelligence,
tonight's affair had been plotted for the sole if highly problematic
benefit of Mrs. Folliott McFee. Not in all likelihood for the purpose of
fleecing her at a friendly little game, though she was punting with
feverish imprudence, broadcasting her bets and losing very considerable
sums without perceptible care. Lanyard was prepared to credit Messrs.
Morphew and Pagan with capacity for any degree of knavery; but their
evident affluence and their association with Liane Delorme inclined him
to believe that they were in this instance up to some mischief at least
a cut above crooked gambling. Liane, thorough-paced rip that she was,
had in the course of a highly chromatic career feathered her nest too
warmly to be reduced to the rôle of tout to a brace of common sharpers.

What, then, could their purpose be with this engaging and indiscreet
young person? If only one knew a little more about Mrs. Folliott McFee
it might be easier to guess.

In the absence of such specific information, a study of her as she was
tonight would do no harm, might quite possibly prove rewarding.

Indisputably a fascinating creature. Divested of her sables, disclosed
partially in but largely out of a flimsy piece of impudence which the
cynical Rue de la Paix had fashioned to serve as an evening gown, she
cut a figure the most sprightly and sightly heart could wish: an
animated miniature of extreme loveliness, abandoning herself to the
spirit of play with the heedless vivacity of a charming child; drinking
a bit more than she should, perhaps, while she watched her stakes
unfailingly fall to the lot of the croupier's rake, but plaguing
Mallison with a lightly malicious wit that struck him speechless and
left him more than ever sulky, bartering pungent banter with Mr. Peter
Pagan, cheeking the taciturn Morphew till he smiled perforce his rare
begrudged smiles, and never for an instant forgetting that Lanyard was
likewise an unattached and personable male; and all with a delicate air
that robbed her most flagrant audacities of any suggestion of poor taste
and made her seem strangely out of place in that ring of hard and
selfish faces, in that overheated private room of an establishment whose
every purpose was illicit, in that demoralizing atmosphere drenched with
perfume of wine and scent of perfumed flesh . . . Strangely out of
place, appealingly helpless for all her bravado: a child among thieves
and worse . . .

But it were a thankless job to waste solicitude upon her: if Folly
couldn't take care of herself, nothing was more certain than that the
way to earn her abiding dislike was to try to take care of her. In New
York, as every elsewhere in the haunts of men of means beyond their
needs or native ability to spend with good grace, no novelty at all
inheres in the spectacle of such flighty young women, amusement-mad and
gifted with too much freedom from responsibility, going devious ways
with dubious guides. And the worst of it is, as a general rule it's
nobody's business but their own.

Now in course of time, when a waiter entered with yet another cooler
wherein two more bottles were luxuriously cuddled in cracked ice, the
open door admitted stimulating strains of the orchestra downstairs; and
forthwith Folly McFee concluded she'd had enough of roulette, at least
temporarily.

"Perfectly damn' rotten luck!" she declared, pushing back her chair and
jumping up. "I'm for a dance, maybe that will change it. Who wants to
take me down for this tango? Mally----?"

"You can't have Mally," Liane Delorme informed her with serene decision.
"You've had him all evening at the Ritz. It's my turn now. Take Peter
Pagan: he's a better match for you, dear."

"Pick on somebody your own size," Pagan paraphrased, leaving his place
with an alacrity that forestalled Lanyard's intended response to the
glint of invitation in the eyes which Folly promptly had turned his way.
"If you refuse me, Folly, you doom me to dance with Liane; and that
always makes me feel like an enterprising tug waltzing the Mauretania
round the North River."

Liane retorted with one of those characterizations so dear to the
Parisian heart, a deadly insult but absolutely meaningless when rendered
into English; and Pagan proved a certain lack of finish in his
cosmopolitan education by merely looking blank as he mentally translated
her remarks. After which he bowed cheerfully to the traducer of his
lineage and ambled off with Folly's hand under his arm; while Liane rose
and playfully tweaked Mallison out of his chair by an ear, to his
indignation, for he had been winning and naturally wanted to go on
playing as long as his luck lasted.

"It isn't that I really want to dance," she coolly explained to Morphew
and Lanyard as she haled Mallison to the door, "but simply to give you
two time to get acquainted . . ."

Morphew lumbered heavily after her and set the spring-lock by way of
providing against interruption. "Intelligent woman, Liane," he approved,
unsmiling, as he returned to his chair.

"As to that, monsieur, one is entirely of your mind."

Lanyard helped himself to a cigarette and looked civilly receptive under
the weight of Morphew's direct and thoughtful stare.

"Odd," that one considered, "we never happened to meet before this, Mr.
Lanyard."

"Think so?"

"Noticed you about town often enough."

"But does not the fact that our paths have sometimes crossed prove we
travel widely different courses?"

"I'm not so sure . . ."

"Not----?" Lanyard murmured, lifting the brows of polite surprise.

"I've got a notion, if the whole truth were known, you and I would find
we were travelling in much the same direction . . . in the dark."

"Monsieur does much travelling in the dark?"

"Guess you know what I mean," Morphew's gravity was lightened by a
twinkle of genial cunning. "When I say 'in the dark,' I mean, of course,
the side of our lives we like to keep covered up."

"This is most interesting," Lanyard protested with animation. "You are
going to tell me about that side of your life which you like to keep
covered up?"

"No fear." The twinkle broadened into a grin. "Guess I'll let you guess
at that, same as I have to guess at yours."

"I hope very truly monsieur does not so waste his time. I can assure
him, if his guesswork were to flood with light every nook and by-way of
my life, what he would see would not entertain him."

The lines running from Morphew's nostrils to the corners of his mouth
took on a sardonic set. "I doubt that, Mr. Lanyard."

"My ways of life are very quiet."

"I believe you. Still, I doubt I'd be bored."

"Possibly not," Lanyard conceded. "One is able to judge only by what one
has seen of you in public, monsieur; which leads one to believe your
interests centre by choice in light-hearted young people, not
sober-sided, steady-paced elderlies like myself."

"Oh! as to that, I take folks as I find them," Morphew alleged. "And I
find 'em all interesting, one way or another. Now yourself . . ."

"But I do assure you I am not at all interesting."

"Point of view," Morphew contended. "I'll say you've had an interesting
life."

Lanyard gave a good-natured shrug. "After all, it is the only life I
have . . . But monsieur, I am sure"--his manner grew moderately
pointed--"would find it tiresome."

"I don't," Morphew bluntly countered.

"Then I am honoured--I presume--to learn you have concerned yourself in
respect of my modest self."

"I know a lot about you," Morphew admitted--"past and present."

"Yet you tell me you think my present mode of life intriguing!"

"Intensely."

Lanyard laughed. "Monsieur will pardon my suggesting that his sources of
information, however busy, are unreliable if they have led him to
believe my small affairs worthy of his attention."

"Point of view again." Morphew dismissed argument with a flirt of a
massive hand. "Be that as it may: I've been anxious to meet you to ask
you to help me answer a certain question."

"Indeed?"

"Perhaps it would be more nearly right to call it a problem in
psychology."

"I am all attention."

"It's like this . . ." Morphew had resumed his customary guise of
profound solemnity. "What I want your expert opinion on, Mr. Lanyard, is
the question of whether it's possible for a man . . . say he's a friend
I'm taking a personal interest in . . . a man who built up a pretty warm
criminal reputation for himself, when he was younger, and then hit the
sawdust trail apparently for keeps . . . Whether it's possible for such
a man to keep going straight in the face of every possible incentive to
set up shop again as a master crook."

"Such incentives as----?" Lanyard enquired with every symptom of
intelligent interest in a hypothetical instance.

"Well! let's suppose this man I've got in mind, this friend of mine, has
fallen for a woman who's got everything, social position, any amount of
coin, all that sort of thing. Say she's in love with him, too, and they
want to get married. But my friend is broke, or next thing to it; and
he's got a touchy sense of honour--sometimes reformed crooks have, you
know--so he can't marry the woman, because that would make him look like
a fortune-hunter if she ever found out he hadn't a red cent; and he
can't let on to her he's stoney, because then she'd insist on marrying
him to support him, and he'd feel like a yellow pup; and he can't do a
quiet fade-out, either, because then she'd think he hadn't been on the
level with her, and that would break her heart. That leaves him where?
He's got to have coin to go on with, and the only way to get it is for
him to remember some of the things he's been trying to forget. He's
living in a city where there's more money and loot lying round loose to
be picked up for the taking than any place else in the world, and where
police protection against burglary and highway robbery is a positive
joke, where a good fat safe is cracked or a hold-up pulled off every
other day, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred the crook's never
caught. So you see our friend has just what I said he had, every
temptation to come back strong in the housebreaking line, and
practically nothing to fear--except maybe that the woman he's crazy
about will tumble sometime to how he's getting his dough. And that's the
problem that's been puzzling me, Mr. Lanyard: What's our friend going to
do? . . . What would _you_ do?"

Lanyard thoughtfully ground out the fire of his cigarette in an ash-tray
and got up. "I imagine," he said quietly, "your anonymous friend would
do precisely what I mean to do, Mr. Morphew. He would gee well weary of
tedious beating about the bush, but at the same time would remind
himself that the obligations which devolve upon a guest constrain him to
overlook, for the present, a piece of damnable impertinence. He would
for that reason take his hat and coat and stick--as you see me taking
mine--and finally his departure--as I shall take mine, monsieur, pausing
only to advise you . . ."

Lanyard stood over Morphew, plunging a stare ugly with anger into the
apathetic and unreadable eyes of his host. "At the first sign, Mr.
Morphew," he said, "of any disposition on your part to meddle further in
my affairs, either in person or through an agent, I will seek you out,
wherever you may try to hide, and break this stick, or a stouter one,
over your contemptible back. Be advised: hands off!"

He waited an instant to hear what Morphew might have to say to this
defiance; but since the man said nothing, made no sign of any sort, his
huge body betrayed his mind by not so much as the stir of a finger or
the wince of an eye, Lanyard at length wheeled on a heel and went to the
door. Only then, as his hand closed on the knob, Morphew spoke,
employing the same conversational tone he had all along employed.

"One moment, Mr. Lanyard. It may interest you to know I own this joint.
When I got up to shut that door a while ago, I gave Theodore the
high-sign. Ever since then four of our waiters, the toughest
rough-necks on the payroll, have been stationed in the hall. If you try
to leave without my say so, you'll be badly beaten up; and if you try
any rough stuff in here, my finger's on the push-button that will call
them in . . . I am not done talking with you yet, my friend. So now, if
you'll attend to me and keep your temper in hand, I'll show you just
where you stand."

He rested, watching Lanyard with no perceptible emotion in his bleak,
pale eyes; and when, after momentary consideration, Lanyard turned back
from the door, the man resumed with the same minatory composure, leaning
forward with an arm on the table and rapping out his points with a thick
forefinger.

"Whether you've gone back to thieving or not, Lanyard, I don't know yet.
I guess you have. If you haven't, you've thought of doing so. Whether or
not, you've got to come to me. I've got you"--Morphew turned his hand
palm up and closed the fingers slowly into a tremendous fist--"there!
You can marry your Mrs. de Montalais as soon as you like, but only with
my consent; and you won't get that for nothing. If you're back at your
old game, you'll come across to me, fifty-fifty. If you marry the woman
for her money, my share will be half of all you squeeze out of her."

"And"--Lanyard's fingers were itching to bury themselves in that fat
throat and shake the beast till he cried for mercy--"and if I refuse?"

"I'll advertise you to all New York--or anywhere else you try to live
with your wife--as the Lone Wolf back at his old dodges. I'll prove you
committed every burglary of any size this Town has known in the last
three months; and if that isn't enough, I'll plant others on you. You'll
come across to me, my dear sir, or go up the River for life."

"Such being the case," said Lanyard, shortening his grip on his stick,
"I think I would as willingly go up for manslaughter--if killing a
blackmailer comes under that head."

As he spoke the door was thrown open, a vast din of angry and excited
voices seethed up from below, and Theodore appeared on the threshold,
chattering, wringing his talons in antic terror.

"Monsieur!" he stuttered between clashing teeth--"Monsieur Morphew! The
police! A raid! A raid!"




IV


With an incoherent bellow of rage and astonishment Morphew reared up out
of his chair, over-turning it. But that was all: instantaneously
something like a paralysis of consternation laid hold of him, so that he
stood with huge hands fluttering feebly and knees quaking under his
great weight, the light dimming behind the bleached flesh of his face,
jaw sagging, stunned eyes seeking the doorway.

Through this last, a froth of noise upon the uproar from below, came
sounds of scuffling and voices angry and expostulant. In the corridor a
confused movement became visible, a knot of figures fell apart, Liane
Delorme broke through and, ghastly with pallor beneath her war-paint,
strode breathlessly into the room, one strong sweep of a perfectly
modelled arm brushing aside the gibbering Theodore.

Mallison followed her closely, like a fearful child tagging at its
mother's skirts, with the slinking tread and something of the witless
look of a cowed animal peering through the sleek surface of his
comeliness. And that this look little belied his state of mind was shown
by the nervous shy he gave when Lanyard, satisfied there was nothing to
be gained by more delay, made for the door.

The corridor was choked with people, flustered waiters mixed in with
guests whom the alarm had routed out of the other private rooms, all
aimlessly milling about and questioning one another with vacant eyes and
babbling tongues. Nobody offered to stay Lanyard, on the other hand
nobody offered to get out of his way. Pagan passed him, plying busy
elbows, his habitual leer erased. Of Mrs. McFee one saw nothing.

Half-way to the head of the staircase Lanyard found the jam on the
narrow landing too dense to be penetrated other than by main strength
and ill will; and, crowded against the banisters, waited for some
general movement that might permit him to proceed.

Looking down over the handrail, he commanded a view of the first
landing, the stage of a more lively scene, as guests and employees
stampeding for the stairs were checked, hustled, and bullyragged by a
squad of police, readily to be picked out by their flat-topped blue
caps, and by a number of plain-clothes men, quite as conspicuously
badged by those weather-worn derbies lacking which self-respecting
police detectives consider themselves no sportsmen in their attitude
toward lawbreakers.

Hectoring cries of authority, plain profanity of an unimaginative
citizenry, and yammering of hysterical women manufactured a clamour that
drowned out all lesser noises till somebody near Lanyard used stentorian
lungs to suggest the roof as a possible way of escape; upon which advice
the whole body of people surged toward the third flight of stairs.

In that moment, while clinging to the banister-rail to keep from being
swept along, Lanyard heard his name shrilled in a pathetic voice, and
saw Mrs. McFee struggling in the rush, the violet eyes darkly dilate
with dismay, the mouth of a child tremulous with appeal. Immediately he
threw himself toward her. Tripped and jostled till her strength began to
fail, his arms alone saved the young woman from going down under those
panic feet. Then putting his shoulders to the press, he dragged her out
of the worst of it and into the semi-shelter of a jog in the wall, in
front of which he planted himself as a shield.

"Now we're all right," he cheerfully said. "Take it easy, and don't
worry."

"But I can't help worrying!" the small person objected, clutching the
lapels of his dress coat with importunate hands. "How can I, if I'm
going to be arrested and put in jail and brought up in a police court
with all these awful people? The shame of it! the disgrace!"

"If you'll trust to me," Lanyard suggested, "I think I can promise you
none of those calamities will happen."

"But how can you----?"

"I'm sure I know a way . . ."

As he spoke, with no warning whatsoever the house from cellar to roof
was drenched with darkness absolute.

This thing befell with fine dramatic force. Where there had been
deafening hubbub and confusion to confound the readiest, a lull of a
long moment succeeded, during which every voice was hushed and nobody
stirred. In this breathing-spell Lanyard found time to surmise what had
happened: that some creature of Morphew's, acting possibly on
inspiration but more probably in conformance with a plan preconcerted
against such emergency, had disconnected the master-switch of the
electric lighting system. . . . But Folly McFee whimpered in new fright
and caught him closer to her; and in another breath the turmoil revived
in redoubled volume.

Lanyard lifted his hands to the woman's and gently disengaged them.

"There, Mrs. McFee! don't be alarmed. They've simply shut off the lights
to give the people the police are after a chance to escape. If you will
calm yourself and have a bit of faith in me, I'll get you out of this in
a jiffy, and no harm done."

"But my wrap! I can't go without my wrap, I'd catch my death! And my
handbag, too--I left it on the table----!"

"I'll find them for you; it won't delay us a minute."

Lanyard swept the darkness roundabout with an extended hand, which
encountered nothing; then, satisfied that the landing was now
practically deserted, drew the woman out of her corner and coolly wound
an arm round her.

"I'll be better able to avoid losing you, this way," he explained. "Hope
you don't mind."

"No-o," said the small voice--"I think--I believe I rather like it."

For all that unmitigated mirk Lanyard experienced no difficulty in
finding the way back to the right door.

"Hello?" he called, pausing on its threshold. "I've got Mrs. McFee
here, safe and sound. Somebody make a light: I noticed candles on the
mantelpiece . . ."

Nothing answered him. But this he had discounted. Releasing the woman
and bidding her stop where she was, he struck a match whose flare
revealed a room deserted.

Folly McFee gave a gasp of astonishment: "Where are they?"

"In sound American slanguage," Lanyard replied, crossing to the
fireplace and applying the flame to the wicks of moulded and tinted
candles which decorated its mantel--"our friends have flown the coop.
You see, Morphew just now told me he is the proprietor of these
premises; so I'm inclined to suspect the lights were put out to permit
him to make a clean getaway. . . . But here's your wrap." He draped the
sable robe round the woman's shoulders. "And your bag," he added,
finding the same where Folly had left it.

"But I don't understand," she protested, lifting a bewildered small face
to the light.

"I never imagined you, would, Mrs. McFee," Lanyard laughed, catching up
one of the candlesticks and turning to the door. "If you had understood,
I fancy, you would never have come here tonight--or any night--that is,
unless it's a fad of yours to live up to your nickname. . . ."

The words failed on his lips as he pulled up, finding the door blocked
by a long, lanky shape of humanity that lounged with one lazy shoulder
against the frame; the derby of tradition on the back of his head, hands
buried in the pockets of an unbuttoned overcoat--one of them, Lanyard
hadn't any doubt whatever, holding an automatic pistol ready.

"The devil!" he involuntarily exclaimed.

"Devil yourself, Monseer Lanyard," a nasal drawl retorted. "Funny! I was
thinking only a day or so ago, it was about time for you and me to be
bumping into each other again. And now, lo and behold you!"

"It can't be!" Lanyard incredulously cried, stepping nearer and holding
his candle high.

"Wrong again: it can," drawled the humorous voice--"it is!"

Candlelight ruddled the lineaments of a North American Indian in the
skin of a paleface: narrowed eyes beneath a lofty brow, a thin nose with
a prominent bridge, lantern jaws and high cheek-bones, a wide slit of a
firm-lipped mouth.

"Crane!" Lanyard cried in unfeigned pleasure.

"Never forget anything, do you?" Mr. Crane complained in mock
bitterness. "Here I was counting on being able to put something
over on you, because you hadn't seen me for five or six
years--Nineteen-Seventeen, wasn't it?--and you'd ought've forgotten my
map entirely . . . Swell chance!"

He surrendered to Lanyard's friendly grasp a bony hand of tremendous
strength. "Well!" he groused on: "I guess here's where I miss another
opportunity to put you out of harm's way--in the hoosegow--because you
wouldn't be so gosh-awful glad to see me if you'd been doing anything
real naughty."

"My dear man!" Lanyard informed him: "if every American detective
discovered even a tenth of your deductive intelligence, New York's
crime wave wouldn't be a ripple. . . . That aside, I'm more glad to see
you than I can tell."

"I bet you are," Crane assented with ironic intent. "And I'll risk
another safe bet, too: The sooner you see the last of me for tonight,
the gladder you'll be."

"Why waste time trying to deceive you? I don't deny it."

"Then I reckon it'll make you and your lady happy if I fix it up pronto
for you to get away without being mugged and finger-printed and all?
Well: I'm a sworn servant of the law, and by all accounts you're a
desperate bad lot; but come along . . . Only you got to promise you
won't tell on me."

Crane sighed and straightened up, only to have Lanyard drop a detaining
hand on his arm.

"A moment, my friend, by your leave. My personal gratitude I hope to
prove when you are less occupied. But Mrs. McFee, too, would like to
thank you. . . . Permit me, Mrs. McFee: Mr. Crane . . ."

"Mrs. Folliott McFee?" Crane quickly queried, with a glint of interest,
and engulfed in his grasp her absurdly insignificant hand. "How do you
do, ma'm? Pleased to meet you."

"It's awfully sweet of you," Folly replied with trusting eyes and that
hint--no more--of an infantile lisp which she had found so serviceable
in dealing with certain types of men. "I'm sure I'd be frightened silly
if it wasn't for you and Mr. Lanyard."

[Illustration: THE LONE WOLF PLAYS A PRACTICAL JOKE ON PURSUING
DETECTIVES.]

"Nothing for you to be scared about," Crane reassured her. "It's the
outfit runs this joint we're after tonight, not the general public,
that great body"--his tone took on the authentic twang of a public
orator--"of simple-minded, plain-living, law-deriding hooch hounds that
forms the sturdy backbone of this glorious nation. . . . Listen to 'em
yap!" He grinned broadly, cocking an appreciative ear to the racket.
"No, ma'm: even if you and Monseer Lanyard hadn't run into me, the worst
that could happen to you would be to have your names and addresses
taken, so's you could be called as witnesses in case we caught somebody.
Which," Crane added with conviction, "I don't much think we will, not
tonight, not since they put the lights out on us. That's a brand new
dodge, and a hot one. After this gets out, I reckon we'll have to carry
our own lighting-plant along with us for night work, like in the
movies."

He was piloting Mrs. McFee down the corridor while thus discoursing, in
the wake of Lanyard's candle. Now, at the head of the stairs, he nodded
to a patrolman stationed there, and the three were permitted to descend.

The raiding party had by this time found other candles and brought a few
electric torches into play, by whose meagre illumination the business of
winnowing out the goats from the sheep was proceeding in the rooms which
had been reserved for dancing. But of this Lanyard and Folly McFee
caught only the barest of glimpses in passing; for Crane, obviously in
haste to discharge his friendly duty and be rid of them, passed them
with all possible expedition through the house. At the front door he
nevertheless held them for a moment.

"There's more or less a mob outside," he stated; "but I guess you won't
have much trouble finding a taxi. That is, unless Mrs. McFee came in her
own car . . ." But it transpired that Folly hadn't. "Then I guess it's
good night folks! Only, I'd like one word with you first, Lanyard, if
Mrs. McFee won't mind . . ."

Drawing Lanyard aside, Crane dropped his voice: "Still with the
B. S. S.? Doing anything special over here?"

"No: in fact, nothing. On leave of absence."

"I see. Where you stopping?" Crane noted the street number on the back
of an envelope. "I'll look you up as soon's I get time. Like to have a
chin about this and that."

"Do, my friend; and don't delay too long."

Passed by Crane through the police lines but pursued by jeers and
cat-calls of the crowd which had collected, Lanyard and Folly hurried
round the corner into Sixth avenue, and there by good fortune picked up
a cab almost at once. This they would hardly have needed but for the
drizzle, which had set in again: Folly McFee, it appeared, lived in the
lower Fifties, just east of Park avenue. Learning which, Lanyard hushed
a sigh of content: the shorter the drive, the better. This latter part
of his evening had exhilarated him not at all; and though the woman at
his side was charming enough in her way, nothing would please him more
than to see the last of her and be free to trot home to his dreams of
Eve. In fact, he found himself surprisingly sleepy, considering the
hour, which, according to a street clock on Fifth Avenue, still lacked
a few minutes of two: so swift had been the transaction of events since
his meeting with Liane Delorme.

A plaintive sigh from the other corner of the seat recalled him.

"You are tired, madame?" he enquired of the small figure huddled in that
magnificent panoply of fur.

Passing lights fitfully revealed a petulant face to match Folly's tone:
"More disgusted than tired. I'm so awfully grateful, and you've been
such a perfect brick to me, Mr. Lanyard, it makes me sick to have you
think me a little fool."

"But I assure you, I do not think anything of the sort."

"You forget what you said, back there in the Clique Club, about it's
being a fad of mine to live up to my name."

"That would be unforgiveable were it open to the construction you put on
it, madame. What I said was----"

"I know perfectly well what you said, at least what you meant: that I
ought to have known better than to be there at all. But I don't see
why."

"I should like very much to tell you, if I might without seeming to
presume . . ."

"But I want you to tell me, Mr. Lanyard; I don't want to do things that
make people think it's a fad of mine--"

"Surely you will be generous enough to forget those stupid words.
Otherwise I shall never forgive myself."

"I will . . . on one condition." A suggestion of the impish spirit of an
hour ago revived in Folly's smile. "And that is, that you explain what
you meant--right away."

"But it is so late, madame; and already we are arrived."

The cab was in fact halting in front of one of those interesting bijou
residences into which modern architectural ingenuity has, in the more
fashionable quarters of New York, remodelled so many of the brownstone
and brick abominations of decades dead and gone.

"Late?" Folly McFee expostulated, dilating eyes of naïve perplexity.
"Why, it's only two--the shank of the evening! Plenty of time to come in
and have a drink and a cigarette and tell me how to save myself from the
pitfalls of life in a great city."

And Lanyard, helping the woman to alight, with a bow and a smile covered
yet another sigh of sentimental desolation. There was no refusal
possible without rudeness . . .

By the time he had paid off the taxi Folly had used a latch-key, and was
unfastening the throat of her wrap in the little entrance-hall.

"Do leave your coat and hat here, Mr. Lanyard--and make believe you're
not bored to tears with the prospect of spending half an hour alone with
a pretty woman who thinks you're rather nice."

"You do me injustice," he gravely returned. "This pensive silence you
misconstrue is solely due to wonder what your family will think . . ."

"The Saints be praised!" cried Folly McFee, rolling up devout eyes--"I
haven't a suspicion of family, more than a maiden aunt who insists on
living with me for the looks of the thing. But if it's information
you're fishing for, it's only fair to tell you I'm a lone, lorn widdy
woman, and have been for years. So you needn't be hoping for a jealous
husband to pop in unexpectedly and save you from my wiles."

She danced to the back of the hall, a bewitching smile bidding him
follow.

The room was a study and lounge in which easy chairs faced the embers of
an open fire and windows heavily draped contributed to a cosy and
informal atmosphere.

Here, measurably less bored than he thought he ought to be, Lanyard
accepted a cigarette and a highball compounded with such Scotch as he
had not tasted since leaving England, and made himself comfortable on
one side of the fireplace while on the other Folly curled herself up in
an interesting pose with feet beneath her.

"And now," she announced with a speciously demure look--"I'm waiting to
be told why I'm aptly nicknamed."

Smiling, Lanyard put his glass aside. "Perhaps one reason is because you
recklessly invite into your house at ungodly hours a man about whom you
know nothing whatever."

"I know enough from the way you've behaved tonight. Besides, anything I
want to know about you I can find out from Liane any time I care to
ask." Folly made a provoking face. "You'll have to do better than
that!"

Lanyard shrugged. "I see there's no fobbing you off . . . Is it
permitted to be plain-spoken?"

"Please. Even if it hurts, I'm sure I'll find it refreshing . . ." With
malice Folly amended: "coming from a man." She pursued with all the
solemnity of a sagacious infant: "You know, Mr. Lanyard, it's all tosh,
this effort you men are forever making to persuade the world you're the
straight-forward sex. Maybe you are among yourselves, but with women--!"

Her eyes called Heaven to witness to the subtlety of masculine methods
with women.

"I agree entirely, madame. But do you claim more for your own sex?"

"Oh! there's never any doubt about a woman's mind. She may not always
say what she means, sometimes she doesn't just know how, but one always
knows what she means."

"One always knows she means business . . ."

"Precisely." Folly giggled joyously. "You know, Mr. Lanyard, you're too
delightful. I'm afraid you're a dangerous man."

Lanyard bowed his appreciation of this flattery. "You begin to believe,
perhaps, you may have been a trifle injudicious in asking me in . . ."

The young woman agitated a dissentient head till its bobbed brassy
tresses fluffed out like an aureole.

"Not the least bit!" she declared. "You could be dangerous and not half
try; but so long as you persist in being a gentleman, why should I
fear? Here am I using all my girlish arts to make you flirt--and all you
can think of is how quickly you can read me the lecture I need and
escape. Ain't that the truth?" She relished in elfin mischief Lanyard's
momentary loss of countenance, then abruptly made a prim mouth, and sat
with modest eyes downcast to folded hands. "Well!" she sighed: "go
on . . ."

"No," Lanyard demurred; "I don't think I shall, if you don't mind. I
begin to see my mistake: you can very well be trusted to take care of
yourself."

"But if I insist? It isn't good manners to start something without
finishing it."

"A man might better rush down a steep place into the sea than take a
dare to advise any woman . . . But evidently I may as well resign myself
to being thrown out instead of taking my leave in orderly fashion."

"Anything, so long as you get away some time soon!" Folly lisped,
without looking up: "I understand you."

"To begin with, then: You are an extremely attractive young woman."

"Yes, I know. But is this part of the lecture? or have I at last
succeeded in rousing you?"

But Lanyard wouldn't be diverted. "And apparently," he persisted, "too
well supplied with money to know a real care."

"Simple sloughs of the wretched stuff," Folly frankly admitted.

"That sable coat you wore tonight can't have cost less than twenty
thousand dollars."

"How little men know! It cost thirty."

"The jewels you're wearing would ransom a profiteer's wife--"

"Why not? I'm a profiteer's widow."

"Those emeralds alone must be worth a hundred thousand."

"You do know emeralds, don't you, Mr. Lanyard?"

"Altogether, taken as you stand, you'd probably assay a quarter of a
million. Yet you complacently riot about town and without a moment's
hesitation trust yourself in resorts like the Clique Club, rendezvous of
the rarest set of rogues New York can boast--and your host its
self-confessed proprietor!"

"Oh! everybody knows Morphy's the King of the Bootleggers; but nobody
except Revenue officials considers a bootlegger a criminal nowadays."

"Possibly not. Still, I fancy, society is less kindly disposed toward
professional blackmailers, notorious demi-mondaines, and jewel thieves
of international ill-fame."

"Mr. Lanyard! you don't mean to say--" Folly McFee sat up and made
shocked eyes.

"I am one whose lot it has been to see a vast deal of this world,
madame. I give you my word I recognized representatives of all those
classes at the Clique tonight."

The woman illustrated a little thrill of delicious dread. "Of course, as
to blackmailers, I've nothing to fear--"

"Pardon: but can you be sure? In the absence of any fair excuse for
bleeding their victims, blackmailers have been known to manufacture
evidence. And it's always, with them, the open season for high-spirited
young women of fortune with a taste for entertaining indiscretions."

The violet eyes widened and darkened. "Mr. Lanyard! you don't mean--you
don't think--!"

"Tell me this, Mrs. McFee: How did you make the acquaintance of Mr.
Morphew?"

"Why! through Madame Delorme--"

"And Liane?"

"Mally introduced us."

"And Mr. Mallison?"

"Oh! I don't know . . . I really don't remember where I met Mally.
Somewhere at a dance. He's the perfectest dancer in Town."

"They are, as a rule."

"'They'?"

"Permit one more impertinent question: Does Mr. Mallison make love to
you?"

"Why, of course! it's the only conversation he knows."

"And you encourage him?"

"Now it's no use your trying to make me believe Mally's a blackmailer.
He hasn't got enough brains--or anything else."

"Perhaps not. But others have, with whom he herds. For example, Mr.
Morphew."

"Morphy!" Folly laughed the notion to scorn--"the King of the
Bootleggers makes too much money, he doesn't need to levy blackmail."

"It may be merely a hobby of his," Lanyard submitted reasonably; "or
perhaps he's keeping his hand in order to have a good trade to fall back
on if ever anything happens to upset the Eighteenth Amendment."

"You aren't serious, Mr. Lanyard?"

"Madame: I _know_."

"How can you?"

"Your American courts permit a witness to refuse to answer leading
questions on the ground that his testimony might tend to incriminate or
degrade."

"You mean Morphy's trying to blackmail you? What a wicked life you must
have led!"

"I don't deny that; but rest assured, I admit it only to convince you I
am not guessing. You will do well, believe me, madame, to avoid
hereafter Mr. Morphew and all his crew."

"Mally and Peter Pagan and Liane Delorme? And they've been such fun!
What's the matter with Liane?"

"Madame Delorme," Lanyard said slowly and with meaning, "I have known
many years. Her friendship I value highly. I should be very sad to do
anything to deserve her enmity."

"You _are_ provoking!" Folly declared--"forever tantalizing one with
hints. I presume you mean me to understand she's the notorious
demi-mondaine you mentioned."

"Has Liane told you nothing about herself?"

"Oh heaps! but--"

"Then I beg you to excuse me from saying anything that might, possibly
through my ignorance of the true facts, conflict with her confidences."

"Beast!" said Folly McFee with feeling, and made him a face of pique. "I
suppose it's no use trying to pump you about that international jewel
thief . . ."

"None whatever, madame."

"Of course, you mean the Lone Wolf."

"But why that one?"

"Peter Pagan was talking about him at the Ritz tonight, told us there
was a rumour the Lone Wolf had convalesced from his reformation and was
on the loose again, right here in New York."

"I have no doubt," Lanyard agreed with entire tranquillity, "there is
such a rumour . . . And now that I have duly functioned in my paternal
rôle, my dear young woman"--he rose--"now I have told you all I know--"

"Anybody that believes that--!"

"I fancy you will be relieved if I bid you good night."

"I think you're perfectly damn' horrid," said Folly McFee, rising and
extending her hand. "First you spoil my evening, then you run away."

"You will forgive me one spoiled evening, I know, if anything I may have
said preserves to you the beauty of your tomorrows."

"I won't forgive you for running away from me," the young woman promised
darkly, holding fast to his hand and unleashing 80 c.-p. eyes to do
their devastating work. "You can be rather a dear when you choose; but I
don't think it's a bit fair of you to rob me of four friends and not
replace them with one."

"But I trust very truly--" Lanyard began.

A peremptory buzz of the doorbell interrupted.




V


Folly McFee whipped her hand away with a jerk, her round eyes consulted
Lanyard's, in that furtive tone which people seem instinctively to adopt
in times of apprehension, irrespective of the possibility of being
overheard, "What can that mean?" she demanded--"at this hour of morning!
Who can it be?"

"One or more of our fancy friends, undoubtedly," Lanyard replied with
comforting absence of agitation--"calling to enquire if you got safely
home--with, I'll wager, some transparent excuse for having left you to
shift for yourself during the raid."

"But," the woman boggled, with a frown, "I don't want to see them . . .
And all the servants are in bed . . ."

"Then I'm afraid there's no way out of it." Lanyard moved toward the
hall door as the bell sounded another and more imperative stridulation.
"Let me--"

"No," Folly decided, darting ahead--"I'll let them in. But I do wish I
didn't have to."

"Then remember," Lanyard enjoined: "better not give them any reason to
suspect I have warned you . . ."

"I understand." She paused an instant, nodding back to him. "I'll do my
best. But promise me one thing: you won't leave me alone with them."

He promised, a gay flirt of that fair head thanked him, Folly vanished.
And in another moment Lanyard heard her give little cries of elation
whose ring was as true as one could wish: "Liane! Peter! how sweet of
you both!" And the listener gave a nod of thoughtful approbation.

The dry accents of Mr. Pagan replied: "I told Liane you were all right,
but she wouldn't hear of going home without stopping to make sure . . ."

"Oh I'm all right, of course! Mr. Lanyard brought me home. Thanks to him
we didn't have the least trouble. But do come in, both of you, and tell
him how _you_ got out of it."

Liane was heard to consent, stipulating, however, that they would stop
only a moment; and the three entered the study to find Lanyard at a wide
window in the rear wall, thoughtfully peering out through its
tear-blinded panes.

"Ah! ah! my friend," Liane saluted him in lively imitation of the tone
she might have used to a child caught in mild mischief; and wagged a
forefinger of reproof. "What are you up to there?"

"Trying to make out whether or not it's raining," Lanyard serenely
explained, dropping the draperies his hands had parted.

"You might have waited to enquire of us."

"Judging by the state of mind you and Monsieur Pagan were betraying when
I saw you last," Lanyard retorted, "it seemed fair to doubt whether
you'd pay much attention to a drop or two of water." He comprehended
Pagan in a lightly mocking bow. "You might tell us--we've been no end
mystified--"

"I know," Mr. Pagan interrupted brightly. "You want the answer to that
historical riddle: Where was Morphew when the lights went out?"

"Not where he was, monsieur, but where he went--and not alone--and with
such amazing expedition."

"We didn't know what to think," Folly declared. "You vanished from that
room like tumblers in a pantomime."

"It was very simple," Pagan glibly elucidated: "Everybody seemed to be
making for the roof, so we followed the crowd."

"Presuming, of course," Liane amended, "you would, as well."

"You see," commented Lanyard, nodding to Folly, "how simply some things
may be explained!" And thereby earned, and enjoyed, a resentful look
from Pagan. "And did you actually get away across the roofs?"

"Unhappily, no. Those wretched police were up there, too," said Liane,
with disgust. "So we had to go back and line up with the rest and give
our pedigrees."

"Monsieur Morphew, too?" Lanyard's tone was skeptical. "And that so
charming Monsieur Mallison?"

"All of us," Pagan snapped in a strangely sour temper. "That's what
delayed us."

"Frankly, monsieur, you surprise me."

"How so?"

"Why! if I were in Monsieur Morphew's shoes--"

"You'd rattle," Pagan asserted.

"What a literal mind you have, my friend! Well; but if I were, like that
good soul, head of an institution so exposed to police attentions, I
would be at pains to provide myself with more than one secret avenue of
escape--when the lights were out."

"You've got to make allowances for Morph," Pagan blandly declared; "he
hasn't had your early advantages."

"What do I see?" Apparently possessed by the belief that some sharp
distraction was indicated if open hostilities were to be averted, Liane
pounced upon Lanyard's barely tasted highball. "And this hour I have
been dying of thirst!" She gulped with gusto, making eyes at Lanyard
over the glass. "Yours, my friend? Never mind: Folly will fetch you
another."

"Do with a drink myself," Pagan volunteered. "No, don't you trouble,
Mrs. McFee, I know the way."

He ducked briskly out into the hall and was presently heard in the
dining-room making melody with glasses and siphons and ice.

Liane set aside an empty glass, crossed to Lanyard, and petted his cheek
with the authentic professional touch. "You mustn't mind Peter, mon
coco," she cooed affectionately in French. "He presumes, perhaps, but
then he's a privileged type."

"Mind him?" Lanyard questioned in a tone that implied he found the
thought weird. "Vermin, my dear Liane, were ever my pet aversion. If you
set any value on this insect, be good enough to keep him out from under
my feet."

"Every time you do that," Folly grumbled in English, "you make me sick,
to think of all the youth I wasted studying what I fondly thought was
French."

Liane turned with a murmur of self-reproach, and gracefully posing on
the broad arm of the easy chair passed a fair arm round Folly's even
fairer shoulders.

"Forgive me, my pretty. Michael and I knew each other so long ago in
that dear Paris of before the War, it goes against Nature to converse
with him in any tongue but French. . . . Ah! my old one," she lamented
to Lanyard. "Those old days! will we ever know their like again?"

Mistrustful of her drift, Lanyard briefly replied: "God forbid!"

Timely to catch the sense of these latter lines, Pagan returned, his
countenance of a clown radiant with good nature restored by the
fragrance of four eight-inch glasses on the tray beneath his nose.

"The dilute laughter of the peasants of Scotland," he announced,
presenting the tray to Folly and Liane--"guaranteed to cure every
heartache born of pining for a past that, if the truth were known,
probably wasn't half so pleasant as the present--Prohibition and
everything!" He presented the tray to Lanyard in turn, then, determined
at all costs to win the centre of the stage, struck an absurd
declamatory attitude. "To tonight and tomorrow," he toasted--"to hell
with yesterday! Why waste good time mourning that which is immortal,
anyway? All of yesterday that mattered we carry with us, imperishably
enshrined in our hearts. After all, what is the present more than the
past plus? What man was yesterday, he is today, with something added.
Eh, Mr. Lanyard?"

"Or subtracted."

"I disagree"--Pagan made him a formal salute--"with all due respect. Man
adds daily to the sum of his experiences, which sum he is; but he can
never subtract from that sum one iota of what he has been. The peasant
who becomes a financier remains at heart a peasant still."

"A pretty thought," Liane interpolated with earnest interest. "But, to a
woman, somewhat unsettling, is it not?"

Pagan stared: "How unsettling?"

"Why! by what you tell me, I find myself still a virgin."

"Don't be depressing. Here am I, being deuced entertaining and eloquent
and profound, philosophizing on matters of the spirit, while you . . .
Bah!" quoth Pagan. "But to continue: Give the financier who was a
peasant respite from his cares, and whither turns his heart? Back to the
stage of his young days; if he takes a vacation, he spends it in
overalls down on the farm."

"And yours, one presumes, are devoted to making records for the
gramophone?"

"Don't interrupt, Liane. . . . Or take, say a criminal who has abandoned
his misguided ways and become a respected member of the community. How
will he relax? Eh, Mr. Lanyard?"

"I will not presume to instruct monsieur on a point concerning which he
is undoubtedly better informed than I."

Liane exploded a "Ho!" of pure joy, and Pagan shot Lanyard an envenomed
glance which he was swift to mask with his well-worn smirk. "To be
frank," he generously admitted, dropping into a conversational tone, "I
had the Lone Wolf in mind. They say the fellow is here, in New York,
now, and up to his old games again. I confess the thought rides my
imagination, the puzzle of it. By all accounts, he went straight for
years. How, then, came he to backslide? Were the claims of the past too
strong? or the demands of the present? Does he steal today deliberately
for gain? or involuntarily at the dictates of some subtle and deathless
instinct?"

"But monsieur has so many entertaining theories, surely he will produce
one to cover this hypothetical instance."

"I don't know. Nature is too strong for us, she laughs at all our
efforts to revise her. We may repress and inhibit our native instincts
as much as we will, but in the end, as a rule, they have their way. The
Psychical Research Society reported, not long ago, the case of a man in
whom the influence of instincts developed in early professional life
were so strong that, buried though his criminal past was under a dozen
years of law-abiding life, he reverted to old practices from time to
time without knowing what he did; that is to say, in spells of amnesia,
during which his first personality, the natural man, broke through the
veneer of the secondary or artificial personality with which he had so
painstakingly overlaid it. A safe-breaker and jewel thief like this Lone
Wolf. Interesting if this were another such case."

"Interesting, indeed, monsieur, if conceivable."

"But think a minute, and I believe you'll admit it's easily conceivable.
Imagine such a man, with wits and senses all habituated by years of
rigorous training to serve his predatory nature. Because he's trying to
live an honest life today doesn't mean that those old, ingrained habits
have necessarily ceased to function. To the contrary, I imagine, they
are always at work. As he goes to and fro and meets men and women who
invite him into their homes--in their ignorance of his former identity,
of course--inevitably, I maintain, such a man will always be observing
and valuing and formulating plans of attack--subconsciously, perhaps,
but still and for all that making use of the faculties he trained in
other days. I can believe he never visits a home of any consequence
without taking away with him a comprehensive scheme for burglarizing it.
As you or I might, Mr. Lanyard, if either of us had the education of the
Lone Wolf, say in respect of this very house. . . . And then some night,
when he's least dreaming of anything of the sort, the old Adam reasserts
itself, without or with his will and cognizance--"

Perhaps a little frightened by the gleam in Lanyard's eyes and the
tension of his lips, Liane bounced up vivaciously, ran to Pagan, and
clapped a palm over his mouth.

"Peter!" she cried--"you make me tired, you talk so much. Once you get
started, you never know when to stop. But now you will stop, I insist
that you stop and take me home. It is nearly three, and I am weary to
the marrow of my bones, too fatigued to listen another instant to your
twaddle."

Lanyard contrived with fair enough grace to decline Pagan's magnanimous
offer of a lift in his car; but by the time he found himself on Fifth
avenue again was half sorry he had. There were no taxicabs cruising for
fares at that hour, at least all he spied were tearing along with metal
flags reversed; and his head was at one and the same time buzzing with
fumes of whiskey and thick with that drowsiness of which he had first
become sensible in the cab with Folly McFee. Singularly enough, that
cloud had lifted during his stop in her home, whereas since leaving it,
ever since he had drawn his first breath of the dank, chill air of the
streets, his wits had been like slugs fumbling blindly in a bed of
cotton-wool. Now his feet as well were beginning to feel leaden,
walking, ordinarily a source of such keen enjoyment to this man of
vigorous physical life, had become a task.

Hard to understand how one could have been so affected by the scanty
ration of alcohol one had consumed that evening, a solitary glass of
champagne at the Clique, a single Scotch and soda two hours later. It
might be, of course, that Pagan had mixed too stiff a highball. One
hadn't been so impressed while drinking, but now the flavour of the
whisky clung to the palate, harshly reminiscent. Evidently not such good
stuff as it had seemed at the first sip.

Odd to find oneself resuming one's homeward walk at almost the very
point where that rencontre with Liane had interrupted it. Still more
odd, how that affair had resulted; in three brief hours everything had
come true that one had foretold in seeking to dissuade Eve from the idea
of marriage . . .

In a surge of grim rage Lanyard pledged Morphew and Pagan ample grounds
for repentance should they show any disposition to persist in tampering
with his concerns.

Then he found occasion to execrate the weather, too, perceiving that it
had been only holding off till now, when it had him at its mercy. Now
all at once it ceased to tease and settled down to rain in dogged
earnest and get the business over with.

And still no taxis . . .

Lanyard turned up the collar of his overcoat and dug both hands into its
pockets, clipping stick under arm and plodding heavily through the
shining puddles, with every labored step growing more conscious of
bodily oppression and the lethargy that ruled his mind, feeling more
abused in some vague how and aggrieved.

In the many-hued lights of the street the back-spatter of raindrops
drilling on the sidewalk churned in rainbow iridescence, a froth of
phantom jewels, enchanting, evanescent . . .

Strange that one should never have remarked this effect ere now . . .
Stranger still how blindly man was wont to move through the world,
benighted to its wonders, only in rare moments cheating the bandages
with which individualism sealed his eyes and catching glimpses fugitive
and ravishing of beauty adorning the most hackneyed ways . . . As now
when, lifting dazzled eyes, Lanyard beheld himself a lonely way-farer in
a lane of jewels set in jet and gold . . .

Jewels that outrivalled even those the Sultan of Loot had paraded, and
Liane, and that other woman . . . pretty little thing so well
named . . . What the deuce was her name? Folly? Folly McFee!

Idiotic to mislay so soon a distinctive name like that . . .

Wading in jewels. Up to one's knees. As Liane waded in them, and Folly,
and the Sultan of Loot . . . Between them these three must have had on
display that night stones that would fetch four or five hundred
thousand . . . flaunting them in the face of a pauper!

A pauper? Well: little better! Penniless, or next door to it. A few more
days of running round with Eve . . . who must never guess . . . and he
would be stoney. Not pinched for money--broke. The reward of
virtue . . .

Lanyard laughed aloud, a cracked, ugly laugh.

Pagan hadn't been far wrong. Impertinent clown! Not far wrong, at
that . . . Anything but easy to forget the cunning one once had gloried
in, to remain forever deaf and dumb to the insidious prompting of
instincts which, as long as the sun shone, seemed to have been utterly
stamped out and exterminated, but which, when clouds massed and the wind
bared its teeth, had an accursed habit of proving they had been but
rebelliously quiescent . . .

Curious, how close to the line that mountebank had hewn in his guesswork
at the psychology of the outlaw reclaimed!

There lingered still a picture instantaneously printed upon the
sensitive film of consciousness, in that moment when Lanyard had stood
peering out of the rear window at Folly McFee's: a view of the roof of a
one-storey extension running back from the window, a flat roof decked
over to serve as a terrace in warm weather, with, beyond it, thanks to
an excavation being dug for a new building on the north side of the
block, nothing between the house and the next street but a board fence
enclosing the kitchen-yard. An open invitation to any man who might
fancy the jewels of Folly McFee; jewels that, shrewdly marketed, would
put a careful man beyond want for the rest of his days . . .

Lanyard growled an oath, gave himself an angry shake. What the devil had
got into him tonight, that he should consent for a single instant to
indulge such a train of thought?

Not that there was danger of _his_ being tempted . . . He gave a thick
chuckle of scorn. Nevertheless it was annoying to find oneself unable to
forget that the temptation was there.

All the fault of that reptile with his viperous tongue and machine-made
leer, What's-his-name . . . What _was_ his name? Fagin? No: Pagan.
Loathsome creature . . .

What an ass one had been to swallow his insolence simply because there
were women present, to let such an illogical consideration restrain one
from yielding to natural, primitive impulse and, with every
provocation, throttling the fellow, wringing his scrawny neck . . .

In amaze Lanyard emerged from a seizure of sodden insanity to find
himself at halt in front of the Waldorf, standing quite still in the
driving rain and glaring at his hands, which were extended with tensed
fingers compressing the windpipe of an imaginary victim.

What was he doing? He made an effort to pull himself together, and cast
glances right and left, shame-faced to think that he might have been
seen. But there was not another soul in sight on the whole, undulant
length of the Avenue. Only a taxi shot past, and its driver hooted . . .

He seemed to have mislaid his stick. After a moment of myopic searching
he gave it up, pocketed his hands and lunged on. . . . Not far to go
now; but one made indifferent progress because of the fog. Of course it
was fog! What else could make the lights so dim? Like a London fog, a
London particular. And getting thicker every minute, blotting out the
lights as a blotting paper sops up ink, leaving only blurs, faint and
formless blotches fading into night absolute, black and steaming . . .

In a sudden saffron blaze Lanyard identified the common aspect of the
small suite of rooms which he rented furnished. He was in the
sitting-room, wrestling with his overcoat. Soaked through and dripping,
the wretched thing seemed possessed of a devil of perversity which
resisted all his efforts to shed it. He gave an infuriated wriggle,
heard something rip, and discovered, in some surprise, that he was rid
of it. Then with indignation he saw that the door stood open to the
public hall, a staring oblong of black in the lighted walls. Lurching to
this, Lanyard flung it shut with a thundering crash.

The problem of escaping from the intimate embrace of his dress-coat next
engaged his intelligence. Something he couldn't afford to tear off his
back. Yet he darkly foresaw difficulties. After a while of pondering, a
spirit of low cunning prompted him to try to deceive the thing by making
believe he didn't care whether it came off or not. . . . And
astonishingly it appeared that this strategem had been successful: he
was holding the garment in his hands. With the harsh, unfeeling laugh of
a conqueror he cast it from him and shaped a course for his bedchamber.
And barely in time: that London fog had stolen in after him somehow,
probably through the door he had carelessly left open, Heaven knew how
long. . . . At its old tricks, dimming down the lights till one could
hardly see. Rapidly, too. He succeeded in beating the darkness to his
bed, but with nothing to spare: as he sat on its edge, fumbling with his
shoes, night whelmed the world with a stunning crash . . .




VI


A splitting headache roused Lanyard out of the void, with the help of an
unfeeling hand that shook his shoulder, and a voice that heartlessly
dinned his name into his ears.

When he tried to remonstrate his other shoulder was captured by another
vice-like hand, and he was raised to a sitting position on the side of
the bed. There, bending forward and clasping his head with both hands
lest it rend itself in twain, he regained a measure of lucidity.

Broad daylight was flooding the room, not sunlight but the warm
reflection of a sunny sky, beyond telling painful to optic nerves. On
throbbing eardrums a voice jarred, hideously cheerful.

"Well: how're you feeling now?"

Without understanding Lanyard blinked into the homely, grinning
countenance of Crane.

"Pretty rocky, I'll tell the World, the Tribune and the Herald! Next
time you'll know better than to take liberties with lawless liquor--or I
miss my guess. Got anything in the place good for a wrecked dome?"

Unwisely Lanyard sought to reply with a shake of the head under
consideration. His moans were heart-rendering. When he got them under
control he heard Crane say: "Well, son! it's a good thing to have a
true friend on the job when you're feeling like this. You set there and
take it easy while I run down to the drug store and fetch you a
pick-me-up."

What were intended to be words of gratitude in response came out as the
most disconsolate noises imaginable. Crane's footsteps receded through
the sitting-room and died out beyond a door which was closed with
thoughtful care. Pricked by pride, Lanyard put forth a tremendous effort
of will and stood up.

Not till then did he appreciate that he was fully clothed but for his
shoes and the dress-coat which he had a muggy memory of having discarded
in the adjoining room.

When Crane re-entered without knocking, Lanyard was splashing in the
bathroom. Some minutes later he came out wrapped in a dressing-gown and
bearing some resemblance to his normal, self-respecting self. A steaming
hot soak followed by five minutes under an icy needle-shower had
moderated the headache to a bearable grumble. Crane was waiting with a
tall and foaming glass. A draught long and acrid but grateful. The
flavour of aromatic spirits of ammonia replacing that of aloes in his
mouth, Lanyard was able to express his thanks with a smile less wan than
might have been expected.

"I think you called yourself a true friend," he said: "that was true
talk. Never in my life have I needed one more." Subsiding into a chair,
he waved a feeble hand toward another. "Sit down and tell me to what I
owe this act of mercy . . ."

"Well: if you want to know, I guess you owe it mainly to forgetting to
lock your door when you crashed in last night." Crane sat down and
favoured Lanyard with a quizzical stare, caressing lean jaws with bony
fingers. "I knocked till I was tired, then tried the door, feeling
pretty sure you were at home, because I could see by the transom you had
all the lights going full blast. So I just naturally walked in and found
you practically a total loss. You were cold sober when I saw you at two
o'clock, but you sure did manage to collect a skinful between then and
the time you turned in, whenever that was."

"To the best of my knowledge, not much after three."

"Blessed if I see how you managed it. Mind telling? I don't like to seem
nosey, but this record you're claiming for the standing broad jag in one
hour flat has got me guessing. Didn't know you went in much for that
sort of thing."

"No more do I," Lanyard protested. "That is to say, I never did before
and never will again, Heaven helping me to avoid further entanglements
with temperance drinks."

"That what you call 'em?"

"I mean, the sort of drinks one's friends serve in these Prohibition
times. I hesitate to ask you to believe that the ruin you see before you
was wrought by one small glass of champagne at the Clique last night,
followed by a single Scotch and soda at Mrs. McFee's."

"From the funny things I've seen bootliquor do in the last few months,"
Crane replied--"some of 'em not so darned funny, at that--I'm ready to
believe anything you want to blame on it. What bothers me now, is you
getting such stuff at Mrs. Folliott McFee's. That little lady is well
enough fixed to keep her cellar stocked with the best. However," he
reconsidered, "I guess she must've got it from her friend Morphew. She's
been training considerably with him and his gang of late; and I wouldn't
put it past that bird to poison his best friend for a profit of a few
dollars a case."

"We see Mr. Morphew with the same eyes, you and I."

Lanyard wanted very much to question Crane for information concerning
Mr. Hugh Morphew, but felt much too listless just then. Another time
would do as well, when his mental processes had somewhat recuperated.

"So you were at Mrs. McFee's last night, were you?"

"Naturally, I had to see her home," Lanyard replied. "She asked me in to
have that drink; and a little later the Delorme woman dropped in with a
hyena who calls himself Pagan--daresay you know who I mean"--Crane
nodded--"to make sure Mrs. McFee had come to no harm. You see, we were
all guests of Morphew's at the Clique when you raided the place. But I
presume that's no news . . ."

"You're wrong, then. Morphew and his lot got away clean. We couldn't
find hair nor hide of him or any of the parties you've named. They must
have beaten it by some secret passage while the lights were on the
blink."

Liane and Pagan, then, had lied about being turned back from the roof.
Not that it mattered . . .

"How'd you get on with the pretty McFee?" Crane was pursuing with an
interest too elaborately casual.

"Well enough, thanks. She seems a nice little thing if a thought
flighty."

"Flighty's the word. I guess you haven't known her long."

"Only met her last night, a few minutes before the raid."

"Nice place she's got . . ."

"Nice enough," Lanyard assented languidly.

"Get much of a show to look around while you were there?"

Lanyard opened his eyes. "You're not asking these questions for
conversation's sake."

"You're dead right I'm not," Crane drawled, stroking his jaws. "Guess I
may as well break it to you. Mrs. McFee reported this morning, her house
had been broken into last night, some time between three o'clock and
daylight, her safe opened--little tin box she keeps in her boodwah--and
the pick of her jewels looted."

"So!" said Lanyard--"it's to that I owe this honour."

"You've had such a lot of experience in that line, I thought maybe you
wouldn't mind giving me a few tips . . ."

Lanyard lounged back in his chair again, tolerantly smiling.

"Why trifle with the truth to spare my feelings?"

"Well!" Crane uncomfortably conceded--"I don't mind telling you, the job
had all the ear-marks of one of the Lone Wolf's."

"Indeed?"

"The bird that opened that box did it painlessly, like you always used
to, going on all I've heard--just talked to the works till the safe lay
down and rolled over with all four paws in the air. Of course, he didn't
leave any finger-marks. He got in by way of an extension at the back of
the house: there's a French window opens onto it from the study. He
didn't even need to jimmy that, though Mrs. McFee and the servants can't
explain how it come to be open. In fact, the butler swears he latched it
himself before he went to bed. Looks like somebody must have fixed
it . . ."

"Somebody who, like your obedient servant, had plenty of opportunity."

"You got the idea."

"In short," said Lanyard, "what you are delicately trying to convey is
that you'd be obliged if I'd come along quietly."

"No," Crane surprisingly answered: "nothing like that."

"Not--?" Lanyard persisted, in an unbelieving stare.

"No. . . . I'll admit, I looked you up today with a divided mind. I
couldn't somehow believe it of you. On the other hand, I've been fooled
by a lot of human nature in my time. But you put in an alibi, even
before you came to, sound enough to satisfy me. Maybe I'm wrong about
you, Lanyard, maybe you're as crooked as a Revenue inspector; but
nothing will ever make me believe you pulled that job and then pickled
yourself to celebrate, or that the Lone Wolf ever went home after
cracking a box and crawled into the hay leaving his front door unlocked.
Not only that, but just to make sure, in a perfectly friendly way, I
frisked your pockets and searched these rooms high and low before I woke
you up. You've got a good right to be sore, if it hits you that way; but
I figured it was my duty as a friend as well as an officer of the law."

"On the contrary," Lanyard sincerely assured him, "I am appreciative and
grateful, glad to be cleared in your sight, even more glad to be cleared
in my own."

"In your own?" Crane repeated in perplexity. "What d'you think you mean
by that?"

"I'm glad I do not have to wonder if possibly I did this thing in my
sleep, so to speak."

"Quit your kidding!" Crane got up with a laugh. "I've got to be getting
along now, oughtn't to have lost as much time as I have."

"I shall miss your soothing presence. But I am sure you understand that
there are times, and this is one of them, when one would rather be
alone."

"You said it."

"You will pardon my not rising to see you to the door?"

"Stay right where you are. I'll drop in again, some time this evening,
maybe, to see how you are."

"Do. There are many things I want to consult you about when I feel
better able."

[Illustration: AN UNINVITED GUEST AT THE BAL MASQUE, THE LONE WOLF
BRAVES THE SCRUTINY OF THE DETECTIVES.]

"Well: if anything gets in my way and I don't show up like I said . . ."
Crane fished out a card from a worn wallet and placed it on the
mantelpiece of the old-fashioned marble fireplace: "There's my name and
number. Give me a ring any time you feel like it, and I'll blow you to a
dinner with, maybe, something on the side whose kick isn't quite as
deadly as a Georgia mule's."

For upwards of an hour after the detective had taken himself off,
Lanyard lingered on in the easy chair, listlessly reviewing his memories
of the previous night, memories comfortably clear-cut up to a certain
stage . . .

After all, he were an ingrate to complain, surely he had no excuse for
considering himself in disgrace with fortune, who had come thus far
through this conjuncture retaining the confidence of Crane, but best of
all his own!

He counted himself happy indeed--for all the malaise from which he still
suffered and which only time and heroic measures in the way of exercise
would do away with altogether--that Crane's investigation, while he lay
senseless, had resolved every question that might otherwise have
perturbed his secret mind. It was grateful to be spared the torment
that, but for this exoneration, must have been his, the fear that he
might himself, without his knowledge, have proved there was support in
fact for the theory of criminal psychology which Pagan had advanced, the
theory that it was well within the compass of possibility for a man in
his plight, in sore financial straits and subconsciously tempted beyond
his strength, to commit a theft while in a phase of auto-hypnosis
coupled with amnesia, a condition comparable with somnambulism . . .

Otherwise his affairs, as Lanyard saw them, had come suddenly to a
precarious pass.

In spite of the fact that he knew his intelligence would need some time
to recover its accustomed competence, he entertained no slightest doubt
but that he would be tomorrow, as he was today, convinced that the
abstraction of the McFee jewels had been merely the first move in a
campaign shrewdly planned to bring him to Morphew's terms.

His defiance of that one had not been tardy of result: the enemy had not
only accepted his declaration of war, he had committed the first overt
act.

Lanyard's temper hardened. If Morphew wanted war, he should have his
fill . . .

But if war it must be, this was no time to waste in inaction: the enemy
was already in the field and taking the offensive, while he lay resting.

Rising, Lanyard bestirred himself to set his house in order.

When he had shaved and dressed and dosed himself with stabilizing
draughts of black coffee, he began to collect the clothes he had worn
overnight, all of which would require the attentions of a valet before
they would be again presentable. Rain had defaced the gloss of his
topper beyond repair but by the hatter's iron. His trousers were damp
and wrinkled bags of black stuff splashed to the knees with mud.

Over these stains Lanyard frowned. Impossible to understand how he had
managed to come by the worst of them, even taking into account the
condition in which he had traversed Fifth Avenue during the storm. The
marks of that thin black ooze which accumulates on asphaltum explained
themselves. But there were others inexplicable, and on his patent
leather boots as well, smears and crusts of ochre mud which he could
hardly have accumulated without wandering into broken ground, such as
was not to be found on Fifth avenue at any point within the bounds of
his besotted promenade.

But he distinctly recollected noticing an excavation behind the
residence of Folly McFee. . . .

With a worried shake of his head that cost him several stabs of anguish,
Lanyard folded and laid aside the trousers, and returned to the
sitting-room to get his dress-coat.

As he took this up something in one of the coat-tail pockets struck
against a leg of the table with a muffled but clashing thump.

By his own account, Crane had already rummaged the pockets of the
garment, but conceivably the coat-tail pockets he had overlooked, who
was better acquainted with dress clothes of American tailoring, from
which such conveniences are commonly omitted. Lanyard's clothes,
however, had been built in London; and to the British tailor coat-tail
pockets are as an article of faith.

An exploring hand brought forth a little packet knotted in a
handkerchief, one of his own.

Lanyard surmised its contents before he had succeeded in loosing the
knots.

With a sense of sickness, he stood staring down at the stolen jewels of
Folly McFee.




VII


In sequel the life of Michael Lanyard knew some of its busiest moments,
his modest lodgings were the stage of a scene of rare animation whose
solitary actor figured as the restless axis of a whirlwind of garments.
Then the air, clearing, disclosed the man decently clad for the street
and stowing away in a safe pocket his unchancy treasure-trove.

Thus far he had gone about doing what he had to do automatically in a
measure, as one will in times of extremity, putting off against an hour
more opportune, when he might bring a clearer head to bear upon the
business, too, the deliberate study which his troubles needed. Enough
now to know the longer he delayed where he was, the more immediate his
peril of suffering a second domiciliary visit by the police; who on this
new occasion, beyond much doubt, would be represented by agents less
kindly biassed than Crane, more skeptical and thoroughgoing in the
matter of searching for Folly McFee's emeralds. It remained for Lanyard
to prove appreciation of this fleeting smile of fortune by turning to
good account the slender chance it granted to work out his salvation in
his own time and way.

One detail, however, he dared not slight, though it cost minutes each
more precious than the last: Lanyard left behind him shoes and trousers
from which every lingering suspicion of mud had been erased.

Some two hours later, after a tedious tale of twists and turns in the
labyrinth of New York's several transportation systems, he left a train
at the Mount Vernon terminal of the subway extension, and addressed
himself to the tramp back to New York.

The sky was bright, the Indian Summer sunlight kind, the air
inspiriting. By the time Lanyard had stretched his legs over a mile or
two of by-roads--chosen for the long and lonely perspectives which
enabled him to make sure he travelled with no other shadow than his
own--he began to feel once more competent to ponder his fix and plot a
way out.

No easy task: the problem posed by the fact that he had somehow, at some
time in the course of the preceding night, unwittingly come into
possession of stolen property, seemed open to solution only on one of
two hypotheses, antagonistic, and neither at a glance more likely than
the other. Failing his ability to turn up proof that another hand had
rifled the McFee safe and secreted its loot in his coat while he slept,
Lanyard would have to become reconciled to the belief that he himself
had stolen the jewels while in a phase of submerged consciousness.
Distasteful as was the bare suggestion, and human though the temptation
was to adopt the more grateful theory and guide himself thereby, he
still could not but doubt: the other was all too possibly the true
explanation.

One thing at least he might take for granted, that the drink Pagan had
brought him was drugged. But here again the lane of likelihood
developed a confounding fork: Who could say whether the drug had been
added to the drink by Pagan, or whether the whiskey itself had been one
of those deadly synthetic concoctions with which that bastard offspring
of Prohibition, the bootlegging industry, had flooded the land?

If it were the whiskey that Lanyard had to blame, Pagan, too, and Folly
McFee and Liane Delorme must have suffered as severely, Liane even more,
since she had made away with two drinks to Lanyard's one. . . . A simple
matter to find out the truth, if one only knew the woman's address; but
she had neglected to say where she was stopping, and other than those
whom under the circumstances he would hardly care to consult, Lanyard
could think of nobody who would be likely to know.

And even though investigation might prove that nobody else had been so
punished, and thus satisfy Lanyard that his drink alone had maliciously
been doctored, such knowledge would not necessarily lead him nearer to
the facts of the robbery. Comfortable though it was to impute to Pagan
the mischief with the whiskey, and assume that its object had been to
throw Lanyard into coma and thus render it feasible to enter his rooms
without his knowledge, smear yellow mud on his clothing and plant the
plunder in his pocket, still it remained possible that the
arch-intelligence which had decreed the administration of the drug,
whether Morphew's or another's, had reckoned with even more diabolical
cunning upon its breaking down those inhibitions which honour and faith
and a good intent had imposed upon a nature perhaps--and for all Lanyard
could assert to the contrary--irreclaimably a thief's.

Hashish was reputed to work like that, to act upon its victims precisely
as an acid eats away lacquer, stripping off layer by layer the most
stubborn crust of honour and habit ever indurated by conscience and
civilized convention, baring at last the primitive beast that lurks in
every man.

No matter: though the identity of the thief must be a riddle still, to
learn the truth about the whiskey would resolve the primary doubts that
were harassing Lanyard and leave him better advised concerning what
further steps would be required to clear up the mystery altogether. To
this end the one thing now distinctly indicated was the need for action
prompt, direct, and drastic.

Lanyard had not forgotten that appointment for the following afternoon
which he must be able to keep with a clear mind and a clean heart,
unapprehensive of any sort of interference.

He began to foresee a programme for the intervening night tolerably long
and arduous. He had to hit upon some way to disembarrass himself of the
emeralds that would clear him of all suspicion of ever having had
anything to do with them. He had further to acquit or convict Pagan of
tampering with his drink--and in the event of the conviction which he
anticipated with entire confidence, to invent and enforce some means of
persuading Pagan and his lot that Michael Lanyard was a good man to let
alone.

Now dusk was closing down upon the world in shade on shade of lilac,
violet and blue, through which, moment by moment, the lights of the
outlying city were blowing their blossoms of silver and gold. Directly
ahead of Lanyard the electric sign of a roadhouse exploded its soundless
salvo against the sky; and thus reminded that he needed food, who had so
much to do ere dawn, he entered the place and dined with a frugality
considerate of digestive powers sadly out of kilter. Then in the dark of
the young night he resumed his walk, and between nine and half-past
might have been (only that he took good care not to be) seen at pause on
the Lexington avenue corner of the block in which Folly McFee dwelt,
quietly reconnoitering the approach to her residence.

The house stood on the north side of the street, nearer Lexington avenue
than Park, and with windows diffusing a dim glow through discreet
draperies presented to the beholder the demure face that suited an
establishment whose youthful chatelaine sported a sobriquet so apt and
alluring.

Observers less interested than Lanyard was then have been known
feelingly to comment upon the impish trick houses frequently practice of
keeping their own counsel: the shrewdest reader of façades would have
gathered nothing informing from the aspect worn that night by the
dwelling of Folly McFee, no clue as to whether its pretty resident were
at home, or, if at home, alone . . .

Lanyard hazarded a saunter past on the sidewalk opposite. Under more
direct scrutiny the house remained as little communicative, the only
profit he had of the maneuvre was the assurance that nobody was skulking
in any of the areaways over across from it, on the watch for the likes
of himself. But then there was no conceivable reason why anybody should
be; not even his most impassioned ill-wisher, much less an unimaginative
police force, could have been expected to divine that any attraction
could possibly draw this putative criminal back to haunt the scene of
his alleged crime.

Lanyard nevertheless, on gaining the Park avenue corner, merely crossed
the street and continued his stroll through the next to the north,
passing on the way the gaping foundation pit observed the night before
from the windows of Folly's study, a survey of which from this new angle
confirmed his belief that the thief need not have found it difficult to
make his way into the backyard and swarm up to the roof of the
extension. On the other hand, this aspect of the premises afforded
Lanyard no least twinge of guilty reminiscence. Another circumstance
that proved nothing; if his personal acquaintance with downright
drunkenness was limited, he knew too well that it was quite possible for
one to drink oneself into a state of alcoholic insanity and retain, on
coming out of it, no memory of one's performances while in that
condition.

Circumnavigation of the block having brought him again into the street
upon which the McFee residence faced, but this time on its northern
sidewalk, Lanyard's pace slackened; and idlest insouciance masked the
surge of acute interest in him when, at twenty paces' distance, he saw
the iron gate to its service entrance swing open and a maid emerge and
make briskly off toward Park avenue--a tidy figure in black dress, white
apron and cap, taking letters to post at the corner letter-box in time
for the last collection.

Another freak of friendly fortune? or one of ill-favoured fate? The
thing was too confoundedly well-timed, the invitation of that unguarded
entrance too tempting. Indeed, when it occurred to Lanyard that his
action might have been considered a thought precipitate, it was too late
to turn back, he had already slipped into the service hallway and
restored the door to the position, half on the latch, in which the woman
had left it. To change his mind now and retreat would be to court her
attention, who would already be on her way back from the corner.

The hallway was long, narrow, dimly lighted. At its far end a stairway
led down to kitchen offices. Midway, a swing-door communicated with the
main body of the house. Through this Lanyard had no choice but to dart,
reckless of what might await him on its far side: to linger where he was
meant immediate discovery . . . and the emeralds on his person!

The swing-door gave into a butler's pantry, at the moment empty, where
another opened into the dining-room and a third to the main hallway.
Stacks of dishes in the pantry sink, no less than a clash of cheerful
voices in the room adjoining, with Folly's rippling laughter clearly
recognizable, told of a dinner party still in progress. The other
living-rooms, then, ought to be untenanted. The butler due to pop back
from the dining-room at any instant, Lanyard passed on to the
entrance-hall, and experienced a relief, on finding it deserted, that
betrayed an old hand sorely out of practice: the day had been when he
could have taken far more desperate chances without a tremor.

Even so, he wasted no gestures. To go the way he meant to go, he had the
dining-room door to pass, the risk to run of being seen. He edged to a
point whence Folly's back was visible, and the butler, a decent,
plodding, British body, taking himself off with an emptied decanter. He
disappeared; and the pantry-door was heard to buffet the air. Lanyard
waited a minute, then coolly ran--or, rather, stumped--the risk of the
open door, trusting, if noticed by any of the diners, to pass as the
butler with some business in the front part of the house. To the best of
his observation his audacity served: the dinner-party seemed to be
finding itself much too amusing to have attention to spare for matters
of domestic routine. But one swift glance askance noted that Folly was
entertaining only Pagan, Liane Delorme, and Mallison.

So much for Lanyard's solemn sermon on the dangers of questionable
associations!

But could one fairly have expected anything better, when Folly had been
given, subsequently, every reason to believe she had entertained in that
overnight moralist a felon unawares? This, presumably, was her way of
consoling herself for having been so shamefully taken in: as gay a
partie carrée as heart could wish, figuratively making merry on the very
coffin-lid of Folly's most recent bereavement . . .

Fragments were all Lanyard could garner of the talk, who had no time at
all to spare; but what little he did overhear was instructive. Folly, he
learned, was firmly declining to be down-hearted: the police had given
her every assurance that she would be wearing her emeralds again within
a few days at most. Meantime, she knew no lack of objects of
bedizenment: the thief in his haste had overlooked a secret cache of
treasure in the safe he had used so cavalierly, she had still the McFee
pearls and diamonds to don for protection against inclement elements; in
witness whereto she was wearing them now. Challenged by Pagan to state
what steps, if any, she had taken to safeguard these against the chance
that the marauder might return to cancel his oversight, Folly laughed
the notion to scorn, but under pressure admitted that she meant to have
the combination of the safe changed as soon as she could remember to
telephone its maker.

Communications all pitched in a key of the lightest banter. Folly, for
example, was pleased to recount the antics of her maiden aunt when it
dawned upon her that she had actually slept all through the visit of a
burglar: the good woman had forthwith gone into hysterics and had come
out of them only to pack herself off (at Folly's expense) to Atlantic
City, professing the slender hope that a vacation from this theatre of
crime would mend a shattered nervous system. In view of which Folly was
disposed to hold the loss of her emeralds a not unmixed affliction. And
when Pagan suggested that it might be good business for Folly to put a
professional house-breaker on her weekly payroll, Liane applauded his
wit with a deep-chested laugh.

No more need to wonder how this last had fared after her two drinks of
the liquor a single dose of which had been enough to put Lanyard hors de
combat. True: Liane might have been innocent of what was intended. But
it wasn't easy to give her the benefit of the doubt.

As for Pagan, the pencilled question-mark against his name had been
replaced by a cross in indelible ink.




VIII


From a point close by the street door rose a flight of stairs which
introduced Lanyard to a floor by every indication devoted wholly to the
most intimate uses of Folly. There were two major rooms, a bedchamber at
the back of the house and a boudoir overlooking the street, linked by a
short hall on which opened a bathroom and capacious clothes-presses, all
furnished with an extravagance that bespoke means ample to gratify the
wildest whim of even a modern young woman. Folly's wardrobe alone would
have given a dozen exacting women of fashion a choice of changes for
every hour of the day and have left the first owner still ridiculously
over-stocked. And Lanyard, taking cursory yet comprehensive note of the
endless detail of luxury that went to make up a sybaritic ensemble, told
himself it would be unreasonable to expect the tenant of this suite not
to fancy herself much more than merely a little.

His survey, however, had gained him little more than a bare grasp of the
general arrangement, when a light patter on the stairs drove him to
cover in a retreat whose selection had been his first care: a closet
stored with clothing for day-wear exclusively, therefore the least
liable to be used by night, and furthermore so situate that its door,
left--as Lanyard had found it--half an inch ajar, afforded a direct and
wide-angled vista of the boudoir, and also, indirectly, by grace of a
long mirror in the latter, a more fragmentary view of the bedchamber.

To his taste almost too cosily snuggled into a smother of garments whose
subtle fragrance was most demoralizing, he lurked for many minutes,
spying--as the mirror permitted--on the maid whom he had first seen in
the street and whose present duty, it transpired, was to turn down the
bed-clothes and otherwise make the bedchamber ready to receive its
mistress.

The quick, competent creature went about her work with a step so light
that even ears trained to abnormal acuteness found it not entirely easy
to keep track of her movements; so that, when she made an end and left
the bedchamber, the man in hiding wasted several minutes waiting to make
sure that he had the floor all to himself again.

Emerging at length, he wasted no more, but turned directly to the focal
point of his most immediate interest, that is to say to the safe which
had provided the wits of last night's thief with a test so trifling.
And, Lanyard reflected, having inspected the thing, no wonder! When, he
asked impatiently, would man learn anything from experience and cease to
put his trust and his treasures in repositories of such pregnable
construction? A pretty, dainty thing, neatly fitted into the base of a
period secretary, its door masked by a hinged frame wrought to resemble
a tier of drawers, its "combination-lock"--God save the mark!--capable
of offering about as much resistance to trained talents as that of a
child's bank . . .

Lanyard was proving all this to his own satisfaction, and indeed had
already solved the combination by bending an ear to the fall of its
tumblers, when the telephone rang.

The sharp thrill of the bell sounded in the study downstairs; the
extension instrument on the little desk in the boudoir gave only a
muffled click.

Lanyard used a silk handkerchief on the face of the safe to smudge out
fingerprints, shut the false front, and moved lightly out into the hall,
arriving at the rail round the stairway at the moment when the
vocational singsong of the butler broke upon the conversation of Folly
and her friends:

"Beg pardon, but Mr. Mallison is being wanted on the telephone."

With neither delay nor compunction Lanyard turned back to the boudoir
extension, and had its receiver at his ear when Mallison arrived in the
study and breathed a melodious "Hello?" to the waiting wire. But when a
strange voice answered him, feminine at that, the eavesdropper was taken
with a twinge of mixed chagrin and distaste, who had hoped for something
worse than this and more illuminating, who had hastily set his heart on
gaining instruction from Morphew's pompously measured rumble, and who,
finally, knew no delight whatever in the prospect of prying upon some
trivial affair of sentiment such as was promised by the cloying
affection of this strange woman's salutation: "Is that you, Mally
darling?"

Only the striking ambiguity of the reply she got helped Lanyard to
overcome an impulse to hang up forthwith.

"Yes," Mallison pronounced too clearly, too loudly, and in a manner of
cold enquiry that carried no conviction whatever--"this is Mr. Mallison
speaking. Who wants him?"

"Clever old sweetie!" the unknown applauded with a confidential laugh.
"I do hope she can hear you; but I suppose she isn't in the same room if
you have to shout like that. Better soft-pedal it a bit, dear, or the
little lady may get leary."

To this Mallison replied, again remarkably as to sense, and in accents
of unmistakably mortified amazement: "Oh, for Heaven's sake! you don't
mean to say it's tonight? I don't see how I could possibly have let
anything so important slip my mind . . ."

No less remarkably the woman pursued: "It's all right, then, dearie? I
mean, everything is all set for the big bust?"

"Why, of course!" Mallison intoned distinctly, with a dying echo of the
emotion which had coloured his last preceding response--"of course I'll
be there. But I shall have to go down on my knees and beg Mrs. McFee to
forgive me--and I really can't quite forgive myself for being so
forgetful."

"Gosh!" the other breathed in awed admiration--"got to hand it to you,
kid, you stall so pretty. Well: our friend--_you_ know--is getting
impatient, so it's up to you to shake a leg. How soon shall I say you'll
be ready?"

"Oh, but really! I'm afraid I can hardly make it under half an hour."

"Sure that'll be long enough?" Surprising solicitude seemed to shade
the strange voice. "You know, dearie, we wouldn't for worlds crash in
too soon, I mean before you get a good chance to do your very best dirty
work. 'Cause the blacker the looks of it, the better the pay--and the
surer."

"Oh quite!" Mallison cheerily agreed. "But half an hour will do me
famously."

"Good enough." A sly chuckle accompanied this commendation. "You're one
little fast worker, all right, darling: I only wanted you to take all
the time you need to turn out an artistic job. All rightie: I'll set the
alarm for thirty minutes from now--the zero hour! And mind you take good
care of yourself, dearie. Ta-ta."

With elegance indisputable Mallison returned a musical "Au revoir."

Lanyard waited for the other receiver to refind its hook, then hung up
in turn, and took his seething mystification back to the head of the
stairs, whence he could overhear the apologies Mallison was offering
below.

"Do be charitable, Folly, and make allowances for my weak mind. I simply
can not understand how I could have been so great an idiot as to forget
I'd promised Mary Ashe--Mrs. Stuyvesant Ashe, you know--I'd join a party
she's made up for the Rendezvous tonight--"

"O Mally!" Mrs. McFee lamented--"how perfectly stupid!"

"I know: isn't it? But I promised over a week ago. And anyway, it's
partly your fault, getting up this little dinner to celebrate your
robbery, and making me forget everything else I had on for
tonight. . . . Now please don't budge--and I don't need Soames to put me
out, either. I know where I left my hat and coat and how to open and
shut a front door all by myself."

"You can take my car, Mally, if you'll send it right back," Pagan
generously put in. "Liane and I have got to hop along, too, in a brace
of shakes. That is, you're welcome to it if you find it waiting. I told
Ben to be back around ten."

"Thanks, old soul; but I'll have no trouble picking up a taxi over on
Park avenue. Besides, it isn't nearly ten yet."

Pronouncing gracious but hurried good-nights all round, Mallison was
heard to pass through the entrance hall, in a more guarded and intimate
tone, and a decidedly tender one, remonstrating with his hostess because
she had insisted on accompanying him to the door.

"Consider the looks of it, Folly: Liane and Peter will think you've
fallen for me at last."

"No fear," Folly returned with uncomplimentary composure: "they know
better."

"Besides, anyone would think you didn't trust me . . ."

This rang a note so false as to cause the eyebrows of the secret
audience to lift and knit. But Folly's frame of mind was too completely
and openly petulant to permit of her being wary and discriminative as
well.

"Trust you!" she mocked lightly. "I'd like to know why I should, the way
you carry on with women . . . Oh! I'm not in the least taken in by this
tale about Mrs. Stuyvesant Ashe, you know, I believe that's just bunk to
cover up a heavy date with some other misguided female."

"How perfectly flattering!"

"You wouldn't think so if you knew my opinion of the kind of women that
fall for you, Mally."

The two moved into Lanyard's field of vision and paused by the door,
Mallison buttoning himself into his top-coat and leering down at Folly
with a doggish air, the woman maintaining for his benefit a pout that
was less than half put on.

"As if you'd care a snap of those lovely fingers if I really were
deceiving you!"

"You couldn't." Folly tossed her head. "I'm not quite simpleton enough
to believe you mean anything you say to a woman, to any pretty woman, it
doesn't matter who--"

"Now you _are_ flattering me and no mistake." Mallison clapped on his
topper, gave its crown an artful pat that adjusted it at the most
killing angle, and managed a still more maddening smirk of complacence.
"Believe you do care," he drawled . . .

"I care about having my party spoiled. Now Peter and Liane are going to
run, too, and leave me all lonely and lorn."

Mallison laid hold of the knob and opened the door, but put his back to
the edge of it and rested so, unaffectedly loath to forego the
flirtation at its piquant stage of the present. His smile grew
momentarily more personal and meaning; but some of its assurance might
have been make-believe, considering the nervousness he betrayed in
Lanyard's sight (though not in Folly's, since she couldn't see them) by
keeping his hands behind him and fiddling with the door-knob. An
impudent nod designated the two who had been left in the dining-room.

"I'll come back, if you like . . . after they've blown . . ."

"Mally!" Folly drew back, flushing. "Don't be a silly fool, don't say
things like that to make me angry. I oughtn't to overlook--"

Of a sudden Mallison stood away from the door, permitting it to shut
itself gently, and caught the woman in his arms. "I mean it," he
breathed ardently to Folly's hair, holding her fast in spite of a
notable absence of effort to escape. "I'm mad about you, Folly, simply
mad about you--and you know it, you wild, sweet witch!"

"I know you're mad now," the witch replied neither wildly nor sweetly.
"I may have suspected it before, but this proves it. Please let me go."

"Not a chance," Mallison confidently laughed--"I've got you now where
I've been wanting you, God knows how long! Folly dear: I'm simply
desperate with love of you. Only say the word--I'll tell Mrs. Ashe where
she can go, and be back here inside half an hour, or as soon as I'm sure
Peter and Liane have left. Folly! be kind to me--"

"Mally!" The cry was keyed low yet tense with indignation. A sudden
squirm broke his embrace. Folly stood back, fending the man off with a
firm hand. "Don't do that again, I won't have it. . . . How dare you
say, or even suggest, such things to me? You know I don't care the least
in the world for you. And even if I did . . . But I don't want to be
unfair. You've had too much to drink tonight. Do go now, please, go
right away, and don't come back till you're ready to beg my pardon."

"Oh!" The iced sincerity of the rebuff wiped away the self-confident
smirk and set in its place a scowl of affronted self-esteem. "That's
your style, is it, my lady? Virtue on a pedestal! And after the way
you've led me on."

Folly held him briefly in a stare of incredulous disdain; her rush of
colour slowly ebbing. A slight gesture sketched inability to understand
the man, in a voice of reproach and regret she said quietly: "O Mally!
how can you be so contemptible?"

The countenance of the dancing man grew darker still, his too-full lips
took on an ugly contour beneath their closely-trimmed moustache of the
mode. He seemed to contemplate, even with difficulty to refrain from
uttering, some embittered and withering retort. Instead, he turned in
dumb fury and flung out of the house. Thanks less to his temper and
intention than to its automatic air-check the door closed without noise
other than the click of its latch. And Folly gave herself a little shake
of impatience and reasserted the wonted spirit of her countenance as she
ran back to rejoin Pagan and Liane Delorme.

Their three voices were once more busy when Lanyard made his way back to
the boudoir telephone and took a long chance with it, communicating to
the Central operator the number Crane had left with him. But the turn of
his luck was such that, though the connection was established all but
instantaneously, the masculine voice that answered was not the one he
wanted to hear.

No: Mr. Crane wasn't in, and there was no telling when he would be in;
maybe in ten minutes, maybe in ten days. But the voice was perfunctorily
prepared to take any message that Lanyard might care to leave and see
that it got into Crane's hands as soon as he did return, if ever.

"Tell him, please, Mr. Duchemin called him up." It was necessary to
spell out that old alias which Crane could hardly have forgotten. "Say
my business is urgent--Mr. Crane will understand."

"Want him to call y'up? What's yuh number?"

Without the least hesitation, in a single phrase Lanyard abolished the
telephone installation at Folly McFee's: "Say there is no telephone. But
give him, if you will be so good, this address." Lanyard detailed the
number of the house and street and hung up. He had no fear that Crane
would fail to draw an intelligent inference and guide himself by the
light thereof. Nevertheless he would have been grateful for some
assurance that Crane would get the message in good time. . . .

Back at the head of the stairs, he felt warranted in assuming that his
daring with the telephone had not betrayed him. The hum of talk that
rose from the diminished dinner party was constant, or punctuated only
by the laughter with which the two women encouraged Peter Pagan in his
efforts to be funny. For all that, Lanyard escaped discovery by the
narrowest of squeaks; for he stepped out into the hallway only to find
that Mallison had let himself into the house again, and was furtively
slinking up the stairs--was even then, indeed, half way up.

Driven back to the refuge of the clothes-press, Lanyard pulled its door
into position in the same instant that saw Mallison skulk into the
boudoir.

It appeared from this, then, that one had not erred in mistrusting the
nervous hands of the dancing man as they had played with the knob--and
one might no longer doubt, with the safety-catch as well--what time
Mallison had delayed, posing with his back to the door and philandering
with Folly.




IX


Neither might he who unsuspected spied, through the crack of a
closet-door all but closed, on Mr. Mallison with many a gesture of quiet
authority making himself at home in Folly's rooms, seriously question
the presence of a practician adept in the grammar of second-storey work.
Mallison's footfalls would not have ruffled the repose of an insomniac,
the play of his hands was certain yet light as the flutter of butterfly
wings; and what he had to do by way of making ready for what he purposed
doing, he did with right professional economy of effort.

To begin with, he did nothing at all more than stand still in the middle
of the boudoir and study with glances keen, direct and comprehensive
what one guessed were surroundings not wholly strange to him. And seeing
him thus with his guard down, naked of all his petty social airs and
graces and that shining garment of conceit which clothed the man like a
woven armour when he was self-conscious, the hidden watcher began to
suspect that he might have erred in his first rating, that the Mallison
now revealed was worthier to be reckoned with than he had guessed. The
Mallison of this minute was nobody's fool, knew what he was about,
and--or Lanyard read every surface sign awry--was dangerously capable of
proving at need a disconcerting knowledge of how to take care of
himself.

With a muted grunt of gratification in the sum of his survey, the man
passed through to the bedchamber, wherein his maneuvres were less
readily followed, since the mirror in the boudoir revealed to Lanyard
only a narrow segment of the adjoining room. This comprehended, however,
the head of Folly's bed, and the small table beside it from whose drawer
Mallison removed a pretty trinket of a silver-plated, pearl-handled
pistol, extracting its shells, thoughtfully putting them away in one of
his waistcoat pockets, and finally replacing the weapon with nice
precision where he had found it.

Content, it seemed, thus to have done his bit for preparedness, Mallison
sauntered back to the boudoir, stripped off his top-coat, folded it with
meticulous care and hid it, together with his hat, on the floor behind a
capacious lounge chair.

Then consulting his watch and with a yawn politely shielded registering
time to kill, he strolled over to the secretary and stooped to inspect,
with a flickering, sly smile, the safe built into its base. The tip of a
fingernail discreetly pried open the blind front, leaving no treacherous
trace, but after a show of hesitation the man seemingly decided not to
disturb the safe itself, and restored the front to its former position.
Private papers, with which the pigeonholes of the secretary were well
stocked, next drew his interest, and he was betraying a mean disposition
to tamper with them when the chance discovery of a hand-mirror resting
face up on Folly's blotting-book diverted Mallison with a temptation
which he didn't even try to resist. And he had finished disciplining an
imperceptibly unruly eyebrow and had begun to practice a killing smile,
an artful variation of the infallible gleam-of-teeth suite, when a bell
grumbled vigorously in the bowels of the house and was interpreted as a
signal for strict attention to business thenceforward.

Mallison went at once to the door to listen, an occupation in which he
had the man in the clothes-press at a good disadvantage. The latter none
the less contrived to infer from noises in the entrance-hall that
Pagan's car had duly reported and that its owner and Liane were saying
good-night. Then, as the rumor of their voices failed, Mallison
re-crossed the boudoir with swift but silent tread and once more passed
from Lanyard's range of vision. The latter, however, recalled having
noticed a handsome, painted screen in that corner, and entertained no
doubt but that Mallison was making himself small behind it.

To prove this guess well-grounded, Folly herself entered in another
moment, and gave every evidence of being unaware of any alien presence
as she faltered through the boudoir, casting discontented glances round
as if in aimless search of something in the nature of a distraction.
Unmistakably disappointed, and thereby the more frankly fretted, she
drifted on to her bedchamber, from whose unseen recesses her voice and
her maid's were presently to be heard.

What they said was of no moment: their bedtime dialogue of every day,
varied only by Folly's decision to stay up a while longer: she wasn't
sleepy and had letters to write. So saying, she dismissed the maid and
sulkily trailed back into the boudoir, bringing a sizable case of tooled
leather which held, one surmised, the jewellery she had worn at dinner,
and which she proceeded to put away in the safe that deserved its style
so little, but only as a matter of habit, demonstrating that all faith
in the contraption was dead by not troubling to shut its door and set
the lock.

In the pause that ensued, with a sigh of boredom Folly settled down in
the chair before her secretary, and Lanyard ventured to widen the crack
of the door a fraction.

The woman sat toying with a pen and more than half-turned away from this
observer, charmingly posed with all the unconscious grace that was
native to the sweetly fashioned body which her négligé, a sheer web of
lace threaded with ribbon, made so bare a pretence of covering. A lamp
on the secretary turned the tangle of her hair into a living nimbus and
edged tenderly a neck and shoulders kissable in the sight of any man.
Indeed, Mallison was hardly to be blamed . . .

Without making a sound he stole up behind the woman lost in thought, the
fire of his lips on her flesh was the first that she knew of his
presence. Crying out in alarm and anger, she started up to find herself
in his arms.

"Hush, dear--please!" Mallison entreated, trying to insure her silence
by resting fingers lightly upon her lips. "The servants might hear--"

"'Might'!" Folly stormed, jerking her head away----"they shall!"

If Mallison had counted on such toleration as she had shown him by the
street door half an hour earlier, his lamentable error was made manifest
to him without an instant's grace. Folly fought him like a miniature
fury, and to such effect that she was free while her defiance was still
an echo in the room--free and swelling her throat with a scream when he
plunged upon his knees before her and threw wide arms of suppliance.

"Please, please!" he begged--"don't call for help. I'll do anything you
say, promise to be good and go quietly when you choose to send me
away--only, don't call your servants. Think what they'd think!"

"What's that to me?" Folly demanded. "What do I care what they think of
you?"

"It's you I'm considering," the man protested--"it's what they'd think
of you I'm worrying about. You can't imagine they'd give you the benefit
of the doubt . . ."

"Benefit of what doubt?"

"Do you suppose they'd believe I ever found my way up here without your
invitation?"

"Is a woman always suspected of enticing the man who breaks into her
house like a thief? I'll risk that."

"No--for God's sake! wait, listen to me, Folly! I don't deserve to be
thrown out, you owe me fairer treatment--"

"I owe you _what_?"

"You're a woman, not a school-girl--you know what you've been doing to
me these last few weeks, you know you've driven me half out of my head
flirting with me."

"Oh?" Sense of humour reasserted itself in a little laugh. "Why half?"

"Entirely, then," Mallison sullenly conceded. He got on his feet again,
but his attitude remained conciliatory, even though he would persist in
seeking to defend himself at her expense. "If it's insanity to love you,
then I'm mad enough--but, God's my witness! I'm not altogether to blame.
And you know that's true."

"And I'm to understand you stole back here tonight to tell me that?"

"No--but to beg your forgiveness for having acted as I did a while ago.
I couldn't leave things as they were between us overnight, I couldn't
think of anything but how unfair you were when I lost control of myself
for just one little minute and made you see how madly I love you. I had
to come back and have it out, explain--arrive at some sort of
understanding."

"And you want me to believe you considered these your best overtures?"
Folly uttered a cluck of contempt. "Before you go," she pursued,
instinctively dragging across her bosom the inadequate protection of the
négligé--"you might be good enough to explain how you did manage to
sneak up here."

But Mallison merely uttered a sibilant "_Hush!_" and lifted a hand of
warning.

Below, the grumble of the doorbell sounded with an accent imperative.

"What do you suppose that means?" the dancing man demanded in a whisper
of apprehension.

"Somebody at the front door . . . How should I know?" The noise was
repeated. A glint of distrust kindled in the woman's eyes. "What's the
matter, Mally? Expecting somebody?"

"Nonsense. What a question! Who should I be expecting?"

"How do I know?"

"I was only startled . . ."

"Yes," Folly affirmed with tightened lips: "I noticed that."

A sudden confusion arose in the lower hallway, several people giving
tongue all at once: evidently whoever it was that had answered the door
had been instantly made the target of a storm of questions.

Folly's face showed a stamp of deepened misgivings and suspicion. "What
on earth--!" she murmured.

Upon these words Mallison closed in on her again and made her captive in
a tight embrace.

"What does it matter?" he insisted. "Stupid people bothering Soames:
what do they matter to you and me? Folly, I love you, I'm mad--"

She was fighting wildly but impotently now, kicking, pommeling with
fists that did no hurt, biting at the hand that closed her mouth.
Downstairs the clamour rose to a higher pitch of angry disputation.
Boldly Lanyard stepped out of concealment.

Neither Folly nor Mallison saw him till he caught the dancing man from
behind, with calculated brutality broke the clasp of his arms round the
woman's body, and sent him spinning and stumbling across the room to
bring up against the further wall with a crash that started his eyes in
their orbits.

[Illustration: EVE BRIDGES A DIFFICULT SITUATION BY INTRODUCING LANYARD
AS "MY FRIEND MR. ANTHONY."]

The disturbance below by this time had attained the proportions of a
small riot. There were scuffling feet on the stairs. Nearer at hand
Folly was screaming. To this Mallison added the snarl with which,
recovering, he took the offensive in turn, launching himself at his
assailant's throat in murderous fury. Unhappily enough for him, Lanyard
had wanted nothing better. They closed, grappled, for a breath swayed as
one. Then Mallison felt one of his arms being irresistibly wrenched out
of its socket, and to such exquisite torture yielded, perforce turning
his back to Lanyard, who held him so another instant, then without
warning released him.

With the racket of argument, physical and vocal, now loud upon the very
landing outside, Lanyard dared not be merciful or give Mallison any
fighting chance. As the man whirled round to launch a new onslaught,
Lanyard's fist carried every ounce of his weight and all his ill-will to
the other's jaw. Lifted bodily by that terrific blow, Mallison crashed
back across an occasional table, sweeping off and extinguishing a lamp,
and collapsed, insensible, on the floor.

Simultaneously the door flung open and four people broke into the
boudoir, a struggling knot that instantly resolved itself into its
elements; the McFee butler, with coat half torn from his back, two
strange men, one of rough-and-ready appearance, the other a type
slightly more genteel, and a woman, a garish blonde of the synthetic
school, with her hat over one ear.

The shaded light on the secretary alone remained to lend these several
actors visibility. Lanyard stood squarely in front of it, his figure, to
eyes new from the stronger illumination of the hall, hardly better than
a silhouette. Folly, well out of harm's way on his one hand, was less
kindly shadowed, in view of the extreme candour of her déshabillé;
Mallison, on the other, was screened from the invaders by the drop-leaf
of the table behind which he had gone down.

Thus chance set the stage and lighted it for a twist in the action of
the piece unforseen even by its first player and collaborating
dramatist. For the bottle-made blonde with hat askew needed only a
glimpse of that tall, slender, and well-poised shape, bulking black
against the glow, to hurl herself across the room, fall weeping upon
Lanyard's bosom, and strain him passionately to the agitated abundance
of her own.

"My husband!" she cried--"my husband! O Harry! how could you?"

And Lanyard suffered her.




X


He was in no hurry, the truth would all too soon be her bitter medicine;
if meantime to rest on him the burthen of her wrongs were any comfort to
the lady, she was welcome. Still, he inclined to think it lamentable
that he didn't know her well enough to reason with her in a friendly way
about her taste in scent for the hair. Chivalry he reckoned a fine
gesture but a bit dear at the cost of asphyxiation.

For all that, the longer this unhappy creature continued blind to her
blunder, the better for Folly--for Michael Lanyard, too. He was far from
enjoying any sort of confidence that the next blind turn of events would
prosper his meddlesome hand; he was constrained by circumstance to count
more heavily than he relished on the resilience of Folly's wits and
their readiness to read his heart in respect of herself and play up to
the cues which he must somehow manage to give her.

An anxious sidelong glance caught Folly thunderstruck and gaping, with
eyes astart doubting their own dependability. The last man she had ever
thought to see again, with his consent, and particularly beneath that
roof, the alleged larcener of her emeralds last night, tonight figuring
spontaneously in the dual rôle of knight errant and spouse recreant!

He saw her so, and knew very well it could hardly tend but to make her
bewilderment the thicker, yet an irrepressible devil of ribaldry in
Lanyard prompted him to wag his head at Folly and make a comic mouth
over the fair false limpet that had fastened to his bosom. Not a little
to his surprise, more to his encouragement, a gleam of lively
appreciation broke through the clouds of Folly's bemusement. But the
limpet chose the selfsame moment to prove her protean versatility by
shifting all at once into the guise of a shrew, thus rendering
infeasible any further attempt to impart his mind to Folly through the
medium of the eloquent eye.

Abruptly and with a clever effect of casting Lanyard off by main
strength, the strange woman struck a florid pose with arm levelled and
eyes ablaze.

"There!" she rasped--and Lanyard wondered could this possibly be the
voice that had so lately cooed endearments by telephone--"there he is,
gentlemen! there stands my husband, the dirty hound that leaves me to
cry my heart out at home while he steps out with fast society dames,
like that shameless, half-naked hussy there!"

The quivering index of denunciation picked out the shrinking shape of
Folly in her informal attire, and the self-appointed censor paused to
let this characterization bite deep. But when she offered to resume she
half-choked instead because an unpresaged glare of ceiling lights,
thoughtfully switched on by Soames, revealed to her not the hang-dog
mask of Mallison but an utterly strange countenance whose graciousness
was shaded by a problematical smile.

A brief seizure of speechlessness was shared by the woman's companions,
and utilized by Lanyard to note the more salient features of the others,
individually, against the chance of future need. There was no
fore-telling when some flash of temper might not precipitate a
free-for-all of outcome highly dubious; it might be useful to be able to
identify these precious impostors should ill-luck throw one in with them
another time. Commonplace scamps he accounted them every one. Contempt
for Morphew mounted; a scoundrel of really respectable calibre would
have known better than to employ such cheap tools for even a simple job
of villainy.

The woman was, or had been, a comely wench; but the strong light wasn't
kind to her complexion, to such of it, that is, as she hadn't scrubbed
off on Lanyard's waistcoat. Her skin roughed up through its thick wash
of whiting and smears of carmine, skillfully painted contours failed to
amend the viciousness of thin lips that dragged in their corners, more
than belladonna and mascaro would be needed to restore the pristine
charm of eyes grown hard with looking too long upon life stripped of all
loveliness.

And the men seemed her well-suited associates: one, a thickset body
whose eyes of a brute went forbiddingly with an undershot jaw, the other
a figure of saturnine cast and seedy gentility set off by a cutaway coat
and a standing collar slightly soiled.

Recognizing in neither of these a personality to call for the waste of
two consecutive thoughts, Lanyard returned his attention to the woman,
who recoiled a step instinctively, as if afraid he meant to lay hold of
her. "What!" she squawked in throaty disgust--"you ain't my husband!"

"Madame"--Lanyard did her a grave bow--"the misfortune is mutual."

"But where is he? Where's my husband?"

"Madame has mislaid one?"

The mock told, with a slack jaw and befogged eyes the woman fell back
another pace. "I guess," she stammered, "there's some mistake . . ."

"The conjecture does madame's intelligence vast credit."

"It's Mr. Mallison she's after, sir." The butler Soames, schooled to
view without any amazement the vagaries of a mad world of masters, and
sensibly putting aside the immomentuous issue of his inability to
account for Lanyard, addressed himself to this last as to his one
intellectual peer of the time being. "They would 'ave it 'e was upstairs
'ere with Mrs. McFee, sir, and forced their way up in spite of all I
could do."

"I quite understand, Soames--Mrs. McFee, too, I'm sure. You do
understand, don't you, Mrs. McFee, this is no fault of Soames'?"

Folly shook herself together and vigorously nodded; but Lanyard coolly
forestalled whatever words they were that troubled her lips.

"Mr. Mallison is no doubt madame's husband?" he challenged the blonde
female. "She had some reason to think she would find him here?"

"Just a minute, Grace." The rusty genteel half of her supporting
company, now that he pushed himself forward, proved to possess a rather
formidable manner, at once truculent and crafty. "Let me speak for
you--"

"You have that right?" Lanyard with pointed civility enquired.

"I've been retained by Mrs. Mallison . . ." The fellow fished a passée
professional card from a pocket and thrust it under Lanyard's nose. "I
represent her in this case."

"Interesting--but perhaps irrelevant--_if_ true. I mean to say"--Lanyard
brushed the card aside, but not before his eye had caught the name
_Hobart G. Howlin_ in engraved script followed by the designation
_Attorney-at-law_; and all at once he became as ugly as he had
theretofore been bland--"what of it?"

"We were led to believe Mr. Mallison was here--"

"You call yourself a lawyer and pretend that gave you any right to
violate the privacy of this household?"

"It sometimes becomes necessary for a wronged wife to take the law into
her own hands."

"Mrs. Mallison has been wronged, then? How sad."

"Mrs. Mallison," her counsel persisted, but with shaken
bravado--"happens to know her husband has been spending too much of his
time of late in the society of Mrs. McFee."

"In brief: you have had the effrontery to force your way into a private
residence in the hope of securing evidence for divorce proceedings?"

"You've got the idea."

"O insolent!" Folly flamed.

It was now again necessary for Lanyard firmly to put down interference,
lest his diplomacy fail. "By your leave, Folly: permit me to deal with
these gentry. Their account of themselves is much too ingenious to lose.
If we let them rattle on--who knows?--we may learn something to their
disadvantage."

At this the rogue of ruder mien concluded that he, for one, had had
enough. "Come on," he mumbled, plucking at Howlin's sleeve: "le's get
out o' this."

"Not so fast. You entered by force; you will leave in the good pleasure
of Mrs. McFee. And then Mr. Mallison will go with you."

"What's that?" the lawyer demanded. "Mallison's _here_?"

"We have no wish to deceive you."

"But where?" the slighted wife shrilly objected. "I don't see him . . ."

"How little married folk ever know each other! The dear lad's so
high-strung, when he heard you on the stairs he swooned away. Half a
minute . . ."

Lanyard stepped behind the table to find Mallison in the first throes of
coming to. An unceremonious hand twisted in his collar helped him find
his feet. He swayed on them, glaring groggily round that ring of faces
whose lips framed confounded murmurs, while Lanyard nodded politely to
the confessed wife: "Permit me, Mrs. Mallison: your husband." More
brusquely he added: "Now Soames: if you think you could find a
policeman . . ."

The butler saluted this suggestion with unbegrudged respect, but the
man who had lately been so anxious to go now moved in haste to intercept
him at the door.

"Here!" he growled in an effort, not too happy, to assert
authority--"wait a minute, wait--a--minute, you! What's the grand idea?"

"What is your objection?" Lanyard countered.

"If you got any use for a cop, you don't have to look no farther. I'm a
city detective."

"Splendid. You shall enjoy every opportunity to exercise the powers of
your office. Nevertheless, Soames will proceed to fetch a policeman."

In a bluster of panic the self-styled detective elbowed the butler away
from the door. "Wait, now! This is my job; if any pinchin's goin' to be
done here tonight, I'll do it."

"To the contrary . . ." A hand slipped deftly beneath the skirts of
Mallison's dinner-jacket brought to light an automatic pistol of whose
presence on his person Lanyard had become aware in the course of their
struggle. "To the contrary, you will be good enough to stand back and
let Soames do my bidding. Do you hear? And all of you"--a push sent
Mallison reeling drunkenly into the ranks of his confederates--"all four
of you will be well advised to put up your hands."

Prompt and unanimous respect rewarded this good advice, even Mallison
proving himself sufficiently recovered to heed.

"Cut along now Soames; and you might tell the policeman he will need a
patrol wagon, with four prisoners to handle."

"Look here!" Mallison found his tongue in a splutter of spite and
fear--"you're going too far, Lanyard, carrying things with too high a
hand--"

"I know but one way to deal with blackmailers."

"And what about yourself--you damn' burglar?"

A new voice introduced itself to the dialogue. "Blackmailers?" it
drawled. "Burglar? Fightin' words, folks, fightin' words!"

Soames, moving to execute Lanyard's instructions, had opened the door to
find it blocked by a long, loose-jointed body. Now, hands in pockets,
hat well back on his head, chewing the unlighted cigar of his custom,
the detective Crane, lounged in, with ironic glances reviewing the
several countenances so variously coloured with emotion, until he
perceived the presence of Mrs. McFee. Then he was quick to uncover his
head and disembarrass his teeth.

"Your servant, ma'm. Hope you'll excuse the informality, but we found
your front door standing wide open and figured maybe something might be
going wrong. H'are you, Lanyard? Business as usual, I see." A nod and
wrinkling grin designated the pistol. "I'll tell anybody that don't
know, you're the little guy that stages the quick come-backs." Over his
shoulder, Crane called: "Come on in, Hoffmeyer; looks like we'd found us
a regular job."

A brisk policeman in uniform moved in from the hallway. And sensible of
sharp relief, Lanyard put down the pistol. "My friend!" he told Crane:
"never in your life were you more welcome."

"That's easy to believe; going on the looks of things we've happened
along at one of these psychological moments, all right. No thanks to
me, of course, Lanyard: I just naturally hiked right up here as soon as
I got your 'phone message."

"You telephoned for Mr. Crane?" Folly demanded, eyeing Lanyard intently.

"He sure did," Crane affirmed.

"At what time?"

"Half an hour or so ago--wasn't it, Lanyard?"

"Approximately. But I can fix the hour precisely: Mrs. McFee will
undoubtedly remember when Mallison was called from the table to answer
the telephone." Folly nodded, her eyes growing rounder. Lanyard laughed,
with a wave of a debonnaire hand introduced the other woman. "You see
here the lady who was then, according to Mallison, Mrs. Stuyvesant Ashe.
Now she accuses herself of being his wife. One or both of them would
seem to be mistaken. No matter: after listening in on their
conversation, I felt warranted in calling up Mr. Crane without waiting
to secure your approval."

"You called him up from here?"

"But what would you?" With a specious show of naïveté Lanyard chose to
misconstrue that almost purely rhetorical query of astonishment. "Admit
that I had hardly time to run out and hunt up a sound-proof booth,
madame, admit that I had no choice other than to remain here if I were
to keep faith with you--and more especially when the telephone had just
told me enough to prove that this fine gentleman intended blackmail,
whether or not we were justified in crediting him with a graver offence
against your hospitality."

The earnest eyes that held Folly's saw them confused by these cunningly
sown hints and implications. And not until she had heard him out with a
comprehending nod for all comment, and the lips that had been parted in
breathless interest closed without uttering a word to refute his
impudent assertion of an understanding which made Folly a party to his
presence in the house, did Lanyard again find it easy to breathe. But
that nod, coupled with her silence, testified to appreciation of the
fact that in tacit confirmation of his claim lay the one sure way to
save her good repute, that to gainsay him would be to lend colour to the
calumny implicit in the intrusion of Mallison's "wife" and her
accomplices.

If Folly wanted proof of this, she had it in another breath, when the
seedy conspirator instituted a counter-offensive.

"Just a minute, gentlemen!" he insisted, pushing in his sallow, excited
face between Lanyard and Crane. "You go too fast. We deny all these
ridiculous allegations, but particularly we deny that my client is here
in any sort of collusion with her husband. That malicious innuendo we
flatly contradict and brand a lie out of whole cloth!"

"'We'?" Crane echoed, inquisitive but otherwise indifferently impressed.
"Your 'client'?"

"I am counsel for Mrs. Mallison--"

"You don't say? Bet anything she deserves you, too." Crane showed
Lanyard arched brows of dubiety. "Shyster?"

"Calls himself Howlin," Lanyard assented impatiently. "If you like
he'll show you a card almost as shady as the business which engages his
talents tonight."

"I can afford to ignore slurs upon my professional standing which come
from such a source," Howlin loftily retorted. "But my business tonight
being the legitimate one of looking after the interests of a client, I
can hardly be expected to stand by and enter no objection when I hear
her slandered."

"I'll say you can't," Crane cruelly agreed, looking the lady up and down
with a glance so discerning that it caused a dull flush to burn beneath
her complexion.

But now again Howlin considered the source and concluded he could afford
to ignore constructive sarcasm.

"Mr. Regan here," he said, introducing the man who had styled himself a
"city detective"--"has under my direction been shadowing my client's
husband for several weeks. His reports show there's a questionable
degree of intimacy between Mallison and Mrs. McFee. When, therefore,
Mallison was seen tonight letting himself into this house, using his own
latch-key, we had every excuse for assuming that an unexpected visit
would produce certain results. Now, however, since we would seem to have
been misled, we can only offer Mrs. McFee the assurance that my client
stands ready to give her every satisfaction the law may hold her
entitled to. I think that's all . . ."

He turned confidently toward the door. "Now, Mrs. Mallison, if you're
ready . . . Come, Regan."

"What's your hurry?" Crane genially wanted to know, but quickly enough
to anticipate the storm of words promised by Folly's violent start. "You
admit your liability for unlawful trespass, I take it?"

"If Mrs. McFee thinks she can induce any court in the land to call it
that," Howlin stipulated.

"Outside of that, however, you've got nothing to fear?"

Mr. Howlin achieved a shrug which utterly abolished a suggestion so
absurd.

"Then be good sports--why don't you?--and stick around a while. Maybe
you might be able to help us out in dealing with Mr. Mallison. Going on
all you tell me, Mrs. Mallison don't owe him any good will; I judge she
ought to be happy to see him come up with. How about it, ma'm?"

The person appealed to in a touching twitter looked to Howlin for
guidance, and got from him a subtle sign which she may have
misinterpreted; not without excuse, seeing that the situation was one of
the extremest delicacy for all of them, and that the sacrifice of one to
the salvation of the majority is a time-honoured expedient with her
kind.

"Ask me anything you want," she volunteered, waggling an indignant head
and giving Mallison a poisonous look . . . "after the way he's treated
me, the low cur!"

"That's handsome of you, ma'm." Crane beamed benignantly upon the lady,
and with little less warmth upon the unhappy dancing man. "I won't
forget it, either. But first I'd like to ask Mr. Lanyard here a few
questions, to sort of clear the ground."

"I object!" Mallison stuttered in dismay. "I refuse to submit to these
star-chamber proceedings--"

"Do you, now?" Crane commented with much interest. "Well, if you ask me,
'star-chamber proceedings' is a mighty hifalutin' name for what's going
to happen to you right here and now, my lad; it's going to be a whole
lot more like the third degree, if you know what I mean."

Mallison knew only too well; fear lent those ingratiating eyes, usually
so gentle beneath their long and silky lashes, the wickedness of a
cornered rat's. "I protest!" he snarled--"I deny your right--"

"You better hush. Hoffmeyer here don't like your looks nohow, he'll
admire to improve 'em if you don't quit speaking out of your turn."

Mallison got a black grin from the patrolman and subsided at discretion,
while Crane cocked a meaning eye at Lanyard.

"Now, Mr. Lanyard, if you'll just tell us what you know about how this
man Mallison comes to be here . . ."

"Gladly." Lanyard had his story pat, it fell from a glib tongue. "I
presume everybody present knows Mrs. McFee's emeralds were stolen last
night from the safe in that secretary over there, under circumstances
which caused a certain person to be suspected--"

"Why so modest?" Mallison interrupted vindictively. "Why so
mealy-mouthed? 'Suspected' is hardly the word."

"I am desolated to disappoint monsieur; unhappily or not, as you may
care to take it, Mr. Crane was able to establish my innocence this
morning."

"Like hell he was!"

"Just one more nasty crack out of you, Mallison," Crane advised, "and
I'll let Hoffmeyer do your wife a swell favour."

"Strangely enough," Lanyard serenely pursued: "Mrs. McFee and I,
thinking the case over independently, arrived at the same conclusion:
that Mallison probably knew as much as anybody about the theft. Mrs.
McFee accordingly laid a trap: invited him to a little dinner-party this
evening, in the course of which she let it become known that the thief
had overlooked a valuable lot of jewellery which she meant to leave
unprotected tonight other than by the safe which had once already been
attacked with success. This made a second visit probable, if there were
grounds for our suspicions. . . . I on my part arranged to occupy that
clothes-press which you see with its door open; by leaving the door just
off the latch, it was easy to keep direct watch over the safe. Toward
the end of dinner Mallison received the telephone call which has been
mentioned, and used it as a pretext for leaving before the other guests.
He said good night to Mrs. McFee at the front door, but as soon as she
returned to the dining-room let himself back into the house and stole
upstairs. He was hiding behind the screen in the corner when Mrs. McFee
came up, but when she had put her remaining jewels in the safe and
turned to go to her bedchamber, he blundered--made his presence known in
a way she couldn't overlook. Then he tried to overpower her, to prevent
her giving the alarm. I was obliged to interfere and had just succeeded
in discouraging him when these people broke in . . ."

"Straight enough story, far as it goes," Crane approved.

But Mallison dissented wildly: "A pack of lies from beginning to end!"
he termed it. To which Lanyard replied, with nonchalance quite
unfeigned, that if they doubted his word they might ask Mrs. McFee.
Neither was his confidence misplaced: quietly the young woman affirmed
the substantial truthfulness of the tissue of misrepresentation which he
had woven so brazenly under her very eyes and for her benefit as much as
for his own.

"But one thing I want settled at once," she declared: "These people say
Mallison used a latch-key. I say he didn't--unless he has one he stole.
If they're right, I want that key. If they're wrong, I want that proved
for my own sake."

"Reasonable enough," Crane agreed. "How about it, Mallison? got a little
key to give up?" The dancing man shook his head, mumbling a negative.
"You can save yourself a heap of trouble by forking it over, you know."

"I tell you I haven't got any key!" Mallison insisted with what seemed
extravagant passion, while Lanyard eyed him in deepening perplexity:
some secret fear, inexplicable, unwarranted by known circumstances,
seemed to be at work in the man, desperation was glimpsing in his hunted
eyes. "Mrs. McFee knows I haven't--I won't be sacrificed to save her--"

"How's that?"

"Mrs. McFee," Mallison defiantly affirmed, "knows damn' well I haven't
got a key and never had one, she knows damn' well she left the door
fixed for me, so that I could reopen it by simply turning the knob from
the outside--"

"Oh!" Folly gasped, infuriated--"what a contemptible lie! Search him,
Mr. Crane--I demand that this beast be searched and proved a liar. He
must have had a key, he couldn't possibly have got in any other way."

Even while she was speaking events got in motion, not consecutively but
all at once: Mallison, stung to frenzy by his fears, whirled on a heel
and made a mad dash for the passage leading to the bedchamber. A sinewy
hand at the end of one of Crane's long arms shot out, with surprising
readiness, to clamp upon his shoulder and drag him back. He turned and
fought wildly. The policeman, Hoffmeyer, cheerfully waded in to lend
Crane needed assistance. Mrs. Mallison and Messrs. Howlin and Regan
thought to profit by the general preoccupation, but were painfully
surprised to discover that Lanyard, an instant since a dozen feet away,
was now planted firmly in front of the hall door and smiling a bright,
bland smile over the sinister grin of Mallison's pistol.

They stopped. Simultaneously Mallison found himself helpless in an
embrace which Hoffmeyer had fastened round him from behind.

"Cut it out, now!" the patrolman growled. "You kick my shins again, and
I'll shake every tooth out of your fool head!"

Panting and twitching like a whipped animal, Mallison gave in, and with
eyes of blank hopelessness followed the work of Crane's clever hands as
they turned out the contents of his pockets, one by one, and neatly
arranged their plunder on the top of the occasional table; bringing to
light, in addition to everyman's horde of minor personal effects, a flat
leather case which fitted neatly a lining pocket in Mallison's dress
waistcoat and which held a light jointed jimmy of the toughest
procurable steel with an assortment of skeleton keys designed to make
the most modern of door-locks tamely yield up its secret.

Mallison's countenance gave open confession of abandonment to despair
when this damning find was made; yet Crane was not half-finished with
him. The next plunge of his fingers fished a tissue-paper packet from a
lower waistcoat pocket, which, being unfolded, disclosed the purloined
emeralds of Folly McFee.

Crane clucked in astonishment, Folly gave an incredulous squeal of joy,
Lanyard a graphic start and stare. The others present reacted variously,
each according to his idiosyncrasy. Only Mallison made neither sound nor
stir. But the eyes he turned toward Lanyard were a murderer's . . .




XI


"Pretty!" The chuckle with which Crane let that priceless hoard cascade,
clashing, a stream of baleful green fire, into the cupped, eager hands
of its owner, ended the hush which had spellbound the assorted actors.
"Me," he pursued in high contentment, "I'm _convinced_! Now if you'll
slip your wrist-warmers on our little friend here, the dancing yegg,
we'll blow, Hoffmeyer . . . But le's see: I guess Mrs. McFee would just
as leave not treat the neighbours to the sight of a patrol wagon boiling
up to her front door at this time of night to cart this gay bunch
away--it might look sort of funny. So, if it's all right with you, ma'm,
I'll just get your butler to breeze out and rustle a brace of taxis. And
then, folks"--his tolerant regard embraced Mallison, his soi-distant
wife, her counsel, and the disgusted collaborator of this last--"we'll
all go riding round to the House with the Green Lamps in East
Fifty-first."

Neither did argument, expostulation, abuse, and threats more or less
unveiled budge him from adherence to this programme, to which one
prisoner alone entered no objection: in disgrace with Fortune, Mallison
demonstrated at least the wit of silence. Nothing he said was ever to be
used against him at his trial, for he said nothing. What, indeed (he
must have reasoned) was the use? What possible profit to him could
accrue through his protesting that the case against him was a
"frame-up," that Lanyard must wickedly have made him an involuntary
receiver of stolen goods at some time during their struggle? The other
contents of his pockets provided evidence too ruinous as to his
character and secret shop to give such a claim a ghost of a show of
winning evidence.

So Mallison submitted without any murmur; but the attention with which
he enveloped Lanyard to the last left that one in no doubt as to his
mind; and one less self-reliant might well have trembled to think that
next morning at latest would see the man free, "out on bail," with every
facility at his command to further plans for vengeance--else one had
either overrated the power and prestige of Morphew or wronged that one
in crediting him to Mallison in the rôle of patron.

The beck of Folly's head was brusque in deference to which Lanyard found
himself finally closeted with her alone in her study, the temper in
which she shut the door was openly one of direct impatience, his most
disarming smile was wasted on the face she showed him, with its lips
taut, brows level, and eyes uncompromising. To the "Well?" with which
she chose to prompt him in a voice too cool for comfort, Lanyard
returned a deprecating shrug.

"Well enough thus far, if you like; but this is far from the end. . . .
I wonder, is it waste of time to beg a service of you, madame?"

The even brows contracted, his impudence earned the blank demur: "I
don't know whether I ought!"

"After all," he submitted, "madame again has her emeralds . . ."

"And you to thank--I know. But still--!"

"And she retains that intangible something which is worth nothing till
it is lost, I refer to her--as we absurdly say--good name."

"Haven't I proved my appreciation by letting you lie like a . . ."

Folly faltered, at loss for a figure, and Lanyard gravely suggested:
"Like--I trust very truly--a gentleman."

"Well!" The efforts failed that she had been making to re-establish that
poise of impartiality which he had already shaken, she twinkled
outright. "And I loved you for it and lied like a baggage in your
support. Still, I think you owe me something more . . ."

"The explanation which I am as ready to make as you are to hear it, but
a strange story--"

"I can imagine."

"Forgive me if I doubt that . . . A story so strange it will hardly seem
credible without the testimony of one little likely to be suspected of
bias in my favour, I mean Monsieur Morphew--"

"Morphew!"

Lanyard pretended not to know he had managed to stagger her a second
time: "If you would be so gracious as to telephone the good man--one
assumes you know his number--"

"But Morphy's _never_ at home in the evening."

"Nevertheless I venture to prophesy he will be found at home this
evening, and not far from the telephone, either--providing you call him
without too much delay."

"Morphew?" Folly re-echoed as if she mistrusted her ears.

"You are such great friends, he won't think it strange if you turn to
him for friendly offices in your distress--"

"But I'm not in any distress."

"Precisely there is the favour I would beg of you, madame; to make
believe you are, to tell Monsieur Morphew that something so disturbing
has just happened, you can not rest without his advice. If you will do
that, I think you will find him more than willing to oblige you, to wait
on you here with all possible expedition."

"But what on earth--!"

"That I will make clear when you have telephoned. If you put it off
until the Mallison lot is permitted to call in counsel and arrange for
bondsmen, you won't catch Monsieur Morphew at home."

Lanyard endured gracefully the probe of mistrustful eyes, only a
whimsical twitch of lips reminded Folly at length of his exemplary
patience; whereupon she did a good descriptive bit with pretty shoulders
and plumped herself down at the telephone.

Committing to memory the number she gave the Central operator, Lanyard
saw the woman start when the voice that responded bore out his
prediction that Morphew would be found anomalously at home, this night
of all nights. But the ability of an excellent amateur actress which
Folly had once before proved to Lanyard's delight this time again stood
her in good stead, he was fain to admit he himself might have been taken
in by the ring of sincerity in her tremulous accents.

"Is that you, _really_, Morphy? Oh, I'm so glad! . . . Something
terrible has happened, Morphy. Please don't ask questions now, I don't
want to talk about it over the wire; but if you can possibly spare a
minute, come around and give me your advice. You're the wisest man I
know, and I'm in a peck of trouble, half out of my mind with worry . . .
How perfectly sweet of you! Yes: as soon as you can, I'll be waiting so
anxiously . . ."

Without rising, Folly swung round and mutely challenged Lanyard to make
good his promise. But he merely bowed the bow that signifies "Thank you
very much."

"Morphy says he'll come this minute."

"Figure to yourself, madame, one can with difficulty constrain oneself
to wait."

"That's no fair." Folly got up with a flounce. "You're not telling me
anything."

"There is so little time--and one feels sure madame will need all of it
if she means to remedy what one may, without intending an impertinence,
be permitted to term the quite too delightful unconventionality of her
attire."

Not in the least displeased, Folly demanded: "Are you complaining--?"

"I am seeking delicately to suggest it would be a pity to give Monsieur
Morphew any excuse for jumping at a conclusion which, however
flattering to my unworthy self, might prove difficult to correct, not to
say painful . . ."

"Painful?"

"To him."

"But you aren't a bit fair, you know, to keep on making me like you when
you know very well you haven't been playing the game."

"Madame wrongs me: one can play only such cards as chance deals to one's
hand."

"O dear!" Folly sighed. "I'm afraid I'm too impressionable, or I'd never
trust you at all, with appearances so black for you."

"Innocence," he modestly opined, "is so shining a garment, black
appearances can only lend it an enhancing background." She wavered
between a smile and a frown. "But you have trusted me so far"--judging
the moment ripe, Lanyard passed from trifling to earnest
entreaty--"surely you can afford to trust me still farther. I want you
out of the way when Soames shows Morphew in--let him say you will be
down directly, nothing more--I want Morphew to meet me alone and without
any warning. On the other hand, I wish you to hear every word that
passes; so all that seems mysterious now will be made clear. While
Morphew is busy trying to dissemble his joy at meeting me so
unexpectedly, you will be able to come downstairs without making too
much noise--"

"You aren't suggesting that I eavesdrop--!"

"Why not? I did as much for you an hour ago--and very much to your
advantage, you'll agree. Take my word for it, in this instance you will
have even more excuse . . ."

"Heaven knows how you always manage to get round me, but you do." Folly
went to the door, but there paused, looking back over her shoulder with
provocative eyes, pretty to death as she stood with head perked pertly,
her dainty body less hidden than set off by its frothy déshabillé. "And
it's well for me, I'm afraid," she confided, "if its true, as Liane
says, you're madly in love with another woman!"

She vanished, was heard briefly conferring with the butler in the
entrance hall, then scampering up the stairs.

"And well for me!" Lanyard admitted then, with a wry grimace of
self-knowledge; and forthwith closed his mind to the troubling concept
of Folly as a woman too kindly inclined, a thought it wouldn't do to
dally with for weightier reasons than that it was the truth Liane had
babbled.

Against this impending interview of precarious issue he had to make all
his dispositions, mental and environmental, in minutes of grace he had
no means of knowing how few. Everything depended on how soon Morphew
might leave his quarters in response to Folly's call, on whether or not
he would learn before leaving of the reverse which had waited on the
Mallison coup. Lanyard asked no longer odds than to have Morphew arrive
uninformed and unsuspicious; if he didn't, Lanyard would need to mind
his eye, likewise his step, if he meant to go on living . . .

Swift review of four walls and all they enclosed made careful note of
the heavier articles of furniture and their arrangement in respect of
one another and even more particularly of the four exits: the door to
the entrance hall, the draped opening that communicated with the
drawing-room, the two French windows that gave on the roof of the
extension.

Wall-sconces with shields of painted parchment bathed the study in a
glareless glow; these darkened, a shaded table lamp was left for all
illumination. And this in its turn having been extinguished, it was
feasible to reconnoitre at the windows without risking detection by any
spy who might be stationed in the vacant land back of the house. But
when Lanyard had gently parted the draperies and put his nose to a pane,
his vision spent itself fruitlessly on the welter of blacks, from dense
to dusky, that blotted out the kitchen-yard within its wooden walls and
the open foundation pit beyond. Footfarers on the sidewalks to the north
were well-defined by the bleak shine of a street light on the Lexington
avenue corner; but if any living thing lurked in the waste between it
was lost to the cunning of Lanyard's eyes.

Notwithstanding, he watched on, to make sure the avenues of escape were
not stealthily picketed in advance of Morphew's call, till the
house-bell dictated retreat from the window to relight the table lamp
and take the place and pose which Lanyard most fancied, in an easy chair
screened from the hall by the door that opened inward.

The professional soft-shoes of the butler padded from pantry to front
door, bolts thumped, the latch rattled, Morphew was heard to salute
Soames with gruff condescension, the colourless voice of the servant
responded: and having surrendered his hat and coat, the Sultan of Loot
paraded into the study with a strut (or the observation of his audience
erred) coloured by a lively sense of gratification in unction yet to
come. With Folly netted in his toils--no mistake about it, Morphew in
this moment was on the best of terms with the business of life in a
richly rewarding world. And viewing the man revealed in this humour,
Lanyard ceased to entertain a doubt as to the best course to take with
him.

Near the table whose lamp painted with stagey shadows his pale and
crudely modelled features, Morphew halted. He cleared his throat
importantly, consulted his watch, pricked an ear impatient for Folly's
footfalls on the stairs, frowned ever so slightly over failure to hear
them and, tickled by some furtive thought, flashed his rare, unholy
smile. Then becoming cognizant of Lanyard sitting quietly in his corner,
watchfully waiting, the man all at once grew taut in body and limb, like
a dog confronted by some sudden shape of danger, and wiped his
countenance clean of every treacherous trace of legibility. This much,
and the swift veer of his eyes toward the doorway, alone confessed the
facer to his expectations. The blinkless gaze that steadied to Lanyard's
told nothing. Neither did it put any question. Pending the first move,
which he was plainly resolved Lanyard must make, Morphew constrained
himself to a set of dull, impassive patience.

An attitude Lanyard was nothing loath to humour. If the enemy preferred
to resign the initiative, he didn't mind. If it came to that, he had
meant all along, if it should appear, as now it did, that Morphew hadn't
as yet heard what had happened in the last hour, to force the fighting.
He got up and performed his courtliest bow.

"Good evening, monsieur. It was gracious of you to come round so
promptly. Won't you be seated."

Morphew ignored the gesture that singled out a chair for him, but after
a measured instant observed rather than asked: "You were expecting
me . . ."

"It was even I who advised Mrs. McFee to call monsieur into
consultation."

The full, hard lips grudgingly released the monosyllable: "Why?"

"It recommended itself as the simplest way to seduce you into a
conversation which I meant to have before morning whether you wanted it
or not; furthermore, for me, by far the safest. Figure to yourself how
much more secure I feel in my skin, meeting you here, the last place
where you would have thought to find me . . ."

Morphew shifted slightly toward the door, a movement of impulse which he
seemed to repent when he found Lanyard in the way. "I came here to have
a talk with Mrs. McFee," he heavily stated, "at her invitation . . ."

"I have begged her to grant me the favour of a few minutes alone with
you."

"I've nothing to say to you . . ."

"That places one of us at a deplorable disadvantage; for I have much to
say to you, monsieur, and mean to say it."

"Suppose I don't care to listen . . ."

"It desolates me to feel obliged to inform you that, entirely by chance
and contrary to my preference and habit, I happen to be armed."

"Seems to me I've heard"--a slow sneer darkened the face of uncouth
ugliness--"it used to be your boast, 'The Lone Wolf never kills'."

"Monsieur says truly 'it used to be' . . . He will, moreover, wisely
remind himself that the Lone Wolf is no more, his code, such as it was,
is no sure guide to what Michael Lanyard may do when he fights for the
right to live his own life in his own way."

Another instant their glances clashed, then Morphew's fell, he turned
sullenly back to the table, fumbling, to cover nervousness out of
character, for his cigar-case. "Well: what do you want?"

Lanyard pushed the hall door to before replying.

"First, to give myself the felicity of telling you the great news."

Eyes beneath leaden lids shifted back to Lanyard's face, a gross hand
grossly crusted with diamonds brought to light a case of gold studded
with diamonds, but delayed to open it.

"Come, Monsieur Morphew! confess you are wondering what has become of
that zealous disciple of yours, Monsieur Mallison."

"What about Mallison?"

But Morphew had found it necessary to moisten his lips before he could
speak.

"He is, at the present moment, one has good reason to believe, wildly
telephoning about Town to get in touch with you and pray for a bondsman
to bail him out, when he is arraigned tomorrow morning for stealing Mrs.
McFee's emeralds."

The pupils of the little, flesh-embedded eyes contracted, Morphew licked
his lips again. "How's that?"

"Your protégé, monsieur, so neatly styled the dancing yegg, was caught
hiding in the boudoir upstairs, some fifteen or twenty minutes ago, and
arrested."

Morphew gave himself time to assimilate this ill-omened information,
bending over the gaudy trinket in his hands and making meticulous choice
of a cigar. He gnawed off its end, broadcasted the waste, put the case
away, struck a match, and through a screen of smoke and flame looked
back to Lanyard.

"How'd you manage that?"

"But surely one who couldn't--so simple a matter!--is not one to have
been honoured with the handsome offer you made me last night."

"I've put you a question," Morphew testily prompted; "I want to know how
you managed to put it over on Mally. Afraid to answer?"

"All in good time. For the present, I have the whim to point out what
dismal stupidity you have displayed in this affair, to the end that you
may spare yourself further discomfiture by foregoing any injudicious
schemes of vengeance which may be brewing behind that broad, impassive
brow."

"You swing a mean tongue in English," Morphew observed--"for a
foreigner." He cast about for a chair sturdy enough to sustain the bulk
of him, and with an air of resignation, his first voluntary confession
of feeling, sat down. "Go on, get it all off your chest; I don't mind
listening."

"Monsieur is too amiable. One can only prove one's appreciation by
endeavouring to be brief . . ."

"Take your time. I got plenty."

"Regard, then, my good Morphew, that last night, in this room, I was
drugged."

"Hootch?" Morphew sagely queried, and receiving a nod commented:
"There's a lot of wicked stuff being served nowadays."

"Four drinks were mixed for us last night, Morphew, by your man Pagan.
The other three were consumed without ill effects. Thirty minutes after
drinking mine, I became unconscious of my actions."

"Never knew a Frenchman yet could hold his liquor like a gentleman."

"No doubt monsieur knows best how a gentleman drinks . . . At the same
time, Pagan did his best, by means of hints thinly veiled, to prepare
Mrs. McFee to credit me with the robbery which was even then planned in
detail."

"Is this a confession you're making?"

"Planned by you, monsieur, and brilliantly executed by your henchman,
the dancing yegg."

"If you didn't know what you were doing last night, like you claim, how
d'you know you didn't pull the job off yourself?"

"One was waiting for that question, one knew it was sure to come after
the preparation Pagan had made for it."

"I notice you don't seem in any sweat to answer it."

"It has been answered for me. With her complaint of the theft, Mrs.
McFee communicated to the police the suspicions Pagan had been at such
pains to sow in her mind; with the result that my rooms were visited
early today and, like me, searched while I slept."

Morphew took the cigar from between his teeth and with an air of anxiety
inspected its half-inch or more of ash. "And nothing found," he
incuriously inferred.

"Nothing."

"Can't remember what you did with the stuff, either, I suppose?" The
cigar went back to its appointed berth. "Too bad. You must've been
stewed as a boiled owl, all right."

"Patience. Tonight, when Mrs. McFee called in the police to arrest
Mallison for having sneaked back like the thief he is, after leaving
this house in the character of a guest and friend, he was searched and
found to possess"--Lanyard made provokingly deliberate pause--"a pocket
kit of burglar's tools."

"Sounds fishy." Nevertheless, more business with the cigar told of
strain to keep up appearances under unrelenting study. "That all your
news?"

"But by no means all. Further search proved that Mallison had been
guilty of the amazing indiscretion of bringing the emeralds, concealed
upon his person, back into the house from which he had stolen them."

Untouched by Morphew's hand the cigar between his teeth dropped its ash.
"How do you mean?" he mumbled, watching his fat bedizened fingers brush
gray flakes from the lapel of his dinner jacket. "The emeralds couldn't
have been found on Mally unless"--the colourless eyes lifted to
Lanyard's face--"unless you put them there!"

"My gifts are small, I am hardly so clever as monsieur flatters me by
supposing."

"By God!" Morphew heaved out of his chair in a cold rage of
conviction--"you planted the stuff on the boy!"

"But," Lanyard pointed out, his suavity unruffled--"if you are so
positive the emeralds were in my possession before they were found on
Mallison, the admission is implicit that you had compromising knowledge
of the robbery. Else how can you be so sure?"

"I'm satisfied you stole 'em," Morphew growled--"I'm satisfied you
planted 'em on Mally for fear they'd be found on you."

"But why?" Lanyard argued as one perplexed but reasonable. "Have you
never been mistaken in reading the hearts of those whom you employ?
Remember what you must have known about Mallison before you reckoned him
skillful and unscrupulous enough to be of use to you. Was it altogether
wise, do you think, to trust such a one to resist the temptation to keep
for himself the plunder you had set him to steal and bestow on me for my
undoing? Was it wise to forget the least miscarriage of the scheme would
leave you unable to prove your tool had been false to your trust? Was it
wise to believe Mallison too dense to think of that for himself? How can
you be sure he didn't put the jewels into his own pocket instead of into
mine?"

"See here--!" Morphew stammered, equanimity at last shattered beyond
dissembling.

"Ah! but there I have you," Lanyard chuckled. "There I touched the heel
of Achilles--eh, monsieur?--your vulnerable spot! The truth is, you dare
trust nobody; you don't know that Mallison didn't play you false, any
more than you know now he won't, when the pinch comes, turn State's
evidence and betray you to save himself."

"Get out of my way!" Morphew bit through his cigar and cast it from him
with a violent hand. "I've had enough of this, I've stood for about all
of your damned nonsense--"

"By all means, monsieur"--Lanyard politely stood clear of the
door--"hasten to the police station and put the fear of God into the
heart of this poor thing whom you were ass enough to trust. You haven't
a minute to lose if you hope to succeed in stopping the mouths of those
four whom the police are even now, doubtless, putting through the third
degree--"

"Four?" Morphew checked short in ponderous dismay, his heavy head low
between his shoulders and swaying like that of a tormented animal.
"Four!"

"Bless my soul! did I forget to tell you? How unpardonably stupid of me.
The lady so lost to shame that she openly accuses herself of being Mrs.
Mallison, the enterprising Mr. Howlin, and his associate Mr. Regan--all
stepped with Mallison into the trap you'd set for Mrs. McFee, for
purposes of blackmail, and sprung it on themselves. If you doubt my
word, you'll find them all at the East Fifty-first Street Police
Station."

"If that's true," Morphew rumbled, barely articulate--"if I owe that to
you, Lanyard--"

"It is--you do."

"You'll settle with me, you crook--if you hide at the ends of the earth,
I'll find you and break you--"

"Ah! thanks, my good Morphew, many thanks!" Lanyard laughed in high
delight. "How generously you play into my hands. You confess you
employed Pagan to drug me and Mallison to commit a burglary in an
attempt to fasten the crime on me--you own your complicity in an even
fouler job of blackmail 'framed,' as you would say, for Mrs. McFee--and
now you add the cap-stone!"

Lanyard checked, then called: "Are you there, Mrs. McFee?"

The portieres parted that closed the doorway to the drawing-room, Folly
entered and halted, her slight figure now decorously clothed but drawn
up to the full of its inches and from the crown of the dainty head to
the tips of silken slippers tense with contempt from whose fire, ablaze
in her eyes, Morphew had the grace to flinch.

"And now, before this witness," Lanyard pursued, "you add a threat
against my life. It's more than I hoped for, Morphew, all I need to
insure me a sound night's sleep. If I don't wake up from it unharmed,
Mrs. McFee will know what to do. Must you go? Soames, no doubt, is
waiting to show you out. But if you'd rather I gave you a lift with my
foot--"

Morphew gave an incoherent bellow, lunged blindly to the door, threw it
open and himself through to the hall. The very floor of the house quaked
with the pounding of his feet as he stampeded for open air. The street
door banged like thunder while Lanyard stood laughing into Folly's
eyes.




XII


But Lanyard was one who had learned how to laugh without losing sight of
graver matters; the surface of his mood alone chimed with Folly's
delight in the confusion he had meted out to Morphew, his thoughts were
all a-ferment with perception of the worth of every instant lost to his
first duty, which was straightway to put himself beyond the range of
Morphew's exacerbated spite.

Yet he was hardly so engrossed with the more serious as to be blind to
his closer peril, the glow that warmed Folly's countenance for him
beneath the bright ripples of her glee; and in its unmistakable kindness
read but one more reason why he must let nothing stand in the way of his
prompt going.

The thought took him quickly to the table; he was lifting a hand to the
switch of the lamp when Folly caught his arm, her two hands staying him
with a gesture as gentle and importunate as the clasp of tendrils.

"You're wonderful!" she declared in a breath, looking up with eyes from
which mirth had been swift to ebb--"marvellous, the way you managed him,
twisted him round your little finger, made him own up to everything! And
I'd always considered Morphy a sort of superman, so wise and calm and
strong."

"Never reproach yourself with that," Lanyard replied with a twinkle. "I
too was taken in, till he made it worth my while to call his bluff. But
we mustn't forget all men are much alike: only so long as he fails to
find a way to call mine will Morphew respect me. My one hope is to keep
him at a distance--how do you say, over here?--to keep him guessing."

But the young woman wasn't so cheaply to be cheated out of her new-found
luxury of hero-worship, the bright head dissented vigorously. "Why,
Morphy hasn't a chance! you're equal to a dozen of him any day--and as
many more Mallisons and Peter Pagans thrown in for good measure. Don't I
know? Haven't you proved it here tonight?"

"The night is still young," Lanyard gravely reminded her. "It may tell
another tale, if Morphew's crew can contrive to lay hands on me before
morning."

"After he'd threatened you in front of me? Nonsense: he simply wouldn't
dare--just as you told him."

"My bluff. Not that I mean to give him any opportunity to prove it such.
But I shall need to move quickly, none the less . . ."

The hint he gave of a desire to be free of her hands got little
encouragement, indeed their hold tightened while she mocked his
professions with looks of disturbing admiration and derisive lips:
"_You're_ not afraid!"

"But I assure you I am profoundly afraid. I don't say Morphew would be
flattered, but I fancy he'd feel far less a fool if he knew how
thoroughly I am afraid of him. For we may be sure of one thing: in the
event of my becoming an early victim of some curious accident, Morphew's
hand will never show. He's not the thundering scoundrel I thought him,
but he's far too clever notwithstanding to order a misfortune for me
that could possibly be traced to his management. So you see--with
permission--I really must be going."

"But where, to be safe--?"

Lanyard's expression took on another shade of patience. "Time enough to
think about that after I've called at my rooms to collect some
belongings."

"But"--Folly held fast to his arm, with a little frown of solicitude to
excuse her persistence--"if you feel so sure Morphew means mischief--"

"Do you need more proof than you've had tonight?"

"Then surely he'll have set somebody to watch the house already--"

"The front of it, yes. Precisely why I'm anxious to get away before he
can set spies to guard the rear. If you have no objection, I shall leave
by these windows after putting out the lamp."

"But why?" Folly adorably pouted. "You're safe enough here."

"Madame will forgive if I make so bold as to question that." She let
fall her lovely lashes to deny Lanyard's meaning smile, but still held
on. "And every minute I linger makes the danger outside more real."

"Then . . . don't leave at all . . ."

"Madame is generous to a fault. She forgets the world is never
broad-minded. There are the servants to be considered, the
neighbours--"

"A lot I care what people think, it's you I'm thinking of!"

Suffused with facile sentiment, the face at Lanyard's shoulder was that
of an exquisite and ingenuous child, vibrant with glad recognition of a
world whose wonder and beauty had till that moment been all unsuspected.
And the worst of it was, she knew it . . . No: the real worst of it was
that it wasn't art, it wasn't put on, she wasn't coquetting, actually
she was stirred to the depths of her being and meant with all of her
every lovely nuance of her looks. Even Lanyard knew an instant when
nothing in life seemed more desirous than those lambent eyes and the
yielding mouth whose lips trembled with her hastened breathing. . . .

But an instant only; in another he got himself in hand again and steeled
his heart to cruel kindness. It went against nature to hurt her; but the
hurt would not bite deep, its tonic pang would leave no scar. Not for
the first time did life now give him proof of the readiness of a nature
emotionally shallow and impressionable to succumb to the glamour of his
ill-fame as a romantic rogue.

"Madame," said he with genuine reluctance, "would be so much wiser to
think first of herself always."

She argued with a rebellious face: "But I can't help it--can I?--if it's
you I must think of first."

"Nor can I help it," he gently said, "if I must always think first of
another."

Folly caught her breath with a sharp little hiss, released Lanyard's arm
and stood away, colouring but--strangely enough--not in anger.

"Oh!" she cried; and added with a half-smile of whimsical
self-reproach--"I'd forgotten. So it's true, what Liane told me." She
accepted a slow inclination of Lanyard's head, gave a small wistful
sigh. "I suppose she must be very beautiful. . . . Won't you tell me
what she is like?"

"Some day, perhaps," Lanyard vaguely agreed . . . "If you let me live to
see another."

"I!"

"There's practically no danger if I may be permitted to say good night
without more delay."

"I presume you must . . ." Folly wagged her head, with a smile that
broke in ruefulness but radiated in unaffected amusement at her own
expense. "What a silly you must think me, a sentimental little ninny!
No: don't deny it, because you're quite right. So that's that--and what
must be, must. Many thanks for my emeralds, Monsieur the Lone Wolf,
and"--she dropped him a mischievous courtesy--"more for my lesson. And
so--good bye!"

He waited with intention till, in a gesture of charming petulance, a
hand fluttered into his.

"Good night, my dear," Folly tenderly murmured as he bent his lips to
her hand--"good bye!"

Straightening up, Lanyard turned off the light.




XIII


Some time after four o'clock the brougham, curbed overlong to pace
sedately the interlacing mazes of the Bronx, gave a little start and
shudder of pleasure to find itself at last heading into open country,
with a soft deep purr crescendo flirted the dust of White Plains from
its tyres and sped away, ventre-à-terre, upon the highway which,
skirting the eastern shores of the Kensico Reservoir, wanders with such
a luring random air the lake country of Westchester.

That day, true to the type of those that render Autumn in the Northern
states the fairest season of the four, had been luminous of sky and
languorous with reminiscent warmth. But now--as in a field of pastel
tinting ineffably pellucid its sun dipped low to hills whose shadows
like vast purple wraiths crept sluggishly across the valleys and their
embayed waters, small lakes as still and bright and bleakly blue as
plaques of polished steel----now as the dim haze of Indian Summer took
on shades of lavender ever deeper and more tender, blotted up all
distances and robbed the wooded hillsides of their flaming
splendour--premonitions of evening chill lent tang to air aromatic with
incense of dead leaves a-smoulder in uncounted pyres.

Lanyard leaned forward and offered to put up the windows at the
chauffeur's back, but Eve de Montalais gave a slight sign of dissent.
"I like it better so, I love this air--if it's not too cold for you, my
Michael."

He smiled a negative, and taking the rug from its rail made her snug in
it. She lifted her eyes to his in lovely acknowledgement and, emboldened
by the closing dusk and the loneliness of that little-travelled way,
nestled nearer, cheek to his shoulder.

Thus, pensive with the gentle melancholy distilled by that hour of dying
beauty, symbolic of the cruel haste with which all beauty passes, the
lovers sat a while in silence; as, for that matter, they had, barring a
few brief interludes of gossip upon indifferent topics, ever since
leaving New York; not that either had too little to say . . .

"Michael: tell me you are happy."

He had to bend his head to hear that whisper, her lips brushed his cheek
with a caress so fugitive and light they might have been a moth's
fluttering wings.

"Never so happy, Eve."

"Tell me it shall be always so with us. Surely we can make it so . . ."

For all answer she had the tightened pressure of his arm; and, a little
chilled with disappointment, she said no more till, after several
minutes, Lanyard was moved to wonder aloud: "This country is all strange
to my eyes. Where are you taking me?"

"To a far-away place I hope you'll like."

"How should I not, seeing it is your choice?"

"A little old inn, Michael, tucked away in the loneliest hills. We can
be quiet there, and talk."

"Talk?" Lanyard made a sad stab at humour, hoping thereby to divert
her. "Is it kind to encourage my besetting vice?"

"I think," Eve answered, "you have something to tell me tonight."

"But you know it already," he parried poorly in his disquietude--"I
think you have heard too often what I have to tell you."

As if he hadn't spoken, as if involuntarily giving her heart voice, in a
tone curiously dispassionate yet determined Eve replied: "We must not
part."

Again he dared not trust his tongue . . .

The afterglow, pulsing through a hundred changes, faded, fainted, and
contracted, till a long, clear pool of emeraude alone defined the foot
of the sky, the profile of those hills within whose pleats night hung
already close and breathless. Through its dark, across gulfs
unguessable, lost lights winked, beaconing unknown heights. And the
spreading surfaces of still water on every hand, so thickly shadowed as
to be more felt than seen, grew wan by degrees with shine of stars.

Smartly tooled, with the sureness of a swallow's flight the car pursued
its fan of yellow light over the intricate meander of the road, its
windings, dips and soarings, while ever and again a bend ahead or the
summit of some sharp ascent would take sudden shape in a sheen of
spectral blue, heralding the advent of twin minor moons which, bearing
down upon the brougham with a startling show of destructive mania, would
pass harmlessly in a roaring rush; or some fleeting eye, crimson with
anger, would be raised and over-hauled and swept astern, metamorphosed
into headlights of blank glare rocking in feebly furious emulation of
that headlong pace.

The buffeting air grew cooler and yet more cold; but neither the man nor
the woman minded. His love warm in his arms, Lanyard was trying to live
for the moment only, to be oblivious of yesterday and reckless of
tomorrow. He failed, of course: impossible for one who loved so well to
be deaf to the murmurings of his heart against that resolution which,
shaped by his soberest judgment, firmed by his will, bade him put love
away tonight forevermore, lest harm befall her in whom love had its
source and whole existence. This evening together must be the last: so
he was fixed in his intention. But how tell Eve, how make her
understand, win her consent and concurrence? . . .

"Why do you look behind so often, Michael?"

"A bad old habit," Lanyard lightly lied, cursing his stupidity for
having let her remark that symptom of a mind perturbed--"a souvenir of
bad old days. Jungle folk, they say, never are wholly reclaimed from
jungle ways; the instincts of the chase are always cropping up in our
least considered action, we are forever conceiving ourselves, as of old,
hunter, and hunted in the same skin."

"My poor Michael!" The woman indulgently laughed. "Does he imagine he is
deceiving somebody?"

"But do you not forget"--he snatched at this straw--"that there are
motor-cycle police abroad, even on these back-country roads? Naturally
one keeps an eye out for them . . ."

For all that Eve had again contrived to put him out of countenance,
there had been colour of truth in his equivocation that had failed:
Lanyard's restless vigilance was more instinctive than excited by any
indication either that the car was being trailed or that the riddle of
his whereabouts was one of any present interest to those whose
malevolence he had sound reason to beware of. Since the previous night
nothing had happened to show that Morphew had succeeded in having the
devious way traced which Lanyard had taken en route from Folly's
residence to his own lodgings and then on to the modest hotel which
ultimately had provided him with a bed, or to contradict the inference
that Morphew had decided to profit by his lesson in humility and count
it cheap at its cost. . . . Than which last Lanyard could not readily
imagine any hope more infatuate: Life had taught him too well to know
the temper of the Morphew breed.

It was true, however, that he had been at some pains all day to keep
himself rather thoroughly insulated against news from Morphew's side.
The story of the recovered emeralds had "broken" too late for the
morning papers; and although Crane beyond much doubt could have supplied
helpful information, Lanyard had been studious to remain lost to that
one, too, entertaining as he did not the remotest wish to be haled into
court as a witness against Mallison.

Not that conscience reproached for the ruse which had brought about the
arrest of the dancing man as the thief of night before last. Even though
Mallison might in point of simple fact be innocent of that crime, the
severest sentence to which he was liable, if convicted, would be mild
punishment for the part he had played in the conspiracy to blackmail
Folly McFee; Lanyard cheerfully would have lied the man into a life term
in requital for that alone, and with as much confidence would have
looked to find the perjury recorded to his credit in the Judgment Book
on the Day of the Last Accounting.

But if by any chance Mallison should manage to set up a convincing
alibi, or even to leave his guilt or innocence an open question in
Lanyard's mind, the doubt would find fresh force that would not down,
new plausibility would clothe the fear that the Lone Wolf might have
usurped dominion over the body and soul from which the mind of Michael
Lanyard temporarily had been dispossessed, long enough to commit them
anew to ancient ways of knavery.

In this respect at least Lanyard was constrained to own himself a moral
coward: he shrank from any test that might result in proving him, though
all unwittingly, apostate to the regeneration upon which Eve's faith in
him was established; he held it torture intolerable to think that he
might, in the last assay, be found wanting in the one condition that
gave him a shadow of claim upon her consideration.

And with these thoughts a memory of later garnering lurked in the
background of his reverie, a presence terrible and importunate . . .
like a shape of horror stalking at the shoulder of one who treads the
echoing emptiness of a house called haunted . . .

Opportunely that spectre was for the time being banished by Eve's
announcement: "We are nearly there."

Its pace growing momentarily more moderate, the car approached the mouth
of a by-way where a roadside sign seared the night with letters of fire:
INN OF THE GREEN WOODS. Wheeling headlights raked aisles of pines
through which the road serpentined at a sharp grade upward, leading the
brougham out at last into a hilltop clearing where a rambling structure
sat, of undressed logs, with deep verandas and windows of ingratiating
warmth. To one side a few cars of earlier arrivals were parked. Indoors
an atmosphere neither too rude nor too sybaritic made good Eve's
recommendation, a discriminating taste had imposed the refinements of
today upon yesterday's primitive accommodations. A great fireplace of
field-stone nursed a blaze of logs grateful to flesh nipped by the night
air. Tables dressed in good taste and not closely ranked gained an
additional effect of privacy through low fences of rustic work setting
them apart. Of these a number were in use when Eve de Montalais and
Lanyard were conducted to one which waited in a corner, ready laid for
them.

Not long after, still another party turned up and was assigned a nearby
table. Lanyard accorded its four members the same shrewd but covert
study which he had already wasted on their predecessors, perceiving in
these newcomers, as well, nothing to re-excite a disposition to distrust
mankind in toto which was yielding rapidly to the blandishments of that
delightful and devoted presence at his elbow, a dinner most admirable
of its kind, and a wine finer than any a discriminating palate had
relished in many a moon; influences so powerful as to compensate even
his forebodings of the reckoning to come. Some acquaintance with the
ways of road-houses like this, broad-minded enough to produce a bottle
of sound Burgundy without so much as a gesture of deference to the law
of the land, lent strength to the apprehension that, when Lanyard had
settled his score, he would bear away from the Inn of the Green Woods a
purse as thin as his expectation of a dull old age. And never a hope of
being able to replenish it before the next quarterly remittance day, two
months away!

A thought to drive a man in love distracted who had no other worries
tearing at his heart. With all his might Lanyard tried to put it out of
mind lest it shadow his mood too evidently to be misread. Eve must never
be permitted to suspect that pride of penury had anything to do with his
decision to make an end tonight of relations which, however heartrending
the wrench that must sever them, love worthy of its inspiration might no
longer sanction.

Either the wine or his anxiety to seem at ease loosened his tongue and
enlivened his wit, Lanyard found himself talking with a humour and a
verve that enabled him to ride cavalierly over awareness of the look in
the eyes so constant to his, a look in which perplexity and patience too
constantly found place. But all the while he was half-consciously
preparing for the challenge which came when, with the room to themselves
but for one other party of diners, they lingered over coffee and
cigarettes before the fire.

"When are you going to tell me, Michael, what is on your mind?"

Words quietly spoken, like drops of cool water added one by one to the
seething contents of a test tube, precipitating the elements of the
situation between them. And he who had no small conceit in the readiness
with which he was wont to deal with others, experienced now a moment of
mental flurry, lost the thread of his argument, and stared helplessly
into those smiling but intent eyes. She was finished, he had to
recognize, with forbearance; nevertheless he could not but make one last
attempt to stave off the inevitable.

"What should there be, Eve, more than you know?"

"Do you really want me to believe you have forgotten our talk, the other
night at the Ritz, the discussion you yourself started and that, at my
request, we didn't finish?"

"Must we recall that now?"

"It isn't like you, Michael, to palter . . . We aren't children any
more, my dear; you know my mind and I know yours--at least in part. I
love you and want you for my husband; but you won't ask me to marry you,
of your own volition you have raised up the ghost of your dead yesterday
to stand between us and"--she had a smile for the verbal
extravagance--"forbid the banns! But I have refused to be frightened by
bogeys. With that we left the question open, night before last; since
when something has happened." She nodded gravely: "Tell me,
Michael . . ."

"What makes you think--?"

"You love me too well to distress me needlessly by leaving a matter so
vital in suspense. If nothing had occurred to make you hesitate, for
fear of giving me pain, you wouldn't be trying so hard to talk about
everything imaginable but the one thing that counts."

He gave his head a tormented shake. "Is it not enough that, the more I
weigh the circumstances, the more sure I feel I am right?--the only way
to be fair to you is to take myself out of your life."

"But it seems to me I am the one to say what is fair or unfair to me.
After all, my happiness is at stake."

"Not more than mine."

"Much more than yours. You are selfish, Michael--not meaning to be, but
because you would hurt me to my very heart to spare yourself
self-reproach, if ever after our marriage anything should come out of
the past to trouble us. As if anything matters to a woman who loves, so
long as she is well loved in return!"

"You show me to myself in an unkind light . . ."

"I am using every weapon I can find in my fight with life for the right
to be happy."

"I would break my own heart rather than cause you an instant's
unhappiness . . ."

"You think so, dear. But you at least would have the memory of an act of
renunciation to console you--you could say to yourself: 'I suffer, but
for her sake.' For me there would be only the knowledge that I had been
cheated out of my due. I have the right to claim more of life than it
has given me . . ."

The voice of melancholy music faltered, then resumed: "The War took my
husband from me before I was old enough to know what love could mean.
Now, long after, I have found a greater love--and I am required to give
it up solely because you are afraid somebody may some day tell me what I
already knew, that once upon a time you were a little lower than the
angels!"

To avoid the accusation of her look, Lanyard stared blindly into the
fire.

"I am not good enough for such a love as yours, Eve."

"Perhaps no one of us is good enough for Love. Yet we can try to be, by
serving . . ."

Lanyard hung his head; and in accents of quiet conviction Eve de
Montalais pursued: "Something _has_ happened. I thought so, from your
manner this afternoon, now I am sure. It isn't that you have ceased to
care for me--"

"You know it is not that."

"What, then? It must be something quite as serious, you couldn't hold
out against me as you do if it were anything less. Michael: you can't
refuse to tell me now."

He made a sign of submission combined with a plea for time in which to
assort his thoughts. Indisputably nothing less than the truth would
satisfy her; but it might be that something less than the whole truth,
so sure to terrify the woman, would serve.

And while he sat turning the matter over in his mind, their waiter
approached.

"Monsieur Paul Martin?" the man enquired, with an execrable attempt to
give the words a French inflexion.

In his abstraction, Lanyard signified an impatient negative, but Eve de
Montalais was less thick-witted.

"What name?" she quickly enquired.

"Paul Martin, ma'm. He's wanted on the telephone--a long distance call."

"From New York?"

"I don't know, ma'm, the party didn't say, just asked for Monsieur Paul
Martin--party with a sort of a foreign accent, French, I guess."

Eve looked sharply to Lanyard: "It is for you--you must answer it." He
responded with a puzzled nod, though his memory needed no more jogging.
But was it possible? he wondered, letting the waiter lead to the
telephone booth in the office of the inn; aside from Eve and himself,
that alias of a day long past was known to but three people in the
world; and of these one was in London and one at last accounts in Paris,
the third alone was in New York . . .

But if Liane knew where he was dining, so far away from Town, she must
have been informed by somebody who had followed him without his
knowledge!

Not the voice of Liane, but a man's saluted him above the humming of the
long distance wire, a man's voice with, as the waiter had indicated, a
strong tinge of nasal French.

"Monsieur Paul Martin?"

"Yes. Who wants him?"

"I am spikin' for 'is sister. Ees this Monsieur Martin spikin'?"

It was Liane who for her own ends had nominated herself the sister of
Monsieur Paul Martin, one day in Paris long ago.

Lanyard answered "Yes."

"Pardon, monsieur: your sister ees too beesy now to telephone you
'erself. She have ask' me to geev you a message."

"Monsieur is most amiable," Lanyard replied in French. "What is the
message, please?"

"Prenez garde."

"What do you say?"

"Bon soir, monsieur."

"Hello! hello!"

But Lanyard worried the hook in vain: the other had hung up, the wire
was closed. . . .

_Prenez garde--take care!_




XIV


Lanyard took back to Eve by the fire the most dégagé manner he could
manage, a manner of leisured good humour that wasn't all put on at the
prompting of amour propre, that was assumed less in hope of hoodwinking
her ingenious intuitions than for the benefit of their fellow guests, if
so be it these entertained any latent interest in the reactions of
Michael Lanyard to a long distance call for "Monsieur Paul Martin," and
that dissembled better than he believed a sense of discouragement the
most devastating he had ever known--not on his account alone so much as
that he was not alone.

The quandary in which he found himself trapped, now that his eyes had
been opened by that singular admonition from out of the night, at once
cryptic and only too intelligible, was one that defied and, what was
worse, promised persistent defiance to the utmost of his resources, from
which extrication with credit to himself--or, if it came to that, with
his life--seemed out of the question. Not that he put life first: his
solicitude was nine parts unselfish, his disheartenment the fruit of
inability to hit on any pretext that conceivably would induce Eve to
part then and there with one whose company had all at once become
equivalent to a pistol trained on her heart point-blank--and with a
finger both pitiless and anonymous trembling on the trigger.

A strong statement, but one that by no means painted their predicament
an exaggerated black. His "sister" had never played her confrères false
or resorted to subterfuge so subtle to put "Monsieur Paul Martin" on his
guard against a nebulous or trifling menace. Liane owed Lanyard much on
an old score, she would have been faithless to the code of her kind had
she, having definite foreknowledge of it, permitted so good a friend to
go blindly to meet the fate prepared for him, whatever that might be;
such women are nevertheless jealous wardens of their own welfare, it had
required perception of a peril to Lanyard immediate and desperate to
work Liane up to the point of chancing the resentment of Morphew should
her treachery ever transpire. Witness the extravagant pains she had
taken to disguise her hand.

No: it would never do to underprize this proof of good will or to read
in Liane's warning any spirit but one of the most earnest anxiety. Taken
as she had unquestionably intended it, her "prenez-garde" decoded
somewhat to this effect: "You are sadly self-deluded, my friend, if you
think Morphew resigned to stomach defeat at your hands, or that you have
succeeded in keeping your movements hidden from him. He has never for an
instant lost sight either of you or of his revenge, he is playing you as
heartlessly as an angler plays a trout, gaff in hand--you must go warily
to cheat its barbs."

The dilemma thus exposed was appalling: a clean breast of all he had
been trying to hide from her was unavoidable if he hoped to make Eve
comprehend why he held it imperative for them to seek each a separate
way back to New York; whereas, once she did grasp the fact that danger
threatened him, she would surely refuse to let him risk it alone. Women
of her rare stamp are never readily dismayed or disposed to think first
of themselves if physical peril frown also upon one by whom their
affections have been engaged. . . . Regard the spirit that poised Eve
then in that juncture, awaiting his return with a countenance as
composed as it was fair, with eyes unclouded by any confession of
impatience or misgivings.

"Sorry I was so long," Lanyard said with intention to be heard across
the dining-room. "I stopped to pay the bill and order the car brought
round. If you don't mind . . ."

"It's quite time," Eve amiably agreed--"if we're to get home at any
respectable hour."

He resumed his chair before the fire and utilized his cigarette case and
a match to cover sidelong study of the four who had come in so soon
after his arrival with Eve, and who remained still at table, dawdling
with dessert. But he couldn't see that his announcement had meant
anything to these . . .

The one woman of their number was a creature of strapping comeliness
whose hail-fellow swagger was brazen that had been piquant in the
flapper she heavily aped; while the men were such as would hardly have
won a second glance on any ordinary occasion, types of the American
bourgeois case-hardened by "good business," clothed in a weirdly
uniform mode of smartness, something stale with over-feeding and
drinking and fondling, wanting stimulation yet inclined to grow
causelessly arrogant in their cups. But Lanyard was too well learned in
the ways of urban America not to know that its Apaches seldom if ever
conform to the cliché of the cinema when it turns its cyclopædic if
gullible eye on what it knows as denizens of the underworld. The gunman
of New York is blown with pride of caste; for all that he isn't keen on
bidding for the attention of the police by sporting the conventionalized
make-up of a suspicious character, he far prefers to pass in a crowd as
a simple man in the street normally addicted to the machine-made
"clothing of distinction" of the magazine advertisements. The fact,
then, that these three were apparently nobodies in particular minding
their own business, didn't necessarily mean that Lanyard could afford to
dismiss them from his calculations.

Neither did he, careful though he was to give them no excuse for
suspecting he had one thought to spare from the woman at his side.

"There is no one like you," he was saying in gallant repayment of her
steadfast and demanding attention: "the loveliest woman that ever
breathed, the most adorably patient . . ."

"How little you know me!" she calmly commented--"at least, if you expect
me to believe you think me patient. Then your message was important?"

"Very," the man admitted: the time was by when fencing were anything but
waste of time. "I am worried about getting you back to Town . . ."

"So it was Mademoiselle Delorme!"

"That only goes to show," Lanyard obliquely remarked, "one should never
tell you anything one expects you to forget."

"I have forgotten nothing you have ever told me about yourself--nothing,
least of all, that had to do with another woman's affection for you."

"Yet you are incapable of jealousy."

"Still, I am very greedy, I don't like sharing even the least of your
thoughts with any other woman."

"Oh!" he laughed--"but Liane isn't a woman, except professionally."

"You are tantalizing me all the same when you don't tell me what she had
to say--and how in Heaven's name she guessed you were dining here--and
why she resurrected that old nom de guerre instead of calling for you by
your right name."

"I'm afraid Liane didn't guess, I suspect somebody told her we had
stopped here to dine--"

The teasing half-smile with which Eve had been regarding her lover was
erased. "You think we were followed--!"

"How else could they have known?"

"'They'?"

"Who informed Liane."

"But why should she have harked back to 'Paul Martin'?"

"I fancy her reason for that is implicit in Liane's message, a brief
one--delivered, if it matters, by a stranger's tongue--'prenez garde'."

Eve nodded thoughtful confirmation of a private conjecture. "You are in
some danger?" Not at all deceived by the shrug that sought to depreciate
the weight of that term, she glanced quickly to and from the little
party that was, just then, noisily making merry at its table across the
room. In response, another movement of Lanyard's shoulders disclaimed
intelligence: "Perhaps . . . Who knows?"

"You must tell me everything . . ."

"I know; but it's a fairish yarn, and the car ought to be here any
minute--I'll hardly have time before we leave. So let me first of all
throw myself upon your mercy, Eve, beg you to trust me."

"But you know I do, in every way."

"I mean: trust me to know what is best . . ."

Analysis of this ambiguity knitted a speculative frown. "You're going to
ask something of me I won't want to do."

"It is dangerous for us to attempt the journey back to New York
together."

"Dangerous," Eve objected, "isn't definite enough."

"It would appear that one whom I have recently been obliged to humiliate
plans to pay me out tonight. He will fail--trust me for that--but I
shall be more free to make him see the error of his ways if I can feel
sure the harm meant for me can't by mischance be visited upon you
instead."

"Ah, no, my friend! you don't seriously think I will consent . . ."

"You would not hesitate if I could only make it clear how much better my
chances would be."

"I'm afraid it's a hopeless task, but"--she made her smile
provoking--"suppose you try."

"Conceive, then"--Lanyard spoke deliberately in an endeavour to put the
business in a nutshell--"that after leaving you night before last I was
thrown in with one who chose to declare war on me for his own ends--"

"The Sultan of Loot!"

"Why try to keep anything from you?"

"You forget, I too had a premonition concerning that creature. Who is
he?"

"I can more easily tell you what he is. He styles himself Morphew and
the Tenderloin calls him King of the Bootleggers--justly, one is told.
In addition, he nurses a penchant for having a finger in every lawless
pie. To discipline me, that night, he caused the loot of a burglary to
be hidden in my pockets while I lay in a stupor, drugged by his
direction, then saw to it that I was suspected of having committed the
theft."

"Oh, no!" the woman interrupted involuntarily, revolted by the bare
suggestion of such enormity.

"Or else--I must believe I stole the jewels myself, in instinctive
reversion to old ways, drink having abolished the inhibitions of the
new."

"Never!"

"I do not know," Lanyard confessed with a wry face. "There are
circumstances which make me uneasy . . . I do not know!"

"How can you even suggest such a thing?"

"Let me tell you . . . Last night I visited--or revisited!--the house
from which the jewels had been stolen, meaning secretly to restore them.
This I managed. I was even more fortunate in being able to bring about
the arrest of one of Morphew's lot as the burglar of fact--which the
fellow may well have been. Finally, to confuse pursuit, I quitted the
house by the way the burglar had taken the night before--let myself out
of a window to the roof of an extension, dropped down to a backyard,
scaled a board fence, and stole through an excavation for a new building
to the street beyond. Eve . . ."

Lanyard faltered and worked his hands together, his features wrung,
haunted eyes reflecting the enigma of the embers which held their stare.
And with a gesture of quick sympathy, the woman sat forward to screen
him. But these others seemed to be completely preoccupied with their own
hilarious concerns; and the racket of congenial voices they raised must
have prevented their overhearing anything of Lanyard's confession when
at length he resumed.

"Up to that time," he said slowly, "I had hardly questioned the
assumption that Morphew deliberately had schemed to victimize me . . .
But then, while I was creeping away from that house, quite literally
like a thief in the night--once upon the roof, again when I stood in the
kitchen-yard, looking back at the blank rear windows, and yet again
while stumbling through that foundation pit beyond the fence--at every
stage of that journey I knew a feeling as of doing something I had done
before, repeating the identical moves I had made at another time, upon
an occasion strangely forgotten . . ."

"Well?" the woman in cool amusement asked.

"Well!"--his smile sketched a wistful expression of bewilderment--"I do
not know, perhaps it was true, perhaps . . ."

Careless whether they were observed, the woman leaned forward and
lightly covered one of his hands with her own. "Poor dear!" she cried,
with a thrill of fond laughter--"to let himself be so tormented by a
sensation such as everybody has at times."

"Everybody?" he iterated in a stare.

"It happens to us all--has it never happened to you before?--a
phenomenon so common the psychologists have a special name for it. What
_do_ they call it? reflex memory? Something of the sort, I forget . . .
One only needs a new scene and a mood especially susceptible to
impressions of strangeness or beauty--and all at once one feels quite
sure one has visited that very spot in some previous existence.
Precisely that happened to you, last night, my Michael, in your
super-excited state of mind, worried by ignorance of the truth about the
stolen property in your possession. . . . Take my word for it."

"You believe that?" he insisted--"truly?"

"Truly, my dear."

"You don't think I could possibly--?"

"Never--I know you better than you do yourself." Eve gave his hand a
comforting pressure, and sat back. "If you let anything so absurd fret
you another instant I shall be cross with you."

"You make me happy," Lanyard said. "It costs me something to tell
you . . ."

"I know!"

[Illustration: A DIABOLICAL SHADOW HERALDS THE APPROACH OF MORPHEW, KING
OF LOOT.]

"I don't deserve such faith."

"But I don't consider you a good judge of your own worth, dear. And now
that I understand the situation--you've made a fool and an enemy of this
man Morphew, and he's conspiring to be revenged--tell me, what is it you
have to propose about returning to Town?"

"I want you to let me find my way back alone. I have consulted road-maps
and time-tables posted in the office here. There's a train for New York
from the nearest station"--Lanyard glanced at the watch on his
wrist--"in about half an hour. . . . Which reminds me, your driver is
taking his time."

"Patience. He's always tinkering with the motor--he'll be ready any
minute. You were saying--?"

"I want you to let me drop you at the railroad and take the train back
to Town, with your chauffeur for protection, while I go on in the car."

Undisguised derision honoured this proposal. "But why should I, when it
is you, not I, the Sultan of Loot is after? If the train can be
considered safe, surely you're the one--"

"You forget, Morphew's people will aim at your motor-car, believing me
to be in it whether I am or not. If I should succeed in leaving it
unobserved, they would still pursue the car. You can't ask me to expose
you to a danger from which I turn tail."

"Then why shouldn't we both take the train?"

"It is what you American call an accomodation--stops at every station.
If we should abandon your car to be found near the railroad, it would be
too simple to have the train anticipated by telephone, boarded
somewhere between here and New York, and the two of us kept so closely
watched we would have no chance . . ."

The woman's head described a sign of flat rejection----Lanyard's rueful
recognition of an outcome foreseen.

"Impossible, my friend. I couldn't dream of leaving you to shift for
yourself."

"But how else--?"

"I have a saner scheme. Why not stop here for the night? The inn must
have accomodations. . . . You see!" Eve cried in laughing triumph--"you
are trying to get rid of me when the truth is, you need me. Two heads
are better than one . . . But why shake yours so dourly?"

"I am afraid of your plan for more reasons than one. Daylight for our
return will hardly be the same thing as accident insurance. If you give
me my choice, I like darkness better."

"And your other reasons--?"

"If I stop here overnight, where I am beyond much doubt under
surveillance even now, I remain placed and give Morphew just so much
more time to close his net round me. And nothing I know of makes this
inn a sanctuary or guarantees the bona fides of the management."

"You don't mean to say you think the people who run this place--!"

"I have been taught to trust nobody at times like this. More than that,
everybody knows most of these resorts in and about New York that openly
flout the Prohibition Amendment are actively in league with if not
actually owned by bootlegging interests. I will breathe more
comfortably, I promise you, when--and if--we are permitted to go our way
unhindered."

"Oh, but surely you exaggerate!"

"Possibly; it's not always a bad fault, by no means so bad as
under-exaggeration when one's neck is concerned. However, it can't be
long now before we know."

Seeing their waiter approach, Lanyard got up and took Eve's wrap from
the back of her chair. But the natural expectation of word that the
brougham was at the door suffered a blight even before the man spoke, by
reason of the odd look with which he saluted Lanyard.

"Excuse me, Mr. Martin," he said with--or instinct was at fault--a tinge
of mockery in his supple habit--"the manager's compliments, and he'd be
much obliged if you'd step into the office a minute, he'd like to have a
word with you."

"Indeed? What does the good man want?"

"If it's all the same to you, sir, it'd be better if you'd kindly talk
with the boss."

"About what?"

"Well, sir," the waiter stammered--"I don't want to alarm the
lady--something's happened."

Lanyard looked to Eve with lifting brows. "If you will excuse me--"

"I don't think I will," Eve cheerfully replied, rising. "And I don't in
the least mind being alarmed. I'm coming along."

With a formal bow of consent, Lanyard folded the wrap round her
shoulders, then threw his coat over his arm and prepared to follow the
waiter. But the latter was just then peremptorily hailed by the host of
the remaining party with a demand for "the check"; so Lanyard and Eve
proceeded to the little office unescorted, to find awaiting them a
person of decent manners with an intelligent if at the moment somewhat
harassed eye. There had been, he began, an unfortunate accident, he
was more sorry than he could say that it had occurred in his
establishment . . .

"What sort of an accident?" Lanyard with a touch of asperity cut his
apologies short.

"If you and your lady don't mind stepping this way, I'll show you . . ."

Ushered out to the night, they were conducted round the corner of the
building to the space where, in the chilly glimmer of a belated moon,
the brougham stood parked with one other motor-car, and, near the
former, two men were stooping over something that rested motionless upon
the packed earth, one of them focussing upon it the beam of an electric
torch.

Lanyard touched Eve's arm, recommending her to wait aside, and with the
manager joined the group round the supine body of Eve's chauffeur.

The man lay in a limp sprawl, his face in that uncompromising glare a
congested crimson, mouth slack and drooling, half-closed lids showing
only the whites of eyes rolled back, stertorous respiration fouling the
sweet smell of the night--evidently no worse than dead drunk.

"I just don't know how he worked it to get like this," the manager was
protesting. "It's dead against our rules to sell hootch to chauffeurs,
and I'll sack the bird responsible for this if I have to bounce the
whole staff to get rid of him. But that isn't any comfort to you, I
guess."

"None," Lanyard curtly agreed.

"He was all right as long's he was sittin' in the chowfers'
dinin'-room," the man with the lamp volunteered--"you wouldn't have
thought he'd had more'n a couple. But as soon as the cold air hit him he
flopped like somebody'd crowned him. Funny . . ."

"No doubt you find it so."

"The only thing I can suggest, Mr. Martin," the manager put in, Lanyard
thought too eagerly, "is to lend you somebody to drive you back to New
York. Arthur here's a darn' good driver, knows all the roads like a
book."

"That's very good of you," Lanyard returned, with a warning eye for Eve.
"We'll be glad to make it worth Arthur's while, for neither of us can
drive or has even a general idea of the roads. But first"--the toe of
his boot stirred the body--"we would like to be sure this poor fool will
get proper attention. I daresay you can give him a room."

"Of course, sir--and I'll 'phone for a doctor, if you say so, though I
don't think that ought to be necessary. This isn't any case of
wood-alcohol poisoning, there isn't a drop of bad liquor in the house--"

"I'm sure there isn't. All the same, what he had must have been wicked
stuff. If you don't mind having him carried indoors, I'll make an
examination myself--I have a limited amount of medical knowledge."

"You bet I will . . ."

Directed by the speaker, the two underlings, with no noteworthy
enthusiasm, surrendered the torch and their leisure, lifted the body of
the drunkard by the legs and shoulders and, staggering with the weight
of that inert lump, made crabwise progress toward the rear entrance to
the inn, the manager following with the light while Lanyard turned back
to Eve with a suggestion clearly articulated for the benefit of whatever
ears might care to hear.

"If you'll make yourself comfortable in the car, I promise I won't keep
you waiting long."

"Thank you," Eve equably returned. "I don't mind waiting, and I do want
to be sure that poor boy is in no real danger."

Lanyard offered Eve a hand, but the door he unlatched was one that
admitted not to the car but to the front seat of the driver's right.

"Quick!" he urged in an undertone, and when Eve was in place doubled
round to the other side of the brougham.

But the manager was not napping. "Here now!" he remonstrated, jolted out
of his vocational urbanity, and came running back--"thought you said you
couldn't--"

The moonlight silvered something In his hand which might or might not
have been the darkened torch, and which Lanyard could not afford to give
the benefit of the doubt. Standing on the running-board, without the
smallest compunction he planted a foot in the midriff of the man so
forcibly that the latter dropped whatever it was he had been holding
and, with a yelp, doubled up.

Immediately settling into place behind the wheel, Lanyard released the
emergency brake, with the result that the brougham, standing on a slight
down-grade, began to move of its own weight even before he could locate
the starting pedal. Muttering a prayer of thankfulness, he meshed the
gears in third and swung the car into the down-hill road. At the same
time the two who had been carrying the chauffeur let their senseless
burden drop and started in pursuit. One tripped over some inequality in
the ground and plunged to his knees. The other gained the running-board
in a bound and aimed a blow at Lanyard's head. It went wide, and
Lanyard's fist glanced upon the fellow's jaw with sufficient weight to
dislodge him. Beating the air with frantic arms, he disappeared.

Fumbling for the switch with one hand, with the other Lanyard steered
for the maw of the road through the woods. For one more instant the inn,
painted with pale lunar phosphorescence, stood out in bold relief
against its background of blurred forest, while with the tail of his eye
Lanyard saw its front door of a sudden release a stream of saffron
light. Somebody shouted in profane astonishment, somebody stumbled out
upon the veranda and pelted toward the parking space. Then, between two
heartbeats, Lanyard solved the secret of headlights and ignition, and
the brougham, momentum sharply hastened, swept on into the pillared
tunnel through the pines.

At first, hands that hadn't grasped a wheel in years had all they could
do to hold the lurching fabric to a sharply declivitous and twisting
path. Then the grade grew more moderate, the way less tortuous, and the
car, obedient to its brakes, slipped gently past the fiery sign and
turned its nose southwards on the highway.

"Well done!" Eve applauded--"Oh, well done!"

"Wait!" Lanyard prayed, with the man in mind who had sprinted from the
lighted doorway toward the other car--"physical fact to the contrary
notwithstanding, we're not out of the woods yet."

His toe found the accelerator pedal, the motor responded with a
mettlesome snort and a drumming drone that waxed apace, the car clove
the night like a frightened cat . . .

After a mile or so of fast going on a road whose wendings required for
safe navigation a sure hand and eye, Lanyard felt confidence confirmed
in his ability to handle the brougham with fair skill and extract from
its motor the best it had to give. And when, before long, a rarely long
stretch of straight road made a fair trial feasible, he coaxed the
speedometer by degrees up to, then past the mark 50, without feeling
that he was tempting fate.

Toward the end of that dash, Eve, who had been keeping an eye on the
road astern, reported it bare of pursuing headlights.

"Do you mean to try for that railroad?"

"No--not now, not since things have turned out as they have."

"I am glad," she told him coolly. "This night is too lovely to be
spoiled by travelling in a stuffy train."

"Is it?" he queried in grim humour.

"Do you not find it so, my Michael?"

"I find it damnably dangerous."

"And I find it, danger and all, divine."

But Lanyard drove in an obsession of fatality . . . The road, a river of
oxidized silver threading an upland world of purples and blacks in
blended masses and ever and again opening up vistas of long valleys
filled with mist like streams of milk, was a gauntlet of deadly perils.
In the blue bowl of the sky it bleached the misshapen moon like a
grinning devil-mask swung from side to side of the devious way. The vast
stillness that dwelt upon the world beneath had a brooding effect as of
beauty holding its breath in dread. Through that somehow abnormal hush
the swaying bulk of the brougham bored like something wild of eye and
mad with fear. The wind its flight created had an insane whine, and the
incessant drum of its exhaust, echoing from hard smooth surfaces, was
re-echoed by hills and woods and fields with a rumour as of tom-toms
thrumming a bacchanal of death . . .

But to the woman who loved Lanyard it was all divine . . .

Summing up another survey of the road behind, she declared: "There is
nothing. You have outwitted and distanced them."

"Have I?"

"Is there more to fear?"

"But everything."

"Even an open road?"

"Who can say what may lie in wait for us round the next bend?"

"What does it matter, so we go to meet it together?"

Neither daring to take his eyes from the streaming road nor knowing how
to answer her, Lanyard gave only a groan.

"I fear nothing but to be parted from you. Promise we shall never part."

He could not promise . . .

"Michael!" the heartbreaking voice at his shoulder insisted--"why don't
you answer me? Surely you can't still be thinking I will ever let you
go?"

He contrived to say, almost explosively: "But I must."

"Ah, no, no! Michael, you couldn't hurt me so."

"Is not tonight enough to prove to you no man who loved you truly could
consent to expose you to such a life? It is my fate to love you too
well . . ."

What the woman said to that was lost in the blast of a tyre blown out on
one of the front wheels. An instantaneous swerve toward a ditch by the
roadside all but wrenched the wheel out of control and resulted in a
wreck. As it was, frantic work averted that disaster by the slenderest
of scrapes. With locked brakes the brougham skidded drunkenly and rolled
to a halt broadside to a bluff over across from the ditch.

With amazing self-command, Lanyard suffered never a syllable of a
seething vocabulary to escape his lips as he unlatched the door and
leaped down. An instant later Eve on her side alighted and came round to
join him. Together, they contemplated in silence the ruptured tyre and
the two good spares locked in their rack--and the key in the pocket of a
chauffeur sleeping off his drink in the Inn of the Green Woods, fifteen
miles or more away!

From contemplation of this bad business, Lanyard turned to consider
their position, and found it equally bad. The car stood, as far off the
road as it could be, but nevertheless somewhat blocking its narrow
width, on the waist of an S bend, with a hillside blinding the approach
on one hand, a wilderness of young forest on the other. And even as the
thought formed that it would be well to move on at once, headlights
illuminated the curve ahead, then swung into view, and a car coming from
the direction of New York bore down at nothing less than forty miles an
hour.

Lanyard had barely time to catch Eve by the arm and drag her out of its
path, a maneuvre which took them both to the side of the road bordered
by the ditch. Simultaneously the bellow of an unmuffled exhaust told of
the approach of another car from the opposite direction. When Lanyard
first saw it, it was less than a hundred feet distant, moving at a
terrific rate--and running without lights!

So that was why Eve had been able to detect no sign of pursuit . . .

The first car, forced by the stationary brougham to sheer to the wrong
side of the road, loosed upon the night a blare of frenzy. Through this
penetrated Eve's wail of terror. Lanyard swung to her like a maniac,
seized the woman and, exerting every ounce of his strength, caught her
up bodily and flung her off the road, into the ditch.

Too late to save himself . . .

The moon, reeling in its blanched blue field, was a scimitar of white
flame. It swooped down through the firmament as might the wrath of God.
The world like a bomb exploded beneath his feet; a quivering mass of
agony, he was hurled far and far into an everlasting abyss of night
impenetrable . . .




XV


Pain that threatened to rend his head asunder played before his eyes in
blinding flashes, like ragged lightning, crimson and soundless--or the
man was deaf to its thunders whose every other faculty was numb in
subjugation to sense of pain intolerable, who was faint with pain, sick
with it . . .

Hands clipped his body under the arm-pits, a thin, far rumour of
articulate noise pronounced some stupidity which he made no attempt
either to comprehend or to acknowledge. Arms wrapped round him from
behind tightened, heaved, he was set upon unsteady feet, then
half-carried, half-guided to an angle of some sort and propped up in it,
with arms resting on two broad, plane surfaces, elbow-high. A rudely
genial voice volunteered: "There you are, sir, and no 'arm done. Now
you'll do nicely."

Lanyard wanted to tell the speaker he was a fool, it was impossible for
one to have come through that motor wreck, impossible for any mortal to
have been caught between two heavy cars meeting head-on in headlong
flight, without incurring desperate if not deadly injuries. How
reasonable and true that was this pain proved that racked him from head
to foot, but more particularly his head, and made him want to retch,
pain so acute it paralyzed the very instinct to complain . . .

His tongue temporarily refusing its office, Lanyard contented himself
with a grunt through locked teeth; and because his knees were as water,
hung on with both hands to the rounded surfaces that met behind his back
to form the angle, till presently the pain grew less, the feeling of
nausea passed off, his senses renewed contact with their environment and
flashed strange tidings to his brain in respect of conditions they could
neither grasp nor accomodate themselves to.

Some moron (he inferred) had taken to amusing himself with the
headlights of one of the motor-cars, switching them on and off while
they stared Lanyard full in the face at such close range that he was
conscious of the heat they generated between the spaces of darkness.
Furthermore, a storm of sorts had evidently sprung up out of that clear
midnight sky: he remembered well how cloudless it had been just before
the collision, how bright with mockery the gibbous moon; the boding calm
which had bound everything in Nature he recalled distinctly, too. But
now a great wind was shrieking like a warlock, gusts of warm rain
spattered the flesh of his face, the very earth beneath him was
convulsed, bucking and rocking like a wild mustang, and the keen, sweet
smell of the inland night had given place to the salt breath of the
sea . . .

Lanyard opened his eyes, only to close them tight the next instant and
shut out what indisputably was the delusion of a mind deranged; yet a
vision so vividly coloured and in every particular so circumstantial,
stamping the retinas with an impression of so much brilliance and
animation, that he could not refrain from looking again, if only to
convince himself of the sheer wonder of it--but half expecting his
sight, on this occasion, to be greeted by another illusion and a
different, if one quite as impossibly unreal.

He saw, however, precisely what he had seen, and rejected, before . . .

A length of steamer deck, looking forward from the angle in which he
stood at the after end of the superstructure, with deck-chairs all
folded and lashed to the inner rail and window-ports all fast; its
scoured planking now blue with shadow cast by the deck overhead, now
flooded with sun glare from end to end, as the vessel rolled in a rough
seaway. Beyond the rail a bright blue sky without a cloud, a horizon
unbroken by any loom of land, a sea of incredible ultramarine creaming
under the lash of a full gale, the sleek hollow bellies of its charging
waves a-dazzle with the sun's spilled gold, its flying spindrift sprays
of diamond-dust . . .

Forward, opposite the entrance to the saloon companionway, a girl
clinging to the rail, bobbed blonde hair fluffed out by the wind, filmy
yellow sweater and brief sports-skirt of white silk moulded to her
slender young contours, intent eyes turned aft to Lanyard. In the dark
mouth of the door a cluster of men and women, likewise staring. Nearer
and a little to the left a lithe young man of British stamp, wearing a
look of cheerful concern and the white-duck jacket of a steward, with
long legs well apart balancing to the motion of the vessel while he
watched Lanyard.

Finding himself the target of the latter's bemused regard, the man
grinned broadly. "Nahsty tumble, sir," he cried in the penetrating pitch
of a seafarer schooled to talk against the wind, and with an inflexion
that suited precisely his racial type--"and a wicked crack it did give
your 'ead and no mistike. Like a pistol shot it sounded. Thought for a
minute it 'ad done you in for fair, but it didn't take long to mike sure
you 'adn't broke' no bones. 'Ow do you feel now, sir?"

"What . . ." Lanyard's voice in his hearing was attenuated and strange.
His tongue felt unwieldy. "What? . . ."

The figure in the white jacket waved a hand toward the foot of a ladder
nearby. "You was comin' down from the bridge-deck, sir--don't you
remember?--when a sea 'it us and knocked you clean off your pins. 'Ad to
'ang on to the rail to keep from bein' knocked abaht myself."

Lanyard replied with a sign of exorcism, releasing the rail with one
hand to describe it. At the same time he shut his eyes fast and made a
determined effort to shake off the bondage of this fantastic dream. But
when he looked again nothing had changed, the hallucination remained as
definite and bright as ever, perfect to its last least detail.

"Feel a bit shiken up, don't you, sir?" The steward moved to Lanyard's
side. "I don't wonder. But if you'll just tike it easy a while, I think
you'll find you aren't much 'urt."

Dumbfoundered, Lanyard wagged his head, bringing about recurrence of its
splitting ache, which none the less led to the discovery that, barring
a bruised shoulder and elbow, a well-battered head was all his damage.
But this too he laid to delirium, as being a manifest physical
inconsistency in one who had just taken part in a motor smash of the
first magnitude. And wondering if exertion of will would bring this
lunatic scramble of a world round to its right guise of reality, he
fixed the steward with an exacting eye, the eye of a man who had made up
his mind to stand for no more nonsense.

"Madame de Montalais?" he enunciated distinctly--"is she all right?"

But demonstrably this wasn't the requisite magic formula, enunciation of
it failed to do away with those unbelievably factual circumstances of a
summer gale at sea and set up in their stead an autumnal nocturne of
moonlit hills and vales. Its only effect, indeed, was to light a flicker
of real solicitude in the steward's eyes.

"Beg pardon, sir: what was that you said?"

"The lady with me--was she injured?"

"But there wasn't any lidy with you, sir--you was quite alone, arf w'y
down the ladder, when the sea 'it us. I 'appened to be watchin' you,
sir, though not 'andy enough to save you the fall, I'm sorry to s'y. But
per'aps you feel strong enough now to let me 'elp you to your berth and
fetch the doctor to give you a look over."

Lanyard in despair resigned himself: the world had gone stark staring
mad and he was the maddest madman in it. Weakly he suffered the steward
to take his arm in a respectful yet persuasive hold.

"Let me see, now, sir: what was the number of your stiteroom?"

In unbounded amazement Lanyard heard himself reply without any
hesitation: "Thirty-nine."

"Quite so, sir. This w'y, if you please, and lean on me as 'eavy as you
like: I won't let you tike another tumble, never fear."

A door in the after wall of the superstructure admitted to a passage by
way of which it was only a step to Stateroom 39. Here the steward
considerately removed the passenger's coat and shoes and made him
comfortable in a berth wedged with pillows, then hurried away to call
the ship's surgeon, leaving Lanyard to nurse a temper of dull
indignation, satisfied that he was being somehow sold by his ingrate
senses, but quite incapable of understanding how. His head still hurt
like hell--there was a cruel swelling above one ear--and seemed to be
utterly of no service other than as a container for pain-impregnated
cotton wool that stiffled every essay of his wits to seize the meaning
of his present plight. After a while he gave up trying to think and lay
looking round the room with resentful eyes; to move these in their
orbits made them ache intolerably, but there was nothing else to
do . . .

The stateroom had been designed and fitted to accomodate three people
without crowding. Nevertheless it had every appearance of dedication to
the uses of a single tenant. A solitary dressing-gown and one suit of
pyjamas hung on hooks behind the door. One collection of shaving
implements and other masculine toilet articles cluttered the shelves
above the washstand. A lonely kit-bag, obviously on its first voyage
out of the shop, displayed the monogram A. D. None of these was Lanyard
able to identify as property of his. If you asked him, he could swear he
had never laid eyes on them before. But neither was he on terms of
visual acquaintance with the coat which the steward had stripped from
his shoulders and which was now oscillating like some uncouth and
eccentric pendulum from a hook at the foot of the berth. A garment
fashioned of the smokiest of Scotch tweed but with an incurably American
accent, it gave circumstantial contradiction to the feeling that one had
no business to pose as the rightful tenant of that stateroom; for quite
as apparently one had had no business posing as the rightful tenant of
that coat.

But the affair as a whole was past puzzling out by a head whose buzzing
mocked every attempt at ordered thought; and with a sigh Lanyard gave it
up for the time being, and shut his eyes to screen out refracted
sun-glare wavering like a prismatic cobweb on the white paint
overhead . . .

Consciousness was on the point of lapsing when the door-latch rattled
and the inimitable cadences of a British public school voice hailed him
with an affectation of friendliness whose falsity was more elusive, and
yet somehow less successful, than it commonly is in the bedside
geniality of the general practitioner.

"Ah, Mr. Duchemin! been tryin' to butt a hole through the promenade
deck, have you?"

Disguising instinctive resentment, Lanyard smiled amiably up at a new
face that proved a good match for the voice, the sanguine face of a
young man, cleanly razored, set with hard blue eyes and an arrogant,
thin nose. "Monsieur . . ." he managed to say, rousing on an elbow; but
the movement caused agony to stab through his temples again and he
dropped back to his pillow, groaning.

"Bad as all that, eh?" the other commented in a tone that somehow
implied he wasn't being taken in. "Well! needn't punish yourself to
prove it to me: I'm not fussy about fine points of etiquette, I don't
insist on everybody risin' when I come into the room. Lie still now, and
let me have a look."

"You are the ship's surgeon, monsieur?" Lanyard enquired with
difficulty, because his teeth were set to stifle grunts as fingers deft
enough but none too gentle searched out the sore spot.

"Well: I leave it to you," their owner replied in ironic patience . . .
"Hmm! worse than I expected. Miracle you got off without a
fracture. . . . Do you think I've been pullin' your leg about my ratin'
these last few nights? Or d'you mean my luck at Bridge qualifies me in
your estimation as a card-sharp first and a sea-goin' sawbones
last? . . . Hold still, now, and don't try to answer: I'm goin' to
sponge this noble contusion and decorate it with a becoming patch."

An interlude of intense discomfort came to an end with the announcement:
"You'll do now, I fancy; but if I were you, my friend, I'd take it easy
and watch my step till this hatful of wind blows itself out--which it
ought to before long, goin' by the glass."

"Many thanks, monsieur . . ."

A rising inflection made that last word an open bid for the name of the
person addressed; who, however, chose coolly to ignore it.

"And now, if you don't mind ownin' up," he said with a clearer note of
sarcasm: "What the devil are you drivin' at? _Am_ I the ship's surgeon!
Tryin' to make out a triflin' crack on the head has knocked you silly?
Because it's no go, if you are: I may be the demon Bridge player of this
vessel, but I'm a good enough medico besides to know that, barrin' a
beautiful bump, you're as right as rain."

It was anything but easy to school oneself to stomach such
superciliousness; but it had to be done if one hoped to learn the reason
for it, or the inwardness of those several other matters which urgently
required elucidation.

"If you would be so good as to sit down one moment, monsieur," Lanyard
civilly suggested--"assuming, of course, your valuable time permits--I
would be most grateful for your professional advice."

"Right-O!" The surgeon drew up a chair and settled himself in it with
the manner of a man who didn't mind humouring a persistent child this
once. "What's on your mind, Mr. Duchemin--more than your casualty?"

"To begin with, I should be glad to know the time of day."

"Why not consult that pretty trinket strapped on your wrist? Or was
that, too, cracked by your fall?"

Indignation failed while Lanyard studied the time-piece to which his
attention had thus delicately been drawn, with the more interest
because, to the best of his knowledge, the watch, unmistakably a fine
one, was none of his.

Through the concert of the gale three double strokes of resonant
bell-metal sang and were followed by a single. "Seven bells of the
forenoon watch," the surgeon interpreted of his own accord. "Does yours
agree?"

"Precisely . . . Monsieur," Lanyard said earnestly: "I should like very
much to consult you concerning myself in strict confidence . . ."

"Let the oath of Hippocrates comfort your misgivin's--and fire away."

"Then let me tell you something." After a brief pause Lanyard announced
with a deal of true diffidence: "It is now some twelve hours, or little
more, by my best reckoning, since I figured unfortunately in a motor-car
accident on the Armonk Road, in Westchester County, thirty miles or so
north of the city of New York."

"That's interestin'," the Englishman commented with a skeptical twitch
of lips--"especially in view of the fact that we are now three days' run
south of New York."

"Monsieur is not making fun of me?"

"No, thanks: that sort of thing doesn't amuse me as it does you."

"But I am entirely serious, I assure you."

"Haven't the slightest doubt of it. All the same I'd give somethin' to
know what it is you're so serious about."

"Be patient with me another minute, monsieur," Lanyard devoted at least
that much time to anxious thought. "Yesterday," he at length submitted,
"was the third of November, Nineteen Twenty-two."

"You're going to have trouble, my friend, makin' that statement jibe
with the log, which calls today the fifth of June, Twenty-three."

Lanyard lifted a hand to beg for grace, and did the sum in his head
while the Englishman sat watching him with what all but insufferably
seemed to be contemptuous amusement. But one couldn't afford to resent
that yet.

A double line deepened between Lanyard's brows. His first guess had
evidently been a poor one: the elapsed time proved that Morphew hadn't
picked him up unconscious after the crash, hurried him in that condition
back to New York, and caused him forthwith to be shanghaied.

"Seven months to be accounted for," he mused aloud--"seven months lost
out of life!"

"Oh?"

None but a Briton could have infused so much cynic incredulity into one
lonely syllable. In spite of himself Lanyard flushed.

"Oblige me, monsieur, by believing that, between losing consciousness in
that motor crash of November fifth, and regaining it after being thrown
from a ladder half an hour ago, I remember nothing."

"Astonishin'."

"Even so, not--I believe--a case without precedent."

"Quite so."

"One is misled, then"--Lanyard's tone was as cold as his eye--"by an
impression you give--no doubt without intention--of disbelief in my
sincerity?"

The eyes of the Englishman winced, he coloured in his turn, but with
anger more than with mortification to find his unmannerly attitude so
directly challenged.

"My dear Mr. Duchemin!" he uncomfortably protested: "When you consider
that one has seen a good deal of you in the last few days, talked with
you, dined with you, played cards with you for hours at a time, and
found you always a man of entirely collected mind, no different from the
man one is conversin' with at this moment, perhaps you'll agree there's
some excuse for one's bogglin' at a pretty tall tale on the face of it."

"It makes me very happy to accept your apology, monsieur." Gravely
Lanyard watched the face of the surgeon burn a deeper red. "And on my
part I am truly sorry to think I have put too great a strain upon your
charity. Yet--you must let me assure you again--what I am telling you is
the simple truth about conditions which I find profoundly disconcerting.
I am afraid I shall need time to get my bearings, and I would be vastly
grateful for assistance."

"By all means," the other said in a stifled voice--"'m sure."

"It would help measurably to know what vessel this is . . ."

"The Port Royal--Monon Line."

"Ah! a fruit steamer, I take it?"

"Right: you took it for Nassau, Havana, Kingston, the Canal Zone, and
Costa Rica."

"I think you said we were three days out? Then we ought to be not far
from Nassau now."

"This gale has held us back a bit, but we ought to make port by daybreak
tomorrow."

"One can send a cable there, of course . . ."

Either a mistrustful mind deceived Lanyard or the Englishman wasn't
happy in his efforts to disguise a thrill of keen inquisitiveness.

"Of course; but why wait? Mean to say, there's our wireless at your
service if you're keen to get some message off your mind, Mr. Duchemin."

"How stupid of me to forget." Lanyard's smile could be as charming as he
chose, and he chose it to be entirely so just then, intent as he was on
disarming one whom he had reason enough to think curiously hostile to
him, in whose manner it was impossible to ignore an undercurrent of
inexplicable animus. "But then you will be indulgent, remembering the
circumstances. One question more, Doctor--?"

"Bright!" that person snapped curtly.

"Thank you. I am wondering . . . No doubt you saw me when or soon after
I embarked?"

"Happened to be standin' by the head of the gang-plank when you came
aboard, in point of fact."

"If you could tell me whether that event was marked by any unusual
circumstances, such as might possibly shed light upon the riddle of why
I came aboard at all--?"

"Sorry," the surgeon answered; "but you seemed to be quite peaceable."

"Nothing to lead you to suspect I wasn't in full command of my
faculties?"

"Rather not."

"I was--alone?"

"Quite."

"Nobody to bid me bon voyage?"

"At least, I saw nobody."

"And my subsequent behaviour has been, I trust, discreet?"

"To the letter of the word. If you mean your smokin'-room habits,
they've been above reproach--more than one can say of most Americans
since the 'greatest country on God's green footstool' dried up."

"But I am not an American--"

"Never thought you were, Mr. Duchemin." Dr. Bright's sprained
self-esteem was now convalescent. The eyes he bent on Lanyard were
lambent with secret satisfaction, as if he knew something that Lanyard
didn't, and found this proof of his superiority gratifying. "There's
your name, for one thing. And then no American ever spoke such French.
Saw enough service in France to know the true Parisian accent when I
hear it."

"Indeed? So I have found occasion to speak French about this vessel?"

"Rather. You've been at it daily, and a good part of every day, with the
attentions you've been payin' the pretty lady."

Lanyard's eyebrows went up alertly, and he didn't count the twinge that
form of comment cost him. "'Pretty lady'?"

"Madame la Comtesse de Lorgnes. At all events, that's her style on the
passenger-list. Most fascinatin' and highly finished piece of work this
tub has ever carried."

"Good to look at, you mean, monsieur?"

"Good to look at is a feeble way to put it. Every unattached male on
board is balmy about her; and the attached ones aren't what one might
call unconscious when she's in sight. And every man-jack loathes you
like fun because the pretty lady has a hospitable eye and you haven't
given anybody else a ghost of a look in."

"Beautiful and--shall we say--not ingénue, eh?"

"Look here," the Englishman knowingly laughed: "if you keep on guessin'
so closely, I'll have to suspect your memory isn't as poor as you
claim."

"It is true," Lanyard admitted with an air of perplexity, "that name, de
Lorgnes, seems not unfamiliar. One wonders where, or when, one has heard
it before, if possibly this lady is some friend of younger years . . ."

"Not this Comtesse de Lorgnes," Dr. Bright asserted in another turn of
impertinence--"that is, unless the two of you have been playin' a game
with me."

"Impossible, monsieur."

"Then you'll have to take my word for it--just as I took yours--you
never met the lady before the first day out, when I had the honour of
presentin' you--at her request."

"It must be an echo," Lanyard speculated--"that name--from some
forgotten yesterday. I recall now--it is odd, I think--the number of
this stateroom fell spontaneously from my lips when the steward who
picked me up asked for it."

"Not really?" The surgeon had the laugh of one hugely entertained.
"There's another point you've overlooked, I fancy--your name, Duchemin.
Feel quite at home with that, don't you? You answer to it readily
enough."

"But naturally," Lanyard returned with the utmost naïveté. "Why should I
not, seeing it is my name?"

"Well! there you are. Cases of submerged identity always go by another
name while their first personality is under the cloud. But you came
aboard as André Duchemin, you admit you're André Duchemin now; and I
daresay you were André Duchemin at the time of that motor crash, what?"

"Monsieur is quite right."

"That settles it, as I see it." Conceit restored encouraged anew an
attitude of exasperating patronage. "You'll find it will all come back
to you, everythin' you've forgotten, bit by bit as the shock of your
tumble wears off. It would be a damned interestin' thing from a
professional view point if this should turn out to be a true case of
mislaid identity; but I'm afraid you needn't hope for that."

"Hope, monsieur!"

"Mean to say, you'll find it's somethin' much more simple and elementary
with you. You've had a bad fall and a rap on the head that recalls a
similar mishap several months old, and for the time being everythin'
that happened in between seems to have been wiped out. But I'll go bail
it will all come back to you inside of twenty-four hours."

"Why twenty-four hours?"

"As soon as you've had a sound sleep, that is--same thing. Let me send
you in a powder, and by dinner time you'll be ready to apologize for
tryin' to take advantage of my innocent and trustin' nature. What do you
say?"

Lanyard said that monsieur was too kind . . . "But a favour, my dear
doctor," he added with a tolerably crest-fallen air. "We won't find it
necessary to tell our fellow passengers what a sorry fraud I am, will
we?"

"Oh! I won't be the one to expose you," Bright replied with vast
pleasure in his ambiguity. "And you won't have a chance to tell on
yourself before the sea goes down a bit. Meanin' to say, madam la
comtesse is a poor sailor. But, you see, your anxiety not to be made a
laughin' stock to her proves that your memory is improvin' every
minute."

"One wastes time trying to deceive you," Lanyard admitted with humility.
"But there is one thing, I believe, that might aid my recovery: a look
at the passenger-list. Do you think you could by any chance find a copy
for me?"

Contentment with his great cunning sustained this shock with poor grace:
the surgeon frowned a frown of impatience mixed with mystification. Was
it possible this chap still imagined he had found an easy dupe? However,
one had to be diplomatic . . .

"Oh! very well," the surgeon said shortly. "I'll have the steward bring
you one with your sleeping powder. Though I must admit I don't quite
see . . ."

Lanyard forgot to offer any explanation; and when the passenger-list had
duly been delivered and scrutinized was obliged to confess that he had
exerted himself to no purpose. "Madame la Comtesse de Lorgnes" was much
too transparent an incognita for Liane Delorme; and the discovery that
she was a fellow passenger had been excuse enough for the surmise that
others of their common acquaintance might be keeping them company en
voyage. But if such were the case, the printed list gave no clue, no
other name that figured in it proved in the least degree stimulating,
none suggested a likely alias for Morphew, or Pagan, or Mallison,
or . . . Mrs. Folliott McFee . . .

Neither did anything reward his eager search for a name whose music was
like an old song singing in one's heart.

The list slipped from his grasp and joined the surgeon's rejected
sleeping powder on the floor. Lanyard lay with a face that mirrored pain
more real than that which racked his head, blindly studying the play of
rainbow gleams upon the painted ceiling.

Seven months lost beyond recall . . .

And Eve?




XVI


Within the hour thought flagged for sheer weariness of beating to no
purpose against that wall of oblivion whose featureless façade
sequestered seven mortal months of forfeit yesterdays, nerves grew weary
of the zooming wind, incessant slap and slash of broken water streaming
down the side, the tuneless crooning of the engines: Lanyard slept.

A noise of light knuckles on the door awakened him when the afternoon
was old and wind and sea had both abated, as the muting of their deep
diapason affirmed and that horizontal beam of rusty light which bored in
through the port to flail with slow and steady strokes the dusk whose
blue it strengthened.

Without waiting to receive permission, Liane Delorme turned the knob and
entered.

Most adept of actresses, she carried herself now with an air of delicate
audacity that would have graced a virtuous lady of a sudden turned so
venturesome as to call on a man in his lodgings alone. Almost anybody
else it would surely have taken in, even Lanyard found himself for a
moment at loss to account for this revolutionary innovation, a change of
rôle made the more confounding by the fact that Liane had gone to the
length of dressing it with garments of a semi-negligée sort whose
circumspection, though they were dainty and costly enough to delight
any woman, was hardly akin to the spirit that sported them.

But one glimpse of Lanyard's eyes, one flash of their reclaimed
intelligence, made plain the poverty of objective artifice as an aid to
Liane's intentions. It indeed did more, it struck pale glints of panic
from her own eyes, or something very like that emotion in the sight of
one who knew as yet no reason why it should discountenance the woman to
find him, whom she had sought of her own accord, awake and in his proper
mind.

She held a dead wait with a hand on the door-knob behind her, the other
unconsciously plucking at lace which, in this novel modesty of raiment,
clothed chastely that bosom of fine fullness--dusky eyes quick in a face
that wanted a shade or so of its habitually high illumination, lips a
trace apart as if with a cry unsounded.

But the pause imposed by her illegible emotion was brief of life, with
her next breath Liane recollected herself and, uttering a low sound of
compassion crossed the room to kneel by the head of the berth.

"No, no, my friend!" She spoke in French, her arms lightly forced back
to the pillow the shoulders which Lanyard was lifting. "Rest
tranquil--with that poor head! Thou dost still suffer greatly, my old
one?"

Lanyard mumbled a dashed negative with lips that were muffled, before he
could object, by lips ardent and tender, whose clinging intimacy he
escaped at length only by moving his head aside.

Happily, that movement excited only a grumble of pain, entirely
bearable; he was able to muster a smile by way of redressing the rebuff.

"I say!" he remonstrated in his most British English--"we are getting
on, rather--aren't we?"

The woman drew back sharply and, half-kneeling, half resting on her
heels, showed a face sad with reproach. "Hast thou forgotten, then?"

"More than I guessed, going on this bit of business, my dear." Lanyard
was firm in his stand against French; it was easier to be unsentimental
in sound Anglo-Saxon, a tongue that enabled one to avoid using the too
personal "thou" without administering an affront unpardonable. "What
bothers me most is this," he proceeded in querulous vein, a
self-conscious smile accounting for his neglect of the stricken eyes
staring into his: "I've remembered and forgotten much too much, all at
once. It's damned discouraging--you may be interested to know--to wake
up from what amounted to a sound long nap and find that seven perfectly
useful months have been stolen while one slept."

"It is true, then, what I feared!"

"Afraid it is, Liane, if what you feared was that a blow on the head had
bumped my right mind back to its throne."

Slowly and with a bitter smile the woman repeated the English phrase:
"'A blow on the head!' . . ."

"That's what did the trick for me--and I don't mind telling you it hurt
like the devil."

"But what of the blow to my heart?" Her closed hand smote Liane's
breast. "You complain with reason of having been robbed of seven months
of memory; but what of me, who stand to lose seven months of memories?"

"Pardon?" Lanyard queried, politely dense.

"You loved me well in that time while you were your old, true self."

"Loved you, Liane? And forgot! Ah, no! you ask me to believe too much."

"You jest--and my heart is breaking!"

"It's no joke to forget an experience like that, something which one man
in a million would be lucky to know once in his lifetime."

"One in a million!"

"I beg your pardon: I was counting in your unsuccessful lovers as well."

"But this is too much!"

With an abrupt movement the woman started up, to pause with face averted
and hands fast laced. As promptly Lanyard tumbled out of the berth.

"Forgive me, Liane," he said contritely. "I daresay I am a bit
light-headed, it would be surprising if I weren't, considering that I've
experienced something of a shock today, and not by any means a physical
shock merely--and am still shaken from it. You can hardly demand
rational behaviour of a revenant lately spewed back into life by a
psychic earthquake. That it was a strictly private earthquake doesn't
make its after-effects any the less unsettling."

"True: it is you rather who have me to forgive." With a spontaneous
generosity that shamed him, Liane swung back to Lanyard and caught both
his hands to her bosom. "In my sadness and pain I forget you cannot
understand . . ."

"Then make me understand. I've no one else to look to--and it would be
unkindness to leave me in the dark."

"But give me time to consider . . ." She let go his hands and sank into
the room's one chair. "It is going to hurt me to tell you, Michael, even
more than it will hurt you."

"And how is that?"

"Because, I think" . . . She studied him a while with troubled
gaze . . . "I think you have gone back to the ways of thought that
were yours seven months ago."

"And what is so deplorable in that? Ways of thought about what?"

The woman leaned forward to bend her head to his in confidence, but gave
a slight start instead and drew back with a veering glance, as if
disturbed by some noise unheard by Lanyard, then laid a finger to her
lips, sprang up lightly, and went to the port to look out. From this, in
agreeable disappointment, she crossed back to the door, inclining to it
an attentive ear for some seconds before opening it furtively to peer
out, and concluding the performance with an expression of alarms
allayed.

"I was mistaken," she announced, shooting the bolt--"there is nobody."

"Madame la comtesse was expecting--?"

She gave her head a shake of irritation excited by his levity, and
without warning whipped from the folds of her négligé an automatic
pistol, which she pressed into Lanyard's hand regardless of his efforts
to refuse it.

"No, take it--take it, I say, while there is time."

"But what the deuce--!"

"Take it, I tell you--you may need it soon." And then as Lanyard
humoured her for the sake of peace, she proceeded with every appearance
of offering a complete explanation: "That dolt of a doctor told me you
were unarmed."

"Bright? But how does he know? And why should he care?"

"Your effects were searched this morning, while you were at breakfast,
and the steward who picked you up after your fall took the trouble to
find out that you had no weapon about you."

"Thoughtful of all hands, I'm sure!" Lanyard muttered in amazement. "But
do tell me what I have done to deserve so much respect?"

"Presently," Liane promised in a hushed voice. She moved nearer and held
out an open hand. "No!" she insisted, and brusquely brushed aside the
pistol when he tried to return it--"the necklace! Give me that now--we
can come to an explanation later. Let me hide it away before they come
to put you under arrest--they may, at any moment."

"Indeed?" Impatience with all this, as it seemed, determined effort to
mystify him to no end, resulted in the pistol being flirted into the
berth, and peremptory imprisonment of the woman's wrists. "Now!"
Lanyard demanded--"come to your senses, Liane, be intelligible if you
can. Why should I be in danger of arrest? What is this necklace you are
raving about?"

"Give it to me first--"

"I know nothing of any necklace."

"You have forgotten; nevertheless, you have it. You told me you would
never let it leave your person, you must have it hidden somewhere about
you now. Find and give it to me before it is too late."

Her agitation was too truly rendered to seem put on for a purpose; and
though he had not the least inkling of its cause, Lanyard reflected that
in those seven months anything might have happened, the amplest reason
might all too possibly exist for the distress of mind which Liane was so
vividly portraying. Half-persuaded, he released her wrists and, stepping
back, ran the hands of old cunning through his garments, locating every
spot which in former days he had been accustomed to use as a temporary
cache for purloined property--and drawing every one blank. Winding up
with a shrug of fatigued incredulity: "There is nothing," he declared
shortly. "Now be so kind--"

"Nothing!" Consternation rang in that guarded cry. "They must have it
already, then, they must have searched you and found it while you slept!
The doctor spoke of having given you a sleeping powder--enough, he said,
to keep you quiet till morning."

"I didn't take it."

"They must have thought you had, or you wouldn't have been left
unwatched, I would have found it impossible to see you. You have been
asleep?" Lanyard nodded. "You have slept all afternoon, and soundly?" He
confessed that he had. Liane subsided, crushed by despair, upon the
cushioned transom beneath the port. "It was the same to them as if you
had taken their drug--the opportunity they needed. Now they have found
the necklace--you are lost!"

"But I have often been 'lost' in my life," Lanyard retorted, unmoved
more than by impatience with this everlasting beating about the bush.
"And at present I feel less lost than quite newly found, and so prefer
to think myself--until, at least, you consent to become more coherent."

Beneath the sheer silk perfect shoulders stirred disconsolately. "There
is nothing one can do now--one can only wait."

"Let me recommend you to study myself, then: to my mind, a perfect
pattern of patience."

Lanyard offered the cigarettes in an unfamiliar case which he had found
in his pockets, and when they were disdained philosophically helped
himself, while the woman sat glowering at the door as if to wither the
object of her spite, wherever he might lurk beyond those walls.

"That animal of a doctor! how dare he be so sly with me and at the same
time such an imbecile?"

"Oh, very well!" said Lanyard, settling into the chair: "by all means
let us begin with that good Dr. Bright. What has he done?"

"He came to me an hour ago, Michael, to put me on my guard against
you."

"Considerate beggar. But do go on . . ."

"The idiot would like to make love to me. He thought he might worm into
my good graces by warning me to keep an eye on my jewels, since it has
transpired that you were the Lone Wolf."

"And since when has that transpired--?"

"He told me that the captain had been advised by wireless, early this
morning, to keep you under observation until we arrive at Nassau; where
officers will board the vessel with a warrant for your arrest."

"Something to do with the missing necklace, of course."

"You're wanted in New York for stealing it. Your last great coup, my
friend--and you bungled it!"

"I did? Then I trust devoutly you are right, it was my last. From what
you hint, Liane, I would seem to have been leading a busy life of late.
If you would only be a little less vague . . ."

"If I hesitate to speak plainly," the woman gently reminded him, "it is
because you are dear to me, Michael, I find it not easy to say anything
that will give you pain."

"Console yourself by observing that I am prepared. You have told me so
much already, a word here and a hint there, I could almost foretell this
revelation you shrink from making." Lanyard shot a quizzical grin
through cigarette smoke. "I am accused of stealing a valuable necklace
and making such an unworkman-like job of it that I had to fly the States
incognito. It would further appear that I wasn't very clever about
making my escape, since my presence aboard this vessel is known and
steps have been taken by the authorities to have me detained at her
first port of call. For all of which, I presume, I have to thank that
persevering hater of mine--and friend of yours--Morphew. What a memory
the man must have! what a genius for bearing a grudge!"

"All that is good guesswork and substantially true"--the woman nodded
regretfully--"all but your suspicions of Morphew. There you are wrong:
he had nothing to do with this affair, Michael, it is all of your own
contriving."

"You tell me that," Lanyard laughed--"and in the same breath that I am
'dear' to you! It's no good, Liane: you can't be Morphew's friend and
mine."

"I tell you nothing but what of a certainty and my own knowledge I know.
Morphew is nothing to me, you are everything; notwithstanding, your
suspicions do him an injustice--he would have saved you in New York had
you permitted. But you wouldn't listen to me when I prayed you to accept
his offer of intervention . . ."

"That at least one finds easy to believe."

"And even now he would be your friend--yours as well as mine--if you
would consent: Morphew stands prepared to save you yet, if we can find a
way to slip through their fingers who await you at Nassau."

"But tell me how . . ."

"The last thing before we sailed, Morphew sent Peter Pagan to promise
me, if I could persuade you to go ashore at Nassau and apply to his
factors there, the agents who have charge of his bootlegging interests
in the Bahamas, he would have us both conveyed secretly to France, in
his own yacht."

"Truly?" Lanyard laughed again, flipped his cigarette through the port,
and sat up. "How charming of the man--but how strange! Who would ever
suspect that rude and unlovely exterior disguised so much goodness and
simplicity of heart?"

"You laugh because you do not trust me," Liane sullenly complained. "I
have for months devoted myself to you--this is my reward!"

"Prove me ungrateful, my dear," Lanyard lightly offered--"prove me
skeptical without sound cause and provocation--and you can ask nothing
of me that I will refuse you in testimony to my penitence."

A stare of new intensity enveloped him. He saw her countenance overcast
with petulance, an odd frame for eyes of singular wistfulness.

"You are wrong to tempt me with such a promise . . ."

"Why?" Lanyard parried. "Are you afraid of the test? or that I won't
make good my word?"

"What makes me hesitate is fear lest you try to make your word good
against your will. It's your love I want, Michael, not your
duty--another name for hatred!"

"Do you truly believe you'd find me so contemptible, Liane? You should
know me better than that."

"I know men better than you do, my dear friend; and when all's said, I
know, you are but little different from any other; only, it is my lot to
see you different . . ."

"Believe me," Lanyard began in some constraint, "I am not insensible--"

"No! say nothing now. When you have heard me out it shall be for you to
say then whether or not I deserve better than mockery from you. But I
prophesy you will end by forgetting the fine promise you have just now
made . . ."

Impressed against his bias, Lanyard gave a nod and nothing more; and
then, seeing that she still faltered as if distressed by his direct
attention, he crossed to the port and stood with his lean, worn face
ruddled by the sun's last rays.

It was going down in a flaming welter of rose and gold beyond a violet
smudge to starboard, a blind loom of land at a distance difficult to
guess, because of the glare, though its relative nearness was manifest
in the moderate sea that was running in its lee, all that was left to
tell of that morning's fury; for while Lanyard looked, a small schooner
swam astern, midway between the steamer and that dim shore, with
slatting sails all black against the glare that burned the waters . . .

"Proceed, then," Lanyard prompted at length, watching the sun dip and
vanish.

The woman's voice responded in a weary key from out the shadow at his
elbow: "First of all, you must know you were mistaken about Mallison. He
was a wretch, I don't dispute, capable of any infamy you please; but it
was not he who made away with Folly's emeralds."

"You say that, no doubt, because he contrived to establish some sort of
an alibi that resulted in his acquittal."

"He was never tried, he was granted liberty under bail and disappeared."

"And you reckon that proof of his innocence? Or is one to understand you
absolve the fellow on Morphew's say-so?"

"But on your own, Michael."

"Mine!"

"You can not know everything you confided to me after your accident; the
many curious secrets you told me, such as that you remembered clearly
having broken into Folly's and stolen her emeralds, beside yourself as
you were that night with drink, and rebellious into the bargain against
a social order that kept you poor and so forbade your marrying Madame de
Montalais."

The brief sub-tropic twilight was ebbing fast, night was sweeping
swiftly over the face of the waters to blot out the last lingering
souvenir of the routed sun. Lanyard looked down as it were into a well
of gloom in which a blur of spectral pallor swam, source of those
accents which were enunciating proofs of an intimacy with his mind and
heart that passed all believing.

"I told you that!"

A low unhappy laugh floated up to him: "But more!"

"Under what circumstances?"

"Let me go back to the beginning. . . . The night after that rencontre
of yours with Mallison, Morphew dined me at the Abbaye, another of his
establishments where the maître-d'hôtel happened to be a protégé of
mine from Paris of pre-War days--but Morphew knew nothing about that. He
had just finished telling how you had humiliated him before Folly, and
was making my blood curdle with threats to be revenged--O but you were
wrong to make an enemy of that one, Michael!--when he was called to the
telephone. He came back grinning hideously, and said his agents reported
having traced you and Madame de Montalais to the Inn of the Green Woods.
You would never, Morphew boasted, return to New York the same man. I
tried to wheedle him into disclosing his mind, but he was too wary, I
learned nothing; and the best I could manage was to bribe my
maître-d'hôtel, as soon as Morphew's back was turned again, to try to
get a warning through to you by telephone. Then I made believe to be
indisposed, got rid of Morphew, and engaged an automobile I had used
before. . . . Never, my friend, shall I forget that ride! not even that
night of our flight to Cherbourg from Paris was its equal for
wildness . . . if you remember . . ."

A hand found Lanyard's in the mirk and clasped it tightly. He suffered
it, replying simply: "I remember."

"Let me tell you, Michael, when we swung wide to clear your automobile
by the roadside, and that other in which Morphew's people were pursuing
you came hurtling toward us like a juggernaut gone mad, I did not hope
to live another minute. As it turned out, my hired car came through with
a crumpled fender for all damage. It was the other cannoned off and
turned turtle in the ditch. The men in it escaped somehow with their
lives, though they crawled back to the road too badly shaken to be
dangerous. I left them trying to fit a tyre from their wrecked car to
yours, and took you and Madame de Montalais back to New York with me.
She had wrenched an ankle falling into the ditch when you threw her off
the road, and was unable to walk; otherwise she had come to no harm. But
you--it seemed a miracle you lived . . .

"You had your right arm and two ribs broken, and a great gash in your
head--you'll find the scar under your hair. The surgeons said it meant
concussion of the brain, you might survive but never could be your
mental self again. It was two months before you were able to talk
connectedly, more than a few words at a time. I took you to my apartment
from the hospital, and myself nursed you through your convalescence. As
it progressed, one saw that mentally as well as bodily your recovery
would be complete--it was your spirit had been wounded beyond repair.
All your old vivacity was gone, Michael, you never laughed; you seemed
fond of having me near you, but fonder still of being solitary, sitting
all alone with your black thoughts, brooding . . .

"Madame de Montalais came to see you daily. She, too, was quick to
observe the change. I never knew what passed between you, naturally; but
that you were neither of you happy it was easy to perceive. One day she
called when I was out; I met her, leaving, as I returned--she had been
weeping. She never called again. Not long after, her name appeared in
the newspapers as one of the notables sailing on the Paris for
France . . ."

The voice in the darkness ran out, Lanyard's hand was freed, a long
pause was filled with the throbbing of the engines, the hiss and suck of
water down the side, the mellow calling of the ship's bell.

In dull abstraction Lanyard counted its strokes: seven bells, half past
seven o'clock.

The port, a square of ultramarine let into a blank black wall, framed a
nocturne, silken swells with dusky bosoms stung by starlight, on the
nearest point of land a great red constant star following the progress
of the steamer with unfriendly stare, somewhat astern another of
sardonic green, far ahead, low upon the horizon, a third, more volatile,
winking white and white. . . . A thought like flotsam drifted with the
dark tide of despond: A long swim to either light, even for a man in his
prime . . .

Lanyard heard flat metallic tones pronounce: "Continue, if you
please"--and realized that he had heard himself speaking.

"You never told me what had happened, but I was soon able to guess. A
day or so later--I remember, it was the first day when you were
permitted to walk about a bit--you opened your heart to me in a way I
hadn't looked for, and made mine very sad for you. You told me how your
memory of that affair at Folly's had become clear and positive, somehow,
in sequence to your accident, and had satisfied you there could be no
profit for any man in contending against his nature, the arbiter of his
fate. Nature, you said, had formed you a thief and an enemy of
society--you had grown resigned to give over struggling to be other than
as you had been made. I told you, no matter what you might do, I would
always be your friend--more, if you would. You were sweet to me that
night, Michael, without committing yourself to definite promises; but
the next day you disappeared. I was out for the afternoon, and neither
of the maids saw you leave. You took nothing with you but the clothing
you wore. I neither saw nor heard from you for many weeks. But New York
did . . ."

Lanyard all at once swung round, caught the seated woman roughly by her
shoulders, by main strength lifted her to her feet, and with hard eyes
searched the face revealed by the dull blue glimmer seeping in through
the port.

"Is this the truth you are telling me, Liane?"

Pliant and passive in his hands, she answered: "The whole truth,
Michael."

"You swear it?"

"By the love I bear you."

With a mutter of apology he released her, and silently, like a figure of
fair marble sinking into a pool of ink, the pale shade of her subsided
through the shadows, lost definition, and rested as before.

"I am listening . . ."

"It didn't take the newspapers long to guess the Lone Wolf was at work
again. In quick succession, Michael, you consummated a series of
exploits that beggared the most lurid chapters of your old Parisian
days."

"How can you say it was I?"

"You confessed to me yourself--"

"Be careful, Liane!"

"I tell you only the truth as I had it from your own lips. If you are
loath to hear . . ."

"Forgive me."

"You came to me in my apartment without warning one midnight; at your
wits' ends, police snapping at your heels, you turned to me! That made
me happy, Michael. . . . But it was no easy task to hide you, when
rewards of more than fifty thousand dollars were being advertised for
your arrest, and every Boy Scout in the land was carrying a copy of your
photograph--"

"But I have never been photographed in my life except for passport
purposes during the War; and my appearance today is not as it was then,
I no longer wear a beard--"

"You nevertheless had recently been photographed by flashlight, in the
act of opening a safe in the Stuyvesant Ashe home. Some ingenious member
of the household, in anticipation of the Lone Wolf's visit, had rigged
up a camera commanding the safe and a flashlight to be set off by
electric current when the door was tampered with. You were caught at
close range, facing the camera as you knelt with your ear to the safe
door, listening to its mechanism. The likeness was exact and
unmistakable; and all the papers reproduced it to further the hue and
cry."

"You tell me that happened--and ask me to believe the Lone Wolf left
that house without wrecking the camera!"

"To the contrary you destroyed a camera utterly; but there were two, the
ingenuity of the inventor had been equal to that contingency--one
carefully concealed, the other where you might find it without too much
trouble."

Lanyard had an unpleasant laugh in his throat. "Decidedly he was right
who said a reformed crook could never come back! If I was the dupe of so
cheap a trick . . . But to resume: I appealed to you--to a woman!--to
stand between me and the police. . . . Ask them to believe that who once
hunted the Lone Wolf across Europe and back again--and failed to catch
him! . . . Well and good! what then?"

"The chase struck a false scent and passed us by; but from that time on
you made your home with me. It was safe, that had been proved; and I was
useful to you."

"How useful?"

"You had got together a collection of jewellery difficult to dispose of
without courting arrest; also, you would have found it impracticable to
take care of large sums of money such as this sale realized. I saw to
all that for you: through Morphew I found a way to market the jewels,
and in my own name I carried your funds in a separate account with my
bankers."

"And I still called myself the Lone Wolf!"

"I think you were learning to be less jealous of your loneliness,
Michael. You had learned--as most men do at some stage of life--that
there was one woman at least whose devotion would never fail you."

"I used to know the Lone Wolf well: a strange belief for him to hold!"

"But life had forged yet another bond between us . . ."

The vibrations of Liane's words died upon a suppliant silence. It grew
long while in her hearing the pulsing of the engines aped the tempo of a
funeral march. Lanyard made no move or sound. Vision tempered to the
gloom and made keen by hunger saw his face, its salient lines picked out
by gleams of deflected starlight, steadfast to the port, inscrutably
set.

If he would not speak she must . . .

"I loved you well, and love comes of loving . . . of being loved . . ."

"You wish me to understand," Lanyard bluntly translated, "I became your
lover."

"Yes."

"Yet you knew I loved Madame de Montalais--"

"You swore to me all that was finished."

"And you believed--?"

"I wanted to."

Another silence spun itself into minutes charged with emotion pent and
mute. The woman felt rather than saw the sign of a hand that bade her
resume. But her tongue stumbled, she was breathless with
misgivings . . .

"What more do you wish me to say, Michael?"

"There is more to tell, surely, a hiatus to be filled in between that
time and this." But still she faltered till he added in enforced
patience: "I have yet to learn what brings us together aboard this
vessel."

"Your own vanity must answer for that, Michael. . . . You had been
several weeks inactive, the newspaper sensation had begun to blow over,
we were planning to return to Paris--though you balked at becoming
indebted to Morphew for the forged passports he offered to secure. Then,
one day, the Chief of Police gave out an interview exalting himself at
your expense; and in that quaint, excitable temper, which you had nursed
ever since the motor accident, exasperated beyond reason, you vowed to
expose the man's incompetence, and did--breaking into his home and
making off with a necklace of diamonds which he had just presented to
his wife. But somehow you must have blundered, or your luck had turned:
you hardly escaped being caught, and left your path of flight so plainly
marked it led the police to my very door. We had to fly New York between
two suns, with no choice but to seek refuge in some country that did not
require passports. This steamer was the first that sailed for South
America; we secured passage, came aboard separately, and pretended to be
strangers till that officious doctor insisted on presenting you as my
fellow-countryman."

"And now"--Lanyard demanded of himself more than of the woman--"what?"

"If you would only consent to listen to me . . ."

"By what you tell me, Liane, the experience would be anything but a
novel one for you."

"Morphew remains my good friend--"

"Permit me to wish you joy of him."

"And is willing for my sake to be yours."

"Unfortunately, I have the prejudice to be loved for my own blue eyes or
not at all."

"I am not suspected, it would be a simple matter for me to send a
wireless, in a code which Morphew gave me, to his factors at Nassau.
They might easily manage some mishap for the men who wait there for you;
or failing that, arrange an escape for you subsequent to your arrest--"

"Make your mind at ease on that account, Liane: I don't mean to be
arrested."

"So much the better. Morphew maintains a secret base on one of the
outlying cays of the Bahamas, where his boats rendezvous with those that
fetch the liquor from overseas. With the aid of his factors, it should
be an easy matter to smuggle you out to that base and on board some
British vessel homeward bound."

"Many thanks! but I shall earn my salvation without the aid of Morphew's
lot, or never. Moreover, I have no wish to see England again till I am
able to go there openly and disembark in the sunlight, wearing my own
face and name--Michael Lanyard."

"But that can never be!"

"In that event, I must end my days in America."

"But are you truly mad enough to imagine there could be any way--?"

"There is but one course possible for me: I must find my way back to New
York--under my own power, as the saying runs--and make reparation for
the evil I have done--"

"Nothing of that was done by you in your right mind, Michael."

"Pardon: but it seems a nice question, which mind of mine, today's or
yesterday's, is 'right'. Neither do I think Society will be disposed to
split hairs concerning my liability for acts committed whilst my
intelligence was--constructively, at least--under a cloud. Nor, for that
matter, am I: if I may not clear the name of Michael Lanyard or wipe out
the score against him, I have little use--no, none--for the liberty of
André Duchemin."

In uncontrollable disquietude, the woman rose. "What do you propose,
then?"

"I have made no plan."

"If you won't have Morphew's help--"

"My dear Liane: that 'if' of yours is downright, voluptuous redundancy."

"But we are due at Nassau at dawn, the police will board us with the
pilot boat--!"

"Eight bells just sounded; it should be daybreak by four o'clock, at
this season. In other words, I command eight hours of darkness. And the
Lone Wolf that lives on in Michael Lanyard, let me tell you, is hardly
the half-witted cur you have sketched for me, who cowered behind a
woman's skirts in terror of American police."

Discovering Liane's arms about him, her face strained up to him, Lanyard
caught himself up sharply, shrugged, and wagged a long-suffering head:
"My dear Liane!"

She said in a sob: "You do not mean it--"

"But very truly, my dear."

"Yesterday your dear, today less than the dust--!"

"You are mistaken. I owe you too much--"

"You will never repay it now. Did I not foretell that, when I had told
you everything, you would forget your pledge to me? 'Prove me
ungrateful'--out of your own mouth, Michael!--'and you can ask nothing
of me I will refuse to do in testimony to my penitence.'"

Still unresisting in her embrace, he asked: "And I am already proved
ungrateful in your sight?"

"Do you not mean to forsake me, put me by now I am of no more use?"

"I have not said so."

"What else do you intend, when you tell me of your determination to go
back to New York?"

"One must first pay one's debts--"

"Then the debt you owe my love and devotion stands second to the debt
you owe self-love?"

"Say, rather, self-respect; wanting that, no man can claim to deserve
any woman's love. Let me first of all settle my reckoning with
Society--"

"There will be nothing of you left for me!"

"In one breath you urge me to hold myself blameless for wrongs done to
others that I don't remember, in the next you call me to account for
obligations to you incurred under the same conditions."

"I am not concerned with consistency, Michael, but with love. You have
made yourself too dear to me, even though you didn't know what you were
doing--I can't go on without you now. You hold your dream of honesty
dear; do not deny me my dream of decency. Back there in New York we
joined our lives, outlaw and outcast; we must go on together or forego
all hope for all time. Give me at least the fair chance you ask for
yourself . . ."

Her prayers ran out in a mumble under a hand which gently closed her
mouth; ears not deaf to them had been quick none the less to pick up
footfalls in the passageway. Now in the hush that fell the knob of the
stateroom door rattled, the door itself creaked to the pressure of a
shoulder, someone swore indignantly beyond it, and immediately a knock
weighted with authority resounded on its panels.

In the panting bosom pressed to his Lanyard felt the heart leap and
flutter wildly. To a whisper of dismay, "They have come for you
already!" he returned with calm: "Never fear--they shan't get me."

The summons was repeated.

"What can you do?" Liane breathed.

"Nothing so long as I am not free to move."

Her arms fell away, but her hands lingered upon his shoulders. In the
passage several men were confabulating in mutters dulled by the
intervening door. One became articulate in vexation: "I tell you, he
didn't get enough dope in that powder to make him sleep like this!"

Again Liane's whisper: "What shall we do?"

Lanyard considered: "We can't keep them out . . . may as well let them
in."

"But you said you wouldn't give yourself up--"

"No more do I mean to."

The knuckles of authority drummed on for a moment. When they ceased
Lanyard was hailed right cheerily: "I say, Mr. Duchemin wake up, let me
in! It's I, Dr. Bright. Don't you hear me?"

"But Michael!" the whisper implored him--"you can't stand off the whole
ship!"

"Why did you bring me that pistol, then?"

"Not in anticipation of anything like this--"

"Don't worry: I shan't use it. I've a better plan. I count on you: stand
by to draw the bolt when I give the word."

Lanyard watched the dim shape of Liane fall back to the door. Bright was
yapping with a Judas tongue, bidding him open in the sacred name of
fellowship. With the thick enunciation of one just wakened from the deep
sweet sleep of an innocent Lanyard responded: "Half a minute! What's the
row?" Then more quietly--"Ready, Liane?"

"Yes, but--"

"Fall back behind the door when you open it."

No time-wasting preparations to make, only a dressing gown to shrug out
of: he stood in shirt and trousers, shoeless.

"Now!"

As the bolt grated, Lanyard set a foot upon the transom, a hand to the
sill of the window-port, and lifted himself nimbly through that narrow
outlet, dropping to the deck on feet as furtive as a cat's.

For an instant he stood glancing alertly forward, aft, and over the
rail. The deck was deserted, a solitary coast light abeam blinked
forlornly, a minute spark lost beyond a measureless waste of grim black
water. Dubiously Lanyard considered it: a pull to daunt the heart of the
boldest swimmer . . .

The dark port behind him turned into a square of staring amber. Through
it broke a din of voices blasphemous in anger and disappointment.
Lanyard darted aft.

The watch on the afterdeck witnessed the plunge of a dark body from the
rail of the promenade deck down over the side. A man who appeared at the
same rail an instant later lifted up a voice of authentic seafaring
whine:

"_Man oo-verboard!_"

The watch took up the cry.




XVII


Sea-wise Bahaman corespondents of American press services were of one
mind concerning Lanyard's disappearance from the Port Royal, arguing
that the known conditions of time and tide ruled it out of all
consideration as a sane attempt at escape. The stories they cabled North
were accordingly published, for the most part, under headlines something
in this sense:

     LONE WOLF SUICIDES AT SEA

Lanyard, these reports related, had gone overboard, rather than submit
to arrest, after dark of a moonless night, when the Port Royal was
standing into Northeast Providence Channel, her position being
approximately midway between its jaws. Thus, if he dreamed to win to
land either in the North, where Hole-in-the-Wall Lighthouse sentinels
the southernmost point of Great Abaco Island, or in South, where Egg
Island Light warns of the perils lying off the northerly tip of
Eleuthera, the fugitive had undertaken a ten-mile pull against the drag
of the strong offshore current which was setting through the channel at
the time; a task which must have thwarted the stoutest effort of the
strongest swimmer, even assuming that the sharks with which those waters
swarm had been content to let him pass unmolested. Something which, the
consensus maintained, in the case of Lanyard, the sharks indisputably
hadn't.

That cry of "Man overboard!" had brought the Port Royal to a prompt and
a dead halt; the waters roundabout had been lavishly sown with
ring-buoys as well as with floating flares, guided by whose weird
illumination a life-boat quartered the theatre of the mystery for
upwards of an hour before the steamer called it in and proceeded.
Nevertheless the authorities who boarded her at Nassau, in their
disappointment indisposed to accept the suicide theory, insisted on a
thorough rummage of the vessel which accomplished little toward hushing
the murmurs of dissatisfaction with which, at length and empty-handed,
they took themselves ashore.

These doubters had at least one confrère of weathered judgment in New
York, who gave free tongue to his conviction that the Lone Wolf was one
wise bird and a tough fish to drown. And the faith of this one in the
will-to-live animating the hybrid monstrosity of his figure had good
justification in the outcome, when, one night more than a month after
the event of the alleged suicide, a glare beating directly into his face
roused him from the slumbers of an honest man to find that some marauder
had added the cool insolence of switching on the bedside lamp to the
felonious injury of housebreaking.

One who in his time had done much to make life a misery to men of wicked
ways, and more than once had figured as the target of an assassin's
weapon, the householder had long been accustomed to sleep with a pistol
ready to his hand. But his instinctive fumble for it drew a blank this
time; so, with such composure as he could command, he turned attention
to the agent of its confiscation.

This person had cheekily drawn up a chair to the bedside and made
himself at home in it, one of the detective's cigars between his teeth
and a highball of the detective's precious pre-Prohibition Scotch in his
hand testifying to amiable readiness to be sociable, provided his host
had no real objection to advance.

A semi-blinded stare was met by a smile that flashed teeth of notable
whiteness in a face deeply bronzed where it didn't boast a lush
overgrowth of beard. This last was sparely shot with grey, and so was
hair that also wanted shearing; but the rich complexion of the miscreant
was clear, his eyes were luminous with vitality, he had in every
particular the look of one who had consorted long and profitably with
Nature in her least sophisticated phases. As for his costume, it was
altogether shocking, comprising simply a cotton singlet, a coat without
much definite shape or colour, a pair of ragged trousers belted with an
end of rope, and foot-gear that would have kindled the envy of a
slapstick clown of the cinema.

"Well!" the detective summed up his scrutiny--"if that front didn't make
you the spit of the devil, I'd lay long odds you were none other than my
poor dear pal, the late Mike Angelo Lanyardi."

"It isn't sporting to bet on a certainty," the guest severely pointed
out. "And I'm sorry you think I'm late, my good Crane; but I'd rather
far be that than never."

"It would be a whole lot healthier for you to be never, in this
neck-o'-the-woods. If you haven't got sense enough to stay put in your
watery grave--"

"How shall an unquiet spirit withstand the temptation thus to revisit
these glimpses of the moonshine?" Lanyard sipped his drink with
unaffected relish. "Prime stuff, my friend! and I will be glad to fetch
you its fellow if you'll only be nice and forget for a time you're a
limb of the law whose sworn duty it is to pinch out of hand revisitants,
like me, from another and a wetter world."

"The devil himself couldn't twist the King's English into such ornery
knots," Crane declared. "I'm convinced: it is indeed the Lone Wolf who
lurks behind those lovely whiskers."

"You may be right," Lanyard admitted. "Unhappily, I for one can't
altogether share your certainty."

Crane made nothing of that, so let it pass. "Such behind the case," he
pursued, "a man-size slug of Scotch would be some solace to my
conscience."

"On your promise to be peaceable?" Lanyard stipulated, rising.

"Speaking as one who has seen you act up when your sense of
self-preservation was hitting on all six, I don't mind passing you my
word, you're in no danger of my starting any rukus without a gun."

"Or with one, I trust very truly."

"If you'd had the common decency to trust me at all, I wouldn't be
missing my gat this minute."

"Common decency not being the same thing, one takes it, as common
sense?"

"You don't have to worry," Crane insisted with an air of some
aggrievance. "If I can't round you up without a gun, you can run loose
and wild for all of me."

"On that understanding, then . . ." Lanyard tossed the weapon back to
the bed. "Forgive a simple precaution not inspired by any real doubt of
your good disposition toward an old friend, or your sporting attitude
toward a professional antagonist . . ."

The broad of his back was a shining mark for Crane as he strode away to
an adjoining room, where he made a light, and from which he presently
returned with a box of cigars and a musical glass.

Crane had not stirred. The pistol rested where it had fallen. Lanyard
tendered the drink and the open box.

"Astonishing," he mused, "what a sound taste in cigars one finds
prevalent among members of a venal and brutalized constabulary!"

He remarked in pained astonishment that the bed was quaking with Crane's
silent mirth.

"Don't mind me!" the detective protested: "it's myself I'm giving the
laugh, not you. I've been figuring for some time now, you were about due
to stage a gaudy resurrection; but this beats my craziest notions of
what the show would be like. I'm a pretty old mule of a dick, and a
tough audience for trick stuff, but I've got to hand it to you, Lanyard:
I've never yet been able to dope out what your next dodge would be nor
how you'd pull it. So, whenever you get all set to explain what the hell
you mean by sitting there and looking like that--well, you needn't be
afraid I'll walk out on you."

"You don't like my make-up?" Lanyard drew a long face over his
vestments. "Do you know? I rather fancied it. These jibs seem so
appropriate to my newly adopted calling. Behold in me, if you please, my
dear Crane, a seafaring man fully three weeks of age."

"That leaves a couple to be accounted for, then, since the night you
took to the big drink."

"There were two weeks before I became what I am," Lanyard confessed,
"when, not to put too fine a point on it, I was purely and beautifully a
beachcomber in those enchanting Bahamas."

"I've got a hunch this is going to be good." Crane grinned luxuriously
through cigar-smoke. "At least, I don't imagine you've got the crust to
think you stand any show of getting whatever it is you want out of me,
without coming through with a full account of yourself from then right
up to now."

"A stipulation of quid pro quo is always reasonable and in order,"
Lanyard agreed. "Yet I am afraid you may find my story a poor exchange
for what I wish to learn from you, my friend . . ."

"It's your risk. Shoot."

"You are wondering how I eluded the authorities at Nassau? That was
elementary. . . . On the other hand, one must admit one was dealing,
aboard the Port Royal, with gentry of small experience and less
imagination. . . . When I left my stateroom by way of its window, I
found myself with scant stomach for a long swim in black water: it
needs the hot blood of youth to contemplate without a qualm adventures
like that. There was a deck-chair nearby, and in it somebody's
steamer-rug; I folded up the one in the other, and cast them overboard.
In the darkness they passed for the shape of a man to startled eyes on
the main deck below; nobody questioned the alarm I raised of 'Man
overboard!' There was much excitement then; but other than the ship's
officers, nobody knew the unfortunate was a notorious criminal trying to
evade arrest, nobody else was looking for André Duchemin--and I was
careful enough to make myself insignificant. When the boat was lowered
to scour the seas for me, all hands honoured the performance with
undivided attention, it was easy to take refuge in one of the life-boats
swung inboard on its davits on the opposite side of the deck; I wormed
my way in under the canvas cover and lay snug till the Port Royal took
the pilot aboard outside Nassau and with him the police agents. It was
still quite dark; and as the blood-hounds swarmed up one side, the Lone
Wolf dropped down the opposite, unseen. There were a number of vessels
riding at anchor in the roadstead, and when I had put a good distance
between myself and the Port Royal I picked out a little schooner of
unkempt appearance, climbed aboard her while the anchor-watch snored,
and hid myself in her hold."

[Illustration: LANYARD WALKS COMPLACENTLY FROM UNDER THE VERY NOSE OF
THE POLICE.]

Lanyard paused to puff his cigar into a glow, and chuckled. "That was a
sorry shift, out of the frying-pan into the fire for the poor old Lone
Wolf. . . . The schooner turned out to be a rum-runner. Her owners
had put into Nassau for a night's carouse. In the morning they came
aboard, weighed anchor, and set sail. When I reckoned the time ripe to
declare myself, a jury of noble headaches sat on my case, decided that a
stowaway with so lame a story could be nothing but a spy of the United
States Internal Revenue Service; and, true to piratical tradition,
sentenced me to be marooned on a desert isle. That very night the foul
deed was done: the next sun rose to shine upon an outcast from humankind
squatting forlornly on the beach of a desolate cay, God only knew where,
and trying to recall his Robinson Crusoe . . .

"I had a thin time of it for several days, my friend! I lived frugally
on the fruits of the land, when and if found, and such creatures of the
shallow sea as I was able to snare with naked hands. The fruits were not
sustaining, and the raw seafood made me wretchedly sick.

"The cay was one of an endless chain--little islets, some nothing more
than rocks, some mere sandbanks dry only at low tide, separated by
narrow channels of no great depth. I made my laborious way from one to
another; but when at length I did stumble across a settlement it was
only a huddle of wattled huts inhabited by negro sponge-fishers, their
wives and progeny, who spoke a patois unintelligible to my ears, lived
in squalour indescribable, and discovered boundless contempt for a white
man in such plight. For all that, they gave me cooked food of a kind
into which I did not care to enquire too closely, being contented enough
to have it stay on my stomach.

"Their headman had enough English to strike a bargain with me. . . . I
had fled in my shirt and trousers, the only valuable I possessed was a
wrist-watch in a gold case. Sea-water had put it out of service, but the
negro coveted it with great lust, and agreed in exchange for it to
convey me in his boat to another island on which there were white men.
Thus it fell out that, some ten days after my dive into the harbour of
Nassau, I found myself on a cay of good size which served one particular
band of rum-runners as a secret rendezvous and dépôt.

"My condition at that juncture was so pitiable as to make my tale seem
credible; I posed as a French sailor who had been washed overboard from
a passing vessel during a blow that had recently swept the islands. The
rum-runners were a rough lot, but humane: they took me in, fed and
clothed me, would have let me kill myself with drink had I been so
minded, and raised no objection when I prayed for a chance to work my
passage on the first vessel that put in to take on a cargo for the
States. Having eaten their bread and salt, I shall not betray their
confidence: it is enough that I was set ashore not too far from this
city. And here I am."

Lanyard saluted the detective with his glass; and in an explosive grunt
Crane proclaimed that he would be everlastingly damned. "You went
through all that hell to come back here and stick your fool head into
the noose that's waiting for it!"

"My dear friend: I didn't like to dash your expectations . . ."

"Don't you realize what you're up against?--wanted for a dozen jobs
pulled off in the last six months! a price of fifty thousand cold-drawn
dollars on your head!"

"But, by all accounts, the Lone Wolf was drowned to death in the middle
of Northeast Providence Channel on the night of the fifth of June."

"Don't suppose anybody takes any stock in that yarn today, do you?"

The stress on the adverb caused Lanyard's eyes to widen. "And why not?"

"See here!" Crane bounced up in his bed and with every evidence of
strong emotion levelled a bony forefinger; but second thought closed the
lips that stormy indignation had opened, bewilderment blanked out the
fire that had flamed up in his eyes, frustration slackened his arm; in
mild despair he fell back upon his pillow. "I don't get you," he uttered
feebly--"that's all: I just don't get you."

"But, my dear sir, it is now and ever will be my ambition to make sure
that you, in your official capacity, never do get me."

But the detective wasn't in a humour to be patient with persiflage. "I
don't get you," he mulishly reiterated. "If you're aiming to give me
some sort of a steer, I don't connect with the big idea, when your one
best bet--and _I_ know _you're_ wise enough to know it--is to keep all
the scenery you can between you and me all the time, and not come
stalling around in fancy dress to give me an earful that don't matter a
whoop if it ain't true. Because, I tell you this, Lanyard! . . ."

Crane was again sitting up and brandishing an admonitory forefinger.
"Let me tell you this here and now, for your own good: As long as I
believed in you, there wasn't much you could name I wouldn't have done
for you; but the way things look now, unless you're prepared to come
through with something more nourishing to my confidence than
drawing-room manners and a baby stare, you're monkeying with high
explosive this very minute; because just as soon as ever you leave this
flat and I'm no longer bound by my promise not to mix things up with
you"--a move of a disgusted hand designated the pistol whose return had
put the detective on his honour--"I'm going to light out after you and
camp on your trail night and day till I get you right--so help me!"

"Amen!" Lanyard piously chanted. "No: don't be angry, but believe I mean
that in all seriousness. Had I not expected to find such fidelity to
principle in you, that even friendship cannot corrupt, I should have
held to my ancient rule and played a lone hand in this game of Blind
Wolf's Buff: I am here tonight for a single purpose: to ask your aid and
offer you mine in the business of bringing the Lone Wolf to book,
whether he prove to be myself or some impostor trading on my old-time
reputation."

"So that's the song and dance, eh?"

Lanyard shrugged. "I must not resent your tone, matters being as they
have been made to seem. But I shall persuade you of my sincerity before
I bid you good night, and more, that grounds exist for reasonable doubt
concerning my guilt of the crimes imputed to me; or . . . I will
surrender to you forthwith and let the law take its course."

In a hard stare Crane wondered aloud: "You mean that, Lanyard?" But a
smile was all his answer; and after another little pause the detective
silently extended a hand which Lanyard leaned forward to grasp. "Now lay
'em on the table, face up."

"I have every confidence in your charity," Lanyard responded, sitting
back; "but what I shall tell you now will test it. On the night of the
third of November last--"

"That night after you pulled that turn with Mallison at little Mrs.
McFee's?"

"Precisely--"

"Night of the day you disappeared!"

"'Disappeared'?"

"Nobody I know has seen hair nor hide of you since."

"That's most interesting," Lanyard commented, making mental memoranda.
"You know nothing, then, of a motor accident on the Armonk Road in which
I was involved on the night in question?"

"First I've heard of it."

"There was such an accident, notwithstanding, in which I sustained grave
injuries; I bear a new scar upon my head, beneath the hair, that
satisfies me at least one hurt was grave."

"Well!" Crane laughed shortly--"guess you ought to know if anybody."

"That's the very point: I ought to--but I don't."

"Mean to say you don't remember--?"

"Between the moment when I was struck and thrown by a motor-car that
night of November, and the moment when, on the morning of the fifth of
June, I bumped my head badly, falling from a companion-ladder on the
Port Royal, I remember nothing. For all I know of my life between these
dates, I am indebted to a lady who may or may not be a sacred vessel of
the unbiased truth--Mademoiselle Delorme."

"Liane Delorme!" cried Crane--"where in time did you meet up with that
war-horse?"

"On board the Port Royal."

"Funny! that dame sailed for France last February--by request--and
specially requested not to come back, too."

"You are sure?"

"Made it my business to see her off. The Lone Wolf had just begun to be
a regular pest, about that time, and I thought maybe little Liane knew
more than she was willing to let on. So we got the Government to put on
the screws; it amounted to her being deported, though she was given to
understand the Government's memory might go bad if her's got good. But
she left swearing in seven languages, none of 'em ladylike, she didn't
know the first thing about you and was a cruelly misjudged woman and all
like that."

"Yet she must have returned, to have sailed on the Port Royal with me."

"Oh! there are a hundred different ways, all good, for an undesirable
alien to sneak into this country--by rail from Canada or Mexico, or
through any port but New York--running next to no risk of being spotted
and held up except by accident."

"You interest me more every minute. Pray bear in mind I have seen no
newspapers, while you, I daresay, have read more than one report of my
disappearance from the Port Royal . . . No doubt, then, you can tell me
who claimed the honour of having recovered the necklace."

"What necklace?"

"The one I am credited with having stolen from the wife of your worthy
Chief of Police."

"Guess you mean Commissioner of Police--Commissioner Enright." Frankly
mistrustful examination of Lanyard's face ended in the generous verdict:
"Somebody's been kidding you, son."

"I will not dispute that--I begin to be distressed to discriminate the
statements of fact which have recently been made me from what would seem
to have been the fictions of a lively fancy. I have, for example, on the
one hand, your word, as I understand it, that the good wife of
Commissioner Enright did not, shortly prior to the sailing of the Port
Royal, suffer the loss by theft of a valuable diamond necklace."

"Nor at any other time. Or if she did--and if he's got a wife--the
Commish kept it darned quiet."

"On the other hand, I am suspected of having done much business in the
Lone Wolf's well-known line--"

"Sure are."

"During a period which began, I take it, about the first of the year--"

"Some time before Christmas."

"And ended with my late but well-timed decease."

"Thought I told you nobody in this burg takes any stock in that fairy
tale."

"But you didn't answer my question: Why not?"

"Because all New York knows, if the Lone Wolf was drowned last June, his
ghost goes prowling on."

"What are you telling me?"

"Just what you hear: When the news leaked out that you'd croaked in the
Bahamas, everybody who had anything worth stealing drew a long breath
and turned over to get a few winks of badly needed sleep. Right there
was the wide open chance your ghost couldn't overlook without losing
face in the spirit underworld. And didn't: no ghost ever walked that
shook a livelier hoof. If it's any satisfaction to you, its latest
manifestations have converted the entire Police Department of the City
of New York into a posse of wild-eyed spiritualists."

"And you, my friend?"

Crane twinkled like a roguish wooden Indian. "Who, me? I ain't all
converted yet. An hour ago I was wabbly, but now I see you sitting
before me as large as life and twice as unnatural, I'm just on the
fence. One thing I'm sure of: You ain't noticeably demised. But that
isn't saying you're not responsible for the performances that have been
given in your name, these last few weeks."

"While I was sustaining life on shellfish in the Bahamas?"

"That's your story. I don't say it isn't gospel: but you've got to admit
you'd have told it, or something like it, if you had been in Town here
all the time. Not only that, but how do I know you aren't what they
call psychic--a medium--able to swing a mean ectoplasm?"

"But--bear with me, my friend, remembering that this to me is the
gravest of questions--admit that any one capable of trading on my
posthumous reputation must have been equally capable of impersonating me
while I was still presumed to be alive."

"That's reasonable . . ."

Lanyard had a thoughtful moment. "Do me another favour," he
resumed--"allow me to use your good offices to make another test of my
information. Take that telephone on the table by your elbow, call the
Hotel Walpole, ask for Madame de Montalais. If she is no longer stopping
there, find out, if you can, when she left, and whether the management
knows her present address."

"Madame de Montalais . . ." Crane took the telephone instrument to his
bosom and called for the Walpole, but while he waited for the connection
made no secret of the spirit of inquisitiveness in which he was mulling
over that strange new name. "If it's a fair question--"

"The lady with whom I dined at the Inn of the Green Woods, an hour
before my misfortune on the Armonk Road."

Before Crane could comment, the Walpole answered; and after some delay
the hotel detective, none too well pleased to be waked up at three in
the morning but obligingly bestirring himself on behalf of a colleague,
reported that Madame de Montalais had "checked out" to sail for France
on the ninth of March, leaving the forwarding address of Château de
Montalais, near the town of Nant, in the Department of the Lozère.

Lanyard nodded doleful acknowledgement of this facer to hopes cruelly
reanimated by the discovery that Liane Delorme had, in the course of
their conference on board the Port Royal, and for reasons of her own
that remained illegible, been guilty of more than one lache in respect
of the truth. "That avenue is closed, then. I feared it would be. But
give me a moment now to put my thoughts in order . . ."

More to cover his disconsolation than for the reason alleged, he bent
forward with an elbow on a knee and a hand shading his eyes. "You tell
me," he presently pursued, "no one you know has seen me in the flesh
since we met at Folly McFee's . . ."

"Any number of reputable citizens have caught glimpses of you," Crane
corrected--"and very much in the flesh, very busy raising particular
hell with their property rights."

"But nobody in fact who knew me personally, who could swear to my
identity with the man who passed for me?"

"Nobody. Just the same, the descriptions they turned in were middling
good portraits of the Lone Wolf in action. More than that, there's that
flashlight photo--"

"I was coming to that: Liane mentioned it, and I have wondered . . . It
was secured, I believe, when the Lone Wolf descended upon the family
fold of the Stuyvesant Ashes?"

"It was so."

"Have you a copy at hand, by any chance?"

Crane grunted testily, drew a rusty leather wallet from under his
pillow, and from the papers with which it was stout sorted out an
unmounted photographic print of post-card size. "Gaze on that," he
recommended in grim humour, "and see if maybe it don't put a kick in the
poor dear memory."

Lanyard hitched his chair nearer the light and with eyes bent over the
print. But his first glance caused his heart to fail him: idle to
challenge the fidelity of that likeness, as well deny the lineaments
that looked out from one's shaving mirror every morning . . .

The man whom the flashlight had surprised was kneeling with one ear to a
safe built in flush with a wall, his face turned squarely to the camera
as he eavesdropped upon the hidden tumblers clicking and thumping in
response to manipulation of the combination-dial by his slender, clever
fingers. The latter were neatly gloved in white kid, for the man wore
formal evening clothes beneath an inverness cloak of good theatrical
effect. The hand that wasn't busy with the dial held an electric torch
whose beam, of course, had been too weak to register in the intense
glare of the flashlight explosion. On the rug between his knee and the
wall lay an open leather case stocked with what appeared to be a compact
kit of burglar's tools.

"Well!" Crane urged, not without a shade of professional malice, when
Lanyard's silent contemplation of the photograph threatened to know no
end: "how about it?"

Lanyard straightened up and cheerfully smiled. "Pretty thing," he
said--"jolly well done . . . If you can find yourself another, I'd be
grateful for the gift of this."

"You're much obliged. I can lay my hands on a gross or two any time I
want. The Police Department struck 'em off by the thousand."

"Pity!" Lanyard deplored: "such a curiosity really ought to be a rarity.
Thus does commercial photographing ring the death-knell of Art."

"But joking aside--" Crane began with some asperity.

"You ask too much," Lanyard interrupted. "Do you honestly expect me to
gaze on this and keep a straight face?"

"If you want my opinion, I'll say it's no laughing matter for you."

"But do you tell me that as one who has given this photograph close and
intelligent study?"

"What's the matter with it? Don't you think it does your fatal beauty
justice?"

"But more: I am overcome by the appreciation which this drives home of
the dashing figure I cut of old in the popular eye. Prior to this, I
have always imagined that the public took the gentleman cracksman with a
grain of salt--holding his attitudinizing in romantic evening dress
properly peculiar to his appearances on the stage and the cinema screen.
And you, my dear Crane! a man of your wide acquaintance with the ways of
crooks taking this blatant bit of imposition seriously--!"

Crane's mouth tightened, his brows combatively beetled. "There are
crooks and crooks. I never thought so badly of you as to suppose you
worked like the rank and file."

"But like this!" Lanyard gave the print a derisive flick of fingernails.
"Take my word for it, I was never such an ass."

"Never did a job in a full dress suit?"

"Never to my knowledge did I costume myself like a man in a play when
deliberately setting out to open a safe. Furthermore"--Lanyard wrinkled
a nose of scorn over the photograph--"never in my life have I been
caught wearing a soft-bosomed shirt with a tail coat: an antic one
cheerfully resigns to dancing men. By-the-bye: whatever did become of
Mallison?"

"Jumped his bail," the detective growled--"along with the others you
rounded up for me that night at Mrs. McFee's."

"And you have never been able to find him?"

"Not a chance."

There was bitterness in that to win a quick, keen look from Lanyard; but
Crane added nothing more than a grin half-sheepish, half-sullen.

"He must be shrewder than I thought, that one."

"I don't know . . . he's got brains enough to lay low and stand in with
Morphew, that's all."

"And the devil takes care of his own."

"You got the idea exactly."

"But tell me, why does this great city of yours tolerate its Morphews?"

"What's it going to do? You can't pin anything on a guy like Morphew;
he always keeps well inside the law, never turns a trick with his own
hand; and pulls too strong an oar politically not to be able to look
after the people he hires to do his dirty work. Stands to reason, he's
got to; he can't afford to risk somebody's turning State's evidence for
lack of protection."

"But surely a man of his type must have enemies in high places as well
as friends--"

"Maybe so; but they're not in the saddle just now; we'll have to be
patient and wait for New York to pull another of its periodical spasms
of civic virtue before an ordinary dick like me can go out after the
likes of Morphew without hearing a still small voice whispering at his
shoulder, if he cares anything about his job he'd better lay off.
Remember that time we raided the Clique Club? That had a follow-up that
still sticks in my crop . . ."

"But if Morphew were actually caught, as you say, with the goods on--"

"That's different: prove anything on that bird and outraged public
sentiment will do the rest."

"Do you happen to know where he lives?"

Crane recited the address in sulky abstraction from which he emerged
abruptly with a gleam of alarm. "Look here! don't tell me you're simp
enough to dream of starting anything with Morphew--"

"My dear friend: I never was, it was Morphew took the offensive with me,
unprovoked--"

"And you're a glutton for punishment, eh?"

"Do you take me for one to endure such malice without striking a blow
for self-respect? What way I shall take with the animal I am as yet
undecided, I count on events to show it to me; and now I count on
something more--your passive countenance, at least."

"Oh, don't worry! I won't ever come between you two; and if I ever see a
chance to land on Morphew when he isn't looking, because he's too busy
keeping his guard up against you--you can bet your life I'll do it. All
the same, if you'll take a fool's advice, you'll quit right now, admit
you're licked and let it go at that."

"It may be your advice is wiser than you think," Lanyard conceded.

"Well: I'm not going to lose any sleep on your account. Morphew's out of
Town, nobody seems to know just where . . ."

"Like Mallison, eh?"

"Why keep fretting about Mallison? He's out."

"Perhaps . . ."

"What do you mean, 'perhaps'?"

"Jumping one's bail is not precisely proof of a clear conscience; that
act of the dancing yegg's ought to be enough for you--no matter what
your mind may be with respect to my guilt or innocence."

"Don't get your point."

"It's rather an obvious point in the sight of one who knows what I
know--that Mallison claimed to be on intimately friendly terms with the
Stuyvesant Ashes, with Mrs. Ashe, at least; Mary, I remember he called
the lady, in mentioning her to Folly McFee."

"Well?"

"Is it not at least a curious circumstance that this print, this so well
posed and composed likeness of the Lone Wolf wearing his working clothes
for the night shift, should have been snapped in the home of people
reputed to be on friendly terms with Mallison?"

"That only goes to show how little you know New York Society, if you've
got any idea the Ashes--one of the oldest and best families in
Town--would lend themselves to any frame-up engineered by a cheap little
crook like that egg."

"One infers that no Ashe has ever been known to be guilty of a
mis-step--"

"I don't say that. The men of that family have always stepped out pretty
lively--"

"But isn't it possible Mallison may have known something which the
present Stuyvesant Ashe preferred to keep secret from the general
public? You're surely not forgetting blackmail was one of Mallison's
ways of earning a dishonest living."

"Meaning you believe Mallison blackmailed Stuyvesant Ashe and his wife
into letting him snap a phoney photograph of some one made up to look
like you, trying to open their safe?"

"Really, you read my mind."

"Well!" Crane snorted his contempt--"that bright little theory blows up
like a toy balloon somebody pokes a hot cigarette into--because the bird
you see in front of that safe got away with every little thing it held.
I guess you won't go so far as to tell me the Stuyvesant Ashes would
fall for blackmail to that extent."

"I tell you nothing, because I know nothing--I do but recommend the
possibility to your thoughtful consideration. Conceding the
thanklessness of trying to get the Stuyvesant Ashes to contradict the
story they told, I can only point out its more glaring absurdities."
Smilingly Lanyard put the print into the detective's hands. "Look
closely, my good Crane! and tell me how you would describe the look of
this alleged Lone Wolf."

"Looks sort of flabbergasted," Crane replied. "Who wouldn't with a
flashlight going off all of a sudden under his nose when he's keyed up
to G trying to pull off a big job?"

"But have you never observed that a man actually taken by surprise never
shows it in a flashlight photograph? The flash comes and goes too
quickly for such an one to put on an appropriate expression for the
camera to catch. It is the man who is, as you put it, all keyed up in
expectation of the flash who looks startled in the picture."

Crane took another look. "Something in that, maybe," he grudged.

"Consider then, these other anomalies: Not only am I represented as
being idiot enough to go a-burgling in evening dress--"

"But you claim you didn't know what you were doing when all this
happened."

"What I claim is, if it is fair to assume a rap on the head caused me to
revert to foregone ways of knavery, it is only fair to assume further
that I would have displayed at least a little reverence for the
principles of common sense that formerly guided my errant footsteps.
The succès fou of the Lone Wolf in pre-War Paris did not result from the
expenditure of a medium of mental effort. That one never touched
burglar's tools, far less carried a kit of them, once he had served out
his apprenticeship. If he could solve the secret of a safe by ear--as
the fellow in this amusing picture would have us believe he can--why
burden himself with tools which, if found upon him, would spell his
damnation in the esteem of the police? Finally, we are asked to believe
not only that the Lone Wolf neglected to search for burglar-alarm wiring
on this occasion--and if he had taken that first precaution of all
competent cracksmen he could hardly have overlooked the wire which led
to the flashlight--but that after the flash had gone off in his face he
proceeded methodically to open the safe, abstract what valuables it
contained, and make good his escape!"

"Well!" Crane argued in the last ditch--"but we've always been told the
Lone Wolf was a cool hand."

Lanyard laughed aloud. "But I am in a position to assure you the coolth
of that hand would have been nothing compared with the coldness of his
feet, had anything like this ever happened to him; I have my low pride,
my friend, and while I will never admit the Lone Wolf was a
white-livered cur, I am free to confess that, in circumstances such as
must have attended the taking of this photograph, he would have tucked
tail between legs and ingloriously have run for cover without an instant
of needless delay."

"I don't know," Crane reluctantly conceded. "All you say sounds
reasonable enough, and I've got a mean feeling I was the world's prize
dumbell not to think of your arguments before. But admitting all
that--where does it get us?"

"To the point I promised to bring you to, where you are obliged to admit
I may not have been the author of those recent robberies attributed to
the Lone Wolf."

"And where do we go from there?"

"I can speak only for myself," said Lanyard, rising: "I go to find out
the truth. I do not know what happened, where I lay hid, or what I did,
in all those seven months. It may be this conviction that I feel, that I
had no hand in the crimes imputed to me, is merely a mirage of vain hope
cheating my good judgement. It is possible I shall find I myself am the
man--even the posing popinjay one sees in this snapshot. In that
event--one so subject to spells of criminal activity in phases of
submerged consciousness is too dangerous to remain at large; I shall
return and let you put me where I can do no more harm. But I don't
believe you need hope to see me again on these terms; and if we should
chance to meet before I succeed in satisfying myself--well! bear in
mind, I ask no quarter. It is your duty to lay me by the heels if you
can--and if you do, the fault will be mine, I'll have no right to
complain. I have only one favour to ask of you, and that runs on all
fours with your duty: don't let anxiety to bag Michael Lanyard make you
forget that Mallison likewise is at liberty and may very well turn out
to be the key to all this mystery."

Crane's face wrinkled into a radiating grin. "Funny thing about all
this is," he asserted, "I believe in you--I even believe you'll come in
and take your medicine like a little man if you find you're the guilty
party." He wrung Lanyard's hand with painful cordiality. "Go to it, old
son: maybe I'm being kidded to a fare-ye-well, but I'm for you. You
won't mind my not getting up to see you to the window?"




XVIII


Confident that their interview just ended had converted an active
antagonist, the most dangerous he knew because the most intelligent and
dispassionately devoted to his duty, into at worst a passive opponent
disposed to let the benefit be his of any legitimate doubt and to adopt
a policy of hands-off in as far as Lanyard's still nebulous plans might
affect a common enemy; confident as well that the change in his
appearance insured against casual identification by any other adversary,
public or private: Lanyard on leaving Crane none the less went his way
as warily as one who walked in living dread of being ambushed at every
corner.

From the door of the building in which Crane lodged to the maw of an
underground railway station was only a step, but a step which Lanyard
took with all the furtive haste of a ghost belated at the hour of
cockcrow. The last coin that lined his pockets passed him through a
clattering turnstile to a bare platform from which, while waiting for
one of the occasional trains of the post-midnight schedule, he watched
both entrances with eyes quick in the cast shadow of a ragged hat-brim.
But not another soul followed into the station, he was able to board a
northbound train unvexed by any hint of espionage; though he reckoned
this poor compensation for a sense of quandary only aggravated by
advices which, dependable though he must hold them, coming as they had
from Crane, had paradoxically proved more benighting than otherwise with
the new light they shed upon his dark perplexities.

He knew no amazement in the discovery that Liane had lightly trifled
with the truth in her version of his seven months of lost existence; but
her capricious warping of certain facts and suppression of others only
added one more mystery to that company whose faces of empty imbecility
now mocked every waking effort to read their meaning and, when Lanyard
slept, like nightmares drifted through his dreams. Not that he found it
hard to understand that she had woven her tissue of deception hoping
thereby to fix a lien upon his gratitude. Either he had been her lover
for a time, as she asserted, and she was bent on holding him by hook or
crook, or he had not and she thought to win him by making him believe
himself bound to her in honour; wherefore the inventions of the
purloined necklace and the forced flight from New York that had been
infeasible without her friendly offices, as well as of the sanctuary and
aid that Liane claimed to have given Lanyard when he was hard pressed in
his flagrant course as the Lone Wolf redivivus.

In this last allegation there might be, no doubt there was, some
half-truth latent: Lanyard was not yet prepared to deny that the Lone
Wolf had lately prowled again in his own flesh if in his mental
dissociation; but the conflict of testimony that proved the distortion
to Liane's purposes of half the truth at least made it competent to him
to question whether her story had had any foundation in the truth
whatever. Certain it was--Crane's word for this--that Lanyard's long
absence from the city had failed to put a period to that sequence of
thievish feats which New York credited to the Lone Wolf's cunning. And,
as Lanyard had insisted, there was nothing to show that the author of
these more recent exploits had not been the author likewise of the
series which had predated his flight. Nothing forbade his hugging that
contention to his heart and getting what comfort he could of it.

As a matter of fact, he got precious little: nothing seemed of any real
moment, just then, measured by the riddle of Eve's return to France as
the report of the Hotel Walpole posed it; a statement which
circumstantially refuted Liane's account of that event, which happened
unhappily to be the only explanation Lanyard could accept without
reluctance. By the implications inherent in Liane's version, the lovers
had parted prior to the beginning of that bad new chapter in the history
of the Lone Wolf, had parted in tenderness and sadly, because of
Lanyard's set refusal to let Eve link her life with that of a reclaimed
criminal. And with all his heart Lanyard wanted to believe it had been
so. . . . But Crane asserted that the Lone Wolf had been active in New
York before Christmas, and that Liane had been deported during the month
of February, while the Hotel Walpole fixed the date of Eve's departure
on the ninth of March! Liane, then, could have had no personal
acquaintance with the reasons which had impelled Eve to leave America.
But could they have been anything else than heartbreak resulting from
failure to reanimate the spirit of the man she loved in the being of the
Lone Wolf?

Would he ever know? Never, he told himself, from the lips of Eve.
Inconceivable that she should ever again consent to see him, believing
what she must believe, or even to read his letters--assuming that he
could find the effrontery so to importune her. Nothing short of full
exoneration could revive her faith in him; and even given that, Lanyard
would hardly find it in his heart to blame her did she shrink from
meeting him, being seen with him, letting her name be coupled in the
public mouth with the name of one who had been singled out by the
spotlight of a notoriety so shameful.

No: he must count Eve lost to him for all time and soothe that wound, if
he could, with the assurance that it was better so.

But before he could become reconciled to that renunciation he must
possess the truth in his own knowledge, the truth whole and unvarnished.

So now he was striking directly at the heart of darkness in which, he
was satisfied, the truth lay perdu.

Ten minutes from Crane's door he came up for air from the Plaza station
of the Subway, slipped into Central Park like a snake into a thicket,
and was lost to human sight for more than half an hour thereafter. Then
the lights of Central Park West picked him up at Seventy-seventh street;
and striking diagonally across the grounds of the Museum of Natural
History he threaded quiet residential streets to Riverside Drive, upon
which he turned north, moving with the carefree slouch of the vagabond
he so picturesquely seemed to be. A policeman on patrol, nobody else,
gave him a second glance in passing, saw that he was sober, dismissed
him as a figure of no potential consequence for either good or ill.

The night, seasonably intemperate, might have been compounded according
to his own prescription, so excellently suited it was to his purpose.
Its heat had made the parks populous with refugees from sweltering
apartments; at this late hour they lingered still upon the walks, the
lawns and benches in sufficient numbers to render Lanyard's restless
presence equally inconspicuous with uncounted others. A tenuous haze
dimmed the lustre of the sluggish flood of ink that was the Hudson River
and turned distant lights into pulsing points of iridescence. The
driveway proper droned wearily with its steady if diminished flow of
motor traffic.

Morphew's town-house stood apart from less pretentious neighbors, a
four-square lump of unlovely masonry squatting, with a singular effect
of family likeness to its owner, in grounds more ample than even
opulence is wont to run to for its city pieds-à-terre. Open windows and
unboarded doors showed it had not been shut up for the Summer, though
Morphew were, as Crane had intimated, sojourning somewhere out of Town.
And the lack of illumination other than a soft night-light behind the
iron grille and plate-glass of its great front doors seemed to advertise
a household sensibly abed. The sharp eyes beneath the brim of that
disreputable hat had marked down half a dozen avenues of easy if
unconventional entrance before Lanyard, with his idlest air, turned off
from the main promenade that runs with the driveway and found a soft
spot on a lawn where a clump of shrubbery, standing between him and the
nearest street lamps, threw a shadow black as jet.

Here, in a lazy sprawl, he rested for upwards of an hour, covert
attention constant to the mansion across the Drive. In that time it gave
no evidence of wakeful occupation; but as break of dawn drew near the
population of the park dispersed and the tide of wheeled traffic became
an intermittent trickle, lessening the risk of observation that he must
chance when the time came to put his purpose into effect. In this last
he went ahead unhindered by any scruple, holding Morphew solely
answerable, as he did, for all the tribulations that had been visited
upon him since that long ago night of their first acquaintance. Eight
months of enforced submission to the wear and tear of Morphew's
malevolence had brought him to the pass in which tonight found him,
penniless, homeless, hungry, a hunted thing without a friend to turn to.
It devolved upon Morphew, consequently, to bow to the inexorable
workings of the law of compensation and stand to Lanyard now in the
place of friend, willy-nilly to furnish him food and drink, shelter and
change of raiment, set his mind at rest upon the matters that most
distressed it, and finally put money in his pockets. Morphew could
afford all that and never miss its cost to him out of the profits he
must have piled up as impresario for the Lone Wolf's farewell tour.

The irony of that conceit was pleasing: Lanyard wore a grim smile
beneath his beard as he addressed him to his burglarious business.

The point of attack he had settled on was a window with a balcony in the
second storey, on the south side of the house, the farthest removed from
the more exposed face which fronted on the Drive. The mouth of the
tradesmen's entrance, an alley closed by a gate of iron work, made it
possible to attempt the ascent in comparative darkness, and horizontal
channels between the huge blocks of hewn stone furnished helpful foot
and hand-holds. Only the rawest new beginner in the sodality of
second-storey workers could have made any difficulty about that climb:
Lanyard negotiated it with the ease of a lizard--two minutes after his
subtle shadow had faded from the cross-town street into the tradesmen's
entrance he had gained the level of the balcony and, plastered against
those cool cheeks of stone, was inching round the corner. At the end of
another minute he silently but rapidly wriggled in over the balcony rail
and dropped flat to its floor, there to wait without stir, for so long
that he might have been suddenly petrified by appreciation of his own
temerity, till senses tuned up to the utmost of their fine efficiency
assured him he had not been seen from the street or from any window
looking out upon it, and that the room beyond the window at his side was
as still as death; the circumstance that it was a French window with
both wings folded back into its recess rendering it not necessarily
idiotic to trust to his super-acute hearing.

On the inside of the recess hung open draperies of heavy stuff. Between
them no light showed. Lanyard surmised a living-room beyond, a study or
a dining-room: the bedchambers would be on the floor above. One quick
crouching stride passed him in between the hangings, another, in the
course of which he stood up, took him to the middle of the room, where
he stopped short, poised tensely upon the balls of his feet, like a
jungle creature scenting human flesh in the wind--galvanized by the
whiff of rich cigar smoke that told him he had walked into a trap.
Simultaneously the wings of the window banged to behind him, its latch
rattled, curtain-rings clashed upon a tube of brass, the bleached blue
oblong of the glass was blacked out, and he stood encompassed by night
absolute--only the ember at the end of a cigar blinked at him from a
little distance, glowing and fading by turns like an eye of basilisk
spite.

With escape by the way he had entered surely blocked, and standing on
unknown ground, without one clue to the location of any other exit, he
had no choice but to wait for light before adventuring another step. But
seconds dragged like minutes and still the darkness held unbroken: they
were playing with him, giving uncertainty time to sap his nerve. In
exasperation, but schooling his voice to a sulky key, he said: "Well!
you've got me. Make a light."

No one answered, no light was made . . .

In a grimmer tone he spoke again: "I'll give you a count of three in
which to make a light. If you don't, I'll drill a bullet through
whatever happens to be twelve inches below that cigar."

The eye of fire burned a more sardonic crimson; that was all.

In sheer bravado he began to count: "One--two--"

A whistle lanced the stillness, he was sensitive to a sudden stir at his
back and swung about, striking out at random and without effect; a
savage blow, likewise launched at random, fell notwithstanding squarely
upon his cheek, just forward of the ear; staggered, he reeled sideways
and blundered into a brace of ready arms. Before he could recover and
set himself to break that hold other arms found and wrapped his body
round from behind, a deft foot kicked his heels from under him, and,
fighting like a maniac, Lanyard took the floor with a crash that made
its timbers groan, beneath a writhing mass of humanity whose weight
alone was enough to crush him into breathless quiescence.

Overhead a prism chandelier blazed out like a sun-burst . . .

Pinned down by no less than five huskies, one to each arm and leg and
one, inevitably the stoutest, digging hard knees into his chest, Lanyard
turned his head to one side to give his eyes respite from than blinding
glare above, and lay looking directly into the apathetic mask of
Morphew.




XIX


Morphew was holding down a huge easy-chair without any appearance of
ease: feet well apart and planted solidly, huge and bedizened paws
firmly clasping each an arm of the chair as if to forestall its wickedly
slipping out from under him. His face of a pale beast, with its
unwinking light eyes under leaden hoods, its gash of a mouth, its
flaccid jowls and wattles, was void of any readable expression; but for
seepage of smoke from its nostrils and the corner of the mouth that
wasn't filled by the cigar it might have passed for a devil-mask
modelled by hands of decadence.

Above and somewhat behind this unholy vision, Mr. Peter Pagan, resting
folded arms on the back of the chair, presented the face of a subsenile
imp in familiar attendance, innocent, however, of his master's affection
for the pose imperturbable--his clown's lips wide with a gleeful grin,
beady eyes alive with malice.

"I suppose," he said, as one might to a troublesome child, "you think
you're smart, keeping decent, law-abiding folk up like this, till all
hours!"

Lanyard reflected on this pleasantry with a weary droop of eyelids,
otherwise held still and dumb.

With dramatic deliberation Morphew relaxed the hold of one hand on the
chair long enough to extract the cigar from between his teeth. All in a
grunt he commanded: "Frisk him."

Trained fingers turned out the pockets of the captive. "This guy's got
no gat," the man on his chest reported in plaintive disappointment.

"Never thought he had," Pagan acidly commented: "Bluff is the middle
name of our fair-haired lad."

"Let him up," Morphew ordered--"but stand by in case he still feels
hostile."

A free man once more, Lanyard scrambled to his feet, shook himself like
a dog, gave his seagoing slacks a practised hitch, the sleeves and
skirts of his makeshift coat a scrupulous dusting, and smiled sunny
reassurance first on the watchful circle round him (noting impenitently
that one man was nursing a swollen nose while another was uttering a few
loosened teeth) then, with an impudent colour of indulgence added,
beamed upon the seated arbiter of the scene.

"Monsieur is needlessly alarmed," he said with an urbanity unaffected by
hastened breathing. "Something tells me I were well-advised to put off
our overdue accounting against a more favourable occasion."

"All the accounting that's going to be done," Morphew heavily countered,
"is going to happen right here and now, before either you or me leave
this room." He shifted a passionless glare to his henchmen. "Clear out
and wait in the hall: I'll give a whistle if I want you again. If I give
two whistles, one of you call a cop--the rest come running."

Lanyard indecorously yawned, then gave an open laugh as the battered
bodyguard withdrew. Uninvited, he helped himself to an overstuffed
lounge chair, and sighed in grateful relaxation.

"A policeman, my good Morphew! do my ears mislead me?"

"No," Morphew definitely replied, "they don't."

Pagan cocked a critical eye at the ears in question. "Even
foreshortened," he volunteered, "they don't look like ears to mislead
anybody else."

But Pagan could wait, Lanyard couldn't afford to let an antic second
distract any of the attention due his principal.

"I am to understand," he persisted, addressing Morphew, "it is your
intention to give me in charge?"

"That rests with you."

"Monsieur undoubtedly is pleased to be humorous . . ."

"Maybe, so, maybe not." Fixing Lanyard with an unintelligible stare,
Morphew thoughtfully champed his cigar. "There's a lot of popularity
lying around loose in this town, waiting to be pinned onto the hero that
puts the Lone Wolf behind bars. And you ought to know whether you've had
enough."

"But if you ask me," Lanyard frankly laughed--"too much!"

"All right," Morphew agreed in gloomy gratification: "That puts it up to
you which you want to do now--go up the River to do a nice long stretch
or stick on in Town here and take life easy."

"Not so long ago it was the Lone Wolf's boast that he never found it
necessary to take life easily or otherwise . . . as you were good enough
to remind me, monsieur, the last time we had the pleasure of conversing
together."

[Illustration: DETECTIVE CRANE OBEYING THE INSTINCT OF PROFESSION, AT
THE SAME TIME ADMIRES THE FASCINATING CROOK, MICHAEL LANYARD.]

"Not the last time by a long sight," Morphew bluntly contradicted; "but
I know when you mean."

"Today one begins to wonder if that boast was good only because the Lone
Wolf had never been given proper provocation."

Morphew took time to digest this. "You talk as crooked as you work," he
concluded; "but the way I take it, that's a threat."

"It is altogether as you care to take it."

"If you don't like the way you've been handled, you've only got yourself
to blame. I've given you every chance to come through like a
gentleman--"

"But constituted yourself judge of whether I did or not."

The wooden set of Morphew's features became, if possible, more than ever
marked, the puffed lids curtained more jealously those repellant eyes,
his ruminative way with the cigar knew a momentary break.

With a vaguely innocent smile Lanyard snuggled down into luxurious
upholstery and utilized the wait to look the room over with intelligent
interest in the taste which had ruled its composition. A surprisingly
handsome library, decorated and furnished with a dignity in no degree
oppressive: all at wide odds with an environment such as one might have
expected that bejewelled block of flesh to create for itself.

But the ominous pause was beginning to irk Pagan's nerves. He moved
restlessly from his station at Morphew's back and laid hands upon a
decanter which, with glasses and a siphon bottle, occupied a tray on one
end of the library table.

"How about a little snifter, what?" he suggested with a leer
overshoulder.

"Thank you," Lanyard returned politely--"but one recalls too well your
black art as a bar-tender, monsieur; one hesitates to risk another
waking up to find oneself accused of--it might well be--murder."

As if involuntarily, but without moving a superficial muscle, Morphew
permitted a meditative rumble to escape him: "Murder . . ." And in a
startled movement not wholly affected Lanyard sat up.

"Pardon, monsieur! one ought to keep a better guard upon one's tongue
lest one put ideas into your head."

"Oh I say now! cut it out, can't you?" Pagan hastily remonstrated. "Why
not be a sport, call that little skirmish of ours the fortunes of war,
and let it go at that? No end of water has flowed down the Hudson since
that night when you cut up so nasty--about nothing at all,
practically--Morph here had to give you a taste of the whip. Not that he
wanted to, but you asked for it, Lanyard--and you know you did!"

"But truly, monsieur, this grows fatiguing . . ."

"Everything's so different tonight," Pagan brightly argued. "We've all
been through so much, we know one another heaps better--there isn't any
sense at all in our keeping on at loggerheads."

"There is not?"

"Why! if the last half year has proved anything it's that we're all
travelling one road, aiming at the same mark . . . Or shall we say
marks, so long as the dear American people ain't listening in? . . .
And now we've all made our mistakes and are ready to admit and profit
by them--you're going to cut out all this running round in circles and
frothing at the mouth, going to come in and lie down under the table and
be a good dog."

"I am?"

"Sure thing. Ask Morph: he knows. And you will, too, before long, if you
don't now. And then we'll all be just like this"--Pagan illustrated by
lacing his fingers--"just girls together, you know, all out for a good
time. So why not begin the peace conference with just one friendly
little hooter? It'll do us both good: you've had a hard day of it, and
you've given us a hard night."

"It desolates me, monsieur, to think I have been, however unwittingly,
the agent of your martyrdom to insomnia."

"Well: what _did_ you think?" Giving up the ungrateful work of trying to
seduce Lanyard into tippling, Pagan philosophically mixed himself a
lonely solace. "Didn't suppose we'd be able to sleep a wink, did you,
when you'd got us all excited up?"

"I! but how?"

"Pulling off this pussyfoot return of the prodigal."

"It is true," Lanyard thoughtfully considered: "by what appears, you did
know of my return."

"If we hadn't, there wouldn't have been any sense in our staging this
swell reception in your honour."

"I presume it seems stupid of me to be surprised--"

"Dear man!" Pagan benignly advised him--"we _brought_ you back."

"I am afraid I am incurably stupid . . ."

"It was one of my boats you came north on from Rum Cay," Morphew
brusquely explained. "If I hadn't given the boys down there the word by
wireless, when they reported you'd turned up, you'd be there still, high
and dry on the beach."

"Stupid," Lanyard insisted, "is too weak a term for my imbecility. And I
never guessed--!"

"Never struck you it was funny," Morphew enquired in ponderous contempt,
"a bootlegging outfit would let a total stranger get the low-down on the
way the game was worked, and then give him free transportation North and
turn him loose to tell all he knew to the enforcement gang?"

"One must confess one thought those fine fellows strangely trustful."

"You likely charged it all up to your winning little ways," Pagan
sweetly observed over the rim of his tumbler. "Not that I want to rub it
in . . ."

"But do go on. It is really a consolation to hear your wit improvise so
brilliantly upon the theme of my infirmity--when I myself am at a loss
for words."

"Like hell you are!" Pagan complained with an anguished grimace--"not
so's anybody'd notice it."

"But still I find myself so feeble-minded," Lanyard confessed, "nothing
yet gives me to understand why--"

Pagan started vivaciously to pursue the advantage which Lanyard
conceded; but a baleful glance from Morphew reined his tongue in time,
and drove him to bury a snubbed nose silently in strong drink.

"It's like this," Morphew began with consequence, but paused to clear
his throat when Lanyard turned on him a look of bright attention. "I'm a
hard guy to cross," he stated with the simplicity of a strong plain
man--"a damned hard guy to cross, if you don't know it. What I make up
my mind I want, I get"--a pause lent the next word weight--"always.
Maybe I have to wait a while sometimes, but in the end I always get what
I go after. Always."

"Spoken like a one-hundred per-cent he-citizen, monsieur, of this land
of bred-in-the-bone go-getters."

"All right," Morphew replied, mysteriously tolerant. "I don't mind your
funny cracks at me, if they amuse you. That's your line, and I'll say
your right bright at it, too. It isn't mine, and maybe that's my
misfortune: a person can't have everything in this world, that's
sure . . . But somehow I notice, no matter how many laughs I miss when
they're being handed around--somehow I always manage to bag the last
one. I've let you get away with a lot of rough stuff at my expense,
Lanyard, but I'm not done with you yet. If you'd only lay off being a
comedian long enough to think things over, it ought to teach you
something and make it easier for us to understand each other."

"But continue, I beg you, monsieur," Lanyard replied with a speciously
straight face: "I am all attention, as you see."

Morphew darkly chewed his cigar for another moment . . . "I let my boys
fetch you back to New York because I figured out maybe you'd had knocks
enough to bring you round to a more docile frame of mind than you were
in when you high-tailed it for South America." A side alley of
self-revelation proved too tempting: "That's the way I am, you see: when
a man I want bucks on me, I make it a rule to give him all the rope he
wants to wind himself up in good and tight before I start hauling in the
slack. That night we first met, now . . . I made you a plain,
open-and-shut business proposition, take it or leave it. If you hadn't
r'ared back, showed your teeth and the whites of your eyes, and made
such a fuss altogether about your lovely virtue, I and you wouldn't 've
ever had any trouble. If there's one thing I despise worse than poison
it's phony righteousness. And the way you carried on that night showed
me plain enough kind treatment wasn't ever going to gentle you. So I
laid off and let you perform. What happened?"

"Must we go into that? See: you're embarrassing Mr. Pagan here
frightfully."

Morphew gave his head a shake, as one pestered by a buzzing insect.
"What happened?" he obstinately iterated. "You went off and got loaded
on a thimbleful of liquor, forgot all about being nature's nobleman, and
pulled off one of the rawest jobs of second-storey stuff ever."

"But surely you are dealing unfairly now by the talents of that poor but
willing creature Mallison."

"Mallison!"

A passion of indignation exploded in that snort, such as Morphew had
never before betrayed capacity for feeling; and seeming to choke on a
rush of words, he was temporarily unable to resume; while Lanyard,
forbearing to question or comment, continued in a wide stare of a
sudden grown genuine. Unmistakably his mention of Mallison had touched a
spot so sore that the iron rule of stolidity had been unseated. But for
an instant only; quick to pull himself together, Morphew resumed his
level drone of habit.

"Get that idea out of your head--if it's in it. Mally's a crooked little
damn' fool if there ever was one, but he never in his best days had the
guts to tackle big business."

"But, if memory serves, you were of another mind when we met at Mrs.
McFee's--"

"You had me at a disadvantage--"

"How generous an admission!"

"It was your word against mine; and what chance did I have of proving
you had everything all wrong, with the little McFee daft about you,
ready to believe black was white if you told her so?"

"It isn't fair to confuse me with compliments. Pardon a slight
digression: I am interested to know what became of Mallison."

"I don't know," Morphew admitted, louring. "But I will before
long . . ."

He gave a minute to savage brooding. "If that boy had only had sense
enough to trust me . . . But he got panicky for fear we'd fall down
trying to alibi him, and blew without so much as good night."

"And you have not see him since?"

"Fat chance. He knows enough to steer clear of me after jumping the bail
I put up for him."

"Still, one is hardly convinced that Mallison is the simple innocent you
make him out to be."

"I suppose"--Morphew's manner was irritating by intention--"what you
want me to believe is you don't remember owning up you done that job
yourself."

"Ah!" Light from yet another angle promised now to illuminate the darker
recesses of Liane's duplicity. "You have been talking with Mademoiselle
Delorme--"

"With both of you."

"Pardon?"

"I'm telling you the three of us talked all that business over, I and
you and Liane, half a dozen times if once, last Winter. You didn't make
any bones then about admitting you'd turned that trick at Folly's while
you were lit. What good do you think it's going to do you to stall about
it now, try to feed the bull to me, the way you did to Liane on board
that boat? Maybe she swallowed your yarn because she wanted to; but I'm
no crazy woman, I'm not so dead struck on you I'll let you get away with
telling me to my face you don't remember anything that went on in this
Town before you went South. I'm wise, I know what you've got in mind;
and that tale won't go down a little bit with yours truly."

"I see . . ."

"Well," Morphew roughly insisted: "what do you see?"

"For one thing, that one was not mistaken in assuming you had recently
talked with Mademoiselle Delorme."

"Why not? She hiked right back to Town as soon as you left her flat on
the Port Royal."

"And promptly reported to you of course."

"Who do you think? What other friend did her and you have, with pull
enough to keep the cops off your backs while you were running that
continuous performance of yours last Winter?"

"Nevertheless, your influence failed to save Liane from deportation."

"She came back all right, she's here now, isn't she? Well then: who do
you suppose fixed things up for her?"

"Pardon, monsieur: I do but marvel that power so autocratic should even
once have failed a friend."

"Pretending you've forgotten all about how that happened, too, eh?" An
uglier sneer overcast Morphew's countenance. "I suppose you don't
remember anything about how you two got to feeling your oats, after
you'd been Lone Wolfing a while and making a good thing out of it with
my protection, and thought you could give me the air and never miss
me--"

"No! not really?"

"I suppose you don't remember how I nudged the Government into deporting
Liane to teach her discipline and then, when I found you didn't handle
any better with her away, let her sneak back, gave you another chance,
and when _that_ didn't work made Town so hot for you both you had to
take a running jump off the Battery . . . I suppose it's only natural
you wouldn't remember little things like that."

"And very handsome it is of you to suppose so, and prove you do by
itemizing in such minute detail all I pretend to have forgotten."

"That line of talk won't get you anywhere with me, Lanyard. Sarcastic
cracks won't stop me checking up to show you where you get off trying to
pull that lost memory stall on me. Why!" Morphew snorted in
disgust--"you must think I'm easy."

"But no, monsieur! my memory is hardly so bad as all that."

"It's only on the blink when you want it to be, I guess."

"What it really needs now," Pagan put in with animation, "is for you to
get yourself lammed over the bean again." He grasped the neck of the
decanter suggestively. "I hate to do it, but for a friend . . . Just say
the word, Lanyard, and I'll crown you King of Cracksmen."

"Shut up," Morphew brutally snapped.

With a little moan the sycophant applied himself anew to the soothing
Scotch; and for a few moments no more was said, while Lanyard, sitting
forward, bent a thoughtful frown to the rug at his feet, and Morphew
studied his man with a subtile smile.

"Licked," he declared, at length: "that's what you are, Lanyard, licked
to a standstill. Your nature started the job and I finished it. You'd
ought to 've known better than to try to buck a combination like that."

"I'm sorry," Lanyard replied, looking up with an apologetic smile--"but
if it isn't too much to ask you to be more plain-spoken . . ."

"All I mean is--there's no cure for a crook. If you were born crooked,
you'll die a crook, no matter how hard you struggle. It's your nature,
and it's no use any man's trying to lick his nature: you're licked
before you start. God knows I don't blame you for not wanting to believe
that, on account of that dame you were stuck on--"

"By your leave, monsieur!" Lanyard sharply insisted--"we will not
discuss that phase of my affairs."

"Just as you like. No offense intended, none, far's I'm concerned,
taken." Morphew had suddenly shifted to an amazingly conciliatory line.
"I bear you no ill will, Lanyard, in spite of all you've done to sprain
my patience. Why! that battle you put up against your nature and me was
a classic, and a man can't help but admire you for it, even if he did
know all along you never had a chance. But now you know it, too, you're
too sensible to keep on kicking against the pricks. Your motto from now
on is 'Make the best of it'--and the best you can make of it, if you put
your back into the business, is the life of Reilly for a man who knows
how to live like you do."

"You advise me, then--?"

"I leave it to your good sense, seeing where you stand today, what's the
only sensible way for you to go."

In a subdued voice, with thoughtful gaze constant to Morphew's, Lanyard
repeated: "Where I stand today!"

"Well: where do you? You've got to live somehow, and you only know one
way to make a decent living. It's no good your pulling out for Paris or
London again. They read the papers over there, too--they'll never let
the Lone Wolf land from any steamer."

"But if they believe me drowned in the Bahamas--"

"Don't count on it," Morphew earnestly counselled. "If you try to shift
your scene of operations, somebody over here that maybe doesn't think
you've treated him right would be sure to tip off Scotland Yard and the
Surétè. See what I mean?"

"You make it all so clear . . ."

"Now on this side you've got everything in your favour. You're back in
Town, and nobody knows it but Pagan here and me; all you've got to do is
lay low a while, take things easy, and go ahead when you get good and
ready . . . providing you're ready to come to terms with me."

"Terms such as--?"

"The same as last Winter; you do the heavy lifting and I take care of
the high finance; we split the proceeds fifty-fifty, and you get full
protection thrown in for nothing."

"But what of this plagiarist of my methods who has been so active in my
absence?"

"Don't let him worry you. I've got a good line on that bird, he won't
stand in your light twenty-four hours after I switch on the stop
signal."

Over the head which Lanyard bowed in pondering, Pagan shot Morphew a
grin of cynical congratulation, to which Morphew returned a quick nod
and sign of caution.

"Take your time, think it over," he advised, not unkindly; "I don't want
to hurry you. But it's only fair to tell you, after all that's passed
between us, Lanyard, I'd think myself a born sap to take you back on the
old terms without conditions."

"It might be well to name them," Lanyard suggested without looking up.

"To begin with, from now on the Delorme is out, I and you will work
without any go-between. And then--you'll admit it's only fair I should
want some proof of good faith from you."

"For example--?"

"I want the say-so about your first few jobs. You'll have to tackle them
under conditions that'll satisfy me you mean to play the game on the
level."

"But I fancy you will find it hard to invent such conditions--"

"Oh!" Morphew almost genially laughed--"it's proof of good will I'm
after more than anything else. If it comes to that, you won't
double-cross me, once you've committed yourself, unless you want to
spend the rest of your born days in Sing-Sing or . . ."

The short laugh that filled in the ellipsis brought Lanyard's eyes up to
Morphew's once more. "Or--?" he prompted with interest.

"There are some things I don't like to say, when we seem to be hitting
it off so nice and easy. I was only thinking--I guess you realize you
wouldn't get a great ways with your life if you tried to sell me out
again. For instance: Say we should fall out here tonight; know what I'd
do?"

"How should I?"

"I'd call in the boys waiting out there in the hall, have 'em give you
a full shave, and turn you loose at Forty-second and Fifth Avenue, while
I sat on the steps of the Public Library and split my sides laughing."

"Very ingenious," Lanyard gravely applauded. "But assuming, purely for
the sake of the argument, that by means of some equally ingenious shift
I should escape unshorn . . ."

"Remember how long you lasted in November, after you'd told me to roll
my hoop? Must have been all of twenty-four hours."

"Decidedly," Lanyard observed, "I was unwise to mention murder in your
hearing--or would have been, had I seriously entertained any notion of
holding out against you, monsieur."

Exultation flickered in Morphew's eyes like northern lights in a
moon-blanched sky.

"Then it's a bargain?"

"You would not have wasted time offering it had you thought me insane
enough to reject it." Lanyard lifted a hand to plead for silence, while
the mellow music of a clock in the hall sang through the early morning
stillness. "Five o'clock," he said, rising. "Since we are to be so
closely associated henceforth, monsieur, I trust it isn't too much to
beg the favour of a bed. It has indeed been a long day for me, my head
at present is so dull with drowsiness I am hardly in a condition to go
further into this new arrangement . . ."




XX


The sleepiness that Lanyard alleged was no mere subterfuge to end a
wearing conversation, the fatigue he felt was all too real, harvest of
many toilful days and nights of broken rest, so real that, once he
ceased to stave off its creeping paralysis with inflexible resistance,
it overwhelmed him of a sudden altogether. It was with something very
like the carriage of a somnambulist that he permitted the still
sprightly Peter Pagan to lead him from the library, through a maze of
corridors and stairs apprehended as in dream, and leave him at last in a
lordly bedchamber.

Here by early dawn-light he undressed like an automaton, fell across the
bed rather than laid him down upon it, and in a trice was sleeping
heavily. . . .

The sun grew so old its level rays struck in at length beneath the
window awning and burned his face with a crimson glare till Lanyard
started up, bemused, out of a nightmare of stokehold drudgery--only to
fancy himself, with that ruddy beam boring through blue shadow to lend
colour to the illusion, back in his stateroom on the Port Royal, waiting
for the pretty person of Liane Delorme to justify her knuckling of the
door.

But nobody had knocked, the band of raw red gold was stationary that
barred the dusk, it was a bed that held him, not a berth, the spacious
sleeping quarters of a pampered landlubber were his instead of cramped
and bare accomodations aboard an ocean-going boat; and he was quickening
to apprehensions of a plight more exigent even than that which Liane had
come to tell him of upon that other nightfall, in the Bahamas, weeks
ago; by courtesy a guest in the town-house of a new-found ally, in fact
no better than a prisoner in the stronghold of his most embittered
enemy . . .

Fagged though he had been all through that parley of the small hours,
Lanyard had likewise been far too thoroughly alive to its vital bearing
upon the issue of whether or not this life of his were worth the
struggle, to have slighted any innuendo in Morphew's attitude, however
trivial in seeming or elusive. And now recalling, weighing and minutely
searching every spoken word and unsaid implication, he perceived no
reason for reconsidering his verdict on their consequence, that
Morphew's proposal of an alliance had been as treacherous as his own
complaisance toward it. . . . A memory the cause of corroding chagrin,
to him who had never before met offer of oppression with less than flat
defiance, to whom the bare thought of compromise with an overbearing and
corrupt antagonist was one to sicken over. He had sour comfort of the
saying that it's fair to fight the devil with fire, he would liever have
known himself surely the poor thing they pictured him, uncontrollably
subject to criminal lapses, than to remember he had been reduced to
trafficing with cattle such as Morphew--and on terms of Morphew's
choice!

Yet it had been that or worse--a knife in his back, very likely, before
he could find out the truth for himself about those latterday prowlings
of the Lone Wolf that enemy and friend alike attributed to Michael
Lanyard, that the friendliest guesses ascribed to the cropping out of
ingrained criminal proclivities which the best will in the world might
neither eradicate nor hope to hold in check.

God knew it might be true! and if it were, then it was time indeed to
let Society rid itself of such a menace. But first all doubts must be
resolved . . .

Morphew had had the best of him from the outset, had chosen the ground,
forced the fighting, outgeneralled him in every skirmish, beaten him
down at last to his knees, forced him to stomach quarter on conditions
unspeakably humiliating. But better to bow to such abasement than
forfeit every chance to clear his scutcheon or, failing, tear him down
whose malevolence had been the first cause of its smirching, down from
the strong place he had set up to be his refuge, and bury him deep in
its ruins--though these bury not Morphew alone.

To compass an end so just, to avenge society as he revenged himself, was
the one way Lanyard could conjecture to make amends for being as life
had made him; to this he dedicated himself without any reservation
whatever, renouncing every cherished prejudice against unfaith and
double-dealing, holding no sacrifice whether of scruples or of life
itself too heavy a price to pay for its accomplishment, refusing to know
any depth of degradation to which he would not gladly descend with the
promise that at the bottom he would find Morphew's throat defenseless.

Intuition gave one gleam of hope. Making no claim to the ability to read
Morphew's mind, Lanyard assumed with confidence to assay his manner; and
recreating this to his mental vision, as it had been manifest in last
night's rencontre, estimated every facet of it false. Morphew only too
possibly might have been sincere in all he had asserted concerning the
recrudesence of the Lone Wolf in the flesh of Michael Lanyard; but his
honest scorn, paraded for what he professed to consider disingenuous
efforts to hide behind a claim of lost memory, had been in Lanyard's
judgment sheerest sham, paste indignation donned for the occasion and,
by that token, for some sly purpose. Morphew had taken too much humbling
at Lanyard's hands to spare him without some compensating end in view,
not conceivably a sordid one alone. If in actual need of money he was
little likely to reject it unless Lanyard and none other, operating as a
burglar, earned it for him. Power such as he pretended to, intelligently
exerted, could hardly have failed to bring to heel that enterprising
understudy of the Lone Wolf, who had been so busy all the while that
Lanyard had been becalmed in the Bahamas, and bend him to Morphew's
purposes as Morphew now proposed to bend Lanyard. So it seemed not
unreasonable to assume that the use which Morphew had for Lanyard was
another than he avowed, some end that Lanyard alone of all men could
serve, therefore not an end of simple avarice--in short, nothing but the
satisfaction of some all-absorbing private passion.

Morphew knew, and knew that Lanyard knew--must have known, or was a
denser dunce than Lanyard thought him--that last night's compact had
been a farce, that neither of them meant to abide by it one moment
longer than suited his convenience, and finally that so long as Lanyard
lived and had his liberty Morphew's own liberty if not his very life was
in jeopardy. Yet he had preferred that risk . . .

A man so ruled by his passions was surely vulnerable: it remained to
bide one's time with every wit wide awake to catch and profit by the
first clue that Morphew might let fall, then strike with all the
shrewdness one could muster at the weak spot so exposed. Lanyard would
hardly have to school himself to patience very long . . .

Arrived at this conclusion, scarcely one to content him, nevertheless
the one with which he must for the time being be content, Lanyard
permitted considerations of more material sort to assert their claims,
with the promptly resultant discovery that he was both sticky and
hungry, in sore need of a bath and breakfast. And sitting up, he made
another discovery, that his privacy had not been respected while he
slept. His weatherbeaten wardrobe had vanished from the chair over which
he had thrown it on going to bed; in its place he found a flowered
dressing-gown of thinnest silk and a pair of bedroom slippers--a costume
supremely suited to such sultry weather, as long as one remained
indoors. He perceived himself to be indeed a prisoner.

In the bathroom still a third discovery awaited him when, having turned
on the hot-water tap in the tub, he had his first look at himself in
the mirror above the washstand. Mirrors had been rare furniture of the
scenes in which his life had been staged of late, and he was interested
to view the effect of a six weeks' untamed growth of beard, had been
rather looking forward to revising it, as soon as he could lay hands on
a sharp pair of scissors, into a neat Van Dyke, a style calculated to be
more becoming and hardly less disguising. But one glance showed him that
Morphew or another had been beforehand with him, had played Delilah to
his Samson while he slept; that wanton luxuriance had been edited
already and in such vandal spirit that nothing could now be done for it
but shave it off entirely.

Scissors had been left on the glass shelf below the mirror, together
with a razor, soap and a brush. In resignation Lanyard clipped and
shaved, telling himself that it wouldn't do to resent the
impertinence--not yet--it was just Morphew's delicate way of serving
notice that Lanyard must not count on any liberty of action
unhandicapped by constant danger of being identified with the original
of that confounded flashlight, in other words, that any attempt to elude
his watchful care would be extremely impolitic.

Later, while he wallowed in hot water, Lanyard heard footfalls in the
bedchamber, then a discreet voice just outside the bathroom door.

"I beg pardon, sir, but I thought I heard you moving about. Mr.
Morphew's compliments, and you'll be dining out of Town tonight with him
and Mr. Pagan; the car is ordered for seven o'clock."

"That's very interesting--thank you. What time is it now?"

"Just on six, sir. I've laid out your dinner clothes, and now, if you
wish, I'll fetch your coffee. Perhaps you'd care for grapefruit, too,
and a bit of toast."

"I'm sure I would, thanks, especially if I'm in for anything of a
drive."

"That I can't tell you, sir--Mr. Morphew didn't say."

By the time Lanyard had finished towelling, his breakfast was waiting.
He consumed it in a thoughtful turn, eyeing the array of clothing
provided for him, hoping that the tailor who presumably had taken his
measure while he slept had been a better man at his trade than the
barber who had operated on his beard. But misgivings were groundless;
the dinner-coat, most ungainly of garments when it isn't just right,
turned out to be a very tolerable fit, and he could not complain of a
shortage of anything he required to make him feel entirely at
ease--barring money. Even a cigarette-case and a wafer-thin watch with
chain of platinum had been fitted into the waistcoat pockets.

Finding himself dressed with twenty minutes to spare, he had the
curiosity to try the door. It wasn't locked. He went down the stairs
deliberately, expecting at every step to encounter Morphew or Pagan or
else discover some servant spying on him. But nothing of the sort:
everything was being done to beguile him into believing he was entirely
at liberty on his own recognizance. He knew too much, however, to act on
any such rash assumption.

He met nobody, for that matter, either in the halls or in the
living-rooms, and was twirling lonesome thumbs in the library of
mortifying associations when the clock chimed the hour, and promptly the
servant who had waited on him upstairs put in appearance, bringing a hat
of black felt and a slender stick of ebony, ivory-capped.

"The car is waiting, sir, if you are quite ready."

"Quite--thanks. But Mr. Morphew and Mr. Pagan?"

"They are neither of them at home, sir. I believe it is their intention
to meet you wherever it is you are to dine--the chauffeur will know."

"Then I'm to make the trip alone?"

"Yes, sir."

A certain quality of cheek in the way Morphew had made his arrangements
won an ungrudged laugh as Lanyard accepted the hat and stick.

The Rolls-Royce landaulet at the door was so brightly blue and sleek it
might have been making its first run from the show-room floor. The
liveried footman who held its door with all the rare poise of his kind,
saluted smartly as Lanyard got in, and smartly doubled round the car to
hop up to the chauffeur's side: the vehicle began to move almost before
he was formally posed in his place with folded arms. But Lanyard
remarked that the rear-view mirror above the wheel was so tilted as to
afford the driver a view of the tonneau; and knew by this that to
discover symptoms of intending unceremoniously to leave the car would be
unwise.

At the same time he inclined to dispute the wisdom that had provided a
progress of so much state and ostentation for one so badly wanted; for
while it was true enough that the police in uniform were far too busy
supervising the traffic of the Drive to have room in their heads for
thoughts of the Lone Wolf, it was equally true that plain-clothes men
were presumed to be aboard and on the qui vive, it wasn't an extravagant
flight of fancy that supposed a chance crossing of trails, a casual look
into the car fixing on the features of its passenger and kindling with
recognition . . .

But when furtive reconnaissance astern, at intervals in the course of
the first twenty minutes, had satisfied him that the landaulet was being
discreetly dogged by another car, an unpretentious affair in sober paint
occupied by three men of competent presence, compact bodies who rode
with eyes alert, and looked quite capable, jointly and severally, of
giving a good account of themselves in action, he concluded that it
wasn't worth his while to worry about adventitious interference on the
part of the police, who, if inspired to such an attempt, would stand
about as much chance of stopping the Rolls-Royce and arresting its
tenant as the latter would of winning his freedom by means of a flying
leap. One might as profitably occupy one's leisure trying to guess one's
destination: and the next hour satisfied Lanyard that the route had been
mapped with intent to confuse him. For after following main-travelled
ways to White Plains, the landaulet and its satellite struck off into a
bewildering tangle of back-country roads in which, as night closed down,
it was easy to lose one's sense of direction. Lanyard could only
surmise that they were describing a circuitous course to the North and
East of Greenwich.

It was hilly countryside they traversed, for the most part thinly
settled. Long stretches of lonely road spaced infrequent clusters of
farm buildings and crossroad communities. Few other vehicles were
encountered. The Rolls-Royce seldom slowed down to forty miles an hour,
while the following car closed up till its headlamps lighted brilliantly
both sides of the landaulet, rendering it out of the question as well as
foolhardy to seek to leave the latter unobserved by a sudden dive into
the dark.

Not that Lanyard entertained the remotest desire to commit his fortunes
to a hope so forlorn, he was too well possessed by curiosity concerning
the nature of the scheme which Morphew was maturing, for Lanyard's
introduction to which he had plotted an approach so tortuous, and which
that evening could hardly fail to declare. It wasn't in reason that the
man should take so much trouble to manufacture an atmosphere of mystery
without a purpose of uncommon moment. And if it were true that he had
some more than ordinarily devilish project brewing, Lanyard would feel
cruelly slighted if denied a chance to get at least a peep into it.

Something after nine the cars picked their way through the outskirts of
a town of good size, then found a by-road through open country fragrant
with the breath of salt water, leading on to infer that Long Island
Sound could not be far away. Properties jealously enclosed in walls or
wrought-iron fences bordered the road, occasional gateways opened up
fleeting vistas of drives that led toward lighted windows in the
distance. Apparently a community of wealthy land-holders . . .

The landaulet turned in at last between two stone piers supporting
handsome iron gates, and followed a winding drive through spacious
lawns, dimly revealed by starlight, to a porte-cochère. The footman
jumped down to the door, Lanyard alighted. As he ascended steps leading
to a broad veranda, he heard the Rolls-Royce purr away behind him, and
saw the headlights of its attendant car sweep down the drive that curved
round to the rear of the house.

The veranda was lighted only by windows opening on it that diffused a
gentle glow at best upon patches of flooring set with summer furniture,
and deepened the gloom of the spaces intervening. The house was silent,
nobody moved in an imposing entrance-hall that was visible through
screen doors; and Lanyard pulled up, at a loss for his welcome.

That came, however, without too much delay: a low sweet laugh lifting up
from the darkness between the two nearest windows, then a small shape of
beauty and gracious animation running swiftly toward him with both hands
extended.

He caught them with an exclamation of pleasure, and stood looking in
wonder into the smiling eyes of Folly McFee.




XXI


Neither less nor more the dupe of vanity than most men of his years,
Lanyard rather liked to think of himself as one whom life had lessoned
out of all susceptibility to such emotions as that of surprise, a
creature of sophistication cynical but bland, weathered by arduous
experience and long contemplation of man the slave of folly and the
feeble sport of chance until nothing could amaze him. But this
contretemps (he couldn't count it better, remembering the genius of its
machinery) flawed the picture; Folly's accents with their more than
half-pretended petulance startled him awake to the fact that he had been
holding her hands for minutes, gaping like a zany, speechlessly
confounded.

"I don't believe you're glad to see me!"

"And I--I'm wondering if I am."

"That's not a very pretty speech," she pouted, tugging at her hands till
he had to resign them.

"But everything considered, not an unnatural one. You must know nothing
had prepared me . . ."

"That's good--because I'd be dreadfully cross if anything had spoiled
the surprise."

"Then you can't be cross with me at all."

"I don't know . . ." the young woman gravely doubted. Instinct with that
quenchless spirit of coquetry in default of which she had not been
Folly, she posed provocatively to him in the half-light of the window
behind her, head daintily aslant, elfin mischief glinting through the
dusk that masked her eyes. "I must say you might take it more kindly,
seeing how happy it makes me. You don't know how long you've kept me
waiting--I'd begun to be afraid you'd backed out of coming after all."

"Then you actually were expecting me for dinner?"

"Of course! without you it wouldn't really be a party."

So much for the suspicion that his escort had mistaken the way and
blundered into the wrong premises . . . Then it behooved him to have his
wits about him and beware of being misled into taking false steps on
such false ground.

"You're an arrant young baggage," Lanyard considered aloud.

"I know--but you're an old hand."

"Then cultivate a bit of reverence for my grey hairs, remember it's not
seemly to make mock of your elders."

"Come and sit down, then, beside me." With a chuckle of delight Folly
flitted back into the shadows from which she had come, plumped down upon
a settee, and patted its vacant cushions with a peremptory hand as
Lanyard more deliberately followed. "Do you always insist on having a
plot to explain why people request the honour of your presence at their
dinners?"

"I have a humble heart," Lanyard protested, sitting; "I am too much
mystified to understand why it's termed an honour . . ."

"You're a great bluff--I've told you before. You know very well, most of
the people one meets are incurably dull, whereas nothing can cure you of
being a most interesting person. That's one reason at least why you're
wanted."

"But you are dodging my question. Few people think it an honour to
entertain the Lone Wolf--even if they didn't entertain him unawares."

"I don't call that humour," Folly observed, critical. "You can't amuse
me by making believe you think I take any stock in all the rotten things
people say about you."

"Oh!" Lanyard blankly cried--"you really don't?"

"I should say not--know you better."

Her tone rang true enough, and Lanyard could detect nothing to
contradict it in the soft silhouette of her profile against the light.

"It makes me very happy, to think at least one person in the world has
faith in me, after all the villainy that's been charged to my account."

"That isn't fair," Folly retorted with spirit: "You never give your
friends credit--Morphy doesn't believe it, and neither does Peter."

"To be sure . . . Yes: naturally those two must have talked to you about
me."

"You don't suppose they'd have lured you out here to dinner without
first getting my permission, do you? If they hadn't, I'd hardly have
been so fussed about your being late."

"But that wasn't my fault. I didn't know where I was coming--I could
only comfort myself with the reminder that I was in the hands of--as
you point out--my friends."

"It doesn't matter. We arranged to make it a late dinner anyway; and
furthermore you're not the one who's kept it waiting. Morphy and Peter
didn't show up till about ten minutes ago. They had a breakdown or
something on the way."

"I was wondering . . ."

"They're upstairs in their rooms now, dressing."

"I hope they don't hurry," Lanyard confessed. "I can spare them a little
longer, need time to get my bearings."

"Poor dear!" Folly closed an impulsive hand over Lanyard's. "It _is_
horrid of me to plague you, isn't it? But you know how I love fun . . ."
She drew away and made herself prim and meek in her corner. "It's your
turn now, I'm perfectly well aware I've got questions by the broadside
coming. You may fire when ready."

"But I think you know too well what seems most strange to me . . ."

"All right. I don't mind telling . . . Yes: this is my place. No: I
don't own it, I just rent it furnished. From Peter Pagan. He's been such
a dear, let me have it for next to nothing for the Summer, and the most
perfect staff of servants thrown in."

"I'm sure that sounds just like him."

Lanyard meant it. Since it was manifest that Morphew and Pagan were
determined to pluck this poor foolish pigeon, and she was madly bent on
being plucked, certainly it had been their book to surround her with a
squad of servitors trained to their purpose.

"But that isn't what's most perplexing to you . . ."

"By no means."

"You're perfectly eaten alive by curiosity to know how Morphy got round
me, aren't you? Well! but how did he get round _you_?"

Lanyard weakly parried: "Hasn't he told you?"

"Not in so many words. But of course I understand. How could anybody
hold out against such magnanimity?"

"How indeed?"

"You weren't to blame for being so cruelly wrong about him . . . about
Mallison and Morphy's having had anything to do with my emeralds, I
mean. Everything looked so black for him . . . Even Morphy didn't blame
you; only, of course, he was half wild at the time, when you didn't give
him a chance to defend himself and prove that Mallison had abused his
confidence just as he had mine, only more so. But of course he's told
you all about that."

"I am none the less interested to learn what he told you."

"Just what I've said, what you know. He waited weeks before he tried to
see me again, and spent simple sloughs of money on detectives, trying to
find Mallison and bring him back to prove what an ingrate he'd been. Oh!
but I wasn't the only one of Morphy's friends that had suffered through
taking Mallison on his endorsement."

"I am sure you were not."

"And then, when he had to give that up as hopeless, he got Liane to ask
me to give him a chance to explain; and of course, I could hardly refuse
to listen. And he's been just wonderful to me ever since. Really, my
friend, you don't know what a fine nature he has. Why! he wouldn't let
Liane or Peter tell me a word about what he was doing for you, it was
only today I wormed the whole story out of him, after he had brought me
the good news."

"'Good news'?"

"About your recovery. And when I think of how he took care of you, all
those months, after that terrible motor accident, all the while you were
out of your head and the doctors held out no hope you would ever be
yourself again--when I think of the way he fought to save your mind--and
won!--well!" Folly submitted in a voice of awe--"there aren't any two
ways of looking at it: Morphy's a sportsman if there ever was one."

"He is," Lanyard cautiously conceded--"unique."

The young woman sat up with an indignant jerk. "Is there a double
meaning to that?" she demanded. "Because if there is--I ought to warn
you--you'll end by making me dislike you against my will. Oh! I know
Morphy has his shortcomings; but so have we all. And I can't believe you
so ungrateful . . ."

"But I would be the last man to deny that I owe Morphew a great deal,"
Lanyard was able to state with entire sincerity. "And some day--it is my
dearest hope some day to be able to repay him as he deserves."

"That's all right, then." Mollified, Folly relaxed. "I'm terribly
glad."

"Is it fair to ask why?"

"Because I want you to like him . . . for my sake, you know."

"Afraid I don't know."

"He hasn't told you?"

"I begin to be afraid to ask more questions."

A small gurgle of vanity bubbled out of the shadows. Then Folly thrust a
hand into the golden flood that fell through the windows beyond the
settee. Upon her third finger a great cabochon emerald shone with soft,
unwinking fire.

"It's the finest stone of its kind on this side of the Atlantic," its
wearer declared, "outside of my collection. That is, it was outside till
Morphy gave it to me."

"You mean--you can't mean you're going to be married--!"

"I don't see what else it can mean--do you?--when we're engaged."

"But are you really in love--?"

"Now really, Mr. Lanyard! do you think it's polite to be so bowled over
by the very idea that Morphy could have fallen in love with simple
little me?"

"But you--?"

"Well . . ." The suppliant accents of a child caught misbehaving
confessed: "you know I've always been crazy about emeralds."

Lanyard let a little space of silence be eloquent for him. When he spoke
again it was in another tone, rather a brusque one: "But why the devil
did you do that?"

"Oh, I don't know!" Folly sighed in plaintive resentment of such
bullying. "He kept asking me, and I didn't know what else to do . . .
You weren't there, and I was lonely, and it was raining . . ."




XXII


With the portentous sweep of a sorcerer's wand one wing of the screen
doors nearby swung wide to deliver to Lanyard's stunned recognition the
last person in the world he had cared to see just then, a presence of
florid allurement en grande toilette. He rose in resignation, telling
himself he might have been better prepared, would have been had Folly's
most recent confidence broken upon his understanding with force less
scandalizing--that the interruption was after all timely, since beyond
doubt it saved him from speaking his mind too plainly on the theme of
Morphew as a husband meet for Folly.

The woman at the doorway waited a moment for her vision to accomodate
itself to the change of light, then marked him where he stood by the
settee and approached with a carriage whose measured grace matched the
play of the fantastic fan of plumes she managed, her fine body sinuously
undulant within its scanty sheath of lace and satin.

"It is you at last, my friend. One fancied it was your car one
heard. . . . But how long since last we met!"

"Too long," Lanyard gallantly insisted, performing a punctilious bow
over a hand whose fingers tightened upon his with a significance
unsentimental, a brief sharp squeeze that carried a clear message to his
discretion: Folly, he was to understand, knew nothing, and Liane for
reasons personal and sufficient held it wise she should continue to know
nothing, of that ill-fated flight of theirs together to the Bahamas.

By way of supplement the throaty voice pursued with heavier stress on
the note of professional blandishment: "It is true, then, you have
missed me?"

"Ah!" Lanyard gave back agreeably to her humour--"if you only knew!"

"Hark to that grand blageur!" Liane grumbled to Folly. "Who would
believe, to hear him, the last time we met he coldly spurned my love?
But it is always so with him, one never knows how to take this fickle
animal. Heed what I tell you, who have suffered: do not let him break
your heart, too."

"But he has already," Folly stated, deceitfully demure. "If it wasn't
for him I would never have had any practice throwing myself at a man's
head and falling flat on my foolish face."

"I am too much confused," Lanyard claimed on behalf of his modesty.
"These unmaidenly confidences oblige me to change the subject kindly but
with decision. Permit me to observe at a venture how ready we aliens are
to adopt the tribal customs of this great country, such as the rite of
Old Home Week. Tonight, for example, our little circle is completely
reunited--with one lamentable defection--"

"Oh, hush!" Folly caught his arm with an imploring hand. "Here comes
Morphy; don't let him hear us, the mere mention of Mallison's name makes
him simply frantic."

"On your account I promise to be careful. But you really must take the
good man in hand and teach him self-control. As your husband, he will be
sure to need it."

Folly's eyes flashed up in mute prayer and warning: Morphy leaving the
swing-door, was already within earshot. In his wake, as ever at no great
distance, the inevitable Pagan strutted.

With that dogged elasticity of gait which men of too certain years and
too, too solid flesh affect in their pathetic strivings to seem youthful
to the women they prefer, Morphew approached, his dinner clothes,
over-cleverly tailored, decked out with a regalia of jewels more than
ordinarily shocking, last night's surly truculence now a genial suavity
that harked back to the first half-hour of his acquaintance with
Lanyard, at the Clique Club so long ago. On his very best behavior, he
was apparently charmed to be so. And observing him in covert wonder
when, after throwing Liane a light but friendly greeting, he bent his
lips to Folly's hand, Lanyard perceived in a blinding flash of
divination the chink in the armor of this uncouth colossus: Morphew was
madly in love, in bondage absolute to one of those late blooming
passions that men know who feel their flesh, still warm from the midday
sun, breathed upon by chill premonitions of the night to come.

"Ah, Lanyard, my boy! there you are, eh?" No friend of his heart ever
gave Lanyard a more cordial hand. "Sorry Pete and I had to keep you
waiting--"

"But I was glad of the chance to find myself in relation to the
surprise you had prepared for me--the surprises, I mean."

A small bow comprehended Liane, who returned an arch look as Folly
linked her arm and snuggled.

"Darling Liane is stopping with me for the looks of the thing, to keep
my name sweet on the tongue of my neighbours."

"Pour les convenances," Liane interpreted for Lanyard with an intonation
inimitably droll.

Dinner was announced . . .

Long before that meal was finished Lanyard knew the conviction that
never had he sat through a stranger, or one better composed and served,
or consumed in an atmosphere of more general amenity.

It would have been anything but easy, for that matter, to be uncongenial
under the influences of food of such excellence and so skillfully
prepared, wines so well chosen, and the steady flow of high spirits
contributed by Folly, Liane and Pagan in tacit collaboration, and
encouraged by a surprising display of good feeling in the more saturnine
Morphew. Yet Lanyard thought it doubtful if any of his company forgot
self or selfish interests for one fleeting instant or pronounced a
single unweighed witticism, however spontaneously it might seem to fall.

On his own part, he could not--had he wished--have forgotten the
sinister tension of distrust and cross-purpose running through it all;
and if he seemed to let himself go and enter without reserve into the
frivolous spirit of the gathering, he remained in his heart an outsider
to the end, captious and skeptical, and to the end a prey to dour
forebodings. And his attention, ranging in turn from one to another,
with a quality of vision inhumanly dispassionate stripped each and every
one, even himself, of their trappings of pretension and self deception,
and saw the rot that ate at every heart.

He saw in Pagan the perfect pattern of a parasite, fawning on all and
sundry for empty laughter, that he might esteem himself a wit and so
repair the abrasion of his self-love by the knowledge that he was, at
bottom, no better than a pickthank and a pander.

He saw Liane Delorme estranged from these her boon accomplices of
yesterday because of Morphew's inexplicable new animus, bitterly stung
by the discovery that she who had ever been wont to queen it
unchallenged was tonight being barely tolerated for what she might be
worth toward the consummation of another's corrupt and ungenerous ends;
haunted by the incidental knowledge that her charms were day by day more
swiftly fading, that their potency once so magical was now nearly spent,
and that the increase of her years had brought and would bring no
compensating repose, neither the peace that crowns a life well lived nor
any surcease from repining.

He saw Folly McFee, a trifling moth, vain, empty-headed,
pretty-to-death, avid for admiration to dull the irk of discontent with
life for all it had denied her of her heart's desire, for the shabby
indemnity it offered her in the shape of Morphew as her promised
husband.

He saw Morphew, gross in person, gross in appetites, seeking in vain to
slake his lust for power, that men might look up to him, by fostering
those puerile and unprofitable criminal intrigues of his incubation, and
at the same time laid so low by love of a doll's face and a pretty body
he could not dissemble his fatuous doting or the jealousy that made him
sick to his core every time the amorous little baggage of his fancy
chose to make eyes at another man.

Finally, Lanyard saw himself, to whom pride had once been as breath of
life, broken and degraded to a shameful sort of peonage, constrained to
take his orders from a Morphew and faithfully perform the tasks set for
him, lest enemy and patron in one withdraw his favour and leave him
without defense against the wrath of a society which his mere existence
affronted beyond pardon.

Satyr and sycophant, coquette, courtesan and criminal: a shady
crew . . .

And against that ring of worn and raddled faces present in actual being
to his sight, hall-marked every one by self-seeking, he had ever before
him a face infinitely more real and true, his vision of his lost love,
beyond all telling fair and kind, never more near to him than now, nor
ever more inaccessibly remote.

And these with whom he sat and dined and drank, with whom he laughed and
leered and bandied ribald personalities, were they whose egoism had cost
him Eve . . .

Dull rage smouldered in his bosom, he knew he was ripe for murder--and
went on feeding and guzzling with them, winking and nudging and giggling
with the best of them, put in his proper place by life at last,
relegated to his rowdy sphere, to escape from which he had been insane
ever to aspire . . .

Oh, he knew it now! Doubts no more vexed his mind. He was where he
belonged, where his own acts had brought him, in the vicious circle of
his peers, welcomed and accepted in virtue of the proof he had provided,
though unconsciously and without intention, that he was one of
them--"guilty as charged," guilty as Hell.

So be it--he was tired of fighting against the fate inherent in his
failings, he would fight no more. The destiny of his own architecture
must henceforth have its way with him. . . .

Quaint respect for the conventions of another world at length ordained
the withdrawal of the women, leaving the men to the walnuts and wine of
tradition. And Lanyard, when he got up with the others to bow Folly and
Liane out of the room, returning to the table, drew his chair up to the
end where Morphew presided.

The curious good nature of the Sultan of Loot was holding up in spite of
his bereavement, the temporary defection of the apple of his eye; he
felt free to declare the little party an unblemished success; and though
he adhered strictly to his plain water régime, he didn't hesitate to
hector the servants, who didn't need his hectoring, into producing from
Folly's cellar for the delectation of Lanyard and Pagan the rarest of
grandes champagnes.

"That's the stuff to go to the right spot," he asserted, with a glitter
of envy in his moist eyes of an ex-tank. "Drink hearty, it won't hurt
you any, and there's lashin's more where it came from--though you won't
find half a dozen bottles between Maine and California, outside the
stock I control."

"Monsieur is a rare judge, for one who never drinks."

"That isn't saying I never did." Vanity grew warm with reminiscence.
"Haven't touched liquor in ten years, but my daily average is still
high."

"But how seldom does one find a host who has foresworn drink so
considerate of the palates of his guests."

"Stick around," Morphew countered in simple pride--and possibly, in
Lanyard's judgment, with an arrière-pensée--"you'll find out a lot of
things about me you don't know, before we part. Besides, tonight isn't
every night . . ."

The pause of suspense was meant to provoke the question underlined by
arching eyebrows: "No?"

"Want to put plenty of heart into you," Morphew jovially admitted, "so
you can put it into your stuff tonight."

With reluctance Lanyard detached a ravished gaze from the amber contents
of the glass which he had been holding up to the light. Knitting
eyebrows now lent accent of apprehensiveness to the query: "My 'stuff'?"

"Sure thing, your stuff; your act, you know, your turn, your job, the
little thing you do better'n anything else."

"Monsieur undoubtedly means my shop--the Lone Wolf's craft."

"Call it anything you like," Morphew graciously conceded--"you know what
I mean."

"But--I think monsieur said something about tonight--"

"That's right. Tonight's the night."

With undisguised regret Lanyard put aside a barely tasted glass;
whereupon Morphew made a noise of expostulation.

"When the Lone Wolf was at his best, monsieur, he never drank anything
if he had work in view. I have had too much already, if I am to believe
you are not jesting . . ."

"That's something else you're due to learn when you get to know me
better--I never joke about serious matters."

"In effect, monsieur has a great deal in common with humanity," Lanyard
observed with a straight face. "It would be interesting, none the less,
to learn where he draws the line between the serious and the trivial."

"I guess you won't want to argue that point when you realize the
proposition I've laid out for you tonight is one of the biggest
contracts you ever tackled."

With a quiet smile in eyes that cast back across a gulf of years,
Lanyard pronounced: "I wonder . . ."

"Oh, I know you were a hell-bender in your prime!" Morphew
contended--"but when all returns are in you'll be ready to admit you
never went up against anything bigger than this."

Did the ulterior thought faintly re-echo in that assertion? With a
finesse of which no man was more truly master Lanyard continued to seem
astray in by-paths of diverting retrospection while in reality
concentrating keenly critical scrutiny upon Morphew's countenance.

Such pure malevolence as glimpsed in those lightless eyes, in spite of
every artifice of hooded lids and webbing wrinkles, was hardly to be
taken as the work of a thwarted will to dominate or of mortified egotism
merely, but must have been the distillation of an even stronger passion,
fear or . . .

"The haul you made of Folly's emeralds that night you were pie-eyed, was
a wonder, or would have been if you hadn't lost your nerve; and some of
the tricks you've turned since then have been pippins; but tonight's
going to make history. You listen to me . . ."

But Lanyard didn't, he heard only a rumour of words whose sense made no
impression upon faculties staggered by a thunderstoke of intelligence.
The very elaboration of carelessness with which he had named Folly McFee
had betrayed Morphew's guarded secret: brute jealousy was the
fundamental cause of the hatred in which he held Lanyard, the blind
insensate jealousy of an aging man who foresees the failure of his
efforts to find in love of woman fuel for waning fires.

Sensitive as he must have been, with that abnormal and abominable
sensitiveness from which men of his coarse fiber too often suffer, to
the aversion which his caresses could not but excite, to her instinctive
shrinking from even the greed of his regard, and conceiving her to
entertain a tenderness for the more personable man, the more dashing
figure that was clothed as well in the glamour of a wildly romantic
history, and the man who most intolerably was his junior by many years,
Morphew--the conjecture gained force of verified conviction in the light
of this late disclosure--had decided upon Lanyard's death as the one
sure means of healing Folly of her infatuation, and had decreed that it
should be brought to pass as an act of justice, approved by custom and
the law, meted out to Lanyard while he was engaged in the commission of
a felony.

Thus at a stroke he would rid himself of one whom he hated and feared as
both a rival in love and an irreconcilable menace to his more material
fortunes, prove to Folly she had misplaced her admiration, and clear
Hugh Morphew of all suspicion of complicity in that old offense of
Mallison and the emeralds; he would even rehabilitate Mallison, if he
had any further use for that one, if his indignation on account of
Mallison's imputed ingratitude had not been all a blind.

And indeed it was not hard to see how well it would be for all
concerned, it might be even for Lanyard himself--it might be even for
Eve!--if he were to be found dead the next morning of a bullet fired by
an honest man in legitimate defense of his home . . .

Well for Eve and well for himself if he should meet his end tonight!
That thought hummed in Lanyard's head like the refrain of some old song
that, once recalled, sings itself endlessly over and over to memory's
ear. It intensified the sobriety with which he listened while Morphew
laid bare the cheap articulation of his plot, but it was permitted to
work no deeper treason; so that Lanyard might very well have been as he
seemed, as Pagan and Morphew believed him to be, impressed to admiration
by the finely dove-tailed ingenuity and the imaginative daring of the
scheme complete.

"The next property to the west"--Morphew flirted an iridescent paw
toward that quarter--"is the summer home of the Vandergrifts. Guess you
must know who they are . . ."

"As well as you know the fame of Rothschild, monsieur."

"The whole damn family's there just at present: pa and ma
Vandergrift--she's sporting most of the Russian crown jewels since the
last strike tacked a few dollars per ton on to the cost of coal; the
Duchess of Allborough, Theodosia Vandergrift that was, wearing the
Allborough diamonds and pearls; Dudley Vandergrift and his wife--her
father was Jules Cottier of Cottier's, the French jewellers--"

"But assume the Lone Wolf to be acquainted with the fame of Cottier's,
monsieur."

"And a whole houseful of guests--you know the sort. Nobody worth less
than eighteen millions is ever invited to one of the Vandergrift house
parties, not because ordinary millionaires ain't good enough, but
because they'd feel like poor boys at a husking. At a conservative
figure there must be upwards of a million in jewels under that roof
tonight that belongs to the Vandergrift clan alone. They take good care
of it, too. Their guests can do as they please about their stuff, but
all the Vandergrifts' goes into the big safe in the library every night.
It was built into the walls when the house was put up, in Eighteen
Eighty-five or thereabouts; that's a good enough line on the sort of box
you've got to tackle, for a man that knows all you do about safe
construction."

"It doesn't sound formidable, assuming your information to be accurate."

"It's accurate, all right; don't let that worry cramp your style. I've
been buying up inside dope on this proposition for months, getting it
all set for you--had it all but ready to slip you when Liane and you
kicked over the traces last Spring. Well--we'd have had to wait awhile
anyway for ma and pa Vandergrift to move to the country, and now it's a
bigger thing than it would have been any time sooner. So no harm done."

"And this information you have collected?"

"Got it right here." Morphew worried a gold-mounted wallet out of one of
his hip-pockets and sorted from its contents several sheets of
onion-skin tissue dark with minute pen-work. "There you are: map of the
grounds, plan of the house, diagram of the library showing locations of
all lights and switches, full notes on the habits of the
household--everything but the combination of the safe."

"We left that out on purpose, Lanyard," Pagan smirked across the cloth,
"just to make it interesting for you."

Impatiently Morphew thrust the diagrams and notes into Lanyard's hands.

"Everything else you want to know is there. Give it all the once over as
soon as you can--we haven't got time now, ought to be joining the
ladies before long--and any questions you want to ask I'll try to
answer."

"Many thanks." Lanyard shuffled the papers under a thoughtful frown.
"There is only one question I need ask: These fabulously wealthy folk no
doubt maintain a corps of night watchmen?"

"That's just where you're wrong," Morphew contradicted in triumph.
"There's only one night watchman for the whole works; and he's held the
job twenty years and got so old and confident--nothing having ever
happened to make him earn his pay--he spends most of his time on duty
asleep in a chair by the garage door. He's supposed to make his rounds
every hour, but I've fixed it so he'll forget about the three o'clock
trip this night anyway."

"You have fixed it?"

"Don't suppose I'm taking any chances of his having a spell of
sleeplessness tonight, do you? When he goes to sit down in his favorite
chair this time he's going to find a flask that's slipped by accidental
purpose off somebody's hip, a flask more than half full of prime stuff."

"Why not quite full, monsieur?"

Morphew winked hideously and laid a finger to his nose. "If that bird
sees somebody had a few pulls at it, he won't worry about whether it's
prune juice or ill-natured alcohol."

"Forgive my stupidity; now I understand--the cunning hand of Monsieur
Pagan will have been at work upon the contents of that flask. How
far-sighted you are to keep a tame chemist. But how will the bottle
find its way to the seat of the chair?"

"One of my boys will take care of that, of course."

"You have spies within the gates, then?"

"Haven't I just been telling you I never leave anything to chance?"

"But I should say you leave everything to nothing else, when you repose
faith in the loyalty of human hearts. Trust one man with your life, and
you forfeit all your right to sleep; trust two, you may count yourself
already betrayed. Trust nobody: it is the rule that made the Lone Wolf
what he was."

"But you're trusting me--"

"Pardon, monsieur," Lanyard smiled; "but--you will admit--under duress."

"Well! but I'm trusting you--"

"With a cordon of God knows how many spies posted about the Vandergrift
residence, beyond, to see that I am not interfered with while at work."

"But that's only a commonsense precaution," Morphew uneasily growled.

"And likewise to see that I do not take it into my head to--how do you
say it? double-cross you?--pocket my plunder and neglect to return."

"Nothing like that." Morphew denied, with contempt for the suggestion.
"Got too much confidence in your good sense."

"And yet you tell me you leave nothing to chance!"

"You're a great little kidder, all right." A sour smile commented on the
concession. "As far as that goes, I don't expect you back here
tonight."

"No?" Lanyard queried in surprise. "You meant to be a consistent
gambler, then--trust me to return to New York with my loot alone?"

"Not exactly. You'll need a good car for your getaway, and a racing
driver that knows all the back-roads--"

"Ah! not such a besotted gambler after all."

"I've marked a place on the map I gave you, a place just outside the
grounds where you'll find a racing car waiting, when you're ready. Once
you're in that, and the driver steps on the gas, nothing but an airplane
stands a ghost of a show of overtaking you."

"Truly, you have thought of everything . . ."

"I'm that way."

There was a lull. Lanyard with an abstracted air folded the sheaf of
papers and put them away in his pocket, then became amiably aware that
both Morphew and Pagan were watching his every action with the eagerest
interest.

"Eh bien, messieurs! Shall we, as you say, rejoin the ladies?"

"You"--Morphew abandoned all effort to disguise the strain upon his
self-control--"you're going to go through with it?"

Lanyard's shoulders were more expressive even than the spoken retort:
"What else has one to do?"

Sitting back, Morphew absently mopped his face with a napkin. "One hell
of a hot night," he muttered. . . . "That's all right, then. You're such
a fire-eater I didn't know but you might try to buck on me at the last
minute."

"Tranquilize yourself, monsieur. My word has been passed. There is but
one thing I cannot promise: I may not be able to make the clean sweep of
the Vandergrift jewels that you desire."

"What's to stop you, once you get set at that safe?"

"Who knows, monsieur?" Lanyard pushed back his chair. "The element of
chance enters into every human affair. Who knows whose hand will cast
the dice tonight? Who knows how they will fall?"

To himself he added a cry of despair: "Mother of God! who cares?"




XXIII


The earlier hours of that night aged without departure from its
programme as arranged by Morphew. With entire apathy Lanyard made
himself flexible to every maneuvre which that one or Pagan recommended
in bogus anxiety "to armour-plate his alibi"--Pagan's phrase, meaning so
to colour appearances in advance that nobody would have any excuse for
believing Lanyard had not been far from the theatre of the contemplated
crime at the hour of its commission. Unshaken assurance that the
intrigue had a single object, his permanent removal from Morphew's path
at the smallest cost in embarrassment to the latter, prevented Lanyard's
lending himself to the artful but meaningless dodges they proposed with
anything but the compliance of complete fatigue. It couldn't matter to
him what people might think and say of him after that event to whose
occurrence he was looking forward with a resignation that, alone of all
its preliminary business, afforded him a certain thrill of interest; he
wondered a little at the manifestation of such indifference to life in
one who had always ere now loved life so well . . .

The sequelae of that mental illness which had blotted seven months out
of memory no doubt had something to do with the psychic background to
the strange frame of mind which now was his--impossible to surmise how
much or how little, lacking as he did the true data of that eclipse,
having to guide speculation only Liane's account and Morphew's, each
fragmentary and replete with inherent discrepancies as well as in
conflict with the other on points of first importance. And even given a
faithful record of all those days and nights when the Lone Wolf had
walked and the mind of Michael Lanyard had been dark, still it would
need a psychoanalyst to say in what manner and to what degree the
after-effects of such an experience might be influencing his mental
processes of today.

Not that it mattered now, not that Lanyard really cared; for him it
sufficed to have in his heart tonight this living pain of longing for a
love forever forfeit through no conscious error or omission, through no
volition of his own.

Eight months ago he had reconciled himself to the thought of renouncing
his love that Eve might never be made to repent her response, that her
faith in him might endure. But since blind fate had conspired with human
malice to uproot faith, stamp it out in that kind bosom and destroy it
altogether, life held for him no more promise to make it worth the
living, he could look back into the very face of death and know never a
tremor of dismay. As even now . . .

It was quite true, he was not afraid. He searched his heart and found it
steadfast, was confident it would not fail him when his hour struck. He
was willing enough to go, only stipulating that when he went he would
not go alone, Morphew must go with him. Upon this he was determined, and
with so passionate a fixity of purpose that he wondered how Morphew
could be in his company and remain insensible to what was in his mind.

They sat together, otherwise alone, long after midnight, in a sector of
the veranda as dark as the house behind it. In the entrance-hall a
night-light burned, throwing its dim fan of rays down the steps to the
porte-cochère. Liane and Folly had some time since gone to bed, leaving
Lanyard to enjoy a "conference" with Morphew of the latter's allegation,
before leaving to return to town in the car that had fetched him. The
servants, too, were all presumably abed, since Morphew had faithfully
acted out the farce, for the benefit of Lanyard, of telling the butler
not to wait up and promising to close up the front part of the house in
person.

Not long after, the landaulet had ground its tyres upon the gravel of
the drive, had stopped beneath the porte-cochère long enough to permit
Pagan and Morphew to speed an imaginary parting guest with farewells
loud and clear, then had crunched noisily away with Pagan as its
passenger, under-studying Lanyard, to be set down outside the gates ere
the car proceeded to New York; while Lanyard and Morphew had settled
down to await his furtive return afoot.

A lengthy period of what would have been quiet had Morphew not been, as
usual, masticating an unlighted cigar, ended in a snort of complacence:
"Well! guess we're all set . . ."

"Not altogether."

"What's the matter? Haven't you had chance enough to study those
diagrams?"

"I know them by heart. Nevertheless, you have forgotten one essential of
my equipment."

"What's that? A jimmy?"

"I seldom use one, certainly shall have no use for one tonight."

"Don't see how you expect to get into the library without something of
the sort."

"O you of little faith!" Lanyard laughed softly. "That is a matter for
my skill."

"Well! maybe you do know your business best. But considering you don't
use tools or soup on a box, damned if I see what else it can be you
miss."

"A pistol, monsieur."

Distaste for the suggestion was evidenced by a delay which prefaced the
response: "Thought you didn't go in for that sort of thing."

"What sort of a thing?"

"Toting a gun on a job. Thought it was against your principles to be
fixed to shed blood if you got in a jam."

"It was. It was likewise contrary to the code of the Lone Wolf to work
with accomplices. You have prescribed a new technique for me altogether;
you can hardly object if I consent to adopt it only upon provisions
which seem to me wise. After all, it is my liberty that is
involved--very possibly my life, too."

"All rot. There isn't the slightest danger to you on this job,
everything like that has been looked out for."

"You feel sure, monsieur?"

"Positive."

After a pause Lanyard asked: "Tell me, monsieur: have you noticed that,
since we have been sitting here, a man has stolen up behind that clump
of shrubbery yonder and is keeping watch on us?"

"What's that?" The legs of Morphew's chair grated harshly on the
flooring. "What man? Where?"

"You didn't see him, then, as he came skulking across the lawns?"

"No--"

"Then you are not in a position to assert the fellow is not where I have
indicated?"

"No--but see here--"

"Be at ease--there is nobody." Lanyard laughed quietly. "But neither am
I in a position to assert--and stake my life on it--that I will find
nobody on guard in the Vandergrift library tonight. So I will have a
pistol for self-protection when I go to pay my call."

"You make that a positive condition?"

"Assuredly, monsieur. And if it comes to that--why not?"

"Suppose you'll have to have it, then."

"A supposition that does great credit to monsieur's efficiency of
apprehension. If, however, you are afraid to trust me with firearms, I
will cheerfully consent to a postponement till you have had time to
think the matter over."

"Why should I be afraid to trust you with a gat?"

"The very question I have been asking myself. Believe me, monsieur,
confidence alone can beget confidence."

"You've got me all wrong," Morphew sulkily insisted. "Oh, well! if
you've got to have the thing--here."

An automatic pistol changed hands. Making sure that the safety catch was
set--which proved that the weapon was loaded and ready for use--Lanyard
contentedly dropped it into his pocket.

His first small success to break that tedious tale of reverses . . .

"At last," he announced, "the faithful Pagan!"

"Where?" Morphew goggled blindly at the gloom that clothed the grounds.
"I don't see him . . ."

"If your sight by night is no better than that," Lanyard observed, "I
feel sure, for the first time, it wasn't you who played Lone Wolf while
my back was turned."

Morphew swung himself sharply--and cursed himself sotto-voce for the
constructive self-betrayal.

"What put that silly fool idea into your head?"

"Don't be angry, monsieur--it was not said seriously."

A shadow picked out with the white wedge of a shirt-bosom sped lightly
across the gravel and up the steps. Morphew's cluck brought it fawning
to his side.

"His master's voice," Lanyard chuckled.

"See here!" Pagan bristled belligerently under the lee of his patron,
"d'you know you're damned impertinent?"

"Yes."

If Pagan had a retort adequate to the insolence of that monosyllable,
Morphew forbade it.

"Here! that's enough. You've been a hell of a long time; what kept you?"

"You shouldn't risk leaving our good friend alone so long," Lanyard cut
in. "He's too trustful, people take advantage of his confidence in human
nature and over-reach him. Regard that even I have been able to wheedle
a pistol out of him while you were playing chuckfarthing on the
tombstones--or whatever the mischief was you've been up to."

"Is that right?" Consternation jarred the toady out of his mean rôle for
an instant. "What the devil--"

"Calm yourself, my good Pagan. If your terrors were not baseless, I
would be making good use of the weapon this instant--if I had waited so
long--instead of sitting here and playing the deuce with your nerves."

"Cut it out, can't you?" Morphew muttered. "This is no time to be
squabbling like a couple of kids. You need every minute you've got to
run over your plans--"

"Quite unnecessary, monsieur; my mind is already made up."

"All the same, it's better we should leave you to think things over--"

"I shall miss you like fun."

"Besides, it's only half an hour more now; and Pete and I want to be in
bed and sound asleep by the time you go into action. Anything more you
want to take up with me?"

"At this moment, monsieur--nothing."

"Then we'll be going." Morphew heaved out of his chair. "Good night,"
he mumbled in heavy effort to sound well-disposed. "Don't let 'em put
anything over on you--watch your step."

"I shall not fail to do so." Lanyard was so occupied with cigarette-case
and matches that he didn't see the hand which Morphew half-heartedly
offered and with ill-disguised relief withdrew. "And you, too,
monsieur--dream sweetly and--but surely there must be some appropriate
American expression--don't fall out of bed!"

Pagan offered slightly curdled noises of valediction. Lanyard accepted
them for what they were worth and dismissed their maker with the same
gesture. Like lion and jackal--like a corpulent sloth of a lion attended
by an exceptionally spry and pert jackal--the two familiars went into
the house.

The front doors were closed and bolted, the shine of their fan-light
grew more dull, the stairs complained of a weighty and deliberate tread,
windows in the second storey burned brightly for several minutes,
throwing saffron beams over the edge of the veranda roof to stain the
lawns, then were darkened, Lanyard imagined that he heard a
creak--Morphew's bed, or some door resenting an attempt to open it by
stealth--and heard nothing more from the interior of the house.

There was no real stillness where he sat, on the edge of the open night.
A wind soft and warm was blowing, gravid with presentiments of rain;
occasional gusts of sterner stuff wrung aeolian roars from tormented
tree tops, sharpened the rattle of leaves incessantly a-shiver, and sent
strange, shapeless shadows scurrying across the lawns like spirits of
darkness reft from their moorings in shrubbery and undergrowth. The moon
had set, the stars were few and far and faint, vast convoys of cloud
cruising beneath them drenched the world with Cimmerian mirk for minutes
at a time; a night made to the order of sinners and spies . . .

He knew very well he was spied upon even then, while he sat small and
still, his cigarette burning itself out a dozen feet away on the drive,
the phosphorescent dial of his watch in the close cup of his palm. A
quarter to three--five minutes more . . . He had told Morphew the truth
about the man whom he had seen steal up to stand watch over them--more
accurately, over Lanyard--from the cover of a mass of shrubbery; had
lied in denying the discovery; both for sheer mischievous enjoyment of
Morphew's loss of countenance when he saw the whole tissue of his scheme
imperiled by the mischance, as he must have reckoned it, of a botched
job of surveillance.

Taking fright of what he had overheard Lanyard say, likely enough, that
spy had made early occasion to seek a safer hiding place. But nothing
persuaded Lanyard that he had marked down the only man assigned to the
duty of seeing that he performed in faithful accord with his
commitments. He counted confidently on every step of his private via
dolorosa being dogged by a corporal's guard of shadows . . .

It was, however, in his mind to give them something less elusive than
_his_ shadow to prove their skill with . . .

At ten minutes to three he pocketed his watch, opened the large blade
of the pen-knife that had thoughtfully been provided him, and inched
forward in his chair, eyes to the sky. And when the next great continent
of cloud had blacked out the stars for a space and passed, Lanyard's
place was vacant; and he, standing on the inside of the french window
through which he had in effect dissolved, without causing a sound more
than the thin click of a latch prized back by the knife blade, would
have risked a round wager that nobody had seen him leave his chair.

He stood in the drawing-room, with every faculty at concert pitch, for
more than a minute. But nothing stirred in the entrance-hall, so far as
that was disclosed by a wide arched doorway, and he heard no sound from
upstairs. Another arched opening joined the drawing to the dining-room,
which last was quite black; but he chose that way to his goal rather
than brave the lights in the entrance-hall, passed on to the butler's
pantry and there hit upon what he had been seeking--the service
stairway, unlighted and, at least to the pressure of practiced feet,
agreeably taciturn.

Delivered by this route into the hallway of the second storey, and
guided by prior acquaintance with the location of Morphew's bedchamber,
Lanyard paused outside its door to unlatch the safety device on his
commandeered pistol, then with what was equivalent to a single supple
movement let himself into the room.

But the pistol, trained on the bed the moment his shoulders felt the
door behind them, fell immediately to his side; eyes that had faithfully
guided the errant footsteps of the Lone Wolf through many a blacker
night needed no light to assure them that the room was untenanted.

He reminded himself that Morphew's bedchamber was linked with Pagan's by
way of an intervening dressing-room, and found the communicating doors
not locked. But Pagan too, it appeared, had been perfidiously remiss in
the matter of going to bed. Neither could Lanyard see anything to prove
that either man had changed a garment or stopped in his room longer than
the lights had burned; which had been just long enough to cover the time
it ordinarily takes a man to shed his clothes and otherwise prepare for
bed.

In that first dash of disappointment Lanyard was tempted to believe that
Morphew's bag of tricks boasted as deep a bottom as his own. He was
criminally spendthrift with his time, however, every second that he
delayed there, scolding himself for his want of prevision, his idiocy in
trusting the pair of them an inch out of his sight--while they were
abroad, out there in the night, marshalling their forces, picketing
every possible avenue of escape, leaving open to him only the way he was
pledged to go--and setting their trap at its end.

He returned the way he had come, opened the door of Morphew's room,
slipped out with all haste compatible with prudence--and found his
retreat cut off.

In night dress and négligé Folly McFee stood between him and the head of
the main staircase, which he would have to pass to regain the service
stairs.

The hallway was without light other than leakage from the entrance-hall
by way of the staircase well, a faint diffusion, barely enough to
define the shadows, seemingly enough for Folly notwithstanding, since
she betrayed neither dread of the marauder nor doubt of his identity,
nor yet any astonishment to see him there who should have been twenty
miles away.

In accents circumspect but crisp and even she demanded: "What are you
doing there?"

With a shrug Lanyard put away his pistol. He had been wretchedly
premature, he perceived, when, having bluffed Morphew into giving him
that weapon, he had congratulated himself on the turn it signalized in
the tide of his luck.

"Dropping in on your dear betrothed," he replied, moving nearer, "just
by way of giving him a glad surprise."

She had no patience for such ill-timed levity. "What do you mean? What
did you want with Morphew?"

"If you must know, I meant to invite him to take a walk with me."

"At the pistol's point!"

"Precisely."

"Well!"--a note of scorn sounded in her voice, or Lanyard was
deceived--"why didn't you? Wouldn't he go?"

"I regret to report that the gentleman is not at home."

"Not--!" Acute dismay drove the woman back to the rail round the well. A
hand flew to her lips as if to muffle them. "Morphew isn't in his room?"

"Neither is Pagan; I'm afraid they are up to some sort of naughtiness."

"For God's sake! don't joke." Folly flew back to him, laid hold of his
arm with hands of almost savage entreaty. "Don't you see your danger?
Don't you _know_ what they intend?"

"Too well. That's why I wanted Morphew's company on my walk--not the
best life insurance one could wish, but better than none."

"Ah! but why"--now the woman was almost sobbing--"_why_ didn't you run
for it while you had a chance?"

"For the best of all reasons--I hadn't the chance."

"But they left you alone down there on the veranda--"

"Half a minute." Lanyard firmly freed his arm and caught her wrists
instead, applying pressure enough to command attention. "You knew that
much, knew I hadn't gone off in that car--"

"Of course."

"How much more do you know?"

"There isn't time to tell you. Be content that I know everything--"

"Why he brought me here tonight?" She nodded. "What he's forced me to
promise I'd do?"

"Everything, I tell you!"

"In the name of wonder! how?"

She gave no answer. The quiet of the hour took up their hurried,
low-pitched murmurs as blotting-paper takes up ink. They stood without
moving, close together, like lovers. He was aware of the hastened
movement of her bosom, and though the glow from below was too feeble to
read her face by, fancied that her eyes were louring.

"Tell me how you know . . ."

"Please! you hurt." She made him loose her wrists, yet did not move
beyond his reach. "Enough that I do know," her whisper insisted. "My
name may be Folly, but I'll prove to you yet I'm far from a fool."

"You claim that," Lanyard retorted, "yet you're going to marry
Morphew--"

"And you believe it!" She laughed bitterly. "Now you tell me, which of
us is the fool?"

"It was you who informed me. How do I know what or what not to believe?
I'm like a man newly blinded, groping my way round a strange house,
hoping against hope to find a friend's hand--"

"Here . . ."

Lanyard set his lips to the hand Folly flung him, and folded it between
his own.

"Then tell me--"

"I can't, there's no time. You must go--go at once--save yourself before
they can come back and catch you here."

"Not a step till I know."

"Oh, you will drive me mad!" Amazingly, on top of that, the slender body
shook with guarded laughter. "Very well, then! I'll tell you--but on two
conditions: You must promise me to go immediately after, and not to let
Morphew suspect. I want to be the first to tell him, and see his face
when he learns . . . I've had dictographs wired in all through the
house."

"But--good God--for what purpose?"

[Illustration: CRANE LEARNS THAT HIS CONFIDENCE IN THE LONE WOLF'S
CAPACITY FOR REGENERATION HAS NOT BEEN MISPLACED.]

"You're _so_ stupid!" The rug deadened the stamp of a frivolous slipper.
"Why do you think I care whether you go or stay? Why do you suppose I
ever let them think they'd got round me again? Only because I wanted to
help . . ."

"For my sake!"

"You're not really stupid, you know," Folly commented, and whipped her
hand back into her own keeping. "You've known all along . . . Now keep
your promise and go. Get as far away as you can and . . . Give me a ring
in the morning, I'll tell you what has happened."

"'What has happened'!" On the point of taking her at her word, Lanyard
checked in suspicion. "What can happen, if I let Morphew down?"

"You don't think that would stop him? You don't know that monster. I
heard him tell Pagan, if you should fail him tonight, refuse to go
through or succeed in escaping, there would be a robbery just the same,
and of course you'd get all the credit."

"You were right," Lanyard affirmed. "There's no time to waste."

Too late the young woman saw her error and sought to detain him by
putting herself in his path.

"What are you going to do?"

"Bid you good night."

Lanyard's hands clipped her elbows to her sides and lifted her bodily
till her face was level with his own. Soundly if hastily kissed, she was
set to one side, and when she recovered was alone.




XXIV


A wilder spirit now ruled the night: the freshening wind blew with zest
more constant, with briefer and less frequent lulls, the trees it
worried fought back in bootless fury, with thrashing limbs and lows of
torment, a heavier wrack coursed the skies, the blinded stars found
fewer rifts through which to wash the world with their troubled and
misleading light. Lanyard, traversing an unknown terrain, with nothing
but impatient memories of Morphew's rough sketch-map to guide him, threw
caution to the very wind whose wanton spirit shouted down his noisy
flounderings, and shouldered headlong through hedges, coppices and
thickets, reckless whether or not he were heard or seen and followed.
His prayer, indeed, was not so much that he might give Morphew and his
crew the slip, as that chance might throw him into direct personal
collision with his enemy.

From that moment, when, after dinner, Morphew had first broached his
mind on this foray and Lanyard had taken the tacit implication that he
might refuse to play his part appointed only by dedicating himself to an
early and a wasted end, he had been determined to find some means--and
the fouler the fitter--of coercing Morphew into keeping him company step
by step and sharing whatever fate would be his in the outcome.

From the moment when his hand had closed upon the grip of the pistol
which he had talked Morphew into trusting him with, he had felt fondly
confident, not that he would escape with his life, but that Morphew
shouldn't.

Now to find his plan of campaign anticipated, and with a readiness and
thoroughness to warrant the belief that his most secret thoughts were
not safe from Morphew's acumen, infected Lanyard with a phase of
madness, with an actual mania: he was a man-killer in intention as he
blundered through the dark, he had fixed in mind a solitary thought, to
be in time to abort the proposed burglary by taking Morphew's life. The
penalty for that would be so little to pay for vindication of himself to
himself--to Eve: the tale would surely find its way to her, some day,
wherever she might be; some day she would learn how and why he had died,
would understand . . .

He found himself finally at check on the fringe of a black spinney,
peering across a hundred yards of lawn at a pale, columned façade that
loomed against the confused sky with a certain stateliness of line and
mass.

The dwelling seemed to be fast asleep. In the intervening open nothing
human moved: only the bystanding trees tossed their arms and lamented as
they looked on, like a grouped chorus morbidly curious.

If Morphew and his lot were about, they were keeping to good cover.

The Lone Wolf in his day would have rendered such discretion tribute of
slavish flattery, would have picked his way toward the house from
shadow to shadow, taking profit of the shelter afforded by every bush
and hole between him and his objective, like an Indian stalking his
kill: the Lanyard of that night struck straight away across the lawns at
the top of his speed. The worst that could reward such audacity would be
an attempt to overhaul or intercept him, in which event there would be
gun-play, Lanyard could promise that, a fusillade sure to give the
alarm: better the hazard of that than to lose precious minutes trying to
avoid being seen, thereby granting the thief in the house the time he
needed, if he knew his business, to consummate his purpose and escape.

For the thief was in the house already: Lanyard's first cast across the
lawns at the wing that held the library--with whose location Morphew's
ground plan of the dwelling had made him acquainted--had been repaid by
discovery of a lancing play of light in the dark beyond the windows, the
thin, broken and restless, blue-white blade of an electric torch in
hands either cynically indifferent to detection, or absurdly amateurish.

He would be in time--perhaps. If so, with none to spare. He pelted madly
toward the veranda, took its steps at a stride and, with calculated
intent to make all the noise he could and bring the household down about
his ears and that other's, battered a shoulder like a ram against the
joint in the middle of the nearest window.

It gave with an ease he hadn't discounted, its wings flew open with a
sounding crash; and tripping on the sill Lanyard tumbled in on all
fours, while the walls bellowed with the report of a pistol, and broken
glass showered about him, tinkling and clashing.

Instantly he reared up on his knees, as a man will when mortally hit,
flopped to one side, out of that too exposed position in front of the
window, and lay very still, his own pistol ready, his vision probing the
obscurity for some sign of stir.

The electric torch defeated that effort. It had been dropped with switch
set, at the instant of Lanyard's violent entrance, and now lay at some
distance in from the windows, its beam steadfast to the front of an
opened safe; manufacturing a wide patch of vivid colour that made the
encompassing mirk more dense, too dense for penetration by merely mortal
eyes. Lanyard, at least, could see nothing else; and though he
distinctly heard the pile of a rug whisper to a movement of sly feet, it
passed his perceptions to determine the quarter in which that rustle had
its rise. It ceased of a sudden, and he heard nothing more, other than
the swish and flap of the curtain bellying in from the shattered window.

The burglar hadn't left by way of any window, he was certain; therefore
was still in the room, waiting like Lanyard for some incautious sign to
guide his aim. But to play a waiting game with him would be intolerable,
and too apt, as well, to end in precisely that which Lanyard was bent on
preventing, the intrusion of some member of the household to draw the
marauder's fire. The raving of the wind in the trees made it impossible
to distinguish lesser sounds from beyond those four walls; but it was
hardly conceivable that the rending crash with which the window had
admitted Lanyard, the shot that had followed, and that loud rain of
splintered glass, should have failed to alarm every inmate of the house.

Lanyard conjured up to the eye of his mind the plot of the library he
had studied at Morphew's instance. According to it--as memory
served--the window he had broken through was the one nearest a wall in
which (close by Lanyard's head it ought to be) a double doorway opened
in from the main hall of the house, with a switch for the ceiling light
conveniently at hand.

Gathering himself together, Lanyard rose in a reckless bound and lunged
blindly toward the door, found it where he had thought it ought to be,
and began to grope for the switch.

His first fumblings were wide of their mark, but he persevered, heart in
mouth, expecting every moment to see the black backwards of the room
stabbed by a jet of crimson and orange flame--perhaps to be lucky enough
to hear the accompanying blast But the other held his fire, no doubt
shrewdly guessing what Lanyard was up to and reckoning it the part of
wisdom to wait for the light to make his aim sure; the advantage would
be all to him when it came, for he would know approximately where to
look for Lanyard, whereas the latter had no clue whatsoever to the
whereabouts of his adversary.

His fingers at length hit on the switch, a great central chandelier
sprayed the room with radiance.

Lanyard occupied it alone, at least seemed to: the library was
over-furnished with huge, old-fashioned pieces, any one of which might
easily have been serving the safe-breaker as a temporary screen, from
behind any one of which Lanyard had to look for his coup-de-grâce to
come at any instant. . . . Or, he dared not be unmindful, that might
come through one of the windows. Doubt of his temper could now no longer
exist in Morphew's intelligence. The one slender chance Lanyard had of
eluding a bullet from either the outlaw in the room or the assassins
outside lay in keeping constantly on the move.

He quartered the library with swift strides, bent almost double,
zig-zagging from the shelter of one article of furniture to that of the
next, and finding the other man nowhere. In this manner he circled a
massive table of old oak that occupied the middle of the floor and was
passing the violated safe when the toe of one boot struck something that
incontinently, in effect, came to life, and slithered away across the
hardwood like a serpent of light.

Involuntarily Lanyard pulled up, stooped lower, and retrieved the thing:
a diamond necklace of all but incalculable worth.

His breath stuck in his throat, his heart stood still, his consciousness
was in an instant sponged clear of every other thought than this: he
knew that necklace, knew it almost as well as he knew the palm of his
hand, and knew it had no business being where he found it, three
thousand miles and more from the home of its owner in the south of
France.

Like a man in hypnosis measuring his actions in obedience to the will of
another, without taking his eyes from the necklace Lanyard stood up, put
his pistol down upon the table, and used both hands to straighten out
the string of blue-white stones and held them to the light.

Veritably Eve's . . .

Unaware of any noise of warning, again like the subject of a hypnotist,
he slowly turned his head, and saw Eve standing in the doorway, a vision
of loveliness unflawed by any fault, supremely gracious of line and warm
of colour in that austere frame, beauty stricken by sorrow posed against
a tall black panel.

One hand held the door-knob, the other at her bosom clutched together
folds of a gossamer robe she had thrown over her shoulders on getting
out of bed. Her lips, barely parted, were silent, her unswerving look
was dark with amazement and reproach.

Twenty seconds tolled by thunders wore out of Lanyard's ken: he
remained, like Eve, transfixed, his eyes mirroring in some small part
his mind's stark disarray . . . reading in hers sick contempt to see him
standing there, caught red-handed at the Lone Wolf's base business, the
man she had given all her trust and love to surprised in the act of
thieving the jewels of the woman he had professed to adore . . .

And then wonderfully she moved, advanced a pace or two out of the
doorway, and lifted to him hands of charity and suppliance, her
countenance mild and kind for him, that voice of sweetness incomparable
tenderly fluting one word of entreaty, his name:

"Michael!"

Existing then only in her love and in the love he bore her, forgetting
all else in life, Lanyard came to himself in trembling, and stumbled
toward her hands . . .

It was the swift change of her expression that halted him, the startled
dread that afflicted her as something at his back drew her attention.

Galvanized by that hint of peril to his beloved, Lanyard whirled on a
heel. But the cry of angry challenge that rose to his lips was audible
only as a broken rattle, he was instantaneously stricken to futility to
find himself confronted by Michael Lanyard his living apparition.

It was like a trick of delirium, a phantom parody of Lanyard
materialized from behind a huge wing-chair beyond the far end of the
table: his counterfeit in every particular of dress and feature, his
facsimile grotesquely forged.

One look recognized the likeness and its fraudulence; that is to say,
assured Lanyard that he wasn't confronting a mirror. A gleam of grim joy
shone on his features. He covered in a leap half the distance between
them, saw a pistol in the grasp of the impostor swing level with his
head, ducked before it spat. His own weapon was out of reach, but the
string of diamonds in his hand licked out from it like a whiplash of
white flame, and fell squarely across the other's eyes. A second shot
went wild as the man's head jerked back from the stinging impact of the
stones. And then Lanyard was at his throat . . .

The sheer fury of his onslaught bore both back to the wing-chair and
over its legs as it toppled and fell on its side. The pinned wrist of
the hand that held the pistol was twisted with such cunning that the
fingers relaxed, the weapon described a flashing arc through the air,
dropped to the polished floor, and slid a dozen feet away from the
combatants. Even more to the purpose, when that writhing tangle of
bodies resolved itself, Lanyard was on top. But the under dog rallied
with the fury of one fighting for his very life, and rained brutal blows
on Lanyard's face. Indifferent to these, Lanyard dug both thumbs into
the fellow's throat and slowly but savagely choked him into
semi-strangulation.

He lay still at length, gagging and wheezing, tongue protruding, eyes
starting from their sockets. And Lanyard released his pressure on the
windpipe only to twine vindictive fingers into the hair of his victim
and tug for glory and the Saints--till a wig and false forehead en bloc
came away in his grasp.

After that it was the work of half a minute to snatch a handkerchief
from a breast-pocket, scrub off most of that mask of grease-paint, and
bring to light glimpses of the ruined beauty of the dancing yegg.

Eve's shadow fell athwart the two, and Lanyard, for all the labouring of
his lungs, had an irrepressible chuckle as he looked up into her
bewildered face.

"Permit me to introduce the Lone Wolf's last incarnation!" he cried, and
jumped up, brandishing the scalp he had taken--"known to the police and
social circles of the cabarets as Henry Mallison--Mally for short!"




XXV


No responsive elation lightened the dark regard that shifted from
Lanyard's face to Mallison's and back again, only a smile pitiful and
chiding dawned. "So this," Eve slowly said, and slowly shook her head at
the man who loved her, "is why you ran away!"

That look he could no more interpret than he could the riddle of her
words; both he requited with a muddled stare. "I?" he blankly
wondered--"ran away--?"

She nodded once. "But you didn't know, I'm sure, what you were doing
then; it's natural you should not remember. You are yourself
tonight--you were not, then."

"Yes," he cried--"thank God! tonight I am myself . . ."

One of her hands went out to this, he caught it between his own, was
drawn by it to her bosom. Common impulse moved them aside and away from
the man they had forgotten, the man who lay sobbing and fighting for
breath on the floor beyond the desk.

"So you come back to me!" It was as if in the gaze that plunged into her
eyes his very soul passed out from him to lose itself, and all awareness
of the world without themselves as well, in that treasury of love
illimitable and incalculable which those eyes disclosed. "So, as I knew
you would, you come back to me at last, your honour cleansed! Michael,"
the woman breathed, yearning to him--"my Michael!"

"What are you telling me? _I_ ran away from you--!"

"Three months after you were injured in that motor accident, while your
memory still was uncertain, when often you couldn't recall one day's
events on the next . . . without a word of explanation or farewell, one
day you left me, disappeared . . ."

"_Left_ you!"

"I knew, of course, why . . . It was when the papers were revelling in
the sensational 'return'--as they called it--of the Lone Wolf. I had
tried to keep it from you, fearing the consequences of the excitement,
in your condition; but the hue and cry was out for you, I was at my
wits' ends to hide you away from the police, it was necessary to tell
you why . . . What I had so feared happened: you brooded incessantly,
whenever your mental condition made you forget the affair for a time--as
when you'd wake up from a sound night's sleep remembering nothing of the
previous day--something was sure to happen to remind you. A hundred
times you begged me to let you go, that you might find and expose the
scoundrel who was masquerading in your reputation; I knew you were
incompetent for that, at the time, and always managed somehow to talk
you out of it, until--as I say--abruptly, without word or sign, you left
me."

"Left _you_!"

"Ah! but you don't know." Her smile grew gently arch, fondly teasing.
"Don't you, my Michael! even remember--"

She gave a startled movement, averting her attention to the windows, her
body became tense in his embrace, her hands convulsively tightened upon
his shoulders.

The veranda was booming with a sudden, concerted rush of many feet.
Lanyard offered to release the woman, but she clung to him as if in
terror; and at the last he had to use his strength, because he foresaw
what was to befall, forcibly breaking her hold and throwing her from him
lest she share a peril that, he was resolved, must at any cost be his
alone.

Crying out, not loudly but in protest and solicitude for him, she
staggered back; and Lanyard turned toward the desk to retrieve his
pistol--too late. Already a man was shouldering in through the broken
window. He brought up standing with an automatic trained on Lanyard.

"Stick 'em up, my man!" he rumbled--"and be quick about it."

Lanyard was quick about it. His own weapon lay on the far edge of the
desk, at least eight feet away; before he could have covered half that
distance a bullet would have stopped him. Hands level with his ears, he
swung slowly to face Morphew.

Gross, ungainly, panting, rocking from one to the other of his heavily
planted feet, the Sultan of Loot stood with head slightly lowered and
thrust forward, face of a pig hideously twisted by a leer of malice
successful and exultant.

Behind him the window filled with followers, through it half a dozen
defiled into the room; three who were immediately identified as
individuals of Morphew's bodyguard who had helped manhandle Lanyard in
the Morphew town-house the night before; after these, the inevitable
Pagan, strutting, smirking; finally, two that were new figures in
Lanyard's sight--one an able-bodied young Irishman in police uniform but
lacking that elusive poise which somehow distinguishes members of the
New York police force, the other a simple citizen proudly parading a
nickel-plated badge on the bosom of his waistcoat.

"And keep 'em up, Lanyard!" Morphew was admonishing in an uglier note of
malice. "Don't take any chances with me this time--if I have to shoot,
I'll shoot to kill. You're caught at last, caught with the goods on!"

"'Caught'?" Eve de Montalais challenged. She stepped forward, coming
between Morphew and his chosen prey. "What are you saying? Caught doing
what?"

A mottled fat paw impatiently waved her out of the way; Morphew's
dourest scowl covered her. "Stand aside, madam!" he growled. "Don't make
me take a chance of hitting you; that man's a desperate criminal, if you
don't know it; the first move he makes, I'll fire--"

"But I do not know he is a desperate criminal," Eve sharply
contradicted. "As for you, whoever you may be, I think you must be
mad . . ."

"I guess you are," Morphew brusquely retorted. Yet his slotted eyes
winced from hers. "Caught him yourself--didn't you?--just now, robbing
your safe--"

"And if I did?" the woman surprisingly quibbled. "What concern is that
of yours? Have I invited your interference? Have I asked your help in
the management of my own affairs?"

"Maybe you haven't," Morphew sullenly contended--"but you're getting it
whether you want it or not--"

"With what authority, pray?"

"My authority, madam!" the man retorted in open rage--"the authority of
an honest, law-abiding citizen. I've been after that yegg there for
months. Now I've got him, by God! he don't escape with his life." He
jerked a peremptory head at the policeman and the man who sported the
nickel-plated badge. "Take your prisoner, Mr. Sheriff--"

"One moment!" Eve interposed a ringing demand that halted these two
before they had fairly got in motion to obey Morphew's behest. "I am the
householder here, if you please--you'll arrest nobody on these premises
without my sanction or a proper warrant. This gentleman has done nothing
to deserve arrest--"

"Nothing?" Morphew jeered. "You call burglary nothing?"

"He has committed no burglary--"

"Didn't break into this room and bust open that safe, I suppose?"

"To the contrary," Eve asseverated, "Mr. Lanyard is here in his own
right; more than that, he has prevented a burglary--"

"A likely story!" Morphew commented with a snort of grim derision. "If
he didn't do it, I want to know who did!"

"But allow me to answer this honest and law-abiding citizen, madame,"
Lanyard lightly put in. And wittingly at risk of his life he lowered one
hand to touch the woman's shoulder as he moved to one side, that she
might no longer persist in shielding him with her own body. "Permit me
to relieve the confusion of mind which distresses the amiable Monsieur
Morphew--"

"You keep your trap shut!"

"Softly, my good Morphew! I am about to do you a service--appreciating
as I do how worried you have been, and how pained, by the ungrateful
behavior of your tool and accomplice, Mal--"

"Shut your mouth, d'you hear?" Morphew bellowed, swaying his huge head
upon his shoulders like an infuriated animal about to charge. "Take your
prisoner, Mr. Sheriff! If this woman won't charge him with the burglary
he's committed here tonight, _I_ charge him with breaking into my house
in New York last night--"

The bellow ran out in a gasp that was followed by a choking noise. A
long arm had shot out over Morphew's shoulder from behind, and the bony
but powerful hand at the end of it had closed upon his wrist, jerking
the muzzle of the pistol toward the ceiling. As he swung round with an
incoherent roar another hand, the mate to the first, deftly seized the
weapon and twisted it from his grasp. He stared, in apoplectic
speechlessness, into the countenance composed yet sardonic of Crane.

Unobserved by anybody other than Eve and Lanyard, the detective had
quietly stepped in through the open window, closely followed by an
associate, a mild-mannered body hall-marked police detective by the
derby hat of tradition.

"Y'oughtn't to get gay like that with loaded firearms," Crane counselled
in gently pained reproach--"y'ought to know better, a man your age!" His
mouth hardened and he clamped fingers like the jaws of a vice on
Morphew's shoulder, nipping truculent bluster in the bud. "Crane's my
name, if you want to know, but bull's my nature, Mister Morphew; and
remember this"--eyes that had the glint of steel between narrowed lids
cowed Morphew's--"I don't ask no better luck than for you to give me a
good excuse to get even with you for all the trouble you've been putting
me to, first and last. Keep a civil tongue on your head if you value
your health!"

Morphew cast glances mutely eloquent of tormented appeal to his
henchmen; but they were one and all inattentive, to a man preoccupied
with the attitude of Crane's associate. And yet it had all the seeming
of the most inoffensive attitude imaginable. The mild-mannered man was
doing nothing whatever more than mildly keeping mild eyes on them and
his hands in his overcoat pockets. It is true that both the said pockets
boasted singular bulges, as if two forefingers of derision were being
pointed under their cover . . .

"But what the--who the--what the hell right 've you--?" Morphew
stammered.

"Well!" Crane chuckled, "I don't know. Kind of thought I'd drop in and
see how your little frame-up was working. Got the hottest kind of a tip
half an hour ago . . . Give you three guesses where it came from." One
of his eyebrows climbed his forehead on a slant, giving his face a
diabolically whimsical cast; his thin-lipped mouth widened in an unkind
smile. "Never mind guessing, Morphy, spare the old intellect the strain.
Here she comes now . . ."

A vision of elfin fantasy, with a fur-trimmed opera-wrap of crimson and
gold brocade negligently draped over her déshabillé, who quite frankly
hadn't stopped to dress, Folly McFee airily sauntered in from the
veranda and paused and posed, reviewing the tableau with glances of
mischievous amusement.

"Why, Morphy!" in affected solicitude she cried--"whatever has happened?
You look fussed to a perfect frazzle . . ."

"Best little side-kick any guy ever worked with," Crane quite seriously
affirmed. "Take it from me, Morph old boy, I'll look a long ways before
I find another little lady like that, who won't even stick at letting
her name be linked with the name of a mongrel like you, just to get the
low-down on your naughty little ways and shoot the information along to
yours truly."

A shove, seemingly playful and effortless, nevertheless shook the
balance of that hulking body; Morphew staggered back a step or two,
regained physical equilibrium with some effort, and braced himself like
a badgered brute in a bull-pen, feet wide apart, head swaying low upon
hunched and rocking shoulders. Rage and chagrin lent wattled cheeks the
complexion of flesh sorely bruised, his lower lip was pendulous, his
hooded light eyes, their whites newly shot with congested blood, were
wickedly agleam.

Lanyard, watchful, ready for anything now that Crane had deprived
Morphew of his pistol, told himself he had never seen a man more nearly
out of his mind with fury, had never encountered at close quarters an
animal more dangerous.

"But will you kindly look who's here!" Crane's happy drawl was
hailing--"as I live, old Hank Mallison, the spring-heeled yegg, none
other!"

Only his mild-mannered colleague had no attention to spare for the
spectacle of Mallison, like a spectre in a pantomime, slowly and
laboriously, with the help of hands that clutched the desk, hoisting
himself into view.

"Folks!" Crane solemnly declared--"I'm an officer of the law and
everything, but this is one big night. It ain't every night a poor dumb
dick like me is privileged to gaze upon the only authentic pirated copy
of the Lone Wolf. So if I can only wheedle our friend here, the King of
the Bootleggers, into selling me a bottle of his best bootliquor, the
drinks are on me, all round!"

On his feet at length, Mallison rested, trembling visibly, still stupid
with the effects of the thrashing he had suffered at Lanyard's hands. In
a face that retained recognizable traces of his make-up as the Lone
Wolf, his eyes had something of the bewildered look of a beaten
dog's--but for the merest instant only; terror replaced it in a
twinkling when his puzzled, questing glances discovered the presence of
Morphew.

There was an instant then that was gravid with presentiments of tragedy,
in which no one spoke, no one stirred from his place, no one moved in
any way but Morphew--for Mallison seemed frozen to immobility by sheer
fear.

Morphew was crouching lower, gathering himself together. The hands that
had been hanging limp lifted and tensed into the likeness of great livid
claws that itched for Mallison's throat. Morphew's lips had rolled back
from his teeth, from deep in his throat a dull, brutish growl was
rising. Of a sudden it waxed to an inhuman howl, and simultaneously that
ponderous bulk of flesh launched itself like a thunderbolt
incarnate across the room . . .

In its third stride it was stopped and thrown back as if it had dashed
itself against an invisible barrier. Mallison had found Lanyard's pistol
and fired. He fired again as Morphew was falling. But his third shot
ploughed the ceiling. Lanyard had gone into action while the first
report was still a noise of deafening reverberations in the room;
resting his hands upon the top of the desk, he vaulted it, his feet
striking Mallison's chest. The man went down with Lanyard on top of
him . . .




XXVI


"Simple enough," Crane opined, "like all these funny little games crooks
frame up, once you locate the chink that gives you a look in at the
machinery."

He stood in the main doorway. Behind him the wind-swept sky was dull
grey with the dusk of a new day. On the drive, at the foot of the
veranda steps, a motor-car was waiting, Pagan and Mallison on the back
seat with the mild-mannered man, the left wrist of the latter
hand-cuffed to the right of the dancing yegg. Another car that could be
seen in the distance, turning out of the grounds to the highroad, was
carrying away Morphew's henchmen under guard, in the wake of an
ambulance from the nearest hospital that had arrived just in time to
receive the lifeless body of the Sultan of Loot.

"If crooks could think straight, they might make good, once in every so
often; but they can't, that's why we call 'em crooks; and that's why
everything they cook up and make such a mystery of is so blamed silly
and childish when you come to take it to pieces. Here's Morphew, the
biggest frog in his pond, going off his nut with jealousy because the
little McFee lady liked Lanyard a whole lot better'n him, and getting
Mallison to play Lone Wolf and pull off a couple of jobs so's Mrs.
McFee would see what a sap she'd been, falling for a so-called reformed
crook. And here's Mallison getting chesty because he's doing the
Lone Wolf act to the Queen's taste, and giving Morphew the
double-cross--which was plain suicidal mania, if you ask me--and trying
to go on with the game on his own. And then there's the Delorme woman,
kidnapping Lanyard while he wasn't mentally responsible, with the
notion, as near's a body can figure it, she could make him believe he
belonged to her and had gone wrong again, so the only thing for them to
do was to team up and collect a handsome living from the world at
large . . ."

He smiled a vaguely pitying smile at nothing in particular. "These
things wouldn't ever happen," he concluded, "if all crooks weren't
crazy. . . . Well! time I was on my way." He bent with unexpected
courtliness over Eve's hand, and shook Lanyard's. "The top of the
morning to you, madam. So long, Lanyard--we won't say good bye--and the
best of luck!"

The tyres crunched loudly on the cracked stone of the driveway, the high
wind raved about the house and soughed through the tossing limbs of
trees; but between Eve and Lanyard there was silence, on her part the
stillness of tranquil expectancy, on his the dumbness of constraint.

"So it comes true," he said with a bleak smile, mustering up heart to
meet her eyes at last--"what I foretold in the beginning. Say good bye
to me, Eve, and let me go."

The hand he offered to take did not move to meet his. "Where will you
go?" she quietly enquired.

"Back to England," he said in a sigh--"I suppose--as soon as I can get
in touch with the Secret Service and request my recall. That is, if
they'll have me again, after their faith in me has been sapped by this
Mallison business. It's a question of what and how much they choose to
believe."

"That will take a few days at least," she gravely considered. "I shall
have plenty of time to wind up my small affairs in this country--I shall
be ready, Michael, whenever you wish to go."

He hung his head and shook it wearily. "It is impossible," he said.
"Surely you must know now mine isn't a life I can ask the woman I love
to share."

"But you love me?"

"You know it."

"And you would leave me?"

"I must."

"Then," she made believe to sigh--"if you insist on having it that
way--I can only presume you wish me to divorce you on the grounds of
desertion."

"Divorce me!"

She went straightway to his bosom, clung to it in tears and laughter.
"Will you ever forgive me--I wonder!--for taking advantage of your
helplessness? As soon as possible after that accident, as soon as you
were able to talk--we were married!"



THE END

       *       *       *       *       *

"_The Books You Like to Read at the Price You Like to Pay_"

_There Are Two Sides to Everything_--

--including the wrapper which covers every Grosset & Dunlap book. When
you feel in the mood for a good romance, refer to the carefully selected
list of modern fiction comprising most of the successes by prominent
writers of the day which is printed on the back of every Grosset &
Dunlap book wrapper.

You will find more than five hundred titles to choose from--books for
every mood and every taste and every pocket-book.

_Don't forget the other side, but in case the wrapper is lost, write to
the publishers for a complete catalog._

_There is a Grosset & Dunlap Book for every mood and for every taste_




EDGAR RICE BURROUGH'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list

    _BANDIT OF HELL'S BEND, THE_
    _CAVE GIRL, THE_
    _LAND THAT TIME FORGOT, THE_
    _TARZAN AND THE ANT MEN_
    _TARZAN AND THE GOLDEN LION_
    _TARZAN THE TERRIBLE_
    _TARZAN THE UNTAMED_
    _JUNGLE TALES OF TARZAN_
    _AT THE EARTH'S CORE_
    _THE MUCKER_
    _A PRINCESS OF MARS_
    _THE GODS OF MARS_
    _THE WARLORD OF MARS_
    _THUVIA, MAID OF MARS_
    _THE CHESSMEN OF MARS_

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




JAMES OLIVER CURWOOD'S STORIES OF ADVENTURE

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.

    THE COUNTRY BEYOND
    THE FLAMING FOREST
    THE VALLEY OF SILENT MEN
    THE RIVER'S END
    THE GOLDEN SNARE
    NOMADS OF THE NORTH KAZAN
    BAREE, SON OF KAZAN
    THE COURAGE OF CAPTAIN PLUM
    THE DANGER TRAIL
    THE HUNTED WOMAN
    THE FLOWER OF THE NORTH
    THE GRIZZLY KING ISOBEL
    THE WOLF HUNTERS
    THE GOLD HUNTERS
    THE COURAGE OF MARGE O'DOONE
    BACK TO GOD'S COUNTRY

_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




ZANE GREY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

    THE CALL OF THE CANYON
    WANDERER OF THE WASTELAND
    TO THE LAST MAN
    THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER
    THE MAN OF THE FOREST
    THE DESERT OF WHEAT
    THE U. P. TRAIL
    WILDFIRE
    THE BORDER LEGION
    THE RAINBOW TRAIL
    THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
    RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
    THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS
    THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN
    THE LONE STAR RANGER
    DESERT GOLD
    BETTY ZANE
    THE DAY OF THE BEAST

       *       *       *       *       *

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS

The life story of "Buffalo Bill" by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore, with
Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.

ZANE GREY'S BOOKS FOR BOYS

    KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE
    THE YOUNG LION HUNTER
    THE YOUNG FORESTER
    THE YOUNG PITCHER
    THE SHORT STOP
    THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




B. M. BOWER'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.

    THE EAGLE'S WING
    THE PAROWAN BONANZA
    THE VOICE AT JOHNNYWATER
    CASEY RYAN
    CHIP OF THE FLYING U
    COW-COUNTRY
    FLYING U RANCH
    FLYING U'S LAST STAND, THE
    GOOD INDIAN
    GRINGOS, THE
    HAPPY FAMILY, THE
    HER PRAIRIE KNIGHT
    HERITAGE OF THE SIOUX, THE
    LONG SHADOW, THE
    LONESOME TRAIL, THE
    LOOKOUT MAN, THE
    LURE OF THE DIM TRAILS, THE
    PHANTOM HERD, THE
    QUIRT, THE
    RANGE DWELLERS, THE
    RIM O' THE WORLD
    SKYRIDER
    STARR OF THE DESERT
    THUNDER BIRD, THE
    TRAIL OF THE WHITE MULE, THE
    UPHILL CLIMB, THE

Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York




EMERSON HOUGH'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list

    THE COVERED WAGON
    NORTH OF 36
    THE WAY OF A MAN
    THE STORY OF THE OUTLAW
    THE SAGEBRUSHER
    THE GIRL AT THE HALFWAY HOUSE
    THE WAY OUT
    THE MAN NEXT DOOR
    THE MAGNIFICENT ADVENTURE
    THE BROKEN GATE
    THE STORY OF THE COWBOY
    THE WAY TO THE WEST
    54-40 OR FIGHT
    HEART'S DESIRE
    THE MISSISSIPPI BUBBLE
    THE PURCHASE PRICE

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




GEORGE W. OGDEN'S WESTERN NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap's list.


THE BARON OF DIAMOND TAIL

     The Elk Mountain Cattle Co. had not paid a dividend in years; so
     Edgar Barrett, fresh from the navy, was sent West to see what was
     wrong at the ranch. The tale of this tenderfoot outwitting the
     buckaroos at their own play will sweep you into the action of this
     salient western novel.


THE BONDBOY

     Joe Newbolt, bound out by force of family conditions to work for a
     number of years, is accused of murder and circumstances are against
     him. His mouth is sealed; he cannot, as a gentleman, utter the
     words that would clear him. A dramatic, romantic tale of intense
     interest.


CLAIM NUMBER ONE

     Dr. Warren Slavens drew claim number one, which entitled him to
     first choice of rich lands on an Indian reservation in Wyoming. It
     meant a fortune; but before he established his ownership he had a
     hard battle with crooks and politicians.


THE DUKE OF CHIMNEY BUTTE

     When Jerry Lambert, "the Duke," attempts to safeguard the cattle
     ranch of Vesta Philbrook from thieving neighbors, his work is
     appallingly handicapped because of Grace Kerr, one of the chief
     agitators, and a deadly enemy of Vesta's. A stirring tale of brave
     deeds, gun-play and a love that shines above all.


THE FLOCKMASTER OF POISON CREEK

     John Mackenzie trod the trail from Jasper to the great sheep
     country where fortunes were being made by the flock-masters.
     Shepherding was not a peaceful pursuit in those bygone days.
     Adventure met him at every turn--there is a girl of course--men
     fight their best fights for a woman--it is an epic of the
     sheeplands.


THE LAND OF LAST CHANCE

     Jim Timberlake and Capt. David Scott waited with restless thousands
     on the Oklahoma line for the signal to dash across the border. How
     the city of Victory arose overnight on the plains, how people
     savagely defended their claims against the "sooners;" how good men
     and bad played politics, makes a strong story of growth and
     American initiative.


TRAIL'S END

     Ascalon was the end of the trail for thirsty cowboys who gave vent
     to their pent-up feelings without restraint. Calvin Morgan was not
     concerned with its wickedness until Seth Craddock's malevolence
     directed itself against him. He did not emerge from the maelstrom
     until he had obliterated every vestige of lawlessness, and assured
     himself at the safety of a certain dark-eyed girl.


_Ask for Complete free list of G. & D. Popular Copyrighted Fiction_

GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




PETER B. KYNE'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.


THE ENCHANTED HILL

     A gorgeous story with a thrilling mystery and a beautiful girl.


NEVER THE TWAIN SHALL MEET

     A romance of California and the South Seas.


CAPPY RICKS RETIRES

     Cappy retires, but the romance of the sea and business, keep
     calling him back, and he comes back strong.


THE PRIDE OF PALOMAR

     When two strong men clash and the under-dog has Irish blood to his
     veins--there's a tale that Kyne can tell!


KINDRED OF THE DUST

     Donald McKay, son of Hector McKay, millionaire lumber king, falls
     in love with "Nan of the sawdust pile," a charming girl who has
     been ostracized by her townsfolk.


THE VALLEY OF THE GIANTS

     The fight of the Cardigans, father and son, to hold the Valley of
     the Giants against treachery.


CAPPY RICKS

     Cappy Ricks gave Matt Peasley the acid test because he knew it was
     good for his soul.


WEBSTER: MAN'S MAN

     A man and a woman hailing from the "States," met up with a
     revolution while in Central America. Adventures and excitement came
     so thick and fast that their love affair had to wait for a lull in
     the game.


CAPTAIN SCRAGGS

     This sea yarn recounts the adventures of three rapscallion
     seafaring men.


THE LONG CHANCE

     Harley P. Hennage is the best gambler, the best and worst man of
     San Pasqual and of lovely Donna.


GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers, NEW YORK




JACKSON GREGORY'S NOVELS

May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap's list.


DAUGHTER OF THE SUN

     A tale of Aztec treasure--of American adventurers, who seek it--of
     Zoraida, who hides it.


TIMBER-WOLF

     This is a story of action and of the wide open, dominated always by
     the heroic figure of Timber-Wolf.


THE EVERLASTING WHISPER

     The story of a strong man's struggle against savage nature and
     humanity, and of a beautiful girl's regeneration from a spoiled
     child of wealth into a courageous strong-willed woman.


DESERT VALLEY

     A college professor sets out with his daughter to find gold. They
     meet a rancher who loses his heart, and becomes involved in a feud.


MAN TO MAN

     How Steve won his game and the girl he loved, is a story filled
     with breathless situations.


THE BELLS OF SAN JUAN

     Dr. Virginia Page is forced to go with the sheriff on a night
     journey into the strongholds of a lawless band.


JUDITH OF BLUE LAKE RANCH

     Judith Sanford part owner of a cattle ranch realizes she is being
     robbed by her foreman. With the help of Bud Lee, she checkmates
     Trevor's scheme.


THE SHORT CUT

     Wayne is suspected of killing his brother after a quarrel.
     Financial complications, a horse-race and beautiful Wanda, make up
     a thrilling romance.


THE JOYOUS TROUBLE MAKER


SIX FEET FOUR

     Beatrice Waverly is robbed of $5,000 and suspicion fastens upon
     Buck Thornton, but she soon realizes he is not guilty.


WOLF BREED

     No Luck Drennan, a woman hater and sharp of tongue, finds a match
     in Ygerne whose clever fencing wins the admiration and love of the
     "Lone Wolf."


Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers, New York








End of Project Gutenberg's The Lone Wolf Returns, by Louis Joseph Vance