Classic Audiobook Collection - The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy ~ Full Audiobook [mystery]

Episode Date: January 24, 2025

The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy audiobook. Genre: mystery On a bright June morning in 1912, young artist John Trenholme expects nothing more demanding than an easy commission: travel to a quiet Hertfordshire village and sketch its threatened old-world charm. Instead, a moment of idyllic calm - a young woman, Sylvia, emerging from her dawn swim on the estate of wealthy financier Mortimer Fenley - is shattered by a rifle shot. Fenley is found dead near his own house, and Trenholme, uncomfortably close to the scene, becomes a crucial witness in a case that soon grips London society as much as it unsettles the countryside. As suspicion ripples through the household and the village, every glance, footprint, and half-spoken remark takes on weight, and the question of whether danger can be sensed before it strikes hangs in the air. Scotland Yard sends an unlikely pair to untangle the truth: the solid, methodical Chief Superintendent Winter and the mercurial Inspector Furneaux, whose probing questions and sudden intuitions expose hidden nerves. Caught between attraction, doubt, and the tightening logic of detection, Trenholme must navigate a web of secrets where respectability masks motive and a single shot demands an explanation. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:31:15) Chapter 02 (01:05:34) Chapter 03 (01:39:36) Chapter 04 (02:13:12) Chapter 05 (02:52:51) Chapter 06 (03:30:54) Chapter 07 (04:11:11) Chapter 08 (04:48:27) Chapter 09 (05:30:23) Chapter 10 (06:08:19) Chapter 11 (06:38:29) Chapter 12 (07:08:06) Chapter 13 (07:43:55) Chapter 14 (08:19:23) Chapter 15 (08:52:19) Chapter 16 (09:23:47) Chapter 17 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Chapter 1 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Lewis Tracy Recording by Kirsten Weaver Chapter 1 The Water Nymphs Does an evil deed cast a shadow in advance? Does premeditated crime spread a baleful aura Which affects certain highly strong temperaments Just as the sensation of a wave of cold air

rising from the spying to the head may be a forewarning of epilepsy or hysteria. John Trenom had caused to think so one bright June morning in 1912, and he has never ceased to believe it, though the events which made him an outstanding figure in the strange case of Mortimer Fenley, as the murder of a prominent man in the city of London came to be known, have long since been swept into oblivion by nearly five years of war. Even the sun became a prime agent of the occult that morning. It found a chink in a blind and threw a bar of vivid light

across the face of a young man, lying asleep in the front bedroom of the White Horse Inn at Roxton. It crept onward from a firm, well-molded chin, two lips now tight-set, though not lacking signs that they would open readily in a smile, and perhaps reveal two rows of strong, white, even teeth. Indeed, when that strip of sunshine touched and warmed them, the smile came. So the sleeper was dreaming, and pleasantly. But the earth stays not for men, no matter what their dreams.

In a few minutes the radiant line reached the sleeper's eyes, and he awoke. Naturally, he stared straight at the disturber of his slumbers, and being a mere man, who emulated not the ways of eagles, was routed at the first glance. More than that, he was thoroughly aroused, and sprang out of bed with a salarity that would have given many another young man a headache, during the remainder of the day. But John Trenholm, artist by profession,

was somewhat of a light-hearted vagabond by instinct. If the artist was ready to be annoyed because of an imaginary loss of precious daylight, the vagabond laughed cheerily when he blinked at a clock and learned that the hour still lacked some minutes of half-past five in the morning. "'By gad,' he grinned, pulling up the blind,

"'I was scared stiff. "'I thought the blessed alarm had missed fire, "'and that I had been lying here, "'like a hog during the best part "'of the finest day England has seen this year. "'Evidently he was still young enough "'to deal in superlatives, "'for there had been other fine days that summer.

"'Moreover, in likening himself to a pig, he was ridiculously unfair to six feet of athletic symmetry, in which it would be difficult to detect any marked resemblance to the animal whose name is a synonym for laziness. On the way to the bathroom, he stopped to listen for sounds of an aroused household, but the inmates of the White Horse Inn were still taking life easily. Eliza vows she can hear that alarm in her room, he communed. Well, suppose we assist nature, always a laudable thing in itself, and peculiarly excellent

when breakfast is thereby advanced a quarter of an hour. Eliza was the inn stout and voluble cook housekeeper, and her attic lay directly above Chanom's room. He went back for the clock, crept swiftly upstairs, opened a door a few inches, and put the infernal machine inside, close to the wall. He was splashing in the bath when a harsh and penetrating din jarred through the house, and a slight scream showed that Eliza had been duly alarmed. A few minutes later came a heavy thump, on the bathroom door. All right, Mr. Chernom, cried an irate female voice.

You've been up to your tricks, have you? It'll be my turn when I make your coffee. I'll pepper and salt it. Why, what's the matter, Eliza? he shouted. Matter? Frightened in a body like that. I thought a lot of suffragettes were smashing the windows of a snug. Eliza was still touchy when Chonelagh.

Anom ventured to peep into the kitchen. "'I don't know how you dare to show your face,' she cried wrathfully. "'The impotence of men nowadays. "'Just fancy you come and open my door.' "'But, Cherie, what have I done?' he inquired. "'His brown eyes wide with astonishment. "'I'm not your cherry nor your peach neither. "'Who put that clock in my room?'

"'What clock, my bell?' eliza picked up an egg and bent so fiery a glance on the intruder that he dodged out of sight for a second listen carisima he pleaded peering round the jam of the door again if the alarm found its way upstairs i must have been walking in my sleep well you were dreaming of suffragettes i may have been dreaming of you stop there a bit longer chatterin and calling me names and you "'Your bacon will be frizzled to cinder,' she retorted. "'But I really hoped to save you some trouble "'by carrying in the breakfast-tray myself. "'I hate to see a jolly, good-tempered woman "'of your splendid physique working yourself to a shadow.'

"'Eliza squared her elbows "'as a preliminary to another outburst "'when the stairs creaked. "'Mary, the help, was arriving hurriedly in curl-paper. Oh, you've condescended to get up, have you? Was the greeting Mary received. Why, it's only ten minutes to six, cried the astonished girl, gazing at a grandfather's clock as if it were bewitched.

You've never had such a shock since you were born, went on the sarcastic Eliza. But don't thank me, my girl. Thank Mr. Trenholm, the gentleman standing there grinning like a Cheshire cat. Talk to him nicely, and perhaps he'll paint your picture, and then your special butcher boy will see how beautiful you really are. Jim don't need tell anything about that, said the girl, smiling, for Eliza's bark was notoriously worse than her bite. Jim, came the snorting comment. The first man who ever asked me to marry him was called Jim, and when, like a wise woman, I said no, he went away and listed in the royal artillery and lost his leg in a war. That's what Jim did. What a piece of luck you didn't accept him,

put on Trenholm. Why, I'd like to know? Because he began by losing his head over you. If a leg was missing too, there wasn't much of Jim left, was there? Mary giggled, and Eliza seized the egg again, so Trenholm ran to his sitting room. Within half an hour, hour he was passing through the high street bidding an affable good-morning to such early risers as he met and evidently well content with himself and the world in general his artist's kit revealed his profession even to the uncritical eye but no student of men could have failed to guess his bent were he habited in the garb of a costermonger the painter and the poet are the last of the bohemians and John Tranom was a bohemian to the tips of his fingers. He carried himself like a cavalier, but the divine flame of art kindled in his eye.

He had learned how to paint in Juvienne's studio, and that same school had taught him to despise convention. He looked on nature as a series of exquisite pictures and regarded men and women in the mass as creatures that, occasionally fitted into the landscape. He was heart-hole and fancy-free. At 25, he had already exhibited three times in the salon, and was spoken of by the critics as a painter of much promise, which is the critical method of waiting to see how the cat jumps when an artist of genius and originality arrests attention. He had peculiarly luminous brown eyes, set well as, and

apart in a face which won the prompt confidence of women, children, and dogs. He was splendidly built for an outdoor life, and moved with a long, supple stride, a gate which people mistook for lounging until they waft with him, and found that the pace was something over four miles an hour. Add to these personal traits the fact that he had dwelt in Roxton exactly two days and a half and was already on speaking terms with most of the inhabitants, and you have a fair notion of John Trenom's appearance and ways. There remains but to add that he was commissioned by a magazine

to visit this Old World Hertfordshire village and depict some of its beauties before a projected railway introduced the jerry-builder and a sewerage scheme, and his presence in the White Horse Inn is explained. He had sketched the straggling high street, the green, the inn itself, boasting a license 600 years old, the undulating common, the church with its lich gate, the ivy-clad ruin known as the castle, with its square Norman keep still frowning at an English countryside, and there was left only an Elizabethan mansion curiously misnamed the towers to be transferred to his portfolio.

Here, oddly enough, he had been rebuffed. A note to the owner, Mortimer Fenley, banker, and supercity man, asking permission to enter the park of an afternoon, had met with a curt refusal. Chanolm, of course, was surprised, since he was paying the man a rare compliment. He had expressed in the inn his full and free opinion concerning all money grubbers and the Fenley species thereof in particular, whereupon the stout Eliza, who classed the Fenley family as rubbish, informed him that there was a right-of-way through the park, and that from a certain point near a lake he could sketch the grand old manor house to his heart's content let the Fenleys and their keepers scowl as they chose.

The village barber too bore out Eliza's statement. A rare old row there was in Rockston twenty years ago when Fenley fussed came here and tried to close the path, said the barber, but we beat him. We did. well he knows it. Not many folks use it nowadays, because the artful old Dodger opened a new road to the station, but some of us makes a point of strolling that way on a Sunday afternoon just to look at the pheasants and rabbits, and it's a treat to see the headkeeper's face when we go through the lodge gates at the eastern end, or that is the line the path takes. here followed a detailed description for the Roxston barber,

like every other barber, could chatter like a magpie. It was in this wise that Tranom was able to defy the laws and score off the seemingly uncivil owner of a historical dwelling. He little imagined that glorious June morning that he was entering on a road of strange adventure. He had chosen an early hour purposely. Not only were the lights and shadows perfect for watercolor, but it was highly probable that he would be able to come and go without attracting attention.

He had no wish to annoy Fenley or quarrel with the man's mermedoms. Indeed, he would not have visited the estate at all if the magazine editor had not specially stipulated for a full-page-fetched. drawing of the house. Now all would have been well, had the barber's directions proved as bald in spirit as they were in letter. After passing the Wagoner's rest, you'll come to a pair of iron gates on the right, he had said. On one side there's a swing gate, go through and make straight for a clump of cedars on top of a little hill. There may be much of a path, but that's it. It's really a shortcut to the eastern gates on the London road.

Yet who could guess what a snare for an artist's feet lay in those few words? How could Tranom realize that, quote, a pair of iron gates would prove to be an almost perfect example of Christopher Wren's genius as a designer of wrought iron? Trenom's eyes sparkled when he beheld this prize with its acanthus lest. leaves and roses beaten out with wonderful freedom and beauty of curve. A careful drawing was the result. Another result, uncounted by him, but of singular importance in its outcome, was the delay of forty minutes thus entailed.

He crossed an undulating park and had no difficulty in tracing an almost disused path in certain grass-grown furrows leading past the grass-grown. group of cedars. On reaching this point, he obtained a fair view of the mansion, but the sun was directly behind him, as the house faced southeast, and he decided to encroach some few yards on private property. A briar-laden slope fell from the other side of the trees to a delightful looking lake, fed by a tiny cascade on the east side. An ideal spot, he thought. This, this This then was the stage setting. Trenholm, screened by black cedars and luxuriant brushwood,

was seated about fifty feet above the level of the lake, and some forty yards from its nearest sedges. The lake itself, largely artificial, lay at the foot of the waterfall, which gurgled and splashed down a miniature precipice of moss-covered boulders. Here and there, a rock, a copper beach, A silver larch, or a few flowering shrubs, cast strong shadows on the dark, pellucid mirror beneath.

On a cunningly contrived promontory of brown rock stood a white marble statue of Venus Aphrodite, and the ripples from the cascade seemed to endow with life, the shimmering reflection of the goddess. Beyond the lake, a smooth lawn dotted with fine old oak, and chestnuts rose gently for a quarter of a mile to the Italian gardens in front of the house. To the left the park was bounded by woods. To the right was another wood, partly concealing a series of ravines and disused quarries. Altogether a charming setting for an

Elizabethan manner, pastoral, peaceful, quite English, and seeming on that placid June morning so remote from the crowded mart that it was hard to believe the nearest milestone with its London, 30 miles. Had Trenholm glanced at his watch, he would have discovered that the hour was now half-past seven, or nearly an hour later than he had planned. But art, which is long-lived, wrecks little of time, an evanescent thing. He was enthusiastic over his subconsciously. He was enthusiastic over his he would make not one sketch but two that lake like the gates was worthy of immortality of course the house must come first he unpacked a canvas hold-all and soon was busy he worked with the speed and assured confidence of a master by years of patient industry he had rested from nature the secrets of her tints and tone values quickly there grew into being an exquisitely bright and well-balanced drawing,

impressionist but true, a harmony of color and atmosphere. Leaving subtleties to the quiet thought of the studio, he turned to the lake. Here the lights and shadows were bolder. They demanded the accurate appraisement of the half-closed eye. He was so absorbed in his task that he was blithely unconscious of the approach of a girl from the house, and his first glimpse of her was forthcoming when she crossed the last spread of velvet's ward, which separated a cluster of rhododendrons in the middle distance from the farther edge of the lake. It was not altogether surprising that he had not seen

her earlier. She wore a green coat and skirt, and a most curiously shaped hat of the same hue, so that her colors blended with the landscape. Moreover, she was walking rapidly and had covered the intervening quarter of a mile in four minutes or less. He thought at first that she was heading straight for his lofty perch, and was perhaps bent on questioning his right to be there at all. But he was promptly undeceived. Her mind was set on one object, and her eyes did not travel beyond it. She She no more suspected that an artist was lurking in the shade of the cedars than she did that the man in the moon was gazing blandly at her above their close-packed foliage.

She came on with rapid graceful strides, stood for a moment by the side of the Venus, and then, when Trenom literally gasped for breath, shed, coat, skirt, and shoes, revealing a slim form, in a dark blue bathing costume, and dived into the lake. Trenholm had never felt more surprised. The change of costume was so unexpected, the girl's complete ignorance of his presence, so obvious, that he regarded himself as a confessed intruder, somewhat akin to peeping Tom of Coventry.

He was utterly at a loss how to act. If he stood up and essayed a hurried retreat, the girl might be frightened and would unquestionably be annoyed. It was impossible to creep away unseen. He was well below the crest of the slope crowned by the trees, and the nymph, now disporting in the lake, could hardly fail to discover him, no matter how deftly he crouched and twisted. at this crisis the artistic instinct triumphed he became aware that the one element lacking hitherto the element that lent magic to the beauty of the lake and its vivid environment of color was the touch of life brought by the swimmer he caught the flash of her limbs as they moved rhythmically through the dark clear water and it seemed almost as if the gods had striven to be kind in sending this night Nyad to complete a perfect setting. With stealthy hands, he drew forth a small canvas. Oil, not mild watercolor, was the fitting medium to portray this Eden.

Shrinking back under cover of a leafy briar, he began a third sketch in which the dominant note was the contrast between the living woman and the marble Venus. For 15 minutes, the girl disported herself like a girl. a dolphin. Evidently she was a practiced swimmer and had at her command all the resources of the art. At last, she climbed out and stood dripping on the sun-laid rock beside the statue. Trenholm had foreseen this attitude, had, in fact, painted with feverish energy in anticipation of it. The comparison was too striking to be missed by any artist. Were it not for the tightest, brightly clinging garments, the pair would have provided a charming representation of Galatea in stone

and Galatea after Pygmalion's frenzy had warmed her into life. Trenholm was absolutely deaf now to any consideration, save that of artistic endeavor. With a swift accuracy that was nearly marvelous, he put on the canvas the sheen of faultless limbs and slender deck. He even secured this spun gold glint of hair, tightly quaffed under a bathing cap, a species of headdress which had puzzled him at the first glance, and there was more than a suggestion of a veritable portrait of the regular, lively, and delicately beautiful features, which belonged to a type differing in every essential from the cold classic loveliness of the statue, yet vastly more appealing in its sheer femininity.

Then the spell was broken. The girl slipped on her shoes, dressed herself in a few seconds, and was hurrying back to the house, almost before Trenom dared to breathe normally. Well, he muttered watching the swaying of the green. skirt as its owner traversed the park. This is something like an adventure. By Jove, I've been lucky this morning. I've got my picture for next year's salon.

He had got far more, if only he were gifted to peer into the future, but that is a privilege denied to men, even to artists. Soon when he was calmer, and the embryo sketch had assumed its requisite color notes for subsequent elaboration, he smiled a trifle dubiously. If that girl's temperament is as attractive as her looks, I'd throw over the salon for the sake of meeting her, he mused. But that's frankly impossible, I suppose. Not the best. She would not forgive me if she knew I had watched her in this thievish way. I could never explain it. Never. She wouldn't even listen.

Well, it's better to have dreamed and lost than never to have dreamed at all. And yet he dreamed. His eyes followed the fair unknown while she entered the garden through a gateway of dense yews and sped lightly up the steps of a terrace adorned with other statues in marble and bronze. No doorway broke the pleasing uniformity of the south front. but she disappeared through an open window, swinging herself lightly over the low sill. He went with her in imagination. Now she was crossing a pretty drawing-room,

now running upstairs to her room, now dressing, possibly in white muslin, which, if Chenon had the choosing of it, would be powdered with tiny fleur-de-li, now arranging her hair with keen eye for effect, and now tripping down again in obedience to a gong summoning the household to breakfast he sighed if i'd had the luck of a decent french poodle this plutocrat fenley would have invited me to lunch he grumbled then his eyes sought the sketch and he forgot the girl in her counterfeit by jove this would be a picture the water nymphs but he must change the composition a little, losing none of its character,

only altering its accessories to such an extent that none would recognize the exact setting. Luck, he chortled with mercurial rise of spirits. I'm the luckiest dog in England today. Happy chance has beaten all the tricks of the old studio. Oh, ye goddesses, inspire me to high. worthy of you. His visions were rudely dispelled by a gunshot, sharp, insistent, a toxin of death in that sylvan solitude. A host of rooks arose from some tall elms near the house. A couple of cock-feasants flew with startled chuckling out of the wood on the right. The white tails of rabbits,

previously unseen, revealed their owner's whereabouts as they scampered to cover. but trenholm was sportsman enough to realize that the weapon fired was a rifle no toy but of high velocity and he wondered how anyone dared risk its dangerous use in such a locality he fixed the sound definitely as coming from the wood to the right the cover quitted so hurriedly by the pheasants and instinctively his glass turned to the house in the half-formed thought that someone there might hear the shot and look out. The ground floor window by which the girl had entered still remained open, but now another window. The most easterly one on the first floor had been raised slightly. The light was peculiarly strong,

and the air so clear that even at the distance, he fancied he could distinguish someone gesticulating, or so it seemed, behind the air. glass. This went on for a minute or more, then the window was closed. At the same time, he noticed a sparkling of glass and brasswork behind the clipped U-hedge, which extended beyond the east wing. After some puzzling, he made out that a motor-car was waiting there. That was all. The clamor of the rooks soon subsided. A couple of rabbits skipped. from the bushes to resume an interrupted meal on tender grass shoots.

A robin trilled a rondolet from some neighboring branch. Chanom looked at his watch. Half past nine. Why, he must have been mooning there a good half hour. He gathered his traps, and as the result of seeing the automobile, which had not moved yet, determined to forego his earlier project of walking out. of the park by the eastern gate. He had just emerged from the trees

when a gruff voice hailed him. Hi, it cried. Who are you, and what are you doing here? A man carrying a shotgun and accompanied by a dog strode up with determined air. Trenholm explained civilly, since the keeper was clearly within his rights. Moreover, the stranger was so patently

a gentleman that Velveteens adopted a less imperative tone. Did you hear a shot fired somewhere? he asked. Yes, among those trees, and Trenholm pointed. It was a rifle, too, he added, with an eye to the twelve bore. So I thought, agreed the keeper. Rather risky, isn't it, firing bullets in a place like this? I just want to find who the idget is that did it. excuse me, sir, I must be off. And man and dog hurried away. And Trenel, not knowing that death had answered the shot, took his own departure, singing as he walked, his thoughts all together on life, and more especially on life, as revealed by the limbs of a girl gleaming in the dark waters of a pool.

End of Chapter 1 Chapter 2 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy This Librevox recording is in the public domain Who hath done this thing Trinome's baritone was strong and tuneful For the muses, if kind, are often lavish of their gifts So the final refrain of an impassioned love song traveled far that placid morning,

Thus, when he reached the iron gates, he found the Roxton policeman standing there grinning. Hello, said the artist, cheerily. Of course he knew the policeman. In a week he would have known every man and dog in the village by name. Good morning, sir, said the law, which was nibbling its chin strap, and had both thumbs stuck in its belt. That's a fine thing you were singing, may I ask, but it. it was. I do a bit in that line, myself. It's the cantabille from Sins Seance, Samson and Dalila, replied Trenorme, Mon Coeur serves at Tavois. Is it now? And what may that be, sir? The policeman's humor was infectious. Trenome laughed too, realizing that the words and accent of Paris had no great vogue in Hartfordshire, he

explained and added that he possessed a copy of the song which was at the surface of the force. The man thanked him warmly and promised to call at the inn during the afternoon. By the way, sir, he added when Trenom had passed through the wicket. Did you hear a shot fired while you was in the park? Yes, juror see anybody. A keeper who seemed rather annoyed about the shooting. Someone had fired a rifle. Sounded like that to me, sir.

And it's an unusual thing at this time of the year. A heavy-caliber rifle must sound unusual at any time of the year in an enclosed estate near London, commented Chenome. My idea exactly, said the policeman. I think I'll go that way. I may meet Bates. If Bates is a band-eat's, is a band-eat. d-legged person, with suspicious eyes, a red tie, many pockets, brown leggings, and a yellow dog.

You'll find him searching the wood beyond the lake, which is the direction the shot came from. The policeman laughed. That bates to a tick, he said. If he was wanted, your description would do for the police gazette. They parted. since Trenom's subsequent history is bound up more closely with the policeman's movements during the next hour than with his own unhindered return to the White Horse Inn, it is well to trace the exact course of events as they presented themselves to the ken of a music-loving member of the Hartfordshire Constabulary.

Police Constable Farrow did not hurry. Why should he? A gunshot in a gentleman's park at half-past nine on a June morning might be, as he had put it, unusual, but it was obviously a matter capable of the simplest explanation. Such a sound heard at midnight would be sinister, ominous, replete with those elements of mystery and dread, which cause even a policeman's heart to beech faster than the regulation pace. Under the conditions, when he met Bates, he would probably be told that Jenkins, underkeeper, and territorial lance corporal, had resolved to end the vicious career of a hoodie crow

and had not scrupled to reach the wily robber with a bullet. So, police constable Farrow took, 15 minutes to cover the ground which Trenom's longer stride had traversed in ten. Allow another fifteen for the artist's packing of his sketching materials, his conversation with gamekeeper and policeman, and the leisurely progress of the latter through the wood, and it would be found that Farrow reached the long straight avenue, leading from the lodge at Easton to the main entrance of the house, about forty minutes after the firing of the shot.

He halted on the grass by the side of the well-kept drive and looked at the waiting motor-car. The chauffeur was not visible. He had seen neither bates nor Jenkins. His passing among the trees had not disturbed even a pheasant, though the estate was alive with game. The door of the towers was open, But no stately man-servant was stationed there.

A yellow dog sat in the sunshine. Farrow and the dog exchanged long-range glances. The policeman consulted his watch, bit his chin strap, and dug his thumbs into his belt. Mr. Fenley is late today, he said to himself. He catches the 9.45, as a rule, he is reliable. as Greenwich. I'll wait here tilly passes, and then call round and see Smith. Now, Smith was the head gardener. Evidently, police constable Farrow was not only well acquainted with the various inmates of the mansion, but could have prepared a list of the outdoor employees as well. He stood there,

calm and impassive as fate, and without knowing it represented fate in her most inexorable mood. For had he betaken himself elsewhere, the shrewdest brains of Scotland Yard might have been defeated by the enigma they were asked to solve before Mortimer Fenley's murderer was discovered. Indeed, it is reasonable to suppose that if chance had not brought the village constable to that identical spot at that very hour, the precise method of the crime might never have been revealed. Moreover, Pharaoh himself may climb slowly to an inspectorship and pass into the dignified ease of a pension without being aware of the part he plays. in a tragedy that morning. Of course, in his own estimation, he filled a highly important role as soon as the hue and cry began.

But a great deal of water would flow under London Bridge before the true effect of his walk through the wood and emergence into sight in the avenue began to dawn on other minds. His appearance there was a vital fact. It changed the trend, of circumstances, much as the path of a comet is deflected by encountering a heavy planet. Presumably, neither comet nor planet is aware of the disturbance. The deduction is left to the brooding eye of science. Be that as it may, police constable Pharaoh's serenity was not

disturbed until a doctor's motor car panted along the avenue from Easton and pulled up with a jerk in front of him. The doctor, frowning with anxiety, looked out, and recognition was mutual. Have you got the man? he asked, and the words were jerked out rather than spoken. What man, sir? inquired Pharaoh's, saluting. The man who shot Mr. Fenley. The man who shot Mr. Fenley. Pharaoh could only repeat each word in a question. of amazement. Being a singer, he understood the use of a crescendo and gave full scope to it. Good heavens, cried the doctor, haven't you been told? Why are you here? Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep nearly an hour ago. At least that is the message telephoned by his son.

Unfortunately, I was out. Right ahead, Tom. The chauffeur threw in the clutch, and the car darted on again. Farrow followed, a quite alert and horrified policeman now, but it was not ordained that he should enter the house. He was distant, yet a hundred yards or more, when three men came through the doorway. They were Bates, the keeper, Tomlinson, the butler, and Mr. Hilton Fenley, elder son,

of the man now reported dead. All were bareheaded. The arrival of the doctor, at the instant alighting from his car, prevented them from noticing Pharaoh's rapid approach. When Hilton Fenley saw the doctor, he threw up his hands with the gesture of one who has plumbed the depths of misery. Pharaoh could, and did, fit in the accompanying words quite accurately.

"'Nothing can be done, Stern. My father is dead.' The two clasped each other's hand, and Hilton Fenley staggered slightly. He was overcome with emotion. The shock of a terrible crime had taxed his self-control to its uttermost bounds. He placed a hand over his eyes and said brokenly to the butler, "'You take Dr. Stern inside, Tomlinson.' I'll join you in a few minutes. I must have a breath of air or I'll choke.

Dr. and Butler hurried into the house. Then, but not until then, Hilton Fenley and the keeper became aware of Pharaoh, now within a few yards. At sight of him, Fenley seemed to recover his faculties. The mere possibility of taking some definite action brought a tinge of color to a pallid and somewhat sallow face.

Ah, here's the constable, he cried. Go with him, Bates, and have that artist fellow arrested. Maining Mr. Trenolm, sir, inquired the policeman, startled anew by this unexpected reference to the man he had parted from so recently. I don't know his name, but Bates met him in the park, near the lake, just after the shot was fired that killed my father. But I met him, too, sir. He didn't fire any shot.

He hadn't a gun. In fact, he spoke about the shooting and was surprised at it. Look here, Farrow. I am incapable of thinking clearly so you must act for the best. Someone fired that bullet. It nearly tore my father to pieces. I never saw anything like it. It was ghastly.

Oh, ghastly. The murderer must be found. Why are you losing time? Jump into the car, and Brody will take you anywhere you want to go. The roads, the railway stations, must be scoured, searched. Oh, do something, or I shall go mad. Hilton Fenley did, indeed, where the semblance of a man distraught. horror stared from his deep-set eyes and lurked in the corners of his mouth his father had been struck dead within a few seconds after they had separated in the entrance hall both having quitted the breakfast-room together

and the awful discovery which followed the cry of an alarmed servant had almost shaken the son's reason pharaoh was hardly fitted to deal with a crisis of such but he acted promptly and with fixed purpose qualities which form the greater part of generalship bates he said turning a determined eye on the keeper where was you when you heard the shot in the kennels back of the lodge came the instant answer and you kemm'd once strait didn't lose off a minute so no one could have left by the eastern gates without meeting you that's right and you found mr ternholm where coming away from the cedars above the lake what did he say told me about the shot and pointed out the quarry wood as the place it came from was he upset at all in his manner not a bit spoke quite natural-like. Well, between the three of us, you and me and Mr. Trinome,

we account for both gates and the best part of two miles of park. Where's Jenkins? I left him at the kennels. Ah! The policeman was momentarily nonplussed. He had formed a theory in which Jenkins,

that young territorial spark, figured either as a fool or a criminal. What's the use of holding a sort of inquiry on the doorstep? Broke in Hilton Fenley, shrilly. His utterance was nearly hysterical. Pharaoh's judicial calm appeared to stir him to frenzy. He clamored for action, for zealous scouting, and this orderly investigation by mere words was absolutely maddening.

"'I'm not wasting time, sir,' said Pharaoh, respectfully. "'It's as certain as anything can be that the murderer, "'if murder has been done, has not got away by either of the gates.' "'If murder has been done,' cried Fenley, "'what do you mean? Go and look at my poor father's corpse.' "'Of course, Mr. Fenley is dead, sir,' and sorry I am to hear it, but the affair may turn out to be an accident. Accident? Farrow, you are talking like an idiot.

A man is shot dead at his own front door in a house standing in the midst of a big estate, and you tell me it's an accident? No, sir. I only mention that on the off-chance, queer things do happen, and one shouldn't lose sight of the fact. just because it's unusual. Now, sir, with your permission, I want Brody and Smith

and all the men's servants you can spare for the next half hour. Why? Brody can motor to the inspector's office and tell him what he knows. Stop in on the way to send Jenkins here. Some of us must search the woods thoroughly, while others watch the open park

to make sure no one escapes without being seen. It's my firm belief that the man who fired that rifle is still eyed among those trees. He may be sneaking off now, but we'd see him if we're quick and reaching the other side. Will you do as I ask, sir? Farrow was already in motion when Fenley's dazed mind recalled something the policeman ought to know. I've telephoned to Scotland Yard half an hour ago, he said. That's all right, sir. The main thing now is to search every inch of the woods,

if nothing else we may find footprints. And make plenty of new ones. Not if the helpers do as I tell them, sir. I can't argue I'm not fit for it. Still, some instinct warns me you are not adopted. the best course. I think you ought to go in the car and put the police into combined action. What are they to do, sir? The murderer won't carry a rifle through the village or along the open road. I fancy will come across the weapon itself in the wood. Besides, the inspector will do all

that is necessary when Brody sees him. Really, sir, I know I'm right. but should that artist be questioned of course he will sir he won't run away if he does we'll soon nab him he's been staying at the white horse inn the last two days and is quite a nice spoken young gentleman why should e want to shoot mr fenley he's annoyed with my father for one thing a what sir pharaoh hitherto eager to be off on the hunt, stopped as if he heard a statement of real importance. Hilton Fenley pressed a hand to his eyes. It was nothing to speak of, he muttered. He wrote, asking permission to sketch the house, and my father refused. Just why I don't know. Some business matter had vexed him that day I fancy, and he dashed off the refusal on the spur of the moment, but a man does not commit a terrible crime for so slight a cause. Oh, if only my head would cease rubbing. Do as you like, bates, see that

every assistance is given. Fenley walked a few paces unsteadily. Obviously, he was incapable of lucid thought, and the mere effort that sustained conversation was a torture. He turned through a U-Arch into the Italian garden and threw himself wearily into a seat. "'Poor young fellow. He's fair off his nut,' whispered Bates. "'What can one expect?' said Pharaoh. "'But we must get busy. Where's Brody? Do go and find him.' Bates jerked a thumb toward the house. He's in there. He helped to carry the governor. Hasn't left him since. He must come at once. Can't do any good now. We

lost nearly an hour as it is. The chauffeur appeared, red-eyed and white-faced. Others came, the butler, some gardeners, and men engaged in stables and garage, for the dead banker maintained a large establishment. Farrow explained his plan. They would beat the woods methodically, and the searcher who noted anything unusual. The word was often. on the policeman's lips, was not to touch or disturb the object or sign in any way, but its whereabouts should be marked with a broken branch stuck in the ground. Of course, if a stranger was seen, an alarm should be raised instantly.

The little party was making for the quarry wood when Jenkins arrived on a bicycle. The first intimation he was. had received of the murder was the chauffeur's message. There was a telephone between house and lodge, but no one had thought of using it. Now Bates, said Pharaoh, when the squad of men had spread out in line, you and me will take the likeliest line. You want to know every spot in the covert where it's possible to aim a gun at anyone standing on top of the steps at the towers. there can't be many such places is there even one i don't suppose the bare-faced scoundrel would dare come out into the open drive brodie said mr fenley was shot through the right side while facing the car so he bears out both your notion and mr ternombs that the bullet came from the quarry would what's your idea about it

Have you won, or are you just as much in the dark as the rest of us? Bates was sour-faced with perplexity. The killing of his employer was already crystallizing in his thoughts into an irrevocable thing, for the butler had lifted aside the dead man's coat and waistcoat, and this had shown him the ghastly evidences of a wound which must have been instantly fatal. now a shrewd if narrow intelligence was concentrated on the one tremendous question who hath done this thing he looked so worried that the yellow dog watching him and quick to interpret his moods slouched warily at heel and pharaoh though agog with excitement saw that his crony was ill at ease because of some twinge of fear or suspicion. Speak out, Jim, he urged, dropping his voice to a confidential pitch, lest one of the

others might over here. Give me the straight tip, if you can. It need never be known that it came from you. I've got a good berth here, muttered the keeper, with seeming irrelevance. Tell me something fresh, said Farrow, quickening with great. memories of many a pheasant and brace of rabbits reposing a brief space in his modest larder so if i tell you things in confidence like i've heard him from any one but you bates drew a deep breath only to expel it fiercely between puffed lips it's this way he growled mr robert and the old man didn't hit it off. And there was a deuce of a row between them the other day. Saturday it was. My niece, Mary, was a dust in the banisters when the two came out from the breakfast, and she heard the governor say, that's my last word on the subject. I mean to be obeyed this time.

But look here, Pater, said Mr. Robert. He always calls his father Pater, you know. I really can't arrange matters in that offhand way. You must give me time. Not another minute, said Mr. Fenley. No, dash at all, said Mr. Robert. You're enough to drive a fellow crazy. At times, I almost forget that I'm your son. Some fellows would be tempted to blow their brains out, and yours too.

At that, Tomlinson broke in and grabbed me. Mr. Robert's arm, and the governor went off in the car in a fine old temper. Mr. Robert left the towers on his motorbike soon afterward, and he hasn't been back since. Although the fount of information temporarily ran dry, Farrow felt that there was more to come if its secret springs were tapped. Did Mary drop a hint as to what the row was about? He inquired. She guessed it had something to do with Miss Sylvia. Why, Miss Sylvia? She and Mr. Robert are pretty good friends, you see. I see. The policeman saw little, but each scrap of news might fit into its place presently. Is that all? He went on.

They were nearing that part of the wood where care must be exercised. and he wanted Bates to talk while in the vein. No, not by a long way, burst out the keeper, seemingly unable to contain any longer the deadly knowledge, weighing on his conscience. Don't you try and hold me to it, Pharaoh, or I'll swear black and blue I never said it. But I knew the ring of the shot that killed my poor old governor,

was fired from an express rifle. And there's only one of the sorts in Roxton so far as I've ever seen. And it is or ought to be in Mr. Robert's sitting room at this very minute. There, now you've got it. Do as you like get Tomlinson to talk or anybody else, but keep me out of it, do you hear? I hear, said Farrow, thrilling with the consciousness that when some dan. the detective arrived from the yard, he would receive an eye-opener from a certain humble member of the Hartfordshire Constabulary. Not that he quite brought himself to believe Robert

Fenley, his father's murderer. That was going rather far. That would indeed be a monstrous assumption as matters stood. But as clues, the quarrel and the rifle were excellent, and Scotland Yard must recognize them in that light. Certainly this was an unusual case, most unusual. He was well aware of the reputation attached to Robert Fenley, the banker's younger son, who differed from his brother in every essential. Hilton was steady-going, business-like, his father's secretary and right-hand in affairs, both in the bank and matters of the estate.

Robert, almost unmanageable as a youth, had grown into an exceedingly rapid young man about town. But Roxton folk feared Hilton and liked Robert, and the local gossip had deplored Robert's wildness, which might erect an insurmountable barrier against an obviously suitable match between him and Mr. Mortimer Friendly's ward, the rich and beautiful Sylvia Manning. These things were vivid in the policeman's mind, and he was wondering how the puzzle would explain itself in the long run, when an exclamation from Bates brought his vagram speculations sharply back to the problem of the moment.

The keeper, of course, as Pharaoh had said, was with, making straight for the one place in the quarry wood, which commanded a clear view of the entrance to the mansion. The two men were skirting the disused quarry, now a rabbit warren, which gave the locality its name. They followed the rising edge of the excavation, treading on a broad strip of turf, purposely freed of encroaching briars, lest any wandering stranger might plunge headlong into the pit. Near the highest part of the rock wall, there was a slight depression in the ground, and here, except during the height of a phenomenally dry summer, the surface was almost always moist. Bates, who was leading, had halted suddenly.

He pointed to three well-marked footprints. "'Who's been here? Not so long ago, neither,' he said, darting, ferret eyes, now at the tell-tail marks, and now into the quarry beneath, on through the solemn isle of trees. Stick in some twigs, and let's hurry on, said Pharaoh. Footprints are first rach, but they'll keep for an hour or two. Thirty yards away and somewhere to the right, a hump of rock formed the Montblanc of that tiny alp, from its summits and from no other parts of the wood, they could see the east front of the towers. In fact, while perched there, having climbed its shoulder with great care, lest certain definite tokens of a recent intruder should

be obliterated, they discovered a dusty motor car, ranged between the doctor's runabouts and the Fenley limousine, which had returned. The doctor and Miss Sylvia Manning were standing on the broad mosaic which adorned the landing above the steps, standing exactly where Mortimer Fenley had stood when he was stricken to death. With them were two strangers, one tall, burly, and official looking, the other a shrunken little man whose straw hat, short jacket, and clean-shaven face, conveyed at the distance a curiously juvenile aspect. Halfway down the steps were Hilton Fenley and Brody, and all were gazing fixedly at that part of the wood

where the keeper and the policeman had popped into view. "'Hello,' said Bates. "'Who is that little lot?' "' Clearly he meant the big man and his diminutive companion. Farrow coughed importantly. "'That's Scotland Yard,' he said. "'Who?' "'Detectives from the yard, Mr. Hilton telephone forum,

"'and what's more, they're siglin to us. "'They want us to go back. "'Maybe. "'There can't be any doubt about it. "'And indeed, only a blind man could have been skeptical "'as to the wishes of the group near the door. "'I'm going through this wood first,' announced Pharaoh firmly. mind how you get down. Them marks may be useful. I'm almost sure the scoundrel fired from this very spot.

Looks like it, agreed Bates, and they descended. Five minutes later, they were in the open park, where their assistant scouts awaited them. None of the others had found any indication of a stranger's presence, and Pharaoh led them to the house in Indian file by a path. Scotland Yard is on the job, he announced. Now we'll be told just what we really ought to have done. He did not even exchange a furtive glance with bates, but for the life of him he could not restrain a note of triumph from creeping into his voice.

He noticed, too, that Tomlund's, the butler not only looked white and shaken which was natural under the circumstances but had the haggard aspect of a stout man who may soon become thin by stress of fearsome imaginings pharaoh did not put it that way bates is all right he said to himself tomlinson has something on his chest by jingo this affair is a a wanter and no mistake. At any rate, the local talent had no intention of cowtowing too deeply before the majesty of the yard, for the chief of the criminal investigation department himself could have achieved no more in the time than police, Constable Farrow. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley

by Lewis Tracy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. The Hounds Superintendent James Leander Winter, chief of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard, had just opened the morning's letters and was virtuously resisting the placid charms of an open box of cigars when the telephone bell rang. The speaker, was the assistant commissioner. Leave everything else and motor to Roxton, said the calm voice of authority. Mr. Mortimer Fenley, a private banker in the city,

was shot dead about 9.30 at his own front door. His place is the Towers, which stands in a park between the villages of Roxton and Easton in Hertfordshire. His son, who has just telepherson, here, believed that a rifle was fired from a neighboring wood, but several minutes elapsed before anyone realized that the banker was shot. The first impression of the servants who ran to his assistance when he staggered and fell, being that he was suffering from apoplexy. By the time

the cause of death was discovered, the murderer could have escaped, so no immediate search was made. Mr. Hilton Fenley, a son who spoke with difficulty, explained that he thought it best to phone here after summoning a doctor. The dead man is of some importance in the city, so I want you to take personal charge of the inquiry. The voice ceased. Mr. Winter, while listening, had glanced at a clock. 9.30 this morning, sir, he inquired.

Yes, the son lost. no time. The affair happened a quarter of an hour ago. I'll start in five minutes. Good. By the way, who will go with you? Mr. Furno. Excellent. I leave matters in your hands, Superintendent. Let me hear the facts if you return to town before six. Evidently, the Roxton murder was one of the year's big events. It loomed large already in the official mind. Winter called up various departments in quick succession, gave a series of orders, sorted his letters hastily, thrusting some into a drawer, and others into a basket on the table, and was lighting a cigar when the door opened, and his trusted aide, Detective Inspector Furnow, entered. Ha! cackled the newcomer,

for winter had confided to him only the day before certain reasons why the habit of smoking to excess was injurious and his winter's resolve to cut down the day's cigars to three one after each principal meal circumstances alter cases said the superintendent blandly scrutinizing the havana to make sure that the outer leaf was burning evenly You and I are off for a jaunt in the country, Charles, and the sternest disciplinarian on Ben's during holiday time. The Scotland Yard, as well as the other place, is paved with good intentions, said furneau. Winter stooped and took a couple of automatic pistols from a drawer in the desk at which he was seated.

Put one of those in your pocket, he said. Again did his colleague smile, derisively. So it is only a bus driver's holiday, he cried. One never knows. Some prominent banker, name of Fenley, has been shot. There may be more shooting. Fenley, not Mortimer Fenley. Yes, do you know him? Better than I know you, because you often puzzle me, whereas he struck me as a respectable swindler. you remember those bonds which disappeared so mysteriously two months ago from the safe of the mortgage and discount bank, and were all sold in Paris before the loss was discovered?

By Jove, is that the Fenley? None other. Of course, you were hobnobbing with royalty at the time, so such a trifle as the theft of ten thousand pounds worth of negotiable securities didn't trouble you a bit. I see you're wearing the pin today. So would you wear it if an emperor deigned to take notice of such a shrimp? A shrimp, you call me. Imagine a lobster sticking rubies and diamonds into a heliotrope tie.

Winter winked solemnly. I picked up some wrinkles in color blends at that futurist exhibition, he said. But here's Johnston to tell us. the car is ready. The oddly assorted pair followed the constable in uniform, now hurrying ahead to ring for the elevator. The big bluff bullet-headed superintendent was physically well-fitted for his responsible position, though he combined with the official demeanor some of the easy-going characteristics of a country squire. But Charles Francois Furnaut was so unconstitutional, was so unconstitutional, unlike the detective of romance and the stage,

that he often found it difficult to persuade strangers that he really was the famous detective inspector they had heard of in connection with many a celebrated trial. On the other hand, if one were told that he hailed from the Comédi de Francés, the legend would be accepted without demur. He had the clean-shaven, wrinkled face of the comedian, His black eyes sparkled with an active intelligence. An expressive mouth bespoke clear and fluent speech.

His quick alert movements were those of the memetic actor. Winter stood six feet in height and weighed 210 pounds. Furnow was six inches shorter and 80 pounds lighter. The one was a typical John Bull. The other, a Channel Island. of pure French descent, and never did more curiously assorted couple follow the trail of a criminal. Yet, if noteworthy, when acting apart, they were almost infallible in combination. More than one eminent scoundrel had either blown out his brains or given himself up to the law

when he knew that the biggin and the littlun of the yard were hot on his track. Winter seldom failed to arrive at the only sound conclusion from ascertained facts, whereas Furnow had an almost uncanny knowledge of the kinks and obliquities of the criminal mind. In the phraseology of logic, Winter applied the deductive method and Furnow the inductive. When both fastened onto the same suspect, the unlucky white was in powerless state. It may be taken for granted, therefore, that the assistant commissioner knew what he was about in uttering his satisfaction at the superintendent's choice of an assistant. Possibly he had the earlier bond robbery in mind, and expected now that another mystery would be

solved. Scotland Yard guards many secrets which shirk the glare of publicity. Some may never be explained, but by far the larger proportion are cleared up unexpectedly by incidents which may occur months or years afterwards, and whose connection with the original crime is indiscernible until some chance discovery lays bare the hidden clue. One queer feature of the partnership between the two was their habit of chaffing and bickering at each other during the early stages of a joint hut. They were like hounds giving tongue joyously when laid on the scent. Dangerous then, they became mute and deadly when the quarry was in sight. In private life they were firm friends. Officially, Furnow was winter's subordinate,

but that fact neither silenced the Jerseyman's sarcastic tongue, nor stopped Winter from roasting his assistant unmercifully, if an opportunity offered. Their chauffeur took the line through the parks to the Edgeware Road, and they talked of anything save shop, until the speed limit was off, and the car was responding gaily to the accelerator. Then Winter threw away the last inch of a good cigar, involuntarily put his hand to a well-filled case for its successor, sighed, and dropped his hand again. Force of habit, he said, finding fur-nose-eye on him.

I didn't even think evil, was the reply. I really mustn't smoke so much, said Winter plaintively. Oh, for goodness sake, light up and be happy. If you sit there nursing your self-righteousness, you'll be like a bear with a sore head before we pass Stanmore. besides consider me i like the smell of tobacco though my finer nervous system will not endure its use finer fiddle-sticks said winter cutting the end off a fresh havana now tell me about fenley and the ten thousand what's his other name i forget alexander is it no nor xenophon just mortimer

He ran a private bank in Bishop's Gate Street, and that, as you know, generally hides a company promoter. Frankly, I was bothered by Fenley at first. I believe he lost the bonds right enough, for he gave the numbers and was horribly upset about it when it was found they had been sold in Paris. But to my idea, he either stole them himself, and was relieved of them. later, or was victimized by one of his sons. The only other person who could have taken them was the cashier, a hoary-headed old boy, who resides at Epping, and has not changed his method of living since he first wore a silk hat and caught the 8.40 to the city one morning 50 years ago. I followed him home on a Saturday afternoon. The bookstall clerk at Liverpool

Street handed him the amateur gardener, and the old boy read it in the train. Five minutes after he had reached his house, he was out on the lawn with a daisy fork. No, the cashier didn't arrange the Paris sale. What of the sons? The elder, Hilton Fenley, is a neurotic, like myself, so he would shine with equal lustre as a saint or a detective. or a dyed-in-the-wolf thief. The younger, Robert, ought to be an explorer, or a steeple-chase jockey, or an airman. In reality, he is a first-rate waste-row.

In my distress, I harked back to the old man, to whom the loss of the bonds represented something considerably less than a year's expenditure. He is mixed up in all sorts of enterprises, rubber, tea, picture palaces, breweries, and automobile finance. He lent 50,000 pounds on 5% first mortgage bonds to one firm at Coventry, and half that amount to a rival show in West London. So he has the stuff, and plenty of it, yet Winter nodded.

I know the sort of man, dealing in millions today, two more. in the dock at the old Bailey. The point is that Fenley has never dealt in millions and has kept his head high for twenty years. Just twenty years, by the way, before that he was unknown. He began by the amalgamation of some tea plantations in Assam. Fine word amalgamation.

It means money all the time. Can't we amalgamate something or somebody? In Fenley's case, it led to assassination. Perhaps I have a feeling in my bones that if I knew who touched the proceeds of those bonds, I might understand why someone shot Fenley this morning. I'll soon tell you a trivial thing like that, said Winter, affecting a close interest in the landscape.

I shouldn't be at all surprised if you did, said Furno. "'You have the luck of a Carnegie. "'Look at the way you bungled that affair of Lady Morris's diamonds "'until you happened to see her maid meeting, "'gentleman George, at the White City.' "'Winter smoked complacently. "'Smartest thing I ever did,' he chortled, "'fixed on the thief within half an hour,

"'and never lost touch till I knew how she'd worked the job. "'The Bow Street method why didn't you try something of the sort with regard to Fenley's bonds? I couldn't be crude, even with a city financier. I put it gently that the money was in the family. He blinked at me like an owl, said that he would give thought to the suggestion, and shut down the inquiry by telephone

before I reached the yard from his office. Oh, he did, did he? It seems to me you've made a pretty good guess in associating the bonds and the murder. You've seen both sons, of course. Yes, often. Are there other members of the family? An invalid wife, never away from the towers, and a young lady, Miss Sylvia Manning, award, and worth a pile.

By the way, she's twenty. Mortimer Fenley had he lived, was appointed her guardian and trustee till she reached 21. Twenty, mused Winter. Yes, twice ten, snapped Furneau. And Fenley has cut a figure in the city for twenty years. I was sure your grey matter would be stimulated by its favourite poison.

Charles, this should be an easy thing. I'm not so sure. dead men tell no tales, and Fenley himself could probably supply many chapters of an exciting story. They will be missing. Look at the repeated failures of eminent authors to complete Edwin Drood. How would they have fared if asked to produce the beginning? Still, I'm glad you attended to those bonds who had charge of the Paris end? Jacques Faure.

Ah, a good man. Pretty fair for a Frenchman. Winter laughed. You born frog, he cried. Hello, there's a Roxston signpost. Now let's compose our features. We are near the towers. The estate figured on the country map,

so the chauffeur pulled up at the right gate. A woman came from the lodge to inquire their business, and admitted the car when told that its occupants had been summoned by Mr. Hilton Fenley. "'By the way,' said Furneau carelessly, "'is Mr. Robert at home?' "'No, sir. When did he leave?' "'I'm sure I don't know, sir.' Mrs. Bates knew quite well, and Furneau knew that she knew.

"'The country domestic is the detectives' aversion,' he said, as the car whirled into the avenue. The lady of the lodge will be a sufficiently tough proposition if we try to drag information out of her. But the real tug-of-war will come when we tackle the family butler. Her husband is also the headkeeper, said Winter. Name of Bates, added Furneau. Oh, you've been here before, then.

No, while you were taking. stock of the kennels generally, I was deciphering a printed label on a box of dog biscuit. I hardly feel that I've begun this inquiry yet, said Winter airily. You'd better pull yourself together. The dead man's limousine is still waiting at the door, and the local doctor is in attendance. Walter J. Stern, M.D. probably that brass plate on the joyous. plate on the Georgian house in the centre of the village, a positively glistened.

They were received by Hilton Fenley himself, all the available men-servants, having been transferred to the cohort organised and directed by police constable Farrow. Good morning, Mr. Furneau, said Fenley. Aye, little thought, when last we met, that I should be compelled to seek your help so soon again, and under such dreadful circumstances. Furno, whose face could display at will, a Japanese liveliness of expression, or become a mask of Indian gravity,

surveyed the speaker with inscrutable eyes. This is Superintendent Winter, chief of my department, he said. The assistant commissioner told me to take charge of the inquiry without delay, sir, explained winter. He glanced at his watch. We have not been long on the road. It is only 20 minutes to 11. Fenley led them through a spacious hall into a dining room on the left. On an oak settee at the back of the hall, the outline of a white sheet was eloquent of the grim object beneath. In the dining room were an elderly man and a slim white-faced girl. Had Trinon been present, he would have noted with interest that her dress was of white muslin dotted with tiny blue spots, not Fleur-de-Lie,

but rather resembling them. Dr. Stern and Miss Sylvia Manning, said Fenley to the newcomers, then he introduced the Scotland Yardman, in turn, By this time the young head of the family had schooled himself to a degree of self-control. His sallow skin held a greenish pallor, and as if to satisfy some instinct that demanded movement, he took an occasional slow stride across the parquet floor, or brushed a hand wearily over his eyes. Otherwise, he had mastered his voice and spoke with the gasping pauses, which had made distrable. his words to Pharaoh. Ours is a sad errand, Mr. Fenley,

began winter after a hasty glance at the table, which still bore the disordered array of breakfast. But if you feel equal to the task, you might tell us exactly what happened. Fenley nodded. Of course, of course, he said quietly. That is essential. We three, my father,

Miss Manning and myself breakfasted together. The second gong goes every morning at 845, and we were fairly punctual today. My father and Sylvia, Miss Manning, came in together. They had been talking in the hall previously. I saw them entering the room as I came downstairs. During a meal we chatted about affairs in the East. That is, my father, and I did, and so Miss Manning gave us some news of a church bazaar in which she's taking part. My father rose first, and went to his room to collect papers brought from the city overnight. I met him on the stairs, and he gave me some instructions about a prospectus. Let me interpolate that I was going to Victoria, by a later train, having an appointment at 11 o'clock with Lord Ventner,

chairman of the company we are bringing out. I stood on the stairs, saying something, while my father crossed the hall and took his hat and gloves from Harris, the footman. As I passed along the gallery to my own room, I saw him standing on the landing at the top of the steps. He was cutting the end off a cigar, and Harris was just behind him, and a little to the left, striking a match. Every fine morning my father lighted a cigar there. In rain or high wind, he would light up inside the house. By the way, my mother is an invalid and dislikes the smell of tobacco,

so unless we have guests, we don't smoke indoors. Well, I had reached my room, a sitting room, adjoining my bedroom, when I heard a gunshot. Apparently it came from the quarry wood, and I was surprised because there is no shooting at this season. A little later, some few seconds, I heard Sylvia scream. I did not rush out instantly to discover the cause.

Young ladies sometimes scream at wasps and caterpillars. Then I heard Tomlons and say, fetch Mr. Hilton at once, and I ran into Harris, who blurted out, Mr. Fenley has been shot, sir. After that, I scarcely know what I said or how I acted. I remember running downstairs and finding my father lying outside the front door with Sylvia supporting his head,

and Tomlinson and Brody trying to lift him. In fact, I think I am sure now from what Dr. Stern tells me that my father was dead before I reached him. We all thought, at first, that he had yielded to some awfully sudden form of paralysis, but someone Tomlinson, I believe, noticed a hole through the right side of his coat and waistcoat. Then Sylvia, oh, perhaps that is matterless. Every incident, however slight, is of importance in a case of this sort. Winter encouraged him.

Well, she said, what was it exactly? Do you remember, Sylvia? Certainly, said the girl, unhesitatingly. I said that I thought I recognized the sound of Bob's 450. Why shouldn't I say it? Poor Bob didn't shoot his father. Her voice, though singularly musical, had a tearful ring, which became almost hysterical in the vehemence of the question and its disclaimer. Fenley moved uneasily and raised his right hand to his eyes, while the left grasped the back of a chair. Bob is my brother, Robert, who is away from home at this moment, he said, and his tone

deprecated the mere allusion to the rifle owned by the absentee. I only mentioned Miss Manning's words to show how completely at a loss we all were. to account for my father's wound. I helped Tomlinson and Brody to carry him to the settee in the hall. Then we, Talmondson, that is, opened his waistcoat and shirt. Talmondson cut the shirt with a scissors, and we saw the wound. Dr. Stern says there are indications that an expanding bullet was used, so the injuries must have been something appalling.

Sylvia, don't you think I'll not faint or make a scene, if that's what you're afraid of, Hilton, said the girl, bravely. That is all, then, or nearly all, went on Fenley, in the same dreary, monotonous voice. I telephoned to Dr. Stern and to Scotland Yard, deeming it better to communicate with you than with the local police. but it seems that Bates, our headkeeper, hurrying to investigate the cause of the shot, met some artist coming away from the other side of the wood. The Roxton Police Constable, too, met and spoke with the same man,

who told both Bates and the policeman that he heard the shot fired. The policeman, Farrow, refused to arrest the artist, and is now searching the wood with, a number of our men. Can't they be stopped? Broke in furneau, speaking for the first time. Yes, of course. And Hilton Fenley became a trifle more animated. I wanted Pharaoh to wait till you came, but he insisted, said the murderer might be hiding there. When did Pharaoh arrive? Oh, more than half an hour after my father was shot, I forgot to mention that my mother knows nothing of the tragedy yet.

That is why we did not carry my poor father's body upstairs. She might overhear the shuffling of feet and ask the cause. One more thing, Mr. Fenley, said Winter, seeing that the other had made an end, have you the remotest reason to believe that any person harbored a grievance against your father, such as might lead to the commission of a crime of this nature. I've been torturing my mind with that problem since I realized that my father was

dead, and I can say candidly that he had no enemies. Of course, in business, one interferes occasionally with other men's projects, but people in the city do not shoot successful opponents. No private feud, no dismissed servant, sent off because of theft or drunkenness. Absolutely none, to my knowledge. The youngest man on the estate has been employed here five or six years. It is a very extraordinary crime, Mr. Friendly. For answer, the other sank into a chair and buried his face in his hands. How can we get those clodhoppers out of the wood? said. furneau, his thin, high-pitched voice dispelled the tension, and Fenley dropped his hands. Bates is certain to make for a rock which commands a view of the house, he said.

Perhaps if we go to the door, we may see them. He arose with obvious effort, but walked steadily enough. Winter followed with the doctor, and inquired in an undertone. Are you sure about the soft? soft-nosed bullet, doctor? Quite was the answer. I was in the Tira campaign and saw hundreds of such wounds. Furnow, too, had something to say to Miss Manning.

How were you seated during breakfast, he asked. She showed him. It was a large room, two windows looked down the avenue, and three into the garden, with its background of timber and park. Mr. Mortimer Fenley could have commanded both views. His son sat with his back to the park. The girl had faced it. I need hardly put it to you, but you saw no one in or near the trees, said Furneau.

Not a soul. I bathe in a little lake below those cedars every morning, and it is an estate order that the men do not go in that direction between eight and nine o'clock. Of course, a keeper might have passed at nine-thirty, but it is most unlikely. Did you bathe this morning? Yes, soon after eight. Did you see the artist of whom Mr. Fenley spoke? No, this is the first I have heard of any artist. Bates must have mentioned him while I was with Dr. Stern. When Pharaoh arrived at the head of his legion, he was just in time to salute his inspector,

who had cycled from Easton after receiving the news left by the chauffeur at the police station. Pharaoh was bursting with impatience to reveal the discoveries he had made, though resolved to keep locked in his own breast, the secret confided by Bates. He was thoroughly not plused, therefore, when winter, after listening in silence, do the account of the footprints and scratches on the moss-covered surface of the rock,

turned to Hilton Fenley. With reference to the rifle, which has been mentioned, where is it kept, he said, in my brother's room. He bought it nearly a year ago when he was planning an expedition to Somaliland. May I see it? fenley signed to the butler who was standing with the others at a little distance you know the four fifty express which is in the gun-rack in robert's den he said bring it to the superintendent tomlinson shaken but dignified and rather purple of face as the result of the trap through the trees went indoors soon he came back and the rich tint had faded again from his command "'Sorry, sir,' he said huskily, "'but the rifle is not there.'

"'Not there?' "'It was Sylvia Manning, who spoke. "'The others received this sinister fact in silence. "'No, miss.' "'Are you quite sure?' asked Fenley. "'It is not in the gun-rack, sir, "'nor in any of the corners.' "'There was a pause.

"'Fenley clearly forced the next words. That's all right. Bates may have it in the gunroom. We'll ask him, or Mr. Robert may have taken it to the makers. I remember now he spoke of having the site fitted with some new appliance. He called Bates. No, the missing rifle was not in the gunroom. Somehow the notion was forming, in certain minds, that it could not be there.

Indeed, the keeper's confusion was so marked that fur-nose glance dwelt on him for a contemplative second. End of Chapter 3 Chapter 4 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Breaking Cover Winter drew the local inspector aside. This inquiry rests with you in the first instance, he said,

Mr. Furnow and I are here only to assist. Mr. Fenley telephoned to the commissioner, mainly because Scotland Yard was called in to investigate a bond robbery, which took place in the Fenley Bank some two months ago. Probably you never heard of it. Will you kindly explain our position to your chief constable? Of course, we shout,

work with you and through you, but my colleague has reason to believe that the theft of the bonds may have some bearing on this murder, and as the securities were disposed of in Paris, it is more than likely that the yard may be helpful. I fully understand, sir, said the inspector secretly delighted at the prospect of joining in the hunt with two such renowned detectives. The combined parishes of Easton and Roxston seldom produced a crime of greater magnitude than the theft of a duck. The arrest of a burglar who broke into a villa found a decanter of whiskey and got so hopelessly drunk that he woke up in a cell at the police station was an event of such magnitude that its memory was still lively, though the leading personage was now out of. on ticket of leave after serving five years in various penal settlements.

You will prepare and give the formal evidence at the inquest which will be opened tomorrow, went on winter. All that is really necessary is identification and a brief statement by the doctor. Then the coroner will issue the burial certificate and the inquiry should be adjourned for a fortnight. I would recommend discretion in choosing a jury, avoid busy bodies like the plague, summons only sensible men who will do as they are told and ask no questions. Exactly, said the inspector.

He found Machiavellian art in these simple instructions, how it broadened the horizon to be brought in touch with London. Winter turned to look for Furneau. The little man was standing where Mortimer Fenley had stood in the last moment of his life. His eyes were fixed on the wood. He seemed to be dreaming, but his friend well knew how much clarity and almost supernatural vision was associated with Furneau's dreams. Charles, said the superintendent softly,

Furno awoke, and ran down the steps. In his straw hat and light summer suit, he looked absurdly boyish, but the inspector, who had formed an erroneous first impression, was positively startled when he met those blazing black eyes. Mr. Fenley should mourn all his servants to speak fully and candidly, said Winter. Then we shall question the witnesses separately.

What do you think shall we start now? First, the boots, cried Furneau, seemingly voicing a thought. We want a worn pair of boots belonging to each person in the house and employed on the estate. Men and women know exceptions, including the dead man's. then we'll visit that wood. After that, the inquiry. Winter nodded. When Ferno and he were in pursuit of a criminal, they dropped all nice distinctions of rank. If one made a suggestion, the other adopted it without comment, unless he could urge some convincing argument against it. Mr. Fenley should give his orders now, added Furnow. Winter explained his wishes,

to the nominal head of the household, and Fenley's compliance was ready and explicit. These gentlemen from Scotland Yard are acting in behalf of Mrs. Fenley, my brother and myself, he said to the assembled servants, you must obey them as you would obey me. I place matters unreservedly in their hands. And our question should be answered without reserve, put in winter. yes, of course, I implied that, at any rate, it is clear now.

Brody, said furneau, seeming to pounce on the chauffeur. You were seated at the wheel when the shot was fired? Yes, sir, stuttered Brody, rather taken aback by the little man's suddenness. Were you looking at the wood? In sort of a way, sir. And did you see anyone among the trees? No, sir, that I didn't. This more confidently.

Place your car where it was stationed, then. Take your seat, and try to imagine that you are waiting for your master. Start the engine, and behave exactly as though you expected him to enter the car. Don't watch the wood. I mean that you are not to avoid looking at it, just throw yourself back to the condition of mind you were in at 925 this morning. Can you manage that? I think so, sir.

No chatting with others, you know. Fancy you are about to take Mr. Fenley to the station. If you should happen to see me wave your hand, then you can get down and stop the engine. You understand? You are not to keep a sharp lookout for me? Yes, sir. The butler thought it would take a quarter of an hour

to collect sample pairs of boots from the house and outlying cottages. Police Constable Farrow was instructed to bring the butler and the array of boots to the place where the footprints were found, and Bates led the detectives and the inspector thither at once. Soon the four men were gazing at the tell-tale. marks, and the inspector, of course, was ready with a shrewd comment. Whoever it was that came this way didn't take much trouble to hide his tracks, he said. The Scotland Yard experts were so obviously impressed that the inspector tried a higher flight.

There a man's boots, he continued, and we needn't have worried Tomlinson to gather the maid's foot gear. Furno left two neat imprints in the damp soil. Bet you a penny-wistle, there are at least two women in the towers who will make bigger blobs than these, he said. A penny-wistle, as a wager, is what police constable Farrow would term unusual. Quite so, said the inspector, thoughtfully. Winter caught Ferno's eye and frowned.

There was nothing to be gained by taking a rise out of the local constabulary. Still he gave one sharp glance at both sets of footprints. Then he looked at furneaux again, this time with a smile. The party passed on to the rock on the higher ground. Bates pointed out the old scratches and those made by Pharaoh and himself. Me first! cried Furneau, darting nimbly to the summit. He was not there a second before he signalled to someone invisible from beneath.

Winter joined him, and the east front of the house burst into view. Brody was in the act of descending from the car. The doctor had gone. A small group of men were gazing at the wood, but Hilton Fenley and Sylvia Manning were not to be seen. neither man uttered a word they looked at the rock under their feet at the surrounding trees oak and ash elm and larch all of mature growth and towering thirty to forty feet above their heads while the rock itself rose some twelve feet from the general level of the sloping ground bates was watching them The fact is, gentlemen, that if an oak and a couple of spruce first had been cut down, you wouldn't see the house even from where you are, he said.

Mr. Fenley had an idea of building a shelter on this rock, but he let it alone cuss the birds. Ladies would be coming here and a disturbing of them. The detectives came down, for no, meaning to put the inspector in the right frame of mind, said confidentially. Brody saw me instantly. Did he now?

It follows that he would have seen anyone who fired at Mr. Fenley from that spot. It almost follows. We must guard against assuming a chance as a certainty. Oh, yes. And we must also try to avoid fitting facts into preconceived notions.

Now, while the book Butler is gathering old boots, let us spend a few profitable minutes in this locality. After that, any trace of soreness in the inspectorial breast was completely obliterated. Both winter and furneau produced strong magnifying glasses, and scrutinized the scratches and impressions on the bare rock and moss. Bates, skilled in wood lore, was quick to note, what they had discerned at a glance. A big pardon, gentlemen both, but may I put it in a word?

He muttered awkwardly. As many as you like, Winter assured him. Well, these here marks was made by Pharaoh and myself, say about 10.40, or trifle over an half an hour after the murder. And I have no sort of doubt,

as these other marks are a day or two days older. You might even put it at three days, agreed winter. Then it follows, began the inspector, but checked himself. He was becoming slightly mixed as to the exact sequence of events. Come now, Bates, said Furno. You can tell us the day Mr. Robert Fenley left home recently. There is no harm in mention the...

his name. It can't help being in our thoughts, since it was discovered that his gun was missing. He went off on a motor-bicycle last Saturday morning, sir. Can you fix the hour? About half-past ten. You have not seen him since? No, sir. You would be likely to know if he had returned? Certainly, sir, unless he came by the Roxton gate. Oh, is there a non-night? Oh, is there a entrance yes but it can't be used except by people on foot the big gates are always locked and the road has been grasped over and not so many folks know of a right-of-way of course mr robert knows bates was disturbed he expected to be cross-examined farther but to his manifest relief the ordeal was postponed winter and furneaux commenced a careful scrutiny of the ground behind the rock. They struck off on different paths, but came together at a little distance.

The trees, murmured Witter. Yes, when we are alone. Have you noticed? These curious pads, they mean a lot. It's not so easy, James. I am growing interested, I admit. They rejoined the others. Did you tell me that only you and police constable Farrow

visited this part of the wood, said Furneau to Bates? I don't remember telling you, sir, but that's the fact, said the keeper. Well, warn all the estate hands to keep away from this section during the next few days. You will give orders to Farrow, to that effect, inspectors. yes if they go trampling all over you won't know where you are when it comes to a close search was the cheerful answer now about that gun it must be hidden somewhere in the undergrowth the man who fired it would never dare to carry it along an open road on a fine morning like this when everybody is a stir you're undoubtedly right said winter but he's Here come assorted boots that may help us a bit. Tomlinson was a man of method.

He and Pharaoh had brought two wicker baskets, such as are used in laundry work. He was rather breathless. A house and estate, he weased, pointing to each basket in turn. Go ahead, furneau, said Winter. Because I ought to stoop, I don't. the little man choked back some gibe the presence of strangers and forced respect to his chief he took a thin folding rule of aluminum from waist pocket and applied it to the most clearly defined of the three footprints then beginning at the house blanket he ran over the contents rapidly one pair of boots he set aside after testing the esthersting the esthersting the

estate basket without success. He seized one of the selected pair and pressed it into the earth, close to an original prince. He looked up at Tomlinson, who was in a violent perspiration. Whose boot is this? he asked. God help us, sir, it's Mr. Roberts, said Tomlinson, in an agonized tone. the inspector, Farrow, and Bates were visibly thrilled, but Furno only sank back on his heels and peered at the boot. I don't understand why anyone should feel upset, because these footprints, which, by the way, were not made by this pair of boots,

happened to resemble marks which may have been made by Mr. Robert Fenley, he said, apparently, talking to himself. These marks are three or four days old. Mr. Robert Fenley went away on Saturday. Today is Wednesday. He may have been here on Saturday morning. What does it matter if he was? The man who murdered his father must have been here two hours ago.

Sensation. Tomlinson mopped his forehead with a handkerchief already a wet rag. Farrow, not daring to interfere, nibbled his chin strap. Bates scowled with relief, but the inspector, after a husky cough, spoke. Would you mind telling me, Mr. Furnow, why you are so sure, he said. Now, Professor Bates, you tell him, cackled Furnow. The keeper dropped on his knees by the same. side of the detective and gazed critically at the marks.

At this time or year, gentlemen, things do grow wonderful, he said slowly. In this sort of ground where there's wet and shade, there's a kind of constant movement. This year new print is clean, and the broken grass and crushed leaves haven't had time to straighten themselves, as one might say. But in this other lot, the shoots are commencing to perk up, and insects have stirred the mould. It's just the difference between a new run for rabbits and an olden. Thank you, Bates, broke in winter sharply. Now we must not waste any more time in demonstrations. Mr. Furnow explained this thing purposely to show the folly of the folly of the, of jumping at conclusions.

Innocent men have been hanged before today on just such evidence as this. We should deem ourselves lucky that these footprints were found so soon after the crime was committed. Tomorrow or next day, there might have been a doubt in our minds. Luckily there is none.

The man who shot Mr. Fenley this morning, he paused. Furnow alone appreciated his difficulty could not possibly have left those marks today. It was a lame ending, but it sufficed. Four of his hearers took him to mean that the unknown whose feet had left their impress in the soil could not have been the murderer.

But Ferno growled in French. You tripped badly that time, my friend. you need another cigar. Seemingly, he was soliloquizing, and none understood, except the one person for whose benefit the sarcasm was intended. Winter felt the spur,

but because he was a really great detective, it only stimulated him. Nothing more was said until the little procession reached the avenue. During their brief disappearance, in the leafy depths, Two cars and three motorcycles had arrived at the towers. A glance sufficed.

The newspapers had heard of the murder. This was the advance guard of an army of reporters and photographers. Winter, Buttonholed the inspector. I'll tell you the most valuable service you can render at this moment, he said. Arrange that a constable shall mount guard. at the rock till nightfall, then place two on duty, with four men, you can provide the necessary reliefs,

but I want that place watched continuously, and intruders mourned off till further notice. This man, who happens to be here, might go on duty immediately. Then you can make your plans at leisure. Thus, by the quaint contriving of chance, Police Constable Farrow, whose stalwart form and stubborn zeal had blocked the path to the quarry wood since a few minutes after ten o'clock, was deputed to continue that particular duty till a comrade took his place. His face fell when he heard that he was condemned to solitude, shut out from all the excitement of the hour,

debarred even, as he imagined, from standing on the rock and watching the comings and goings at the mansion. But winter was a kindly, if far-seeing, student of human nature. It will be a bit slow for you, he said, when the inspector had given Pharaoh his orders. But you can amuse yourself by an occasional peep at the landscape, and there is no reason why you shouldn't smoke. Pharaoh saluted, Do you mean, sir, that I can show myself? Why not?

The mere fact that your presence is known will warn off priors. Remember, no one, absolutely no one, except the police, is to be allowed to pass the quarry, or approach from any side with inhaling distance. Not even from the house, sir. Exactly.

Mr. Fenley and Miss Manning may be told, if necessary, why you are there, and I am sure they will respect my wishes. Farrow turned back. It was not so bad, then, these Scotland Yard fellows had chosen him for an important post, and that hint about a pipe was distinctly human. Odd thing, too, that Mr. Robert Fenley was not expected to put in an appearance, or the superintendent would have mentioned him with the others.

On reaching the house, there were evidences of disturbance. Hilton Fenley stood in the doorway and was haranguing the newspaper men in a voice. harsh with anger. This intrusion was unwarranted, illegal, impudent. He would have them expelled by force. When he got sight of the inspector, he demanded fiercely that names and addresses should be taken, so that his solicitors might issue summonses for trespass. All this, of course, made excellent copy, and Waiter put an end to the scene. by drawing the reporters aside and giving them a fairly complete account of the murder. Incidentally, he sent off the inspector post haste on his bicycle

to station a constable at each gate and stop the coming invasion. The house telephone, too, closed the main gate effectually, so when the earliest scouts had rushed away to connect with Fleet Street, order was restored. Winter was puzzled by Fenley's display of passion. It was only to be expected that newspapers would break out in a rash of black headlines over the murder of a prominent London financier. By hook or by crook, journalism would triumph. He had often been amazed at the extent and accuracy of news items concerning the most secret inquiries. Of course, the reporters sometimes missed the heart of an intricate case.

In this instance, they had never heard of the bond robbery, though the numbers of the stolen securities had been advertised widely. Moreover, he was free to admit that if every fact known to the police were published, broadcast, no one would be a penny the worse, for thus far the crime was singularly lacking in motive. Meanwhile, Ferno had fastened onto Brody again. You saw me at once, he began. I couldn't miss you, sir, said the chauffeur,

a solid, stolid mechanic, who understood his engine and a road map thoroughly and left the rest to Providence. I wasn't paying particular attention, yet I twigged you the minute you popped up. So it is reasonable to suppose that if anyone had appeared in that same place this morning and taken steady aim at Mr. Fenley, you would have twigged him too. It strikes me that way, sir. Did you see nothing, not even a puffer?

of smoke. He must certainly have looked at the wood when you heard the shot. I did, sir, not a leaf moved. Just a couple of pheasants flew out, and the rooks around the house kicked up such a row that I didn't know the governor was down till Harris shouted, Where did the pheasants lie from? They came out a bit below the rock, but they were rising birds, and may have started from the ground higher up. No birds were startled before the shot was fired? Not to my knowledge, sir, but June pheasants are very tame,

and they lie marvellous close. A pheasant would just as who run as fly. The detectives began a detailed inquiry almost at once. It covered the ground already traversed, and the only new incident happened when hilton fenley at the moment repeating his evidence was called to the telephone if either of you cares to smoke there are cigars and virginia cigarettes on the sideboard he said or if you prefer turkish here are some and he laid a gold case on the table furneau grabbed it when the door had closed all neurotics use turkish he said solemnly. I guessed it.

A strong, vile, scented brand. Sometimes, my dear Charles, you talk rubbish, sighed winter. Maybe I never think or smoke it. Language was given us to conceal our thoughts, said Talleyrand. I have always admired Tallyrand, that rather Midland Bishop, but very eminent knave, as de Quincey called him. Crenant, I wonder what De Quincey meant by Midland. A man who could keep in the front rank under the Bourbons

during the Revolution with Napoleon and back again under the Bourbons, and yet die in bed must have been superhuman. St. Peter, in his stead, would have lost his napper at least three or four times. winter stirred uneasily and gazed out across the italian garden and park for the detectives were again installed in the dining-room what about that artist trenole he said after a pause we'll look him up before leaving this house i want to peep into various rooms and there's tomlinson tomlinson is a witch mine do leave him to me i'll dig into him deep and extract ore of high percentage see if i don't do you know charles i have a notion that we shall get closer to bedrock in london than here Furno pretended to look for an invisible halo surrounding his chief's close-cropped bullet head.

Sometimes, he said reverently, You frighten me when you bring off a brilliant remark like that. I seem to see lightning zigzagging round Jove's dome. Fenley returned. It was a call from the bank, he announced. They have just seen. the newspapers. I told them I would run up to town this afternoon. Then you did not telephone Bishop's Gate Street earlier, inquired Winter, permitting himself to be surprised. No, I had other

things to bother me. Now, Mr. Fenley, can you tell me where your brother is? I cannot. He placed a rather unnecessary emphasis on the negative. The question seemed to disturb him. Evidently, if he could consult his own wishes, he would prefer not to discuss his brother. I take it he has not been home since leaving here on Saturday, persisted winter.

That is so, had he quarreled with your father? There was a discered, really mr winter i must decline to go into family affairs but the probability is that the more we know the less our knowledge will affect your brother the door opened again mr winter was wanted on the telephone then there happened one of those strange coincidences which fur-nose caustic wit had christened winters yorkers being acquitted play on lines. Now is the winter of our discontent, made glorious summer by this son of York. For the superintendent had scarcely squeezed his big body into the telephone box when he became aware of a mix-up on the line. Aquarius voice was saying, I insist on being put through, I'm speaking from Mr. Fenley's bank, and it is monies.

monstrous that I should be kept waiting. I have been trying for twenty minutes. The protest was squelched. Are you there? came the calm accents of the assistant commissioner. Yes, sir, said Winter. Any progress? A little. Oddly enough, you are in the nick of time to help materially. Will you ring off and find out from the exchange, who phoned here two minutes ago. I don't mean Fenley's bank, which is just trying to get through.

I want to know who made the preceding call, which was effective. I understand. Goodbye. Winter explained in the dining room that the assistant commissioner was anxious for news. He had hardly finished when the footman reappeared. A call for Mr. Hilton Fenley. Confound the telephone, snapped Fenley.

We won't have a moment's peace all day, I suppose. Winter winked heavily at Ferno. He waited until Fenley's hurried footsteps across a creaking parquet floor had died away. This is the bank's call, he murmured. The other was from the Lord knows who. I've put the yard on the track. I wonder why he lied about it.

He's a queer sort of brother, too, said Furnow. It strikes me he wants to put Robert in the cart. End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of the strange case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. A Family Gathering Fenley was frowning when he reappeared. Another call from the bank, he said gruffly.

Everything there is at sixes and sevens, since the news was howled through the city. That is why I really must go to town later. I'm not altogether sorry. The necessity of bringing my mind to bear on business will leaven the surfeit of horrors I've borne this morning. Now about my brother, Mr. Winter, while listening to Mr. Brown's condolences, you remember Brown, the cashier, Mr. Furnow. I was thinking of more vital matters.

A policy of concealment often defeats its own object, and I have come to the conclusion that you ought to know of a dispute between my father and Robert. there's a woman in the case, of course. It's a rather unpleasant story, too. Poor Bob got entangled with a married woman some months ago. He was infatuated at first, but would have broken it off recently, were it not, for fear of divorce proceedings. Would you make the position a little clearer, sir, said Winter, who also was listening, and thinking. He was quite certain that when he met Mr. Brown, he would meet the man who had been worrying a telephone exchange during the last twenty minutes. I can't, and Fenley's hand brushed away some imaginary film from before his eyes. Bob and I never hit it off very well, and we're only half-brothers, you see.

Was your father married twice? Am I to reopen a forgotten history? Some person or persons may not have forgotten it. Well, you must have the full story, if at all. My father was not a well-born man. Thirty years ago, he was a trainer in the service of a rich East India merchant, Anthony Drummond of Calcutta, who owned race horses. And one of Drummond's daughters fell in love with him.

They ran away and got married, but the marriage was a failure. She divorced him by mutual consent, I fancy. Anyhow I was left on his hands. He went to Assam and fell in with a tea planter named Manning, who had a big estate, but neglected it for racing. My father suddenly developed business instincts, and Manning made him a partner. Unfortunately, well, that is a hard word, but it applies. My father married again, a girl of his own class, rather beneath it, in fact,

then Bob was born. The old man made money, heaps of it. Manning married but lost his wife when Sylvia came into the world. That broke him up. He drank himself to death, leaving his partner as trustee and guardian for the infant. There was a boom in tea estates. My father sold on the crest of the wave and came to London. He progressed, but Mrs. Fenley didn't.

She was just a Tommy's daughter, and never seemed to try and rise above the level of married quarters. I had to mind my peas and cues as a boy, I can assure you. My mother was always thrown in my teeth. Mrs. Fenley called her black. It was a lie. She was dark-skinned, as I am, but there are Cornish and Welsh folk of much darker complexion. My father, too, shared something of the same prejudice. I had to be the good boy of the family. Otherwise, I should have been turned out, neck and crop. As I behaved well,

he was forced to depend on me, because Bob did as he liked, with his mother always ready to aid and abet him. Then came this scrape I've spoken of. I believe, Bob was being blackmailed. That's the long and short of it. Now you know the plain ungarbled facts. Better that they should come from me than reach you with the decorations of gossip and servants tittle-cattle. The somewhat strained and metallic voice ceased. Fenley was seated at the corner of the table near the door,

seemingly yielding to the ever-present desire for movement. movement, he pushed with his foot an armchair out of its place at the head of the table. Sylvia Manning had pointed out that chair to Ferno as the one occupied by Mortimer Fenley at breakfast. Is the first Mrs. Fenley dead? said Furneau suddenly. I don't think so, said Fenley after a pause. You are not sure? No. Have you ever tried to find out? No, I dare not. May I ask why? If it were discovered that my mother and I were in communication, I would have been given the short shrift in the back. Did she marry again? I don't know. Again there was silence. Fornoe seemed to be satisfied that he was following a blind alley, and Winter became the inquisitor.

What is the name of the woman with whom your brother is mixed up? I cannot tell you, but my father knew what leads you to form that opinion. Some words that passed between Bob and him last Saturday morning. Where? Here? Yes, in the hall. Domlinson heard more distinctly than I. I saw there was trouble brewing and kept out of it, hung back on the pretense of reading a newspaper. As to the missing rifle, can you help us there?

Not in the least. I wish to heaven Bob had gone to Africa as he was planning. Then all this misery would have been avoided. Do you mean, Your father's death? Fenley started. He had not weighed his words. Oh, no, no, he cried hurriedly.

Don't try to trip me into admissions, Mr. Winter. I can't stand that. Damn, if I can. He jumped up, went to the sideboard, and mixed himself a weak brandy and soda, which he swallowed as if his throat were of fire with thirst. i am not treating you as a hostile witness sir answered winter calmly mr furneaux and i are merely clearing the ground soon we shall know or believe that we know what line to avoid and what line to follow is miss sylvia manning engaged to be married put in furneau fenley gave him a fiendish look what the devil has miss manning's matrimonial prospect

bets got to do with this inquiry, he said, and the venom in his tone was hardly to be accounted for by fur-nose harmless-sounding query. One never knows, said the little man, taking the unexpected attack with bland indifference. You don't appreciate our position in this matter. We are not judges, but guessers. We sit in the stalls of a theater, watching people on the stage of real life, playing four acts of a tragedy, and it is our business to construct the fifth, which is produced in court. Let me give you a wildly supposititious version of that fifth act now. Suppose some neurotic fool was in love with Miss Manning, or her money, and Mr. Mortimer

Fenley opposed the project. that would supply a motive for the murder. Do you take the point? I'm sorry I blazed out at you. Miss Manning is not engaged to be married, nor likely to be for many a day. Now the obvious question was, why she being such an attractive young lady?

But Furneau never put obvious questions. He turned to winter with the air of one. who had nothing more to say. His colleague was evidently perplexed and showed it, but extricated the others from an awkward situation with the tact for which he was noted. I am much obliged to you for your candor in supplying such a clear summary of the family history, Mr. Fenley,

he said, of course we shall be meeting you frequently during the next few days, and developments can be. be discussed as they arise. His manner, more than his words, conveyed an intimation that when the opportunity served, he would trounce for no for an indiscretion. Fennley was mollified. Command be in every way, he said. There is one more question, the last and the gravest, said Winter seriously. Do you,

suspect anyone of committing this murder? No, no one my soul and honor. Thank you, sir. We'll tackle the butler now, if you please. I'll send him, said Fenley. Probably in nervous forgetfulness, he lighted a cigarette and went out, blowing two long columns of smoke through his nostrils. he might or might not have been pleased had he heard the reprimand of furneaux good stroke that about the stage charles mumbled winter furneaux threw out his hands with a gesture of disgust What an actor the man is! He almost hissed, owing to the need there was of subduing his piping voice to a whisper. Every word thought out, but allowed to be dragged forth reluctantly, putting Brother Bob into the charine, isn't he?

On my soul and honour, too. Don't you remember? Some French blighter said that when an innocent man was being made a political scapego. of course the mother is a Eurasian and he has met her. A nice dish he served up. A salad of easily ascertainable facts with a dressing of lying innuendo. Name of a pipe. If Master Hilton hadn't been in the house, a knock, and the door opened.

You want me, gentlemen, I am informed by Mr. Hilton Fenley, said Tom. Linson. There spoke the butler, discreet, precise, incapable of error. Tom Linson had recovered his breath and his dignity. He was in his own domain. The very sight of the mid-Victorian furniture gave him confidence. His skilled glance traveled to the decanter and the empty glass. He knew, to a minim, how much brandy had evaporated. since his last survey of the sideboard. Sit down, Tomlinson, said Winter pleasantly. You must have been dreadfully shocked by this morning's occurrence.

Tomlinson sat down. He drew the chair somewhat apart from the table, knowing better than to place his elbows on that sacred spread of polished mahogany. I was, sir, he admitted. Indeed, I may say, I shall always be shocked by the remembrance of it. Mr. Mortimer Fenley was a kindly employer. One of the best, sir. He liked things done just so, and could be sharp if there was any laxity,

but I have never received a crossword from him. Known him long? Ever since he come to the towers nearly twenty years. And Mrs. Fenley? Mrs. Fenley leaves the household entirely under my control, sir. She never interferes. Why? She is an invalid. Is she so ill that she cannot be seen?

Practically that, sir. Been so for twenty years? Tomlinson coughed. He was prepared with an apple state. as to the catastrophe which took place at 9.30 a.m. But this delving into bygone decades was unexpected and decidedly distasteful it would seem. Mrs. Fenley is unhappily addicted to the drug habit, sir, he said severely, plainly hinting that there were bounds even for detectives.

I fancied so, was the dry-ridden. response. However, I can understand and honor your reluctance to reveal Mrs. Fenley's failings. Now, please tell us exactly what Mr. Fenley and Mr. Robert said to each other in the hall last Saturday morning. How poor Pharaoh immured in his jungle would have gloated over Tomlinson's collapse when he heard those fatal words. To his credit, be it said, the butler had not breathed a word to a soul concerning the seeing between the father and son. He knew nothing of an inquisitive housemaid,

and his tortured brain fastened on Hilton Fenley as the Paul Pry. Unconsciously he felt bitter against his new master from that moment. Must I go into these delicate? it matters, sir? He bleated. Most certainly, the man whom you respected so greatly has been killed, not in the course of a heated dispute, but as the outcome of a brutal and well-conceived plan. Bear that in mind, and you will see that concealment of vital facts is not only unwise, but disloyal. Winter rather let himself go in his earnestness.

He flushed slightly and dared not look at furneau, lest he should encounter an admiring glance. The butler, however, was far too worried to pay heed to his questioner's florid turn of speech. He sighed deeply. He felt like a timid swimmer in a choppy sea, knowing he was out of his depth, yet compelled to struggle blindly. So, with broken utterance, he repeated the words which a rabbit-eared housemaid had carried to baits.

Nevertheless, even while he labored on, he fancied that the detectives did not attach such weight to the recital as he feared. He anticipated that Winter would write each syllable in a notebook, and show an exceeding gravity of appreciation. To his great relief, nothing of the kind happened. Winter's comment was distinctly helpful. It must have been rather disconcerting for you to hear father and son quarrelling openly, he said.

Sir, it was most unpleasant. Now, did you form any opinion as to the cause of this bickering? For instance, did you imagine that Mr. Fenley wished his son to break off relations with an undesirable acquaintance? I did, sir. Is either Mr. Hilton or Mr. Robert engaged to be married? Or, I had better put it, had their father expressed any views as to either of his sons marrying suitably? We in the house, sir, had a notion that Mr. Fenley would like Mr. Robert to marry Miss Sylvia. Exactly.

I expected that, were these two people of the same way of thinking? They were friendly, sir, but more like brother and sister. You see, they were reared together. It often happens that way when a young gentleman and a young lady grow up from childhood in each other's company. They never think of marriage, whereas the same young gentleman would probably fall head over heels in love with the same young lady if he met her elsewhere. Good, broke in furneau.

Delmondson, do you drink port? The butler looked his astonishment, but answered readily enough, my favorite wine, sir. I thought so. Taken in moderation, port induces sound reasoning. I have some alto doro of 61. I'll bring you a bottle.

Tomlinson was mystified, a trifle scandalized, perhaps, but he bowed his acknowledgments. Sir, I will appreciate it greatly. I know you will. my alto duoro goes down no gullet but a connoisseurs. Even in his agitation Tomlinson smiled. What a queer little man this undersized detective was, to be sure,

and how oddly he expressed himself. I asked this just as a matter of form, but did Mr. Robert Fenley take his 450 express rifle, when he went away on Saturday, said Winter. No, sir, he had only a lease strapped to the carrier. But I do happen to know that the gun was in his room on Friday, because Friday is my day for house inspection. Any cartridges?

I can't say, sir, they would be in a drawer, or more likely in the gunroom. Where is the gun room? next to the harness room, sir, second door to the right in the courtyard. Speaking absolutely in confidence, have you formed a theory as to this murder? No, sir, but if any sort of evidence is piled up against Mr. Robert, I shall not credit it. No power on earth could make me believe that he would kill his father in cold blood. He respected his father, sir.

He's a bit wild, as young men with too much money are apt to be, but he was good-hearted and genuine. Yet he did speak of blowing his own brains out and his father's. That was his silly way of talking, sir. He would say, Tomlinson, if you tell the peter what time I came home last night, I'll stab you to the heart. When there was a bit of a family squabble, he would threaten to mix a gallon of weed killer

and drink every drop. Everything was rotten or beastly or awfully wippen. He was not so well educated as he ought to have been Mrs. Fenley's fault entirely. And he hadn't the words, the vocabulary. That's it, sir. I see you understand. Tom Linson, interrupted Furnow.

A famous American writer, Oliver Wendell Holmes, described adjectives of that class as the blank checks of intellectual bankruptcy. You have hit on the same great thought. The butler smiled again. He was beginning to like Furnow. You have never heard, I suppose, of Mr. Fenley, receiving any threatening letters, continued Winter.

No, sir. Some stupid postcards were sent when he tried to close a right-of-way through the park, but they were merely ridiculous, and that occurred years ago. So you, like the rest of us, feel utterly unable to assign a motive for this crime? sir, it's like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. Were the brothers, or half-brothers, on good terms with each other? Townlinson started at those words, or half-brothers. He was not prepared for the superintendent's close acquaintance with the Fenley Records.

They're as different as chalk and cheese, sir, he said after a pause, to collect his wits. Mr. Hilton is clever and well-read, and cares nothing about sport, though he has a wonderful steady nerve. Yes, I mean that. For Winter's prominent eyes showed surprise at the statement. He's a strange mixture, is Mr. Hilton. He's a fair nailer with a revolver. I've seen him hit a penny three times straight off at twelve paces, and when in the mind he would bowl over running rabbits with a rook rifle. Yet he never joined the shooting parties in October, said it made him ill to see graceful birds shattered by clumsy folk. All the same he would ill treat a horse something shameful. I, the butler, he thought himself and pulled up with a jerk. But Winter smiled

encouragingly. Say what you had in mind, he said, you are not giving evidence. You may rely on our discretion. Well, sir, he's that sort of a man who must have his own way, and when things went against him at home, he'd take it out of any servant or animal that vexed him afterwards. It was not an ideally happy household, I take it. Things went along very smoothly, sir, all things considered. They have been rather better since Miss Sylvia came home from Brussels. She was worried about Mrs. Fenley at first, but gave it up as a bit of bad job. And Mr. Fenley and the young gentleman used to hide their differences before her.

That was why Mr. Fenley and Mr. Robert blazed up in the hall on Saturday. They couldn't say a word in front of Miss Sylvia at the breakfast table. The four always met at breakfast, then. Almost without fail, sir. On Monday and Tuesday mornings, Mr. Hilton breakfasted early, and his father was joking about it, or if anyone was late, it would be him, or should I say he, sir? Ferno, cackled, I wouldn't have you alter your speech on any account, he grinned. Why did Mr. Hilton turn over these new leaves on Monday and Tuesday?

He said he had work to do. What it was, I don't know, sir, but he managed to do. miss the 945, and Mr. Fenley was vexed about it. Of course, I don't know why I'm telling you these small things. Mr. Hilton might be angry. Someone knocked. Harris, the footman, entered, a scared look on his face. Can you come a moment, Mr. Tomlinson? He said, the undertaker is here for the body. What is that? cried Winter sharply.

The butler arose. Didn't Mr. Hilton mention it, sir? He said. Dr. Stern must hold a post-mortem before the inquest, and he suggested that it could be carried through more easily in the mortuary attached to the cottage hospital. Is that all right, sir? Oh, yes, I'm sorry I didn't understand. Go, by all means. We'll wait here.

When they were alone, the two detectives remained silent for a long minute. Winter arose and looked through a window at the scene outside. A closed hearse had arrived. Some men were carrying in a rough coffin and three trestles. was none of the gorgeous trappings which lend dignity to such transits in public. Polished oak and gleaming brass and rare flowers would add pageantry later. This was the livery of the dissecting room. Queer case growled Winter over his shoulder. If only Hilton had breakfasted early this morning, said Fernow. If the dog hadn't stopped to scratch himself, he would have caught the hair, was the irritable answer.

Aren't you pleased with Tomlinson then? The more he opened up, the more puzzled I became. By the way, you hardly asked him a thing, though you were keen on tackling him yourself. James, I am an artist. You handled him so neatly that I am. stood by and appreciated. It would be mean to suggest that the prospect of a bottle of Altaduro quickened his imagination, I...

Winter's hands were crossed behind his back, and his fingers worked in expressive pantomime. Furno was by his side in an instance. Hilton Fenley was standing on the steps a little below and to allow. of the window. He was gazing with a curiously set stare at the bust of Police Constable Pharaoh perched high among the trees to the right. The observers in the room had then an excellent opportunity to study him at leisure. More of Asia than of Europe in that face and figure, murmured furneaux. The odd thing is that he should be more interested in our sentinel than in the disposal of his father's body,

commented Winter. A live donkey is always more valuable than a dead lion. We shall have to go to that wood soon, Charles. Your only failing is that you can't see the forest for the trees. They were bickering, an ominous sign for someone yet unknown. Suddenly, far down the avenue, they saw a motor bicycle traveling fast. Hilton Fenley saw it at the same moment and screened his eyes with a hand, for he was bareheaded and the sun was now blazing with noonday intensity. Brother Bob hissed furneau. Winter thought the other had recognized the man crouched over the handlebar.

Gee, he said, your sight must be good. I'm not using eyes, but brains. Who else can it be? This is the psychological moment which never fails. Bet you a new hat, I'm right. I'm not buying you any new hats, said Winter. Look at Hilton. He knows.

Now, I wonder if the other one telephoned. No, he'd have told us. He'd guess it would crop up in talk sometime or other. Yes, the motorist is waving to him. There, you can see his face. It is, Robert, isn't it? Oh, sapient one snapped, furneau. The meeting between the brothers was Orthodox, in its tragic

friendliness. The onlookers could supply the words they were unable to hear. Robert Fenley, bigger, heavier, altogether more British in build and semblance than Hilton, was evidently asking breathlessly if the news he had read in London was true. And Hilton was volubly explaining what had happened, pointing to the wood, the doorway, the hearse, emphasizing with many. any gestures the painful story he had to tell. Then the two young man mounted the steps, the inference being that Robert Fenley wished to see his father's body

before it was removed. A pallor was spreading beneath the glow on the younger Fenley's perspiring face. He was obviously shocked beyond measure. Grief and horror had imparted a certain strength to somewhat sidel. and features. He might be a ne'er-do-well, a loose liver, a good deal of a fool, perhaps, but he was learning one of life's sharpest lessons. In time it might bring out what was best in his character. The detectives understood now why the butler, who knew the boy even better than his own father, deemed it impossible that he should be a parasite. Some men are

constitutionally incapable of committing certain crimes. At least the public thinks so. Scotland Yard knows better and studies criminology with an open mind. The brothers had hardly crossed the threshold of the house when an Eldridge scream rang through the lofty hall. The detectives hastened from the dining room and forthwith witnessed a tableau which would have received the envious approval of a skilled producer of melodrama.

The hall measured some 35 feet square and was nearly as lofty, its ceiling forming the second floor. The staircase was on the right, starting from curved steps in the inner right angle, and making a complete turn from a half-landing to reach a gallery, which ran around three sides of the first floor. The fourth contained the doorway with a window on each hand and four windows above. The stairs and the well of the hall were of oak, polished as to parquet and steps, but left to age and color naturally as to wainscotch, balusters, and rails. The walls of the upper floor were decorated in shades of dull gold and amber. The general effect was superb, either in daylight, or when a great Venetian luster in the center of the ceiling, blazed with electric lights.

The body of the unfortunate banker had not been removed from the Ogen-Satee at the back of the hall, and was still covered with a white sheet. An enormously stout woman. clothed in a dressing gown of black lace, was standing in the cross gallery, and resisting the gentle efforts of Sylvia Manning, now attired in black, to take her away. The stout woman's face was deathly white, and her distended eyes were gazing dully at the ominous figure stretched beneath. Two podgy hands, with rings gleaming on every finger

or clutching the carved railing, and the tenacity of their grip caused the knuckles to stand out in white spots on the ivory-tinted skin. This then was Mrs. Fenley, in whom some vague stirring of the spirit had induced a consciousness that all was not

well in the household with which she never interfered. It was she who had uttered that ringing shriek when some flustered maid blurted out that the master was dead, and her dazed brain had realized what the sheet covered. She lifted her eyes from that terrific object when her son entered with Hilton Fenley. Oh, Bob! she waved. They've killed your father. Why did you let them do it? Even in the agony of the moment,

the distraught young man was aware that his mother was in no fit state to appear thus openly. Mother, he said roughly, you oughtn't to be here, you know. Do go to your room with Sylvia. I'll come soon and explain everything. Explain, she wailed.

Explain your father's death. Who killed him? Tell me that, and I'll tear them with my nails. But is he dead? Did that hussy lie to me? You all tell me lies because you think I am a fool. Let me alone, Sylvia. I will go to my husband. Let me alone, or I'll strike you. By sheer weight, she forced herself free from the girl's hands, and tottered down the stairs.

At the half-landing she fell to her knees, and Sylvia ran to pick her up. Then Hilton Fenley seemed to arouse himself from a stupor, flinging a command at the servants. He rushed to Sylvia's assistance, and helped by Tomlinson and a couple of footmen half carried the screaming and fighting woman up the stairs and along the corridor.

thus it happened that robert fenley was left in the hall with the dead body of his father he stood stock-still and seemed to follow with disapproval the manner of the disappearance of the poor creature whom he called mother Her shrieks redoubled in volume, as she understood that she would not be allowed to see her husband's corpse. And her son added to the uproar by shouting loudly, Hi there, don't ill-treat her, or I'll break all your necks, confound you, be gentle with her. He listened till a door slammed, and a sudden cessation of the tumult showed that, someone in sheer self-defense had given her morphia, the only sedative that could have any real effect. Then he turned and became aware of the presence of the two detectives.

Well, he said furiously, Who are you, and what the blazes do you want here? Get out, both of you, or I'll have you chucked out. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Lewis Tracy. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Wherein Furno seeks inspiration from literature and art. The head of the Criminal Investigation Department was not the sort of man to accept meekly

whatsoever course commands Robert Fenley chose to fling at him. He met the newcomers. angry stare with a cold and steady eye. You should moderate your language in the presence of death, Mr. Fenley, he said. We are here because it is our duty. You, on your part, would have acted more discreetly had you gone to your mother's assistance, instead of swearing at those who were acting for the best under trying conditions. damn your eyes are you speaking to me came the wrathful cry surely you have been told that your father is lying there dead went on winter sternly

mrs fenley might have yielded readily to your persuasion but your help took the form of threatening people who adopted the only other course possible calm yourself sir and try to remember that the father from whom you parted in anger has been murdered. My colleague and I represent Scotland Yard. We were brought here by your brother. See that you meet us in the dining room in a quarter of an hour. Come, ferno, and stirred for once to a feeling of deep annoyance, the big man strode out into the open air with a sublime disregard for either the anger or the alarm struggling for mastery in Robert Fenley's sullen face. He said, drawing a deep breath before descending the steps. What an unliked cub, and they wanted to marry that girl to him. It shan't be done, James.

said Furneau. I actually lost my temper, puffed the other. Tell you what, let's put the inspector on to him, tell the local sleuths half what we know, and they'll run him in like a shot. Pugh, he's all talk. Tullinson is right. The neurotic Hilton has more nerve in his little finger

than that dalt in the whole of his body. What did you think of his boots? I shall be surprised if they don't fit those footprints exactly. They will. The left heel is even worn, but the right bears on the outer edge. Let's cool our fevered brows under the greenwood tree till this hearse is out of the way. The butler who had asked the entertainer. taker's assistance to suspend operations when Robert Fenley arrived, now appeared at the door and signaled the men that they were free to proceed with their work.

The detectives strolled into the wood and soon were bending over some curious, blotchy marks, which somehow suggested the passage of a pad-footed animal rather than a human being. Bates, of course, would have noted them had he not been on the alert for footprints alone, but they had stared at Winter and Furno from the instant their regularity became apparent. They represented a stride considerably shorter than the average length of a man's pace, and were strongly marked, where the surface was spongy enough to receive an impression. except however in the slight hollow already described the ground was so dry that traces of every sort were lost in the vicinity of the rock too the only marks left were the scratches in the moss adhering to the steep sides of the boulder itself what do you make of them charles inquired winter when both had puzzled for some minutes over the uncommon side

"'Someone has thought out the footprint as a clue pretty thoroughly,' said Fernot. "'He not only took care to leave a working model of one set, "'but was extremely anxious not to provide any data as to his own tootsies, "'so he fastened a bundle of rags under each boot and walked like a catch on walnut shells. Winter nodded. Oh, and we find the gun, too. It's somewhere in this wood.

You'll see that the fingerprints won't help, he replied thoughtfully. The man who remembered to safeguard his feet would not forget his hands. We are up against a tough proposition, young fellow, my lad. Your way of thinking, reminds me of Herbert Spencer's reason for not learning Latin grammar as a youth, grinned Furnow. It would be a pity to spoil one of your high-class jokes, so what was the reason? He refused to accept any statement unaccompanied by proof. The agreement of an adjective with its noun displeased him because an arbitrary rule merely said it was

an ingenious excuse for not learning a lesson, but I don't see, consider. Mortimer Fenley was shot dead at 9.30 this morning, and the bullet which killed him came from the neighborhood of the rock above our heads. One shot was fired. It was so certain, so true of aim, that the murderer made sure of hitting him at a fairly long range, too. How many men were there in Roxton and Easton this morning? Was there even one woman capable of citing a rifle with such calm confidence of success? Mind you, Fenley had to be killed dead, no bungling, the severe wound from which he might recover would not meet the case at all. Again, how many rifles are there in the United Parishes of Roxton and Easton

of the type which fires expanding bullets? Of course, those vital facts narrow down the field, but Hilton Fenley was unquestionably in the house. Furno cackled shrilly. You're in Herbert's class, Charles, he cried, delighted at having trapped his big friend. Pardon me, gentlemen, said a voice from among the leaves, but I thought you might like to know that Mr. Robert Fenley is starting off again on his motorbike. Even as police constable Farrow spoke,

they heard the loud snorting of an exhaust, marking the initial efforts of a motor-bicycle's engine to get underway. In a few seconds came the rhythmic beat of the machine as it gathered speed. The two men looked at each other and laughed. Master Robert defies the majesty of the law, said Winter dryly. Perhaps taking one consideration with another, it's the best thing he could have done. He is almost bound to enter London by the Edgeware Road, said Furnow instantly.

Just so, I noticed the make and number of his machine. A plain clothesman on an ordinary bicycle can follow him easily from Brunsbury onward. Time him and get on the telephone while I keep Hilton in talk. If we're mistaken, we'll ring up Brunsbury again. Winter was curtly official in tone when Hilton Fenley came downstairs at his request. Why did your brother rush off in such an extraordinary hurry? he asked. How can I tell you, was the reply, given offhandedly, as if the matter was of no importance. He comes and goes with the answer.

consulting my wishes, I assure you. But I requested him to meet me here at this very hour. There are questions he has to answer, and it would have been best in his own interests had he not shirked them. I agree with you fully. I hadn't the least notion he meant going, until I looked out on hearing the bicycle and saw him racing down the avenue. Do you think, sir, he is making for London?

I suppose so. That is where he came from, he says. He heard of his father's death through the newspapers, and it would not surprise me in the least if I did not see him again until after the funeral. Thank you, sir. I'm sorry I bothered you, but I imagined or hoped he had given you some explanation. His conduct calls for it. The superintendent's manner had gradually become more suave.

He realized that these Fenleys were queer folk. Like the Pharisee, they were not as other men. But whether the difference between them and the ordinary mortal arose from pride or folly or fear, it was hard to say. Hilton Fenley smiled wanly. Bob is adopting the supposed tactics of the ostrich when pursued, he said. But no one is pursuing him. I am speaking metaphorically, of course.

He is in distress and hides behind the first bush. He has no moral force, never had. Physically, he doesn't know what fear is, but the spectres of the mind loom large in his eyes. And now, Superintendent, I am just on the point of leaving for London. I shall return about six-thirty, do you remain? No, sir, I shall return to town, almost immediately. Mr. Furnow will stop here.

Can he have a bedroom in the house? Certainly, Tomlinson will look after him. You are not going cityward, I see. suppose? No, sir, but if you care to have a seat in my car? No, thanks. The train is quicker than takes me direct to London Bridge, much obliged. Fenley hurried to the cloakroom, which was situated under the stairs, but on a lower level than the hall. The telephone box was placed there, and Furnow emerged as the other ran down a few steps. The little man hailed him cheerfully.

"'I suppose now,' he said, "'that hot-headed brother of yours "'thinks he has dodged Scotland Yard "'till it suits his convenience to be interviewed. "'Strange how people insist on regarding us "'as novices in our own particular line. "'Now you wouldn't make that mistake, sir.' "'Oh, what a mistake?

"'I wouldn't run away if that is. what you mean. I'm sure of that, sir, but Mr. Robert has committed the additional folly from his point of view of letting us know why he was so desperately anxious to get back to London. But he didn't say a word. Ah, words, idle words. Words, I like leaves, and when they are most abundant, much fruit of sense beneath is rarely found. It is actions that count, sir, deeds, not words. Now Mr. Robert has been kind enough to give us the eloquent facts, because he will be followed from the suburbs,

and his whereabouts watched most carefully. Dear me, I hadn't thought of that, said Hilton Fenley, slowly. Two ideas were probably warring in his brain at that moment. One classed Furnow as a garrulous idiot. The other suggested that there might be method in such folly. That's a clever simile of popes about dense leaves betokening scarcity of fruit, went on for no. Of course it might be pushed too far. Think what a poisonous dead sea apple the quarry wood contained. Your father's murder might not have been possible today, but for the cover given by the trees. Fenley selected a dark overcoat and derby hat. He wore a black tie, but had made no other changes in his

costume. You are quite a literary detective, Mr. Ferno. he commented. More literal than literary, sir. I have little leisure for reading, but I own an excellent memory. Nothing to boast of in that. It's indispensable in my profession. Obviously, well, I must hurry away now.

See you later. He hastened out. His manner seemed to hint and annoyance. It conveyed indefinitely. but subtly a suggestion that his father's death was far too serious a thing to be treated with such levity furneaux sauntered slowly to the front door by that time the fenley car was speeding rapidly down the avenue with luck he said to winter who had joined him with any sort of luck both brothers should pass their father's body on the way to the mortuary. Sometimes, oh, worthy chief,

I find myself regretting the ways and means of the days of old, when men believed in the Judicium Day. Neither of those sons went near his dead father. If one of them had dared, I wonder, but that the blood would have liquefied. Do you remember, in the Niblongen Lid, the Hagen is forced to prove his in by touching Siegfleet's corpse and fails?

That is the point he fails. Our own Shakespeare knew the dodge. When Henry VI was being born to Chertsey in an open coffin, the Lady Anne made Gloucester swirm by her cry, O gentlemen see, see, dead Henry's wounds open their congealed mouths and bleed afresh. Why, then, did you? Did those sons fight shy of touching their father's body? Had it been your father or mine who was beaten down by a murderer's spite,

we would surely have given him one farewell clasp of the hand? Winter recognized the symptoms. His diminutive friend was examining the embryo of a theory already established in his mind. It was a mere shadow, something vague, and dark and uncertain in outline. But it existed and would assume recognizable shape when an active imagination had fitted some shreds of proof

to that which was yet without form and void. At that crisis, contradiction was a tonic. I think you're in error in one respect, said Winter quietly. Hilton Fenley went to his father's assistance, and we don't know whether or not Robert did not approach the body. You're wrong, most sapient one. Before telephoning Bronsbury, I asked Harris to tell me exactly what happened after the banker dropped at his feet. Harris shouted and knelt over him. Miss Manning ran and lifted his head. Miss Manning ran and lifted his head. head. Tomlinson, Paris, and Brody carried him to the settee. Felton Fenley never touched him.

What of Robert? We cleared out, leaving him there alone. I watched him until the undertaker's men were called back. Up to that time, he hadn't moved. But to a new hat, the men will tell you he never went nearer. "'You buy your own new hats,' said Winter. "'Do you want me to stand you two a day?' "'I'm off to the yard. "'I'll look up two lines in town,

"'bone through if you want help, and I'll come. "'You sleep here tonight, if you care to. "'Talman said, will provide. "'How about the wood? "'Leave it. "'You'll see that artist, Tranome?' "'Yes.' "'And the red-bed.

"'Going there now.' "'So long. Sorry I must quit, but I'm keen to clear up that telephone call. "'If you're in the office about six, I'll tell you the whole story.' "'Charles,' said Winter, earnestly, placing a hand on his colleague's shoulder. "'We gain nothing by rushing our fences. "'This is the toughest job we've handled this year.' There's a hard road to travel before we sit down and prepare a brief for counsel. Of course I meant the story up to the six o'clock installment.

Winter smiled. He sprang into the car, the chauffeur having already started the engine in obedience to a word from the superintendent. Stop at the Brunsbury Police Station was the order, and Furnow was left alone. He re-entered the house and crooked a finger at the butler, who had not summoned up courage to retire to his own sanctum, though a midday meal was awaiting him. "'Take me upstairs,' said the detective. "'I shall not detain you many minutes. Then you and I will have a snack together, and you'll borrow a bicycle for me, and I shan't trouble you any more till a late. hour no trouble at all sir tomlinson assured him if i could advance your inquiry in the least degree i'd fast cheerfully all day

what i like about you tomlinson is your restraint said ferno many a man would have offered to fast a week not meaning to deny himself a toothful five minutes longer than was avoidable now you really mean what you say? Ah, this is Mr. Roberts Den, and that is his bedroom, with dressing-room adjoining. Very cozy, to be sure. Of course, the rooms have been dusted regularly since his disappearance on Saturday. Every day, sir. Well, my hate prying into people's rooms, a beastly liberty, I call it. Now for Mr. Hilton's? Is that all, sir, inquired the butler, manifestly surprised by the cursory glance,

which the detective had given around the suites of apartments? All at present, thank you. Like the Danites, messengers, I'm only spying out to the lie of the land. Ah, each brother occupied a course, corner of the east wing, Robert, North Hilton, South, a most equitable arrangement. Now these rooms show signs of tenancy, eh? They were standing in Hilton Fenley's sitting room, having traversed the whole of the gallery

around the hall to reach it. The remains of a fire in the great caught fur-nose-eye, and the butler coughed apologetically. Mr. Hilton won't have his rooms touched, sir, until he leaves home of a warning, he said he likes to find his papers, et cetera, where he put them overnights. As a rule, the housemaid comes here soon after breakfast, but this morning, naturally,

Of course, of course, assented the other promptly. Everything is at sixes and seven, Would you mind sending the girl here? I'd like to have a word with her. Tomlinson moved ponderously toward an electric bell. No, said Furnow, don't ring. Just ask her to come. Then she can bring me to your place and will nibble something.

Meanwhile, I'll enjoy this view. Certainly, sir, that will suit me admirably. tomlinson walked out with stately tread his broad back was scarcely turned before the detective's nimble feet had carried him into the bedroom which stood in the southeast angle he seemed to fly around the room like one possessed of a fiend of unrest picking up a glass tumbler he sniffed it and put it in a pocket he peered at the bed the dressing-table the carpets opened drawers and wardrobe doors examined towels in the bathroom and stuffed one beneath his waistcoat running back to the sitting-room he found a torn envelope and began picking up some specks of grit from the carpet each of which went into a corner of the envelope which he folded and stowed away then he bent over the fireplace and rummaged among the cinders three calcined lumps not wholly consumed appeared to interest him a newspaper was handy he wrapped the grimy treasure-trove in a sheet and that small parcel also went into a pocket when a swish of skirts on the stairs announced the housemaid he retreated to the bedroom and the girl found him standing at a south window gazing out over the fair vista

of the Italian terraces and the rolling parkland. Yes, sir, said the girl timidly. He turned as if he had not heard her approach. She was pale, and her eyes were red, for the feminine portion of the household was in a state of collapse. I only wanted to ask why a fire is laid in the sitting-room in such fine weather, he said. Mr. Hilton sits up, late, sir, and if the evening is at all chilly, he puts a match to the great himself.

Ah, a silly question. Don't tell anybody I spoke of it, or they'll think me a funny detective, won't they? He smiled genially, and the girl's face brightened. I don't see that, sir, she said. I don't know why Mr. Hilton wanted a fire last night. It was quite hot. I slept with my window open. A very healthy habit, too. Do you attend to Mr. Robert's sweet? Yes, sir. Does he have a fire? Never in the summer, sir. He's a warmer-blooded creature than Mr. Hilton, I fancy. I expect so, sir. Well, now, there's nothing here, but we detectives have to knows around everywhere. I'm sure you are terribly upset by your master's death. Everybody gives him a good word. Indeed, he deserved it, sir. We all liked him. He was strict, but very generous.

Furneau chatted with her while they descended the stairs and traversed devious passages till the butler's room was gained. By that time, the housemaid was convinced that Mr. Mr. Furneau was a very nice man. When she did Hilton Fenley's rooms, she missed the glass, but gave no heed to its absence. Who would bother about a glass in a house where murder had been done? She simply replaced it by another of the same pattern. May I inquire, sir, said Tomlinson, when Furneau had washed his face and hands,

and was seated at a table laid for two. May I inquire if you have any preference as to a luncheon wine? I think, said for no with due solemnity, that a still wine. I agree with you, sir, at this time of day, a Saturn or a Johannes beggar. To my taste, a chateau-e-kem, with that delicate, flavor which leaves the palate fresh, a Frenchman call it the Seine. Sir, I perceive that you have a taste. Singularly enough, I have a bottle of Chateau I can in my sideboard. So the meal was a success. An under-gardener lent Furno a bicycle.

After a chat with Farrow to whom he conveyed some sandwiches and a bottle of beer, the detective rode to easton he sent a rather long telegram to his own quarters called attichemists and reached the white horse at roxton about two o'clock now the imp of mischance had contrived that john tennon should hear no word of the murder until he came downstairs for luncheon after a morning's steady work the stout eliza fearful lest mary should forestall her with the news bounced out from the kitchen when his step sounded on the stairs there was fine goings-on in the park this morning mr trenno she began breathlessly he reddened at once and avoided her fiery eye of course it had been discovered that he had watched that girl bathing Dashadall, his action was unintentional. What a bore! Mr. Fenley was shot dead on his own doorstep, continued Eliza. She gave proper emphasis to the concluding words,

that a man should be murdered on his own doorstep, was a feature of the crime that enhanced the tragedy in the public mind. The shooting was bad enough in itself, for rural England is happily free from such horrors. But swift and brutal death dealt out on one's own doorstep was a thing at once monstrous and awe-compelling. Eliza perhaps wondered why Mr. Trenholm flushed. But she fully understood the sudden blanching of his face at her tidings,

for all Roxston was shaken to its foundations, when the facts slowly percolated in that direction. Good Lord, cried he. Could that be the shot, I heard? He was killed at half-past nine, sir. Then it was. A keeper heard it too, and a policeman, our Roxton policeman.

That would be Pharaoh, said Eliza. What was E. Doan, the lazy-bones, that he couldn't catch the villain. What villain? The man who killed poor Mr. Fenley. They know who did it, then? Well, no, there's all sorts of tales flying about, but you can't believe any of them.

But why are you blaming Pharaoh? He's a good fellow. He sings. No real scoundrel can't sing. Read any novel, any newspaper report. The prisoner's voice. was harsh and unmusical. You've seen those words scores of times. In his relief at learning that his own escapade was not published broadcast, Chanholm had momentarily forgotten the dreadful

nature of Eliza's statement. She followed him into the dining room. You'll be a witness, I suppose, she said, anxious to secure details of the shot firing. A witness. A witness. he repeated blankly. Yes, sir, there can't be a deal of folk who heard the gun go off. By Jove, Eliza, I believe you're right, he said, gazing at her in dismay. Now that I come to think of it, I am probably the only person in existence who can't say where that shot came from. It was a rifle, too. I spoke of it to the keeper and Pharaoh.

I was sure something would happen when I dreamed of suffragettes this morning, and that comes a play in pranks, Mr. Trenome. If it wasn't for that alarm clock, oh, come, Eliza, he broke in, an alarm clock isn't a gatling gun. Your association of ideas is faulty. There is much in common between the clatter of an alarm clock and the suffragist cause, but all the ladies promised not to endanger life, you know. Anyhow, Mr. Fenley is dead as a doorknail, said Eliza firmly.

Too bad, I take back all the hard things I said about him, and I'm sure you do the same. Me? Yes. Didn't you say all the Fenlies were rubbish? One of them, at any rate, was wrongly classified. Which one? chanon bethought himself in time this unfortunate banker of course hide a notion you met miss sylvia she's pretty as a picture prettier than some pictures i've seen and folks speak well of her but she's not a finley at any other time the artist would have received that thrust in tiers with a reposte at present eliza's facts were more interesting than her wit. Who is lady you're speaking of?

He asked, guardedly. Mr. Fenley's ward, Miss Sylvia Manning. They say she's rich. Poor young thing, some scheming man will turn her head. I'll go bail, and all for the sake of her brass. More likely, a one-legged gunner name of Jim. Well, it won't be a two-legged painter name O Jack, and Eliza bounced out.

Now, Mary of the curl papers, having occasion to go upstairs while Chernom was eating, peaked through the open door of the room which she had converted into a studio. She saw a picture on the easel, and the insatiable curiosity of her class led her to examine it. Even a country kitchen-maid came under its spell. instantly. After a pause of mingled admiration and shocked prudery, she sped to the kitchen. Cian is believin, quoted Eliza, mounting the stairs in her turn. She gazed at the drawing brazenly, with hands resting on hips, and head cocked sideways like an inquisitive hens.

Well, I never did, was her verdict. Back in the kitchen again, she announced firmly to marry, "'I'll take in the cheese.' She put the stiltern on the table with a determined air. "'You don't know anything about Miss Sylvia Manning, don't you?' she said with calm guile. "'Never heard the lady's name before you mentioned it,' said Trenholm. "'Maybe not, but it strikes me you've seen more of her than most folk.' eliza he cried without any pretense at smiling good humor you've been sneaking sneaking you call it i happen to pass your room and oo could help looking in

i was never so taken aback in me life you coulda knot me down with a feather an ostrich feather with an ostrich's leg behind it was the angry retort eliza's eyes glinted with the fire of battle. The shameless ways of girls nowadays, she breathed, to let any young man gaze at her in them sort of clothes. If you can call them clothes, it was an accident. She didn't know I was there. Anyhow, you dare utter another word about that picture, even hint at its existence, and I'll paint you without any clothes at all. I mean that, so. beware. Sorry to interrupt, said a high-pitched voice from the doorway. You are Mr. John Tranome, I take it.

May I come in? My name's Ferno. Jim of the Royal Artillery, demanded Tranom, angrily. No, Charles Francois of Scotland Yard. Eliza fled, completely cowed. She began to weep. in noisy gulps. I done it, she explained,

to agitated curl papers. That poor, poor Mr. Trenome, they've come for him. He'll be locked up, and all along my wicked tongue. End of chapter six. Chapter seven of the strange case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy.

Slibervox recording is in the public domain. Some side issues. Chenom, rather interested than otherwise, did not blanch at the mention of Scotland Yard. Walk right in, Mr. Fernot, he said. He had picked up a few tricks of speech from transatlantic brethren of the brush met at Julien. Have you lunched? Excellently, was the reply.

not in roxton i defy you to produce a cook in this village that shall compare with our elyza of the white horse sir my thoughts do not dwell on viands true i ate with a butler but i drank wine with a connoisseur it was a chatouy chem of the eighties then you should be in expansive mood before you devout man with a scowl why I shot Mr. Finley, you might tell me why the headquarters of the London police is named Scotland Yard. Because it was first housed in a street of that name near Trafalgar Square. Scotland Yard was a palace at one time built in a spirit of mistaken hospitality for the reception of prominent Scots, visiting London. He entertained so many, and so lavishly, that gangsooth has become a proverb beyond the tweed. There is virtue, I perceive, in a bottle of Chateau-E-kem, or was it two? In one there is light, but two might produce fireworks.

Now, sir, if you have finished luncheon, kindly take me to your room and show me the sketches you made this morning. The artist raised an inquiring eyebrow. I have the highest respect for your profession in the abstract, but it is new to find it dabbling in art criticism, he said, I assure you, Mr. Trenholm, that any drawings of yours made in the neighborhood of the towers before half-past nine o'clock, today will be most valuable pieces of evidence, if nothing more.

Though Furno's manner was grave as an owl's, a certain gleam in his eye gave the requisite sting to the concluding words. Tranom, at any other time, would have delighted in him, but dropped his bantering air forthwith. I don't mind exhibiting my work, he said. will not be a novel experience. Come this way. Watched by two awe-stricken women from the passage leading to the kitchen, the artist and his visitor ascended the stairs. Janon walked straight to the easel, took off the drawing of Sylvia Manning and the Aphrodite, placed it on the floor, faced to the wall, and staged the sketch of the Elizabethan house. Furno's screen.

his eyelids to secure a half-light, then making a cylinder of his right hand, peered through it with one eye. Admirable, he said, Corot, with some of the breadth of Constable. Forgive the comparisons, Mr. Trenholm. Of course, the style is your own. But one uses the names of accepted masters, largely as adjectives, to explain one's meaning. You are a true impressionist. You paint nature as you see her, not as she is.

Yet your technique is superb, and your observation just. For instance, every shadow in this lovely drawing shows that the hour was about eight o'clock. But in painting figures, I have no doubt you sink the impressionist in the realist. The other sketch, please. The other sketch is merely a color note for future guidance, said Genome offhandedly. It happens also to be a recognizable portrait of Miss Sylvia Manning. I'm sorry, but I must see it.

Suppose I refuse. It will be obtained by other methods than a polite request. I'm afraid I shall have to run the risk. No use. won't, and the detective's tone became eminently friendly. You'll just produce it within the next half-minute. You are not the sort of man who would care to drag a lady's name into a police court wrangle, which can be the only outcome of present stubbornness on your part. I know you were hidden among those cedars between, say, eight o'clock and half-past nine.

I know that Miss Manning bathed in the lake well within your view. I know, too, that you sketched her, because I saw the canvas a moment ago, an oil, not a watercolor. These things may or may not be relevant to an inquiry into a crime, but they will certainly loom large in the public mind if the police have to explain why they needed a warrant to search your apartment. Furno had gauged the artistic temperance accurately. Without another word of protest,

Cianone placed the disputed canvas on the easel. Do you smoke? inquired the detective suddenly. Yes, what the deuce has my smoking got to do with it? I fancied that, perhaps, you might like to have a pipe while I examine this gem at leisure. one does not gabble the commonplaces of life when in the presence of supreme art i find that a really fine picture induces a feeling of reverence an emotion akin to the intolence of a mountain range or a dim cathedral pray burn incense i am almost tempted to regret being a nond smoker Chenom had heard no man talk in that string. Since last he sat outside the Café Marjali and watched the stream of life flowing along the Grand Boulevard.

Almost unconsciously, he yielded to the spell of a familiar jargon, well-knowing he had been inspired in every touch while striving frenziedly to give permanence to a fleeting vision. He filled his pipe and surveyed the detective with quickened interest. Furno gazed long and earnestly. Perfect, he murmured, after that rapt pause, such a portrait, too, without any apparent effort. Just compare the cold sunlight on the statue with the same light falling on wet skin.

Of course, Mr. Trenhol, you'll send this to the salon. Burlington House finds satiety in mayors and masters of foxhounds. Good, isn't it, agreed Trenholm. What a cursed spite that it must be consumed in flame. But why, cried Fernot, unfaindly horrified? Dash at all, man, I can never copy it. And you wouldn't have me blaze in that girl's face in a gallery after today's tragedy. The detective snapped his fingers. Poof, he said.

I shall have Mr. Fenley's murderer hanged long before your picture is hung. London provides one front-rank tragedy a week, but not another such masterpiece in ten years. Burn it because of a sentiment. Perish the thought. If I had guessed, you were coming here so promptly it would have been in ashes an hour ago said trenholm grimly insistent on the sacrifice with a disconcerting change of manner the detective promptly assumed a dryly official attitude

a mighty good job for you that nothing of that sort occurred he said your picture is your excuse mr trenholm what please could you have urged for spying on a lady in an open-air bath, if deprived of the only valid one? Look here, came the angry retort. You seem to be a pretty fair judge of a drawing, but you choose your words rather carelessly. Just now you described me as hidden behind that clump of trees, and again you accuse me of spying. I won't stand that sort of thing from Scotland Yard, nor from Buckingham Palace, if it comes to that. Furno instantly reverted to his French vein. His shrug was eminently Parisian. You misunderstand me. I allege neither hiding nor spying on your part. Name of a good little grey man. The president of the Royal Academy would hide and spy for a month.

if he could palliate his conduct by that picture. But given no picture, what is the answer? Reflect calmly, Mr. Trenholm, and you'll see that mine are words of wisdom. Burn that canvas, and you cut a sorry figure in the witness box. Moreover, suppose you treat the law with disdain, how do you propose explaining your actions to Miss Sillard? Sylvia Manning. In all probability I shall never meet the lady. Oh, won't you indeed. I have the

honour to request you to meet her tomorrow morning by the shore of that Sylvan Lake at 915 Sharp, and kindly bring both sketches with you. Only for goodness sake keep this one covered with a waterproof roof wrap if the weather breaks, which it doesn't look like doing at this moment. Now, Mr. Trenholm take the advice of a dried-up chip of experience like me, and be sensible. One word as to actualities, I'm told you didn't see anything in the park, which led you to believe that a crime had been committed? Not a thing. I heard the gunshot and noted where it came from,

but so far as I could ascertain, the only creatures that disturbed were some rabbits, rooks, and pheasants. Ah, where did the pheasants show up? Out of the wood, close to the spot where the rifle was fired. How many? How many what? A pheasants? A brace. They flew right across the south front of the house to a covert on the west side.

Is that an important detail? When you hear the evidence, you may find it so, commented furneau. Why do you say rifle? Why not plain gun? Because anyone who has handled both a rifle and a shotgun can recognize the difference in sound. the explosive force of the one is many times greater than that of the other. Are you too an expert marksman? I can shoot a bit, hardly an expert, perhaps, seeing that I haven't used a gun during the last five years. If you know France, Mr. Furno, you'll agree that British ideas of sport.

I do know France, broke in the detective. there isn't a cock-robin or a jenny wren left in the country as a mere formality what magazine are you working for chanholm told him and fernot hurried away halting for an instant in the doorway to raise a warning finger to-morrow at the cedars nine fifteen he said and mind you no holocausts or your up a gum-tree. You were either painting a pretty girl or gloating over her, prove the one and people won't think the other, which they will be only too ready to do, this being a cynical and suspicious world.

He left a bewildering artist glaring after him. Chenom's acquaintance with the police, either of England or France, was of the slagest. lightest. Sometimes, when over-excited by the discovery of some new and entrancing upland in the domain of art, he had bought or borrowed a volume of light fiction in order to read himself to sleep, and a detective figured occasionally in such pages. Usually, the official was a pig-headed idiot, whose narrow-mindedness served as admirable wet stones

for the preternaturally sharp intelligence of an amateur investigator of crime. Genholm, like the average reader, did not know that such self-appointed sleuths are snubbed and despised by Scotland Yard, that they seldom or never base their fantastic theories on facts, or that in fiction they act in a way which would entail their own speedy appearance in the dock if practiced in your life. Furnow came as a positive revelation, a small, wiry individual who looked like a comedian and spouted the truisms of the studio, a wizened little whippersnapper who put hardly one direct question to a prospective witness, but whose caustic comments had placed a new and vastly disagreeable aspect on the morning's adventure.

Such a man to be the representative of staid and heavy-footed Scotland Yard. Well, wonders would never cease. It was not for a bewildered artist yet to know that Furno's genius alone excused his eccentricities. And he, Trenholm, was to meet the girl. He turned to the easel and looked at the picture. A few hours ago he had reviled the fate that seemed to forbid their meeting.

Now he was to be brought to her, though somewhat after the fashion of a felon with jives on his wrists, since Furneau's request for the Marl's rendezvous rang ominously like a command. Indeed, indeed it was a mad world. At any rate, he did not, as he had intended, tear the canvas from its stretcher and apply a batch to it in the grate. thus far then had furneau's queer method been justified he had hit on the one certain means of restraint on an act of vandalism the picture now stood between tranome and the scoffing multitude it was his buckler against the shafts of innuendo rather than lose it before his actions were vindicated he would suffer the depletion to the last of a not altogether meager bank account.

Of course, this open-souled youngster never dreamed that the detective had read his style and attributes in one lightning swift-glance of intuition. Before ever Trenom was aware of a stranger standing in the open doorway of the dining-room, Furnow had taken his measure. English, a gentleman, art trained in Paris.

Thinks the loss of La Giaconda a far more serious event than a revolution and regards the futurist school pretty much as the Home Secretary regards the militant suffragists. Knows as much about the murder as I do about the rings of Saturn, but he ought to provide a touch of humor

in an affair that promises little else than heavy tragedy, and it will do Miss Sylvia Manning some good if she is made to see that there are others than Fenleys in the world. So have at him. While going downstairs, the detective became aware of some sniffing in the back passage. Eliza, red-eyed now from distress, stood there dabbing her cheeks with a corner of her apron. "'Pop, please, sir,' she began, but quailed under a sudden and penetrating look from those beady eyes. "'Well, what is it?' inquired Furno.

A violent nudge from curl-papers stirred the cook's wits. "'I do hope you don't pay any heed to anything I was. a saying of, she stammered, Mr. Trennol wouldn't hurt if a fly. I just saw the picture and was only a teasing of him like a silly woman. Exactly. Yet he heaps, coals of fire on your head by declaring that you are the best cook in Hertfordshire. Is that true?

Furnose impish grin was a tonic in itself. Eliza dropped the apron and squared her elbows. I don't know about being the best in Hertfordshire, she cried, but I can hold me own, no matter where the other one comes from, provided we start fair. Take warning, then. That's if I bring a man here tomorrow evening, a big man with a round head and bulging blue eyes,

a man who looks as though he can use a carving-knife, with discretion, you prepare a dinner worthy of the reputation of the white horse. In that way, and in none other, can you rehabilitate your character. Furno was gone before Eliza recovered her breath. Then she turned on the kitchen maid. What was it he said about my character? She demanded warmly. And what are you grin at?

If it wasn't for your peeping and prying, I'd never set eyes on that blessed picture. You go and put on a black dress and do your hair respectable, and mind you don't spend half an hour perkin and preening in front of a looking-glass. Mary fled and Eliza bustled into the kitchen. A big man with a round head and bulgeant blue eyes, she muttered wrathfully, does he think I'm a friend? of that sort of Brewers, Drayman, or of a little man with eyes like a ferret either. If he does, he's very much mistaken.

I don't believe he's a real tech. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if he wasn't a reporter. They've cheek enough for ten as a rule, talking about my character before that hussy of a girl, too. Wait till I see him tomorrow, that's all. Meanwhile, Fernow had not held the second glass of Chautouille Kim to the light in Tomlinson's Sanctum, before Winter's car was halting outside the Bronsbury Police Station.

An inspector assured the superintendent that a constable was on the track of Robert Fenley and had instructions to report direct to Scotland Yard. Then Winter re-entered the car and was driven to headquarters. He was lunching in the car. his own room, frugally but well, on bread and cheese and beer, when the assistant commissioner came in. Ah, Mr. Winter, he said, I was told you had returned. That telephone call came from a call office in Shaftesbury Avenue. A lady, name unknown, but the youth in charge knows her well by sight, and thinks she lives in a set of flats nearby.

I thought the information's sufficient for your purpose, so suspended inquiries till I heard from you. Just what I wanted, sir, said Winter. There may be nothing in it, but I was curious to know why Hilton Finley took the trouble to Fib about such a trivial matter. His brother, too, is behaving in a way that invites criticism. I don't imagine that either of the sons shot his father. Most certainly Hilton Fenley could not have done it, and Robert, I think, was in London at the time. Dearie broke in the other,

a man of quiet, self-contained manner, on whose lips that mild exclamation betokened the maximum of surprise. Is there any reason whatsoever for, believing that one of these young men may be a parasite? So many reasons, sir, and so convincing in some respects, that the local police would be seriously considering the arrest of Robert Fenley if they had the ascertained facts in their possession. The assistant commissioner sat down.

I hear you keep a sound brand of cigar. here. Mr. Winter, he said, I've just lunched in the St. Stephen's Club, so if you can spare the time. At the end of the superintendent's recital, the chief offered no comment. He arose, went to the window, and seemed to seek inspiration from busy Westminster Bridge and a river dancing in sunshine. After a long pause he turned and threw the unconsumed half of a cigar into the fireplace. It's a pity to waste such a perfect Havana, he said mournfully, but I make it a rule not to smoke while passing along the corridors, and you'll be busy. Keep me posted.

Winter smiled. When the door had closed on his visit, he even laughed. By Jove, he said to himself, a heart-to-heart-talk with the governor is always most illuminative. Now many another boss would have said he was puzzled or bothered

or have given me some silly advice, such as that I must be discreet, look into affairs closely and not act precipitately, Not so our excellent AC. He's clean, bold, and admits it without speaking a word. He's a tonic. He really is.

He touched an electric bell. When the policeman attendant, Johnston, appeared, he asked if Detective Sergeant Sheldon was in the building, and Sheldon came. The superintendent had met him in a Yorkshire town during a protracted and difficult inquiry into the death of a wealthy recluse. Although the man was merely an ordinary constable, he had shown such resourcefulness, such ability of a rare order,

that he was invited to join the staff of the Criminal Investigation Department and had warranted Winter's judgment by earning rapid promotion. Though tall and of athletic, build, he had none of the distinctive traits of the average policeman. He dressed quietly and in good taste, and carried himself easily. A peculiarity of his thoughtful, somewhat lawyer-like face was that the left eye was noticeably smaller than the right. Among other qualifications, he ranked as the best amateur photographer in the yard and was famous as a rock climber in the Lake District.

Winter plunged at once into the business at hand. Sheldon, he said, I'm going out and may be absent an hour or longer. If a telephone message comes through from Mr. Furneau, tell him I have located the doubtful call made to the towers this morning. Have you read the report of the Fenley murder in the evening papers? Yes, sir.

Is it a murder? What else could it be? An extraordinary accident? Winter weighed the point, which had not heard to him previously. No, he said it was no accident. I inclined to the belief that it was the best planned crime I've tackled during the past few years. That is my present opinion at any rate. Now, a man from the Bronsbury Police Station is following one of the dead men's sons,

a Mr. Robert Fenley, who bolted back to London on a motorcycle as soon as I threatened to question him. Robert Fenley is 24, fresh complexioned, clean-shaven, about five feet nine inches in height, stoutish and of sporty appearance. He had his hair cut yesterday or the day before. His hands and feet are rather small. He talks aggressively and looks what he is, a pampered youth very much spoiled by his parents. His clothes, all that I have seen, are a motorist's overalls. If the Bronsbury man reports here during my absence, act as you think fit. I want Robert Fenley located, followed, and watched unobtrusively,

especially in such matters as the houses he visits and the people he meets. If you need help, get it. till what time sir was the laconic question that depends try and phone me here about five o'clock but if you are otherwise engaged let the telephone go shawde fenley seemed to leave london by the edgeware road which leads to roxton have him checked on the way here's the number of his cycle and winter jotted a memorandum on the back of a What about Mr. Furnow, if I am called out, almost immediately? Give the message to Johnston. Then Winter hurried away, and repressing the inclination to hail a taxi, walked up Whitehall and crossed Trafalgar Square,

en route to the Shaftesbury Avenue address supplied by the assistant commissioner. He found a sharp-featured youth in charge of the telephone, which was lodged in an estate agent's office. The boy grinned when the superintendent explained his errand. Excuse me, he said, with the pert assurance of the born cockney, but we aren't allowed to give information about customers. You've broken your rules already, young man, said Winter. You answered a similar inquiry made by Scotland Yard some hours ago.

Oh, was that it? Gerard rang me up, and I thought there was something funny going on. Are you from Scotland Yard, sir? Winter proffered a card, and the boy's eyes opened wide. Crarchy, he said. I've read about you, sir. Well, I've been doing a bit of detective work of my own. At lunchtime, I strolled past the set of flats, where I thought the lady, lived and had the luck to see her getting out of a cab at the door. I followed her upstairs, pretending I had business somewhere, and I saw her go into number 11. Her name is Miss Eileen Garth. At least, that's the name opposite number 11 in the list in the hall. When you're a bit older, you'll make a detective, said Winter. You've learned the first trick of the

and that is to keep your eyes open. Now to encourage you, I'll tell you the second, keep your mouth shut. If this lady is Miss Garth, she is not the person we want, but it would annoy her if she heard the police were inquiring about her. So here's half a crown for your trouble. Can I do anything else for you, sir? came the eager demand. Nothing. I'm all. on the wrong sense, evidently, but you have saved me from wasting time. This Miss Eileen Garth is English, of course. Yes, sir, very good-looking, but rather snappy.

Winter side. That just shows how easy it is to blunder, he said. I'm looking for a Polish Jewess whose chief feature is her nose, and who wears big gold earrings. Oh, Missed Garth is quite different, said the disappointed youth. She's tall and slim, a regular dasher, big black hat, swell togs, black and white, and smart boots with white bats. She wore pearls in her ears, too, because I noticed them.

Winter sighed again. Another half-day lost, he murmured, and went out. Knowing well that the boy would note the direction he took, he turned away from the block of flats and made for Soho, where he smoked a thin, raffish Italian cigar, with an anarchist of his acquaintance who kept a restaurant famous for its risotto.

Then by other streets he approached Gloucester mansions, and soon was pressing the electric bell of number 11. Miss Garth in, he said to an elderly hatchet-faced woman who opened the door. Why do you want Miss Garth? Was the non-committal reply, given in the tone of one who meant the stranger to understand that he was not addressing a servant? I shall explain my errant to the lady herself, said Winter civilly, kindly tell her that Superintendent Winter of the Criminal Investigation Department Scotland Yard wishes to see her. To him, it was no new thing that his name and description should bring dismay, even terror, to the cheeks of one to whom he made himself known

professionally, but unless he was addressing some desperate criminal, he did not expect to be assaulted. For once, therefore, he was thoroughly surprised. When a bony hand shot out and pushed him backward, the door was slammed in his face, the latch clicked, and he was left, staring at a small brass plate bearing the legend ring do not knock. Naturally, this bold maneuver could not have succeeded had he had a right of entry. A woman's physical strength was unequal to the task of disturbing his burly frame, and a foot-thrust between door and jam would have done the rest. As matters stood, however, he was obliged to abandon any present hope of an interview with the mysterious Miss Eileen Garth. He remained stock-still for some seconds,

listening to the retreating footsteps of the strong-minded person who had beaten him. it was his habit to visualize for future reference the features and demeanour of people in whom he was interested and of whom circumstances permitted only the merest glimpse this woman's face had revealed annoyance rather than fear scotland yard was not an ogre but a nuisance she held or at any rate she had exercised a definite power of rejecting visitors whom she considered undesirable. Therefore, she was a relative, probably Eileen Garth's mother or aunt. Eileen Garth was tall and slim, good-looking, but rather snappy. Well, 20 years ago, the description would have applied to the woman he had just seen. Her voice, heard under admittedly adverse conditions, was correct in accent and fairly cultured.

Before the world had hardened it, its tones might have been soft and dulcet. But above all, there was the presumable discovery that Eileen Garth was as decidedly opposed as Robert Fenley to full and free discussion of that morning's crime. Furno will jeer at me when he hears of this little episode, thought Winter, smiling as he turned to descend the stairs. Furno did jeer, but it was at his colleague's phenomenal luck. The door of number 12, the only other flat on the same landing, opened, and a man appeared. Recognition was propped on Winter's side.

Hello, Drake, he said genius. are you signor macelli well met anyhow can you give me a friendly word the occupant of number twelve an undersized slightly built man of middle age seemed to have received the shock of his life his sallow complexion face assumed a greenish yellow tint and his deep-set eyes glistened like those of a hunted animal Friendly, he contrived to gasp, giving a ghastly look over his shoulder to ascertain whether anyone in the interior of the flat had heard that name, Drake. Yes, I mean it, strictly on the QT, said Winter,

sinking his voice to a confidential pitch. Signor Giovanni Marcelli, since that was the name modestly, displayed on number 12's card in the hall beneath, closed the door carefully. He appeared to trust Winter up to a point, but evidently found it hard to regain self-control. Not here, he whispered, in five minutes at the Regency Cafe, Piccadilly. Let me go alone. Winter nodded, and the other darted downstairs. The detective followed slowly, crossing the street at an angle.

He looked up at the smoke-stained elevation of Gloucester mansions. A well-filled nest, he communed, and a night-slut of prize birds in it upon my word. The last time he had set eyes on a certain, notably expert forger and counterfeiter, a judge was passing sentence of five years penal servitude and three years police supervision on a felon. And the judge had not addressed the prisoner as Giovanni Masseli, but as John Christopher Drake. End of Chapter 7.

Chapter 8 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. coincidences winter was blessed with an unfailing memory for dates and faces before he had emerged from the main exit of gloucester mansions he had fixed drake as committed from the old bailey during the summer assizes four years earlier released from Portland on ticket of leave at the beginning of the current year, and marked in the failure to report list. Poor devil, he said to himself, the very man for my purpose. Therefore, seeing his way clearly,

his glance was not so encouraging, nor his voice so pleasant, when he found the ex-convict away. him in the Regency Café. Nevertheless, obeying the curious code which links the police and noted criminals in a sort of camaraderie, he asked the man what he would drink and ordered cigarettes as well. Now, Masselli, he said, when they were seated at a marble-topped table in a corner of a well-filled room, since we know each other so well, we can converse, plainly, eh?

Yes, sir, but I'm done for now. I've been trying to earn an honest living and have succeeded, but now the man spoke brokenly. His spirit was crushed. He saw in his mind's eye the frowning portals of a convict settlement and heard the boom of a giant knocker reverberating through the gaunt aisles of despair. if you reflect that i'm calling you masselli you'll drink that whisky and soda and listen to what i have to say broke in winter severely the other looked up at him and a gleam of hope illuminated the pallid cheeks he drank eagerly and lighted a cigarette with trembling fingers if i am only given a chance he began but the

detective interfered again. If only you would shut up, he said emphatically. I want your help, and I'm not in the habit of rewarding my assistance by sending them back to prison. Marcelli, as he may remain in this record, was so excited that he literally could not obey. I've cut completely adrift from the old crowd, sir, he pleaded with. He pleaded with. I'm an engraver now and in good work. Heaven help me, I'm married too. She doesn't know. She thinks I was stranded in America and that I changed my name because Italians are thought more of than Englishmen in my line. Giovanni Marcelli, may I ask what you are talking about, said Winter, stiffening visibly. At last, the hunted and

haunted wretch persuaded himself that the yard meant to be merciful. Tears glistened in his eyes, but he finished the whiskey and soda and remained silent. Good, said Winter more cheerfully. I shan't called you, Marselly, again if you don't behave. Now, how long have you lived in Gloucester mansions? Four months, sir, ever since my marriage. Winter smiled. had gone straight from the gates of Portland to some woman who was waiting for him. He was an old offender, but had proved slippery as an eel, hence a stiff sentence when caught. But penal servitude had conquered him.

Has Miss Eileen Garth lived in number eleven during those four months? Was the next question? Yes, sir, two years or more, I believe. her mother mentioned something of it to my wife one day her mother same name yes mrs garth how do they live the daughter was learning to be a stage dancer but they've come into a settled income and that idea is given up any male relations none that i know of sir eileen is engaged to be married i haven't heard the gentleman's name, but I've seen him scores of times. Scores of times in four months? Yes, sir, every second or third day. That is, I either meet him or know he is there, because Mrs. Masselli and Mrs. Garth are friendly, and there is constant coming and going across the landing. Is he a man of about thirty, middle height, lanky black,

hair, smooth, dark face, sunken eyes, high cheekbones. Rather, shall I say, Italian in appearance, Marcelli was surprised and showed it. Why, sir, you've described him to a nicety, he said. Very well. Next time he is there, to your absolute knowledge, slip out and telephone the fact to me at Scotland Yard. If I'm not in, ask for Mr. Furnow. You remember Mr. Furnow? A sickly smile admitted the acquaintance. Furnow had recognized the same artist's hand in each of many realistic forgeries, and it was this fact which led to the man's capture and conviction. If neither of us is at home, inquire for Mr. Shelton. went on winter.

Note him. He's a stranger to you. If you fail to get hold of any of us, say simply that, Signor Maseli, would like to have a word at our convenience. It will be understood. We shan't bother you. Give another call next time.

The visitor is in Mrs. Garth's flat. And keep on doing this until you find one of the three on the line. Don't use the telephone in Shaftesbury Avenue near the mansions, because the boy in charge there might be suspicious and blab. That is all. You are not doing Mrs. Garth or her daughter an ill turn, so far as I can judge. Keep a still tongue. Silence on your part will meet with silence on mine. Oh, dash it. Have another drink. Where? your nerve. Signor Giovanni Maseli was crying.

A phantom had brushed close, but was passing. Nevertheless, its shadow had chilled him to the bone. Winter walked back to Scotland Yard and found that Sheldon had gone, leaving a note which read, Mr. Robert Fenley is at 104 Hendon Road, Battersea Park. He was tempted to have a word with Furnow, but forbore and tackled some other departmental business. It was a day fated, however, to evolve the unexpected. About a quarter to four, the telephone bell rang, and Macelli informed him that Miss Garth's fiancée had just arrived at Gloucester Mansions.

Excellent, said Winter. In future, devote your energies to legitimate engraving goodbye. He rushed out and leaped into a taxi. Within five minutes, he was at the door of number 11 once more. Let it not be imagined that he had not weighed the possible consequences of thrusting himself in this fashion into Hilton Fenley's private affairs. although the man had summoned the assistance of Scotland Yard to elucidate the mystery of his father's death, that fact alone could not secure him immunity from the laws all embracing glance.

Winter agreed with Furnow that the profession of a private banker combined with company promotion is too often a cloak for roguery in the city of London, and the little he knew of the Fenley history did not tend to dissipate a certain nebulous suspicion that their record might not be wholly clean. The theft of the bonds had been hushed up in a way that savored of unwillingness on Mortimer Fenley's part to permit the police to take action. The man's tragic death might well be a sequel to the robbery. and granted the impossibility of his elder son having committed the murder, there was nothing fantastic in the notion that he might be a party to it. Again, Hilton Fenley had deliberately misled Scotland Yard

in regard to the seemingly trivial incident of the phone call, had he told the truth and grumbled at the lack of discretion on some woman's part in breaking in on a period of acute distress in the household, winter's subsequent discovery would have lost its point. As matters stood, however, it was one of a large number of minor circumstances, which demanded full examination, and the superintendent decided that the person really responsible

for any seeming excess of zeal on his part should be given an opportunity to clear the air in the place best fitted for the purpose, namely the address from which the call emanated. Therefore, when the door was opened again by Mrs. Garth, she found that the Napoleonic tactics of an earlier hour were no longer practicable, for the enemy instantly occupied the terrain by leaning inward. I want to see Mr. Hilton Fenley, he said suavely. You know my name already, Mrs. Garth, so I need not repeat it.

The sharp-featured woman was evidently sharp-witted also, finding that the door might not be closed, she threw it wide. I have no objection to your seeing, Mr. Fenley, she said. I am at a loss to understand. and why you follow him here, but that does not concern me in the least, come this way. Latching the door,

she led him to a room on the right of the entrance hall, which formed the central artery of the flat. The place had no direct daylight. At night, when an electric lamp was switched on, its contents would be far more distinct than at this hour, when the only light came from a turn. transverse passage at the end, or was borrowed through any door that happened to remain open.

Still, Winter could use his eyes, even in the momentary gloom, and he used them so well on this occasion that he noted two trunks, one on top of the other, and standing close to the wall. They were well plastered with hotel and railway labels, and when a flood of light poured, in from the room to which Mrs. Garth ushered him, he deciphered two of the freshest, and presumably the most recent. They were Hotel d'Italy, Rue, Comartin, Paris, and a baggage number, 517, not much, perhaps, in the way of information, but something, and Winter could trust his memory. He found himself in a well-furnished room, and hoped that Mrs. Garth might leave him there, even for a few seconds,

when he would be free to examine the apartment without her supervision. But she treated him as if he might steal the spoons. Remaining in the doorway, she called loudly. Mr. Fenley, the person I told you of is here again. Will you kindly come? He is in the dining room. A door opened. A hurried step sounded on the linoleum floor covering, and Hilton Fenley appeared.

Mr. Winter, isn't it? He said with a fine air of surprise. Yes, said the superintendent, composedly, you hardly expected to meet me here, I suppose. Well, Mrs. Garth mentioned your earlier visit, but I am at a loss to understand, oh, it is easily explained. We of the yard take nothing for granted, Mr. Fenley. I learned by chance that a young lady who lives here rang you up at Rockston this morning

and knowing that you took the trouble to conceal the fact, I thought it advisable. Mrs. Garth was a woman of discretion. she closed the door on the two men. Fenley did not wait for Winter to conclude. That was foolish of me, I admit, he said readily enough. One does not wish all one's private affairs to be canvassed, even by the police. The moment Mrs. Garth mentioned your name, I saw my error. You checked the telephone calls to the towers, I suppose, and thus learned I had misled you. Something of the sort, Miss Garth, is a lady not difficult of recognition.

She and her mother are very dear friends. It was natural that they should be shocked by the paragraphs in the newspapers and wish to ascertain the truth. Quite so. I'm sorry if my pertinacity has annoyed them or you. I think they will rather be pleased by such proof of your thoroughness. Certainly I, for my part, do not resent it. Very well, sir, since I am here, I may inquire if you know anyone living at

104 Hendon Road, Battersea Park. Now that you mention the address, I recall it as the residence of the lady in whom my brother is interested. This morning I had forgotten it, but you have refreshed my memory. You're a tolerably self-possessed person, was the detective's unspoken thought, for Fenley was a different man now

from the nervous distraught son who had clamored for vengeance on his father's murderer. You own up to the facts candidly when it is useless to do anything else, and you never fail to hammer a nail into Robert's coffin when the opportunity offers. But aloud, he said, you really don't know the lady's name, I suppose. Fenley hesitated a fraction of a second.

Yes, I do know it, though I withheld the information this morning, he replied. But I ask you, is it quite fair? to make me a witness against my brother?' "'Someone must explain Mr. Robert's movements, and since he declines the task, I look to you,' was the straightforward answer. "'She is a Mrs. Lyle,' said Fenley, after another pause, a calculated pause this time.

"'Have you visited your city office to-day?' "'I went straight there from the towers.' I told you I was going there. What object could I have in deceiving you? None that I can see, Mr. Fenley, but I have been wondering if any new light has been shed on the motive, which might have led to the crime. Have you examined Mr. Mortimer Fenley's papers, for instance? There may be documents, letters memoranda secreted in some private drawer or dispatch case. The other shook his head. He appeared not to resent the detective's tone.

It seemed as if regret for the morning's lack of confidence had rendered him apologetic. No, he said, I have not had time yet to go through my father's papers. This afternoon I was taken up wholly with business, You see, Mr. Winter, I cannot allow my personal suffering to cost other men thousands of pounds, and that must be the outcome, if certain undertakings now in hand, are not completed. But my father was most methodical, and his affairs are sure to be thoroughly in order. Within the next few days, when I have time to make a proper search, I will do it.

Meanwhile, I can practically assure you that he had no reason to anticipate anything in the nature of a personal attack from any quarter whatsoever. Do you care to discuss your brother's extraordinary behavior? In what respect? Well, he virtually bolted from Roxton today, though I had warned him that his presence was imperative. My brother is self-willed and impetuous, and he was dreadfully shocked at finding his father dead. Did he tell you he meant to return to London at once? No, when I came downstairs, after the distressing scene with Mrs. Fenley, he had gone. The superintendent was aware already that he was dealing with a man cast in no order,

ordinary mold, but he did not expect this continued meekness. Ninety-nine people out of a hundred would have grown restive under such cross-examination and betrayed their annoyance by word or look. Not so Hilton Fenley, who behaved as if it were the most natural thing in the world that he should be tracked to his friend's residence and made to explain his comings and goings during the day. Swayed by a subconscious desire to nettle his victim into protest, Winter tried a new tack. I suppose, Mr. Fenley, you have seen your father's solicitors today, he said suddenly. If you mean that question in the ordinary sense, I must tell you that my

father employed no firm of solicitors for family purposes. Of course, at one time or another, he has availed himself of the services of nearly every leading firm of lawyers in the city, but each transaction was complete in itself. For instance, his will is a holograph will, if that is what you are hinting at. He told me its provisions at the time it was signed and witnessed, and I shall surely find it in his private safe at the office. You have not looked for it today? No, why should I? Feeling distinctly nonplussed, for there was no denying that Fenley had chosen the best

possible way of carrying off a delicate situation, Winter turned, walked slowly to a window, and gazed down into the street. He was perturbed, almost irritated, by a novel sense of failure, not often associated with the day's work. He had to confess now that he had made no material stride in an inquiry,

the solution of which did not seem at the outset to offer any abnormal difficulty. True, there were circumstances which might serve to incriminate, Robert Finley, but if that young man were really responsible for the crime, he was what the yard classes privately as a monumental idiot, since his subsequent conduct was well calculated to arouse the suspicion which the instinct of self-preservation would try to avert. A long experience of the methods of criminals warned winter of the folly of jumping at conclusions,

but he would be slow to admit and hard to be convinced that Robert Fenley took any active part in his father's murder. Of course, it was not with a view toward indulging in a reverie that he approached the window. he was setting a simple trap into which many a man and woman had fallen. Anyone of moderately strong character can control face and eyes when the need of such discipline is urgent. But howsoever impregnable the mask, the strain of wearing it is felt, and relief shows itself in an unguarded moment. At the farther end of the room there was,

a mirror above the fireplace, and as he turned his back on Fenley, by a hardly perceptible inclination of his head, he could catch the reflection of his companion's face. The manoeuvre succeeded, but its result was negative. Hilton Fenley's eyes were downcast. He had lifted a hand to his chin in one of those nervous gestures, which had had been so noticeable during the morning's tumult. His face wore an expression of deep thought. Indeed, he might be weighing each word he had heard and uttered, and calculating its effect on his own fortunes. Still obeying that unworthy instinct, which bade him sting Fenley into defiance, Winter tossed a question over his shoulder. May I have a word,

with Miss Garth, he said suddenly. Why was the calm answer? Just to settle that telephone incident once and for all. But if you imagine it might not have been Miss Garth who made the call, why are you here? Then the detective laughed. His wonted air of cheerful good humor smoothed the wrinkles from his forehead. He was beaten, completely.

completely discomfited, and he might as well confess it, and be take himself to some quarter where a likelier trail could be followed. True, he said affably, I need not bother the young lady. Perhaps you will make my excuses and tell her that I ran you to earth in Gloucester mansions, merely to save time. By the way, I led the youth at the call office to be that i was searching for an undersized polish jewess all nose and gold earrings a description which hardly applies to miss garth and one last question do you return to roxton to-night within the hour so winter descended the stone stairs a second time a prey to a feeling of failure what had he gained by his impeccable actions. He had ascertained that Hilton Fenley was on terms of close intimacy with a pretty girl

and her mother. Nothing very remarkable in that. He had secured a Paris address and the number of a baggage registration label. But similar information might be gleaned from a hundred thousand boxes and portmanteau in London that day. He had been told that, that he had been told that Mortimer Fenley had made a holograph will. Such procedure was by no means rare. Millions sterling have been disposed of on half-sheets of note-paper. Even His Majesty's judges have written similar wills and blundered, with the result that a brother, learned in the law, has had to decide what the testator really meant. He wondered whether or not, Mortimer Fenley had committed some technical error, such as the common one of creating a trust without appointing

trustees. That would be seen in due course when the will was probated. At any rate, he grinned at his own expense. The only individual who has scored today, he said to himself, is John Christopher Drake, alias Giovanni Mass. I must keep mum about him. By gad, I believe I've compounded a felony. But because he had not scored inside Gloucester mansions, there was no valid reason why he should not accomplish something in their immediate neighbourhood. For instance, who and what were the Garth's, mother and daughter? He looked in on a well-known dramatic agent and raised the point. Reference to a ledger showed that Eileen Garth, age 18, tall, good-looking,

no previous experience, had been a candidate for musical comedy London engagement alone accepted. The almost certain sequel being that she had kept her name six months on the books without an author, to secure her valuable services. I remember the girl well, said the agent. She had the makings of a Cori Faye, but lacked training. She could sing a little, so I advised her to take dancing lessons. I believe she began them with a teacher I recommended, but I've seen nothing of her for a year or more.

Again has Giovanni. money filled the bill, mused Winter, as he made for his office. I wish now I had curbed my impulsiveness and kept away from Gloucester Mansions, the second time, anyhow. Though chastened in spirit, the fact that no news of any sort awaited him at Scotland's yard did not help to restore his customary poise. That's at all, he growled, I'm losing grip.

The next thing I'll hear is that Sheldon is enjoying himself at Earl's Court, and that Furnow has gone fishing. Restless and ill at ease, he decided to ring up the tower's Roxham. A footman answered the telephone and announced that Mr. Furnow had just come in. Hello, Charles, said Winter, when a thin voice squeaked along the line. Any luck? Superb. Good.

I've drawn blanks, regular round O's, except three probably useless addresses. Addresses are never useless, friend. The mere knowing of a number in a street picks out that street from all the other. streets where one knows no numbers. Tell me things, you rat, if conditions permit. Well, I've hit on two facts of profound importance. First, Roxden contains an artist of rare genius, and second it holds a cook of admitted excellence. Look here. I'm listening here here which is all that science can achieve at present.

I'm in no mood for ill-timed pleasantries. But I'm not joking upon my honor. The cook name of Eliza does really exist and is sworn to surprise even your jaded appetite. The artist is John Trenel. In years to come, you'll boast of having met him before he was famous. So, you, like me, have done nothing.

Ah, I note the bitterness of defeat in your tone. It has warped your judgment, too, as you will agree, when a certain dinner I have arranged for tomorrow night touches the spot. Can't you put matters more plainly? I'm guessing and planning and contriving, like Galileo, I am convinced that the world moves. Then, Ferno broke into French. Regarding those addresses, you speak of, what are they?

Using the same language, Winter told him, substituting the Eurasian and the motorcyclist for names, and adding that he was writing Jacques Foray, the Paris detective, with reference to the hotel and the label, the figures on the latter, being of the long, thin French variety. Are you coming here tonight? went on Fernot. Do you want me? I'm only a little chap, and I'd like to have you near when it's dark. Winter sighed, but it was with relief. He knew now that Furno had not failed. Very well, he said, I'll arrive by the next convenient train.

The point is, continued Fernot, who delighted in keeping his chief on tenterhooks, when some new development in the chase was imminent, that the position here requires handling by a man of your weight and authority. The motorcyclist came back an hour ago, and is now walking in the garden with the girl. the deuce why hasn't sheldon reported blurted out winter because in all likelihood he is watching the other girl isn't that what you were doing isn't half the battle won when we find the woman i haven't set my eyes on my woman you surprise me that kind of modest self-effacement isn't your usual star at all, at all, as they say in cork.

Probably you're right about Sheldon. He is a worker, not a talker, like some people I know, retorted Winter. What very dull acquaintances you must possess. Workers are the small fry who put spouters into Parliament and pay them 400 pounds a year and make them cabinet ministers. evidently things have happened at roxton or you wouldn't be so chirpy well so long see you later having ascertained that an express train was timed to leave st pancras for roxton at six p m he was packing a suitcase when a telegram arrived it had been handed in at fulcestone at four thirty and read

decided to follow lady instead of motorcyclist will explain reasons verbally reaching london seven o'clock sheldon i'm the only one of the three who has accomplished nothing was winter's rueful comment nor could any critic have gained said him for he seemed to have been wasting precious hours while his subordinates were making history in the fenley case He left instructions with Johnston that Mr. Sheldon was to write fully care of the Roxton Police Station and took a cab for St. Pancras. He was passing along the platform when he caught sight of Hilton Fenley, seated on the far side of a first-class carriage, which was otherwise untenanted. An open dispatch box lay beside him, and he was so engrossed in the perusal of some document that he gave no heed to externals. Winter threw wide the door and entered. We are fated to meet today, Mr. Fenley, he said pleasantly. First you send for me, then I hunt you, and now we come together by chance.

I don't think coincidence can arrange any fourth way of bringing us in touch today. But he was mistaken. Coincidence had already done far more than he imagined in providing unseen clues to the ultimate clearing up of a ghastly crime. And the same subtle law of chance was fated to assist the authorities once more before the sun rose again. over the trees from whose cover Mortimer Fenley's murderer had fired the fatal shot. End of Chapter 8. Chapter 9 of The Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Lewis Tracy. This Librivox recording is in the public domain. Wherein an artist becomes a man of action.

Furnose visit left Tranholm in no happy frame of mind. The man who, that's, that morning had not a care in the world, was now a prey to disquieting thought. The knowledge that he had been close to the scene of a dastardly murder, at the moment it was committed, that he was, in a sense, a witness of the crime, was depressing in itself, for his was a kindly nature, and the mere fact that circumstances had rendered him impotent, his presence might have acted as a deterrent was saddening.

Then again he was worried by the reflection that, no matter how discriminating, the police might prove, with regard to his sketch of Sylvia Manning, he would undoubtedly be called as a witness, both at the inquest and at the trial of any person arrested for the crime. It was asking too much of editorial human nature to expect that the magazine, which had commissioned the illustrated article on Roxton,

would not make capital of the fact that its special artist, was actually sketching the house, while Mr. Fenley's murderer was skulking among the trees surrounding it. Thus there was no escape for John Trenholm. he was doomed to become notorious. At any hour, the evening newspapers might be publishing his portrait and biography. On going downstairs, he was cheered a little by meeting an apologetic, Eliza. I hope I didn't do any real arm, sir, she said, dropping an aspirate in sheer emphasis.

Any harm to whom or what, he asked. By talking as I did for that tech, sir. All depends on what you said to him. If you told him, for instance, that I carry browning pistols in each pocket, and that my easel is a portable Maxim gun, of course, oh, sir, I never try to be funny. I mean about the picture. Good heavens, you too?

Eliza failed to understand this. but she was too subdued to inquire his meaning. You see, sir, he must have heard what I said about it, and him skulking there in the passage. Do you really think a hobbony thumb like that can be a Scotland yard man? It's my belief. He's a imposter.

It had not dawned on Chanom that Furneau's complete fund of information regarding the sketches had been obtained so recently. He imagined that police constable Farrow and gamekeeper Bates had supplied details. So his reply cheered Eliza. Don't worry about unnecessary trifles, he said.

Mr. Furneau is not only a genuine detective, but a remarkably clever one. You ought to have heard him praising the picture you despise. I never did, came the vehement protest. The picture is fine. It was the young lady's clothes or want of them that I was condemning. I've seen four thousand ladies walking about the sands at Truville in far scantier attire. That's in France, isn't it? inquired Eliza.

Yes, but France is a more civilized country. than England. Eliza sniffed, sure sign of battle. Not it, she vowed. I've read things about the carrying on there as made me blood boil. Horse racing on Sundays and folks going to theaters instead of church. France, more civilized than England, indeed. What'll you be saying next?

I'll be saying that if our little friend be here, hates himself, I shall ask him to dine here tomorrow. He's axed himself, Mr. Chenom, and he's bringing another one a big fellow who knows how to use a carbon knife, he says. What would you like for dinner? Chenholm fled. That question was becoming a daily torment. The appearance of Furnow had alone saved him from being put on the culinary rack after luncheon. Having partaken of one good meal, he never had the remotest notion as to his requirements for the next. He wandered through the village, calling at a tobacconist's and looking in on his friend the barber. All tongues were agog with wonder. The Fenley family, known to that district of Hartfordshire during the greater part of

generation, was subjected to merciless criticism. He heard gossip of Mr. Robert, of Mr. Hilton, even of the recluse wife, now a widow, but everyone had a good word for Miss Sylvia. We don't see enough of her, and that's a fact, said the barber. She must find life rather dull, cooped up there as she is, for all that it's a grand house and a fine, park. They never had company like the other big houses. A few bald-headed city men and their wives for an occasional weekend in the summer, or when the coverts were shopped in October. Never any nice young people. Miss Sylvia wept when the rector's daughter got married last year, and, well, I knew why she was losing her only chum. Surely there are scores.

of good families in this neighborhood. Plenty, sir, but nearly all county. The Toffs never did take on the Fenlies, and, to be fair, I don't believe the poor man who's dead ever bothered his head about them. But Miss Manning cannot have lived here all her life. She must have been abroad at school, for instance. Well, yes, sir.

I remember her coming home from Brussels two years ago, but school ain't society. The likes of her with all her money should mix with her own sort. Is she so wealthy, then? She's Mr. Fenley's ward, and the servants at the towers say she'll come in for a heap when she's 21, which will be next year. somehow this item of gossip confirming Eliza's statement was displeasing Sylvia Manning nymph of the lake receded to some dimm altitude where the high and mighty are enthroned biting his pipe viciously Chanom sought the solitude of a woodland footpath and tried to find a distraction in studying the effects of diffused light returning to the inn about tea time he was angered anew by a telegram from the magazine editor it read news in pictures wants sketches and photographs of fenley case and surroundings have suggested you for commission why not pick up a tenor rush drawings by train straw growled Trenom fiercely. He raced out, bought a set of picture postcards,

showing the village and the Tudor Mansion, and dispatched them to the editor of the news in pictures with his compliments. Coming back from the station, he passed the eastern lodge of the towers. A daring notion seized him, and he proceeded to put it into practice forthwith. He presented himself at the gate, and was faced by Mrs. Bates and a policeman. Taught by experience to beware of strangers that day, the keeper's wife gazed at him through an insurmountable iron palisade. The constable merely surveyed him with a professional air as one who would interfere, if needful. I am calling on Miss Sylvia,

Manning, announced Chenom promptly. By appointment, sir. No, but I have reason to believe that she would wish to see me. My orders are that nobody is to be admitted to the house without written instructions, sir. How can Miss Manning give written instructions unless she knows I'm here? Them's my orders, said Mrs. Bates firmly. but he persisted. It really amounts to this,

that you decide whether or not Miss Manning wishes to receive me or any other visitor. Mrs. Bates found the point of view novel. Moreover, she liked this young man's smile. She hesitated and temporized. If you don't mind wait in a minute till I telephone, she said.

Certainly. say that Mr. John Crenon, who was sketching in the park this morning, asks the favor of a few words. The guardian of the gate disappeared. Soon she came out again and unlocked the gate. Miss Manning needs just leave in the house, she said. If you walk up the avenue, you'll meet her, sir. Now it happened that Cianolm's request for an interview reached Sylvia Manning at a peculiar moment. She had been shocked and distressed beyond measure by the morning's tragedy. Mortimer Fenley was one of

those men whom riches render morose, but his manner had always been kind to his ward. A pleasant fiction enabled the girl to regard Mr. and Mrs. Fenley as her uncle and aunt, and the tacit relationship thus established, served to place the financier and his niece on a footing of affectionate intimacy. Of late, however, Sylvia had been aware of a splitting up of the family into armed camps, and the discovery or intuition that she was the cause of the rupture had proved irksome and even annoying, Mortimer Fenley had made no secret of his desire that she should marry his younger son. When both young people, excellent friends, though they were, seemed to shirk the suggestion, though by no means actively opposing it, Fenley was angered and did not scruple to throw out

hints of coercion. Again, the girl knew that Hilton Fenley was a rival, and meant to defy his father's intent with regard to Robert. Oddly enough, neither of the young men had indulged in overt lovemaking. According to their reckoning, Sylvia's personal choice counted for little in the matter. Robert seemed to assume that his cousin was merely waiting to be asked, while Hilton's attitude was that of a man biding his time, to snatch a prize when the opportunity served. Sylvia herself hated the very thought of matrimony.

The only married couples of her acquaintance were either hopelessly detached, like Fenley and his wife, or uninteresting people of the type which the village barber had etched so clearly for Trenholm's benefit. Whatever quickening of romance might have crept into such lives had long yielded to atrophy. Marriage to the girl's imaginative mind was synonymous with a dull and prosy middle-age.

Most certainly the vague daydreams evoked by her reading of books and converted into alluring vistas by an ever-widening horizon were not sated by the prospect of becoming the wife of either of the only two young men she knew. there was a big world beyond the confines of Roxden Park. There were interests in life that called with increasing insistence. In her heart of hearts, she had decided, quite unmistakably, to decline any matrimonial project for several years, and while shirking from a downright avowal of her intentions, which her uncle would have resented very strongly, the fact that shewarked, the fact that shewking from a downright avowal of her intentions, the fact that shew that father and sons were at daggers drawn concerning her was the cause of no slight feeling of dismay, even occasional moments of unhappiness. She had no one to confide in. For reasons beyond her ken, Mortimer Fenley had set his face against any of her school friends being invited to the house. While Mrs. Fenley, by reason of an unfortunate failing, was a wretched automaton that

ate and drank and slept, and alternated between brief fits of delirium and prolonged periods of stupor induced by drugs. Still, until a murderous gunshot had torn away the veil of unreality, which enshrouded the household, Sylvia had contrived to avoid a crisis. All day, during six days of the week, she was free in her own realm. She had books and music, the woods, the park, and the gardens to occupy busy hours. Unknown to any, her favorite amusement was the planning of extensive foreign tours, by such simple means as an atlas and a set of guide-books. She had a talent for sketching in watercolor, and her own sanctum contained a dozen or more copious records of imaginary journeys,

illustrated with singular accuracy of detail. She was athletic in her tastes, too. She had fitted up a small gymnasium, which she used daily. At her request, Mortimer Fenley had laid out a nine hole lakes in the park, and her second golfing year, the current one, Sylvia had gone around in bogey. She would have excelled in tennis, but Robert Fenley was so much away from home that she seldom got a game, while Hilton professed to be too tired for strenuous exercise after long days in the city. she could ride and drive, though forbidden to follow any of the local packs of foxhounds, and it has been seen that she was a first-rate swimmer.

Brody, too, had taught her to drive a motor-car, and she could discourse learnedly on silencers and the auto cycle. On the whole, then, she was content and hugged the conceit that when she was, came of age, she would be her own mistress and order her life as she chose. The solitary defect of any real importance in the scheme of things was Mortimer Fenley's growing insistence on her marriage to Robert. It was astounding, therefore, and quite bewildering that Robert Fenley should have hit on the day of his father's death to declare his prosaic passion. He had motored back from London about four o'clock, hurrying to change his clothes for the

attire demanded by convention in hours of morning. He sent a message to Sylvia, asking her to meet him at tea. Afterwards, he took her into the garden on the pretext that she was looking pale and needed fresh air. There, without the least pretext, preamble, he informed her that the day's occurrences had caused him to fall in, unreservedly, with his father's wishes. He urged her to agree to a quiet wedding at the earliest possible date, and pointed out that a prompt announcement of their pact would stifle any opposition on Hilton's part. Evidently, he took it for granted that if Barcas was willing, Peggedy had no option in the matter. He forgot to mention such a trivial element as

love. Their marriage had been planned by the arbiter of their destinies, and who were they that they should gainsay that august decision? Why, his father's death had made it a duty that they owed to a sacred memory. Though Sylvia's experience of the world was slight and knowledge of her fellow creatures rather less. Cousin Robert's eagerness, as compared with his deficiencies as a war, warned her that some hidden but powerful motive was egging him on now. She tried to temporize, but the more she alluded him, the more insistent he became. At last, she spoke plainly and with some heat.

if you press for my answer to-day it is no she said and a wave of color flooded her pale cheeks i think you can hardly have considered your actions it is monstrous to talk of marriage when my uncle has only been dead a few hours i refuse to listen to another word perforce robert had left it at that he had the sense to bottle up his anger, at any rate, in her hearing. Perhaps he reflected that the breaking of the ice would facilitate the subsequent plunge. Far more disturbed in spirit than her dignified repulse of Fenley had shown, Sylvia re-entered the house, passing the odd-looking little detective as she crossed the hall. She took refuge in her own. own suite, but determined forthwith to go out of doors again and seek shelter among her

beloved trees. Through a window, as her rooms faced south, she saw Robert Fenley, pacing moodily in the garden, where he was presently joined by the detective. Apparently, Fenley was as ungracious and surly of manner as he knew how to be, but Furneau continued. continued to chat with careless affability. Soon the two walked off in the direction of the lake. That was Sylvia's chance. She ran downstairs and was at the door when a footman came and said that Mrs. Bates wanted her on the telephone.

At first she was astounded by Trenholm's message, then sheer irritation at the crassness of things, and perhaps some spice of feminine curiosity led her to give the order which opened the gates of Roxden Park to a man she had never seen. The two met a few hundred yards down the avenue. Police constable Farrow, who had been replaced by another constable

while he went home for a meal, was on guard in the quarry wood again until the nightmen came on duty and noticed Miss Manning leaving the house. He descended from his rock and strolled toward the avenue with no other motive than a desire to stretch his legs. His perplexity was unbounded when he discovered Mortimer Fenley's ward deep in conversation with the artist.

Well, I'm jiggered, he said, dodging behind a giant rotodendron, whipping out a notebook and consulting his watch, he solemnly noted time and names in a laboriously accurate round hand. Then he nibbled his chin strap and dug both thumbs into his belt. His luck was in that day. He knew something now that was withheld from the Scotland Yard swells. sylvia manning and john chanon were acquaintances nay more they must be old friends under his very eyes they went off together in the park

back to his rock went police constable pharaoh puzzled but elated was he not a repository of secrets and that funny little detective had be taken himself in the opposite direction fate was kind indeed. He would have been still more surprised had fate permitted him to be also an eaves-dropper, if listeners ever do drop from eaves. Sylvia was by no means flurried when she came face to face with Trenom. The female of the species invariably shows her superiority on such occasions. Trenome knew he was blushing and rather breathless. Sylvia was cool and distant. You are Mr. Trenome, I suppose, she said, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones in calm scrutiny. Yes, he said, trying desperately to collect his wits.

The well-balanced phrases conned while walking up the avenue had vanished in a hopeless blur at the instant they were needed. His mind was in a whirl. I am Miss Manning, she continued. It is hardly possible to receive visitors at the house this afternoon, and as I happened to be coming out when Mrs. Bates telephoned from the lodge, I thought you would have no objection to telling me here why you wish to see me. I have come to apologize for my action this morning, he said.

What action? I sketched you without your knowledge, and of course without your permission. You sketched me? Where? When you were swimming in the lake. You didn't dare. I did. I'm sorry now, though you inspired the best picture on.

I have ever painted or shall ever paint. For an instant, Sylvia forgot her personal troubles in sheer wonderment, and a ghost of a smile brightened her white cheeks. John Tranome was a person who inspired confidence at sight, and her first definite emotion was one of surprise that he should look so disconsolate. I really don't understand, she said. the quality of your picture has no special interest for me what i fail to grasp is your motive in trespassing in a private park and watching me or any lady bathing put that way my conduct needs correcting with a horse-whip but happily there are other points of view that is i mean really miss manning i am absurd

tongue-tied, but I do beg of you to hear my explanation. Have you one? Yes, it might convince anyone but you. You will be a severe judge, and I hardly know how to find words to seek your forgiveness, but I was the victim of circumstances. Please don't regard me as a judge. At present, I am trying to guess, what happened? Then John squared his shoulders and tackled the greatest difficulty he had grappled with for years. The simple truth should at least sound convincing, he said. I came to Rockston three days ago on a commission to sketch the village and its environment. This house and grounds are historical,

and I applied for permission to visit them, but was refused. By chance, I heard of a public footpath, which crosses the park close to the lake. Sylvia nodded. She, too, had heard much of that footpath. Its existence had annoyed Mortimer Fenley as long as she could remember anything. That friendly little nod encouraged Trenel, his voice came under better control, and he contrived to smile.

I was told it was a bone of contention, he said, but that didn't trouble me a bit since the right of way opened the forbidden area. I meant no disturbance or intrusion. I rose early this morning and would have made my sketches and got away without seeing you, if it were not for a delightful pair of wrought iron gates past a route. They detained me three-quarters of an hour. Instead of reaching the clump of cedars at a quarter to seven or thereabouts,

I arrived at half-past seven. I sketched the house and lawns and then turned to the lake. When you appeared, I imagined at first you were coming to pitch into, to me for entering your domain. But, as I was partly hidden by some briars beneath the cedars, you never saw me. And before I realized what was taking place, you threw off your wraps and were in the water. Oh, gasped Sylvia. Now I ask you to regard the situation impersonally, said Tranom, sinking his eyes humbly to the ground and keeping them there. I had either to reveal my presence and startle you greatly or remain where I was and wait until you went off again.

Whether it was wise or not, I elected for the easier course. I think I would act similarly if placed in the like predicament tomorrow or the next day. after all there is nothing so very remarkable in a lady taking a morning swim that an involuntary onlooker should be shocked or scandalized by it you and i were strangers to each other were we friends we might have been swimming in company sylvia uttered some incoherent sound but tranome once launched in his recital meant to persevere with it to the bitter end. I still hold that I chose the more judicious way out of a difficult situation, he said. Had I left it at that, all would have been well. But the woman tempted me and I did eat. Indeed, the woman did nothing of the sort, came the vehement protest.

I speak in the artistic sense. You cannot imagine, you will never know what an exquisite picture you and the statue of Aphrodite made when mirrored in that shining water. I forgot every consideration but the call of art, which, when it is genuine, is irresistible, overwhelming. Fearing only that you might take one plunge and go, I grabbed my palette and the canvas and began to work. I used pure color and painted as one reads of the fierce labor of genius. For once in my life, I was inspired. I had caught an effect which I might have sought in vain during the

remainder of my life. I painted real flesh, real water. Even the reeds and shrubs by the side of the lake were veritable glimpses of actuality. Then when I had given some species of immortality to a fleeting moment, you returned to the house, and I was left alone with a dream made permanent, a memory transfixed on canvas, a picture which would have created a sensation in the salon. Oh, surely you would not exhibit me it, breathed the girl. No, he said grimly. That conceit is dead and buried. But I want you to realize that during those minutes,

I was not John Tranholm, an artist struggling for a foothold on the steep crags of the painter's rock of endeavor, but a master of the craft, gazing from some high pinnacle at a territory he had won. If you know anything of painting, Miss Manning, you will go with me so far as to admit that my indiscretion was impersonal. I, a poet who expresses his emotions in terms of color,

was alone with Aphrodite and a nymph on a June morning in a leafy English park. I don't think I should be blamed, but envied. I should not be confessing a fault, but claiming recognition as one favored of the gods. Genome was speaking in earnest now, and Sylvia thrilled to the music of his voice. But if her heart throbbed, and a strange fluttering made itself felt in her heart,

her utterance, by force of repression, was so cold and unmoved that trenel became more downcast than ever i do paint a little she said and i can understand that the statue and the lake offer a charming subject but i am still at a loss to know why you have thought fit to come here and tell me these things it is my wretched task to make that clear at least, he cried contritely, forcing himself to turn and look through the trees at a landscape now glowing in the mellow light of a declining sun. When you had gone, I sat there, working hard for a time, but finally yielding to the spell of an unexpected and therefore a most delightful romance. A vision of rare beauty had come into my life and gone from it all in the course of a magic hour.

Is it strange that I should linger in the shrine? I was aroused by a gunshot, but little dreamed that grim death was docking through fairyland. Still, I came to my everyday senses, packed up my sketches and color box, and tramped off to Roxston, singing as I went. Hours afterward, I learned of the tragedy which had taken place so near the place where I had snatched a glimpse of the Hesperides. It was known that I had been in the park at that time. I had met and spoken to Bates, your headkeeper, and the local policeman, Pharaoh.

A detective came, a man named for a no, a jolly clever chap too, but a most... disturbing reasoner. He showed me that my drawings, the one sketch at any rate, which I held sacred, would prove my sheet anchor when I was brought into the stormy waters of inquest and law courts. It is obvious that every person who was in that locality at half-past nine this morning must explain his or her presence beyond all doubt or questioning. I shall be obliged to say, of course, that I was in the park fully two hours from 7.30 a.m. onward. What was I doing? Painting. Very well. Where is the result? Is it such that any artist will testify that I was busily engaged?

Don't you see, Miss Manning, I must either produce that sketch, or stand convicted of the mean offense you yourself imputed to me instantly when you heard of my whereabouts. Oh, I didn't really imply that, said Sylvia, and a new note of sympathy crept into her voice. It would be horrid if you couldn't explain, and it seems to me that this sense. sketches. You made more than one, didn't you? Should be shown to the authorities.

Trenholm's face lit with gratitude because of her ready pact. He was sorely impelled to leave matters on their present footing, but whipped himself to the final stage. There is worse to come, he said miserably. Goodness me, what else can there be? Mr. Furnow has asked me, ordered me, in fact, to meet you by the side of the lake tomorrow morning at a quarter past nine and bring the drawings. Now you know why I have ventured to call this afternoon. I simply could not wait till I was brought before you like a collared thief with the lute in his possession.

I had to meet you without the intervention of a grinning policeman. When you heard my plea, I thought, I hoped, that you might incline to a less severe view than would be possible if the matter came to your notice without warning. He stopped abruptly. A curiously introspective look had come into the girl's eyes, for he had summoned up courage to glance at her again and snatch one last impression of her winsome loveliness before she bade him be gone.

Where are you staying in Rockston, Mr. Trenold? She asked. The unexpected nature of the question almost took his breath away. At the White Horse Inn, he said. She pointed across the park. That farm there, Mr. Jackson's lies nearly opposite the inn. I suppose the detective has not impounded your sketch?

No, he murmured, quite at a loss to follow her intent. Well, Mr. Jackson will let you go and come through his farmyard to oblige me. It will be a shortcut for you, too. If you have no objection, I'll walk with. with you to the boundary wall, which you can easily climb. Then you might bring this debatable picture, and let me see it, the others as well, if you wish. Wouldn't that be a good idea?

I mightn't get quite such a shock in the morning when the detective man parades you before me. It is not very late. I have plenty of time to stroll that far before dinner. hardly believing his ears tranon walked off by her side no wonder police constable farrow was surprised and still less room was there for wonder that hilton fenley driving with winter from the station should shout an imperative order to brodie to stop the car when he saw the couple in the distance isn't that miss sylvia he said harshly well knowing there could be only one answer yes sir said the chauffeur who is the man with her mr trenholm the artist from the white horse sir are you sure yes sir i've seen him several times hereabouts fenley was in a rare temper already

For Winter had told him Brother Robert was at home, a development on which he had by no means counted. Now his sallow face darkened with anger. Drive on, he said. I gave orders at your request, Mr. Winter, that no strangers were to be admitted. I must see to it that I am obeyed in future. It is surprising, too, that the police are seen. so remiss in such an important matter. For once, Winter was perforce silent.

In his heart of hearts, he blamed Detective Inspector Furnow. End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Furno states some facts and certain fancies. This record of a day remarkable beyond any other in the history of secluded Roxton might strike a more cheerful note if it followed the two young people across the park. It is doubtful whether or not Sylvia Manning's unpremeditated action in accompanying Trenome

was inspired by a sudden interest in art or by by a sudden interest in art, or by revolt against the tribulations which had befallen her. Of course there is some probability that a full and true account of the conversation between man and maid, as they walked the half-mile to Jackson's farm, might throw a flood of light on this minor problem. Be that as it may, stern necessity demands that the chronicle should revert for a time to the sayings and doings of the Fenley's and the detectives. Despite a roundabout route, Furno had merely led Robert Fenley

through the gardens to the quarry wood. Somewhat, to the detective's surprise, the rock was unguarded. The two were standing there, discussing the crime when police constable Farrow returned to his post. Furno said nothing. For some reason he did not emphasize the fact to his companion that a sentry should have been found stationed there, but a sharp glance at the policeman warned the latter

that he ran considerable risk of a subsequent reprimand. Conscious of rectitude, Pharaoh saluted and produced his notebook. I've just made a memo of this, sir, he said, pointing to an entry, Furno read. Miss Sylvia Manning left home, 6.45 p.m. Met Mr. John Trenholm, artist, White Horse Inn, in Avenue, 647 p.m. The two held close conversation and went off together across the park in direction of Rockston, 654 p.m. Lady wore no hat, regarded incident as unusual, so observed exact times.

I note what the inspector says, and we'll discuss the point later, said Furnow, returning the book. The policeman grinned, as between Scotland Yard and himself, a complete understanding was established. Have the local police discovered anything of importance? inquired Fenley, who, now that his own affairs, called for no immediate attention, seemed to give more heed to the matter of his father's death. At first, his manner to furneaux had been churlish in the extreme. Evidently, he thought he could treat the representatives of the criminal investigation department just as he pleased.

At this moment, he elected to be gruffly civil in tone. they are making full inquiries of course replied the detective but i think the investigation will be conducted in the main by my department as i was saying mr fenley undoubtedly the shot was fired from this locality dr stern who is an authority on bullet wounds is convinced of that even if there was no other evidence such as the chauffeurs and the archer artists I told you of, together with the impressions formed by Bates and others. Were there no footprints, was the next question, and Fenley eyed the ground critically. He deemed those Scotland Yard Johnny's thick-headed chaps at best. None of any value. Since ten o'clock, however, dozens of new ones have been made. That is why the policeman is keeping an eye on the place.

chiefly to worn-off intruders. Shall we return to the house? It's a strange business, said Fenley, striding down the slope by Furno's side. Why in the world should anyone want to shoot my poor old governor? He was straight as a die, and I don't know a soul who had any real grievance against him. Furno did not appear to be listening. The two were approaching the patch of moisture. earth which bore the impress of Robert Fenley's boots.

By the way, he said suddenly, are you aware that there is a sort of a theory that your father was shot by a rifle belonging to you? What? Roared the other, and it was hard to say whether rage or astonishment predominated in his voice. Is that one of Hilton's dodges to get me into trouble? but you do own an express rifle which you keep in your sitting-room. Where is it now?

In the place where it always is, standing in a corner behind the bookcase. When did you see it last, Mr. Fenley? How the deuce do I know? I give it a run-through with an oiled rag about once a month. It must be nearly a month since I cleaned it. It has gone. Gone where? I wish I knew, but who the devil could have taken it.

If ever a man was floundering in a morass of wrath and amazement, it was this loud-voiced youngster. He was a slow-witted lout, but the various dullard must have perceived that the disappearance of the weapon, which presumably killed his father, was a serious matter for its owner. In order to grasp this new phase of the tragedy in its proper bearings, he stood stock still and gazed blankly into the serious face of the detective. Furneau knew he would do that. It was a mannerism. Some men cannot think and move at the same

moment, and Robert Fenley was one. Naturally, young Fenley did not know that he was leaving a new set of footprints by the side of the others already attributed to him. Having done that, he was no longer wanted. We'll solve every part of the puzzle in time, said Furneau slowly, moistening his thin lips with his tongue, as if he were about to taste another glass of rare old vintage wine. I mentioned the fact of the gun being missing to show you how unmoor, you were this morning, you shouldn't have bolted off as you did when Mr. Winter requested

you to remain. I have it the least doubt, Mr. Fenley, that you can prove you were in London at the time the murder was committed, and during some days prior to it, but the police like these matters to be cleared up. If I may give you a hint, you'll tell the superintendent that you regret your behavior and show you mean what you say by giving him all the information he asks for. Here he is now. I hear Mr. Hilton's car, and Mr. Winter is coming with him from town. Mr. Hilton's car? It's no more his car than mine. You mark my words, there will be trouble in the family if my brother starts bossing things. He hates me and would do. do me an ill turn if he could.

Was it Hilton who spread this story about my gun? No, rather the reverse. He kept your name studiously out of it. Who was it then? I have a right to know. I fail to recollect just how the matter cropped up. It was the direct outcome of the common observation of several persons who heard the report and who were able to discriminate between one class of gun and another. Anyhow, there is no occasion for you to squeal before you are hurt.

You acted like a fool this morning. Try and behave yourself more reputably now. The prophet Balam was not more taken aback when rebuked by his ass than Robert Fenley when Furneau turned and rent him in this fashion. hitherto the detective's manner had been mildness itself, so this change of front was all the more staggering. Oh, I say, came the blustering protest. I don't allow any of you fellows to talk to me like that. I—you'll hear worse in another second, if you really annoy me, said Furnow.

Herefore no one seems to have trouble to inform you what a special sort of idiot you are. Though your last words to your father were a threat that you were inclined to shoot him and your precious self, when you saw him lying dead, you thought of nothing but your own wretched follies, and bolted off to Hendon Road Battersea instead of remaining here and trying to help the police. When I tell you your gun is missing, you yelp about your brother's animosity. Before your father is laid in his grave, you threaten to upset the household, because your brother acts as its master. Why shouldn't he? Are you fitted to take the reins or share his responsibility? If you were at your right job, Robert Fenley, you'd be carrying bricks and mortar in a hod, for you haven't brains enough to lay a brick or use a trowel.

The victim of this outburst thought that the detective had gone mad, though the reference to Hendon Road had startled him, and a scared expression had come into his eyes. A look here, he began, but Furneau checked him again instantly. I've looked at you long enough to sum you up as a sulky puppy, he said. If you had any sort of gumption, you would realize that you occupy, a singularly precarious position. Or it's not for the lucky accident

that my colleague and I were on the spot this morning, it is more than likely that the county police would have arrested you at sight. Don't give us any more trouble, or you'll be left to stew in your own juice. I have warned you once and for all. If you care to swallow your spleen and amend your manners,

I shall try to believe you are more idiot than names. At present, I am dubious which way the balance tips. Furno stocked off rapidly, leaving the other to fume with indignation as he followed. With his almost uncanny gift of imaginative reasoning, the Jerseyman had guessed the purport of Fenley's talk with Sylvia in the garden. He had watched the two from a window of the dining room and had read correctly the girl's ill-concealed scorn, not quite devoid of dread, as revealed by face and gesture.

To make sure he whelayed her in the hall while she was hurrying to her apartments, then he sauntered after Robert Fenley and only bided his time to empty upon him the vitals of his wrath. he had taken the oaths measure with a nice exactitude to trounce him without frightening him also was only inviting a complaint to the commissioner but furneaux was well aware that the longer robert fenley's dull brain dwelt on the significance of that address in battersea being known to the police the less ready would he be to stir a hornet's nest into activity by showing his resentment. Obviously, Furno's methods were not those advocated in the police manual. Any other man who practiced them would risk dismissal,

but the little un of the yard was a law unto himself. Meanwhile, he was hurrying after the big un, such, it will be recalled, were the respective nicknames Ferno and Winter had received in the department, who had alighted from the car and was listening to Hilton Fenley, berating a servant for having permitted Trenholm to make known his presence to Miss Manning. The man, however, protested that he had done nothing of the sort. Miss Sylvia had been called to the lodge telephone, and the footman's acquaintance with the facts went no farther.

Smothering his annoyance as best he could, Fenley rang up Mrs. Bates and asked for particulars. When the woman explained what had happened, he rejoined Winter in the hall, paying no heed to Ferneau, who was entering at the moment. That artist fellow, who was trespassing in the park this morning, if nothing worse is proved against him, must have a superb cheek, he said angrily.

He actually had the impertinence to ask, Miss Manning to meet him, no doubt offering some plausible yarn as an excuse. I hope you'll test his story thoroughly, Mr. Winter. At the least, he should be forced to say what he was doing in these grounds at such an unusual hour. He is putting himself right with Miss Manning now, broke in, furneau. Putting himself right with Miss Manning, what the deuce do you mean, sir? could snarl effectively when in the mood, and none might deny his present state of irritation be the cause what it might. That young lady is the only person to whom he owes an explanation. He is giving it to her now. Will you kindly be more explicit? Ferno glanced from his infuriated

questioner to winter, his face one note of mild interrogation and non-comprehension. Really, Mr. Fenley, I have said the same thing in two different ways, he cried. As a rule, I contrive to be tolerably lucid in my remarks. Don't I, Mr. Robert? For the younger Fenley had just come up. What's up now was Robert's non-committal answer? For some reason, his brother did not reply, but Furneau suddenly grew valuable. Of course, you haven't heard that an artist named Trinon was painting near the lake this morning when your father was killed, he said.

Fortunately, he was there before and after the shot was fired. He can prove almost to a yard, the locality, where the murderer was concealed. In fact, he is coming home. here tomorrow at my request to go over the ground with me an interesting feature of the affair is that mr trenholm is a genius i have never seen better work one of his drawings a water-collar has all the brilliancy and light of a david cox but another in oil is a positive masterpiece it must have been done in a few minutes because miss manning did not know he was sitting beneath the cedars and it is unreasonable to suppose that she would preserve the same pose for any length of time sufficiently long that is did the bounder paint a picture of sylvia bathing broke in robert his red face purple with rage "'Allow me to remind you that you are speaking of a painter of transcendent merit,' said Furno, swavely. "'When I meet him, I'll give him a damn good hiding.' "'He's rather tall and strongly built.

"'I don't care how big he is, I'll down him.' "'Oh, stop this pothouse talk,' put in Hilton, giving the blusterer a contemptuous glance. Mr. Furneau you seem primed with information. Why should Mr. Tranom, if that is his name, have the audacity to call on Miss Manning? He might have the impudence to skulk among the shrubs and watch a lady bathing, but I fail to see any motive for his visit this evening.

There is no set formula that expresses the artistic temperament, he said. the man who passes whole years in studying the nude is often endowed with very high moral sets mr trenome though carried away by enthusiasm this morning may be consumed with remorse to-night if he imagines that the lady who formed the subject of his sketch is likely to be distressed because of it i fear i am to blame i stopped mr trenome from destroying the picture to-day he meant burning it since he had the sense to realize that he would be summoned as a witness not only at to-morrow's inquest but when the affair comes before the courts. I was bound to point out that the drawings supplied his solitary excuse for being in the locality at all. He saw that. Unwillingly, it is true, but with painful clearness, so I assume that his visit to Miss Manning was expiatory, a sort of humble obeisance to a goddess whom he had offended unwittingly. I assume that his visit to Miss Manning was expiatory, a sort of humble obeisance to a goddess,

I assume, too, that his plea for mercy has not proved wholly unsuccessful, or Miss Manning would not now be walking with him across the park. What? roared Robert. He turned to the gaping footman, for the whole conversation had taken place in the hall. Which way did Miss Sylvia go? he cried. Down the avenue, sir, said the man. I saw Miss Sylvia. They meet the gentleman, and after some talk they went through the trees to the right.

Robert raced off. Winter, who had not interfered hitherto, because Furno always had a valid excuse for his indiscretions, made as if he would follow and restrain the younger Fenley. But Furnow caught his eye and winked. That sufficed. The superintendent contented himself. with gazing after Robert Fenley, who ran along the avenue until clear of the quarry wood, when he too plunged through the line of elms and was lost to sight. Hilton watched his impetuous brother

with a brooding underlook. He still held in his hand a leather portfolio bulging with papers, some of which he had placed there when winter opened the door of the railway coach in St. Pancras Station. the footman offered to relieve him of it but was swept aside with a gesture i have never known robert so excited and erratic in his movements as he has been to-day he said at last i hope he will not engage in a vulgar quarrel with this mr trenholm especially in miss manning's presence apparently he could not quite control his voice in which he could not quite control his voice in which he was a sense of unctuous amusement revealed itself. Furno could not resist such an opportunity. He had pierced Robert's thick skin. Now he undertook a more delicate operation.

That would be doubly unfortunate, he said, chuckling quietly, if I am any judge of men, Mr. Robert Fenley, would meet more than his match in our artist friend, while he would certainly undo all the good effect of an earlier and most serious and convincing conversation with the young lady. Hilton swung around on him. When did my brother return from London? he asked. Shortly before five o'clock, he and Miss Manning had tea together, and afterward strolled in the gardens. I don't wonder at any art. artist wishing to sketch Miss Manning. Do you? If I may be allowed to say it, I have never seen a more

graceful and a charming girl. May I inquire if you have made any progress in the particular inquiry for which I brought you here? Hilton Fenley spoke savagely. He meant to be offensive, since the innuendo was unmistakable. Apparently, Furno's remarks had achieved some high Dormick effect. Oh, yes, was the offhand answer. I have every reason to believe that Mr. Winter and I will make an arrest without undue loss of time. I'm glad to hear it.

Thus far, your methods have not inspired the confidence I, as a member of the public, was inclined to repose in Scotland Yard. I am going to my rooms now, and dine at a quarter to eight. About nine o'clock I wish to go into matters thoroughly with Mr. Winter and you. At present, I think it only fair to say that I am not satisfied with the measures, whatever they may be, you have seen fit to adopt. He seemed to await a retort, but none came.

So he strode across the hall and hurried up the stairs. Furno continued to gaze blankly down the long straight avenue, nor did he utter a word till a door opened and closed on the first floor in the southeast corner. Then he spoke. Some people are very hard to please, he said plaintively. Winter beckoned to the footman. Do you mind asking Mr. Tomlinson if he can come here for a moment? he said. When the man disappeared, he muttered,

Why are you stroking everybody's fur the wrong way, Charles? A useful simile, James. If they resemble cats, we may see sparks, and each of those young men has something of the tiger in him. But things have gone horribly wrong all day, after a highly promising start, too. I don't see that we are any nearer. laying hands on a murderer because we have unearthed various little scandals in the lives of Mortimer Fenley's sons, and what game are you playing with this artist Trannome? The supremely interesting problem just now is the game which he is playing with Robert Fenley.

If that young ass attacks him, he'll get the licking he wants, and if you're in any doubt, doubt about my pronouns? Oh, dash, you and your pronouns. Here's Tomlinson. Quick, have you a plan of any sort? Three, three separate lines of attack, each deadly. But there are folk whose mental equipment renders them incapable of understanding plain English. Now, my friend Tomlinson will show you what I mean. I'll ask him a simple question, and he will give you a perfect example of a direct answer. Tomlinson, can you tell me what the extrados of a vusois is? No, Mr. Furneau, I cannot, said the butler,

smiling at what he regarded as the little man's humor. There, said Furneau delightedly, ain't I a prophet, no evasions about Tomlinson, are there? I think you're cracked, growled Winter, picking up his suitcase. If I'm to stay here tonight, I shall want a room of some sort. Mr. Thominson, can you share mine, broke inferno. I'm the quietest sleeper living. Our friend here is sure to have at disposal a room with two beds in it.

The principal guest room is unoccupied. said the butler. Where is it? On the first floor, sir, facing south. Couldn't be better, the very thing. Ah, here comes my baggage. And the others saw a policeman, bicycling up the avenue with a small portmanteau balanced precariously between the handlebars and the front buttons of his tunic. You gentlemen will dine in my room, I hope. said Tomlinson, when he had escorted them upstairs. We are not invited to the family circle, at any rate, said Winter. Well, you will not suffer on that account, announced Tomlinson genially.

Of course, I shall not have the pleasure of sharing the meal with you, but dinner will be served at a quarter to eight. Mr. Furno knows his way about the house, so with your permission I'll leave you at present. If you're disengaged at 9.30, I'll be glad to see you in my sanctum. Isn't he a gem? cried Furnow, when the door had closed, and he and Winter were alone. Winter sat down on the side of a bed. He was worried and did not strive to hide it. For the first time in his life he felt distrustful.

of himself, and he suspected, too, that Furnow was only covering abject failure by a display of high spirits. Why so pensive an attitude, James? inquired the other, softly. Are you still wondering what the exteratos of a Vosua is? I don't care a tupenny damn what it is. But that's where you're wrong. That's where you're crass and pig-headed. The exfados of a Vosua, oh, kill it and let it die happy.

Is the outer curve of a wedge-shaped stone used for building an arch? Now mark you, those are words of merit. Wedge, arch. Wedges of fact which shall construct the arch of evidence. We'll have. our man in the dock across that bridge before we are much older. Confounded, how!

He couldn't be in his bedroom and in the quarry wood, four hundred yards away at one end the same moment. Furno gazed fixedly at his friend's forehead, presumably the seat of reason. Sometimes, James, you make me gasp with an amazed admiration. could. You do, really, you arrive at the same conclusion as I, a thinker, without any semblance of thought process on your part. How do you manage it? Is it through association with me? You know there is such a thing as inductive electricity. A current passing through a highly

charged wire can excite another wire, even a common iron one, without actual contact. I've had a rotten afternoon, and don't feel up to your far-fetched jokes just now. So if you have nothing to report, shut up, said the superintendent crossly. Then I'll cheer your melancholy with a bit of real news, brightened by imagination, answered for no promptly. Hilton Fenley couldn't have fired the rifle himself, except by certain bizarre means which I shall lay before the court later. But he planned and contrived the murder down to the smallest detail. He wore Brother Robert's boots when available. From appearances, Brother Robert is now wearing the identical pair which made those footprints we saw,

but I shall know in the morning, for that fiery young sprig obligingly left another well-marked set of prints in the same place twenty minutes ago. When circumstances compelled Hilton to walk that way in his own boots, he slipped on two roughly made moccasins, which he burned last night, having no further use for them, therefore he knew the murder would take place this morning. I've secured shreds of the sacking, out of which he made the pads to cover his feet. And an undergarner remembers seeing Mr. Hilton make off with an empty potato sack one day last week and wondering why he wanted it. During some mornings recently, Hilton Fenley breakfasted early and went out, but invariably had an excuse for not

accompanying his father to the city. He was then studying the detail. He was then studying the detail. of the crime, making sure that an expert, armed with a modern rifle, could not possibly miss such a target as a man standing outside a doorway, and elevated above the ground level by some five feet or more. No servant could possibly observe that Mr. Hilton was wearing Mr. Robert's boots, because they do not differ greatly in size, but, But, luckily for us, a criminal always commits an error of some sort, and Hilton blundered badly when he made those careful imprints of his brother's feet, as the weather has been fine recently, and the only mud in this locality lies in that hollow of the quarry wood.

It happens that some particles of that identical mud were embedded in the carpet of Hilton Fenley's sitting room. I'm sorry to have to say it, because the housemaid is a nice girl. Never mind the housemaid, go on. Exactly what the housemaid would remark if she heard be, only she would giggle, and you look infernally serious. Next item, Hilton Fenley, like most high-class scoundrels, has the nerves of a cat with all a cat. fiendish brutality. He could plan and carry out a callous crime and lay a subtle trail which must lead to that crybaby Robert, but he was unable to control his emotions when he saw his father's corpse. That is where the murderer nearly always fails. He can never picture in

death that which he hated and doomed in life. There is an an element in death, chuck it, said Winter, unfeelingly. Furno winced and affected to be deeply hurt. The worst feature of service in Scotland Yard is its demoralizing effect on the finer sentiments, he said sadly. Men lose all human instincts when they become detectives

or newspaper reporters. Now the ordinary policeman oftentimes remains quite soft-hearted. For instance, police constable Pharaoh, though preening himself on being the pivot on which this case revolves, was much affected by Hilton Fenley's first heartbroken words to him. Poor young gentleman, said Pharaoh, when we were discussing the affair this afternoon,

he was cut up something orifle. I didn't think he had it in him. Selt me, I didn't. Told me to act for the best, said someone had fired a bullet which nearly tore his father to pieces. There was more of the same sort of thing, and I got Pharaoh to jot down the very words in his notebook. Of course, he doesn't guess why. Now, I wonder how Hilton Fenley knew the effect of that bullet on his father's body. The doctor had not arrived. There had been only a superficial examination by Tomlinson of the orifice of the wound. What other mind in Roxton would picture to itself the havoc caused by an expanding bullet?

The man who uttered those words knew what sort of bullet had been used. He knew it would tear his father's body to peace. a neurotic imagination was at work and that cry of horror was the soul's unconscious protest against the very fiendishness of its own deed oh yes let these fenley's quarrel about that girl and we'll see hilton marching steadily toward the old bailey of course we'll assist him we'll make certain he doesn't deviate or falter on the road but he'll far it and of his own accord and the first long stride will be taken when he goes to the quarry wood to revive the rifle which lies hidden there winter whistled softly then he looked at his watch by jove turned half-past seven he said ha cackled furneau james is himself again we have hardly a scrap of a evidence, but that doesn't trouble our worthy superintendent a little bit, and he'll enjoy his dinner far better than he thought possible ten minutes ago.

By the time you've tasted a bottle from Tom Linson's favorite bin, you'll be preparing a brief for the treasury solicitor. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of the strange case of Mortimer Fenley. by Louis Tracy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Some preliminary skirmishing. Now, perhaps, taking advantage of an interval while the representatives of Scotland Yard sought the aid of soap and water as a preliminary to a meal, it is permissible to wander in the gloaming with Sylvia Manning and her escort. To speak of the gloaming is a loaming is a

a poetic license, it is true. Seven o'clock on a fine summer evening in England is still broad daylight, but daylight of a quality that lends itself admirably to the exigencies of romance. There is a species of dreaminess in the air. The landscape assumes soft tints unknown to a fiery sun. Tender shadows steal from undiscovered realms. It is permissible to believe that every night on Parnassus is a night in June. At first, these two young people were at a loss to know what to talk about.

By tacit consent, they ignored the morning's tragedy, yet they might not indulge in the irresponsible chatter, which would have provided a ready resource under normal conditions. luckily Tranom remembered that the girl said she painted. It is a relief to find that you also are of the elect, he said. An artist will look at my pictures with the artist's eye. There are other sorts of eyes, Eliza's, for instance. Do you know Eliza of the white horse?

Sylvia collected her wits, which were wool-gathering. I think I have met her at village bazaars and tea fights, she said. Is she a stout red-faced woman? Both, to excess. But her chief attribute is her tongue, which has solved the secret of perpetual motion. Had it kept silent, even for a few seconds, at lunchtime today, that sharp-eyed and a rabbit-eared detective would never have known, of the second picture, your picture, because I can eke out my exhibits by a half-finished sketch

of the lake and a pencil note of the gates. But putting the bits of the puzzle together afterwards, I came to the conclusion that Mary, our kitchen-maid, passed my room, saw the picture on the easel, and was scandalized. She, of course, told Elyle. Eliza, who went to be shocked on her own account, and then came downstairs and pitched into me. At that moment, the Scotland Yardman turned up. Is it so very dreadful, then? Dreadful. It may fall far short of the standard set by my own vanity, but given any sort of skill in the painter,

how can a charming study of a girl in a bathing-com? standing by the side of a statue of Aphrodite be dreadful. Of course, Miss Manning, you can hardly understand the way in which a certain section of the public regards art. In studio jargon we call it the, O-Ma, crowd, that being the favorite exclamation of the young ladies who peep and condemn. These people are the hopeless Philistines who argue about the sex of angels. and demand that nude statues shall be draped. But my picture must speak for itself.

Tell me something about your own work. Are you taking up painting seriously? Now, to be candid, Sylvia herself was not wholly emancipated from the state of Philistinism, which Chenom was railing at. Had he been less eager to secure a favorable verdict, or even less agitated by the unlooked-for condescension she was showing, he would have seen the absurdity of classing a girl of twenty with the lovers of art for arts sake.

Those earnest-eyed enthusiasts who regard a perfect curve or an inimitable flesh-tint as of vastly greater importance than the squeamishness of the young person. painters have their limitations as well as Mrs. Grundy, and John Tranome did not suffer a fool gladly. Sylvia, however, had a good sense to realize that she was listening to a man whose finer instincts had never been trampled by conventions, which might be wholesome in an academy for young ladies. Certainly she wondered what sort of figure she cuts in this much, debated picture. But that interesting point would be determined shortly. Meanwhile, she answered demurely enough, I am afraid you have taken me too seriously. I have hardly progressed beyond

the stage where one discovers, with a sort of gasp, that trees may be blue or red, and skies green. Though I am going to look at your pictures, Mr. Trenholm it by no means follows, that i shall ever dare to show you any of mine still i think you must have the artistic soul why there was more than mere physical delight in your swimming this morning You reveled in the sunlight, in the golden air, in the scents of trees and shrubs and flowering grass. First-rate swimmer as you are, you would not have enjoyed that dip half as much if it were taken in a covered bath, where your eyes dwelt only on white tiles and dressing booths. The girl, subtly aware of a new element in life, was alarmed by its piercing sweetness. and with ruthless logic brought their talk back to a commonplace level.

Roxden seems to be a rather quaint place to find you in, Mr. Trenome. She said, How did you happen on our tiny village? Though so far from London, we are quite a byway. Why did you pay us a visit? So Trenome dropped to Earth again, and they spoke of matters of slight import, till the boundary wall was reached.

Sylvia hailed a man attending cattle in the farmyard, and the artist vaulted the wall, which was breast-high. The girl wondered if she could do that. When opportunity surged, she would try. Resting her elbows on the coping stones, she watched Trenome as he hurried away among the buildings and made for the village. She had never before met such a man

or anyone even remotely like him. He differed essentially from the Fenley's, greatly as the brothers themselves differed. Without conscious effort to please, he had qualities that appealed strongly to women, and Sylvia knew now that no consideration would induce her to marry either of her cousins. If asked to put her thoughts into words,

she would have bogled at the task, for intuition is not to be defined in set speech. In her own way, she had summed up the characteristics of the two men, with one of whom marriage had been at least a possibility. Hilton, she feared, and Robert, she despised. So if either was to become her husband, it would be Hilton. But five minutes of John Chenome's companionship, had given her a standard by which to measure her suitors, and both fell woefully short of its demands.

She saw, with startling clearness of vision, that Hilton, the schemer, and Robert the Wastrel, led selfish lives. Souls they must possess, but souls starved by lack of spirituality. Souls pent in done prisons of their own contriving. She was so lost in thought, thought that strayed from crystal bright imageries to nebulous shapes, at once dark and terrifying, that the first intimation she received of Robert Fenley's approach was his sterturous breathing. From a rapid walk he had broken into a jog-trot when he saw Trenholm

vanish over the wall. Of late, he seldom walked or rode a horse, and he had broken into a jog-trot, and he saw Trenome vanish over the wall. of late he seldom walked or rode a horse and he was slightly out of condition so his heavy face was flushed and perspiring and his utterance somewhat labored when the girl turned at his cry i say sylvia you've given me such a chase who the deuce is that fellow and what are you doing here robert had appeared at an inauspicious moment Sylvia eyed him with a new disfavor. He was decidedly gross, both in manner and language. She was sure he could not have vaulted the wall. I'm not aware that I call for any chasing on your part, she said, with an aloofness perilously akin to disdain.

He halted, panting, and eyed her sulkily. No, but dash at all, you can't go away. walking around with any rotten outsider who forces himself into your company, was the most amiable reply he could frame on the spur of the moment. "'You are short of breath,' she said, "'smiling in a curiously impersonal way. "'Run back to the house. It will do you good.' "'All right, you run with me.

"'The first gong will go any minute, and we've got to eat, you know, "'even though the pater is dead.' "'It was an unhappy illusion,' Sylvia stiffened. "'My poor uncle's death did not seem to trouble you greatly this morning,' she said. "'Kindly leave me now. I'll follow soon. "'I'm waiting for Mr. Trenholm, who wants to show me some sketches.' "'A nice time to look at sketches, upon my word. "'And whose Trenolm I'd like to know?'

sylvia bethought herself certainly an explanation was needful and her feminine witch supplied one instantly mr ternom was sent here by the scotland yard people she said a trifle less frigidly i suppose we shall all be mixed up in the inquiry the detectives are holding and it seems that mr ternome was at work in the park this morning when that awful affair took place unknown to me i was near the spot where he was sketching before breakfast and one of the detectives the little one says it is important that the fact should be proved mr trenome called to tell me just what happened so you see there is nothing in his action that should annoy anyone you least of any since you were away from home at the time but why has he mizzle over the wall. He is staying at the White Horse Inn and has gone to fetch his drawings. Oh, I didn't understand. If that's it, I'll wait till he turns up. You'll soon get rid of him. Sylvia had no valid reason to urge against this decision, but she did not desire Robert's company and chose a feminine method of resenting it. I don't think Mr. Trenome will be anxious to beat you.

she said coolly. Why not? You are such a transparent person in your likes and dislikes. You have never even seen him in the ordinary sense of the word, yet you speak of him in a way so unwarranted, so ridiculously untrue, that your manner might annoy him. My manner indeed. Is he so precious, then? By gad, it'll be interesting. to look this rare bird over. She turned her back on him and leaned on the wall again. Her slight lissom figure acquired a new elegance from her black dress. Robert had never set eyes on Sylvia in such a costume before that day.

Hitherto she had been a schoolgirl, a flapper, a straight-limbed, boyish young person in long frocks. But today she seemed to have put on a new air of woman. and he found it strangely attractive. There's no sense in our quarreling about the chap, anyhow, he said with a gruff attempt to smooth away difficulties. Of course, I shan't let on I followed you, just spotted you in the distance and joined you by chance, don't you know?

Sylvia did not answer. She was comparing Robert Fenley's conversational style with John Tranom's, and the comparison was unflattering to Robert. So he, too, came and leaned on the wall. I'm sorry if I annoyed you just now, Sil. He said that dashed little detective is to blame he does put things in such a beastly unpleasant way. But what things?

Why, about you and me and all of us, gave me a regular lecture because I went back to town this morning. I couldn't help it, old girl. I really couldn't. I had to settle some urgent business. But that's all ended now. The painter's death has steadied me. No more gallivanting off to London for me. Settle down in Rockston, board of guardians on Saturdays, church on Sunday,

tea and tennis at the vicarage, and you come to our place tomorrow. You know the sort of thing. old-fashioned, respectable and comfy. I'll sell my motorbike and start a car. Motorbikes make a fellow a bit of a vagabond, eh what? They will go the pace. You can't stop them. Fifty per and be hanged to the police.

That's their motto. It sounds idyllic. The girl forced herself to say lightly, but her teeth met with a snap, for she remembered how Trinome had said, of her that she reveled in the sunlight, in the golden air, in the scents of trees and shrubs and flowering grasses. There was a musical cadence in her voice that restored Robert's surly good-humor. He was of that peculiar type of spoiled youth whose laugh is a guffaw and whose

mirth ever holds a snarl. Here comes your paint-slinger, he said, wonder if he really can stage a decent picture if so when the present fuss is ended we'll get him to do a group you and me and the keepers and dogs in front of the warren covert next october after a big drive how would that be i'm sure mr chanom will feel flattered when chanonohm approached he was not too well pleased to find miss manning in charge of a new cavalier From items gathered earlier in the village, he guessed the newcomer's identity. Perhaps he expected that the girl would offer an introduction. But she only smiled pleasantly and said, You must have hurried. I do hope I haven't put you to any inconvenience.

Eliza informed me that she had just popped my chicken in the oven, so there's plenty of time, he said, I suppose it makes one hot to be constantly popping things into ovens. In the course of years, one should become a sort of salamander. Have you ever read the autobiography of that great artist, and very complete rascal Benvenuto Cellini? He is the last person reputed to have seen a real salamander in the fire. And he only remembered the fact,

because his father beat him, lest he should forget it. Ben-who, broke in Robert cheerfully. Benvenuto Cellini. Never heard of him. Well, let's have a peep-bo, Miss Manning and I dine at quarter to eight. You've been taking some snapshots in the park, I'm told. If they've got any ginger in them. Probably you will describe them as hot stuff, said Chanone,

laying a portfolio on the... the wall in front of Sylvia and opening it. This is a pencil drawing of the great gates, he went on, ignoring Fenley. Of course, they're wrens, and therefore beautiful. Roxden Park holds a real treasure in those gates, Miss Manning. Here is a watercolor sketch of the house and grounds. Do you like it? Oh, it is exquisite.

Why, you have caught the very glint of it. sunshine on the walls and roofs, and it is shimmering in the leaves of that copper beach. Ah, me, it looks so easy. Robert peered over her shoulder. Sylvia's gasp of admiration annoyed him, but he looked and said nothing. This, continued Trenholm, is an unfinished study of the lake. I was so busily occupied that I was not aware of your presence until you were. were quite near at hand. Then when you dived into the water,

I grabbed a canvas and some tubes of paint. Here is the result, completed to a large extent in my room at the inn. He took a picture out of a compartment of the portfolio specially constructed to protect an undried surface and placed it at an angle that suited the light. His tone was unconcerned, for he had steeled. himself against this crucial moment. Would she be angered? Would those limpid blue eyes,

Violet, now in shadow, be raised to his in protest and vexed dismay? During the brief walk to to and from the inn, he had recollected the girl's age, her surroundings, the cramping influences of existence in a society of middle-class city folk. He felt like a prisoner awaiting a verdict when the issue was doubtful, and a wave of impulse might sway the jury one way or the other. But he held his head high, and his face flushed slightly, for there could be no gain-saying the message glowing from that cunning brushwork. There were two goddesses, one in marble, and one palpitating with life. The likeness, too, was undeniable. if one was a replica of Greek art at its zenith, the other was unmistakably Sylvia Manning.

The girl gazed long and earnestly. Her pale cheeks had reddened for an instant, but the flood of surprise and emotion ebbed as quickly as it flowed and left her wan with parted lips. At last she looked at Tranome and spoke. Thank you, she said, and their eyes met. The artist understood, and he in turn blanched somewhat. Rather hastily, he replaced the picture in its receptacle.

Robert Fenley coughed and grinned, and the spell was broken. You said I'd call it hot stuff, he said, well, you sized my opinion up to a tea. Of course, it's jolly, clever. Any fellow can see that. Good night, Mr. Trenholm, said Sylvia, and she made off at a rapid pace. Robert grinned again.

No young lady would stand that sort of thing. He chuckled. You didn't really think she would, eh what? But look here, I'll buy it. Send me a line later. He hurried after Sylvia, running to overtake her. Trenom stood there a long time. in fact until the two were hidden by the distant line of trees.

Then he smiled. So you are Robert Fenley, he communed packing the portfolio leisurely. Well, if Sylvia Manning marries you, I'll be a bachelor all my days, for I'll never dare imagine I know anything about a woman's soul. though I'm prepared at this hour of grace to stake my career that that girl's soul is worthy of her very perfect body. Puffing a good deal, Fenley contrived to overhaul his cousin. By Jing, Sylvia, you can step out a bit, he said,

and you change your mind mighty quick. Five minutes ago you were ready to wait any length of time till that Johnny turned up, and now you're doing more than five per. What's the rush? It's only half-past seven. We don't dress to-night. I'm not dining downstairs, she answered. Oh, I say, I can't stand, Hilton, all alone. Nor can I stand either of you. She was tempted, to retort, but contented herself by saying that she had arranged for a meal to be served in her aunt's room. grumble and growl as he might, Robert could not shake her resolve.

He was in a vile temper when he reached the dining room. His brother had not arrived, so he braced himself for an ordeal by drinking a stiff whiskey in soda. When Hilton came in, the pair nodded to each other, but ate in silence. At last, Robert glanced up at Tomlinson. Just shove the stuff on the table and clear out. he said, We'll help ourselves. Mr. Hilton and I want to have a quiet talk.

Hilton gave him a quick underlook, but he did not interfere. Perhaps purposely, when the servants had left the room, he opened the battle with a sneer. I hope you didn't make a fool of yourself this evening, he said. As how, queried Robert, wondrously subdued to all appearance, though aching to give the other what he called a bit of his mind.

I understand you made after Sylvia and the artist, meaning to chastise somebody. You were wrong, said Robert slowly. You nearly always are. I make mistakes myself, but I own up handsomely. You don't. That's where we differ, see? I see differences, and Hilton helped himself to a glass of claret.

Trenom, the artist, Johnny, is a clever chap. Slightly cracked, as they all are, but dash clever. By gad, you ought to see the picture he's painted of Sylvia. Anyhow, you will see it. I've bought it. Really? I said I'd buy it. Same thing. He'll jump at the offer. they'll hang in my dressing room. I don't suppose Sylvia will kick about a trifle like that when we're married.

Hilton was holding the glass of wine to his lips. His hand shook, and he spilled a little, but he drank the remainder. Oh, and did you decide to marry Sylvia? He inquired after a pause which might have been needed to gain control of his voice. It's been decided for a long. time, said Robert, doggedly, himself, showing some signs of enforced restraint. It was the Pater's wish, as you know. I'm sorry now, I didn't fix matters before he died, but better late than never. I asked Sylvia today, and we've arranged to get married quite soon.

Are you by any chance telling the truth? What the blazes do you mean? And Robert's fist pounded the table heavily. Exactly what I say. You say that you and Sylvia have arranged to get married quite soon. Those were your words. Is that true? Confound you. Of course it is. Sylvia has actually agreed to that. I asked her, what more do you want? I am merely inquiring civilly what she said. Dasht it, you know. know what girls are like you ought to isn't eileen garth a bit coy at times one might remark that mrs lyell also was coy look here began the other furiously but the other checked him let us stop bickering like a couple of counter-joppers he said and a shrewder man than robert might have been warned by the slow incisive utterance you make an astonishing announcement on an occasion when it might least be expected, yet resent any doubt being thrown on its accuracy.

Did or did not, Sylvia, accept you? Well, she said something about not wishing to talk of marriage so soon after the old man's death, but that was just her way of putting it. I mean to marry her, and when a fellow, has made up his mind on a thing like that. It's best to say so and have done with it. Sylvia's a jolly nice girl, and has plenty of tin. I'm first in the field, so I'm warning off any other candidates, see? Yes, I see, said Hilton, pouring out another glass of wine. This time his hand was quite steady, and he drank without mishap. Ain't you going to wish me luck, said

Robert, eyeing him viciously. I agree with Sylvia. The day we have lost our father is hardly a fitting time for such a discussion, or, shall I say, ceremony? You can say what the devil you like, and you can do what you like, only keep off my corns, and I won't tread on yours. Having, as he fancied, struck a decisive blow in the struggle for that break. Pryor Prize, Sylvia. Robert Fenley pushed back his chair, arose, waited a second for an answer which came not, and strode out, muttering something about being fed up. Hilton's face was lowered, and one nervous hand shaded his brows. Robert thought he had scored, but he could

not see the inhuman rage blazing in those hidden eyes. The discovery, had he made it, might not have distressed him, but he would surely have been puzzled by the strange smile which wrinkled Hilton's sallowed cheeks when the door closed and the Eurasian was left alone in the dining room. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Wherein Scotland Yard is dined and whined. Three dinners for two were in progress in the towers at one and the same hour.

One feast had been shortened by the ill-concealed hatred of each brother for the other. At the second, brooding care found unwonted lodgings in the charming personality of Sylvia Manning. Care, almost foreboding, heightened by the demented mutterings of her aunt. At the third, with the detectives, sat responsibility, but lightheartedly withal, since these seasoned manhunters could cast off their day's work like a garment. the first and second meals were of the high quality associated with english country houses of a superior class the third was a spread for epicures tomlinson saw to that he was catering for a gourmet in furneaux and rose to the requisite height the little man sighed as he tasted the soup what is it now inquired winter whose glance was dwelling appreciatively on a dusty bottle labelled cloveogne eighteen seventy nine i hate eating the food of a man whom i mean to produce as a star turn at the old bailey was the despondent answer "'So do I, if it comes to that,' said winter briskly.

"'But this appetizing menu comes out of another larder. "'I shall be vastly mistaken if we're not actually the guests of a certain pretty young lady. "'Finance of the Fenley order is not in good odor in the city. "'Have no scruples, my boy. "'We may be vultures at the feast, but before we see the end of the Fenley's, case, there will be a smash in Bishop's Gate Street, and Miss Sylvia Manning will be lucky if some sharp lawyer is able to grab some part of the wreckage for her benefit. Clear logic, at any rate, and furneau brightened visibly. I'll tell you what it's based on.

Our swarthy friend was examining lists of securities in the train. He didn't lift his head quickly enough took me for a ticket-puncher, I expect, so I had time to twig what he was doing. I'd like to run my eye over the papers in that leather portfolio. You may manage it. You're the luckiest fellow breathing. Such opportunities come your way. I have to make them. After an interlude, played by Sol Cobain, Winter shot an amused question at his companion. What's at the back of your head with regard to the artist and Miss Sylvia, he said? It's high time she spoke to a real man.

These Fenleys are animals, all of them. John Tranombe is a genius and a good-looking one. I met the girl in a corridor a while ago, and she was rather disconsolate, I thought. And with good reason, you've noticed how each brother eyes her. They'll fight like jackals before this night is out. I hope Sylvia will indulge in what women call a good cry. That will be Chenom's golden hour. Some French man, of course he was clever, being French,

says that a man should beware when a woman smiles, but he may dare all when she weeps. Are we marriage brokers, then? We must set the Fenlies at each other. throats. Yes, mused winter aloud, when a riz de vaubon-mama had passed like a dream. This affair is becoming decidedly interesting, but every why hath aware for, according to Shakespeare, tell me, and his voice sank to a whisper, tell me why you believe Hilton Fenley killed his father.

You nosed your way into that problem this afternoon. Between his mother and that girl, Eileen Garth, he was in a tight place. He stole those bonds. I fancied it at the time, but I know it now. They were negotiated in Paris by a woman who occupied a room in the Hotel d'Italy, Rue Comatta, Paris, and one of her registered boxes bore the rail. number 517. You little devil, blazed out winter, and you never said a word when I told you.

Astonishment has rendered you incoherent. You mean, of course, when you told me you had seen in Gloucester mansions a box labeled in accordance with the facts I have just retailed, but I yield that minor point. It is a purist, at best. I have supplied a motive, one motive, for the crime. The plotter feared discovery. But there are dozens of others. He was impatient of the old man's rigid control. Hilton is sharp and shrewd, and he guessed things were going wrong financially. He knew that his father's methods were out of debt, and believed he could straighten the tangle if the reins of power were not withheld too long. He saw that Sylvia Manning's gold was in the melting pot, and appreciated precisely the cause of the elder Fenley's anxiety that she should marry Robert. Once in the family, you know her fortunes were bound up with theirs.

while any cute lawyer could dish her in the marriage settlements, if sufficiently well paid, for a nasty job. When Sylvia was Mrs. Robert Fenley, and perhaps a mother of a squalling Fenley, the head of the business, could face the future, if not with confidence, at least with safety. But where would Hilton be then? The girl lost, the money in jeopardy, and he himself, steadily elbowed out. Crainon, I've known men murdered for less convincing reasons. Men, yes, not fathers. Some sons are the offspring of Beelzebub.

Consider the parentage in this instance. Fenley, a groom and horse-coper on the one hand, and the dark daughter of a Calcutta merchant on the other, if the progeny of such a union escaped a hereditary taint, it would be a miracle. Creamate Hilton Fenley, and his very dust will contain evil germs. You're strong in the theory, but weak in proof. That style of argument invariably nettled furneau. You must butt into a few more mysterious suites of apartments in London and elsewhere,

and you'll supply proof in bucketfuls, he snapped. But was there an accomplice? Squirm as you like, you can't get over the fact that Hilton was in his room when the bullet that killed his father came from the wood. He is not the sort of person likely to trust his liberty, his life even, to the keeping of any other human being. I start from the hypothesis that he alone planned and carried out the crime. So I do not lift my hands and cry impossible,

but I ask myself, how was it done? Well, there are several methods worthy of consideration. Clockwork, electricity, even a time fuse attached to the proper mechanism. I haven't really bothered myself yet to determine the means, because when that knowledge becomes indispensable, we must have our man under lock and key. Of course, the rifle is securely fixed in that the door opened. Tomlinson came in, smiling blandly.

I hope you are enjoying your dinner, gentlemen both, he said. You have made your cook, an artist, said furneau. I suppose you are happier here, than in a big London restaurant, said Winter. The butler appreciated such subtle compliments and beamed on them. With a little encouragement and advice, our chef can prepare a very eatable dinner, he said.

As for my own ambitions, I have had them like every man worth his salt, but I fill a comfortable chair here, no worry, no grumbling, not a soul to say NEM or Khan so long as things go smoothly. It must have been NEM all the time, giggled Furno, and Winter was so afflicted by a desire to sneeze that he buried his face in a napkin.

And how was the wine? Went on Tomlinson with an eye on the little man. Verno's features were crinkled in a Japanese smile. He wanted to kick Winter, who was quivering with suppressed laughter. I never expected to find such vintages in a house of the Mouvet Rich, he said. Perhaps you don't speak French, Mr. Tomlinson, so allow me to explain that I am alluding to men of wealth not born in the purple. Precisely, self-made.

Well, sir, poor Mr. Fenley left the stocking of his cellar, entirely to me. I gave the matter much thought. When my knowledge was at fault, I consulted experts, and the result, that is the result, cried Furnow, seizing the empty claret bottle, and planting it so firmly on the table that the cutlery danced. A shoulder of lamb served a la Subis appeared, and Tomlinson announcing that his presence in the dining-we-house, room had been dispensed with, thought he would join them in a snack. Being a hospitable creature, he opened another bottle of the Glovojeau, but his guests were not to be tempted.

Well, then, he said, in a few minutes, you must try our port. It is not a doduro, Mr. Furnow, but it has body and balque. Winter was better prepared this time. Moreover, he was carving and aware of a master's criticism, and there are occult problems connected with even such a simple joint as a shoulder of lamb. Furno, too, was momentarily subdued. He seemed to be reflecting, sadly, that statues of gold, silver, and bronze may have feet of clay. I have often thought, gentlemen, said the butler,

that yours must be a most interesting profession. You meet all sorts and conditions of men and women. We consort with the noblest malefactors, agreed for no. Dear me, sir, you do use the queerest words. Now I should never dream of describing a criminal as noble. Not in the generally accepted sense, perhaps, But you, I take it, have not had the opportunity of attending a really remarkable trial when, say, some intellectual giant among murderers is fighting for his life.

Believe me, no drama of the stage can rival that tragedy. The chief actor, remote, solitary, fenced away from the world he is hoping to re-enter, sits there in state. Every eye is on him, yet he faces judge, jury, counsel, witnesses, and audience with a calm dignity worthy of an emperor. He listens imperturbably to facts which may hang him, to lies which may lend color to the facts, to well-meaning guesses which are wide of the mark. truthful and false evidence is equally prone to err when guilt or innocence must be determined by circumstances alone. But the prisoner knows he is the one man able to discriminate between truth and falsity, yet he must not reveal the cruel stab of fact or the harmless buffet of fiction by so much as a flicker of an eyelid.

He surveys the honest blunderer and the perjured ruffian, I mean the counsel for the defense and the prosecution, respectively, with impartial scrutiny. If he is a sublime villain, he will call on heaven to testify that he is innocent, with a solemnity not surpassed by the judges who sentence him to death. Yes, please. a bit off the knuckle end. The concluding words were addressed to Winter,

and Tomlinson started, for he was wrapped up in the scene Furnow was depicting. That point of view had not occurred to me, he admitted. You'll appreciate it fully when you see Mr. Fenley's murderer in the dock, said Furnow. Ah, sir, that brings your illustration home, indeed. but shall we ever know who killed him certainly look at that high dome of intelligence glistening at you across the table but that it is forbid to tell the secrets of the prison-house it could a tale unfold whose slightest word would harrow up thy soul harris the footman entered carrying a decanter mr hilton fenley's compliments gentlemen and will you try to-y-y-trylop

this port. He says Mr. Tomlinson will recommend it, because Mr. Fenley himself seldom takes wine. Mr. Fenley will not trouble you to meet him again this evening. Mr. Tomlinson, Mr. Fenley wants you for a moment. The butler rose. That is the very wine I spoke of, he said. If Mr. Hilton did not touch it, Mr. Robert evidently appreciated it. He glanced at Harris. but the footmen did not even suspect that his character was at stake. The decanter was nearly full when placed on the sideboard. Now it was half empty. Singularly enough, both Winter and Furneau had intercepted that questioning glance

and had acquitted Harris simultaneously. Are the gentlemen still in the dining room, inquired Winter? Mr. Hilton is there, sir. but Mr. Robert went out some time since. Please convey our thanks to Mr. Hilton. I'm sure we shall enjoy the wine. When Tomlinson and Harris had gone, the eyes of the two detectives met.

They said nothing at first, and it may be remembered that they were reputedly most dangerous to a pursued criminal when working together silently. Winter took the deced, canter poured out a small quantity into two glasses and gave Furno one. Then they smelled and tasted and examined the wine critically. The rich red liquid might have been a poisonous decoction for the care they devoted to its analysis. Furnow began, I have so many sleepless nights

that I recognize bromide, no matter how it is disguised, he murmured. Comparatively harmless, though a strong dose, said Winter. If one has to swallow twenty grains or so of potassium bromide, I cannot conceive any pleasanter way of taking them than mixed with a sound porch. Winter filled one of the glasses four times, pouring each amount into a tumbler.

Furno looked into a cupboard and found, an empty beer bottle, which he rinsed with water. Meanwhile, Winter was fashioning a funnel out of a torn envelope, and in a few seconds the tumbler full of wine was in the bottle, and the bottle in winter's pocket. This stun, the big man lit a cigar, and the little one sniffed the smoke, which was his peculiar way of enjoying the weed. It was most thoughtful of Mr. Hilton Fenley, to try and secure us along night's uninterrupted sleep, said winter between puffs. But what a vitiated taste in wine he must attribute to Scotland Yard, said Furnow bitterly. Still, we should be grateful to him for supplying a gill of real evidence.

James, in some respects, he's cold-blooded as a fish. Besides, he carries bromide tablets for his. own use. He simply couldn't have arranged beforehand to dope us. He's getting scared. I should think so, indeed, in the Fenley sense, that is. His plot against Robert has miscarried in one essential. The rifle has not been found in the wood. Now I'm in chastened mood because the hour for action approaches. So I will own up. I've been keeping something up my sleeve, just for the joy of watching you floundering midst deep waters. Of course, you chose the right channel. I knew you would, but it's a treat to see your elephant-time struggles. For all that, it's a sheer impossibility

that you should guess who put a sprag in the wheel of Hilton's chariot, give you three tries for a new hat. You're desperately keen today on touching me for a new hat. Well, this time you have an outside chance. The others were certs for me. Winter smoked in silence. I'll take you, he said. The artist? No, the jersey man shook his head. Police constable Farrow ventured Winter again. Furno's dismay was so comical that his colleague shook with mirth. I wanted a new silk topper, wheezed winter. Silk topper be hanged.

I meant a straw, and that's what you'll get. But how the deuce did you manage to hit upon Pharaoh? He closed the quarry wood at the psychological moment. You're sucking my brains, that's what you're doing, grumbled Ferno. Anyhow, you're right. Hilton had the scheme perfected to the last detail, but he didn't count on Pharaoh. After a proper display of agitation, not all assumed either, because he was more shaken than he expected to be, he phoned the yard and the doctor. We couldn't arrive for nearly an hour, and the doctor starts on his rounds at nine o'clock sharp. what so easy, therefore, as to wander out in a welter of grief and anger,

and search the wood for the murderer on his own account. One solitary minute would enable him to put the rifle in a hiding place where it would surely be discovered. But Pharaoh stopped him. I wormed the whole thing out of our century this afternoon. Fenley tried hard to send Pharaoh and baits off on a wild goose chase, but Pharaoh, quite mistakenly, saw the chance of his life and clung onto it. Had Pharaoh budged, we could never have hanged Hilton.

Don't you see how the scheme works? He had some reason for believing that Robert will refuse to give a full account of his whereabouts this morning. therefore he must contrive that the rifle shall be found. Put the two damning facts together, and Robert is tied in a knot. Of course he would be forced to prove an alibi, but by that time all England would be yelping thou art the ban. In any event Hilton's trail would be hopelessly lost. The true bouquet of our port and bromide begins to tickle

my nostrils. A good-looking maid brought coffee, and Furneau grinned at her. How do you think he'd look in a nice straw hat? he asked, jerking his head toward winter. The girl smiled. The little man's reputation had reached the kitchen. She glanced demurely at the superintendent's bullet head. Not an ordinary straw. You mean a Panama, she said. Certainly, laughed Winter. Nothing of the sort, howled Furneau. Just run your eye over him. He isn't an isthmus. He's a continent. A common straw wouldn't suit him, persisted the girl. He's too big a gentleman.

How little you know him, said Furneau. The girl blushed and giggled. Go on, she said, and bounced. out. This inquiry will cost you a bit, my boy, if you're not careful, sniggered winter. I'll compound on a straw, but take my advice and curb your sporting propensities. Now, if this coffee isn't doctored, let's drink it, and interview Robert before the bromide begins to act. Robert Fenley received them in his own room. He strove to appear at ease and business-like, but as Furno had surmised, was emphatic in his refusal to give any clear statement

as to his proceedings in London. He admitted the visit to Hendon Road, which he said was necessitated by a promise to a friend who was going abroad, but he failed to see why the police should inquire into his private affairs. Winter did not press him. There was no need. A. A. A. A. A. A. A. Winter did not press him. There was no need. Escape Grace's record could always be laid bare when occasion served. But one question he was bound to put. Have you any theory, however remote or far-fetched, that will account for your father's death in such a way?

He inquired. The younger Fenley was smoking a cigarette. A half-consumed whiskey and soda stood on the table, a bottle of of whiskey and a siphon promised refreshers. He was not quite sober, but could speak lucidly. Naturally, I've been thinking a lot about that, he said wrinkling his forehead in the effort to concentrate his mind and express himself with due solemnity. It's funny, isn't it, that my rifle should be missing. Well, yes. Some sarcastic inflection in Winter's voice seemed to reach a rather torpid brain.

Fenley looked up sharply. Of course, funny isn't the right word. He said, I mean, it's odd. A bit of a mystery. Why should anybody take my gun if they wanted to shoot my poor old governor? That beats me. That's a liquor, eh what? It is more important to know why anyone should want to shoot your father.

That's it. Who benefits? Well, I suppose Hilton and I will be better off. No one else. And I didn't do it. It's silly even to say so. But there is only your brother left in your summary. By Jove, yes. That's been running in my head. It's nonsense, anyhow, because Hilton was in the house. I won't believe a word he said, but Sylvia and Tomlowe. and Brody and Harris all fell the same yarn. No, Hilton couldn't have done it. He's ripe for any mischief, is Hilton. But he can't be in this hall now, can he? They could extract nothing of value out of Robert

and left him after a brief visit. In the interim, Hilton Fenley had kept Tomlinson talking about crime. The dining-room door was ajar, and he knew when the detectives had gone to Robert's room. Then he glanced around the table and affected to remember the decanter of Port. By the way, he said, I feel as if a glass of that wine would be a good notion tonight. I don't suppose the Scotland Yard men have finished the lot.

Just send for it, will you? Harris brought the decanter and Tomlinson was gratified. by seeing that his favorite beverage had been duly appraised. Sorry if I've detained you, said Fenley, and the butler went out. Rising, Fenley strolled to the door and closed it. Instantly, he became energetic, and his actions bore a curious similitude to those of winter a little while earlier. Pouring the wine into a tumbler, he rinsed the decanter with water,

and partly refilled it with the contents of another tumbler, previously secreted in the sideboard, stopping rather short of the amount of wine returned from the butler's room. He drank the remainder, washed the glass, and put a few drops of whiskey into it. Carrying the other tumbler to an open window, he threw the medicated wine into a drain under a water spout and, making assurance doubly sure,

douched the same locality with water. Also, he rinsed this second glass. He seemed to be rather pleased at his own thoroughness. As Furneau had said, Hilton Fenley was cold-blooded as a fish. End of Chapter 12. Chapter 13 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librivox recording is in the public domain.

Close quarters. Human affairs are peculiarly dependent on the weather. It is not easy to lay down a law governing this postulate, which, indeed, may be scoffed at by the superficial reasoner, and the progression from cause to effect is often obscured by contradictory facts. For instance, a fine summer means a good harvest, much traveling, the prolongation of holiday periods, a free circulation of money, and the consequent enhanced prosperity and happiness of millions of men and women. But there are more suicides in June and July than in December and January.

On the one hand, fine weather improves humanity's lot. On the other, it depresses the individual. Let the logician explain these curiously divergent issues, as he may. There can be no question that the quality of the night which closed a day eventful beyond any other in the annals of Roxton exercised a remarkable influence on the lives of five people. It was a perfect night in June. There was no moon. The stars shone dimly through a silent haze, but the sun had set late and would rise early, and his complete disappearance followed so small a chord of the diurnal circle,

that his light was never wholly absent. A gentle westerly breeze was so zephyr-like that it hardly stirred the leaves of the tree, but it wafted the scent of flowers and meadowland into open windows, and was grateful alike to the just and the unjust. Thus to romantic minds it was redolent of romance, and as Sylvia Manning's room faced south, and John Chen Holmes faced north, and lay nearly opposite each other, though separated by a rolling mile of park,

woodland tillage and pasture. It is not altogether incredible that these two, gazing out at the same hour, should bridge the void with the eyes of the soul. It was a knight, too, that invited to the open. In some favoured lands, where the almanac is an infallible clerk of the weather, fine knights succeed each other with the monotonous regularity of kids. in an Amoroth dynasty. But the British climate, a slave to no such ordered sequence, scatters or withholds these magic hours, almost impartially throughout the seasons, so that June may demand overcoats and umbrellas, and October invite summer raiment. Hence, this superb summer's night found certain folk in Roxton disinclined to for

go its enchantments. Tranom, trying to persuade himself that his brooding gaze rested on the Elizabethan roofs and gables, rising above the trees, because of some rare spiritual quality in the atmosphere, suddenly awoke to the fact that the hour was eleven. Some men issued from the bar parlor, and there were sounds of bolts being shot home,

and keys turned, in recognition. of the curfew imposed by the licensing laws. Then the artistic temperament arose in revolt. Chafing already against the narrow confines of the best room the White Horse Inn could provide, it burst all bounds when a tired potman attempted unconsciously to lock it in. Grabbing a pipe and tobacco pouch,

Genholm ran downstairs, meeting the potman in the passage. Get me a key, Bill, he said. I simply can't endure the notion of bed just yet, so I'm off for a stroll. I don't want to keep anyone waiting up, and I suppose I can have a key of sorts. Now it happened that the proprietor of the inn

was absent at a race meeting, and Eliza was in charge. Chanel's request was passed on to a... her and a key was forthcoming. Hatless, pipe in mouth, and hands in pockets, Trenom sauntered into the village streets. Romance was either a dull jade or growing old and sedate in Rockston. Nearly every house was in darkness and more than one dog barked because of a passing footstep. About half-past eleven, Sylvia Manning sitting in melancholy near her window, after an hour of musing, heard a light tap on the door.

Come in, she said, recognizing the reason of this late intrusion, an elderly woman entered. She was an attendant charged with special care of Mrs. Fenley. A trained nurse would have refused to adopt the lenient treatment of the patient and joined by the late head of the family, so this woman was engaged because she was honest, faithful, rather stupid, and obeyed orders. She has quieted down now, Miss, and is fast asleep, she said in a low tone, you may feel sure she won't wake before six or seven. She never does. The she of this message was Mrs. Fenley. Rural England does not encourage unnecessary courtesy, nor harbor such foreign intruders as a madam. The reiterated pronoun grated on Sylvia. She was disinclined for further talk.

Thank you, Parker, she said, I'm glad to know that. Good night. But Parker had something to say, and this was a favorable opportunity. She's been awful bad today, Miss. It can't go on. That is hardly surprising, taking into account the shock Mrs. Fenley received this morning. That's what I have in mind, Miss. She's changed. How? Changed? You need not close the door. Never mind the light. It is hardly dark when the eyes become used to the gloom. Parker drew nearer. Obeying the instincts of her class, she assumed a confidential tone.

Well, miss, you know why I went out? Yes, said Sylvia rather curtly. She had left the invalid when the use of a hypodermic syringe became essential if an imminent outburst of hysteria was to be prevented. The girl had no power to interfere and was too young and inexperienced to make an effective protest, but she was convinced that to encourage a vice was not the best method of treating it.

More than once, she had spoken of the matter to Mortimer Fenley, but he merely said that he had tried every known means to cure his wife, short of immuring her in an asylum, and had failed. She is happy in a sort of way, he would add, with a certain softening, of voice and manner. Let her continue so. Thus a minor tragedy was drifting to its close, when Fenley himself was so rudely robbed of life. As a rule, Miss, went on the attendant. She soon settles after a dose, but this time she seemed to pass into a sort of trance.

Generally her words are broken-like and wild, nigh pay. no heed to him. But tonight she talked wonderful clear, all about India at first, and a band playing with Saugers' Monchin passed. Then she spoke about some people called Coolies. There was a lot about them in lines and tea gardens, and she seemed to be speaking to another Mrs. Fenley. The woman's voice sank to an awe-stricken whisper, and she seemed to her. Sylvia shivered somewhat in sympathy. Another Mrs. Fenley. It was common knowledge in the household that Fenley had married a second time, but the belief was settled that the first wife was dead. Parker, by an unrehearsed dramatic touch, conveyed the notion that the unhappy creature

in a neighboring room had been conversing with a ghost. Somewhat shaken and perturbed, Sylvie "'Ella wished more than ever to be alone. "'So she brought her informant back to the matter in hand. "'I don't see that Mrs. Fenley's rambling utterances "'give rise to any fear of immediate collapse,' "'she said, striving to speak composedly. "'No, miss, that isn't all. "'I was just telling you what happened.

"'There was a lot more. "'She might have been given the story of her life. but please forgive me, miss, for what I'm going to say. I think someone ought to know I do really, and you're the only one I dare tell it to. Oh, what is it? The cry was wrung from the girl's heart. She had borne a good deal that day,

and feared some sinister revelation now. She remembered that poor Mr. Fenley was dead, but didn't appear so greatly upset. She was more puzzled like, kept on muttering, who did it, who could have the cool Darren to shoot him dead in broad daylight at his own door before his servants. She was sort of forcing herself to think, to find out just as if it was a riddle in the right answer

who was on the tip of her tongue. and then all at once she gave a queer little laugh. Why, of course, it was Hilton, she said. Sylvia, relieved and vastly indignant, rose impetuously. Why do you trouble to bring such nonsense to my ears? But Parker was stolid and dogged. I had to tell someone, she vowed, determined to put herself straight with one of her own sex. I know her ways. If that's in her mind, she'll be shattened it out to every

maid who comes near her tomorrow. Really, I thought, Miss, it was wise to tell you tonight, because such a thing would soon cause a scandal, and it should be stopped. Perhaps you are right, and I ought to be obliged to you for being so considerate, but no one would pay heed to my answer ravings. Every person in the house knows that the statement is absurd. Mr. Hilton was in his room. I, myself, saw him go upstairs after exchanging a few words with his father in the hall, and he came down again instantly when Harris ran to fetch him. I understand that, Miss, and I'm not so silly as to think there's any sense in her blame it, Mr. Hilton, but it made my flesh creep to hear all the rest so clear and straightforward,

and then that she should say Hilton did it, the Black Beast. He always hated Bob and me, because we were white and the jungle strain has come out at last. Oh, it was something dreadful to hear her laughing at her cleverness. Please, please, don't repeat any more of these horrors. things, cried the girl, for the strain was becoming unbearable. I agree with you, miss, they aren't fit to be spoke of, and I say with all due respect that they shouldn't be allowed to leak out. You know what young maid servants are like?

They're bound to chatter. My idea is that another nurse should be engaged tomorrow, a woman old enough to hold her tongue and mind her own business, then the two of us. can take turns at duty, so as to keep them housemaids out of the way altogether. Yes, I'm sure you're right. I'll speak to Mr. Hilton in the morning. Thank you, Parker. I see now that you meant well, and I'm sorry if I spoke sharply. I'm not surprised, Miss. It was not a pleasant thing to have to say, nor for you to hear, but duty is duty. Good night, miss. I hope you'll sleep. well.

Sleep! Parker should not have conjured up a new apparition if Sylvia were to seek the solace of untroubled rest. At present, the girl felt that she had never before been so distressfully awake. Splendidly vital in mind and body as she was, she almost yielded now to a morbid horror of her environment. generations of men and women had lived and died in that ancient house,

and to-night dim shapes seemed to throng its chambers and corridors. Physically fearless, she owned to a feminine dread of the unknown. It would be a relief to get away from this abode of grief and mystery. The fantastic dreaming of the unhappy creature crooning memories of a past, life and a lost husband had unnerved her. She resolved to seek the fresh air and wander through the gardens and park until the fever in her mind had abated. Now a rule of the house ordained that all doors should be locked and lower windows latched at midnight. A night watchman made certain rounds each hour, pressing a key into indicating clocks at various points to show that he had been alert.

Mortimer Fenley had been afraid of fire. There was so much old woodwork in the building that it would burn readily, and a short circuit in the electrical installation was always possible, though every device had been adopted to render it not only improbable but harmless. After midnight, the door bells and others communicated with a switchboard in the watchman's room, and a burglary alarm, which the man adjusted during his first round, rang there continuously, if disturbed. Sylvia, leaving the door of her bedroom ajar, went to the servants' quarters by a back staircase. There she found Macbain, the watchman, eating his supper. I don't feel as though I could sleep, she explained.

So I am going out into the park for a while. I'll unlatch one of the drawing-room windows and disconnect the alarm. And when I come in, I'll tell you. Very well, Miss, said McBain. It's a fine night, and you'll take no harm. I'm not afraid of rabbits, if that is what you mean, she said lightly, for the very sound of the man's voice had dispelled vapors. Oh, there's more than rabbits in the park tonight, miss.

Two policemen are stationed in the quarry wood. Why, she said with some surprise. They don't know themselves, miss. The inspector ordered it. I met them coming on duty at ten o'clock. They'll be relieved at four. They have instructions to allow no one to enter the wood that's all they know.

If I go there, then shall I be locked up? Not so bad as that, Miss, smiled McBain, but I'd keep away from it if I was you. Let sleeping dogs lie is a good motto. But these are not sleeping dogs. They're wide-awake policemen. Maybe, miss, they have a soft job, I'm thinking. of course the man checked himself,

but Sylvia guessed what was passing in his mind. You were going to say that the wretch who killed my uncle hid in that wood, she prompted him. Yes, miss, I was. He's not there now. He must have run away while we were too terrified to take any steps to capture him. Who in the world could have wished to kill Mr. Fenley? ah miss there's no no one those you'd least suspect are often the worst mcbane shook his head over this cryptic remark he glanced at a clock it was five minutes to twelve

it's rather late miss he hinted sylvia agreed with him but she was young enough to be headstrong i shan't remain out very long she said i ought to feel tired but i don't and i hope to feel tired but i don't and i hope the fresh air will make me sleepy. To reach the drawing room, she had to cross the hall. Its parquet floor creaked under her rapid tread. A single lamp among a cluster in the ceiling burned there all night, and she could not help giving one quick look at the Oaken Settle, which stood under the cross gallery. She was glad when the drawing room door closed behind her. She had no difficulty with the window, but the outer shutters creaked when she opened them. Then she passed on to the first of the Italian terraces and stood there irresolutely a few minutes, gazing alternately at the sky and the black masses of the trees. At first she was a trifle nervous. The air was so still, the park so solemn in its

utter quietude, that the sense of adventure was absent, and the funeral silence that prevailed was almost oppressive. Half inclined to go back, womanlike, she went forward. Then the sweet clinging scent of a rose-bed drew her like a magnet. She descended a flight of steps, and gained the second terrace. She thought of Trenholm and the picture, and the impulse to stroll as far as the lake seized her irresistibly. Why not? The grass was short, and the dew would not be heavy? Even if she wedded her feet, what did it matter, as she would undress promptly on returning to her room? Besides, she had never seen the statue on just such a night, though she had often visited it by moonlight. La Roche-Foucault is responsible for the oft-quoted epigram

that the woman who hesitates is lost, and Sylvia had certainly hesitated. At any rate, after a brief debate in which the arguments were distinctly one-sided, she resolved that she might as well have an object in view as stroll aimlessly in any other direction. So, gathering her skirts, to keep them dry, she set off across the park.

She might have been halfway to the lake when a man emerged from the same window of the drawing-room, ran to the terrace steps, stumbled down them so awkwardly that he nearly fell, and swore at his own clumsiness in so doing. He negotiated the next flight more carefully, but quickened his pace again into a run when he reached the open.

The girl's figure was hardly visible, but he knew she was there, and the distance between pursued and pursuer soon lessened. Sylvia, wholly unaware of being followed, did not hurry, but she was constitutionally incapable of loitering, and moved over the rustling grass with a swiftness that brought her to the edge of the lake,

while the second inmate of the towers abroad that night was yet a couple hundred yards distant. In the dim light, the statue assumed a lifelike semblance that was at once startling and wonderful. Color flies with the sun, and the white marble did not depend now on tint alone, to differentiate it from flesh and blood. Seen thus indistinctly, it might, almost be a graceful and nearly nude woman standing there, and some display of willpower on the girl's part was called for before she approached nearer and stifled the first breath of apprehension. Then, delighted by the vague beauty of the scene, with senses soothed by the soft plash of the

cascade, she decided to walk around the lake to the spot where Tranom must have been hidden. when he painted that astonishingly vivid picture. Its bold treatment and simplicity of note rendered it an easy subject to carry in the mind's eye, and Sylvia thought it would be rather nice to conjure up the same effect in the prevailing conditions of semi-darkness and mystery. She need not risk tearing her dress

among the briars which clung to the hillside, knowing every inch of the ground she could follow the shore of the lake until nearly opposite the statue and then climb a few feet among the bushes at a point where a zigzag path seldom used and nearly obliterated by undergrowth led to the clump of cedars. She was still speeding along the farther bank

when a man's form loomed in sight in the park and her heart throbbed tumultuously with a new and real terror. Who could it be? Had someone seen her leaving the house? That was the explanation she hoped for at first, but her breath came in sharp gusts and her breast heaved when she remembered how one deadly intruder, at least, had broken into that quiet haven during the early hours of the past day. Whoever the oncomer might prove to be, he was losing no time, and he was yet some 20 yards or more away from the statue,

itself separated from Sylvia by about the same width of water, when she recognized, with a sigh of relief, that somewhat cumbrous form and grampus-like puffing of Robert Fenley. evidently he was rather blear-eyed, since he seemed to mistake the white marble Aphrodite for a girl in a black dress. Or perhaps he assumed that Sylvia was there and thought he would see her any moment. I say, Sylvia, he cried. I say, old girl, what the deuce are you doing in the park at this time of night? The words were clear enough, but there were. was a suspicious thickness in the voice.

Robert had been drinking, and Sylvia had learned already to abhor and shun a man under the influence of intoxicants more than anything else in the wide world. She did not fear her cousin for years she had tolerated him, and that day she had come to dislike him actively, but she had not the least intention of entering into an explanation. of her actions with him at that hour and under existing conditions. She had recovered from her sudden fright, and was merely annoyed now, and bent her wits to the combined problems of escape

and regaining the house unseen. Remembering that her white face and hands might reveal her whereabouts, she turned, bent, and crept up the slope until a bush afforded welcome concealment. Some thorns scratched her ankles, but she gave no heed to such trivial mishaps. A rabbit jumped out from under her feet, and it cost something of an effort to repress a slight scream.

But to her credit be it said, she set her lips tightly, and was almost amused by the game of hide-and-seek, thus unexpectedly thrust on her. Meanwhile, Robert had reached the little promontory on which the statue was poised, and no, Sylvia was in sight. Sylvia? He cried again. Where are you? No use, Haydn, because I know you're here. Dashdall, if you want a bit of a stroll, why didn't you send for me? You knew I'd come like a shot, eh what? He listened and peered, but might as well have been deaf and blind, for aught he could do.

distinguish of the girl he sought. Then he laughed, and a peculiar quality in that chuckle of mirth struck a new note of anxiety, even of fear in Sylvia's laboring heart. So you won't be good, he guffod thickly, play in puss in the corner, I suppose. Very well, I give you fair warning, I mean to catch you, and when I do I'll clen. forfeit. I don't mind. Fact is, I like it. It's rather fun, chasing one's best girl in the dark. Dashed if it isn't better in a bit of a French farce. Puss, puss, see you, hiding there among the bushy bushes. God, how's that for a test after a big night? Busy bushes. I must not forget that.

now come out of it, naughty puss. I'll see. I'll get you in a tick, see if I don't. He was keeping to the track Sylvia herself had taken, since the lie of the land was familiar to him as to her, talking to himself, cackling at his own flashes of wit, halting after each few paces to search the immediate neighborhood and detects any guiding sound,

he was now on the same side of the lake as the girl, and coming perilously near. At each step, apparently he found the growing obscurity more tantalizing. He still continued calling aloud. Sylvia, Sylvia, I say, chuck it, can't you? You must give in, you know. I'll be grabbing you in a minute.

There were not lacking muttered ejaculations, which showed that he was losing his temper. Once, he swore so emphatically that she thought he was acknowledging himself beaten, but some glimmering notion that she was crouching almost within reach and would have the laugh of him in the morning flogged him into fresh endeavor. Now he was within ten yards, eight, five, In another few seconds his hand might touch her, and she quivered at the thought. If concealment could not save her, she must seek refuge in flight, since therein lay a sure means of escape. Not daring to delay, she tried to stand upright, but felt a pull on her dress, as if a hand were

detaining her. It was only a briar insidiously entangled in a fold of her skirt, but she was rather excited now, and there was little to be gained by excess of caution, for any rapid movement must betray her. Stooping, she caught the thorn-laden branch and tore it out of the soft material. Fenley heard the ripping sound instantly. Ha, there you are, my beautiful, Beauty got you this time, he cried and plunged forward. Sylvia sprang from her hiding place, like a frightened fawn, and valiantly essayed the steep embankment. Therein she erred. She would have succeeded in evading her pursuer had she leaped down to the open strip of the turf close to the water, dodging him before he realized what was happening. As it was

was the briars spread a hundred cruel claws against her. With each upward step, she encountered greater resistance. Desperation only added to her panic, and she struggled fanciedly. The man, unhampered by garments such as clogged each inch of Sylvia's path, pushed on with renewed ardor. He no longer spoke, for his hearing alone could help him now. The girl's black robe, form being utterly merged in the dense shadow cast by brushwood and cedars. He, however, was silhouetted against the luminous grey of the park, and Sylvia, casting a frantic glance over her shoulder, saw him distinctly. In her distress, she fancied she could feel his hot breath on her neck, and when some unusually venomous branch clutched her across the knees and rendered farther

movement impossible, until her dress was extricated, she wailed aloud in anger and dismay. How dare you, she cried, and her voice was tremulous and broken. I warn you that if you persist in following me, I shall strike you. "'Will you by Jove?' cried Robert, elatedly. "'I'd risk more than that, my dear. "'A kiss for every blow. "'Only fair, you know, a what?' "'On he came.

"'He was so near that in one active bound he would be upon her, "'but he advanced warily with hands outstretched. "'Oh, what shall I do?' she sobbed. Go back, you brute. I hate you. There are policemen in the woods. I'll scream for help. No need, Miss Manning said a calm voice, which seemed to come from the circumambient air. Don't cry out or be alarmed, no matter what happens. A hand, not Robert Fenley's, caught her shoulder in a reassuring grip. A tall figure brushed by, and she heard a...

a curious sound that had a certain smack in it, a hard smack, combined with a thudding effect, as if someone had smitten a pillow with a fist. A fist it was assuredly, and a hard one, but it smote no pillow. With a gurgling cough, Robert Fenley toppled headlong to the edge of the lake, and lay there probably some minutes, for a gurgling cough. Robert Fenley toppled headlong to the edge of the lake, and lay there probably some minutes for the man who had hit him knew how and where to strike. Sylvia did not scream. She had recognized Trenholm's voice, but she felt absurdly like fainting. Perhaps she swayed slightly, and her rescuer was aware of it, for he gathered her up in his arms as he might carry a scared child, nor did he set her on her feet.

when they were clear of the trees and in the open park. You are quite safe now, he said soothingly. You are greatly upset, of course, and you need a minute or two to pull yourself together, but no one will hurt you while I'm here. When you feel able to speak, you'll tell me where to take you, and I will be your escort.

I can speak now, thank you, said Scyd. Sylvia with a composure that was somewhat remarkable. Please put me down. He obeyed, but she imagined he gave her a silent hug before his clasp relaxed. Even then, his left hand still rested on her shoulder in a protective way. End of Chapter 13.

Chapter 14 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librevox recording is a the public domain. The spreading of the net. That John Chanom should be in the right place at the right moment, and that the place should happen to be one where his presence was urgently required in Sylvia Manning's behalf, was not such a far-fetched coincidence as it might be deemed, for instance, by a jury. Juries are composed, mainly of bald-headed men, men whose shining pates have been denuded of hairs by years and experience and these factors dry the heart as surely as they impoverished the scalp

consequently juries in bulk let it be understood individual jurors may perhaps retain the emotional equipment of a chatterton are sceptical when asked to accept the vagaries of the artistic temperament of the artistic temperament in extenuation of some so-called irrational action. In the present case, counsel for the defense would plead that his clients, Sylvia would undoubtedly figure in the charge, were moved by an overwhelming impulse shared in common. It was a glorious night, he might urge. Each had been thinking of the other, each elected to stroll forth under the stars,

their sympathies were linked by the strange circumstances, which had led to the production of a noteworthy picture. What more likely than that they should visit the scene to which that picture owed its genesis? Genome, it might be held, had not knowingly reached that stage of soul-sickness, which brings the passionate cry to, Valentine's lips, except I'd be by Sylvia in the night, there is no music in the night and

gale, unless I'd look on Sylvia in the day, there is no day for me to look upon. But gentlemen, the wily one would continue, that indefinable excitation of the nervous system, which is summed up in the one small word, love, must have a beginning. And whether that beginning springs from spore or germ, it is admittedly capable of amazingly rapid growth. The male defendant may not even have been aware of its existence. But subsequent events established the diagnosis beyond cavil,

and I would remind you that the melodious lines I have just quoted could not have been written by our immortal bard Shakespeare if two gentlemen of Verona and two Veronese ladies as well had not yielded two influences not altogether unlike those which governed my clients on this memorable occasion. Juries invariably treat Shakespeare's opinions with profound respect. they know they ought to be well acquainted with his works but they are not and hope to conceal their ignorance by accepting the poet's philosophy without preservation if however owing to the forensic skills of an advocate romance might be held accountable for the wanderings of john and sylvia what of robert he at least was not under its magic spell. He, when the fateful hour struck, was merely drinking himself drowsy. To explain him, witnesses would be needed, and who more credible than a superintendent and

detective inspector of the criminal investigation department. When Winter had smoked, and Furno had contributed some personal reminiscences, the whole aim and object, of which was the perplexing and mystification of that discreet person Tomlinson, the two retired to their room at an early hour. The butler pressed them hospitably to try the house's special blend of Scotch whiskey, but they had declined resolutely, both acknowledged to an unwonted lassitude and sleepiness, symptoms which Hilton Fenley might expect,

and inquire about. When they were gone, the Major Domo sat down to review the day's doings. His master's death at the hands of a murderer had shocked and saddened him far more than his manner betrayed. If some fantastic chain of events brought Tomlinson to the scaffold, he would still retain the demeanour of an exemplary butler. But beneath the externals of his office, he had a heart and a brain, and his heart grieved for a respected employer, and his brain told him that Scotland Yard was no wiser than he when it came to suspecting a likely person of having committed the crime, let alone arresting the suspect and proving his guilt. of course therein tomlinson was in error even butlers of renown have their limitations and his stopped far short of the peculiar science of felon hunting in which winter and furneaux were geniuses each in his own line

assuredly he would have been vastly astonished could he have seen their movements when the bedroom door closed on them in fact his train ear might have found some new quality in such a commonplace thing as the closing of a door every lock and bolt and catch in the towers was in perfect working order yet the lock of this door failed to click for the excellent reason that it was jammed by a tiny wedge hence it could be opened noiselessly if need be and lest a hinge might squeak each hinge was forthwith drenched with vaseline further a tiny circlet of india-rubber equipped with a small spike was placed between door and a jam then murmuring in undertones when they spoke the detectives unpacked their portmanteau winter produced no article out of the ordinary run but furneaux unrolled a knotted contrivance which proved to be a rope ladder one or both of us may have to go out by the window he said at any rate we have wellington's authority for the military axiom that a good leader always provides a line of retreat "'I wonder what became of the rest of that wine,' said Winter, "'rolling the beer bottle in a shirt and stowing it away.

"'I didn't dare ask. "'Talminson can put two and two together rather cleverly. "'He almost interfered when Harris brought the decanter, "'so I dropped the wine question like a hot potato. "'It had gone, though, when we came back from Robert's room. Hilton sent for it. Bet you another new hat he emptied. You get no more new hats out of me, growled furneaux savagely,

giving an extra pressure to a pair of sharp hooks which gripped the windows sill, and from which the rope ladder could be dropped to the ground instantly. Sorry, where did you retrieve that dirty towel for the little man had taken from a pocket, an object which merited the description and was placing it in his bag. It's one of Hilton's. He used it to wipe bark moss off his clothes. Queer thing that such rascals always omit some trivial precaution. He should have burned the towel with the moccasins, but he don't.

This towel will help to strangle him. You're becoming a bloodthirsty detective, mused Winter, aloud. I've seldom seen you so vindictive. Why is it? I dislike snakes, and this fellow is a poisonous specimen. If there were no snakes in the world, we should all be so happy. Blessed if I see that. I have always suspected that your religious education had been neglected. Read the Bible and Milton, then you'll understand, and incidentally speak and write better English. Can you suggest any means whereby I can grasp your jokes without being bored to weariness? They're more soporific than bromide.

Anyhow, it's timely undressed. Though the blind was drawn, the window was open. There was no knowing who might be watching from the garden, so they went through all the motions of undressing and placed their boots outside the door. Then the light was switched off, the blind raised, and they dressed again rapidly,

donning other boots. Each pocketed an automatic pistol and an electric torch, and by preconcerted plan, winter sat by the window and furneau by the door. It was then, a quarter to eleven, and they hardly looked for any developments until a much later hour, but they neglected no precaution. Unquestionably, it would be difficult for anyone to move about in that part of the house

or across the gardens without attracting their attention. Their room was situated on the south front, two doors from Sylvia's and two from Hilton Fenley's bedroom. The door lay in shadow beyond the range of the light burning in the hall. Sylvia's room was farther along the corridor. The door of Hilton's bedroom occupied the same plain. The door of his sitting room faced the end of the corridor. The walls were massive, as in all Tudor houses,

and the doors so deeply recessed that there was small space for a small mat in front of each. ordinary boots placed there were not visible in the line of the corridor, but the detective's footgear stood well in view. There were two reasons for this. In the first place, Hilton Fenley might like to see them, so his highly probable, if modest, desire was gratified. Secondly, when Parker visited Sylvia and quitted her, and when Sylvia went downstairs, Furnose head, lying between two pairs of boots, could scarcely be distinguished, while his scope of vision was only slightly, if at all, diminished.

Soon the girl's footsteps could be heard crossing the hall, and the raising of the drawing-room window and opening of the shutters was clearly audible. Winter, whose office had been a sinecure hitherto, now came into the scheme. he saw Sylvia's slight form standing beneath, marked her hesitancy, and watched her slow progress down the terraces and into the park.

This nocturnal enterprise on her part was rather perplexing and he was in two minds whether or not to cross the room and consult with furneaux, when the latter suddenly withdrew his head, closed the door and hissed snore. Winter crept to a bed and put up an artistic performance, a duet, musical, regular, not too loud. In a little while, his colleagues stopped him,

and a slight crack of a finger against a thumb called him to the door which was open again. explanation was needless. Hilton Fenley, like the other watchers, hearing the creaking of window and shutters, had looked out from his own darkened room. In all likelihood, thanking his stars for the happy chance given thus unexpectedly, he noted the direction the girl was taking and acted as if prepared for this very development. The truth being, of course, that he was merely adapting his own plans to immediate and more favorable conditions. Coming out into the corridor, he consulted his watch. Then he glanced in the direction of the room which held the two men he had caused to fear, such ample cause as he little dreamed of at that moment. To make assurance doubly sure, he walked that way, not secretly,

but boldly, since it was part of his project now to court observation, by others, at any rate, if not by the drugged emissaries of Scotland Yard, he waited outside the closed door and heard what he expected to hear, the snoring of two men sound asleep. Returning, he did not re-enter his own room, but crossed the head of the staircase to Roberts. He knocked lightly, and his brothers, Hello there, come in, reached Furneau's ears. Not a word of the remainder of the colloquy that ensued was lost on either of the detectives.

Sorry to disturb you, Bob, said Hilton, speaking from the doorway, but I thought you might not be in bed, and I've come to tell you that Sylvia has just gone out by way of the drawing-room and is wandering about the park. Sylvia, on her lonesome, was Robert's astounded cry. Yes, it isn't right. I can't understand her behavior. I would have followed her myself, but in view of your statement at dinner tonight,

I fancied it would save me some annoyance if I entrusted that duty to you. Look here, Hilton, old chap. Are you really in earnest? About Sylvia? Yes, I actually saw her. At this moment, she is heading for the lake. If you hurry, you'll see her yourself. I say it's often a decent of you. I take back a lot of what I said tonight. Of course, as matters stand, this is my job. Tell McBain not to lock us out. I'll attend. I'll attend. I'll attend. I'll to that, if necessary. But don't mention me to Sylvia.

She might resent the notion of being spied on. Say that you too were strolling about. You see, I heard the window being opened and looked out naturally. Anyhow, drop me and run this affair on your own. Robert was slightly obfuscated. The fresh air quickly made him worse, but he was sensible of having grossly misjudged Hilton. Right ho, he said, hurrying downstairs.

We'll have a talk in the morning. Dash it, it's twelve o'clock. That silly kid, what's she after I'd like to know? Robert gone, Hilton returned to his own room and rang a bell. Macbain came and was asked if he was aware that Miss Sylvia had quitted the house. McBain gave his version of the story, and Fenley remarked that he might leave the window unfastened until he made his rounds at one o'clock. Seemingly as an afterthought, Hilton mentioned his brother's open door, and McBain discovered that Mr. Robert was missing also. By that time, the detectives, without exchanging a word, had each arrived at the same opinion.

as to the trend of events. Hilton Fenley was remodeling his projects to suit an unforeseen development. No matter what motive inspired Sylvia Manning's Midnight Ramble, there could be no disputing the influence which dominated Robert Fenley. He was his brother's cat's paw. When his rifle was found next day, MacBain's testimony would be a tremendous

addition to the weight of evidence against him, since any unprejudiced judgment must decide that the pursuit of his cousin was a mere pretense to enable him to go out and search for the weapon he had foolishly left in the wood. Hilton might or might not admit that he told Robert of the girl's escapade. If he did admit it, he might be trusted to give the incident. the requisite kink to turn the scale against Robert. Surveying the facts with cold impartiality afterwards, Scotland Yard decided that while Hilton could not hope that Robert would be convicted of the murder, the latter would assuredly be suspected of it, perhaps arrested and tried,

and in any event his of marriage with Sylvia Manning would become a sheer impossibility. moreover once the rifle was found by the police the only reasonable prospect of connecting hilton himself with the crime would have vanished into thin air if that weapon were picked up in the quarry wood or for that matter in any other part of the estate the hounds of the law were beaten winter's level-headed shrewdness and fur-nosed almost uncanny intuition might have saddled pilton with blood-guiltiness but a wide chasm must be bridged before they could provide the requisite proof of their theory in fact thus far they dared not even hint at bringing a charge against him to succeed they had to show that the incredible was credible that the murderer could be in a room within a few feet of his victim, and in a wood distant fully 400 yards. It was a baffling problem,

not wholly incapable of solution by circumstantial evidence, but best left to be elucidated by Hilton Fenley himself. They believed now that he was about to oblige them by supplying that corroborative detail, which, in the words of Puba, lends artistic verisimilitude to an otherwise bald and unconvincing narrative. Winter drew Furnow into the room and breathed the words into his ear. You go, you stand less chance of being seen, I'll search his room. If there is a misfire, show a signal.

after five mits. Right. Furno, standing back from the window, but in such a position that a light would be visible to anyone perched on the rock in the wood, pressed the button of an electric torch three times rapidly. Then he lowered the rope ladder and clambered down with the nimbleness of a sailor. In all probability, Hilton Fenley was still talking to Macbain and creating the illusion that the last thing he would think of was a stroll out of doors at that late hour. But the little man took no chances. Having surveyed the ground carefully during the day, he was not bothered now with doubts as to the most practicable path. Creeping close to the house till he reached the yew hedge, and then passing through an arch,

he remained in the shadow of the hedge till it turned at right angles in front of the Italian garden. From that point to the edge of the quarry wood was not a stone's throw, and clumps of rhododendrons and other flowering shrubs gave shelter in plenty. Arrived at the mouth of the footpath, which he had marked by counting the trees in the avenue,

he halted and listened in tentations, there was no sound of rustling grass or crunched gravel hilton was taking matters leisurely fifteen minutes would give him ample time for the business he had in hand even if robert and sylvia reached home before him which was unlikely far more unlikely even than he imagined he could say that he thought it advisable to follow his brother and help in the search for the girl. The same excuse would serve if he met any of those pestilential police prowling about the grounds. Indeed, he could dispatch the alert

and intelligent ones on the trail of the wanderers, especially on Roberts. In a word, matters were going well, for Hilton, so well that Furneau laughed as he turned into the wood. Here, the detective had to advance with care. Beneath the trees, the darkness was now so complete that it had that peculiar quality of density, which everyday speech likens to a wall.

Cats, gamekeepers, poachers, and other creatures of predatory and nocturnal habits can find and follow a definite track under such conditions, but detectives are nearly human, and Furno was compelled to use the torch more than once. He ran no risk in doing this. Hilton Fenley could not yet be in a position to catch the gleam of light among the trees. The one thing to avoid was delay, and Furno had gained rather than lost time, unless Fenley was running at top speed. After crossing the damp hollow, the Jerseyman had no further difficulty. He breasted the hill and kept a hand extended so as to avoid colliding with a tree trunk.

Expecting at any instant to have a bull's-eye lantern flashed in his eyes, which he did not want to happen, he said softly, Hi, you two, don't show a light. How near are you? Oh, it's you, sir, said a voice. We thought it would be. We saw the signal, and you said you might be the first to arrive. Any second signal? No, sir. Ferno recognized the pungent scent of the Colza oil used in policeman's lamps. I gad, he said, if the average criminal had the nose of the various cur dog, he'd smell that oil a mile away.

Now, where are you? There. He had butted into a constable's solid bulk. Take me to the rock, quick. We must hide behind it on the lower side. Is this the place? Right. Squat down both of you and make yourselves comfortable so that you won't feel your position irksome

and move, perhaps at the wrong moment. When you feel me crawling away, follow to the upper foot of the rock, no farther. Stand upright, then, and try to keep your joints from cracking. There must be no creaking of belts or boots. Absolute silence is in order, not a word spoken. No matter what you hear, don't move again until you see the light of my electric torch. Then run to me, turning on your own.

own lamps and help in arresting anyone I may be holding. Use your handcuffs if necessary, and don't hesitate to grab hard if there's a struggle. Remember, you are to arrest anyone, no matter who it may be. Got that? Yes, sir, came two eager voices. Don't be excited. It will be an easy thing. If we make a mistake, I bear the responsibility. Now keep still as mice when they hear a cat. One of the men giggled. Both constables had met Furnow in the local police station that afternoon as he had asked the inspector to parade the pair who would be on duty during that night. It was then that he had arranged a simple code of flash signals and warned them to look out for winter or himself during the night.

Any other person who turned up was not to be challenged until he reached a higher ground beyond the rock, but that instruction was to be acted on only in the unavoidable absence of one of the Scotland Yard officers. Privately, the constables hoped furneau would be their leader. They deemed him a funny little josser and marveled greatly that his manner and appearance. Still, they had heard of his reputation.

The inspector, in an expansive moment, had observed that monkey face was sharper than he looked. Thinking example better than precept, Furneau did not reprove the giggler. Lying there, screened even in broad daylight by the bulk of the rock and some hazels growing vigorously in that restricted area owing to the absence of foliage overhead, he listened to the voices of the night, never dumb in a large wood. Birds fluttered uneasily on the upper branches of the trees. Indeed, Furno was lucky in that the occasional gleam of the torch

had not sent a pheasant hurtling off with frantic clamour ere ever the rendezvous was reached. And some winged creature, probably an owl, swept over the rock in stealthy flight. The rabbits were all out in the open, nibbling grass and crops at leisure, but there were other tiny forms rustling among the shrubs and scampering across a soft carpet of fallen leaves. twitterings and subdued squeaks and sudden rushes of pattering feet the murmuring of myriad fronds in the placid breeze the whispering of the neighbouring elms even the steadychance of the distant cascade all swelled into a soft and continuous chorus hardly heard by the county policemen accustomed as they were to the sounds or woodland at night but of surprising volume and to the man whose forests lay in the paved wilderness of London. Suddenly, a twig cracked sharply, and a match was struck.

It was of the safety type, and made a little noise, but it was too much for the nerves of a bird which flew away noisily. Furno pursed his lips and wanted to whistle. He realized now what an escape he had had earlier. but the intruder seemed to care less about attracting attention than making rapid progress. He came on swiftly, striking other matches when required, until he stood on the bare ground near the rock. Not daring to lift ahead, none of the three watchers could see the newcomer,

and in that respect their hiding place was almost too well chosen. Whoever it was, he needed no more matches to guide his footsteps. They heard him advancing a few paces, then he halted again. After a marked interval, punctuated by a soft whirring noise, hard to interpret, there were irregular scrapings and the creaking of a branch. Furno arose, keeping a hand on the rock until he was clear of, the shrubs, he crept forward on thievish feet. His assistance, moving more clumsily to their allotted station, were audible enough to him, but to a man, unconscious of their presence, and actively

climbing a tree, they were remote and still as Uranus and Saturn. The scraping of feet and heavy breathing, to say nothing of the prompt flight of several birds, led the detective unerringly to the trunk of a lofty chestnut, which he had already fixed on as the cover, which the shot that Gild Mortimer Fenley was fired. He was convinced also that the rifle was yet hidden there, and his thin lips parted in a smile now that his theory was about to be justified. could follow the panting efforts of the climber quite easily. He knew when the weapon was unlashed from the limb to which it was bound, and when the descent was begun. He could measure almost the exact distance of his prey from the ground, and was awaiting the final drop before flashing the torch

on his prisoner, when something wrapped him smartly on the forehead. It was a rope. doubled and twisted, and subsequent investigation showed that it must have been thrown in a coil over the lowermost branch in order to facilitate the only difficult part of the climb offered by ten feet of straight bowl. The trivial incident changed the whole course of events. Taken by surprise, since he did not know what had struck him, Furno pressed the governor of the torch a second too soon, and his eyes, raised instantaneously, met those of Hilton Fenley, who was on the point of letting go the branch and swinging himself down.

During a thrilling moment they gazed at each other, the detective, cool and seemingly unconcerned, the self-avowed murderer livid with mortal fear. then Furneau caught the rope and held it. I thought you'd go climbing tonight, Fenley, he said. Let me assist you. Tricky things, ropes, you're at the wrong end of this one. Even Homer nods, but Furno had aired three times in as many seconds. He had switched on the light prematurely, and his ready banter had warned the Paris

side that a well-built scheme was crumbling to irretrievable ruin. Moreover, he had underrated the nervous forces of the men, thus trapped and outwitted. Fenley knew that when his feet touched the earth, he would begin a ghastly pilgrimage to the scathlet. Two yellow orbs of light were already springing up the slight incline from the rock, betokening the presence of captors in overwhelming number. What was to be done? Nothing in reason, yet Ferno had likened him to a snake, and he displayed now the primal instinct of the snake to fight when cornered.

Thrusting the heavy gun he was carrying straight downward, he delivered a vicious and unerring blow. The stock caught the detectives, on the crown of the head, and he fell to his knees, dropping the torch, which, of course, went out, as soon as the thumb relaxed its pressure. End of Chapter 14. Chapter 15 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librivax recording is in the public domain. Some stage effects. Fenley himself dropped almost simultaneously with the rifle, landing with both feet on fur nose back, and thus completing the little man's discomfiture.

By that time the two policemen were nearly upon him, but he was lithe and fierce as a cobra, and had seized the rifle again before they could close with him. Jabbing the nearer adversary with the muzzle, he smashed a lamp and sent its owner sprawling backward. Then swinging the weapon, he aimed. a murderous blow at the second constable. The man contrived to avoid it to a certain extent, but it glanced off his left arm and caught the side of his head, and he too measured his length.

All three, detective and police, were on their feet promptly, for none was seriously injured, but Furneau was dazed and had to grope for the torch, and the second constable's lamp had gone out owing to a rush of oil from the cistern. Thus, during some precious seconds, they were in total darkness. Meanwhile, Fenley had escaped. Luck, after deserting him, had come to his rescue in the nick of time. He had blundered into the path and managed to keep to it,

and the somewhat strong language in which Furneau expressed his feelings, and the Hartfordshire constabulary, and the no less lurid comments of two angry members of the force helped to conceal the sounds which would otherwise have indicated the direction taken by the fugitive. At last, having found the torch, Furno collected his scattered wits. Now don't be scared and run away, you two, he said sarcastically, producing an automatic pistol. I'm only going to tell Mr. Winter that we've bungled the job. He fired twice in the air, and two vivid spurts of flame rose high among the branches of the chestnut.

But the loud reports of the shooting were as nothing compared with the din that followed. Every rook within a mile flew from its eyrie and cawed strenuously. pheasants clucked and clattered in all directions, owls hooted, and dogs barked in the kennels, in the stable-yard, and in nearly every house of the two neighboring villages. I don't see what could that'll do, sir, was the rueful comment of the policeman who had, in his own phrase, collected a thick ear, and was now feeling the spot tenderly. He hasn't shined up the tree again, that's a positive certainty. I should have thought that a really clever fellow like you would guess that I wanted to raise a row, said Furnow.

Have you breath enough left to blow your whistles? But, sir, your orders were, blow and be damned to you. Don't I know the fault is mine? Blow and crack your cheeks. blow wild peals, my Roberts, else we are copped coppers. The mild radiance of the torch showed that the detective's face was white with fury, and his eyes gleaming red.

To think that a dangling rope's end should have spoiled his finest capture, undone a flawless piece of imaginative reasoning which his own full record had never before equaled, It was humiliating, maddening. No wonder the policeman thought him crazy. But they whistled with a will. Winter heard them and was stirred to strange activities. Robert Fenley, recovering from an ague and sickness, heard and marveled at the pandemonium which had broken loose in the park. The household at the towers was aroused.

heads were craned out of windows. Women screamed, and men dressed hastily. Keepers, estate hands and stablemen tumbled into their garments and hurried out, armed with guns and cudgels. An unhappy woman tossing in the fitful dreams of drug-induced sleep was awakened by the pistol shots and terrified by the noise of slamming doors and hurrying feet. She struggled out of bed and screamed for an attendant, but no one came. She pressed an electric bell, which rang continuously in the night watchman's room, but he had run to the front of the house and was unlocking the front door, where a squad of willing men soon awaited Winter's instructions.

For the superintendent, after rushing to the telephone, had shouted an order to McBain before he made off. in the direction of the quarry wood. The one toxin, which exercises a dreadful significance in a peaceful and law-abiding English community at the present day, struck a new and awful note in Hilton Fenry's brain. Fool that he was, why had he fought?

Why was he flying? Had he brazened it out, the police would not have dared arrest him, His brain was acute as the best of theirs. He could have evolved a theory of the crime, as subtle as any detectives, and who so keen-witted as a son eager to avenge a father's murder. But he had thrown away a gambler's chance

by a moment of frenzied struggle. He was doomed now. No plausible explanation would serve his need. He was hunted. The pack. was after him, the fox had broken cover, and the hounds were in full cry. Whither should he go? He knew not. Still clutching the empty gun, for which he had not even one cartridge in his pockets, he made hopelessly for the open park. Already some glimmer of light

showed that he was winning free of these accursed trees, which had stretched forth a thousand hands to tear his flesh and trip his uncertain feet. That way, at least, lay the world. In the wood, he might have circled blindly until captured. Now a drawback of such roaring maelstroms of alarm and uncertainty is their knack of submerging earlier and less dramatic passages in the lives of those whom fate drags into their sweeping current. lest, therefore, the strangely contrived meeting between Sylvia

that her knight-errant should be neglected by the chronicler, it is well to return to those two young people at the moment when Sylvia was declaring her unimpaired power of standing without support. Chenom was disposed to take everything for the best in a magic world. Whatever is is right is a doctrine which appealed to the artistic temper. in as much as it blends fatalism and the action of providence in proportions so admirably adjusted that no philosopher yet born as succeeded in reducing them to a formula but eve did not bite the apple in that spirit it was forbidden she wanted to know why sylvia's first thought was to discover a reasonable reason for trinome's presence

Of course there was one that jumped to the eye, but it was too absurd to suppose that he had come to the trist in obedience to the foolish vagaries which accounted for her own actions. She blushed to the nape of her neck at the conceit, which called for instant and severe repression, and her voice reflected the passing mood. I don't wish to underrate the great service you have rendered. me, she said, coldly, and I shall always be your debtor for it, but I cannot help asking how you came to be standing under the cedars at this hour of the night. I wonder, he said. She wriggled her shoulder slightly, as a polite intimation that his hand need not rest there any longer, but he seemed to misinterpret the movement and drew her an inch or so nearer, whereupon the wriggling ceased.

But that is no answer at all, she murmured, aware of a species of fear of this big, masterful man, a fear rather fascinating in its tremors, like a novices cringing to the vibration of electricity in a mildly pleasant form, a fear as opposed to her loathing of Robert Fenley as the song of a thrush to the purr of a tiger. I can tell you in a disconnected sort of way, he said, evidently trying to focus his thoughts on a problem set by the gods and which, in consequence, was incapable of logical solution by a mere mortal. It was a fine night.

I felt restless. The four walls of a room were prison-like. I strolled out. I was thinking of you. I am here. She trembled a little, blushing even more deeply than before. She fancied he must be able to feel her skin hot through the silk and linen. For all that, she contrived to laugh. It sounds convincing, but there is something missing in the argument, she said. Most likely, he admitted.

woman analyzes emotion far more intimately than a man. Perhaps if you were to tell me why you were drawn to cross the park at midnight, you might supply a clue to my own moon madness. But there isn't any moon, and I think I ought to be returning to the house. He knew quite well that she had evaded his question, and so readily does the heart respond to the whisperings of hope, he was aware of a sudden tumult in that which doctors call the cardiac region. She, too, had come forth to tell her longings to the stars. That thrice, blessed picture had drawn them together by a force as unseen and irresistible as the law of gravitation. Then he became aware of a dreadful qualm. Had he any right to place on her slim shoulders the weight of an avowal from which he had flinched?

He dropped that protecting hand, as if it had been struck sharply. I have annoyed you by my stupid word fencing, he said contritely. No, indeed, she said, and revelling in a new sense of power, her tone grew very gentle. Why should we seek far-fetched theories for so simple a thing as a stroll out of doors on a night like this? I am not surprised that you, at any rate, should wish to visit the place where that delightful picture sprang into being. It was my excellent good fortune that you happened to be close at hand when I needed help. I must explain that my explanation comes. first, he broke in. I saw you crossing the park. A second time in the course of one day I had to decide

whether to remain hidden or make a bolt for it. Again, I determined to stand fast. For had you seen and heard a man vanishing among the trees, you would certainly have been alarmed, not only because of the hour, but owing to today's extraordinary events. Moreover, I felt sure you were coming to the lake, and I did not wish to stop you. There was a bit of pure selfishness on my part. I wanted you to come. If ever a man was vouchsafed the realization of an unspoken prayer, I am that man tonight. Chenom had never before made love to any woman, but lack of experience did not seem to trouble him greatly. Sylvia, however, though very much alive to that element in his words,

bethought herself of something else, which they implied. Then you heard what my cousin Robert said, she commented. Every syllable. When the chance of an effectual reply offered, I recalled his disjointed remarks collectively. Did you hit him very hard? just hard enough to stop him from annoying you further to nights i suppose he deserved it he was horrid but i don't wish you to meet him again just now he's no coward and he might attack you that would be most unfortunate he agreed so if you don't mind we'll take a roundabout way by skirting the quarry wood we can reach the avenue

near the place where we met this evening. Do you remember? Perfectly, I shall be very old before I forget. But I mean the place where we met. Of course, you could hardly pretend that you had forgotten meeting me. As soon would the daffodil forget where last it bloomed. Daffodils that come before the swallowed airs and take the winds of march with beauty. Not that I should quote Winter's tale, but rather

search my poor store for after lines from a midsummer night's dream. I know a bank where on the wild time blows, where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, quite over-canopied with luxurious wood-bine, with sweet musk roses, and with Eglantine,

there sleeps Titania. believe me i have an excellent memory for some things they walked together in silence a little way and dreamed her chance that they were wandering in oberon's realm with hermia and lysander then sylvia stealing a shy glance at the tall figure by her side acknowledged that once she filled the role of titania in a schoolroom version of the play We had no man, she said, but the masks and costumes served us well. After a day's study, I could be a fairy queen once more. I pray the gentle mortal sing again, mine ear is much and raptured of thy note. She stopped suddenly. The next lines were distinctly amorous. He laughed, with ready appreciation of her difficulty, but generously provided a way out.

Poor mortal, he tittered, and must I wear an ass's hand to be in character? A loud report, and then another, brought them back rudely from a make-believe wood near Athens to a peril-haunted park in an English county. For the second time that night, Sylvia knew what fear meant. intuitively she shrank close to the strong man who seemed destined to be her protector and when an arm clasped her again she cowered close to its sheltering embrace

what is it she wailed in terror it is hard to say he answered quietly and the confidence in his voice was the best assurance of safety he could have given those shots were fired from some sort of rifle, not of the same caliber as that, which was used this morning, but unquestionably a rifle. Perhaps it is one of those modern pistols. I don't wish to alarm you needlessly, Miss Manning, but there is some probability that the police have discovered the man who killed Mr. Fenley, and there is a struggle going on. At any rate, let us remain out here in the open, we shall be as safe here as anywhere. Sylvia, who had not been afraid to venture alone into the park at midnight, was now in a quite feminine state of fright. She clung to Tranolm without any pretense of other feeling than one of unbounded trust. Her heart was pounding

frantically, and she was trembling from head to foot. The police whistles were shrilling their insistent summons for help, and Trenholm knew that the commotion had arisen in the exact part of the quarry wood, whence the murderous bullet that morning. He was unarmed, of course, being devoid of even such a mildly aggressive weapon as a walking stick, but there was no doubt in his mind that the best thing to do was to stand fast. He was not blind to the possibility of imminent danger. For the very spots they had reached lay in a likely line of retreat for any desperado whom the police might have discovered and be pursuing. Naturally, he took it for granted that the criminal had fired the two shots and the fact that whistles were still in full blast showed

that the chase had not been abandoned. Still, the only course was to take such chances as came their way. He could always shield the girl with his own body, or tell her to lie flat on the ground while he closed with an assailant, if opportunity served. Being a level-headed, plucky youngster, he was by no means desirous of indulging in deeds of daring do. The one paramount consideration was the safe conduct of Sylvia to the house, and he hoped sincerely that if a miscreas, were trying to escape, he would choose any route, save that which led from the wood to Roxton Village. Don't hesitate, if I bid you throw yourself down at full length, he said,

unconsciously stroking Sylvia's hair with his free hand. In a minute or two, we'll make for the avenue. Meanwhile, let us listen. If anyone is coming in this direction, we ought to hear him, and forewarned is forearmed. Choking back a broken question, she strove submissibly to check her distressed sobbing.

Were it not for the hubbub of thousands of rooks and pheasants, they would assuredly have caught the sounds of Hilton Fenley's panic-stricken onrush through the trees. As it was, he saw them first, and even in his rabid frenzy recognized Sylvia. It was only to be expected that he should mistake Trenom for his brother,

and in a new spasm of fright, he recollected he was carrying the rifle. Robert Fenley, of course, would identify it at a glance, and could hardly fail to be more than suspicious that sight of it. With an oath he threw the tell-tale weapon back among the undergrowth, and summoning the last shreds of his shattered nerves to lend some degree of self-control, walked rapidly out into the open park. Sylvia saw him and shrieked. Chen Ome was about to thrust her behind him, when some familiar attribute about the outline of the approaching figure

caused her to cry, Why, it's Hilton? Yes, Sylvia, came the breathless answer. You heard the firing, of course. The police have found some fellow in the wood. You and Bob make for the avenue. I'm going this way in case he breaks cover for the Rockston Gate. Hurry, you'll find some of the men there.

Never mind about me. I'll be all right. He was running while he talked, edging away toward a group of cedars. and under the conditions it was not for Tranom to undeceive him as to the mistake in regard to the artist as Robert Fenley. In any event, the appearance of Hilton from that part of the wood seemed to prove that the man whom the law was seeking could not be in the same locality, so Tranom did not hesitate to urge Sylvia to fall in with her cousin's instructions. for the time then they may be left to progress uninterruptedly to safety and not very prompt enlightenment. The flight of the self-confessed murderer calls for more immediate attention,

probably after the first moment of suspense, and when he was sure that escape was still not utterly impracticable, he intended to cross the park to the northwest and climb the boundary wall. But a glimpse of the black line of trees dotted him. He simply dared not face those pitiless sentinels again. He pictured himself forcing away through the undergrowth in the dense gloom and failing, perhaps, for the vegetation was wilder there than in any other portion of the estate. So making a detour, he headed for the unencumbered parkland once more, and gained the wall near Jackson's Farm, about the time that Chinom and Sylvia entered the avenue. He was unquestionably in a parlous state.

Bare-headed, unarmed, he could not fail to attract attention in a district where every resident knew the other, nor could he resist capture when the hue and cry went forth. What to do, he knew not. Even if he managed to reach the railway station unchallenged, the last train of the day had left for London soon after eleven, and the earliest next morning was timed for five o'clock, too late by many hours to serve his desperate need. Could he hire a motor-car?

or bicycle. The effort was fraught with every variety of risk. There was a small garage at Easton, but those cunning detectives would be raising the countryside already, and the telephone would close every outlet. For the first time in his life, Hilton Fenley realized that the world is too small to hold a murderer. He was free, who would soon have the choice of a network of main roads and lanes in a rural district at the dead hour of the night, yet he felt himself securely caged as some creature of the jungle trapped in a pit. Crossing Jackson's farm yard, not without disturbing a dog, just quieting down after the preceding racket, he hurried into the village street, having made up his mind to face the inevitable and aroused the garage-keeper.

by the irony of fate he passed the cottage in which police constable pharaoh was lying asleep and utterly unaware of the prevalent excitement to join in which he would have kept awake all that night and the next then the turn of fortune's wheel befriended fenley again outside a house stood dr stearn's car a closed-in runabout in which both the doctor and his chauffeur were sheltered from inclement weather. The chauffeur was lounging on the pavement, smoking a cigarette, and Fenley, of course, recognized him. His heart leaped. Let him be bold now, and he might win through.

A handkerchief wiped some of the blood off his face where the skin had been broken by the trees, and he avoided the glare of the lamps. "'Hello, Tom,' he said, "'Where's the doctor?' "'Inside, sir, with a glance "'tourd an upper room where a light shone. "'What's happened at the towers, sir?

"'Was it shooting, I heard a while since?' "'Yes, a false alarm, though. "'The police thought they had found "'some suspicious character in the grounds. "'By jing, sir, did they fire at him?' "'Fenley saw that the story was weak and hastened to correct it. No, no, he said,

the police didn't shoot first. That was my brother Robert. You know what a hair-brained fellow he is. He said he fired in order to make the man double back, but that is a small matter. Can I have one word with Dr. Stern? I'll see, sir. And the chauffeur went to the house.

Furno had estimated Hilton Fenley correctly, in ascribing to him the quality of cold-bloodedness. 99 men among a hundred would have appropriated the motor-car then and there, but Fenley saw, by waiting a minute, and displaying the requisite coolness, he might succeed in throwing his pursuers off the trail for some hours. Stern came, it chanced that he was watching a good patient through a crisis, and would be detained until daybreak.

break. Hello Hilton, he cried, what's up now? And what's the racket in the park? Fenley explained, but hurried to the vital matter. My car is out of action, he said. I was going to the eastern garage to hire one, when I saw yours standing here. Lend it to me for a couple of hours. There's a good fellow. I'll pay well for the use of it. Pay? Nonsense. jump in take mr fenley where he wants to go tom where to first hilton st albans i'm exceedingly obliged and look here stern i insist on paying we can settle that afterwards off with you i'll walk home tom

away sped the car running through easton fenley saw two policemen stationed at a cross-road they signalled the car to stop and and his blood curdled. But in the same instant, they saw the chauffeur's face. The other occupant was cowering as far back in the shadow as possible. Oh, it's Dr. Stern, said one. Right, Tom. By the way, have you see anything of, Come on, do, growled Fenley, drowning the man's voice.

I'm in a vile hurry. That was his last real hairbreadth escape. for that night, at any rate, though other thrills were in store. The chauffeur was greatly surprised when bidden to go on from St. Albans to London and take the High Barnet Road to the city. But Fenley produced a five-pound note at the right moment, and the man reflected that his master would not hesitate to oblige a wealthy client, who evidently meant to make good the wear and tear on the car.

in about an hour fenley alighted on the pavement opposite the firm's premises in bishopsgate street if a policeman had chance to be standing there the fugitive would have known that the game was up but the only wayfarers in that part of the thoroughfare were some street cleaners now that he saw a glimmer of light where hitherto was darkness he was absolutely clear brained and cool in manner. Wait five minutes, he said, I shan't detain you longer. He let himself in with a master key, taken from his dead father's pockets earlier by Tomlinson. Going to the banker's private office,

he ransacked a safe and a cabinet with hasty method. He secured a hat, an overcoat, an umbrella, and a packed suitcase, left there for emergency journeys in connection with the business and was back in the street again within less than the specified time. His tongue claved to the roof of his mouth when he found a policeman chatting with the chauffeur, but a man saluted him with a civil good morning.

In the city of London, which is deserted as a cemetery from 10 o'clock at night till 6 in the morning, the police keep a sharp eye on waiting cabs and automobiles between these hours and invariably inquire their business. The constable was quite satisfied that all was well when he saw Mr. Hilton Fenley, whom he knew by sight. In any event, the flying murderer was safer than he dared hope in that place and at that time. The Roxton telephonic system was temporarily useless insofar as it affected his movements, for a fire had broken out at the towers, and the flames of the burning roof had been as a beacon for miles around

during the whole of the time consumed by the run to London. End of Chapter 15 Chapter 16 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Libervox recording is in the public domain. The Close of a Tragedy. Winter was in the quarry wood and feeling his way, but trusting to hands and feet when he heard and soon saw Furnow and the two constables coming toward him. The little detective held the electric torch above his head and was striding on without looking to right or left. The bitterness of defeat was in his face.

Life had turned to gall and wormwood. As the expressive American phrase has it, he was chewing mud. The superintendent smiled. He knew what torment his friend was suffering. Hello there, he said gruffly, and the three men jumped for their nerves were on edge. Oh, it's a good.

you, Napoleon, yelped Furno. Behold, Sout, and his army corps, come to explain how Sir John Moore dodged him at Coruna. You've lost your man, then. Botched the job at the moment of victory, and all through a rope end. Tush, that isn't in your line. Must I be lashed by your wit, too?

The rope was applied to me, not to fendler. you don't mean to say sir broke in one of the astounded policemen that you think mr hilton killed his own father was it you who got that punch in the tummy yes sir well save your breath you'll want it when the muscles stiffen crean londin peep to think that i furneaux of the yard should queer the finest pinch i ever stood on "'Oh, come now, Charles,' said Winter. "'Don't cry over spilt milk. "'You'll catch Fenley all right before the weather changes. "'What really happened?' "'Aware of the paramount necessity of suppressing his personal woes,

"'Ferno at once gave a graphic and succinct account "'of Fenley's imminent capture and escape. "'He was scrupulously fit. and exonerated his assistance from any share of the blame if indeed any one could be held accountable for the singular accident which precipitated matters by a few vital seconds had fenley reached the ground before the torch revealed the detective's presence the latter would have closed with him instantly throwing the torch aside and thus taking the prisoner at the disadvantage which the fortune of war had brought to bear against the law ferno was wiry though slight and he could certainly have held his man until reinforcements came nor would the constable's lamps have been extinguished during the melee then he has vanished rifle and all said winter when furneau had made an end as though the earth had swallowed him a thousand years ago it would have done was the humiliated confession.

None of you have any notion which direction he took. I received such a whack on the skull that I believe he disappeared in fire, said Furnow. My friend here, turning to the policeman who had voiced his amazement at the suggestion that Hilton Fenley was the murderer, was in the position of Brett Hart's Negro lecturer on Giali. well this other stalwart thought he had been kicked by a horse we soon recovered but had to grope for each other then i called the heavens to witness that i was dished that gave us a chance of salvage anyhow said winter i phoned the roxton inspector and he will block the roads when he has communicated with st albans and some other central we should have a fairly wide net spread. Bates is coming from the lodge to take charge of a search party to scour the woods.

We want that rifle. He must have dropped it somewhere. He'll make for a station in the early morning. He daren't trap the country without a hat and in a black suit. Winter was trying to put hearts into his colleague, but Furno was not to be coming. The truth was that the blow on the head had been a very severe one. Unfortunately, he had changed his hard straw hat for a soft cap, which gave hardly any protection.

Had Fenley's perch been a few inches lower when he delivered that vindictive thrust, Scotland Yard would probably have lost one of its most zealous officers. So the Jersey man said nothing, having nothing to say that was fit for the ears of the local constabulary, and Winter suggested that they should return to the mansion and give Bates instructions. Then he, Winter, would telephone headquarters, have the main roads watched, and the early continental trains kept under surveillance. Furneau, torch in hand, at once led the way. Thus the party was visible before it entered the avenue,

and two young people who had bridged months of ordinary acquaintance in one moment of tragedy, being then on the roadway, saw the gleam of light and waited. Good, cackled the little detective when his glance fell on them. I'm glad to see there's one, live man in the bunch? I presume you've disposed of Mr. Robert Fenley, Mr. Trenel. Yes, said the artist. His affairs seemed to be common property. His brother evidently knew he was out of doors, and now you, Ferno woke up at that. His brother, how can you know what his

brother knew. Mr. Hilton Fenley saw Miss Manning and myself, and mistook me for, saw you? When? About five minutes ago, on the other side of the wood. What did he say, quick? He told us that the shooting was the outcome of your efforts to catch some man hiding among the trees. Of my efforts? He didn't mention you by name. The words he used were the police. He was taking part in the chase, I suppose. Which way did he go? Trenholm hesitated.

Not only was he not quite conversant with the locality, but his shrewd wits had reached a certain conclusion, and he did not wish to be too outspoken before Sylvia. Surely she had born sufficient for one day. Thereupon the girl herself broke in. Hilton went toward the cedars. He may be making for the eastern gate. Have you caught any man? Not yet, Miss Manning, said Winter, assuming control of the situation with a firm hand. I advise you to go straight to your broom and not stir out again tonight. There will be no more

disturbances, I promise you that. Even the chief of the CID can air when he prophesiesies. At that instant, the two lines of trees lost their impenetrable blackness. Their foliage sprang into red-tinted life, as if the witches of the Brachan had chosen a new meeting place, and a crackling, tearing sound, rent the air. Oh! screamed Sylvia, who chanced to be facing the mansion. The house is on fire! They were standing in a group.

almost where police constable Farrow had stood at ten minutes past ten the previous morning. Hence they were aware of this addition to the day's horrors before the house servants, who, headed by Tomlinson, were gathered on and near the flight of steps at the entrance. Every female servant in the establishment was there as well, not outside the door, but quaking in the hall. Macbain was the first among the men to realize what was happening. He caught the loud clang of an automatic fire alarm ringing in his room, and at once called the House Fire Brigade to run out the hose,

while he dashed upstairs into the north corridor from which a volume of smoke was pouring. Good heavens, he cried on reaching the cross gallery. It's in Mr. Fenley's. rooms. Mr. Fenley's rooms. No need to tell the horrified staff which rooms he meant. A fire was raging in the private suite of the dead man. The residence was singularly well equipped with fire extinguishing appliances. Mortimer Fenley had seen to that. And grenades producing carbonic acid gas generated by mixing water with acid and and alkali were stored in convenient places,

and there was a plentiful supply of water from many hose pipes. The north and south galleries looked onto an internal courtyard, so there was every chance of isolating the outbreak, if it were tackled vigorously, and no fault could be found with either the spirit or training of the amateur brigade. Consequently, only two rooms, a bedroom and adjoining dressing-room, were well alight.

These were burned out completely. A sitting-room on one side was badly scorched, as was a spare room on the other, but the men soon knew that they had checked the further progress of the flames and were speculating while they worked, as to the cause of a fire originating in a set of empty, apartments, when Parker, Mrs. Fenley's personal attendant, came sobbing and distraught to Sylvia. Oh, Miss, she cried, oh, miss, where is your aunt? Isn't Mrs. Fenley in her room? asked the girl, yielding to a sense of neglect in not having gone to see if Mrs. Fenley was alarmed, though the

older woman was not in the slightest danger. The two main sections of the building were separated, by an open space of 40 feet, and the towers had exceedingly thick walls. No, miss, I can't find her anywhere, said the woman, well aware, that if anyone was at fault, it was herself. You know when I saw you, I went back then, and she was sleeping, so I thought I could leave her safely. Oh, miss, what has become of her? Maybe she was aroused by the shooting. All hands that could be spared from the firefighting operations engaged instantly in an active search.

But there was no clue to Mrs. Fenley's disappearance beyond an open door and a missing nightlight. The electric current was shut off at the main at midnight, except on a special circuit communicating with the hall, the courtyard, and McBain's den. where he had control of these things. High and low they hunted without avail, until McBain himself stumbled over a calcinated body

in the murdered banker's bedroom. The poor creature had waked to some sense of disaster, vague memories of the morning's horror had led her nightlight in hand to the spot where she fancied she would find the one person on earth in whom she placed confidence. For Mortimer Fenley had always treated her with kindness, even if his methods were not in accord with the commonly accepted moral code.

Presumably, on discovering that the rooms were empty, some further glimmering knowledge had stirred her benumbed consciousness. She may have flung herself on the bed in a paroxysm of weeping, heedless of the overturned nightlight and the havoc it caused. That, of course, is sheer guesswork, though the glass dish which held the light was found later on the charred wood, which was protected to some extent by a thick carpet. At any rate, she had not long survived the husband, who had given her a pomp and circumstance for which she was ill-fitted. They were buried in the same grave, and Artfordshire sent its thousands to the funeral.

Soon after her fate became known, Winter wanted furneau, but his colleague was not in the house. The telephone, having broken down, owing to the collapse of a standard and the necessity of subduing the fire, having put a stop to any immediate search being made in the park, Winter thought that the pair of them would be better employed if they transferred their energies to the local police station. He found Furnow seated on the lowermost step at the entrance. The Jerseyman was crying as if his heart would break and Trenome was trying to comfort him, but in vain.

"'What's up now?' inquired the superintendent, thinking at the moment that his friend and comrade was giving way to hysteria indirectly owing to the blow he had received. Furno looked up. It was the darkest hour of the night, and his chief could not see the distraught features run with pain. James, he said, mastering his voice by a fierce effort. My mad antics killed that unfortunate woman. She was aroused by the shots. She would cry for health, and none came. Heavens, I can hear her now.

Then she ran for refuge to the man who had been everything to her since she was a barrack-room kid in India. I'm done, old fellow. I resign. I can never show my face in the yard again. It'll do you a world of good if you talk, said Winter, meaning to. to console, but unconsciously wounding by cruel sarcasm. I'll be dumb enough after this night's work, said Furnow, in a tone of such utter dejection that winter began to take him seriously.

If you fail me now, Charles, he said, and his utterance was thick with anger at the crassness of things, I'll consider the advisability of sending in my own. papers. Dash it. He said something quite different, but his friends may read this record, and they would repudiate an exact version with scorn and disbelief. Are we going to admit ourselves beaten by a half-bred hound like Hilton Fenley? Not if I know it, or I know you. We've got the noose round his neck, and you and I will pull it tight if I. we have to follow him to pardon the

interruption, gentlemen, said a voice. I was called out of bed to come to the fire, took a shortcut across the park. Blow me if I didn't kick my foot against this.

And police constable Pharaoh, who had approached unnoticed, held out an object which seemed to be a rifle. owing to his being seated, Furno's eyes were on a level with it, and he could see more clearly than the others. He struck a match. Then there could be no doubt that the policeman had actually picked up the weapon, which had set in motion so many and such varied vicissitudes.

But Pharaoh had more to say. It had been his happy lot during many hours to figure bravely in the Fenley case, and he carried himself as a valiant man and true to the end. I think I heard you mention Mr. Hilton, he went on. I met Dr. Stern in the village, and he told me Mr. Hilton had borrowed his car. Furno stood up. Continue, Solomon. said, and Winter sighed with relief. The little man was himself again. That's all, gentlemen,

or practically all. It struck me as unusual, but Dr. Stern said Mr. Hilton's motor was out of gear, and he wanted a car in a disparate hurry. He did indeed, growled for no. You're quite sure there's no mistake? Mistake. sir, how could there be? The doctor was walking home. That's an unusual thing. He never walks a yard if he can help it. Mr. Hilton borrowed the car to go to St. Alden's. Did he indeed, just how did he come to find the car waiting for him? Oh, that's the queer part of it. Dr. Stern is looking after poor old Joe Bland. who's mighty bad with there now if i haven't gone and forgotten the name something ices and mr hilton must have seen the car standing outside bland's house but what was he doin in rockston at arpast twelve that's what beats me and then just fancy me stubbing my toe against this again he displayed the rifle as if it were an and he were giving evidence.

Let's go inside and get a light, said winter, and the four mounted the steps into the hall. Robert Fenley was there red-faced as ever, for he had helped in putting out the fire, but quite sober since he had been very sick. Some lamps and candles gave a fair amount of light, and Robert eyed Trenome viciously. "'So it was you,' he said. "'I thought it was. "'Well, my father and mother are both dead, "'and this is no time for set when matters,

"'but I look you up when this business is all over.' "'If you do that, you'll get hurt,' said Winter brusquely. "'Is that your rifle?' "'and he pointed to the weapon in Pharaoh's hands. "'Yes. Where was it found?' in the quarry wood sir but almost in the park said the policeman has it been used recently fenley could hardly have put a question better calculated to prove his own innocence of any complicity in the crime winter took the gun meaning to open the breach but he and furneaux simultaneously noticed a bit of black thread tied to one of the triggers it had been broken and the two loose ends were some inches in length that settles it murmured furneaux the scoundrel fixed it to a thick branch aimed it carefully on more than one occasion

look at the sights set for four hundred yards and fired it by pulling a cord from his bedroom window when he saw his father occupying the exact position where the sight practiced on Monday and Tuesday showed that a fatal wound would be inflicted. The remaining length of cord was stronger than this packing thread, which was bound to give way first when force was applied. Well, that side of the question didn't bother us much, did it, winter. May I ask what you are talking about? Inquired Robert Fenley, hoarsely, about that precious rogue, your half-brother, was the answer.

That is why he went to his bedroom, one window of which looks out on the park and the other on the east front, where he watched his father standing to light a cigar before entering the motor. He laid the cord before breakfast, knowing that Miss Manning's habit of bathing in the lake would keep gardeners and others from that part of the ground,

When the shot was fired, he pulled in the cord. I saw him doing that, interrupted Chinom, who, after one glance at the signs of his handiwork on Robert Fenley's left jaw, had devoted his attention to the extraordinary story revealed by the detectives. You saw him? And Furneau wheeled round in sudden wrath. Why, the deuce didn't you tell me that? You never asked me.

How could I ask such a thing? Am I a necromancer, a wizard, or a thought-reader? Genome favored the vexed little man with a contemplative look. I think you are all those, and a jolly, clever art critic as well. Furno was discomfited, and Winter nearly laughed, but the matter at issue was too important to be treated with levity. Tell us now what you saw, Mr. Trenault, he said. When the shot was fired, I recognized it as coming from a high-velocity rifle, said the artist.

I was surprised that such a weapon should be used in an enclosed park of this nature, and looked toward the house to discover whether or not any heed would be given to the incident there. From where I was seated, I could see the whole of the south front, but not the east side, where the brass fittings of the automobile alone were visible, glinting through and slightly above a yew hedge. Now, when Miss Manning returned to the house and entered by way of a window on the ground floor, I noticed that no other window was open. But after the report of the gun, I saw the end window of the first floor on the southeast side slightly raised, say six inches, and someone in the room was, as I regarded it, gesticulating or making signs.

That continued nearly half a minute and then ceased. I don't know whether the person behind the glass was a man or woman, but someone was there, and engaged in the way I've described. If your theory is correct, the motions would be precisely those you suggest, similar to those of a fisherman reeling in a line. Your simile happens to be exact, said Winter, while Hilton Fenley and my friend here

were having a dust up in the quarry wood, I searched his rooms. And among other things, I came upon a salmon reel, carrying an exceptional quantity of line. So our case is fairly complete. I'm sorry to have to inform you, Mr. Fenley, that not only did your half-brother kill your father, but he tried his level best to put the crime on your shoulders.

He overreached himself in sending for Scotland Yardmen. We have seen too much of the seamy side of life to accept as gospel tree. the first story we hear. The very fact that Hilton Fenley was attacking you in your absence, prejudiced us against him at the outset. There were other matters, which I need not go into now, which converted our dislike into active suspicion.

But it is only fair that you should understand how narrow was your escape from arrest. Had the local police been in sole charge, I am bound to say you would have passed this night in a cell. Luckily for you, Mr. Furnow and I set our faces against the notion of your guilt from the beginning. Long before we saw you, we were keeping an eye on the real criminal. When you did appear, your conduct only confirmed our belief in your innocence. I told you why you will remember, piped Furno.

But Robert Fenley said no word. He was stunned. He began to feel ill again and made for his rooms. Sylvia had not been seen since she heard of Mrs. Fenley's death. The detectives collected their belongings, which, with the gun and a bag packed with various articles, taken from Hilton Fenley's suite, The Reel, for instance, a suit of clothes bearing marks,

possibly of moss, and the leather portfolio of papers, were entrusted to Farrow and another constable for safe conveyance. Accompanied by Tranombe, they walked to Easton. On the way, the artists supplied sufficient details of his two meetings with Sylvia to put them in possession of the main incidents. Furneau, though suffering from a splitting headache, had recovered the use of a vinegary tongue. I was mistaken in you, he chuckled.

You're a rank impressionist. Indeed, you're a neo-impressionist. Get busy and do it now, master of art. But she's a mighty nice girl, isn't she? Meaning, Miss Manning, said Trenome coldly. No, Eliza. Sorry, I misunderstood. Crenon, you've got it bad.

Got what bad? The matrimonial measles, you're sickening for them now. One of the worst symptoms in the man is his curt refusal to permit anybody else to admire one bright particular star of womanhood. If the girl hears another girl gushing over the young man, she's ready to scratch her eyes out. By Jove, it'll be many a day before you forget your visit to Rockston Park this morning, or yesterday morning, or whenever it was.

I'm mixed. Life has been very strenuous during the past fifteen hours. If you love me, James, put my poor head under a pump, or I'll be dreaming that our lightning sketch performer here, Long John Chen Ome, late candidate for the pretext. P-R-A, but now devoted to the cult of Hyman, is going to marry Eliza of the White Horse, and that the fair Sylvia is pledged to cook us a dinner tomorrow night, or is it to-night, Oh, Gemini, how my head aches. Don't mind a word he's saying, Mr. Trenholm, put in winter.

Hilton Fenley hit him a smack with that rifle, and it developed certain, cracks already well marked, but he's a marvellously cute little conjure when you make due allowance for his peculiar ways, and he has a queer trick of guessing at future events with an accuracy which has surprised me more times than I can keep track of. Chenom was too good a fellow not to put up with a little mild chaff of that sort. He looked at the horizon where the faint streaks of another dawn were beginning to show in the northeast. Please God, he said piously,

if I'm deemed worthy of such a boon, I'll marry Sylvia Manning or no other woman. And when the chance offers, Eliza of the White Horse shall cook you a dinner to make your mouth water. Thus will Mr. Furno's dream come true because dreams go by contraries. End of Chapter 16.

Chapter 17 of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley by Louis Tracy. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. The Settlement Winter tried to persuade his mercurial-spirited friend to snatch a few hours' rest. The police inspector obligingly offered a bed, but short of a positive order,

which the superintendent did not care to give, nothing would induce furneau to let go his grip on the Fenley case. Wait till the doctor's car comes back, he urged. The chauffeur will carry the story a few pages farther. At any rate, we shall know where he dropped Fenley, and that is something. Winter produced a big cigar, and Tranome felt his pockets for pike and tobacco.

echo. No, you don't, young man, said the big man firmly. You're going straight to your room at the white horse, and I'll tell you why. From what I have heard about the Fenleys, they were a lonely crowd. Their friends were business associates, and they seemed to own no relatives, while Miss Manning, if ever she possessed any, has been carefully shut away from them. The position of affairs in the towers will be strained tomorrow. The elder Fenley's are dead. One son may be in jail, or if he isn't, might as well be, and the other, as soon as he feels his feet, will be giving himself airs. Now, haven't you a mother, or an aunt, who would come to Roxston and meet Miss Manning, and perhaps help her to get away from a house which is no fit place for her to live,

live in at present? My mother can be here within an hour of the opening of the telegraph office, said Trinon. Write the telegram now, and the constable on night duty will attend to it. When your mother arrives, tell her the whole story, and send her to Miss Manning. Don't go yourself. You might meet Robert Fenley, and he would certainly be cantankerous. if your mother resembles you, she will have no difficulty in arranging matters with the young lady. If I resemble my mother, I am a very fortunate man, said the artist simply.

I thought it would be that way, was the smiling comment. One other thing, I don't suppose for a minute that Miss Manning is acquainted with a reputable firm of solicitors. If she is, tell her to consult them and get them to communicate with Scotland Yard, where I shall supply or leave with others certain information which should be acted on promptly in her behalf. If, as I expect, she knows no lawyer, see that she takes this card to the address on it and give Monsieur Gib, Morris, and Gibb, my message. You understand? Yes. Finally, she must be warned to say nothing of this to Robert Fenley. In fact, the less that young Spark knows about her affairs, the better. After tonight's adventure, that hint is hardly needed, perhaps, but it is always well to be explicit. Now off with you. I'm not tired. Can I be of any service? Yes, I want you to be ready for a long day's work in Miss Manning's interests. Mr. Furnow and I may be busy elsewhere.

Unquestionably, we shall not be in Rockston. We may even be far from London. Miss Manning will want a friend. See to it that you start the day refreshed by some hours of sleep. Goodbye, said Trenom promptly. Sorry, you two will. We'll miss Eliza's dinner, but that is only a feast deferred. By the way, if I leave Roxton, I'll send you my address.

Don't worry about that, smiled the superintendent. Our friend, the inspector here, will keep tabs on you. Before you're finished with inquests, police courts, and assizes, you'll wish you'd never heard the name of Fenley. By jove, I nearly forgot. to caution you, not a word to the press. Fieu, he whistled. If they get onto this story in its entirety,

won't they publish chapter and verse. So Chernelm went out into the village street and walked to his quarters in the White Horse Inn. It was not yet two o'clock, but Don had already slivered the northeast arc of the horizon. just twenty hours earlier an alarm clock had waked him into such a day as few have experienced many a man has been brought unexpectedly into intimate touch with a tragedy of no personal concern but seldom indeed do the fates contrive that death and love and high adventure should be so closely bound and packed pell-mell into one long day only to think of it. When he stole upstairs with the clock to play a trick on Eliza, he had never seen Sylvia, nor so much as heard her name spoken. When he sang of love and the dawn, while striding homeward through the park, he had seen her, yet did not know her, and had no hope of ever seeing her again.

when he worked at her picture he had laboured at the idealization of a dream which bade fair to remain a dream and now by some magic jugglery of ordinary events each well within the bounds of credibility yet so overwhelmingly incredible in their sequence and completeness he was sylvia's lover her defender her trusted knight-errant Even the concluding words of that big, round-headed, sensible detective had brought a fantasy nearer attainments. If Sylvia were rich, why then a youngster who painted pictures for a living would hardly dare think of marrying her. But if Sylvia were poor, and Winter's comments seemed to show that these financiers had been financing themselves at her expense, what earthly reason was there that she should not become mrs john trenholm at the earliest practicable date none that he could conceive why a fellow would have to be a fool indeed who did not know when he had met the one woman in the world he had often laughed at other fellows who spoke in that way about the chosen one now he understood that they had been wise, and he foolish. But suppose Sylvia, oh, dash it, no need to spoil one's brief rest by allowing a beastly doubt like that to rear its ugly head. One thing he was sure of. Robert Fenley

could never be a rival, and Fenley, churl that he was, had known her for years, and could hardly be pestering her with his attentions if she were pledged to another man. Moreover, he, John, newly in love, and tingling with the thrill of it, fancied that Sylvia would not have clung to him with such complete confidence when the uproar arose in the park, if— Well, well, the history of the Fenley case will never be brought to an end, if any attempt is made to to analyze the effects of love's first vigorous growth in the artistic temperament. About a quarter past three, Dr. Stern's little landolette was halted at the same crossroad where policemen had stopped it nearly three hours ago.

"'That you, Tom,' said the constable, "'you're wanted at the station.' "'What station?' inquired the chauffeur. "'The police station. "'Am I, by gummed? What's up? The Scotland Yardman want you. But what for? I haven't run over so much as a hen. Oh, it's all right. You're wanted as a witness. Never mind why. They'll tell you. The doctor is there smoking a cigar till you turn up. I left him at Joe Bland's.

Joe Bland has left Roxton for Kingdom Come, and the towers is half burnt down. Things haven't been happening while you were away, have they? Not half, said Tom. No, nor a quarter grinned the policeman to himself when the car moved on. Wait till you know who you took on that trip, and why your spark and plug will be out of order for a week. It was as well that the chauffeur had not the slightest notion that he had conveyed a murderer to London to his employer and the detectives. They wanted a plain, unvarnished story and got it. On leaving the offices in Bishop's Gate Street, Fenley had asked to be driven to Gloucester mansions, Shaftesbury Avenue. Tom had seen the last of him standing on the pavement

with a suitcase on the ground at his feet. He was wearing an overcoat and a derbyte. He was wearing an derby hat and was pressing an electric bell. He told me I needn't wait, so I made for the edgeware road. That's all, said Tom. Cool as a fish, commented Furneau. Well, sir, I didn't get hot over it, said the surprised chauffeur. I am not talking about you. Could you manage another run to town?

Are you too tired? The mystified Tom looked at his employer. Dr. Stern laughed. Go right ahead, he cried. I'm thinking of buying a new car. 120 miles in one night should settle the matter, so far as this old reddle trap is concerned. Of course, we'll pay you, doctor, said Winter.

That's more than Hilton Fenley will ever do, I'm afraid. Tom tickled his scalp under his. cap. Mr. Hilton, get me a fiver, he said rather sheepishly. There was something going on that he did not understand, but he thought it advisable

to own up with regard to that lordly tip. You're a lucky fellow, said the doctor. What about petrol? And do you feel able to take these gentlemen to London? Tom was a wiry person. In

five minutes, he was on the road again. bound for Scotland Yard this time. As a matter of form, a detective was sent to Gloucester Mansions and came back with the not-unforeseen news that Mrs. Garth was very angry at being disturbed at such an unearthly hour. No, she had seen nothing of Mr. Hilton Fenley since the preceding afternoon. Someone had rung the bell about two o'clock that morning. But the summons was not repeated, and she had not inquired into it,

thinking that a mistake had been made and discovered by the blunderer. Sheldon was brought from his residence. He had a very complete report concerning Mrs. Lyle, but that lady's shadowy form need not flit across the screen since Robert Fenley's intrigues ceased to be of interest. He had dispatched her to France, urging that he must be given a free hand until the upset caused by his father's death was put straight. Suffice it to say that when he secured some few hundreds a year out of the residue of the estate, he married Mrs. Lyle and possibly became a hen-pecked husband. The Garth's two, mother and daughter, may be dropped.

there was no getting any restitution by them of any share of the proceeds of the robbery they vowed they were innocent agents and received no share of the plunder miss eileen garth had taken up musical comedy if not seriously at least zealously and commenced in the chorus with quite a decent show of diamonds london was scoured next morning for traces of hilton Fenley, but with no result. This again fell in with anticipation. The brain that could plan the brutal murder of a father was not likely to fail when contriving its own safety. Somehow, both Winter and Ferno were convinced that Fenley would make for Paris, and that once there, it would be difficult to lay hands on him. Ferneau, be it remembered, had gone very thoroughly, into the bond robbery, and had reached certain conclusions when Mortimer Fenley stopped the inquiry. In pursuance of this notion, they resolved to watch the likeliest ports. Furnow took Dover,

Winter New Haven, and Sheldon Folkestone. They did not even trouble to search the outgoing trains at the London Terminai, though a detailed description of the fugitive was circulated in the ordinary way. Each man traveled by the earliest train to his destination, and having secured the aid of the local police, mounted guard over the gangways. Fernot drew the prize, which was only a just compensation for a sore head and soarer feelings. He had changed his clothing, but adopted no other disguise than a travelling cap, pulled well down over his eyes. he took it for granted that fenley like every other intelligent person going abroad was aware that all persons leaving the country are subjected to close if unobtrusive scrutiny as they step from pier to ship fenley therefore would have a sharp eye for the quietly dressed men who stand close to the steamer officials at the head of the gangway but would hardly expect to find nemesis hidden in the purser's cabin through a porthole furneau saw every face and on the third essay while the fashionable crowd which elects to pay higher rates for the eleven o'clock express from victoria

was struggling, like less exalted people, to be on board quickly. He found his man in the thick of the press. Fenley had produced a new suit, a Hamburg hat, and some baggage. In fact, it was learned afterwards that he hired a taxi at Charing Cross, breakfasted at Canterbury, and made his purchases there at leisure, before driving on to Dover. He passed between two uniformed police. with the utmost self-possession, even pausing there momentarily to give some instruction to a porter

about the disposition of his portmanteau. That was a piece of pure bravado, perhaps a final test of his own highly strung nerves. The men, of course, were not watching him or any other individual in the hurrying throng. They had a sharp eye for furneau, however, and where, where he nodded and hurried from his lair, one of them grabbed Fenley by the shoulder. At that instant, a burly German, careless of anyone's comfort but his own, and somewhat irritated by Fenley's halt at the mouth of the gangway, rushed forward. His weight and Fenley's quick flinching from that ominous clutch loosed the policeman's hold, and the murderer was free once more for a few fleeting seconds.

The constable pressed on, shoving the other man against the rail. Here, I want you, he said, and the quietly spoken words rang in Fenley's ears as if they had been bellowed through a megaphone. Owing to his own delay, there was a clear space in front. He took that way of escape instinctively, though he knew he was doomed,

since the ship's officers would seize him at the policeman's call. Then he saw for no whose foot was already on the lower end of the gangway. That then was the end. He was done for now. All that was left of life was the ghastly progress of the law's ceremonial until he was brought to the scaffold and hanged amidst a whole nation's loathing. his eyes met furnows in a glance of deadly malice then he looked into eternity with daring despair and dived headlong over the railing into the sea that awesome plunge created tremendous excitement among the bystanders on kay and ship it was seen by hundreds men shouted women screamed not a few fainted a safe

on the lower deck ran with a life belt, but Fenley never rose. His body was carried out by the tide and was cast ashore some days later at the foot of Shakespeare's cliff. Then the poor mortal husk made some amendments for the misdeeds of a worked soul. In the pockets were found a large amount of negotiable script, and no small sum in notes and gold. with the result that messier gib morris and gib were enabled to recover the whole of sylvia manning's fortune while the sale of the estate provided sufficiently for robert fenley's future the course of true love never ran smoother than for john and sylvia they were so obviously made for each other they had so determinedly flown to each other's arms that it did not matter to puppets to either whether Sylvia were rich or poor. But it mattered a great deal when they came to make plans for a glorious future. What a big, grand world it was, to be sure, and how much there

was to see in it. The continent, America, the gorgeous east. They mapped out tours that would find them middle-aged before they neared England again. Does life consist then in flitting from hotel to hotel, from train to steamship? Not it. German Kultoll took care to upset that theory. John Trenholm is now a war-born major in the gunners, and Sylvia has only recently returned to her home nest after four years' service with the Red Cross in France. but these things came later.

One evening in the autumn, Winter and Furnow took Sheldon over to Roxton and dined with Dr. Stern and Tomlinson at the White Horse. Tomlinson had bought the White Horse and secured Eliza with the fixtures. Of course, there was talk of the Fenley's, and Winter told how Hilton Fenley's mother had been unearthed in Paris.

She was a spiteful and wizened half-cast, but she held her son dear, as mother's will, be they black or white or chocolate-colored, and it was to maintain her in an establishment of some style that he had begun to steal. She had married again,

and the man had gone through all her money, dying when there was none left. She retained his own. name, however, and Fenley adopted it too during frequent visits to Paris. Hence, he was known there by a good many people, and could have sunk his own personality, and he made good his escape. The mother's hatred of Mortimer Fenley had probably communicated itself to her son. When she was told of Hilton's suicide and its cause, she said that if anything could console her for his death, it was the fact that he had avenged her wrongs on his father.

What was her grievance against poor Mortimer Fenley? inquired the doctor. I knew him well, and he was a decent sort of fellow, rather blustering and dictatorial, but not bad-hearted. His success, I believe, said Winter. They disagreed, and she divorced him, thinking he would remain poor. The whirligigig of time changed their relative positions, and to a jealous-minded woman, that was unforgivable. The affair made a rare stir here, anyhow, went on the doctor. The people who have taken the towers have not only changed the name of the place, but they have commissioned a friend of mine, an architect, to alter the entrance. There will be two flights of steps and a covered porch,

so the exact spot where Fenley fell dead will be built over. Gentlemen, said Tomlinson, Talking is dry work. I haven't my old cellar to select from, but I can recommend the brands you see on the table. Mr. Furnow, I'm sure you have not forgotten that Chateauy can. then and not until then did the ex-butler hear that the detectives had never tasted his famous port his benign features were wrung with pain for it was a wine of a rare bouquet and hard to replace but furneaux restored his wonted geniality by opening a parcel hitherto reposing on the sideboard i never sent you that box

of Aldo Duoro, he cried. Here it is. A crusted court for your own drinking. Lest you should be tempted to be too generous tonight, I've brought another. Now a cradle and a corkscrew. So, after a dirge and before the world shook in war, the story ends on a lively note for what is there to compare with good wine and good cheer, each in moderation. And one bottle among five is reasonable enough in all conscience. End of Chapter 17. End of the Strange Case of Mortimer Fenley, by Lewis Tracy.