The Harmsworth Magazine, Vol. 1, 1898-1899, No. 4

by Various

"THE WIGGERIES.

"By the pricking of my thumbs

Something wigged this way comes;

Open locks, whoever knocks."

The inimitable Dan Leno's "Yours with or without lace" is a characteristically original way of saying that their friendship was not one of a business nature merely.

One autograph is of special interest in view of the tragic happening of a few months ago. It is the characteristically bluff signature of the late William Terriss, written while he was playing with Sir Henry Irving in the year 1890.

SARA BERNHARDT'S COMPLIMENTS.

When Mr. Clarkson was a boy just fresh from school, Terriss used to come into his father's workroom and give his order for wigs directly to the younger Clarkson, insisting that he, and he alone, should make them from beginning to end. The late Mr. Terriss may therefore be said to have been Mr. Clarkson's first client.

One of the smallest spaces in the whole book contains quite a bunch of prominent names, the signatures of Violet Cameron, Kyrle Bellew, Yvette Guilbert, and Arthur Pinero occupying a space very little larger than a postage stamp.

"My dear Clarkson," wrote the late Sir Augustus Harris, "what do you wish me to say? Echo answers, What? You answer, Nix! So I wish you all good luck."

The majority of the world's greatest musicians are represented in the album. For example, Leon Cavalli has contributed two bars of his Pagliacci; Mascagni, of Cavalleria Rusticana fame, signs his name across the musical stave, and Madame Melba contributes her best wishes.

Another quotation of special interest, as it is written by the great singer Madame Patti, runs as follows: "A beautiful voice is the gift of God.—Adelina Patti-Nicolini."

Then by way of contrast there is a portion of one of Miss Hope Temple's songs, in the handwriting of the composer.

One of the most interesting contributions is that supplied by Mr. Diosy, the popular Secretary of the Japan Society. It consists of a message to Mr. Clarkson, and a few lines from The Geisha in Japanese writing and characters.

"From an artiste in airs to an artiste in hairs," over the signature and music of Mr. Isidore de Lara, is a particularly happy contribution.

Many of the illustrations are self-explanatory, and we have therefore omitted mention of them in this article.

MR. TOOLE'S MODESTY.

A WORD FROM DRURY LANE.
A MURDERED MAN'S AUTOGRAPH.
	MR. PINERO FINDS HIMSELF IN PLEASANT COMPANY.
DAN LENO'S INTIMATION.

---

DAPHNE.
A Complete Story by Walter E. Grogan.

Illustrated by Harold Copping.

When a man has looked at death out in Nevada, has rioted in a brawling mining camp, and has lived for years where the constraint of civilisation is considerably relaxed, he may outwardly conform to the decorum of an English village, but underneath you may be certain he is as lawless as ever.

"DAPHNE BLAKISTON WAS PRETTY."

Gustave Derwent locked up the memories of the days when he was known as "Wild Gus," banished the recollection of the rough life he had spent, and brought to Grorepound, on the confines of Dartmoor, only the knowledge of his great wealth; but at heart the master of Grorespound Hall was "Wild Gus" still.

County society received him rapturously. He was very wealthy, and happily of a good family. The Derwents of Gloucestershire were quite in the very best set. It is true that younger sons had little besides the old name, and it was therefore sometimes inconvenient to know them; but Gustave had made quite a fortune in mining, and the name made it easy for him to step into the set which had been his in past days.

His connections were anxious that his subscriptions to the hunt and other county institutions, and also his entertainments generally, might be taken as part payment of their own debts to society. There was little doubt that Derwent understood this, and therefore chose Devon.

Grorepound had little to recommend it. Those who called upon him were few, because there were very few to call; the village was merely rural.

"I have been hunted—it's much more exciting than chasing foxes; and as for shooting, there isn't much sport in butchering tame pheasants," he said to the Squire, standing squarely against his mantelpiece.

The Squire remonstrated.

"It's all very well for me, Derwent. I know every inch of the place and every fool living within twenty miles. I was born here. I fit it and it fits me. I was at sea at Oxford, and when I came down I was glad. My father mortgaged most of the land, I've done the rest. I'm not rich. I'm growing poorer every day. Land isn't what it was. But I love the place. There's a whole army of Blakistons in the church, and please God I shall add to their number. I am someone here—I'm nobody away. I like to potter after the hounds on a half-bred. I like to catch my trout. I have old friends here, and can talk to them of old times. But you? Why, bless me, Derwent, you are rich, not bad looking, and young. What do you want to bury yourself here for? It's no life for you. It isn't as though you were married even."

At all of which Derwent smiled. He smiled habitually. It was not a pleasant smile, for in it lurked a suspicion of irony.

"Blakiston, no man can understand another. This place suits me. It's quiet, and I want quiet. I have had my fill of excitement out West. I am young—but forty does not mean a boy."

"Forty! pooh! what's forty?" cried the Squire. He was well over sixty, and looked upon the vault in the church of which he was fond of speaking as a possibility very hazy from its remoteness.

"Forty, my friend, is middle age. I am not married, and am not anxious for a wife. A wife seems to me a risky bargain; because you are lucky, that is no reason why I should be."

The Squire shifted his hands from his knees and shuffled his feet. He did not regard his wife as absolutely essential to his happiness.

"Of course, of course," he said, testily. "Mary is an excellent woman, a really excellent woman."

"Yes, but it was a lottery. She might not have been excellent, Blakiston; she might have been bad-tempered, she might have attempted to rule you."

The Squire looked at him with a gleam of suspicion. His wife Mary was bad-tempered and did rule him, and that in an unpleasantly harsh way. Derwent smiled still, and the Squire merely reached for his glass of whisky and water and hoped that his host was unconsciously ironical.

"Then you won't marry?" he asked.

"I don't say that," Derwent answered. At moments in his life he had thought that love might be the beautiful thing of which men raved. Those moments were rare, for the making of money is an occupation which gives little leisure.

"No, I don't say that," he went on. "But I am in no hurry."

"Got my niece coming to-morrow, Derwent," the Squire growled, after a period of silence. "She has no nearer relations, worse luck! Been with a girl friend for a year—father was killed in India, mother died when she was a baby. So she comes to us."

"It is fortunate for her that she has so excellent a home open to her."

"Yes," the Squire answered, lamely. He was not sure whether Derwent did not see under the surface. He was conscious of his wife's outcry about the new expense and the new inconvenience.

A few days later Derwent saw the niece and fell in love with her with all the fierceness of his nature.

She was pretty, but a critical observer would have ended at that qualification. The question was whether anyone could be critical in her presence and under the spell of her eyes.

Her hair was of that shade of brown which has kindred with the sun, but is dusky in the shade. Her nose was small and not very straight, her mouth was small, and her chin set forward with a determined tilt; but her eyes were her glory—large, brown, trusting, and yet unfathomable. Derwent, seeing them, thought of stars in a midnight sky, the stars out West, which had spoken to him in those rare moments when he had respite from dollar making.

Daphne Blakiston was high-spirited. In two or three days she conquered both the Squire and his wife, who were surprised to find themselves in accord in liking anyone.

There was a breeziness in her manner which carried them away in spite of themselves.

"She is a thorough Blakiston," the Squire said.

"She might have been a Courtenay to hear her speak," said his wife.

They set much store by family in Devon.

Derwent found her so pleasant that he went exploring the gardens with her. They had never seemed so worthy of notice before.

"You like this place?" he asked her.

"Of course—it's lovely. You can breathe here. Did you ever try to breathe in London? You can't really—you only cough."

"I have had room to breathe in my life."

"You come from the West. It must be grand to be in the forefront of civilisation—to get away from the restrictions of society."

"One gets away from all restrictions," he answered, slowly, "but I do not know that it is grand."

"But you live out there; you work for your living, and you work hard."

"Yes."

"It must be glorious! I wish I could go there."

"God forbid!" he cried.

"Why? I have grit—that's what you call it, isn't it?"

He smiled. "I don't doubt it, Miss Blakiston; but you have also a conscience. A conscience is inconvenient without settled laws to back it up."

"But right is right everywhere," she expostulated.

"Right there is in the possession of a good revolver and a quick eye."

"You have had a wild life," she murmured, looking at him with some curiosity and a little awe.

"Wild enough; and I sometimes wonder whether the wildness is all out yet. Who says habit is second nature? There is a great deal of truth in it. They may put me into English dress and place a riding-whip in my hand in exchange for a pick or a revolver, but if anything I really wanted was to come into my life and there was any obstacle—" He broke off and looked hardly through the hedge, seeing something that was not there. His hands clenched themselves, and his face becoming set made him look more than his forty years.

"'COME,' HE SAID, 'I WISH TO SPEAK TO YOU. I CAN'T TALK IN THIS CROWD OF FOOLS.'"

She watched him with a new interest.

"Well?"

"I think it would go hard with the obstacle."

Daphne was about to continue her investigation when she caught sight of a straw hat over the hedge which bordered the meadow from the road.

"There's Jack!" she cried. "I know there is only one straw hat so dilapidated in the world!"

He looked at her narrowly.

"Who's Jack?" he demanded.

"Jack's—well, Jack. He is the son of the rector. I knew him in London. He's on long leave. Jack!" she called.

Jack found a gap in the hedge—the Squire's hedges had many gaps—and came towards them. Derwent saw that he was good-looking, tall, young, and carried himself with the easy air of a military man. He hated him. It was a new experience; he had never hated men before—he had only disliked them.

"Ah, Daphne!" cried Jack; "I hardly hoped to see you."

"This is Mr. Derwent—Mr. De Courcy. I knew you were coming down yesterday. Your father told me." She poured out her words in excited gasps. To Derwent it seemed that she ignored him, and he did not like it.

"You are in the army?" he asked curtly of the young man named Jack.

"Yes, the 10th Lancers. I was too much of a muff for anything else. I can ride a bit, I am fairly well made," he looked down at his length of limb complacently, "and—and I don't think I should funk."

"No man knows until he has been tried."

"I suppose so."

The two left Derwent somewhat unceremoniously. From that he gathered that Daphne merely looked upon him as her uncle's friend. No man likes to awake suddenly and find that he has become middle-aged. He may be fond of joking about it, but that is because he believes he is far from its border. When the knowledge comes to him suddenly, and, above all, through a woman who has found favour in his eyes, it is bitter.

Derwent watched them go, cursing the young soldier.

"An insolent puppy—a mere boy!" he said. "It is dishonourable for him to be making love to her. He is a pauper!"

De Courcy hardly noticed Derwent beyond a vague wonder at his churlishness.

"Rum beggar, Daphne," he said. "I suppose living so long in a savage place has made him grumpy. Beastly rich, isn't he?"

"Yes. Made it all himself. Nevada must be a glorious place!"

"What a mercenary being you are, Daphne!" he laughed. "I prefer Canterbury, or Grorepound, even. I suppose I shall be jealous of him."

"Mr. Derwent? Why, he is an old man."

"He seems over forty—not old, you know; and he has dollars, which mean diamonds."

He smiled throughout, because it seemed manifestly impossible that any woman should prefer anyone to himself. Jack De Courcy was well satisfied with the work of Nature in fashioning himself.

"Oh, Jack!" she protested.

"And I am a pauper," he went on.

He certainly was a pauper in comparison with Derwent; but, poverty being only comparative, he was a rich man to many. His mother's private fortune—some four hundred a year—was added to the pay which a grateful country gave him for his exertions on parade.

Derwent lived for a week in the agony of jealousy. He had never cared for anyone very much in all his previous life. He had indeed been aware of an innate capacity for affection, but the business of making money had left him no leisure.

One day he came to a decision.

"You are a fool," he said, apostrophising himself. "You are a fool. Go and ask her whether she can care for you. You don't know yet for certain; you only imagine. The soldier is a boy. Women—young women—don't care for boys. Besides, he is poor, and women like jewels."

The same afternoon he sought her out from a number of guests playing tennis on the Squire's lawn. She was flushed with victory, having, mainly by the aid of Jack's long legs and skill, succeeded in vanquishing the antagonistic couple in a hard fight. Derwent hated tennis, because he did not play it and Jack did. Tennis is not much practised in mining camps; they prefer shooting.

"Come," he said, very quietly, yet in the tone of one who is set upon a purpose. "I wish to speak to you. I can't talk in this crowd of fools. I have not yet got the hang of it."

She looked at him and laughed.

"What a dear old grumbler you are!" she cried. She really liked him—it is possible that there was something to like in him, and that if matters had run easily he would have been a pleasant member of society. A man after all is largely shaped by his surroundings.

He did not answer her, at which she was surprised, for his general taciturnity had usually disappeared at her bidding.

"You are bad-tempered," she said. "Don't be bad-tempered. The sun is just lovely and I shall be freckled. I hate being freckled, but the process is alluring. And I have news." She added the last softly to herself, expecting him to question her. He did not. He led her to a seat in the shade of a tree and stood behind her looking down on her wide straw hat.

"I am not young," he began; "I have nearly reached forty——"

"I thought you were more," she interrupted, and his brows contracted.

"I have lived hardly. I have done many things which I wish to forget, and which I cannot. I have made money where to make money needs grit and—and a conscience not too tender."

"Are you going to write an autobiography?" she asked. She had no idea of the seriousness of his mood, for all of his moods struck her as more or less serious.

"I am stating broadly the manner of man I am. I don't want to appear a saint. I would rather you did not know how I lived when I was heaping dollars. My past life belongs to the past. I have now another life before me. It may be happier than the drag of years behind."

"It ought to be—you are rich."

"It depends upon you."

She tilted her hat upwards, but the brim was wide and she could not see him.

"On me?"

"Yes. I love you. I have loved you since I first saw you. I have never loved another woman—I never shall. Can you find it in your heart to make my new life happy?"

"Mr. Derwent," she answered, "I had no idea that you cared. I—I like you very much—as a friend. But now—I told you I had news to-day—news which has made me happy—tuned me to the day, which is happy. Jack has asked me to be his wife, and I have accepted him."

"HE POURED THE CONTENTS OF THE PHIAL INTO HIS COMPANION'S TUMBLER."

Derwent paled a little under his bronze, and his face darkened.

"If—if Mr. De Courcy had not come into your life——" he began.

"That is an idle thought."

"Yes, it is idle—but I thought—it would—if he had not come?"

"Who knows—I cannot realise a life without him." Then she added other words. "I like you, Mr. Derwent, and—and I am very sorry."

He let her find her way back to the guests alone.

In the blindness of his jealousy he construed her words into an admittance that she would have married him if it had not been for De Courcy. They allowed no such interpretation, but jealousy is not shrewd-sighted, and more often than not blunders.

They had not named him "Wild Gus," singling him out from among other wild natures for the epithet, for nothing. All the passions which had been restrained since his advent into society surged upwards and confirmed him in a resolve. With the intention of carrying out that resolve he returned to the tennis lawn.

Daphne, who, in spite of her flippant tongue, was possessed of a very tender heart, was glad to see him, glad to notice the easy way in which he passed from guest to guest talking of quiet matters with that earnestness which had made him popular.

She had been troubled lest he had been too keenly disappointed. She argued that if he cared much he could not hide his hurt so readily. She lacked experience.

Derwent sought out De Courcy and congratulated him with a seeming frankness that completely dispelled the young officer's aversion. Daphne was standing quite close to them, and at the elder man's words was glad.

"I do not pretend," he said, easily, "that we are not all envious, De Courcy. You have gained a very great prize, and we should all be more than human if we were not. But Miss Blakiston's happiness——" His voice faded into an inarticulate murmur.

After dinner he told many stories to De Courcy, strong stories of a man's life in wild lands, and De Courcy told himself that the Derwent fellow was a very decent chap, and that he had underrated him vastly.

"There was little restraint in those early days in Nevada. A man's friendship was true, and his hatred deadly. Vengeance was swift-footed, and I have seen a man anger another and be laid out cold under the blue sky in the very same day."

"Savage, Derwent, savage!" cried the Squire. "I'm glad that we have laws and constables and magistrates here."

"We are all savage underneath."

De Courcy looked at him and laughed.

"I am glad, Derwent, that I am not likely to rile you. I should say you would be apt to lapse into those primitive customs."

"De Courcy," the Squire said, "your father has gone away for the night, hasn't he?"

"Yes. He's Rural Dean, you know, and has driven over to an outlying parish. The rector is putting him up."

"Then you had better stop the night here. It will be lonely for you."

"Thanks, no. The governor would not care for the house to be left to itself. You know, Derwent," he went on, "the governor is awfully faddy, and will let no servant sleep in the Rectory but the housekeeper, and she went two days ago to a dying daughter. Daughter isn't dead yet, so I shall be entirely alone."

Derwent expressed surprise, yet he had been fully aware of this. It was indeed current gossip in the village. The whims of the rector made a good deal of conversation in the course of a year.

At ten o'clock Derwent and De Courcy started together. Both walked, for the night was fine, though a strong wind came over the moor.

"Dear old moor!" De Courcy said. "It blows us strength in the hottest of weather."

"The wind is strong—it will increase." Derwent remarked this with satisfaction.

The Rectory, standing alone, was some little way from the village. It was thatched, and there was much trellis-work over its face, dry and warped with many days' suns. When they reached it Derwent was in the middle of some exciting reminiscence.

"Come in," cried De Courcy, "come in. There's whisky and seltzer, or soda, if you prefer it. You can have a pipe and finish your yarn. It is quite early."

"Not for Grorepound," remonstrated Derwent. The lights in the village were going out one after another like the sparks of an exploded firework.

"But for us? I can't sleep without a pipe, and I expect you are the same. Let us have our pipes in a sociable way instead of in silent communion. Come."

Derwent went in with De Courcy, passing through the hall into the library. The library window looked on to the lawn by the side of the trellised porch.

As they entered the wind rattled the windows gustily.

"You will not find the wind so strong at the back," said Derwent.

"But I sleep in the front," explained De Courcy. "My room is the one over this."

Derwent looked at the porch and smiled.

"Then," he said, "you will probably get little sleep to-night."

"Nonsense! I am used to noises. The stables are very near my quarters at Canterbury, and the horses kick up a fearful row. Seltzer or soda?"

"Soda, thanks."

Derwent watched the other mix the drinks with a curious fascination. When the tumblers were filled he turned to a portrait at the back of De Courcy and over the sideboard.

"Is that your mother?" he asked.

The officer turned with a smile and looked for a moment at the face smiling back at him. During that moment the elder man drew a small phial from his waistcoat pocket, and poured its contents swiftly and silently into the tumbler nearest his companion. It was a preparation of opium which he used for insomnia, and invariably carried with him; a small dose for one accustomed to the drug as he was, but one large enough to ensure a very heavy sleep in anyone not habituated to it.

"Yes," said De Courcy, in a soft voice, "my mother. She died four years ago. If there be any good about me I owe it to her. God never gave man a better mother."

"Ah, I cannot remember my mother. She died when I was quite a youngster."

He leant his head on his hand, shading it from the lamp. For a moment neither man spoke, and then Derwent reached out his hand and took the tumbler nearest to him, not the one into which he had poured the opium.

"Come, De Courcy, we must drink to your bride. Miss Blakiston!" he cried.

"Daphne, God bless her!" answered De Courcy.

Derwent watched him stealthily while he drank, smiling when he set down the empty tumbler.

They remained together smoking for a quarter of an hour, Derwent finishing the story which had been the means of his coming in. De Courcy seemed to lose interest in it, and at its close, after yawning once or twice, laughed.

"I am awfully sorry, but I've grown uncommonly sleepy. The effect of the moor air, I expect," he said.

Derwent rose.

"My dear fellow, don't let me keep you up. I suffer from insomnia so much that I would not willingly rob a man of a minute's sleep. Good-night, and thanks. I can find my way out."

De Courcy protested, but Derwent was determined, and stumbled out into the darkness. For a short while he examined the porch.

"It is dry enough," he muttered. "In half an hour he will be fast asleep. Nothing will wake him—nothing shall wake him! How the wind blows! It blew like this when I shot Black Dan by the Dumper's Claim. Why do I think of that now? I must get back at once—there is little time to be lost."

He strode in the direction of his own house. The butler only was awake.

"I am very tired, John. I shall go to my room now. Lock up."

"Very good, sir."

"I shall be late in the morning. I have suffered from insomnia very badly the last few nights, but now I know I shall sleep. Don't wake me. Let me have my sleep out."

"Very good, sir."

Derwent went up to his room, undressed quickly, jumped into bed, and lay there until he heard the butler pass along the corridor. Then he rose and dressed hastily.

"CLINGING TO THE LEDGE OF THE WINDOW-SILL, HE CLOSED THE WINDOW AFTER HIM."

"They will be able to swear that I was home, and that my bed was slept in," he said. He dressed in a rough, negligent style, unlike the extreme order which he had observed since his return to England.

He opened the window and looked out. The wind rushed in and blew down the heavy looking-glass, cracking it across.

"That," he said, "is unlucky. Some men would turn back at the omen. I never was one to believe in omens. I never was a man to turn back."

A pipe ran close to his window. By it the way to the ground was easy. Outside, clinging to the ledge of the window-sill with one hand, he closed the window after him. Then he slid down the pipe, and walked rapidly to the Rectory.

He approached it from the rear. The wind was in his face. It was so violent that he kept his head down, and his eyes fixed upon a few yards of the way before him.

What was that? Surely the night had grown lighter? Was the dawn breaking? That was impossible—it was little after midnight. But the hedges were plainly seen now, and before they had been blurred into the general blackness. The road was lighter. There was no doubt of it.

Derwent stopped, and, holding his hat, looked up. In front of him the sky was lurid, and over the roof of the Rectory close to hand were long thin tongues of flame and showers of sparks. There was no doubt about it. The thing he had come to do was already accomplished: the Rectory was in flames, and the fire had started from the very quarter he had planned. The wind was fanning it fiercely, as he had seen that it would.

For a moment he was dazed, standing in the middle of the road, staring at the spurting light dancing behind the Rectory, the house looking black against the illumination beyond. Then he ran, struggling against the wind, towards the fire. The reason of his going he did not stop to analyse. He was impelled. The wind whirled his hat away, but he did not notice it. In two minutes he was standing breathless in front of the Rectory. The flames were licking round De Courcy's bedroom window. He saw at once the cause of it. The lamp had overturned in the library. Probably the wind had burst in the window and blown the lamp over.

For a minute he stood gazing at the scene, and then he was conscious of the arrival of Blakiston and his niece.

"Derwent!" the Squire shouted, "where is De Courcy?"

Derwent turned to him. The question seemed a repetition of the older one, "Where is thy brother?" He looked at the Squire and at Daphne clinging to her uncle's arm, white and terrified.

"He must be in his room," he said. "I left him over an hour ago. He was going up then."

The flames leapt in a rush of demoniac exultation, and Daphne cowered.

"Mr. Derwent, can't you do something, can't you do something?" she cried.

He did not answer her. He was busy with his own thoughts. He began to realise that he loved her more than he had supposed men ever loved. It seemed pitiful that she should suffer thus.

"Daphne saw the light from her room and hastened me over," said the Squire, hurriedly, yet in that whispering awe which comes upon men in view of a tragedy.

"He must be in his room," Derwent said, looking at the broad sheet of flame licking the front of the house. Then he suddenly left them, going in the direction of some outbuildings.

Daphne, fascinated with the horror of the scene, clung to her uncle and moaned and prayed. The wind caught her hair and blew it about sportively. The trellis-work crackled and burst in the heat.

"Derwent has gone for help," said the Squire.

"What help can get here quickly enough?" she wailed. "Oh, Jack, Jack, my darling!"

Presently Derwent appeared, moving slowly. He was dragging something. It seemed very heavy. When he came into the light they saw that it was an old ladder, a primitive, rough ladder, very strong and very heavy.

He moved forward. The weight was great, but he was a strong man. Twenty years of heavy work had firmed his muscles.

"Come!" he said to the Squire, "this is stout, it will last longer against the flames."

The old man helped him rear it against the burning casement of the bedroom. A shower of sparks fell upon them as they did it. One fell upon Derwent's eye, and he swore as he brushed it aside. He had wanted all his sight for the work he had before him. He did not care so much for the pain, but the blindness which disabled one eye was serious.

He went over to Daphne.

"Give me something for my face—a handkerchief—anything!" he said, roughly.

She took a silk handkerchief from her bosom. It felt warm to his touch, and he was thrilled with a sudden sense of loss. He strode quickly away from her and wrung it in the fountain sporting merrily in front of the burning house. She followed him.

"Bind it round my mouth and nose," he cried.

She did it silently. Then she noticed his eye.

"You are hurt!" she cried.

"It is nothing. I wish it had come later, that is all. It won't matter much in an hour's time."

She thought of his words after, but then she was too anxious.

"God bless you," she whispered, and he mounted the ladder. The flames curled about him and licked his face and shoulders, but he did not falter. Then he disappeared at the window, and they waited. The Squire had found an old bowl and was throwing water from the fountain upon the ladder, which here and there was beginning to burn. Daphne stood watching the flames spurt and roar, and, with white lips, prayed inaudibly. It was perhaps human that she thought little of Derwent and all of Jack.

The heat beat back the Squire, and he stood looking helplessly at the ladder now crackling in the flames.

DERWENT APPEARED AT THE WINDOW BEARING DE COURCY IN HIS ARMS."

Suddenly Derwent appeared at the window. He was bearing De Courcy in his arms. The flames rioted round him, and they could see that his clothes were all charred.

"The staircase is a sheet of flame," he cried. "He was on his bed. The flames have not reached him."

As he spoke the ladder snapped in the middle and fell, and Daphne screamed, shutting out the scene with her hands, and then as suddenly snatching them away.

Derwent, framed in the window and holding Jack in his arms, cursed at it. For a moment he seemed nonplussed. Then he shouted—

"Blakiston, stand in as near as possible. I'm going to throw him out. You can break his fall. It is only the drop of a few feet. Stand on that bed, it will be softer."

The old man rushed to the spot. The flower bed seemed a good way from the house, but the flames reached it in the eddies of the wind. Daphne, realising what was meant, also went and stood on the bed. She looked at the twelve feet or more between it and the house, and wondered, yet never for a moment doubted that Derwent could do what he purposed.

They breathlessly watched him brace his muscles. In the glow of the light he looked grand, as a hero might, strengthening himself for his last fight. Then, with a cry of warning, he threw the man out, and the two waiting broke his fall. They, intent upon the rescued man, bore him from the reach of the flames, forgetting for a moment the man who had risked so much. When they looked he was gone.

The recoil had thrown him back, and the floor, rotten with the heating of the fire, had broken away. They knew afterwards that he must have been aware of the result, and that, knowing, he had given his life for the other. For it would have been an easy thing for him to have jumped himself had he been willing to sacrifice De Courcy.

De Courcy could never explain his insensibility that night.

"Felt beastly tired, and must have fallen asleep directly I got to my room." He was rescued fully dressed. "I suppose the smoke suffocated me and rendered me insensible before I awoke. If it had not been for poor old Derwent I must have been burnt. What a grand fellow he was!"

Daphne often wonders at Derwent's words. "It won't matter much in an hour's time," he had said, and it had not. And Jack's explanation always seems unsatisfactory to her, though she has never said so.

Derwent's tomb, which is very handsome, but which contains nothing of Derwent himself, bears the legend, "He gave his life for his friend"; but this is not true.

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FROM A SMOKER'S MUSEUM.
SOME BEAUTIFUL AND QUAINT BURNERS OF TOBACCO.
By T. C. Hepworth.

Smoking being so universal, it is no matter for surprise that much ingenuity has been spent over the chief implement concerned in its practice. We put cigar and cigarette smoking aside, having nothing to do with the object of the present article; moreover, both the cigar and cigarette are of comparatively recent introduction.

EXQUISITE VENETIAN-GLASS PIPE.

IRON PIPE MADE AS A KEY.

The pipe is the popular smoking appliance and most smokers give it the preference over everything else that can be smoked. It also has the support of the ladies, and any careful housewife will tell us that she would rather admit three or four pipe smokers to her curtained and carpeted rooms than one of those horrid cigars, which leaves its faint and disagreeable odour hanging about the place for many days. Ladies, indeed, are more tolerant of tobacco smoke than they used to be.

The first kind of European pipes were walnut shells, a hole being bored in one side for the reception of the stem—a common straw. It is possible that we get from this early form of tobacco pipe the term "straw," as applied to modern long clays, if, indeed, they are not named like straw-berries, from the material which protects them from injury.

CARVED WOOD PIPE, 6½ INCHES HIGH. TOBACCO PLACED BEHIND HORSE'S HEAD.

The custom of using a pipe common to an assembled company was, no doubt, partly due to the circumstance that tobacco was at one time a most costly thing. Three years after its introduction here it cost per ounce what would be equivalent to 18s. of our present money. Later on it became the custom for a purchaser to throw into the scale a silver coin, and he received just as much tobacco in return as would balance his money.

For the same reason the bowls of early pipes were very small, witness our photographs of early English pipes dug up at Chelsea which could be filled many dozen times over with a single ounce of tobacco. But, as in all other things, demand stimulated supply, until tobacco in our own day has become remarkably cheap. Perhaps some of our readers who pay fourpence an ounce for their little luxury may traverse this statement, forgetting that the value of the weed which they purchase is only about one fourth of what they pay for it, the difference going to H.M. Customs.

After the walnut and straw pipes had had their day, clay pipes became common in this country, where smoking became general after the great plague of London in 1665. To this pestilence we owe the suddenly increased use of tobacco, for it was bruited abroad that of all the tradesmen of London the tobacconists alone had not been attacked by the disease.

Smoking was recognised as a valuable sanitary precaution against the malady, and we find quaint old Pepys mentioning the fact in his famous diary after seeing two houses in Drury Lane marked with a red cross on their portals—the token of a plague-stricken household. "It put me," he says, "in an illconception of myself and my smell, so that I was forced to buy some roll tobacco to smell to, and chaw, which took away my apprehension."

17TH CENTURY CLAY PIPE.

Clay pipes have an enormous sale in this country at the present day, and we may assume that the publicans are the chief buyers, for it has long been the custom to give pipes away to patrons of beershops, without making any charge. Such pipes are mostly made from a Dorsetshire clay, the material being first well kneaded, moulded into pipe form, then dried, and lastly burnt in a kiln. The work of making this kind of pipe is so expeditious that a manufacturer can count on an output of five hundred pipes per day from each hand employed.

At one time there was a demand for "clays" of a more ornate kind, some of the bowls representing heads of popular or unpopular personages. For example, when the great Duke of Wellington tried to stop smoking in the army, except from the muzzles of the guns, he was caricatured in a pipe bowl in which his famous nose was given undue proportions, while the neck of the pipe bore the figure of a subaltern emulating the rude conduct of the gentleman in the Ingoldsby Legends—

"The sacristan said not one word

To indicate a doubt,

He put his thumb unto his nose

And spread his fingers out."

OLD ENGLISH EARTHENWARE SNAKE PIPE.

In the same way the French pipes offered endless variety—one pipe would represent a devil's head; another a skull; a favourite was the head of John Bull treated in a conventional way and not too flattering a spirit. There is also a well-known pipe bearing the head of a Dutchman stuck in a wooden shoe.

But if we want to find variety in pipe design, we must search for it in that country of great smokers—Germany. It would be quite easy to fill an entire number of this publication with pictures of pipes from the German empire, and we have access to collections which would afford endless variety of designs, for pipe collecting is almost as popular a hobby as that of stamp collecting. Here we give three very remarkable examples, as different as they could possibly be.

THE TWO CLAY PIPES ON THIS PAGE WERE FOUND IN MILMAN'S ROW, CHELSEA.

First, we show a pipe in the form of a key. It is made of iron, as many of the early pipes were; some were of brass, silver, or other metals; but as knowledge increased, and people learnt that these metals are greedy of heat, they were discarded for more suitable materials.

Our second German example is a very well carved figure of a mounted cavalry officer, made of wood, with silver armour and trappings. This is an eighteenth century pipe, and the original is no less than six and a half inches in height. It will be noted that the bowl proper is in the lower part of the horse's neck, this part of the animal being hinged so that the tobacco can be inserted. The pipe stem fits into a kind of holster at the back. This is essentially a pipe for home use, for although it is not heavy, considering its size, few men would care to be seen smoking such a huge thing out of doors.

TRIPLE-BOWL PIPE FOR SMOKING THREE KINDS OF TOBACCO.

Our third example from Deutschland is a triple-bowl pipe very finely carved out of one solid piece of hard wood, and mounted with silver tops, etc. There always have been, and probably always will be, persons who prefer to go a roundabout way to accomplish a thing which can be done by far easier means. These simple folk are satirised by genial Artemus Ward in a story of a person who was immured in a gloomy prison. He tried the walls, the floor, the ceiling, and endeavoured to remove the iron bars from the window. Next he tried to escape by the chimney. When suddenly "a lucky thort" struck him. "He opened the door and walked out."

ITALIAN PIPE OF MOTHER-OF-PEARL.

Now, it is quite certain that a man possessing this amount of resource would never have designed a pipe with three bowls in order that he might at the same moment inhale three different kinds of tobacco; he would have done what many smokers prefer to do at the present day—that is, he would have mingled his various kinds of tobacco and smoked them in a pipe of normal construction. The modern German pipes, affected chiefly by students, are too well known to need illustration. They have most capacious bowls of porcelain, and bear a painted picture, generally the representation of a more or less pretty maid.

But the Germans and French must not have it all their own way with the curiosities of pipeland. We give a photograph of an English one, which may be meant for a snake with a man's head, or a catherine wheel; and, if its coils could be opened out, it would measure many feet in length. It is made of earthenware, of a buff colour, covered with brown spots. He would be a bold man who would venture into the smoking-room of a London club with such a grotesque thing between his lips. But it was used before the days of modern clubs.

PERFORATED SILVER PIPE CASE.

THIS PIPE IS SMOKED IN THE CASE.

Italy supplies many examples of curious pipes. One is a bowl made from a natural shell resplendent with mother-of-pearl; it has an earthenware lining and silver cap. Another is a pipe of glass—not more brittle perhaps than a clay "churchwarden," but rather too expensive to risk between the teeth, for it is a fine example of that beautiful Venetian-glass work which is not excelled throughout the world.

A third Italian pipe is like the fur seal, in that the most valuable part of it is its skin, or case, made of finely-perforated silver. It will be noted that the pipe is too long for the case, an intentional peculiarity, in order that it may be smoked while encased in its handsome covering.

Turkey offers a great variety of pipes, from the humble red clay to the lordly hookah or hubble-bubble—a device of Persian origin for allowing the smoke to be drawn through water in order to purify it before reaching the mouth. Another pipe, with which the hookah is often mistakenly identified, is the "Narghile." This word is a native Indian one for a cocoa-nut, and the pipes are either made of an actual nut, as shown in our illustration, or have a receptacle for the nicotine of similar shape and character. A gourd pipe, with a gourd twelve inches in diameter, is not unknown.

INDIAN COCOA-NUT PIPE.

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THE FACE AT THE DOOR.
THE DRAMA OF A GHASTLY DELUSION.
By Walter D. Dobell.

Illustrated by S. H. Vedder.

A Story in Two Letters from Thomas Campbell, of London, to his Brother, Dr. John Campbell, in Bombay.

Dear Jack,Jan. 3rd., 1898.

What the Psychical Research Society really wants is an authentic record of any supernatural or inexplicable event in the life of a "healthy subject" with nerves of iron, and a hearty contempt for all forms of superstition.

Therefore I have not the slightest intention of following your advice and laying this story before that most learned and conscientious tribunal, because I fear that I cannot claim for John Barton, the principal actor in this little drama, either remarkably good health or a complete freedom from superstition. But as you ask for the details you shall have them.

I first met Barton some two years ago in the rooms of a friend of mine. We had been playing whist, and after the departure of the fourth player he and I stayed on talking with our host till the early hours of the morning.

The conversation ran chiefly on vampires, wehr-wolves, and other subjects of an equally light and cheerful nature, and Barton, I remember, showed himself to be an adept at the art of making the flesh creep. He walked part of the way home with me, and we discovered that we had quite a large number of friends and interests in common.

I came across him constantly after this, and one day when he was dining with me—in September, '95, I think it was? he told me that he was engaged to be married, and a few days afterwards introduced me to the lady. I was much struck by her beauty and the wonderful power that was expressed both in her face and by her speech and bearing.

Her age, if a poor bachelor is any judge, was about twenty-eight, and she was, I believe, of Russian extraction. She was living with friends in Paris, the Russian heaven, and naturally Barton spent most of his time in the same city, so that though I heard of him and from him from time to time, we never actually met again till January of this year. Mickleham asked me to come and dine with him for the purpose of meeting Barton, who would, he said, leave England again in a couple of days. I gladly accepted the invitation, and a very pleasant dinner we had at the Travellers' Club, adjourning afterwards to Mickleham's rooms, where we sat and talked for two or three hours.

I noticed at dinner that Barton was not looking well, and afterwards, though he talked as much and as brilliantly as usual, he studiously avoided supernatural subjects, once his favourite topic, and displayed marked uneasiness whenever the talk strayed in that direction. I don't think Mickleham noticed anything—he never was exactly a Sherlock Holmes, you remember—and in fact there was only one trivial indication of the state of Barton's nerves that was particularly remarkable. He seemed to have acquired a habit, even in the middle of some of his best stories, of continually glancing in a sidelong fashion at the door. Once, indeed, he rose and went towards it as if to close it; but seeing, as I then supposed, that it was shut, he went back to his seat.

We both left at about one o'clock, and as he was sleeping at the Métropole we parted at the corner of St. James' Street, and I said good-bye and wished him a pleasant crossing, thinking, of course, that I should not see him again before he left England. You can judge of my surprise when after walking home I found Barton already in my rooms. He apologised, saying that he had remembered something which he had meant to tell me, and had driven back to do it, passing me, I suppose, on the way. It was some time before I could get him to tell me what it was that he had forgotten. I was rather riled, as I wanted to go to bed, but when at last he did begin his story, I can tell you there wasn't much sleepiness left in me. He told it as no one else could have told it, and it's a solid fact that he made me feel like a frightened child, and you know I'm not a particularly imaginative man.

He began by asking me if I had observed his continual glances at the door in Mickleham's room—he was keeping his eye on my door, by the way, all the time he was telling the story. I said I had observed this, and he then gave me the reason for his conduct, and, by George, old boy, when I heard what he was always seeing when he did look at the aforesaid door, I admired the poor devil for his pluck as much as I pitied him for his delusion. I'm quite certain I couldn't stand it for half a minute, and he had been bearing it for more than a year.

He said that the door of any and every room in which he was always appeared to be ajar, and round the edge of the door—I declare it frightens me even to think of it—round the corner, as it were, just coming into the room, he always saw the hand and half the face of a man—never more, and never less. The hand was grasping the door about a foot above the handle, and the face was peering round it, with one eye—he couldn't see the other—always fixed on him. Cheerful, wasn't it? He could see the nose, which was very large and fleshy, and all the left side of the face, which was a sort of dirty white. The hair was black and rather long, he thought, and there was a large abrasion—"something between a cut and a bruise" was his phrase—on the temple.

He had been receiving this delightful visitor daily ever since the autumn of '95—a pleasant year he must have had of it, poor chap. I told him to go to a doctor, but he said that he had tried that without any success—had told the doctor that he was suffering from delusions, and had implicitly followed his instructions, but still the white face kept turning up at the door.

He seemed chiefly distressed about it because of his approaching marriage; he had, as I told you, become engaged in September, '95. He spoke very nicely of his future wife, of whom he seemed extremely fond, and asked my advice as to telling her all about it. I thought he had better not, and advised him to go in for hard exercise and early hours—but really I did not know what to say to him. "Paternosters were peas in plates to his sorrows."

He seemed rather more cheerful before he left, and we tried an interesting, though to me a somewhat alarming, experiment. Keeping his eyes fixed on the door, Barton walked slowly towards it, and laid his hand upon the handle. Directly he did this the face, he said, disappeared, but the hand remained. While he was turning the handle, however, the hand, which he said was large and dirty, followed the example of the head, and it became instantly clear to Barton that the door was not really ajar, but tightly closed. This was the invariable programme, he told me.

I saw him off, wished him well rid of his encumbrance, and promised to say nothing about it; then, taking my life and my candle in my hands, I rushed frantically up to bed.

I didn't meet Barton again until his wedding, which took place last month. He was looking nervous and harassed, but not more so than most men in his unhappy plight—it was a regular church affair. Naturally I had no opportunity for a quiet talk with him, even if I had been particularly anxious to have one—which I was not.

The happy pair started for Italy to spend their honeymoon, and I gave them a day's law before following. I had promised to join Robinson in Florence, and was already overdue. I hadn't the slightest intention of meeting the Bartons, and therefore of course they were almost the first English people that I came across in the streets of Florence. We exchanged a few fatuous remarks, and I then hurried away. It was too early in the honeymoon for them to be longing, like the couple in Punch, "for some friend to turn up, or even some enemy." That very evening, however, Barton came round to see me. I introduced him to Robinson, and we all talked for a bit in the hotel verandah, but it was so obvious that Barton had something to say to me in private that Robinson soon left us.

"Campbell," said Barton immediately, "it's getting worse than ever."

"What is?" I asked, though I knew.

"That infernal man at the door: I can see nearly all his face round the corner now, and I tell you I'm losing my nerve. And there's a new development: he doesn't always look at me now. I've noticed sometimes that his eyes—I can see both are fixed on Helene, my wife; and it's that, I think, that has shaken me."

"You haven't told her, I suppose?" said I.

"Of course not: but I think she sees that there's something wrong. I've seen her look at me very curiously at times, though she doesn't say anything. You don't think I ought to tell her?"

"Certainly not," I said; "but for goodness' sake go to a decent doctor when you get home, and tell him everything. I'm very sorry for you, my dear fellow, but that's really all I can advise; and if I were you I wouldn't put it off too long."

"SHE WAS A RUSSIAN, AND I WAS MUCH STRUCK BY HER BEAUTY."

"We're going home next week," he said, and we parted. I really don't see what I could have said that could have done the slightest good. It was in his liver or his eyes that the fault lay, I thought—I'm not so sure about that now—and I'm no doctor.

Well, two days after this interview, while Robinson and I were at dinner, a waiter came to me and said that there was a lady in our private room who insisted on seeing me immediately. I went up, of course, and there found Mrs. Barton in a state of terrible excitement and anxiety.

"You must come with me, Mr. Campbell," she cried, on seeing me; "my husband has met with a terrible accident," and she literally dragged me out of the hotel into her carriage.

"He is in a doctor's house," she said, as we rattled furiously down the street; "the accident happened at the very door, and he was carried in. He has been asking continually for you."

I thought she seemed to resent this, and perhaps it was only natural. "How did it happen?" I asked.

"He had been buying some old armour and two old Florentine daggers, and was carrying them home when he slipped and fell, and one of the daggers ran into his leg. It was all my fault, I ought to have helped him to carry the things; his hands were full, and he couldn't save himself."

"Oh, it will be all right, Mrs. Barton," said I; "a cut in the leg is not very serious."

"Not serious!" she replied, angrily; "the doctor said himself that in ten seconds more he would have bled to death. Here is the house; I shall take you straight to him." She hurried me through the open door of a somewhat mean little dwelling—we had driven into a rather low quarter of the town. I didn't know Florence well enough to be sure exactly where we were, and during my drive I had been too much occupied to look out of the window. We went into a small bedroom on the ground floor. Two little men in black coats were standing by the bed, and on it lay Barton, with a face of the most ghastly pallor and wildly glaring eyes.

"Thank God you've come, Campbell," he gasped. "I'm too weak—too weak—you must keep him out," and then his head fell back and he fainted. Restoratives were applied without avail, and the two men in black exchanged whispers in Italian which I could not catch.

"Speak English," said Mrs. Barton, furiously—she looked like a madwoman—"Speak English. What are you going to do?"

I thought it improbable that either of the men would know the language, but I was wrong.

"We are agreed," said the taller of the two, speaking with a very slight accent, "my brother and I, that one thing only can be done. Your husband is dying from want of blood: we must give him more blood. How much will you pay?"

"There's no question of that," I said, as I grasped his meaning; "you can bleed me, I'm willing. Be quick, there's no time to lose."

"No, no," said the doctor, "you are not strong enough; it might not save him; it would certainly lose—that is, kill you. But we are fortunate; there is in our house what you call a lodger, he is strong and his blood will serve. He will not refuse me, he is of the Religion; but you must pay."

"Of the Religion?" I said. "Oh, I see, you are a Jew. Well, I will guarantee you five hundred pounds; divide it as you choose, only make haste."

"That will be sufficient," said the shorter of the brothers, "but you and the lady must not be here. The room is small; I will take you to another, and bring down our guest, and I will tell you when it is finished, that you may thank him."

So saying, he led us into a room facing the door of the bedroom and locked us in. I heard him go upstairs; heard voices: then his steps coming down, followed by someone with a much heavier tread; heard them enter the bedroom and close the door. Mrs. Barton was lying back in her chair in a sort of stupor, and I was examining the room by the light of one candle—it was now nearly half-past nine—when I heard a sudden outbreak of noise, the bedroom door opened, the key of our door was turned, and the taller of the two brothers looked in.

"The gentleman must come, please," he said, and I hurried out. "He is calling for you," he said, closing the door, "and will not keep still; we can do nothing if he will not keep still."

We went into the bedroom. Barton was tossing wildly about on the bed; the little doctor was trying to keep him down while a tall dark man of an unmistakably Jewish type was holding the injured leg as still as he was able. I went up and took Barton's hands in mine: instantly he became perfectly quiet, and his eyes closed.

"Keep him away. Campbell, I trust to you," he said, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

"We must be quick," said the little doctor. "If the gentleman holds the right hand all will be well; we will operate on the left arm. Come, Israel," to the stranger, "stand here."

Barton was lying perfectly still, but when the man Israel approached the head of the bed an extraordinary shudder ran through his body, his eyes opened and glared at me, and his lips moved as if to speak; but apparently the sight of me sitting by the bed soothed him, for the panic died out of his eyes and his head fell back again on the pillow.

The operation commenced. I'm not doctor enough to give you the details, and I could not see very clearly, but apparently the doctors—for both the brothers appeared to be medical men—had established, by means of a sort of a pipe, a connection between the circulatory system of the big Jew and the poor fellow on the bed, so that the blood of the former poured into the veins of the latter.

"'MY HUSBAND HAS MET WITH A TERRIBLE ACCIDENT,' SHE CRIED."

As this idea came home to me, I glanced anxiously at the stranger to see if he was fitted to bear such a strain, and I was satisfied. A fine full-blooded fellow he looked, six feet high and well built, with black hair and ruddy cheeks, which seemed to me to be gradually growing paler, but perhaps this may have been due to the failing light of the little lamp by whose feeble rays this difficult operation was being performed.

It seemed to me that this wonderful lending or selling of life, as it were, had been going on for a long time, when I heard a slight noise behind me, and, glancing round, I saw Mrs. Barton at the end of the room near the door. Her eyes were fixed in a stare of terror on the face, not of her husband on the bed, but on the stranger who was saving that husband's life. The operation was almost over apparently. Barton's face was in shadow, and I could see no change in its appearance, but the smaller of the two doctors was bringing forward instruments and bandages with a view apparently to the necessary stoppage of the flow of blood when the connecting pipe should be removed. I motioned to Mrs. Barton to keep back and be silent. I suppose the big Jew Israel noticed my gesture, for his eyes turned towards the door. I saw his face, which was now very pale, suddenly stiffen as it were, and in another moment he gave a terrible cry, and leaped back from the bed.

The smaller doctor, with the most admirable presence of mind, instantly commenced operations on Barton's arm, while his brother seized hold of his lodger round the waist. Mrs. Barton, her eyes still fixed on the big Jew, was crouching down at the end of the room, and I hurried round the bed only just in time to stop the man Israel, who rushed towards her, dragging the doctor after him, and yelling out some perfectly unintelligible gibberish. It was obvious, however, that he meant murder, and I collared him in front while the doctor hung on gallantly behind. Israel was enormously strong, and, seizing the little man by the neck, he simply tore him off and flung him away into a corner of the room. In doing this, however, he threw all his weight on to his left foot, which I promptly kicked from under him, and we came down together, knocking over the table and rolling wildly about on the floor.

He seemed to be growing weaker, and at last I got my knee on his chest, when I suddenly remembered that his arm had never been attended to, that he must be bleeding to death. I could see nothing; for in our fall his head had struck the table and upset the lamp—thank goodness it was filled with colza, not paraffin—so I yelled to the doctors to strike a light and lend a hand. The little man, who had quietly finished Barton's arm while we were waltzing about all over the floor, relighted the lamp, and I don't think I shall ever forget the scene that the feeble light displayed to me.

Barton was sitting up on the bed looking anxiously in my direction; one doctor was just getting on to his feet, the other was hurrying towards me, and in the corner by the door was huddled Mrs. Barton, still wildly staring round, but perfectly motionless. I looked down at the man on the floor, and saw to my horror that he was on the point of death—in fact, before the little doctor could reach him, and put the lamp down, his jaw had dropped and his head fell back with a thud on the bare boards.

"He is dead," said the little man, quietly; "that blow on the head would perhaps have sufficed, but the cause of death was loss of blood; perhaps the gentleman would prefer to make the fee seven hundred pounds and he shall not be troubled with any too curious questions. As the gentleman's carriage is at the door, the gentleman had better be removed; it will not hurt him. Is there anything the matter with the lady?"

Mrs. Barton had risen, and now came slowly forward. "No," she said, "I am well. That man—I was afraid—I thought he was going to—to hurt me."

"It was so, without doubt," said the little man, calmly; "he was angry. Is the gentleman ready to be moved?"

"All right," said Barton, speaking in quite his ordinary voice, "all right, I can walk."

"He must be carried," said the doctors together; "the other gentleman will help us, and then he will perhaps arrange about the money."

We picked Barton up amongst us, his wife going first to prepare the carriage for his reception, and carried him to the door.

"Stop a minute!" said Barton, suddenly, "let me see the poor fellow who is dead."

"It is right that the gentleman should see him," said the smaller brother, "he saved the gentleman's life."

We had propped the corpse up in a sitting position against the end of the bed, and Barton looked long into the ghastly face.

"Good God! how strange!" he whispered at last. "He has saved my life, and I feared him—how I feared him!"

"The gentleman knew Israel Hoffmann then?" said the taller of the two doctors.

"No," said Barton, "I have never met him before. Go on," and we carried him to the carriage where his wife was waiting us. I got in with them, telling the doctors I would return immediately, and they allowed me to depart without protest, somewhat to my surprise. I saw Barton safely in bed, and was hurrying from the room when he called me back and asked his wife to leave us for a moment.

"Campbell," he said, when she had gone, "do you know who that man was?"

"No," said I, "he was a lodger in the house. I know no more than that, but I can find out if you like."

"I don't mean that," he said; "that man's face was the face that had peered at me round the door for more than a year; the face I had told you about, the face I had grown to fear as I never feared anything in my life before; and yet that man has saved my life. It was good, not evil, that the vision meant, Campbell—good, not evil, and it was nearly driving me mad. Go back to that house; you can leave me safely, I am happier and better than I ever was before. I thought the thing was evil, and I find it to be good."

I left him repeating these words over and over again, told his wife, and hurried back to my rooms. Then, having procured the money, I drove to the doctor's house. I settled with the two little men in the sitting-room, and then asked if I might see the body.

"It is upstairs," they said. "We will arrange everything; he is of the Religion. But you may see him."

I went upstairs, and there on a bed in a tiny room lay the body of my late antagonist, wrapped in a sheet. The face was exposed, and I examined it with interest. It was deathly pale and somewhat fallen away, the thick, curving nose standing forward prominently. On the left temple and on the forehead was a terrible bruise, caused, I suppose, by the edge of the table on which the lamp had stood. Certainly the face tallied marvellously with Barton's description of his visionary visitor. I went back to my rooms and tried to puzzle the thing out, but I can't say that I succeeded. The connection that seemed to exist between the dead man and Mrs. Barton only complicated matters instead of simplifying them.

Robinson and I are still staying on here, but the Bartons left yesterday, Barton having recovered in a perfectly marvellous manner. I've written a very long letter, old boy, but as you seem excited by the remarks I let fall in my last epistle to you about the subject, I thought I had better give you the full details. I'm afraid I must ask you not to repeat the story—you will yourself see the reasons against so doing. I don't know if you will be able to form any theory about it—I shall be glad to hear it if you can. Hoping to get a letter from you soon, and that you are quite fit,

I am

Your loving brother,

Tom.

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April 14, 1898.

Dear Jack,

I will give you, since you desire it, full details of the whole terrible business, but I must repeat the caution of my last letter. Don't make this public just yet. Of course many of the facts are known, but still I should prefer you not to repeat what I am going to tell you. I am taking legal advice on the subject.

In my letter to you, last summer, I told you, I think, all about Barton's strange delusion and the extraordinary episode of the transfusion of blood from the very man whose wraith he was always seeing into Barton's own veins. The Bartons had been in England for some time before I returned to find an invitation awaiting me to dine at their house in town. I accepted, as I was anxious to see how Barton was getting on, and whether he had got rid of his horrible delusion.

"WE FELL DOWN TOGETHER, AND I GOT MY KNEE ON HIS CHEST."

I found him in the best of health, better and stronger apparently than he had been even before the commencement of his hallucination; but Mrs. Barton was much paler and thinner than when I had seen her last. I was the only guest, and the burden of the conversation was borne by myself and Barton, who was really almost boisterous at times—an extraordinary change for him. Mrs. Barton scarcely spoke. I noticed that she never so much as glanced in the direction of her husband. I thought at the time that probably the first tiff of their married life had come off some time that day, and that Barton's boisterousness and his wife's silence arose from the same cause. I know better now.

When Mrs. Barton left us to our cigarettes, I asked about the man at the door. Barton, I think, was rather vexed at the question, but he told me that he had no return of the vision, and then passed on to something else. I also inquired after his wife's health, and as far as I could judge he seemed actually pleased to hear that I thought her looking ill, and his manner of speaking of her altogether confirmed me in the idea that they had had a quarrel, and a fairly serious quarrel, that very day, though of course I couldn't pursue the subject.

A short while afterwards a message was brought in to Barton, and he asked me to excuse him for a few minutes, as he must see someone—a groom I think he said—and would rejoin me in the drawing-room.

I went upstairs and entered into conversation with my hostess, whose manners had completely changed. She talked now with a feverish rapidity, and I noticed with the most intense surprise, and I must add with a creeping sensation of horror, that she had caught Barton's trick of constantly shooting anxious glances at the door. I suppose she saw that I had observed her, for she turned her chair round with its back to the door and said—

"I was wondering why my husband did not come."

I told her that he was engaged for the moment, and she continued—

"Have you noticed any change in him, Mr. Campbell?"

"He seems marvellously well," I replied. "We really owe a great debt to the two little doctors and to——"

I stopped abruptly. Mrs. Barton had grown ghastly pale, and I remembered how fiercely the Jew had endeavoured to attack her in that terrible little room in Florence. Once again she seemed to read my thoughts.

"I knew that man Israel Hoffmann, Mr. Campbell," she said. "I am a Russian, you know, and we—my father and I—disliked him, and he hated us, and had threatened often to revenge—that is, to injure us. My father warned me against him only a few months before he died, and you see how the man tried to attack me on that night. We do not like Jews in Russia you know, Mr. Campbell.—Why, what is it?"

"Nothing," I said, hastily, but I'm afraid my voice shook; "I thought I saw your husband coming in—I was mistaken."

It was no mistake, I knew. It was Barton's face that I had seen looking round the door, with his eyes fixed on his wife; but as I spoke the head was withdrawn, and the door softly closed.

"IT WAS BARTON'S FACE—HIS EYES FIXED ON HIS WIFE."

"Mr. Campbell," said—or, rather, gasped—the woman at my side, "was he—was he peering at me round the door?"

"Well, I—I thought so," I stammered.

"He always does that now," she whispered, "and it frightens me, Mr. Campbell—it frightens me. What does it mean?"

What on earth was I to say? Here was Barton apparently taking the place of his departed ghastly visitor; but how was I to explain this to his wife, who had never heard, and now most certainly must never hear, of her husband's hideous delusion. I was relieved from my difficulty by Barton himself, who now entered the room with the same boisterously cheerful manner that I had noticed before.

"Well, I hope you're not bored, Campbell," he cried.

"Very much the reverse," said I, with perfect truth.

"I'm afraid that isn't true," said Mrs. Barton; "I'm very dull to-night, but Mr. Campbell must excuse me—my head is aching terribly, and I really think I must go to bed."

Of course, I expressed my sympathy and wished her good-night; but as I opened the door for her she whispered, "For God's sake stay as long as you can. Good-night."

Well, I did stay as long as I could; and if ever a host made it clear to a guest that he wasn't wanted, Barton did that night. After about an hour of it he asked me point blank to go, as he had had a very tiring day.

I couldn't very well stay on after that, could I? I soothed my conscience by determining to find some pretext for coming round to the house the next morning, and got up to go. Barton helped me on with my coat himself, and while he was doing so I noticed an immensely heavy whip lying on an old oak chest in the hall.

"Sorry for your horses, Barton," said I, "if that's your idea of a riding-crop."

Barton laughed.

"It's a Russian executioner's knout," he said. "I got it as an interesting curiosity, and a pretty penny I had to pay for it. I thought it might interest my wife—she's a Russian, as you know."

"Rather a ghastly present," I said.

"Oh, horrors appeal to the Slavonic temperament," he answered; "she'll be glad to have that knout. Good-night."

I must admit that I left the house with a very strong presentiment of trouble to come, and cudgelling my brains in vain to discover a reason for Barton's amazing conduct at the drawing-room door. I did not like to ask him about it—the less said about his delusion the better, I thought—but I determined to come round in the morning; I could make the Russian knout an excuse for doing so—I could easily assume an interest in a curiosity like that.

So at ten o'clock next day I walked round to the Bartons'. As I turned the corner into Pont Street, I saw with a thrill of undefined dread that there was a small crowd gathered round the Bartons' house, and two policemen were engaged in pushing the people back from the door, which was open. I forced my way furiously through the crowd, and seeing the white face of the old butler in the hall, behind the policemen, I called to him. He came forward and I was admitted, after some delay, as a friend of the family.

"What is it, Parsons?" I asked.

"God knows, Mr. Campbell," he whispered. "Mr. and Mrs. Barton breakfasted together in the oak room this morning: there wasn't no one waiting, and about ten minutes gone I heard a cry and went to the door. It was locked, Mr. Campbell, and there's something goin' on in there as I don't like, sir. The police are breaking in the door now."

"THE POLICEMAN AND BUTLER TRIED TO BREAK IN THE STRONG OAK DOOR."

I hurried past the old fellow, and up the stairs to the oak room, a little panelled room with a strong oak door, which two men, a policeman and the footman, were trying to break in. From the room came a noise of blows and of a voice singing, heard from time to time, as the two men paused in their violent attack on the door. The voice was strange to me, and I could make nothing of the words of the song; they were not English, that was all I could discover. As I threw my weight against it the door gave way, and the three of us tumbled into the room together. It was a ghastly sight, Jack. There, with her head on the table among the breakfast things and her body resting across the back of a chair, lay Mrs. Barton, dead, and horribly lacerated on the back and shoulders, from which the clothes had been torn away. Her husband was standing beside her, still singing the hideous song we had heard, and waving round his head the terrible whip that I had seen the night before, and which was now dripping with the blood of the wretched woman whose life he had taken.

We all rushed in at him together: he knocked the footman head over heels with his left hand, and struck at me with his whip, but at the same moment the policeman at my side cut him down with a blow of his truncheon, and he lay writhing on the floor. I lifted up the body of the poor woman, but finding that life was quite extinct I laid her down and turned to the madman at my feet. The blow of the policeman's staff had caught him on the side of the head, crushing it in like an egg-shell, and I saw that he was dying. I knelt down by him, and he seemed to recognise me, but in a moment his eyes closed, and though he breathed for more than an hour he never recovered consciousness.

"WE RUSHED AT HIMTOGETHER. HE KNOCKED THE FOOTMAN HEAD OVER HEELS."

You read my evidence at the inquest: of course my description of Barton's delusion was necessary to establish the poor fellow's undoubted madness, but I did not think it incumbent on me to enter into great detail. Now, I want your opinion as a medical man. This affair has shaken my nerves in the most terrible way.

Of course the vision and its fulfilment, if you can call it such, is and must remain inexplicable. It is Barton's conduct after the operation that I want you to explain.

I know, from certain correspondence that I have in my hands, that the man Israel Hoffmann was terribly wronged by Mrs. Barton and her father: his wife was, in fact, executed on their representations alone, as far as I can ascertain, and the whole object of his life was revenge. Is it possible that the spirit of vengeance passed into Barton's soul as the blood of the injured Jew passed into his veins?

Could that be the reason for his strange choice of a weapon, and for the ghastly song, which may have been a Russian song, or even one of the psalms in Yiddish for all I know, which he sang as he beat his wife to death? If this is so, the only feeling we should have towards poor Barton is one of intense pity; and if not, if such an idea is repugnant to medical science, how do you explain the whole hideous story?

Write soon and tell me.

Your loving brother,

Tom.

P.S.—It is a coincidence—an interesting coincidence—that the fatal wound on poor Barton's head corresponded exactly, or almost exactly, with a terrible bruise I saw on the head of Israel Hoffmann.

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TRAINING PUPPY TO HUNT CLEAN BOOT.

A MAN HUNT WITH BLOODHOUNDS.
SHOWING HOW THEY MAY BE USED IN THE DETECTION OF CRIME.

By Alfred Arkas.

I have just been hunted by bloodhounds, and, strangely enough, I am none the worse for the experience. It is more exciting than fox-hunting, and for sheer fascination is well ahead of any other sport of which I have any knowledge. The why and wherefore is another story, of which more presently.

The trial of the bloodhound in the practical work of tracking criminals is no new thing. In 1888, when the Whitechapel murders were agitating all England, the public, alarmed and indignant at the impotence of the police, plied the authorities with no less than 1,200 letters per day containing suggestions for the murderer's capture. Of these 800 advocated the trial of bloodhounds.

Ultimately, the weight of public opinion was such as to induce Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of Police, to give them a trial. Mr. Brough, the eminent authority on the breed, was consulted, and he brought a couple of hounds, trained to hunt man, to London, and several experiments were undertaken.

LAYING TRAINED BLOODHOUNDS ON THE SCENT.

In some of these Sir Charles himself acted as quarry, the runs being made in Hyde Park. They were all successful, the Commissioner and others who acted as runners being run to earth each time with unfailing regularity. He expressed himself more than satisfied, it being clearly demonstrated that the hounds would run a man to earth who was a complete stranger to them, notwithstanding that the scent might be crossed by a number of other persons.

During all the weeks the hounds were in London no further crime occurred, and the opportunity of utilising their services was lost. Sir Charles kept them till it seemed that the terrible Jack the Ripper scare was over. The hounds were then returned to their owner. They had not left London more than two or three days when another ghastly crime was perpetrated. Obviously their presence exercised a deterrent effect, and had the police seen fit to add a couple of well-trained hounds to the Scotland Yard staff it is probable no other murder would have been added to the series.

CASTING—TO PICK UP SCENT.

The mysterious and apparently illimitable scenting power possessed by the bloodhound appeals to the imagination of the criminal classes to an extraordinary extent. From what I have gathered of the subject, I cannot help feeling that no police station of any size should be without a couple of trained hounds. The fear of the "cat" is proverbial. Utilise the bloodhound, and a far greater deterrent against crime will have been found.

Some time since the subject once more engaged further attention, and it was decided to organise a series of private trials in connection with The Harmsworth Magazine, with a view to determining the real capability of the hound for hunting man. The next thing was to procure hounds of the purest breed. At this stage we put ourselves into communication with Mr. Edwin Brough, of Wyndyate, near Scarborough.

Mr. Brough has been a breeder of bloodhounds for something like thirty years. He is regarded as the highest living authority on the breed. He is the winner of over 400 first and champion prizes for hounds of his own breeding, and he may be aptly described the creator of the splendid type of hound we have to-day.

Mr. Brough received my suggestion in a sporting manner, and with characteristic generosity offered me every facility in the most difficult and patience-racking task of obtaining the photographs which accompany this article. His hounds are his best friends, and he is willing to go to almost any lengths in order to correct the innumerable absurd ideas that are prevalent with regard to the breed.

BABBO—THE FAMOUS TRACKER OF HUMAN BEINGS.

Accordingly a short time since a small two-man expedition, equipped with a camera and an unlimited stock of patience, set out for Scarborough.

Early on the following morning I took part in my first manhunt, and a weirdly fascinating experience it was in all conscience—harmless enough, in spite of its sanguinary title.

At the back of Mr. Brough's house are spacious kennels. Here we found thirty or forty valuable hounds, gazing from behind the iron bars of their kennel runs, each handsome and well groomed, the black and fawn coat glistening like velvet; each a perfect type, with handsome expressive face, and pedigree long enough to turn many a human being pale with envy. The kennel man opened two of the doors, and we trudged down the drive and out on to the fields by the cliff-side with four magnificent hounds at our heels.

A soft green undulation in the countryside, sloping into a wooded valley, was chosen for our first trial, and standing at a gate on the summit I had an uninterrupted view of the whole run.

A few moments after our arrival a gentleman who had volunteered to act as runner or quarry started over the slope, and sprinted quickly across the valley on to the opposite hillside. His destination had been previously decided, and with the aid of a glass we could distinctly see him crouching behind the bushes.

A short time after he had concealed himself, the hounds, which had been held in check out of sight, were brought through the gate and laid on scent. The laying on was done by the kennel man, who simply ran his hand along the line or lines of scent to give the hounds a start. A moment later they were rapidly casting round on the trail. Then, before you could say "Jack Robinson," there was a deep sonorous bay, more like the roar of the sea-lion echoing in the roof of Brighton Aquarium than anything else I know, but sweet and resonant as the note of a bell. They had found the scent, and were off like streaked lightning.

FINDING THE QUARRY—INSTANTANEOUS PHOTOGRAPH.

FINDING THE QUARRY—INSTANTANEOUS PHOTOGRAPH.

Down the hill they flew, three in a bunch, the fourth perhaps a yard behind, their noses almost scraping the ground, and the long graceful ears trailing noiselessly in the short grass. A couple of minutes later a deep-bayed quartette echoed away on the further hillside. They had found their man, and were jumping and licking him delightedly. So much for the tearing limb from limb theory.

As a matter of fact, the bloodhound never hurts his quarry when found. He is the gentlest and most lovable of hounds, and vice of any description is utterly foreign to his character. If he is required to hold his man at bay it is necessary to specially train him for the purpose.

"Strong scent," said Mr. Brough. "They went right away." And, in truth, they travelled like racehorses. So fast, indeed, that one forgot for the moment that they were not pursuing a visible object, or racing to a pre-arranged goal.

When the truth made itself clear that they were hunting what is termed "the clean boot"—following the natural scent of a man through his shoe leather—across rough and broken country at a twelve-miles-an-hour gait, it seemed incredible.

And it should be remembered that it was the individual scent of that one man they were tracking. Each human being seems to possess a distinctive scent, and when well-trained hounds are laid on to any one scent they cannot be diverted, though the trail be crossed by any number of other persons.

Five minutes later I ran myself. I was a complete stranger to the hounds. I know that no artificial scent had been attached to my boots, and the course was an entirely different one of my own choosing. Yet they found me a mile away, a few minutes after they were laid on, and bayed with delight as they came up.

In all our trials, extending over three days, they were successful, although every difficulty was placed in their way. In one trial the runner ran to the bank of a river, then up along the side for some yards; back again over the same scent to the first point of contact with the bank; then he forded the river and ran along the opposite bank.

The hounds came up at full trot, traced him along the near bank, till in their eagerness they ran over the scent. Then they all checked and cast again, and after a few moments found by the double scent—although he had practically returned over the same line—that he had doubled over his own track. At the bank they cast again, and after assuring themselves that he had not returned to the starting place they swam the stream, and in a few moments had picked up the scent on the other side and found him.

In another instance several circles were made by the quarry in the middle of a run, and while they were casting about this invisible maze, in an endeavour to find his outgoing trail, we were enabled to obtain our photograph of a cast.

In most of our trials the hounds were put on the trail comparatively soon after the runner had passed over the course, but it must not be forgotten that they are equally successful in working what is termed a "cold scent"—one many hours old. In this respect they surpass all other breeds of hounds.

As I have already said, this power of scent is so subtle as to be almost uncanny. And it is as deep a mystery to those who have devoted a lifetime to hound breeding as to the ignorant layman.

Certain it was, however, that the hounds performed marvels, and their success, under circumstances of great difficulty, was sufficient to more than convince me of their value in the detection of crime. They must have fair play, of course, and conditions more or less favourable for their particular work.

The training of the uneducated puppy to hunt the clean boot is as interesting as the work of the fully trained adults.

The puppies begin their training when only four or five months old, and Mr. Brough resorts to none of the methods generally advocated, such as rubbing the boots of the runner with blood or aniseed. They begin as they finish—on the clean boot. For the first few times they practise tracking a runner whom they know.

The runner starts in view of the pups; runs some two or three hundred yards up wind in a straight line on grass land. He hides himself as soon as possible, and then the trainer takes the pup over the exact line of scent. He trails his hand along it, endeavouring to get the dog to put his head down and work for himself. This goes on till the quarry is reached, when the dog is rewarded by a piece of meat.

This has to be repeated several times perhaps, before the young hound gets his head down and understands what is required of him. Once he understands, he takes the greatest possible interest in the quest, and improves rapidly.

Then difficulties are placed in his way. The line is purposely crossed by others. The time of laying on is postponed some time after the run. Zig-zag runs are also made, and sticks with white flags on them are stuck in the ground at all the angles. By this means the trainer is enabled to judge of the accuracy of the dog's work.

Mr. Brough makes an intimate friend of each and every hound, and their individual characteristics are well known to him. Extreme patience, kindly persistence and firmness are all that is necessary in the upbringing of these beautiful creatures.

As friends they are unsurpassed. Mr. Brough says, "The bloodhound is essentially and pre-eminently a gentlemanly dog, and when you have once won his esteem he may be depended upon as your staunch, trusty, life-long friend."

Mr. Brough's dogs are the handsomest I ever saw. They have a majestic bearing, and thoughtful expressive faces, quite in harmony with their aristocratic lineage.

I should advise every dog lover to obtain a good puppy and train it himself. There are few healthier or more delightful recreations.

WATCHING A PUPPY'S WORK.

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