II.

Only a baby footfall light,
Making a dark world glad and bright,
Sweeter music than greatest art
Ever made, to a mother's heart!
Ah, that was twenty years away—
But though she blushed as a bride to-day,
To somebody, smiling her joy-tears through,
She still seemed the wearer of this wee shoe!
Only a little outworn shoe,
Tied with a ribbon that once was blue!

[IAN'S SACRIFICE.]

A Complete Story by Alick Munro.

Illustrations by Ralph Peacock.

It was a piece of insular facetiousness on my part which discovered him; for one of the articles of every Briton's faith is that so long as he speaks in English he can safely say what he likes to these foreign beggars. Therefore, as this particular Portuguese had nipped my ticket every morning for over a week, with never more than a murmured "Com licença, senhor," when he avoided my outstretched legs, I thought our acquaintance had lasted long enough to warrant my chaffing him—in English, of course.

"Morning, Pedro!" I remarked, cheerfully, as I handed him my ticket; "I'm quite getting to like the look of your ugly face, d'you know?"

The ticket-man gave me a quick glance.

"The pleasure is mutual, sir," he replied, quietly, speaking with a slight Scotch accent; and then, with his usual "Com licença," reached over for the rest of the tickets.

The other fellows, season-ticket holders on that line, burst out laughing, and before I had time to realise the exact size of fool I'd made of myself, the man had opened the door, and was making his way along the foot-board to the next carriage. I jumped to the window and looked after him, just in time to catch a slight smile on his wooden face as he disappeared into the compartment.

"Well, I'm blessed!" I remarked to the others. "The fellow understands English."

"Yes. Most Scotchmen do, you know," was the reply; and I felt smaller than ever.

"Who is he?" I asked.

"Don't know. Calls himself Judson, but probably was christened something else. He has been on the Lisbon-Cintra line for the last ten years, and that's pretty nearly all that is known about him. Half a score of fellows have tried at different times to get him to talk, but he sees through it, and closes up like an oyster."

"Where does he live?" I asked; for this sounded interesting.

"You'll have to get him to tell you himself; nobody else knows. Bet you twenty mil you don't draw him."

"Done!" said I, and booked the bet.

Now, the more I allowed my thoughts to dwell on the square, determined-looking features of the man, the more angry I grew with myself because I could not put a name to the face. The fellow haunted me the whole morning, and as the dilatoriness of the Portuguese Government officials, with whom I was trying to negotiate a sugar concession, gave me plenty of time for reflection, by the time I had become thoroughly tired of hanging round the Cortes, and had made up my mind to having to wait once more for the interminable Portuguese "to-morrow," I was also quite ready for another interview with "Judson." I set off, therefore, for the station, and took my ticket to Cintra.

"'I'M QUITE GETTING TO LIKE THE LOOK OF YOUR UGLY FACE.'"

What was the man's real name? And where had I seen that rather wooden smile before?

Ten years on the Lisbon-Cintra line, they say. Then I must have been quite a kid when I met him in England, if I ever did meet him. Ten years—by Jove! can it be Farquhar? Six feet two, determined features, wooden smile—it is Farquhar! Wonder how Nellie Conyers will take this when I tell her. Doubtful, very! But on second thoughts, shall I tell her? H-m! I don't know.

The point is that, although Mrs. Conyers is my second cousin, she is also a young widow, unencumbered; and I am rather afraid of her. She was engaged to Farquhar before she met Conyers, but the match was broken off because of some Indian scandal or other; something about the Viceroy's Cup, I think. Farquhar had a horse entered, which won when it shouldn't, or lost when it shouldn't—I forget which. Anyway, there was unpleasantness, and Farquhar threw up his commission, and offered to release Nellie Vincent from her engagement. She took him at his word, and married the next "eligible" who came along—Amos Conyers, to wit, a Yorkshire wool-comber, since deceased. All things considered, I thought perhaps I wouldn't tell Mrs. Conyers.

But if Cousin Nellie inspired me with awe, the Cintra ticket-examiner didn't; so when the door of the compartment (which, as luck would have it, I had to myself after we left Rio de Mouro) suddenly opened, and the familiar "Com licença" heralded the fact that my legs were as usual in the way, I was prepared.

"Sir," I said, "I was rude to you this morning, and I wish to apologise."

He looked hard at me for a moment; then smiled, and shrugged his shoulders slightly, Portuguese fashion.

"The senhor is pleased to make fun of me," he answered, quietly.

"No; I'm in dead earnest," I declared. "But whose pardon have I the honour to beg—Captain Ian Farquhar's, shall I say?"

He turned on me at once, and the ticket-nippers fell out of his twitching fingers and clattered on the floor unheeded.

"Who told you that name?" he demanded, fiercely.

"Nellie Vincent," said I, and watched him narrowly, "used to speak pretty frequently about a certain Ian Farquhar—that is to say, before she became Mrs. Conyers, of course—and I thought——"

"Who are you?" he interrupted, with a menacing gesture which was all English, "and what do you know about Nellie Vincent?"

"'WHO TOLD YOU THAT NAME?' HE DEMANDED, FIERCELY."

"As much as a not very distant relative may know," I answered, suavely. "Can I take her any message from Captain Farquhar?"

He turned sharply round, and I wondered whether he was going to embrace me or assault me. As a matter of fact, he did neither.

"Go to the devil," he snarled savagely in my face, and then, opening the door with a jerk, swung himself out on to the foot-board.

Now, we were on an incline, and going, for a Portuguese local train, really fast. Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, he would have waited till we slowed down at the station before venturing to pass on to the next carriage; but a badly surprised man forgets that he's got a neck to be broken.

"'I THINK I DROPPED MY NIPPERS,' HE EXPLAINED, NERVOUSLY."

"I've a notion I shall win those twenty mil," said I to myself, as I picked up the nippers he had dropped. "Anyhow, the Captain will have to return for this little implement."

The engine gave a couple of piercing shrieks; the guard leaned out and blew his penny trumpet; the station-master's bell could be heard ringing furiously ahead of us; and all this unnecessary noise merely meant that we were entering Cintra station. Just before we came to a standstill, Farquhar paid me the visit I was waiting for.

"My nippers," he explained, nervously, poking his head in at the window and peering about; "I think I dropped them."

I handed the tool to him. He took it, and then, with breathless haste, jerked out, "Look here, I'm off duty at eight. Come to my shanty if you can—pink-washed hut just below the Quinta da Bella Vista. Sorry I was rude to you just now."

Then he dropped off the foot-board, and the train pulled up at the platform with a clumsy jerk.

"Yes," remarked Farquhar, contentedly, "you're right. There are uglier spots in the world than this."

Then he blew a couple of smoke-rings, and watched them dissolve slowly in the still air.

The sun was just disappearing behind the club-shaped kitchen chimneys of the Moorish palace, and the long, doleful "Wo-o-o-a-aw" of the donkey men, who were bringing a party of Spanish tourists back from Montserrat and the Cork Convent, floated across the lemons and roses of the quintas below, and died away in the silences above us, smothered by the heavy curtain of pine needles.

"Does it satisfy you?" I asked, quietly.

"What—the scenery?"

"No, I don't mean that—you'd be a captious brute if it didn't—but the life."

The man's brow contracted ominously, and he threw away his cigar with unnecessary energy.

"You're used to something better, you see," I insinuated.

"And I am used to this," he replied, shortly.

Then he dropped his chin on to his chest and looked at me from under his brows.

"'WOULD IT BE FORGOTTEN THAT I HAD TO RESIGN MY COMMISSION?'"

"See here," he said, with cold emphasis. "I guess what you're driving at, and I tell you I don't like it. You say you are Nellie Vincent's cousin, and that you remember me in the old days. Well, you may; but I don't remember you, and I don't recognise your right to criticise me."

"I MET HER AT A CRUSH IN HANS PLACE."

"Really," I began, "I have no wish——"

"Good heavens, man!" he interrupted, and pointed excitedly to the panorama around us. "Look about you, and say if you know a better place for a poor devil of a Pariah to bury himself in! My hut is comfortable; the scenery is perfect; that caldeirada of mullet and vegetables, of which you were pleased to approve just now, is a luxury within reach of even a railwayman's wage, and the cigar you are smoking is one of a case of eight thousand Villar y Villars which I brought with me when I turned hermit. I don't smoke more than one a day on an average, so if you calculate you'll find there are still over four thousand left."

He got up, and paced the gravel aggressively.

"Do you ever see an English paper?" I asked, with sudden recollections of an obituary notice.

The furrow on the ticket-nipper's brow smoothed itself out; his movements lost their irritable jerkiness, and when he spoke the grating snarl had gone from his voice.

"Yes," he answered, quietly, "I do. I know that my father is dead, and that I can call myself Sir Ian Farquhar if I choose to. That's what you mean, isn't it? I got a month's holiday and went and laid a wreath on the old man's grave."

There was a catch in Farquhar's voice as he told me this, and somehow I did not care to break the pause which followed.

"But," he went on again, "what should I gain by going home now? My title, and the grouse moors which go with it, would gain me friends—of a sort. I know that; but do you imagine that it would be forgotten for a moment that I had to resign my commission because of a hocussed racehorse? Would Mrs. Conyers, for instance, allow me to visit her?"

"Yes," I answered, decidedly; but I wasn't sure.

"You think so? You don't know her, then; and if she would I shouldn't go—can't you see that?"

"I don't see why you shouldn't," I contended.

Sir Ian laughed bitterly as I spoke.

"You don't? No, of course you don't! You've never heard a man call you a cheat and not had the power to call him a liar in return. A few experiences of that sort develop one's shyness, you'd find. I shall never go home till——"

"Till Nellie Conyers asks you to," I interrupted.

"No," he answered, "not that; I stick to possibilities. I was merely going to say that I wouldn't go home until I could give the lie to every man in my old regiment. Looks as if I should stay here some time, doesn't it?"

"You can clear yourself," I suggested.

"No," he retorted, "I can't."

I didn't believe him.

"Look here," I said; "I'm going home next week. Will you give me a brief?"

"What, to vindicate my reputation? Yes, if you don't care about your own. They won't believe you."

"I'll risk that," said I; for I had a notion that my cousin Nellie, at all events, might, perhaps, be convinced.

As soon as possible after my arrival in England, I went and told my tale to Mrs. Conyers. I met her at a crush in Hans Place, and engaged her to sit out three consecutive dances with me. To give me these she had, so she said, to disappoint two very nice boys indeed; but I insisted. My tale would take three dances at least in the telling, and, moreover, it concerned Ian Farquhar; so, with a pout—Nellie's pouts were a part of her ordnance, and, of course, suited her—she consented.

As it happened, we sat out not three dances, but five; for after I had said my say, she also had something to tell—and of the two hers was the better tale, for it made Farquhar into a hero.

I knew that Nellie's brother had been a lieutenant in Farquhar's regiment, but I did not know that the responsibility for the foul running in the Viceroy's Cup was conclusively proved to lie between Captain Farquhar and Lieutenant Vincent. Vincent denied it stoutly; Farquhar, engaged to Vincent's sister, said nothing. So Farquhar became the Cintra ticket-nipper, and Vincent remained with his regiment until the native moneylenders made India too hot to hold him. Then he resigned, and, socially speaking, went under.

Nellie had learned the facts from one of her "nice boys," a "sub" who had taken over Vincent's sayce after the smash, and was still too young to know when to hold his tongue. The sayce let out that Vincent Sahib had bribed him to drug the racehorse.

"And so, you see," said Nellie to me, "poor Ian was a hero after all. It was for my sake, you know, that he wouldn't speak."

I said something appropriate.

"Nonsense!" said Nellie, with a blush. "Please ask them to call my carriage; I want to go home. And you might come to-morrow and talk things over with me—and—and—book a passage to Lisbon by the next mail—you'll want it."

"Well, I'm—astonished," said I; but I wasn't.

"My dear fellow," said Farquhar to me, when I visited him again in his Cintra hut, "I don't want to be rude to you, but I'd much rather you let me alone. I've broken with the old life, you see, and you must allow that you are out of place in the new one. You'll pardon my speaking so plainly."

"'BOOK A PASSAGE TO LISBON BY THE NEXT MAIL.

YOU'LL WANT IT,' SHE SAID."

"Sir Ian Farquhar," said I, "light one of those Villar y Villars and sit down and listen to me. After you've heard what I have to say, I'll never visit you again until you ask me."

I told him my tale, and he heard it through without showing by a flicker how it affected him.

"Now," said I, when I had finished, "what are you going to do?"

"Bid you good-night," he answered, shortly. "I work the first train to-morrow."

"Man!" I exclaimed, in amazement, "Nellie Conyers wants you—she sent me to say so."

"Does she? Then she can come and say so herself."

"Oh, come, that's unreasonable," I began; but a flutter of skirts at the door interrupted me.

"I couldn't wait any longer," said my cousin Nellie, pleadingly. "Ian, you'll come back to England with me?"

I picked up my hat and went for a stroll. When I returned the door was closed, and Nellie was waiting outside.

"Don't go in," she commanded. "He sent me out to wait till he'd changed out of his railway clothes. He has hunted an old Poole suit out of his trunk, and is putting it on."

"'IAN, YOU'LL COME BACK TO ENGLAND WITH ME?'"

["PERPETUAL MOTION" SEEKERS.]
THEIR FASCINATING BUT HOPELESS PURSUIT.

With Illustrations of Machines that have been Invented Recently.

PERPETUAL MOTION MACHINE WHICH WOULD NOT GO.

Three apparently hopeless quests have engaged the abilities of inventors and scientists from a very early period—the Philosopher's Stone, that should convert everything it touched into pure gold; the Elixir of Life, that once partaken of should invest the recipient with immortality on earth; and Perpetual Motion.

To the average man it is a self-evident fact that unless you put energy or force of some sort into a machine it won't work. Thus, a locomotive will not move unless you apply steam or electricity, nor a bicycle unless the muscular energy of your own body propels it. But, simple as this fact may seem, there have been, from early times, as we have indicated, men whose whole object in life has been to construct a machine that, once started, shall run for ever by its own momentum. There are such people to-day; and it is pathetic to think what an immense amount of inventive genius has been expended on projects that we may declare to be absolutely hopeless of achievement, even in these days of phonographs and wireless telegraphy.

"Why can't it be done?" says the Inventor. Many reasons to the contrary might be adduced, but the most cogent answer to the practical man lies in this great fact, that up to the present not a single perpetual motor has ever yet been seen at work—that is to say, no machine has ever yet been invented which, when once started, would work for an indefinite time without a corresponding amount of energy being given it.

Careful experiment and daily observation all point to one comprehensive principle—that you cannot get out of a machine more work than you put into it. In the locomotive, for example, the work given out when it is in operation is exactly equivalent to the energy stored up in the inert coal cast into the furnace. Although this principle in all its scientific exactitude is less than a century old, yet its truth is now so well settled, that nothing short of an actual working perpetual motor could demonstrate its falsity. The search for the Philosopher's Stone, the production of an Elixir of Life, have, like the hope of an El Dorado, been consigned to the limbo of forgotten things. Nevertheless, in spite of science, aspirations after the Perpetual Motor still burn fitfully.

ANOTHER INGENIOUS FAILURE.

Some, indeed the vast majority, of the chimerical methods for getting work for nothing, are being rediscovered day by day, and, as before, cast aside. An almost incredible amount of wasted labour and fruitless effort have been devoted to this subject. The quest, however, ever seems to be fresh and attractive, and year after year in wearying succession continues to allure, as the records of the Patent Office show, a never ending train of deluded enthusiasts.

A few of the typical methods that have been imagined for consummating the desired end are here introduced. One of the simplest methods consists in the use of a wheel, divided into a series of spoke-like boxes, each of which contains a rolling ball. Since the balls on the falling side of the wheel are farther from the centre, it is clearly seen (on paper) that the weights act with greater advantage on that side of the wheel than on the other, and, of course, will drag the wheel over, and this, as the balls roll (so far as anything is seen to the contrary by the designer), should continue indefinitely. An excellent theory—but, sad to relate, the most exquisitely constructed machine of this pattern ceases to turn after a few revolutions.

The propounder of perpetual motion theories does not always confine himself to diagrams, but sometimes deludes himself in a cloud of verbiage. Here is a sample. "Let us," says the theorist, "construct a wheel of immense dimensions. On one side of it, let there be hung a huge mass. On the opposite side suspend innumerable small weights. Then shall it be found that the wheel will continually revolve. For when the huge mass is at the top, its weight will cause it to descend. Why is this? The answer is obvious—because it is so heavy. In the meantime the innumerable small weights will reach the top, and thereupon they will descend. Why is this? The answer again is clear—because there are so many."

Most excellent word juggling perhaps, but it would scarcely impose on a child. We cannot, however, avoid a shrewd suspicion that the theorist in this instance has done no more than employ a method not altogether foreign to those sometimes utilised in much more serious, recondite, and difficult matters. Passing on, we reach an arrangement where the balls are secured to hinged arms, which, as the wheel turns round, fall open on the one side and close up on the other. Clearly the leverage is greater on one side, so that the wheel ought to revolve continually when once started, and to give out work which could be transmitted by driving bands or other devices to operate machinery.

"TUMBLING JACK," THE NURSERY'S CONTRIBUTION TO THE PURSUIT.

In this example, and indeed throughout this article, we have not troubled about practical details of construction. These, of course, do not affect the principles involved. Much ingenuity indeed has been shown in their production, but the perpetual motionist cannot claim in them an exclusive property.

SHOWING HOW JACK WORKS.

The flopping-over arrangement just described reminds one of the "Tumbling Jack," a children's toy one often sees on sale in the streets. In this toy a series of bricks are strung together in a chain. From the ingenious way in which the bricks are joined it results, as everyone who ever seen it will at once remember, that on holding the uppermost brick in the hand and giving it an almost imperceptible tilting movement, an apparently endless series of bricks chase each other down the chain. Each brick in succession tumbles over and imparts an impulse to the one immediately below it, which in turn does the same, and so the motion is carried from one end of the chain to the other. Why could not this everlasting tumbling-down motion, which seemingly is produced without effort, be turned to account? It only needs the chains to be sufficiently multiplied in point of size or number to furnish us with a source of power which apparently may be made as large as we desire. Considerations of this kind wear a plausible air. But it may perhaps be noticed that when this particular apparatus is working, it is always held in the hand, and that our supposition about increasing the size or number of the chains would, as a consequence, carry with it the necessity for having either an army of persons, or a giant, to work the apparatus in its complete form. No magic need be invoked to explain the working powers of an army or of a giant.

THE GRINDSTONE PARADOX.

One has often heard of the miller who wished to drive his water-wheel by the water which the wheel pumped up to the "head-race," or supply conduit. Well, here is such an arrangement devised many centuries ago. On the left of the picture the water-wheel is shown receiving water raised by the "chain" pump on the right, suitable gearing transmitting the motion of the wheel to the pump.

THE MILLER'S DODGE FOR WORKING HIS MILL.

Another class of devices for getting work out of a machine which has never been fed into it may be illustrated by what we may term the "Grindstone" paradox. Its supposed action is due to the well-known fact that articles when immersed in a liquid tend to float. Take a block of wood the shape of a grindstone and immerse one half of its mass in a vertical tank of water. The flotative power of the water will cause this half to rise continually, and to consequently keep the block constantly turning round its axle. We leave the explanation of this paradox to the reader. Sufficient is it to say here that, alas! brutal experiment proves it will not work.

CONCERTINA MACHINE.

Closely allied to the "Grindstone" paradox is the "Concertina" machine, where a series of weighted concertina-like chambers attached to a band passing round pulleys collapse when descending into a tank of water, but expand, and therefore become lighter, when the other side of the band is reached. The expanded chambers on the left of the picture act like a series of corks, while on the right the closed chambers act as dead weights. By this means it was anticipated continuous rotary movement would be obtained.

WATER MOTOR CAR.

Another favourite scheme is to employ the well-known property of liquids to rise of their own accord against the force of gravity when in microscopic channels, such as are found in all porous bodies, this property of rising being due to what is known as "capillary attraction." For instance, it is a matter of everyday observation that oil ascends a wick, water passes up over the edge of a basin through a towel which, partially immersed in the water, hangs over the side. Some idea of the enormous power of this property of ascending is given by a celebrated French savant who has found that capillary action is capable, under favourable circumstances, of exerting a pressure four or five times as great as that of the atmosphere, and who thinks this is largely efficient in promoting the ascent of sap in plants. Consequently, if this natural uprising property of liquids could be only laid hold of, the problem of getting work for nothing, so thinks our schemer, would thereby be solved. We have selected for illustration a form of apparatus where, on the left, a bundle of flexible sheets is placed almost in contact, so that the liquid into which they are dipped rises in the microscopic spaces between them. This provides a "head" of water, which is expected to overbalance the right hand of the system, where the sheets have been separated by the wires of a grid, or other equivalent, so as to destroy the capillary action on that side.

A CAPILLARY MOTOR.

At the present time the public mind is so greatly agitated on the subject of horseless vehicles, that an illustration of the perpetual motionist's ideas on the subject is given. Here the weight of the vehicle and its occupants bears upon water in cylinders supported on the wheels. The pressure produced in the water in this way is conveyed by means of pipes to the back of the carriage, where it is employed to push the vehicle along. Such speed the inventor in this case expected to obtain, that, with great forethought, he has provided a "cow-catcher" at the front, by means of which unfortunate persons who inadvertently get in the way are to be gently waived aside. Of course, the larger the number of people carried, the greater the pressure on the water, and hence, in the inventor's mind, so much greater the speed.

[THE STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL.]
A STORY OF MISS VAN SNOOP, DETECTIVE.

By Clarence Rook.

Illustrated by Hal Hurst.

Colonel Mathurin was one of the aristocrats of crime; at least Mathurin was the name under which he had accomplished a daring bank robbery in Detroit which had involved the violent death of the manager, though it was generally believed by the police that the Rossiter who was at the bottom of some long firm frauds in Melbourne was none other than Mathurin under another name, and that the designer and chief gainer in a sensational murder case in the Midlands was the same mysterious and ubiquitous personage.

But Mathurin had for some years successfully eluded pursuit; indeed, it was generally known that he was the most desperate among criminals, and was determined never to be taken alive. Moreover, as he invariably worked through subordinates who knew nothing of his whereabouts and were scarcely acquainted with his appearance, the police had but a slender clue to his identity.

As a matter of fact, only two people beyond his immediate associates in crime could have sworn to Mathurin if they had met him face to face. One of them was the Detroit bank manager whom he had shot with his own hand before the eyes of his fiancée. It was through the other that Mathurin was arrested, extradited to the States, and finally made to atone for his life of crime. It all happened in a distressingly commonplace way, so far as the average spectator was concerned. But the story, which I have pieced together from the details supplied—firstly, by a certain detective sergeant whom I met in a tavern hard by Westminster; and secondly, by a certain young woman named Miss Van Snoop—has an element of romance, if you look below the surface.

"HE SHOT THE BANK MANAGER BEFORE THE EYES OF HIS FIANCÉE."

It was about half-past one o'clock, on a bright and pleasant day, that a young lady was driving down Regent Street in a hansom which she had picked up outside her boarding-house near Portland Road Station. She had told the cabman to drive slowly, as she was nervous behind a horse; and so she had leisure to scan, with the curiosity of a stranger, the strolling crowd that at nearly all hours of the day throngs Regent Street. It was a sunny morning, and everybody looked cheerful. Ladies were shopping, or looking in at the shop windows. Men about town were collecting an appetite for lunch; flower girls were selling "nice vi'lets, sweet vi'lets, penny a bunch"; and the girl in the cab leaned one arm on the apron and regarded the scene with alert attention. She was not exactly pretty, for the symmetry of her features was discounted by a certain hardness in the set of the mouth. But her hair, so dark as to be almost black, and her eyes of greyish blue set her beyond comparison with the commonplace.

"THERE WAS A SLIGHT STIR OUTSIDE THE CAFÉ ROYAL."

Just outside the Café Royal there was a slight stir, and a temporary block in the foot traffic. A brougham was setting down, behind it was a victoria, and behind that a hansom; and as the girl glanced round the heads of the pair in the brougham, she saw several men standing on the steps. Leaning back suddenly, she opened the trapdoor in the roof.

"Stop here," she said, "I've changed my mind."

The driver drew up by the kerb, and the girl skipped out.

"You shan't lose by the change," she said, handing him half-a-crown.

There was a tinge of American accent in the voice; and the cabman, pocketing the half-crown with thanks, smiled.

"They may talk about that McKinley tariff," he soliloquised as he crawled along the kerb towards Piccadilly Circus, "but it's better 'n free trade—lumps!"

Meanwhile the girl walked slowly back towards the Café Royal, and, with a quick glance at the men who were standing there, entered. One or two of the men raised their eyebrows; but the girl was quite unconscious, and went on her way to the luncheon-room.

"American, you bet," said one of the loungers. "They'll go anywhere and do anything."

Just in front of her as she entered was a tall, clean-shaven man, faultlessly dressed in glossy silk hat and frock coat, with a flower in his button-hole. He looked around for a moment in search of a convenient table. As he hesitated, the girl hesitated; but when the waiter waved him to a small table laid for two, the girl immediately sat down behind him at the next table.

"Excuse me, madam," said the waiter, "this table is set for four; would you mind——"

"I guess," said the girl, "I'll stay where I am." And the look in her eyes, as well as a certain sensation in the waiter's palm, ensured her against further disturbance.

The restaurant was full of people lunching, singly or in twos, in threes and even larger parties; and many curious glances were directed to the girl who sat at a table alone and pursued her way calmly through the menu. But the girl appeared to notice no one. When her eyes were off her plate they were fixed straight ahead—on the back of the man who had entered in front of her. The man, who had drunk a half-bottle of champagne with his lunch, ordered a liqueur to accompany his coffee. The girl, who had drunk an aerated water, leaned back in her chair and wrinkled her brows. They were very straight brows, that seemed to meet over her nose when she wrinkled them in perplexity. Then she called a waiter.

"Bring me a sheet of notepaper, please," she said, "and my bill."

The waiter laid the sheet of paper before her, and the girl proceeded, after a few moments thought, to write a few lines in pencil upon it. When this was done, she folded the sheet carefully, and laid it in her purse. Then, having paid her bill, she returned her purse to her dress pocket, and waited patiently.

"SHE WAS LOOKING INTO THE MIRROR AND PATTING HER HAIR."

In a few minutes the clean-shaven man at the next table settled his bill and made preparations for departure. The girl at the same time drew on her gloves, keeping her eyes immovably upon her neighbour's back. As the man rose to depart, and passed the table at which the girl had been sitting, the girl was looking into the mirror upon the wall, and patting her hair. Then she turned and followed the man out of the restaurant, while a pair at an adjacent table remarked to one another that it was a rather curious coincidence for a man and woman to enter and leave at the same moment when they had no apparent connection.

But what happened outside was even more curious.

The man halted for a moment upon the steps at the entrance. The porter, who was in conversation with a policeman, turned, whistle in hand.

"Hansom, sir?" he asked.

"Yes," said the clean-shaven man.

The porter was raising his whistle to his lips when he noticed the girl behind.

"Do you wish for a cab, madam?" he asked, and blew upon his whistle.

As he turned again for an answer, he plainly saw the girl, who was standing close behind the clean-shaven man, slip her hand under his coat, and snatch from his hip pocket something which she quickly transferred to her own.

"Well, I'm——" began the clean-shaven man, swinging round and feeling in his pocket.

"Have you missed anything, sir?" said the porter, standing full in front of the girl to bar her exit.

"My cigarette-case is gone," said the man, looking from one side to another.

"What's this?" said the policeman, stepping forward.

"I saw the woman's hand in the gentleman's pocket, plain as a pikestaff," said the porter.

"Oh, that's it, is it?" said the policeman, coming close to the girl. "I thought as much."

"Come now," said the clean-shaven man, "I don't want to make a fuss. Just hand back that cigarette-case, and we'll say no more about it."

"I haven't got it," said the girl. "How dare you? I never touched your pocket."

The man's face darkened.

"Oh, come now!" said the porter.

"Look here, that won't do," said the policeman, "you'll have to come along of me. Better take a four-wheeler, eh, sir?"

For a knot of loafers, seeing something interesting in the wind, had collected round the entrance.

A four-wheeler was called, and the girl entered, closely followed by the policeman and the clean-shaven man.

"I was never so insulted in my life," said the girl.

Nevertheless, she sat back quite calmly in the cab, as though she was perfectly ready to face this or any other situation, while the policeman watched her closely to make sure that she did not dispose in any surreptitious way of the stolen article.

At the police station hard by, the usual formalities were gone through, and the clean-shaven man was constituted prosecutor. But the girl stoutly denied having been guilty of any offence.

The inspector in charge looked doubtful.

"Better search her," he said.

And the girl was led off to a room for an interview with the female searcher.

The moment the door closed the girl put her hand into her pocket, pulled out the cigarette-case, and laid it upon the table.

"'HAVE YOU MISSED ANYTHING?' SAID THE PORTER."

"There you are," she said. "That will fix matters so far."

The woman looked rather surprised.

"Now," said the girl, holding out her arms, "feel in this other pocket, and find my purse."

The woman picked out the purse.

"Open it and read the note on the bit of paper inside."

On the sheet of paper which the waiter had given her, the girl had written these words, which the searcher read in a muttered undertone—

"I am going to pick this man's pocket as the best way of getting him into a police-station without violence. He is Colonel Mathurin, alias Rossiter, alias Connell, and he is wanted in Detroit, New York, Melbourne, Colombo, and London. Get four men to pin him unawares, for he is armed and desperate. I am a member of the New York detective force—Nora Van Snoop."

"It's all right," said Miss Van Snoop, quickly, as the searcher looked up at her after reading the note. "Show that to the boss—right away."

The searcher opened the door. After whispered consultation the inspector appeared, holding the note in his hand.

"Now then, be spry," said Miss Van Snoop. "Oh, you needn't worry! I've got my credentials right here," and she dived into another pocket.

"But do you know—can you be sure," said the inspector, "that this is the man who shot the Detroit bank manager?"

"Great heavens! Didn't I see him shoot Will Stevens with my own eyes! And didn't I take service with the police to hunt him out?"

The girl stamped her foot, and the inspector left. For two, three, four minutes, she stood listening intently. Then a muffled shout reached her ears. Two minutes later the inspector returned.

"I think you're right," he said. "We have found enough evidence on him to identify him. But why didn't you give him in charge before to the police?"

"I wanted to arrest him myself," said Miss Van Snoop, "and I have. Oh, Will! Will!"

Miss Van Snoop sank into a cane-bottomed chair, laid her head upon the table, and cried. She had earned the luxury of hysterics. In half an hour she left the station, and, proceeding to a post-office, cabled her resignation to the head of the detective force in New York.

[A VERY QUEER CRICKET MATCH.]
MR. DAN LENO'S ELEVEN v. CAMBERWELL UNITED C.C.

By Gavin Macdonald.

Everybody has seen Mr. Dan Leno—King Humorist of the variety stage. Or if they haven't seen him, they have heard of him.

As a singer, comedian, and grotesque actor he is incomparable. As a cricketer he dwarfs the reputation of the mighty W. G. to mere nothingness.

Mr. Dan Leno is a modest, retiring man. In a general way he practises in his back yard, and confines his matches to the prescribed area of the lawn-tennis plot at the rear of his house. He says he has done well in one sphere, and he spurns the suggestion that he should enter another.

There is only one thing that will wean him from his resolution, and in this the members of his profession resemble him to a man. In the cause of charity they may be relied upon to throw all objections aside.

It was at a charity match played recently at Dulwich, in aid of a local pension fund, that I had the pleasure of witnessing the most remarkable exhibition of cricket it has ever been my lot to witness.

It was advertised as a one-day match between an eleven of local players captained by Colonel Dalbiac, M.P., and an eleven of eccentric cricketers, known as Danites, under the captaincy of Mr. Dan Leno.

MR. LENO AT THE WICKET.

The latter team was composed of the following gentlemen, all more or less well known to fame—Messrs. Dan Leno, Eugene Stratton, Harry Randall, the Brothers MacNaughton, Pastor, Glennister, Cobbett, Joe Elvin, Griffiths, and Tressider.

The various preliminaries differed somewhat from those usually in evidence on the cricket field, but the 3,000 spectators enjoyed them so much that it might be advisable for the county clubs to follow suit and ensure a big gate.

Punctually at the appointed time the two elevens emerged from their tents and showed themselves to the expectant crowd. The Dulwich XI. were conventionally clad in white flannels and club caps. Not so the Danites. As they marched in single file from their tent, a great silence came over the multitude. They were stricken with an astonishment too deep for words. Where was the idol of the hour? There was no Dan Leno apparent among those grotesquely-clad creatures.

The little man in the van of the procession, with the tall silk cricketing hat of a bygone age, loose holland bags falling like anæmic concertinas over his shoes, the striped wool blouse with puffed sleeves and the huge black beard and side whiskers. Surely that was not he. The crowd looked hard. As they did so the little man's features relaxed into an elastic smile, so elastic that none could mistake it. Then they cried, "Why, it's Dan," and sat down and cheered till they ached. One by one the other members of this strange eleven were identified through their disguises, and the fun began.

The team marched in comic single file round the field at quick time. Every few steps Capt. W.G. Daniel Leno stopped to bow his acknowledgments, and as he did so the remaining ten ran forcibly into each other's backs and rolled heavily over each other on the grass from the force of impact. Wigs, false moustaches, and other stage impedimenta dropped in the mêlée, and the spectators stood up on end and swayed with laughter.

At the wicket Dr. W. G. D. Leno met the opponent captain. There was a sporting handshake, and the former skied the fateful coin. The crowd wanted the Eccentrics to win the toss. But there was little enough cause for anxiety. Dan Leno had a double-headed coin, and he called to it himself, which conclusively settled the matter. He elected to go in first.

Rightly or wrongly, he was of opinion that the ordinary entry of the opening side was a tame sort of affair. Dan Leno has something of the old Roman in him. He likes a state entry and the plaudits of the populace. He and his team once more processed off the field to a distant corner where a dozen chargers brayed in melancholy inactivity. Here all were mounted satisfactorily but the fat man, whom it took half-a-dozen men to hoist in the saddle. Then to the music of a thousand throats the team flew round the ground and charged on to the wicket.

Never was entry so triumphal. The splendidly-trained chargers swished their tails majestically, and brayed in lieu of trumpets. Then, without so much as a command, they planted their fore feet firmly on the green sward, dropped their riders over their heads, and departed from whence they came.

Dan Leno and T. MacNaughton took their places at the wicket; the remaining Danites, contrary to custom, squatted about the field, and the match began.

The first ball hit the middle stump on the top and downed the wickets like ninepins. "How's that?" called the Dulwich team. "Out," said the umpire.

Dan Leno was more than surprised, he was disgusted and hurt. "Out? What do you mean?" he said, with a glance of contemptuous pity at the umpire. He called a couple of his team to assist him in his protest against such a palpable piece of jobbery on the part of the opposition team.

The two gentlemen appealed to were unanimous in their opinion that he could not possibly be out. The thing was absurd. The Dulwich team, umpire and all, laughed so much that they were physically incapable of doing or saying anything. When you glance at the snapshot we obtained of this tableau, you will not be surprised at this.

MR. LENO'S SATISFACTORY APPEAL AGAINST THE UMPIRE.

At the precise moment when their captain was engaged in an attempt to prove that the bowling of the middle stump did not necessarily imply being out, some member of his team cried, "Trial ball." It was a happy thought. In a moment the field was in an uproar. "Yes, yes—trial ball!" came from all sides. The plea was allowed, and Dan went in again to the tune of frantic laughter and applause. As the next ball came up he dropped his bat, caught it in his hat, and ran. He scored ten runs, and then quietly handed the ball over to the bowler again. Nobody objected to this novel method of scoring. Everybody enjoyed it too much to dream of protesting.

The Danites had opened the match with a useful ten, but there was more to follow. T. MacNaughton was now at the batting end, and he drove the ball out to boundary over the heads of some of the Danites sitting on the grass.

Before any of the field reached it, one of these gentlemen slipped quietly to the edge of the crowd, picked up the ball, and disappeared.

When he had chatted to a few friends and visited the refreshment booth, he returned and laid it quietly on the field again. Messrs. Leno and MacNaughton were standing at the wickets utterly blown, with another twenty runs to their names, and the field were playing hide and seek among the spectators searching for the lost leather.

The captain's wicket went down a score of times. They were all trial balls. He was stumped over and over again, but he maintained that, as he had never been stumped before, he couldn't be now, and stuck doggedly to the wicket.

He looked like carrying his bat out, and MacNaughton was scoring steadily the whole time, tens and twelves being common incidents of the play, especially when an enthusiastic Danite succeeded in getting hold of the ball and threw it to the opposite side of the field, from whence it had to be fielded all over again.

However, there is an end to all things. A good curling ball sent the valiant W. G. D. L.'s stumps to the four corners of the heavens, and the umpire gave him out.

In vain he protested "Trial ball," his own side were in agreement, and he was invited to leave the crease. Little Dan said he was there, and there he meant to be.

Unfortunately at that moment a Danite, rigged out as an inspector of police, pulled out a whistle and blew it shrilly. The whole field followed him, and, kicking, blowing, and raving against umpires and their decisions, the hero of the hour was borne forcibly from the field.

A wave of deep distress came over the spectators as Dan Leno was carried out. All felt that, in view of his unexampled performance, he ought to have carried out his bat.

Nobody can say the Danite XI. were not good sportsmen. They all stuck to the wickets till they were carried off.

Harry Randall made a brave show of sticking, but the odds were overwhelming.

Mr. Eugene Stratton's left-handed batting elicited the warmest approval by reason of its novelty. This may be accounted for by the fact that he is an American, and prior to this occasion had never played any game but baseball.

Bowling is Mr. Harry Randall's strong point. His delivery is unique, and the sight of him should be of practical value to aspiring trundlers.

ONE OF THE BROTHERS MACNAUGHTON BATTING. MESSRS HARRY RANDALL AND EUGENE STRATTON IN THE SLIPS.

At lunch time all the Danites were out. Then came the rub. Owing to various eccentricities on the part of the players, a detailed score had not been kept. Captain Leno was appealed to. He said he didn't actually know how many they had made. The runs were so numerous he couldn't keep up with them. However, he observed that his side "felt" as though it had made at least 275 runs. They had probably made twice as many. Accordingly the first innings was closed at that, to the entire satisfaction of everybody, including the spectators, who cried with laughter at this new method of settling off old scores.

MR. EUGENE STRATTON AS A BATSMAN.

After lunch the Eccentrics took the field, and the Dulwich men went to the wickets.

Hereafter it was cricket extraordinary, and no funnier burlesque was ever seen upon the stage. The bowlers were not bowlers, but they were excellent mimics. They knew it was the correct thing to stroll away from the wicket and back again before a delivery. They walked a quarter of a mile or so to the boundary each time, and returned at 20 miles an hour in the most approved style, launching the ball at a terrific pace. The very first ball was at least ten yards wide, but somebody called, "How's that?" "Out!" said the umpire, and "Out" it had to be. The batsman looked blankly from one to the other. He was too stupefied to protest. Had he done so it would not have helped matters. He had been given "out," and out he had to go. The Danites threw the ball madly skyward. They careered against each, rolled in one indistinguishable mass on the grass, and yelled till they were hoarse. The crack player of the opposition eleven gone—out without a run! The next ball missed the wickets, but it clean bowled the fat man, and he rolled along the grass like a wind-driven hat.

When twenty or thirty balls had been sent up by the boundary-walking trundlers somebody called "Over," and the Danites quadrilled gracefully over the pitch. This little manœuvre occurred at every over.

The next Dulwich man was knocked out in a peculiar and novel way. He did not touch the ball at all, but the fat wicket-keeper ran in and caught it from the bowler's hands. Then he threw it in the air. "How's that?" he cried. "Out!" cried Dan Leno, neatly catching it in his top hat. The batsman laughed, and the spectators joined him. "How's that?" asked Captain Leno of the umpire. "Out," responded the latter. The batsman walked sadly from the wickets. He thought he must have been standing without the crease, and had been stumped without noticing it.

So brilliant was the play of the Danites that the other team by one means or another were got out for an "estimated" total of 25 runs.

HOW MR. LENO WENT "OUT."

It was admirable fooling all the time, and it says much for the "stars" of the music hall that they are willing to give their services so freely in the cause of charity.

WORTH £960.

PRICE £300.

[POSTAGE STAMPS WORTH FORTUNES.]
LATEST MARKET PRICES.

"Good postage stamps" said a leading expert to the writer a few days since, "are one of the soundest investments you can hold." That this is so is amply proved by a glance at the steadily increasing prices quoted for the celebrated blue Mauritius.

With a view to ascertaining some interesting particulars of the present market prices of some of the rarer varieties of stamps, I called upon Mr. Phillips, who is one of our greatest philatelic experts and manager of the great collecting firm of Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd.

The result was extremely interesting, as a perusal of the facts of this article will demonstrate.

There are two varieties of the 1847 Mauritius, a 1d. red and 2d. blue. The stamp is particularly distinguished, as will be observed in our illustration, by the words "Post Office" on the left-hand side instead of the more usual "Post Paid."

Owing to its rarity and the increased interest evinced by all classes in stamp collecting, the value of this stamp has gone up by leaps and bounds.

THESE TWO STAMPS WERE SOLD FOR £1,000.

There is a good specimen in the British Museum collection. It was purchased fifteen years ago for the modest sum of £70. I say modest, because in 1887, when another specimen came into the market, it realised no less a sum than £200, showing an advance of £130.

SOLD FOR £740.

But this was by no means a top price. The next transaction in blue Mauritius was the sale of a pair which after a spirited competition were knocked down to Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd., for £680—the price, by the way, of a well-matched pair of thoroughbreds. In 1897 the last transaction took place in this variety, when another pair changed hands for the respectable consideration of £1,921.

So that if by hook or crook you can get hold of an 1847 blue Mauritius, there is a fortune in store for you. However, so far as collectors know, there are only some 23 specimens of the two varieties—11 of the one and 12 of the other—in existence.

Most people imagine the Mauritius to be the rarest and most valuable of stamps. In this they are wrong. Mr. Phillips credits the 1856 British Guiana, black on magenta, with this honour.

By an error, which was quickly rectified, certain of these stamps were lettered "one" instead of "four." If you can obtain a copy in which this error is apparent, it will readily bring £1,000.

At present only one copy is known to be in existence, and that is in Paris. It holds an honoured place in the magnificent collection belonging to Mons. Ferrary, son of the late Duchess Galliera.

The red variety of this stamp without the error is worth only £25. In blue, it may fetch anything from £100 to £300, according to condition.

FETCHES £250.

The Hawaiian or Sandwich Islands issued a set of four stamps in 1851. Their face values were 2 cents, 5 cents, and 13 cents, the last mentioned being issued in two varieties. They were local low value stamps marked "Hawaiian—U.S." and were used for the purpose of franking letters to San Francisco.

The 2 cent variety is the most valuable. Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd., have been dealing in stamps for 40 years, and they have handled only two copies. The last one sold—a used specimen—fetched £740. The British Museum collection includes two copies, and no other specimens exist in Great Britain. There are three or four copies in the United States, and some eight copies in Europe. These are the only specimens in existence.

The 5 cent and 13 cent varieties are not so valuable, though they may be relied upon to fetch a good round sum. A 5 cent copy unused, in average condition, is worth £250; used, from £80 to £100.

A 13 cent specimen in average condition will realise £250 unused, and £75 used.

Another British Guiana stamp is extremely valuable—the 2 cent circular variety, issued in 1851, and bearing the postmaster's signature as a guarantee of authenticity.

There are only some ten or eleven copies in existence.

RICE PAPER STAMP.

The pair on the previous page have a history as romantic as anything we have ever heard. Four years ago they were found by an old lady residing in a little village outside Demerara. The vicar of the local church was endeavouring to raise an endowment fund, and the old lady, who understood they were of some value, though she had no idea to what extent, presented them to the clergyman, and asked him to sell them and devote the proceeds to the fund.

He sold them to a member of the Legislative Council of Demerara for £205, who in turn sent them to Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd. The firm gave him £650 for the pair. He thus realised an immediate profit of £445.

But this was by no means the top price; within three weeks of their receipt Messrs. Stanley Gibbons, Ltd., resold them to a Bavarian dealer in Germany for £780, who immediately parted with them to a well-known Russian collector, who was in want of specimens, for £1,000.

One cannot help sympathising with the original finder. However, it is more than probable she is ignorant of their real value to this day.

PRICE UNUSED—£500.

Another stamp that has risen prodigiously in value of late years is that known as the Cape of Good Hope issue of 1861. It is known to collectors as one of the errors of 1861, for the following reason.

Just prior to the perpetration of the error, the supply of stamps issued to the colony by the Home authorities ran out, and a local printer was commissioned to produce a temporary supply.

In printing these he made a mistake, the result of which was that the 4d. and 1d. stamps were mixed up. As a consequence many of the 4d. stamps were marked 1d. by mistake, and were the same colour as that used in the former variety.

In 1863 specimens of these errors were sold at 2s. 6d. each. To-day used copies readily fetch from £60 to £70 apiece.

Mr. Phillips says he has only seen one unused copy, and that was sold for £500.

OBSOLETE CASHMERE STAMP.

An interesting specimen is the native stamp issued by the Maharajah of Cashmere in 1866. It is the rarest of native varieties, and was made by the natives of Jummoo and printed on rice paper.

It is in three values—½ anna, 1 anna, and 4 annas, all of which are rare, and worth from £30 to £60 apiece. We are able to illustrate only two of these stamps, the ½ and 1 anna values.

This stamp is now obsolete, the Government having made arrangements for the use of British stamps in Cashmere.

STAMP WITH QUEEN'S HEAD UPSIDE DOWN.

A curious error occurred in the manufacture of a stamp issued by the Indian Government in 1854, all the stamps of one printing appearing with the Queen's head turned upside down. It was a 4 anna stamp, printed in red and blue.

Copies of the correct stamp may be purchased for 5s. But a specimen in which the inverted head appears is worth £150, and not more than twenty copies exist.