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The Perils of Pauline

by Charles Goddard · English · Gutenberg #6065 · 451,433 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: The Perils of Pauline

Author: Charles Goddard


        
Release date: July 1, 2004 [eBook #6065]
                Most recently updated: December 29, 2020

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6065

Credits: Transcribed by Sean Pobuda


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PERILS OF PAULINE ***




Transcribed by Sean Pobuda





THE PERILS OF PAULINE

By Charles Goddard





CHAPTER I

THE BREATH OF DEAD CENTURIES

In one of the stateliest mansions on the lower Hudson, near New York,
old Stanford Marvin, president of the Marvin Motors Company, dozed over
his papers, while Owen, his confidential secretary, eyed him across the
mahogany flat-topped desk.  A soft purring sound floated in the open
window and half-roused the aged manufacturer.  It came from one of his
own cars--six cylinders chanting in unison a litany of power to the
great modern god of gasoline.

These things had been in his mind since the motor industry started.  He
had lived with them, wrestled with them during his meals and taken them
to his dreams at night.  Now they formed a rhythm, and he heard them in
his brain just before the fainting spells, which had come so frequently
of late.  He glanced at the secretary and noted Owen's gaze with
something of a start.

"What are you thinking about, Raymond?" he queried, with his customary
directness.

"Your health, sir," replied Owen, who, like all intelligent rascals,
never lied when the truth would do equally well.  As a matter of fact,
Owen had wondered whether his employer would last a year or a month.
He much preferred a month, for there was reason to believe that the
Marvin will would contain a handsome bequest to "my faithful
secretary."

"Oh, bosh!" said the old man.  "You and Dr. Stevens would make a mummy
of me before I'm dead."

"That reminds me, sir," said Owen, smoothly,  "that the International
Express Company has delivered a large crate addressed to you from
Cairo, Egypt.  I presume it is the mummy you bought on your last trip.
Where shall I place it?"

Mr. Marvin's eye coursed around the walls of the handsome library,
which had been his office since the doctor had forbidden him to visit
his automobile works and steel-stamping mills.

"Take out that bust of Pallas Athene," he ordered, "and stand the mummy
up in its place."

Owen nodded, poised his pencil and prompted:

"You were just dictating about the new piston rings."

Mr. Marvin drew his hand across his eyes and looked out the window.
Within the range of his vision was one of the most charming sights in
the world--a handsome youth and a pretty girl, arrayed in white
flannels, playing tennis.

"Never mind the letters.  Tell Harry and Pauline I wish to see them."

Alone, the old man opened a drawer and took a dose of medicine, then he
unfolded Dr. Stevens's letter and read its final paragraph, which
prescribed a change of climate, together with complete and permanent
rest or "I will not answer for the consequences."

There was little doubt that no primer mover in a great industry was
better able to leave its helm than Standford Marvin.  His  lieutenants
were able, efficient and contented.  The factories would go of their
own momentum for a year or two at least, then his son, Harry, just out
of college, should be able, perhaps, to help.  His lieutenants had
proved Marvin's unerring instinct in judging character.  Not one single
case came to the old employer's mind of a man who had failed to turn
out exactly as he expected.  Yet the most trusted man of all, Raymond
Owen, the secretary, was disloyal and dishonest.

This one exception was easily enough explained.  When Owen came to
Marvin's attention, fifteen years before, he was a fine, honest,
faithful man.  It was born and bred in him to be straight.  During the
first five' or six years in the Marvin household the older man took
pains to keep watch on this quiet, tactful youth until he knew all his
ways and even his habits of thought. There was no doubt that Owen was
as upright and clean as the old man himself.

At the age of forty the devil entered into Owen.  It came in the form
of insomnia.  Loss of sleep will make any man irritable and
unreasonable, but hardly dishonest.  With the sleeplessness, however,
came the temptation to take drugs.  Owen shifted from one narcotic to
another, finally, settling down upon morphine.  Five years of the
opiate had made him its slave. Every physician knows that morphine
fiends become dishonest.

The secretary had speculated with his modest savings and lost them.  He
had borrowed and lost again, and now, for some time, had been betting
on horse races.  This last had made him acquainted with a certain
Montgomery Hicks, who lived well without visible source of income.
Through Hicks, Owen had betrayed one of his employer's guarded
secrets.  Hicks, armed with this secret, promptly changed from a
friendly creditor to a blackmailer.

Owen, on his way to summon Pauline and Harry, descended to the
basement, where the butler, gardener, and a colored man were uncrating
the Egyptian mummy.  He told them to stand it in place of the bust of
Pallas Athene in the library, and then went out, crossing the splendid
lawns, and graveled roads to the tennis court.  There was no design in
Owen's mind against the two players, but of late the instinct of both
the hunter and the hunted were showing in him, and it prompted him to
approach quietly and under cover.  So he passed along the edge of a
hedge and stood a moment within earshot.

Pauline was about to "serve," but paused to look down at the loosened
laces of her small white shoe.  She heard Harry's racquet drop and saw
him hurdle the net.  In another instant he was at her feet tying the
tiny bow.

"You needn't have done that, Harry," she said.

"Oh, no!" Harry affirmed, as he vainly tried to make his bow as  trim
as its mate.  "I suppose not.  I don't suppose I need to, think, about
you all the time either, or follow you around till that new cocker
spaniel of yours thinks I'm part of your shadow.  Perhaps I don't need
to love you."

"Harry, get up!  Someone will see you and think you're proposing to
me."

"Think?  They ought to know I'm proposing.  But, Pauline, talking about
'need,' there isn't any need of your being so pretty.  Your eyes are
bigger and bluer than they really need to be.  You could see just as
well if you didn't have such long, curly lashes, and there isn't any
real necessity for the way they group together in that starry effect,
like Nell Brinkley's girls.  Is there any need of fifteen different
beautiful shades of light where the sun strikes your hair just back of
your ear?"

"Harry, stop this!  The score is forty-fifteen."

"Yes, all these things are entirely unnecessary.  I'm going to have old
Mother Nature indicted by the Grand jury for willful, wasteful, wanton
extravagance unless--unless--" Harry paused.

"Now, Harry, don't use up your whole vocabulary--promise what?"

"Promise to marry me at once."

"No, Harry, I can't do that--that is, right away.  I must have time."

"Why time?  Pauline, don't you love me?"

"Yes, I think I do love you, Harry, and you know there is nobody else
in the world."

"Then what do you want time for?"

"Why, to see life and to know what life really is."

"All right.  Marry me, and I'll show you life.  I'll lead you any kind
of a life you want."

"No, that won't do.  As an old, settled-down, married woman I couldn't
really do what I want.  I must see life in its great moments.  I must
have thrills, adventures, see people, do daring things, watch battles.
It might be best for me even to see someone killed, if that were
possible.  As I was telling Harley St. John last night--"

"Harley St. John?  Well, if I catch that fop taking you motoring again
you'll get your wish and see a real nice aristocratic murder.  He ought
to be put out of his misery, anyway; but where did you get all these
sudden notions about wild and strenuous life?"

Pauline did not answer.  They both heard a discreet cough, and Owen
rounded the corner of the hedge.  He delivered his message, and the
three walked slowly toward the house.

Advancing to meet them came a dashy checked suit.  Above it was a large
Panama hat with a gaudy ribbon.  A red necktie was also visible, even
at a considerable distance.  Between the hat and the necktie a face
several degrees darker in color than the tie came into view as the
distance lessened.  It was Mr. Montgomery Hicks, whose first name was
usually pronounced "Mugumry" and thence degenerated into "Mug."  Mug's
inflamed and scowling face and bulging eyes usually conveyed the
general impression that he was about to burst into profanity--a
conjecture which frequently proved correct.  In this case he merely
remarked in a sort of "newsboy" voice:

"Mr. Raymond Owen, I believe?"

The secretary's sallow face flushed a little as he stepped aside and
let Harry and Pauline pass out of earshot.

"See here, Mug," complained Owen,  "I haven't a cent for you.  You will
get me discharged if you come around here like this."

"Well, I'll get you fired right now," growled Mug, "if you don't come
across with the money."  And he started toward the front steps.  Owen
led him out of sight of the house and finally got rid of him.  For a
blackmailer knows he can strike but once, and, having struck, he loses
all power over his victim.  So Hicks withheld the blow, collected a
paltry thirty dollars, and consented to wait a little while for Marvin
to die.

Harry and Pauline passed on into the house.  He had the straight
backbone and well poised head of the West Pointer, but without the
unnatural stiffness of the soldier's carriage; the shoulders of the
"halfback," and the lean hips of a runner were his, and he had earned
them in four years on his varsity football and track teams.  The girl
beside him, half a head shorter, tripped along with the easy action of
a thoroughbred.  Both bore the name of Marvin, yet there was no
relationship.

Harry's mother, long dead, had adopted this girl on Mr. Marvin's first
trip to Egypt.  Pauline was the daughter of an English father and a
native mother.

Mrs. Marvin first saw her as a blue-eyed baby, too young to understand
that its parents had just been drowned in the Nile.  As brother and
sister they grew up together until college separated the two.  After
four years Pauline's dainty prettiness struck Harry with a distinct
shock, the delightful sort of shock known as love at first sight.  It
was really Harry's first sight of her as a woman.  Every sense and
instinct in him shouted,  "Get that girl," and nothing in him answered
"No."

Mr. Marvin looked unusually pale as those two very vital young persons
stepped into the library.  He read their thoughts and said quietly.

"Harry, I've been placed in the hands of a receiver."

"Receiver?" echoed Harry, with amazement, for he knew that Marvin
enterprises were financed magnificently.

"Yes, Dr. Stevens is the receiver.  He says I have exhausted my entire
stock of nervous capital, that my account at the bank of physical
endurance is overdrawn, nature has called her loans, and you might say
that I am a nervous bankrupt."

"So All you need is rest," cried Pauline, "and you will be as strong as
ever."

"Well, before I rest I want to assure myself about you children.
Harry, you love Pauline, don't you?"

"You bet I do, father."

"Pauline, you love Harry, don't you?"

"Yes," answered Pauline slowly.

"And you will marry right away?"

"This very minute, if she would have me," said Harry.

"And you, Pauline?" queried the old man.

"Yes, father," for she loved him and felt toward him as if she were
indeed his daughter.  "Perhaps some time I'll marry Harry, but not for
a year or two.  I couldn't marry him now, it wouldn't be right."

"Wouldn't be right??  Well, I'd like to know why not."

Pauline was silent a moment.  She hated to oppose this fine old man,
but her will was as firm as his, and well he knew it.  Harry spoke for
her:

"Oh, she wants to see life before she settles down--wild life, sin
and iniquity, battle, murder and sudden death and all that sort of
stuff.  I don't know what has gotten into women these days, anyway."

Then Polly, prettily, daintily, as she did all things, and with
charming little blushes and hesitations, confessed her secret.  In
short, it was her ambition to be a writer, a writer of something worth
while--a great writer.  To be a great writer one must know life, and
to know life one must see it--see the world.  She ended by asking the
two men if this were not so.

They looked at each other and coughed with evident relief it the
comparative harmlessness of her whim.

"Yes, Polly," said old man Marvin, "a great writer ought to see life in
order to know what he is writing about.  But what makes you suspect
that you have the ability to be even an ordinary writer?"

Marvin sire winked at Marvin son and Marvin son winked back, for no man
is too old or too young to enjoy teasing a pretty and serious girl.

Pauline saw the wink, and her foot ceased tracing a pattern in the
carpet and stamped on it instead.

"I'll show you what reason I have to think I can write.  My first story
has just been published in the biggest magazine in the country.  I have
had a copy of it lying around here for days with my story in it, and
nobody has even looked at it."

Out she flashed, and Harry after her, almost upsetting the butler and
gardener, who appeared in the library doorway.  These two worthies
advanced upon the statue of Pallas without noticing the master of the
house sitting behind his big desk.  The butler did notice that a large
hound from the stable had followed the gardener into the room.

"That's what one gets for letting outdoor servants into the house,"
muttered the butler, as he hustled the big dog to the front door and
ejected him.

"Is he addressing himself to me or to the pup, I wonder?" asked the
gardener, a fat, good-natured Irishman, as he placed himself in front
of the statue.

He read the name "Pallas," forced his rusty derby hat down over his
ears in imitation of the statue's helmet, and mimicked the pose.

Together they staggered out with their burden.  A moment later they
returned, carrying, with the help of two other men, the mummy in its
big case.  Owen also entered, and Marvin, with the joy of an
Egyptologist, grasped a magnifying glass and examined the case.


The old man's bobby had been Egypt, his liberal checks had assisted in
many an excavation, and his knowledge of her relics was remarkable.
Inserting a steel paper cutter in a crack he deftly pried open the
upper half of the mummy's front.  Beneath lay the mass of wrappings in
which thousands of years ago the priests of the Nile had swathed some
lady of wealth and rank.  It was a woman, Marvin was sure, from the
inscriptions on her tomb, and he believed her to be a princess.

The secretary excused himself and went to his room, where his precious
morphine pills were hidden.  The old man, left alone, deftly opened the
many layers of cloth which bound the ancient form.  A faint scent that
was almost like a presence came forth from the unwrapped folds.  Long
lost balms they were, ancient spices, forgotten antiseptics of a great
race that blossomed and Fell--thousands of years before its time.

"I smell the dead centuries," whispered Marvin to himself, "I can
almost feel their weight.  The world was young when this woman
breathed.  Perhaps she was pretty and foolish like my Polly--yes, and
maybe as stubborn, too.  Manetho says they had a good deal to say in
those days.  Ah, now we shall see her face."

He had uncovered a bit of the mummy's forehead when out of the bandages
fell a tiny vial.  Marvin quickly picked it up.  The vial was carved
from some sort of green crystal in the shape of a two-headed Egyptian
bird god.  Without effort the stopper came out and Marvin held the
small bottle to his nostrils, only to drop it at the mummy's feet.  It
exhaled the odor of the mummy which the reek of the centuries
intensified a thousand times.

It was too much for the old man.  He had overtaxed his feeble vitality
and felt his senses leaving him.  With the entire force of his will he
was able to get to a chair, into which he sank.  The odor of the vial
was still in his nostrils.  His eyes were fixed and stared straight
ahead, but he could see, in a faint, unnatural yellow light that bathed
the room.

From the vial, lying at the mummy's feet a vapor appeared to rise.  It
floated toward the swathed figure, enveloped it and seemed to be
absorbed by it.

"Perhaps this is death," thought Marvin, "for I cannot move or speak."

But something else moved.  There was a flutter among the bandages of
the mummy.  The commotion increased.  Something was moving inside.  The
bandages were becoming loosened.  They fell away from the face, and
then was Marvin amazed indeed.  Instead of the tight, brown
parchment-like skin one always finds in these ancient relics appeared a
smooth, olive-tinted complexion.  It was the face of a young and
beautiful woman.  The features were serene as if in death, but there
was no sunken nose or mummy's hollow eyes.

A strand of black hair fell down, and the movement beneath the bandages
increased.  Out of the folds came an arm, a woman's arm, slender, yet
rounded, an arm with light bones and fine sinews, clearly an arm and
hand that had never known work.  Marvin was well aware that a mummy's
arm is invariably a black skeleton claw.

At this point the old man made a mental note that he was not dead, for
he could feel his own breathing.  The arm rapidly and gracefully
loosened and removed wrappings from the neck and breast.  On the wrist
gashed a bracelet made of linked scarabs.  The arm now cast away the
last covering of the bosom, neck and shoulders.

She freed her left hand, lifted out the bottom half of the case and
slid the wrappings from her limbs.  Barefooted and bare-ankled, clothed
only in a shimmering white gown that scarcely covered bare knees, and a
white head-dress with a green serpent head in front, she stepped
somewhat stiffly into the room.  Slowly she made several movements of
limbs and body like the first steps of a dance.  She rose on her toes,
looked down at herself and swayed her lithe hips.  It occurred to
Marvin that all this was by way of a graceful little stretch after a
few thousand years of sleep.

Marvin now observed that she was Pauline's height, and age, as well as
general size and form.  Slightly shorter she might have been, but then
she lacked Pauline's high heels.  The general resemblance was striking
except in the color of the eyes and hair.  Pauline's tresses were a
light golden yellow, while this girl's hair was black as the hollow of
the sphinx.  Pauline's eyes were blue, but she who stood before him
gazed through eyes too dark to guess their color.

The Egyptian had found a little mirror.  She patted her hair, adjusted
the head-dress, but Marvin waited in vain for the powder puff.  From
the mirror the girl's eyes wandered to a painting hanging above the
desk.  It was an excellent likeness of Pauline.  The resemblance
between the two was obvious, not only to Marvin but evidently to the
black-haired girl.  She turned to the old man and addressed him in a
strange language.  Not one word did he recognize, yet the syllables
were so clearly and carefully pronounced that he felt he was listening
to an educated woman.  Some of the tones were like Pauline's, some were
not, but all were soft, sweet, modulated.

The meaning was clear enough.  She wished Marvin to see the
resemblance, and she frowned slightly because the rigid, staring figure
did not respond.  Why should she be impatient, this woman of the
Pharaohs who had lain stiff and unresponsive while Babylon and Greece
and Rome and Spain had risen and fallen?

Soon she resorted to pantomime, pointed to herself and the picture,
touched her eyes and nose and mouth and then the corresponding painted
features.  She felt of her own jet hair, shook her head and looked
questioningly at the light coiffure of Pauline.  She turned to the old
man, evidently asking if the painting were true in this respect.  Then
she smiled a smile like Pauline's.  Perhaps she was asking if Pauline
had changed the color of her hair.

Now she became interested in a book on the corner of the desk.  With
little musical exclamations of delight she turned the printed pages and
appreciated that the shelves contained hundreds more of these
treasures.  The typewritten letters lying about excited her admiration
and then the pen and ink.  She quickly guessed the use of the pen and
ran eagerly to the mummy case.  A moment's search brought forth a long
roll of papyrus.  Before Marvin's eyes she unrolled a scroll covered
with Egyptian hieroglyphics.

There were footsteps in the hall and the Egyptian looked toward the
door.  Owen entered, looked at Marvin searchingly, placed him in a more
comfortable position in the chair, spoke his name and walked out.  What
seemed most surprising to the sick, man was his secretary's oversight
of the girl.  He passed in front of her, almost brushing her white robe
and yet it was clear that he did not see her.

But the Egyptian had seen him and the sight had excited her.  She
seemed desperately anxious to say something to Marvin, something about
Pauline.

The mummy had a secret to reveal!

She tore the bracelet from her right wrist and tried to force it into
Marvin's nerveless grasp.  Try as she would, his muscles did not
respond.  There were voices in the hallway.  Harry and Pauline were
running downstairs.  The Princess gave one last imploring glance at the
paralyzed figure, passed her hand gently over his forehead; then she
stepped quickly back to the case.

Harry and Pauline rushed in, followed less hastily by Owen.  They
grasped the old man's hands, and Harry, seizing the telephone, called
Dr. Stevens.  But to the surprise of everybody Marvin suddenly shook
off the paralysis, spoke, moved and seemed none the worse for his
seizure.





CHAPTER II

THE WILL

Old Mr. Marvin's faculties returned with a snap.  There was the library
just as it had been before his peculiar seizure.  His son Harry was
summoning on the telephone Dr. Stevens, the heart specialist, and
Pauline, his adopted daughter, was on her knees chafing his hands and
anxiously watching his face, while Owen, the secretary, was pouring out
a dose of his medicine.  But the peculiar yellow light had gone.  And
what about the mummy?  It stood just as he had left it, the lower half
of the case was in place, the upper half was out, revealing the
loosened bandages and just a glimpse of the forehead.

One strand of jet black hair hung down.  All was just as it was when
the little vial had fallen out.

"I'm all right, I'm all right," protested Mr. Marvin, somewhat testily,
as he twisted about in his chair to get a good view of the mummy.
"Look out, Harry, don't step on that little bottle."

Harry looked down and picked up the tiny vial which had fallen from the
bandages wrapped about the ancient form.

"Smell of it," his father ordered.  Harry sniffed it and remarked that
it smelled musty and passed it to Pauline.  The girl carried it to her
nostrils spin and again.  She looked perplexed.

"Well, what do you think it is?" asked the old man.

"Why--I can't remember, but I ought to know.  I'm sure I do know."

"The devil you do," muttered her faster father.

"What makes you think you ought to know?"

"Why, it is so familiar.  I'm certain I've smelled it often before.
Haven't I?"

"Well, if you have, Polly, you are a lot older than I am, older than
anything in this country, as old as the pyramids.  That bottle fell out
of the mummy, and I can assure you it has been there some three or four
thousand years.  When I smelled of that bottle it had a queer effect on
me.  I felt as if I were going to have one of my fainting spells and
was glad to get back to the chair.  It's funny about that mummy.  I
thought she came out and talked to me."

"Why, father, what a horrible thing!" sympathized Pauline.

"Not horrible at all.  She was a beauty and a princess.  She was
interested in your picture, Polly, and she looked like you, too,
except, let's see--yes, her hair was black, jet black, like that one
lock you see hanging down."

"Oh," interrupted Pauline, "I wish my hair were black, and I often
dream that it is, and that I am walking around in a pretty, white
pleated dress and my feet are bare."

"And a bracelet on your wrist--your right wrist?" questioned Marvin
eagerly.

"I don't remember," Pauline replied thoughtfully.

"Well, we'll see if you had one and also whether I was dreaming or
not," announced the old man with a half ashamed look as he rose
somewhat unsteadily to his feet.  Harry and Pauline tried to keep him
quiet.  He brushed their warnings aside and walked unsteadily to the
mummy.

"Let's see its face," suggested Harry carelessly.

"No," said his father.  "I have an idea that this old but young lady
would not care to have us look at her.  But there is one thing I must
find out.  I want to know if she wears a bracelet of linked scarabs on
her right wrist or not."

All of this was rather a bore to Harry, who lived intensely in the
present, had no interest in Egypt, except that Pauline was born and
adopted as an orphan baby there, and asked nothing of the future except
that it allow him to marry this obstinate but fascinating little
creature at the earliest possible moment.  The question had been
brought up half an hour before, and he wanted it settled at once.
Harry wished they would decide about the marriage instead of fussing
around with an old mummy.

"My son, I venture to say that you would have been interested in this
young woman had you met her."

"Possibly," the youth admitted with a slight yawn.

"Yes," continued his father, busily searching for the mummy's right
wrist, "she was probably what you would call a peach."

"She may have been a peach in her day," thought Harry, "but today she's
a dried apricot."

The elder Marvin's searching fingers encountered a hard object.  It
proved to be a scarab, or sacred Egyptian beetle, carved in black
stone.

"Did you ever dream about that?" asked Harry, chaffing.

"Yes, I have," replied Pauline.  Both men looked at her to see if she
were serious.

"I dreamed that I was very sick and going to die, and an old man with a
long, thin beard came in.  He gave me a stone beetle like that.  Then
it seems to me they put it right on my chest and they said--let's
see, what did they do that for?  I think it was to cure me of something
the matter with my heart."

"Polly," said Mr. Marvin, "I never knew you had dreams like this.  But
are you sure they said it would cure your heart?  Wasn't it for some
other reason?"

Pauline thought a moment, while Harry lit a cigarette and his father
worked his fingers down toward the mummy's right wrist.

"No," said Pauline, "I remember now.  It wasn't to cure it at all.  It
was to make it keep quiet."

"Ho, ho!" laughed Harry.  "I never knew of any one making it flutter
much.  I guess that was no dream."

Harry's father silenced him with an impatient gesture and turned to
Pauline, who was watching the wind make cat's paws on the polished
surface of the Hudson River.

"Go on, girl, go on.  This is remarkable.  I have read of this custom
in the Egyptian 'Book of the Dead'!  Why did they want to keep your
heart quiet?"

"They said," continued Pauline, dreamily, "that after I died my spirit
was to be called before somebody--a God, I guess--who would judge
whether I was good enough for Heaven or not.  That stone beetle was
placed on my heart to make it keep silent and not tell anything wicked
I might have done in life.  Aren't dreams crazy things?  Say, Harry,
there goes a hydroplane."

The two young people hung out the open window.  The old man was
absorbed, too.  He had at last worked his fingers along the entire
length of the mummy's right wrist.  It was dry and hard as any mummy he
had ever seen, but it bore neither bracelet nor any ornament whatever.

"Well," he said, reluctantly, "it was all a dream, interesting but not
important.  Like Polly's dream, it was just the echo of something I
have read or seen."

"Oh, pshaw!  What are dreams, anyway?" muttered Harry, with
impatience.

"Dreams," said Pauline, authoritatively, "dreams are the bubbles which
rise to the surface of the mind when it cools down in sleep."

"Now," observed Harry, quietly, "when you and father are through
talking about mummies and dreams I wish you would consider something
that I am interested in.  I'd like to know how soon you are going to
marry me?"

"Where did you get that definition of dreams, Polly?" asked the old
man.

"From my story," said Pauline, proudly.

Both men at once remembered that she had gone to find the magazine and
show them her first story.  They eagerly demanded to see it.

Pauline picked up the Cosmopolitan from the floor.  She had dropped it
in her agitation at finding her foster father had fainted. Sure enough,
there it was:

FIRE ON AN OCEAN LINER

By Pauline Marvin.

It was not the biggest feature by any means, but it was quite a little
story, and there were several large stirring illustrations.  Both men
begged her to read it to them, but she modestly declined.

Mr. Marvin adjusted his spectacles and read it through from start to
finish, frequently looking up to compliment the authoress on some point
that pleased him.  Harry looked over his father's shoulder, and there
could be no doubt they were both held and even thrilled by the story.

Mr. Marvin clapped his hands and stated in a loud voice that he was
proud of her.  Harry expressed his appreciation by a bear-like hug and
a kiss, all of which she accepted with blushes and protests.

"And--er--did they actually pay you something for this?" asked the
old gentleman.

"Oh, yes," Pauline assured him.  "They sent me a check at once.  It
paid for that frock you told me was too extravagant."

"A hundred dollars?" ventured Harry from the depths of his ignorance of
things feminine.

Both Pauline and his father cast pitying glances at him.

"Look here, young man," said the elder Marvin, "whoever led you to
believe that you could buy dresses for a girl like Polly at a hundred
dollars?  If you contemplate matrimony on any such deluded basis as
that you had better back out now before it's too late.  Isn't that so,
Polly?"

"Why, father," protested the youth, "what do I care what her dresses
cost?  Polly knows everything I have or ever make is hers, and I can't
think of a more satisfactory way of spending it than on her."

"That's fine, Harry," laughed the father, "you have just the ideal
frame of mind and the proper sentiments for a modern husband.  You will
find, too, that women are very reasonable.  If a man gives his wife all
he makes, plus the vote, and lets her do just as she pleases--she'll
usually let him live in the same house with her, and even get up early
enough to see him at breakfast once in a while."

"I agree to everything," declared Harry, with the reckless abandon of
youth in love.  "But I want to know how soon Polly is going to marry
me."

Pauline, who had said nothing in answer to the preliminary skirmishes,
now recognized the main attack and opened up in reply.

"I told you I would marry Harry some time, but not for a year or two.
You admitted that a writer ought to see life in order to write well.
So there you are.  I must have a year or two of adventure.  There are a
thousand things I want to do and see before I settle down as Mrs. Harry
Marvin.  Suppose we say two years."

Harry staggered back as if from a blow.  Two years!  How preposterous!
He couldn't live that long without Pauline.  In vain he hurled his
protests and objections.  She stood, sweet, unruffled, sympathetic, but
as firm as the Rocky Mountains.  The old man listened to the debate for
some time without comment.  Then he pressed a button on his desk.

In answer came Raymond Owen, the secretary.  He had shown the good
taste to retire from the library as soon as the conversation became
personal.  From the vantage point of a room across the hall he had been
quietly listening, and decided it a rather unfruitful piece of
eavesdropping.  He appeared the faithful, deferent employee in every
line as he entered.

"Come here, Raymond," directed the old man, as sharply as a commanding
officer, "and you, Harry, and you, Pauline."

They obeyed and quickly lined up before his chair with rather surprised
faces, for Mr. Marvin only called them Pauline and Harry when he was
very serious.

"Raymond, this is the situation: My son loves Pauline and wants to
marry her at once.  I have no objection; in fact, I would like to see
them united at once, but Pauline demurs.  She loves Harry, but feels
she ought to have two years to see life before settling down.  Two
years is too much."

"I should say so," growled Harry.

"But, as my old grandfather, who has been gone these forty years now,
used to say: 'When a woman will, she will, and when she won't, she
won't--and there's an end on't.'  I don't blame her for wanting to
have her own way.  It's the only plan I've found to get along in this
world, but you can't have all your own way.  You have to compromise.
So Polly is going to have one year--that's enough.

"During that year, Raymond, I'm going to put her in your care.  You are
older and more prudent than either Polly or Harry and will see that she
comes to no harm.  Take her anywhere she wants to go--around the
world if she likes, to do anything within reason.  Do you agree?"

Mr. Marvin looked at Owen, who accepted the duty as calmly as if it
were an order to post a letter.  Polly also consented after a moment's
hesitation.  Harry alone protested and argued.  It was a hopeless case
and he yielded to overwhelming odds.

This matter settled, Mr. Marvin's mind returned to the mummy and his
curious delusion that it had come to life.  While Owen perused
Pauline's story and that willful young woman herself tried to cheer up
her disconsolate lover, the old man returned to the mummy.  He had
searched for the bracelet on the right wrist, but, after all, perhaps
the Egyptian might have slipped it onto her left wrist in her hurry to
get back.

"There it is," he shouted suddenly; "there it is--the bracelet.  She
wore it on her wrist and he told her to give it to Polly."

Mr. Marvin held in his hand a bracelet of scarabs linked together.  It
looked to him to the very one the reincarnated mummy had worn.  Harry
and Pauline in wonder came to him, and it was well they did.  The
excitement and exertion had again overstrained his failing energies.
He tottered, and they were just in time to save him from a fall.

It was another of his fainting spells, and they lowered him gently into
his chair.  But the old man was not unconscious yet.  Feebly he
repeated to Pauline, "Wear this bracelet--wear it always--promise."

Pauline promised, and slipped it on her wrist without more than
glancing at it.  The old man's eyes closed, and it was clear that this
faint was more serious than his others.  Harry, about to telephone for
Dr. Stevens again, was greatly relieved to see the physician stride
into the room.  There was hardly need of the stethoscope to tell him
the end was near.

Even before the old man was undressed and in bed, Dr. Stevens had
prepared and administered a hypodermic.  The patient's eyelids
fluttered and Dr. Stevens listened to the faintly moving lips.

"The will," called the doctor, "what about the will?"

He glanced at every one, but nobody knew.

A shadow of anxiety passed over the features of the dying millionaire.
Dr.  Stevens could see that something of serious importance was on the
old man's mind--something of importance about his vast property.

Once more he listened and then hastily drawing out his prescription pad
and fountain pen he wrote a few sentences at the dying man's dictation,
while the patient rallied and opened his eyes.  The physician held the
blank before his patient, who read it through and nodded.  Dr. Stevens
then placed the pen in the trembling fingers and guided his signature.
A moment more and the physician had signed it as a witness and the
butler had done the same.

The old manufacturer died as he had lived.

The will written on Dr. Stevens's prescription pad was given to Owen.
He went to his room and examined it.  It read:

"Bodley Stevens, M.D.  Rx:  I bequeath half my estate to my son, Harry,
the remainder to my adopted daughter, Pauline, to be held in trust,
until her marriage, by my secretary, Raymond Owen."

Then followed the signature of the deceased and that of the two
witnesses.  In vain Owen looked for the handsome bequest to "the
faithful secretary."  This was a bitter disappointment, and he
considered for a moment the advisability of destroying the will.  This
would make valid one of the earlier wills in which he knew he had not
been forgotten.

The folly of such a course became evident after a few moments thought.
Dr.  Stevens, the butler, and several others knew the contents of the
document.  It was so simple that its meaning could hardly be confused
or forgotten, and every one knew it was in his keeping.  It occurred to
Owen that quite likely such a hasty death-bed will written by a doctor
unskilled in law might not be accepted by the courts.

Early the next morning Owen suspended his work of answering telegrams
of condolence long enough to make a hurried trip to lower Manhattan,
where the late Stanford Marvin's lawyers had offices.

In vain the great lawyer cudgeled his brains for some flaw.  The will
ought to be wrong, but it wasn't.  The meaning was so clear that even a
court couldn't misunderstand it, and the fortune was left to his
natural beneficiaries.  The lawyer heaved a sigh and said plaintively:

"Too bad, too bad.  Why didn't they call me?"

"Then this will is not valid?" asked Owen.

"Oh, no, it will hold; but what a pity that such a great man's last
will and testament should be such an--well, so--well, this
instrument is not worthy of conveying such a great estate."

He contemptuously slipped the simple document into an envelope and
placed it in his safe.  Owen picked up his hat, but hesitated at the
door.  A question was forming in his mind and with it a hope.

"Mr. Wilmerding," he asked finally, "in case Miss Marvin does not marry
who would have charge of the estate?"

"I should say," replied the lawyer, "in reply to your question that the
estate would be held in trust by you."

Returning to the house and entering the library Owen was confronted by
the unwelcome spectacle of Montgomery Hicks, generally known as Mug.
Hicks, with his gaudy attire, and ugly face, was always an affront to
the eye, but to Owen he was a terror, for he held the power of
blackmail over the secretary.  Owen shrank at the sight of his enemy,
but immediately took courage.  Though Marvin's death had left the
secretary no legacy it had also robbed the blackmailer of his power.

Hicks advanced with what he intended to be a winning smile and extended
a hot, fat hand.

"I see the old man has croaked and I was just dropping in to talk
business," Hicks's newsboy voice growled out.

"Hicks," said Owen, keeping his hand in his pocket, "if you came here
to get your money out of the legacy old man Marvin was to leave me.
Well, you won't get it and you never will get it.  Marvin didn't leave
me a cent, so there is nothing for you to get.  He did leave me a job
in his will, a job that will last for a year, and neither you nor any
one else can force me out of that job.  You can't blackmail me any
more."

"At the end of the year what becomes of you?" asked Hicks.

"Then I get a position somewhere else; but that is none of your
business."

"You don't want a position, Owen.  A position calls for work.  You
don't like hard work any more then I do.  You can't stand work much
longer, either.  Look at your eyes and your skin, how many grains do
you take a day, anyway?"

"I haven't touched a grain of morphine in six months," lied Owen.  "But
get out of my way--you can't get anything out of me and you can't
blackmail me.  If you come to this house again I'll have you thrown
out."

"Just a minute," said Hicks, as pleasantly as he could, straining his
coarse features into the unaccustomed position of a smile.  "I didn't
come to get money out of you.  I know all about the will.  What I came
for was to help you and give you a tip.  You and I can make a lot of
easy money together.  You've got the opportunity and I've got the
brains.  Now, to show you I'm your friend, look at this!"

Hicks handed him a paper which Owen read with surprise.  It was a
receipt in full for all Owen owed.  Owen put it in his pocket.

"That's right, keep it.  You and I are going to be so rich before long
that a matter of a thousand or two wouldn't be worth talking about
between friends."

Owen had been under the thumb of this man, had feared and hated him and
hoped for the day when he might sneer in his face and defy him.  This
was the time, and yet he felt Hicks had something to offer.  He was in
temporary charge of millions.  There should be, there must be, some way
to make this control permanent or else to delve into these millions
while they were in his care.  As Hicks hinted, this was an opportunity
and he needed not brains, but rather experience and advice.  Owen had
been a rascal on a short time, why not take a partner like this man
Hicks?  He would prevent mistakes, and mistakes are all a criminal need
fear.

Owen fingered uneasily the paper Hicks had put in his hand.  He drew it
out of his pocket--yes, it was a receipt in full for all that Owen
owed the scoundrel.  What could be Hicks's scheme?  Owen turned a
puzzled and worried gaze upon his companion.

Hicks observed him closely, read the misgivings in Owen's mind and,
drawing close, whispered something in the latter's ear.

But Owen's drug-saturated nerves trembled at the thought.  He pushed
Hicks aside and walked rapidly out of the room, calling over his
shoulder:

"I won't have anything to do with you.  I don't want you to come near
me or speak to me again.  I'm done with you."

"When you want me you know where to find me," was Hicks's parting
answer.





CHAPTER III

PAULINE TAXES THE FIRST TRICK

"All right, I'll do it," growled Harry Marvin, with the air of a martyr
going to the stake.  "I'll do it for your sake, Polly."

"Well, you'd better begin to get ready," said Pauline blithely.

"I'll climb into a frock coat and endure an hour or two of this
afternoon tea chatter," promised Harry, "but first you must talk sense
with me for a few minutes."

"Oh, Harry," spoke Pauline, softly, "I know what 'talking sense'
means.  You want to argue about my year of adventure.  Now, lets not
argue.  Let's just be happy.  You know I love you and I know you love
me, and that ought to be enough.  This year will be gone before you
know it.  I'm going to begin it right away just to please you.  The
sooner it starts the sooner it will be over."

"Begin it?" said Harry.  "Why, a month of it is gone now.  But it's all
nonsense.  Polly, if you love me you are going to give up this crazy
idea."

A maid, bringing the card of Miss Lucille Hamlin, interrupted Harry.
She was the first of the afternoon tea party.  Polly hurried Harry off
to dress, and, of course, he had no further chance to "talk sense"
until the door had closed on the last guest.  Then he pounced upon
her.  But Pauline, sweetly stubborn, cheerfully unyielding, insisted on
carrying out her father's promise to the letter.

Raymond Owen, the secretary of the late Mr. Marvin, had thought it
important to overhear this argument, and finally to walk into the
library where the debate was going on.  If the adventures were to start
he had an idea for a beginning.  The words of Hicks, the blackmailer,
had been in his mind for some thirty days and were beginning to bear
fruit.  He had soon reached the point of hoping, almost praying,
something would happen to Pauline that he might be left in control of
her, estate.  During the last few days Owen had progressed, from merely
hoping to readiness to help his wish to come true.

Harry instantly appealed to the secretary to dissuade Pauline.  There
was no doubt that Owen had some influence over the girl.  In years gone
by, before Owen had taken to the drug, Pauline had sought him out in
many a time of perplexity and learned to rely on his tactful,
well-considered advice.

To the surprise of the young master of the house, Owen made no attempt
to dissuade.  Very unobtrusively he pointed out that for many years he
had been accustomed to carry out the wishes of Harry's father, and that
he was bound to fulfill his last wish in the same way.

"Raymond, you're a dear," laughed Pauline; "let's think of something
thrilling to do right off.  Have you any idea?"

"No," lied Owen, "I hadn't given the matter any thought. We might look
at a newspaper and see what's happening."

Owen had a paper with him and the three examined it together.

Owen pretended to discover that an aviation meet was about to be held.
His idea, for which Harry promptly hated him, was to induce some
aviator to take Pauline as a passenger.  Many of the races called for
carrying a passenger.  Harry made a few objections, but the speed with
which they were overruled showed that he had no standing in this
court.  So Harry subsided, but he thought very hard.

Several things were becoming evident to Harry.

One was that this year to see life and have adventures was actually
going to take place and no opposition on his part would stop it.  It
was also clear that if he hoped to control Pauline's adventures in any
way it would be by the use of his wits, matching them against Pauline
and the secretary.

When Pauline and Owen decided upon the aeroplane ride, Harry contented
himself with remarking that he would have to see about it.  Both
chuckled when he said it, Pauline outwardly and Owen inwardly.

Then they had dinner under the round glassy eye of Aunt Cornelia.  Aunt
Cornelia was an elderly maiden relative of Harry, who had arrived with
others for the funeral and made the brilliant discovery that since Mr.
Marvin's death the "social situation," as she termed it, at the Marvin
house had become impossible.

It seemed, according to Aunt Cornelia, that a young man and a young
woman of impressionable age living in the same house unchaperoned
constituted an "impossible social situation,"  Either Pauline or Harry
must move out or someone must be installed as chaperon. Of course, the
chaperon was the least of the three evils and Aunt Cornelia, being the
discoverer of the job, was elected to fill it.

Harry ordered a bottle of wine with his dinner.  Though he actually
drank very little, this unusual event created no little consternation.

"Harry, I didn't know you drank?" said Pauline.

"I am just beginning.  You see, now that I must take over father's
affairs and mix with men of the world I ought to get a little
experience in things.  See life and know what's what."

After dinner Harry casually asked if Pauline thought her adventures
would lead her to Paris.  Pauline thought it likely, whereat Harry
remarked that he might see her over there.

"I haven't been to Paris since I was a kid, and I really ought to see
it, don't you think?"

"Yes," agreed Pauline, without enthusiasm, "but wait until we are
married and we'll do Paris together."

"No, Polly, that won't do.  I'm sorry, but as you say, you can't see
life after you're married and settled down, so I'll have to do Paris
alone."

"Harry, are you sure you love me?" Pauline whispered.

"Polly, I know it, and everybody else knows it except you.  Get Owen,
he's a notary public, and I'll take an oath before him that you have
been the only girl in all the world, are now and ever will be, world
without end, amen."

"And I love you, Harry," said Pauline, lowering her eyes until he saw
only the silky lashes.

"Why, Polly, that's the first time you ever volunteered that
information."

"Yes, Harry, I love you too much to let you go to Paris."

"Paris can't hurt me unless I let it hurt me."

"Harry, you won't be quite the same sort of boy when you come back from
Paris.  Will you promise not to go until we are married?"

"Will you promise not to go on this trip of adventure?"

"Why should I?" demanded Pauline.

"Because you won't ever be quite the same sort of girl when you come
back."

After breakfast the next morning when the big touring car rolled up to
the front door to got Pauline and Owen, Harry was hurt that he had not
been consulted.  Pauline's belated invitation to go with them to the
aviation field in the automobile was declined.  Away went the big car
to the fine stretch of roads, where it made short work of the distance
to the aviation grounds.

Owen made a complete canvass of the "hangars" and soon accounted for
every machine entered in the race for the next day.  From all but one
of the aviators he obtained a flat refusal.  Not for money or any other
consideration would they take a strange woman as a passenger.  The only
exception was a Frenchman, whose hesitation in declining led Owen to
further argument.  At the last moment Pauline, impatient at the
suspense, entered the Frenchman's "hangar" and added her blandishments
to Owen's financial inducements.  The gallant foreigner succumbed and a
bargain was struck.  He exhibited his tame bird of steel and wood and
cloth with the utter pride of a mother showing off her only child.

The aviator's fingers touched one of the wires and the easy smile left
his face.  He turned to his mechanics and sharp words followed.  A
moment later one of his assistants was at work tightening the wire.
Owen's eyes scarcely left the wire, and when the opportunity arose he
questioned the mechanic as, to what would happen if that particular
steel strand should fail during flight.  The foreigner explained
frankly that the aeroplane would capsize and plunge to the earth.  But
he assured Owen that no such thing would happen, as he had just
tightened the wire in question and would make another inspection after
the practice flight that afternoon.

All the way home Owen's thoughts were of that wire and what it would
mean to him.  In the meanwhile Harry, after watching the car depart
toward Hempstead, concluded to follow.  He went to the picturesque
private garage behind the Marvin mansion and soon was, following in the
tracks of the bigger car.

Arrived on the field, he recognized Pauline's car and awaited patiently
until he saw it drive away.  Then he interviewed the aviator and
learned of the proposed trip on the morrow.  Harry's French was nothing
to boast of, nor was the Frenchman's English.  But they managed to have
a long and in the end a heated argument.  The birdman said he had given
his word to a beautiful lady, and that settled it.  Besides, there was no
danger in his wonderful machine.  Had he not flown upside down and done
all the things the great Pegoud himself had done?

"As you Americans say--let's see, what is your idiom?"

One of his mechanics prompted him:

"Ah, yes," he said, with a smile.  "I believe the proper expression is,
'I should worry.'"

Harry threw up his hands and went home.  As he buzzed his horn outside
the garage the door was opened by the Marvin chauffeur with a telegram
in his hand.  The chauffeur's wife was sick and he wanted a couple of
days' leave of absence.  Harry granted it instantly.  That evening he
made no mention of either the chauffeur's absence or his trip to the
field.  Pauline thought she was teasing Harry by saying nothing of her
plans.  She was sure he was eaten up with curiosity to know the result
of her visit and admired his ability, as she thought, to conceal it.

Owen spent a nervous evening.  He walked out soon after dinner and from
a drug-store telephone booth called up a friend in the insurance
business.  To the secretary's surprise and disappointment he learned
that the percentage of accidents to aviators had become comparatively
small.  Passengers were particularly fortunate.  The friend even agreed
to obtain accident insurance for any one at a reasonable premium.

If aeroplanes had become reasonably safe the chance of Pauline's being
killed during the flight on the following day was insignificant.  He
must give up all hope of wealth from the permanent control of her
estate.  As the evening wore on Owen began to feel how he had
unconsciously relied on this hope.  He doubled his evening dose of
morphine, but it neither soothed his disappointment nor brought him
sleep.

Hour after hour, during the night, his sleepless eyes seemed to see
that loose wire which the mechanic had explained to be so vitally
important.  He could see in imagination the machine flying off into the
clouds with Pauline in it.  He could see it suddenly waver, dip and
plunge to the earth.  In his mind's eye he saw himself rushing to, the
wreck, lifting out the girl's crushed form, wildly calling for a
doctor, and exulting all the time that she was beyond human aid.

About two o'clock Owen fell into a doze, and in that doze came one of
his vivid opium dreams.  He beheld Hicks enter his bedroom.  It was not
Hicks, the blackmailer, but Hicks, the counselor, who had told Owen how
he might become rich.  Hicks was speaking to him in a sort of noiseless
voice, very different from his usual tones.  He spoke in a sort of
shells or husks of words.  The consonants were there, but the vowels
were lacking.  Yet he heard as plainly as if the red-faced man had
shouted.  Hicks advised him to be a man, to show courage for once, to
risk something, and then reap the reward forever afterward.  "Take your
motorcycle, ride to the aviation field before daylight, file that wire
half through, and fate will take care of the rest."

But Owen lacked the nerve.  He feared that he would be seen sneaking
onto the field at night or at daybreak.  Hicks replied that the field
was deserted at this hour.  Owen then insisted that the aeroplane would
be guarded, and even if it were not locked in its hangar the first rasp
of a file on the wire would call the attention of some one on guard.
No, it was too much, Owen could not do it.  Instead, he made a counter
suggestion that Hicks should undertake the task, since he was so
certain of its success.  For his part the secretary agreed to divide
all that the estate might be made to yield him.

Owen, like everybody else, had seen many strange things in dreams, but
never had he known of any character in a dream admitting or even
suggesting that he was a dream.  Yet this was just what Hicks did.

"I would, Owen.  I would do it in a minute if I were talking to you.
But this isn't me at all.  I'm only a dream, in, reality I'm sound
asleep in a hotel on upper Broadway, where I am dreaming that I am
talking to you.  Tomorrow morning I'll remember enough of this dream to
make me go down to the aviation field with a sort of premonition that
Pauline is going to be killed in an aeroplane."

"How did you know about that wire and that she is going to fly
tomorrow," asked Owen.

"I don't know that," said the phantom Hicks frankly in his empty
voice.  "There is a third party in this and I don't know who he is or
much about him, except that he is not a living being.  He seems to be
somebody from the past, a priest of some old religion I ought to have
studied about when I was at school.  I don't know what his motive is,
but he is with us.  He wants her killed for some reason.  He brought
this dream of me to you so I could explain.

"You needn't worry about the man on guard over the aeroplanes.  That
man won't wake up, no matter how much noise you make."

"How do you know?" Owen asked.

"He knows," replied Hicks, "because he has transferred the effects of
your morphine from your astral body to his.  That's how he knows.  You
ought to know, too, because you have taken almost enough of the drug to
kill you tonight, and yet this is the first time you have even closed
your eyes.  You'd better let him help us and file that wire as he
advises.  I'm going now, you will wake up in a moment.  This priest man
told me after I had given you the message to drop this out of my hand
and the dream would end.  So here goes.  Goodbye."

Owen saw Hicks hold his hand over a table and drop a small black shiny
object upon it.  As it dropped Hicks vanished and Owen awoke.  He heard
a sharp snap and saw something black and shiny on the table.  For a
moment the secretary sat quietly in his chair staring at the table and
making sure that he was no longer dreaming.  Then he examined the black
object.  It was the scarab which old Mr. Marvin had removed from the
folds of the mummy.  An image of the beetle which Egypt held sacred,
carved in black stone.  Owen had not noticed the scarab before his
short nap and he could not account for its presence in his room
anyway.

A little later he donned his motor-cycling suit, tip-toed downstairs,
noiselessly went out by a back door and was soon trundling his big
two-cylinder motorcycle from the garage.  He was careful to push it out
of the Marvin premises onto the highway before lighting his lamp and
starting.

Arriving at the field just at dawn Owen found it as deserted as the
spectral Hicks had promised.  From the tool kit of his motor-cycle he
took two files of different shapes and a pair of pliers and walked
briskly and fearlessly over the uneven ground to the hangars.  All were
closed except one, and that one contained the French machine in which
Pauline was to ascend.  The secretary knew that this hangar would be
open.  He knew in advance that he would find a mechanic on guard and
sound asleep.

Whether real or unreal, awake or asleep, the business of the moment was
the filing of that wire.  Owen recognized it readily and found it not
to be a single wire, as he supposed, but a slender cable composed of
many strands.  These strands resisted his file and even the clipper
attached to his pliers.  After what seemed an hour's work he had
weakened or broken enough of the metal threads so that the cable
stretched perceptibly at that point to do more might cause the cable to
break at once and betray what had been done.

Owen hurriedly, returned to his machine had dashed back through the
beautiful morning air to the Marvin home.  Servants were stirring in
their rooms and the gardener was engaged in shaking some sort of powder
from a can onto a bare spot on the front lawn.  He glanced up at Owen
without surprise, for these early rides were known to be an old habit
of the secretary.

Owen took the machine to the garage, satisfied that there was nothing
guilty in his appearance or the gardener would have noted it.  Stepping
out of the garage he met Harry and could not help starting
perceptibly.  Harry looked him in the eye, and there was nothing for
Owen to do but stare steadily back.

"You are up very early, Owen," said Harry, looking at the dust on the
motor.

"Yes, I've been for a long ride.  I think the morning air does me
good."

"You don't look well, Owen.  Why don't you go to bed today.  I'll take
Polly to the meet."

"No, thanks.  I wouldn't miss seeing Miss Pauline fly," said Owen
firmly.





CHAPTER IV

OWEN WINS THE FIRST GAME

Harry Marvin entered the little private garage back of the Marvin
mansion, locked the door and drew the shades of the small windows.
There were only two automobiles in the garage.  One was the big six
cylinder touring car in which Pauline and Owen had made their trip the
day before to the aviation field.  The other was the two-seated
runabout that Harry had driven over the same ground just behind them.

Having made sure that nobody was about, Harry lifted up the hood of the
touring car and without the slightest provocation attacked it with a
wrench.  He removed the carburetor, took it to pieces, lifted out the
hollow metal float and deliberately made two punctures in it.  Then he
tossed the dismembered parts upon a work bench and was about to operate
on the runabout when he heard voices outside.

He was barely in time to unlock the door and be found busily working on
the car when Pauline entered.  She had just learned of the chauffeur's
absence.  Harry volunteered the additional bad news that the big car
was out of order.  Like every disappointed woman, she insisted on
knowing exactly what was wrong.  Harry told her, with many long
technical details, and, not knowing at all what he was talking about,
she had to be satisfied.

Could he fix it in time to get her to the aviation field before the
race?

Well, that depended partly on whether she would go away and not bother
him until breakfast.

Pauline could, and she certainly would refrain from bothering him.
Never before had Harry found her a bother, nor, for that matter, had
any other man in her recollection.  Out she went, with more color than
usual in her pink cheeks and the light of battle in her eyes.

"By George, I've got to play my cards carefully," thought Harry, as he
contemplated the runabout.  It was evident that he had designs on the
health of the two-seater also.  But he felt the necessity of subtlety
in this case.  He could not assassinate it boldly by tearing out a
vital organ as he had done to the bigger car.  This runabout must die a
slow, lingering death.  How was he to do it?  His first idea was to
weaken the tires and invite "blowouts" on the road.  But this could not
be done with certainty, and some kind friend might supply him with new
tires.

A more promising idea was to drain the engine of its oil, knowing that
sooner or later the pistons would run dry and stick.  Such a proceeding
would ruin the engine, and Harry was too good a mechanic to spoil a
first rate engine, especially one built by his father.  He would as
soon think of hamstringing a faithful horse.  A better plan soon came
to him and put him into action.  It soon had him flat on his back under
the car, boring a hole in the bottom of the gasoline tank.  When the
life-blood of the car began to trickle out in a stream he stopped the
hole with a small wooden peg.

The young man now frowned at the only remaining vehicle which had, not
received his attention, Owen's motorcycle.

Harry went to the hose used for washing down the cards and collected a
little water in the palm of his hand.  With the other hand he removed
the cap from the motorcycle's tank and allowed two or three drops of
water to mingle with the gasoline.

This done, Harry let down his sleeves, washed his hands, and sauntered
in to breakfast, with the unwelcome announcement that the big car was,
for the day at least, beyond human aid.

There was a flicker of suspicion in Owen's sallow face at the news.  He
wondered if Harry had disabled the touring car that he might ride alone
with Pauline.

"I am afraid," said Harry, quietly, "that you will have to ride in the
runabout alone with me, Polly.  It's rather hard on Raymond, but I
guess he must go on his motorcycle or by train."

"Oh, I think you wrecked it on purpose," said Pauline, without the
slightest suspicion that she was stating the truth.

Owen, worried by vague misgivings about Harry, looked into the tank of
the runabout to make sure that it was full, and then scurried away on
his two wheeled mount.  He considered waiting until the runabout was
ready to start and keeping the machine in sight, but it seemed wiser to
be on the field where he could make sure the Frenchman would not forget
his bargain nor start before Pauline arrived.

Pauline was ready with such record-breaking suddenness that it gave her
the novel experience of waiting for Harry.

She bad not forgotten that her lover had asked her not to bother him
while he worked on the car.  After that slight to her pride the young
lady would rather die than go near the garage while he was in it.
During the next five minutes unpleasant doubts entered her mind.  What
could this indifference and neglect mean?  She had looked upon Harry
ever since his return from college as a personal possession.  Of
course, technically he wasn't hers until she married him.  But if he
were not her property, at least she had an option on the handsome youth
until such time as she saw fit to either take his name or relinquish
him to some one else.  In that case she wondered to whom she would like
to turn him over.  There was her schoolmate and chum, Miss Hamlin.  How
lucky any man would be to get her, and Harry--how would he feel about
it?  Then, like a cold draught in her brain came the recollection that
Lucille and Harry had corresponded all the four years he was at
college.

Could it be that she, Pauline, had been too willful and headstrong with
Harry?  If so, was it possible that the keen edge of his adoration was
wearing dull?  Pauline had just succeeded in stamping these unpleasant
questions deep down into the subconscious parts of her mind when the
young man whisked up in the runabout.

Pauline's wrath melted rapidly.  Harry drove, as he did everything out
in the open air, magnificently.  His judgment of distances and openings
was precise, and his skill in weaving his way through heavy traffic was
startling.  A good looking young man is seldom seen to better
advantage, especially by a girl, than when driving a powerful car.
Pauline loved to drive with Harry.  Besides his spectacular tricks he
had a guileless manner of getting the better of arguments with crossing
policemen.

Harry was not driving as fast as usual.  This fact was impressed on her
by shouts and waving of hands from a car which passed them from
behind.

"That's Lucille," cried Pauline, waving.

"Yes, and, confound it, that's Billy Madison taking her to the races."

"Well, why shouldn't he?" asked Pauline.  "Isn't it all right?"

"Yes but it seems to me he is paying deal of attention to Lucille and
--say, Polly, you don't suppose she'd be silly enough to care for him,
do, you?"

That sensation of a cold wave in the back of her brain came again.

"I'm sure I don't know," she replied, a little coldly.  "Why--does it
matter very much to you?"

Harry hesitated, even stammered a little, in denying that it did.  He
stammered, as Pauline well understood, because he was not telling her
his true thoughts.  It did matter, and she knew it.  In reality it
mattered because Harry knew too much about young Madison to want him to
win the affection of any friend of his, but Harry did not wish to
explain.

"So Harry does care for Lucille and always has cared," thought
Pauline.  The sense of possession of the youth beside her faded and he
seemed far away.  If a man fears he is losing his grip on a girl he
redoubles his attentions and racks his brains to be more interesting
and attractive to her.  A girl in the same situation reverses the
tactics.

Just as Harry felt the absolute zero which scientists talk about
settling upon him, he remembered a very important duty.

"Seems to me we don't drift the way we ought to," said Harry, pressing
on his clutch pedal and trying to took concerned.

"I think we have been a long time getting to the aviation field," was
Pauline's chilly answer.

Harry stopped the car, went back and pulled out the little wooden plug
in the gasoline tank. Then away they went again, leaving a little wet
line in the dust of the road.  Pauline stared straight ahead.  Harry's
attempts at conversation fell on the stony ground of silence, or at
best brought forth only the briefest and most colorless answers.  Soon
Harry's practiced ear caught the preliminary warning of waning
gasoline, and a moment later, half way up a gentle hill, with a sob
from all its six cylinders the car gave up the ghost.

A few miles ahead Owen also was in difficulties.  He had been sailing
along merrily until he stopped at a little roadhouse for a drink.  The
machine had been all right when he got off and he knew nobody had
touched it, yet now it acted as if possessed by the evil one.  With
great difficulty he was able to start it, and once started it coughed,
bucked and showed all the symptoms of bronchitis and pneumonia.  By
dint of strenuous pedaling Owen helped the asthmatic motor to the top
of the next hill.  It ran as smoothly as a watch all the way down the
other side and then imitated a bunch of cannon crackers on the
following rise.

Owen was a good motorcycle rider, but a very poor mechanic.  His
machine had been adjusted, cleaned and kept in repair by the Marvin
chauffeur, and the secretary had seldom, cause to investigate it on the
road.  He had always used the carefully filtered gasoline from the
garage, so that he neither understood the present alarming symptoms nor
knew their simple cure.  His motor was protesting at a drop of water
which had entered the needle valve of his carburetor and, being heavier
than gasoline, had lodged there and stopped its flow. It would have
been an easy, matter to drain the carburetor, but instead Owen with
nervous fingers adjusted everything he could get his hands on, and
after two hours' work trundled it into a farmhouse and hired the farmer
to drive him the short remaining distance to the aviation field.

Several machines were in the air, but not the Frenchman's, when the
farmer drove up.  The roads and the edges of the field were alive with
cars and spectators as the secretary hastened to the "hangars."  The
French aviator welcomed Owen and inquired for the mademoiselle.  This
confirmed Owen's fears that something had happened to her on the way.
It had troubled him a little that the runabout had not passed him on
the road, but Harry might have made a detour to avoid some section of
bad road.

Owen lost another hour in watching and worrying before he made up his
mind to go to the rescue.  There were plenty of idle cars, but it was
not easy to hire one, as they were mostly guarded by chauffeurs with no
right to rent or lend them.  At last a man was found who was willing to
pick up $10 and take a chance that his master would not know about it.

The rescue car found them just where they had stopped, half way up the
hill.  Pauline had run the scale of feminine annoyance, from silence to
sarcasm, to tears.  The tears produced almost the same effect on
Harry's determination to keep Pauline from flying that the drops of
water had in Owen's carburetor.  The spectacle of the girl he loved
weeping had almost broken up his resolve when Owen dashed by, shouted,
turned around and drew up alongside.

Harry asked for help, and the chauffeur who had never had the pleasure
of tinkering with a "Marvin Six," was inclined to dismount and aid at
least in diagnosing the car's ailment.  While he was thinking about it
and surveying the parts which Harry had taken out and strewn about the
running board in his pretended trouble hunt Pauline had dashed away her
tears and transferred her pretty self to the new car.  Pauline and Owen
both knew there was barely time to reach the field before the
Frenchman's ascent.  So with scanty farewells Harry was left to
reassemble his car.  When he had set up the last nut he replaced the
little plug in the tank, produced a can of gasoline from the locker
behind the seats, emptied it into his tank and drove at reckless speed
for the aviation grounds.

He was just in time to see a tiny speck on the edge of the horizon.
This, he learned, was the Frenchman's machine.  He was told that it
carried a passenger.  The speck grew rapidly in size, developed the
insect shape of a biplane and soon seemed to be over the other end of
the aviation field.  The young man's joy at seeing the aeroplane
returning in safety was dampened by a little feeling of shame that by
such devious means he had almost spoiled Pauline's pleasure.

"I act like an old woman worrying Polly this way," he decided.  "No
wonder she is cross to me lately.  She must think I would be a tyrant
of a--"

Harry's last words were choked by a spasm of the throat.

There were shouts and gestures from the spectators.

A light gust of wind had struck the aeroplane on the right wing.  It
wavered an instant, like a dragon fly about to alight, and then instead
of responding to the aviator's levers turned on its left side and
plunged to the ground.  A cloud of dust arose, half hiding the wreck,
and then the crash of impact came to his ears.

There was a second of silence, broken by a groan.  Harry heard the
groan and didn't even know it came from his own throat.  He was in
motion now, forcing people to the right and left and running down the
field.  It seemed miles to the other end, and he was gratefully
conscious that others nearer were hurrying to the rescue, if rescue it
might be called.

The aeroplane had dropped like a stone from a height that forbade hope
of escape.  Would she be conscious and would he be in time to give and
receive a last message of love before her splendid young life was
quenched in the black blot of death?  Besides grief there was fury in
the runner's heart, wrath against Owen for encouraging this foolish and
dangerous caprice, against the unfortunate driver who had failed to
preserve his precious freight, and against nature who condemns every
living thing by one means or another to that same final failure and
wreck death.

Gasping for breath from his exertions, he was at last within a hundred
feet of the ruin, and saw people lifting up the engine and removing a
limp figure.  Just then two people stepped in his way.  He did not turn
out but rushed straight at them, rather glad to have something to burl
aside in his blind anger, nor did he notice that one was a woman.
Harry's plunge carried him between them and knocked both down, just as
he had often bowled over the "interference" in his football games.  On
he lurched, wondering vaguely at hearing his name called.  He heard it
again and it sounded like Pauline's voice.

He turned, and it was Pauline.

After all Pauline had arrived too late--had missed that fatal
adventure.

Owen watched Harry lift Pauline up and wrap her in his arms with a
squeeze that hurt.  But it was a hurt she loved and though she sobbed
as if her heart would break they were sobs of relief and happiness.

Owen watched a moment and then slunk away; his schemes had been for
nothing.  Pauline was alive and happy in her lover's arms, and the
secretary was no nearer his goal of permanent control of her estate
than before.  He walked to the entrance of' the tent and tried to learn
from the nurses and doctors who were hurrying in and out whether the
French aviator would live or die.  Nobody would stop to give him a
satisfactory answer.  There was a flap in the back of the tent, and
through this Owen cautiously peered.  He saw a nurse with something
that looked like wet absorbent cotton dabbing at a round black object.

Presently he saw that the round object was the head of a man blackened
by fire.  Just then the nurse looked up, saw Owen's guilty face and
gave a little exclamation of dismay.  At the same instant Owen felt a
hand grasp his elbow.  Withdrawing his head from the tent, he turned
quickly and was confronted by the red face of Hicks, the blackmailer,
counselor and dream messenger.

The secretary backed away from Hicks with a face of terror.

"Don't be scared," said Hicks in a hoarse whisper. "I feel as if I
were in this thing as deep as you are."

"In what thing?" asked Owen.

"Don't bluff, old man," said Hicks.  "Didn't you dream about me last
night?"

"Well, what have my dreams to do with you?"

"Stop bluffing," replied Hicks.  "Didn't you see me in a dream last
night?  And didn't I leave a black, shining stone on the table when I
left?"

Owen did not deny these questions, and the red-visaged man went on:

"I see you took my advice--that is, his advice, whoever he is, and
you fixed the wire."

"Look here, Hicks, in heaven's name, tell me what this means.  I did
dream about you; you told me to do the thing, and it's your fault.  You
admit you are in it.  Now, what is it?"

"Owen," said Hicks, "you and I are a couple of pikers in a big game--
bigger than we understand.  We hold the cards, but somebody else is
playing the hand for us.  He is an old guy and a wise one, four
thousand years old, he tells me, and, though it scares me out of my
boots to think who I am trailing along with, I'm going to stick and
you'd better stick, too, and let him play our hand to the end."

"Who is it?" asked Owen, wondering if the morphine had gotten the
better of him again or if Hicks were playing some uncanny deceit on
him.

"I don't know," replied Hicks.  "He's somebody who has been dead 4,000
years, and he wants to have this girl Pauline killed so he can get her
back.  I suppose he's some kind of ghostly white slaver.  It isn't our
business what he is as long as he takes care of us.  If we'll help him
he'll help us."

"Well, he didn't manage very well today," objected Owen.

"He planned all right," rejoined Hicks.  "The machine fell, and if
she'd been in it she'd have been killed.  But the other side played a
card.  I don't know what the card was, but it took the trick and she
didn't go up in the machine.  That's all.  But don't worry, we'll have
better luck some other time."

Owen shook his head.  He could make nothing of this battle of unseen
forces.  It was clear to him that he had grasped at the one big chance
to get Pauline's estate and had missed it.  He told Hicks so frankly.

"That's where you're wrong again," insisted Hicks.  "If that girl had
been killed today it would have been a big blunder."

"A blunder?" queried Owen.  "Didn't you say that Pauline must be put
out of the way before we can get hold of her fortune?"

"Listen," said Hicks glancing cautiously about, "come over here away
from these people."

"What do you mean by saying that it would have been a big blunder if
Pauline had been killed in that flying machine?" demanded Owen.

"Yes, an almighty big blunder--that's what I said, and I can tell you
why.  We were pretty stupid not to think of it before.  Now here's
what's got to happen to Miss Pauline--"

Hicks placed his mouth close to Owen's car and whispered.





CHAPTER V

THE PIRATE AND PAULINE

A sort of  false quiet, like the calm that broods between storms, kept
all serene at the Marvin mansion for a week after the aeroplane
catastrophe.  Little had been seen of Harry, who was busy with
directors' meetings and visits to the factories.  Owen had read with
alarm of rumors that some one had tampered with a wire of the wrecked
biplane.  But if the authorities were investigating he saw no signs of
it, and suspicion pointed no finger at him.

What puzzled and worried Owen more than anything else was his own mind
and behavior.  Having no belief in the supernatural, he could not
account for the dream which had thrown him into a criminal partnership
with Hicks.  Hicks had blackmailed him in the past, and there was
nobody he had feared and hated more than this vulgar and disreputable
race track man.  Yet Hicks had appeared to him in a dream, and Owen had
promptly done his bidding, involving himself in what would probably
turn out to be murder.  The newspapers reported the French aviator as
barely living from day to day.

Owen suffered the torment of a lost soul, but, at least he had no more
dreams, or spectral visitations.  Hicks called him on the telephone
once or twice, but the secretary refused to talk.

Pauline, too, had a busy week.  Besides her usual social activities,
she rewrote and finished her new story.  It seemed to her even better
than the one in the Cosmopolitan Magazine.

"This will surely be taken," Pauline thought with a little sigh of
regret, "and that means the end of my year of adventures--"

She had determined on this course the night after the accident.  It was
after midnight, and Pauline was trying to marshal the exciting
recollections of the day into the orderly mental procession that leads
to sleep.  Very faintly she heard what sounded like the music of a
distant mandolin.  Pauline knew it was Harry, went to the open window
and looked down on the dark lawn.  There he was playing with a bit of
straw instead of a pick that his music might not disturb the sleepers
in the house.

Pauline wanted to throw her arms around him and promise not to cause
any more worry.  But she didn't, because she couldn't reach him from
the window.  After Harry had gone Pauline decided to finish her story,
send it to a publisher and let his decision be hers.

"If they accept it, you stay home and marry Harry," she told the pretty
face under the filmy night cap which smiled at her from the mirror.
"But if they dare reject it, Harry will have to worry, dear boy though
he is."

So Pauline lost no time in finishing and submitting her manuscript,
inclosing a special delivery stamp and a request please to let her know
at once.

On Saturday Pauline received a bulky letter in the morning's mail.  It
was her neatly typed manuscript and a short letter declining her
story.  The editor thought it charming, showed wonderful imagination,
gave great promise of future success, but there was a lack of
experience evident throughout--a little unreal, he added.  He
ventured to suggest that the author would do well to travel around and
see the world from different angles.  During the afternoon Harvey
Schieffelin dropped in for a call.  He had found her story in the
Cosmopolitan and complimented her then he began to laugh.

"Polly, that's a bully story of yours, but you ought to have gone down
and watched some stokers do work before you described that scene."

"What was wrong in my description?" demanded the young authoress.

"Well, you told of a stoker laying his grimy hand on the fire door and
pulling it open to rake the fire."

"Well, couldn't he do that?"

"Oh, yes," laughed Harvey, "he could, but he wouldn't do it more than
once.  Those doors are almost red hot and would bum the flesh off the
stoker's hand, whether it were grimy or not.  I'll show you on my yacht
some time.  What you need is--?"

"Harvey, don't you dare tell me I need experience," interrupted Pauline
with unexpected heat.  Young Schieffelin saw that tears were almost in
her eyes.

"Well," thought Schieffelin, "this vein leads too close to water," and
he hurried to shift the course of the conversation.

But the damage was done.  Pauline took her story to the little open
fireplace in her room and destroyed it.  At the same time she
destroyed, her resolution to give up the year of adventure.  There
could be no question, she needed experience.  Her adopted father had
admitted it, the editor had said it, and even an empty-headed young man
like Schieffelin could see it.  She was sorry for Harry, but it
couldn't be helped.  She picked up a copy of "Treasure Island" and soon
wished fervently that the days of pirates were back again.

Owen gave up his fight against morphine late Friday night.  Saturday he
was at peace with the world.  Gone were all the nerve clamorings and
with them went his scruples.  All day he kept a furtive watch upon
Pauline, and even heard her envious remarks about pirates to Harry when
he returned for a weekend at home.  Owen sympathized with Pauline in
her regret that pirates were extinct.  A pirate would have been very
useful to the secretary just then.

However, there were other cut-throats, plenty of them, and perhaps some
other kind would do.  There were gunmen, for instance, but, an honest
District Attorney had lately made these murderous gentlemen of the
underworld almost as quiet as pirates.  He was still pondering when
Hicks called again on the telephone.  This time the secretary responded
and made an immediate appointment in a cafe near Forty-second street.

Owen related the events of the week, ending with Pauline's hankering
for pirates.  The two men got their heads together and rapidly evolved
a plan.

From the cafe they took a taxi and rode along the water front, first on
one side of the island of Manhattan and then on the other.  The cab
stopped near the worst-looking saloons, while the two schemers entered
and looked over the sailors and longshoremen refreshing themselves at
the bars.  After covering several miles of water front they had
collected as many as a dozen abominable barroom cigars and a few
equally dubious drinks, but had not yet found what they were looking
for.

On Front Street they saw a man, and both cried out:

"Look, there he is."

The man was a wild-looking specimen.  He had the rolling gait of the
deep sea.  A squinting eye gave him a villainous leer, while a bristly
beard and long gray hair made him a ferocious spectacle.  His age was
doubtful, as the lines in his ruddy skin might have been cut by
dissipation as much as age.  The most prominent feature of his unlovely
countenance was a nose, fiery red from prolonged exposure to sunburn,
or rum-bum.

"If he isn't a pirate he ought to be one," said Owen.

The man carried the top of a ship's binnacle, as the round brass case
which holds a ship's compass is called.  He entered the dismal portal
of a marine junk shop.  The taxi was stopped discreetly a block away.
As Owen and Hicks approached the shop they heard a loud argument going
on inside.

"How much do you want for it?"

"Ten dollars.  It's a brand-new Negus."

"Ten nothing.  You stole it, you son of a sea cook.  I'll give you a
dime for it."

"I did not steal it, so help me ---- ------!  The captain of that
'lime juicer' over in the North River gave it to me for saving his
little gal's life. He begged me to take anything I wanted, but I
fancied this.  I'll tell you about it."

Then Owen and Hicks, listening just outside, heard a fearful and
wonderful tale.  To relate it in the sailor's own words, stripped of
the long deep-sea oaths, would be as impossible as to pick the green
specks out of a sage cheese.

In brief, the gentleman with the binnacle, sauntering innocently along
the docks Friday night, had heard a commotion on the British tramp
which he referred to as a "lime juicer."  Some fifteen or more
long-shoremen had invaded the ship, overcome the captain, tied him down
and were about to kidnap his daughter.  The teller of the story had
walked in and thrashed them all single-handed, driven them off into the
darkness, rescued the little girl and released the captain.  In
gratitude the commander had made him a present of the binnacle head.

At the conclusion of the story there was a pause, then the other voice
answered:

"You're a wonder.  As I said before, I'll give you ten cents for the
binnacle and ninety cents for the story.  Now you can take it or I'll
have you pinched for swiping it."

"Gimme the dollar," said the hero of the tale, and a moment later he
passed down the street with the two eavesdroppers at his heels.

The sailor man, proceeding at a rapid pace, suddenly turned a comer
like a yacht jibing around a buoy and plunged into a dingy saloon.
Owen and Hicks went in after him.

Owen ordered and invited the sailor to join them.  They learned that
his name was Nelson Cromwell Boyd, that he had deserted from the
British navy at a tender age, and since then had been through a series
of incredible adventures and injustices, which disproved the old adage
that you can't keep a good man down.

At last Owen intimated that he had a business proposition to discuss,
and they adjourned to the sidewalk.

"Do you want to earn some money?" asked Hicks.

"Well, that depends," said Boyd, doubtfully.

"Easy money," suggested Owen.

"That's the only kind worth going after," commented the sailor.

"That's where we agree with you, my friend," said Hicks.  "We are after
easy money and plenty of it.  Plenty for us and plenty for you, too, if
you can keep quiet about it."

"That's the kind of talk I like to hear.  But as honest man to honest
man, I want to warn you that there mustn't be too much work to it.  I
don't believe in the nobility of labor.  I believe that work is the
crowning shame and humiliation of the human race.  It's all right for a
horse or a dog or an ox to work, but a man ought to be above it. It's
degrading, interferes with his pleasures and wastes his time."

"I feel the same way," agreed Owen, "but somebody has got to work to
make shoes and food for us."

"Yes," admitted the sailor, "regretfully there will always have to be
some work done, and I'm sorry for the poor guys that must do it.  But
there's been too much work done."

"Those sentiments are very noble," said Owen.

"It's all very fine to worry about your fellow man.  But you would like
to have plenty of money even  if the rest of the world is fool enough
to keep on working."

"I suppose so," said the sailor, "but I'm a reformer and my business is
to talk, not work."

"That's just what we want you to do," said Owen and Hicks in answer.

Then they found a table in the rear of a saloon where they could unfold
their plan.

Boyd was to be introduced to a foolish young girl who had a barrel of
money.  He was to tell her a deep-sea yam along certain lines, and Owen
and Hicks would take care of the rest.

"The question is," said Owen, "whether you can talk and act like a sort
of reformed pirate."

"Leave that to me," he assured them, and led the way out of the saloon
and into still another grimy and disreputable place.  It was Axel
Olofsen's pawnshop and second-hand general supply and clothing store.

After much pawing over ancient, worn and rusty weapons, Boyd was at
last fitted out.  Ole was paid about sixty per cent of what he asked
and left to the enjoyment of his Scandinavian melancholy.

"You look like a pirate now, sure enough," said Owen, observing Boyd's
effect on the driver of the taxicab.

"I look it, but I don't quite feel it yet," said Boyd, with deep
meaning.  "There is something lacking."

"What can it be?" asked Hicks.

"About three fingers of red-eye," the sailor explained, pointing to a
saloon.  "That will make my disguise just perfect."

In the saloon Hicks and Owen made a little map, wrinkled it and soiled
it on the floor, then gave it to the pirate.

"Tell her," said Owen as he called for a taxi, "that it is only a copy
of your original, which is all worn out."

The nearer they approached to the house the more talkative became the
"pirate." He demanded to know more details of what was to be done, and
finally assumed an air of authority.

"You say that rich girl is crazy to see something worth writin' about?
Now, I know something better than pirates and buried treasure," shouted
the pirate confidently.

"Yes, no doubt," Owen replied soothingly and with some alarm at the
man's bravado.  "But it's pirates she is interested in just now."

"Never mind, I say I know something better," insisted the pirate.
"If she will go and do what I'm goin' ter tell yer she'll sure see
something like she never dreamed of.  Now listen to me sharp!"

It was an extraordinary proposition the "pirate" made.

Owen laughed a gentle discouragement and shook his head, but Hicks
fixed his eyes keenly on the man and was evidently turning the
suggestion over in his mind.

Owen's key admitted the three to the front hall without ringing, but a
maid happened to cross the hall and caught sight of Boyd.  With a
scream and a flutter she retreated.  Owen seated his two confederates
in the hall and went in search of Pauline.

Owen found Pauline alone in the library. Never did a villain propose a
scheme to a beautiful girl at a more favorable moment.  Half the
afternoon and a little while after dinner she had been absorbing
"Treasure Island," and now came Owen asking her if she would like to
meet a reformed pirate and go on a thrilling and adventurous
expedition.

"Owen, you are a perfect angel. Bring in your pirate.  I'm sorry,
though, that he has reformed."

Pauline shook hands with Hicks, but hardly noticed him.  She had eyes
only for the "pirate," who impressed her mightily.  With awe and
admiration she saw his scowling and squinting eye run over her and then
travel about the room.  Pauline approved of the "pirate," but the
"pirate" did not approve of Pauline, and he almost told her so.

But he met the warning eyes of his confederates and restrained
himself.  He had his story to tell and he would do it.  After all, that
was the best way to attack this girl and her fortune.

"Tell us about the treasure," said Pauline eagerly.

"Hush!" he shouted in a voice that made the girl jump.

"I'll tell you, but, by the blood of Morgan, if one of you ever tells a
living soul I'll cut his liver out," said the "pirate."  Pauline
gasped, and the secretary told him that it wasn't considered good
manners to point with a sharp knife.  But they all swore to secrecy and
the "pirate" proceeded:

"I was but a slip of a lad when I ran away and sailed from Liverpool in
the good brig Nancy Lee with as villainous a crew as I ever seen.
Where we was bound for and why is none of your business.  Them that
planned that voyage has cashed in their souls to their Maker and--ah,
well, as I was saying, they was a villainous crew, low and vile and
bloody-minded.  I was the cabin boy and slept on the transoms in the
captain's cabin.  The weather was awful and the grub was worse.

"But all went well till we reached the roarin' forties.  The skipper
knew how to handle sailors, you bet he did.  When they came aft to kick
about the grub he knocked 'em down before they said two words."

Pauline gave a little exclamation of dismay at this point and the
"pirate" turned to her in explanation:

"You see, knockin' 'em down quick like that avoids a lot of cross words
and unpleasant arguments such as makes hard feelin's on long voyages.

"Yes, as I was saying', all went well until the second mate got to
knockin' 'em out with his left hand, which the same was all right, too,
but he was heard to pass a remark one day that he only hit landlubbers
with his left hand.

"The crew they was insulted, and that very night the second mate went
overboard.  Who done it nobody knows, leastways the captain couldn't
find out.  It made the old man peevish like and he got to arguin' with
them sailors instead of wallopin' 'em the way he oughter done, and one
day they turned on him.

"It was all over in a minute.  They had the old man thrown and tied.
The first mate came runnin'in, firin' his pistols, but they downed him,
too.  I took the wheel while they decided what to do.  'Bloody Mike,'
their leader, had about persuaded the men to send the captain and mate
to Davy Jones's locker and the carpenter was riggin' the plank for 'em
to walk when I up and puts in a word.

"I pleaded for their lives and, though Mike was dead agin' the idea,
they voted to let them live.  The last we saw of 'em they was driftin'
off in the jolly boat with a jug of water and a loaf of bread."

The mariner paused and Pauline suggested delightedly:

"And as soon as they had cooled down they were grateful to you and made
you their leader?"

"They did not," answered the "pirate."  "They broached a cask of rum in
the forward hold, and I overheard 'em plotting to throw me to the
sharks."

"How awful," said Pauline.

"Yes, miss," agreed the "pirate."  It was awkward and embarrassing like
for a mere slip of a lad. So I up and goes into the captain's cabin and
gets all the pistols and knives and cutlasses there was and brings 'em
out on deck.

"Pretty soon them drunken devils come a-tumblin' out of the fore hatch,
picks up half a dozen capstan bars and some belyin' pins and a marlin
spike or two and runs aft a-hollerin' and yellin'.  I gives 'em one
warnin' and then fires."

The "pirate" stopped, coughed and looked around.

"Oh, please go on," begged Pauline.

"Yes, miss," replied the sailor, "but this talking affects my throat.
Could you possibly--?"

"Why, certainly," interrupted Owen, "I'll get you a drink."

After the sailor had swallowed the biggest drink ever poured out in
that house he continued:

"Yes, that was as neat a fight as I ever was in.  There was some twenty
of 'em all told."

"And what happened then?" demanded Pauline.

"Well, Miss, it come on to blow, and there was the old ship staggerin'
along under full sail.  It was all I could do to keep the old hulk from
foundering', at that, but I stuck to the wheel day after day and night
after night.  To keep from freezin' I had to drink a lot of grog.  Oh,
a powerful lot of grog.  So much grog that I've been dependent on it
ever since--and I'll take a little now, if it's agreeable."  It
wasn't exactly agreeable, but he got it and continued.  "Finally we
fetched up, ker-smack, on the rocks of a desert island.  All the boats
had been smashed and carried away by the storm, so I had to build a
raft.  The first two loads was all provisions, and then I took the
treasure ashore--"

"What treasure?" asked Pauline.

"Oh, bless your heart, didn't I tell you about the treasure?"

"No," said Hicks, with a scowl, "and that's the part we want to hear
about."

"Oh, money ain't everything," rebuked the "pirate" in a lordly manner.
"There was a matter of a million dollars or so in good British gold,
and what it was on the 'Nancy Lee' for is nobody's business.  I took
it all ashore, an' buried it on the island.  Here's a copy of the chart
I made, and you three is the first to lay human eyes on it."

While Pauline examined reverently the dingy bit of paper the "pirate"
concluded his yarn.

"After I'd buried the last f it, I rigged a mast on the raft and
fetched up on one of the Bahamas."

"And you have never been back to get the gold?" queried Pauline.

"No, miss; though I've started many's the time.  But a poor seafarin'
man like me finds it hard to fit out a proper expedition.  If you fancy
the notion and want to go along with me and pay all the expenses I'll
divvy up half and half with you.  What do you say?"

Pauline looked at Owen and Hicks, who nodded approvingly.  She had no
great faith in finding any gold.  Old Mr. Marvin had said that treasure
bunts rarely produce any results.  But he had also remarked that they
were very thrilling, and here, surely, was adventure well worth a
little time and money.  Pauline agreed, and the "pirate" was in the
midst of imposing a blood-curdling oath of secrecy when Harry demanded
admittance.

Nobody, least of all the sailor, would tell him what was in the wind,
except that they were going off on a trip of adventure.  The young man
disapproved of both Hicks and the "pirate," and the latter showed his
dislike of Harry.  It was with regret that the man of the sea
recollected Owen's stipulation that Harry must on no account be allowed
to go with the party.  Nothing would have pleased the "pirate" better
than to have got these two happy and innocent representatives of
"ill-gotten gains" alone with him on the high seas.  Pauline, too,
wished to have Harry who was frowning and suspiciously demanding
information.  But she had sworn the oath of a buccaneer, and far be it
from her to break faith with the confiding freebooter.

So, once more Harry was kept out of Pauline's councils.  He was a
little provoked at her this time, for her willfulness seemed almost
perverse after the lesson she should have learned from the aeroplane
wreck.






CHAPTER VI

THE TREASURE HUNTERS

Excitement and activity pervaded the house.  Sunday and Monday every
one, including Harry, soon knew that Pauline was to take Tuesday's
steamer to Old Nassau, in the Bahamas.  Harry intended to quietly board
the steamer a little earlier than Pauline and surprise the party by
appearing after the ship was well out to sea.  His plans were'
shattered by the young lady's unexpected "early arrival."  Harry, with
a suitcase in each hand, met her face to face on the pier.  There was
nothing for him to do but confess, kiss her goodbye and go.  It was
with a pang of regret that she saw him toss his two suitcases covered
with college team labels into a taxicab and depart.

An hour later the four treasure hunters stood looking over the rail
watching the last passengers come aboard.  The "pirate," in a new blue
suit, huge Panama hat and light pink necktie, though a rather unusual
sight, had been toned down in appearance to a degree that permitted him
to walk about among people without causing a crowd to collect.  Hicks,
too, at Owen's suggestion, had adopted quieter attire.

Just as the gangplank was about to be pulled in the deckhands waited to
permit a very feeble and bent old man to hobble aboard.  He had long,
white hair, and his face was mostly gray whiskers, except a pair of
dark spectacles.  A porter followed him bearing two brand new
suitcases.

The adventurous four were soon comfortably perched in steamer chairs
watching New York harbor slip by them.  They had barely reached the
Statue of Liberty when the "pirate" launched forth on one of his
Munchausen-like tales of the sea.

Highly colored, picturesque, untrue and absurd as a stained glass
window, nevertheless these yams took on a semblance of reality from the
character of the narrator himself.  In all his stories the "pirate" was
the hero.  Nobody noticed that a steward had placed a fifth steamer
chair beside the sailor until that worthy reached one of the main
climaxes of his narrative.  At that point he felt a hand on his
shoulder and looked around into the whiskers and black spectacles of
the old passenger.  The cackling voice remarked:

"It's a lie.  It's a lie.  It's a lie."

Every one was astonished, but even the "pirate" had a trace of respect
for such great age, and said nothing in reply.  After a while he
continued, only to be interrupted by the same words.

This was too much to endure, and though the if  "pirate" held his
tongue they rebuked the old dotard by walking away and leaning over the
rail.  The conversation wandered to the subject of sharks, and Pauline
asked if they were as stupid as they looked.

"Don't you believe it," the "pirate" assured her.  "Them sharks look
stupid just to fool you.  Why, I remember a time not so long ago down
in Choco Bay, on the coast of Colombia, there was an old devil who used
to sneak up alongside sailin' vessels in a fog.  He carried in his
mouth the big iron shank of an anchor he'd picked up from the wreck."

"What did he do that for?" asked Hicks.

"So the iron would deflect the compass and make them run the ship onto
the Kelp Ledges, off the Pinudas, Islands.  If a ship went down he
stood a good chance of eating one or two o' the passengers.  But I
don't mind sharks.  If you want to know what really annoys me, it's
them killer whales in the Antarctic that come a crowdin' and buttin' up
against ye."

"It's an internal, monumental, epoch-making lie," cackled a voice
behind him.  Every one looked, and there was the old man.

The "pirate" was now thoroughly exasperated.  If he couldn't tell a
story without being interrupted in this manner life wasn't worth
living.  He announced that he would find the old man and thrash him.
Owen and Hicks were annoyed, but they feared the result of the sailor's
fury.  They might all be arrested on arriving at Nassau.  This would
interfere with plans, and must not be thought of.  To appease the
wrathful "pirate" Owen offered to have the old man thrashed so soundly
that he would probably be glad to stay out of sight the rest of the
voyage.

There were some rascally looking men of Spanish blood among the second
cabin passengers who, as Owen and Hicks observed, looked needy and
unscrupulous.

The secretary found no great embarrassment in explaining that he wished
the old man thrashed quietly and privately.  The Spaniards agreed to
beat him thoroughly for the trifling consideration of ten dollars.
They would even throw him overboard for a very reasonable sum
additional.  But the bargain was struck at ten dollars for a moderate
beating, and the foreigners were warned that as he was delicate they
must be careful not to kill him.

During the next hour or two the old man passed the four treasure
hunters in their steamer chairs, but each time the "pirate" ceased
talking before he came within earshot.

At last the old man stopped in front of Pauline and gazed long at the
"pirate." He studied the rascal's face, apparently trying to remember
the identity of the man.  Slowly the aged head nodded as if he was
saying to himself.  "Yes, he is the same man."

Then, turning to Pauline and shaking a warning finger, the old man
delivered a surprising message.

Pauline was startled.  The three men leaped to their feet.  It was with
the utmost difficulty that she was able to prevent violence.. Owen
excused himself to hunt up his Spaniards and demand an explanation for
their slowness.  To his surprise they declared that they had tackled
him and that he was as quick and powerful as a gorilla.  He had
thrashed them both and they were glad to escape with their lives.

The ex-secretary was incredulous, but they showed cuts and bruises and
demanded their money, saying that a joke had been played on them.  When
Owen refused one of them drew a stiletto and the ten dollars was
forthcoming.

Returning, ruefully, he related the failure of the Spaniards.  The
"pirate" at once said:

"Now, let me handle him."

A few moments later Boyd cornered his ancient adversary on a deserted
and wind-swept piece of deck.

"Old man," snarled the "pirate," "you say all my stories are lies.
Only your gray hairs have saved you from a thrashing before this."

"If it's my gray hairs that stop you, I'll remove that obstacle."

The "pirate" was amazed to see the aged person take off his hat and
remove a gray wig with his left hand while his right fist collided with
the "pirate's" eye.  When consciousness returned he was lying on the
deck with no living thing in sight but a seagull aeroplaning on slanted
wings over his head.  His return to the party was more rueful than
Owen's.

"What is the matter with your eye, Mr. Boyd?" asked Pauline
innocently.

"Why, you see," said the "pirate," "I was looking at a girl with one of
these new slit skirts and I stumbled and bumped against a ventilator."

"I see," commented Owen to help him out.  "You sort of slipped on a
sex-appeal, so to speak."

"Yes," said the sailor, gratefully.  "It was just like that."

"It's a lie," said a high, thin voice from somewhere, and they noticed
that a porthole behind them was open.

Pauline found conversation difficult.  Hicks, as a man of few words,
which gave him an undeserved reputation for wisdom.  The "pirate" had
given up spinning yams on account of the old man's unfailing
interruption.  Owen's mind, too, was preoccupied with a growing
suspicion.  So the adventurous young lady went to her stateroom and
wrote a letter to Harry.

The sailor intimated that he had important news which could be only
told in the privacy of Owen's stateroom.  The secretary suspected this
to be only a maneuver on the "pirate's" part to get acquainted with the
whiskey he knew Owen kept with him.  But the seafarer unfolded the tale
of his black eye not truthfully nor accurately, except in that he had
recognized Harry under the disguise of the old man.

"I more than half suspected it," said Owen, "and I have been watching
his stateroom.  But there is no way any one can see into his room
unless by getting a look in through the porthole."

"And there's where you get a good idea," said the "pirate."

"But there's no good having a peep' at him without his disguise now
that it's Harry," objected Hicks.

"No," said the "pirate," turning on Owen his lusterless sea-green eyes,
faded by much grog to a dimness that reminded one of the faint lights
set in ships' decks and known as "dead-eyes."  "No, but your porthole
idea is just the scheme to get at him and get rid of him.  I can slip
down a rope tonight when all is quiet and the fool passengers are over
on the other side looking at the bloody moon."

"And then what?" said Owen.

"I goes down the rope and shoots the old fool!  I mean the young fool
--through the porthole."

"Why, that's murder!" cried Owen.  "We'd all swing for it."

"No, it ain't murder; it's suicide, 'cause I'll throw the gun in there
where they'll find it when they break the door in, and everybody'll
think he shot himself."

"It's practical," commented Hicks, but Owen protested.  At last it was
decided that a fourth man was necessary to do the shooting, and the
"pirate" volunteered to produce him.

"There's an old shipmate o' mine down in the stoke hole working like a
nigger.  He'll be glad to do the trick for ten dollars, but we'll make
it fifty because the poor fellow has a wife and children and needs the
money.  I'll go get him."

Owen and Hicks went on deck while Boyd descended to the fiery vitals of
the steamer.  It is not an easy matter to smuggle a grimy stoker from
his furnace to the upper passenger decks, but the "pirate" managed it.

Meanwhile Harry was not losing time.  He had taken a dictograph from
his baggage, borrowed a few dry batteries and a coil of wire from the
wireless operator.  He carefully installed the instrument in his
stateroom, and led the wires out under his door to the passageway.
From there it was an easy task to carry them along the edge of the
carpet to the door of Owen's stateroom.  Arrived at the point, he was
compelled to leave pliers, wire and the receiving instrument under a
chair.

Like many another stateroom door, Owen's could not be locked easily
from the outside, so when the three conspirators went out they left it
unlocked.  The old man slipped in a moment later and quickly placed the
dictograph under the lower bunk.

Returning to his own room, the old man took up his instrument and
listened.  But he was not a very expert electrician and the dictograph
for a long time failed to give anything but roars and crackling sounds,
though he was convinced there were several persons talking.  A last he
got the thing adjusted in time to catch the last sentences of the
conversation.  He recognized the voice of the "pirate."  It said:

"An then we lowers you down the rope to his porthole.  You sticks your
gun in and shoot the old fool.  Don't forget to throw the gun in
afterward, so they'll think he killed himself.  See?"

"Sure, I got yer, matey," replied a strange voice.

After this the dictograph must have got out of order as nothing further
came over the wire.

After closing the porthole Harry started to take off his disguise with
a view of revealing himself and having Owen, Hicks and the "pirate"
arrested.  Then it occurred to him that he had not heard Owen or Hicks
talking and very likely they were not in the room at all.

It was probably a crazy, drunken scheme of the old sailor whom he had
tormented.  Neither Owen nor Hicks had any suspicion, so far as he
knew, that behind the whiskers and eyeglasses was Harry.  Owen could
have no object in shooting him.

"Can it be that I am jealous of this man Owen?" he wondered.  "Polly
has been taking his advice against mine lately.  What can that mean?"

Peace reigned during the evening while the old liner plunged and rolled
past wicked Cape Hatteras.  While the passengers listened to the sad
orchestra in the saloon Harry, still in his whiskered disguise, sent a
wireless to a lawyer in New York requesting him to telegraph Pauline at
Nassau something that would make her come home.  Then he went back to
his stateroom and locked the door.

As he stepped in he caught sight of the unbeautiful countenance of Mr.
Boyd squinting wickedly at him from far down the passageway.

"Just for that evil grin of yours, Mr. Pirate," thought Harry, "I am
not going to let you or your friend shoot me until after daylight."  So
Harry kept his porthole closed tight that night, sleeping rather
restlessly without his accustomed ventilation.

Twice he heard a faint scraping sound on the outside of his cabin, and
a dark shadow eclipsed the faint nimbus of light which the foggy night
sent through his porthole.  On the deck directly over his head three
dark figures sat in deck chairs, while a fourth paced the deck, his
cigar glowing like the tail lamp of a distant automobile.

The fog began to lift just before dawn, and the stoker, making another
trip down his rope, found the porthole open.  A hasty inspection of the
decks indicated that it was safe to go ahead.

Owen, Hicks and the "pirate" quickly lowered the stoker, sitting in a
little swing known on the sea as a "bo'sun's chair."  In his hand he
carried a pistol which Hicks had provided.  Each of the three
conspirators had revolvers, but the racetrack man's weapon was chosen
because he had obtained it from a source to which it could not be
traced.  Down went the stoker, his bare feet clinging to the gently
swaying side of the ship.

The porthole was open, and there in the dim interior of the cabin the
light was reflected from a pair of spectacles.  There, too, were the
whiskers and gray hair.  The old man seemed to be asleep in his chair
right near the porthole.  The stoker cocked his revolver and held it
ready for instant action.

The steamer's fog horn blew a blast at the fast thinning fog.  This
noise was just what the stoker wanted.  He quickly plunged his pistol
into the porthole and fired it point blank in the very face of the old
man.  There could be no question of missing.  He looked up at the three
eager faces and nodded that all was well.

"I've got him," he called out, and was about to hurl the pistol into
the stateroom when an unpleasant and unexpected thing happened.  A
brawny fist shot out of the porthole and collided with the stoker's
coal-blackened jaw.

More from surprise than the force of the blow, the stoker fell backward
into the sea.  The three watchers on deck saw the proceeding, and only
one, the "pirate," had presence of mind to hurl a lifebuoy.  No alarm
was sounded.  The steamer went on into the sparkling morning sea,
leaving behind her a profane and disgusted stoker.  This unfortunate
had only a lifebuoy to aid him on a fifteen-mile swim to shore.

"Never mind," said the "pirate" after the conspirators had gotten over
their first fright at the dashing of their plans.  "I have an idea;
it's a corking idea, and you'll all like it."

"What is it?" asked Owen nervously.  "Here is your drink now; what's
your idea?"

But the "pirate" wouldn't tell. He objected that it was too startling
for them to carry in their timid brains.  He would unfold it when the
time came, and he promised them that it would be the greatest and most
daring project they had ever heard.  A murderous glare lit up the faded
eyes and he chuckled to himself, but no offers nor threats would induce
him to part with his secret.






CHAPTER VII

A FLIRTY BUCCANEER

Arrived at Nassua, the party proceeded to the King Edward House, where
Pauline found a telegram from Philip Carpenter, the lawyer, advising
her to return as soon as possible to attend the signing of certain
important papers.  On account of the message all hands made haste to
hunt for a small steamer or launch to complete the trip.

Though none of the four saw him, the old man was at the hotel.  He lost
no time in assuming another and very different disguise, observing to
himself that the most valuable part of his college education might
prove to be the secrets of "make up" he had learned in his college
dramatic club.

Owen, with his usual forethought, had arranged in advance to be put in
touch at once with all available boats.  As a result a gasoline launch,
with a cabin and stateroom, about 100 feet long, which had once been a
yacht, was chartered.  The "pirate's" stipulation that no stranger
should see his island made it necessary for Pauline to deposit a check
for $2,500 for its safe return.

The next morning provisions were brought aboard, the "pirate" declaring
that he could run the engine, and all was ready when a difficulty
arose.  Who was to cook?  Pauline volunteered, but Owen objected, and
finally the "pirate's" objections to a stranger were overcome.

A dark-skinned half-breed, with long, black hair, who had earned half a
dollar by helping carry things on board, volunteered in a gruff voice.

"I'se fine cook.  Best cook on the island.  I cook very cheap."

Time was too valuable to investigate the man's ability, so he was
hired.  Off went the white launch.  Owen steering under instructions
from the "pirate," who soon proved he knew gasoline engines.  Out of
the harbor they went, and then coasted along the beautiful shores of
the island.  The sea was calm and the cruise uneventful for some time,
when the "pirate" called every one's attention to the fact that it was
a long time since breakfast.  He went below and addressed the cook, who
had shut himself up in his tiny galley, as sailors call a boat's
kitchen.

"What's your name?" demanded Boyd.

"Filipo."

"Are you a nigger?"

"I guess so; I dunno."

"Well, what were your father and mother?"

"I dunno."

"That's funny; but what I want to know is how soon grub will be ready?"

"Right away, senor."

"All right, Filipo; see that there is plenty of it."

"Dod foul my hawser, if this ain't what yer might call pleasant,"
declared the "pirate," showing his few teeth in a smile that reminded
Pauline of the spiles of an abandoned pier.

Pauline was pacing the deck apart from the others, in a pleasant
dreaminess scanning the endless azure of the hashed waters.  Her
thoughts roamed forward and backward--forward to the vague magic land
of adventure, where she was to win treasure and delight, fortune and
fame; backward to a big, lovely, splendid house in New York City, where
a certain tall young man, with brown, unruly hair and shoulders broad
as a sheltering wall, must be pining for her.

Some one began whistling in the cabin. Pauline paid no attention to it
at first, but as the tune suddenly shifted to the very latest musical
comedy air she became interested.  Owen never whistled, and Hicks, she
imagined, seldom went to the theatres.

The song shifted from whistle to words:

"I'm a greatly wicked person.  If there's anybody worse on This
terrestrial circumference of guile (Though I very broadly doubt it) I
should like to know about it, For I want to be the blackest thing on
file.

"I'm a bad-mad-man, my dear, I'm a liar and a flyer and flirty
buccaneer.  I've done everything that's awful that a human being can.
I'm a bad--ma-a-d man."

"The song from 'Polly Peek-a-boo.'  Harry and I heard it only two weeks
ago," mused Pauline.

Moved by a sudden whimsy, she entered the cabin.  There was no one
there but the cook.  In his dingy linen suit he was standing at the
table peeling potatoes and whistling.  He stopped as Pauline entered, a
tall powerful man, though of slouching posture, he bowed
deferentially.

"No like me sing--no sing," he suggested.

"On the contrary, I like it very much.  You sing very well indeed,
Filipo.  Would you mind telling me where you heard the song you were
just singing?"

"Big American man, up Nassau--he sing'um.  Very fine man--big fool
daughter," replied Filipo.

"You speak very good English when you sing," remarked Pauline.  "Why
don't you do it all the time?"

The cook hesitated.

"Speak good English all time--bad English when sing!"

Pauline began to scrutinize half suspiciously this remarkable menial,
but he kept stolidly at work at the potatoes, and his dark skin, his
scraggly beard, his bagging trousers upturned over bare feet, his
general dilapidation of appearance, proved him nothing but one of the
common derelicts of the languid islands.

"If you could peel potatoes instead of butchering them, there would be
a little more to eat in case we run out of supplies, Filipo," suggested
Pauline.

He turned on her a frank American grin.  For an instant the twinkle in
the keen blue eyes upset her.

It was so, like the twinkle in a pair of keen blue eyes that were
supposed to be figuratively weeping for her fate in far-off New York.
But instantly he changed his attitude.

"No like cook--cook quit," he grumbled.

"'Oh, no, indeed, Filipo, you must not be offended.  I was just
speaking to Mr. Owen this morning about raising your salary."

A thick voice came to them from the cabin door.

"I begs to report, Miss," said Blinky Boyd, the pirate, reeling in,
"that there be mut'ny in yer crew.  Mr. Hicks and Mr. Owen, Miss, has
rebelled against me authority and has refused me drink."

"That is an outrage, Mr. Boyd.  They do not realize how your
nerve-racking adventures have shattered your strength.  I will attend
to it myself," said Pauline sympathetically.  "Filipo, give Mr. Boyd a
drink."

"Drink?  Yes, meem," replied Filipo, with such unwonted alacrity that
Pauline turned in surprise.

She saw the slouching figure of the cook suddenly stiffen to his full
stalwart height.  She saw an ill clad, but majestic giant stride toward
the pirate, bowl him over with a gentle tap, pinion his arms and legs
in a lifting grasp and carry him toward the door of the cabin.

Cries of rage came stuffily from the thick throat of Boyd.

"Lemme go, ye scum, lemme go," he yelled.

"Filipo!  Filipo!  Stop this instant!  How dare you treat Mr. Boyd in
such a manner?" cried the indignant girl.

"You say, 'Give--him drink.'  He say, 'Lemme go," answered Filipo,
pausing with his squirming burden.

"Drink!  Ye fool, drink!  She is felling ye ter gimme a drink,"
screamed the hero of desperate encounters.

"Big, fat drink," agreed the cook, as he strode toward the rail.

Pauline rushed upon him.  The peril of her precious pirate stirred all
her courage.  She saw her dreams vanishing--the chief narrator,
navigator and guide of the treasure voyage suspended in two strong arms
over the blue deep.  Forgetting that he was accustomed to conquer
twenty men single handed, she felt only pity for his plight.  Her soft
but determined hand gripped the cook's.

"Filipo, obey my orders!" she commanded.

"Yes, Mem.  Let 'um go.  Give 'um drink.  Big liar need big drink."

He lifted the struggling but utterly helpless form of the pirate over
his shoulders, then, with a sudden stooping movement, he made as if to
plunge it into the sea.

"Help! Help!" cried Pauline, running up the deck.

Hicks and Owen rushed from their staterooms. Blinky Boyd was quivering,
gasping beside the rail.  They found a slouching, uncommunicative cook
stolidly washing dishes in the galley.

Some hours later while Boyd was sleeping off his potations and Hicks
and Owen were deep in conference on deck, Pauline slipped down into the
galley ostensibly to explain the rudiments of the culinary art to the
cook.

"The trouble is you have no respect for a potato, Filipo.  You slash
the poor thing to pieces, and then you boil it only long enough to hurt
its feelings."

"Peel potato nice, good," he apologized.  "Then peel 'um pirate.
Filipo want to peel pirate; boil him just half-hurt him feelings.
That's how."

"Oh, I see.  But I think you do Mr. Boyd a great injustice, Filipo.  He
has consented to come all the way from New York with us and take
command of our boat and find the buried treasure, and--"

"Buried potatoes," snapped Filipo with a sudden reversion to his
unimpaired English.

"Well, at least you understand about tomorrow's breakfast now, don't
you?"

"Yes, mem.  Boil 'um eggs to death; no peel 'um."

"No, no, no, Filipo--boil them two minutes and a half.  Here, take my
watch and go by that.  You must be very careful of it, Filipo."

"Yes, mem; boil 'um long time; stick fork in, see when soft."

"No!"

Pauline caught the watch from him.  "You don't boil the watch at all,
Filipo.  You boil the eggs and watch the watch.  Can you tell time,
Filipo?"

"Yes, Mem."

"How long is an hour?  Peel potatoes--hour is ver' ver'  long.  Talk
to ship's lady--whist!--hour is no time," answered Filipo with
upcast hands.

Again she eyed him through her long lashes a little askance.  He was
rather subtle, this half-breed cook, for one who could not even boil an
egg.

"I will let you have the watch, Filipo," she said gravely, "but you
must give it back to me.  It is one of the most precious things I have.
It was given to me by--Filipo, were you ever in love with a girl?"

"Su-u-ure, mem!" replied the cook with sudden enthusiasm.  "Love
daughter big American--no love me.  Big American daughter start from
Nassau--get buried treasure--not!"

"Filipo, where do you get all your New York slang?"

"Big American daughter, she sling slang-good," said Filipo.

"Why did you fall in love with her?"

"Nice girl--no eat much, no scold cook, no talk about potatoes--
just big fool 'bout buried treasure."

"What do you think love is?"

"Love-huh!" grunted the cook.  "I like girl; girl no like me.  Chase
all 'round world--no good."

"That watch was given to me by the man I love, Filipo," said Pauline.
"You won't-boil it--or anything, will you?"

As Filipo took the tiny diamond-scarred timepiece from Pauline's hand
there was a sound as of some one choking at the top of the steps.

The cook sprang to the deck, but there was no one in sight.  He
returned to Pauline, while Blinky Boyd, gasping more from astonishment
than fear, reeled up to Owen and Hicks on the forward deck.

"She's gone clean crazy," he panted.  "She treats that there cook as if
he was a nat'ral human man instid of a sea-rovin' gorilla, worse'n the
one I beat In Afriky."

"No more gorillas for a while, Blinky," commanded Hicks.  "What's
happened now?"

"She's gone an' guv him her jooled watch to boil eggs by," said the
pirate.

"By George, we will have to do something with that fellow," muttered
Hicks to Owen as they walked away.

"Do suthin' to him!" Blinky Boyd was fuming in the wake of Owen and
Hicks on their stroll up deck.  "Do everythin' to him; make 'im walk
the old board; draw'n quarter 'im.  Didn't he attempt me life an' ain't
he at present engaged in stealin' the fambly jewels?"

"Well, have you got any ideas?" asked Owen.

"The first thing," whispered Blinky, "is to git him under the
in-floo-ence of licker.  They never was no cook could stand up agin'
the disgraceful habit o' takin' too much and doin' too little.  Get 'im
under the in-floo-ence."

"And then what?"

"Then--well, ain't they a lot o' good blue water floatin' around atop
the fishes?  Ain't they some accommodatin' sharks swimmin' atop the
water?"

"That's a bit crude--just to throw a man overboard for nothing," said
Owen, willing to arouse Boyd's anger.

"Fer nothin'?  Didn't he insult the master o' this ship.  Ain't he
tried to starve us to death?  Fer wot kind o' nothin', says I."  Boyd
smote his caving chest in emphasis of his accusations.

"And he would have the diamond watch on him in case he should be picked
up," suggested Hicks quietly.

"That's so," said Owen.  "He would have been swimming to shore with the
stolen watch and drowned."

"But, of course, he would swim to shore, unless--well, it's a case of
making sure beforehand.  We could persuade him to go in and try to kill
Blinky here while Blinky's asleep--then rush in and finish him.  Even
Pauline was a witness to the attack he made on Blinky this afternoon."

The pirate's glowing countenance suddenly, went white.

"Not this trip," he said fervently.  "I ain't goin' to kill no man in a
trap like that.  I'm goin' to see it done fair and square in the open
--with plenty o' drink in 'im an' 'is conscience clear.  I wouldn't
see no man die with murder in 'is heart fer me."

"I don't like it," said Owen nervously.  "I don't like the idea of
doing too much.  We've got one big piece of work to do that concerns
her."  He nodded in the direction of the cabin.  "Dye mean to say we
can't get a poor half-breed cook off this boat without killing him?
Why not discharge him?"

Hicks uttered a grim chuckle.  "I must say I never thought of that.
Get a boat manned, will you, Boyd, and we'll put him ashore within half
an hour."

"All hands for'ard," bellowed the pirate's voice.  The "all hands" were
Owen, Hicks, the pirate and Pauline.

"Why all hands?  Can't you handle the cook yourself?" said Owen.

"Not to put that cook ashore--ye need a navy," said Boyd.

Backed by Owen and Hicks, he moved to the cabin.

"You, cook, there--ye're fired.  Get off the boat.  Yer kerriage
waits," he cried down at the busy Filipo.

Filipo shuffled almost meekly toward the speaker.  He saw the skiff
alongside and Hicks and Owen nearby.

"Grab 'im," ordered the pirate.  "Here's the irons."  He produced a
pair of rusty handcuffs that had been brought along, among other
ominous-looking junk, to impress Pauline.

But Filipo was not "fired" yet.  With a sudden long-distance lunge he
knocked down the pirate, who, thought he was at a safe distance.  But
Hicks, who had been well schooled in street-fight tactics, thoughtfully
stuck out a leg and tripped the cook, who fell upon the groaning Boyd.
Boyd, though down, was by no means  "out," and held Filipo tight while
Owen and Hicks slipped on the handcuffs.

"Now to the boat with 'im an' dump 'im ashore wherever It looks hottest
an' hungriest."

"Yah," he snarled in the face of the prostrate cook, "ye don't
interfere no more with the capting of this here vessel. I hopes ye--"

But his sentence was cut short, or rather it ended in a shriek of pain
and fright, as the cook, suddenly swinging himself from his shoulders,
landed a terrifically propelled right foot in the pirate's middle.

He was pinned down again the next moment, but Boyd's yell had
penetrated to the cabin.

"What is the matter--who is hurt?" cried Pauline, rushing to the
group on deck.

"We have had to order this fellow put ashore.  He has twice attacked
Boyd, and besides he is useless as a cook," explained Owen.

"You will assuredly do nothing of the sort," announced Pauline. "You
will take those horrid iron things right off and set him free."

"But, my dear Miss Marvin, he is a desperate man.  It is dangerous."

"What did we come here for but to get into danger?" cried Pauline.
"Besides, Filipo is the most interesting person on the ship.  I have
just devoted a chapter to him in my book, and if you think I'm going to
spoil my book because Mr. Boyd gets hurt, or the potatoes aren't done,
you're much mistaken."

Owen obediently knelt and unlocked the clumsy handcuffs.

"You are free, Filipo," said Pauline with the air of a proud princess
releasing a serf.

"No fired?" grunted Filipo.  "Too bad.  Bum job."

"Now go back to the kitchen, and promise not to strike Mr. Boyd any
more."

"No hit 'um.  Boil 'um. Three minutes; stick fork in hum," said the
cook with a cannibal glare at the still writhing pirate.

He shuffled off to his pots and pans.  Blinky scrambled to his bunk,
and Pauline retired to elaborate the fascinating character of Filipo in
another chapter of her book of adventure.

She did not realize how late it was when at last she put down her pen
and moved with soft, slippered steps to the door of the cabin.

Over the great vault of the heavens the stars were sprinkled like
silver dust.  The boat rolled softly, dreamily on the listless waters.
A cool breeze scented with the fragrance of the spicy land cooled her
brow.  She realized that her little stateroom had been very stuffy.  It
was beautiful here in the hushed night alone.  She moved out on deck.

They had come to anchor for the night off St. Andrew, and the few faint
lights of the town tinged the scene with life.

Pauline was thinking of Harry.  It would have been nice if he were here
now, in the moonlight just for this evening.  Of course if he were a
regular member of the party, he would spoil the trip by his grumpiness,
and probably prevent them from finding any treasure at all.  But Harry
was a good companion--usually, and Pauline was getting a little tired
of the company on the yacht.

The night was so still that even her light footstep could be heard on
the deck.  And she was surprised to hear a muffled hail from some
invisible craft astern.

As she moved to the rail--her tall form in the yachting suit standing
out plainly in the moonlight--she saw a small boat scurry away.  She
thought she recognized their own small boat--the one the yacht towed
--and she quickly made sure that this was true.

Pauline turned toward the cabin to rouse the others for a real pirate
chase, when she was silenced and stunned by the sight of Filipo, the
cook, staggering out of the galley, with his bearded chin drooping on
his breast, his knees swaying under him, his arms weaving cubist
caricatures in the air and his voice raised in unintelligible song.

He was quickly followed by the Pirate, who, to Pauline's amazement,
actually presented a picture of sobriety in contrast to Filipo.

But on seeing her, Boyd looked frightened.

"They have stolen the skiff," cried Pauline.

"No, Miss," said Boyd; "they was four of 'em come aboard in one boat,
an' we let 'em take ourn ashore to bring a double load o' supplies."

Pauline was grievously disappointed.  She turned her wrath upon the
musical and meandering Filipo.

"Filipo!" she demanded.  "Go to bed at once."

For answer he reeled toward her.

"Cook boiled--boiled three minute," he said.

Then with a lurch he fell sprawling at her feet.

Boyd had started back to the cabin in haste and excitement.  Pauline's
first instinct was to leave the inebriated man, but pity mastered her
and she stooped to lift him.

He sprang to his feet without her aid.  His blue eyes looked clearly
into hers.  His body towered again to its commanding height as it had
done when he was about to finish the Pirate.

He stooped and spoke rapidly, sharply in her ear. There was no pigeon
chatter.  It was straight English.

But as the door of the cabin opened again and Boyd came out, the tall
form sank into itself, the knees began to rock, the arms to weave and,
staggering back up the deck, he disappeared in the cabin.

Pauline stood stupefied.  She had been so startled by the sudden
transformation of the man that she had hardly understood his strident
words.

Only one thing she could remember.  He had commanded her to go to bed
and bar her door.  She obeyed but she could not sleep at first.  It
seemed that hours had passed when a sound outside her door brought her
to her feet.

She moved to the door and softly opened it.  Across the threshold lay
Filipo, wide awake.

"Go to bed," he said.  Again she obeyed and this time she slept.

The next morning everything seemed outwardly as usual, the skiff had
been restored to its place astern.  The Pirate was intoxicated; the
cook sober.  But there was the threat of trouble in the air, Pauline
felt it in the attitude of all the men, even of Owen and Hicks.

The Pirate showed a strange new tendency to make friends with Filipo.

"Can you steer, cook?" he asked after the latter had announced that
dinner was ready.

"Yes," said Filipo.

"All right, take the wheel and keep her as she's going till we round
that point ahead there."

Filipo took the wheel and the others descended to find the cabin table
set.  There was a prodigious amount of fried steak and boiled potatoes
as the main part of the meal.  To their dismay they found the steak was
as tough as leather.  A wail of sorrow arose when the potatoes proved
to be so hard that  Pauline doubted if they had been boiled more than
three minutes.

The "Pirate," whose table manners savored of the forecastle, tried a
biscuit and found it as hard as stone and almost as heavy.  In his
anger he hurled it at the side of the cabin and was horrified to see it
go through the boat's side.  He did not know that the biscuit happened
to strike a hole that had been temporarily stopped up with putty and
paint.  He turned speechless to the others and saw Hicks lift a biscuit
on high about to dash it onto the cabin floor.

With instant presence of mind he seized the arm of Hicks, and in a
hoarse voice shouted:

"Don't do that, you'll sink the ship.  Look what mine did."

They all gazed in amazement at the ragged aperture in the side of the
cabin through which the sparkling waters of the Atlantic could be seen
dancing past.

Events moved swiftly that afternoon.  Owen, peering in the galley
porthole beheld the disguised cook remove his wig to wash his face and
recognized the curly light hair of Harry.  About four o'clock the
launch tied up to the landing at the small village of St. Andrew.
There Owen had opportunity to reveal his discovery of Harry's presence
to the other two conspirators. They were frightened at first but soon
agreed that it was a fine chance to get rid of both at the same time.

The pirate confided to them that he had brought a clock-work bomb along
and had it in his bag.  A few minutes' discussion produced a simple
plan.

Owen sent the disguised Harry with a bucket, in search of a spring and
Pauline was already hunting strange flowers among the palms and
creepers.  This left the conspirators free to place the bomb under the
cabin floor boards, a matter which Owen attended to himself.  It was
set to explode two hours later.  Pauline and Filipo were then summoned
and told that there were comfortable lodgings and a good meal
obtainable at a village just the other side of the long narrow point of
land.  If Pauline and Boyd and Filipo would go around in the launch
Owen and Hicks would climb through the jungle and get there in time to
have a meal already upon the boat's arrival.  The two parties separated
and all was quiet for some time.  Pauline sat on deck with the pirate
endeavoring to engage him in conversation.  But he grew surlier and
surlier in his answers, looking frequently at his watch and often
stopping below for a drink.

After about an hour and three-quarter, Pauline became a little
frightened at his behavior and descended to the cabin.  There was the
cook reading a cook book, evidently his own.  The moment Pauline was
out of sight the pirate heaved a sigh of relief and abandoned the
wheel.  Stepping softly to the stern he pulled in the small boat which
was towing astern, leaped in adroitly and cut it adrift.

"Filipo," said Pauline, "you told us you were a good cook."

"Yes, senorita, I thought I was."

"Have you ever cooked before?"

"No, but I have a cook book which tells you how every one may be a
cook.  I thought--"

Filipo, did not finish his sentence.  His eyes were roving around the
cabin in search of something and Pauline was looking very hard at him.

"What's that ticking sound?" inquired the cook.  He went to the cabin
clock and listened.  No, it wasn't that.  Pauline could hear it, too,
and it wasn't her tiny watch.  Filipo made a search of the cabin and
finally located the sound under the floor.  A moment more and he had
laid bare the pirate's bomb.  He leaped on deck and took in at a glance
that the pirate had left in the only boat.

In another instant he was below again, tearing off his wig.

"Polly, it's I.  There's an infernal machine ticking here ready to blow
us up."

He tried to lift up the bomb, but it was wedged fast.

"Harry, for Heaven sake, what do you mean?"

"I'll tell you in a minute in the water as soon as we have jumped
overboard.  Come."

He seized Pauline, carried her up on deck.

"Where's Mr. Boyd?"

"Gone.  Take this," answered Harry, putting a life preserver around
her.

"Now, will you jump or shall I throw you overboard?  One, two, three."

"I'll jump," said Pauline and with arms around each other they leaped
into the warm ocean.  On went the white launch serene and unruffled by
the desertion of its crew.  In answer to Pauline's demand for
explanation Harry only answered:

"Wait."

Finally it came.

A belch of flame shot up from the launch driving a column of smoke far
into the sky, where it spread out and formed a majestic ring, which
floated and curled for many moments.  A concussion reached them through
the water and another in the air smote their ears.

The after part of the launch rode on the waters for a moment and then
disappeared.  Finally a succession of waves tossed them and passed on.

"What does it mean?" gasped the girl.

"Insanity--sheer, downright insanity.  That wretch of  a 'pirate' was
a crazy man.

"He placed that bomb, intending to kill all of us.  And Owen deserves a
sound thrashing for having anything to do with such a murderous
lunatic."

"I think you're rather hard on Owen, Harry," said Pauline.  "Of course,
we all know that pirates aren't nice persons--but nobody could
foresee that the man was crazy."

"Well, perhaps.  But don't talk, we have a mile and a half swim to
shore."

They were spared that ordeal by the Silurian liner Caradoc.  Arrayed in
borrowed clothes they were notified of a second rescue and came out on
deck in time to behold in the dusk of evening the "pirate."  He was
relating to an admiring throng how he had stuck by the burning ship
till it exploded.  He had actually been blown into the air and had
fallen by good luck into the little boat.

"It's a lie," said Harry in the old man's cackling voice.  The "pirate"
heard the voice of the old man and saw the face and the blond hair of
Harry.

It was too much for his evil and murderous mind to bear.  With a shriek
he hurled himself over the rail into the sea.  The Caradoc stopped and
searched, but no trace of the "pirate" could be found.





CHAPTER VIII

THE COURTELYOU RECEPTION

Two weeks later Pauline and Harry were sitting in the library.  Through
the half-closed blinds a soft breeze bore to them the fragrance of
carnations and roses.

For the first few days after their return Pauline was so thankful they
had not lost their lives that she was reconciled to not having found
the treasure.  But only for the first few days.  She was already
growing restless.

"You're wasting time, Harry," she said impatiently.  "I'd rather face
anything than be bored to death."

"Polly, it's got to stop; it isn't safe, it isn't sensible, it isn't
even fun any more.  Won't you drop the whole freakish thing and marry
me?"

Harry was holding Pauline by the hand as she drew her dainty way out of
the library.  In laughing rebellion she looked over her shoulder and
jeered at him.

"Oh, I thought it was I who was going to be afraid," she said.

"Well, if you aren't, who is going to be?"

"You," she tittered.

He drew her back with a gentle but firm grasp.

"Honestly, Polly, aren't you satisfied yet?  Adventure is all right for
breakfast or for luncheon once a month, but as a regular unremitting
diet it gets on my nerves."

"Still thinking of your own perils?" she volleyed.

Harry's fine keen face took on a look of earnest appeal.  He let go her
hand, but as she started to run up the stairs he held her with his
eyes.

"You dear, silly boy," she cried, returning a step and clasping him in
an impetuous embrace.  "You are the nicest brother in all the world--
sometimes--but just now I think that adventure is nicer than brothers
--or husbands.  I'm having the time of my life, Harry boy, and I'm
going on and on, and on with it until I've seen all the wild and wicked
people and places in the world."

Harry caught her hand and smiled down at her in surrender.

A ring at the door bell and the entrance of the maid caused Pauline to
flutter up the stairs.  They were preparing to attend the Courtelyou's
reception that evening to the great Baskinelli, whose musical
achievements had been equaled only by his social successes during this,
his first New York season.

"Anyway," she twinkled from the top of the stairs, "you needn't be
frightened for tonight.  Nothing so meek and mild as a pianist can hurt
you."

Harry tossed up his hands in mimic despair and started back to the
library.

"Yes, I know she is always at home to you, Miss Hamlin," the maid was
saying at the door.

"What a privileged person I am," laughed Lucille Hamlin.

She was Pauline's chum-in-chief, a dark, still tempered girl, in
perfect contrast to the adventurous Polly.  She greeted Harry with the
easy grace of old acquaintanceship.

"Still nursing the precious broken heart?" she queried.

"For the love of Michael, me and humanity," he pleaded, "can't you do
something?  She won't listen to me.  I'm honestly, deucedly worried,
Lucille."

"You know very well that nobody could ever do anything with Polly.  She
always had to have her own way--and that's why you love her, though
you don't know it, Harry.  Shall I run upstairs, Margaret?" she added,
turning to the maid.

"No, you're going to stay here," commanded Harry, seizing her hands.
"You've got to do something with Pauline.  You're the only one who
can.  She wants a new adventure every day, and a more dangerous one
every time.  Talk to her, won't you?  Tell her it isn't right for her
to risk her life when her life is so precious to so many people.  No,
wait a minute; sit down here.  I'm not half through yet."

He drew her, under laughing protest, to a seat beside him on the
stairs.  She realized suddenly how serious he was.  She let her hand
rest comradely in his pleading grasp.

"Why, Harry, yes, if it is really dangerous, you know, I'll do anything
I can," she said gravely.

They did not see the cold gray face of Raymond Owen appear at the top
of the stairs.  The face vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

In her boudoir Polly was laying out her finery of the evening.  There
came a soft rap at the door.

"Come in," she called, and looked up brightly in Owen's furtive eyes as
he opened the door and motioned to her.

"Don't say anything, please, Miss Marvin," he whispered, "just come
with me for a moment."

Bewildered by his manner, she followed to the top of the stairs.  He
directed her gaze to the two young people in earnest conversation
below.

It was a picture that might well have startled a less impetuous heart
than Pauline's.  Harry's hand still clasped Lucille's, and he was
leaning toward her in the eagerness of his appeal.

"You, will?  You promise?  Lucille, you've made me happy," Pauline
heard him say.

Through mist-dimmed eyes, dizzily, she saw the two arise.  She saw the
man she loved clasp Lucille's other hand.  She saw the girl who had
been her friend and confidante since childhood draw herself away from
him with a lingering withdrawal that could mean--ah, what could it
not mean?  Polly fled to her room.

In Owen's subtle secret battle to retain control of the Marvin millions
fate had never so befriended him.  None of all the weapons or ruses
that he had used to prevent the faithful attachment of Harry and
Pauline was as potent as this little seed of jealousy.

Pauline rang for her maid.

"Tell Miss Hamlin that I am not at home," she said in a voice that
started haughtily but ended in a sob.

"But, Miss Marvin--" Margaret tried to demur.

"Tell Miss Hamlin that I am not at home," repeated Pauline.

Lucille had just started up the stairs, leaving Harry with a
sympathetic pat on the shoulder.

"Well, even if I caret do anything with that wild woman," she laughed
back at him, "you know Pauline bears a charmed life.  Nothing has ever
happened to her yet.  Guardian angels surround her--as well as
heroes."

Harry walked into the library.  The agitated Margaret met Lucille on
the stairs.

"Miss Marvin is--Miss Marvin is not at home," the girl said, flushing
crimson.

Lucille paused, dumfounded.

"But, Margaret, you know I thought--I really thought she was, at
home, Miss Hamlin.  I hope you won't be offended with me."

"I insist upon seeing her," cried Lucille.  "I don't believe you are
telling me the truth.  I'm going right up to her room."

Margaret burst into tears.

Lucille quickly reconsidered.  Indignation took the place of
astonishment.  She hurried down the stairs and rushed through the door
without waiting for Margaret to open it.

Pauline, back in her own room, vented her first rage in tears.  With
her hot face pressed against the pillow, she sobbed out the agony of
what she thought her betrayal--her double betrayal, by courtier and
comrade at once.  But the tears passed.  Too vital was the spirit in
her, too red flowing in her veins was the blood of fighting ancestors,
too strong the fortress of self-command within the blossoming gardens
of her youth and beauty for the word surrender ever to come to her
mind.

True, she had found an adventure that stirred her more deeply than the
peril of land or sea or sky could have done.  Here was a thrill that
had never been listed among her intended tremors.  She sent for Owen.

Masked as ever in his suave exterior and his manner of mingled
obsequiousness and fatherliness, he came instantly.

"Mr. Owen, have you known--have you known that this was going on?"

"I feel that it is my duty to know what concerns you--even what
concerns your happiness, Miss Marvin," he answered.

"You mean?"

"I mean that I have long had my suspicions."

But again the very perfection of his deceit brought Pauline that
feeling that she had had since childhood that sense of an insidious
influence always surrounding her, always menacing and yet never
revealed.  This influence, which Owen seemed to embody, was the
antagonist of that other mysterious power, so real and yet so
inexplicable, that warded and protected her--the spirit of the girl
that had stepped from the mummy.

But Pauline had seen with her own eyes; she did not need any word of
Owen's to convince her of the falsity of her lover.

She was quite calm now.  She dressed with the utmost care.  Margaret,
who had seen her in such anger only a short time before, was surprised
at her sprightliness and graciousness.  A slightly heightened color
that only added to the luster of her loveliness, was the single sign of
her inward thoughts.  She summoned her own car and left the house
alone.

The drawing room of the Clarence Courtelyou mansion was ablaze with
light.  There was a little too much light.  The Clarence Courtelyou
always had a little too much of everything.

There was a little too much money; there was a little too much gold
leaf decoration in the drawing room, a little too much diamond
decoration of Mrs.  Courtelyou, and, if you were so fastidiously
impolite as to say so, a little too much of Mrs. Courtelyou herself.

But Mrs. Courtelyou was struggling toward gentility in such an amiable
way that better people liked her.  The motherliness and sweet sincerity
of her--the fact that she loved her frankly illiterate husband and
worshipped, almost from afar, her cultured daughters was the thing that
brought her down from the base height of the "climbers" and lifted her
kindly, harmless personality to the high simplicities of the elite.

She made the natural mistake that other wealthy mendicants at the outer
portals of society have made the mistake of pounding at the gates.
Instead of letting the splendor of her charitable gifts, the
gracefulness of her simplicity, carry her through, she went in for the
gorgeous and the costly.

As a sort of crowning glory she began to "take up" artists and actors
and musicians.  She gained the good graces of the best of them, and in
her kindly innocence she won the worship of the worst.

It was thus that she came to the point of holding a reception for
Baskinelli.

Not that any one had heard anything black, or even shadowy, against
Baskinelli.  He had arrived recently from abroad, his foreign fame
preceding him, his prospective conquests of America fulsomely foretold,
his low brow decorated in advance with laurel.

Mrs. Courtelyou added him to her collection with the swiftness and
directness of the entomologist discovering a new bug.  She herself
loved music--without understanding it very deeply--and Baskinelli,
whatever might be his other gifts, could summon all the cadences of
love from the machines that people call a piano--engine of torture or
instrument of joy.

For half an hour Harry paced at the foot of the stairs.

"I wonder if she's ever coming," he fumed to himself.  "It takes 'em so
long to do it that they drive you crazy, and when it's done they're so
wonderful that they drive you crazy."

"Did you--did you wish anything, sir?" asked the butler, entering.

"No--just waiting for Miss Pauline, Jenkins--just waiting," sighed
Harry.

"Why--if I may presume to tell you, sir--Miss, Marvin has gone to
the reception," said Jenkins.

"Gone!" Harry cried abruptly, hotly, then remembered that he was
speaking to a servant and swung into the reception room.

He put on his hat and coat and rang for Jenkins again.

"How long ago was it that Miss Pauline went out?"

"Almost an hour ago, sir."

Harry slammed his way out of the door.  It was not until he was in the
car on his way to the Courtelyous that he began to think--began to
think with utterly wrong deductions, as lovers always do.

"I must have said too much," he told himself.  "She's crazy about these
wild pranks and she thinks I'm a stupid goody-goody.  What a fool I was
to try to prevent her!"

"You aren't very nice, Mr. Marvin, to snub my pet musician--my very
newest pet musician," Mrs. Courtelyou rebuked him, as he entered.

"I didn't mean it.  I was waiting for--why, my car went to pieces,"
he explained.  "Is Pauline here?"

"Here?  She is the only person present.  Baskinelli hasn't spoken a
word to any one else.  He won't play anything unless she suggests the
subject.  I am glad Mr. Owen is here to protect her."

From the scintillant, filmy mist of women around the piano Lucille
emerged.  She came swiftly to Harry's side.

"What is the matter?" she asked.

"What is?  Tell me." he replied.  "What did you say to her?"

"I didn't see her, Harry.  She sent word that she was not at home."

"You don't mean--not after you started upstairs."

"Yes--and she hasn't spoken to me all evening."

"And she left me waiting at home for half an hour.  It's outrageous."

Harry strode across the floor just as the music ceased, and Baskinelli
arose, bowing to the applause of his feminine admirers.

"May I ask the honor to show to you Madame Courtelyou's portrait of
myself?  It is called 'The Glorification of Imbecility,'" he said as he
proffered his arm to Pauline.

He was a small man, with sharp features shadowed by a mass of flowing,
curling hair--the kind of hair that has come to be called "musical"
by the irreverent.  The sweep of an abnormal brow gave emphasis to the
sudden jut of deep eye sockets, and a dull, sallow skin gave emphasis
to the subtle sinister light, of the eyes themselves.

Pauline accepted the proffered arm of the artist, but daintily,
laughingly, she turned him back to the piano.

"You haven't yet escaped, Signor Baskinelli," she said.  "We have not
yet heard 'Tivoli,' you know."

"Tivoli," he cried, with hands upraised in mock disdain.  "Why, I wrote
the thing myself.  Am I to violate even my own masterpieces?"

There was a twitter of mocking protest from the women.  Baskinelli
began to play again.

"Pauline, may I speak to you--just a moment?" Harry's vexed voice
reached her ear as she stood beside the piano.  She turned slowly and
looked into his bewildered, angry eyes.

"A little later--possibly," she answered, and instantly turned back
to Baskinelli.

From her no mask of music, no glamour of others' admiration could hide
the predatory obsequiousness of Baskinelli.  She was not in the least
interested in Baskinelli.  She had loathed him from the moment when she
had looked down on his little oily curls.  But if Baskinelli had been
Beelzebub he would have enjoyed the favor of Pauline that evening--at
least, after Harry had arrived.

The glowing piquant beauty of Pauline enthralled Baskinelli.  He had
never before seen a woman like her--innocent but astute, daring but
demure, brilliant but opalescent.  When at last they strolled away
together into the conservatory his drawing room obeisances became
direct declarations of love.

Pauline began to be frightened.

She fluttered to the door of the conservatory.  But there she paused.
Voices sounded from the end of a little rose-rimmed alley.  They were
the voices of Harry and Lucille.

Baskinelli was at her side again.

"If I have said anything--done anything to offend," he said, with
affected contrition, "you will let me make my lowliest apologies, won't
you?"

Pauline hardly heard him.  She was intently listening to the low
pitched voices.

"I--I think I will run back to the others," she cried suddenly.
Baskinelli was left alone.

"I congratulate you, Signor, on the success of the evening," said a
voice at his shoulder.  "There are few among the famous who can conquer
drawing rooms as well as auditoriums."

The musician turned to face the ingratiating smile of Raymond Owen.

"I thank you--I thank you, sir.  But I do not believe you.  My
'conquest' has turned to catastrophe.  I have lost everything."

"You mean that you are dissatisfied with the applause?" asked Owen.

"No!  No!  Applause is nothing from the many.  There is always one in
his audience to whom he plays from his soul."

"And that one--tonight?"

"The lovely Miss--what, now, is her name--Marvin.  She bewitches me
--and she scorns me."

"Signor Baskinelli, there are other places than drawing rooms, or even
conservatories, in which to capture those who captivate."

"I--do I quite grasp your meaning, Mistaire Owen?"  He tried to
disguise the suspicion under an accentuated accent.

"I think so, Monsieur Picquot."

At the name Baskinelli turned livid.  He made a movement as if he would
lunge at the throat of Owen, but his fury withered under the glassy
smile.

"So--we met in Paris?"

"Once upon a time--a little incident in the Rue St. Jeanne.  A young
woman was concerned in that incident--and was not heard of
afterward."

"And you are trying to blackmail me for the death of Marie Disart!
Ha!  That is a jest," cried Baskinelli.

"I am trying to do nothing of the kind.  I simply reminded you of the
little affair.  I know as well as you that it was all beautifully
cleared up, and a man is still in prison for it.  I know you are as
safe here as that man is in jail, Signor Baskinelli."

"What are you talking about, then?"

"The little woman that so charmed you here.  I remarked merely that
those who are captivated can capture."

"Not in this country--not among the Puritans.  One must be good--
and unhappy."

"You haven't forgotten your little friends, Mario, and Di Palma and
Vitrio?  They are all respected residents of New York.  We know, where
they might be found."

"At Cagliacci's?"

"Precisely.  Dining upon the best of spaghetti and the richest of
wines, and paying for it at the point of a stiletto."

"But--ha!  You are talking nonsense.  We could not find them; they
could not find us."

"We might telephone and try," suggested Owen.  "Cagliacci, you know, is
now up-to-date.  He has a telephone.  He considers it a sign of
respectability."

"And then what do you propose?"

"Picquot--I mean Signor Baskinelli, I propose nothing.  Unless
possibly there might be--after the reception--a little motor trip
to Chinatown.  It might amuse the ladies."

"You are right.  I will invite them all," said Baskinelli.

"And how about calling up Marie at Cagliacci's just as an old friend?"

"It might be best."

They moved together down the corridor and Owen directed their way to a
little study secluded from all other apartments of the great house.

"You seem to be familiar with the home of our gracious hostess,"
remarked Baskinelli.

"I make it a rule to be familiar with all homes in which Miss Marvin is
entertained."

"Miss Marvin?  You are, then a relative?"

"I am her guardian."

"Ah-h!  You have control--perhaps--of certain small sums bequeathed
to her?"

"Yes."

"And you would like to have as few persons as possible in the Chinatown
party?"

"As few as possible."

In a place known only as Cagliacci's, in the dreg depths of Elizabeth
street, the ringing of the telephone bell was much more startling, much
more unusual than the crash of a pistol shot or the blast of a bomb.

The habitu's moved quietly to the door that leads to the roofs, while
Pietro Cagliacci himself wiped the dust-covered receiver on his apron
and put it to his ear.

He spoke softly, tersely.  The conversation was very brief.  Within a
minute after he had hung up the receiver three grimy-clad, grim-visaged
men left the place silently.

Harry and Lucille came out of the conservatory.

"I tell you there wasn't anything said between us that could have
caused it," he was saying.  "I was fighting the whole thing hard, but I
was fighting it like a beggar.  I am always a beggar with Pauline."

"But you told her it wasn't right that she was risking other people's
lives?"

"No, I told you to tell her that."

In spite of her distress over Pauline's coldness, Lucille burst into
laughter.

They were just emerging into the music room.  Pauline, like the others,
turned at the unexpected sound.  She gave one glance at the two and
turned haughtily away.

Baskinelli was bustling about, making up an impromptu excursion party.

"Ha!  You people of New York--you do not know what is in New York.
All Europe is here--and you never cross Fourteenth street--I mean
to say Fifth avenue."

"It is more dangerous to cross Fifth avenue than to cross the ocean--
that's probably the reason," said Harry.  "The traffic cops along the
Gulf Stream are so careful."

Pauline stopped Baskinelli's intended reply.  She wanted Harry to be
ignored utterly.  Her anger had made him flippant.  His flippancy had
put the seal of completeness upon her anger.





CHAPTER IX

BASKINELLI'S QUARRY

A flutter of polite alarm attended Signor Baskinalli's invitation.

From the sheltered glitter of a Fifth avenue drawing room to Chinatown
was a plunge a little too deep.

But Baskinelli was insistent and Pauline was his ardent and efficient
recruiting officer.  Quite a troop train of limousines carried the
invaders to the uncelestial haunts of the Celestials.

Baskinelli rode in the car with Pauline and Owen.  He had cast off the
dignity of the master musician and assumed an air of whimsical
recklessness.  Harry and Lucille were in the following car.

"Oh, please stop fidgeting," exclaimed Lucille.

"I'm as nervous as you are."

"I know," said Harry, "but I hate to have her alone with that little
black snake for five minutes."

"Owen is with them."

"Owen is worse."

The machines drew up in Chatham Square, and the little procession that
moved across to Doyers street--dainty slippers on blackened
cobblestones, light laughter tinkling under the thunder of the "L,"
human brightness brushing past the human shadows from the midnight dens
--made contrasts picturesque as a pageant in a catacomb.

Pauline, on the arm of the chattering Baskinelli, led the way.

"Isn't this splendid?" she exclaimed.  "I am sure you won't disappoint
me, Signor Baskinelli.  I hope you aren't going to show us a happy
Chinese family at supper.  Only the most dreadful sights amuse me."

"Ali, but we, must not take risks," replied Baskinelli.  "There are
some beings in the world, Miss Marvin, so exquisitely precious that a
man would commit sin if he placed them in peril."

"But only the worst and wickedest places," she admonished Baskinelli.

He leaned suddenly very near to her.

"Do you really mean that, Miss Marvin?" he asked.

"Indeed I do," she answered.

"Very well.  But first we shall go to the new restaurant.  It is yet
too early for the worst and wickedest to be abroad or rather to seek
their lairs."

They climbed a brightly lighted staircase into one of the ordinary
Chinese restaurants of the better sort which are conducted almost
entirely for Americans, and where Boston baked beans are as likely as
not to nudge almond cakes on the bill of fare and champagne flow as
commonly as tea.

They gathered around one of the larger of the cheaply inlaid tables,
and Baskinelli took command of the feast.

Harry sat in grim silence, watching Pauline like a protecting dragon.
Lucille was sick at heart and repentant of coming.  The others chatted
merrily among themselves.  But by common consent Pauline seemed to have
been surrendered to the attentions of the evening pest, who had become
a midnight host.

He leaned toward her with an ardor that he did not even attempt to
disguise.  "You are the most wonderful woman in--"

"Please make it the universe," pleaded Pauline.  "There are so many
most wonderful women in the world."

"No, let us say chaos," he whispered.  "The chaos of a man's heart can
be ruled only by the charming uncertainty of woman."

The intensity of his words brought to Pauline again the twinge of
alarm.  Unconsciously she looked around for Harry.  It was the last
thing in the world she had meant to do.  She was angry at herself in an
instant, for his fixed, guarding gaze was upon her.  She met his eyes
and turned quickly to Baskinelli.

"Chaos?  I've always loved that word," she flashed.  "There must be so
many lovely adventures where there are no laws."

"I said the chaos in a man's heart could be ruled by a woman," said
Baskinelli.

The impudence of this sudden love making moved her unexpectedly to
defiance.

"Please let it be ruled, Signor Baskinelli," she said, turning away
from him.

Baskinelli had sense enough to see that he had gone too far.  He turned
to the others as the soft-footed Orientals began to spread the mixed
and mysterious viands on the table.

He glanced at Owen.  By the slightest movement imaginable, by the least
uplift of his black brows, Owen answered.  For the first time
Baskinelli knew that the lovely quarry he pursued had a protector--
and no mean, no weak protector.

But the arrival of the repast quickly covered the general
embarrassment.  Everybody could see that Pauline and Harry had had a
quarrel and that Pauline, was flirting outrageously with Baskenelli
simply for revenge--that is, every one except Harry could see it.

"Pardon me, but is that what you call a graft investigation that you
are making, Miss Hamlin?" inquired Baskinelli.

"No, but the food is so funny.  There are so many queer things present,
but unidentified," laughed Lucille.

"Like a reception to a foreign artist," interrupted Harry with a
vindictive glare.

"Or shall we say like the conversation of an unhappy guest," said
Baskinelli, smilingly turning to note the entrance of a little party of
newcomers at the further end of the restaurant.

A dashing, well-dressed, fiery-eyed foreigner, the tips of whose waxed
mustachios turned up like black stalagmites from the comers of his
cavernous mouth, was accompanied by two nondescript figures, who seemed
to be embarrassed more by the fact that they had been recently cleansed
and shaved than by their rough red shirts and mismatched coats and
trousers.

The man of the tilted mustachios gave brief, imperative orders to the
waiters, whose languid steps seemed to be quickened by his words as by
an electric battery.  The other two sat silent, like docile dogs in
leash.

Only for an instant Baskinelli's eyes rested upon the group.

"And having tasted the food of the gods, how would you like to visit
the gods themselves?" he asked.

Pauline agreed enthusiastically.  "You mean a joss house--a Chinese
church, don't you."

"Yes."

The joss house that most visitors see in Chinatown is the little one up
under the roof at the meeting of Doyers and Pell streets--at the toe
of the twisted horseshoe made by these tiny thoroughfares of black
fame, where, in spite of all the modern magic of  "reform," men still
die silently in the hush of secluded corridors and women vanish into
the darkness that is worse than death.

The little joss house is interesting in the same way that an Indian
village at a State fair is interesting.  Behind its gaudy staginess and
commercial appeal it still holds something of reality from which the
imagination can draw a picture of an ancient worship that has held a
race of millions in thrall for thousands of years.

But it was not to the little joss house that Signor Baskinelli guided
the party.  In the little joss house the bells are pounded without
respite, the visitors come and go at all hours of the day and night--
save the few set hours when the joss sacrifices profit to true prayer.

Baskinelli took his guests to the joss house of the Golden Screens.

Save for its greater size and more splendid accoutrement, it was little
different from the other.  But it was walled, in its back alley
seclusion, deep behind the outer fronts of Mott street, by a secrecy
almost sincerely sacred.

The motor cars remained far behind across the square as Baskinelli led
the party through the dismal streets and stopped before a dark
doorway.

A dim light flared behind the door and a Chinaman in American dress
admitted them.

"I am beginning to be really bored," said Pauline.

"Wait; give the wicked a chance," said Baskinelli.

They climbed three flights of dingy, narrow stairs, lighted with
flaring gas jets.

"Wonderful," jeered Pauline.  "Not even a secret passage or a
subterranean den!"

The others followed her laughing lead up the stairs.

A Chinaman came out of the door on the second landing, stopped, started
in innocent curiosity at the dazzling visitors and went down the
stairs.  Everything was as still and commonplace as if they had been in
the hallway of a Harlem flat building.

The silence was not broken or the seeming safety disturbed in the
slightest by the soft opening of the first landing door, after they had
passed--that is, after all but Owen had passed.  No one but Owen saw
the piercing black eyes and the tilted mustachios of the face that
appeared for an instant at the door.

There was a corridor, not so well lighted, at the top of the third
flight of stairs.  In the dim turns the women drew their skirts about
them, a bit wary of the black, short walls.

The passage narrowed.  They could move now only in single file, and
even then their shoulders brushed the walls.

Only a far, dull glow from a red lamp over a door at the end of a
passage lighted their way.

Baskinelli tapped lightly on the door.

It was opened by a venerable Chinaman in the flowing robes of a
priest.  He looked at them doubtfully.  Baskinelli spoke three words
that his companions did not hear.  The priest vanished.  Quickly the
door was reopened and they stepped into the dim, smoky, stifling
presence of the joss.

The choking scent of the punk always at the folded feet of the idol was
almost suffocating.  The place had other odors less noxious and less
sweet.  Chinamen were lounging in the room as if it had been a place of
rest.  Three priests were on their knees before the joss swaying
forward till their foreheads almost touched the floor, their
outstretched arms moving in mystic symmetry with their rocking bodies.

A great brass bell hung low beside the idol.  But no priest touched the
bell.

The joss itself was almost the least impressive thing in the room.  It
stood, or squatted, six feet high, on a block pedestal at the side of
the room.  The simple hideousness of the painted features served no
impressive purpose, but as contrast to the exquisite decorations of the
room.

Screens of carved wood, so delicately wrought that it seemed a touch
would break the graven fibers, were flecked with inlay of pearl and
covering of gold.

One of the peculiar features of the room was a suit of ancient Chinese
armor--a relic that had been rusted and pit-marked by time, but now
stood brightly polished beside the statue of the god.  A huge two-edged
sword was held upright in the steel glove.

By the dim light behind the idol the shadow of the sword was cast
across the blank face of Baskinelli as he moved forward.  He stepped
back quickly.  The shadow fell between him and Pauline.

Again the ancient priest answered a summons at the door.  Again he
parleyed for a moment--then opened it to the three swarthy foreigners
who had been in the restaurant.

Baskinelli turned for just in instant to glance at the tall man with
the tilted mustache, then resumed immediately his conversation with
Pauline.

"Why do all the Chinamen run away like that?" she asked.

"It is the end of the service; you see the priests are going, too."

There was a furtive haste about the departure of the Orientals.  And
there was a quavering in the manner of the oldest priest--the only
one who remained--that seemed born of a hidden fear.

The old priest lifted one of the lamps from a wall bracket and set it
on the floor beside the idol.  He knelt near it and began to pray.

The three Italians waited only a moment, then followed the Chinese out
of the room.

"It is late--we ought to be going," pleaded Lucille.

Complete silence had fallen on the room and her words, a little
tremulous, had instant effect on the other women.

"What about it, Baskinelli?  Had we better be going?" asked one of the
men.

"Yes--yes, I beg only a moment.  I wish to show Miss Pauline the--"

"You mean Miss Marvin, do you not?" blazed Harry, striding to
Baskinelli's side and glaring down at him.

"I was interrupted.  I had not finished my words. They are, at best,
awkward, I beg--"

"You beg nothing," said Harry through clenched teeth.  Then slowly,
grimly:

"I want to tell you, you little leper, that if anything happens here
tonight--it is going to happen to you."

He was so near to the musician that the others did not hear.

Baskinelli backed away.  Pauline, with the swift, inexplicable, yet
unerring instinct of woman, moved as if to seek the shelter of Harry's
towering frame.

He did not see her.  He had whirled at the sound of the opening of a
door--a peculiar door set diagonally across a corner of the room
behind the joss.

Through the yellow silk curtains that hid the entrance came two
Chinamen as fantastically hideous as the embroidered dragons on the
tapestry.

"Put those men out; they cannot come in here; they are full of opium,"
commanded Baskinelli.

"Stop; let them come in; we are going," said the mild voice of Owen.

The understanding look of Baskinelli met his.  Baskinelli frowned and
Owen smiled.  They were playing perfectly their roles.

The two Chinamen shuffled into the room.  The priest arose in jabbering
protest.  They argued with him acridly.  A few feet away one could see
that their cheap linen robes covered the ordinary street garb of the
Chinamen; that the ugly lines on their faces were painted, as on the
face of the Joss.

Baskinelli was laughing.  The others watched the argument in silence.
Every one but the host, and Owen, and Pauline, seemed a little
nervous.

Suddenly the lamp on the floor went out.  There was another at the
farther side of the room, but its dim light made the scene more weird
than darkness could have made it.

"Well, I thought we were going," snapped Harry's strident voice.

"We are," replied Baskinelli. "Miss--er--I am afraid to speak--
Miss Marvin, shall we go?"

Pauline took his arm.

"Ali, but I have forgotten the most precious sight of the evening,"
suddenly exclaimed the musician.  "Only a moment--look here."

Interested, Pauline did not notice that Owen softly shut the door upon
the receding footsteps of the others.  Baskinelli guided her back to
the little door behind the screen--the door from which the Chinamen
had entered.

Baskinelli drew aside the curtain.

"There--that is one form of adventure."

Pauline looked through the curtain.  A suffocating, narcotic odor came
to her.  What she saw was stifling not only to the senses--but to the
soul.  She turned away.

"Polly!"

Harry's voice rang through the little choked room like a thunder
blast.

"We are coming--we are quite safe," called Baskinelli, with the sneer
tinge in his tone.

"Very well, then; hurry."

Harry's manner aroused Pauline's temper again.  She purposely
lingered.

The two Chinamen were arguing violently now with the priest.

Harry had closed the door and followed the others down the outer
passage.

"Miss Marvin--Pauline!" called Baskinelli with sudden passion.  "Have
you a heart of stone?  Can you not see me helpless in your presence?
Do you know what love is?"

He stepped towards her and tried to take her in his arms.  But she was
stronger and far braver than he.  She thrust him aside and fled through
the door.

Baskinelli followed, protesting, pleading.

Strangely, as she fled through the narrow corridor, the low, flaring
gas jets were extinguished one by one.

She groped in darkness.

Baskinelli's pleading voice became almost a consolation, a protection.

Her elbow struck something in the passageway.  The something shrank at
the touch.  She heard a quick drawn breath that was not Baskinelli's.
She tried to run.  The tiny passageway chocked her flight.  She plunged
helplessly between invisible, but gripping walls.  She reeled and
screamed.

There was the sound of a struggle behind her.  She heard Baskinelli
crying for help--but, oh, so quietly!  She reached the stairs.  The
stairs were blocked by a closed door.  The door was barred.  But there
was a light left burning by the door.

Her weak hands beat upon the panels, helplessly, hopelessly.  How
should she know that there were two doors, locked and sealed beyond?

Her wild screams rang through the long passage, through the dark, above
the shuffle and beat and cursing of the staged fight.

In the dim light she could see the three Italians grappling with the
other men.  Baskinelli's voice called to her reassuringly. It might
well.  Baskinelli was in no danger.

She placed her softly clothed shoulder to the door and strove to break
it.  She screamed again.

"Harry!  Harry!"

Dull crashes answered.  There was the crack and cleaving of splintered
wood.

"Hold on!  I'm here!" she heard.

She fell beside the door.  Strong arms seized her.  For an instant she
felt that she was saved.  But she looked up into the lowering face of a
man with tilted mustachios.  From the wide thick lips came threats and
curses.

From the outer passageway sounded the crashing of the doors.

She let herself be lifted, then, with sudden exertion of her trained
strength, she broke the grasp of the man.

The door fell open.

Harry, bloody and tattered, stood there--alone.

"Polly?"

"Oh--yes--where are the others?  They'll kill you--run!" she
cried.

He ran forward into the black corridor.  A knife thrust, sheathed in
silence, ripped his shoulder gave him his cue.  He had one man down and
trampled.  But another was upon him and yet a third.

A sharp pain dulled the pulsing of his throat.  He felt a tickle down
his bared and swinging arm.

He fought blindly in the dark.

"Polly!" he panted.

There was no answer.

    *     *     *     *     *

In the Joss House of the Golden Screens the two Chinamen, dazed with
opium, set of purpose, were still arguing with the trembling priest.

The door fell open and a white woman--with bleeding hands--fell at
their feet.

"Ha, she has come back!" cried one of the Chinese in his own tongue.

There was the sound of steps in the outer passage.

"Quick--inside!" breathed the Chinaman, pointing to the den.

They lifted Pauline.  The old priest stopped them.

"Not there--not there!" he cried.  "Any one would look in there."

They dragged her back.  The priest hurried to the outer door and locked
it.

There was the blunt, battering thrust of a body against the door.

"Open, or I'll break it in!" yelled the voice of Harry.

The priest opened the door.

In deferential silence he saluted the battle grimed newcomer.
Battered, panting, bleeding, Harry lunged at the man, gripped him.

"Quick--where is she?  You'll die like a spiked rat.  Where?" he
roared.

The two other Chinamen were kneeling before the Joss.

There was a moment's silence, then a strange sound--like a cry heard
afar off.

Harry strode to the little pedestal where the suit of armor stood.

"Where is she?--or I'll rip this place to cockles!" he thundered.

"We do not know what you mean," said the priest.

The two Chinamen began to jabber.

Other figures reeled from the room behind the curtains.  But over all
their clamor sounded again the faint cry--distant, but near.

In a flash Harry caught from the mailed glove the haft of the sword.
As he rushed across the room the Chinese withered away from him.  There
was a crash as the great sword fell upon one of the windows.  Through
the broken pane Harry shouted for help.  His voice was like a clarion
in the silent streets.

He turned in time.  Three Chinamen, with drawn knives, were upon him.
He swung the unwieldy sword above his head.  Its sweep saved him.  He
dashed at the Joss.  Again he lifted the sword.  A grasp and then a
wail of fear sounded through the room.

He struck.  The head of the statue thudded to the floor.

The Chinese rushed upon him.  They were desperate now in the face of
the violation of their god.  But he was behind their god prying open
the secret door to the hollow within the statue.

"It's all right, Polly," he said as he drew her gently forth.

He stood above her with his back to the wall swinging the sacred sword
against the onslaught of fanatic men.  They fell before him, but more
came on.

His hands could hardly hold the mighty weapon.  For more than half an
hour he had been fighting.  He was weakening but he braced himself and
swung for the last time.

There came a hammering at the door.  It crashed in.  Police clubs
whistled right and left.  The Chinese fled into their secret lairs.

    *     *     *     *     *

"And I guess that will be all," panted Harry in the taxi that took them
home.  "I don't think you'll ask for any more adventures after this
one."

"Why didn't you pick up the Joss's head?" replied Pauline.  "It would
have looked so nice and dreadful in the library?"

But the glory of her golden hair nestled upon his torn shoulder and he
knew that he would go through all the perils in the world for happiness
like this.





CHAPTER X

KABOFF'S WILD HORSE

For several months after old Mr. Marvin's death, Owen had kept to his
cubby-hole room adjoining the financier's small, plain-furnished,
workaday office.  But recently he had got the habit of doing his work
in the library, where the tall, pure statues looked down upon his
skulking head and the grand old books that had borne their messages of
good from generation to generation, held their high thoughts in stately
contrast to his skilled and cruel plots.

Above the bowed bald head that was planning the death of a young girl
to gain her fortune stood a figure of Persephone-child of innocence and
sunlight shadowed by black robes of Dis.  Upon the coward who feared
all but the darkest and most devious passages of crime shone high,
clear brows of Caesar and Aurelius.  Gray folios of Shakespeare held up
to the ambitious ingrate the warning titles of "Lear" and "Hamlet" and
"Macbeth."  And by his side brooded ever that mystic relic of the
farther past--the Mummy, from whose case had stepped a daughter of
the Pharaohs in the likeness of Pauline.

But Owen thought little of contrasts.

He was opening his mail on a morning in early May when he came across
an envelope addressed in the awkward scrawl of Hicks.  He tore it apart
nervously, for if Hicks could be moved to write, it must be a matter of
concern.

"Dear Owen, No doubt he suspects you of foul play. He has seen his
attorneys and is about to take steps to have you removed from the
trustee-ship."

The paper crackled in Owen's trembling hand.  So the Baskinelli
incident had gone a little too far.  Harry Marvin had sense enough to
know that he would not have to fight three murderous Italians and a
rabble of Chinese unless there had been a plot behind Pauline's peril.
It might be best to go directly after Harry--to put him out of the
way first.  And yet, Owen pondered, there was no proof of anything
wrong.  Pauline was admittedly plunging into these adventures of her
own free will.  Nothing could be proved against him or Hicks.

He resumed his work.  Among the letters lay an advertising dodger which
had been dropped through the door.  Owen glanced at it carelessly at
first, then with keen interest.  He read it over:

"BALLOON ASCENSION FROM PALISADES

"Signor Panatella, the famous Italian Aeronaut, will make parachute drop
from height never before attempted."

The ascension was to be made that afternoon from one of the amusement
parks on the New Jersey shore of the Hudson.

"This is Providence," he muttered to himself, catching up the dodger.
Slipping through the door and up the stairs, he tapped at the door of
Pauline's room.  When there came no answer he entered swiftly, laid a
paper on the table and glided back to the hall, back to the library.

From there he called up Hicks.

Hicks' domiciles were so many and suddenly changeable that he claimed
nothing so dignified as a regular telephone number.  But he had
scribbled on the bottom of his note the number of a saloon on the lower
West Side.

He was there when Owen rang.

"Hello, Hello, . . . Is that you, Hicks? . . . I want to see you. . . .
What? . . .  No, right away. . . .  Broke? . . . you always are ....
you'll get the cash all right. . . .  What's that? .... Come here? ....
Not on your life.  I'll come to you .... Not half that time ....
I'll take the motorcycle.  All right .... Good-by."

He hung up the receiver, went up to his room and got into cycling kit.
As he came down stairs he met Pauline, who was returning from a
shopping trip.

"Good morning, Owen," she said brightly.  "Do you know, I believe there
is more peril in a dry goods store than on a pirate yacht.  What parts
of my new hat are left?"

"Only the becoming ones."

She sped on up the stairs.  After her first imperative inquiries of the
mirror concerning what she considered her wild appearance, she picked
up the letters on her dressing table and began to run through them.

The large black type of an advertising dodger loomed among the
letters.

Pauline tripped down the stairs.  To Harry, seated on the steps
enjoying the Spring sunshine and puffing a leisurely cigarette,
appeared a mysterious vision.

He knew by the elaborate way in which she took her seat beside him and
hid the piece of paper in her hand that she had some new whim in
fermentation--something to ask him that she knew he wouldn't want to
do.

"Yes," he said, moving along the step away from her.  "I know you've
just bought me the loveliest cravat, that I'm the nicest brother in the
world, that I look so handsome in Springy things and--well, what it
is?"

Pauline pouted at the other end of the step.

"I'm going up in a balloon and jump down," she announced, "from a
height never before attempted."

"Polly I You are going to do nothing of the--"

"No, I wasn't going to, until you grew so great and grand.  I just
wanted to go over and see him fly."

She tossed the dodger over to him.  He glanced at it.

"Well, if you promise you aren't plotting any more pranks, I'll take
you."

"That's a worth-while brother.  It's a pink one."

"Pink one?"

"Cravat, of course."

Harry groaned.  "Give it to the cook," he pleaded.  "He wears 'em
alive.  If that fellow goes up at 2:30, you'd better hurry."

"I'll be ready before you are."

She rose quickly, but Owen, looking, listening, had time to close the
door unseen, unheard.

At the rear of a little West Side saloon, he signaled with his horn,
and Hicks came out.  He was a bit shabbier than usual, and he had been
drinking, but he was not intoxicated.

Owen locked his machine and taking his arm walked him rapidly up the
avenue.

"What do you mean by writing to me?" demanded Owen.  "Haven't I told
you never to put words on paper?"

"Oh, I guess you got that house wired so nobody'll catch you," grunted
Hicks.  "Live wires, too-clever butlers, footmen, maids, chauffeurs,
cooks; you're safe enough."

"You forget those are your wires.  They don't know they're working for
me.  Hicks, are you out of your head?  Have you told Bemis that you and
I are working together?"

"Sure not; but that butler is no fool, Mr. Owen."

"Was it from him you found out that Harry had the lawyers after us?"

"No--queer thing that, that--it wasn't."

"Who, then?"

"The little Espinosa."

"Espinosa--in New York?"

"Yes--met her at the Trocadero a week ago.  She'd seen old Calderwood
already.  I guess she blackmails him--the old reprobate, and him the
noble counselor at law for Mr. Harry Marvin!"

"So you put her on the scent--for us?"

"Why not?  The young fellow's been acting suspicious for a long time."

"You did very well."

"How about some money--I haven't seen the color of a roll since you
put that fool Baskinelli into the game.  Ain't you coming across?"

"Certainly; here," said Owen, handing over enough to sate even the
predatory greed of Hicks.  "Now, what I want you to do is to find me
some one among your horse racing friends who is down and out enough to
take a little cash job--at certain slight risks?"

"Yes--what?"

"I want a good rider on a wild horse.  He could make a thousand dollars
in an afternoon if the horse should happen to get wild at the right
time and do the right thing."

"Hm'm," mused Hicks.  "I wonder if Eddie Kaboff has still got his
livery stable down on Tenth avenue.  We might go see."

After ten minutes' walk Hicks brought up in front of a bill-plastered
door in a fence.  He held it open for Owen and they passed across a
vacant lot to a large dilapidated-looking stable at the further end.

The short, dark man who sat in a tilted chair against the doorway and
puffed lazily at a pipe, seemed to embody the spirit of the building
and the business done there.

He was a man who had once--in the days of racing--been called a
"sport."  He might still be called "horsey" and would consider the term
a compliment.  But Eddie Kaboff's fame and fortune had both dwindled
since the good old betting days when little swindling games larded the
solid profits of crooked races.  One by one his thoroughbreds had given
up their stalls to truck horses, just as Eddie's diamond studs had
given place to plain buttons.

His beady black eyes watched the two newcomers on their way across the
lot, but he gave no sign of recognition until Hicks and Owen reached
the door.

"Hello, Eddie," said Hicks.

Kaboff got up slowly and extended a flabby hand to his acquaintance.
He was introduced to Owen, who let Hicks do the talking.

"What's new, Eddie?"

"Nuthin'."

"Still got that wild horse you never was able to sell?"

"Yep."

"Can you still manage him yourself?"

"I guess I could, but he ain't safe to take among traffic."

Hicks stepped close to Kaboff, talking in rapid whispers.  The little
man turned white.

"No, no; I'm too old for that kind of game," he said.

Owen drew from his pocket a roll of yellowbacks--the biggest roll
Eddie Kaboff had seen since the days of  "easy money."

"This much to try it," said Owen, "and as much again if you make good."

Kaboff's glance wavered a moment between the penetrating eyes of Owen
and the money in his hand.

"Take it; it's yours."

The flabby hand closed almost caressingly around the roll.  "We'll go
in and have a look at the brute," he said.

They followed him through a line of stalls to a large padded box at the
far end of the barn.  A beautiful bay saddle horse occupied the box.
Kaboff entered and called the animal, which answered by flying into a
seeming fury, plunging about the box, kicking, rearing and snapping.

"Same old devil," muttered Hicks.  "He'll do."

The sight of an apple in Kaboff's hand calmed the animal.  It came to
him and ate docilely while he slipped a bridle over its head.  Once
outside the stall, however, it began another rampage.

Hicks held a last whispered conversation with Kaboff, giving him minute
instructions.

"I can just try it, you know," said Kaboff.  "I can't guarantee to get
away with it."

"As much again if you do, you know," said Owen as he started briskly
away with Hicks.

The place that Panatella had chosen for the start of his balloon
ascension was a field upon the crest of the Palisades above the
amusement park.

Panatella had brought with him from abroad a reputation for dare-devil
adventures in the air.  And he had proved his reckless courage in the
several brief ascensions that he had already made on this side.

Today, with his promise of the longest parachute drop on record, people
flocked to the field from New York and all adjacent New Jersey.

"I wish you wouldn't always invite that velvet-pawed servant on our
trips," grumbled Harry to Pauline, as Owen went for his dustcoat.

"Owen is my trustee and guardian.  You have no right to speak of him as
a servant.  Besides, when he's along he keeps you from being silly."

Harry stamped out to the garage, swung a new touring car around to the
door, and soon, with Owen and Pauline, was speeding for the ferry.

Signor Panatella was superintending the filling of the great gas bag.
He was a tall, lithe man in pink tights beneath which his muscles
bulged angularly like the gas filling the balloon bag.

A Latin rapidity of speech and motion added to the pink tights made him
comically frog-like, and even the abattis of medals on his breast could
not save his dignity.

He bustled about giving orders to the workmen who were preparing to cut
the ropes, then flitting back to the crowd to answer the questions of
impromptu admirers.

Pauline had left the car and was standing between Owen and Harry near
the rapidly filling bag.

"I wish I could talk to him, too--he's so cute and hippety-hoppy,"
she said.

Owen stepped to Panatella's side.

"Would you permit the young lady to see the balloon basket?" he asked.

"With pleasure," said the airman after a glance at Pauline.  He led the
way to the basket, and helped Pauline up so that she could look at the
equipment, the anchor with its long coil of rope, the sand bags and
water bottles.

She was plainly fascinated as Panatella explained the manner of his
flight and his drop through the air.  As she saw them attach the basket
to the tugging bag she was thrilled.

At this moment there was a flurry of excitement on the outskirts of the
crowd.  A horseman on a beautiful bay mount, that was evidently
unmanageable, came plunging and swerving down the field.

The crowd broke and scattered in front of the menacing hoofs that flew
in the air as the vicious animal reared.

The horseman, clad in a somewhat threadbare riding suit, was a small
man with beady black eyes that turned from side to side as he swayed in
his saddle.  He seemed to be afraid of his mount and to be looking for
help.  But it was remarkable that apparently so poor a rider held his
seat and actually managed to bring the beast to a nervous stand some
fifty yards from the balloon.

The little man looked around over the heads of the crowd.  He caught
sight of Owen beside Pauline near the balloon basket.  The lifting of
his riding cap might or might not have been a salute and signal.

"Oh, I wish I hadn't promised Harry not to go up.  I know Signor
Panatella would take me," sighed Pauline.

Harry had turned away to watch the actions of the strange horseman.

"You might scare him a little," Owen suggested.

Those words were the greatest risk he had taken in all his deeply laid
plots.

Pauline caught at the suggestion eagerly.  She sprang lightly from the
little platform into the balloon car.

A murmur of mingled astonishment, applause and alarm rose from the
crowd.  Two of the workmen were cutting the last ropes that held the
basket to earth. Ten others were holding it with their hands awaiting
the airman.

Panatella purposely delayed the moment of mounting the basket.  The
tugging of the huge balloon against the strength of a dozen men gave
impress to his feat, and he liked the state of suspense.

But the sound from the surprised throng called his attention now to a
scene that made him forget affectation and effect.  He started to run
toward the basket, shouting peremptory orders:

"Out of the car; out of the car instantly, madame!  You are risking
your life."

His excitement infected the crowd.  Surging, it seemed to sweep with it
the rider on the restive horse.  For, as a hand was suddenly lifted in
the midst of the crowd the horse apparently overcame the legs braced to
spring, it shot forward directly at the balloon basket.

The hand that had been raised was the hand of Raymond Owen.

All was happening so swiftly that neither Harry nor Panatella reached
the basket before the maddened animal.

The crowd had given way in panic before it.  Cries of fright were
mingled with cries of pain as the beast charged straight upon the men
holding the basket, felling and crushing them with shoulder and hoof.

For an instant a few desperate hands held to the wrenching car.
Panatella had all but reached the platform; Harry was within arm's
length of it, when, with a writhing twist the bag jerked the basket
sideways and upward, knocking to the ground the last two men who had
held it and whirling forth into the deathly emptiness of space a
cowering, stunned girl, whose white face peered and white hands pleaded
over the basket rim--peered down upon the upturned faces of thousands
who would have risked their lives to aid, but who stood helpless in
their pity, hushed in fear.

For a moment Harry had stood dazed.  It was as if the twanging taut of
the ropes, as the bag tore almost from his grasp the most precious
being in the world, had snapped the fibers of action in him.

The daze passed quickly, but in the moment of its passing.  The
balloon, risen now five hundred feet in the air, had swept its way
westward over a mile of ground.

Harry turned to look for his motor car.  Standing as he was at the spot
from which the balloon had ascended, he now faced a human barricade.
With a shout of warning he charged at what seemed to be a vulnerable
point in the files of wedged shoulders.  The wall resisted.  The throng
was lost to all but the dimming view of the balloon.  Harry swung right
and left with his broad shoulders.  He tore his way through.

The car was standing where he had left it on the outskirts of the
field.  As he approached it he saw Owen emerge from the crowd and hurry
toward a runabout that had just been driven upon the field.

"What's the matter?" yelled a man in the machine, and Harry recognized
the voice of Hicks.

"Miss Marvin--carried away in the balloon!" cried Owen in a tone of
excitement that was not all feigned.  He joined Hicks beside the
runabout.

Harry sprang to the seat of his touring car.  It seemed to leap
forward.  He shot past the two conspirators and heard Owen's voice
calling after him:

"Wait!  Where are you going?  I'll go with you."

"You're too late," shouted Harry bitterly, over his shoulder.  An
envelope of dust sealed itself around the spinning wheels of the big
machine as he took the road after the balloon.

Steadfast but hopeless he fixed his eyes upon the unconquerable thing
in its unassailable element--a thing that seemed to be fleeing from
him as if inspired by a human will.  Death rode beside him at his
breakneck speed, but he did not know it.  He knew only that he must
follow that black beacon in the sky--that he must be there when its
flight was over--when the end came.

He did not know that Owen and Hicks, in the runabout, were also
following--that they, too, watched with an interest as deep as his,
with a hope as poignant as his hopelessness, the dizzy voyage of
Pauline.






CHAPTER XI

FROM CLOUD TO CLIFF

"Wonder what he thinks he can do," growled Hicks as they sat in the
runabout and watched Harry pass them.

"Trying to break his own neck--for nothing," replied Owen.  "If he
keeps up that speed we'll get both birds with one sand bag."

"I hope so.  He didn't speak, did he?  You can see by the way he acts
he don't want us around--even now."

"It doesn't matter what he wants--it's what he does."

"You don't think he can save her?"

"He might--and I don't want her saved this time, Hicks, you
understand.  I can't afford it this time.  I've said too much."

"Well?"

"Where did you get this r

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