IN DARKEST GERMANY.

Policy No. 3,262,854.

Sir,—I am in receipt of your letter of yesterday, which has been handed to the Claims Department. I recollect that in a former letter you adverted to an existing policy with the Etna Office, and as that office will be liable to contribute a share of the moneys covered by the double insurance you are required to furnish particulars of the policy.

Yours truly,

D. Smith, etc., etc.

H. Jones, Esq.

Policy No. 3,262,854.

Dear Sir,—I enclose, as requested, particulars of my policy with the Etna. For my own part, I do not quite see how it will help you, since, profiting by your advice, I succeeded in obtaining a part rebate of premium—thus, I apprehend, releasing the risk. But no doubt you know best.

Yours very truly,

The Secy.,Hy. Jones.

The Vesuvius Insce. Co.

Patriotic Teacher.Patriotic Teacher."'England expects—— 'Now, will one of you boys finish the sentence? 'England expects——'"Bright Pupil."To win!"

Patriotic Teacher."'England expects—— 'Now, will one of you boys finish the sentence? 'England expects——'"

Bright Pupil."To win!"

Asbury Park Evening Express.

Too many.

That's a nice pair of Oolan bootsFirst Trooper."That's a nice pair of Oolan boots you got there, Bill."Second Trooper."Yes; not bad. Had to knock out six of the blighters afore I got a pair to fit me!"

First Trooper."That's a nice pair of Oolan boots you got there, Bill."

Second Trooper."Yes; not bad. Had to knock out six of the blighters afore I got a pair to fit me!"

(Being a humble appeal to English Divines, suggested by the attitude of Teuton Professors to the Belgian atrocities.)

Hear me, most noble missionaries who,Toiling on Africa's half-tutored shore,Had words quite recently at KikuyuWhereof the motley bard may say no more.I would not dare to judge of warring creeds;It may be that the dark-skinned HottentotHas skill to balance up his spirit's needsAnd know that this is truth and that is not.But there are sloughs of ignorance so deepThat sect and rubric seem to fade away,Souls unaroused as yet from barbarous sleepThat have not glimpsed the prospect of the day.These have no art to tell the wrong from rightWho tot up two and two to sums unknown;Uganda, relatively erudite,Has wants unfelt by Frankfurt and Cologne.So, when the flags are furled, the trumpets mute,And soft-voiced messengers replace the guns,Let it be yours to stifle old disputeAnd found a first-aid mission to the Huns;Teaching them not at first the subtler thingsOf dogma, suited to a folk more wise,Such gospel as ye bear to savage kings,But "steal no longer" and "have done with lies."Tell them that murder is esteemed "tabu",That the Red Cross is now a sacred sign;Tell them no more than that; it will be new;They have no need of ritual on the Rhine.Let presently a non-sectarian school,Where knowledge shall be taught to Teuton menThat mumbo-jumbo is an out-worn rule,Be built at Heidelberg or Göttingen.There shall the Vandal sages come and go,And learn at last why Belgium felt chagrin,And pace the Prussian goose-step very slow,From class to class, with lots of halts between.They shall attain in time, but not as yet,To starrier heights that now the negroes win;Meanwhile your common goal is clearly setTo wake the untouched blindness of Berlin.

Hear me, most noble missionaries who,Toiling on Africa's half-tutored shore,Had words quite recently at KikuyuWhereof the motley bard may say no more.

Hear me, most noble missionaries who,

Toiling on Africa's half-tutored shore,

Had words quite recently at Kikuyu

Whereof the motley bard may say no more.

I would not dare to judge of warring creeds;It may be that the dark-skinned HottentotHas skill to balance up his spirit's needsAnd know that this is truth and that is not.

I would not dare to judge of warring creeds;

It may be that the dark-skinned Hottentot

Has skill to balance up his spirit's needs

And know that this is truth and that is not.

But there are sloughs of ignorance so deepThat sect and rubric seem to fade away,Souls unaroused as yet from barbarous sleepThat have not glimpsed the prospect of the day.

But there are sloughs of ignorance so deep

That sect and rubric seem to fade away,

Souls unaroused as yet from barbarous sleep

That have not glimpsed the prospect of the day.

These have no art to tell the wrong from rightWho tot up two and two to sums unknown;Uganda, relatively erudite,Has wants unfelt by Frankfurt and Cologne.

These have no art to tell the wrong from right

Who tot up two and two to sums unknown;

Uganda, relatively erudite,

Has wants unfelt by Frankfurt and Cologne.

So, when the flags are furled, the trumpets mute,And soft-voiced messengers replace the guns,Let it be yours to stifle old disputeAnd found a first-aid mission to the Huns;

So, when the flags are furled, the trumpets mute,

And soft-voiced messengers replace the guns,

Let it be yours to stifle old dispute

And found a first-aid mission to the Huns;

Teaching them not at first the subtler thingsOf dogma, suited to a folk more wise,Such gospel as ye bear to savage kings,But "steal no longer" and "have done with lies."

Teaching them not at first the subtler things

Of dogma, suited to a folk more wise,

Such gospel as ye bear to savage kings,

But "steal no longer" and "have done with lies."

Tell them that murder is esteemed "tabu",That the Red Cross is now a sacred sign;Tell them no more than that; it will be new;They have no need of ritual on the Rhine.

Tell them that murder is esteemed "tabu",

That the Red Cross is now a sacred sign;

Tell them no more than that; it will be new;

They have no need of ritual on the Rhine.

Let presently a non-sectarian school,Where knowledge shall be taught to Teuton menThat mumbo-jumbo is an out-worn rule,Be built at Heidelberg or Göttingen.

Let presently a non-sectarian school,

Where knowledge shall be taught to Teuton men

That mumbo-jumbo is an out-worn rule,

Be built at Heidelberg or Göttingen.

There shall the Vandal sages come and go,And learn at last why Belgium felt chagrin,And pace the Prussian goose-step very slow,From class to class, with lots of halts between.

There shall the Vandal sages come and go,

And learn at last why Belgium felt chagrin,

And pace the Prussian goose-step very slow,

From class to class, with lots of halts between.

They shall attain in time, but not as yet,To starrier heights that now the negroes win;Meanwhile your common goal is clearly setTo wake the untouched blindness of Berlin.

They shall attain in time, but not as yet,

To starrier heights that now the negroes win;

Meanwhile your common goal is clearly set

To wake the untouched blindness of Berlin.

Evoe.

"Lieutenant Asquith's first thought is for the comfort and feeding of his mary ..."—Daily Record.

"Holiday Courses in German, Kaiserslauten, Rhenish Palatinate.Lectures under the auspices of the International Peace Association.—Aug. 3 to Aug. 29."

This course of pacific lectures has had to be postponed, but it is hoped that it may be given by the end of next summer under the auspices of the Allies in Berlin.

A PLAIN DUTY.A PLAIN DUTY.Britannia(to Holland). "MY RESOURCES AND MY OBLIGATIONS ARE GREATER THAN YOURS; LET THIS SERVICE FALL UPON ME."[The number of Belgian refugees in Holland is probably ten times as great as the number in England.]

Britannia(to Holland). "MY RESOURCES AND MY OBLIGATIONS ARE GREATER THAN YOURS; LET THIS SERVICE FALL UPON ME."

[The number of Belgian refugees in Holland is probably ten times as great as the number in England.]

Well, William, heard anything of your son?"Well, William, heard anything of your son?""No, Miss; but they'll send 'e to the front right away. 'E be just the man they be wantin' there.""I'm sure he is. But why do you think he will go straight to the front?""Why, you see, Miss, 'e'll be able to show 'em the way about. 'E was at the Boer War, an' knows all them furrin' parts."

"Well, William, heard anything of your son?""No, Miss; but they'll send 'e to the front right away. 'E be just the man they be wantin' there.""I'm sure he is. But why do you think he will go straight to the front?""Why, you see, Miss, 'e'll be able to show 'em the way about. 'E was at the Boer War, an' knows all them furrin' parts."

Mr. Arthur Grayson, recently returned from Bad Nauheim, brings an interview with His Excellency Herrvon Bode, which he obtained under curious circumstances. It seems that the famous Director of the Kaiser Friedrich Museum in Berlin, and for long the ultimate arbiter of taste in Germany, wishing to send a message to the American people, wrote to an American journalist, also, as it chanced, named Grayson, and also a resident in the other Grayson's hotel, making an appointment. But the American Grayson had then gone, and the English Grayson having opened his letter by mistake, and being not unwilling to see Berlin for himself during war-time, carried the missive to the capital, met the illustrious virtuoso and received the confidences intended for the instruction of New York and Washington, correcting their preposterous view of the German origin of the war.

We now give Mr. Grayson's words: "'To make you understand the situation clearly,' said Herrvon Bode, 'we must go back a little into history. Some years ago I was offered by an English dealer a wax bust of Flora, which I saw in a moment was byLeonardo da Vinci. No trained eye could have mistaken it for anything else. I therefore bought it and made it the very jewel of this superb collection. England, however, always envious and acquisitive, in matters of connoisseurship dense, and now mad with rage to think that I alone had sufficient culture to discern the true and beautiful, at once set up the cry that the bust was the work not ofLeonardoin the fifteenth century, but of an Englishman namedLucasin the nineteenth. They stopped at nothing in defence of this claim. The English sculptor's son was even produced to remember his father at work on it; while it was affirmed that a piece of his father's waistcoat had been used as an internal support for the bust. The campaign of calumny and mis-information, in short, was as thorough as ifWolff'sBureau—I mean it was very thorough.'

"'And what happened?' I asked.

"'We had no doubt ourselves,' said my companion. 'Had Mr.Tussaudhimself sworn that he was the modeller only yesterday we should have had no doubt, so indelibly, to the competent German eye, was the genius ofLeonardostamped upon it. But we permitted the bust to be opened from the back, and true enough a piece of modern cloth was found within. That, however, as I say, could not affect the authenticity of the work, for it might easily have been sent toLucasfor renovation, and it is well known that a renovator often stuffs something inside the shell of these busts to keep it from falling in while he is at work.'

"'Still it was, perhaps, awkward for you?' I asked.

"'In the contemptible English art circles some cry of triumph was raised,' he replied, 'but no one in Germany was shaken. Moreover, they knew—what I knew—that England raised these doubts merely to cover her own original stupidity and ignorance. She was now convinced that it was byLeonardo, because she knew I could not err, and her game was to belittle the bust. How barbaric! how devilish!but how characteristic! And why did she belittle it?" he continued.

"'Why, indeed, go to that trouble?' I said.

"'Because'—his words were slow and impressive—'because she wanted it! She wanted it, hungered for it, thirsted for it. She had let it go and she could not forgive herself. How much she wanted it no one will ever know!' He paused.

"'What then did she do?' he resumed. 'Finding that her bitter attack on the bust was useless, and served only to make us prize it the more, she began to plot to steal it. I could not tell you the number of attempts that have been made to get possession of this world-wonder. No one could tell you. Day after day Englishmen, disguised even as German gentlemen, thronged the museum, all asking the way to the bust. We were continually on our guard. Attendants patrolled the room day and night. Our efforts were successful.'

"He paused again and looked at me in triumph.

"'Yes,' he resumed, 'the bust remained where it was. England, in despair, then decided that a supreme effort must be made, and began to arm and mobilize. The art faction got hold of SirEdward Grey—nobbled him, as you say. It was upon learning of this treacherous preparation and its dastardly motive, that our sublimeKaisertook the action he did. I say it with conviction, there would have been no war but for England's mad desire to possess again theLeonardowax bust.'

"'But what about the violation of Belgium?' I asked.

"'Ah!' he said darkly. 'It was England's intention to march through Belgium to Berlin to get the bust. Fortunately we knew that. We therefore marched through Belgium first.'

"With these words the famous virtuoso sat back in his chair.

"'If you will consent to be blind-folded for a part of the journey—a necessary precaution which I am sure you will appreciate,' he remarked a moment or so later,—'I will show you the priceless masterpiece in its hiding-place. Then you will understand. Also I should like the world to know how Germany reveres and guards its choicest treasures."

"Naturally I consented, and a bandage being bound over my eyes I took the hand of my companion and was led away.

"You may wonder that after everything that has been happening recently I was willing thus to entrust myself to a German, but you must remember that so far as he knew I was an American, a member of a country whose goodwill has been angled for with every conceivable bait. It is not as if I had been a cathedral or a French priest or a Belgian mother.

"For how far I was led I cannot say, but we seemed to descend an incredible distance into the earth and then pass along interminable passages. At last my eyes were unbound and I discovered myself to be in the midst of a company of soldiers armed to the teeth, obviously underground, and I saw opposite me, in the light of an electric torch, a massive iron gate, which the supreme expert proceeded to unlock.

"We entered a gloomy cavern and again were confronted by a massive gate, which in its turn was also unlocked, revealing an inner chamber in the midst of which was a glass case.

"My companion reverently uncovered. 'The triumph of my career,' he murmured. 'The coping-stone of my virtuosity. The cause of my ennoblement.'

"Before us was the famous wax bust, fresh from the hands ofLuc—I meanLeonardo.

"'And the early-Victorian waistcoat,' I said, 'which the clumsy fellow who renovated this bust always stuffed into the Leonardos which he was called upon to botch—you still have that?"

"'Oh no,' replied the enthusiast hastily, 'we threw that away. Why keep that? But you can understand," he continued, "why we have taken all the precautions we have? Whatever else might be lost in any attack on Berlin—should one be within the bounds of possibility—this must be saved.'

"'Not only must,' I replied, but will be saved. I feel certain that your plans have been sufficient. England, whatever else she may take from Berlin, will leave this bust with you.'

"He wrung my hand. 'You hearten me,' he said. 'But now for the return journey;' and again the bandage was applied."

II.

III.

Among other items being produced at the Ambassadors' Theatre by an Anglo-Franco-Belgian company is "My Lady's Undress." A contemporary describes this as "a good take-off."

This is fromThe Bahia Blanca Times(the only foreign paper we take in), and shows how the news gets about.

"Germany and Holland ... are neighbours of ethnological affinity and united by numerous commercial and intellectual bombs."

Even the bombs in Germany are cultured.

"Excuse me, but can you tell me which is Hunter Street?" said the tall pleasant-looking man with the slightly foreign aspect.

"Hunter Street," I said, waving a vague hand, "lies over there. It is," I continued, fixing him with a stern look, "for constabulary purposes a chapel-of-ease to Bow Street."

He did not seem in the least perturbed.

"Ah!" he said, "a special constable, I suppose?"

I was only going on duty—theoretically I am never off duty—but I am missing no chances.

"Yes," I said, "I am. Do you mind telling me, quite between ourselves, you know, whether you are a German spy?"

He smiled slightly.

"Because if you are," I said, "perhaps you wouldn't mind holding on a minute. The strap of my truncheon has (tug) got fouled (tug) with my (tug) braces."

I got it out at last and stroked it lovingly. "I can't start before I'm ready," I said. "Rather neat bit of wood—what? Chose it myself at Bow Street. I take a 13½-ounce racquet, you know."

"You seem," he said, "to have given up caring whether I am a German spy or not."

"Your mistake," I said; "I was merely gaining time to size you up properly. Better take your pince-nez off. Broken glass is such a nuisance, don't you think?"

He ignored the friendly hint. "As a matter of fact," he said, "Iampartly German."

"Show me the German part," I said, gripping the corrugations of my truncheon more tightly. "I'm a little pressed for time."

"And partly French," he went on.

"That's rather awkward," I said.

"And I was born in Russia."

"Worse and worse," I said.

"And spent practically the first twenty years of my life in Italy."

"This," I said, "is the absolute boundary. Yours is a case for the New Prize Courts."

"But you haven't formally arrested me yet," he said.

"True," I said, "I'm just coming to that part, but at the moment I've forgotten the opening movements of the half-nelson."

"My wife," he said musingly, "will be very annoyed. She's extremely English, you know."

"Look here," I said, "I really think I shall let you go, after all. So little of you is the enemy, so much the friend, that I don't care to take the responsibility of arresting you. But perhaps I ought to resign. Come and have a sandwich, I've just time for one, and we can talk it over."

"Right," he said, "we may as well. By the way, it was my grandparents on my mother's side who were French and German." Then, producing his warrant card, he said, "I am a Special too. My name's Briggs."

TALES FROM THE TRENCHES.TALES FROM THE TRENCHES.Some of our Soldiers, who were within seventy yards of the German trenches, hoisted an improvised target. The Germans did the same. Both sides signalled the result of the shooting.First Tommy."Get down! Do you want 'em to cop yer?"Second Tommy."Blimy! The perishers signalled my bull a miss, and I'm just agoin' to 'op over an' tell 'em abaht it."

Some of our Soldiers, who were within seventy yards of the German trenches, hoisted an improvised target. The Germans did the same. Both sides signalled the result of the shooting.

First Tommy."Get down! Do you want 'em to cop yer?"

Second Tommy."Blimy! The perishers signalled my bull a miss, and I'm just agoin' to 'op over an' tell 'em abaht it."

The following reaches us from General Headquarters abroad:—

"Army Troop Order, No. 40.—Information has been received that many Field Service postcards are arriving at the G. P. O. without any address on them. The instructions printed on the cards that nothing is to be written on them does not apply to the address. O. C.'s are requested to bring this fact to the notice of all ranks.Oct. 12, 1914."

The discipline in the Army seems to be almost too good.

"The German Press is conducting a campaign to prove that Belgium was deceived by the English, who, it is asserted, depicted the Germans as sausages; hence the people were frightened when the German troops approached."—Yorkshire Evening Press.The Scotch, however, are even less polite,The Aberdeen Evening Expressannouncing boldly—

The Scotch, however, are even less polite,The Aberdeen Evening Expressannouncing boldly—

"GORILLA FIGHTING ON THE BELGIAN FRONTIER."

The blinds were drawn, the lamps were lit and the fire was burning brightly. I was reading an evening paper—we get the 5.30 edition at the moment of publication, though we are thirty miles from London—and I had just found Prezymyzle (my own pronunciation) on the map for the thousandth time. Helen says that quite in the early days of the war she was told it ought to be pronounced Perimeeshy, but that seems impossible. Rosie declares for Prozmeel. Still she isn't very confident about it. One thing seems certain: when the Russians take this jaw-cracking town they will pronounce it quite differently from the Austrian form, whatever that may be. Just think of what happened to Lemberg. There appeared to be a kind of finality about that, but no sooner were the Russians in it than it turned into Lwow. After that anything might happen to Przemysl.

However, there were the three of us sitting in the library. I was helping the common cause with the evening paper and the map, and Helen and Rosie were knitting away like mad at khaki mufflers for LadyFrench. Click-click went the needles; the youthful fingers moved with incredible deftness and celerity, and line after line was added by each executant to her already enormous pile. There had been a long silence, and the time for breaking it seemed to have come.

"Well done, both of you," I said. "You really are getting on to-day. A week ago I thought you'd never get finished, and now——" I waved my hand encouragingly at the two heaps of wool-work.

"There," said Helen, "you've made me drop one."

"Pick it up again," I said with enthusiasm. "What were girls made for if not to pick up dropped stitches? But tell me," I added, "what would happen if you didn't pick it up?"

"My soldier," said Helen gloomily, "would go into the trenches and, instead of having a muffler, he would suddenly find himself coming undone all over him. Do you think he would like that?"

"No," I said, "he wouldn't. No soldier could possibly like a thing of that sort when he's got to fight Germans."

"I wonder," put in Rosie, "whatmysoldier will be like. I think I should like him to have a moustache—yes, I'm sure I want him to have a moustache."

"He'll have a moustache all right," said Helen, who is practical rather than dreamy. "And he'll have whiskers, too, and a beard as long as your arm. Do you think people have time to shave when they're in trenches?"

"Well, anyhow," said Rosie, "both our soldiers will be very brave men."

"That," said Helen, "is quite certain. Let's put in some good hard stitches to thank them for their bravery."

There was a short silence while this operation was performed with great zeal. The fingers flew through their complicated task and the web seemed to grow visibly.

"Haven't you both," I said, "done about enough? Talk about mufflers! In my day a muffler was something a man wore round his neck; but your mufflers would serve to clothe a whole platoon from head to heel with something left over. Benevolence is all very well, but you shouldn't overdo it. There isn't a soldier alive who wouldn't trip over your mufflers. Think of him tripped up by a muffler and caught by a German."

"LadyFrench," said Helen, "wrote in her letter toThe Timesthat every muffler was to be two yards and a half long and twelve inches broad."

"Well," I said, "you've got the breadth all right."

"Yes," said Helen, "we got that in the first line, and we've never let go of it since. Anybody could get the breadth.Youcould do that if you tried."

"Graceless child," I said, "you don't seem to be aware that in my earliest boyhood I once began to knit a sock."

"But you didn't finish it," said Helen. "I know that story."

"Fathers," said Rosie, "could knit very well if they tried, but they won't try."

"Come," I said, "I won't compete with you in knitting, but I'm game to bet you've done seven feet six inches in length already."

"All right," said Helen, "we'll bet a penny. Only remember, mine was only six feet yesterday and Rosie's was four inches shorter."

I spread the fabrics on the floor and set to work with a tape measure. The first result was, Helen five feet eleven inches; Rosie five feet six inches.

"This," I said, "is maddening. You are imitating Penelope."

"I don't know about Penelope," said Helen, "but you haven't straightened them out enough."

I smoothed them out carefully and measured again. This time the result was, Helen six feet two inches; Rosie five feet ten inches.

"Capital!" I said; "I will do some more smoothing."

"No," said Helen, "that won't be fair to LadyFrenchor our soldiers. We must give them an inch or so over, if anything;" and they picked up the unfinished mufflers and set to work at them with renewed energy.

This was four days ago. Now both the mufflers are gloriously finished and ready to be despatched. When our two soldiers wear them we hope they will feel that there is a little magic in them as well as a great deal of warmth. There is love knitted into them and admiration and gratitude, and there are quiet thoughts of beautiful English country-sides and happy homes which our soldiers are helping to guard for us, though they are far away.

R. C. L.

(A Point of View.)

Farewell to the stretches of pasture and ploughAnd the flicker of sterns through the gorse on the hill,And the mulberry coats there, alone with them now,To cheer as they're finding and whoop at the kill;Farewell to the vale and the woodland forlorn,To the fox in his earth and the hound on his bench;Unheard is the pack and unheeded the horn,So loud and so near are the bugles ofFrench.The lines of blood hunters are gone from the stallsAnd a host of good men to the millions that meet,For grim is the Huntsman, in thunder he calls,And continents roar with the galloping feet;There's a country to cross where the fences are steel,And, though many must fall and the finish is far,There is none shall outride them, with heart, hand and heel,Who have gone hard and straight in "The Image of War."

Farewell to the stretches of pasture and plough

And the flicker of sterns through the gorse on the hill,

And the mulberry coats there, alone with them now,

To cheer as they're finding and whoop at the kill;

Farewell to the vale and the woodland forlorn,

To the fox in his earth and the hound on his bench;

Unheard is the pack and unheeded the horn,

So loud and so near are the bugles ofFrench.

The lines of blood hunters are gone from the stallsAnd a host of good men to the millions that meet,For grim is the Huntsman, in thunder he calls,And continents roar with the galloping feet;There's a country to cross where the fences are steel,And, though many must fall and the finish is far,There is none shall outride them, with heart, hand and heel,Who have gone hard and straight in "The Image of War."

The lines of blood hunters are gone from the stalls

And a host of good men to the millions that meet,

For grim is the Huntsman, in thunder he calls,

And continents roar with the galloping feet;

There's a country to cross where the fences are steel,

And, though many must fall and the finish is far,

There is none shall outride them, with heart, hand and heel,

Who have gone hard and straight in "The Image of War."

(Suggested by recent exploits of the "Taube" Aeroplane.)

In ancient and in happier days the DoveStood as an emblem sure of peace and love;Now must we link it with the fiend who fliesDown-dropping death on children from the skies.

In ancient and in happier days the Dove

Stood as an emblem sure of peace and love;

Now must we link it with the fiend who flies

Down-dropping death on children from the skies.

Sportsman.Sportsman."Last two cartridges, Dan. What's to be done now?"Dan'l."Ye'll hev to take to the bainit, Colonel."

Sportsman."Last two cartridges, Dan. What's to be done now?"

Dan'l."Ye'll hev to take to the bainit, Colonel."

[It is rumoured that Cinema playwrights, following the example of certain well-known stage dramatists, are likely in future, in addition to the film representations, to publish their works in novel-form. The manuscript of one of the earliest of these productions has just come into our hands.]

The last rays of the setting sun, shining through the windows of the Foreign Office, fell upon Clement Carmichael, the brilliant young Foreign Secretary, as he sat at his desk studying despatches. A slight noise caused him to raise his head sharply, and he observed a stranger of alien appearance standing before him.

Without a word the intruder produced a revolver and levelled it at Carmichael. Caught like a rat in a trap, the latter, after a moment's hesitation, handed over the despatches and leaned back with an expression of bitter despair.

"It is Raymond Blütherski!" he gasped when he was again alone. "I am ruined!"

There was not an instant to be lost. Dashing down the steps of the Foreign Office, Carmichael leapt into the waiting motor and shouted hoarsely to the driver. A moment later the car was disappearing rapidly down the street.

Felix Capperton, the detective whose fame had penetrated two hemispheres, was playing chess with his daughter Madge, a tall and beautiful blonde. Suddenly the door opened and Carmichael entered hastily. In a few tense words he explained the situation to the famous sleuth, while Madge Capperton stood silent, pressing her hands to her heart.

The detective pointed meaningly at the chessboard, and Carmichael bent over it with an expectant face.

"It is checkmate!" he said.

"We will checkmate Blütherski!" replied the other confidently.

The eyes of the Foreign Secretary met those of the girl and a sympathetic smile passed between them.

In his private sanctum Capperton with skillful fingers fixed a moustache and side whiskers to his lean and mobile face. His daughter handed him a soft hat and a Gladstone bag, and he was transformed before her eyes into a commercial traveller.

Raymond Blütherski paced the deck of a Channel steamer, deeply absorbed in the fateful despatches. Suddenly he turned smartly on his heels.

He was face to face with Capperton, disguised as a commercial traveller.

Accustomed to such emergencies his mind was made up in an instant. Rolling the papers into a ball, he hurled them into the mouth of a large ventilator which stood near.

Unhesitatingly the detective threw himself into the ventilator and disappeared head first. With a cry of baffled rage Blütherski followed.

In the bows of the same steamer stood Madge Capperton and Clement Carmichael, gazing anxiously before them. Her fingers tightened on his arm. Their faces took on an expression of horror and despair.

A huge liner was bearing directly down upon them!

In the treacherous waters of the English Channel the brilliant young Foreign Secretary supported Madge Capperton with one arm, while with the other he swam strongly towards the only floating object in view.

As they drew near he perceived that it was a large ship's ventilator. It was sinking fast, and from its mouth protruded the heads of two men engaged in a life-and-death struggle. They were Capperton and Blütherski.

With a cry of encouragement Carmichael redoubled his efforts.

A ship's lifeboat, propelled by strong and willing arms, travelled swiftly across the sea. Presently a shout went up from the man in the bow. Four figures were seen struggling frantically in the water, and the rowers bent themselves with renewed energy to their oars.

On board the liner which had been responsible both for the collision and the rescue, Raymond Blütherski, a sinister figure, was seen to leave his cabin and disappear down the corridor. An instant later Carmichael and Capperton entered stealthily. With quick cat-like movements the detective pushed open the door and tip-toed into the cabin.

Carmichael waited outside in an attitude of intense watchfulness. As a steward passed down the corridor he assumed a careless expression and lit a cigarette with nonchalant elaboration.

Directly the steward had gone the watcher resumed his vigil, every nerve on the alert.

Inside the cabin the detective hurriedly opened drawers, turned over bed-clothes, tapped partitions and felt in boots. Then with an expression of disappointment he turned to the door.

In the corridor the two men stood face to face.

"Have you found them?" asked Carmichael hoarsely.

"No. They have sunk in the sea!" replied the other.

Across the smooth waters of the English Channel a motor-boat moved swiftly. In the bows the Foreign Secretary and the detective gazed earnestly forward.

Presently the latter clutched Carmichael's arm with an oath. Another boat had come into view, and they perceived that a diver in full costume was climbing into it.

The motor-boat came to a stop alongside the other. It could be seen that the diver held in his hand a ball of paper.

The diver's headpiece was being unscrewed. On either side of him stood Capperton and Carmichael, each with a loaded revolver.

At length the cumbrous helmet was lifted off and the face of the diver was revealed.

It was Madge!

The motor-boat drew up beside the quay and the Foreign Secretary stepped out with the detective and his daughter. All were plainly in a joyous mood, and they smiled happily at each other.

So gratified were they at their success that they quite failed to observe three men, who crept up stealthily behind them and thrust pads soaked in chloroform over their mouths.

In a few seconds the struggles of the victims ceased, and their inert bodies were roughly thrust into a waiting motor.

From the driver's seat Blütherski smiled sardonically.

Madge Capperton lay in a cellar of Blütherski's house, tightly bound and gagged. But her indomitable spirit was not yet cowed.

Using the edge of a rough stone as a saw she was laboriously severing the cord which tied her wrists. At length her persistence was rewarded and the frayed ends of the rope fell apart.

In fifteen seconds she stood up free.

In another cellar, similarly shackled, the resolute detective was exerting all his mighty strength to burst his bonds.

With a superhuman effort he broke the cord which held his arms, and in fifteen seconds he also was free.

In a small room in the same house the detective's daughter methodically pressed her hand against picture after picture hung on the walls. Her face was grimly determined.

At last she was successful. A large section of the wall slid back, revealing a dark opening.

After a few seconds' natural hesitation the brave girl stepped through the aperture.

Raymond Blütherski lay asleep. On his dressing-table rested the fatal ball of paper.

Suddenly a portion of the wall moved back and Madge Capperton appeared in the opening. As noiselessly as possible she crept forward and snatched up the despatches. In a few seconds she would be safe!

At that instant Blütherski awoke, leapt out of his bed and grasped her roughly by the arm. But he had reckoned without Capperton.

The commanding figure of the detective appeared in the room. He levelled a large revolver at Blütherski, and the latter threw up his hands with a cry of baffled hate.

In a moonlit garden Clement Carmichael was waiting impatiently. Presently Madge came to him with a radiant face and placed the lost despatches in his hands. His reputation was saved!

Seizing the girl in his arms he pressed his lips to hers in a long passionate kiss.

(For a sensitive Scot.)

Tea-shop, how I loathe thee!Our connection's o'er;Henceforth I don't know theeAny more.'Tisn't that I did notOn thy pastry dote;'Tisn't that it slid notDown my throat;'Tisn't that thy crumpetsFell a trifle flat—If I've got the hump it'sNot from that.'Tisn't that the waitressTried to wink at me,Or let fall a stray tressIn my tea;'Tisn't that I tossed theeTenpence in the tillFor a snack that cost theeAlmostnil....Nay, 'twasthisunnerved me—Just a scŏne alone,Which the lass who served meCalled a scōne.

Tea-shop, how I loathe thee!Our connection's o'er;Henceforth I don't know theeAny more.

Tea-shop, how I loathe thee!

Our connection's o'er;

Henceforth I don't know thee

Any more.

'Tisn't that I did notOn thy pastry dote;'Tisn't that it slid notDown my throat;

'Tisn't that I did not

On thy pastry dote;

'Tisn't that it slid not

Down my throat;

'Tisn't that thy crumpetsFell a trifle flat—If I've got the hump it'sNot from that.

'Tisn't that thy crumpets

Fell a trifle flat—

If I've got the hump it's

Not from that.

'Tisn't that the waitressTried to wink at me,Or let fall a stray tressIn my tea;

'Tisn't that the waitress

Tried to wink at me,

Or let fall a stray tress

In my tea;

'Tisn't that I tossed theeTenpence in the tillFor a snack that cost theeAlmostnil....

'Tisn't that I tossed thee

Tenpence in the till

For a snack that cost thee

Almostnil....

Nay, 'twasthisunnerved me—Just a scŏne alone,Which the lass who served meCalled a scōne.

Nay, 'twasthisunnerved me—

Just a scŏne alone,

Which the lass who served me

Called a scōne.

In connection with his chief Cartoon of this week,Mr. Punchbegs to invite his readers to help the kind people of Holland on whom the care of so many Belgian refugees has fallen. Contributions will be gladly received by the International Women's Relief Committee (Miss Chrystal Macmillan, Treasurer), 7, Adam Street, Adelphi, W.C.

Scene: A Recruiting Station

which suggestion sergeant O'Flanagan carries out

(By Mr. Punch's Staff of Learned Clerks.)

Coasting Bohemiais the attractive title of a series of essays upon men and matters by Mr.Comyns Carr, issued in a portly volume published byMacmillan. During the last forty years Mr.Carr, eminently a clubable man, has made the acquaintance and enjoyed the friendship of a galaxy of painters, authors and actors. He was equally at home withMillais,Alma-Tadema,Rossetti,Burne-Jones,Whistler,George Meredith,Henry IrvingandArthur Sullivan. A shrewd observer, quick in sympathy, apt in characterisation, he has much that is interesting and informing to say of each. Perhaps the chapter onWhistleris the most attractive, since in some respects his individuality was the most pronounced. In a couple of brief sentences, pleasing in the slyness of their gentle malice, Mr.Carrhits off a striking quality in the character of theWhistlerwe most of us knew. "At times," he writes, "Whistler was even greedy of applause, and, provided it was full and emphatic enough, showed no inclination to question its source or authority. There were moments indeed when, if it appeared to lack volume or vehemence, he was ready himself to supply what was deficient." Mr.Carrhas in his time played many parts. He made a start at the Bar, but did not get further than the position of a Junior, which suited him admirably. As a critic, he cannot plead in extenuation the dictum ofDisraelithat critics are those who have failed in Literature and Art. He has written several successful plays, was English editor ofL'Art, was among the founders of the New Gallery, and remains established as one of our best after-dinner speakers. Of such is the kingdom of Bohemia. From these various sources he draws a stream of reminiscence that runs pleasantly through many pages. The only drawback to the delight with which I read them arose from the circumstance that the volume was uncut. Why should a harmless reviewer be compelled to "coast Bohemia" armed with a paper-knife, interrupted, when he comes to an exceptionally interesting point, by necessity for cutting a chunk of pages?R.S.V.P., Messrs.Macmillan.

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