AN OUNCE OF RADIUM.
"Itseems likely," said the President, with singular irrelevance, "that there will be a slump in radium."
"All South Africans are down," remarked Chillingford gloomily. "What in the world are you fellows laughing at?"
"It isn't a mine, Tommy. It's a horse. Won the Nobel Stakes," Marmaduke Percy called out.
"Order, gentlemen, if you please," continued the President. "I was remarking on the probability of a slump in radium. This is what to-day's paper says:
"'£896,000 was recently quoted as the market price for a single pound of radium. We suggest that it would be advisable for any holder to realise promptly, as Professor Blyth has discovered a method of obtaining this remarkable element from a substance other than pitch-blende. He has already isolated one ounce avoirdupois—at yesterday's price worth £56,000—which has been exhibited to a select number of scientists at his laboratory at Harlesden Green.
"'It seems likely that radium will no longer remain the toy of the conversazione, but that it will take its place among the great forces of civilisation. As a moderate-sized cube of it is sufficient to warm the dining-room of an average ratepayer for something like two thousand years, we shall no doubt find in this element the motive power of the future. The smoke nuisance of our great towns will disappear, ocean coaling stations will no longer be necessary, and incidentally about a million workers in the coal trade will be thrown out of employment.'
"This, gentlemen, is from theDaily Argusof to-day."
"Take your word for it, old man," "Carriednem. con.," and sundry other similar cries greeted the speaker.
The Duke waved his hand disparagingly. "Our secretary informs me," he went on, "that the subscription of Major Everett Anstruther is now due. It is suggested that he should produce this £56,000 worth of radium at our next meeting in payment thereof; although I believe that is something less than the value of membership of our Club."
That is why, on April 4th last, MajorEverett Anstruther climbed the wall at the back of Professor Blyth's house at Harlesden.
His methods were those of the average burglar. He forced back the catch of one of the windows, drew up the sash, and stepped gently down from the window-sill into the room.
He was in the Professor's laboratory, a one-storeyed building joined to the dwelling-house by a corridor.
Anstruther turned on his portable electric light, and took his bearings. He was in an ordinary scientific laboratory, surrounded by induction coils, Crookes' tubes, balances, prismatic and optical instruments, and other and more complicated apparatus, the use of which he could not guess.
He walked slowly round, observing every corner. Where was the radium? He had read up the subject, and had learnt of its power to penetrate almost any substance, and now he turned off his light, hoping to see its rays.
There was nothing but absolute darkness.
He resolved to explore further. He opened the door gently. In front of him was the passage leading to the house. At his left another door—wide open.
He stopped before it in mute surprise and admiration.
On a table in the middle of the room was a luminous mass. The wall behind was aglow with a dancing, scintillating light. The rest of the room was in darkness, save for the dim light cast by the glowing mass and the phosphorescent screen behind.
It was the radium! How could the Professor leave it in so exposed a place? No doubt it was there that it had been exhibited to the scientists—but £56,000 worth left on a table for anyone to handle! It was absurd. Only a professor would have done it.
But it wasn't for him to grumble at the peculiar methods of learned men, and with a cheerful heart Anstruther stepped lightly into the room.
As he did so the door closed behind him with a click. The Major paused. "That's queer," he thought. "I didn't feel a draught, and I didn't touch the door."
Luckily the laboratory was isolated from the rest of the house, so the slight noise would not have been heard. He waited for some minutes to reassure himself; then he stepped back to the door and gently turned the knob, without result. He pushed; pulled and pushed; lifted and pushed; presseddown and pushed; tried in every way he could think of, but the door would not open.
He examined it carefully. Save for its knob its surface was absolutely plain. There was no keyhole or latch.
"Trapped, by Jove!" Anstruther exclaimed under his breath; and as his unpleasant situation dawned upon him he felt more uncomfortable than he had ever done in his life before. In fact, he felt physically ill.
"Confound it!" he thought. "It's deuced annoying, but it isn't as bad as all that. I don't know why it should bowl me over. Perhaps there's another way out of this den."
He walked round the room, feeling the wall for some shutter, even searching the floor for a trap-door. There was none. Save for a telephone and the table, he encountered nothing but plain surface.
"Of all the infernal holes to be in," he muttered. "Trapped like this, and all through my own carelessness." And then it occurred to him that he, Everett Anstruther, late a major of his Majesty's Horse Guards Blue, and now member of Parliament for Helston, would in a few hours be haled away to prison on a charge of attempted burglary. A pleasant situation, truly!
He felt ill—worse than before. His head ached, and his temples throbbed. What on earth did it mean? He had been in tight places before—once in Italy, when his life wasn't worth a moment's purchase, and then he was absolutely cool. But now——
Man talking on the wall phone"'YOU ARE A THIEF.'"(p. 93.)
(p. 93.)
He started as if a pistol had been fired. A bell had rung behind him—an electric bell. It was the telephone bell, and it was still ringing. He watched it in dismay. It would rouse the whole house. Lift down the receiver, of course. He did so. The bell stopped. He put the receiver to his ear.
"Are you there?" a voice asked.
He did not reply. There was no need. While the receiver was off the bell wouldn't ring.
"If you don't answer I shall wake the house," came the voice, as if in answer to his thoughts.
The Major groaned inwardly. "Yes, I'm here," he replied.
"Good. How do you feel?"
"Oh, pretty tollollish," he answered. "Must be the doctor," he thought.
"What is your name?"
"Smithers," said the Major, with a sudden inspiration. "John Smithers."
"John Smithers," came the slow response. "Thank you. Your age last birthday?"
"It seems to me he has been examining Blyth's factotum for life insurance," thought the Major. "Lucky I caught on so well. But what an extraordinary idea to collect these statistics at something after midnight."
"Age last birthday, please," came down the wire again.
"Thirty-five," replied the Major. "Nothing like the truth in an emergency," he added to himself.
"John Smithers, aged thirty-five," was repeated. "Late occupation?"
"Soldier."
"Good. Very good. Late occupation, soldier. Any pension?"
"Yes."
"What a fool you are to risk it for a bit of radium."
The Major stepped back in sheer amazement. "What did you say?" he asked.
"Whatever made you risk your pension for a bit of radium?"
"Don't know what you mean."
"Then I'll explain. You are a thief, locked up in Professor Blyth's dark room. Isn't that so?"
"Who are you?" asked the Major in dismay.
"Professor Blyth."
"The devil!" Anstruther ejaculated.
"No, sir—Professor Blyth," came the response.
"Where are you?" asked the Major.
"I am in the room at the end of the corridor. I can observe the door of your room from where I stand, and I have a loaded revolver in my hand."
"What are you going to do?"
"That depends upon you. I can either send for the police, and give you in charge, or I can take scientific observations with your assistance—whichever you prefer."
"What do you mean by scientific observations?"
"You are locked up in a room twelve feet square with an ounce of radium."
"Well?"
"You are the first man in the world who has been locked up with an ounce of radium in a room twelve feet square, and your sensations would be of scientific value. If you care to describe them to me by telephone so long as you are conscious, I will not prosecute; otherwise I will place the matterin the hands of the police. Which do you prefer to do?"
"You are remarkably kind to offer me the alternative. I think I prefer to describe my sensations."
"Thank you. I am really very much obliged to you, John Smithers; but I ought to warn you beforehand that you will be put to great personal inconvenience. If you decide to try the experiment I shall not release you for some hours. I shall certainly not break off in the middle, however ill you feel."
"I have told you my choice," said Anstruther curtly.
"Right. Stop, though. What sort of a heart have you?"
"Strong."
"Good. You'll need it. Got a watch?"
"Yes."
"Can you take your pulse?"
"Yes."
"You are a real treasure, John Smithers. I'm glad you called. You've been fifteen minutes in the room. What is your pulse?"
"Seventy-three."
"Thank you. Can you read a clinical thermometer?"
"Yes."
"On the ledge of the telephone, where the paper is, you will find a tube. Got it? There's a thermometer inside. Please take it out, and read it carefully."
"Ninety-seven," said the Major.
"Thank you. I had no idea the army was so intelligent. How the papers do deceive us! Now put the thermometer under your tongue for two minutes, and then let me know what it registers."
"Ninety-nine," came the eventual response.
"Thank you. Horse or foot soldier, Smithers?"
"Horse."
"Horse. Thank you. Married?"
"No."
"Good again, Smithers. No one dependent upon you, I hope? Have you a headache?"
"It's enough to give me one, answering all your questions."
"Please describe symptoms, and not attempt to diagnose them. Have you a headache?"
"Yes."
"How's your heart?"
"Beats irregularly."
"Probably it will. Respiration?"
"It's rather choky here. Can't you let me have a breath of fresh air?"
"On no account, Smithers—on no account. I'm surprised at your suggesting such a thing. That will do for the present. I'll ring up again shortly, and I'm always here if you want me. You might take a little gentle exercise now."
The major hung up his receiver. The room seemed to be much lighter now. The radium glowed more brightly, and the scintillations on the wall behind had increased in intensity. He advanced towards the radium, and was immediately conscious that his discomfort increased. There was a smarting sensation on the front of his body, as if it were exposed to fire. His breathing became more difficult, his headache increased. He drew back to the wall, and the symptoms became less marked.
The bell rang again. "I ought to inform you, Smithers," said the voice, "that no good at all would result from your attempting to destroy the radium. As a matter of fact, if you broke or crushed it you would feel very much worse. The particles wouldfly all over, and you would inhale them. The symptoms would be intensely interesting if you would care to experience them, but I won't answer for the consequences. I just want you to understand that you can't possibly escape from this important new element when once you are imprisoned in a room with it, especially when the room is only twelve feet square."
The major did not reply. He hung up his receiver in silence.
At the other end of the telephone was Robert Blyth, F.R.S., D.Sc., etc., etc., a little red-haired man, whose researches on the Mutilation and Redintegration of Crystals are of world-renown.
He was a grave little man as a rule. Only when on the verge of some discovery, or when watching the successful progress of an experiment, did he wax cheerful. He did this now as he surveyed his notes of the report of John Smithers, a horse-soldier, in durance vile in the adjoining room.
"Pulse, 73; temperature, 99; heart, irregular. Good. Respiration difficult. Well, that's understandable. He's been in there thirty-one minutes. Thanks to a strong constitution, he's scarcely felt anything yet;but now he'll have trouble. John Smithers, you are going to have an exceedingly bad time of it. If you weren't a criminal I should hesitate in giving it you. As it is, you must suffer for the cause of science. Your experience will, no doubt, make you hesitate before you attempt another crime."
The professor tilted back his chair. "Strange," he mused, "how brain controls matter to the end. Here's John Smithers in the next room—a strong man admittedly—cribbed, cabined, and confined by a man he could probably crumple up with one hand. It was a stroke of genius to advertise my discovery in the papers. The criminal classes all read them now, and I thought I should probably attract a thief. I placed the radium in the middle of the room, and painted the wall behind with sulphide of zinc so that he couldn't possibly miss it. I easily constructed a threshold that closed the door when stepped upon. And then I had only to wait."
Here the bell rang. "Aha, Smithers, you are growing impatient. Well?"
"Are you a Christian?" came the reply.
"I hope so. Why?"
"Do you call this Christian conduct, toimprison me here with this infernal block of fire? I tell you, man, it's poisoning me. It's choking me. It's getting to my brain. If you are a Christian, come down and let me out."
"None of that hysterical sort of talk, Smithers," said the Professor sternly. "It's no good appealing for mercy. You are a thief, and you've got to be punished. Pull yourself together, and show what you are made of. You don't know what a lot of good your sufferings may do to humanity. I shall publish a full account of them in theBritish Medical Journal, and I am sure your family will be proud of you when they read it."
"I haven't got a family, and if I had they shouldn't read your jibberings. I tell you that if you don't let me out I shall do something desperate!"
"You can't," said the Professor. "There's nothing in the room except the radium and the telephone. If you knock the radium about you'll only make things worse for yourself, and if you damage the telephone you cut off your only link with the outside world. Be a man, Smithers. You've read of the Black Hole of Calcutta.The sufferings of the prisoners there were far worse than yours."
"You are a scientific vampire—a howling chemical bounder!" came the response.
"Tut, tut!" said the Professor serenely. "Do try and be calm. Take a stroll round. You might put the thermometer under your tongue again, and let me have the record. Nothing like filling your leisure moments with useful occupation."
"Poor beggar!" he said to himself. "He's just beginning to realise things. Five centigrammes of radium chloride killed eight mice in three days; how long will it take an ounce of radium bromide to render a strong man insensible? That's the problem in rule of three, and it's high time that someone worked out the answer.
"Well?" in reply to the bell.
"Temperature, 102; pulse, 100. Look here, Blyth, I'm going dotty. If you won't have pity on me as a Christian, I appeal to you as a family man. Your people wouldn't like to hear of this, I'm sure."
"Pulse 100," repeated the Professor. "Jerky, I suppose?"
"Did you hear my appeal to you as a family man?"
"Now, Smithers, you agreed to help me with my scientific observations, and I wish you'd keep to the letter of the agreement. Is your pulse jerky?"
"It is, and my hands are fairly itching to close round your throat, and my toes would like to kick you into eternity. Blyth, if I die, I'll haunt you and your family to the fifth generation. If you don't end up in a madhouse it won't be my fault. You scoundrel! You contemptible——"
Again the Professor hung up the receiver. "Strange," he soliloquised, "how mentally unbalanced these common men are! I can't imagine myself giving way to such ravings, whatever situation I was in. That's the advantage of birth and education. Yet, judging from the way in which Smithers expresses himself, he must be a man of very fair education. It's birth alone that tells in the long run," and the Professor stroked his stubble chin complacently.
The minutes passed. "He ought to be feeling it now. I'll ring him up." The Professor did so, but there was no reply. "He can't have collapsed already—a horse-soldier of thirty-five." Once more he rang. This time there was a slow response.
"Why didn't you come before?" said the Professor irately.
"I'm not your servant. I was thinking how I'd like to chop you into mincemeat, Blyth, and scatter you to the crows. My head's splitting—splitting, do you hear? I shall go dotty, looking at this infernal heap of fire. Those moving specks of light behind are all alive, Blyth. They're grinning at me. They're choking me. And there you sit like a scientific panjandrum with a little round button on top. And you call yourself a Christian and a respectable family man. You are a disgrace to your country. Come down and let me out. Send for the police. I don't care."
"Smithers," said the Professor, "I'm ashamed of you. A horse soldier going on like a nurserymaid! I shall not send for the police. You agreed to this experiment, and you've got to see it through. Please remember that. How's your pulse?"
"Blyth, it's 120! It's ticking like a clock. I believe it's going to strike."
"Keep cool, Smithers. Have your hands a bluish tinge?"
"They seem to be green."
"Green? Preposterous!"
"They may be blue really. I'm colour blind."
"Colour blind, Smithers, and a soldier? I'm surprised at you. I suspect they're only dirty. Do you feel a tingling at the finger tips?"
"Yes, and at my toe-tips too."
"Excellent! And your temperature?"
"One hundred and three. Man, I'm in a fever. I can't breathe. My head's on fire."
"You've only been in there an hour and a quarter. You're just beginning to get acclimatised, Smithers," said Professor Blyth callously, as he hung up the receiver.
"I wish Cantrip were here," he soliloquised. "'Deoxygenation of the blood corpuscles, followed by coma.' Bah! Radium acts on the nerve centres, and will ultimately produce paralysis. Cantrip is an ass. I always told him so."
The bell rang. "Blyth," said the prisoner, "listen to me. If you don't let me out, I'll swallow the radium. It can't make me feel worse, and it may finish me off quicker."
"Nonsense, Smithers, don't talk like a fool. It would only add to any—er—inconvenience you are now experiencing."
"I don't care what it would do. I——"
The Professor cut him off impatiently. "I'm disappointed in John Smithers," he thought. "He has no stamina. A man of low birth, evidently. A mere mountain of muscle. I know the species."
For a while he paced the room. Then he rang the bell, but this time there was no coherent response. The gasps sounded like, "Sit on her head, Blyth—keep her down, man. Whoa, mare!—mind that fencing—snow again—what ho! she bumps—all down the road and round the corner——"
"For heaven's sake, keep cool, Smithers," cried the Professor. "I want some more observations. Don't lose your head yet. You've all the night in front of you."
"Squadron, right wheel! Draw swords! Charge! Down with 'em! Boers, Japs, and Russians. Get home, lads! Give it 'em hot! Hurrah! I've killed a sergeant-major." Then indistinct mumbling and cackling laughter came through the telephone.
The Professor was disturbed. The end had come sooner than he had expected, for John Smithers had only been there an hour and a half, and he had calculated on a much longer time. But the symptoms were, onthe whole, what he had expected. Green hands, though. What if the extremities were blue after all, and Cantrip right?
He rang the bell. There was no response. Once more, and yet again. Still there was silence.
The Professor hung up the receiver gloomily. "I'm afraid I shall have to go to him. He's unconscious, and continued exposure might be serious."
He went down the corridor, pulled back the bolts, and opened the door. The room was in absolute darkness. The Professor was intensely surprised. "What on earth has he done with the radium?" he thought. "Good heavens! Surely he hasn't really swallowed it!"
He stepped carefully across the threshold towards the electric pendant in the centre of the room. He started. The door had closed behind him with a loud click. He switched on the light, and peered round the floor for John Smithers. He was alone. Neither Smithers nor the radium was there!
At that moment the telephone rang.
"Are you there?" came a voice.
"Is that you, Smithers?" said the Professor, in blank amazement.
"It is, Blyth. How's your temperature? You'll find the thermometer on the telephone where you left it."
"You scoundrel! You consummate scoundrel! How did you get out?"
"For goodness' sake, Blyth, keep cool."
"If you don't release me immediately I'll hand you over to the police."
"You can't get 'em, old man. You can only talk to me."
"What have you done with the radium?"
"Got it here, Blyth; and I'm taking ever such a lot of care of it. I read all about it before I came, and I know just what it fancies. I brought a nice quarter-inch thick lead case, with a smaller one fixed inside, and the half-inch of intervening space made up with quicksilver. I've had the radium in the inner case most of the time, and it's as quiet as a lamb, nicely bottled up with its rays. In fact, I think it's gone to sleep. I've had quite a cheerful time with you to talk to, Blyth. You don't know how amusing you've been."
"Smithers," stuttered the Professor, "you are an insolent fellow as well as a consummate scoundrel."
"Tut, tut, Blyth! Do keep cool. Thinkhow humanity will benefit from your present inconvenience. I'll look out for your article in theBritish Medical Journal, and I won't contradict it, though my pulse never went above seventy-three nor my temperature over ninety-nine, and wouldn't have done that if I'd bottled the radium at once instead of stopping to chatter with you. But you really ought to have kept a smarter look-out as you went in. I nearly brushed against you as I closed the door behind me. Well, bye-bye, old man, and many thanks for the radium. It will help my pension out nicely. I'll leave the receiver off the telephone, so that you don't disturb your family. I wouldn't worry, Blyth. Think of the Black Hole of Calcutta, and be a man!"
One man looking into a darkened room while a second crawls out of the door"'I NEARLY BRUSHED AGAINST YOU.'"(p. 108.)
(p. 108.)
Before Anstruther had reached the laboratory the Professor was hammering on the wall, and shouting at the top of his voice. The Major hurried through the window, climbed the garden wall, and had found his bicycle before the prisoner was released. By the time that the police were informed, he was well on his way to town.
And that is how Major Everett Anstruther was able to renew his subscription to the Burglars' Club.
THE BUNYAN MS.
Anstruthersat down amidst vociferous applause.
"Gentlemen," said the Duke, "I think we may heartily congratulate Major Anstruther on the foresight and ingenuity displayed in renewing his subscription. I am sorry we cannot keep the radium as a memento, but, according to our rule, it has to be returned to Professor Blyth at once. This particular burglary has been so satisfactory that I think we may with advantage again turn to the daily Press for our next item. I read yesterday—— Let me see—where is it? I cut out the paragraph. Ah! here it is:—
"'Yet another priceless possession is leaving the Eastern hemisphere. Thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' all that is left of that immortal work in the handwriting of John Bunyan, has been waiting for offers at Messrs. Christie's rooms since November last. The highest bid fromthe United Kingdom was £45 10s., at which price the precious manuscript did not change hands. We now hear that £2,000 has been offered and accepted. The purchaser is Mr. John Pilgrim, the Logwood King, of New York. At the present rate of denudation it seems likely that fifty years hence the original of Magna Charta will be the only historical manuscript left in the country.'"
"Shame—shame!" greeted the reading of the paragraph.
"I am glad that you agree with the newspaper," said the Duke blandly. "I read that paragraph at breakfast yesterday, and since then I have learnt that Lord Roker's subscription is due. It seems to me more than a coincidence that these two matters should come together. It is a national disgrace that the manuscript of that remarkable, I believe unparalleled—er—effort of Mr. Bunyan should leave the country. For one night longer, at any rate, it must remain in the possession of Englishmen. My lord of Roker, you will kindly produce the Bunyan MS. at our next meeting, on the 23rd inst., in settlement of your subscription."
At 5 p.m. on Monday, April 18th last,a new arrival registered himself in the visitors' book at the Ilkley Hydropathic Establishment as James Roker, Jermyn Street, S.W. He was a good-looking, straight-built man of thirty or thereabouts. He was of an unobtrusive disposition, but was obviously well-informed, for in the smoke-room after dinner, when in a discussion on the internal resources of Japan, the date of Queen Anne's death came up, the new arrival gave it authoritatively as 1745, and so settled the matter.
The next morning brought letters addressed to Lord Roker. Five minutes after the arrival of the post the news spread, and at breakfast he was the cynosure of all eyes.
It was the first time that a nobleman had stayed at the Hydro, excepting the doubtful instance of Count Spiegeleisen in 1893, but to provide for possible emergencies the management had thoughtfully placed a Peerage on the bookshelves. This volume was now thoroughly investigated, and it was learnt that James, Lord Roker, was heir to the Earldom of Challoner, and that he was born on April 25th, 1870. His birthday obviously would occur the following week,and an enterprising lady suggested the propriety of arranging for a concert and a representation of Mrs. Jarley's waxworks in honour of the occasion.
The only person in the place who seemed annoyed by his arrival was Mr. John Pilgrim, a gentleman from New York.
"That's why he was so darned civil to me last night," he thought. "He knows how fond Fifth Avenue girls are of the British peerage, and he thinks he's only got to drop his handkerchief for Marion to pick it up. I call it a bit thick of him. I'm glad she's away for the day. I asked him to look round this evenin', so reckon I'll have to be civil; but I'll stand no nonsense. If he tries his sawder on me durin' the day I'll let him know."
There was no occasion—or, indeed, opportunity—to let Lord Roker know anything during the day, for he went to Rylstone the first thing after breakfast, and only re-appeared at dinner-time.
The toilettes of at least eighteen ladies were more elaborate than usual that evening, but they were lost on Lord Roker, who, after half an hour in the smoke-room, tapped on Mr. Pilgrim's door at 8.30.
"Good-evenin', my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim, with studied politeness. "Will you sit there? Cigar, sir? I can recommend these. I hope you had a pleasant day. How do you like the Hydro?"
"Thank you," said Lord Roker, as he took the Bock, and settled himself in the chair indicated. "I have been away in the country all day, so I haven't seen much of the Hydro yet. It seems all right. At any rate, you have got pretty snug quarters."
"Yes," said Mr. Pilgrim, with some complacency. "You see, I'm samplin' the British Isles, gettin' the best I can lay hands on, and am storin' my purchases here. This room is furnished with Heppendale an' Chipplewhite's masterpieces, collected by my daughter. Paintin's by Jones an' Rossetti. In the nex' cabin I've got those historical sundries I mentioned. But before we look at them I want you to give me some information."
"I shall be delighted to do so, if I have it."
"You have it, sir. I may as well explain what I want. I have come over to see Europe for the first time, but I wanter know more about it than Americans do as a gen'ral rule. I'm not content to visitShakespeare's tomb an' see over Windsor Castle, and then think I've done the old country. I wanter know the people who inhabit her to-day, and you can't get to know them on board trains. That's why I've come to this Hydro. I get here what my secretary calls a symposium of the whole nation. So I'm studyin' people here with the idea of writin' a book on my return. What are your views on things in gen'ral, my lord?"
"My dear sir, that's a big order. But I may say I'm pretty well satisfied with things in general."
"You are an hereditary legislator, I believe," said Mr. Pilgrim.
"I may be some day," replied Lord Roker; "but at present I am not."
"Then what is your pertic'ler line in life?"
"If you mean business or profession, I have none. I'm a drone."
"A drone, sir! I'm delighted," exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim, with marked interest. Then, "Hello, Marion. Back again."
Roker turned, and there, framed in the doorway, was a living Romney picture—a radiant girl.
She came forward, the light playing on her red-brown hair.
"Lord Roker—my daughter," said Mr. Pilgrim.
The girl smiled and shook hands.
"I hope I'm not interrupting a very serious deliberation," she said, half hesitating.
"Indeed not," Lord Roker hastened to assure her, fearful lest this delectable vision should vanish.
She took the chair he offered.
"Well, what have you gotten at York?" inquired Mr. Pilgrim.
"You'd neither of you guess. Three grandfather's clocks."
"Three!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "Sheraton?" he added.
"No; just grandfather's clocks, and the dearest ones you ever saw."
"I could bet on that," said her father. "Are they genuine?"
"They are all dated, and Mr. Tullitt got pedigrees with each of them. One of them tells the moon, and one the day of the month. We shall have to hire an astrologer to regulate them and start them fair. Mr. Tullitt says he works best on board your railroad car, as noise suits him, so I shall fix the threeclocks up in his den here to keep him happy. I reckon he'll know when it's lunch time, anyway. But what have you been doing, dad?"
"Makin' a few notes. At present I'm gettin' some valu'ble information. Lord Roker says he's a drone."
"Then I'm sure that Lord Roker does himself an injustice," she said, turning her smiling eyes upon him.
Roker shook his head.
"I toil not, neither do I spin."
"What do you do all the time?" she asked.
"I shoot and fish and hunt, and—er—once a year I see the Eton and Harrow cricket match."
"Gosh!" exclaimed Mr. Pilgrim. "He shoots and fishes and hunts, and once a year he goes to a cricket match."
"I said the Eton and Harrow match."
"Cert'nly. They must give it some name, I reckon. An' what do you do when you can't shoot, an' fish, an' hunt?"
"I add up my lists of kills and catches."
"This is downright interestin'," said Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you shoot an' hunt?"
"Birds and foxes."
"You seem to fancy small fry, sir. Did you never hanker after elephants?"
"Never. If I had a Maxim or a Gatling gun I might turn my attention to elephants, but I'm not going to buy one for the purpose."
Mr. Pilgrim looked hard at his guest, but Lord Roker bore the scrutiny impassibly.
"May I ask how you get your dollars?" the American continued.
"I have an income from my father. I don't mind telling you the amount—three thousand a year."
"Dollars?"
"No; pounds sterling."
"That's a tidy figure; but did you never wanter make that three thousand into thirty thousand?"
"I have suggested an increase to my father, but not such a big one as that. I asked him to make it five, but he would not. Some day perhaps he may, but thirty thousand is out of the question."
"I should suppose it was. I didn't mean an increase in your allowance. Did you never think of dippin' into trade, and increasin' it that way?"
"Never."
"Doesn't fancy elephants or trade," Mr. Pilgrim soliloquised. "Well, I reckon it takes all sorts of swallows to make a summer. Your father must have been in a good way of business."
"Not a bit of it. He inherited all he has from his ancestors."
"And how did the original ancestor make his pile?"
"In war, in the time of Edward III. He had the good fortune to capture a Royal Prince, two dukes, and a marshal of France. We are still living on the ransoms he got."
"I'd like to have known the original ancestor," said Mr. Pilgrim. "Reckon he'd have tackled elephants if he'd only got a pea-shooter."
"Father," broke in Miss Pilgrim, "I'm sure Lord Roker is tired of answering questions. Don't you think it's our turn to do something now?"
"That's so," said Mr. Pilgrim, who long since had forgotten his unkind suspicions of his visitor's intentions. "I hope I haven't worried you too much, my lord. It isn't every day that I get the chance of interviewin' a future hereditary legislator. Ipromised last night to show you some historical curiosities. We'll just go an' rout out my secretary, Tullitt, who has the keepin' of 'em."
They adjourned to the next room, and found Mr. Tullitt busy at his desk. He opened various cabinets and drawers for them.
"This," said Mr. Pilgrim, "is the original warrant signed by Henry VIII., consignin' his sixth wife to the Tower of London for beheadin' purposes. He had it penned in Latin to frighten her more. The writ was never served, as Henry changed his mind, an' decided to keep her on the throne.
"Here, sir, is my last purchase—thirty pages of 'The Pilgrim's Progress,' written by John Bunyan in Bedford Jail. I paid ten thousand dollars for that, an' I'd have paid twenty before missin' it. You see, my name is John Pilgrim, an' it seemed to me that I have a sort of claim on that book—a kind of relationship. Anyway, there's my two names on the title-page.
"Moreover, I've got on so well since I started life in a Chicago stock-yard that 'Pilgrim's Progress' would best describe my record. If it wasn't irreverent, I'd havecalled the autobiography I'm writin' by the name of that book; but as I can't do so, I've bought the original manuscript. You'll handle it carefully; it's not in first-rate repair."
Mr. Pilgrim showed his guest other historical treasures, and would have gone on indefinitely had not his daughter compassionately intervened. The rest of the evening was spent in conversation, and in listening to coon songs witchingly sung by Miss Pilgrim to her accompaniment on a harpsichord, once the property of Mrs. Thrale of Streatham, a friend of the immortal Dr. Johnson.
"Good-night, my lord," said Mr. Pilgrim at eleven o'clock. "P'raps you'll be kind enough to look round in the mornin'. I shall make a few notes of the information you've given me, and my secretary will lick them into shape."
"Right," said Lord Roker, with his eyes beyond Mr. Pilgrim, fixed on an enchanting vision of brown and gold, seated in the basket chair before the fire.
On the following morning Lord Roker found Mr. Pilgrim's secretary before a typewriter which he seemed to be working againsttime. A pile of correspondence lay around him. He finished the sheet on which he was engaged, and then, with a sigh of relief, he turned to his visitor.
"Mornin', my lord; I have this ready for you."
He handed a type-written sheet to Lord Roker, who sat down and read:
"Some day I may be an hereditary legislator. At present I'm a drone. I fish, shoot birds, and hunt foxes, and once a year I attend a cricket match. Birds are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants. If I had a Maxim I might tackle elephants. I am in receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling a year from my father, who refuses to increase the amount. I am otherwise well satisfied with the universe."My record last year was:Birds..................Fishes.................Foxes ................."
"Some day I may be an hereditary legislator. At present I'm a drone. I fish, shoot birds, and hunt foxes, and once a year I attend a cricket match. Birds are more suited to the bore of my gun than elephants. If I had a Maxim I might tackle elephants. I am in receipt of an income of three thousand pounds sterling a year from my father, who refuses to increase the amount. I am otherwise well satisfied with the universe.
"My record last year was:
Birds..................Fishes.................Foxes ................."
"I've left space for the mortality returns, and any note you may wish to add," said the secretary courteously. "Kindly fill in the figures, and initial the sheet if you find it correct. Your name will not appear if Mr. Pilgrim makes use of the information."
Lord Roker referred to his pocket-book for statistics, and then inserted the figuresrequired. The note he added was: "De mortuis nil nisi bonum."
"Good kills, all of 'em," he explained.
The secretary took the sheet and placed it methodically in a folio labelled "Britishers."
"Is Mr. Pilgrim anywhere about?" Lord Roker asked. "Or Miss Pilgrim?"
"I believe that Miss Pilgrim is in the grounds, but Mr. Pilgrim has gone across the moors in his motor to shed a tear at the residence of the late Charlotte Brontë. A wonderful man is the boss, my lord. It takes me all my time to file the information he gathers. It will be midnight before I have fixed Charlotte up."
"Your hours are long," said Lord Roker, sympathetically.
"They are; and they are getting longer. Your country is just waking up to the fact that John Pilgrim is here. We had a big mail to-day. Outside proper business there were twenty begging letters from tramps and prodigals, eighteen asking for subscriptions, and two which we could not decipher. Four town councils mixed us up with Andrew Carnegie and wrote demanding Free Libraries. I reply to them all."
"Then I won't trespass any longer on your time."
Mr. Tullitt pulled out his watch.
"Snakes!" he exclaimed. "I always have fifteen minutes' dumb-bell exercise now to keep me in form. Good-mornin', my lord." His visitor left him standing in position with his dumb-bells.
Now when Lord Roker turned in his chair and first saw Miss Marion Pilgrim he was confounded. When she spoke—and to her beauty there was added an infinite charm of frankness and joy of life—he fell hopelessly in love. Only once before had this happened to him, and, singularly enough, she also was an American—a dark-eyed Boston girl he met in Rome. He had been refused because his position and his prospects rendered the match an impossibility—to her father; for he was not at that time heir to an earldom. Since then he had gone unscathed through the perils of many seasons in many capitals, only to be finally routed while in pursuit of the commonplace profession of a burglar.
That he had aroused any interest in her heart he did not for a moment suppose, but perhaps there might be a remote chanceof winning her. If there were, how could he imperil his hope of success by running the risks attendant on the burglary? If she could give him the slightest hope he would resign his membership of the Burglars' forthwith. It was ridiculous to have to rush matters, but he had to know his fate at once. He could not even put it off till to-morrow, for he knew she was going to Knaresborough for the day with her father.
He met her on the golf links. They played in a foursome in the morning. In the afternoon they had a round together.
She was in capital form. Her splendid health and energy were a delight to the eye. Perhaps it was owing to this distraction that he foozled some of his drives, and twice got badly bunkered. His play went steadily from bad to worse, and she won by three up and two to play.
"I don't think you were playing your best game," she said as they returned. "It strikes me that you were thinking about something else all the time."
"You are quite right. I never played worse, and I was thinking about something else."
"Something very serious, I reckon."
"Very."
"Is it anything I could help you in?"
"You are very kind, Miss Pilgrim. All day, and most of last night, I have been deliberating on an important step."
"What sort of a step?"
"Whether I ought not to resign my membership of a certain club."
"Is that all?"
"You see, I was one of the founders, and I like it. But sometimes the conditions of membership seem impossible. At any rate, I have felt them so since last evening."
"What are the conditions?"
"I can't tell you them all, but one is that you have to be a bachelor—a confirmed bachelor."
"Well, you are one, aren't you?" she asked gently.
"I don't know. At any rate, I may not always be. In fact, I——"
"Don't you be in a hurry to change," said Miss Pilgrim. "Don't imitate that king of yours. Judging from the document dad showed you, Henry the Eighth wanted to be a bachelor again, and then decided to remain a married man, all in one day. You Britishers are so variable."
"It may seem very absurd, Miss Pilgrim, but I have to make up my mind without delay. And you can help me in the matter. May I—dare I——"
"One minute, Lord Roker," she interrupted quickly. "You ought to be very careful before you think of changing your state. Teddy Robson waited twelve months before I promised to marry him."
"Teddy Robson!" exclaimed Lord Roker.
"Yes; this is his picture." She pulled a locket from her dress, and showed him the miniature of a nice, clean-looking lad. "He's the son of Josh. K. Robson, the Fustic King," she explained.
"Fustic?" repeated Lord Roker, with intense gloom.
"It's a wood that dyes yellow. Dad is the Logwood King, you know. Logwood dyes black. When I marry Teddy, the two firms will amalgamate, and we shall pretty well control the output of the West Indies."
"I see," said Lord Roker; "or, rather, I hear."
"That'll be in the fall. If ever you come over to the States mind you look us up. Teddy will give you some big game shooting. I guess you like it, whatever you told dad.You've done things. Mrs. Stilton told me at breakfast this morning that you had got a decoration for distinguishing yourself in action."
"Oh, that was years ago."
"Not more than a hundred," she said gravely. "And I reckon you don't let the flies settle much. Gracious! but it's six o'clock, and I've letters to mail. I must run. But don't you be in a hurry about retiring from that club."
"That's the second," said Lord Roker enigmatically, as he watched her vanish, "the second—and the last."
Lord Roker made no attempt to purloin the Bunyan MS. that night. He thought it possible that the indefatigable Mr. Tullitt might prolong his labours on Charlotte Brontë into the early hours of the morning, and, being of a thoughtful temperament, he was unwilling to interrupt them. He had still two nights at his disposal. The next day he spent chiefly on the links. He did not allow his thoughts to linger regretfully on his hopeless love. He gave his whole attention to the game, and retrieved his reputation by beating the professional's record. In the evening he played his part in progressivebridge with marked success: and then at 1.30 a.m., when the whole establishment was presumably fast asleep, he descended from his bedroom window by a stout rope, and made his way to the wing occupied by Mr. Pilgrim. He found the window of Mr. Tullitt's room, and was busily engaged for the next half-hour in opening it.
He then dropped into the room, and turned on his light.
Three grandfather's clocks were solemnly ticking in three separate corners. The fire was still flickering in the grate. A pile of letters, addressed and stamped, was ready for the post. A batch of correspondence was docketed and endorsed. The waste-paper basket was full to overflowing.
Lord Roker gave one glance round, and then tried the door. It was, as he expected, locked on the outside. He placed some chairs and other obstacles in front of it to impede progress should an alarm be raised, and lit the gas in order to add to Mr. Tullitt's reputation for over-work. Then he turned to the drawer in which the Bunyan MS. was kept. It was locked. He produced a bundle of keys, and finally opened it. There was a document inside, but instead of beingtime-stained, foxed, and torn, it was modern and neat. Moreover, it was type-written, and endorsed, "Notes on the late C. Brontë, Haworth, Eng., 1904."
Lord Roker turned this out in disgust, hoping to find the Bunyan MS. below; but he was disappointed. The manuscript was not there.
He replaced the Notes in the drawer and turned his attention elsewhere. He opened every drawer and portfolio, looked on every shelf and in every corner, but in vain. There was no sign of the Bunyan MS.
Determined not to be baffled—for his credit as a burglar was at stake—Lord Roker resumed his search, and again went over the ground. Three times at least was he disturbed—when the grandfather's clocks went off at the hour and the half-hour with alarming wheezes and groans. When they had finished with 3.30 he had to admit himself beaten. The manuscript had no doubt been removed to another room. It was desperately annoying, but he had still twenty-four hours to find out where it was, and to get it. He gave up the search reluctantly, made his way through the window, and up the rope to his bedroom.
Soon after breakfast that morning word went round the Hydro that the Bunyan MS. had been stolen from Mr. Pilgrim's rooms—the manuscript for which he had just paid £2,000.
A hole cut in one of the window-panes pointed to the method by which entry had been made, but no clue to the thief had been left behind. The police had been informed, and a detective was coming.
Only the Bunyan MS. was missing—that alone of the many portable and valuable treasures in Mr. Pilgrim's possession. It showed a literary instinct in the thief which was as surprising as it was unusual, for it would be impossible for him to make any profitable use of his booty without certain discovery. The more one reflected about it the more perplexing it was.
To Lord Roker it was humiliating in the extreme. To fail in his mission was exasperating; but the annoyance was increased tenfold with the knowledge that he had been forestalled. Someone else—a professional, no doubt—had been on the same errand. He had not dallied over the enterprise, and he had won the stakes for which he played, and now he, Lord Roker, would have toappear empty-handed at the Burglars'—he, a founder of the Club, would be the first man who had to resign through incapacity to carry out the terms of his membership; it was galling indeed. Even the neat hole he had made in the window had been placed to the credit of the other burglar.
At 6 p.m. he went upstairs to dress. The evenings were chilly, and he occasionally had a fire. He sat down before it now to finish his cigarette, and moodily watched the flames while his thoughts turned on the unsatisfactory nature of all earthly affairs.
Suddenly he gave an exclamation of extreme surprise, jumped out of his chair, and caught hold of a bit of half-burnt paper projecting from the grate. It was perhaps three inches long, and two across. Half of it was ash that fell away as he touched it. On the scant margin left was written, in stiff, archaic English, "Ye Slough of Desp——"
"Amazing!" he cried. For the fragment he held in his hand was part of the missing MS.!
In another instant he had seized his water-jug and emptied the contents on the fire, putting it out, and deluging the hearth.Then he rang the bell, and sent an urgent message for Mr. Pilgrim.
Five minutes later the American entered. Roker handed him the fragment, and pointed out where he had found it.
"Seems a pretty expensive way of li'tin' fires," said Mr. Pilgrim, grimly. "Allow me to ring for the help."
"Did you lay this fire?" he asked the maid who responded.
"No, sir. That's Jenny's work."
"Send Jenny up, then," said Mr. Pilgrim, now on his knees searching the grate for more traces of the MS., but searching in vain.
In a few minutes Jenny entered.
"Did you lay this fire?" Mr. Pilgrim asked again.
"Yes, sir."
"What sort of paper did you use for it?"
"Newspaper. Oh, I know! I laid it yesterday morning with some old rubbishy stuff I found on your floor, sir."
"Old rubbishy stuff you found on my floor!" cried Mr. Pilgrim. "What do you mean, girl?"
"I was lighting your fire yesterday morning, sir, and found I'd used up all my paper, so I got some out of your wastebasket. There was a dirty lot of rubbishy paper lying on the floor beside it, so I took that as well, and used it up for my morning fires."
"How many fires did you lay with it altogether?"
"Your two, sir, this one, and the one in the hall."
"Then this is the only one of the lot that wasn't lit yesterday?"
"Yes, sir. I hope it wasn't anythink important that I used."
Mr. Pilgrim sat down.
"Important! Not a bit, my girl. It just cost me ten thousand dollars—that's all."
"It wasn't what they say you've lost, sir, was it?" said the girl. "Oh, sir, I'm that sorry. But all I can say, sir, is that it was on the floor, and it didn't look fit for wrapping sossingers in."
"Go!" shouted Mr. Pilgrim. "You're a born fool." Then, after a long pause, he added, "I'm much obliged to you, Roker. Now come along. I must see my secretary. I suspect he's another mortal fool in disguise."
Mr. Pilgrim's secretary was busy, asusual—this time taking down a letter from Miss Pilgrim's dictation.