4
SYNOPSIS.
Robert Cameron, capitalist, consults
Philip Clyde, newspaper publisher, re
garding: anonymous threatening letters lie
lias received. The first promises a sample
of the writer’s power on a certain day.
On that day the head Is mysteriously cut
fi on a portrait of Cameron while the lat
ter Is in the room. Clyde has a theory
that the portrait was mutilated while the
room was unoccupied and the head later
removed by means of a string, unnoticed
by Cameron. Evelyn Grayson. Cameron’s
niece, with whom Clyde Is In love, finds
the head of Cameron’s portrait nailed to
a tree, where it was had been used as &
target. Clyde pledges Evelyn to secrecy.
Clyde learns that a Chinese bo- employed
by Philetus Murphy, an artist living
nearby, had borrowed a rifle from Cam
eron’s lodgekeepor. Clyde makes an ex
cuse to call on Murphy and Is repulsed,
lie protends to be Investigating alleged
Infractions of the game laws.
CHAPTER V—(Continued).
At last I saw him half-way amen
able to reason. Now that he was out
of the shadow, 1 saw too, more clear
ly. what manner of man he was. His
head, ns I had already discerned It
through the gloom, was abnormally
large, yet not out of proportion with
his herculean torso. His red hair,
frowsy, unkempt, was of such abund
ance that, In the dark. Its outline had
given me a grotesquely magnified Im
pression. His red beard, too, was
thick, long, and untrimmed. What lit
tle of his face showed, was sunburned
to what, in the dim light, seemed the
color of ripe russet apples. His eyes
were nearly indiscernible, deep set,
under bushy red brows.
"If you had shown the least bit of
humanity to brother men in distress,”
I responded, in a half jocular vein,
"I’d probably never thought of this
being your place, and you being you:
and the Incident of the morning
might have been forgotten."
I thought I heard his teeth grit to
gether in his effort to suppress a ris
ing rage. I certainly saw his hands
clench; and then, with an assumption
of indifference, he took a final puff
at his cigar and tossed it, sparkling,
among the weeds of his lawn.
It was evident to me, now, that in
spite of the nonchalance he affected,
my reference to the Chinaman's
poaching, and his presence at Crag
holt. had aroused his interest, and so
hoping to draw him out, I continued:
“Your man told the lodge-keeper
that you sent him over to borrow a
ri3e."
lou don t mean to ten me you a
believe a Chinaman, do you?" he re
turned.
"It wasn't for me to believe or dis
believe. The lodge-keeper believed
him.”
"And so he borrowed a rifle, and
then with one of Cameron's own in
struments of destruction proceeded
to destroy Cameron's game? Is that
it? What did he shoot? A deer or
one of those starved-looking white
dogs that Cameron has following him
about?"
Apparently Murphy knew much
more of my friend than my friend
knew of Murphy.
“Neither, I fancy. In fact. I'm not
sure just what he did shoot in the
way of game. But he seems to have
indulged in a bit of target practice.
He found a piece of an old portrait,
tacked It to a tree, and shot holes in
it. Rather silly, eh? Foolish for him
to chance getting into trouble for
child’s play of that sort.”
"How do you know that?" he
growled, with an inadvertent drop
ping of his mask. There was no mis
taking, now, that I had made captive
his attention.
“I saw the target,” 1 answered,
simply.
‘‘That’s like saying, ‘I caught a
twelve-pound bass. Here's the hook
and line to prove It.’ ”
"I have a scale of the bass."
“A what?”
"Something your Chinaman dropped
beside the tree."
Phlegmatic though he was, some
thing very like a start followed upon
my words. Then, as If to cover the
movement, he shnigged his shoul
ders, and chuckled ponderously.
“His visiting card, I suppose.”
“Nearly as good,” I supplied. “The
bowl of his opium pipe.”
At that moment Jerry came around
the corner of the house and stopped
abruptly, stupefied by surprise; for
from the open mouth of the giant
there Issued a roar of bass laughter,
that reverberated in weird discord
ance through the night silences.
"You bally idiot!” he cried, his guf
faw ended. "I suppose no persons ex
cept Chinamen smoke opium, eh!
And that being so, no Chinaman but
my Chinaman could have made a tar
get of a piece of an old portrait and
dropped his pipe bowl at the foot of
a tree! Go on with you, you make
me sick!” And then, seeing Jerry,
who had quickly Joined me: "Didn’t
find him, ehT Well, that’s not strange.
Having lost the bowl of his pipe, he’s
probably gone to borrow another
from a laund
SABLrE
f >?
HORACE X»0RCHA
HA7»RTtTTME • copy/?/gh7; n/z, a c Ar?cj.u/?c u eo.
periodical which alma to focua popu
lar sentiment to a righteous view
point concerning mattera of national
and social Import. For the time be
ing my consideration of Cameron and
hla strange problem was suspended.
Now and then the subject recurred to
me, dragged Into the mental light on
the train of Evelyn Grayson; but al
most Immediately It was buried be
neath a question of editorial policy
or a debate regarding a contract for
white paper at an extortionate In
crease In price.
When, however, my business day
was ended, and I had boarded the
train for Greenwich, the whole In
volved enigma spread Itself again
before me, demanding attention. And
In the midst of It, dominating it,
stretching his great shadow over it
to the farthest limit, appeared that
frowsy red giant, Murphy, a mystery
within a mystery; for, though he
seemed to pervade it, there was no
point at which I could discover him
quite touching it.
In vain I tried to detect a real con
nection. 1 started with the letters.
They bore no single characteristic
mark of this uncouth creature. As an
artist he might have devised the curi
ous silhouette signature, but there
was something about that—some cun
ning, inventive subtlety—which I
could not reconcile with the ogre I
had played upon, stung to anger and
aroused to curiosity.
That he could either have con
ceived or executed the ruin of the
portrait I did not believe possible.
The conception, like the letters and
the signature, bore evidence of a
craftiness too fine for such as he; and
to fancy hint, mammoth that he was,
stealing unobserved into Cameron's
stury, was to fancy the incredible.
And so, though the impression of
Intimate relationship persisted, 1
could find no point of contact, closer
or more definite than through his
servant's rifle practice, which after
all might have been quite without mo
tive.
There was little, therefore, in the
line of reason, to convict Murphy of
any knowledge of the matters which
had so disturbed us. And yet, as I
have said, I felt intuitively that he
possessed an intimate acquaintance
with the whole affair.
At the Greenwich station, I found
my touring car waiting: my mother
in the tonneau. My chauffeur touched
his cap as I approached.
"You may drive, Francois," I said,
and I took the place at my mother’s
side.
“You look tired, Philip," she an
nounced when I had kissed her. “Was
it very warm in the city?" Her eyes
were ever quick to note infinitesimal
changes in my appearance of well
being.
"Not uncomfortable,” I answeted,
indulgently. "I had a very busy day,
though. But I'm not the less fit be
cause of it.”
"We have had some little excite
ment here,” she hastened, eager to
give me the news. "Old Romney
called you up on the telephone about
noon. I happened to answer it, my
self, and when I told him you were in
New York, and would not be back
until six, it just seemed he couldn’t
wait to unburden himself. ‘Won’t you
please tell him, Mrs. Clyde,’ he said,
‘that Mr. Murphy’s Chinaman was
found at daybreak this morning, lying
dead. Just outside Murphy’s back
door?’ ”
“Found dead!” I cried, in amaze
ment.
“That is what he said. Then he
added that the poor fellow’s head had
been crushed with some heavy instru
ment, and that Mr. Murphy had been
arrested on suspicion and was in the
Cos Cob lockup.”
For a full minute, I think, I sat in
silent amaze. Then theories and con
jectures in infinite variety gave
chase, one after the other, through
my excited brain. But it was more
than ever difficult, I found, to reach
anything like a satisfactory conclu
sion concerning the position the now
lifeless Celestial and his accused mas
ter held in the chain of mysteries I
wished so much to solve. That they
were both of them more or less im
portant links, however, I had small
doubt.
"Did you know Mr. Murphy?” my
mother asked. And all at once I
realized that her question was a
repetition. In my absorption I had
not heeded the original inquiry.
"Nobody knows him,” I answered,
unconsciously echoing the words
voiced by the man in the catboat on
the previous night "Nobody knows
him. But I've met him in a rather
casual way.”
CHAPTER Vl‘.
Nell Gwynne’s Mirror.
With the approach of the twenty
and the tragedy which followed It, he
was, of course, Informed; as he had
been of the Incident In the wood, In
cluding the finding of the bullet
pierced piece of canvas. Every
thing, save only that Evelyn was the
discoverer of the portrait remnant—
which I thought best under the cir
cumstances to keep secret—was told
to him in detail, and with all the cir
cumstantiality necessary to an Intel
ligent discussion of even the minutest
point.
My description of Murphy elicited
from him a recollection. He remem
bered having seen the man once. It
was on the Fourth of July. Evelyn
and Mrs. Lancaster, Cameron’s house
keeper, had accompanied Cameron to
what Is called "The Port of Missing
Men,” a resort for motorists, on the
summit of Tltlcus mountain. They
had lunched there and were returning
by a route which took them over a
succession of execrable roads, but
through some of the most glorious
scenery in the whole state of Con
necticut. For a while they had been
following a stream, wlllow-gtrt, that
went babbling down over a rocky bed
which at Intervals broke the waters
Into a series of falls and cascades. At
the foot of one of these they had
stopped the car and alighted for a
better view, and so had come upon
the unexpected.
Seated upon a great bowlder, his
easel planted between the stones of
the stream's shallows, was a red
headed, red-bearded Colossus, in a
soiled suit of khaki and a monstrous
straw hat such as la worn by harvest
ing farmers. Cameron told me that
all three of them made bold to peep
■>ver the painter’s shoulder at his
work, and then, though It was of the
most mediocre quality, to shower him
with laudatory and congratulatory
phrases.
"I can fancy how he thanked you,”
1 broke In, smiling. "I suppose he
said something very rude.”
“He said nothing at all. He simply
stopped painting, and turning, fixed
his eyes upon me. It was as if he
saw no other one of us. He seemed
to be making a careful appraisement
of my every feature. After a mo
ment It grew embarrassing, and
though I did not resent it—-feeling
rather that we, ourselves, had been
In the wrong—I very speedily with
drew. To my surprise he rose from
his stone seat; and, palette and
brush In hand, followed us up the
little acclivity to the road, watching
In silence, until we got back into our
car, and wheeled away.”
“Did you gather from his inspection
that he recognized you, or thought he
recognized you?” I asked.
“I gathered only that he meant to
be Insufferably rude,” was Cameron’s
answer.
“And you have never seen him
since?”
“Never."
"He has evidently seen you. He
spoke of the Russian wolf-hounds
that go about with you.”
Cameron made no response.
"Well,” 1 added. In a tone meant to
be reassuring, "I think we need have
little fear of a continuance of this
singular method of annoyance.
Though we 'can’t trace It directly to
Murphy and his unfortunate Mongoli
an, I thoroughly believe that one or
the other was responsible. With the
Chinaman dead and Murphy In Jail,
the persecution will cease. The threat
contained In the second letter will
never be executed. See If I’m not
right!”
My hope of putting Cameron at
ease, however, was not rewarded. He
continued to exhibit signs of an al
most constant apprehension. There
was, Indeed, a sympathy-stirring
pathos about the nervous disquiet of
this man, usually so Impenetrably
self-contained. And at moments, In
spite of me, a suspicion gripped and
held that he had not been entirely
frank; that somewhere In his past
there was something unrevealed
which might serve as a clue, if not
an explanation, to the present. But
these doubts of him were always
transitory.
The twenty-first of September fell
that year on Monday. My office de
manded my presence, but I arranged
affairs as well as possible by tele
phone and devoted the entire day to
Cameron. When I told him I meant
to do this he protested, pretending
that he was quite without foreboding;
while the unconscious tapping of his
foot on the rug, even as he spoke, be
lled his words.
We spent the better part of the day
golfing over the Apawamis links at
Rye, lunching at the club house be
tween rounds, for as a specific for
nerves I have ever found that game
of rare benefit. In the present in
stance it more than fulfilled my ex
pectations. Cameron, apparently at
ward event, and I felt sure that my
friend was gradually coming around
to my way of thinking. Neither of
us mentioned the subject, but it must
have recurred to him, at intervals, as
it did to me. And as the hours went
by without a sign, the conviction
grew that Murphy, with hands tied,
was fretting over the coup he was de
terred from compassing.
Mrs. Lancaster, whom I have men
tioned merely as Cameron’s house
keeper, but who was, in addition, a
distant kinswoman and acted as a
sort of duenna to Evelyn, dined with
us that evening, and our little partie
carree seemed to me more than us
ually merry, owing doubtless to the
relaxation of the strain which both
Cameron and I had been under for
the past week.
It gratified me to see my host so
unfeignedly cheerful. I remember
how he laughed over Mrs. Lancaster's
recital of an incident of the morning.
"I had no idea,” she said, “that An
drew,” referring to the kennel master,
"was married. He astonished me
when he told me he had a wife and
three children. And when I told him
he did not look like a married man
he seemed rather pleased than other
wise.”
“It is,odd,” Cameron returned, “but
it seems always to flatter a husband
to tell him he doesn’t look it." And
then he laughed as though he had no
care on earth.
After dinner we had the usual
music, and Evelyn sang again that
lyric of Baudelaire's, this time in the
original French. But the melody
brought back to me in vivid vision
our chance meeting in the woods and
all Its train of circumstances.
When I had finished applauding,
Cameron turned to me.
"Do you like Baudelaire?”
”1 like hiB art,” I answered, “and
his frank artificiality.”
“He appeals to me,” Cameron con
fessed, "decadent though he is. 1
have read everything he ever wrote, I
think, prose and verse. Did you ever
see my copy of his 'Fleurs du Mai'?
The casket is worthy of Its contents.
It is the most exquisitely bound little
volume I ever saw. Come, I’ll show
it to you.”
I excused myself to Mrs. Lancaster,
and with pretended formality bent
over Evelyn’s hand, brushing it with
my lips.
“Won’t you be back?” she whis
pered.
“I hope so," was my answer. uut
I can’t promise."
"Oh, what a trial It Is to have a
selfish uncle!" she murmured as I
went.
Cameron led me through the li
brary, across the hall, and thence In
to his study, where he dove Into a
miniature book rack reserved for his
favorites. After a moment of fruitless
search he said:
"It Isn’t here. How stupid! I took
it upstairs a week ago, I remember.
It Is In my dressing room. Do you
mind coming up?”
Did I mind coming up? How glad
I was to see him interested! He was
more like the old Cameron than he
had been at any time In the past sev
en days. My golf prescription had
proved even more efficacious than I
had dared hope.
At the risk of being tedious I
must describe Cameron’s dressing
room. It was not large—probably 20
feet square—with three doors; one on
each of the three sides. That which
admitted from the passageway faced
that which opened into the bath room.
On the left, the third door connected
with Cameron’s bedchamber. On the
right were two windows, giving upon
an outside balcony. Between them
was a fire-place.
To the left of the bath room door
was the entrance to a huge closet,
guarded by a heavy curtain of old
rose velvet. To the right, was a sta
tionary wash-stand, and above It a
rectangular mirror, probably ten inch
es wide and a foot long, and very
curiously framed. Across from this,
against the wall which divided the
room from the passage, was an enor
mous chifTonier, or chest of drawers.
In the room’s center was a round
table, on which rested a reading
lamp. Between the table and the
fire-place was a reclining chair. Oth
er chairs, three or four, were various
ly placed.
I have given these - facts because
they are necessary to an intelligent
understanding of what I am about to
relate. That in furnishing and adorn
ment the room was plainly utilitari
an is not so material. But there is
one exception to this general declara-t
tlon which demands to be specified.
The mirror above the wash-stand pos
sessed a distinction quite aside from
Its practical utility. This was by no
means the first time I had seen It.
Cameron had showed It to me, with a
The glass was framed In colored
beadwork, to which were - attached
wax figures in high relief: at the top,
a miniature portrait of Charles II. In
his state robes; at the bottom, one
of Nell herself. In court dress. The
king appeared also on the right. In
hunting costume, and on the left was
another figure of his favorite In less
ornamental garb. According to the
legend which accompanied this in
teresting antique, it was Nell
Gwynne’s own handiwork.
It possessed for me a certain fas
cination due more to Its history than
its beauty, for it was not the most
artistic of creations, and as Cameron
poked about for his Baudelaire, I
stood gazing at the glass and think
ing of all I had ever read of the il
literate, but saucy, sprightly actress
whose sole claim to fame hung on her
winning the favor of that easy-going,
royal hypocrite, Charles II.
“Here's the binding!” I heard Cam
eron say, and turned from the mirror
to the table, where he had found his
60ught-for treasure beneath a pile of
heavier, grosser works.
“You know something of book
binding," he went on, with enthusi
asm. "Now examine that carefully,
and tell me if you ever saw anything
more exquisite. I had it done in Lon
don, last year. It's a copy of one of
Le Gascon's."
At first sight it seemed all glitter
ing gold, but on closer inspection I
found that the groundwork was bright
red morocco, inlaid with buff, olive,
and marble leather, the spaces close
ly filled with very delicate and beau
tiful pointille traceries. It was a ver
itable gem In its way, and I could not
blame Cameron for his raptures.
When I had applauded and be
praised to his content, he took the lib
tie volume from my hand and open
ing It, with a sort of slow reverence,
observed with something like patron
ism:
“I'm afraid you don’t quite under
stand Baudelaire.”
“Does anybody?” I flung back.
“He is not so obscure as his critics
would have us believe,” Cameron as
serted. “Sit down in that lounging
chair a moment, and I'll read you
something.” And as I obeyed, he
drew up a chair for himself, speaking
all the while in denunciation of Tol
stoi and the Injustice of his criticism.
One poem after another he read,
while I lay back listening. To his
credit he read them well, though he
paused often in mid-verse to explain
what he thought I might regard as an
affectation or, as Tolstoi has put it,
“an intentional obscurity."
There was one verse which im
pressed me particularly as he read
It, and remained with me for a long
while afterward, for, in view of every
thing. it seemed to have a special ap
positiveness. The lines to which I
refer have been translated in this
way:
From Heaven's high balconies
See! in their threadbare robes the dead
years cast their eyes,
And from the depths below regret's wan
smile appears.
Cameron sat with his back to the
door leading to the passageway, and
facing, diagonally, across the table,
the Nell Gwynne mirror. My own
gaze was on him as he read.
As he finished the verse, a portion
of which I have quoted, he lifted his
eyes, I thought to meet mine, but his
look rise over my head, and clung,
while his lids widened, and Into every
line of his face there came a rigid,
startled expression, half amazement,
half horror. And in that Instant of
tense silence the “Fleurs du Mai”
slipped from his nerveless fingers,
struck the table edge, and dropped
with unseemly echo to the floor.
In a breath I was on my feet and
staring where his vision had focussed.
I hardly know what I expected to see.
I am sure nothing would have sur
prised me. And yet I was scarcely
prepared for the inexplicable ruin
which my sight encountered. The
glass of the Nell Gwynne mirror was
In atoms.
Cameron rose, a little unsteadily I
thought, and coming around the table,
joined me in closer inspection of hla
wrecked hereditament. I can find no
word adequate to the description of
what we experienced. Amazement
and all its synonyms are far too
feeble for the task. We were certain
ly more than appalled. What we saw
suggested to me spontaneous disin
tegration. If such a thing were pos
sible, which I believe It Is not. It
might have explained the condition of
the mirror. No other ascription
seemed admissible; for, though the
glass remained in its frame not so
much as a splinter having been
dropped, it was fractured into a
thousandUnypiece^resembUnga
HOTrniwBH
I want to have a crown to wear, I lonjf
for spreading: wings;
I'm trying hard to have the right to
gain these splendid things;
I wish to walk in golden streets, ab
solved from every care,
And I am living in the hope of some
day getting there.
But, oh, I dearly wish that It might be
arranged somehow.
So that I might include the crown with
my possessions now.
I’d try to get along without the wings
that wait for me,
However widely they may spread, wher
ever they may be;
In streets of gold I would not wish to
take my daily strolls
Nor ask for any other joy beyond where
Jordan rolls,
If I might have a crown to wear while
yet I linger here
Where glory is so hard to gair. and gro
ceries so dear.
I try to keep away from sin, though sin
so often pays;
Though Virtue’s soup is often thin I serve
her all my days;
But while I look ahead with hope and
dream of glories there,
Where I shall have a jeweled crown and
gleaming wings to wear,
I cannot keep from wishing that it ci Id
be fixed somehow
So that I might put on my crown and do
some strutting now.
Glut of Gold.
“So you want a raise of pay, do
you ?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the office boy.
“Why?”
“On account of the cost of livin’.”
“Oh, so you find the cost of livin’ is
too high for you to get along on the
wages you’re getting, eh?”
“Yes. I guess it must be tbia
blamed glut of gold. Anyhow, I used
to be able to go to a movin’ picture
show once a week, but now I can’t
raise the price more’n twice a month.”
The Brute.
“I’ll not be in my office this after
noon. My wife is going to have sev
eral of her teeth filled and I shall go
to the dentist’s with her.”
“Does she think your presence will
lessen the pain any?”
“No; I’m not going at her request.
I simply wish to have the pleasure of
being in her presence for an hour
two when she will be gagged.”
unnecessary oysiem.
“You ought to have a burglar all
system in your house,” said 'he el,
trical supply agent, "so that yea. w
be awakened if a burglar raises on.j
of the windows or opens a doer at
night."
“No burglar can get in here while
we are peacefully sleeping,” replied
Mr. Newpop. “\Ve are weaning our
baby.”
?
Another Impostor.
“Coodness, what a frump! Who is
she?”
"That is Mrs. Penhallow, the author
of ‘Margaret Westwood’s Courtship’
and ’The House Divided.’ ”
“You don’t mean it! Why, I read in
one of the advertisements about her
books that she had a beautiful style.”
Her Self-Possession.
“Miss Oldcastle is always self-pos
sessed no matter what happens."
“Well, she ought to be, seeing that
she has had practice in the self-pos
session line for at least thirty-five
years.”
Dogs and Men.
“In some respects dogs and men
ire much alike.”
“Yes. There is hardly any dog
that wouldn’t like to gnaw some oth
er dog's bone.”
It May Be.
“Why will people lie when (t Is un
necessary and unprofitable for U>em to
io so?”
“I don’t know, unless it’s to keep'
practice.”
Ik
1