CHAPTER XIX

LAST FLIGHT OF THE PIRATE AIRSHIP

The station superintendent met me in the office, which was brilliantly lit and cooled by an electric fan.

"I expect you're feeling pretty well done, Sir John," he said.

"I feel pretty tired, Johnson, I own."

"There's a big thunderstorm coming up, not a doubt of it. The air'll be cooler afterwards. All the arrangements about the prisoners are made, sir."

The staff had been in communication with London all day upon this matter, but I had not heard the result. I inquired from the superintendent now.

"Our two birds, Sir John, and the three they've got at Penzance are to travel to London to-night. They'll be brought up at Bow Street for a minute or two, and remanded for a week to suit your convenience. The Home Office will communicate with you, sir."

"Very well. How are they going?"

"The night mail train leaves Penzance at twelve, and gets here at two. The other three will be on board and well guarded. Our prisoners will join the train at Mill Bay Station. I've detailed Prosser and Moore to escort them."

"See that the men are well armed. How are the prisoners?"

"Very quiet, sir. They seem to realize that it's all up with them. They've taken their food all right."

"They are both together?"

"Yes, Sir John. You see, we've only the one cell that is absolutely safe. But that can't make any difference. A man looks in every half-hour. They can't hear him coming, and he reports that they don't even talk."

"They're not handcuffed?"

"No, I didn't think it necessary, sir. They will be, and chained together, too, when they leave for the train. We searched them thoroughly, and took everything they had on them away half an hour after they were brought in. Would you like to see them, sir?"

"I don't think so, Johnson. I've been a good deal too much in their society during the last day or two. I don't want to look at that Vargus again until he's in the dock, and I'm giving evidence against him."

"He's a wicked-looking customer, if ever I saw one," said the inspector, with a face of disgust. "Well, good-night, sir, and I hope you'll sleep well. I've told the station attendant to have your bath ready at eight. He'll call you then."

The good Johnson went away, and I was left alone. My head ached, and I felt disinclined for sleep at once. I undressed, however, and sat in pyjamas as I smoked a final pipe. There was whisky, soda and a bowl of ice, and I took a peg. I felt singularly low and dispirited. It was, I supposed, the inevitable reaction of the nerves after all I had endured, combined with the heavy pressure of the atmosphere and the electric tension of the storm. At any rate, I remember feeling--as everyone does at times--that the greatest triumphs and successes were worth very little, after all, when once they were achieved. There is bitterness at the bottom of every cup--_surgit amari aliquid_--and life was a poor thing at best. And I fell to reflecting on the evil and misery that can be wrought by one man.

The gaunt spectre of Hawk Helzephron haunted my mind, and the long row of dead men that must be laid to his account, the brave fellows of my own service, the Transatlantic people--to say nothing of the black scoundrels that he had made and tempted, who had been hurried into eternity with their crimes unrepented....

It was a morbid train of thought, but I was worn out, and the dark hour had its way with me, until I thought of Connie and her merciful preservation from harm, my own rescue. Then, rather ashamed of myself, I made an effort to banish these gloomy imaginings, said my prayers, and got into bed.

All the same, as I fell asleep, the stammer of the approaching thunder and the white glare of lightning, which now and then flashed into the darkened room, seemed like the growling of those awful dogs and the glare of the advancing airship in the cave....

I think now that I must have had some unconscious premonition of the tragedy which was racing towards me all the time.

... I was awakened sharply and suddenly, at first I thought by a flash of lightning. But it was not so. The electrics had been suddenly turned on, and there were men in uniform round my bed. The wind had risen and was whistling outside. A deluge of thunder rain was in progress, and great sheets of water were flung against the window.

I saw Superintendent Johnson. His face was white as linen.

"What is it?" I shouted.

He shouted in answer, and I heard his voice above the tumult of the storm.

"The prisoners, Sir John," he wailed. "They've got away. They picked the lock of the cell somehow, got into the passage, and broke the bars of the window at the end. We none of us heard a sound!"

I leapt out of bed and began to bellow orders for pursuit--until I saw Johnson's terrified face again, and knew that I had not heard all.

"... They got down to the water somehow, sir. They must have climbed down the lift rails. _And they swam to the ship...._"

"Good God! _What_ ship?"

"Their own ship, Sir John. Somehow or other they managed to get on board; we've just heard...."

"_Where are they?_"

"They did for the two men on board, and must have managed to start the engines--_the ship's gone_. The searchlights are all over the pool, and there's no trace of her. They were seen, Sir John, I ..."

He broke off short, the words drying up in his mouth. All the other men shrank together in a frightened group as Danjuro came slowly into the room.

I have never seen a figure so awe-inspiring, or terrible.

In moments of supreme emotion a European grows chalk-white, an Asiatic grey.

The Japanese was livid grey now, and his face seemed carved with fantastic gashes--grey rubber slashed with a knife. He was like a man who had slept a thousand years and wakened to find himself old, and in hell.

He came slowly up to me, moving like a thing on wheels drawn by a cord, and when he was close, he spoke.

I can never recall his voice without an almost physical state of fear. Suppose that you could go with Dante to that gate over which is written, "_Abandon hope all ye who enter here._" And suppose, as you stood there and listened, you heard a well-known voice far down, saying, "I am tormented in this flame...."

Well, Danjuro's voice was like that.

"During a lull in the storm," he said, as if repeating a lesson, "I went up on the deck of the _May Flower_ for a breath of air. Mr. Van Adams accompanied me. We were looking over the water to the Pirate Ship, when I saw lights flashing up and down through the portholes of the fuselage. It struck me as strange. We wondered what the two men in charge could be doing. As we watched, we were just able to distinguish two men coming up on deck. Then there came a vivid flash of lightning, and I saw everything plainly. The two men were Vargus and Gascoigne, and they were carrying the body of a man in uniform, which they lowered into the water."

Inspector Johnson gave a quick gasp. Danjuro continued:

"Without a moment's delay I got a couple of pistols, and Mr. Van Adams and I jumped into the electric launch, which was moored alongside the _May Flower_, though on the other side to that which faced the Pirate. There was no time to summon help. We shot out into the pool just as the storm began again with thunder-claps and a deluge of water. We were within a few yards of the ship and making ready to board her, when Mr. Van Adams flashed a powerful electric torch, and I saw Vargus with a knife in his hand hacking at the mooring ropes. At the same time I noticed that the lights in the pilot's cabin had been turned on.

"I took a snap-shot at Vargus and missed him. Almost simultaneously he fired directly at the light of the torch which Mr. Van Adams held. The bullet went through Mr. Van Adams' heart, and he fell back dead in my arms--I was steering the launch. I fired off all the cartridges in my pistol, but the thunder drowned the noise. The Pirate Ship began to move. I saw the lights in her side moving along--and then she lifted and disappeared."

The awful voice ceased, and all of us in that room stood like waxen figures in a show.

* * * * *

For three days the Press and public were kept in entire ignorance of what had happened during the storm.

Upon the fourth, just as I was beginning to think that all my measures were in vain and that the Pirate Ship had vanished utterly, the Head Office in Whitehall received two long telegrams from the Prefect of Finistère in France and the Chief of Police of Quimper, the old cathedral city in Brittany.

On one of the wild and lonely Breton moors a goat-herd had discovered the wreckage of a large airship. By it was the body of a young man, but only one body. The telegrams urgently asked me to come over at once.

I did so, in my fastest patrol boat. Lying in a wild wilderness of gorse and heather were the remains of the Pirate Ship. It had been destroyed beyond possibility of reconstruction, and destroyed methodically and deliberately while at rest upon the ground. There was no doubt about that. The body I afterwards saw in the Morgue at Quimper was that of Gascoigne. He had not met his death by any accidental means, but had been stabbed in the back.

He must have been dead for quite two days before the goat-herd made his discovery, and of Vargus, living or dead, there was not a trace.

I was back in London again that night, and just as I was going to bed in Half Moon Street the bell of the flat rang. Thumbwood went to the door and announced that Mr. Danjuro wished to see me.

He was in evening dress, and quite his old self again to outward appearances, except that his black hair had turned an iron grey.

For a moment or two we discussed details of the inquest that had been held _in camera_ upon poor Van Adams, arrangements made for the trial of the three surviving pirates, and so on. Then I told him what I had seen at Quimper.

"Mr. Muir Lockhart told me of the telegrams from France," he said. "I called at Whitehall, but you had already started for Quimper, Sir John. I must apologize for such a late call, but I was anxious to hear your news. Now I see my way clear."

"I suppose, after your great loss, you will go back to America, or perhaps Japan, and settle down?"

He shook his head.

"You know," I continued, "that if you cared for it, there is a highly-paid and important position open to you with the Air Police? Nothing would give me greater pleasure, as you know, than to have you as a colleague."

"I thank you, Sir John, but I have other work to do. I am a rich man, but that only interests me, inasmuch as it is a means to an end. When that end is reached ..."

He made a curious gesture with his arm, which I did not understand.

"May I ask what your work is?"

He looked at me with surprise.

"Vargus is still alive," he said simply.

"He will be caught soon. The police of the world are looking for him, if he is alive."

"I think it will be a long pursuit, Sir John. He has got off with the treasure, and I know one or two things about him which are not generally known. I do not think that Mr. Vargus will fall into the hands of the police."

"Then you ...?"

"It is my work. I owe the spirit of my patron this man's blood, and I shall pay the debt. Were he to hide in the depths of the sea, sooner or later I shall find him. There is no power strong enough in life to keep us two apart."

He had dropped his voice. The words hissed like a knife upon a strop.

"I wish you good luck," I said at length, and was about to say more, to express my gratitude again, when he cut me short.

"I am leaving for Paris in half an hour," he said, "and must bid you farewell, Sir John. Convey my humble compliments to Miss Shepherd," and with a low bow and a frigid handshake he was gone.

Six weeks afterwards, on the day before my wedding, I received a magnificent Japanese vase of the old Satsuma enamel, but the card enclosed bore no address.

I did not see this extraordinary being again for nearly two years. Of that meeting I shall write in the following short epilogue.

EPILOGUE

In the winter of 19-- I was at Monte Carlo for three weeks, taking a short holiday alone, and also looking out for a villa at Roquebrune or Mentone for my wife, who was to come out with the baby as soon as the house had been secured.

Now and again I went into the "Rooms" and staked a louis or two upon an even chance or a _transversale_ at roulette; but, speaking generally, the Casino bored me. The cosmopolitan crowd of smart people--like champagne corks floating on a cesspool--the professional gamblers, with their veil of decorous indifference concealing a fierce greed for money which they have not earned--a sprinkling of wood-ash over a glowing fire--presented little interest, and I much preferred long walks and drives in the earthly paradise of Les Alpes Maritimes.

I stayed at the Métropole Hotel, making it the base of my excursions, and one evening, after dinner, I paid one of my rare visits to the Casino. I wandered about the gilded, stuffy saloons, with their illuminations of oil-lamps--so that no enterprising gentleman may cut the electric wires and make off with the money on the tables!--the low voices and almost sanctimonious manner of the players, the over-dressed demi-mondaines who glide about with their hard, evil eyes. The place was very full. All the chairs round the roulette tables were occupied, and people were standing behind the chairs as well. As I am tall, I was able to reach over and place my stakes, and I did so several times. When I had lost four louis with monotonous regularity, I decided that it was not worth while, and thought I would go and smoke, for, contrary to the usual pictures in the magazines, smoking is _not_ allowed in the roulette or trente-et-quarante rooms.

So I went out into the Atrium, the great pillared entrance hall, which looks like an important provincial corn exchange, and lit a cigarette. The place was fairly full of people, walking up and down, or reading the latest telegrams, which are fixed up upon a green-baize screen, and I was watching them idly when, coming round the corner from the cloak-room, I saw--Danjuro!

My heart gave a sudden leap, the sight of him was so utterly unexpected and recalled so much. To tell the truth, he seemed to belong to a long past and forgotten dream, for Connie and I, by mutual consent, hardly ever spoke of the days of the pirates.

Danjuro was about fifteen yards away. I saw his face distinctly, and was certain that I was not mistaken. Then he looked up, and I could swear that he saw and recognized me.

Be that as it may, he turned and slipped round the corner like a weasel, and when I got there he had vanished. I made a search, of course, though I knew how futile it would be if he wished to avoid me, and the result was as I expected. There wasn't a trace of him anywhere, and none of the attendants or door-keepers had seen a Japanese gentleman anywhere.

I went for a walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and then returned to the hotel and sought my bed. For a long time I could not sleep. The sight of Danjuro had made me restless. A legion of memories trooped through the brain, and curiosity marshalled the procession. What was that enigmatic and sinister being doing here? Was he still upon his ruthless quest, moving through the panorama of European life like some wandering Jew of vengeance? Nothing had ever been heard of Vargus again. For my part, I shared the opinion of the police bureaux of the Continent, that the soft-voiced and malignant scoundrel was dead.

It was pathetic to think of Danjuro prowling through life to avenge his patron, wasting his magnificent powers upon a hopeless quest. Pathetic, yes--so ran my thoughts--but one can't think of Danjuro as an ordinary human being. He was simply a single idea, clothed in flesh, a marvellous machine designed for one operation only, a specialist so perfect that he became a monomaniac.

Poor Van Adams, to protect and serve him had been Danjuro's whole life. Every faculty of mind and body had been devoted to that one end. And yet he must have loved the American to have served him so? And if he could love he was human!

I wrestled with the problem till dawn, and got no nearer a solution. I knew that, despite our companionship in peril and the extraordinary adventures we had gone through together, if Van Adams had lived and for any reason had told Danjuro to put me out of the way, the little man would have executed the job with neatness, dispatch, and an entire absence of compunction.

I decided that Danjuro, as a subject of psychological analysis, was quite beyond me, and did my best to forget the incident. With an effort I managed to do so, and got a few hours' sleep before Thumbwood called me. I said nothing to him of having seen Danjuro, for he also is unwilling to talk much of the days of terror--perhaps because his wife, Wilson, that was, and is still, Connie's handmaid--so strenuously objects to it.

About half-past eleven I left the hotel and strolled to the foot of the funicular railway which hauls one up from the narrow ledge of land on which Monte Carlo stands to the heights of La Turbie. I designed to lunch at the excellent hotel at the top in the clear mountain air, and then to walk along the Upper Corniche towards Roquebrune, Eze, and the mountains above Mentone. There is much to explore in these high regions--ruins of Roman and medieval forts, built as a defence against the raiding Moors of the Mediterranean, and here and there delightful villas among pine-woods and olive groves, far from the haunts of men.

It was a house of this description, a mountain hermitage, that I wished to find and take for six months. I knew that they were occasionally to be let, but somewhat difficult to come across upon the books of the agents. In Monte Carlo I had been assured that personal exploration was the best and quickest way.

I lunched at La Turbie on a magnificent _bouillabaisse_ and _riz-de-veau_, and after an interval set out upon my walk. It was a magnificent afternoon, the air golden clear. Far away out to sea Corsica lay like a dim cloud. The mountain side fell in terrace after terrace of olives to groups of painted houses looking like toys. Away to the right were the red roofs and gleaming white buildings of the Monte Carlo palaces, and the promontory of the Tête du Chien was perfectly outlined in the azure of the sea.

"Yes," I thought, "upon this great height is the place to live when one comes to the Côte d'Azur, and I won't go home to-night until I have found something...." And I began to climb by a by-path.

The afternoon was hot. After a mile or two I rested in the shade of a great rock and fell asleep. When I awoke the sun, which sets early in winter, even on the Riviera, was declining. I was not quite sure of my direction, but thought that I could make Roquebrune by an oblique path over the spur of the mountain, and from there easily descend to Cap Martin and get a carriage, and take the tram which crawls along the cliff to Monte Carlo. So I set out.

The path, however, did not prove to be the right one, and it was twilight, or that extremely short interval which does duty for it in the south, before I came to three or four stone huts fronting a plateau with an enclosure full of goats. I explained my predicament to a swarthy woman who sat knitting at a door, and she gave me directions. She also said, in mingled French and Italian, for the frontier was not five miles away, that there would be a small empty villa to be let a mile onwards--at least, she believed so.

"Can you tell me the name of the owner, madame?" I asked.

"But, no, m'sieu. It is a new gentleman. He has bought the villa and the larger one, which is close to it but higher up the hill. He is a scholar of some sort, and lives quite alone, so he cannot want the smaller house on the road. It was, moreover, always let in the time of the last owner, M. Visguis, of Nice."

I thanked the good dame, refused a cup of goats' milk, gave her a five-franc piece and started on my way again rejoicing. My luck was in. This mountain châlet would be just the thing, and I made up my mind to interview the recluse on my way home.

The sun sank, and night came up with a rush out of the Mediterranean. Everything was dead still. There are no birds in these solitudes, and the hum of day insects was over. Although the moon rose almost at once and gave sufficient light to steer by, the place was eerie. Immense rocks threw ashen shadows. The stone pines stood like silent sentinels, and the huge coronet of jewels--topaz against black velvet--that was Monte Carlo seemed a hundred miles away.

Following my directions, I came at length to the garden wall of a fairly large villa, painted all along the sides, with gigantic and melancholy trees, and the moonlight shed a ghostly radiance upon it. This, I knew, was the house in occupation. The one that might be let was lower down the slope and on the other side of the road--to my right. I could just see the roof of it as I peered over the parapet.

Pushing open a wooden gate, I went up the garden path towards the Villa Turquoise--that I had discovered was its name. Tree frogs were croaking round the house, but as it was winter, there were no friendly fireflies; once or twice the fans of a palm clicked with a dry, rustling noise.

It was difficult to find the door as I came up to the villa, but after a moment, I saw a broad band of yellow light coming from the side, and turned towards it. I walked upon the turf of a little lawn, and threaded my way between orange and pepper trees, with here and there a bush of Cape gooseberries.

And up to that moment I never had a suspicion or a qualm. Indeed, I felt at peace with myself and all the world, washed and purified by the sweet Alpine air and all the loveliness my eyes had looked upon that day. Then I heard, clear, strong and sudden, a chord of music on a piano.

I stopped dead still.

Again that crash of sound, and then a smooth and mellow arpeggio, as masterly fingers ran up and down the keys of a magnificent instrument.

I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold.

I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon a grand piano.

But in that moment, though subconsciously, I _knew_.

I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and looked inside, it began.

Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade of Chopin....

Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room.

The musician was Mr. Vargus.

He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm, powerful hands rose and fell.

There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful, fantastic music.

I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference whatever to my own feelings.

The melody progressed to that marvellous passage which Beardsley saw in line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a lady in a dress of black velvet.

At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened quietly. He heard nothing.

An awful and august figure entered.

It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known.

He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an ancient Japanese sword--a scabbard of tortoise-shell and silver. His hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line. The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer in a high light.

He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder.

The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro.

They remained, staring into each other's eyes for several seconds.

I saw a ghostly change beginning in the pirate's face. Inch by inch something crept over it like a veil as life ebbed away. Then he fell in a crumpled heap upon the carpet.

The Japanese looked down at him without a change in his dreadful stony glare. Then he bent down and pulled the limp form out straight, turning it with its face downwards. He drew the sword and lifted it high above his head.

As it gleamed I shut my eyes....

When I looked again, sick with the sickness of death itself, the figure in the yellow robe had raised both arms above its head. The sleeves had slipped away and the coils of muscle stood out upon the brown flesh.

Danjuro's lips were parted. He seemed to be speaking rapidly to something above him. His whole face was irradiated with joy, and the sword in his right hand shone like a tall flame.

He remained there for some little time. Then he lowered his arms, and taking a square of purple silk from his breast, he cleansed the sword, and I knew what he was going to do.

He placed the jewelled hilt upon the carpet and adjusted the point at his waist, steadying the blade with his left hand. Then, with a loud cry, as if of exaltation, he fell heavily forward....

He had gone to his own place in the way appointed to the Heroes of Old Japan.

THE END

PRINTED AT

THE CHAPEL RIVER PRESS

KINGSTON, SURREY.

PATERNOSTER HOUSE, PATERNOSTER ROW, LONDON, E.C. _July, 1919_.

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The Death Drum

By MARGARET PETERSON

Author of "To Love," "Butterfly Wings," "The Lure of the Little Drum," etc.

As in her last novel, "The Sword Points of Love," Miss Peterson has chosen East Africa as the background for her new story. It is based on a native superstition that very few white people know anything about, but which may in time cause trouble. It has, at any rate, provided the author with a fine idea for her novel, and she has made the best possible use of it. The book is absorbingly interesting, full of thrilling incident and adventure, and with many touches of native life that are particularly effective, coming as they do from one who is living among them.

Panther

A Comedy of Morals

By R. A. FOSTER-MELLIAR

Author of "Blindstone," "And Betty Too," etc.

A novel of country life, in which there is a good mixture of love-making, hunting, intrigue, and almost murder. Two well-contrasted and charming girls divide the honours as heroines, and uncertainty as to what will happen to them is well kept up. There are some very interesting characters capitally portrayed, and, above all, there is a really good story well told in uncommonly good writing.

The Air Pirate

By C. RANGER-GULL

Author of "The Snare of the Fowler," etc.

The author dates his story forward, when rapid transit and transport will be carried on by air. One of the great points about it is that the author is the first in the field with his idea. The Air Pirate, a mysterious figure, who had been a daring airman in the Great War, has his lair in Cornwall, and raids the Atlantic with a wonderful airship. There is a love story, in which a young English baronet of the Government Air Police is the hero and a beautiful young actress the heroine. She is carried off to Cornwall by the pirate, who is in love with her, in his airship, and then follow many thrilling adventures in the efforts of her young lover to discover her. One sensation follows another rapidly, and the reader is kept in breathless suspense all through. It is the best thing the author has yet done.

Love and the Cardinal

By J. H. SYMONS

Author of "The Supreme Mystery"

A story of the days of Cardinal Wolsey and the Court of Henry VIII. It will appeal to all who like a good historical romance. The hero, a young esquire, finds Wolsey, when he was but a poor parish priest, in the village pillory and sets him free. When next they meet, Wolsey is the powerful Cardinal, and the hero has been condemned to torture for trying to save the Duke of Buckingham, whose daughter he worships. Wolsey helps the hero and brings him to Court. There are plottings and jealousies and narrow escapes, but in the end Love is triumphant.

Spade Work

By Mrs. HENRY DUDENEY

Author of "Candlelight," etc.

Another of the Author's stories of Sussex

Caroline Beech and her mother, with the airs of a duchess who has had to do the work of a cook, and Enoch Wood, the musician who demands fame above all things, and Juniper Sadgrove, with her glorious voice, are the characters whose interplay form the plot of Mrs. Dudeney's latest novel. She has set the scene in her loved Sussex, and her description of the old-world village and its inhabitants is most delightful. Enoch's career is the rock on which the ship of his love may be wrecked, but the development of the story will hold the reader's attention to the last page.

The Green Shoes of April

By RACHEL SWETE MACNAMARA

Author of "Morning Joy," "Lark's Gate," etc.

An Irish love story out of the common, and with many ups and downs, but with a happy ending. It is, as one expects from Miss Macnamara, unusually well written with excellent character drawing. Jasper Lysaght made a mistaken marriage with an actress when he was very young. They hold together but a little while, when he meets his true mate, but a maliciously interfering grandmother and wounded pride separate them. They come together again and marry, Jasper believing himself free, but his first wife reappears. All, however, comes right in the end.

Shooting Stars

By SOPHIE KERR

An intensely dramatic novel of married life--the story of Harleth Crossey ("as self-willed as a shooting star and about as uncomfortable around the house"), and his wife Marcia--she made all the concessions, all the adjustments and all the compromises until--something happened.

You might have called it a rebellion; it was a startling, if cruel awakening as well.

The Master Mind

By FERGUS HUME

Author of "The Mystery of A Hansom Cab," "Heart of Ice." etc.

In the working out of the plot and the discovery of the master mind of a gang of thieves the author keeps the reader's attention firmly fixed. The book is written carefully; there are no great improbabilities; the characters are human, not too good and not impossibly wicked; the heroine is a charming natural girl, the hero a nice boy. There is a mystery surrounding a murder and theft, and it might all have happened. A good readable story.

A Whirlwind of Passion

By EDNA WORTHLEY UNDERWOOD

The publishers have pleasure in introducing the author with this novel. It is perhaps not too much to say that since "Quo Vadis," no more powerful historical romance has been produced. The story is most dramatic, and the central figure is the great Catherine. The reader is given a clear insight into the Russian Court and its intrigues. The time of the story is the dramatic moment when the reign of the Empress Elizabeth was drawing to a close, and the throne was hanging in the balance. The author has seized on this tense situation, and told a wonderful story of love, of passion, of plotting and ruthless power, of murder and sudden death. It is a brilliant book, full of life, movement and colour, and it is of particular interest at the present time.

Green Ladies

By DOUGLAS NEWTON

Author of "The War Caché," etc.

A charming story told in a delightful manner, recalling the work of Henry Harland. The scene is in Hampshire, where some mystery attaches to the lady owner of a house occupied temporarily by a much-travelled man, who is recovering his health. How he becomes interested in the lady, how he gradually discovers her story, how he labours to free her from the cloud that oppresses her, and finally is made happy by her, is so daintily and beautifully related, that one wishes to read many of the pages over again. Mr. Douglas Newton goes a long step forward with this novel, which reveals him in a new capacity.

Embers

By JULES DEPREND

_A novel that won a $10,000 prize in America._

This story of life among the French Canadians on the American border is refreshingly outside the common run of novels. It is remarkable for its terseness of expression and as a convincing piece of realism. It is as strong and virile as Balzac, and its story so absorbing with its many dramatic situations, that it holds the attention from beginning to end. Against his father's wishes, the hero takes up a course of study with a view to becoming a priest. During his holidays he sees much of a neighbour's daughter, who had been a companion of his childhood. How he succumbs, then decides to continue his studies abroad, and eventually returns to his sweetheart and child is told in this powerful book, of which it may be said that it is not only a fine piece of work, but one of genius.

Firecracker Jane

By ALICE CALHOUN HAINES

A breathless romance of the Mexican border, with a spirited heroine, a good sportswoman with a high sense of honour. How she is, under stress, married by her Mexican cousin and plunged into the Mexican turmoil, captured by a brutal revolutionist, and effects her escape, and how the love tangle is unravelled, and she is left with her real love mate, makes thrilling reading. The story is full of adventure, vivacious and fresh.

The Cabin (La Barraca)

By V. BLASCO IBANEZ

Author of "+The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse+," etc.

Over a Quarter of a Million copies of this author's work have already been sold in English speaking countries.

This may be said to be the masterpiece of a novelist who has established himself as a great master. "The Cabin" was the book which first made Ibanez's reputation outside Spain, and very large numbers of it have been sold on the Continent and in America since its first appearance. It is a vivid presentation of one side of Spanish life, and tells how a hard-working farmer and his family are oppressed and wronged by his neighbours, who had determined that the farm should not be tilled. Disaster overtakes the family at the end of the conflict, and the elemental theme of a blind communal hatred is thus worked out to its logical conclusion. The story seems to write itself, so simply, and perfectly is it done. It is a remarkable work of art.

The Terrible Island

By BEATRICE GRIMSHAW

Author of "In the Strange South Seas," "Red Bob of the Islands," etc.

This story has all the charm and glamour of the South Seas and a background of grim mystery, which make a plot full of thrills as well as of delightful romance. "The Lady of Sea," who appears in such strange fashion and so charms the hearts of Flower and Owen Ireland, is a delicious heroine, whose romance will appeal to every reader, while "Rocky Jim" is a remarkable character creation. A novel that will well support the author's great reputation.

+Messrs. HURST & BLACKETT+ announce that they have taken over the publication of the very popular book--

Honeymoon Dialogues

By JAMES JAMES

of which a large edition (the 10th) is now ready. _In crown 8vo. cloth, with picture wrapper_, +4s. 6d.+ _net_.

_SOME VERY SUCCESSFUL NOVELS._

_Recently Published._

The Holiday Husband

2nd Edition By DOLF WYLLARDE

"A story of such temptation as must come to many girls."--_Daily Mail._

"Dolf Wyllarde has treated a delicate subject with firmness and skill. Every girl should read it."--_Ladies' Field._

"The subject is one suggested by the problems that assail the independent girl of to-day. In the treatment the authoress excels."--_Evening News._

The Sword Points of Love

2nd Edition By MARGARET PETERSON

"A very striking book. A sense of the actual quite out of the common. By far her best book."--_Daily News._

"A clever story set out with a sober reality which lends additional effectiveness."--_Scotsman._

Who Cares?

3rd Edition By COSMO HAMILTON

"The hero is a delightful character.... A vivid and arresting story, assured of wide popularity."--_Lady._

"An entertaining holiday novel ... depicts the pleasure-loving Joan cleverly and with agility."--_Evening News._

Nurse Benson

2nd Edition By JUSTIN HUNTLY McCARTHY

"Translated into a novel with neat and dexterous hand ... the dialogue sparkles and crackles exhilaratingly."--_Sketch._

"As effective in a book as on the stage."--_Yorkshire Post._

"A particularly readable novel ... exactly the kind for the holiday kit."--_Morning Post._

Morning Joy

By RACHEL SWETE MACNAMARA

"Desirée is a charming figure of youthful womanhood."--_Scotsman._

"A very readable story that should prove popular. The characterization is very clever."--_Sheffield Telegraph._

The Devil's Problem

2nd Edition By MARGARET WESTRUP

"Delicately and skilfully done ... shows a great deal of cleverness."--_Westminster Gazette._

"Characters well drawn ... we admire the novel for diction and balance."--_Times._

"Every woman reader will delight in this book. The characters are remarkably well drawn."--_Ladies' Pictorial._

The Stain By ELEANOR NEPEAN

"An intriguing situation, readable and well handled, with much good characterisation."--_Times._

Hurst & Blackett's

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_Each printed on good paper, cloth bound, with picture wrapper in colours._

The Publishers have pleasure in announcing the issue of this new series of very successful novels. They are as well produced as new 6/- Editions.

By GERTRUDE PAGE

Whose Sales are now in the Second Million

Winding Paths Some There are-- Where the Strange Roads Go Down Follow After

By COSMO HAMILTON

Scandal 5th Edition

By CYNTHIA STOCKLEY

Poppy 177th Thousand The Claw 128th Thousand

Also specially bound, 3/6 net.

A Gift Edition of Gertrude Page's famous book

Two Lovers and a Lighthouse

Which has been described as one of the most beautiful love stories ever written.

STANDARD BOOKS ON THE HORSE.

By Capt. M. HORACE HAYES, F.R.C.V.S.

POINTS OF THE HORSE

A Treatise on the Conformation, Movements, Breeds and Evolution of the Horse, with 658 illustrations. Revised and enlarged edition, and 279 illustrations added. 1 vol., super royal 8vo, cloth gilt and gilt top, +34s.+

VETERINARY NOTES. For Horse Owners

An Illustrated Manual of Horse Medicine and Surgery written in simple language. A New (the 8th) Edition, brought up to date by various Experts in Veterinary Science. One vol., demy 8vo, cloth gilt. +15s.+ net, with over 250 Illustrations. This notable work has maintained its supremacy for 37 years.

STABLE MANAGEMENT AND EXERCISE: a Book for Horse Owners and Students

_Revised and Enlarged Edition. Illustrated by Drawings and numerous Reproductions of Photographs taken specially for this work. In one vol., demy 8vo, cloth gilt._ +12s.+ _net_.

ILLUSTRATED HORSEBREAKING

Revised and Enlarged Edition, with 130 Illustrations from Drawings by J. H. OSWALD BROWN and from Photographs specially taken for the work. One vol., demy 8vo, cloth gilt, +12s.+ net.

RIDING AND HUNTING

_Revised and Enlarged Edition. In one vol., demy 8vo, cloth_, +16s.+ _net, with upwards of 250 reproductions of Photographs and Drawings_.

FRIEDBERGER & FROHNER'S VETERINARY PATHOLOGY

Translated and Edited by Captain HAYES.

With notes on Bacteriology by Prof. R. TANNER HEWLETT, M.D., D.P.H. Revised and Enlarged Edition, re-translated. 2 vols., demy 8vo, cloth gilt, +21s.+ net.

By MRS. HAYES

THE HORSEWOMAN: A Practical Guide.

_Originally edited by the late Captain M. H. HAYES. Revised Edition, Enlarged. In one vol., demy 8vo, cloth gilt_, +12s.+ _net, with 156 illustrations_.

By JAMES FILLIS

_Ecuyer en chef to the Central Cavalry School at St. Petersburg._

BREAKING AND RIDING. With Military Commentaries.

_Translated by Captain M. H. HAYES. With 70 illustrations from Photographs and Sketches taken on the spot. In one vol., demy 8vo, cloth gilt_, +16s.+ _net_.

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MODERN POLO By Capt. E. D. MILLER

In demy, 8 vo, cloth gilt, with about 150 illustrations and diagrams of which over 50 are entirely new to the work, +16s.+ net.

Hurst & Blackett's 2/- NET Novels

_Each volume bound, and with a most attractive picture wrapper in colours._

Fate and Drusilla

By Alice and Claude Askew

Love Maggy

By Countess Barcynska

The Golden Triangle

By Maurice Le Blanc

The Crystal Stopper

By Maurice Le Blanc

The Bombshell

By Maurice Le Blanc

To Right the Wrong

By Edna Lyall

In Spite of All

By Edna Lyall

Love's Burden

By Margaret Peterson

Fate and the Watcher

By Margaret Peterson

Love Wins

By Effie Adelaide Rowlands

Bequeathed

By Beatrice Whitby

Hurst & Blackett's 2/- Novels

Already Published.

Each volume bound and with a most attractive picture wrapper

Drusilla's Point of View By Madame Albanesi A Question of Quality Madame Albanesi The Honey Pot Countess Barcynska The Youngest Miss Mowbray Mrs. B. M. Croker Red Bob of the Islands Beatrice Grimshaw Behold and See Lilith Hope Heart of Ice Fergus Hume The Hardy Norseman Edna Lyall Knight Errant Edna Lyall We Two Edna Lyall Won by Waiting Edna Lyall In the Golden Days Edna Lyall Donovan Edna Lyall Two Lovers and a Lighthouse Gertrude Page The Edge O' Beyond Gertrude Page Paddy the Next Best Thing Gertrude Page Love in the Wilderness Gertrude Page The Silent Rancher Gertrude Page The Rhodesian Gertrude Page The Great Splendour Gertrude Page To Love Margaret Peterson Butterfly Wings Margaret Peterson Spies of the Kaiser Wm. Le Queux Secrets of the Foreign Office Wm. Le Queux The House of the Wicked Wm. Le Queux The Man from Downing Street Wm. Le Queux The Devil's Carnival Wm. Le Queux The Ides of March Mrs. Baillie Reynolds Worlds End Amelie Rives (Princess Troubetzkoy) Shadows of Flames Amelie Rives (Princess Troubetzkoy) Pan's Mountain Amelie Rives (Princess Troubetzkoy) The Long Lane's Turning Hallie Erminie Rives Lavender's Love Story Effie Adelaide Rowlands The Man with the Money Effie Adelaide Rowlands The Woman Who Lived Again Lindsay Russell The Turnstile of Night Mrs. C. N. Williamson

Also by WM. LE QUEUX

The Life Story of the Ex-Crown Princess of Saxony

Told by Herself and related by Wm. Le Queux.

+Rasputin+ (The amazing true story of the Rascal Monk)

180th Thousand

And a New Volume

The Secret Shame of the Kaiser

This Book of startling revelations, which is probably destined to be as popular as the Author's +"Rasputin," the Rascal Monk+ (180th thousand), is now published for the first time.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Air Pirate, by Cyril Arthur Edward Ranger Gull