During the hearings of the various biological committees, the minikins should be, of course, imprisoned and held incommunicado, in order that, anticipating their own extermination, no sudden projection of the nanlegic seed onward by last-minute matings may take place. A comparatively painless death should be, of course, granted to them, and—though this will be disputed!—strangling, or garroting, would be the proper form of euthanasia to insure this. The mode of dispatch should be made uniform the world over, and the day of execution should be made simultaneous in all countries and lands.
I beg to remain, Most respectfully,
André Marceau,
29, Tavistock Square, London.
DOCUMENT X
A piece of a family tree diagram, enclosed in a packet marked “B” received at Chicago, Illinois, November 2, 1936, on the back of which is written:.
“This shows the exact relationship of the Marceau family members lying contiguous to Théophile Marceau, whose estate—and somewhat defective will—caused a considerable wrangle in the English Courts of Chancery from 1920 to 1927. The ‘tree’ is drawn exactly after the English system, with squares representing males; circles females; direct horizontal connections between same, marriages—with digits showing dates thereof; and vertical drop-lines, offspring—again carrying dates of birth of each; and the date of death of each person lettered beneath the square or circle representing that person. I myself, incidentally, lettered in André Marceau’s death date here—since, when the tree was drawn, and enclosed in English chancery records, he was still alive—and was the chief claimant and heir to the Marceau Estate. Practically all the claimants and subsequent beneficiaries of Théophile Marceau’s estate came into being via the descendants of Aristide Marceau’s (Théophile’s father) brothers: Edouard, Adrian, Lucien, Pierre—and his sisters, Céline and Fanchon, all of whom are shown in the complete tree to the left of Aristide; but do not appear in this limited section of tree. No heirs were possible via Théophile Marceau’s mother, ‘Henriette de Fontnouvelle’ because she was a foundling, and never even legally adopted. No heirs were possible backward via either Julie Aillaud or ‘Margot LaFarge’ because of their not having Marceau blood—though, downward from them, were two living descendants: André Marceau of London, from the latter, and Oliver Edward Marceau of New York, from the former, by way of a marriage between her son Henri Filomenon Marceau and an Arkansas backwoods girl, Jenny Robson. This pair’s offspring shared about equally with the heirs coming down backward via Aristide Marceau, because of the manner of expression in Théophile’s will which very definitely limited inheritance via Julie Aillaud—if not almost barring same!
X. J.”
P.S.: Judging from certain notations in that notebook of André’s which I got hold of, he once met this nephew of his Oliver Edward, in London, many years ago. In fact, old chap, that very address—that ‘family hotel’—I sent you a while back and asked for a report on—yes, the one which you informed me had been torn down for many years and was now non est!—was the address given after the entry of Oliver Edward Marceau’s name in André’s notebook. The fact of the building having been torn down so long ago, and the address not having been renewed in the book, showed plainly that André and Oliver did not keep up either their friendship or their correspondence! Now, I would be glad, in case by any chance you anticipate running eastward in the next few days, if you would see what you could dig up secretly—and quite sub-rosa!—on this unknown Arkansas girl, Jenny Robson—Oliver Marceau’s mother. We don’t need any information from him, for his birth certificate, on file in chancery records here since he qualified as an heir to the Marceau Estate, shows his birth to have taken place in Brooklyn; the duplicate record of it would surely be available there—but, if not, I can get a certified copy of the original birth certificate. Perhaps some old neighbor at the address given in the certificate might know something. Though it is all pretty far back, to be sure. Don’t go out of your way to do all this, because it will all be of more or less academic importance in case I get an affirmative report from you on that Nebraska fingerprint.
X. J.”
DOCUMENT XI
Excerpts literary and pictorial, from novel “The Shadow of a Sin, or Lady Ethel’s Revenge,” by Angela Audrey Thainway.
“Lady Ethel,” he said, “let there be peace between us! Why should there be war? After our nuptials next Sunday, we shall have to live together all our lives. Let us try to understand each other. And I swear to you that tonight I will forge the two letters you ask—the letters by which Dora Riverton and Sir Gordon Clanalpen will each become convinced that the other is untrue. What more can I do?”
She almost shuddered, with the wave of relief that spread over her at his final acquiescence in her foul plan. Though she did not think their lives would be spent together. Nor even, perhaps, that their marriage would ever take place. She touched his extended hand with her cold jeweled fingers.
“Very well, Guy Bristow. But you must remember what I have said. Though we are made one a week from today, I shall still be absolute mistress here, and I shall allow no orders to be given until I have been consulted. If you remember that, we shall be friends; when you forget it—and mistake it not!—we shall be foes.”
She went away with a smile on her lips. She understood the impetuous character of her fiancé quite well. He would never submit to her rule. He would leave home some day in hot anger. She would see that he never returned, and that her son, Hugh, became the master of Larchton Mere.
CHAPTER XIV
WHERE MEN ARE MEN!
In the meantime, while Lady Ethel lay her plot with Guy Bristow against Dora, there were ugly rumors floating around the camps of Golddust City, in far-off America, and the absence of Handsome Harry Halsted from the camp added to them. It was said that he had shot down Modoc Dan, the chief of the Gold Wolves, and that Gringo, a half-breed Apache in the band, he had killed.
Bugle Bill was also missing, and was known to have had the important papers left by the mysterious English stranger, “Basil Hammershaw,” who had vanished so unaccountably from his room in the Paradise Hotel. Bugle Bill’s disappearance was looked upon as very odd, and somehow it was hinted that Handsome Harry was at the bottom of the disappearance both of Bugle Bill and the strange Englishman.
Parson Pete also had not been seen, and he had been last heard of as being with Handsome.
Something was wrong evidently, and the rumors, starting from no one knew where, continued to gain ground, and more were added to these, until a clear case of murder seemed to be made out against Handsome Harry.
Mounting his horse, as the rumors grew deeper, and the talk of the miners more threatening, Colonel Cadaver, the stern-faced landlord of the Paradise Hotel, rode towards the camp of the Gold Wolves determined to find out at last if the vanished Englishman were captive or not! While far across the mesa squatted Buck Heinrichs, the leader of the Gold Wolves, armed with a telescopic rifle. And little did poor Colonel Cadaver know it, but this was to be his last ride!
CHAPTER XV
AT MAINWARING MANOR
While Colonel Cadaver, in far-off America, rode slowly toward the camp of the Gold Wolves, Cecilburt Lyndon stood gazing at Mainwaring Manor.
Ah, God help him—how happy he was!
There, with the sun shining full upon it, stood the stately old house, the shrine that held the wondrous jewel. And as he thought of the pretty shyness of Dora Riverton, that fair jewel, he smiled to himself.
“There are, in this world, gentlemen of God’s own making,” he said reverently, “and I will try to be one of such.”
Ten minutes later he was in the blue drawing-room, where the two easels stood side by side. He looked around him, and he was alone.
“This is to be my paradise,” he said to himself. “Here I shall sit and watch that beauty such as never woman wore, sit and listen to that voice which is sweeter than the love notes of a cushat dove. This room is a shrine—a temple.”
But, alas for him, and solely because of the machinations of her—Lady Ethel Vyse—who owned, body and soul, all of the servants in this house, it was to become a tomb—the tomb of his manhood, his truth, his genius.
Another minute, and the door slowly opened. His heart gave one great bound, then stood still.
It was only a servant bringing a large portfolio, which he laid upon the table.
“Miss Dora will be with you directly, sir,” he said. “And then—”
Cecilburt Lyndon saw and heard no more until she came in, more lovely in her simple morning costume than in her evening-dress and jewels—a white dress of some flowing material showing the graceful, stately figure to the utmost advantage, displaying every graceful line and curve, a blushing rose fastened in her bodice, her rippling hair brushed back from the white marble brow and falling in a thousand waves on her graceful neck and shoulders, a slight flush on her peerless face, and her eyes bright with gracious welcome.
She held out her hand in greeting to him. He touched it, and the slight touch coursed like liquid fire through his veins.
“I have sent in my folio of drawings, Mr. Lyndon,” she said timidly, “thinking that you would like to see what progress I have made. Will you deign to sit down here and look them over?”
They sat down together, side by side. She took the drawings, and pointed them out to him. The perfume from her hair and the rose in her bodice reached him.
The drawings were good. He told her the truth. She had true artistic talent, but was, here and there, careless; and without care she could never succeed.
“You have a bold, vigorous touch, Do— Miss Riverton,” he said. “But you want study and practice.”
He saw that it pleased her to have the truth given her; that just because she was a beauty, she was no spoiled, flattered one.
“I will have study and practice both under your tuition,” she replied, her tones queenlike. “For I must do credit to my master.”
And she did not know, as thus she spoke, that her master was to become her slave.
“Copy this,” he said, taking a drawing from the folio and placing it before her.
He prepared her pencils, she looking on the while, with a sweet enigmatic smile. Then she began. While he exerted all his powers to keep from clasping her, then and there, in his arms.
The white, slender fingers that held the pencils had the daintiest rose flush. How could his eyes help from following them, looking at them, watching them, in their slightest every move?
The glorious face was so near to him! And with every breath of that sweet summer morn, he drank in deep draughts of a drug—the most subtle and deadly drug that man can drink!
DOCUMENT XII
Book Review Column of John Stapleton Cowley-Brown, known as “America’s Most Caustic Literary Critic,” appearing in the July, 1906, issue of “10-Story Magazine,” published at Chicago.
W. D. Howells’ latest novel is being published in the London Times. The burning of Washington, D. C., by the British is at last avenged.
* * * *
From time to time we see some rather tart reviews of Opie Read’s books. Now Opie Read can do one thing quite beyond the power of his critics whose corvine chatter is sandwiched between the corset and the bicycle tire ads in the so-called “great” Eastern magazines. He can turn a ream of paper, a bottle of ink, and a bundle of quills into a bag of gold. Maybe his critics’ inability to do likewise is the cause of their caustic criticisms.
* * * *
Mrs. Rorer of Philadelphia is my favorite woman writer. This lady may not figure so largely in the semi-literary journals as do Elinor Glyn, Victoria Cross and Mrs. Humphry Ward, but her books are far, far better, more useful, quite indispensable. Mrs. Rorer’s latest book is a gem. Especially masterly chapters are “Twenty Best Soups,” “Twenty Best Fish Recipes,” and “Twenty Best Desserts.”
* * * *
Here in Chicago a new terror was added to the celebration of Washington’s birthday. Wallace Trite, a local criticaster, read “The Declaration of Independence” before the Woman’s Club. Of the wounded and dead, they carried off three ambulance wagons full.
* * * *
Do not let the fact that Charles Belmont Davis is a brother of Richard Harding Davis deter you from reading his latest novel. Between Brother Dick and Brother Charles there is a deep gulf fixed. Brother Dick could write checks, but Brother Charles can write books—books that are books!
* * * *
On the last page of Alfred Ollivant’s latest novel is this line, printed in heavy black type: “I Will Answer No Questions About this Book. Alfred Ollivant.” Mr. Ollivant may keep his breath to cool his porridge. No one who has waded through this fudge, a sticky substance without much composition, will want to ask Mr. Ollivant any questions whatsoever, save how comes it that he and his publishers are at large.
* * * *
Mr. Richard Watson Gilder is of the opinion that Lincoln had no style, as style is generally understood. Lincoln we know, but who is Gilder?
* * * *
Authors are notoriously an irritable tribe. A case in point: An aggrieved author writes me a long, verbose letter complaining that I could not have read his novel through before condemning it in one of my “surly flings.” I acknowledge the impeachment. I did not read the book “through.” I read thirty pages and then I was “through” with it. To judge of a brewing, is it necessary to drink a barrel of beer? Indeed, to appraise some stuff I have merely to smell of my paper knife.
* * * *
“Do We Need Ibsen?” is the title of a windy article in one of the windy magazines. Of course we need Ibsen. What we do not need are invertebrate pot-boiling articles about the Norwegian giant by such American dwarfs as James Huneker and Professor Harry Thurston Pecksniff.
* * * *
My landlady’s daughter of sweet 16 tells me that Angela Audrey Thainway’s new book Lady Ethel’s Revenge “knocks the socks” off of all of Miss Thainway’s previous books. But misses of sweet 16 being potent factors in the sale of such rubbish on this side of the ocean—and British servant girls being the largest consumers of it on the other side—Miss Thainway will still no doubt continue to drive her £2000 imported White Steamer automobile about London. ’Twas ever thus, though, when it comes to the sales of books. An affair highly analogous to pursuit piscatorial! Put a rose at the end of your line, and spiders shall have time enough to spin their webs in the bend of your arm—and you shall not take the smallest fry (viz., Ambrose Bierce’s “Complete Works,” which just now is scarcely moving at all); but fasten on a piece of limburger, and carp, perch, trout, bass and eel will leap six feet out of the water to snap it. Nor should I be surprised, moreover, if Angela Audrey Thainway still has her adherents, 30 years hence, when names of such worthwhile literary newcomers as, for instance, one Edith Wharton, will be completely unknown.
DOCUMENT XIII
A letter, of date November 3, 1936, from X. Jones, 136 Grey’s Inn Road, London, England, to Gerald Wilkins, Cliff Cottage, Chale, Isle of Wight.
My Dear Young Friend:
I fear that—as the Americans say!—you, and your uncle, my esteemed superior at the Yard, have me “on the spot”!
For you tell me in your interesting letter that, as an amateur criminologist, you have followed my work, even some of that which was done back in Bombay—and that you have read every line ever published on the Marceau Case—and that you would deem it the greatest privilege—if not the proudest moment!—of your life were I to vouchsafe to you some small opportunity of helping me in my investigation of this case, which investigation, of course, your uncle has written you I am endeavoring to prosecute from entirely new angles.
And then—by the very same post!—from Inspector General Wilkins himself, now in Austria for what is probably to be a long session with that arthritic knee of his—a request that if I can assign to his nephew Gerald, in my work on this strange and entirely “unofficial” case, any task or duty whatsoeve
r, he will feel more than obligated to me.
So—I am on the spot, am I not?
Well, Gerald, I have looked over the picture of yourself that you enclosed—you did not state how old you were, but I take it you’re abut 22?—and I must confess that I find eagerness radiating from every element of your physiognomy. And so—if you still do insist on coming to this great inkblot of a London again!—there is one slight thing that you could do—to help me out a little—again, that is, if you insist!
It is as follows:
There was, as of course you know from having followed The Marceau Case, a girl in the house on the night Marceau met his death. No, I do not mean the girl, Una Meggs, who was visiting the butler. I mean just the second-maid, Jane Trotter.
Well, this Jane Trotter, Gerald, is working today under the pseudonym—or “alias,” as it is so often called in criminological circles—of “Dora Riverton,” on Redcliffe Square; for, in fact, a Mrs. Stuyves-Cherryvant who lives at Number 15 there. Nobody today, in all probability, lad, but she—and I—and now you—know this fact.
And this Jane Trotter, Gerald, knows something concerning the Marceau Case which no one else knows—and which she will not divulge to me—much less even concede that she knows it—and in all probability she never will concede to me her possession of such knowledge—let alone divulge it. Probably her unwillingness to admit knowing anything—or to communicate to me whatever it is she knows—or thinks she knows—is because I am connected with the Yard. And, in that way, represent to her the awful majesty of the British Law itself!
Though she is not—please understand that—involved criminally in any way with that affair at Little Ivington. And, since you are so familiar with the Marceau Case, you will know that such must be the fact. She must be protecting someone, or, what is even more likely, thinks she is protecting someone! This is my intuition—just as much as I intuitively know she is holding something back.
X. Jones—Of Scotland Yard Page 2
