tionless. He approached. A dark, thin streak that came from the parted lips and passed downward over the chin, losing itself then in the fur collar, was a trickle of blood. It was hardly dry; it glistened. Strange it was, perhaps, that while imaginary fears had the power to paralyze him in mind and body, this sight of something real had the effect of restoring confidence. The sight of blood and death, amid conditions often ghastly and even monstrous, were no new thing to him. He went up quietly, and with steady hand he felt the woman's cheek, the warmth of recent life still in its softness. The final cold had not yet mastered this empty form whose beauty, in its perfect stillness, had taken on the new strange sweetness of an unearthly bloom. Pallid, silent, untenanted, it lay before him, lit by the flicker of his guttering candle. He lifted the fur coat to feel for the unbeating heart. And two hours ago at most, he judged, this heart was working busily, the breath came through those parted lips, the eyes were shining in full beauty. His hand encountered a hard knobthe head of a long steel hat-pin driven through the heart up to its hilt. He knew then which was the figure, which was the real and which the unreal. He knew also what had been meant by "it." But before he could think or reflect what action he must take, before he could straighten himself even from his bent position over the body on the bed, there sounded through the empty house below the loud clang of the front door being closed. And instantly rushed over him that other fear he had so long forgotten-fear for himself. The panic of his own shaken nerves descended with irresistible onslaught. He turned, extinguished the candle in the violent trembling of his hand, and tore headlong from the room. The following ten minutes seemed a nightmare in which he was not master of himself and knew not exactly what he did. All he realized was that steps already sounded on the stairs, coming quickly nearer. The flicker of an electric torch played on the banisters, whose shadows ran swiftly sidewise along the wall as the hand that held the light ascended. He thought in a frenzied second of police, of his presence in the house, of the murdered woman. It was a sinister combination. Whatever happened, he must escape without being so much as even seen. His heart raced madly. He darted across the landing into the room opposite, whose door he had luckily left open. By some incredible chance, apparently, he was neither seen nor heard by the man who a moment later reached the landing, entered the room where the body of the woman lay, and closed the door carefully behind him. Shaking, scarcely daring to breathe lest his breath be audible, O'Reilly, in the grip of his own personal terror, remnant of his uncured shock of war, had no thought of what duty might demand or not demand of him. He thought only of himself. He realized one clear issue— that he must get out of the house without being heard or seen. Who the newcomer was he did not know beyond an uncanny assurance that it was not him whom the woman had "expected," but the murderer himself, and that it was the murderer, in his turn, who was expecting this third person. In that room with death at his elbow, a death he had himself brought about only an hour or two ago, the murderer now hid in waiting for his second victim. And the door was closed. Yet any minute it might open again, cutting off retreat. He O'Reilly crept out, stole across the landing, reached the head of the stairs, and began with the utmost caution the perilous descent. Every time the bare boards creaked beneath his weight, no matter how stealthily this weight was adjusted, his heart missed a beat. tested every step before he pressed upon it, distributing as much of his weight as he dared upon the banisters. It was a little more than half-way down that, to his horror, his foot caught in a projecting carpet tack; he slipped on the polished wood, and saved himself from falling headlong only by a wild clutch at the railing, making an uproar that seemed to him like the explosion of a hand grenade in the forgotten trenches. His nerves gave way then, and panic seized him. In the silence that followed the resounding echoes he heard the bedroom door opening on the floor above. Concealment was now useless. It was impossible, too. He took the last flight of stairs in a series of leaps, four steps at a time, reached the hall, flew across it, and opened the front door just as his pursuer, electric torch in hand, covered half the stairs behind him. Slamming the door, he plunged headlong into the welcome, all-obscuring fog outside. The pur The fog had now no terrors for him; he welcomed its concealing mantle. Nor did it matter in which direction he ran so long as he put distance between him and the house of death. suer had, of course, not followed him into the street. He crossed open spaces without a tremor. He ran in a circle, nevertheless, though without being aware he did so. No people were about, no single groping shadow passed him, no boom of traffic reached his ears, when he paused for breath at length against an area railing. Then for the first time he made the discovery that he had no hat. He remembered now. In examining the body, partly out of respect, partly perhaps unconsciously, he had taken it off and laid it on the very bed. It was there, a telltale bit of damning evidence in the house of death. And a series of probable consequences flashed through his mind like lightning. It was a new hat, fortunately; more fortunate still, he had not yet written name or initials in it; but the maker's mark was there for all to read, and the police would go immediately to the shop where he had bought it only two days before. Would the shop people remember his appearance? Would his visit, the date, the conversation be recalled? thought it was unlikely; he resembled dozens of men; he had no outstanding peculiarity. He tried to think, but his mind was confused and troubled, his heart was beating dreadfully, he felt desperately ill. He sought vainly for some story to account for his being out in the fog and far from home without a hat. No single idea presented itself. He clung to the icy railings, hardly able to keep upright, collapse very near, when suddenly a figure emerged from He the fog, paused a moment to stare at him, put out a hand and caught him, and then spoke: "You 're ill, my dear sir," said a man's kindly voice. "Can I be of any assistance? Come, let me help you." He had seen at once that it was not a case of drunkenness. "Come, take my arm, won't you? I 'm a physician. Luckily, too, you are just outside my very house. Come in." And he half dragged, half pushed O'Reilly, now bordering on collapse, up the steps, and opened the door with his latch-key. "Felt ill suddenly-lost in the fogterrified, but be all right soon, thanks awfully," the Canadian stammered his gratitude, already feeling better. He sank into a chair in the hall, while the other put down a paper parcel he had been carrying, and led him presently into a comfortable room. A fire burned brightly; the electric lamps were pleasantly shaded; a decanter of whisky and a siphon stood on a small table beside a big arm-chair; and before O'Reilly could find another word to say, the other had poured him out a glass and bade him sip it slowly, without troubling to talk till he felt better. "That will revive you. Better drink it slowly. You should never have been out a night like this. If you 've far to go, better let me put you up—" "Very kind, very kind indeed," mumbled O'Reilly, recovering rapidly in the comfort of a presence he already liked and felt even drawn to. "No trouble at all," returned the doctor. "I've been at the front, you know. I can see what your trouble is-shellshock, I'll be bound." The Canadian, much impressed by the other's quick diagnosis, noted also his tact and kindness. He had made no reference to the absence of a hat, for instance. "Quite true," he said. "I'm with Dr. Henry in Harley Street," and he added a few words about his case. The whisky worked its effect, he revived more and more, feeling better every minute. The other handed him a cigarette; they began to talk about his symptoms and recovery. Confidence returned in a measure, though he still felt badly frightened. The doctor's manner and personality did much to help, for there were strength and gentleness in the face, though the features showed unusual determination, softened occasionally by a sudden hint as of suffering in the bright, compelling eyes. It was the face, thought O'Reilly, of a man who had seen much and probably been through hell, but of a man who was simple, good, sincere. Yet not a man to trifle with; behind his gentleness lay something very stern. This effect of character and personality woke the other's respect in addition to his gratitude. His sympathy was stirred. "You encourage me to make another guess," the man was saying, after a successful reading of the impromptu patient's state, "that you have had, namely, a severe shock quite recently, and"-he hesitated for the merest fraction of a second-"that it would be a relief to you," he went on, the skilful suggestion in the voice unnoticed by his companion, "it would be wise as well, if you could unburden yourself to some one who would understand." He looked at O'Reilly with a kindly and very pleasant smile. "Am I not right, perhaps?" he asked in his gentle voice. "Some one who would understand," repeated the Canadian. "That's my trouble exactly. You 've hit it. It's all so incredible." The other smiled. "The more incredible," he suggested, "the greater your need for expression. Suppression, as you may know, is dangerous in cases like this. You think you have hidden it, but it bides its time and comes up later, causing a lot of trouble. Confession, you know-" he emphasized the word "confession is good for the soul!" "You 're dead right," agreed the other. "Now, if you can bring yourself to tell it to some one who will listen and believe to myself, for instance. I am a doctor, familiar with such things. I shall regard all you say as a professional confidence, of course, and, as we are strangers, my belief or disbelief is of no particular consequence. I may tell you in advance of your story, however-I think I can promise it-that I shall believe all you have to say." O'Reilly told his story without more ado, for the suggestion of the skilled physician had found easy soil to work During the recital his host's eyes never once left his own. He moved no single muscle of his body. His interest seemed intense. "A bit tall, is n't it?" said the CanaIdian when his tale was finished. "And the question is " he continued with a threat of volubility which the other checked instantly. "Strange, yes; but incredible, no," the doctor interrupted. "I see no reason to disbelieve a single detail of what you have just told me. Things equally remarkable, equally incredible, happen to all large towns, as I know from personal experience. I could give you instances." He paused a moment, but his companion, staring into his eyes with interest and curiosity, made no comment. "Some years ago, in fact," continued the other, "I knew of a very similar casestrangely similar." "Really! I should be immensely interested-" "So similar that it seems almost a coincidence. You may find it hard, in your turn, to credit it." He paused again, while O'Reilly sat forward in his chair to listen. "Yes," pursued the doctor slowly, "I think every one connected with it is now dead. There is no reason why I should not tell it, for one confidence deserves another, you know. It happened during the Boer War-as long ago as that," he added with emphasis. "It is really a very commonplace story in one way, though very dreadful in another, but a man who has served at the front will understand, and, I'm sure, will sympathize." "I'm sure of that," offered the other, readily. "A colleague of mine, now dead, as I mentioned, a surgeon, with a big practice, married a young and charming girl. They lived happily together for several years. His wealth made her very comfortable. His consulting-room, I must tell you, was some distance from his house, just as this might be, so that she was never bothered with any of his Then came the war. Like many others, though much over age, he volunteered. He gave up his lucrative cases. "A man did come in," the doctor went on calmly, "but it was not the lover. It was a stranger." "A stranger?" the other whispered. "And the surgeon, where was he all this time?" practice and went to South Africa. His income, of course, stopped; the big house was closed; his wife found her life of enjoyment considerably curtailed. This she considered a great hardship, it seems. She felt a bitter grievance against him. Devoid of imagination, without any power of sacrifice, a selfish type, she was yet a beautiful, attractive woman and young. The inevitable lover came upon the scene to console her. They planned to run away together. He was was rich. Japan, they thought, would suit them. . Only, by some ill luck, the husband got wind of it, and arrived in London just in the nick of time." "Well rid of her," put in O'Reilly, "I appalling feeling that the man facing think." The doctor waited a moment. He sipped his glass. Then, his eyes fixed upon his companion's face somewhat sternly, continued: "Well rid of her, yes; only he determined to make that riddance final. He decided to kill her-and her lover. You see, he loved her." O'Reilly made no comment. In his own country this method with a faithless woman was not unknown. His interest was very concentrated. But he was thinking, too, as he listened, thinking hard. "He planned the time and place with care," resumed the other in a lower voice, as though he might possibly be overheard. "They met, he knew, in the big house, now closed, the house where he and his young wife had passed such happy years during their prosperity. The plan failed, however, in an important detail: the woman came at the appointed hour, but without her lover. She found death waiting for her; it was a painless death. Then her lover, who was to arrive half an hour later, did not come at all. The door had purposely been left open for him. The house was dark, its rooms shut up, deserted; there was no caretaker, even. It was a foggy night-just like this." "And the other?" asked O'Reilly in a failing voice. "The lover?" "Waiting outside to see him enter, concealed in the fog. He saw the man go in. Five minutes later he followed, meaning to complete his vengeance, his act of justice, whatever you like to call it. But the man who had come in was a stranger. He came in by chance, just as you might have done, for shelter from the fog-or-" O'Reilly, though with a rose abruptly to his feet. great effort, He had an him was mad. He had a keen desire to He "I think I'd better be pushing off now, Doctor," he said clumsily. "But I feel I must thank you very much for all your kindness and help." He turned and looked hard into the keen eyes facing him. "Your friend," he asked in a whisper, "the surgeon-I hope I mean, was he ever caught?" "No," was the grave reply, the doctor standing up in front of him; "he was never caught." O'Reilly waited a moment before he made another remark. “Well,” he said at length, but in a louder tone than before, “I think I'm glad." He went to the door without shaking hands. "You have no hat," mentioned the voice behind him. "If you'll wait a moment, I'll get you one of mine. You need not trouble to return it." The doctor passed him, going into the hall. There was a sound of tearing paper. O'Reilly left the house a moment later with a hat upon his head, but it was not till he reached the tube station half an hour afterward that he realized it was his own. O Is It Necessary to Get Ahead? By EDWINA STANTON BABCOCK N Saturday afternoons, in the lunch-rooms of city clubs, there is an influx of country women come to partake of the hospitality of their more enterprising sisters, who sit appreciatively upon precious chairs of the modern decorator, eat sparingly of small parsleyed portions, gaze furtively upon such "important" persons as may be near, and meditate with various mental reservations upon the necessity of getting ahead. To the casual eye this spectacle means only that it is Saturday and that a number of women of small opportunity are lunching with a number of women of greater. To any one having inclination to look for a deeper meaning, it might seem to be a sort of unconscious pageant, the meeting and passing of two streams of persons of entirely opposed alliances, fidelities, occupations, and convictions. After some analyzing, these two streams would seem to be composed of women quite unindividualized, and women whose egos are, to themselves, satisfactorily oriented, the first walking without apparent revolt obscure paths of general or particular usefulness, the second, sometimes for gravely vital, sometimes for surprisingly superficial reasons, absorbed in a mysterious and manysided occupation known as "getting ahead." Just what is "getting ahead," and is it necessary? If the student of the two streams of humanity were to rise in any club lunchroom and ask these two questions, there is no doubt that he would receive answers. There is no doubt that he would be instructed with clear, incisive, if somewhat patronizing, elucidation, the bases of which would be strictly logical, practical, and, one may add, material and mechanical. The sum of these answers would tend to point out that in America, anyway, it is necessary for everybody to be somebody, because everybody can be somebody, and to be somebody it is necessary to have things, and to have things it is necessary to get ahead. Upon this assumption, so naïve in the face of the true history of the developments of all great characters, contemporary life is permanently based, the ultimate object seeming to be that human beings, with their like-unlikeness as distinct as ribbon-grass blades, shall more vividly develop that strange, unconscious thing called "individuality." But curiously enough, despite this avowed aim, nothing is more subversive of true individuality than contemporary life, and it is one of the mysteries of existence that in this age of freedom of spirit and insistence upon the sacredness of individuality we have, as Mr. Walter Weyl was perhaps the first American to point out, a fatally standardized mechanical fabric of civilization, filled with fatally standardized people. In Europe, where the Twilight of the Gods is covering mighty destinies and purposes, great personalities and great souls may once more arise; but in this country, filled with beings all eagerness to register their own egos, we hang upon civilization like so many little green pods filled with so many little green peas, done into pattern and trade form by a very button molder of a philosophy. We have been accustomed to make the early development of our beloved country the excuse for our irresistible desire to get ahead. All the pioneer sagacity and initiative, all the subjugation of beasts and birds, forests, mines, fields, and water-powers to the stern needs of a determined people, are supposed to have bred in us a liking for fierce wrestling with circumstances that, properly overcome, will advance the wrestlers' prospects, hopes, and acquisitions. But it is the motive behind great enterprise that truly justifies it, and when we reflect that the earliest dwellers on American |
