CHAPTER V

THE INITIATION

San Francisco possesses one great advantage—you can easily get out of it. Leaving the pan-handle of the Park behind one, and following the turn of the cars, one passes through a pretty valley, green and fair as any garden, and dotted with small houses. An old cemetery lies to one side of it; where unconventional inscriptions and queer epitaphs can be traced on the half-buried stones, covered with a tangle of vines and weeds. Still moving forward one reaches Olympus, and climbing to its heights, one sees away below, in the far distance, the Coast Range—like a rampart of strength; the blue waters of the bay, sparkling and dancing in the sunlight—steamers flashing their path on its bosom; and tiny white specks scudding in the breeze. Below is the city, its houses, small, and closed in, like toy villages in Christmas boxes; whilst the slopes around are green with fresh grass; and here and there are thick clusters of eucalyptus and pines. The ocean is partly hidden from view by a peak, which rises directly to the west, and is separated from that on which one is standing by a deep and thickly wooded valley. Descending, by means of a narrow winding path, one passes through dense clumps of hickory, chestnut, mountain ash, and walnut trees, whose strong lateral branches afford ample protection from the sun, and at the same time furnish playgrounds to innumerable bright-eyed squirrels. Further down one comes upon gentle elms, succeeded by sassafras and locust—these, in their turn, succeeded by the softer linden, red bud, catalpa, and maple; and at the foot of the declivity, and in the bottom of the valley, wild shrubbery, interspersed with silver willows, and white poplars. Still following the path down the vale, in a southerly direction, one, at length, finds oneself in an amphitheatre, shut in on all sides by trees and bushes of a still greater variety; here and there, a gigantic and much begnarled oak; here, a triple-stemmed tulip tree of some eighty feet in height, its glossy, vivid green leaves and profuse blossoms presenting a picture of unsurpassed beauty and splendour; there, equally beautiful, though in marked contrast, a tall and slender silver birch. The floor of the amphitheatre is, for the most part, grass—soft, thick, velvety and miraculously green. The silence is such as makes it wholly inconceivable, that so vast a city as San Francisco can be little over six miles distant. Though one may strain one's ears to the utmost, nothing is to be heard but the occasional tinkling of a cow-bell, the lowing of cattle and the desultory note of birds. It is the perfect quiet which Nature alone can give; and it so impressed Hamar that he at once decided that this was the very spot essential for the ceremony of initiation into the Black Art.

The locality selected, the night had next to be chosen—and the conditions demanding that on the night of the initiation there must be a new moon, cusp of seventh house, and conjoined with Saturn, in opposition to Jupiter,[16] Hamar and his confederates had to wait exactly three weeks, from the date of the conclusion of the tests, before they could proceed.

Shortly before midnight, on the spot already described, Hamar, Curtis and Kelson met; and, after searching thoroughly amongst the trees and bushes in the vicinity of the amphitheatre to make sure no one was in hiding, they commenced operations.

On a perfectly level piece of ground a circle of seven feet radius was clearly defined. This circle was cut into seven sectors; and an inner circle from the same centre and with a radius of six feet was next drawn. In each part of the sectors, between the circumferences of the first and second circle, were inscribed, in chalk, the names of the seven principal vices (according to Atlantean ideas), and the seven most malignant diseases. Within the second circle, and using the same centre, was drawn a third circle, of five feet in radius, and in each part of the sectors, between the circumferences of the second and third circles, were written the names of the seven types of spirits most antagonistic to man's moral progress.[17]

Hamar had brought with him a sack—the same he had used to transport Satan's corpse—and from out of it he produced a half-starved tabby, that obviously could harm no one, owing to the fact that its head was tied up in a muslin bag and its four legs strapped together.

"It's a good thing there is no member of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals anywhere near," Kelson exclaimed, eyeing Hamar resentfully. "Wouldn't a mouse or a rat have done as well?"

"No!" Hamar ejaculated, depositing the brute with a plump on the ground; "the conditions are that the animal sacrificed must be a cat. I got the poorest specimen I could find, for I dislike butchering just as much as you do."

"How are you going to do it?" Kelson asked.

Hamar pointed to a chopper. "The conditions say with steel," he said; "only with steel, and I should bungle with a knife. You must look the other way. Now help me with the fire."

Besides the cat, the sack contained a dozen or so bundles of faggots, well steeped in paraffin, several blocks of wood, a tripod, and a big tin saucepan.

With the wood, a fire was soon kindled in the centre of the circle; and the tripod placed over it. Two pints of spring water were then poured into the saucepan, and to this were added 1 ounce of oxalic acid, 1 ounce of verdigris, 1-1/2 ounces of hemlock leaves, 1/2 ounce of henbane, 3/4 ounce of saffron, 2 ounces of aloes, 3 drachms of opium, 1 ounce of mandrake-root, 5 drachms of salanum, 7 drachms of poppy-seed, 1/2 ounce of assafoetida, and 1/2 ounce of parsley. As soon as the saucepan containing these ingredients began to boil Hamar threw into it two adders' heads, three toads and a centipede.

"Where on earth did you get all those horrors?" Curtis asked, shrinking away from the bag which had held them.

"Here," Hamar said laconically. "It's extraordinary what a lot of nasty things there are amid so much apparent beauty. I say apparent, because Nature is a champion faker. You have only to rake about in these bushes and you'll find snakes galore, whilst under pretty nearly every stone are centipedes. Like both of you, who never by any chance poke your noses outside the city, I fancied snakes and centipedes were confined to the prairies. But I know better now. Besides, where do you think I found the toads? Why, in the cellars under Meidlers'!"

"What, our late governor's?" Kelson cried.

Hamar nodded. "Yes!" he said; "under the very spot where we used to sit. The water's a foot deep in that cellar, and if there are as many toads in the cellars of the other houses in the block, then Sacramento Street has a corner in them. I'm going to be executioner now, so look the other way, Matt!"

Kelson needed no second bidding; and sticking his fingers in his ears, walked to some little distance. When Hamar called him back, the deed was accomplished—the conditions prescribed in the rites had been observed—the tabby was in the saucepan on the fire, and its blood had been besprinkled on each of the seven sectors of the circle.

"We must now take our seats on the ground," Hamar said; "I'd better be in the centre—you, Matt, on the right, and you, Ed, on the left—allowing three clear feet between us."

Hamar showed them how to sit—with legs crossed and arms folded.

For some minutes no one spoke. The wind rustled through the bushes and an owl hooted. Kelson, feeling the night air cold, drew his overcoat tightly around and the others followed suit. Then Curtis said—

"Do you really think there's anything in it, Leon? Aren't we fools to go on wasting our time like this?"

To which Hamar replied: "Shut up! You were frightened enough doing the tests!"

From afar off, away on the shimmering bosom of the bay came the faint hooting of a steamer.

"That's the Oleander!" Kelson murmured.

"Rot!" Curtis snapped. "How do you know? You can't tell from this distance. It might be the Daisy, or the San Marie, or any other ship."

Kelson made no reply; Hamar blew his nose, and once again there was silence.

The effect of the moonlight had now become weird. From the trees and bushes crept legions of tall, gaunt shadows, and whilst some of these were explicable, there were others that certainly had no apparent counterparts in any of the natural objects around them. Even Curtis, in spite of his scoffing, showed no inclination to examine them too closely; but kept his face resolutely turned to the more cheery light of the fire. The soft, cool, sweet-scented air gradually acted as an anaesthetic, and Kelson and Curtis were almost asleep, when Hamar's voice recalled them sharply to themselves.

"It's just two!" he said. "Sit tight and listen while I repeat the incantation, and for goodness' sake keep cool if anything happens. Remember we are here with an object—namely—to get everything we can out of the Other World."

"Trust you for that!" Curtis sneered; "but all the same nothing's going to happen."

"I am not sure of that," Hamar said, and after a brief pause began to repeat these words[18]—

"Morbas from the mountains, Where flow malignant fountains. We are ready for you—Come! Vampires from the passes, Where grow blood-sucking grasses, We are ready for you—Come! Vice Elementals pretty Give ear unto our ditty We are ready for you—Come! Planetians, forms so fearful, We inform you, eager, tearful, We are ready for you—Come! Clanogrians, things of sorrow. Postpone not till to-morrow, We are ready for you—Come! Barrowvians, shades seclusive, Be not to us exclusive, We are ready for you—Come! Earthbound spirits of the Dead Approach with grim and noiseless tread— We are ready for you—Come!"

He then got up and, going to the fire, sprinkled over the flames six drachms of belladonna, three drachms of drosera and one ounce of nux vomica; using in each case his left hand. Returning to his former position he drew with the forefinger of his left hand, on the ground, the outline of a club-foot; a hand with the fingers clenched and a long pointed thumb standing upright; and a bat. At his request Kelson and Curtis carefully imitated the devices, each in the space allotted to him.

Hamar then cried: "Creastie havoonen balababoo!"; which Hamar explained was Atlantean for "devil of the damned appear!"

"He won't!" Curtis muttered, "because he doesn't exist. There are devils—Meidler Brothers were devils—but there is no one devil! It's all——" He suddenly stopped and an intense hush fell upon them all.

A cloud obscured the moon, the fire burned dim, and the gloom of the amphitheatre thickened till the men lost sight of each other. A cold air then rose from the ground and fanned their nostrils. Something flew past their heads with an ominous wail; whilst from the direction of the fire came a hollow groan.

"The advent of the Unknown," Hamar murmured, "shall be heralded in by the shrieking of an owl, the groaning of the mandrake—there is mandrake in the saucepan—the croaking of a toad—we haven't had that yet!"

"Yes, there it is!" Kelson whispered—and whilst he was speaking there came a dismal croak, croak, and the swaying and crying of an ash—"Hush!"

They listened—and all three distinctly heard the swishing of a slender tree trunk as it hissed backwards and forwards. Then, a cry so horrid, harsh and piercing that even the sceptical, sneering Curtis gave vent to an expression of fear. Again a hush, and increasing darkness and cold. Kelson called out—

"Don't do that, Leon."

"I'm not doing anything," Hamar said testily. "Pull yourself together." A moment later he said to Curtis, "It's you, Curtis. Shut up. This is no time for monkeying."

"You are both either mad or dreaming," Curtis replied. "I haven't stirred from my seat. Hulloa! What's that? What's that, Leon? There—over there! Look!"

As Curtis spoke they all three became conscious of living things around them—things that moved about, silently and surreptitiously and conveyed the impression of mockery. The hills, the valley, the trees were full of it—the whole place teemed with it—teemed with silent, subtle, stealthy mockery. The senses of the three men were now keenly alive, but a dead weight hung upon their limbs and rendered them useless. And as they stared into the gloom, in sickly fear, the firelight flickered and they saw shadows, such as the moon, when low in the heaven, might fashion from the figure of a man; but yet they were shadows neither of man, nor God, nor of any familiar thing. They were dark, vague, formless and indefinite, and they quivered—quivered with a quivering that suggested mockery.

Suddenly the shadows disappeared; the flickering of the flames ceased; and in the place of the fire appeared a seething, writhing mass of what looked like white luminous snakes. And in the midst of this mass sprang up a cylindrical form, which grew and grew until it attained a height of ten or twelve feet, when it remained stationary and threw out branches. And the three men now saw it was a tree—a tree with a sleek, pulpy, semi-transparent, perspiring trunk full of a thick, white, vibrating, luminous fluid; and that it was laden with a fruit, in shape resembling an apple, but of the same hue and material as the trunk. Spread out on the ground around it, were its roots, twitching and palpitating with repulsive life, and bare with a bareness that shocked the senses. It was so utterly and inconceivably unlike what Hamar, Curtis and Kelson had imagined the Unknown—and yet, withal, so monstrous (not merely in its shape but in its suggestions), and so vividly real and livid, that they were not merely terrified—they were stricken with a terror that rendered them dumb and helpless. And as they looked at it, from out the trunk, shot an enormous thing—white and glistening, and fashioned like a human tongue. And after pointing derisively at them, it withdrew; whereupon all the fruit shook, as if convulsed with unseemly laughter. They then saw between the foremost branches of the tree a big eye. The white of it was thick and pasty, the iris spongy in texture, and the pupil bulging with a lurid light. It stared at them with a steady stare—insolent and quizzical. Hamar and his friends stared back at it in fascinated horror, and would have continued staring at it indefinitely, had not Hamar's mercenary instincts come to their rescue. He recollected that time was pressing, and that unless he got into communication with the strange thing at once, according to the book, it would vanish—and he might never be able to get in touch with it again. Thus egged on, he made a great effort to regain his courage, and at length succeeded in forcing himself to speak. Though his voice was weak and shaking he managed to pronounce the prescribed mode of address, viz.:—"Bara phonen etek mo," which being interpreted is, "Spirit from the Unknown, give ear to me." He then explained their earnest desire to pay homage to the Supernatural, and to be initiated into the mysteries of the Black Art. When Hamar had concluded his address, the anticipations of the three as to how it would be answered, or whether it would be answered at all—were such that they were forced to hold their breath almost to the point of suffocation. If the Thing could speak what would its voice be like? The seconds passed, and they were beginning to prepare themselves for disappointment, when suddenly across the intervening space separating them from the Unknown, the reply came—came in soft, silky, lisping tones—human and yet not human, novel and yet in some way—a way that defied analysis—familiar. Strange to say, they all three felt that this familiarity belonged to a far back period of their existence, no less than to a more modern one—to a period, in fact, to which they could affix no date. And, although a perfect unity of expression suggested that the utterance of the Thing was the utterance of one being only, a certain variation in its tones, a rising and falling from syllable to syllable, led them to infer that the voice was not the voice of one but of many.

"You are anxious to acquire knowledge of the Secrets associated with the Great Atlantean Magic?" the voice lisped.

"We are!" Hamar stammered, "and we are willing to give our souls in exchange for them."

"Souls!" the voice lisped, whilst trunk and branches swayed lightly, and the air was full of silent merriment. "Souls! you speak in terms you do not understand. To acquire the secrets of Black Magic, all you have to do is to agree that during a brief period—a period of a few months, you will live together in harmony; that you will make use of the powers you acquire to the detriment of all save yourselves; that you will never allow your minds to revert to anything spiritual; and—that you will abstain from—marrying."

"And if we succeed in carrying out the conditions?" Hamar asked.



"Then," the voice replied, "you will retain free, untrammelled possession of your knowledge."

"For how long?" Curtis queried.

"For the natural term of your lives—that is to say, for as long as you would have lived had you never been initiated into the secrets of magic."

"And if we fail?"

"You will pass into the permanent possession of the Unknown."

"Does that mean we shall die the moment we fail?" Kelson inquired timidly.

"Die!" the voice lisped. "Again you speak in terms you do not understand. You may be sent for."

"You say—in perfect harmony." Hamar put in. "Does that mean without a quarrel, however slight?"

"It means without a quarrel that would lead to separation. The moment you disunite the compact is broken."

"What advantages will the secrets bring us?" Hamar inquired. "Can we gain unlimited wealth?"

"Yes!" the voice replied. "Unlimited wealth and influence."

"And health?"

"So long as you fulfil the conditions of the compact you will enjoy perfect health. Will you, or will you not, pledge yourselves?"

"I am ready if you fellows are," Hamar whispered.

"I am!" Curtis cried. "Anything is better than the life we are living at present."

"And I, too," Kelson said. "I agree with Ed."

"Very well then," the voice once more lisped. "Each of you take a fruit and eat it, and the compact is irrevocably struck. You cannot back out of it without incurring the consequences already named. Don't be afraid, step up here and help yourselves—one apiece—mind, no more." And again it seemed to Hamar, Curtis and Kelson as if the tree and everything around it was convulsed with silent laughter.

"Come on!" Hamar cried, somewhat imperatively. "Don't waste time. You've decided, and besides, remember this affair may turn out trumps. I'll go first," and walking up to the tree he plucked a fruit and began to eat it. Curtis and Kelson slowly followed suit.

"I believe I'm eating a live slug, or a toad," Curtis muttered, with a retch.

"And I, too," Kelson whispered. "It's filthy. I shall be sick. If I am, will it make any difference to the compact, I wonder?"

What the fruit really tasted like they could never decide. It reminded them of many things and of nothing. It was sweet yet bitter; it repelled but at the same time pleased them; it was as perplexing as the voice—as enigmatical. When they had eaten it they resumed their former positions on the ground, and the voice once again addressed them.

"The fruit you have consumed has created in you a fitness to make use of the powers about to be conferred. You have acquired the faculty of sorcery—you will be initiated by stages, into the knowledge and practice of it. These stages, seven in number, will cover the period of your compact, i.e. twenty-one months, and at the end of every three months—when a fresh stage is reached—you will receive fresh powers.

"In the first stage, the stage you are now entering upon, you will receive the power of divination. You will be told how to detect the presence of water and all kinds of metals, and how to read people's thoughts.

"In the second stage—exactly three months from to-day—you will receive the gift of second-sight; the power of separating your immaterial from your material body and projecting it, anywhere you will, on the physical plane; and, to a large extent, you will be enabled to circumvent gravity. Thus you will be able to perform all manner of jugglery tricks—tricks that will set the whole world gaping. Profit by them.

"In the third stage you will possess the secrets of invisibility; of walking on the water; of breathing under the water; of taming wild beasts; and of understanding their language.

"In the fourth stage you will understand how to inflict all manner of diseases, and work all sorts of spells; such, for instance, as bewitching milk, causing people to have fits, bad dreams, etc. You will also know how to create plagues—plagues of insects, or of any other noxious thing.

"In the fifth stage you will possess absolute knowledge of the art of medicine and be able to cure every ailment.

"In the sixth stage you will acquire the power of producing vampires and werwolves from the human being, and of transforming people from the human to any animal guise.

"In the seventh and final stage you will be given the complete mastery of every art and science—including astrology, astronomy, necromancy, etc.; and for this stage is reserved the greatest power of all—namely, the complete dominion over woman's will and affections. The powers of creating life, and of extending life beyond the now natural limit, and of avoiding accidents, will never be conferred on you. Neither shall you learn, not at least during your physical existence—who or what we are, or the secrets of creation.

"Each successive stage will cancel the preceding one—that is to say, the powers you have acquired in the first stage will be annulled on your arriving at the second stage, and so on. But if you carry out your compact faithfully—that is to say, if at the end of the twenty-one months you are still united—all the powers you have held hitherto, in the different stages, temporarily, will return to you and remain in your possession permanently. Have you anything to say?"

"Yes!" Hamar answered; "I fully understand all you have explained to us and I like the idea of it immensely. The fear of our coming to any serious loggerheads and of dissolving partnership doesn't worry me much—but I must say, it seems very remote—the prospect of gaining such tremendous powers—powers that will give us practically everything we want—save youth—"

"Youth you will never regain," lisped the voice. "And elixirs of life, surely you must know, are no longer sought after, by beings of the planet Earth. They are quite out of date. You will, of course, learn the most efficacious means of making yourselves and other people youthful in appearance."

"Yes, but how shall we learn these secrets?" Kelson nerved himself to ask.

"They will be revealed to you in various ways—sometimes when asleep. You will receive preliminary instructions as to divination before this time to-morrow."

"And meanwhile, we shall be in want of money," Curtis remarked.

"No!" the voice replied, "you will not be in want of money. Have you anything more to ask?"

No one spoke, and the silence that followed was interrupted by a loud rustling of the wind. The darkness then lifted; but nothing was to be seen—nothing save the trees and bushes, moon and stars.

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 16: This is a very sinister sign in astrology, denoting the presence of evil influences of all kinds.—(Author's note.)]

[Footnote 17: According to Atlantean ideas these spirits were:—Vice Elementals; Morbas (or Disease Elementals); Clanogrians (or malicious family ghosts, such as Banshees, etc.); Vampires; Barrowvians, i.e. a grotesque kind of phantasm that frequents places where prehistoric man or beast has been interred; Planetians, i.e. spirits inimical to dwellers on this earth that inhabit various of the other planets; and earthbound spirits of such dead human beings as were mad, imbecile, cruel and vicious, together with the phantasms of vicious and mad beasts, and beasts of prey.—(Author's note.)]

[Footnote 18: They are a literal translation of the Atlantean by Thos. Maitland, and are very nearly identified with forms of spirit invocation used in Egypt, India, Persia, Arabia, and among the Red Indians of North and South America.—(Author's note.)]



CHAPTER VI

THE FIRST POWER

After their rencontre with the Unknown, Hamar and his companions did not get back to their respective quarters till the sun was high in the heavens, and the streets of the city were beginning to vibrate with the rattle and clatter of traffic.

"It's all very well—this wonderful compact of ours," Curtis grumbled, "but I'm deuced hungry, and Matt and I haven't a cent between us. As we went all that way last night to oblige you, Leon, I think it is only fair you should stand us treat. I'll bet you have some nickels stowed away, somewhere, in those pockets of yours—it wouldn't be you if you hadn't! What do you say, Matt?"

"I think as you do," Kelson replied. "We've stood by Leon, he should stand by us. How much have you, Leon?"

"How much have you?" Curtis echoed, "come, out with it—no jew-jewing pals for me."

"I might manage a dollar," Hamar said ruefully, as the prospect of a good meal all to himself, at his favourite restaurant, faded away. "Where shall we go?"

Just then, Kelson, happening to look behind him, saw a young woman of prepossessing appearance ascending the steps of a dive in Clay Street. He was instantly attracted, as he always was attracted by a pretty woman, and something—a kind of intuition he had never had before—told him that she was a waitress; that she was discontented with her present situation; that she was engaged to be married to a pen driver at Hastings & Hastings in Sacramento Street; and that she had a mother, of over seventy, whom she kept. All this came to Kelson like a flash of lightning.

Yielding to an impulse which he did not stay to analyse, he gripped Hamar and Curtis, each too astonished even to remonstrate, by the arm, and, dragging them along with him, followed the girl.

The dive had only just been opened, and was being dusted and swept by two slatternly women with dago complexions, and voices like hyenas. It still reeked of stale drink and tobacco.

"What's the good of coming to a place like this?" Hamar demanded, as soon as he had freed himself from Kelson's clutches. "We can't get breakfast here."

"Matt's mad, that's what's the matter with him," Curtis added in disgust. "Let's get out."

He turned to go—then, halted—and stood still. He appeared to be listening. "What's up with you?" Hamar asked. "Both you fellows are behaving like lunatics this morning—there's not a pin to choose between you."

"They're playing cards, that's all," Curtis said. "Can't you hear them?"

Hamar shook his head. "Not a sound," he said. "Just look at Matt!"

While the other two were talking, Kelson had followed the girl to the bar, and catching her up, just as she entered it, said in a manner that was peculiar to him—a manner seldom without effect upon girls of his class—"I beg your pardon, miss, are we too early to be served? Jerusalem! Haven't I met you somewhere before?"

The girl looked him square in the eyes and then smiled. "As like as not," she said. "I go pretty near everywhere! What do you want?"

"Well!" Kelson soliloquized; "breakfast is what we are particularly anxious for—but I suppose that is out of the question in a dive!"

"Then why did you come here?" the girl queried.

"Because of you! Simply because of you," Kelson replied. "You hypnotized me!"

"That being so, then I reckon you can have your breakfast," the girl laughed, "though we don't provide them as a rule before nine. Indeed, the management have only just decided—this morning—on providing them at all."

"How odd!"

"Why odd?" the girl questioned, taking off her hat and arranging her curls before a mirror.

"Why, that I should have happened to strike the right moment! Had I come here yesterday it would have been useless. As I said, you hypnotized me. Evidently fate intended us to meet."

"Do you believe in fate?" the girl asked, shrugging her shoulders. "I believe in nothing—least of all in men!"

"You say so!" Kelson observed, before he knew what he was saying. "And yet you have just got engaged to one. But you've got a bad attack of the pip this morning, you have had enough of it here—you want to get another post."

The girl ceased doing her hair and eyed him in amazement. "Well!" she said. "Of all the queer men I've ever met you are the queerest. Are you a seer?"

"No!" Hamar observed, suddenly joining in. "He's only very hungry, miss. Hungry body and soul! hungry all over. And so are we."

"Well, then, go into the room over there," the girl cried, pointing in the direction of a half-open door, "and breakfast will be brought you in half a jiffy."

"Who's that playing cards?" Curtis asked.

"How do you know any one is playing cards?" the girl queried with an incredulous stare. "You can't see through walls, can you?"

"No! and I'm hanged if I can explain," Curtis said, "I seem to hear them. There are two—one is called Arnold, and the other Lemon, or some such name, and they are rehearsing certain card tricks they mean to play to-night."

"That's right," the girl said, "two men named Arnold and Lemon are here. They were playing all last night with two of the clerks in Willows Bank, in Sacramento Street, and they cleared them out of every cent. You knew it!"

"No! I didn't," Curtis growled, "I don't lie for fun, and I'm just as much in a fog, as to how I know, as you are. Let's have breakfast now, and we'll look up these two gents afterwards, if they haven't gone."

"Your friend's a brute, I don't like him," the girl whispered to Kelson. "Let him lose all he's got—you stay out here."

"Nothing I should like better," Kelson said, "it's a bargain!"

The breakfast was so good that they lingered long over it, and the bar-room had a fair sprinkling of people when they re-entered it. Leaving Kelson to chat with the girl, Hamar and Curtis, obeying her directions, found their way to a small parlour in the rear of the building, where two men were lolling over a card table, smoking and drinking, and reading aloud extracts from a pink sporting paper.

"It's a funny thing," one of them exclaimed, "we can't be allowed to sit here in peace—when there's so much spare space in the house."

"We beg your pardon for intruding," Curtis said, "but my friend and I came in here for a quiet game of cards. We're farmers down Missouri way, and don't often get the chance to run up to town."

"Farmers, are you!" the man who had not yet spoken said, eyeing them both closely. "You don't look it. My friend Lemon, here, and I were also wanting to have a game—would you care to join us?"

"By all means," Curtis at once exclaimed. "What do you play?"

"Poker!" the man said, "Nap! Don! But I'll show you something first, which, being fresh from the country, you've probably never seen before, though they do tell me people in Missouri are mighty cute." He then proceeded to show them what he called the Bull and Buffalo trick, the secret of which he offered to sell them for ten dollars.

"I wouldn't give you a cent for it!" Curtis snapped. "Any one can see how it is done."

"You can't!" the man retorted, turning red. "I'll wager twenty dollars you can't." Curtis accepted the wager, and at once did the trick. He had seen through it at a glance—there appeared no difficulty in it at all; and yet he was quite certain if he had been asked to do it the day before, he would have utterly failed.

"Now," he said, "give me the money,"—and the man complied with an oath.

"Any more tricks?" Curtis asked complacently.

"I know heaps," the man rejoined. "There's one you won't guess—the seven card trick."

He did it. And so did Curtis.

"Well I'm——" the man called Lemon ejaculated.

"He's the dandiest cove at tricks we've ever struck. Try him with the Prince and Slipper, Arnold!"

Arnold rather reluctantly assented, and Curtis burst out laughing.

"Why!" he said, "that's the simplest of all! See!" And it was done. "You two had better come to an understanding with us or you'll not shine to-night. How about a game of Don?"

Lemon and Arnold agreed, but they had barely begun before Curtis cried out, "It's no use, Lemon, I can see those deuces up your sleeve. You've some up yours, too, Arnold—the deuce of clubs and the deuce of hearts. Moreover, you can tell our cards by notches and thumb smears on the backs. I'll show you how." He told the cards correctly—there was no gainsaying it. The men were overwhelmed.

"What are you, anyway?" Lemon asked; "tecs?"

"Never mind what we are!" Curtis said savagely. "We know what you are—and that's where the rub comes in. Now what are you going to pay us to hold our tongues?"

"Pay you!" Lemon hissed. "Why, damn you—nothing. We're not bankers. All we've got to do is clear out and try somewhere else."

"That might not be so easy as you imagine," Hamar interposed. "We would make it our business to have a scene first. Why not come to terms? We'll not be over exorbitant—and consider the convenience of not having to shift your quarters."

"Well, of all the blooming frousts I've struck, none beats this," Lemon said. "Fancy being pipped by a couple of suckers like these. Farmers, indeed! Why don't you call yourselves parsons? How much do you want?"

After a prolonged haggling, Hamar and Curtis agreed to take fifty dollars; and, considering their penniless condition, they were by no means dissatisfied with their bargain.

They were now ready to go, and looking round for Kelson, found him engaged in a desperate tete-a-tete with the young lady at the bar, who, despite her avowed lack of faith in mankind, counted half the room her friends. She promised Kelson that she would meet him at eight o'clock that evening; but as both she and he were quite used to making such promises and subsequently forgetting all about them, their rencontre resulted in only one thing, namely, in furnishing the three allies with the nucleus of the big fortune they intended making.

On finding themselves outside the dive Hamar, Curtis and Kelson first of all divided the spoil. They then went to a clothes depot and rigged themselves out in fashionably cut garments; after which they took rooms at a presentable hotel in Kearney Street, next door to Knobble's boot store. Then, dressed for the first time in their lives like Nob Hill dukes, they paraded the pet resorts of the beau-monde—of the bonanza and railroad set—and making eyes at all the pretty wives and daughters they met, cogitated fresh devices for making money. As they sauntered across Pacific Avenue, in the direction of Californian Street, Kelson suddenly gave vent to a whistle.

"What the deuce is wrong with you?" Hamar exclaimed. "Seen your grandmother's ghost?"

"No! but I've seen the inner readings of that lady yonder," Kelson replied, indicating with a jerk of his finger a fashionably dressed woman walking towards them on the other side of the road. "The deuce knows how it all comes to me, but I know everything about her, just the same as I did with the girl in the dive—though I've never seen her before. She is the wife of D.D. Belton, the cotton magnate, who lives in a big, white house at the corner of Powell Street—and a beauty, I can assure you. Supposed to be most devoted to her husband, she is now on her way to keep an appointment with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe of Sancta Maria's Church in Appleyard Street, with whom she has been holding clandestine meetings for the past six months."

"Whew!" Hamar ejaculated. "You speak as if it was all being pumped into you by some external agency—automatically."

"That's just about what I feel!" Kelson said, "I feel as if it were some one else saying all this—some one else speaking through me. Yet I know all about that woman, just as much as if I had been acquainted with her all my life!"

"It's the first power," Hamar said excitedly, "the power of divination. It takes that form with you, and the form of card tricks with Ed—with me nothing so far."

"But what shall I do?" Kelson cried. "How can I benefit by it?"

"How can't you?" Curtis growled. "Why, blackmail her! If it is true, she will pay you anything to keep your mouth shut. If once you can tell a woman's secret, your future's made. All San Francisco will be at your mercy—God knows who'll escape! After her at once, you idiot!"

"Now?" Kelson gasped.

"Yes! Now! Follow her to Calthorpe's and waylay her as she comes out. You can refer to us as witnesses."

"I feel a bit of a blackguard," Kelson pleaded.

"You look it, anyway," Curtis grinned. "But cheer up—it's the clothes. Clothes are responsible for everything!"

After a little persuasion Kelson gave in, but he had to make haste as the lady was nearly out of sight. She took a taxi from the stand opposite Kitson's hotel, and Kelson took one, too. Two hours later, raising his hat, he accosted her as she stood tapping the pavement of Battery Street with a daintily shod foot, waiting to cross. "Mrs. Belton, I think," he said. The lady eyed him coldly.

"Well!" she said, "what do you want? Who are you?"

"My name can scarcely matter to you," Kelson responded, "though my business may. I have been engaged to watch you, and am fully posted as to your meetings and correspondence with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe."

"I don't understand you," the lady said, her cheeks flaming. "You have made a mistake—a very serious mistake for you."

For a moment Kelson's heart failed. He was still a clerk, with all the humility of an office stool and shining trousers' seat thick on him, whilst she was a grande dame accustomed to the bows and scrapes of employers as well as employed.

Several people passed by and stared at him—as he thought—suspiciously, and he felt that this was the most critical time in his life, and unless he pulled through, smartly in fact, he would be done once and for all. If he didn't make haste, too, the woman would undoubtedly call a policeman. It was this thought as well as—though, perhaps, hardly as much as—the look of her that stimulated Kelson to action. He hated behaving badly to women; but was this thing, dressed in a skirt that fitted like a glove and showed up every detail of her figure—this thing with the paint on her cheeks, and eyebrows, and lips—artistically done, perhaps, but done all the same—this thing all loaded with jewellery and buttons—this thing—a woman! No! She was not—she was only a millionaire's plaything—brainless, heartless—a hobby that cost thousands, whilst countless men such as he—starved. He detested—abominated such luxuries! And thus nerved he retorted, borrowing some of her imperiousness—

"Do you deny, madam, that for the past two hours you've been sitting on the sofa of the end room of the third floor of No. 216, Market Street, flirting with the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe, whom you call 'Mickey-moo'; that you gave him a photo you had taken at Bell's Studio in Clay Street, specially for him; that you gave him five greenbacks to the value of one hundred and fifty dollars, and that you've planned a moonlight promenade with him to-morrow, when your husband will be in Denver?"

"Don't talk so loud," the lady said in a low voice. "Walk along with me a little and then we shan't be noticed. I see you do know a good deal—how, I can't imagine, unless you were hidden somewhere in the room. Who has employed you to watch me?"

"That, madam, I can't say," Kelson truthfully responded.

"And I can't think," the lady said, "unless it is some woman enemy. But, after all, you can't do much since you hold no proofs—your word alone will count for nothing."

"Ah, but I have strong corroborative evidence," Kelson retorted. "I have the testimony of at least two other people who know quite as much as I do."

"Adventurers like yourself," the lady sneered. "My husband would neither believe you nor your friends."

"He would believe your letters, any way," said Kelson.

"My letters!" the lady laughed, "You've no letters of mine."

"No, but I know where the correspondence that has passed between you and the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is to be found. He has sixty-nine letters from you all tied up in pink ribbon, locked up in the bottom drawer of the bureau in his study at the Vicarage. Some of the letters begin with 'Dearest, duckiest, handsomest Herby'—short for Herbert; and others, 'Fondest, blondest, darlingest Micky-moo!' Some end with 'A thousand and one kisses from your loving and ever devoted Francesca,' and others with 'Love and kisses ad infinitum, ever your loving, thirsting, adoring one, Toosie!' Nice letters from the wife of a respectable Nob Hill magnate to a married clergyman!"

The lady walked a trifle unsteadily, and much of her colour was gone. "I can't understand it," she panted; "somebody has played me false."

"As the Rev. J.T. Calthorpe is on his way to Sacramento, where he has to remain till to-morrow," Kelson went on pitilessly, "it will be the easiest thing in the world to get those letters. I have merely to call at the house and tell his wife."

"And what good will that do you?" the lady asked.

"Revenge! I hate the rich," Kelson said. "I would do anything to injure them."

"You are a Socialist?"

"An Anarchist! But come, you see I know all about you and that I have you completely in my power. If once either your husband or Mrs. Calthorpe gets hold of those letters—you and your lover would have a very unpleasant time of it."

"You're a devil!"

"Maybe I am—at all events I'm talking to one. But that's neither here nor there. I want money. Give me a thousand dollars and you'll never hear from me again."

"Blackmail! I could have you arrested!"

"Yes, and I would tell the court the whole history of your intrigues! That wouldn't help you,"—and Kelson laughed.

"Could I count on you not molesting me again if I were to pay you?" the lady said mockingly.

"You could."

"Do you ever speak the truth?"

"You needn't judge every one by your own standard of morality—the standard set up by the millionaire's wife," Kelson said. "I swear that if you pay me a thousand dollars I will never trouble you again."

The lady grew thoughtful, and for some minutes neither of them spoke. Then she suddenly jerked out: "I think, after all, I'll accept your proposal. Wait outside here and you shall have what you want within an hour."

"Not good enough," Kelson said, "I prefer to come with you to your house and wait there."

The lady protested, and Kelson consented to wait in the street outside her house, where, eventually, she delivered the money into his hands.

"I've kept my word," she said, "and if you're half a man you'll keep yours."

Kelson reassured her, and more than pleased with himself, made for the hotel, where the three of them were now stopping.

This was merely a beginning. Before the day was out he had secured two more victims. No woman whose character was not without blemish was safe from him—his wonderful newly acquired gift enabling him to detect any vice, no matter how snugly hidden. And this wonderful power of discernment brought with it an expression of mystery and penetration which, by enhancing the effect of the power, made the application of it comparatively easy. Kelson had only to glide after his victim, and with his eyes fixed searchingly on her, to say, "Madam, may I have a word with you?"—and the battle was more than half won—the women were too fascinated to think of resistance.

For example, shortly after his initial adventure, he saw a very smartly dressed woman in Van Ness Avenue peep about furtively, and then stop and speak to a little child, who was walking with its nurse. Divination at once told him everything—the lady was the mother of the child, but its father was not her legitimate husband, W.S. Hobson, the millionaire mine owner.

When Kelson courteously informed her he was in possession of her secret—a secret she had felt positively certain only one other person knew, she went the colour of her pea-green sunshade and attempted to remonstrate. But Kelson's appearance, no less than his marvellous knowledge of her life, and character dumbfounded her—she was simply paralysed into admission; and before he left her, Kelson had added another thousand dollars to his hoard.

That evening, close to the Academy of Science in Market Street, he saw a lady get out of a taxi and quickly enter a pawnbroker's. Her whole life at once rose up before him. She was Ella Crockford, the wife of the Californian Street Sugar King, and, unknown to her husband, she spent her afternoons at a gambling saloon in Kearney Street, where she ran through thousands.

She was now about to pledge her husband's latest present to her—a diamond tiara, one of the most notable pieces of jewellery in the country—in the hope that she would soon win back sufficient money at cards to redeem it.

Kelson stopped her as she came out, and in a marvellously few words, proved to her that he knew everything. Her amazement was beyond description.

"You must be a magician," she said, "because I'm certain no one saw me take my jewel-case out of the drawer—no one was in the room! And as I put it in my muff immediately, no one could have seen it as I left the house. Besides, I never told a soul I intended pawning it, so how is it possible you could know—and be able to repeat the whole of the conversation I had with Walter Le-Grand, to whom I lost so heavily last night? Tell me, how do you know all this?"

But Kelson would tell her nothing—nothing beyond her own sins and misfortunes.

"I have nothing to give you," she told him. "I dare not ask my husband for more money."

"What, nothing!" Kelson replied, "When the pawnbroker has just advanced you fifty thousand dollars. You call that nothing? Be pleased to give me one thousand, and congratulate yourself that I do not ask for all your 'nothing.'" And as neither tears nor prayers had any effect, she was obliged to pay him the sum he asked.

Flushed and excited with victory, and thinking, perhaps, that he had done enough for one day, Kelson took his spoils to a bank near the Palace Hotel, and for the first time in his career opened a banking account. As he was leaving the building he ran into Hamar, bent on a similar errand. The two gleefully compared notes.

"I thought," Hamar said, "my turn would never come, and that I must have done something to get out of favour with the Unknown; but as I was sitting in the Pig and Whistle Saloon in Corn Street drinking a lager, I suddenly felt a peculiar throbbing sensation run up my left leg into my left hand, and the floor seemed to open up, and I saw deep below me, in a black pit, a skeleton clutching hold of a linen bag, full of coins. I could see the gold quite distinctly—Spanish doubles, none newer than the eighteenth century. I knew then that the Unknown had not forgotten me. 'Look here, boss,' I said to old man Moss—the proprietor, you know—'You're a bit of a juggins to go on working with so much money under here,'—and I pointed to the floor.

"'I'm surprised at you, Hamar,' Moss said, cocking an eye at me, 'and lager, too!'

"'No, old man!' I said, 'I'm not drunk. I'm sober and serious. You've got a cellar below here, haven't you?'

"'Well, and what if I have!' Moss retorted, drawing a step closer and running his eyes carefully over me. 'What if I have! There's no harm in that, is there?'

"'You keep all your stock down there,' I went on, 'and more beside. I can see a hat-pin with a gold nob, that's not your wife's, and a pair of shoes with dandy silver buckles, that's not intended for your wife, nohow.'

"At that Moss made a queer noise in his throat, and I thought he was going to have a fit. 'What—what the devil are you talking about?' he gurgled.

"'I wish I had had you with me—then, Matt, for you could have doubtless summed up the woman to him—she was a blank to me—I only divined one had been there. 'Yes, Mr. Mossy,' I said, 'you're a gay deceiver and no mistake! I know all about it!'

"'Do you,' he said, eyeing me excitedly. 'Do you know all about it? I'm not so sure, but in order to avoid running any risks, drop your voice a bit and have a cocktail with me!'

"He poured me out one, and I went on softly, 'Well, boss Moss,' I said, 'we'll leave the female out of the question for the present. Underneath this cellar of yours, is a pit.'

"'I'm damned if there is!' Moss snorted; 'leastways, it's the first I've ever heard of it.'

"'And in this pit,' I said, 'is the skeleton of a Spanish buccaneer called Don Guzman, who landed in this port on August 10, 1699, and after robbing and slicing up a family of the name of Hervada, who lived on the site of what is now the Copthorne Hotel, was hurrying off with all their money and jewels, when he fell into a pit, covered with brambles and briars, and broke his neck.'

"'And you expect me to believe this cock and bull story,' Moss growled. 'Being out of a job so long has made you balmy.'

"'It hasn't made me too balmy not to see through the way you deceive your wife, Moss,' I said. 'I'll bet she would think me sane enough if I were to tell her all I know. But I'll spare you if you will take me into your cellar and help me to do a bit of excavation there. But promise, mind you, that we will go shares in what we find.'

"'Oh, I'll promise right enough,' Moss replied. 'I'll promise anything—if only to keep you from talking such moonshine.'

"Well, in the end I prevailed upon him to accompany me, and we went into the cellar—just as I had depicted it—armed with a pick-axe and crowbar. Moss growling and jeering every step he took, and I, deadly in earnest.

"'It's under here,' I said, halting over a flagstone in the corner of the vault. 'But before we do anything you had better hide that hat-pin and these shoes, or your missis will find them. She'll hear us scraping and come to see what's up.'

"Moss, who was in a vile temper all the time, made a grab at the things, pricking his finger and swearing horribly. In the meanwhile I had set to work, and, with his aid, raised the stone. We dug for pretty nearly an hour, Moss calling upon me all the time to 'chuck it,' when I suddenly struck something hard—it was the skeleton and close beside it, was the bag. You should have seen Moss then. He was simply overcome—called me a wizard, a magician, and heaven alone knows what, and fairly stood on his head with delight when we opened the bag, and hundreds of gold coins and precious stones rolled out on the floor. He wanted to go back on his word then, and only give me a handful; but I was too smart for him, and swore I would tell his wife about the girl unless he gave me half. When we were leaving the cellar, of course, he wanted me to go first, so that he could follow with the pickaxe, but here again I was too sharp for him—and I got safely out of the place with my pockets bulging. I went right away to Prescott's in Clay Street, and let the lot go for three thousand dollars. I wonder how Curtis has got on!"

They walked together to the hotel, and found Curtis busily engaged eating. "I've worked hard," he said, "and now I'm in for enjoying myself. I've made them get out a special menu for me, and I'm going to eat till I can't hold another morsel. I've starved all my life and now I intend making up for it."

"Been successful?" Hamar asked, winking at Kelson.

"Pretty well! Nothing to grumble at," Curtis rejoined, pouring himself out a glass of champagne. "First of all I went to Simpson's Dive in Sacramento Street, and started doing the tricks we discovered yesterday. Not a soul in the place could see through them, and I made about two hundred dollars before I left. I then had lunch."

"Why you had lunch with us!" Hamar laughed.

"Well, can't I have as many lunches as I like?" Curtis replied. "I had lunch, I say, at a place in Market Street, and there I read in a paper that Peters & Pervis, the tin food people, were offering a prize of three thousand dollars for a solution to a puzzle contained on the inside cover of one of their tins. I immediately determined to enter for it. I bought a tin and saw through the puzzle at once. Bribing a policeman to go with me to see fair play, off I set to Peters & Pervis'.

"'I want to see your boss,' I said to the first clerk I saw.

"'Which of them?' the clerk grunted, his cheeks turning white at the sight of the policeman.

"'Either will do,' I replied, 'Peters or Pervis. Trot 'em up, time is precious.'

"Away he went, but in a couple of minutes was back again, looking scared, 'They're both engaged,' he says.

"'Then they'll have to break it off,' I responded, 'and mighty quick. I'm here to talk with them, so get a move on you again and give that message.'

"If it hadn't been for the policeman I don't think he would have gone, but the policeman backed me up, and the clerk hurried off again; and in the end the bosses decided they had better see me. They looked precious cross, I can assure you, but before I had done speaking they looked crosser still.

"'You say you've done that puzzle,'—they shouted—'the puzzle that has stuck all the mathematical guns at Harvard and Yale—you—a nonentity like you—begone, sir, don't waste our time with such humbug as that.'

"'All right,' I said, 'give me some paper and a pen, and I'll prove it.'

"'That's very reasonable,' the policeman chipped in, 'do the thing fair and square—I'm here as a witness.'

"Well, with much grunting and grumbling they handed me paper and ink, and in a trice the puzzle was done; and it appeared so easy that the policeman clapped his hands and broke out into a loud guffaw. My eyes! you should have seen how the faces of Pervis and Peters fell, and have heard what they said. But it was no use swearing and cursing, the thing was done, and there was the policeman to prove it.

"'We'll give you five hundred dollars,' they said, 'to clear out and say no more about it.'

"'Five hundred dollars when you've advertised three thousand,' I cried. 'What do you take me for? I'll have that three thousand or I'll show you both up.'

"'A thousand, then?' they said.

"'No!' I retorted; 'three! Three, and look sharp. And look here,' I added, as my glance rested on some of the samples of their pastes they had round them, 'I understand the secrets of all these so-called patents of yours—there isn't one of them I couldn't imitate. Take that "Rabsidab," for instance. What is it? Why, a compound of horseflesh, turnips and popcorn, flavoured with Lazenby's sauce—for the infringement of which patent you are liable to prosecution—and coloured with cochineal. Then there's the stuff you label "Ironcastor,"'—but they shut me up. 'There, take your three thousand dollars, write us out a receipt for it, and clear.'"

"Nine thousand dollars in one day! We've done well," Kelson ejaculated. "What's the programme for to-morrow?"

"Same as to-day and plenty of it," Curtis said, pouring himself out another glass of champagne and making a vigorous attack on a chicken. "I think I'll let you two fellows do all the work to-morrow, and content myself here. Waiter! What time's breakfast?"



CHAPTER VII

SAN FRANCISCO LADIES AND DIVINATION

Curtis was as good as his word. The following day he remained indoors eating, and planning what he should eat, whilst Hamar and Kelson went out with the express purpose of adding to their banking accounts.

In a garden in Bryant Street, Hamar saw a man resting on his spade and mopping the perspiration from his forehead. As he stopped mechanically to see what was being done, a cold sensation ran up his right leg into his right hand, the first and third fingers of which were drawn violently down. With a cry of horror he shrank back. Directly beneath where he had been standing, he saw, under a fifteen or sixteen feet layer of gravel soil—water; a huge caldron of water, black and silent; water, that gave him the impression of tremendous depth and coldness.

"Hulloa! matey, what's the matter?" the man with the spade called out. "Are you looking for your skin, for I never saw any one so completely jump out of it?"

"So would you," Hamar said with a shudder, "if you saw what I do!"

"What's that, then?" the man said leering on the ground. "Snakes! That's what I always see when I've got them."

"So long as you don't see yourself, there's some chance for you!" Hamar retorted. "What makes you so hot?"

"Why, digging!" the man laughed; "any one would get hot digging at such hard ground as this. As for a little whippersnapper like you, you'd melt right away and only your nose would remain. Nothing would ever melt that—there's too much of it."

Hamar scowled. "You needn't be insulting," he said, "I asked you a civil question, and I repeat it. What makes you so hot—when you should be cold—or at least cool?"

"Oh, should I!" the man mimicked, "I thought first you was merely drunk; I can see quite clearly now that you're mad."

"And yet you have such defective sight."

"What makes you say that?" the man said testily.

"Why," Hamar responded, "because you can't see what lies beneath your very nose. Shall I tell you what it is?"

"Yes, tell away," the man replied, "tell me my old mother's got twins, and that Boss Croker is coming to lodge with us. I'd know you for a liar anywhere by those teeth of yours."

"Look here," said Hamar drawing himself up angrily, "I have had enough of your abuse. If I have any more I'll tell your employers. It is evident you take me for a bummer, but see,"—and plunging his hand in his pocket he pulled it out full of gold. "Kindly understand I'm somebody," he went on, "and that I'm staying at one of the biggest hotels in the town."

"I'm damned if I know what to make of you," the man muttered, "unless you're a hoptical delusion!"

"Underneath where I was standing—just here,"—and Hamar indicated the spot—"is water. Any amount of it, you have only to sink a shaft fifteen feet and you would come to it."

"Water!" the man laughed, "yes, there is any amount of it—on your brain, that's the only water near here."

"Then you don't believe me?" Hamar demanded.

"Not likely!" the man responded, "I only believe what I see! And when I see a face like yours holding out a potful of dollars, I know as how you've stolen them. Git!"—and Hamar flew.

But Hamar was not so easily nonplussed; not at least when he saw a chance of making money. Entering the garden, and keeping well out of sight of the gardener, he arrived at the front door by a side path, and with much formality requested to see the owner of the establishment. The latter happening to be crossing the hall at the time, heard Hamar and asked what he wanted.

Hamar at once informed him he was a dowser, and that, chancing to pass by the garden on his way to his hotel, he had divined the presence of water.

"I only wish there were," the gentleman exclaimed, "but I fear you are mistaken. I have attempted several times to sink a well but never with the slightest degree of success. I have had all the ground carefully prospected by Figgins of Sacramento Street—he has a very big reputation—and he assures me there isn't a drop of water anywhere near here within two hundred feet of the surface."

"I know better," Hamar said. "Will you get your gardener—who by the way was very rude to me just now when I spoke to him—to dig where I tell him. I have absolute confidence in my power of divination."

The owner of the property, whom I will call Mr. B. assented, and several gardeners, including the one who had so insulted Hamar, were soon digging vigorously. At the depth of fifteen feet, water was found, and, indeed, so fast did it begin to come in that within a few minutes it had risen a foot. The onlookers were jubilant.

"I shall send an account of it to the local papers," Mr. B. remarked. "Your fame will be spread everywhere. You have increased the value of my property a thousandfold, I cannot tell you how grateful I am"—and he, then and there, invited Hamar to luncheon.

After luncheon Mr. B. made him a present of a cheque—rather in excess of the sum which Hamar had all along intended to have, and could not have refrained from demanding much longer.

In the afternoon all the San Francisco specials were full of the incident, and Hamar, seeing his name placarded for the first time, was so overcome that he spent the rest of the evening in the hotel deliberating how he could best turn his sudden notoriety to account.

At ten o'clock Kelson came in, looking somewhat fatigued, but, nevertheless, pleased. He, too, had had adventures, and he detailed them with so much elaboration that the other two had frequently to tell him to "dry up."

"I began the morning," he commenced, "by accosting a very fashionably dressed lady coming out of Bushwell's Store in Commercial Street. Divination at once told me she was the popular widow of J.K. Bater, the Biscuit King of Nob Hill, and that she was carrying in her big seal-skin muff a gold hatpin mounted with an emerald butterfly, a silver-backed hair brush, a blue enamelled scent bottle, and a porcelain jar, all of which she had slyly 'nicked,' when no one was looking.

"I stepped up to her, and politely raising my hat said, 'Good morning, Mrs. Bater. I've a message for you.'

"'I don't know you,' she said eyeing me very doubtfully, 'who are you?'

"'Forgotten!' I said tragically, 'and I had flattered myself it would be otherwise. Still I must try and survive. I wanted to ask you a favour, Mrs. Bater.'

"'A favour!' she exclaimed nervously, 'what is it? You are really a very extraordinary individual.'

"'I was only going to ask if I might examine the contents of your muff? I think you have certain articles in it that have not been paid for—and I believe I am right in saying this is by no means the first time such a thing has happened.'

"She turned so pale I thought she was going to faint. 'Why, whatever do you mean,' she stammered, 'I've nothing that does not belong to me.'

"'Opinions differ on that score, Mrs. Bater,' I replied, 'you have a pin, a hair brush, a scent bottle and a jar,' and I described them each minutely, 'whilst in your house you have on your dressing-table a silver-backed clothes brush, a silver manicure set you kleptomaniad—if you prefer to call it so—from Deacon's in Sacramento Street; a tortoiseshell manicure set, and an ivory card case you obtained in the same manner from Varter's in Market Street; a set of silver buttons, a glove stretcher, and a mauve pin-cushion—you likewise helped yourself to—from Selter's in Kearney Street; but I might go on detailing them to you till further orders, for your house is literally crammed with them. You have done very well, Mrs. Bater, with the San Francisco storekeepers.'

"'Good God, man, what are you?' she gasped. 'You seem to read into the innermost recesses of my soul, and to know everything.'

"'You are right, madam,' I said, trying to appear very stern and almost failing, she was so pretty. By Jove! you fellows, I wonder I didn't kiss her; she had such fine eyes, my favourite nose, a ripping mouth and—"

"Oh! go on! go on with your story. Never mind her looks," Curtis interrupted, "I've got a touch of indigestion."

"As I was saying," Kelson went on complacently, "I could have kissed her and I felt downright mean for upsetting her so.

"'Now you have found me out,' she said, 'what do you intend doing? Show me up in there?' and she pointed shudderingly at the store.

"'No,' I said, 'not if you are sensible and come to terms. I will agreeto say nothing about either this or any of your other—ahem!— thefts—if you let me escort you home, and write me out a cheque for a thousand dollars!'

"'Beast!' she hissed, 'so you are a blackmailer!'

"'A black beetle if you like,' I responded, 'but I assure you, Mrs. Bater, I am letting you off cheap. I have only to call for a policeman and your reputation would be gone at once. Besides, I know other things about you.'

"'What other things?' she stuttered.

"'Well, madam!' I replied, 'some things are rather delicate—er—for single men like me to mention, but I do know that—er—a lady—very like—remarkably like—you, has in her pocket at this moment a rattle which she bought and paid for in Oakland's late last night. And as, madam, Mr. Bater has been dead over two years—let me see—yes, two years yesterday—one can—!'

"'Stay! that will do,' she whispered; 'come to my house and I will give you the thousand dollars. You must pretend you are my cousin.'

"'I will pretend anything, Mrs. Bater,' I murmured, helping her into a taxi, 'anything so long as I can be with you.'"

"You got the money?" Hamar queried.

"Yes," Kelson said with a smile, "I got the money—in fact, everything I asked for."

There was silence for some minutes, and then Hamar said, "What next?"

"What next!" Kelson said, "why I thought I had done a very good day's work and was on my way back here to take a much needed rest, when I'm dashed if the Unknown hadn't another adventure in store for me. Coming out of a garden in Gough Street, within sight of Goad's house, was a lady, young and very plain, but rigged out in one of those latest fashion costumes—a very tight, short skirt, and huge hat with high plume in it. By the bye, I can't think why this costume, which is so admirably suited to pretty girls—because it attracts attention to them—should be almost exclusively adopted by the ugly ones. But to continue. I knew immediately that she was Ella Barlow, the much-pampered and only daughter of J.B. Barlow, the vinegar magnate; that she was in love, or imagined herself in love with Herbert Delmas, the manager of the Columbian Bank—a young, good-looking fellow, whom she had been trying to set against his fiancee, Dora Roberts. Dora is only nineteen, very pretty and a trifle giddy—nothing more. But this failing of hers—if you can call it a failing, was just the very weapon Ella Barlow wanted. She worked on it at once, and by sending Delmas a series of anonymous letters made him mad with jealousy. This resulted in a breach between Delmas and Dora, and Ella Barlow, much elated, at once tried to step into her shoes. She has been going out a good deal with Delmas, who is in reality still very much in love with Dora, and consequently exceedingly miserable. This morning Ella, anxious to show off a magnificent set of diamonds, given her by her father, telephoned to Delmas to take her to the Baldwyn Theatre, where she has engaged a box for this evening—fondly hoping that the diamonds will bring him up to the scratch, and that he will propose to her. When I saw her she was on her way to a notorious quack doctor and beauty specialist in Californian Street. She suffers from some nasty skin disease, and is in mortal terror lest Delmas should get to know of it, and also of the fact that all her teeth are false, and that two of her toes are badly deformed."

"By Jupiter!" Hamar ejaculated, "this divination of yours beats mine into fits—nothing escapes you!"

"No!" Kelson laughed, "nothing! Ella Barlow, metaphysical and physical was laid before me just as bare as if the Almighty had got hold of her with his dissecting knife. I saw everything—and what is more I said to myself—here's plenty I can turn to a profitable account. Well! I didn't stop her—I let her go."

"Let her go!" Curtis growled, his mouth full of almonds and raisins. "You squirrel!"

"Only for a time," Kelson said, "I went to see Delmas!"

"Delmas!" Hamar interlocuted, "why the deuce Delmas?"

"Impulse!" Kelson explained, "purely impulse."

"Yes, but impulse is often a dangerous thing!" Hamar said, "it is essential for us three, especially, to be on our guard against impulse. What did you get out of Delmas?"

"Nothing!" Kelson said looking rather shamefaced, "But the matter hasn't ended yet. I'm going to the theatre after I've had something to eat. I'll tell you what happens, to-morrow."

It was late ere Kelson came down to breakfast the following day, and Hamar and Curtis were comfortably seated in armchairs reading the Examiner, when he joined them.

"Well!" Hamar said, looking up at him, "what luck?"

But Kelson wouldn't say a word till he had finished eating. He then lolled back in his seat and began:—

"Arriving at the Baldwyn I went straight to box one. A tall figure rose to greet me, and then, an angry voice exclaimed, 'Why it's not Herbert! Who are you, sir? Do you know this box is engaged?'

"'I humbly beg your pardon, Miss Barlow,' I said, 'I do know it is engaged, but I came as Mr. Delmas' deputy and friend.'

"'Came as Herbert's deputy and friend,' Ella Barlow repeated—and by Jove the diamonds did shine—she was simply a mass of them, hair, neck, arms and fingers—and she had been so well faked up for the occasion that she was almost good-looking; but I thought of all I knew about her—and shuddered.

"'I will explain myself,' I said, 'Mr. Delmas telephoned to you this afternoon, did he not?'

"She nodded.

"'Saying that he very much regretted he could not leave business in time to escort you here. Would you mind very much going by yourself, and he would join you as soon as possible.'

"'Yes,' Ella Barlow said, 'he told me all that.'

"'Very well, then,' I went on, 'he rang me up some minutes later and asked me if I would take his place for the first hour or so, and he would be here by the end of the first act.'

"'But it is most unheard of,' Ella Barlow ejaculated, 'I don't know you—I've never seen you before!'

"'That is, of course, very regrettable,' I said, 'but I will do all I can for the past. I've something to say that I'm sure will interest you. Have I your permission?'—and without waiting for her reply I sat next to her. The box was a big one, big enough to hold half a dozen people, and we sat in the extreme front of it. The lights were not full up, as the orchestra had not started playing. I kept her attention fixed on my face so that she was unaware what was taking place, immediately behind her.

"'What is it?' she said, 'whatever can you have to say that can be of any possible interest to me?'

"'Why,' I replied, 'to begin with I know something about your character!'

"'Then you're a fortune teller!' she exclaimed eagerly, 'can you read hands?'

"'I can read everything,' I said looking hard at her, 'hands, head, and feet. I am psychometrist, dentist, physician, metaphysician all in one!'

"'I don't understand,' she said looking queer, 'what is the meaning of all this?'

"'It means,' I said slowly, 'that I have discovered who sent those anonymous letters to Herbert Delmas!'

"'Anonymous letters! how dare you!' she cried, 'what have anonymous letters to do with me?'

"'A very great deal, madam,' I replied, 'shall I remind you of their contents and the occasions on which you wrote them?' I did so. I recited every word in them and told her the hour, day and place—namely, when and where each was written, and I summed up by asking what she would pay me not to tell Delmas.

"For some minutes she was too overcome to say anything; she sat grim and silent, her pale eyes glaring at me, her freckled fingers toying with the diamonds. She was baffled and perplexed—she did not know what course to pursue!

"'Well,' I repeated, 'what have you to say? Do you deny it?'

"She roused herself with an effort. 'No,' she said venomously, 'I don't deny it. Denial would be useless. How did you find out? Through one of the maids, I suppose. They were bribed to spy on me!'

"'How I discovered it is of no consequence,' I said, 'but what is of consequence to you as much as to me—is the payment for hushing it up!'

"'Payment!' she cried, raising her voice to a positive shriek in her excitement, 'pay you—you nasty, beastly, cadging toad. You—' but I can't repeat all she said, it would make you both blush! I let her go on till she had worn herself out and then I said, 'Well, Miss Barlow, why all this fuss—why these fireworks! It can't do you any good. We must come to business sooner or later. If you don't pay me handsomely I shall tell Miss Roberts as well as Mr. Delmas.'

"'Mr. Delmas won't believe you,' she hissed, 'you've no proofs at all!'

"'Perhaps not,' I said, 'but I've proofs of this. I know you have two deformed toes on your left foot, that all your teeth are false, and that you go to that charlatan, Howard Prince, in Californian Street to be faked up. I must be brutal—it's no use being anything else to women of your sort. You've got a certain species of eczema, and you flatter yourself that no one but you and Prince are aware of it. What have you got to say now, Miss Barlow?' But Ella Barlow had fainted. When she came to, which I managed after vigorous application of salts and water—the effects of the latter on her complexion I leave you to imagine—I again broached the subject.

"'What is it you propose?' she said feebly.

"'Why this,' I said, 'you hand me over all those diamonds, and your defects will—as far as I am concerned—always remain a secret. Refuse, and Miss Roberts and Mr. Delmas shall know all there is to be known at once.'

"For some minutes she sat with her face buried in her hands—shivering. Then she looked up at me—and Jerusalem! it was like looking at an old woman. 'Take them,' she said, 'take them! I shall never wear them again, anyhow. Take them—and leave me.'

"Well, you fellows, I steeled my heart, and slipped every Jack one that was on her into my pocket.

"'You won't tell them,' she whispered, catching hold of me by the arm, 'you swear you won't.' I won't try and remember exactly what I answered—but outside the door of the box Delmas joined me. He had been concealed within and had heard everything that passed.

"'I can't say how grateful I am to you,' he said. 'It's a bit low down, perhaps, but, then, we were dealing with a low-down person. You thoroughly deserve those diamonds—will you accept an offer for them from me? I should like to buy them for Miss Roberts and present them to her on our reconciliation.' We came to terms then and there, and he 'phoned through to me an hour ago to say that he had made it up with Miss Roberts, that she was delighted with the diamonds, and that they are going to be married next month."

"So out of evil good comes," Hamar said, "the maxim for us, remember, is—out of evil evil alone must come. What are you going to do to-day, you two?"

"Rest!" said Kelson, "I'm tired."

"Eat!" said Curtis, "I'm hungry!"

"Now look here, this won't do," Hamar remarked, "you've earned your rest, Matt, but you haven't, Ed. You can't go on eating eternally."

"Can't I?" Curtis snapped, "I'm not so sure of that, I've years to make up for."

"Then do the thing in moderation, for goodness sake!" Hamar expostulated, "and recollect we must, at all costs, act together. We have now twelve thousand dollars between us in the bank—that is to say, the capital of the Firm of Hamar, Curtis and Kelson represents that amount. It is our ambition to increase that amount—and to go on increasing it till we can fairly claim to be the richest Firm in the world. Now to do that we must work, and work hard, if we are to live at the pace Ed is setting us—but there is no reason why we should remain here, and I propose that we move elsewhere. I've got a scheme in my head, rather a colossal one I admit, but not altogether impossible."

"What is it?" Kelson asked.

"Yes, out with it," Curtis grunted.

"It is this," Hamar said, "I suggest that we go to London—London in England—I guess it's the richest town in the world—and there set up as sorcerers—The Sorcery Company Ltd. We should begin with divination and juggling, and go on, according to the seven stages. We should of course sell our cures and spells, and there is not the slightest doubt but that we should make an enormous pile, with which we would gradually buy up, not merely London, but the whole of England."

"That's rather a tall order," Kelson murmured.

"A small one, you mean," Curtis sneered, "you could put the whole of England twice over in California, and from what I've heard I don't go much on London. I reckon it isn't much bigger than San Francisco."

"Still you wouldn't mind being joint owner of it," Hamar laughed."

"No, perhaps not," Curtis said rather dubiously. "I guess we could buy the crown and wear it in turn. Sam Westlake up at Meidler's always used to say the Britishers would sell their souls if any one bid high enough. They think of nothing but money over there. When shall we go?"

"At the end of our week," Hamar said, "that is to say on Wednesday—in three days' time."

"First class all the way, of course," Curtis said, "I'll see to the arrangements for the catering and berths."

"All right!" Hamar laughed, as he filled three glasses with champagne. "Here, drink, you fellows, 'Long life, health and prosperity—to Hamar, Curtis and Kelson, the Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.'"



CHAPTER VIII

TWO DREAMS

"Do you believe in dreams?" Gladys Martin inquired, as, fresh from a stroll in the garden, she joined her aunt, Miss Templeton, in the breakfast room at Pine Cottage.

"I believe in fairies," Miss Templeton rejoined, smiling indulgently as she looked at the fair face beside her. "What was the dream, dearie?"

Gladys laughed a little mischievously. "I don't quite know whether I ought to tell you," she said. "It might shock you."

"Perhaps I'm not so easily shocked as you imagine," Miss Templeton replied. "What was it?"

"Well!" Gladys began, flinging both arms round her aunt's neck and playing with the pleats in her blouse, "I dreamed that I was walking in the little wood at the end of the garden, and that the trees and flowers walked and talked with me. And we danced together—and, first of all, I had for my partner, a red rose—and then, an ash. They both made love to me, and squeezed my waist with their hot, fibrous hands. A poppy piped, a bramble played the concertina, and a lilac grew desperately jealous of me and tried to claw my hair. Then the dancing ceased, and I found myself in the midst of bluebells that shook their bells at me with loud trills of laughter. And out from among them, came a buttercup, pointing its yellow head at me. 'See! see,' it cried, 'what Gladys is carrying behind her. Naughty Gladys!' And trees and flowers—everything around me—shook with laughter. Then I grew hot and cold all over, and did not know which way to look for my confusion, till a willow, having compassion on me said, 'Take no notice of them! They don't know any better.'

"I begged him to explain to me why they were so amused, and he grew very embarrassed and uncomfortable, and stammered—oh! so funnily, 'Well if you really wish to know—it's a bud, a baby white rose, and it's clinging to your dress.'

"'A baby! A baby rose!' shrieked all the flowers.

"'And it means,' a bluebell said, stepping perkily out from amidst its fellows, 'that your lover is coming—your lover with a troll-le-loll-la—and—well, if you want to know more ask the gooseberries, the gooseberries that hang on the bushes, or the parsley that grows in the bed,'—and at that all the flowers and trees shrieked with laughter—'Ta-ta-tra-la-la'—and with my ears full of the rude laughter of the wood I awoke. What do you think of it? Isn't it rather a quaint mixture of the—of the sacred—at least the artistic—and the profane?"

"Quite so," said Miss Templeton with an amused chuckle, "but I shouldn't ask for an interpretation of it if I were you."

"Not for an interpretation of the trees and flowers?" Gladys asked innocently. "I'm sure trees and flowers have a special significance in dreams."

"Very well then, my dear, ask Mrs. Sprat."

"What! ask the Vicar's wife!" Gladys ejaculated, "when I never go to church."

"Certainly," Miss Templeton replied, laughing again, "Mrs. Sprat will quite understand. And I've always been told she is very interested in anything to do with the Occult. But hush! Here's your father. You'd better not tell him your dream. He's tired to death, he says, of hearing about your lovers, and agrees with me—there's no end to them."

"Never mind what he says—his bark's worse then his bite," Gladys rejoined, "he doesn't really care how many I have so long as they keep within bounds, and I like them! Father!"

John Martin, who entered the room at that moment, went straight to his daughter to be kissed.

"I wish you wouldn't always select that bald spot," he said testily, "I don't want to be everlastingly reminded I'm losing my hair."

"Where do you want me to kiss you, then?" Gladys argued, "on the tip of your nose? That's all very well for you, John Martin, but I prefer the top of your head. But the poor dear looks worried, what is it?"

"I didn't have a very good night," her father replied, "I dreamed a lot!" Gladys looked at Miss Templeton and laughed.

"Did you?" she said gently. "What a shame! I never dream. What was it all about?"

"Flowers!" John Martin snapped, "idiotic flowers! Roses, lilac, tulips! Bah! I do wish you would have some other hobby."

Gladys looked at her aunt again, this time with a half serious, half questioning expression.

"Shall I be a politician?" she cooed, "and fill the house with suffragettes? You bad man, I believe you would revel in it. Don't you think so, Auntie?"

"I think, instead of teasing your father so unmercifully, you had better pour him out a cup of tea," Miss Templeton replied. "Jack, there's a letter for you."

"Where? Under my plate! what a place to put it. That's you," and John Martin frowned, or rather, attempted to frown, at Gladys. "Why it's about Davenport—Dick Davenport. He's very ill—had a stroke yesterday, and the doctor declares his condition critical. His nephew, Shiel, so Anne says, has been sent for, and arrived at Sydenham last night! If that's not bad news I don't know what is!" John Martin said, thrusting his plate away from him and leaning back in his chair. "It's true I can manage the business all right myself—and there's the possibility, of course, that this young Shiel may shape all right. I suppose if anything happens he will step into Dick's shoes. I've never heard Dick mention any one else. Poor old Dick!"

"I am so sorry, father!" Gladys said, laying her hand on his. "But cheer up! It may not be as bad as you expect. Shall you go and see how he is?"

"I think so, my dear! I think so," John Martin replied, "but don't worry me about it now. Talk to your aunt and leave me out of it, I'm a bit upset. My brain's in a regular whirl!"

Undoubtedly the news was something in the nature of a blow: for Dick Davenport, apart from being John Martin's partner—partner in the firm of Martin and Davenport, the world-renowned conjurors, whose hall in the Kingsway was one of the chief amusement places in London, was John Martin's oldest friend. They had been chums at Cheltenham College, had entered the Army and gone to India together, had quitted the Service together, and, on returning together to England, had started their conjuring business, first of all in Sloane Street, and subsequently in the Kingsway. From the very start their enterprise had met with success, and, had it not been for Davenport's wild extravagance, they would have been little short of millionaires. But Davenport, though a most lovable character in every respect, could not keep money—he no sooner had it than it was gone. His house in Sydenham was little short of a palace; whilst, it was said, he almost rivalled royalty, in magnificent display, whenever he entertained. The result of all this reckless expenditure was no uncommon one—he ran through considerably more than he earned and—as there was no one else to help him—he invariably came down on John Martin. It was "Jack, old boy, I'm damned sorry, but I must have another thousand;" or, "Jack! these infernal scamps of creditors are worrying the life out of me, can you, will you, lend me a trifle—a couple of thousand will do it"—and so on—so on, ad infinitum. John Martin never refused, and at the time of Davenport's illness, the latter owed him something like a hundred thousand pounds.

Fortunately John Martin, though far from parsimonious, was careful. He had an excellent business head, and, thanks to his sagacious share in the management, the business remained solvent. He knew Davenport's capacity—that nowhere could he have found another such a brilliant genius in conjuring—nor, apart from his thriftlessness, any one so thoroughly reliable. In Davenport's keeping all the great tricks they had invented—and great tricks they undoubtedly were—were absolutely safe.

Despite the fact that they had repeatedly offered big sums of money to any one who could discover the secret of how they were done, every attempt to do so had utterly failed. The Mysteries of Martin and Davenport's Home of Wonder, in the Kingsway, baffled the world. Of course one thing had helped them enormously—namely, they had no rivals. So colossal was their reputation, that no one else had ever even thought of setting up in opposition.

And now one of the two great master-minds, that had accomplished all these marvels and acquired such universal fame, was stricken down, checkmated by the still greater power of nature; and his colleague—the only other man in existence who shared his knowledge—was obliged to rack his brain as to what was now to be done—done for the continuance and prosperity of the firm.

After finishing her breakfast Gladys joined her aunt in the garden.

"To dream of flowers and trees evidently means bad news," she said. "But as I feel in a mood for a walk, I shall call at the Vicarage."

"What, now! At this hour!" Miss Templeton cried aghast.

"Why not?" Gladys said imperturbably. "I'm not going to pay a call. They haven't called on us. I shall say I've merely come to make an inquiry. Can she tell me of any one who interprets dreams? Come with me!"

But as her aunt pleaded an excuse, Gladys went alone.

The Vicar was in the garden in his shirt sleeves, and though obviously surprised to see Gladys, seemed quite prepared to enter into conversation with her. But Gladys was not enamoured of clergymen. Her ways were not their ways, and she had come strictly on business. Consequently she somewhat curtly demanded to be conducted into the presence of his wife, who received her very affably.

"Why, how very strange," she observed when Gladys had stated the object of her visit. "I was asked a similar question only yesterday. A Miss Rosenberg, who is staying with us, had an extraordinary dream about trees and flowers—only it took the form of a poem, which she awoke repeating. There were several verses—quite doggerel it is true—but nevertheless rather remarkable for a dream. She wrote them down, and asked me if I could tell her whether there was any hidden meaning in them. Here they are," and she handed Gladys two pages of sermon paper on which was written—

"In the greenest of green valleys, Aglow with summer sun, Lived a maiden fair and radiant, More radiant there was none.

"The flowers gave her their friendship; Her couch was on the ground. A happier, gayer maiden, Was nowhere to be found.

"The air was filled with music Sung by the babbling brook. Sweet lullabies with chorus clear In which the flowers partook.

"This maiden knew not sorrow, Until an evil day; When riding lone across the moors, A hunter lost his way.

"And chancing on this valley, He met the maiden sweet. Her beauty overwhelmed him; He fell love-sick at her feet.

"Despite the fervent warnings Of her friends the flowers and trees, She listened to his courting; And with him roamed the leas.

"The leas, far from the valley, They rode the livelong night; Till a heavy mist descending Hid the roadway from their sight.

"Uprose, then, forms of evil. From out the mocking gloom; And seizing horse and hunter scared, Left the maiden to her doom.

"Travellers now within those regions, Through the nightly grey fog see A woman's shade crawl slow along, To a ghastly melody.

"And those who linger—follow The phantom pale and wan. O'er hill and dale, and rill and vale It slowly leads them on.

"On till they reach the valley, A valley grim and drear, Where lurid things with fibrous arms Their course through darkness steer.

"And on the travellers palsied In frenzied crowd they pour. And those who view their faces, Are heard but seen no more."

"Do you mean to say she dreamed all that?" Gladys exclaimed.

"Yes," the Vicar's wife said. "She told me so and I have no reason to doubt her. She doesn't romance as a rule, and is certainly not the least bit in the world poetical—on the contrary she is most practical and matter-of-fact. Her only hobby, as far as I know, is flowers."

"Mine, too!" Gladys interrupted. "Were you able to explain the verses?"

"No, I can't interpret dreams. I'm intensely interested in them; as I am in all things psychic. I was at a lecture given by Mrs. Annie Besant last night! She—"

"Do you know any one who does interpret dreams?" Gladys asked.

"Why, yes! A firm, claiming to do all sorts of wonderful things—to tell dreams, solve tricks, divine the presence of metals and water, and so on, has just set up in Cockspur Street. I read a short notice about them in this morning's paper. I will get it for you."

She left the room and in a few moments returned.

"Here it is," she said. And under the heading of "Sorcery Revived" Gladys read as follows:—

"There is really no end to the devices to which people resort nowadays to make money, but for sheer novelty, nothing, we think, beats this. Three Americans, Messrs. Hamar, Kelson and Curtis, fresh from San Francisco, California, have just bought premises in Cockspur Street, S.W., and set up there as Sorcerers!

"They style themselves 'The Modern Sorcery Company Ltd.,' and profess to interpret dreams, read people's thoughts, tell their pasts, solve all manner of tricks and detect the presence of metals and water. One wonders what next!"