III.

"Hark, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan. "Although noon has not yet come, the Russian is approaching to keep his promise to fight."

We threw open the door of the hut and distinguished the ringing sound of the bells of a distant sledge. A few minutes after this the cracking of a whip and the neighing of horses were heard, and finally we saw the sledge appear before us. There were three occupants, and as it drew near we distinguished among them General Rachieff as the one who was urging on the horses. The conveyance dashed up to the hut; then one of the officers sprang out and restrained the animals, while a second, who carried a couple of swords, followed close behind Rachieff, with whom Denviers was soon to try conclusions.

"The weapons are here," said General Rachieff, frigidly, as Denviers approached and bowed slightly. "There is no time to lose: we fight with swords as you see. Choose!" and he motioned to his second, who held them out. Following out the plan which we had determined to adopt, Hassan quickly placed our horses in our own sledge and drew them a little ahead, so that the conveyance should be ready for us to enter when the duel was ended, if my companion did not fall in the encounter.

"We fight there," said Denviers calmly, as he motioned to the part of the plain to the right of where Hassan had already stationed our sledge.

"As you will," responded Rachieff indifferently, and, accompanied by his second, he moved to the spot Denviers pointed out. There the usual formalities were settled by the other officer and myself, whereupon the two duellists made ready and waited for the signal to begin, which fell to my lot to give.

I fluttered a handkerchief in the biting air for a moment, dropped it, and the swords were rapidly crossed. The reputation which Rachieff had won as a duellist was certainly well deserved, since his feints and thrusts were admirable, while Denviers, whose coolness in critical circumstances never deserted him, acted mainly on the defensive, parrying his enemy's lunges with remarkable skill.

More than once the duellists stopped as if by mutual consent, to regain breath, then quickly facing each other again, fought more determinedly than ever. Rachieff saw that for once he had apparently met his match with the sword, and grew by degrees more cautious than he had been when the fight began; yet repeatedly he failed to completely ward off the quick lunges from my companion's weapon, and I saw the crimson stains of blood which marked where the sword point had touched him. Then he rained in his blows with lightning speed, pressing hard upon Denviers several times, and glaring furiously at him, while his distorted features showed plainly enough the mark of the blow he had received from the whip the day previous.

"Rachieff wins!" cried the Russian's second, and I saw, to my dismay, Denviers's weapon suddenly twisted from his hand and flung into the air, while an exultant exclamation burst from Rachieff's lips as he rushed upon his defenceless opponent! Before he could make use of the advantage which he had unexpectedly gained, Marie Lovetski uttered a wild, mournful cry, and started forward from the pine forest, standing pale with momentary fear before him!

The superstitious Russian stared incredulously, his sword-arm dropped to his side, while he gasped out:--

"Lovetski's daughter, and yet she is surely dead!"

Taking full advantage of the Russian's dismay, Denviers instantly flung himself upon his foe, dashing him backwards to the ground. Kneeling upon his enemy's chest and gripping him by the throat, as he held the sword he had seized before the startled Russian, my companion hissed in his ear:--

"Yield, or you are a dead man!"

The Russian's face turned to a purple hue as he almost choked for breath, then he muttered brokenly the exiled woman's name.

"She is living!" cried Denviers, as he lowered the point of the sword till it touched the Russian's breast. "Swear that you will not attempt to hinder her flight, and I will release your throat."

General Rachieff raised his hand in sign of assent, for his voice had failed him. Denviers rose, whereupon the Russian staggered to his feet, then, mad at his defeat, moved over to where his sledge was.

[Illustration: "HE RUSHED UPON HIS DEFENCELESS OPPONENT."]

"Get the woman into our sledge," cried Denviers to me. I started forward to where Hassan was; we snatched up the exile and immediately drove off.

"After them, men!" cried Rachieff, caring nothing for his promise. "We will take Marie Lovetski, or shoot her down!"

"Never trust a Russ, sahibs!" exclaimed Hassan, as he lashed our horses on, while our enemies followed furiously behind. "The only way to secure his silence would have been a sword thrust through the false one's heart."

Away our sledge was whirled across the plain, faster and faster still, yet Rachieff, whose horses were more numerous than our own, drew gradually nearer. Marie Lovetski, who had forgotten her alarm now that Denviers was safe, turned her pale-set countenance towards our pursuers, and, as she did so, the report of a pistol rang out, while a bullet whizzed past her head! I saw Rachieff holding the smoking weapon in his hand as Denviers cried to me:--

"If he fires again, I will shoot him like the dog that he is!"

"No," cried Marie Lovetski, snatching a pistol from my sash before I could prevent her. "Rachieff slew Somaloff, my lover, and I will avenge him." She pointed the weapon full at the Russian, and I barely had time to brush her arm aside before the frenzied exile fired. Fortunately, the shot was deflected, and Rachieff was saved from the fate that he certainly deserved.

"Shoot their horses!" exclaimed Denviers, and as our own dashed along he leant over towards the pursuing sledge and fired at the foremost of them. The animal reared for a moment, then fell dead, throwing the rest into confusion. Out the Russians sprang, and cut the traces through, and having in this way speedily managed to disencumber their steeds of the dead one, they immediately began the pursuit again. We waited for them to get near again, then fired in quick succession and brought down their other horses, in spite of the bullets which the Russians rained upon us, and which, fortunately, struck none who were in the sledge. Baffled in their pursuit, we saw our enemies standing knee-deep in the snow watching us as we dashed along.

"Well," remarked Denviers, as we slackened our speed at last, "we have had a strange running fight, such as I least of all expected."

"The sahibs have saved the woman," said our guide. "Their slave the Arab believes that even the Great Prophet would approve of what they have done. The promise to convey Marie Lovetski to the mujik's hut will now surely be kept"; and so it came about, for the daughter of Lovetski the Lost lived to find freedom hers on another soil and under another flag.

_Illustrated Interviews._

No. XXIII.--MR. HARRY FURNISS.

[Illustration: "INTERVIEWED!"]

It is the proud boast of every married man, and more particularly so when his quiver is fairly full, that he presides over the happiest home in the land. But there is a corner of Regent's Park where stands a house whose four walls contain an amount of fun and unadulterated merriment, happiness, and downright pleasure that would want a lot of beating. The fact is that Mr. Harry Furniss is not only a merry man with his pencil. Humour with him may mean a very profitable thing--it unquestionably does; fun and frolic as depicted on paper by "Lika Joko" brings in, as Digby Grant would put it, many "a little cheque." But I venture to think that the clever caricaturist would not have half as many merry ideas running from the mind to the pencil if he sold all his humour outside and forgot to scatter a goodly proportion of it amongst his quartette of children.

[Illustration: "MY LITTLE MODEL."]

[Illustration: "LITTLE GUY--OR, A FIDGETY MODEL."]

I had not been in the house five minutes before they made their presence known. I had not been there a quarter of an hour before the discovery was made that they were small but impressive editions of their father. Have you heard of Harry Furniss's little model--"My Little Model"? She is Dorothy, who sits for all the little girls in her father's pictures. A clever, bright young woman of thirteen, with glorious auburn tresses. For two or three years past she has not forgotten to write her father a story, illustrated it herself, and duly presented it on his birthday. "Buzzy," for that is her pet name, is retained as a model at a modest honorarium per sitting. Should she be indisposed, she must find a substitute! Then there is Frank, the eldest, home for his holidays just now from Cheltenham; young Lawrence, who also draws capitally; and little Guy, the youngest, who creeps into the pictures occasionally. Guy is a very fidgety model. "I have drawn him in twenty different moves, when trying to bribe him with a penny to sit!" said Mr. Furniss. And it seemed to me--and one had an excellent opportunity of judging during a too-quickly-passed day spent at Regent's Park--that not a small amount of Mr. Furniss's humour was caught from the children. He has brought them up to live a laughing life, he ignores the standing-in-the-corner theory, and believes that a penny discreetly bestowed on a youngster during a troubled moment will teach him a better lesson than a shilling's-worth of stick. It is also evident that the brightness and jollity of the children are inherited, not only from father, but mother as well; and it was easy to discern, from the remarks that fell from the subject of my interview, that the touches of artistic taste to be seen about the place were due to the "best of wives and mothers"--immaculate housewife and capital hostess--Mrs. Furniss. And, as Mr. Furniss himself acknowledges, half the battle of life is overcome for a hard-worked professional man by the possession of a sympathetic and careful wife.

[Illustration]

Just run through this budget of letters from father to children. When I arrived at Regent's Park--ten minutes before my time, by-the-bye--Mr. Furniss was out riding, a very favourite exercise with him. "Buzzy" and Frank and Lawrence and Guy brought out their treasured missives. When "Lika Joko" gets a pen or pencil in his hand he can't help caricaturing. These juvenile missives were decorated with sketches in every corner. Here is a particularly merry one. Frank writes from Cheltenham for some fret-work patterns. Patterns are sent by return of post--the whole family is sent in fret-work. Mr. Furniss goes away to Hastings, suffering from overwork. He has to diet himself. Then comes a letter illustrated at the top with a certain gentleman greatly reduced in face and figure through following Dr. Robson Roose's admirable advice. There are scores of them--all neatly and carefully kept with their envelopes in scrap-books.

Some few days afterwards I discovered that Mr. Furniss delights in "illustrating" his letters to others besides his children. My photo was needed by Mr. Furniss for the purpose of making a sketch. I sent him a recent one. He wanted a "profile" too. The "profile" was taken when I was sadly in need of the application of the scissors of the tonsorial artist. I posted the "profile" with a request that perhaps Mr. Furniss would kindly apply his artistic shears and cut off a little of the surplus hair. By return comes an illustrated missive. I am sitting in a barber's chair, cloth round neck; the artist is behind me with the customary weapon, and laying low the locks. The whole thing probably only took a minute or two to do, but it is a capital little bit of drawing. It is reproduced at the end of this article.

This quarter of an hour spent with the youngsters over their paternal letters was not lost. It prepared me for the man himself, it gave me the true clue to his character, and when he rushed into the house--riding boots and whip included--it was just the one the children had unanimously realized for me. A jolly, hearty, "give us your hand" sort of individual, somewhat below the medium height, with a face as merry as one of his own pages in _Punch_. He is restless--he must be always at it. He thinks and talks rapidly: there is no hesitation about him. He gets a happy thought. Out it comes--unique and original in its unvarnished state. He is as good and thorough a specimen of an Englishman as one would meet--frank and straight-spoken, says what he thinks and thinks what he means. An Englishman, notwithstanding the fact that he was born in Ireland, his mother was a Scotchwoman, and he married a lady of Welsh descent! But, then, his father was a Yorkshireman! So much for the man--and much more. Of his talents we will speak later.

We all sat down to lunch, and the children simply did for me what I could not have done for myself. Frank ran his father on funny stories. Then it all came out. Mr. Furniss is an excellent actor--had he not been a caricaturist he must have been a comedian. His powers of imitation are unlimited. He will give you an Irish jarvey one moment and Henry Irving the next, and the children led him on. But it all at once dawned upon Mr. Furniss that it was interfering with the proper play of knife and fork, so we dispensed with the mimicry and went on with the mutton.

[Illustration]

"Lika Joko" is suggested at once on entering the hall. Here are a quartette of quaint Japanese heads, which their owner calls his "Fore Fathers!" His Fellowship of the Zoo is typified by pictures of various animals. A fine etching of St. Mark's, at Venice, is also noticeable, the only two portraits being a Rembrandt and Maroni's "Tailor."

"I always hold that up as the best portrait ever painted," said Mr. Furniss, as he glances at Maroni's masterpiece.

[Illustration: THE DINING-ROOM.

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

In the dining-room Landseer, Herkomer, Alma Tadema, and Burton Barber are represented--little Lawrence was the original study for the child in the latter artist's "Bethgelert." Fred Barnard's work is here, and some quaint old original designs on wood by Boyd Haughton are pointed out as curios. _Punch_ is to the front, notably in Du Maurier, by himself, which cost its possessor thirty guineas; a portrait group of the staff up the river, some delicate water-colours by C. H. Bennett, and a fine bit of work by Mr. Furniss of the jubilee dinner of the threepenny comic at the Ship Hotel, Greenwich. Upstairs the children's portraits, and pictures likely to please the youngsters, reappear. The nursery is full of them, though perhaps the most interesting apartment in this part of the house is the principal bedroom. It is full of the original caricatures of M.P.'s and other notabilities, and the occupant of the bed has Bradlaugh and the Baron de Worms on either side of him, whilst from a corner the piercing eye of Mr. George Lewis is constantly on the watch.

A striking portrait of Mr. F. C. Burnand recalls to Mr. Furniss the first time he sketched him.

"I was making a chalk drawing of him," said the caricaturist. "He sat with his back to me for half-an-hour writing, and suddenly turned round and wanted to know if I had finished! Perceiving a piece of bread for rubbing-out purposes in my hand, he objected to my having lunch there! And finally, when I induced him to turn his head my way and I finished the sketch, he looked at it critically and cried out, 'Splendid likeness, remarkable features, fine head, striking forehead, characteristic eyebrow, splendid likeness; somebody I know, but I can't remember who!' Encouraging, wasn't it?

"But I remembered it. Some years after I gave a dinner at the Garrick Club to the _Punch_ staff and some friends. Burnand sat at the head of a long table. It was understood that there was to be no speaking. Suddenly I saw the editorial eyebrows wriggling. I knew what it meant--Burnand was going to make a speech. I hurriedly got about a dozen sheets of note-paper, and tore them in bits. I jumped up very nervous, produced 'notes'; terrible anxiety on part of diners--suppressed groans. I spoke, got fearfully muddled, constantly losing notes, etc. 'Art amongst the Greeks,' I said--notes; 'yes, your sculptors of Athens were, unquestionably'--notes again. 'And what of it? _Punch_ is a--_Punch_ is a--well, you all know _what Punch_ is!' Then it began to dawn upon them that this was a little lark. So I hurriedly threw notes under the table and suggested that on an occasion like the present it was our duty to first propose the health of the Queen! We did. Then the Prince of Wales, the Army and Navy, the Reserve Forces, the Bishops and Magistrates. All these were replied to, and Burnand didn't get a chance!"

[Illustration: THE DRAWING-ROOM.

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

There are many delightful water-colours in the drawing-room, bronzes and quaint Japanese ivories. The first meet of the "Two Pins Club" at Richmond, June 8th, 1890, gives excellent back views of Sir Charles Russell, F. C. Burnand, Frank Lockwood, Q.C., Linley Sambourne, Chas. Matthews, Q.C., and the caricaturist himself. The "Two Pins" is a riding club named after Dick Turpin and Johnny Gilpin. Works by Goodall and Rowlandson are here, a fine Albert Dürer, and a most ingenious bit of painting by a man who never had a chance to get to the front--he has used his brush with excellent effect on the back of an old band-box. Mary Anderson has written on the back of a photo, "Better late than never," for the picture was a long time coming; another excellent example of photographic work being a large head of Mr. Irving as "Becket," bearing his autograph. In a corner is a queer-looking wax model of Daniel O'Connell addressing the crowd, and amongst a hundred little odds and ends spring flowers are peeping out. Mr. Furniss finds little time now to use his paint-box. The example--an early one, by-the-bye--he has contributed to this apartment is by no means prophetic. It is a trifle in water-colours--a graveyard of a church with countless tombstones! Now, who would associate the caricaturist with tombstones?

[Illustration: THE STUDIO.

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

Passing down a glass corridor--from the roof of which the grapes hang in great and luscious clusters in the autumn--you reach the studio. It is a big, square room. Run your eyes round the walls, try to take in its thousand and one quaint treasures. You can see humour in every one of them--merriment oozes out of every single item. Stand before this almost colossal statue of Venus. She of the almost faultless waist and fashion-plate divine rests on a coal-box. Sit down on the sofa. It is the stuffed lid of another receptacle for fuel. Golf is one of the artist's hobbies, and he invariably plays with clergymen--excellent thing for the character. We light our cigars from a capital little match-stand modelled out of a golf-ball, and the next instant "Lika Joko" is juggling with three or four balls. A clever juggler, forsooth. And the battledore and shuttlecock? Excellent exercise. After a long spell of work, the battledore is seized and the shuttlecock bounces up to the glass roof. It went through the other day, hence play has been postponed owing to the numerous engagements of the local glazier. Fencing foils are in a corner; a quaint arrangement of helmets, masks, and huge weapons _à la_ Waterloo suggests "scalping trophies." The china is curious--there is even an empty ginger jar--picked up in country places, of a rare and valuable old-fashioned type. He has the finest collection of old tinsel pictures of the Richard III. and Dick Turpin order in the kingdom, and values an old book full of tinsel patterns of the most exquisite design and workmanship. Old glass pictures are scattered about, "Lord Nelson's Funeral Car," and Joey Grimaldi grins at you from the far corner of the room.

[Illustration: SCALPING TROPHIES.

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

All this and much more is characteristic of the humour of the famous caricaturist. We look at "Lika Joko's" skits and laugh; we take a delight in picking out from his ingenious pictorial mazes our own

## particular politician or favourite actor; we roar at "Lika Joko's"

comicality, and only know him as a caricaturist. But there is another side to this studio picture--Mr. Harry Furniss's pencil is such that it can make you weep; so realistic, indeed, that when in his early days he was sent to sketch scenes of distress and misery, they were so terribly real and dramatic that the paper in question dared not publish them. No artist appreciates a "situation" better than he. I looked through portfolio after portfolio, drawer after drawer--full of character studies and work of a serious character done in all parts of the world. These have never been given to the public. Should they ever be published, Mr. Harry Furniss will at once be voted as serious and dramatic an artist as he is an eminently refined yet outrageously humorous caricaturist. He is a great reader--he once collected first editions. We begin to talk seriously, when he suddenly closes the portfolio with a bang, shuts up once more his hidden and unknown talents, and hastens to inform you that he is a member of the Thirteen Club--Irving and he were elected together--and believes in helping other people to salt, dining thirteen on the thirteenth, with thirteen courses, etc. Always passes under ladders, and swears by peacocks' feathers.

We stand before the great easel in the middle of the room--though not much work is done there. He prefers to work standing at a desk. He draws all his pictures very large; they are studies from life. It prevents the work from getting cramped. The same model has stood for all his principal people for the last ten years, and he has a wardrobe of artistic "props" big enough to fit out every member of the House of Commons. He is a perfect business man. His ledger is a model book. Every one of his pictures is numbered. In this book spaces are ruled off for--Subject, Publisher, When delivered, Published, Price, When paid, When drawing returned, Price of original, and What came of it. Humour by no means knocks system out of a man. Look at the score of pigeon-holes round the studio. As we are talking together now his secretary is "typing off" his illustrated weekly letter which finds a place in the _St. James's Budget_, _New York World_, _Weekly Scotsman_, _Yorkshire Weekly Post_, _Liverpool Weekly Post_, _Nottinghamshire Guardian_, _South Wales Daily News_, _East Anglian Times_, and in Australia, India, the Cape, etc. He writes children's books and illustrates them. His impressions of America are in course of preparation. There is his weekly _Punch_ work; he is dodging about all over the country giving his unique "Humours of Parliament" entertainment, and he found time to make some special sketches for this little article.

[Illustration: _From a Drawing by Mr. Furniss._]

We sat down. Tea was brought in--he believes in two big breakfast cups every afternoon--and with "Bogie," the Irish deerhound--so called owing to his very solemn-looking countenance--close by, Mr. Furniss went back as far as he could possibly remember, to March 26th, 1854. That is the date of his birthday.

"I am always taken for an Irishman," said Mr. Furniss. "Nothing of the kind. My father was a Yorkshireman. He was in Ireland with my mother, and I believe I arrived at an unexpected moment. Possibly my artistic inclinations came through my mother. Her father was Æneas Mackenzie, a well-known literary man of Newcastle-on-Tyne, and proprietor of several newspapers. He founded the Newcastle School of Politics, and Mr. Joseph Cowen--as a boy--got his first tuition in politics from sitting at the knee of my grandfather. A bust of him is in the Mechanics' Institute--which he founded."

[Illustration: "AT WORK."

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

Little Harry was brought up in Wexford. He remembers being held up in his nurse's arms to see the _Great Eastern_ pass on its first voyage, whilst an incident associated with the marriage of the Prince of Wales is vividly impressed upon his mind. He was struck on the top of his hat by a "fizzing devil" made out of moist powder, which burnt a hole through it. He says that he would rather have this recollection on his mind now, than the "fizzer" on his head at the time. The young artist in embryo was a rare young pugilist at school. He was forced to use his fists, as friction was strong between the Irish and English lads at the school he went to. But he did well in athletic sports, and was never beaten in a hundred yards race. He firmly believes that this early athletic training is responsible for the rapid way in which he does everything to-day--be it walking or talking, eating or working, all is done on the hundred yards principle--to get there first.

He was a spoilt boy--first of all because he was sent to a girls' school, but mainly from a very significant incident which happened at the Wesleyan College School in Dublin--a collegiate establishment from which pupils (not necessarily Wesleyans, for Mr. Furniss is not of that sect) passed to Trinity College--where he obtained all his education. He was not a studious lad. He found the editing, writing, illustrating, publishing, and entire bringing-out of a small journal he founded far more agreeable to his taste than Latin verbs and algebraical problems.

[Illustration: STUDY OF AN IRISHMAN.]

"I was in knickerbockers at the time," he said, "and introduced to the schoolboy public--_The Schoolboy's Punch_. It sounds strangely prophetic as I think of it now. The entire make-up of it was _à la Punch_, and it had its cartoon every week. At that time the Davenport Cabinet Trick was all the rage, and the very first cartoon I drew was founded on that. Here is the picture: myself--as a schoolboy--being tied up with ropes depictive of Greek, Latin, Euclid, and other cutting and disagreeable items. I am placed in the cabinet--the school. The head-master, whom I flattered very much in the drawing, opens another cabinet and out steps the young student covered with glory and scholastic honours thick upon him! From that moment my school-master spoiled me. I left school and started work. I got a pound for my first drawing. A. M. Sullivan started a paper in Ireland on very similar lines to _Punch_. There was a wave in Ireland of better class journalism at this time which had never existed before or since. I slipped in. For some years I drew on wood and engraved my own work. I was given to understand that all black and white men engraved their own efforts, so I offered myself as an apprentice to an engraver.

"He said: 'Don't come as an apprentice. If you will undertake to look after my office, I'll teach you the art of engraving.'"

It meant a hard struggle for young Furniss. He was loaded down with clerical work, but in his own little room, when the day's labours were done, he would sit up till two and three in the morning. There was no quenching his earnestness. Work then with him was a real desire. It is so to-day. To rest is obnoxious to him.

He worked away. The feeling in Ireland against Englishmen at that time was very strong. Tom Taylor, then the editor of _Punch_, saw some of his sketches in Dublin, and advised him to go to the West of Ireland to make studies of character. He was in Galway, and he had persuaded a number of Irishmen who were breaking stones to pause in their work and let him sketch them. They consented. The overseer came up.

"What d'yer mane," he cried, "allowing this hathen Saxon to draw yer?"

"I've never been out of Ireland in my life," said the artist; but the overseer had seized him, and but for the intervention of the men, whom he had paid liberally for the "sitting," he would have thrown him into the river.

Then a great trouble came. His father was stricken with blindness. The young man came to London, and with something more than the proverbial half-crown in his pocket. He was nineteen years of age when he hurried out of Euston Station one morning and stood for a moment thinking--for he did not know a soul in the Metropolis. But he soon found an opportunity.

"My first work was on _London Society_, for Florence Marryat," he said; "then for the _Illustrated Sporting and Dramatic News_. The _Illustrated London News_ employed me. I did such things as the Boat Race, Eton and Harrow cricket match, and similar subjects--all from a humorous point of view. I have had as many as three full pages in one number. Then came that terrible distress in the mining districts. I was married that year. I was sent away to "do" the Black Country, and well remember eating the first Christmas dinner of my married life alone in a Sheffield hotel.

[Illustration: MR. FURNISS ON "RHODA."

_From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

"Those sketches were never published. They were too terribly real. The people dying in rooms with scarcely a stick of furniture, the children opening the cupboards and showing them bare, appealed to me, and my pencil refused to depict anything else. It was the same kind of thing that was afterwards made notorious by Sims and Barnard in "How the Poor Live." I came back and was selected to do some electioneering work for the same paper. This necessitated the putting off of a little dinner party to some friends, and I wired one of the invited to that effect. When I was starting, imagine my surprise to meet a _Graphic_ artist on the platform, and to hear that my friend had unwisely given away the contents of my telegram! However, we chummed up. He stayed with friends--I at an hotel. I sat up all that night working after attending the meetings. At four o'clock I heard a knock at the door. A journalist. I was just about to put into my picture the large figures. I made him very much at home, and told him I would give him any information I knew as to the previous night's proceedings if he would act as my model. He did. We worked on till breakfast time, and we sat down together. I sent off my page--it was in a week before the _Graphic_! It was a good return. I had started on the Tuesday, got home on the Thursday, and never had my boots off the whole time! I'd rather keep my boots on for a week than disappoint an editor."

_Punch!_

I asked Mr. Furniss if Tom Taylor helped him to any considerable extent. Oh! dear, no. Tom Taylor wrote a terrible fist, spattered the page all over with ink, and invariably replied on the back of the letter sent him. At least, it was so in Mr. Furniss's case. He would send sketches to _Punch_; they were acknowledged as "unsuitable." They invariably turned up a week or so later--the idea re-drawn by a member of the staff! He began to despair. But that first cartoon in the schoolboy's periodical was always before him.

"When Mr. Burnand became editor," continued Mr. Furniss, "I was working on the _Illustrated London News_. He saw one of the sketches and asked me to call--the result was that I have worked for them ever since. I started at very small things; my first was a small drawing of Temple Bar. Then, when Parliament opened, Mr. H. W. Lucy commenced _Toby_--by-the-bye, Lucy and I both joined the _Punch_ table, the weekly dinner, together--and I worked with him. I have special permission at the House; as a matter of fact, I have the sanction of the Lord Great Chamberlain to sketch anywhere in the precincts of Westminster. My right there is an individual one."

"But supposing, Mr. Furniss," I said, "they put a stop to you and your pencil entering?"

"I'd go into Parliament!" came the ready reply. And, indeed, he has been approached on this subject by constituencies two or three times.

We spoke of some of the eminent statesmen and others Mr. Furniss has caricatured. Mr. John Morley is the most difficult. He is not what an artist would call a black and white man. You must suggest the familiar red tie in your picture and then you have "caught" him.

[Illustration: THE FURNISS FAMILY. _From a Photo. by Elliott & Fry._]

"I have seen Mr. Morley look a boy, a young man, and an old man--and all in an hour," said Mr. Furniss. "Mr. Asquith is difficult, too. But I don't think I have ever missed him, as there's a Penley look about his face and a decided low comedian's mouth that help you immensely. Sir Richard Temple is the easiest. Many members have some characteristic

## action which assists you materially. For instance, Mr. Joseph Arch

always wipes his hands down his coat before shaking hands with you, whilst Mr. Goschen delights to play with his eye-glass when speaking. Lord Randolph Churchill likes to indulge in a little acrobatic exercise and balance himself on one foot, whilst Mr. Balfour hangs on persistently to the lapel of his coat when talking. All these little things help to 'mark' the man for the caricaturist. I invented Gladstone's collar and made Churchill small. Not because he is small, but because I think it is the caricaturist's art not so much to give an absolutely correct likeness, but rather to convey the character and value of the man through the lines you draw. Gladstone! A wonderful man for the caricaturist, and one of the finest. I have sat and watched the rose in his coat droop and fade, his hair become dishevelled with excitement, and his tie get round to the back of his neck."

"And what do the wives of our estimable M.P.'s think of all this?" I hinted.

"Oh! I get most abusive letters from both sides. Wives of members write and ask me not to caricature their husbands. One lady wrote to me the other day, and said if I would persist in caricaturing her husband, would I put him in a more fashionable coat? Now, this particular member is noted for the old-fashioned cut of the coats he wears. Another asked me to make the sharer of her joys and sorrows better looking; whilst only last week a lady--the wife of a particularly well-known M.P.--addressed a most plaintive letter to me, saying that since some of the younger members of her family had contrived to see my pictures they had become quite rude to their papa!

"Why, members often _ask_ me to caricature them. One member was very kindly disposed to me, and suggested that I should keep my eye on him. I did. Yet he cut me dead when he saw his picture! It's so discouraging, don't you know, when you are so anxious to oblige."

I asked Mr. Furniss if he thought there was anything suggestive of cruelty in caricature.

"Not in this country," he replied; "in Spain, Italy, and France--yes. Caricaturists there score off their cruelty. Listen to this. One night I was in the House. Mr. Gladstone rose to speak. He held his left hand up and referred to it as 'This old Parliamentary hand.' I noticed a fact--which men who had sat in that House for years had never seen. On that left hand Mr. Gladstone has only three fingers! Think of it--think of what your caricaturist with an inclination towards cruelty might have made of that fact, coupled with those significant words! I ask you again--think of it!"

He spoke in thorough earnestness. He told me that he looked forward to the time when he should consign to the rag-basket the famous Gladstone collar and cease to play with Goschen's eye-glass. He is striving to accomplish something more--he would do it now, but it isn't marketable. Mr. Furniss is a sensible man. He caricatures to live; and, if the laughs follow, well, so much the better.

The afternoon passed rapidly, and the studio became darker and darker. Venus on the coal-box looked quite ghostly, and a lay figure in the far corner was not calculated to comfort the nervously-inclined when amongst the "props" of an artist's studio. "Buzzy" merrily rushed in and announced dinner, and "Bogie" jumped up and barked his raptures at the word. "Bogie" knew it meant scraps. Mrs. Furniss and the children met us at the dining-room door. The youngsters' faces were as solemn as the Court of Queen's Bench. Little Lawrence looked up at me very demurely, the others waiting anxiously.

"Please could you tell us what a spiral staircase is?" he asked.

A dead silence.

"Oh!" I answered, anxious to show a superior knowledge of these peculiarly constructed "ups and downs," "It's--it's--it's one of those twirley-whirley"--here I illustrated my meaning by twirling my finger round and round.

A shout of laughter went up.

If the reader will try this little joke on a score of people, by the time the twentieth is arrived at he will then discover why the happiest quartette of youngsters in the immediate vicinity of Primrose Hill laughed so gaily.

Then we all went in to dinner. How well the shirt-cuff story went down with the soup.

"Pellegrini," said the artist, "used to remark somewhat sarcastically to his brother artists: 'Ah, you fellows are always making sketches. I carry all mine here--here in my brain!' Pellegrini wore very big cuffs. He made his sketches on them. Until this came out we thought his linen always dirty!"

[Illustration: BALLYHOOLY, M.P., GETS EXCITED.]

Then Burnand came on with the beef. The two fellow-workers on _Punch_--Mr. Burnand and Mr. Furniss--run pretty level in their ideas. A happy thought is often suggested to both of them through reading the same paragraph in a newspaper, and they cross in the post. We spoke of _Punch's_ Grand Old Man--John Tenniel--of clever E. J. Milliken, whose really wonderful work is yet but little known. Mr. Milliken wrote "Childe Chappie"--and is "'Arry." Of Linley Sambourne, whom Mr. Furniss once saw walking down Bond Street, and had the strange intuition that he was the artist, connecting his work, and walk, and bearing together. He had never seen or spoken to him before. Charles Keene's name was mentioned. It was always the hardest matter to get Keene to make a speech. He far preferred the famous stump of a pipe to spouting. Mr. Furniss hurt Keene's feelings once with the happiest and kindest of compliments. It was at a little dinner party, and Mr. Furniss linked Keene's name with that of Robert Hunter--who did so much to provide open spaces for the people. He referred to Keene as "the greatest provider of open spaces!" Keene said he was never so grossly insulted--he never forgave Mr. Furniss. He failed to see the truly charming inference to be drawn from this remark.

[Illustration: "THE ASSASSINATED SCARECROW, SOR!"]

We went into the drawing-room, and together ran through the pages of a huge volume. It contained the facsimiles of the pictures which comprised one of Mr. Furniss's biggest hits--what was in reality an attack on the Royal Academy. His "Artistic Joke"--a sub-title given to this exhibition by the _Times_ in a long preliminary notice--created a sensation six years ago. He attacked the Royal Academy in a good-natured way, because he was not himself a member of that influential body. But there was a more solid and serious reason. "I saw how cruel they were to younger men," he said; "the long odds against a painter getting his work exhibited, the indiscriminate selection of canvases."

This really great effort on the part of Mr. Furniss--this idea to caricature the style of the eminent artists of the day--kept him at work for more than two years. There were eighty-seven canvases in all. His friends came and went, but they saw nothing of the huge canvases hidden away in his studio. He worked at such a rate that he became nervous of himself. He would go to bed at night. He would wake to find himself cutting the style of an R.A. to pieces in his studio at early morn--in a state of semi-somnambulism. He fired his "Artistic Joke" off, the shot went home, and the effect was a startler for many people and in many places. It advanced Mr. Furniss in the world of art in a way he never expected, and did not a little for those he sought to benefit. One of these "jokes"--and a very dramatic one--is reproduced in these pages.

The hour or two passed in the little drawing-room after dinner was delightful. We had his unique platform entertainment. Mr. Furniss was induced by the Birmingham and Midland Institute to appear on the platform as a lecturer. This was followed by his lecturing for two seasons all over the country, but finding that the Institutes made huge profits out of his efforts, and that his anecdotes and mimicry were the parts most relished, he abandoned the role of lecturer for that of entertainer with "The Humours of Parliament." As soon as he had crushed the idea that it was a lecture, people flocked to hear his anecdotes and to watch his acting, the result of his first short tour resulting in a clear profit of over £2,000.

[Illustration: DRAWING FROM "AN ARTISTIC JOKE."]

So it came about that young Frank closed his foreign stamp book, and "Buzzy" settled down in a corner by her mother's side and looked the little model she is. "Bogie" lay on the hearth-rug. Suddenly--we were all in "The House." We heard the young member make his maiden speech; we watched the mournful procession of the Speaker. Mr. Gladstone appeared upon the scene--he walked the room, and in a merry sort of way played with "Buzzy's" long curls--and took an intense interest in Frank's collection of foreign stamps. "Bogie" was evidently inclined to break out in a loud bark of presumable applause when the Irish member rose to his legs--the member for Ballyhooly--who had a question to ask the Chief Secretary for Ireland regarding an assassinated scarecrow! The reply did not satisfy him, and the Ballyhooly M.P. poured forth such a torrent of abuse upon the Chief Secretary's head that "Bogie's" bark came forth in boisterous tones just as the Speaker called the Irish representative to order!

"What a hissing there was at one of my entertainments at Leicester," said the humorist-caricaturist looking across at me with twinkling eyes. "A terrible hissing! I showed Mr. Gladstone on the sheet. Immediately it burst forth like a suddenly alarmed steam-engine. The audience rose in indignation--they tried to outdo it with frantic applause, but in spite of their lusty efforts it continued for several minutes.

"'Turn him out--turn him out!' they cried. But we couldn't find the party who was acting so rudely.

"Imagine my feelings next morning when I saw in the papers leading articles speaking in strong terms of this occurrence, which, one of them stated in bold type--'was a disgrace to the people of Leicester.'"

"Bogie" rose from the hearth-rug, wagged his tail, and made his exit.

"Good night, Buz."

"Good night, Frank."

"And did they ever discover this very unseemly person?" I asked Mr. Furniss when we were alone.

"Oh! I forgot to tell you," he said, "that it was the hissing of the lime in my magic lantern!"

HARRY HOW.

[Illustration: Telegraphic Address, Likajoko, London]

_Portraits of Celebrities at Different Times of their Lives._

[Illustration: AGE 10.

_From a Photo. by W. Andrews, Dublin._]

[Illustration: Age 20.

_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]

HARRY FURNISS.

BORN 1854.

At ten years old Mr. Furniss was a pupil at the Wesleyan College School at Dublin, where he started and edited _The Schoolboy's Punch_, in the manner described in the extremely interesting interview which appears in the present number. At twenty he had just come up to London, and was working for the illustrated papers. At twenty-six he joined the staff of _Punch_, with which his name has ever since been intimately connected.

[Illustration: AGE 26.

_From a Photo. by C. Watkins, Camden Road, N.W._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo by Debenham & Gould._]

[Illustration: AGE 17.

_From a Photo, by A. Adams, Aberdeen._]

[Illustration: AGE 24.

_From a Photo. by John Lamb, Aberdeen._]

SIR GEORGE REID, P.R.S.A.

BORN 1842.

Sir George Reid, P.R.S.A., was born in Aberdeen, N.B., in the year 1842, and when nineteen years of age commenced his artistic studies at the "Trustees' Academy," in the City of Edinburgh, and shortly afterwards in Utrecht, under Mollinger. In 1870 he quitted the latter place for Paris, where he continued his studies; and for several months in 1871 completed his student life with Israels, at The Hague. He has proved himself a true artist, and proficient in all departments--both figure and landscape. Latterly he has applied himself to portrait painting, in which he finds few competitors. He has done much in the way of book illustrating. He was elected an Associate of the Royal Scottish Academy in 1870, and a full member seven years afterwards, receiving on the death of Sir W. Fettes Douglas the unanimous call of his brethren to occupy the chair as President.

[Illustration: AGE 36.

_From a Photo. by John Lamb, Aberdeen._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by A. Inglis, Edinburgh._]

COLIN HUNTER, A.R.A.

BORN 1841.

[Illustration: AGE 15.

_From a Daguerreotype._]

Colin Hunter, A.R.A., was born in Glasgow, July 16, 1841, and is the son of John Hunter, bookseller and postmaster, of Helensburgh. He was educated in that town, and began painting at twenty years of age, after four years' clerkship. His education as a painter was derived from Nature. Mr. Hunter was elected an Associate of the Royal Academy in January, 1884, and is also a Member of the Royal Scottish Water Colour Society.

[Illustration: AGE 24.

_From a Photo. by Ovinius-Davis, Glasgow._]

[Illustration: AGE 32.

_From a Photo. by Fradelle & Marshall, London._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: AGE 20.

_From a Drawing by Carl Hartmann._]

SIR FREDERICK AUGUSTUS ABEL, BART., K.C.B., D.C.L., F.R.S.

BORN 1827.

[Illustration: AGE 28.

_From a Photo. by Maull & Co., London._]

Sir Fredk. A. Abel, Bart., who has lately been prominent before the public in connection with the recent opening of the Imperial Institute, of which he has been Organizing Secretary from 1887, was born in London in 1827, and is known principally in connection with chemistry and explosives. His published works are: "The Modern History of Gunpowder," 1866; "Gun Cotton," 1866; "On Explosive Agents," 1872, "Researches in Explosives," 1875; and "Electricity Applied to Explosive Purposes," 1884. He is also joint-author with Colonel Bloxam of a "Handbook of Chemistry." Sir Frederick Abel has been President of the Institute of Chemistry, the Society of Chemical Industry, and the Society of Telegraph Engineers and Electricians. He was appointed Associate Member of the Ordnance Committee in 1867; and is Chemist to the War Department and likewise Chemical Referee to the Government. In 1883 he was one of the Royal Commissioners on Accidents in Mines, and was President of the British Association at the Leeds meeting, 1890. He was created C.B. in 1877, Hon. D.C.L., Oxford, in 1883, knighted in the same year, and raised to the rank of Baronet at the opening of the Imperial Institute.

[Illustration: AGE 50.

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: AGE 65.

_From a Photo. by Barraud, London._]

LORD KELVIN.

BORN 1824.

[Illustration: AGE 28.

_From a Photograph._]

William Thomson, Lord Kelvin, was born at Belfast on the 26th of June, 1824. His father was a distinguished mathematician, and was Professor of Mathematics, first in Belfast, and afterwards in Glasgow University. At a very early age, Lord Kelvin showed extraordinary mathematical ability; and he passed with great distinction, first through the University of Glasgow, and then through Cambridge, where he gained the Second Wranglership and the first Smith's Prize. He became Professor of Natural Philosophy in the University of Glasgow in 1846, at the age of twenty-two; and he still holds that office. He was one of the pioneer band who laid the first successful Atlantic cable, in 1858. In 1866 Her Majesty conferred the honour of knighthood on him for his distinguished services to the science and practice of submarine telegraphy. Lord Kelvin is the author of many inventions. His mariner's compass and sounding machine have done good service to seamen. His electrical instruments are the standards all over the world. He is President of the Royal Society and member of every important scientific society at home and abroad. In January, 1892, the Queen conferred upon him his peerage. He held the Colquhoun Sculls, at Cambridge, for two years. He is a sailor at heart and an enthusiastic yachtsman; and, among amateurs, a more keen lover of music it would be difficult to find.

[Illustration: AGE 45.

_From a Photo. by John Fergus, Largs._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: AGE 2.

_From a Painting._]

[Illustration: AGE 8.

_From a Photo. by R. Tudor Williams, Monmouth._]

[Illustration: AGE 40.

_From a Photo. by M. Guttenberg, Manchester._]

CARDINAL-ARCHBISHOP VAUGHAN.

BORN 1832.

His Eminence Herbert Vaughan, D.D., is the eldest son of the late Lieut.-Colonel Vaughan, of Courtfield, Herefordshire, born at Gloucester, April 15, 1832, and was educated at Stonyhurst College, Lancashire, on the Continent, and in Rome. On the death of Bishop Turner, he was elected Bishop of Salford, a post which he held until his recent elevation to the rank of Cardinal-Archbishop.

[Illustration: AGE 25.

_From a Photo. by Jules Géruzet, Brussels._]

[Illustration: PRESENT DAY.

_From a Photo. by G. Felici, Rome._]

[Illustration: COLONEL VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by G. Borelli._]

[Illustration: JOHN S. VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by A. Sauvy._]

[Illustration: KENELM VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by Southwell Bros._]

[Illustration: REGINALD VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by Bradley & Rulofson._]

[Illustration: THE LATE COLONEL VAUGHAN.

_Father of Cardinal Vaughan, Archbishop of Westminster._

_From a Photograph._]

[Illustration: JOSEPH JEROME VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by Bara._]

[Illustration: BERNARD VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by G. Jerrard._]

[Illustration: ROGER BEDE VAUGHAN.

_From a Photo. by J. H. Newman._]

THE FATHER AND BROTHERS OF CARDINAL-ARCHBISHOP VAUGHAN.

ZIG-ZAGS AT THE ZOO

XII.--ZIG-ZAG ACCIPITRAL.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

The accipitral birds are the eagles, the vultures, the falcons, the owls--all those birds that bite and tear unhappy mammals as well as birds of more peaceful habits than themselves. They have all, it will be observed, Roman noses, which may be the reason why the Romans adopted the eagle as a standard; as also it may not. They have striking characteristics of their own, and have been found very useful by poets and other people who have to wander off the main subject to make plain what they mean. The owl is the wiseacre of Nature, the vulture is a vile harpy, and the eagle is the embodiment of everything great and mighty, and glorious and free, and swooping and catoptrical. There is very little to say against the eagle, except that he looks a deal the better a long way off, like an impressionist picture or a volcano. When the eagle is flying and swooping, or soaring and staring impudently at the sun, or reproaching an old feather of his own in the arrow that sticks in his chest, or mewing his mighty youth (a process I never quite understood)--when he is doing noble and poetical things of this class at an elevation of a great many thousand feet above the sea level he is sublime. When you meet him down below, on his feet, much of the sublimity is rubbed off.

[Illustration: CHARLEY.]

[Illustration: CORNS,--]

[Illustration: BUNIONS,--]

[Illustration: CHILBLAINS, OR--]

[Illustration: IKINESS?]

There is only one eagle in the world with whom I can claim anything like a confidential friendship, although I know many. His name is Charley. If, after a chat with Bob the Bactrian, you will turn your back to the camel-house and walk past the band-stand toward the eagles' aviaries, you will observe that the first corner cage is occupied by wedge-tailed eagles--a most disrespectful name, by-the-bye, I think. There are various perches, including a large tree-trunk, for these birds; but one bird, the oldest in the cage, doesn't use them. He keeps on the floor by the bars facing the place where Suffa Culli and Jung Perchad stand to take up passengers, and looks out keenly for cats. That is Charley. He is all right when you know him, is Charley, and I have it on the best authority that there are no flies on him. A rat on the straggle has been known to turn up in this aviary and run the gauntlet of all the cages--till he reached Charley; nothing alive and eatable ever got past _him_. I have all the esteem and friendship for Charley that any eagle has a right to expect; but I can't admit the least impressiveness in his walk. An eagle's feet are not meant to walk with, but to grab things. An eagle's walk betrays a lamentable bandy-leggedness, and his toe-nails click awkwardly against the ground. This makes him plant his feet gingerly and lift them quickly, so that worthy old ladies suppose him to be afflicted with lameness or bunions, an opinion which disgusts the bird, as you may observe for yourself; for you will never find an eagle in these Gardens submitting himself to be fondled by an old lady visitor. It is by way of repudiating any suggestion of bunions that the eagle adopts a raffish, off-hand, chickaleary sort of roll in the gait, so that altogether, especially as viewed from behind, a walking eagle has an appearance of perpetually knocking 'em in the Old Kent Road. On Charley's next birthday I shall present him, I think, with a proper pearly suit, with kicksies cut saucy over the trotters, and an artful fakement down the side, if the Society will allow me.

[Illustration: A PASSING SNACK.]

[Illustration: DINNER AHOY!]

There is nothing in the world that pleases an eagle better at dinner-time than a prime piece of cat. Charley tells me that, upon the whole, he prefers a good, plump, mouse-fed tabby; he adds that he never yet heard of a tame eagle being kept at a sausage shop, though he would like a situation of that sort himself, very much. The stoop of a free eagle as it takes a living victim is, no doubt, a fine thing, except for the victim; but the grabbing of cut-up food here in captivity is merely comic. The eagle, with his Whitechapel lurch, makes for the morsel and takes it in his stride; then he stands on it in a manner somehow suggesting pattens, and pecks away at the hair--if, luckily, he has secured a furry piece. I am not intimate with any eagle but Charley, but I am very friendly with all of them--golden, tawny, white-tailed, and the rest, with their scowls and their odd winks--all but one other of the wedge-tailers, who stays for ever at the top of the tree trunk and looks out westward, trying to distinguish the cats in the gardens of St. John's Wood; he is reserved as well as uppish, and I don't know him to speak to.

[Illustration: UNCIVIL BAWLINGS.]

I am pretty intimate with many of the owls. The owl I know least is a little Scops owl, kept alone in the insect-house. He has for next-door neighbour a sad old reprobate--Cocky, the big Triton cockatoo--who abuses him horribly. The fact is, they both occupy a recess which once Cocky had all to himself, and now Cocky bullies the intruder up hill and down dale; although little Scops would gladly go somewhere else if he could, and takes no notice of Cocky's uncivil bawlings further than to lift his near wing apprehensively at each outburst. He and I have not been able to improve our acquaintance greatly, partly because he is out of reach, and partly because Cocky's conversation occupies most of his time.

[Illustration: WHAT!]

[Illustration: WELL--]

[Illustration: DID YOU EVER!]

[Illustration: OF ALL THE--!]

The Zoo owls are a lamentably scattered family. Another Scops owl, with one eye, lives in the eastern aviary, in Church's care. He is a charming, furious little ruffian (I am speaking of the owl, and not of Church), and perfectly ready to peck any living thing, quite irrespective of size. Where he lost his eye is a story of his own, for he was first met with but one. He sits on his perch with a furious cock of the ears--which are not ears at all, but feathers--with the aspect of being permanently prepared to repel boarders; and the only thing that could possibly add to his fierceness of appearance would be a patch over the sight of the demolished eye; a little present I would gladly make myself, if he would let me.

[Illustration: THE SCOWLING SCOPS.]

He lives just underneath a much less savage little Naked-foot Owl, who doesn't resent your existence with his beak, but gazes at you with a most extreme air of shocked surprise. He doesn't attack you bodily for standing on this earth on your own feet--he is too much grieved and scandalized. He looks at you as a teetotal lady of the Anti-Gambling League would look at her nephew if he offered to toss her for whiskies. He follows you with his glare of outraged propriety till you shrink behind Church and sneak away, with an indescribable feeling of personal depravity previously unknown. Why should this pharisaical little bird make one feel a criminal? As a matter of fact, he is nothing but a raffish fly-by-night himself; and his pious horror is assumed, I believe, as much to keep his eyes wide open and him awake as to impose on one.

The owls' cages proper are away behind the llamas' house, and here you may study owl nature in plenty; and you may observe the owls, like people sitting through a long sermon, affecting various concealments and excuses for going to sleep in the daytime. The milky eagle-owl pretends to be waiting for a friend who never keeps his appointment. You come upon him as he is dozing away quietly; he sees you just between his eyelids, and at once stares angrily down the path as if he were sick of waiting, and the other owl already half an hour overdue. Of course there is no owl coming, so he shakes his head testily and half shuts his eyes. If you go away then, he goes to sleep again. If you stay, he presently makes another pretence of pulling out his watch and wondering if that owl is ever coming. He has practised the transparent deception so long that he does it now mechanically, and sleeps, I believe, or nearly so, through the whole process. The oriental owl does it rather differently. He doesn't open his eyes when you first wake him--this in order to give greater verisimilitude to his pretence of profound meditation; he wishes you to understand that it is not your presence that causes him to open his eyes, but the natural course of his philosophical speculations. As a pundit, he disdains to appear to observe you; so he gazes solemnly at a vast space with nothing whatever for its centre. He sees you, but he knows you for a creature that never carries raw meat with it, like a keeper; a creature beneath the notice of _Bubo orientalis_.

[Illustration: MILKY REPOSE.]

[Illustration: IS HE COMING?]

[Illustration: WHAT A NUISANCE!]

As a song-bird, the owl is not a conspicuous success. Perhaps he has learned this in the Zoo, for he cannot be induced to perform during visiting hours. He is a reserved person, and exclusive. If you, as a stranger, attempt to scrape his acquaintance, he meets you with an indignant stare--confound your impudence! Nothing in this world can present such a picture of offended, astounded dignity as an owl. I often wonder what he said when Noah ordered him peremptorily into the Ark. As for myself, I should as soon think of ordering one of the beadles at the Bank.

[Illustration: NOT YET?]

[Illustration: OH, HANG IT!]

Many worthy owls, long since passed away as living things, now exist in their astral forms as pepper-boxes and tobacco-jars. They probably belonged, in life, to the same species as a friend of mine here, who exhibits one of their chief physical features. He sits immovably still, so far as his body--his jar or pepper-reservoir--is concerned; indeed, if he is not disturbed, he sits immovably altogether, and sleeps. When he is disturbed he wakes in instalments, opening one eye at a time. He fixes you with his wild, fiery eye, his indignant stare. Start to walk round him; the head turns, and the stare follows you, with no movement whatever of the part containing the pepper. The head slowly turns and turns, without the smallest indication of stopping anywhere. I never tempted it farther than once round, but walked back the other way, for fear of strangling a valuable bird. Besides, I remembered an owl pepper-box once, which became loose in the screw through continual turning, so that the head fell off into your plate, and all the pepper after it.

[Illustration]

The biggest owls are the eagle-owls. The eagle-owls here occupy a similar sort of situation to that of the hermit in an old tea-garden. In a secluded nook behind the camel-house a brick-built cave is kept in a wire cage, which not only hinders the owls from escaping, but prevents them taking the cave with them if they do. The cave is fitted up with the proper quantity of weird gloom and several convenient perches; the perches, however, are indistinct, because the gloom is obvious. In the midst of it you may see two fiery eyes, like the fire-balls from a Roman candle, and nothing else. This is the most one often has a chance of seeing here in bright day. Often the eagle-owls are asleep, and then you do not even see the fireworks. I know the big eagle-owl fairly well; that is to say, I am on snarling terms with him. But once he has settled in his cave he won't come out, even when I call him Zadkiel.

[Illustration: THE EAGLE-OWLS' RETREAT.]

There is nothing much more grotesque than a row of small barn owls, just awakened from sleep and curious about the disturber. There is something about the odd gaze and twist of the neck that irresistibly reminds me of an illustration in an Old Saxon or Early English manuscript.

[Illustration: SLEEP.]

[Illustration: WHO SAID RATS?]

[Illustration: THE ANGOLA.]

I am not particularly friendly with any of the vultures. Walk past their cages with the determination to ingratiate yourself with them. You will change your mind. There are very few birds that I should not like to keep as pets if I had the room, but the vulture is the first of them. I don't know any kind of vulture whose personal appearance wouldn't hang him at a court of Judge Lynch. The least unpleasant-looking of the lot is the little Angola vulture, who is put among the kites; and she is bad enough: a horrible eighteenth-century painted and powdered old woman; a Pompadour of ninety. The large bearded vulture is not only an uncompanionable fellow to look at, but he doesn't behave respectably. It is not respectable to hurl yourself bodily against anybody looking over a precipice and unaware of your presence, so as to break him up on the rocks below, and dine off his prime cuts. I have no doubt that Self--(Self, by-the-bye, keeps eagles and vultures as well as camels)--has any amount of sympathy for his charges, but who _could_ make a pet of a turkey-vulture, with its nasty, raw-looking red head, or of a cinereous vulture, with its unwholesome eyes and its unclean-looking blue wattle? No, I am not over-fond of a vulture. He is always a dissipated-looking ruffian, of boiled eye and blotchy complexion, and you know as you look at him that he would prefer to see you dead rather than alive, so that he might safely take your eyes by way of an appetizer, and forthwith proceed to lift away your softer pieces preparatory to strolling under your ribs like a jackdaw in a cage much too small. He sits there placid, unwinsome, and patient; waiting for you to die. But he has his little vanities. He is tremendously proud of his wings--and they certainly are wings to astonish. On a warm day he likes to open them for coolness, but often he makes this a mere excuse for showing off. He waits till some easily-impressed visitor comes along--not a regular frequenter. Then he stands up and spreads his great pinions abroad, and perhaps turns about, and the visitor is duly impressed. So the vulture stands and receives the admiration, hoping the while that the visitor has heart disease, and will drop dead where he stands. And when the visitor walks off without dying the old harpy lets his wings fall open, ready for somebody else.

[Illustration]

_The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes._

XIX.--THE ADVENTURE OF THE REIGATE SQUIRE.

BY A. CONAN DOYLE.

It was some time before the health of my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, recovered from the strain caused by his immense exertions in the spring of '87. The whole question of the Netherland-Sumatra Company and of the colossal schemes of Baron Maupertins are too recent in the minds of the public, and are too intimately concerned with politics and finance, to be fitting subjects for this series of sketches. They led, however, in an indirect fashion to a singular and complex problem, which gave my friend an opportunity of demonstrating the value of a fresh weapon among the many with which he waged his life-long battle against crime.

On referring to my notes, I see that it was upon the 14th of April that I received a telegram from Lyons, which informed me that Holmes was lying ill in the Hotel Dulong. Within twenty-four hours I was in his sick room, and was relieved to find that there was nothing formidable in his symptoms. His iron constitution, however, had broken down under the strain of an investigation which had extended over two months, during which period he had never worked less than fifteen hours a day, and had more than once, as he assured me, kept to his task for five days at a stretch. The triumphant issue of his labours could not save him from reaction after so terrible an exertion, and at a time when Europe was ringing with his name, and when his room was literally ankle-deep with congratulatory telegrams, I found him a prey to the blackest depression. Even the knowledge that he had succeeded where the police of three countries had failed, and that he had out-manoeuvred at every point the most accomplished swindler in Europe, were insufficient to rouse him from his nervous prostration.

Three days later we were back in Baker Street together, but it was evident that my friend would be much the better for a change, and the thought of a week of spring-time in the country was full of attractions to me also. My old friend Colonel Hayter, who had come under my professional care in Afghanistan, had now taken a house near Reigate, in Surrey, and had frequently asked me to come down to him upon a visit. On the last occasion he had remarked that if my friend would only come with me, he would be glad to extend his hospitality to him also. A little diplomacy was needed, but when Holmes understood that the establishment was a bachelor one, and that he would be allowed the fullest freedom, he fell in with my plans, and a week after our return from Lyons we were under the Colonel's roof. Hayter was a fine old soldier, who had seen much of the world, and he soon found, as I had expected, that Holmes and he had plenty in common.

On the evening of our arrival we were sitting in the Colonel's gun-room after dinner, Holmes stretched upon the sofa, while Hayter and I looked over his little armoury of fire-arms.

"By the way," said he, suddenly, "I think I'll take one of these pistols upstairs with me in case we have an alarm."

"An alarm!" said I.

"Yes, we've had a scare in this part lately. Old Acton, who is one of our county magnates, had his house broken into last Monday. No great damage done, but the fellows are still at large."

"No clue?" asked Holmes, cocking his eye at the Colonel.

"None as yet. But the affair is a petty one, one of our little country crimes, which must seem too small for your attention, Mr. Holmes, after this great international affair."

Holmes waved away the compliment, though his smile showed that it had pleased him.

"Was there any feature of interest?"

"I fancy not. The thieves ransacked the library and got very little for their pains. The whole place was turned upside down, drawers burst open and presses ransacked, with the result that an odd volume of Pope's 'Homer,' two plated candlesticks, an ivory letter-weight, a small oak barometer, and a ball of twine, are all that have vanished."

"What an extraordinary assortment!" I exclaimed.

"Oh, the fellows evidently grabbed hold of anything they could get."

Holmes grunted from the sofa.

"The county police ought to make something of that," said he. "Why, it is surely obvious that----"

But I held up a warning finger.

[Illustration: "I HELD UP A WARNING FINGER."]

"You are here for a rest, my dear fellow. For Heaven's sake, don't get started on a new problem when your nerves are all in shreds."

Holmes shrugged his shoulders with a glance of comic resignation towards the Colonel, and the talk drifted away into less dangerous channels.

It was destined, however, that all my professional caution should be wasted, for next morning the problem obtruded itself upon us in such a way that it was impossible to ignore it, and our country visit took a turn which neither of us could have anticipated. We were at breakfast when the Colonel's butler rushed in with all his propriety shaken out of him.

"Have you heard the news, sir?" he gasped. "At the Cunningham's, sir!"

"Burglary!" cried the Colonel, with his coffee cup in mid air.

"Murder!"

The Colonel whistled. "By Jove!" said he, "who's killed, then? The J.P. or his son?"

"Neither, sir. It was William, the coachman. Shot through the heart, sir, and never spoke again."

"Who shot him, then?"

"The burglar, sir. He was off like a shot and got clean away. He'd just broke in at the pantry window when William came on him and met his end in saving his master's property."

"What time?"

"It was last night, sir, somewhere about twelve."

"Ah, then, we'll step over presently," said the Colonel, coolly settling down to his breakfast again. "It's a baddish business," he added, when the butler had gone. "He's our leading squire about here, is old Cunningham, and a very decent fellow too. He'll be cut up over this, for the man has been in his service for years, and was a good servant. It's evidently the same villains who broke into Acton's."

"And stole that very singular collection?" said Holmes, thoughtfully.

"Precisely."

"Hum! It may prove the simplest matter in the world; but, all the same, at first glance this is just a little curious, is it not? A gang of burglars acting in the country might be expected to vary the scene of their operations, and not to crack two cribs in the same district within a few days. When you spoke last night of taking precautions, I remember that it passed through my mind that this was probably the last parish in England to which the thief or thieves would be likely to turn their attention; which shows that I have still much to learn."

"I fancy it's some local practitioner," said the Colonel. "In that case, of course, Acton's and Cunningham's are just the places he would go for, since they are far the largest about here."

"And richest?"

"Well, they ought to be; but they've had a law-suit for some years which has sucked the blood out of both of them, I fancy. Old Acton has some claim on half Cunningham's estate, and the lawyers have been at it with both hands."

"If it's a local villain, there should not be much difficulty in running him down," said Holmes, with a yawn. "All right, Watson, I don't intend to meddle."

"Inspector Forrester, sir," said the butler, throwing open the door.

The official, a smart, keen-faced young fellow, stepped into the room. "Good morning, Colonel," said he. "I hope I don't intrude, but we hear that Mr. Holmes, of Baker Street, is here."

The Colonel waved his hand towards my friend, and the Inspector bowed.

"We thought that perhaps you would care to step across, Mr. Holmes."

"The Fates are against you, Watson," said he, laughing. "We were chatting about the matter when you came in, Inspector. Perhaps you can let us have a few details." As he leaned back in his chair in the familiar attitude, I knew that the case was hopeless.

[Illustration: "INSPECTOR FORRESTER."]

"We had no clue in the Acton affair. But here we have plenty to go on, and there's no doubt it is the same party in each case. The man was seen."

"Ah!"

"Yes, sir. But he was off like a deer after the shot that killed poor William Kirwan was fired. Mr. Cunningham saw him from the bedroom window, and Mr. Alec Cunningham saw him from the back passage. It was a quarter to twelve when the alarm broke out. Mr. Cunningham had just got into bed, and Mister Alec was smoking a pipe in his dressing-gown. They both heard William, the coachman, calling for help, and Mister Alec he ran down to see what was the matter. The back door was open, and as he came to the foot of the stairs he saw two men wrestling together outside. One of them fired a shot, the other dropped, and the murderer rushed across the garden and over the hedge. Mr. Cunningham, looking out of his bedroom window, saw the fellow as he gained the road, but lost sight of him at once. Mister Alec stopped to see if he could help the dying man, and so the villain got clean away. Beyond the fact that he was a middle-sized man, and dressed in some dark stuff, we have no personal clue, but we are making energetic inquiries, and if he is a stranger we shall soon find him out."

"What was this William doing there? Did he say anything before he died?"

"Not a word. He lives at the lodge with his mother, and as he was a very faithful fellow, we imagine that he walked up to the house with the intention of seeing that all was right there. Of course, this Acton business has put everyone on their guard. The robber must have just burst open the door--the lock has been forced--when William came upon him."

"Did William say anything to his mother before going out?"

"She is very old and deaf, and we can get no information from her. The shock has made her half-witted, but I understand that she was never very bright. There is one very important circumstance, however. Look at this!"

He took a small piece of torn paper from a note-book and spread it out upon his knee.

"This was found between the finger and thumb of the dead man. It appears to be a fragment torn from a larger sheet. You will observe that the hour mentioned upon it is the very time at which the poor fellow met his fate. You see that his murderer might have torn the rest of the sheet from him or he might have taken this fragment from the murderer. It reads almost as though it was an appointment."

Holmes took up the scrap of paper, a facsimile of which is here reproduced:--

[Illustration: at quarterto twelve learn what maybe]

"Presuming that it is an appointment," continued the Inspector, "it is, of course, a conceivable theory that this William Kirwan, although he had the reputation of being an honest man, may have been in league with the thief. He may have met him there, may even have helped him to break in the door, and then they may have fallen out between themselves."

"This writing is of extraordinary interest," said Holmes, who had been examining it with intense concentration. "These are much deeper waters than I had thought." He sank his head upon his hands, while the Inspector smiled at the effect which his case had had upon the famous London specialist.

"Your last remark," said Holmes, presently, "as to the possibility of there being an understanding between the burglar and the servant, and this being a note of appointment from one to the other, is an ingenious and not entirely an impossible supposition. But this writing opens up----" he sank his head into his hands again and remained for some minutes in the deepest thought. When he raised his face again I was surprised to see that his cheek was tinged with colour and his eyes as bright as before his illness. He sprang to his feet with all his old energy.

"I'll tell you what!" said he. "I should like to have a quiet little glance into the details of this case. There is something in it which fascinates me extremely. If you will permit me, Colonel, I will leave my friend, Watson, and you, and I will step round with the Inspector to test the truth of one or two little fancies of mine. I will be with you again in half an hour."

An hour and a half had elapsed before the Inspector returned alone.

"Mr. Holmes is walking up and down in the field outside," said he. "He wants us all four to go up to the house together."

"To Mr. Cunningham's?"

"Yes, sir."

"What for?"

The Inspector shrugged his shoulders. "I don't quite know, sir. Between ourselves, I think Mr. Holmes has not quite got over his illness yet. He's been behaving very queerly, and he is very much excited."

"I don't think you need alarm yourself," said I. "I have usually found that there was method in his madness."

"Some folk might say there was madness in his method," muttered the Inspector. "But he's all on fire to start, Colonel, so we had best go out, if you are ready."

We found Holmes pacing up and down in the field, his chin sunk upon his breast, and his hands thrust into his trouser pockets.

"The matter grows in interest," said he. "Watson, your country trip has been a distinct success. I have had a charming morning."

"You have been up to the scene of the crime, I understand?" said the Colonel.

"Yes; the Inspector and I have made quite a little reconnaissance together."

"Any success?"

"Well, we have seen some very interesting things. I'll tell you what we did as we walk. First of all we saw the body of this unfortunate man. He certainly died from a revolver wound, as reported."

"Had you doubted it, then?"

"Oh, it is as well to test everything. Our inspection was not wasted. We then had an interview with Mr. Cunningham and his son, who were able to point out the exact spot where the murderer had broken through the garden hedge in his flight. That was of great interest."

"Naturally."

"Then we had a look at this poor fellow's mother. We could get no information from her, however, as she is very old and feeble."

"And what is the result of your investigations?"

"The conviction that the crime is a very peculiar one. Perhaps our visit now may do something to make it less obscure. I think that we are both agreed, Inspector, that the fragment of paper in the dead man's hand, bearing, as it does, the very hour of his death written upon it, is of extreme importance."

"It should give a clue, Mr. Holmes."

"It _does_ give a clue. Whoever wrote that note was the man who brought William Kirwan out of his bed at that hour. But where is the rest of that sheet of paper?"

"I examined the ground carefully in the hope of finding it," said the Inspector.

"It was torn out of the dead man's hand. Why was someone so anxious to get possession of it? Because it incriminated him. And what would he do with it? Thrust it into his pocket most likely, never noticing that a corner of it had been left in the grip of the corpse. If we could get the rest of that sheet, it is obvious that we should have gone a long way towards solving the mystery."

"Yes, but how can we get at the criminal's pocket before we catch the criminal?"

"Well, well, it was worth thinking over. Then there is another obvious point. The note was sent to William. The man who wrote it could not have taken it, otherwise of course he might have delivered his own message by word of mouth. Who brought the note, then? Or did it come through the post?"

"I have made inquiries," said the Inspector. "William received a letter by the afternoon post yesterday. The envelope was destroyed by him."

"Excellent!" cried Holmes, clapping the Inspector on the back. "You've seen the postman. It is a pleasure to work with you. Well, here is the lodge, and if you will come up, Colonel, I will show you the scene of the crime."

We passed the pretty cottage where the murdered man had lived, and walked up an oak-lined avenue to the fine old Queen Anne house, which bears the date of Malplaquet upon the lintel of the door. Holmes and the Inspector led us round it until we came to the side gate, which is separated by a stretch of garden from the hedge which lines the road. A constable was standing at the kitchen door.

"Throw the door open, officer," said Holmes. "Now it was on those stairs that young Mr. Cunningham stood and saw the two men struggling just where we are. Old Mr. Cunningham was at that window--the second on the left--and he saw the fellow get away just to the left of that bush. So did the son. They are both sure of it, on account of the bush. Then Mister Alec ran out and knelt beside the wounded man. The ground is very hard, you see, and there are no marks to guide us."

As he spoke two men came down the garden path, from round the angle of the house. The one was an elderly man, with a strong, deep-lined, heavy-eyed face; the other a dashing young fellow, whose bright, smiling expression and showy dress were in strange contrast with the business which had brought us there.

"Still at it, then?" said he to Holmes. "I thought you Londoners were never at fault. You don't seem to be so very quick, after all."

"Ah! you must give us a little time," said Holmes, good-humouredly.

"You'll want it," said young Alec Cunningham. "Why, I don't see that we have any clue at all."

"There's only one," answered the Inspector. "We thought that if we could only find----Good heavens! Mr. Holmes, what is the matter?"

My poor friend's face had suddenly assumed the most dreadful expression. His eyes rolled upwards, his features writhed in agony, and with a suppressed groan he dropped on his face upon the ground. Horrified at the suddenness and severity of the attack, we carried him into the kitchen, where he lay back in a large chair and breathed heavily for some minutes. Finally, with a shame-faced apology for his weakness, he rose once more.

"Watson would tell you that I have only just recovered from a severe illness," he explained. "I am liable to these sudden nervous attacks."

"Shall I send you home in my trap?" asked old Cunningham.

"Well, since I am here, there is one point on which I should like to feel sure. We can very easily verify it."

"What is it?"

"Well, it seems to me that it is just possible that the arrival of this poor fellow William was not before but after the entrance of the burglar into the house. You appear to take it for granted that although the door was forced the robber never got in."

[Illustration: "GOOD HEAVENS! WHAT IS THE MATTER?"]

"I fancy that is quite obvious," said Mr. Cunningham, gravely. "Why, my son Alec had not yet gone to bed, and he would certainly have heard anyone moving about."

"Where was he sitting?"

"I was sitting smoking in my dressing-room."

"Which window is that?"

"The last on the left, next my father's."

"Both your lamps were lit, of course?"

"Undoubtedly."

"There are some very singular points here," said Holmes, smiling. "Is it not extraordinary that a burglar--and a burglar who had had some previous experience--should deliberately break into a house at a time when he could see from the lights that two of the family were still afoot?"

"He must have been a cool hand."

"Well, of course, if the case were not an odd one we should not have been driven to ask you for an explanation," said Mister Alec. "But as to your idea that the man had robbed the house before William tackled him, I think it a most absurd notion. Shouldn't we have found the place disarranged and missed the things which he had taken?"

"It depends on what the things were," said Holmes. "You must remember that we are dealing with a burglar who is a very peculiar fellow, and who appears to work on lines of his own. Look, for example, at the queer lot of things which he took from Acton's--what was it?--a ball of string, a letter-weight, and I don't know what other odds and ends!"

"Well, we are quite in your hands, Mr. Holmes," said old Cunningham. "Anything which you or the Inspector may suggest will most certainly be done."

"In the first place," said Holmes, "I should like you to offer a reward--coming from yourself, for the officials may take a little time before they would agree upon the sum, and these things cannot be done too promptly. I have jotted down the form here, if you would not mind signing it. Fifty pounds was quite enough, I thought."

"I would willingly give five hundred," said the J.P., taking the slip of paper and the pencil which Holmes handed to him. "This is not quite correct, however," he added, glancing over the document.

"I wrote it rather hurriedly."

"You see you begin: 'Whereas, at about a quarter to one on Tuesday morning, an attempt was made'--and so on. It was at a quarter to twelve, as a matter of fact."

I was pained at the mistake, for I knew how keenly Holmes would feel any slip of the kind. It was his speciality to be accurate as to fact, but his recent illness had shaken him, and this one little incident was enough to show me that he was still far from being himself. He was obviously embarrassed for an instant, while the Inspector raised his eyebrows and Alec Cunningham burst into a laugh. The old gentleman corrected the mistake, however, and handed the paper back to Holmes.

"Get it printed as soon as possible," he said. "I think your idea is an excellent one."

Holmes put the slip of paper carefully away in his pocket-book.

"And now," said he, "it would really be a good thing that we should all go over the house together and make certain that this rather erratic burglar did not, after all, carry anything away with him."

Before entering. Holmes made an examination of the door which had been forced. It was evident that a chisel or strong knife had been thrust in, and the lock forced back with it. We could see the marks in the wood where it had been pushed in.

"You don't use bars, then?" he asked.

"We have never found it necessary."

"You don't keep a dog?"

"Yes; but he is chained on the other side of the house."

"When do the servants go to bed?"

"About ten."

"I understand that William was usually in bed also at that hour?"

"Yes."

"It is singular that on this particular night he should have been up. Now, I should be very glad if you would have the kindness to show us over the house, Mr. Cunningham."

A stone-flagged passage, with the kitchens branching away from it, led by a wooden staircase directly to the first floor of the house. It came out upon the landing opposite to a second more ornamental stair which led up from the front hall. Out of this landing opened the drawing-room and several bedrooms, including those of Mr. Cunningham and his son. Holmes walked slowly, taking keen note of the architecture of the house. I could tell from his expression that he was on a hot scent, and yet I could not in the least imagine in what direction his inferences were leading him.

"My good sir," said Mr. Cunningham, with some impatience, "this is surely very unnecessary. That is my room at the end of the stairs, and my son's is the one beyond it. I leave it to your judgment whether it was possible for the thief to have come up here without disturbing us."

"You must try round and get on a fresh scent, I fancy," said the son, with a rather malicious smile.

"Still, I must ask you to humour me a little further. I should like, for example, to see how far the windows of the bedrooms command the front. This, I understand, is your son's room"--he pushed open the door--"and that, I presume, is the dressing-room in which he sat smoking when the alarm was given. Where does the window of that look out to?" He stepped across the bedroom, pushed open the door, and glanced round the other chamber.

"I hope you are satisfied now?" said Mr. Cunningham, testily.

"Thank you; I think I have seen all that I wished."

"Then, if it is really necessary, we can go into my room."

"If it is not too much trouble."

The J.P. shrugged his shoulders, and led the way into his own chamber, which was a plainly furnished and commonplace room. As we moved across it in the direction of the window, Holmes fell back until he and I were the last of the group. Near the foot of the bed was a small square table, on which stood a dish of oranges and a carafe of water. As we passed it, Holmes, to my unutterable astonishment, leaned over in front of me and deliberately knocked the whole thing over. The glass smashed into a thousand pieces, and the fruit rolled about into every corner of the room.

[Illustration: "HE DELIBERATELY KNOCKED THE WHOLE THING OVER."]

"You've done it now, Watson," said he, coolly. "A pretty mess you've made of the carpet."

I stooped in some confusion and began to pick up the fruit, understanding that for some reason my companion desired me to take the blame upon myself. The others did the same, and set the table on its legs again.

"Halloa!" cried the Inspector, "where's he got to?"

Holmes had disappeared.

"Wait here an instant," said young Alec Cunningham. "The fellow is off his head, in my opinion. Come with me, father, and see where he has got to!"

They rushed out of the room, leaving the Inspector, the Colonel, and me staring at each other.

"'Pon my word, I am inclined to agree with Mister Alec," said the official. "It may be the effect of this illness, but it seems to me that----"

His words were cut short by a sudden scream of "Help! Help! Murder!" With a thrill I recognised the voice as that of my friend. I rushed madly from the room on to the landing. The cries, which had sunk down into a hoarse, inarticulate shouting, came from the room which we had first visited. I dashed in, and on into the dressing-room beyond. The two Cunninghams were bending over the prostrate figure of Sherlock Holmes, the younger clutching his throat with both hands, while the elder seemed to be twisting one of his wrists. In an instant the three of us had torn them away from him, and Holmes staggered to his feet, very pale, and evidently greatly exhausted.

"Arrest these men, Inspector," he gasped.

"On what charge?"

"That of murdering their coachman, William Kirwan!"

The Inspector stared about him in bewilderment. "Oh, come now, Mr. Holmes," said he at last; "I am sure you don't really mean to----"

"Tut, man; look at their faces!" cried Holmes, curtly.

Never, certainly, have I seen a plainer confession of guilt upon human countenances. The older man seemed numbed and dazed, with a heavy, sullen expression upon his strongly-marked face. The son, on the other hand, had dropped all that jaunty, dashing style which had characterized him, and the ferocity of a dangerous wild beast gleamed in his dark eyes and distorted his handsome features. The Inspector said nothing, but, stepping to the door, he blew his whistle. Two of his constables came at the call.

"I have no alternative, Mr. Cunningham," said he. "I trust that this may all prove to be an absurd mistake; but you can see that----Ah, would you? Drop it!" He struck out with his hand, and a revolver, which the younger man was in the act of cocking, clattered down upon the floor.

[Illustration: "BENDING OVER THE PROSTRATE FIGURE OF SHERLOCK HOLMES."]

"Keep that," said Holmes, quickly putting his foot upon it. "You will find it useful at the trial. But this is what we really wanted." He held up a little crumpled piece of paper.

"The remainder of the sheet!" cried the Inspector.

"Precisely."

"And where was it?"

"Where I was sure it must be. I'll make the whole matter clear to you presently. I think, Colonel, that you and Watson might return now, and I will be with you again in an hour at the furthest. The Inspector and I must have a word with the prisoners; but you will certainly see me back at luncheon time."

Sherlock Holmes was as good as his word, for about one o'clock he rejoined us in the Colonel's smoking-room. He was accompanied by a little, elderly gentleman, who was introduced to me as the Mr. Acton whose house had been the scene of the original burglary.

"I wished Mr. Acton to be present while I demonstrated this small matter to you," said Holmes, "for it is natural that he should take a keen interest in the details. I am afraid, my dear Colonel, that you must regret the hour that you took in such a stormy petrel as I am."

"On the contrary," answered the Colonel, warmly, "I consider it the greatest privilege to have been permitted to study your methods of working. I confess that they quite surpass my expectations, and that I am utterly unable to account for your result. I have not yet seen the vestige of a clue."

"I am afraid that my explanation may disillusionize you, but it has always been my habit to hide none of my methods, either from my friend Watson or from anyone who might take an intelligent interest in them. But first, as I am rather shaken by the knocking about which I had in the dressing-room, I think that I shall help myself to a dash of your brandy, Colonel. My strength has been rather tried of late."

"I trust you had no more of those nervous attacks."

Sherlock Holmes laughed heartily. "We will come to that in its turn," said he. "I will lay an account of the case before you in its due order, showing you the various points which guided me in my decision. Pray interrupt me if there is any inference which is not perfectly clear to you.

"It is of the highest importance in the art of detection to be able to recognise out of a number of facts which are incidental and which vital. Otherwise your energy and attention must be dissipated instead of being concentrated. Now, in this case there was not the slightest doubt in my mind from the first that the key of the whole matter must be looked for in the scrap of paper in the dead man's hand.

"Before going into this I would draw your attention to the fact that if Alec Cunningham's narrative was correct, and if the assailant after shooting William Kirwan had _instantly_ fled, then it obviously could not be he who tore the paper from the dead man's hand. But if it was not he, it must have been Alec Cunningham himself, for by the time that the old man had descended several servants were upon the scene. The point is a simple one, but the Inspector had overlooked it because he had started with the supposition that these county magnates had had nothing to do with the matter. Now, I make a point of never having any prejudices and of following docilely wherever fact may lead me, and so in the very first stage of the investigation I found myself looking a little askance at the part which had been played by Mr. Alec Cunningham.

[Illustration: "THE POINT IS A SIMPLE ONE."]

"And now I made a very careful examination of the corner of paper which the Inspector had submitted to us. It was at once clear to me that it formed part of a very remarkable document. Here it is. Do you not now observe something very suggestive about it?"

"It has a very irregular look," said the Colonel.

"My dear sir," cried Holmes, "there cannot be the least doubt in the world that it has been written by two persons doing alternate words. When I draw your attention to the strong t's of 'at' and 'to' and ask you to compare them with the weak ones of 'quarter' and 'twelve,' you will instantly recognise the fact. A very brief analysis of those four words would enable you to say with the utmost confidence that the 'learn' and the 'maybe' are written in the stronger hand, and the 'what' in the weaker."

"By Jove, it's as clear as day!" cried the Colonel. "Why on earth should two men write a letter in such a fashion?"

"Obviously the business was a bad one, and one of the men who distrusted the other was determined that, whatever was done, each should have an equal hand in it. Now, of the two men it is clear that the one who wrote the 'at' and 'to' was the ring-leader."

"How do you get at that?"

"We might deduce it from the mere character of the one hand as compared with the other. But we have more assured reasons than that for supposing it. If you examine this scrap with attention you will come to the conclusion that the man with the stronger hand wrote all his words first, leaving blanks for the other to fill up. These blanks were not always sufficient, and you can see that the second man had a squeeze to fit his 'quarter' in between the 'at' and the 'to,' showing that the latter were already written. The man who wrote all his words first is undoubtedly the man who planned this affair."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton.

"But very superficial," said Holmes. "We come now, however, to a point which is of importance. You may not be aware that the deduction of a man's age from his writing is one which has been brought to considerable accuracy by experts. In normal cases one can place a man in his true decade with tolerable confidence. I say normal cases, because ill-health and physical weakness reproduce the signs of old age, even when the invalid is a youth. In this case, looking at the bold, strong hand of the one, and the rather broken-backed appearance of the other, which still retains its legibility, although the t's have begun to lose their crossings, we can say that the one was a young man, and the other was advanced in years without being positively decrepit."

"Excellent!" cried Mr. Acton again.

"There is a further point, however, which is subtler and of greater interest. There is something in common between these hands. They belong to men who are blood-relatives. It may be most obvious to you in the Greek e's, but to me there are many small points which indicate the same thing. I have no doubt at all that a family mannerism can be traced in these two specimens of writing. I am only, of course, giving you the leading results now of my examination of the paper. There were twenty-three other deductions which would be of more interest to experts than to you. They all tended to deepen the impression upon my mind that the Cunninghams, father and son, had written this letter.

"Having got so far, my next step was, of course, to examine into the details of the crime and to see how far they would help us. I went up to the house with the Inspector, and saw all that was to be seen. The wound upon the dead man was, as I was able to determine with absolute confidence, fired from a revolver at the distance of something over four yards. There was no powder-blackening on the clothes. Evidently, therefore, Alec Cunningham had lied when he said that the two men were struggling when the shot was fired. Again, both father and son agreed as to the place where the man escaped into the road. At that point, however, as it happens, there is a broadish ditch, moist at the bottom. As there were no indications of boot-marks about this ditch, I was absolutely sure not only that the Cunninghams had again lied, but that there had never been any unknown man upon the scene at all.

"And now I had to consider the motive of this singular crime. To get at this I endeavoured first of all to solve the reason of the original burglary at Mr. Acton's. I understood from something which the Colonel told us that a law-suit, had been going on between you, Mr. Acton, and the Cunninghams. Of course, it instantly occurred to me that they had broken into your library with the intention of getting at some document which might be of importance in the case."

"Precisely so," said Mr. Acton; "there can be no possible doubt as to their intentions. I have the clearest claim upon half their present estate, and if they could have found a single paper--which, fortunately, was in the strong box of my solicitors--they would undoubtedly have crippled our case."

[Illustration: "THERE WAS NO POWDER-BLACKENING ON THE CLOTHES."]

"There you are!" said Holmes, smiling. "It was a dangerous, reckless attempt in which I seem to trace the influence of young Alec. Having found nothing, they tried to divert suspicion by making it appear to be an ordinary burglary, to which end they carried off whatever they could lay their hands upon. That is all clear enough, but there was much that was still obscure. What I wanted above all was to get the missing part of that note. I was certain that Alec had torn it out of the dead man's hand, and almost certain that he must have thrust it into the pocket of his dressing-gown. Where else could he have put it? The only question was whether it was still there. It was worth an effort to find out, and for that object we all went up to the house.

"The Cunninghams joined us, as you doubtless remember, outside the kitchen door. It was, of course, of the very first importance that they should not be reminded of the existence of this paper, otherwise they would naturally destroy it without delay. The Inspector was about to tell them the importance which we attached to it when, by the luckiest chance in the world, I tumbled down in a sort of fit and so changed the conversation."

"Good heavens!" cried the Colonel, laughing. "Do you mean to say all our sympathy was wasted and your fit an imposture?"

"Speaking professionally, it was admirably done," cried I, looking in amazement at this man who was for ever confounding me with some new phase of his astuteness.

"It is an art which is often useful," said he. "When I recovered I managed by a device, which had, perhaps, some little merit of ingenuity, to get old Cunningham to write the word 'twelve,' so that I might compare it with the 'twelve' upon the paper."

"Oh, what an ass I have been!" I exclaimed.

"I could see that you were commiserating with me over my weakness," said Holmes, laughing. "I was sorry to cause you the sympathetic pain which I know that you felt. We then went upstairs together, and having entered the room and seen the dressing-gown hanging up behind the door, I contrived by upsetting a table to engage their attention for the moment and slipped back to examine the pockets. I had hardly got the paper, however, which was, as I had expected, in one of them, when the two Cunninghams were on me, and would, I verily believe, have murdered me then and there but for your prompt and friendly aid. As it is, I feel that young man's grip on my throat now, and the father has twisted my wrist round in the effort to get the paper out of my hand. They saw that I must know all about it, you see, and the sudden change from absolute security to complete despair made them perfectly desperate.

"I had a little talk with old Cunningham afterwards as to the motive of the crime. He was tractable enough, though his son was a perfect demon, ready to blow out his own or anybody else's brains if he could have got to his revolver. When Cunningham saw that the case against him was so strong he lost all heart, and made a clean breast of everything. It seems that William had secretly followed his two masters on the night when they made their raid upon Mr. Acton's, and, having thus got them into his power, proceeded under threats of exposure to levy blackmail upon them. Mister Alec, however, was a dangerous man to play games of that sort with. It was a stroke of positive genius on his part to see in the burglary scare, which was convulsing the country side, an opportunity of plausibly getting rid of the man whom he feared. William was decoyed up and shot; and, had they only got the whole of the note, and paid a little more attention to detail in their accessories, it is very possible that suspicion might never have been aroused."

"And the note?" I asked.

Sherlock Holmes placed the subjoined paper before us:--

[Illustration]

"It is very much the sort of thing that I expected," said he. "Of course, we do not yet know what the relations may have been between Alec Cunningham, William Kirwan, and Annie Morrison. The result shows that the trap was skilfully baited. I am sure that you cannot fail to be delighted with the traces of heredity shown in the p's and in the tails of the g's. The absence of the i-dots in the old man's writing is also most characteristic. Watson, I think our quiet rest in the country has been a distinct success, and I shall certainly return, much invigorated, to Baker Street to-morrow."

_Beauties._

[Illustration: _Miss Ella Banister._]

[Illustration: _Miss A Hughes_]

[Illustration: _Miss Alice Ravenscroft._]

_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._

[Illustration: _Miss Friend._

_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _Miss C. L. Foote._

_From a Photo. by W. & D. Downey._]

[Illustration: _Mrs. Marsh._

_From a Photo. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._]

[Illustration: _Miss Norah Williams._

_From Photos. by Messrs. Bassano, Old Bond Street._]

[Illustration: _Miss L. Harold._]

[Illustration: _Lady Aberdeen._

_Photo. by Barraud_]

LIEUTENANT GAUTHIER

By José de Campos

FROM THE FRENCH OF JOSÉ DE CAMPOS. AN EPISODE OF THE CRIMEAN WAR. APPROVED AND AUTHORIZED BY GENERAL SAUSSIER, MILITARY COMMANDER OF PARIS.

[Illustration]

Nicolas Gauthier, Sergeant-Major in the Foreign Legion, was about twenty-six years of age. He was strikingly handsome, with black hair and moustache and a pale complexion. His dark eyes were perhaps somewhat dreamy and intensely sad, but they had a certain expression of gentleness and candour which won all hearts.

He was above the medium height, upright and broad-shouldered, and was altogether more fitted for a cuirassier than for a foot-soldier. As, however, he had entered the army from choice, it was for him to select the arms he preferred.

He had undoubtedly military tastes, but he had evidently some family trouble or some love affair which had made him anxious to leave Paris and to go to Africa with the Foreign Legion (which, as everyone knows, is always the first regiment to be called out in case of war).

He had been in the garrison at Constantine, and while there had been a great favourite with all the ladies, and the men had envied him.

It could scarcely be wondered at, for he was so handsome, and then, too, he had such a martial bearing and such pleasant, attractive manners.

All the sensation he caused was lost upon him, for he did not even seem to notice it himself.

He was a good soldier: subordinate to his superiors, and always indulgent to the men under his command, and, consequently, a great favourite in the Legion.

When Napoleon III. was reviewing the troops, he noticed Gauthier, who was at that time only a sub-officer. He made inquiries about him, and a fortnight later Gauthier was appointed sergeant-major.

It was evident that some great sorrow was weighing on him, for when he was free from his military duties, instead of going out with his comrades to any places of amusement, he would go off by himself for long, solitary walks.

Several times, on seeing him strolling along far from the walls of the city, the other officers had warned him of the risk he ran of being surprised by one of those bands of Arabs who wander about outside the Algerian cities, and who take their revenge on any European who falls into their hands for the yoke that has been put on to them.

Sergeant Gauthier took very little notice of these warnings. He loved solitude and was perfectly fearless. No one knew why he was so sad. Certainly he had lately lost his mother, and still wore a badge of crape on his arm. Of course, this had increased his melancholy, but it was not the original cause of it.

The war with Russia had just been declared. Gauthier, like a great many other officers and sub-officers, was tired of the monotony of garrison life, and volunteered to join the regiments which were to be sent to the Crimea. The Minister of War dispatched the Foreign Legion, to the great joy of Gauthier. His brother officers noticed that he was almost gay, not at all like his former self.

* * * * *

He soon distinguished himself; was always foremost in the fight. His courage and _sang-froid_ won the admiration of all. He was wounded, but he cared little for that; and shortly after he was promoted to the rank of sub-lieutenant.

Gauthier was very intimate with Lieutenant Saussier, another hero who had gone through the "baptism of fire" in Africa, and whose great valour and integrity have won for him the high office he now holds.

These two soldiers were of the same metal: they were able to understand and appreciate each other, and were almost inseparable.

One day during the siege of Sebastopol, Lieutenant Saussier said to his friend:--

"Gauthier, may I ask you a question?"

"Two questions, if you like."

"You won't think it mere curiosity?"

"Are we not friends, Saussier?"

"Yes, but perhaps this is a secret----"

"I have only one secret in the world, and as you do not know _that_ and could not even have an idea of it, there is no fear, so you can speak out."

"Well, will you tell me what is the cause of your sadness, I might almost say bitterness? When we left Africa I thought you had left it behind you; but now in Russia it is worse than ever."

At this unexpected question Gauthier started, then trying to smile he answered:--

"It must be a kind of complaint born in me, and perhaps the change of climate aggravates it."

"Perhaps so," said Lieutenant Saussier, slowly, and watching the expression of his friend's face.

"This cold goes right through me to my very bones," said Gauthier, shivering.

Saussier quite understood that his friend meant, "Let us change the subject," but he continued:--

"May I ask you another question?"

"You seem to have a few to ask to-day," said Gauthier, looking rather annoyed.

"I have often wanted to speak to you, but have never dared before."

"Well, to-day you don't seem afraid of running the risk."

"If it vexes you, don't answer me."

"Oh, I don't mind. I have had one; I may as well have the next."

"Well, will you tell me why, every time there is an engagement, you take such pains to find out the name of the chief who commands the enemy?"

This time Gauthier was visibly annoyed. He answered, after a few minutes' hesitation, "Because some day I intend writing the history of the Crimean War. It is only natural I should want to know the names of the commanders on the other side."

"Oh! of course," said Saussier, feeling rather disconcerted.

For some minutes the two friends continued their walk in silence. There was no sound but the crunching of the snow under their heavy boots, for it had been snowing hard in the district of Simferopol, and a thick white mantle covered the ground.

Lieutenant Saussier looked at Gauthier, and in spite of his friend's attempt to turn away his head, Saussier saw that there were tears in his eyes.

"Forgive me for asking you!" he exclaimed. "I had no idea of causing you pain."

"How do you know you have?" asked Gauthier, passing his arm through that of his friend.

"Don't try and hide it. I can see that, quite unintentional as it was, I have pained you with my questions."

"It is nothing, nothing at all; or rather your questions brought to mind something in my past life. It is only natural that you should have asked me, and as a proof of my friendship I will tell you all."

"No, no! Indeed I do not want you to. We will not talk about it. I am awfully sorry to have spoken of it."

"After all, you are my greatest friend. Why should I not tell you about it? Perhaps, too, it might relieve me to speak of my trouble."

"If it will be any relief to you, tell me; but if not, why, do not let us say any more about it."

[Illustration: YOU ARE MY GREATEST FRIEND.]

"I would rather tell you. Life is very uncertain on the battlefield, and I would rather not die with this secret untold. Perhaps, too, if you knew it you might be able to help me."

"If I could help you in any way, you know you have only to tell me how."

"Well, you shall hear all. You know that, before leaving Algeria, I went to Paris with a three months' leave."

"Which you never stayed out, for you were back again in six weeks."

"What could I do with myself in that Babylon, where everyone was gay while I was so wretched? How could I stand the sardonic laughter and gaiety around me when my heart was aching bitterly? As soon as my poor mother was buried I was only too anxious to get from that city of luxury, where the artificial lights only blinded and dazzled me.

"I wanted to get away from the noise and the vice and the hypocrisy, and go to the desert and be alone with Nature and with reality, where I could breathe pure, wholesome air, and not that atmosphere which bewilders and poisons you. I left what we _call_ the civilized world to go to the savages whom I prefer.

"I gave up society for solitude, peace for war. I despise my life and long for death, but death does not come at my call."

Gauthier stopped for a minute, overcome with emotion.

"You are too sensitive," said Saussier.

"Perhaps so, but I have had something to bear."

"Is it a love affair, Gauthier?"

"No, no! I have never loved anyone, and besides, I am one of those who must not, who dare not love----"

"I do not understand."

"No, I will explain. My mother, who was dying of consumption, brought on by some great grief that she had always suffered alone, sent for me to bid me farewell. Three days before her death I was at her bedside.

"'My son,' she said, 'I have sent for you to tell you something which I feel you ought to know before my death. I have always led you to believe that your father was dead.'

"'And he is not dead. I have felt sure of that for a long time.'

"'How could you nave guessed it?' exclaimed my mother.

"'By your sadness, and, too, because you have never taken me to his grave, nor even spoken of it. My poor mother, did he leave you?'

"'No, no! Do not blame him; it was not his fault that he had to leave us.'

"'He is in prison, then; but surely he is innocent?'

"'No, he is quite free.'

"'How is it, then----"

"'Listen, but do not interrupt me, for I have not strength for much. The name you have, Gauthier, was my father's and mine, but not your father's, Nicolas. My father was a wealthy shipbuilder at Havre. He died in 1825. My mother sold everything, and then she and I went to Paris to live.

"'She was ambitious for me and wished me to marry well. We had plenty of money, and as that opens most doors she managed to get introductions and invitations to her heart's content.

"'I was nineteen, and people said I was beautiful. My mother paid great attention to my toilette, and by mixing in society I soon lost all traces of having been brought up in the provinces. There was a young Russian captain, Prince Nicolaï Porthikopoff, whom I used to meet at different houses. He belonged to the Czar's Imperial Guard, and was an _attaché_ of the Russian Embassy in Paris.

"'He was very handsome, and was as noble at heart as he was by birth.

"He loved me, and I returned his affection. At the end of six months he came to my mother and asked for my hand. Our engagement caused a great stir in Paris, it scandalized the aristocracy and caused jealousy in our own circle. Prince Nicolaï cared nothing for the storm that he had roused.

[Illustration: "HE CAME TO MY MOTHER AND ASKED FOR MY HAND."]

"'There was so much gossip, and there was so much scheming to break off our engagement, that the Ambassador himself felt it his duty to inform the Czar. It appears the Czar only laughed at it all until the Princess Porthikopoff, your father's mother, wrote herself asking for his intervention, and declaring that she would never give her consent to our union. The Czar wrote a letter of advice to the Prince, but as it took no effect, and the Princess still insisted, the Czar objected formally to the marriage. Your father saw that it was hopeless, that there was no chance whatever of winning the consent of his mother or of his Sovereign. He proposed to me a desperate expedient, and I, young and inexperienced as I was, and believing that it would be for our mutual happiness, consented.

"'We were to be married privately, but, as your father told me, the marriage would not be legal, as we could not have the necessary papers, and should even have to be married under assumed names, and in another country. He believed that then, when his mother saw that the honour of a Porthikopoff was at stake, she would take steps to have the ceremony performed again with the necessary formalities. He thought that she would do for the honour and pride of her family what she would not do for love of her son.

"'I consented to everything; but, alas! a month later, seeing that your father continued to brave all authority, the Czar recalled him to St. Petersburg.

"'Your father pleaded our cause but in vain! Nicholas I., proud autocrat as he was, and the Princess were both inexorable. Your father was exasperated, and he gave vent to his indignation. The result was that he was ordered to start the next day for Irkoutsk, in Siberia He was to be exiled! Exiled because he had loved me, because he wished to do his duty and make me his lawful wife! My mother and I went away to Lille, where you were born.

"'The Prince, your father, was not allowed to write or receive letters without sending them first to the Governor to be read and approved. I happened to meet with someone who was going to Irkoutsk, and begged him to take a message to your father and to tell him of your birth. When this man returned he brought me a letter from your father, in which he said he was going to try and make his escape, and that he would never again set foot in Russia.

"'Just at this time my mother died. Your father was not able to put his plan into execution, and a year later he was allowed to write to me, but merely to tell me the conditions on which Nicholas I. offered to allow his return from exile. The Czar had chosen a wife for him, and he was to renounce me for ever. Your father added that he was refusing such terms; that he would never break his vow to me, and preferred exile to what was offered him.

"'He was right!' I exclaimed, proudly, for I was glad to find that I had no cause to blush for my father.

"'It was noble of him!' said my mother, and her eyes filled with tears. 'It was noble, but how could I accept such a sacrifice? I could not; it would have been too selfish. There was only one thing to do, and although in doing it I had to sacrifice all my womanly pride, my courage held out. I wrote to your father, telling him to accept the Czar's offer, as I myself was about to marry.'

"'It was not true?'

"'No! No! It was to save him. I wanted him to be free, to be happy if possible. As for me, all was over. He wrote to me, reproaching me, and it broke my heart. I did not reply to his letter. I went back to Paris, where I lived quietly and unknown, devoting myself entirely to you.... Six months later I heard that he had married a Princess according to the will of the Czar, and that he was appointed captain.'

"'Is he happy?'

"'I have never heard another word about him, and as he has no idea of my whereabouts, he could never have made inquiries about me. Now you know all, you know the cause of my sadness and the secret of your birth. You must now judge between your father and your mother, and either pardon or condemn us, for, alas! my poor boy, you have no name and no future.'

"My poor mother hid her face in her hands and sobbed in an agony of grief.

"'I have nothing to forgive, mother; but if you wish me to judge my father and you, I can only say that you both did your duty and that your sacrifice was sublime. Society makes laws at its own pleasure, but in the sight of God, who surely is over all, your marriage was valid, and I have nothing to be ashamed of. On the contrary, you were both victims, and you suffered through your loyalty to each other--and your love was surely truer and more ideal than many which society recognises.'

"My poor mother could not speak for some time, her emotion was so great. Later on she told me where I should find some papers, which I was to read after her death, and she added:--

"'You will also find in the same drawer two things by which your father would always recognise you, if you should ever meet him and if you wished to make yourself known. I leave it entirely to you to act as you think best; but if you ever should see him, tell him that I was true to him, explain all, and tell him that I loved him to the last.'

"Two days later my poor mother passed away. I was thus left an orphan and nameless. I was utterly alone in the world. I had not a creature to love me, and I knew that I must never dare to love anyone. Left to myself, I cursed the whole world and its prejudices and baseness."

Gauthier covered his face with his hand, and Saussier, respecting his friend's grief, did not speak for some time. The two officers walked on through the snow without noticing where they were going.

Suddenly Gauthier said, bitterly: "You understand now the cause of the melancholy that is always weighing on me?"

"I do, indeed," replied Saussier.

"The tortures of the Inquisition are nothing to what I endure, when I think of my poor mother suffering through all those years without a word of consolation from any living soul."

"It must have been terrible!"

"Then, too, you know now why I always find out the name of the Russian commander before every attack; for by now he must be at least a General."

"Yes, it is indeed fearful!"

* * * * *

Sebastopol had been besieged ever since October 9th, 1854. Marshal Canrobert commanded the troops with Lord Raglan.

[Illustration: "TELL HIM THAT I LOVED HIM TO THE LAST."]

Prince Mentschiskoff and Prince Todleben resisted the attack bravely.

The sight of the city, which was all in ruins, exasperated the Russian Commander-in-Chief, and he ordered a sally, but the French and the English were well on guard and repulsed this desperate attempt.

The attack was terrible, and the heroism on every side sublime.

The most warlike of the besieged troops rushed against the French, preferring to have to do with the _furia francesca_ rather than with the British deliberation and _sang-froid_. The combat was sustained and desperate.

Profiting by the confusion amongst the French troops, caused by the death of their Commander-in-Chief, the Russians succeeded in obtaining the first trench. The besiegers, however, got reinforcements and the struggle was continued.

Two young officers, who were fighting side by side, attracted everyone's notice. They were in the first rank, and they led their soldiers into the thickest of the fray and cut down the enemy right and left.

One of them was rather in advance of the other, and was encouraging his soldiers to follow him. Suddenly with his pistol he took aim at a Russian commander, who, on seeing that the enemy was gaining ground, had spurred his horse forward and was calling to his soldiers to advance. Another horseman, seeing the danger his chief was in, rushed before him, exclaiming:--

"Take care, General Porthikopoff!"

On hearing this the French officer dropped his murderous weapon and stood as if paralyzed, looking at his enemy.

On receiving the warning the Prince had drawn out his pistol and fired at the French officer. The ball struck him, and he fell. His friend, who had just reached him, and who had also heard the Russian General's name, drew his men to the right where the enemy was strongest, exclaiming, in desperation: "Follow me! Follow me!"

The Russian soldiers rushed at the young officer, who had fallen, and would have killed him, but, waving them off, he said he must speak with their General before he died.

The Prince, astonished at the request at such a moment, consented.

"What is it you have to say, and why did you not attempt to shoot me?"

"I could not."

"But what prevented you?"

"Duty."

"I do not understand."

The young officer drew from his tunic a letter, a locket, and a small box, and handed them to the General.

"What is the meaning of this?" exclaimed the Prince.

"Look inside the locket."

The Prince opened it and started. "My portrait and Madeline's!" Then, opening the box: "And her engagement ring! Where did you get these from?"

"The letter will explain all."

The Prince opened it, and, after glancing at it quickly, said: "And you are----"

"Nicolas Gauthier."

"And your mother?"

"She is dead. Her love for you killed her."

"That is not true, for she married another."

"Never! She loved you to the last, and died with your name on her lips. Read the letter to the end."

Mechanically the General read the letter, and then kissing the locket passionately: "I knew, I felt that Madeline was true!" he said, and then bending over Gauthier, he continued: "How did you recognise me, though?"

"I heard them call you by your name."

"That was why you would not fire?"

"Yes. A son could not kill his father, even though he be his enemy."

"But you allowed a father to kill his son?"

"I could not help it. It was fate."

"No, no, my son! You shall not die! You _must_ live!"

"God wills otherwise, father. Farewell! I have only seen you for a minute, but I am satisfied."

Gauthier made a great effort to get up, smiled at the Prince, and then fell back dead.

"My boy, my boy!" exclaimed the Prince, in desperation, stooping over the dead body of his son. "Dead, dead, and killed by me, his father! And this is the work of our Czar! Oh, cruel fate!"

[Illustration: "THE GENERAL REMAINED KNEELING BY THE SIDE OF HIS SON."]

The General remained some minutes kneeling by the side of his son in mute despair, and then for the last time he sprang on to his horse and rushed into the thickest of the fray.

"Prince! Prince! what are you doing there?" exclaimed a French officer at his side.

"I am seeking death! I have killed my son, and I will not survive him----"

He had scarcely finished when a ball struck him and he fell down dead.

"Who can say there is no Providence! The father has not waited long to join his son," exclaimed the French officer, as he rushed on at the head of his men.

For some time the result of the combat seemed uncertain, but at last the French won the day, and the Russians had to take refuge in Sebastopol.

* * * * *

When Marshal Canrobert went over the battlefield, he asked where the young officer was who belonged to the Foreign Legion, and who had fought so bravely.

"He fell by the retrenchments," was the reply.

The Commander-in-Chief rode over to the spot named and ordered the surgeon to examine the young officer who was lying on the ground. It was, however, too late.

"There was another officer of the same Legion whom I saw fall there, to the left," said the Marshal.

The young officer was brought and was told that his friend was dead.

"It is a pity," he said to the Marshal, "for you have lost a true soldier."

"What was his name?"

"Nicolas Gauthier."

"And yours?"

"Félix Saussier."

The Commander-in-Chief ordered the army to fall into rank, and then as they presented arms he took the Cross of the Legion of Honour which he was wearing himself and placed it on Lieutenant Saussier's breast.

"Wear it proudly," he said; "it is the recompense that France accords to her bravest sons, and you well deserve it."

Then taking another Cross from one of the officers who belonged to the État Major, he placed it on the body of Gauthier. "You, too, have well earned it," he said, "and shall take it with you to your grave."

The troops filed off, after passing in front of the two officers, the one wounded and the other dead. Marshal Canrobert himself raised his sword and saluted the two heroes (the one, alas! had died too soon, and the other was destined to become one of the bravest Generals of France), and then passed on deeply moved, but satisfied with the victory, and ignorant of the drama which had taken place so near to him.

[Illustration]

_From Behind the Speaker's Chair._