At the lodge, the club, or the near-saloon the weather takes a back seat while, every day, the question of "Still workin', hey, Pete?" absorbs the newcomer into the heart of the discussion. Even on the job itself the everlasting pondering of the question goes on. The labor gang can discuss it in low tones when the boss is out of sight and sound-and perhaps make a better showing than before because everyone is anxious to prove himself the best shovel wrestler of them all and so be retained the longest. Farther up the line, the pieceworkers may also speed up for a while in order to get their fullest possible share of the work still to be done before the threatened shutdown.

Higher up, among the men skilled of hand or head, the danger is, of course, less, but the strain is there-and very costly. More than a few important operations in shop and office are likely to go wrong because Old Man Worry has got the worker by the short hair of that narrow margin between job and no job, income and no income, something to do and nothing.

Where the Danger Lies

"FOR

OR six months of our first
year
of married life there

been no work for me man," the miner's wife told me in South Wales, where I worked last summer. "Thirty year ago that been, but a bitter memory 'twill be-aye, for the rest of our days!"

Where a man's job requires not merely the mechanical mastery of the routine of drill or desk, but the more spiritual direction of his imagination and self-confidence for influencing us to sign on the dotted line, the wear and tear of this worry about the future is enough to undermine the morale of even the topnotchers.

"No, there's no chance of my putting it across," said one of these wearily to me recently. "The deal would have put me on easy street, but my 'prospect' is through. And so am I. In fact, I've signed up for another connection where

trough of joblessness, whether it is an affair of a few days or weeks in this or that plant or industry, or one of weeks and months throughout a nation or the world: It serves above everything else, except starvation itself, to prepare a platform in the minds of men on which the agitator and the revolutionist are welcome.

One reason some of us find it hard to understand the way this matter of job or no job gets into men's souls is that we assume that all men are alike in wanting property. That's true-provided that you include the job in your definition of property.

I'll earn some thousands less, but it'll be sure." A few minutes later I found that he had lost his nerve because for the first time in years his account at the bank had got down to $30.

Good times and easy sales may come back in a few weeks. But it may be years before that man recovers the faith in himself that made him a successful getter of business. In much the same way I have seen skilled and semiskilled men lose their grip on themselves and slide down the greased skids that lead into the insignificance of the labor gang. And industry-all of us-suffer a loss as well as they.

In fact, in many of the unskilled fields the same personal and industrial tragedy is happening at all times because of the current irregularity-the regular irregularity-of the job.

"Just that's what ye can never tell!" was shot back at me with surprise when I joined thirty or forty silent men waiting on one of Glasgow's docks at eleven o'clock one night and asked about the "chance of gettin' set on to-night."

"Of course these dockers don't want a steady job -now," said the head of a British dockers' union later. "But that's because they've had so many years of this awful never knowing from morning till midnight whether they will have a job for the day or not. You see, irregular work is bound to make in time an irregular worker!"

The effect of such demoralization upon human fiber we see plainly enough in our hobo. Although he holds on to his self-respect by considering himself a migratory worker, he makes his protest against his position near the bottom of the ladder of industrial standing, for he considers the tramp as far below him as the bum is below the tramp, by carrying his red card as a more or less revolutionary "Wobbly."

Which suggests the wisdom of our taking thought of this further price sure to be exacted by the

as it affects his interests and theirs

After talking, as one of them, with many workers in two countries I believe that the feeling of unfairness in the distribution of jobs-daily jobsmakes a great many more people unhappy and inclined to radicalism than the feeling of unfairness in the distribution of property.

"'Ere's me, without a bed for weeks-and not a drop of water on me face this day at all," exclaimed the old man I chummed with outside one of London's docks. "And they's men in there-thousands on 'um"-his voice grew high and his finger quivered"thousands on 'um thot's 'ad a job every day f'r months-every day f'r months! I tell ye thot's not right!"

The Finest World a Man Could Want

UST as a millionaire may dream of heaven as a

Jplace where there is no death and consequently no

inheritance taxes and no squabbles when the will is read, so the holder of the irregular, "trough-tainted" job finds it hard not to listen to the smooth-tongued salesman of the revolutionary Utopia which holds. out the promise of-no, not ease and plenty and property-but of a job, a steady and satisfying job that will allow a man to take himself seriously.

"It would seem to me the finest world thot any man could want," a South Wales worker on the docks confided to me, "to get oop outa bed in the mornin' and know a job wuz waitin' for ye!"

So every day that such a demoralizing slough of waiting, wondering, and worrying has had us in its grip gives just the talking point that the soap-box preacher of conflict wants in his business.

To understand the huge importance of the job to a man's soul as well as to his body is to understand how a jobless man can come to accept so fully the philosophy of an inevitable and unending conflict in modern industry-modern peak-and-trough indus

Diseases are Thy servants, Lord.
They come at Thy command.

The "Bolshies," as they call them in England, assume that unemployment is always caused by the greed and selfishness of the "mawsters," and, as a corollary, that the operation of the industries by the government of the soviet or any other nonprofit-making body, would wipe the misery of joblessness off the face of the earth. The more I have seen of such not-for-profit management as, for instance, the British Government has been demonstrating in the coal industry, the less persuaded I am that it offers any sure cure for the trouble. In all probability this great industrial disease whose costly ravagings we have been so slow to appreciate cannot be entirely eradicated until we come to know a great deal more than we seem to know now about the underlying principles of human relations as they operate in commerce and industry-until it is possible, for instance, to get as many as, say, three level-headed economists to agree on something like the same diagnosis.

NEY

Begin the Attack Now TEVERTHELESS, nothing is more plain than that right now we should begin a much more serious attack upon this peak-and-trough disease which besets American industry. Particularly American industry, since it is said that the "graphs" of the ups and downs of both British and French industry show much less pronounced extremes at both high and low points than do ours. And nothing is more certain, too, than that we shall all forget about the disease and the loss and suffering and danger it brings if we wait until we start again grandly on the upgrade.

Yellow fever used to have one of the worst reputations for its regular toll of misery and death in spite of the fact that it never charged modern civilization with anything like the bill that we humbly accept from our industrial step-high-andthen-stumble disease. In all probability the yellow Scourge would still be accepted as an "act of God" as in the old days if our American army doctors had not had the courage to hold up the anopheles mosquito and make her give the countersign.

Luckily, more and more employers-and employees -are doing the same with industries which year after year have passed unquestioned the moment they whispered the mystic word "seasonal"! By careful study and by getting the cooperation of the customer-sometimes by building warehouses-the peaks and troughs of some of the seasonal business have been ironed out with amazing results. It has been found, also, that nothing comes so close to being a near-panacea for getting better relations between employer and employee.

Now that the principals in one of our largest industries the railroads have been brought closer together by the war, it will be a shame if they are not encouraged to do their buying of supplies on a much more even program than in the old days when it was almost from month to month the same old curse of "More production! Rush us these rails!" followed shortly thereafter with: "Delay shipment. Cannot use!"

According to a manufacturer

(Cont'd on page 21)

T

HE time was at hand for the autumn circuit of the dog shows, following the field meets. John Arpent went once more to his kennel and called Ambling Motor. The dog came walking toward him with slow dignity, looking in all directions, but giving Arpent himself the most casual of glances.

The owner gnawed his under lip. He was a short, awkward, homely man on whom much wealth and little affection had fallen.

The dog never met him halfway, never unbent. Ambling Motor never came running, never bounded, never reared to put his paws on his shoulders nor to mouth over his face with exuberant welcome. It was unthinkable that the dog should do this, yet sometimes Arpent longed for a moment when the dog would burst through all the grace and calm that discipline and nature had implanted in the noble frame of this fine, imperious brute.

John Arpent divided his love equally between Ambling Motor and the fortune people said he had earned through many humiliations. He coveted social eminence in the beautiful town in which he lived, and, curiously enough, the possession of Ambling Motor brought him to thresholds that otherwise must have been away from his natural trails.

Tapper, who cared for Ambling Motor when exigencies prevented Arpent from performing those menial services, watched the two with cynical interest. He saw that Ambling Motor's tail did not so much as quiver when Arpent's hand stroked the head, and he turned to help without a word when Arpent summoned the dog to the crate in which the animal would make its long journey to the Southern exhibitions. "He's looking fine!" Tapper suggested.

"Yes, he looks fine," Arpent admitted. "He looks finer than silk."

AMBLING MOTOR was

ma

eight years old. His performance was ture, flexible, and intelligent. A word or a gesture would set him in action or hold him in leash. He was a superb actor in the field amid the dark and elusive little Southern quail, and his beautiful figure, pelage, measurements, and bearing, from nose to plume, won the encomiums judges.

of

"The Mohawk Valley blue ribboner" was

a fa

miliar dog from Virginia to Florida, where he was recognized as one of their very own. Yazoo Sprit, Freckled Pearl, Cotton Queen had all contributed to Ambling Motor's cool aristocracy, which had not been harmed by the strain of Granite Boy and Walden Fay, two sturdy New England ruffed grouse hunters. All harked back to the grounds of an English nobleman on the banks of a lovely English river. The Laverack English Setters had no better exponent in the world. He had mere'y to be shown to win his due reward.

"You'll bring back another trunkful o' cups!" Tapper grinned.

"I suppose so," Arpent nodded absently, and lent his own strength to put the crate on the express truck. It was as Tapper had suggested, a triumphal tour. Ambling Motor in the fields

By Raymond S. Spears

Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull

Which is preferable-the genuine companionship of an ornery dog or the cold toleration of an extraordinary setter? Ambling Motor was the setter. He consistently won honors for his owner, John Arpent. But they had none of the mutual sympathy normally existing between a man and his dog. And the story ends with a great surprise for Arpent-though no dog story ever ends while the dog is alive, as any owner will tell you

and on the bench was equally at home. They arrived in Atlanta, and Arpent stood by the stall and saw the fanciers admire his dog, talk to the animal, and reach to stroke that erect, bored, indifferent head. Among the others was Mrs. Adele Wray Leeway.

Mrs. Leeway's kennel sent representatives to a score or more exhibitions. She attended many of

the shows herself and she bestowed her admiration upon all the dogs there. With a little cry of delight she reached to clutch Ambling Motor by both ears, and at that voice the dog reared to his hind legs and lunged to meet the caress, all alive, his tail wagging his whole body, and a shrill whistle in his throat.

He fairly sprawled forth his eagerness and admiration.

"What a wonderful dog!" she cried, looking at Arpent. "Are you in charge of him?"

"Yes," Arpent nodded glumly.

For a brief second she caught his eye, and that one look told her much. A delicate flush stained her cheeks.

"I beg your pardon." She spoke softly, her chin quivering ever so little, as she understood the depth of the thrust she had given him. He was crushed by her unwitting slight, but the wound was made briefly a scar by her smile of rare sweetness. Really, she had not meant to hurt.

She atoned for it too. She insisted that he bring Ambling Motor to her plantation, and her brother overwhelmed him with hospitality. After the show John Arpent hunted, rode, and genuinely enjoyed an atmosphere that would forever fill his dreams, while it crushed something, perhaps his hopes, in his heart. He went on down the line, however. At Jacksonville and Mobile he repeated the successes for Ambling Motor. Really, as Tapper had promised, a

trunk would hardly hold the trophies that told of Ambling Motor's conquests. Arpent stolidly continued his efforts to give the animal every chance in the world, and carried on his business by telegraph, telephone, and special delivery. He felt, somehow, as though he must do these things for the proud and worthy brute which had by chance fallen into his care.

When the autumn-earlywinter circuit was over, Arpent crated his dog at Charlotte and shipped the crate to Rockton. The trophies were all well packed, properly insured, and sent to the same destination. Arpent saw his dog into the express car, and then took up the reins of his business. He went to Washington to see the Tariff Commission, to New York

to see about market conditions, and arrived in Rockton in time to welcome his dog, to make sure that the journey, with its twentyfour-hour intermission for rest at Cumberland, had not disturbed the equanimity of Ambling Motor.

No crate on the road was

better than the specially built one that served the needs of Ambling Motor. Express messengers well knew from the looks of the crate what they had to expect from the owner if anything happened; if, for example, the dog arrived thirsty or hungry at the end of the express division. In all the world there are no more cantankerous people than those who ship dogs, and of them not one was more severe or alert than John Arpent. Ambling Motor, the crate, and the instructions pasted on the kennel under a sheet of celluloid all indicated Arpent's regard for the brute.

A way train carried the crate for a while, and then another way train. At regular intervals, as per program and menu provided by the shipper, the dog was fed and even permitted to exercise in the car; at one station the dog was loose, and plunged through the doorway to the platform for freedom, but there were plenty of gentlemen of leisure thereabout who would just as soon as not watch him for half a dollar, and so step by step the triumphal progress was made till the crate was at last run out of an express car into an express truck to be rushed to the house of John Arpent.

RPENT was in his glove factory office when the

delivered at his house within fifteen minutes. The owner immediately dropped everything, slipped into his greatcoat, ran down to the closed car, and was driven hastily homeward through the penetrating chill of a Mohawk Valley December day.

He was there when the express truck drove up and deposited the crate before the great kennelgarage, and he scratched his name on the receipt before opening the door. The owner turned eagerly to the crate door, threw it wide, and stood to see Ambling Motor emerge in cool, scornful pride. But, instead, out of the crate came crawling an abject red and yellow mongrel, with enough Chesapeake Bay setter blood to be a caricature of a bird dog.

There are things that try the souls of dog fanciers. This was one of them. Not only had Ambling Motor been lost, but, somewhere along the line, the substitute had given birth to three pups. She was weak, pitiful, and, as she looked up at John Arpent, her jaw dropped, her eyes blinked, and she crouched with a whine till her head was on her paws. She had recognized his amazed disappointment.

Arpent turned in a furious rage on the unfortunate express driver, who hadn't been long in Rockton and knew nothing about Ambling Motor beyond what the papers called for. Arpent snatched back the signed receipt and, in white heat, laid out the express companies from Rockton all the way to North Carolina.

"You find that dog!" he shouted. "You get me my Ambling Motor!"

The express driver made haste to escape that wrath, backed as it was by inestimable amounts of money. He notified the local agent, only to find that the telephone had already conveyed the news to his own alarmed higher-up. The local agent was already making out an urgency tracer to send back down the line in search of that $10,000 dog, insured for $7,500, known as Ambling Motor. The urgency tracer went on the return trail. Each

man in the employ of the various express companies who had made his mark on the various receipts and bills paid out $5 for the spare delight of receiving the unmitigated nuisance and reimbursing the bringer of the bad news for his own $5, previously paid on the increasing stack of papers; thus the companies insured that the tracer would not be lost in transit, since each man would collect the $5 from the next man down the line.

Every man who had handled the crate made his report on the subject, from the express truck driver to the Rockton agent, on board the last railroad train. Rockton was very sure that the dog crate in question had contained on arrival a certain animal, to wit, a female dark-red and yellow dog with three unbilled pups. The Mohawk Valley trainman reported that he had received the crate in good order, and that it contained a dark-colored dog, and to the best of his memory not to exceed two or three pups, if as many, adding that it had been for him a busy day, and he was uncertain as to the details.

Thus, report by report, and special tracer memoranda, there was accumulated an increasingly large stack of signed statements, till it seemed as though scores of messengers and handlers and division terminal agents and all kinds of people in the business of transshipping packages in transit, especially one certain dog crate billed Charlotte-Rockton, had all taken special note of everything in the line of their duties, especially as regards watering, feeding, and careful handling of the said crate and dog. A sheaf of sixty-three letters bridged the crate from its point of departure to its destination. The agent who accepted the crate and dog was positive that a dog, alleged to be one Ambling Motor, had been received. His unquestionable signature was ample proof of that fact. It was a fine dog, it was an English setter, and it was presumably, even undeniably, the dog in question, to wit, Ambling Motor. Beyond that point he could not assert or testify. His own responsibilities and troubles were sufficient for the days and the pay thereof.

All these letters were in due course carried back up the line and handed to Mr. John Arpent. A special claim agent accompanied them. One must needs be a diplomat, a conservative, an admirer of blooded dogs, and all kinds of an accomplished, competent, and shrewd citizen to confer with a large manufacturer and shipper, in re a dog lost in transit, or, rather, a dog alleged to have been lost in transit.

The claim agent found Mr. Arpent at his own house in a stern and sullen mood.

"Now, Mr. Arpent," the agent began, with suave diplomacy, "we have been tracing-ah-the matter of your famous dog, Ambling Motor. I have

here the complete record of the transit of the crate from-um-m-Charlotte to Rockton. You see"-he waved a deprecatory hand toward an indubitably large record report, re tracer one dog, alleged to be Ambling Motor-"I would ask are you sure

"Am I sure!" Arpent rose to his feet and on to his toes. "Look't that picture! Now, c'mon!" He snatched the beautiful painting of Ambling Motor, and carried it before the claim agent out to the splendid kennel-garage. "Now look't that!" Arpent waved the life-size portrait of a dog in action. "Now-there! See? You have the nerve-"

There was a species of dog in the kennel. She was yellow and red; there were nursing, at the moment, some five or seven other animals, small and of variegated colors, ranging from reddish black to yellowish white.

"Um-m- Seems to be a dog," muttered the claim agent. It was a good deal to venture, considering the picture.

That was all. Settlement on the insurance basis was necessary, on the terms of the records. The claim agent did not demand the return of the substitute with her several pups. He might, perhaps, have done his company a good turn if he had, speaking financially. Opinions may well differ on that point, for only a month had elapsed since Arpent had parted from Ambling Motor away down South.

HERE matters might well have rested. John Arpent had lost one of the most valuable dogs in the world, and the check he received in reimbursement proved that fact. In return he had received one of the most worthless animals that ever entered a fine traveling dog's crate, as substitute for a dog of fame and quality.

Yet that substitute had crept in her misery out upon the kennel floor, built especially for her handsome predecessor, and no man who had ever really loved any dog could have failed to be stirred by pity at her mute, fearful, cringing appeal. John Arpent had done the only thing possible. He left her there in that fairyland of comfort. The hired man whose particular job it was to take care of Ambling Motor could not resist the appeal either.

So there she lay with her puppies, not one more or less illicit than the others. That every one had its pale yellow splash did not in the least add to their burden of living. Beggars in a castle, mean nomads come to inherit the prince's high estate, they were a joke. John Arpent, enraged to think that anyone in the world would dare treat him so, proved by the check he received that they couldn't do it and get away with it. (Continued on page 26)

VER in Alexandria the other day I went into a second-hand furniture store to inquire whether or not it had an old-fashioned walnut whatnot. Furniture was piled to the roof on both sides of the room, with space enough left down the center to form an aisle leading to a larger space about a big box stove where the serious business of the concern was in progress. This was a checker game. An ancient man was earnestly engaged with a youth of about fifteen over a board that rested between them on their knees. Half a dozen citizens stood about in respectful silence while the two battled. The atmosphere was tense. My entrance was an interruption, not particularly welcomed.

"Have you got a what-" I began.

The old man raised his eyes for a fleeting second and shook his head.

"-not?" I concluded.

"Not!" affirmed the old man, without raising his eyes again, and then, in the same breath, encouragingly, to his boy adversary: "Your move, Wilbur!" Apparently it was my move too, and I moved out.

The President's One Weapon-Men
HE picture of the ancient draughtsman and his

contemplate the case of Warren G. Harding, due in a day or two to take up the succession to the presidency. The President-elect is translated into the figure of the boy, and the old man of Alexandria fades into a form that seems to represent Old Man History. Old Man History is a formidable opponent. Sometimes, it is said, he is beaten by a fluke, but the records of these victories are uncertain and disputed. For the most part, it appears, he is beaten only by knowing the game and playing it for all it is worth. Not infrequently a promising contender bemoans the break of the luck, but experts say there is no more luck in life than there is in checkers, and historians, as followers of Old Man History are called, are always coldly impatient with this excuse. Either you know the game and can play it to win, or you don't and can't, they say.

So it evidently is a tough customer that the President-elect faces. You can see him sitting there, his first tentative moves already made, studying the red and black disks on the board, prepared to go slowly and with care. And you can hear the old man opposite him say-encouragingly: "Your move, Warren."

1

By Lowell Mellett

Illustrated by Gaar Williams

High office has penalties as well as privileges. "Few men have ever had more friends than Mr. Harding. An endless pilgrimage of volunteer helpers is coming to Washington. Just tell Warren I'm here' is going to be a popular refrain in his secretary's office." As a Washington correspondent, Mr. Mellett has closely observed the way. three former presidents have accepted both the brickbats and the bouquets that came to them.

He tells here what the Presidentelect has to face; and he suggests one way in which all of us who want good government can help him to shoulder the load

same.

The checkers with which they play are not the History's represent conditions and causes, Harding's represent men. History's represent great national currents of thought, great world movements, sectional needs, race passions, human aspirations, human selfishness, and a multitude of other primary causes, but Harding's represent only men.

The president has only one weapon in the seemingly unequal contest; he has only one tool-men.

So this sermon is to be about men, the men who are to make or mar the record of Warren G. Harding in the combat now beginning. As well as he selects his men, just so well will his showing be against the Master Player. For these human checkers are more than mere counters in the game; they can move of their own initiative and they can fail to move when they should. They will move many times without the President's control. He must grant them that privilege if he would have able men with him, and he must abide by the consequences of the moves they make. Always, of course, he can change his men. Few men ought to know more about men than Mr.

Harding. Few have had more friends. A multiplicity of friends might be a danger, but where the multiplicity, as registered at the polls in November, is so great, there may be safety. If friends have claims on him, he has only to remember that his friends number a majority of all the voters. Against these no limited group of friends can have any great claim, no matter how vociferously they may assert one. It will be asserted. Human selfishness, mentioned above as one of History's tools, will be on the board playing the full four years.

What Taft Learned

WILLIAM HOWARD Tng as adindshie

WILLIAM HOWARD TAFT had experience of
He

left this lesson for all his successors: Beware of those who would use the friendship of the president for their own private purposes.

It was an old story before Taft learned it. It was an old story when Solon, the great lawgiver of Athens, discovered it. Solon had friends and he trusted them. In Conon, Clinias, and Hipponicus he placed especial confidence. In preparing to promulgate a law whereby all citizens would be eased of their debts, he told this precious trio that he did not propose to meddle with landownership. They accordingly hurried forth to borrow all the money they could, knowing Solon's forthcoming decree would abolish the debt. The money thus obtained they invested in land, knowing it would be safe there. Solon was a long time convincing the public he had not been party to the unsavory transaction.

There is likely to be in the large circle of friends surrounding the new President, crowding in upon him in fact, at least another Conon, a Clinias, and a Hipponicus. These are men who refuse to recognize that friendship has obligations as well as privileges.

Four years from now President Harding will know who his friends are. One thing History never has failed to do, and that is to give even the most successful of our presidents certain periods of trial and tribulation, periods when his friends fall away from him like caterpillars from the trees. Roosevelt, whose warm personality attracted men to him and who wore smoked glasses when searching for faults in his friends, was compelled to see the faults despite this precaution. He declared he had had a bully time at the end of his service in the White House, but there were periods when he had no joy in the fight. Chief of these (Continued on page 22)

T

XI.-The Strangler

HE first faint spears of morning creeping through the trees which surrounded Hillside revealed two figures upon a rustic bench in the little orchard adjoining the house. A pair incongruous enough-this dark-eyed Eastern woman, wrapped in a long fur cloak, and Nicol Brinn, gaunt, unshaven, fantastic in his evening dress, revealed now in the gray morning light.

"Look!" whispered Naîda. "It is the dawn. I must go!" Nicol Brinn clenched his teeth tightly, but made no reply.

"You promised," she said, and although her voice was very tender, she strove to detach his arm, which was locked about her shoulders.

He nodded grimly. "I'll keep my word. I made a contract with hell with my eyes open, and I'll stick to it." He stood up suddenly. "Go back, Naîda!" he said. "Go back. You have my promise, now, and I'm helpless. But at last I see a way, and I'm going to take it."

"What do you mean?" she cried, standing up and clutching his arm.

"Never mind." His tone was cool again. "Just go back."

"You would not-" she began.

"I never broke my word in my life, and even now

I'm not going to begin. While you live I stay silent."

In the growing light Naida looked about her affrightedly. Then, throwing her arms impulsively around Brinn, she kissed him-a caress that was passionate but sexless; rather the kiss of a mother who parts with a beloved son than that which a woman bestows upon the man she loves; an act of renunciation.

He uttered a low cry and would have seized her in his arms, but, lithely evading him, she turned, stifling a sob, and darted away through the trees toward the house.

For long he stood looking after her, fists clenched and his face very gray in the morning light. Some small inner voice told him that his new plan, and the others which he had built upon it, must crumble and fall as a castle of sand. He groaned and, turning aside, made his way through the shrubbery to the highroad.

He was become accessory to a murder, for he had learned for what reason and by what means Sir Charles Abingdon had been assassinated. He had even learned the identity of his assassin; had learned that the dreaded being called Fire-Tongue in India was known and respected throughout the civilized world as his excellency Ormuz Khan!

Paul Harley had learned these things also, and

now at this very hour Paul Harley lay a captive in Hillside. Naida had assured him that Paul Harley was alive and safe. It had been decided that his death would lead to the destruction of the movement, but pressure was being brought upon him to insure his silence.

Yes, he, Nicol Brinn, was bound and manacled to a gang of assassins, and because his tongue was tied, because the woman he loved better than anything in the world was actually a member of the murderous group, he must pace the deserted country lanes inactive; he must hold his hand, although he might summon the resources of New Scotland Yard by phoning from Lower Claybury station!

Through life his word had been his bond, and Nicol Brinn was incapable of compromising with his conscience. But the direct way was barred to him. Nevertheless, no task could appall the inflexible spirit of the man, and he had registered a silent vow that Ormuz Khan should never leave England alive.

Not a soul was astir yet upon the country roads and, sitting down on a grassy bank, Nicol Brinn lighted one of his black cigars, which in times of stress were his food and drink, upon which, if necessary, he could carry on for forty-eight hours upon end.

N connection with his plan for

I coercing Harley, Ormuz Khan had

gone to London by rail on the previous night, departing from Lower Claybury station at about the time that Colonel Lord Wolverham came out of the Cavalry Club, to discover his Rolls Royce to be missing. This same Rolls Royce was now a source of some anxiety to Nicol Brinn, for its discovery by a passing laborer in the deserted barn seemed highly probable. However, he had matters of greater urgency to think about, not the least of these being the necessity of concealing his presence in the neighborhood of Hillside.

His genius for taking cover, perfected upon many a big-game expedition, enabled him successfully to accomplish the feat; so that, when the limousine, which he had watched go by during the morning, returned shortly after noon, the lack-luster eyes were peering out through bushes near the entrance to the drive.

Instinct told him that the pretty girl with whom Ormuz Khan was deep in conversation could be none other than Phyllis Abingdon, but the identity of her companion he could not even guess. On the other hand, that this poisonously handsome Hindu, who bent forward so solicitously toward his charming traveling companion, was none other than the dreaded Fire-Tongue, he did not doubt.

He returned to a strategic position which he had discovered during the night. In a measure he was nonplused. That the presence of the girl was primarily associated with the coercion of Paul Harley, he understood; but might it not portend something even more sinister?

When, later, the limousine departed again, at great risk of detection he ran across a corner of the lawn to peer out into the lane in order that he might obtain a glimpse of its occupant. This proved to be none other than Phil Abingdon's elderly companion. She had apparently been taken ill, and a dignified Hindu gentleman, wearing gold-rimmed pince-nez, was in attendance.

Nicol Brinn clenched his jaws hard. The girl had fallen into a trap. He turned rapidly, facing the house. Only at one point did the shrubbery approach the wall, but for that point he set out hotfoot.

At last he came to the shallow veranda, with its four sightless windows backed by fancifully carved screens. He stepped up to the first of these and pressed his ear against the glass.

Fate was with him, for almost immediately he detected a smooth, musical voice speaking in the room beyond. A woman's voice answered and, listening intently, he detected the sound of a closing door.

Thereupon he acted: with the result, as has appeared, that Phil Abingdon, hatless, without her furs, breathless and more frightened than she had ever been in her life, presently found herself driving a luxurious Rolls Royce out of a roofless barn on to the highroad, and down to Lower Claybury station.