Chapter III: Front Matter (3)

We both left at about one o'clock, and as he was sleeping at the Métropole we parted at the corner of St. James' Street, and I said good-bye and wished him a pleasant crossing, thinking, of course, that I should not see him again before he left England. You can judge of my surprise when after walking home I found Barton already in my rooms. He apologised, saying that he had remembered something which he had meant to tell me, and had driven back to do it, passing me, I suppose, on the way. It was some time before I could get him to tell me what it was that he had forgotten. I was rather riled, as I wanted to go to bed, but when at last he did begin his story, I can tell you there wasn't much sleepiness left in me. He told it as no one else could have told it, and it's a solid fact that he made me feel like a frightened child, and you know I'm not a particularly imaginative man.

He began by asking me if I had observed his continual glances at the door in Mickleham's room--he was keeping his eye on my door, by the way, all the time he was telling the story. I said I had observed this, and he then gave me the reason for his conduct, and, by George, old boy, when I heard what he was always seeing when he did look at the aforesaid door, I admired the poor devil for his pluck as much as I pitied him for his delusion. I'm quite certain I couldn't stand it for half a minute, and he had been bearing it for more than a year.

He said that the door of any and every room in which he was always appeared to be ajar, and round the edge of the door--I declare it frightens me even to think of it--round the corner, as it were, just coming into the room, he always saw the hand and half the face of a man--never more, and never less. The hand was grasping the door about a foot above the handle, and the face was peering round it, with one eye--he couldn't see the other--always fixed on him. Cheerful, wasn't it? He could see the nose, which was very large and fleshy, and all the left side of the face, which was a sort of dirty white. The hair was black and rather long, he thought, and there was a large abrasion--"something between a cut and a bruise" was his phrase--on the temple.

He had been receiving this delightful visitor daily ever since the autumn of '95--a pleasant year he must have had of it, poor chap. I told him to go to a doctor, but he said that he had tried that without any success--had told the doctor that he was suffering from delusions, and had implicitly followed his instructions, but still the white face kept turning up at the door.

He seemed chiefly distressed about it because of his approaching marriage; he had, as I told you, become engaged in September, '95. He spoke very nicely of his future wife, of whom he seemed extremely fond, and asked my advice as to telling her all about it. I thought he had better not, and advised him to go in for hard exercise and early hours--but really I did not know what to say to him. "Paternosters were peas in plates to his sorrows."

He seemed rather more cheerful before he left, and we tried an interesting, though to me a somewhat alarming, experiment. Keeping his eyes fixed on the door, Barton walked slowly towards it, and laid his hand upon the handle. Directly he did this the face, he said, disappeared, but the hand remained. While he was turning the handle, however, the hand, which he said was large and dirty, followed the example of the head, and it became instantly clear to Barton that the door was not really ajar, but tightly closed. This was the invariable programme, he told me.

I saw him off, wished him well rid of his encumbrance, and promised to say nothing about it; then, taking my life and my candle in my hands, I rushed frantically up to bed.

I didn't meet Barton again until his wedding, which took place last month. He was looking nervous and harassed, but not more so than most men in his unhappy plight--it was a regular church affair. Naturally I had no opportunity for a quiet talk with him, even if I had been particularly anxious to have one--which I was not.

The happy pair started for Italy to spend their honeymoon, and I gave them a day's law before following. I had promised to join Robinson in Florence, and was already overdue. I hadn't the slightest intention of meeting the Bartons, and therefore of course they were almost the first English people that I came across in the streets of Florence. We exchanged a few fatuous remarks, and I then hurried away. It was too early in the honeymoon for them to be longing, like the couple in _Punch_, "for some friend to turn up, or even some enemy." That very evening, however, Barton came round to see me. I introduced him to Robinson, and we all talked for a bit in the hotel verandah, but it was so obvious that Barton had something to say to me in private that Robinson soon left us.

"Campbell," said Barton immediately, "it's getting worse than ever."

"What is?" I asked, though I knew.

"That infernal man at the door: I can see nearly all his face round the corner now, and I tell you I'm losing my nerve. And there's a new development: he doesn't always look at me now. I've noticed sometimes that his eyes--I can see both are fixed on Helene, my wife; and it's that, I think, that has shaken me."

"You haven't told her, I suppose?" said I.

"Of course not: but I think she sees that there's something wrong. I've seen her look at me very curiously at times, though she doesn't say anything. You don't think I ought to tell her?"

"Certainly not," I said; "but for goodness' sake go to a decent doctor when you get home, and tell him everything. I'm very sorry for you, my dear fellow, but that's really all I can advise; and if I were you I wouldn't put it off too long."

"We're going home next week," he said, and we parted. I really don't see what I could have said that could have done the slightest good. It was in his liver or his eyes that the fault lay, I thought--I'm not so sure about that now--and I'm no doctor.

Well, two days after this interview, while Robinson and I were at dinner, a waiter came to me and said that there was a lady in our private room who insisted on seeing me immediately. I went up, of course, and there found Mrs. Barton in a state of terrible excitement and anxiety.

"You must come with me, Mr. Campbell," she cried, on seeing me; "my husband has met with a terrible accident," and she literally dragged me out of the hotel into her carriage.

"He is in a doctor's house," she said, as we rattled furiously down the street; "the accident happened at the very door, and he was carried in. He has been asking continually for you."

I thought she seemed to resent this, and perhaps it was only natural. "How did it happen?" I asked.

"He had been buying some old armour and two old Florentine daggers, and was carrying them home when he slipped and fell, and one of the daggers ran into his leg. It was all my fault, I ought to have helped him to carry the things; his hands were full, and he couldn't save himself."

"Oh, it will be all right, Mrs. Barton," said I; "a cut in the leg is not very serious."

"Not serious!" she replied, angrily; "the doctor said himself that in ten seconds more he would have bled to death. Here is the house; I shall take you straight to him." She hurried me through the open door of a somewhat mean little dwelling--we had driven into a rather low quarter of the town. I didn't know Florence well enough to be sure exactly where we were, and during my drive I had been too much occupied to look out of the window. We went into a small bedroom on the ground floor. Two little men in black coats were standing by the bed, and on it lay Barton, with a face of the most ghastly pallor and wildly glaring eyes.

"Thank God you've come, Campbell," he gasped. "I'm too weak--too weak--you must keep him out," and then his head fell back and he fainted. Restoratives were applied without avail, and the two men in black exchanged whispers in Italian which I could not catch.

"Speak English," said Mrs. Barton, furiously--she looked like a madwoman--"Speak English. What are you going to do?"

I thought it improbable that either of the men would know the language, but I was wrong.

"We are agreed," said the taller of the two, speaking with a very slight accent, "my brother and I, that one thing only can be done. Your husband is dying from want of blood: we must give him more blood. How much will you pay?"

"There's no question of that," I said, as I grasped his meaning; "you can bleed me, I'm willing. Be quick, there's no time to lose."

"No, no," said the doctor, "you are not strong enough; it might not save him; it would certainly lose--that is, kill you. But we are fortunate; there is in our house what you call a lodger, he is strong and his blood will serve. He will not refuse me, he is of the Religion; but you must pay."

"Of the Religion?" I said. "Oh, I see, you are a Jew. Well, I will guarantee you five hundred pounds; divide it as you choose, only make haste."

"That will be sufficient," said the shorter of the brothers, "but you and the lady must not be here. The room is small; I will take you to another, and bring down our guest, and I will tell you when it is finished, that you may thank him."

So saying, he led us into a room facing the door of the bedroom and locked us in. I heard him go upstairs; heard voices: then his steps coming down, followed by someone with a much heavier tread; heard them enter the bedroom and close the door. Mrs. Barton was lying back in her chair in a sort of stupor, and I was examining the room by the light of one candle--it was now nearly half-past nine--when I heard a sudden outbreak of noise, the bedroom door opened, the key of our door was turned, and the taller of the two brothers looked in.

"The gentleman must come, please," he said, and I hurried out. "He is calling for you," he said, closing the door, "and will not keep still; we can do nothing if he will not keep still."

We went into the bedroom. Barton was tossing wildly about on the bed; the little doctor was trying to keep him down while a tall dark man of an unmistakably Jewish type was holding the injured leg as still as he was able. I went up and took Barton's hands in mine: instantly he became perfectly quiet, and his eyes closed.

"Keep him away. Campbell, I trust to you," he said, and lapsed into unconsciousness.

"We must be quick," said the little doctor. "If the gentleman holds the right hand all will be well; we will operate on the left arm. Come, Israel," to the stranger, "stand here."

Barton was lying perfectly still, but when the man Israel approached the head of the bed an extraordinary shudder ran through his body, his eyes opened and glared at me, and his lips moved as if to speak; but apparently the sight of me sitting by the bed soothed him, for the panic died out of his eyes and his head fell back again on the pillow.

The operation commenced. I'm not doctor enough to give you the details, and I could not see very clearly, but apparently the doctors--for both the brothers appeared to be medical men--had established, by means of a sort of a pipe, a connection between the circulatory system of the big Jew and the poor fellow on the bed, so that the blood of the former poured into the veins of the latter.

As this idea came home to me, I glanced anxiously at the stranger to see if he was fitted to bear such a strain, and I was satisfied. A fine full-blooded fellow he looked, six feet high and well built, with black hair and ruddy cheeks, which seemed to me to be gradually growing paler, but perhaps this may have been due to the failing light of the little lamp by whose feeble rays this difficult operation was being performed.

It seemed to me that this wonderful lending or selling of life, as it were, had been going on for a long time, when I heard a slight noise behind me, and, glancing round, I saw Mrs. Barton at the end of the room near the door. Her eyes were fixed in a stare of terror on the face, not of her husband on the bed, but on the stranger who was saving that husband's life. The operation was almost over apparently. Barton's face was in shadow, and I could see no change in its appearance, but the smaller of the two doctors was bringing forward instruments and bandages with a view apparently to the necessary stoppage of the flow of blood when the connecting pipe should be removed. I motioned to Mrs. Barton to keep back and be silent. I suppose the big Jew Israel noticed my gesture, for his eyes turned towards the door. I saw his face, which was now very pale, suddenly stiffen as it were, and in another moment he gave a terrible cry, and leaped back from the bed.

The smaller doctor, with the most admirable presence of mind, instantly commenced operations on Barton's arm, while his brother seized hold of his lodger round the waist. Mrs. Barton, her eyes still fixed on the big Jew, was crouching down at the end of the room, and I hurried round the bed only just in time to stop the man Israel, who rushed towards her, dragging the doctor after him, and yelling out some perfectly unintelligible gibberish. It was obvious, however, that he meant murder, and I collared him in front while the doctor hung on gallantly behind. Israel was enormously strong, and, seizing the little man by the neck, he simply tore him off and flung him away into a corner of the room. In doing this, however, he threw all his weight on to his left foot, which I promptly kicked from under him, and we came down together, knocking over the table and rolling wildly about on the floor.

He seemed to be growing weaker, and at last I got my knee on his chest, when I suddenly remembered that his arm had never been attended to, that he must be bleeding to death. I could see nothing; for in our fall his head had struck the table and upset the lamp--thank goodness it was filled with colza, not paraffin--so I yelled to the doctors to strike a light and lend a hand. The little man, who had quietly finished Barton's arm while we were waltzing about all over the floor, relighted the lamp, and I don't think I shall ever forget the scene that the feeble light displayed to me.

Barton was sitting up on the bed looking anxiously in my direction; one doctor was just getting on to his feet, the other was hurrying towards me, and in the corner by the door was huddled Mrs. Barton, still wildly staring round, but perfectly motionless. I looked down at the man on the floor, and saw to my horror that he was on the point of death--in fact, before the little doctor could reach him, and put the lamp down, his jaw had dropped and his head fell back with a thud on the bare boards.

"He is dead," said the little man, quietly; "that blow on the head would perhaps have sufficed, but the cause of death was loss of blood; perhaps the gentleman would prefer to make the fee seven hundred pounds and he shall not be troubled with any too curious questions. As the gentleman's carriage is at the door, the gentleman had better be removed; it will not hurt him. Is there anything the matter with the lady?"

Mrs. Barton had risen, and now came slowly forward. "No," she said, "I am well. That man--I was afraid--I thought he was going to--to hurt me."

"It was so, without doubt," said the little man, calmly; "he was angry. Is the gentleman ready to be moved?"

"All right," said Barton, speaking in quite his ordinary voice, "all right, I can walk."

"He must be carried," said the doctors together; "the other gentleman will help us, and then he will perhaps arrange about the money."

We picked Barton up amongst us, his wife going first to prepare the carriage for his reception, and carried him to the door.

"Stop a minute!" said Barton, suddenly, "let me see the poor fellow who is dead."

"It is right that the gentleman should see him," said the smaller brother, "he saved the gentleman's life."

We had propped the corpse up in a sitting position against the end of the bed, and Barton looked long into the ghastly face.

"Good God! how strange!" he whispered at last. "He has saved my life, and I feared him--how I feared him!"

"The gentleman knew Israel Hoffmann then?" said the taller of the two doctors.

"No," said Barton, "I have never met him before. Go on," and we carried him to the carriage where his wife was waiting us. I got in with them, telling the doctors I would return immediately, and they allowed me to depart without protest, somewhat to my surprise. I saw Barton safely in bed, and was hurrying from the room when he called me back and asked his wife to leave us for a moment.

"Campbell," he said, when she had gone, "do you know who that man was?"

"No," said I, "he was a lodger in the house. I know no more than that, but I can find out if you like."

"I don't mean that," he said; "that man's face was the face that had peered at me round the door for more than a year; the face I had told you about, the face I had grown to fear as I never feared anything in my life before; and yet that man has saved my life. It was good, not evil, that the vision meant, Campbell--good, not evil, and it was nearly driving me mad. Go back to that house; you can leave me safely, I am happier and better than I ever was before. I thought the thing was evil, and I find it to be good."

I left him repeating these words over and over again, told his wife, and hurried back to my rooms. Then, having procured the money, I drove to the doctor's house. I settled with the two little men in the sitting-room, and then asked if I might see the body.

"It is upstairs," they said. "We will arrange everything; he is of the Religion. But you may see him."

I went upstairs, and there on a bed in a tiny room lay the body of my late antagonist, wrapped in a sheet. The face was exposed, and I examined it with interest. It was deathly pale and somewhat fallen away, the thick, curving nose standing forward prominently. On the left temple and on the forehead was a terrible bruise, caused, I suppose, by the edge of the table on which the lamp had stood. Certainly the face tallied marvellously with Barton's description of his visionary visitor. I went back to my rooms and tried to puzzle the thing out, but I can't say that I succeeded. The connection that seemed to exist between the dead man and Mrs. Barton only complicated matters instead of simplifying them.

Robinson and I are still staying on here, but the Bartons left yesterday, Barton having recovered in a perfectly marvellous manner. I've written a very long letter, old boy, but as you seem excited by the remarks I let fall in my last epistle to you about the subject, I thought I had better give you the full details. I'm afraid I must ask you not to repeat the story--you will yourself see the reasons against so doing. I don't know if you will be able to form any theory about it--I shall be glad to hear it if you can. Hoping to get a letter from you soon, and that you are quite fit,

I am

Your loving brother,

TOM.

* * * * *

April 14, 1898.

DEAR JACK,

I will give you, since you desire it, full details of the whole terrible business, but I must repeat the caution of my last letter. Don't make this public just yet. Of course many of the facts are known, but still I should prefer you not to repeat what I am going to tell you. I am taking legal advice on the subject.

In my letter to you, last summer, I told you, I think, all about Barton's strange delusion and the extraordinary episode of the transfusion of blood from the very man whose wraith he was always seeing into Barton's own veins. The Bartons had been in England for some time before I returned to find an invitation awaiting me to dine at their house in town. I accepted, as I was anxious to see how Barton was getting on, and whether he had got rid of his horrible delusion.

I found him in the best of health, better and stronger apparently than he had been even before the commencement of his hallucination; but Mrs. Barton was much paler and thinner than when I had seen her last. I was the only guest, and the burden of the conversation was borne by myself and Barton, who was really almost boisterous at times--an extraordinary change for him. Mrs. Barton scarcely spoke. I noticed that she never so much as glanced in the direction of her husband. I thought at the time that probably the first tiff of their married life had come off some time that day, and that Barton's boisterousness and his wife's silence arose from the same cause. I know better now.

When Mrs. Barton left us to our cigarettes, I asked about the man at the door. Barton, I think, was rather vexed at the question, but he told me that he had no return of the vision, and then passed on to something else. I also inquired after his wife's health, and as far as I could judge he seemed actually pleased to hear that I thought her looking ill, and his manner of speaking of her altogether confirmed me in the idea that they had had a quarrel, and a fairly serious quarrel, that very day, though of course I couldn't pursue the subject.

A short while afterwards a message was brought in to Barton, and he asked me to excuse him for a few minutes, as he must see someone--a groom I think he said--and would rejoin me in the drawing-room.

I went upstairs and entered into conversation with my hostess, whose manners had completely changed. She talked now with a feverish rapidity, and I noticed with the most intense surprise, and I must add with a creeping sensation of horror, that she had caught Barton's trick of constantly shooting anxious glances at the door. I suppose she saw that I had observed her, for she turned her chair round with its back to the door and said--

"I was wondering why my husband did not come."

I told her that he was engaged for the moment, and she continued--

"Have you noticed any change in him, Mr. Campbell?"

"He seems marvellously well," I replied. "We really owe a great debt to the two little doctors and to----"

I stopped abruptly. Mrs. Barton had grown ghastly pale, and I remembered how fiercely the Jew had endeavoured to attack her in that terrible little room in Florence. Once again she seemed to read my thoughts.

"I knew that man Israel Hoffmann, Mr. Campbell," she said. "I am a Russian, you know, and we--my father and I--disliked him, and he hated us, and had threatened often to revenge--that is, to injure us. My father warned me against him only a few months before he died, and you see how the man tried to attack me on that night. We do not like Jews in Russia you know, Mr. Campbell.--Why, what is it?"

"Nothing," I said, hastily, but I'm afraid my voice shook; "I thought I saw your husband coming in--I was mistaken."

It was no mistake, I knew. It was Barton's face that I had seen looking round the door, with his eyes fixed on his wife; but as I spoke the head was withdrawn, and the door softly closed.

"Mr. Campbell," said--or, rather, gasped--the woman at my side, "was he--was he peering at me round the door?"

"Well, I--I thought so," I stammered.

"He always does that now," she whispered, "and it frightens me, Mr. Campbell--it frightens me. What does it mean?"

What on earth was I to say? Here was Barton apparently taking the place of his departed ghastly visitor; but how was I to explain this to his wife, who had never heard, and now most certainly must never hear, of her husband's hideous delusion. I was relieved from my difficulty by Barton himself, who now entered the room with the same boisterously cheerful manner that I had noticed before.

"Well, I hope you're not bored, Campbell," he cried.

"Very much the reverse," said I, with perfect truth.

"I'm afraid that isn't true," said Mrs. Barton; "I'm very dull to-night, but Mr. Campbell must excuse me--my head is aching terribly, and I really think I must go to bed."

Of course, I expressed my sympathy and wished her good-night; but as I opened the door for her she whispered, "For God's sake stay as long as you can. Good-night."

Well, I did stay as long as I could; and if ever a host made it clear to a guest that he wasn't wanted, Barton did that night. After about an hour of it he asked me point blank to go, as he had had a very tiring day.

I couldn't very well stay on after that, could I? I soothed my conscience by determining to find some pretext for coming round to the house the next morning, and got up to go. Barton helped me on with my coat himself, and while he was doing so I noticed an immensely heavy whip lying on an old oak chest in the hall.

"Sorry for your horses, Barton," said I, "if that's your idea of a riding-crop."

Barton laughed.

"It's a Russian executioner's knout," he said. "I got it as an interesting curiosity, and a pretty penny I had to pay for it. I thought it might interest my wife--she's a Russian, as you know."

"Rather a ghastly present," I said.

"Oh, horrors appeal to the Slavonic temperament," he answered; "she'll be glad to have that knout. Good-night."

I must admit that I left the house with a very strong presentiment of trouble to come, and cudgelling my brains in vain to discover a reason for Barton's amazing conduct at the drawing-room door. I did not like to ask him about it--the less said about his delusion the better, I thought--but I determined to come round in the morning; I could make the Russian knout an excuse for doing so--I could easily assume an interest in a curiosity like that.

So at ten o'clock next day I walked round to the Bartons'. As I turned the corner into Pont Street, I saw with a thrill of undefined dread that there was a small crowd gathered round the Bartons' house, and two policemen were engaged in pushing the people back from the door, which was open. I forced my way furiously through the crowd, and seeing the white face of the old butler in the hall, behind the policemen, I called to him. He came forward and I was admitted, after some delay, as a friend of the family.

"What is it, Parsons?" I asked.

"God knows, Mr. Campbell," he whispered. "Mr. and Mrs. Barton breakfasted together in the oak room this morning: there wasn't no one waiting, and about ten minutes gone I heard a cry and went to the door. It was locked, Mr. Campbell, and there's something goin' on in there as I don't like, sir. The police are breaking in the door now."

I hurried past the old fellow, and up the stairs to the oak room, a little panelled room with a strong oak door, which two men, a policeman and the footman, were trying to break in. From the room came a noise of blows and of a voice singing, heard from time to time, as the two men paused in their violent attack on the door. The voice was strange to me, and I could make nothing of the words of the song; they were not English, that was all I could discover. As I threw my weight against it the door gave way, and the three of us tumbled into the room together. It was a ghastly sight, Jack. There, with her head on the table among the breakfast things and her body resting across the back of a chair, lay Mrs. Barton, dead, and horribly lacerated on the back and shoulders, from which the clothes had been torn away. Her husband was standing beside her, still singing the hideous song we had heard, and waving round his head the terrible whip that I had seen the night before, and which was now dripping with the blood of the wretched woman whose life he had taken.

We all rushed in at him together: he knocked the footman head over heels with his left hand, and struck at me with his whip, but at the same moment the policeman at my side cut him down with a blow of his truncheon, and he lay writhing on the floor. I lifted up the body of the poor woman, but finding that life was quite extinct I laid her down and turned to the madman at my feet. The blow of the policeman's staff had caught him on the side of the head, crushing it in like an egg-shell, and I saw that he was dying. I knelt down by him, and he seemed to recognise me, but in a moment his eyes closed, and though he breathed for more than an hour he never recovered consciousness.

You read my evidence at the inquest: of course my description of Barton's delusion was necessary to establish the poor fellow's undoubted madness, but I did not think it incumbent on me to enter into great detail. Now, I want your opinion as a medical man. This affair has shaken my nerves in the most terrible way.

Of course the vision and its fulfilment, if you can call it such, is and must remain inexplicable. It is Barton's conduct after the operation that I want you to explain.

I know, from certain correspondence that I have in my hands, that the man Israel Hoffmann was terribly wronged by Mrs. Barton and her father: his wife was, in fact, executed on their representations alone, as far as I can ascertain, and the whole object of his life was revenge. Is it possible that the spirit of vengeance passed into Barton's soul as the blood of the injured Jew passed into his veins?

Could that be the reason for his strange choice of a weapon, and for the ghastly song, which may have been a Russian song, or even one of the psalms in Yiddish for all I know, which he sang as he beat his wife to death? If this is so, the only feeling we should have towards poor Barton is one of intense pity; and if not, if such an idea is repugnant to medical science, how do you explain the whole hideous story?

Write soon and tell me.

Your loving brother,

TOM.

P.S.--It is a coincidence--an interesting coincidence--that the fatal wound on poor Barton's head corresponded exactly, or almost exactly, with a terrible bruise I saw on the head of Israel Hoffmann.

A MAN HUNT WITH BLOODHOUNDS.

SHOWING HOW THEY MAY BE USED IN THE DETECTION OF CRIME.

BY ALFRED ARKAS.

I have just been hunted by bloodhounds, and, strangely enough, I am none the worse for the experience. It is more exciting than fox-hunting, and for sheer fascination is well ahead of any other sport of which I have any knowledge. The why and wherefore is another story, of which more presently.

The trial of the bloodhound in the practical work of tracking criminals is no new thing. In 1888, when the Whitechapel murders were agitating all England, the public, alarmed and indignant at the impotence of the police, plied the authorities with no less than 1,200 letters per day containing suggestions for the murderer's capture. Of these 800 advocated the trial of bloodhounds.

Ultimately, the weight of public opinion was such as to induce Sir Charles Warren, Commissioner of Police, to give them a trial. Mr. Brough, the eminent authority on the breed, was consulted, and he brought a couple of hounds, trained to hunt man, to London, and several experiments were undertaken.

In some of these Sir Charles himself acted as quarry, the runs being made in Hyde Park. They were all successful, the Commissioner and others who acted as runners being run to earth each time with unfailing regularity. He expressed himself more than satisfied, it being clearly demonstrated that the hounds would run a man to earth who was a complete stranger to them, notwithstanding that the scent might be crossed by a number of other persons.

During all the weeks the hounds were in London no further crime occurred, and the opportunity of utilising their services was lost. Sir Charles kept them till it seemed that the terrible Jack the Ripper scare was over. The hounds were then returned to their owner. They had not left London more than two or three days when another ghastly crime was perpetrated. Obviously their presence exercised a deterrent effect, and had the police seen fit to add a couple of well-trained hounds to the Scotland Yard staff it is probable no other murder would have been added to the series.

The mysterious and apparently illimitable scenting power possessed by the bloodhound appeals to the imagination of the criminal classes to an extraordinary extent. From what I have gathered of the subject, I cannot help feeling that no police station of any size should be without a couple of trained hounds. The fear of the "cat" is proverbial. Utilise the bloodhound, and a far greater deterrent against crime will have been found.

Some time since the subject once more engaged further attention, and it was decided to organise a series of private trials in connection with _The Harmsworth Magazine_, with a view to determining the real capability of the hound for hunting man. The next thing was to procure hounds of the purest breed. At this stage we put ourselves into communication with Mr. Edwin Brough, of Wyndyate, near Scarborough.

Mr. Brough has been a breeder of bloodhounds for something like thirty years. He is regarded as the highest living authority on the breed. He is the winner of over 400 first and champion prizes for hounds of his own breeding, and he may be aptly described the creator of the splendid type of hound we have to-day.

Mr. Brough received my suggestion in a sporting manner, and with characteristic generosity offered me every facility in the most difficult and patience-racking task of obtaining the photographs which accompany this article. His hounds are his best friends, and he is willing to go to almost any lengths in order to correct the innumerable absurd ideas that are prevalent with regard to the breed.

Accordingly a short time since a small two-man expedition, equipped with a camera and an unlimited stock of patience, set out for Scarborough.

Early on the following morning I took part in my first manhunt, and a weirdly fascinating experience it was in all conscience--harmless enough, in spite of its sanguinary title.

At the back of Mr. Brough's house are spacious kennels. Here we found thirty or forty valuable hounds, gazing from behind the iron bars of their kennel runs, each handsome and well groomed, the black and fawn coat glistening like velvet; each a perfect type, with handsome expressive face, and pedigree long enough to turn many a human being pale with envy. The kennel man opened two of the doors, and we trudged down the drive and out on to the fields by the cliff-side with four magnificent hounds at our heels.

A soft green undulation in the countryside, sloping into a wooded valley, was chosen for our first trial, and standing at a gate on the summit I had an uninterrupted view of the whole run.

A few moments after our arrival a gentleman who had volunteered to act as runner or quarry started over the slope, and sprinted quickly across the valley on to the opposite hillside. His destination had been previously decided, and with the aid of a glass we could distinctly see him crouching behind the bushes.

A short time after he had concealed himself, the hounds, which had been held in check out of sight, were brought through the gate and laid on scent. The laying on was done by the kennel man, who simply ran his hand along the line or lines of scent to give the hounds a start. A moment later they were rapidly casting round on the trail. Then, before you could say "Jack Robinson," there was a deep sonorous bay, more like the roar of the sea-lion echoing in the roof of Brighton Aquarium than anything else I know, but sweet and resonant as the note of a bell. They had found the scent, and were off like streaked lightning.

Down the hill they flew, three in a bunch, the fourth perhaps a yard behind, their noses almost scraping the ground, and the long graceful ears trailing noiselessly in the short grass. A couple of minutes later a deep-bayed quartette echoed away on the further hillside. They had found their man, and were jumping and licking him delightedly. So much for the tearing limb from limb theory.

As a matter of fact, the bloodhound never hurts his quarry when found. He is the gentlest and most lovable of hounds, and vice of any description is utterly foreign to his character. If he is required to hold his man at bay it is necessary to specially train him for the purpose.

"Strong scent," said Mr. Brough. "They went right away." And, in truth, they travelled like racehorses. So fast, indeed, that one forgot for the moment that they were not pursuing a visible object, or racing to a pre-arranged goal.

When the truth made itself clear that they were hunting what is termed "the clean boot"--following the natural scent of a man through his shoe leather--across rough and broken country at a twelve-miles-an-hour gait, it seemed incredible.

And it should be remembered that it was the individual scent of that one man they were tracking. Each human being seems to possess a distinctive scent, and when well-trained hounds are laid on to any one scent they cannot be diverted, though the trail be crossed by any number of other persons.

Five minutes later I ran myself. I was a complete stranger to the hounds. I know that no artificial scent had been attached to my boots, and the course was an entirely different one of my own choosing. Yet they found me a mile away, a few minutes after they were laid on, and bayed with delight as they came up.

In all our trials, extending over three days, they were successful, although every difficulty was placed in their way. In one trial the runner ran to the bank of a river, then up along the side for some yards; back again over the same scent to the first point of contact with the bank; then he forded the river and ran along the opposite bank.

The hounds came up at full trot, traced him along the near bank, till in their eagerness they ran over the scent. Then they all checked and cast again, and after a few moments found by the double scent--although he had practically returned over the same line--that he had doubled over his own track. At the bank they cast again, and after assuring themselves that he had not returned to the starting place they swam the stream, and in a few moments had picked up the scent on the other side and found him.

In another instance several circles were made by the quarry in the middle of a run, and while they were casting about this invisible maze, in an endeavour to find his outgoing trail, we were enabled to obtain our photograph of a cast.

In most of our trials the hounds were put on the trail comparatively soon after the runner had passed over the course, but it must not be forgotten that they are equally successful in working what is termed a "cold scent"--one many hours old. In this respect they surpass all other breeds of hounds.

As I have already said, this power of scent is so subtle as to be almost uncanny. And it is as deep a mystery to those who have devoted a lifetime to hound breeding as to the ignorant layman.

Certain it was, however, that the hounds performed marvels, and their success, under circumstances of great difficulty, was sufficient to more than convince me of their value in the detection of crime. They must have fair play, of course, and conditions more or less favourable for their particular work.

The training of the uneducated puppy to hunt the clean boot is as interesting as the work of the fully trained adults.

The puppies begin their training when only four or five months old, and Mr. Brough resorts to none of the methods generally advocated, such as rubbing the boots of the runner with blood or aniseed. They begin as they finish--on the clean boot. For the first few times they practise tracking a runner whom they know.

The runner starts in view of the pups; runs some two or three hundred yards up wind in a straight line on grass land. He hides himself as soon as possible, and then the trainer takes the pup over the exact line of scent. He trails his hand along it, endeavouring to get the dog to put his head down and work for himself. This goes on till the quarry is reached, when the dog is rewarded by a piece of meat.

This has to be repeated several times perhaps, before the young hound gets his head down and understands what is required of him. Once he understands, he takes the greatest possible interest in the quest, and improves rapidly.

Then difficulties are placed in his way. The line is purposely crossed by others. The time of laying on is postponed some time after the run. Zig-zag runs are also made, and sticks with white flags on them are stuck in the ground at all the angles. By this means the trainer is enabled to judge of the accuracy of the dog's work.

Mr. Brough makes an intimate friend of each and every hound, and their individual characteristics are well known to him. Extreme patience, kindly persistence and firmness are all that is necessary in the upbringing of these beautiful creatures.

As friends they are unsurpassed. Mr. Brough says, "The bloodhound is essentially and pre-eminently a gentlemanly dog, and when you have once won his esteem he may be depended upon as your staunch, trusty, life-long friend."

Mr. Brough's dogs are the handsomest I ever saw. They have a majestic bearing, and thoughtful expressive faces, quite in harmony with their aristocratic lineage.

I should advise every dog lover to obtain a good puppy and train it himself. There are few healthier or more delightful recreations.

Come to me, little one,
Out of the autumn sun;
Play must be surely done--
Three kisses, then.
Clamber up on my knee.
Old, do they say of me?
You would not like to be
Three score and ten!

Time's to be blamed, not I;
Whether we laugh or sigh,
His busy wheels must fly
For maids and men.
Once I was six years old,
Only the years have roll'd;
Most of the tale is told
At three score and ten!

Age, too, has dreams of May,
Loved faces gone away,
Green ways grown sad and gray.
Scarce we know when.
Crying?--no, little one;
Tears should be past and done,
Rest is so nearly won,
At three score and ten!

Lift me your baby eyes,
Blue as the summer skies;
More in their laughter lies
Than Age may ken.
Heav'n in their depth I see:
Pray it may there still be
When you can count, like me,
Three score and ten!

THE DESPATCHES FOR GIBRALTAR.

A VICTORIA CROSS AFFAIR.

BY GILBERT HERON.

_Illustrated by D. B. Waters and F. T. Jane._

In the summer of 189-, the Channel Squadron, having taken part in the Annual Mobilisation, had dispersed.

Ships and men alike were resting, the former in their respective dockyards, the latter enjoying themselves after their kind on leave.

Although only a senior lieutenant, I had lately been appointed to the command of a torpedo-gunboat, the _Quickmatch_, a vessel of the _Speedy_ type, which I had left at Portsmouth. I was spending my leave at the country seat in Hampshire of one of my late father's oldest friends, whose daughter I had long loved, when a telegram arrived ordering me to join my ship with all possible despatch. Hawes, our cheeky little clerk, evidently thinking I should regard it as a piece of good news, had added on his own responsibility, "War declared! Vive la gloire!"

So it had come, then, and I should have to leave the delights of love in a country house for the stern realities of war. There was nothing for it but to leave Bertha and say farewell. We had been engaged for some time, but had decided that it would be folly to marry till I had at least reached the rank of Commander; and the one drop of sweetness in the bitter cup of our farewell was the thought that active service would give me an opportunity for quick promotion.

It was difficult to find a quiet corner for leave-taking; but eventually, in the drawing-room, behind a palm-shaded screen, I bade her a long good-bye.

"I will write whenever I can, dearest," I said, "but I expect it will not be an easy matter. You must be content to hear from me at odd intervals till the war is over. You will trust me, dear, will you not?"

"With my very life!" was her passionate reply. "Oh, Herbert! Herbert!" she cried, the tears, which nothing could now hold back, coming thick and fast; "I will pray for you always--always, that the God of battles may spare you to me!"

At length I managed to tear myself away, leaving her to find consolation from Him who dries all tears with His infinite pity and compassion, and gives even to weak women and little children a strength that many an erring man envies.

I reached the _Quickmatch_ the same night, and found instructions to join up with the great fleet which was already assembling at Spithead.

The next morning we weighed anchor in the presence of the greatest crowd of people it has ever been my lot to witness. Southsea beach was one compact mass of men, women, and children, anxious to get a last glimpse of the near and dear ones who were so soon to do battle for their native land.

Slowly we moved off, and though we were far from the shore, on the outside right of the fleet, we could hear the hoarse cries which broke wildly from the vast concourse watching us steam away--from home and friends, from love and life, from all that man holds dear, to death and an unknown resting-place.

Two days later saw us across the Bay of Biscay, in compliance with the sealed instructions which the Admiral had opened as soon as we were out of sight of land. The Channel Squadron, with Gibraltar as its temporary headquarters, was to keep open the line of communication from the Atlantic to the Mediterranean. This, with the information that France and Russia were actively operating against us, was all we knew.

The _Blenheim_ had been sent on ahead as one of our scouts, and she had signalled nothing of consequence till we had arrived off Cape St. Vincent. Then, however, she sent us some sufficiently startling news by her mast-head semaphore. She reported that a strong French fleet lay stretched right across the entrance to the Straits of Gibraltar.

Immediately all was excitement aboard. Evidently we should have to force our passage through them, and everyone was keenly awaiting the signal to get into "line of battle." But the signal did not come.

A heavy white fog came stealing across the face of the waters, and in a very few moments had swallowed up sea and sky and ships in its devouring obscurity.

Then came a signal to stop engines, and soon the entire fleet had stopped and were lying almost as if at anchor.

Besides myself, the officers of the _Quickmatch_ consisted of a lieutenant, Taylor, who acted as my first lieutenant and performed the navigating duties; a sub-lieutenant, Hastings, fresh from college; an engineer officer; and a gunner, a fine specimen of a self-educated bluejacket who resolutely sets himself to climb the ladder of promotion from the lower deck.

We were standing together on the quarter-deck discussing the probability of the fog lifting, when I was surprised by a signal from Admiral Beaufoy, ordering me to repair aboard the flag-ship.

I lost no time in obeying his summons, and in a few minutes was standing in his cabin.

The Admiral, who was pacing to and fro when I entered, stopped and curiously regarded me for a few embarrassing seconds.

"Ralph," he said at length, "I have decided to entrust you with a difficult and dangerous mission."

I bowed in silence, wondering to what this was to lead. Evidently it was something serious, and success would mean promotion, and promotion--marriage! And at that thought my lovelorn mind went back to the picture of Bertha seated under the old elm tree, a picture so sweet that for an instant I entirely forgot the business on hand.

I was recalled from my day-dreams by the cold, calm voice of the Admiral. "The position," he was saying, "as you are aware, is this:--

"There is a powerful French fleet between us and Gibraltar. I intend to fight that fleet"--his eyes sparkled, and he involuntarily clenched his fists--"and drive it into the Mediterranean.

"Now, I have very important despatches from home for the Governor of Gibraltar, which _must_ be delivered not later than to-morrow. I had intended to deliver them myself, not being aware of the presence of the blockading fleet. Then, when I heard of their position, I had determined to attack at dawn, and thus the despatches would still have been in time. But now, since I cannot attack till the fog lifts"--he made a gesture of impatience--"and that may be days, the only thing left for me to do is to run past the French, and so deliver the despatches to the Governor."

I was all attention, and followed the Admiral intently as he went on, now somewhat more quickly.

"The _Quickmatch_, Ralph, is in every way suited for such a purpose, and I intend you to take her through. Now, please, listen carefully to the suggestions I am about to make you. Will you take a glass of wine?"

I was so elated at the prospect of distinction thus offered to me that I hardly know how I answered.

The Admiral continued: "If you start shortly, you will be in the mouth of the Straits of Gibraltar about sunset, and you can creep along under the lee of the African coast with a very fair chance of success. You will thus arrive at Gibraltar during the night, and go at once to the Governor and deliver your despatches. You will then await further orders. Of course, in the event of failure----"