In the winter of 19—I was at Monte Carlo for three weeks, taking a short holiday alone, and also looking out for a villa at Roquebrune or Mentone for my wife, who was to come out with the baby as soon as the house had been secured.

Now and again I went into the “Rooms” and staked a louis or two upon an even chance or a transversale at roulette; but, speaking generally, the Casino bored me. The cosmopolitan crowd of smart people—like champagne corks floating on a cesspool—the professional gamblers, with their veil of decorous indifference concealing a fierce greed for money which they have not earned—a sprinkling of wood-ash over a glowing fire—presented little interest, and I much preferred long walks and drives in the earthly paradise of Les Alpes Maritimes.

I stayed at the Métropole Hotel, making it the base of my excursions, and one evening, after dinner, I paid one of my rare visits to the Casino. I wandered about the gilded, stuffy saloons, with their illuminations of oil-lamps—so that no enterprising gentleman may cut the electric wires and make off with the money on the tables!—the low voices and almost sanctimonious manner of the players, the over-dressed demi-mondaines who glide about with their hard, evil eyes. The place was very full. All the chairs round the roulette tables were occupied, and people were standing behind the chairs as well. As I am tall, I was able to reach over and place my stakes, and I did so several times. When I had lost four louis with monotonous regularity, I decided that it was not worth while, and thought I would go and smoke, for, contrary to the usual pictures in the magazines, smoking is not allowed in the roulette or trente-et-quarante rooms.

So I went out into the Atrium, the great pillared entrance hall, which looks like an important provincial corn exchange, and lit a cigarette. The place was fairly full of people, walking up and down, or reading the latest telegrams, which are fixed up upon a green-baize screen, and I was watching them idly when, coming round the corner from the cloak-room, I saw—Danjuro!

My heart gave a sudden leap, the sight of him was so utterly unexpected and recalled so much. To tell the truth, he seemed to belong to a long past and forgotten dream, for Connie and I, by mutual consent, hardly ever spoke of the days of the pirates.

Danjuro was about fifteen yards away. I saw his face distinctly, and was certain that I was not mistaken. Then he looked up, and I could swear that he saw and recognized me.

Be that as it may, he turned and slipped round the corner like a weasel, and when I got there he had vanished. I made a search, of course, though I knew how futile it would be if he wished to avoid me, and the result was as I expected. There wasn’t a trace of him anywhere, and none of the attendants or door-keepers had seen a Japanese gentleman anywhere.

I went for a walk on the terrace in the moonlight, and then returned to the hotel and sought my bed. For a long time I could not sleep. The sight of Danjuro had made me restless. A legion of memories trooped through the brain, and curiosity marshalled the procession. What was that enigmatic and sinister being doing here? Was he still upon his ruthless quest, moving through the panorama of European life like some wandering Jew of vengeance? Nothing had ever been heard of Vargus again. For my part, I shared the opinion of the police bureaux of the Continent, that the soft-voiced and malignant scoundrel was dead.

It was pathetic to think of Danjuro prowling through life to avenge his patron, wasting his magnificent powers upon a hopeless quest. Pathetic, yes—so ran my thoughts—but one can’t think of Danjuro as an ordinary human being. He was simply a single idea, clothed in flesh, a marvellous machine designed for one operation only, a specialist so perfect that he became a monomaniac.

Poor Van Adams, to protect and serve him had been Danjuro’s whole life. Every faculty of mind and body had been devoted to that one end. And yet he must have loved the American to have served him so? And if he could love he was human!

I wrestled with the problem till dawn, and got no nearer a solution. I knew that, despite our companionship in peril and the extraordinary adventures we had gone through together, if Van Adams had lived and for any reason had told Danjuro to put me out of the way, the little man would have executed the job with neatness, dispatch, and an entire absence of compunction.

I decided that Danjuro, as a subject of psychological analysis, was quite beyond me, and did my best to forget the incident. With an effort I managed to do so, and got a few hours’ sleep before Thumbwood called me. I said nothing to him of having seen Danjuro, for he also is unwilling to talk much of the days of terror—perhaps because his wife, Wilson, that was, and is still, Connie’s handmaid—so strenuously objects to it.

About half-past eleven I left the hotel and strolled to the foot of the funicular railway which hauls one up from the narrow ledge of land on which Monte Carlo stands to the heights of La Turbie. I designed to lunch at the excellent hotel at the top in the clear mountain air, and then to walk along the Upper Corniche towards Roquebrune, Eze, and the mountains above Mentone. There is much to explore in these high regions—ruins of Roman and medieval forts, built as a defence against the raiding Moors of the Mediterranean, and here and there delightful villas among pine-woods and olive groves, far from the haunts of men.

It was a house of this description, a mountain hermitage, that I wished to find and take for six months. I knew that they were occasionally to be let, but somewhat difficult to come across upon the books of the agents. In Monte Carlo I had been assured that personal exploration was the best and quickest way.

I lunched at La Turbie on a magnificent bouillabaisse and riz-de-veau, and after an interval set out upon my walk. It was a magnificent afternoon, the air golden clear. Far away out to sea Corsica lay like a dim cloud. The mountain side fell in terrace after terrace of olives to groups of painted houses looking like toys. Away to the right were the red roofs and gleaming white buildings of the Monte Carlo palaces, and the promontory of the Tête du Chien was perfectly outlined in the azure of the sea.

“Yes,” I thought, “upon this great height is the place to live when one comes to the Côte d’Azur, and I won’t go home to-night until I have found something…” And I began to climb by a by-path.

The afternoon was hot. After a mile or two I rested in the shade of a great rock and fell asleep. When I awoke the sun, which sets early in winter, even on the Riviera, was declining. I was not quite sure of my direction, but thought that I could make Roquebrune by an oblique path over the spur of the mountain, and from there easily descend to Cap Martin and get a carriage, and take the tram which crawls along the cliff to Monte Carlo. So I set out.

The path, however, did not prove to be the right one, and it was twilight, or that extremely short interval which does duty for it in the south, before I came to three or four stone huts fronting a plateau with an enclosure full of goats. I explained my predicament to a swarthy woman who sat knitting at a door, and she gave me directions. She also said, in mingled French and Italian, for the frontier was not five miles away, that there would be a small empty villa to be let a mile onwards—at least, she believed so.

“Can you tell me the name of the owner, madame?” I asked.

“But, no, m’sieu. It is a new gentleman. He has bought the villa and the larger one, which is close to it but higher up the hill. He is a scholar of some sort, and lives quite alone, so he cannot want the smaller house on the road. It was, moreover, always let in the time of the last owner, M. Visguis, of Nice.”

I thanked the good dame, refused a cup of goats’ milk, gave her a five-franc piece and started on my way again rejoicing. My luck was in. This mountain châlet would be just the thing, and I made up my mind to interview the recluse on my way home.

The sun sank, and night came up with a rush out of the Mediterranean. Everything was dead still. There are no birds in these solitudes, and the hum of day insects was over. Although the moon rose almost at once and gave sufficient light to steer by, the place was eerie. Immense rocks threw ashen shadows. The stone pines stood like silent sentinels, and the huge coronet of jewels—topaz against black velvet—that was Monte Carlo seemed a hundred miles away.

Following my directions, I came at length to the garden wall of a fairly large villa, painted all along the sides, with gigantic and melancholy trees, and the moonlight shed a ghostly radiance upon it. This, I knew, was the house in occupation. The one that might be let was lower down the slope and on the other side of the road—to my right. I could just see the roof of it as I peered over the parapet.

Pushing open a wooden gate, I went up the garden path towards the Villa Turquoise—that I had discovered was its name. Tree frogs were croaking round the house, but as it was winter, there were no friendly fireflies; once or twice the fans of a palm clicked with a dry, rustling noise.

It was difficult to find the door as I came up to the villa, but after a moment, I saw a broad band of yellow light coming from the side, and turned towards it. I walked upon the turf of a little lawn, and threaded my way between orange and pepper trees, with here and there a bush of Cape gooseberries.

And up to that moment I never had a suspicion or a qualm. Indeed, I felt at peace with myself and all the world, washed and purified by the sweet Alpine air and all the loveliness my eyes had looked upon that day. Then I heard, clear, strong and sudden, a chord of music on a piano.

I stopped dead still.

Again that crash of sound, and then a smooth and mellow arpeggio, as masterly fingers ran up and down the keys of a magnificent instrument.

I grew cold, suddenly and horribly cold.

I could see nothing but a long French window glowing orange with light in the dark side of the house. I had heard nothing but some chords upon a grand piano.

But in that moment, though subconsciously, I knew.

I moved forward in little automatic jerks, listening with a dreadful fear, a sick certainty. The second before I came to the window and looked inside, it began.

Played by a master hand, I heard the opening notes of the Third Ballade of Chopin…

Another step, and, in the darkness myself, I could see into the room.

The musician was Mr. Vargus.

He had grown a little moustache, which was waxed at the ends, and a small black imperial on his chin. He was also much fatter than when I had seen him last, and he wore a smoking jacket of purple velvet. On one finger was a diamond ring, which flashed in the lamplight as the firm, powerful hands rose and fell.

There was a soft smile in the sly eyes as he interpreted the beautiful, fantastic music.

I am going to tell you what happened without comment or any reference whatever to my own feelings.

The melody progressed to that marvellous passage which Beardsley saw in line as a white horse ambling through a dark wood of pines, ridden by a lady in a dress of black velvet.

At the opening chords of the theme a door behind the player opened quietly. He heard nothing.

An awful and august figure entered.

It was Danjuro, but not the Danjuro I had ever known.

He wore a robe of yellow silk with wide kimono sleeves, and a sash of purple round his waist. Into the sash was thrust the long scabbard of an ancient Japanese sword—a scabbard of tortoise-shell and silver. His hair was differently arranged, his lips compressed into a single line. The eyes, which seemed curiously elongated, glittered like black lacquer in a high light.

He crept forward and touched Vargus on the shoulder.

The man in the velvet coat leapt up with a short, sharp cry. Then he whipped round and came face to face with Danjuro.

They remained, staring into each other’s eyes for several seconds.

I saw a ghostly change beginning in the pirate’s face. Inch by inch something crept over it like a veil as life ebbed away. Then he fell in a crumpled heap upon the carpet.

The Japanese looked down at him without a change in his dreadful stony glare. Then he bent down and pulled the limp form out straight, turning it with its face downwards. He drew the sword and lifted it high above his head.

As it gleamed I shut my eyes…

When I looked again, sick with the sickness of death itself, the figure in the yellow robe had raised both arms above its head. The sleeves had slipped away and the coils of muscle stood out upon the brown flesh.

Danjuro’s lips were parted. He seemed to be speaking rapidly to something above him. His whole face was irradiated with joy, and the sword in his right hand shone like a tall flame.

He remained there for some little time. Then he lowered his arms, and taking a square of purple silk from his breast, he cleansed the sword, and I knew what he was going to do.

He placed the jewelled hilt upon the carpet and adjusted the point at his waist, steadying the blade with his left hand. Then, with a loud cry, as if of exaltation, he fell heavily forward…

He had gone to his own place in the way appointed to the Heroes of Old Japan.

Printed at

The Chapel River Press

Kingston, Surrey

Advertisements

Messrs. HURST & BLACKETT’S

Announcements

Of

New Books for the Autumn of 1919

An Important Book

By HARRY FURNISS

My Bohemian Days

With over 120 illustrations from original and characteristic drawings by this famous artist.

In one volume, demy cloth, +16s.+ net.

As a famous caricaturist and humorous artist the author has intimate knowledge of the life of which he writes. He knew Bohemia from the inside, and was closely associated with many of the interesting people who are introduced into his book. He carries his humour into his writing, and there are numbers of good stories to help him. The book not only makes enjoyable reading, but it also throws a good deal of light on a number of well-known characters in the world of Bohemia and the atmosphere in which they lived. The many drawings by the author which illustrate the book are a special feature, and greatly add to its interest.

A New Volume of the famous

Memoirs of William Hickey

Edited by ALFRED SPENCER

In demy 8vo, cloth gilt, +15s.+ net.

This third volume continues the memoirs from 1782, and will be found as fascinating as those which have already been published. It contains much interesting matter concerning East India in the old Colonial days, and a number of interesting letters arising out of the retention of Hickey and his companion, Charlotte Barry, as prisoners by the French on their way out to Calcutta. It is possible that the work may be completed with this volume, but a fourth volume may perhaps be necessary. The price of the present volume has, owing to increased costs of production, been advanced to 15s. net, and the price of the first two volumes has also had to be increased.

Reprints are now ready of Vol. I. (the Third Edition) and Vol. II. (the Second Edition) (1749 to 1782), each in demy 8vo, cloth gilt, 15s. net. Vol. II. contains photogravure portraits.

A few short extracts from scores of columns of Reviews:

The Athenæum: “One of the most interesting eighteenth-century documents that have appeared for some time.”

The Times: “Fascinating for its honesty and vividness; it is difficult to give any idea of the spontaneous vivacity of the narration; it is of remarkable interest.”

The Spectator: “Deserves, both for its human and historical interest, to be widely studied.”

Daily Telegraph: “A ‘find’ of really important interest, likely to take an important place among eighteenth-century documents.”

Manchester Guardian: “For colour and zest these memoirs would be hard to beat; were they fiction they would be called ‘unmatchable pictures of the time.’”

The Globe: “A glorious book. Its period is a little later than Tom Jones, but the splendid rollicking spirit is the same. No lover of English literature can fail to enjoy to the utmost the virile jolly picture it represents.”

Daily Express: “One of the most absorbingly interesting books of recent times.”

A delightful volume

By LADY CATHERINE MILNES GASKELL

A Woman’s Soul

By the Author of “Friends Round the Wrekin,” “A Shropshire Lass and Lad,” etc.

In demy, cloth, +16s.+ net.

Under a thin guise of fiction Lady Catherine Milnes Gaskell has written a most sympathetic and entertaining account of her experiences during the war, and those of her friends and neighbours. Like many other ladies of position she threw herself heart and soul into the every-day drudgery of hospital work and the numerous duties of those who undertook the responsibilities of large country estates in the absence of their owners; and she gives us in a most delightful story a very true insight into the activities, thoughts and feelings of a class which did a great deal of war work, and said very little about it.

Her previous books have already established her as a close observer of human nature and a writer with a wide, tolerant outlook and a style of unusual distinction.

Some Press opinions on the Author’s work:

“The book, fresh and alive, reads as if it were an actual record of her life.”—Times.

“It is the real thing that interests this pleasant author, the real aspect of nature, the real romance of the countryside, the real meaning of life.”—Daily Telegraph.

“All those who have read and liked her previous books will find the same fragrance the same chatty friendliness, the same easy niceness.”—Observer.

“All that she writes she invests with an air of delicate distinction.”—Spectator.

Just Ready

a Timely and Important Book

The New Traffic (Aircraft)

By W. H. BERRY

Editor of The Car and Aviation and Author of “Aircraft in War and Commerce,” “Fighting Aeroplanes,” &c.

In cr. 8vo, bound with frontispiece and a wrapper in colours, +3s.+ +6d.+ net.

One of the greatest problems of the day is to determine how aircraft can be turned to the best advantage in the service of the country. The war is over, but the days for the use of aircraft in the carrying of passengers, goods, and mails, and for the convenience and pleasure of the private user have only just begun. Mr. Berry’s book deals with the last year or two of aviation, the present position and what may be expected in the future. Already passenger and mail services are being established, and it will probably not be long before many men will be using aeroplanes in the way they now use cars, only they will be able to go where cars cannot, and at a much quicker pace. Mr. Berry’s book is for the general reader. He tells him what he will want to know, takes him through actual flights, explains engines, controls, construction, cross country and overseas flying, laws, rules and traffic regulations, what cost of services will be, and how mail services already established are working. Everything that a man wants to know who expects to fly on his own account or who hopes to be taken up as a passenger will be found here. The book is particularly timely in view of the enormous interest now being taken by the press in the subject of the future uses of aircraft.

Just Published

Elizabethan Ulster

By LORD ERNEST HAMILTON

Author of “The First Seven Divisions” (21st Edition), “The Soul of Ulster,” etc.

In demy 8vo, cloth, +16s.+ net.

“A very full and detailed story of the beginnings of Ulster he has made a history, very lively and entertaining without sacrificing anything of the seriousness with which it deserves to be treated.”—Westminster Gazette.

“A detailed account of the amazingly complex affairs of Ulster during Elizabeth’s reign… The book is a just picture of a quaking bog of seething hatreds.”—Morning Post.

“A picturesque story of lawless chiefs, unruly clans, ruthless soldiers, and crafty but bewildered statesmen.”—Athenæum.

“This history is studiously impartial … a valuable and important contribution to Irish history.”—Scotsman.

New Novels

For the AUTUMN, 1919.

Each in crown 8vo, cloth, +6s. 9d.+ net.

Sanity Jane

By COUNTESS BARCYNSKA

Author of “The Honey Pot” (60th Thousand), “Love Maggy,” etc.

This novel is almost certain to be in very great demand. It is a live book, and Sanity is a very real girl. The book is distinctive, and a most intriguing situation is created when the man Sanity loves believes her to be the woman—a stranger to him—who is to provide the compromising circumstances necessary for his wife to obtain, “by arrangement,” her divorce. The author, in taking Sanity through her very interesting career, deals in her characteristic manner with life and people as one finds them to-day.

The Death Drum

By MARGARET PETERSON

Author of “To Love,” “Butterfly Wings,” “The Lure of the Little Drum,” etc.

As in her last novel, “The Sword Points of Love,” Miss Peterson has chosen East Africa as the background for her new story. It is based on a native superstition that very few white people know anything about, but which may in time cause trouble. It has, at any rate, provided the author with a fine idea for her novel, and she has made the best possible use of it. The book is absorbingly interesting, full of thrilling incident and adventure, and with many touches of native life that are particularly effective, coming as they do from one who is living among them.

Panther

A Comedy of Morals

By R. A. FOSTER-MELLIAR

Author of “Blindstone,” “And Betty Too,” etc.

A novel of country life, in which there is a good mixture of love-making, hunting, intrigue, and almost murder. Two well-contrasted and charming girls divide the honours as heroines, and uncertainty as to what will happen to them is well kept up. There are some very interesting characters capitally portrayed, and, above all, there is a really good story well told in uncommonly good writing.