A few detective stories could be classed with our last preceding type as well as with this. Those like F. R. Burton's suppressed prize contribution to a Western newspaper might be put under mechanical inventions; that is, all that contain, like his, a practicable theory. The report goes that Mr. Burton and a friend worked together and produced a story of bank robbers who overcame the time-lock device. So explicitly was the ingenious method written out that the editors decided not to publish it, convinced that if they spread the knowledge abroad no time-lock thereafter would be secure. "The Black Pearl" by Victorien Sardou, on the other hand, might be called a scientific-discovery detective tale. It perfectly combines the two elements—mystery and the astounding action of a nature phenomenon.

Not all detective stories, however, are so dangerous or so interesting as these. Most, rather, are amusing or merely entertaining; but we class them in the ingenious group because of the effort at pure plot. There are many crude attempts at writing detective stories, and the cheap, ten-cent-novel kind disgusts persons of taste; but the popularity of the type attests its excellence. When in the hands of such men as Edgar Allan Poe and A. Conan Doyle, it yields an artistic short-story. "The Purloined Letter" and the "Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" are worthy of their fame. "The Murders in the Rue Morgue" and the "Mystery of Marie Rogêt" are not so pleasant, but are equally ingenious.

Of course, the author of the ordinary tale of this type has the advantage over the real detective, since the author first creates the mystery before solving it. His ingenuity, therefore, will lie revealed in the construction of the crime which he pretends to be unearthing and explaining. Evidently, though, his process of mind can be no different from that of the actual analyzer, who must unravel what to him is a real mystery. He, too, if he is to succeed, must re-image the whole train of events, not as points or dots, but as vivid scenes. Thus only will both workers come at small incidents that are original and ingenious and essentially pertinent. It happened that Poe, in the story of Marie Rogêt, was acting the part of a real detective, since he was reasoning upon an actual mystery, the details of which had baffled the police. In his imaginary case he reinstalled the crime as he felt it must have taken place, and, strange to say—or rather not strange to say, for Poe had the qualities of more than a paper detective—the facts, by a woman's confessions later, were found to be exactly as Poe had imagined them, even in minor details.

But stories that emphasize plot do not wholly lie in the detective's realm. There is the pure reasoner's great domain of fancy. "The Lady or the Tiger" illustrates the class completely, even by the whimsical ending. The man that could make up that situation could have solved it, or have carried it on interminably, as he laughingly shows you in the "Discourager of Hesitancy." His "Transferred Ghost" is another quirk, of "reasonable" fantasy. Poe's "Gold Bug" is almost pure plot and has the interesting device of the cryptogram in addition. Pushkin's "Snow Storm" is built upon a queer coincidence.

The story that emphasizes plot is primarily a narrative of a series of happenings, and only incidentally the record of character or place. The author has no interest in what kind of men perform the deeds, except that they shall be the general large types: the soldier and his friend, the lover and his rival, the magistrate and the citizen, the sovereign and his subject, the doctor and his patient, and so on. Interest centers in the question, What will they do next? not, What are they and what will they become?

In longer prose the story with a plot is the romance, the modern romance. In it, too, the author is concerned mainly with the course of events. Take "Ivanhoe" or "The Prisoner of Zenda," for instance, and what have you?—actors about whom there is no question of character growth. What they were at the beginning, that they are at the end—except, perhaps, Rebecca. In romance the happenings are largely adventure. As they become preposterous the narrative borders on the mere wonder type.

To write a detective tale or other story of pure plot, you must first get your plot—as the old fisherman would say about the eel when you wish to skin it. If you can grasp one and hold it, you are an expert. The difficulty will be that you will probably find your plot a shadow, when you hoped for a good solid piece of reasoning. In the detective tale you must propound your mystery at the beginning of the narrative and then work backwards to the first step. In the other story, you must start out with the simplest and seemingly most insignificant incident and work steadily up to a fantastic or astounding climax. In the second you naïvely keep adding one to one, as it were, and get a hundred; in the first, you subtract one after one from your hundred until you get a unit.

Thou Art the Man

I will now play the Œdipus to the Rattleborough enigma. I will expound to you—as I alone can—the secret of the enginery that effected the Rattleborough miracle—the one, the true, the admitted, the undisputed, the indisputable miracle, which put a definite end to infidelity among the Rattleburghers and converted to the orthodox of the grandames all the carnal-minded who had ventured to be sceptical before.

This event—which I should be sorry to discuss in a tone of unsuitable levity—occurred in the summer of 18—. Mr. Barnabas Shuttleworthy—one of the wealthiest and most respectable citizens of the borough—had been missing for several days under circumstances which gave rise to suspicion of foul play. Mr. Shuttleworthy had set out from Rattleborough very early one Saturday morning, on horseback, with the avowed intention of proceeding to the city of——, about fifteen miles distant, and of returning the night of the same day. Two hours after his departure, however, his horse returned without him, and without the saddle-bags which had been strapped on his back at starting. The animal was wounded too, and covered with mud. These circumstances naturally gave rise to much alarm among the friends of the missing man; and when it was found, on Sunday morning, that he had not yet made his appearance, the whole borough arose en masse to go and look for his body.

The foremost and most energetic in instituting this search was the bosom friend of Mr. Shuttleworthy—a Mr. Charles Goodfellow, or, as he was universally called, "Charley Goodfellow," or "Old Charley Goodfellow." Now, whether it is a marvellous coincidence, or whether it was that the name itself has an imperceptible effect upon the character, I have never yet been able to ascertain; but the fact is unquestionable, that there never yet was any person named Charles who was not an open, manly, honest, good-natured, and frank-hearted fellow, with a rich, clear voice, that did you good to hear it, and an eye that looked you always straight in the face, as much as to say: "I have a clear conscience myself, am afraid of no man, and am altogether above doing a mean action." And thus all the hearty, careless, "walking gentlemen", of the stage are very certain to be called Charles.

Now, "Old Charley Goodfellow," although he had been in Rattleborough not longer than six months or thereabouts, and although nobody knew anything about him before he came to settle in the neighborhood, had experienced no difficulty in the world in making the acquaintance of all the respectable people in the borough. Not a man of them but would have taken his bare word for a thousand at any moment; and as for the women, there is no saying what they would not have done to oblige him. And all this came of his having been christened Charles, and of his possessing, in consequence, that ingenuous face which is proverbially the very "best letter of recommendation."

I have already said that Mr. Shuttleworthy was one of the most respectable and, undoubtedly, he was the most wealthy man in Rattleborough, while "Old Charley Goodfellow" was upon as intimate terms with him as if he had been his own brother. The two old gentlemen were next-door neighbors, and, although Mr. Shuttleworthy seldom, if ever, visited "Old Charley," and never was known to take a meal in his house, still that did not prevent the two friends from being exceedingly intimate, as I have just observed; for "Old Charley" never let a day pass without stepping in three or four times to see how his neighbor came on, and very often he would stay to breakfast or tea, and always to dinner; and then the amount of wine that was made way with by the two cronies at a sitting, it would really be a difficult thing to ascertain. "Old Charley's" favorite beverage was Chateau Margaux, and it appeared to do Mr. Shuttleworthy's heart good to see the old fellow swallow it, as he did, quart after quart; so that, one day, when the wine was in and the wit, as a natural consequence, somewhat out, he said to his crony, as he slapped him upon the back: "I tell you what it is, 'Old Charley,' you are, by all odds, the heartiest old fellow I ever came across in all my born days; and, since you love to guzzle the wine at that fashion, I'll be darned if I don't have to make thee a present of a big box of the Chateau Margaux. Od rot me," (Mr. Shuttleworthy had a sad habit of swearing, although he seldom went beyond "Od rot me," or "By gosh," or "By the jolly golly"). "Od rot me," says he, "if I don't send an order to town this very afternoon for a double box of the best that can be got, and I'll make ye a present of it, I will!—ye needn't say a word now—I will, I tell ye, and there's an end of it; so look out for it—it will come to hand some of these fine days, precisely when ye are looking for it the least!" I mention this little bit of liberty on the part of Mr. Shuttleworthy, just by way of showing you how very intimate an understanding existed between the two friends.

Well, on the Sunday morning in question, when it came to be fairly understood that Mr. Shuttleworthy had met with foul play, I never saw any one so profoundly affected as "Old Charley Goodfellow." When he first heard that the horse had come home without his master, and without his master's saddle-bags, and all bloody from a pistol-shot, that had gone clean through and through the poor animal's chest without quite killing him—when he heard all this, he turned as pale as if the missing man had been his own dear brother or father, and shivered and shook all over as if he had had a fit of the ague.

At first he was too much overpowered with grief to be able to do anything at all, or to decide upon any plan of action; so that for a long time he endeavored to dissuade Mr. Shuttleworthy's other friends from making a stir about the matter, thinking it best to wait a while—say for a week or two, or a month, or two—to see if something wouldn't turn up, or if Mr. Shuttleworthy wouldn't come in the natural way, and explain his reasons for sending his horse on before. I dare say you have often observed this disposition to temporize, or to procrastinate, in people who are laboring under any very poignant sorrow. Their powers of mind seem to be rendered torpid, so that they have a horror of anything like action, and like nothing in the world so well as to lie quietly in bed and "nurse their grief," as the old ladies express it—that is to say, ruminate over the trouble.

The people of Rattleborough had, indeed, so high an opinion of the wisdom and discretion of "Old Charley," that the greater part of them felt disposed to agree with him, and not make a stir in the business "until something should turn up," as the honest old gentleman worded it; and I believe that, after all, this would have been the general determination, but for the very suspicious interference of Mr. Shuttleworthy's nephew, a young man of very dissipated habits, and otherwise of rather bad character. This nephew, whose name was Pennifeather, would listen to nothing like reason in the matter of "lying quiet," but insisted upon making immediate search for the "corpse of the murdered man." This was the expression he employed, and Mr. Goodfellow acutely remarked at the time, that it was "a singular expression, to say no more." This remark of "Old Charley's" too, had great effect upon the crowd; and one of the party was heard to ask, very impressively, "how it happened that young Mr. Pennifeather was so intimately cognizant of all the circumstances connected with his wealthy uncle's disappearance, as to feel authorized to assert, distinctly and unequivocally, that his uncle was 'a murdered man.'" Hereupon some little squibbling and bickering occurred among the various members of the crowd, and especially between "Old Charley" and Mr. Pennifeather—although this latter occurrence was, indeed, by no means a novelty, for little good-will had subsisted between the parties for the last three or four months; and matters had been gone so far that Mr. Pennifeather had actually knocked down his uncle's friend for some alleged excess of liberty that the latter had taken in the uncle's house, of which the nephew was an inmate. Upon this occasion "Old Charley" is said to have behaved with exemplary moderation and Christian charity. He arose from the blow, adjusted his clothes, and made no attempt at retaliation at all—merely muttered a few words about "taking summary vengeance at the first convenient opportunity,"—a natural and very justifiable ebullition of anger, which meant nothing, however; and, beyond doubt, was no sooner given vent to than forgotten.

However these matters may be (which have no reference to the point now at issue), it is quite certain that the people of Rattleborough, principally through the persuasion of Mr. Pennifeather, came at length to the determination of dispersion over the adjacent country in search of the missing Mr. Shuttleworthy. I say they came to this determination in the first instance. After it had been fully resolved that a search should be made, it was considered almost a matter of course that the seekers should disperse—that is to say, distribute themselves in parties—for the more thorough examination of the region round about. I forgot, however, by what ingenious train of reasoning it was that "Old Charley" finally convinced the assembly that this was the most injudicious plan that could be pursued. Convince them, however, he did—all except Mr. Pennifeather; and, in the end, it was arranged that a search should be instituted, carefully and very thoroughly, by the burghers en masse, "Old Charley" himself leading the way.

As for the matter of that, there could have been no better pioneer than "Old Charley," whom everybody knew to have the eye of a lynx; but, although he led them into all manner of out-of-the-way holes and corners, by routes that nobody had ever suspected of existing in the neighborhood, and although the search was incessantly kept up day and night for nearly a week, still no trace of Mr. Shuttleworthy could be discovered. When I say no trace, however, I must not be understood to speak literally; for trace, to some extent, there certainly was. The poor gentleman had been tracked, by his horse's shoes (which were peculiar), to a spot about three miles to the east of the borough, on the main road leading to the city. Here the track made off into a bypath through a piece of woodland—the path coming out again into the main road, and cutting off about half a mile of the regular distance. Following the shoemarks down this lane, the party came at length to a pool of stagnant water, half hidden by the brambles, to the right of the lane, and opposite this pool all vestige of the track was lost sight of. It appeared, however, that a struggle of some nature had here taken place, and it seemed as if some large and heavy body, much larger and heavier than a man, had been drawn from the bypath to the pool. This latter was carefully dragged twice, but nothing was found; and the party were upon the point of going away, in despair of coming to any result, when Providence suggested to Mr. Goodfellow the expediency of draining the water off altogether. This project was received with cheers, and many high compliments to "Old Charley" upon his sagacity and consideration. As many of the burghers had brought spades with them, supposing that they might possibly be called upon to disinter a corpse, the drain was easily and speedily effected; and no sooner was the bottom visible, than right in the middle of the mud that remained was discovered a black silk velvet waistcoat, which nearly every one present immediately recognized as the property of Mr. Pennifeather. This waistcoat was much torn and stained with blood, and there were several persons among the party who had a distinct remembrance of its having been worn by its owner on the very morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy's departure for the city; while there were others, again, ready to testify upon oath, if required, that Mr. P. did not wear the garment in question at any period during the remainder of that memorable day; nor could any one be found to say that he had seen it upon Mr. P.'s person at any period at all subsequent to Mr. Shuttleworthy's disappearance.

Matters now wore a very serious aspect for Mr. Pennifeather, and it was observed, as an indubitable confirmation of the suspicions which were excited against him, that he grew exceedingly pale, and when asked what he had to say for himself, was utterly incapable of saying a word. Hereupon, the few friends his riotous mode of living had left him deserted him at once to a man, and were even more clamorous than his ancient and avowed enemies for his instantaneous arrest. But, on the other hand, the magnanimity of Mr. Goodfellow shone forth with only the more brilliant lustre through contrast. He made a warm and intensely eloquent defense of Mr. Pennifeather, in which he alluded more than once to his own sincere forgiveness of that wild young gentleman—"the heir of the worthy Mr. Shuttleworthy"—for the insult which he (the young gentleman) had, no doubt in the heat of passion, thought proper to put upon him (Mr. Goodfellow). "He forgave him for it," he said, "from the very bottom of his heart; and for himself (Mr. Goodfellow), so far from pushing the suspicious circumstances to extremity, which he was sorry to say, really had arisen against Mr. Pennifeather, he (Mr. Goodfellow) would make every exertion in his power, would employ all the little eloquence in his possession to—to—to—soften down, as much as he could conscientiously do so, the worst features of this really exceedingly perplexing piece of business."

Mr. Goodfellow went on for some half hour longer in this strain, very much to the credit both of his head and of his heart; but your warm-hearted people are seldom opposite in their observations—they run into all sorts of blunders, contre-temps and mal-apropos-isms, in the hot-headedness of their zeal to serve a friend—thus, often with the kindest intentions in the world, doing infinitely more to prejudice his cause than to advance it.

So, in the present instance, it turned out with all the eloquence of "Old Charley"; for, although he labored earnestly in behalf of the suspected, yet it so happened, somehow or other that every syllable he uttered of which the direct but unfitting tendency was not to exalt the speaker in the good opinion of his audience, had the effect of deepening the suspicion already attached to the individual whose cause he pled, and of arousing against him the fury of the mob.

One of the most unaccountable errors committed by the orator was his allusion to the suspected as "the heir of the worthy old gentleman, Mr. Shuttleworthy." The people had really never thought of this before? They had only remembered certain threats of disinheritance uttered a year or two previously by the uncle (who had no living relative except the nephew), and they had, therefore, always looked upon this disinheritance as a matter that was settled—so single-minded a race of beings were the Rattleburghers; but the remark of "Old Charley" brought them at once to a consideration of this point, and thus gave them to see the possibility of the threats having been nothing more than a threat. And straightway hereupon, arose the natural question of cui bono?—a question; that tended even more than the waistcoat to fasten the terrible crime upon the young man. And here, lest I may be misunderstood, permit me to digress for one moment merely to observe that the exceedingly brief and simple Latin phrase which I have employed, is invariably mistranslated and misconceived. "Cui bono" in all the crack novels and elsewhere—in those of Mrs. Gore, for example (the author of "Cecil"), a lady who quotes all tongues from the Chaldaean to Chickasaw, and is helped to her learning, "as needed," upon a systematic plan, by Mr. Beckford—in all the crack novels, I say, from those of Bulwer and Dickens to those of Turnapenny and Ainsworth, the two little Latin words cui bono are rendered "to what purpose?" or (as if quo bono), "to what good?" Their true meaning, nevertheless, is "for whose advantage." Cui, to whom; bono, is it for a benefit. It is a purely legal phrase, and applicable precisely in cases such as we have under consideration, where probability of the doer of a deed hinges upon the probability of the benefit accruing to this individual or to that from the deed's accomplishment. Now in the present instance, the question cui bono? very pointedly implicated Mr. Pennifeather. His uncle had threatened him, after making a will in his favor, with disinheritance. But the threat had not been actually kept; the original will, it appeared, had not been altered. Had it been altered, the only supposable motive for murder on the part of the suspected would have been the ordinary one of revenge; and even this would have been counteracted by the hope of reinstation into the good graces of the uncle. But the will being unaltered, while the threat to alter remained suspended over the nephew's head, there appears at once the very strongest possible inducement for the atrocity; and so concluded very sagaciously, the worthy citizens of the borough of Rattle.

Mr. Pennifeather was, accordingly, arrested upon the spot, and the crowd, after some further search, proceeded homeward, having him in custody. On the route, however, another circumstance occurred tending to confirm the suspicion entertained. Mr. Goodfellow, whose zeal led him to be always a little in advance of the party, was seen suddenly to run forward a few paces, stoop, and then apparently to pick up some small object from the grass. Having quickly examined it, he was observed too, to make a sort of attempt at concealing it in his coat pocket; but this action was noticed, as I say, and consequently prevented, when the object picked up was found to be a Spanish knife which a dozen persons at once recognized as belonging to Mr. Pennifeather. Moreover, his initials were engraved upon the handle. The blade of this knife was open and bloody.

No doubt now remained of the guilt of the nephew, and immediately upon reaching Rattleborough he was taken before a magistrate for examination.

Here matters again took a most unfavorable turn. The prisoner, being questioned as to his whereabouts on the morning of Mr. Shuttleworthy's disappearance, had absolutely the audacity to acknowledge that on that very morning he had been out with his rifle deer-stalking, in the immediate neighborhood of the pool where the bloodstained waistcoat had been discovered through the sagacity of Mr. Goodfellow.

This latter now came forward, and, with tears in his eyes, asked permission to be examined. He said that a stern sense of the duty he owed his Maker, not less than his fellow-men, would permit him no longer to remain silent. Hitherto, the sincerest affection for the young man (notwithstanding the latter's ill-treatment of himself, Mr. Goodfellow), had induced him to make every hypothesis which imagination could suggest, by way of endeavoring to account for what appeared suspicious in the circumstances that told so seriously against Mr. Pennifeather; but these circumstances were now altogether too convincing—too damning; he would hesitate no longer—he would tell all he knew, although his heart (Mr. Goodfellow's), should absolutely burst asunder in the effort. He then went on to state that on the afternoon of the day previous to Mr. Shuttleworthy's departure for the city, that worthy old gentleman had mentioned to his nephew, in his hearing (Mr. Goodfellow's), that his object in going to town on the morrow was to make a deposit of an unusually large sum of money in the "Farmers' and Merchants' Bank," and that, then and there, the said Mr. Shuttleworthy had distinctly avowed to the said nephew his irrevocable determination of rescinding the will originally made, and of cutting him off with a shilling. He (the witness) now solemnly called upon the accused to state whether what he (the witness) had just stated was or was not the truth in every substantial particular. Much to the astonishment of every one present, Mr. Pennifeather frankly admitted that it was.

The magistrate now considered it his duty to send a couple of constables to search the chamber of the accused in the house of his uncle. From this search they almost immediately returned with the well-known steel-bound, russet leather pocket-book which the old gentleman had been in the habit of carrying for years. Its valuable contents, however, had been abstracted, and the magistrate in vain endeavored to extort from the prisoner the use which had been made of them, or the place of their concealment. Indeed, he obstinately denied all knowledge of the matter. The constables also discovered, between the bed and sacking of the unhappy man, a shirt and neck-handkerchief both marked with the initials of his name, and both hideously besmeared with the blood of the victim.

At this juncture, it was announced that the horse of the murdered man had just expired in the stable from the effects of the wound he had received, and it was proposed by Mr. Goodfellow that a post-mortem examination of the beast should be immediately made, with the view, if possible, of discovering the ball. This was accordingly done; and, as if to demonstrate beyond a question the guilt of the accused, Mr. Goodfellow, after considerable searching in the cavity of the chest, was enabled to detect and to pull forth a bullet of very extraordinary size which, upon trial, was found to be exactly adapted to the bore of Mr. Pennifeather's rifle, while it was far too large for that of any other person in the borough or its vicinity. To render the matter even surer yet, however, this bullet was discovered to have a flaw or seam at a right angles to the usual suture, and upon examination, this seam corresponded precisely with an accidental ridge or elevation in a pair of moulds acknowledged by the accused himself to be his own property. Upon finding of this bullet, the examining magistrate refused to listen to any further testimony, and immediately committed the prisoner for trial—declining resolutely to take any bail in the case, although against this severity Mr. Goodfellow very warmly remonstrated, and offered to become surety in whatever amount might be required. This generosity on the part of "Old Charley" was only in accordance with the whole tenor of his amiable and chivalrous conduct during the entire period of his sojourn in the borough of Rattle. In the present instance the worthy man was so entirely carried away by the excessive warmth of his sympathy, that he seemed to have quite forgotten, when he offered to go bail for his young friend, that he himself (Mr. Goodfellow) did not possess a single dollar's worth of property upon the face of the earth.

The result of the committal may be readily foreseen. Mr. Pennifeather, amid the loud execrations of all Rattleborough, was brought to trial at the next criminal sessions, when the chain of circumstantial evidence (strengthened as it was by some additional damning facts, which Mr. Goodfellow's sensitive conscientiousness forbade him to withhold from the court), was considered so unbroken and so thoroughly conclusive, that the jury, without leaving their seats, returned an immediate verdict of "Guilty of murder in the first degree." Soon afterward the unhappy wretch received sentence of death, and was remanded to the county jail to await the inexorable vengeance of the law.

In the meantime, the noble behavior of "Old Charley Goodfellow" had doubly endeared him to the honest citizens of the borough. He became ten times a greater favorite than ever; and, as a natural result of the hospitality with which he was treated, he relaxed, as it were, perforce, the extremely parsimonious habits which his poverty had hitherto impelled him to observe, and very frequently had little réunions at his own house, when wit and jollity reigned supreme—dampened a little, of course, by the occasional remembrance of the untoward and melancholy fate which impended over the nephew of the late lamented bosom friend of the generous host.

One fine day, this magnanimous old gentleman was agreeably surprised at the receipt of the following letter:

The fact is, that Mr. Goodfellow had, since the death of Mr. Shuttleworthy, given over all expectation of ever receiving the promised Chateau-Margaux; and he, therefore, looked upon it now as a sort of especial dispensation of Providence in his behalf. He was highly delighted, of course, and in the exuberance of his joy, invited a large party of friends to a petit souper on the morrow, for the purpose of broaching the good old Shuttleworthy's present. Not that he said anything about "the good old Mr. Shuttleworthy" when he issued the invitations. The fact is, he thought much and concluded to say nothing at all. He did not mention to any one—if I remember aright—that he had received a present of Chateau-Margaux. He merely asked his friends to come and help him drink some of a remarkably fine quality and rich flavor that he had ordered up from the city a couple of months ago, and of which he would be in the receipt upon the morrow. I have often puzzled myself to imagine why it was that "Old Charley" came to the conclusion to say nothing about having received the wine from his old friend, but I could never precisely understand his reason for the silence, although he had some excellent and very magnanimous reason, no doubt.

The morrow at length arrived, and with it a very large and highly respectable company at Mr. Goodfellow's house. Indeed, half the borough was there—I myself among the number—but, much to the vexation of the host, the Chateau-Margaux did not arrive until a late hour, and when the sumptuous supper supplied by "Old Charley" had been done very ample justice by the guests. It came at length, however—a monstrously big box of it there was, too—and as the whole party were in excessively good humor, it was decided, nem. con., that it should be lifted upon the table and its contents disembowelled forthwith.

No sooner said than done. I lent a helping hand; and, in a trice, we had the box upon the table, in the midst of all the bottles and glasses, not a few of which were demolished in the scuffle. "Old Charley," who was pretty much intoxicated, and excessively red in the face, now took a seat, with an air of mock dignity, at the head of the board, and thumped furiously upon it with a decanter, calling upon the company to keep order "during the ceremony of disinterring the treasure."

After some vociferation, quiet was at length fully restored, and, as very often happens in similar cases, a profound and remarkable silence ensued. Being then requested to force open the lid, I complied, of course, "with an infinite deal of pleasure." I inserted a chisel, and giving it a few slight taps with a hammer, the top of the box flew suddenly off, and, at the same instant, there sprang up into a sitting position, directly facing the host, the bruised, bloody, and nearly putrid corpse of the murdered Mr. Shuttleworthy himself. It gazed for a few seconds, fixedly and sorrowfully, with its decaying and lack-lustre eyes, full into the countenance of Mr. Goodfellow; uttered slowly, but clearly and impressively, the words, "Thou art the man!" and then, falling over the side of the chest as if thoroughly satisfied, stretched out its limbs quivering upon the table.

The scene that ensued is altogether beyond description. The rush for the doors and windows was terrific, and many of the most robust men in the room fainted outright through sheer horror. But after the first wild, shrieking burst of affright, all eyes were directed to Mr. Goodfellow. If I live a thousand years, I can never forget the more than mortal agony which was depicted in that ghastly face of his, so lately rubicund with triumph and wine. For several minutes he sat rigidly as a statue of marble; his eyes seeming, in the intense vacancy of their gaze, to be turned inward and absorbed in the contemplation of his own miserable, murderous soul. At length their expression appeared to flash suddenly out into the external world, when, with a quick leap, he sprang from his chair, and falling heavily with his head and shoulders upon the table, and in contact with the corpse, poured out rapidly and vehemently a detailed confession of the hideous crime for which Mr. Pennifeather was then imprisoned and doomed to die.

What he recounted was in substance this: He followed his victim to the vicinity of the pool; there shot his horse with a pistol; despatched its rider with the butt end; possessed himself of the pocket-book; and, supposing the horse dead, dragged it with great labor to the brambles by the pond. Upon his own beast he slung the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and thus bore it to a secure place of concealment a long distance off through the woods.

The waistcoat, the knife, the pocket-book, and bullet had been placed by himself where found, with the view of avenging himself upon Mr. Pennifeather. He had also contrived the discovery of the stained handkerchief and shirt.

Toward the end of the blood-chilling recital the words of the guilty wretch faltered and grew hollow. When the record was finally exhausted, he arose, staggered backward from the table, and fell—dead.

The means by which this happily-timed confession was extorted, although efficient, were simple indeed. Mr. Goodfellow's excess of frankness had disgusted me, and excited my suspicions from the first. I was present when Mr. Pennifeather had struck him, and the fiendish expression which then arose upon his countenance, although momentary, assured me that his threat of vengeance would, if possible, be rigidly fulfilled. I was thus prepared to view the maneuvering of "Old Charley" in a very different light from that in which it was regarded by the good citizens of Rattleborough. I saw at once that all the criminating discoveries arose, either directly or indirectly, from himself. But the fact which clearly opened my eyes to the true state of the case, was the affair of the bullet, found by Mr. G. in the carcass of the horse. I had not forgotten, although the Rattleburghers had, that there was a hole where the ball had entered the horse, and another where it went out. If it were found in the animal then, after having made its exit, I saw clearly that it must have been deposited by the person who found it. The bloody shirt and handkerchief confirmed the idea suggested by the bullet; for the blood on examination proved to be capital claret, and no more. When I came to think of these things, and also of the late increase of liberality and expenditure an the part of Mr. Goodfellow, I entertained a suspicion which was none the less strong because I kept it altogether to myself.

In the meantime, I instituted a rigorous private search for the corpse of Mr. Shuttleworthy, and, for good reasons, searched in quarters as divergent as possible from those to which Mr. Goodfellow conducted his party. The result was that, after some days, I came across an old dry well, the mouth of which was nearly hidden by brambles; and here, at the bottom, I discovered what I sought.

Now, it so happened that I had overheard the colloquy between the two cronies, when Mr. Goodfellow had contrived to cajole his host into the promise of a box of Chateau-Margaux. Upon this hint I acted. I procured a stiff piece of whalebone, thrust it down the throat of the corpse; and deposited the latter in an old wine box—taking care so to double the body up as to double the whalebone with it. In this manner I had to press forcibly upon the lid to keep it down while I secured it with nails; and I anticipated, of course, that as soon as these latter were removed, the top would fly off and the body up.

Having thus arranged the box, I marked, numbered and addressed it as already told; and then writing a letter in the name of the wine merchants with whom Mr. Shuttleworthy dealt, I gave instructions to my servant to wheel the box to Mr. Goodfellow's door, in a barrow, at a given signal from myself. For the words which I intended the corpse to speak I confidently depended upon my ventriloquial abilities; for their effect, I counted upon the conscience of the murderous wretch.

I believe there is nothing more to be explained. Mr. Pennifeather was released upon the spot, inherited the fortune of his uncle, profited by the lessons of experience, turned over a new leaf, and led happily ever afterward a new life.

—Edgar Allan Poe.

The Picture of Lhasa

"Jim, Jim, come here quick! She's in sight! Oh, hustle!"

"Well, she'll stay where she is until I get there, won't she?" came a drawl from a little lower down on the precipitous path, as the speaker, in spite of his indifferent words, made strenuous efforts to join his companion on the rocky ledge with as little delay as possible. Behind him, scarcely visible, lay the trail winding about along the sides of the lofty mountains which have for so long been keeping this little corner of the earth from the knowledge of Western nations, while, far beneath him, rolled a little stream, the Kyi-chu, which dashed against the rocks as though it were impatient to be out in a broader world.

"I'm glad she's in sight, Chad," Jim continued, when he had gained the shelf of rock on which his companion stood, "but what is she, anyhow? I don't believe you said," and he laughed, with his eyes fastened upon the flash of reflected sunlight, his first sight of Lhasa and her wonderful Buddhist Cathedral.

"Is the camera all right?" Chad's voice was anxious. "It would be a pity to come so far and then have the plates no good."

"What's wrong with you, Chad? You don't intend to take a picture of a place ten miles away, do you?"

"Of course not, you idiot, but I wish that you had kept the camera yourself, instead of leaving it with John's load. I don't like the look of his yellow cap just now."

"You're too suspicious, Chad. John's a good fellow; aren't you Chinkey?" Jim called out as an evil-looking Chinaman came around a bend in the trail.

The Chinaman's only response was a look of utter ignorance, at which Jim laughed again, and said, "Just one look at the man ought to convince you that he is too dull to frighten a Yankee. Besides, he doesn't understand English, and can't possibly know that we are here to get the picture of Lhasa, and that of the Grand Lama, too, if we can." Had either of the men been looking, he might have seen the cunning in the one black eye of the servant; but the expression passed unnoticed.

"Another day and we'll be near enough to begin on the pictures. I'll be glad to start home, too. It has been a hard trip. I don't see why Milligan couldn't have taken the pictures for his book himself, instead of sending us off here for them."

"Jim, my boy, where's your regard for your daily bread—and the butter therefor? Where should you be if you hadn't had this chance?"

"Well," Jim returned quickly, "I shouldn't have been ruining my constitution in this infernal climate, at any rate."

Chad looked him over with profound gravity. "Well, Jim, I'm glad you are telling me that you are cut out for an early grave; I should never have believed it if you hadn't said so yourself."

"Wouldn't there be a rumpus if the Lamas knew about this trip of ours?" Chad resumed as though fascinated with the idea. "I can see ourselves calling each other lucky because we only got kicked over this precipice here."

"You can occupy yourself with such thoughts if you want to," exclaimed Jim; "but I'm going to hustle up that John Chinaman. It seems to me he's pretty slow this evening, and I'm hungry."

"If your constitution is spoiled?" laughed Chad. "Well, good luck; call me when you're ready," and the young reporter threw himself down upon the rocks and looked off toward Lhasa. In a few minutes he heard Jim's voice raised in alarm. "John! John! Oh, John-n!" As Chad sprang up and started along the path, he met Jim coming back.

"Say, Chad, that rascal of a chink has vanished completely with a good half of the supplies, and if you say, 'I told you so,' I'll light out too!"

"Is the camera safe?" was Chad's instant response.

"Why, I guess so; the box is anyhow—I didn't look inside."

"Well, I guess we'll get along then. I ought to be able to cook well enough to suit a man of your enfeebled condition," and Chad looked at Jim's broad shoulders in some amusement in spite of the seriousness of the situation.

"Really, Chad, is it safe to go on? Do you think we ought to risk it?"

"Risk it! Are we going to take three months for preparation, and then come four thousand miles on a trip of this sort, only to give it up in sight of the end, because a rogue runs off? Well, I guess not."

"All right," Jim returned laconically, "I just wanted to know how you felt about it."

Some three hours later the two men were wrapped up in their furs ready for the night. "Say, Chad," said Jim, as he lay watching the stars in the clear sky, "what makes a Chinaman so afraid of a camera? I am quite certain that you never told me."

"I believe that they think a man's soul is killed when his picture is taken," said Chad sleepily. "'Buddha doesn't like it' is quite reason enough for most of 'em." The last sentence was half lost in a snore, and the Grand Lama was photographed a dozen times in Jim's dreams.

The next morning the two men set out again with the one donkey and its load which the Chinaman left to them, and, after a few hours' hard travel, they came to the mountain spur just above the capital of Tibet. The city was well within range, and a few minutes after they had arrived the camera was set up, and Chad was finding the focus. While they were both occupied busily, a group of yellow-clad figures was approaching from a lamasery that was half-hidden on the mountainside. The leader of the band, a one-eyed Chinaman with an almost idiotic expression, was evidently greatly respected by his followers; for the party did not change its position without his direction. Slowly and with the utmost caution they approached the unconscious workers and surrounded them; then with a yell the mob of Buddhist priests was about the camera. In another instant it was rattling down the mountainside, Chad and Jim were firmly bound, and the march back had begun.

The few rays of sunlight that found entrance into the Buddhist lamasery served only to reveal the filthiness of the place; but not even the disgusting sights and odors could suppress the strangers' curiosity. In the first room was an immense statue of Buddha with a large cylinder in front of it. "A prayer wheel," whispered Chad. Jim nodded.

Suddenly Chad's eyes flashed with an inspiration. Turning to the leader he exclaimed, "You speak English now, don't you?"

The man bowed gravely, courteously. The honorable strangers' honorable conversation was greatly edifying, he murmured.

"Well, then," Chad continued, "Will you tell me why we are detained here?"

"The insignificant custom of the Tibetans is to resent having their souls destroyed." The voice was calm and matter-of-fact, but the words were terrible to the two men looking into the circle of hostile faces which showed so clearly their superstition and ignorance.

"You know, John, or Your Highness, if that suits your present position better," the Chinaman's face remained impassive, "you know how carefully we guarded the black box. Did you know that it was not an ordinary instrument, but the home of a spirit more powerful than even your Buddha there? The photographic spirit is the child of the Fire God, and the Fire God protects all who guard his children. See, here is a part of the Spirit's house," and Chad pulled an extra lens from his pocket. "With this I can attract the god's attention, and he will do my bidding." He placed the glass in the sunlight and the robe of the nearest Lama began to smolder. The priests started back in great alarm, but Chad continued with only a sufficient number of pauses for the leading Lama to translate to the others. "While you were masquerading as my servant, you saw how careful I was of the camera; you can judge for yourself whether or not the Fiery One will protect me. What do you think will be the fate of you who have destroyed this mighty spirit's home? I will tell you. He will descend from the sky and will burn you with a hotter fire than you have ever felt—a fire so hot that the spirit of the camera cannot approach it in intensity." And the Lama screamed as he felt the heat of the powerful ray upon his arm. "What do you think? Will you anger this mighty one by further crimes against his favorites?"

"Buddha will protect us," stolidly responded a priest.

"Ask your leader if Buddha could protect him from the burning of the camera spirit, and then judge whether Buddha can guard you against the power of the Fire Dragon when he is roused to vengeance.

Panic began to seize upon the priests. One by one they disappeared until at length only the Chief Lama was left. "If the honorable gentlemen will tarry for a few moments I will bring them their beasts." When the donkeys were brought in, Chad looked their packs over and prepared them for the journey, while Jim started back to the ledge, hoping that part of their supplies might have been unmolested. When Chad came around the rock ten minutes later, he stopped in amazement and stared at the camera, which Jim had rescued from the tree in which it had lodged uninjured save for a broken plate.

As Chad approached, Jim looked up and said, "I've got one; I'll bet it's a dandy!"

—Hazel Orcutt.

CHAPTER IV
THE ENTERTAINING GROUP

In the group "entertaining" we may class all those narratives that are told simply for the purpose of pleasing the reader and passing away his time for him—tales of probable adventure, society stories, humorous stories, and stories for special occasions, like Thanksgiving and Christmas. The bulk of magazine fiction is of this kind. The chief endeavor of the writer is to create the illusions of probability for a series of events that after all is imaginary. However numerous may be the actual incidents embodied, the course of the happening as a whole is nevertheless made-up. There is always a heightening or lowering of natural color, a modification of real occurrences, in order to produce the desired effect; namely, acceptance by the reader of the whole series, and especially the climax, which may be, for instance, the capture of the wild animal, the culmination of the love episode, the emphasis of the funny point, or the accident at the special celebration.

I. The Tale of Probable Adventure

Adventure narratives are essentially boys' stories—the grammar and high school boys who are past the "foolishness" of fairy tales and even of Oriental wonder stories, but are not yet appreciative of realism, the quiet reflection of humdrum life. For many decades The Youth's Companion has furnished among its other good things excellent stories of adventure probable and actual. Stevenson's masterpiece is, of course, one of the two top-notches of excellence in the extended form of this type of story. How the species may be historically but a modification of the voyages imaginaires is obviously suggested no less by "Treasure Island" than by "Robinson Crusoe." It is the short form of this type that we are dealing with at present.