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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4323 | Pain During Pregnancy / Pregnancy
Pregnancy Cramps: When Cramping is Normal and When To Worry
pregnancy cramps
As well as nausea, emotional up and downs, and food cravings, most women experience aches and pains throughout pregnancy.
After all, your body is changing to accommodate growing life, so it’s expected that your body might protest from time to time.
Stomach cramps are one of the aches and pains that is usually a normal part of pregnancy. But, sometimes, cramping a sign of something more serious.
Here we explain how to know if your pregnancy cramps are normal, or if they’re something you should worry about.
What does Pregnancy Cramping Feel Like?
Abdominal cramps in pregnancy can often feel similar to other more familiar types of pain and cramping.
In early pregnancy, you might experience cramps that feel more like period pains. The pain is usually located low in the abdomen, with a heavy, dragging sensation in the pelvis.
Although, some women liken the pain to heartburn. And, others describe the sensation the kind of stomach cramps and pains that come with gas, bloating or constipation.
Is Early Pregnancy Cramping Normal?
Cramping in early pregnancy is indeed normal. During the first trimester, the stomach cramps you feel are the result of the normal physical changes your body goes through as it prepares itself to carry your baby.
But, you may find that your cramps are worse at certain times.
For example, some women experience pregnancy cramping when they have an orgasm during sex. Although this can be worrying, unless your doctor tells you otherwise, there’s no reason to stop having sex when you’re pregnant. However, if sex leads to bleeding or a persistent or sharp pain, you should contact your doctor or midwife.
Cramping may also be more noticeable when you cough, sneeze or change position. Similarly, you may also experience cramping while exercising. If so, listen to your body and take some much-needed rest.
Causes of Pregnancy Cramping
Cramping early in very pregnancy can be from the fertilized egg implanting in the uterus.
As the pregnancy progresses, cramps are caused by the ligaments and muscles that support the uterus stretching as the uterus grows to accommodate your baby. Specifically, cramps in the second trimester are often due to the round ligament stretching to support the uterus. This can cause a sharp, stabbing sensation, or a dull ache in your lower abdomen.
And, as veins supplying blood to the uterus become engorged, this can also result in feelings of discomfort and heaviness.
As the baby grows and moves, you may still feel cramping pains as you head into your third trimester. Later in the pregnancy, cramping could be a sign of preterm labor. Or, once you hit the 37-week mark, these pains might mean your baby is coming!
How to Soothe Pregnancy Stomach Cramps
Often, the best way to soothe pregnancy cramping is to find ways to relax and make yourself feel more comfortable.
If you feel tired or have had a long day, change into some loose pants and curl up on the sofa with a good book. Placing a covered hot water bottle on your stomach can also help to ease your cramping pains. Or, if you have a maternity support belt, this can help soothe cramps and back pain.
Alternatively, taking a warm bath or shower can help to make you feel better. Remember to drink lots of fluids too, as dehydration can make cramps worse.
And, if you’re feeling up to it, gentle exercise can help to ease stomach cramps. You could go for a walk, try out a pregnancy Pilates class, or go swimming. If your cramping is related to constipation, the exercise will also help this pregnancy symptom.
When Should I Worry about Cramps?
Cramping during pregnancy is normal and not usually anything to worry about. But, there are some symptoms which can indicate that the cramping might be related to something more serious.
As such, you should call your doctor or midwife if your cramps:
• are accompanied by bleeding or a watery discharge
• become more severe, more frequent, or do not subside
• are accompanied by dizziness and/or nausea
• are accompanied by sudden lower back pain
• are accompanied by contractions
Serious Causes of Pregnancy Cramping
Abdominal cramps in pregnancy that are more severe or come with other symptoms may be as a result of some of the following causes:
Sharp or mild cramping accompanied by vaginal spotting can indicate a miscarriage. But some pregnant women can experience cramping and spotting and go on to have healthy pregnancies.
If you see blood you should speak to your doctor, if only to set your mind at ease. But, if you experience heavy blood loss and/or severe cramping, contact your doctor immediately.
Ectopic Pregnancy
Ectopic pregnancies occur when the fertilized eggs implants outside the uterus. This type of pregnancy can cause painful cramping and is a serious medical condition which must be treated by your doctor.
Preeclampsia is another serious condition that affects between 5 and 8 percent of pregnancies. Upper abdominal pain is a symptom, as is high blood pressure and protein in your urine.
It can be difficult to detect, but keeping all your appointments throughout your pregnancy will make it easier for your doctor to test if you are suffering from preeclampsia.
Urinary Tract Infections
If your lower abdominal pain is accompanied by painful urination, this could be a sign that you are suffering from a urinary tract infection. Contact your doctor immediately so that they can prescribe a pregnancy-safe antibiotic.
Placental Abruption
This happens when the placenta becomes separated from the uterus before the baby is born. Placental abruption is a life-threatening condition and is often indicated by painful cramps and vaginal bleeding.
Your Guide to Pregnancy Cramps
In the vast majority of cases, pregnancy cramps are perfectly normal and nothing to worry about.
In fact, cramps are a sign that your baby is growing and your uterus is expanding to accommodate this growth. But, you should also be aware that pregnancy cramping can sometimes be a sign that something is wrong.
After all, it’s even more important to stay informed when you’re bringing life into the world, so check out these other posts on pain during pregnancy for more information.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4327 | Get plumper-, younger-looking lips with these makeup tips
Are there tricks make my lips look younger and more full?
Lips can lose color with age and become more prone to dryness. Ultrabright colors with heavy pigments are wrong at this stage; pick sheer lipsticks and glosses instead to hydrate and add sheen, which helps lips look fuller. Natural-but-better shades, like rose and pinky beige, also mitigate the appearance of fine lines by reflecting light.
1. Choose the Right Hue
The most flattering shade should be close to your natural lip color but complement your skin tone. Pinky brown, nude, beige pink, rosy brown, and blackberry are universally flattering.
2. Line
To prevent color from seeping into pesky vertical lines, use a lip pencil that matches your lipstick; line the natural border of your top lip (pay special attention to its V shape) and underneath your lower lip. For fullness, fill in the entire border of your lips.
3. Apply Color
Use a lip brush to apply; the synthetic fibers help lipstick or gloss adhere and fill in lines like putty. Blend from corner to corner, and press your lips together to seal in the shade.
4. Finish
For added sheen and fullness, dab your lipstick with clear gloss in the center of your mouth.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4335 | Tolkien’s Beowulf — Flash Review
JRR Tolkien’s translation of Beowulf is like the hero himself — flawed, yet triumphant. In his introductory material, the translator’s son, Christopher Tolkien, strikes a defensive tone, and seems to anticipate a negative scholarly reception, yet that tone is unfair to medieval scholars. JRR Tolkien was not only a member of that band of medieval scholars himself, but a chief in his generation, and when “the leader of the company […] opened his store of words,” [Tolkien 209-10, Beowulf 259] you should expect his band to listen with glad hearts.
First, some caveats — this is intended to be a flash review after the first reading. I have not yet read all of Christopher Tolkien’s extensive notes. Also, in order to get immediate access, I read the Kindle version of the translation, which has a few differences. C Tolkien mentions some illustrations his father drew, which unfortunately (and inexplicably) are not in included in the e-book edition. Also, as JRR Tolkien was doing a semi-prose translation, the line numbers do not match up between Tolkien’s version and the Old English original, and although C Tolkien mentions side-by-side line references to the original, those references do not make it into the Kindle edition. This review is very much my first impressions.
As a writer, JRR Tolkien has two distinct voices in his fantasy fiction — epic voice, of the highborn characters one finds in The Silmarillion and Lord of the Rings, and fairy-story voice, more characteristic of The Hobbit and “Leaf by Niggle.” His translation of Beowulf and shorter “The Lay of Beowulf” are both very much of the epic voice — intentionally anachronistic, heroic, and high-minded. “Sellic Spell,” on the other hand, is a retelling of Beowulf in the fairy-story voice. When reading his epic voice, it is hard not to feel as if Tolkien is trying to translate in the style of Lord of the Rings, when we certainly know that since he started Beowulf years before LotR, he was trying to LotR with the voice he heard in Beowulf.
And that voice is (mostly) beautiful. The translation has a few flaws, but Tolkien was writing without the benefit of so many talented translators who came later, and in any case, the flaws are few. For example, early on in the poem , we read this puzzler:
[…] Thereafter not
far to seek was the man who
elsewhere more remote sought
him his couch and a bed among the
lesser chambers, since
now was manifested and declared
thus truly to him with
token plain the hatred of that hall-
keeper [….] (Beowulf l. 138-143, Tolkien l. 111-114)
Huh? Not only couldn’t I figure out what this meant, but it took me a while even to find the lines in Old English he’s translating. To give you a sense of what it’s supposed to mean:
Then it was easy to find a few men
who sought rest elsewhere, at some slight distance,
slept in the outbuildings, once the full hate
of the mighty hall-server was truly told,
made clear as a beacon by signs too plain. (Trans. Howell D. Chickering, Jr)
Ah, OK, that makes a lot more sense. I would guess that one reason Tolkien never felt ready to publish was difficult sections like this.
But bits like that are the exception. Mostly it is beautiful, in my opinion far more pleasing than Seamus Heaney’s famous translation. Take, for example, the lines describing Grendel’s attack:
[….] And that the slayer was not
minded to delay, not he,
but swiftly at the first turn seized a
sleeping man, rending
him unopposed, biting the bone-
joints, drinking blood from
veins, great gobbets gorging down. (Tolkien 601-607, Beowulf 739-744.)
This has been wonderfully translated by others, but the alliteration of “biting the bone-joints, drinking blood from veins, great gobbets gorging down” is visceral in its imagery. Most of the translation is like this, masterful.
So, if you are a Tolkien fan, but not particularly a scholar, how should you read this? You can skip Christopher Tolkien’s preface and all his notes — they are surprisingly good, but I cannot imagine would interest any but scholars — and get right into the poem itself. Read it slowly, lovingly. If the situation allows, read it aloud to yourself or a friend. That epic voice of Tolkien’s fantasy lends itself to a powerful translation.
The Miskatonic Files
A web series called The Miskatonic Files? Yes, please.
You can support them on IndieGoGo, or hit them up on Facebook.
What’s that? You’re afraid that if you support any Cthulhu-related project, you will no doubt go insane from the eldritch revelations that such a project will bring to light, secrets that were best left hidden in the outer darkness?
Fear not! For I, Professor Awesome, will protect you with a remedy found in a 9th century manuscript, Leechbook III (Royal 12.D.xvii), a potion against both devils and insanity. Entry lxiv, as translated by T.O. Cockayne in his Leechdoms, Wortcunning, and Starcraft of Early England:
Put into ale cassuck [hassock], roots of lupin, fennel, ontre [radish], betony, hindheal [water agrimony], marche, rue, wormwood, nepeta, helenium, elfthone [nightshade], wolfs comb [wild teasel]]; sing twelve masses over the drink, and let the man drink it, it will soon be well with him. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4360 | Quidditch: Is It All About the Snitch?
Much has been said about how the game of Quidditch is ruined by the scoring system – specifically how it makes no sense that the snitch is worth 150 points and that catching it ends the game (1, 2, 3). Most of these arguments seem to revolve around the claim that it is nearly impossible to win a match of Quidditch without catching the snitch. Is this true? Let’s try and answer this question formally using statistics and R simulations:
What is the probability of winning a Quidditch match without catching the snitch?
Victor Krum caught the snitch for Bulgaria, but Ireland still won (1994 World cup)
The Game, the Rules
Quidditch is a fictional team sport played on broomsticks, devised by author J. K. Rowling, that is played by wizards in the fantasy world of Harry Potter. Like any sport, the game of Quidditch has many rules, but I will summarize here only the ones pertinent to our discussion:
• 10 points are gained by throwing the Quaffle through one of the opponent team’s three hoops.
• 150 points are gained by catching the Golden Snitch, which can only be caught by the Seeker.
• The game ends when the Golden Snitch is caught.
• The winning team is the one has the most points at the end of the game.
Given these rules and game objectives, in order to estimate the probability of winning a match we must first estimate (1) how long does it take a seeker to catch the Snitch on average, which determines how long a game lasts and thus how much time is allotted for the teams to score goals, and (2) what is the rate of goal scoring.
Estimating the Average Game Length
Unfortunately, not many pro-Quidditch matches are described in the books, so this is quite hard to estimate. On the one hand, the only game that is described in its entirety is the 1994 Quidditch World Cup final, and it was extremely short: only 15 minutes or so (4]); On the other hand, the longest game ever lasted 3 months (5]). So the average is somewhere between 15 minutes, and 130,000 minutes… great.
For the sake of our simulations, then, I will assume the average game lasts 90 minutes (assuming Rowling has soccer or rugby in mind). I will also assume that the length of a Quidditch game is exponentially distributed, since the probability of catching the Snitch remains constant (as opposed to it getting easier as the game progresses) – the Snitch’s ability to escape capture does not change (magic) and players are substituted throughout the game, so let’s assume an unchanging level of vigilance.
Together, the distribution of game lengths looks something like this:
This makes the 3 month long game very unlikely ( \(Pr(time>130,000)<10^{-600}\) ), but the 15 minute game rather probable ( \(Pr(time<15)=0.15\) ).
Estimating the Rate of Goals Scored
Throughout the books, the final scores of several Quidditch games are mentioned, but since we don’t know their lengths, it is hard to estimate the rate of goals-per-minute (GPM). Going by the 15 minute world cup, in which the final score was 170-160, or 170-10 if only counting goal points, we can see that there were 18 goals in 15 minutes, or an average of 9 goals per 15 minutes per team, or a GPM of 0.6 (or 0.07 for Bulgaria, and 1.13 for Ireland). Though this is only one game, and a very short one at that, these numbers seem close to the averages seen in basketball, where GPM are around 40/48 = 0.83 (6). This is also in line with the game’s depiction in the films as a fast sport, with many goals scored quickly and in succession.
I will also assume that this rate is constant and unchanging throughout the game, regardless of the score (or fatigue of the players, see above), and so will assume GPM has a poisson distribution, with an average of 0.8, making the GPM distribution look something like this:
Simulating the Games
(If you’re not that into reading raw code, you can just skip to the conclusions at the end.)
R Setup
sim_quidditch <- function(mean_game_durA, mean_game_durB, GPM_A, GPM_B,
snitch_points = 150, goal_points = 10,
n_sims = 1e6) {
mean_game_dur_rateA <- 1/mean_game_durA
mean_game_dur_rateB <- 1/mean_game_durB
game_dursA <- rexp(n_sims, rate = mean_game_dur_rateA)
game_dursB <- rexp(n_sims, rate = mean_game_dur_rateB)
# Final game durations
game_durs <- ifelse(game_dursA < game_dursB, game_dursA, game_dursB)
# Who got the snitch (and the points)
got_snitch <- game_dursA < game_dursB
snitch_pointsA <- got_snitch * snitch_points
snitch_pointsB <- (1-got_snitch) * snitch_points
# Based on the length of the game
goal_pointsA <- rpois(n_sims,GPM_A*floor(game_durs)) * goal_points
goal_pointsB <- rpois(n_sims,GPM_B*floor(game_durs)) * goal_points
total_pointA <- snitch_pointsA + goal_pointsA
total_pointB <- snitch_pointsB + goal_pointsB
who_won <- rep(NA_character_,n_sims)
who_won[total_pointA > total_pointB] <- 'A'
who_won[total_pointA < total_pointB] <- 'B'
list(teamA_points = total_pointA,
teamB_points = total_pointB,
Winner = factor(who_won),
Got_snitch = factor(ifelse(got_snitch,'A','B')))
Equal Teams
Let’s start by simulating 1 million games between two teams with equal GPMs and equally good seekers.
res <- sim_quidditch(mean_game_durA = 90, # in mins
mean_game_durB = 90,
GPM_A = 0.8,
GPM_B = 0.8)
table(Winner) /
## Winner
## A B
## 0.497066 0.496060
Under these conditions, the probability of winning a game without catching the snitch is:
with(res, {
mean(Winner[!is.na(Winner)] != Got_snitch[!is.na(Winner)])
## [1] 0.03747158
3.75%! Hmm, that does seem quite unfair… Though it does put Fred and George’s gambling odds at around 1:20!
How many games were determined by the snitch – i.e., had the snitch been caught at the same time by the other team, they would have won?
with(res, {
sum(teamA_points[Winner == 'A'] - 150 < teamB_points[Winner == 'A'] + 150, na.rm = T) +
sum(teamA_points[Winner == 'B'] + 150 > teamB_points[Winner == 'B'] - 150, na.rm = T)
) / 1e6
## [1] 0.94918
94.9%! Not the best of odds…
Unequal (but matched) Teams
But just like in real sports, different teams have different strengths… Let’s see what happens when we create two teams who have an equal probability of winning, but differ in terms of their seekers and GPMs.
After some trial and error, I found that if we have a team with a seeker who catches the snitch within 67 minutes on average and a GPM of 0.71, versus a team with a seeker who catches the snitch in within 113 minutes on average but with a GPM of 0.90, both teams have a 50% chance of winning.
res <- sim_quidditch(mean_game_durA = 67, # in mins
mean_game_durB = 113,
GPM_A = 0.71,
GPM_B = 0.90)
## Winner
## A B
## 0.497701 0.490796
So, what is the chance of winning without catching the snitch?
## [1] 0.1213732
12.2%! Still pretty low… very disappointing. Let’s explore each team separately:
table(Winner, Got_snitch)
## Got_snitch
## Winner A B
## A 497218 483
## B 119494 371302
It seems that 99.9% of team A’s wins were due to their better seeker…
…but that only 24.3% of team B’s wins were achieved by their weaker seeker T!
How many games were determined by the snitch?
with(res, {
) / 1e6
## [1] 0.901089
• If you’ve caught the snitch, you’ve probably won.
• If you’ve won, you probably caught the snitch.
• If you’ve lost, catching the snitch would have probably changed that.
But… the majority of points are non-snitch related. And it seems to me unlikely that you would have a seeker that was twice as good as the opposing team’s, and so compensating for a weaker seeker seems very likely given this simulation. SO it’s probably best to invest in a better chaser who can bring up your GPM and a better keeper who can lower your opponents’ GPM, than in a seeker who can shave 5 minutes off of his snitch catching time…
Also, maybe someone should change the rules? Perhaps the snitch should only be worth 30 points?
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4375 | 4 Ways to Repair or Remove Microsoft .NET Framework
Although the Microsoft .NET Framework is something that’s not liked by many people, it has become something of a necessary evil because so many developers makes use of its functions to help make programming software easier. A major issue with .NET is it’s huge in terms of disc space and seemingly getting bigger with every release. Another issue is the sheer amount of security fixes for it and a large proportion of Windows updates will likely be .NET related every month.
We did some small scale .NET testing a while back and found it doesn’t really impact on system performance but what it does do is install thousands of files, folders and registry entries onto your system. With so much data surrounding .NET and the complexity of the installs it’s quite easy for updates to, or the framework itself to fail because something has been corrupted and programs that rely on it won’t run. Here we show you some ways to fix .NET Framework issues.
Run a Quick Scan For .NET framework Problems
Of course it’s entirely possible a program you are trying to run that is producing .NET errors could have an issue of its own and the Framework itself isn’t to blame. Trying to repair non existent issues could lead to all manor of problems. Several programs failing is probably a giveaway .NET has some corruption but just one program crashing alone could be a one off.
.net framework setup verification utility
A small tool called .NET Framework Setup Verification Tool is able to help you in these situations and run a check on the versions of .NET that have been installed. If any files, folders or registry entries relating to .NET are missing or corrupt, the program will tell you. Simply download and run the tool, select the version of .NET you want to check from the drop down and click Verify Now. Within seconds you will be told whether the check has found any issues or not, you can then decide if more serious action is needed to repair .NET.
Download .NET Framework Setup Verification Tool
1. Try Using the .NET Repair Function
If you have installed a version of .NET manually or it was installed via Windows Update, there should be a built in function that offers to repair the .NET installation for you. This tries to reset everything back to defaults.
.net framework repair
Go to Control Panel and open Programs and Features (Add and Remove for XP), find the version of .NET you believe has an issue and double click on it or select Change/Uninstall. This will popup a window similar to above and ask ask if you want to Repair or Remove. Obviously you can try to Repair first, if that doesn’t work try a Remove and reinstall.
2. Microsoft .NET Framework Repair Tool
You would think the creators of .NET are best positioned to know what the most common errors are and how best to properly repair them. The initial version of the .NET Framework Repair Tool was only compatible with diagnosing and repairing issues with version 4, but has since been expanded to cover .NET 4.5.1, 4.5, 4 and 3.5 SP1 (includes .NET 3.0 SP2 and 2.0 SP2). It’s compatible with Windows XP, Vista, 7 and 2003/2008 Server versions.
Thankfully the tool is a standalone executable so you just download and run it to start the process. Before running the tool you need to agree to the terms which includes a disclosure that Microsoft will collect information about your hardware, error logs and various other bits of information on the usage of the program. You can choose whether to send the data or not at the end of an unsuccessful repair.
microsoft .net framework repair tool terms
Click Next and it will run 9 different tests to analyze the system for problems. Microsoft doesn’t say what the tests are and the progress window goes too fast to find out. The first fix is always to re-register and restart the Windows Installer Service which is a common cause for errors. If you’re still encountering problems after this point, the tool will undertake a longer and more exhaustive diagnose and repair which could take several minutes to complete.
microsoft .net framework repair tool full repair
If the issues have been repaired then the tool has done its job. Microsoft .NET Framework Repair Tool will only repair the versions of .NET that have been installed either by you or Windows update. It will not diagnose or attempt repair of built in versions that came as standard with the operating system. For example .NET 3.5 is integrated into Windows 7 so will not be recognized by the tool. Command line options are also available to run the tool in quiet mode, offline or to automatically opt out of the data log and send etc.
Download .NET Framework Repair Tool
3. .NET Framework Setup Cleanup Utility
The .NET Framework Cleanup Tool is by a Microsoft employee called Aaron Stebner. This tool is labelled as a “last resort” by its author and should be used AFTER standard repair or uninstall methods have failed. The good thing is the tool is kept up to date and recent revisions have brought support for the latest .NET 4.5.1 and 4.5.2. Of course, it supports everything older than that, right the way down to .NET version 1.0.
.net framework cleanup tool
This program doesn’t try to repair anything related to .NET but rather tries to completely uninstall it from your system, allowing for a clean and hopefully trouble free reinstall. It will attempt to remove files, directories, registry data and Windows Installer registration information that has been previously installed by .NET Framework.
The tool is easy to use, simply run the portable executable and accept the license, select which version of .NET you want to cleanup (or select all if you want to try and start from scratch), then click Cleanup Now. Depending on what you are removing the process will take a little while and eventually show the “Current status” as successful. You can then reinstall .NET Framework again.
.net framework cleanup tool success
Like the Microsoft repair tool, versions of .NET that are system components and come pre-installed are not listed and will not be touched. So Windows 7 will not display 3.5, 3.0 or 2.0, Vista will not show 3.0 or 2.0, Windows XP will show all versions installed because it never came with any versions of .NET integrated by default. Do note you might need to run a repair or reinstall of remaining versions as files and registry keys may have been deleted during the cleanup that are shared by multiple .NET versions.
Download .NET Framework Setup Cleanup Utility
4. The Windows System Update Readiness Tool
The System update readiness Tool is from Microsoft and designed to check areas of your system that can cause issues with Windows and prevent hotfix updates or even Service Packs from installing correctly. For example it checks the Servicing and WinSXS folders in C:\Windows and several different registry locations. If it detects issues with incorrect manifests, cabinets, or registry data, these problems can be automatically repaired.
A useful function is the Readiness Tool also runs scans on the .NET Framework versions that are installed by default on systems like Windows 7, 8 or Vista, and can perform a number of fixes if required. Recent updates to the tool have improved repairing issues for .NET 2.0 in Windows 7 and 2008 in particular.
system update readiness tool
The bad news is the System Update Readiness Tool is quite large and over 200MB for Windows 7 32-bit, a whopping 500MB+ for Windows 7 64-bit. Windows 8 users don’t need to download this tool because it’s already integrated into Windows. Another issue is the scan and any fixing that needs to be done can take quite a while, 15-20 minutes is quite common. Just run the tool and let it complete, then try to see if your problems have gone.
Download Windows System Update Readiness Tool
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4384 | With Red Hat OpenStack Platform 13 released so recently, I feel it's time to talk about real-time support in Red Hat OpenStack Platform. At the end of the day, it's one of the (many) major features in the new release and something we’re excited to put in the hands of customers.
Real-time is not something new in Linux. It was originally designed to ensure a real-time task would be executed within a certain amount of time making sure the system would not step in your way, which made it suitable for industrial process that need to respect operational deadlines. Nowadays it can be considered for other use-cases, where meeting those deadlines is a must. A common example is the telco world where sometimes it’s mandatory to have consistent network latency. For example, a RTOS would enable a real-time telco application to always execute all packet processing function in a certain period.
At the kernel and OS level, real-time has been around for a very long time. Red Hat, since the Red Hat Enterprise Linux 6 days, has supported the Linux PREEMPT_RT (massive) patch. But being able to support it in OpenStack is another story, and now we can. Let’s take a look at where we’re at now.
A bit of history
About a year ago I reverse-engineered Tuned CPU-partitioning (Tuning for Zero Packet Loss in Red Hat OpenStack Platform ). Back in the old "OVS+DPDK" days, most people used to apply some of those techniques but definitely not all of them at once.
In my opinion, everything was kickstarted by Intel. Around late 2013 or early 2014, OpenStack Icehouse was just around the corner. At that time OpenStack was in full force, everyone was talking about it (just like Linux containers yesterday and serverless today). It was a momentum. Not just a few companies but the whole industry was focused on one topic in a true open source spirit. In that context, Intel issued a reference architecture "Intel Open Network Platform Server Release 1.2: Driving Network Transformation" (I couldn't find the 1.0 version online anymore, sorry about that).
When you read the opening and keep in mind it was written five or six years ago: "Intel ONP Server is a reference architecture [...] to enable adoption of SDN and NFV solutions across telecommunications, cloud, and enterprise sectors. [...] open-source software stack [...] including: Data Plane Development Kit (DPDK), Open vSwitch*, OpenDaylight*, OpenStack*, and KVM*. It is a “better together” software". This was a masterpiece at the time.
The white papers that followed extended the original picture but the core components never changed.
Back to Tuned and Real-Time
In the original Intel documents, Real-Time was identified as a core component. Why is that? And what for? There is just one answer: deterministic results.
But let's start with the basics.
What's Real-Time?
First in my words, real-time is not about the lowest possible latency or the maximum possible throughput. Real-time is deterministic execution time. Deterministic execution time means performing tasks within a certain time, this not being affected by any external process.
Then quoting RTWiki in a more professional way "real-time applications have operational deadlines between some triggering event and the application's response to that event. To meet these operational deadlines, programmers use real-time operating systems (RTOS) on which the maximum response time can be calculated or measured reliably for the given application and environment."
Why is it called PREEMPT_RT?
Again quoting RTWiki, "the RT-Preempt patch converts Linux into a fully preemptible kernel." So using preemption in the whole stack (userland, kernel, interrupts times, etc), deterministic execution time can be achieved.
Where can I learn more?
I can only advise watching Thomas Gleixner (PREEMPT_RT's father) during a Linux Foundation keynote. It takes only 20 minutes but will give you a good understanding.
Keynote: Preempt-RT by Thomas Gleixner
Following there are more detailed documents and videos (courtesy of the Linux Foundation).
Tuned Real-Time Profiles
By the time Tuned upstream community completed CPU-partitioning work, three other profiles were also ready: realtime, realtime-virtual-host, and lastly realtime-virtual-guest.
• RealTime is the common Tuned profile with generic configuration for a real-time environment.
• realtime-virtual-host is a specific profile for a hypervisor in real-time.
• realtime-virtual-guest is a specific profile for a guest running in real-time on a real-time hypervisor.
How does the Real-Time profile stack against CPU-Partitioning?
Let's say that CPU-Partitioning is the foundation for the real-time profiles. Real-time doesn't heritage CPU-Partitioning but it implements the relevant technologies. Following is a simplified slide from my NFV deck about two profiles.
Real-Time Figure 1
Of course in Real-Time you have RT-Kernel and KVM-RT, but another big difference is how the CPU Cores are partitioned. CPU-partitioning was originally designed to use systemd CPU Affinity then later on in our NFV Reference Architecture we included isolcpus but it is mostly an extension and it is going to be removed soon. Real-Time is meant to use isolcpus.
Difference in Technologies
In term of technology being used and enabled, the two are mostly the same:
Real-Time Figure 2
For any of the (many) other technologies, just go check out my other post aboutTuning for Zero Packet Loss in Red Hat OpenStack Platform for CPU partitioning. As for the Tuned Real-Time profiles, two technologies are definitely worth additional details.
Allows RT tasks to run indefinitely without interruption
It's achieved through a kernel parameter "kernel.sched_rt_runtime_us" set at "-1". We even have a knowledge base article about it and it's rated as extremely dangerous. The sched_rt_runtime_us parameter defines how long a real-time task can be executed without any interruption. Default is for 95% of its time. The configuration you want in a properly configured NFV environment is "forever.”
Local APIC Timer in TSC-Deadline
Well, that's an interesting one and here we're going deep into how x86 works and personally I struggle to understand all the ramifications. Let's just say that advancing the TSC-Deadline expiration can avoid additional latency removing some VMExit. Additional info can be found at APIC timer.
Real-Time Kernel Features
The PREEMPT_RT Patch turns the Linux kernel into a fully preemptible kernel, changing the Linux internals. Over time multiple things have been fully moved into the upstream kernel (RCU Offload, tickless kernel, FIFO Scheduler etc) and only a few remaining ones are now part of the patch. Following a high-level list.
• Making in-kernel locking-primitives (spinlocks) preemptible
• Implementing priority inheritance for in-kernel spinlocks and semaphores
• Converting interrupt handlers into preemptible kernel threads
Of course, the Process Scheduling plays a major role here. Any task with higher priority can delay low priority tasks for an unknown amount of time. And sched_rt_runtime_us allows it.
SCHED_FIFO and SCHED_RR are the two real-time scheduling policies. Each task that is scheduled according to one of these policies has an associated static priority value that ranges from 1 (lowest priority) to 99 (highest priority).
The scheduler keeps a list of ready-to-run tasks for each priority level. Using these lists, the scheduling principles are quite simple:
• SCHED_FIFO tasks are allowed to run until they have completed their work or voluntarily yields.
• SCHED_RR tasks are allowed to run until they have completed their work, until they voluntarily yield, or until they have consumed a specified amount of CPU time.
As long as there are real-time tasks that are ready to run, they might consume all CPU power.
SCHED_FIFO is the one configured by the KVM and OpenStack Nova for the VM's vCPUs and it's also used e.g. by the RT-Kernel for Interrupts and RCUs. The following one is quite interesting about Real Time Kernel. In order to have a fully preemptible system, you can see the IRQs as kernel threads with scheduling FIFO and priority 50.
# tuna --show_threads|grep irq|grep mlx4
768 FIFO 50 10,30 5620 0 irq/56-mlx4-asy
1120 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/57-mlx4-1@0
1121 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/58-mlx4-2@0
1122 FIFO 50 10,30 1 1 irq/59-mlx4-3@0
1123 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/60-mlx4-4@0
1124 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/61-mlx4-5@0
1125 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/62-mlx4-6@0
1126 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/63-mlx4-7@0
1127 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/64-mlx4-8@0
1128 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/65-mlx4-9@0
1129 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/66-mlx4-10@
1130 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/67-mlx4-11@
1131 FIFO 50 10,30 2 0 irq/68-mlx4-12@
1132 FIFO 50 10,30 2 0 irq/69-mlx4-13@
1133 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/70-mlx4-14@
1134 FIFO 50 10,30 2 1 irq/71-mlx4-15@
And this is not just Mellanox that somehow has a different implementation. This shows output from my Intel x550 using the ixgbe driver.
tuna --show_threads|grep irq|grep ixgbe
1802 FIFO 50 0,20 3 1 irq/35-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1803 FIFO 50 0,20 7324 1 irq/37-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1804 FIFO 50 0,20 224 1 irq/38-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1805 FIFO 50 0,20 131 1 irq/39-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1806 FIFO 50 0,20 230 1 irq/40-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1807 FIFO 50 0,20 115 1 irq/41-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1808 FIFO 50 0,20 123 1 irq/42-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1809 FIFO 50 0,20 135 1 irq/43-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1810 FIFO 50 0,20 139 1 irq/44-enp3s0f0 ixgbe
1818 FIFO 50 0,20 2 1 irq/47-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1819 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/48-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1820 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/49-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1821 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/50-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1822 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/51-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1823 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/52-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1824 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/53-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1825 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/54-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
1826 FIFO 50 0,20 107 1 irq/55-enp3s0f1 ixgbe
Latency Results
The environment is a fresh Red Hat Enterprise Linux 7.5 using latest kernel 3.10.0-862.3.2.el7.x86_64 for CPU-Partitioning and 3.10.0-862.3.2.rt56.808.el7.x86_64 for real time. Of course with CPU-Partitioning, isolcpus is enabled as per our NFV Reference Architecture. None of those graphs shows the system cores. The ones (0,10,20,30 in my case) dedicated to Kernel, Userland, IRQ etc. The latency over there is way too high. The physical setup is a dual socket Xeon E5-2640 v4 Broadwell-EP.
CPU-Partitioning w/ isolcpus
CPU-Partitioning w/ isolcpus
Between the two, the later one in RealTime is a very different picture. My system shows a few cores over 20us. This could be due to SMT that I left enabled. Anyways it's a better result given the maximum scheduling latency being lower (from 91us to 23us)..
Now about KVM-RT. It's the same environment. The only difference is the single system core, in this case, is vCPU0. Again excluded from the graphs.
Host CPU-Partitioning w/ isolcpus and Guest the same.
Host CPU-Partitioning w/ isolcpus and Guest the same
Host Realtime-virtual-host and guest realtime-virtual-guest
Again a much better picture, maximum latency is 22us vs. 126 of the Host CPU-Partitioning..
But wait a second! Is this the typical customer case? Well, in my experience, most virtual network functions (VNF) vendors use some form of RTOS for the VNF. So, Nope. What happens mixing the situation?
Host CPU-Partitioning w/ isolcpus and Guest realtime-virtual-guest
THIS! The picture looks a little worse than the pure real-time but not as bad as in full CPU-partitioning mode.
Autograph Generator
If you’d like to try the tool used to generate these charts, please go to the Cyclictest_and_Plot repository on GitHub.
I believe that Red Hat OpenStack Platform 13 is going to change a lot of things. From a telco perspective, Real Time, especially in Radio, should be a killer feature.
What bugs me is that this time the hardware plays even a more important role. During my initial tests, I was running an old (6-month) CPU microcode with a known TSC-Deadline bug (simple dmesg showed it) and the results were inconsistent. For me, it's easy to upgrade for fixing. At a major telco service provider in production, it can be another very different story.
How effective KVM-RT will be, only time will tell. However I already got a request on how the network latency can be affected. In my case, a plan to run MoonGen in loopback mode was there, but in the end, I didn't have time for it. Is this a problem? Well, it's not representative of a 2018 telco network topology where going through the Switch interconnection may double the average latency... |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4388 | 20 Women Share How Much Money They Have In The Bank
Photographed by Rachel Cabitt.
Okay, so it isn't the most polite question to ask. But boy is it natural to be curious about your peers' finances — and to feel comfort in knowing you're in the same boat as everyone else. (Any else have retirement-oriented fever dreams?) At R29, we're interested in erasing the taboo nature of money talk — so we thought we'd ask just about the most vulnerable question we could think of: How much money do you have in your bank account right now at this very moment? And speaking of, how much debt do you have? Oh and while you're at it, how do you feel about all of that information as it relates to the grand scheme of your life?
We asked, and over 250 of you answered. Ahead, you'll find responses from a wide range of incomes, ages, and industries.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4408 | The Site - RJ Wilner
Clingmans Dome 048, 06/16/2016
Welcome! You have stumbled across the web site of RJ Wilner. Thanks for stopping by!
A few notes about the site...
- Though the primary function of the site is to serve as a 'gallery' for what I feel are generally my 'Best of..' images, it is also intended to be something of a journal of my photographic journey. I.e., many of the images included either do now, or will eventually, have a caption included to provide some pertinent info about the image. Sometimes, that will be technical info, sometimes it will elaborate on the 'story' of the image, sometimes it will be a tidbit concerning the making of the image.
- Currently, the 'caption' for each image includes the image title as well as the Location and Date/Time Captured info. It may also include add'l info as well (as mentioned above), but for now each image includes these details.
- You may notice that I'm rather OCD'ish about chronology. The 'Home' page slideshow as well as each individual gallery are designed to display that set of images in chronological order. Possibly only important to me as it helps deliniate the 'journal' aspect of the site.
- Where the time of day is noted, it will always be based on the 24hr clock...none of this AM/PM silliness. :)
- The site is primarily divided into Color and B&W galleries with similar categories of images included in each.
- In addition, the 'Projects' are series' of images that contain a consistent theme. You will find a description of that theme at the top of each Project page.
- At the bottom of each page are alternative groupings of images that may not comprise a 'project', but fit together in ways some visitors may find appealing.
- In the not too distant future, those gracious enough to consider purchasing a print of any of these images will be able to do so directly from the site. But that is sort of a Stage 2 plan for the site.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4419 | When trying to set up a website, there are a number of things you have to do before it can be seen to a wider audience. It isn’t just a case of clicking a button and that’s it. Setting up a website can be quite a time-consuming process, and you don’t want to jump the gun on any of these steps, otherwise you may be throwing money down the drain. Here are some of the steps in setting up your website.
Decide on a Name
In my opinion, this is the most important part of your website. What ever you do on your website will be associated with your name. Once you have come up with a name, you need to have a look around and see what domain names are available.
Around 15-20 years ago, the number of extensions that you could add to a domain name were limited. The most popular in the UK back then was .com, .net, .org and .co.uk. Because of this, domain names with popular terms were taken up very quickly. These days though, a lot more extensions are available, such as .uk and .online, making it easier to register a domain name with the term that you want.
You also want to think of what audience you are targeting. If you are targeting a UK audience, you may want a domain that has UK in it (or something related to the UK). Whereas, if you are thinking of targeting an American or global audience, something global like .com or .net would be sufficient.
Now I’m Going to Buy the Domain Name…
Wait wait wait! Don’t jump the gun. You don’t know what’s going to be on your website yet. When you buy a domain name, you are buying a lease for that domain name. That means that the moment you buy that domain name, your lease period has started. If you buy a domain name before planning the content on your website, you will be renewing the lease on that domain a lot sooner than you wish.
The next step is to decide what content you want on your website and how you want it displayed on your website. If HTML is nothing more than a four letter acronym to you, that you are probably best either getting someone or a company to set up a website for you. However, some web hosting companies do have website builders included with them. Personally, I’ve never tried them, so can’t give you an opinion on what they are like.
If you are creating a blog, or a website that will only have a few pages, I would personally go for a WordPress site. WordPress gives you a Content Management System (CMS) built into it. That means you can create, modify or delete your pages just by logging into a system on your website. And hosting for WordPress blogs can be very affordable as well.
Buying the Domain Name and Hosting
You’ve got a name, you know what content is going to be on the website. Now time to buy the domain name. Wait! Buying a domain name on it’s own will only give you the rights to use that domain name. It will not allow you to host a website. For that, you need to purchase web hosting.
Quite a lot of web hosting companies will provide a domain name and web hosting as part of one package. If you do not have the domain name registered, it’s these packages that you need to look out for.
And what about security? In-recent times, security has been taken up a notch and a “not-secure” snippet of text can appear on your browser if your website does not have an SSL certificate. You can find out more about SSL certificates in my article entitled “Which SSL certificate is right for you?“.
The Steps Needed
So to recamp, you need to think of a name of your website, look for domain names that are available and think of what audience you are targeting.
Then, you need to think about what content on your website and decide on how you are going to host the website. Are you going to write your own HTML pages, or create something more flexible like a WordPress blog?
Only when you’ve decided on these things can you go ahead and purchase the domain name, web hosting and SSL certificate.
Then it’s a case of marketing your website, but that’s for another day…
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4453 | Father JunÃÆÃâÃâÃÂpero Serra, a Catholic priest, and Captain Gaspar de PortolÃÆÃâÃâá, a soldier, establish 21 missions along the coast of present-day California. Each mission is approximately 30 miles (or a day's walk) apart. The priests attempt to convert the approximately 150,000 natives to Christianity, while the soldiers protect the territory from the Russian fur traders to the north. Deadly diseases brought by the Europeans kill thousands of the Native American inhabitants of the region.
The newly independent nation of Mexico makes Alta California, as the California region was called, an official territory of Mexico.
1830's and 1840's
Attracted by an abundance of resources, waves of American settlers begin to come to California, although the land is officially Mexican territory.
The Mexican-American War ends with the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, which gives the U.S. official ownership of California, Nevada, Utah, New Mexico, Arizona, and parts of Colorado and Wyoming. The great majority of Mexicans living in California at the time are granted U.S. citizenship.
Following the discovery of gold along the American River in northern California, a "gold rush" brings hundreds of thousands of Americans, Mexicans, and people from other parts of the world to California. While California benefits from the influx of people, the Native American population, which was estimated at 150,000 in 1845, decreases to 16,000 by 1900. Most natives die from diseases introduced by the multitude of new settlers.
On September 9, California officially becomes a state.
Mexican immigration to California increases in response to the beginning of the Mexican Revolution. Due to the war, an economic crisis has struck, and Mexicans come to California in search of better opportunities.
The Mexican community of East Los Angeles is terrorized during the "Zoot Suit Riots." From June 3 through June 7, thousands of U.S. servicemen attack Mexican youths dressed in "zoot suits," flashy, colorful suits that were fashionable at the time. The attacks stem from a fight between sailors and a group of Mexican Americans occurring on June 3, during which a sailor is seriously injured. The attacks on the Mexican-American population are widely reported by the Mexican and Latin American press and strain war-time relations between the U.S., Mexico, and Latin America. Press coverage raises the awareness among Americans and Latin Americans of the prejudice and injustices that Mexican Americans face in the United States.
Cesar Chavez founds the National Farm Workers Association to obtain better wages and working conditions for grape pickers and other farm workers. In 1965, the NFWA organizes a boycott of California grape growers. By 1970, most grape growers sign contracts with the unions. Chavez continues to organize California farm workers through the 1970s.
Governor Ronald Reagan creates the Career Opportunities Development Program, the first of its kind in the nation. This is California's first program to advance the employment and participation of minorities in institutions funded by state money. By the 1970s California is leading the nation in the development of affirmative action programs. Thousands of California Latinos benefit from the program through employment and college admissions.
According to 1990 Census, Latinos make up more than 25 percent of the population of California, although undocumented immigrants may make this population much larger. Projections show that from 1990-2010, the Latino population of California will double. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4481 |
Sermon Illustrations
“How Dare You Accuse Me!” 1 Corinthians 15:55-58 Key verse(s): 57:“But thanks be to God! He gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ.”
How dare you? Indignation. Though I have few hairs left on this bald pate, the few that I have will come to attention pretty quick should my dignity be assaulted. Especially disturbing are those moments in life when someone, the very perpetrator of the act of which you are being accused, has the audacity to shift the blame on you. “How dare you, indeed!”
As much as we hate it, blame-shifting is a game that we often engage ourselves in with the master of perpetration himself, the devil. We sin and fall short of God’s goals for our lives. Enter the devil: “Hey! You know what? What you did was pretty awful, wasn’t it? And you know what else? The Bible tells us that God demands perfection. Unless you are perfect you won’t get to heaven. You’re the one, not me, who is responsible for all these bad things happening to you. It’s your sin that did it!” The blame-shifting is so subtle that we sometimes just don’t recognize what he is doing. His slander is always well-timed for those moments when we are the weakest and most confused by our sins. The very perpetrator of sin, in his most audacious and cunning manner, serves up the blame to us. And, in a weak moment, we are often willing to accept it. Pile those accusations upon other accusations, and it isn’t long before fear turns to despair and despair leads to submission; submission to the sin and the Servant of Sin, the devil.
Martin Luther, the lowly monk who changed the face of Europe in the course of his lifetime, faced many foes in his battle to reform the church. There were those who accused him of slander and those that accused him of hypocrisy and greed. Often times the very things he was fighting against would be charged to him by his enemies. They knew that if they could deflect his criticism back unto himself, their lot would be all that easier. No greater foe did he face in that regard than the devil. Luther wrote and spoke about the presence of Satan, his nearness to the ministry of the gospel of Jesus Christ. Luther often painted Satan as a mock friend, one who was deceptively there, putting on airs of godliness only to plunge the dagger in when given the chance.
Luther knew that there was no human defense against such evil; that Satan’s insidious attacks could only grow stronger and more frequent the harder we struggled against him with our puny weapons of reason and self-will. But, he noted, there was one weapon that Satan could not resist: the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ. He wrote: “Here shall a Christian learn how to grasp and use the Gospel message, when the time of battle is come and the Law attacks and accuses him, and his own conscience tells him: this wrong you have done, and you are a sinner, and what you deserve is death, and so on, that at such a time he may with true confidence reply: Alas, I am a sinner and I have well deserved death. You are right, but condemn and kill me on that account you shall not. There is One who will hinder you, who is called my Lord Christ, whom you have accused and murdered, although He was innocent. But do you not know how you were burnt and bruised by Him, thus losing all your rights over me and all other Christians? For he bore sin and death, not for His own sake, but for me. Therefore I grant you no right over me, rather I have a right over you, because you attack me although I am innocent, you who were before conquered and condemned by Him, so that...
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. WHEN WE DRINK FROM THE WORLD, WE ALWAYS THIRST AGAIN A. Temporary satisfaction is the norm - We live in a world full of temporary things! (groceries) - Temporary doesn't mean "bad" (Jesus gets tired, thirsty, hungry; vv.6-8) - The world offer
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4548 | Islam's manifesto of universal brotherhood of human beings
From the Quran
Explanation: There are several principles, which this verse presents:
From the Sunnah
1. Prophet's response to racist comments
2. Statement of the universal brotherhood in the last Sermon
3. Don't take pride in ancestry
5. The Prophet condemnation of Arab racial pride
Excellent resources - always - masha Allah! Giving a talk on this subject this week and next and so many points speak to the heart of the matter. JAK!
Malcolm X was no racist. He responded to racism. However, he was predjudiced towards whites due to the ideology of racist white supremacy, which still exists and is just as pervasive today in 2015. Understand, "racism exists only when one group holds a disproportionate share of wealth and power over another group then uses those resources to marginalize, exploit, exclude and subordinate the weaker group" (Dr Claud Anderson). No black person in America has ever possessed such.
Thank you for this. This information certainly sheds light on the hatred Malcolm X and African-Americans were faced with during that time.
Overall some very thoughtful points and Hadiths and verses which we should not forget...however there are many misconceptions in regrads to Arabs and the so-called Africans...what many people don't know is that the ORIGINAL Arabs were the same complexion as the the so-called Africans...infact the ORIGINAL Arabs were very racist towards people with a fair complexion and they were ver proud of their very dark complexion
Al-Mubarrad said: "The Arabs used to take pride in their asmar and black complexion and they used to hate a red (white) color and very fair color and they said that it was the color of the Persians."قال المبرد"العرب كانت تفتخر بالسمرة و السواد و كانت تكره الحمرة و الشقرة و تقول انها من ألوان العجم"
Ibn Berry said: The Arabs describe their color as black and they describe the color of the Persians as red (white).و قال ابن بري: "العرب تصف ألوانها بالسواد و تصف ألوان العجم بالحمرة"
Ibn Sayyida said: "...They are Arabs and their colors are adam, asmar, and black."قال ابن سيده ... فهم عرب، وألوانهم الأدمة والسمرة والسواد
Abu Taalib Al-Nahwi said: "... It is said that he meant that he was a pure Arab because most Arabs are adam complexioned.قال أبو طالب النحوي: ... و قيل أراد أنه من خالص العرب و صميمهم لأن الغالب على ألوان العرب الأدمة
As-Salaam-u alaikum, Where can this information be found. It all sounds good, but I only repeat what I can refer to its origin.
Marshall, MO USA
Bristol UK
Great it's so educating.
plateau Nigeria
beautiful, mashah allahsharing it on fb
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4557 | Forums / The Site / Feedback thread
I had the idea a few days ago to have a button for users to switch the leaderboard view to list the historic world records. That'd let you see the runs without hunting them.
OxkniferOxknifer likes this.
Holy shit ROM, that's brilliant! 🙂
Much harder to implement though...
What about a way that we can report users on forums who harass people or report people who cheat on speedruns??
If you feel like being fanciful, add an easy formatting option to be able to quickly link games/users or so. Typing something like `Super Mario 64` or @SgtKabukiman would change it to Super Mario 64 and SgtKabukiman. If it fails the look-up it wouldn't link anything.
Automatically linking without a formatting option would probably be too intensive on the server and would have a lot of false positives, especially for users.
the profile page can be improofed by adding a uplay name input field
I don't know if this "feature" is available already. (If, yes I didn't find it after searching for weeks)
It would be nice, to exclude certain categories from global sub-categories. Else a game with 4 Main Categories and 4 Sub-Categories which apply to only 3 of them is a mess to keep an overview in the "Edit Game" Tab.
Or a better way to associate the Sub-Categories to the Categories.
Thank you for the time reading this.
OxkniferOxknifer likes this.
I've been waiting for more people to bring Trent's point up. An example where subcategories need to be separated is in the game Color Switch. The game has several modes that all have different ranges of levels. Some modes only have 25 levels, while others exceed 100. The moderator has organized the game so that records can be held for each mode on levels 1-10, 11-20, 21-30 and so on. A mode with only 25 levels should be capped at 21-30 (or 21-25), while others are capped at higher values. Anyone have a better example?
TrenteR_TRTrenteR_TR likes this.
Hi, I wanted to discuss the leaderboards for White Tiles 4: Piano Master. I'm not sure where else I would bring this up.. After checking out the game for myself I see that most of the game's modes are not "speedruns" but rather high score competitions, which the mods of the boards have implemented by choosing "ascending timer" and putting the game score in the millisecond field. Surely high score leaderboards like this belong on something like Cyberscore, not a Speedrun leaderboard site. There are a few categories that would qualify as speedrunnable but as I said they are extremely outnumbered by the ones that aren't.
MalphasMalphas likes this.
@TrenteR_TR @Oxknifer The next big update will have this option. You'll be able to highlight which categories you want to apply a sub-category to.
@Dugongue The site plans on adding support for score leaderboard, so what they're doing isn't terribly absurd.
OxkniferOxknifer likes this.
In addition to the concerns I've brought up about moderation and verification, I think it would be a good idea if "Automatically verify run" was unticked by default in the verification page. It's too easy for a moderator to accidentally leave this ticked when submitting a run, and self-verification should NOT be the default position. I've accidentally done this a few times, and immediately re-submit the run for verification.
CrockeyCrockey, PunchyPunchy and 3 others like this.
@Dugongue You are the moderator for Rampage for the NES. Can you please check the forum for that game. I do not know of any other way to contact you so I just forum stalked you.
I would like to be able to have the features of both, using an extra variable as subcategory (-> Nice buttons to switch between values quickly) and not doing that (-> Be on 'any' value by default and have the ability to select the 'any' value in the filter-menu)
It may not seem good for most games, but I feel like for Diablo II ( ) it would be ideal to have both.
I really love the ability to see how the classes compare to each other in the leaderboard and I have had people ask me to add the nice buttons the Diablo1 and 3 games use (-> [x] Use as subcategory -> no 'any' value possible)
It would be cool if that could be added/changed in the future :3
OxkniferOxknifer and ROMaster2ROMaster2 like this.
One thing I've noticed, that's a small pet peeve of mine, is when you search for games they're ordered by something seemingly random. For example if you type in "Super Mar" the first result on the drop-down list is Super Mario Advance: Super Mario Bros. 2, even though that is clearly not the largest game starting with "Super Mar," of which is Super Mario 64. In fact Super Mario 64 is eighth on the list, behind fan games such as Super Mario 63.
I would propose to have the the search result list have the games with the highest number of runs closer to the top, so it's easy to access larger games. If possible maybe it could be customizable from your settings page.
IdahoJacketIdahoJacket and ROMaster2ROMaster2 like this.
To let series moderators customize how the games appear on the series page, have the list of games underneath the moderators that's similar to the Followed games settings for users -- along with a checkbox next to each game to show/hide them.
For the database, there can be a integer for SeriesPosition and boolean for Visible. If nullable boolean is available, null can be used for an 'auto' option to automatically set visibility if it has a derivative gametype.
Really, nullable boolean can be used in other areas of the site as 'auto':
User settings
• Show misc runs by default on your profile -- Shows if there aren't any non-misc runs or the ratio of misc to non-misc runs is really high.
• Appear on Streams page while streaming -- The stream page can use an overhaul, but set this to only appear if the user has a run in literally anything.
Game settings
• Default view -- Prefers full-game but shows level instead if there's only ILs or the IL-to-FG player ratio is really high. (If the mods dislike it, they can check to show FG or IL.)
The period got included in your link, the correct link is this.
EDIT: Ninjad by edit 🙁
OxkniferOxknifer likes this.
For alerts about "Your PB has been beaten", it ought to be only when someone passes you, not simply any run that's faster than yours. It doesn't do you much good to find out that someone who was already faster than you is still faster.
TrenteR_TRTrenteR_TR, GrapeGrape and 2 others like this.
Could be possible lock the possibility of any other person add guides in any game except for mods/supermods? People who dont speedrun X game can add guides without any problems, so i think is a better idea leave that job to the mods of the game.
ROMaster2ROMaster2 likes this.
Okay. So I made a video the other day about so many games recently splitting up their boards using subcategories and NOT using the site's filter function. I'm not posting this to promote, but rather so you can get an idea what I am talking about:
There are plenty of leaderboards I could show right now that just to demonstrate how "unnecessary" they really are:
I could go on with examples that I posted earlier, but I feel like almost every one of them would be "fixed" by more visible filters... or could get a bit unclustered at least. There are a bunch of boards that I can look at and say: "Well this looks awful." - I am sorry for possibly mentioning your Leaderboards with the ones I posted as an example. Didn't mean to offend anyone! 😕
I can already hear a comment saying "every community needs to make their own decision on what a category is" and yes, I agree, but it would be nice to see this awesome function we have not be replaced by Subcategories, just because they're "easier" to use.
One of the comments I got was pointing out how "obsolete" the filters are and that that person for instance rather clicks on a subcategory button once than three times on filter. So I came up with the idea to maybe show filters almost as a subcategory, but on the right side, where it usually way? It would look something like this:
Would it be hard to implement this? I'd love to see this change made in the near future!
Thanks a lot for reading.
CadarevCadarev likes this.
Dugongue: What ROMaster2 said is accurate. We want to add flexibility for score tracking, the timer mechanism admittedly doesn't well allow that right now.
Drakodan: That's possibly okay in the scheme of things. Most boards don't opt to abide by "no self-verification", so if the default was the "desired option by the most people", I think it would actually be to automatically verify. That said having better tools for boards that want to go that route would certainly be useful.
LaV: Yeah, I don't like that subcategories totally isolate all possibility of comparing something.
Super327: I don't disgaree, but search bar changes are a large task to my understanding.
thatgrapeisaspy: Automated reporting would be very useful; we'd also need to integrate it into a queue on the staff side.
FabbrizioCalamitous: Probably makes more sense as such, yeah.
Julian: I thought you had to have a verified run of the game to submit it currently. I might be wrong on that.
Boomer: Kinda what LaV was mentioning as well. The filter mechanism has a very mediocre visual display and clickthrough right now.
I need to work with Pac and see what the plan is here the next couple months for development. There are numerous items that could be fixed going forward.
OxkniferOxknifer likes this.
Thanks for the update, kirkq 🙂
I noticed something this week about the WR history graph. If more than one person beats a record in a day, the only one that shows up in the graph is the faster time.
For instance, today over at you can see that ChocolateTheGaming beat the WR for Challenge 1-10. But in all fairness, jonasobv beat the record earlier in the day, so his record should be displayed on the graph as well. I've seen this occur on other leaderboards as well (like Disney Crossy Road). |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4611 | God Gave Buhari Power To Maltreat Nigeria, He’s Like King Eglon – Pastor Giwa
Senior Pastor of Awaiting The Second Coming Of Jesus Christ Gospel Church, Pastor Adewale Giwa, has advised Nigerians not to lose hope, saying things would turn around after the exit of President Muhammadu Buhari.
He subsequently described Buhari as the biblical king Eglon who God deliberately supported to maltreat the people of Israel.
Giwa, in a statement signed on Saturday evening, said he was not surprised by the current state of the nation, adding that ‘there is light at the end of the tunnel’.
While calling on the people to unanimously cry to God to have mercy on Nigeria, Pastor Giwa said, “It is a matter of time, we will not witness this situation anymore.
“I want to tell Nigerians that President Buhari is just like Eglon king of Moab who God gave power to defeat the people of Israel.
“This king, thereafter, set up his throne in Jericho, the city of Palm trees. The Lord deliberately gave Eglon power over Israel because they had moved away from God.
“Do not forget that the city of Jericho was the enemy’s stronghold that God had miraculously conquered for Israel.
“The defeat of Jericho opened up the whole central portion of the promised land for Israel. No one could ever believe that Jericho could come under enemy control.
“Jericho fell into enemy hands again because the people of Israel had disobeyed God.
“King Eglon chose to keep Israel in a subservient position like what we are currently witnessing in Nigeria.
“Moab forced the people of Israel to be paying tribute rather than just annihilating them.
“God’s people should not be subservient and paying tribute to a Pagan enemy in the very land that God had earlier given to His people.
“We need to serve God diligently and pray for someone like Ehud who delivered the people of Israel from king Eglon.
“I urge Nigerians to seek God now. There is power in unity, and I believe if we all work in faith, this Jericho will be defeated.” |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4628 | Skip to main content
Huawei P40 set for late-March launch, with a 'never seen' design
The Huawei P40 could have a very different design to the P30, above (Image credit: TechRadar)
It always seemed likely that the Huawei P40 would be announced in March 2020, given that the last two generations of Huawei's P-series flagship had March announcements. And now it's been confirmed, with none other than Richard Yu, Huawei’s consumer division CEO, saying as much.
The comment was made to French tech website Frandroid and other French media outlets during an interview in China, with Yu apparently saying the phone would be announced at an event in Paris at the end of March.
While he didn’t give an exact date, he did share some other details, apparently adding that the Huawei P40 will have a “never seen” design, suggesting that it won’t just be a new look for the range, but also different to any other smartphone.
Yes to Android, no to Google
The P40 – and presumably also the Huawei P40 Pro – will apparently also offer improved performance and photo quality, although that’s to be expected.
The Huawei P40 will apparently run Android 10, overlaid with Huawei’s EMUI interface – that’s as opposed to it running Huawei’s new HarmonyOS, but unless the Huawei ban is overturned the new phone won’t have access to the Google Play Store or other Google services and apps.
That will hurt the P40's international appeal, and indeed it’s not clear which regions will actually get the phone. But given that it’s being announced in Paris, and these comments were made to the French press, it seems likely that France and some other parts of Europe will get it; the US on the other hand almost certainly won’t.
That said, a previous rumor pointed to a global launch, so the Huawei P40 might well launch in much of the world – we'll have a clearer idea in March.
Via Android Authority |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4636 | What is Apple Keynote?
Keynote is a software application for the purpose of making presentations. It was developed for the iWork productivity suite by Apple Inc. Keynote is what you require to create, modify, add or give excellent and accurate presentations directly from your iPhone or iPad. Keynote is Apple's presentation component for the iWork productivity suite of software and an accompanying app for Pages, for processing in word and Numbers for spreadsheets.
What are the Features Of Apple Keynote?
Apple keynote has introduced features that will let you prepare your presentation templates quickly. It has customized the application keeping in mind what the user might look for while making a business presentation. The top characteristics include:
• The theme of Apple Keynote lets the user keep consistency in colors and fonts throughout the presentation. This may include charts, graphs, and tables.
• The OpenGL-powered 3D slide transitions resemble rolling cubes or flipping pages or dissolving transitions that fade one slide into the next.
• Provides Dual monitor support which means the presenter can display the presentation on a screen and can access the desktop or notes from his laptop or presenter screen.
• It allows us to export to PDF, QuickTime, JPEG, TIFF, PNG, HTML (with JPEG images) and PowerPoint. It also uses .key (presentation files) and .kth (theme files) bundles based on XML.[10]
• It supports QuickTime video formats (including MPEG-2 and DV) in slideshows.
• The third version has brought "export to iDVD with clickability" feature.
• It is compatible with Apple Remote and the Keynote remote application for iPhone, iPad and iPod touch.
At Template.net, we have professionally created powerful business presentation templates with Apple Keynote. make use of the features of Keynote to edit and customize the official samples. We have covered banking presentations on technological presentations. Simply choose the type of presentation template you need and insert the necessary details. Hurry, get accurately-created and appealing presentations to win the heart of your clients or employers simultaneously.
Read More |
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1. Given that models are seemingly designed first without input/concern for what a faction needs, it's anyone's guess if it will ever happen. Hard to tell since there's little to no real transparency with how things operate other than bits and pieces gleaned from articles but as crazy as it sounds it appears like there isn't communication between the model designers and the game designers.
2. Hmm I did miss that (haven't checked much in a while). Well that makes it drop in usefulness
3. Very helpful advice, thank you! Might look at the Thermalrider, I was immediately attracted to Doppelganger because a King on TG that can't be attacked until he attacks is nasty. Another option was Grim Garland for the Bravery debuff which helps both the TG and Flayers.
4. I'm looking at dusting off my Court. Are they still pretty high-tier? I have never been a fan of Gristlegore (nor do I have that many monsters) but I like Blisterskin and Hollowmourne, and would likely build a Blisterskin army as I have 15 Flayers now. With the slight nerfs to Gristlegore is Blisterskin the way to go now? Like I said I don't have enough monsters to run Gristlegore (I only have a King on TG and King on ZG) I originally was going to do something like this: Allegiance: Flesh Eater Courts - Grand Court: Blisterskin Mortal Realm: Ulgu Abhorrant Archregent (240) - General - Trait: Hellish Orator - Lore of Madness: Spectral Host Abhorrant Ghoul King on Royal Terrorgheist (420) - Artefact: Eye of Hysh - Lore of Madness: Monstrous Vigour - Mount Trait: Gruesome Bite Abhorrant Ghoul King on Royal Terrorgheist (420) - Artefact: Doppelganger Cloak - Lore of Madness: Deranged Transformation - Mount Trait: Gruesome Bite Crypt Infernal Courtier (120) 6 x Crypt Flayers (340) 3 x Crypt Flayers (170) 3 x Crypt Flayers (170) Deadwatch (110) Total: 1990 / 2000 Extra Command Points: 1 Allies: 0 / 400 Wounds: 89 Having to proxy the second King on TG with a King on ZD. The Archregent summoning 20 ghouls and each AGKoTG summoning Flayers (or Horrors but probably Flayers). But it seems a bit light on bodies and it was suggested to me to try something like this instead: Allegiance: Flesh Eater Courts - Grand Court: Blisterskin Mortal Realm: Ulgu Abhorrant Archregent (240) - General - Trait: Hellish Orator - Lore of Madness: Spectral Host Abhorrant Ghoul King on Royal Terrorgheist (420) - Artefact: Doppelganger Cloak - Lore of Madness: Monstrous Vigour - Mount Trait: Gruesome Bite Abhorrant Ghoul King (160) - Lore of Madness: Blood Feast Varghulf Courtier (160) - Artefact: Eye of Hysh 9 x Crypt Flayers (510) 10 x Crypt Ghouls (100) 10 x Crypt Ghouls (100) 3 x Crypt Horrors (130) Royal Mordants (120) Extra Command Point (50) Total: 1990 / 2000 Extra Command Points: 2 Allies: 0 / 400 Wounds: 103 With again, Archregent summons 20 ghouls, king on foot summons 10 ghouls for a backfield objective, and AGKoTG summoning additional flayers. Are these lists on the right track with FEC now? I haven't really played them since long before the new book.
5. From looking at the battalions, none of them really seem to be worth taking. The bonuses they give seem really lackluster.
6. Well if I have the choice I'll go amazing, but that is something to keep in mind. I think I've decided to give it a shot though, I spent most of last night really scrutinizing the Bonereapers and Deepkin models and really found myself more attracted to the Deepkin.
7. If KF didn't "become" Sigmar then he's a good candidate (I thought he became Sigmar too). Otherwise my vote is Magnus the Pious. He fits all the criteria. I think this is one of the things that will never be stated (like what happened to the 2 missing legions in 40k).
8. Hi all considering jumping back into AOS after not having played since.. probably since 2.0 first came out. I haven't done an Order army yet (I have FEC and Nurgle) and really like the look and fluff of Deepkin (right now it's a tossup between them and Bonereapers with Deepkin slightly in the lead). One of the things I'm looking for in an army this time around besides no summoning (really don't want to have to buy a lot of extra stuff on top of the actual army) is an army that I can adjust the power level relatively easy i.e. turn it up for competitive games/tournaments and tone it down for more casual games. Deepkin seem to fall right into this category as it seems like if I don't take 18+ Eels or maybe take some Allopex (love these models) and Namarti it tones it down, while more eels = more power? Luckily for me I really like the entire range of models in the Deepkin line with the possible exception of the Octodude and I'm not a huge fan of the female spellcaster but she's not so bad. Is this observation correct? I know Deepkin are (were?) a higher end army competitively with eel spam, how do they fare when toned down? Are they still pretty decent?
9. I think besides the obvious find people who don't immediately jump to Matched Play or go on a tirade how without points the game is broken (because it's not much better with points, and you can do Narrative with points anyway) or, worst of all, would go out of their way to break a non-points game to "prove" why it sucks (no joke I've talked to people who flat out admitted in an Open Play game they would purposely break it), a good way to start is to slowly introduce asymmetrical or themed battleplans for games, maybe with a small blurb about the reason why the armies are fighting. Even if basic or cliche, having some sort of background to the game beyond "I'm here with my army, Bob is here with his army, let's play" can help ease people into thinking about that stuff. And that naturally lends itself to cobbling together a small narrative campaign if each game sort of builds on the last and at the end you've set a story. It's a far cry from the grand dream of a big map based campaign with logistics and a big story behind it, but it's a start. I absolutely agree though with a sort of "don't bring filth lists" guideline, although you can't always enforce that and there's a blurred line sometimes (for instance, Deepkin eel spam is cool and thematic. It's also the "meta" list) but if you can get people who don't do it, then you're good to go. Most of all, I think, is that you have to lead by example. Even if it's only two guys who every week are playing asymmetrical battles or using something other than Matched Play, it can help entice others who naturally are curious about what their fellow gamers are doing. Perhaps if they see that two of their peers are enjoying asymmetrical games and weaving a little story to go with it, they will want to join in. I'm skeptical on how it would work (too many people would either complain or try to break it) but a localized idea like Coalescence could be interesting. A day-long event (specifically worded as not being a tournament or competitive event) with linked battles that tells some tale. For a local event, maybe cap it off with a multi-player battle or something as the victorious forces converge on their goal. Anything to start and get people thinking about more than the "2000 Pitched Battle, all Matched Play rules, meta netlisting" approach you so often find in groups/stores/clubs.
10. Out of curiosity, anyone done anything with Meeting Engagements? What works for Maggotkin in that format? They sounded like a great idea, but seem to have fizzled out almost immediately. I recall reading a lot about how it was very easily busted (more than normal) and that was about it, with it never really catching on. I like the idea because I always prefer smaller games to 2k.
11. Honestly, and I know I will get flak for this, I don't think there's an actual desire to balance, not even close. This isn't a GW problem however, although it often seems like GW is one of the worst offenders. Games the last decade or so (maybe more) have adhered to the Magic: The Gathering mindset where its mostly (if not entirely) about deckbuilding and stacking combos to make a "killer" combo; as close as you can get to a one-hit KO. Wargaming has followed that (I've watched it) and AOS is no exception. The intention is that there are better/worse choices (the "skill" is figuring out what is OP and using as much of it as possible) and an emphasis on stacking buffs and combos, with a rollercoaster power curve instead of as close to a flat line as you can get. Of course, you can never get a fully flat line i.e. 100% perfect balance, and nobody really wants that, but in design you strive to get as close as possible to that as a general rule and the key to good game design is getting as close to that line without making things too bland. For whatever reason (to push sales, really wanting MtG style combos to reward theorycrafting, who knows?) the opposite approach has been true in Warhammer (possibly more so in 40k than AOS, but AOS is a big offender in that as well) and rather than strive to get as close as possible to balance, it feels like more of a "throw it out the window, this seems cool" approach even if that's not the intended goal; from their articles in WD, it appears GW seems to want to try and care about balance, just it never shows. I doubt they're lying just to say they care, so it's anyone's guess why they continue to miss the mark. It might not even be the designer's fault. There was an interview, 40k related granted, where one of the designers stated that they were told to make the Eldar Wrathknight better without balancing it, just to sell more of it. Still, to answer the OP yeah I think this is as good as we get, and it's a rollercoaster where you can't see what the next part is until you get to it. It could be a straight line, it could be a steep curve upward, it could be a fast plunge downward. If you like that (and a lot of people are seemingly okay with that style of design) then it's all well and good. If you don't, however...
12. I'm not surprised really. The Maggotkin book seems to be pretty well balanced, and we all know how GW is with that. There have been a slew of books that were way above the power curve, which will make the "normal" books get weaker over time as they continue that trend. It's been that way for years and the design team has zero interest in fixing it, in fact from what I've read they and the AOS community want those weird imbalances and rollercoaster power curves as intended design.
13. Been considering finishing off my Maggotkin since I saw 5 BKs on my painting table and started to paint them up and was reminded why I love painting Nurgle things. Sort of torn between the cookie cutter type build with Blight Cyst + GUO + 30 PBs or trying something with Marauders and that beastman dude (maybe with Bestigor. I'd really love to be able to do a "Realm of Chaos" type mixed warband with humans, daemons and beastmen like in the old days and not have it be garbage) but I really like how 30 PBs have performed for me in the past. They do make good summoning fodder though (albeit IIRC you can only summon in units of 10). Decisions, decisions...
14. I just picked up GHB2019 yesterday and have been flipping through it. Personally I think the army generator, terrain layout generator et all are probably one of the best things GW has added. I am so tired of the same boring "Matched Play, Pitched Battle" and I really think the army generator alleviates a lot of the prior stigma of Open Play, that being there was zero guideline for how to pick something without lengthy discussion with your opponent (and we know how that usually goes over). Of course it won't be quite as balanced as matched (not like matched points is really balanced though) and I do suppose it rewards people who have larger collections instead of your typical "I bought 2000 points of X only" but overall I think it's a great idea that adds a lot of possibilities for a more open-minded group who wants something different. Has anyone given them a shot yet and can offer their experiences? I also really really like the terrain layout generator (the piece of terrain generator not so much); I find it's often really hard to figure out where terrain pieces should go so being able to roll on that table and have a guideline for where pieces should be set up adds a lot. This in particular I think has application outside of Open Play since even in Matched Play you need to set up terrain, and this provides a (relatively) impartial guide for where it should go. I really think with this, plus the open war table/cards, Open Play just got a lot more interesting. It's still not for everyone and I've already heard some dislike of the system since it's "random", but overall as a concept I could see this sort of thing being great for game night in a group/club that isn't dead set on matched play 24-7. Between the army generator (and I suppose you could pick rather than roll if rolling is such a concern; it already mentions you can agree on the force points beforehand), the terrain generator (layout, at least), the hidden agendas and the open war battleplans, that sounds like a lot of fun to me. Not to mention the application for narrative campaigns without just using your standard X points method. What are your thoughts on them?
15. RE: Terrain, the main thing is that terrain has to be meaningful. I see way too often like just a ton of rocky outcrops or similar that are easy to make and ultimately useless except as decorations or to block off lanes because they have gaps so don't do anything to block LOS, are too narrow to really give cover, so are just there so you aren't playing on a flat table. That's another topic but I find there's a serious lack of good terrain in most games. It might be functional, but it doesn't do what terrain should do. However, my mind is clouded because in my area people rarely if ever use the mysterious terrain rules, if we use them its forgotten about 99% of the time, and a lot of the terrain is leftover stuff from WHFB that doesn't really fit or IMHO is suitable for AOS and is better suited to rank-and-file games like Kings of War. However, other than GW (which is still too limited IMHO) I haven't really found any good terrain that fits the AOS aesthetic and isn't just your typical WHFB Empire/Bretonnia medieval European building.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4656 | How to Prepare Thin Skin before a Surgery
The Doctors share tips for people with thin skin who are undergoing a surgery. Should someone with thin skin be worried about going under the knife? |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4658 | Words containing gnancy
Found 12 words containing gnancy. Browse our Scrabble Word Finder, Words With Friends cheat dictionary, and WordHub word solver to find words that contain gnancy. Or use our Unscramble word solver to find your best possible play! Related: Words that end in gnancy
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4692 | All About Comment Clauses
Common Aspect of Speech Adds Parenthetical Remark
woman laying on pier reading a book
Cultura RM Exclusive/Natalie Faye/Getty Images
A comment clause, commonly heard in everyday speech and used in dialogue to give it a natural tone, is a short word group, such as "you see" and "I think," that adds a parenthetical remark to another word group. It's also called a comment tag, a commenting tag or a parenthesis. You might not have known the name of it, but it's guaranteed you use and hear it just about every day.
Examples and Observations of a Comment Clause
• "Commonly occurring examples [of comment clauses] are 'I'm sure,' 'I'm afraid,' 'I admit,' 'I gather,' 'I dare say' and 'you see,' 'you know', 'mind you,' 'you must admit.' Many comment clauses are stereotyped fillers which are inserted into running speech in order to establish informal contact with the hearer. When the subject is realized by 'I,' their function is to inform the hearer of the speaker's degree of certainty (I know/I suppose) or of her emotional attitude to the content of the matrix clause." -Carl Bache, "Essentials of Mastering English" (2000)
• "As you know, the concept of the suction pump is centuries old. Really that's all this is except that instead of sucking water, I'm sucking life." -Christopher Guest as Count Rugen in "The Princess Bride" (1987)
• The presentation went quite well, I believe.
• "All time is all time. It does not change. It does not lend itself to warnings or explanations. It simply is. Take it moment by moment, and you will find that we are all, as I've said before, bugs in amber." -Kurt Vonnegut, "Slaughterhouse-Five" (1969)
• "They [comment clauses] are so called because they do not so much add to the information in a sentence as comment on its truth, the manner of saying it or the attitude of the speaker." -Gunther Kaltenbock, "Spoken Parenthetical Clauses in English: A Taxonomy" (2007)
• "Fly high above the clouds
On the wings of a dream
I hear your whisper loud—
Or so it seems." -Jackie Lomax, "Or So It Seems"
Signals in Conversation
"The comment clauses 'you know' and 'you see' require some kind of response from the listeners, which, in a narrative turn, are more likely to be paralinguistic than vocal. Nods of the head, direct eye contact and minimal vocalizations like 'mm' will satisfy the speaker that he still has the audience's consent to continue dominating the turn-taking." -Sara Thorne, "Mastering Advanced English Language" (2008)
Comment Clauses and Relative Clauses
"In an example like 'Margaret Thatcher is now a life Baroness, which everyone knows,' we can replace 'which' with 'as' with virtually no change of meaning. But unlike 'which,' 'as' is not generally used as a relative but as a conjunction. Note also that 'as everyone knows' is positionally less restricted than 'which everyone knows': It could also be placed initially or medially. We, therefore, do not classify such an 'as'-clause as a sentential relative clause but as a comment clause." -C. Bache and N. Davidsen-Nielsen, "Mastering English" (1997) |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4717 | Heat Treatable Aluminum Alloys
The term “heat treating” for aluminum alloys is frequently restricted to the specific operations employed to increase strength and hardness of the precipitation-hardenable wrought and cast alloys. These usually are referred to as the “heat-treatable” alloys to distinguish them from those alloys in which no significant strengthening can be achieved by heating and cooling.Heat treatment to increase strength of aluminum alloys is a three-step process: Solution heat treatment: dissolution of soluble phases; Quenching: development of supersaturation; Age hardening: precipitation of solute atoms either at room temperature (natural aging) or elevated temperature (artificial aging or precipitation heat treatment).
Heat treating in its broadest sense, refers to any of the heating and cooling operations are performed for the purpose of changing the mechanical properties, the metallurgical structure, or the residual stress state of a metal product.
When the term is applied to aluminum alloys, however, its use frequently is restricted to the specific operations employed to increase strength and hardness of the precipitation-hardenable wrought and cast alloys. These usually are referred to as the "heat-treatable" alloys to distinguish them from those alloys in which no significant strengthening can be achieved by heating and cooling. The latter, generally referred to as "non heat-treatable" alloys depend primarily on cold work to increase strength. Heating to decrease strength and increase ductility (annealing) is used with alloys of both types; metallurgical reactions may vary with type of alloy and with degree of softening desired.
One essential attribute of a precipitation-hardening alloy system is a temperature-dependent equilibrium solid solubility characterized by increasing solubility with increasing temperature. The mayor aluminum alloy systems with precipitation hardening include:
• Aluminum-copper systems with strengthening from CuAl2
• Aluminum-copper-magnesium systems (magnesium intensifies precipitation)
• Aluminum-magnesium-silicon systems with strengthening from Mg2Si
• Aluminum-zinc-magnesium systems with strengthening from MgZn2
• Aluminum-zinc-magnesium-copper systems
The general requirement for precipitation strengthening of supersaturated solid solutions involves the formation of finely dispersed precipitates during aging heat treatment (which may include either natural aging or artificial aging). The aging must be accomplished not only below the equilibrium solvus temperature, but below a metastable miscibility gap called the Guinier-Preston (GP) zone solvus line.
The commercial heat-treatable alloys are, with few exceptions, based on ternary or quaternary systems with respect to the solutes involved in developing strength by precipitation. Commercial alloys whose strength and hardness can be significantly increased by heat treatment include 2xxx, 6xxx, and 7xxx series wrought alloys and 2xx.0, 3xx.0 and 7xx.0 series casting alloys.
Some of these contain only copper, or copper and silicon as the primary strengthening alloy addition. Most of the heat-treatable alloys, however, contain combinations of magnesium with one or more of the elements, copper, silicon and zinc. Characteristically, even small amounts of magnesium in concert with these elements accelerate and accentuate precipitation hardening, while alloys in the 6xxx series contain silicon and magnesium approximately in the proportions required for formulation of magnesium silicide (Mg2Si). Although not as strong as most 2xxx and 7xxx alloys, 6xxx alloys have good formability, weldability, machinability, and corrosion resistance, with medium strength.
In the heat-treatable wrought alloys, with some notable exceptions (2024, 2219, and 7178), such solute elements are present in amounts that are within the limits of mutual solid solubility at temperatures below the eutectic temperature (lowest melting temperature).
In contrast, some of the casting alloys of the 2xx.0 series and all of the 3xx.0 series alloys contain amounts of soluble elements that far exceed solid-solubility limits. In these alloys, the phase formed by combination of the excess soluble elements with the aluminum will never be dissolved, although the shapes of the undissolved particles may be changed by partial solution.
Heat treatment to increase strength of aluminum alloys is a three-step process:
• Solution heat treatment: dissolution of soluble phases
• Quenching: development of supersaturation
Solution Heat Treating
To take advantage of the precipitation hardening reaction, it is necessary first to produce a solid solution. The process by which this is accomplished is called solution heat treating, and its objective is to take into solid solution the maximum practical amounts of the soluble hardening elements in the alloy. The process consists of soaking the alloy at a temperature sufficiently high and for a time long enough to achieve a nearly homogeneous solid solution.
Precipitation Heat Treating without Prior Solution Heat Treatment
Certain alloys that are relatively insensitive to cooling rate during quenching can be either air cooled or water quenched directly from a final hot working operation. In either condition, these alloys respond strongly to precipitation heat treatment. This practice is widely used in producing thin extruded shapes of alloys 6061, 6063, 6463 and 7005.
Upon precipitation heat treating after quenching at the extrusion press, these alloys develop strengths nearly equal to those obtained by adding a separate solution heat treating operation. Changes in properties occurring during the precipitation treatment follow the principles outlined in the discussion of solution heat-treated alloys.
Quenching is in many ways the most critical step in the sequence of heat-treating operations. The objective of quenching is to preserve the solid solution formed at the solution heat-treating temperature, by rapidly cooling to some lower temperature, usually near room temperature.
In most instances, to avoid those types of precipitation that are detrimental to mechanical properties or to corrosion resistance, the solid solution formed during solution heat treatment must be quenched rapidly enough (and without interruption) to produce supersaturated solution at room temperature - the optimum condition for precipitation hardening.
The resistance to stress-corrosion cracking of certain copper-free aluminum-zinc-magnesium alloys, however, is improved by slow quenching. Most frequently, parts are quenched by immersion in cold water, or in continuous heat treating of sheet, plate, or extrusions in primary fabricating mills, by progressive flooding or high-velocity spraying with cold water.
Age hardening
After solution treatment and quenching hardening is achieved either at room temperature (natural aging) or with a precipitation heat treatment (artificial aging). In some alloys, sufficient precipitation occurs in a few days at room temperature to yield stable products with properties that are adequate for many applications. These alloys sometimes are precipitation heat treated to provide increased strength and hardness in wrought or cast products. Other alloys with slow precipitations reactions at room temperature are always precipitation heat treated before being used.
In some alloys, notably those of the 2xxx series, cold working or freshly quenched material greatly increases its response to later precipitation heat treatment.
Natural Aging. The more highly alloyed members of the 6xxx wrought series, the copper-containing alloys of the 7xxx group, and all of the 2xxx alloys are almost always solution heat treated and quenched. For some of these alloys, particularly the 2xxx alloys, the precipitation hardening that results from natural aging alone produces useful tempers (T3 and T4 types) that are characterized by high ratios of tensile to yield strength and high fracture toughness and resistance to fatigue. For the alloys that are used in these tempers, the relatively high supersaturation of atoms and vacancies retained by rapid quenching causes rapid formation of GP zones, and strength increases rapidly, attaining nearly maximum stable values in four or five days. Tensile-property specifications for products in T3- and T4-type tempers are based on a nominal natural aging time of four days. In alloys for which T3- or T4-type tempers are standard, the changes that occur in further natural aging are of relatively minor magnitude, and products of these combinations of alloy and temper are regarded as essentially stable after about one week.
In contrast to the relatively stable condition reached in a few days by 2xxx alloys that are used in T3- or T4-type tempers, the 6xxx alloys and to an even greater degree the 7xxx alloys are considerably less stable at room temperature and continue to exhibit significant changes in mechanical properties for many years.
Precipitation heat treatments generally are low-temperature, long-term processes. Temperatures range from 115 to 190°C; times vary from 5 to 48 h.
Choice of time-temperature cycles for precipitation heat treatment should receive careful consideration. Larger particles of precipitate result from longer times and higher temperatures; however, the larger particles must, of necessity, be fewer in number with greater distances between them.
The objective is to select the cycle that produces optimum precipitate size and distribution pattern. Unfortunately, the cycle required to maximize one property, such as tensile strength, is usually different from that required to maximize others, such as yield strength and corrosion resistance. Consequently, the cycles used represent compromises that provide the best combinations of properties.
Production of material in T5- through T7-type tempers necessitates precipitation heat treating at elevated temperatures (artificial aging).
Differences in type, volume fraction, size, and distribution of the precipitated particles govern properties as well as the changes observed with time and temperature, and these are all affected by the initial state of the structure. The initial structure may vary in wrought products from unrecrystallized to recrystallized and may exhibit only modest strain from quenching or additional strain from cold working after solution heat treatment. These conditions, as well as the time and temperature of precipitation heat treatment, affect the final structure and the resulting mechanical properties.
Precipitation heat treatment following solution heat treatment and quenching produces T6- and T7-type tempers. Alloys in T6-type tempers generally have the highest strengths practical without sacrifice of the minimum levels of other properties and characteristics found by experience to be satisfactory and useful for engineering applications. Alloys in T7 tempers are overaged, which means that some degree of strength has been sacrificed or "traded off" to improve one or more other characteristics. Strength may be sacrificed to improve dimensional stability, particularly in products intended for service at elevated temperatures, or to lower residual stresses in order to reduce warpage or distortion in machining. T7-type tempers frequently are specified for cast or forged engine parts. Precipitation heat-treating temperatures used to produce these tempers generally are higher than those used to produce T6-type tempers in the same alloys.
Two important groups of T7-type tempers -- the T73 and T76 types -- have been developed for the wrought alloys of the 7xxx series, which contain more than about 1.25% copper. These tempers are intended to improve resistance to exfoliation corrosion and stress-corrosion cracking, but as a result of overaging, they also increase fracture toughness and, under some conditions, reduce rates of fatigue-crack propagation.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4740 | By Category
Australian Retailer Target loses $2b of Goodwill and Brand Value
Brand irrelevance leads to evaporating brand value Australian retailer Target has struggled in recent years to maintain a valued, differentiated consumer proposition in the market. As competitive pricing has become a table stake rather than an active brand differentiator, mid-market retailers like Target (and the…
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4791 | Re: FPS much lower in vista than in xp...
Glenn Edler
Oh damn =( but nVidia released new drivers a week ago, but it isn't better
with them, not for me atleast =/
Isn't there any other solution than using ATI?
"Paul Smith" <[email protected]> wrote in message
news:[email protected]
> It's nVidia's drivers, if you've got an ATI card lying around use that
> instead they're practically the same speed as XP now.
> --
> Paul Smith,
> Yeovil, UK.
> Microsoft MVP Windows Shell/User.
> *Remove 'nospam.' to reply by e-mail*
> "Joe" <[email protected]> wrote in message
> news:[email protected]
>> While running counter-strike source full tilt at 12x10 in xp i get about
>> 100-250 fps, that rarely drops under 70 or so. However, when i switch to
>> my
>> vista hard drive and try to run the game it gets about 30-40. I installed
>> the
>> latest drivers from nvidia, with some difficulty, and made sure the rest
>> of
>> my drivers are up to date. Has any one else experienced the same
>> performance
>> loss? I had read that gaming was supposed to be way better in vista, and
>> it
>> seems to be quite the opposite...
>> PC specs
>> Athlon X2 4200+ overclocked to 2.4 ghz
>> 1 gig ultra ram @ 400 mhz
>> Nvidia 7900 graphics card
>> 120 gig maxtor hd
>> Fatality nforce 4 mobo
My Computer |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4810 |
WAVES in Indonesia: Impact on Policy
WAVES has helpsed Indonesia implement a system that calculates the physical and monetary values of natural resources using an accounting system, or often referred to as Natural Capital Accounting, or NCA. Through NCA, natural resources can be mainstreamed into development policy and planning. This video captures the impact that accounting has had on policy-making in Indonesia.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4838 | Hopping on the bandwagon
I’ve been looking more and more at the proposed amnesty package for illegal aliens, and I think that, with a very, very slight modification, I think I can not only accept it, but cheerfully endorse it.
The plan, as I see it, requires the amnesty-seeker to pay a $2,000 fine to cover back taxes. In exchange, the immigrant gets guarantees such as being paid the “prevailing wage” and protection from being fired except for cause.
This is a hell of a deal. If I were an illegal alien, I’d jump all over it.
In fact, I’m not so sure I should have to wait.
I happened to get my weakly bi-weekly paycheck, and I looked at the details. So far this calendar year, I have paid $1,825.82 in federal income tax, social security, and Medicare taxes. (I am notoriously poor at managing my own finances, so I arrange to get a rather healthy refund each year. Yes, I know I’m giving the government an interest-free loan, but money owed me — even while not earning interest — is money I can’t spend.) And just on a lark, I checked my tax return from last year (doing one’s taxes online makes such things very easy — I have a PDF of my returns for the last six years.) I paid a total of $1,780 in income taxes. So no matter how you look at it, I’m almost paying that $2,000 already.
Here’s my radical idea: if this proposal is good enough for illegal aliens who broke our laws coming here, and break other laws by working under the table, why isn’t it good enough for Americans like me who obey the laws and follow the rules? I’d gladly pay $2,000 a year for those kind of salary and job security guarantees. In fact, I’m already paying it.
Hell, I’ll even make it easy for the government. I’ll even renounce my citizenship (temporarily, of course) and make myself an illegal alien.
After all, I’d hate to think that the government would engineer a situation where it’s actually better to be an illegal alien than an American citizen…
Wizbang Weekend Caption Contest™
Weekend Caption Contest™ Winners
1. Hershey May 26, 2006
2. bullwinkle May 26, 2006
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4. Hermie May 26, 2006
5. bullwinkle May 26, 2006
6. Mac Lorry May 26, 2006
7. bullwinkle May 26, 2006
8. bullwinkle May 26, 2006
9. DJ May 26, 2006
10. bullwinkle May 26, 2006
11. ed May 26, 2006
12. Scotty May 26, 2006
13. LJD May 26, 2006
14. epador May 26, 2006
15. hermie May 26, 2006 |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4840 | In The Hustle, all it takes is two scheming women to scam men out of millions (if not billions) of dollars.
Thanks to Anna Delvey, who notoriously grifted her way through SoHo (and ended up inspiring not one but two competing television series about her con), former CEO of Thanos Elizabeth Holmes, and the entire Fyre Festival fiasco (and its two competing documentaries), the word "scammer" has been on the tip of everyone's tongues for at least two years now. Of course Hollywood has followed suit and made a blockbuster for our times with The Hustle.
In this adaptation of Frank Oz's 1988 film Dirty Rotten Scoundrels, which starred Steve Martin and Michael Caine, it would appear that Rebel Wilson has met her match in Anne Hathaway. Hathaway plays a seasoned scammer with a difficult-to-place accent who grooms Wilson's character for the ultimate con and "teaches her sugar baby ways," which include performative vulnerability, knife throwing skills, and blending in with one's surroundings. Why shake down so many rich men out of jewels and money? The answer is simple: because they can.
"Why are women better suited for the con than men?" Hathaway asks. "Because no man will ever believe a woman is smarter than he is." The odd scammer couple then embarks on a journey to swindle a young tech dynamo (played by Alex Sharp) out of his millions (or possibly billions, as Wilson points out).
Hathaway appears to be bringing her Ocean's 8–honed heist chops to The Hustle (after all, she did steal the show from her costars in last summer's blockbuster remake), while Wilson brings the riotous physical comedy she's become known for onscreen in performances in the Pitch Perfect franchise and the recently released romantic comedy Isn't It Romantic.
With The Hustle, scammer season has just been extended to May 10, 2019, when the film will be given a wide release.
Related: Matthew McConaughey and Anne Hathaway Are Reportedly Fuming Over Serenity's Lack of Promotion |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4856 | What I learnt in England last week
I find that every time I go to England I learn something new about my language. This time it was from a conversation with a charming Barbadian-French law student on the plane flying back. Apart from a very interesting conversation on multi-culturalism, what I learnt on the language side was that someone from Barbados is called Barbadian, and not Barbadan, as I originally used. What did she learn? Language-wise probably what a start-up is. She had never heard the expression before.
Conversations like this always remind me of how little I really know about my own language, and how, because English is spoken as a native language by so many people in different parts of the world, there really is no ONE correct English. English speakers grow up with their language being used in different ways by different people all over the world, and, although they may sometimes laugh about the differences, they usually enjoy the diversity.
Anne Wegner
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4857 | Anonymously Saving the World
The man who discovered penicillin was a national hero. But the woman who made it available to millions died in relative obscurity.
The heroes of Guru Madhavan’s compact book about the logical habits of engineers are not the usual suspects of the iPhone era. With barely a mention of Wozniak or Jobs, the author takes us back to an earlier time so that we can witness the solving of problems that have long since gone away.
Remember when there were 144 time zones in the United States? Probably you don’t, because Sandford Fleming, an engineer and railroad planner, proposed a global grid of time zones that was adopted as a standard by the railroads beginning... |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4865 | GDPR and the impact on your content landscape
by Sjoerd Alkema, on Mar 1, 2018 4:18:46 PM
Are you prepared for the General Data Protection Regulation (GDPR)? It’s coming and it’s coming quickly! That is May 25, 2018. If you are still thinking about creating a plan to comply with these new regulations, you might be too late. But I can understand that you need some time to overthink your strategy, as the GDPR can have a big impact on your content landscape.
The main problem with regards to the GDPR and your content landscape is, in my opinion, fragmented content repositories. Most organizations store their content on a multitude of repositories, such as cloud applications, legacy ECM systems, network drives, e-mail folders, business applications and many more. Fragmented content in your content landscape means:
• Access to content is difficult because it’s unclear which content is stored where;
• It’s extremely difficult to get a complete overview of all privacy sensitive content stored in your systems;
• It is hard to know where exactly personal identifiable data is stored.
1. These 3 difficulties can be solved by moving towards a lean and agile content landscape. By lean, I mean that you should identify and clean your content and consolidate repositories as much as possible. Agility in this sense means you make your content repositories easily accessible and unchain all the content within. Say now legislation changes, you can quickly respond to that. Getting to this lean and agile landscape can be done by migrating content and by integrating your content repositories and applications.
GDPR and the impact on content landscape
This a lean content landscape, having less repositories and agility with an integration between multiple repositories, is the basis for organizations to trace personal data with either specialized GDPR software or by performing a simple content analysis of all content stored in the different repositories, which already shows the 'low hanging fruit’, such as stored passports or resumes.
Your organization can comply with the GDPR as long as you centralize your content landscape. Not started yet? We can help you make your first steps.
Whitepaper Content Migration Approaches
Want a complete overview of all benefits and issues with all the possible content migration approaches? Download your copy now!
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4899 | Sharon Hausel
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4915 | Selling Your Course
Step 5 of the course creation process covers everything you need to know about selling your online course. If you're just getting started and haven't created your first course, you can click here to start this support guide series from the beginning.
Zippy Courses makes it easy to set multiple pricing options in order to sell your course. In this guide, we explain how to create Pricing Plans to sell your courses through Zippy Courses, which will then be sold through your Public Details page, as well as the Course Directory.
Integrating Your Payment Gateway
Before you can sell your course, you need to integrate a payment service with Zippy Courses. These payment services can be found under the Payment tab of your site’s settings:
For instructions on integrating each payment provider, see our full Payment Integrations guide.
Once your payment provider is integrated, Zippy Courses will automatically use that payment method on your Zippy Courses site.
Creating a Pricing Plan
To create a Pricing Plan, click the Pricing Plans tab of your course editor, then click Add New Pricing Plan to add a plan to your site:
Once you’ve create a pricing plan, you can title the plan and set the type of price to use. There are four options:
1. The Free pricing option does not collect any payment.
2. The Single Payment option collects a one-time payment.
3. The Subscription option lets you create a daily, weekly, monthly, or annual subscription for your product. If a student cancels their subscription, their ability to access the course is revoked.
4. The Payment Plan option is similar to subscriptions but with a set number of payments. Once a student makes all of their payments, the subscription is canceled, but the student retains access to the course.
Tip: You can create multiple pricing plans for your course, so feel free experiment with single payments, payment plans, and subscriptions to see which help you get the most sales for your course.
Making Your Pricing Plans Public
By default, all pricing plans you create are public and can be purchased by anyone through your Course Directory. However, if you want to make a product private, you can do so using the Visibility option in your Pricing Plan editor. If you uncheck the "Make this product visible on the public course page" option, then students will only find this pricing plan if they visit the plan's URL directly (which you can make available via email, social media, etc.). You can use this option to hide exclusive or promotional discounts you may want to offer some students or to prevent your private courses from being publicly for sale.
The Purchase Process
Once your pricing plan is created, you’re ready to start selling your product! You can sell a pricing plan two different ways:
1. Share the direct link to the product, which will take the student directly to checkout for that product.
2. Feature the product on your Course Directory and Public Course page. Students can select from your pricing plans on the Course Directory page and be sent to checkout to purchase that particular price or subscription.
If a student goes to your Public Course page, they will see a layout similar to this:
From there, students can select their pricing plan of choice and purchase your course.
Then, when a student completes a purchase, they'll be sent to a Thank You page on your site. That page includes links to the Registration page and the Login page. If the customer does not yet have a student account, they will register (i.e. create) a new account. If this is not the customer's first purchase on your site, they can log in to their student account instead. Regardless of which option the customer chooses, they will claim their order during the process, meaning that it will appear as available in their dashboard. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4919 | 367 Battery & 140 Regiment HQ joins ‘Macforce’, the Foret de Nieppe. Friday 24th May 1940
Defence of the Western Strongpoints; the Nieppe Forest
As the German Army Group closed in from the West, the British and French line of defence ran along the series of canals running North – South from Gravelines on the coast, West of Dunkirk, to La Bassee, over 40 miles to the South.
Behind this line lay a number of defended strongpoints, including Hazebrouck, Cassel and Wormhoudt. Hazebrouck was known to be a German objective and to the South of the town lay the Nieppe Forest. The British had defended the forest in the German offensive towards Hazebrouck in April 1918 and now were required to do so again. The Nieppe Forest was defended by three battalions of the Royal West Kent Regiment and a battalion of the Royal Sussex Regiment.
British and French units were strung out thinly along the canal line, facing German forces which included ten German panzer divisions. The defenders gained some respite on 23rd May, when Hitler’s halt order forbade these divisions to cross the canal, although German infantry gained a number of bridgeheads on the allied side.
The halt order was lifted on the night on 26th May and the following morning German forces began major attacks all along the canal line. By 28th May panzer units were over the canal and pushing East in several places, with heavy attacks on Hazebrouck and the Nieppe Forest.
On 23rd May, 367 Battery and Regimental HQ of 140th Regiment under the command of Lt-Colonel C.J. Odling had been ordered to join the ‘Macforce’, commanded by Major General Noel-MacFarlane. Macforce was one of a number of ad-hoc forces put together by Lord Gort as he attempted to stem the German advance and act as a rearguard for his escaping troops.
The War Diary describes the move to join Macforce and the regiment’s arrival at the Nieppe Forest. There is no clear map reference of the regiment’s location in the wood, but the CO is noted as carrying out a recce of Merville to the South.
The Macforce was ordered North to form a defence around Cassel and the regiment moved to Cassel, via Caestre, on 24th May. The regiment’s association with Macforce was brief as, on the arrival of Brigadier Nigel Somerset’s ‘Somerforce‘ at Cassel on 25th May, Macforce was disbanded; its original purpose had been to protect the BEF’s southern flank in the event of a collapse of the French First Army, but as such a collapse never occurred, and so Macforce’s raison d’etre ceased to exist.
War Diary, 24th May 1940
‘The Colonel [Odling] rejoined the Regiment at FORET DE NIEPPE at 0300 hrs. The Battery was told to rendezvous in a small wood which was found to be a hopeless place and the Battery did not stay there but returned to the FORET DE NIEPPE. At about 0600 hrs. the C.O. and myself went off to recce. position near MERVILLE and at about 0900 hrs we were ordered to join an advanced guard and march through CAESTRE to CASSEL with a view to seizing the town before the enemy could reach it.
The advance guard and ourselves arrived by noon. CASSEL was heavily bombed but the Regiment suffered no casualties. 1 Troop of the Battery went into action about H 319578, 1 Troop about H 314572 and a third Troop about H 319572 and Regimental H.Q. was in the chateau in a wood about H 316572. The Regiment. was now grouped under 5 R.H.A. [Royal Horse Artillery] who had one Troop in action about H 316576.
I do not know where the other Troop was. Lt. Col. A.A.M. Durand, M.C. commanded the two Field Regiments. As far as I can recollect the zones allotted to the Troops were North Troop from about 270° Northwards and the two Southern Troops shared from 270° Southwards. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4928 | Friday, October 21, 2011
Halloween Spider
How to make a Halloween garbage bag spider
2 black garbage bags
1 elastic
1 twist tie, or piece of string/twine/yarn/pipe cleaner whatever
Cost: $0
Step One: Cut your first bag into 8 strips. Leave the seam of the bottom of the bag intact, so the legs are spooky long
Step Two: Turn second bag inside out, crumple the bottom of the bag together, tie an elastic around the bag (this is to make the front of the spider gathered).
Step Three: Turn bag right-side out. Fill it with 6 or 7 crumpled newspaper sheets
Step Four: Hold the bag so the newspaper is all at the gathered end (the end with the elastic), and twist tie it off - not too tight. Fuss with it a little to make the head sorta round.
Step Five: Fill the bag with 10-12 more crumpled papers so the butt is bigger than the head
Step Six: Tie the ends of the garbage bag together, and stuff the end pieces back into the butt
Step Seven: Grab four legs, open them (unfold them at the seam), tie them around the neck (where the twist tie is). Grab the remaining four legs and tie them around neck as well. YOU ARE DONE! (If it is an inside spider, you can add some eyes...this bad boy will hang from our covered doorway outside, so that all the kiddies have to pass under him. I will add a bunch of store bought white spider webs too)
HAPPY HALLOWEEN....10 Days! Have you decorated yet?
1. This is so stinkin' creative! I love him...I think we should name about Harold??? (c;
2. [email protected] 21, 2011 at 8:58 PM
This is great. Thank you so much for this. I needed something for the door. I saw this cute eye and mouth decor for the front door and this spider will finish off the decor. Have a great weekend.
3. Super creative and easy to make! I am going to put one on our porch for the kiddies on Halloween. Thanks for sharing.
4. Does the spider need a web?
5. You are too clever little lady...I have to share this with my readers...and Mini...I'm sure she'll want one on our door for halloween...
6. Like the spider! I was the lucky winner of the little car plate! Thanks so much...the big guys loves it (my 2 year old)! It's really sweet and will look awesome hanging up...have to go pick up some kind of hanging device for the back! Thanks again!
7. I remember doing something similar using a kit when I was social rep for my university...for a Halloween pub night or party or something (soooo long ago)...anyways, I never tried it again until this is seriously the easiest thing ever! And CHEAP!
8. cute! you could use white garbage bags!!!
9. These are the best instructions ever!
I haven't decorated yet but I have plans! Oh yes! Mwa ha ha ha! (evil halloween laughter....)
10. haha ... nice fun
maybe you can draw white stripe on the spide
11. This is a great idea that I can actually do RIGHT NOW! Awesome! Thanks! |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4931 | 彼得后书 3章10节 到 3章10节 上一笔 下一笔
{The day of the Lord} (h(886d)era kuriou). So Peter in Ac
2:20 (from Joe 3:4 ) and Paul in 1Th 5:2,4 2Th 2:2 1Co 5:5 ;
and day of Christ in Php 2:16 and day of God in 2:12 and day
of judgment already in 2:9 3:7 . This great day will certainly
come (h(8878)ei). Future active of h(886b)(935c), old verb, to arrive, but
in God's own time. {As a thief} (h(9373) klept(8873)). That is
suddenly, without notice. This very metaphor Jesus had used ( Lu
12:39 Mt 24:43 ) and Paul after him ( 1Th 5:2 ) and John will
quote it also ( Re 3:3 16:15 ). {In the which} (en h(8869)). The
day when the Lord comes. {Shall pass away} (pareleusontai).
Future middle of parerchomai, old verb, to pass by. {With a
great noise} (
oiz(8864)on). Late and rare adverb (from
roizos)-- Lycophron, Nicander, here only in N.T., onomatopoetic,
whizzing sound of rapid motion through the air like the flight of
a bird, thunder, fierce flame. {The elements} ( a stoicheia).
Old word (from stoichos a row), in Plato in this sense, in
other senses also in N.T. as the alphabet, ceremonial regulations
( Heb 5:12 Ga 4:3 5:1 Col 2:8 ). {Shall be dissolved}
(luth(8873)etai). Future passive of lu(935c), to loosen, singular
because stoicheia is neuter plural. {With fervent heat}
(kausoumena). Present passive participle of kauso(935c), late verb
(from kausos, usually medical term for fever) and nearly always
employed for fever temperature. Mayor suggests a conflagration
from internal heat. Bigg thinks it merely a vernacular (Doric)
future for kausomena (from kai(935c), to burn). {Shall be burned
up} (kataka(8873)etai). Repeated in verse 12 . Second future
passive of the compound verb katakai(935c), to burn down (up),
according to A L. But Aleph B K P read heureth(8873)etai (future
passive of heurisk(935c), to find) "shall be found." There are
various other readings here. The text seems corrupt.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4943 | Prof. Adrian Thatcher
Tel: 01752 704058
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Recent Books
Christian Perspectives on Sexuality and Gender
was published by Gracewing in Britain and Eerdmans in the United States. Elizabeth Stuart (my co-editor) and I wanted to make available in a single volume some of the excellent articles we had found when working on other books, with undergraduate classes on Theology and Sexuality in mind. Gracewing had published my Christian Perspectives for Education (with Leslie Francis, and which was later re-printed), and they were pleased to add this volume to their Christian Perspectives series. Sensing its likely popularity in the United States, Eerdmans eagerly added it to their lists. At the time Elizabeth Stuart, my co-editor, and I said 'The writers represent a variety of Christian responses to issues such as: sexuality and the Christian tradition; sexuality and gender; power and relation; marriage; sexuality and spirituality; love; gay and lesbian sexuality; the body; sexuality and love; sexuality and violence; sexuality and singleness, and the family.' The contributors included Rosemary Radford Ruether, James Nelson, Carter Heyward, Mary Grey and Stanley Hauerwas.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4949 | Three wrong reasons to get into a business
by Ashvini on August 9, 2010
in Business
Many times , people venture into a business for reasons that are not nearly right ones. The grass is always greener on the other side, however the grass on this side will eat you up if you start on a wrong foot. People working in 9 to 5 jobs often dream about running their own firms, earning huge money and being famous. Not the best reasons, I would say because they are the end results or maybe the byproducts but not the ones for starting the business. Do not become an entrepreneur or businessman, because you feel it will make you rich instantly. If you do not take care, you will burn out faster. So here are some of them.
1. You want to be the boss:
2. Though it feels great that you are now the ultimate boss and there is no one above you, but there are definite disadvantages. Now no one is there to guide and protect you, when you make mistakes. You have to learn everything by your experience. You might make decisions that can harm your business. You will have to take care of all the aspects of your company from for e.g. Human resources, Finance, Delivery, administration, legal, governmental, IT and so on. You say that you have people to take care of these departments, but the accountability lies with you. So be prepared for getting troubled and hassled.
3. You want to get quick rich:
4. In my opinion, only robbers and cheats can get quick rich. If you wish to get rich legally and ethically, you will have to be prepared for a long haul. It takes months sometimes years to make that single buck. And the road is littered with obstacles like you have never seen before. So do not start business, if you want to make a lot of money in the short term. It is near impossible.
5. You want to be free from employment:
6. Hello!!! Entrepreneurship is 24 *7 job with very less space for mistakes. It is not freedom from employment, it is full time employment with added headaches. You will have to listen to whatever the client says about your pricing, delivery, methods etc. You will have to do all the paperwork, filings and legal stuff. You are not the owner, you are everything( owner, employee, employer etc.) Remember, you are not with a large company anymore and there are no resources to back you up.
This is not to discourage anyone but to bring you to reality while you are romancing with your dream to become an entrepreneur/business owner. Hope you liked the post. ;)
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4965 | ArchivIA Università degli Studi di Catania
ArchivIA - Archivio istituzionale dell'Universita' di Catania >
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Showing results 1 to 17 of 17
Issue DateTitleAuthor(s)
2-May-2011Carbon Nanotubes: Synthesis, Characterization and IntegrationBagiante, Salvatore
4-May-2011Characterization of microwave discharge ion source for high protom beam production in cw and pulsed mode.Miracoli, Rosalba
4-May-2011Chromospheric activity and lithium abundance in the NGC2516 and NGC3766 open clustersMessina, Angela Elisa
2-May-2011Excitation of unbound states in 12B via the 8Li-alpha resonant elastic scatteringTorresi, Domenico
31-May-2011Investigation of laser generated plasmas for astrophysical applicationsGambino, Nadia
2-May-2011Local transport properties in graphene for electronic applicationsSonde, Sushant
4-May-2011Mono-crystalline Silicon Photovoltaic Cells: Innovative Technologies toward low Series ResistanceChibbaro, Claudio
2-May-2011Nuclear reactions induced by light exotic nuclei produced at INFN-LNS and studied by CHIMERA multidetectorGrassi, Laura
2-May-2011N/Z Effects on Nuclear Reactions Near the Fragmentation ThresholdLombardo, Ivano
4-May-2011An Observational and Theoretical Study of the Magnetic Helicity FluxSmyrli, Aimilia
2-May-2011Quantum transport in confined graphene: role of defects, substrate and contactsDeretzis, Ioannis
31-May-2011The resonant cross sections of 10,11B(p,a) reactions at astrophysical energies: indirect measurements via the THMPuglia, Sebastiana Maria Regina
4-May-2011Solar Chromospheric Flares: Observations in Ly-alpha and H-alpha and Radiative Hydrodynamic SimulationsRubio da Costa, Fatima
31-May-2011Study of protoplanet migration processes in sub-Keplerian conditions through SPH hydrodynamic simulationsCosta, Vincenzo
2-May-2011Symmetry Energy Effects in Low Energy Heavy Ion Collisions with Exotic BeamsRizzo, Carmelo
4-May-2011Time Resolved Single Photon Imaging Device with Single Photon Avalanche DiodeNeri, Lorenzo
2-May-2011Transport properties at 3C-SiC interfacesEriksson, Gustav Jens Peter
Showing results 1 to 17 of 17
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4972 | ...Athens By Taxi
LIMNOS is a member of the Northern Aegean archipelago.
It is a warm and welcoming island that is rather small and quaint, yet not tacky or touristy. The wonderful port and capital town of Myrina comes to life every evening as the fishing fleet returns with the day's catch, selling the fish to everyone right at they quayside.
The town offers a balance of day-to-day commerce and meeting the needs of the tourists. On the town square is a map of the island including a list of hotels, rooms-to-let, and emergency needs numbers. Throughout Myrina one will find an abundance of well maintained grassy squares and green parks, some abutting amazing, clean, sandy beaches. In fact, all around the island of Limnos one will find some of the cleanest and sandiest beaches anywhere in the Greek islands. Platy beach is not to be missed. Early settlers are thought to be related to the Etruscans of Italy, as evidenced by the burial rites of the pre-6th-century BC inscriptions archeologists have found on Limnos that bear striking resemblance to those of the Etruscans. Limnos was home to the most advanced Neolithic civilization, which predates both dynastic Egypt and the earliest known level of ancient Troy, yet to be discovered in the Aegean. Some academic circles believe that it was the Limnians that colonized Troy. During the Persian wars, the warriors of Limnos captured some Athenian women making them their slave-brides. When the families of these warriors ridiculed the half-bred offspring of these 'unholy' unions, the Limnians executed the captured women and their children (thus giving rise to the phrase 'Limnian deeds', for such unspeakable atrocities). It is said that this so angered the gods of Olympus that they punished the Limnians by making the livestock and women of Limnos infertile. The Limnians turned to the great Oracle of Delphi for guidance in resolving their dilemma. The Oracle said the only way to appease the gods was to surrender Limnian independence to Athens, if the Athenians could sail to the island in one day. The Limnians, knowing that Athens was more than a day's sail from the island, thought it to be an easy price to pay to regain the needed fertility. But the Athens had captured the nearby territories, including Mount Athos, from which the Athenians easily sailed to Limnos in one day and claimed the island.
In the 13th century AD, the Venetians took and retained control of Limnos until Mehmet the Conqueror took the island in 1478. This was his second attempt. He had already failed to capture the island in 1475, when he was turned back by the legendary heroine, Maroula. The island was held by the Ottoman Turks until the first world war when the Allies gained control of Limnos, using its natural and protected Moudros Bay as a base of naval operations for their ill-fated Gallipoli campaign.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4987 | So why should you take what I have to say about becoming a proofreader with anything more than a grain of salt?
Allow me to introduce myself.
My name is Michael. I worked part-time as a freelance proofreader for many years before setting up my own proofreading company and hiring proofreaders – London Proofreaders – Google it! Suffice to say, I know a bit about becoming a proofreader and more importantly the other side, what companies look for when hiring, training and testing proofreaders.
I get so many questions through our proofreading company website about how to become a proofreader and I find it impossible to answer them all. These are questions like:
Finding it impossible to reply personally to all the questions I decide to create the “how to become a proofreader” course to give a definitive answer to these and other questions.
It’s online and self-paced and you won’t find this type of in-depth content anywhere else. Find out more here…. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/4998 | Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Series and stuff
It was almost a year ago that I wondered about the status of series as single entities or as comprised of linked, individual novels. Since then, I haven't given the matter much thought, possibly because going one way or the other doesn't actually influence my reading habits. But over at The Book Stop, the question of whether or not to even read books in series in the first place arose and I find myself with a lot to say on the subject.
Distinctions need to be made. After all, there are many different types of series*:
1. The stand-alones: These are series that center around a shared world that have no established, continuous plot from book to book. Terry Pratchett's Discworld series is a great example - a reader can start with just about any book in the series and not feel like they're missing much. It's a series, yes, but each book is a stand-alone. The same for Émile Zola's Rougon-Macquart books - some characters may appear here and there, some locales are familiar, but there is no need to read L'Assommoir in order to enjoy Germinal**.
2. The character stand-alone: I find this for the most part with mystery books - a series will follow the happenings of a specific detective. Each book can stand on its own, but it helps to have read previous books, if only for the character development.
3. The continuous epic: This would be something like A Song of Ice and Fire, which can often feel like one supremely long book cut up into little (or, uh, huge) pieces. It's hard to distinguish one book from the next, and absolutely impossible to miss a book in the series. There is no single, contained plot within each volume - at times it seems like there's absolutely no justification for it to be a separate book other than length (A Feast for Crows/A Dance with Dragons, anyone?).
4. The planned series: A planned series is exactly what it sounds like - the writer goes into the story knowing exactly when and how the story will end. It's defined ahead of time as a trilogy (or a quartet, etc.) and sticks to it. Each book may blend into the next with cliffhangers, but there are still clear-cut boundaries between each volume. This is something like His Dark Materials - the books are individual and contained but are part of an undeniable whole. You can't read the second book without having read the first.
5. The contained epic: A contained epic would be something along the lines of Harry Potter. There's an overarching story and you can't read one book without having read the previous, but each book still contains its own, individual story that doesn't really drag onto the next book (though the lines blur a bit with Half-Blood Prince and Deathly Hallows). This is the the planned series taken to the extreme - a long, sometimes meandering and less defined series but contained nonetheless.
6. The popularity mess: Books that should be stand-alones or part of planned series and eventually degenerate into a continuous series because of poor planning. These go on until they fizzle and are an embarrassment to themselves. Please let's not raise examples. It's too depressing.
But beyond the simple breakdown of series type, you have to look at intent. Is this a series simply because of length (a story on such an epic scale that it demands multiple volumes)? Or is it something inherently episodic? If you're the type of reader who decides whether or not to get involved in a series, it's important to pay attention to these qualities.
Personally, I don't really care if a book is part of a series or not. It's never been a factor for me. While I don't like ditching series halfway through, I'm not entirely averse to it. There are a few series I've given up on after realizing that the books I'd already read within them stood alone fairly well and didn't entice me enough to keep reading. If the first book was bad and I don't have to read the sequels, I'm not going to go on. As I learn to abandon books, it becomes easier to stop midway through a series. And really, it doesn't matter if it's part of a whole or not... it just matters if it's good enough to make me want to finish the series.
* And yes, I did notice that almost all of my examples are from fantasy series. What can I say, that's what came to mind...
** But you should. Read both books that is, because they're excellent.
Friday, December 23, 2011
On book trailers and the visual medium paradox
I just finished reading this post over at Ripple Effects from a couple weeks back about book trailers. Arti writes a few seriously thought-provoking passages:
Will you go and buy this book to read after watching the trailer, or, are you more likely to just add another view count to the video and a click on 'like'?
Book trailers are, at the end of the day, trailers. They're meant as a preview, not as a review. They might make something seem particularly impressive (or particularly unappealing), but that's because they're meant to. They don't aim to summarize the book, but rather present it in a particularly visual form to hook readers. Sometimes they work more effectively than others. For example, despite long believing that Lauren Oliver's romance-looking young adult novel Before I Fall was definitely not the book for me (not the style, genre or approach I typically enjoy), after watching the very sleek, very well-done book trailer, I want to read the book.
This is the rarer outcome. In my experience with book trailers, I find them to be supplements to books about which I've already made up my mind. They don't succeed in convincing me to a read a book previously disregarded... usually, only a very good review will do that.
Then there's the question of the "visual medium paradox", as I call it.
In this eWorld of ours, we need a real hardcover book to explain to children what a book is… or used to be, if you take the apocalyptic view. We’re told a book isn’t something you scroll, tweet, or text, and no need to charge up. But the fact is, those are the very functions you do to view and share the trailer. And it’s a book trailer, with all its visual images and special effects, uploaded and viewed online and hopefully gone viral, that helps boost book sales. Another mash? Or simply an inevitable paradox nowadays?
In modern literary culture, the use of a visual medium to present a story is considered an upgrade. A book is deemed successful if adapted into a movie, and the other way around: a popular book will inevitably make it to the big screen (or even to the small screen - look at A Song of Ice and Fire). This is nothing new, obviously (look at the sheer amount of movies based on plays and books from sixty, even seventy and eighty years ago), but it still serves as an indicator.
I digress. The point of the visual medium paradox is that, well, it doesn't really exist. It's a conceptual thing. A book trailer isn't a paradox. It's just a use of a visual medium to blurb a book. Perhaps it's one that better captures a potential reader's attention, one that can give them tools to imagine the characters and the setting, and one that can use visual effects to enhance the image of the book. It's not like a movie, it's like a movie poster - a quick visual glimpse into the story, presented in a way that attempts to catch the reader's attention. But this is all - again - as a supplement. There's no need for the trailer - a reader can pick up the book, read it, enjoy it, and set it aside all without knowing that the trailer exists. The trailers may help boost sales, yes, but they are not the single factor determining the popularity of a book. The written word is much stronger than that.
On the other end of the visual medium paradox scale, I find myself thinking again about movie adaptations. Movie adaptations are reworkings. Much in the same way an adaptation of a play isn't exactly the same as the original, a movie or TV adaptation of a book takes advantage of its medium to tell the story differently. Yes, our culture views the visual medium to be more accessible to a wider range of people, but this doesn't actually mean that the adaptation is an upgrade.
And here I admit something I'm loathe to admit under any circumstance: I was wrong.
The book is not weakened by such visual reworkings, not by movie adaptations and not by book trailers. If use of the visual medium to supplement the written word is a paradox, so is a movie review that is not done in the visual format. Modern technology allows us to explore different mediums to express ourselves. I don't think it's necessarily ironic to use different mediums as supplements. It's inevitable.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The hook - free eBooks, publishers and readers
I have a pretty simple rule regarding eBooks: I don't pay for them. This typically means I scour the internet for free downloads, worship sites like, and will actively seek out publisher eBook giveaways. Back in the early days of my eBook downloading, when I was just beginning my searches, I realized that a few publishers offered excerpts (and occasionally whole novels) online for free download. About once every six months or so, I remember to check these various sites - Scribd, the Baen Free library, and others - to see what new offers they might have.
So it came to be that the other day I went on a short downloading spree, hitting various publishers' Scribd accounts. And there, on Harper's page, I had the opportunity to read the first few pages of Greg Olear's brilliantly titled novel Father-mucker. I'd managed to hear about the book here and there through the bookish-internet grapevine, but was put off by the witty title. It seemed like the type of book that might try too hard to be witty and clever but then fall flat. Yet when offered the chance to read the first few pages for free in a convenient manner, not through any browser but on my own time, I decided to take it.
See, publishers may always worry about offering books for free online and may worry about piracy, but there's really no need. Free downloads, teasers and offers of this kind serve only as an advertising tool for publishers. I wasn't planning on reading Father-mucker last week. Now I can't wait to finish it. If I had the ability to buy it on the spot, I probably would (unfortunately for publishers and luckily for my wallet, I live abroad). Harper - by offering a teaser download for the book - convinced even a jaded reader like myself to pick the book up.
And though I don't remember where I downloaded it from originally, what about Perdido Street Station? It was offered for free for about a month back in 2009 and served as a pretty good hook - I now have a copy of Miéville's Embassytown on my shelves. I'm certain I would never have bought one Miéville's books just like that, but after reading Perdido Street Station (and later The City & The City, also not purchased), I realized I liked Miéville as an author and wanted to support him. So I bought Embassytown. Hardcover*.
It's like Neil Gaiman said back in the day: "Nobody who would have bought your book is not buying it because they can find it for free." Most people are introduced to their favorite authors through different means - a friend lends them the book, they check it out of the library, or in this day and age download it. Many readers will also feel as I do, that buy paying for a book they're supporting the author for writing something good. The amount of times I've bought a book after reading it for free via the public library is... high. Maybe it'll work better if we change our approach to supporting authors and publishing, but I think that publishers can do wonders to promote their authors and books by offering free eBook downloads for limited periods. It's the kind of hook that will work again and again, at least on readers like me.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to see how I can get a hold of Father-mucker.
* Okay, okay, it was at Border's going-out-of-business sale so it wasn't full price. But it was still pretty expensive, so I think it counts.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Fads in cyberspace
Fads swept the youth of the Sprawl at the speed of light; entire subcultures could rise overnight, thrive for a dozen weeks, and then vanish utterly. -p.58, Neuromancer
While William Gibson is best known for coining the term "cyberspace", he should (in my mind) really be remembered for predicting our modern internet culture, as is evidenced by the above quote...
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Like eating a feast after a month-long fast
That is, if the month-long fast is a period of three weeks with only one book completed and little desire to read anything else.
I finally broke down yesterday and practically forced myself to start reading Child Wonder by Roy Jacobsen. It was a weird feeling at first, almost as though I'd forgotten how to read, or how to enjoy reading. I stumbled over the first few pages, unsure what I was supposed to be understanding from the story, but I then began speeding through the pages, devouring whole chapters in just a few minutes. In the space of some 45 minutes aboard my morning bus, I managed to go through almost 100 pages. And that was only the beginning. Throughout the day, I picked the book up repeatedly, constantly trying to read more and more, growing frustrated at the situations around me that demanded my full attention.
But today, finishing the book while waiting in line at the pharmacy, I was surprised at how empty the whole reading experience had really been. Obviously I'd read the book - and had even quite enjoyed it, for a time - but as I read the last, intentionally revelation-filled-yet-nonetheless-vague pages, it didn't feel as though I'd actually read the book. It was as though I'd eaten so fast I hadn't been able to taste what exactly I was putting in my mouth... a strange experience, and not one I'm particularly eager to repeat. I suppose this should be a lesson to me - never, ever, ever stop reading.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
More on Amazon's latest dirty scheme
In continuation of what I mentioned yesterday regarding Amazon's dirty trick to snatch business away from brick-and-mortar stores, this is a thorough piece from Moby Lives on the backlash. Like I already said, this ploy by Amazon sinks lower than low and further emphasizes all that I've grown to dislike from the online retailer.
It also turns out I'm not alone in my method of looking books up on Amazon and buying them later in independent bookstores. From Shelf-Awareness:
Author Garth Stein (The Art of Racing in the Rain) tweeted his own strategy: "I like to do the Reverse Amazon: hear about a book, read about it on Amazon, then go buy it at my local bookstore! It's fun! #ReadLocal."
Friday, December 9, 2011
How we buy books
I unfortunately can't remember the hat-tip, but someone linked to this article on the habit of book-browsing in corporeal bookstores and then buying the books online, which definitely qualifies as a thought-provoker.
I know I shouldn't be surprised but I am. My own use of Amazon today is completely contrary to this one. As I've mentioned in the past, one of the first things I do before considering a book is check its Amazon reviews (negative first, then positive). This is not because it's Amazon, per se, but rather because Amazon has the greatest collection of user reviews (which is one of the only remaining advantages to using the site, other than the obviously lower prices but I'll discuss that at length another time). I look at a book, investigate it, learn about it, and then decide whether or not I want to buy it. From there, I have a few options. I can order the book online or I can go to a bookstore I like and buy the book. In recent years, the most likely outcome has been the latter.
But it's much easier to go about it the "normal" way. You find a book in the flesh, you want to investigate it, you go online. Once online, you make your decision. Then you're just one click away from buying the book. And it's cheaper... so why not buy it like that? Even this thing that you go into a bookstore, look up a book on your cell-phone, realize that it's cheaper elsewhere... I understand even if I don't agree with it (and certainly don't like it). Maybe if my situation was different, I too would be tempted to approach book-buying this way. Living abroad and having a yearly buffer zone between my book-buying sprees means I can afford to do my homework ahead of time. Today, Amazon is no more convenient to me than a bricks-and-mortar bookstore.
I know one thing, though. Indies will survive because they provide what Amazon never will - personal service, author readings, a type of convenience that can only be found in corporeal form, and provide customers with the joy of spontaneous book-buying. And I hope for one more thing: that for every customer who walks in, looks at a book and ends up buying it later on for a discount, there's another like me who first looks the books up on Amazon, and then goes out to the local bookstore to buy it. Because really, the feeling is much better this way.
Update: Oh, and while this "deal" in which a customer uses their cell-phone to scan the bar-code of a product and then get a discount on Amazon (instead of buying it at the store the customer is currently standing in) doesn't include books, it's still pretty despicable (via The Book Catapult). Just saying.
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
SAFL #7: Solaris
It's been a while since I've done a SAFL (Science and Fantasy Literature) title but I recently finished reading Solaris by Stanislaw Lem and my mind is sufficiently blown that it's quite obvious that Solaris is SAFL. And excellent SAFL at that.
I specifically chose to read Solaris in Hebrew right around the time I first heard of the book. More specifically, upon learning that this was a classic case of double-translation gone wrong. Solaris, originally written in Polish, was translated into French not long after publication. The translation into English, for some unknown, godforsaken reason, went through French and is by most accounts atrocious.
Luckily, I faced no such problem with the Hebrew translation (which is surprising, given the increasing propensity to employ double-translations into Hebrew... but that's a rant for a separate post). I bought the book back in June and it has been quietly awaiting my attention since. I don't understand what took me so long to get to it. It's the kind of book that you can't quite let go of.
Solaris can as easily be classified philosophical or psychological fiction as it can be classified sci-fi. In the finest example of sci-fi being used as a mirror - or even as a tool - for dealing with bigger, more fundamental issues than simply aliens or star-travel, Solaris digs deep regarding the definition of man and questions of identity. And communication. And even insanity. Yes, this is all within the framework of one of the most pulp sci-fi settings ever (hyper advanced black sludge alien, anyone?), but it transcends it incredibly. It's no surprise that even in Israel - where sci-fi and fantasy are genres typically marginalized and separated from the mainstream (to the extreme) - Solaris is marketed as straight-up literature and refuses to be boxed into an (unjustly) ignored definition. Hopefully this will lead to many more readers enjoying Lem's fascinating novel.
As for the English speaking world... I can only be thankful that there is, at least, the audio book. Solaris is a classic of sci-fi for a reason... I hate to think that this masterpiece is marred only by a notoriously poor translation. Here's to hoping for a quality Polish-to-English translation to be published sometime in the near future.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Victory!, or, A Story of Remembrance
My memory isn't perfect. There are many books I read as a kid that I don't fully remember, and then there are those I remember vividly but can't quite recall their names. I often find myself browsing book sites and bookstores and libraries and stumbling upon a kids book that will raise a red flag: "Yeah, I read that one!" This is particularly common when I browse Goodreads, as I attempt to map out my history of reading.
But for the past few years, there has been one book I've been unable to recall (or rather two - book plus sequel). I've tried in vain to remember the book's name, but there was nothing there. I remembered only a few small pieces: boy named Will, a girl escapes from a castle (in winter), something with a rabbit, the girl becomes the focus of the sequel, widowed with a dead baby, the sequel is a crusade, and that these were good medieval books. I've tried a couple of times in the past to locate these books, but always unsuccessfully. Book lists typically called up the same results again and again. I gradually gave up, even as my desire to find (and re-read) the books grew and grew.
And then... this morning.
I was hanging out on Goodreads, finding all sorts of old historical fiction books from my childhood and it struck me - internet search engines are much better these days. Why not run another search? "medieval historical fiction kids" - let;s try. But though I found other lost treasures, the so-desired set remained elusive. So I tossed in two other keywords - "widowed" and "crusades". Option number two: Medieval YA. Search for widow, and...
The Winter Hare and Peregrine, without a doubt. And now I can't wait to get my hands on these books to find out how they'll hold next to my memories of them...
Thursday, November 24, 2011
The story of the bookseller who knew nothing
I spent the other evening browsing for books at the bookstore. This being a standard chain bookstore, the selection was limited (to say the least). I browsed through the books on sale, looking for one or two that seemed slightly more interesting than the standard. After about half an hour of indecisiveness, I decided to ask a bookseller for help. The young woman who came to my assistance seemed like she sincerely wanted to help the various customers in need, myself included.
I posed her a tough question: in a stack of predictable, popular choices, I asked for something a bit different. Something original. And I guess she tried. I mean, she spent some time trying to figure it out. The only problem was... she had no idea what she was doing.
Book after book was offered while she hurriedly glanced at the back, getting an impression of the subject matter before handing it off to me. When I asked her if she'd read the offered book, the answer was consistently, "No, not yet..." She had no idea if books were translated (and even less what language they were translated from...) and wasn't really clear on anything beyond the general, "Well, this one's a bestseller..."
Which got me thinking. How much should we expect our booksellers to know what they're selling us? Books aren't like TVs - you can't memorize a bunch of statistics and product details to spout off in front of a potential customer. To understand a book, you have to read it. You have to experience it. And this bookseller... she had no understanding of what she was selling, nor of what kind of reader she was selling to. In the end, I left the store without a single book, only deciding later (at home, with the aid of the internet and some reviews) which books I would get.
It's pretty disappointing, actually. I'm not saying I didn't stump her a bit (which is typically what happens when I ask for a bookseller's assistance...), but a passionate reader will know how to help. A passionate reader will understand and appreciate a specific customer's desire for something a little original, a little different and will do everything possible to find the right match. It won't always be easy, and it might even be impossible, but at least they'll try. They won't just rely on publisher blurbs and apparent popularity.
No, I don't expect every bookseller to have read every book in the store. It's impossible, I know. But I guess I'd like my booksellers to have a little more of an understanding of what books they're trying to push, and also of their customers. I'd like my booksellers to at least know as much about the newly published books as I do, and certainly not to simply recommend them to me based on the back-cover blurb. But sadly, it seems like more and more booksellers these days don't actually read the books and recommend only based on general information. A shame, really. Conversations with booksellers who know what they're talking about can be so much fun.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Wolf Hall - now a trilogy
Mantel is now planning a Tudor trilogy: a new novel, Bring up the Bodies to be published by 4th Estate in May 2012, will focus on the downfall of Anne Boleyn. A third book will keep the title the author had already announced for the sequel, The Mirror & the Light, and will continue Cromwell's story until his execution in 1540.
I don't think I've wanted a book this badly since Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. And even then... I'm not certain it's on the same level. I mean, Wolf Hall was that amazing.
All right, the countdown to May 2012 begins. Who's with me?
Friday, November 18, 2011
This thing I do
Yesterday, I mentioned to a colleague that I'm a book reviewer and that I keep a book blog. She responded with surprise. I'm not sure why. People know of my affinity for reading and are also typically aware of my ability to ramble to no end. But particularly where I live, book reviewing is seen as a somewhat exotic hobby, and I find myself having to explain it at length. And it's not that easy to explain. What is it I do?
I write anonymous reviews on random book sites across the internet (in more than one language), I write about random bookish thoughts on my blog (forsaking the standard book-review blog format for a weird approach that's neither here nor there...), I'm a somewhat disloyal Amazon Vine member (rarely requesting books, often only reviewing the books months after publication), I don't get books for review via my blog, and I make a point to read, and write, and discuss.
That's what we're all doing here. We're building the literary discourse by comparing notes and comparing notes about important literary issues (like how to fix the increasingly stumbling publishing industry). Not everyone has the same calling and I wouldn't compare an English professor's blog about George Eliot to a blog geared to getting kids and young adults to read good books, calling one truly "literary" and the other not, but on the whole we do the same thing. We all read. We all write. We all discuss. And we all do it by choice, which I find to be incredible.
True, I write online reviews that get swallowed up in the mass of other online reviews, and true, my blog isn't particularly influential or prolific, and true, I can't actually make a living off this quiet hobby. That's not the point of this thing I do. The point is to learn and broaden my horizons, encounter new approaches to literature, guide the occasional reader to a good book (or warn them away from a bad one), and enjoy literature.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
Hilariously bad Dumas? Impossible!
I first "met" Alexandre Dumas pere when I was ten years old. My older brother was reading The Count of Monte Cristo for school and he told me, flat-out, "You have to read this book. It's awesome."
And so I ordered a Scholastic classics abridged version from then-still-awesome Scholastic catalogs* and promptly read it. I was amazed to discover that it was, in fact, completely and totally awesome. My brother had not lied. Two years later, I bought the unabridged Penguin edition and spent three weeks out of my summer vacation working my way through it. My conclusion at the time was that overall there was too much stuff going on, but that it was still completely awesome. Just that the awesome got a little buried underneath the slightly less awesome parts. And so, basing myself on this wonderful experience, I decided to read The Three Musketeers that year. Once more, I was impressed by how much fun and adventure Dumas managed to pack into his obviously old-fashioned books. It was refreshing and was the original spark to my classics obsession.
But since then, other than writing a paper on Dumas and reading two additional abridged versions of The Count of Monte Cristo, I've taken no steps in reading Dumas' other books (though he has... lots). So a couple weeks ago I finally clicked on one of many Dumas eBooks I once got during a Gutenberg downloading blitz and went with it.
The book in question is The Black Tulip and quality-wise, it's one of the worst books I've read in a really long time (since the atrociously and disgustingly bad Across the Universe). I'm talking awkward writing, terrible characterization and one of the worst cases of wish-fulfillment storytelling that I've encountered. It's completely over-the-top, dramatized to a level unequaled in even the most dramatic of 19th century literature. It's a bit difficult to bear, at times, but it's also a great deal of fun. It's like trashy thrillers or a romantic comedy - you know the inevitable ending, but the way the author brings you there is what makes the show worth it.
Ultimately, I don't think Dumas as a writer is what makes The Black Tulip laugh-out-loud ridiculous, but rather the period it's from. This is historical fiction made even more archaic by the hundreds of years that have passed since its publication. So it's kind of... uh... outdated. And unlike the swashbuckling awesomeness that is The Count of Monte Cristo, The Black Tulip doesn't have any timeless adventure themes that can survive generations. It's a historical romance.
About flowers.
* Anyone else remember the days before the whole Scholastic fair turned into an outlet to sell games and toys and was still all about books?
Monday, November 7, 2011
Quote of the day
Maybe when people take their eyes off them, inanimate objects become even more inanimate.
- The Wind-up Bird Chronicles, Haruki Murakami, p. 65
Let the rest of the world read 1Q84. I've still got Murakami's back-catalog to read, and by god it's about time I read it.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Family and fantasy themes in "The Barbarian Nurseries"
When I started reading Héctor Tobar's The Barbarian Nurseries, I felt a twinge in my stomach. Oh no, I thought, another disappointing book. The writing felt choppy at first: a third-person story that enabled multiple points-of-view without any clear indication of the shifts. But once I'd passed the first chapter, suddenly the movement between the POVs was seamless. The writing fell into place. The characters leapt out at me. And instead of getting annoyed about another sub-par book, I realized that for the first time in a while, I was reading a really good book and was able to just enjoy it.
I can list several reasons why a reader might not like The Barbarian Nurseries. Unlike my favorite books, the flaws in this somewhat poorly-concluded novel jump out at me. Unlike most books, though, the flaws don't trouble me that much. That is, they're there, but for once the phrase "the good outweighs the bad" really does fit. Whatever faults The Barbarian Nurseries may have, they made little difference in the face of some truly wonderful aspects. But I don't want to review the book*, I want to discuss two themes in the book that jumped out at me.
Tobar is no ordinary author. Clearly. In addition to writing the brilliant character of Brandon Torres-Thompson, Tobar manages to play with a few themes in a clean and simple manner. There are the big, overwhelming ones - the obvious immigration theme, for starters, as well as the overarching family theme - but then there are ones that are more subtle and subdued, namely that of fantasy.
The matter of family (and how to manage one) is an apparent theme in The Barbarian Nurseries. Right from the early pages, Tobar introduces readers to the family unit - mother Maureen, father Scott, the three kids, and housekeeper-now-nanny Araceli. Tobar spends the first hundred or so pages setting up the family dynamic, displaying the emotional strain each adult character is under in their attempt to achieve "perfection". It's a wonderful and fascinating theme, particularly because of its near-universality: few readers, I suspect, will not find some form through which to relate to Tobar's realistic family drama. Tobar raises excellent questions about child-rearing and parenthood, about boundaries and space, about responsibility and personal desires and needs.
And yet it's the fantasy theme in The Barbarian Nurseries that truly struck home for me. Introduced in an offhand manner in the first chapter - Maureen mentions Scott's obsession with video games - it gradually lets the reader see how every character engages in some form of escapism, whether through reading, art, video games, or just extensive use of the imagination. The most successful outlet for this theme is through Brandon's literary imaginings, particularly in the scene in which he tells other children of the fantasy books he so loves. In conversation with the underprivileged young boy Tomás about various fantasy books, Tomás thinks how he "did not know books could contain dramatic and violent tales rooted in real life." This echoes Brandon's disbelief and innocence regarding the harsh truths of world outside his sheltered existence.
The more I think about The Barbarian Nurseries, the more I find myself wanting to pull it apart piece by piece, to reread it carefully and savor its words again, to write out all the excellent passages within its pages, and to pass the book along to others. Though the abrupt shift in tone and theme in the last section could have been done a bit more realistically with fewer stereotypical characters, at the end of the day I was completely swept away by the book. The conclusion - though the weakest aspect of the book - nonetheless contains wonderful closure to the family theme.
And the fantasy theme? One of my favorite scenes in The Barbarian Nurseries takes place in the final pages - Brandon, he of the fantastic imagination, finds himself distracted from his story recollections in the face of a stronger reality. It's a moment in which the real world wins and fantasy takes a backseat. But is Brandon done dreaming? Has he forsaken fantasy worlds? I think not. Tobar leaves this theme open, perhaps recognizing that sometimes things are best left to the imagination.
* My "real" review of The Barbarian Nurseries can be found here
Friday, October 28, 2011
Children in grown-up books - Brandon and Bran
Monday, October 24, 2011
David Grossman: emotions on display
But holy heck was this a powerful book.
Tilting and falling
Grossman aimed for emotion. And hit a bullseye.
My favorite quote (p.130, my translation):
In August he died, and when
the end
of that month arrived, I
spent the whole time thinking, how could
I continue onwards to September
and he would remain
in August?
Saturday, October 22, 2011
The Quest for the Good Blurb
Thursday, October 20, 2011
Why one must always reread The Sandman
Monday, October 17, 2011
A sci-fi and fantasy story
The lovely collectibles/expensive shelf
* Approximately $330
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Is that even a real name?
Monday, October 10, 2011
True horror
Thursday, October 6, 2011
Define "good"
Click to enlarge
Sunday, October 2, 2011
Breaking rules for Stanislaw Lem
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Poem of the month
Lo, this land that lifts around it
Threatening peaks, while stern seas bound it,
With cold winters, summers bleak,
Curtly smiling, never meek,
'Tis the giant we must master,
Till he work our will the faster.
He shall carry, though he clamor,
He shall haul and saw and hammer,
Turn to light the tumbling torrent,—
All his din and rage abhorrent
Shall, if we but do our duty,
Win for us a realm of beauty.
Master or Slave - Bjornstjerne Bjornson
Wednesday, September 28, 2011
Saturday, September 24, 2011
News and views - a short roundup
Monday, September 19, 2011
Comparing minority Romania
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Glaring, glare-y Artemis
The new Sony Reader Wi-Fi - drool-worthy
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sigh, Amazon - recommendations
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
Why does it always have to be chess?
Literary Pet Peeve #2: Chess as the marker of intelligence
And all too often they play chess.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
Justifying and dismissing hypes
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Epic fantasy, as defined by Harry Potter
Adam Whitehead over at The Wertzone asks an interesting question: is Harry Potter epic fantasy? Reading the comments, opinions are various and varied. Everyone defines choice fantasy differently, looking at a number of popular fantasy epic-potentials and comparing their properties.
In Adam's points for and against Harry Potter's epicness, there are a few that rubbed off me the wrong way, perhaps in continuation of my struggle to accurately define fantasy books. The question comes down to how each one of us splits up the fantasy definitions. In my post from January, I proposed two general groups: high fantasy and modern fantasy. It's thus much simpler for me to ask the question of whether or not Harry Potter falls into the epic fantasy category: it's epic and it's fantasy, therefore it is epic fantasy. But this is easy for me because in my mind, Harry Potter is clearly defined as modern fantasy - anything else is an additional categorization, not the larger subgenre.
Let's take a step back, though. Adam, in his post, offers several arguments that could be used to justify (or dismiss) the epic qualities to Harry Potter. There's the silly one (that a lack of maps in Harry Potter could disqualify it from being epic fantasy...), but there are a few quite interesting ideas (that Harry Potter does not take place in a secondary universe, the lack of sword-fighting battles). In the comments, readers propose other arguments: the episodic nature of Harry Potter might disqualify it, but the presence of a "dark lord" with a noble hero out to fight him justifies the definition. That the young adult focus of the book doesn't fit "epic", but that according to the origin of "epic" (Greek epics), Harry Potter certainly fits.
Commenter Wastrel offers a few words of wisdom that I found particularly interesting:
"Epic Fantasy" isn't a definition, it's a family resemblance. I'd say core characteristics were things like:
- a battle that can lead to good or evil consequences for an entire world, or at least a very large chunk of it, and that is the focus of the story
- a secondary world
- improbably influential everyman characters.
Around that core, there are various other common features - but many epic fantasies may lack one or more of them.
I like this assessment because it falls in line with my own modern-vs.-high fantasy definition. That is, it allows for multiple definitions of fantasy, while placing the "epic" quality of fantasy as a possible characteristic of fantasy, rather than a genre. The list of possible features is where the differences between the commonly touted epic fantasies lie, but also the similarities. Even outside the simple question of Harry Potter's epicness, the list is certainly worth noting. For that matter, the whole discussion is worth reading. The vast range of opinions is impressive, but unsurprising - it really is that difficult to define most fantasy books.
Monday, August 29, 2011
Dissmissing Némirovsky - the influence of the author's personal life
When my mother says she wants to boycott a specific musician for his politics, I find myself getting annoyed. "Separate the man and his art," I say, justifying my admiration for the man's talent. But place a book by Irène Némirovsky in front of me and chances are I'll say "No thanks". Why? Because the author made a pivotal choice in life that has since been endlessly touted... and I just don't feel like it.
I just don't want to read it
A few weeks ago, Sarah at Bookworm Blues raised the fascinating discussion prompt of how much an author's personal opinions influence our desire to read (or not read) his/her books. And while I wondered at what my own policy is, I realized how utterly inconsistent it is.
I'm using Némirovsky as my example for a reason - as a wildly popular and well-respected author, it would make sense for me to have read her novels. But one small blip on Némirovsky's biography makes me take a step back and say, "Wait, if I can choose... why should I choose her?"
There are two ways to look at it and it turns out I'm a hypocrite. On the one hand, I listen to musicians and composers with dubious backgrounds. On the other hand, I avoid authors who may have made specific choices that don't quite fit in with my personal beliefs. Némirovsky only vaguely attracted me as a reader the first time I've heard of her and the more I learned about her history, the less inclined to read her novels I became.
Ultimately, I think the difference between music and literature is in the presentation. When a pianist has a controversial opinion, it doesn't really come across in his interpretation of Beethoven's sonatas. Meanwhile, authors can (and do) present their own lives and opinions easily in literature. So much of an authors personal experience ends up embedded in the story, imbued in the personalities of the characters. I've encountered very few books that included none of the author in their characterizations, enough to realize that when I greatly disagree or sincerely dislike the author, I am far more likely to dislike the book as well.
The problem is that it's not at all clear-cut. There are authors who say dumb things who I still love (Philip Pullman, I'm looking at you!) while there are authors who I don't feel like bothering with because of footnotes in their histories. And then there are authors who have said completely controversial and idiotic statements (V.S. Naipaul!) who I still might consider reading. Why? Why not! It's my choice. At the end of the day, I don't have to justify it for anyone.
So in answer, readers can be influenced by whatever they want. Sometimes it's the fact that an author sounds lame, sometimes it's the fact that an author writes in a funky style that doesn't sit well with the reader, and sometimes it's because the author has expressed certain personal opinions that turn them off for the reader. In the end, we can't read everything. If this is another weird and inconsistent way for us to sort through all those books out there, so be it. And if I'm missing out on a brilliant writer in Némirovsky... well, I think I'm okay with that. For now, at least. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5003 | Abstracts of up to 200 words on any of the listed topics are invited for oral or poster presentation.
All submissions must be written in English, the official language of the Conference.
Each participant may present only one lecture or one poster. Oral presentations have a 15 minute slot.
Deadline for abstract submission: January 31, 2020
Click here to submit your abstract
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5010 | Social Buttons
Wednesday, November 18, 2015
So Many John Henrys
Photo: Michael Brosilow
By Robert Jackson Wood
It’s been said that you can never sing a folk song twice. Folk songs are living organisms, the argument goes, not reproducible objects, existing to perpetually renew the contract between universal myths and the gritty particulars of our lives. Sometimes, because songs migrate and the oral tradition gets creative, those particulars work their way into the songs themselves and variations proliferate. A Scottish glen becomes a Virginia holler, a silver dagger becomes a pen knife, rosy-red lips become lily-white hands. The details change so that the myths don’t have to.
Such is the case with the “The Ballad of John Henry,” whose 200+ documented versions form the basis of Pulitzer Prize-winning composer Julia Wolfe’s work Steel Hammer and its theatrical adaptation, which comes to BAM in December. The story of John Henry is a familiar one: a spike-driving railroad worker of Bunyonesque strength beats a steam drill in a contest to bore through a mountain, only to “die with his hammer in his hands.” That folk music historian Alan Lomax called the legend “possibly America’s greatest piece of folklore” is no wonder: the mythos of the railroad, man vs. machine anxiety, bootstraps individualism—the muscular American imaginary is there in its entirety.
But the details are predictably fuzzy. Was John Henry 5’1” or 6’1”? Was his wife Polly Ann or Sally Ann? Did his hammer shine like silver or gold?
Wolfe’s answer, according to her libretto, is yes. A patchwork of juxtaposed nouns and adjectives plucked from the story’s myriad variants, her libretto celebrates proliferation and pluralism—an American crazy quilt of contested, telephone-gamed fact. On stage, four female vocalists take on the role of stoic Appalachian balladeers, impassively conveying the ballad’s litany of discrepancies. Through an acerbic post-minimalism, fleshed out by banjos, jaw harps, guitars, and other instruments played by the Bang on a Can All-Stars, they repeat, foreshorten, and linger over phrases as though trying on the variants for size.
Words have, in Wolfe's hands, become raw material, stripped of context. And if folklore typically relies on archetypes to work properly—the Trickster, however tricky, the Tragic Hero, however tragic—then this is its radical inversion: a hypnotic celebration of content over narrative form in service of a bustling musical machine.
Photo courtesy the Krannert Center.
The more traditional storytelling in Steel Hammer falls to six actors from Anne Bogart’s SITI Company, who offer theatrical interludes and step dancing (choreographed by Barney O’Hanlon) between musical movements. Yet in keeping with Wolfe’s oblique approach to the tale, the interludes take an alternative path as well. Using different texts written by playwrights Kia Corthron, Regina Taylor, Carl Hancock Rux, and Will Power—each of whom was tasked with telling the John Henry tale in their own idiosyncratic ways—the actors delve into the John Henry subconscious.
Myths repress, after all. We can romanticize them often only because their gritty preconditions are kept out of sight. In the case of John Henry, always portrayed as African-American, that prehistory is inevitably tied to race. How, after all, did John Henry end up working on the railroad in the first place? What would lead a person to fight for his job to the point of exhausting himself to death?
In Steel Hammer’s first segment, a subtle contest of representation plays out. A group of largely white town folk take turns recounting the legend with wide-eyed wonder before another woman, referencing historical likelihood, tempers their story: John Henry worked the railroads as a prison laborer who’d been falsely convicted. Foundational myth had been built on the back of the oppressed.
In another segment, a woman recalls meeting Henry when she was 12 while working as a pig slaughterer in the post-reconstruction south. Conditions were dire for blacks (“sanitation was an unuttered idea”), she reminds the audience, and Henry, out of breath, seemed to be on the run from something. “Every man is an end in himself,” Henry says to her in passing, his days of freedom presumably numbered. The stream drill was just one foe among many.
In yet another, John Henry is in jail with no release date in sight. "What will we tell our kids?," he wonders through the cell bars to his wife. Their solution: an unlikely tale about how their father died while at his railroad job, but not before beating the odds in a contest with a machine.
“For me,” Anne Bogart has said, “this project is not about getting to the absolute truth of this tale. It’s about how we mold stories for the times we live in.”
The details change, and yet our myths live on.
Steel Hammer comes to the BAM Harvey Theater December 2—6, and great seats are still available.
Robert Wood is a copywriter at BAM.
Reprinted from the Nov. BAMbill.
1 comment:
1. Absolutely brilliant show! The music, dancing and the cast were AMAZING. The text was both funny and profound. The lead actor (and actress) were incredible. LOVED IT! BRAVO!!!! |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5014 | Friday, April 25, 2008
Zmjezhd over at epea pteroenta has identified and brought to our attention the true cause of the decline and eventual destruction of the Roman Empire: txting. We all knew that this vile disregard for ortographic rules and conventions would eventually bring down our civilization and now thanks to zmjezhd we have a proof that it has already done so once, infecting the very heart of the Roman Empire at its finest time and spreading like cancer all over the civilized world. And to fully appreciate the threat of txting, let us consider the rate at which it spread from the center of the Empire to its periphery. Zmjezhd's example dates to the early 2nd century AD, which indicates that by then, the disease had already infected Rome and Italy. Yet at that very time, the outer provinces still held on to their heritage. This is evidenced by this late 2nd century AD inscription in stone (a simple, honest and down-to-earth material which is - very unlike the liberal elitist marble - resistant to moral and cultural corruption) in Lavgaricio, today's Trenčín:
exercitvs qvi Lav-
garicione sedit milites
legionis II DCCCLV
[Marcus Valerius Maximi]anvs legatvs legionis II adivtricis cvravit
To the victory of the venerable,
the troops stationed in Laugaricio,
855 soldiers of the 2nd legion
Dedicated by M. V. Maximianus, the legate of the auxiliary to the 2nd legion.
Note how everything but the signature is spelled out in full (save for that one -m of the Genitive plural suffix). The abbreviations in the legate's name and title are to be seen as symbols of modesty so typical of Roman warrior class and not signs of moral decay which had by then overrun Rome. As many times before and many times since, here the periphery still holds to the traditional values like proper grammar, even though the center has long abandoned them.
But only a few decades later, all is lost. In Rome, the position of the emperor weakens, the Imperial Crisis looms and troops of Alexander Severus (or possibly the Emperor himself) leave this message in a stone somewhere in the vicinity of today's village of Semerovo:
Imperator Marcvs Avrelius Seve
rvs Alexander Pivs Fe
lix Avgvstus Pontifex Maximvs tribvnicia
potestate VIII consvl III pater patriae....
Emperor Marcus Aurelius Severus
Alexander Pius (The Pious) Felix (The Lucky)
Augustus (The Venerable), chief priest, holder of the office
of tribune 8 times, consul 3 times, father of the country....
The cancer of the language has spread from Rome to the land of the Quadi and from marble to stone. And thus the Roman world ends, not with a bang, but 4 w1MP3r and a warning to the future generations who would not take the proper steps to guard against this horrible disease: ur nxt, d00dz.
ŠKOVIERA, Daniel: Antiqua Slovaciae Memoria. - Bratislava : Tatran, 1977, 36 p.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Remember my multi-part review of the new dictionary of Slovak? Yeah, well, it's been a year and I'm still stuck at installment no. 4 and the part of the entry with information on stylistic and pragmatic properties of the headword. The only thing I can say in my defence is that I've been sidetracked when I started looking into the history of Czecho-Slovak lexicography to understand the whys and hows of lexeme classification based on these rather loosely defined "functional criteria". In the course of that research I came across a lot if interesting stuff (with three full bookshelves to prove it). The most fascinating result of that small detour was a paper on the brewer slang of Southern Bohemia [2] published by Alena Jaklová of the University of South Bohemia. In that paper, professor Jaklová compiled from various sources a dictionary of terms related to beer brewing. It is interesting to note that those sources included not only native informants, but also various professional publications, including a (ministry of education approved) textbook for trade schools. Why so? Because of the standard/non-standard ("spisovný/nespisovný") dichotomy so firmly entrenched in Czecho-Slovak linguistic thinking. There slang terms traditionally fall on the non-standard side of the divide and thus become linguistic outcasts, shunned in polite society and even barely worthy of recording. The inclusion of slang terms in an officially sanctioned publication is therefore a major concession on the part of the prescriptivists and purists and, to some extent, an admission of defeat: what do you do when you need a word for a concept only a handful of people are familiar with? Do you stick to your guns and try invent a new word that will follow your rules (and, invariably, fail) or do you grudgingly accept the words of those few well versed in the subject even though it turns your refined stomach? The authors of those textbooks took the latter approach and prof. Jaklová agrees. She argues that in considering the status of professional slang/professional jargon, the standard/non-standard dichotomy should be disregarded altogether and the terms used by the professionals should be accepted into the standard fold. After all, who knows best what word to use for that thingamajig over there than the person who knows every single thing there is to know about it?
Aside from being a voice of reason, the paper is a veritable lexical banquet where through the professional jargon of brewers you can find out just about anything you ever could want to know about various types barley and yeast, the different stages of preparation of malt, all the apparatus involved in beer brewing and even a thing or two about the social structure of the Czech brewery and different customs associated with the production and consumption of beer. And so you can learn that in breweries of Southern Bohemia, a drak ("dragon" = boilerman) keeps a fire burning in the kiln using a osel ("donkey" = a special shovel) while checking the temperature on a pánbíček (a diminutive form of pámbú = "Pán Bůh" = "Lord", a thermometer), that the head cooper goes by the rather unflattering title vrchní Jidáš ("the head Judas") and that they don't steal beer in Budějovice, they střílí pivo ("shoot beer") - though the end effect for the brewer remains the same. Were you inclined to engage in some linguisticking, you could even argue that the Czech have at least 18 different words for beer and offer the following list as a proof:
But there is one word in this list that not only takes the cake malt, but also grabs the keg, the table and all the beer in the storage rooms:
gramatika - pivní polévka s rozvařeným řežným chlebem, údajne lehká a lehce stravitelná
gramatika - beer soup with overcooked rye bread, reportedly light and easily digestible
Let me see if I can find a recipe somewhere...
Oh and one more bit: the section on etymology claims that the term šalanda ("a large room where brewery staff changed and/or slept") is a borrowing from Arabic - "šalandí" (شلندي). Hm, perhaps. But wouldn't a French source (chaland) be much more likely? And assuming that I'm correct and the word ultimately derives from χελάνδιον (a Byzantine warship), how does a ship become a room?
[1] HUBÁČEK, Jaroslav: Malý slovník českých slangů. - Ostrava : Profil, 1988, 190 p.
[2] JAKLOVÁ, Alena: Pivovarský slang v Jižních Čechách. In: Jazyk a řeč jihočeského regiónu II. - České Budějovice : Katedra českého jazyka Pedagogické fakulty JU, 1993, p. 50-68
Tuesday, April 08, 2008
One of the many reasons why I love all of Law and Order is how the writers and producers get stuff right, especially when it comes to the many facets of the multicultural, multireligious and multilingual New York City. This is a special forte of Criminal Intent where such excurses into the everyday lives of various - often self-contained - communities serve to demonstrate the astounding abilities of detective Goren, such as his familiarity with Aramaic or his knowledge of modern-day nomadic peoples. But this dedication to accuracy - hardly a distinguishing feature of network television - can be observed in other parts of the franchise, too, especially in linguistic matters. And so on Law and Order, Arabic is real Arabic, Syriac is written in real honest-to-God serṭō and even though one of the five boroughs stands in for Prague and the accent is so thick you couldn't cut through it with a damn blowtorch, the Prague police officers speak real Czech.
The latest example I've seen is episode 9x13 of Law and Order: SVU. The investigation of another grisly sex crime brings Stabler and Munch to Kehilat Moshe, a Hasidic community in upstate New York. In a brief voiceover narrated by the victim's mother, we are told that people in Kehilat Moshe (a fictionalized version of the real-life Satmar Hasidic town Kiryas Joel) are "extremely orthodox" and that "Many barely speak English." This is where I crossed my finders and muttered "Yiddish, Yiddish, Yiddish, please let me hear some Yiddish!"
And sure enough, just a minute or two later, the detectives make contact with the local law enforcement and the following conversation takes place:
Yep, that's Yiddish all right. But if you listen closely, you may notice there's something off here. What follows is my clumsy attempt at transcription:
A: Der politsi ...
A: The police ...
B: Farshtey. ... ze mus gayn bayn der rebbe, [bʌt] nemt den lange veg un nisht baym shil.
B: Understood. [Tell them] they must see the Rabi, but take the long way, not the way around the temple.
Now I'm by no means an expert, as is evident by the blank I drew on the first part of the conversation. But to my knowledge, "the police" and "the temple" should both be feminine, i.e. "di politsye" and "di shil/shul". "By the temple" should therefore be "bay der shil" (בײַ דער שיל), not "baym (bay dem) shil". I'm also not quite certain about the "bayn der rebbe" part. Hearing "bayn" (בײַן) instead of the expected "baym" (בײַם) wouldn't be that strange, I do sometimes confuse my nasals. But "bayn/baym der rebe" definitely doesn't sound right - "baym rebe" (בײַם רבי) or "bay dem rebe" (בײַ דעם רבי) is what I would expect here. Same goes for "nemt den lange veg" and the absence of case suffix. If I'm not mistaken, "der langer veg" (which is what the Nominative is) should be here in the Accusative, i.e. "den langn veg" (דען לאַנגן וועג). And one more thing: notice how the name of the real Hasidic community reflects the Ashkenazi pronunciation of Hebrew - "Kiryas Joel", as opposed to "Kiryat Joel" in the Modern Hebrew/Sephardic pronunciation. Shouldn't the name of the fictional town (presumably קהלת משה in Hebrew) also be pronounced the Yiddish way and thus written "Kehilas Moshe" or even "Kehilas Moyshe" in English?
Of course I wouldn't expect a living language - which, thank God, Yiddish still is - to be exactly the same now as it was when it was recorded and described by Uriel Weinreich, Shlomo Birnbaum, Joshua Fishman and other great scholars of Yiddish. Doubly so in the light of the fact that standard Yiddish based on Lithuanian Yiddish is far from the only dialect there is and definitely not the one with most native speakers - Satmar Hasidim speak a Galician (Polish-Hungarian) dialect of Yiddish. Some change, especially due to language contact, would be expected even in case of close-knit communities such as the Hasidim - which is what I believe happened when instead of אָבער "but" we get [bʌt]. But as for the rest of the deviations from the Yiddish I know, if there indeed are any, I am at the end of my ken. So here is where I turn to you, my esteemed readership, to help me fill out the blanks in my transcription, especially that first line. And of course, I'd be immensely grateful if anybody could explain to me what is going on in that conversation. Who knows, we may even find out that my praise for the writers of Law and Order was a bit premature...
Thursday, April 03, 2008
You know what, I've had it with this shit. My inner critic is an asshole and I just have to stop listening to him. It's because of him that I missed a lot of the great linguistic stuff that happened in the last couple of months and that just sucks.
So without further ado, let me:
1. Make a brief announcement: I'm back.
2. Thank every one who kept checking this space, especially Mr. Languagehat and my other fellow linguabloggers who are and always will be an inspiration.
And since I should probably start by picking up my own slack, here is - with many apologies to RAF, Abraham Lincoln and Bob Newhart - my modest and belated contribution to the celebration of National Grammar Day. Now if I could only remember how I found this one...
OK, so here's how it probably went down: I was catching up on Paleojudaica from whence a link lead me to On the Main Line, a very cool blog on the Cairo Genizah, Hebrew and other things fascinating, and somehow from there I got to Baltic Polyglottic, a new blog from Latvia (now sadly no longer updated). Hey, if the blogosphere needs anything, it's the general adoption of Lameen's "references with every blog post" policy and more people from the new EU Countries, so yay! It was there, in a charming post entitled "The most useful phrase I learned last year", that I learned about the career advice blog Brazen Careerist by one Penelope Trunk.
Now I'm not someone who needs career advice, nor would I listen to it should it be offered, but my recent job-hunting experiences made me curious. And so I clicked the link to find out how to turn an interview into a job. I learned that I should lose weight because fat (and therefore) unattractive people have a much lower chance to get hired, that I should prepare stock answers to standard interview questions and that I should practice being interviewed a lot. Now I admit that as a fat dude, I found the equation overweight = unattractive a bit insulting. But hey, that's no reason to stop being fair and balanced, so I decided to dig around a bit more to form a qualified opinion of Ms. Trunk and her writing. After two hours of reading brilliant advice like "being promoted has nothing to do with your skills and competence, it's all about being liked", "if you want to have a successful career start in college by geting out of the library" and having learned that Ms. Trunk is a former professional voleyball player (insert-jock-joke-here) and that she went through several stages of personal rebranding (... I got nothing), my mind was made up. The only question left to be answered was where does Ms. Trunk place on the George Carlin scale of stupid?
Fortunately, right about that time I got to a post, an excerpt from her book, which contains several tips on how to write "so people pay attention". The book costs $25, but Ms. Trunk was kind enough to provide us with one tip for free. It's #25 and it goes "Don't use adverbs". I'm guessing some of you can sense where this is going, so just grab your favorite snack and let's enjoy the ride.
By way of introduction, Ms. Trunk gives us her opinion on what constitutes good writing. First and foremost, you have to be brief. In Ms. Trunk's view and according to her understanding of the people she quotes, short equals elegant. Take Abraham Lincoln's Gettysburg Address - 270 words, yet undoubtedly one of the most powerful speeches ever written. So how do we write short and elegant texts that make people pay attention? Here are her seven tips:
1. Write lists.
... They are faster and easier to read than unformatted writing, and they are more fun. If you can’t list your ideas then you aren’t organized enough to send them to someone else.
OK, I can get behind that one, at least partially. I'm glad that an expert like Ms. Trunk approves of this strategy that was also employed by many great writers. Consider Winston Churchill, a Nobel Prize in Literature winner, and his famous "We shall fight on the beaches" speach which featured this list:
We shall fight:
1. on the beaches;
2. on the landing grounds;
3. in the fields;
4. in the streets, and
5. in the hills.
Truly, this is the most powerful example of list as a literary device (with the possible exception of the Metterling list no. 5). It not only gave strength to the British people, but also outlined the Allied strategy for victory in WWII and even won the Battle of England. And I'm sure it provided people in London with endless mirth.
2. Think on your own time
....people don’t want to read your thinking process; they want to see the final result.
Indeed. Who cares about arguments and evidence, let alone what you read and where you read it? Results, that's what counts!
3. Keep paragraphs short.
Unless, of course, you are Penelope Trunk.
4. Write like you talk.
What a splendid advice! For example, if like me you use the words "fuck" and "goddamn bullshit" a lot when you talk, you might want to start inserting these words into your work correspondence. I'm sure your boss will be impressed and people you deal with will appreciate the colorful character that you are. Especially if you work in customer care.
For example, you would never say “in conclusion” when you are speaking to someone so don’t use it when you write.
Very true. I mean think of all the pretentious nonsense people write to sound smart and educated and whatnot, shit they would never actually let pass through their lips. Like doctors, for instance, with their pseudolatin mumbo-jumbo. It's 'skull', not 'cranium', you asshole. Speak English! Or consider lawyers. Wouldn't all our contracts be much more clear and readable without all that "hereafter" and "aforementioned" and "compensation" and "shall" crap? Maybe when the revolution comes, we don't have to kill them. Let's just teach them to write properly.
5. Delete
When you’re finished, you’re not finished: cut 10% of the words.
Say, Abe, what's with that "The world will little note, nor long remember" shit? Cut it down. "The world won't remember" is good enough. And same goes for "we can not dedicate—we can not consecrate—we can not hallow". Geez, keep it simple, will ya? Most of these folks don't even know what "hallow" means. Honestly, would you say that speaking to someone?
6. Passive voice. Almost no one ever speaks this way.
Ah, this is a familiar one. But the new twist Ms. Trunk puts on it is worth your last penny:
If you have a noun directly following “by” then it’s probably passive voice.
So when earlier today I wrote an email asking someone to "deliver the files by end of business", I was probably using the passive voice without even knowing it. Moreover, as Ms. Trunk points out,
... when you write it [passive voice] you give away that you are unclear about who is doing what because the nature of the passive voice is to obscure the person taking the action.
To pick an example: "When we write, authenticity gets buried under poor word choice". So who was it that buried authenticity? We really need to know!
And last, but by Jove, definitely not least:
7. Avoid adjectives and adverbs.
'Scuse me, ma'am, but why?
Adjectives and adverbs are your interpretation of the facts. If you present the right facts, you won’t need to throw in your interpretation.
Ah, I see. So when I say that the traffic light in an intersection is red, that's just my interpretation of the light spectrum and safe in that knowledge, I can just drive through. And when I tell someone that they are late because we agreed to meet at 1100 and they arrive at 1130, that's just my interpretation of the situation. For all I know, they are actually on time!
To recap, let's see these principles in action. For that, we can use the Gettysburg Address, which according to Ms. Trunk is a paragon of short and therefore elegant writing. Unfortunately, Abraham Lincoln didn't have the opportunity to profit from Ms. Trunk's expertise, what with the tragic visit to the theater. But fear not, for I, a faithful acolyte of hers, am here to correct that. Behold, the new and improved version of The Gettysburg Address:
It is altogether fitting and proper that we should do this.
The world will little note, nor long won't remember what we say here, but it cannot never forget what they did here.
Our It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task is remaining before us — that from these honored dead we to take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion.
That we here highly resolve that these dead shall will not have died in vain — that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom.
And that people's government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.
That's of course the version we get if we only follow rules 1- 3 and 6-7.
If we just follow rules No. 4 and 5, then we get this:
A lot of people died fighting in this war. Let's make sure they did not die in vain and that democracy will survive.
And honestly, folks, isn't that just better than the original?
Yeah, right.
As history has shown, the world has noted and to this day remembers what was said on that day in Gettysburg. That is because Abraham Lincoln was one of the greatest orators of all time. He might not have been familiar with linguistics, but he sure knew about chosing the right words, about rhythm, about aliteration, about gradation and repetition. In short, he knew about all those things that make a speech great and of which Ms. Trunk hasn't got a fucking clue.
And finally, how does Ms. Trunk fare with regard to the George Carlin scale of stupid?
I report. You decide. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5030 | Dogfights and hotties in Konstanz
Click for a larger map
A week back, we took a Saturday trip across the sea to Konstanz, a town that sits half in Germany and half in Switzerland. Since we didn’t have our passports, we stayed on the German side and tried not to stray too far into uncharted territory to avoid encountering any jesters, i.e. Swiss guard.
It is a nice place, has a cool little downtown area with a very old town feel to it, and is generally your standard medium-sized German city. However, two things stood out.
1. There were dogs everywhere. Everywhere. On the streets, on the bus, in the shopping mall, inside the stores... I wasn’t aware dogs needed designer clothing until we saw one in H&M. In a McDonald’s, we even got to witness a small dogfight. (Small as in short in duration, but also involving tiny dogs.)
2. I saw the first cute German girls I’ve seen since arriving in Germany. It’s possible that is because we were so close to Switzerland, so the cute ones were actually Swiss. That’s not to say no Germans are attractive, I just hadn’t met any yet in the month that I’ve been here.
Needless to say, these observations, as well as Christ's jewelry store, were somewhat off putting.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5031 | Saturday, January 15, 2011
First round of edits, DONE!
Hiii, everyone.
So, today I went to the pool. Got a little bit more tan. Almost finished reading XVI. Anddd ....
I FINISHED THE FIRST ROUND OF EDITS for my yet-to-be-named contemporary YA that takes place in Las Vegas! Which needs a name, because it would just be easier that way, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it should be.
310 pages, and can't figure out a name. Go me.
I don't want to jinx myself or anything (not that I necessarily believe in "jinxing" oneself), but the first draft of this novel was relatively decent. I actually felt caught up in reading it. I'm not sure if that's a good thing because it's interesting to read (at least it was to me), or a bad thing because I might have missed edits, but we'll see. I'm about to print it out to do paper edits, and I usually catch more there.
And so the cycle begins. Computer edits. Paper edits. Computer edits. Paper edits. You get it. Sometimes it feels endless. And I feel bad for the trees because I use so much paper. But hey, at least I buy recycled paper.
On another note, I haven't heard back from publishers on the novel that my agent submitted recently. I'm going to be positive and look at that as a "no one has said no yet!" Which they haven't.
Watch me get a "no" tomorrow. Or, back to positivity, maybe I'll get The Call.
Except that it's a Sunday, so neither of those will most likely happen.
Time to do some MAJOR printing! As in, 310 pages of it. And then finish reading XVI.
1. Yay! That's so awesome, Michelle! I can't wait to read it. The name will come to you. Enjoy your editing, editing, editing, and when it's ready, send it my way! :)
2. This comment has been removed by the author.
3. I have a question, on what program do you write your novels?
Do you use Microsoft Word or OpenOffice Writer or iWork, etc, because I am currently writing a novel and I was wondering if it is different for when you finish it, print it out, and hand it in to an editor. Would the novel be shorter on a book if the printed pages are 300 pgs, and then on the book it's only 130? Or would the font have to be in account?
I know it's too early to be concerned about this yet, but I was just curious.
4. @Karla -- I use Microsoft Word to write my novels. I also have a lot of notes, and to keep track of those I use TextEdit (Notepad on Windows). When you query agents (once you get an agent, they'll shop it to editors for you), the agent will ask to read your manuscript. They will either ask you to snail mail it or email it. The industry format is Microsoft Word, 12 point font, Times New Roman, 1" margins. The publishing house takes care of how to format the manuscript into a novel, but generally YA novels should be around 60,000 - 80,000 words. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5033 | Amplify Blog
Insights and ideas directly from New Profit
May 1, 2017
I was honored to participate in The Gathering as an inaugural New Profit Millennial Impact Fellow. Weeks later, I’m still left amazed with the connections I’ve made and the thoughtfulness of conversation when it came to how we would all contribute to making this world a more equitable place for us all.
As someone whose work is rooted in helping others recover from trauma, I connected with the stories of organizational and personal adversity, resilience and strength that speakers shared with us. There is one moment, in particular, that is still present on my mind. Before starting her presentation, one of the panelists quoted Ta-Nahesi Coates on the physical violence of white supremacy.
Coates recognized that when talking about racism we often don't directly state the physical violence white supremacy inflicts on Black and Brown bodies: “But all our phrasing—race relations, racial chasm, racial justice, racial profiling, white privilege, even white supremacy—serves to obscure that racism is a visceral experience, that it dislodges brains, blocks airways, rips muscle, extracts organs, cracks bones, breaks teeth. You must never look away from this. You must always remember that the sociology, the history, the economics, the graphs, the charts, the regressions all land, with great violence, upon the body.” - Ta-Nahesi Coates
And so I ask of us - what will we do about the physical violence of inequity?
The physical violence that occurs when whiteness dictates where philanthropic capital flows, leaving Black and Brown communities without the life-saving services or technology they need that are already in the mind of a founder of color with no funding. Or the physical violence of transphobia and discrimination that leaves transgender communities facing the highest suicide rates in our country? Or the subtle violence of societal complacency which resigns low-income youth to cycles of poverty and trauma, living in food deserts with unrecognized post-traumatic stress disorder, trapped in the school to prison pipeline? Like Coates said, all of this inequity lands with great violence on the body.
We can stop this violence. I believe that open, honest spaces like The Gathering are not only important, but will be a lifeline for our country moving forward. The conversations that we had at The Gathering by fearless racial justice activists such as Michaela Angela Davis, leaders in diversity and inclusion in philanthropy like Cheryl Dorsey, organizations leading systems change like Health Leads, and Millennial Fellows in my amazing cohort, give me faith that we will do better. And one way to start is by recognizing that each decision that we make as entrepreneurs, funders, and community activists has the power to render physical harm or render healing.
Read more from our other Millennial Impact Fellows here!
See all |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5047 | Sunday, November 20, 2011
Neytap released!
I've been spending my free time developing a website to facilitate room rentals. The website is an attempt to scratch my own itch. Today, nine months after I registered the domain, I'm releasing Neytap to general public.
Neytap is a classifieds for room rentals inside Facebook. It's simple, because I lack design skills. It's fast, because my internet is crappy. And it's easy, because I'm too lazy to explain how it works :)
For the curious, the word neytap originates from an Indonesian word "menetap", which means "to stay" or "to settle".
me·ne·tap v bertempat tinggal tetap (di); bermukim di: banyak orang asing ~ di kota dagang itu; ada yg pulang ke kampung halamannya, ada pula yg ~ di kota-kota; Kamus Besar Bahasa Indonesia
"menetap" is a mouthful word so I trimmed it to "netap". To make the pronunciation similar for Indonesian-speaking and English-speaking tongues, I added "y" in the middle.
"If you are not embarrassed by your first release, you've launched too late" — Reid Hoffman, Founder of LinkedIn.
I'm embrarred indeed. The website is so simple, too simple in fact. There are some features that I decide to exclude from this release, including multi-language support and a mobile version, mainly because they're still crappy.
This is the first public release of Neytap, but certainly not the last. I'm going to update the website iteratively. Meanwhile, please take a look at Neytap and tell me what you think!
If it isn't for the pretty date (20-11-2011—Indonesian format), I would certainly delay the release. But then again, "waiting for the perfect time" is just an excuse and it may never come. Soli Deo gloria.
Friday, October 07, 2011
Would convertible debt burden me?
As I've written before, I'm currently working on two side projects in my free time. This post is an update about their progress.
For the one I'm doing with a co-founder, it's pretty much stalled. It requires significant capital investment and some brick-and-mortar business networking thus we can't start from zero. My co-founder has pitched to some VCs all out, but apparently the conventional wisdom is true: you can't really get investors just by selling idea. At least not when you're nobody.
For the other one, a classifieds for room rentals (the idea is much bigger than that, but I must start from something small), it's been going slow. I thought of speeding it up; quit my full-time job and give the project all the love. That's why I was thinking of raising MYR 75k (USD ~23.7k or IDR ~210m) in convertible debt to fund the project for at least 6 months.
I cold emailed some people (only two, actually. A CEO in a company I worked for and an acquaintance I met in airport), asking whether they know anyone interested to angel invest in my project.
The latter forwarded my email to her business partner who then asked for a pitch. To my surprise, he showed deep interest on our first meeting, and immediately showed intent to invest after reading my financial projection (which I think quite conservative on number).
In case you're curious, here's my proposed term:
• 8% interest p/a
• 25% discount
• with cap
• maturity at 1 year
I think it's pretty much standard. But then the guy said that he "doesn't like the idea of giving loan" because he "doesn't want to burden me". He wanted some shares instead. This is his offer (more or less):
• Start the company in Malaysia so we can get government grants and stuff, but it must be majority owned by local, so he proposed...
• 60% for himself (being a Malaysian). And because his business partner (my friend) introduced us, so...
• She'll get 20%.
• Maybe he doesn't really trust me, so the money will be dispensed monthly, and...
• I must get his permission for any expenses.
To summarize, the company would get USD 23.7k spread over 6 months period, I would get 20% share and less than half my current salary, and I must report everything. I've never dealt with any investor before, but I don't feel right.
My friend jokingly said the money I need is around the price a car, might as well I borrow it from bank and keep 100% share for myself.
I emailed the investor politely rejecting his offer. Here's a snippet of the letter:
You've been very gracious with your time and I'm thankful for that. After careful consideration, however, I have decided not to take your current offer. I have asked around and did some research, convertible debt is still the term I want.
There's a great article on the benefits of convertible debt,, where the two main points (for me) are Suitability (point 2) and Control (point 3). It is also investor-friendly when complemented with discount and cap.
I guess I'll keep doing this as a side project until I can stand on my own or found more sensible investment.
Monday, July 18, 2011
Validating your idea
Last week a guy added me in Facebook because he said we have similar interest in startup and found my blog (the one you're reading now) quite amusing.
I usually only approve cute chicks and people I know—because in my experience random guys who added me happen to be gay and they thought I am too (I am NOT). Since he introduced himself (and his intent), I'm more than happy to approve his friend request. He happen to be a smart person, and has a female wife :)
We exchanged messages, and I thought one of my replies worth to post in blog, so I asked his permission and he agreed, so here it goes:
Hi bro, thanks for your length reply. I think you should stop reading and start jumping to action. In startup, first-hand experience is much more useful.
The simplest is to create a landing page to validate your idea. If it doesn't get satisfactory traction (i.e. low signups), either the idea sucks or the landing page needs refining.
It might hurt to know the truth (since your idea is most likely your ambition), but it will save you the time from building product nobody wants and you can move on to another idea.
A couple days ago I read Ash Maurya's Running Lean which mentioned Eric Ries' Lean Startup. I didn't finish the reading, but it made me realize that I've been taking the wrong approach.
I've been spending too long developing the product and also sidetracked by "research", but nothing towards validating my idea early. I'm afraid that when my product has complete, it doesn't get the traction I expected, and I will feel demotivated. I've been in this situation.
But there's a lie within landing page approach: Sometimes the traction doesn't translate to actual product usage. It might be because the product is "less interesting" than what you promise in the landing page, or the product launched too late (the guy who subscribed already forget who you are and what you do), or any other reasons. Just be prepared with this.
So, to answer your question on how am I doing with my journey, now I'm doing "temporary pivot". I'm focusing on building a landing page.
My co-founder is currently in Jakarta for his first baby born and also to pitch to some VC. My project with him requires significant capital and network investment, so it's essential to raise some money (and make friends).
As for my other project, Neytap, now I'm thinking on how to solve the chicken-and-egg problem. As you know it's a classifieds for room rentals, a marketplace of buyers (tenants) and sellers (landlords). I need to figure out how to grow both sides in balance. Do you have suggestion?
Anyway, regarding US as your target market, I think you're right, aim the ones you're most familiar with. But isn't US already saturated?
I'm so happy to meet like-minded people :)
Saturday, July 16, 2011
How much should you pay developers?
Two days ago I started a discussion in StartUpLokal group, "How much should you pay developers?" Basically I shared a link I found regarding compensation plan in StackOverflow.
Teddie followed up with an interesting question (copied as-is), "As a much U willing to Pay Your Programmer (honestly)?" Wenas Agusetiawan replied, "rockstars deserve to be paid well," but Teddie didn't seem satisfied with the answer thus asked again, "how much?"
My answer is: "It depends." Let me elaborate.
I'm a programmer myself. If I were to outsource/delegate programming tasks for any of my startups, it must be because (1) I'm not good enough to do it myself, or (2) The tasks so boring I'd rather do something else, like sleeping.
So, how much?
If I were to pay the programmer for the first reason then I must award him well. He's smarter than me, he deserves at least same salary I'd get if I were to do it myself. If for the second reason, I'll base on industry standard, or, "How much I'm willing to be paid if I don't have better option." (Which is logical—if you're the programmer, would you take the boring/repetitive job if you have better option?)
Of course, being a startup founder, you must squeeze expenses as much as you can. So for the first case, I'll negotiate with him but focus on retainment (I don't want to lose him). For the second case, I'll focus on minimizing expenses (I don't want to lose too much money).
Note: Change "him" to "her" for your convenience.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Birds of the same feather flock together
You are who you surround yourself with. You tend to be more productive when you hang out with like-minded people.
I usually work solo on my personal projects, and it's damn tiring (on the plus side, I can do whatever I want, haha). I do have a partner in one of my startups, but since my internet is crappy and my co-founder lives in a different continent, communication is hard.
So it was a very refreshing experience when last month I attended Google Hackathon App Engine. It was a very productive weekend indeed.
From Wikipedia: A hackathon is an event when programmers meet to do collaborative computer programming. These events are typically between several days and a week in length. A hackathon refers not simply to one time hacks, but to a specific time when many people come together to hack on what they want to, how they want to - with little to no restrictions on direction or goal of the programming. Translation: party for geeks.
I didn't manage to launch anything there, but I made significant progress; made some friends too. Looking forward for another similar events. So guys, if you have the chance to attend such event, don't miss it :)
Sunday, July 10, 2011
On using new technology and setting up infrastructure
It's very hard to build a startup; it's even harder to build two at the same time, especially since I have a full time job. For the past few months, most of my free time were spent on coding. Let me share some progress.
My first project is Neytap, a classifieds for room rentals—which in Bahasa Indonesia is called kos (correct term is indekos, although sometimes people write it as kost or kos-kosan). I'm aware that there are some similar websites already, but competition is always good :) It has just reached version Private Alpha and right now is under development for Private Beta.
My second project is a location-based service. I can't tell you much about it since it needs to be in stealth until certain stage of development. I can only say that, for this project, I have a co-founder.
On using new technology
Both projects use JVM-based languages: Java, Groovy and Scala. I'm currently learning Scala, so I try to use it as much as possible. Groovy is used for scripting (like one-time off code) and Java when I'm stuck with Scala :D
There's an important lesson that I want to share with technical founders who, like me, like to tinker with new technology: Building startups with technology you're not familiar with is a bad idea.
I'm not talking about quality (since you're not familiar, you might develop sub par solution), but it's all about time allocation. The point is, every time you want to use some fancy stuff in your project, ask yourself, "How much the distraction from achieving my target (delivering project)? Will it add significant value (i.e. "worth the time")?"
I spent a significant time learning new stuff instead of working on actual product for these two projects. Knowledge-wise, it's not a waste. Goal-wise, it is. I decided to fallback to technologies I'm familiar with, and adding just a bit new stuff that I'm sure will improve my productivity.
Infrastructure setup
You can code immediately without any documentation (URS, Diagrams, etc), which is exactly what I did. But at some point you will realize that you need some order. You need at least an issue tracker.
Important lesson: Use what you're familiar with and don't spend too much time setting it up. I'm familiar with Trac, Redmine and JIRA, but all of them are not trivial to setup for me (YMMV). I end up using YouTrack. It's free for 10 users, no installation. Just download the JAR file and run from command line: java -jar youtrack-3.0.jar 9999. This assume you have Java runtime installed,
The next thing in mind is a version control system (VCS). You must use VCS. Use the one you're most familiar with (if you're familiar with none, then stop coding and learn one, Git is good).
Important lesson: If you don't like to wait, make sure your infrastructure is fast. Get a good computer with enough CPU and RAM. If you work alone, setup issue tracker and VCS in your workstation (localhost). If working with team, use the fastest server-based solution. I use Unfuddle for Git and installed YouTrack in an EC2 located in Singapore. If submitting an issue or comitting code take too long, you'll be tempted to open Hacker News and not working :D
In conclusion, remember not to spend too much in either "research" or setting up infrastructure. In the end, it's your code that matters.
Monday, May 30, 2011
Give it a name
The first thing you need in building a startup is an idea. Some people think that idea is worthless, but for me it is equally important as the execution that follows it and the team behind it. It sets your target so that you know where to focus. But don't fall in love with your idea, it can evolve and even change radically. You just need it to get started.
After having an idea, the next thing to come up with is a name. Having a name upfront is not required (you can use random name, e.g. "myproject", and change it later), but it simplifies a lot of things.
Name is important for:
• Presence: domain name, Twitter handle, etc. We'll get into this in a moment.
• Development artifacts: project directory, namespace (e.g., in Java, "com.myproject"), Redmine project, Basecamp account, etc.
Online presence that you need to secure
Domain name
Buy a domain from Google Apps, it's easier. You will get GMail-backed without setting up anything.
Handle in your target deployment
For example, if you use Google App Engine, you might want to secure This is optional, as it will usually be masked by your domain name (e.g. will be forwarded to, but it's always nice to have some consistency.
Facebook Page
Facebook requires that you have at least 25 fans before eligible for a username (that is, a Ask your friends to Like your page to secure it.
Twitter handle
This is obvious.
Blog (e.g.
Not necessary if you want to use your domain, e.g.
Remember that choosing name is not urgent, but the sooner the better.
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The journey of a thousand miles begins beneath one's feet
As promised, I'm going to start blogging again. Here we go.
It's almost a year since my last post and I told you that lots of things have happened. Ironically, I don't know what to write. Maybe I'll start with how I feel these days.
I don't feel happy.
I'm working in a big multi-national company, which recently been acquired by a much bigger multi-national company. That's good. But on the other end, I just feel like a drop of water in the sea. I miss being my own architect, developing things I like, using any tool or framework I want.
That's one.
The other thing, I always want to have my own business. Not the grand thing like the next Microsoft or Google (although that would be nice). I just want to have a simple small business, like a restaurant or massage parlor (with hot chicks under my employment, yay!).
That's two.
The last thing, right now the world is having "startup fever". This trend is also happening in Indonesia. Now everyone with their uncle want build a startup, get investment, get acquired and exit with a load of money. Everything with "getting more money" is always good for me, and I hate just sitting here watching other people partying.
That's three.
Because I miss architecting and hacking stuff, and I want to have my own business, and I want to join the startup wave, today I'm announcing that I'm opening a restaurant.
Oh, wait. You know I can't be serious. I barely know how to cook.
Actually, I'm in a very early stage of building a startup. Well, two, actually. What? Why? Shouldn't I suppose to focus on one first until it's launched?
It goes like this. I was starting on an idea, a website which suppose to help me scratch my own itch (that is, solving my own problem, and hopefully others'). But then a couple of weeks later a friend of mine asked me to become his co-founder. I told him that I'm currently working on something else, but he didn't mind at all, so there comes my 2nd startup. Both are not related to each other.
Will I quit my job now, lock myself for months and start hacking? Not quite. The stuff I'll be doing are totally not related with my company's line of business (so no conflict of interest), and I don't set deadline for the projects, so it'll just to "kill time" and won't affect my day job. Of course this might change.
From now on, I'm going to blog primarily about my experience in building that two startups (one where I'm solo and another where I have a co-founder). I hope by doing this, I can keep motivating myself (and, oh, make myself happy!) and help others who want to build their own startup.
Note: Some of you might be curious about this blog title, "Isn't that supposedly "A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step"? According to, the more correct translation from the original Chinese would be the one I put in the title. Rather than emphasizing the first step, Lau Tzu regarded action as something that arises naturally from stillness. Another potential phrasing would be "Even the longest journey must begin where you stand." In other words, you must get your ass off your comfort zone.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
I'm still alive
Hi guys, just to let you know that I'm still alive. Lots of things have changed since my last post. I promise I'm going to blog more often. Stay tuned :)
Looking for my geek side? |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5057 | P.F. Bentley
P.F. Bentley
Clinton: Portrait of Victory
ISBN: 0446517585
Clinton: Portrait of Victory
Photographer P.F. Bentley discussed his book, Clinton: Portrait of Victory, published by Warner Books, a photographic essay of the Clinton presidential campaign and ultimate victory. He discussed his access to candidate Clinton and his personal experiences accompanying the campaign and showed many of his photographs from the book.
Clinton: Portrait of Victory
Program Air Date: January 17, 1993
BRIAN LAMB, HOST: P. F. Bentley, photographer, and photographer with a new book called "Clinton: Portrait of Victory," what was the experience like?
P. F. BENTLEY, AUTHOR, "CLINTON: PORTRAIT OF VICTORY": It was a long haul. It was an honor to be in on it all. Clinton was pretty easy to take pictures of. It was a great year. I was happy that it was over because it was just a very hard year too, I mean, just town to town over and over.
LAMB: Let me just hold this up again because we started off with this picture of the cover. Did you choose this picture for the cover?
BENTLEY: Alex Castro, who lighted it all out, and I chose it. It was really his choice on it and I okayed it. It just really had a good feel, and instead of having Clinton up on stage we wanted it to have a whole other look.
LAMB: Where was this picture taken?
BENTLEY: That was on an aircraft going from Seattle to L.A.
LAMB: What kind of access did you have to him?
BENTLEY: It was totally open. Whatever I cared to do, it was open.
LAMB: Where was the picture on the back of your book taken?
BENTLEY: I honestly can't tell you. I'd have to check, but it's out on the trail. I was trying to get a picture of all the hands that come up to his.
LAMB: Anybody choose to follow George Bush like this?
LAMB: Why?
BENTLEY: I had the idea early on, and I picked Clinton and talked to him. I don't think that Bush would have been as open. It could be that he isn't out on the trail at all. It's harder to have a guy in when you're the chief. That was it. We had asked them to give them equal time, and they let a photog in but it was for a brief time.
LAMB: What does P. F. stand for?
LAMB: No name.
BENTLEY: Well, P. F.
LAMB: You don't tell people what your name is.
BENTLEY: I don't tell people.
LAMB: How come?
BENTLEY: It's just who I am.
LAMB: Where are you from?
BENTLEY: I came from Honolulu. After Honolulu I came to the Coast and then I came to the East and then I'm out at the Coast.
LAMB: Did you go to college?
BENTLEY: Yes, U of H.
LAMB: University of Honolulu?
BENTLEY: Hawaii. I have a degree in education.
LAMB: We're going to do something we normally don't do on this "Booknotes" program. We're going to take a break periodically and look at some of your photos. The first one I think is about three minutes long. It's not in any particular order, and we're rolling tape at the moment. I might say as a way of apology, some of our camera shots are so close it makes the pictures look grainy. When you see them in the book that people can buy in the bookstores for $19.95, you can't see that. Let's just watch and we'll come back and ask you what we're seeing. . . . P. F. Bentley, this is what your book looks like. It's called "Clinton: Portrait of Victory." What would you have done had he lost?
BENTLEY: I'd have to change the title of it.
LAMB: Would you have published it anyway?
BENTLEY: I think we would have. It probably wouldn't have had any hopes of being a huge hit; however, it was still how it all happened.
LAMB: You've got a camera sitting there. Why don't you show the audience what that camera looks like.
BENTLEY: It's a Leica, and it's an M-6. It's an extremely quiet camera, and it's the camera that I used on the book on about three-quarters of it.
LAMB: We have a picture here in the beginning of the book. This is right before the prologue, written by Roger Rosenblatt.
LAMB: He talks about the black-and-white nature of all the photos as being important to you. Why did you choose black and white?
BENTLEY: When you look at a campaign, your eye tends to go towards all the color ops, and I wanted to see how the campaign truly is without the color, without all the hoopla, without all the hype, and show that it's a hard year, that what appears on the tube is only like one little tip of it. Your people had an ongoing TV show, "Road to the White House," and what they did there was kind of let the camera roll on it all, and that's kind of the idea I had here but to be in the inner core of it. A lot of campaign coverage is, you're in the press pool and you're looking in on it. I had an idea: How is it to be in on it and look outward?
LAMB: When did you first meet Bill Clinton?
BENTLEY: It was about a year ago up in New Hampshire. I was up there to cover all of them, and I covered the entire field, and I had this idea and I had a hunch that if he was the ticket that he had kind of the highest odds.
LAMB: Let's take a little time. This is a double spread inside, meaning it goes across the two pages. We'll take a long look at this. Where was this taken?
BENTLEY: This was on another aircraft up in New Hampshire. This was during all the scandal times, and I stood up and they were holding hands looking at each other, and I believe that was the only picture. It just kind of tells that even though the press had an idea of how they treated each other that they cared, they were in love, that they were and had been a team.
LAMB: How many pictures did you take? Not how many are in here, but how many did you take?
BENTLEY: In a whole year? We counted up at the end of the year, I took about 500 rolls.
LAMB: Thirty-six?
LAMB: Fifteen thousand plus.
BENTLEY: Yes. The hard part here was to choose. We could have had a 300-page book.
LAMB: How many photos are in the book?
BENTLEY: There's about 110. It was a hard choice.
LAMB: This is in New Hampshire.
LAMB: In a diner?
LAMB: What do you think of Hillary Clinton?
BENTLEY: I think that you can tell it's kind of taken its toll on her and him, that, you know, here's yet another photo op. I believe that was a day before the New Hampshire primary.
LAMB: Did you have any agreement with them about things that you heard that you wouldn't repeat?
BENTLEY: The rule was that when I walked out of the room, I just couldn't recall any of it.
LAMB: Did you ever write it down?
LAMB: Did you vote for Bill Clinton?
BENTLEY: Can't tell you that.
LAMB: Why wouldn't you say?
BENTLEY: I'm there to take pictures, and you ought to be there coldly. If it was another year and it was the other party and I had a chance to cover this how I had, I would have.
LAMB: At the back it says, "An Epicenter Communications book." What's Epicenter?
BENTLEY: They are the people out on the Coast who put the book together.
LAMB: Who do you work for on a regular daily basis?
BENTLEY: I work for Time.
LAMB: Full time?
LAMB: "Clinton: Portrait of Victory" is also available as interactive multimedia on CD-ROM for Mac and DOS computers. What does that mean?
BENTLEY: It is out on a CD that you can put either into your Apple or IBM. There's 300 pictures on it, whereas in here there were only 110.
LAMB: What does it cost?
BENTLEY: I believe 38.
LAMB: Thirty-eight dollars?
BENTLEY: Yes. It's high tech and it really tells the tale of the campaign how I have here but it has added pictures and tapes and all.
LAMB: By the way, for our audience, there's an 800 number on the back of this book. If they really want, they can go into a bookstore, look for the 800 number, call and get the CD-ROM. Before we pause again, you and I talked before about your stuttering, and so the audience at this point is obviously hearing that. Is this hard for you to do?
BENTLEY: I'm calm here. It's only that this is how I talk and can't help it.
LAMB: Have you been this way all your life?
BENTLEY: Yes, I have been.
LAMB: Does it make it difficult at any time in your work to do the job you want to do?
BENTLEY: As long as I don't hesitate as I click the camera here, it really hasn't hurt at all. People understand I have it; they understand who I am, as long as the pictures are OK. I'm eager just to tell people that your attitude is really a good part of it, and as a child I wasn't ever the type to hide and be quiet at all.
LAMB: Do you think it has anything to do with the fact that you went into the still-photography business?
BENTLEY: Actually, I have to talk to people in order to take their pictures. I had to talk to Clinton and let him have an idea on what I had been trying to achieve and talk him into trusting who I am. I think that people that do take pictures, we have to talk all the time and so it really isn't that I'm hiding here because you can't hide.
LAMB: Have you ever found other people that you're dealing with feeling awkward and doing unusual things because they don't know how to deal with it?
BENTLEY: It happens off and on but then they realize that I have it. People at times think ha, ha, ha, it's a joke, and then I just keep talking. Then they have an idea, Oh, no, he really talks like this.
LAMB: Let's look, four minutes, more pictures .... P. F. Bentley, as we were watching that, you said that this particular picture is Bill Clinton's favorite. How do you know that?
BENTLEY: He told that to NBC.
LAMB: Where was this taken?
BENTLEY: That was in Chicago, and they had a staff party up in his hotel room. That was about 1 a.m. and Hillary went, "OK, all of you, let's all head out of here. We're tired out." I, of course, hung on and did about 10 pictures and then took off.
LAMB: Did you ever get the feeling that they were posing for you?
BENTLEY: No. The pictures in the book are unposed. The whole idea was to be out of that whole picture-opportunity head trip where it is posed.
LAMB: One of the most unusual photos in the book is this one, unusual because it doesn't have anything to do with the candidate. Stephan Savoia of the Associated Press and Jose Lopez, the gentleman behind, of the New York Times. Why did this make it?
BENTLEY: It was just the campaign can be very comical, and the press corps and the campaign staff at times have to be just a little out of it to ease up on all the tense times.
LAMB: If you're just joining us, this is what the book looks like. It's called "Clinton: Portrait of Victory" by P. F. Bentley, a Time Warner book selling for $19.95 unless you can find a discount store.
LAMB: How's it doing?
BENTLEY: I've heard it's kind of a hit, that it's doing quite well.
LAMB: Did you get invited to the inaugural because of this?
BENTLEY: No, I'm here in town to just check it all out.
LAMB: Have you done any other books like this before?
BENTLEY: I've been on other books, however, as part of a team of people.
LAMB: The book has a prologue by Roger Rosenblatt and an epilogue by Michael Kramer. Who decided that?
BENTLEY: The book packagers and I were talking on who would be good and who could really tell why I didn't choose to do this in color. Kramer had been out on the trail, and we wanted his input.
LAMB: "Others have been hobbled by less. Clinton tucked it in, bit his lip" -- this is Michael Kramer -- "an expression that signals deep thought, extreme satisfaction or consuming anger. An observer rarely knows which." The biting of the lip, we see that picture all the time. Did you figure out whether he was angry or whether he was satisfied, because you spent that much time around him?
BENTLEY: I don't think it was anger. I think it's because he gets really into what he's talking of, and the people that he's talking of, people who have tried to get ahead in our country who haven't had the opportunity to.
LAMB: In the Michael Kramer epilogue, he three or four times mentions Gennifer Flowers. You don't have any pictures in there of that particular episode that I could find. Or do you?
BENTLEY: I was there at the tail end of that.
LAMB: Did you get any pictures of the "60 Minutes" experience, because that's written up? Were you not allowed to?
BENTLEY: No, it was during a period where I was still talking to him, and we were trying to work it out.
LAMB: Who owns the photographs?
LAMB: You can do anything with them that you want?
LAMB: Will you sell them individually?
BENTLEY: Not really. It's a package.
LAMB: Did you write the acknowledgments in the back?
LAMB: The last thing you say is, "Thanks, Elvis. I know you're alive." Why did you put that in there?
BENTLEY: That was kind of an ode to Clinton. We had called him Elvis on the trail early on. I kind of started this and it grew, and it was the press corps, I mean kiddingly, called him that the whole time.
LAMB: What did the press corps in general think of him during the campaign itself?
BENTLEY: I thought they really enjoyed him, that we would get on the aircraft and he would come to all of them and just hang out.
LAMB: Did he ever ask you for one of your pictures?
BENTLEY: No, I've given him prints, however.
LAMB: In the acknowledgements you say, "In the governor's mansion, special thanks to Mark Allen for your laughter and good cheers. The catfish dinners weren't bad either."
BENTLEY: He is a state trooper who early on in the campaign came out on the trail. This was up in New Hampshire, and we really hit it off. Then when I would come into town, then if Clinton hit home, his wife and I would head out to eat.
LAMB: You say some special things about your girlfriend, Beth, "who had to endure my being gone most of the year. Thinking of her and our life in Stinson Beach helped keep me going during the long hours of the campaign. Her spiritual support was essential to this project. Thanks, Beth. I love you very much." Was it hard to decide to put that in there? It's a very personal note.
BENTLEY: It wasn't really hard at all because people that do what I do, at least half the year we aren't home. It's tough on the people who are at home, and it's tough on us. We call each other all the time and try and keep in touch ever though I am out, but I think that people who are the half that is staying at home, they have this idea that you're out there and it's a party and it's a great time. The truth is, it's airports at 2 a.m. It's odd hotels. You're tired out. You aren't out here to have a party at all. That's how come I put her in there.
LAMB: Where is Stinson Beach?
BENTLEY: It's about a half hour north of S.F.
LAMB: San Francisco?
LAMB: Another four minutes we'll look at more photography from this book called Clinton. Let's take a look. . . . Did you ever think that this might lead to a positive image of the president?
BENTLEY: I was eager to get at the truth, and Bill Clinton early on in the campaign, as the press was hounding him on every scandal that you could hit on, he opened up his campaign to us. If he had anything to hide, then it's odd that he opened it all up. I believe it's a good image of him because it proves that he's a real person like all of us are.
LAMB: You said earlier that when you walked out of a room and you heard conversations that you just promptly forgot it. Let me ask a general question. If everyone had the opportunity that you had, to be around him for a year behind the scenes, would they change their opinion of him in any way?
BENTLEY: I think that they would. If people hadn't had a trust of him they would trust him, that he's really open, that he really cares. All I can tell you is, I can't tell if he will change the course of our country, but I can tell you that he'll try and that he'll be up until 2 a. m. The guy has like energy that I hadn't had at all, and up to all hours. He'll try.
LAMB: Have you ever had an assignment close to a war?
BENTLEY: Yes, I have. Haiti, El Salvador, Panama.
LAMB: Which of all the experiences that you've had would you rank up there as No. 1 and 2?
BENTLEY: In war coverage?
LAMB: No, in just satisfaction for you.
BENTLEY: I think that this year has been a great year. I had an extremely close call one time in Haiti that I got out of, and I'm here.
LAMB: Back in November?
BENTLEY: October.
LAMB: This magazine was in October.
BENTLEY: It came out at the end of October.
LAMB: Is this your photo?
BENTLEY: Yes, it is.
LAMB: Do you remember where it was taken?
BENTLEY: It was, again, on the aircraft.
LAMB: How often did your photos appear in Time magazine during the year?
BENTLEY: We did three hits.
LAMB: What does a hit mean?
BENTLEY: Long pictorials.
LAMB: What was the toughest time you had during this experience?
BENTLEY: I think in the autumn because I was out on the campaign, and I had to do the book too. I was crazy.
LAMB: What happened when the other part of this team got together with the president?
BENTLEY: It was really easy. Gore is just like Clinton in that he hasn't any airs at all. They're both extremely easy to take pictures of.
LAMB: Did you have to negotiate with Vice President Gore?
BENTLEY: No, I had covered him in 88, and so we knew each other and I guess he had looked at Time, and I take it that Clinton told him, and he was happy to be part of it.
LAMB: We were talking earlier that you shot this with a Leica M-6. How much does that cost someone if they walk into a store and buy it?
BENTLEY: Twenty-five hundred without the optic on it, only the camera as it is.
LAMB: Have you always used a Leica?
BENTLEY: It depends on the piece. At times I use Canons. The camera here was extremely quiet.
LAMB: How about the number of lenses that you used?
BENTLEY: I only used three.
LAMB: When we see photographers out on the campaign trail and they've got all these cameras . . .
BENTLEY: Eight cameras and strobes and everything.
LAMB: Why do they do that?
BENTLEY: They're probably doing color and they have to shoot with indoor color and outdoor color and high speed and low. Every camera has another type of color in it, or they don't want to take the time to change the optic on the camera.
LAMB: Were any of your colleagues from other publications jealous of what you were able to do?
BENTLEY: They were actually happy because I believe that they were hoping that this type of coverage will help all the press, and the editors will go, "Maybe that's another look to it." They were all behind it.
LAMB: What do you know that you're going to do in 1993 on assignment from Time magazine?
BENTLEY: I can't tell you here.
LAMB: Another picture. This is a Secret Service man holding a bulletproof protection device. How often did you see this kind of thing around the campaign?
BENTLEY: That was all the time.
LAMB: What would he do with that in his left hand?
BENTLEY: It is used in case a gun or a weapon comes out. They can shield the protectee.
LAMB: Would your showing a photo like that expose the security measures?
BENTLEY: I don't think they are. Everyone knows that it's out there. They have other ways to protect him, too.
LAMB: Did you ever have any problems with the Secret Service?
LAMB: They knew who you were and they let you move?
LAMB: We have one more long series of photos. Before we show this particular one, I want to ask you if you have a favorite photo in this book.
BENTLEY: I have. It's the picture where he's in the car and it's about 12 a.m.
LAMB: And it's a double in this book.
BENTLEY: Yes, it is.
LAMB: And we'll get a good shot of it here from Brett. Where was this taken?
BENTLEY: This is in Columbia.
LAMB: South Carolina.
BENTLEY: Yes, at the airport. It was after a whole day on the trail. We're heading on the aircraft to the town that we have to be in in the a.m. hours. He had one last call he had to do. It really kind of tells how it is that the candidates has all these hordes all over him, staff and press and agents; however, in the end of it he is on his own.
LAMB: When did you decide that that was your favorite?
BENTLEY: I'd say about halfway into the year. It just really tells how it is.
LAMB: Did you ever have any disagreements with your editors on which photos would go in and which wouldn't?
BENTLEY: In Time or in the book?
LAMB: Either one.
BENTLEY: In Time I had, but that's the course of it.
LAMB: Let's look at some more photos. This will take about five minutes and 20 seconds, and we'll wrap it up. . . . Any of those that you are particularly fond of?
BENTLEY: All of them.
LAMB: What is it like seeing your work so prominently displayed?
BENTLEY: I was at the airport at home . . .
LAMB: San Francisco.
BENTLEY: . . . and I came into a store, and there they had it -- the book -- up. I was like, it's even here at the airport.
LAMB: How long have you been a photographer for Time magazine?
BENTLEY: About 13 years.
LAMB: What did you do right before that?
BENTLEY: I worked for a host of other people.
LAMB: Do you have other ambitions in the still-photography field?
BENTLEY: Oh, just to kind of keep at it.
LAMB: What's the best part of this for you?
BENTLEY: I guess being able to be with people and go to other cultures. The camera is a real passport.
LAMB: Just a little bit of time left. I just want to ask you -- we didn't show the audience this photo. Why did you choose this one?
BENTLEY: The crowd is part of it, and this guy had just interesting eyes and he was really intent on speaking to Clinton.
LAMB: This is what the book looks like. P. F. Bentley is the photographer that is responsible for all these photos. He won't tell us what P. F. stands for. Maybe someday we'll learn. It's called "Portrait of Victory." It's in your bookstores selling for $19.95. Thank you very much for joining us.
BENTLEY: Thank you. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5066 | Tagged: winter carnival
Each of the classes line the atrium bridge with a class banner.
Despite it seeming as if they had lost all hope of winning, the senior class managed to pull off a win at the 2018 Winter Carnival by narrowly edging out the juniors by 100...
Hufflepuff attempting to make a comeback against Slytherin
Quidditch day 1
Yesterday the four classes of Hanover High School jumped into the wizarding world of Harry Potter and competed in day 1 of a Quidditch tournament. The final score was: Slytherin: 320, Hufflepuff: 80 Gryffindor: 200, Ravenclaw:... |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5070 | Thursday, November 17, 2016
Should it be considered a 'privilege' to *not* have to face constant discrimination based on your race, sex, gender identity, disability, or age? I mean, that's sort of implying that discrimination should be considered normal.
(It should not be considered normal.)
Which makes me wonder, is employing the word 'privilege' in this case helpful? Maybe, maybe. I totally get why it might be the correct term to employ, because it frames things in a new way. But I don't think lots of people with this privilege understand that framing.
Then again, what *would* they get?
No comments: |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5073 | Author Archives rss
Lenworth M. Jacobs, MD, MPH, FACS, Vice-president, academic affairs, Hartford Hospital; ACS Board of Regents Michael Rotondo, MD, FACS, Chair, ACS Committee on Trauma Norman McSwain, MD, FACS, Medical Director, PreHospital Trauma Life Support David S. Wade, MD, FACS, Chief Medical Officer, Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) William P. Fabbri, MD, FACEP, Medical Director FBI Emergency Medical Support Program Alexander Eastman, MD, MPH, FACS, Major Cities Chiefs Association Frank K. Butler, MD, Chairman, Committee on Tactical Combat Casualty Care (Department of Defense, Joint Trauma System) John Sinclair, Past-director, International Association of Fire Chiefs Karyl Burns, RN, PhD, Research scientist, Hartford Hospital Kathryn Brinsfield, MD, National Security Staff, Executive Office of the President Richard Carmona, MD, FACS, 17th U.S. Surgeon General Richard Serino, Deputy Administrator, Federal Emergency Management Agency Alasdair Conn, MD, FACS, Chief of emergency services, Massachusetts General Hospital Richard Kamin, MD, CT Department of Public Health, OEMS Medical Director, American College of Emergency Physicians, Committee for Tactical Emergency Casualty Care
Posts by Joint Committee To Create A National Policy To Enhance Survivability From Intentional Mass Casualty Shooting Events:
Bulletin of the American College of Surgeons
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Chicago, IL 60611
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5087 |
Product Owner - Core Payments (APAC) at Revolut
The Core Payments Department is in charge of building global bank payments products which allow Revolut users from any country in the world to make and receive external payments in the fastest and most reliable way possible. The Department is divided into teams which operate like independent mini-startups and have a regional focus. Their objective is simple: deliver the best bank payments product offering in the market for their region. To achieve this, each of these teams have their own tech resources.
• You'll be the CEO of one of these mini-startups - specifically for the APAC region
• You'll manage a team of backend engineers
• You'll drive your own roadmap that delivers more with less
• You'll analyse, prioritise, optimise, and repeat
• You have experience in bank payments
• You have product management experience
• You have a solid track record of achievement - e.g. you have worked in a top tech company or start-up, quickly assumed major responsibilities, or won competition awards (academic, professional, or sport)
• You can break complex problems into smaller logical ones and prioritise them with solid data
• You are fluent in SQL
• You are curious by nature, have great attention to detail, and love to make things better
• You hustle, take ownership, and get things done
Revolut started in 2015 with card transactions abroad without rubbish exchange rates or hidden fees. We’ve since added business accounts, vaults, insurance and even access to cryptocurrency exposure.
We reached 5 million customers in June 2019 and we’re adding another million every quarter.
• Competitive salary
• Biannual equity bonuses
• All the latest tech you need
• Skip the commute and work from home once a week
• Paid dinners if you work late
Please only submit an application for one posting.
Stay in touch with Balderton
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5094 | Thursday, 8 January 2015
Swing a cat
Here's a test we did to see what a fat cat looks like spinning round.
A nice and simple 12-image turnaround, shot on 2s.
Tuesday, 6 January 2015
fattest of cats
This is an old design that we're not using anymore. But there's something very hypnotic about this lovely fat disco cat...
Mini vector WIP
What's this? Vector animation?
Yes! For a change from stop motion we've been experimenting with hand drawn characters and some vector illustrations.
You can expect to see more from this little lady soon.
Happy New Year! |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5107 | Live Webcast 15th Annual Charm++ Workshop
An Adaptive Job Scheduler for Timeshared Parallel Machines
PPL Technical Report 2000
Publication Type: Paper
Repository URL: ShrinkIPDPS2000
Computational power, at least at the high end, can be thought of as a utility, similar to electricity or water. To make this metaphor work requires a sophisticated ``power distribution'' infrastructure. The ``Grid'', popularized by the Globus project, is an example of such an infrastructure. To function efficiently, the producers of compute Power -- the parallel servers -- must be able to reorganize their jobs dynamically so as to respond to demands for computational power quickly, and maximize their utility. We are developing a framework, called faucets, that aims at facilitating this process. This paper focuses on a system at the heart of this framework: an adaptive manager for timeshared parallel machines that can shrink and expand its jobs to a variable number of processors dynamically. This manager has been implemented for workstation clusters. The paper describes the faucets framework, the design of the adaptive job manager, and preliminary performance data.
Laxmikant V. Kale and Sameer Kumar and Jayant DeSouza. "An Adaptive Job Scheduler for Timeshared Parallel Machines". Parallel Programming Laboratory, Department of Computer Science, University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, September, 2000.
Research Areas |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5123 | Deprecated: mysql_connect(): The mysql extension is deprecated and will be removed in the future: use mysqli or PDO instead in /home/content/91/9230591/html/climatescores/connect.php on line 2
Climate Scores
Our Methodology
We calculate each member's score by averaging their final votes for and against (and abstentions, which we consider as bad as "nay" votes) bills regarding fossil fuel, renewable energy, climate change mitigation, subsidies and tax policies, greenhouse gas regulation and anything else that significantly alleviates or worsens the change in our climate. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5132 | Opened 3 years ago
#6104 new Enhancement
they offer coupon deals
Reported by: brookslemann@… Owned by:
Component: Web Site Version: 1.1 (iOS)
Severity: Trivial Keywords: during backing made
If you're nicely-organized it shouldn't get extended anyways. In the event that you shop at a retailer often, request about their consumer loyalty program. Below, you're able to sort the details of the coupons including the merchandise brands, the categories, and also the expiration date.
To go the spend of remaining the country of America are turning to utilizing coupons for toiletries greater than typical. These free coupons don't past forever, make sure you maximize of it within the particular expiry date. Some organizations send out an email once per week or a couple of situations each month, but typically they send out coupons with their clients via mail.
Change History (0)
Note: See TracTickets for help on using tickets. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5146 | How we use volume encryption in our AWS ephemeral disks
You should encrypt data at rest.
That’s like the 8th commandment or something. Why? I can think of a few reasons:
1. You are worried about a malicious insider.
2. You are worried about carelessness.
3. Someone (a regulator, probably) made you do it.
There’s lots of snake oil out there about data encryption, particularly in the cloud. In this post I’ll share our solution for data-at-rest encryption in AWS. (Most of this is general to cloud compute providers, just in case you are one of the 38 people that use something other than AWS.)
throw away the key
Key management is super tricky to do correctly and I’m super lazy. So when we needed to do volume encryption in AWS, I looked for a way to avoid having to manage the keys.
Our app is hosted entirely in AWS. We receive data there, store it there and display it to the users there. Every single one of our EC2 instances uses the ephemeral store, including those for data storage. We keep the data available by using a distributed data store that replicates our data across instances (we use Elastic Search). 1
To protect the data at rest at on these instances, we create an encrypted volume and discard the key. This is from the code that runs when one of our instances first boots:
from Crypto.PublicKey import RSA
from Crypto import Random
# ...
passphrase ="hex")
# Encrypt the passphrase to the escrow key and store the encrypted
# passphrase on the server. This is for emergencies, since we don't
# really have any further need for the key.
print "encrypted escrowed key at /root/.ephemeral_escrowed_key"
data = key.encrypt(passphrase, None)[0].encode("base64")
file("/root/.ephemeral_escrowed_key", "w").write(data)
os.chmod("/root/.ephemeral_escrowed_key", 0400)
print "creating encrypted volume on", raid_device
subprocess.check_call("echo {passphrase} | cryptsetup luksFormat "
"-c twofish-xts-plain64 -s 512 --key-file=- "
"{raid_device}".format(**locals()), shell=True)
subprocess.check_call("echo {passphrase} | cryptsetup luksOpen "
"--key-file=- {raid_device} ephemeral-encrypted".format(**locals()),
print "creating filesystem on /dev/mapper/ephemeral-encrypted"
subprocess.check_call(["mkfs", "-t", "ext4", "-T", "largefile4",
"-F", "/dev/mapper/ephemeral-encrypted"])
When we first started doing this I was nervous about cases where we’d need the key again, so I generated an RSA key-pair to escrow the volume key and kept the private part in a safe. These days we are confident enough in our approach that we don’t need to escrow the volume key any more.
Even though we’ve discarded our copy of the key, the kernel still has a copy. And the kernel copy is discoverable if you have access to memory. The guest kernel keeps these keys in non-paged memory, but I wonder if the hypervisor respects that? If not and the hypervisor pages guest memory then the encryption key could end up on a disk somewhere.2
It is probably a good idea to disable commands like reboot and shutdown so you don’t accidentally do something you’ll regret. We haven’t bothered to do that because we live in a world where we are (almost) never sad if we lose a machine. (Perhaps I’ll write more about that someday)
Some days we are sad, like when AWS needs to reboot loads of instances all at once. We have to make sure we stay on top of maintenance events so we don’t get too many instances needing to restart, since we have to replace rather than restart.
So why isn’t this crazy? Let’s go through our (admittedly informal) threat model a bit.
A malicious insider
Consider the risk that a malicious employee of Amazon steals your data.
Insider threat exists in all networks. The important question to consider is not “am I vulnerable to an insider?” – that answer always “yes.” A better question is “am I more vulnerable to insider threat in AWS than in my datacenter?” The answer to that is a little more interesting…
If you are using AWS for data processing, the CPUs will need access to unencrypted data (setting aside boring use cases like blind storage, or fancy impractical things like homomorphic encryption). So however you organize it, the key or key-equivalent to decrypt your data must be accessible to the CPUs doing the work.
Services like CloudHSM, KMS, or even on-premise key management don’t fundamentally change this issue. If you move encryption keys (or encryption operations themselves) into a separate device, the credentials used to access that device become equivalent to the keys themselves.3
Fortunately, AWS are somewhat transparent about how they mitigate insider threat. And they seem to be doing a fairly good job. Better, perhaps than you are doing in your data center.
A malicious insider at AWS faces another challenge that an on-premise attacker doesn’t: she doesn’t understand your business. The folks whose badges open the doors to your datacenter probably understand your business pretty well. They sit in company meetings, they participate in projects, etc. When they become disgruntled, they know exactly where the most important assets are to snatch. An insider at AWS, although having access to your data, might not know which data matters. Point Amazon.
Bottom line we can’t really mitigate insider threat with volume encryption. But at least Amazon doesn’t make the situation any worse, and it might even make it better.
Protecting data from a malicious insider is an explicit non-goal. Which is lucky because it’s impossible.
A careless insider at AWS
What about the risk of carelessness by AWS? They say disks don’t leave their datacenters, but what if that is more aspirational than descriptive? 4
Data-at-rest encryption helps here. Imagine the case where the underlying disk containing your data walks out into the open. If the disk does not also include the encryption key, then it presents little risk.
Another not-so-crazy case to consider is multi-tenancy. Imagine a disk used to hold your data is re-provisioned to another customer. AWS claims your data will not be accessible. But what if they are wrong? Again, if the disk does not also include the encryption key, then it presents little risk.
This is the easiest. You have to do it, even if it doesn’t significantly affect your security posture. Information Security is about mitigating mission risk – including the risk that your mission gets shut down because of non-compliance. So there are times when you may need to add data-at-rest encryption even when you think if presents little security value.
Key management is hard. When possible, skip it. In a fault tolerant system, it should be possible. It was for us.
Image: buenosaurus
1. Part of this is an artifact of the time when EBS latency was unpredictable. Part of this is that we just don’t need to use EBS because we are replicated at the database layer. [return]
2. I’d be interested to hear from you if you know or find out how this works… [return]
3. That isn’t to say that these devices don’t provide security value. The value is in post-incident investigation, auditing, key rotation, access control and so on. These are all super important, it’s just that they don’t fundamentally change the threat model. [return]
4. I have no reason to suspect that AWS are doing anything wrong, we just want to understand the consequences if they are. [return] |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5163 | Deaf History
This subject deals with all aspects of Deaf history.
Deaf Culture, Community and Language star
What is the Deaf Community? Does a Deaf Culture exist? Are the manual signs Deaf people use really a Language? And are Deaf people “whole persons or simply wounded ears”? These questions have troubled and confused the hearing world for thousands of years.
Deaf History star[offsite link]
A portal for Deaf History
Deaf History Time line star[offsite link]
Timeline of Gallaudet and Deaf Culture
Deaf Poetry star
Deaf Poetry - is this an oxymoron? A discussion about whether someone who is deaf can understand the cadence and flow of words in poetry.
Forming the Deaf Culture star
When ideas and theories are challenged a community breaks away from the mainstream culture and, as is the case with the Deaf, a new sub-culture is formed. A culture is a “System of symbols, including language and values and the patterned way of doing things shared by a given human group.”
Helen Keller - Deaf and Blind star
I had the privilege of visiting Helen Keller’s childhood home while I was in Alabama in 2013. Her story is one of courage – both from her point of view but also that of her Teacher and family.
History of Auslan - Australian Sign Language star
Deaf Communities were formed as a result of adversity and alienation – a necessity for a group of people who were branded with a stigma who were ostracised and isolated from the world into which they were born. It was from this that their rich language was developed.
One Hundred Living Witnesses star[offsite link]
A booklet advertising the "dentaphone," claiming to help the Deaf hear through the teeth, from the 1800´s
The Evolution of Auslan star
A discussion on the influence of education, schools families and Communities in the evolution of Auslan
Editor's Picks Articles
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Content copyright © 2018 by . All rights reserved. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5173 | Tarotsmith Directory » Llewellyn Web Tarot
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Title: Llewellyn Web Tarot
Description: Choose from several decks and layouts for free tarot card readings online. Llewellyn is the world's oldest New Age publisher.
URL: http://www.llewellyn.com/tarot_reading.php PageRank: 0
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Current Moon
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5181 |
By Language
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Download this book: [ ASCII | HTML | PDF ]
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We have new books nearly every day.
Title: The Dream Doctor
Author: Reeve, Arthur B. (Arthur Benjamin), 1880-1936
Language: English
*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Dream Doctor" ***
I The Dream Doctor
II The Soul Analysis
III The Sybarite
IV The Beauty Shop
V The Phantom Circuit
VI The Detectaphone
VII The Green Curse
VIII The Mummy Case
IX The Elixir of Life
X The Toxin of Death
XI The Opium Joint
XII The "Dope Trust"
XIII The Kleptomaniac
XIV The Crimeometer
XV The Vampire
XVI The Blood Test
XVII The Bomb Maker
XVIII The "Coke" Fiend
XIX The Submarine Mystery
XX The Wireless Detector
XXI The Ghouls
XXII The X-Ray "Movies"
XXIII The Death House
XXIV The Final Day
one afternoon when I had been summoned into the sanctum.
scientific detective method?'"
He paused and tipped back his chair.
ordinary routine of the office.
at an end. I was to "get" Kennedy.
Often I had written snatches of Craig's adventures, but never before
untranslated treatises on the new psychology from the pen of the
allow him to negative it.
gone ahead faster even than--"
The telephone tinkled insistently.
corroborate any conversation that took place over our wire.
objection to the plan.
Hospital--right away?"
you'll come, too?"
largest hospital. In the balmy sunshine the convalescing patients were
sitting on benches or slowly trying their strength, walking over the
grass, clad in faded hospital bathrobes.
little laboratory in a distant wing.
Professor Kennedy?"
typewriting and searched Craig's face eagerly to see what impression it
made on him.
It was dateless and brief:
Dearest Madeline:
give me all. Good-bye.
Your distracted husband,
At once the idea flashed over me that Maitland had found himself
suffering from some incurable disease and had taken the quickest means
of settling his dilemma.
Kennedy looked up suddenly from the note.
"Do you think it was a suicide?" asked the coroner.
"Suicide?" Craig repeated. "Suicides don't usually write on
typewriters. A hasty note scrawled on a sheet of paper in trembling pen
or pencil, that is what they usually leave. No, some one tried to
escape the handwriting experts this way."
"Exactly my idea," agreed Dr. Leslie, with evident satisfaction. "Now
listen. Maitland was conscious almost up to the last moment, and yet
the hospital doctors tell me they could not get a syllable of an
ante-mortem statement from him."
"You mean he refused to talk?" I asked.
"No," he replied; "it was more perplexing than that Even if the police
had not made the usual blunder of arresting him for intoxication
instead of sending him immediately to the hospital, it would have made
no difference. The doctors simply could not have saved him, apparently.
For the truth is, Professor Kennedy, we don't even know what was the
matter with him."
Dr. Leslie seemed much excited by the case, as well he might be.
"Maitland was found reeling and staggering on Broadway this morning,"
continued the coroner. "Perhaps the policeman was not really at fault
at first for arresting him, but before the wagon came Maitland was
speechless and absolutely unable to move a muscle."
Dr. Leslie paused as he recited the strange facts, then resumed: "His
eyes reacted, all right. He seemed to want to speak, to write, but
couldn't. A frothy saliva dribbled from his mouth, but he could not
frame a word. He was paralysed, and his breathing was peculiar. They
then hurried him to the hospital as soon as they could. But it was of
no use."
Kennedy was regarding the doctor keenly as he proceeded. Dr. Leslie
paused again to emphasise what he was about to say.
"Here is another strange thing. It may or may not be of importance, but
it is strange, nevertheless. Before Maitland died they sent for his
wife. He was still conscious when she reached the hospital, could
recognise her, seemed to want to speak, but could neither talk nor
move. It was pathetic. She was grief-stricken, of course. But she did
not faint. She is not of the fainting kind. It was what she said that
impressed everyone. 'I knew it--I knew it,' she cried. She had dropped
on her knees by the side of the bed. 'I felt it. Only the other night I
had the horrible dream. I saw him in a terrific struggle. I could not
see what it was--it seemed to be an invisible thing. I ran to him--then
the scene shifted. I saw a funeral procession, and in the casket I
could see through the wood--his face--oh, it was a warning! It has come
true. I feared it, even though I knew it was only a dream. Often I have
had the dream of that funeral procession and always I saw the same
face, his face. Oh, it is horrible--terrible!'"
It was evident that Dr. Leslie at least was impressed by the dream.
"What have you done since?" asked Craig.
"I have turned loose everyone I could find available," replied Dr.
Leslie, handing over a sheaf of reports.
Kennedy glanced keenly over them as they lay spread out on the table.
"I should like to see the body," he said, at length.
It was lying in the next room, awaiting Dr. Leslie's permission to be
"At first," explained the doctor, leading the way, "we thought it might
be a case of knock-out drops, chloral, you know--or perhaps chloral and
whiskey, a combination which might unite to make chloroform in the
blood. But no. We have tested for everything we can think of. In fact
there seems to be no trace of a drug present. It is inexplicable. If
Maitland really committed suicide, he must have taken SOMETHING--and as
far as we can find out there is no trace of anything. As far as we have
gone we have always been forced back to the original idea that it was a
natural death--perhaps due to shock of some kind, or organic weakness."
Kennedy had thoughtfully raised one of the lifeless hands and was
examining it.
"Not that," he corrected. "Even if the autopsy shows nothing, it
doesn't prove that it was a natural death. Look!"
On the back of the hand was a tiny, red, swollen mark. Dr. Leslie
regarded it with pursed-up lips as though not knowing whether it was
significant or not.
"The tissues seemed to be thickly infiltrated with a reddish serum and
the blood-vessels congested," he remarked slowly. "There was a frothy
mucus in the bronchial tubes. The blood was liquid, dark, and didn't
clot. The fact of the matter is that the autopsical research revealed
absolutely nothing but a general disorganisation of the
blood-corpuscles, a most peculiar thing, but one the significance of
which none of us here can fathom. If it was poison that he took or that
had been given to him, it was the most subtle, intangible, elusive,
that ever came to my knowledge. Why, there is absolutely no trace or
"Nor any use in looking for one in that way," broke in Kennedy
decisively. "If we are to make any progress in this case, we must look
elsewhere than to an autopsy. There is no clue beyond what you have
found, if I am right. And I think I am right. It was the venom of the
"Cobra venom?" repeated the coroner, glancing up at a row of technical
"Yes. No, it's no use trying to look it up. There is no way of
verifying a case of cobra poisoning except by the symptoms. It is not
like any other poisoning in the world."
Dr. Leslie and I looked at each other, aghast at the thought of a
poison so subtle that it defied detection.
"You think he was bitten by a snake?" I blurted out, half incredulous.
"Oh, Walter, on Broadway? No, of course not. But cobra venom has a
medicinal value. It is sent here in small quantities for various
medicinal purposes. Then, too, it would be easy to use it. A scratch on
the hand in the passing crowd, a quick shoving of the letter into the
pocket of the victim--and the murderer would probably think to go
We stood dismayed at the horror of such a scientific murder and the
meagreness of the materials to work on in tracing it out.
"That dream was indeed peculiar," ruminated Craig, before we had really
grasped the import of his quick revelation.
"You don't mean to say that you attach any importance to a dream?" I
asked hurriedly, trying to follow him.
Kennedy merely shrugged his shoulders, but I could see plainly enough
that he did.
"You haven't given this letter out to the press?" he asked.
"Not yet," answered Dr. Leslie.
"Then don't, until I say to do so. I shall need to keep it."
The cab in which we had come to the hospital was still waiting. "We
must see Mrs. Maitland first," said Kennedy, as we left the nonplused
coroner and his assistants.
The Maitlands lived, we soon found, in a large old-fashioned brownstone
house just off Fifth Avenue.
Kennedy's card with the message that it was very urgent brought us in
as far as the library, where we sat for a moment looking around at the
quiet refinement of a more than well-to-do home.
On a desk at one end of the long room was a typewriter. Kennedy rose.
There was not a sound of any one in either the hallway or the adjoining
rooms. A moment later he was bending quietly over the typewriter in the
corner, running off a series of characters on a sheet of paper. A sound
of a closing door upstairs, and he quickly jammed the paper into his
pocket, retraced his steps, and was sitting quietly opposite me again.
Mrs. Maitland was a tall, perfectly formed woman of baffling age, but
with the impression of both youth and maturity which was very
fascinating. She was calmer now, and although she seemed to be of
anything but a hysterical nature, it was quite evident that her
nervousness was due to much more than the shock of the recent tragic
event, great as that must have been. It may have been that I recalled
the words of the note, "Dr. Ross has told me the nature of your
illness," but I fancied that she had been suffering from some nervous
"There is no use prolonging our introduction, Mrs. Maitland," began
Kennedy. "We have called because the authorities are not yet fully
convinced that Mr. Maitland committed suicide."
It was evident that she had seen the note, at least. "Not a suicide?"
she repeated, looking from one to the other of us.
"Mr. Masterson on the wire, ma'am," whispered a maid. "Do you wish to
speak to him? He begged to say that he did not wish to intrude, but he
felt that if there--"
"Yes, I will talk to him--in my room," she interrupted.
I thought that there was just a trace of well-concealed confusion, as
she excused herself.
We rose. Kennedy did not resume his seat immediately. Without a word or
look he completed his work at the typewriter by abstracting several
blank sheets of paper from the desk.
A few moments later Mrs. Maitland returned, calmer.
"In his note," resumed Kennedy, "he spoke of Dr. Ross and--"
"Oh," she cried, "can't you see Dr. Ross about it? Really I--I oughtn't
to be--questioned in this way--not now, so soon after what I've had to
go through."
It seemed that her nerves were getting unstrung again. Kennedy rose to
"Later, come to see me," she pleaded. "But now--you must realise--it is
too much. I cannot talk--I cannot."
"Mr. Maitland had no enemies that you know of?" asked Kennedy,
determined to learn something now, at least.
"No, no. None that would--do that."
"You had had no quarrel?" he added.
"No--we never quarrelled. Oh, Price--why did you? How could you?"
Her feelings were apparently rapidly getting the better of her. Kennedy
bowed, and we withdrew silently. He had learned one thing. She believed
or wanted others to believe in the note.
At a public telephone, a few minutes later, Kennedy was running over
the names in the telephone book. "Let me see--here's an Arnold
Masterson," he considered. Then turning the pages he went on, "Now we
must find this Dr. Ross. There--Dr. Sheldon Ross--specialist in nerve
diseases--that must be the one. He lives only a few blocks further
Handsome, well built, tall, dignified, in fact distinguished, Dr. Ross
proved to be a man whose very face and manner were magnetic, as should
be those of one who had chosen his branch of the profession.
"You have heard, I suppose, of the strange death of Price Maitland?"
began Kennedy when we were seated in the doctor's office.
"Yes, about an hour ago." It was evident that he was studying us.
"Mrs. Maitland, I believe, is a patient of yours?"
"Yes, Mrs. Maitland is one of my patients," he admitted
interrogatively. Then, as if considering that Kennedy's manner was not
to be mollified by anything short of a show of confidence, he added:
"She came to me several months ago. I have had her under treatment for
nervous trouble since then, without a marked improvement."
"And Mr. Maitland," asked Kennedy, "was he a patient, too?"
"Mr. Maitland," admitted the doctor with some reticence, "had called on
me this morning, but no, he was not a patient."
"Did you notice anything unusual?"
"He seemed to be much worried," Dr. Ross replied guardedly.
Kennedy took the suicide note from his pocket and handed it to him.
"I suppose you have heard of this?" asked Craig.
The doctor read it hastily, then looked up, as if measuring from
Kennedy's manner just how much he knew. "As nearly as I could make
out," he said slowly, his reticence to outward appearance gone,
"Maitland seemed to have something on his mind. He came inquiring as to
the real cause of his wife's nervousness. Before I had talked to him
long I gathered that he had a haunting fear that she did not love him
any more, if ever. I fancied that he even doubted her fidelity."
I wondered why the doctor was talking so freely, now, in contrast with
his former secretiveness.
"Do you think he was right?" shot out Kennedy quickly, eying Dr. Ross
"No, emphatically, no; he was not right," replied the doctor, meeting
Craig's scrutiny without flinching. "Mrs. Maitland," he went on more
slowly as if carefully weighing every word, "belongs to a large and
growing class of women in whom, to speak frankly, sex seems to be
suppressed. She is a very handsome and attractive woman--you have seen
her? Yes? You must have noticed, though, that she is really frigid,
cold, intellectual."
The doctor was so sharp and positive about his first statement and so
careful in phrasing the second that I, at least, jumped to the
conclusion that Maitland might have been right, after all. I imagined
that Kennedy, too, had his suspicions of the doctor.
"Have you ever heard of or used cobra venom in any of your medical
work?" he asked casually.
Dr. Ross wheeled in his chair, surprised.
"Why, yes," he replied quickly. "You know that it is a test for blood
diseases, one of the most recently discovered and used parallel to the
old tests. It is known as the Weil cobra-venom test."
"Do you use it often?"
"N--no," he replied. "My practice ordinarily does not lie in that
direction. I used it not long ago, once, though. I have a patient under
my care, a well-known club-man. He came to me originally--"
"Arnold Masterson?" asked Craig.
"Yes--how did you know his name?"
"Guessed it," replied Craig laconically, as if he knew much more than
he cared to tell. "He was a friend of Mrs. Maitland's, was he not?"
"I should say not," replied Dr. Ross, without hesitation. He was quite
ready to talk without being urged. "Ordinarily," he explained
confidentially, "professional ethics seals my lips, but in this
instance, since you seem to know so much, I may as well tell more."
I hardly knew whether to take him at his face value or not. Still he
went on: "Mrs. Maitland is, as I have hinted at, what we specialists
would call a consciously frigid but unconsciously passionate woman. As
an intellectual woman she suppresses nature. But nature does and will
assert herself, we believe. Often you will find an intellectual woman
attracted unreasonably to a purely physical man--I mean, speaking
generally, not in particular cases. You have read Ellen Key, I presume?
Well, she expresses it well in some of the things she has written about
affinities. Now, don't misunderstand me," he cautioned. "I am speaking
generally, not of this individual case."
I was following Dr. Ross closely. When he talked so, he was a most
fascinating man.
"Mrs. Maitland," he resumed, "has been much troubled by her dreams, as
you have heard, doubtless. The other day she told me of another dream.
In it she seemed to be attacked by a bull, which suddenly changed into
a serpent. I may say that I had asked her to make a record of her
dreams, as well as other data, which I thought might be of use in the
study and treatment of her nervous troubles. I readily surmised that
not the dream, but something else, perhaps some recollection which it
recalled, worried her. By careful questioning I discovered that it
was--a broken engagement."
"Yes," prompted Kennedy.
"The bull-serpent, she admitted, had a half-human face--the face of
Arnold Masterson!"
Was Dr. Ross desperately shifting suspicion from himself? I asked.
"Very strange--very," ruminated Kennedy. "That reminds me again. I
wonder if you could let me have a sample of this cobra venom?"
"Surely. Excuse me; I'll get you some."
The doctor had scarcely shut the door when Kennedy began prowling
around quietly. In the waiting-room, which was now deserted, stood a
Quickly Craig ran over the keys of the machine until he had a sample of
every character. Then he reached into drawer of the desk and hastily
stuffed several blank sheets of paper into his pocket.
"Of course I need hardly caution you in handling this," remarked Dr.
Ross, as he returned. "You are as well acquainted as I am with the
danger attending its careless and unscientific uses."
"I am, and I thank you very much," said Kennedy.
We were standing in the waiting-room.
"You will keep me advised of any progress you make in the case?" the
doctor asked. "It complicates, as you can well imagine, my treatment of
Mrs. Maitland."
"I shall be glad to do so," replied Kennedy, as we departed.
An hour later found us in a handsomely appointed bachelor apartment in
a fashionable hotel overlooking the lower entrance to the Park.
"Mr. Masterson, I believe?" inquired Kennedy, as a slim, debonair,
youngish-old man entered the room in which we had been waiting.
"I am that same," he smiled. "To what am I indebted for this pleasure?"
We had been gazing at the various curios with which he had made the
room a veritable den of the connoisseur.
"You have evidently travelled considerably," remarked Kennedy, avoiding
the question for the time.
"Yes, I have been back in this country only a few weeks," Masterson
replied, awaiting the answer to the first question.
"I called," proceeded Kennedy, "in the hope that you, Mr. Masterson,
might be able to shed some light on the rather peculiar case of Mr.
Maitland, of whose death, I suppose, you have already heard."
"You have known Mrs. Maitland a long time?" ignored Kennedy.
"We went to school together."
"And were engaged, were you not?"
Masterson looked at Kennedy in ill-concealed surprise.
"Yes. But how did you know that? It was a secret--only between us
two--I thought. She broke it off--not I."
"She broke off the engagement?" prompted Kennedy.
"Yes--a story about an escapade of mine and all that sort of thing, you
know--but, by Jove! I like your nerve, sir." Masterson frowned, then
added: "I prefer not to talk of that. There are some incidents in a
man's life, particularly where a woman is concerned, that are
"Oh, I beg pardon," hastened Kennedy, "but, by the way, you would have
no objection to making a statement regarding your trip abroad and your
recent return to this country--subsequent to--ah--the incident which we
will not refer to?"
"None whatever. I left New York in 1908, disgusted with everything in
general, and life here in particular--"
"Would you object to jotting it down so that I can get it straight?"
asked Kennedy. "Just a brief resume, you know."
"No. Have you a pen or a pencil?"
"I think you might as well dictate it; it will take only a minute to
run it off on the typewriter."
Masterson rang the bell. A young man appeared noiselessly.
"Wix," he said, "take this: 'I left New York in 1908, travelling on the
Continent, mostly in Paris, Vienna, and Rome. Latterly I have lived in
London, until six weeks ago, when I returned to New York.' Will that
"Yes, perfectly," said Kennedy, as he folded up the sheet of paper
which the young secretary handed to him. "Thank you. I trust you won't
consider it an impertinence if I ask you whether you were aware that
Dr. Ross was Mrs. Maitland's physician?"
"Of course I knew it," Masterson replied frankly. "I have given him up
for that reason, although he does not know it yet. I most strenuously
object to being the subject of--what shall I call it?--his mental
"Do you think he oversteps his position in trying to learn of the
mental life of his patients?" queried Craig.
"I would rather say nothing further on that, either," replied
Masterson. "I was talking over the wire to Mrs. Maitland a few moments
ago, giving her my condolences and asking if there was anything I could
do for her immediately, just as I would have done in the old days--only
then, of course, I should have gone to her directly. The reason I did
not go, but telephoned, was because this Ross seems to have put some
ridiculous notions into her head about me. Now, look here; I don't want
to discuss this. I've told you more than I intended, anyway."
Masterson had risen. His suavity masked a final determination to say no
The Soul Analysis
The day was far advanced after this series of very unsatisfactory
interviews. I looked at Kennedy blankly. We seemed to have uncovered so
little that was tangible that I was much surprised to find that
apparently he was well contented with what had happened in the case so
"I shall be busy for a few hours in the laboratory, Walter," he
remarked, as we parted at the subway. "I think, if you have nothing
better to do, that you might employ the time in looking up some of the
gossip about Mrs. Maitland and Masterson, to say nothing of Dr. Ross,"
he emphasised. "Drop in after dinner."
There was not much that I could find. Of Mrs. Maitland there was
practically nothing that I already did not know from having seen her
name in the papers. She was a leader in a certain set which was
devoting its activities to various social and moral propaganda.
Masterson's early escapades were notorious even in the younger smart
set in which he had moved, but his years abroad had mellowed the
recollection of them. He had not distinguished himself in any way since
his return to set gossip afloat, nor had any tales of his doings abroad
filtered through to New York clubland. Dr. Ross, I found to my
surprise, was rather better known than I had supposed, both as a
specialist and as a man about town. He seemed to have risen rapidly in
his profession as physician to the ills of society's nerves.
I was amazed after dinner to find Kennedy doing nothing at all.
"What's the matter?" I asked. "Have you struck a snag?"
"No," he replied slowly, "I was only waiting. I told them to be here
between half-past eight and nine."
"Who?" I queried.
"Dr. Leslie," he answered. "He has the authority to compel the
attendance of Mrs. Maitland, Dr. Ross, and Masterson."
The quickness with which he had worked out a case which was, to me, one
of the most inexplicable he had had for a long time, left me standing
One by one they dropped in during the next half-hour, and, as usual, it
fell to me to receive them and smooth over the rough edges which always
obtruded at these little enforced parties in the laboratory.
Dr. Leslie and Dr. Ross were the first to arrive. They had not come
together, but had met at the door. I fancied I saw a touch of
professional jealousy in their manner, at least on the part of Dr.
Ross. Masterson came, as usual ignoring the seriousness of the matter
and accusing us all of conspiring to keep him from the first night of a
light opera which was opening. Mrs. Maitland followed, the unaccustomed
pallor of her face heightened by the plain black dress. I felt most
uncomfortable, as indeed I think the rest did. She merely inclined her
head to Masterson, seemed almost to avoid the eye of Dr. Ross, glared
at Dr. Leslie, and absolutely ignored me.
Craig had been standing aloof at his laboratory table, beyond a nod of
recognition paying little attention to anything. He seemed to be in no
hurry to begin.
"Great as science is," he commenced, at length, "it is yet far removed
from perfection. There are, for instance, substances so mysterious,
subtle, and dangerous as to set the most delicate tests and powerful
lenses at naught, while they carry death most horrible in their train."
He could scarcely have chosen his opening words with more effect.
"Chief among them," he proceeded, "are those from nature's own
laboratory. There are some sixty species of serpents, for example, with
deadly venom. Among these, as you doubtless have all heard, none has
brought greater terror to mankind than the cobra-di-capello, the Naja
tripudians of India. It is unnecessary for me to describe the cobra or
to say anything about the countless thousands who have yielded up their
lives to it. I have here a small quantity of the venom"--he indicated
it in a glass beaker. "It was obtained in New York, and I have tested
it on guinea-pigs. It has lost none of its potency."
I fancied that there was a feeling of relief when Kennedy by his
actions indicated that he was not going to repeat the test.
"This venom," he continued, "dries in the air into a substance like
small scales, soluble in water but not in alcohol. It has only a
slightly acrid taste and odour, and, strange to say, is inoffensive on
the tongue or mucous surfaces, even in considerable quantities. All we
know about it is that in an open wound it is deadly swift in action."
It was difficult to sit unmoved at the thought that before us, in only
a few grains of the stuff, was enough to kill us all if it were
introduced into a scratch of our skin.
"Until recently chemistry was powerless to solve the enigma, the
microscope to detect its presence, or pathology to explain the reason
for its deadly effect. And even now, about all we know is that
autopsical research reveals absolutely nothing but the general
disorganisation of the blood corpuscles. In fact, such poisoning is
best known by the peculiar symptoms--the vertigo, weak legs, and
falling jaw. The victim is unable to speak or swallow, but is fully
sensible. He has nausea, paralysis, an accelerated pulse at first
followed rapidly by a weakening, with breath slow and laboured. The
pupils are contracted, but react to the last, and he dies in
convulsions like asphyxia. It is both a blood and a nerve poison."
As Kennedy proceeded, Mrs. Maitland never took her large eyes from his
Kennedy now drew from a large envelope in which he protected it, the
typewritten note which had been found on Maitland. He said nothing
about the "suicide" as he quietly began a new line of accumulating
"There is an increasing use of the typewriting machine for the
production of spurious papers," he began, rattling the note
significantly. "It is partly due to the great increase in the use of
the typewriter generally, but more than all is it due to the erroneous
idea that fraudulent typewriting cannot be detected. The fact is that
the typewriter is perhaps a worse means of concealing identity than is
disguised handwriting. It does not afford the effective protection to
the criminal that is supposed. On the contrary, the typewriting of a
fraudulent document may be the direct means by which it can be traced
to its source. First we have to determine what kind of machine a
certain piece of writing was done with, then what particular machine."
He paused and indicated a number of little instruments on the table.
"For example," he resumed, "the Lovibond tintometer tells me its story
of the colour of the ink used in the ribbon of the machine that wrote
this note as well as several standard specimens which I have been able
to obtain from three machines on which it might have been written.
"That leads me to speak of the quality of the paper in this half-sheet
that was found on Mr. Maitland. Sometimes such a half-sheet may be
mated with the other half from which it was torn as accurately as if
the act were performed before your eyes. There was no such good fortune
in this case, but by measurements made by the vernier micrometer
caliper I have found the precise thickness of several samples of paper
as compared to that of the suicide note. I need hardly add that in
thickness and quality, as well as in the tint of the ribbon, the note
points to person as the author."
No one moved.
"And there are other proofs--unescapable," Kennedy hurried on. "For
instance, I have counted the number of threads to the inch in the
ribbon, as shown by the letters of this note. That also corresponds to
the number in one of the three ribbons."
Kennedy laid down a glass plate peculiarly ruled in little squares.
"This," he explained, "is an alignment test plate, through which can be
studied accurately the spacing and alignment of typewritten characters.
There are in this pica type ten to the inch horizontally and six to the
inch vertically. That is usual. Perhaps you are not acquainted with the
fact that typewritten characters are in line both ways, horizontally
and vertically. There are nine possible positions for each character
which may be assumed with reference to one of these little standard
squares of the test plate. You cannot fail to appreciate what an
immense impossibility there is that one machine should duplicate the
variations out of the true which the microscope detects for several
characters on another.
"Not only that, but the faces of many letters inevitably become broken,
worn, battered, as well as out of alignment, or slightly shifted in
their position on the type bar. The type faces are not flat, but a
little concave to conform to the roller. There are thousands of
possible divergences, scars, and deformities in each machine.
"Such being the case," he concluded, "typewriting has an individuality
like that of the Bertillon system, finger-prints, or the portrait
He paused, then added quickly: "What machine was it in this case? I
have samples here from that of Dr. Boss, from a machine used by Mr.
Masterson's secretary, and from a machine which was accessible to both
Mr. and Mrs. Maitland."
Kennedy stopped, but he was not yet prepared to relieve the suspense of
two of those whom his investigation would absolve.
"Just one other point," he resumed mercilessly, "a point which a few
years ago would have been inexplicable--if not positively misleading
and productive of actual mistake. I refer to the dreams of Mrs.
I had been expecting it, yet the words startled me. What must they have
done to her? But she kept admirable control of herself.
"Dreams used to be treated very seriously by the ancients, but until
recently modern scientists, rejecting the ideas of the dark ages, have
scouted dreams. To-day, however, we study them scientifically, for we
believe that whatever is, has a reason. Dr. Ross, I think, is
acquainted with the new and remarkable theories of Dr. Sigmund Freud,
of Vienna?"
Dr. Ross nodded. "I dissent vigorously from some of Freud's
conclusions," he hastened.
"Let me state them first," resumed Craig. "Dreams, says Freud, are very
important. They give us the most reliable information concerning the
individual. But that is only possible"--Kennedy emphasised the
point--"if the patient is in entire rapport with the doctor.
"Now, the dream is not an absurd and senseless jumble, but a perfect
mechanism and has a definite meaning in penetrating the mind. It is as
though we had two streams of thought, one of which we allow to flow
freely, the other of which we are constantly repressing, pushing back
into the subconscious, or unconscious. This matter of the evolution of
our individual mental life is too long a story to bore you with at such
a critical moment.
"But the resistances, the psychic censors of our ideas, are always
active, except in sleep. Then the repressed material comes to the
surface. But the resistances never entirely lose their power, and the
dream shows the material distorted. Seldom does one recognise his own
repressed thoughts or unattained wishes. The dream really is the
guardian of sleep to satisfy the activity of the unconscious and
repressed mental processes that would otherwise disturb sleep by
keeping the censor busy. In the case of a nightmare the watchman or
censor is aroused, finds himself overpowered, so to speak, and calls on
consciousness for help.
"There are three kinds of dreams--those which represent an unrepressed
wish as fulfilled, those that represent the realisation of a repressed
wish in an entirely concealed form, and those that represent the
realisation of a repressed wish in a form insufficiently or only
partially concealed.
"Dreams are not of the future, but of the past, except as they show
striving for unfulfilled wishes. Whatever may be denied in reality we
nevertheless can realise in another way--in our dreams. And probably
more of our daily life, conduct, moods, beliefs than we think, could be
traced to preceding dreams."
Dr. Ross was listening attentively, as Craig turned to him. "This is
perhaps the part of Freud's theory from which you dissent most
strongly. Freud says that as soon as you enter the intimate life of a
patient you begin to find sex in some form. In fact, the best
indication of abnormality would be its absence. Sex is one of the
strongest of human impulses, yet the one subjected to the greatest
repression. For that reason it is the weakest point in our cultural
development. In a normal life, he says, there are no neuroses. Let me
proceed now with what the Freudists call the psychanalysis, the soul
analysis, of Mrs. Maitland."
It was startling in the extreme to consider the possibilities to which
this new science might lead, as he proceeded to illustrate it.
"Mrs. Maitland," he continued, "your dream of fear was a dream of what
we call the fulfilment of a suppressed wish. Moreover, fear always
denotes a sexual idea underlying the dream. In fact, morbid anxiety
means surely unsatisfied love. The old Greeks knew it. The gods of fear
were born of the goddess of love. Consciously you feared the death of
your husband because unconsciously you wished it."
It was startling, dramatic, cruel, perhaps, merciless--this dissecting
of the soul of the handsome woman before us; but it had come to a point
where it was necessary to get at the truth.
Mrs. Maitland, hitherto pale, was now flushed and indignant. Yet the
very manner of her indignation showed the truth of the new psychology
of dreams, for, as I learned afterward, people often become indignant
when the Freudists strike what is called the "main complex."
"There are other motives just as important," protested Dr. Boss. "Here
in America the money motive, ambition--"
"Let me finish," interposed Kennedy. "I want to consider the other
dream also. Fear is equivalent to a wish in this sort of dream. It
also, as I have said, denotes sex. In dreams animals are usually
symbols. Now, in this second dream we find both the bull and the
serpent, from time immemorial, symbols of the continuing of the
life-force. Dreams are always based on experiences or thoughts of the
day preceding the dreams. You, Mrs. Maitland, dreamed of a man's face
on these beasts. There was every chance of having him suggested to you.
You think you hate him. Consciously you reject him; unconsciously you
accept him. Any of the new psychologists who knows the intimate
connection between love and hate, would understand how that is
possible. Love does not extinguish hate; or hate, love. They repress
each other. The opposite sentiment may very easily grow."
The situation was growing more tense as he proceeded. Was not Kennedy
actually taxing her with loving another?
"The dreamer," he proceeded remorselessly, "is always the principal
actor in a dream, or the dream centres about the dreamer most
intimately. Dreams are personal. We never dream about matters that
really concern others, but ourselves.
"Years ago," he continued, "you suffered what the new psychologists
call a 'psychic trauma'--a soul-wound. You were engaged, but your
censored consciousness rejected the manner of life of your fiance. In
pique you married Price Maitland. But you never lost your real,
subconscious love for another."
He stopped, then added in a low tone that was almost inaudible, yet
which did not call for an answer, "Could you--be honest with yourself,
for you need say not a word aloud--could you always be sure of yourself
in the face of any situation?"
She looked startled. Her ordinarily inscrutable face betrayed
everything, though it was averted from the rest of us and could be seen
only by Kennedy. She knew the truth that she strove to repress; she was
afraid of herself.
"It is dangerous," she murmured, "to be with a person who pays
attention to such little things. If every one were like you, I would no
longer breathe a syllable of my dreams."
She was sobbing now.
What was back of it all? I had heard of the so-called resolution
dreams. I had heard of dreams that kill, of unconscious murder, of the
terrible acts of the subconscious somnambulist of which the actor has
no recollection in the waking state until put under hypnotism. Was it
that which Kennedy was driving at disclosing?
Dr. Ross moved nearer to Mrs. Maitland as if to reassure her. Craig was
studying attentively the effect of his revelation both on her and on
the other faces before him.
Mrs. Maitland, her shoulders bent with the outpouring of the
long-suppressed emotion of the evening and of the tragic day, called
for sympathy which, I could see, Craig would readily give when he had
reached the climax he had planned.
"Kennedy," exclaimed Masterson, pushing aside Dr. Ross, as he bounded
to the side of Mrs. Maitland, unable to restrain himself longer,
"Kennedy, you are a faker--nothing but a damned dream doctor--in
scientific disguise."
"Perhaps," replied Craig, with a quiet curl of the lip. "But the
threads of the typewriter ribbon, the alignment of the letters, the
paper, all the 'fingerprints' of that type-written note of suicide were
those of the machine belonging to the man who caused the soul-wound,
who knew Madeline Maitland's inmost heart better than herself--because
he had heard of Freud undoubtedly, when he was in Vienna--who knew that
he held her real love still, who posed as a patient of Dr. Ross to
learn her secrets as well as to secure the subtle poison of the cobra.
That man, perhaps, merely brushed against Price Maitland in the crowd,
enough to scratch his hand with the needle, shove the false note into
his pocket--anything to win the woman who he knew loved him, and whom
he could win. Masterson, you are that man!"
The next half hour was crowded kaleidoscopically with events--the call
by Dr. Leslie for the police, the departure of the Coroner with
Masterson in custody, and the efforts of Dr. Ross to calm his now
almost hysterical patient, Mrs. Maitland.
Then a calm seemed to settle down over the old laboratory which had so
often been the scene of such events, tense with human interest. I could
scarcely conceal my amazement, as I watched Kennedy quietly restoring
to their places the pieces of apparatus he had used.
"What's the matter?" he asked, catching my eye as he paused with the
tintometer in his hand.
"Why," I exclaimed, "that's a fine way to start a month! Here's just
one day gone and you've caught your man. Are you going to keep that up?
If you are--I'll quit and skip to February. I'll choose the shortest
month, if that's the pace!"
"Any month you please," he smiled grimly, as he reluctantly placed the
tintometer in its cabinet.
There was no use. I knew that any other month would have been just the
"Well," I replied weakly, "all I can hope is that every day won't be as
strenuous as this has been. I hope, at least, you will give me time to
make some notes before you start off again."
"Can't say," he answered, still busy returning paraphernalia to its
accustomed place. "I have no control over the cases as they come to
me--except that I fan turn down those that don't interest me."
"Then," I sighed wearily, "turn down the next one. I must have rest.
I'm going home to sleep."
"Very well," he said, making no move to follow me.
I shook my head doubtfully. It was impossible to force a card on
Kennedy. Instead of showing any disposition to switch off the
laboratory lights, he appeared to be regarding a row of half-filled
test-tubes with the abstraction of a man who has been interrupted in
the midst of an absorbing occupation.
"Good night," I said at length.
"Good night," he echoed mechanically.
I know that he slept that night--at least his bed had been slept in
when I awoke in the morning. But he was gone. But then, it was not
unusual for him, when the fever for work was on him, to consider even
five or fewer hours a night's rest. It made no difference when I argued
with him. The fact that he thrived on it himself and could justify it
by pointing to other scientists was refutation enough.
Slowly I dressed, breakfasted, and began transcribing what I could from
the hastily jotted down notes of the day before. I knew that the work,
whatever it was, in which he was now engaged must be in the nature of
research, dear to his heart. Otherwise, he would have left word for me.
No word came from him, however, all day, and I had not only caught up
in my notes, but, my appetite whetted by our first case, had become
hungry for more. In fact I had begun to get a little worried at the
continued silence. A hand on the knob of the door or a ring of the
telephone would hare been a welcome relief. I was gradually becoming
aware of the fact that I liked the excitement of the life as much as
Kennedy did.
I knew it when the sudden sharp tinkle of the telephone set my heart
throbbing almost as quickly as the little bell hammer buzzed.
"Jameson, for Heaven's sake find Kennedy immediately and bring him over
here to the Novella Beauty Parlour. We've got the worst case I've been
up against in a long time. Dr. Leslie, the coroner, is here, and says
we must not make a move until Kennedy arrives."
I doubt whether in all our long acquaintance I had ever heard First
Deputy O'Connor more wildly excited and apparently more helpless than
he seemed over the telephone that night.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Never mind, never mind. Find Kennedy," he called back almost
brusquely. "It's Miss Blanche Blaisdell, the actress--she's been found
dead here. The thing is an absolute mystery. Now get him, GET HIM."
It was still early in the evening, and Kennedy had not come in, nor had
he sent any word to our apartment. O'Connor had already tried the
laboratory. As for myself, I had not the slightest idea where Craig
was. I knew the case must be urgent if both the deputy and the coroner
were waiting for him. Still, after half an hour's vigorous telephoning,
I was unable to find a trace of Kennedy in any of his usual haunts.
In desperation I left a message for him with the hall-boy in case he
called up, jumped into a cab, and rode over to the laboratory, hoping
that some of the care-takers might still be about and might know
something of his whereabouts. The janitor was able to enlighten me to
the extent of telling me that a big limousine had called for Kennedy an
hour or so before, and that he had left in great haste.
I had given it up as hopeless and had driven back to the apartment to
wait for him, when the hall-boy made a rush at me just as I was paying
my fare.
"Mr. Kennedy on the wire, sir," he cried as he half dragged me into the
"Walter," almost shouted Kennedy, "I'm over at the Washington Heights
Hospital with Dr. Barron--you remember Barron, in our class at college?
He has a very peculiar case of a poor girl whom he found wandering on
the street and brought here. Most unusual thing. He came over to the
laboratory after me in his car. Yes, I have the message that you left
with the hall-boy. Come up here and pick me up, and we'll ride right
down to the Novella. Goodbye."
I had not stopped to ask questions and prolong the conversation,
knowing as I did the fuming impatience of O'Connor. It was relief
enough to know that Kennedy was located at last.
He was in the psychopathic ward with Barron, as I hurried in. The girl
whom he had mentioned over the telephone was then quietly sleeping
under the influence of an opiate, and they were discussing the case
outside in the hall.
"What do you think of it yourself?" Barron was asking, nodding to me to
join them. Then he added for my enlightenment: "I found this girl
wandering bareheaded in the street. To tell the truth, I thought at
first that she was intoxicated, but a good look showed me better than
that. So I hustled the poor thing into my car and brought her here. All
the way she kept crying over and over: 'Look, don't you see it? She's
afire! Her lips shine--they shine, they shine.' I think the girl is
demented and has had some hallucination."
"Too vivid for a hallucination," remarked Kennedy decisively. "It was
too real to her. Even the opiate couldn't remove the picture, whatever
it was, from her mind until you had given her almost enough to kill
her, normally. No, that wasn't any hallucination. Now, Walter, I'm
We found the Novella Beauty Parlour on the top floor of an
office-building just off Fifth Avenue on a side street not far from
Forty-second Street. A special elevator, elaborately fitted up, wafted
us up with express speed. As the door opened we saw a vista of
dull-green lattices, little gateways hung with roses, windows of
diamond-paned glass get in white wood, rooms with little white
enamelled manicure-tables and chairs, amber lights glowing with soft
incandescence in deep bowers of fireproof tissue flowers. There was a
delightful warmth about the place, and the seductive scents and
delicate odours betokened the haunt of the twentieth-century Sybarite.
Both O'Connor and Leslie, strangely out of place in the enervating
luxury of the now deserted beauty-parlour, were still waiting for
Kennedy with a grim determination.
"A most peculiar thing," whispered O'Connor, dashing forward the moment
the elevator door opened. "We can't seem to find a single cause for her
death. The people up here say it was a suicide, but I never accept the
theory of suicide unless there are undoubted proofs. So far there have
been none in this case. There was no reason for it."
Seated in one of the large easy-chairs of the reception-room, in a
corner with two of O'Connor's men standing watchfully near, was a man
who was the embodiment of all that was nervous. He was alternately
wringing his hands and rumpling his hair. Beside him was a
middle-sized, middle-aged lady in a most amazing state of preservation,
who evidently presided over the cosmetic mysteries beyond the male ken.
She was so perfectly groomed that she looked as though her clothes were
a mould into which she had literally been poured.
"Professor and Madame Millefleur--otherwise Miller,"--whispered
O'Connor, noting Kennedy's questioning gaze and taking his arm to hurry
him down a long, softly carpeted corridor, flanked on either side by
little doors. "They run the shop. They say one of the girls just opened
the door and found her dead."
Near the end, one of the doors stood open, and before it Dr. Leslie,
who had preceded us, paused. He motioned to us to look in. It was a
little dressing-room, containing a single white-enamelled bed, a
dresser, and a mirror. But it was not the scant though elegant
furniture that caused us to start back.
There under the dull half-light of the corridor lay a woman, most
superbly formed. She was dark, and the thick masses of her hair, ready
for the hairdresser, fell in a tangle over her beautifully chiselled
features and full, rounded shoulders and neck. A scarlet bathrobe,
loosened at the throat, actually accentuated rather than covered the
voluptuous lines of her figure, down to the slender ankle which had
been the beginning of her fortune as a danseuse.
Except for the marble pallor of her face it was difficult to believe
that she was not sleeping. And yet there she was, the famous Blanche
Blaisdell, dead--dead in the little dressing-room of the Novella Beauty
Parlour, surrounded as in life by mystery and luxury.
We stood for several moments speechless, stupefied. At last O'Connor
silently drew a letter from his pocket. It was written on the latest
and most delicate of scented stationery.
"It was lying sealed on the dresser when we arrived," explained
O'Connor, holding it so that we could not see the address. "I thought
at first she had really committed suicide and that this was a note of
explanation. But it is not. Listen. It is just a line or two. It reads:
'Am feeling better now, though that was a great party last night.
Thanks for the newspaper puff which I have just read. It was very kind
of you to get them to print it. Meet me at the same place and same time
to-night. Your Blanche.' The note was not stamped, and was never sent.
Perhaps she rang for a messenger. At any rate, she must have been dead
before she could send it. But it was addressed to--Burke Collins."
"Burke Collins!" exclaimed Kennedy and I together in amazement.
He was one of the leading corporation lawyers in the country, director
in a score of the largest companies, officer in half a dozen charities
and social organisations, patron of art and opera. It seemed
impossible, and I at least did not hesitate to say so. For answer
O'Connor simply laid the letter and envelope down on the dresser.
It seemed to take some time to convince Kennedy. There it was in black
and white, however, in Blanche Blaisdell's own vertical hand. Try to
figure it out as I could, there seemed to be only one conclusion, and
that was to accept it. What it was that interested him I did not know,
but finally he bent down and sniffed, not at the scented letter, but at
the covering on the dresser. When he raised his head I saw that he had
not been looking at the letter at all, but at a spot on the cover near
"Sn-ff, sn-ff," he sniffed, thoughtfully closing his eyes as if
considering something. "Yes--oil of turpentine."
Suddenly he opened his eyes, and the blank look of abstraction that had
masked his face was broken through by a gleam of comprehension that I
knew flashed the truth to him intuitively.
"Turn out that light in the corridor," he ordered quickly.
Dr. Leslie found and turned the switch. There we were alone, in the now
weird little dressing-room, alone with that horribly lovely thing lying
there cold and motionless on the little white bed.
Kennedy moved forward in the darkness. Gently, almost as if she were
still the living, pulsing, sentient Blanche Blaisdell who had entranced
thousands, he opened her mouth.
A cry from O'Connor, who was standing in front of me, followed. "What's
that, those little spots on her tongue and throat? They glow. It is the
corpse light!"
Surely enough, there were little luminous spots in her mouth. I had
heard somewhere that there is a phosphorescence appearing during decay
of organic substances which once gave rise to the ancient superstition
of "corpse lights" and the will-o'-the-wisp. It was really due, I knew,
to living bacteria. But there surely had been no time for such
micro-organisms to develop, even in the almost tropic heat of the
Novella. Could she have been poisoned by these phosphorescent bacilli?
What was it--a strange new mouth-malady that had attacked this
notorious adventuress and woman of luxury?
Leslie had flashed up the light again before Craig spoke. We were all
watching him keenly.
"Phosphorus, phosphoric acid, or phosphoric salve," Craig said slowly,
looking eagerly about the room as if in search of something that would
explain it. He caught sight of the envelope still lying on the dresser.
He picked it up, toyed with it, looked at the top where O'Connor had
slit it, then deliberately tore the flap off the back where it had been
glued in sealing the letter.
"Put the light out again," he asked.
Where the thin line of gum was on the back of the flap, in the darkness
there glowed the same sort of brightness that we had seen in a speck
here and there on Blanche Blaisdell's lips and in her mouth. The truth
flashed over me. Some one had placed the stuff, whatever it was, on the
flap of the envelope, knowing that she must touch her lips to it to
seal it She had done so, and the deadly poison had entered her mouth.
As the light went up again Kennedy added: "Oil of turpentine removes
traces of phosphorus, phosphoric acid, or phosphoric salve, which are
insoluble in anything else except ether and absolute alcohol. Some one
who knew that tried to eradicate them, but did not wholly succeed.
O'Connor, see if you can find either phosphorus, the oil, or the salve
anywhere in the shop."
Then as O'Connor and Leslie hurriedly disappeared he added to me:
"Another of those strange coincidences, Walter. You remember the girl
at the hospital? 'Look, don't you see it? She's afire. Her lips
shine--they shine, they shine!'"
Kennedy was still looking carefully over the room. In a little wicker
basket was a newspaper which was open at the page of theatrical news,
and as I glanced quickly at it I saw a most laudatory paragraph about
Beneath the paper were some torn scraps. Kennedy picked them up and
pieced them together. "Dearest Blanche," they read. "I hope you're
feeling better after that dinner last night. Can you meet me to-night?
Write me immediately. Collie."
He placed the scraps carefully in his wallet. There was nothing more to
be done here apparently. As we passed down the corridor we could hear a
man apparently raving in good English and bad French. It proved to be
Millefleur--or Miller--and his raving was as overdone as that of a
third-rate actor. Madame was trying to calm him.
"Henri, Henri, don't go on so," she was saying.
"A suicide--in the Novella. It will be in all the papers. We shall be
ruined. Oh--oh!"
"Here, can that sob stuff," broke in one of O'Connor's officers. "You
can tell it all when the chief takes you to headquarters, see?"
Certainly the man made no very favourable impression by his actions.
There seemed to be much that was forced about them, that was more
incriminating than a stolid silence would have been.
Between them Monsieur and Madame made out, however, to repeat to
Kennedy their version of what had happened. It seemed that a note
addressed to Miss Blaisdell had been left by some one on the desk in
the reception-room. No one knew who left it, but one of the girls had
picked it up and delivered it to her in her dressing-room. A moment
later she rang her bell and called for one of the girls named Agnes,
who was to dress her hair. Agnes was busy, and the actress asked her to
get paper, a pen, and ink. At least it seemed that way, for Agnes got
them for her. A few minutes later her bell rang again, and Agnes went
down, apparently to tell her that she was now ready to dress her hair.
The next thing any one knew was a piercing shriek from the girl. She
ran down the corridor, still shrieking, out into the reception-room and
rushed into the elevator, which happened to be up at the time. That was
the last they had seen of her. The other girls saw Miss Blaisdell lying
dead, and a panic followed. The customers dressed quickly and fled,
almost in panic. All was confusion. By that time a policeman had
arrived, and soon after O'Connor and the coroner had come.
There was little use in cross-questioning the couple. They had
evidently had time to agree on the story; that is, supposing it were
not true. Only a scientific third degree could have shaken them, and
such a thing was impossible just at that time.
From the line of Kennedy's questions I could see that he believed that
there was a hiatus somewhere in their glib story, at least some point
where some one had tried to eradicate the marks of the poison.
"Here it is. We found it," interrupted O'Connor, holding up in his
excitement a bottle covered with black cloth to protect it from the
light. "It was in the back of a cabinet in the operating-room, and it
is marked 'Ether phosphore".' Another of oil of turpentine was on a
shelf in another cabinet. Both seem to have been used lately, judging
by the wetness of the bottoms of the glass stoppers."
"Ether phosphore, phosphorated ether," commented Kennedy, reading the
label to himself. "A remedy from the French Codex, composed, if I
remember rightly, of one part phosphorus and fifty parts sulphuric
ether. Phosphorus is often given as a remedy for loss of nerve power,
neuralgia, hysteria, and melancholia. In quantities from a fiftieth to
a tenth or so of a grain free phosphorus is a renovator of nerve tissue
and nerve force, a drug for intense and long-sustained anxiety of mind
and protracted emotional excitement--in short, for fast living."
He uncorked the bottle, and we tasted the stuff. It was unpleasant and
nauseous. "I don't see why it wasn't used in the form of pills. The
liquid form of a few drops on gum arabic is hopelessly antiquated."
The elevator door opened with a clang, and a well-built, athletic
looking man of middle age with an acquired youngish look about his
clothes and clean-shaven face stepped out. His face was pale, and his
hand shook with emotion that showed that something had unstrung his
usually cast-iron nerves. I recognised Burke Collins at once.
In spite of his nervousness he strode forward with the air of a man
accustomed to being obeyed, to having everything done for him merely
because he, Burke Collins, could afford to pay for it and it was his
right. He seemed to know whom he was seeking, for he immediately
singled out O'Connor.
"This is terrible, terrible," he whispered hoarsely. "No, no, no, I
don't want to see her. I can't, not yet. You know I thought the world
of that poor little girl. Only," and here the innate selfishness of the
man cropped out, "only I called to ask you that nothing of my
connection with her be given out. You understand? Spare nothing to get
at the truth. Employ the best men you have. Get outside help if
necessary. I'll pay for anything, anything. Perhaps I can use some
influence for you some day, too. But, you understand--the scandal, you
know. Not a word to the newspapers."
At another time I feel sure that O'Connor would have succumbed. Collins
was not without a great deal of political influence, and even a first
deputy may be "broke" by a man with influence. But now here was
Kennedy, and he wished to appear in the best light.
He looked at Craig. "Let me introduce Professor Kennedy," he said.
"I've already called him in."
"Very happy to have the pleasure of meeting you," said Collins,
grasping Kennedy's hand warmly. "I hope you will take me as your client
in this case. I'll pay handsomely. I've always had a great admiration
for your work, and I've heard a great deal about it."
Kennedy is, if anything, as impervious to blandishment as a stone, as
the Blarney Stone is itself, for instance. "On one condition," he
replied slowly, "and that is that I go ahead exactly as if I were
employed by the city itself to get at the truth."
Collins bit his lip. It was evident that he was not accustomed to being
met in this independent spirit. "Very well," he answered at last.
"O'Connor has called you in. Work for him and--well, you know, if you
need anything just draw on me for it. Only if you can, keep me out of
it. I'll tell everything I can to help you--but not to the newspapers."
He beckoned us outside. "Those people in there," he nodded his head
back in the direction of the Millefleurs, "do you suspect them? By
George, it does look badly for them, doesn't it, when you come to think
of it? Well, now, you see, I'm frank and confidential about my
relations with Blan--er--Miss Blaisdell. I was at a big dinner with her
last night with a party of friends. I suppose she came here to get
straightened out. I hadn't been able to get her on the wire to-day, but
at the theatre when I called up they told me what had happened, and I
came right over here. Now please remember, do everything, anything but
create a scandal. You realise what that would mean for me."
Kennedy said nothing. He simply laid down on the desk, piece by piece,
the torn letter which he had picked up from the basket, and beside it
he spread out the reply which Blanche had written.
"What?" gasped Collins as he read the torn letter. "I send that? Why,
man alive, you're crazy. Didn't I just tell you I hadn't heard from her
until I called up the theatre just now?"
I could not make out whether he was lying or not when he said that he
had not sent the note. Kennedy picked up a pen. "Please write the same
thing as you read in the note on this sheet of the Novella paper. It
will be all right. You have plenty of witnesses to that."
It must have irked Collins even to have his word doubted, but Kennedy
was no respecter of persons. He took the pen and wrote.
"I'll keep your name out of it as much as possible," remarked Kennedy,
glancing intently at the writing and blotting it.
"Thank you," said Collins simply, for once in his life at a loss for
words. Once more he whispered to O'Connor, then he excused himself. The
man was so obviously sincere, I felt, as far as his selfish and sensual
limitations would permit, that I would not have blamed Kennedy for
giving him much more encouragement than he had given.
Kennedy was not through yet, and now turned quickly again to the
cosmetic arcadia which had been so rudely stirred by the tragedy.
"Who is this girl Agnes who discovered Miss Blaisdell?" he shot out at
the Millefleurs.
The beauty-doctor was now really painful in his excitement. Like his
establishment, even his feelings were artificial.
"Agnes?" he repeated. "Why, she was one of Madame's best hair-dressers.
See--my dear--show the gentlemen the book of engagements."
It was a large book full of girls' names, each an expert in curls,
puffs, "reinforcements," hygienic rolls, transformators, and the
numberless other things that made the fearful and wonderful
hair-dresses of the day. Agnes's dates were full, for a day ahead.
Kennedy ran his eye over the list of patrons. "Mrs. Burke Collins,
3:30," he read. "Was she a patron, too?"
"Oh, yes," answered Madame. "She used to come here three times a week.
It was not vanity. We all knew her, and we all liked her."
Instantly I could read between the lines, and I felt that I had been
too charitable to Burke Collins. Here was the wife slaving to secure
that beauty which would win back the man with whom she had worked and
toiled in the years before they came to New York and success. The
"other woman" came here, too, but for a very different reason.
Nothing but business seemed to impress Millefleur, however. "Oh, yes,"
he volunteered, "we have a fine class. Among my own patients I have
Hugh Dayton, the actor, you know, leading man in Blanche Blaisdell's
company. He is having his hair restored. Why, I gave him a treatment
this afternoon. If ever there is a crazy man, it is he. I believe he
would kill Mr. Collins for the way Blanche Blaisdell treats him. They
were engaged--but, oh, well," he gave a very good imitation of a French
shrug, "it is all over now. Neither of them will get her, and I--I am
ruined. Who will come to the Novella now?"
Adjoining Millefleur's own room was the writing room from which the
poisoned envelope had been taken to Miss Blaisdell. Over the little
secretary was the sign, "No woman need be plain who will visit the
Novella," evidently the motto of the place. The hair-dressing room was
next to the little writing-room. There were manicure rooms,
steam-rooms, massage-rooms, rooms of all descriptions, all bearing mute
testimony to the fundamental instinct, the feminine longing for
personal beauty.
Though it was late when Kennedy had finished his investigation, he
insisted on going directly to his laboratory. There he pulled out from
a corner a sort of little square table on which was fixed a powerful
light such as might be used for a stereopticon.
"This is a simple little machine," he explained, as be pasted together
the torn bits of the letter which he had fished out of the
scrap-basket, "which detectives use in studying forgeries. I don't know
that it has a name, although it might be called a 'rayograph.' You see,
all you have to do is to lay the thing you wish to study flat here, and
the system of mirrors and lenses reflects it and enlarges it on a
He had lowered a rolled-up sheet of white at the opposite end of the
room, and there, in huge characters, stood forth plainly the writing of
the note.
"This letter," he resumed, studying the enlargement carefully, "is
likely to prove crucial. It's very queer. Collins says he didn't write
it, and if he did he surely is a wonder at disguising his hand. I doubt
if any one could disguise what the rayograph shows. Now, for instance,
this is very important. Do you see how those strokes of the long
letters are--well, wobbly? You'd never see that in the original, but
when it is enlarged you see how plainly visible the tremors of the hand
become? Try as you may, you can't conceal them. The fact is that the
writer of this note suffered from a form of heart disease. Now let us
look at the copy that Collins made at the Novella."
He placed the copy on the table of the rayograph. It was quite evident
that the two had been written by entirely different persons. "I thought
he was telling the truth," commented Craig, "by the surprised look on
his face the moment I mentioned the note to Miss Blaisdell. Now I know
he was. There is no such evidence of heart trouble in his writing as in
the other. Of course that's all aside from what a study of the
handwriting itself might disclose. They are not similar at all. But
there is an important clue there. Find the writer of that note who has
heart trouble, and we either have the murderer or some one close to the
I remembered the tremulousness of the little beauty-doctor, his
third-rate artificial acting of fear for the reputation of the Novella,
and I must confess I agreed with O'Connor and Collins that it looked
black for him. At one time I had suspected Collins himself, but now I
could see perfectly why he had not concealed his anxiety to hush up his
connection with the case, while at the same time his instinct as a
lawyer, and I had almost added, lover, told him that justice must be
done. I saw at once how, accustomed as he was to weigh evidence, he had
immediately seen the justification for O'Connor's arrest of the
"More than that," added Kennedy, after examining the fibres of the
paper under a microscope, "all these notes are written on the same kind
of paper. That first torn note to Miss Blaisdell was written right in
the Novella and left so as to seem to have been sent in from outside."
It was early the following morning when Kennedy roused me with the
remark: "I think I'll go up to the hospital. Do you want to come along?
We'll stop for Barron on the way. There is a little experiment I want
to try on that girl up there."
When we arrived, the nurse in charge of the ward told us that her
patient had passed a fairly good night, but that now that the influence
of the drug had worn off she was again restless and still repeating the
words that she had said over and over before. Nor had she been able to
give any clearer account of herself. Apparently she had been alone in
the city, for although there was a news item about her in the morning
papers, so far no relative or friend had called to identify her.
Kennedy had placed himself directly before her, listening intently to
her ravings. Suddenly he managed to fix her eye, as if by a sort of
hypnotic influence.
"Agnes!" he called in a sharp tone.
The name seemed to arrest her fugitive attention. Before she could
escape from his mental grasp again he added: "Your date-book is full.
Aren't you going to the Novella this morning?"
The change in her was something wonderful to see. It was as though she
had come out of a trance. She sat up in bed and gazed about blankly.
"Yes, yes, I must go," she cried as if it were the most natural thing
in the world. Then she realised the strange surroundings and faces.
"Where is my hat--wh-where am I? What has happened?"
"You are all right," soothed Kennedy gently. "Now rest. Try to forget
everything for a little while, and you will be all right. You are among
As Kennedy led us out she fell back, now physically exhausted, on the
"I told you, Barron," he whispered, "that there was more to this case
than you imagined. Unwittingly you brought me a very important
contribution to a case of which the papers are full this morning, the
case of the murdered actress, Blanche Blaisdell."
It was only after a few hours that Kennedy thought it wise to try to
question the poor girl at the hospital. Her story was simple enough in
itself, but it certainly complicated matters considerably without
throwing much light on the case. She had been busy because her day was
full, and she had yet to dress the hair of Miss Blaisdell for her play
that night. Several times she had been interrupted by impatient
messages from the actress in her little dressing-booth, and one of the
girls had already demolished the previous hair-dressing in order to
save time. Once Agnes had run down for a few seconds to reassure her
that she would be through in time.
She had found the actress reading a newspaper, and when Kennedy
questioned her she remembered seeing a note lying on the dresser.
"Agnes," Miss Blaisdell had said, "will you go into the writing-room
and bring me some paper, a pen, and ink? I don't want to go in there
this way. There's a dear good girl." Agnes had gone, though it was
decidedly no part of her duty as one of the highest paid employes of
the Novella. But they all envied the popular actress, and were ready to
do anything for her. The next thing she remembered was finishing the
coiffure she was working on and going to Miss Blaisdell. There lay the
beautiful actress. The light in the corridor had not been lighted yet,
and it was dark. Her lips and mouth seemed literally to shine. Agnes
called her, but she did not move; she touched her, but she was cold.
Then she screamed and fled. That was the last she remembered.
"The little writing-room," reasoned Kennedy as we left the poor little
hair-dresser quite exhausted by her narrative, "was next to the sanctum
of Millefleur, where they found that bottle of ether phosphore and the
oil of turpentine. Some one who knew of that note or perhaps wrote it
must have reasoned that an answer would be written immediately. That
person figured that the note would be the next thing written and that
the top envelope of the pile would be used. That person knew of the
deadly qualities of too much phosphorised ether, and painted the gummed
flap of the envelope with several grains of it. The reasoning held
good, for Agnes took the top envelope with its poisoned flap to Miss
Blaisdell. No, there was no chance about that. It was all clever, quick
"But," I objected, "how about the oil of turpentine?"
"Simply to remove the traces of the poison. I think you will see why
that was attempted before we get through."
Kennedy would say no more, but I was content because I could see that
he was now ready to put his theories, whatever they were, to the final
test. He spent the rest of the day working at the hospital with Dr.
Barron, adjusting a very delicate piece of apparatus down in a special
room, in the basement. I saw it, but I had no idea what it was or what
its use might be.
Close to the wall was a stereopticon which shot a beam of light through
a tube to which I heard them refer as a galvanometer, about three feet
distant. In front of this beam whirled a five-spindled wheel, governed
by a chronometer which erred only a second a day. Between the poles of
the galvanometer was stretched a slender thread of fused quartz plated
with silver, only one one-thousandth of a millimetre in diameter, so
tenuous that it could not be seen except in a bright light. It was a
thread so slender that it might have been spun by a microscopic spider.
Three feet farther away was a camera with a moving film of sensitised
material, the turning of which was regulated by a little flywheel. The
beam of light focused on the thread in the galvanometer passed to the
photographic film, intercepted only by the five spindles of the wheel,
which turned once a second, thus marking the picture off into exact
fifths of a second. The vibrations of the microscopic quartz thread
were enormously magnified on the sensitive film by a lens and resulted
in producing a long zig-zag, wavy line. The whole was shielded by a
wooden hood which permitted no light, except the slender ray, to strike
it. The film revolved slowly across the field, its speed regulated by
the flywheel, and all moved by an electric motor.
I was quite surprised, then, when Kennedy told me that the final tests
which he was arranging were not to be held at the hospital at all, but
in his laboratory, the scene of so many of his scientific triumphs over
the cleverest of criminals.
While he and Dr. Barren were still fussing with the machine he
despatched me on the rather ticklish errand of gathering together all
those who had been at the Novella at the time and might possibly prove
important in the case.
My first visit was to Hugh Dayton, whom I found in his bachelor
apartment on Madison Avenue, apparently waiting for me. One of
O'Connor's men had already warned him that any attempt to evade putting
in an appearance when he was wanted would be of no avail. He had been
shadowed from the moment that it was learned that he was a patient of
Millefleur's and had been at the Novella that fatal afternoon. He
seemed to realise that escape was impossible. Dayton was one of those
typical young fellows, tall, with sloping shoulders and a carefully
acquired English manner, whom one sees in scores on Fifth Avenue late
in the afternoon. His face, which on the stage was forceful and
attractive, was not prepossessing at close range. Indeed it showed too
evident marks of excesses, both physical and moral, and his hand was
none too steady. Still, he was an interesting personality, if not
I was also charged with delivering a note to Burke Collins at his
office. The purport of it was, I knew, a request couched in language
that veiled a summons that Mrs. Collins was of great importance in
getting at the truth, and that if he needed an excuse himself for being
present it was suggested that he appear as protecting his wife's
interests as a lawyer. Kennedy had added that I might tell him orally
that he would pass over the scandal as lightly as possible and spare
the feelings of both as much as he could. I was rather relieved when
this mission was accomplished, for I had expected Collins to demur
Those who gathered that night, sitting expectantly in the little
armchairs which Kennedy's students used during his lectures, included
nearly every one who could cast any light on what had happened at the
Novella. Professor and Madame Millefleur were brought up from the house
of detention, to which both O'Connor and Dr. Leslie had insisted that
they be sent. Millefleur was still bewailing the fate of the Novella,
and Madame had begun to show evidences of lack of the constant
beautification which she was always preaching as of the utmost
importance to her patrons. Agnes was so far recovered as to be able to
be present, though I noticed that she avoided the Millefleurs and sat
as far from them as possible.
Burke Collins and Mrs. Collins arrived together. I had expected that
there would be an icy coolness if not positive enmity between them.
They were not exactly cordial, though somehow I seemed to feel that now
that the cause of estrangement was removed a tactful mutual friend
might have brought about a reconciliation. Hugh Dayton swaggered in,
his nervousness gone or at least controlled. I passed behind him once,
and the odour that smote my olfactory sense told me too plainly that he
had fortified himself with a stimulant on his way from the apartment to
the laboratory. Of course O'Connor and Dr. Leslie were there, though in
the background.
It was a silent gathering, and Kennedy did not attempt to relieve the
tension even by small talk as he wrapped the forearms of each of us
with cloths steeped in a solution of salt. Upon these cloths he placed
little plates of German silver to which were attached wires which led
back of a screen. At last he was ready to begin.
"The long history of science," he began as he emerged from behind the
screen, "is filled with instances of phenomena, noted at first only for
their beauty or mystery, which have been later proved to be of great
practical value to mankind. A new example is the striking phenomenon of
luminescence. Phosphorus, discovered centuries ago, was first merely a
curiosity. Now it is used for many practical things, and one of the
latest uses is as a medicine. It is a constituent of the body, and many
doctors believe that the lack of it causes, and that its presence will
cure, many ills. But it is a virulent and toxic drug, and no physician
except one who knows his business thoroughly should presume to handle
it. Whoever made a practice of using it at the Novella did not know his
business, or he would have used it in pills instead of in the nauseous
liquid. It is not with phosphorised ether as a medicine that we have to
deal in this case. It is with the stuff as a poison, a poison
administered by a demon."
Craig shot the word out so that it had its full effect on his little
audience. Then he paused, lowered his voice, and resumed on a new
"Up in the Washington Heights Hospital," he went on, "is an apparatus
which records the secrets of the human heart. That is no figure of
speech, but a cold scientific fact. This machine records every
variation of the pulsations of the heart with such exquisite accuracy
that it gives Dr. Barron, who is up there now, not merely a diagram of
the throbbing organ of each of you seated here in my laboratory a mile
away, but a sort of moving-picture of the emotions by which each heart
here is swayed. Not only can Dr. Barron diagnose disease, but he can
detect love, hate, fear, joy, anger, and remorse. This machine is known
as the Einthoven 'string galvanometer,' invented by that famous Dutch
physiologist of Leyden."
There was a perceptible movement in our little audience at the thought
that the little wires that ran back of the screen from the arms of each
were connected with this uncanny instrument so far away.
"It is all done by the electric current that the heart itself
generates," pursued Kennedy, hammering home the new and startling idea.
"That current is one of the feeblest known to science, for the dynamo
that generates it is no ponderous thing of copper wire and steel
castings. It is just the heart itself. The heart sends over the wire
its own telltale record to the machine which registers it. The thing
takes us all the way back to Galvani, who was the first to observe and
study animal electricity. The heart makes only one three-thousandth of
a volt of electricity at each beat. It would take over two hundred
thousand men to light one of these incandescent lamps, two million or
more to run a trolley-car. Yet just that slight little current is
enough to sway the gossamer strand of quartz fibre up there at what we
call the 'heart station.' So fine is this machine that the
pulse-tracings produced by the sphygmograph, which I have used in other
cases up to this time, are clumsy and inexact."
Again he paused as if to let the fear of discovery sink deep into the
minds of all of us.
"This current, as I have said, passes from each one of you in turn over
a wire and vibrates a fine quartz fibre up there in unison with each
heart here. It is one of the most delicate bits of mechanism ever made,
beside which the hairspring of a watch is coarse. Each of you in turn,
is being subjected to this test. More than that, the record up there
shows not only the beats of the heart but the successive waves of
emotion that vary the form of those beats. Every normal individual
gives what we call an 'electro-cardiogram,' which follows a certain
type. The photographic film on which this is being recorded is ruled so
that at the heart station Dr. Barron can read it. There are five waves
to each heart-beat, which he letters P, Q, R, S, and T, two below and
three above a base line on the film. They have all been found to
represent a contraction of a certain portion of the heart. Any change
of the height, width, or time of any one of those lines shows that
there is some defect or change in the contraction of that part of the
heart. Thus Dr. Barron, who has studied this thing carefully, can tell
infallibly not only disease but emotion."
It seemed as if no one dared look at his neighbour, as if all were
trying vainly to control the beating of their own hearts.
"Now," concluded Kennedy solemnly as if to force the last secret from
the wildly beating heart of some one in the room, "it is my belief that
the person who had access to the operating-room of the Novella was a
person whose nerves were run down, and in addition to any other
treatment that person was familiar with the ether phosphore. This
person knew Miss Blaisdell well, saw her there, knew she was there for
the purpose of frustrating that person's own dearest hopes. That person
wrote her the note, and knowing that she would ask for paper and an
envelope in order to answer it, poisoned the flap of the envelope.
Phosphorus is a remedy for hysteria, vexatious emotions, want of
sympathy, disappointed and concealed affections--but not in the
quantities that this person lavished on that flap. Whoever it was, not
life, but death, and a ghastly death, was uppermost in that person's
Agnes screamed. "I saw him take something and rub it on her lips, and
the brightness went away. I--I didn't mean to tell, but, God help me, I
"Saw whom?" demanded Kennedy, fixing her eye as he had when he had
called her back from aphasia.
"Him--Millefleur--Miller," she sobbed, shrinking back as if the very
confession appalled her.
"Yes," added Kennedy coolly, "Miller did try to remove the traces of
the poison after he discovered it, in order to protect himself and the
reputation of the Novella."
The telephone bell tinkled. Craig seized the receiver.
"Yes, Barron, this is Kennedy. You received the impulses all right?
Good. And have you had time to study the records? Yes? What's that?
Number seven? All right. I'll see you very soon and go over the records
again with you. Good-bye."
"One word more," he continued, now facing us. "The normal heart traces
its throbs in regular rhythm. The diseased or overwrought heart throbs
in degrees of irregularity that vary according to the trouble that
affects it, both organic and emotional. The expert like Barron can tell
what each wave means, just as he can tell what the lines in a spectrum
mean. He can see the invisible, hear the inaudible, feel the
intangible, with mathematical precision. Barron has now read the
electro-cardiograms. Each is a picture of the beating of the heart that
made it, and each smallest variation has a meaning to him. Every
passion, every emotion, every disease, is recorded with inexorable
truth. The person with murder in his heart cannot hide it from the
string galvanometer, nor can that person who wrote the false note in
which the very lines of the letters betray a diseased heart hide that
disease. The doctor tells me that that person was number--"
Mrs. Collins had risen wildly and was standing before us with blazing
eyes. "Yes," she cried, pressing her hands on her breast as if it were
about to burst and tell the secret before her lips could frame the
words, "yes, I killed her, and I would follow her to the end of the
earth if I had not succeeded. She was there, the woman who had stolen
from me what was more than life itself. Yes, I wrote the note, I
poisoned the envelope. I killed her."
All the intense hatred that she had felt for that other woman in the
days that she had vainly striven to equal her in beauty and win back
her husband's love broke forth. She was wonderful, magnificent, in her
fury. She was passion personified; she was fate, retribution.
Collins looked at his wife, and even he felt the spell. It was not
crime that she had done; it was elemental justice.
For a moment she stood, silent, facing Kennedy. Then the colour slowly
faded from her cheeks. She reeled.
Collins caught her and imprinted a kiss, the kiss that for years she
had longed and striven for again. She looked rather than spoke
forgiveness as he held her and showered them on her.
"Before Heaven," I heard him whisper into her ear, "with all my power
as a lawyer I will free you from this."
Gently Dr. Leslie pushed him aside and felt her pulse as she dropped
limply into the only easy chair in the laboratory.
"O'Connor," he said at length, "all the evidence that we really have
hangs on an invisible thread of quartz a mile away. If Professor
Kennedy agrees, let us forget what has happened here to-night. I will
direct my jury to bring in a verdict of suicide. Collins, take good
care of her." He leaned over and whispered so she could not hear. "I
wouldn't promise her six weeks otherwise."
I could not help feeling deeply moved as the newly reunited Collinses
left the laboratory together. Even the bluff deputy, O'Connor, was
touched by it and under the circumstances did what seemed to him his
higher duty with a tact of which I had believed him scarcely capable.
Whatever the ethics of the case, he left it entirely to Dr. Leslie's
coroner's jury to determine.
Burke Collins was already making hasty preparations for the care of his
wife so that she might have the best medical attention to prolong her
life for the few weeks or months before nature exacted the penalty
which was denied the law.
"That's a marvellous piece of apparatus," I remarked, standing over the
connections with the string galvanometer, after all had gone. "Just
suppose the case had fallen into the hands of some of these
old-fashioned detectives--"
"I hate post-mortems--on my own cases," interrupted Kennedy brusquely.
"To-morrow will be time enough to clear up this mess. Meanwhile, let us
get this thing out of our minds."
He clapped his hat on his head decisively and deliberately walked out
of the laboratory, starting off at a brisk pace in the moonlight across
the campus to the avenue where now the only sound was the noisy rattle
of an occasional trolley car.
How long we walked I do not know. But I do know that for genuine
relaxation after a long period of keen mental stress, there is nothing
like physical exercise. We turned into our apartment, roused the sleepy
hall-boy, and rode up.
"I suppose people think I never rest," remarked Kennedy, carefully
avoiding any reference to the exciting events of the past two days.
"But I do. Like every one else, I have to. When I am working hard on a
case--well, I have my own violent reaction against it--more work of a
different kind. Others choose white lights, red wines and blue feelings
afterwards. But I find, when I reach that state, that the best
anti-toxin is something that will chase the last case from your brain
by getting you in trim for the next unexpected event."
He had sunk into an easy chair where he was running over in his mind
his own plans for the morrow.
"Just now I must recuperate by doing no work at all," he went on slowly
undressing. "That walk was just what I needed. When the fever of
dissipation comes on again, I'll call on you. You won't miss anything,
Like the famous Finnegan, however, he was on again and gone again in
the morning. This time I had no misgivings, although I should have
liked to accompany him, for on the library table he had scrawled a
little note, "Studying East Side to-day. Will keep in touch with you.
Craig." My daily task of transcribing my notes was completed and I
thought I would run down to the Star to let the editor know how I was
getting along on my assignment.
I had scarcely entered the door when the office boy thrust a message
into my hand. It stopped me even before I had a chance to get as far as
my own desk. It was from Kennedy at the laboratory and bore a time
stamp that showed that it must have been received only a few minutes
before I came in.
"Meet me at the Grand Central," it read, "immediately."
Without going further into the office, I turned and dropped down in the
elevator to the subway. As quickly as an express could take me, I
hurried up to the new station.
"Where away?" I asked breathlessly, as Craig met me at the entrance
through which he had reasoned I would come. "The coast or Down East?"
"Woodrock," he replied quickly, taking my arm and dragging me down a
ramp to the train that was just leaving for that fashionable suburb.
"Well," I queried eagerly, as the train started. "Why all this secrecy?"
"I had a caller this afternoon," he began, running his eye over the
other passengers to see if we were observed. "She is going back on this
train. I am not to recognise her at the station, but you and I are to
walk to the end of the platform and enter a limousine bearing that
He produced a card on the back of which was written a number in six
figures. Mechanically I glanced at the name as he handed the card to
me. Craig was watching intently the expression on my face as I read,
"Miss Yvonne Brixton."
"Since when were you admitted into society?" I gasped, still staring at
the name of the daughter of the millionaire banker, John Brixton.
"She came to tell me that her father is in a virtual state of siege, as
it were, up there in his own house," explained Kennedy in an undertone,
"so much so that, apparently, she is the only person he felt he dared
trust with a message to summon me. Practically everything he says or
does is spied on; he can't even telephone without what he says being
"Siege?" I repeated incredulously. "Impossible. Why, only this morning
I was reading about his negotiations with a foreign syndicate of
bankers from southeastern Europe for a ten-million-dollar loan to
relieve the money stringency there. Surely there must be some mistake
in all this. In fact, as I recall it, one of the foreign bankers who is
trying to interest him is that Count Wachtmann who, everybody says, is
engaged to Miss Brixton, and is staying at the house at Woodrock.
Craig, are you sure nobody is hoaxing you?"
"Read that," he replied laconically, handing me a piece of thin
letter-paper such as is often used for foreign correspondence. "Such
letters have been coming to Mr. Brixton, I understand, every day."
The letter was in a cramped foreign scrawl:
JOHN BRIXTON, Woodrock, New York.
American dollars must not endanger the peace of Europe. Be
warned in time. In the name of liberty and progress we have
raised the standard of conflict without truce or quarter
against reaction. If you and the American bankers associated
with you take up these bonds you will never live to receive
the first payment of interest.
THE RED BROTHERHOOD OF THE BALKANS.
I looked up inquiringly. "What is the Red Brotherhood?" I asked.
"As nearly as I can make out," replied Kennedy, "it seems to be a sort
of international secret society. I believe it preaches the gospel of
terror and violence in the cause of liberty and union of some of the
peoples of southeastern Europe. Anyhow, it keeps its secrets well. The
identity of the members is a mystery, as well as the source of its
funds, which, it is said, are immense."
"And they operate so secretly that Brixton can trust no one about him?"
I asked.
"I believe he is ill," explained Craig. "At any rate, he evidently
suspects almost every one about him except his daughter. As nearly as I
could gather, however, he does not suspect Wachtmann himself. Miss
Brixton seemed to think that there were some enemies of the Count at
work. Her father is a secretive man. Even to her, the only message he
would entrust was that he wanted to see me immediately."
At Woodrock we took our time in getting off the train. Miss Brixton, a
tall, dark-haired, athletic girl just out of college, had preceded us,
and as her own car shot out from the station platform we leisurely
walked down and entered another bearing the number she had given
We seemed to be expected at the house. Hardly had we been admitted
through the door from the porte-cochere, than we were led through a
hall to a library at the side of the house. From the library we entered
another door, then down a flight of steps which must have brought us
below an open courtyard on the outside, under a rim of the terrace in
front of the house for a short distance to a point where we descended
three more steps.
At the head of these three steps was a great steel and iron door with
heavy bolts and a combination lock of a character ordinarily found only
on a safe in a banking institution.
The door was opened, and we descended the steps, going a little farther
in the same direction away from the side of the house. Then we turned
at a right angle facing toward the back of the house but well to one
side of it. It must have been, I figured out later, underneath the open
courtyard. A few steps farther brought us to a fair-sized, vaulted room.
Brixton had evidently been waiting impatiently for our arrival. "Mr.
Kennedy?" he inquired, adding quickly without waiting for an answer: "I
am glad to see you. I suppose you have noticed the precautions we are
taking against intruders? Yet it seems to be all of no avail. I can not
be alone even here. If a telephone message comes to me over my private
wire, if I talk with my own office in the city, it seems that it is
known. I don't know what to make of it. It is terrible. I don't know
what to expect next."
Brixton had been standing beside a huge mahogany desk as we entered. I
had seen him before at a distance as a somewhat pompous speaker at
banquets and the cynosure of the financial district. But there was
something different about his looks now. He seemed to have aged, to
have grown yellower. Even the whites of his eyes were yellow.
I thought at first that perhaps it might be the effect of the light in
the centre of the room, a huge affair set in the ceiling in a sort of
inverted hemisphere of glass, concealing and softening the rays of a
powerful incandescent bulb which it enclosed. It was not the light that
gave him the altered appearance, as I concluded from catching a casual
confirmatory glance of perplexity from Kennedy himself.
"My personal physician says I am suffering from jaundice," explained
Brixton. Rather than seeming to be offended at our notice of his
condition he seemed to take it as a good evidence of Kennedy's keenness
that he had at once hit on one of the things that were weighing on
Brixton's own mind. "I feel pretty badly, too. Curse it," he added
bitterly, "coming at a time when it is absolutely necessary that I
should have all my strength to carry through a negotiation that is only
a beginning, important not so much for myself as for the whole world.
It is one of the first times New York bankers have had a chance to
engage in big dealings in that part of the world. I suppose Yvonne has
shown you one of the letters I am receiving?"
He rustled a sheaf of them which he drew from a drawer of his desk, and
continued, not waiting for Kennedy even to nod:
"Here are a dozen or more of them. I get one or two every day, either
here or at my town house or at the office."
Kennedy had moved forward to see them.
"One moment more," Brixton interrupted, still holding them. "I shall
come back to the letters. That is not the worst. I've had threatening
letters before. Have you noticed this room?"
We had both seen and been impressed by it.
"Let me tell you more about it," he went on. "It was designed
especially to be, among other things, absolutely soundproof."
We gazed curiously about the strong room. It was beautifully decorated
and furnished. On the walls was a sort of heavy, velvety green
wall-paper. Exquisite hangings were draped about, and on the floor were
thick rugs. In all I noticed that the prevailing tint was green.
"I had experiments carried out," he explained languidly, "with the
object of discovering methods and means for rendering walls and
ceilings capable of effective resistance to sound transmission. One of
the methods devised involved the use under the ceiling or parallel to
the wall, as the case might be, of a network of wire stretched tightly
by means of pulleys in the adjacent walls and not touching at any point
the surface to be protected against sound. Upon the wire network is
plastered a composition formed of strong glue, plaster of Paris, and
granulated cork, so as to make a flat slab, between which and the wall
or ceiling is a cushion of confined air. The method is good in two
respects: the absence of contact between the protective and protected
surfaces and the colloid nature of the composition used. I have gone
into the thing at length because it will make all the more remarkable
what I am about to tell you."
Kennedy had been listening attentively. As Brixton proceeded I had
noticed Kennedy's nostrils dilating almost as if he were a hound and
had scented his quarry. I sniffed, too. Yes, there was a faint odour,
almost as if of garlic in the room. It was unmistakable. Craig was
looking about curiously, as if to discover a window by which the odour
might have entered. Brixton, with his eyes following keenly every move,
noticed him.
"More than that" he added quickly, "I have had the most perfect system
of modern ventilation installed in this room, absolutely independent
from that in the house."
Kennedy said nothing.
"A moment ago, Mr. Kennedy, I saw you and Mr. Jameson glancing up at
the ceiling. Sound-proof as this room is, or as I believe it to be,
I--I hear voices, voices from--not through, you understand, but
from--that very ceiling. I do not hear them now. It is only at certain
times when I am alone. They repeat the words in some of these
letters--'You must not take up those bonds. You must not endanger the
peace of the world. You will never live to get the interest.' Over and
over I have heard such sentences spoken in this very room. I have
rushed out and up the corridor. There has been no one there. I have
locked the steel door. Still I have heard the voices. And it is
absolutely impossible that a human being could get close enough to say
them without my knowing and finding out where he is."
Kennedy betrayed by not so much as the motion of a muscle even a shade
of a doubt of Brixton's incredible story. Whether because he believed
it or because he was diplomatic, Craig took the thing at its face
value. He moved a blotter so that he could stand on the top of
Brixton's desk in the centre of the room. Then he unfastened and took
down the glass hemisphere over the light.
"It is an Osram lamp of about a hundred candlepower, I should judge,"
he observed.
Apparently he had satisfied himself that there was nothing concealed in
the light itself. Laboriously, with such assistance as the memory of
Mr. Brixton could give, he began tracing out the course of both the
electric light and telephone wires that led down into the den.
Next came a close examination of the ceiling and side walls, the floor,
the hangings, the pictures, the rugs, everything. Kennedy was tapping
here and there all over the wall, as if to discover whether there was
any such hollow sound as a cavity might make. There was none.
A low exclamation from him attracted my attention, though it escaped
Brixton. His tapping had raised the dust from the velvety wall-paper
wherever he had tried it. Hastily, from a corner where it would not be
noticed, he pulled off a piece of the paper and stuffed it into his
pocket. Then followed a hasty examination of the intake of the
ventilating apparatus.
Apparently satisfied with his examination of things in the den, Craig
now prepared to trace out the course of the telephone and light wires
in the house. Brixton excused himself, asking us to join him in the
library up-stairs after Craig had completed his investigation.
Nothing was discovered by tracing the lines back, as best we could,
from the den. Kennedy therefore began at the other end, and having
found the points in the huge cellar of the house where the main trunk
and feed wires entered, he began a systematic search in that direction.
A separate line led, apparently, to the den, and where this line
feeding the Osram lamp passed near a dark storeroom in a corner Craig
examined more closely than ever. Seemingly his search was rewarded, for
he dived into the dark storeroom and commenced lighting matches
furiously to discover what was there.
"Look, Walter," he exclaimed, holding a match so that I could see what
he had unearthed. There, in a corner concealed by an old chest of
drawers, stood a battery of five storage-cells connected with an
instrument that looked very much like a telephone transmitter, a
rheostat, and a small transformer coil.
"I suppose this is a direct-current lighting circuit," he remarked,
thoughtfully regarding his find. "I think I know what this is, all
right. Any amateur could do it, with a little knowledge of electricity
and a source of direct current. The thing is easily constructed, the
materials are common, and a wonderfully complicated result can be
obtained. What's this?"
He had continued to poke about in the darkness as he was speaking. In
another corner he had discovered two ordinary telephone receivers.
"Connected up with something, too, by George!" he ejaculated.
Evidently some one had tapped the regular telephone wires running into
the house, had run extensions into the little storeroom, and was
prepared to overhear everything that was said either to or by those in
the house.
Further examination disclosed that there were two separate telephone
systems running into Brixton's house. One, with its many extensions,
was used by the household and by the housekeeper; the other was the
private wire which led, ultimately, down into Brixton's den. No sooner
had he discovered it than Kennedy became intensely interested. For the
moment he seemed entirely to forget the electric-light wires and became
absorbed in tracing out the course of the telephone trunk-line and its
extensions. Continued search rewarded him with the discovery that both
the household line and the private line were connected by hastily
improvised extensions with the two receivers he had discovered in the
out-of-the-way corner of a little dark storeroom.
"Don't disturb a thing," remarked Kennedy, cautiously picking up even
the burnt matches he had dropped in his hasty search. "We must devise
some means of catching the eavesdropper red handed. It has all the
marks of being an inside job."
We had completed our investigation of the basement without attracting
any attention, and Craig was careful to make it seem that in entering
the library we came from the den, not from the cellar. As we waited in
the big leather chairs Kennedy was sketching roughly on a sheet of
paper the plan of the house, drawing in the location of the various
The door opened. We had expected John Brixton. Instead, a tall, spare
foreigner with a close-cropped moustache entered. I knew at once that
it must be Count Wachtmann, although I had never seen him.
"Ah, I beg your pardon," he exclaimed in English which betrayed that he
had been under good teachers in London. "I thought Miss Brixton was
"Count Wachtmann?" interrogated Kennedy, rising.
"The same," he replied easily, with a glance of inquiry at us.
"My friend and I are from the Star" said Kennedy.
"Ah! Gentlemen of the press?" He elevated his eyebrows the fraction of
an inch. It was so politely contemptuous that I could almost have
throttled him.
"We are waiting to see Mr. Brixton," explained Kennedy.
"What is the latest from the Near East?" Wachtmann asked, with the air
of a man expecting to hear what he could have told you yesterday if he
had chosen.
There was a movement of the portieres, and a woman entered. She stopped
a moment. I knew it was Miss Brixton. She had recognised Kennedy, but
her part was evidently to treat him as a total stranger.
"Who are these men, Conrad?" she asked, turning to Wachtmann.
"Gentlemen of the press, I believe, to see your father, Yvonne,"
replied the count.
It was evident that it had not been mere newspaper talk about this
latest rumored international engagement.
"How did you enjoy it?" he asked, noticing the title of a history which
she had come to replace in the library.
"Very well--all but the assassinations and the intrigues," she replied
with a little shudder.
He shot a quick, searching look at her face. "They are a violent
people--some of them," he commented quickly.
"You are going into town to-morrow?" I heard him ask Miss Brixton, as
they walked slowly down the wide hall to the conservatory a few moments
"What do you think of him?" I whispered to Kennedy.
I suppose my native distrust of his kind showed through, for Craig
merely shrugged his shoulders. Before he could reply Mr. Brixton joined
"There's another one--just came," he ejaculated, throwing a letter down
on the library table. It was only a few lines this time:
"The bonds will not be subject to a tax by the government, they say.
No--because if there is a war there won't be any government to tax
The note did not appear to interest Kennedy as much as what he had
discovered. "One thing is self-evident, Mr. Brixton," he remarked.
"Some one inside this house is spying, is in constant communication
with a person or persons outside. All the watchmen and Great Danes on
the estate are of no avail against the subtle, underground connection
that I believe exists. It is still early in the afternoon. I shall make
a hasty trip to New York and return after dinner. I should like to
watch with you in the den this evening."
"Very well," agreed Brixton. "I shall arrange to have you met at the
station and brought here as secretly as I can."
He sighed, as if admitting that he was no longer master of even his own
Kennedy was silent during most of our return trip to New York. As for
myself, I was deeply mired in an attempt to fathom Wachtmann. He
baffled me. However, I felt that if there was indeed some subtle,
underground connection between some one inside and someone outside
Brixton's house, Craig would prepare an equally subtle method of
meeting it on his own account. Very little was said by either of us on
the journey up to the laboratory, or on the return to Woodrock. I
realised that there was very little excuse for a commuter not to be
well informed. I, at least, had plenty of time to exhaust the
newspapers I had bought.
Whether or not we returned without being observed, I did not know, but
at least we did find that the basement and dark storeroom were
deserted, as we cautiously made our way again it to the corner where
Craig had made his enigmatical discoveries of the afternoon.
While I held a pocket flashlight Craig was busy concealing another
instrument of his own in the little storeroom. It seemed to be a little
black disk about as big as a watch, with a number of perforated holes
in one face. Carelessly he tossed it into the top drawer of the chest
under some old rubbish, shut the drawer tight and ran a flexible wire
out of the back of the chest. It was a simple matter to lay the wire
through some bins next the storeroom and then around to the passageway
down to the subterranean den of Brixton. There Craig deposited a little
black box about the size of an ordinary kodak.
For an hour or so we sat with Brixton. Neither of us said anything, and
Brixton was uncommunicatively engaged in reading a railroad report.
Suddenly a sort of muttering, singing noise seemed to fill the room.
"There it is!" cried Brixton, clapping the book shut and looking
eagerly at Kennedy.
Gradually the sound increased in pitch. It seemed to come from the
ceiling, not from any particular part of the room, but merely from
somewhere overhead. There was no hallucination about it. We all heard.
As the vibrations increased it was evident that they were shaping
themselves into words.
Kennedy had grasped the black box the moment the sound began and was
holding two black rubber disks to his ears.
At last the sound from overhead became articulate It was weird,
uncanny. Suddenly a voice said distinctly: "Let American dollars
beware. They will not protect American daughters."
Craig had dropped the two ear-pieces and was gazing intently at the
Osram lamp in the ceiling. Was he, too, crazy?
"Here, Mr. Brixton, take these two receivers of the detectaphone," said
Kennedy. "Tell me whether you can recognise the voice."
"Why, it's familiar," he remarked slowly. "I can't place it, but I've
heard it before. Where is it? What is this thing, anyhow?"
"It is someone hidden in the storeroom in the basement," answered
Craig. "He is talking into a very sensitive telephone transmitter and--"
"But the voice--here?" interrupted Brixton impatiently.
Kennedy pointed to the incandescent lamp in the ceiling. "The
incandescent lamp," he said, "is not always the mute electrical
apparatus it is supposed to be. Under the right conditions it can be
made to speak exactly as the famous 'speaking-arc,' as it was called by
Professor Duddell, who investigated it. Both the arc-light and the
metal-filament lamp can be made to act as telephone receivers."
It seemed unbelievable, but Kennedy was positive. "In the case of the
speaking-arc or 'arcophone,' as it might be called," he continued, "the
fact that the electric arc is sensitive to such small variations in the
current over a wide range of frequency has suggested that a
direct-current arc might be used as a telephone receiver. All that is
necessary is to superimpose a microphone current on the main arc
current, and the arc reproduces sounds and speech distinctly, loud
enough to be heard several feet. Indeed, the arc could be used as a
transmitter, too, if a sensitive receiver replaced the transmitter at
the other end. The things needed are an arc-lamp, an impedance coil, or
small transformer-coil, a rheostat, and a source of energy. The
alternating current is not adapted to reproduce speech, but the
ordinary direct current is. Of course, the theory isn't half as simple
as the apparatus I have described."
He had unscrewed the Osram lamp. The talking ceased immediately.
"Two investigators named Ort and Ridger have used a lamp like this as a
receiver," he continued. "They found that words spoken were reproduced
in the lamp. The telephonic current variations superposed on the
current passing through the lamp produce corresponding variations of
heat in the filament, which are radiated to the glass of the bulb,
causing it to expand and contract proportionately, and thus
transmitting vibrations to the exterior air. Of course, in sixteen-and
thirty-two-candle-power lamps the glass is too thick, and the heat
variations are too feeble."
Who was it whose voice Brixton had recognised as familiar over
Kennedy's hastily installed detectaphone? Certainly he must have been a
scientist of no mean attainment. That did not surprise me, for I
realised that from that part of Europe where this mystical Red
Brotherhood operated some of the most famous scientists of the world
had sprung.
A hasty excursion into the basement netted us nothing. The place was
We could only wait. With parting instructions to Brixton in the use of
the detectaphone we said good night, were met by a watchman and
escorted as far as the lodge safely.
Only one remark did Kennedy make as we settled ourselves for the long
ride in the accommodation train to the city. "That warning means that
we have two people to protect--both Brixton and his daughter."
Speculate as I might, I could find no answer to the mystery, nor to the
question, which was also unsolved, as to the queer malady of Brixton
himself, which his physician diagnosed as jaundice.
Far after midnight though it had been when we had at last turned in at
our apartment, Kennedy was up even earlier than usual in the morning. I
found him engrossed in work at the laboratory.
"Just in time to see whether I'm right in my guess about the illness of
Brixton," he remarked, scarcely looking up at me.
He had taken a flask with a rubber stopper. Through one hole in it was
fitted a long funnel; through another ran a glass tube, connecting with
a large U-shaped drying-tube filled with calcium chloride, which in
turn connected with a long open tube with an up-turned end.
Into the flask Craig dropped some pure granulated zinc coated with
platinum. Then he covered it with dilute sulphuric acid through the
funnel tube. "That forms hydrogen gas," he explained, "which passes
through the drying-tube and the ignition-tube. Wait a moment until all
the air is expelled from the tubes."
He lighted a match and touched it to the open upturned end. The
hydrogen, now escaping freely, was ignited with a pale-blue flame.
into the funnel-tube.
Almost immediately the pale, bluish flame turned to bluish white, and
white fumes were formed. In the ignition-tube a sort of metallic
deposit appeared. Quickly he made one test after another. I sniffed.
There was an unmistakable smell of garlic in the air.
"Arseniureted hydrogen," commented Craig. "This is the Marsh test for
arsenic. That wall-paper in Brixton's den has been loaded down with
arsenic, probably Paris green or Schweinfurth green, which is
aceto-arsenite of copper. Every minute he is there he is breathing
arseniureted hydrogen. Some one has contrived to introduce free
hydrogen into the intake of his ventilator. That acts on the arsenic
compounds in the wall-paper and hangings and sets free the gas. I
thought I knew the smell the moment I got a whiff of it. Besides, I
could tell by the jaundiced look of his face that he was being
poisoned. His liver was out of order, and arsenic seems to accumulate
in the liver."
"Slowly poisoned by minute quantities of gas," I repeated in amazement.
"Some one in that Red Brotherhood is a diabolical genius. Think of
it--poisoned wall-paper!"
It was still early in the forenoon when Kennedy excused himself, and
leaving me to my own devices disappeared on one of his excursions into
the underworld of the foreign settlements on the East Side. About the
middle of the afternoon he reappeared. As far as I could learn all that
he had found out was that the famous, or rather infamous, Professor
Michael Kumanova, one of the leaders of the Red Brotherhood, was known
to be somewhere in this country.
We lost no time in returning again to Woodrock late that afternoon.
Craig hastened to warn Brixton of his peril from the contaminated
atmosphere of the den, and at once a servant was set to work with a
vacuum cleaner.
Carefully Craig reconnoitred the basement where the eavesdropping
storeroom was situated. Finding it deserted, he quickly set to work
connecting the two wires of the general household telephone with what
looked very much like a seamless iron tube, perhaps six inches long and
three inches in diameter. Then he connected the tube also with the
private wire of Brixton in a similar manner.
"This is a special repeating-coil of high efficiency," he explained in
answer to my inquiry. "It is absolutely balanced as to resistance,
number of turns, and everything. I shall run this third line from the
coil into Brixton's den, and then, if you like, you can accompany me on
a little excursion down to the village where I am going to install
another similar coil between the two lines at the local telephone
central station opposite the railroad."
Brixton met us about eight o'clock that night in his now renovated den.
Apparently, even the little change from uncertainty to certainty so far
had had a tonic effect on him. I had, however, almost given up the
illusion that it was possible for us to be even in the den without
being watched by an unseen eye. It seemed to me that to one who could
conceive of talking through an incandescent lamp seeing, even through
steel and masonry, was not impossible.
Kennedy had brought with him a rectangular box of oak, in one of the
large faces of which were two square boles. As he replaced the black
camera-like box of the detectaphone with this oak box he remarked:
"This is an intercommunicating telephone arrangement of the
detectaphone. You see, it is more sensitive than anything of the sort
ever made before. The arrangement of these little square holes is such
as to make them act as horns or magnifiers of a double receiver. We can
all hear at once what is going on by using this machine."
We had not been waiting long before a peculiar noise seemed to issue
from the detectaphone. It was as though a door had been opened and shut
hastily. Some one had evidently entered the storeroom. A voice called
up the railroad station and asked for Michael Kronski, Count
Wachtmann's chauffeur.
"It is the voice I heard last night," exclaimed Brixton. "By the Lord
Harry, do you know, it is Janeff the engineer who has charge of the
steam heating, the electric bells, and everything of the sort around
the place. My own engineer--I'll land the fellow in jail before I'll--"
Kennedy raised his hand. "Let us hear what he has to say," remonstrated
Craig calmly. "I suppose you have wondered why I didn't just go down
there last night and grab the fellow. Well, you see now. It is my
invariable rule to get the man highest up. This fellow is only one
tool. Arrest him, and as likely as not we should allow the big criminal
to escape."
"Hello, Kronski!" came over the detectaphone. "This is Janeff. How are
things going?"
Wachtmann's chauffeur must have answered that everything was all right.
"You knew that they had discovered the poisoned wall-paper?" asked
A long parley followed. Finally, Janeff repeated what apparently had
been his instructions. "Now, let me see," he said. "You want me to stay
here until the last minute so that I can overhear whether any alarm is
given for her? All right. You're sure it is the nine-o'clock train she
is due on? Very well. I shall meet you at the ferry across the Hudson.
I'll start from here as soon as I hear the train come in. We'll get the
girl this time. That will bring Brixton to terms sure. You're right.
Even if we fail this time, we'll succeed later. Don't fail me. I'll be
at the ferry as soon as I can get past the guards and join you. There
isn't a chance of an alarm from the house. I'll cut all the wires the
last thing before I leave. Good-bye."
All at once it dawned on me what they were planning--the kidnapping of
Brixton's only daughter, to hold her, perhaps, as a hostage until he
did the bidding of the gang. Wachtmann's chauffeur was doing it and
using Wachtmann's car, too. Was Wachtmann a party to it?
What was to be done? I looked at my watch. It was already only a couple
of minutes of nine, when the train would be due.
"If we could seize that fellow in the closet and start for the station
immediately we might save Yvonne," cried Brixton, starting for the door.
"And if they escape you make them more eager than ever to strike a blow
at you and yours," put in Craig coolly. "No, let us get this thing
straight. I didn't think it was as serious as this, but I'm prepared to
meet any emergency."
"But, man," shouted Brixton, "you don't suppose anything in the world
counts beside her, do you?"
"Exactly the point," urged Craig. "Save her and capture them--both at
"How can you?" fumed Brixton. "If you attempt to telephone from here,
that fellow Janeff will overhear and give a warning."
Regardless of whether Janeff was listening or not, Kennedy was eagerly
telephoning to the Woodrock central down in the village. He was using
the transmitter and receiver that were connected with the iron tube
which he had connected to the two regular house lines.
"Have the ferry held at any cost," he was ordering. "Don't let the next
boat go out until Mr. Brixton gets there, under any circumstances. Now
put that to them straight, central. You know Mr. Brixton has just a
little bit of influence around here, and somebody's head will drop if
they let that boat go out before he gets there."
"Humph!" ejaculated Brixton. "Much good that will do. Why, I suppose
our friend Janeff down in the storeroom knows it all now. Come on,
let's grab him."
Nevertheless there was no sound from the detectaphone which would
indicate that he had overheard and was spreading the alarm. He was
there yet, for we could hear him clear his throat once or twice.
"No," replied Kennedy calmly, "he knows nothing about it. I didn't use
any ordinary means to prepare against the experts who have brought this
situation about. That message you heard me send went out over what we
call the 'phantom circuit.'"
"The phantom circuit?" repeated Brixton, chafing at the delay.
"Yes, it seems fantastic at first, I suppose," pursued Kennedy calmly;
"but, after all, it is in accordance with the laws of electricity. It's
no use fretting and fuming, Mr. Brixton. If Janeff can wait, we'll have
to do so, too. Suppose we should start and this Kronski should change
his plans at the last minute? How would we find it out? By telepathy?
Believe me, sir, it is better to wait here a minute and trust to the
phantom circuit than to mere chance."
"But suppose he should cut the line," I put in.
Kennedy smiled. "I have provided for that, Walter, in the way I
installed the thing. I took good care that we could not be cut off that
way. We can hear everything ourselves, but we cannot be overheard. He
knows nothing. You see, I took advantage of the fact that additional
telephones or so-called phantom lines can be superposed on existing
physical lines. It is possible to obtain a third circuit from two
similar metallic circuits by using for each side of this third circuit
the two wires of each of the other circuits in multiple. All three
circuits are independent, too.
"The third telephone current enters the wires of the first circuit, as
it were, and returns along the wires of the second circuit. There are
several ways of doing it. One is to use retardation or choke-coils
bridged across the two metallic circuits at both ends, with taps taken
from the middle points of each. But the more desirable method is the
one you saw me install this afternoon. I introduced repeating-coils
into the circuits at both ends. Technically, the third circuit is then
taken off from the mid-points of the secondaries or line windings of
these repeating coils.
"The current on a long-distance line is alternating in character, and
it passes readily through a repeating-coil. The only effect it has on
the transmission is slightly reducing the volume. The current passes
into the repeating-coil, then divides and passes through the two line
wires. At the other end the halves balance, so to speak. Thus, currents
passing over a phantom circuit don't set up currents in the terminal
apparatus of the side circuits. Consequently, a conversation carried on
over the phantom circuit will not be heard in either side circuit, nor
does a conversation on one side circuit affect the phantom. We could
all talk at once without interfering with each other."
"At any other time I should be more than interested," remarked Brixton
grimly, curbing his impatience to be doing something.
"I appreciate that, sir," rejoined Kennedy. "Ah, here it is. I have the
central down in the village. Yes? They will hold the boat for us? Good.
Thank you. The nine-o'clock train is five minutes late? Yes--what?
Count Wachtmann's car is there? Oh, yes, the train is just pulling in.
I see. Miss Brixton has entered his car alone. What's that? His
chauffeur has started the car without waiting for the Count, who is
coming down the platform?"
Instantly Kennedy was on his feet. He was dashing up the corridor and
the stairs from the den and down into the basement to the little
We burst into the place. It was empty. Janeff had cut the wires and
fled. There was not a moment to lose. Craig hastily made sure that he
had not discovered or injured the phantom circuit.
"Call the fastest car you have in your garage, Mr. Brixton," ordered
Kennedy. "Hello, hello, central! Get the lodge at the Brixton estate.
Tell them if they see the engineer Janeff going out to stop him. Alarm
the watchman and have the dogs ready. Catch him at any cost, dead, or
A moment later Brixton's car raced around, and we piled in and were off
like a whirlwind. Already we could see lights moving about and hear the
baying of dogs. Personally, I wouldn't have given much for Janeff's
chances of escape.
As we turned the bend in the road just before we reached the ferry, we
almost ran into two cars standing before the ferry house. It looked as
though one had run squarely in front of the other and blocked it off.
In the slip the ferry boat was still steaming and waiting.
Beside the wrecked car a man was lying on the ground groaning, while
another man was quieting a girl whom he was leading to the waiting-room
of the ferry.
Brixton, weak though he was from his illness, leaped out of our car
almost before we stopped and caught the girl in his arms.
"Father!" she exclaimed, clinging to him.
"What's this?" he demanded sternly, eying the man. It was Wachtmann
"Conrad saved me from that chauffeur of his," explained Miss Brixton.
"I met him on the train, and we were going to ride up to the house
together. But before Conrad could get into the car this fellow, who had
the engine running, started it. Conrad jumped into another car that was
waiting at the station. He overlook us and dodged in front so as to cut
the chauffeur off from the ferry."
"Curse that villain of a chauffeur," muttered Wachtmann, looking down
at the wounded man.
"Do you know who he is?" asked Craig with a searching glance at
Wachtmann's face.
"I ought to. His name is Kronski, and a blacker devil an employment
bureau never furnished."
"Kronski? No," corrected Kennedy. "It is Professor Kumanova, whom you
perhaps have heard of as a leader of the Red Brotherhood, one of the
cleverest scientific criminals who ever lived. I think you'll have no
more trouble negotiating your loan or your love affair, Count," added
Craig, turning on his heel.
He was in no mood to receive the congratulations of the supercilious
Wachtmann. As far as Craig was concerned, the case was finished,
although I fancied from a flicker of his eye as he made some passing
reference to the outcome that when he came to send in a bill to Brixton
for his services he would not forget the high eyebrowed Count.
I followed in silence as Craig climbed into the Brixton car and
explained to the banker that it was imperative that he should get back
to the city immediately. Nothing would do but that the car must take us
all the way back, while Brixton summoned another from the house for
The ride was accomplished swiftly in record time. Kennedy said little.
Apparently the exhilaration of the on-rush of cool air was quite in
keeping with his mood, though for my part, I should have preferred
something a little more relaxing of the nervous tension.
"We've been at it five days, now," I remarked wearily as I dropped into
an easy chair in our own quarters. "Are you going to keep up this
Kennedy laughed.
"No," he said with a twinkle of scientific mischief, "no, I'm going to
sleep it off."
"Thank heaven!" I muttered.
"Because," he went on seriously, "that case interrupted a long series
of tests I am making on the sensitiveness of selenium to light, and I
want to finish them up soon. There's no telling when I shall be called
on to use the information."
I swallowed hard. He really meant it. He was laying out more work for
Next morning I fully expected to find that he had gone. Instead he was
preparing for what he called a quiet day in the laboratory.
"Now for some REAL work," he smiled. "Sometimes, Walter, I feel that I
ought to give up this outside activity and devote myself entirely to
research. It is so much more important."
I could only stare at him and reflect on how often men wanted to do
something other than the very thing that nature had evidently intended
them to do, and on how fortunate it was that we were not always free
He set out for the laboratory and I determined that as long as he would
not stop working, neither would I. I tried to write. Somehow I was not
in the mood. I wrote AT my story, but succeeded only in making it more
unintelligible. I was in no fit condition for it.
It was late in the afternoon. I had made up my mind to use force, if
necessary, to separate Kennedy from his study of selenium. My idea was
that anything from the Metropolitan to the "movies" would do him good,
and I had almost carried my point when a big, severely plain black
foreign limousine pulled up with a rush at the laboratory door. A large
man in a huge fur coat jumped out and the next moment strode into the
room. He needed no introduction, for we recognised at once J. Perry
Spencer, one of the foremost of American financiers and a trustee of
the university.
With that characteristic directness which I have always thought
accounted in large measure for his success, he wasted scarcely a word
in coming straight to the object of his visit. "Professor Kennedy," he
began, chewing his cigar and gazing about with evident interest at the
apparatus Craig had collected in his warfare of science with crime, "I
have dropped in here as a matter of patriotism. I want you to preserve
to America those masterpieces of art and literature which I have
collected all over the world during many years. They are the objects of
one of the most curious pieces of vandalism of which I have ever heard.
Professor Kennedy," he concluded earnestly, "could I ask you to call on
Dr. Hugo Lith, the curator of my private museum, as soon as you can
possibly find it convenient?"
"Most assuredly, Mr. Spencer," replied Craig, with a whimsical side
glance at me that told without words that this was better relaxation to
him than either the Metropolitan or the "movies." "I shall be glad to
see Dr. Lith at any time--right now, if it is convenient to him."
The millionaire connoisseur consulted his watch. "Lith will be at the
museum until six, at least. Yes, we can catch him there. I have a
dinner engagement at seven myself. I can give you half an hour of the
time before then. If you're ready, just jump into the car, both of you."
The museum to which he referred was a handsome white marble building,
in Renaissance, fronting on a side street just off Fifth Avenue and in
the rear of the famous Spencer house, itself one of the show places of
that wonderful thoroughfare. Spencer had built the museum at great cost
simply to house those treasures which were too dear to him to entrust
to a public institution. It was in the shape of a rectangle and planned
with special care as to the lighting.
Dr. Lith, a rather stout, mild-eyed German savant, plunged directly
into the middle of things as soon as we had been introduced. "It is a
most remarkable affair, gentlemen," he began, placing for us chairs
that must have been hundreds of years old. "At first it was only those
objects in the museum, that were green that were touched, like the
collection of famous and historic French emeralds. But soon we found it
was other things, too, that were missing--old Roman coins of gold, a
collection of watches, and I know not what else until we have gone over
"Where is Miss White?" interrupted Spencer, who had been listening
somewhat impatiently.
"In the library, sir. Shall I call her?"
"No, I will go myself. I want her to tell her experience to Professor
Kennedy exactly as she told it to me. Explain while I am gone how
impossible it would be for a visitor to do one, to say nothing of all,
of the acts of vandalism we have discovered."
The American Medici disappeared into his main library, where Miss White
was making a minute examination to determine what damage had been done
in the realm over which she presided.
"Apparently every book with a green binding has been mutilated in some
way," resumed Dr. Lith, "but that was only the beginning. Others have
suffered, too, and some are even gone. It is impossible that any
visitor could have done it. Only a few personal friends of Mr. Spencer
are ever admitted here, and they are never alone. No, it is weird,
Just then Spencer returned with Miss White. She was an extremely
attractive girl, slight of figure, but with an air about her that all
the imported gowns in New York could not have conferred. They were
engaged in animated conversation, so much in contrast with the bored
air with which Spencer had listened to Dr. Lith that even I noticed
that the connoisseur was completely obliterated in the man, whose love
of beauty was by no means confined to the inanimate. I wondered if it
was merely his interest in her story that impelled Spencer. The more I
watched the girl the more I was convinced that she knew that she was
interesting to the millionaire.
"For example," Dr. Lith was saying, "the famous collection of emeralds
which has disappeared has always been what you Americans call
'hoodooed.' They hare always brought ill luck, and, like many things of
the sort to which superstition attaches, they have been 'banked,' so to
speak, by their successive owners in museums."
"Are they salable; that is, could any one dispose of the emeralds or
the other curios with reasonable safety and at a good price?"
"Oh, yes, yes," hastened Dr. Lith, "not as collections, but separately.
The emeralds alone cost fifty thousand dollars. I believe Mr. Spencer
bought them for Mrs. Spencer some years before she died. She did not
care to wear them, however, and had them placed here."
I thought I noticed a shade of annoyance cross the face of the magnate.
"Never mind that," he interrupted. "Let me introduce Miss White. I
think you will find her story one of the most uncanny you have ever
He had placed a chair for her and, still addressing us but looking at
her, went on: "It seems that the morning the vandalism was first
discovered she and Dr. Lith at once began a thorough search of the
building to ascertain the extent of the depredations. The search lasted
all day, and well into the night. I believe it was midnight before you
"It was almost twelve," began the girl, in a musical voice that was too
Parisian to harmonize with her plain Anglo-Saxon name, "when Dr. Lith
was down here in his office checking off the objects in the catalogue
which were either injured or missing. I had been working in the
library. The noise of something like a shade flapping in the wind
attracted my attention. I listened. It seemed to come from the
art-gallery, a large room up-stairs where some of the greatest
masterpieces in this country are hung. I hurried up there.
"Just as I reached the door a strange feeling seemed to come over me
that I was not alone in that room. I fumbled for the electric light
switch, but in my nervousness could not find it. There was just enough
light in the room to make out objects indistinctly. I thought I heard a
low, moaning sound from an old Flemish copper ewer near me. I had heard
that it was supposed to groan at night."
She paused and shuddered at her recollection, and looked about as if
grateful for the flood of electric light that now illuminated
everything. Spencer reached over and touched her arm to encourage her
to go on. She did not seem to resent the touch.
"Opposite me, in the middle of the open floor," she resumed, her eyes
dilated and her breath coming and going rapidly, "stood the mummy-case
of Ka, an Egyptian priestess of Thebes, I think. The case was empty,
but on the lid was painted a picture of the priestess! Such wonderful
eyes! They seem to pierce right through your very soul. Often in the
daytime I have stolen off to look at them. But at night--remember the
hour of night, too--oh, it was awful, terrible. The lid of the
mummy-case moved, yes, really moved, and seemed to float to one side. I
could see it. And back of that carved and painted face with the
piercing eyes was another face, a real face, real eyes, and they looked
out at me with such hatred from the place that I knew was empty--"
She had risen and was facing us with wild terror written on her face as
if in appeal for protection against something she was powerless to
name. Spencer, who had not taken his hand off her arm, gently pressed
her back into the easy chair and finished the story.
"She screamed and fainted. Dr. Lith heard it and rushed up-stairs.
There she lay on the floor. The lid of the sarcophagus had really been
moved. He saw it. Not a thing else had been disturbed. He carried her
down here and revived her, told her to rest for a day or two, but--"
"I cannot, I cannot," she cried. "It is the fascination of the thing.
It brings me back here. I dream of it. I thought I saw those eyes the
other night. They haunt me. I fear them, and yet I would not avoid
them, if it killed me to look. I must meet and defy the power. What is
it? Is it a curse four thousand years old that has fallen on me?"
I had heard stories of mummies that rose from their sleep of centuries
to tell the fate of some one when it was hanging in the balance, of
mummies that groaned and gurgled and fought for breath, frantically
beating with their swathed hands in the witching hours of the night.
And I knew that the lure of these mummies was so strong for some people
that they were drawn irresistibly to look upon and confer with them.
Was this a case for the oculists, the spiritualists, the Egyptologists,
or for a detective?
"I should like to examine the art gallery, in fact, go over the whole
museum," put in Kennedy in his most matter-of-fact tone.
Spencer, with a glance at his watch, excused himself, nodding to Dr.
Lith to show us about, and with a good night to Miss White which was
noticeable for its sympathy with her fears, said, "I shall be at the
house for another half-hour at least, in case anything really important
A few minutes later Miss White left for the night, with apparent
reluctance, and yet, I thought, with just a little shudder as she
looked back up the staircase that led to the art-gallery.
Dr. Lith led us into a large vaulted marble hall and up a broad flight
of steps, past beautiful carvings and frescoes that I should have liked
to stop and admire.
The art-gallery was a long room in the interior and at the top of the
building, windowless but lighted by a huge double skylight each half of
which must have been some eight or ten feet across. The light falling
through this skylight passed through plate glass of marvellous
transparency. One looked up at the sky as if through the air itself.
Kennedy ignored the gallery's profusion of priceless art for the time
and went directly to the mummy-case of the priestess Ka.
"It has a weird history," remarked Dr. Lith. "No less than seven
deaths, as well as many accidents, have been attributed to the malign
influence of that greenish yellow coffin. You know the ancient
Egyptians used to chant as they buried their sacred dead: 'Woe to him
who injures the tomb. The dead shall point out the evildoer to the
Devourer of the Underworld. Soul and body shall be destroyed.'"
It was indeed an awesome thing. It represented a woman in the robes of
an Egyptian priestess, a woman of medium height, with an inscrutable
face. The slanting Egyptian eyes did, as Miss White had said, almost
literally stare through you. I am sure that any one possessing a nature
at all affected by such things might after a few minutes gazing at them
in self-hypnotism really convince himself that the eyes moved and were
real. Even as I turned and looked the other way I felt that those
penetrating eyes were still looking at me, never asleep, always keen
and searching.
There was no awe about Kennedy. He carefully pushed aside the lid and
peered inside. I almost expected to see some one in there. A moment
later he pulled out his magnifying-glass and carefully examined the
interior. At last he was apparently satisfied with his search. He had
narrowed his attention down to a few marks on the stone, partly in the
thin layer of dust that had collected on the bottom.
"This was a very modern and material reincarnation," he remarked, as he
rose. "If I am not mistaken, the apparition wore shoes, shoes with
nails in the heels, and nails that are not like those in American
shoes. I shall have to compare the marks I have found with marks I have
copied from shoe-nails in the wonderful collection of M. Bertillon.
Offhand, I should say that the shoes were of French make."
The library having been gone over next without anything attracting
Kennedy's attention particularly, he asked about the basement or
cellar. Dr. Lith lighted the way, and we descended.
Down there were innumerable huge packing-cases which had just arrived
from abroad, full of the latest consignment of art treasures which
Spencer had purchased. Apparently Dr. Lith and Miss White had been so
engrossed in discovering what damage had been done to the art treasures
above that they had not had time to examine the new ones in the
Kennedy's first move was to make a thorough search of all the little
grated windows and a door which led out into a sort of little areaway
for the removal of ashes and refuse. The door showed no evidence of
having been tampered with, nor did any of the windows at first sight. A
low exclamation from Kennedy brought us to his side. He had opened one
of the windows and thrust his hand out against the grating, which had
fallen on the outside pavement with a clang. The bars had been
completely and laboriously sawed through, and the whole thing had been
wedged back into place so that nothing would be detected at a cursory
glance. He was regarding the lock on the window. Apparently it was all
right; actually it had been sprung so that it was useless.
"Most persons," he remarked, "don't know enough about jimmies. Against
them an ordinary door-lock or window-catch is no protection. With a
jimmy eighteen inches long even an anaemic burglar can exert a pressure
sufficient to lift two tons. Not one window in a thousand can stand
that strain. The only use of locks is to keep out sneak-thieves and
compel the modern scientific educated burglar to make a noise. But
making a noise isn't enough here, at night. This place with all its
fabulous treasures must be guarded constantly, now, every hour, as if
the front door were wide open."
The bars replaced and the window apparently locked as before, Craig
devoted his efforts to examining the packing cases in the basement. As
yet apparently nothing down there had been disturbed. But while
rummaging about, from an angle formed behind one of the cases he drew
forth a cane, to all appearances an ordinary Malacca walking-stick. He
balanced it in his hand a moment, then shook his head.
"Too heavy for a Malacca," he ruminated. Then an idea seemed to occur
to him. He gave the handle a twist. Sure enough, it came off, and as it
did so a bright little light flashed up.
"Well, what do you think of that?" he exclaimed. "For a scientific
dark-lantern that is the neatest thing I have ever seen. An electric
light cane, with a little incandescent lamp and a battery hidden in it.
This grows interesting. We must at last have found the cache of a real
gentleman burglar such as Bertillon says exists only in books. I wonder
if he has anything else hidden back here."
He reached down and pulled out a peculiar little instrument--a single
blue steel cylinder. He fitted a hard rubber cap snugly into the palm
of his hand, and with the first and middle fingers encircled the
cylinder over a steel ring near the other end.
A loud report followed, and a vase, just unpacked, at the opposite end
of the basement was shattered as if by an explosion.
"Phew!" exclaimed Kennedy. "I didn't mean to do that. I knew the thing
was loaded, but I had no idea the hair-spring ring at the end was so
delicate as to shoot it off at a touch. It's one of those aristocratic
little Apache pistols that one can carry in his vest pocket and hide in
his hand. Say, but that stung! And back here is a little box of
cartridges, too."
We looked at each other in amazement at the chance find. Apparently the
vandal had planned a series of visits.
"Now, let me see," resumed Kennedy. "I suppose our very human but none
the less mysterious intruder expected to use these again. Well, let him
try. I'll put them back here for the present. I want to watch in the
art-gallery to-night."
I could not help wondering whether, after all, it might not be an
inside job and the fixing of the window merely a blind. Or was the
vandal fascinated by the subtle influence of mysticism that so often
seems to emanate from objects that have come down from the remote ages
of the world? I could not help asking myself whether the story that
Miss White had told was absolutely true. Had there been anything more
than superstition in the girl's evident fright? She had seen something,
I felt sure, for it was certain she was very much disturbed. But what
was it she had really seen? So far all that Kennedy had found had
proved that the reincarnation of the priestess Ka had been very
material. Perhaps the "reincarnation" had got in in the daytime and had
spent the hours until night in the mummy-case. It might well have been
chosen as the safest and least suspicious hiding-place.
Kennedy evidently had some ideas and plans, for no sooner had he
completed arrangements with Dr. Lith so that we could get into the
museum that night to watch, than he excused himself. Scarcely around
the corner on the next business street he hurried into a telephone
"I called up First Deputy O'Connor," he explained as he left the booth
a quarter of an hour later. "You know it is the duty of two of
O'Connor's men to visit all the pawn-shops of the city at least once a
week, looking over recent pledges and comparing them with descriptions
of stolen articles. I gave him a list from that catalogue of Dr. Lith's
and I think that if any of the emeralds, for instance, have been pawned
his men will be on the alert and will find it out."
We had a leisurely dinner at a near-by hotel, during most of which time
Kennedy gazed vacantly at his food. Only once did he mention the case,
and that was almost as if he were thinking aloud.
"Nowadays," he remarked, "criminals are exceptionally well informed.
They used to steal only money and jewels; to-day it is famous pictures
and antiques also. They know something about the value of antique
bronze and marble. In fact, the spread of a taste for art has taught
the enterprising burglar that such things are worth money, and he, in
turn, has educated up the receivers of stolen goods to pay a reasonable
percentage of the value of his artistic plunder. The success of the
European art thief is enlightening the American thief. That's why I
think we'll find some of this stuff in the hands of the professional
It was still early in the evening when we returned to the museum and
let ourselves in with the key that Dr. Lith had loaned Kennedy. He had
been anxious to join us in the watch, but Craig had diplomatically
declined, a circumstance that puzzled me and set me thinking that
perhaps he suspected the curator himself.
We posted ourselves in an angle where we could not possibly be seen
even if the full force of the electrolier were switched on. Hour after
hour we waited. But nothing happened. There were strange and weird
noises in plenty, not calculated to reassure one, but Craig was always
ready with an explanation.
It was in the forenoon of the day after our long and unfruitful vigil
in the art-gallery that Dr. Lith himself appeared at our apartment in a
great state of perturbation.
"Miss White has disappeared," he gasped, in answer to Craig's hurried
question. "When I opened the museum, she was not there as she is
usually. Instead, I found this note."
He laid the following hastily written message on the table:
Do not try to follow me. It is the green curse that has
pursued me from Paris. I cannot escape it, but I may prevent
it from affecting others.
LUCILLE WHITE.
That was all. We looked at each other at a loss to understand the
enigmatic wording--"the green curse."
"I rather expected something of the sort," observed Kennedy. "By the
way, the shoenails were French, as I surmised. They show the marks of
French heels. It was Miss White herself who hid in the mummy-case."
"Impossible," exclaimed Dr. Lith incredulously. As for myself, I had
learned that it was of no use being incredulous with Kennedy.
A moment later the door opened, and one of O'Connor's men came in
bursting with news. Some of the emeralds had been discovered in a Third
Avenue pawn-shop. O'Connor, mindful of the historic fate of the Mexican
Madonna and the stolen statue of the Egyptian goddess Neith, had
instituted a thorough search with the result that at least part of the
pilfered jewels had been located. There was only one clue to the thief,
but it looked promising. The pawnbroker described him as "a crazy
Frenchman of an artist," tall, with a pointed black beard. In pawning
the jewels he had given the name of Edouard Delaverde, and the city
detectives were making a canvass of the better known studios in hope of
tracing him.
Kennedy, Dr. Lith and myself walked around to the boarding-house where
Miss White lived. There was nothing about it, from the landlady to the
gossip, to distinguish it from scores of other places of the better
sort. We had no trouble in finding out that Miss White had not returned
home at all the night before. The landlady seemed to look on her as a
woman of mystery, and confided to us that it was an open secret that
she was not an American at all, but a French girl whose name, she
believed, was really Lucille Leblanc--which, after all, was White.
Kennedy made no comment, but I wavered between the conclusions that she
had been the victim of foul play and that she might be the criminal
herself, or at least a member of a band of criminals.
No trace of her could be found through the usual agencies for locating
missing persons. It was the middle of the afternoon, however, when word
came to us that one of the city detectives had apparently located the
studio of Delaverde. It was coupled with the interesting information
that the day before a woman roughly answering the description of Miss
White had been seen there. Delaverde himself was gone.
The building to which the detective took us was down-town in a
residence section which had remained as a sort of little eddy to one
side of the current of business that had swept everything before it
up-town. It was an old building and large, and was entirely given over
to studios of artists.
Into one of the cheapest of the suites we were directed. It was almost
bare of furniture and in a peculiarly shiftless state of disorder. A
half-finished picture stood in the centre of the room, and several
completed ones were leaning against the wall. They were of the wildest
character imaginable. Even the conceptions of the futurists looked tame
in comparison.
Kennedy at once began rummaging and exploring. In a corner of a
cupboard near the door he disclosed a row of dark-colored bottles. One
was filled halfway with an emerald-green liquid.
He held it up to the light and read the label, "Absinthe."
"Ah," he exclaimed with evident interest, looking first at the bottle
and then at the wild, formless pictures. "Our crazy Frenchman was an
absintheur. I thought the pictures were rather the product of a
disordered mind than of genius."
He replaced the bottle, adding: "It is only recently that our own
government placed a ban on the importation of that stuff as a result of
the decision of the Department of Agriculture that it was dangerous to
health and conflicted with the pure food law. In France they call it
the 'scourge,' the 'plague,' the 'enemy,' the 'queen of poisons.'
Compared with other alcoholic beverages it has the greatest toxicity of
all. There are laws against the stuff in France, Switzerland, and
Belgium. It isn't the alcohol alone, although there is from fifty to
eighty per cent. in it, that makes it so deadly. It is the absinthe,
the oil of wormwood, whose bitterness has passed into a proverb. The
active principle absinthin is a narcotic poison. The stuff creates a
habit most insidious and difficult to break, a longing more exacting
than hunger. It is almost as fatal as cocaine in its blasting effects
on mind and body.
"Wormwood," he pursued, still rummaging about, "has a special affinity
for the brain-cells and the nervous system in general. It produces a
special affliction of the mind, which might be called absinthism. Loss
of will follows its use, brutishness, softening of the brain. It gives
rise to the wildest hallucinations. Perhaps that was why our absintheur
chose first to destroy or steal all things green, as if there were some
merit in the colour, when he might have made away with so many more
valuable things. Absintheurs have been known to perform some of the
most intricate manoeuvres, requiring great skill and the use of
delicate tools. They are given to disappearing, and have no memory of
their actions afterward."
On an ink-spattered desk lay some books, including Lombroso's
"Degenerate Man" and "Criminal Woman." Kennedy glanced at them, then at
a crumpled manuscript that was stuck into a pigeonhole. It was written
in a trembling, cramped, foreign hand, evidently part of a book, or an
"Oh, the wickedness of wealth!" it began. "While millions of the poor
toilers slave and starve and shiver, the slave-drivers of to-day, like
the slave-drivers of ancient Egypt, spend the money wrung from the
blood of the people in useless and worthless toys of art while the
people have no bread, in old books while the people have no homes, in
jewels while the people have no clothes. Thousands are spent on dead
artists, but a dollar is grudged to a living genius. Down with such
art! I dedicate my life to righting the wrongs of the proletariat. Vive
The thing was becoming more serious. But by far the most serious
discovery in the now deserted studio was a number of large glass tubes
in a corner, some broken, others not yet used and standing in rows as
if waiting to be filled. A bottle labelled "Sulphuric Acid" stood at
one end of a shelf, while at the other was a huge jar full of black
grains, next a bottle of chlorate of potash. Kennedy took a few of the
black grains and placed them on a metal ash-tray. He lighted a match.
There was a puff and a little cloud of smoke.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "black gunpowder. Our absintheur was a bomb-maker,
an expert perhaps. Let me see. I imagine he was making an explosive
bomb, ingeniously contrived of five glass tubes. The centre one, I
venture, contained sulphuric acid and chlorate of potash separated by a
close-packed wad of cotton wool. Then the two tubes on each side
probably contained the powder, and perhaps the outside tubes were
filled with spirits of turpentine. When it is placed in position, it is
so arranged that the acid in the center tube is uppermost and will thus
gradually soak through the cotton wool and cause great heat and an
explosion by contact with the potash. That would ignite the powder in
the next tubes, and that would scatter the blazing turpentine, causing
a terrific explosion and a widespread fire. With an imperative idea of
vengeance, such as that manuscript discloses, either for his own wrongs
as an artist or for the fancied wrongs of the people, what may this
absintheur not be planning now? He has disappeared, but perhaps he may
be more dangerous if found than if lost."
had seen Spencer's infatuation with his attractive librarian. The
janitor of the studio-building was positive that a woman answering her
description had been a visitor at the studio. Would she be used to get
to victimise, perhaps kill, him? The woman had been much of an enigma
to me at first. She was more so now. It was barely possible that she,
too, was an absintheur, who had shaken off the curse for a time only to
relapse into it again.
If there were any thoughts like these passing through Kennedy's mind he
did not show it, at least not in the shape of hesitating in the course
he had evidently mapped out to follow. He said little, but hurried off
from the studio in a cab up-town again to the laboratory. A few minutes
later we were speeding down to the museum.
anything that might happen that night. He began by winding coil after
coil of copper wire about the storeroom in the basement of the museum.
It was not a very difficult matter to conceal it, so crowded was the
from that where the window had been broken open.
those which I had seen him experimenting with during his tests of
selenium on the afternoon when Mr. Spencer had first called on us. They
were camera-like boxes, about ten inches long, three inches or so wide,
and four inches deep.
several inches into the interior of the box. I looked into one of the
boxes and saw a slit in the wall that had been shoved in. Kennedy was
busy adjusting the apparatus, and paused only to remark that the boxes
contained two sensitive selenium surfaces balanced against two carbon
resistances. There was also in the box a clockwork mechanism which
Craig wound up and set ticking ever so softly. Then he moved a rod that
seemed to cover the slit, until the apparatus was adjusted to his
satisfaction, a delicate operation, judging by the care he took.
as well as the wires from the coils down in the basement he led across
the bit of garden back of the Spencer house and up to a room on the top
floor. In the upper room he attached the wires from the storeroom to
from the art-gallery terminated in something very much like the
apparatus which a wireless operator wears over his head.
Among other things which Craig had brought down from the laboratory was
a package which he had not yet unwrapped. He placed it near the window,
still wrapped. It was quite large, and must have weighed fifteen or
twenty pounds. That done, he produced a tape-measure and began, as if
he were a surveyor, to measure various distances and apparently to
calculate the angles and distances from the window-sill of the Spencer
house to the skylight, which was the exact centre of the museum. The
straight distance, if I recall correctly, was in the neighborhood of
four hundred feet.
These preparations completed, there was nothing left to do but to wait
for something to happen. Spencer had declined to get alarmed about our
fears for his own safety, and only with difficulty had we been able to
dissuade him from moving heaven and earth to find Miss White, a
proceeding which must certainly have disarranged Kennedy's carefully
laid plans. So interested was he that he postponed one of the most
important business conferences of the year, growing out of the
anti-trust suits, in order to be present with Dr. Lith and ourselves in
the little upper back room.
It was quite late when Kennedy completed his hasty arrangements, yet as
the night advanced we grew more and more impatient for something to
happen. Craig was apparently even more anxious than he had been the
night before, when we watched in the art-gallery itself. Spencer was
nervously smoking, lighting one cigar furiously from another until the
air was almost blue.
Scarcely a word was spoken as hour after hour Craig sat with the
receiver to his ear, connected with the coils down in the storeroom.
"You might call this an electric detective," he had explained to
Spencer. "For example, if you suspected that anything out of the way
was going on in a room anywhere this would report much to you even if
you were miles away. It is the discovery of a student of Thorne Baker,
the English electrical expert. He was experimenting with high-frequency
electric currents, investigating the nature of the discharges used for
electrifying certain things. Quite by accident he found that when the
room on which he was experimenting was occupied by some person his
measuring-instruments indicated that fact. He tested the degree of
variation by passing the current first through the room and then
through a sensitive crystal to a delicate telephone receiver. There was
a distinct change in the buzzing sound heard through the telephone when
the room was occupied or unoccupied. What I have done is to wind single
loops of plain wire on each side of that room down there, as well as to
wind around the room a few turns of concealed copper wire. These
collectors are fitted to a crystal of carborundum and a telephone
We had each tried the thing and could hear a distinct buzzing in the
"The presence of a man or woman in that room would be evident to a
person listening miles away," he went on. "A high-frequency current is
constantly passing through that storeroom. That is what causes that
normal buzzing."
It was verging on midnight when Kennedy suddenly cried: "Here, Walter,
take this receiver. You remember how the buzzing sounded. Listen. Tell
me if you, too, can detect the change."
I clapped the receiver quickly to my ear. Indeed I could tell the
difference. In place of the load buzzing there was only a mild sound.
It was slower and lower.
"That means," he said excitedly, "that some one has entered that
pitch-dark storeroom by the broken window. Let me take the receiver
back again. Ah, the buzzing is coming back. He is leaving the room. I
suppose he has found the electric light cane and the pistol where he
left them. Now, Walter, since you have become accustomed to this thing
take it and tell me what you hear."
Craig had already seized the other apparatus connected with the
art-gallery and had the wireless receiver over his head. He was
listening with rapt attention, talking while he waited.
"This is an apparatus," he was saying, "that was devised by Dr.
Fournier d'Albe, lecturer on physics at Birmingham University, to aid
the blind. It is known as the optophone. What I am literally doing now
is to HEAR light. The optophone translates light into sound by means of
that wonderful little element, selenium, which in darkness is a poor
conductor of electricity, but in light is a good conductor. This
property is used in the optophone in transmitting an electric current
which is interrupted by a special clockwork interrupter. It makes light
and darkness audible in the telephone. This thing over my head is like
a wireless telephone receiver, capable of detecting a current of even a
quarter of a microampere."
We were all waiting expectantly for Craig to speak. Evidently the
intruder was now mounting the stairs to the art-gallery.
"Actually I can hear the light of the stars shining in through that
wonderful plate glass skylight of yours, Mr. Spencer," he went on. "A
few moments ago when the moon shone through I could hear it, like the
rumble of a passing cart. I knew it was the moon both because I could
see that it must be shining in and because I recognised the sound. The
sun would thunder like a passing express-train if it were daytime now.
I can distinguish a shadow passing between the optophone and the light.
A hand moved across in front of it would give a purring sound, and a
glimpse out of a window in daylight would sound like a cinematograph
reeling off a film.
"Ah, there he is." Craig was listening with intense excitement now.
"Our intruder has entered the art-gallery. He is flashing his electric
light cane about at various objects, reconnoitring. No doubt if I were
expert enough and had had time to study it, I could tell you by the
sound just what he is looking at."
"Craig," I interrupted, this time very excited myself, "the buzzing
from the high-frequency current is getting lower and lower."
"By George, then, there is another of them," he replied. "I'm not
surprised. Keep a sharp watch. Tell me the moment the buzzing increases
Spencer could scarcely control his impatience. It had been a long time
since he had been a mere spectator, and he did not seem to relish being
held in check by anybody.
"Now that you are sure the vandal is there," he cut in, his cigar out
in his excitement, "can't we make a dash over there and get him before
he has a chance to do any more damage? He might be destroying thousands
of dollars' worth of stuff while we are waiting here."
"And he could destroy the whole collection, building and all, including
ourselves into the bargain, if he heard so much as a whisper from us,"
added Kennedy firmly.
"That second person has left the storeroom, Craig," I put in. "The
buzzing has returned again full force."
Kennedy tore the wireless receiver from his ear. "Here, Walter, never
mind about that electric detective any more, then. Take the optophone.
Describe minutely to me just exactly what you hear."
He had taken from his pocket a small metal ball. I seized the receiver
from him and fitted it to my ear. It took me several instants to
accustom my ears to the new sounds, but they were plain enough, and I
shouted my impressions of their variations. Kennedy was busy at the
window over the heavy package, from which he had torn the wrapping. His
back was toward us, and we could not see what he was doing.
A terrific din sounded in my ears, almost splitting my ear-drums. It
was as though I had been suddenly hurled into a magnified cave of the
winds and a cataract mightier than Niagara was thundering at me. It was
so painful that I cried out in surprise and involuntarily dropped the
receiver to the floor.
"It was the switching on of the full glare of the electric lights in
the art-gallery," Craig shouted. "The other person must have got up to
the room quicker than I expected. Here goes."
A loud explosion took place, apparently on the very window-sill of our
room. Almost at the same instant there was a crash of glass from the
We sprang to the window, I expecting to see Kennedy injured, Spencer
expecting to see his costly museum a mass of smoking ruins. Instead we
saw nothing of the sort. On the window-ledge was a peculiar little
instrument that looked like a miniature field-gun with an elaborate
system of springs and levers to break the recoil.
Craig had turned from it so suddenly that he actually ran full tilt
into us. "Come on," he cried breathlessly, bolting from the room, and
seizing Dr. Lith by the arm as he did so. "Dr. Lith, the keys to the
museum, quick! We must get there before the fumes clear away."
He was taking the stairs two at a time, dragging the dignified curator
with him.
In fewer seconds than I can tell it we were in the museum and mounting
the broad staircase to the art-gallery. An overpowering gas seemed to
permeate everything.
"Stand back a moment," cautioned Kennedy as we neared the door. "I have
just shot in here one of those asphyxiating bombs which the Paris
police invented to war against the Apaches and the motor-car bandits.
Open all the windows back here and let the air clear. Walter, breathe
as little of it as you can--but--come here--do you see?--over there,
near the other door--a figure lying on the floor? Make a dash in after
me and carry it out. There is just one thing more. If I am not back in
a minute come in and try to get me."
He had already preceded me into the stifling fumes. With a last long
breath of fresh air I plunged in after him, scarcely knowing what would
happen to me. I saw the figure on the floor, seized it, and backed out
of the room as fast as I could.
Dizzy and giddy from the fumes I had been forced to inhale, I managed
to drag the form to the nearest window. It was Lucille White.
An instant later I felt myself unceremoniously pushed aside. Spencer
had forgotten all about the millions of dollars' worth of curios, all
about the suspicions that had been entertained against her, and had
taken the half-conscious burden from me.
"This is the second time I have found you here, Edouard," she was
muttering in her half-delirium, still struggling. "The first time--that
night I hid in the mummy-case, you fled when I called for help. I have
followed you every moment since last night to prevent this. Edouard,
don't, DON'T! Remember I was--I am your wife. Listen to me. Oh, it is
the absinthe that has spoiled your art and made it worthless, not the
critics. It is not Mr. Spencer who has enticed me away, but you who
drove me away, first from Paris, and now from New York. He has been
only--No! No!--" she was shrieking now, her eyes wide open as she
realised it was Spencer himself she saw leaning over her. With a great
effort she seemed to rouse herself. "Don't stay. Run--run. Leave me. He
has a bomb that may go off at any moment. Oh--oh--it is the curse of
absinthe that pursues me. Will you not go? Vite! Vite!"
She had almost fainted and was lapsing into French, laughing and crying
alternately, telling him to go, yet clinging to him.
Spencer paid no attention to what she had said of the bomb. But I did.
The minute was up, and Kennedy was in there yet. I turned to rush in
again to warn him at any peril.
Just then a half-conscious form staggered against me. It was Craig
himself. He was holding the infernal machine of the five glass tubes
that might at any instant blow us into eternity.
Overcome himself, he stumbled. The sinking sensation in my heart I can
never describe. It was just a second that I waited for the terrific
explosion that was to end it all for us, one long interminable second.
But it did not come.
Limp as I was with the shock, I dropped down beside him and bent over.
"A glass of water, Walter," he murmured, "and fan me a bit. I didn't
dare trust myself to carry the thing complete, so I emptied the acid
into the sarcophagus. I guess I must have stayed in there too long. But
we are safe. See if you can drag out Delaverde. He is in there by the
Spencer was still holding Lucille, although she was much better in the
fresh air of the hall. "I understand," he was muttering. "You have been
following this fiend of a husband of yours to protect the museum and
myself from him. Lucille, Lucille--look at me. You are mine, not his,
whether he is dead or alive. I will free you from him, from the curse
of the absinthe that has pursued you."
The fumes had cleared a great deal by this time. In the centre of the
art-gallery we found a man, a tall, black-bearded Frenchman, crazy
indeed from the curse of the green absinthe that had ruined him. He was
scarcely breathing from a deadly wound in his chest. The hair-spring
ring of the Apache pistol had exploded the cartridge as he fell.
Spencer did not even look at him, as he carried his own burden down to
the little office of Dr. Lith.
"When a rich man marries a girl who has been earning her own living,
the newspapers always distort it," he whispered aside to me a few
minutes later. "Jameson, you're a newspaperman--I depend on you to get
the facts straight this time."
Outside, Kennedy grasped my arm.
"You'll do that, Walter?" he asked persuasively. "Spencer is a client
that one doesn't get every day. Just drop into the Star office and give
them the straight story, I'll promise you I'll not take another case
until you are free again to go on with me in it."
There was no denying him. As briefly as I could I rehearsed the main
facts to the managing editor late that night. I was too tired to write
it at length, yet I could not help a feeling of satisfaction as he
exclaimed, "Great stuff, Jameson,--great."
"I know," I replied, "but this six-cylindered existence for a week
wears you out."
"My dear boy," he persisted, "if I had turned some one else loose on
that story, he'd have been dead. Go to it--it's fine."
It was a bit of blarney, I knew. But somehow or other I liked it. It
was just what I needed to encourage me, and I hurried uptown promising
myself a sound sleep at any rate.
"Very good," remarked Kennedy the next morning, poking his head in at
my door and holding up a copy of the Star into which a very accurate
brief account of the affair had been dropped at the last moment. "I'm
going over to the laboratory. See you there as soon as you can get
"Craig," I remarked an hour or so later as I sauntered in on him, hard
at work, "I don't see how you stand this feverish activity."
"Stand it?" he repeated, holding up a beaker to the light to watch a
reaction. "It's my very life. Stand it? Why, man, if you want me to
pass away--stop it. As long as it lasts, I shall be all right. Let it
quit and I'll--I'll go back to research work," he laughed.
Evidently he had been waiting for me, for as he talked, he laid aside
the materials with which he had been working and was preparing to go
"Then, too," he went on, "I like to be with people like Spencer and
Brixton. For example, while I was waiting here for you, there came a
call from Emery Pitts."
"Emery Pitts?" I echoed. "What does he want?"
"The best way to find out is--to find out," he answered simply. "It's
getting late and I promised to be there directly. I think we'd better
take a taxi."
A few minutes later we were ushered into a large Fifth Avenue mansion
and were listening to a story which interested even Kennedy.
"Not even a blood spot has been disturbed in the kitchen. Nothing has
been altered since the discovery of the murdered chef, except that his
body has been moved into the next room."
Emery Pitts, one of the "thousand millionaires of steel," overwrought
as he was by a murder in his own household, sank back in his
easy-chair, exhausted.
Pitts was not an old man; indeed, in years he was in the prime of life.
Yet by his looks he might almost have been double his age, the more so
in contrast with Minna Pitts, his young and very pretty wife, who stood
near him in the quaint breakfast-room and solicitously moved a pillow
back of his head.
Kennedy and I looked on in amazement. We knew that he had recently
retired from active business, giving as a reason his failing health.
But neither of us had thought, when the hasty summons came early that
morning to visit him immediately at his house, that his condition was
as serious as it now appeared.
"In the kitchen?" repeated Kennedy, evidently not prepared for any
trouble in that part of the house.
Pitts, who had closed his eyes, now reopened them slowly and I noticed
how contracted were the pupils.
"Yes," he answered somewhat wearily, "my private kitchen which I have
had fitted up. You know, I am on a diet, have been ever since I offered
the one hundred thousand dollars for the sure restoration of youth. I
shall have you taken out there presently."
He lapsed again into a half dreamy state, his head bowed on one hand
resting on the arm of his chair. The morning's mail still lay on the
table, some letters open, as they had been when the discovery had been
announced. Mrs. Pitts was apparently much excited and unnerved by the
gruesome discovery in the house.
"You have no idea who the murderer might be?" asked Kennedy, addressing
Pitts, but glancing keenly at his wife.
"No," replied Pitts, "if I had I should have called the regular police.
I wanted you to take it up before they spoiled any of the clues. In the
first place we do not think it could have been done by any of the other
servants. At least, Minna says that there was no quarrel."
"How could any one have got in from the outside?" asked Craig.
"There is a back way, a servants' entrance, but it is usually locked.
Of course some one might have obtained a key to it."
Mrs. Pitts had remained silent throughout the dialogue. I could not
help thinking that she suspected something, perhaps was concealing
something. Yet each of them seemed equally anxious to have the marauder
apprehended, whoever he might be.
"My dear," he said to her at length, "will you call some one and have
them taken to the kitchen?"
As Minna Pitts led us through the large mansion preparatory to turning
us over to a servant she explained hastily that Mr. Pitts had long been
ill and was now taking a new treatment under Dr. Thompson Lord. No one
having answered her bell in the present state of excitement of the
house, she stopped short at the pivoted door of the kitchen, with a
little shudder at the tragedy, and stood only long enough to relate to
us the story as she had heard it from the valet, Edward.
Mr. Pitts, it seemed, had wanted an early breakfast and had sent Edward
to order it. The valet had found the kitchen a veritable
slaughter-house, with, the negro chef, Sam, lying dead on the floor.
Sam had been dead, apparently, since the night before.
As she hurried away, Kennedy pushed open the door. It was a marvellous
place, that antiseptic or rather aseptic kitchen, with its white tiling
and enamel, its huge ice-box, and cooking-utensils for every purpose,
all of the most expensive and modern make.
There were marks everywhere of a struggle, and by the side of the chef,
whose body now lay in the next room awaiting the coroner, lay a long
carving-knife with which he had evidently defended himself. On its
blade and haft were huge coagulated spots of blood. The body of Sam
bore marks of his having been clutched violently by the throat, and in
his head was a single, deep wound that penetrated the skull in a most
peculiar manner. It did not seem possible that a blow from a knife
could have done it. It was a most unusual wound and not at all the sort
that could have been made by a bullet.
As Kennedy examined it, he remarked, shaking his head in confirmation
of his own opinion, "That must have been done by a Behr bulletless gun."
"A bulletless gun?" I repeated.
"Yes, a sort of pistol with a spring-operated device that projects a
sharp blade with great force. No bullet and no powder are used in it.
But when it is placed directly over a vital point of the skull so that
the aim is unerring, a trigger lets a long knife shoot out with
tremendous force, and death is instantaneous."
Near the door, leading to the courtyard that opened on the side street,
were some spots of blood. They were so far from the place where the
valet had discovered the body of the chef that there could be no doubt
that they were blood from the murderer himself. Kennedy's reasoning in
the matter seemed irresistible.
He looked under the table near the door, covered with a large light
cloth. Beneath the table and behind the cloth he found another blood
"How did that land there?" he mused aloud. "The table-cloth is
Craig appeared to think a moment. Then he unlocked and opened the door.
A current of air was created and blew the cloth aside.
"Clearly," he exclaimed, "that drop of blood was wafted under the table
as the door was opened. The chances are all that it came from a cut on
perhaps the hand or face of the murderer himself."
It seemed to be entirely reasonable, for the bloodstains about the room
were such as to indicate that he had been badly cut by the
"Whoever attacked the chef must have been deeply wounded," I remarked,
picking up the bloody knife and looking about at the stains,
comparatively few of which could have come from the one deep fatal
wound in the head of the victim.
Kennedy was still engrossed in a study of the stains, evidently
considering that their size, shape, and location might throw some light
on what had occurred. "Walter," he said finally, "while I'm busy here,
I wish you would find that valet, Edward. I want to talk to him."
I found him at last, a clean-cut young fellow of much above average
"There are some things I have not yet got clearly, Edward," began
Kennedy. "Now where was the body, exactly, when you opened the door?"
Edward pointed out the exact spot, near the side of the kitchen toward
the door leading out to the breakfast room and opposite the ice-box.
"And the door to the side street?" asked Kennedy, to all appearances
very favorably impressed by the young man.
"It was locked, sir," he answered positively.
Kennedy was quite apparently considering the honesty and faithfulness
of the servant. At last he leaned over and asked quickly, "Can I trust
The frank, "Yes," of the young fellow was convincing enough.
"What I want," pursued Kennedy, "is to have some one inside this house
who can tell me as much as he can see of the visitors, the messengers
that come here this morning. It will be an act of loyalty to your
employer, so that you need have no fear about that."
Edward bowed, and left us. While I had been seeking him, Kennedy had
telephoned hastily to his laboratory and had found one of his students
there. He had ordered him to bring down an apparatus which he
described, and some other material.
While we waited Kennedy sent word to Pitts that he wanted to see him
alone for a few minutes.
The instrument appeared to be a rubber bulb and cuff with a rubber bag
attached to the inside. From it ran a tube which ended in another
graduated glass tube with a thin line of mercury in it like a
Craig adjusted the thing over the brachial artery of Pitts, just above
the elbow.
"It may be a little uncomfortable, Mr. Pitts," he apologised, "but it
will be for only a few minutes."
Pressure through the rubber bulb shut off the artery so that Kennedy
could no longer feel the pulse at the wrist. As he worked, I began to
see what he was after. The reading on the graded scale of the height of
the column of mercury indicated, I knew, blood pressure. This time, as
he worked, I noted also the flabby skin of Pitts as well as the small
and sluggish pupils of his eyes.
He completed his test in silence and excused himself, although as we
went back to the kitchen I was burning with curiosity.
"What was it?" I asked. "What did you discover?"
"That," he replied, "was a sphygmomanometer, something like the
sphygmograph which we used once in another case. Normal blood pressure
is 125 millimetres. Mr. Pitts shows a high pressure, very high. The
large life insurance companies are now using this instrument. They
would tell you that a high pressure like that indicates apoplexy. Mr.
Pitts, young as he really is, is actually old. For, you know, the
saying is that a man is as old as his arteries. Pitts has hardening of
the arteries, arteriosclerosis--perhaps other heart and kidney
troubles, in short pre-senility."
Craig paused: then added sententiously as if to himself: "You have
heard the latest theories about old age, that it is due to microbic
poisons secreted in the intestines and penetrating the intestinal
walls? Well, in premature senility the symptoms are the same as in
senility, only mental acuteness is not so impaired."
We had now reached the kitchen again. The student had also brought down
to Kennedy a number of sterilised microscope slides and test-tubes, and
from here and there in the masses of blood spots Kennedy was taking and
preserving samples. He also took samples of the various foods, which he
preserved in the sterilised tubes.
While he was at work Edward joined us cautiously.
"Has anything happened?" asked Craig.
"A message came by a boy for Mrs. Pitts," whispered the valet.
"What did she do with it?"
"Tore it up."
"And the pieces?"
"She must have hidden them somewhere."
"See if you can get them."
Edward nodded and left us.
"Yes," I remarked after he had gone, "it does seem as if the thing to
do was to get on the trail of a person bearing wounds of some kind. I
notice, for one thing, Craig, that Edward shows no such marks, nor does
any one else in the house as far as I can see. If it were an 'inside
job' I fancy Edward at least could clear himself. The point is to find
the person with a bandaged hand or plastered face."
Kennedy assented, but his mind was on another subject. "Before we go we
must see Mrs. Pitts alone, if we can," he said simply.
In answer to his inquiry through one of the servants she sent down word
that she would see us immediately in her sitting-room. The events of
the morning had quite naturally upset her, and she was, if anything,
even paler than when we saw her before.
"Mrs. Pitts," began Kennedy, "I suppose you are aware of the physical
condition of your husband?"
It seemed a little abrupt to me at first, but he intended it to be.
"Why," she asked with real alarm, "is he so very badly?"
"Pretty badly," remarked Kennedy mercilessly, observing the effect of
his words. "So badly, I fear, that it would not require much more
excitement like to-day's to bring on an attack of apoplexy. I should
advise you to take especial care of him, Mrs. Pitts."
Following his eyes, I tried to determine whether the agitation of the
woman before us was genuine or not. It certainly looked so. But then, I
knew that she had been an actress before her marriage. Was she acting a
part now?
"What do you mean?" she asked tremulously.
"Mrs. Pitts," replied Kennedy quickly, observing still the play of
emotion on her delicate features, "some one, I believe, either
regularly in or employed in this house or who had a ready means of
access to it must have entered that kitchen last night. For what
purpose, I can leave you to judge. But Sam surprised the intruder there
and was killed for his faithfulness."
Her startled look told plainly that though she might have suspected
something of the sort she did not think that any one else suspected,
much less actually perhaps knew it.
"I can't imagine who it could be, unless it might be one of the
servants," she murmured hastily; adding, "and there is none of them
that I have any right to suspect."
She had in a measure regained her composure, and Kennedy felt that it
was no use to pursue the conversation further, perhaps expose his hand
before he was ready to play it.
"That woman is concealing something," remarked Kennedy to me as we left
the house a few minutes later.
"She at least bears no marks of violence herself of any kind," I
"No," agreed Craig, "no, you are right so far." He added: "I shall be
very busy in the laboratory this afternoon, and probably longer.
However, drop in at dinner time, and in the meantime, don't say a word
to any one, but just use your position on the Star to keep in touch
with anything the police authorities may be doing."
It was not a difficult commission, since they did nothing but issue a
statement, the net import of which was to let the public know that they
were very active, although they had nothing to report.
Kennedy was still busy when I rejoined him, a little late purposely,
since I knew that he would be over his head in work.
"What's this--a zoo?" I asked, looking about me as I entered the
sanctum that evening.
There were dogs and guinea pigs, rats and mice, a menagerie that would
have delighted a small boy. It did not look like the same old
laboratory for the investigation of criminal science, though I saw on a
second glance that it was the same, that there was the usual
hurly-burly of microscopes, test-tubes, and all the paraphernalia that
were so mystifying at first but in the end under his skilful hand made
the most complicated cases seem stupidly simple.
Craig smiled at my surprise. "I'm making a little study of intestinal
poisons," he commented, "poisons produced by microbes which we keep
under more or less control in healthy life. In death they are the
little fellows that extend all over the body and putrefy it. We nourish
within ourselves microbes which secrete very virulent poisons, and when
those poisons are too much for us--well, we grow old. At least that is
the theory of Metchnikoff, who says that old age is an infectious
chronic, disease. Somehow," he added thoughtfully, "that beautiful
white kitchen in the Pitts home had really become a factory for
intestinal poisons."
There was an air of suppressed excitement in his manner which told me
that Kennedy was on the trail of something unusual.
"Mouth murder," he cried at length, "that was what was being done in
that wonderful kitchen. Do you know, the scientific slaying of human
beings has far exceeded organised efforts at detection? Of course you
expect me to say that; you think I look at such things through coloured
glasses. But it is a fact, nevertheless.
"It is a very simple matter for the police to apprehend the common
murderer whose weapon is a knife or a gun, but it is a different thing
when they investigate the death of a person who has been the victim of
the modern murderer who slays, let us say, with some kind of deadly
bacilli. Authorities say, and I agree with them, that hundreds of
murders are committed in this country every year and are not detected
because the detectives are not scientists, while the slayers have used
the knowledge of the scientists both to commit and to cover up the
crimes. I tell you, Walter, a murder science bureau not only would
clear up nearly every poison mystery, but also it would inspire such a
wholesome fear among would-be murderers that they would abandon many
attempts to take life."
He was as excited over the case as I had ever seen him. Indeed it was
one that evidently taxed his utmost powers.
"What have you found?" I asked, startled.
"You remember my use of the sphygmomanometer?" he asked. "In the first
place that put me on what seems to be a clear trail. The most dreaded
of all the ills of the cardiac and vascular systems nowadays seems to
be arterio-sclerosis, or hardening of the arteries. It is possible for
a man of forty-odd, like Mr. Pitts, to have arteries in a condition
which would not be encountered normally in persons under seventy years
of age.
"The hard or hardening artery means increased blood pressure, with a
consequent increased strain on the heart. This may lead, has led in
this case, to a long train of distressing symptoms, and, of course, to
ultimate death. Heart disease, according to statistics, is carrying off
a greater percentage of persons than formerly. This fact cannot be
denied, and it is attributed largely to worry, the abnormal rush of the
life of to-day, and sometimes to faulty methods of eating and bad
nutrition. On the surface, these natural causes might seem to be at
work with Mr. Pitts. But, Walter, I do not believe it, I do not believe
it. There is more than that, here. Come, I can do nothing more
to-night, until I learn more from these animals and the cultures which
I have in these tubes. Let us take a turn or two, then dine, and
perhaps we may get some word at our apartment from Edward."
It was late that night when a gentle tap at the door proved that
Kennedy's hope had not been unfounded. I opened it and let in Edward,
the valet, who produced the fragments of a note, torn and crumpled.
"There is nothing new, sir," he explained, "except that Mrs. Pitts
seems more nervous than ever, and Mr. Pitts, I think, is feeling a
little brighter."
Kennedy said nothing, but was hard at work with puckered brows at
piecing together the note which Edward had obtained after hunting
through the house. It had been thrown into a fireplace in Mrs. Pitts's
own room, and only by chance had part of it been unconsumed. The body
of the note was gone altogether, but the first part and the last part
Apparently it had been written the very morning on which the murder was
It read simply, "I have succeeded in having Thornton declared ..." Then
there was a break. The last words were legible, and were,"... confined
in a suitable institution where he can cause no future harm."
There was no signature, as if the sender had perfectly understood that
the receiver would understand.
"Not difficult to supply some of the context, at any rate," mused
Kennedy. "Whoever Thornton may be, some one has succeeded in having him
declared 'insane,' I should supply. If he is in an institution near New
York, we must be able to locate him. Edward, this is a very important
clue. There is nothing else."
Kennedy employed the remainder of the night in obtaining a list of all
the institutions, both public and private, within a considerable radius
of the city where the insane might be detained.
The next morning, after an hour or so spent in the laboratory
apparently in confirming some control tests which Kennedy had laid out
to make sure that he was not going wrong in the line of inquiry he was
pursuing, we started off in a series of flying visits to the various
sanitaria about the city in search of an inmate named Thornton.
I will not attempt to describe the many curious sights and experiences
we saw and had. I could readily believe that any one who spent even as
little time as we did might almost think that the very world was going
rapidly insane. There were literally thousands of names in the lists
which we examined patiently, going through them all, since Kennedy was
not at all sure that Thornton might not be a first name, and we had no
time to waste on taking any chances.
It was not until long after dusk that, weary with the search and
dust-covered from our hasty scouring of the country in an automobile
which Kennedy had hired after exhausting the city institutions, we came
to a small private asylum up in Westchester. I had almost been willing
to give it up for the day, to start afresh on the morrow, but Kennedy
seemed to feel that the case was too urgent to lose even twelve hours
It was a peculiar place, isolated, out-of-the-way, and guarded by a
high brick wall that enclosed a pretty good sized garden.
A ring at the bell brought a sharp-eyed maid to the door.
"Have you--er--any one here named Thornton--er--?" Kennedy paused in
such a way that if it were the last name he might come to a full stop,
and if it were a first name he could go on.
"There is a Mr. Thornton who came yesterday," she snapped ungraciously,
"but you can not see him, It's against the rules."
"Yes--yesterday," repeated Kennedy eagerly, ignoring her tartness.
"Could I--" he slipped a crumpled treasury note into her hand--"could I
speak to Mr. Thornton's nurse?"
The note seemed to render the acidity of the girl slightly alkaline.
She opened the door a little further, and we found ourselves in a
plainly furnished reception room, alone.
We might have been in the reception-room of a prosperous country
gentleman, so quiet was it. There was none of the raving, as far as I
could make out, that I should have expected even in a twentieth century
Bedlam, no material for a Poe story of Dr. Tarr and Professor Feather.
At length the hall door opened, and a man entered, not a prepossessing
man, it is true, with his large and powerful hands and arms and
slightly bowed, almost bulldog legs. Yet he was not of that aggressive
kind which would make a show of physical strength without good and
sufficient cause.
"You have charge of Mr. Thornton?" inquired Kennedy.
"Yes," was the curt response.
"I trust he is all right here?"
"He wouldn't be here if he was all right," was the quick reply. "And
who might you be?"
"I knew him in the old days," replied Craig evasively. "My friend here
does not know him, but I was in this part of Westchester visiting and
having heard he was here thought I would drop in, just for old time's
sake. That is all."
"How did you know he was here?" asked the man suspiciously.
"I heard indirectly from a friend of mine, Mrs. Pitts."
The man seemed to accept the explanation at its face value.
"Is he very--very badly?" asked Craig with well-feigned interest.
"Well," replied the man, a little mollified by a good cigar which I
produced, "don't you go a-telling her, but if he says the name Minna
once a day it is a thousand times. Them drug-dopes has some strange
"Strange delusions?" queried Craig. "Why, what do you mean?"
"Say," ejaculated the man. "I don't know you, You come here saying
you're friends of Mr. Thornton's. How do I know what you are?"
"Well," ventured Kennedy, "suppose I should also tell you I am a friend
of the man who committed him."
"Of Dr. Thompson Lord?"
"Exactly. My friend here knows Dr. Lord very well, don't you, Walter?"
Thus appealed to I hastened to add, "Indeed I do." Then, improving the
opening, I hastened: "Is this Mr. Thornton violent? I think this is one
of the most quiet institutions I ever saw for so small a place."
The man shook his head.
"Because," I added, "I thought some drug fiends were violent and had to
be restrained by force, often."
"You won't find a mark or a scratch on him, sir," replied the man.
"That ain't our system."
"Not a mark or scratch on him," repeated Kennedy thoughtfully. "I
wonder if he'd recognise me?"
"Can't say," concluded the man. "What's more, can't try. It's against
the rules. Only your knowing so many he knows has got you this far.
You'll have to call on a regular day or by appointment to see him,
There was an air of finality about the last statement that made Kennedy
rise and move toward the door with a hearty "Thank you, for your
kindness," and a wish to be remembered to "poor old Thornton."
As we climbed into the car he poked me in the ribs. "Just as good for
the present as if we had seen him," he exclaimed. "Drug-fiend, friend
of Mrs. Pitts, committed by Dr. Lord, no wounds."
Then he lapsed into silence as we sped back to the city.
"The Pitts house," ordered Kennedy as we bowled along, after noting by
his watch that it was after nine. Then to me he added, "We must see
Mrs. Pitts once more, and alone."
We waited some time after Kennedy sent up word that he would like to
see Mrs. Pitts. At last she appeared. I thought she avoided Kennedy's
eye, and I am sure that her intuition told her that he had some
revelation to make, against which she was steeling herself.
Craig greeted her as reassuringly as he could, but as she sat nervously
before us, I could see that she was in reality pale, worn, and anxious.
"We have had a rather hard day," began Kennedy after the usual polite
inquiries about her own and her husband's health had been, I thought, a
little prolonged by him.
"Indeed?" she asked. "Have you come any closer to the truth?"
Kennedy met her eyes, and she turned away.
"Yes, Mr. Jameson and I have put in the better part of the day in going
from one institution for the insane to another."
He paused. The startled look on her face told as plainly as words that
his remark had struck home.
Without giving her a chance to reply, or to think of a verbal means of
escape, Craig hurried on with an account of what we had done, saying
nothing about the original letter which had started us on the search
for Thornton, but leaving it to be inferred by her that he knew much
more than he cared to tell.
"In short, Mrs. Pitts," he concluded firmly, "I do not need to tell you
that I already know much about the matter which you are concealing."
The piling up of fact on fact, mystifying as it was to me who had as
yet no inkling of what it was tending toward, proved too much for the
woman who knew the truth, yet did not know how much Kennedy knew of it.
Minna Pitts was pacing the floor wildly, all the assumed manner of the
actress gone from her, yet with the native grace and feeling of the
born actress playing unrestrained in her actions.
"You know only part of my story," she cried, fixing him with her now
tearless eyes. "It is only a question of time when you will worm it all
out by your uncanny, occult methods. Mr. Kennedy, I cast myself on you."
The note of appeal in her tone was powerful, but I could not so readily
shake off my first suspicions of the woman. Whether or not she
convinced Kennedy, he did not show.
"I was only a young girl when I met Mr. Thornton," she raced on. "I was
not yet eighteen when we were married. Too late, I found out the curse
of his life--and of mine. He was a drug fiend. From the very first life
with him was insupportable. I stood it as long as I could, but when he
beat me because he had no money to buy drugs, I left him. I gave myself
up to my career on the stage. Later I heard that he was dead--a
suicide. I worked, day and night, slaved, and rose in the
profession--until, at last, I met Mr. Pitts."
She paused, and it was evident that it was with a struggle that she
could talk so.
"Three months after I was married to him, Thornton suddenly reappeared,
from the dead it seemed to me. He did not want me back. No, indeed. All
he wanted was money. I gave him money, my own money, for I made a
great deal in my stage days. But his demands increased. To silence him
I have paid him thousands. He squandered them faster than ever. And
finally, when it became unbearable, I appealed to a friend. That friend
has now succeeded in placing this man quietly in a sanitarium for the
"And the murder of the chef?" shot out Kennedy.
She looked from one to the other of us in alarm. "Before God, I know no
more of that than does Mr. Pitts."
Was she telling the truth? Would she stop at anything to avoid the
scandal and disgrace of the charge of bigamy? Was there not something
still that she was concealing? She took refuge in the last
Encouraging as it was to have made such progress, it did not seem to me
that we were much nearer, after all, to the solution of the mystery.
Kennedy, as usual, had nothing to say until he was absolutely sure of
his ground. He spent the greater part of the next day hard at work over
the minute investigations of his laboratory, leaving me to arrange the
details of a meeting he planned for that night.
There were present Mr. and Mrs. Pitts, the former in charge of Dr.
Lord. The valet, Edward, was also there, and in a neighbouring room was
Thornton in charge of two nurses from the sanitarium. Thornton was a
sad wreck of a man now, whatever he might have been when his blackmail
furnished him with an unlimited supply of his favourite drugs.
"Let us go back to the very start of the case," began Kennedy when we
had all assembled, "the murder of the chef, Sam."
It seemed that the mere sound of his voice electrified his little
audience. I fancied a shudder passed over the slight form of Mrs.
Pitts, as she must have realised that this was the point where Kennedy
had left off, in his questioning her the night before.
"There is," he went on slowly, "a blood test so delicate that one might
almost say that he could identify a criminal by his very
blood-crystals--the fingerprints, so to speak, of his blood. It was by
means of these 'hemoglobin clues,' if I may call them so, that I was
able to get on the right trail. For the fact is that a man's blood is
not like that of any other living creature. Blood of different men, of
men and women differ. I believe that in time we shall be able to refine
this test to tell the exact individual, too.
"What is this principle? It is that the hemoglobin or red
colouring-matter of the blood forms crystals. That has long been known,
but working on this fact Dr. Reichert and Professor Brown of the
University of Pennsylvania have made some wonderful discoveries.
"We could distinguish human from animal blood before, it is true. But
the discovery of these two scientists takes us much further. By means
of blood-crystals we can distinguish the blood of man from that of the
animals and in addition that of white men from that of negroes and
other races. It is often the only way of differentiating between
various kinds of blood.
"The variations in crystals in the blood are in part of form and in
part of molecular structure, the latter being discovered only by means
of the polarising microscope. A blood-crystal is only one
two-thousand-two-hundred-and-fiftieth of an inch in length and one
nine-thousandth of an inch in breadth. And yet minute as these crystals
are, this discovery is of immense medico-legal importance. Crime may
now be traced by blood-crystals."
He displayed on his table a number of enlarged micro-photographs. Some
were labelled, "Characteristic crystals of white man's blood"; others
"Crystallisation of negro blood"; still others, "Blood-crystals of the
"I have here," he resumed, after we had all examined the photographs
and had seen that there was indeed a vast amount of difference, "three
characteristic kinds of crystals, all of which I found in the various
spots in the kitchen of Mr. Pitts. There were three kinds of blood, by
the infallible Reichert test."
I had been prepared for his discovery of two kinds, but three
heightened the mystery still more.
"There was only a very little of the blood which was that of the poor,
faithful, unfortunate Sam, the negro chef," Kennedy went on. "A little
more, found far from his body, is that of a white person. But most of
it is not human blood at all. It was the blood of a cat."
The revelation was startling. Before any of us could ask, he hastened
to explain.
"It was placed there by some one who wished to exaggerate the struggle
in order to divert suspicion. That person had indeed been wounded
slightly, but wished it to appear that the wounds were very serious.
The fact of the matter is that the carving-knife is spotted deeply with
blood, but it is not human blood. It is the blood of a cat. A few years
ago even a scientific detective would have concluded that a fierce
hand-to-hand struggle had been waged and that the murderer was,
perhaps, fatally wounded. Now, another conclusion stands, proved
infallibly by this Reichert test. The murderer was wounded, but not
badly. That person even went out of the room and returned later,
probably with a can of animal blood, sprinkled it about to give the
appearance of a struggle, perhaps thought of preparing in this way a
plea of self-defence. If that latter was the case, this Reichert test
completely destroys it, clever though it was." No one spoke, but the
same thought was openly in all our minds. Who was this wounded criminal?
I asked myself the usual query of the lawyers and the detectives--Who
would benefit most by the death of Pitts? There was but one answer,
apparently, to that. It was Minna Pitts. Yet it was difficult for me to
believe that a woman of her ordinary gentleness could be here to-night,
faced even by so great exposure, yet be so solicitous for him as she
had been and then at the same time be plotting against him. I gave it
up, determining to let Kennedy unravel it in his own way.
Craig evidently had the same thought in his mind, however, for he
continued: "Was it a woman who killed the chef? No, for the third
specimen of blood, that of the white person, was the blood of a man;
not of a woman."
Pitts had been following closely, his unnatural eyes now gleaming. "You
said he was wounded, you remember," he interrupted, as if casting about
in his mind to recall some one who bore a recent wound. "Perhaps it was
not a bad wound, but it was a wound nevertheless, and some one must
have seen it, must know about it. It is not three days."
Kennedy shook his head. It was a point that had bothered him a great
"As to the wounds," he added in a measured tone "although this occurred
scarcely three days ago, there is no person even remotely suspected of
the crime who can be said to bear on his hands or face others than old
scars of wounds."
He paused. Then he shot out in quick staccato, "Did you ever hear of
Dr. Carrel's most recent discovery of accelerating the healing of
wounds so that those which under ordinary circumstances might take ten
days to heal might be healed in twenty-four hours?"
Rapidly, now, he sketched the theory. "If the factors that bring about
the multiplication of cells and the growth of tissues were discovered,
Dr. Carrel said to himself, it would perhaps become possible to hasten
artificially the process of repair of the body. Aseptic wounds could
probably be made to cicatrise more rapidly. If the rate of reparation
of tissue were hastened only ten times, a skin wound would heal in less
than twenty-four hours and a fracture of the leg in four or five days.
"For five years Dr. Carrel has been studying the subject, applying
various extracts to wounded tissues. All of them increased the growth
of connective tissue, but the degree of acceleration varied greatly. In
some cases it was as high, as forty times the normal. Dr. Carrel's
dream of ten times the normal was exceeded by himself."
Astounded as we were by this revelation, Kennedy did not seem to
consider it as important as one that he was now hastening to show us.
He took a few cubic centimetres of some culture which he had been
preparing, placed it in a tube, and poured in eight or ten drops of
sulphuric acid. He shook it.
"I have here a culture from some of the food that I found was being or
had been prepared for Mr. Pitts. It was in the icebox."
Then he took another tube. "This," he remarked, "is a
one-to-one-thousand solution of sodium nitrite."
He held it up carefully and poured three or four cubic centimetres of
it into the first tube so that it ran carefully down the side in a
manner such as to form a sharp line of contact between the heavier
culture with the acid and the lighter nitrite solution.
"You see," he said, "the reaction is very clear cut if you do it this
way. The ordinary method in the laboratory and the text-books is crude
and uncertain."
"What is it?" asked Pitts eagerly, leaning forward with unwonted
strength and noting the pink colour that appeared at the junction of
the two liquids, contrasting sharply with the portions above and below.
"The ring or contact test for indol," Kennedy replied, with evident
satisfaction. "When the acid and the nitrites are mixed the colour
reaction is unsatisfactory. The natural yellow tint masks that pink
tint, or sometimes causes it to disappear, if the tube is shaken. But
this is simple, clear, delicate--unescapable. There was indol in that
food of yours, Mr. Pitts."
"Indol?" repeated Pitts.
"Is," explained Kennedy, "a chemical compound--one of the toxins
secreted by intestinal bacteria and responsible for many of the
symptoms of senility. It used to be thought that large doses of indol
might be consumed with little or no effect on normal man, but now we
know that headache, insomnia, confusion, irritability, decreased
activity of the cells, and intoxication are possible from it.
Comparatively small doses over a long time produce changes in organs
that lead to serious results.
"It is," went on Kennedy, as the full horror of the thing sank into our
minds, "the indol-and phenol-producing bacteria which are the
undesirable citizens of the body, while the lactic-acid producing germs
check the production of indol and phenol. In my tests here to-day, I
injected four one-hundredths of a grain of indol into a guinea-pig. The
animal had sclerosis or hardening of the aorta. The liver, kidneys, and
supra-renals were affected, and there was a hardening of the brain. In
short, there were all the symptoms of old age."
We sat aghast. Indol! What black magic was this? Who put it in the food?
"It is present," continued Craig, "in much larger quantities than all
the Metchnikoff germs could neutralise. What the chef was ordered to
put into the food to benefit you, Mr. Pitts, was rendered valueless,
and a deadly poison was added by what another--"
Minna Pitts had been clutching for support at the arms of her chair as
Kennedy proceeded. She now threw herself at the feet of Emery Pitts.
"Forgive me," she sobbed. "I can stand it no longer. I had tried to
keep this thing about Thornton from you. I have tried to make you happy
and well--oh--tried so hard, so faithfully. Yet that old skeleton of my
past which I thought was buried would not stay buried. I have bought
Thornton off again and again, with money--my money--only to find him
threatening again. But about this other thing, this poison, I am as
innocent, and I believe Thornton is as--"
Craig laid a gentle hand on her lips. She rose wildly and faced him in
passionate appeal.
"Who--who is this Thornton?" demanded Emery Pitts.
Quickly, delicately, sparing her as much as he could, Craig hurried
over our experiences.
"He is in the next room," Craig went on, then facing Pitts added: "With
you alive, Emery Pitts, this blackmail of your wife might have gone on,
although there was always the danger that you might hear of it--and do
as I see you have already done--forgive, and plan to right the
unfortunate mistake. But with you dead, this Thornton, or rather some
one using him, might take away from Minna Pitts her whole interest in
your estate, at a word. The law, or your heirs at law, would never
forgive as you would."
Pitts, long poisoned by the subtle microbic poison, stared at Kennedy
as if dazed.
"Who was caught in your kitchen, Mr. Pitts, and, to escape detection,
killed your faithful chef and covered his own traces so cleverly?"
rapped out Kennedy. "Who would have known the new process of healing
wounds? Who knew about the fatal properties of indol? Who was willing
to forego a one-hundred-thousand-dollar prize in order to gain a
fortune of many hundreds of thousands?"
Kennedy paused, then finished with irresistibly dramatic logic;
"Who else but the man who held the secret of Minna Pitts's past and
power over her future so long as he could keep alive the unfortunate
Thornton--the up-to-date doctor who substituted an elixir of death at
night for the elixir of life prescribed for you by him in the
daytime--Dr. Lord."
Kennedy had moved quietly toward the door. It was unnecessary. Dr. Lord
was cornered and knew it. He made no fight. In fact, instantly his keen
mind was busy outlining his battle in court, relying on the conflicting
testimony of hired experts.
"Minna," murmured Pitts, falling back, exhausted by the excitement, on
his pillows, "Minna--forgive? What is there to forgive? The only thing
to do is to correct. I shall be well--soon now--my dear. Then all will
be straightened out."
"Walter," whispered Kennedy to me, "while we are waiting, you can
arrange to have Thornton cared for at Dr. Hodge's Sanitarium."
He handed me a card with the directions where to take the unfortunate
man. When at last I had Thornton placed where no one else could do any
harm through him, I hastened back to the laboratory.
Craig was still there, waiting alone.
"That Dr. Lord will be a tough customer," he remarked. "Of course
you're not interested in what happens in a case after we have caught
the criminal. But that often is really only the beginning of the fight.
We've got him safely lodged in the Tombs now, however."
"I wish there was some elixir for fatigue," I remarked, as we closed
the laboratory that night.
"There is," he replied. "A homeopathic remedy--more fatigue."
We started on our usual brisk roundabout walk to the apartment. But
instead of going to bed, Kennedy drew a book from the bookcase.
"I shall read myself to sleep to-night," he explained, settling deeply
in his chair.
As for me, I went directly to my room, planning that to-morrow I would
take several hours off and catch up in my notes.
That morning Kennedy was summoned downtown and had to interrupt more
important duties in order to appear before Dr. Leslie in the coroner's
inquest over the death of the chef. Dr. Lord was held for the Grand
Jury, but it was not until nearly noon that Craig returned.
We were just about to go out to luncheon, when the door buzzer sounded.
"A note for Mr. Kennedy," announced a man in a police uniform, with a
blue anchor edged with white on his coat sleeve.
Craig tore open the envelope quickly with his forefinger. Headed
"Harbour Police, Station No. 3, Staten Island," was an urgent message
from our old friend Deputy Commissioner O'Connor.
"I have taken personal charge of a case here that is sufficiently out
of the ordinary to interest you," I read when Kennedy tossed the note
over to me and nodded to the man from the harbour squad to wait for us.
"The Curtis family wish to retain a private detective to work in
conjunction with the police in investigating the death of Bertha
Curtis, whose body was found this morning in the waters of Kill van
Kennedy and I lost no time in starting downtown with the policeman who
had brought the note.
The Curtises, as we knew, were among the prominent families of
Manhattan and I recalled having heard that at one time Bertha Curtis
had been an actress, in spite of the means and social position of her
family, from whom she had become estranged as a result.
At the station of the harbour police, O'Connor and another man, who was
in a state of extreme excitement, greeted us almost before we had
"There have been some queer doings about here," exclaimed the deputy as
he grasped Kennedy's hand, "but first of all let me introduce Mr.
Walker Curtis."
In a lower tone as we walked up the dock O'Connor continued, "He is the
brother of the girl whose body the men in the launch at the station
found in the Kill this morning. They thought at first that the girl had
committed suicide, making it doubly sure by jumping into the water, but
he will not believe it and,--well, if you'll just come over with us to
the local undertaking establishment, I'd like to have you take a look
at the body and see if your opinion coincides with mine.
"Ordinarily," pursued O'Connor, "there isn't much romance in harbour
police work nowadays, but in this case some other elements seem to be
present which are not usually associated with violent deaths in the
waters of the bay, and I have, as you will see, thought it necessary to
take personal charge of the investigation.
"Now, to shorten the story as much as possible, Kennedy, you know of
course that the legislature at the last session enacted laws
prohibiting the sale of such drugs as opium, morphine, cocaine, chloral
and others, under much heavier penalties than before. The Health
authorities not long ago reported to us that dope was being sold almost
openly, without orders from physicians, at several scores of places and
we have begun a crusade for the enforcement of the law. Of course you
know how prohibition works in many places and how the law is beaten.
The dope fiends seem to be doing the same thing with this law.
"Of course nowadays everybody talks about a 'system' controlling
everything, so I suppose people would say that there is a 'dope trust.'
At any rate we have run up against at least a number of places that
seem to be banded together in some way, from the lowest down in
Chinatown to one very swell joint uptown around what the newspapers are
calling 'Crime Square.' It is not that this place is pandering to
criminals or the women of the Tenderloin that interests us so much as
that its patrons are men and women of fashionable society whose jangled
nerves seem to demand a strong narcotic.
"This particular place seems to be a headquarters for obtaining them,
especially opium and its derivatives.
"One of the frequenters of the place was this unfortunate girl, Bertha
Curtis. I have watched her go in and out myself, wild-eyed, nervous,
mentally and physically wrecked for life. Perhaps twenty-five or thirty
persons visit the place each day. It is run by a man known as 'Big
Jack' Clendenin who was once an actor and, I believe, met and
fascinated Miss Curtis during her brief career on the stage. He has an
attendant there, a Jap, named Nichi Moto, who is a perfect enigma. I
can't understand him on any reasonable theory. A long time ago we
raided the place and packed up a lot of opium, pipes, material and
other stuff. We found Clendenin there, this girl, several others, and
the Jap. I never understood just how it was but somehow Clendenin got
off with a nominal fine and a few days later opened up again. We were
watching the place, getting ready to raid it again and present such
evidence that Clendenin couldn't possibly beat it, when all of a sudden
along came this--this tragedy."
We had at last arrived at the private establishment which was doing
duty as a morgue. The bedraggled form that had been bandied about by
the tides all night lay covered up in the cold damp basement. Bertha
Curtis had been a girl of striking beauty once. For a long time I gazed
at the swollen features before I realised what it was that fascinated
and puzzled me about her. Kennedy, however, after a casual glance had
arrived at at least a part of her story.
"That girl," he whispered to me so that her brother could not hear,
"has led a pretty fast life. Look at those nails, yellow and dark. It
isn't a weak face, either. I wouldn't be surprised if the whole thing,
the Oriental glamour and all that, fascinated her as much as the drug."
So far the case with its heartrending tragedy had all the earmarks of
O'Connor drew back the sheet which covered her and in the calf of the
leg disclosed an ugly bullet hole. Ugly as it was, however, it was
anything but dangerous and seemed to indicate nothing as to the real
cause of her death. He drew from his pocket a slightly misshapen bullet
which had been probed from the wound and handed it to Kennedy, who
examined both the wound and the bullet carefully. It seemed to be an
ordinary bullet except that in the pointed end were three or four
little round, very shallow wells or depressions only the minutest
fraction of an inch deep.
"Very extraordinary," he remarked slowly. "No, I don't think this was a
case of suicide. Nor was it a murder for money, else the jewels would
have been taken."
O'Connor looked approvingly at me. "Exactly what I said," he exclaimed.
"She was dead before her body was thrown into the water."
"No, I don't agree with you there," corrected Craig, continuing his
examination of the body. "And yet it is not a case of drowning exactly,
"Strangled?" suggested O'Connor.
"By some jiu jitsu trick?" I put in, mindful of the queer-acting Jap at
Kennedy shook his head.
"Perhaps the shock of the bullet wound rendered her unconscious and in
that state she was thrown in," ventured Walker Curtis, apparently much
relieved that Kennedy coincided with O'Connor in disagreeing with the
harbour police as to the suicide theory.
Kennedy shrugged his shoulders and looked at the bullet again. "It is
very extraordinary," was all he replied. "I think you said a few
moments ago, O'Connor, that there had been some queer doings about
here. What did you mean?"
"Well, as I said, the work of the harbour squad isn't ordinarily very
remarkable. Harbour pirates aren't murderous as a rule any more. For
the most part they are plain sneak thieves or bogus junk dealers who
work with dishonest pier watchmen and crooked canal boat captains and
lighter hands.
"But in this instance," continued the deputy, his face knitting at the
thought that he had to confess another mystery to which he had no
solution, "it is something quite different. You know that all along the
shore on this side of the island are old, dilapidated and, some of
them, deserted houses. For several days the residents of the
neighbourhood have been complaining of strange occurrences about one
place in particular which was the home of a wealthy family in a past
generation. It is about a mile from here, facing the road along the
shore, and has in front of it and across the road the remains of an old
dock sticking out a few feet into the water at high tide.
"Now, as nearly as any one can get the story, there seems to have been
a mysterious, phantom boat, very swift, without lights, and with an
engine carefully muffled down which has been coming up to the old dock
for the past few nights when the tide was high enough. A light has been
seen moving on the dock, then suddenly extinguished, only to reappear
again. Who carried it and why, no one knows. Any one who has tried to
approach the place has had a scare thrown into him which he will not
easily forget. For instance, one man crept up and though he did not
think he was seen he was suddenly shot at from behind a tree. He felt
the bullet pierce his arm, started to run, stumbled, and next morning
woke up in the exact spot on which he had fallen, none the worse for
his experience except that he had a slight wound that will prevent his
using his right arm for some time for heavy work.
"After each visit of the phantom boat there is heard, according to the
story of the few neighbours who have observed it, the tramp of feet up
the overgrown stone walk from the dock and some have said that they
heard an automobile as silent and ghostly as the boat. We have been all
through the weird old house, but have found nothing there, except
enough loose boards and shutters to account for almost any noise or
combination of noises. However, no one has said there was anything
there except the tramp of feet going back and forth on the old
pavements outside. Two or three times shots have been heard, and on the
dock where most of the alleged mysterious doings have taken place we
have found one very new exploded shell of a cartridge."
Craig took the shell which O'Connor drew from another pocket and trying
to fit the bullet and the cartridge together remarked "both from a .44,
probably one of those old-fashioned, long-barrelled makes."
"There," concluded O'Connor ruefully, "you know all we know of the
thing so far."
"I may keep these for the present?" inquired Kennedy, preparing to
pocket the shell and the bullet, and from his very manner I could see
that as a matter of fact he already knew a great deal more about the
case than the police. "Take us down to this old house and dock, if you
Over and over, Craig paced up and down the dilapidated dock, his keen
eyes fastened to the ground, seeking some clue, anything that would
point to the marauders. Real persons they certainly were, and not any
ghostly crew of the bygone days of harbour pirates, for there was every
evidence of some one who had gone up and down the walk recently, not
once but many times.
Suddenly Kennedy stumbled over what looked like a sardine tin can,
except that it had no label or trace of one. It was lying in the thick
long matted grass by the side of the walk as if it had tumbled there
and had been left unnoticed.
Yet there was nothing so very remarkable about it in itself. Tin cans
were lying all about, those marks of decadent civilisation. But to
Craig it had instantly presented an idea. It was a new can. The others
were rusted.
He had pried off the lid and inside was a blackish, viscous mass.
"Smoking opium," Craig said at last.
We retraced our steps pondering on the significance of the discovery.
O'Connor had had men out endeavouring all day to get a clue to the
motor car that had been mentioned in some of the accounts given by the
natives. So far the best he had been able to find was a report of a
large red touring car which crossed from New York on a late ferry. In
it were a man and a girl as well as a chauffeur who wore goggles and a
cap pulled down over his head so that he was practically
unrecognisable. The girl might have been Miss Curtis and, as for the
man, it might have been Clendenin. No one had bothered much with them;
no one had taken their number; no one had paid any attention where they
went after the ferry landed. In fact, there would have been no
significance to the report if it had not been learned that early in the
morning on the first ferry from the lower end of the island to New
Jersey a large red touring car answering about the same description had
crossed, with a single man and driver but no woman.
"I should like to watch here with you to-night, O'Connor," said Craig
as we parted. "Meet us here. In the meantime I shall call on Jameson
with his well-known newspaper connections in the white light district,"
here he gave me a half facetious wink, "to see what he can do toward
getting me admitted to this gilded palace of dope up there on
Forty-fourth Street."
After no little trouble Kennedy and I discovered our "hop joint" and
were admitted by Nichi Moto, of whom we had heard. Kennedy gave me a
final injunction to watch, but to be very careful not to seem to watch.
Nichi Moto with an eye to business and not to our absorbing more than
enough to whet our descriptive powers quickly conducted us into a large
room where, on single bamboo couches or bunks, rather tastefully made,
perhaps half a dozen habitues lay stretched at full length smoking
their pipes in peace, or preparing them in great expectation from the
implements on the trays before them.
Kennedy relieved me of the responsibility of cooking the opium by doing
it for both of us and, incidentally, dropping a hint not to inhale it
and to breathe as little of it as possible. Even then it made me feel
badly, though he must have contrived in some way to get even less of
the stuff than I. A couple of pipes, and Kennedy beckoned to Nichi.
"Where is Mr. Clendenin?" he asked familiarly. "I haven't seen him yet."
The Japanese smiled his engaging smile. "Not know," was all he said,
and yet I knew the fellow at least knew better English, if not more
Kennedy had about started on our faking a third "pipe" when a new,
unexpected arrival beckoned excitedly to Nichi. I could not catch all
that was said but two words that I did catch were "the boss" and "hop
toy," the latter the word for opium. No sooner had the man disappeared
without joining the smokers than Nichi seemed to grow very restless and
anxious. Evidently he had received orders to do something. He seemed
anxious to close the place and get away. I thought that some one might
have given a tip that the place was to be raided, but Kennedy, who had
been closer, had overheard more than I had and among other things he
had caught the word, "meet him at the same place."
It was not long before we were all politely hustled out.
"At least we know this," commented Kennedy, as I congratulated myself
on our fortunate escape, "Clendenin was not there, and there is
something doing to-night, for he has sent for Nichi."
We dropped into our apartment to freshen up a bit against the long
vigil that we knew was coming that night. To our surprise Walker Curtis
had left a message that he wished to see Kennedy immediately and alone,
and although I was not present I give the substance of what he said. It
seemed that he had not wished to tell O'Connor for fear that it would
get into the papers and cause an even greater scandal, but it had come
to his knowledge a few days before the tragedy that his sister was
determined to marry a very wealthy Chinese merchant, an importer of
tea, named Chin Jung. Whether or not this had any bearing on the case
he did not know. He thought it had, because for a long time, both when
she was on the stage and later, Clendenin had had a great influence
over her and had watched with a jealous eye the advances of every one
else. Curtis was especially bitter against Clendenin.
As Kennedy related the conversation to me on our way over to Staten
Island I tried to piece the thing together, but like one of the famous
Chinese puzzles, it would not come out. I had to admit the possibility
that it was Clendenin who might have quarrelled over her attachment to
Chin Jung, even though I have never yet been able to understand what
the fascination is that some Orientals have over certain American girls.
All that night we watched patiently from a vantage point of an old shed
near both the house and the decayed pier. It was weird in the extreme,
especially as we had no idea what might happen if we had success and
saw something. But there was no reward for our patience. Absolutely
nothing happened. It was as though they knew, whoever they were, that
we were there. During the hours that passed O'Connor whiled away the
time in a subdued whisper now and then in telling us of his experiences
in Chinatown which he was now engaged in trying to clean up. From
Chinatown, its dens, its gamblers and its tongs we drifted to the
legitimate business interests there, and I, at least, was surprised to
find that there were some of the merchants for whom even O'Connor had a
great deal of respect. Kennedy evidently did not wish to violate in any
way the confidence of Walker Curtis, and mention of the name of Chin
Jung, but by a judicious question as to who the best men were in the
Celestial settlement he did get a list of half a dozen or so from
O'Connor. Chin Jung was well up in the list. However, the night wore
away and still nothing happened.
It was in the middle of the morning when we were taking a snatch of
sleep in our own rooms uptown that the telephone began to ring
insistently. Kennedy, who was resting, I verily believe, merely out of
consideration for my own human frailties, was at the receiver in an
instant. It proved to be O'Connor. He had just gone back to his office
at headquarters and there he had found a report of another murder.
"Who is it?" asked Kennedy, "and why do you connect it with this case?"
O'Connor's answer must have been a poser, judging from the look of
surprise on Craig's face. "The Jap--Nichi Moto?" he repeated. "And it
is the same sort of non-fatal wound, the same evidence of asphyxia, the
same circumstances, even down to the red car reported by residents in
the neighbourhood."
Nothing further happened that day except this thickening of the plot by
the murder of the peculiar-acting Nichi. We saw his body and it was as
O'Connor said.
"That fellow wasn't on the level toward Clendenin," Craig mused after
we had viewed the second murder in the case. "The question is, who and
what was he working for?"
There was as yet no hint of answer, and our only plan was to watch
again that night. This time O'Connor, not knowing where the lightning
would strike next, took Craig's suggestion and we determined to spend
the time cruising about in the fastest of the police motor boats, while
the force of watchers along the entire shore front of the city was
quietly augmented and ordered to be extra vigilant.
O'Connor at the last moment had to withdraw and let us go alone, for
the worst, and not the unexpected, happened in his effort to clean up
Chinatown. The war between the old rivals, the Hep Sing Tong and the On
Leong Tong, those ancient societies of troublemakers in the little
district, had broken out afresh during the day and three Orientals had
been killed already.
It is not a particularly pleasant occupation cruising aimlessly up and
down the harbour in a fifty-foot police boat, staunch and fast as she
may be.
Every hour we called at a police post to report and to keep in touch
with anything that might interest us. It came at about two o'clock in
the morning and of all places, near the Battery itself. From the front
of a ferry boat that ran far down on the Brooklyn side, what looked
like two flashlights gleamed out over the water once, then twice.
"Headlights of an automobile," remarked Craig, scarcely taking more
notice of it, for they might have simply been turned up and down twice
by a late returning traveller to test them. We were ourselves near the
Brooklyn shore. Imagine our surprise to see an answering light from a
small boat in the river which was otherwise lightless. We promptly put
out our own lights and with every cylinder working made for the spot
where the light had flashed up on the river. There was something there
all right and we went for it.
On we raced after the strange craft, the phantom that had scared Staten
Island. For a mile or so we seemed to be gaining, but one of our
cylinders began to miss--the boat turned sharply around a bend in the
shore. We had to give it up as well as trying to overtake the ferry
boat going in the opposite direction.
Kennedy's equanimity in our apparent defeat surprised me. "Oh, it's
nothing, Walter," he said. "They slipped away to-night, but I have
found the clue. To-morrow as soon as the Customs House is open you will
understand. It all centres about opium."
At least a large part of the secret was cleared, too, as a result of
Kennedy's visit to the Customs House. After years of fighting with the
opium ring on the Pacific coast, the ring had tried to "put one over"
on the revenue officers and smuggle the drug in through New York.
It did not take long to find the right man among the revenue officers
to talk with. Nor was Kennedy surprised to learn that Nichi Moto had
been in fact a Japanese detective, a sort of stool pigeon in
Clendenin's establishment working to keep the government in touch with
the latest scheme.
The finding of the can of opium on the scene of the murder of Bertha
Curtis, and the chase after the lightless motor boat had at last placed
Kennedy on the right track. With one of the revenue officers we made a
quick trip to Brooklyn and spent the morning inspecting the ships from
South American ports docked in the neighbourhood where the phantom boat
had disappeared.
From ship to ship we journeyed until at last we came to one on which,
down in the chain locker, we found a false floor with a locker under
that. There was a compartment six feet square and in it lay, neatly
packed, fourteen large hermetically sealed cylinders, each full of the
little oblong tins such as Kennedy had picked up the other day--forty
thousand dollars' worth of the stuff at one haul, to say nothing of the
thousands that had already been landed at one place or another.
It had been a good day's work, but as yet it had not caught the slayer
or cleared up the mystery of Bertha Curtis. Some one or something had
had a power over the girl to lure her on. Was it Clendenin? The place
in Forty-fourth Street, on inquiry, proved to be really closed as tight
as a drum. Where was he?
All the deaths had been mysterious, were still mysterious. Bertha
Curtis had carried her secret with her to the grave to which she had
been borne, willingly it seemed, in the red car with the unknown
companion and the goggled chauffeur. I found myself still asking what
possible connection she could have with smuggling opium.
Kennedy, however, was indulging in no such speculations. It was enough
for him that the scene had suddenly shifted and in a most unexpected
manner. I found him voraciously reading practically everything that was
being printed in the papers about the revival of the tong war.
"They say much about the war, but little about the cause," was his dry
comment. "I wish I could make up my mind whether it is due to the
closing of the joints by O'Connor, or the belief that one tong is
informing on the other about opium smuggling."
Kennedy passed over all the picturesque features in the newspapers, and
from it all picked out the one point that was most important for the
case which he was working to clear up. One tong used revolvers of a
certain make; the other of a different make. The bullet which had
killed Bertha Curtis and later Nichi Moto was from a pistol like that
of the Hep Sings.
The difference in the makes of guns seemed at once to suggest something
to Kennedy and instead of mixing actively in the war of the highbinders
he retired to his unfailing laboratory, leaving me to pass the time
gathering such information as I could. Once I dropped in on him but
found him unsociably surrounded by microscopes and a very sensitive
arrangement for taking microphotographs. Some of his negatives were
nearly a foot in diameter, and might have been, for all I knew,
pictures of the surface of the moon.
While I was there O'Connor came in. Craig questioned him about the war
of the tongs.
"Why," O'Connor cried, almost bubbling over with satisfaction, "this
afternoon I was waited on by Chin Jung, you remember?--one of the
leading merchants down there. Of course you know that Chinatown doesn't
believe in hurting business and it seems that he and some of the others
like him are afraid that if the tong war is not hushed up pretty soon
it will cost a lot--in money. They are going to have an anniversary of
the founding of the Chinese republic soon and of the Chinese New Year
and they are afraid that if the war doesn't stop they'll be ruined."
"Which tong does he belong to?" asked Kennedy, still scrutinising a
photograph through his lens.
"Neither," replied O'Connor. "With his aid and that of a Judge of one
of our courts who knows the Chinaman like a book we have had a
conference this afternoon between the two tongs and the truce is
restored again for two weeks."
"Very good," answered Kennedy, "but it doesn't catch the murderer of
Bertha Curtis and the Jap. Where is Clendenin, do you suppose?"
"I don't know, but it at least leaves me free to carry on that case.
What are all these pictures?"
"Well," began Kennedy, taking his glass from his eye and wiping it
carefully, "a Paris crime specialist has formulated a system for
identifying revolver bullets which is very like that of Dr. Bertillon
for identifying human beings."
He picked up a handful of the greatly enlarged photographs. "These are
photographs of bullets which he has sent me. The barrel of every gun
leaves marks on the bullet that are always the same for the same barrel
but never identical for two different barrels. In these big negatives
every detail appears very distinctly and it can be decided with
absolute certainty whether a given bullet was fired from a given
revolver. Now, using this same method, I have made similar greatly
enlarged photographs of the two bullets that have figured so far in
this case. The bullet that killed Miss Curtis shows the same marks as
that which killed Nichi."
He picked up another bunch of prints. "Now," he continued, "taking up
the firing pin of a rifle or the hammer of a revolver, you may not know
it but they are different in every case. Even among the same makes they
are different, and can be detected.
"The cartridge in either a gun or revolver is struck at a point which
is never in the exact centre or edge, as the case may be, but is always
the same for the same weapon. Now the end of the hammer when examined
with the microscope bears certain irregularities of marking different
from those of every other gun and the shell fired in it is impressed
with the particular markings of that hammer, just as paper is by type.
On making microphotographs of firing pins or hammers, with special
reference to the rounded ends and also photographs of the corresponding
rounded depressions in the primers fired by them it is forced on any
one that cartridges fired by each individual rifle or pistol can
positively be identified.
"You will see on the edge of the photographs I have made a rough sketch
calling attention to the 'L'-shaped mark which is the chief
characteristic of this hammer, although there are other detailed
markings which show well under the microscope but not well in a
photograph. You will notice that the characters on the firing hammer
are reversed on the cartridge in the same way that a metal type and the
character printed by it are reversed as regards one another. Again,
depressions on the end of the hammer become raised characters on the
cartridge, and raised characters on the hammer become depressions on
the cartridge.
"Look at some of these old photographs and you will see that they
differ from this. They lack the 'L' mark. Some have circles, others a
very different series of pits and elevations, a set of characters when
examined and measured under the microscope utterly different from those
in every other case. Each is unique, in its pits, lines, circles and
irregularities. The laws of chance are as much against two of them
having the same markings as they are against the thumb prints of two
human subjects being identical. The firing-pin theory, which was used
in a famous case in Maine, is just as infallible as the finger-print
theory. In this case when we find the owner of the gun making an 'L'
mark we shall have the murderer."
Something, I could see, was working on O'Connor's mind. "That's all
right," he interjected, "but you know in neither case was the victim
shot to death. They were asphyxiated."
"I was coming to that," rejoined Craig. "You recall the peculiar
marking on the nose of those bullets? They were what is known as
narcotic bullets, an invention of a Pittsburg scientist. They have the
property of lulling their victims to almost instant slumber. A slight
scratch from these sleep-producing bullets is all that is necessary, as
it was in the case of the man who spied on the queer doings on Staten
Island. The drug, usually morphia, is carried in tiny wells on the cap
of the bullet, is absorbed by the system and acts almost instantly."
The door burst open and Walker Curtis strode in excitedly. He seemed
surprised to see us all there, hesitated, then motioned to Kennedy that
he wished to see him. For a few moments they talked and finally I
caught the remark from Kennedy, "But, Mr. Curtis, I must do it. It is
the only way."
Curtis gave a resigned nod and Kennedy turned to us. "Gentlemen," he
said, "Mr. Curtis in going over the effects of his sister has found a
note from Clendenin which mentions another opium joint down in
Chinatown. He wished me to investigate privately, but I have told him
it would be impossible."
At the mention of a den in the district he was cleaning up O'Connor had
pricked up his ears. "Where is it?" he demanded.
Curtis mentioned a number on Dover Street.
"The Amoy restaurant," ejaculated O'Connor, seizing the telephone. A
moment later he was arranging with the captain at the Elizabeth Street
station for the warrants for an instant raid.
As we hurried into Chinatown from Chatham Square we could see that the
district was celebrating its holidays with long ropes of firecrackers,
and was feasting to reed discords from the pipes of its most famous
musicians, and was gay with the hanging out of many sunflags, red with
an eighteen-rayed white sun in the blue union. Both the new tong truce
and the anniversary were more than cause for rejoicing.
Hurried though it was, the raid on the Hep Sing joint had been
carefully prepared by O'Connor. The house we were after was one of the
oldest of the rookeries, with a gaudy restaurant on the second floor, a
curio shop on the street level, while in the basement all that was
visible was a view of a huge and orderly pile of tea chests. A moment
before the windows of the dwellings above the restaurant had been full
of people. All had faded away even before the axes began to swing on
the basement door which had the appearance of a storeroom for the shop
The flimsy outside door went down quickly. But it was only a blind.
Another door greeted the raiders. The axes swung noisily and the
crowbars tore at the fortified, iron-clad, "ice box" door inside. After
breaking it down they had to claw their way through another just like
it. The thick doors and tea chests piled up showed why no sounds of
gambling and other practices ever were heard outside.
Pushing aside a curtain we were in the main room. The scene was one of
confusion showing the hasty departure of the occupants.
Kennedy did not stop here. Within was still another room, for smokers,
anything but like the fashionable place we had seen uptown. It was low,
common, disgusting. The odour everywhere was offensive; everywhere was
filth that should naturally breed disease. It was an inferno reeking
with unwholesome sweat and still obscured with dense fumes of smoke.
Three tiers of bunks of hardwood were built along the walls. There was
no glamour here; all was sordid. Several Chinamen in various stages of
dazed indolence were jabbering in incoherent oblivion, a state I
suppose of "Oriental calm."
There, in a bunk, lay Clendenin. His slow and uncertain breathing told
of his being under the influence of the drug, and he lay on his back
beside a "layout" with a half-cooked pill still in the bowl of his pipe.
The question was to wake him up. Craig began slapping him with a wet
towel, directing us how to keep him roused. We walked him about, up and
down, dazed, less than half sensible, dreaming, muttering, raving.
A hasty exclamation from O'Connor followed as he drew from the scant
cushions of the bunk a long-barreled pistol, a .44 such as the tong
leaders used, the same make as had shot Bertha Curtis and Nichi. Craig
seized it and stuck it into his pocket.
All the gamblers had fled, all except those too drugged to escape.
Where they had gone was indicated by a door leading up to the kitchen
of the restaurant. Craig did not stop but leaped upstairs and then down
again into a little back court by means of a fire-escape. Through a
sort of short alley we groped our way, or rather through an intricate
maze of alleys and a labyrinth of blind recesses. We were apparently
back of a store on Pell Street.
It was the work of only a moment to go through another door and into
another room, filled with smoky, dirty, unpleasant, fetid air. This
room, too, seemed to be piled with tea chests. Craig opened one. There
lay piles and piles of opium tins, a veritable fortune in the drug.
Mysterious pots and pans, strainers, wooden vessels, and testing
instruments were about. The odour of opium in the manufacture was
unmistakable, for smoking opium is different from the medicinal drug.
There it appeared the supplies of thousands of smokers all over the
country were stored and prepared. In a corner a mass of the finished
product lay weltering in a basin like treacle. In another corner was
the apparatus for remaking yen-shee or once-smoked opium. This I felt
was at last the home of the "dope trust," as O'Connor had once called
it, the secret realm of a real opium king, the American end of the rich
Shanghai syndicate.
A door opened and there stood a Chinaman, stoical, secretive,
indifferent, with all the Oriental cunning and cruelty hall-marked on
his face. Yet there was a fascination and air of Eastern culture about
him in spite of that strange and typical Oriental depth of intrigue and
cunning that shone through, great characteristics of the East.
No one said a word as Kennedy continued to ransack the place. At last
under a rubbish heap he found a revolver wrapped up loosely in an old
sweater. Quickly, under the bright light, Craig drew Clendenin's
pistol, fitted a cartridge into it and fired at the wall. Again into
the second gun he fitted another and a second shot rang out.
Out of his pocket came next the small magnifying glass and two
unmounted microphotographs. He bent down over the exploded shells.
"There it is," cried Craig scarcely able to restrain himself with the
keenness of his chase, "there it is--the mark like an 'L.' This
cartridge bears the one mark, distinct, not possible to have been made
by any other pistol in the world. None of the Hep Sings, all with the
same make of weapons, none of the gunmen in their employ, could
duplicate that mark."
"Some bullets," reported a policeman who had been rummaging further in
the rubbish.
"Be careful, man," cautioned Craig. "They are doped. Lay them down.
Yes, this is the same gun that fired the shot at Bertha Curtis and
Nichi Moto--fired narcotic bullets in order to stop any one who
interfered with the opium smuggling, without killing the victim."
"What's the matter?" asked O'Connor, arriving breathless from the
gambling room after hearing the shots. The Chinaman stood, still
silent, impassive. At sight of him O'Connor gasped out, "Chin Jung!"
"Real tong leader," added Craig, "and the murderer of the white girl to
whom he was engaged. This is the goggled chauffeur of the red car that
met the smuggling boat, and in which Bertha Curtis rode, unsuspecting,
to her death."
"And Clendenin?" asked Walker Curtis, not comprehending.
"A tool--poor wretch. So keen had the hunt for him become that he had
to hide in the only safe place, with the coolies of his employer. He
must have been in such abject terror that he has almost smoked himself
to death."
"But why should the Chinaman shoot my sister?" asked Walker Curtis
amazed at the turn of events.
"Your sister," replied Craig, almost reverently, "wrecked though she
was by the drug, was at last conscience stricken when she saw the vast
plot to debauch thousands of others. It was from her that the Japanese
detective in the revenue service got his information--and both of them
have paid the price. But they have smashed the new opium ring--we have
captured the ring-leaders of the gang."
Out of the maze of streets, on Chatham Square again, we lost no time in
mounting to the safety of the elevated station before some murderous
tong member might seek revenge on us.
The celebration in Chinatown was stilled. It was as though the nerves
of the place had been paralysed by our sudden, sharp blow.
A downtown train took me to the office to write a "beat," for the Star
always made a special feature of the picturesque in Chinatown news.
Kennedy went uptown.
Except for a few moments in the morning, I did not see Kennedy again
until the following afternoon, for the tong war proved to be such an
interesting feature that I had to help lay out and direct the
assignments covering its various details.
I managed to get away again as soon as possible, however, for I knew
that it would not be long before some one else in trouble would
commandeer Kennedy to untangle a mystery, and I wanted to be on the
spot when it started.
Sure enough, it turned out that I was right. Seated with him in our
living room, when I came in from my hasty journey uptown in the subway,
was a man, tall, thick-set, with a crop of closely curling dark hair, a
sharp, pointed nose, ferret eyes, and a reddish moustache, curled at
the ends. I had no difficulty in deciding what he was, if not who he
was. He was the typical detective who, for the very reason that he
looked the part, destroyed much of his own usefulness.
"We have lost so much lately at Trimble's," he was saying, "that it is
long past the stage of being merely interesting. It is downright
serious--for me, at least. I've got to make good or lose my job. And
I'm up against one of the cleverest shoplifters that ever entered a
department-store, apparently. Only Heaven knows how much she has got
away with in various departments so far, but when it comes to lifting
valuable things like pieces of jewelry which run into the thousands,
that is too much."
At the mention of the name of the big Trimble store I had recognised at
once what the man was, and it did not need Kennedy's rapid-fire
introduction of Michael Donnelly to tell me that he was a department
store detective.
"Have you no clue, no suspicions?" inquired Kennedy.
"Well, yes, suspicions," measured Donnelly slowly. "For instance, one
day not long ago a beautifully dressed and refined-looking woman called
at the jewellery department and asked to see a diamond necklace which
we had just imported from Paris. She seemed to admire it very much,
studied it, tried it on, but finally went away without making up her
mind. A couple of days later she returned and asked to see it again.
This time there happened to be another woman beside her who was looking
at some pendants. The two fell to talking about the necklace, according
to the best recollection of the clerk, and the second woman began to
examine it critically. Again the prospective buyer went away. But this
time after she had gone, and when he was putting the things back into
the safe, the clerk examined the necklace, thinking that perhaps a flaw
had been discovered in it which had decided the woman against it. It
was a replica in paste; probably substituted by one of these clever and
smartly dressed women for the real necklace."
Before Craig had a chance to put another question, the buzzer on our
door sounded, and I admitted a dapper, soft-spoken man of middle size,
who might have been a travelling salesman or a bookkeeper. He pulled a
card from his case and stood facing us, evidently in doubt how to
"Professor Kennedy?" he asked at length, balancing the pasteboard
between his fingers.
"Yes," answered Craig. "What can I do for you?"
"I am from Shorham, the Fifth Avenue jeweller, you know," he began
brusquely, as he handed the card to Kennedy. "I thought I'd drop in to
consult you about a peculiar thing that happened at the store recently,
but if you are engaged, I can wait. You see, we had on exhibition a
very handsome pearl dogcollar, and a few days ago two women came to--"
"Say," interrupted Kennedy, glancing from the card to the face of
Joseph Bentley, and then at Donnelly. "What is this--a gathering of the
clans? There seems to be an epidemic of shoplifting. How much were you
stung for?"
"About twenty thousand altogether," replied Bentley with rueful
frankness. "Why? Has some one else been victimised, too?"
Quickly Kennedy outlined, with Donnelly's permission, the story we had
just heard. The two store detectives saw the humour of the situation,
as well as the seriousness of it, and fell to comparing notes.
"The professional as well as the amateur shop-lifter has always
presented to me an interesting phase of criminality," remarked Kennedy
tentatively, during a lull in their mutual commiseration. "With
thousands of dollars' worth of goods lying unprotected on the counters,
it is really no wonder that some are tempted to reach out and take what
they want."
"Yes," explained Donnelly, "the shop-lifter is the department-store's
greatest unsolved problem. Why, sir, she gets more plunder in a year
than the burglar. She's costing the stores over two million dollars.
And she is at her busiest just now with the season's shopping in full
swing. It's the price the stores have to pay for displaying their
goods, but we have to do it, and we are at the mercy of the thieves. I
don't mean by that the occasional shoplifter who, when she gets caught,
confesses, cries, pleads, and begs to return the stolen article. They
often get off. It is the regulars who get the two million, those known
to the police, whose pictures are, many of them, in the Rogues'
Gallery, whose careers and haunts are known to every probation officer.
They are getting away with loot that means for them a sumptuous living."
"Of course we are not up against the same sort of swindlers that you
are," put in Bentley, "but let me tell you that when the big jewelers
do get up against anything of the sort they are up against it hard."
"Have you any idea who it could be?" asked Kennedy, who had been
following the discussion keenly.
"Well, some idea," spoke up Donnelly. "From what Bentley says I
wouldn't be surprised to find that it was the same person in both
cases. Of course you know how rushed all the stores are just now. It is
much easier for these light-fingered individuals to operate during the
rush than at any other time. In the summer, for instance, there is
almost no shop-lifting at all. I thought that perhaps we could discover
this particular shoplifter by ordinary means, that perhaps some of the
clerks in the jewellery department might be able to identify her. We
found one who said that he thought he might recognise one of the women
if he saw her again. Perhaps you did not know that we have our own
little rogues' gallery in most of the big department-stores. But there
didn't happen to be anything there that he recognised. So I took him
down to Police Headquarters. Through plate after plate of pictures
among the shoplifters in the regular Rogues' Gallery the clerk went. At
last he came to one picture that caused him to stop. 'That is one of
the women I saw in the store that day,' he said. 'I'm sure of it.'"
Donnelly produced a copy of the Bertillon picture.
"What?" exclaimed Bentley, as he glanced at it and then at the name and
history on the back. "Annie Grayson? Why, she is known as the queen of
shoplifters. She has operated from Christie's in London to the little
curio-shops of San Francisco. She has worked under a dozen aliases and
has the art of alibi down to perfection. Oh, I've heard of her many
times before. I wonder if she really is the person we're looking for.
They say that Annie Grayson has forgotten more about shoplifting than
the others will ever know."
"Yes," continued Donnelly, "and here's the queer part of it. The clerk
was ready to swear that he had seen the woman in the store at some time
or other, but whether she had been near the counter where the necklace
was displayed was another matter. He wasn't so sure about that."
"Then how did she get it?" I asked, much interested.
"I don't say that she did get it," cautioned Donnelly. "I don't know
anything about it. That is why I am here consulting Professor Kennedy."
"Then who did get it, do you think?" I demanded.
"We have a great deal of very conflicting testimony from the various
clerks," Donnelly continued. "Among those who are known to have visited
the department and to have seen the necklace is another woman, of an
entirely different character, well known in the city." He glanced
sharply at us, as if to impress us with what he was about to say, then
he leaned over and almost whispered the name. "As nearly as I can
gather out of the mass of evidence, Mrs. William Willoughby, the wife
of the broker down in Wall Street, was the last person who was seen
looking at the diamonds."
The mere breath of such a suspicion would have been enough, without his
stage-whisper method of imparting the information. I felt that it was
no wonder that, having even a suspicion of this sort, he should be in
doubt how to go ahead and should wish Kennedy's advice. Ella
Willoughby, besides being the wife of one of the best known operators
in high-class stocks and bonds, was well known in the society columns
of the newspapers. She lived in Glenclair, where she was a leader of
the smarter set at both the church and the country club. The group who
preserved this neat balance between higher things and the world, the
flesh and the devil, I knew to be a very exclusive group, which, under
the calm suburban surface, led a sufficiently rapid life. Mrs.
Willoughby, in addition to being a leader, was a very striking woman
and a beautiful dresser, who set a fast pace for the semi-millionaires
who composed the group.
Here indeed was a puzzle at the very start of the case. It was in all
probability Mrs. Willoughby who had looked at the jewels in both cases.
On the other hand, it was Annie Grayson who had been seen on at least
one occasion, yet apparently had had nothing whatever to do with the
missing jewels, at least not so far as any tangible evidence yet
showed. More than that, Donnelly vouchsafed the information that he had
gone further and that some of the men work-ing under him had
endeavoured to follow the movements of the two women and had found what
looked to be a curious crossing of trails. Both of them, he had found,
had been in the habit of visiting, while shopping, the same little
tea-room on Thirty-third Street, though no one had ever seen them
together there, and the coincidence might be accounted for by the fact
that many Glenclair ladies on shopping expeditions made this tea-room a
sort of rendezvous. By inquiring about among his own fraternity
Donnelly had found that other stores also had reported losses recently,
mostly of diamonds and pearls, both black and white.
Kennedy had been pondering the situation for some time, scarcely
uttering a word. Both detectives were now growing restless, waiting for
him to say something. As for me, I knew that if anything were said or
done it would be in Kennedy's own good time. I had learned to have
implicit faith and confidence in him, for I doubt if Craig could have
been placed in a situation where he would not know just what to do
after he had looked over the ground.
At length he leisurely reached across the table for the suburban
telephone book, turned the pages quickly, snapped it shut, and observed
wearily and, as it seemed, irrelevantly: "The same old trouble again
about accurate testimony. I doubt whether if I should suddenly pull a
revolver and shoot Jameson, either of you two men could give a strictly
accurate account of just what happened."
No one said anything, as he raised his hands from his habitual thinking
posture with finger-tips together, placed both hands back of his head,
and leaned back facing us squarely.
"The first step," he said slowly, "must be to arrange a 'plant.' As
nearly as I can make out the shoplifters or shoplifter, whichever it
may prove to be, have no hint that any one is watching them yet. Now,
Donnelly, it is still very early. I want you to telephone around to the
newspapers, and either in the Trimble advertisements or in the news
columns have it announced that your jewellery department has on
exhibition a new and special importation of South African stones among
which is one--let me see, let's call it the 'Kimberley Queen.' That
will sound attractive. In the meantime find the largest and most
perfect paste jewel in town and have it fixed up for exhibition and
labelled the Kimberley Queen. Give it a history if you can; anything to
attract attention. I'll see you in the morning. Good-night, and thank
you for coming to me with this case."
It was quite late, but Kennedy, now thoroughly interested in following
the chase, had no intention of waiting until the morrow before taking
action on his own account. In fact he was just beginning the evening's
work by sending Donnelly off to arrange the "plant." No less interested
in the case than himself, I needed no second invitation, and in a few
minutes we were headed from our rooms toward the laboratory, where
Kennedy had apparatus to meet almost any conceivable emergency. From a
shelf in the corner he took down an oblong oak box, perhaps eighteen
inches in length, in the front of which was set a circular metal disk
with a sort of pointer and dial. He lifted the lid of the box, and
inside I could see two shiny caps which in turn he lifted, disclosing
what looked like two good-sized spools of wire. Apparently satisfied
with his scrutiny, he snapped the lid shut and wrapped up the box
carefully, consigning it to my care, while he hunted some copper wire.
From long experience with Kennedy I knew better than to ask what he had
in mind to do. It was enough to know that he had already, in those few
minutes of apparent dreaming while Donnelly and Bentley were fidgeting
for words, mapped out a complete course of action.
We bent our steps toward the under-river tube, which carried a few late
travellers to the railroad terminal where Kennedy purchased tickets for
Glenclair. I noticed that the conductor on the suburban train eyed us
rather suspiciously as though the mere fact that we were not travelling
with commutation tickets at such an hour constituted an offence.
Although I did not yet know the precise nature of our adventure, I
remembered with some misgiving that I had read of police dogs in
Glenclair which were uncomfortably familiar with strangers carrying
bundles. However, we got along all right, perhaps because the dogs knew
that in a town of commuters every one was privileged to carry a bundle.
"If the Willoughbys had been on a party line," remarked Craig as we
strode up Woodridge Avenue trying to look as if it was familiar to us,
"we might have arranged this thing by stratagem. As it is, we shall
have to resort to another method, and perhaps better, since we shall
have to take no one into our confidence."
The avenue was indeed a fine thoroughfare, lined on both sides with
large and often imposing mansions, surrounded with trees and shrubbery,
which served somewhat to screen them. We came at last to the Willoughby
house, a sizable colonial residence set up on a hill. It was dark,
except for one dim light in an upper story. In the shadow of the hedge,
Craig silently vaulted the low fence and slipped up the terraces, as
noiselessly as an Indian, scarcely crackling a twig or rustling a dead
leaf on the ground. He paused as he came to a wing on the right of the
I had followed more laboriously, carrying the box and noting that he
was not looking so much at the house as at the sky, apparently. It did
not take long to fathom what he was after. It was not a star-gazing
expedition; he was following the telephone wire that ran in from the
street to the corner of the house near which we were now standing. A
moment's inspection showed him where the wire was led down, on the
outside and entered through the top of a window.
Quickly he worked, though in a rather awkward position, attaching two
wires carefully to the telephone wires. Next he relieved me of the oak
box with its strange contents, and placed it under the porch where it
was completely hidden by some lattice-work which extended down to the
ground on this side. Then he attached the new wires from the telephone
to it and hid the connecting wires as best he could behind the swaying
runners of a vine. At last, when he had finished to his satisfaction,
we retraced our steps, to find that our only chance of getting out of
town that night was by trolley that landed us, after many changes, in
our apartment in New York, thoroughly convinced of the disadvantages of
suburban detective work.
Nevertheless the next day found us out sleuthing about Glenclair, this
time in a more pleasant role. We had a newspaper friend or two out
there who was willing to introduce us about without asking too many
questions. Kennedy, of course, insisted on beginning at the very
headquarters of gossip, the country club.
We spent several enjoyable hours about the town, picking up a good deal
of miscellaneous and useless information. It was, however, as Kennedy
had suspected. Annie Grayson had taken up her residence in an artistic
little house on one of the best side streets of the town. But her name
was no longer Annie Grayson. She was Mrs. Maud Emery, a dashing young
widow of some means, living in a very quiet but altogether comfortable
style, cutting quite a figure in the exclusive suburban community, a
leading member of the church circle, an officer of the Civic League,
prominent in the women's club, and popular with those to whom the
established order of things was so perfect that the only new bulwark of
their rights was an anti-suffrage society. In fact, every one was
talking of the valuable social acquisition in the person of this
attractive young woman who entertained lavishly and was bracing up an
otherwise drooping season. No one knew much about her, but then, that
was not necessary. It was enough to accept one whose opinions and
actions were not subversive of the social order in any way.
The Willoughbys, of course, were among the most prominent people in the
town. William Willoughby was head of the firm of Willoughby & Walton,
and it was the general opinion that Mrs. Willoughby was the head of the
firm of Ella & William Willoughby. The Willoughbys were good mixers,
and were spoken well of even by the set who occupied the social stratum
just one degree below that in which they themselves moved. In fact,
when Mrs. Willoughby had been severely injured in an automobile
accident during the previous summer Glenclair had shown real solicitude
for her and had forgotten a good deal of its artificiality in genuine
human interest.
Kennedy was impatiently waiting for an opportunity to recover the box
which he had left under the Willoughby porch. Several times we walked
past the house, but it was not until nightfall that he considered it
wise to make the recovery. Again we slipped silently up the terraces.
It was the work of only a moment to cut the wires, and in triumph Craig
bore off the precious oak box and its batteries.
He said little on our journey back to the city, but the moment we had
reached the laboratory he set the box on a table with an attachment
which seemed to be controlled by pedals operated by the feet.
"Walter," he explained, holding what looked like an earpiece in his
hand, "this is another of those new little instruments that scientific
detectives to-day are using. A poet might write a clever little verse
en-titled, 'The telegraphone'll get you, if you don't watch out.' This
is the latest improved telegraphone, a little electromagnetic wizard in
a box, which we detectives are now using to take down and 'can'
telephone conversations and other records. It is based on an entirely
new principle in every way different from the phonograph. It was
discovered by an inventor several years ago, while experimenting in
"There are no disks or cylinders of wax, as in the phonograph, but two
large spools of extremely fine steel wire. The record is not made
mechanically on a cylinder, but electromagnetically on this wire. Small
portions of magnetism are imparted to fractions of the steel wire as it
passes between two carbon electric magnets. Each impression represents
a sound wave. There is no apparent difference in the wire, no surface
abrasion or other change, yet each particle of steel undergoes an
electromagnetic transformation by which the sound is indelibly
imprinted on it until it is wiped out by the erasing magnet. There are
no cylinders to be shaved; all that is needed to use the wire again is
to pass a magnet over it, automatically erasing any previous record
that you do not wish to preserve. You can dictate into it, or, with
this plug in, you can record a telephone conversation on it. Even rust
or other deterioration of the steel wire by time will not affect this
electromagnetic registry of sound. It can be read as long as steel will
last. It is as effective for long distances as for short, and there is
wire enough on one of these spools for thirty minutes of uninterrupted
Craig continued to tinker tantalisingly with the machine.
"The principle on which it is based," he added, "is that a mass of
tempered steel may be impressed with and will retain magnetic fluxes
varying in density and in sign in adjacent portions of its mass. There
are no indentations on the wire or the steel disk. Instead there is a
deposit of magnetic impulse on the wire, which is made by connecting up
an ordinary telephone transmitter with the electromagnets and talking
through the coil. The disturbance set up in the coils by the vibration
of the diaphragm of the transmitter causes a deposit of magnetic
impulse on the wire, the coils being connected with dry batteries. When
the wire is again run past these coils, with a receiver such as I have
here in circuit with the coils, a light vibration is set up in the
receiver diaphragm which reproduces the sound of speech."
He turned a switch and placed an ear-piece over his head, giving me
another connected with it. We listened eagerly. There were no foreign
noises in the machine, no grating or thumping sounds, as he controlled
the running off of the steel wire by means of a foot-pedal.
We were listening to everything that had been said over the Willoughby
telephone during the day. Several local calls to tradesmen came first,
and these we passed over quickly. Finally we heard the following
"Hello. Is that you, Ella? Yes, this is Maud. Good-morning. How do you
feel to-day?"
"Good-morning, Maud. I don't feel very well. I have a splitting
"Oh, that's too bad, dear. What are you doing for it?"
"Nothing--yet. If it doesn't get better I shall have Mr. Willoughby
call up Dr. Guthrie."
"Oh, I hope it gets better soon. You poor creature, don't you think a
little trip into town might make you feel better? Had you thought of
going to-day?"
"Why, no. I hadn't thought of going in. Are you going?"
"Did you see the Trimble ad. in the morning paper?"
"No, I didn't see the papers this morning. My head felt too bad."
"Well, just glance at it. It will interest you. They have the Kimberley
Queen, the great new South African diamond on exhibition there."
"They have? I never heard of it before, but isn't that interesting. I
certainly would like to see it. Have you ever seen it?"
"No, but I have made up my mind not to miss a sight of it. They say it
is wonderful. You'd better come along. I may have something interesting
to tell you, too."
"Well, I believe I will go. Thank you, Maud, for suggesting it. Perhaps
the little change will make me feel better. What train are you going to
take? The ten-two? All right, I'll try to meet you at the station.
Good-bye, Maud."
"Good-bye, Ella."
Craig stopped the machine, ran it back again and repeated the record.
"So," he commented at the conclusion of the repetition, "the 'plant'
has taken root. Annie Grayson has bitten at the bait."
A few other local calls and a long-distance call from Mr. Willoughby
cut short by his not finding his wife at home followed. Then there
seemed to have been nothing more until after dinner. It was a call by
Mr. Willoughby himself that now interested us.
"Hello! hello! Is that you, Dr. Guthrie? Well, Doctor, this is Mr.
Willoughby talking. I'd like to make an appointment for my wife
"Why, what's the trouble, Mr. Willoughby? Nothing serious, I hope."
"Oh, no, I guess not. But then I want to be sure, and I guess you can
fix her up all right. She complains of not being able to sleep and has
been having pretty bad headaches now and then."
"Is that so? Well, that's too bad. These women and their
headaches--even as a doctor they puzzle me. They often go away as
suddenly as they come. However, it will do no harm to see me."
"And then she complains of noises in her ears, seems to hear things,
though as far as I can make out, there is nothing--at least nothing
that I hear."
"Um-m, hallucinations in hearing, I suppose. Any dizziness?"
"Why, yes, a little once in a while."
"How is she now?"
"Well, she's been into town this afternoon and is pretty tired, but she
says she feels a little better for the excitement of the trip."
"Well, let me see. I've got to come down Woodridge Avenue to see a
patient in a few minutes anyhow. Suppose I just drop off at your place?"
"That will be fine. You don't think it is anything serious, do you,
"Oh, no. Probably it's her nerves. Perhaps a little rest would do her
good. We'll see."
The telegraphone stopped, and that seemed to be the last conversation
recorded. So far we had learned nothing very startling, I thought, and
was just a little disappointed. Kennedy seemed well satisfied, however.
Our own telephone rang, and it proved to be Donnelly on the wire. He
had been trying to get Kennedy all day, in order to report that at
various times his men at Trimble's had observed Mrs. Willoughby and
later Annie Grayson looking with much interest at the Kimberley Queen,
and other jewels in the exhibit. There was nothing more to report.
"Keep it on view another day or two," ordered Kennedy. "Advertise it,
but in a quiet way. We don't want too many people interested. I'll see
you in the morning at the store--early."
"I think I'll just run back to Glenclair again to-night," remarked
Kennedy as he hung up the receiver. "You needn't bother about coming,
Walter. I want to see Dr. Guthrie a moment. You remember him? We met
him to-day at the country club, a kindly looking, middle-aged fellow?"
I would willingly have gone back with him, but I felt that I could be
of no particular use. While he was gone I pondered a good deal over the
situation. Twice, at least, previously some one had pilfered jewellery
from stores, leaving in its place worthless imitations. Twice the
evidence had been so conflicting that no one could judge of its value.
What reason, I asked myself, was there to suppose that it would be
different now? No shoplifter in her senses was likely to lift the great
Kimberley Queen gem with the eagle eyes of clerks and detectives on
her, even if she did not discover that it was only a paste jewel. And
if Craig gave the woman, whoever she was, a good opportunity to get
away with it, it would be a case of the same conflicting evidence; or
worse, no evidence.
Yet the more I thought of it, the more apparent to me was it that
Kennedy must have thought the whole thing out before. So far all that
had been evident was that he was merely preparing a "plant." Still, I
meant to caution him when he returned that one could not believe his
eyes, certainly not his ears, as to what might happen, unless he was
unusually skilful or lucky. It would not do to rely on anything so
fallible as the human eye or ear, and I meant to impress it on him.
What, after all, had been the net result of our activities so far? We
had found next to nothing. Indeed, it was all a greater mystery than
It was very late when Craig returned, but I gathered from the still
fresh look on his face that he had been successful in whatever it was
he had had in mind when he made the trip.
"I saw Dr. Guthrie," he reported laconically, as we prepared to turn
in. "He says that he isn't quite sure but that Mrs. Willoughby may have
a touch of vertigo. At any rate, he has consented to let me come out
to-morrow with him and visit her as a specialist in nervous diseases
from New York. I had to tell him just enough about the case to get him
interested, but that will do no harm. I think I'll set this alarm an
hour ahead. I want to get up early to-morrow, and if I shouldn't be
here when you wake, you'll find me at Trimble's."
The alarm wakened me all right, but to my surprise Kennedy had already
gone, ahead of it. I dressed hurriedly, bolted an early breakfast, and
made my way to Trimble's. He was not there, and I had about concluded
to try the laboratory, when I saw him pulling up in a cab from which he
took several packages. Donnelly had joined us by this time, and
together we rode up in the elevator to the jewelry department. I had
never seen a department-store when it was empty, but I think I should
like to shop in one under those conditions. It seemed incredible to get
into the elevator and go directly to the floor you wanted.
The jewelry department was in the front of the building on one of the
upper floors, with wide windows through which the bright morning light
streamed attractively on the glittering wares that the clerks were
taking out of the safes and disposing to their best advantage. The
store had not opened yet, and we could work unhampered.
From his packages, Kennedy took three black boxes. They seemed to have
an opening in front, while at one side was a little crank, which, as
nearly as I could make out, was operated by clockwork released by an
electric contact. His first problem seemed to be to dispose the boxes
to the best advantage at various angles about the counter where the
Kimberley Queen was on exhibition. With so much bric-a-brac and other
large articles about, it did not appear to be very difficult to conceal
the boxes, which were perhaps four inches square on the ends and eight
inches deep. From the boxes with the clockwork attachment at the side
he led wires, centring at a point at the interior end of the aisle
where we could see but would hardly be observed by any one standing at
the jewelry counter.
Customers had now begun to arrive, and we took a position in the
background, prepared for a long wait. Now and then Donnelly casually
sauntered past us. He and Craig had disposed the store detectives in a
certain way so as to make their presence less obvious, while the clerks
had received instructions how to act under the circumstance that a
suspicious person was observed.
Once when Donnelly came up he was quite excited. He had just received a
message from Bentley that some of the stolen property, the pearls,
probably, from the dog collar that had been taken from Shorham's, had
been offered for sale by a "fence" known to the police as a former
confederate of Annie Grayson.
"You see, that is one great trouble with them all," he remarked, with
his eye roving about the store in search of anything irregular. "A
shoplifter rarely becomes a habitual criminal until after she passes
the age of twenty-five. If they pass that age without quitting, there
is little hope of their getting right again, as you see. For by that
time they have long since begun to consort with thieves of the other
The hours dragged heavily, though it was a splendid chance to observe
at leisure the psychology of the shopper who looked at much and bought
little, the uncomfortableness of the men who had been dragged to the
department store slaughter to say "Yes" and foot the bills, a
kaleidoscopic throng which might have been interesting if we had not
been so intent on only one matter.
Kennedy grasped my elbow in vise-like fingers. Involuntarily I looked
down at the counter where the Kimberley Queen reposed in all the
trappings of genuineness. Mrs. Willoughby had arrived again.
We were too far off to observe distinctly just what was taking place,
but evidently Mrs. Willoughby was looking at the gem. A moment later
another woman sauntered casually up to the counter. Even at a distance
I recognised Annie Grayson. As nearly as I could make out they seemed
to exchange remarks. The clerk answered a question or two, then began
to search for something apparently to show them. Every one about them
was busy, and, obedient to instructions from Donnelly, the store
detectives were in the background.
Kennedy was leaning forward watching as intently as the distance would
permit. He reached over and pressed the button near him.
After a minute or two the second woman left, followed shortly by Mrs.
Willoughby herself. We hurried over to the counter, and Kennedy seized
the box containing the Kimberley Queen. He examined it carefully. A
flaw in the paste jewel caught his eye.
"There has been a substitution here," he cried. "See! The paste jewel
which we used was flawless; this has a little carbon spot here on the
"One of my men has been detailed to follow each of them," whispered
Donnelly. "Shall I order them to bring Mrs. Willoughby and Annie
Grayson to the superintendent's office and have them searched?"
"No," Craig almost shouted. "That would spoil everything. Don't make a
move until I get at the real truth of this affair."
The case was becoming more than ever a puzzle to me, but there was
nothing left for me to do but to wait until Kennedy was ready to
accompany Dr. Guthrie to the Willoughby house. Several times he tried
to reach the doctor by telephone, but it was not until the middle of
the afternoon that he succeeded.
"I shall be quite busy the rest of the afternoon, Walter," remarked
Craig, after he had made his appointment with Dr. Guthrie. "If you will
meet me out at the Willoughbys' at about eight o'clock, I shall be much
obliged to you."
I promised, and tried to devote myself to catching up with my notes,
which were always sadly behind when Kennedy had an important case. I
did not succeed in accomplishing much, however.
Dr. Guthrie himself met me at the door of the beautiful house on
Woodridge Avenue and with a hearty handshake ushered me into the large
room in the right wing outside of which we had placed the telegraphone
two nights before. It was the library.
We found Kennedy arranging an instrument in the music-room which
adjoined the library. From what little knowledge I have of electricity
I should have said it was, in part at least, a galvanometer, one of
those instruments which register the intensity of minute electric
currents. As nearly as I could make out, in this case the galvanometer
was so arranged that its action swung to one side or the other a little
concave mirror hung from a framework which rested on the table.
Directly in front of it was an electric light, and the reflection of
the light was caught in the mirror and focused by its concavity upon a
point to one side of the light. Back of it was a long strip of ground
glass and an arrow point, attached to which was a pen which touched a
roll of paper.
On the large table in the library itself Kennedy had placed in the
centre a transverse board partition, high enough so that two people
seated could see each other's faces and converse over it, but could not
see each other's hands. On one side of the partition were two metal
domes which were fixed to a board set on the table. On the other side,
in addition to space on which he could write, Kennedy had arranged what
looked like one of these new miniature moving-picture apparatuses
operated by electricity. Indeed, I felt that it must be that, for
directly in front of it, hanging on the wall, in plain view of any one
seated on the side of the table containing the metal domes, was a large
white sheet.
The time for the experiment, whatever its nature might be, had at last
arrived, and Dr. Guthrie introduced Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby to us as
specialists whom he had persuaded with great difficulty to come down
from New York. Mr. Willoughby he requested to remain outside until
after the tests. She seemed perfectly calm as she greeted us, and
looked with curiosity at the paraphernalia which Kennedy had installed
in her library. Kennedy, who was putting some finishing touches on it,
was talking in a low voice to reassure her.
"If you will sit here, please, Mrs. Willoughby, and place your hands on
these two brass domes--there, that's it. This is just a little
arrangement to test your nervous condition. Dr. Guthrie, who
understands it, will take his position outside in the music-room at
that other table. Walter, just switch off that light, please.
"Mrs. Willoughby, I may say that in testing, say, the memory, we
psychologists have recently developed two tests, the event test, where
something is made to happen before a person's eyes and later he is
asked to describe it, and the picture test, where a picture is shown
for a certain length of time, after which the patient is also asked to
describe what was in the picture. I have endeavoured to combine these
two ideas by using the moving-picture machine which you see here. I am
going to show three reels of films."
As nearly as I could make out Kennedy had turned on the light in the
lantern on his side of the table. As he worked over the machine, which
for the present served to distract Mrs. Willoughby's attention from
herself, he was asking her a series of questions. From my position I
could see that by the light of the machine he was recording both the
questions and the answers, as well as the time registered to the fifth
of a second by a stop-watch. Mrs. Willoughby could not see what he was
doing under the pretence of working over his little moving-picture
He had at last finished the questioning. Suddenly, without any warning,
a picture began to play on the sheet. I must say that I was startled
myself. It represented the jewelry counter at Trimble's, and in it I
could see Mrs. Willoughby herself in animated conversation with one of
the clerks. I looked intently, dividing my attention between the
picture and the woman. But so far as I could see there was nothing in
this first film that incriminated either of them.
Kennedy started on the second without stopping. It was practically the
same as the first, only taken from a different angle.
He had scarcely run it half through when Dr. Guthrie opened the door.
"I think Mrs. Willoughby must have taken her hands off the metal
domes," he remarked; "I can get no record out here."
I had turned when he opened the door, and now I caught a glimpse of
Mrs. Willoughby standing, her hands pressed tightly to her head as if
it were bursting, and swaying as if she would faint. I do not know what
the film was showing at this point, for Kennedy with a quick movement
shut it off and sprang to her side.
"There, that will do, Mrs. Willoughby. I see that you are not well," he
soothed. "Doctor, a little something to quiet her nerves. I think we
can complete our work merely by comparing notes. Call Mr. Willoughby,
Walter. There, sir, if you will take charge of your wife and perhaps
take her for a turn or two in the fresh air, I think we can tell you in
a few moments whether her condition is in any way serious or not."
Mrs. Willoughby was on the verge of hysterics as her husband supported
her out of the room. The door had scarcely shut before Kennedy threw
open a window and seemed to beckon into the darkness. As if from
nowhere, Donnelly and Bentley sprang no and were admitted.
Dr. Guthrie had now returned from the music-room, bearing a sheet of
paper on which was traced a long irregular curve at various points on
which marginal notes had been written hastily.
Kennedy leaped directly into the middle of things with his
characteristic ardour. "You recall," he began, "that no one seemed to
know just who took the jewels in both the cases you first reported?
'Seeing is believing,' is an old saying, but in the face of such
reports as you detectives gathered it is in a fair way to lose its
force. And you were not at fault, either, for modern psychology is
proving by experiments that people do not see even a fraction of the
things they confidently believe they see.
"For example, a friend of mine, a professor in a Western university,
has carried on experiments with scores of people and has not found one
who could give a completely accurate description of what he had seen,
even in the direct testimony; while under the influence of questions,
particularly if they were at all leading, witnesses all showed
extensive inaccuracies in one or more particulars, and that even though
they are in a more advantageous position for giving reports than were
your clerks who were not prepared. Indeed, it is often a wonder to me
that witnesses of ordinary events who are called upon in court to
relate what they saw after a considerable lapse of time are as accurate
as they are, considering the questioning they often go through from
interested parties, neighbours and friends, and the constant and often
biased rehearsing of the event. The court asks the witness to tell the
truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. How can he? In fact,
I am often surprised that there is such a resemblance between the
testimony and the actual facts of the case!
"But I have here a little witness that never lies, and, mindful of the
fallibility of ordinary witnesses, I called it in. It is a new,
compact, little motion camera which has just been perfected to do
automatically what the big moving-picture making cameras do."
He touched one of the little black boxes such as we had seen him
install in the jewelry department at Trimble's.
"Each of these holds one hundred and sixty feet of film," he resumed,
"enough to last three minutes, taking, say, sixteen pictures to the
foot and running about one foot a second. You know that less than ten
or eleven pictures a second affect the retina as separate, broken
pictures. The use of this compact little motion camera was suggested to
me by an ingenious but cumbersome invention recently offered to the
police in Paris--the installation on the clock-towers in various
streets of cinematograph apparatus directed by wireless. The motion
camera as a detective has now proved its value. I have here three films
taken at Trimble's, from different angles, and they clearly show
exactly what actually occurred while Mrs. Willoughby and Annie Grayson
were looking at the Kimberley Queen."
He paused as if analysing the steps in his own mind. "The telegraphone
gave me the first hint of the truth," he said. "The motion camera
brought me a step nearer, but without this third instrument, while I
should have been successful, I would not have got at the whole truth."
He was fingering the apparatus on the library table connected with that
in the music-room. "This is the psychometer for testing mental
aberrations," he explained. "The scientists who are using it to-day are
working, not with a view to aiding criminal jurisprudence, but with the
hope of making such discoveries that the mental health of the race may
be bettered. Still, I believe that in the study of mental diseases
these men are furnishing the knowledge upon which future criminologists
will build to make the detection of crime an absolute certainty. Some
day there will be no jury, no detectives, no witnesses, no attorneys.
The state will merely submit all suspects to tests of scientific
instruments like these, and as these instruments can not make mistakes
or tell lies their evidence will be conclusive of guilt or innocence.
"Already the psychometer is an actual working fact. No living man can
conceal his emotions from the uncanny instrument. He may bring the most
gigantic of will-powers into play to conceal his inner feelings and the
psychometer will record the very work which he makes this will-power do.
"The machine is based upon the fact that experiments have proved that
the human body's resistance to an electrical current is increased with
the increase of the emotions. Dr. Jung, of Zurich, thought that it
would be a very simple matter to record these varying emotions, and the
psychometer is the result--simple and crude to-day compared with what
we have a right to expect in the future.
"A galvanometer is so arranged that its action swings a mirror from
side to side, reflecting a light. This light falls on a ground-glass
scale marked off into centimetres, and the arrow is made to follow the
beam of light. A pen pressing down on a metal drum carrying a long roll
of paper revolved by machinery records the variations. Dr. Guthrie, who
had charge of the recording, simply sat in front of the ground glass
and with the arrow point followed the reflection of the light as it
moved along the scale, in this way making a record on the paper on the
drum, which I see he is now holding in his hand.
"Mrs. Willoughby, the subject, and myself, the examiner, sat here,
facing each other over this table. Through those metal domes on which
she was to keep her hands she received an electric current so weak that
it could not be felt even by the most sensitive nerves. Now with every
increase in her emotion, either while I was putting questions to her or
showing her the pictures, whether she showed it outwardly or not, she
increased her body's resistance to the current that was being passed in
through her hands. The increase was felt by the galvanometer connected
by wires in the music-room, the mirror swung, the light travelled on
the scale, the arrow was moved by Dr. Guthrie, and her varying emotions
were recorded indelibly upon the revolving sheet of paper, recorded in
such a way as to show their intensity and reveal to the trained
scientist much of the mental condition of the subject."
Kennedy and Dr. Guthrie now conversed in low tones. Once in a while I
could catch a scrap of the conversation--"not an epileptic," "no
abnormal conformation of the head," "certain mental defects," "often
the result of sickness or accident."
"Every time that woman appeared there was a most peculiar disturbance,"
remarked Dr. Guthrie as Kennedy took the roll of paper from him and
studied it carefully.
At length the light seemed to break through his face.
"Among the various kinds of insanity," he said, slowly measuring his
words, "there is one that manifests itself as an irresistible impulse
to steal. Such terms as neuropath and kleptomaniac are often regarded
as rather elegant names for contemptible excuses invented by medical
men to cover up stealing. People are prone to say cynically, 'Poor
man's sins; rich man's diseases.' Yet kleptomania does exist, and it is
easy to make it seem like crime when it is really persistent,
incorrigible, and irrational stealing. Often it is so great as to be
incurable. Cases have been recorded of clergymen who were kleptomaniacs
and in one instance a dying victim stole the snuffbox of his confessor.
"It is the pleasure and excitement of stealing, not the desire for the
object stolen, which distinguishes the kleptomaniac from the ordinary
thief. Usually the kleptomaniac is a woman, with an insane desire to
steal for the mere sake of stealing. The morbid craving for excitement
which is at the bottom of so many motiveless and useless crimes, again
and again has driven apparently sensible men and women to ruin and even
to suicide. It is a form of emotional insanity, not loss of control of
the will, but perversion of the will. Some are models in their lucid
intervals, but when the mania is on them they cannot resist. The very
act of taking constitutes the pleasure, not possession. One must take
into consideration many things, for such diseases as kleptomania belong
exclusively to civilisation; they are the product of an age of
sensationalism. Naturally enough, woman, with her delicately balanced
nervous organisation, is the first and chief offender."
Kennedy had seated himself at the table and was writing hastily. When
he had finished, he held the papers in his hand to dry.
He handed one sheet each to Bentley and Donnelly. We crowded about.
Kennedy had simply written out two bills for the necklace and the
collar of pearls.
"Send them in to Mr. Willoughby," he added. "I think he will be glad to
pay them to hush up the scandal."
We looked at each other in amazement at the revelation.
"But what about Annie Grayson?" persisted Donnelly.
"I have taken care of her," responded Kennedy laconically. "She is
already under arrest. Would you like to see why?"
A moment later we had all piled into Dr. Guthrie's car, standing at the
At the cosy little Grayson villa we found two large eyed detectives and
a very angry woman waiting impatiently. Heaped up on a table in the
living room was a store of loot that readily accounted for the ocular
peculiarity of the detectives.
The jumble on the table contained a most magnificent collection of
diamonds, sapphires, ropes of pearls, emeralds, statuettes, and bronze
and ivory antiques, books in rare bindings, and other baubles which
wealth alone can command. It dazzled our eyes as we made a mental
inventory of the heap. Yet it was a most miscellaneous collection.
Beside a pearl collar with a diamond clasp were a pair of plain leather
slippers and a pair of silk stockings. Things of value and things of no
value were mixed as if by a lunatic. A beautiful neck ornament of
carved coral lay near a half-dozen common linen handkerchiefs. A strip
of silk hid a valuable collection of antique jewellery. Besides
diamonds and precious stones by the score were gold and silver
ornaments, silks, satins, laces, draperies, articles of virtu, plumes,
even cutlery and bric-a-brac. All this must have been the result of
countless excursions to the stores of New York and innumerable clever
We could only look at each other in amazement and wonder at the
defiance written on the face of Annie Grayson.
"In all this strange tangle of events," remarked Kennedy, surveying the
pile with obvious satisfaction, "I find that the precise instruments of
science have told me one more thing. Some one else discovered Mrs.
Willoughby's weakness, led her on, suggested opportunities to her, used
her again and again, profited by her malady, probably to the extent of
thousands of dollars. My telegraphone record hinted at that. In some
way Annie Grayson secured the confidence of Mrs. Willoughby. The one
took for the sake of taking; the other received for the sake of money.
Mrs. Willoughby was easily persuaded by her new friend to leave here
what she had stolen. Besides, having taken it, she had no further
interest in it.
"The rule of law is that every one is responsible who knows the nature
and consequences of his act. We have absolute proof that you, Annie
Grayson, although you did not actually commit any of the thefts
yourself, led Mrs. Willoughby on and profited by her. Dr. Guthrie will
take care of the case of Mrs. Willoughby. But the law must deal with
you for playing on the insanity of a kleptomaniac--the cleverest scheme
yet of the queen of shoplifters."
As Kennedy turned nonchalantly from the detectives who had seized Annie
Grayson, he drew a little red folder from his pocket.
"You see, Walter," he smiled, "how soon one gets into a habit? I'm
almost a regular commuter, now. You know, they are always bringing out
these little red folders just when things grow interesting."
I glanced over his shoulder. He was studying the local timetable.
"We can get the last train from Glenclair if we hurry," he announced,
stuffing the folder back into his pocket. "They will take her to Newark
by trolley, I suppose. Come on."
We made our hasty adieux and escaped as best we could the shower of
"Now for a rest," he said, settling back into the plush covered seat
for the long ride into town, his hat down over his eyes and his legs
hunched up against the back of the next seat. Across in the tube and
uptown in a nighthawk cab we went and at last we were home for a good
"This promises to be an off-day," Craig remarked, the next morning over
the breakfast table. "Meet me in the forenoon and we'll take a long,
swinging walk. I feel the need of physical exercise."
"A mark of returning sanity!" I exclaimed.
I had become so used to being called out on the unexpected, now, that I
almost felt that some one might stop us on our tramp. Nothing of the
sort happened, however, until our return.
Then a middle-aged man and a young girl, heavily veiled, were waiting
for Kennedy, as we turned in from the brisk finish in the cutting river
wind along the Drive.
"Winslow is my name, sir," the man began, rising nervously as we
entered the room, "and this is my only daughter, Ruth."
Kennedy bowed and we waited for the man to proceed. He drew his hand
over his forehead which was moist with perspiration in spite of the
season. Ruth Winslow was an attractive young woman, I could see at a
glance, although her face was almost completely hidden by the thick
"Perhaps, Ruth, I had better--ah--see these gentlemen alone?" suggested
her father gently.
"No, father," she answered in a tone of forced bravery, "I think not. I
can stand it. I must stand it. Perhaps I can help you in telling about
the--the case."
Mr. Winslow cleared his throat.
"We are from Goodyear, a little mill-town," he proceeded slowly, "and
as you doubtless can see we have just arrived after travelling all day."
"Goodyear," repeated Kennedy slowly as the man paused. "The chief
industry, of course, is rubber, I suppose."
"Yes," assented Mr. Winslow, "the town centres about rubber. Our
factories are not the largest but are very large, nevertheless, and are
all that keep the town going. It is on rubber, also, I fear, that the
tragedy which I am about to relate hangs. I suppose the New York papers
have had nothing to say of the strange death of Bradley Cushing, a
young chemist in Goodyear who was formerly employed by the mills but
had lately set up a little laboratory of his own?"
Kennedy turned to me. "Nothing unless the late editions of the evening
papers have it," I replied.
"Perhaps it is just as well," continued Mr. Winslow. "They wouldn't
have it straight. In fact, no one has it straight yet. That is why we
have come to you. You see, to my way of thinking Bradley Cushing was on
the road to changing the name of the town from Goodyear to Cushing. He
was not the inventor of synthetic rubber about which you hear nowadays,
but he had improved the process so much that there is no doubt that
synthetic rubber would soon have been on the market cheaper and better
than the best natural rubber from Para.
"Goodyear is not a large place, but it is famous for its rubber and
uses a great deal of raw material. We have sent out some of the best
men in the business, seeking new sources in South America, in Mexico,
in Ceylon, Malaysia and the Congo. What our people do not know about
rubber is hardly worth knowing, from the crude gum to the thousands of
forms of finished products. Goodyear is a wealthy little town, too, for
its size. Naturally all its investments are in rubber, not only in our
own mills but in companies all over the world. Last year several of our
leading citizens became interested in a new concession in the Congo
granted to a group of American capitalists, among whom was Lewis
Borland, who is easily the local magnate of our town. When this group
organised an expedition to explore the region preparatory to taking up
the concession, several of the best known people in Goodyear
accompanied the party and later subscribed for large blocks of stock.
"I say all this so that you will understand at the start just what part
rubber plays in the life of our little community. You can readily see
that such being the case, whatever advantage the world at large might
gain from cheap synthetic rubber would scarcely benefit those whose
money and labour had been expended on the assumption that rubber would
be scarce and dear. Naturally, then, Bradley Cushing was not precisely
popular with a certain set in Goodyear. As for myself, I am frank to
admit that I might have shared the opinion of many others regarding
him, for I have a small investment in this Congo enterprise myself. But
the fact is that Cushing, when he came to our town fresh from his
college fellowship in industrial chemistry, met my daughter."
Without taking his eyes off Kennedy, he reached over and patted the
gloved hand that clutched the arm of the chair alongside his own. "They
were engaged and often they used to talk over what they would do when
Bradley's invention of a new way to polymerise isoprene, as the process
is called, had solved the rubber question and had made him rich. I
firmly believe that their dreams were not day dreams, either. The thing
was done. I have seen his products and I know something about rubber.
There were no impurities in his rubber."
Mr. Winslow paused. Ruth was sobbing quietly.
"This morning," he resumed hastily, "Bradley Cushing was found dead in
his laboratory under the most peculiar circumstances. I do not know
whether his secret died with him or whether some one has stolen it.
From the indications I concluded that he had been murdered."
Such was the case as Kennedy and I heard it then.
Ruth looked up at him with tearful eyes wistful with pain, "Would Mr.
Kennedy work on it?" There was only one answer.
As we sped out to the little mill-town on the last train, after Kennedy
had insisted on taking us all to a quiet little restaurant, he placed
us so that Miss Winslow was furthest from him and her father nearest. I
could hear now and then scraps of their conversation as he resumed his
questioning, and knew that Mr. Winslow was proving to be a good
"Cushing used to hire a young fellow of some scientific experience,
named Strong," said Mr. Winslow as he endeavoured to piece the facts
together as logically as it was possible to do. "Strong used to open
his laboratory for him in the morning, clean up the dirty apparatus,
and often assist him in some of his experiments. This morning when
Strong approached the laboratory at the usual time he was surprised to
see that though it was broad daylight there was a light burning. He was
alarmed and before going in looked through the window. The sight that
he saw froze him. There lay Cushing on a workbench and beside him and
around him pools of coagulating blood. The door was not locked, as we
found afterward, but the young man did not stop to enter. He ran to me
and, fortunately, I met him at our door. I went back.
"We opened the unlocked door. The first thing, as I recall it, that
greeted me was an unmistakable odour of oranges. It was a very
penetrating and very peculiar odour. I didn't understand it, for there
seemed to be something else in it besides the orange smell. However, I
soon found out what it was, or at least Strong did. I don't know
whether you know anything about it, but it seems that when you melt
real rubber in the effort to reduce it to carbon and hydrogen, you get
a liquid substance which is known as isoprene. Well, isoprene,
according to Strong, gives out an odour something like ether. Cushing,
or some one else, had apparently been heating isoprene. As soon as
Strong mentioned the smell of ether I recognised that that was what
made the smell of oranges so peculiar.
"However, that's not the point. There lay Cushing on his back on the
workbench, just as Strong had said. I bent over him, and in his arm,
which was bare, I saw a little gash made by some sharp instrument and
laying bare an artery, I think, which was cut. Long spurts of blood
covered the floor for some distance around and from the veins in his
arm, which had also been severed, a long stream of blood led to a
hollow in the cement floor where it had collected. I believe that he
bled to death."
"And the motive for such a terrible crime?" queried Craig.
Mr. Winslow shook his head helplessly. "I suppose there are plenty of
motives," he answered slowly, "as many motives as there are big
investments in rubber-producing ventures in Goodyear."
"But have you any idea who would go so far to protect his investments
as to kill?" persisted Kennedy.
Mr. Winslow made no reply. "Who," asked Kennedy, "was chiefly
interested in the rubber works where Cushing was formerly employed?"
"The president of the company is the Mr. Borland whom I mentioned,"
replied Mr. Winslow. "He is a man of about forty, I should say, and is
reputed to own a majority of the--"
"Oh, father," interrupted Miss Winslow, who had caught the drift of the
conversation in spite of the pains that had been taken to keep it away
from her, "Mr. Borland would never dream of such a thing. It is wrong
even to think of it."
"I didn't say that he would, my dear," corrected Mr. Winslow gently.
"Professor Kennedy asked me who was chiefly interested in the rubber
works and Mr. Borland owns a majority of the stock." He leaned over and
whispered to Kennedy, "Borland is a visitor at our home, and between
you and me, he thinks a great deal of Ruth."
I looked quickly at Kennedy, but he was absorbed in looking out of the
car window at the landscape which he did not and could not see.
"You said there were others who had an interest in outside companies,"
cross-questioned Kennedy. "I take it that you mean companies dealing in
crude rubber, the raw material, people with investments in plantations
and concessions, perhaps. Who are they? Who were the men who went on
that expedition to the Congo with Borland which you mentioned?"
"Of course, there was Borland himself," answered Winslow. "Then there
was a young chemist named Lathrop, a very clever and ambitious fellow
who succeeded Cushing when he resigned from the works, and Dr. Harris,
who was persuaded to go because of his friendship for Borland. After
they took up the concession I believe all of them put money into it,
though how much I can't say."
I was curious to ask whether there were any other visitors at the
Winslow house who might be rivals for Ruth's affections, but there was
no opportunity.
Nothing more was said until we arrived at Goodyear.
We found the body of Cushing lying in a modest little mortuary chapel
of an undertaking establishment on the main street. Kennedy at once
began his investigation by discovering what seemed to have escaped
others. About the throat were light discolourations that showed that
the young inventor had been choked by a man with a powerful grasp,
although the fact that the marks had escaped observation led quite
obviously to the conclusion that he had not met his death in that way,
and that the marks probably played only a minor part in the tragedy.
Kennedy passed over the doubtful evidence of strangulation for the more
profitable examination of the little gash in the wrist.
"The radial artery has been cut," he mused.
A low exclamation from him brought us all bending over him as he
stooped and examined the cold form. He was holding in the palm of his
hand a little piece of something that shone like silver. It was in the
form of a minute hollow cylinder with two grooves on it, a cylinder so
tiny that it would scarcely have slipped over the point of a pencil.
"Where did you find it?" I asked eagerly.
He pointed to the wound. "Sticking in the severed end of a piece of
vein," he replied, half to himself, "cuffed over the end of the radial
artery which had been severed, and done so neatly as to be practically
hidden. It was done so cleverly that the inner linings of the vein and
artery, the endothelium as it is called, were in complete contact with
each other."
As I looked at the little silver thing and at Kennedy's face, which
betrayed nothing, I felt that here indeed was a mystery. What new
scientific engine of death was that little hollow cylinder?
"Next I should like to visit the laboratory," he remarked simply.
Fortunately, the laboratory had been shut and nothing had been
disturbed except by the undertaker and his men who had carried the body
away. Strong had left word that he had gone to Boston, where, in a safe
deposit box, was a sealed envelope in which Cushing kept a copy of the
combination of his safe, which had died with him. There was, therefore,
no hope of seeing the assistant until the morning.
Kennedy found plenty to occupy his time in his minute investigation of
the laboratory. There, for instance, was the pool of blood leading back
by a thin dark stream to the workbench and its terrible figure, which I
could almost picture to myself lying there through the silent hours of
the night before, with its life blood slowly oozing away, unconscious,
powerless to save itself. There were spurts of arterial blood on the
floor and on the nearby laboratory furniture, and beside the workbench
another smaller and isolated pool of blood.
On a table in a corner by the window stood a microscope which Cushing
evidently used, and near it a box of fresh sterilised slides. Kennedy,
who had been casting his eye carefully about taking in the whole
laboratory, seemed delighted to find the slides. He opened the box and
gingerly took out some of the little oblong pieces of glass, on each of
which he dropped a couple of minute drops of blood from the arterial
spurts and the venous pools on the floor.
Near the workbench were circular marks, much as if some jars had been
set down there. We were watching him, almost in awe at the matter of
fact manner in which, he was proceeding in what to us was nothing but a
hopeless enigma, when I saw him stoop and pick up a few little broken
pieces of glass. There seemed to be blood spots on the glass, as on
other things, but particularly interesting to him.
A moment later I saw that he was holding in his hand what were
apparently the remains of a little broken vial which he had fitted
together from the pieces. Evidently it had been used and dropped in
"A vial for a local anesthetic," he remarked. "This is the sort of
thing that might be injected into an arm or leg and deaden the pain of
a cut, but that is all. It wouldn't affect the consciousness or prevent
any one from resisting a murderer to the last. I doubt if that had
anything directly to do with his death, or perhaps even that this is
Cushing's blood on it."
Unlike Winslow I had seen Kennedy in action so many times that I knew
it was useless to speculate. But I was fascinated, for the deeper we
got into the case, the more unusual and inexplicable it seemed. I gave
that end of it up, but the fact that Strong had gone to secure the
combination of the safe suggested to me to examine that article. There
was certainly no evidence of robbery or even of an attempt at robbery
"Was any doctor called?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes," he replied. "Though I knew it was of no use I called in Dr.
Howe, who lives up the street from the laboratory. I should have called
Dr. Harris, who used to be my own physician, but since his return from
Africa with the Borland expedition, he has not been in very good health
and has practically given up his practice. Dr. Howe is the best
practising physician in town, I think."
"We shall call on him to-morrow," said Craig, snapping his watch, which
already marked far after midnight. Dr. Howe proved, the next day, to be
an athletic-looking man, and I could not help noticing and admiring his
powerful frame and his hearty handshake, as he greeted us when we
dropped into his office with a card from Winslow.
The doctor's theory was that Cushing had committed suicide.
"But why should a young man who had invented a new method of
polymerising isoprene, who was going to become wealthy, and was engaged
to a beautiful young girl, commit suicide?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. It was evident that he, too,
belonged to the "natural rubber set" which dominated Goodyear.
"I haven't looked into the case very deeply, but I'm not so sure that
he had the secret, are you?"
Kennedy smiled. "That is what I'd like to know. I suppose that an
expert like Mr. Borland could tell me, perhaps?"
"I should think so."
"Where is his office?" asked Craig. "Could you point it out to me from
the window?"
Kennedy was standing by one of the windows of the doctor's office, and
as he spoke he turned and drew a little field glass from his pocket.
"Which end of the rubber works is it?"
Dr. Howe tried to direct him but Kennedy appeared unwarrantably obtuse,
requiring the doctor to raise the window, and it was some moments
before he got his glasses on the right spot.
Kennedy and I thanked the doctor for his courtesy and left the office.
We went at once to the office of Dr. Harris, to whom Winslow had also
given us cards. We found him an anaemic man, half asleep. Kennedy
tentatively suggested the murder of Cushing.
"Well, if you ask me my opinion," snapped out the doctor, "although I
wasn't called into the case, from what I hear, I'd say that he was
"Some seem to think it was suicide," prompted Kennedy.
"People who have brilliant prospects and are engaged to pretty girls
don't usually die of their own accord," rasped Harris.
"So you think he really did have the secret of artificial rubber?"
asked Craig.
"Not artificial rubber. Synthetic rubber. It was the real thing, I
"Did Mr. Borland and his new chemist Lathrop believe it, too?"
"I can't say. But I should surely advise you to see them." The doctor's
face was twitching nervously.
"Where is Borland's office?" repeated Kennedy, again taking from his
pocket the field glass and adjusting it carefully by the window.
"Over there," directed Harris, indicating the corner of the works to
which we had already been directed.
Kennedy had stepped closer to the window before him and I stood beside
him looking out also.
"The cut was a very peculiar one," remarked Kennedy, still adjusting
the glasses. "An artery and a vein had been placed together so that the
endothelium, or inner lining of each, was in contact with the other,
giving a continuous serous surface. Which window did you say was
Borland's? I wish you'd step to the other window and raise it, so that
I can be sure. I don't want to go wandering all over the works looking
for him."
"Yes," the doctor said as he went, leaving him standing beside the
window from which he had been directing us, "yes, you surely should see
Mr. Borland. And don't forget that young chemist of his, Lathrop,
either, If I can be of any more help to you, come back again."
It was a long walk through the village and factory yards to the office
of Lewis Borland, but we were amply repaid by finding him in and ready
to see us. Borland was a typical Yankee, tall, thin, evidently
predisposed to indigestion, a man of tremendous mental and nervous
energy and with a hidden wiry strength.
"Mr. Borland," introduced Kennedy, changing his tactics and adopting a
new role, "I've come down to you as an authority on rubber to ask you
what your opinion is regarding the invention of a townsman of yours
named Cushing."
"Cushing?" repeated Borland in some surprise. "Why--"
"Yes," interrupted Kennedy, "I understand all about it. I had heard of
his invention in New York and would have put some money into it if I
could have been convinced. I was to see him to-day, but of course, as
you were going to say, his death prevents it. Still, I should like to
know what you think about it."
"Well," Borland added, jerking out his words nervously, as seemed to be
his habit, "Cushing was a bright young fellow. He used to work for me
until he began to know too much about the rubber business."
"Do you know anything about his scheme?" insinuated Kennedy.
"Very little, except that it was not patented yet, I believe, though he
told every one that the patent was applied for and he expected to get a
basic patent in some way without any interference."
"Well," drawled Kennedy, affecting as nearly as possible the air of a
promoter, "if I could get his assistant, or some one who had authority
to be present, would you, as a practical rubber man, go over to his
laboratory with me? I'd join you in making an offer to his estate for
the rights to the process, if it seemed any good."
"You're a cool one," ejaculated Borland, with a peculiar avaricious
twinkle in the corners of his eyes. "His body is scarcely cold and yet
you come around proposing to buy out his invention and--and, of all
persons, you come to me."
"To you?" inquired Kennedy blandly.
"Yes, to me. Don't you know that synthetic rubber would ruin the
business system that I have built up here?"
Still Craig persisted and argued.
"Young man," said Borland rising at length as if an idea had struck
him, "I like your nerve. Yes, I will go. I'll show you that I don't
fear any competition from rubber made out of fusel oil or any other old
kind of oil." He rang a bell and a boy answered. "Call Lathrop," he
The young chemist, Lathrop, proved to be a bright and active man of the
new school, though a good deal of a rubber stamp. Whenever it was
compatible with science and art, he readily assented to every
proposition that his employer laid down.
Kennedy had already telephoned to the Winslows and Miss Winslow had
answered that Strong had returned from Boston. After a little
parleying, the second visit to the laboratory was arranged and Miss
Winslow was allowed to be present with her father, after Kennedy had
been assured by Strong that the gruesome relics of the tragedy would be
cleared away.
It was in the forenoon that we arrived with Borland and Lathrop. I
could not help noticing the cordial manner with which Borland greeted
Miss Winslow. There was something obtrusive even in his sympathy.
Strong, whom we met now for the first time, seemed rather suspicious of
the presence of Borland and his chemist, but made an effort to talk
freely without telling too much.
"Of course you know," commenced Strong after proper urging, "that it
has long been the desire of chemists to synthesise rubber by a method
that will make possible its cheap production on a large scale. In a
general way I know what Mr. Cushing had done, but there are parts of
the process which are covered in the patents applied for, of which I am
not at liberty to speak yet."
"Where are the papers in the case, the documents showing the
application for the patent, for instance?" asked Kennedy.
"In the safe, sir," replied Strong.
Strong set to work on the combination which he had obtained from the
safe deposit vault. I could see that Borland and Miss Winslow were
talking in a low tone.
"Are you sure that it is a fact?" I overheard him ask, though I had no
idea what they were talking about.
"As sure as I am that the Borland Rubber Works are a fact," she replied.
Craig also seemed to have overheard, for he turned quickly. Borland had
taken out his penknife and was moistening the blade carefully preparing
to cut into a piece Of the synthetic rubber. In spite of his expressed
scepticism, I could see that he was eager to learn what the product was
really like.
Strong, meanwhile, had opened the safe and was going over the papers. A
low exclamation from him brought us around the little pile of
documents. He was holding a will in which nearly everything belonging
to Cushing was left to Miss Winslow.
Not a word was said, although I noticed that Kennedy moved quickly to
her side, fearing that the shock of the discovery might have a bad
effect on her, but she took it with remarkable calmness. It was
apparent that Cushing had taken the step of his own accord and had said
nothing to her about it.
"What does anything amount to?" she said tremulously at last. "The
dream is dead without him in it."
"Come," urged Kennedy gently. "This is enough for to-day."
An hour later we were speeding back to New York. Kennedy had no
apparatus to work with out at Goodyear and could not improvise it.
Winslow agreed to keep us in touch with any new developments during the
few hours that Craig felt it was necessary to leave the scene of action.
Back again in New York, Craig took a cab directly for his laboratory,
leaving me marooned with instructions not to bother him for several
hours. I employed the time in a little sleuthing on my own account,
endeavouring to look up the records of those involved in the case. I
did not discover much, except an interview that had been given at the
time of the return of his expedition by Borland to the Star, in which
he gave a graphic description of the dangers from disease that they had
I mention it because, though it did not impress me much when I read it,
it at once leaped into my mind when the interminable hours were over
and I rejoined Kennedy. He was bending over a new microscope.
"This is a rubber age, Walter," he began, "and the stories of men who
have been interested in rubber often sound like fiction."
He slipped a slide under the microscope, looked at it and then motioned
to me to do the same. "Here is a very peculiar culture which I have
found in some of that blood," he commented. "The germs are much larger
than bacteria and they can be seen with a comparatively low power
microscope swiftly darting between the blood cells, brushing them
aside, but not penetrating them as some parasites, like that of
malaria, do. Besides, spectroscope tests show the presence of a rather
well-known chemical in that blood."
"A poisoning, then?" I ventured. "Perhaps he suffered from the disease
that many rubber workers get from the bisulphide of carbon. He must
have done a good deal of vulcanising of his own rubber, you know."
"No," smiled Craig enigmatically, "it wasn't that. It was an arsenic
derivative. Here's another thing. You remember the field glass I used?"
He had picked it up from the table and was pointing at a little hole in
the side, that had escaped my notice before. "This is what you might
call a right-angled camera. I point the glass out of the window and
while you think I am looking through it I am really focusing it on you
and taking your picture standing there beside me and out of my apparent
line of vision. It would deceive the most wary."
Just then a long-distance call from Winslow told us that Borland had
been to call on Miss Ruth and, in as kindly a way as could be, had
offered her half a million dollars for her rights in the new patent. At
once it flashed over me that he was trying to get control of and
suppress the invention in the interests of his own company, a thing
that has been done hundreds of times. Or could it all have been part of
a conspiracy? And if it was his conspiracy, would he succeed in
tempting his friend, Miss Winslow, to fall in with this glittering
Kennedy evidently thought, also, that the time for action had come, for
without a word he set to work packing his apparatus and we were again
headed for Goodyear.
late hour Kennedy was up early urging me to help him carry the stuff
over to Cushing's laboratory. By the middle of the morning he was ready
and had me scouring about town collecting his audience, which consisted
of the Winslows, Borland and Lathrop, Dr. Howe, Dr. Harris, Strong and
myself. The laboratory was darkened and Kennedy took his place beside
an electric moving picture apparatus.
on a screen before. It seemed to be a mass of little dancing globules.
"This," explained Kennedy, "is what you would call an educational
moving picture, I suppose. It shows normal blood corpuscles as they are
the red corpuscles and the larger irregular cells are the white
elongated house fly, apparently, of sombre grey color, with a narrow
body, thick proboscis and wings that overlapped like the blades of a
pair of shears. "This," he went on, "is a picture of the now well known
like a horse-fly and is a perfect blood-sucker. Vast territories of
thickly populated, fertile country near the shores of lakes and rivers
are now depopulated as a result of the death-dealing bite of these
flies, more deadly than the blood-sucking, vampirish ghosts with which,
fly carries with it germs which it leaves in the blood of its victims,
which I shall show next."
A new film started.
sheath of undulating membrane terminating in a slender whip-like
process by which it moves about. That thing wriggling about like a
minute electric eel, always in motion, is known as the trypanosome.
evolve and revolve in the midst of normal cells, uncoil and undulate in
the fluids which they inhabit, to see them play hide and seek with the
blood corpuscles and clumps of fibrin, turn, twist, and rotate as if in
in every direction displaying their delicate undulating membranes and
shoving aside the blood cells that are in their way while by their side
the leucocytes, or white corpuscles, lazily extend or retract their
pseudopods of protoplasm. To see all this as it is shown before us here
With the cinematograph and the ultra-microscope we can see what no
other forms of photography can reproduce.
evidence against a certain person in this room. For in the blood of one
of you is now going on the fight which you have here seen portrayed by
the picture machine. Notice how the blood corpuscles in this infected
blood have lost their smooth, glossy appearance, become granular and
incapable of nourishing the tissues. The trypanosomes are fighting with
the normal blood cells. Here we have the lowest group of animal life,
the protozoa, at work killing the highest, man."
Kennedy needed nothing more than the breathless stillness to convince
him of the effectiveness of his method of presenting his case.
"Now," he resumed, "let us leave this blood-sucking, vampirish tse-tse
fly for the moment. I have another revelation to make."
He laid down on the table under the lights, which now flashed up again,
the little hollow silver cylinder.
"This little instrument," Kennedy explained, "which I have here is
known as a canula, a little canal, for leading off blood from the veins
of one person to another--in other words, blood transfusion. Modern
doctors are proving themselves quite successful in its use.
"Of course, like everything, it has its own peculiar dangers. But the
one point I wish to make is this: In the selection of a donor for
transfusion, people fall into definite groups. Tests of blood must be
made first to see whether it 'agglutinates,' and in this respect there
are four classes of persons. In our case this matter had to be
neglected. For, gentlemen, there were two kinds of blood on that
laboratory floor, and they do not agglutinate. This, in short, was what
actually happened. An attempt was made to transfuse Cushing's blood as
donor to another person as recipient. A man suffering from the disease
caught from the bite of the tse-tse fly--the deadly sleeping sickness
so well known in Africa--has deliberately tried a form of robbery which
I believe to be without parallel. He has stolen the blood of another!
"He stole it in a desperate attempt to stay an incurable disease. This
man had used an arsenic compound called atoxyl, till his blood was
filled with it and its effects on the trypanosomes nil. There was but
one wild experiment more to try--the stolen blood of another."
Craig paused to let the horror of the crime sink into our minds.
"Some one in the party which went to look over the concession in the
Congo contracted the sleeping sickness from the bites of those
blood-sucking flies. That person has now reached the stage of insanity,
and his blood is full of the germs and overloaded with atoxyl.
"Everything had been tried and had failed. He was doomed. He saw his
fortune menaced by the discovery of the way to make synthetic rubber.
Life and money were at stake. One night, nerved up by a fit of insane
fury, with a power far beyond what one would expect in his ordinary
weakened condition, he saw a light in Cushing's laboratory. He stole in
stealthily. He seized the inventor with his momentarily superhuman
strength and choked him. As they struggled he must have shoved a sponge
soaked with ether and orange essence under his nose. Cushing went under.
"Resistance overcome by the anesthetic, he dragged the now insensible
form to the work bench. Frantically he must have worked. He made an
incision and exposed the radial artery, the pulse. Then he must have
administered a local anesthetic to himself in his arm or leg. He
secured a vein and pushed the cut end over this little canula. Then he
fitted the artery of Cushing over that and the blood that was, perhaps,
to save his life began flowing into his depleted veins.
"Who was this madman? I have watched the actions of those whom I
suspected when they did not know they were being watched. I did it by
using this neat little device which looks like a field glass, but is
really a camera that takes pictures of things at right angles to the
direction in which the glass seems to be pointed. One person, I found,
had a wound on his leg, the wrapping of which he adjusted nervously
when he thought no one was looking. He had difficulty in limping even a
short distance to open a window."
Kennedy uncorked a bottle and the subtle odor of oranges mingled with
ether stole through the room.
"Some one here will recognize that odour immediately. It is the new
orange-essence vapour anesthetic, a mixture of essence of orange with
ether and chloroform. The odour hidden by the orange which lingered in
the laboratory, Mr. Winslow and Mr. Strong, was not isoprene, but
really ether.
"I am letting some of the odour escape here because in this very
laboratory it was that the thing took place, and it is one of the
well-known principles of psychology that odours are powerfully
suggestive. In this case the odour now must suggest the terrible scene
of the other night to some one before me. More than that, I have to
tell that person that the blood transfusion did not and could not save
him. His illness is due to a condition that is incurable and cannot be
altered by transfusion of new blood. That person is just as doomed
to-day as he was before he committed--"
A figure was groping blindly about. The arsenic compounds with which
his blood was surcharged had brought on one of the attacks of blindness
to which users of the drug are subject. In his insane frenzy he was
evidently reaching desperately for Kennedy himself. As he groped he
limped painfully from the soreness of his wound.
"Dr. Harris," accused Kennedy, avoiding the mad rush at himself, and
speaking in a tone that thrilled us, "you are the man who sucked the
blood of Cushing into your own veins and left him to die. But the state
will never be able to exact from you the penalty of your crime. Nature
will do that too soon for justice. Gentlemen, this is the murderer of
Bradley Cushing, a maniac, a modern scientific vampire."
I regarded the broken, doomed man with mingled pity and loathing,
rather than with the usual feelings one has toward a criminal.
"Come," said Craig. "The local authorities can take care of this case
He paused just long enough for a word of comfort to the poor,
broken-hearted girl. Both Winslow answered with a mute look of
gratitude and despair. In fact, in the confusion we were only too glad
to escape any more such mournful congratulations.
"Well," Craig remarked, as we walked quickly down the street, "if we
have to wait here for a train, I prefer to wait in the railroad
station. I have done my part. Now my only interest is to get away
before they either offer me a banquet or lynch me."
Actually, I think he would have preferred the novelty of dealing with a
lynching party, if he had had to choose between the two.
We caught a train soon, however, and fortunately it had a diner
attached. Kennedy whiled away the time between courses by reading the
graft exposures in the city.
As we rolled into the station late in the afternoon, he tossed aside
the paper with an air of relief.
"Now for a quiet evening in the laboratory," he exclaimed, almost
By what stretch of imagination he could call that recreation, I could
not see. But as for quietness, I needed it, too. I had fallen wofully
behind in my record of the startling events through which he was
conducting me. Consequently, until late that night I pecked away at my
typewriter trying to get order out of the chaos of my hastily scribbled
notes. Under ordinary circumstances, I remembered, the morrow would
have been my day of rest on the Star. I had gone far enough with
Kennedy to realise that on this assignment there was no such thing as
"District Attorney Carton wants to see me immediately at the Criminal
Courts Building, Walter," announced Kennedy, early the following
Clothed, and as much in my right mind as possible after the arduous
literary labours of the night before, I needed no urging, for Carton
was an old friend of all the newspaper men. I joined Craig quickly in a
hasty ride down-town in the rush hour.
On the table before the square-jawed, close-cropped, fighting
prosecutor, whom I knew already after many a long and hard-fought
campaign both before and after election, lay a little package which had
evidently come to him in the morning's mail by parcel-post.
"What do you suppose is in that, Kennedy?" he asked, tapping it
gingerly. "I haven't opened it yet, but I think it's a bomb. Wait--I'll
have a pail of water sent in here so that you can open it, if you will.
You understand such things."
"No--no," hastened Kennedy, "that's exactly the wrong thing to do. Some
of these modern chemical bombs are set off in precisely that way. No.
Let me dissect the thing carefully. I think you may be right. It does
look as if it might be an infernal machine. You see the evident
disguise of the roughly written address?"
Carton nodded, for it was that that had excited his suspicion in the
first place. Meanwhile, Kennedy, without further ceremony, began
carefully to remove the wrapper of brown Manila paper, preserving
everything as he did so. Carton and I instinctively backed away.
Inside, Craig had disclosed an oblong wooden box.
"I realise that opening a bomb is dangerous business," he pursued
slowly, engrossed in his work and almost oblivious to us, "but I think
I can take a chance safely with this fellow. The dangerous part is what
might be called drawing the fangs. No bombs are exactly safe toys to
have around until they are wholly destroyed, and before you can say you
have destroyed one, it is rather a ticklish business to take out the
dangerous element."
He had removed the cover in the deftest manner without friction, and
seemingly without disturbing the contents in the least. I do not
pretend to know how he did it; but the proof was that we could see him
still working from our end of the room.
On the inside of the cover was roughly drawn a skull and cross-bones,
showing that the miscreant who sent the thing had at least a sort of
grim humour. For, where the teeth should have been in the skull were
innumerable match-heads. Kennedy picked them out with as much
sang-froid as if he were not playing jackstraws with life and death.
Then he removed the explosive itself and the various murderous slugs
and bits of metal embedded in it, carefully separating each as if to be
labelled "Exhibit A," "B," and so on for a class in bomb dissection.
Finally, he studied the sides and bottom of the box.
"Evidence of chlorate-of-potash mixture," Kennedy muttered to himself,
still examining the bomb. "The inside was a veritable arsenal--a very
unusual and clever construction."
"My heavens!" breathed Carton. "I would rather go through a campaign
We stared at each other in blank awe, at the various parts, so innocent
looking in the heaps on the table, now safely separated, but together a
combination ticket to perdition.
"Who do you suppose could have sent it?" I blurted out when I found my
voice, then, suddenly recollecting the political and legal fight that
Carton was engaged in at the time, I added, "The white slavers?"
"Not a doubt," he returned laconically. "And," he exclaimed, bringing
down both hands vigorously in characteristic emphasis on the arms of
his office chair, "I've got to win this fight against the vice trust,
as I call it, or the whole work of the district attorney's office in
clearing up the city will be discredited--to say nothing of the risk
the present incumbent runs at having such grateful friends about the
city send marks of their affection and esteem like this."
I knew something already of the situation, and Carton continued
thoughtfully: "All the powers of vice are fighting a last-ditch battle
against me now. I think I am on the trail of the man or men higher up
in this commercialised-vice business--and it is a business, big
business, too. You know, I suppose, that they seem to have a string of
hotels in the city, of the worst character. There is nothing that they
will stop at to protect themselves. Why, they are using gangs of thugs
to terrorise any one who informs on them. The gunmen, of course, hate a
snitch worse than poison. There have been bomb outrages, too--nearly a
bomb a day lately--against some of those who look shaky and seem to be
likely to do business with my office. But I'm getting closer all the
"How do you mean?" asked Kennedy.
"Well, one of the best witnesses, if I can break him down by pressure
and promises, ought to be a man named Haddon, who is running a place in
the Fifties, known as the Mayfair. Haddon knows all these people. I can
get him in half an hour if you think it worth while--not here, but
somewhere uptown, say at the Prince Henry."
Kennedy nodded. We had heard of Haddon before, a notorious character in
the white-light district. A moment later Carton had telephoned to the
Mayfair and had found Haddon.
"How did you get him so that he is even considering turning state's
evidence?" asked Craig.
"Well," answered Carton slowly, "I suppose it was partly through a
cabaret singer and dancer, Loraine Keith, at the Mayfair. You know you
never get the truth about things in the underworld except in pieces. As
much as any one, I think we have been able to use her to weave a web
about him. Besides, she seems to think that Haddon has treated her
shamefully. According to her story, he seems to have been lavishing
everything on her, but lately, for some reason, has deserted her.
Still, even in her jealousy she does not accuse any other woman of
winning him away."
"Perhaps it is the opposite--another man winning her," suggested Craig
"It's a peculiar situation," shrugged Carton. "There is another man. As
nearly as I can make out there is a fellow named Brodie who does a
dance with her. But he seems to annoy her, yet at the same time
exercises a sort of fascination over her."
"Then she is dancing at the Mayfair yet?" hastily asked Craig.
"Yes. I told her to stay, not to excite suspicion."
"And Haddon knows?"
"Oh, no. But she has told us enough about him already so that we can
worry him, apparently, just as what he can tell us would worry the
others interested in the hotels. To tell the truth, I think she is a
drug fiend. Why, my men tell me that they have seen her take just a
sniff of something and change instantly--become a willing tool."
"That's the way it happens," commented Kennedy.
"Now, I'll go up there and meet Haddon," resumed Carton. "After I have
been with him long enough to get into his confidence, suppose you two
just happen along."
Half an hour later Kennedy and I sauntered into the Prince Henry, where
Carton had made the appointment in order to avoid suspicion that might
arise if he were seen with Haddon at the Mayfair.
The two men were waiting for us--Haddon, by contrast with Carton, a
weak-faced, nervous man, with bulgy eyes.
"Mr. Haddon," introduced Carton, "let me present a couple of reporters
from the Star--off duty, so that we can talk freely before them, I can
assure you. Good fellows, too, Haddon."
The hotel and cabaret keeper smiled a sickly smile and greeted us with
a covert, questioning glance.
"This attack on Mr. Carton has unnerved me," he shivered. "If any one
dares to do that to him, what will they do to me?"
"Don't get cold feet, Haddon," urged Carton. "You'll be all right. I'll
swing it for you."
Haddon made no reply. At length he remarked: "You'll excuse me for a
moment. I must telephone to my hotel."
He entered a booth in the shadow of the back of the cafe, where there
was a slot-machine pay-station. "I think Haddon has his suspicions,"
remarked Carton, "although he is too prudent to say anything yet."
A moment later he returned. Something seemed to have happened. He
looked less nervous. His face was brighter and his eyes clearer. What
was it, I wondered? Could it be that he was playing a game with Carton
and had given him a double cross? I was quite surprised at his next
"Carton," he said confidently, "I'll stick."
"Good," exclaimed the district attorney, as they fell into a
conversation in low tones.
"By the way," drawled Kennedy, "I must telephone to the office in case
they need me."
He had risen and entered the same booth.
Haddon and Carton were still talking earnestly. It was evident that,
for some reason, Haddon had lost his former halting manner. Perhaps, I
reasoned, the bomb episode had, after all, thrown a scare into him, and
he felt that he needed protection against his own associates, who were
quick to discover such dealings as Carton had forced him into. I rose
and lounged back to the booth and Kennedy.
"Whom did he call?" I whispered, when Craig emerged perspiring from the
booth, for I knew that that was his purpose.
Craig glanced at Haddon, who now seemed absorbed in talking to Carton.
"No one," he answered quickly. "Central told me there had not been a
call from this pay-station for half an hour."
"No one?" I echoed almost incredulously. "Then what did he do?
Something happened, all right."
Kennedy was evidently engrossed in his own thoughts, for he said
"Haddon says he wants to do some scouting about," announced Carton,
when we rejoined them. "There are several people whom he says he might
suspect. I've arranged to meet him this afternoon to get the first part
of this story about the inside working of the vice trust, and he will
let me know if anything develops then. You will be at your office?"
"Yes, one or the other of us," returned Craig, in a tone which Haddon
could not hear.
In the meantime we took occasion to make some inquiries of our own
about Haddon and Loraine Keith. They were evidently well known in the
select circle in which they travelled. Haddon had many curious
characteristics, chief of which to interest Kennedy was his speed
mania. Time and again he had been arrested for exceeding the speed
limit in taxicabs and in a car of his own, often in the past with
Loraine Keith, but lately alone.
It was toward the close of the afternoon that Carton called up
hurriedly. As Kennedy hung up the receiver, I read on his face that
something had gone wrong.
"Haddon has disappeared," he announced, "mysteriously and suddenly,
without leaving so much as a clue. It seems that he found in his office
a package exactly like that which was sent to Carton earlier in the
day. He didn't wait to say anything about it, but left. Carton is
bringing it over here."
Perhaps a quarter of an hour later, Carton himself deposited the
package on the laboratory table with an air of relief. We looked
eagerly. It was addressed to Haddon at the Mayfair in the same
disguised handwriting and was done up in precisely the same fashion.
"Lots of bombs are just scare bombs," observed Craig. "But you never
can tell."
Again Kennedy had started to dissect.
"Ah," he went on, "this is the real thing, though, only a little
different from the other. A dry battery gives a spark when the lid is
slipped back. See, the explosive is in a steel pipe. Sliding the lid
off is supposed to explode it. Why, there is enough explosive in this
to have silenced a dozen Haddons."
"Do you think he could have been kidnapped or murdered?" I asked. "What
is this, anyhow--gang-war?"
"Or perhaps bribed?" suggested Carton.
"I can't say," ruminated Kennedy. "But I can say this: that there is at
large in this city a man of great mechanical skill and practical
knowledge of electricity and explosives. He is trying to make sure of
hiding something from exposure. We must find him."
"And especially Haddon," Carton added quickly. "He is the missing link.
His testimony is absolutely essential to the case I am building up."
"I think I shall want to observe Loraine Keith without being observed,"
planned Kennedy, with a hasty glance at his watch. "I think I'll drop
around at this Mayfair I have heard so much about. Will you come?"
"I'd better not," refused Carton. "You know they all know me, and
everything quits wherever I go. I'll see you soon."
As we drove in a cab over to the Mayfair, Kennedy said nothing. I
wondered how and where Haddon had disappeared. Had the powers of evil
in the city learned that he was weakening and hurried him out of the
way at the last moment? Just what had Loraine Keith to do with it? Was
she in any way responsible? I felt that there were, indeed, no bounds
to what a jealous woman might dare.
Beside the ornate grilled doorway of the carriage entrance of the
Mayfair stood a gilt-and-black easel with the words, "Tango Tea at
Four." Although it was considerably after that time, there was a line
of taxi-cabs before the place and, inside, a brave array of
late-afternoon and early-evening revellers. The public dancing had
ceased, and a cabaret had taken its place.
We entered and sat down at one of the more inconspicuous of the little
round tables. On a stage, at one side, a girl was singing one of the
latest syncopated airs.
"We'll just stick around a while, Walter," whispered Craig. "Perhaps
this Loraine Keith will come in."
Behind us, protected both by the music and the rustle of people coming
and going, a couple talked in low tones. Now and then a word floated
over to me in a language which was English, sure enough, but not of a
kind that I could understand.
"Dropped by a flatty," I caught once, then something about a
"mouthpiece," and the "bulls," and "making a plant."
"A dip--pickpocket--and his girl, or gun-moll, as they call them,"
translated Kennedy. "One of their number has evidently been picked up
by a detective and he looks to them for a good lawyer, or mouth-piece."
Besides these two there were innumerable other interesting glimpses
into the life of this meeting-place for the half-and underworlds. A
motion in the audience attracted me, as if some favourite performer
were about to appear, and I heard the "gun-moll" whisper, "Loraine
There she was, a petite, dark-haired, snappy-eyed girl, chic, well
groomed, and gowned so daringly that every woman in the audience envied
and every man craned his neck to see her better. Loraine wore a
tight-fitting black dress, slashed to the knee. In fact, everything was
calculated to set her off at best advantage, and on the stage, at
least, there was something recherche about her. Yet, there was also
something gross about her, too.
Accompanying her was a nervous-looking fellow whose washed-out face was
particularly unattractive. It seemed as if the bone in his nose was
going, due to the shrinkage of the blood-vessels. Once, just before the
dance began, I saw him rub something on the back of his hand, raise it
to his nose, and sniff. Then he took a sip of a liqueur.
The dance began, wild from the first step, and as it developed, Kennedy
leaned over and whispered, "The danse des Apaches."
It was acrobatic. The man expressed brutish passion and jealousy; the
woman, affection and fear. It seemed to tell a story--the struggle of
love, the love of the woman against the brutal instincts of the thug,
her lover. She was terrified as well as fascinated by him in his mad
temper and tremendous superhuman strength. I wondered if the dance
portrayed the fact.
The music was a popular air with many rapid changes, but through all
there was a constant rhythm which accorded well with the abandon of the
swaying dance. Indeed, I could think of nothing so much as of Bill
Sykes and Nancy as I watched these two.
It was the fight of two frenzied young animals. He would approach
stealthily, seize her, and whirl her about, lifting her to his
shoulder. She was agile, docile, and fearful. He untied a scarf and
passed it about her; she leaned against it, and they whirled giddily
about. Suddenly, it seemed that he became jealous. She would run; he
follow and catch her. She would try to pacify him; he would become more
enraged. The dance became faster and more furious. His violent efforts
seemed to be to throw her to the floor, and her streaming hair now made
it seem more like a fight than a dance. The audience hung breathless.
It ended with her dropping exhausted, a proper finale to this lowest
and most brutal dance.
Panting, flushed, with an unnatural light in their eyes, they descended
to the audience and, scorning the roar of applause to repeat the
performance, sat at a little table.
I saw a couple of girls come over toward the man.
"Give us a deck, Coke," said one, in a harsh voice.
He nodded. A silver quarter gleamed momentarily from hand to hand, and
he passed to one girl stealthily a small white-paper packet. Others
came to him, both men and women. It seemed to be an established thing.
"Who is that?" asked Kennedy, in a low tone, of the pickpocket back of
"Coke Brodie," was the laconic reply.
"A cocaine fiend?"
"Yes, and a lobbygow for the grapevine system of selling the dope under
this new law."
"Where does he get the supply to sell?" asked Kennedy, casually.
The pickpocket shrugged his shoulders.
"No one knows, I suppose," Kennedy commented to me. "But he gets it in
spite of the added restrictions and peddles it in little packets,
adulterated, and at a fabulous price for such cheap stuff. The habit is
spreading like wildfire. It is a fertile means of recruiting the
inmates in the vice-trust hotels. A veritable epidemic it is, too.
Cocaine is one of the most harmful of all habit-forming drugs. It used
to be a habit of the underworld, but now it is creeping up, and
gradually and surely reaching the higher strata of society. One thing
that causes its spread is the ease with which it can be taken. It
requires no smoking-dens, no syringe, no paraphernalia--only the drug
Another singer had taken the place of the dancers. Kennedy leaned over
and whispered to the dip.
"Say, do you and your gun-moll want to pick up a piece of change to get
that mouthpiece I heard you talking about?"
The pickpocket looked at Craig suspiciously.
"Oh, don't worry; I'm all right," laughed Craig. "You see that fellow,
Coke Brodie? I want to get something on him. If you will frame that
sucker to get away with a whole front, there's a fifty in it."
The dip looked, rather than spoke, his amazement. Apparently Kennedy
satisfied his suspicions.
"I'm on," he said quickly. "When he goes, I'll follow him. You keep
behind us, and we'll deliver the goods."
"What's it all about?" I whispered.
"Why," he answered, "I want to get Brodie, only I don't want to figure
in the thing so that he will know me or suspect anything but a plain
hold-up. They will get him; take everything he has. There must be
something on that man that will help us."
Several performers had done their turns, and the supply of the drug
seemed to have been exhausted. Brodie rose and, with a nod to Loraine,
went out, unsteadily, now that the effect of the cocaine had worn off.
One wondered how this shuffling person could ever have carried through
the wild dance. It was not Brodie who danced. It was the drug.
The dip slipped out after him, followed by the woman. We rose and
followed also. Across the city Brodie slouched his way, with an evident
purpose, it seemed, of replenishing his supply and continuing his round
of peddling the stuff.
He stopped under the brow of a thickly populated tenement row on the
upper East Side, as though this was his destination. There he stood at
the gate that led down to a cellar, looking up and down as if wondering
whether he was observed. We had slunk into a doorway.
A woman coming down the street, swinging a chatelaine, walked close to
him, spoke, and for a moment they talked.
"It's the gun-moll," remarked Kennedy. "She's getting Brodie off his
guard. This must be the root of that grapevine system, as they call it."
Suddenly from the shadow of the next house a stealthy figure sprang out
on Brodie. It was our dip, a dip no longer but a regular stick-up man,
with a gun jammed into the face of his victim and a broad hand over his
mouth. Skilfully the woman went through Brodie's pockets, her nimble
fingers missing not a thing.
"Now--beat it," we heard the dip whisper hoarsely, "and if you raise a
holler, we'll get you right, next time."
Brodie fled as fast as his weakened nerves would permit his shaky limbs
to move. As he disappeared, the dip sent something dark hurtling over
the roof of the house across the street and hurried toward us.
"What was that?" I asked.
"I think it was the pistol on the end of a stout cord. That is a
favourite trick of the gunmen after a job. It destroys at least a part
of the evidence. You can't throw a gun very far alone, you know. But
with it at the end of a string you can lift it up over the roof of a
tenement. If Brodie squeals to a copper and these people are caught,
they can't hold them under the pistol law, anyhow."
The dip had caught sight of us, with his ferret eyes in the doorway.
Quickly Kennedy passed over the money in return for the motley array of
objects taken from Brodie. The dip and his gun-moll disappeared into
the darkness as quickly as they had emerged.
There was a curious assortment--the paraphernalia of a drug fiend, old
letters, a key, and several other useless articles. The pickpocket had
retained the money from the sale of the dope as his own particular
"Brodie has led us up to the source of his supply," remarked Kennedy,
thoughtfully regarding the stuff. "And the dip has given us the key to
it. Are you game to go in?"
A glance up and down the street showed it still deserted. We wormed our
way in the shadow to the cellar before which Brodie had stood. The
outside door was open. We entered, and Craig stealthily struck a match,
shading it in his hands.
At one end we were confronted by a little door of mystery, barred with
iron and held by an innocent enough looking padlock. It was this lock,
evidently, to which the key fitted, opening the way into the
subterranean vault of brick and stone.
Kennedy opened it and pushed back the door. There was a little square
compartment, dark as pitch and delightfully cool and damp. He lighted a
match, then hastily blew it out and switched on an electric bulb which
it disclosed.
"Can't afford risks like that here," he exclaimed, carefully disposing
of the match, as our eyes became accustomed to the light.
On every side were pieces of gas-pipe, boxes, and paper, and on shelves
were jars of various materials. There was a work-table littered with
tools, pieces of wire, boxes, and scraps of metal.
"My word!" exclaimed Kennedy, as he surveyed the curious scene before
us, "this is a regular bomb factory--one of the most amazing exhibits
that the history of crime has ever produced."
I followed him in awe as he made a hasty inventory of what we had
discovered. There were as many as a dozen finished and partly finished
infernal machines of various sizes and kinds, some of tremendous
destructive capacity. Kennedy did not even attempt to study them. All
about were high explosives, chemicals, dynamite. There was gunpowder of
all varieties, antimony, blasting-powder, mercury cyanide, chloral
hydrate, chlorate of potash, samples of various kinds of shot, some of
the outlawed soft-nosed dumdum bullets, cartridges, shells, pieces of
metal purposely left with jagged edges, platinum, aluminum, iron,
steel--a conglomerate mass of stuff that would have gladdened an
Kennedy was examining a little quartz-lined electric furnace, which was
evidently used for heating soldering irons and other tools. Everything
had been done, it seemed, to prevent explosions. There were no open
lights and practically no chance for heat to be communicated far among
the explosives. Indeed, everything had been arranged to protect the
operator himself in his diabolical work.
Kennedy had switched on the electric furnace, and from the various
pieces of metal on the table selected several. These he was placing
together in a peculiar manner, and to them he attached some copper wire
which lay in a corner in a roll.
Under the work-table, beneath the furnace, one could feel the warmth of
the thing slightly. Quickly he took the curious affair, which he had
hastily shaped, and fastened it under the table at that point, then led
the wires out through a little barred window to an air-shaft, the only
means of ventilation of the place except the door.
While he was working I had been gingerly inspecting the rest of the
den. In a corner, just beside the door, I had found a set of shelves
and a cabinet. On both were innumerable packets done up in white paper.
I opened one and found it contained several pinches of a white,
crystalline substance.
"Little portions of cocaine," commented Kennedy, when I showed him what
I had found. "In the slang of the fiends, 'decks.'"
On the top of the cabinet he discovered a little enamelled box, much
like a snuff-box, in which were also some of the white flakes. Quickly
he emptied them out and replaced them with others from jars which had
not been made up into packets.
"Why, there must be hundreds of ounces of the stuff here, to say
nothing of the various things they adulterate it with," remarked
Kennedy. "No wonder they are so careful when it is a felony even to
have it in your possession in such quantities. See how careful they are
about the adulteration, too. You could never tell except from the
effect whether it was the pure or only a few-per-cent.-pure article."
Kennedy took a last look at the den, to make sure that nothing had been
disturbed that would arouse suspicion.
"We may as well go," he remarked. "To-morrow, I want to be free to make
the connection outside with that wire in the shaft."
Imagine our surprise, the next morning, when a tap at our door revealed
Loraine Keith herself.
"Is this Professor Kennedy?" she asked, gazing at us with a half-wild
expression which she was making a tremendous effort to control.
"Because if it is, I have something to tell him that may interest Mr.
We looked at her curiously. Without her make-up she was pallid and
yellow in spots, her hands trembling, cold, and sweaty, her eyes sunken
and glistening, with pupils dilated, her breathing short and hurried,
restless, irresolute, and careless of her personal appearance.
"Perhaps you wonder how I heard of you and why I have come to you," she
went on. "It is because I have a confession to make. I saw Mr. Haddon
just before he was--kidnapped."
She seemed to hesitate over the word.
"How did you know I was interested?" asked Kennedy keenly.
"I heard him mention your name with Mr. Carton's."
"Then he knew that I was more than a reporter for the Star," remarked
Kennedy. "Kidnapped, you say? How?"
She shot a glance half of suspicion, half of frankness, at us.
"That's what I must confess. Whoever did it must have used me as a
tool. Mr. Haddon and I used to be good friends--I would be yet."
There was evident feeling in her tone which she did not have to assume.
"All I remember yesterday was that, after lunch, I was in the office of
the Mayfair when he came in. On his desk was a package. I don't know
what has become of it. But he gave one look at it, seemed to turn pale,
then caught sight of me. 'Loraine,' he whispered, 'we used to be good
friends. Forgive me for turning you down. But you don't understand. Get
me away from here--come with me--call a cab.'
"Well, I got into the cab with him. We had a chauffeur whom we used to
have in the old days. We drove furiously, avoiding the traffic men. He
told the driver to take us to my apartment--and--and that is the last I
remember, except a scuffle in which I was dragged from the cab on one
side and he on the other."
She had opened her handbag and taken from it a little snuff-box, like
that which we had seen in the den.
"I--I can't go on," she apologised, "without this stuff."
"So you are a cocaine fiend, also?" remarked Kennedy.
"Yes, I can't help it. There is an indescribable excitement to do
something great, to make a mark, that goes with it. It's soon gone, but
while it lasts I can sing and dance, do anything until every part of my
body begins crying for it again. I was full of the stuff when this
happened yesterday; had taken too much, I guess."
The change in her after she had snuffed some of the crystals was
magical. From a quivering wretch she had become now a self-confident
"You know where that stuff will land you, I presume?" questioned
"I don't care," she laughed hollowly. "Yes, I know what you are going
to tell me. Soon I'll be hunting for the cocaine bug, as they call it,
imagining that in my skin, under the flesh, are worms crawling, perhaps
see them, see the little animals running around and biting me. Oh, you
don't know. There are two souls to the cocainist. One is tortured by
the suffering which the stuff brings; the other laughs at the fears and
pains. But it brings such thoughts! It stimulates my mind, makes it
work without, against my will, gives me such visions--oh, I can not go
on. They would kill me if they knew I had come to you. Why have I? Has
not Haddon cast me off? What is he to me, now?"
It was evident that she was growing hysterical. I wondered whether,
after all, the story of the kidnapping of Haddon might not be a figment
of her brain, simply an hallucination due to the drug.
"They?" inquired Kennedy, observing her narrowly. "Who?"
"I can't tell. I don't know. Why did I come? Why did I come?"
She was reaching again for the snuff-box, but Kennedy restrained her.
"Miss Keith," he remarked, "you are concealing something from me. There
is some one," he paused a moment, "whom you are shielding."
"No, no," she cried. "He was taken. Brodie had nothing to do with it,
nothing. That is what you mean. I know. This stuff increases my
sensitiveness. Yet I hate Coke Brodie--oh--let me go. I am all
unstrung. Let me see a doctor. To-night, when I am better, I will tell
Loraine Keith had torn herself from him, had instantly taken a pinch of
the fatal crystals, with that same ominous change from fear to
self-confidence. What had been her purpose in coming at all? It had
seemed at first to implicate Brodie, but she had been quick to shield
him when she saw that danger. I wondered what the fascination might be
which the wretch exercised over her.
"To-night--I will see you to-night," she cried, and a moment later she
was gone, as unexpectedly as she had come.
I looked at Kennedy blankly.
"What was the purpose of that outburst?" I asked.
"I can't say," he replied. "It was all so incoherent that, from what I
know of drug fiends, I am sure she had a deep-laid purpose in it all.
It does not change my plans."
Two hours later we had paid a deposit on an empty flat in the
tenement-house in which the bomb-maker had his headquarters, and had
received a key to the apartment from the janitor. After considerable
difficulty, owing to the narrowness of the air-shaft, Kennedy managed
to pick up the loose ends of the wire which had been led out of the
little window at the base of the shaft, and had attached it to a couple
of curious arrangements which he had brought with him. One looked like
a large taximeter from a motor cab; the other was a diminutive
gas-metre, in looks at least. Attached to them were several bells and
He had scarcely completed installing the thing, whatever it was, when a
gentle tap at the door startled me. Kennedy nodded, and I opened it. It
was Carton.
"I have had my men watching the Mayfair," he announced. "There seems to
be a general feeling of alarm there, now. They can't even find Loraine
Keith. Brodie, apparently, has not shown up in his usual haunts since
the episode of last night."
"I wonder if the long arm of this vice trust could have reached out and
gathered them in, too?" I asked.
"Quite likely," replied Carton, absorbed in watching Kennedy. "What's
A little bell had tinkled sharply, and a light had flashed up on the
attachments to the apparatus.
"Nothing. I was just testing it to see if it works. It does, although
the end which I installed down below was necessarily only a makeshift.
It is not this red light with the shrill bell that we are interested
in. It is the green light and the low-toned bell. This is a thermopile."
"And what is a thermopile?"' queried Carton.
"For the sake of one who has forgotten his physics," smiled Kennedy, "I
may say this is only another illustration of how all science ultimately
finds practical application. You probably have forgotten that when two
half-rings of dissimilar metals are joined together and one is suddenly
heated or chilled, there is produced at the opposite connecting point a
feeble current which will flow until the junctures are both at the same
temperature. You might call this a thermo-electric thermometer, or a
telethermometer, or a microthermometer, or any of a dozen names."
"Yes," I agreed mechanically, only vaguely guessing at what he had in
"The accurate measurement of temperature is still a problem of
considerable difficulty," he resumed, adjusting the thermometer. "A
heated mass can impart vibratory motion to the ether which fills space,
and the wave-motions of ether are able to reproduce in other bodies
motions similar to those by which they are caused. At this end of the
line I merely measure the electromotive force developed by the
difference in temperature of two similar thermo-electric junctions,
opposed. We call those junctions in a thermopile 'couples,' and by
getting the recording instruments sensitive enough, we can measure one
one-thousandth of a degree.
"Becquerel was the first, I believe, to use this property. But the
machine which you see here was one recently invented for registering
the temperature of sea water so as to detect the approach of an
iceberg. I saw no reason why it should not be used to measure heat as
well as cold.
"You see, down there I placed the couples of the thermopile beneath the
electric furnace on the table. Here I have the mechanism, operated by
the feeble current from the thermopile, opening and closing switches,
and actuating bells and lights. Then, too, I have the recording
instrument. The thing is fundamentally very simple and is based on
well-known phenomena. It is not uncertain and can be tested at any
time, just as I did then, when I showed a slight fall in temperature.
Of course it is not the slight changes I am after, not the gradual but
the sudden changes in temperature."
"I see," said Carton. "If there is a drop, the current goes one way and
we see the red light; a rise and it goes the other, and we see a green
"Exactly," agreed Kennedy. "No one is going to approach that chamber
down-stairs as long as he thinks any one is watching, and we do not
know where they are watching. But the moment any sudden great change is
registered, such as turning on that electric furnace, we shall know it
It must have been an hour that we sat there discussing the merits of
the case and speculating on the strange actions of Loraine Keith.
Suddenly the red light flashed out brilliantly.
"What's that?" asked Carton quickly.
"I can't tell, yet," remarked Kennedy. "Perhaps it is nothing at all.
Perhaps it is a draught of cold air from opening the door. We shall
have to wait and see."
We bent over the little machine, straining our eyes and ears to catch
the visual and audible signals which it gave.
Gradually the light faded, as the thermopile adjusted itself to the
change in temperature.
Suddenly, without warning, a low-toned bell rang before us and a
bright-green light flashed up.
"That can have only one meaning," cried Craig excitedly. "Some one is
down there in that inferno--perhaps the bomb-maker himself."
The bell continued to ring and the light to glow, showing that whoever
was there had actually started the electric furnace. What was he
preparing to do? I felt that, even though we knew there was some one
there, it did us little good. I, for one, had no relish for the job of
bearding such a lion in his den.
We looked at Kennedy, wondering what he would do next. From the package
in which he had brought the two registering machines he quietly took
another package, wrapped up, about eighteen inches long and apparently
very heavy. As he did so he kept his attention fixed on the
telethermometer. Was he going to wait until the bomb-maker had finished
what he had come to accomplish?
It was perhaps fifteen minutes after our first alarm that the signals
began to weaken.
"Does that mean that he has gone--escaped?" inquired Carton anxiously.
"No. It means that his furnace is going at full power and that he has
forgotten it. It is what I am waiting for. Come on."
Seizing the package as he hurried from the room, Kennedy dashed out on
the street and down the outside cellar stairs, followed by us.
He paused at the thick door and listened. Apparently there was not a
sound from the other side, except a whir of a motor and a roar which
might have been from the furnace. Softly he tried the door. It was
locked on the inside.
Was the bomb-maker there still? He must be. Suppose he heard us. Would
he hesitate a moment to send us all to perdition along with himself?
How were we to get past that door? Really, the deathlike stillness on
the other side was more mysterious than would have been the detonation
of some of the criminal's explosive.
Kennedy had evidently satisfied himself on one point. If we were to get
into that chamber we must do it ourselves, and we must do it quickly.
From the package which he carried he pulled out a stubby little
cylinder, perhaps eighteen inches long, very heavy, with a short stump
of a lever projecting from one side. Between the stonework of a chimney
and the barred door he laid it horizontally, jamming in some pieces of
wood to wedge it tighter.
Then he began to pump on the handle vigorously. The almost impregnable
door seemed slowly to bulge. Still there was no sign of life from
within. Had the bomb-maker left before we arrived?
"This is my scientific sledge-hammer," panted Kennedy, as he worked the
little lever backward and forward more quickly--"a hydraulic ram. There
is no swinging of axes or wielding of crowbars necessary in breaking
down an obstruction like this, nowadays. Such things are obsolete. This
little jimmy, if you want to call it that, has a power of ten tons.
That ought to be enough."
It seemed as if the door were slowly being crushed in before the
irresistible ten-ton punch of the hydraulic ram.
Kennedy stopped. Evidently he did not dare to crush the door in
altogether. Quickly he released the ram and placed it vertically. Under
the now-yawning door jamb he inserted a powerful claw of the ram and
again he began to work the handle.
A moment later the powerful door buckled, and Kennedy deftly swung it
outward so that it fell with a crash on the cellar floor.
As the noise reverberated, there came a sound of a muttered curse from
the cavern. Some one was there.
We pressed forward.
On the floor, in the weird glare of the little furnace, lay a man and a
woman, the light playing over their ghastly, set features.
Kennedy knelt over the man, who was nearest the door.
"Call a doctor, quick," he ordered, reaching over and feeling the pulse
of the woman, who had half fallen out of her chair. "They will, be all
right soon. They took what they thought was their usual adulterated
cocaine--see, here is the box in which it was. Instead, I filled the
box with the pure drug. They'll come around. Besides, Carton needs both
of them in his fight."
"Don't take any more," muttered the woman, half conscious. "There's
something wrong with it, Haddon."
I looked more closely at the face in the half-darkness.
It was Haddon himself.
"I knew he'd come back when the craving for the drug became intense
enough," remarked Kennedy.
Carton looked at Kennedy in amazement. Haddon was the last person in
the world whom he had evidently expected to discover here.
"How--what do you mean?"
"The episode of the telephone booth gave me the first hint. That is the
favourite stunt of the drug fiend--a few minutes alone, and he thinks
no one is the wiser about his habit. Then, too, there was the story
about his speed mania. That is a frequent failing of the cocainist. The
drug, too, was killing his interest in Loraine Keith--that is the last
"Yet under its influence, just as with his lobbygow and lieutenant,
Brodie, he found power and inspiration. With him it took the form of
bombs to protect himself in his graft."
"He can't--escape this time--Loraine. We'll leave it--at his house--you
We looked quickly at the work-table. On it was a gigantic bomb of
clockwork over which Haddon had been working. The cocaine which was to
have given him inspiration had, thanks to Kennedy, overcome him.
Beside Loraine Keith were a suit-case and a Gladstone. She had
evidently been stuffing the corners full of their favourite nepenthe,
for, as Kennedy reached down and turned over the closely packed woman's
finery and the few articles belonging to Haddon, innumerable packets
from the cabinet dropped out.
"Hulloa--what's this?" he exclaimed, as he came to a huge roll of bills
and a mass of silver and gold coin. "Trying to double-cross us all the
time. That was her clever game--to give him the hours he needed to
gather what money he could save and make a clean getaway. Even cocaine
doesn't destroy the interest of men and women in that," he concluded,
turning over to Carton the wealth which Haddon had amassed as one of
the meanest grafters of the city of graft.
Here was a case which I could not help letting the Star have
immediately. Notes or no notes, it was local news of the first order.
Besides, anything that concerned Carton was of the highest political
It kept me late at the office and I overslept. Consequently I did not
see much of Craig the next morning, especially as he told me he had
nothing special, having turned down a case of a robbery of a safe, on
the ground that the police were much better fitted to catch ordinary
yeggmen than he was. During the day, therefore, I helped in directing
the following up of the Haddon case for the Star.
Then, suddenly, a new front page story crowded this one of the main
headlines. With a sigh of relief, I glanced at the new thriller, found
it had something to do with the Navy Department, and that it came from
as far away as Washington. There was no reason now why others could not
carry on the graft story, and I left, not unwillingly. My special work
just now was keeping on the trail of Kennedy, and I was glad to go back
to the apartment and wait for him.
"I suppose you saw that despatch from Washington in this afternoon's
papers?" he queried, as he came in, tossing a late edition of the
Record down on my desk.
Across the front page extended a huge black scare-head: "NAVY'S MOST
"Yes," I shrugged, "but you can't get me much excited by what the
rewrite men on the Record say."
"Why?" he asked, going directly into his own room.
"Well," I replied, glancing through the text of the story, "the actual
facts are practically the same as in the other papers. Take this, for
instance, 'On the night of the celebration of the anniversary of the
battle of Manila there were stolen from the Navy Department plans which
the Record learns exclusively represent the greatest naval secret in
the world.' So much for that paragraph--written in the office. Then it
goes on:
"The whole secret-service machinery of the Government has been put in
operation. No one has been able to extract from the authorities the
exact secret which was stolen, but it is believed to be an invention
which will revolutionise the structure and construction of the most
modern monster battleships. Such knowledge, it is said, in the hands of
experts might prove fatal in almost any fight in which our newer ships
met others of about equal fighting power, as with it marksmen might
direct a shot that would disable our ships.
"It is the opinion of the experts that the theft was executed by a
skilled draughtsman or other civilian employe. At any rate, the thief
knew what to take and its value. There is, at least, one nation, it is
asserted, which faces the problem of bringing its ships up to the
standard of our own to which the plans would be very valuable.
"The building had been thrown open to the public for the display of
fireworks on the Monument grounds before it. The plans are said to have
been on one of the draughting-tables, drawn upon linen to be made into
blue-prints. They are known to have been on the tables when the
draughting-room was locked for the night.
"The room is on the third floor of the Department and has a balcony
looking out on the Monument. Many officers and officials had their
families and friends on the balcony to witness the celebration, though
it is not known that any one was in the draughting-room itself. All
were admitted to the building on passes. The plans were tacked to a
draughting-board in the room, but when it was opened in the morning the
linen sheet was gone, and so were the thumb-tacks. The plans could
readily have been rolled into a small bundle and carried under a coat
or wrap.
"While the authorities are trying to minimise the actual loss, it is
believed that this position is only an attempt to allay the great
public concern."
I paused. "Now then," I added, picking up one of the other papers I had
brought up-town myself, "take the Express. It says that the plans were
important, but would have been made public in a few months, anyhow.
"The theft--or mislaying, as the Department hopes it will prove to
be--took place several days ago. Official confirmation of the report is
lacking, but from trustworthy unofficial sources it is learned that
only unimportant parts of plans are missing, presumably minor
structural details of battle-ship construction, and other things of a
really trivial character, such as copies of naval regulations, etc.
"The attempt to make a sensational connection between the loss and a
controversy which is now going on with a foreign government is greatly
to be deplored and is emphatically asserted to be utterly baseless. It
bears traces of the jingoism of those 'interests' which are urging
naval increases.
"There is usually very little about a battle-ship that is not known
before her keel is laid, or even before the signing of the contracts.
At any rate, when it is asserted that the plans represent the dernier
cri in some form of war preparation, it is well to remember that a
'last cry' is last only until there is a later. Naval secrets are few,
anyway, and as it takes some years to apply them, this loss cannot be
of superlative value to any one. Still, there is, of course, a market
for such information in spite of the progress toward disarmament, but
the rule in this case will be the rule as in a horse trade, 'Caveat
"So there you are," I concluded. "You pay your penny for a paper, and
you take your choice."
"And the Star," inquired Kennedy, coming to the door and adding with an
aggravating grin, "the infallible?"
"The Star," I replied, unruffled, "hits the point squarely when it says
that whether the plans were of immediate importance or not, the real
point is that if they could be stolen, really important things could be
taken also. For instance, 'The thought of what the thief might have
stolen has caused much more alarm than the knowledge of what he has
succeeded in taking.' I think it is about time those people in
Washington stopped the leak if--"
The telephone rang insistently.
"I think that's for me," exclaimed Craig, bounding out of his room and
forgetting his quiz of me. "Hello--yes--is that you, Burke? At the
Grand Central--half an hour--all right. I'm bringing Jameson. Good-bye."
Kennedy jammed down the receiver on the hook.
"The Star was not far from right, Walter," he added, seriously. "If the
battleship plans could be stolen, other things could be--other things
were. You remember Burke of the secret service? I'm going up to Lookout
Hill on the Connecticut shore of the Sound with him to-night. The
rewrite men on the Record didn't have the facts, but they had accurate
imaginations. The most vital secret that any navy ever had, that would
have enabled us in a couple of years to whip the navies of the world
combined against us, has been stolen."
"And that is?" I asked.
"The practical working-out of the newest of sciences, the science of
"Telautomatics?" I repeated.
"Yes. There is something weird, fascinating about the very idea. I sit
up here safely in this room, turning switches, pressing buttons,
depressing levers. Ten miles away a vehicle, a ship, an aeroplane, a
submarine obeys me. It may carry enough of the latest and most powerful
explosive that modern science can invent, enough, if exploded, to rival
the worst of earthquakes. Yet it obeys my will. It goes where I direct
it. It explodes where I want it. And it wipes off the face of the earth
anything which I want annihilated.
"That's telautomatics, and that is what has been stolen from our navy
and dimly sensed by you clever newspaper men, from whom even the secret
service can't quite hide everything. The publication of the rumour
alone that the government knows it has lost something has put the
secret service in a hole. What might have been done quietly and in a
few days has got to be done in the glare of the limelight and with the
blare of a brass band--and it has got to be done right away, too. Come
on, Walter. I've thrown together all we shall need for one night--and
it doesn't include any pajamas, either."
A few minutes later we met our friend Burke of the secret service at
the new terminal. He had wired Kennedy earlier in the day saying that
he would be in New York and would call him up.
"The plans, as I told you in my message," began Burke, when we had
seated ourselves in a compartment of the Pullman, "were those of
Captain Shirley, covering the wireless-controlled submarine. The old
captain is a thoroughbred, too. I've known him in Washington. Comes of
an old New England, family with plenty of money but more brains. For
years he has been working on this science of radio-telautomatics, has
all kinds of patents, which he has dedicated to the United States, too.
Of course the basic, pioneer patents are not his. His work has been in
the practical application of them. And, Kennedy, there are some secrets
about his latest work that he has not patented; he has given them
outright to the Navy Department, because they are too valuable even to
Burke, who liked a good detective tale himself, seemed pleased at
holding Kennedy spellbound.
"For instance," he went on, "he has on the bay up here a submarine
which can be made into a crewless dirigible. He calls it the Turtle, I
believe, because that was the name of the first American submarine
built by Dr. Bushnell during the Revolution, even before Fulton."
"You have theories of your own on the case?" asked Craig.
"Well, there are several possibilities. You know there are submarine
companies in this country, bitter rivals. They might like to have those
plans. Then, too, there are foreign governments."
He paused. Though he said nothing, I felt that there was no doubt what
he hinted at. At least one government occurred to me which would like
the plans above all others.
"Once some plans of a submarine were stolen, I recall," ruminated
Kennedy. "But that theft, I am satisfied, was committed in behalf of a
rival company."
"But, Kennedy," exclaimed Burke, "it was bad enough when the plans were
stolen. Now Captain Shirley wires me that some one must have tampered
with his model. It doesn't work right. He even believes that his own
life may be threatened. And there is scarcely a real clue," he added
dejectedly. "Of course we are watching all the employes who had access
to the draughting-room and tracing everybody who was in the building
that night. I have a complete list of them. There are three or four who
will bear watching. For instance, there is a young attache of one of
the embassies, named Nordheim."
"Nordheim!" I echoed, involuntarily. I had expected an Oriental name.
"Yes, a German. I have been looking up his record, and I find that once
he was connected in some way with the famous Titan Iron Works, at Kiel,
Germany. We began watching him day before yesterday, but suddenly he
disappeared. Then, there is a society woman in Washington, a Mrs.
Bayard Brainard, who was at the Department that night. We have been
trying to find her. To-day I got word that she was summering in the
cottage colony across the bay from Lookout Hill. At any rate, I had to
go up there to see the captain, and I thought I'd kill a whole flock of
birds with one stone. The chief thought, too, that if you'd take the
case with us you had best start on it up there. Next, you will no doubt
want to go back to Washington with me."
Lookout Hill was the name of the famous old estate of the Shirleys, on
a point of land jutting out into Long Island Sound and with a
neighbouring point enclosing a large, deep, safe harbour. On the
highest ground of the estate, with a perfect view of both harbour and
sound, stood a large stone house, the home of Captain Shirley, of the
United States navy, retired.
Captain Shirley, a man of sixty-two or three, bronzed and wiry, met us
"So this is Professor Kennedy; I'm glad to meet you, sir," he welcomed,
clasping Craig's hand in both of his--a fine figure as he stood erect
in the light of the portecochere. "What's the news from Washington,
Burke? Any clues?"
"I can hardly tell," replied the secret service man, with assumed
cheerfulness. "By the way, you'll have to excuse me for a few minutes
while I run back into town on a little errand. Meanwhile, Captain, will
you explain to Professor Kennedy just how things are? Perhaps he'd
better begin by seeing the Turtle herself."
Burke had not waited longer than to take leave.
"The Turtle," repeated the captain, leading the way into the house.
"Well, I did call it that at first. But I prefer to call it the Z99.
You know the first submarines, abroad at least, were sometimes called
Al, A2, A3, and so on. They were of the diving, plunging type, that is,
they submerged on an inclined keel, nose down, like the Hollands. Then
came the B type, in which the hydroplane appeared; the C type, in which
it was more prominent, and a D type, where submergence is on a
perfectly even keel, somewhat like our Lakes. Well, this boat of mine
is a last word--the Z99. Call it the Turtle, if you like."
We were standing for a moment in a wide Colonial hall in which a fire
was crackling in a huge brick fireplace, taking the chill off the night
"Let me give you a demonstration, first," added the captain. "Perhaps
Z99 will work--perhaps not."
There was an air of disappointment about the old veteran as he spoke,
uncertainly now, of what a short time ago he had known to be a
certainty and one of the greatest it had ever been given the inventive
mind of man to know.
A slip of a girl entered from the library, saw us, paused, and was
about to turn back. Silhouetted against the curtained door, there was
health, animation, gracefulness, in every line of her wavy chestnut
hair, her soft, sparkling brown eyes, her white dress and hat to match,
which contrasted with the healthy glow of tan on her full neck and
arms, and her dainty little white shoes, ready for anything from tennis
to tango.
"My daughter Gladys, Professor Kennedy and Mr. Jameson," introduced the
captain. "We are going to try the Z99 again, Gladys."
A moment later we four were walking to the edge of the cliff where
Captain Shirley had a sort of workshop and signal-station.
He lighted the gas, for Lookout Hill was only on the edge of the town
and boasted gas, electricity, and all modern improvements, as well as
the atmosphere of old New England.
"The Z99 is moored just below us at my private dock," began the
captain. "I have a shed down there where we usually keep her, but I
expected you, and she is waiting, thoroughly overhauled. I have
signalled to my men--fellows I can trust, too, who used to be with me
in the navy--to cast her off. There--now we are ready."
The captain turned a switch. Instantly a couple of hundred feet below
us, on the dark and rippling water, a light broke forth. Another
signal, and the light changed.
It was moving.
"The principle of the thing," said Captain Shirley, talking to us but
watching the moving light intently, "briefly, is that I use the
Hertzian waves to actuate relays on the Z99. That is, I send a child
with a message, the grown man, through the relay, so to speak, does the
work. So, you see, I can sit up here and send my little David out
anywhere to strike down a huge Goliath.
"I won't bore you, yet, with explanations of my radio-combinator, the
telecommutator, the aerial coherer relay, and the rest of the
technicalities of wireless control of dirigible, self-propelled
vessels. They are well known, beginning with pioneers like Wilson and
Gardner in England, Roberts in Australia, Wirth and Lirpa in Germany,
Gabet in France, and Tesla, Edison, Sims, and the younger Hammond in
our own country.
"The one thing, you may not know, that has kept us back while wireless
telegraphy has gone ahead so fast is that in wireless we have been able
to discard coherers and relays and use detectors and microphones in
their places. But in telautomatics we have to keep the coherer. That
has been the barrier. The coherer until recently has been spasmodic,
until we had Hammond's mercury steel-disc coherer and now my own. Why,"
he cried, "we are just on the threshold, now, of this great science
which Tesla has named telautomatics--the electric arm that we can
stretch out through space to do our work and fight our battles."
It was not difficult to feel the enthusiasm of the captain over an
invention of such momentous possibilities, especially as the Z99 was
well out in the harbour now and we could see her flashing her red and
green signal-lights back to us.
"You see," the captain resumed, "I have twelve numbers here on the keys
of this radio-combinator--forward, back, stop propeller motor, rudder
right, rudder left, stop steering motor, light signals front, light
signals rear, launch torpedoes, and so on. The idea is that of a
delayed contact. The machinery is always ready, but it delays a few
seconds until the right impulse is given, a purely mechanical problem.
I take advantage of the delay to have the message repeated by a signal
back to me. I can even change it, then. You can see for yourself that
it really takes no experience to run the thing when all is going right.
Gladys has done it frequently herself. All you have to do is to pay
attention, and press the right key for the necessary change. It is when
things go wrong that even an expert like myself--confound it--there's
something wrong!"
The Z99 had suddenly swerved. Captain Shirley's brow knitted. We
gathered around closer, Gladys next to her father and leaning anxiously
over the transmitting apparatus.
"I wanted to turn her to port yet she goes to starboard, and signals
starboard, too. There--now--she has stopped altogether. What do you
think of that?"
Gladys stroked the old seafarer's hand gently, as he sat silently at
the table, peering with contracted brows out into the now brilliantly
moonlit night.
Shirley looked up at his daughter, and the lines on his face relaxed as
though he would hide his disappointment from her eager eyes.
"Confound that light! What's the matter with it?" he exclaimed,
changing the subject, and glancing up at the gas-fixture.
Kennedy had already been intently looking at the Welsbach burner
overhead, which had been flickering incessantly. "That gas company!"
added the Captain, shaking his head in disgust, and showing annoyance
over a trivial thing to hide deep concern over a greater, as some men
do. "I shall use the electricity altogether after this contract with
the company expires. I suppose you literary men, Mr. Jameson, would
call that the light that failed."
There was a forced air about his attempt to be facetious that did not
conceal, but rather accentuated, the undercurrent of feelings in him.
"On the contrary," broke in Kennedy, "I shouldn't be surprised to find
that it is the light that succeeded."
"How do you mean?"
"I wouldn't have said anything about it if you hadn't noticed it
yourself. In fact, I may be wrong. It suggests something to me, but it
will need a good deal of work to verify it, and then it may not be of
any significance. Is that the way the Z99 has behaved always lately?"
"Yes, but I know that she hasn't broken down of herself," Captain
Shirley asserted. "It never did before, not since I perfected that new
coherer. And now it always does, perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes
after I start her out."
Shirley was watching the lights as they serpentined their way to us
across the nearly calm water of the bay, idly toying with the now
useless combinator.
"Wait here," he said, rising hurriedly. "I must send my motor-boat out
there to pick her up and tow her in."
He was gone down the flight of rustic steps on the face of the cliff
before we could reply.
"I wish father wouldn't take it to heart so," murmured Gladys.
"Sometimes I fear that success or failure of this boat means life or
death to him."
"That is exactly why we are here," reassured Kennedy, turning earnestly
to her, "to help him to settle this thing at once. This is a beautiful
spot," he added, as we stood on the edge of the cliff and looked far
out over the tossing waves of the sound.
"What is on that other point?" asked Kennedy, turning again toward the
harbour itself.
"There is a large cottage colony there," she replied. "Of course many
of the houses are still closed so early in the season, but it is a
beautiful place in the summer. The hotel over there is open now,
"You must have a lively time when the season is at its height,"
ventured Kennedy. "Do you know a cottager there, a Mrs. Brainard?"
"Oh, yes, indeed. I have known her in Washington for some time."
"No doubt the cottagers envy you your isolation here," remarked
Kennedy, turning and surveying the beautifully kept grounds. "I should
think it would be pleasant, too, to have an old Washington friend here."
"It is. We often invite our friends over for lawn-parties and other
little entertainments. Mrs. Brainard has just arrived and has only had
time to return my first visit to her, but I expect we shall have some
good times this summer."
It was evident, at least, that Gladys was not concealing anything about
her friend, whether there was any suspicion or not of her.
We had gone into the house to await the return of Captain Shirley.
Burke had just returned, his face betraying that he was bursting with
"She's here, all right," he remarked in an undertone to Kennedy, "in
the Stamford cottage--quite an outfit. French chauffeur, two Japanese
servants, maids, and all."
"The Stamford cottage?" repeated Gladys. "Why, that is where Mrs.
Brainard lives."
She gave a startled glance at Kennedy, as she suddenly seemed to
realise that both he and the secret-service man had spoken about her
"Yes," said Burke, noting on the instant the perfect innocence of her
concern. "What do you know about Mrs. Brainard? Who, where is, Mr.
"Dead, I believe," Gladys hesitated. "Mrs. Brainard has been well known
in Washington circles for years. Indeed, I invited her with us the
night of the Manila display."
"And Mr. Nordheim?" broke in Burke.
"N-no," she hesitated. "He was there, but I don't know as whose guest."
"Did he seem very friendly with. Mrs. Brainard?" pursued the detective.
I thought I saw a shade of relief pass over her face as she answered,
"Yes." I could only interpret it that perhaps Nordheim had been
attentive to Gladys herself and that she had not welcomed his
"I may as well tell you," she said, at length. "It is no secret in our
set, and I suppose you would find it out soon, anyhow. It is said that
he is engaged to Mrs. Brainard--that is all."
"Engaged?" repeated Burke. "Then that would account for his being at
the hotel here. At least, it would offer an excuse."
Gladys was not slow to note the stress that Burke laid on the last word.
"Oh, impossible," she began hurriedly, "impossible that he could have
known anything about this other matter. Why, she told me he was to sail
suddenly for Germany and came up here for a last visit before he went,
and to arrange to come back on his return. Oh, he could know
"Why impossible?" persisted Burke. "They have submarines in Germany,
don't they? And rival companies, too."
"Who have rival companies?" inquired a familiar voice. It was Captain
Shirley, who had returned out of breath from his long climb up the
steps from the shore.
"The Germans. I was speaking of an attache named Nordheim."
"Who is Nordheim?" inquired the captain.
"You met him at the Naval building, that night, don't you remember?"
replied Gladys.
"Oh, yes, I believe I do--dimly. He was the man who seemed so devoted
to Mrs. Brainard."
"I think he is, too, father," she replied hastily. "He has been
suddenly called to Berlin and planned to spend the last few days here,
at the hotel, so as to be near her. She told me that he had been
ordered back to Washington again before he sailed and had had to cut
his visit short."
"When did you first notice the interference with the Turtle?" asked
Burke. "I received your message this morning."
"Yesterday morning was the first," replied the captain.
"He arrived the night before and did not leave until yesterday
afternoon," remarked Burke.
"And we arrived to-night," put in Craig quietly. "The interference is
going on yet."
"Then the Japs," I cut in, at last giving voice to the suspicion I had
of the clever little Orientals.
"They could not have stolen the plans," asserted Burke, shaking his
head. "No, Nordheim and Mrs. Brainard were the only ones who could have
got into the draughting room the night of the Manila celebration."
"Burke," said Kennedy, rising, "I wish you would take me into town.
There are a few messages I would like to send. You will excuse us,
Captain, for a few hours? Good evening, Miss Shirley." As he bowed I
heard Kennedy add to her: "Don't worry about your father. Everything
will come out all right soon."
Outside, in the car which Burke had hired, Craig added: "Not to town.
That was an excuse not to alarm Miss Shirley too much over her friend.
Take us over past the Stamford cottage, first."
The Stamford cottage was on the beach, between the shore front and the
road. It was not a new place but was built in the hideous style of some
thirty years ago with all sorts of little turned and knobby ornaments.
We paused down the road a bit, though not long enough to attract
attention. There were lights on every floor of the cottage, although
most of the neighbouring cottages were dark.
"Well protected by lightning-rods," remarked Kennedy, as he looked the
Stamford cottage over narrowly. "We might as well drive on. Keep an eye
on the hotel, Burke. It may be that Nordheim intends to return, after
"Assuming that he has left," returned the secret-service man.
"But you said he had left," said Kennedy. "What do you mean?"
"I hardly know myself," wearily remarked Burke, on whom the strain of
the case, to which we were still fresh, had begun to tell. "I only know
that I called up Washington after I heard he had been at the hotel, and
no one at our headquarters knew that he had returned. They may have
fallen down, but they were to watch both his rooms and the embassy."
"H-m," mused Kennedy. "Why didn't you say that before?"
"Why, I assumed that he had gone back, until you told me there was
interference to-night, too. Now, until I can locate him definitely I'm
all at sea--that's all."
It was now getting late in the evening, but Kennedy had evidently no
intention of returning yet to Lookout Hill. We paused at the hotel,
which was in the centre of the cottage colony, and flanked by a hill
that ran back of the colony diagonally and from which a view of both
the hotel and the cottages could be obtained. Burke's inquiries
developed the fact that Nordheim had left very hurriedly and in some
agitation. "To tell you the truth," confided the clerk, with whom Burke
had ingratiated himself, "I thought he acted like a man who was
Late as it was, Kennedy insisted on motoring to the railroad station
and catching the last train to New York. As there seemed to be nothing
that I could do at Lookout Hill, I accompanied him on the long and
tedious ride, which brought us back to the city in the early hours of
the morning.
We stopped just long enough to run up to the laboratory and to secure a
couple of little instruments which looked very much like small
incandescent lamps in a box. Then, by the earliest train from New York,
we returned to Lookout Hill, with only such sleep as Kennedy had
predicted, snatched in the day coaches of the trains and during a brief
wait in the station.
A half-hour's freshening up with a dip in the biting cold water of the
bay, breakfast with Captain Shirley and Miss Gladys, and a return to
the excitement of the case, had to serve in place of rest. Burke
disappeared, after a hasty conference with Kennedy, presumably to watch
Mrs. Brainard, the hotel, and the Stamford cottage to see who went in
and out.
"I've had the Z99 brought out of its shed," remarked the captain, as we
rose from the breakfast-table. "There was nothing wrong as far as I
could discover last night or by a more careful inspection this morning.
I'd like to have you take a look at her now, in the daylight."
"I was about to suggest," remarked Kennedy, as we descended the steps
to the shore, "that perhaps, first, it might be well to take a short
run in her with the crew, just to make sure that there is nothing wrong
with the machinery."
"A good idea," agreed the captain.
We came to the submarine, lying alongside the dock and looking like a
huge cigar. The captain preceded us down the narrow hatchway, and I
followed Craig. The deck was cleared, the hatch closed, and the vessel
Remembering Jules Verne's enticing picture of life on the palatial
Nautilus, I may as well admit that I was not prepared for a real
submarine. My first impression, as I entered the hold, was that of
discomfort and suffocation. I felt, too, that I was too close to too
much whirring machinery. I gazed about curiously. On all sides were
electrical devices and machines to operate the craft and the torpedoes.
I thought, also, that the water outside was uncomfortably close; one
could almost feel it. The Z99 was low roofed, damp, with an intricate
system of rods, controls, engines, tanks, stop-cocks, compasses,
gauges--more things than it seemed the human mind, to say nothing of
wireless, could possibly attend to at once.
"The policy of secrecy which governments keep in regard to submarines,"
remarked the captain, running his eye over everything at once, it
seemed, "has led them to be looked upon as something mysterious. But
whatever you may think of telautomatics, there is really no mystery
about an ordinary submarine."
I did not agree with our "Captain Nemo," as, the examination completed,
he threw in a switch. The motor started. The Z99 hummed and trembled.
The fumes of gasoline were almost suffocating at first, in spite of the
prompt ventilation to clear them off. There was no escape from the
smell. I had heard of "gasoline heart," but the odour only made me sick
and dizzy. Like most novices, I suppose, I was suffering excruciating
torture. Not so, Kennedy. He got used to it in no time; indeed, seemed
to enjoy the very discomfort.
I felt that there was only one thing necessary to add to it, and that
was the odour of cooking. Cooking, by the way, on a submarine is
uncertain and disagreeable. There was a little electric heater, I
found, which might possibly have heated enough water for one cup of
coffee at a time.
In fact, space was economised to the utmost. Only the necessaries of
life were there. Every inch that could be spared was given over to
machinery. It was everywhere, compact, efficient--everything for
running the boat under water, guiding it above and below, controlling
its submersion, compressing air, firing torpedoes, and a thousand other
things. It was wonderful as it was. But when one reflected that all
could be done automatically, or rather telautomatically, it was simply
"You see," observed Captain Shirley, "when she is working automatically
neither the periscope nor the wireless-mast shows. The wireless
impulses are carried down to her from an inconspicuous float which
trails along the surface and carries a short aerial with a wire running
down, like a mast, forming practically invisible antennae."
As he was talking the boat was being "trimmed" by admitting water as
ballast into the proper tanks.
"The Z99," he went on, "is a submersible, not a diving, submarine. That
is to say, the rudder guides it and changes the angle of the boat. But
the hydroplanes pull it up and down, two pairs of them set fore and aft
of the centre of gravity. They lift or lower the boat bodily on an even
keel, not by plunging and diving. I will now set the hydroplanes at ten
degrees down and the horizontal rudder two degrees up, and the boat
will submerge to a depth of thirty feet and run constant at that depth."
He had shut off the gasoline motor and started the storage-battery
electric motor, which was used when running submerged. The great motors
gave out a strange, humming sound. The crew conversed in low,
constrained tones. There was a slightly perceptible jar, and the boat
seemed to quiver just a bit from stem to stern. In front of Shirley was
a gauge which showed the depth of submergence and a spirit-level which
showed any inclination.
"Submerged," he remarked, "is like running on the surface under
dense-fog conditions."
I did not agree with those who have said there is no difference running
submerged or on the surface. Under way on the surface was one thing.
But when we dived it was most unpleasant. I had been reassured at the
start when I heard that there were ten compressed-air tanks under a
pressure of two thousand pounds to the square inch. But only once
before had I breathed compressed air and that was when one of our cases
once took us down into the tunnels below the rivers of New York. It was
not a new sensation, but at fifty feet depth I felt a little tingling
all over my body, a pounding of the ear-drums, and just a trace of
Kennedy smiled as I moved about. "Never mind, Walter," he said. "I know
how you feel on a first trip. One minute you are choking from lack of
oxygen, then in another part of the boat you are exhilarated by too
much of it. Still," he winked, "don't forget that it is regulated."
"Well," I returned, "all I can say is that if war is hell, a submarine
is war."
I had, however, been much interested in the things about me. Forward,
the torpedo-discharge tubes and other apparatus about the little doors
in the vessel's nose made it look somewhat like the shield used in
boring a tunnel under compressed air.
"Ordinary torpedo-boats use the regular automobile torpedo," remarked
Captain Shirley, coming ubiquitously up behind me. "I improve on that.
I can discharge the telautomobile torpedo, and guide it either from the
boat, as we are now, or from the land station where we were last night,
at will."
There was something more than pride in his manner. He was deadly in
earnest about his invention.
We had come over to the periscope, the "eye" of the submarine when she
is running just under the surface, but of no use that we were below.
"Yes," he remarked, in answer to my half-spoken question, "that is the
periscope. Usually there is one fixed to look ahead and another that is
movable, in order to take in what is on the sides and in the rear. I
have both of those. But, in addition, I have the universal periscope,
the eye that sees all around, three hundred and sixty degrees--a very
clever application of an annular prism with objectives, condenser, and
two eyepieces of low and high power."
A call from one of the crew took him into the stern to watch the
operation of something, leaving me to myself, for Kennedy was roaming
about on a still hunt for anything that might suggest itself. The
safety devices, probably more than any other single thing, interested
me, for I had read with peculiar fascination of the great disasters to
the Lutin, the Pluviose, the Farfardet, the A8, the Foca, the Kambala,
the Japanese No 6, the German U3, and others.
Below us I knew there was a keel that could be dropped, lightening the
boat considerably. Also, there was the submarine bell, immersed in a
tank of water, with telephone receivers attached by which one could
"listen in," for example, before rising, say, from sixty feet to twenty
feet, and thus "hear" the hulls of other ships. The bell was struck by
means of air pressure, and was the same as that used for submarine
signalling on ships. Water, being dense, is an excellent conductor of
sound. Even in the submarine itself, I could hear the muffled clang of
the gong.
Then there were buoys which could be released and would fly to the
surface, carrying within them a telephone, a light, and a whistle. I
knew also something of the explosion dangers on a submarine, both from
the fuel oil used when running on the surface, and from the storage
batteries used when running submerged. Once in a while a sailor would
take from a jar a piece of litmus paper and expose it, showing only a
slight discolouration due to carbon dioxide. That was the least of my
troubles. For a few moments, also, the white mice in a cage interested
me. White mice were carried because they dislike the odour of gasoline
and give warning of any leakage by loud squeals.
The fact was that there was so much of interest that, the first
discomfort over, I was, like Kennedy, beginning really to enjoy the
I was startled suddenly to hear the motors stop. There was no more of
that interminable buzzing. The Z99 responded promptly to the air
pressure that was forcing the water out of the tanks. The gauge showed
that we were gradually rising on an even keel. A man sprang up the
narrow hatchway and opened the cover through which we could see a
little patch of blue sky again. The gasoline motor was started, and we
ran leisurely back to the dock. The trip was over--safely. As we landed
I felt a sense of gladness to get away from that feeling of being cut
off from the world. It was not fear of death or of the water, as nearly
as I could analyse it, but merely that terrible sense of isolation from
man and nature as we know it.
A message from Burke was waiting for Kennedy at the wharf. He read it
quickly, then handed it to Captain Shirley and myself.
Have just received a telegram from Washington. Great
excitement at the embassy. Cipher telegram has been
despatched to the Titan Iron Works. One of my men in
Washington reports a queer experience. He had been following
one of the members of the embassy staff, who saw he was being
shadowed, turned suddenly on the man, and exclaimed, "Why are
you hounding us still?" What do you make of it? No trace yet
of Nordheim
The lines in Craig's face deepened in thought as he folded the message
and remarked abstractedly, "She works all right when you are aboard."
Then he recalled himself. "Let us try her again without a crew."
Five minutes later we had ascended to the aerial conning-tower, and all
was in readiness to repeat the trial of the night before. Vicious and
sly the Z99 looked in the daytime as she slipped off, under the unseen
guidance of the wireless, with death hidden under her nose. Just as
during the first trial we had witnessed, she began by fulfilling the
highest expectations. Straight as an arrow she shot out of the
harbour's mouth, half submerged, with her periscope sticking up and
bearing the flag proudly flapping, leaving behind a wake of white foam.
She turned and re-entered the harbour, obeying Captain Shirley's every
whim, twisting in and out of the shipping much to the amazement of the
old salts, who had never become used to the weird sight. She cut a
figure eight, stopped, started again.
Suddenly I could see by the look on Captain Shirley's face that
something was wrong. Before either of us could speak, there was a spurt
of water out in the harbour, a cloud of spray, and the Z99 sank in a
mass of bubbles. She had heeled over and was resting on the mud and
ooze of the harbour bottom. The water had closed over her, and she was
Instantly all the terrible details of the sinking of the Lutin and
other submarines flashed over me. I fancied I could see on the Z99 the
overturned accumulators. I imagined the stifling fumes, the struggle
for breath in the suddenly darkened hull. Almost as if it had happened
half an hour ago, I saw it.
"Thank God for telautomatics," I murmured, as the thought swept over me
of what we had escaped. "No one was aboard her, at least."
Chlorine was escaping rapidly from the overturned storage batteries,
for a grave danger lurks in the presence of sea water, in a submarine,
in combination with any of the sulphuric acid. Salt water and sulphuric
acid produce chlorine gas, and a pint of it inside a good-sized
submarine would be sufficient to render unconscious the crew of a boat.
I began to realise the risks we had run, which my confidence in Captain
Shirley had minimised. I wondered whether hydrogen in dangerous
quantities might not be given off, and with the short-circuiting of the
batteries perhaps explode. Nothing more happened, however. All kinds of
theories suggested themselves. Perhaps in some way the gasoline motor
had been started while the boat was depressed, the "gas" had escaped,
combined with air, and a spark had caused an explosion. There were so
many possibilities that it staggered me. Captain Shirley sat stunned.
Yet here was the one great question, Whence had come the impulse that
had sent the famous Z99 to her fate?
"Could it have been through something internal?" I asked. "Could a
current from one of the batteries have influenced the receiving
"No," replied the captain mechanically. "I have a secret method of
protecting my receiving instruments from such impulses within the hull."
Kennedy was sitting silently in the corner, oblivious to us up to this
"But not to impulses from outside the hull," he broke in.
Unobserved, he had been bending over one of the little instruments
which had kept us up all night and bad cost a tedious trip to New York
and back.
"What's that?" I asked.
"This? This is a little instrument known as the audion, a wireless
electric-wave detector."
"Outside the hull?" repeated Shirley, still dazed.
"Yes," cried Kennedy excitedly. "I got my first clue from that
flickering Welsbach mantle last night. Of course it flickered from the
wireless we were using, but it kept on. You know in the gas-mantle
there is matter in a most mobile and tenuous state, very sensitive to
heat and sound vibrations.
"Now, the audion, as you see, consists of two platinum wings, parallel
to the plane of a bowed filament of an incandescent light in a vacuum.
It was invented by Dr. Lee DeForest to detect wireless. When the light
is turned on and the little tantalum filament glows, it is ready for
"It can be used for all systems of wireless--singing spark, quenched
spark, arc sets, telephone sets; in fact, it will detect a wireless
wave from whatever source it is sent. It is so susceptible that a man
with one attached to an ordinary steel-rod umbrella on a rainy night
can pick up wireless messages that are being transmitted within some
hundreds of miles radius."
The audion buzzed.
"There--see? Our wireless is not working. But with the audion you can
see that some wireless is, and a fairly near and powerful source it is,
Kennedy was absorbed in watching the audion.
Suddenly he turned and faced us. He had evidently reached a conclusion.
"Captain," he cried, "can you send a wireless message? Yes? Well, this
is to Burke. He is over there back of the hotel on the hill with some
of his men. He has one there who understands wireless, and to whom I
have given another audion. Quick, before this other wireless cuts in on
us again. I want others to get the message as well as Burke. Send this:
'Have your men watch the railroad station and every road to it.
Surround the Stamford cottage. There is some wireless interference from
that direction.'"
As Shirley, with a half-insane light in his eyes, flashed the message
mechanically through space, Craig rose and signalled to the house.
Under the portecochere I saw a waiting automobile, which an instant
later tore up the broken-stone path and whirled around almost on two
wheels near the edge of the cliff. Glowing with health and excitement,
Gladys Shirley was at the wheel herself. In spite of the tenseness of
the situation, I could not help stopping to admire the change in the
graceful, girlish figure of the night before, which was now all lithe
energy and alertness in her eager devotion to carrying out the minutest
detail of Kennedy's plan to aid her father.
"Excellent, Miss Shirley," exclaimed Kennedy, "but when I asked Burke
to have you keep a car in readiness, I had no idea you would drive it
"I like it," she remonstrated, as he offered to take the wheel.
"Please--please--let me drive. I shall go crazy if I'm not doing
something. I saw the Z99 go down. What was it? Who--"
"Captain," called Craig. "Quick--into the car. We must hurry. To the
Stamford house, Miss Shirley. No one can get away from it before we
arrive. It is surrounded."
Everything was quiet, apparently, about the house as our wild ride
around the edge of the harbour ended under the deft guidance of Gladys
Shirley. Here and there, behind a hedge or tree, I could see a lurking
secret-service man. Burke joined us from behind a barn next door.
"Not a soul has gone in or out," he whispered. "There does not seem to
be a sign of life there."
Craig and Burke had by this time reached the broad veranda. They did
not wait to ring the bell, but carried the door down literally off its
hinges. We followed closely.
A scream from the drawing-room brought us to a halt. It was Mrs.
Brainard, tall, almost imperial in her loose morning gown, her dark
eyes snapping fire at the sudden intrusion. I could not tell whether
she had really noticed that the house was watched or was acting a part.
"What does this mean?" she demanded. "What--Gladys--you--"
"Florence--tell them--it isn't so--is it? You don't know a thing about
those plans of father's that were--stolen--that night."
"Where is Nordheim?" interjected Burke quickly, a little of his "third
degree" training getting the upper hand.
"Yes--you know. Tell me. Is he here?"
"Here? Isn't it bad enough to hound him, without hounding me, too? Will
you merciless detectives drive us all from, place to place with your
brutal suspicions?"
"Merciless?" inquired Burke, smiling with sarcasm. "Who has been
hounding him?"
"You know very well what I mean," she repeated, drawing herself up to
her full height and patting Gladys's hand to reassure her. "Read that
message on the table."
Burke picked up a yellow telegram dated New York, two days before.
It was as I feared when I left you. The secret service must
have rummaged my baggage both here and at the hotel. They
have taken some very valuable papers of mine.
"Secret service--rummage baggage?" repeated Burke, himself now in
perplexity. "That is news to me. We have rummaged no trunks or bags,
least of all Nordheim's. In fact, we have never been able to find them
at all."
"Upstairs, Burke--the servants' quarters," interrupted Craig
impatiently. "We are wasting time here."
Mrs. Brainard offered no protest. I began to think that the whole thing
was indeed a surprise to her, and that she had, in fact, been reading,
instead of making a studied effort to appear surprised at our intrusion.
Room after room was flung open without finding any one, until we
reached the attic, which had been finished off into several rooms. One
door was closed. Craig opened it cautiously. It was pitch dark in spite
of the broad daylight outside. We entered gingerly.
On the floor lay two dark piles of something. My foot touched one of
them. I drew back in horror at the feeling. It was the body of a man.
Kennedy struck a light, and as he bent over in its little circle of
radiance, he disclosed a ghastly scene.
"Hari-kiri!" he ejaculated. "They must have got my message to Burke and
have seen that the house was surrounded."
The two Japanese servants had committed suicide.
"Wh-what does it all mean?" gasped Mrs. Brainard, who had followed us
upstairs with Gladys.
Burke's lip curled slightly and he was about to speak.
"It means," hastened Kennedy, "that you have been double crossed, Mrs.
Brainard. Nordheim stole those plans of Captain Shirley's submarine for
his Titan Iron Works. Then the Japs stole them from his baggage at the
hotel. He thought the secret service had them. The Japs waited here
just long enough to try the plans against the Z99 herself--to destroy
Captain Shirley's work by his own method of destruction. It was clever,
clever. It would make his labours seem like a failure and would
discourage others from keeping up the experiments. They had planned to
steal a march on the world. Every time the Z99 was out they worked up
here with their improvised wireless until they found the wave-length
Shirley was using. It took fifteen or twenty minutes, but they managed,
finally, to interfere so that they sent the submarine to the bottom of
the harbour. Instead of being the criminal, Burke, Mrs. Brainard is the
victim, the victim both of Nordheim and of her servants."
Craig had thrown open a window and had dropped down on his knees before
a little stove by which the room was heated. He was poking eagerly in a
pile of charred paper and linen.
"Shirley," he cried, "your secret is safe, even though the duplicate
plans were stolen. There will be no more interference."
The Captain seized Craig by both hands and wrung them like the handle
of a pump.
"Oh, thank you--thank you--thank you," cried Gladys, running up and
almost dancing with joy at the change in her father. "I--I could
almost--kiss you!"
"I could let you," twinkled Craig, promptly, as she blushed deeply.
"Thank you, too, Mrs. Brainard," he added, turning to acknowledge her
congratulations also. "I am glad I have been able to be of service to
"Won't you come back to the house for dinner?" urged the Captain.
Kennedy looked at me and smiled. "Walter," he said, "this is no place
for two old bachelors like us."
Then turning, he added, "Many thanks, sir,--but, seriously, last night
we slept principally in day coaches. Really I must turn the case over
to Burke now and get back to the city to-night early."
They insisted on accompanying us to the station, and there the
congratulations were done all over again.
"Why," exclaimed Kennedy, as we settled ourselves in the Pullman after
waving a final good-bye, "I shall be afraid to go back to that town
again. I--I almost did kiss her!"
Then his face settled into its usual stern lines, although softened, I
thought. I am sure that it was not the New England landscape, with its
quaint stone fences, that he looked at out of the window, but the
recollection of the bright dashing figure of Gladys Shirley.
It was seldom that a girl made so forcible an impression on Kennedy, I
know, for on our return he fairly dived into work, like the Z99
herself, and I did not see him all the next day until just before
dinner time. Then he came in and spent half an hour restoring his
acid-stained fingers to something like human semblance.
He said nothing about his research work of the day, and I was just
about to remark that a day had passed without its usual fresh alarum
and excursion, when a tap on the door buzzer was followed by the
entrance of our old friend Andrews, head of the Great Eastern Life
Insurance Company's own detective service.
"Kennedy," he began, "I have a startling case for you. Can you help me
out with it?"
As he sat down heavily, he pulled from his immense black wallet some
scraps of paper and newspaper cuttings.
"You recall, I suppose," he went on, unfolding the papers without
waiting for an answer, "the recent death of young Montague Phelps, at
Woodbine, just outside the city?"
Kennedy nodded. The death of Phelps, about ten days before, had
attracted nation-wide attention because of the heroic fight for life he
had made against what the doctors admitted had puzzled them--a new and
baffling manifestation of coma. They had laboured hard to keep him
awake, but had not succeeded, and after several days of lying in a
comatose state he had finally succumbed. It was one of those strange
but rather frequent cases of long sleeps reported in the newspapers,
although it was by no means one which might be classed as
The interest in Phelps lay, a great deal, in the fact that the young
man had married the popular dancer, Anginette Petrovska, a few months
previously. His honeymoon trip around the world had suddenly been
interrupted, while the couple were crossing Siberia, by the news of the
failure of the Phelps banking-house in Wall Street and the practical
wiping-out of his fortune. He had returned, only to fall a victim to a
greater misfortune.
"A few days before his death," continued Andrews, measuring his words
carefully, "I, or rather the Great Eastern, which had been secretly
investigating the case, received this letter. What do you think of it?"
He spread out on the table a crumpled note in a palpably disguised
You would do well to look Into the death of Montague Phelps,
Jr. I accuse no one, assert nothing. But when a young man
apparently in the best of health, drops off so mysteriously
and even the physician in the case can give no very
convincing information, that case warrants attention. I know
what I know.
AN OUTSIDER.
"H-M," mused Kennedy, weighing the contents of the note carefully, "one
of the family, I'll be bound--unless the whole thing is a hoax. By the
way, who else is there in the immediate family?"
"Only a brother, Dana Phelps, younger and somewhat inclined to
wildness, I believe. At least, his father did not trust him with a
large inheritance, but left most of his money in trust. But before we
go any further, read that."
Andrews pulled from the papers a newspaper cutting on which he had
drawn a circle about the following item. As we read, he eyed us sharply.
Last night, John Shaughnessy, a night watchman employed by
the town of Woodbine, while on his rounds, was attracted by
noises as of a violent struggle near the back road in the
Woodbine Cemetery, on the outskirts of the town. He had varied
his regular rounds because of the recent depredations of
motor-car yeggmen who had timed him in pulling off several jobs
lately. As he hurried toward the large mausoleum of the Phelps
family, he saw two figures slink away in opposite directions in
the darkness. One of them, he asserts positively, seemed to be a
woman in black, the other a man whom he could not see clearly.
They readily eluded pursuit in the shadows, and a moment later
he heard the whir of a high-powered car, apparently bearing them
At the tomb there was every evidence of a struggle. Things
had been thrown about; the casket had been broken open, but
the body of Montague Phelps, Jr., which had been interred there
about ten days ago, was not touched or mutilated.
It was a shocking and extraordinary violation. Shaughnessy
believes that some personal jewels may have been buried with
Phelps and that the thieves were after them, that they fought
over the loot, and in the midst of the fight were scared away.
The vault is of peculiar construction, a costly tomb in which
repose the bodies of the late Montague Phelps, Sr., of his wife,
and now of his eldest son. The raid had evidently been carefully
planned to coincide with a time when Shaughnessy would
ordinarily have been on the other side of the town. The entrance
to the tomb had been barred, but during the commotion the ghouls
were surprised and managed to escape without accomplishing
their object and leaving no trace.
Mrs. Phelps, when informed of the vandalism, was shocked,
and has been in a very nervous state since the tomb was forced
open. The local authorities seem extremely anxious that every
precaution should be taken to prevent a repetition of the
ghoulish visit to the tomb, but as yet the Phelps family has
taken no steps.
"Are you aware of any scandal, any skeleton in the closet in the
family?" asked Craig, looking up.
"No--not yet," considered Andrews. "As soon as I heard of the
vandalism, I began to wonder what could have happened in the Phelps
tomb, as far as our company's interests were concerned. You see, that
was yesterday. To-day this letter came along," he added, laying down a
second very dirty and wrinkled note beside the first. It was quite
patently written by a different person from the first; its purport was
different, indeed quite the opposite of the other. "It was sent to Mrs.
Phelps," explained Andrews, "and she gave it out herself to the police."
Do not show this to the police. Unless you leave $5000 in gold
in the old stump in the swamp across from the cemetery, you
will have reason to regret it. If you respect the memory of
the dead, do this, and do it quietly.
BLACK HAND.
"Well," I ejaculated, "that's cool. What threat would be used to back
this demand on the Phelpses?"
"Here's the situation," resumed Andrews, puffing violently on his
inevitable cigar and toying with the letters and clippings. "We have
already held up payment of the half-million dollars of insurance to the
widow as long as we can consistently do so. But we must pay soon,
scandal or not, unless we can get something more than mere conjecture."
"You are already holding it up?" queried Craig.
"Yes. You see, we investigate thoroughly every suspicious death. In
most cases, no body is found. This case is different in that respect.
There is a body, and it is the body of the insured, apparently. But a
death like this, involving the least mystery, receives careful
examination, especially if, as in this case, it has recently been
covered by heavy policies. My work has often served to reverse the
decision of doctors and coroners' juries.
"An insurance detective, as you can readily appreciate, Kennedy, soon
comes to recognise the characteristics in the crimes with which he
deals. For example, writing of the insurance plotted for rarely
precedes the conspiracy to defraud. That is, I know of few cases in
which a policy originally taken out in good faith has subsequently
become the means of a swindle.
"In outright-murder cases, the assassin induces the victim to take out
insurance in his favour. In suicide cases, the insured does so himself.
Just after his return home, young Phelps, who carried fifty thousand
dollars already, applied for and was granted one of the largest
policies we have ever written--half a million."
"Was it incontestible without the suicide clause?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes," replied Andrews, "and suicide is the first and easiest theory.
Why, you have no idea how common the crime of suicide for the sake of
the life insurance is becoming. Nowadays, we insurance men almost
believe that every one who contemplates ending his existence takes out
a policy so as to make his life, which is useless to him, a benefit, at
least, to some one--and a nightmare to the insurance detective."
"I know," I cut in, for I recalled having been rather interested in the
Phelps case at the time, "but I thought the doctors said finally that
death was due to heart failure."
"Doctor Forden who signed the papers said so," corrected Andrews.
"Heart failure--what does that mean? As well say breath failure, or
nerve failure. I'll tell you what kind of failure I think it was. It
was money failure. Hard times and poor investments struck Phelps before
he really knew how to handle his small fortune. It called him home
and--pouf!--he is off--to leave to his family a cool half-million by
his death. But did he do it himself or did some one else do it? That's
the question."
"What is your theory," inquired Kennedy absently, "assuming there is no
scandal hidden in the life of Phelps before or after he married the
Russian dancer?"
"I don't know, Kennedy," confessed Andrews. "I have had so many
theories and have changed them so rapidly that all I lay claim to
believing, outside of the bald facts that I have stated, is that there
must have been some poison. I rather sense it, feel that there is no
doubt of it, in fact. That is why I have come to you. I want you to
clear it up, one way or another. The company has no interest except in
getting at the truth."
"The body is really there?" asked Kennedy. "You saw it?"
"It was there no later than this afternoon, and in an almost perfect
state of preservation, too."
Kennedy seemed to be looking at and through Andrews as if he would
hypnotise the truth out of him. "Let me see," he said quickly. "It is
not very late now. Can we visit the mausoleum to-night?"
"Easily. My car is down-stairs. Woodbine is not far, and you'll find it
a very attractive suburb, aside from this mystery."
Andrews lost no time in getting us out to Woodbine, and on the fringe
of the little town, one of the wealthiest around the city, he deposited
us at the least likely place of all, the cemetery. A visit to a
cemetery is none too enjoyable even on a bright day. In the early night
it is positively uncanny. What was gruesome in the daylight became
doubly so under the shroud of darkness.
We made our way into the grounds through a gate, and I, at least, even
with all the enlightenment of modern science, could not restrain a
weird and creepy sensation.
"Here is the Phelps tomb," directed Andrews, pausing beside a marble
structure of Grecian lines and pulling out a duplicate key of a new
lock which had been placed on the heavy door of grated iron. As we
entered, it was with a shudder at the damp odour of decay. Kennedy had
brought his little electric bull's-eye, and, as he flashed it about, we
could see at a glance that the reports had not been exaggerated.
Everything showed marks of a struggle. Some of the ornaments had been
broken, and the coffin itself had been forced open.
"I have had things kept just as we found them," explained Andrews.
Kennedy peered into the broken coffin long and attentively. With a
little effort I, too, followed the course of the circle of light. The
body was, as Andrews had said, in an excellent, indeed a perfect, state
of preservation. There were, strange to say, no marks of decay.
"Strange, very strange," muttered Kennedy to himself.
"Could it have been some medical students, body-snatchers?" I asked
musingly. "Or was it simply a piece of vandalism? I wonder if there
could have been any jewels buried with him, as Shaughnessy said? That
would make the motive plain robbery."
"There were no jewels," said Andrews, his mind not on the first part of
my question, but watching Kennedy intently.
Craig had dropped on his knees on the damp, mildewed floor, and
bringing his bull's-eye close to the stones, was examining some spots
here and there.
"There could not have been any substitution?" I whispered, with, my
mind still on the broken coffin. "That would cover up the evidence of a
poisoning, you know."
"No," replied Andrews positively, "although bodies can be obtained
cheaply enough from a morgue, ostensibly for medical purposes. No, that
is Phelps, all right."
"Well, then," I persisted, "body-snatchers, medical students?"
"Not likely, for the same reason," he rejected.
We bent over closer to watch Kennedy. Apparently he had found a number
of round, flat spots with little spatters beside them. He was carefully
trying to scrape them up with as little of the surrounding mould as
Suddenly, without warning, there was a noise outside, as if a person
were moving through the underbrush. It was fearsome in its suddenness.
Was it human or wraith? Kennedy darted to the door in time to see a
shadow glide silently away, lost in the darkness of the fine old
willows. Some one had approached the mausoleum for a second time, not
knowing we were there, and had escaped. Down the road we could hear the
purr of an almost silent motor.
"Somebody is trying to get in to conceal something here," muttered
Kennedy, stifling his disappointment at not getting a closer view of
the intruder.
"Then it was not a suicide," I exclaimed. "It was a murder!"
Craig shook his head sententiously. Evidently he not prepared yet to
With another look at the body in the broken casket he remarked:
"To-morrow I want to call on Mrs. Phelps and Doctor Forden, and, if it
is possible to find him, Dana Phelps. Meanwhile, Andrews, if you and
Walter will stand guard here, there is an apparatus which I should like
to get from my laboratory and set up here before it is too late."
It was far past the witching hour of midnight, when graveyards
proverbially yawn, before Craig returned in the car. Nothing had
happened in the meantime except those usual eery noises that one may
hear in the country at night anywhere. Our visitor of the early evening
seemed to have been scared away for good.
Inside the mausoleum, Kennedy set up a peculiar machine which he
attached to the electric-light circuit in the street by a long wire
which he ran loosely over the ground. Part of the apparatus consisted
of an elongated box lined with lead, to which were several other
attachments, the nature of which I did not understand, and a
"What's that?" asked Andrews curiously, as Craig set up a screen
between the apparatus and the body.
"This is a calcium-tungsten screen," remarked Kennedy, adjusting now
what I know to be a Crookes' tube on the other side of the body itself,
so that the order was: the tube, the body, the screen, and the oblong
box. Without a further word we continued to watch him.
At last, the apparatus adjusted apparently to his satisfaction, he
brought out a jar of thick white liquid and a bottle of powder.
"Buttermilk and a couple of ounces of bismuth sub-carbonate," he
remarked, as he mixed some in a glass, and with a pump forced it down
the throat of the body, now lying so that the abdomen was almost flat
against the screen.
He turned a switch and the peculiar bluish effulgence, which always
appears when a Crookes' tube is being used, burst forth, accompanied by
the droning of his induction-coil and the welcome smell of ozone
produced by the electrical discharge in the almost fetid air of the
tomb. Meanwhile, he was gradually turning the handle of the crank
attached to the oblong box. He seemed so engrossed in the delicateness
of the operation that we did not question him, in fact did not move.
For Andrews, at least, it was enough to know that he had succeeded in
enlisting Kennedy's services.
Well along toward morning it was before Kennedy had concluded his
tests, whatever they were, and had packed away his paraphernalia.
"I'm afraid it will take me two or three days to get at this evidence,
even now," he remarked, impatient at even the limitations science put
on his activity. We had started back for a quick run to the city and
rest. "But, anyhow, it will give us a chance to do some investigating
along other lines."
Early the next day, in spite of the late session of the night before,
Kennedy started me with him on a second visit to Woodbine. This time he
was armed with a letter of introduction from Andrews to Mrs. Phelps.
She proved to be a young woman of most extraordinary grace and beauty,
with a superb carriage such as only years of closest training under the
best dancers of the world could give. There was a peculiar velvety
softness about her flesh and skin, a witching stoop to her shoulders
that was decidedly continental, and in her deep, soulful eyes a
half-wistful look that was most alluring. In fact, she was as
attractive a widow as the best Fifth Avenue dealers in mourning goods
could have produced.
I knew that 'Ginette Phelps had been, both as dancer and wife, always
the centre of a group of actors, artists, and men of letters as well as
of the world and affairs. The Phelpses had lived well, although they
were not extremely wealthy, as fortunes go. When the blow fell, I could
well fancy that the loss of his money had been most serious to young
Montague, who had showered everything as lavishly as he was able upon
his captivating bride.
Mrs. Phelps did not seem to be overjoyed at receiving us, yet made no
open effort to refuse.
"How long ago did the coma first show itself?" asked Kennedy, after our
introductions were completed. "Was your husband a man of neurotic
tendency, as far as you could judge?"
"Oh, I couldn't say when it began," she answered, in a voice that was
soft and musical and under perfect control. "The doctor would know that
better. No, he was not neurotic, I think."
"Did you ever see Mr. Phelps take any drugs--not habitually, but just
before this sleep came on?"
Kennedy was seeking his information in a manner and tone that would
cause as little offence as possible "Oh, no," she hastened. "No,
"You called in Dr. Forden the last night?"
"Yes, he had been Montague's physician many years ago, you know."
"I see," remarked Kennedy, who was thrusting about aimlessly to get her
off her guard. "By the way, you know there is a great deal of gossip
about the almost perfect state of preservation of the body, Mrs.
Phelps. I see it was not embalmed."
She bit her lip and looked at Kennedy sharply.
"Why, why do you and Mr. Andrews worry me? Can't you see Doctor Forden?"
In her annoyance I fancied that there was a surprising lack of sorrow.
She seemed preoccupied. I could not escape the feeling that she was
putting some obstacle in our way, or that from the day of the discovery
of the vandalism, some one had been making an effort to keep the real
facts concealed. Was she shielding some one? It flashed over me that
perhaps, after all, she had submitted to the blackmail and had buried
the money at the appointed place. There seemed to be little use in
pursuing the inquiry, so we excused ourselves, much, I thought, to her
We found Doctor Forden, who lived on the same street as the Phelpses
several squares away, most fortunately at home. Forden was an extremely
interesting man, as is, indeed, the rule with physicians. I could not
but fancy, however, that his hearty assurance that he would be glad to
talk freely on the case was somewhat forced.
"You were sent for by Mrs. Phelps, that last night, I believe, while
Phelps was still alive?" asked Kennedy.
"Yes. During the day it had been impossible to arouse him, and that
night, when Mrs. Phelps and the nurse found him sinking even deeper
into the comatose state, I was summoned again. He was beyond hope then.
I did everything I could, but he died a few moments after I arrived."
"Did you try artificial respiration?" asked Kennedy.
"N-no," replied Forden. "I telephoned here for my respirator, but by
the time it arrived at the house it was too late. Nothing had been
omitted while he was still struggling with the spark of life. When that
went out what was the use?"
"You were his personal physician?"
"Had you ever noticed that he took any drug?"
Doctor Forden shot a quick glance at Kennedy. "Of course not. He was
not a drug fiend."
"I didn't mean that he was addicted to any drug. But had he taken
anything lately, either of his own volition or with the advice or
knowledge of any one else?"
"Of course not."
"There's another strange thing I wish to ask your opinion about,"
pursued Kennedy, not to be rebuffed. "I have seen his body. It is in an
excellent state of preservation, almost lifelike. And yet I understand,
or at least it seems, that it was not embalmed."
"You'll have to ask the undertaker about that," answered the doctor
It was evident that he was getting more and more constrained in his
answers. Kennedy did not seem to mind it, but to me it seemed that he
must be hiding something. Was there some secret which medical ethics
kept locked in his breast? Kennedy had risen and excused himself.
The interviews had not resulted in much, I felt, yet Kennedy did not
seem to care. Back in the city again, he buried himself in his
laboratory for the rest of the day, most of the time in his dark room,
where he was developing photographic plates or films, I did not know
During the afternoon Andrews dropped in for a few moments to report
that he had nothing to add to what had already developed. He was not
much impressed by the interviews.
"There's just one thing I want to speak about, though," he said at
length, unburdening his mind. "That tomb and the swamp, too, ought to
be watched. Last night showed me that there seems to be a regular
nocturnal visitor and that we cannot depend on that town night watchman
to scare him off. Yet if we watch up there, he will be warned and will
lie low. How can we watch both places at once and yet remain hidden?"
Kennedy nodded approval of the suggestion. "I'll fix that," he replied,
anxious to return to his photographic labours. "Meet me, both of you,
on the road from the station at Woodbine, just as it is getting dusk."
Without another word he disappeared into the dark room.
We met him that night as he had requested. He had come up to Woodbine
in the baggage-car of the train with a powerful dog, for all the world
like a huge, grey wolf.
"Down, Schaef," he ordered, as the dog began to show an uncanny
interest in me. "Let me introduce my new dog-detective," he chuckled.
"She has a wonderful record as a police-dog."
We were making our way now through the thickening shadows of the town
to the outskirts. "She's a German sheep-dog, a Schaferhund," he
explained. "For my part, it is the English bloodhound in the open
country and the sheep-dog in the city and the suburbs."
Schaef seemed to have many of the characteristics of the wild,
prehistoric animal, among them the full, upright ears of the wild dog
which are such a great help to it. She was a fine, alert, upstanding
dog, hardy, fierce, and literally untiring, of a tawny light brown like
a lioness, about the same size and somewhat of the type of the
smooth-coated collie, broad of chest and with a full brush of tail.
Untamed though she seemed, she was perfectly under Kennedy's control,
and rendered him absolute and unreasoning obedience.
At the cemetery we established a strict watch about the Phelps
mausoleum and the swamp which lay across the road, not a difficult
thing to do as far as concealment went, owing to the foliage. Still,
for the same reason, it was hard to cover the whole ground. In the
shadow of a thicket we waited. Now and then we could hear Schaef
scouting about in the underbrush, crouching and hiding, watching and
As the hours of waiting in the heavily laden night air wore on, I
wondered whether our vigil in this weird place would be rewarded. The
soughing of the night wind in the evergreens, mournful at best, was
doubly so now. Hour after hour we waited patiently.
At last there was a slight noise from the direction opposite the
mausoleum and toward the swamp next to the cemetery.
Kennedy reached out and drew us back into the shadow deeper. "Some one
is prowling about, approaching the mausoleum on that side, I think," he
Instantly there recurred to me the thought I had had earlier in the day
that perhaps, after all, the five thousand dollars of hush money, for
whatever purpose it might be extorted, had been buried in the swamp by
Mrs. Phelps in her anxiety. Had that been what she was concealing?
Perhaps the blackmailer had come to reconnoitre, and, if the money was
there, to take it away.
Schaef, who had been near us, was sniffing eagerly. From our
hiding-place we could just see her. She had heard the sounds, too, even
before we had, and for an instant stood with every muscle tense.
Then, like an arrow, she darted into the underbrush. An instant later,
the sharp crack of a revolver rang out. Schaef kept right on, never
stopping a second, except, perhaps, for surprise.
"Crack!" almost in her face came a second spit of fire in the darkness,
and a bullet crashed through the leaves and buried itself in a tree
with a ping. The intruder's marksmanship was poor, but the dog paid no
attention to it.
"One of the few animals that show no fear of gunfire," muttered
Kennedy, in undisguised admiration.
"G-R-R-R," we heard from the police-dog.
"She has made a leap at the hand that holds the gun," cried Kennedy,
now rising and moving rapidly in the same direction. "She has been
taught that a man once badly bitten in the hand is nearly out of the
We followed, too. As we approached we were just in time to see Schaef
running in and out between the legs of a man who had heard us approach
and was hastily making tracks for the road. As he tripped, she lunged
for his back.
Kennedy blew shrilly on a police whistle. Reluctantly, Schaef let go.
One could see that with all her canine instinct she wanted to "get"
that man. Her jaws were open, as, with longing eyes, she stood over the
prostrate form in the grass. The whistle was a signal, and she had been
taught to obey unquestioningly.
"Don't move until we get to you, or you are a dead man," shouted
Kennedy, pulling an automatic as he ran. "Are you hurt?"
There was no answer, but as we approached, the man moved, ever so
little, through curiosity to see his pursuers.
Schaef shot forward. Again the whistle sounded and she dropped back. We
bent over to seize him as Kennedy secured the dog.
"She's a devil," ground out the prone figure on the grass.
"Dana Phelps!" exclaimed Andrews, as the man turned his face toward us.
"What are you doing, mixed up in this?"
Suddenly there was a movement in the rear, toward the mausoleum itself.
We turned, but it was too late. Two dark figures slunk through the
gloom, bearing something between them. Kennedy slipped the leash off
Schaef and she shot out like a unchained bolt of lightning.
There was the whir of a high-powered machine which must have sneaked up
with the muffler on during the excitement. They had taken a desperate
chance and had succeeded. They were gone!
Still holding Dana Phelps between us, we hurried toward the tomb and
entered. While our attention had been diverted in the direction of the
swamp, the body of Montague Phelps had been stolen.
Dana Phelps was still deliberately brushing off his clothes. Had he
been in league with them, executing a flank movement to divert our
attention? Or had it all been pure chance?
"Well?" demanded Andrews.
"Well?" replied Dana.
Kennedy said nothing, and I felt that, with our capture, the mystery
seemed to have deepened rather than cleared.
As Andrews and Phelps faced each other, I noticed that the latter was
now and then endeavouring to cover his wrist, where the dog had torn
his coat sleeve.
"Are you hurt badly?" inquired Kennedy.
Dana said nothing, but backed away. Kennedy advanced, insisting on
looking at the wounds. As he looked he disclosed a semicircle of marks.
"Not a dog bite," he whispered, turning to me and fumbling in his
pocket. "Besides, those marks are a couple of days old. They have scabs
on them."
He had pulled out a pencil and a piece of paper, and, unknown to
Phelps, was writing in the darkness. I leaned over. Near the point, in
the tube through which the point for writing was, protruded a small
accumulator and tiny electric lamp which threw a little disc of light,
so small that it could be hidden by the hand, yet quite sufficient to
guide Craig in moving the point of his pencil for the proper formation
of whatever he was recording on the surface of the paper.
"An electric-light pencil," he remarked laconically, in an undertone.
"Who were the others?" demanded Andrews of Dana.
There was a pause as though he were debating whether or not to answer
at all. "I don't know," he said at length. "I wish I did."
"You don't know?" queried Andrews, with incredulity.
"No, I say I wish I did know. You and your dog interrupted me just as I
was about to find out, too."
We looked at each other in amazement. Andrews was frankly skeptical of
the coolness of the young man. Kennedy said nothing for some moments.
"I see you don't want to talk," he put in shortly.
"Nothing to talk about," grunted Dana, in disgust.
"Then why are you here?"
"Nothing but conjecture. No facts, only suspicions," said Dana, half to
"You expect us to believe that?" insinuated Andrews.
"I can't help what you believe. That is the fact."
"And you were not with them?"
"You'll be within call, if we let you go now, any time that we want
you?" interrupted Kennedy, much to the surprise of Andrews.
"I shall stay in Woodbine as long as there is any hope of clearing up
this case. If you want me, I suppose I shall have to stay anyhow, even
if there is a clue somewhere else."
"I'll take your word for it," offered Kennedy.
"I'll give it."
I must say that I rather liked the young chap, although I could make
nothing out of him.
As Dana Phelps disappeared down the road, Andrews turned to Kennedy.
"What did you do that for?" he asked, half critically.
"Because we can watch him, anyway," answered Craig, with a significant
glance at the now empty casket. "Have him shadowed, Andrews. It may
lead to something and it may not. But in any case don't let him get out
of reach."
"Here we are in a worse mystery than ever," grumbled Andrews. "We have
caught a prisoner, but the body is gone, and we can't even show that he
was an accomplice."
"What were you writing?" I asked Craig, endeavouring to change the
subject to one more promising.
"Just copying the peculiar shape of those marks on Phelps' arm. Perhaps
we can improve on the finger-print method of identification. Those were
the marks of human teeth."
He was glancing casually at his sketch as he displayed it to us. I
wondered whether he really expected to obtain proof of the identity of
at least one of the ghouls by the tooth-marks.
"It shows eight teeth, one of them decayed," he remarked. "By the way,
there's no use watching here any longer. I have some more work to do in
the laboratory which will keep me another day. To-morrow night I shall
be ready. Andrews, in the mean time I leave the shadowing of Dana to
you, and with the help of Jameson I want you to arrange to have all
those connected with the case at my laboratory to-morrow night without
Andrews and I had to do some clever scheming to bring pressure to bear
on the various persons interested to insure their attendance, now that
Craig was ready to act. Of course there was no difficulty in getting
Dana Phelps. Andrews's shadows reported nothing in his actions of the
following day that indicated anything. Mrs. Phelps came down to town by
train and Doctor Forden motored in. Andrews even took the precaution to
secure Shaughnessy and the trained nurse, Miss Tracy, who had been with
Montague Phelps during his illness but had not contributed anything
toward untangling the case. Andrews and myself completed the little
We found Kennedy heating a large mass of some composition such as
dentists use in taking impressions of the teeth.
"I shall be ready in a moment," he excused himself, still bending over
his Bunsen flame. "By the way, Mr. Phelps, if you will permit me."
He had detached a wad of the softened material. Phelps, taken by
surprise, allowed him to make an impression of his teeth, almost before
he realised what Kennedy was doing. The precedent set, so to speak,
Kennedy approached Doctor Forden. He demurred, but finally consented.
Mrs. Phelps followed, then the nurse, and even Shaughnessy.
With a quick glance at each impression, Kennedy laid them aside to
"I am ready to begin," he remarked at length, turning to a peculiar
looking instrument, something like three telescopes pointing at a
centre in which was a series of glass prisms.
"These five senses of ours are pretty dull detectives sometimes,"
Kennedy began. "But I find that when we are able to call in outside aid
we usually find that there are no more mysteries."
He placed something in a test-tube in line before one of the barrels of
the telescopes, near a brilliant electric light.
"What do you see, Walter?" he asked, indicating an eyepiece.
I looked. "A series of lines," I replied. "What is it?"
"That," he explained, "is a spectroscope, and those are the lines of
the absorption spectrum. Each of those lines, by its presence, denotes
a different substance. Now, on the pavement of the Phelps mausoleum I
found, you will recall, some roundish spots. I have made a very diluted
solution of them which is placed in this tube.
"The applicability of the spectroscope to the differentiation of
various substances is too well known to need explanation. Its value
lies in the exact nature of the evidence furnished. Even the very
dilute solution which I have been able to make of the material scraped
from these spots gives characteristic absorption bands between the D
and E lines, as they are called. Their wave-lengths are between 5774
and 5390. It is such a distinct absorption spectrum that it is possible
to determine with certainty that the fluid actually contains a certain
substance, even though the microscope might fail to give sure proof.
Blood--human blood--that was what those stains were."
He paused. "The spectra of the blood pigments," he added, "of the
extremely minute quantities of blood and the decomposition products of
hemoglobin in the blood are here infallibly shown, varying very
distinctly with the chemical changes which the pigments may undergo."
Whose blood was it? I asked myself. Was it of some one who had visited
the tomb, who was surprised there or surprised some one else there? I
was hardly ready for Kennedy's quick remark.
"There were two kinds of blood there. One was contained in the spots on
the floor all about the mausoleum. There are marks on the arm of Dana
Phelps which he probably might say were made by the teeth of my
police-dog, Schaef. They are human tooth-marks, however. He was bitten
by some one in a struggle. It was his blood on the floor of the
mausoleum. Whose were the teeth?"
Kennedy fingered the now set impressions, then resumed: "Before I
answer that question, what else does the spectroscope show? I found
some spots near the coffin, which has been broken open by a heavy
object. It had slipped and had injured the body of Montague Phelps.
From the injury some drops had oozed. My spectroscope tells me that
that, too, is blood. The blood and other muscular and nervous fluids of
the body had remained in an aqueous condition instead of becoming
pectous. That is a remarkable circumstance."
It flashed over me what Kennedy had been driving at in his inquiry
regarding embalming. If the poisons of the embalming fluid had not been
injected, he had now clear proof regarding anything his spectroscope
"I had expected to find a poison, perhaps an alkaloid," he continued
slowly, as he outlined his discoveries by the use of one of the most
fascinating branches of modern science, spectroscopy. "In cases of
poisoning by these substances, the spectroscope often has obvious
advantages over chemical methods, for minute amounts will produce a
well-defined spectrum. The spectroscope 'spots' the substance, to use a
police idiom, the moment the case is turned over to it. There was no
poison there." He had raised his voice to emphasise the startling
revelation. "Instead, I found an extraordinary amount of the substance
and products of glycogen. The liver, where this substance is stored, is
literally surcharged in the body of Phelps."
He had started his moving-picture machine.
"Here I have one of the latest developments in the moving-picture art,"
he resumed, "an X-ray moving picture, a feat which was until recently
visionary, a science now in its infancy, bearing the formidable names
of biorontgenography, or kinematoradiography."
Kennedy was holding his little audience breathless as he proceeded. I
fancied I could see Anginette Phelps give a little shudder at the
prospect of looking into the very interior of a human body. But she was
pale with the fascination of it. Neither Forden nor the nurse looked to
the right or to the left. Dana Phelps was open-eyed with wonder.
"In one X-ray photograph, or even in several," continued Kennedy, "it
is difficult to discover slight motions. Not so in a moving picture.
For instance, here I have a picture which will show you a living body
in all its moving details."
On the screen before us was projected a huge shadowgraph of a chest and
abdomen. We could see the vertebrae of the spinal column, the ribs, and
the various organs.
"It is difficult to get a series of photographs directly from a
fluorescent screen," Kennedy went on. "I overcome the difficulty by
having lenses of sufficient rapidity to photograph even faint images on
that screen. It is better than the so-called serial method, by which a
number of separate X-ray pictures are taken and then pieced together
and rephotographed to make the film. I can focus the X-rays first on
the screen by means of a special quartz objective which I have devised.
Then I take the pictures.
"Here, you see, are the lungs in slow or rapid respiration. There is
the rhythmically beating heart, distinctly pulsating in perfect
outline. There is the liver, moving up and down with the diaphragm, the
intestines, and the stomach. You can see the bones moving with the
limbs, as well as the inner visceral life. All that is hidden to the
eye by the flesh is now made visible in striking manner."
Never have I seen an audience at the "movies" so thrilled as we were
now, as Kennedy swayed our interest at his will. I had been dividing my
attention between Kennedy and the extraordinary beauty of the famous
Russian dancer. I forgot Anginette Phelps entirely.
Kennedy placed another film in the holder.
"You are now looking into the body of Montague Phelps," he announced
We leaned forward eagerly. Mrs. Phelps gave a half-suppressed gasp.
What was the secret hidden in it?
There was the stomach, a curved sack something like a bagpipe or a
badly made boot, with a tiny canal at the toe connecting it with the
small intestine. There were the heart and lungs.
"I have rendered the stomach visible," resumed Kennedy, "made it
'metallic,' so to speak, by injecting a solution of bismuth in
buttermilk, the usual method, by which it becomes more impervious to
the X-rays and hence darker in the skiagraph. I took these pictures not
at the rate of fourteen or so a second, like the others, but at
intervals of a few seconds. I did that so that, when I run them off, I
get a sort of compressed moving picture. What you see in a short space
of time actually took much longer to occur. I could have either kind of
picture, but I prefer the latter.
"For, you will take notice that there is movement here--of the heart,
of the lungs, of the stomach--faint, imperceptible under ordinary
circumstances, but nevertheless, movement."
He was pointing at the lungs. "A single peristaltic contraction takes
place normally in a very few seconds. Here it takes minutes. And the
stomach. Notice what the bismuth mixture shows. There is a very slow
series of regular wave-contractions from the fundus to the pylorus.
Ordinarily one wave takes ten seconds to traverse it; here it is so
slow as almost to be unnoticed."
What was the implication of his startling, almost gruesome, discovery?
I saw it clearly, yet hung on his words, afraid to admit even to myself
the logical interpretation of what I saw.
"Reconstruct the case," continued Craig excitedly. "Mr. Phelps, always
a bon vivant and now so situated by marriage that he must be so, comes
back to America to find his personal fortune--gone.
"What was left? He did as many have done. He took out a new large
policy on his life. How was he to profit by it? Others have committed
suicide, have died to win. Cases are common now where men have ended
their lives under such circumstances by swallowing
bichloride-of-mercury tablets, a favourite method, it seems, lately.
"But Phelps did not want to die to win. Life was too sweet to him. He
had another scheme." Kennedy dropped his voice.
"One of the most fascinating problems in speculation as to the future
of the race under the influence of science is that of suspended
animation. The usual attitude is one of reserve or scepticism. There is
no necessity for it. Records exist of cases where vital functions have
been practically suspended, with no food and little air. Every day
science is getting closer to the control of metabolism. In the trance
the body functions are so slowed as to simulate death. You have heard
of the Indian fakirs who bury themselves alive and are dug up days
later? You have doubted it. But there is nothing improbable in it.
"Experiments have been made with toads which have been imprisoned in
porous rock where they could get the necessary air. They have lived for
months in a stupor. In impervious rock they have died. Frozen fish can
revive; bears and other animals hibernate. There are all gradations
from ordinary sleep to the torpor of death. Science can slow down
almost to a standstill the vital processes so that excretions disappear
and respiration and heart-beat are almost nil.
"What the Indian fakir does in a cataleptic condition may be
duplicated. It is not incredible that they may possess some vegetable
extract by which they perform their as yet unexplained feats of
prolonged living burial. For, if an animal free from disease is
subjected to the action of some chemical and physical agencies which
have the property of reducing to the extreme limit the motor forces and
nervous stimulus, the body of even a warm-blooded animal may be brought
down to a condition so closely resembling death that the most careful
examination may fail to detect any signs of life. The heart will
continue working regularly at low tension, supplying muscles and other
parts with sufficient blood to sustain molecular life, and the stomach
would naturally react to artificial stimulus. At any time before
decomposition of tissue has set in, the heart might be made to resume
its work and life come back.
"Phelps had travelled extensively. In Siberia he must undoubtedly have
heard of the Buriats, a tribe of natives who hibernate, almost like the
animals, during the winters, succumbing to a long sleep known as the
'leshka.' He must have heard of the experiments of Professor
Bakhmetieff, who studied the Buriats and found that they subsisted on
foods rich in glycogen, a substance in the liver which science has
discovered makes possible life during suspended animation. He must have
heard of 'anabiose,' as the famous Russian calls it, by which
consciousness can be totally removed and respiration and digestion
cease almost completely."
"But--the body--is gone!" some one interrupted. I turned. It was Dana
Phelps, now leaning forward in wide-eyed excitement.
"Yes," exclaimed Craig. "Time was passing rapidly. The insurance had
not been paid. He had expected to be revived and to disappear with
Anginette Phelps long before this. Should the confederates of Phelps
wait? They did not dare. To wait longer might be to sacrifice him, if
indeed they had not taken a long chance already. Besides, you yourself
had your suspicions and had written the insurance company hinting at
Dana nodded, involuntarily confessing.
"You were watching them, as well as the insurance investigator, Mr.
Andrews. It was an awful dilemma. What was to be done? He must be
resuscitated at any risk.
"Ah--an idea! Rifle the grave--that was the way to solve it. That would
still leave it possible to collect the insurance, too. The blackmail
letter about the five thousand dollars was only a blind, to lay on the
mythical Black Hand the blame for the desecration. Brought into light,
humidity, and warmth, the body would recover consciousness and the
life-functions resume their normal state after the anabiotic coma into
which Phelps had drugged himself.
"But the very first night the supposed ghouls were discovered. Dana
Phelps, already suspicious regarding the death of his brother,
wondering at the lack of sentiment which Mrs. Phelps showed, since she
felt that her husband was not really dead--Dana was there. His
suspicions were confirmed, he thought. Montague had been, in reality,
murdered, and his murderers were now making away with the evidence. He
fought with the ghouls, yet apparently, in the darkness, he did not
discover their identity. The struggle was bitter, but they were two to
one. Dana was bitten by one of them. Here are the marks of
teeth--teeth--of a woman."
Anginette Phelps was sobbing convulsively. She had risen and was facing
Doctor Forden with outstretched hands.
"Tell them!" she cried wildly.
Forden seemed to have maintained his composure only by a superhuman
"The--body is--at my office," he said, as we faced him with deathlike
stillness. "Phelps had told us to get him within ten days. We did get
him, finally. Gentlemen, you, who were seeking murderers, are, in
effect, murderers. You kept us away two days too long. It was too late.
We could not revive him. Phelps is really dead!"
"The deuce!" exclaimed Andrews, "the policy is incontestible!"
As he turned to us in disgust, his eyes fell on Anginette Phelps,
sobered down by the terrible tragedy and nearly a physical wreck from
real grief.
"Still," he added hastily, "we'll pay without a protest."
She did not even hear him. It seemed that the butterfly in her was
crushed, as Dr. Forden and Miss Tracy gently led her away.
They had all left, and the laboratory was again in its normal state of
silence, except for the occasional step of Kennedy as he stowed away
the apparatus he had used.
"I must say that I was one of the most surprised in the room at the
outcome of that case," I confessed at length. "I fully expected an
He said nothing, but went on methodically restoring his apparatus to
its proper place.
"What a peculiar life you lead, Craig," I pursued reflectively. "One
day it is a case that ends with such a bright spot in our lives as the
recollection of the Shirleys; the next goes to the other extreme of
gruesomeness and one can hardly think about it without a shudder. And
then, through it all, you go with the high speed power of a racing
"That last case appealed to me, like many others," he ruminated, "just
because it was so unusual, so gruesome, as you call it."
He reached into the pocket of his coat, hung over the back of a chair.
"Now, here's another most unusual case, apparently. It begins, really,
at the other end, so to speak, with the conviction, begins at the very
place where we detectives send a man as the last act of our little
"What?" I gasped, "another case before even this one is fairly cleaned
up? Craig--you are impossible. You get worse instead of better."
"Read it," he said, simply. Kennedy handed me a letter in the angular
hand affected by many women. It was dated at Sing Sing, or rather
Ossining. Craig seemed to appreciate the surprise which my face must
have betrayed at the curious combination of circumstances.
"Nearly always there is the wife or mother of a condemned man who lives
in the shadow of the prison," he remarked quietly, adding, "where she
can look down at the grim walls, hoping and fearing."
I said nothing, for the letter spoke for itself.
I have read of your success as a scientific detective and hope that you
will pardon me for writing to you, but it is a matter of life or death
for one who is dearer to me than all the world.
Perhaps you recall reading of the trial and conviction of my husband,
Sanford Godwin, at East Point. The case did not attract much attention
in New York papers, although he was defended by an able lawyer from the
Since the trial, I have taken up my residence here in Ossining in order
to be near him. As I write I can see the cold, grey walls of the state
prison that holds all that is dear to me. Day after day, I have watched
and waited, hoped against hope. The courts are so slow, and lawyers are
so technical. There have been executions since I came here, too--and I
shudder at them. Will this appeal be denied, also?
My husband was accused of murdering by poison--hemlock, they
alleged--his adoptive parent, the retired merchant, Parker Godwin,
whose family name he took when he was a boy. After the death of the old
man, a later will was discovered in which my husband's inheritance was
reduced to a small annuity. The other heirs, the Elmores, asserted, and
the state made out its case on the assumption, that the new will
furnished a motive for killing old Mr. Godwin, and that only by
accident had it been discovered.
Sanford is innocent. He could not have done it. It is not in him to do
such a thing. I am only a woman, but about some things I know more than
all the lawyers and scientists, and I KNOW that he is innocent.
I cannot write all. My heart is too full. Cannot you come and advise
me? Even if you cannot take up the case to which I have devoted my
life, tell me what to do. I am enclosing a check for expenses, all I
can spare at present.
Sincerely yours,
"Are you going?" I asked, watching Kennedy as he tapped the check
thoughtfully on the desk.
"I can hardly resist an appeal like that," he replied, absently
replacing the check in the envelope with the letter.
In the early forenoon, we were on our way by train "up the river" to
Sing Sing, where, at the station, a line of old-fashioned cabs and
red-faced cabbies greeted us, for the town itself is hilly.
The house to which we had been directed was on the hill, and from its
windows one could look down on the barracks-like pile of stone with the
evil little black-barred slits of windows, below and perhaps a quarter
of a mile away.
There was no need to be told what it was. Its very atmosphere breathed
the word "prison." Even the ugly clutter of tall-chimneyed workshops
did not destroy it. Every stone, every grill, every glint of a sentry's
rifle spelt "prison."
Mrs. Godwin was a pale, slight little woman, in whose face shone an
indomitable spirit, unconquered even by the slow torture of her lonely
vigil. Except for such few hours that she had to engage in her simple
household duties, with now and then a short walk in the country, she
was always watching that bleak stone house of atonement.
Yet, though her spirit was unconquered, it needed no physician to tell
one that the dimming of the lights at the prison on the morning set for
the execution would fill two graves instead of one. For she had come to
know that this sudden dimming of the corridor lights, and then their
almost as sudden flaring-up, had a terrible meaning, well known to the
men inside. Hers was no less an agony than that of the men in the
curtained cells, since she had learned that when the lights grow dim at
dawn at Sing Sing, it means that the electric power has been borrowed
for just that little while to send a body straining against the straps
of the electric chair, snuffing out the life of a man.
To-day she had evidently been watching in both directions, watching
eagerly the carriages as they climbed the hill, as well as in the
direction of the prison.
"How can I ever thank you, Professor Kennedy," she greeted us at the
door, keeping back with difficulty the tears that showed how much it
meant to have any one interest himself in her husband's case.
There was that gentleness about Mrs. Godwin that comes only to those
who have suffered much.
"It has been a long fight," she began, as we talked in her modest
little sitting-room, into which the sun streamed brightly with no
thought of the cold shadows in the grim building below. "Oh, and such a
hard, heartbreaking fight! Often it seems as if we had exhausted every
means at our disposal, and yet we shall never give up. Why cannot we
make the world see our case as we see it? Everything seems to have
conspired against us--and yet I cannot, I will not believe that the law
and the science that have condemned him are the last words in law and
"You said in your letter that the courts were so slow and the lawyers
"Yes, so cold, so technical. They do not seem to realise that a human
life is at stake. With them it is almost like a game in which we are
the pawns. And sometimes I fear, in spite of what the lawyers say, that
without some new evidence, it--it will go hard with him."
"You have not given up hope in the appeal?" asked Kennedy gently.
"It is merely on technicalities of the law," she replied with quiet
fortitude, "that is, as nearly as I can make out from the language of
the papers. Our lawyer is Salo Kahn, of the big firm of criminal
lawyers, Smith, Kahn."
"Conine," mused Kennedy, half to himself. I could not tell whether he
was thinking of what he repeated or of the little woman.
"Yes, the active principle of hemlock," she went on. "That was what the
experts discovered, they swore. In the pure state, I believe, it is
more poisonous than anything except the cyanides. And it was absolutely
scientific evidence. They repeated the tests in court. There was no
doubt of it. But, oh, he did not do it. Some one else did it. He did
not--he could not."
Kennedy said nothing for a few minutes, but from his tone when he did
speak it was evident that he was deeply touched.
"Since our marriage we lived with old Mr. Godwin in the historic Godwin
House at East Point," she resumed, as he renewed his questioning.
"Sanford--that was my husband's real last name until he came as a boy
to work for Mr. Godwin in the office of the factory and was adopted by
his employer--Sanford and I kept house for him.
"About a year ago he began to grow feeble and seldom went to the
factory, which Sanford managed for him. One night Mr. Godwin was taken
suddenly ill. I don't know how long he had been ill before we heard him
groaning, but he died almost before we could summon a doctor. There was
really nothing suspicious about it, but there had always been a great
deal of jealousy of my husband in the town and especially among the few
distant relatives of Mr. Godwin. What must have started as an idle,
gossipy rumour developed into a serious charge that my husband had
hastened his old guardian's death.
"The original will--THE will, I call it--had been placed in the safe of
the factory several years ago. But when the gossip in the town grew
bitter, one day when we were out, some private detectives entered the
house with a warrant--and they did actually find a will, another will
about which we knew nothing, dated later than the first and hidden with
some papers in the back of a closet, or sort of fire proof box, built
into the wall of the library. The second will was identical with the
first in language except that its terms were reversed and instead of
being the residuary legatee, Sanford was given a comparatively small
annuity, and the Elmores were made residuary legatees instead of
"And who are these Elmores?" asked Kennedy curiously.
"There are three, two grandnephews and a grandniece, Bradford, Lambert,
and their sister Miriam."
"And they live--"
"In East Point, also. Old Mr. Godwin was not very friendly with his
sister, whose grandchildren they were. They were the only other heirs
living, and although Sanford never had anything to do with it, I think
they always imagined that he tried to prejudice the old man against
"I shall want to see the Elmores, or at least some one who represents
them, as well as the district attorney up there who conducted the case.
But now that I am here, I wonder if it is possible that I could bring
any influence to bear to see your husband?"
Mrs. Godwin sighed.
"Once a month," she replied, "I leave this window, walk to the prison,
where the warden is very kind to me, and then I can see Sanford. Of
course there are bars between us besides the regular screen. But I can
have an hour's talk, and in those talks he has described to me exactly
every detail of his life in the--the prison. We have even agreed on
certain hours when we think of each other. In those hours I know almost
what he is thinking." She paused to collect herself. "Perhaps there may
be some way if I plead with the warden. Perhaps--you may be considered
his counsel now--you may see him."
A half hour later we sat in the big registry room of the prison and
talked with the big-hearted, big-handed warden. Every argument that
Kennedy could summon was brought to bear. He even talked over long
distance with the lawyers in New York. At last the rules were relaxed
and Kennedy was admitted on some technicality as counsel. Counsel can
see the condemned as often as necessary.
We were conducted down a flight of steps and past huge steel-barred
doors, along corridors and through the regular prison until at last we
were in what the prison officials called the section for the condemned.
Every one else calls this secret heart of the grim place, the death
It is made up of two rows of cells, some eighteen or twenty in all, a
little more modern in construction than the twelve hundred archaic
caverns that pass for cells in the main prison.
At each end of the corridor sat a guard, armed, with eyes never off the
rows of cells day or night.
In the wall, on one side, was a door--the little green door--the door
from the death house to the death chamber.
While Kennedy was talking to the prisoner, a guard volunteered to show
me the death chamber and the "chair." No other furniture was there in
the little brick house of one room except this awful chair, of yellow
oak with broad, leather straps. There it stood, the sole article in the
brightly varnished room of about twenty-five feet square with walls of
clean blue, this grim acolyte of modern scientific death. There were
the wet electrodes that are fastened to the legs through slits in the
trousers at the calves; above was the pipe-like fixture, like a
gruesome helmet of leather that fits over the head, carrying the other
Back of the condemned was the switch which lets loose a lethal store of
energy, and back of that the prison morgue where the bodies are taken.
I looked about. In the wall to the left toward the death house was also
a door, on this side yellow. Somehow I could not get from my mind the
fascination of that door--the threshold of the grave.
Meanwhile Kennedy sat in the little cage and talked with the convicted
man across the three-foot distance between cell and screen. I did not
see him at that time, but Kennedy repeated afterward what passed, and
it so impressed me that I will set it down as if I had been present.
Sanford Godwin was a tall, ashen-faced man, in the prison pallor of
whose face was written the determination of despair, a man in whose
blue eyes was a queer, half-insane light of hope. One knew that if it
had not been for the little woman at the window at the top of the hill,
the hope would probably long ago have faded. But this man knew she was
always there, thinking, watching, eagerly planning in aid of any new
scheme in the long fight for freedom.
"The alkaloid was present, that is certain," he told Kennedy. "My wife
has told you that. It was scientifically proved. There is no use in
attacking that."
Later on he remarked: "Perhaps you think it strange that one in the
very shadow of the death chair"--the word stuck in his throat--"can
talk so impersonally of his own case. Sometimes I think it is not my
case, but some one else's. And then--that door."
He shuddered and turned away from it. On one side was life, such as it
was; on the other, instant death. No wonder he pleaded with Kennedy.
"Why, Walter," exclaimed Craig, as we walked back to the warden's
office to telephone to town for a car to take us up to East Point,
"whenever he looks out of that cage he sees it. He may close his
eyes--and still see it. When he exercises, he sees it. Thinking by day
and dreaming by night, it is always there. Think of the terrible hours
that man must pass, knowing of the little woman eating her heart out.
Is he really guilty? I must find out. If he is not, I never saw a
greater tragedy than this slow, remorseless approach of death, in that
daily, hourly shadow of the little green door."
East Point was a queer old town on the upper Hudson, with a varying
assortment of industries. Just outside, the old house of the Godwins
stood on a bluff overlooking the majestic river. Kennedy had wanted to
see it before any one suspected his mission, and a note from Mrs.
Godwin to a friend had been sufficient.
Carefully he went over the deserted and now half-wrecked house, for the
authorities had spared nothing in their search for poison, even going
over the garden and the lawns in the hope of finding some of the
poisonous shrub, hemlock, which it was contended had been used to put
an end to Mr. Godwin.
As yet nothing had been done to put the house in order again and, as we
walked about, we noticed a pile of old tins in the yard which had not
been removed.
Kennedy turned them over with his stick. Then he picked one up and
examined it attentively.
"H-m--a blown can," he remarked.
"Blown?" I repeated.
"Yes. When the contents of a tin begin to deteriorate they sometimes
give off gases which press out the ends of the tin. You can see how
these ends bulge."
Our next visit was to the district attorney, a young man, Gordon
Kilgore, who seemed not unwilling to discuss the case frankly.
"I want to make arrangements for disinterring the body," explained
Kennedy. "Would you fight such a move?"
"Not at all, not at all," he answered brusquely. "Simply make the
arrangements through Kahn. I shall interpose no objection. It is the
strongest, most impregnable part of the case, the discovery of the
poison. If you can break that down you will do more than any one else
has dared to hope. But it can't be done. The proof was too strong. Of
course it is none of my business, but I'd advise some other point of
I must confess to a feeling of disappointment when Kennedy announced
after leaving Kilgore that, for the present, there was nothing more to
be done at East Point until Kahn had made the arrangements for
reopening the grave.
We motored back to Ossining, and Kennedy tried to be reassuring to Mrs.
"By the way," he remarked, just before we left, "you used a good deal
of canned goods at the Godwin house, didn't you?"
"Yes, but not more than other people, I think," she said.
"Do you recall using any that were--well, perhaps not exactly spoiled,
but that had anything peculiar about them?"
"I remember once we thought we found some cans that seemed to have been
attacked by mice--at least they smelt so, though how mice could get
through a tin can we couldn't see."
"Mice?" queried Kennedy. "Had a mousey smell? That's interesting. Well,
Mrs. Godwin, keep up a good heart. Depend on me. What you have told me
to-day has made me more than interested in your case. I shall waste no
time in letting you know when anything encouraging develops."
Craig had never had much patience with red tape that barred the way to
the truth, yet there were times when law and legal procedure had to be
respected, no matter how much they hampered, and this was one of them.
The next day the order was obtained permitting the opening again of the
grave of old Mr. Godwin. The body was exhumed, and Kennedy set about
his examination of what secrets it might hide.
Meanwhile, it seemed to me that the suspense was terrible. Kennedy was
moving slowly, I thought. Not even the courts themselves could have
been more deliberate. Also, he was keeping much to himself.
Still, for another whole day, there was the slow, inevitable approach
of the thing that now, I, too, had come to dread--the handing down of
the final decision on the appeal.
Yet what could Craig do otherwise, I asked myself. I had become deeply
interested in the case by this time and spent the time reading all the
evidence, hundreds of pages of it. It was cold, hard, brutal,
scientific fact, and as I read I felt that hope faded for the
ashen-faced man and the pallid little woman. It seemed the last word in
science. Was there any way of escape?
Impatient as I was, I often wondered what must have been the suspense
of those to whom the case meant everything.
"How are the tests coming along?" I ventured one night, after Kahn had
arranged for the uncovering of the grave.
It was now two days since Kennedy had gone up to East Point to
superintend the exhumation and had returned to the city with the
materials which had caused him to keep later hours in the laboratory
than I had ever known even the indefatigable Craig to spend on a
stretch before.
He shook his head doubtfully.
"Walter," he admitted, "I'm afraid I have reached the limit on the line
of investigation I had planned at the start."
I looked at him in dismay. "What then?" I managed to gasp.
"I am going up to East Point again to-morrow to look over that house
and start a new line. You can go."
No urging was needed, and the following day saw us again on the ground.
The house, as I have said, had been almost torn to pieces in the search
for the will and the poison evidence. As before, we went to it
unannounced, and this time we had no difficulty in getting in. Kennedy,
who had brought with him a large package, made his way directly to a
sort of drawing-room next to the large library, in the closet of which
the will had been discovered.
He unwrapped the package and took from it a huge brace and bit, the bit
a long, thin, murderous looking affair such as might have come from a
burglar's kit. I regarded it much in that light.
"What's the lay?" I asked, as he tapped over the walls to ascertain of
just what they were composed.
Without a word he was now down on his knees, drilling a hole in the
plaster and lath. When he struck an obstruction he stopped, removed the
bit, inserted another, and began again.
"Are you going to put in a detectaphone?" I asked again.
He shook his head. "A detectaphone wouldn't be of any use here," he
replied. "No one is going to do any talking in that room."
Again the brace and bit were at work. At last the wall had been
penetrated, and he quickly removed every trace from the other side that
would have attracted attention to a little hole in an obscure corner of
the flowered wall-paper.
Next, he drew out what looked like a long putty-blower, perhaps a foot
long and three-eighths of an inch in diameter.
"What's that?" I asked, as he rose after carefully inserting it.
"Look through it," he replied simply, still at work on some other
apparatus he had brought.
I looked. In spite of the smallness of the opening at the other end, I
was amazed to find that I could see nearly the whole room on the other
side of the wall.
"It's a detectascope," he explained, "a tube with a fish-eye lens which
I had an expert optician make for me."
"A fish-eye lens?" I repeated.
"Yes. The focus may be altered in range so that any one in the room may
be seen and recognised and any action of his may be detected. The
original of this was devised by Gaillard Smith, the adapter of the
detectaphone. The instrument is something like the cytoscope, which the
doctors use to look into the human interior. Now, look through it
again. Do you see the closet?"
Again I looked. "Yes," I said, "but will one of us have to watch here
all the time?"
He had been working on a black box in the meantime, and now he began to
set it up, adjusting it to the hole in the wall which he enlarged on
our side.
"No, that is my own improvement on it. You remember once we used a
quick-shutter camera with an electric attachment, which moved the
shutter on the contact of a person with an object in the room? Well,
this camera has that quick shutter. But, in addition, I have adapted to
the detectascope an invention by Professor Robert Wood, of Johns
Hopkins. He has devised a fish-eye camera that 'sees' over a radius of
one hundred and eighty degrees--not only straight in front, but over
half a circle, every point in that room.
"You know the refracting power of a drop of water. Since it is a globe,
it refracts the light which reaches it from all directions. If it is
placed like the lens of a camera, as Dr. Wood tried it, so that
one-half of it catches the light, all the light caught will be
refracted through it. Fishes, too, have a wide range of vision. Some
have eyes that see over half a circle. So the lens gets its name.
Ordinary cameras, because of the flatness of their lenses, have a range
of only a few degrees, the widest in use, I believe, taking in only
ninety-six, or a little more than a quarter of a circle. So, you see,
my detectascope has a range almost twice as wide as that of any other."
Though I did not know what he expected to discover and knew that it was
useless to ask, the thing seemed very interesting. Craig did not pause,
however, to enlarge on the new machine, but gathered up his tools and
announced that our next step would be a visit to a lawyer whom the
Elmores had retained as their personal counsel to look after their
interests, now that the district attorney seemed to hare cleared up the
criminal end of the case.
Hollins was one of the prominent attorneys of East Point, and before
the election of Kilgore as prosecutor had been his partner. Unlike
Kilgore, we found him especially uncommunicative and inclined to resent
our presence in the case as intruders.
The interview did not seem to me to be productive of anything. In fact,
it seemed as if Craig were giving Hollins much more than he was getting.
"I shall be in town over night," remarked Craig. "In fact, I am
thinking of going over the library up at the Godwin house soon, very
carefully." He spoke casually. "There may be, you know, some
finger-prints on the walls around that closet which might prove
A quick look from Hollins was the only answer. In fact, it was seldom
that he uttered more than a monosyllable as we talked over the various
aspects of the case.
A half-hour later, when he had left and had gone to the hotel, I asked
Kennedy suspiciously, "Why did you expose your hand to Hollins, Craig?"
He laughed. "Oh, Walter," he remonstrated, "don't you know that it is
nearly always useless to look for finger-prints, except under some
circumstances, even a few days afterward? This is months, not days. Why
on iron and steel they last with tolerable certainty only a short time,
and not much longer on silver, glass, or wood. But they are seldom
permanent unless they are made with ink or blood or something that
leaves a more or less indelible mark. That was a 'plant.'"
"But what do you expect to gain by it?"
"Well," he replied enigmatically, "no one is necessarily honest."
It was late in the afternoon when Kennedy again visited the Godwin
house and examined the camera. Without a word he pulled the
detectascope from the wall and carried the whole thing to the
developing-room of the local photographer.
There he set to work on the film and I watched him in silence. He
seemed very much excited as he watched the film develop, until at last
he held it up, dripping, to the red light.
"Some one has entered that room this afternoon and attempted to wipe
off the walls and woodwork of that closet, as I expected," he exclaimed.
"Who was it?" I asked, leaning over.
Kennedy said nothing, but pointed to a figure on the film. I bent
closer. It was the figure of a woman.
"Miriam!" I exclaimed in surprise.
I looked aghast at him. If it had been either Bradford or Lambert, both
of whom we had come to know since Kennedy had interested himself in the
case, or even Hollins or Kilgore, I should not have been surprised. But
"How could she have any connection with the case?" I asked
Kennedy did not attempt to explain. "It is a fatal mistake, Walter, for
a detective to assume that he knows what anybody would do in any given
circumstances. The only safe course for him is to find out what the
persons in question did do. People are always doing the unexpected.
This is a case of it, as you see. I am merely trying to get back at
facts. Come; I think we might as well not stay over night, after all. I
should like to drop off on the way back to the city to see Mrs. Godwin."
As we rode up the hill I was surprised to see that there was no one at
the window, nor did any one seem to pay attention to our knocking at
the door.
Kennedy turned the knob quickly and strode in.
Seated in a chair, as white as a wraith from the grave, was Mrs.
Godwin, staring straight ahead, seeing nothing, hearing nothing.
"What's the matter?" demanded Kennedy, leaping to her side and grasping
her icy hand.
The stare on her face seemed to change slightly as she recognised him.
"Walter--some water--and a little brandy--if there is any. Tell
me--what has happened?"
From her lap a yellow telegram had fluttered to the floor, but before
he could pick it up, she gasped, "The appeal--it has been denied."
Kennedy picked up the paper. It was a message, unsigned, but not from
Kahn, as its wording and in fact the circumstances plainly showed.
"The execution is set for the week beginning the fifth," she continued,
in the same hollow, mechanical voice. "My God--that's next Monday!"
She had risen now and was pacing the room.
"No! I'm not going to faint. I wish I could. I wish I could cry. I wish
I could do something. Oh, those Elmores--they must have sent it. No one
would have been so cruel but they."
She stopped and gazed wildly out of the window at the prison. Neither
of us knew what to say for the moment.
"Many times from this window," she cried, "I have seen a man walk out
of that prison gate. I always watch to see what he does, though I know
it is no use. If he stands in the free air, stops short, and looks up
suddenly, taking a long look at every house--I hope. But he always
turns for a quick, backward look at the prison and goes half running
down the hill. They always stop in that fashion, when the steel door
opens outward. Yet I have always looked and hoped. But I can hope no
more--no more. The last chance is gone."
"No--not the last chance," exclaimed Craig, springing to her side lest
she should fall. Then he added gently, "You must come with me to East
"What--leave him here--alone--in the last days? No--no--no. Never. I
must see him. I wonder if they have told him yet."
It was evident that she had lost faith in Kennedy, in everybody, now.
"Mrs. Godwin," he urged. "Come--you must. It is a last chance."
Eagerly he was pouring out the story of the discovery of the afternoon
by the little detectascope.
"Miriam?" she repeated, dazed. "She--know anything--it can't be.
No--don't raise a false hope now."
"It is the last chance," he urged again. "Come. There is not an hour to
waste now."
There was no delay, no deliberation about Kennedy now. He had been
forced out into the open by the course of events, and he meant to take
advantage of every precious moment.
Down the hill our car sped to the town, with Mrs. Godwin still
protesting, but hardly realising what was going on. Regardless of
tolls, Kennedy called up his laboratory in New York and had two of his
most careful students pack up the stuff which he described minutely to
be carried to East Point immediately by train. Kahn, too, was at last
found and summoned to meet us there also.
Miles never seemed longer than they did to us as we tore over the
country from Ossining to East Point, a silent party, yet keyed up by an
excitement that none of us had ever felt before.
Impatiently we awaited the arrival of the men from Kennedy's
laboratory, while we made Mrs. Godwin as comfortable as possible in a
room at the hotel. In one of the parlours Kennedy was improvising a
laboratory as best he could. Meanwhile, Kahn had arrived, and together
we were seeking those whose connection with, or interest in, the case
made necessary their presence.
It was well along toward midnight before the hasty conference had been
gathered; besides Mrs. Godwin, Salo Kahn, and ourselves, the three
Elmores, Kilgore, and Hollins.
Strange though it was, the room seemed to me almost to have assumed the
familiar look of the laboratory in New York. There was the same clutter
of tubes and jars on the tables, but above all that same feeling of
suspense in the air which I had come to associate with the clearing up
of a case. There was something else in the air, too. It was a peculiar
mousey smell, disagreeable, and one which made it a relief to have
Kennedy begin in a low voice to tell why he had called us together so
"I shall start," announced Kennedy, "at the point where the state left
off--with the proof that Mr. Godwin died of conine, or hemlock
poisoning. Conine, as every chemist knows, has a long and well-known
history. It was the first alkaloid to be synthesised. Here is a sample,
this colourless, oily fluid. No doubt you have noticed the mousey odour
in this room. As little as one part of conine to fifty thousand of
water gives off that odour--it is characteristic.
"I have proceeded with extraordinary caution in my investigation of
this case," he went on. "In fact, there would have been no value in it,
otherwise, for the experts for the people seem to have established the
presence of conine in the body with absolute certainty."
He paused and we waited expectantly.
"I have had the body exhumed and have repeated the tests. The alkaloid
which I discovered had given precisely the same results as in their
My heart sank. What was he doing--convicting the man over again?
"There is one other test which I tried," he continued, "but which I can
not take time to duplicate tonight. It was testified at the trial that
conine, the active principle of hemlock, is intensely poisonous. No
chemical antidote is known. A fifth of a grain has serious results; a
drop is fatal. An injection of a most minute quantity of real conine
will kill a mouse, for instance, almost instantly. But the conine which
I have isolated in the body is inert!"
It came like a bombshell to the prosecution, so bewildering was the
"Inert?" cried Kilgore and Hollins almost together. "It can't be. You
are making sport of the best chemical experts that money could obtain.
Inert? Read the evidence--read the books."
"On the contrary," resumed Craig, ignoring the interruption, "all the
reactions obtained by the experts have been duplicated by me. But, in
addition, I tried this one test which they did not try. I repeat: the
conine isolated in the body is inert."
We were too perplexed to question him.
"Alkaloids," he continued quietly, "as you know, have names that end in
'in' or 'ine'--morphine, strychnine, and so on. Now there are two kinds
of alkaloids which are sometimes called vegetable and animal. Moreover,
there is a large class of which we are learning much which are called
the ptomaines--from ptoma, a corpse. Ptomaine poisoning, as every one
knows, results when we eat food that has begun to decay.
"Ptomaines are chemical compounds of an alkaloidal nature formed in
protein substances during putrefaction. They are purely chemical bodies
and differ from the toxins. There are also what are called leucomaines,
formed in living tissues, and when not given off by the body they
produce auto-intoxication.
"There are more than three score ptomaines, and half of them are
poisonous. In fact, illness due to eating infected foods is much more
common than is generally supposed. Often there is only one case in a
number of those eating the food, due merely to that person's inability
to throw off the poison. Such cases are difficult to distinguish. They
are usually supposed to be gastro-enteritis. Ptomaines, as their name
shows, are found in dead bodies. They are found in all dead matter
after a time, whether it is decayed food or a decaying corpse.
"No general reaction is known by which the ptomaines can be
distinguished from the vegetable alkaloids. But we know that animal
alkaloids always develop either as a result of decay of food or of the
decay of the body itself."
At one stroke Kennedy had reopened the closed case and had placed the
experts at sea.
"I find that there is an animal conine as well as the true conine," he
hammered out. "The truth of this matter is that the experts have
confounded vegetable conine with cadaveric conine. That raises an
interesting question. Assuming the presence of conine, where did it
come from?"
He paused and began a new line of attack. "As the use of canned goods
becomes more and more extensive, ptomaine poisoning is more frequent.
In canning, the cans are heated. They are composed of thin sheets of
iron coated with tin, the seams pressed and soldered with a thin line
of solder. They are filled with cooked food, sterilised, and closed.
The bacteria are usually all killed, but now and then, the apparatus
does not work, and they develop in the can. That results in a 'blown
can'--the ends bulge a little bit. On opening, a gas escapes, the food
has a bad odour and a bad taste. Sometimes people say that the tin and
lead poison them; in practically all cases the poisoning is of
bacterial, not metallic, origin. Mr. Godwin may have died of poisoning,
probably did. But it was ptomaine poisoning. The blown cans which I
have discovered would indicate that."
I was following him closely, yet though this seemed to explain a part
of the case, it was far from explaining all.
"Then followed," he hurried on, "the development of the usual ptomaines
in the body itself. These, I may say, had no relation to the cause of
death itself. The putrefactive germs began their attack. Whatever there
may have been in the body before, certainly they produced a cadaveric
ptomaine conine. For many animal tissues and fluids, especially if
somewhat decomposed, yield not infrequently compounds of an oily nature
with a mousey odour, fuming with hydrochloric acid and in short, acting
just like conine. There is ample evidence, I have found, that conine or
a substance possessing most, if not all, of its properties is at times
actually produced in animal tissues by decomposition. And the fact is,
I believe, that a number of cases have arisen, in which the poisonous
alkaloid was at first supposed to have been discovered which were
really mistakes."
The idea was startling in the extreme. Here was Kennedy, as it were,
overturning what had been considered the last word in science as it had
been laid down by the experts for the prosecution, opinions so
impregnable that courts and juries had not hesitated to condemn a man
to death.
"There have been cases," Craig went on solemnly, "and I believe this to
be one, where death has been pronounced to have been caused by wilful
administration of a vegetable alkaloid, which toxicologists would now
put down as ptomaine-poisoning cases. Innocent people have possibly
already suffered and may in the future. But medical experts--" he laid
especial stress on the word--"are much more alive to the danger of
mistake than formerly. This was a case where the danger was not
considered, either through carelessness, ignorance, or prejudice.
"Indeed, ptomaines are present probably to a greater or less extent in
every organ which is submitted to the toxicologist for examination. If
he is ignorant of the nature of these substances, he may easily mistake
them for vegetable alkaloids. He may report a given poison present when
it is not present. It is even yet a new line of inquiry which has only
recently been followed, and the information is still comparatively
small and inadequate.
"It is very difficult, perhaps impossible, for the chemist to state
absolutely that he has detected true conine. Before he can do it, the
symptoms and the post-mortem appearance must agree; analysis must be
made before, not after, decomposition sets in, and the amount of the
poison found must be sufficient to experiment with, not merely to react
to a few usual tests.
"What the experts asserted so positively, I would not dare to assert.
Was he killed by ordinary ptomaine poisoning, and had conine, or rather
its double, developed first in his food along with other ptomaines that
were not inert? Or did the cadaveric conine develop only in the body
after death? Chemistry alone can not decide the question so glibly as
the experts did. Further proof must be sought Other sciences must come
to our aid."
I was sitting next to Mrs. Godwin. As Kennedy's words rang out, her
hand, trembling with emotion, pressed my arm. I turned quickly to see
if she needed assistance. Her face was radiant. All the fees for big
cases in the world could never have compensated Kennedy for the mute,
unrestrained gratitude which the little woman shot at him.
Kennedy saw it, and in the quick shifting of his eyes to my face, I
read that he relied on me to take care of Mrs. Godwin while he plunged
again into the clearing up of the mystery.
"I have here the will--the second one," he snapped out, turning and
facing the others in the room.
Craig turned a switch in an apparatus which his students had brought
from New York. From a tube on the table came a peculiar bluish light.
"This," he explained, "is a source of ultraviolet rays. They are not
the bluish light which you see, but rays contained in it which you can
not see.
"Ultraviolet rays have recently been found very valuable in the
examination of questioned documents. By the use of a lens made of
quartz covered with a thin film of metallic silver, there has been
developed a practical means of making photographs by the invisible rays
of light above the spectrum--these ultraviolet rays. The quartz lens is
necessary, because these rays will not pass through ordinary glass,
while the silver film acts as a screen to cut off the ordinary light
rays and those below the spectrum. By this means, most white objects
are photographed black and even transparent objects like glass are
"I obtained the copy of this will, but under the condition from the
surrogate that absolutely nothing must be done to it to change a fibre
of the paper or a line of a letter. It was a difficult condition. While
there are chemicals which are frequently resorted to for testing the
authenticity of disputed documents such as wills and deeds, their use
frequently injures or destroys the paper under test. So far as I could
determine, the document also defied the microscope.
"But ultraviolet photography does not affect the document tested in any
way, and it has lately been used practically in detecting forgeries. I
have photographed the last page of the will with its signatures, and
here it is. What the eye itself can not see, the invisible light
He was holding the document and the copy, just an instant, as if
considering how to announce with best effect what he had discovered.
"In order to unravel this mystery," he resumed, looking up and facing
the Elmores, Kilgore, and Hollins squarely, "I decided to find out
whether any one had had access to that closet where the will was
hidden. It was long ago, and there seemed to be little that I could do.
I knew it was useless to look for fingerprints.
"So I used what we detectives now call the law of suggestion. I
questioned closely one who was in touch with all those who might have
had such access. I hinted broadly at seeking fingerprints which might
lead to the identity of one who had entered the house unknown to the
Godwins, and placed a document where private detectives would
subsequently find it under suspicious circumstances.
"Naturally, it would seem to one who was guilty of such an act, or knew
of it, that there might, after all, be finger-prints. I tried it. I
found out through this little tube, the detectascope, that one really
entered the room after that, and tried to wipe off any supposed
finger-prints that might still remain. That settled it. The second will
was a forgery, and the person who entered that room so stealthily this
afternoon knows that it is a forgery."
As Kennedy slapped down on the table the film from his camera, which
had been concealed, Mrs. Godwin turned her now large and unnaturally
bright eyes and met those of the other woman in the room.
"Oh--oh--heaven help us--me, I mean!" cried Miriam, unable to bear the
strain of the turn of events longer. "I knew there would be
retribution--I knew--I knew--"
Mrs. Godwin was on her feet in a moment.
"Once my intuition was not wrong though all science and law was against
me," she pleaded with Kennedy. There was a gentleness in her tone that
fell like a soft rain on the surging passions of those who had wronged
her so shamefully. "Professor Kennedy, Miriam could not have forged--"
Kennedy smiled. "Science was not against you, Mrs. Godwin. Ignorance
was against you. And your intuition does not go contrary to science
this time, either."
It was a splendid exhibition of fine feeling which Kennedy waited to
have impressed on the Elmores, as though burning it into their minds.
"Miriam Elmore knew that her brothers had forged a will and hidden it.
To expose them was to convict them of a crime. She kept their secret,
which was the secret of all three. She even tried to hide the
finger-prints which would have branded her brothers.
"For ptomaine poisoning had unexpectedly hastened the end of old Mr.
Godwin. Then gossip and the 'scientists' did the rest. It was
accidental, but Bradford and Lambert Elmore were willing to let events
take their course and declare genuine the forgery which they had made
so skilfully, even though it convicted an innocent man of murder and
killed his faithful wife. As soon as the courts can be set in motion to
correct an error of science by the truth of later science, Sing Sing
will lose one prisoner from the death house and gain two forgers in his
Mrs. Godwin stood before us, radiant. But as Kennedy's last words sank
into her mind, her face clouded.
"Must--must it be an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?" she
pleaded eagerly. "Must that grim prison take in others, even if my
husband goes free?"
Kennedy looked at her long and earnestly, as if to let the beauty of
her character, trained by its long suffering, impress itself on his
mind indelibly.
He shook his head slowly.
"I'm afraid there is no other way, Mrs. Godwin," he said gently taking
her arm and leaving the others to be dealt with by a constable whom he
had dozing in the hotel lobby.
"Kahn is going up to Albany to get the pardon--there can be no doubt
about it now," he added. "Mrs. Godwin, if you care to do so, you may
stay here at the hotel, or you may go down with us on the midnight
train as far as Ossining. I will wire ahead for a conveyance to meet
you at the station. Mr. Jameson and I must go on to New York."
"The nearer I am to Sanford now, the happier I shall be," she answered,
bravely keeping back the tears of happiness.
The ride down to New York, after our train left Ossining, was
accomplished in a day coach in which our fellow passengers slept in
every conceivable attitude of discomfort.
Yet late, or rather early, as it was, we found plenty of life still in
the great city that never sleeps. Tired, exhausted, I was at least glad
to feel that finally we were at home.
"Craig," I yawned, as I began to throw off my clothes, "I'm ready to
sleep a week."
There was no answer.
I looked up at him almost resentfully. He had picked up the mail that
lay under our letter slot and was going through it as eagerly as if the
clock registered P.M. instead of A.M.
"Let me see," I mumbled sleepily, checking over my notes, "how many
days have we been at it?"
I turned the pages slowly, after the manner in which my mind was
"It was the twenty-sixth when you got that letter from Ossining," I
calculated, "and to-day makes the thirtieth. My heavens--is there still
another day of it? Is there no rest for the wicked?"
Kennedy looked up and laughed.
He was pointing at the calendar on the desk before him.
"There are only thirty days in the month," he remarked slowly.
"Thank the Lord," I exclaimed. "I'm all in!"
He tipped his desk-chair back and bit the amber of his meerchaum
"But to-day is the first," he drawled, turning the leaf on the calendar
with just a flicker of a smile.
*** End of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Dream Doctor" ***
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5199 | Edit on GitHub
ROS-enabled OpenMANIPULATOR-X (RM-X52-TNM) is a full open robot platform consisting of OpenSoftware, OpenHardware and OpenCR(Embedded board).
OpenMANIPULATOR-X RM-X52-TNM are based on ROS and OpenSource. ROS official hardware platform,TurtleBot series has been supporting ‘TurtleBot Arm’. The OpenMANIPULATOR-X RM-X52-TNM has full hardware compatibility with TurtleBot3. Users can also control it more easily by linking it with the MoveIt! package. Even if you do not have an actual robot, you can control the robot in the Gazebo simulator.
OpenMANIPULATOR-X RM-X52-TNM is an open-hardware oriented platform. Most of the components are uploaded as STL files so that users can easily 3d print them. It also allows users to modify the length of the links or the design of the robot for their own purposes. OpenMANIPULATOR-X RM-X52-TNM is made of DYNAMIXEL-X Series which is used in TurtleBot 3.
OpenCR (Embedded board)
OpenMANIPULATOR-X RM-X52-TNM can also be controlled using OpenCR (Open-source Control module for ROS), the control board used in TurtleBot3. The computing power and real-time controllability of OpenCR can support forward and inverse kinematics, and profile control examples.
OpenMANIPULATOR-X RM-X52-TNM is composed of DYNAMIXEL-X series and 3D printing parts. DYNAMIXEL has a modular form and adopts the daisy chain method. It allows users to easily add or remove joints for their own use. Taking advantage of this characteristic, users can build seven different types of OpenMANIPULATOR-X series : Chain, SCARA, Link, Planar, Delta, Stewart and Linear.
Introduction Video
ROSCon 2017 Vancouver Day 1: Introducing OpenMANIPULATOR; the full open robot platform from OSRF on Vimeo. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5210 | Campaign season is the worst thing ever
Brutha, there is no more awful time of the year than campaign season.
As many of you know, in my day job I’m a newspaper guy. I do the kind of things newspaper guys do. Right now, that means managing the coverage of two fierce mayoral elections.
And let me tell you, my hatred for campaign season is the kind of hatred usually reserved for famine, pestilence, genocide, and Barbra Streisand. Not in that order.
I’d go into details, but not in a public forum. Suffice to say that after 11 years of covering local politics, I’m more than a little jaded at the process and the people and all the little insanities that go into it. I aim to do a good job because I owe it to the people who read my papers and because, frankly, my name is on them, but Barbra Streisand in a blender do I ever look forward to Election Day so I can move past this nonsense and get back to a semi-sane working life.
One of these days I will start an anonymous blog where I’ll yap about all the things that happen behind the scenes at a small newspaper, in local politics, covering news, how politicians REALLY act, the letters to the editor people DON’T see, and all sorts of craziness. One of these days…
1. Ian Sokoliwski
Deer edEtr
i blM U 4 teh el3ctions. If It wasnt 4 U ther woodnt be no 3lections. wh0 elect3d U anywy? Why cnt i 3lect my cat 4 ed1tor, anywy?
crazee p3rs0n
2. admin
If I could reach through the Internet right now …
Leave a Comment
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5245 | 61G10-12.002. Fees
Effective on Tuesday, October 1, 2019
• 1(1) The application and initial licensure fee for a certificate of authorization shall be two hundred dollars ($200.00).
19(2) The application fee for licensure by endorsement shall be one hundred and fifty dollars ($150.00).
35(3) The fee for initial licensure is one hundred and twelve dollars and fifty cents ($51112.5052).
53(4) The fee for biennial renewal of a certificate of registration shall be two hundred twenty-five dollars ($225.00).
71(5) The fee for biennial renewal of a certificate of authorization shall be three hundred thirty-seven dollars and fifty cents ($337.50).
92(6) The fee for renewing an inactive license shall be fifty dollars ($50.00).
105(7) The application fee for a temporary license shall be four hundred and fifty dollars ($450.00).
121(8) There shall be a five dollar ($5.00) fee collected by the Department upon initial licensure and licensure renewal for the purpose of combating unlicensed activity.
147(9) The delinquency fee shall be one twenty-five dollars ($25.00).
157(10) A processing fee of fifty dollars ($50.00) will be charged when a licensee changes status at any time during the biennium, other than the normal biennial renewal period.
186(11) The fee for a duplicate license shall be twenty five dollars ($25.00).
199(12) The application fee for reinstatement of a null and void license is $450.00.
213Rulemaking Authority 215455.219(6), 216455.271, 217481.306, 218481.307 FS. 220Law Implemented 222455.219(6), 223455.271, 224481.307 FS. 226History–New 2-4-80, Formerly 21K-12.02, Amended 8-19-86, 11-12-89, 2-13-92, Formerly 21K-12.002, Amended 5-3-99, 4-3-06, 11-27-14, 11-6-17, 11-27-18, 10-1-19. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5261 | NAME DBIx::QuickDB - Quickly start a db server. DESCRIPTION This library makes it easy to spin up a temporary database server for any supported driver. PostgreSQL and MySQL are the initially supported drivers. SYNOPSIS These are nearly identical, creating databases that can be retrieved by name globally. The difference is that the first will build them at compile-time and will provide constants for accessing them. The second will build them at run-time and you have to store them in variables. DB CONSTANTS use DBIx::QuickDB MYSQL_DB => {driver => 'MySQL'}; use DBIx::QuickDB PSQL_DB => {driver => 'PostgreSQL'}; my $m_dbh = MYSQL_DB->connect; my $p_dbh = PSQL_DB->connect; ... DB ON THE FLY use DBIx::QuickDB; my $msql = DBIx::QuickDB->build_db(mysql_db => {driver => 'MySQL'}); my $psql = DBIx::QuickDB->build_db(mysql_db => {driver => 'PostgreSQL'}); my $m_dbh = $msql->connect; my $p_dbh = $psql->connect; ... METHODS $db = DBIx::QuickDB->build_db(); $db = DBIx::QuickDB->build_db($name); $db = DBIx::QuickDB->build_db(\%spec); $db = DBIx::QuickDB->build_db($name => \%spec); If a $name is provided then the database will be named. If the named database has already been created it will be returned ignoring any other arguments. If the named db does not yet exist it will be created. If a %spec hashref is provided it will be used to construct the database. See "SPEC HASH" for what is supported in %spec. ($bool, $fqd, $why ) = DBIx::QuickDB->check_driver($driver => \%spec); The first argument must be a driver name. The name may be shorthand IE "PostgreSQL" or it can be a fully qualified module name like "DBIx::QuickDB::Driver::PostgreSQL". The second argument is option, but when present must be a spec hash. See "SPEC HASH" for what is supported in %spec. This method returns a sequence of 3 values: $bool True if the driver is viable for the specifications. False if the driver cannot be used. $fqd The full package name for the driver. $why If $bool is false then this will have an explanation for why the driver is not viable. SPEC HASH Here is an overview of all options allowed: my %spec = ( autostart => BOOL, autostop => BOOL, bootstrap => BOOL, cleanup => BOOL, dir => PATH, driver => DRIVER_NAME, drivers => ARRAYREF, load_sql => FILE_OR_HASH, nocache => BOOL, ); autostart => BOOL Defaults to true. When true the DB server will be started automatically. If this is false then you will need to call $DB->start yourself. autostop => BOOL Defaults to be the same as the 'autostart' key. When true, the server will automatically be stopped when the program ends. bootstrap => BOOL This defaults to true unless the 'dir' key is also provided, in which case it will default to false. When true this will cause the database to be bootstrapped into existance in the specified (or generated) directory (IE the 'dir' key). cleanup => BOOL This defaults to true unless the 'dir' key is also provided, in which case it will default to false. When true the databse directory will be completely deleted when the program is finished. DO NOT USE THIS ON ANY IMPORTANT DATABASES. dir => PATH Use this key to point at an existing database directory. If not provided a tempdir will be generated. driver => DRIVER_NAME This key lets you specify a driver to use. This must be a string, and can either be the shorthand name IE 'PostgreSQL', or the full name IE 'DBIx::QuickDB::Driver::PostgreSQL'. If this key is present then no other drivers will be tried or used. If this key is missing then the 'drivers' key will be used. If both keys are empty than any installed driver may be used. drivers => ARRAYREF If you are only a little picky about driver choice then you can use this to list several drivers that are acceptible, the first one that works will be used. This key is ignored if the 'driver' key is specified. If both keys are empty than any installed driver may be used. load_sql => FILE_OR_HASH This can be a path to an SQL file to load, an arrayref of several files to load, or a structure with driver specific files to load. load_sql => '/path/to/my/schema.sql' load_sql => ['schema1.sql', 'schema2.sql'] load_sql => { PostgreSQL => 'path/to/postgre.sql', MySQL => 'path/to/my.sql', SQLite => ['sqlite1.sql', 'sqlite2.sql'], } nocache => BOOL Defaults to false. When set to true the database will not be available globally by the name passed into build_db(). SOURCE The source code repository for DBIx-QuickDB can be found at MAINTAINERS Chad Granum AUTHORS Chad Granum COPYRIGHT Copyright 2018 Chad Granum . This program is free software; you can redistribute it and/or modify it under the same terms as Perl itself. See |
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Tracy's HackMoor(v4) 2017/02/02 - Rift in Motion (T1)
Games are on Thursday nights sometime after 5:30PM at World's Best Comics, 9714 Warwick Blvd Newport News, Virginia 23601.
A half Pepperoni, half ground mystery meat pizza was ordered to satisfy all concerned.
When we left the previous session the Party heard approaching hooves from behind. Ignoring the sound, apparently the galloping beasts went down another route and it faded away.
The Party continued forward until they heard the sound of music. No, not the Von Trapp family, something more guttural, Flailing Wailers. A group of eight humanoids each having four arms and two legs. They were in a dead-end hallway that widened to a thirty feet wide at the last seventy feet. Whilst this group was "singing" Jacko decided to sneak up on one and kill it from the back. Huang did the same.
I'm not going to go into game legals but that seemed like a completely Chaotic Evil thing to do.
The Flailing Wailers ignored the party and sang on. Eventually the monsters did attempt to strike back, but who could tell if was it out of a sense of self-defense or a random act by the GM's die roll?
The humanoids were insane, but the party (obviously) did not know that. The GM's die roll was the cause for activation of self-defense, the creatures were supposed to respond with an attack at 88% or less, but I had rolled in the 90th percentile three times it a row when it came to determine if the creatures would strike back.
Speaking of die rolls, Players finally noticed I was making a tic mark on the board every time something died and then rolling percentile dice.
Eventually their number came up and there was a surprise.
The Party was attacked from the back of the Party the where the Jaundiced Grappler was assigned to guard the rear. Normally a good position due to its eight foot width, it should block most attacks from that direction. Upon hearing a the sound of a rushing mighty wind, the Grappler fled. (I think it must have encountered one before.)
It was a Rift Vortex and it was making its way down the same hallway the party had just been. As it was explained in evening debrief, a Rift Vortex is a one foot wide ball that generates a forceful suction that behaves like a mighty wind. Characters within 10 feet must roll versus Bend Bars/Lift Gates to avoid getting pulled in. Characters from 11 to 40 feet must roll versus Open Doors with a +1 to avoid it. Anything beyond that is felt as a gentle breeze. A nyone who gets pulled in gets crushed to a ball the size of a molecule. Essentially non-recoverable death, but there are exceptions. If a bag of holding is involved it will send the victim and anyone within 40 feet to the Ethereal Plane. A Portable Hole will do the same to the Astral Plane.
The players were not armed with this knowledge so their reactions were natural.
After the first round it became apparent rolling initiative against an object that was moving constantly was pointless. So the combat rounds were front-loaded. Characters moved at constant rates from their positions starting at segment one of each round (as well as the Vortex).
On the first round when the Jaundiced Grappler started running, it only had a speed of 6', the Rift Vortex moved 11' that round (a variable 9'-15' i.e. 1d7+8. How you get a seven sided die, I don't know.)
Unfortunately for the Jaundiced Grappler, it only started running after it discovered the Vortex 10' away. It did not make its Bend Bars/Lift Gates roll. Good-bye Grappler.
Fortunately for the rest of the Party, the Grappler was in the rear and the first victim so they had at least one more round of reprieve.
Most of the party still in the rear retreated down the line interrupting the ongoing fight with the Flailing Wailers, except for Grok, who like the Jaundiced Grappler before him, had a unencumbered speed of 6'. The Vortex was moving 12' this time. Grok also did not make his Bend Bars/Lift Gates roll. However Grok had just recently acquired a Fanny Pack of Holding due to the judicious play of a card and got pulled into the Ethereal Plane along with the Madger who was also within 40 feet. One of the Flailing Wailers also decided to willingly go near the Vortex (did I not mention they were insane?), and joined Grok and the Madger.
Addendum: Jacko threw his Javelin of Lightning at it. Whether it struck or not it promptly disappeared into the Rift, amid Player cries of Bulls**t, this was their first clue this was not going to be easy.
Jacko cornered, looking for an escape route in this dead end, decided to utilize his new girlfiend from the previous level to teleport away because he fit within his girlfiend's teleport carry-on weight limitation (sorry no checked baggage with a teleport spell), along with Tanzen since he was light. Since teleport is limited to the same plane, and since they were on a demi-plane, they teleported down the same corridor well away behind the rift.
This left the rest of the Party to fend for themselves. (Jacko's Teleporting out did not seem like the most selfless of acts.)
Next the Rift Vortex moved into the 30 foot wide area. Even so, not knowing the die rolls required the Party members one-by-one attempted to run past the Vortex along the sides of the wall. This meant they were at best 15 feet away so they only had to make a die roll versus Open Doors +1. All of the Party Members made it, except Barkinus their Charmed Evil Temple Cleric and the remaining Flailing Wailers. (Perhaps Jacko should have taken his chances instead of Teleporting? It would have looked better on his resume.)
Addendum: Sum Ting Wong, also didn't make it. It was one of Huang's Monk followers (and also gender challenged).
When the Vortex reached the end of the hall it bumped into the wall carving out a perfect sphere into the stone. Shortly thereafter it apparently achieved some sort of how much it could consume threshold and ceased to exist.
This left Grok, his new friend the Madger, and one of the Flailing Wailers in the Ethereal plane with no apparent way out. The Wailer simply wandered off, Ethereally that is. Grok and the Madger were essentially ghosts, invisible to the party unless they can find a spell.
Party debrief. Nobody in the party knew what the Rift Vortex exactly was. So Jacko's new girlfiend cast a Legend Lore and got it fully explained to them (as above).
Module-wise on this level a Rift Vortex appears at a 1% chance every time something dies on this demi-plane and they had achieved 16 kills so far for a 16% chance.
So should I reset Rift Vortices back to zero after a Vortex appearance or should I keep going from 16% ?
Common sense dictates a reset. However I can be gamey about it keep going up from 16% and use it as an "incentive".
Grok the Dwarf, a third level Doughboy (Battlemage subclass).
Aerys, an Elvariel, a Larcenist (Thief class).
Gangnam Bang Mi - Sister of the Winds (Monk, Fighter subclass).
Tanzen - a Fae-Born first level Pinger. (Fist level Invoker, a Magic User subclass).
Vixine Numar, a human Servant (a Chosen One, Cleric subclass). Recently raised a level.
A Dark Enchantress Demon. Grok's new girlfriend who folds her wings over her shoulders to look like a cloak.
A Madger, a half humanoid, half badger creature who made a deal to serve with the party.
Two Mynxes, half female humanoid, half cat. They can shape change either way.
This is also posted on three forums, and a blog.
There may be a few hours time delay in posting to Kenzerco Today.
Tracy Johnson
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5266 | Perfume Oil: Black Squall
Open waters of the deepest blue, eerily calm before the looming arcus cloud in the distance bears down, revealing the wrath of the storm behind it. There was little left to do now but watch and wait.
Cold and clean-smelling seawater, ozonic air, now and then a little olive oil from the lamps.
In stock |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5269 | home > preview > Savage Preview
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Savage Preview
game: Savage
posted by: Aaron Stanton
date posted: 09:10 AM Thu May 22nd, 2003
last revision: 07:13 AM Fri Sep 23rd, 2005
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Holding our breath while waiting for the release of World of Warcraft, it\'s easy to let the lack of oxygen blur our vision a little; Blizzard isn\'t the only one doing cool things with animal skin clothing and magic spells. Savage, a multiplayer game coming to the PC as early as July, is set to scrub a little at the line dividing Real Time Strategy games and First Person Shooters. This sixty-four player RTS/FPS title combines the best aspects of both genres, allowing one player on each side to control the action in classic RTS style, coordinating troops from above, while the other 62 players meet each other head-to-head in first person perspective. Tired of computer AI? Savage is set to show us the power of the human brain as troops follow orders, hack at buildings, and snipe enemies from the hilltops; actual humans inhabit almost every aspect of the title, and it lends itself to an entirely new world of organized warfare.
\"Look at that, you leveled up,\" says the fellow showing me the game, pointing to the screen as I lay waste to yet another unfortunate victim with my crossbow. \"That makes you stronger.\" Gleefully, I lay into another unsuspecting victim just as he crests the hill, relentlessly filling the helpless soul with arrows. \"He\'s on your team,\" my guide points out. \"You can\'t hurt him.\" After only a few minutes of gameplay, both as the commander dictating orders to my soldiers, and as one of the soldiers receiving orders, it quickly becomes evident that a great deal of planning has gone into both aspects of Savage, making each, in its own way, an independently entertaining game. When you put them together as one, you find you have a different breed of game entirely.
\"Take that!\" I cackle, doing my best to instill fear in my enemy as I empty yet another quill into a pathetic victim.
\"You\'re shooting a peon,\" my benefactor points out.
\"Die, peon!\" I cry.
\"And he\'s still on your own team.\" What an observant fellow this man is, I think to myself, having taken to referring to every male PR person I encounter as \"fellow\". It also explains my target\'s blatant refusal to die. A red marker appears on my screen, a pillar of light extending from the ground to the sky. \"See that?\" he asks, obviously awed by my superior intellect and fighting prowess. \"Someone is attacking your base. Your commander is ordering you over to defend it.\"
I turn around to find myself facing an enemy much larger than I, a type of unit my team can\'t build yet. \"What\'s that?\" I ask as I die under the barrel of a flamethrower like weapon.
\"That was a medium unit,\" he says. \"Your commander hasn\'t researched them yet.\"
The role that exists between the first person players and the commanding officer is complex and important. Since it wouldn\'t be fun for players to be forced to wait in limbo, there is little-to-no build time for the units. Death, from the FPS perspective, involves being returned to a selection screen where you can chose one of 5 basic units (three infantry types, two catapult types), and then equip him/her with one of the 30 weapons and items (depending on your race) that are available. The setting pits a magical animal kingdom against a primitive form of man rediscovering technology, and so allows for a wide mix of weapons, from sniper crossbows to flamethrowers and rail guns. All the weapons in the game are free, and can be exchanged for another weapon with a quick skip to your main base to re-supply, but you can\'t access them until they\'ve been researched by your commander.
Other items ? such as ammo packs, smoke grenades, mines, and med kits ? cost money, which you collect from fallen enemies as you work your way through their ranks. When collecting spoils, 80% of the finances go to the first person player, and 20% to the commander for use in different aspects of the game, including redistributing it to players they feel deserve an extra bonus, or who need to be better equipped for an assault.
Aside from money, a player also earns experience points with each kill. As the players level up, they become stronger, able to withstand more damage, and earn other basic perks. Since death only marginally effects experience points, players progress from a generic level at the start of each game to massive damage dealing units by the end.
The RTS perspective is equally interesting. The computer plays the basic peon units, used for collecting the two resources in the game, gold and stone, and so saves the human players from the tedious task of collecting minerals (though FPS players can mine if they want, as well as assist in building and repairs). In many respects, the RTS side of Savage looks much like any other; units can be selected and given orders, buildings must be constructed and maintained, and ultimately, defended. The entire map is shrouded with a \"fog of war\" feature, which limits the commander\'s field of view to that which his units can see. As the commander constructs buildings and researches arms, new unit types and weapons become available to the FPS players when they re-spawn or return to the base to re-equip (players can pitch in some money and upgrade their unit, if they like).
Whenever a commander issues an order, a visual queue appears on the FPS\'s screen. If the order is to attack a unit, the visual is red, and highlights the unit to be attacked. Neutral orders, such as \"move\", appear in green.
\"If you select a unit,\" my graceful host informs me, indicating one of my troops making his way across the expanse to the enemy base, \"you\'ll see what the unit is carrying.\" In this way, you can assign squads and plan attacks based on what your players are equipped with. Though it wasn\'t integrated into the demo at E3, communication between the players and the commanders will become more streamlined, allowing players to request that the commander research certain unit types, and allowing commanders to ask certain players to equip certain weapons to more appropriately prepare them for a mission.
\"We also hope to have the ability to vote off bad commanders,\" the PR fellow says, gently taking the mouse from me as I attempt to order three of my units to execute an insubordinate peon. I\'m crushed.
\"But...\" I say, trying vainly to reach the mouse as he ushers me out the door.
\"July,\" he repeats, and puts a soda in my outstretched hand. After he\'s gone, I press my face against the window of their booth. There\'s something truly extraordinary about seeing the world from above on one screen, and seeing the same scene beautifully rendered in 3D on another. From the way the light shines, or the grass waves, Savage looks like it\'s going to be a beautiful game. I sulk away as the development team starts making shooing motions at me from behind the glass. Then I brighten up. July isn\'t all that far away. It\'ll be out before World of Warcraft, at least. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5279 | Infosys Freshers Recruitment 2018 Drive Freshers
Infosys has just announced its Recruitment Drive 2018 for Freshers and they are looking to hire about 30000 people this year as per sources.
Phase System –
The drive is conducted in Phases year wise –
• Phase 1 – Test in Feb
• Phase 2 – Test in April
• Phase 3 – Test in June
• Phase 4 – Test in August
• Phase 5 – Test in October
• Phase 6 – Test in December
Infosys Recruitment Drive 2018
Infosys has a fairly simple process for the test –
1. Application by Candidate
2. Resume Selection
3. Written Test
1. Verbal
2. Quants
3. Reasoning
4. Technical Interview
5. HR Interview
Checking Eligibility for infosys recruitment drive 2018
You can check your eligibility below, while Infosys does say that the drive is only for 2018 Freshers but in the post below we will cover on how 2016 and 2017 batches can apply and successfully get a job also in Infosys.
1. Designation: Trainee System Engineer
2. Degree Needed: B.E/B.Tech/M.E/M.Tech/MCA/M.Sc – 2016/2017/2018 Batch
3. Experience Needed: Freshers
4. Place: Across India
5. Test Location : Bangalore/Chennai/Delhi/Hyderabad/Pune/Kolkata
6. Last Date To Apply: Variable (will change date if new drive comes)
• Engineering students who passed out in the year 2018 and 2017 are eligible to apply.
• BE / B.Tech / ME / M.Tech in any Disciplines (CSE, ECE, EEE, IT, Civil, Mechanical etc.)
• MCA with BSc / BCA / BCom / BA (with Math / Statistics Background).
• M.Sc in Computer Science / Information Technology.
Application Request for Infosys Recruitment Drive
Each phase looks like this –
• Day 0 – Infosys announces new Phase of drive
• Day 0 to Day 14 – Referring/direct application Window in which you can ask people to refer you or apply directly
• Day 14 to Day 17 – Form filling for referred students
• Day 20 – 1st Batch freshers written test
• Day 21 – Interview for 1st batch students
• Day 27 – 2nd Batch Freshers written test
• Day 28 – Interview for 2nd Batch
• Day 30 – 31 – Result Announcement
Application(Direct) –
• Note that this has lesser chances of getting Resume getting selected as Infosys prefers Referral Drive more
• But, we suggest applying both ways via direct and also referral to increase chances.
• Visit Infosys website(after reading this whole article) –
1. Go here –
2. Also apply here ( New Infosys Portal) –
3. You should fill out the whole form Positively
4. Note your Reference ID and Password for Infosys Campus Connect Registration.
5. Wait for HR to Contact you she will ask for additional information if any
6. Reply to her
7. She will send you the test details like location etc
8. Study from Geek Placement for Infosys
9. Give test and clear with ;). Voila wait for Training location mail.
Referral –
1. Look for someone who works in Infosys
2. Ask them to refer you
1. There is a very specific format of sending the details we have also covered that format in this post later.
3. They will from their internal portal will refer you
4. Within a few days (refer timeline above), you will get a mail from the talent acquisition department of Infosys.
5. The Hr now will send you the registration form. Fill out that form
6. Within the next few days you will be emailed all the details like the test location, batch, timings etc
7. Start Preparing from Geek Placement
8. Give the test and clear it within a few days you will be now be sent the joining location.
What are the Official Proofs and Documents you must bring for Infosys Off Campus Test Center?
• Candidates must bring ID proof (Mandatory to enter Infosys premises) – Pan Card and Aadhar Card
• Educational Certificates (From 10th class onwards) – All
• Latest Resume – 2
• Passport Size Photos – 4
Types of Questions asked in Infosys Recruitment Drive
carrot+ Mint= potato ??? can anyone answer me
Infosys Off Campus Recruitment Drive for Freshers 2018 |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5298 | XML Sitemap
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When Lady Rosamund runs away from home to marry a traveling player, former knight errant Michael makes a noble promise to help the object of his unrequited love. The quest takes our would-be heroes to the costal town of Huckerston, where savage sea-pirates called wreckers terrorize the coast. With the help of a reluctant Fisk, Michael plans on catching the wreckers and winning back his lady, but when mysterious murders and dangerous accidents threaten the town and its players, love might be the least of his problems…
Ages 14 and up
Originally published by HarperCollins
Republished by Wild Writer Books
Jacket art by Larry Rostant
Buy from an Indie Bookstore
Buy from Barnes & Noble
Buy from Amazon
Buy from the iTunes Bookstore
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5319 | Special Assembly 2017 Documents (August 9, 2017)
Working Group Full Length Reports (July 18, 2017)
The reports below represent as fully as possible the outcomes of the Working Groups. The first document in the order provides a one page status summary of work to date by the various Working Groups, plus prior work by Reference Groups. Executive Summaries of these outputs will appear in the Future Directions Full Report to Special Assembly 2017, yet to be released.
1. Working and Reference Group Activity and Document Summary Table (1 pp)
2. Vision and Identity (16 pp)
3. International Witness (35 pp)
4. Canada Witness (11 pp)
5. Congregational Vitality (18 pp)
6. Community of Spiritual Leadership, originally called “Congregational of Ministerial Leadership” (3 pp)
7. Camp Programmes (1 pp)
8. Communications revised July 31 2017 (6 pp)
A Proposal for Revitalizing MC Canada:
Working Group Members:
Working Groups - Terms of Reference:
Transition documents:
Future Directions Task Force documents: |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5337 | In this evening’s talk, Michael looks at the three components to truly letting go. He first begins with the aspiration for awakening. Secondly, he points to the appreciation of what we have been given in this life. Thirdly, he points to the need for there to be a resolve when it comes to practice itself. In this letting go, freedom, fearlessness and joy tend to arise of their own accord, even when situations might not be to our liking. Michael points to a deep unity that we can feel when we commit fully to walking the path. He suggests that this unity is the most fundamental sources of our felt sense of love and deep peace, and then asks how our lives might change if we knew that we had nothing to fear. The more there exists a recognition of this fearlessness and the more we see the permeability of the separation we typically feel between self and other. From this place we have an opportunity to deeply experience a congruence with living a life we’ve always wanted to live.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5344 | • Select a School
• Language
Transportation Services
Our transportation services are handled by Fornshell Bus Service.
(218) 746-3770
arrowBus Route Information for Parents
routes sorted by bus number (link)
routes sorted by address (link)
Please note that some stops are noted by location rather than address,
(Lakewood Church, The Spot, etc.) and show up at the bottom of the list
2019-20 Transportation Form
This form is due from every family
who needs transportation --
a new form each year.
2019-20 form
arrowClick on this link
Busing Policy for 2019-20
Following you will also find information shared from Fornshell Busing regarding transportation policies. As we grow, although we want to maintain that small town feel, there are a few safety concerns that arise as you get to be a larger system. Again this year we will maintain the policy of a one A.M. and one P.M. bus stop and we are asking that every parent or guardian complete a transportation form at the beginning of each year whether you need transportation or not. Please read through the document to answer any questions you may have.
Please review this with your children who ride the bus. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5354 | Friday, September 30, 2005
Jane Millionaire cover
Jane cover
Jane Millionaire is a December 2005 release! Isn't that cover just totally fabulous???
Thursday, September 08, 2005
Matthew on his knees
Yes, I particularly love this picture. My husband is not quite so fond of it. This was one of the ones sent to me right after I found out I'd won the contest. Yes, my friends do know how to help me celebrate properly. Photos of Matthew McConaughey on his knees begging me to run away with him.
I've got a couple more that were sent to me after the American Title win. I'll post them over the next couple of days.
Matthew after reading one of Janice's books
I had several emails telling me how much they enjoyed my picture post yesterday that I'm adding a couple of more that a friend (a different one) sent to me after Jane Millionaire won the American Title contest. This particular picture makes me THIRSTY.
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Janice pouting because Matthew is grabbing Anna's butt
One of my friends, Lindsey Brooks, has WAY too much time on her hands and played around with a picture of me pouting when my luggage was lost in Reno--actually was lost somewhere prior to Reno, but that's another story.
Ya know...that really should be me Matthew is holding rather than my pal Anna. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5358 | Alzheimer's Daughter
The Story
Chapter 6- After the Diagnosis
* * *
December 24, 1943
My Dearest Ed,
Momma and Daddy, Lydia, Dottie, and I just came home from Christmas Eve service. I couldn’t hold back my tears while singing ‘Silent Night’ in the candlelight.
Lydia went straight from church to Peter’s family’s gathering. I know she aches for him. I miss you terribly, and wish you were here. It doesn’t relieve my sadness hearing Bing Crosby’s ‘I’ll be home for Christmas.’
Don’t misunderstand, I thank God you’re not shipped out yet, and I pray for all our soldiers in danger overseas. But I long for you.
It’s been said that people in love are not sensible. We are the exception to that rule. I waited for you, a prize package. You are such a wonderful optimist about the war ending soon. You are so good to me––so considerate, kind, and thoughtful. Your faith is strong, dear, and I love you with all my heart.
I’m lonesome, honey. I wish you were home for Christmas, even though I know we’ll always be together, ‘if only in our dreams.’
Yours forever,
P.S. I hope the slipper socks I knitted arrived in time for Christmas.
* * *
August 11, 2006
This morning as I prepared for today’s appointment with the gerontologist, I was at ease knowing the doctor would prescribe a move. Jitters still plagued me, however, because Mom and Dad didn’t want to go to this appointment, and I knew they might refuse to come out of the house to get in the car with me.
When I arrived, they agreed to go without a fight. We made polite conversation throughout the 40 minute drive. As we arrived at the doctor’s office we were ushered into the same conference room where they received their diagnosis four months earlier. They sat with a stoic, tight-lipped, curt demeanor. The doctor greeted them in a friendly, professional way and inquired about how they’re doing. Mom cleared her throat and nodded. Dad responded with only a nod and a side-glance.
Without delay, the doctor started writing and explaining medical prescriptions for Dad.
· The first stated, “Help required with medications, finances, and daily living or move to a retirement community.”
· The second mandated, “Obtain new driving evaluation, or stop driving.
Mom and Dad hung their heads shaking them, first with wide eyed I-can’t-believe-it sadness, then squinting with how-dare-you denial. Mom became snotty, defending her man, and Dad was infuriated and disrespectful. They huffed and sputtered, their speech not making any sense, both trying to put words together to make sentences, neither able.
The doctor stood and moved toward the door to make a quick exit, holding the door for us, reminding them, “Focus on what you can do, not what you can’t.” Intended this as constructive advice––to Ed and Ibby’s hurt, angry ears––it sounded condescending and trite.
I stood, helping my parents to their feet. Putting my arm around Mom, we exited the office with Dad behind.
As I led them through the hallway, guilt followed me. I knew these prescriptions were issued not only because of my parents’ diagnosis, but also because of my pleas for help.
As we walked through the outer office, no further appointments were made. There was no need.
In silence, we made our way home.
As I drove, thoughts swirled in my head. I was relieved and thankful the doctor had supported Annette and me in this critical decision. Overwhelmingly though, I was heartbroken for my parents because everything they’ve known of independence for sixty-two years of marriage would now change because of these three pieces of paper, known as medical prescriptions. Annette and I could now say that the move was ‘doctor’s orders.’ I felt like an empowered coward... |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5371 | N2 -
This paper presents numerical simulationsof the behavior of a sandy layer subjected to a cyclic horizontal acceleration in shaking table tests, with a particular attention focused on the settlements of a dry sand layer, and on the liquefaction of saturated sand. A compaction/liquefaction model (C/L) is applied to these simulations. The infl uence of specifi c parameters of the model on the compaction and liquefaction of a sandy layer is shown and discussed. The results of simulations are compared with selected experimental data.
JO - Archives of Civil Engineering L1 - http://journals.pan.pl/Content/83909/mainfile.pdf L2 - http://journals.pan.pl/Content/83909 IS - No 4 EP - 521 KW - sandy layer KW - compaction KW - liquefaction KW - seismic table ER - A1 - Sawicki, A. A1 - Świdziński, W. PB - WARSAW UNIVERSITY OF TECHNOLOGY FACULTY OF CIVIL ENGINEERING COMMITTEE FOR CIVIL ENGINEERING POLISH ACADEMY OF SCIENCES JF - Archives of Civil Engineering SP - 509 T1 - Compaction and liquefaction of a sandy layer: simulation of shaking table experiments UR - http://journals.pan.pl/dlibra/docmetadata?id=83909 |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5374 | Be pure because God is pure
God kalki
Be pure because God is pure
God says that He will purify this sinful nature of man. When the Lord came to the earth as Kalki He knew that the correct way to worship Him was not well known. When the Lord came and took form as kalki, He became visible to the angels and His name spread amongst the population and the world believed in Him. The people who were walking in darkness saw the light and people in the land of death-the earth- also were blessed with this light.
The Lord asks-Don’t you say that your are sick of darkness? That you are sick of sin? And that you fear dying unrealized? The answer is in front of you. God said that, He is like light to our darkness. That He would purify us and fill our life with light. God says that He can grant abundance to our barren lives and remove the thorns and rocks from the path of our life and fill our lives with grace. To get this benediction from the Lord we have to do the following five things.
Find out the name of the Lord in the present age of Kaliyug
1. To worship in the name of the Lord with utmost love and devotion
2. Follow the wishes and commandments of God
3. Be worthy of God’s trust
4. And get up in the morning between 4 AM to 6 AM and meditate on the Lord’s rupam and chant His name. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5378 | Parade armor, around 1600, iron, etched, gold and silver. Along with an additional helmet, this Harnisch is the only remains of a worldly Wartburg Ruestkammer Collection in Eisenach/Germany, once consisting of more than 800 armors and weapons taken by Russian Occupation Forces shortly after WWII.
Upon receiving orders for his return to the Soviet Union, a Russian officer traded this suit of armor to his Eisenach land-lady in return for apartment furniture. Ending a more than a half century long search, the still missing collection was recently discovered by an American , though it remains underground at a military museum in a former Soviet Republic. Negotiations for its eventual return are ongoing. |
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5389 | refer 뜻
• 동사 (Verb)SGrefersPRreferringPT, PPreferredPREré-
1. VT To direct the attention of.
1. The shop assistant referred me to the help desk on ground floor.
2. VT To submit to (another person or group) for consideration; to send or direct elsewhere.
1. He referred the matter to the principal.
2. to refer a patient to a psychiatrist
3. VT To place in or under by a mental or rational process; to assign to, as a class, a cause, source, a motive, reason, or ground of explanation.
1. He referred the phenomena to electrical disturbances.
4. VI (construed with to) To allude to, make a reference or allusion to.
5. 더 많은 예제
1. 문장 중간에 사용됨
• The hot-and-cold-water treatment Sweetie referred to is called kneipping: you put your feet or your wrists or your shins in water to force your circulation to speed up.
• He referred the phenomena to electrical disturbances.
• To this tribe we may refer a little fore-handed animal, of the island of Ceylon, which M. Buffon calls the Lori ; very remarkable for the singularity of its figure.
Meaning of refer for the defined word.
문법적으로, 이 워드 "refer" 는 동사, 좀 더 구체적으로, 자동사타동사.
• 품사 계층 (Part-of-Speech Hierarchy)
1. 동사
• 자동사
• 타동사
어려움: 수평 1
쉽게 ➨ 어려운
확실 함: 수평 7
확실 ➨ 다목적
관련 링크:
1. en reference
2. en referred
3. en references
4. en referee
5. en referendum
0 0 |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5401 | Wednesday, 22 June 2016
Faster and more Scalable Session handling
Chapter 18 (18.13 specifically) looks at PHP session handling, which can be a major bottleneck. I suggested there were options for reducing the impact, top of which was to use a faster substrate for the session data, but no matter how fast the storage it won't help with the fact that (by default) control over concurrency is implemented by locking the data file.
While I provided an example in the book of propagating authentication and authorization information securely via the URL, removing the need to open the session in the linked page, sometimes you need access to the full session data.
Recently I wrote a drop in replacement for the default handler which is completely compatible with the default handler (you can mix and match the methods in the same application) but which does not lock the session data file. It struck me that there were lots of things the session handler was doing and which a custom handler might do. Rather than create every possible combination of storage / representation / replication / concurrency control, I adapted my handler API to allow multiple handlers to be stacked to create a custom combination.
The code (including an implementation of the non-blocking handler) is available on PHPClasses.
One thing I omitted to mention in the book is that when session_start() is called it sets the Cache-control and Expires headers to prevent caching:
If you want your page to be cacheable, then there is a simple 2 step process:
1. Check - are you really, REALLY sure you want the content to be cacheable and use sessions? If you are just implementing access control, then the content *may* be stored on the users disk.
2. Add an appropriate set of headers after session_start();
header('Expires: '.gmdate('D, d M Y H:i:s \G\M\T', time() + 3600));
header('Varies: Cookie'); // ...but using HTTPS would be better |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5405 | INKAS Armored cars company: it’s the tough guy
Have you ever imagined yourself I one of those action movies? Bullets flying all across and you’re gripping onto your steering wheel whizzing past bullets? You’re holding your breath wishing you could dodge all the bullets. Well, it might really help if you had an armored car which was kind of a little more ready for this kind of combat.
What are armored cars?
Armored cars have 4 to 10 off-road wheels which are very unlike tracks that military cars have. They are less expensive than a military vehicle. They typically have a better range and speed than the military cars which have tracks. Armoured cars come along with light armor. Children car Seats
The development of armed cars
From the time of steel-plated war wagons technology has moved a long way. This didn’t happen overnight. There are different stages through which we can visualize an armed car developing. First, there was just an addition of weapons or armors to the already built military vehicles. Then came the armed cars which were made from scratch. These differed in the placements of weapon, the amount of coverage of the car and the speed with which these cars operated.
What to look for in an armored car?
An armored car, from the name itself, suggests it is a heavy-duty car. It works on the principle that it should be difficult to break into. It can resist robbery and a hijack mission. It has glass that is resistant to bullets.
What is INKAS?
INKAS is a private Canadian company that holds a special position in manufacturing, development, and security services. They started with services that sent messages via an armed fashion to the merchants of that local area and now they have expanded to efficiently include services like cash management and solutions regarding security. They play an immense and respectable role in providing equipment and service to clean up oil spills of the entire world. With the rising problem with our environment in today’s world, we desperately need such technologies to be built and used rampantly.
INKAS Armored cars company
They have made huge popularity in the armored car business. They excel in designing and production of a large number of armored cars like SUVs, vehicles used to transport money, vehicles for a special purpose and other similar types of requirements. INKAS armored cars company has made quite a name for itself. For more information visit here |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5423 | Logic Games Club
Limes Numbscape
2426 Gameplays
Limes Numbscape Game Description:
Limes Numbscape is an escape game in which one day you went visiting a friend. While you went to the bathroom, your friend left and locked you inside his house. As you don’t understand why did he do that, you have to find a way out. Also, you found a little hummingbird being trapped with you. Now you have to find a way to escape for your and for the little hummingbird. Search around the house and collect some objects which could be useful. Also, there are some puzzles which if you solve, it could show you the way out. Don’t give up until you manage to escape. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5429 | Wednesday, March 16, 2011
New book release: The Vampire Diaries: The Return: Midnight
The Vampire Diaries: The Return: Midnight will be out this week and, if you haven’t been following the controversy, it’s the last book in TVD series that will be written entirely by L. J. Smith herself (the series is being taken over by a ghostwriter). Personally, I’m all over Whedonistas, a collection of essays by female authors that celebrate the awesomeness of Joss Whedon. And if your into science and gadgets, check out Physics of the Future, which predicts that we will have invisibility cloaks, Internet-accessible contact lenses, modular robots, and flexible paper this century. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5436 | Ask The Rabbi
Fore Are the Mothers
Library Library Library Kaddish
Topic: Foremother's Names, Meaning
Name@Withheld wrote:
Dear Rabbi,
A co-worker asked me the following question and I didn't have an answer: What is the significance of the name Rivka (Rebecca)? I pointed out that in the Bible only names that are given or changed are explained. Such that the names Moshe (Moses) and Israel (Jacob) are explained, but Abram and others are not.
Rob Brickner from Brooklyn, NY <> wrote:
Rob Brickner from Brooklyn, NY wrote:
Dear Rabbi,
What do the foremothers' names mean? Why are the forefathers' names explained right in the Chumash and the foremothers' names are not described in detail? Rivka - I have no idea what that name means. The others I have a one or two word translation. But is there a tradition as to what each of the mothers' names stood for?
Dear Name@Withheld and Rob Brickner,
True, the Torah usually explains a name only at the time of birth or when the name is being changed. But Sarai is changed to Sarah and Hoshea is changed to Yehoshua (Joshua), yet the Torah doesn't explicitly explain these names. Yitzchak's naming is narrated in the Torah but his name is not explained. The same is true of Judah's sons. Moses' son's name, Eliezer, is explained in the Torah not at the time of his naming.
True, the Written Torah doesn't explain every name, even the names of some of our greatest people. However, the Oral Torah explains these names.
Sarah comes from the word sar meaning "noble" and "ruler." Rivka means a young calf, which is a symbol of innocence. Rachel means a sheep, also associated with innocence. Leah mean tiredness; Leah cried to G-d so much that her eyes looked tired.
• Genesis 17:15, 38:3-5
• Exodus 18:4
• Numbers 13:16,
• Tractate Eiruvin 17b
• Sefer Halikutim 17:4
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5459 | Tuesday, September 9, 2008
some things never change
Last night was back to school night.
Lori said...
Ours is like that too. And in math class they always give US a timed test. I HATE it. But, I do like meeting the teachers. I would say probably only about 20% of the parents even show.
sybil law said...
I can't believe the teacher wasn't even there! That's BS.
I really hope we don't have to do any of that crap when Gilda is older.
I'd really rather not. School felt like jail to me.
julie said...
Talk about a flashback! That was nice of you to go. :)
CamiKaos said...
K's back to school night is next Thursday and kid's aren't welcome.
Jo Beaufoix said...
They don't do that over here. I'd have found it a bit scary, shiver.
Anonymous said...
Now if we could actually get the parents to CARE about education.
mielikki said...
knot- I do actually care about her education. That's why I went. But I would have welcomed an opportunity to actually SPEAK with a teacher, then be taught myself... |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5500 | Shell over ICMP 0.5 review
by on
Shell over ICMP consists of two free and open source applications: one server and one client
License: GPL (GNU General Public License)
File size: 583K
Developer: billiejoex
0 stars award from
Shell over ICMP consists of two free and open source applications: one server and one client. Shell over ICMP project allows a user to connect to a remote shell daemon, by using ICMP protocol instead of classical TCP.
Entirely written in Python, soicmp is a working proof-of-concept to demonstrate that data can be transmitted across a network by hiding it in traffic that normally does not contain payloads.
How does it work?
The soicmp server is a daemon that must be started on the remote server. When the server receives a request from the client it looks into the packet's payload. The payload must respect certain protocol rules. In detail the client must specify:
communication mode (echo|echo/reply)
authentication (y|n)
This is an example of a correct payload string sent by client to server:
$CMD ls -a $MODE echo/reply $PWD root2005 $END
If the payload matches with the server protocol specification then it will pipe the command to "/bin/sh" or "cmd.exe" and execute it. The server then reads the result from the pipe and sends it back to the client that will print it to stdout.
Moreover every client will send ICMP packets having id equal to the client's current process ID and will accept only ICMP replies having the same id value. This prevents output to be printed by other client instances running on the same workstation (this argument is also treated in the FAQs section).
Here are some key features of "Shell over ICMP":
Platform independent.
Possibility to run soicmp daemon on multiple ethernet interfaces simultaneously handling multiple client connections.
Possibility to specify the buffer size of outgoing packets.
Client side source IP address spoofing.
Remote client case-sensitive (plain texted) authentication.
Possibility to select two communication types:
One based on encapsulating command output in unique "one way" ICMP_ECHOREPLY (type 0) packets sent by server to client (see fig. 1).
Another one that guarantees the correct packets delivering by using the request/response nature of ECHO and ECHOREPLY ICMP packet types (see fig.2)
No listening sockets are listed by netstat or similar programs.
Shell over ICMP 0.5 keywords |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5503 | Navigate Nashville Streets: Part 1
You can cuss or you can evolve when facing our confusing streets and byways.
Let’s start with an admittedly imperfect overview. Think of Nashville as having 5 loops around the city and 10 spokes that shoot out in most directions.
5 Sorta Loops of Nashville
map of 5 Nashville streets that loop around town
Loop #1: Interstates 24/40/65
In the old days, this loop was simply labeled I-265 because it was pretty much a ring around downtown. Then someone decided it would be good to segment it. On the east side of downtown, it’s I-24; on the south to southwest side, it’s I-40; to the north side, it’s I-65. Don’t blame me.
Loop #2: I-440
Okay, it’s really a half-loop on the south side of town but it will keep you out of the worst area of gridlock. It starts at I-40 on one side of town and sags to reconnect on the other. Along the way, you’ll find exits to I-65 South and I-24 East.
Loop #3: Briley Parkway
It kinda encircles the city but changes names four times en route and shifts into two-lane mode in one segment through older neighborhoods to the south. At I-40 West, it becomes Robertson Road for a few blocks before turning into White Bridge Road (at Charlotte Pike), then it shifts to Woodmont Blvd. (at Harding Road), shoots across Green Hills and turns into Thompson Lane (near 100 Oaks Mall) until it becomes Briley Parkway again (at I-24 East). Mercifully it remains Briley (named for a former mayor) for its northern trek around Nashville.
Loop #4: Old Hickory Boulevard
Old Hickory Blvd. is our loopiest loop because it forms a circle around town but that circle is a little fragmented. For example, near Nolensville Road, it suddenly decides to skip down a half-mile or so before continuing. If you don’t make the necessary turns, it becomes Bell Road before finding itself again a few miles later. If someone gives you the address 4151 Old Hickory Blvd., make sure you get the zip code or community name or you could end up 20 miles from where you want to be.
Loop #5: I-840
If you really want to avoid Nashville, take this outer half-loop to skirt the south side of town.
The spokes of a wheel
map of the 10 Nashville streets that appear as spokes of the city
No, this is not an octopus. These “spokes” will take you from the metro area to almost any part of town. Originally hey were pikes connecting satellite cities (hence their names) but, in the central city area, most have aliases. For example, as you approach downtown from the south, Franklin Pike becomes 8th Avenue.
Other quirks:
Beware: Harding Road is different than Harding Place and Harding Place morphs into Battery Lane for 1.7 miles in the Green Hills/Forest Hills area before–poof–it turns back into Harding Place.
Gallatin Road goes north toward, yes, Gallatin. But in East Nashville, it’s Main Street and traveling west of the river, it is James Robertson Parkway as it makes an arc across the north side of downtown. Then it merges to become Rosa L. Parks Blvd.
North 1st Street merges with Dickerson Road just north of Jefferson Street. It’s also called Highway 41 and 31W.
Bless it, Charlotte Avenue keeps its name from downtown to Bellevue.
Continue your overview of the city with Navigate Nashville Streets, Part 2. And for transportation info, visit Getting Around Nashville.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5508 | The Internet Guide to OA Insignia
Red River Valley Council
Fargo, ND
Lodge Data
Chartered: 1940
Lodge Totem: Chief's head with crossed arrow and axe
Name Translation:
Changes: 1976: Merged with Chan-O-Wapi 52, Chatoka 183, and Thunderbird 371 to form Pa-Hin 27
View Lodge and Chapter Issues by Type:
|| Twill Flaps || Neckerchiefs || Pie-shaped Patches || Solid Flaps || Odd Shaped Patches || Lodge Activity Issues || All Insignia ||
Issue &
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Include "related" colors
Lodge Issues
S1 GRY C GRY one RED drop and blob rosette on bonnet; no cheek line detail on DOR face; (WAB); FF; BLU BMT
S2a LGY C LGY two RED drops and detailed rosette; cheek line detail in BLK; LOR face; right edge of ax blade is convex; WHT headband
S2b LGY C LGY YEL/ORG face; right edge of ax blade is concave; WHT headband
S2c listed in error
S3 RED R WHT RED lodge name & no. plus order of the arrow in RED; GRY headband
S3.5 RED R WHT RED lodge name & no. plus order of the arrow in RED; WHT headband
S4a RED R M/C RED (1966); BRN tepee; LGY ax blade
S4b RED R M/C RED BRN tepee; GRY ax blade
S4c RED R M/C RED RBR tepee
S5 RED R M/C RED ORG tepee and face
S6 WHT R M/C RED -1974
S7a RED R GRY RED 35th ANN; CB
Data for 13 patches from this lodge and type(s) are shown above.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5512 | Mississippi Department of Archives and History - Archives and Library Division Catalog
Basic Search
Stone Collection: Volume 73 - Item 27
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Alfred H. Stone Collection
Volume: 73
27. Charles Sumner, The Slave Oligarchy and Its Usurpations. Speech of Hon. Charles Sumner, November 2, 1855, in Faneuil Hall, Boston (Washington, DC: Buell & Blanchard, [1855?]). (16 p.)
Anti-slavery speech on the eve of state elections in Massachusetts. Sumner with a question. “Fellow Citizens of Boston: Are you for Freedom, or are you for Slavery?” |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5515 | This summary was written late 2012. This version did not discuss the ’cause’ or ‘origin’ of sickness using the concepts of (因) ’cause’ combining with the (缘) ‘contributing-factor’ which then lead to the manifestation of (果) ‘effect’ or ‘symptom’ of diseases or illnesses.
Dr Chang has been updating the terminology used, e.g. tendon-injury is changed to ‘body-injury-elsewhere’ in Chinese to avoid learners’ misconception about a “physical” tendon. For my future translation, I would use Origin Point injury.
This article would be removed once I have translated enough Chinese articles from the CCH-Foundation website to cover the principles of Origin Point Medicine.
Click on the image to download the pdf. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5552 | Reform legislation
New York City Council Proposes Taxpayers Bail Some Inmates Out of Jails
Correction: An earlier version of this post placed the responsibility for changing bail laws at the feet of the New York City Council. In fact, bail laws are set by the State of New York, and would have to be changed by state legislators. I sincerely regret this error and have amended the post accordingly. At the same time, I would like to reaffirm my central point that a bail fund (while well intentioned) is not bail reform. It may provide some relief to a subset of prisoners, but the [Continue reading]
New York City Council Introduces 10 Bills to Reform Rikers Island
Update: A few thoughts on this reform package. This week, New York City Council members introduced 10 bills outlining various reforms to the Department of Correction and city jails. Most of the proposals are focused on capturing data and increasing transparency, while others involve measures like crisis intervention programming and the establishment of an inmate “Bill of Rights.” The language and formatting used in these bills can be difficult to read, but this stuff is important, [Continue reading]
New solitary confinement unit plagued by old problems on Rikers Island
California’s Prop 47: Important, But Imperfect
California’s voters will soon vote on Proposition 47 (aka The Safe Neighborhoods and Schools Act of 2014), which would reform sentences for low-level, nonviolent offenders and divert millions of dollars from prisons to education, mental health and victim services. I’m happy to see 62% of likely voters plan to support Prop 47 because it is badly-needed reform. California incarcerates more people than almost any other state in the nation, and Governor Brown’s [Continue reading] |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5554 | Xojo Programming Language
XenApp 6.5 Cannot Contact the License Server
error message:
Xenapp license server fails to start and cannot be contacted
Create Multi Column Listbox with Xojo
A source code example how to create a multi column ListBox with Xojo programmatically and inserting data from a RecordSet.
Get stock quotes with JSON from Yahoo in Xojo
A source code example how to use Xojo to get a list of stock quotes from the yahoo finance website using HTTPSocket and JSONItem to read and filter through the json response data.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5558 | Call For Proposals – 2018 Psi-k Workshops
Herewith we solicit for proposals for activities in the field of electronic-structure theory and calculations to be held between March 1, 2018 and March 1, 2019, to be partially funded by the Psi-k Network and Charity.
Submission of Proposals:
The deadline for the proposals is Friday, October 13, 2017.
The applications should be submitted on-line using the link
The types of activities that can be sponsored include workshops, small conferences, hands-on tutorials, summer schools and graduate-level university courses. The latter should be given by experienced teachers and be open to students from different universities.
The applications should contain the following information: proposal title, scientific summary and abstract, program outline in half-day units, tentative budget (including possible other sponsors, fees etc.), CV(s) of the organizer(s), a provisional list of speakers/participants. The proposal should specify the connection to Psi-k and its Working Group(s). The Psi-k Working Groups, their Spokespersons and the Coordination Committee members are listed on the Psi-k website ( For recurring events, the proposal should explain the history and evolution of the activity in question.
A template for your proposal is attached (and available at the Psi-k website ( Applications will only be accepted if submitted using this official template.
Word Template… Psi-k_Workshop_Proposal_2018
PDF Template… Psi-k_Workshop_Proposal_2018
The applications will be reviewed, and the funding decisions will be made in December 2017 by the Psi-k Trustees and Scientific Advisory Board.
Collaboration with CECAM:
As in past years, we encourage applications for joint CECAM/ Psi-k Workshops as well as CECAM/Psi-k Tutorials for electronic-structure methods and applications.
The organizers of successful proposals must deliver a report of the event, and preferably provide access to the presentation materials through the Psi-k website.
With best regards,
Risto Nieminen
Psi-k Chairman
Peter Dederichs
Psi-k Financial Officer
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5574 | Information for "Apple-Cinnamon Wontons à la Mode"
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5586 | May 6, 2017
The lead article in Volume 21, Issue 3 of the Review of Finance is “Macro-Finance” by John Cochrane of Stanford. This is an excellent review of recent advances and future research directions on a major asset pricing topic – macro-finance – written in a clear way accessible to those outside the asset pricing literature (such as me).
Macro finance studies the relationships between asset prices (e.g. the level of the stock market) and economic conditions (e.g. whether we’re in a recession or a boom). These relationships are important. For example, if investors are more willing to bear risk in good times, stocks will be more attractive, driving up the price and leading to lower future returns. Thus, current asset prices, and future expected returns, will vary with economic conditions. Conversely, current asset prices, and past asset returns, can forecast future economic conditions such as GDP growth and inflation.
Why might investors’ willingness to bear risk depend on economic conditions? To answer this question, let’s go back to why risk matters to begin with. To be willing to hold stocks, an investor must be offered a high expected return – not because stocks are risky (their value may go up or down), but their value may go down at particularly inconvenient times – times in which the investor is in real need of money (more technically, the marginal utility of money is high) and so is particularly hit by the stocks’ poor performance. For example, a recession is a bad time – the investor may have lost his job, and suffers a double whammy if his stocks do badly also.
The goal of macro-finance is to identify what these “bad times” are. Doing so allows us to answer many other big picture questions. If investors’ willingness to bear risk varies with these identified “good/bad times”, so will asset prices and expected future returns. This may in turn explain why:
• Asset prices are so volatile, as documented by the line of research that ultimately won Bob Shiller the (joint) 2013 Nobel Prize in Economics.
• The equity premium is so high – why stocks offer so high returns compared to Treasury bills – because stocks may perform badly precisely at bad times.
• Asset returns are predictable, i.e. “good/bad times” predict future returns.
The standard consumption-based asset pricing model argues that good/bad times are defined purely by consumption growth. Bad times are times in which consumption is low, and so the investor is in real need of money. If stocks do badly in times when consumption is low, then stocks are risky and investors will demand a high expected return. But, consumption just isn’t volatile enough in reality to explain the high equity premium we observe in the data – the famous equity premium puzzle of Mehra and Prescott (1985).
Macro-finance models thus identify forces – other than consumption growth – that may affect marginal utility. The paper studies several different such forces. I summarize a subset of the key ones here, but the paper goes into much more detail on the evidence for and against each set of models, and in particular the future research that can be done to further support or rule out each explanation.
A “habit” is a minimum level of consumption such that, if the investor’s consumption falls below that level, he suffers great disutility (unhappiness). In an “external” habit model, this consumption may be the consumption of other people, as in “keeping up with the Joneses”. In an “internal” habit model, this consumption may be your own past consumption – a student may be happy living off cold pizza, but once she becomes an investment banker and is used to sushi, she can’t fathom going back to cold pizza. External habit models – a seminal paper being Campbell and Cochrane (1999) – are particularly tractable (easy to model) because the investor’s current consumption doesn’t affect his future habit.
These habits mean that an investor’s risk aversion is time-varying. In bad times, his consumption falls precariously close to his habit level, and so he becomes extremely risk-averse. Thus, he is particularly unwilling to hold stocks, and so stock prices are low. Despite stocks appearing a “bargain”, they actually aren’t, since the investor is afraid of buying stocks, them falling, and him falling below his minimum desired consumption level. In good times, investors are more willing to hold stocks, and “reach for yield” as is observed in practice.
Importantly, habit models can explain not only a high equity premium, but also a low interest rate. In the standard consumption-based asset pricing model, where risk aversion is constant over time, you could generate a high equity premium (despite consumption not being that volatile) by arguing that investors are simply extremely risk averse. But (in addition to being counterfactual given observed investor behavior), this leads to a separate problem. If investors are very risk averse, they want to even out consumption over different years. The student really can’t stand eating cold pizza; knowing that she will become an investment banker in the future, she will borrow from her future income so that she can at least enjoy fresh pasta. But, such borrowing would drive the interest rate much higher than observed in practice. In habit models, the interest rate stays low because, even though the above borrowing motive exists, it is offset by precautionary savings motives – the investor wants to save to reduce the risk that his stocks do badly and his consumption falls below his habit level.
Long-Run Risks
In long-run risk models – a seminal paper being Bansal and Yaron (2004) – “bad times” are not times in which consumption is low compared to the habit level, but times in which the investor also receives bad news about long-run future consumption growth. In other words, if stocks fall at times in which technology suddenly declines – meaning a permanent loss of productivity and thus future dividends on stocks – then the investor is again hit with a double whammy.
Conceptually, it is difficult to really believe that people were unhappy that their stocks fell in, say, Fall 2008, not because of anything having to do with the current economic disaster, but only because there was some news about far off future living standards. And the higher risk premium in Fall 2008 came only because of higher volatility about such long-run news. But verifying such news and the plausibility of the mechanism remains a hot research agenda in this line of work.
Idiosyncratic Risk
In idiosyncratic risk models – a seminal paper being Constantinides and Duffie (1996) – “bad times” are times in which the investor faces a lot of idiosyncratic (personal risk) to his consumption. Assume the investor is a professor coming up for tenure, and assume that the tenure process is random – which of course it is not, because in real life it is entirely based on merit and not at all on politics. Getting tenure is great, getting denied tenure is lousy, but because investors are risk averse, the pleasure of a great outcome (tenure) is less than the pain of a bad outcome (no tenure). Thus, times of big idiosyncratic risk are bad times, and if stocks just happened to go down when you come up for tenure, then stocks would be risky. But, this would require stocks to coincidentally go down precisely when lots of professors are coming up for tenure and so cross-sectional consumption volatility is high.
The mechanism is plausible – cross-sectional risks are higher in bad times. So far, the data do not seem to show enough variation in cross-sectional consumption volatility to explain the level and variation of the equity premium. But new work emphasizing the individual rare disasters shows promise.
Heterogeneous Preferences
In heterogeneous preference models – a seminal paper being Garleanu and Panageas (2015) – “bad times” are times in which investors who hold most stock become more risk averse. In idiosyncratic risk models, investors have the same preferences but face idiosyncratic risk. In heterogeneous preference models, investors don’t face idiosyncratic risk but have different preferences – specifically, different levels of risk aversion. Risk-tolerant investors hold more stock than risk-averse ones. But, when the market falls, the large stockholders lose more money. Thus, risk-tolerant investors comprise a smaller part of the overall market, and so the market as a whole becomes more risk averse – precisely when the market falls.
Intermediary Asset Pricing
In intermediary asset pricing models – a seminal paper being He and Krishnamurthy (2013) – intermediaries (such as banks) are the key investor, and “bad times” are times in which intermediaries are close to bankruptcy and so become risk averse. These models work much like habit models, where the habit (minimum level of consumption) is replaced by the level of debt the investor must repay. This requires unlevered investors (such as wealthy individuals, or university endowments) to be unable to buy stocks at the time they are cheap because levered investors are unable to.
Behavioral Models
In behavioral models, investors form expectations in irrational ways, and “bad times” are times in which expected future returns are (irrationally) low. For example, in Barberis et al. (2015), investors over-extrapolate from past returns. After the stock market has fallen, investors irrationally think that it will continue to fall (even if, in reality, past returns have no link to future returns). Thus, even though stock prices are low, they are not a “bargain”, because investors forecast expected returns to also be low.
Despite the necessary comparisons of the various approaches, really the theme of the paper is their underlying unity. They all describe state variables beyond consumption – reasons for high marginal utility in bad times – that drive the equity premium, and they all describe mechanisms for higher risk aversion in bad times. They offer much the same descriptions of aggregate data – consumption and stock prices. They are essentially different microeconomic mechanisms for the same macroeconomic phenomenon. They all inform macroeconomics that recessions deeply involve the size and variation of risk premiums. Which micro-foundation, or which combination of micro-foundations, wins out in the end will be the fascinating area for the next round of research, but it will build on this essential unity.
The field of macro-finance is far richer than the above brief summary can do justice to, and arguably the most interesting part of the paper (which occupies over a third of its length) is a “Research Agenda” highlighting new facts to be explained by future research, and other open questions. Since these open questions have not yet even been studied by experts in macro-finance, non-experts like me cannot possibly do justice to them in a summary, so I will refer the reader to the paper to these. But, I hope that this summary has piqued the interest of those outside the literature and encouraged some of you to read the paper.
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global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5589 | the RIOXX metadata application profile and guidelines
The RIOXX metadata application profile was developed for repositories to share metadata about the scholarly resources they contain. It has been deployed as a metadata application profile in approximately 70 institutional repositories in the UK, and (with support from Jisc) has software implementations in DSpace and ePrints. The need for revision While originally designed to meet the reporting requirements of Research Councils UK (RCUK), RIOXX has also proven to be generally useful as a standard for sharing metadata between repositories and network services such as large-scale metadata aggregators (e.
Pierre Lasou from Bibliothèque de l'Université Laval reported a 'bug' in RIOXX 2.0. While the documentation consistently refers to a property called 'rioxxterms:version_of_record', the schema XSD incorrectly includes a property called 'rioxxterms:version-of-record'. I have updated the schema XSD to use the correct form - rioxxterms:version_of_record. This for two reasons: underscores, rather than hyphens, are used consistently elsewhere in the RIOXX profile the only examples of this property I can find 'in the wild' have used this version So, for the avoidance of any doubt, the correct version to use is:
I'm pleased to announce that the number of repositories which declare support for RIOXX has reached 50 (a half-century in cricket parlance). See the full list here This number has grown steadily since January 2015 - quite an impressive rate of adoption. The repository systems which have implemented RIOXX are nearly all ePrints systems - but we expect the number of repositories to increase with support for DSpace coming soon.
I received the following query from Emma Sansby, Head of Library Services at Bishop Grosseteste University: I am currently leading a project to implement Eprints (hosted and supported by ULCC) at my institution. We have the RIOXX plugin installed and I have a question about the licence_ref attribute. I am creating a metadata-only journal article record into our repository which includes a DOI link to the publisher’s website. When I get to the RIOXX page I am forced to enter something under licence_ref as the attribute is mandatory, even though it’s a metadata-only record.
I'm pleased to report that we have seen our first RCUK-compliant RIOXX record in the wild. Well done to the University of Keele Research Repository! You can see the validation report, and the record itself.
Currently, all of those institutional repositories which have declared support for RIOXX are based on the ePrints software, using a plugin especially developed to support RIOXX. There is a little (although not much) information about this plugin here - Jisc paid for the work, but it is not clear from that page who actually did the development (although there is a useful list of potential sources of technical support). A manager of one of these repositories recently contacted me to suggest that the validation and reporting script (output here) was offering a distorted view of the adoptions and accuracy or RIOXX reporting because it was harvesting a sample of the first 10 records, rather than harvesting more recently created or updated records which had more chance of being RIOXX-compatible.
I'm very pleased to note that the number of instituional repositories declaring support for RIOXX has reached 30! This number has trebled in 6 months which is a healthy rate of adoption. This is due to the growing adoption of the Jisc-funded ePrints plugin. It would be good to see some other systems listed: there are, I believe, ongoing developments to introduce RIOXX support into other repository systems. Who will be next?
RIOXX operates in a similar space to OpenAIRE and so the RIOXX team at EDINA have been concerned to make the two metadata application profiles as mutually compatible as possible. Working closely with the OpenAIRE team, we have prepared a document which explains how to 'map' properties from RIOXX 2.0 to OpenAIRE 3.0, with some guidance also on mapping terms in some of the controlled vocabularies. This 'crosswalk' document can be found here.
The universities of Hull, Huddersfield and Lincoln, collaborating as HHuLOA, have been analysing RIOXX 2.0 in the context of implementation within their various repository systems. While Lincoln and Huddersfield have deployed ePrints, Hull has a Hydra repository. This is the first information I have seen from people intending to implement RIOXX in a Hydra system, so is very welcome! You can read a summary of their findings, or access the full report (PDF)
Following a very useful discussion with Mike Taylor (see comments on this post), I have split the validation of RIOXX records into two stages: a basic syntax check, following less strict rules and constraints than the full RCUK requirements a strict validation check against the full RCUK requirements The reason for doing this is to allow implementers to check that their software is correctly set-up. For example, if a RIOXX-enabling plugin for a repository is correctly configured, but the repository's metadata holds values for the 'version' which are not from the RCUK-approved vocabulary for versions, then records from that repository will fail the full RCUK validation test. |
global_01_local_0_shard_00002368_processed.jsonl/5630 | Season Home
The Lost Episode)
[NOTE: Click the links in the text to view the images]
Original & Only Air Date: 05/22/99 Pilot Features Footage From:
Zyuranger #01 - Tanjou
(The Birth)
Zyuranger #06 - Tate!! Daizyujin
(Arise!! The Great Beast God)
*Official Fox Kids Show Number KS-138 (Kids Special)
*FK Promo featured Austin St. John only, with no mention of Walter Emmanuel Jones at all!
*Aired in the "Power Rangers Power Playback" Saturday Morning Timeslot.
*Original Pilot episode produced in late 1992/ early 93. It was Haim Saban's second attempt at bringing Sentai over to America, after a failed try in the late 1980s. All other networks turned this pilot down, except Margaret Loesch of Fox Kids. After some rewriting and some slight recasting, roughly the same episode was made.
*Big Note: Some scenes of this were edited from the original product, i'll note some of the audio changes, but the others involved the cutting of some small parts of the fight scenes. The "punks vs. the Ranger teens" battle in particular was too 'violent' for FK's standards. The original version supposedly ran about 16 minutes, while this cut here is a little under 14.
*One last note, there was one more alternate version of "Day Of The Dumpster". The final one we all know and love had some different scenes between the Ranger teens and Bulk & Skull. They were reshot a while before the episode aired, since it was felt they were being too cruel to the bullies! No fan footage of this version exists, though two shots of the second pilot Morphing Call are around, somewhere. I wonder where? Wink wink, nudge nudge.
Special Title: "Power Rangers: The Lost Episode"
Special Writer: Tony Oliver Special Director: Tony Oliver
Pilot Title: "Day Of The Dumpster"
Pilot Writer: Tony Oliver Pilot Director: Strathford Hamilton
Check out the odd title font!
Austin St. John
Walter Emmanuel Jones
Amy Jo Johnson _AS_ Kimberly (Pink Ranger)
Walter Jones _AS_ Zach (Black Ranger) [Not "Zack" as in the regular series]
Austin St. John _AS_ Jason (Red Ranger)
David Yost _AS_ Billy (Blue Ranger)
Audri Dubois _AS_ Trini (Yellow Ranger)
Paul Schrier _AS_ "Punk #4" aka "Bully #3" [Not Bulk, according to Paul himself]
David Fielding _AS_ Zoltar
Richard Wood _AS_ Alpha 5 (voice)
Barbara Goodson _AS_ Rita Repulsa (voice)
Dave Mallow [As Colin Phillips] _AS_ Baboo (voice)/ Flyguy (voice?)
Michael Sorich _AS_ Squatt (voice)
Robert Axelrod _AS_ Finster (voice) [?!]
Austin St. John
Jason David Frank
Christopher Khayman Lee
Amy Jo Johnson
Catherine Sutherland
Patricia Ja Lee
David Yost
Steve Cardenas
Blake Foster
Selwyn Ward
Justin Nimmo
Walter Jones
Johnny Yong Bosch
Roger Velasco [Typo'ed as "Valasco"]
Thuy Trang
Karan Ashley
Nakia Burrise
Tracy Lynn Cruz
Jason Narvy
Paul Schrier
David Fielding
Melody Perkins
Hilary Shepard Turner [Credited, but doesn't appear!]
Gregg Bullock
Julia Jordan
Michael Gotto
Michael O'Laskey
Matthew Sakimoto
Sicily Sewell [First time her last name has ever been on PR!]
Justin Timsit
Richard Genelle (uncredited)
Royce Herron (uncredited)
Henry Cannon (uncredited)
Rajia Boroudi (uncredited)
Carol Hoyt (uncredited)
[Astronauts Finding & Opening Rita's Dumpster scene plays]
ASJ does a voice over, "10,000 years ago, Rita Repulsa was imprisoned in a Space Dumpster on the moon. She remained there until two unsuspecting astronauts opened the dumpster and changed the world, forever..."
[The rest of the first season MMPR Opening Credits plays, until after the five teens are shown Morphing into Rangers demonstratingly in the Command Center.]
[Four squares suddenly roll over the Lightning Bolt symbol striking, showing various clips from MMPR, PRZ, PRT, PRiS, and PRLG. VERY many clips, too numerous for me to name without boring you!]
WEJ voices over this, "For over 300 episodes, courageous teenagers from Angel Grove have taken on evil villains, fought desperate battles, and have turned it into the most watched kid's show in TV history: Power Rangers!"
[The MMPR logo finally forms with a bang, followed by the "Power Rangers: Lost Episode" logo, which is just the PRLG logo altered slightly.]
["Hosted By" shots pop up, showing ASJ & WEJ then and now.]
[Various PR clips roll by, followed by a quick showing of EVERY PR logo, sans MMAR.]
[As a red blazing fire serves as a backdrop, the second season ASJ, third season JDF, and PRiS CKL opening credits cast shots pop up together.]
[With a pink blazing fire backdrop, the third season AJJ, third season CS, and PRiS PJL cast shots pop up.]
[Blue blazing fire backdrop, with the second season DY, third season SC, PRiS SW cast shots popping up. Strangely, a shot of JN also appears, non-cast shot, despite how he's Silver, not Blue!]
[Black & white fire blazes in the background, as the second season WEJ, third season JYB, and PRiS RV cast shots pop up. Roger's last name misspelled, see above.]
[Yellow fire burns while the second season TT, third season KA, PRZ NB, and PRiS TLC cast shots appear. AD also gets her own cast shot, since she is technically a Yellow Ranger!]
[Orangy red fire blazes finally, as the PRT cast shot for JN & PS appears, with an "&" for DF, MP, and HST, all without cast shots.]
[The PR:LE logo appears one last time, and the MMPR theme song ends.]
Inside of the Saban Audio Recording studio, with the Gold Ranger suit on a dummy over in the left corner and the Catzord from PRT on the right, we find ASJ introducing himself to us. The giant screen behind him, and several monitors, runs a continuous stream of various PR footage specially edited to highlight various eras in the usual grid layout. ASJ states, "I'm Austin St. John of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. From studios like this one, came HUNDREDS of Morphinominal Power Ranger adventures. I tell you what, a lot of them included my bro-- the Zack Man!" WEJ walks in and shakes his pal's hand with a chuckle, while reminding us, "The Power Rangers have battled Rita Repulsa, Lord Zedd, the Machine King, Divatox, and lots of other villains to save the Earth. And, in the process, become a history making TV series. Not bad for a bunch of 'Teenagers With Attitudes'! Heh!" ASJ then informs us, "In the next half hour, we're gonna do a little retro look-back on the history of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Not to mention, the never-before-seen Pilot Episode." WEJ states cockily, "All brought to you by the coolest Ranger there ever was!" ASJ blushes, and tells his pal, "Hehe. That's cool. I'm... I'm touched. I... I NEVER knew you felt that way, man." WEJ snickers, "You ARE touched, man! I meant ME!", remarking to us, "Hehe, he's trippin'!" ASJ retorts, "Nah, see, that's not right. You got problems!" WEJ scoffs, then threatens playfully, "Hey, man. Hey, look, don't make me Morph!" ASJ reminds him, "You're retired!", he notes to us, "He don't have a Morpher anymore!" WEJ proceeds to gyrate his body, promising, "Watch out, man! I can get my Morph on! Hip-hop Kido!" ASJ tells us, "I'm a' Morph somethin' here in a minute!", playfully angrily, as his pal continues boogying.
[Clips from various MMPR Season 1 episodes plays.]
ASJ voices over, "When the show first started almost everybody thought that it was really... unique! And well, they were right! In fact, in the beginning, it was a 'different' kind of show."
[Bulk & Skull blubbering while getting brain swapped from "Switching Places" plays]
[Various scenes from Zyuranger begins to play, most from its Opening Credits.]
WEJ states, "The look and feel of the original Power Ranger Superheroes started in Japan on a popular program called 'GO RANGERS'" (Note, that while Goranger is credited in the end credits, no footage of it was used for the special, due to rights issues)
[The Zyuranger footage turns to the Morphed stuff and Zords, stuff we've seen plenty of times on MMPR.]
ASJ chimes in, "Like the Power Rangers, Go Rangers evolved and eventually became 'Zyu Rangers' (Austin properly pronounces it as 'Juu'!). Then our producers took these characters, gave them an updated look, created new stories...."
[Rare clip of all five of the Original Pilot Cast during their first screen test together!]
"...cast English-speaking actors, and a different new show idea was born."
[Mayor Carrington saying "They Are The Power Rangers!" scene from "Doomsday, Part 2"]
The clips end and we're back in the studio, with WEJ & ASJ hanging out near the PRT Cat Zord. WEJ notes, "As soon as Power Rangers took off, it began to change. I mean, there were always new villains, new Zords, and even new Rangers." ASJ anxiously chimes in, "Oh, and great new episodes! Like the one where I became the Gold Ranger." WEJ won't be upstaged and brings up, "OR, my birthday episode. Yeah!" ASJ rebuffs by mentioning, "Well, what about the one where I got to fight Goldar... ALONE!" WEJ asks, "Oh yeah? Well, what about my spider episodes!? I mean, that was cool!" ASJ concurs, talking over him, "Well that was good! But..." This segues the two into getting lost in arguing loudly. They finally calm down, both smiling, while remembering they're still on camera. WEJ states, "Uhh, well, it wasn't as good as your movie performance." ASJ returns the compliment, "But you know what? I loved you Hip-hop Kido episodes!" WEJ agrees, "Yeah! That was cool!" ASJ does a few mock moves, adding, "Thingamajig!" WEJ ends their whizzing contest, "Alright, check it out. Why don't we just... move on to the next segment?" ASJ concurs, "Move on!"
[The Entire Story Of Power Rangers In Just Over A Minute begins. I'd run it down for you, but it's already been done as complete as possible. It's located here: http://rovang.simplenet.com/wg/prstory.htm ]
In the studio, the camera zooms out from the Gold Ranger helmet to ASJ, who shouts, "Comin' Up!"
[The grid of infinite PR scenes and logos takes over the screen. Here's what MMPR looks like, here's what PRZ looks like, here's what PRT looks like, here's what PRIS looks like, and here's what PRLG looks like.]
WEJ tells us what's coming up by voicing over, "A tribute to past Power Rangers cast members, and the never before seen ORIGINAL pilot episode!"
In the Studio again, ASJ says, "It all happens...!" WEJ finishes, "... When we get back!" They repeat, "Back here." over and over, while waving to the camera to remind us where they'll be as it pans back in the studio.
ASJ notes, "Through over 300 episodes, there've been a LOT of different actors. MANY different Power Rangers." WEJ says, "We thought it would be cool to do a little tribute, and show you all the faces that made PR the great show it is."
[:45 second tribute to various cast members mixed-up with shots from MMPR, MMAR, PRZ, PRT & PRiS. Mighty RAW's "We Need A Hero" plays vocally over it.]
ASJ informs us, "Okay! Now it's time, for what we've ALL been waiting for: the very first broadcast of the never before seen pilot episode, of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers." (legally, that is. Bootleg copies of it have been around for eons!) WEJ remarks, "Now, you'll probably notice a few differences from the series. The most obvious being the character Trini. She's played by Audri DuBois, instead of Thuy Trang, who actually joined the cast as we finished the pilot. Oh, now, also check out Alpha (causing ASJ to burst out laughing), because Alpha has a different look, as does Zordon, who's actually called 'Zoltar' in this version." ASJ invites us to, "See if you spot some of the other differences as you watch this 'very special' pilot episode, of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. Have fun!" He smiles and looks to WEJ. The two of them start giggling, as the camera fades to the multi-screen behind them.
At an unnamed, nondescript Bowling Alley somewhere in Angel Grove, we find quite a busy scene. Balls are striking at pins like crazy, proving this is one happening place for the teenagers of the city. Zach, a young black teenager wearing black pants and an ugly sleeveless vest, slides in, his status being that of apparently one of the most popular youths in the city. He sees a girl he recognizes and grabs her hand, giving her a kiss on the cheek, causing her to giggle and say, "Heheh! Hey, Zach!" He continues smiling and greeting a group of fellow teens, slapping on fellow brotha five, and proclaiming aloud, "Never fear! The Zach Man is HERE!" Zach walks along the front counter, shouting "Wassup?!" & "What's happenin'?!" repeatedly to each and every teen sitting there, also slapping each one five. Have I mentioned how popular this place is? Did the Pilot Universe spawn from the movie "Grease 2"?! Jason, a dark haired and muscular teen, wearing a short-sleeved white shirt with a red one underneath, is getting ready to bowl a ball, but takes the time to show off his martial arts skills by whipping it around in his hand while getting in position. On the next lane, a petite brunette teen, Kimberly, very gracefully gets ready to bowl, while wearing a black tanktop and pink shorts. Zach, who's wearing a black shirt with a multicolored vest, continues on his trip, giving props to all his unnamed homies of various races and creeds, including a blonde girl named Katie. At the double lanes where Jason & Kimberly are bowling, we find Billy & Trini sitting at the scoreboard. Billy, a brown haired teen with Buddy Holly-type glasses and blue overshirt, explains to Trini, a Hispanic (or French, quite possibly an Eskimo) masculine female who wears a white top and yellow pants, about the proper way to bowl. He explains overintelligently, "And then the sphere will have an angular decay of 3.1 to the minus 10 with a drag coefficient of .9875." Trini understands completely, and translates into laymen's terms, "Oh! So, in other words, if I spin the ball and I aim for the pocket, i'm gonna get a strike?" Billy agrees, "Affirmative!" Zach then comes up behind them and pats them on the back, saying, "Yo, Trini! Billy! Wassup?!" The three are apparently intimate pals, replying happily to him, "Hey, Zach!" Jason is still achieving meditational status with his ball, about to reach a moment of perfect strike-bowling Zen, when Zach sneaks up behind him and shouts, "Yo Jase!" Jason is stunned, and his ball miserably rolls towards the gutter. Jason playfully beats into Zach's chest, complaining, "Very funny! I had a PERFECT game goin'!" They shrug it off with a powerful buddying handshake and hug. Kimberly calls out snobbily, "Excuse ME?! I'm trying to bowl a strike over here!" Jason blames Zach, saying, "Hey, it's HIS fault!" Zach squabbles back playfully, "Say what?! Nah, HEY!" Kimberly ignores them, and returns to her swanlike stance. She proceeds to bowl, only to have the ball slip out of her delicate fingers on the underswing. It flies back behind her, landing on a nearby table, smashing the chili-dog and sending its contents heaving into the face of a nearby leather jacket-clad dark haired punk. Kimberly whines, "Ohhhh! I BROKE my NAIL!", turning her attention only to her pretty pink fingernails.
One of the other Bullies (the "Bulk" one, aka #3), is a bit disturbed, and i'm not talking just about his freaky hairstyle! He calls out, "Hey, man!", as he stands up, slipping on the chili debris and causing him to fall to the ground harshly. Kim continues whining about her nail, "Ughhhh!" The first Bully wipes off his chili-covered face and leather jacket, and calls out to his posse, who are all sitting at the booth parallel to our five new teenage friends. What a bunch of badass punks worth their salt would be doing hanging around a bowling alley, I dunno. Anyway, one guy says, "Yo, Spazzo!", and another claims, "C'mon, let's mess 'em up!" The group of bullies oblige, including #3, who recovers from his slip rather angrily. The Chili-covered First Bully walks over to Kim, who is still mourning the loss of her nail. He tells her, "Hey, you're gonna pay for this," showing her his messy outfit, "BIG time!" Witnessing this confrontation, Billy stands up and nervously asks, "Excuse me, may I interrupt?" Bully #3 comes up behind him, grabs his shoulder, belches, and yells, "Sit down, Dork!", physically forcing the geek back to his seat. Bully #1 clenches his fingers around Kim's chin, telling her, "Yeah, well, you can make it up to me tonight. At the movies..." She won't have any of that, slapping his hand away and telling him, "Sorry, but I don't date non-humans." He won't take no, attempting to force a chili-covered kiss on her, before she shoves him off with a loud squeal of, "Ahh! Get out of my face, you...!" Bully #2, wearing blue flannel and a headband, walks up close to Zach and asks, "What are YOU lookin' at?!", prompting Zach to push him with a yell of "Yo, back off!" Trini takes on #1, slapping her hands against his chest and sticking up for Kim by telling him, "Hey! Leave her alone!" He has, as the blonde Female Bully (who, IIRC, appeared on some early MMPR episodes as well) then starts to get up on Kimberly, pushing Kim around personally. Kim cries, "Cut it out!" #2 shoves Zach, inspiring Jason to intimidate the bully with a shout of, "Watch it!" Zach cuts his pal off, telling him, "I got this." #1, a face-friendly Bully, places his hands around Trini's head, rubbing her skin and asking, "You gonna MAKE me, little girl?" Trini replies with a confident, "uh-huh!", and a swift, loud kiyaahing chop to his arm, then another, a face swipe, followed by a full body toss. Bully #2 and #3 have teamed up in front of the lanes, as Jason now tells his partner, "Take 'em out, Zach!" Zach remarks to Jase, "Yeah, man. Check this!" He begins jiving some Hip Hop moves, shaking his groove thang (not to be confused with Thuy) to an imaginary beat. #3 asks, "So, you gonna DANCE, or ya gonna FIGHT, sissy?!" His answer comes when Zach drops to the ground and sends his feet flying upwards into #2 & #3's faces, shouting, "I'm gonna FIGHT!" Nearby, Kimberly is still tangled with the Female Bully, they're locked in Mortal Cat Fight, with Kim remarking, "Let go of me, Bleach Head!" #1 throws a punch at Trini, but she ducks and tosses a kick into him, sending his body into the Ball Return, knocking him over once more. Billy, sitting safely at the scoreboard, makes funny faces at the sight of each painful blow, as the crowd of onlookers gathered behind him let out "Oohs" and "ahhs" and "that's gotta hurt" type sound effects.
Zach flips away from the laid-up Bully #2 & 3, before slapping Jason's hand and tagging him, claiming, "My turn!" Jason waits for #2 to stand, and he fakes him out by almost throwing his bowling ball in his face, followed by an actual kick to the head. They don't show it (apparently, on the uncensored 90th generation bootleg of this pilot, blows to the face are indeed shown) but instead let the sound effects speak for themselves as Billy makes some more faces for us. With #2 down, #3 staggers his hefty self up. Jason uses his bowling ball in action, blocking the bully's attacks and keeping his eyes busy by dropping the ball and kicking the crap out of him. This is concluded with a kick to the ass, as Jason shouts, "See ya!", Billy makes another wowed face, and Bully #3 slides down the bowling aisle, screaming until his messy-haired head smashes into the pins. Billy pumps his fist and cries, "Strike!" Trini jumps at #1 and kicks him back to the floor. Billy shouts, "Strike 2!" for that one. Kimberly & Female Bully continue shoving. Kim finally does a full backflip, kicking near the bully's face with her feet as she does. The female bully charges at her, but Kim simply shoves the girl down and flips over her weary body. Billy swipes his arms at this with a shout of, "Safe!" Trini, quite the angry feminist, screams viciously as she punts Bully #1 against the large television set nearby. Billy yells, "Strikes 3! You're out!" so excitedly, that his flying fist ends up striking the gut of Bully #2, just as he lunges for the brainy boy. Billy is taken aback, until he hears the large crowd of people behind him begin to applaud. Bully #1 has been knocked unconscious, and as his body slides down the front of the television, we see that Samurai Pizza Cats is on. Or at least, it was on, until it gets cut off by a special report! Footage of the moon is shown, as the unseen anchorman exclaims, "We interrupt this program with a special report! We take you LIVE, to the moon, where astronauts are about to uncover what may be the first alien object ever found!" We next see two astronauts on a desert landscape, with their space shuttle landed far behind them. The Earth is within view, but then again, so is the Moon! On MMPR, this scene takes place on Rita's Planetoid (aka Nemesis). Perhaps in the Pilot Universe, the location of her Dumpster was switched! Anyway, the lack of any camera kinda prevents this from possibly being a "live broadcast", and since nobody on Earth reacts to the next events, apparently the news-crew must have cut off the signal early! Or maybe it's all just a voice transmission? Anyway, the first astronaut asks his partner, "Hey, you smell something funny?" To which the other astronaut replies, "Nah, maybe it's your space suit!" The first one takes a look around and when he spots a glowing red ruby shining in the distance, he points out, "I think it's coming from THERE!" The second one gets a whiff (which might be hard, since he's in a controlled environment suit, not to mention the lack of air outside) and realizes, "Yeah! Now I smell it! Check it out!".
The two astronauts find the source of the stench, a large golden cylinder, which the second astronaut claims, "It looks like a big trash dumpster. Wow! It stinks! Let's open 'er up!" He quickly clasps his fingers around the shining ruby atop the dumpster, just before the two of them manage to lift the lid off the object. The astronauts tumble to the dirt as a forcewave explodes from within the dumpster, releasing several streaks of energy! They spin around and form into four solid, evilly laughing creatures on the horizon. One of the astronauts wonders, "Hey, what's THAT?!", but the other one cries, "I'm not waiting to find out!" The two astronauts (more like astronuts!) quickly stumble and crawl away, attempting to escape from the newly freed Evil Space Aliens. Squatt, the runty blue dwarf, returns to the dumpster, banging on the rim and grunting in a raspy voice, "Hey, Rita! Wake up! C'mon, c'mon, we're FREEE!" Suddenly, a strange old Asian looking alien witch with vikingy attire, named Rita Repulsa, emerges from inside the dumpster. She lets out a loud yawn, prompting Squatt to denote, "Ahh, morning breath!", as he scrambles into his bag, claiming, "Here's a mint!" Baboo, the blue baboon, waddles over and slaps him on the head. Finster, the white dogfaced one, slaps his forehead, chuckles, and remarks in a deep, gravely voice (NOTHING like his MMPR voice), "After 10,000 years, it's GOOD to be free again!" Baboo offers assistance to Rita, "Let me help you, oh, powerful one." He takes her hand and guides her out, crooning, "Walk with MEEE, talk with MEEE..." She's annoyed, as when helping her out, she staggers, remarking, "Ohh, geez. You made me step in a PUDDLE!" She shoves him aside, and urges (sounding oddly more calmer here than in MMPR, almost Joan Rivers-like), "Out of my way, monkey face!". Rita uses her roundish magic wand to shoot off a blast of power, which reduces the entire space dumpster prison to smithereens! The two astronauts are still lurking around, groveling in terror next to one another just a few feet from the exploding remains of the dumpster. The Evil Space Aliens cheer at the destruction of their longtime home. Rita turns to the astronauts and mentions, "So, you want help getting away, do you? I think I can arrange THAT!" She instantly spews forth a toxic breath burst, causing the astronauts to tumble off along the ground, never to be seen or mentioned again. They're probably still up there, searching for new ways to accidentally doom mankind by their ignorance. Or perhaps they returned to Earth safely, and began wandering the deserts of Egypt, seeking ruined oasis's. Anyway, Rita Repulsa and her minions turn towards the big blue orb in the sky, the planet Earth, with Rita saying, "To celebrate our freedom, I think we should pay the Earth a visit. And then... DESTROY it!" Rita Repulsa aims her magic wand at the planet, and fires off a huge beam of pink energy.
The beam hits Africa, but in actuality, it swings around and strikes Angel Grove. This blast of energy causes a tall skyscraper to begin driving itself down the street, until it reaches a dead-end, and takes off like a rocket into space! The magical disturbance shakes the entire town like an Earthquake, the bowling alley hit especially hard. How the TV was showing scenes of the moving building when it happened so suddenly is a mystery (Pilot Universe has magical psychic reporters!). Anyway, the building quakes, the pins topple, the people cry and flee in a panic. Our five young bully fighters have rounded the group of four beaten punks into a small heap. What they were planning to do to them there was unclear, but I get the feel much ball breaking was in store. The five courageous teenagers with attitudes start to wobble and fall over as the waxed laned Earth moves violently beneath their feet. Zach & Jason help Kimberly up as she remarks, "Great, just what we needed, an Earthquake!" Billy helps Trini up and notes ominously, "No. That was no Earthquake", despite how the Earthquake continues to occur! Meanwhile, on the outskirts of the city, we find the Command Center (with the same "mountain exterior" shot as would be used for years), also being rocked. Inside, in the central console room (which is designed with far more blue, green and pink neon lights than in MMPR, plus taller pillars, and lots of static-y small TV monitors in the consoles). It's much better lit, showing the scope of the futuristic styled room as being quite large), Alpha 5 exclaims in fear, "Oh, my! Oh, my! What is all the shaking? It's the BIG one! I know it! I know it! We'll shake apart!" Alpha is, well... Alpha's quite a mess in terms of design here. He's got the similar gold domed head with blinking red-lights in his visor-line eye, but has a fin running down the top of his head. His body looks like it's made of tons of padding, with a few grids of lights and wires strew in various areas. It's quite crude, but if you squint real tightly, he pretty much looks the same. The massive GREEN tube located directly against the wall facing the circle of electric consoles suddenly has a giant head inside of it. The head looks warpy and wavy, like it's strained through water or some such. The head inside, is of a creature named Zoltar, his facial transmission appearing quite clearer than Zordon's ever did on MMPR, as he can truly see his mouth and lips moving in time with his speech! Zoltar pops on the tube, and just after the Earthquaking ceases, he stresses in a deep, booming voice, "Calm down, Alpha! It's Rita. She's escaped and she's attacking the planet." Alpha nervously hits a few buttons, and asks, "How can you be so sure, Zoltar?!" The big green head replies, "My sensor array picked up her evil vibration!" Alpha whines, "We'll be destroyed! I KNOW it!" Zoltar tells the robot, "Initiate Plan B, immediately!" Alpha sighs, "Ahh, what IS Plan B?" Zoltar frustratedly references Doctor Forrester, by demanding, "Just PUSH the button, Alpha!" Alpha still wonders, "But what will THAT do?!" Zoltar explains (with Alpha anxiously adding 'yes, yes!' repeatedly throughout), "Teleport to us the most DANGEROUS group of ruthless, underhanded, overbearing, self-absorbed and overemotional humans in the area." Alpha clutches his domed head in shock, exclaiming, "NO! Not... TEENAGERS!" Zoltar confirms, "Cor-rect!" Alpha focuses on the console, and obeys, complaining seemingly playfully, "I was AFRAID of that..."
At the bowling alley, the Earthquaking has apparently never halted. The five bully beating teens are still standing together, and from what we see, they're totally alone now. Jason urges, "Everybody, chill out!" Suddenly, Zach's body stretches into the sky, warping strangely for a moment before being yanked into the air! Kim, Jason, Billy, and Trini all follow in succession, each one gasping in fright. Before they know it, all five have been converted into streaks of pure energy, surging across the city, and past the range of mountains. The screen is tinted crimson, as the five bolts of energy (matching their Ranger colors, this scene shown on MMPR) zoom towards their destination. After a collective, "Whooooah!", Kim asks, "What's happening?!" Billy explains, "We seem to be demolecularized!" Jason wonders, "What's that?", and Billy replies dumbfoundedly, "Nevermind, I don't understand it MYSELF!" The five streaks of light converge on the Command Center, entering through the hole in the roof, and dropping down in the console room. The two adjacent pillars flash their energy forms with charges of electricity, reverting all five into their normal human forms in a sudden heap. The teens recover, groaning, and begin looking around. Alpha stands before them, bidding, "Greetings, dudes and dudettes!" Billy walks over to the bot, and gasps wide-eyedly, "Wowww! A fully sentient, multifunctional, automaton!" He presses a random button on Alpha's chest plate, causing the bot to whir loudly and spin around. Billy is amused, remarking with wonder, "Whoahhhh!" Zoltar greets them loudly, "Welcome, humans!" The five teens stare agape, up at the green head in the equally green tube. Another collective, "Whoah!", passes through the lips. Jason points at him and asks, "So... WHO is that?" Kim adds, "Like, WHAT is that?!" Alpha explains, as the humbly floating head simply smiles, "THAT is Zoltar, an inter-dimensional being caught in a Time Warp!" The robot bows before them slightly, and continues, "MY name, is Alpha 5, his trusted assistant." (Closed Captions call him 'Alpha Phi', which could be a fun Pilot Universe differentiation, wouldn't it?) Zach scoffs, "Yeah, RIGHT! And i'm a Ninja Turtle!" (Jason visibly finds this remark quite laughable, as he stands there with his arms crossed) Billy understands everything, excitedly noting about Zoltar, "An inter-temporal, cross-dimensional, super-being with outward verbal communication! How PRODIGIOUS!" Zach asks for a translation, "What'd he say?!" Trini reveals, "He said, this guy's AWESOME!" Kimberly confusedly states, "Excuse me, will somebody come back to Earth and pick me up, because I am REALLY confused." Zoltar ceases smiling silently, by telling her, "It's quite simple, my dear! The planet is under attack, and I have brought you here to SAVE it."
Zach scoffs again, "Oh, yeah, RIGHT!" Zoltar bemusedly looks at the teen, and remarks, "Ahhh. A nonbeliever! BEHOLD!" Instantly a viewing screen appears overhead, just to the side of Zoltar's huge noggin. Billy points out, "Look! A proton projection!" The image on the hologram-like screen shows the flying skyscraper from earlier, as it lowers back down to Earth. Also included is the crazy witch from earlier, with Zoltar narrating, "THIS is Rita Repulsa. An alien bent on controlling the universe. And she's decided to begin... on Earth." The photon screen shows various Asian scientists running around and falling over as the quake occurs. Then, we see Rita, riding on a little flying Penny Farthing bike through the air, as the winged golden-armored Griffin named Goldar swoops along behind her over the city. We also see the skyscraper, which has landed back in the city. It now has a tall, spiraling castle atop it, with the words "Bandra Palace" in neon above the front door. Jason asks, "If she's so dangerous, why don't YOU fight here?" Zoltar, in an obviously redubbed voice by someone possibly other than Fielding, explains, "Because LONG ago, she trapped me in a Time Warp." Rita glides along, and eventually fires her magic wand at a building, igniting it into flames. It explodes, along with several other buildings at once! She laughs wickedly, just before the image cuts off, shrinking like the image on an old picture tubed TV screen when turned off. Trini states enthusiastically, "I KNOW it's scary, but what does all of THIS have to do with US?!" Zoltar reveals, "You have been chosen to form an elite team to battle Rita. As teenagers, the future of the planet is YOURS. And you are now called upon to defend that future! Each of you will be given access to EXTRAORDINARY powers, drawn from the spirits of the ancient creatures YOU call... Dinosaurs!" The captive audience breaks their silence, when they all shouts in shock together, "DINO-saurs?!" Zoltar continues, by saying, "Jason, you shall have the power of the Tyrannosaurus. Bold & Mighty!" We see Jason, minding his own business, when suddenly he morphs before us, turning into the head of an actual T-Rex! Next, Zoltar addresses, "Zachary, the power of the mastodon. Clever & Brave." Zach smiles, before morphing into a woolly mammoth. Zoltar adds, "Kimberly, your power comes from he Pterodactyl. Cunning & Quick!" Kim shrugs her shoulders, and morphs her body into that of an actual still-frame of a Pterodactyl. Zoltar continues, "Billy, you draw from the Triceratops! Patient & Smart!" Billy grins, and turns his head, as he morphs into said frozen tri-horned dino. Zoltar concludes, "And Trini, your power comes from the Sabertoothed Tiger. Fierce & Agile!" Trini smiles and extends her arm out, to match the shot of the ancient Sabertooth she briefly morphs into, before reverting back.
When the five teens emerge from their brief brush with morphing-ness, they find they've each gained unusually large belt buckles. They inspect them curiously, while Billy has his already slipped off, and braces it across his fist, as he asks, "Excuse me, uhh, Zoltar? What is the purpose of these... extraterrestrial energy conductors?" Zoltar explains, "Ahh! Those are your Transmorphers. When in danger, insert the Power Coin, raise it to the sky, and call the name of your dinosaur. A universe of power will be at YOUR command! Together, the five of you will form an awesome fighting force, know to one and all... as the Power Rangers!" Zach tries working this confusing development aloud, saying, "Yo, let me get this straight! So, you zapped us here, so, we could save the world...?" Kim adds, "... By becoming GIANT slimy lizards... ?!" Billy also adds, "... And battling a malevolent sorceress named Rita... ?!" Jason then adds, "... Who destroys cities... " And Trini concludes, "... While riding a flying BIKE?!" Alpha 5 screams in confirmation, "YES!" Zach refuses to have an open mind, looking at the bot like he's crazy, and stating in disbelief, "No! No way, i'm OUTTA here. Uhh, it's been real, but... I gotta go! Ya'll comin'?" Jason appears to have doubts, wanting to remain behind, but is quickly pulled away by Kimberly, who quips to Alpha & Zoltar, "See ya!" Billy hesitantly follows Trini, and continues the snide good-bye, by adding, "Wouldn't wanna be ya." Alpha tries reasoning with them, pleading, "P-please! Uhh, halt! D-dudes?!" They ignore him, and follow the darkened corridor with the trail of runway lights at the bottom, to wherever the exit must be. Alpha sighs in despair, before turning around and defeatedly asking Zoltar, "That didn't go very well, did it?" The optimistic alien sage comforts the robot, informing him warmly, "Don't worry, Alpha. They'll come around." Alpha rubs his ovenmitt-like hands to his eyeline blinking visor, and sobs gently, "Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi...."
The five teens exit out of the dark console room, and find themselves in the sunny exterior of the massive Command Center complex. They wander around, and soon spot a patch of dirt, leading out in the mountainous deserts surrounding the building. They talk over one another loudly, with Jason being most focus, arguing, "I mean, think about it. I'm saying we can do this. C'mon, don't you guys think we can!? We can DO this! What's the problem here? Come on, listen to me! I think we can does this!" Kimberly throws her arms up, and says something the effect of, "What-EVER!" The others also ignore Jason's pleads, replying negatively as they head into the desert. Kim complains, "Great, we're out in the middle of NOwhere!" Billy concurs, "Yeah!" Jason uses this wandering nomadic excuse to note, "We shouldn't have left. I mean, he chose US to save the world! I say we do it!" Trini squintly asks, "Do you REALLY think we could?!" He confirms, "Yeah!" Zach follows behind, staggering along the dusty hillside, asking, "Are you two CRAZY?! Do you hear what you're sayin'?!" Meanwhile, up on the moon (err, I think. We just saw her palace on Earth, so how did it get back to the moon so quickly?!), Rita Repulsa peers through a telescope of her own design, and watches the five teens walking through the desert. She gasps, "What?! It CAN'T be!" Rita turns away from the scope and groans to Goldar, "Teenagers?! Zoltar must be behind this." She glances over to a cuckoo clock with a skull on it, and becomes much happier, remarking, "Hahaha! Gamma rays, and burning gold, let them fight my Putty Patrol!" Squatt rubs his belly, gulps loudly, and wipes his fanged mouth for some reason. Rita heads over to a strange Roman architectured area of the room, with a burning flame nearby. She aims her magic wand into the air, and demands, "Take THAT!" She fires a bolt of pink energy, which blasts into the rocky area behind the five teens! This shot, of the explosion ripping out and shaking the ground in the desert, was actually reused in MMPR (despite how the teens clothes here differ from MMPR)! The teens wobble and cry, "Whoah!" Kim crouches down and screams, "Ahhh!" Suddenly, from the charred blast crate, several grey-skinned creatures pop out and swarm upon the teens. They're the Putty Patrollers, and though they look like they do in MMPR, their outfits a bit cruder (including how you can see the human actors' eyes around the edges of the large eyeholes). Trini shouts disturbed, "Great!" Jason quickly takes command, telling his pal, "Everybody stay together! Zach, those two." Zach dances across the dirt, replying, "Right, these two are MINE!" He faces the pair of Putties, busting a move for them, before swiftly jumping up and attempting to kick one in the chest. The kick slams into what sounds like metal, causing Zach to groan to his pals, "Uh-oh." Trini notes, "This is GONNA hurt!"
The two Putties that Zach was facing now have Kimberly grasped between their clutches. Zach is unable to fight back, due to one of them striking him with a grab and a kick. He flies off, slamming into Billy, causing them both to fall to the ground in a heap, as two Putties stand calmly guarding in the background. Trini begins to throw quick, hiyaahing kicks into a Putty, getting only metal-slamming sounds in return. Kimberly tries to break out of the Putties' grasp, by flipping herself over in their arms. This fails to twist them up, instead prompting them to simultaneously pitch her aside, sending her squealingly slamming into the pile with Zach & Billy. Trini puts up a good fight with her Putty, blocking his punches smoothly. She tries returning the hits, but it's like striking a brick wall. Trini ends up in a lock with him, allowing the creature to toss her over to her three pals. She lands right on top of Kimberly, rather suggestively. Jason is the last man standing, facing several Putties at once. He gives a direct punch into the gut of a single Putty, but it doesn't even faze the drone. Jase begins tossing kicks and punches in a continued series, all blows taken, and some returned. As Jason struggles to keep things at a stalemate, Kim whines from the pile, "This day is TOO WEIRD!" Trini shakes her head in a daze, just before Jason finally is struck by a kick, and sent tumbling into the stack along with his friends. More "woah"s are exclaimed, and breathlessly, Zach quips, "Well, it looks like we GOT 'em!" Kim adds, "Yeah, right where they WANT us!" Two silent Putties, incredibly calm (compared to the MMPR universe ones, which are always fidgeting and warbling), look at each other, grunting, "He-yuh?!" Trini wonders, "What're we gonna do now?!" (she's pinned down in one shot, but in the next, she's sitting up!) Kim suggests, "How 'bout scream for help?" Trini shakes her head, saying, "No". Jason scoffs, "Nah." Billy & Zach look at each other, and start the charge by screaming fearfully, "HAAAAAAAAALP!" The other three quickly join in. Jason suddenly spots the strange belt buckle Zoltar gave them earlier. His had fallen off his belt in the fall, and is lying in the dirt. Jase picks it up, and shouts, "Wait! Use the Transmorphers! NOW!" The five teens hurry to stand on their feet, while the Putties remain silent and still, surrounding them quite patiently (most stand with their arms on their hips, in Superman-pose).
Inspired by Jason's determination, the teens do as he says. Using a four-grid screen (showing the Zyuranger actors in each one, aiming their buckles at the camera, with the coins within glowing continuously the individual Ranger power color), they call upon their powers. Top left: Kimberly holds her Transmorpher up in her right hand, shouting, "Pterodactyl!" as her buckle pops open, with the coin inside. Bottom right: Trini does the same with her Transmorpher, shouting, "Sabertoothed Tiger!" Top right: Zach also aims his Transmorpher, summoning, "Mastodon!" Bottom left, Billy holds his Transmorpher up, and steadily says, "Triceratops." The four grid is replaced by a single shot (of ZyuRed holding his buckle out), with Jason appearing inside it, stating, "Tyrannosaurus!" A blurry image passes by, showing Jason with a Red Ranger helmet on, but his normal clothes on the rest of his body. The image quickly fades, into the fully morphed mighty team, proclaiming their names as, "Power Rangers!!!" The Pink, Yellow, Red, Black, and Blue Rangers stand together in the desert, holding their special weapons in hand. Notice, the Sentai footage on the pilot is very grainy, even more so than any other episode. Anyway, the two Putties from earlier watch this, and grunt confusedly at one another. One of them even scratches his head, confused as to why they keep showing these guys up close when you can see the human eyes within their crappily designed suits (this clip, a tad few around it, were reused in "Foul Play In The Sky" for Kim's flashback!). The five Rangers scramble, and suddenly regroup, to hold their weapons and proclaim again, "POWER RANGERS!" At the Command Center, Alpha 5 excitedly presses some buttons, exclaiming, "Zoltar, they've DONE it! They've MADE the metamorphosis!" The giant green head replies, "Good! Teleport them to downtown Angel Grove City. Rita just sent down Flyguy!" Alpha holds his hands in the air, as always, and obeys, "Right away, Zoltar!" In the desert, the five Power Rangers leap into the air, completely leaving us out of whatever happened with the Putties. The traditional, "Go Go Power Rangers" theme-song plays, mostly instrumental. The teens revert to streaks of light, as seen earlier. Billy notes, "We're teleporting again!" The five Rangers suddenly land atop a building, and though Red Ranger holds his hand outward, he remains silent. Goldar (or whatever he's called in the Pilot Universe. He and the other Evil Space Aliens could all be named Frankenbeans for all we know) leaps off an upper level, and lands on the roof the Rangers are standing on. He's quite silent as well, causing a group of much more active Putty Patrollers to appear around him. Red, Black, Blue, and Pink Rangers take on these Putties, which swarm around them rapidly. Kicks, punches, and even flips are thrown, and somehow, the energy from their new Morphed bodies makes the teens much better fighters against the claybrain drones. Yellow Ranger actually has something to say, as she hops on a Putty, takes him down, then leaps atop an upper level. She pulls out her red Saber weapon in her holster, switches it around to Blaster mode, and aims it down at the Putties below. Trini demands violently, "Alright, Dweebs! DANCE!", as she fires bolts of laserpower at the feet of the three Putty Patrollers.
On the moon (?!) palace, Rita Repulsa readies her magic wand, angrily snarling, "Ooh! I'll show you teenagers. You'll see how it goes when Flyguy GROOOOOWS!" Goldar is standing behind her in this shot, without his wings. Did he get them clipped off in battle and returned home to cry to mommy? Anyway, Rita pitches her wand off the side of the balcony, sending it flying through space, slamming into the desert ground. It sends a surge of power into the dirt, causing the ground to rip open and for fire to spew forth. A brand new monster suddenly appears (King Sphinx in MMPR), apparently the Flyguy she referred to. The energy from her wand causes the creature to become a giant, grunting and growling through the mist. Red Ranger is standing near a very brightly reflecting pool of water in the desert, holding a red popsicle into the air. Jason commands, "I call on the power of the Tyrannosaurus!" The ground rips open again, and through the molten hot Earth, springs a robotic T-Rex! In our universe, it's the Tyrannosaurus Dinozord. Here in the Pilot Universe, it's known as the Tyranno-Droid! It growls quietly, and soon appears on the scene, allowing Red Ranger to hop atop its head. He yells, "Alright, let's GO, guys!", before slipping through a door in the T-Rex's head, and falling into the cockpit. It's a roomy single-occupant cockpit, with a red T-Rex symbol behind it. Jason admires, "Whoah! Cool!", as he does some control clutching. After a flash of light, the other four Power Rangers race through the yard, with Pink Ranger crying, "Hey, wait for us!" Each one leaps into the air, and lands in an unseen Dynodroid. Red Ranger shouts, "POWER Rangers! Count off!" Black Ranger falls into a Masto-Droid cockpit, claiming, "Zach, here! This is KICKIN'!" Blue Ranger slides into a Tricera-Droid cockpit, and replies, "This is Billy. I'm nominal!" Yellow Ranger hops into a Sabre-Droid, exclaiming, "Trini, here. This is GREAT!" Pink Ranger lands into her Ptera-Droid cockpit, and remarks impressedly, "Hey, nice STERE-O!" Red Ranger tells them, as he clutches his red popsicle, "Use your crystals to activate the dyno-power, NOW!" He inserts his pops..err, crystal into a slot, as do the others with their own colored crystals, all shouting in unison, "Rock and ROLL!" Jason shifts the gear, and asks, "Is this a great ride... or WHAT?!" The five Dyno-Droids are shown racing along, and preparing to come together. It should be noted, that in the Pilot Episode special, all vocal remarks to the Zords being called Droids are erased. They actually loop in Thuy Trang's voice of saying, "Trini here! Ready to ROCK!" Cutting into Pilot Trini saying in a different tone, "Comin' AT ya!" This was to hide a line (which, btw, is oddly Closed Captioned!) where Pilot Trini states, "Trini in the Sabre-Droid. Comin' AT ya!" Again with the looping, as Pilot Billy says, "Billy in the Tricera-Droid. All systems GO!", but is replaced by, "This is Billy. All systems GO!" One more time, with Pilot Zach claiming, "Yo, this is Zach! Me and my Masto-Droid are right on target!", while normal Zack says, "Zack here! This is KICKIN'!"
The five Droids come together, into the Megazor... err, MegaDynoDroid in, uhh, tank mode. The Rangers sit together in the combined cockpit, all grunting as they're suddenly deposited into it. Red Ranger urges, "Let's nail some BAD guys!" The team responds in unison, "Morphin'!" Blue Ranger notes, "This leaves me quite ebullient!" Pink Ranger figures, "I guess that means he LIKES it!" Their attention turns to Flyguy, who stands aside as a now-giant Goldar joins the fight. He charges up his sword, and fires it at the approaching Megadroid. Black Ranger remarks, "Uh-oh! It looks like ugly man brought a friend!" The cockpit is rocked for a moment, until Zach orders, "Hit 'em with the Dyno-power!" The Megadroid unleashes a burst of energy, which hits both Goldar & Flyguy. Yellow Ranger wonders, "What do we do now?!" Red Ranger states, "Activating the MegaDynoDroid!" (though the MMPR Jason voice is cut in to say instead "Activating Megazord BATTLE Mode!") A computer voice announces, "MegaDynoDroid transformation has been initiated!" (but instead, the MMPR voice cuts in, and says "Megazord Mode has been initiated") The structure shifts around, into humanoid stance, and once the Ptera-Droid flies in to lock on the chest and head pops out, the computer voice claims, "MegaDynoDroid activated!" (the line's cut, but nothing is filled in. Also notice numerous sound effects changes from the normal version, despite how the music remains the same) Flyguy charges forth, only to get a jolt from a surge of energy fired from MegaDynoDroid's horns! While he and the ever-silent Goldar recover from the blast, the Megadroid pulls out a large sword, which sparkles magnificently. Flyguy gasps, "Uh-oh", which seems to be the secret word for today. Rita, watching this through her scope, also gasps, "Uh-oh", officially making the Pilot Universe's nickname as "The Uh-Oh Cosmos". The five Power Rangers, in the cockpit, chop into the air with their right hands, shouting, "Hiyaah!" Megadroid raises its Sword, charging it up as its eyes flash and a crimson squall of clouds converge behind it. Just before lightning strikes the sword, Jason asks, "Hey, ugly. How 'bout some Mega DYNO power?!" Flyguy growls, and trembles, as the sword is lowered, and a slash of energy tears through him. He cries, "Owwww, that HURT! Awwww...", as his body falls limply to the ground, and explodes massively. Goldar appears to have snuck away yet again, the slippery mute. Our heroes cheer, "Wooo!", "Yeah!", "We did it!", "Alright!" On the moon, Rita Repulsa lifts her leg up onto something, and screams, "Oh no. UGHHHH! I've got such a... a headacheeeeee!" Baboo & Squatt grovel in fear at the sight of her nearly lifted up skirt. The MegaDynoDroid stands triumphantly on the battlefield, as we hear "Yeah, alright!", and "We got 'em! Hahaha!", among other cheers from within.
Soon, at the Command Center, the five teens have demorphed, and reenter the console room, chattering amongst each other excitedly. Zoltar watches them suspiciously. The other teens quiet down, as Billy tells Alpha & Zoltar, "And then the energy surge reversed the polarity of our product's protons, and we countered are inertial direction, and landed like THIS!" Billy jumps up slightly, and lands on the floor, doing the splits with each leg going in a different direction. The sound of nuts being crunched rings heavy in the air. The four teens grimace, with Zach crying, "AW!", before helping the injured boy up. Alpha 5 quips, "Huuuh, he's got an OWIE!" Billy slowly stands back up, clutching his near-crotch thigh, and groaning, "I believe I pulled my medial dorsalus tendon." Zach remarks empathetically, "Oooo, I heard THAT!" Zoltar, always a lover of groinal-pull jokes, smiles and chuckles softly above them. Kim giggles loudly, and Zach cries, "Ow!" again. Jason tells the giant floating head, "We've been talking it over, Zoltar. And, well...., some of us aren't sure we're up to this!" Zach confirms pessimistically, "Yeah, Zoltar. I mean..., we were pretty LUCKY this time!" The others nod in agreement. Zoltar argues, "Luck had NOTHING to do with it! You five have come together to make as fine a group of Superheroes, as there has EVER been." Kim shamelessly responds, "No WAY!... Really?!" Zoltar mentions, "Each of you brings something UNIQUE to this team..." We see a fuzzy flashback to Jason kicking the crap out of Bully #3 (in footage, IIRC, that involves blows to the head, and was therefore excised out of the earlier scene), and Zoltar narrates, "Jason brings leadership and courage!" We see Kim getting ready to bowl, and Zoltar remarks, "Kimberly: Beauty and grace!" A replay of Zach dancing out to attack the Putties is shown, as Zoltar states, "Zachary-- a love for life!" A clip of Billy informing Trini of the ball rolling earlier plays, while Zoltar proclaims, "Billy: A knowledge of the ages." And finally, footage of Trini beating up Bully #1, and flipping him over. Zoltar's choice of words here are ironic, as he claims, "And Trini..., lightning hands & a peaceful soul." The five look at one another, smiling, as they slowly begin to realize his words ring true. Zoltar concludes, "You've been through an EXTRAORDINARY experience. You NEED each other now, and the WORLD... needs YOU." Jason's convinced, replying, "Yeahaha! Alright, I'm IN!" Zach hesitates for a moment, before confirming anxiously, "Me TOO!" Trini simply states, "You can COUNT on ME!" Billy gives a thumbs up, saying (in a tone which differs from the MMPR Season 1 Billy this whole ep, I should note), "Affirmative." Kim materialistically smirks and replies, "I don't know, guys. I REALLY have some SERIOUS shopping to do. I mean, even though the outfits ARE cool, and everything..., my hair gets ALL tangled up inside the helmet. I don't think I can do it!" The other four try talking her out of her change of mind, with Alpha sobbing, "Oh, Kimberly! Say it's not so!" Kim waits for a moment, before shouting, "Psyche!" She hugs Alpha, who happily remarks, "Oh, what a relief! 'Psyche'!" The others give good natured groans, having been teased by their final teammate. As the humans and robot laugh heartily below, Zoltar rolls his eyes, seemingly disgusted by this entire display of humor and frolic. Personally, I suspect that if his tube was shattered by Andros, the good guys would have been reduced to dust and the villains would be ruling! But enough cheap unfounded theories about how the Pilot Universe could actually be the Lost Galaxy!
The show quickly closes out, in a standard in all universes: The five teens huddle their hands in a circle, and break away by jumping up and exclaiming, "POWER RANGERS!" Alpha even joins in on the jumping. The scene of the console room freezes, and the usual Go Go PR instrumental chime plays in the background.
[pilot end!]
One last time to the studio we go, with ASJ proclaiming, "5 and a half years. Over 300 episodes! Power Rangers has captured the imaginations of children around the world. So what's next?" WEJ explains, "Well, the ONLY thing that we know for sure, is that wherever evil threatens the universe... you can bet that the Power Rangers will be there to save the day. I'm Walter Emmanuel Jones!" ASJ smiles and nods during this speech, soon adding, "And i'm Austin St. John. Thanks for watching." They both wave to us, as the camera pans backwards. The two original cast members proceed to turn around and watch the massive video screen, as shots from PRIS play amid the grid.
[end credits, which goes through crediting nearly every writer and director who ever worked on the show, among other essential information.]
Produced, Written, & Directed by: Tony Oliver
Series Producer: Jonathan Tzachor
Casting: Julie Ashton, Iris Hampton, Katy Wallin
Series Writers [not a complete list!]: charlotte, Shell Danielson, Jeffrey A. Deckman, John Flechter, Gary Glasberg, Mark Hoffmeier, Julianne Klemm, Steve Kramer, Shuki Levy, Mark Litton, Judd Lynn, Jackie Marchand, Cindy McKay, Barbara A. Oliver, Tony Oliver, Kati Rocky, Cheryl Saban, Jim Suave, Doug Sloan, Ronnie Sperling, Stewart St. John, Gilles Wheeler, Colleen White, Al Winchell.
Series Directors [also incomplete]: Yuri Alexander, David Blyth, Vickie Bronaugh, Adrian Carr, Isaac Florentine, Armand Garabidian, Marco Garibaldi, Robery Hughes, Worth Keeter, Shuki Levy, Chip Lynn, Bob Radler, Jeff Reiner, Koichi Sakamoto, Doug Sloan, Blair Treu, Jonathan Tzachor, John Weil, Al Winchell, Terence Winkless.
Action Directors [incomplete as well]: Jeff Pruitt, Koichi Sakamoto, Makoto Yokoyama
Director Of Photography: J.B. Letchinger
Assistant Director: J.B. Levine
Gaffer: Eric Kay
Key Grip: Marc Christy
Swing Grips: Brian Scott, Richard Johnson
Make-Up Supervisor: Cindy Adams
Waredrobe Supervisor: Carrie Proffer
Executive In Charge Of Production: Eric Rollman
Editor: Greg Guzzetta
Post Production Coordinator: Tara McQuade
Graphics: Camille Chu
HAL Artist: Sherry E. Thompson
Music By: Shuki Levy, Kussa Mahchi
Executive In Charge Of Music: Ron Kenan
Music Supervisor: David Leon
Music Editor: Mark Ryan
Executive In Charge Of Post Production: Clive H. Mizumoto
Director Of Sound Operations: Xavier Garcia
Re-Recording Mixer: Mark Ettel
Dialogue Editor: Michael Garcia
ADR Recordist: Kevin Newson
Sound Effects Editor: Ron Salaises
Sound: Brad Bryran
Pilot Episode:
Executive Producers: Haim Saban, Shuki Levy
Producer: Ronnie Hadar
Writer/ Supervising Producer: Tony Oliver
Director: Strathford Hamilton
Series Developed From: Galaxy Rangers [aka Zyuranger], Star Rangers [aka Dairanger], Kaku Rangers, O-Rangers [aka Ohranger], Car Rangers, Mega Rangers, Gingaman
By Toei Company, LTD.
Go Rangers Footage Courtesy Of: Toei Company, LTD. [despite not being used on the show!]
Select SFX Sequences By: Junichi Yajima
Original Concepts By: Saburo Yatsude
Terra Venture Constructed By: Stargate Films, Inc.
Scorpius Fabricated By: Steve Johnson's XFX Group
Chimps Provided By: Critters Of The Cinema
Lab Services: Foto-Kem Industries
Camera Package: Keslow Camera, Plus -8 Video
NASA Footage Prodvided By: Chryel Coker at NASA, Lyndon B. Johnson Space Center Media Services Corporation.
[fine print-legal mumble jumbo]
(C)opyright 1999 Saban Entertainment, Inc.
Renaissance Atlantic Entertainment
and Toei Company, Ltd.
In Association With: MMPR Productions, Inc.
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