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Roy Glashan's Library
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Based on an old French calendar cover (1900)
Cassell's Magazine of Fiction, April 1924 with "Little Boy Blue"
The Popular Magazine, 7 June 1924, with "Little Boy Blue"
MESSIEURS Salaman Chayne and Kotman Dass stood outside the shop of a denizen of the East End who doubtless would have described himself as a naturalist, if cross-examined, and studied with considerable interest an excessively gaudy macaw. Utterly regardless of the fact that its magenta tail failed conspicuously to harmonize with its yellow chest, or its apple-green head with its scarlet back, the bird returned their stare with an air of weary contempt.
"I'll admit, Dass, that you snatched my life clean from the clutches of Dragour two days ago—fully and freely I'll admit it," said the fierce-eyed little Mr. Chayne, stroking his dagger-pointed yellow beard. "And, therefore, as a man of the world and a _sahib^ it is up to me to repay that service!"
"Oah, it is nothing—nothing at all, my dear Mister Chayne," nervously stated the colossal, dark-skinned Mr. Dass. "Quite small detail—matter of no importance whatso—"
"What the devil d'you mean, Dass? Saving my life a matter of no importance? A detail, Dass?" snarled the fiery Salaman instantly.
'Mr. Kotman Dass quailed and made foolish signs of sorrow.
"Oh, never mind the apologies! You saved my life, and I'm going to give you a present. Dass, I'm going to stand you a thundering parrot, damn you! What d'you think of this cockatoo for a parrot?"
"Veree prettee!" said the enormous one—shyly, for he was not accustomed to receiving presents.
"Hum! Striking bird—bit loud in its plumage, perhaps. Must be a female. Hey, proprietor, can the cockatoo talk?"
"This cockatoo's a macaw, sir, and it's got the finest flow of straight talk of any bird in the East End!" declared the proprietor of the creatureshop. "'Aven't you, Polly?"
"You go to blazes!" suggested the macaw surlily, and blinked a dirty-white shutter over its bright eye fast and frequently. "Lay aft the watch, blast ye all!" it added peremptorily.
An elder passer-by of seafaring appearance halted abruptly.
"That's a good, plain-spoken bird, gents," he observed uninvited. "I'd buy that bird if I was you. A good, homey bird—brought up on a good homey windjammer, I'll lay."
Ignoring the advice of the nautical interloper Mr. Chayne turned to Kotman Dass.
"D'you like her, Dass?"
"Oah, yess, veree nice, veree affable bird!" replied the fat man.
"Good! She's yours," snapped Salaman. And, after a fearful argument with the proprietor, it was indeed so.
Salaman led the way to regions where a taxi might be found.
"Now I've made some acknowledgment of the great service you did me, Dass. I don't say I've squared the dent, for I flatter myself that my life is worth something better than a rainbow bird with a vocabulary consisting mainly of oaths. But I've made a—um—graceful acknowledgment, hey, Dass, damn you!"
"Oah, it is veree graceful and jollee well generous, my dear Mister," hastily admitted Mr. Dass swinging the cage so violently in his agitation that the macaw emitted a burst of protest so profane that even Mr. Chayne blinked.
"Better not swing that bird about in public more than you can help, Dass. No sense in our getting arrested."
"No, indeed—veree true, dear Mister," agreed Kotman, moderating his gestures to vanishing-point.
"And now, Dass," said Mr. Chayne when, a few moments later, they were in a taxi, homeward bound, "now, having made a graceful acknowledgment of your past services I want to arrange about future ones. For example, this Dragour business," he continued, scowling. "He*'s getting on my nerves—Dragour—and I shouldn't be surprised if I am getting more or less on his. And you, too. Yes, you also—you're in as grave danger from him as I am—perhaps even graver, for it was a shrewd blow you struck at him over that Regent's Park drug home affair. And he knows it—though fortunately he may not yet know what a courageless danger-dodger you are."
He nodded, and lit a cigar, carefully ignoring the increasing symptoms of rising agitation on his partner's face. Mr. Chayne had come to the conclusion that the only truly satisfactory way of getting the best results out of his fat partner's brains was to frighten them out. It was with this benign object in view that he had lured Mr. Dass out, ostensibly to the bird-shop, but really to get his mind well diverted from its customary tense concentration on the affrighting task of writing the History of Thought from the dim and distant period when the first thought occurred to the first man—probably the great thought that he was hungry—or thirsty.
Salaman, cheered by the apparent success of his device, was about to proceed to utter a series of truly blood-curdling prophecies concerning his and his partner's probable fate at the hand of Dragour, when Kotman Dass spoke in a rather reedy, but, nevertheless, determined voice—determined for him, that is to say...
"If you please, dear Mister, do not frighten and alarm more," he asked. "For I beg to state to you that I perfectly understand object you have in view—namely, that I concentrate whole of my colossal mental power on problem of extinguishing, of blotting out, the evil scoundrel Dragour. But, if you are agreeable, dear Mister Chayne, that is no longer necessary strategee. I have sworn private oath to self, personally, that I shall effect theoretical total abolition of scoundrel in question—thus leaving onlee for you to accomplish the practical execution of blotting-out referred to."
Salaman Chayne turned to stare at the fat man.
"You mean to say that you're honestly going to put your intellect into the thing hey?"
"Oah, yes, that is undoubtedly so!" agreed Kotman, adding anxiously: "Theoreticallee—strategicallee—"
"Quite so, Dass. I understand that not a single hair of your extraordinary head must be put in any danger," said Salaman dryly. "Well, I am perfectly prepared to take the physical risks of the tactical department. And now, that being agreed, perhaps you'll be kind enough to wake your ideas up a little and inform me what your mind has minced out of the mass of material it's had thrust into it the last few days. I've told you everything I know right up to date about Dragour. What have you squeezed out of it—if anything?"
Kotman Dass nodded his head ponderously.
"Let us—with your kind permission, Mister—recapitulate facts of matter," he began slowly. "For example, the police have searched recent haunt of Dragour, Shone Park, carefully, and have ascertained nothing, except that they are too late, because the drugmaster has abandoned that place!"
Salaman agreed.
"Yes, you can take it that Dragour and his folk have left Shone Park for ever."
The huge head of the mountainous Mr. Dass nodded massively.
"Veree good! Let us cast eyes elsewhere. What have the police ascertained from interrogation of the patients—the drug victims—discovered in the drug home at Regent's Park?"
Mr. Chayne shook his head.
"Nothing at all. None of the creatures of Dragour who conducted the home have said anything to incriminate anyone; and of the five victims there is not one will utter a word unless they are first given a supply of the drug with which Dragour provided them. They are sulky—and ill—through the deprivation.They are in hospital, under police supervision, but their one desire is to get out, back to their homes, anywhere, any place, where they may possibly get into secret touch with Dragour again. The police and the doctors are trying to save them from themselves, but they don't want to be saved. They want to be left alone, and they seem to have come to a sort of arrangement between themselves to say nothing—if they know anything, which is doubtful."
Kotman Dass nodded.
"Their friends have been seen?"
"Certainly—more than seen—they've been very carefully interrogated, but they know nothing."
Kotman Dass reflected, his eyes absently on the gaudy macaw.
"If you please, tell me, dear Mister Chayne, have any other patients of that drug-home been mentioned—by any of them—at any period?" he inquired presently.
Salaman thought; then nodded.... "One name has, yes. Gregory Kiss told me that two of the patients have demanded to be let out from hospital, on the ground that they are in much better health than the last patient discharged by Dragour from the Regent's Park place."
"Yes! That is veree interesting, I think. What is the name of that patient who was so veree kindlee discharged—from home secretlee controlled by Dragour himself?"
"Lord Sloden, of Sloden Hall—a place in the NewForest, I believe. He left the Regent's Park man-trap about a week before the police pounced on it. But you'll get no information out of him, Dass. Gregory Kiss has already been down to the Forest and interviewed him. He's a poor specimen—one of those effeminate, languid sprigs of a worn-out house. His only hobby is amateur acting—at least, it was until he got himself so loaded up with Dragour's drug that he isn't much use for anything, except to lie on a sofa and moon and smile at all comers."
But Kotman Dass did not appear discouraged. "I have queer notion that this man possiblee may lead us to trail of Dragour. It is odd thing that Dragour should have released him from home at all. For secret drug has this effect that it makes victims happee and contented while they are well supplied at the home, and not probable therefore that he wished veree seriouslee to leave by own desire." The heavy brows over the dark eyes of the fat man knitted slightly. "Dragour had the Lord Sloden under his heel, in his own man-trap—and let him go away wholly of own accord..." he muttered.
Presently he turned to Salaman.
"If you please, Mister, tell me if the Lord Sloden is wealthy man?"
Salaman knew the answer to that.
"Kiss says he hasn't a cent—he's as poor as a crow. Lives in a semi-ruined old barn of a place in Sloden Woods in the New Forest with hardly a servant, and precious little furniture in the place. Ruined, you may say, body and soul, house and home, lock, stock, and barrel. Ruined, and as long as he gets his ration of drug from Dragour he still feels as rich as a rajah, Kiss says."
The eyes of Mr. Dass gleamed a little.
"That is veree interesting, dear Mister. If onlee I had courage to do it I would be veree deeply gratified to interview the Lord Sloden," said Kotman Dass absently—and unguardedly.
The fierce-eyed little Mr. Chayne snapped at that swiftly.
"Right, Dass, you shall! Leave that to me—I'll guarantee the safety of your hide. It would be a thousand pities if anything happened to that."
For the life of him Salaman could not resist his customary sardonic comment, for the white feather was to Mr. Chayne what a red rag is said to be to a bull.
"Yes, I guarantee your safety—and I'll go armed to the teeth in case Lord Sloden gets infuriated with you and tries to give you quite a hard smack on thewrist!" he volunteered slowly. Then he shrugged. "You make me ill, Dass. It's always the same. Just when my opinion of you begins to improve, your miserable cowardice crops up and ruins it all, damn you!"
"And damn you, you flat-footed, cockeyed, sogerin' hound," yelled a voice in prompt response.
Salaman's beard bristled for a second. Then, realizing that the somewhat coarse and rasping repartee had come, not from Kotman Dass, but from the macaw, who had evidently recognized the profanity, and, as evidently, had learned how to take care of itself in a slanging match, Mr. Chayne relapsed again, smiling acidly at the kaleidoscopic-plumaged ruffian in the cage. He loved birds—but he did not appear to rank the macaw as one of such . Evidently the gigantic Mr. Dass had found a defender, for the macaw eyed Salaman sternly, almost truculently for a moment, then muttering something about "taking no slack from any blanked wharf-rat that ever done a pier-head jump aboard my hooker!" the uncanny fowl hunched up its shoulders, gave a sour chuckle, described itself as "pretty Polly," heartily be-damned Salaman Chayne for a scrimshanking sea-lawyer, and observing that it was eight bells and a darned dirty night, appeared to doze off into a little sleep.
The mild eyes of Mr. Kotman Dass rested very affectionately on the bird as the taxi rattled on to No. 10, Green Square.
"Veree intelligent birds, dear Mister!" he said nervously, once.
"Oh, very, at least as intellectual as any wooden cuckoo in a clock. You'll be teaching that one to play chess before long, huh?" snarled Salaman, crushingly, as they pulled up at their door.
MR. CHAYNE allowed his partner very little time for shedding his half-expressed desire to interview the unhappy Lord Sloden, although to the hot-eyed, swift-tempered Salaman it seemed somewhat improbable that Kotman Dass could extract from this ruined victim of Dragour, so contentedly wasting himself with drugs in his ruined home among the oaks of Sloden Wood, anything more than that most astute and practised detective, Mr. Gregory Kiss, had gleaned. Nevertheless, the first thing he did was to telephone Mr. Kiss—and hold with that gentleman quite an animated conversation while Mr. Dass was upstairs in the bird-room, presumably introducing Pretty Polly to the other birds—and, doubtless, warning his talking starling against copying the vocal novelties of the flamboyant though foul-mouthed scoundrel in parrot's clothes, duly pointing out that although fine feathers possibly make fine birds, dazzling plumage does not always imply a refined vocabulary.
Mr. Chayne was smiling as he hung up the receiver of the telephone—smiling like a man who is proud of himself. He had reason to be. For he had thought of a good idea. He conceived it, rightly, his duty to procure for Kotman Dass the interview with Lord Sloden, but he knew that it would require superhuman argument to get that remarkable coward started on his way. So, with the aid of the wily Mr. Kiss, he had contrived a little tour de force of diplomacy. It was quite simple, but he hoped and believed and told Mr. Kiss, that it would "prove effective in shifting Dass from 10, Green Square, as easily as a good ferret shifts an intelligent rabbit from its hole. And that wants doing, Kiss, for Dass is not an easy man to shift, anyway"
So it befell that when an hour later Mr. Gregory Kiss arrived, anxious-eyed, excited and seriously alarmed, announcing untruthfully but "according to plan" that he had called to warn the partners that Dragour himself and several of his men were about to form, as it were, a ring of watchers round No. 10, Green Square, with the avowed intention of "getting" both Kotman Dass and Salaman Haynes, the unfortunate Mr. Dass, as usual, succumbed so instantly and utterly to his terrors that he was as clay in the hands of the potter.
With an instant for reflection Kotman's brain would have found a hundred flaws in the story, but his physical qualms, as always, were peremptory.
He allowed himself to be bundled into the taxi cab which Mr. Kiss had brought and was being whirled away into what Salaman Chayne and Kiss described as "a place of tranquil safety" before he began seriously to think connectedly.
Not until he stepped out on to the platform of Salisbury railway station did he ask a question. And that was merely an inquiry if his companions thought it safe to leave the train while still so near London.
They assured him that it was, and so, together, went off to the hotel from which next day Salaman purposed motoring into the New Forest to call upon Lord Sloden.
It was not without considerable difficulty that the little expedition found the ruined mansion which was all that remained of the ancient glories of Sloden Hall. For the place was set deep in the heart of the big wood and the roadway which led to it had become, through long disuse and neglect, little more than a rough track, only just passable for motor traffic.
It was not until the hired car conveying the trio was slowing to a standstill in the weed-choked space before the dilapidated main entrance of what once must have been a noble house that Kotman Dass realized precisely the stratagem which had been used by his partner.
Staring with extreme unease at the house he opened his mouth to speak, but Salaman Chayne gave him no time to protest or object.
"Now then, Dass, tumble out. By a lucky chance you've got the opportunity of a lifetime. You can have your little talk with Lord Sloden in perfect confidence, knowing, as you do, that Dragour and his picked scoundrels are watching No. 10, Green Square. Ha-ha! Neat trick to turn, that, eh, Dass? You'll be as safe in this house chatting to Sloden, as if you were tucked up in your little feather bed at home—safer in fact."
The colossal Mr. Dass slowly got out of the car—it was evident that he wished very much to believe his partner, but nevertheless was intensely conscious of the fact that he was not quite so safe as Mr. Chayne airily claimed.
"I am veree highlee strung and sensitive this morning, dear Mister," he said, his eyes roving about. "I should be happier to be going away now from this gloomy place "
"Well, so you shall, after the chat with Lord Sloden," Salaman assured him breezily. "Damn it, man, it was your own wish to talk with him—your own suggestion. And if what Kiss tells us about him is true—why, even you couldn't be afraid of Lord Sloden if you tried. The man's as fragile as glass, and as weak as a—a—moth! Pull yourself together, can't you?"
And thus volubly reassuring his "highlee strung" partner Salaman flustered him to the tumble-down entrance of Sloden Hall where Mr. Kiss was already talking with the old, witch-like woman who had opened the door to Kiss's knocking. Anyone with knowledge of the Forest folk would have known that this ancient soul was a survivor of one of the dwindling gipsy bands from which once the New Forest was never free. Probably she had been glad to give such poor services as she could to the last Lord Sloden in return for shelter and food. She appeared to be the only servant in the big house.
She seized eagerly at the silver coin proffered by Mr. Kiss and hobbled away across the great damp carpetless hall, furnished with no more than a few old sets of antlers, some rotting fox masks and a decrepit table and- bench. Once it had been panelled, but the panelling had been taken away and the stained walls were naked.
"What a tomb of a place!" said Salaman Chayne, scowling around. "Yet, once upon a time, it must have been a fine house, this—"
But here the crone returned, chuckling.
Lord Sloden was quite willing to see Mr. Kiss, she announced, and led them to a small room, only slightly less uncomfortable than the hall. On a huge couch, worn and rickety almost to the point of worthlessncss, was lying the man they had come so far to see—Lord Sloden.
He rose slowly as they entered, surveying them with faded, rather vacant blue eyes, smiling dreamily at them.
But for his extreme, pearl-like pallor, and his startlingly lean and haggard face, he might have been rather an attractive person in his fragile and effeminate style. But, as he stood now, there was nothing attractive about him. He looked almost completely bloodless—dying—smiling a queer, dazed smile as though perfectly careless of, or wholly content with, his condition.
"Good morning—or should it be 'afternoo,'gentlemen?" he said. "Please make yourselves comfortable—if there are enough chairs!"
He sat down rather suddenly himself. "Pardon me... I am not in good health... not quite so strong as I should be.... How can I serve you ?" His colourless lips never relaxed from that strange smile of bland contentment which, oddly, served only to emphasize the ravages that the drug of Dragour had stamped for ever on his thin, delicately chiselled, wax-white face. He was panting slightly as though the simple act of rising had tried his strength, and the pallid hand which he waved towards a few decrepit chairs, was hardly larger than a child's.
Salaman Chayne was a trifle paler than usual and his hot, yellowish eyes were dilated as he stared, half horrified, at the man. It seemed to him, he confessed afterwards, that this visit was less like an actual experience than an enterprise carried out in some nightmare-haunted sleep.
All three of them had seen victims of the drug of Dragour before, but never one who had advanced so terribly far along the fatal path which all who persisted in their slavery must travel.
The distaste of Mr. Gregory Kiss, experienced though he was in strange sights was plain. But with that remarkable coward, Kotman Dass, it was otherwise.
From the instant he had entered that hopeless room his eyes had been glued ou the smiling spectre who had greeted them, and every symptom of fear or uneasiness had vanished utterly from his face. Truly, as Salaman had said, there was nothing to fear from the man on the couch, for a child could have seen that he was utterly without strength. And it was very apparent that the uneasiness that had been in the fat man's eyes was now replaced by an intense interest.
Then, even as Mr. Kiss opened his lips to begin an explanation of their intrusion, Kotman Dass surprised both the detective and Mr. Chayne.
"If you please, do me great favour of quitting apartment, dear misters. For space of few moments onlee. I have private question to put to the Lord Sloden," he said abruptly.
Salaman and Mr. Kiss exchanged glances, nodded, and went out without words.
For a moment longer Kotman Dass scrutinized the white face of Lord Sloden intently, without speaking.
And Lord Sloden sat smiling—and smiling—and smiling, like a waxwork figure.
Then Kotman Dass crossed the room, his eyes full of a great pity, clumsily knelt by the couch—he dared not entrust his vast bulk to any chair—and, with extraordinary tenderness, closed his enormous hand on the tiny, shrunken hand of the victim.
"Tell me, if you please, have you forgotten that happee, prettee one called 'Little Boy Blue'?" he said in a voice so soft that it was no more than a whisper. "The little toys—the little friends—in the little sorrowful song: 'They are waiting for Little Boy Blue' Aie—" He shook his great head very sadly and recited softly from the poem of Eugene Field.
Slowly the smile on the pallid lips of Lord Sloden died out and the faded blue eyes widened—till they seemed enormous, set in that pinched and haggard face.
"Little Boy Blue!" It was like a whisper of pain wrung from the very heart.
"Oh, my God—Little Boy Blue—" said Lord Sloden in a voice of anguish.
Kotman Dass saw the lack-lustre eyes suddenly brim with a liquid brightness—a brightness that overflowed. Two great tears formed and fell slowly down the waxen face—no more. It was as though these two painful tears were all of tears that this one could ever know or ever weep—the last of many—and that henceforth he must go as tearless as bloodless to the grave so close at hand. Tt was Kotman Dass who smiled now "Aha, it is visibleeevident that you have not forgotten! And so, you see, all will be well. I, Kotman Dass, say it.... If you had forgotten completely the poor 'Little Boy Blue' then that would have been proof veree conclusive that you were lost utterlee—that your mind had gone out like blown candle! But now, because you have not forgotten, I shall be able to accomplish rescue—rescue from the drugs and rescue also from the millstone of being lord when you are lady. It was so lucky for all that I am man with magnificent memory—the man who forgets never anything that he has once seen or known. It is pretty good job that I was member of audience that witnessed the play called 'Little Boy Blue' so long ago—seven years ten months six days—on the notable occasion that you acted the part, and sang the song of 'Little Boy Blue.'... No, no, if you please, do not distress; there is not need to confess anything, for I know—you are not Lord Sloden any more from this hour, but you shall be again what you were before the scoundrel Dragour seized your life in his vulture-claw; you shall be again Miss Mollee O'Mourne, the actress of promise. And you shall be saved from Dragour—oh, not by me, I am onlee miserable coward with wonderful memory—but by fierce, hot, angree, very courageous and bold man, Mister Salaman Chayne and slow, still, veree indomitablee tenacious and brave man, Mister Gercgory Kiss! So, all will be well!"
"It is all true!" The woman on the couch spoke drearily. "All true... I have been destroyed!"
Kotman Dass chuckled.
"You shall be restored, like phoenix that arises from flames. That is—oh, quite definite promise, by me! You must be onlee obedient—that is sole condition. Now, if you please, rest quietly, and I will consider problem."
He moved to the window, staring out at the gloomy depths of the wood so ancient that its mossy glades had once echoed to the horns of the huntsmen of Norman kings.
All that he had said was true.
Within five seconds of setting his dark, mild eyes on the unhappy soul on the couch he had remembered not only where he had seen her before, but, without effort, had recalled her stage name, her voice, the day on which he had seen her, the part she had played, a song she had sung. Yet he had only seen her once—and then, she had been in stage "make-up"—and since then he had seen myriads upon myriads of faces, the swarming millions of London, of New York, of Indian and Chinese towns, packed to suffocation. Yet he remembered—remembered so easily that the prodigious feat of memory meant nothing more to him than an occasion for a slightly amused chuckle.
Presently, in a low and quivering voice, she broke in on his reflections to tell her story—a story full of halts and hesitations and gaps, for her memory had been all but destroyed by the Lethean effects of the drug of Dragour.
He listened patiently, though even before she began to speak he had divined most of what she told him.
Salaman Chayne and Mr. Kiss came in just as she finished. She groped for a small box on a shelf near the couch, glancing furtively at Kotman Dass as she did so.
"Oh, y-ess, take your accustomed portion of drug," said the fat man gravely. "It will be long time—and painful—before the drug of Dragour means nothing more to you than grains of sand under the heel. To refrain suddenlee at this stage will kill quicklee as bite of poisonous reptile! "
She swallowed several of the tablets—and presently the terrible smile of dreamy content began to re-establish itself on her pale lips. Then Kotman Dass turned to his friends.
"Let us take little walk together, if you please, dear Misters!" he said, and led the way out to the open air.
"I HAVE arrived at conclusion that possible from material afforded by this veree sad affair a trap may be constructed—a trap for the vampire Dragour," stated Kotman Dass at once. "Let me. speak, if you please, without interruption."
Walking slowly to and fro about the weedy waste before the house which once had been garden, Kotman Dass told them the story of the actress Mollie O'Mourne.
"Lord Sloden is not Lord Sloden, but a lady who once was young, prettee actress of veree considerable promise at period of about eight years ago," he said. "I had pleasure of witnessing" performance carried out by ger in production entitled Little Boy Blue. I recognized lady when I entered room recently, and soproceeded to lead her mind back to occasion of the Little Boy Blue—" He broke off, staring intently at a broken fragment of stained terra cotta tile at his feet.
"Pardon me, if you please, Misters," he said, stoopedlaboriously and picked up the shard, which he studied absently for a moment or two. Then he turned, beaming, to the others, offering the bit of tile.
"Veree interesting relic, which has given further excellent idea for most alluring trap for the vampire Dragour, oh, yess!"
He proffered it to Mr. Chayne, who declined abruptly.
"Oh, throw it at the cat!" he snapped acidly. He glared upon his mountainous partner. "Either tell a straight story or cut it out and get into the taxi and go home, will you, Dass? If you want to play with bits of tile—hey, hop-scotch, ain't it?—I'll drop you at some brickyard on ihe way home, and you can play hop-scotch with all the bits of tile in sight. But while you're here, talk straight, understandablo stuff, or be dumb, damn you!"
Kotman Dass blinked nervously at his fiery partner.
"Oh, ten thousand apologies, sir, Mister," he babbled. "That is merely just fragment of old Roman tile; there were many Roman villas on this part of globe formerly."
"No doubt! And now there aren't any. That's that! Now get on with your story, will you!"
"Veree willing, most certainly," agreed Mr. Dass, and did so.
Ten minutes later he had enlightened his partner and the silent Mr. Kiss.
It was not a pretty story which he told them.
The real Lord Sloden, the bloodless and effeminate survivor of a long line of Slodens, had been an early victim of the perilous drug of Dragour, and his reputation, spreading even in that lonely spot—though less lonely than it would seem to a town-dweller—had alienated most of his friends and relatives. Towards the end he had been living the life of a hermit, lost in his drugged dreams in the heart of the New Forest—careless, content. Presently he had gone to one of the man-traps which Dragour controlled, and which ostensibly were drug homes for victims.
And in one of these he had died, probably before he could yield up or bequeath to Dragour his possessions—a considerable amount of money and the splendid antiques with which Sloden Hall was largely furnished.
It was in order to secure these things that Dragour had kept secret the death, and enlisting or compelling the services of another victim of his, the unhappy young actress, Miss Mollie O'Mourne, had trained her and sent her to Sloden Hall to impersonate the dead peer.
It was a simple task, for, apart from a curious resemblance to Sloden, which probably had given Dragour the idea, the girl had no visitors to hoodwink. Lord Sloden himself had long ago been shunned, and his impersonator was equally shunned by those living in the Forest zone. So she had continued in that dreadful slavery for some years, never free from the abundantly-supplied drug she had long learned to crave for and to dread being without; and in those few years, blindly obedient to the orders of Dragour, she had gradually made over, given, to him the whole of the money which, as Lord Sloden, she controlled, and all the treasures of Sloden Hall. Dragour had, through her, taken everything—money, everything. She had been accepted as, and had been trained to sign herself as, Lord Sloden; and so all that belonged to Lord Sloden had gone to Dragour. On the day that Mr. Dass and his friends had entered Sloden Hall she had been literalIv and absolutely penniless, almost foodlcss, and, lost in her drug-dreams, she had been wholly content. For Dragour had been generous in one bitterly ironic respect only—he had given her enough of the drug to last for as long as she was likely to need it.
"That is to say, Misters, Dragour has given the little poor soul enough to kill her! Oh, this is awful and terrifying thing that we have laid bare!" said Kotman Dass, his voice shrill. "In one month that poor one who sung so prettilee, who was once Little Boy Blue, would have been dead—dead—lying all still and quietlee, and at rest in this dark and gloomy wood.... Oh, she was so sweet eight years ago—she sang like a happee bird—'Thee little toy friends are true... They are waitingfor Little Boy Blue'... and now she is—just as you have seen her, dear Misters—wrecked ruined, doomed to die!" His great hands gripped, and tears started in his dark eyes. "Doomed to die! But yet she shall be saved—oh, yes, saved, by that miserable man, that veree shocking cowardly hound, by that poor comic fat bloke, by me, Kotman Dass!... Ahaa!"
Wildly excited, he shook the bit of tile at the astonished Messrs. Chayne and Kiss.
"I dread Dragour like hamadryad itself—like the awful king-cobra that fears not man nor any beast, save onlee the lord, the king of the jungles, the elephant. But yet I shall have him, ensnare him, the killer, the vampire! Look!"
He tapped the shard.
"That is fragment of Roman tile, and veree antique—fifteen hundreds of years ago. Mister Chayne, what is it that Dragour loves, seeks ever, strives for, kills for? The rare things—the antique things. So we must make a trap. The Little Boy Blue shall send this fragment to the one from whom her drugs come, saying: 'There has been found by the ancient woman who serves me here certain old buried things very ancient, of which this earthenware piece is the least thing ' and Dragour will come like steel to magnet. He will recognize Roman tile, and he will believe they have found site of Roman villa, and he will come swiftly, thrusting his head into the jaws—of Misters Salaman Chayne and Gregory Kiss!"
He stared at them anxiously:
"That is veree good proposal for trap to catch vampire, I think? " he said.
The others glanced at each other and agreed instantly.
"Couldn't be better, Dass; for once you really have got your brains focused on the situation!" said Salaman. "It's quite a good kind of scheme, hey, Kiss?"
Tersely the laconic Mr. Kiss agreed.
The enthusiasm in the eyes of Kotman Dass died away, and was replaced by a look of profound relief.
"And so, now that the matter is placed into highlee competent hands of you both practical and courageous gentlemen, there is obviouslee no need for either the little ill one, Miss O'Mourne, or for me, Kotman Dass, to remain in dangerous neighbourhood longer. So, if you are agreeable, wc shall have little talk with lady and arrange for her to write letter to Dragour. I will go away then, taking her with me to London, trusting you will be highlee successful with trap."
Salaman scowled a little, but Mr. Kiss hastily checked the outburst of angry scorn from the fiery little man, which plainly was impending. The detective perceived clearly that Kotman Dass had rendered the sole contribution to the capture of Dragour which, in view of his peculiarities, could reasonably be expected of him—and, indeed, it had been a contribution of great, even vital, importance. He realized that the rest was for Mr. Chayne and himself.
"Mr. Dass is a mental fighter of such wonderful brilliance that we can't reasonably expect him to be a champion on the muscular side of things as well, Mr. Chayne," he observed. "I agree that it would be better for him to go, with Miss O'Mourne, to a safe place while we come into action."He was eyeing Kotman carefully.
"Yes, a safe place where, at the end of a telegraph or telephone wire we can still keep in touch with his brains."
"Yess, yess," said Kotman most eagerly. "That is wholly admirable notion—oh, yess, indeed _I ^Brains wholly at your kind disposal other end of. a long telegraph wire!"
Mr. Chayne shrugged.
"So be' it!" he said crisply.
Kotman Dass wheeled and began to lumber towards the house.
"It is advisable to lose no time in business as present affair," he stated enthusiastically. "So, if you please, let us arrange matters now with the littlo lady who has so suffered. Then I will go with her to friend of mine who will, pro tem. shelter us, and at same time begin long careful process of curing her of drug passion."
"What friend?" snapped Mr. Chayne sharply, with an odd acrid jealousy in his voice. "I'm your best friend, Dass."
"Oh, certainlee that is highlee so, dear Mister. The friend referred is onlee cousin to me. He is doctor with practice in less fashionable quarter of London, veree clever, kind man who will oblige readilee. He is Dr. Babbaji Chunder Ghote—veree clever, with great career awaiting him at future period."
Again Messrs. Chayneand Kiss glanced at each other. The detective spared the ghost of a wink, and Salaman understood.
"Very well, Dass, let it be so," he said. "I shall be glad to make the acquaintance of Dr. Ghote in due course. Don't much like the sound of him. Meantime, make your arrangements as soon as you can,and then clear out—to the safe place—while we set the trap."
"Oh, thank you veree much!" said Kotman Dass gratefully, and lost no time in doing as he was told.
Roy Glashan's Library
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