“What’s happened, d’you think?” whispered somebody. The merry-eyed girl giggled hysterically, and rejoined, “Give Mr. Holmes time. Don’t you all see there’s been a horrid crime committed, and that poor Percy has vanished? Don’t breathe. You may disturb something, mayn’t they, Mr. Holmes?”

  For answer Holmes suddenly appeared before the little group in the door, his eyes ablaze.

  He seemed to arrive from the other side of the room without, motion, like a shadow; and without warning he plunged his hand into the tumbled mass of shining hair over the girl’s startled eyes. In the other hand he held the broken parts of the hair comb he had picked up from the floor.

  “Same color,” he muttered, matching comb with hair. “Where is your comb, miss?”

  Confronted with the very thing she had suggested herself, the girl looked less happy than she had expected. Confusion seized upon her, and her saucy tongue failed her. She stammered, sheepishly enough, “That is it. I er—I lent it to Percy to, er—to—”

  “That is all, thank you,” Holmes interrupted her sharply. “I will ask for you when I require your statement. You may retire.” A tiny murmur of protest rippled around at sight of the girl’s crestfallen air as she turned away toward her own room; but then the hugeness of the joke struck all concerned, and they crowded close to hear what was coming next.

  Holmes closely examined the carpet, the bed, the curtains; he even measured the length and breadth of the red smear on the side panel. He sniffed at some dust he scraped up, he struck his head through the porthole and peered up and down, fore and aft, like a raw-necked vulture seeking prey. Then, stepping to the centre again, he looked for a moment at the faces before him and at the red and green bath slipper. Suddenly he went to his knees before the red-headed youth and forcibly lifted his right foot knee-high. He flung aside the leather Romeo the young man wore and clamped the grass slipper to the foot.

  “H’m! You, too, I shall know where to find when I need you,” he remarked. “You may retire, sir; and I warn you that this very serious occurrence may lead into unpleasant places. If you wish to tell me anything, you may do so in the morning. That is all, thank you.”

  Now he held out the pyjama button, scanning the sleeping suits before him. One jacket lacked a button, and one only. Like a tiger Holmes sprang before the wearer, clapped the button to the vacant place, and glared terribly into the young fellow’s face. “B-but, Holmes, it isn’t the same pattern!” giggled another bystander, scarcely able to talk for repressed mirth.

  “Married?” Holmes jerked out abruptly to the man who lacked a button.

  “Surely,” laughed the youngster, recovering his nerve.

  “Pattern doesn’t matter then,” was the unexpectedly sophisticated reply. “You will be called in the morning, sir. That will do.”

  “Say, Holmes,” put in the last onlooker, who, except for Watson, alone remained unspotted by suspicion. “I don’t lack a shoe, nor a button, nor even a comb. Can’t you discover some clue which indicates me as the brutal murderer?” There was a keen note of sarcasm in the man’s suggestion. Holmes looked at him gravely.

  “I shall permit nothing to escape my notice which bears on this monstrous mystery,” he said. “Place your left hand here, please.”

  With excessive care he pressed the man’s hand down into the nap of the thick carpet, and scrutinized the edges through his powerful lens; then released the man and told him to go, but, like the rest, to hold himself ready to be questioned.

  “Meanwhile,” remarked Holmes, “we shall turn in toward some port. This is a matter for the regular police, to whom I hope to be able to deliver the criminal.”

  “Sure you can’t find something which incriminates Watson?” gurgled the young fellow just released. “This is such a scream it would be a shame to keep him out of it.”

  “You will kindly keep your witticisms for a more suitable moment, sir,” was the dry retort, and the guest departed, leaving Watson gazing thoughtfully at the stooping back of Holmes.

  “My dear Watson,” the sleuth said presently, “pray ring for the steward.” The steward answered the bell, and Holmes told him, without turning around, to go and order the captain to change the course for the nearest port, and to notify him immediately which port it would be. In answer, the captain appeared in person, and a very angry, irritable person he was. He opened fire at once on the sleuth.

  “What’s the meaning of this?” he demanded warmly. “Why am I not called in to be consulted about this? And who are you, to order me into port, I’d like to know. Where’s the owner?”

  “Mr. Anstruther has disappeared, captain. There has been some foul play. That is why I suggest running into port—”

  “And this is the first I hear of it!” bellowed the captain. “Shooting goes on aboard my ship, somebody tells me my owner has gone, and I’m not asked for an opinion but told to run—”

  “Just a moment, captain,” Watson put in quietly; “I will explain a lot to you if you’ll give me a moment outside. There has been mischief, certainly, but not so serious as might be. Come, let Holmes continue his investigation. I’ll tell you about it.”

  He led the mollified skipper out to his own roomy cabin, and Holmes flashed a look of appreciation after them as he shut the door.

  * * * *

  An expectant party gathered about the table at breakfast in the morning, for daylight brought back all the brightness of the farce which night and its gloom had almost made to seem like tragedy. They awaited Holmes, who presently appeared looking haggard and pale after an obviously sleepless night. He crushed up a white pellet and stirred it into his coffee, which he drank before eating anything; then coldly, and with an incisiveness worthy of a graver situation, he plunged into a bald recital of his discoveries and decision. On deck, listening through the skylight, a gleeful yacht captain chuckled hugely, slapping his leg, utterly reconciled to the temporary loss of his employer.

  “We shall be in port in a few hours now,” Holmes began. “The culprit in this brazen piece of villainy will be taken ashore then, I promise you. You all heard the shot in the night, and—”

  “How about the shoes and buttons and other haberdashery?” grinned the red-headed youth maliciously.

  “I shall come to that, my young friend,” replied Holmes, glaring fiercely. “You heard the shot, I believe. You all saw the scene of the crime—”

  “That shot was on deck!”

  “The scene of the crime,” the sleuth proceeded as if no interruption had been offered, “and even my friend Watson could discern the obvious signs of violence there. You saw the odd slipper, the pyjama button, the broken comb, and the gory smear on the wall. Now there is one chance remaining for the guilty one to make reparation, and thereby perhaps gain leniency. I shall run over the facts, and on our arrival in port I shall summon the police to take the criminal, unless meanwhile he confesses.

  “Now that slipper would fit only a child or a woman. That button might have come from a lounge pillow. The comb could easily have been picked up broken somewhere else and dropped in the cabin by the owner himself. I have some little skill in reading signs, and I say that pistol shot was fired out through a porthole, sounding thus as if it were on deck; the slipper is one of a heap of about fifty pairs of all sizes, kept by Mr. Anstruther for the use of guests who may have forgotten to bring bath shoes. The button assuredly came from the cushion in Anstruther’s own arm chair, and the comb was probably dropped by him when he returned from the deck.”

  “Why, Holmes, you might be accusing Percy himself!” roared the party in mirth. Then, realizing suddenly that they ought to wear more of an air of gravity, since Percy was apparently murdered in his own yacht, and they were all more or less under suspicion, their faces fell, and they leaned closer to Holmes in deep attention.

  “Making due allowance for youth and frivolity,” Holmes proceeded coldly, “I will bear with you. Here is a tip, which you may find useful. Pray try to assist the course of justice, rather than hinder it because you do not see things as I see them. You would find the assassin and thief? Very well then. Look for a person of this description: A tall, lean man, rather stout, and about five feet eight inches high; he is florid and pale of complexion, and wears a number seven or number ten shoe. On one hand he has a crooked finger, which he can straighten whenever he wants to.”

  As one man the party got up from the table, and on every face was a sneer. They had expected something far better than this, else Percy would surely never have submitted to many hours of discomfort in order to play out the jest. The merry-eyed girl lingered behind to state, forcefully, her opinion.

  “Mr. Holmes, I think you are a beast! If you are such an idiot as your silly words seem to indicate, you should at least have decency enough to refrain from uttering such nonsense at a time like this!”

  She flirted out, and a slow, deep smile overspread Holmes’ lean face as she disappeared. The captain, on deck, turned away to face a stammering, pop-eyed steward at his elbow.

  “Mr. Anstruther, sir! He’s down—”

  “S-sh!” the skipper warned the man sharply. “Keep your mouth shut, steward. This is all right. Don’t say a word.”

  “B-but, sir, he looks—”

  “I tell you it’s all right. It’s a game he’s playing. Keep quiet, I tell you.”

  Watson was having a similarly difficult time persuading his fellow guests to let the joke go on a little longer. They were, to a man and girl, for seeking out Percy and telling him it was useless to remain in hiding any longer.

  “Why, Watson, it’s too darned silly to be funny,” cried the red-headed one. “It’s simply idiotic to let old Percy sweat himself sick down in some dark hold just to draw this faker Holmes. I never heard such rubbish, even from half-witted kids.”

  “Don’t spoil it,” Watson advised quietly. “I know Holmes rather better than you, and I tell you he’s only trying to scare you off while he makes out a case. If you leave him alone, say until we get to port, he’ll have something amusing to tell you, even if it is all wrong. At any rate it will be a logical sequence of points comparing perfectly with all the clues.”

  “But how about poor old Percy?”

  “I’ll see him myself. He’ll be agreeable, I know, since he arranged the joke himself. I’ll take him down some wine and see what else he wants.”

  “Oh, then you know where he’s hiding? He didn’t tell us.”

  “I know, yes. Just keep quiet and watch awhile. You’ll have something truly interesting to talk about soon, I promise you.”

  The yacht ran into harbor before noon, and as she steamed up the sail-dotted bay Holmes came on deck in town clothes. Every eye fastened on him, and smiles were carefully concealed.

  “I am going on shore to bring the police, gentlemen,” he stated sharply. “There is little time, but still time enough, for the culprit to reveal himself.”

  He turned away and stood at the rail. Behind him muffled giggles and chuckles broke out, and the merry-eyed girl chirped recklessly, “Oh yes, let him go! It’ll be bully sport seeing the real police tear his silly old theories to rags.”

  Holmes seemed to notice nothing that was said, but presently the steward appeared absolutely dripping with the perspiration of fear, and in a moment all was changed from farce to earnest.

  “Captain!” the man yelled to the bridge, “I’ve found Mr. Anstruther, and he’s hurt! He ain’t fooling, no, sir! He’s been tied—”

  Watson stepped forward, laid a hand on Holmes’ arm coolly, and jabbed a pistol muzzle into his ribs. He faced the group with a smile.

  “The steward is right, gentlemen. You thought to play a joke, but Long Holmes here turned it into a real game. That is, he almost succeeded. But I have been keeping tabs on him for a long time, and I’ve got him now with the goods. Yes, I’m a detective. You might see after Mr. Anstruther. I shall come back and report to him as soon as I’ve placed my prisoner in safety.”

  Holmes twisted his neck and glared down at Watson with murderous eyes; but the smaller man kept his pistol pressed to the other’s side until the yacht docked, then put it into his pocket, warned his prisoner, and marched him ashore and into a taxicab.

  Percy was brought up from the darksome depths of the storerooms, blinking and furious, but more than a little frightened. He shook a fat, abrased fist after the disappearing taxicab when the captain told him who was in it, and launched into a feverish recital of his adventures.

  “By the Great Horn Spoon!” he gabbled, reddening up like a turkey’s wattles. “That chap’s smart, but he ain’t a patch on the quiet Watson. There’s a sleuth for you! Followed his man, he has, for months, I’ll go bail; why, I’ll bet he made his acquaintance at Ocean View just to keep right after him until he pulled something.

  “And nobody suspected him all the while Sherlock was turning our little game into a damn nasty reality. I knew something was wrong—kind o’ felt it, y’know—but it was too late to do anything when the suspicion grew to certainty. I was hobbled then.

  “Oh, I give it to Holmes, fellows, he fooled me nicely! I came into my stateroom as we arranged, scattered those fool clues about, and was just ready to gather up the loot and blow off the gun out of the porthole, when in comes Sherlock like a ghost, slams me up against the wall and busts my nose, wraps me up in my own bathrobe and ties it with the cord, and carries me down below. Then he passed up again, and I heard the pistol go off, and there I’ve lain ever since until just now.”

  “By George! It was a clever bit of trickery,” exclaimed a wide-eared listener. “Lucky it failed, eh?”

  “Yes, thanks to Watson. I knew that chap was the real thing,” vowed Percy, dabbing tenderly at his swollen nose. “You got to hand it to him, though he didn’t deceive me for a minute. He had just the look of a real, clever crime-hound. I’ll do something handsome for him when he comes on board.”

  None of the party wanted to go ashore until Watson had returned. They lounged under the awnings, sipping long cool drinks and chatting over the affair. About half an hour after Watson had taken his captive ashore, a wide-winged flying boat flew overhead close down, circled once or twice as if inspecting the fine yacht, then flew swiftly seaward in the general direction of a long line of islands belonging to many different nations, lying far down over the horizon. Flying boats have ceased to be objects of intense curiosity, and nobody took more than a fleeting interest in the low-flying machine, until it had almost speeded out of sight in the sea haze and the radio man suddenly appeared in obvious excitement and handed Percy a message. Percy read it idly, re-read it with staring eyes, dropped it on deck and sprang to the rail, gaping into the blue sky for that vanished speck which was the flying machine. The merry-eyed girl picked up the message, smoothed it out, and with a hesitating glance at the stupefied Percy read it aloud to the shocked company.

  “Thank you, Percy,” it said. “We’ve had a lovely time, and bear you no malice for your friends’ ridicule of our methods. We’ll write you from Mars, or Venus, or some place. Ta-ta, old boy. Sherlock and the Doctor.”

  Faces gaped into faces in utter amazement, then all turned to Percy. But Percy was already taking the companionway stairs six steps at a time, bound for his ravaged stateroom from which a treasure in gems and cash had all too surely vanished.

  TO ONE WHO GOES ABROAD, by Barry Kemp

  Guarded through enormous space

  By the unseen Captain’s eye,

  Where gigantic shoals of suns

  Fill the night with majesty,

  Stars on every side awash,

  Earth’s our ship that travels far,

  Plunging to the ports of God

  Swifter than a falling star.

  Go, then, if you will, and find

  Other countries, other friends;

  We’ve a common voyage sti

  Down a way that never ends!

  THE MAKE-WEIGHT, by Harold Lamb

  Arthur Kent breathed a sigh of relief as the last trick of the last hand was turned. He had been lucky. Indeed lucky, if neither of the other two players at the green-covered table in the billiard room of the officers’ club had seen him cheat that last hand.

  Checking up the score, Kent held it out for the others to see. His dark eyes were half closed, his full, handsome face impassive. The moisture around his eyes came only from the early evening heat that enveloped Rawal Pindi, in Upper India.

  “‘Fraid I’m winner, gentlemen. Sorry Captain Gerald has had enough.”

  The third man, a nervous subaltern, tried to smile as he wrote out an I.O.U. for seventy pounds. With a nod Kent folded the sheet of paper on the table and fell to shuffling the cards together until the subaltern had left the room.

  Into the pack of cards he deftly slipped the three discards that he had secreted. He smiled, for now there would be no proving that he had cheated. Luck usually ran his way. His was a clever mind and quick to seize advantage—consequently he had made a name as political agent. True, two years ago when native under-officials had complained of extortion, Kent had been transferred from a Bengal province to the small frontier post of Dalgai, near Rawal Pindi. But here he had married a first-rate American girl with a little money.

  “Well?” he observed.

  Captain Fred Gerald, surgeon, attached to the cavalry regiment at Dalgai—called Daktar Sahib by the natives to whom he sometimes administered aid—took a five-pound bank-note from the breast pocket of his tunic and thrust it across the table. “I’m riding up into the gorges to attend a patient.” His gray eyes hardened swiftly. “Wouldn’t you better return that—paper to the young cub, and explain that a mistake was made in the score?”

  “Eh?” Kent flushed as he grasped the other’s meaning. “Kindly explain what the devil you’re getting at?”