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Rh cared to, and plucked a moon from the daisy fiieldfield [sic] and put it in the lapel of his purple satin coat.

A new chapter of strangeness came to pass on the morrow. For, in the course of the day, a dozen wild and famished men reached the island from a long trek through the swamps whither they had been driven by Sheriff Jim Crawford and his deputy. These men were frightened. Each and every one of them believed that his time had come, for one or two of them had been foolish enough to shoot at the sheriff and his aid. And, when that happened and the shooter had absurdly missed, it meant sure death for all concerned. There were those in the dozen who would have fled—fled back to the sheriff and young Dewey Slade with an offer to turn State’s evidence—turn a new leaf, even-anything to escape this bearded Nemesis and his aid. But the gang had gone watchful, hateful, murderous to their own kind, and none could escape from the others. So they had stuck together and beat, by strange passes through saw grass, mud and water, to this hidden camp of Bertram Jade. He had helped them before. He would have to help them now. It surprised and angered them to find Jade and his companions asleep while they were in the midst of acute suffering, so they kicked the sleepers awake.

By Francis Stevens

HAD been dining with my ever-interesting friend, Mark Jenkins, at a little Italian restaurant near South Street. It was a chance meeting. Jenkins is too busy, usually, to make dinner engagements. Over our highly seasoned food and sour, thin, red wine, he spoke of little odd incidents and adventures of his profession. Nothing very vital or important, of course. Jenkins is not the sort of detective who first detects and then pours the egotistical and revealing details of achievement in the ears of every acquaintance, however appreciative.

But when I spoke of something I had seen in the morning papers, he laughed. “Poor old ‘Doc’ Holt! Fascinating old codger, to any one who really knows him. I’ve had his friendship for years—since I was first on the city force and saved a young assistant of his from jail on a false charge. And they had to drag him into the poisoning of this young sport, Ralph Peeler!”

“Why are you so sure he couldn’t have been implicated?” I asked.

But Jenkins only shook his head, with a quiet smile. “I have reasons for believing otherwise,” was all I could get out of him on that score. “But,” he added, “the only reason he was suspected at all is the superstitious dread of these ignorant people around him. Can’t see why he lives in such a place. I know for a fact he doesn’t have to. Doc’s got money of his own. He’s an amateur