The Return (Aumonier)

OUGHT, perhaps, in the first place, to explain that I am, or rather was, a librarian at the suburban library of Chadstow Heath. When I first received this important appointment my salary was eighty pounds a year, but after six years' assiduous application to my duties it was advanced to one hundred and twenty pounds a year. I am married and have two children, and we lived in Gentian Villa, which is convenient to the library and barely ten minutes' walk from the heath itself. This may not represent to you a condition of material prosperity, but I would venture to point out that all these matters are entirely comparative. To a successful sugar broker or a popular comedian I must appear in the light of a pauper. To my own family I have always appeared to be something of a plutocrat. For you must know that I owe my education and whatever advancement I may have made to my own efforts at a national school, and the privileges of continuation classes. My father was a small greengrocer, and his family, which was a very large one and peculiarly prolific, has in no instance except my own risen above the social standard that he set for us. I hope this statement of mine will not sound priggish. It is simply a very bald assertion of truth. All my relatives are dear good people; it is simply that they do not, and never have, taken any interest in what is called education. My brother Albert is a greengrocer, as our father was, and he has seven children. Richard is in a leather-seller's shop. He earns more money than I did, but he has eleven children. Christopher is a packer at the Chadstow Heath Emporium. God has blessed him with three small offspring. Will is unmarried, and I could n't tell you quite what he does. He is something of a black sheep. My sister Nancy is married—alas! unhappily—to a worthless traveler in cheap jewelry. She has two children. Laura is the wife of an elderly Baptist who keeps a tobacco kiosk on Meadway. She is childless. Louie, my favorite sister, is not married, but she has a child. But her tragedy does not concern this story.

In fact, the details of the entities neither of myself nor of my brothers and sisters are of very great importance in what I want to tell you, beyond the fact that they will give you a clue to the amazing flutter among us that accompanied the appearance of our Uncle Herbert when he arrived from Africa. The truth is that I believe that every one of us had entirely forgotten all about him. Albert and I had a vague recollection of having heard our father refer to a delicate young brother who bolted to South Africa when he was a young man, and had not been heard of since.

But, lo and behold! he turned up one evening suddenly at Gentian Villa when my sister Louie and her child were paying us a visit. At first I thought he was some impostor, and I was almost on the point of warning my wife to keep an eye on the silver butter-dish and the fish-knives which we always displayed with a certain amount of pride on our dining-room sideboard.

He was a little, wizened old man with a bald head and small beady eyes. He had a way of sucking in his lips and continually nodding his head. He was somewhat shabbily dressed except for a heavy gold watch and chain. He appeared to be intensely anxious to be friendly with us all. He got the names and addresses of the whole family from me, and stated that he was going to settle down and live somewhere in London.

When one had got over his nervy, fussy way of behaving, there was something about the little man that was rather lovable. He stayed a couple of hours and promised to call again the next day. We laughed about him after he had gone, and, as relatives will, discussed his possible financial position. We little dreamed of the surprising difference Uncle Herbert was going to make to us all.

He called on all the family in rotation, and wherever he went he took little presents and made himself extremely affable and friendly. He told us that he had bought a house and was having it "done up a bit." And then, to our surprise, we discovered that he had bought "Silversands," which, as you know, is one of the largest houses on Chadstow Heath. It is, as Albert remarked, "more like a palace," a vast red-brick structure standing in its own grounds, which are surrounded by a high wall.

I shall never forget the day when we were all, including the children, invited to go and spend the afternoon and evening. We wandered about the house and garden spellbound, doubting how to behave, and being made to feel continually self-conscious by the presence of some half-dozen servants. It would be idle to pretend that the house was decorated in the best of taste. It was lavish in every sense of the word. The keynote was an almost exuberant gaiety. It was nearly all white woodwork or crimson mahogany, with brilliant floral coverings. Masses of naturalistic flowers rose at you from the carpet and the walls. And the electric lights! I 've never in my life seen so many brackets and electroliers. I do not believe there was a cubic foot of space in the house that was not brightly illuminated. And in this gay setting Uncle Herbert became the embodiment of hospitality itself, about among us, shaking hands, patting the heads of the children, passing trays of rich cakes and sandwiches. The younger children were sent home early in the evening, laden with toys, and we elders stayed on to supper. And, heavens! what a supper it was! The table was covered with lobster salads and cold turkey and chicken and ham and everything one could think of. On the side-table were rows of bottles of beer and claret and stout and whisky, and as if a concession to the social status of his guests, uncle dismissed the servants, and we waited on ourselves. The little man sat at the head of the table and blinked and nodded and winked at us, and he kept on repeating:

"Now, boys and girls, enjoy yourselves. Albert, cut a bit o' fowl for Nancy. 'Erbert, my boy, pass the 'am to yer aunt."

Uncle was the life and soul of the party, and it need hardly be said that we soon melted to his mood. I observed that he himself ate very little and did not drink at all. For an oldish man, whose digestion was probably not what it had been, this was not a very remarkable phenomenon. I should probably not have commented upon it but for the fact that it was the first personal trait of my uncle that arrested my attention, and that, in conjunction with more peculiar characteristics, caused me to keep a closer watch upon him in the days that followed. For this supper-party was but the nucleus of a series of supper-parties. It was given out that "Silversands" was an open house. We were all welcome at any time. Uncle was never so happy as when the house was full of laughing children, or when his large circle of relatives chattered round the groaning board and ate and drank the prodigal delicacies he supplied. Not only were we welcome, but any friends we cared to take were welcome also. I have known thirty-three of us to sit down to supper there on a Sunday evening. On these occasions all the house was lighted up, and, in fact, I have no recollection of going there when every electric light and fitting was not fulfilling its utmost function.

Apart from abstemiousness, the characteristic of uncle which immediately gripped my attention was what I will call abstraction.

It was, indeed, a very noticeable characteristic. He had a way of suddenly shrinking within himself and apparently being oblivious to his surroundings. He would make some gay remark and then suddenly stop and stare into space, and if you spoke to him, he would not answer for some moments.

Another peculiarity was that he would never speak of Africa or of his own affairs. He had a convenient deafness that assailed him at awkward moments. He seemed to be in a frenzy of anxiety to be always surrounded by his own family and the ubiquitous electric lights. When the house was quite in order I do not think he went out at all except into the garden.

He was scrupulously impartial in his treatment of us all; in fact he had a restless, impersonal way of distributing his favors as though he were less interested in us as individual persons as anxious to surround himself with a loving and sympathetic atmosphere. Nevertheless,—and it may quite possibly have been an illusion,—I always felt that he leaned a little more toward me than toward the others, perhaps because I was called after him. He always called me " 'Erb, boy," and there were times when he seemed instinctively to draw me apart as though he wanted to hide behind me. Realizing his disinclination to indulge in personal explanation, I respected the peculiarity and talked of impersonal things or remained silent.

It was, I think, Albert who was the most worried by uncle's odd tricks. I remember he came to me one night in the smoking-room after a particularly riotous supper-party, and he said:

"I say, 'Erbert,"—all my family call me 'Erbert,—"what I 'd like to know is, what is uncle staring at all the time?"

I knew quite well what he meant, but I pretended not to, and Albert continued:

"Of course it 's all right. It 's no business of ours, but it 's a very rum thing. He laughs and talks and suddenly he leaves off and then he stares—and stares—and stares into space."

I mumbled something about uncle's age and his memory wandering, but Albert was not to be satisfied and he whispered:

"How do you think the old boy made his money? Why don't he never say anything about it?"

I could offer no satisfactory explanation, and we dropped the subject. But a month or so later our interests were all set more vividly agog by uncle's behavior, for he suddenly expressed his determination not merely to entertain us as usual, but to help us in a more substantial way. He bought and stocked a new shop for Albert, He set Richard up in business and gave Christopher a partnership in it. He paid Will's passage out to Canada and gave him two hundred pounds to start on. (I believe Will had already been trying to borrow money from him, with what result I do not know.) He offered me some light secretarial work to do for him in my spare time, for which he agreed to pay me sixty pounds a year. As for the girls, he bought them a life annuity bringing them in fifty pounds a year.

I need hardly say that this new development created considerable joy and sensation in our family, and our interest in and respect for Uncle Herbert became intense. I felt very keen to start on my "light secretarial duties," and at the back of my mind was the thought that now I should have an opportunity to get some little insight into uncle's affairs. But in this I was disappointed. He only asked me to go on two evenings a week, and then it was to help check certain expenses in connection with the household, and also to begin collecting a library for him. I made no further progress of an intimate nature. The next step of progression in this direction, indeed, was made by Albert, somewhat under cover of the old adage, in vino Veritas. For on the night after Albert's new shop was opened we all supped at uncle's, and Albert, I 'm afraid, got a little drunk. He was, in any case, very excited and garrulous, and he and Christopher and I met in the smoking-room late in the evening, and Albert was very mysterious. I would like to reproduce what he said in his own words. He shut the door carefully and tiptoed across the room.

"Look here, boys," he said. "The old man beats me. There 's something about all this I don't like."

"Don't be a fool," I remarked. "What 's the trouble?"

Albert walked restlessly up and down the room; then he said: "I 've been watching all the evening. He gets worse. I begin to feel frightened by him at moments. To-night when they were all fooling about, I happened to stroll through the conservatory, and suddenly I comes across uncle. He was sitting all alone, his elbows on his knees, staring into space. ' 'Ullo, Uncle!' I says. He starts and trembles like, and then he says, ' 'Ullo, Albert, my boy!' I says, 'You feeling all right. Uncle?' and he splutters about and says: 'Yes, yes, I 'm all right. 'Ow do yer think your business 'll go, Albert?' he says. I felt in a queer sort of defiant mood—I 'd had nearly half a bottle of port—and suddenly I says straight out, 'What sort of place is Africa, Uncle?' His little eyes blazed at me for a moment, and I thought he was going to lose his temper. Then he stops, and gives a sort of whimper, and sinks down again on his knees. He made a funny noise as if he was goin' to cry. Then he says in that husky voice: 'Efrica? Efrica? Oh, Efrica 's a funny place, Albert. It 's big—' He stretched out his little arms, and sat there as though he was dreamin'. Then he continues, 'In the cities it 's struggle and struggle and struggle, one man 'gainst another, no mercy, no quarter.' And suddenly he caught hold of my arm and he says, 'You can't help it, can yer, Albert, if one man gets on, and another man goes under?' I did n't know what to say, and he seems to shrink away from me, and he stops and he stares and stares and stares, and then he says in a kind of whisper: 'Then you get out on the plains—and it 's all silent—and you 're away up in the karoo, and there 's just the great stone slabs—and nothing but yer solitude and yer thoughts and the moon above. And it is all so still—' Then he stops again, and suddenly raises his little arm and points. Christ! for all the world as though he was pointin' at somethin' 'appenin' out there on the karoo!"

Christopher rose from his seat and walked to the window. He was pale.

"Don't be a fool, Albert," he said. "What does it matter? Ain't 'e done you all right? Ain't 'e set you up in the green-grocery?"

Albert looked wildly round, and licked the end of a cigarette which had gone out.

"I don't see that there 's anything we can do," I remarked unconvincingly.

Albert wiped his brow.

"No," he argued; "it ain't our business. It 's only that sometimes I—"

He did not finish his remark, and we three brothers looked at one another furtively.

And then began one of those curious telepathic experiences that play so great a part in the lives of all of us. I have complained that none of my brothers or sisters showed any leaning toward education or mental advancement of any sort, but I have not perhaps insisted that despite this it was one of our boasts that we were an honest family. Even Will, despite his recklessness and certain vicious traits, had always played the game. Albert and Richard and Christopher had been perilously poor, but I do not believe that they would have ever acted in a deliberately dishonest or mean fashion. I don't think I would myself, although I had had perhaps rather less temptation. And despite our variety of disposition and trade, we were a fairly united family. We understood one another.

The advent of Uncle Herbert and his peculiar behavior reacted upon us unfavorably. With the accession of this unexpected wealth and security we became suspicious of one another. Moreover, when we brothers met together after the evening I have just described, we looked at one another half knowingly, and the slogan, "It ain't no business of mine," became charged with the acid of mutual recrimination. As far as possible we avoided any intimate discussion, and kept the conversation on a detached plane. We were riotously merry, unduly affectionate, and, according to all the rules of the game, undeniably guilty.

What was uncle staring at? I would sometimes wake up in the night and begin feverishly visualizing all sorts of strange and untoward episodes. What were these haunting fears at the back of his mind? Why was he so silent on the primal facts of his position? I knew that in their individual ways all my brothers and sisters were undergoing a similar period of trial. I could tell by their eyes.

The naked truth kept jogging our elbows, that this money from which we were benefiting, that brought us SO much pleasure and comfort, had been acquired in some dishonest way or even over the corpse of some tragic episode.

He spent nearly all his time in the garden, dividing it into little circles and oblongs and triangles of geranium-beds, and at the bottom he had a rock garden, and fruit trees on the south wall. He seemed to know a lot about it.

In the winter he stayed indoors, and became frailer and more pathetic in his manner, and more dependent upon our society. It is difficult to know how much he followed the effects of his liberality. He developed a manner of asking one excitedly all about one's affairs and then not listening to the reply. If he had observed things closely he would have noted that in nearly every case his patronage had had unfortunate results. Richard and Christopher quarreled and dissolved their partnership. Albert's business failed. Nancy's husband threw up his work and led a frankly depraved life on the strength of his wife's settled income. An adventurer named Ben Cotton married my sister Louie, obviously because she had a little money. Laura quarreled with her husband, the Baptist, and on the strength of her new independence left him, and the poor man hanged himself a few months later.

To all these stories of misadventure and trouble Uncle Herbert listened with a great show of profuse sympathy, but it was patent that their real significance did not get through to him. He always acted lavishly and impulsively. He set Albert up in business again. He started both Christopher and Richard independently. He gave the girls more money, and sent a preposterous wreath to the Baptist's funeral. He did not seem to mind what he did for us, provided we continued to laugh and jest round his generous board. It is curious that this cataclysm in our lives affected Albert more than any of us. Perhaps because he was in his way more temperamental. He began to lose a grip on his business and to drink.

He came to me one night in a very excited state. It appeared that on the previous evening he had come home late and had been drinking. One of the children annoyed him, a boy named Andrew, and Albert had struck him on the head harder that he had meant to. There had very nearly been a tragedy. His wife had been very upset and threatened to leave him.

Albert cried in a maudlin fashion, and said he was very unhappy. He wished Uncle Herbert had never turned up. Then he recalled the night in the conservatory, when Uncle Herbert had talked about Africa.

"I believe there was dirty work," said Albert. "I believe he did some one down. He killed him out there on the karoo and robbed him of his money."

"It ain't no business of ours." The phrase came to my mind, but I did not use it. I was worried myself. I suggested that we should have a family meeting and discuss the best thing to do, and Albert agreed. But the meeting itself nearly ended in another tragedy. Albert dominated it. He said we must all go to uncle and say to him straight out:

"Look here, this is all very well, but you 've got to tell us how you made your money."

And Christopher replied:

"Yes, I dare say. And then he 'll cut up rusty, and tell us all to go to hell, and go away. And then where will we be?"

Louie and I agreed with Albert, but all the rest backed Christopher, and the discussion became acrimonious and at times dangerous. We broke up without coming to any decision, but with Albert asserting vehemently that he was going the next day on his own responsibility to settle the matter. He and Christopher nearly came to blows.

We were never in a position to do more than speculate upon what the result of that interview would have been, because it never took place. In the morning we heard that uncle was dead. He had died the previous evening while receiving a visitor, suddenly, of heart failure, at the very time when we were arguing about him.

When we went round to the house, the servants told us that an elderly gentleman had called about nine o'clock the night before. He gave the name of Josh. He looked like a seaman of some sort. Uncle Herbert had appeared dazed when he heard the name. He told them in a faint voice to show the stranger in. They were alone less than five minutes, when the stranger came out, and called them into the hall.

"Something queer has happened," was all he said.

They found uncle lying in a huddled heap by the Chesterfield. A doctor was sent for, but he was dead. During the excitement of the shock Mr. Josh disappeared and had not been seen since. But later in the afternoon he called and said that if there was to be any inquest, he was willing to come and give evidence. He left an address.

Of course there was a post-mortem, and I need hardly say that all our interest was concentrated on this mysterious visitor. He was a tall, elderly man with a gray pointed beard, a sallow complexion, and a face on which the marks of a hard and bitter life of struggle had left their traces.

The case was very simple and uneventful. The doctor said that death was due to heart-failure, possibly caused by some sudden shock. The heart in any case was in a bad state. The servants gave evidence of the master's general disposition and of the visit of the stranger. When Mr. Josh was called, he spoke in a loud, rather raspish voice, like a man calling into the wind. He simply stated that he was an old friend of Mr. Herbert Read's. He had known him for nearly twenty-five years in South Africa. Happening to be in London, he looked him up in a telephone directory, and paid him an unexpected visit. They had spoken for a few moments, and Mr. Read had appeared very pleased and excited at meeting him again. Then suddenly he had put up his hands and fallen forward. That was all. The coroner thanked him for his evidence, and a verdict of "Death from natural causes" was brought in.

When the case was over, I approached Mr. Josh and asked him if he would come back to the house with us. He nodded in a nonchalant manner and followed me out. On the way back I made vain attempts to draw him out, but he was as uncommunicative as Uncle Herbert himself. He merely repeated what he had said at the inquest. We had lunch, and a curiously constrained meal it was, all of us speaking in little self-conscious whispers, with the exception of Albert, who did n't speak at all, and Mr. Josh, who occasionally shouted "Yes," or "No, thank you," in a loud voice.

At three o'clock Uncle Herbert's lawyer arrived, and we were all called into the drawing-room for the reading of the will. I asked Mr. Josh to wait for us, and he said he would. It need hardly be said that we were all in a great state of trepidation. I really believe that both Albert and I would have been relieved if it were proved that uncle had died bankrupt. If we did indulge in this unaccountable  we were quickly doomed to disappointment. The lawyer, speaking in a dry, unimpressive voice, announced that "as far as he could for the moment determine," Herbert Read had left between sixty-five and seventy thousand pounds. Thirty thousand of this was bequeathed to various charitable institutions in South Africa, and the residue of the estate was to be divided equally between his nephews and nieces. I shall never forget the varied expressions on the faces of my brothers and sisters when each one realized that he or she was to inherit between four and five thousand pounds. We gasped and said nothing, though I remember Christopher, when the reading was finished, mumbling something to the lawyer. I think he asked him if he 'd like a drink. I know the lawyer merely glared at him, coughed, and said nothing.

When he had taken his departure in a frigidly ceremonious manner, we all seemed too numbed to become garrulous. It was a dull day, and a fine rain was driving against the window-panes. We sat about smoking and looking at one another and occasionally whispering in strained voices. We might have been a collection of people waiting their turn on the guillotine rather than a united family who had just inherited a fortune. Mr. Josh had gone out for a stroll during the reading of the will, and we were all strangely anxious to see him. He appeared to be our last link that might bind the chain of our earthly prospects to a reasonable stake.

He returned about five o'clock and strolled carelessly into the room, nodding at us in a casual and indifferent manner as he seated himself.

We gave him some tea, and he lighted a cheroot. And then each of us in turn made our effort to draw him out. We began casually; then we put leading questions and tried to follow them up quickly. But Mr. Josh was apparently not to be drawn. He evidently disliked us or was bored with us and made no attempt to illuminate the dark shadows of our doubts. Perhaps he rather enjoyed the game. The room began to get dark, and we slunk back into the gloom and gradually subsided into silence. We sat there watching the stranger; the red glow of his cheroot seemed the only vital thing.

It was Albert, as usual, who broke the spell. He suddenly got up and walked to the window; then he turned and cried out:

"Well, I don't know about all you. But I know about myself. I 'm not going to touch a penny of this damned money."

I was sitting quite near our visitor, and in the half-light I saw a strange look come into his eye. It was as though for the first time something interested him. He started, and I said as quickly as I could:

"Why not, Albert?"

"Because the money 's not clean," he shouted into the room.

I don't know how it was that none of the others took this up. But we all sat there looking at the stranger. It was as though we waited breathlessly upon a verdict that he alone could give. He looked round at us, and carefully flicking the end of his cheroot, he obliged us with this epigram:

"No money is clean. It passes through too many hands."

We waited for more, but nothing came. Then Albert bore down on him with a tempestuous movement.

"Look here," he said. "I don't know anything about you. But you knew Uncle 'Erbert for twenty-five years. For God's sake, tell us how he made his money."

The stranger looked at him, and blew smoke between his teeth; then he said slowly:

"Made his money? Your uncle never made more than two or three hundred a year in his life."

"Ah, I knew it!" exclaimed Albert.

Whether it was the result of my brother's forceful manner or whether it was the atmosphere of suspense that urged him to it, I do not know. But certain it is that at that point our visitor sank back languidly in his chair and spoke:

"I 'll tell you what I know."

We none of us moved, but we leaned forward and watched him as he proceeded: "In the spring of eighteen-forty-five," he began, "two young men set out from England to seek their fortunes in South Africa. Their names were Jules Lynneker and Karl Banstow. They were of the same age, and were filled with the wildest hopes and dreams. They were, moreover, devoted to each other, and their only difference was one of temperament. Lynneker was essentially a dreamer and something of a poet, with a great gift of imagination. Banstow was a hard-headed, hard-working man of affairs. Now in this case, which do you think would be the successful one? You would naturally put your money on Banstow. And you would be wrong every time. For a year or two they worked together, and then Banstow was offered an overseer's job in a tin-mine. They continued to live together, but their work separated them. Lynneker was employed on an ostrich farm. The ostrich farm was a huge success, but the tin-mine failed. "That seemed to make the beginning of their divergence. Whatever Lynneker touched, succeeded; whatever Banstow touched, failed.

"Lynneker was a careless, easy-going person, but he had a native genius. He could control men. Men loved him and followed him and would do anything he told them. He was casual in his details. He dreamed in millions and had the unique faculty of spotting the right man for a job. There was something about the man, a curious mesmeric fascination, a breadth—" Mr. Josh paused, and knocked the ash of his cheroot into a tray. Then he continued: "Banstow worked like a slave. He sat up half the night scheming and plotting. He was infallible in his calculations and then—he just missed. He did n't inspire any one. He misjudged men, and men did n't believe in him. As the years went on, and Lynneker became more and more successful, and Banstow made no progress, the thing began to get on Banstow's nerves. He quarreled with his friend, and they became rivals. The injustice of it all infuriated Banstow. He worked, and Lynneker lazed and dreamed and yet won every time. They went into the diamond-mining industry, and Lynneker began amassing a great fortune in a careless, haphazard way. Again Banstow failed. In ten years' time Lynneker was an immensely rich man, and Banstow was a bankrupt clerk in a labor bureau. Then one day in a mood of sullen resentment he hatched a diabolical plot against Lynneker. He bribed some Kafirs, and tried to get Lynneker convicted of illicit diamond-buying. By the merest fluke the plot was discovered, and it was Banstow who was convicted. He was sentenced to seven years' imprisonment. He served his term in full. In the meantime Lynneker became a bigger man in Africa. He lived in Johannesburg and owned great blocks of offices. But he always remained a dreamer. Sometimes he would ride out at night into the karoo. They say he dreamed of a united Africa. I don't know. He certainly wrote poetry in the intervals of amassing money. Two weeks after Banstow was released from prison Lynneker's body was found out in the karoo, with a bullet through his heart. He had ridden out alone one night, and as he had n't returned, they sent out a search-party and found him the next day. Banstow was suspected, but apparently he had escaped. Nothing more was seen of him."

The stranger paused and then languidly lighted another cheroot. The interval seemed so indefinite that at last Albert said:

"Where does Uncle Herbert come in?"

"Your Uncle Herbert was a cipher," replied our visitor. "He was merely one of the people who came under the influence of Lynneker. As a matter of fact, I believe he was one of the worst cases. He worshiped Lynneker. Lynneker was the obsession of his life. He acted as secretary for him for his vast charitable concerns. And when Lynneker was found dead, he nearly went off his head. He howled like a terrier who has lost his master." He glanced round at us, and in the dim light I thought I detected a sneer of contempt.

"Lynneker died a millionaire," he proceeded, "and among other legacies he left your uncle certain blocks of mining shares which were probably worth about forty or fifty thousand pounds. That 's how he made his money."

There was a gasp of relief round the room, and Albert wiped his brow.

"Then the money was straight enough, after all," he said huskily.

The chilling voice of the stranger came through the darkness:

"As straight as any money can be."

Richard stood up and moved to the mantelpiece.

"Why the hell could n't he tell us about this before, then? Why was he so secret?"

"Herbert Read had no nerves. The thing broke him up. Banstow had also been a friend of his at one time, and he was convinced that Banstow had killed his master. He had periods of melancholia. The doctors told him that unless he went away for a change and tried to get it out of his head, he would be in an asylum in a few months. And so I suppose he came over here. But his heart was still affected, and when I gave him the news I did last week, the shock finished him."

We all started.

"What news?"

"That Banstow was innocent. I was able to show him a certificate from the master of the Birmingham, proving that on the night of the murder Banstow was a steerage-passenger on board his ship, seventy-three miles east-northeast of the Azores. Lynneker was probably shot by some vagrant thief. Certainly his watch and all his money were missing."

We all peered at the man hidden in the recesses of the easy-chair, and Albert said:

"How was it you had this information?"

The figure crossed its legs, and the voice replied languidly:

"I was interested. I happen to be Karl Banstow!"

Albert groped past me on tiptoe, muttering:

"In God's name, where is the electric-light switch?"

It is a curious fact regarding these telepathic processes I have hinted at in this chronicle of our uncle's return that from the day when it was demonstrated that the money we had inherited was to all intents and purposes clean, our own little affairs seemed to take their cue from this consciousness. Certain it is that since that time everything seems to have prospered for us. You should see Albert's shops, particularly the one on the Broadway, where he is still not too proud to serve himself. As for myself, as I am now in a position to lead the indolent life of a scribe in this little manor-house up in the Cotswolds, and as this position is due entirely to the generosity of Uncle Herbert, it seems only right and proper that I should begin my literary career by recounting the story of his return.