Evening Star Newspaper, June 28, 1925, Page 64

egetepeteieteletototete etelote] FOOOIHHO G OO GO EBRIGHT of Scotland Yard sat i office. Unpleasant business round the foreign office this morning. Q. Q.” he remarked. “I sup: pose you've heard?” Q. raised his eyebrows. No,” he said. “What's uble?"” “Arbuthnot shot himself.” “Arbuthnot!- Shot himself’ ‘The chief’s voice was at once startled and incredulous. “My dear Sebright,” he said, in a tone that made that gentleman look up. “are you quite sure?” Sebright nodded again, more emphatically. “No doubt about it. One of his clerks was passing along the corridor ——heard u detonation in his room— evered the door and rushed in—and there was Arbuthnot collapsed in his chair at his desk—bullet wound through the side of his head—his own revolver lying on the floor, just as it had fallen from his hand. The clerk gave the alarm at once, of course.” I was sent for—found nothing had been touched—clear case of sui- cide. The coroner's finquest may throw some light on the motive—no one at the F. O. could suggest an “On which side of the head was the death wound, Sebright?” he right-hand side, of course.” You're certain of that?" Quite. You know his room—when you come in from the corridor, his desk is just to the left of you, and he sits with his back to the door, fac- ing the window. The wound was on the side of the head visible as you come in—I remember seeing it at once, and accidentally kicking with my foot the revolver lying on the floor. It was the normal right-hand side, right enough.” “H'm!" Q. Q. grunted. “But not normal for Arbuthnot. He happened 10 bBe left-handed. It didn't occur to vou to make inquiries on that point, T suppose?” “Of course it didn't. People aren’t usually left-handed.” Sebright stared, startled, at Mr. Quavne as he made the admission. “Why, you are not suggestin; g “Murder. with a griml But why- My dear Sebright,’—Q. Q.'s tight lips twisted in a faint smile—“only vesterday Arbuthnot sat in that chair. He had come to ses me—privately, unofficlally—and he was very much troubled. He was convinced that there was a leakage of secret informa- tion from his department. Arbuthnot was a queer old fellow, as you know. His one hobby, I believe, was the solution of acrostics and ciphers. He used to read solemnly through the agony column of the Times and puzzle out the code messages of all who communicate through that medium. The evening before he came to me he had had a shock. One of the messages he decoded conveyed to some one un- known a piece of highly secret in- formation that could only have ema- nated from his department. The poor old boy was in a terrible state—he did not want to go to his chief with the news until he could at the same time indicate the culprit—he was, of course, like most civil servants in a senior position, extremely sensitive to the honor of his department. He came to me for advice. He was to have called again toda: Phew!” exclaimed Sebright, thor- oughly perturbed. ‘“This makes every- thing lqok different. I wish to heaven he had come to see me about it at once! I hate these stories at second hand—1'd give a lot to hear him tell me all about it himself! Q. Q. smiled quietly, rose from his chair. “He shall tell you, my dear, Sebright. You shall hear, in his own voice, ev- rvthing he told me—and we'll see what vou make of it.” He went across to a cabinet on the farther wall, opened a drawer, returned with a long black cylinder. “When a case is brought to me I not infrequently allow my informant, unknown to himself, to tell it to the dictaphone at the same time. T have found, more than once, 2 help to_elucidation in listening to it repeated, precisely as it was orig- inally told, when I am sitting here undistracted by his personal presence. One can have the vital points reiterat- ed over and over again ad libitum. % k% % HE slipped the cylinder into a con- cealed slot. There was a faint vhir of a mechanism started into ac- tivity, and then: “One of my clerks must somehow en an impression of my the tre this time Q. Q. uttered the word suceint finality. bent down to the cylinder. The needle wasn't quite at the com- mencement,” he sald. “We'll let him tell his story again from the begin- ning.” He made the necessary adjust- ment Tt was indeed uncanny—even to me, tomed to hear such repetitions from the dictaphone (Q. Q. did not use the usual earpieces; he had installed a loudspeaker to which he could listen while he paced up and down the room)—to listen to that dead man's voice repeated with lifelike accuracy in that still room. And that voice had 10ld the story all over again precisely as T had heard it the day before from the man’s living presence, just as Q. Q. had summarized it to Sebright. The record concluded on the ener- getically_uttered phrase: ‘“‘He shall confess, Mr. Quayne—I am determined on it “Well, Sebright,” remarked Q. Q. as he stopped the mechanism, “what do you make of it? You have heard Ar- buthnot's own voice.” Sebright was thoughtful for a mo- ment. “Of course.” he said, “Arbuthnot might still have committed suicide—in the distress, department, caused by his discov- Do left-handed men usually shoot themselves on the right-hand side of the head, Sebright?” asked Q. Q. quiet- Iy. “I am prepared to ask that ques- tion at the coroner's inquest.” “BUT—BELIEVE ME, SIR—I KNOW BUTHNOT'S DEATH.” the sense of disgrace to| THE SUNDAY STAR, BY F. BRITTEN AUSTIN. There Were No Witnesses; It Mighf Have Been Suicide, Yet—— “That means a public scandal, Quayne—a lot of unwelcome limelight on the F. 0. “I dislike private scandals even more,” said the chief. “I regarded Arbuthnot as an old personal friend— and his murderer is certainly going to be found. Rerhand that~inquest, Sebright—and if we present the mur- derer simultaneously with the cor- {oner’s verdict, there will be no scan- dal. There will be only praise for Scotland Yard.” “But how are we going him?” challenged Sebright, peration. “There's not the slightest clue. The revolver is admittedly Ar- buthnot’s own—one he kept in his desk. The clerk who burst into the room immediately after the detona- tion found no one but the dead man.” *“Who was that clerk?"" ““Oglethorpe—the next senfor to Ar- buthnot. He was passing along the corridor—or so he says,” Sebright stopped. “Of course, he might to find in exas- “What?"” Sebright was suddenly illumined with a theory. “Shot Arbuthnot with Arbuthnot’s own revolver and dashed out into the corridor. There's no evi- dence, one way or the other. The corridor was empty. People in the vicinity heard the detonation, but be- fore they could investigate it Ogle- thorpe ran into the room where the other clerks were sitting and told his story.” “H'm Q. Q. stroked ' his jutting chin. ‘I know Oglethorpe. How many clerks are there in Arbuthnot’s personal department?” “Six—including Oglethorpe. “Do you happen to know if the other five were in the room when Oglethorpe entered it?" “No. There were only three—it came out while I was questioning as to who had seen Arbuthnot that morning.” Who were absent?” 'ohngon—he was away looking for a file in the registry.” Q. Q. nodded. “And the other man?" “D'Arcy Vaughan—the next in seniority to Oglethorpe. He was out at lunch.” “You are sure of that?" ‘Quite. He went to lunch at 12 o'clock as usual. The tragedy oc- curred at 10 minutes past. 1 saw him when he returned—gave him the first news of it. No, Q. Q.!"” Sebright thumped his fist on his knee. “If Arbuthnot was murdered—it could been done by Oglethorpe!” Q. Q. lifted his gray eye- “On his own showing he dashed into that room immediately after the detonation. If the murderer wers some one else, he must still have been there! He could not possibly have Q. Q. grunted. “I know s room pretty well I seem to remember that it has a large cupboard where Arbuthnot used to hang his overcoat. Allow yourself to consider another hypothesis. The murderer, hearing Oglethorpe come to the door, might have slipped into that cupboard and dodged out again immediately Oglethorpe had gone to give the alarm.” “Might!"” echoed Sebright contempt- vously. “All sorts of things might happen.” Sebright rose briskly to his feet. “I'm going te check up Mr. Oglethorpe a little, Q. Q.,” he con- cluded, “and unless my intuition is much at fault, Mr. Oglethorpe fis going to sleep in a police cell to- night.” The moment the door had closed behind Sebright’s back the chief took up the telephone and asked for a number. “Hello! . . . Yes. . .. Put me through to Mr. Oglethorpe, please. . . . Is that Mr. Oglethorpe speak- ing? . . . Good. This is Quentin Quayne—of the Q. Q. Agency. Could you manage to snatch a few minutes, Mr. Oglethorpe, and come round and see me here—Piccadilly Circus—as soon as possible? 1 should be im- mensely obliged to you. Yes, it is urgent—very urgent, in fact. « o . Thank you—that's excellent.” * Kk %k PERHAPS 10 quiet minutes elapsed —10 -minutes in which Q. Q. after leaning back thoughtfully in his chair for a moment or two, bent forward to his desk and wrote rapldly a long simple column of words on a sheet of paper—and then Mr. Oglethorpe was announced. “You want to see me about this ter- rible business in the office, I suppose, Mr. Quayne?” he said. “Exactly,” Q. Q. smiled at him. “I have worked with Arbuthnot for 20 years—and I should never have dreamed that he was the man to com- mit suicide!” exclalmed Mr. Ogle- thorpe. “Perhaps he did not commit sui- cide, Mr. Oglethorpe,” said Q. Q. 2 Did not commit sulcide? What on earth do you mean, Mr. Quayne? It must have been sulcide— why, I was In the room a fraction of a minute after his revolver went off— T heard it as I passed along the cor- ridor. It couldn't—how could 1t?— have been anything else than suicide, incredible though it seems!” Mr. Oglethorpe was_a picture of puzzled bewilderment—the implication in Q. Q.'s words was plain enough. “Well, Mr. Oglethorpe,” the chief sald, “there is a little doubt about ft— for reasons which I will not go into. Will you just tell me all you know of the tragedy?” - Mr. Oglethorpe told his story, quite clearly and definitely, just as wa had heard it already from Sebright. He was coming along the corridor from another department at 10 past 12 when he heard the shot. He had rush- ed into the room Arbuthnot was there alone, crumpled in his chalr, a wound in the right side of his head. Horrl- fied, he had dashed off to give the alarm. Yes—of course he knew the cupboard in Arbuthnot's room—he could not say whether the door of it NOTHING ABOUT POOR MR. AR- THE LAD WAS EVIDENTLY HORRIBLY L} was open or shut—he hadn't given a thought to it. He had seen no one in the corridor, before or after the tragedy. Q. Q. nodded gravely. Well, Mr. Oglethorpe, there is a possibility—I don't want to enlarge upon ft—that Arbuthnot was mur- dered by one of the clerks in his own department.” mpossible Nevertheless, Mr. Oglethorpe, it is a suggestion that has been made—and one that I am bound to probe. You would, of course, do all you could to assist in finding poor ~Arbuthnot's murderer—assuming that he was mur- dered?” “Ot course I should—though, I re- peat, I can’t for a moment belleve it. What do you require of me?” “I want to submit the six confiden- tal clerks in your department to a little psychological test. It is one which—Af I can trust the experlence of the Viennese police and sundry lit- tle efforts of my own—can scarcely fail in such circumstances. You have heard of the word assoclation method?"” ““Something to do with psychoanaly- sis, isn’t it? Sheer quackery, all of it, in my opinion.” Mr. Oglethorpe let it be seen that he was old fashioned and proud of it. “Precisely.” Q. Q. concurred, with a smile. “It s a method much used by psychoanalysts. I put a word to you. You answer as quickly as possible with the first word that rises in your mind in association. I measure the time interval in each case between my Question and your answer. In my list of words are one or two which have a direct bearing upon the case. .When those words are put to the concealed criminal he instantly recognizes their danger and instinctively—no matter what his command of himself—hesi- tates for a safe word to give in an. swer. It is quite automatic on his And accordingly, to those key- words his time interval of assoclation will show as appreciably longer than his average . Now [ want you to have the goodness to send your clerks across to me, one by one, this afternoon Mr. Oglethorpe—and since I want to get as wide a basis as pos. sible for my averages I should be very glad if you would commence with yourself now.” I haven't the slightest faith in any of this psychoanalytic charlatanry,” said Mr. Oglethorpe, with a superior note of condescending disdain in his voice, “but if you think it will help you go ahead all means. Fire away—I'm read Q. Q. drew his front of him, sat polsed. “Bread!” he sald, and his penct Point began to dot across the paper. : ‘Butter!” answered Mr. Oglethorpe promptly. Q. Q. stopped dotting at his first syllable, scribbled the word rap- sheet of paper in with pencil point House!"—dot-dot-dot. B e “‘Desk"—dot-dot-dot.-d Chair: s “Table'"—dot-dot-4 Cloth & .‘gpb?&rfl‘f;—dol-dobdn(. ne!” Mr. Oglethorpe gav memory, almost desperately. The strain of keeping his brain alert he evidently found more difficult tha had anticipated. Q. Q. scribbled each answer as it was given, Carpet!"—dot-dot. ! Floor!” nd so on through a list of ab 50 words where, at intervals, T ro marked only code, revolver and mus. der a8 specially significant. en he had Topken got to the end, Q. Q. “Thank you, Mr. Oglethorpe. said. “And now will you carry the length of sending along v clerks in order of their seniority? % ox % MR‘ D'ARCY VAUGHAN was an- nounced. He was a younger man than Mr. Oglethorpe, struck 2 more modern note of smartly tailored, keen- edged efficiency. The little dark mus- tache on his good-looking face was neatly trimmed; his monocle gave him a touch of aristocratic differentiation from the usual office-worn type; his manner had the self-confident ease produced by the best of public schools and a university. “‘Oglethorpe tells me you want to see me about pood Arbuthnot’s death, Mr. Quayne.” “Anything I can do, of course—" He made a gesture of perfect readiness to oblige. “But I'm afraid that's not much. Q. Q's quiet eves were summing him up. “So I understand. You were at lunch, I believe, when the tragedy oc- curred " “Yes. I knew nothing about it until I returned and the Scotland Yard fel low told me.” “Did Mr. Oglethorpe tell you pre clsely why I wanted to see you, Mr. Vaughan?” o. He merely said that you wished to talk to me on the matter.” “Then I will tell you, Mr. Vaughan. There is reason to suspect that Mr. Arbuthnot did not commit suicide— but that he was shot by one of the clerks in his personal department—a clerk who had an urgent motive to suppress him promptly.” Mr. Vaughan manifested only the startled vivification of interest nor- mal in such circumstance "You mean—mnurdered?” he gasped. “I mean murdered.” The Chief was Impressively specific. “But—my dear si Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan was obviously much per- turbed. “It seems to me fantastic— Oglethorpe almost saw him shoot him- self—he was in‘the room a moment later—before any murderer could have escaped! Who could possibly have shot Arbuthnot? TUnless Ogle- thorpe did it himself—which is gro- tesquely absurd!” “That is what we are going to try and find out, Mr. Vaughan,” replied the Chief quietly. “I'm sure I can call upon you to give me any assist- ance in your power?"” Certainly — certainl, said Mr. Vaughan. “But what do you want me to do?” “I'l explain.” And Q. Q. explained to him the psychological test. Once more Q. Q. pronounced his list of words, dotted down the time-inter- val before the assoclated word came in answer. Mr. Vaughan replied to all with—so far as I could tell—an equally prompt rapidity. He was plainly a quick-brained, highly intelli- gent fellow. ERE I ‘HREE more clerks followed in due course and succession—Mr. Wain- wright, Mr. Turner and Mr. Billmore. The next—and last—to present him- self was the junior, Mr. Johnson, a tall, nervous, but pleasant-looking lad, scarcely in his twenties. “git down, Mr. Johnson,” sald Q. Q., smiling at him. “You were in the Reglstry at the time the tragedy oc- curred this morning?” “Yes sir. ' I was searching for a file that had been mislaid.” “Between what times—precisely’ “It was a little before ten to twelve when I left my room, sir. I returned at twenty minutes past.” The lad was obviously nervous. He moistened his lips with the tip of his tongue before he spoke. “So from ten to twelve to nearly twenty past you were in the Regis- “Yes sir.” Q. Q. looked at him penetratingly from under his heavy gray eyebrows. “Very well. It is necessary for me to check all the statements I re- ceive. I will just ring up the registry and get them to confirm those times.” He reached for the telephone. “Don’t do that, sir’”” The lad had half-sprung from his chair. “Why?" “I did not tell you the truth, sir.”" 1 saw perspiration on the boy's brow; once more his tongue moistened his 1 “Then please tell me the truth now!" “Yes, sir. I—I did not go straight to the registry. I slipped out of the building.” “Out of the building? Why?” “To send a telegram—at théd post office across the road in Parliament street. “To whom did you send that tele- gram?” 5 “I—I'd rather not sa: “Johnson!” The chief’s voice was sharply stern. “You will tell me at once to whom you sent that telegram!” The lad hesitated miserably. I saw his hands clench and unclench them- selves, his face go white. “It was to a _money-lender, sir,” he burst out after a moment when his voice seemed to have refused to func- tion. “A money-lender “Yes—yes, sir, I—I wanted to keep it a secret. e was threatening to de- nounce me to my chiefs it I did not pay today-—you know what that would have meant, sir?” The boy spoke hurriedly now, imploringly. “1 had written to my sister, telling her all about it. At a quarter to 12 I re- ceived a telegram from her—saving she would help me. Here it is, sir.” The lad fished out a crumpled telo- gram from his pocket, held it out to Q. Q., who took it without removing his eyes from the soul under their scrutiny. “I dashed across to the post office to send a telegram to him telling him that my sister was paying —to_take no action.” The lad stop. ped breathlessly, his eves miserably on Q. Q.'s inscrutable face. The chief glanced at the telegram. ““This is not we explicit,” he said. “It merely says, ‘All right, Vera.’ That might mean anything. Do you grasp the point of this questioning, John- “No—no, sir,” the lad stuttered. —T don’t think I do.” “The point is that Mr. Arbuthnot was murdered in his room at 10 min- utes past On your story, vou left the building at 10 minutes before the hour. Where were you at 10 minutes past?” “In the post office, sir.” “From 10 minutes to the hour to 10 minutes past? Twenty minutes?” “I had to walt in a queue, sir. “And then you returned to the reg- istry?” “Yes, sir. I took the file I said I wanted, and went back to my room. It was then I first heard the news about poor Mr. Arbuthnot, sir.” “H'm! Well, the post office records will prove the truth of your state- ments. Your telegram will note the time it was handed in. You say that was 10 past?"” “No, sir. The telegram was handed in a quarter past. At 10 past I was still waiting in the queue.” “‘Quarter past? How long, Johnson, did it actually take you to run down from the corridor where your room is situated, to the post office “Under two minutes, sir. “And you are suré—quite sure— that it was at 10 minutes to the hour —and not just after 10 minutes past— that you ran to the post office? The implication in that question was ter- ribly obvious. “Yes, sir.” Well, I am going to test the truth of yout story. Now listen to me—" * ok ok AGAIN the chief explained the method he was going to employ. “To answer is the only way of clear- ing yourself from the suspicion that now rests upon you,” he said. “Yes, sir. But—belleve me, sir—I know nothing about poor Mr. Ar- buthnot’s death—nothing—I swear to you, sir! The lad was evidently hor- ribly alarmed. “I was in the post office at the time, sir!” Q. Q’s eyes probed him. “Calm yourself, Mr. Johnson. And concentrate your mind on putting, as rapidly as possible, an associated word to the word I shall give you.” The boy gulped. “Bread!"—dot-dot-dot. “Butter!” He forced himself to the strain of an answer, hit the natural association which all his predecessors had given. “Sea!"—dot-dot. “Shore!"” “Horse!"—dot-dot-dot-dot. ‘‘Hoof!" The chief finished his inquisition, examined the paper with the irregular rows of dots, the final answers, com- pared them with the records of the others. The telephone bell rang sharply. Q. Q. took up the instrument. “Hello? . . . Yes—Quayne speak- ing . . . Who's that? Oh, Sebright? . . . What? You've got your man? . . . Who is it? . . . Oglethorpe?” Q. Q. smiled, grimly. ‘“Beware of those clear cases, Sebright. They’re often only the mirror of your own ideas. I'm afrald you'll have to release Oglethorpe—with apologies. . . . Yes. Why? Because I happen to have caught the man, and it isn’t Ogle- thorpe. I'll hand him over to you presently. . . By the way, Se- bright, where are you ringing up from? . The F. 0.2 _Good! Would you mind asking Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan to step round here again as soon as possible? I've something im- portant to speak to him about. . . . Thanks.” Q. Q. put back the receiver. * %k ok ok 'OUNG JOHNSON had sprung to his feet, stood quivering while Q. Q. talked. I watched him narrowly, my muscles tense to leap on him should he offer a sudden violence. There was a wild look in his fright- ened eyes. “I—I didn't do it, sir!” he stam- mered. The chief smiled at him. “I know you didn’t,” he sald. “Then—then—why have you asked Mr. Vaughan to come here, sir? You're not going to—to tell him about that moneylender? The chilef smiled again, more kindly. “Not that, either. This experience in dealing with money lenders will suffice you for a lifetime, I trust. That’s all I have to say to you, Mr. Johnson.” He nodded in dismissal. “‘Goo-good-afternoon, sir!” ‘When he had gone, T looked across to the chief. “You've got your man, sir?” “Yes.” “It looked bad for young Johnson, sir—and he seemed to stumble ter- ribly when you applied your test.” I was, of course, fishing, but it had in fact seemed to me more than once that the lad must be betraying him- self, so desperate were his hesitations. “Pooh! His time-intervals were of course wildly erratic—what one would expect from the strain he was under- going—but on the key-words he was no more erratic than elsewhere. Now, this record”—he held up another sheet of paper—‘is curiously regular—the “p WASHINGTON ’ THE FOURTH DEGREE D. ¢, JUNE | shortest intervals of any—till we come to those same vital words. And then there is a sudden seventy-five to & hundred per cent increase—almost imperceptible while he spoke, but evident enough here. Moreover— automatically in his first quickness he gave the curlous association ‘hide’ to the word ‘cupboard’—the only one to do so; after that, recognizing his slip, he was on his guard—a little too much on his guard.” He chuckled with satisfaction. ‘“That's the man, Mr. Creighton!” “Which man, sir?” Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan.” “D'Arcy Vaughan!” I echoed the name in astonishment. Mr. Vaughan had seemed to me the most normal of any of those six men who had sat in that chair—his answers unvarying in their glib rapidity. “And—you're go- ing to arrest him, sir? Directly he comes 1n?” I thrilled with the sense of imminent crisis. “Not quite as soon as that, Mr. Creighton. What I have here is evi- dence enough for myself. But it is not legal evidence. I'm going to get that legal evidence. I'm going to get a signed confession.” His tone was curt with a confidence I did not share. Q. Q. leaned back in his chalr and smiled at me with a grim blandness. “You've heard of the third degree, I suppose? It usually implies some physical pain to the prisoner under examination. We're a little too civil- ized for that. I'm-going to put Mr. D’Arcy Vaughan through what we may call the fourth degree—consider- ably more subtle and quite as effica- clous.” “I don’t understand, sir. Do T come in on this?” “You, Mr. Creighton, will merely quietly get up and lock that door be- hind Mr. Vaughan when he enters, and then you will return to your desk and get on with your work in abso- lute silence. You will not utter a word, unless I speak to you.” “Very good, sir.” The office telephone bell rang, star- tling me in the tension of my nexves. The Chief answered it. “Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan? Show him opened. Mr. D'Arcy in, please.” ‘The door Vaughan, sprucely elegant, his mon- ocle in place, his good-looking features happily serene, entered the room. I rose, went unobstrusively behind him, locked the door, returned to my place. Mr. Vaughan advanced toward Q. Q. “Well, Mr. Quayne,” he eaid, in a voice that struck me as oddly cheer- ful for a man whose office had been the sceme of such tragic events, “you've heard what's happened in this terrible business? They've arrested Oglethorpe—poor, queer old Ogle- thorpe! I would never have believed it possible, but Scotland Yard seems quite certain—and it knows {ts busi- ness, I suppose. Awful! Terrible— terrible!” “Yes, I had heard,” replled Q. Q. coolly. Mr. Vaughan sat down {n the chalr, carefully deposited his glossy silk hat on a corner of Q. Q.’s desk, and casu- ally crossed one nicely creased trouser- leg over ghe other. If he was indeed the man, I could not but admire his pertect aplomb. “And now, Mr. Quayne,” he said, “before we come to whatever you want to see me about, there's a little thing I'm curious to know. DId the results of your psycho-analytic test by any chance coincide with those of the police? Q. Q. leaned back in his chalr, tapped his flinger-tips together. No,” he replied, “they did not.” Mr. Vaughan smiled. “Ah?"” His tone politely indicated a previous skepticism that was now jus- tified. “I trust you psycho-analysts will have the grace to acknowledge at least one failure of your magic methods.” “It was not a failure.” Q. Q. had spoken these words in the quietest, most dulcet of his tones. He rose from his chair, stood erect, spoke in a voice that to me seemed like a thunderclap in its sudden stern vehe- mence. “Own up, Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan! You're caught!’ * ok ok X THE man had sprung up from his chair also in an indignation that, whether real or simulated, was im- pressive in its apparent authenticity. “What do you mean?" His voice quivered, but it was with anger “What are you trying to suggest?” 1 _em suggesting, Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan,”—Q. Q.'s tone was sharply explicit,—“that you are a &py in your own department, that you were be- traying official secrets, that Mr. Arbuthnot detected you, called you into his room this morning as you passed on your way to lunch and taxed you with ft, that he had the im- prudence, perhaps, to threaten you— possibly in self-defense—with his re- volver during the altercation, that you seized that revolver and shot him dead, that, hearing some one come to the door, you then sprang into the clothes-cupboard and dodged out again directly the coast was clear. Is that definite enough for you?"” Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan looked as though he were going to strike his accuser in the face. I saw his fists clench, the lips go blanched under his little dark mustache. He mastered himself with an effort “Mr. Quayne, if you were a younger man, I would thrash you for this out- rageous imputation!” he gasped in his wrath. “As it is, you have chosen to utter this monstrous slander before a witness.” He jerked his hand in my direction. “You shall hear from my solicitors He strode toward the door. Fascinated, I watched him as he reached it, tugged at the handle, twisted it in vain. Then he swung round again, his face eblaze with fury. “‘Open_that door at once!" he cried. “What does this mean?” “It means, Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan,” sald Q. Q. in his most coldly level tones, “‘that you are a prisoner in this room until such time as you dictate and sign your confessio: The man glared at him, livid. He could scarcely speak in the rage which choked him. “This is_an outrage—a monstrous outrage! You dare, Mr. Quayne— you dare to subject a civil servant of my standing to this gross indignity! To illegal detention! Have a care Mr. Quayne! You are laying yourself open to an action which I will fight through court after court till I ruin you!” Q. Q. smiled grimly. “You may have another case to fight in the courts before that, Mr. Vaughan. It is useless to wrestle with that door. You cannot open it.” Mr. D’Arcy Vaughan had once more switched round to the door, was tug- gling at it, twisting at the handle in an almost maniacal fury of anger. He faced round again to Q. Q. “Open it, I sayl Open I, he choked, “‘or—" “Or nothing, Mr. Vaughan.” Q. Q. was smoothly unruffied. ‘You will do nothing. You will merely in due course, when you are tired of raging at that door, sit down in that chair and dictate your confession.” With which, Q. Q. himself calmly resumed his seat, picked up a paper on his desk and apparently gave it his un- divided cool attention. Mr. Vaughan stared at him, the muscles of his face twitching, his eyes murderous if ever a man's were— and then he strode straight across to me. “Youf™ ‘The violence in his voice startied me, half-prepared for it though I was. “Open that door at larette to the last possible moment. 28, 1925—PART “OPEN THAT DOOR AT ONCE—CR I SHALL CHARGE YOU AS AN ACCOMPLICE TO THE FELONY.” once—or I charge you as #n accom- plice in this felony! Felony—you un- derstand! _Penal servitude! Ugly menace looked out of him. I gripped myself, remembered Q. Q’s orders, remained stolidly silent, bent over my work again. “Do you hear?” My shoulder was violently shaken. *“Open that door, or——"" He had no threat vicious enough for his anger. 1 glanced at him as coolly as I could —obwously my cue was to imitate the Chief, at that moment quite unper. turbed, apparently engrossed in the perusai of some document—saw the fe- rocity in his glare, saw his fingers working—itching for & weapon which, thank heaven, he did not possess—and remained dumb. Mr. Quayne merely turned over an- other page of the document he was perusing with such concentrated at- tention. His victim glared at him, opened his cigarette case—I noticed, maliciously that it contained only one cigarette struck a match, commenced to smol The sflence of that room, high above the housetops, was like the grave. It perpetuated itself, continued until even I felt a strain upon my nerves. The only sound was the deep breath- ing of that man in the chair adjacent to Q. Q’s desk. Unobtrusively I kept a sharp eye upon him, alert to inter- pose in that sudden pantherlike spring I felt to be imminent. But none came. Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan sat immobile, his lips pressed tight, smok- ing with the tiniest of puffs, evidently —I could sympathize with him—trying to economize that one and only cig- And the silence in that room con. tinued, persisted till it seemed to ring in_my ears. 1 glanced at the clockhand. marked half-past 5. Mr. Vaughan stirred. “Mr. Quayne!” Q. Q. lifted an eyebrow at him. “How long is this madness to con- tinue?” “Until T get your confession.” The silence continued. The ticking of the clock became _insistent, an ob- session to the ear. Its hands slipped round—6 o'clock—a quarter past. Outside the light began to die out of the sky. Within the room there were already shadows. Long ago Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan had got tn the end of his smoke. For what seemed an age he had sat llke a statue, utterly motfonless. What was he thinking, I wondered. And still the silence Te- mained unbroken. * X kX X It T was shattered suddenly. “Quayne!” The man paused, walt- ing for a movement of Q. Q.S head that did not occur. “I don’t know how long this farce is going on—but T'll count it as mitigation if you'll give me a.cigarette.” But Mr. Qliayne had apparently lost his sense of hearing. He, merely picked another from the pile of docu- ments at his hand. Once more the room relapsed into silence—into a silence that grew haunted, terrifying, vibrant with mys- terlous unuttered menace as the twi-| light deepened in the room—a silence that rang and vet was soundless. A sudden mutter from the man in the chair seemed only to intensify it How long, indeed, was this going on? I myself grew unnerved with the strain, felt the impulse to use my voice—to break this uncanny hush— rise up in me, almost {rreststible. Had I been sitting there with the gullt of murder on my conscience I could not | have refrained from shouting it aloud to get relief at any cost from this in- tolerable ordeal of soundlessness, wherein the stark fundamental out- lines of one's soul seemed automati- cally to emerge. I should have screamed that guilt, in_hysteria, long ago. But still the man I could half-see in the gloom sat motionless and silent in his chair. Still Q. Q. remained, holding up a document to get the last of the light, seemingly oblivious of his presence. For myself, I had given up even the pretense of work. I sat, gripped in that dead hush, and waited —waited—while the shadows thickened. Suddenly T heard a sound—the faintest little whir; and then— “He shall confess, Mr. Quayne—I am _determined on it! The voice came out of the gloom, silent, deep-toned, vibrant with au- thority—the voice of the murdered Arbuthnot! Even to me, who could an instant later guess its source, it came with a shock to my nerves, un- canny from the formless shadows of the room. To the man in the chair it came with the full force of a super- natural presence—sternly inexorable in a ghostly omnipotence. He sprang to his feet, stood quivering. “What was that? Quayne, did you hear that? Arbuthnot's voice! T—I— no—it couldn't be—couldn’t be! Quayne,”—his voice was strained with terror,—“let me out of this! 1'm go- ing mad! I can't stand it any longer! Q. Q. apparently did not hear him. He did not move. One hand still held the document up to the last glimmer of outside light; the other was out of sight beneath his desk. Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan gasped. Once more he turn- ed toward me, and I saw his two hands go_ slowly, quiveringly, up to- ward his head as he stood silhouetted against the window. The man was gripped in a paroxysm of terror at those suddenly vocal shadows all around him—at himself. “No,” I heard him whisper to him- self, “no! It couldn’t have been! It couldn’t have been!" And then once more came that solemn, deep-toned, authoritative voice: “He shall confess, Mr. Quayne—I am determined on it!"” A choked scream broke from the tortured wretch. “No—no! Quiet, Arbuthnot! I—I can't bear it! I—I'll tell—I'll confess! I'll confess! Quayne—Quayne!” His voice came almost in a shriek from the shadows which hid his face. “T'Il confess—I'll confess! Take it down— T'll confess!" Q. Q. laid down his papers. “Take down what Mr. Vaughan dlc- tates, Mr. Creighton,” he said, quietl: “Resume your chair, Mr. Vaughan. He touched the switch by his desk, and the room was suddenly flooded with light. Mr. D'Arcy Vaughan, no Jonger the spruce, well.groomed civil servant, but a haggard, wild-eyed wretch—I was startled at the havoo the ordeal had made in him—obeyed like a creature drained of volition, dropped heavily into his chair. I took up my pen and wrote as, quaveringly, gaspingly, the utterly unnerved, broken man began his confession. It was a con- fession of official secrets betrayed, sent by agony-column code-messa 10 a great foreign commercial orga ization to which they were of im. mense utllity; of—precisely as Q. Q. had divined-— Arbuthnot's having stopped him as he went along the corridor to his lunch, taxed him with | it; of a wild alarm, a determination to suppress this danger at once; of the beginnings of a murderous Struggie in which Arbuthnot had snatched the revolver from his drawer; of another snatch at that revolver which had seized it; of the eudden shot of Ogle- thorpe at the door: of a spring into the clothes-cupboard, and a moment later—when Oglethorpe had dashed out again, horrified at the discovery— a quick rush along the corridor, un- observed, to lunch. * % % % Q. listened, end inscrutable, to the Now sign, Mr. Vaughan,” he said | in his quiet level voice. The man got up from his chair, moved toward my desk—stopped sud- denly. “No!" he cried. Obviously he made a great effort to pull himself toget to resume command of himself, seer ed to succeed, “No! I won’ He laughed like a maniac. your word against m —and I'll swear it tissue of lies! I'm not going to si away my life_because you playe trick on me! How vou did it, know—but trick I'm sure it w “As you like, Mr. the chief quietly. “It makes really no difference whether you sign or not. (Continued from Third Page.) language in regard to Cornwallls and the acts of which heiwas accused, and with proofs attached, sound quite remininscient of certain memorials presented to Congress against Gen. Weyler during the Cuban insurrection, or " more recently those directed against Hindenburg and Ludendorft in France and Belguim. Mr. Middie- ton died in Commercial pursuits clalmed nine of the signers, five followed the heai- ing arts and practiced them through- out the struggle, besides attending to legislative duties. There were two mechanics in the Congress. The one doctor of divinity, John Witherspoon, has been honored in the National Cap- ital by a statue on one of the most beautiful avenues and before the Church of the Covenant. ’Woodrow Wilson, then president of Princeton, pronounced the eulogy on his remote predecessor, and this was his first offi- cial appearance in the city where he was to play so dominant a politica role. There was one mariner among the fifty-six and one who wrote him- self a surveyor. But all followed sev- eral occupations before and after the signing had written their names fn the national valhalla. A consideration which can never be logically omitted in studying the lives of the signers is that- all were respon- sible men with lucrative calling, or at least the needful competency, and that when they pledged their fortunes they offered something which even the most exacting banker of today would deem good indorsement. John Han cock, Robert Morris and Charles Car- roll were affluent men and of wide influence. John Adams had a present fortune and a great potential one when he affixed his name to the docu- ment. As Semuel Adams, his cousin appears always as the “poor gentl man” of the era, it would seem that he alone of the 56 had an uncertain financlal backing. But even he had everything to lose and nothing to gain but liberty by declaring war against Great Britain. But liberty they all deemed the only boon worth while, and none shirked a single duty in the conflict which their act invoked. * k% ok ARLY all the signers rose to eminent positions, two becoming Presidents of the United States— Adams and Jefferson. Scores served in the succeeding Congresses and sev- eral were of those who framed the Constitution. ~ Others received su- preme honor in their several States. Roger Sherman of Connecticut filled every role of importance save those of the executive class, was one of the outstanding figures in the framing of the Constitution and with the sole ex ception of Alexander Hamilton did more to have that document accept- able than any four members of that bodv. Mr. Sherman served in the highest legal tribunal of Connecticut and was its governor, a representative to the National Congress and then a Senator. There are several other ex- amples of similar honors conferred on the signers by the grateful people when the war successfully terminated. In the matter of age, the men of the Congress which wrote and signed the declaration exhibits in its members a fair representation of the various stages of life. The voungest member was 27, the oldest 71, the former the ardent Rutledge of South Carolina and the latter the venerable Franklin. In the aggregate the signers were at | their prime, 42 out of the 56 being between 30 and 50 years. Their aver- age age on July 4, 1776, reckoned by statistical measure, was 43 and 8 months. It was this extraordinary combination- of the ardor of youth ‘with the caution of mature age which drew that splendid eulogium from Lord Chatham, in which he traced the progress of a feeble people in se- curing the confidence and support of sovereignties and its achievement in founding & Nation which has spread over half a hemisphere and the shad- ow of which has been thrown over the world. The longevity of the sign- ers has frequently excited the Interest of historians. So many passed into an age normally far heyond their own that it seemed a part of their earthly reward that they should assist at the gathering of the rich and tranquil harvest which they had sowed in an- guish and often in blood. Volumes have been written on the signers, for their history is part of the beginnings of the nation and of the states which formed the nucleus of the prueit glorious union of 48 Just listen a moment:™ He bent-for- | wara, touched something on his desk. | “Another little trick, Mr. Vaughan.” He smiled pleasant | wn astonishment there oom. startlingly Jife aughan’s voice in a word-for-word recital of first fow sentences o ient N D’Are ed his hand. To his first had succeeded a sudden Jitterness of comprehension. | “That's enough,” he said. *T o want to hear it over again.” He con | trolled = voice to a cynical appre ciation. “A dictaphone, of course?” = double-barreled one, M Vaughan 1 the Chief, stiil pleas. antly. “With a blank record waitihs for vou = ned into t like, Mr. D'Arc recapitulated, his crime. 7T it were YVaughan rai | amazement n glared at Q. Q. in & sud ferocity. “Curse yo ht—I may as well slgn »ross to my desk, scrawled the foot of . turned a ow what are { took off the ed for a num | S L Ah, Quayne round her, will man for you. Yes | —signed confy | ing for vou Mr. D'Arcy e hand fee Vaughan swayed on ¥ bl his ey < ¥ to give me {a drink—br He h time Sebr | . 1928 y flask by the | greate: | lives, | the m | light, | as it pierces th: [ only stars w is watched few excep! eul like tk ter as each But with he biographies of the e known only to stude: and the incidents of their pheno; nly in learned books of eloquence which h hearers. Yet it wo sk to gather together h are more condusive te virtue of exam- s of men facing danger and sorrow ¢, living better and more nd going more peace- fully t honored and ad- mired b; 'r | Massy etts: Josiah am Whipple and Matthew Thorn | for New 1 < n Hopk | 211 for Rhode Islan Roger S muel Huntingto Willfam Oliver Wolcot: | for C tic iam Floyd. Phil | 2 Lewis, Lewis Mo ris, for N rk; Richard Stocktc John With Francis Hopk son, John Hart, Abraham Clark, Robert M | 2 John Morton, George | €l , Je Smith, George on and George Ross, ennsylvania; Caesar Rodney Delaware: Samuel . William Paca, Thomas Stone and Charles Carroll of Carrollton, for Maryland; George Wythe, Richard Henry Lee, Thomas Jefferson, Ben n, Thomas Nelso < t Lee, Carter Braxt for Virginia; Wiiliam Hooper, Jose! Hewes and John Penn, for North Caro- Thomas He) Bartlett, Button Gwinnett, Lyman Hall George Walton, for Georgia. and Our Population. LTHOUGH the population of the United States is now at the high water mark of 114,311,000 people, the advance over last vear was less thai the average for the last five years, according to the estimates of the N tional Bureau of nomic Research, and the opinion ie that the once rapit | advance has now definitely slowed uip. | That the regular increase in the popuiation has not been due to in migration, but to the excess of births over deaths, is shown by figures cov ering the last 16 y In perio: | there were over 41,000,000 s and about 22,000 aths, or an exc of 19,000,000 births. About 5,500, were added by immigration, bringing the total increase to about 24,000,000 Of this number immigrants formed little more than a fifth. Both the birth and the death rates in the United States are falling, but the death rate is falling faster. Ten years ago the birth rate was 26.3 for each thousand persons, while today it is 23.3, a decrease of 11 per cent. the same time the death rate has de- creased from 13.4 per thousand to 11.7, a decrease of about 13 per cent, In 1924 2,645,000 babies were born and 1,333,000 persons died, or one death was compensated by two births If the number of births and deaths remain stationary in 1925, as is very likely, 10 babjes will be born every two minutes and five persons will dle in_the same time. Further studies by the burean show ed that employment has again shrunk to the prewar level, and that there are now 38 persons out of every 100 who earn a salary or wages. But children, women and others not work ing for money are almost as numerous as this class. Employers and men and women in business for themselves make up onlv 815 per cent of the pop- ulation, and the actual number is now less than it was in 1915. It {s held that the growth of large corporations has kept down the number of inde- pendent business men. —_— Time to Leave. Lecturer—Allow me to repeat the words of Webster. Farmer (to wife)—Good gracious, Maria, let's go out. He's starting on the dictionary,