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I

Friendship is a delightful thing when you have had the good judgment to choose the right

friends. Eric Vivian Pomeroy-Nielson had come in the course of the years to be the most

congenial of Lanny's friends. It could be doubted whether the younger man would have had

the courage to stick to so many unorthodox ideas if it hadn't been for Rick's support. The

baronet's son watched everything that went on in the world, analyzed the various tendencies,

and set forth his understanding of them in newspaper articles which Lanny would clip and

send to persons with whom he got into arguments. Not that he ever converted anybody, but

he kept his cause alive.

Rick was only about a year and a half the elder, but Lanny was in the habit of deferring to

him, which pleased Rick's wife and didn't altogether displease Rick. Whenever the Englishman

wrote another play, Lanny was sure it was bound to make the long-awaited "hit." When it didn't,

there was always a reason: that Rick persisted in dealing with social problems from a point of

view unpopular with those who bought the best seats in theaters. The young playwright was

fortunate in having parents who believed in him and gave him and his family a home while he

wrote the truth as he saw it.

Nearly thirteen years had passed since a very young English flier had crashed in battle, and

been found with a gashed forehead and a broken and badly infected knee. In the course of

time he had learned to live with his lameness. He could go bathing from the special landing-place

which Lanny had had made for him at Bienvenu; and now the carpenter of the Bessie Budd

bolted two handles onto the landing-stage of the yacht's gangway, so that a man with good

stout arms could lift himself out of the water without any help. He would unstrap his leg-brace,

slide in, and enjoy himself just as if humanity had never been cursed with a World War.

II

Nina was her usual kind and lovely self, and as for Little Alfy— he had to be called that on

account of his grandfather the baronet, but it hardly fitted him any more, for he had grown tall

and leggy for his almost thirteen years. He had dark hair and eyes like his father's, and was,

as you might have expected, extremely precocious; he knew a little about all the various

political movements, also the art movements, and would use their patter in a fashion which made

it hard for you to keep from smiling. He had thin, sensitive features and was serious-minded,

which made him the predestined victim of Marceline Detaze, the little flirt, the little minx.

Marceline didn't know anything about politics, but she knew some of the arts, including that of

coquetry. Half French and half American, she also had been brought up among older people, but

of a different sort. From the former Baroness de la Tourette, the hardware lady from

Cincinnati, she had learned the trick of saying outrageous things with a perfectly solemn face

and then bursting into laughter at a sober lad's look of bewilderment. Apparently Alfy never

would learn about it.

The families had planned a match for these two by cable as soon as they had appeared on the

scene. The parents made jokes about it, in the free and easy modern manner, and the children

had taken up the practice. "I'll never marry you if you don't learn to dance better," Marceline

would announce. Alfy, peeved, would respond: "You don't have to marry me if you don't

want to." He would never have the least idea what was coming next. One time her feelings

would be hurt, and the next time she would be relieved of a great burden; but whichever it

was, it would turn out to be teasing, and Alfy would be like a man pursuing a will-o'-the-wisp on

a dark night.

There had been dancing in Marceline's home ever since she was old enough to toddle about.

So-called "society" dancing, Dalcroze dancing, Isadora Duncan dancing, Provencal peasant

dancing, English and American country dancing—every sort that a child could pick up. Some

kind of music going most of the time, and a phonograph and a radio so that she could make it

to order. On the yacht, as soon as her lessons were finished, she would come running to where

Hansi and Bess were practicing; she would listen for a minute to get the swing of it, then her

feet would start moving and she would be dancing all over the saloon. She would hold out her

hands to Lanny, and they would begin improvising; they had learned to read each other's

signals, and once more, as in the old Dalcroze days, you saw music made visible.

No wonder Marceline could dance rings all around a lad who knew only that somnambulistic

walking in time to jazz thumping which prevailed in fashionable society. Alfy would try his best,

but look and feel like a young giraffe caught in an earthquake. "Loosen up, loosen up!" she would

cry, and he would kick up his heels and toes in a most un-English manner. The girl would give

him just enough encouragement to keep him going, but never enough to let him doubt who

was going to call the tune in their household.

Lanny would see them sitting apart from the others while music was being played in the

evening. Sometimes they would be holding hands, and he would guess that they were working

out their problem in their own way. He recalled the days when he had paid his first visit to The

Reaches, and had sat on the bank of the River Thames, listening to Kurt Meissner playing the

slow movement of Mozart's D-minor concerto. How miraculous life had seemed to him, with

one arm about Rosemary Codwilliger, pronounced Culliver, shivering with delight and

dreaming of a marvelous future. Nothing had worked out as he had planned it; he reflected

upon life, and how seldom it gives us what we expect. The young people come along, and

clamor so loudly for their share, and have so little idea of the pain that awaits them. One's heart

aches at the knowledge, but one cannot tell them; they have to have their own way and pay

their own penalties.

III

The Bessie Budd cruised in waters frequented by vessels of every size, from ocean liners

down to tiny sailboats. One more did not matter, provided you kept a lookout and blew your

whistle now and then. They went up into the Irish Sea; the weather was kind, one day of blue

sky succeeded another, and the air resounded with music and the tapping of feet upon the deck.

Hansi and Bess practiced diligently, Beauty and Irma played bridge with Nina and Rahel,

while Lanny and Rick sat apart and discussed everything that had happened to them during

the past year.

Lanny had visited the great manufacturing-plant of his forefathers, and had been received as

a prince consort in the Newcastle Country Club and in Irma's imitation French chateau on Long

Island. Rick, meanwhile, had written a play about a young married couple who were divided

over the issue of violence in the class struggle. Rick had written several plays about young

people tormented by some aspect of this struggle. In the present opus the talk of his young

idealist sounded much like that of Lanny Budd, while the ultra-Red wife might have had a

private yacht named after her. Rick apologized for this, saying that a dramatist had to use such

material as came to his hand. Lanny said that doubtless there were plenty of futile and

bewildered persons like himself, but not many determined, hard-fighting rebels like Bess among

the parasitic classes.

Rick had talked with editors and journalists in London, with statesmen, writers, and all sorts

of people in his father's home. He knew about the upsurge of the Nazi movement in the

harassed Fatherland. Not long ago he had had a letter from Kurt, who was always hoping to

explain his country to the outside world; he sent newspaper clippings and pamphlets. The

Germans, frantic with a sense of persecution, were tireless propagandists, and would preach to

whoever might be persuaded to listen. But you rarely heard one of them set forth both sides of

the case or admit the slightest wrong on his country's side.

They were put ashore in a small Irish harbor, and the young people took a ride in a jaunting

car, while the ladies dickered with sharp-witted peasant women for quantities of hand-

embroidered linen. They were put ashore in Wales, where the mountains did not seem

imposing to one who had lived so close to the Alps. They visited the Isle of Man, and Lanny

recalled a long novel which he had thought was tremendous in his boyhood, but which he now

guessed to be no great shakes. They put into Liverpool, where they had arranged to receive

mail, and among other things was a telegram from Robbie, who was back in Paris. "Sale

concluded at eighty-three better than expected thanks to you sailing tomorrow good luck to the

ghosts."

At his father's request Lanny had put off making the promised date with Zaharoff. Now he

mailed a note, saying that the yacht was due on the French coast in a few days and he would wire

an appointment. The Bessie Budd idled her way south again, and returned the Pomeroy-Nielsons

to Cowes, from which place Lanny sent a wire to the Chateau de Balincourt, saying that he

would bring his friend to a hotel in Dieppe on the following afternoon. He had explained to

Mama Robin that he wished to meet a friend there, and she was pleased to oblige him. His

mother and his stepfather were told that he desired to make a test with Madame, and to name no

names until after it was over. As for the Polish woman, she was used to being bundled here and

there for demonstrations of her strange gift.

IV

Dieppe is a thousand-year-old town with a church, a castle, and other sights for tourists; also

it is a popular watering-place with a casino, so Lanny didn't have to think that he was

inconveniencing his friends. The yacht was laid alongside a pier, and at the proper time he

called a taxi and took his charge to the hotel. He had received an unsigned telegram informing

him that "Monsieur Jean" would be awaiting him; at the desk he asked for this gentleman, and

was escorted to the suite in which Zaharoff sat waiting, alone.

A comfortable chaise-longue had been provided for the medium and an armchair for each of

the men. Since the old one had been thoroughly instructed, no talk was necessary. Lanny

introduced him by the fictitious name, and he responded: "Bon jour," and no more. Lanny

said: "Asseyez-vous, Madame," and not another word was spoken. The retired munitions king

was inconspicuously dressed, and one who was not familiar with his photograph might have

taken him for a retired business man, a college professor or doctor.

The woman began to shudder and moan; then she became still, and was in her trance. There

was a long wait; Lanny, who kept telling himself that these phenomena were "telepathy,"

concentrated his mind upon the personality of Maria del Pilar Antonia Angela Patro-cino

Simon de Muguiro у Berute, Duquesa de Marqueni у Villa-franca de los Caballeros. It was a

personality which failed to live up to the magnificent-sounding names; a rather small, dark

lady, very

quiet, reserved, but kind. She had fitted the needs of an extremely exacting man of affairs;

guarded him, cared for him, loved him, and, if gossip was correct, borne him two daughters.

Anyhow, he had adored her, and shown his pride in the restrained fashion which circumstances

imposed upon him. For more than thirty-five years they had been inseparable, and a million

memories of her must be buried in the old man's subconscious mind. Would the medium be

able to tap them? If so, it might be embarrassing, and perhaps it would have been more tactful

of Lanny to offer to withdraw. But Zaharoff had placed a chair, possibly with the idea that the

younger man's help might be needed for the guiding of the experiment.

Suddenly came the massive voice of the Iroquois chieftain, speaking English, as always. "Hello,

Lanny. So you are trying to bowl me out!" It certainly wasn't an Iroquois phrase, nor did it seem

exactly Polish.

Said Lanny, very solemnly: "Tecumseh, I have brought a gentleman who is deeply sincere in

his attitude to you."

"But he does not believe in me!"

"He is fully prepared to believe in you, if you will give him cause; and he will be glad to

believe."

"He is afraid to believe!" declared the voice, with great emphasis. There was a pause; and

then: "You are not a Frenchman."

"I have tried to be," said Zaharoff. Lanny had told him to answer every question promptly

and truly, but to say no more than necessary.

"But you were not born in France. I see dark people about you, and they speak a strange

language which I do not understand. It will not be easy for me to do anything for you. Many

spirits come; you have known many people, and they do not love you; it is easy to see it in their

faces. I do not know what is the matter; many of them talk at once and I cannot get the

words."

V

From where Lanny sat he could watch the face of Madame, and saw that it was disturbed, as

always when Tecumseh was making a special effort to hear or to understand. By turning his eyes

the observer could watch the face of the old munitions king, which showed strained attention.

On the arm of Lanny's chair was a notebook, in which he was setting down as much as he could of

what was spoken.

Suddenly the control exclaimed: "There is a man here who is trying to talk; to you, not to me.

He is a very thin old man with a white beard. He says, in very bad English, he was not always

like that, he had a black beard when he knew you. His name is like Hyphen; also he has another

name, Tidy; no, it is one name, very long; is it Hyphen-tidies? A Greek name, he says,

Hiphentides. Do you know that name?"

"No," said Zaharoff.

"He says you lie. Why do you come here if you mean to lie?"

"I do not recall him."

"He says you robbed him. What is it he is talking about? He keeps saying gall; you have gall;

many sackfuls of gall. Is it a joke he is making?"

"It must be." Zaharoff spoke with quiet decisiveness. Of all the persons Lanny knew, he was

the most completely self-possessed.