THE ADVENTURES OF PICKLOCK

HOLES.

(By Cunnin Toil.)

No. VII.-THE STOLEN MARCH. (Continued.)

As soon as we entered the drawingroom all the little GUMPSHONS clapped their hands with delight, and surrounded their Uncle PICKLOCK, each of them attempting to infer from the expression on the great detective's countenance what it was that he carried in his left coat-tail pocket. "I know what it is," said EDGAR ALLAN POE GUMPSHON, a boy of fifteen; it's plum-cake. I know it must be, because I never seed it, so it ain't seed-cake." GABORIAU GUMPSHON, aged thirteen, opined it was a packet of bull's-eyes, that's what detectives always carry on dark nights," whilst ANN RADCLIFFE GUMPSHON declared with certainty that it must be nuts, for she had just heard a cracker explode in the street. "Children," said PICKLOCK HOLES, you are nearly right. Your powers have much improved. I am delighted to see that you are kept up to the mark;" and, speaking thus, he produced from his pocket an apple, which he presented to EDGAR, a pocket-knife which he handed to the jubilant GABORIAU, and a pincushion, which was immediately clasped and carried off in the chubby hand of little ANN RADCLIFfe. year ago," said PICKLOCK, turning to me,

"MINCE-PIE,"

"these children could not have reasoned inductively with one half of their present approximate accuracy; but my dear sister, Heaven bless her! is a wonderful teacher, the best and cleverest of us all. Indeed, indeed you are, PHILIPPA," he continued, warmly embracing Mrs. GUMPSHON. "I am a mere bungler compared to you. But come, let us to business." At a signal from Lady HOLES the happy children trooped off to bed, and we elders were left alone. Sir AMINADAB opened the conversation. "I sent for you, my dear boy," he said, "because I have just received from one of my agents in the North information of an important case which demands immediate investigation. Neither HAYLOFT nor SKAIRKROW can go, having business that keeps them in London. I look, therefore, to you to cover the family name with new lustre by solving this extraordinary mystery." Here the old man paused, as though overcome by emotion. PICKLOCK encouraged him with an expressive look, and he continued:

"This morning," he said, "I received from my agent this letter." He drew a sheet of paper from his breast-pocket, and read, in tremulous tones, as follows:

"Tochtachie Castle, Daffshire. "SIR,-Lord TOCHTACHIE has been robbed. I overheard him last night conversing with the Hon. IAN STRUNACHAR, his eldest son, who used the following words: "Not a doubt of it. They have stolen a march" More I could not hear at the moment. The case is of immense importance, and I trust you will lose no time in sending a competent investigator. I have, of course, concealed both my presence here and my knowledge of the theft from his lordship. Yours faithfully, DAVID MCPHIZZLE.""

666

"There, my boy, is the case. Will you go and help a Scotch representative peer to recover his own? Think how terrible it must be to lose the march or boundary that separates your ancestral domain from that of a neighbour whose whole course of life may be antipathetic to you. Will you go?"

A wave of emotion passed over my friend's face. I could see that a struggle of no ordinary kind was raging in his breast. Finally, however, he looked at me, and his mind, I knew, was made up. In another ten minutes we had bidden adieu to his family, and were speeding northwards in the Scotch express.

Over the details of the journey it is not necessary to linger. Suffice it to say that on the following morning we arrived at Tochtachie, and took up our quarters in a deserted barn situated in the very centre of the estate. From this point we pursued our investigations. Our first proceeding was to interview the local constabulary, but we found them as obtuse and as foolishly incredulous as policemen are all the world over. One of them, indeed, went so far as to hint

VOL. CV.

that HOLES was "havering," which I understand to be an ancient Gaelic word signifying metaphysical talk, but a look from the great detective chilled him into silence. Day by day we worked, and not even the night gave us a rest from our selfsacrificing labours. We mapped out the whole district into square yards; we gathered the life-history of every single inhabitant on the estate; we left no clue untracked, no loophole unblocked, no single piece of evidence nnexamined, no footstep unmeasured. We collected every scrap of torn letter, every crumpled telegramform. The very heather of the moor, and the trees growing in the policies of the Castle were compelled by HOLES' marvellous inductive powers to yield to us their secrets, until after weeks of patient toil we at last judged ourselves to be in possession not only of the stolen march, but also of evidence that would bring conviction home to the guilty party. We had paused, I remember, by a heap of granite at the roadside. HOLES seemed strangely excited. "A march," I heard him muttering, "is performed by footsteps; steps are often made of stone. Can this be it? It must be! It is!" Then, with a shout of triumph, he gave orders to have the heap loaded on to a country cart, which was to follow us to the Castle.

We arrived in the great courtyard at about seven o'clock in the evening. HOLES slipped from my side, entered the house, and after a few moments returned to my side. We then clanged the bell, and demanded to see his lordship. In a few moments Lord TOCHTACHIE appeared, surrounded by kilted retainers, bearing torches, and intoning in unison the mournful sporan of the clan. It was a weird and awful sight. But HOLES, unemotional as ever, advanced at once to the haughty Scotchman, before whose eye half a county was accustomed to tremble, and, without any ado, addressed him thus: "My Lord, your march has been stolen, Nay, do not interrupt me. Your guards are careless, but not criminal-of that I can assure you. Here is the stolen property; I restore it to you without cost." this moment the cart rumbled up, and ere the peer had time to utter a word, it had discharged its contents into the middle of the yard. HOLES went on, but in a lower voice, so as to be heard only by Lord TOCHTACHIE: "The guilty party, my Lord, is your honoured fatherin-law. He dare not, he cannot, deny it. He is, I know, blind and deaf and dumb. These qualities do not, however, exclude the possibility of crime. I have just found these pieces of granite în his morning-room. The proof is complete.".

At

At this moment a shot was heard in the Castle, and directly afterwards a frightened butler rushed up to his lordship and whispered to him. "Ha! say you so ?" almost screamed Lord TOCHTACHIE. "That amounts to a confession. Mr. HOLES," he continued, "you have indeed rendered me a service. My unfortunate, but guilty father-in-law has shot and missed himself through the head. But in any case the honour of the house is, I know, safe in your hands."

I need hardly say that HOLES has never violated his lordship's confidence, and the Daffshire peasants still speculate amongst themselves upon the tortuous mystery of the march which was stolen and restored.

NOTE.-There is no proof positive given by any eye-witness whose veracity is unimpeachable of the death of the great amateur detective as it has been described in the Strand Magazine for this month. Where is the merry Swiss boy who delivered the note and disappeared? What was the symbolic meaning of the alpenstock with the hook at the end, left on the rock? Why, that he had not taken his hook." PICKLOCK HOLES has disappeared, but so have a great many other people. That he will turn up again no student of detective history and of the annals of crime can possibly doubt. Is it not probable that he has only dropped out of the Strand Magazine? And is it not equally probable that under some alias he will re-appear elsewhere? Verb. sap.-ED.

FATHER CHRISTMAS leaves his cards on everybody about this time, as he is here only for one day, and off the next. He has employed Messrs. MARCUS WARD & Co. to do them, and excellent they are all round.

NEW YEAR'S EVE AT LATTERDAY HALL. (An Incident.)

SCENE I.-Library in Latterday Hall, Sir LYON TAYMER's Country House. Sir LYON TAYMER discovered fuming by the mantelpiece, while his Secretary is glancing over some correspondence. Sir Lyon (irritably). Here-I suppose you will have to answer this.

Secretary. What is that, Sir LYON?

Sir Lyon. You know how anxious I am that my New Year's party should be a success. A whole heap of celebrities are coming, and, notwithstanding the immense expense, I engaged a party of Ghosts to amuse them. Now I have just had a telepathic communication from these Shadows of Shades-(that's all they are-only Ghosts of departed heroes and heroines in tiction)-asking whether they're to be treated on an equality with the other guests, or as mere entertainers! Did you ever hear of such impertinence! The spokesman -I should say, perhaps, the Spooksman-is, of all people in the other world, the VICAR OF WAKEFIELD. A clergyman too! It's quite inconsistent; and so snobbish!

Secretary. Dear Sir LYON, excuse me, but it's perfectly natural that Ghosts should be a little sensitive on the social question. Remember, for years they were ignored, or looked upon as mountebanks. It is really only of late that there has been all this excitement about them, so it is not surprising they are anxious to be taken seriously.

Sir Lyon. Well, I suppose I am old-fashioned, but it seems to me quite ridiculous. These infernal Ghosts give themselves as many airs as though they were-the Blue Hungarians, at least.

Secretary. Ah, from a band we might expect airs. But I should advise you very strongly, Sir LYON, to treat them as friends. You must be up to date.

Sir Lyon (with disgust). Allow them to dine-perhaps to dancewith my guests?

Secretary (with calmness). Certainly they will have to dine; and, as to dancing, of course they must, if they're received on an equal footing. [Smiles to himself at his joke. Sir Lyon. Oh-well-I suppose I must give in. Let them know at once, and for heaven's sake mind they're punctual.

[Scene closes as the Secretary
hastily seizes a slate, and
automatically writes to the
Ghosts a very cordial and
courteously-worded invita-

tion.

Dorian (aside, to Young Subaltern, who has come Home. On leave. For Christmas). Who is that dreadful man?

absurd buttonhole ?

Young Subaltern. Who? Old ROCHESTER? Oh, he's a Plain Hero. From the past. He's all right. How well you 're looking! Younger than ever, by Jove! Which is curious. But why that Dorian (hurt). You never like anything I wear. You AngloIndians are corrupt without being charming. This is a fault. [Arranges his fringe in an old Dutch-silver mirror on the opposite mantelpiece, framed in curiously-carved ivory Cupids, and studded with precious stones, chiefly opals, sapphires, and chrysoberyls. Ethel Newcome (to Secretary). Who are those two pretty American girls? They seem to be attracting a great deal of attention. (I am completely forgotten, I notice.) Do their dresses come from Paris? Secretary. No, I think not, dear Miss NEWCOME. From Messrs. HOWELLS AND JAMES, I fancy.

Richard Feverel (cheerily, across the table to Mr. PICKWICK). In tolerance of some dithyrambic inebriety-quiverings of semi-narra

SCENE II.-New Year's Eve at Latterday Hall. In the magnificent dining-room are seated at dinner a large, well-known, and incongruous company. The Ghosts are chatting away in the most genial manner with the living, distinguished people, and positively making the "celebrities" quite at home." DANIEL DERONDA shows a marked liking for DODO, whom he has taken to dinner, and is indulging in a light and airy flirtation with her, which takes a form peculiar to himself.

Daniel Deronda (earnestly). Who has ever pinched into its pilulous smallness the cobweb of matrimonial duty? Honesty is surely the broadest basis of joy in life.

Dodo (a modern Detail in accordion pleating, subject to morbid fits of irrelevant skirt-dancing). Oh, Mr. DERONDA, what a silly girl I am! I can't bear that proverb about "Honesty being the best policy." It sounds like a sort of life Insurance. Giggles contemporarily. DORIAN GRAY having taken JULIET to dinner, and not getting on with her very well, is staring with unfeigned horror at ROCHESTER, opposite, who is bullying JANE EYRE to a pitiable extent. Behind him is a screen of gilt Spanish leather, wrought with a rather florid Louis Seize design and encrusted with pearls, moonstones, and large green emeralds.

tion-we seem to be entering the circle of a most magnetic pseudopolarity. Don't we?

Mr. Pickwick (puzzled). Very kind of you to say so, I'm sure. May I have the pleasure of taking wine with you?

[Dinner proceeds with animation. BOOTLES' Baby, Little JIM, PAUL DOMBEY, and the Heavenly Twins come in to dessert, and are more or less troublesome.

Sir Lyon (aside, to Secretary, when the ladies have retired). I say, you know I am afraid this is going to hang fire. It's nothing less than a miracle for a social affair to go off well when the people are not in the same set. Old PICKWICK's been asking for "a wassail bowl." I haven't got such a thing about me; and I should have thought '74 champagne would have been good enough, but he says it's like our humour-too new! The children are bothering to know why there isn't a Christmas-tree.

Secretary. Tell them to go to the -Haymarket. The reward will be -swift. Might I suggest mistletoe ? I should be very pleased to go under it with Madame BOVARY, just to show the others how to

Sir Lyon (stiffly). Much obliged, but I will not give you that trouble. If anyone goes under the mistletoe with Madame BOVARY it will be myself. Remember that.

Secretary. Oh, certainly! I merely meant- How about crackers? I could set the thing going by pulling one with Miss OLIVIA. The old Vicar said just now, in his pointed, Gothic way, something about times having changed, andSir Lyon. Yes, we'll have crackers, but you can leave me to pull the first one with Miss OLIVIA. It would look better. Perhaps we'd better let the Ghosts give their entertainment now-eh? Secretary. I'll arrange it at once.

SCENE III.-In the Hall, in which is a temporary theatre; all the Modern Celebrities are seated on rows of chairs, chattering, flirting, and discussing Insomnia and the New Criticism. Behind the scenes the Ghosts are disputing as to which shall recite first, the order of precedence depending entirely on the question as to which is the most completely defunct. Finally. ERNEST MALTRAVERS and TOM JONES go on together, and the Curtain goes up. Ernest Maltravers (musingly, in a low yet ringing voice, in which Pride struggles with Emotion). Let us learn, from yon dinner-table, o'er which brooded the spirits of the Novelists of all time, to lift ourselves on the wings of Romanticism back to Bombastic and Primeval Prose. (Breaks off suddenly. Aside, to TOM JONES.) I cannot go on like this. We ought to have had a scenario.

Tom Jones (suppressing laughter, aside). Why, thou foolish scoundrel, is there not one in front? How else could be seated there so many fair ladies and gallant gentlemen?