THE GREEN SCARAB.

Oamaru Mail, Volume XXXVI, Issue 10066, 6 February 1909, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE GREEN SCARAB.

(By Hugh Fisher.) J

. . l Unarming, who had been lounging in his ;i seat at. a Paris theatre, sat np with a 1 grunt of satisfaction, for hero was some- t thing American. The lights in the audi- r torium were extinguished, as the picture machine threw a groat square of white c on the canvas drop. i •'.\'ew York."' lie murmured, almost f affectionately, as a picture suddenly Hush- t ed into the white square. Willi eyes half 1 closed to shut out the trying lliiker, he i found himself being transported up the t harbor into the familiar canon of Wall i street, then into the heart of the down- >. town shopping district. Ah—'here was 'J Broadway—Broadway at midday, us near s ly as he could judge, for the sun lighted c the pavement with a glaring brilliance. c Then he stiffened in his seat and leaned a forward. With astonished eyes he watch- i ed himself walk down Broadway, com- c ing from out of the massed crowd in the t background and leisurely making his way \ down the pictured street, his figure growing larger on the canvas each second. The o sensation was curious, as if the seat of consciousness had been detached from his body and placed where it coui'd watch the movements of the mere clay. Now he ( beheld himself halt for an instant, to look, in at a. window. Then he resumed his t walk, jostling against a man as he again entered the moving current of humanity. r A second or two later he had disappeared j out of the field of the camera, making • his exit in one" of the lower angles. Charming arose from his seat, lie had c an odd feeling of conspieuity, yet nobody , took any notice of him. As he reached the upper tier of seats the operator of y the picture machine was turning out his | . lights and packing up for the night, j Clianning was curious. "I suppose he's a Frenchman, too," he mused half aloud, hesitating. ; "Well, not so you could particularly notice it," said the operator, turning his head. "Bully for you: you're a white man!" cried Charming, stepping forward and thrusting out his hand impulsively. "And we're both Xew Yorkers, at that," added the operator, us he took a rapid survey of the other. "What brought me up here," said Channing, "was that little glimpse of Broadway. It made me feel sort of homesick. And I thought 'it went too fast. You see, I'm in it —eome on just before you. get to the end of the roll. Have you any idea-when the picture was taken?" • The operator shook his head. "I should • judge it was a, year ago, at least," he sajd, "but I couldn't give you the date. You ■ see, I don't have anything to do with that end of it. . The records are kept in ifew York, and this filim was sent from New York." "You. could do me a. great favor, if you would," said Channing. "I wish you'd send' a cablegram' to ls T ew York, asking them, signed with your name, because they know you and tm a. stranger. Of course I'll pay the expenses, and I'll prepay the answer." "Certainly, I'll do that," haid the opera- • tor.

f . The performance was almost- over when 1 dimming readied the theatre the following afternoon. Again he saw himself - walking in the crowd that moved across the. canvas, with the same odd sensation I Kgypt. I had mine in a fob. When I . wiiiki.nl down the sloping aisle and touched ■ the operator on the shoulder. "Hello," the man looked around and i nodded. "I've got it, all right." " Tie fished an envelope from his pocket' and handed it to Glutnning, who drew forth the .sheet it contained and read : "Parker, l'aris. April twenty-two, last." "April, oh?" said dimming, reading the dispatch a second time. "i/et's sec. A little over a year ago. Yes; that was about a week before 1 sailed. The twenty second. Why—yes—by Jingo! The day I lost niv scarab !" "Your what?" "Scarab,' repeated Chami.ing. "It's tin; very day I lost it." "What's a scarab?" asked tin- operator. "A bug—a beetle, made out of stone," explained (.'banning. "They come from Kgypt. I had! nine in a dob. When I lauded at. the club for dinner it was gone. Hated like anything to lose it, too. It was a good one—that is, I'm told it was. 1 don't know much about, them. It slipped out of the setting. Say," lie added suddenly, "can you go over that lasl picture again?" "1 guess- so," said the operator. lie started the calcium again. The ISroadway panorama began to repeat itself. "There 1 am!" cried Channing, a moment later, as his figure came out of the crowd. Tin; operator moved the crank slowly, and the figures in the picture walked in queer jerks, with pauses beiwcen each movement. Channing watched himself approach in a- series of alaurd twitches. Now the figure of a man who bad partially screened him from view turned in at a doorway, and he slow! revealed at full length. ' "Stop!" cried Channing, and' the images on the canvas became inert. "I want (o go down on the stage," he added. "Keep it right where it, is till 1. emptied of its audience, and Channing I'h" auditorium was now practically had no tlilliciilly in making his way quickie to the curtain, "(live me tiie nextpicture—slowly." he said. (..'banning renewed his study of himself, and wave.l for another picture. The opperator followed his directions. Channiug's aim stopped and he called a warning to halt. Now his eyes searched the canvas closely, and he 6hook his head' as if p'.izzled. Half a minute later the operaicr heard a smothered exclamation, and .-:iw Chauning's head: bent close- £o a spot on the canvas a little way l>olo\v the waist, line of his own figure. Then his hand wavered, and the next film slipped before the eye of the machine. Channing dropped on one knee, after which he again signalled silently. Sow he seemed to lie studying the feet of bis portrait. At last he straightened, up and called to the man in the balcony: "Come here a minute, will you?" The operator obligingly joined him. "See that?" cried Channing, pulling him ovc:- to the canvas and pointing to a. email spm near the pavement. "That's my scarab! It's the queerest thing I over saw. .I've been standing hero and watching myself lose it for the last four picture*;. It- drops about a foot in every picture, as near as I can judge. Half a dozen pictures back, it's m the fob, and then it begins to fall out. See —the setting is empty now." lie pointed To the fob, and the operator nodded. "And there it lies on the sidewalk," continued Olianniug. "I wonder whatevor became of it." "Maybe we can find out," suggested the operator, and he crossed the footlights and returned to his machine. Slowly he started the roll of film in motion, while Channing kept his eyes fixed on the spot where his scarab lay. His own figure pass on in jerky steps, and that of another man, walking directly behind him, came into view. This man was walking rapidly, taking.no note of things underfoot. A square-toed shoe Gcemed to hover for an instant over the stone beetle and then fall directly upon it. Ohanning uttered a cry of disappointment and waved for more pictures. Half a dozen came and went. Then he halted the machine and examined the sidewalk minutely. The ruthless foot had been lifted, but there was no scarab there, nor anything that looked like a crushed stone. "It's gone !" cried Channing. "1 think that man kicked it," said the operator. "Search the sidewalk." Channing went over every foot of the pavement carefully, and shook his head, 'lie probably kicked it into tho gutter or out into the street," he said. "I can't sec it anywhere." The operator moved the film again slowly. Channing's .figure passed out in llio lower angle, and the little open space where hs had walked was filled with half a dozen figures. The machine stopp. .1 again.. "Take a look at that girl," callc dthe operator. "No, not that one. The one on the right-hand side, near the curb, opjHisite the cigar-store sign." >

Clianning located a ligurc wliirh had just i onie into view. Although he could not see the face, the figure appeared to lie that of a young woman in a, half-stooping posture. The form of a man in Iho foreground prevented a complete view. Ah Clianning observed her the operator nave the crank a slight turn, and tl'ie stooping figure bant lower. The right hand was thrust downward. The film jumped again and the woman stooped still lower. The hand of the stooping figure had reached the pavement and the fingers were closing over something. "Slop!" called Clianning, as ho stepped close to the canvas. What the fingers enclosed he could not see. An instant before a man's foot had been lifted from the spot where the hand now rested. Whatever lay on (lie pavement at that noint had been hidden from the eye of the camera. Ghauning gave the signal for more pictures. The stooping figure lie-, iran to straighten lo an erect position. The bull; of tnc man in the foreground still hid the face, but now he was edging out of the line of vision and the figure of the girl was turning ,so that it would appear in an instant. Picture by picture ihe relative positions of the two figures changed. The tip of the woman's ear came into view. Clianning signalled nervously for more. "That's the last picture." called the operator. "Are you sure?" cried Clianning. "It's the very end of the roll." "Two—even one more picture would do it,'' groaned Clianning. "Too bad; I'm sorry," tsaid the operator. "But that girl's got my scarab, I'll be: a thousand dollars," protested Clianning. "And I want to see what she looks like.' ' "I'll move the film backward and you can follow her step by step," said the operator. "We can lind out then just where she comes into the picture." The figures on the ranvas reversed their normal motions in strange fashion. In half a dozen seconds the girl had retreated ink) the crowd. "See ber now':" called the operator. "Xo," answered Clianning, after searching. "Then we'll go on, slow. Six films passed into the field of vision, when Clianning called sharply : "Steady, now; hero she comes." More than half • concealed behind a group of men, who advanced into the field of the camera first, he could discern the slim form of a girl, moving; slowly and hesitatingly, because the film was being wound at half speed around the drum. It seemed as if at some instant her Face must be uncovered, hut by singular perversity some one in the crowd always intervened. Now her hat, broadbrimmed, was clearly in view. Xow the shoulder of her close-fitting jacket, of some light-colored material, jutted into the picture. Then it was lost again, and he caught the swing of a dark skirt. But never was there a glimpse of the face. The figure was of medium height and girlish in its contour. - ;ain he breathlessly watched the figure U'iop and reach fcr the object on the ilk, lh<"i straighten, half turn, and move until the face waft ' almost exposed—i.nd then the film ended. He could not suppress an exclamation of despair. "I guess the lip of her ear is all I'll ever see," he sighed. "But say, old man, what does that roll of film cost? I've got to have it,"

.-•"What'good would it do youi'' asked the operator. "You couldn't use it without a machine." .•.•Couldn't I Imve enlargements made from tt-V asked Cliannmtj. - '■. "Yea, -vou could do that,'' answered Parker' slowly. "They'll enlarge, all right." . '•"Herev said Channing. "\ou cable home iJKf'see if I can have ten seconds' ■worth of Broadway. Willing to pay the market price, or " anything reasonable. Here's the address of my hotel." .'■ Eight days later Channing was leaning over the rail of a liner, watching the coast-line of France sink, all too slowly far astern'of the glistening /wake. The fever of home-corning was in his pulse, yet he vaguely realised that home itself was not the quickening agent. Channing wanted his'scarab, wanted it as badly as a child clamoring for the loftiest bauble on a Christmas tree. He was not a collector of scarabs nor a student of antiquities. Rather, he leaned strongly toward the modern in all things. Twentyeight vears old and reasonably rich was the material condition of Henry Channine His late father, successful in business, had made his son solvent for Me. but had left him no inheritance 01 the monev-making instinct. Some day, he admitted to himself, he might go into business, in order that he should not grow old mvolouslv. Xok, however, he would find his scarab. He had taken a fancy to it, and it was a rare one; also, it had cost something. Moreover, its loss was supposed to bring ill luck. Therefore he mustrecover it at all hazards. Besides, he- had a curiosity to see the tace of the finder of it. .-,.,,_ i. The first thing Channing did when he set foot on Manhattan Island was to hunt np a. telephone. He was glad to hear that his old room was still vacant at the dub He had now arrived at the base 01 his operations, but he looked out upon the bigness of the city with misgiving. Channing spent the evening in his room, poring over a pile of photographs and ur£inein<* them in orderly rows according to their numbers. There was a bewildering sameness in them; at least, there would have been to a casual observer. But to Channing each one represented a minute step in an absorbing drama. Number One and Number 2 surely seemed to be struck from the same nlate. So did > umber Two and Number Three. The difference was microscopic. But there was a noticeable dissimilarity between Number One and Number Ten. The lens of the camera simply refined this difference into ten parts. When he found himself nodding over the series he scooped them up into a pile and went to bed. "Now," thought Channing as he breakfasted next morning, "what is the first thihsr a detective would do? Visit the scene of the crime, I suppose. All right; Til go down town and have a look at that particular section of Broadway." -It was easy to locate the place. Even the* very paving stone on which his scaTab had been inscribed was there. Then Channing re-enacted the Ecene. He went a little way up the block, turned • and-sauntered slowly back, mingling with the crowd, as be had seen himself do in the-picture machine. But he could not bring himself to pass the spot, and halted there again, studying the sidewalk aimlessly. •For : three days' more the quest of the scarab took him at noonday to the drygoods district, where he waited for the passage of a figure that he half believed he would recognise by its lithe, graceful, swinging step. He watched for a girl who "might, in pasing the magic spot, betray- by some involuntary movement or glance a memory of her find. At the end of the third day he gave it up reluctantly and made his way moodily to the Subway. Goinn- uptown an advertising card directly opposite where he sat attracted his attention by tho brilliancy of its lettering. It said in large, compelling type: ADVERTISING- PAYS.

' "Jiminy crickets!" exclaimed Charming, as the letters seemed to brand themselves on his brain. ."I never thought of that. ' ■ Fire minutes later he was legging it in the direction of the nearest public library, saying to himself: ••If she had a hard-shell Puritan conscience she probably did. Of course, :t -was really my place to do it, but 1 never thought to bother." ■ Through half a dozen flat files of newspapers he searched the issues of the 23rd. 24th, and 25th April, without result. Then he took up the first file again and began at the 26th. Here it was, n the- - edition of the 29th, at the very top of'"the column: "Found—On Broadway, an odd green ornament. Owner may recover by describing property. Address 'G.S.' Box 288. office. 1 ' - '•My scarab!" he gloated as if the gem were lying in the-palm of his hand. "Honest little girl, by George !'' He hurried on to the office of the newspaper. "Here's an advertisement that appeared in your paper on the 29th of last April," he said to the clerk at the advertisement window, showing him the copy of the ad. that he had made. "Do you still take answers for it?" Charming showed his ignorance of "classified ads." by asking such a question. The clerk shook his head doubtfully. "Ton could leave an answer here, course," he said, "but- I don't think it would do any good. People rarely call for more than a week after the appearance of an ad. of that kind." "Wouldn't you have a name, or an address, or some sort of a record?'' asked Channing anxiously. The clerk shook his head. "Or, perhaps, the original copy of the advertisement, so I could see the handwriting and the paper it was written on?" "We don't keep copy over a month back,'' said the clerk. "Shucks I" said Charming, in a tone of annoyance. "Ton see," he confided, "I happen to be owner of that particular green bug, and I want him." The clerk looked interested and sympathetic, but conld offer no suggestion. After that the enthusiasm with which ■Channing had begun his search, took a discouraging slump. All the resources at his command seemed to be exhausted. Then came a new inspiration. In a jeweller's window one day he saw a scarab set in a ring. It was not a bit like his, for the color was grayish brown, but it interested him. When he learned that the Art Museum contained a loan collect;on, he hastened there with the enthusiasm of a. neophyte. Here, indeed, were scarabs of all sizes and all colors. One there was that made him start-, a green beetle, possessing a lustre so peculiarly like that of his own that for the moment- he doubted his eyes. Channing hunted np an assistant curator and led him to the case. "I'm a sort of a scarab fiend," he explained. "Would you mind letting me see the under 6ide of that little ereen fellow? - ' The curator unlocked the case and lifted the green beetle out carefully, turning it over on its back in the palm of his hand. "Ton say you are interested in scarabs?'' "Yes, to a certain extent. I had one almost exactlv like that in color and size, and .1 was curious to see if they were marked alike." "Do you remember how yours is marked?" "It isn't mine now; I lost it," exclaimed Channing. "But it was marked on the bottom like this." He drew a pencil from his pocket and marked a character on the back of a card. The curator examined the drawing and then turned to look at the greenstone he had replaced in the case. "You say your scarab was of that material?'' he askea. : "Exactly the same, as nearly as I can judge." "In that event you were unfortunate to. lose it," the curate remarked. "It was a Pharaoh's scarab. It must have been verj-iold." do yon know that?"" demanded Channing. Tve studied scaTabs some," the other replied, smiling. "There is a fair quantity of literature on the subject- Have you read much?" "Merely the encyclopaedias," confessed Channing. "They are little more than indexes to the snbject," said the official. "Ton ought'to try.; a book or two. I can give you the names of some if you like." Channing-wandered ont of the museum with a list of three volumes devoted

exclusively to the origin, manufacture, and discovery of scarabs # At the library ho called for air three volumes, and, when they were brought bv an attendant, began with the smallest. This was a primer on the subject, and he skimmed the pages in a desultory way: He found it not nearly so interesting as the collection of stones in the museum; and laid it aside for the second volume: This was a larger work, more exhaustive in its treatment, and handsomely illustrated in colors. Charming took a childish interest in the beautifully lithographed plates. There were tows after rows of scarabs—reds, blues, yellows, and many that combined two, or- even three, colors. He paused longest at a page of green beetles, where the colors shaded from deep tints to the most delicately pale hues. Here, again, was the counterfeit presentment of his own scarab: He could: not be mistaken in the shade. "Pity they don't show reverse sides," ho thought, as he studied the little figure in the upper right-hand corner of the page. Then he uttered an exclamation anct brought the volume closer to his eyes, rubbinir the tip of his finger over the specimen that had attracted him. The smooth surface of the page was indented. Channing felt with an eager finger on the under side of the page. There was a rouchness, like the raised characters of Braille. He lifted the page to the light; then hurried across the room to the window, where he again held it up. "It's there!" he muttered. The Pharaoh's maTk—the mark of his lost scarab —showed clearly against the strong light! Tremblingly Channing laid the book on the window sill and' turned the page to the reverse side, bending over it. Unmistakably the outline of the mysterious hieroglyphic was sharply raised in the texture of the heavy calendered paner. He brushed the tips of his fingers over it gently, as if to assure himself that his eyes were playing him no tricks. There was no possible doubt. His own scarab had been held against the under side of the page and the paper rubbed firmly into the outline. Channing studied it dumbly for several minutes. "Then he took up the book and carried it to the desk of the librarian. "Do you keep a record of the calls for certain volumes?" ho asked. The young ■'woman reached! for the volume and glanced at the card at the front of it. '•I want to learn if this book has been called for any time since April 22nd of last year, and by whom," channing said. "The book was called for on April 26th last," said the attendant, glancing at the card at the front of the volume. "But we are not permitted to give the names of patrons without their permission. However, if you wish it, I can write to the person who drew the book out and eee if they have any objection." Yes, that was what he wanted, Channing assured her. "And hare you any more books on scarabs? If so, I'd like to look at them—all of them." He received three more volumes, one of them a, bulky treatise and two of them in foreign languages. He turned the pages rapidly, stopping only at plates and illustrations. But there was no further sign of the tell-tale mark, it was found nowhere Gave in the book with the colored plates. He sat staring at the imprint for a long time, now and then tilling the pages to see if, bv some impulse of vandalism, the unknown "had written "G..5." anywhere between the covers. But lie found nothing. Save for the mark on the image of the green beetle, the pages of the volume were unadorned. Channing wandered out of the library in a daze." He wanted to do something in a hurry, but he did not know what that something was. He had an idea that the girl who had picked up the scarab had been there, and it was tantalising to be so near and yet so far.

Two days later something took him to Philadelphia. It was the chance information that Philadelpliia possessed a collection of scarabs. But. there was not a green scarab in the lot, even though there were scores unlike any he had 6een in his own city. - "If you are interested in scarabs," said the man in Philadelphia, "why don't you begin nearer home? Have you seen the collection of Professor Stoneleigh?" Channing said that he had not. "He lives in Elizabeth," volunteered his informant. "His private collection is quite remarkable." Professor Stoneleigh of Elizabeth was little in stature and old in years, with bright eyes that looked out not unkindly through "the rims of a huge pair of spectacles. For half an hour- Channing had been listening patiently to the voluble little savant. '"I am sorry," he continued after a learned disquisition on his collection, "that you did not call yesterday; ah! then I had a scarab to show you. But it was not mine." "Couldn't you buy it?" asked Channing. "Xo. no; it was too valuable. Quite 4COO ii.c, I think. And"—the professor lifted his hand impressively—"a royal scarab!" Channing essayed to speak, but ended bv merely "staring at the little man. * "A Pharaoh's scarb," added, the professor in a reverent tone. "It was " As he paused, Channing blurted out, "Itwas green." The professor looked at him in astonishment. Then he clapped his hands. "You are right. You know something of scarabs. It was green—'green basalt; but such an unusual shade. Here; it was something like this."' He fumbled in another drawer for a few seconds and "drew forth a small green beetle. Channing nodded dumbly as he looked at it. •'But this is quite a common one," declared the professor. "The other —ah! that- l;ore the royal mark. See; like tins." He seized a sheet of paper and drew a figure on it. Channing was nodding his head mechanically. He scarcely glanced at the drawing. He knew what it was. It was an effort for him to speak, but he finally mastered his voice. "You say it has been, taken away?" "Only yesterday," said the professor with a sigh. Channing uttered an exclamation. "But the owner—who is the owner?" "That," said the professor sadly, "I do not know." Channing fell back a pace and stared at him in amazement. "You don't know?" he said slowly. "So," said the professor in a resigned tone. "I do not know; it was brought to me several months ago. The owner wished to have it identified. It was wonderfully rare; unique, in fact. I knew it at a glance; I became enraptured with it. I begged an opportunity to study it. It was ieft with me—for months. Think! For months! The rarest I had ever seen. It was a privilege, a high privilege. Yesterday it was called for. I suppose I shall not see it again. Nevertheless, it was something to have lived for." "What did the owner look like?" asked Channing. ' Surely you must know something about her—her name or something." "Did I say it was a lady?" askjxl the professor, a "trifle absently. "I don't Temember saying so. But it was. That was the odd part of it. The scarab does not often appeal to the feminine." "A voung lady?" suggested Channing. "Really, I don't know," said the professor. "To tell the truth, I did not notice. I was absorbed in the stone. A wonderful piece of work. The material was so fine and hard, the shading so unique. And the carving—why " "And you never even asked her name? "I think I did," answered the professor, "but I do not now Tecall it." Channing sighed. He saw that it was useless. A little later he bade the professor good-bye, without having been able to extract from him any information of value to him in his quest. His trip to Philadelphia and return by way of Elizabeth had taken time. His next move was to call at the library. Surely a reply must have been received by now, he thought. ; He was not disappointed. . The library had received a letter for him, which he proceeded hurriedly to open. It was written in a dainty feminine hand, and stated in pleasant terms that the writer had no objection to the inquirer's knowing who she was. - glanced at the address and, barely, taking time'to thank the attendant hurried ont of the library and took the'subway to the neighborhood indicated.

Miss Elton's Btudio was several flights i above the street. The genius of it presented a. pleasing aEd businesslike appearance as she opened the door at Channing s . ring. She was flatted and gloved as if just' going out. . _ Mtev briefly stating that he had received her letter, which he produced, Channirig remarked: "But I think the least you caii do is to tell me what you did with my scarab." » 'Miss Elton uttered a-little cry, and steadied herself against-the window casing. Her eyes stared wide and the color ha'cl left her cheeks. ' . '•My scarab, I said," repeated Channing. "The green scaTab, with the mark like this." . , . . , He seized a brush wet with paint and traced the hieroglyphic on the -wall..fanefollowed his movement with dumb fascination. "I am talking of the scarab that >ou picked up on April 22nd of last year, he continued, trying to speak thou«h his voice shook a little. ine one that von advertised, the one vou pressed into the page at the Astor Library, the one that you took to ElizaThere was something pitiful in her ex ~ Tiression of amazement, but Ghanmng smiled at her joyously. "I hope you didn't lose it,". he added. "I've had such a time chasing it. "Oh, please ! Please !" she cried, finding her voice at last. ~ "I didn't mean to startle you, said Charming with sudden contrition, 'it t> all very simple now. There is nothing supernatural. But I would really like to see the little green bug again. .Silently she pointed to a hideous pagan nod who squatted on a high shelf. Its hands were oustretched, palms upward. In the left reposed the scarab with the Pharaoh's mark: . . ' With a cry of recognition Channing seized it. There was something hypnotic in its fascination, for he turned, it over and over, now examining the delicately chiselled wings and legs, now studying the familiar outline of the hieroglyphic. 1 resently he looked up at Miss Elton, blie was sitting on a little bench near the window. Her breath came rapidly, as if from some violent exertion. . ••Tell me," she said faintly. "It frightens m "Wait,"', said Chaniiing, "I'll he back very soon." He dashed out of the studio, and she heard him descending the stairs m long bounds. There was an interval of five .minutes, and then she heard him return"l have sent for the evidence," he said, bursting into the room. "It should be here in less than an hour. e ',J l talk about something else until it comes." They tried to, but the attempt- was a failure. Miss -Elton, whose eyes seemed to plead for enlightenment, spoke only in monosvllables. Channing spent the time pacing the studio, waiting for the return of the" messenger. He came at last, bearing a bulky package. Channing undid the wrappings with nervous fingers. "I will show you now so that you will understand," he said, placing the photographs on the table before her. "Look !" She studied the prints as he eagerly turned them one by one. "Thev are enlargements," he explained, "from the film of a picture machine." She nodded silently, for she was beginning to understand. She saw his figure emerge from the crowd on the sidewalk, followed it step by step as itcame into the foreground, and saw it disappear as he continued to turn the photographs. Then she saw herself, half hidden in the crowd that surged down town, an expression of awed wonderment escaping her as the slender figure bent over and inched something up from the pavement. "Mow do you understand''" asked Chan-

ning. She nodded again, unable to find words. After that he told' her the story, every detail of it, and she listened like a child who is hearing fairy tales. "But I have never understood ' U.S.'," he said. "Your name is Margaret." "You might have guessed that," she said. "' G.S.' simply meant green scarab." Channing looked at- her blankly, and then burst into a laugh. "I'm an idiot," he said. "Of course it does. And here I have been inventing a thousand names to fit the initials." "And to think," said Miss Elton, "that it has been lying there in Patrick's hand all th-;se days. Patrick," she explained, "is my little friend on the shelf," nodding at the pagan image. "The little heathen," said Channing glaring at him. "I am very fond of Patrick," said Miss Elton.' "He has taken good: caro of it. I trusted it to nobody but him and the professor." "But the book at the library?" "That was merely a childish whim," she said. "I took the scarab there to find out something about it. : When I found its picture I could not resist pressing the seal into it. It was quite a while after that that I went to Elizabeth. The professor I heard of accidentally. I took it to him out of curiosity." "The professor seemed very fond of the scarab," said Channing. "I will send it to him." Miss Elton looked at him in surprise. "I thought you were trying to recover it," she said. "I was," 6aid Charming. "I was also hunting for a lady." The sacred scarabreus was concentrated in his observation of a spot of green paint on the table. The little pagan on the shelf stared straight at the opposite wall. The painted lady on the canvas looked dreamily out of the window, where the world went by. Not one of them paid the least attention to Channing and the girl.