I. A. R. Wylie

“ And suddenly it became clear to him that the biography which he had compiled so painfully and accurately was simply a sham—that all the biographies were shams and their facts mere trappings of a disguise. The reality was not what a man did but what he felt in the doing—joy or disillusionment, pride or shame. These things Young Saunders knew only of himself, who had no place in the cardboard files—about whom no one else wanted to know anything. ”

“ At least the face that gleamed close to his in the white circle of light was the face of a dead man. It had the little wizened look, the awful aloofness and impassivity of death. But the narrow eyes under the bony brows stabbed like knives out of darkness. "No—not yet," said John Prettyman softly—"not yet. To-morrow—perhaps—when I am ready. I am very ill—yes—very ill—I have something here—in my right side—but a man controls these things more than you could believe possible, Young Saunders. ”

“ I am proud to think how I have cheated people who counted themselves cunning men and women of the world. Let them know it. I shall bring no libel action. It will be a great chance for you—perhaps afterwards people may even read your poetry. But this—this other thing"—it seemed to Young Saunders, listening from the shadow that now the little distant bell was growing fainter—tolling itself into silence—"this other thing is different—outside the plan of my life—against my beliefs—my purpose—some thing inexplicable—irreconcilable—beyond reason—beyond understanding." ”

“ And now John Daniel Prettyman sat forward with his marble hands clasped on the arms of his chair and the firelight on his face. Death seemed to sink back from him like an ebbing tide. There was living fear in the eyes that frowned passionately on their last picture. ”

“ Young Saunders admitted.
He did not know how he came to answer as he did. The stranger's sneer did not hurt or offend him. He seemed to have lost grip of things. Partly it was because of his weariness and sudden discouragement—partly it was because of the yellow murk which made everything—even his own personality—seem blurred and intangible. As well might a shadow feel anger against a shadow. ”

“ III JOHN PRETTYMAN'S FOURTH DIMENSION The sub-editor put his head round the glass door, and having blinked a moment to accustom himself to the murky smoke-laden atmosphere, discovered his quarry at the far end of the room and hailed him derisively. He did not come in further, however, because he was going out to dinner, and dinner meant almost more to him than a sensational crime or a world cataclysm.
"Drop it! Drop it, Young Saunders! We don't want 'em and we wont have 'em! They're a drug on the market. If you've nothing better to do you can write up an obituary notice. ”

“ Young Saunders' sensitive, ink-stained finger ran down the list of John Prettyman's activities till it came to the last line and the blank space that waited to be filled. There it lingered wearily. He felt oddly tired and depressed. Usually he enjoyed writing the lives of great people. Their success comforted him for his own failure. It made life worth living and to some extent explicable. ”

“ Human beings have always interested me—their strangeness is like a riddle with no answer. This woman was evil. Body and soul she was corrupt—worm-eaten to the heart. And yet I saw her rub her painted cheek furtively against my coat-sleeve because some time or other Franz Sebold might have touched it (more than she knew) , and when I seated myself at Franz Sebold's place at the table her eyes grew dull again with the pain of seeing me there and her laugh was a poor thing. ”

“ Young Saunders answered. He spoke breathlessly, with an eagerness that sat strangely on his shabby greyness. "Mr. Prettyman—you are an old man—dying, you say, and you have had a wonderful life—everything has gone well with you. And I am an old man, too—not very far from death either—and everything has gone badly with me. When my time comes I know what will weigh heaviest on me—my failure—my inadequacy—the years I have spent in this room—content to paint the husks of other men's lives. But you—what troubles you—now?"
"—'in poor circumstances,'" John Prettyman read on. ”

“ In repose her face fell into the lines which her life had carved for her. It grew more utterly evil I thought to myself: 'If she attracts any man living, it is just because there is not a vice and not a foul corner of human nature which she does not know and understand.' Afterwards I remembered my own thought.
"At first we were both silent. Though I could feel her eyes on me, I ate like a man obsessed by hunger, and presently she began to talk—to ask questions. And I answered easily enough. It was not for nothing I had worked Franz Sebold's soul dry on those long days in the forest. ”

“ I had planned every detail, as a general plans out an offensive—I knew just where to hit and how long I must allow for every separate action—and, of course, I counted on my luck—if you like to call it that. No one came. In a quarter of an hour I was in my young German's uniform and in possession of his papers. I dragged his body down to the water's edge weighted it with an iron block and slipped it over without a splash. A minute or two later I heard the whistle sounding for the call up of the prisoners. I met some of them with their guards straggling back to camp. ”

“ But long before I was made sergeant I had mastered every man in my platoon. I studied them as a clever doctor studies his patients—as a lion tamer the beasts he means to break. I found in each man his secret vice or weakness or shame, and played upon it till he was in my hands. Soldiers are of necessity gamblers, and the gambling spirit was strong among these men. ”

“ That is all."
"Nevertheless you risked your life," said Young Saunders stubbornly.
John Prettyman's underlip stretched to an aloof contemptuous line.
"You seem to merit your nickname," he remarked with pale derision. "Your voice has the authentic thrill of youth. You think you can preserve your ideals and at the same time offer spiritual consolation to a dying, remorse-stricken old man! ”

“ He beat a thin old fist on the cardboard file. "Poetry has a sort of truth—it comes out of a man's heart—but all this—this humbug—this lyings—my whole life long I've been writing lies."
"Lies are what people like best," the other answered unmoved—"pretty lies about dead men." He bent over Young Saunders' shoulder and laid his fleshless hand on John Prettyman's obituary notice. ”

“ I helped her to get work—honest work, you understand, so that she should not be a burden to Franz in his new life. I helped to build up their new home.
"'And you must come and live with us till you have a home of your own,' she said proudly. (Oh, I could see her grow stout and matronly and respectable before my eyes. The paint and powder and cheap finery were, after all, just a masquerade.) 'You will be like a second son to me——' And then she stopped, and I could see that the dream had faded and that she remembered. ”

“ Men were always getting killed—almost by accident—some piece of carelessness or stupidity—and the new drafts were just as bad. It was as though there was a sort of blight on us—in two months Sunny Jim and I were the only survivors of the original company. Yet we did amazing things together. Night after night we would go over the top with a handful of men trench-raiding or wiring—and whatever we set out to do we did—and more. The other men rarely came back, but we came back. I tell you, Young Saunders, a man can control these things. ”

“ He was in full campaigning kit, and looked bigger and older, so that for a minute I hardly knew him. He stood close to me. I can see his solemn young face now, gazing at me from under the shadow of his helmet.
"'I am going to my mother,' he said. 'She has moved to Karlsruhe—only two hours from the Swiss frontier. I shall have ten days with her—and then—then I shan't go back. You understand? I've thought it all out. It will be easy—and when I've got work she'll follow and we'll start afresh—a new life.' He took my hand and clasped it, and I felt that for once he was as steady as a rock. ”

“ But when he spoke again it was with a chill passionlessness. "I have heard of men," he said, "who, having some physical peculiarity, some abnormal defect or perfection—some interesting variation of a disease, leave their bodies to the doctors to be dissected—as I leave what you may please to call my soul—to you." ”

“ There's my carriage waiting—and a nurse and a doctor—a Harley Street specialist, Young Saunders, biting his nails and praying to God no one ever hears of it. You see even professional etiquette can bend to certain persuasions." The long thin mouth that for an instant had lengthened out composed itself John Prettyman took up the three pages of his biography. ”

“ He liked it when the sub-editor pointed them out to some chance visitor.
"See these? Unique in Fleet Street, my dear fellow. You can't mention a living celebrity, from a champion house-breaker to Rockefeller, whose story isn't there, ready and waiting. Why, if you were to drop dead now, we'd have your whole criminal career in the press before you'd time to get cold. Try it. You'll see!"
It was one of the sub-editor's standing jokes.
But sometimes, and especially at night, it seemed to Young Saunders that the files had a ghoulish look. ”

“ And I've go to go back—I've got to pull her out of it—if I don't she'll go down—down—if I'm killed she won't care.'
"'Each man for himself,' I said. And then for some reason or other I told him about Seven Dials and my mother and as much of my life as sounded pathetic and romantic. It amused me, and was good practice for my German. Listening to us you couldn't have told that I wasn't a South German like himself. And he listened to me with the great tears in his blue eyes. ”

“ They do not grow in Seven Dials nor yet in Fleet Street nor on battlefields, and in these places I had spent my life. They troubled me. I do not know why, but for the first time in my life I was afraid—not of discovery, but of something vaguer than that—more terrible.
"We were quite alone. At first we hardly spoke. But gradually her thoughts seemed to break from her against her will, and always it was of Franz she spoke—of Franz lying somewhere on his mud bed in the distant river. ”

“ None of my fellow-prisoners could speak German. They only knew that I had influence with my guards, and were glad enough of what advantages I thought wise to obtain for them; for after all a man's country is where his business is, and one of these days I would go back to England and these men with me. ”