the Dervishes into existence soon after Mohammed's death, in spite of the prophet's well-meaning dislike for monasticism, they justified themselves by quoting the text from the Koran: “Poverty is my pride." It would serve the Franciscans equally well. The begging friar was an anachronism in the religion of Islam as he is an anachronism in modern society. But what did that matter to him?

The pre-eminently holy Dervishes called Abdals lived alone in the desert with friendly wild beasts, over whom they exercised an extraordinary sway. There were several Abdâls of high repute during the reigns of the early Ottoman Sultans. Perhaps there was more confidence in their sanctity than in their sanity, for while a Catholic historian finds it inconvenient to admit the hypothesis of madness as accounting for even the wildest conduct of the saints of the desert, a devout Oriental sees no irreverence in recognizing the possible affinity between sainthood and mental alienation. In India the holy recluse who tames beasts may be either Mussulman or Brahman; his vocation does not depend on belief in metempsychosis, for we meet him where that belief is not. Whatever is very old is still a part of the everyday life of the Indian people. Accordingly, the native newspapers frequently report that some prince was attacked by a savage beast while out hunting, when at the nick of time a venerable saint appeared, at whose first word the beast politely relaxed its hold. A very good authority by no means thinks that all these stories are invented. In this case the hero is generally a Jogi, a Hindu, but it was a Mussulman anchorite who, a few years ago, thrust his arm into the cag of a tiger at Lahore in the conviction that the animal would recognize his holy power. Alas,

Vide Beast and Man in India. By John Lock. wood Kipling, p. 396.

a zoological garden is not the forest primeval, and the tiger, nurtured by English officers, knew not the saint. He tore the poor arm so ruthlessly that the man died after two or three days of suffering, borne with heroic patience.

Those who try to divest themselves of human nature rarely succeed, and the reason nearest to the surface why, over all the world, the lonely recluse made friends with animals was doubtless his loneliness. On their side, animals have only to be persuaded that men are harmless for them to meet their advances half-way. If this is not always true of wild beasts, it is because (as St. Francis apprehended) unfortunately they are sometimes hungry; but man is not the favorite prey of any wild beast who is in his right mind. Prisoners who tamed mice or sparrows followed the same impulse as saints who tamed lions or buffaloes. How many a prisoner who returned to the fellowship of men must have regretted his mouse or his sparrow! Animals can be such good company. Still, it follows that if their society was sought as a substitute, they were, in a certain sense, vicarious objects of affection. We forget that even in inter-human affections much is vicarious. The sister of charity gives mankind the love which she would have given to her children. The ascetic who will never hear the pattering feet of his boy upon the stairs, loves the gazelle, the bird fallen from its nest, the lion cub whose mother has been slain by the hunter. And love, far more than charity, blesses him that gives as well as him that takes.

But human phenomena are complex, and this explanation of the sympathy between saint and beast does not cover the whole ground. Who can doubt that these men, whose faculties were concentrated on drawing nearer to the Eternal, vaguely surmised that wild

living creatures had unperceived channels of communication with spirit, hidden rapports with the Fountain of Life which man has lost or has never possessed? Who can doubt that in the vast cathedral of Nature they were awed by "the mystery which is in the face of brutes"?

The Contemporary Review.

Beside the need to love and the need to wonder, some of them knew the need to pity. Here the ground widens, for the heart that feels the pang of the meanest thing that lives does not beat only in the hermit's cell or under the sackcloth of a saint.

E. Martinengo Cesaresco.

CHAPTER III.

In the police office sat a constable, writing at a high desk. My hasty entrance brought him to meet me.

"I wish to see the Chief," I said, “at once, if he is here."

The man seemed about to ask a question; but I felt that it was no time for ceremony. "It is a matter of urgency," I went on. "I must see him immediately."

He took my name and tapped at a door which stood on the other side of the office. After a moment he turned and beckoned me to enter. Then I found myself alone with the Chief Constable of Leachester.

He sat at a writing-table, with a sheaf of papers before him and a newspaper on the floor beside his chair. Rather to my surprise he was a comparatively young man, and, more to my surprise, he was a young man whom I had previously seen. He was, in fact, the very man who, scarcely an hour before, had spoken at my meeting in such a critical and unfavorable manner with regard to my discoveries.

This was surprising, and not entirely pleasant; so, also, was the fact of his being so young. I entertain very strong opinions as to the custom, which seems to be steadily gaining ground, of plac

ing young men in positions of importance and responsibility. I have suffered much from the custom myself, and am therefore in a position to judge. Thus two circumstances combined to render my relations with this officer rather delicate.

When I entered he rose to meet me; but my visible excitement did not appear to affect him in the least. "My business is very urgent," I said. "It is connected with the robbery of jewels at the Hotel Petersburg last night. I know where to find the thief, and I want the assistance of yourself or one of your men."

"Indeed!" said the Chief Constable. "Pray, sit down, Mr. Crossley. I have just been reading the account in the Echo."

There was something so matter-offact in his manner that I could not but feel provoked. I have always felt a certain antagonism towards men of phlegmatic temperament, partly, no doubt, because such a temperament is so directly opposed to my own. I sat down, however, and plunged into my narrative at once, giving him a brief account of the incidents which had taken place, and also an outline of my own plans. He listened with the same calmness throughout. This attitude provoked me still further, and I saw at

once how the land lay. This young Jack-in-office had all the failings which are apt to beset men who are placed too early above the heads of their fellows. I determined that I would assert myself.

"I have brought the case to you," I said at the end of the story. "May I ask what you intend to do? Perhaps it may be just as well to mention that the time for consideration is limited."

He was evidently surprised, but took no notice of the sarcasm. The look he gave me was one of sharp attention. Then he replied:

"It is a very remarkable affair, Mr. Crossley, and I admire the way in which you have thought it out. But the case presents one or two weak points."

"Of course!" I said, quite politely. Again he gave me a sharp glance. "Mind," he went on, "I am not disputing your conclusions, but it may be just as well to look at things closely."

I had already looked at them closely; but I did not take advantage of his pause to say so. I began to feel curious as to how far the man's officialism would take him.

"In the first place," he continued, "this report in the Echo. You may not have noticed that it is built upon a hasty Press Intelligence telegram, and that the whole story is founded upon an alarm raised by a servant- girl in her mistress's absence."

"I have noticed all that," I answered, quietly. "But it seems to me that you forget one point of some importance; the facts of the telegram have been confirmed by my own adventure. I have seen the jewels, my dear sir."

"Quite so, Mr. Crossley, quite so. But that is another point to which I was just coming. If those diamonds were really stolen jewels, do you think that the man would have dared to return for the bag?"

"But he did return," I cried; "and

surely the spoil was worth some risk. Besides, how could he suppose that I had discovered them. A less careful person would never have opened the cases at all. He would have closed the bag at once on finding that it was not his own."

"Quite so," said the officer again, looking at me with an expression which I could not, at the time, understand. "Some men would have done that! And this brings me to another question, Mr. Crossley: Are you at all familiar with diamonds?"

"I hope," I said, "that I can, at least, distinguish between the genuine stone and the false."

"Very few people can," said the Chief Constable, tapping his desk with his pencil-case.

This was too much. It was quite plain that this man would see no reason in any views but his own. I had often heard of the contempt of an arrogant police for the efforts of private detectives, and here was a case in point. I stood up and looked at my watch.

"Sir," I said, firmly, "I have seen the Lenstoi Diamonds, and I have told you what I require in order to secure them. Are you prepared to assist me or are you not?"

This was effective. The man looked into my face and saw that I was resolved to have no more. He rose from his chair smiling curiously.

"I am certainly prepared to assist you," he answered, with quite a change of front. "But I thought it might be as well to look at the matter from every point first. As it is, I will come with you myself. Please excuse me while I get my coat. There is really plenty of time."

He opened another door and left the room. In a very short time he returned coated and capped plainly and unofficially. I had told my cab-driver to wait, so the vehicle was still at the

door. As we entered it I directed him to drive at once to the railway station.

For a few moments we did not utter a word. For myself, I was too greatly perturbed by the passage-at-arms which had just taken place to desire any further conversation. After a while, however, my companion spoke:

"There are one or two other points, Mr. Crossley, which we might have discussed. Perhaps, however, you would prefer to leave them over until afterwards?"

"Decidedly," I said. "We have no time to discuss them now. As it is, we are late enough, and if we lose the train you will know where to fix the responsibility."

That answer silenced him. When it had been uttered I turned my thoughts to the case, looking it over point by point. The probable outcome of the adventure also presented itself to me in no unpleasant colors. There would be, no doubt, a great deal of publicity; and though I do not yearn for notice of this kind, I am yet old enough to know that it has its benefits. There would also, in all likelihood, be a substantial recompense in other ways for the time and trouble I was now expending.

We drew up at the station gates. "Now," I said, "we must see the booking-clerk. He may be able to give us some information."

"Very good, sir," said the officer; and in a moment or two we were within the booking-office. The clerk was a young fellow, now apparently rather sleepy, and also somewhat alarmed at our visit.

"This gentleman," said the Chief Constable, "wishes to obtain a little information from you.-Now, Mr. Crossley."

The man was evidently piqued, and intended to help me as little as he dared. This, however, suited me very

well, and I immediately turned to the clerk.

"Did you issue the tickets for the eight-forty-five local?" I asked. "I mean the train which runs no farther than Hinton Junction?"

"The eight-forty-five local? Yes, sir." "Then did you notice one of the pas sengers in particular? He was a man carrying a brown-leather travelling-bag of medium size."

The clerk gave a look of intelligence. "A rather stout man?" he asked, slowly.

"Yes, rather stout."

"A red-faced man with a fair beard? He had a large brown hat on?" "Yes, yes! You have his description exactly."

"He was a commercial traveller," said the clerk.

"Indeed!" I asked, smiling. "How do you know that?"

He did not exactly know how he knew it.

"Oh," he answered, lamely, "I see so many of them that I get to know their cut. He was exactly like one, at any rate."

The disguise had evidently effected its purpose in this case; but all this was beside the point. "He certainly looked like a commercial," I said, coldly; "but that is not the main question. What station did this person take a ticket for?"

The answer was surprising. "He did not take a ticket at all," said the clerk. "In fact, he did not, as far as I know, take the train at all. I only know the man because I happened to see him pass out of the station just before eight. He came up with the seven-fifty from Hinton Junction, and I haven't seen him since."

For a moment I was quite taken aback. Then I saw an explanation of the mystery.

"Would it not be quite possible," I inquired, "for this person to take a