UNDER
THE DESERT STARS

Eloping with his beloved one from the earth, to seek a haven of refuge on some other planet, they saw the earth and moon whiz past them, with an imposing comet in distance.

UNDER
THE DESERT STARS

A Novel

BY
FRANK KOESTER
Author of “The Price of Inefficiency,”
Etc., Etc.

Illustrated by
L. C. VAN BENSCOTEN

MCMXXIII
WASHINGTON SQUARE PUBLISHING COMPANY
57 West 10th Street, New York, N. Y.

Copyright, 1923,
By FRANK KOESTER
All Rights Reserved

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

UNDER THE DESERT STARS

CHAPTER I
THE HYPNOTIC VICTIM

THE early spring sun was riding low in the heavens, going westward to seek its rest. The haze of twilight was creeping in upon the city from across the bay and the canyon-like streets of lower New York were already steeped in shadow.

Above the city rose the hum of industry and from the rivers the saucy whistles of tugboats, with their heavy laden barges, were telling those who would listen that they, too, were doing their bit.

But all this was lost to the girl standing at the promenade rail of the Queensborough Bridge, that massive structure spanning the East River, linking Brooklyn with New York. The girl, beautiful to an extreme, both in face and form, stood clutching the railing with a convulsive grip. Her eyes were set on something far in the distance and so far as the passersby were concerned, she was in another world.

Curious but hurried glances were aimed at her, but that was all. New Yorkers are always in a hurry and a passing glance satisfies the questions that arise in the minds of most of them.

Carl Lohman, however, was different. His profession had taught him to observe. So it was natural that he, noticing the strained attitude of the girl, should give more than a casual glance. Her handkerchief had fallen at her feet and he stooped down to restore it. His action elicited the slightest notice from her, so he ventured to remark: “I beg your pardon, Miss, but I believe this is yours.”

At this, the girl slightly turned her head to see who had spoken to her. Carl noticed, then, the strange look in her eyes. The fixed stare in them seemed to be seeking something beyond the vision of mortal ken. What dream, what strange meditation had so rudely been broken into?

Mechanically she took one hand from the rail and accepted the dainty square of lace which Carl extended to her. A bow, so slight as to be scarcely perceptible was her only reply. This was but the outward show. Inwardly she felt relieved to some extent. A glance told her that this man, with his intellectual countenance and commanding presence, was no ordinary flirt. Then, without a word, she walked away.

Carl, believing that the handkerchief had been dropped with a purpose and curious to know more about the fascinating girl, hurried to her side and endeavored to start a conversation.

“Rather a warm day, is it not?”

No answer being given he continued: “Really tropical for this time of year.”

Again no response. Carl realized that he had been mistaken. She had not intended to start a flirtation. He looked at her closely. Yes, that was it. She was nervous and trembling as from some all-powerful emotion. He would help her if he could.

“Madam, you are ill. May I be of some assistance?” and he extended his arm for support.

“Thank you, but I am all right,” was the rather testy retort.

“You are a stranger here, are you not?”

The girl looked at him carefully, and hesitatingly inquired, “Why do you ask? Simply because I did not reply to your questions?”

“No, not that,” came from Carl; then, “Our American girls, or rather I should say, New York girls, resent being addressed by a stranger, even though he should offer aid when needed.”

“Aid was not and is not now required. And to answer your questions, I am a stranger here,” came swiftly.

“So I thought,” said he, flicking the ashes from his cigarette.

“What made you think so?” parried the other, looking at him cautiously from under her heavy lashes.

“Oh, because. Well, you see women of your type and eyes are strange here. I have lived here long enough to learn that.”

“Strange?” she asked, with a forced smile and shrugging shoulders.

“Yes. Beautifully strange.”

“Do you really think so?” She was beginning to feel at ease.

“Yes. And as for being a stranger, I would say you are a European and have not been in this country very long. At any rate the fads of the moment have had no effect upon your taste.”

“Thank you,” she returned with a smile.

“Just here on a visit, if I dare ask?”

Their eyes met. Each was trying to fathom the mind of the other. For a minute she was silent, then in a decisive tone of voice she replied, “You are right. I arrived here a week ago from abroad.”

“From where—abroad?”

“That is asking questions.” She was fencing for time.

“Oh, come on.”

“What’s that?” frowning.

“You misunderstand me. I mean tell me where you came from. England?”

“Do I look English?”

“No. Not at all.” Admiring her gift of quick and thoughtful repartee, he supplemented, “No, you are neither English nor French.”

“But England and France are not the only countries, although they like to think so when they do not require the help of other countries,” she answered sarcastically.

Their walk had by this time brought them to the bridge terminal.

“Would you mind calling a taxi?” she asked.

“With pleasure,” he replied, and called a passing car.

It was with a heart that sank at the answer, that he asked, at the parting, “May I see you again?”

A smile curved her exquisitely carven lips and seemed to brighten her face and lend added luster to her eyes as she slowly shook her head in the negative.

Carl stepped forward to help her into the taxi, but before he could realize it, she had gathered her skirts, revealing a dainty pair of ankles and entered the machine. A moment later the door was closed and the car sped away, leaving Carl standing at the curb, watching it with charmed eyes.

Hat still in hand, and entirely oblivious of the curious eyes of those who had witnessed the incident, he pondered over her lithe and graceful form, the large fathomless eyes and the subtle charm of her musical voice. But his heart would have pulsed with added vigor had he heard, as the taxi started, her scarcely audible “Auf Wiedersehen.”

A final look at the parting car gave him a pleasing view of her smiling face, as she gave him a gracious nod. He bowed and waved his hand in return, murmuring half aloud, “Some girl!”

Suddenly his musing was rudely broken into by the passing of a truck and the growled warning from its driver to get away from the curb. Brought thus back to the stern world of reality and the commonplace, he gave his cane a vicious twirl and muttered beneath his breath, “Damn it! That’s what I call hard luck”—throwing away his cigarette.

Having given vent to this expletive, he turned and went his way, seeing nothing but that beautiful smiling face which was the center and pivot of his confused mind.

At the Claza, Sana, for that was the name of this strange girl, alighted from the taxi, and after paying and dismissing the driver, stepped quickly into the hotel.

She took the elevator to the eighth floor. But a change had come over her. Her face was pale and she was visibly perturbed, as she went down the corridor.

Her hand sought a door knob, and as she hesitated for an instance, her perturbation seemed to leave her. She entered the room without knocking and as she did so, a middle aged man, François de Rochelle, looked up in surprise and forced a thin smile of welcome to his lips.

His words of greeting, “Sana, you are back again,” must have rung in his own ears with their true bluntness, so he quickly added, “So soon, mon cherie?”

He arose from his chair and walking over to Sana, took her face tenderly in his hands and remarked, rather peevishly, “You are pale, joujou. Did not the weather agree with you? I thought the fresh air blowing over the bridge would do you good. Did you not go there?”

The contented smile faded from Sana’s face and was replaced by one of pitiful sadness as she queried blankly, “Where?”

The far-off stare in the girl’s eyes and her strange attitude gave de Rochelle food for thought that was not of the most pleasant kind.

With a scarcely conscious gesture Sana removed her hat and mechanically walked to the couch where she sat down, to look with a vacant gaze out of the window over Central Park. De Rochelle, pushing aside some papers, sought a seat next to her, and placing his arm about her shoulder, asked in a voice that bespoke his own anxiety, “What is it, mon cherie? What troubles you today? Come, let me feel your pulse.”

She laughed lightly, although not with contentment, as his hand encircled her wrist and he placed his ear upon her chest, in an effort to gauge the pulsations of her heart.

For a few moments there was a silence between them. Then de Rochelle, raising his head and looking straight into her eyes, said, “There is nothing the matter with you.” Then kissing her, he whispered, “And your lips are just as sweet as ever.”

Sana, slightly bored, freed herself gently from his arms, and as she did so, murmured “Oh, it is nothing.” Throwing her head backward, she added, “I do not feel very well, but it is beyond me to say what it is.”

A nameless fear had suddenly arisen within her heart. Yes, that was it. The fear of speaking to him of the incident on the bridge. It would probably cause him worry and it would rob her of the delicious dreams she would weave about the man who was already enthroned in the most secret recesses of her heart.

So saying no more she rose from the couch, and left the apartment to go to her own room, leaving de Rochelle alone, in consternation and uneasy contemplation.

When she reached her room, Sana threw herself upon the bed, burying her face in the pillows. Presently, however, she rose to a sitting posture, and tangled her fingers madly in her hair, asking herself unanswerable questions.

“Why should I want to commit suicide? Does not François love me, and do I not love him with all my heart? Putting myself away in such a cowardly manner—would he ever get over it? And then, too, what of my dear mother?”

Having tortured her mind in that fashion, she slipped from the bed and approaching the dresser, she rested her hands heavily upon an open drawer and glared into the mirror. With piercing eyes she gazed at herself and gradually a smile came to her face and a new light gleamed in her eyes.

“Beautifully strange—yes, he was right. I am too young to die. And I am not going to.”

With a determination born of a new and greater hope, she threw her head back and her long, lustrous hair, thus shaken loose, unrolled its dark coils down over her shoulders and far below her waistline. Her clothes seemed too tight, so she loosened them, stripping off her outer garment. There was something sirenic about her beauty as she stood there with wild-hanging hair, her breasts heaving with excitement. She commenced to rearrange her disheveled hair, and a smile crept to her lips as she admired the reflection in the glass. She was indeed well aware of her fascinating and dangerous beauty.

And well she might be. The well-rounded neck, the soft, graciously curved and perfectly proportioned shoulders and arms, the slight tan of the skin, the great magic eyes and the pretty face with its lofty brow, surmounted by waves of dark hair, gave her the positive stamp of a strange and unique beauty: a type one so seldom finds to admire. It was not artificial, nor was it yet exotic—reality was its only expression.

Standing before the glass, she unconsciously made a few gestures and movements which held in them a captivating influence when wielded by one who was naturally so comely. Unconsciously, too, she took inventory of her personal charm. It was her woman’s instinct that told her that all men would be her willing slaves, should such a thing be her desire. But it was not. François was her first lover, and she wanted him to be the only one. Everything was to be for him and him alone.

Unfortunately, most women after they secure the man for whom they have angled do not know how to hold their catch. They neglect the very things that first drew the man to them, they forget their art in a feeling of possession and security. And then they wonder why there are so many divorces.

Sana, who was but nineteen, was well versed in feminine artfulness and had already mastered all its varied forms and gestures. Her inheritance from her mother, and the refinement and culture she had acquired, gave her both finesse and charm in addition to her amazing loveliness.

Facing the glass, she shook her head and said to herself, “To destroy myself? Never! Gypsy blood would not sanction that.”

Sana hastily dressed herself and without advising de Rochelle of her movements, left the hotel and sought a friend of hers who lived on 57th Street.

This was a Mrs. O’Brien, a woman, worldly wise and one who had married young and often. Sana had met her on the steamer “George Washington,” on her way from Cherbourg to New York. Mrs. O’Brien was returning from her latest honeymoon, and the chance meeting between the two had ripened into a most intimate friendship. Regardless of what gossip may have said about her, Mrs. O’Brien was real in every sense of the word.

It was to her, therefore, that Sana turned in her trouble. Mrs. O’Brien listened to Sana’s tale with a motherly interest, and explaining in part her intentions, she took Sana to the office of the famous Dr. White, on the same block.

The doctor, an elderly and affable gentleman, had been in New York for many years, and the fame that had preceded him from Europe, where he had been a professor at the University of Heidelberg, increased with his years of practice in America.

He and Mrs. O’Brien were well acquainted and with a cheery “Good evening” he led the two women from the reception room, into his office, which was splendidly furnished and embellished with numerous books, charts and artistic curiosities. There was nothing about the place to give the visitor the chill that generally comes on entering a doctor’s office. Instead the room seemed to be pervaded with an atmosphere of congenial warmth.

The three seated themselves preparatory to the consultation. Sana broke the momentary silence by speaking clearly and calmly.

“My fiancé, François de Rochelle, for whom I also work as secretary, induces me daily to walk across the bridge to get fresh air. Whenever I do so I always feel a great desire to jump over the rail and drown myself in the waters below. This sensation increases, like my love for him, as the days go by. Why it is, I do not know. I love my fiancé dearly and he returns my love with equal fervor. We intend to be married immediately upon our return to Paris. I do not wish François to be worried over me, and for that reason I have never confided in him my desire to commit suicide. Neither have I mentioned to him my intention to consult a doctor.”

She paused, but Dr. White said only “Yes, go on.”

“Once in a while, of an evening, as a matter of amusement François hypnotizes me. It always makes me feel much better. But the following day, when I walk across the bridge, the horrible impulse to do away with myself, forces itself upon me. Day by day the desire increases in intensity. I should have killed myself today if it had not been for a man who spoke to me just as I was about to leap over the rail. Can you tell me what the trouble is, doctor?”

Dr. White was deep in thought. He had often practised the subtle art of hypnotism as an aid to his medical work. He knew, therefore, the sinister truth that lay behind Sana’s words.

Rousing himself at her question, he looked at Sana closely and asked, “Will you consent to enter the hypnotic state under my influence?”

Sana recalled to mind some of the risque situations she had found herself in upon waking from the trances, induced by her lover. The memories caused her to pause an instant, then raising her hands she cried, “No, no!”

The doctor seemed to comprehend the thoughts that were surging through her mind, and he interrupted with, “You need have no fear. Your friend, Mrs. O’Brien is here and the experiment may be of benefit to both you and your fiancé.”

Her reply to the man’s kindly remonstration showed how easily he had dispelled her fears.

“Yes, perhaps it will be better so.”

Sana reclined restfully back within the cushioned chair and the doctor bent over her. With his hands he made a few passes before her face, with a steady look of intensity he performed the preliminaries of the hypnotist. His piercing glance held her gaze. His eyes seemed fairly to devour hers. Soon her eyes dimmed and slowly commenced to close. Her mind was giving way to his dominating will. Slowly the girl’s eyes closed entirely, the muscles of her body relaxed and her mind sought another plane.

Dr. White straightened up and turning to Mrs. O’Brien said softly, “She is gone.”

The doctor drew his chair close to and directly in front of Sana. In a clear voice that seemed more to make itself felt rather than heard, he propounded his queries.

“What does your fiancé, François de Rochelle, do when you are under his hypnotic influence?”

Slowly came the answer, “He teaches me some dance steps and also makes love to me.”

“Do you really love him?”

“Well, I would do anything to please him, but——”

“But what?”

“I did not love him before we were engaged.”

“How did that happen?”

No answer forthcoming, Dr. White commanded sharply, “Come, come, answer me.”

Sana responded with “I did not care for him enough. One evening while at dinner with him in a private dining-room of a famous Parisian restaurant he hypnotized me, and directed me to love him and prepare for our marriage. From then on I began to love him, and when he was sure of my affection he disclosed to me the secret of why I loved him. But I did not mind, for my love was already deep rooted.”

“Are you wealthy? Did you inherit much money?”

“No. Just a few thousands.”

“Is your life insured?”

“Yes, for $50,000.”

“Who will get this money in case you die?”

“François.”

“Is de Rochelle’s life insured likewise?”

“Yes, for $10,000.”

Then like a bolt of lightning came the question, “Did de Rochelle ever direct you to commit suicide by leaping from the Queensborough Bridge?”

Sana shivered slightly. Her entire body seemed to shrink as she reached forth her arms and groped blindly in the empty air.

“Answer me!” The doctor fairly hissed the words.

In a tone scarce above a whisper came the delayed reply, “François forbade me to speak on this subject, should I ever be in a trance induced by any other than himself. I will not—I cannot answer that question. I will not!”

“Answer me. Did François direct you to commit suicide? I demand an answer.”

“I refuse to speak of this matter.”

Finding himself powerless to draw from that unconscious mind the answer he had hoped to get, Dr. White turned to Mrs. O’Brien, his face but thinly veiling the disappointment he felt.

“Say nothing of this latter question to the girl,” he cautioned, “it would only serve to distract her.”

He turned to the girl, and once more making a pass before her eyes, directed, “Wake up.”

Sana opened her eyes, rose to an upright position and slowly gazed blankly about her. Then recalling where she was and for what purpose she had come, a more tranquil look crept into her eyes.

After Sana had recovered herself, Dr. White requested that she and Mrs. O’Brien call the following day. To this they readily consented and the appointment was made.

After Mrs. O’Brien and the girl had left the office, Doctor White sank into a chair, muttering “Strange—very strange.”

For a long time he sat there, with his head bowed in deep thought. Suddenly, he stood up, saying half aloud, “Professor Grant. That’s the man for this.”

Going to his telephone he called up the professor’s home.

“Hello, Grant. This is White. Can you possibly be at my office tomorrow noon? I wish you would come. I have a most interesting case on my hands—most interesting.” A pause, then, “You will? Fine. I knew I could rely upon you. At noon, sharp.”

The following day Sana and Mrs. O’Brien went to the doctor’s office. He and Prof. Grant were waiting for them.

Dr. White introduced Prof. Grant, adding for Sana’s benefit, “Prof. Grant can be trusted. I am sure he will be able to help you. Just do as he asks, and everything will come out all right.”

Sana smiled pleasantly at Prof. Grant, who taking her by the hand said, “I shall put you under a hypnotic spell, and while under its influence you must answer each and every question I put to you. It is very important and necessary that you do so, for your own benefit. A cure cannot be effected until you have spoken as you are bidden. Remember that.”

“I shall do as you say. Yes, I will. I want to be cured for the sake of François.”

Little did she dream what the outcome would be. Sana, of course, knew nothing of the diabolical schemes of de Rochelle. The victim of hypnotic influence can never recall to mind, while conscious, what took place during a trance.

Prof. Grant was a powerfully built man, with a heavy black beard and a pair of black eyes that seemed to seek the innermost recesses of the soul.

Taking Sana’s wrist he gazed into her eyes with a stare that ever increased in piercing power and concentration. At first her glance met his frankly, but within a fleeting moment of time, before she could realize what was happening, Sana closed her eyes, and with relaxing muscles sank back in her chair—totally under the magic spell woven by those piercing eyes.

Grant came to the point quickly, with “Tell me. Did your fiancé, François de Rochelle, direct you to commit suicide while under his influence? What was the purpose? Tell me.”

Sana hesitated.

Grant fairly shouted, “Answer me. I command it!”

Slowly the words came, barely audible to the eager listeners.

“Yes, each time that he hypnotized me he directed and commanded me to drown myself by leaping from the bridge into the river. When I was not under his power, he induced me to walk every day across the bridge. He told me it would do me good to get the air. While in a trance, he also forbade me to ever mention to him, while in a normal state, of my desire to drown myself. He impressed upon me, also, that should I ever be under the hypnotic influence of another and be questioned regarding this, I was to refuse to answer.”

“Did he ever intimate his purpose in wanting you to kill yourself?”

“One night he laughed, so I recall, saying that he would then have plenty of money and could return to France to marry his schoolday sweetheart.”

“Are you sure of that?” demanded Grant.

“Yes. He even told me her name. I knew her well. Her name is Edith Durex.”

“Ah! Tell me, how often and for how long has he been hypnotizing you?”

“Every evening last week.”

“Did you intend carrying out his demands?”

“Yes. I would do anything for François. Only yesterday was I prevented from doing so by a stranger. But I will do it as soon as I get the chance. The feeling grows stronger within me every time I cross the bridge. And something makes me go to the bridge each day.”

As Sana gave voice to these strange remarks, Mrs. O’Brien could hardly suppress her exclamation “My God!”

Grant and White stepped aside and held earnest conversation for a moment. Grant spoke decisively, “The secret is out, and we would be parties to the crime if we did not take steps to prevent the act. The girl cannot be allowed to return to de Rochelle. Suppose you ask Mrs. O’Brien to take care of her for a few days?”

“Yes, I think that would be best,” and Dr. White stepped over to Mrs. O’Brien, with the question, “Do you think you could take your friend to your home and keep her for a few days? It would be the means of helping her out of her trouble.”

Mrs. O’Brien, who was nearly overcome with pity for Sana, instantly consented, so eager was she to do something.

“Fine,” from White, giving Grant a slight nod to indicate that his request had been favorably met.

It was then that Prof. Grant, with a smile on his face, stepped to the side of the insensible girl. His voice seemed to ring doubly deep and clear, “From now on you will never again be possessed of that desire to commit suicide. You are forever free.”

Taking again her right wrist, he softly said, “It is all right, madam,” and with a start Sana returned to consciousness. The happy smile upon her face told better than words her relief.

As they were about to leave Dr. White stepped to Sana’s side and said gently, “Miss Sana, please accompany Mrs. O’Brien to her home. If you wish to go to the hotel you may do so, but not until after six o’clock. Do you understand?”

Sana nodded agreeably and assisted by Mrs. O’Brien she left the two men to their thoughts.

Grant broke the silence. They had been silently thinking of some plan to follow.

“A letter will do the trick. We shall put the fear of the Almighty in that rascal’s heart.”

“All right. Let’s get busy. No time can be lost in dealing with him.”

The letter was written immediately and dispatched to the hotel by messenger.

One can only imagine the thoughts that surged through de Rochelle’s head when he read the following:

M. François de Rochelle
Hotel Claza
New York, N. Y.

Dear Sir:

Your secretary, Miss Sana, attempted to jump from the Queensborough Bridge to drown herself, as directed and demanded of her, while under your hypnotic influence, so that you could collect the $50,000 insurance and marry your old time sweetheart.

We advise you to leave this city before five o’clock this evening, as by six o’clock we shall have reported the case to the District Attorney.

Yours truly,
H. Grant,
Robt. E. White.

CHAPTER II
AT THE MORGUE

THE tiny hands of the ormulu clock upon the mantel told Sana’s anxious heart that it was a quarter to six.

With a strange presentiment of coming evil that defied analysis and strongly against the wishes of her hostess, Sana left the house and hurried to the hotel.

Reaching de Rochelle’s suite she rapped at the door. No answer came. A second rapping proved as futile as the first.

“He is out,” murmured the girl as she sought her own room. She wanted to rest, but could not. For fully half an hour she paced the floor, a dreadful oppression as of some impending catastrophe weighing down upon her. She could not shake it off. The very silence of the room seemed to creep into her heart and dull her mind.

Once more she crossed the corridor to de Rochelle’s rooms. This time she gave the door a resounding knock. But still no response. Gently, almost fearfully, she tried the door. It was unlocked, so she entered the room.

A strange sight met her eyes. Disorder was everywhere. The little writing table, usually so neat and well ordered, was a confusion of jumbled papers and letters. Signs of a hasty departure were everywhere.

Sana, however, took it only to mean that some business interest had called de Rochelle away in a hurry. Somewhat relieved Sana picked up a book and going over to the deeply cushioned divan, sat down to beguile away the time pending his return. But her mind was in a turmoil and she could not concentrate on her reading.

Nervously she let the minutes creep past. At last she could stand the strain no longer. Taking the phone she called the desk clerk and had him page de Rochelle. It was of no avail. Again she tried it, but still the missing man was not to be found.

Beside herself with fear Sana called up Dr. White, but he assured her that everything was all right and that no doubt she would hear from de Rochelle later on. She tried to reason with herself that there was nothing to fear, but as the hours went by, each seemingly longer than the one before, she grew so restless that her anxiety could not be calmed.

She could wait no longer in that lonely room, so about ten o’clock she hurried over to see Mrs. O’Brien. To her she related her fears, but she could do nothing to comfort her or offer any solution. Alarmed at Sana’s state of mind Mrs. O’Brien called up Dr. White.

His words, though laconic, conveyed a world of meaning:

“All is well, and will be for the benefit of Sana. Keep her at your home tonight.”

But Sana would not listen to any such suggestion. Her alarm had increased three-fold and although Mrs. O’Brien did everything to persuade her to remain, Sana hurried back to the hotel.

She felt sure that by this time her sweetheart would have returned. But the desk clerk had neither seen nor heard anything of him.

Once more she found herself within the precincts of his apartment. She could hardly keep from screaming aloud in her misery.

Her eyes roved around the empty room, faltered in their course, and the wandering gaze became a fixed stare. She had found a clew!

Upon the radiator she saw a bit of charred paper. She bent over it, studying it intently. But the message it had carried was illegible. A handful of black ashes. What was their secret? She did not touch them, but took a match, and kneeling on the floor slowly turned the charred paper around with the match in an effort to decipher something. Here and there a word could be seen, but nothing to convey any meaning to her fevered brain. She lit the match and holding it back of the legible letters managed to read “tell clerk” “Sana” “leave,” but that was all.

Deeply puzzled and not knowing what to make of it, she lighted another match, hoping to decipher other words. But before she had realized it, the flame caught the unburned part of the paper and destroyed it completely.

Unmindful of everything she sat on the floor, puzzled and heartbroken.

Brought to her senses by the chiming of midnight, the confused girl sought her room. Almost unconsciously she disrobed and threw herself upon the bed. Through the long hours of the night she lay with unclosed eyes and with every nerve strained to catch the sound of the returning footsteps of the one she loved so dearly. But she listened in vain. The dawn of the new day crept in upon her as she lay there given up to the grief that was hers.

She arose and called the desk clerk. He was sorry, but he could get no response from de Rochelle’s rooms, in spite of his efforts to do so.

Mechanically Sana dressed, walking about the room without intention or aim.

It was a little after six when she again entered de Rochelle’s room. It was still unoccupied—unoccupied, but yet tenanted with an almost tangible shadow—the presence of silence.

The thought that de Rochelle had deliberately deserted her did not enter Sana’s mind for quite a time. When it did, it tended to clear her brain, lend calmness to her being. She made a brave attempt to figure it out, saying to herself, “What for? And if so, what will become of me? What shall I do in this strange city?” And her thoughts went back to Paris and her childhood days, when she had someone to watch over her and guide her footsteps.

Sana realized her helplessness. She was alone. Dear as she was, her friend Mrs. O’Brien could not help her, nor could she help solve the mystery of de Rochelle’s absence. So she looked around the rooms once more and left.

In a trembling voice, she questioned the desk clerk, “Have you had any word from Mr. de Rochelle?”

The clerk was perusing the morning paper as she put the question to him. He started violently, gazed intently into her face, then back at the paper. Finally he said “de Rochelle? Is this the de Rochelle you mean?” And with a pencil he marked a column in the paper and handed it to her.

Her worst fears were more than realized as she read the tragic headlines:

BRIDGE JUMPER SUCCEEDS
FRANÇOIS DE ROCHELLE

of

SAHARA DEVELOPMENT ORGANIZATION
DROWNED LAST NIGHT IN EAST RIVER
NEAR QUEENSBOROUGH BRIDGE
ADDRESS UNKNOWN

Boys playing on the water front last night discovered a man’s body floating toward the shore and with the help of a policeman it was soon recovered. The face was greatly disfigured, due to his striking the bridge pilaster. The body was removed to the morgue....

Sana grew pale. Great tears forced themselves from the deep seas of her eyes and the paper, falling from her limp grasp fluttered to the floor. The clerk, noticing this, hastily walked from behind his desk and reached Sana just in time to catch her as she fell in a dead faint.

A small crowd of early hotel guests soon gathered about Sana. Among them was the hotel doctor, who ordered that the girl be at once taken to her room. A nurse was summoned and with her aid the physician soon revived Sana. Quiet and rest, he said, were all that would be required to restore the weakened girl to a normal condition.

That morning, Mrs. O’Brien, breakfasting with her husband, read of the drowned man in the paper. Believing that Dr. White had been implicated in some foul play, she at once sought him out. Yes, he had read of it, but was as much puzzled as she.

Together they called on the prostrate Sana. She was lying on her bed weeping and softly calling the name of her lover. The couple sought to explain, and hoped, in doing so, to mitigate the horror of the catastrophe. But the attempt was fruitless, the girl refused to be comforted or quieted. Realizing the futility of their desires, they took their leave, feeling the worse for so painful and depressing a call. They decided, however, to call later in the day.

About noon Mrs. O’Brien and Dr. White again called to see Sana. Their explanations were lost on the girl. She could not comprehend and she feared to believe. All she would say was, half to herself “François, François, come to me. I need you so.”

As time went by, however, Sana became calmer under the soothing words of her friends, and the three, together with Prof. Grant, who had been summoned, went to the District Attorney’s office.

When they had been seated in the private office of that official, Sana and the others were greatly surprised at the attitude he immediately assumed. Without hesitation, he proceeded to implicate Sana in the death of de Rochelle. His questioning was ruthless and his accusations most bitter. From his words one would gather that Sana was the guilty one—that in some way or other she had contrived to put her sweetheart out of the way.

The processes of our law are peculiar, and to a stranger, as Sana was, to such methods, it was indeed difficult to understand. She had undergone a severe nervous strain—a terrible shock—and, naturally, was far from being in a calm collected state of mind. It was this nervousness, then, that had led the man to believe her guilty of some crime. Peculiar? Yes, to be sure—but many a man has come to realize that justice is more than blindfolded!

Dr. White, although quite familiar with incidents of this sort, was outraged at the procedure. Knowing, as he did, the true circumstances of the case, he could bear it no longer. His agitation was demonstrated clearly, when, in a cold, cutting voice, he interrupted the questioner with, “This young lady knows absolutely nothing as to the why and wherefore of de Rochelle’s death. At the time of his disappearance, she was at the home of Mrs. O’Brien. It is clear, then, that you are injuring her with your accusations.”

At this, the tide of questions turned to overwhelm the O’Briens. Suffice to say, it was easy for them to establish an alibi both for Sana and themselves.

Dr. White was next to face the fire of the attack. His explanations with regard to the dead man’s hypnotic influence over Sana, served only to add fuel to the flames. A barrage of questions were hurled at him in an effort to trick him into saying something that might be used against him or one of the others. White, however, was too clever a man, and knowing just what he was up against, successfully parried the thrusts of his opponent.

The outcome was, that, failing to secure any satisfaction from his visitors, the District Attorney bowed them out, mumbling, “Well, it will be investigated further.”

Leaving the place, the party wended their way to the morgue, to make an effort to identify the body.

There are moments when long restrained grief and anxiety break loose from the mortal fetters that bind them—they escape the chains, though in their flight they rend the soul and tear the heart. Such a moment came to Sana as she stood in the house of the dead, awaiting her turn to look at the body of the drowned man.

She freed herself from the supporting arm of Mrs. O’Brien and with a cry of anguish pushed her way to the body lying upon the rude slab.

Silently she gazed upon the form. The facial features were wholly unrecognizable and his curly hair, through which she had so often delightedly run her fingers now was matted with dried and clotted blood. The eye that had fascinated her—the lips that had so often sought hers—all these were hideously mutilated.

Sana sank to her knees and fell across the body, sobbing, “François, François come back—come back to me—your Sana—your joujou. O François, why did you leave me? I loved you so. Oh! look at me.”

And as she raved she peered with pitying intent into the sunken eyes of the lifeless man.

“Come, my child, we must be going,” burst upon the ears of the anguished girl, as she moaned and wrung her hands hysterically over the form of her dead love.

“Yes,” came from lips unconscious of the utterance.

“François, I must leave you—François, goodbye—goodb——”

With her farewell uncompleted Sana fell in a swoon at the feet of Professor Grant.

They carried her into the office, and after regaining consciousness she was led to the waiting automobile in which she was taken to Mrs. O’Brien’s home.

The following day a representative of the insurance company called upon the O’Briens to hand Sana a check for the ten thousand dollars insurance on de Rochelle’s life, of which Sana was the beneficiary.

Sana looked at the check with a feeling of disgust, and finally passed it back to the man saying, “I don’t want his money.”

“But it is not his money,” came the answer, “It is the insurance company’s money.”

“Well, I don’t want it anyway.”

“But what shall I say at the office?”

“Tell them I shall let them know in a few days. Perhaps I shall donate it to some charity.”

At this display of pride, the agent muttered something about her being an exception, and at a signal from Mrs. O’Brien, who noticed that Sana was becoming nervous, he left the room.

CHAPTER III
THE MOON-SHINERS

SANA was confined to a sick-bed for several weeks, at the home of Mrs. O’Brien, following the visit to the morgue. The tragedy had well nigh shattered her nerves and only the most careful attention on the part of her host and Dr. White prevented a serious breakdown. But none could be more considerate than they, and though slowly and through periods of great suffering, Sana regained her strength.

When at last she was able to be up and about in the open air, Mrs. O’Brien prevailed upon her to accept her invitation to go with the O’Brien family to their bungalow in the Catskills. New York was sweltering. It was late in August and at times the thermometer would show one hundred in the shade.

At the earnest pleading of her friend, Sana smiled, “Oh, you are so good—you are the kindest woman I ever met.”

Mrs. O’Brien laughed at that, saying, “My dear child, it is easy to be kind to you.”

“I’m sure I don’t know why I am imposing upon you so much.”

Mrs. O’Brien stroked Sana’s hair and replied, “Don’t let us talk about it. You simply come along. Your being with us will be ample reward.”

“Well, if that is the way you feel about it, I surely cannot refuse. Yes, I shall be glad to go with you.”

“Now you are showing the proper spirit.” She rang a bell, adding, “I shall tell the maid to pack at once. We can’t get away from here quick enough to suit me. Perhaps you didn’t know but Mr. O’Brien is on his way to the mountains already, to get things in order.”

The next morning they were soon on board the river steamer, sailing up the majestic Hudson.

It was an ideal day for a river trip. The two women seated well forward on the upper deck basked in the warm sunshine, which, tempered by the cooling breeze that came down river, seemed so utterly different from the sweltering sun that beamed on the city’s paved streets that they could readily have believed themselves to be in another land. Sana was very much interested in a book she had brought with her and Mrs. O’Brien likewise read from the various magazines she had purchased at the dock. So the morning hours fled quickly by, so quickly indeed that but few words passed between them before the dinner call was sounded.

The stimulating hours spent on deck had given them a hearty appetite. They ate leisurely and contentedly, Mrs. O’Brien more than once commenting on the change that had already been wrought in Sana.

Returning to the deck they resumed their chairs and books. Reading soon became tiresome, however, and they fell to talking of this, that and what-not, as will two ladies at any time.

The boat was now sailing the upper reaches of the river; with the mountains in the distance. Sana suddenly remarked:

“This reminds me of a journey I once took up the Rhine. Only the castles and winefields which lend an added interest and romance to that historic river, are missing here.”

“True, my dear,” from Mrs. O’Brien, “but the homes of our millionaires answer the purpose of the castles. As for the vineyards—they are ‘verboten,’ as the saying is, since our country has gone dry.”

It was with a curious questioning glance, her head turned sidewise toward her companion, that Sana said, “But there is always wine at your home? Where does it come from?”

“Oh, my husband takes care of that. He used to import his wines from France and Germany, but that, of course, cannot be done now. So we have to do the next best thing and that is buy it from those who manage to get it into the country. As for stronger liquors, anyone who has the price can get all they wish. England attends to supplying us with her national drinks, so we get all the whiskey and brandy we wish. The English have seen what a wonderful market they have here for their goods—wet goods, you understand, and they are taking the opportunity to make the best of it.”

This was all news to Sana, and she was content to let her friend go on with her story.

“Yes, indeed. Special ‘rum-ships’ are operated under the usual English governmental protection. These ships come within a few miles from shore, remaining just far enough outside to be beyond the reach of the Federal authorities. ‘Rum-runners’—fast motorboats—go out to these ships, get a cargo, and under cover of darkness or a favorable fog, transport it to the land of liberty.”

“How is it they can smuggle in this contraband when your government is so efficient and all your authorities so honest in carrying out the law?”

“Don’t worry, child. Many of those authorities, although appearing thoroughly honest on the face of things, get their rake-off. Every so often we read, in the papers, of some such authority being caught at just that sort of thing. Why, some of those fellows are getting rich on the graft. It seems to me that laws of that kind are always enacted for just one purpose. And that is that certain politicians, or preferably their friends, may enrich themselves at the expense of the general public. The rich today can get all the liquor they want, but part of the price they pay goes into the pockets of some grafter.

“It was always the same. Why I remember the time, some ten years ago, a law was put into effect to control the sale of drinks on Sundays. Food had to be served with the drinks to keep within the law. It was a farce. The protective police and their go-betweens took the graft, and the sandwich which was served with the drinks went back and forth between the bar and the tables, acting simply as a chaperon. The same sandwich was served a hundred times or so, before it ended its career in the garbage pail. Provided, of course, some hungry individual, short a dime for food, would not swallow it with his whiskey.”

From Sana, “Why, I thought people in this country always voted on issues of this kind—that is, if the people wanted the country dry, they would decide it and not the government, the servant of the people, and that for this reason you call it a democracy. Only then could it, in truth, be called a ‘government of the people, by the people, and for the people.’ Also, I believe you call it ‘The Sweet Land of Liberty.’ What does that mean?”

“My dear child, it can readily be seen that you have not been here long.”

“Mrs. O’Brien, surely you do not mean to tell me that the people of this great country have nothing to say in matters of this kind? If that is so, could their opinions count with the government in matters of less importance than the stability of society? Stranger as I am, I have noticed how big an increase there has been in crime and other matters that can be laid directly at the door of this law. The absence of light alcoholic drinks has had an effect not to be smiled at. I wonder why doctors, surely men of learning and understanding, prescribe such stimulating drinks to their patients. Is it to further weaken their bodies and characters or to strengthen them?”

“Yes, Sana, I know, we do not have the logic others have, or rather I should say, we have no logic at all. Common sense is thrown to the winds every four years during election campaigns and twice in the interim; therefore of what use is it to think? Seemingly a waste of time. Politicians, as well as others representing various interests, will state facts or untruths, for that matter, one day and contradict them the next just to suit their interests, so the people absolutely do not know where they stand. And when a final issue is to be decided, the rogues step in and find it very easy to lead the dear public by the nose.

“Why, they do not even know the correct time,—our very clocks contradict themselves. Take the ten o’clock train, for instance. After running for five minutes in an effort to catch it, you find it is only a few minutes past nine or eleven. You see, it is all part of the game. The people must have no fixed ideas. Their minds must be as pliable as dough—to suit the interests. That is what they do not understand, as yet, in other countries. But at the same time, the public must be told over and over again that they are the foremost and freest people on the face of the globe and that settles it, as sure as the ‘amen’ in the church.”

“And these persons, running things like that, get away with it?”

“Yes, Sana, they do, but they are only so very few that the rest do not mind them. But should one mind them, he will be a ‘marked man,’ like Tom Lawson who exposed the frenzies of high finance in Wall Street in his famous novel ‘Friday the Thirteenth.’ First they drove him from his large operations to smaller ones. Finally they ‘broke’ him. The recent sale of his four million dollar estate ‘Dreamwold’ was the last of the tragedies of Lawson’s life. And the same tactics are used with others in political life. They get them in the long run, even if things have to be ‘framed,’ as many records show. I could tell you more, but I must not. Someone might overhear me and I would get myself in difficulties, even though proofs are available. They may do anything to you, but you must not get back at them, no matter how right you are. You know, it hurts their feelings to know the truth, but don’t expect them to show any feeling for you. But to get back to the liquor question, Sana. I have several recipes with me, for very good drinks. I got them from the Duncans, friends of mine, you know. They have been making home-brew ever since the country went dry. The stuff they make is good and has a decided kick to it. I have had some several times at their home. I enjoy a good drink once in a while myself, you know.

“I brought copies of the recipes with me. You never know who you might meet and it is always good to be able to compare notes.”

Mrs. O’Brien, after searching a few minutes among the puffs, rouge boxes and other miscellany that filled her hand bag drew out two slips of paper which she handed to Sana.

“Here they are, you may keep a copy. Might come in handy when your own country goes dry.”

Sana looked at the papers for a moment, then commenced to read, “Peach Wine—one pound evaporated peaches, two pounds sugar....”

Mrs. O’Brien interrupted her with a hasty “Shh. Shh. Not so loud. It is against the law for people to know how to do things.”

Sana laughed heartily as she cried, “Oh, es ist verboten!”

She resumed her reading and having finished looked up with “So that is what the people make in order to get what the government doesn’t wish them to have?”

“Yes. It’s good stuff—a peach of a drink. Read the other.”

Sana did as she was told, then laughingly, “I see you people have found a good use for that one-time useless weed to serve the pressing need of the populace. But, if I recall aright, I saw in the papers a few days ago that the government decided that even the poor defenceless dandelion came within the ban of the prohibition laws. Now that decision is being enforced I am sure that your law-abiding citizens will see to the banishing of that innocent flower from the vacant lots.”

“Yes, the question will be, who is first on the lot, I or my neighbor?”

“Has the dandelion drink a strong kick, as you call it?”

“A decided one. They tell me that one can get tipsy and even ‘stewed’ on it, and were one to drink enough of it, he would be ‘soused,’” Mrs. O’Brien laughed.

“Isn’t it funny? Pretty soon the government will order your people not to eat any apples, because, as you know, there are some people who become intoxicated on eating that fruit.”

“That is so. I have seen many a time, as a child, in the country, a goat drunk from eating apples, and it would run around at full speed, ending up by butting its head into trees—much to my delight.”

Sana, smiling in anticipation of her next remark, continued the subject, “I presume the prohibition law has got the ‘goat’ of many of your people.”

“Yes, of those who cannot afford to lay in a stock now and then. Ten dollars a quart is a steep price. But as you can see from the recipes, there is a way around. As I said, I have often thought that many of our laws are purposely made to be evaded, so that the grafters can get their rake-off. We find ways to aid them. One thing is sure. The people are paying the piper and it has always been so in this country. Now, they have taken the sunshine out of our homes and let the moonshine in.”

“I see. After all, you people do some scheming, it seems, to get some small liberties in spite of what seems to be, in reality an autocratic government. Now, that drinking even light alcoholic beverages is an offense, and something not to be tolerated, I suppose they will pass a law making it unconstitutional to indulge in tobacco. Then what will the people do?”

“Do? Why, nothing, so far as eliminating the law is concerned, but as for obeying it—well, you know. The more the law is disregarded the bigger the graft, and the bigger the graft the more successful the law. But I really do not know what it will lead to. I guess you are right, and after they have taken care of our smoking, some hypocrite will attempt to do away with coffee and tea.”

Sana laughed, “Well there would be more sense in that. Some people cannot sleep after drinking coffee, while a glass of good beer does much to induce sleep. The caffeine in coffee is a dope, while there is no nourishment in the drink itself. That could not be said of any malt beverage.”

“Sana, you spoke of such things getting our ‘goat.’ That reminds me of a good story. I do not believe you know this, but my brother Pat was in the saloon business. He was quite prosperous, too, and a law-abiding citizen in every respect of the word. He never did a mean trick in his life and was a respected member of our church. Then came prohibition—which by the way was rather a surprise to the returning soldiers. They had been wined in France, to their heart’s content, but when they returned to their own country they found they had criminal intentions if they tried to get a drink. Well, Pat went broke. He couldn’t be honest and make a living at the only trade he knew. And what made him so sore was that, as he expressed, the biggest bootlegger put him out of business. You remember that there was a time when dear England had her back against the wall and was crying to America for men and ships. It is a matter of history as to how willingly and well we responded to that plea. Well, as a matter of gratitude, England, greatly against her will, allowed us to keep, for ourselves, a few former German vessels that had been tied up at our docks during the war—they were not allowed coal for quite some time prior to our entering into the war so they didn’t get away. Well, we got those boats and, of course, we had the privilege of retaining and using the wooden boats we built during the war. That was about all we got for the billions of dollars we loaned and the thousands of lives that were lost on the fields of battle. And what good were those boats when we could not successfully cope with vessels flying the flags of other nations? That is where Uncle Sam turned bootlegger. The boats running under foreign registry carried liquor—that was the whole situation in a nutshell. Americans would not travel on ‘dry’ boats when they could get liquor on others. So it came to pass that American vessels were allowed to carry liquors for the convenience of the passengers. And it was a good idea. It kept American money where it belongs—in America.

“But it didn’t last for long. Complications arose so that Washington ruled that our American vessels must not have liquor aboard.

“But while it did last, Uncle Sam was a bootlegger—serving the interests of a few—the ship owners, and Pat and the rest of us footed the bill, by paying heavier taxes to make up for the losses incurred by the Government when the closing of the breweries, distilleries and saloons wiped out many millions of dollars income in the way of internal revenue. And making law breakers of honest citizens.”

“Why don’t the people protest against such reactionary laws?”

“Their ‘state of mind’ won’t allow them. It’s a case of follow the leader all the time. Why, in their treatment of their own neighbors this can be seen. Prior to the war, the Germans for instance, were credited as being a people possessed of sound logic; hard working, intelligent and above-board. The German-Americans in this country were respected as good citizens, hard workers, and held a high place in the esteem of their fellowmen. When the war came they did not change—it was our ‘state of mind’ that changed. Another case of follow the leader. Guided by a few we arose against them, abusing and accusing them shamefully. Every Tom, Dick and Harry felt self-ordained to search out their innermost secrets. There was a perfect orgy of tale bearing and envious tattling. The police department of one city reported receiving as many as fifteen thousand letters in one day from people wishing to report actions of their neighbors. Actions and words that had passed unnoticed for years, were suddenly found to be treacherous.

“And so it is with everything. The controlling caste makes one believe things—and if you believe it, it’s so. Barnum was right.”

“Who was Barnum and what did he say?”

“Barnum was an American circus man. He had been in the business for many years and in his contact with the American people he had learned to know them better than anyone else could have done. When asked the secret of his success in dealing with the American people, he summed up with the phrase, ‘The people want to be fooled.’ And another American, a leading railroad man, said, ‘the public be damned!’ So, there you have it.”

An hour or so more of inconsequential conversation passed between the two women and the boat was docking at Albany.

“Come, Sana,” urged Mrs. O’Brien, “let’s hurry to the hotel. We can get a bite to eat before Mr. O’Brien calls for us. And perhaps we can see whether this town is any drier than New York.”

The hotel dining-room was quite crowded, and they noticed that there was more than the usual air of hilarity about the place. On several tables were what appeared to be—real highballs!

This sight interested Mrs. O’Brien to such an extent that when the waiter came for their order she remarked, “George—what kind of nice drink can we have?”

“Well, we has ginger ale, lemonade, buttermilk—all what you sees on the card,” indicating the beverage list of the menu—“Yassum, all those.”

“But I mean something more substantial—something like they have,” and she motioned with her head toward a party of women at a table nearby.