"A philosopher in uniform," he said, "God! sir, you have my
sympathy." "And you have my pity. You have stolen your ideas from cheap
melodrama, and you make tragedy ridiculous. Were I a policeman, I
would lock you up with pleasure. Were I a man, I should thrash you
joyfully. As it is I can only share your infamy. I too, I suppose, am
a murderer." "You are in a low, nervous state," said the man; "and you are doing
me some injustice. It is true that I am a poor murderer; but it
appears to me that you are a worse policeman." "I shall wear the uniform no more from tonight." "I think you are wise, and I shall mar my philosophy with no more
murders. If, indeed, I have killed him; for I assure you that beyond
administering the poison to his wretched body I have done nothing. Perhaps he is not dead. Can you hear his heart beating?" "I can hear the spoons of my children beating on their empty
platters!" "Is it like that with you? Poor devil! Oh, poor, poor devil! Philosophers should have no wives, no children, no homes, and no
hearts." Bennett turned from the man with unspeakable loathing. "I hate you and such as you!" he cried weakly. "You justify the
existence of the police. You make me despise myself because I realise
that your crimes are no less mine than yours. I do not ask you to
defend the deadness of that thing lying there. I shall stir no finger
to have you hanged, for the thought of suicide repels me, and I
cannot separate your blood and mine. We are common children of a
noble mother, and for our mother's sake I say farewell." And without waiting for the man's answer he passed from the house to
the street. IV

Haggard and with rebellious limbs, Police-constable Bennett staggered
into the superintendent's office in the early morning. "I have paid careful attention to your advice," he said to the
superintendent, "and I have passed across the city in search of
crime. In its place I have found but folly--such folly as you have,
such folly as I have myself--the common heritage of our blood. It
seems that in some way I have bound myself to bring criminals to
justice. I have passed across the city, and I have found no man
worse than myself. Do what you will with me." The superintendent cleared his throat. "There have been too many complaints concerning the conduct of the
police," he said; "it is time that an example was made. You will be
charged with being drunk and disorderly while on duty." "I have a wife and three little children," said Bennett softly--"and
three pretty little children." And he covered his tired face with his
hands. The Conjurer

Certainly the audience was restive. In the first place it felt that
it had been defrauded, seeing that Cissie Bradford, whose smiling
face adorned the bills outside, had, failed to appear, and secondly,
it considered that the deputy for that famous lady was more than
inadequate. To the little man who sweated in the glare of the
limelight and juggled desperately with glass balls in a vain effort
to steady his nerve it was apparent that his turn was a failure. And
as he worked he could have cried with disappointment, for his was a
trial performance, and a year's engagement in the Hennings' group of
music-halls would have rewarded success. Yet his tricks, things that
he had done with the utmost ease a thousand times, had been a
succession of blunders, rather mirth-provoking than mystifying to
the audience. Presently one of the glass balls fell crashing on the
stage, and amidst the jeers of the gallery he turned to his wife,
who served as his assistant. "I've lost my chance," he said, with a sob; "I can't do it!" "Never mind, dear," she whispered. "There's a nice steak and onions
at home for supper." "It's no use," he said despairingly. "I'll try the disappearing trick
and then get off. I'm done here." He turned back to the audience. "Ladies and gentlemen," he said to the mockers in a wavering voice,
"I will now present to you the concluding item of my entertainment. I
will cause this lady to disappear under your very eyes, without the
aid of any mechanical contrivance or artificial device." This was the
merest showman's patter, for, as a matter of fact, it was not a very
wonderful illusion. But as he led his wife forward to present her to
the audience the conjurer was wondering whether the mishaps that had
ruined his chance would meet him even here. If something should go
wrong--he felt his wife's hand tremble in his, and he pressed it
tightly to reassure her. He must make an effort, an effort of will,
and then no mistakes would happen. For a second the lights danced
before his eyes, then he pulled himself together. If an earthquake
should disturb the curtains and show Molly creeping ignominiously
away behind he would still meet his fate like a man. He turned round
to conduct his wife to the little alcove from which she should
vanish. She was not on the stage! For a minute he did not guess the greatness of the disaster. Then he
realised that the theatre was intensely quiet, and that he would have
to explain that the last item of his programme was even more of a
fiasco than the rest. Owing to a sudden indisposition--his skin
tingled at the thought of the hooting. His tongue rasped upon
cracking lips as he braced himself and bowed to the audience. Then came the applause. Again and again it broke out from all over
the house, while the curtain rose and fell, and the conjurer stood on
the stage, mute, uncomprehending. What had happened? At first he had
thought they were mocking him, but it was impossible to misjudge the
nature of the applause. Besides, the stage-manager was allowing him
call after call, as if he were a star. When at length the curtain
remained down, and the orchestra struck up the opening bars of the
next song, he staggered off into the wings as if he were drunk. There
he met Mr. James Hennings himself. "You'll do," said the great man; "that last trick was neat. You ought
to polish up the others though. I suppose you don't want to tell me
how you did it? Well, well, come in the morning and we'll fix up a
contract." And so, without having said a word, the conjurer found himself
hustled off by the Vaudeville Napoleon. Mr. Hennings had something
more to say to his manager. "Bit rum," he said. "Did you see it?" "Queerest thing we've struck." "How was it done do you think?" "Can't imagine. There one minute on his arm, gone the next, no trap,
or curtain, or anything." "Money in it, eh?" "Biggest hit of the century, I should think." "I'll go and fix up a contract and get him to sign it tonight. Get
on with it." And Mr. James Hennings fled to his office. Meanwhile the conjurer was wandering in the wings with the drooping
heart of a lost child. What had happened? Why was he a success, and
why did people stare so oddly, and what had become of his wife? When
he asked them the stage hands laughed, and said they had not seen
her. Why should they laugh? He wanted her to explain things, and hear
their good luck.