all at sea

Front matter

Preditarey

OE Ma

RSs;

Contents

THE Man WHO WENT UNDER A Few QUERIES

How Ir HAPPENED ANASTASIA ARRIVES WHAT THE PEOPLE KNEW ANTIQUE WEAPONS .

Miss Fotsom’s DETECTIVE CRoyDON SEARS

Chapter I The Bathers

Or all scenes of sheer gaiety, of relaxed conventionality, of absolute and utter freedom from responsibility, care or trouble, there is no spot on land or sea to compare with an ocean bathing beach.

The wine-dark sea may stretch its dangerous depths to the far horizon in one direction, the land, with its seething spots of civilization may yawn with equal dangers on the other side, but at the joining, the foamfringed bit of No Man’s Land between earth and water, all is merriment and abandon.

The Lotus Eaters were a serious-minded lot compared to the crowds that throng the beach, on each side of that last lacy rim of salt water that traces itself along the sand.

Bars are let down, restraint flies, caste is forgotten, and high and low, good and bad, real and imitation are 9 made free and equal by the one touch of salt water that makes the whole world kin.

Among the beaches best adapted for sea dipping are those on the coast of New Jersey, and of those, one of the finest is the great resort called Ocean Town.

Its habitués contend that nowhere else does the lion-like surf roar as gently as a sucking dove, as gently as any nightingale; that nowhere else is the temperature of the water always as it should be, and the adjustment of the sun’s rays a counsel of perfection.

Year after year, the lovers of the place return with joy and leave with regret.

July opened auspiciously. Everything was in readiness for an enormous celebration of the national holiday, and those who could do so, came a few days ahead of the crowds, to get, as it were, a running start.

The noonday sun shone down on hundreds of human hands in long straight rows, human fists, rather, as each tightly clasped itself round the hard, thick rope that shot its way far out into the ocean. —

With many the sea bath consisted in a continuous frantic clutch on this comforting and comfortable lifeline, while) others, more adventurous spirits, dared let go, an? buffet the spent waves near the shore.

Othyrs still, and these were the ones that turned grey whe hair of the Life Guards, were possessed to swim out far beyond their depths, far, even beyond all bounds of wisdom or safety. But the lure of the surf is a subtle spell and its danger seems negligible when the great waves call.

On the other side of the last lace-edged frill of the combers, the beach groups sat about in utter bliss of contentment.

Here, a family from an inner county of the state; there a small crowd from the Middle West; yonder a gay bunch from New York City itself.

One could distinguish them, most often, from their costumes, especially those of the women.

A quiet, sophisticated-looking group of five consisted of three men, a young woman and a girl.

The girl wore a modish swimming suit of wool jersey, flowered in quiet colors, with a rubberized silk bathing cap and hemp-soled sandals.

Her lithe eagerness proclaimed her a swimmer, and she was manifestly impatient to start.

The other woman, only slightly older, was garbed in an elaborate bathing costume of flowered crépe de Chine, with a coquettish beret that fell over to one side of her curly bobbed hair. Clearly, she had no intention of dampening her newly marcelled locks. Her frock was ruffled and sashed, and a smart beach cape of flowered silk fell from her shoulders.

Her lovely face was alight with fun, her eyes dancing with laughter, when suddenly catching sight of some men and women approaching, she gave a stifled, startled exclamation,,;and swung the gay parasol she was holding round till it shielded her face.

“What’s the matter, Maddy?” cried the girl by her side; “coy?”

“Sun in my eyes,” was the reply, but when the parasol was again pushed aside, the dark eyes, with their heavy brows, lacked all hint of laughter, and the red lips paled beneath their red, and called for a fresh application from the enamelled vanity case she carried.

The oldest of the three men rose and shook himself like a big dog.

“Come on, people,” he said; “what are we waiting for? I suppose, Robin, you and Angelica will take your life in your hands, as usual

“Yes, rather,” and the girl in the swimming suit scrambled to her feet. “To-day, we’re going way— way out—farther than ever before.”

“Fools!” growled the older man. “I wouldn’t mind, only it’s so expensive to subsidize a Guard to pay exclusive attentions to you two idiots. Well, go to it.”

They all rose then, the beautiful Madeline Barron, in her French costume, and her adoring husband, Ned Barron, the Copper King.

The pretty girl, Angelica Fair, was her friend and guest, and the other two, father and son, were Croydon Sears and his boy, Robin.

But, about to start, Madeline was delayed by the appearance of her three-year-old daughter, with her nurse.

The baby was in bathing rompers and gleeful at the prospect of going in paddling. Both parents stopped and sat down on the sand again.

“Go ahead, you people,” Barron sang out. “We'll

come along in a minute. We want to play with Popsy.” _ So the others went on, Robin and Angelica, who were expert swimmers, to brave the waves out to a daring distance, and Croydon Sears to stand at the rope and jump up and down until the Barrons joined him.

Another group on the beach that morning was keyed to a somewhat different pitch.

The dominating spirit was Carmelita Valdon, a beauty as exotic and luring as her name.

Though not quite bizarre, her beach pajamas were distinctly Parisian and a step or two ahead of American fashions.

But then Carmelita was a step or two ahead of most things and most people, and her Oriental costume and Japanese parasol made a picture that was as attractive as it was colorful.

Her woman companion made a perfect foil, for Mrs. Barnaby was fair, fat and forty, and dressed the part.

Also she was of great importance socially and possessed of a sharp tongue, so her favorites fawned on her, while her enemies gave her a wide berth.

“Duchess,” said Carmelita, in those languid accents of hers, “‘aren’t you going in this morning?”

“Of course,’ returned Mrs. Barnaby, who bore the noble nickname, “shall we toddle now?”

“No hurry,” put in Garrett Folsom, “I only came yesterday, you know. I want to look about a few minutes.”

He was a big man, and his bathing costume of worsted shirt and trunks was becoming to him. The color was a silver-grey, with three black stripes across the chest, and a white belt with black stripes.

Perhaps fifty, his hair was grey at the temples, but his face was unlined and his eyes clear and bright.

Deep-set, dark eyes they were, that had looked upon much of this world, for better and for worse, and whose shrewd appraisals were rarely at fault.

Now, he was observing the beach crowd, the young girls and women in their alluring costumes and the men in their scarcely scantier garb.

“The bathing suits grow prettier every year,” he said, with an appreciative glance at the passing throng, and then at the two women in his own party.

“Oh, come on,” said Neville, the other member of their quartette, “you can look at them in the shop windows on the Boardwalk later. I assure you, Garry, they have some stunning rigs on show.”

“But perhaps it isn’t only the garment that pleases the eye of Mr. Folsom,” Carmelita Valdon suggested, wishing now she had worn a more décolleté effect than her chic pajama suit.

“Everything pleases me,” he declared, smilingly, and rose, stretching himself luxuriously as he feasted his eyes on the gorgeous scene. “I haven’t been down here for three years, and the place is renewing its charm for me. I always did revel in it. I only wish I could swim in the surf. Look at those chaps way out beyond the breakers! That’s the stuff.”

“Don’t you swim?” asked the Duchess. “I’m glad, for then you'll stay with us. I hate men who get me clutched to the rope and then say ‘Excuse me a moment,’ and next thing you know they’re out beyond the three-mile limit!”

“Nothing like that!” Folsom smiled at her. “TI can swim all day in still water, but not in the surf. Probably could, after a little practice——”

“Don’t practise, stay with us,” smiled Mrs. Valdon, and Folsom agreed to do so.

So the four of them grasped the rope, and, like puppets on a string, jumped up and down, sprang at the oncoming waves, choked and laughed as the salt water dashed over them and behaved generally like irresponsible children in a big bathtub.

Growing braver, they now and then let go the rope, only to grasp at it again as a great roller came tumbling in.

Now and then they were knocked down, and scrambling up, with or without help, again found a place in the line.

Sometimes they met friends, and essayed greetings, but were usually interrupted by the advent of a wave.

Roger Neville, unable to resist the call of the surf, swam away, took an incoming breaker head on, and came up smiling on top of it.

“Get into the game, Garry,” he called out. “It’s great, really, and there’s almost no undertow to-day. If you’re carried off there are scores of Life Guards about, who’ll pick you up.”

“Oh, I’m not exactly timid!” returned Folsom, scoffingly, as Neville came near enough to hear him. “But I promised these ladies I’d stand b 2

“You did so!” insisted Carmelita, who stood next to him, and who laid a detaining hand on his own, as it grasped the rope next to hers. “If you want to swim, choose some other time. Just now you are a squire of dames. Isn’t he, Duchess?” |

“You bet he is!” exclaimed Mrs. Barnaby, wiping salt water out of her eyes with the back of one hand, while hanging on to the rope with the other. “If he deserts us, me for the dry land! I know I’m going to be swept out to sea by this next wave. Oh, mercy! here it comes! It’s like a wall of water!”

It was a wall of water, and it engulfed the party as well as hundreds of other bathers near them. But after its passing, all heads bobbed up from the inundation and laughing faces proved the enjoyment of the deluge.

The Duchess coughed and sputtered, but gamely held her ground.

Carmelita took advantage of her friend’s bewilderment to slip from her place on the rope, and exchange with the Duchess, thus bringing herself next to Folsom, a position she had coveted from the first.

“How’s Mrs. Barnaby? She all right?” Folsom asked, bending over to see the lady in question.

“All right, yes!” growled the Duchess, “but that snipjack slid into my place! Now I shall be drowned, Im sure!”

But her words were lost in the roar of another approaching wave, and she gave over talking and devoted all her attention to preserving her equilibrium, and keeping her hold on the rope.

Far out, beyond the rough and tumble of the breakers, the two expert swimmers sat on an anchored raft.

“VYou’re a marvel, Robin,” the girl said; “I’m glad fate sent me a life-mate who loves swimming. I believe you could swim all the way across!”

“Probably not,” returned Robin Sears, modestly. “But I’d get as far as the next fellow, I’ll bet on that! And, too, Angel, endurance isn’t the only test.”

“No, but you’d pass all the rest, too. You can swim every way, can’t you?”

“Of course. Sideways, on my back, under water, any old way. You're a bit of a wonder yourself, you »

know. For a girl

“Oh, yes, for a girl, I’m all right. Not every girl could get out here with you. But I can’t do any trick swimming.”

“You can learn. I'll teach you. But no more to-day. You’re a bit winded, and we must be getting back, or we’ll be late for luncheon.

Diving gracefully, Angelica came up beside Robin, and with long capable strokes they made for the shore.

“There they are,——I see Maddy’s cap!” the girl cried as they came nearer the lines of rope clingers. “Let’s go there.”

Assisted by a friendly wave, they reached their goal and scrambled to their feet, seeking a vacant space on the rope. But it was crowded, so they laughingly moved over toward the next rope.

“Better go in now,” Ned Barron called to them, and a wave of her hand told him that Angelica had heard and acquiesced.

“Wonderful swimmers, your two young friends,” said a voice next him, and Barron turned to see a stranger smiling at him.

“Yes,” he replied, a little curtly, for he had a deeply rooted aversion to making friends in the ocean.

But the friendly stranger wouldn’t accept rebuff, and went on, affably:

“Haven’t been here for some years. Quite a lot of change. Mostly in the women’s bathing suits,— for the better, of course.”

The speech grated on Ned Barron’s taste, but the voice was cultured and the man’s appearance both civil and correct.

A clubman and a gay one, Barron sized him up at once, but not a bounder.

“From the West?” he said, with more perspicacity than tact.

4 Ua ALL AT SEA

“Yep. That is, Chicago. You alone?”

As he spoke, he leaned forward to see Barron’s next neighbor. It was his wife, Madeline, and Ned leaned his own big body forward to intercept the stranger’s regard.

“No, not alone, my wife is with me,” he said, and perhaps no such short sentence ever carried greater weight of advice.

The curtness of the speech, combined with a direct glance straight into the other man’s eyes, carried understanding, challenge and a note of warning that was unmistakable and definite. Only a dumb brain would have failed to grasp Ned Barron’s intent, and Garrett Folsom’s brain was anything but dumb.

“‘Where’s Roger?” he asked, turning back to his own party, which was at his right hand.

“There he is,” and Carmelita Valdon glanced admiringly at Neville, swimming with long, clean strokes toward them. “I know you’re just dying to swim away, Mr. Folsom. Go ahead, if you like. IT’ll stand guard over the Duchess.”

A smile of gratitude thanked her for this, and Folsom let go the rope and swam into an oncoming wave.

But he quickly returned.

“It’s too hard on me,” he exclaimed, laughing, while he puffed and panted for breath. “I must get used to

THE BATHERS Zi it by degrees. I’m not as well in condition as I ought to be.”

She had saved his place on the rope for him, | and he slipped in between her and Barron again.

“Who’s this chap on my left?” he said to her. ‘Do you know?”

“I know him slightly, yes. He’s a Mr. Barron, from New York, I think,—or near New York. Why?”

“No reason at all. Idle curiosity. I thought I saw him at our hotel last evening.”

“Yes, they’re staying there. A party of several. Don’t you think we’d better be getting along home now? I’ve had about enough.”

“Yes, let’s collect Neville and get out. Whoo-oo, Roger!”

But no one responded to his summons, and Mrs. Barnaby began to fret.

“Let’s go on out, anyway,” she said. ‘That’s Roger all over. He always runs clear off, just when we want him most. Come, Mr. Folsom, help me to shore. I'll have to let go the rope, it’s so full of bathers this morning. I never saw such a crowd on this beach before!”

“Oh, yes,” Carmelita said, “often and often. But these days just before Fourth of July bring extra hordes of people.” .

“Wonderful sight!” and once more Garrett Folsom gave himself over to admiring it. “I’ve bathed on nearly every beach in Europe, but none of them can touch this for magnitude.”

“Not at all exclusive, though,” and the Duchess gave a fastidious little sniff. ‘All sorts and conditions of men, I call it.” \

“That’s part of its charm,” laughed Folsom. “I like to rub shoulders with the proletariat now and then. Especially when I can’t tell them from the patricians! And who can, in the ocean?”

Ocean Town was not exclusive. It held out welcoming arms to anybody and everybody who could pay its prices and would behave properly.

But its very indiscrimination gave it a delightful air of unbounded hospitality and democracy.

And this atmosphere made for welcome, not only to those who were part of it, but to thoughtful onlookers of the scene who were in it but not of it.

As a spectacle, as an enigma, it invited attention, and with something of the lure of a cross-word puzzle, it intrigued the imagination of those who saw it as a form of mental entertainment.

One man in particular, never tired of watching the ocean show from the coign of vantage which was his chosen resting spot.

The great Hotel Majusaca had, in common with its neighboring hostelries, a large deck, as it was called, the same being an enormous veranda or platform extending partly out over the Boardwalk and providing an ideal lounging place as well as giving a perfect view of the kaleidoscopic scenes on land and sea immediately beneath.

Titus Riggs, known to all his own world as Tite, spent his mornings here, in one of the great rockers provided for indolent guests, and let his gaze wander idly over the bathers and land-lubbers in turn.

Though not at all a misanthrope or a hermit, he was not a sociable sort, and seldom made new friends.

His vocation was that of an architect, his avocation to view quietly and unostentatiously his fellow men.

For a holiday, he chose to come down to Ocean Town, where the architecture was among the worst on earth.

It helped him, he said, to get away from shop, shop talk and shop thought.

So day in and day out, Riggs forgot plans and blue prints and revelled in imagination and speculation concerning the crowds or individuals who caught his eye or held his attention.

On this Saturday morning, filled with sheer joy because of the blue of the sky and the fresh transparency of the air, Riggs sat in his great rocker, slumped down in a somewhat ungainly heap, and watched the bathers and the Boardwalkers alternately.

Later on, he would go for a ride in the rolling chairs. After that he would play a round of golf, and, with suitable intervals of refreshment, would then return to his rocker and slump again to pleased consideration of the absorbing scene.

Being observant and of a retentive memory, Riggs usually could recognize in the ocean or on the Boardwalk those who were guests of the same hotel as himself.

Perhaps not the very largest in Ocean Town, the Majusaca was one of the best hotels, and large enough to provide every newest comfort or convenience for its favored guests. Its great reception hall was always filled with choicest flowers and plants, its dances of an evening showed most elaborate costumes and marvellous jewels, and its cuisine was conceded to be the finest on the beach.

The guests comprised the best and richest people of the country, and if those adjectives are not synonymous, the clientele of the Majusaca made them seem so.

Wherefore, as might be expected, the deck of this fine hotel was the last word in hotel decks.

And in the most comfortable chair, in the most desirable location, Tite Riggs sat and contemplated the bright-colored figures of the ocean-bathing population.

Aided at times by a pair of field glasses, Riggs watched, enthralled, the scene. He was not looking for, or expecting anything to happen—anything unusual, that is—he was‘content just to look at the moving picture spread out before his eyes.

And then, something did happen, or rather, something had happened.

As he looked he saw people in the sea, gathering in a huddle at one spot. He saw one and then another of the big, strong Life Guards stride to the ever enlarging group, and he saw them fairly fling the bathers aside as they concentrated their attention on whatever or whoever had caused the commotion.

Riggs took up his field glasses, and by their aid soon saw that the excitement was caused by the sudden illness or cramp of a bather.

The guards carried from the crashing waves the helpless form of a man—a large man in a grey bathing suit—and laid their burden on the beach.

“That’s the chap who arrived here yesterday,” Riggs said to himself, “wonder who he is and what ails him.”

Though convinced that the man had been seized with a cramp or some such disaster, Riggs kept on watching closely.

And from the actions of the Life Guards, he was forced to the conclusion that something a bit more serious had occurred. |

For the man looked lifeless, at least, he was utterly still and seemed unconscious.

_ And then another man from the ocean, a man in bathing costume also, came at the call of the Guard and bent over the stricken one.

Riggs could hear no word, but he gathered from the look of finality on the face of this man who made an examination, that the victim of cramp or whatever the trouble was, was past help.

It was a strange scene. Without doubt the investigating man was a doctor, also, without doubt he had pronounced the other man dead. No other hypothesis could explain the helpless, hopeless appearance of those nearest the unconscious man, and no other meaning could be read into the faces of the shocked crowd.

Not often did Tite Riggs give way to curiosity.

Usually his wanderings were kept to himself, usually his speculations were his own private affair. He would ask no one for news or information.

But in this instance he rose and went down the steps, crossed the Boardwalk and walked out on the beach.

Chapter II The Man Who Went Under

As Titus Riggs drew near the crowd on the beach, he found himself restrained from further progress by the order of a stalwart policeman, who forbade him to advance another step.

“Who is it?” he asked, and so pleasantly intimate was Riggs’ manner, that the strong arm of the law unbent enough to answer.

“Garrett Folsom, they say,” he replied, and Tite Riggs ejaculated, “Good Lord!” Though whether the words were an expression of pious gratitude or merely an exclamation of astonishment was not obvious.

“Ts he dead?” Riggs pursued.

“As a door-nail!” the policeman responded, feeling he was committing no breach of discipline in admitting a self-evident fact.

‘Cramp? stroke?”

“How do I know,” returned the other, for his knowledge of the matter was indeed exhausted. “Anyway, they gotta get him offen the beach!” 27

“T should think so. Is that a doctor bending over him?”

“Guess so. He seems to be giving orders. Though it ain’t up to him to say what to do.”

“Who is it up to?”

“T don’t rightly know. But I s’pose the Life Guards will take him to his hotel and they’ll see to him there.”

A further commotion among the group of humanity nearest the stricken man resulted in the fulfilment of the policeman’s prophecy.

The Life Guard bore the body through the crowds, two or three uniformed officers making a way, and though followed by a horde of curiosity seekers, most of the beach population went back to the surf or the sands.

Roger Neville and the two women who had been the bathing companions of the dead man conferred quickly as they stood on the beach.

“You’d better go straight to your bath houses and dress,” he told the others, ‘‘and I'll do the same. Then hurry to the hotel; we’ll all be asked for.”

“Why?” inquired the Duchess, her eyes wide with amazement. “We had nothing to do with his stroke, or whatever it was. I’m not going to get into the papers as a friend of Garrett Folsom’s.”

“Why not?” asked Mrs. Valdon. “There are lots of worse people than that man.”

“Oh, not that, but I object to publicity, and I won’t be interviewe

“Don’t worry,” Neville said. ‘‘Folsom’s an important man in some ways, but his death won’t make a dent down here. What does Ocean Town care for a sudden death more or less?”

“T suppose that’s so,” the Duchess said, with a relieved air. “Well, Ill get dressed anyhow. Come along, Carmy, it’s spoiled our swim for to-day.”

“Don’t be so heartless,” said the other, “I’m all ‘upset. I think a sudden death is fearful. And we will be in the limelight, I don’t care what Roger says. I think I’ll go straight back home. Do you suppose his sister will come here?”

“Didn’t know he had a sister.”

“Well, he has. A Tartar. One of those strong- - minded persons that make you think of Zenobia or Xantippe or anybody beginning with Z.”

They disappeared into their respective bath houses and dressed as rapidly as they could in the cramped and ‘uncomfortable quarters. |

Although the bath houses belonging to the Hotel Majusaca were roomy compared with some, they were

30 . <ALLCATISEA not luxurious dressing-rooms, and when the two women at last emerged they both expressed a desire to reach their own bedrooms unnoticed.

This they accomplished and set to work to repair the ravages of an ocean bath and a hurried toilette.

But though they had reached a quiet haven, there was anything but quiet down in the hotel lobby, several floors beneath them.

The suave and impassive gentlemen who had the well-being of the hotel in their charge were upset one after another with terrific suddenness and swiftness.

The pompous doorman was the first to be affected. _ He was a large person, whose eyes protruded and whose chest protruded much like the Frog Footman portrayed in “Alice in Wonderland,” and he was minded at first to refuse admittance to the sinister looking procession that brought a covered, still form on a stretcher to a portal which swung usually only to the exit or entrance of happy, merry humanity which walked on its own two legs.

But his half-hearted objections were promptly overruled, and the ghastly burden was carried to the office of the hotel and the presence of the manager was called for.

The manager not being present for the moment, the

Room Clerk stepped forward, closely followed by the vigilant hotel detective.

These two were promptly bowled over, as the doorman had been, by the information that the body they bore was one of the hotel’s guests and must receive immediate attention.

“Who is it?” asked the flabbergasted Room Clerk, losing for once his imperial air and omnipotent demeanor.

“Garrett Folsom,” he was told, and thereupon lost his last remnant of self-possession.

“You'll have to take him away,” he almost genned: “We can’t have anything like that here! The guests won’t stand for it! The hotel can’t have it! Take him to the morgue or the undertaker’s—or—somewhere!”

“Wait a minute,” said the hotel detective, who was named Dixon. ‘What has happened?”

One of the Life Guards answered him.

“Mr. Folsom had a stroke or a fit of some sort, and died in the ocean or just after his being brought to the beach,—I don’t know which. Where’s Mr. Pelham, the manager?”

“Mr. Pelham is at his lunch, he’ll be here in a minute. I’ve sent a boy for him,” Dixon returned, keeping his

32 ALL AT SEA head, as the Room Clerk grew more and more excited and frantically begged the bearers of the stretcher to take it away from the Desk, at least.

And then Pelham came, and though greatly perturbed, lost none of his customary calm as he heard the scant details of the tragedy.

“T see,” he said, using his favorite expression of acceptance of a situation. ‘Now, will you men please take the body to Room J, next my office over there.”

He indicated a room across the lobby, and his directions were at once carried out.

He beckoned to the hotel detective and called a clerk to his aid, then followed the men who bore the gruesome burden.

As they turned back the covering blanket, Pelham saw the well-formed figure in its bathing suit of grey jersey, with three black stripes across the chest and a belt striped black and white.

The face was calm and lifelike, the hair, though touselled by the waves, was orderly enough, and the man looked as if merely unconscious rather than dead.

But Pelham’s questing hand told him the heart had ceased to beat, and the briefest examination was enough to show that life had gone forever.

“Stroke, of course,” the manager said, looking at Dixon. “But we must have a doctor sf

“One looked at him down on the beach,” the Guard volunteered. “Doctor Manning, he was—he’s in the hotel here—and he said as how Mr. Folsom was dead.”

“Dead? Of course he’s dead. But we must have a certificate and all that. Has Doctor Manning come up from the beach yet?”

Inquiry proved he had not, and saying, “that can wait, then,” Pelham turned his mind to more immediate errands.

“‘Who’s in this man’s party?” he asked Dixon.

“Nobody. He’s alone,—or I believe he has a valet —but no one else in his suite.”