THE white glow of the electric bulb flashed upon the rigid face of Bartley Pride, as he looked with stricken eyes into the triumphant visage of his captor.

      "Yes, you've given me a good run, Pride," said the detective in a cool voice, "but your rope has stretched as far as it will go. Are you coming quietly, or shall I ring for the waiter whilst I cover you with this revolver, and send him for a couple of constables?"

      "No, no." The forger's voice came weak and halting. "Don't send for your people. It's all right. I'll come quietly, of course. It is only amateurs at our game who resist the police, you know."

      "Quite true," assented the detective with an approving smile, "amateurs are always a nuisance. In justice to you, Pride, I will confess that there is absolutely nothing of the novice about you. Your cleverness has baffled some of our best men, and I hardly dared hope that I should ever be fortunate enough to lay hands on you."

      "Well," replied the other with a laugh, "we are pretty well matched, you and I. You are supposed to be the smartest thief-catcher in England, whilst I — I have the reputation of a scoundrel."

      This extraordinary meeting took place in a private room in a Southampton hotel. Bartley Pride had booked a passage to Capetown, and had intended sailing on the following day, but in the meantime fate in the person of Superintendent Dane had intervened, and the desperate man knew that he had at length come to the end of his tether.

      He sat down, endeavouring to think out the situation. Escape was impossible. He was unarmed, and the man who stood beside him held a six-chambered revolver in his hand. Moreover, the streets swarmed with police, and even if he escaped Dane, the constables on duty in the thoroughfare outside the hotel would interpose between himself and freedom.

      But even as this depressing though raced through the man's brain, his eyes fell upon a chess-board in a corner of the room. As his gaze encountered this board, a sudden inspiration, illuminating and fantastic, flashed to his mind.

      He remembered how time after time he had heard folks say that Roderick Dane prided himself far more keenly on his ability as a chess-player than on his talents as a detective. he remembered how Dane had defeated more than one expert — how he had actually challenged the mighty Steinitz himself, and had well nigh vanished him. These things darted to the memory of Bartley Pride in his hour of peril, and what came of the recollection, the lines that follow will show.

      Pride himself was a clever chess-player, and had never suffered defeat. In the intervals of planning his crimes, he had studied the intricate game with enthusiasm, telling himself that the man capable of a clever move on the chess-board would be capable also of a clever move on the larger chess-board of life. Suppose, then, he challenged the detective to a single game, and suggested that his freedom should be made conditional on the issue.

      "By heaven, I'll try it anyhow," he muttered. Then rising from his chair, he said slowly:—

      "I — I have a proposal to make."

      "Go on," returned the detective, "I am not in a hurry to leave here, as the train to London does not start for another two hours. What is your proposal?"

      "Simply this: that you bind me in this chair so that I may not make an attempt to escape, but that you leave my hand and arms free."

      "Well, what then?"

      "Then I suggest that you and I play a game of chess. To the issue of the game I attach a condition."

      "Which is ——?"

      "That if I lose, I not only surrender myself quietly to the law, but will also put you in possession of certain documents which will greatly simplify your work at my trial."

      There was a pause; Dane's face glowed with sudden colour. Chess was the consuming passion of his life, he cared for little else. Promotion — success — money — love — all these things shrivelled up beside his wild, almost fanatical devotion to the chess-board. It was obvious from his expression that Bartley Pride's fantastic proposal was working strenuously in his mind.

      "Go on," he said at length, "go on. What if you win?"

      "In that case you undertake to set me free, and give me my liberty once more."

      Fifteen minutes were ticked out by the clock whilst Dane stood in doubt. The strange proposal made by his companion fascinated him almost to yielding point, but he paused on the very threshold of consent, asking himself whether he could bring himself to tamper with his duty thus.

      "But — but after all what does it signify?" he reflected. "Humanly speaking, I am bound to give him a beating, for I never yet encountered the amateur who could hold out against me."

      Pride watched him with keen eyes. Perceiving from the detective's expression that the latter was on the borderland of assent, he cried encouragingly:—

      "Think now — just think. You have everything to gain by saying yes, for remember that if you beat me, I have promised to make your way perfectly easy when the hour of my indictment arrives. I have committed many crimes, Dane, but lying has never been one of my accomplishments."

      Therein he spoke the truth. It was a fact well-known to police and criminal alike that Bartley Pride, unlike most men of his trade, rarely spoke false words.

      Another pause followed. The detective's heart beat like a piston rod. The chess-player and the official struggled for the mastery, but finally the chess-player triumphed.

      "Sit down," he said hoarsely. "We will play."

      A triumphant smile lighted the criminal's thin face.

      "Do you wish to bind me in the chair first of all?" he asked.

      "No, there is no necessity. Besides, the door is locked, and I should shoot you before you got your hand upon the key."

      "Very well, I thank you. You are a gentleman, Mr. Dane, although you belong to a force which has never borne me much love."

      Without a word, Dane walked to the end of the room, took up the chess-board and the box containing the men, and then returning to the table seated himself with a sigh of satisfaction.

      In silence the strangely assorted players ranged their pieces on the board.

      "You being the challenged party," said Pride "have the right to play first, if you choose."

      "Thank you."

      The detective moved a pawn. The other man did likewise, and the game began.

      Perhaps in the whole history of chess — a history that owns a varied and eventful record — such a contest was never fought before. For both Pride and his opponent knew that victory on one side of the board meant freedom, and on the other side, penal servitude, perchance for life.

      And yet, in spite of the mighty issues at stake, in spite of the fate that hung upon the moves of those tiny chessmen, the players made their moves with wondrous calmness — with cold deliberation.

      Thus it was at the outset of the game, but as it progressed the calmness vanished. The hand of each man swayed painfully — the heart of each pumped furious blood. The brow of each was damp with sweat — the soul of each was agog with prayer.

      How would the game end? Would Roderick Dane sustain his wondrous skill throughout the passage of the chessmen, or would his brain falter towards the finish and thus give victory to him who sat on the other side of the board?

      The clock truck ten, but neither player heeded its sound. The train which was to have conveyed them to London roared into the distance but the players sat rigid at the board, contemplating their moves.

      "Check to your queen."

      Pride uttered these words with a triumphant catching of his breath. A thrill of joy shot into his heart, for he believed that he had forced his opponent into a very tight position from which he could not withdraw without falling in to direr peril.

      But he was wrong, quite wrong. The long-headed detective had foreseen the move, and presently executed a stroke which elicited from Pride an expression of mingled admiration and annoyance.

      "By Jupiter!" he muttered, "you're clever."

      Roderick Dane did not hear. His brain was working like an engine, every fibre was aglow with thought — the whole of the man being, sense and blood, was concentrated on the board. The law and those that broke the law were non-existent as far as he was concerned, for the world had narrowed itself down to a tiny chessboard and to the men that were ranged upon it.

      A knock sounded at the door. Neither of the players looked up from the board. The summons was repeated, whereupon Dane with an impatient cry rose and unlocked the door. A waiter stood upon the mat.

      "Beg pardon for disturbin' of you, sir," he said. "But there are two men below, Mr. Dane, asking for you."

      "They must wait," replied the detective coldly. The man nodded and retired. Directly the door had closed upon him the game was resumed.

      Forty minutes were ticked out by the clock. Then something seemed to burst in the brain of Bartley Pride, for as surely as he was a living man, he saw staring him in the eye a move by which he believed he might checkmate his adversary.

      "Check to your king," he gurgled, whilst the veins on his thin forehead welled thick and blue.

      The detective's heart stopped beating for a single instant. His eyes burned and stung him. He glared at the board with so fixed a gaze that the squares seemed to dance a wild dance.

      Again did Bartley Pride's voice, tremulous with excitement, rise and break the intense silence.

      "Check to your king, I say."

      Roderick Dane did not stir. As a fox hunted by hounds might glare round for cover, so did this man glare round the board for a means of escape. Heavens! there was none, none, none.

      "Will you make your move?" asked Pride at length, perceiving that the other man remained motionless.

      "I — I — I cannot."

      A pause followed, at the end of which the forger said in a whisper:—

      "Then it is a case of checkmate?"

      "Yes." The voice of Roderick Dane seemed like the tone of a man on the point of death — so feeble — so strained — so hoarse was the note. "Yes. You have beaten me, Pride, and I congratulate you on your skill."

      The men rose and faced each other.

      "You will tick to our bargain?" asked Pride in a low voice.

      "I will. I do not think I have ever willingly broken my word, nor will I do so now. You are free to go."

      "Thank you."

      No more words were spoken. The detective went to the door and threw it open. He was about to stand aside to let Pride pass, when two coarse-faced men came heavily up the stairs and blocked the fugitive's path.

      "Got you, my lad," exclaimed the bigger of the plainclothes men. "Fancied somehow we should collar you here."

      The joy faded from the hunted man's heart. So he had played the game for naught — his skill had been wasted; he might have spared himself the pains.

      But he was wrong, for even as his soul went down into the abyss of despair, Roderick Dane came towards the detectives and said sternly:—

      "What do you want with this gentleman?"

      The officers who had been waiting below until the conclusion of the fame stared at their superior with perplexed eyes.

      "Beg pardon, sir," said the man who had spoken, "beg pardon, but I thought we had come here to aid you in arresting Bartley Pride."

      Dane burst into a loud laugh.

      "I rather fancy," he replied with cleverly assumed mirth, "I rather fancy, Inspector Haynes, that you have made a somewhat rash statement. I moreover believe that you will offer this gentleman a humble apology when I tell you that he is a friend of mine, and that he and I have just finished a most fascinating game of chess."

      Bartley Pride stared at the speaker. Dane was playing a man's part after all — was faithful in spirit even as he had been faithful in word, and this final "move" would save him after all.

      The officers glanced at the chess-board whereon the "king" still lingered, hedged round by enemies. They eyed the board, then drew back with changed looks.

      Inspector Haynes advanced towards Pride, and touched his cap.

      "I humbly ask your pardon, sir" he said.

      Without another word, he beckoned to his companion. A moment later they had left the hotel.

      Silence followed their exit. Dance glanced at the clock and turned towards the door.

      "I must be off," he said. "Good-night."

      Bartley Pride endeavoured to speak, but a sob rose in his throat, choking utterance.

      "One moment," he murmured, after a pause, "stay one moment."

      The detective turned towards him.

      "Well?" he queried.

      "I — I want to tell you this," choked forth the other. "I want to tell you that long before this hour to-morrow night I shall be on the sea, travelling to a new land, and I hope — mind, I only say I hope — to a new life .... And — again when I look back upon this night, I shall think of one who was a great detective, a still greater chess-player, but something else as well, better than both."

      "What is that?" asked Dane in a low voice.

      There were tears in the eyes of the thief and the forger, as he replied huskily — "A MAN."

 
[The End]