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took off his worn office jacket; rolled it into a ball; and flung

it into a waste paper basket。 He put on his street coat and hat

and picked up the drab…colored cane。  Swinging the stick he moved

towards the door into the hall。  In the doorway he paused; cocked

his hat a trifle; turned towards the managing editor's door;

raised his hand with his pipe in it with the manner of one who

points a dueling pistol; took careful aim at the second button of

the managing editor's waistcoat; and clucked。  At the cluck the

managing editor drew back hastily; as if Cleggett had actually

presented a firearm; Cleggett's manner was so rapt and fatal that

it carried conviction。  Then Cleggett laughed; cocked his hat on

the other side of his head and went out into the corridor

whistling。  Whistling; and; since faults as well as virtues must

be told; swaggering just a little。



When the managing editor had heard the elevator come up; pause;

and go down again; he went out of his room and said to the city

editor:



〃Mr。 Herbert; don't ever let that man Cleggett into this office

again。  He is offoff mentally。 He's a dangerous man。  He's a

homicidal maniac。 More'n likely he's been a quiet; steady drinker

for years; and now it's begun to show on him。〃



But nothing was further from Cleggett than the wish ever to go

into the Enterprise office again。  As he left the elevator on the

ground floor he stabbed the astonished elevator boy under the

left arm with his cane as a bayonet; cut him harmlessly over the

head with his cane as a saber; tossed him a dollar; and left the

building humming:



〃Oh; the Beau Sabreur of the Grande Armee           

Was the Captain Tarjeanterre!〃



It is thus; with a single twitch of her playful  fingers; that

Fate will sometimes pluck from a man the mask that has obscured

his real identity for many years。  It is thus that Destiny will

suddenly draw a bright blade from a rusty scabbard!





CHAPTER II



THE ROOM OF ILLUSION



That part of Brooklyn in which Cleggett lived overlooks a wide

sweep of water where the East River merges with New York Bay。 

From his windows he could gaze out upon the bustling harbor craft

and see the ships going forth to the great mysterious sea。



He walked home across the Brooklyn Bridge; and as he walked he

still hummed tunes。  Occasionally; still with the rapt and fatal

manner which had daunted the managing editor; he would pause and

flex his wrist; and then suddenly deliver a ferocious thrust with

his walking…stick。



The fifth of these lunges had an unexpected result。  Cleggett

directed it toward the door of an unpainted toolhouse; a

temporary structure near one of the immense stone pillars from

which the bridge is swung。  But; as he lunged; the toolhouse door

opened; and a policeman; who was coming out wiping his mouth on

the back of his hand; received a jab in the pit of a somewhat

protuberant stomach。



The officer grunted and stepped backward; then he came on;

raising his night…stick。



〃Why; it'sit's McCarthy!〃 exclaimed Cleggett; who had also

sprung back; as the light fell on the other's face。



〃Mr。 Cleggett; by the powers!〃 said the officer; pausing and

lowering his lifted club。  〃Are ye soused; man?  Or is it your

way of sayin' good avenin' to your frinds?〃



Cleggett smiled。  He had first known McCarthy years before when

he was a reporter; and more recently had renewed the acquaintance

in his walks across the bridge。



〃I didn't know you were there; McCarthy;〃 he said。



〃No?〃 said the officer。  〃And who were ye jabbin' at; thin?〃



〃I was just limbering up my wrist;〃 said Cleggett。



〃'Tis a quare thing to do;〃 persisted McCarthy; albeit

good…humoredly。  〃And now I mind I've seen ye do the same before;

Mr。 Cleggett。  You're foriver grinnin' to yersilf an' makin' thim

funny jabs at nothin' as ye cross the bridge。 Are ye subjict to

stiffness in the wrists; Mr。 Cleggett?〃



〃Perhaps it's writer's cramp;〃 said Cleggett; indulging the

pleasant humor that was on him。 He was really thinking that; with

500;000 of his own; he had written his last headline; edited his

last piece of copy; sharpened his last pencil。



〃Writer's cramp?  Is it so?〃 mused McCarthy。 〃Newspapers is great

things; ain't they now?  And so's writin' and readin'。  Gr…r…reat

things!  But if ye'll take my advise; Mr。 Cleggett; ye'll kape

that writin' and readin' within bounds。  Too much av thim rots

the brains。〃



〃I'll remember that;〃 said Cleggett。  And he playfully jabbed the

officer again as he turned away。



〃G'wan wid ye!〃 protested McCarthy。  〃Ye're soused!  The scent av

it's in the air。  If I'm compilled to run yez in f'r assaultin'

an officer ye'll get the cramps out av thim wrists breakin'

stone; maybe。  Cr…r…r…amps; indade!〃



Cramps; indeed!  Oh; Clement J。 Cleggett; you liar!  And yet; who

does not lie in order to veil his inmost; sweetest thoughts from

an unsympathetic world?



That was not an ordinary jab with an ordinary cane which Cleggett

had directed towards the toolhouse door。  It was a thrust en

carte; the thrust of a brilliant swordsman; the thrust of a

master; a terrible thrust。  It was meant for as pernicious a

bravo as ever infested the pages of romantic fiction。  Cleggett

had been slaying these gentry a dozen times a day for years。  He

had pinked four of them on the way across the bridge; before

McCarthy; with his stomach and his realism; stopped the lunge

intended for the fifth。  But this is not exactly the sort of

thing one finds it easy to confide to a policeman; be he ever so

friendly a policeman。



CleggettOld Clegg; the copyreaderClegg; the commonplaceC。

J。 Cleggett; the Brooklynite…this person whom young reporters

conceived of as the staid; dry prophet of the dusty Factwas

secretly a mighty reservoir of unwritten; unacted; unlived;

unspoken romance。  He ate it; he drank it; he breathed it; he

dreamed it。  The usual copyreader; when he closes his eyes and

smiles upon a pleasant inward vision; is thinking of starting a

chicken…farm in New Jersey。  But Cleggettwith gray sprinkled in

his hair; sober of face and precise of manner; as the world knew

himlived a hidden life which was one long; wild adventure。



Nobody had ever suspected it。  But his room might have given to

the discerning a clue to the real man behind the mask which he

assumedwhich he had been forced to assume in order to earn a

living。  When he reached the apartment; a few minutes after his

encounter on the bridge; and switched the electric light on; the

gleams fell upon an astonishing clutter of books and arms。 。 。 。



Stevenson; cavalry sabers; W。 Clark Russell; pistols; and Dumas;

Jack London; poignards; bowie knives; Stanley Weyman; Captain

Marryat; and Dumas; sword canes; Scottish claymores; Cuban

machetes; Conan Doyle; Harrison Ainsworth; dress swords; and

Dumas; stilettos; daggers; hunting knives; Fenimore Cooper; G。 P。

R。 James; broadswords; Dumas; Gustave Aimard; Rudyard Kipling;

dueling swords; Dumas; F。 Du Boisgobey; Malay krises; Walter

Scott; stick pistols; scimitars; Anthony Hope; single sticks;

foils; Dumas; jungles of arms; jumbles of books; arms of all

makes and periods; arms on the walls; in the corners; over the

fireplace; leaning against the bookshelves; lying in ambush under

the bed; peeping out of the wardrobe; propping the windows open;

serving as paper weights; pictures; warlike and romantic prints

and engravings; pinned to the walls with daggers; in the

wardrobe; coats and hats hanging from poignards and stilettos

thrust into the wood instead of from nails or hooks。  But of all

the weapons it was the rapiers; of all the books it was Dumas;

that he loved。  There was Dumas in French; Dumas in English;

Dumas with pictures; Dumas unillustrated; Dumas in cloth; Dumas

in leather; Dumas in boards; Dumas in paper covers。  Cleggett had

been twenty years getting these arms an

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