The William P. McGivern Fantasy MEGAPACK™: 25 Classic Fantasy Stories from the Pulps

First published in Fantastic Adventures, March 1943.

Chapter I

Phillip Poincare was a small undistinguished man with pale sensitive features and hair that was graying slightly at the temples.

However, on this particular morning, as he hurried along Michigan Boulevard, there was an unusual flush of excitement on his face and his small neatly gloved hands were clenching and unclenching nervously.

“Mon Dieu, if I am too late!” he murmured to himself for the dozenth time.

At this thought his hurrying steps quickened perceptibly. Panting slightly from his exertions he turned off the Boulevard and continued rapidly down a narrow, twisting side-street that was lined with taverns and small shops.

He did not stop until he reached a used furniture shop, the windows of which were so grime-crusted that it was practically impossible to see the various goods on display.

With nervous apprehension Phillip Poincare peered through the grimy glass and, as his gaze focused, the worried expression on his face faded away and was replaced by a relieved smile.

“Ah!” he murmured softly. “My beauty is still waiting for me.”

The object of his attention was a small, dusty book repository of the period Louis Quatorze. There were innumerable pigeon-holes and drawers in the little cabinet and a flat wide extension for writing. It was supported by four fragile legs, hardly thicker than pencils.

Phillip Poincare let out his breath in one final rapturous sigh and entered the shop.

The proprietor, a fat genial man in a dirty leather apron put aside his morning newspaper and heaved himself to his feet.

“Good morning,” he said, smiling. “I wondered when you was going to break down and come in. I’ve noticed you looking in every morning now for the past month.”

“It has been thirty-four days,” Phillip Poincare said gravely. “The bookcase in the window I desire very much to buy. What is your price?”

The proprietor glanced speculatively at his customer’s neat but inexpensive suit and noticed his slightly frayed gloves. He frowned and began to scratch his chin thoughtfully.

“Well, it’s a mighty nice piece of furniture,” he said. People lately seem to be interested in that kind of stuff.”

An expression of worry flitted across Phillip Poincare’s features.

“But you have not sold it, yes?”

“No, it’s still for sale,” the proprietor said. “For one hundred bucks.”

“One hundred dollars,” Phillip Poincare repeated softly. He looked helplessly at the bookcase and he blinked his eyes nervously. “I see, sir. Thank you very much. I will return when I have a hundred dollars. I did not expect it to be quite that much.”

He walked slowly toward the door.

“Now just a minute,” the proprietor said. “I might throw off a little on that price. How much was you figuring on paying?”

“I have only sixty-four dollars. It has taken me thirty-four days to save that much. You see, I began saving the day I noticed the bookcase in your window.”

“Sixty-four dollars, eh?” the proprietor said musingly. “Are you sure that’s all you’ve got?”

Phillip Poincare smiled wanly. “I am quite sure,” he said.

The proprietor shrugged.

“I’ll never make a dime this way, but it’s a deal. Take it for sixty-four dollars.”

The proprietor was being ambiguously truthful. He would not make a dime. He would make approximately five hundred dimes.

But Phillip Poincare turned from the door, his face shining.

“That is extremely good of you,” he said. He drew a thin well-worn wallet from his inner coat pocket and carefully removed the entire contents, exactly sixty-four dollars.

The proprietor of the shop took the money eagerly.

“Where do you want it delivered?” he asked.

Phillip Poincare gave him the address of a rooming house on the Near North Side.

“I have informed my landlady to expect an article of furniture,” he said. “She will let your men into my room.”

“Fine. We’ll have it over before noon.”

“Thank you,” Phillip Poincare said. “Now I must be going.”

The proprietor walked with him to the door.

“Not that it’s any of my business,” he said, “but why are you so interested in that particular piece of furniture?” Phillip Poincare shrugged his slight square shoulders and a faint smile curved his lips.

“It is hard to explain, even to myself,” he murmured. “Perhaps because at one time it was a part of France.”

“Are you a Frenchie?”

Phillip Poincare nodded. His sensitive features were clouded.

“Like that bookcase I too was once a part of France. But it has the happier memories. If it can dream it dreams of the Musketeers and King Louis and the days of France’s glory. My dreams are bitter reminders of Laval and Darlan and their minions. But—” He stopped suddenly and passed his hand over his brow, shaking his head from side to side. “Forgive me,” he said quietly. “I am not often a bother such as this. Good day.” When Phillip Poincare left the furniture shop he glanced at his watch. It was almost 8:45. He was due at his desk in fifteen minutes and he had a long walk ahead of him. He set off, walking swiftly toward Michigan Boulevard.

Phillip Poincare was at his desk in the large offices of the Bartlett Brokerage Company by 8:56. It took him only a moment to change his coat for the neat gray smock, which was practically the uniform of Bartlett employees, and when the nine o’clock buzzer sounded, he was busily at work, totalling figures and checking accounts as he had done every day for the past twelve years.

Phillip Poincare had come to America in 1930, because economic conditions in France had become so bad that making a living was practically an impossibility. He had applied for his citizenship papers, because he thought it only fair that he should pay his taxes and give his allegiance to the country whose arms had welcomed him when he was in desperate need. But a part of his affections had ever remained with his own beautiful France, which he had known and loved so well. Because of this sentimental attachment he had collected in his small room books and paintings and articles of furniture that expressed the quiet charm of his native land. It was something of a hobby with him, his only avocation, for he was a shy retiring man, and he had never learned the knack of making friends quickly and easily.

As sometimes happens to men who are unable to mix smoothly and normally with their fellow man, Phillip Poincare found another existence, another life in books of fiction, and in these romantic chronicles of swashbuckling heroes of other times, he enjoyed a thrilling escape from reality. Sometimes, when he was lost in the adventures of some romantic hero, he found it difficult to be sure which was his real existence, so completely did he live and share the vicissitudes of the character he happened to be following.

The day passed quickly, because part of his thoughts were busy with the bookshelf and desk he had acquired that morning. When he had spent a few evenings cleaning and polishing its fine old wood there would be a wonderful difference in its appearance. Although the sixty-four dollars it had cost him had been saved from his lunch money and by scrimping on everything else, he didn’t in the least regret the expenditure.

When he had completed his work the five o’clock buzzer sounded. He cleared up a few last details, dusted off the top of his desk and was about to slip into his suit coat when the office manager, an unsmiling, sharp-tongued man named Harker, came up behind him.

“I hope you’re not in a hurry, Poincare,” he said. “I’ve got a little job I’d like you to finish before you leave.”

Phillip turned slowly, trying to keep the disappointment out of his face. The other clerks were already jamming their way through the door, laughing and talking animatedly. Harker never asked any of them to put in extra time. It was always he who was assigned such chores.

“I didn’t have anything in particular to do, Mr. Harker,” he said. “What is it you want?”

“You don’t sound very happy about staying,” Harker said. He was a big man with a round red face and straight black hair. For some reason he took a peculiar pleasure in tormenting and humiliating his subordinate, Phillip Poincare.

“I do not mind staying,” Phillip said quietly. There were times when he longed for the courage to tell Harker precisely what he thought of him, but he was desperately afraid of what might happen if he lost his job. He had known hunger and the gnawing fear of insecurity the better part of his life, and those privations had left a mark on his soul. Any dim spark of revolt that might have kindled in his breast, had long since been stamped out.

“I don’t see why you should mind staying,” Harker said sarcastically. “You don’t do anything with your spare time but read those wild books of fiction all the time. What do you get out of that anyway? Take that yarn about the three musketeers that De Maupassant wrote, for instance. What sane man would waste his time reading such an impossible collection of bilge?”

“De Maupassant did not write the Three Musketeers,” Phillip said mildly. “Dumas, the Elder, wrote it. And it is generally conceded to be a classic.”

Harker’s ironic smile faded. His cheeks flushed with anger. Although he didn’t realize it his dislike of Phillip Poincare resulted from the fact that the man’s air of quiet culture and dignity made him feel inferior.

“Dumas or De Maupassant,” he snapped. “What difference does it make? It’s still a lot of bilge. Frenchmen just don’t have that kind of guts. Look at ’em today! Bowing and scraping like beggars before the Nazis. If they had any guts would they have quit fighting when the going got tough?”

“The French people fought until their ammunition was exhausted,” Phillip said. He was conscious of a hot flame of anger running through his veins. “Only then did they lay down their arms. And they are fighting now with the underground movement, hindering the Nazi machine in every way they can.”

“Bah!” Harker said scornfully. “They’re glad to have someone shout orders at ’em. That’s the kind of people they are.”

“The French People,” Phillip said, his voice trembling, “have had the misfortune to be duped by their unscrupulous leaders. But they hate Nazism as bitterly as we do here in America. And when the time is ripe they will prove that to the satisfaction of the world.”

“The time is now,” Harker said loudly. “What are they waiting for? If they hate the Nazis, why don’t they revolt?”

“It is not easy when a bayonet is at one’s throat,” Phillip said simply.

“That proves my point!” Harker said triumphantly. “They’re just gutless and afraid, that’s all. And the frogs always have been. That’s why those adventure books you read are such a waste of time. The only place you’ll ever find a brave Frenchman is right where you look for them — in a book of fiction.”

“But—”

“I haven’t any more time to waste,” Harker said rudely. “If you’re smart you’ll think about what I said. You’ve got the wrong slant on a lot of things, Poincare. Now get busy. You’ll find the work I’ve laid out for you on my desk. It shouldn’t take you more than an hour or so.”

He turned on his heel and strode away. The arrogant swing of his walk and the cocky angle of his beefy shoulders indicated more clearly than could any words his complete satisfaction with his handling of the discussion.

Phillip waited until he had left the office, then he slumped into his chair, staring unseeingly ahead of him. While he hated Harker, he realized with sickening clarity that at the moment he hated himself still more.

Finally he roused himself from his black reverie and began walking. Although he worked steadily and swiftly, it was two hours later before he left the office and started homeward.

Chapter II

When Phillip Poincare had finished his frugal evening meal, he caught a street car and rode northward to his boarding house.

His landlady met him in the hall.

“There were some furniture men here today,” she announced. “I let them into your room. They delivered another one of them antiques you’re so interested in.”

“Thank you,” Phillip said.

With anticipation quickening his steps he ascended the carpeted stairs to his room. The annoying worries of the day slipped from his shoulders and a cheery whistle was on his lips as he entered his room and snapped on the lights.

The first object that met his eyes was the bookshelf that he had acquired that morning. The delivery men had left it in the middle of the floor.

Phillip surveyed it lovingly. Somehow it seemed even more beautiful and perfect here in his room than it had in the furniture store. His room was furnished with graceful, early French furniture and the walls were lined with books and softly tinted tapestries. Against this background his newly acquired bookshelf seemed perfectly in place.

He got a cloth from the closet and set about polishing its fine, close grained surface. On his knees he dusted the under sides of the book shelf and burnished its slender, curving legs.

The job took him almost an hour, but when he was finished the bookshelf’s surface gleamed with a new, beautiful luster.

Phillip studied the results of his labors with satisfaction. As a final measure he pulled out the tiny drawers, dusted their insides and shoved them back into place. With the cloth wrapped about his index finger he probed into the tiny pigeonholes, scraping out the dust and the tiny filaments of spider webs.

Just as he was about to climb to his feet his hand ran against a sharp splinter on the underside of the lowest shelf. With a worried frown he bent low to examine it. He saw that the thin wood had warped slightly and cracked. A slim jagged splinter protruded from the otherwise smooth surface.

Carefully Phillip peeled off the thin splinter. A touch of varnish should completely hide the faint scar, he thought. He lit a match and bent down again to examine the damage.

The patch where the splinter had been removed gleamed whitely against the dark mahogany of the shelf. And on this white scar Phillip saw faint scratches that looked like writing.

Excited, he bent closer and struck another match. In the bright illumination he saw clearly that the scratches spelled a name. And when he read that name, he felt his heart beginning to beat faster.

For the signature scratched in small crude strokes on the underside of the shelf was that of Alexander Dumas. The “Alexander” wasn’t spelled out of course, but who else could A. Dumas be, but France’s immortal writer of romances?

Phillip sat back on his heels and the match in his hand burned down to his fingers. Absent-mindedly he dropped the match to the carpet, for his thoughts were hundreds of years away.

Supposing this was the bookshelf and desk of Alexander Dumas? The thought sent tingling shivers through his body.

With trembling fingers he began a systematic exploration of the desk. If it had been the property of Alexander Dumas there might be other identifying marks which he had overlooked. But although he did not miss an inch of the desk’s surface he found nothing else to indicate that it had once been owned by the creator of the Three Musketeers.

He returned again to the crudely scratched signature. For a few seconds he studied it carefully, then he ran his fingers over the faint scratches. When he did this he felt the wood give slightly beneath the tips of his fingers.

He tipped the desk on its side, a strange excitement flooding through his veins. Again his fingers moved over the signature, but this time he pressed gently but firmly against the wood. A section of the underside of the shelf gave way and Phillip heard a faint creaking sound from the side of the desk.

Moving quickly around to the side of the desk he saw that a small drawer had slid out from the apparently solid side of the desk. So cleverly was this secret compartment fitted into the desk that Phillip’s minute examination had failed to reveal its presence.

Experimentally he slowly closed the drawer. Then he again pressed the section of the shelf on which the name of A. Dumas was scratched; and again the secret drawer swung slowly open.

Phillip dug his hand into the drawer, felt crackling paper under his fingers. Hurriedly he removed the object his fingers had touched, a long flat bundle of papers, covered with a close fine scroll.

He flipped through the pages, and as occasional phrases caught his eye, his heart began to hammer with suppressed excitement. This carelessly wrapped bundle of sheets was a French manuscript of Dumas’ immortal romance.

The Three Musketeers.

Phillip knew the novel by heart almost, and he could not be mistaken. This might even be the original manuscript, in Dumas’ own handwriting!

Hardly able to believe his good fortune, Phillip raptly turned the pages of the manuscript, caught again by the spell of Dumas’ magic. The thrilling character of D’Artagnan and the three musketeers, Athos, Porthos, and Aramis, strode again across the pages, somehow more real and alive in this dust-encrusted manuscript than they had ever been in the neat pages of a book.

As Phillip turned the pages of the manuscript dust puffed up from the yellowed, cracked sheets, and swirled about his head in a dense, suffocating fog.

He coughed and waved away the little clouds of dust with his hand. From the open drawer in which he had discovered the manuscript more dust drifted up, until the entire room was hazy with the musty fog.

Phillip blew his nose and wiped the dust from his smarting eyes, but these measures helped but little, for the dust continued to swirl up from the drawer and manuscript like smoke rising from a banked fire.

Alarmed, Phillip laid aside the manuscript and climbed to his feet. But something seemed to be wrong with him. His legs were unsteady and there was a vast roaring sound between his ears. He knew that he needed air. But he was too dizzy to walk to the window.

The room was now so filled with the swirling fog of smoke that he was unable to see a foot in front of him, and he realized that he must get out or he would suffocate.

Stumbling blindly, he turned and staggered toward the door, but before he had moved a yard, his knees gave way and he fell forward to his knees and then to his face.

There was a cloudy film of blackness obscuring his vision and his muscles refused to respond to the instinctive urgings of his brain.

He wondered fleetingly if he were dying. If so, it was not exactly unpleasant. Everything was foggy and hazy, but the floor seemed soft and comfortable and he felt that if he closed his eyes he would drift quietly into a peaceful slumber. As his last conscious thoughts faded he imagined he heard voices behind him and as blackness claimed him, he fancied he felt a strong hand on his shoulder, shaking him urgently.

Chapter III

“Mon dieu. I fear our little liberator will never open his eyes again!”

“A pity. He looks so pale, comrades. A flask of good Burgundy wine would put the glow of good spirits into those cheeks again, I’d wager.”

These voices drifted faintly through the fogs of darkness which shrouded Phillip Poincare and he stirred uneasily.

“Ah!”

“He is moving!”

“Excellent!”

Phillip shook his head side to side and a white light began to gleam through the blackness that enveloped him. The voices seemed far away. As consciousness gradually returned he realized that he was seated in a chair and that a pillow had been propped behind his head. He pressed his hands to his face as memory suddenly returned to him. What had happened?

He had been working on the bookshelf, polishing and cleaning it, when he had discovered the little secret drawer. And in the secret drawer he had found the manuscript, yellow and cracked and aged. Then had come the smothering, suffocating dust...

He shuddered and opened his eyes.

For an instant he stared in growing incredulity at the four, strangely clad men who looked down at him, with friendly concern in their faces, then he closed his eyes tightly and pressed his hands to face.

“Delirium tremens!” he gasped. “And I haven’t taken a drink in years!”

He opened his eyes again, slowly, hesitantly, expecting that the apparitions would have vanished, but they were still there, regarding him with frankly puzzled expressions.

They looked from one to another and shrugged their shoulders significantly as Phillip continued to stare at them in pop-eyed astonishment.

Phillip pinched himself to make sure that he was awake.

“Who are you?” he gasped. “What are you doing in my room?”

As he spoke his gaze swung from figure to figure, automatically drinking in the details of their dress and person. All four were better than average in height and they were all dressed in cloaks, blazing baldrics and gleaming leather boots that came up to the middle of their thighs. Sweeping plumed hats were set rakishly on their dark hair, but the comic-opera effect was not carried out in the long, flashing swords that grazed the floor, or the heavy pistols that were jammed into their gaudy waistbands. These weapons looked grimly business-like and there was something in the eyes and manner of the men regarding him that indicated they would know how to use those weapons with skill and relish.

Phillip swallowed. Although he had an average degree of courage, there was something in the weirdness of this situation that unnerved him.

He clenched his hands nervously.

“Who are you?” he asked again. This time his voice was a bare whisper.

The young man standing directly in front of him removed his sweeping hat with a flourish and bowed. Phillip saw that his hair was curling and brown, almost the same shade as his eyes. The face of this young man was lean and handsome and now it wore an expression of whimsical friendliness. But Phillip had the indefinable feeling that that expression could change; that those jaws could harden; and that those warm brown eyes would glint as coldly as ice if the sword at his side was unsheathed.

“With a thousand pardons,” the young man said, smiling. “We have completely forgotten our manners. With your permission I will introduce ourselves.”

He waved negligently to the largest of his companions, a veritable giant of a man, with heavy powerful shoulders and mighty, steel-thewed hands.

“This ox-like creature,” he murmured, “we call Porthos.”

Turning from Porthos he patted the shoulder of the fair-haired, plump man who stood beside him.

“This noble soul is Aramis,” the young man said. “And last we come to Athos, the pride of the ladies of the court, the fond friend of the perfumers and lace makers, and the coolest blade in France.”

With a slight flourish he bowed to the last of the strange company, a tall, serious faced young man with firm, mobile lips and soft, warmly colored eyes.

Phillip stared dazedly at the four costumed men. His heart was hammering with a deafening sound in his ears. Those names...

Athos! Porthos! Aramis!

What did this mean? Was it all some colossal hoax?

He turned beseechingly to the dashing young man who had made the introductions.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?”

The tall young man with the lean face and smiling eyes, whipped out his gleaming blade and raised it in a salute. He laughed and a ringlet of brown hair fell over his forehead.

“My name is Gascon,” he answered. “Gascon D’Artagnan at your service.

Although the good Cardinal has called me many other uncomplimentary things, men know me simply as D’Artagnan.”

“D’Artagnan!” Phillip breathed the word slowly.

“Yes,” the young man said. He smiled and sheathed his sword. “Now if there is aught we can do to repay you for your great service I insist that you name it. Do you have enemies? Porthos will wring their necks and Athos will run them through for you. Aramis will pray for their souls and I will drink to their everlasting poor health. Come, name your wish, and by the honor of the King’s guard it shall be our command.”

Phillip’s bewildered confusion increased. There was an undeniable ring of sincerity in the young man’s voice and expression, but the entire thing was so preposterous...

“I appreciate your offer,” he said, haltingly, “but I don’t have any enemies.”

“That is unfortunate,” the young man who called himself D’Artagnan said reprovingly. “If you have no enemies, with whom do you fight?”

“I do not fight anyone,” Phillip answered.

D’Artagnan regarded him incredulously.

“A Frenchman who does not fight! It is unbelievable. Tell me, don’t you find life dull? My poor good father gave me nothing but advice, but some of it was beyond measure. Fight, Gascon! Fight always! I can hear his old voice again, repeating these words over and over. And, being of course a dutiful son, I have tried faithfully to follow his instructions.”

Porthos and Athos exchanged amused grins.

“And it is only in respect to your dear dead father that you fight, eh?” Porthos said gravely.

Phillip found the situation growing more and more bewildering. There was something weird and hysterical about the entire scene, as if it were something rehearsed in a madhouse.

“Gentlemen, please!” He stood up, an imploring note in his voice. “I appreciate your offers of help, but I do not need your assistance. I would be obliged if you would tell me who you are and why you are here. I have had a severe shock tonight and I am not in the mood for practical jokes.”

D’Artagnan looked slightly puzzled. “Mon ami,” he said, “I have told you who we are. How we come to be here is a long story, and I think you have a right to hear it. Do you not agree, comrades?” he asked, turning to his three companions.

The huge Porthos nodded.

“But, of course,” said Aramis and Athos in one voice.

D’Artagnan strolled up and down the room for a few moments in silence, his lean features thoughtful and a curious mellow glint of reminiscence in his dark expressive eyes.

“It is a simple story,” he said at last. “My friends and I for many years enjoyed a stimulating conflict with His Eminence, the Cardinal Duke de Richelieu. And you may be sure that the Red Duke was a worthy adversary, clever, resourceful and as captivated by a good hard fight as were we.” D’Artagnan paused and chuckled. “But in spite of our many disagreements, His Eminence could never bring himself to be really angry with us. Sometimes I think he was secretly glad when we routed his precious guardsmen, for it amused him to see their pomposity deflated. However, many of our enemies were not as tolerant as His Eminence. I fear they lacked his sense of humor, for they decided one night to put an end to our fun-loving pranks by the simple expedient of hanging us by our necks until we lost interest in the procedure. His Eminence saved us, for he enjoyed too much our little feud to see us dispatched, but he was forced to resort to drastic measures.

“And so,” D’Artagnan said, spreading his hands expressively, “with the aid of his immense powers he entombed us in the manuscript of the great man whose fertile pen had transmitted our adventures to paper, the Dumas Pere.

“The entombment,” he said wryly, “was supposed to be only a temporary sojourn, but several events beyond even the almost miraculous ken of His Eminence miscarried. Among these was the death of His Eminence. Since then we have waited long for our liberation, and it is to you we owe thanks for that happy event. Now do you understand how and why we are here?”

Phillip swallowed and sank back weakly in his chair. His brain was wheeling in dizzy, spiralling circles. Nothing seemed to make sense, least of all himself. For despite his common sense, he found himself believing the incredible story of this slim assured young man. Why, he couldn’t say.

“Now,” D’Artagnan said briskly, “you must tell us where we are and what year this is. And how far are we from Paris?”

“You are in America,” Phillip said weakly. “A century and a half have passed since the period you speak of.”

“America!” D’Artagnan frowned. “That is inconvenient. But,” he shrugged philosophically, “I suppose it can’t be helped. Anyway, I shall be glad to inspect the colonies of the good King.”

The mighty Porthos shook his head worriedly.

“This I do not like,” he said ponderously. “This is a new, strange world. I wish to return to my France as soon as possible.”

Phillip Poincare looked at these sons and heroes of France and there was a sadness in his eyes. They didn’t know.

“That is not possible now,” he said gently. “France has been at war with Germany for the past three years. It would be impossible for you to return there now.”

“War!” D’Artagnan cried. His strong brown hand closed over the hilt of his sword. “Our France at war and we stand here idle!”

“All the more reason for returning immediately,” Porthos said.

“But you don’t understand,” Phillip said desperately. “France lost the war over two years ago. They are now a subject nation.”

D’Artagnan’s blade leaped from its sheath. Its gleaming point swung to a stop, inches from Phillip’s heart.

“Take care,” D’Artagnan said tensely, “or I will forget the debt I owe you.” Phillip looked at the glinting point of the sword and he saw the grimness in D’Artagnan’s eyes, but he felt no fear. Only a vast pity for these courageous adventurers from another time.

“Gentlemen,” he said. “I am only telling the truth. France has been defeated.”

“She will rise!” Athos said. His eyes were no longer warm and his full lips had flattened into a thin hard line.

“‘Who was her enemy?” D’Artagnan demanded.

“The Germans,” Phillip answered. “Ah!” D’Artagnan made a gesture of disgust. “To lose to those beer swilling swine is an insult to injury.” He wheeled about, flinging his cape over his shoulder. “Well, comrades, what shall we do?”

“We return to France,” Athos said simply. “What else could we do?”

Aramis nodded slowly and Porthos grunted in assent.

“There is no way to return to France,” Phillip cried. “The sea lanes are no longer open. The entire world is at war.”

D’Artagnan’s eyes danced with pleased excitement.

“Excellent!” he cried. “My greatest fear has been that I would arise from my entombment in a world of dullness and peace. Comrades, we are in luck. From what our friend tells us we can step out this door and find enemies lurking in every street and alley.”

“You will not find enemies here,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “The people of America are now at war with the Germans. Their sympathies are and have been always with France.”

“This,” said D’Artagnan, “is becoming more complicated each minute.” He frowned thoughtfully. “Perhaps you had better explain everything in detail to us.”

Phillip Poincare spent that night and the better part of the next morning attempting to bring the Musketeers up to date and to interpret to them the international situation with all of its various ramifications. Whether he succeeded he couldn’t tell.

Athos and Aramis dropped off to sleep in the middle of the narrative and Porthos was nodding wearily before it was completed. Only D’Artagnan listened eagerly to the entire recital, and when Phillip had finished his account of the modern world, he had but one question to ask.

“Where can we find this man De Gaulle?” D’Artagnan said softly as his hand closed about the hilt of his sword.

Chapter IV

The rays of the morning sun awoke Phillip Poincare on the following day. With a start he sprang to his feet. He was still fully clothed and he realized that he had fallen asleep in his chair. For a dazed instant his mind flickered back over the preceding night and his first thought was that he had suffered a weird nightmare.

But a glance about the room convinced him that the previous night had not been a figment of his imagination. For stretched out on the floor, in various attitudes of slumber, were Athos, Porthos, Aramis and the dashing D’Artagnan, looking like an innocent child with his wavy brown hair falling over one eye and a peaceful smile curving his lips.

Quietly Phillip prepared himself for work. He would have to leave them here during the day, and the thought of what possibly might happen caused a nervous perspiration to break out on his forehead.

But he reckoned without his guests.

He was tiptoeing toward the door, hat in hand, when D’Artagnan stretched and opened one eye.

“Ah!” he cried. “The greetings of the day, my friend.”

With a lithe movement he sprang to his feet, stretched his arms over his head and then drummed his fists against his chest. The three slumbering Musketeers awoke and sat up. Greetings were exchanged and Aramis called down the wrath of the Heavens on D’Artagnan for arousing them at such an unearthly hour.

Phillip fidgeted uncomfortably. His eyes strayed to the clock.

“I must leave you now,” he said hastily-

“But no!” D’Artagnan cried. “We shall accompany you, Comrade. We need you to act as guide and interpreter in our wanderings. Come, you lazy dogs, on your feet. Our comrade waits impatiently.”

“But you can’t come with me,” Phillip protested. “I have to go to work.”

“Very well,” D’Artagnan said. “We shall go with you and help. After all, it is only fair.”

Aramis and Athos climbed eagerly to their feet but Porthos shook his head, frowning.

“Leave me here,” he said. “Things have happened too quickly for my poor tired brain to understand. I must think and I need solitude for that.”

“Also,” D’Artagnan grinned, “you need something with which to think, my ox-like friend. But if you wish to remain behind, so be it.”

“I must,” said Porthos. “I am puzzled.”

“Then let us be off,” D’Artagnan cried.

And in spite of Phillip’s feeble protests, the musketeers hurried him out the door, down the steps and into the street. His explanations of the night before had prepared them for the sights that met their eyes, but still they were highly amazed by the cars shooting by and the paved streets and brick houses.

D’Artagnan stretched his arms in the sunshine.

“But it is glorious,” he cried. He breathed deeply. “At least the sun and the wind and the birds and trees have not changed. They are familiar old friends.”

“Come,” Phillip said nervously. “We must hurry.”

“Lead on!” D’Artagnan cried. “Through hell’s fire we follow.”

Phillip led them down the street to the street car line where he caught the car to work. With nervous apprehension he noticed the curious glances of pedestrians as they saw the cloaked and booted figures of the Musketeers.

A fat, well-dressed man who was also waiting for a car studied the three musketeers for an incredulous moment and then broke into a roar of laughter.

He turned and nudged his companion.

“Look,” he chortled, pointing a fat finger at the objects of his mirth. “I wonder what election bet they lost.”

D’Artagnan’s lean face flushed angrily. His hand flashed to the hilt of his sword, but Phillip stayed his arm.

“He meant no harm,” he whispered.

The color faded from D’Artagnan’s face and his fingers slowly loosened their grip on his sword hilt. But his eyes were still as cold and hard as dagger points.

“It would give me great satisfaction to spit him like a roasting hen,” he said softly.

Fortunately at that moment the street car arrived. Phillip climbed aboard and the Musketeers followed his action, greatly excited with their new adventure. Phillip paid the fares and led his charges into the body of the car.

The fat man who had been waiting managed to squeeze ahead of Phillip and settle himself in the last available seat with a smug pleased expression on his round, pompous face. Not only had he outmaneuvered Phillip, but he had reached the seat an instant ahead of a slim, red-haired young girl who had gotten on at the opposite end of the car. The girl was almost knocked off her feet by his bull-like dash to the seat and she grabbed a strap just in time to save herself from falling.

The street car started with a lurch.

Phillip, with dexterity born of long experience, clutched at a strap in the nick of time, but D’Artagnan and his two companions almost fell to the floor as they lost their balance.

“Mon Dieu!” D’Artagnan cried, as he staggered back, “this is worse than that wild steed of mine.”

Heads turned from one end of the car to the other and amazed glances were fixed on the three picturesquely clad musketeers, with the swinging swords and flopping hats. A running fire of whispered comment spread from person to person. Phillip felt acutely nervous for a while, but his worry abated slightly as he realized that most of the passengers regarded his companions as masquerading college youths. He breathed a sigh of relief.

D’Artagnan tapped him on the shoulder.

“Yes?” Phillip whispered.

D’Artagnan nodded toward the red-haired girl who was hanging uncomfortably by one hand to the strap. As the car lurched and swayed she had difficulty keeping her balance. Phillip drew a nervous breath as he noticed the angry spots of color in D’Artagnan’s lean face.

“Why is the girl left to stand?” D’Artagnan asked coldly. “What kind of gentlemen do you breed in this land? His eyes raked contemptuously over the men, seated comfortably, reading their morning newspapers.

“Quietly,” Phillip whispered. “This is no concern of yours. Please, do not cause a scene here.”

The florid faced fat man and others had heard D’Artagnan’s remarks. They were looking at him with hostile glances and Phillip could hear mutterings from some of the men.

“What’s it to you, buddy?” the fat man snapped. He settled himself more comfortably in his seat and glared angrily at the three Musketeers.

D’Artagnan looked down at the man and a slow humorless smile curved his lips.

“My fat friend,” he said gently, “your manners are exceeded in repulsiveness by your appearance, but only to a slight degree. While your legs are still able to carry your chubby body, I would advise you to leave. You have ceased to amuse me.”

Phillip gripped D’Artagnan’s arm. “Please,” he whispered frantically. “You are only going to cause trouble for yourself.”

The red-haired girl turned to D’Artagnan and her cool green eyes widened in amazement. She was tall and slender, with fine square shoulders tapering to a slim graceful waist. Her light, arched eyebrows were drawn together in a worried frown.

She laid a gloved hand on D’Artagnan’s forearm.

“Don’t trouble yourself on my account,” she said softly. “I am accustomed to standing.”

“Trouble?” D’Artagnan said with mock incredulity. “I assure you, gracious lady, I consider service in your behalf the highest privilege.”

Aramis moved forward, smiling ingratiatingly. His eyes moved over the girl’s lovely face and form in a slow admiring appraisal.

“My companion,” he said smoothly, “is guilty only of an unpardonable understatement. Service for you would be Earth’s highest reward.” He waved his arm down the length of the crowded car. “Choose the location your heart desires and I, Aramis, assure you it will be yours within a very few seconds.”

“College punks!” the fat man said loudly to the man next to him. “That’s all they are.”

D’Artagnan raised one eyebrow and studied the man thoughtfully.

“It was my impression,” he said quietly, “that I told you to leave some time ago. What is the delay, my obese friend?”

“You ain’t bluffing me. I know my rights.”

D’Artagnan sighed and slowly drew his sword.

“Will you run him through?” asked Aramis, with polite interest.

“I dislike doing it in public,” D’Artagnan said regretfully.

“I see your point,” Athos said, entering the conversation for the first time. “He needs to be killed of course, but it should be done in a quiet secluded vale where he would not be able to boast of his death.”

With a flick of his wrist D’Artagnan twirled his sword in the air and its gleaming point was suddenly grazing the fat man’s gullet.

“Now, my fat one, are you still anxious to stay?” he asked.

The fat man dropped his paper and strained against the back of the seat, his breath suddenly rattling in his throat. His distended eyes stared downward in horror at the point of the sword.

“Watch what you’re doing,” he cried shrilly. “That thing is touching me. You’re liable to hurt somebody!”

“Somebody?” mused D’Artagnan. “No, my corpulent one, it will be you who are hurt.”

The fat man stared in horror at the calm icy depths of D’Artagnan’s eyes and suddenly he began to tremble like a bowl of quivering jelly.

“I was only kidding, Mister,” he croaked. “The lady can have the seat, honest she can. Just take that sticker out of my adam’s apple.”

D’Artagnan smiled gracefully.

“I knew you would do the gentlemanly thing, my friend. You only needed a slight — er — prodding in the right direction. But you must remember to be more prompt in the future.”

The point of the sword withdrew from the man’s neck. With a grin D’Artagnan flicked his wrist and the flashing blade slashed through the man’s bright silk tie, cutting it completely in two.

“Hey!” the man cried. “That was a new tie.”

“Consider yourself fortunate,” Athos said. “A tie can be replaced but a jugular vein presents a more difficult problem.”

D’Artagnan sheathed his sword. The fat man scrambled from the seat and ducked down the aisle, perspiration streaming down his neck.

D’Artagnan bowed to the young girl with a flourish.

“Our friend had a pressing appointment and was forced to leave,” he smiled. “I am sure he would be happy if you would take the seat he has vacated.”

“Thank you,” the girl said uncertainly. “But you might have gotten yourself into trouble on my account and it wouldn’t have been worth it.” She sat down and looked up at D’Artagnan’s tall figure with a peculiar expression in her eyes.

“The days when a man’s sword defended a woman are gone,” she murmured. “But sometimes—”

She dropped her eyes and D’Artagnan saw that her small shoulders were shaking softly.

“What is it?” he asked gently. “Is there anything I can do?”

“No, nothing,” the girl said in a small muffled voice. She raised her eyes and he saw that their cool green depths were misted with tears. “Thank you. I am grateful. Please leave me now.”

Phillip took D’Artagnan by the arm. “Come,” he said. “This is our stop. We must get off here.”

“But—” D’Artagnan looked down at the girl with the troubled eyes. “We can’t leave just now. I—”

“Come,” Phillip said urgently. Unwillingly D’Artagnan followed Phillip down the aisle of the car, but he stopped at the door for one last look at the girl’s small figure. Then with a sigh he stepped off the car. When it rattled past them and disappeared around a bend in the street, he shrugged his shoulders.

“I shouldn’t have left her,” he said gravely. “She was in trouble.”

“She was also very beautiful,” Aramis said. “That would be sufficient reason for staying.”

“We must hurry,” Phillip said, with an anxious glance at his watch. “I can’t afford to be late.”

With the Musketeers at his heels he crossed the street toward the huge stone building that housed the offices of the Bartlett Brokerage Company.

Chapter V

When Phillip reached the glass doors that led to the main offices of the Bartlett Brokerage Company, he paused. For the first time he began to wonder if what he was doing was wise.

He swallowed nervously and glanced at the three musketeers. Their faces were beaming expectantly. Phillip thought of Mr. Harker and his probable reaction to an invasion of the office by three cloaked, be-plumed, swaggering young men and he winced. The thought of Mr. Harker’s reaction was not pleasant.

He mopped his damp brow.

“What is it?” D’Artagnan asked. You seem worried and nervous. Let us proceed.”

“Of course,” Phillip said feebly. “It’s just that your presence here might not be understood.”

“Then you will explain our presence,” D’Artagnan said, slapping him on the back. “That is all there is to it.”

“Follow me,” Phillip said resignedly. He led the three musketeers into the office and to his own desk. He noticed with apprehension that the entrance of his companions did not go unnoticed. His fellow clerks dropped their pencils practically in unison and then their jaws dropped open as if they were synchronized.

D’Artagnan glanced about the large, desk-filled room.

“What kind of work is done here?” he asked. He was obviously not impressed with the surroundings.

“We add figures,” Phillip explained apologetically.

“All day?” D’Artagnan demanded. “Do you mean that grown men spend their days in this airless coop doing nothing but adding figures. It is incredible.”

Phillip Poincare had always known subconsciously that his work was dull and unimportant, but somehow hearing it from D’Artagnan’s lips brought it home with vivid force.

But he didn’t have time to think of that any longer for, from the corner of his eye, he saw the portly, red-faced form of Mr. Harker steaming across the floor toward his desk.

“This is my superior,” he explained nervously to the musketeers. “We — we mustn’t do anything to anger him.”

“Reminds me of an innkeeper I knew in Gascony,” Athos observed thoughtfully. “I remember very well the day they hung him. Horse thieving, I think.”

Mr. Harker came to an impressive stop before Phillip’s desk.

“Good morning, Mr. Harker,” Phillip said. “I’m sorry I was late.”

Mr. Harker ignored the apology. His outraged gaze raked over the nonchalant musketeers and swung hotly back to Phillip.

“What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. His voice was cold and angry. “This is a business office, not a minstrel show. Who are these men?”

“—er — friends of mine,” Phillip answered. “I–I just wanted to show them the office. They’re from — out-of town.”

“They look like they’re from an asylum,” Harker said witheringly. He shoved his hands in the pockets of his trousers and his abdomen protruded belligerently. “Get them out of here at once,” he snapped. “I’ll talk to you about this later.”

Athos tapped Mr. Harker on the shoulder.

“Have you ever been in Gascony?” he asked.

“What? No, of course not.”

“Uncommon resemblance,” Athos muttered. He shook his head thoughtfully.

“Resemblance to whom?” Harker demanded. He seemed slightly confused by the sudden twist in the conversation.

“You have an amazing likeness to a horse thief I saw hung there recently,” Athos said. He peered closely, suspiciously at Harker. “Are you sure you’ve never been in Gascony?” he persisted.

Harker’s face reddened in rage. The veins at his temples throbbed visibly.

“A wise guy, eh?” he shouted.

Aramis had quietly drawn his sword while Athos was talking to Harker. There was a puckish, mischievous twinkle in his eyes as he gently laid the flat of the blade against Harker’s protruding stomach. Harker was so convulsed with apoplectic rage that he was unaware of the sword’s pressure against his vest.

“You’ll suffer for this, Poincare,” he shouted. “It might cost you your job. This is no laughing matter.”

As he finished speaking Aramis flicked his sword downward and two buttons from Harker’s vest dropped to the floor.

His vest spread open and a tuft of white shirt emerged.

Harker glared angrily at his exposed shirt and then hastily shoved it back into place.

“You — you young whippersnapper!” he cried. “I’ll have the law on you for this.”

D’Artagnan chuckled and leaned back against Phillip’s desk, while Athos slapped a hand against his thigh and smilingly regarded Harker’s outburst.

“It is only a prank,” D’Artagnan said grinning.

“You aren’t going to beg off that easily,” Harker fumed. “I’ll have the whole lot of you locked up.” He glared contemptuously at their costumes and a sarcastic smile touched his full lips. “It’s about the sort of thing one would expect from wearers of those uniforms. The Frenchmen were too busy with schoolboy pranks to fight the Nazis. They’re fine for wearing uniforms and swords but they leave the fighting to men. Well, I think I’ll make an example of you. This prank won’t seem so funny when you’re behind bars.”

Aramis smiled at D’Artagnan and Athos.

“Methinks I see the shadow of the Bastille in the distance,” he murmured.

D’Artagnan’s face was white with anger.

“Methinks I hear the braying of an ass,” he said, looking at Harker.

Harker wheeled on Phillip.

“If you want your job Poincare you’d better have a plausible explanation ready for this when I talk to you tonight. I’ve been altogether too decent with you. I can see now that I am going to have to take disciplinary measures.”

Phillip had done a little thinking since Harker had started railing at the musketeers. He had thought of himself and his job and the mental humiliation he endured in keeping it. And he felt suddenly sick of himself.

“I have no explanation, Mr. Harker,” he said. “Not for you at least. These men are my friends, and that is sufficient explanation for their actions as far as I’m concerned.”

“That’s dangerous talk, Poincare,” Harker said warningly.

Phillip studied Harker for a moment and he seemed to see him for the first time as he was — a fat, bullying coward with his heel on the neck of those who couldn’t fight back. Phillip smiled. For some reason he felt a wonderful sense of release and elation. He realized, with a touch of wonder, that slavery was not only a thing of chains and fetters and that freedom meant more than mere physical freedom. Mental and spiritual freedom were the important things to any man who was worthy of that title.

His smiling silence brought a flush of blood to Harker’s cheeks.

“Wipe that smile off your face,” he snarled. He advanced threateningly toward Phillip; his meaty fists clenched.

Phillip’s first reaction was to retreat. He took a step backward, not through fear but rather uncertainty. At that instant his eyes met D’Artagnan’s and he saw the musketeer was regarding him sadly, pityingly.

Phillip stopped and squared his shoulders. He knew what he had to do and he realized he should have done it years ago.

Harker took another step forward and Phillip doubled up his fist and drove it squarely into his soft, protruding midriff.

Harker gasped. His face turned a sickly white, then a dull, spotted green. He staggered back and doubled up, his hands clutching at his stomach.

D’Artagnan slapped Phillip on the back. “Well done,” he said.

Harker collapsed into a chair and his flabby face was damp with perspiration. “You’re through, Poincare,” he said in a strangling voice. “You’re fired. Do you hear? Get out!”

“You’re a little late,” Phillip said. “I quit ten seconds ago!”

Outside in the street a few minutes later, Phillip found his new-found confidence waning. After all, a man had to do something to keep body and soul together.

“Well, what now?” D’Artagnan asked.

“That’s just what I was wondering.” Phillip answered, frowning. He glanced at the musketeer’s picturesque uniforms. “The first thing we have to do is to get you some less conspicuous clothes. Then we’ll go back to the apartment and talk this thing over.”

Chapter VI

When they reached Phillip’s apartment a few hours later, the musketeers carried bulky packages containing their uniforms under their arms and they were attired in the more conventional, but less picturesque attire of the twentieth century.

D’Artagnan had chosen a soft tweed and it fitted his lean supple figure with careless ease. Except for his long, curling brown hair he could have passed for a successful advertising executive. Athos wore a classic pin stripe in black, but Aramis, for some reason, had selected a gaudy plaid that fitted his round body without a wrinkle.

Phillip opened the door and stepped into his room. The first thing he noticed was that the radio was on full blast, but the second fact that struck him almost took his breath away.

The room was empty.

Porthos was gone!

“Well,” he said, weakly.

D’Artagnan glanced about the room worriedly. He looked into the closets and bathroom but there was no sign of the huge musketeer whom they had left a few hours before.

“Where could he have gone?” D’Artagnan asked.

“Just a minute,” Phillip said. He picked up the phone and dialed Central station. When the desk sergeant’s voice came over the wire, Phillip cleared his throat nervously.

“I want to report a missing person,” he explained. “He’s a — er — stranger in the city and I’m afraid he might be lost. He’s a big fellow and he’s wearing a rather strange costume.”

“Go on!” the sergeant’s voice was suddenly interested. “What kind of a costume?”

“An early French outfit,” Phillip said. “Cloak and sword, high boots and baldric. You won’t be able to miss him.”

“I say we won’t,” the sergeant’s voice sounded grim. “He’s behind bars this minute, where he belongs.”

“What!” gasped Phillip. “What’s the charge?”

“Disorderly conduct, disturbing the peace, intoxication, resisting arrest — shall I go on?”

“No,” Phillip said weakly. “I get the general idea.”

“If you say you know him,” the sergeant said, “You’d better get down here right away.”

“I’ll be right down,” Phillip said. He hung up the phone slowly. He was stunned.

“What is the trouble?” demanded D’Artagnan.

“Porthos has managed to get himself in trouble with the police,” Phillip explained worriedly.

“Ah! The gendarmes!” Athos cried. “Comrades, we will need our swords for this task. We must rescue Porthos.”

“No,” Phillip said. “Swords won’t help. I’ll get him out. You wait here. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“I had better come, too,” D’Artagnan said. “Maybe I can be of help.”

“All right,” Phillip said. “Come along.” He turned to Athos and Aramis. “Don’t leave here until we return.”

With D’Artagnan at his heels he hurried down the steps.

At the Central Police station they found the desk-sergeant grim-faced and unpleasant.

“So you’re the friends of that big nut, are you?” the sergeant snapped, glaring from D’Artagnan to Phillip. “He put six of our men on the sick list for the next two weeks when they tried to bring him in. It took two riot squads to calm him down. What the hell is the matter with him anyway?”

Phillip mopped his brow and glanced fleetingly at D’Artagnan.

“I’m not quite sure, sergeant,” he said. “Can we see him and talk to him for a moment?”

“O.K. He’s quieted down now.”

“Where did you pick him up?” Phillip asked.

“At the main studio of the Federated Broadcasting Company.”

“Federated Broad—” Phillips’ voice trailed off weakly. “What was he doing there?”

“Trying to tear the place down,” the sergeant answered, laconically. “I tell you he’s nuttier than a fruit cake.”

Phillip swallowed and glanced nervously at D’Artagnan. What had gotten into the huge Porthos he couldn’t even imagine, but there didn’t seem to be any point to asking more questions of the sergeant.

A turnkey led them to the lockup. Porthos was standing at the door of a cell, his huge hands gripping the bars and there was a bewildered, confused expression on his broad, homely face. One of his eyes was a gorgeous purple and his lower lip was split. His baldric and cloak were ripped in a number of places. The sword that hung at his waist was gone.

“You got about ten minutes,” the turnkey said, leaving.

D’Artagnan stepped close to the barred door.

“Don’t worry, Comrade,” he whispered. “We’ll get you out of here if we have to tear the building down.” Porthos looked at D’Artagnan and Phillip with sad, mournful eyes, but he said nothing.

Phillip asked the question he had been dreading.

“What happened, Porthos?”

Porthos shrugged his massive shoulders and his eyes were downcast. “I am not quite sure,” he answered, rubbing one hand over his forehead. He looked up suddenly and his eyes were flashing. “But I only did what any gentleman of honor would have done under the circumstances. And for that the gendarmes come in swarms and swarms and drag me off here in a screeching tumbril. Mon Dieu, I have never seen so many gendarmes.”

“But what did you do?” Phillip persisted.

“It was not my fault,” Porthos said stiffly. “I have learned that I acted hastily, that I acted, perhaps, foolishly, but how was I to know?”

“How were you to know what?” Phillip asked.

“That it was all make-believe,” Porthos said moodily.

“Start at the beginning,” Phillip said. He wished frantically that Porthos would tell his story and tell it quickly, so that he could start figuring on how to get him out of jail, if that were at all possible.

“When you left I turned on the little box that makes music,” Porthos said.

“You mean after we left the apartment this morning you turned on the radio?” Phillip asked. He was bewildered by Porthos’ irrelevant digression. He had demonstrated the radio to the musketeers the previous evening, but...

“I turned on the little box that makes the music,” Porthos repeated, glowering.

“Yes, go on,” Phillip said helplessly. He realized that Porthos was grimly determined to tell his story in his own way.

“But I do not hear the music,” Porthos said. “Instead I hear voices. I listen carefully. One voice is that of a woman and the other is that of a man. They are arguing. The woman has jewels and the man wants her to give them to him. He is a scoundrel. I could tell it from his voice.” Porthos’ eyes were stormy as his mind flashed back to the villainy of that voice from the ether. “I shouted at her not to give him the jewels,” he continued, “but she could not hear me. Anyway, she did not need my advice. She knew the man for the scoundrel he was and ordered him away. But he would not leave. They were alone. She was helpless.” Porthos’ voice trembled with rage. “He took them from her by force and left her bound and helpless in a closet. And the river waters were rising,” Porthos cried darkly, his voice breaking with the heat of his emotion.

“What river?” Phillip asked.

“I don’t know,” Porthos shrugged. “They didn’t say. But the water was rising on the bamboo foundations of the little hut and this poor girl was helpless. The scoundrel had taken leave with the jewels.”

D’Artagnan had followed Porthos’ narrative with tense interest.

“What happened then, Comrade?” he demanded.

“Another voice came from the little box,” Porthos said, frowning.

“And what did this new voice say?”

“I didn’t understand. It was all about soap,” Porthos said.

“Soap?”

“Yes,” Porthos nodded. “This new voice talked interminably about a soap he called sleezy-suds, that’s all I could make out.”

“But the girl!” D’Artagnan cried. “She will be dead by this time.”

Phillip put a hand to his forehead wearily. He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He suspected that he might do both.

“Go on with your story, Porthos,” he said quietly.

“While this man talks about soap,” Porthos continued, “I buckle on my sword. My blood is stirred. I cannot stand idle while villainy goes unpunished and damsels need the protection of my blade.”

“Well spoken!” D’Artagnan cried. “Go on,” said Phillip.

“The voice suddenly stops talking about soap.” Porthos said excitedly. “The voice exclaims, ‘who will save Mary Malloy?’ I draw my sword,” Porthos cried, gripping the bars in his excitement. “I say, ‘I will. Where can I find this villain?’”

“Yes?” D’Artagnan breathed.

“The voice,” Porthos said, “answers me. It says, ‘This adventure took place in the central studios of the Federated Broadcasting Co., the corners of Lake and Michigan.’”

“I think I know the rest,” Phillip said. “You went down to the Federated studios to rescue Mary Malloy, didn’t you?”

“But of course,” Porthos said. “It was what any red-blooded son of France would have done.”

“And things didn’t turn out so well, did they?”

“No,” Porthos said, shaking his big head sadly, “things did not turn out well at all. No one seemed to understand what I was talking about. A man laughed at me. I drew my sword. And then the gendarmes came, by the dozens.” Porthos sighed. “I have learned since that the whole thing was a make-believe play.”

Phillip patted his shoulder gently. “I’ll talk to the sergeant,” he said. “I’ll do what I can.”

“It is all so confusing,” Porthos said wearily. “I wish I were back in my quiet France.”

Phillip went to look for the sergeant. He didn’t know what he was going to say, but he knew he couldn’t tell the truth of the matter. If he tried to explain that Porthos, a musketeer from the eighteenth century, had gone berserk listening to the fictional tribulations of a heroine in a radio soap drama, he would wind up behind bars himself.

He found the sergeant at his desk, grimly studying his reports.

“Well,” he said, looking up, “you’ve seen your friend now. Maybe you’d be good enough to tell me what’s wrong with him.”

“Er — he’s very sorry about the trouble he caused,” Phillip said.

“Well that’s fine,” the sergeant said sarcastically. “He’s sorry so we’ll just open the doors and let him go, we will not!”

“He lost his head. You see,” Phillip said, thinking desperately, “he’s a radio actor.”

“I thought there was something wrong with him,” the sergeant muttered.

“And he forgot himself. Actors are like that sometimes. They become so absorbed in their parts that they just aren’t themselves at all.”

“That’s no excuse for a man behaving like Tarzan of the Apes,” the sergeant said. “But as long as it wasn’t anything criminal he did, we can set bail for him. Are you willing to take him into your custody until his case comes up?”

“Yes,” Phillip sighed. “I’ll take care of him.”

The details were arranged and in an hour Porthos stood outside the jail with Phillip and D’Artagnan, a free man.

“Well,” D’Artagnan said, “that is over. And now I am hungry and thirsty. Let us forget our troubles with a bottle of wine. Mon Dieu, it seems ages since my palate has welcomed a cooling draught of burgundy.” Porthos shook his head sadly.

“My appetite and thirst are gone forever, I think,” he said. “I want to get away from all this strange civilization and think.”

Phillip realized that he too was hungry. And if ever a man needed a drink he was that person.

He hailed a cab and gave the driver the address of his boarding house. Turning to Porthos, he said, “This cab will take you home. Aramis and Athos are there and they are worried about you. Tell them D’Artagnan and I will be along soon.”

Porthos nodded and climbed into the cab. When it had pulled away from the curb, Phillip turned to D’Artagnan.

“Now for that drink,” he said.

Chapter VII

Phillip led D’Artagnan to a swanky bar in one of the downtown hotels. For some reason he felt like celebrating. He knew that the next day he would have to start thinking seriously about finding another job, but today he refused to let that worry him.

They had barely given their order to a waiter when D’Artagnan grabbed his arm excitedly.

“Look!” he said. “At the table on the other side of the room.”

Phillip looked and saw a beautiful, young red-haired girl sitting with an impeccably clad, middle-aged man who wore a gleaming monocle over one eye.

“What about them?” Phillip asked blankly.

“It is the girl,” D’Artagnan said excitedly. “The girl I saw on the street car this morning. She was in trouble. How could you forget that face?”

Phillip looked again and saw that D’Artagnan was right. The man with whom she was seated was tall and lean, with cold blue eyes and slightly graying hair. There was a saber scar on his cheek that pulled his mouth into a faint, perpetual sneer.

“What luck!” D’Artagnan cried, springing to his feet.

“Wait a minute,” Phillip said; “you can’t go over there.”

“Why not?’

“She is with a man. Such things just aren’t done.”

“Bah! It is about time they were, then,” D’Artagnan said, grinning. “Excuse me.” He bowed and strode across the floor to the girl’s table. Nervously, Phillip followed, thinking he might be able to smooth over the situation.

D’Artagnan bowed to the girl with a flourish.

“This is such a great and unexpected pleasure that I am overwhelmed. I feared this morning that I might never see you again, but the gods are kind.” He pulled up a chair and sat down.

The red haired girl looked at him and there was relief in her eyes.

“It is nice to see you again,” she said warmly. “I hardly had time to thank you this morning. I see you have changed your costume.”

D’Artagnan glanced down at his tweeds and smiled.

“Yes, I was becoming somewhat conspicuous.”

The girl turned to her companion. “Major Lanser, this is the young man I told you about.”

Major Lanser inclined his head briefly toward D’Artagnan and then turned to the girl. A humorless smile touched his thin lips and the saber scar on his cheek twisted.

“How interesting,” he murmured. “Will you be good enough to tell him we are busy?”

“Oh, but we aren’t too busy to talk to gallant young rescuers,” the girl said, laughing. But there was a strange, odd note to her laughter, as if it were close to hysteria.

“How kind of you,” D’Artagnan said. His eyes were watching Major Lanser with quiet speculation. There was a tension at the table that was smoulderingly tangible.

D’Artagnan suddenly grinned disarmingly and pulled up another chair to the table and waved to Phillip to sit down.

“My friend,” he explained, “I hope you won’t mind.” He smiled at the girl. “It will be someone for the Major to talk to.”

The Major’s lean, bard face flushed red as Phillip settle himself cautiously at the table. Phillip felt the peculiar tension that seemed to crack across the table, and when he looked into the Major’s ice-blue, slate-hard eyes he felt a strange prickling of fear.

The Major put his hand on the girl’s arm.

“I think you must bid your friends good-bye,” he said quietly. “It is time for us to leave.”

“No,” the girl said. Her eyes met D’Artagnan’s in a mute appeal. “I’m — I’m not ready to leave yet.”

“I think you are, my dear,” the Major said. His fingers closed over the girl’s arm and the knuckles of his hand suddenly whitened. “You wouldn’t want to cause your friends any — er — inconvenience, would you?”

The girl’s eyes closed and her face was gray.

“No, you mustn’t—” she said. “I’ll come with you.” The last words were a bare whisper.

D’Artagnan’s keen eyes flashed like the glinting blade of a rapier, as he studied Major Lanser’s coldly expresssionless face.

“Major Lanser,” he said softly, “the young lady obviously would rather stay and finish her drink. But you mustn’t let that keep you.” He emphasized the last word carefully.

The Major looked at him for an instant and the silence was tense and charged. Then he shrugged and his hand released the girl’s arm. He stood up and smiled down at the girl.

“You will find my way would have been wiser,” he murmured. He turned slightly to face D’Artagnan and the smile was gone from his lips. “I hope we meet again,” he said.

When he had gone, D’Artagnan turned impulsively to the girl.

“Forgive me, but I do not like your friend,” he said. “Can’t you tell me what is troubling you? It would make me very happy to be able to help you.”

“You mustn’t see me again,” the girl said. “I have already allowed you to place yourself in a very dangerous position. If you ever see Major Lanser again, keep well out of his way.” She smiled and stood up. “You have done me a great service and I will always be grateful. Good-bye.”

Before D’Artagnan could speak the girl moved swiftly away from the table. D’Artagnan sprang to his feet, but the girl, by that time, had disappeared through a door that led to the lobby of the hotel.

“This time I shall not stand like a stupid clod,” D’Artagnan said. “Hurry, there is still time for us to catch her. She needs our help.”

Phillip paid the waiter. His thoughts were wheeling nervously.

“You’ve got to be careful,” he said worriedly to D’Artagnan; “that Major Lanser is dangerous. I could tell that from his eyes. They were as cold as the eyes of a snake.”

“But that girl needs help,” D’Artagnan said impatiently. “Come along. If the Major proves troublesome it will be most unfortunate — for the Major.” With Phillip pattering at his heels he strode across the floor to the lobby. Except for a few men reading newspapers, the room was deserted.

“Possibly she took a cab,” Phillip suggested.

Grimly, D’Artagnan shoved through the revolving door to the street. He grabbed the doorman by the arm.

“Did you see a young lady leave here a moment ago? A tall, red-haired girl?”

“I called a cab for her,” the doorman answered.

“Was she alone?”

“Yes, she was alone when she got into the cab, but a man stepped in after her before the cab started. They left together.”

“What did the man look like?” D’Artagnan demanded.

The doorman frowned. “I didn’t get a good look, but I noticed he seemed pretty well dressed. And, let me see, he wore a monocle. I think he had a scar on his face, but I’m not sure.”

“Did you hear the address they gave the driver?” Phillip asked.

“I think he said Mannerly Towers,” the doorman answered.

“Call us a cab,” D’Artagnan said. “What do you intend to do?” Phillip asked nervously.

“Follow them, of course. We may already be too late.”

“But if this girl is in trouble,” Phillip said, “it’s a matter for the police. You don’t know what you might be sticking your neck into. Let me call the station and have a squad of men sent over to the Mannerly Towers.”

D’Artagnan shook his head. “The gendarmes have an unhappy faculty of making a supreme mess of anything that requires tact and diplomacy. We must handle this ourselves. But you are right in one respect. We may need help. Call your room and tell Aramis. Porthos and Athos that I need them and give them the address of Mannerly Towers. Tell them to come there as quickly as possible. I would rather have them at my side than all the gendarmes in the city.”

Phillip did as he was directed and when he returned to the sidewalk a cab was waiting and D’Artagnan was waiting impatiently.

Phillip crawled into the cab beside D’Artagnan and sank back against the cushions as it pulled away from the curb with a roar.

“Mannerly Towers!” D’Artagnan snapped. “Quickly!”

Chapter VIII

D’Artagnan and Phillip stepped from the cab before the imposing facade of the Mannerly Towers. The building was located at the near North side and it had only taken them a few minutes to reach it, but D’Artagnan had fidgeted all the way.

When Phillip paid the driver he strode toward the main entrance.

“Don’t you think we’d better go around the back way?” Phillip said. “There’s no point in advertising our entry.”

“There is no time for such maneuvering,” D’Artagnan said. “We must depend on the surprise value of a frontal attack.”

The desk clerk looked inquiringly at them.

“We wish to see Major Lanser,” Phillip said. “What is his suite number?”

“Thirteen-forty,” the clerk answered, “but is the Major expecting you?”

“Yes!” D’Artagnan snapped.

Phillip led the way to the elevators. The elevator operator shot them up to the thirteenth floor, deposited them and started back down.

The corridor was carpeted with a luxurious gray rug that muffled their footsteps as they moved along the hall to a gleaming white door bearing the number 1340.

“This is it,” Phillip said in a whisper, “but don’t you think we’d better wait until Athos and the others get here?”

“I don’t know,” D’Artagnan frowned.

He stopped speaking as the door in front of them opened and the tall figure of Major Lanser appeared in the doorway.

“A pleasant surprise,” the Major said quietly. “Did you forget that the desk clerk would inform me that you were on your way up?”

Looking over the Major’s shoulder, Phillip saw a long, empty room, furnished in quiet good taste.

“What is it you wanted?” the Major asked. His face was set in hard, expressionless lines, but his eyes were as dull and cold as death.

“The girl,” D’Artagnan said, meeting his gaze squarely. “We know that she accompanied you here and it is to be our pleasure to relieve her of your unpleasant company.”

“So?” the Major smiled. “You are still playing the role of gallant rescuer, are you? I am sorry to disappoint you. The girl is not here. You are welcome to look, if that will ease your mind.”

He stepped aside and bowed mockingly.

D’Artagnan regarded him coolly for an instant, then stepped past him into the long room. Phillip followed hesitantly. The Major closed the door and strolled to the center of the room, his thin face cynically amused.

“Are you satisfied?” he said softly.

“No,” D’Artagnan said. He glanced about the room with narrowed eyes. He noted a set of fencing foils above the mantle, a picture of the Major in uniform, but nothing to indicate the presence of the red-haired girl.

“There are other rooms, are there not?” he asked.

The Major smiled. “I was hoping you would have enough sense to be satisfied, but obviously you haven’t.” He raised his hand in a signal and a door at the end of the room opened. A squat man with a gun in his hand stepped into the room and moved to the side wall, where his gun covered D’Artagnan and Phillip.

Phillip swallowed nervously and he could hear the terrified thudding of his heart in the sudden stillness of the room.

Another man stepped through the doorway, but he was not alone. At his side was the red-haired girl. Her eyes were enormous pools in the whiteness of her face. Phillip saw that her wrists were taped together behind her.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have followed me,” she said, her voice breaking. She glanced swiftly, imploringly at Major Lanser. “Please don’t hurt them. Let them go. They don’t know a thing. I give you my word.”

“Your solicitude is very touching,” Major Lanser said. “But, unfortunately, I can’t do as you suggest. It would be very foolish of me to let them go now. They have already seen too much. No, I am sorry, but they must be disposed of as soon as possible.”

Phillip was standing beside a table on which a heavy metal ashtray rested. He was about six feet from the man who held the gun. Almost of its own volition his hand moved slowly to the ashtray and closed over it. His heart was hammering frantically. All of his cautious, common sense instincts were demanding that he put his hand back to his side and forget the wild idea in his head. But instead he lifted the ashtray slowly from the table. No one was watching him. No one saw him move until he turned and threw the heavy weight squarely at the closely cropped head of the squat little man with the gun.

And then it was too late for anyone to do anything about it. For the ashtray caught the man directly between the eyes and he fell forward on his face without a whimper.

But then everybody in the room seemed to galvanize into action.

The man beside the girl lunged forward, but she tripped him with her foot as he passed, sending him sprawling to the floor. Major Lanser wheeled and leaped toward the mantle. His hand closed over a slim, deadly fencing foil and, with an oath, he whirled to face D’Artagnan.

But the musketeer had moved, too. With a lithe sidestep he evaded the Major’s savage lunge and leaped for the other foil. With it gleaming in his hand, he swung to meet Major Lanser, a grim smile on his face.

Major Lanser moved forward, catlike, the sword in his hand twitching like a snake about to strike.

“This will be interesting,” he murmured. Over his shoulder he snapped to the man who had tripped over the girl’s foot, “Watch the others. I will handle our collegiate Don Quixote.”

“No!” the girl cried. “It isn’t fair. He hasn’t a chance against you.”

“I will be gentle with him,” Major Lanser smiled. He moved forward in a lithe deadly fencer’s crouch. “I will not kill him quickly.”

“You fiend!” the girl cried. She tried vainly to jerk loose from the man who held her. “Don’t duel him!” she cried, struggling to face D’Artagnan. “Don’t you see, he’s planning to cut you to ribbons?”

D’Artagnan was leaning against the mantle, almost lazily, but his narrowed eyes watched Lanser’s every move.

“Save your sympathy for the Major,” he murmured. “He is more likely to have need of it. I am not exactly unaccustomed to the sport of fencing.”

“This is not going to be a sporting contest,” the Major said grimly. With a sudden feint he lunged to the right, then crossed back to the left and his sword flashed at D’Artagnan.

Philip cried out involuntarily, but D’Artagnan’s sword had somehow sprung magically to meet the Major’s, and steel crashed unavailingly against steel.

“A good defense,” the Major said, breathing through stiff lips.

“Let us test yours,” D’Artagnan said cooly.

His sword seemed to flash with the speed of light. His lean body shifted forward.

A hoarse shuddering gasp broke from the Major’s throat.

The point of D’Artagnan’s blade was touching his shirt and D’Artagnan was poised to lunge, a grim, merciless smile hovering about his lips.

The Major’s sword was at his side. He had been caught completely off guard by the speed and skill of D’Artagnan’s thrust.

His breathing was ragged as he waited for the cold steel to drive forward into his body. But D’Artagnan stepped back and raised his sword.

“En guarde!” he cried. “You wanted time to kill me slowly and I shall give you all the time you need.”

Major Lanser raised his sword and stepped back, watching D’Artagnan with nervously eyes. The stiff hard lines of his face were dissolving into a mask of fear. He wet his thin, lips with his tongue as D’Artagnan moved slowly toward him.

“It is not really fair for me to use my right arm,” D’Artagnan murmured, almost to himself. “Athos, himself, has trouble with my right arm.”

With a smile he shifted the foil to his left hand. “This should give you a better chance, Major Lanser.”

Major Lanser lunged forward savagely, his face twisted with an insane rage. There was a blazing light of anticipated triumph in his eyes.

“No man alive can stand against me with his left hand,” he cried.

D’Artagnan parried the thrust with a turn of his wrist, without shifting the position of his body.

“There is always the first time for such things,” he said.

Lanser lunged forward again, his breath coming raggedly, and D’Artagnan slipped to one side with the ease of a shadow moving against a wall. His blade flashed down in a spinning arc. Steel rang against steel as Lanser’s blade flew from his hand and fell to the floor a dozen feet from where he stood.

“You seem to have lost something, Major,” D’Artagnan murmured. His blade was resting lightly in his hand and the Major stared at it as if it were something bewitched.

“You — you devil!” he cried hoarsely. “Who are you?” His face was flushed and there was a flicker of foam on his lips. With a sudden movement he sprang back and shouted to the man who was holding the red haired girl.

“Cover him. Drop him if he takes a step toward me.”

Phillip cried, “Watch out.”

Major Lanser’s henchman shifted around and covered D’Artagnan with his gun.

“All right, buddy,” he snapped. “Take one move and I’ll let you have it.”

D’Artagnan looked at the man and shrugged.

“You seem to be in the saddle,” he said. He bowed ironically to Major Lanser and tossed his foil to the floor.

The Major’s breathing gradually returned to normal.

“You will pay for that little exhibition, my friend,” he said to D’Artagnan.

Philip watched the scene tensely. The man with the gun, a heavy-set, florid individual who looked like a movie gangster, was standing with his back to the open door, about twelve feet from where he stood. There was nothing within reach which he could throw at the man and he was too far away to tackle. There was nothing he or anyone else could do.

“You have a silencer on that gun,” the Major snapped to his gunman, “let our young friend have it-.”

The man raised his gun slowly and took aim.

At that very instant a huge shape appeared in the doorway behind him, and a deep voice said, “Mon Dieu, we are barely in time!”

The gunman wheeled about, his face a mask of incredulous surprise. Phillip screamed, “Be careful!” but his admonition was unnecessary.

Porthos’ huge fist crashed into the gunman’s face. The man hit the floor in a sprawling crash and the gun slipped from his nervous fingers.

Porthos stepped over the thug’s body and Athos and Aramis followed him into the room.

Athos shook his head slowly.

“My dear boy,” he murmured to D’Artagnan, “won’t you ever learn to keep out of trouble.”

D’Artagnan smiled, turning to his companions, and the Major seized that opportunity to make a break. Ducking swiftly he scooped up the foil that D’Artagnan had dropped and bolted for the door.

Athos was the only person who stood between him and freedom.

“Out of my way!” Lanser snarled.

Athos was still wearing his pin-stripe suit, but his sword was buckled at this waist. He dropped back a step and his blade flashed into his hand.

“I’m afraid I don’t like your tone,” he said quietly.

Lanser lunged forward, his blade driving for Athos’ heart, but Athos slipped aside easily. Lanser, his eyes glaring with mad frustration, grabbed the red-haired girl by the waist and swung her around in front of him as a shield.

“Now,” he grated. “Stand aside!”

With his sword extended he lunged forward again, shielding his body with the girl’s.

Athos murmured, “You are making my task a bit more difficult.”

His smile was like the flicker of light on a rapier as he feinted to the left, drawing the Major in that direction.

His move back to the right was quicker than an eye could follow. The sword in his hand — the coolest, most daring hand in all France — leaped forward like a bolt of flashing light and Major Lanser stiffened involuntarily, a cry breaking from his lips. For an instant his side had been exposed, and in that instant the blade of Athos had found its mark.

With a strangled curse the Major released the girl and stepped back. He tried desperately to raise his sword arm but it was a vain effort. His tall spare frame broke at the middle and he fell to the floor and lay still.

D’Artagnan sprang to the girl’s side and removed the tape from her wrists. She swayed against him and he held her close.

“My compliments, Athos,” he said, looking over the girl’s head at his friend. “Your hand has lost none if its skill.”

Athos saluted with his sword, “Thank you.”

The girl glanced down at the Major’s still form and a slight shudder passed over her slender body.

“Can’t you tell us now what this is all about?” D’Artagnan asked gently.

“I can now,” the girl said. “I am an agent for the Free French forces of General De Gaulle. My mission here was to pass along vital information to a British agent. When I arrived I was met by Major Lanser, whose credentials indicated that he was the British agent I was seeking. But for some reason I didn’t trust him. I stalled him off, hoping to find something in the meantime to confirm or alleviate my suspicions. He became more and more insistent that I pass over my information. I couldn’t go to the police or the F.B.I. because of the confidential nature of my work.” She looked at D’Artagnan. “That is when you arrived on the scene. Obviously the Major could afford to wait no longer for he decided to get the information from me by force, if necessary.”

“You say you are an agent for the Free French?” Athos asked.

“Yes. Sometimes we are called the Fighting French.”

“There in none other,” Aramis said. D’Artagnan looked down at the girl and his lean face was serious.

“Couldn’t we help you in some way?” he asked. “I would be happy to place my sword under the command of this General De Gaulle.”

“And I think he would be equally happy to have you,” the girl said. “There is work to do all over the world. In Tunis, in Africa, in London, everywhere there is a need for men of resourcefulness and courage.”

D’Artagnan swung about to the three musketeers.

“What say, comrades? Here is the opportunity of a fighting man’s life. The enemy is everywhere; the arena is the world; and the prize is our beloved France!”

Athos looked down at the floor, his face grave.

“Aramis, Porthos, and I have been talking this over,” he said. “We are going to fight for France — but we are going to fight for France in France, on the soil of own country.”

“But that is not possible,” the girl said. “There is no way to get there.” Athos glanced fleetingly at Aramis and Porthos and then he smiled faintly. “We shall find a way,” he said.

The girl looked at the three men for an instant and there was a strange wonder in her eyes.

“I believe you will,” she murmured softly.

Phillip watched the scene and there was a strange constriction in his throat.

He cleared his throat apologetically.

He said to Athos, “Could I go with you? I know many things about the customs of today that would be valuable. And I am sure now of not only what I want to live for, but also of what I want to die for.”

Athos smiled at him and threw an arm over his shoulder.

“Why we couldn’t get along without you!” he said.

Phillip felt that something inside his chest might burst with his happiness.

Athos turned to D’Artagnan and his smile was sad and gentle.

“This is farewell, comrade,” he said.

“Perhaps,” D’Artagnan said. “But we have parted in the past comrades, but a strange fate has always brought us together again.”

Porthos and Aramis joined arms with Athos and, with Phillip between them, they backed toward the door.

“Remember,” Athos smiled, “One for all—”

D’Artagnan’s arm tightened about the girl’s shoulder and he looked down into her shining face. “And all for one,” he murmured.

When he looked up the doorway was empty.