get such well-known things as their own name, place of birth, or age; were unable to recognize the denominations of coins, etc. He noted, however, that although the answers these patients gave were false, they had a certain relation to the question. For instance, coins of a lower denomination would be mistaken for higher ones, postage stamps were called paper, etc. They also showed a marked tendency to elaborate all sorts of false reminiscences about their past life. Along with this failure of the simplest thought and memory activity, these individuals were otherwise well-ordered and behaved.

The reader will at once recognize in the above description the well-known Ganser symptom-complex, the several variations of which have been so frequently discussed of late years. Ganser[5] further showed that these cases frequently evidenced vivid auditory and visual hallucinations. At the same time there existed a more or less distinct clouding of consciousness, with the simultaneous presence of hysterical stigma

out it. It is not the best looking thing, but the bestacting thing, which is the most advantageous to us. This good-lookingcandle is a bad burning one. There will be a guttering round about itbecause of the irregularity of the stream of air and the badness of thecup which is formed thereby. You may see some pretty examples (and I trustyou will notice these instances) of the action of the ascending currentwhen you have A little gutter run down the side of a candle, making itthicker there than it is elsewhere. As the candle goes on burning, thatkeeps its place and forms a little pillar sticking up by the side,because, as it rises higher above the rest of the wax or fuel, the airgets better round it, and it is more cooled and better able to resist theaction of the heat at a little distance. Now, the greatest mistakes andfaults with regard to candles, as in many other things, often bring withthem instruction which we should not receive if they had not occurred. Wecome here to be philosophers; and I

himself; for the Coroner, if you know what that means."

"But what if she's alive! Those things will crush her. Let us take them off. I'll help. I'm not too weak to help."

"Do you know who this person is?" I asked, for her voice had more feeling in it than I thought natural to the occasion, dreadful as it was.

"I?" she repeated, her weak eyelids quivering for a moment as she tried to sustain my scrutiny. "How should I know? I came in with the policeman and haven't been any nearer than I now be. What makes you think I know anything about her? I'm only the scrub-woman, and don't even know the names of the family."

"I thought you seemed so very anxious," I explained, suspicious of her suspiciousness, which was of so sly and emphatic a character that it changed her whole bearing from one of fear to one of cunning in a moment.

"And who wouldn't feel the like of that for a poor creature lying crushed under a heap of broken crockery!"

Crockery! those Japanese vases worth hun

e a real getaway. All I needed to lay hands on him was a good description."

"Description?" echoed Whipple. "Your agency's got descriptions on file--thumb prints--photographs--of every employee of this bank."

"Every one of 'em but Clayte," I said. "When I came to look up the files, there wasn't a thing on him. Don't think I ever laid eyes on the man myself."

A description of Edward Clayte? Every man at the table--even old Sillsbee--sat up and opened his mouth to give one; but Knapp beat them to it, with,

"Clayte's worked in this bank eight years. We all know him. You can get just as many good descriptions as there are people on our payroll or directors in this room--and plenty more at the St. Dunstan, I'll be bound."

"You think so?" I said wearily. "I have not been idle, gentlemen; I have interviewed his associates. Listen to this; it is a composite of the best I've been able to get." I read: "Edward Clayte; height about five feet seven or eight; weight between one hundred an

CHAPTER II.

DRUMBEAT OF DEATH

LUIZ WAS staring at Raft in surprise.

"S'nhor?" Luiz said.

"What?" Raft answered.

"Did you speak?"

"No." Raft let the lens fall back on da Fonseca's bare chest.

Merriday was at his side. "The other man won't let me look at him," he said worriedly. "He's stubborn."

"I'll talk to him," Raft said. He went out, trying not to think about that lens, that lovely, impossible face. Subjective, of course, not objective. Hallucination--or self-hypnosis, with the light reflecting in the mirror as a focal point. But he didn't believe that really.

The bearded man was in Raft's office, examining a row of bottles on a shelf--fetal specimens. He turned and bowed, a faint mockery in his eyes. Raft was impressed; this was no ordinary backwoods wanderer. There was a courtliness about him, and a smooth-knit, muscular grace that gave the impression of fine breeding in bo

Carthage was coming swiftly to an endbefore them. Under their very eyes the two Roman galleys had shot in,one on either side of the vessel of Black Magro. They had grappled withhim, and he, desperate in his despair, had cast the crooked flukes ofhis anchors over their gunwales, and bound them to him in an iron grip,whilst with hammer and crowbar he burst great holes in his ownsheathing. The last Punic galley should never be rowed into Ostia, asight for the holiday-makers of Rome. She would lie in her own waters.And the fierce, dark soul of her rover captain glowed as he thought thatnot alone should she sink into the depths of the mother sea.

Too late did the Romans understand the man with whom they had to deal.Their boarders who had flooded the Punic decks felt the planking sinkand sway beneath them. They rushed to gain their own vessels; but they,too, were being drawn downwards, held in the dying grip of the great redgalley. Over they went and ever over. Now the deck of Magro's ship i

ourt judge, was found by the police at his home, Riversbrook in Tanton Gardens, Hampstead, to-day. Deceased had been shot through the heart. The police have no doubt that he was murdered."

But the morning papers of the following day did full justice to the sensation. It was the month of August when Parliament is "up," the Law Courts closed for the long vacation, and when everybody who is anybody is out of London for the summer holidays. News was scarce and the papers vied with one another in making the utmost of the murder of a High Court judge. Each of the morning papers sent out a man to Hampstead soon after the news of the crime reached their offices in the afternoon, and some of the more enterprising sent two or three men. Scotland Yard and Riversbrook were visited by a succession of pressmen representing the London dailies, the provincial press, and the news agencies.

The two points on which the newspaper accounts of the tragedy laid stress were the mysterious letter which had been sent to

passes through his body. He, and us, are released from our torture.

In this passive and mysterious medium, when we are brought into a state of vicarious tension, we are more likely to swallow whichever pill and accept whatever solution that the storyteller offers.

Interactivity: the birth of resistance

Interactive media changed this equation. Imagine if your father were watching that aspirin commercial back in 1955 on his old console television. Even if he suspected that he was watching a commercial designed to put him in a state of anxiety, in order to change the channel and remove himself from the externally imposed tension, he would have to move the popcorn off his lap, pull up the lever on his recliner, walk up to the television set and manually turn the dial. All that amounts to a somewhat rebellious action for a bleary-eyed television viewer. To sit through the rest of the commercial, however harrowing, might cost him only a tiny quantity of human energy until the pills come out of

ph passed outfit after outfit exhausted by the way. He had reachedCopper Creek Camp, which was boiling and frothing with the excitement ofgold-maddened men, and was congratulating himself that he would soon beat the camps west of the Peace, when the thing happened. A drunkenIrishman, filled with a grim and unfortunate sense of humor, spotted ShanTung's wonderful cue and coveted it. Wherefore there followed a bit ofexcitement in which Shan Tung passed into his empyrean home with a bulletthrough his heart, and the drunken Irishman was strung up for his misdeedfifteen minutes later. Tao, the Great Dane, was taken by the leader ofthe men who pulled on the rope. Tao's new master was a "drifter," and ashe drifted, his face was always set to the north, until at last a newhumor struck him and he turned eastward to the Mackenzie. As the seasonspassed, Tao found mates along the way and left a string of his progenybehind him, and he had new masters, one after another, until he was grownold and his muzzle w

ometimes byanother, according to occasion and circumstance. He was constructingwhat seemed to be some kind of a frail mechanical toy; and was apparentlyvery much interested in his work. He was a white-headed man, now, butotherwise he was as young, alert, buoyant, visionary and enterprising asever. His loving old wife sat near by, contentedly knitting andthinking, with a cat asleep in her lap. The room was large, light, andhad a comfortable look, in fact a home-like look, though the furniturewas of a humble sort and not over abundant, and the knickknacks andthings that go to adorn a living-room not plenty and not costly. Butthere were natural flowers, and there was an abstract and unclassifiablesomething about the place which betrayed the presence in the house ofsomebody with a happy taste and an effective touch.

Even the deadly chromos on the walls were somehow without offence;in fact they seemed to belong there and to add an attraction to the room--a fascination, anyway; for whoever got