HOW DENNY AND WILL GOLDSTON ESCAPED GAOL.

ONE fine Spring morning, some twenty years ago, a stranger walked into my office, and told my secretary that he would like to talk over some private business with me. He was shown to my room, and introduced himself as Charles Denny. He was a quietly spoken individual, of striking appearance, and looked more like a well-to-do business man than anything else.

"Mr. Goldston," he said, taking the seat that I had indicated, "I want you to build some illusions for me. I have just come into some money, which will enable me to have tricks constructed from my own ideas."

My visitor handed me a packet of plans, which I scrutinised carefully, for I had never previously heard of him, and doubted whether he had the ability to think out an effective illusion. But to my astonishment I found the tricks to be exceedingly clever and original. One effect, in which a woman was to be produced from a box hardly big enough to hold a baby, was particularly good. Denny told me that he had thought this would be a suitable trick to close his act.

I agreed to undertake the work, and asked him to call again in a few weeks' time; when the whole series of illusions would be ready. He came at the appointed time and expressed his full approval of the way in which I handled the work.

"I think the tricks are very good, Mr. Denny," I said. "It would be a pity to spoil them through lack of good workmanship."

"I quite agree," was the reply. "As a matter of fact, I am booked for a week at the Putney Hippodrome from next Monday, and I want everything to be in apple-pie order. Do you think you could attend the dress rehearsal on Sunday, just to supervise the preliminary working of the illusions? I will pay you £50 for the trouble."

Although it was not my habit to work on Sundays, I thought this too good an opportunity to be missed, and readily agreed to his proposal. Denny hastened to add that he would have everything ready for me, so that I should be saved as much trouble as possible.

The following Sunday was extremely hot, and when I arrived at the Putney Hippodrome, I suggested to Denny that we should take a cold lunch before we settled down to business. The conjurer was hot and tired, for he had already put in two or three hours' work, and was only too willing to fall in with my suggestion. He insisted on paying me my fee there and then, although I had not yet started on the rehearsals, telling me that it might otherwise slip his memory.

After lunch, the weather seemed to get hotter than ever.

"What about a sail on the river before we go back to the theatre?" Denny suggested. "I think it's really too warm to start work just yet, don't you?"

We walked along the river side, and chose a comfortable looking boat, which we thought would suit our purpose. Telling the boatman we should probably be out for an hour or so, we hoisted our sails, and set off at a spanking pace in the direction of Hammersmith. The fresh river breeze was delightfully cool after the town air, and I rested back on the cushions feeling at peace with the whole world.

As I was congratulating myself on earning the easiest £50 of my life, a startled exclamation from my companion caused me to turn my head.

"Good God!" gasped Denny.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"The girl!"

I looked about me.

"I don't see a girl." I replied.

"The girl in the box!"

"Box? What box? I can't see a box either."

"My assistant! You remember the illusion in which I produce her from a foot square box? Well, I locked her up before you arrived at the theatre, and I've forgotten all about her! It's your fault for suggesting the lunch."

I ignored his last remark, for at the moment I was too agitated to reply.

"Good heavens, man!" I cried at length. "The girl must be dead. Let's hurry back. We may be in time yet."

We turned the prow of our small craft towards Putney, and, with all sails set, and two pairs of oars working at top speed, we headed for the boathouse. We must have covered the distance in record time, but to our tortured minds it seemed that we would never reach land.

At last, however, we drew up by the landing stage. We ran along the riverside as fast as our legs would carry us, for every second gained might be the difference between life and death to the unfortunate assistant. People gaped at us with open mouths, no doubt assuming that the intense heat had affected our sanity. I can honestly say that I have never run harder in my life.

We brushed past the astonished doorkeeper of the theatre, and hurried through to the wings. There, in the centre of the stage, stood the box, ominously still and silent. In an instant Denny was on his hands and knees, fumbling with the lock.

"For God's sake hurry!" I said, excitedly.

The lid sprang open, and Denny took one look inside. Then he turned towards me, his face as white as a sheet.

"It's no good, Goldston," he said. " She's dead."

The poor girl was lying in a huddled heap in the secret partition of the box. But, with Denny's help, I managed to get her out, and it was soon apparent to both of us that we had arrived just in time. She was not dead, but had been unconscious for some considerable time. We splashed her face with cold water, and fanned her with our coats. To our relief, the treatment proved effective, and in a short while she was sitting by our sides, pale and shaken, but otherwise none the worse for her unpleasant adventure.

"Thank God!" said Denny. Those two words were more expressive than any speech I ever heard.

Against my advice, the conjurer decided he would do no more rehearsing. I urged the necessity of trying through the new tricks at least once before the public performance on the morrow. But Denny would not hear of it.

"I've had enough for one day," he said, mopping his perspiring brow.