WHAS the mather with the latch!

He shook it gently.

“No mistake about it—grown solid to the fence. I’ll have to climb over.”

He touched the points of the sharp pickets, suddenly straightened himself with dignity and growled:

“I won’t climb over my own fence, and I won’t scratch under. I’ll walk straight through.”

A vicious lurch against the gate smashed the latch and he fell heavily inside.

He had scarcely touched the ground when a fair girl of eighteen, dressed in spotless white, reached the gate, running breathlessly, darted inside, seized his arm and helped him to his feet.

“Mr. John, you must come home with me,” she said eagerly.

“Grot to see old Butler, Miss Susie.”

“You’re in no condition to see Judge Butler.” She spoke with tenderness and yet with authority.

“And why not?” he argued good-naturedly. “Ain’t I dressed in my best bib and tucker?”

He brushed the dirt from his seedy frock coat and buttoned it carefully.

“You’ve been drinking,” pleaded the girl.

“Yet I’m not drunk!” he declared triumphantly.

“Then you’re giving a good imitation,” she said with an audible smile.

“Miss Susie, I deny the allegation.”

He bowed with impressive dignity.

Susie drew him firmly toward the street.

“You mustn’t go in—I ran all the way to stop you in time—you’ll quarrel with the Judge.”

“That’s what I came for.”

“Well, you musn’t do it. Mama says the Judge has the power to ruin you.”

John’s eyes shot a look of red hate toward the house and his strong jaws snapped.

“He has done it already, child!” he growled; paused, and changed his tone to a quizzical drawl. “The fact is, Miss Susie, I’ve merely imbibed a little eloquence on purpose to-night to tell this distinguished ornament of the United States Judiciary, without reservation and with due emphasis, just how many kinds of a scoundrel he really is.”

“Don’t do it.”

“It’s my patriotic duty.”

“But you’ll fight.”

“Far from it, Miss Susie. I may thrash the Judge incidentally during our talk, but there will be no fight.”

“Please don’t go in, Mr. John!” she pleaded softly.

“I must, child,” he answered, smilingly but firmly. “Old Butler to-day used his arbitrary power to disbar me from the practice of law. If that order stands, I’m a pauper. I already owe your mother for two months’ board.”

“We don’t want the money,” eagerly broke in the girl.

“Two months’ board,” he went on, ignoring her interruption, “for my dear old crazy Dad, helpless as a babe with his faithful servant Alfred who must wait on him—two months’ board for my bouncing brother Billy, an eighteen-year-old cub who never missed a meal—two months’ board for my war-tried appetite that was never known to fail. No, Miss Susie, we can’t impose on the good nature of the widow Wilson and her beautiful daughter who does the work of a slave without wages and without a murmur.”

Susie’s eyes suddenly fell.

“No, I’ve given Alfred orders to pack. We must move to-morrow.”

“You’ll do nothing of the kind,” cried the girl. “You can pay us when you are able. Your father saved us from want during the war. We owe him a debt that can’t be paid. He is no trouble, and Alfred works the garden. Mother loves Billy as if he were my brother. And we are honoured in having you in our home.”

The tender gray eyes were lowered again.

John looked at her curiously, bowed and kissed her hand.

“Thanks, Miss Susie! I appreciate, more than I can tell, your coming alone after me here to-night—a very rash and daring thing for a girl to do in these troublesome times. Such things make a fellow ashamed that he ever took a drink, make him feel that life is always worth the fight—and I’m going to make it to-night—and I’m going to win!”

“Then don’t give old Butler the chance to ruin you,” pleaded the gentle voice.

“I won’t, my little girl, I won’t—don’t worry! I’ll play my trump card—I’ve got it here.”

He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a letter which he crushed nervously in his slender but powerful hand, drawing his tall figure suddenly erect.

The girl saw that her pleadings were in vain, and said helplessly:

“You won’t come back with me?”

“No, Miss Susie, I’ve serious work just now with the present lord of this manor; my future hangs on the issue. I’ll win—and I’ll come home later in the evening without a scratch.”

Again the slender white hand rested on his arm. “Promise me to wait an hour until you are cooler and your head is clear before you see him—will you?”

“Maybe,” he said evasively.

“If you do appreciate my coming,” she urged, “at least show it by this; promise for my sake, won’t you?”

He hesitated a moment and answered with courtesy:

“Yes, I promise for your sake, Susie, my little mascot and fellow conspirator of The Invisible Empire—good-bye!” He seized her hand, and held it a moment. “My! my! but you look one of us to-night, with that sylph figure robed in white standing there ghost-like in the moonlit shadows!”

“I wish I could share your dangers. I’d go on a raid with you if you’d let me,” she cried eagerly.

“No doubt,” he laughed.

“I’ll sit up until you come,” she whispered as she turned and left him.

John Graham leaned against the picket fence and watched intently the white figure until Susie Wilson disappeared. The talk with her had more than half sobered him.

“And now for business,” he muttered, turning through the open gate toward the house. He stopped suddenly with amazement.

“Well, what the Devil! every window from cellar to attic ablaze with light. And the old scoundrel has always kept it dark as the grave.”

He seated himself on a rustic bench in the shadows to await the lapse of the hour he had promised Susie, and pondered more carefully the plan of personal vengeance against Butler which was now rapidly shaping itself in his mind. That he had the power, as chief of the dreaded Ku Klux Klan, to execute it was not to be doubted. The Invisible Empire obeyed his word without a question.

Tender memories of his childhood began to flood his soul. Beneath these trees he had spent the happiest days of life—the charmed life of the old r茅gime. He could see now the stately form of his mother moving among its boxwood walks directing the work of her slaves.

He had not been there before since the day her body was carried from the hall five years ago and laid to rest in the family vault in the far corner of the lawn. Ah, that awful day! Could he ever forget it? The day old Butler brought his deputy marshals and evicted his father and mother from the home they loved as life itself!

The Graham house had always been a show place in the town of Independence. Built in 1840, by John’s grandfather, Robert Graham, the eccentric son of Colonel John Graham of Revolutionary fame, it was a curious mixture of Colonial and French architecture. The French touches were tributes to the Huguenot ancestry of his grandmother.

The building crowned the summit of a hill and was surrounded by twenty-five acres of trees of native growth beneath which wound labyrinths of walks hedged by boxwood. Its shape was a huge, red brick rectangle, three and a half stories in height, with mansard roof broken by quaint projecting French windows. On three sides porches had been added, their roof supported by small white Colonial columns. The front door, of pure Colonial pattern, opened directly into a great hall of baronial dimensions, at the back of which a circular stairway wound along the curved wall.

The attic story was lighted by the windows of an observatory. From the hall one could thus look up through the galleries of three floors and the slightest whisper from above was echoed with startling distinctness. The strange noises which the Negro servants had heard floating down from these upper spaces had been translated into ghost stories which had grown in volume and picturesque distinction with each succeeding generation. The house had always been “haunted.”

The family vault in the remotest corner of the lawn was built of solid masonry sunk deep into the hillside. Its iron doors, which were never locked, opened through a mass of tangled ivy and honeysuckle climbing in all directions over the cedars and holly which completely hid its existence.

Popular tradition said that Robert Graham had loved his frail Huguenot bride with passionate idolatry, and anticipating her early death, had constructed this vault, a very unusual thing in this section of the South. It was whispered, too, that he had dug a secret passage-way from the house to this tomb, that he might spend his evenings near her body without the prying eyes of the world to watch his anguish. Whether this secret way was a myth or reality only the Grahams knew. Not one of the family had ever been known to speak of the rumour, either to affirm or deny it.

A year after his wife’s death Robert Graham was found insane, wandering among the trees at the entrance of the vault. This branch of the family had always been noted for it’s men of genius and it’s touch of hereditary insanity.

On the day of his mother’s burial John Graham had found his own father sitting in the door of this tomb hopelessly insane.

But he had not accepted the theory of hereditary insanity in the case of his father. The Major was a man of quiet courteous manners, deliberate in his habits, a trained soldier, a distinguished veteran of the Mexican war, conciliatory in temper, and a diplomat by instinct. He had never had a quarrel with a neighbour or a personal feud in his life.

The longer John Graham brooded over this tragedy to-night, the fiercer grew his hatred of Butler. Something had happened in the hall the day of his mother’s death which had remained a mystery. Aunt Julie Ann, who stayed with the new master of the old house as his cook, had told John that she had heard high words between Butler and the Major, and when she was called, found her mistress dead on the floor and his father lying moaning beside her.

John had always held the theory that Butler had used rough or insulting language to his mother; his father had resented it, and the Judge, taking advantage of his weakness from a long illness of typhoid fever, had struck the Major a cowardly blow. The shock had killed his mother, and rendered his father insane. Experts had examined the Major’s head, however, and failed to discover any pressure of the skull on the brain. Yet John held this theory as firmly as if he had been present and witnessed the tragedy.

He rose from his seat, walked to the front entrance of the house and looked at his watch by the bright light which streamed through the leaded glass beside the door. He had yet ten minutes.

He retraced in part his steps, followed the narrow path to the foot of the hill and entered the vault. Feeling his way along the sides to the arched niche in the rear, he pressed his shoulder heavily against the right side of the smooth stone wall forming the back of the niche, and felt it instantly give. The rush of damp air told him that the old underground way was open.

He smiled with satisfaction. He knew that this passage led through a blind wall in the basement of the house and up into the great hall by a panel in the oak wainscoting under the stairs.

“It’s easy! My men could seize him without a struggle!” he said grimly, slowly allowing the door to settle back of its own weight into place again.

He stood for a moment in the darkness of the vault, clinched his fist at last and exclaimed:

“I’ll do it!—but I prefer the front door. I’ll try that first.”

A few minutes later he had reached the house, knocked loudly and stood waiting an answer.

Aunt Julie Ann’s black face smiled him a hearty welcome.

“Come right in, Marse John, honey, an’ make yo’ sef at home. I sho is glad ter see ye!”

John walked deliberately across the hall and sat down on the old mahogany davenport under the stairs behind which he knew the secret door opened. He reached back carelessly, played with the spring and felt it yield.

Aunt Julie Ann’s huge form waddled after him. “Fore I pass de time er day I mus’ tell ye Marse John, what de Jedge say. He give ‘structions ter all de folks dat ef any Graham put his foot ter dat do’ ter tell ‘im he don’t low you inside dis yard! I tell ye, so’s I kin tell him I tell ye—Cose, I can’t help it dat you brush right pass me an’ come in, can I, honey?”

“Of course not, Aunt Julie Ann.”

Her big figure shook with suppressed laughter. “De very idee er me keepin’ Mammy’s baby outen dis house when I carry him across dis hall in my arms de day he wuz born! An how’s all de folks, Marse John?”

“About as usual, thank you, Aunt Julie Ann. How are you?”

“Poorly, thank God, poorly.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

She glanced furtively up into the dim moonlit gallery of the observatory and whispered:

“Dey wuz terrible times here las’ night!”

“What happened?”

“Ghosts!”

“What, again?” John laughed.

“Nasah, dem wuz new ones! We got de lights all burnin’ ter-night. De Jedge, he wuz scared outen ten years growth. He been in bed all day, des now git up ter supper. Wuz Marse William well las’ night?”

“As well as usual, yes; Alfred put him to bed early.”

“Well, sho’s you born, his livin’ ghost wuz here! He wuz clothed an’ in his right min’ too! I hear sumfin walkin’ up in de attic ’bout leben erclock, an’ I creep out in de hall an’ look up, an’ bress de Lawd, dar stood you Pa leanin’ ober de railin’ lookin’ right at me! Well, sah, I wuz scared dat bad I couldn’t holler. I look ergin an’ dar stood yo Ma, my dead Missy, right side er him.”

“Ah, Aunt Julie Ann, you were walking in your sleep.”

“Nasah! I’se jist as waked as I is now. I try my bes’ ergin ter holler, but I clean los’ my breath and couldn’t. So I crawl to the Jedge’s room, an’ tell him what I see. He wuz scared most ter death, but he follow me out in de hall an’ look up. He seed ‘em too an’ drop down side er me er foamin’ at de mouf. He’s powerful scary anyhow, de Jedge is—des like us niggers. I got him ter bed and poured er big drink er licker down ‘im, an’ when he come to, he make me promise nebber ter tell nobody, an’ I promise. Cose, hit’s des like I’se talkin’ ter myself, honey, when I tell you.”

“And this morning he gave orders to admit no one of the tribe of Graham inside the yard again?”

“Yassah!”

“Well, tell his Honour that I am here and wish to see him at once.”

“Yassah, I spec he won’t come down—but I tell ‘im, sah.”

She waddled up the stairs to the Judge’s room. John heard the quarrel between them. Aunt Julie Ann’s voice loud, shrill, defiant, insolent, above the Judge’s. She served him for his money and her love for the old house, but secretly she despised him as she did all poor white trash and in such moments made no effort to hide her feelings.

“Bully for Aunt Julie Ann!” John chuckled.

When she returned, he slipped the last piece of money he possessed into her hand and smiled.

“Keep it for good luck,” he said.

“Yassah! De Jedge say he be down as soon as he dresses—he all dress now but he des want ter keep you waitin’.”

“I understand,” said John with a laugh. “Are you sure, Aunt Julie Ann, that the ghost of the Major you saw last night wasn’t the real man himself?”

“Cose I’se sho’. Hit wuz his speret!”

“Alfred says he’s walking in his sleep of late; at least he found mud on his shoes the other morning when he got up.”

“De Lawd, Marse John, hit wuz his speret, des lak I tell ye. He didn’t look crazy no mo’n you is. He look des lak he look in de ole days when we wuz all rich an’ proud and happy. He wuz laughin’ an’ talkin’ low like to my Missy an’ she wuz laughin’ an talkin’ back at ‘im. I seed ‘em bof wid my own eyes des ez plain ez I see you now, chile.”

“You thought you did, anyway.”

“Cose I did, honey. De doors is all locked an’ bolted wid new iron bolts—nuttin but sperets kin get in dis house atter dark—de Jedge he sees ‘em too—des ez plain ez I did.”

“And this coward is set to rule a downtrodden people,” John muttered fiercely under his breath. “Yes it’s easy, he’ll do what I tell him to-night, or—I’ll—use—the—power I wield—to—execute—the judgment—of—a—just—God.”

“What you say, honey?” Aunt Julie Ann asked.

“Nothing.”

“Dar’s de Jedge commin’ now,” she whispered, hastily leaving.

John kept his seat in sullen silence until the shuffling footsteps of his enemy had descended the stairs and crossed half the space of the hall.

The younger man rose and gazed at him a moment, his eyes flashing with hatred he could no longer mask.

The Judge halted, moved his feet nervously and fumbled at the big gold watch-chain he wore across his ponderous waist. His shifting bead eyes sought the floor, and then he suddenly lifted his drooping head like a turtle, approached John in a fawning, creeping, half-walk, half-shuffle, and extended his hand.

“I bid you welcome, young man, to the old home of your ancestors. In fact, I’m delighted to see you. I heard to-day that you would probably call this evening, and had the servants illuminate every room in your honour.”

“Indeed!” John sneered.

“Yes, I’ve wished for some time that I might have such an opportunity to talk things over with you.”

John had turned from the proffered hand and seated himself with deliberate insolence.

“Thanks for the illuminations in honour of my family!”

The sneer with which he spoke was not lost on the Judge. His patronising judicial air, so newly acquired, wavered before the cold threat of the younger man’s manner. Yet he recovered himself sufficiently to say:

“My boy, I like your high spirit, but I must give you a little fatherly advice.”

“Seeing that my own father at present cannot do so.”

The Judge ignored the interruption and seated himself with an attempt at dignity.

“Mr. Graham, you must recognise the authority of the United States Government.”

“Which means you?”

“I was compelled to make an example of disloyalty.”

“You disbarred me from personal malice.”

“For your treasonable utterances.”

“I have the right to criticise your degradation of the judiciary in using it to further your political ambitions.”

“I disbarred you for treason and contempt of court.”

John rose and stood glaring at the judge whose shifting eyes avoided him.

“Well, you’re on solid ground there, your Honour! Were I the master of every language of earth, past master of all the dead tongues of the ages, a genius in the use of every epithet the rage of man ever spoke, still words would have no power to express my contempt for you!”

The Judge shuffled his big feet as if to rise.

“Sit still!” John growled. “I’ve come here to-night to demand of you two things.”

“You’re in no position to demand anything of me!” spluttered Butler, running his hand nervously through his heavy black hair.

“Two things,” John went on evenly: “First revoke your order and restore me to my law practice to-morrow morning.”

“Not until you apologise for your criticism.”

“That’s what I’m doing now. I profoundly regret the incident. I should have kicked you across the street—criticism was an error of judgment.”

Butler shambled to his feet, trembling with rage, pulled nervously at his beard again and gasped:

“How dare you insult me in my house!”

“It’s my house!” flashed the angry answer.

“Your house?” the Judge stammered, again tugging at his beard.

“Yes, sit down.”

The astonished jurist dropped into his chair, his shifting basilisk eyes dancing with a new excitement.

“Your house, your house—why, what—what!”

“Yes and you’re going to vacate it within two weeks.”

“What do you mean, sir?” demanded the Judge, plucking up his courage for a moment.

“I mean that the distinguished jurist, Hugh Butler, who had the honour of presiding over the trial of Jefferson Davis, and now aspires to the leadership of his party in the South, was living in a stolen house when he delivered his famous charge concerning traitors to the grand jury, that morning in Richmond. It is with peculiar personal pleasure that I now brand you to your face—coward, liar, perjurer, thief!”

John paused a moment to watch the effects of his words on his enemy. The cold sweat began to appear in the bald spot above the Judge’s forehead, and his answer came with gasping feeble emphasis:

“I bought this house and paid for it!”

“Exactly!” sneered the younger man. “But I never knew until I got this letter”—he drew the letter from his pocket—“just how you came to buy a house which cost $50,000 for so trifling a sum of money.”

“Who wrote that letter?” interrupted the Judge eagerly.

“Evidently a friend of yours, once high in your councils, who has grown of late to love you as passionately as I do. And I think he could put a knife into your ribs with as much pleasure.”

The Judge winced and glanced nervously into the galleries.

“Don’t worry, your Honour. If you take the medicine I prescribe, amputation will not be necessary. Let me read the letter. It’s brief but to the point:”

To John Graham, Esq.

Dear Sir: The secret of Butler’s possession of your estate is simple. Under his authority as United States Judge, he ordered its confiscation, forced his wife to buy it for $2,800, at a fake sale, which had not been advertised, and later had it reconveyed to him. His wife refused to live in the house, sent her daughter to school in Washington, and died two years later from the conscious dishonour she had been obliged at least in secret to share. A suit brought before the United States Supreme Court will restore your property, hurl a scoundrel from the bench, and cover him with everlasting infamy.

A Former Pal of His Honour.

“An anonymous slanderer!” snorted the judge.

“Yet he expresses himself with vigour and accuracy, and his words are backed by circumstantial evidence.”

Butler sprang to his feet livid with rage crying:

“John Graham, you’re drunk!”

“Just drunk enough to talk entertainingly to you, Judge.”

“Will you leave my house? or must I call an officer to eject you, sir?” he thundered.

“A process of law is slow and expensive, Judge,” said John with a drawl. “I haven’t the money at present to waste on a suit, May I ask when you will vacate this estate?”

“When ordered to do so by the last court of appeal, sir!”

John looked the Judge squarely in the eye and slowly said:

“You are before the last court of appeal now, and it’s judgment day.”

“I understand your threat, sir, but I want to tell you that your Ku Klux Klan has had its day. The President is aroused—Congress has acted. I’ll order a regiment of troops to this town tomorrow! Dare to lift the weight of your little finger against my authority and I’ll send your crazy old father to the county poorhouse and you to the gallows—to the gallows! I warn you!” John took a step closer to his enemy, towering over his slouchy figure menacingly, and said, “When will you vacate this house?”

Butler grasped the back of his chair, trembling with fury.

“The possession of this estate is the fulfillment of one of the proudest ambitions of my life.”

“When will you get out?”

“And my daughter has just returned to-day from Washington, a beautiful accomplished woman, to preside over it.”

“When—will—you—get—out?”

“When ordered by the Supreme Court of the United States—or when I’m carried out—feet—foremost—through—that—door!”

The Judge choked with anger.

“Then, until we meet again!”

John bowed with mock courtesy, walked across the hall to the alcove and took his hat from the rack where Aunt Julie Ann had hung it, just as Stella Butler sprang through the rear entrance with a joyous shout, reached at a bound the Judge’s side and threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh! Papa, what a glorious night! Steve and I had such a ride!” The Judge placed his hand on her lips and whispered:

“My dear, there’s someone here.”

Stella glanced over her shoulder and saw John fumbling his hat in embarrassment.

“Why it’s the famous Mr. John Graham—introduce me, quick!”

“Not to-night, dear; I do not wish you to know him.”

Stella released herself and, with a ripple of girlish laughter, walked boldly over to John, her face wreathed in friendly smiles.

“Mr. Graham, permit me to introduce myself, Stella Butler. My father has just forbidden it. I care nothing for your old politics—shall we not be friends?”

She extended a dainty little hand and John took it stammering incoherently. Never had he touched a hand so warm, and tender and so full of vital magnetism. It thrilled him with strange confusion.

Never had he seen a vision of such bewildering loveliness. An exquisite oval face with lines like a delicate cameo, cheeks of ripe-peach red, a crown of unruly raven-black hair, and big brown eyes shaded by heavy lashes. Her dress showed the perfection of good taste and careful study—a yellow satin, trimmed in old lace that fitted her rounded little figure without a wrinkle, dainty feet in snow-white stockings and bow-tipped slippers that peeped in and out mischievously as she walked, and with it all a magnetic personality which riveted and held the attention.

He stared at her a moment dumb with wonder. Could it be possible that a girl of such extraordinary beauty, of such remarkable character, of such appealing manners could have been born of such a father!

“As the new mistress of your old home let me bid you a hearty welcome, Mr. Graham,” she said softly. “You must come often and tell me all its legends and ghost stories?”

The Judge shuffled uneasily and cleared his throat with nervous anger.

“Now keep still, Papa! I’m going to make this old house ring with joy and laughter. I won’t have any of your political quarrels. I’m going to be friends with everybody, as my mother was—they say she was a famous belle in her day, Mr. Graham?”

“So I have often heard,” John answered with increasing confusion, as he retreated toward the door.

“You will come again?”

“I hope to soon,” he gravely answered as he bowed himself out the door.