The daily morning oasis., 1918-01-13
By Robert w. Chambers

bats were soaring and tumbling, and the
tree-frogs trilled from the darkling pas
lures.
Around the bend in the road his house
stood all alone, small, single-storied
cottage in a tangled garden He passed
in at his gate, but instead of unlocking the
front door he began to examine the house
as though he had never before seen it;
he scrutinized every window, he made
cautious, silent tour of the building,
returning to stare again at the front door.
The door was locked; he never left the
house without locking it, and he never
returned without approaching the house
in alert silence, as though it might con-
ceal an enemy.
There was no sound of his footballs as
be mounted the steps; the next instant
he was inside the house. his back against
the closed door-listening. As usual,
he heard nothing except the ticking OF
clock somewhere in the house. and as
usual he slipped his revolver back into the
side pocket of his coat and fitted key
into the door on his left. The room was
pitch dark he lighted candle and held it
up, shading his eyes with steady hand
There was table, "a printing-press and
one chair in the room; the table was lit
bottles of acid, packets of fibre paper and
Photographic paraphernalla. A camera,
a reading lamp and dark-lantern stood
on a shelf beside a nickel-plated clock
which ticked sharply.
The two windows In the room had been
sealed up with planks, over which sheet
iron was nailed. The door also had been
reinforced with sheet iron. From a peg
above it repeating rifle hung festooned
with two cartridge belts.
When he had filled his lamp from
can of kerosene he lighted it and sat
down to the task before him with even
less interest than usual-and his interest
had been waning for weeks. For the
excitement that makes crime interesting
had subsidized and the novelty was gone.
There was no longer anything in his crime
that appealed to his intellect. The prob
lem of successfully accomplishing crime
was no longer a problem to him; he had
solved it. The twelve months work on
the plate before him demonstrated this
the plate was perfect; the counterfeit an
absolute fac-simile. The government
stood to lose whatever he chose to take
from it,
AS an artist in engraving and as an
intelligent man, Helm was, or had been,
proud of his work But for that very
reason, because he was an artist, he had
tired of his masterpiece, and was already
lingering new plate, vaguely meditating
better and more ambitious work. Why
not? Why should he not employ his
splendid skill and superb accuracy in
something original? That is where the
artist and the artisan part company-the
artisan is always content to copy; the
artist, once master of his tools, creates.
In Helm the artist was now in the
ascendant; he dreamed of engraving
living things direct from nature-the
depths OF forests shot with sunshine,
scrubby uplands against sky crowded
with clouds, and perhaps cattle nosing
for herbage. among the rank fern and
tangled briers of scanty pasture-per-
haps even the shy, wild country children,
bareheaded and naked of knee and shoul-
der, half-tamed, staring from the road
side brambles.
1t is, of course possible that Helm was
a natural born criminal, yet his motive
for trying his skill at counterfeiting was
revenge and not personal gain.
He had served his apprenticeship in
the Bureau of Engraving and Printing.
He had served the government for twelve
years, through three administrations.
81.