THE TARZAN COLLECTION (8 Books in One Edition). Edgar Rice Burroughs

made hurried excuses to his host after he had read the note handed him by the ambassador’s butler. Never afterward could he recall the nature of the excuses he made. Everything was quite a blur to him up to the time that he stood on the threshold of his own home. Then he became very cool, moving quietly and with caution. For some inexplicable reason Jacques had the door open before he was halfway to the steps. It did not strike him at the time as being unusual, though afterward he remarked it.

      Very softly he tiptoed up the stairs and along the gallery to the door of his wife’s boudoir. In his hand was a heavy walking stick—in his heart, murder.

      Olga was the first to see him. With a horrified shriek she tore herself from Tarzan’s arms, and the ape-man turned just in time to ward with his arm a terrific blow that De Coude had aimed at his head. Once, twice, three times the heavy stick fell with lightning rapidity, and each blow aided in the transition of the ape-man back to the primordial.

      With the low, guttural snarl of the bull ape he sprang for the Frenchman. The great stick was torn from his grasp and broken in two as though it had been matchwood, to be flung aside as the now infuriated beast charged for his adversary’s throat. Olga de Coude stood a horrified spectator of the terrible scene which ensued during the next brief moment, then she sprang to where Tarzan was murdering her husband—choking the life from him—shaking him as a terrier might shake a rat.

      Frantically she tore at his great hands. “Mother of God!” she cried. “You are killing him, you are killing him! Oh, Jean, you are killing my husband!”

      Tarzan was deaf with rage. Suddenly he hurled the body to the floor, and, placing his foot upon the upturned breast, raised his head. Then through the palace of the Count de Coude rang the awesome challenge of the bull ape that has made a kill. From cellar to attic the horrid sound searched out the servants, and left them blanched and trembling. The woman in the room sank to her knees beside the body of her husband, and prayed.

      Slowly the red mist faded from before Tarzan’s eyes. Things began to take form—he was regaining the perspective of civilized man. His eyes fell upon the figure of the kneeling woman. “Olga,” he whispered. She looked up, expecting to see the maniacal light of murder in the eyes above her. Instead she saw sorrow and contrition.

      “Oh, Jean!” she cried. “See what you have done. He was my husband. I loved him, and you have killed him.”

      Very gently Tarzan raised the limp form of the Count de Coude and bore it to a couch. Then he put his ear to the man’s breast.

      “Some brandy, Olga,” he said.

      She brought it, and together they forced it between his lips. Presently a faint gasp came from the white lips. The head turned, and De Coude groaned.

      “He will not die,” said Tarzan. “Thank God!”

      “Why did you do it, Jean?” she asked.

      “I do not know. He struck me, and I went mad. I have seen the apes of my tribe do the same thing. I have never told you my story, Olga. It would have been better had you known it—this might not have happened. I never saw my father. The only mother I knew was a ferocious she-ape. Until I was fifteen I had never seen a human being. I was twenty before I saw a white man. A little more than a year ago I was a naked beast of prey in an African jungle.

      “Do not judge me too harshly. Two years is too short a time in which to attempt to work the change in an individual that it has taken countless ages to accomplish in the white race.”

      “I do not judge at all, Jean. The fault is mine. You must go now—he must not find you here when he regains consciousness. Good-by.”

      It was a sorrowful Tarzan who walked with bowed head from the palace of the Count de Coude.

      Once outside his thoughts took definite shape, to the end that twenty minutes later he entered a police station not far from the Rue Maule. Here he soon found one of the officers with whom he had had the encounter several weeks previous. The policeman was genuinely glad to see again the man who had so roughly handled him. After a moment of conversation Tarzan asked if he had ever heard of Nikolas Rokoff or Alexis Paulvitch.

      “Very often, indeed, monsieur. Each has a police record, and while there is nothing charged against them now, we make it a point to know pretty well where they may be found should the occasion demand. It is only the same precaution that we take with every known criminal. Why does monsieur ask?”

      “They are known to me,” replied Tarzan. “I wish to see Monsieur Rokoff on a little matter of business. If you can direct me to his lodgings I shall appreciate it.”

      A few minutes later he bade the policeman adieu, and, with a slip of paper in his pocket bearing a certain address in a semirespectable quarter, he walked briskly toward the nearest taxi stand.

      Rokoff and Paulvitch had returned to their rooms, and were sitting talking over the probable outcome of the evening’s events. They had telephoned to the offices of two of the morning papers from which they momentarily expected representatives to hear the first report of the scandal that was to stir social Paris on the morrow.

      A heavy step sounded on the stairway. “Ah, but these newspaper men are prompt,” exclaimed Rokoff, and as a knock fell upon the door of their room: “Enter, monsieur.”

      The smile of welcome froze upon the Russian’s face as he looked into the hard, gray eyes of his visitor.

      “Name of a name!” he shouted, springing to his feet, “What brings you here!”

      “Sit down!” said Tarzan, so low that the men could barely catch the words, but in a tone that brought Rokoff to his chair, and kept Paulvitch in his.

      “You know what has brought me here,” he continued, in the same low tone. “It should be to kill you, but because you are Olga de Coude’s brother I shall not do that—now.

      “I shall give you a chance for your lives. Paulvitch does not count much—he is merely a stupid, foolish little tool, and so I shall not kill him so long as I permit you to live. Before I leave you two alive in this room you will have done two things. The first will be to write a full confession of your connection with tonight’s plot—and sign it.

      “The second will be to promise me upon pain of death that you will permit no word of this affair to get into the newspapers. If you do not do both, neither of you will be alive when I pass next through that doorway. Do you understand?” And, without waiting for a reply: “Make haste; there is ink before you, and paper and a pen.”

      Rokoff assumed a truculent air, attempting by bravado to show how little he feared Tarzan’s threats. An instant later he felt the ape-man’s steel fingers at his throat, and Paulvitch, who attempted to dodge them and reach the door, was lifted completely off the floor, and hurled senseless into a corner. When Rokoff commenced to blacken about the face Tarzan released his hold and shoved the fellow back into his chair. After a moment of coughing Rokoff sat sullenly glaring at the man standing opposite him. Presently Paulvitch came to himself, and limped painfully back to his chair at Tarzan’s command.

      “Now write,” said the ape-man. “If it is necessary to handle you again I shall not be so lenient.”

      Rokoff picked up a pen and commenced to write.

      “See that you omit no detail, and that you mention every name,” cautioned Tarzan.

      Presently there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” said Tarzan.

      A dapper young man came in. “I am from the Matin,” he announced. “I understand that Monsieur Rokoff has a story for me.”

      “Then you are mistaken, monsieur,” replied Tarzan. “You have no story for publication, have you, my dear Nikolas.”

      Rokoff looked up from his writing with an ugly scowl upon his face.

      “No,” he growled, “I have no story for publication—now.”

      “Nor ever, my dear Nikolas,” and the reporter did not see the nasty light