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MATLAB® for Engineers
MATLAB® for Engineers
Sixth Edition

Holly Moore

Salt Lake Community College

Salt Lake City, Utah

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Moore, Holly, author.

Title: MATLAB® for Engineers / Holly Moore, Salt Lake Community

College.

Description: Sixth edition. | Hoboken : Pearson, [2023] | Includes index.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021051256 | ISBN 9780137627981

Subjects: LCSH: Engineering mathematics—Data processing. | MATLAB.

Classification: LCC TA345 .M585 2022 | DDC 620.001/51—dc23/eng/

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[email protected]
Contents
About This Book xiii 

Dedication and Acknowledgments xvii 

1 About MATLAB 1 

1.1 What Is MATLAB? 1 

1.2 Student Edition of MATLAB 2 

1.3 How is MATLAB Used in Industry? 3 

1.4 Problem Solving in Engineering and Science 5 

2 MATLAB Environment 9 

2.1 Getting Started 9 

2.2 MATLAB Windows 11 

2.3 Solving Problems with MATLAB 17 

2.4 Saving Your Work 41 

Summary 53 

Key Terms 56 

Problems 56 

3 Built-In MATLAB Functions 64 

Introduction 64 

3.1 Using Built-In Functions 64 

3.2 Using the Help Feature 66 

3.3 Elementary Math Functions 67 

3.4 Trigonometric Functions 75 

 3.5 Data Analysis Functions 80 

3.6 Random Numbers 100 

3.7 Complex Numbers 104 

3.8 Computational Limitations 108 

3.9 Special Values and Miscellaneous Functions 109 

Summary 111 

Key Terms 113 

Problems 114 

4 Manipulating MATLAB Arrays 121 

Introduction 121 

4.1 Manipulating Numeric Arrays 121 

4.2 Problems with Two Variables—Using Meshgrid 128 

4.3 Special Arrays 135 

4.4 Introduction to Character and String Arrays 141 

Summary 146 

Key Terms 147 

Problems 148 

5 Plotting 156 

Introduction 156 

5.1 Two-Dimensional Plots 156 

5.2 Subplots—Tiled Chart Layouts 173 

5.3 Other Types of Two-Dimensional Plots 176 

5.4 Three-Dimensional Plotting 193 

5.5 Editing Plots from the Menu Bar 200 

 5.6 Creating Plots from the Workspace Window 202 

5.7 Saving Your Plots 203 

5.8 Other Plotting Options 203 

Summary 204 

Key Terms 206 

Problems 207 

6 User-Defined Functions 218 

Introduction 218 

6.1 Creating Function Files 218 

6.2 Subfunctions 238 

6.3 Creating Your Own Toolbox of Functions 243 

6.4 Anonymous Functions and Function Handles 245 

6.5 Function Functions 246 

Summary 247 

Key Terms 249 

Problems 249 

7 User-Controlled Input and Output 257 

Introduction 257 

7.1 User-Defined Input 257 

7.2 Output Options 262 

7.3 Graphical Input 276 

7.4 Reading and Writing Data from Files 277 

7.5 Debugging Your Code 280 

Summary 285 
 Key Terms 286 

Problems 287 

8 Logical Functions and Selection Structures 291 

Introduction 291 

8.1 Relational and Logical Operators 292 

8.2 Flowcharts and Pseudocode 294 

8.3 Logical Functions 296 

8.4 Logical Indexing 303 

8.5 Selection Structures 307 

8.6 Debugging 324 

Summary 325 

Key Terms 326 

Problems 326 

9 Repetition Structures 341 

Introduction 341 

9.1 for Loops 342 

9.2 while Loops 350 

9.3 break and continue 358 

9.4 Midpoint Break Loops 359 

9.5 Nested Loops 363 

9.6 Improving the Efficiency of Loops 364 

Summary 367 

Key Terms 368 

 Problems 369 

10 Matrix Algebra 374 

Introduction 374 

10.1 Matrix Operations and Functions 374 

10.2 Solutions of Systems of Linear Equations 396 

10.3 Special Matrices 409 

Summary 410 

Key Terms 412 

Problems 412 

11 Other Kinds of Arrays 420 

Introduction 420 

11.1 Numeric Data Types 421 

11.2 Character and String Data 427 

11.3 Symbolic Data 432 

11.4 Logical Data 432 

11.5 Sparse Arrays 434 

11.6 Categorical Arrays 434 

11.7 Time Arrays 435 

11.8 Multidimensional Arrays 439 

11.9 Cell Arrays 441 

11.10 Structure Arrays 443 

11.11 Table Arrays 449 

11.12 Timetable Arrays 458 

Summary 462 
 Key Terms 464 

Problems 464 

12 Symbolic Mathematics 472 

Introduction 472 

12.1 Symbolic Algebra 472 

12.2 Solving Expressions and Equations 480 

12.3 Symbolic Plotting 490 

12.4 Units of Measurement 498 

12.5 Calculus 503 

12.6 Differential Equations 516 

12.7 Converting Symbolic Expressions to Anonymous Functions 519 

Summary 520 

Key Terms 522 

Problems 523 

13 Numerical Techniques 532 

13.1 Interpolation 532 

13.2 Curve Fitting 542 

13.3 Using the Interactive Fitting Tools 554 

13.4 Differences and Numerical Differentiation 557 

13.5 Numerical Integration 565 

13.6 Solving Differential Equations Numerically 570 

Summary 578 

Key Terms 581 

Problems 581 
14 Advanced Graphics 589 

Introduction 589 

14.1 Images 589 

14.2 Graphics Objects 604 

14.3 Animation 611 

14.4 Other Visualization Techniques 618 

14.5 Introduction to Volume Visualization 620 

Summary 625 

Key Terms 627 

Problems 627 

15 Simulink®— A Brief Introduction 630 

Introduction 630 

15.1 Applications 630 

15.2 Getting Started 631 

15.3 Solving Differential Equations with Simulink 639 

Summary 646 

Key Terms 646 

Problems 646 

Appendix A Special Characters, Commands, and Functions 651 

Appendix B Scaling Techniques 666 

Appendix C Annual Climatological Summary 669 

Appendix D Solutions to Practice Exercises

(Available at www.pearsonhighered.com/moore)
Index 671 
Dedication and
Acknowledgments

This project would not have been possible without the

support of both my family and colleagues. Thanks to

Mike, Heidi, Meagan, and David, and to my husband,

Dr. Steven Purcell. I also benefited greatly from the

suggestions for problems related to electricity from Lee

Brinton and Gene Riggs of the SLCC Electrical

Engineering Department. Their cheerful efforts to

educate me on the mysteries of electricity are much

appreciated. I’d also like to thank Quentin McRae, also

at SLCC, who made numerous suggestions that

improved the homework problems. And finally, Art Fox

has been my tireless colleague and collaborator for

almost 20 years and is responsible in large part for the

success of our MATLAB computing courses at SLCC—

especially the online versions.

This book is dedicated to my father, Professor George E.

Moore, who taught in the Department of Electrical

Engineering at the South Dakota School of Mines and

Technology for almost 20 years. Professor Moore earned

his college degree at the age of 54 after a successful

career as a pilot in the United States Air Force and was a

living reminder that you are never too old to learn. My

mother, Jean Moore, encouraged both him and her two

daughters to explore outside the box. Her loving

support made it possible for both my sister and I to

enjoy careers in engineering—something few women

attempted in the early 1970s. I hope that readers of this

text will take a minute to thank those people in their

lives who’ve helped them make their dreams come true.

Thanks Mom and Dad!

Chapter 1
About MATLAB
 Objectives

After reading this chapter, you should be able to:

• Describe what MATLAB is and why it is widely used in engineering

and science.

• Describe the advantages and limitations of the student edition of

MATLAB.

• Identify example applications where MATLAB is used in industry to

solve problems.

• Formulate problems using a structured problem-solving approach.

1.1 What is MATLAB?
MATLAB is a “multiparadigm ” programming language, which means it

can be used in several different ways to perform programming tasks.

Those tasks can range from something as simple as balancing your

checkbook to complex engineering modeling applications. The way you

approach the calculations required to complete these tasks may be

different, depending on your experience and personal preferences, the

number of calculations required, the amount of data involved,

mathematical limitations, the audience for the results, and many other

considerations.

Key Idea
MATLAB is a multiparadigm programming language.

MATLAB is a versatile language, but it can’t do everything. It is a large

application program  designed to optimize mathematical calculations;

number-crunching is where it shines. You wouldn’t want to use it to write

a word-processing program , for example. If you wanted to write an

operating system  or design software, C++, Java, or some other higher-

level language would be a better choice. In fact, MATLAB was originally

written in Fortran and then later rewritten in C. So why use MATLAB

instead of the underlying high-level language  for any programming

task? It is easier to formulate mathematical problems in MATLAB, the use

of array calculations makes repetitive calculations run faster in MATLAB

than in the underlying language, and there is easy access to graphics to

help you display your results.

 Key Idea
MATLAB is optimized for array calculations.

Key Idea
MATLAB offers easy access to graphics.

There are several different ways to access MATLAB, which is produced by

the MathWorks. It is available in professional, student, and home versions.

The professional version is probably installed in your college or university

computer laboratory, but you may be able to download a copy if your

institution has a site license . It is also available online if your institution

has a license or if you have purchased either a student license or a home

license. With the online version, you can use MATLAB in a web browser 

without installing any software on your personal computer. MATLAB is

updated regularly; this textbook is based on MATLAB 9.10. If you are

using a different version, you may notice a difference in the layout of the

graphical user interface;  however, the differences in the coding

approaches should be minor.

The standard installation of MATLAB can solve a wide variety of technical

problems and is sufficient for many applications. However, additional

capability is available in the form of function  toolboxes. These

toolboxes  are purchased separately. If you have access to the complete

suite of toolboxes, you may be tempted to download everything—however,

the complete R2021b version of the software required almost 28 gigabytes

of memory. Future versions are sure to be larger. It would be wise to

carefully consider your computer’s memory storage limits and your

internet download speed before deciding which toolboxes to download.

You can find a complete list of the MATLAB product family at the

MathWorks website, www.mathworks.com.

Key Idea
MATLAB toolboxes offer additional capability and are

purchased separately.
1.2 Student Edition of MATLAB
The professional and student editions of MATLAB are very similar.

Beginning students probably won’t be able to tell the difference. Student

editions are available for Microsoft Windows, Mac, and Linux operating

systems, and can be purchased from college bookstores or online from

MathWorks at www.mathworks.com.

Key Idea
MATLAB is regularly updated.

MathWorks packages its software in groups called releases, and MATLAB

9.10 is featured, along with other products, such as Simulink, in Release

R2021b. New versions are released every six months. Students may

purchase just MATLAB, or a bundle that includes the following products:

• A single-user license, limited to students for use in their classwork

(The professional version is licensed either singly or to a group.)

• Control Systems Toolbox

• Curve Fitting Toolbox

• DSP System Toolbox

• Full MATLAB

• Image Processing Toolbox

• Instrument Control Toolbox

• Optimization Toolbox

• Parallel Computing Toolbox

• Signal Processing Toolbox

• Simulink

• Statistics and Machine Learning Toolbox

 • Symbolic Math Toolbox

Toolboxes other than those included with the student edition may be

purchased separately. If you are using a professional installation of

MATLAB, all of the toolboxes available in the student edition may not be

available to you.

The biggest difference you should notice between the professional and

student editions is the command prompt, which is

>>

in the professional version, and

EDU>>

in the student edition.

 Another Random Document on
Scribd Without Any Related Topics
 Chapter Thirteen.
In the Web.

I held my breath.

I should have recognised him at once from the panel

portrait, though he looked some years older than when that
photograph had been taken.

Of medium height, and rather broadly built, he had all the

appearance of a gentleman. His hair was very short, with
dark grey, rather deep-set eyes, and thick dark eyebrows.
The hair was parted in the middle, and plastered down, but
he was not in evening clothes, as were the men to whose
conversation I had been listening.

He shook hands cordially with his friend, nodded to the

good-looking young man, and called to the waiter to bring
him a chair, those near by being all occupied. While waiting
for the chair to be brought, he suddenly caught sight of me,
evidently in recognition, for he turned quickly and spoke in
a low tone to his friend, who at once glanced in my
direction.

All this! “felt” rather than saw, for I was not looking directly
at the two men.

Where had Paulton seen me before? That was the first

thought that occurred to me, and of course I could not
answer it. I had no recollection of having ever seen him
previously. Suddenly, he crossed over to me.

“Mr Richard Ashton, I think?” he said in a genial tone, and

with a smile.
“Yes,” I answered rather stiffly, none too pleased at his
addressing me. I certainly had no wish to know him.

“My name’s Paulton,” he said, ignoring my coldness. “I’ve

seen you before. You were pointed out to me one night at
the Savoy. I want to introduce my friend. Henderson, let me
present you to Mr Richard Ashton. Mr Ashton—Mr
Henderson.”

It was done before I could say anything—before I could

avoid it. There was nothing for it, therefore, but to pretend
to appear pleased.

He asked me what I would drink, and I had to say

something—though I hated drinking with the fellow. Put
yourself in my place—drinking with a man who had tried in
cold blood to kill me, and who had shot an innocent man
dead! I felt it had been weak of me not to ignore his
greeting and meet his look of recognition with a stony stare.
But regret for a mistake was useless now. I had made a
false step when I spoke to him, and I couldn’t suddenly,
apparently for no reason, turn my back upon him.

A sudden terrific gust of wind shook the heavy windows,

and a sheet of rain splashed against the panes like a great
wave, distracting, for the moment, every one’s attention. A
storm on the Riviera is always heavy and blustering.

“I have just come in,” Paulton said. “In all my life I don’t
recollect such an awful storm as this, except once in the
Jura, when I was out boar-shooting. How fortunate it didn’t
start while the pigeon-shooting was on to-day.”

He turned to me suddenly.

“By the way, Ashton,” he said familiarly, “we have a mutual

friend, I think.”
“Indeed?” I answered drily. “Who is that?”

“Sir Charles Thorold’s daughter, Miss Vera.”

I was astonished at this effrontery—so astounded that my

surprise outweighed my feeling of indignation at the tone of
familiarity in which he spoke of Vera. He might have been
referring to some barmaid we both knew.

I think he detected my annoyance, but he said nothing.

After a pause I replied, keeping myself in check—

“Is Miss Thorold a friend of yours?”

“A friend of mine? Rather. I should say so!”

He glanced across at Henderson, and they both smiled

significantly. This was intolerable.

“I do know Miss Thorold,” I remarked, emphasising the

“Miss Thorold,” “but I don’t remember that she has ever
mentioned your name to me.”

“No, probably she wouldn’t mention it. Vera is discreet, if

she is nothing else.”

The impertinence of this reply was so obvious, so pointed,

that I knew it must have been intentional.

“Really, I don’t follow you,” I said icily. “What, pray, has Miss
Thorold to say to you, and what have you to say to her?”

“Oh, a very great deal, I can assure you.”

“Indeed? How intensely interesting!”

“It is, very. Her flight from Houghton that night must have
astonished you.”
I could bear the fellow’s company no longer. Emptying my
tumbler, I rose with deliberation, and, excusing myself with
frigid politeness, strode out of the fumoir.

In the vestibule I met the good-looking young Englishman.

He had left the room soon after Paulton had entered. Now
he came up and spoke to me.

“I hope you’ll forgive my addressing you,” he said in well-

bred accents, raising his hat, “but I heard your name
mentioned when Paulton introduced Henderson to you. May
I ask if you are the Mr Richard Ashton?”

“It depends what you mean by ‘the’ Richard Ashton,” I

answered. This young man attracted me; he had done so
from the first.

“Do you happen to live in King Street, St. James’s?” he

inquired abruptly.

“Yes, I do.”

“Then you’re the man I have for weeks past been wanting
to meet. I believe you know Miss Thorold—Miss Vera
Thorold.”

“I do.”

“She wants particularly to see you.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because she told me, or rather a friend of hers—to whom I

am engaged to be married—did. They are together at the
Alexandra Hotel, in Mentone. My friend is staying there with
an aunt of mine.”
“Surely if Miss Thorold wished to meet me she could have
written to me, or telegraphed,” I said rather frigidly.

“No. I think I ought to tell you that the man who introduced
himself to you some minutes ago—the man Dago Paulton—
has entire control over her—she goes in fear of him! She did
not dare write to you, or even send you a wire. She knew
that if she did he would find out. The lady to whom I am
engaged told me this some days ago, and told me a great
deal about you that had been told to her by Miss Thorold.”

“Do you mind telling me your name?” I said, looking at him

squarely.

“Faulkner—Frank Faulkner. Paulton is a man of whom you

ought to be very careful. He is really a scoundrel, that I
don’t mind telling you. I have just been told by a man who
really knows, that he has forced Miss Thorold to take an
active interest in a rascally scheme of some kind that he
and Henderson have devised. I am told by my lady friend—
her name is Gladys Deroxe—that Miss Thorold tried her
utmost to have nothing to do with it, but Paulton threatened
to reveal something he knows concerning her father, so in
the end she consented. Paulton has no longer a card for the
Rooms; he was shut out last year for some reason, and he
has lately been compelling Miss Thorold to go and play
there in his place. Her luck at trente-et-quarante has been
phenomenal, but all the money she has won he has of
course at once taken from her, she is his factotum. I am
very glad for her sake that you have come out. I suppose it
was by accident you came? You didn’t expect to find her
here—eh?”

“On the contrary,” I said, “I chanced to hear only last

Sunday that Miss Thorold was staying on the Riviera—so I
decided to come over at once,” I said.
“She knows that you are here, you know.”

“She knows? Why, who on earth can have told her?”

“I have just been telephoning to Miss Deroxe over at the

Bristol at Beaulieu. Miss Thorold is there with her. I told
them that a man named Ashton was here, and I described
your appearance. Miss Thorold said at once it must be you.
Unfortunately she leaves to-night for Paris, and Miss Deroxe
goes with her.”

“But why is she going to Paris?” I exclaimed eagerly.

“Who? Miss Thorold? She’s acting on Paulton’s orders. Her

visit has some mysterious bearing upon the scheme I have
just spoken about.”

The door of the fumoir opened at that moment, and Paulton

and Henderson came out into the vestibule. At once they
must have seen Faulkner and myself conversing, and for an
instant a look of anger flashed into Paulton’s eyes. The
expression subsided quickly, and he and Henderson
approached smiling calmly.

“I’m prepared to bet that I know what you two were talking
about,” Paulton said lightly, addressing Faulkner. “You were
talking of Vera. Ah! Am I wrong? No, I see I’m not. You
have told our friend Ashton that she goes to Paris to-night.
Well, you are mistaken. Information has reached me that
there has been a landslip on the line beyond Beaulieu, and
it is blocked in consequence.”

Then he turned to me.

“Would you like to come over to Beaulieu, Ashton?” he said,

as though making some quite ordinary request. “My car will
be here presently. I can take you too, Faulkner, if you wish
to see Miss Deroxe. I am going straight to the Bristol.”

I was about to refuse, when Faulkner spoke.

“I should like to go, and Mr Ashton will of course come.”

“Good. My car should be here in a quarter of an hour.”

He strolled over to the bureau, and I heard him inquire for

letters. There were several. He took them from the gold-
laced porter, sank on to a settee, and began to tear them
open.

“Why did you accept his offer?” I inquired of Faulkner, in an

undertone, as I lit a cigarette.

“Never mind,” he answered quickly. “I know what I’m doing.

Leave everything to me now.” At that moment the large
glazed double doors leading into the Place in front of the
Casino revolved slowly and a tall, imposing-looking woman
of thirty-five or so, in rich black furs, which had all the
appearance of being valuable, sailed in, followed by her
maid carrying a small bag. Paulton, glancing up from his
letters, noticed her, and at once sprang to his feet.

“Ah, Baronne, how pleasant to meet you again!” he

exclaimed, as he approached her. “I expected you here
sooner.”

“I should have been here an hour ago,” she exclaimed, “but

the train was delayed. This storm is awful!”

She had a rich, deep contralto voice, one of those speaking

voices that at once arouse interest and curiosity. It aroused
interest now, for the guests seated in the hall
simultaneously interrupted their conversation in order to
look at the new arrival, so striking was her appearance.

“I went to the station quite a while ago,” Paulton said. “They

told me the train could not arrive.”

“It has not arrived yet, I believe,” she answered. “I got off
at a wayside station, drove the two miles into Beaulieu, and
then hired the car which has just brought me on here.”

She was indeed a handsome woman, obviously a woman of

singular personality. Exceedingly dark, with great coils of
blue-black hair that her travelling-veil only partly concealed,
she was very handsome still. When I had watched her for
nearly a minute, wondering whom she might be, my gaze
unconsciously drifted to the quietly-dressed maid who stood
respectfully and demurely a few feet behind her mistress,
bearing a large leather dressing-case in her hand. Her
appearance somehow seemed familiar. Suddenly she turned
her face rather more towards me, and I recognised her at
once.

It was Judith, the French girl who had been Lady Thorold’s
maid. Her beady little black eyes rested on me for an
instant, then were quietly lowered. But instinctively I knew
that in that single, swift glance she had recognised me—and
I certainly held her in suspicion.

“The rooms have been retained for you Baronne,” I heard

Paulton say, “the rooms you had last year. Shall I order
supper?”

“Certainly. Please do,” the deep voice answered. “Tell

Gustave to send it to my rooms in a quarter of an hour. Ma
foi! I am famished.”
For the first time I noticed that she spoke with a foreign
accent. But it was not very marked.

“Then I shall see you later,” Paulton said, as the new arrival
moved towards the lift. “À tantôt, Baronne.”

“À bientôt.”

Paulton bent over her hand, and when the doors of the lift
had shut he came across to us.

“You’d better get into your coats,” he said. “My car is just
coming round!”

“Who is the lady?” Faulkner asked carelessly.

“Who?” Paulton exclaimed. “You don’t mean to say you

don’t know Baronne de Coudron? I thought everybody in
Monte knew the Baronne—by sight. She’s one of my best
friends.”

As the big grey Rolls-Royce sped through the darkness, the

storm still raged. None of us spoke. Three glowing cigars
alone indicated our whereabouts.

Whether or not it was the stiff brandy-and-soda I had had in

the smoking-room, I know not, but I suddenly realised that
I was becoming curiously drowsy. I tried to keep awake. My
eyelids felt like lead. They were smarting, too. Presently I
was aware that something glowing red had fallen to the
ground. Afterwards I came to know it had been Faulkner’s
cigar.

I do not know what happened immediately afterwards. My

mind suddenly became a complete blank.
At last, hours afterwards, I suppose, I slowly struggled back
to consciousness.

Where was I?

The room, and all in it, was strange to me. All was utterly
unfamiliar. My head ached very badly. My back and limbs
were stiff. I got off the sofa where I had lain asleep,
scrambled to my feet, and looked about me. At once I saw
Faulkner. He was asleep still, in a most uncomfortable
attitude, in a big leather armchair. His mouth was wide
open.

A glance out of the window showed me that the house we

were in was in the open country. Already it was broad
daylight, and a perfect calm had succeeded the storm of the
previous night. But had it been the previous night? I
supposed so. Signs of the storm were still visible
everywhere—trees blown down and lying on their sides,
branches and great limbs lying about. The country all
around was densely wooded. Look in what direction I would,
only trees, grass fields and mountains were visible. There
was not a house in sight; not a cottage; not a hut.

I went over to Faulkner, and shook him roughly. He was still

sleeping soundly, and it took me some minutes to arouse
him into consciousness.

His first observation when at last fully awake, was

characteristic of the young man—

“Where, in Heaven’s name, am I?”

 Chapter Fourteen.
The Perfume.

I dashed across to the door. It was locked. “Now tell me,

what do you make of it?” Faulkner asked, when he had
looked about the unfamiliar room and stared blankly out of
the window.

“The solution seems pretty obvious,” I said. “We’ve been

drugged, or in some way made unconscious last night in
Paulton’s car, and driven here. I distinctly remember trying
to keep awake. You gave me that cigar I smoked. Was it
one of your own?”

He paused, then said—

“Now I come to think of it, Ashton, I remember noticing I

had three cigars in the case I left in the pocket of my
overcoat when I hung it in the cloakroom. There were only
two when I pulled the case out in the car. I wondered then if
the cloakroom attendant had helped himself. Paulton was
the first to light up, you may remember, and he offered us
cigars, whereupon I said I had some, and I gave you one of
mine—one of the two. It struck me that my cigar had rather
a peculiar flavour, but after a while it got all right. I believe
those weeds must have been slipped into my case by
Paulton and my own cigars removed. The ones we smoked
last night were drugged, that I will swear.”

I pulled out my watch.

“What time do you make it?” I asked. “My watch has

stopped.”
He produced his own and glanced at it.

“So has mine,” he said. “It stopped at five minutes to four.”

We both sat in silence for some moments. Obviously there

was nothing to be done but to wait for somebody to come.
The door was locked, there was no bell in the room, and the
room was on an upper floor.

Over an hour must have passed, and we had endeavoured

to take our bearings.

From what we could see of the place from the high up

window, it was a huge rambling old château with round
turrets, and slated roofs, overlooking a large sloping park in
the midst of picturesque mountains, many of which were
still tipped with snow. The situation was perfect, but it was
in a remote, lonely spot, without another house in sight.

In the front was a long double colonnade with a terrace

which commanded a fine vista down the valley. The style
was that of Louis XV, as indeed was the furniture of the
room, and there were several old paintings and works of art
in the apartment.

It was a huge grim place, which seemed to be half a prison,

half a fortress—a place wherein dwelt the ghosts of a
glorious long-forgotten past. There was an air of neglect
and decay about its time-mellowed court-yard, some of the
walls of which were half-hidden by ivy. One of the round
towers indeed was roofless, while what had once been an
Italian flower-bed was now but a wilderness of weeds.

Outside the sun shone brightly, and, from its position, we

concluded the hour must be nearly noon. Then, all at once
we simultaneously caught the sound of footsteps. Some one
was coming very softly apparently, along a carpeted
passage outside the door. I went across to the sofa, lay
down, and pretended to be asleep, Faulkner following my
example, lying back in the big chair. At the door the
footsteps stopped. There was a pause. Then a key was
inserted into the lock almost noiselessly, the lock clicked,
the handle turned, and the door was pushed open a little
way.

Somebody bent over me. I breathed heavily, in pretence of

sleep. The footsteps moved away, and, as I parted my
eyelids slightly, I saw a woman—quite a young girl. She had
her back to me and was bending over Faulkner apparently
to ascertain if he too, were asleep. Acting upon a sudden
impulse I sprang from the sofa, ran to the door, slammed it,
and stood with my back to it.

To my surprise the girl looked at me quite calmly.

“I knew you would do that m’sieur,” she said, and her voice,
though she spoke with a marked French accent, was very
pleasant. “Did you think that I supposed you both were
asleep? Ah, non, your friend here is wide awake, though he
too keeps his eyes shut and his mouth open.”

The girl was quite pretty, about eighteen I judged, refined

in appearance, with large, innocent brown eyes, dark
eyelashes and eyebrows, and auburn hair that turned to
shining gold as the sun’s rays, entering at the window,
touched it.

As she stopped speaking, Faulkner opened his eyes, sat up,

and stared at her with undisguised admiration. Then, as the
absurdity of the situation struck us, we both laughed.

“Whoever you are,” I said, trying to speak seriously, though,

under the circumstances, and with a pretty girl staring into
my face, with an expression in her eyes that was partly of
amusement and partly mockery, I found it hard to do so.
“Whoever you are, I should really like an explanation.”

“Explanation of what?”

“I want to know why we have been brought here—what

place this is, and who had the cool impertinence to lock us
in here.”

“Oh, I had the cool impertinence to lock you in,” she

answered, smiling.

“You! And who are you? And whose house is this?”

“This is the Château d’Uzerche. It belongs to the Baronne

de Coudron. I am the Baronne’s niece.”

“The Château d’Uzerche—eh?”

I could not for the moment, think of anything else to say.

The girl spoke quite naturally, as though nothing unusual
had occurred.

“I am going to bring your déjeuner in a minute,” she said,

drawing down the blinds to keep out the sun. “Will you both
give me your word you won’t leave this room if I leave the
door unlocked? Please do—for my sake.”

She looked so captivating as she said this, her voice was so

soft, and altogether she seemed so charming, that Faulkner
at once answered that he had not the least desire to leave
the room if she would promise to come back as quickly as
possible, and to stay a little while.

“Then you will promise?” she asked, her big eyes set on his.

“How foolish! Why?” I asked, interrupting.

“Well,” she replied. “If you will remain here I will bring you a
visitor.”

“A visitor?”

“Yes,” she laughed. “Somebody you know.”

“Who?”

“A great friend of yours.”

I looked at her puzzled.

“A friend—man or woman?”

“Female,” she assured us with a charming accent. “Your

friend Mademoiselle Thorold.”

“Vera!” I gasped. “Is she here?”

“Yes,” was her reply. “She is here.”

How well Vera knew my character when she told me that

day I was “susceptible.” I think I am dreadfully so. The look
in those great brown eyes gazing into mine seemed to
weaken my will until I had to answer almost sulkily—

“I suppose I must. Yes, I—well, I’ll promise for the present

anyhow,” I said.

“Not to leave this room before my return?” she said.

“Not to leave this room before you return,” I repeated.

Then she left us, and we sat looking at each other like a
pair of fools.
“Well,” Faulkner said. “If you can be rude to a pretty girl like
that, Ashton, I can’t, and I don’t intend to be. Besides, if
Vera is here, Gladys may be here also!”

“I thought you said you are engaged to be married?”

“I did. And I am. But I don’t see why, for that reason, you
need call me a fool for being ordinarily polite to another
woman, or to any woman, especially if we are to meet
Vera.”

“You quite mistake my meaning,” I said. “I say we are a pair

of fools—I am more to blame perhaps than you—for being
coerced by a chit of a girl into promising to stay here, as
though we were a pair of schoolboys put ‘on their honour.’ It
is downright silly, to say the least. Yet we must not break
our parole—eh?”

I liked Faulkner. His spirit, and his way of saying what he

thought amused me. One meets so few men nowadays with
pluck enough to say what they really think and mean.

The young girl, whose name was Violet—Violet de Coudron

—spread the white cloth, laid the table, and herself brought
in our déjeuner. What position did she occupy in the house,
we both wondered. Surely there must be servants, and
yet... where was Vera?

“You have to stay here until to-morrow,” she said, when we

had begun our meal—the cooking was excellent, and the
wine was above reproach.

“And, until then, you are under my supervision. Those are

my orders.”

“Your orders, received from whom—eh?” I asked.

“Mademoiselle Thorold wishes it.”

“Were we brought here yesterday, or when?” Faulkner

asked presently.

“About two o’clock this morning.”

“And what was this grim joke?”

“That I may not tell you, m’sieur,” she replied. “Indeed, I

couldn’t tell you—for I don’t know. Miss Thorold knows.”

“Who lives here usually?” I asked. “The Baronne?”

“She is rarely here. But that is enough. I cannot answer

more questions. Is there anything else that I can get you?”

Nothing else we needed, except tobacco, and she brought

us that. Very good tobacco it was, too.

Wearily the day passed, for though the room we were in

was well-furnished, there were few books in it. We could, of
course, have gone out of the room, out of the house
probably, but our pretty little wardress had placed us on
parole.

Whether or not the house was occupied, even whether

there were servants in it, we could not tell. And the matter
did not interest us much. What we should have liked to
know was, why we had been brought there, still more, how
Vera Thorold and Gladys Deroxe were faring in our absence.
During the past weeks my life seemed to have been made
up of a series of mysteries, each more puzzling than the
last. I was distracted.

During the afternoon, while sitting together, very dejected,

we suddenly caught the faint sound of a female voice
singing.

Both of us listened. It was Vera’s voice, a sweet contralto,

and she was singing, as though to herself, Verlaine’s
“Manoline,” that sweet harmonious song—

“Les donneurs de sérénades,

Et les belles écouteuses,
Échangent des propos fades
Sous les ramures chanteuses.

“C’est Tircis et c’est Aminte

Et c’est l’éternel Clitandre
Et c’est Damis qui pour mainte cruelle
Fait maint vers tendre.”

The girl brought us tea presently, and, late in the evening, a

plain dinner. The room was lit by petrol-gas. Each time she
stayed with us a little while, and we were glad to have her
company. She was, however, exceedingly discreet, refusing
to make any statement which might throw light upon the
reason of our confinement.

How strange it all was. Vera did not appear. We laughed at

our own weakness and our own chivalry.

She showed us the bedroom where we were to sleep.

Beautifully and expensively-furnished, it had two
comfortable-looking beds, while a log-fire burnt cheerily in
the grate—for the evening after the sunshine was singularly
chilly in the mountains.

“If Vera does not come by mid-day to-morrow,” Faulkner

said, as we prepared to get into bed, “I shall break my
parole and set out to discover where she is. Our pretty
friend is all very well, but my patience is exhausted. I’m not
in need of a rest cure just at present.”
We had both been asleep, I suppose, for a couple of hours,
when I suddenly awoke. The room was in total darkness,
but somehow I “felt” the presence of some stranger in the
room. At that instant it flashed in upon me that we had left
the door unlocked. Straining my ears to catch the least
sound, I held my breath.

Suddenly a noise came to me, not from the room, but from
somewhere in the house. It was a cry—A cry for help!
Sitting bolt upright in the bed, I remained motionless,
listening intently. I heard it again. It was a woman’s cry—
but this time fainter—

“Help! Help!” sounded in a long drawn-out gasp—a gasp of

despair.

Something moved in the darkness. Again I “felt,” rather

than heard it. My mouth grew dry, and fear, a deadly fear of
the unknown, possessed me.

“Who is there?” I called out loudly.

There was no answer, but the sound of my voice gave me

courage. I stretched my arm out in the darkness, meaning
to reach over to Faulkner’s bed and prod him into
wakefulness, when by chance I touched something alive.

Instantly a cold, damp hand gripped my own, holding it like

a vice, and a moment later I was flung down on my back on
the bed, and held there firmly by a silent, unseen foe.

In vain I struggled to get free, but the speechless, invisible

Thing pressing me down in the darkness, kept me pinned to
the bed! I was about to cry out, when a third hand closed
about my throat, preventing me. It was a soft hand—a
woman’s hand. Also, as it gripped me, a faint perfume
struck my nostrils, a perfume familiar to me, curious, rich,
pungent.

And then, almost as I stopped struggling, the room was

suddenly flooded with light.
 Chapter Fifteen.
Within an Ace.

Slowly I realised that Paulton was bending over me, holding

me down.

The Baronne de Coudron, upon the opposite side of the bed,

had her thin, strong sinewy hands upon my throat. Beside
the gas-jet a yard or two away, Faulkner stood with his
hand still holding the little chain he had pulled in order to
turn on the light.

Nobody spoke.

The Baronne, removing her hands from me, stood upright,

big and strong, gazing down upon me still. She wore an
elaborate kimono made of some soft pink Eastern material.
Paulton was in evening clothes, one shirt-cuff was turned
back.

“You should have taken my advice, m’sieur,” the Baronne

said in her deep voice, addressing Dago Paulton. She spoke
quite calmly.

Instead of answering, and without loosening hold, he half-

turned, apparently undecided what to do, until his eyes
rested upon Faulkner. Then suddenly, to my surprise, he
released me. I got up.

“Faulkner, come here,” he said sharply.

The young man—he was in the blue pyjamas he had found

laid out upon the bed when Violet de Coudron had shown us
into the bedroom—looked quietly at the speaker for a
moment or two, then answered with the utmost sang-froid
—

“I’m not your servant, hang you! Don’t speak to me like

that.”

“You may not be my servant, but I now control your

movements,” Paulton retorted quickly. “Therefore you will
please do what I order. I take it that you know that I
brought you and Ashton over here.”

“Naturally.”

“Have you any idea why?”

“None.”

“Then I will tell you. Listen.”

He was standing beside the bed. The Baronne, near him,

looked with interest at Faulkner and myself as we now stood
together a yard or two away from them.

“For some months past,” Paulton said, watching me with an

unpleasant expression, “you have been on intimate terms
with the Thorolds.”

“Really,” I answered, shortly, “I can’t see what concern that

is of yours. I have known the Thorolds intimately for a good
many years. Perhaps you will tell me your reason for the
extraordinary liberty you took last night in bringing us here.
I consider it a gross impertinence.”

“Impertinence!” he laughed. “Let me tell you both,” he said,

“that you have to thank this lady,” he turned slightly to
indicate the Baronne, “for being alive to-day. When I
brought you here I intended that neither of you should ever
again be heard of. Your disappearance would have made a
stir, no doubt, but the stir would not have lasted; you would
soon have been forgotten here. Dead men tell no tales. But
the Baronne interfered.”

“I’m sure we feel deeply grateful,” I answered ironically.

“One would think we were conspirators, or criminals, by the
way you talk. So far as I’m aware, I never set eyes on you
until last night in the Hotel de Paris.”

“Quite likely,” he replied, “but that is beside the point. You

possess information you have no right to possess. You know
the Thorolds’ secret, and until your lips are closed I shall
not feel safe.” Ah! that remarkable secret again! What on
earth could it be? That was the thought that flashed across
my mind, but I merely answered—“You can’t suppose I shall
reveal it?”

He smiled coldly.

“Not reveal it, man, when you know what is at stake! You
must think me very confiding if you suppose I shall trust
your bare assurance. As I have said, I intended to—to—
well, to close both your mouths.”

“Why Faulkner’s,” I asked.

“Because he is to marry Gladys Deroxe, who is so friendly

with Vera Thorold, who is to be my wife. Vera knows too
much, and may have told her little friend what she knows. I
mistrust Vera’s friends—even her friends’ friends. You
understand?”

“At that rate,” I answered, growing reckless, “you will need

to ‘remove’ a good many people.”

“That is possible. It is for that reason—”

“Oh, why talk so much!” the Baronne interrupted
impatiently. “Tell him everything in a few words, and have
done with it!”

“I will.” He said fiercely, “You both stand in my way. I

brought you here last night to get rid of you. I came into
this room some minutes ago to carry out my plan. I was
going to kill you both with an anaesthetic. Then the Baronne
came in, threatening to wake you if I tried to do what I had
said I should. I felt you touch me in the dark, I knew we
had awakened you, and at once seized you—the Baronne
held your throat to prevent your calling out. Then Faulkner
sprang up and turned on the light and—”

He paused, listening. There had been another cry for help,

barely audible even in the stillness of the night. He glanced
at his companion. She too had heard it.

They looked meaningly at each other, but neither moved to

leave the room. The cry had sounded so piteous that I
should myself have rushed out to ascertain whence it came.
Was it Vera’s voice? Paulton was near the door, and to have
passed him would have been impossible.

Was it my Vera? The thought held me in a frenzy.

“There is only one way,” he went on, as though nothing had

happened, “for you to regain your liberty. I should not offer
even this, had not the Baronne persuaded me to against my
better judgment.”

“What is the way?”

“You must never attempt to see Vera again. And you,

Faulkner, must write at once to Gladys Deroxe and break off
your engagement. It is the only alternative. Do you both
agree?”
Neither of us answered. The suggestion was a childlike one.

“Is there no other way?” I asked at last in order to gain

time.

“None.”

“Then I refuse absolutely,” Faulkner exclaimed hotly.

“Your proposal is ridiculous,” I declared with a grin.

Paulton turned furiously on the Baronne.

“I said what it would be!” he broke out with a curse. “Get

out of my way!”

She had sprung in front of him, but he pushed her aside.

Again she rushed forward to stop his doing something—we
had not guessed what it was—and this time he struck her a
blow in the face with his open hand, and with a cry she fell
forward on to the bed.

Beside myself, I leapt forward, but Faulkner was nearer to

him and I saw his fist fly out. I did not know then that
Faulkner had won “friendly bouts” against professional light-
weight boxers at the National Sporting Club. It was a
stunning blow, Faulkner’s fist hit him on the mouth, at what
boxers call the “crucial moment,” that is, just before the
arm straightens. Paulton reeled backward, his lower lip rent
almost to the chin.

His hand disappeared. Now it flashed out with a Browning

pistol, but as the shot rang out the woman leapt to her feet
and struck his arm away. An instant later Faulkner was
behind him deftly twisting his left arm so that he bent
backward with a scream of pain.
I had wrested the weapon from him ere he could shoot
again, and as I helped Faulkner to hold him down I realised
the man’s colossal strength. Mad with fury, and with blood
pouring from his mouth, he struggled to get free. But the
twisted arm that Faulkner still clutched tightly by the wrist
with both hands, kept him down. Suddenly he changed his
tactics. He had wormed himself half round on the floor, his
teeth closed tightly upon Faulkner’s right shoulder.

“Twist his right arm—quick!” Faulkner shouted at me.

I did so, and the man lay flat upon his back, his two arms
screwed so tightly that I marvelled they did not break.

The strange, warm smell that I had noticed in the room for
the first time some minutes previously, and that had
gradually grown stronger, was now so oppressive that it
almost stifled us. Still holding down our man, we both
glanced about the room to find out whence it came, and
now we noticed that the atmosphere was foggy, or so it
seemed. The Baronne was standing by us, staring down at
Paulton, but not attempting in any way to help him. Her
gaze was dull, almost vacant. She seemed stupefied.

An odd noise, as of distant roaring, sounded somewhere in

the house. It was growing louder. All at once I saw the
Baronne move quickly to the door. She listened for a
moment, then turned the handle slowly.

As the door opened a little way, a cloud of dense, yellow

smoke swept into the room, choking and nearly blinding us.
She slammed the door and locked it.

“Dieu!” she gasped, pale as death.

And then, simultaneously, we knew the awful truth, that the

château was on fire; that our only way of escape was made
impassable by smoke.
 Chapter Sixteen.
The Harvest of Fire.

In face of Death human antagonism becomes suddenly

absorbed in the mad craving for Life.

The bitter hatred, the fearful rage, the furious struggle of

the past few minutes were, in that instant, forgotten as
though they had never been. Speechless with terror we
gazed hopelessly at each other. Ah! I can see that picture
still. Am I ever likely to forget it?

The Baronne, deathly white, stood there a handsome figure,

trembling in her wonderfully embroidered pink kimono, her
eyes fixed and starting as though madness were stealing
into her brain. Paulton stood with his lips badly cut. Young
Faulkner was erect and calm, with set teeth, blood
spattered about his pyjamas, and an angry red wound
showing at the spot where Paulton in his frenzy had bitten
into his shoulder.

Truly, it was a weird and terrible scene. I stood aghast.

The fierce devouring roar in the house increased. It

sounded like a furnace heard at night in the Black Country.
Quickly the air grew thicker. Through the door, dark yellow,
choking smoke percolated, then rolled upward in spirals that
became merged in the general atmosphere.

We both slipped into our clothes hurriedly. Then Faulkner

was the first to act.

Crossing quickly to the window, he pulled aside the

curtains, thrust down the handle, and pushed open both
frames. A red, quivering glow flickered in the blackness of
the night, revealing for an instant the level meadow far
below, the trees silhouetted upon it, the outlines of a
distant wood.

Now he was kneeling on the broad window-sill of the long

casement window, his body thrust far out. I saw him glance
to right and left, then look down towards the earth. Slowly
he drew back. Once more he stood amongst us.

“We are pretty high up,” he said, without any sign of

emotion. “Thirty feet I should say.”

He looked about him. Then he went over to the beds, and

pulled off all the clothes.

“Six blankets and six sheets—but I wouldn’t trust the

sheets, and the blankets are too short,” he observed as
though nothing unusual were happening.

A washstand, a couple of antique wardrobes, four chairs

with high carved backs, a dressing-table and a smaller
table, was all that the room contained besides the beds. He
glanced up at the ceiling. It was solid. He tore up the
carpet. Beneath it was a loose board, hinged. He lifted it by
the ring. Smoke rolled up into his face, and he slammed the
board down again, stamping his foot upon it. And at that
instant the gas suddenly went out.

In the sky, the lurid light still rose and fell over the
meadows and hills. The fierce roaring in the house grew
louder. From a cover beyond the lawn came the echo of
crackling wood and cracking timber, but nowhere was a
human voice audible.

At this juncture, to my amazement, Faulkner calmly

produced his cigarette case, lit a cigarette, topped it and
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